He was going out as she said, “Can we live on the ocean?” The door closed.
* * *
Teddy had six .38 rounds in the revolver, he had six more in his right-hand pants pocket and six in the left. If he couldn’t do the job with—what’d that make?—eighteen shots, he oughtn’t to be here. The gun was so shiny he’d have to keep it in his pants till he was out in the street, no cars coming. Linda had appeared up there, looking cute in her shorty outfit. But no Vincent. Shit. Teddy said, “Come on, Vincent, you son of a bitch,” lowered his gaze to the street and, Jesus Christ, there he was, coming along the side of the building past the cars, coming out of darkness to the liquor store. Look at him, right there across the street. Going in for a six-pack or something. In his shirtsleeves. No place to hide a gun, no way. Teddy wiped the palms of his hands on his pants. He picked up the .38 from the seat close to him.
Walk over there like he had his arms folded. Get behind one of those cars by the building. Wait. Get him coming out of the store.
Linda was pinning up her hair, the shower running, when she thought of it and said, “Cheese” to the bathroom mirror, caught her own smile and was out of there, slipping on the wrap as she hurried through the living room to the balcony, to catch Vincent before he got inside the store—tell him to get cheese and crackers and potato chips, some gringo snacks to go with the empanadillas—and looked over the rail straight down. Too late, missed him.
She looked up to see Teddy in the middle of the street.
Even before the car passed and he continued across and she recognized him she knew it was Teddy coming. Teddy concentrating on the liquor store, cautious, keeping beyond the edge of light on the pavement, walking in a peculiar way. People didn’t walk with their arms folded. She saw his arms unfold as it was in her mind and saw the glint of bright metal and wanted to call out—gripping the balcony rail as hard as she could. Yell for help, yell at Teddy, yell at Vincent the moment he came out—and it could be a moment too late. She saw the gun in Teddy’s hand, Teddy moving toward the cars parked in the courtyard. Linda let go of the rail, aware that she had to run but remain calm, hurry without losing her head and do something dumb.
Vincent’s gun was on the dresser.
It was heavy and her hand was wet. There were catches and strange little knobs, numbers and names etched in the metal. She saw someone in a movie, in a hundred movies, slide the top part of the barrel back and she did it and jumped as a cartridge ejected and the slide clicked back into place. Vincent would keep the safety on. The catch, she hoped to God, by her thumb as she gripped the gun. Push it up . . .
Vincent saw it coming and thought, Not again.
Carrying the groceries reminded him of that other time. Hearty Burgundy, prune juice and spaghetti sauce. This time chablis, J&B scotch, Puerto Rican rum and a family-size bottle of Coca-Cola, carrying the sack in front of him, both arms around it. That other time he thought he might have seen the guy before, in a holding cell. This time he knew the guy quite well and knew the guy was not going to tell him to drop the groceries and hand over his wallet. This guy’s only intention was to shoot him dead. What had he learned that other time that might help him now? Absolutely nothing. This time he had learned, so far, never go to the store without your gun. But even if he had it . . .
Teddy said, “Well well well,” coming out of the dark to smirk at him, holding the bright-metal piece low, elbow tight against his side.
Vincent looked him in the eye, trying for an expression that would show honest surprise. What’s going on? What is this? He didn’t want to look threatening. He didn’t want Teddy to take anything the wrong way and all of a sudden empty the gun. He wanted to reason with Teddy, at least try. The trouble was, Vincent had to concentrate so hard on appearing harmless, surprised—while hiding the fact he was scared to death—he couldn’t think of anything to say. Drop it, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your fucking head off kept coming to mind. It was a good line, but not one that would work here. Blow his head off with what?
Teddy said, “I want to be looking in your eyes as I pull the trigger.”
“Why, Ted?”
“I’m not Ted, I’m Teddy.”
Shit. “Okay. Would you tell me—see, I don’t understand—why you want to do that?”
“You don’t know what I feel or anything about me. You think you do.”
“I give you that impression?”
“Cut the bullshit. Time you busted me seven and a half years ago, I could tell. Like you thought you could see inside me. Well, you can’t.”
“No, I’d be the first to admit that. I think what we have here is a misunderstanding . . .” Jesus Christ, did they.
Vincent was about to stumble on, think of something, anything, when he saw a figure in white, beyond Teddy’s right shoulder, run from the building entrance to the cars parked in the courtyard, and he said, “What we should do is clear it up.”
“What else you gonna say, I got a fucking gun aimed at your gut?”
The figure was beyond Teddy’s left shoulder now, among the cars, coming out toward them. Linda, Jesus, in her skimpy white robe.
“You don’t want to be in the position, get brought up for murder—you know, that’s pretty serious—and find out you were wrong. I don’t mean wrong, I mean you misinterpreted, made an honest mistake of what you thought I was thinking.”
Hearing himself but seeing Linda, Jesus, holding his police gun out in front of her in both hands, sneaking up hunched over, maybe twenty feet away and closing in. Teddy was saying “Bullshit!” repeating it with feeling, with everything he had, working himself up. Teddy saying, “Look at me! Look at me in the eye, goddamn it!” Vincent wanted to. He raised his eyebrows to stretch his eyes open wide, felt like an idiot and didn’t care, wanting with all his heart to tell Linda about the safety at the back end of the slide on a Smith & Wesson Model 39 parabellum. If it was on and she tried to fire and Teddy heard her . . . Wait. Or if it was off and she did fire a steel-jacketed nine-millimeter round right at Teddy right in front of him . . .
Teddy was saying, “Open ’em wide! Come on, wider!” Showing the whites of his own wild eyes, Teddy right at the edge . . .
As Linda stretched both arms all the way out, braced herself and fired.
And Vincent closed and opened his eyes, saw her juggle the gun and drop it as Teddy slammed into him and Teddy’s gun went off between them into the grocery sack of bottles, went off again and went off again, the bottles gone now as Vincent tried to grab hold of Teddy clinging to him and put him down, step on his gun. But something was wrong. Shit, he knew what it was. It wasn’t pain, not yet, it was his strength going. He had been shot somewhere and the rug-burn pain would come once his adrenaline drained off. He had learned that the other time. He had to find Teddy’s gunhand right now, Teddy holding on like dead weight. He got hold of Teddy’s arm and took a step and threw him as hard as he could, but it wasn’t enough. Teddy reeled off, staggering, but stayed on his feet. Vincent started after him and his legs lost their purpose, wouldn’t work. It was Vincent who went down and had to crawl in the dark toward Linda’s white bare feet on the pavement—where his gun was supposed to be and wasn’t—Linda saying something, mad or urgent. He couldn’t tell or stop to look up at her and listen, not now, or explain what he had in mind. But she knew. She came down to him on her knees holding the Smith and put it in his hand, grip into the palm. She knew. He turned with one hand on the ground, gun extended in the other and put it on Teddy. Vincent paused to say “Drop it.” Gave him that option.
Teddy looked wobbly, drunk, weaving as he aimed the bright-metal piece right at them, at one or the other, from less than twenty feet. So Vincent shot him. Put one dead center through Teddy’s solar plexus and killed the poor wimp who thought he was magic and couldn’t be scared.
29
* * *
VINCENT MADE A TRIP through the Ashford Medical Center from Emergency to Surgery to Intensive Care without seeing much of it.
In the morning they moved him to a private room on the second floor of the old hospital’s newer wing. Through the window at an angle he could see the high-rise top of Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge against blue sky. A good sign.
He believed he was on safe ground legally. Even after the guy had shot him, attempting to commit murder, he had offered the guy the option of staying alive, for an indeterminate period of time, or dying then and there. He had not read the fine print to him, but that was what “Drop it” amounted to.
He believed he was reasonably okay physically, though his chart would indicate some kind of trauma inside, an insulted organ maybe; he did have a couple of tubes in him and a key question to ask somebody. He knew the pain he felt could be relieved. If his condition were serious he’d be in a room full of monitors and not looking at Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge.
They had given him good dope. He opened his eyes to see Linda in the hall talking to DeLeon and Lorendo Paz, Linda the one he wanted to see.
When she came to him she looked so sad and then felt so good, close, and smelled so good, kissing him, touching his face, asking him if he was all right, if he needed anything. He asked her if she would go close the door.
She smiled—he was all right—closed it, came back to him and he asked her where he was shot, touching the sheet below his waist, close to his groin.
“I think it’s right here. But what I don’t know—did I lose anything important?”
“About six inches of bowel. You can’t eat Puerto Rican food anymore. The bullet lodged in your gluteus maximus,” Linda said, “your ass.”
“I know where my gluteus maximus is.”
“Can I look?”
“You want to?”
She pulled the sheet down carefully, lifted his gray hospital gown. “You’ve got stitches in your groin, like you had your appendix out.”
“Nothing’s missing?”
“No, it’s there. Awww, look at it. Poor little guy.”
He said, “Linda? Pull the catheter out, will you? I don’t need it.”
“Should I?”
He could tell she wanted to and he would love her forever if she did. She knew what was good for him, how to make him happy. She pulled the tube out so gently, slowly. What a touch. His eyes filled. He wanted to tell her how much he needed her and wanted to be with her . . .
But she was kissing him again, brushing his mouth with her lips, murmuring then, close to him, “Vincent, there’s something I have to tell you.” He waited and she said, “You know the bullet they took out of your butt?”
He said, “Oh no, you better not tell me.”
“I have to,” Linda said. “It was from your gun, not Teddy’s. I guess it went right through him.”
He took a moment, breathed in and out, settled. “It will do that.”
“I shot you, Vincent.”
“You didn’t mean to.”
“No, but I shot you. I want you to understand, it wasn’t to get you to stay.”
Vincent said, “Oh.” He said, “Are you sure?”
The Extras
I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS
II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY
III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT
V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”
This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.
Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).
All by Elmore
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot(1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap(1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (2002).
The Westerns
The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five Shadows* (1956); Last Stand at Saber River* (1959); Hombre* (1961); The Moonshine War* (1969); Valdez Is Coming* (1970); Forty Lashes Less One* (1972); Gunsights* (1979) Cuba Libre (1998); The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories* (1998).
As of November 2002: Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of: The Moonshine War (1969); Swag (1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of When the Women Come Out to Dance (2002).
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce(1969)
Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a really big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.
Houston Chronicle: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”
From the novel:
She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.
“You going to shoot something?”
“We could. Windows are good.”
“So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”
“And boats. Boats are fun.”
“I imagine they would be. How about cars?”
“I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?
“Yeah that is funny.”
“There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”
“And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”
Mr. Majestyk(1974)
Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.
Bergen Record: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”
From the novel:
Majestyk was running across the open scrub, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.
Seventy, eighty y
ards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.
52 Pickup (1974)
Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.
Chicago Tribune: “A splendid thriller.”
From the novel:
The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.
“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.’ Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”
As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.
“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”