Street of No Return (18 page)

He managed to get up. He leaped at Gerardo and his shoulder made contact with Gerardo's ribs. They went down together and rolled over and kept rolling with Gerardo's hands going for his throat. He butted Gerardo in the face and broke Gerardo's nose. Gerardo went on grabbing for his throat and now they were rolling over and over in the milky water. It was slimy, greasy water and now it became streaked with red dripping from Gerardo's smashed nose. Whitey told himself this party was getting very sloppy. He was on his back now and he felt Gerardo's fingers closing on his throat. He reached up and took a handful of Gerardo's hair and started to rip the hair from Gerardo's scalp. Gerardo gasped and groaned and let go of his throat. He held onto the handful of hair and kept on pulling and some blood streamed down Gerardo's forehead. But Gerardo was still on top of him and again going for his throat and he knew the important thing was to get out from under. He wondered if he had the strength to roll them over again, told himself to stop wondering and start working, and then he let go of Gerardo's hair and heaved very hard. They went over and for a moment he was on top of Gerardo but they kept rolling and then Gerardo was on top of him. He heaved again and they went on rolling and suddenly Gerardo pulled free and stood up. Gerardo aimed a kick at his face and missed and caught him in the chest. Gerardo circled him and aimed another kick. He rolled away and got to his knees and then got to his feet and now Gerardo came at him with fists.

He slipped away from a roundhouse right hand trying for his head, ducked to avoid a short left hook, stepped back and then came inside another left hook and shot a short right to Gerardo's belly. Gerardo was past feeling it and wouldn't give ground and countered mechanically with another left hook that caught Whitey on the temple and staggered him. Gerardo moved in, completely mechanical now, measuring him very carefully with a right hand, then throwing the right, shooting it in a straight streaking path going from the shoulder. It hit Whitey's chin and it was like falling a few hundred feet and landing on the chin, or something like that, or maybe like getting smashed on the chin with a crowbar. Well, he thought as he went down, it was a cute session while you were in it but you're not in it now. He really made good with that one.

Whitey was down and flat on his back and his eyes were closed. He tried to open his eyes and they wouldn't open. He could feel Gerardo coming toward him. He knew Gerardo was taking his own sweet time, there was no need to hurry things now. Damn it, he said to himself, you're paralyzed, you're really paralyzed, and all he's gotta do is move in and finish the job. Maybe he's finished it already and you're way out there off the rim of the world. It sure feels that way, it feels like the world is someplace else and you're nowhere. Or maybe you're somewhere in between, I mean in between the dark and the light, not really out of it altogether, because you know you're still breathing. And your brain's working, so you know you're still conscious. Well, that's something, anyway. All right, what's the good of that? It's only for a short time. How short? Or how long? What's he waiting for? What the hell is he waiting for?

Just then Whitey was able to open his eyes. He saw Gerardo standing a few feet away and looking down at him. Or rather, Gerardo was looking at the arm stretched sideways with the hand in the milky water and resting on the handle of the knife.

Whitey's fingers closed around the handle. He thought: The bastard wasn't taking any chances, he thought you were trying to suck him in, pretending you were out cold. Pretending, hell. You had no idea the knife was there, right there under your palm. Well, it's there, all right. You have it now and he knows you have it and he can't decide what to do. If he decides to move in, it's gonna be lousy for you, because you're in no shape for more action. You won't be doing much with the knife, you can hardly move your arm. I sure hope he don't move in. Look at his face. He's trying to make up his mind. Look at his eyes popping out, staring at the knife. Well, come on, Gerardo, hurry up and decide, it's gotta be one thing or the other. But I wish you'd decide to take a walk. I'd really appreciate that.

Gerardo opened his mouth just a little and showed his teeth. He took a hesitant step toward Whitey.

Whitey tightened his grip on the knife handle. He was half sitting, braced on his elbows. He grinned at Gerardo and said, "Come on. Come on. Whatcha waiting for?"

It was a difficult problem for Gerardo. He was wondering if he had enough strength left to take the knife away from Whitey. He had serious doubts about that because there was a lot of pain in his groin and his head was throbbing and his arms were very tired. He felt sick and weak and he was terribly unhappy about his smashed nose. But he was anxious to get at that knife. He told himself to give it a try. He took another step forward.

Whitey sat up straighter, not knowing how he was able to do it. And then somehow he managed to get to his feet.

Gerardo turned and ran.

11

Whitey stood there with the knife in his hand. He watched Gerardo running away from him, the ragged camel's-hair coat flapping in the wind. He saw Gerardo crossing the cobblestoned street and aiming at the alley on the other side. There was something acutely purposeful in the way Gerardo headed toward the alley. Whitey saw him stumble and fall and get up and go lunging at the alley.

As Gerardo darted into the alley, it occurred to Whitey that he ought to cross the street and take a look. He was wondering why the Puerto Rican had selected that alley. It didn't make sense for Gerardo to go in that direction; it was the opposite direction from where he ought to be going. It stood to reason that Gerardo should be running north, toward home, or east, toward the river, for an all-out getaway. And there he was, running south.

There he was, running down the alley. Whitey stood at the alley entrance and watched the camel's-hair coat showing yellow down there in the darkness. In the thick black of half past three in the morning, the camel's-hair coat was a distinct yellow, almost luminous. Whitey frowned and thought: That coat. And now this alley. I wonder if--

He wasn't sure what he was wondering. Whatever it was, his brain lost track of it, like a hand groping vainly in thick fog, not knowing what it was groping for, but knowing there was something.

Whitey entered the alley. He walked slowly, staying close to the back-yard fences, telling himself that he didn't want to be seen. He was focusing on the moving yellow of the camel's-hair coat some forty yards away.

Then the distance was about fifty yards, but he could still see it clearly. He saw Gerardo coming to a stop, fumbling with a fence gate and not able to get it open, and then climbing over the fence.

Whitey walked faster now, but quietly, sort of Indian fashion, coming down on his toes, his body crouched. He saw the camel's-hair coat going across the back yard and then up on the kitchen doorstep.

And then Gerardo was banging on the door.

"Open it," Gerardo yelled. "Hurry!"

Whitey came to a stop. He crouched very low, peering through the gaps between the fence posts. He watched Gerardo banging both fists against the back door.

"Is me," the Puerto Rican yelled. "Is me--Gerardo."

And his fists hit the door harder. He was looking down the alley to see if he was being followed.

Whitey moved forward very quietly and carefully. He knew Gerardo hadn't seen him. He told himself to keep it this way, quiet and careful, slow and easy, don't let anything happen to spoil it. And now, as he came closer to the house, he could feel a tightness inside himself. He was gripped with a sense of expectancy that pushed aside the throbbing in his jaw where Gerardo's right hand had landed.

He heard Gerardo banging on the door and wailing, "For crissake, hurry! Let me in!"

And then, very near the house, he took another look through the fence posts. The kitchen light was on and he saw Gerardo waiting for the door to open.

The door opened and Gerardo went in very fast, barging past the man who stood in the doorway. In the instant before the door closed, Whitey got a clear frontal view of the man's face.

It was the man who'd given away a very old and tattered camel's-hair coat. There was nothing generous in the giving, because the coat had been worn out seven years ago, when Whitey had seen it in the railroad station, unbuttoned and falling loosely from the heavy shoulders of Sharkey.

All right, Whitey said to himself. So what's the connection?

Or maybe it's nothing, he thought. Maybe it's just one of them situations where Gerardo does odd jobs around the house, like taking care of the furnace, hauling out the ashes. So it's a very cold November and he ain't got no overcoat and Sharkey gives him the camel's hair.

But no. You know there's more to it than that. Your chum Gerardo hit that back door like he belonged in that house, not like a handy man who works there part time, more like a member of the family, or let's make it just a bit deeper than that. Let's make it he's maybe a member of the organization.

What organization? What are you building here with thinking about an organization? And another thing, what's it matter to you what it is? It ain't none of your affair.

It ain't?

The hell it ain't. You're on the wanted list for killing a cop, you might as well remember that. You damn well better remember that. And while you're at it, remember the Captain, and what he'll be inclined to do when he lays his hands on you. Of course, the man he really wants is Gerardo, but he doesn't know that. The thing is, you know it. You know how the cop died and what did it and who did it. You heard Gerardo tell it from his own mouth. So there's your cop-killer and he's in that house and you got plenty reason to be gandering that house.

But it's sorta weird, you know? It's weird because she's in there and--

All right, forget that. Or at least try to think you can forget it. What you hafta do now is concentrate on Gerardo. You gotta figure some way to get him out of that house, to get him up the steps and through the front door of the Thirty-seventh District, to have him say to the Captain what he said to you.

Yeah, that's gonna be easy to manage. Very easy. Like trying to tear down a brick wall with your bare hands. Or your front teeth. Or your head.

Your head. Start using it. Start adding up the numbers. Like our boy Gerardo says,
la matematica
, two and two is four and so forth, except in this case it's more on the order of algebra, where you got some unknown quantities. All right, you never took much algebra, so it's gotta be mostly guesswork, or maybe like the science guys who get their answers with the slow but sure procedure of try this and try that and keep on trying until it fits together. I think you got enough brains for that. Anyway, hope so. But it ain't no cinch to use the brains right now. That wallop he fetched you on the jaw was no patty-cake handout, it's got you sorta blocked upstairs, your skull feels like it's all jammed up with putty. Well, anyway, let's try. Let's see if we can do some thinking here.

Well, begin with Gerardo. Or no, that's doing it assbackwards. It's you that's gotta talk to the Captain, and when you tell him the deal you can't begin with Gerardo, because sure as hell that ain't where it begins. So where does it begin?

The race riots?

No, you can't start with that. In regard to that, you know from nothing. Or wait a minute here. Wait just a minute. It's the race riots that's got the Captain all screwed up and blowing his top. If you could give him something on the riots, it would help your case, maybe. At least it would quiet him down so's he'd give you a chance to get your point across.

All right, then, figure it. What is it with these race riots? What started the fuss? My God, now we're exploring in the field of racial aggravations, some-kind-of-ology, and you ain't geared for that, that just ain't your department. But hold it right there. Don't let it get away. Thing to do is take it from another angle. Like in case it ain't only a matter of race, it's more than gangs of riled-up local citizens fighting riled-up Puerto Ricans, it's maybe a situation where the race hate is secondary, where something else is the important issue.

Something else. Like what? Like-- Easy, now, don't stretch it too far, you gotta know what you're aiming at. Better take it on a short-range basis and-- But no, goddamnit, it's strictly from long range, it's from way out there, way back. It's from seven years ago.

It's from that night you sat with her in the taproom and she was talking about Sharkey and she said, "He's been mooching around and looking for an angle," and went on to tell about certain projects that didn't pay off, and then she said, "Maybe one of these days he'll find that angle he's looking for."

All right, all right, I think you got something here. Stay with it now.

Keep remembering. That night, that taproom, and you sat there with her in that booth, you looked at her face and you thought--

Well, the hell with that you thought. The hell with what you felt. That ain't what you're remembering now. You gotta stay with this race-riot business, the big question you gotta answer to pull yourself out of this jam you're in, this cop-killing rap. So don't go off the track. Only things you gotta remember are the words that came out of her mouth, the statements she made about Sharkey. Like when she said that Sharkey was certain he'd someday get the bright idea that would haul in the heavy cash. The way she'd put it, "He says it's around somewhere, all he's gotta do is find it."

Find it where?

Find it here? In the Hellhole?

Look. Let's understand something. I think you're on the track and it figures to be the right track, but just about here is where it stops. I mean, it stops here because your brain just can't take it any farther. Only way to keep it going is with the eyes, the ears. You get the point? You see what the next move is?

Wanna take the chance?

All right. But it's a lead-pipe cinch you're asking for grief. The way you gotta do it is the hard way, there just ain't no other way. It's gonna be getting information from Sharkey, with Sharkey not knowing he's giving it out. So first it's this fence, and then it's the back yard, and finally it's the house.

Well, let's get started. What's the delay? Why you standing here? And why you grinning? How come it all of a sudden hits you comical? It ain't the least bit comical, unless you're thinking of Chop and Bertha and when they had you in the woods, what they did to you, the way they made it plain, no two ways about it, really giving it to you to get you convinced.

But here we are again. And they didn't convince you after all.