“Two minds with a single thought. Thanks.”
I rushed home and dug through Elma's magazines until I found the one with the article and pictures on Johnson. I reread the hopped-up story, then took a pair of scissors and cut out the pictures, pasted in bits of paper to cover up the eye glasses, used white paper to cover his hair—the hairline he had shaved—penciled in a moustache. I thought I had a fair picture of what he must look like now.
Elma came out of the bathroom to yell, “What you tearing up the magazine for?”
“Isn't reading this junk once enough for you?” I asked, checking my gun.
“Why the gunplay?”
“I'm on to something big that can make me a detective,” I told her, going out, thinking it could also make me a corpse. Batty wouldn't be taken without a fight. I went over to the precinct house, pretended I wanted something from my locker. I casually studied the flyers they had on him. The desk lieutenant said, “You're on vacation. Going for an eager beaver, Perm?”
“Just getting in out of the cold, sir,” I told him, leaving. I dropped into a bar and had a shot of courage, told myself to cut it out: All I'd have to do was come upon Batty with my reflexes liquored up and I'd end being the most crocked man in the morgue. I didn't like facing him alone. I considered getting Ollie in on it; he was on vacation, too. But that would be dumb—sharing the credit.
I had a kind of plan worked out and the first thing necessary was a car. I couldn't borrow Ollie's without explaining things, but I phoned and put a bite on him for twenty-five bucks until payday. I took a bus to his bank, where he was waiting for me. I mumbled something about a hot tip on a horse and he got a little miffed when I refused to give him the name of the nag.
I hired a car for the day, and it was about 4 p.m. when I drove into the car wash. I had my gun loose in my overcoat pocket and my badge pinned to my shirt—my heart thumping a bongo under it. There was the owner, or manager of the joint, who took your money, and a big colored fellow in boots and several sweat shirts—and this fat white guy wearing rubbers and an old windbreaker. He had a wool cap on, but white hair showed; his mustache was ragged. And his eyes looked okay to me.
They hooked the car to a moving belt and it was pulled under a spray shower while the men sponged it down with long-handled sponges. The colored guy told me, “You can stay in your car if you want, mister. But keep the windows closed. Only take a minute.”
“I'll wait outside,” I said, studying the other guy, trying hard to be casual about it.
“Then best you go up front. Get wet here.”
I walked ahead, wondering when I'd try to take him. If it was Johnson, he was wearing so damn many shirts and pants I couldn't tell if he was armed. I watched the car coming through the spray, the men following it, working on it.
For a moment I nearly chickened out. I kept thinking I was far from certain the guy was Johnson. His eyes looked ordinary to me. But more important, car washing was damp, hard work and I couldn't see a big-time goon going in for real labor. If I threw a gun on him and he made a wrong move, I'd have to plug him. If it turned out to be a mistake, I'd end up to hell and gone up the creek.
When the car moved out of the spray, both men started drying it with big rags. The white fellow held a small hose in his left hand for spots the shower didn't take off, a cloth in his right mitt. When he finally put the hose down, I touched my gun in my pocket, took a deep breath, and went in.
I stepped over to him, picked up the hose, as I said, “There's a mud spot you skipped.” I had the hose in my left hand, and when he turned toward me I sent a stream of water full in his eyes, then lashed him across the gut with the nozzle. He put a hand to his eyes as he bent double. I yanked my gun out.
The Negro and the manager were coming at me, the manager with a hammer in his hand.
“I'm a cop! This is an arrest! Get back!” I ripped my coat open, flashed my badge.
That did it. Even though he was doubled up, fighting for air, I saw Johnson's body stiffen. The ice left my insides: It had to be him.
The manager asked, “What's the trouble, officer?”
“Get to the phone and call the police!” I snapped.
“But what—”
“Goddamn it, phone the police! You, Johnson, turn around—slowly!”
He was still bent over, his big can up in the air, but he turned until he was facing the wall. I felt wonderful, I hadn't even told him to face the wall. I said, “Get your legs apart!” He spread his thick legs. He was in an awkward position as I ran my left hand over his hips, his chest. He was clean.
The manager was using the phone next to the cash register. Johnson turned slowly, facing me. His mouth was open, fighting for air from the sock in the belly. He was still bent over, hands almost touching his rubbered feet. His pants went down into a pair of high work shoes, were held tight around his ankles by thick rubber bands to keep any water out.
The manager put the phone down, started toward me. “The police—”
“Stay where you are!” I didn't want to be crowded.
“The police are on their way. Can't you tell me what this is all about?”
“This man is Batty Johnson. He's wanted.”
“Him? He's a rummy named Howie Brown.”
“We'll see,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson's right hand fumbling with the rubber bands around his right ankle, the red fingers working them loose. His ankles were thick with padding, and I'd forgotten to frisk him down there. I was about to growl at him to stop it; then I thought: No, it will look harder this way. And be safer. I have the drop on him.
Deliberately, I half turned toward the colored guy, said, “Stay back there.”
“Man, I ain't moving no place.”
“That will be fine,” I said, looking at him but watching Johnson out of the comer of my eye. He was still bent over, staring at the wet floor. We all heard the wail of a siren growing closer in the distance as Johnson got a small automatic half out of an ankle holster.
I didn't give him a chance; I emptied my gun into his head and back. It turned out exactly right. He sat down hard, then fell over on his side, blood running from him in several places. But he was holding the automatic in his right hand!
As the barks of my gun faded, I heard the manager moan, “Oh my God!” and he got sick all over himself.
A radio car came screaming to a stop outside.
And a few hours later I met Doc for the first time, although I was on such a merry-go-round by then I didn't notice him.
5—
Opening my eyes, I saw the light from the naked bulb in the ceiling. It wasn't enough light to hurt your eyes. What was the life of a bulb? The damn thing had been burning steadily now for days. I wouldn't want it to go out, to be in this trap in the dark. But we could always take a bulb out of another socket in some other part of the house. But where was the fuse box? We ought to know, in case all the lights went out or...
I told myself to stop worrying like a kid. I sat up and glanced at my watch. I'd dozed about fifteen minutes. I reached for my coat on the chair, looking for a butt. Doc was sleeping but even in his sleep my movement seemed to make him stiffen, as if ready to come awake and on his feet in a second.