There was no sign of the Mercedes.
Roger had time to say, “Hoo boy. They’ve done this before, old horse—they had this set up.”
Because there must have been a Dead End sign at the corner back there and they must have had it removed.
Behind him in the mirror as he stopped the car he saw the gray bulk of the Mercedes ooze out of an opening in the brick wall and position itself crosswise in the neck of the alley. Like a stopper, bottling them in.
“Boxed like sheep,” Roger said contemptuously. “Shee-yit.”
Cestone and Belmont came walking forward in the rain.
He looked at Roger. Roger lifted his eyebrows. “Might as well, old horse.”
They got out of the car to meet it.
2
Bleakly he watched the gun in Belmont’s hand. Cestone looked them up and down, nothing in his face moving except his eyes. Cestone had his hatless head lowered against the rain and his hands in his coat pockets.
The two men stopped three paces away. Roger edged away from Mathieson. He saw Belmont’s lip twitch—in amusement? Belmont kept wiping water off his forehead with his free hand.
Cestone never touched his face. Possibly the nerves were gone.
“What you people want with us?” Cestone’s voice was petulant and high-pitched. Behind him the Mercedes blocked the entire width of the only exit. Its wipers flapped steadily.
“I want to talk to you,” Mathieson said.
“Me? I don’t know you, man. Who are you? What you want then?” Cestone’s speech had curious rhythms: It was almost Jamaican.
“A little business.”
“You had to shadow us all afternoon? Why don’t you just come to me and say, Gregory, I want to talk a little business? Why don’t you just do that?”
“I’m doing it now,” Mathieson pointed out.
“What kind of business, man?”
“We want to make a connection.”
Cestone uttered a sound that might have been a laugh. It chilled Mathieson because the face displayed nothing at all.
“What kind of stupid cops are you?”
“No cops.” Mathieson held both hands out from his sides, palms out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Roger take his hands out of his pockets, empty.
“No cops. Look, we figured we’d follow you to your man and make our own connection with him afterward. That’s all. We’re from out of town, see? Your name’s the only name we know.”
“That’s a load of shit, man.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You don’t look like no junkies.”
“It’s for somebody else.”
“Sure it is.”
Belmont showed his teeth. “Who?” It was the first word he’d spoken.
“What’s the difference?” Mathieson said. “You wouldn’t know her. We’re both from out West.”
Cestone said, “I don’t buy this, man.”
“Please listen to me. Either we’re cops or we’re not. If we’re cops you don’t want to shoot us—you’d get heat all over you. If we’re not cops then we’re telling the truth. What have you got to lose? Either way you’re going to have to let us out of here.”
“Man, I don’t have to let you do nothing. I can leave you here all shot to pieces. Nobody ever knows it was Cestone.”
“If we’re cops then the rest of the cops know who we’re shadowing. But then if we’re cops we wouldn’t travel alone, would we. We’d be wired—there’d be a radio truck out there on Bell Boulevard listening to this conversation and they’ve heard your voices and your name.”
“I didn’t see no radio truck,” Belmont said.
Cestone glanced at him. “I think we rough them up a little, teach them about tailing people.”
Mathieson said, “Take it easy. We haven’t done anything to you. We only want to talk.”
“You annoy me, man.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
Belmont scowled. “Wait a minute, Gregory.”
“What, man?”
“Wait a minute—wait a minute. I know him.”
“Who?”
“He’s changed his face a little. I ain’t seen him in years. But the voice—yeah, it’s him. Merle. Eddie Merle, the lawyer. Gregory, there’s a contract out on him.”
3
Right now had to be their move because Cestone was still absorbing the slow process of the chauffeur’s recognition and both men were in the grip of surprise.
Mathieson flashed a glance at Roger and saw the muscles tense under Roger’s coat.
Do the unexpected. At least it may throw their aim off. Homer’s voice echoed in his recollection.
Roger was diving away—back toward the car—and Belmont’s gun instinctively turned that way and it gave Mathieson room to move.
Two long sudden strides put him right between them.
His left hand had been outraised. He snapped it down against Belmont’s revolver. Deflected the weapon. Made a grab for Belmont’s wrist—and missed.
Still turning: wheeling, staying in motion, mingling, circling. Alarm had propelled Cestone backward and he had his automatic out very fast but he couldn’t fire because Mathieson kept moving and spinning, his grip fastened on Belmont’s sleeve—Cestone couldn’t shoot without risking Belmont; and then Roger was all over Cestone, a bear hug from behind, locking Cestone’s arms down.
Wrist lock, Mr. Merle, and don’t ever be dainty—these people don’t hand out second chances. Use both hands. Use them hard.
Still wheeling, he clapped his right hand over Belmont’s fist, revolver and all. Left hand on the elbow. Stop, whip the knee up, smash Belmont’s arm down against it. Fulcrum-pivot. Like cracking a stick of kindling across an upraised knee.
The bones were tough; Belmont’s forearm did not snap, but he heard the grunt and saw the pain in Belmont’s eyes and felt the revolver hit his own knee when it fell from Belmont’s numbed hand.
Don’t turn loose too fast. A little hurt’s no guarantee you’ve taken the fight out of the man. Or the man out of the fight.
Rain in his eyes—hard to see. He flung Belmont in front of him, whirling close behind the man, hanging on to the injured arm with his right fist, twisting it up behind the man’s back. Belmont cried out at last. Mathieson hooked his left arm around the neck, around the windpipe, pulling the head back against his chest. Using Belmont as a shield against Cestone’s gun because things were uncertain in the downpour, he couldn’t tell who had the upper hand there.
Belmont tried to struggle. Mathieson twisted the bruised arm. Belmont screamed—a raucous terrible noise.
Cestone was big; Roger was on his back but Cestone broke loose and Mathieson saw him lift the automatic—Cestone was going to shoot, right across the top of Belmont’s shoulder.
Mathieson put his knee in Belmont’s back and shoved him against Cestone.
Collision. Cestone’s feet slid on the mud; he went over on his back. Belmont fell on top of him. Roger was getting to his feet, sliding in the muck, scrambling. Mathieson walked right in. Cestone’s arms had gone out behind him to break his fall; he was pushing Belmont off him, looking for a gun; Mathieson found the automatic and kicked out, full force, right foot. From the feel of it he couldn’t tell whether he’d kicked the gun or the hand but it was all the same: The automatic slithered away.
But he’d lost his own footing on the slick. He fell on his side and bruised his hip against his pocketful of coins.
It was right against his nose—the revolver that Belmont had dropped.
He got one knee under him and thrust the revolver out at arm’s length. “All right.”
Roger was standing up—casual, a grin behind the beard, eyes flashing: enjoying this.
Cestone was half erect. He straightened slowly, feet spaced wide. The immobility of his face was horrifying.
Belmont crawled around in the mud in a circle, moaning, moving like a half-crushed beetle. Roger kicked him in the rump. Mathieson said, “On your feet, you’re not hurt.”