Runaway (6 page)

“I say you're full of crap, Charlie.”

“No, no, I'm tellin' the truth, Lieutenant. I—”

“Sergeant,” Palazzo corrected.

“Yeah, well, I'm tellin' the truth. I been plannin' on goin' down there all along. But let me have the bindle now, and then I'll get a little pile of stuff to hold me till I get down there, that's all. Come on, Lieutenant, we can forget that fight in the bar, can't we?”

“Maybe. But maybe we can't forget the zip gun.”

“What … what zip gun?” Brown asked.

“The zip gun,” Palazzo said, smiling. “You know, Charlie, a zip gun. A hunk of pipe with a homemade firing pin and a wooden handle. Zip gun, Charlie. Ring a bell, Charlie?”

“I never owned a gun in my life,” Brown said, shaking his head. “You must be mistaken, Lieutenant.”

“Knock off that ‘Lieutenant' crap,” Palazzo said angrily. “We took the zip gun from you when we booked you. You were so blind you didn't know what the hell was going on. What were you doing with a zip gun, Brown?”

“This is all news to me, sir,” Brown said. “I'm tellin' you—”

“And I'm telling you we can play this as rough as you like. Don't try denying things we already know. The zip gun was in your pocket, Brown.”

“All right, maybe I had a gun.”

“What were you doing with it?”

“Well, you know Harlem, man. A fellow needs some kind of protection, don't he?”

“Who supplied you, Charlie?”

“Suppl—Oh, you mean the junk.” He seemed relieved to be getting away from the topic of the zip gun. “Lots of guys.”

“Andy Barron?”

“Who's he?”

“You know who he is. Did you ever take from him?”

“Sometimes, I think. Man, you get it where you can.”

“What about Ortega?”

“Who?”

“Luis Ortega.”

“I don't think I know him,” Brown said.

“Everybody in Harlem knows him, Charlie. Luis the Spic. Luis Ortega. Do you recall his name now?”

“Oh, yes,” Brown said, “I think I do Luis the Spic. Yes, I seen him around now and then.”

“You ever take from him?”

“Man, I didn't even know he was pushin'.”

Palazzo brought back his hand and threw it at Brown's head, balled this time. Brown's head snapped backward, and then he blinked his eyes.

“Don't lie to me, Charlie. Whatever you do, don't lie to me. You know damn well Luis was pushing.”

“All right, I knew it,” Brown said sullenly.

“You ever take from him?”

“Once or twice.”

“Recently?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just didn't. Is there a law says where a man has to get his fix?”

“No, but there's a law against killing people,” Palazzo said.

“Well, that don't apply to me. I ain't killed nobody.”

“The Ballistics boys tell me your gun was fired recently, Charlie,” Palazzo lied. “How about that?”

“They must be mistaken, man,” Brown said.

“They don't make mistakes, Charlie. Never. If they say it was fired, it was fired. Who'd you shoot it at?”

“Me? Man, I ain't shot that thing since I picked it up.”

“Then who did fire it?”

“Search me.” Brown shook his head. “Beats me, sir.”

“When's the last time you saw Luis?”

“The Spic, you mean? Hell, I don't know. Must be months now.”

“Where were you this afternoon at about three-thirty?”

“Three-thirty? Well, now, lemmee see.”

“Come on, Charlie.”

“I think I was home. Sleepin'.”

“Anybody home with you?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Anyone see you between three and five, Charlie?”

“Well, now, I don't think so.”

“Your gun was fired at about three-fifteen,” Palazzo lied again. “That's what Ballistics says. What do
you
say, Charlie?”

“They must be mistaken,” Brown answered.

“I told you they don't make mistakes. Where'd you shoot that gun?”

“I didn't shoo—”

Palazzo grabbed Brown's collar with one hand, and he brought his other fist forward with full force, colliding with Brown's mouth. A splash of blood stained Brown's teeth, and he spat onto the floor and said, “You won't get away with this, you know. I know my rights.”

“Where'd you shoot that gun?” Palazzo asked, holding on to Brown's collar.

“I told you—”

Palazzo hit him again. Brown slumped in the chair, and Palazzo yanked him erect again.

“Where'd you shoot the gun?”

“I didn't—”

Again Palazzo hit him, and a dull glaze came into Brown's eyes. He almost fell off the chair, but Palazzo held him tightly.

“We can use a hose, Brown,” he said. “Where'd you shoot the gun?”

“From my window,” Brown said suddenly.

“At who?”

“At a cat. A cat out there was makin' a racket. I shot at him.”

“You're a liar, Brown.”

“I shot at a cat,” Brown insisted.

“A cat named Luis.”

“I don't know the cat's name,” Brown said. “I just shot 'cause he was meowin'.”

“What happened, Brown? Wouldn't he fix you? Was that it?”

“Wouldn't who fix me?”

“All right, you bastard,” Palazzo said. “All right, Charlie, we play it your way.” He stepped back from Brown and took off his jacket, and then he began rolling up his shirt sleeves. His barrel chest heaved as he worked, and the butt of his .38 bobbed in its shoulder holster. He walked over to Brown then and lifted him from the chair, holding his jacket front in both big hands.

“Tell me you shot Luis, Charlie. Tell me all about it.”

“I shot at a cat,” Brown insisted.

Palazzo shoved him away suddenly, and Brown whirled back across the room and collided with the wall. He got to his feet, and Palazzo was on him instantly.

“You shot Luis, didn't you?”

“No.”

Palazzo brought his knee up into Brown's groin, and Brown screamed in pain and terror.

“You shot him,” Palazzo said.

“No! No!”

Palazzo drove his big fist into Brown's gut, and when Brown bent over he gave him the flat edge of his hand on the back of his neck. Brown fell forward on his face, and Palazzo kicked him in the ribs.

“This is just the beginning, black boy,” he said, and maybe it was those words that changed Brown's mind. Palazzo reached down for him and propped him up against the wall, bringing back his fist again.

“All right,” Brown said wearily.

“You shot him?”

“I shot him.”

“Stenographer!” Palazzo yelled. He waited until he heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and then he said, “All right, Charlie, now you can tell us all about it.”

It was amazing the way Brown loosened up once the stenographer was there to take down the information. He almost seemed proud of his shooting prowess. He told them how he'd gone to Luis for a fix, and how Luis had refused him because he didn't have a fiver. He'd offered Luis two, but Luis had remained adamant, and finally Brown had threatened him with the zip gun. Luis had laughed in his face, and that was the last time Luis laughed at anything. The stenographer took all this down, and then Brown signed it in a scrawling hand and asked, “Can I have that bindle now?” and Palazzo had just laughed and left the room with the signed confession in his mitts. And that had been that.

Except for Johnny Lane.

“What about the other guy?” Trachetti asked Palazzo.

“What other guy?” Palazzo asked.

“The one slugged March and swiped the RMP. Him.”

“Screw him,” Palazzo said. “He's clean now, ain't he?”

“Yeah.” Trachetti paused. “So what happens to him now?”

“How the hell do I know? The word'll get around, I suppose, sooner or later. When he knows the heat's off, he'll come out in the open again.”

Trachetti wiped a hand over his face. “What I mean, Leo, shouldn't we wise the kid up? You know, he still thinks he's got a murder rap hanging over his head.”

“So what?” Palazzo asked.

“Well, hell, he's out there someplace thinking—”

“Who cares what the hell he's thinking? He probably done something anyway, the way he ran.”

“Still …”

“You're too damn softhearted. You think we're working up in Larchmont or New Rochelle or someplace. Well, we ain't. This is Harlem. This is where cops get their throats slit. You think any of these bastards is worrying about us? Well, they ain't, I can tell you that. You want me to go out and look for this other guy, whatever the hell his name is? Tell him he's clear, pat him on the head, kiss him on the cheek? He'd probably knife me if I got within ten feet of him.”

“I don't think so,” Trachetti said. “Couldn't we at least tell his family? Or the girl?”

“Ah-ha, so that's it. You just want another look at his broad, eh, Dave? She was a piece, I got to admit that.”

“Aw, come on, Leo, don't be stupid. That kid—”

“I don't give a damn about that kid,” Palazzo said, almost shouting. “Let him find out the good news by himself. Serve him right for slugging March and swiping the car.”

“Suppose he does something else? He thinks he's wanted for murder, Leo, don't you understand?”

“He'll live,” Palazzo said. “He's healthy, ain't he? He's young. He's sound of mind and body. From the way March tells me he ran, he must be a hardy specimen.”

“A murder rap …” Trachetti started.

“Murder rap, shmurder rap,” Palazzo cracked. “So long as you got your health.”

Six

The arm began bleeding in earnest again.

It started as a slow trickle of blood that oozed its way through the fresh bandage. But the trickle became a stream, and the stream soaked through the bandage and dripped onto Johnny's wrist, and the drops ran into his cupped palm, hung on his fingertips, and then spattered onto the sidewalk in a crimson trail.

It got colder, too, and he missed his jacket, and he cursed himself for not having grabbed it when he'd left the girl's room. With her screaming like that, though, it's a wonder he'd managed to remember his head, even. Still, it was goddamn cold, too cold for November, too cold even for January.

He marveled at the way the blood flowed. He watched it with a curious detachment, and he wondered if he weren't getting delirious. The blood rushed out of his arm with a peculiar urgency. It was almost as if the body were screaming, screaming a vivid red.

I have to stop the blood, he thought. If I don't stop the blood, I'll die.

The thought of dying had not occurred to him before. He had been concerned with only one thing before, and that was avoiding the police. He'd wanted to dress the arm, too, but that was a secondary consideration. He thought of dying now, and the thought did not particularly frighten him. He examined the thought with detachment, the same way he'd looked at his arm. He did not want to die, but somehow it didn't seem important to him, one way or the other.

But I have to stop the bleeding, he told himself. I'm beginning to feel weak already, but maybe that's because I'm hungry. When did I eat last? I'm cold, I wish I had a coat. I have to stop the blood. The police …

He suddenly got rattled. He seemed incapable of thinking clearly for a few moments. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and he found himself trembling, and he realized he was scared, scared stiff, and then he thought of dying again, and this time the thought frightened him. His teeth chattered, and he tried to think clearly, tried to get all the thoughts in order, tried to arrange them neatly. But there was only a kind of screaming inside his head, a lonesome grating plea to someone, anyone, anything to stop the blood and the running and the cold.

He alternately shook his head and nodded it. He stared around him, almost dazed, completely overwhelmed by the thoughts that bombarded his brain.

He bit down on his lip then, hard, feeling the pain, almost drawing fresh blood. He stared at a spot in the concrete, trembling, waiting for the tremor to leave his body, waiting for his head to clear.

How do you stop bleeding? he asked himself. Goddammit, how do you stop bleeding?

A tourniquet.

Yes, a tourniquet. You make a tourniquet. You use a rag and a stick and a hank of hair. You tighten it all around your arm, and you mutter mumbo-jumbo, and the bleeding stops magically.

How do you spell tourniquet? he wondered, his mind wandering.

You spell it with a rag and a stick and a hank of hair. I haven't got a handkerchief any more, but I can tear my shirt. It's an old shirt, anyway. I can tear it. I can tear it if I've got the strength to tear it. I can tear it down where it sticks into my pants, where nobody will see it. Then I need a stick, and the hank of hair, that was a joke. You understand, a joke. Something to laugh at. I don't really need a hank of hair, I just need a stick.

He had a purpose now. He had to find a stick.

How many sticks are there in The Valley?

Millions. All kinds of sticks. A stick of marijuana. A matchstick, and a lipstick, but all I need is a stick to turn the rag with.

His eyes scoured the pavement and the gutter. He stopped at every garbage can he passed, and he thought, Man, where are all the sticks tonight?

He began to tremble again, and the panic followed the trembling.

God, he thought, just give me a little stick. I'll forget the Caddy. I don't want the Caddy. I can't use a Caddy on a tourniquet. All I want is a stick. Is that too much? his mind screamed. Is that too much to ask? Just a goddamned stick, only a stick for my arm, can't I have a stick, please, not even that, just that, please, please?