“It was your last job, sonny,” he said, grabbing the slack of the sports shirt and pulling him to his feet. “You shot a good kid, my brother. But you shoot nobody else.”
Langley stared at him, breathing raggedly, hate shining from his bleeding ruined face. “I’d cut off my hands and feet for one chance at you, copper,” he cried softly. “I’d fix you good.”
“You had your chance, sonny,” Carmody said. “A thousand more wouldn’t help.” Turning Langley around, he twisted his wrist up between his shoulder blades and locked it there in the vise of his own big hand. “Eddie could have taken you front to front,” he said. “You’re not big-time, you’re all mouth. We’re going downtown now and I’ll turn you over to my brother’s friends. If you want your troubles to start sooner just get balky. I’ll break this arm of yours off and make you carry it.”
“I don’t scare, copper,” Langley said angrily.
Carmody hesitated in the bleak room and stared with bitter eyes into his own past. “No, we don’t scare, sonny,” he said. “God Himself can’t scare us. So we wind up like this. Little men begging for a break.”
“Who’s little?”
“You’re little enough to fit in the chair,” Carmody said. “That’s what counts. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six my next birthday.”
“A ripe old age,” Carmody said, and sighed. “Let’s go.”
He retrieved his revolver, opened the door and shoved Langley out into the dimly lighted hallway. The house was still and quiet. It was just about all over, Carmody knew, and he was restless and impatient for the final end of it. The power and drive that had always been a pressure within him seemed to be gone; even his anger had watered down to a heavy pervading bitterness. He was reaching for the knob when the doorbell broke clamorously through the silence.
Carmody froze, tightening his grip on Langley’s wrist.
“Easy now,” he whispered.
“Maybe you got trouble, copper.”
“You’ll get it first.”
Carmody was in an awkward position. With one band he couldn’t open the door and still keep an effective grip on the gun. And Langley might break if he put away the gun to open the door.
“Maybe we got action,” Langley said, laughing soundlessly.
“You won’t see it,” Carmody said; raising his gun he slugged him at the base of the skull, not hard enough to injure him but hard enough to silence him for a few moments. Langley sagged against him and Carmody caught his arms and lowered him to the floor.
Then he turned the knob, releasing the catch, and stepped quickly back to the shadow of the stairs. The door swung open and Myers, the little detective from his shift, walked into the hallway.
“Good Lord,” he said closing the door quickly, and glancing from Carmody down to Langley’s sprawled body.
“How did you find me?” Carmody said.
Myers was breathing rapidly, his small cautious face tense with excitement. “That can wait, Mike. Ackerman’s sitting across the street in his car. With Hymie Schmidt. Did you know that?”
Carmody felt a quiver of excitement go down his spine. It wasn’t over yet; not by a long sight. Ackerman was the man he had come closer to fearing than anyone else he had known in his life. And now Ackerman was waiting for him.
“There’s an alarm out for him,” Myers said. “He’s wanted for questioning. And he’s on the run.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I spotted your car down the block. That old mobster at my wife’s sanitarium gave me the tip on this guy.” He glanced down at Langley. “Someone in Chicago told him a guy named Joie Langley had come East to do a job on a cop. A pet stoolie of mine tipped me off he was staying here. I came out just to look around and then I saw your car. That scared me. So I decided to come in. That’s when I saw Ackerman and Schmidt pull up and stop across the street.”
“They’ve seen my car, too, then,” Carmody said. “We don’t have much time. They’ll either clear out or come in here shooting.”
“I got it all thought out,” Myers said, gripping his arm. “They don’t know me from Adam. To them I’m just a little guy who lives here or is hunting for a room. Well, look: I’ll walk out again and go down to the sidewalk. I take out cigarettes, pretend I need a match and cross the street to their car. When I get there I put my gun in their face. And that’s the end of it. You can cover me from here. Okay?”
Carmody hesitated. It was a good bold move but Myers wasn’t the man for it. “No,” he said.
“It will work.”
“What the devil are you trying to prove?”
Myers shook his head slowly. “They killed a cop, remember? I’m going to prove they can’t get away with it. That’s what’s important to me. Don’t you ever know what makes people tick, Mike?”
“No, I’m too dumb,” Carmody said wearily. Then he put his hand awkwardly on Myers’ shoulder. “Forgive me, will you? You’re a better cop than I could be in a thousand years. Go out and arrest those bastards.”
“You watch me.” Myers opened the door and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk. From the crack of the partially open door Carmody saw Ackerman’s long black car parked across the street, and the faces of the two men in the front seat, pale triangular blurs in the darkness. He watched Myers fumble through his pockets, bring out cigarettes and stick one in his mouth. Weaving slightly, Myers dug around again in his pockets for matches. Carmody felt perspiration starting on his forehead; the little detective was overdoing it, playing it like a drunk on a stage. But it was too late to drag him back. Myers had started across the street to Ackerman’s car, weaving on rubbery legs.
“You guys got a match?” Carmody heard him call.
“I think so.” It was Ackerman’s voice, carrying clearly across the silent street.
“Good guy,” Myers said, laughing cheerfully.
That was when Ackerman shot him, as he approached the car, doing his imitation of a drunk’s lurching walk. The report blasted the silence and sent shattering echoes racing along the dark blocks.
Carmody charged down to the sidewalk as he saw Myers fall, and heard his shrill incredulous cry of pain. His gun banged twice and the glass in Ackerman’s windshield shattered with a noisy crash. He saw Ackerman clearly then but before he could fire again something struck his shoulder and spun his body around in a full circle. There was no pain at first, only the incredible, sledge-hammer impact of the bullet. He was on his knees, feeling for his gun when the pain hit, driving into him like a white-hot needle. The breath left his body in a squeezing rush and he put a hand quickly on the pavement to keep himself from falling on his face. When he raised his head, Ackerman was standing above him, looking as tall as the buildings. “You rotten filthy dog,” he said, staring at Carmody with furious eyes. “You fixed me good. But you’re where you belong now, on your knees and ready to die.”
Carmody fought against a dizzying pain and nausea. “You’re through,” he grinned, and the effort stretched the skin whitely across his cheekbones. “It wasn’t a bad night’s work.”
“I’ll be alive when you’re dead,” Ackerman said, his voice trembling with passion.
Windows had gone up along the block and from a distance came the faint baying of a police siren.
“Boss, let’s go,” Hymie Schmidt shouted from inside the car.
“Just one more second,” Ackerman said, putting the cold muzzle of his gun against Carmody’s forehead. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, leaning forward and speaking slowly and clearly. “I’ve got judges and lawyers in every pocket. And shooting a crooked cop is an easy rap to beat.”