He shoved his face under the car and rammed his hand toward me. I hit it as it came under and the gun exploded with a deafening roar, the bullet smashing into the bottom of the car.
I grabbed for the gun. He had one slug. Just one more, and if I could beat that one, the tiger was dead. I had his arm with both my hands. He jerked frantically. I tried to keep the muzzle out of my face, but Drumright could count. He knew! This one was going to be good; it had to be.
He was half under the car, when he pressed his leg against the outside of the car and I felt his arm slipping away, felt the sleeve tear, the sweaty flesh slip from my grasp. I stared in horror as he eased back, his face insanely wild. I rolled for the far side of the car. I made one turn and when I faced him again I heard the shot. I felt the hot, burning sensation in my stomach. Drumright got to his knees.
I rolled free of the car, raising on my elbow, feeling the pulsating ache in my stomach, my hand stained red with blood. Drumright was running toward the ladder. He was going upstairs to throw the lever himself and he’d get that riot gun when he did.
I looked up at the top of the wall. Charlie was pulling himself up on his elbows. Drumright scooted right up the ladder. He reached the top, his head peering over, his arm grabbing for the rail.
I heard a muted tat... tat... tat... tat... and Drumright’s hand dropped limply, his body sagged for a moment, then fell backward, silent, almost graceful, before he smashed against the concrete.
Charlie swung around toward the car on his stomach, the barrel weaving feebly. A voice screamed over the roar of the sirens, “We give up!” The cons started coming out of the car, but Charlie hadn’t heard them. He got them as they came out, both of them tumbling in a heap beside the door.
Then the old man’s body failed, the riot gun slipped from his hands and fell over the side of the wall.
I leaned back on the hot pavement, the steady drone of sirens throbbing in my ears. The warden stumbled from the car and hunkered down beside me.
In a few minutes a white ambulance swung close to the car. The prison doctor hovered over me, tearing away my clothes, examining my wound. Slowly his face relaxed. “I guess you know you’re lucky,” he said.
It was the best news I’d had all day.
On a Sunday Afternoon
by Gil Brewer
Five against one. Deadly odds in a spot like Harper’s. But sometimes a man must ignore the odds...
Dell Harper and his wife Julia left their pew and shoved through the nervously subdued congregation. Everyone somehow held themselves back enough to keep from running and shoving in an effort to get home for dinner, make that show, meet Marge or Suzie, reach the car before Dad. The organ continued to moan softly and the Reverend Holdsby appeared at the hall door, perspiring lightly, a fixed smile on his pale lips.
“Better carry Linda,” Harper said to his wife. “She’ll get herself stomped on. And for gosh sakes, get past Holdsby before he nails us about Christian Endeavor, or we’ll never get out to the glen.”
Julia Harper looked at her husband and scowled, but she said nothing. She grabbed three year old Linda, who at the moment was interested in the choir loft, picked her up, rested her on her hip.
They escaped to the main entrance hall, and headed for the door. Noon sunlight glared on the brick steps.
“There’s Tom Martin,” Julia said. She held Linda with one arm, jabbed at her hair with her other hand, and looked as if she wanted to smile.
“Now, for cripes’ sake,” Harper said. “Don’t start gabbing.”
Julia didn’t seem to hear him. Linda said something about, “Wanna fickle do, Mommy! Fickle do naw!”
“All right,” Julia Harper said. “We’ll be home in a little while. Then you can.”
Martin pinned them in a small bottleneck on the steps. “Only got a minute,” he said. “Nan’s waiting in the car. Why don’t you folks stop over this afternoon?” He paused, stripping cellophane from a cigar. “We could have some coffee and sandwiches later on — maybe play a few hands of bridge.” He bit off the end of the cigar, spat it across the church steps, and grinned at Julia.
Julia smiled back brightly, glanced at her husband.
Martin snatched the cigar from his mouth and motioned toward Linda. “Bring her along, too — of course.”
Harper checked his wrist watch. “Sorry as the deuce, Tom. We planned something else. Thanks, though — for asking.”
Julia patted Linda’s bottom, frowned, and chewed the edge of her lower lip.
“Oh?” Martin said.
“Little picnic — out to the glen.”
Julia spoke suddenly, a shade too loudly. “Why don’t you and Nan come along?” She said it to Martin, but she looked at her husband as she spoke.
Martin found a match, looked at it. “No — we can’t,” he said. “Feel kind of tired. Just want to lay around, anyways.”
“We’d better get moving,” Harper said.
“Maybe next Sunday?” Martin called.
Harper said nothing. Julia turned and flashed another smile back across Linda’s shoulder. They moved slowly through the sun-dappled church crowds into the parking area, located their Ford sedan.
“Wow,” Harper said. “Like an oven. Wait’ll I roll the windows down.”
Julia waited, holding Linda, looking at the bustle of the crowded parking area.
“Come on, will you?” Harper called with a trace of irritation. “You’re the one wanted to get out to the God damned glen. We’ll no more’n get there, we’ll have to come back. Get the lead out. It’s my only day off — you know that.”
Julia ignored his whining tone, slipped into the front seat with Linda, then allowed the three year old to climb over into the back.
Harper savagely started the engine and backed out, heading for the street. Julia adjusted her pale blue skirt over her round knees, patted the small and wilted corsage of flowers she’d made that morning.
“There’s Brady,” Julia said. “He’s waving, Dell.”
“Oh,” Harper said, flapping his hand without looking. “I’m hungry as a bear. You?”
“I suppose so.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s the matter. I can tell.”
Julia said nothing. She looked out the window and closed her eyes.
Linda was bubbling about something in the back seat, her round face mashed against the side window, the lingers of one hand curled into her pale yellow hair.
Harper turned onto Central a bit too speedily, narrowly missing the side of a city bus. A yellow and chrome hot rod roared past them, loaded with young laughing faces. The driver flipped the cut-out on the muffler twice.
“Juvenile delinquents,” Harper said. “My God, look how fast they’re goin! They don’t give a damn for anybody. The world’s crazy — I tell you, it’s crazy. Crazy kids. I’d just like to get close enough to one of them sharpies, by God.”
“What would you do, Dell?” Julia said, her eyes still closed, facing the window.
“They need a lesson, that’s what they need. A good lesson. Somebody show ’em what for. Drunk, an’ taking dope — like they do.” He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed it into a fist. “A good lesson — the old-fashioned way.”
Julia said nothing. They drove on home.
“Hurry up and change,” Harper said from the bathroom. “What you wearing?”
His wife did not reply.
Something thumped downstairs.
“Hope she’s not in the God damned lunch,” Harper said. “You got it all packed, didn’t you?”