Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [115]
There was absolute silence in the little yard. I got out my gun and switched off the safety. I counted to one hundred, then placed the tape deck on the ground in the middle of the yard and pushed the “play” button. During the six second pause before the action started I ducked up against the wall next to the back door. Then it started. First the loud noise of glass breaking, then the bellboy’s voice screaming, “I told you to have my dinner ready, you stupid bitch! How many times have I told you that?!” More breaking glass—my falsetto screams—more breaking glass—the bellboy again—“Cook my dinner now, you fucking bitch! Or I’ll kill you.”
The back door slammed open. Cathcart was there, peering out into the night. I crouched and fired into his chest. The gun jammed with a loud click. Cathcart swiveled toward me and pointed his arm in my direction. I tried to move, but it was too late. There was a burst of noise, a flash of red and a slamming into my upper chest. I fell over and began to roll, still clutching my gun. Cathcart stood on his porch, turning his head, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. I aimed and fired. This time it worked. Cathcart ducked, but not in time. I caught him somewhere in the torso, for he grabbed his chest as he flew backward into the service porch.
I got up and ran toward him, heedless of the possible consequences. As I got to him, he was lying on the floor. I was a perfect target framed in the doorway. Cathcart raised his arm to fire, but I threw myself on top of him before he could squeeze the trigger. I pinned his arm down with both my hands and brought my right knee into his groin, full force. Once. Then twice. Then again. Finally, he went limp and relinquished the grip on his weapon.
Panting, sweating, bleeding, and hysterical, I flung his gun back into the darkness of the house. Outside it was quiet. The tape had run out. In the darkness I started to babble. It was all over. I had blown it. I had won, and lost. There was just too much noise. The fuzz would come. So I waited, on the bloody floor, my body strewn across Cathcart’s.
I listened to his breathing through the overflow of my own. I tried to recite my poem, but I couldn’t remember the words. Once I thought I heard Cathcart stirring, so I clubbed him in the head with my gun butt. I started to shiver, drenched in sweat. Suddenly, I remembered my wound. It wasn’t sweat I was bathed in, it was blood. I felt for the wound. It was next to my shoulder blade, above my heart. Above my heart. Something dim resounded in my mind. I tore open my shirt and ran a hand over my back. When I found it I started to laugh. It was funnier than Walter at his best or the roasted dog. It was an exit wound and the blood that covered it was starting to congeal. I laughed until I passed out from shock.
When I awoke I checked the luminous dial on my watch. It was ten-fourteen. I flashed and did a double-take, then started to blubber. I had entered Cathcart’s driveway at nine-twenty. It was almost an hour later and no cops were on the scene. I listened to Cathcart’s uneven breathing for a second, recited jumbled fragments of my poem to myself, then gathered my strength and stood up. I staggered, my head reeled but I remained upright. I took a deep breath and it gave me confidence. I was certain none of my vital organs had been hit.
With a gigantic effort, I grabbed Cathcart’s arms and pulled him back into his house. It was slow going; he was a large man. I dragged him through the kitchen into a large carpeted area. I risked switching on a light. A modest living room, couch, coffee table and chairs were illuminated. I walked back and collected both our guns. Cathcart’s was a snub-nosed detective’s special.
I sat in a chair and stared at his inert body. He was a formidable-looking man. Iron gray-blond hair, sharp features. The body of an athlete at fifty-five. I knelt over him and opened his shirt. I had hit him in the left