47- An old Friend indeed
They shuffled him aside, sitting him down on the stoop of a
store as the professionals took over, the spurt and static of police radios
filling the night the way the music had earlier. He and Dan had been told to
wait.
We may need you as
witnesses, one of the uniformed cops told them. But few paid them much
attention, and eventually, officers frowned in passing as if forgetting why
they had been retained. Only a frowning Demetre noticed them near the end of
the ritual. Perhaps he even steered the others away, mumbling something about
not needing their testimony after all. It wouldn't be reliable anyway, Lance
heard him say.
Dan stammered and
grunted curses between whole chains of near-death coughing, muttering to
himself as he stared into the flashing
lights about pacifists and cops.
"I'm going to
wind up in jail because of you," he told Lance at one point when the
police stomped around, trying to decide whether he and Dan were witnesses or
part of the crime.
But later, an hour or
more, when they'd faded into the background, Dan plotted their escape.
"We'll just
start walking," he whispered. "If they stop us-- well, we're no worse
off then we are now."
Lance shrugged, his
whole interior rattling with empty echoes, as he always had after a fire fight,
as if each battle had left him a little lessened. He didn't even have Sarah to
go home to, to cry over it, to hold or hug him, saying it was all right now.
Another echo of Nam. Lovers, yes, but none he could trust with the deep
feelings. Always the indifference silence. The lack of comfort. That was the
real hell of war. No one to heal the deeper wounds for those walking, talking
men of arms who on the outside appeared untouched.
Dan grabbed his arm
and pulled him to his feet. He followed behind the man, stumbling like a robot
with a missing gear or two. They slipped into one dark doorway, stared back,
then when no one noticed, moved to the next, eventually dragging themselves up
the stairs to the near-black shadows between the bank columns.
Only this time, their
hiding space wasn't empty.
"You!" Dan
roared, his voice echoing off the glass and stone as he leaped at the pudgy
figure. "I'll kill you!"
The man jumped aside,
but couldn't elude Dan's grasp and went down in a heap with Dan on his chest.
He was the same figure they had seen earlier waiting. Somehow he had eluded
both bikers and cops.
"Hello,
Danny-boy," he said in a wheeze.
"Don't hello me,
you little fuck. Where's my money?"
The figure frowned,
and despite his odd position seemed perfectly composed, wearing a grey three
piece suit more fitting on a banker than a drug dealer. He had the air of
conformity, with his short hair properly balding at the top and rear with
strands combed across his forehead in an attempt to save dignity.
"Money?" he
asked.
"From the
goddamn Denver connection you ripped off!" Dan barked. "Don't pretend
like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm in a mood to murder you as it
is."
"Danny-boy. You
get so excited. But this hardly seems the proper time or place to discuss such
matters."
"It's the only
time or place you've got. So talk."
"No," the
man said, so matter-of-factly that even Dan blinked.
"What do you
mean, no? Aren't you listening to me? I'm going to kill you!"
"Better you than
some stranger, I suppose," the man said.
Dan rose and dragged
Bobo to his feet.
Standing nose to
nose, they looked like Abbott and Costello, with Bobo a whole head shorter than
Dan. And yet, Bobo had stature, wide-shouldered and dignified, with a sense of
importance that went beyond his wrinkled suit. He bent and retrieved a crushed
bowler hat from the ground.
"Look what you
did!" he said, waving the hat under Dan's nose. "You know how much
this cost me? You don't have any class, Danny-boy. That's you're problem."
"Don't give me
that shit," Dan said. "If the hat cost you anything, then you got it
wholesale."
Indeed, even Lance
seemed drawn to the man, the round face beamed of trust and friendliness, his
sparkling eyes straight out of a photo of Santa Claus.
He dusted himself
off, inspecting the suit for tears. "No class," he mumbled again,
then stared straight at Dan, those same eyes suddenly hard. "Now what are
you going on about?"
"I told you not
to deny things, Bobo, old pal," Dan said. "I've been to Denver. I
know the score."
"A
misunderstanding," Bob said, straightening his tie in the reflection of
the dark glass bank door, picking a small speck from it. "I can explain
everything if you give me a chance."
"All right,
explain," Dan said, drawing Mike's pistol from his pocket. "Then I'll
kill you."
"All this talk
of killing is hardly a positive attitude," Bobo said. "But I told
you. This is all wrong. It's a long story and perhaps we can talk over coffee
somewhere."
"Coffee?"
Dan bellowed, shoving the gun up under Bobo's multiple chins. "That's it!
I'm going to do it."
Lance grabbed Dan's
arm. "No," he said.
Dan stared at Lance.
Perhaps he saw a bit of the fury of war seeping out of Lance's head, through
the gnarled expression.
"You're
right," Dan said softly. "I won't get my money killing him now. We'll
take him back to the apartment where I can take my time squeezing the truth
out." He grabbed Bobo's arm and propelled him down the stairs.
"Unhand
me!" Bobo protested. "I won't be treated like this, Daniel! Not even
by you."
"Save your
demands," Dan said. "You have enough to worry about keeping your
hide."
Comments
Post a Comment