She simply said, "The top floor," and waited for what she knew I'd do to her. I sat her in a chair, her feet tucked under her. For an hour she'd be that way, passed out to any who noticed her.
It was another 20 minutes before I had the complete layout of the downstairs.
What got me was the atmosphere of the place. It was too damn gay. It took a while, but I finally got it. The work had been done, the decisions made, and now it was time to relax.
My stomach went cold and I was afraid of what I was going to find.
It didn't take any time to reach the top floor. Up here you couldn't hear the voices nor get the heavy smell of cigar smoke. I stood on the landing looking toward the far end where the corridor opened on to two doors. To the left could be only small rooms because the corridor was so near the side of the building. To the right, I thought, must be almost a duplicate of the big room downstairs.
And there I was. What could I do about it? Nothing.
The gun in my back said nothing.
Lennie Weaver said, "Hello, jerk."
Behind Lennie somebody said, "Who is he, Len?"
"A small-time punk who's been trying to get ahead in the business for quite a while now. He didn't know what he was bucking." The gun nudged me again. "Keep going, punk. Last door on your left. You open it, you go in, you move easy, or that's it."
The guy said, "What's he doing here?"
I heard Lennie laugh. "He's nuts. Remember what he pulled on Nat and me? They'll try anything to get big time. He's the fink who ran with Benny Quick and turned him in to the fuzz."
We came to the door and went inside and stood there until the tremendously fat man at the desk finished writing. When he looked up, Lennie said, "Mr. Simpson, here's the guy who was causing all the trouble in town."
And there was Mr. Simpson. Mr. Simpson who only went as far as his middle name in this operation. Mr. Simpson by his right name, everybody would know. They would remember the recent election conventions or recall the five percenters and the political scandals a regime ago. Hell, everybody would know Mr. Simpson by his whole name.
The fleshy moon face was blank. The eyes blinked and the mouth said, "You know who he is?"
"Sure." Lennie's laugh was grating. "Al Braddock. Like Benny Quick said, he picked up something someplace and tried to build into it. He wouldn't have sounded off, Mr. Simpson. He'd want any in with us for himself. Besides, who'd play along? They know what happens."
"What shall we do with him, Mr. Simpson?" Lennie asked.
Simpson almost smiled. "Why just kill him, Lennie," he said and went back to the account book.
It was to be a quiet affair, my death. My hands were tied behind me and I was walked to the yard behind the building.
"Why does a punk like you want in for?" Lennie asked. "How come you treat life the way you do?"
"The dame, pal," I said. "I got a yen for a dame."
"Who?" His voice was unbelieving.
"Dari Dahl. She inside?"
"You are crazy, buddy," he told me. "Real nuts. In ten minutes that beautiful broad of yours goes into her act and when she's done she'll never be the same. She'll make a cool grand up there, but man, she's had it. I know the kind it makes and the kind it breaks. That mouse of yours won't have enough spunk left to puke when she walks out of there." He laughed again. "If she walks. She may get a ride back to the lights, if she wants to avoid her friends. A guy up there is willing to take second smacks on her anytime."
"Too bad," I said. "If it's over, it's over. Like your two friends down at the lake."
Lennie said, "What?"
"I knocked off two guys by the lake."
The little guy got the point quickly. "Hell, he didn't come in over the wall, Len. He came by the path. Jeeze, if the boss knows about that, he'll fry. The whole end is open, if he's right."
But Lennie wasn't going to be taken. "Knock it off, Moe. We'll find him out. We'll go down that way. If he's right or wrong, we'll still fix him. Hell, it could even be fun. We'll drown the bastard."
"You watch it, Len; this guy's smart."
"Not with two guns in his back and his hands tied, he's not." His mouth twisted. "Walk, punk."
Time, time. Any time, every time. Time was life. Time was Dari. If you had time, you could think and plan and move.
Then time was bought for me.
From somewhere in the darkness Ruth Gleason came running, saying, "Lennie, Lennie . . . don't do this to me, please!" and threw herself at the guy.
He mouthed a curse and I heard him hit her, an open-handed smash that knocked her into the grass. "Damn these whores, you can't get them off your back!"
Ruth sobbed, tried to get up, her words nearly inaudible. "Please Lennie . . . they won't give me . . . anything. They laughed and . . . threw me out."
I just stood there. Any move I made would get me a bullet so I just stood there. I could see Ruth get to her feet and stagger, her body shaking. She held onto a stick he had picked up. I could see the tears on her cheeks.
"Lennie . . . I'll do anything. Anything. Please . . . you said you loved me. Tell them to get me a fix." Lennie said two words. They were his last.
With unexpected suddenness she ran at him, that stick in her hands, and I saw her lunge forward with it and the thing sink into Lennie's middle like a broken sword and heard his horrible rattle. It snapped in her hands with a foot of it inside him and he fell, dying, while she clawed at him with maniacal frenzy.
The other guy ran for her, tried to pull her off, and forgot about me. My hands were tied. My feet weren't. It took only three kicks to kill him.
Ruth still beat at the body, not realizing Lennie was dead.
"Ruth . . . I can get you a fix!" I said.
The words stopped her. She looked at me, not quite seeing me. "You can?"
"Untie me. Hurry."
I turned around and felt her fingers fumble with the knots at my wrists until they fell free.
"Now . . . you'll get me a fix? Please?"
I nodded and hit her. Later she could get her fix. Maybe she'd made it so she'd never need one again. Later was lots of things, but she'd bought my time for me and I wouldn't forget her.
The little guy's gun was a .32 and I didn't want it. I liked Lennie's .45 better, and it fitted my hand like a glove. My forefinger found the familiar notch in the butt and I knew I had my own gun back and knew the full implication of Lennie's words about Dari.
She had tried for her kill and missed. Somebody else got the gun and Dari was to get the payoff.
This time I thought it out. I knew how I had to work it. I walked another 100 yards to the body of the gray-suited guard I had left earlier, took his shotgun from the ground and four extra shells from his pocket, and started back to the house.
Nothing had changed. Downstairs they were still drinking and laughing, still secure.
I found the 1,500-gallon fuel tank aboveground as I expected, broke the half-inch copper tubing, and let the oil run into the whiskey bottles I culled from the refuse dump. It didn't take too many trips to wet down the bushes around the house. They were already season-dried, the leaves crisp. A huge puddle had run out from the line, following the contour of the hill and running down the drive to the front of the house.
It was all I needed. I took two bottles, filled them, and tore off a hunk of my shirt tail for a wick. Those bottles would make a high-flashpoint Molotov cocktail, if I could keep them lit. The secret lay in a long wick so the fuel oil, spilling out, wouldn't douse the flame. Not as good as gasoline, but it would do.