I got the handcuff key out of his pocket, undid the loose cuff on his wrist, and tossed the cuffs to Gloria, who caught them one-handed; she was smiling like a beauty queen in a parade as she snapped the cuffs on the conductor and found him a seat.
Everything was going swell till the assistant conductor came in, a guy in his thirties with a halfback build. He was blurting, “They’re flagging down the train! They’re—”
Before he knew what was going on, I belted him and he hit the deck. Gloria held the gun on him.
“Get up and tell the boy at the throttle to keep going,” she said. “We don’t stop, understand?”
I was grinning. “That’s my girl.”
She shook the gun at the young trainman, who was on the floor in a half-lying, half-sitting position, his cap knocked off, his hair mussed, his expression dazed.
“Do it quick!” she demanded.
He winced up at her. “You’re crazy, lady. There are cops out there! You know what they want?”
With a toss of her blond hair, she said, “Yes. Yes, I think I do. I think they’d tell you they want to see justice done. Don’t you want that?”
The trainman, scared now, looked from Gloria to me; then he nodded nervously.
“Would it be just,” I asked, “for that man on the floor to die? He’s a cop himself. Or your friend the conductor?”
One eyebrow was raised as she said to the young guy, “Justice can be served in any number of ways. Go tell the engineer. We’ll wait.”
He got up slowly, his cheeks flushed red. “Not on your life. Not on anybody’s life. I know who you are — both of you. So you can stuff it. Go tell him yourself — but first you gotta go through me.”
The dick was coming around. He looked up from the floor and said, “Go tell the engineer, son — they’ll kill you.”
“I looked down a gun before,” the trainman said. There was as much pride as anger in it. He looked right at me. “But you got to get through me first. Lady, hand him the gun. He’ll need it.”
I held up a hand to stop her. Handing the .38 over would be just the distraction he’d need to throw himself at me.
I said, “You and I were in the same war, friend. And it wasn’t Korea — right?”
He gave me a slow nod. “That’s right. But now we have our own war, don’t we?”
I nodded. “Hang on to the gun, sugar,” I told Gloria, “and keep a close eye on Uncle Andy...”
“Johnny,” she said, “I don’t get it...”
I nodded toward the trainman. “He fought for the right to challenge something like this. What branch, bud?”
“Marine. Second division.”
“Army,” I said. “Infantry.”
He came forward with his fists ready, and when he threw his first punch, I ducked it and swung a right at his chin. But he was no easy mark like Uncle Andy — he ducked that and stepped in to give me one that doubled me over. Much as that hurt, even with my wind knocked out, it left me in a position to tackle him and I took him down hard. He was on his back when I slammed a combination of rights and lefts into his chin, his face, that bloodied his mouth and his nose and though he wasn’t out all the way, he was finished. And knew it.
Gloria’s attention on our struggle was enough to give the dick a moment he could use to snatch the gun out of her hand. He held it on me and his expression was flat — too tired and beat up to summon any more rage.
He said, “Okay, you two... it’s over.”
She was at my side now.
I said to her, “It never really had a chance to start, did it?”
She kissed me — nothing fancy, just a quick sweet goodbye before all of this caught up with us.
The dick reached for the emergency cord, but before he made contact, a foot reached out and spilled him, landing him hard.
The ex-marine gave me a grin and a wink. With a glance at the dick, who was down and dazed again, he said, “Get out, buddy. Get out fast!”
Then Gloria and I were between cars and the wind was whipping us and the wheels were grinding. She was in my arms as if we were in a ballroom somewhere, and she asked, “What now?”
“Now we run.”
“Run where?”
“Somewhere to hole up till we’re very old news. Then maybe we come back and quietly prove ourselves innocent. Or maybe we just enjoy a new life somewhere. Live the right way and enjoy that life. But first we run.”
“It’ll be a hell of a run,” she said.
“Maybe we make it, maybe we don’t. But at least we try it together.”
Another kiss and we watched for the right moment.
To jump.
And start the run.
And I could swear I saw two faces in the window of that club car — that trainman giving me a thumbs up and a glum Uncle Andy, looking like he thought he’d be better off jumping too.
COAUTHOR’S NOTE: This story is based on a television play written for Suspense, a well-known program of its day. “The Big Run” was scheduled to be presented in March of 1954, but apparently was not produced. Had it been, the presentation would have been a live one, as was common in the early days of TV. The cast included Spillane’s friend Jack Stang, who had starred with Mickey in Ring of Fear that same year; the screen’s first Mike Hammer, Biff Elliot; and comedian Jonathan Winters portraying the plainclothes cop transporting a convicted killer.
Defender of the Dead
by Doug Allyn
Doug Allyn is one of the most celebrated crime-short-story writers of his generation — a two-time best-short-story Edgar winner and an eleven-time winner of the EQMM Readers Award. He is also an esteemed mystery novelist whose two most recent boobs are The Jukebox Kings (February 2017) and The Lawyer Lifeguard, cowritten with James Patterson (June 2017).
People lie to me. A lot. It comes with the job. I’ve been a cop a I dozen years, first in the army, then with Valhalla P.D. in northern Michigan. I should be used to it by now, but it still surprises me how often people blow smoke when the flat-ass truth would serve them better.
In an MP psych class, the instructor said lying is a reflex, triggered by the fight-or-flight syndrome. Bottom line? If your suspect gets spooked, the next thing out of their mouth will likely be a lie.
Good to know.
But not when you’re having lunch with your mom, and she’s obviously spooked about something.
We were lunching in my mother’s antique shop, Claudette’s Classics and Junque, nibbling Chinese from takeout boxes. Ma’s office sits atop a three-step dais that gives her a three-sixty view of her store — gleaming hardwood aisles, oaken shelves stocked with antiques and collectibles, floor to ceiling. Normally, lunch with my mom is a pleasure. We swap gossip; I trade cop scuttlebutt for updates on our extended family, which LaCrosse is in love, who’s headed for trouble. We don’t keep score, but it’s usually a fair trade, more or less.
Until today. Ma kept avoiding my eyes, pushing her food around with her chopsticks. I had a strong sense she was holding something back, something dark. Which was scaring the hell out of me.
Normally, you don’t have to wonder what my mother is thinking. She’ll tell you, ready or not. Which cousin is in the closet, games her current boyfriend plays in bed. She often tells me a whole lot more than I want to know. So? Enough with the suspense.
“What’s up with you, Ma? What’s going on?”
And for a split second, I caught a flash of deception in her eyes. And I wondered if the next thing out of her mouth would be a lie.