361 - Donald E. Westlake [30]
I didn’t say anything. I was looking at the guy in the right front seat. I knew him when.
I started to get down from the stool, flipping the shirt-tail out of the way, but Bill grabbed my elbow and whispered, “Don’t be a jerk. Wait till Kapp comes out.”
I stood there, not moving one way or the other. The gun butt felt funny in my hand. The side that had been against my skin was hot and moist. The other side was cold and dry.
Then I said, “All right. You’re right.” He let me go and I said, “I’ll be right back.” I let go of the gun and smoothed the shirt-tail and walked down the length of the bar past the other two customers, who were talking to the bartender about trout. I went into the head. There was one stall. I went in there and latched the door and took the gun out from under my belt so I could lean over. Then I threw up in the toilet. I washed my mouth out at the sink and got back to the stall just in time to throw up again. I waited a minute, and then washed my mouth out again. There was a bubbled dirty mirror over the sink and I saw myself in it. I looked pale and young and unready. The gun barrel was cold against my hairless belly. I was a son of a bitch and a bad son.
I went back out and sat down at the stool and held my glass without drinking. Bill said, “Nothing new.” I didn’t answer him.
After a while, I got fantastically hungry, all of a sudden. I waited, but a little before one I asked the bartender what sandwiches he had and he said he had a machine that made hamburgers in thirty seconds. I ordered two and Bill ordered one. The machine was down at the other end of the bar, a chrome-sided infra-red cooker.
I was halfway through the second hamburger when the door across the street opened and an old man without a hat came out.
His suit, even from across the street, looked expensive and up to the minute. It hadn’t been given him by the government. It was gray and flattering. His shoes were black and caught the sunlight. His hair was a very pale gray, not quite white. None of it had fallen out. His face was tough to see from this far away; squarish and thick-browed, that was about all.
As soon as he came out, I spat my mouthful of hamburger onto the plate and got off the stool. Bill said, “Wait till he reaches the car.”
I said, “Yeah, sure.”
I walked over by the door. Only Kapp wasn’t coming toward the car, he was turning and walking in the other direction. His shadow trailed him aslant along the wall.
He had to be Eddie Kapp. Age and timing. Expensive suit.
The Chrysler slid forward, staying close to the curb. It purred down the block, moving at the same rate as Kapp, keeping behind him. He didn’t look around at it. Apparently, he hadn’t seen it.
Bill said, “What the hell is that all about?”
I said, “Go get the car. Stay at least a block behind me.”
He shook his head, baffled. “Okay,” he said, and went out to the car. The bartender and the other two customers were looking at me. I went out onto the sidewalk and strolled along after the Chrysler.
We went three blocks that way, like some stupid parade. Kapp out in front, on the left-hand side of the street. Then the Chrysler, on the right side, half a block behind him. Then me, also on the right side, another half a block back. And then Bill, a full block behind me on this side, in the Mercury. Kapp was headed for the bus depot, from the direction he was taking. Downtown, anyway.
Then we got to a quiet block, and the Chrysler jolted ahead, angling sharp across the empty street, and it was clear they meant to run him down. I shouted, “Look out!” and ran out across the street after the Chrysler. The goddamn ankle slowed me down.
Kapp turned when I shouted, saw the Chrysler jumping the curb at him, and dove backwards through a hedge onto a lawn. A dog started yapping. The Chrysler jounced around on a parabola back to the street, up and down the curb. The guy on the right had his head and arm out the window, and was shooting at me, the way he’d shot at Dad. He had a little mustache.
I dragged Smitty’s gun out and pointed it down