Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [129]
Then I was in the street. All my people safe behind me. Whatever happened.
I reached down, deep as I could go. Telling myself it would be over soon. I'd be Home Free.
But I knew. Knew why I was pushing a shopping cart filled with homicide through Times Square. No home is free.
172
I PUSHED my shopping cart along, smoking a cigarette, mumbling to myself. The clock in the package store on 43rd said ten–twenty. I slowed my pace.
Three kids came up the street toward me, wearing matching red silk jackets. I watched their eyes, praying they wouldn't think it was funny to tip over my cart. They went on by.
I turned the corner. Moving slow, checking doorways for bottles, picking one up, tossing it into my cart.
The Times clock was a round light in the distance. I pushed the cart ahead of me, one hand on the pistol.
He was standing under the clock. A long white vertical ribbon in the dark doorway. The clock said ten–twenty–eight. I kept rolling.
A hundred feet away. Mortay saw me. A used–up bum, collecting empties.
Fifty feet. I saw his hands hanging loose in front of him. Head turning, scanning the street. Almost home.
I looked him full in the face. Pushed my cart into his life. Felt the chill. His eyes flicked past me, over my shoulder. I pulled the gun loose, snapped off a shot at his chest, the bottle popping off the front of the pistol. A piece of his coat flew as he spun to the side, moving right at me. I kicked the cart toward him, fired again. The gun cracked alive. Missed. Mortay spun in his tracks, shoulder–rolled against the wall. I leveled the gun. He took off, running the other way.
I jumped past the cart and took off after him. Four shots left. Humans jumped off the sidewalk. He wasn't used to running—all his speed was short–range. I was forty feet behind him at the corner of 43rd and Eighth. Mortay glanced west, gave it up, charged across 44th for the Playbill Bar. I was right behind him, the long–barreled pistol looking for his back. He chopped through people, heading for the side door. I fired another shot to clear the way, coming through. The street was clogged. He couldn't lose me.
A cop was on the corner of Eighth and 46th. Mortay took him out with one chop. I jumped over the body, holding the pistol high to clear the street, locked on him.
At 48th I was close enough. He felt it, dodging behind cars, weaving through humans. He was running out of gas. When he turned…
Construction site at 49th, high chain–link fence. Mortay ripped his way over the top, white coat flying as I missed another shot.
Couldn't follow him. I raced along Eighth until I found an opening, stepped through, gun up.
I dropped about five feet—they must have started the excavation. No lights. Street noises over my head. Quiet. No sirens.
I was safe there. Scared to be safe. He couldn't come up on me without getting blown away. But if he got out…
It was like being back in Biafra. Focus on the sounds, separate the jungle–noises from the man–noises. Breathe shallow. Don't fight the fear.
I heard him, moving west, toward Ninth Avenue. Machine–gun thoughts ripping at me. Did he know how to do this?
Something moved—flash of white in the night. I fired at the sound. The gun barked—the bullet whined close to the ground, disappointed. I heard him move again.
I got to my feet, running right at the sounds he made, cracking off another shot. One left.
Quiet now. I cocked the pistol. Man–sounds to my right.
"I'm still here, pussy." Snake voice hissing out of the night. He wasn't in a hurry.
I dropped to my knees, crawling forward toward the voice. Another flash of white. I fired. Another crack. Then a dry, audible click! I pulled the trigger again. Nothing.
I felt my guts lock. "Fuck!" Letting him smell my fear, throwing the empty pistol as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.
"My turn!" he screamed, coming for me.
I ran for my life, pulling the little backup pistol from my belt. I dived for the ground, rolled onto my back, pushed myself backward by driving my legs into the dirt. Making panic