Having checked the stove, he returned to the bedroom and slipped a holster and bullet pouch on his belt. He shoved his revolver into the holster and shrugged on a suit coat on his way out the door.
As he reached the freeway, he realized that he'd left the shopping list on the sink.
Travis Bailey, carrying a pump shotgun on his shoulder in duck-hunter fashion, led Carr and Kelly, who carried a black lunch pail, through the two-story Beverly Hills home. Carr figured that the living room alone was as big as his entire apartment. In it, pastel sofas had been picked to match the abstract art originals that covered the walls (or vice versa?). In the corner, an enormous aquarium built into the wall. It was equipped with fluorescent rocks and multicolored lights. In front of the facing wall, a bar with an inlaid-tile counter top.
Bailey spoke as if he were in a library. "Kelly, you've got the front door. Carr, you cover the bedroom window and the side of the house. I'll handle the rear. I've got a little stool so I can sit below counter level behind the bar…'areas of responsibility', so to speak. Agreed?"
The T-men nodded. Bailey stepped behind the bar next to the sliding glass door.
Carr and Kelly sauntered down the long hallway. Kelly took his post at the front door. "I don't like the whole operation, he whispered.
"Neither do I," Carr said.
Kelly pulled off his suit coat and hung it on a coat rack next to the front door. He adjusted the volume of the Treasury radio which was clipped to his belt, pinned his gold Treasury badge to his shirt pocket and rolled up his sleeves.
"We're here now," Carr said. "Might as well wait and see what happens."
"It all counts towards retirement," Kelly said. He unsnapped the latches on his lunch pail. It was filled with sandwiches. He offered one to Carr. "Help yourself. Meat loaf with lots of onion and green chiles. My favorite."
"Thanks anyway," Carr said. He strolled into the bedroom and sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. He checked his revolver and shoved it back in the holster. During the next two hours, Carr heard Kelly open and close his lunch pail three times.
The doorbell rang.
Carr jumped out of his chair and pulled his gun. He heard the sound of footsteps outside.
"He's heading for the rear," Kelly whispered from down the hall. Carr ducked below window level. Someone walked along the side of the house, turned right and continued toward the rear entrance. There was the sound of the sliding glass door opening.
"Police!" Bailey yelled. An explosion.
Carr ran toward the living room. There was another reverberating blast. As he entered the hallway, he saw Kelly slumped at the entrance to the living room. He was holding his chest. Carr stepped over him. Holding his revolver with both hands, he sprang into the living room.
Travis Bailey stood behind the bar aiming the shotgun at a bearded man lying in the middle of the room in a puddle of water, broken glass and flopping tropical fish. The man's left arm and half of his head were gone. The body convulsed. Pointing the weapon at the intruder, Bailey racked another round into the chamber of the shotgun.
Carr ran across the room. He snatched the shotgun out of the cop's hands. He flicked the safety on and tossed the weapon on the sofa. "He's dead," Carr said angrily.
He ran back to Kelly. The Irishman had pushed himself up so that his back rested against the wall. His left hand clutched his bloody chest. In his right he held his.38, barrel pointed toward the living room. His eyes were wide, his jaw set.
Carr dropped to his knees. Gently, he extricated the gun from Kelly's grasp. "He's dead," Carr said. "Everything's okay." He tore the Handie-Talkie radio off Kelly's belt and pressed the transmit button. "Stakeout Foxtrot Four. Shots fired. Agent down. Gimme an ambulance!"
An excited voice said, "Ten-four, Foxtrot." The radio beeped loudly three times.
Carr tossed the radio down. He grabbed Kelly's shirt with both hands and ripped it open. Using a penknife, he sliced Kelly's bloody undershirt up the middle. There were three holes on the left side of the chest. One made a sucking sound. Kelly coughed and gagged. He spit blood. Carr glanced around. Kelly's lunch pail. He tore it open and ripped the clear plastic wrap off a sandwich. He placed the material directly over the sucking wound. On top of it, he pressed a handkerchief.
Kelly gulped air. He coughed more blood. "Charlie," he said, his voice no louder than a whisper.
"Shut up, goddammit," Carr said.
"Tell Rose I love her," Kelly gasped. "Take care of my boys." Then his eyes rolled back in his head.
Without releasing pressure on the wound, Carr unfastened Kelly's belt. He yanked it off,
Bailey, breathing hard, knelt next to Carr. "Jesus," he said," he musta caught some of the spray."
Violently Carr shoved Bailey out of his way. Bailey fell backward. Carr fastened the belt around Kelly's chest in order to seal the wound. Carr put his ear to Kelly's nose. He was still breathing. "I'm not gonna wait," Carr said determinedly. He lifted Kelly's arm and placed it over his shoulder. "Help me," he said, looking at Bailey.
"But the ambulance…" Bailey said dumbly, struggling to his feet.
"No time…" Carr snapped. "Help me carry him to the car.
Bailey stood frozen.
"Now!"
Bailey hurried to lift Kelly's other arm. Half trotting, they carried him to Carr's sedan. Carr arranged him on his side in the backseat with the wound down. "Call Cedars of Lebanon," Carr said as he started the engine. "Tell 'em I'm coming in with a cop…a sucking chest wound. I want them to meet me outside." He sped off. As Carr rounded corners like a sports car driver, the Treasury radio operator barked instructions to various agents.
The trip to the hospital took less than five minutes.
Attendants were waiting outside as Carr arrived. They swung open the rear doors of the sedan and lifted Jack Kelly onto a hospital cart. Carr climbed out of the sedan and followed the wheeled cart through the emergency entrance and down a corridor. In a trauma room, Kelly was immediately surrounded by a team of nurses and doctors. Someone asked Carr to leave the room.
As he stepped out into the corridor, his mind flashed to the scene of a field hospital in Korea. He remembered the smell and taste of carbide being overwhelmed by the powerful scent of rubbing alcohol. Soldiers, some of whom were dead, were carried about on stretchers. Charles Carr rubbed his eyes for a moment before he headed for a telephone.
It was midnight.
Carr sat on a sofa in the hospital visitor's room with Rose Kelly, a red-haired woman who wore her hair in a long braid. The lines of her dress were plain and she wore a cardigan sweater. She sat with her hands folded, staring at the wall. During the entire day, she had neither shed tears, sobbed nor sought refuge. Her demeanor was as usual-demure, polite, composed. Other than her constant wringing of hands and an occasional quiver of her chin, she had shown no signs of breaking down. Hours earlier she had kissed her husband on the forehead, and as a young priest had administered the last rites, she had knelt next to the bed and prayed. Before the priest left, she thanked him effusively, as if he had done a favor rather than perform a duty. She told him that Jack's brother was a priest in Chicago.
A middle-aged doctor in a green operating smock came in through the swinging door. A heavy man, he had wiry black hair, an aquiline nose and thick glasses. Rose Kelly started at his sudden appearance. Carr jumped up.
"Your husband is going to live," he said. "He's sleeping, but you can go in and see him for a minute." Rose rushed out of the room.
Carr shook hands with the doctor. "Thanks, Doc," Carr said, blinking back tears.
"He may or may not be able to return to the job," the doctor said, "it's too early to tell." He made a little nod and exited the room. A second later he stuck his head back in the door. He smiled. "Next time you plug up a sucking chest wound with sandwich wrap, scrape the onion off it first." He winked and left.