Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [78]
The El was close to Church now.
“You.”
The bandit was staring at Lonergan. He had hard little black points for eyes and a soft mouth.
“You too, big fella. Your roll in the bag—now.”
The next passenger, a small man in a crooked bow tie, shoved the bag forward, waiting for Lonergan to take it.
Lonergan said nothing. They’d be at the Church station soon. There were two dollars in Lonergan’s front pocket, and he’d be damned if this son of a bitch was taking it. If he tried to use the whip Lonergan would get up and knock him on his backside.
“Now!”
He glanced over at the green-eyed girl, who was staring at him with a puzzled expression. She seemed to be wondering, Why aren’t you giving him what he wants?
Lonergan thought: I’ll show you why.
He stood up and reached toward his hip, mimicking a draw. “Police officer,” he said. “Drop the whip or I’ll shoot you down.”
The bandit shook his head as he took long steps backward. “I’ll cut off your head before you even—”
Before the bandit could finish, Lonergan pumped his legs and started to lunge. Then a violent jolt as the El pulled into Church Street made Lonergan stumble. The bandit retreated a few steps. The center door slammed opened. Lonergan looked up just in time for the bandit to give him a face full of the whip.
Someone screamed—it may have been Lonergan. He didn’t know. All he felt was searing numbness followed by the intense heat of the slash. Around him the shock-sobered passengers gathered themselves together and fled the car, crying out for the operator to stop the train. Either he didn’t hear them or didn’t care, because soon after the center door slammed shut again.
Lonergan heard the bandit cry: “MY MONEY!”
The little man with the crooked bow tie—he must have walked off with the sack. Maybe bow tie would do the right thing and return the stolen items to his fellow drunken passengers. Or maybe he’d toddle down to the street level and do his own disappearing act.
The El jolted forward. Lonergan watched as drops of his own blood began to streak across the floor of the car.
“I’m going to cut you apart,” the bandit said.
A woman’s voice cried out: “Clayton, no!”
Lonergan glanced to the right. It was the green-eyed girl, still here, perched on the rattan bench. Why hadn’t she left with the others?
Then all at once he knew.
The bandit was coming at Lonergan now, cracking the whip across the seats. Lonergan didn’t have a strategy. He merely reacted. Whip be damned—he lunged for the bastard.
The two of them stumbled backwards into the center door. Made impact. Glass spiderwebbed behind Lonergan’s body. Lonergan could smell beer on the man’s fevered breath. He was skinny but strong. The El start to slow down again. Orthodox-Margaret station, coming up.
Lonergan gathered a fistful of the bandit’s duster, put his foot against the wood, and pushed forward. They spun until they collided with the center door opposite. The glass, again, cracked—and the bandit went partially through it. Shards rained down on the track. Lonergan drove a fist into the bandit’s face. Then again. And again. And again. The train stopped, jolting both of them to the left. The center door opened.
The bandit pulled himself free, crashed to the ground, and then scrambled backwards on the platform, leaving the whip in Lonergan’s hand. Lonergan took two steps back then fell to the floor of the car. His face was no longer numb. The pain was starting to appear in deep, angry throbs. He felt nauseous and dizzy.
By this time the conductor had gotten the hint something was wrong. Maybe he saw the bandit scrambling for the concrete steps leading to the street. The El idled at the station, doors open. Night air blast-freezing the interior of the car.
Lonergan glanced up at the green-eyed girl, who’d been left behind. He felt hot blood run over his jaw and down his neck.
“Seems Clayton’s left you,” he said.
The girl appeared afraid now.
“So you’re the lookout,