“Where is who?”
“You know who. You know who I’m talkin’ about. Gerry. Where’s Gerry? What did you do with her, you bastard?” His breath spurted frantically from his lungs, betraying his unhealthiness.
“Hold on, Maxine. I don’t know—”
He stepped closer to me. Kostrakis turned at my side, bringing his fist up. “Let me,” Maxine whispered, his eyes full of tearful rage. His tongue pried his lips apart. Sweat glistened in the holes of his cheeks. His fist doubled. I moved my shoulders forward, balancing on the pads of my feet. Stan hesitated. “Hold him.”
Fingers closed around my arms, yanked them back and away from my sides. Maxine grunted and drove his fist into my gut. One of my legs bounced up. I couldn’t double over to ease the pain. I kicked out at him but there was no strength in the kick. It missed.
“Where did you take Gerry? Where is she? Damn you, Mallory, where’s my girl?”
I couldn’t say anything. I strained for breath, my eyes weeping from the effort. I knew my face must be darkening.
When I could speak I told him, “I don’t know where she is. I care less. You crazy or something, Maxine?”
“You want her, don’t you?” he said. “I could tell today. Saw you looking at her. Where did you go with her?”
“You’re nuts. I don’t touch it unless it’s been aged at least twenty years.”
He moaned and hit me again. This time I managed to shy to one side so his blow grazed my ribs first. I writhed helplessly, clamped between the two big men.
“You scum,” I said, my teeth tightly together. “What makes you think she didn’t run off? What makes you think she’d want to hang around you long? You got sex appeal or something?”
His eyes pressed shut. He swayed a little. “Get him out of here,” he whimpered. “Get him out of here before I kill him! Find out if he’s lying.”
They jerked me around and dragged me through the dining room and kitchen. My arms were numb from the grip of their fingers, swift needles of pain breaking in my palms and fingers. This time I went into the back seat of the Chrysler, face down on the floor. My head was held fast with a double length of rope fastened to a pair of hooks embedded in the floor, and passed across the back of my neck. It was hard for me to find a place for my legs. I finally had to bend them under me and lie cramped in the small space, my face scraping against the rough hairy matting at every bounce. There were a lot of bounces, because Kostrakis was an arrogant driver with a heavy right foot. Before long I was feeling calm, cold fury. They had my gun. But if I had just one, tiny chance I would try to get them with my hands.
The ride was endless. Once there was the jostle of railroad tracks, then the Klaxon of a boat. The blare of horns came less frequently, and there were fewer traffic lights. I became resigned to spending the rest of my life tied to that swaying floor. The fury lessened. I wanted a drink of water. My throat was rougher than the floor covering. I wanted to stretch out my legs. I could feel the throaty drum of the motor as speed increased. Maybe we would be there soon — wherever we were going. Then they would let me up. I thought no further than the mercy of being released from the floor of that car.
The Chrysler slowed down, lurched as tires bumped off the pavement. Gravel crackled and splattered under the wheels as the front end nosed downward. A few seconds of this and we stopped. Doors opened. Cool air feathered my hair. Something tugged at the ropes across my neck and they parted. I shifted position cautiously, rubbing at the stiff, fiery muscles.
“Get out,” the Greek said.
I put an arm over the front seat, dragged my legs forward, stepped out of the car. I had to lean against the door to stand. There was enough light to see that we were on the edge of swampland. I smelled the marshy water. Close to the Chrysler was the steel framework of a trestle for a huge steam shovel or crane.
They went to work without speaking. A hand closed on my shirt and I was jerked forward. Another hand chopped down swiftly, the palm edge hitting with blunt shock at the base of my neck, near the ridge of collarbone. I felt the blow to my fingertips, bit off a groan and dropped to my knees in the gravel.
Somewhere nearby, tires streaked the pavement as a car slowed suddenly, pitched off the highway. Headlights fanned toward us as the car skidded down the embankment, showering gravel. I looked up and saw the face of Kostrakis pinched with surprise in the sudden light. His hand made a move toward his coat, stopped, dropped to his side.
I looked around and saw Taggart and Reavis, the gatekeeper, getting out of the car. I stood up wearily.
“You guys want something?” O’Toole said angrily. Reavis went up to him and hit him with a long slashing fist. O’Toole arched backwards, fingers curling, and sprawled downhill, rolling loosely to the edge of weedy dark water. Kostrakis looked over his shoulder at him and kept his mouth shut.
“What are you boys doing here?” I said, holding my bruised shoulder.
Taggart tipped his massive head toward the car. Rudy was sitting behind the wheel and there was a blonde in the back seat.
“Diane saw you walk into trouble at Maxine’s,” he said. “She called us. We figured you’d show up here sooner or later. Maxine’s boys favor this place for staying in shape. They stay in shape by beating hell out of guys like you. Right, Greek?”
Kostrakis said nothing.
“Unload your iron,” Reavis said. His coat was open and he had a hand near the gun on his belt.
Kostrakis slipped a hand inside his coat, unholstered the gun with great care.
“On the ground,” Reavis said. The revolver arced to the gravel.
“Pick it up,” Taggart said.
Kostrakis swallowed. He tried to stoop and pick the gun up while looking at Taggart. His hand couldn’t find it. He had to look. When he did Taggart stepped forward and smashed a knee into his face. The Greek slumped back against the door of the car, sitting down. His face was bloody from forehead to chin. As he breathed, bubbles formed at his mashed nostrils. He leaned forward, put his hands in the gravel and crawled like a chubby, awkward baby toward the gun.
Taggart grinned and kicked the revolver away. It skidded down the slope and plopped into the water. Taggart kicked Kostrakis in the face. The Greek passed out. Taggart prodded him with a foot and he rolled gently after the gun, his bleeding face picking up dirt and loose gravel. Taggart looked after him indifferently.
“If you’re all rescued,” he said to me, “let’s go.”
I took my gun from the glove compartment of the Chrysler, followed Reavis and Taggart to their car. I got into the back seat with Diane. Rudy turned around cautiously and we edged up the incline to the highway.
“Thanks for spotting me,” I said to Diane. “I would have picked up a good pounding down there.”
“Why did Stan do that?” she said.
“You were with him all afternoon. You ought to know.”
“Sorry, I don’t,” she said unemotionally.
“He thinks I ran off with his woman.”
“I suppose you didn’t.”
“In a way. But I didn’t touch her. He’s crazy jealous. What were you two doing today?”
“I — there was someplace I wanted to go. We went together.”
“Like where?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Like where?”
“Lay off the goddam questions,” Taggart said.
“Shut your face,” I told him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
I saw his shoulders heave, but he didn’t turn around.
“Easy,” Rudy murmured. “Somewhere you want to go?”
“Stan’s Restaurant,” I said. “I’ll pick up the car there. You take Diane home. Macy’s been worried about the company she keeps.”
She squirmed in the seat with her arms folded across her breasts, stared out the window. A blank sullen silence closed around all of us.