But just as I was feeling proud of myself, I heard a loud rushing and stomping on the stairway, which would be the watchman out back coming to help. Then the man on the floor, who I thought was holding his crotch, had produced a, pistol from underneath the big coat. I dove for it and wrestled it free, and suddenly was more scared than I'd been in a long time. I was now holding a loaded firearm in a situation where I might have to use it on a human being.
Kneeling, I closed the bathroom door all but a crack and pointed the revolver barrel through it. A dark shape came around the corner from the hallway, crouched low and moving fast. I could have fired. Perhaps I should have. But I didn't. I think I yelled something. The man hit the door with his shoulder, like a lineman, and slammed it into me. The thick edge of the door hit my forehead full force, and I felt also a sharp pain as the wedge-shaped metal latch piece bored right into the front of my skull. I fell back on the bathroom floor, then spun to my feet. The man in the trenchcoat was just getting up too, and before I could raise the gun he did a strange thing.
He grabbed his coat flaps and held them out wide. He looked like Count Dracula. He seemed to hover over me for an instant like a giant bird of prey.
And a bird of prey he was, too. Yes indeed, because he brought those big wings down around the sides of my already hurt head and I felt a monstrous, heavy thump on each side of it, like two wrecking balls swung from either side.
And then everything went away and it got dark.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blood!
I was floating in a sticky sea of drying blood. My own. It had a faint metallic smell, which was underlaid by the salty aroma of lymph and pus, as when you change a dirty gauze bandage. I smelled a lot of blood every day. But I didn't like smelling a lot of my own on a tile floor. And I didn't like the dark rivulets and puddles that spread out on the tile a few inches from my face, either. I had opened and closed my eyes quite a few times, I thought. I had awakened and gone to sleep four or five times. When I was finally able to move, I drew my hand up to my throat to feel the deep fissure where it had been slit.
For I was a hog on a slaughterhouse floor.
But try as I might, I could find no evidence of the slit throat. And I was glad. The cause of all the bloodletting, I finally remembered, was the gash on my forehead. What reminded me of this was the throbbing in that location. My hand felt a puffy swelling and a huge sticky crust forming on it. Head cuts bleed like Niagara Falls anyway because the human head is laced with, blood vessels. When you're pumped up, as in a football game, a boxing match, or a less orthodox fight, your blood pressure soars and makes even a scratch on the head bleed like there's no tomorrow. I had a deep gash up above my eye- perhaps even a skull fracture too, and I had indeed bled like a stuck pig. I sat up on the tile floor. It felt cold beneath me. I was cold. I was freezing. The place was dark now. I saw the dark, chocolate-colored stains everywhere, especially on my clothes.
I staggered to my feet and turned on the light. I looked at myself and wished I hadn't. I washed the dried blood from my face and neck but left the wound to clot over. All the time I stood at the sink my stomach churned and my knees trembled. Then I felt sick and scared. I was scared at what had happened- at how close I had come to dying. I was afraid the police would find me in the house and throw me in the slammer. I tried to check my watch but it wasn't there. They had taken it, perhaps to make the thing look like robbery. Then I realized that my belt buckle was unfastened and my fly was unzipped. Why? Had they molested me? Were these guys fags as well as crooks? But then I noticed my shoes and socks were off and my pockets turned inside out. No. They had searched me, and thoroughly too, to see if I had recovered the item.
I crept dizzily along the hallway, leaning on the wall and breathing hard as I went. The couch seemed a mile away. I sat down on it and almost threw up.
I'm as hard as nails, I am.
I sat there for some time, moving my head back and forth, up and down; and rubbing the back of my neck. I patted my feet against the floor to stop the pins and needles. Then I staggered back to the john and took three long drinks of cold water. It almost made up for the blood l'd lost. They had taken not only my watch but my car keys and wallet. The phone in the apartment had been disconnected. The only way out was to trek over to the Lucky Seven and call Mary.
But before I could get started I heard steps on the porch below.
Adams, this just isn't your day.
I heard the door at the foot of the stairs open. Then once again came the scraping tread on the stairway. We just had this tape, I told myself. Why are we playing it again? Well, I could barely stand; I was certainly in no condition to fight. As the steps grew louder I panicked. How did I know it wasn't the two men returning to finish me off? Perhaps their boss had told them to go back and do the job right
…
I searched around the dim living room with my eyes; my body was too slow and sore. I unplugged a lamp with a turned wooden base, wrapped the cord around it, removed the shade, and held it like a billy club. With this I snuggled against the wall near the door so I'd be out of sight when it opened. It did, and in the near-darkness I saw a stocky, menacing profile stalk into the hall. His deep, noisy breathing was almost a growl and made him more ominous. He was wearing a narrow-brim tweed hat and a droopy coat. Lord only knew what was in that coat- maybe an antiaircraft gun. I was taking no more chances; I had gotten the drop on this hood and he was going to pay. After dimming his lights I was going to get his gun and go outside, putting a hole into anybody who blocked my way.
The shadow half-turned and came right into range, and I swung the club down on the hat… hard. The man fell without a sound. lt was only after he rolled over and his hat slid off that I had the sickening feeling I knew him. Getting to my knees and peering down into the face confirmed it. I
"Oh sweet Jesus," I moaned. "I'm awful sorry, Brian."
I had our chief of police propped up on a low pillow with his feet raised. Suspecting at the last instant that I might be doing a damn fool thing- which I do often enough to realize I'm prone to it- I had eased off on the blow in the last millisecond before its delivery. Also, the thick tweed hat helped cushion the blow a little. Still, knowing Brian Hannon well, I predicted he would not regain consciousness in a very sociable mood. It so happened that this was the one thing I was right about that afternoon. When he finally managed to open his eyes, stare at me, and speak, his words were not encouraging.
"Listen, butt-wipe," he growled, "do you have any idea of the kind of trouble you're in?"
"Don't worry; I can explain everything," I replied, placing a soaking cold towel on his head. He ripped it off and threw it at my face. Brian was going to be okay. He struggled to a sitting position and sat against the wall, glaring at me. Then he called me more bad names. I finally helped him to his feet, and he seemed to see my injury for the first time.
"You look like shit warmed over, Doc. Know that?"
"Yes I know that. And I obviously didn't mean to clip you; I thought you were the bad guys come back to finish me."
"I'm not the bad guys, Doc. Know who I am? I am the law. You have assaulted a law officer. You're going-"
"All right, Brian, all right. Pipe down. You've been watching those Broderick Crawford reruns again. Let's get out of here."
He took a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket and told me to put them on; I told him to shove it and walked him down the stairs. He grumbled and cussed all the way down, and together we limped over to his cruiser. I said I'd drive, and put him in the front seat beside me.