Instead, a funeral was being planned.
Carrera’s.
There was a sheer wall behind him, rising like a giant tombstone for some hundred feet, terminating there in a jumble of twisted branches and fallen rock. A few feet in front of the wall was the outcropping behind which Carrera squatted with his .45 and my ten G’s.
My watch read 12:40.
Linda screamed.
“Shut up!” I shouted.
“José!” she bellowed, her head turned toward where Carrera lay crouched behind the rocks. There was no sound from across the clearing. I wondered if he was listening.
“Hey!” I yelled. And then, “Let go the gun!”
I pointed the .45 over my head and fired two quick shots. I screamed as loud as I could, and then I dropped my voice into a trailing moan, and at last fell silent.
It was quiet for a long time.
Linda and I crouched behind the rocks, waiting, looking at each other, the sweat pouring from our bodies. There was still no sound from the other side of the clearing.
And then, softly, cautiously, in a whisper that reached across the pebble-strewn clearing and climbed the rock barrier, Carrera called, “Linda?”
I put my finger to my lips.
“Linda?” he called again.
I nodded this time, and she answered, “It’s all right, José. It’s all right.”
Carrera was quiet again. I could picture him behind his rock barrier, his ears straining, his fat face flushed.
“The American?” he called.
“He is dead,” Linda answered.
“Tell him to come over,” I prompted.
She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Come here, José. Come.”
I waited, my chest heaving, the .45 heavy in my hand.
“Throw out the American’s gun,” Carrera said. His voice was cold and calculating. He wasn’t buying it. He suspected a trick, and he wanted to make sure I wasn’t forcing his woman to play along with me.
“Give me the gun,” Linda whispered.
“What for? What good would that...?”
“I’ll stand up. When he sees me with the gun, he will no longer suspect. Give it to me.”
“Throw out the gun, Linda,” Carrera called again.
“Quick,” she said, “give me the gun.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then I passed the gun to her, holding it by the barrel, fitting the stock into her fingers.
She took the gun gently, and then pointed it at my belly. A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth as she stood up. My eyes popped wide in astonishment.
“It’s all right now, José,” she called. “I’ve got his gun.”
“Bueno,” Carrera said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I’d been suckered, taken like a schoolboy, hook, line, and sinker.
“So that’s the way it is,” I said.
“That’s the way it is, señor,” she answered. The gun didn’t waver. It kept pointing at my belt buckle.
“And it’s señor now,” I added. “Last night, it was Jeff.”
“Last night was last night,” she said. “Now is now.”
Across the clearing, I could hear Carrera’s feet scraping against the rocks as he clambered to a standing position. Linda heard the sound, too. Her eyes flicked briefly to the right and then snapped back.
“I’m surprised,” I said. I kept my voice low, a bare whisper that only she could hear. From the comer of my eye, I watched Carrera’s progress.
“You should learn to expect surprises, señor,” she answered.
“I thought last night meant a little more than...”
I stopped and shook my head.
She was interested. I could see the way her brows pulled together slightly, a small V appearing between them.
“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll just forget it.”
“What is there to forget?” she asked.
She wanted me to go on. She tried to keep her voice light but there was something behind her question, an uncertain probing. Carrera was halfway across the clearing now. I saw the .45 in his pudgy fist and I began to sweat more heavily. I had to hurry.
“There’s you to forget,” I said. “You and last night.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said. “Last night meant nothing. Not to you, not to me.”
“It meant everything to me,” I said, and took a step closer to her.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “I’m Carrera’s woman.”
He was no more than fifty feet away now. I could feel the sun on my shoulders and head, could hear the steady crunch of his feet against the pebbles.
“Is that who you want?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Look at him, Linda,” I said, my voice a husky whisper now. “Take a look at the fat slobbering pig you’re doing this for.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Take a look at your boyfriend!” I said. “Is that who you really want?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.
He was almost upon us. I could see his features plainly, could see the sweat dripping off his forehead. I took another step toward Linda.
“He’s my husband,” she said.
She lowered the .45 for an instant, and that was when I sprang. I didn’t bother with preliminaries. I brought back my fist and hit her hard, just as the gun went off into the ground. She was screaming when my fist caught her, but she stopped instantly, dropping the gun, crumpling against the ground.
Carrera was running toward us now.
I picked up the gun and fired at once. He wasn’t hard to hit. Something that big never is. I fired two shots that sprouted on his shoulder like red blossoms across his white cotton shirt. He clutched at the blossoms as if he wanted to pick them for a bouquet, and then he changed his mind and dropped the gun, and fell forward onto his face.
I looked over my shoulder at Linda. She was still sprawled on the ground. I climbed over the rocks and walked to where Carrera was lying, breathing hard, bleeding. I rolled him over and unfastened the money belt. Carefully, slowly, I counted the money. It was all there, ten thousand bucks worth. I picked up his .45 and tucked it in my waistband. Overhead, the vultures were already beginning a slow spiral.
I walked back to the rocks, the .45 cocked in my right hand.
She was just sitting up when I got there: Her knees were raised, her skirt pulled back over them. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, looked up at me.
Her voice caught in her throat.
“Carrera?” she asked.
“He’s hurt bad,” I said. “But he isn’t dead.”
She nodded, stared at the ground for a moment. She got to her feet then, dusted off her skirt, glanced up at the vultures.
“Do you have the money?” she asked.
“I have the money.”
“Did you mean what you said about last night?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then let’s go,” she said, and nodded.
“Just what I plan to do,” I said. “Alone.”
A puzzled look crossed her face.
“You’re Carrera’s woman,” I said. “Remember? Go back to him.”
I turned away from her then, and started walking down the twisting path, the sky a brilliant blue above, except where the vultures hung against it, circling.
Dummy
In 1955, when I began writing the first of the 87th Precinct novels, I thought it would be a good idea to make Steve Carella’s girlfriend (and later wife) a deaf mute who would get into all sorts of trouble because she could neither hear nor speak. The ultimate Woman in Jeopardy, so to speak. Over the years, Teddy Carella has developed into a strong and independent woman and no one in his right mind would ever consider her vulnerable — but that was the notion back then. Perhaps I’d forgotten that in that very same year, 1955, a magazine called Real published a story titled “The Big Scream” by Evan Hunter. It follows under my original derogatory title, which I like much better.