Watts Club had a U-shaped bar extending to a small bandstand that faced the restrooms. It was a strange layout: tables on this side of the bandstand along the bar, and tables on the other side, in the back of the place. The best seat in the house would be in front of the door to the men’s room. Virgil thought at first that’s where he should be, inside the men’s. Place Tunafish so that whoever came would have to sit or stand with his back to the door and Virgil could cover him easy, keeping the door open an inch. But he couldn’t see himself waiting in the men’s room very long with that disinfectant pissy perfume smell.
So he decided he’d sit around on the other side of the U-shaped bar with his back to the wall, where there were paintings of naked African ladies and a buck straddling a bongo drum, beating the shit out of it. Virgil placed Tunafish at the end table closest to the toilet-so the man would have to walk all the way in-put the suitcase on a chair, got Tunafish a rum and Coke, and walked around the U-shaped bar to the stool he liked. From here he could look directly across the two bar sections to see Tunafish sitting at the table. Virgil ordered a tall vodka and orange juice from the lady bartender. The manager or somebody was straightening up behind the bar, counting change, and two other employees were around somewhere, one of them in the checkroom that served as a front office.
There were no other patrons in the bar besides Virgil and Tunafish when Raymond Gidre walked in at ten minutes past two.
The first thing Raymond did was count the house. Four, no, five that he could see.
He stopped at the bar and said, “Let me have a Jim Beam and 7Up if you will, please.”
The lady took a long time to make an easy drink and charged him a buck seventy-five for it. Jesus Christ, in a nigger place. He saw Mr. Perez’s suitcase on the chair and the boy sitting next to it, round fuzzball head sticking out of a leather coat with big shoulders. Boy with a drink in front of him and his hands in his pockets.
Another boy with a hat and sunglasses sitting across the other side of the bar like he was a nigger cowboy, riding the barstool with his big orange drink. That one, Raymond said to himself. The skinny boy had the suitcase, but the cowboy was the one to watch.
Raymond took his drink and walked over to Tunafish. He said, “How you doing? Your hands cold?”
Tunafish, looking up at him, said, “My hands? What?”
Raymond placed his drink on the table. He reached into his coat, brought out his German Luger and shot Tunafish in the face, twice.
Virgil was several beats off, thinking it was still the preliminary stage when it was almost over. He did have his hand on Bobby Lear’s nickel-plated automatic and he got it up over the edge of the bat He was looking at Raymond and couldn’t believe what was happening. He had been patient and planned it-
Raymond was half-turned to him, extending the Luger. He fired twice again and blew Virgil off the stool, his head hitting against the high breasts of a painted African lady on the wall.
The manager and the lady bartender, in the pen of the U-shaped bar, standing by the cash register, didn’t move. If it wasn’t a robbery, they assumed it was dope business. The employee in the coatroom stood by the counter of the half door. No one in the place screamed; no one said a thing.
Picking up the suitcase, Raymond was thinking, Shit, them peckerheads’d never make it the night in New Iberia. He knew the four people were watching him as he walked down the length of the bar, turned to the right past the tables, and reached the inner glass door that opened into the vestibule. About twenty paces in twenty seconds.
It took Virgil that long to push himself from the wall to the bar and slide along the rounded edge on the blood coming out of his chest. He thought the man would turn around to make sure. He hoped the man would, seeing him past the nickel-plated barrel extending from his arm. The arm, across the bar, and his free hand, hanging on to the rounded edge, held him up. Somebody would see him, but he wanted the man to see him, ready this time. He hadn’t been ready before. He wished he could do it again, start over, be waiting here, the man comes in-he’d have to have hit the man coming in to beat him. Better than hitting the man going out and that was all the chance he had left in the whole fucking world left to do, shit, when he’d just learned the natural way to do things and had only fucked up this one time, being a little late, a little too patient-the man was almost out. Virgil concentrated and began squeezing the trigger of the nickel-plate, hearing it loud close to him and seeing the man seem to jump like somebody had kicked him in the ass, the man pushing through the door, not stopping or turning, gone, with the glass door swinging back in.
The manager and the lady bartender and the employee back of the coat-check counter still didn’t move or say anything.
There were patrol cars on the side streets at both ends of the block and a Seventh Squad detail in unmarked cars parked within sight of the bar entrance. Officially this was their stakeout, to recover stolen property and apprehend the suspects. With the sound of gunfire it was the Seventh Squad that radioed its units and got the show going.
It took a few moments for Ryan to realize what was happening, hearing the shots and the voice on the radio repeating numbers and saying, “Move in… move in!” He didn’t recognize the sound of the first four shots as gunfire or relate the sound to the sudden static-y words coming over the radio. Dick Speed was already out of the car. Ryan got out his side and slammed the door and heard Dick Speed say, “Stay in there!” But at that moment there were more gunshots from inside the bar, four or five, Ryan counted. He saw the Colt Magnum in Dick Speed’s hand. The door to the bar opened. Raymond was out on the sidewalk with the suitcase. Ryan saw the two Seventh Squad plainclothesmen in the street about twenty yards away, and beyond them a squad car with its flashers spinning blocking the intersection and the cops getting out, hurrying this way.
Dick Speed, the closest one to Raymond, said, “Stand where you are-drop it!”
Raymond was coming out from between two cars parked in front of the place, the suitcase in one hand and the Luger in the other-coming the way Ryan remembered him coming the night before, but staggering, bumping against the trunk lid of a car. Ryan had his .38 out, pointing it at Raymond.
Dick Speed, not ten feet from Raymond now, was holding his Mag extended in both hands. Ryan heard him say, “Drop it, motherfucker, you’re dead!”
Raymond stopped. He took a step, tried to, then buckled, as though dragged down by the weight of the suitcase, and fell on top of it. Ryan could see blood on the back of his suit coat. Dick Speed circled him, moved in, and pressed the Mag against the back of Raymond’s head.
“Let go of the gun.”
The two Seventh Squad detectives moved in. One of them put his foot on the wrist of Raymond’s outstretched arm and pulled the Luger out of his hand. The other one ran inside the bar. Within the next half minute there were uniformed policemen all around them. One of them, Ryan realized, was staring at him and seemed about to say something or make a grab for him. But it was Dick Speed, getting up from Raymond, who spoke.
“What’s that?”
“What?” Ryan said.
“In your hand.”
“Oh.” He stuck the .38 back in his raincoat pocket.
“You recognize this man?”
“It’s Raymond.”
Dick Speed continued to give him the look, relaying a no-bullshit warning to stay out of it, until he turned abruptly, spoke to one of the uniformed cops, then went into the bar.
Ryan heard the Seventh Squad detective, kneeling over Raymond, say, “He’s dead. Or else he’s holding his breath.” Ryan stared at Raymond, at the suitcase partly under him.