Maybe there was cramp in Salvatore’s hand – maybe it was, ironic, bloody generosity – but the pistol had moved again, imperceptibly but a further lessening of the pressure. Eddie didn’t move, was one of those guys with painted faces and robes who struck statue poses at tourist sites. He realised that Lukas, too, had moved, edged closer. Eddie knew it because he could match the window-sill across the walkway with the corner of Lukas’s right elbow, and there was less of the sill to see, and a big paint flake was obscured by the arm. Eddie knew, standing and held upright, with the pistol in his skin and the tiny sounds inside his ear from the firings, where all the paint scrapes and flakes were on the window opposite. It could have been a full pace closer – could have put him, damn near anyway, with a lunge, in touching distance. Eddie reckoned Lukas knew what he was doing and the comfort in him grew.
‘You don’t move.’
‘I don’t move… What I care, friend, is how we come out of this, before there’s an accident.’
‘They don’t take me.’
‘Not a surrender, no… Not paraded like some damn chimpanzee in a zoo cage. Absolutely not.’
‘You call me scimpanze? Do you? A scimpanze, chimpanzee, cannot shoot. I can. I am not taken.’
‘How about, friend, you try to shoot? Try. Not Eddie, not worth the cost of a bullet. You try to shoot me. You jam and-’
‘What is “jam”?’
‘It is “block”. Malfunction, does not fire, but you tried… a smart guy, you know about weapons. There could be dirt in the ammunition, dirt in the pistol with a build-up of cordite in the barrel, dirt in the magazine mechanism. It can be the extractor bar breaking. The automatic blow-back can fail. For many reasons it can block and jam… the word gets passed.’
‘I will not be taken.’
‘Yes, yes…’ Eddie thought then that he heard the first wisp of impatience. Like it had been a good game, and an interesting experience, and it had run its course, and the first twist of boredom was there, and a little of the confidence slipped in him. ‘What is important is your prestige and dignity, friend. You tried. You did not surrender. You were good to your word. It was just that the damn machine, the pistol, the kit, failed you. That message gets put around. Nobody can say that Salvatore, big man and smart man, bottled out. Not him. It was the pistol that failed. There’s another thing.’
Eddie could watch the eyes of Lukas. Every feature of his body was unremarkable, stunted, without authority, except his eyes. There was less of the window to see and the gap between Lukas and the two of them shortened, and it would only have been a short lunge for the touch. The eyes were extraordinary. They were locked on the man who pressed his body against Eddie. They had the quality to hold and mesmerise. Eddie did not think that he, himself, held interest to Lukas, only Salvatore – the friend. He didn’t know how it would end, but knew it would be very soon. A minute or two minutes. His comfort bled because he thought he recognised impatience.
‘The other thing… You get a good lawyer. You’re intelligent and you have the resources, and you get a top man to front up for you. You pull a prosecution case to pieces: not difficult because they’re always second rate. Maybe you walk at the trial. Maybe you go free on appeal. It doesn’t last, locked up. Show me, Salvatore, that you’re a big guy and a smart guy, and I already know you’re a generous guy.’
‘Do what?’
‘We all have some food. We all get some sleep. There’s no accident. What do you say, friend?’
Lukas had moved again, could have touched. Two bright flashes on the dirt and the concrete, which caught in Eddie’s glance. Two discharged cartridge cases. Two shots fired and two cartridge cases thrown out – no fucking jam, play-acted or otherwise… The comfort had gone and he felt the stress build again and his body was rigid.
‘You did not listen.’
‘Course I did, friend. I listened well. Heard all you said. Just giving you the good back way out and-’
‘You did not listen.’
The pistol was off Eddie’s neck, gone from his skin. It was out in front of Eddie’s face, and the arm was loosed that had been across his chest. Two hands on the pistol grip. Eddie understood. Should have taken longer… maybe too tired, maybe too hungry, maybe just bored pig-sick with a thug with a gun, maybe done it all before and so many times… saw the shock spread on Lukas’s face, like disbelief.
Eddie heard, ‘God, did I do this, did I?’
And then the pistol blast and the cordite dust flashed in his face, and the bright brass of the cartridge was ejected, fell, bounced and rolled. Blood came back at him, a fine spray, and there was more behind. He saw the slight ugly knees bend, then falter, then collapse, and saw the shock on the face, preserved, like the scale of a mistake and its consequences were the last thought that… He did a sort of hop. Eddie had no legs free to kick backwards. As he jumped up, held by the belt, he hacked his heels behind him and felt them hit and hurt, and he could punch with his hands, all done in one crazy, uncontrolled moment – his clenched fists hit the belly.
The pistol arced, fell and clattered.
They went down. He was underneath Salvatore and his head was held, gripped, and his face was beaten into the concrete… and they came. His eyes were closed, shut tight – couldn’t absorb more.
Nightmare engulfed him. He was crushed. Weight on him squeezed out the breath from his lungs. His head was in blood. He couldn’t move, see or breathe. There were voices, muffled and indistinct, and he didn’t understand what was yelled. He felt himself sinking, then falling, then lost, and the abyss closed over him… and the weight was lifted. Eddie dared to open his eyes.
He was ignored.
He lay in a smeared strip of blood that now sank into the porous dirt of the concrete. Two figures, huge in vests over black overalls, with firearms hooked on their shoulders, took turns to work on the chest of the man who had called himself Lukas. They pounded on the chest and didn’t stop until the door behind him, where he had been held, was kicked flat, then used as a litter. Two more of them took him. Hoisted on the door, Lukas was carried away. Eddie didn’t know whether it was boredom or impatience, or just shit luck that had failed Lukas.
He didn’t move his head. Beyond where Lukas had been, Salvatore lay on his stomach as his hands were hitched behind him and fastened with ties. One more of them in the black overalls and the masks stood over Salvatore and had a dirty boot across his neck, and Eddie knew he was alive because the chest heaved and there were small yelps of pain when the boot was shifted or pressed harder. Eddie was glad he lived. He thought it a worse, more severe punishment to live than to be proxy shot.
Last they came to him.
A big man towered over him, wearing a suit that now had rents at the knees and elbows and was stained with the dust of the concrete; a vivid tie was loosened at the neck and a collar button undone, and his hair was a tangled mess, and there was blood on his shirt and jacket. Eddie might have been wrong, but he thought he saw wet glisten in the man’s eyes. A short-bladed knife was used to cut the ties at his ankles and wrists.
He was turned over.
The man in the suit stood back. Another, whom they called Tractor, crouched over him and felt his face with mittened fingers, then lifted each of his arms and flexed them, did the same for his legs. There were cuts, abrasions and bruising on every part of his body that the hands touched but he didn’t cry out. The Tractor stood and backed away, as if he had no more interest. Another, and he was called the Engineer, stood over Eddie and reached down.
Eddie took the hand, the fist closed over his wrist and he was heaved up.
The suit led… The Tractor followed, then their prisoner with men close around him. Eddie trailed, and the one they called the Bomber was behind him. The cat that had been shut out scratched at a door but was not admitted. They went past the broken apartment he had run into and he saw the wreckage and didn’t ask about the man who had opened his home to a fugitive. They went through two barred gates, one open, one destroyed, and down three flights of stairs.