Finally, he gave up. Panting, gasping, retching with the exertion, he pulled himself free and slumped to the floor where he cradled his sawed-off shotgun in his lap and began to cry.
Jack was standing over him by now, but for a moment or so he could only stare and listen to the guy sob. Pitiful. He’d wanted to pop the guy. But now…
When he’d heard all he could stand, he raised the Semmerling.
“Okay, Fatso. Cut the blubbering and get up – without the shotgun.”
Fatso started and looked up at Jack, at the Semmerling, and got to his feet. But the shotgun still hung from his hand.
“I said drop the sawed-off or you’re dead.”
“Go ‘head,” he said, sniffling but still clutching the stock grip. “Good as dead already.”
“For blowing away a cop – yeah, I guess you are.”
“Didn’t kill no cop.” He was sulky now.
“That’s not what you told me a couple of minutes ago. And by the way, how’s old man Costin – the owner? He okay?”
Fatso nodded. “Locked him in the crapper.”
“At least somebody’s still alive.”
“Ain’t never killed nobody! That was Abdul. He done the cop. Didn’t have to, neither. Had the drop on the guy but he just pulled the trigger and liked to took his head off.”
That jibed with Jack’s take on young Carruthers’ neck wound. He tasted his saliva turning bitter.
“Swell. He was only twenty-two. A little younger than you, I figure.”
“I didn’t do it, man!”
“Doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. You’re a part of a felony where a killing’s gone down. Automatic murder-one for you.”
“I knew you was a cop.”
“Already told you – not a cop. Don’t have to be a cop to know you’re heading for a major jolt in the joint.”
His fat lips quivered. “Already done that.”
He lifted the shotgun and Jack ducked to his right, his finger tightening on the Semmerling’s trigger. But the sawed-off barrel kept on rising till the bore was snug against the underside of Fatso’s chin.
Jack cringed, waiting for the boom and brain splatter.
It never came. A sob burst through Fatso’s lips as he dropped the weapon back to his side and slumped to the floor again.
“I can’t do it!” he screeched through clenched teeth.
Jack, speechless before this utterly miserable creature, said nothing.
“Can’t hack the joint again, man,” Fatso moaned. “I can’t!”
“What’d you go in for?”
“Got a dime for dealin’. Out early.”
“What’s your name?”
“Henry. Henry Thompson. They call me Fat Henry.”
Can’t imagine why,” Jack thought
“The joint – is that where you met Khambatta?”
Fat Henry nodded again. “He on the back end of three-to-five when I got in. We became… friends.”
“You two don’t seem to be each other’s type.”
“He protected me.”
Jack nodded. He got the picture.
“I see.”
“No, man. You don’t see,” Fat Henry said, his voice rising. “You don’t see shit! You don’t know what it was like in there! I was tail meat! Guys’d be lined up in the shower to get at me! I wanted to die!”
“And Khambatta saved you.”
Fat Henry let out a tremulous sigh. “Yeah. Sort of. He took me in. Protected me.”
“Made you his property so he could have you all to himself.”
“I ain’t like that, man! I just did what I hadda to get through it! Don’t you dump on me if you ain’t been there!”
Jack only shook his head. He didn’t know how many things were worth dying over, but he was pretty sure that was one of them. And he didn’t know what to make of Fat Henry. He was one pathetic son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a killer. He was going to be treated as one, though – a cop killer.
“So how come you’re still with Khambatta?”
“I ain’t. He ain’t like that, either – least not outside. We got out about the same time and he call me last week ‘bout picking up some quick cheese.”
“Swell. What you picked up instead was another trip to Attica.”
“No way I’m goin’ back inside! I’m getting outta here.”
“How?”
“Gettin’ a car from the cops.”
“You sure about that? What’ve you told them about their dead pal?”
“Nothin’. Told ‘em he’s safe and sound but I’ll shoot him dead they make a move on me.”
“You really think they’re going to let you have a car without talking to their man, without making sure he’s all right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Fat Henry’s voice faltered. “They gotta. Don’t they?”
Jack shook his head, slowly, deliberately. “Switch places: Would you let you have a car?”
“I ain’t goin’ back.” Tears began to stream down his face. “I’ll off myself first!”
“You already tried that.”
Fat Henry glared at him. Again he lifted the shotgun. Jack thought he was going to put it under his jaw again; instead he offered it to Jack.
“Here. You do it.”
Jack took the weapon and sniffed the bore. It hadn’t been fired tonight. He was almost tempted to aim it at Fat Henry’s face to see how serious he was about this, but decided against it. Instead, he worked the pump, sending red-and-brass cylinders tumbling through the gloom one after another until they lay scattered on the floor like party favors. He tossed the empty shotgun back to Fat Henry. Hard.
“Do your own dirty work.”
“You fucker!”
Thoroughly fed up, Jack stepped over him toward the airshaft opening.
“And I’m not hanging around listening to you blubber.”
“I need help, dog.” He was whining now.
“No argument there. But there’s only one person here who can help you and he’s sitting on the floor whining.”
“Fuck you!”
Jack had one leg through the opening. He turned and jabbed a finger at Fat Henry.
“You’re the one who’s fucked, Fatso. Look at your life! What’ve you ever done with it? You got busted dealing – crack, right? You let yourself be the shower-room bimbo until some tough guy came along and made you his private tool. You went along on this armed robbery bullshit, and now somebody’s dead and you’re bawling because it’s time to pay the piper. You make me sick.”
Another whine. “But what can I do?”
“First of all, you can get off your ass and onto your feet.”
Fat Henry rolled over and struggled to his feet.
“Good,” Jack said. “That’s a start. Now you’ve got to go upstairs and face the music.”
He stepped back, a caged animal look in his eyes. “Uh-uh.”
“Either they take you up there, or they come down those stairs, step over the body of their buddy, and take you here.”
“Told you! I can’t go back to the joint!”
“You’ve got to stand up, Henry Thompson. For once in your life you’ve got to stand up.”
“But I can’t!”
Jack stared him down in the silence that followed.
“Then sit here all night and play with yourself until somebody else makes the choice for you. That seems to be the story of your life, Henry.”
Fat Henry looked toward the steps up to the first floor. He stood like a statue, staring.
“I can choose,” he said in a soft, far-away voice. “I can choose. I’ll show you I can choose.”