I tried to yell, for no reason at all. Breath panted in my throat and couldnt get out. The Indian threw me sideways and got a body scissors on me as I fell. He had me in a barrel. His hands went to my neck. Sometimes I wake up in the night. I feel them there and I smell the smell of him. I feel the breath fighting and losing and the greasy fingers digging in. Then I get up and take a drink and turn the radio on.
I was just about gone when the light flared on again, blood red, on account of the blood in my eyeballs and at the back of them. A face floated around and a hand pawed me delicately, but the other hands stayed on my throat.
A voice said softly, Let him breathe a little.
The fingers slackened. I wrenched loose from them. Something that glinted hit me on the side of the jaw.
The voice said softly: Get him on his feet.
The Indian got me on my feet. He pulled me back against the wall, holding me by both twisted wrists.
Amateur, the voice said softly and the shiny thing that was as hard and bitter as death hit me again, across the face. Something warm trickled. I licked at it and tasted iron and salt.
A hand explored my wallet. A hand explored all my pockets. The cigarette in tissue paper came out and was unwrapped. It went somewhere in the haze that was in front of me.
There were three cigarettes? the voice said gently, and the shining thing hit my jaw again.
Three, I gulped.
Just where did you say the others were?
In my desk at the office.
The shiny thing hit me again. You are probably lying but I can find out. Keys shone with funny little red lights in front of me. The voice said: Choke him a little more.
The iron fingers went into my throat. I was strained back against him, against the smell of him and the hard muscles of his stomach. I reached up and took one of his fingers and tried to twist it.
The voice said softly: Amazing. Hes learning.
The glinting thing swayed through the air again. It smacked my jaw, the thing that had once been my jaw.
Let him go. Hes tame, the voice said.
The heavy strong arms dropped away and I swayed forward and took a step and steadied myself. Amthor stood smiling very slightly, almost dreamily in front of me. He held my gun in his delicate, lovely hand. He held it pointed at my chest.
I could teach you, he said in his soft voice. But to what purpose? A dirty little man in a dirty little world. One spot of brightness on you and you would still be that. Is it not so? He smiled, so beautifully.
I swung at his smile with everything I had left.
It wasnt so bad considering. He reeled and blood came out of both his nostrils. Then he caught himself and straightened up and lifted the gun again.
Sit down, my child, he said softly. I have visitors coming. I am so glad you hit me. It helps a great deal.
I felt for the white stool and sat down and put my head down on the white table beside the milky globe which was now shining again softly. I stared at it sideways, my face on the table. The light fascinated me. Nice light, nice soft light.
Behind me and around me there was nothing but silence. I think I went to sleep, just like that, with a bloody face on the table, and a thin beautiful devil with my gun in his hand watching me and smiling.
23
All right, the big one said. You can quit stalling now.
I opened my eyes and sat up.
Out in the other room, pally.
I stood up, still dreamy. We went somewhere, through a door. Then I saw where it was the reception room with the windows all around. It was black dark now outside.
The woman with the wrong rings sat at her desk. A man stood beside her.
Sit here, pally.
He pushed me down. It was a nice chair, straight but comfortable but I wasnt in the mood for it. The woman behind the desk had a notebook open and was reading out loud from it. A short elderly man with a dead-pan expression and a gray mustache was listening to her.
Amthor was standing by a window, with his back to the room, looking out at the placid line of the ocean, far off, beyond the pier lights, beyond the world. He looked at it as if he loved it. He half turned his head to look at me once, and I could see that the blood had been washed off his face, but his nose wasnt the nose I had first met, not by two sizes. That made me grin, cracked lips and all.
You got fun, pally?
I looked at what made the sound, what was in front of me and what had helped me get where I was. He was a windblown blossom of some two hundred pounds with freckled teeth and the mellow voice of a circus barker. He was tough, fast and he ate red meat. Nobody could push him around. He was the kind of cop who spits on his blackjack every night instead of saying his prayers. But he had humorous eyes.
He stood in front of me splay-legged, holding my open wallet in his hand, making scratches on the leather with his as if he just liked to spoil things. Little things, if they were all he had. But probably faces would give him more fun.
Peeper, huh, pally? From the big bad burg, huh? Little spot of blackmail, huh?
His hat was on the back of his head. He had dusty brown hair darkened by sweat on his forehead. His humorous eyes were flecked with red veins.
My throat felt as though it had been through a mangle. I reached up and felt it. That Indian. He had fingers like pieces of tool steel.
The dark woman stopped reading out of her notebook and closed it. The elderly smallish man with the gray mustache nodded and came over to stand behind the one who was talking to me.
Cops? I asked, rubbing my chin.
What do you think, pally?
Policemans humor. The small one had a cast in one eye, and it looked half blind.
Not L.A., I said, looking at him. That eye would retire him in Los Angeles.
The big man handed me my wallet. I looked through it. I had all the money still. All the cards. It had everything that belonged in it. I was surprised.
Say something, pally, the big one said. Something that would make us get fond of you.
Give me back my gun.
He leaned forward a little and thought. I could see him thinking. It hurt his corns. Oh, you want your gun, pally? He looked sideways at the one with the gray mustache. He wants his gun, he told him. He looked at me again. And what would you want your gun for, pally?
I want to shoot an Indian.
Oh, you want to shoot an Indian, pally.
Yeah just one Indian, pop.
He looked at the one with the mustache again. This guy is very tough, he told him. He wants to shoot an Indian.
Listen, Hemingway, dont repeat everything I say, I said.
I think the guy is nuts, the big one said. He just called me Hemingway. Do you think he is nuts?
The one with the mustache bit a cigar and said nothing. The tall beautiful man at the window turned slowly and said softly: I think possibly he is a little unbalanced.
I cant think of any reason why he should call me Hemingway, the big one said. My name aint Hemingway.
The older man said: I didnt see a gun.
They looked at Amthor. Amthor said: Its inside. I have it. Ill give it to you, Mr. Blane.
The big man leaned down from his hips and bent his knees a little and breathed in my face. What for did you call me Hemingway, pally?
There are ladies present.
He straightened up again. You see. He looked at the one with the mustache. The one with the mustache nodded and then turned and walked away, across the room. The sliding door opened. He went in and Amthor followed him.
There was silence. The dark woman looked down at the top of her desk and frowned. The big man looked at my right eyebrow and slowly shook his head from side to side, wonderingly.
The door opened again and the man with the mustache came back. He picked a hat up from somewhere and handed it to me. He took my gun out of his pocket and handed it to me. I knew by the weight it was empty. I tucked it under my arm and stood up.