Roadwork (37 page)

He fired again, this time at the right front wheel of the green sedan, and the tire blew. One of the men behind the car screamed in soprano terror.

He looked over at the police car and the driver’s side door was open. The cop with the sunglasses was lying half in on the seat, using his radio. Soon all the partygoers would be here. They were going to give him away, a little piece of anyone who wanted one, and it would not be personal anymore. He felt a relief that was as bitter as aloes. Whatever it had been, whatever mournful sickness that had brought him to this, the last crotch of a tall tree, it was not his alone anymore, whispering and crying in secret. He had joined the mainstream of lunacy, he had come out of the closet. Soon they could reduce him to safe headline—SHAKY CEASE-FIRE HOLDS ON CRESTALLEN STREET.

He put the rifle down and scrambled across the living room floor on his hands and knees, being careful not to cut himself on the glass from the shattered picture frame. He got the small pillow and then scrambled back. The cop was not in the car anymore.

He picked up the Magnum and put two shots across their bow. The pistol bucked heavily in his hand, but the recoil was manageable. His shoulder throbbed like a rotted tooth.

One of the cops, the one without sunglasses, popped up behind the cruiser’s trunk to return his fire and he sent two bullets into the cruiser’s back window, blowing it inward in a twisted craze of cracks. The cop ducked back down without firing.

“Hold it!” Fenner bawled. “Let me talk to him!”

“Go ahead,” one of the cops said.

“Dawes!”
Fenner yelled toughly, sounding like a detective in the last reel of a Jimmy Cagney movie. (The police spotlights are crawling relentlessly back and forth over the front of the sleazy slum tenement where “Mad Dog” Dawes has gone to ground with a smoking .45 automatic in each hand. “Mad Dog” is crouched behind an overturned easy chair, wearing a strappy T-shirt and snarling.)
“Dawes, can you hear me in there!”

(And “Mad Dog,” his face twisted with defiance—although his brow is greased with sweat—screams out:)

“Come and get me, ya dirty coppers!” He bounced up over the easy chair and emptied the Magnum into the green sedan, leaving a ragged row of holes.

“Jesus!” somebody screamed. “Oh Jesus he’s nuts!”

“
Dawes!
” Fenner yelled.

“You’ll never take me alive!” he yelled, delirious with joy. “You’re the dirty rats who shot my kid brother! I’ll see some of ya in
hell
before ya get me!” He reloaded the Magnum with trembling fingers and then put enough shells into the Weatherbee to fill its magazine.

“Dawes!”
Fenner yelled again.
“How about a deal?
”

“How about some hot lead, ya dirty screw!” he screamed at Fenner, but he was looking at the police car and when the cop wearing sunglasses put his head stealthily over the hood, he sent him diving with two shots. One of them went through the picture window of the Quinns’ home across the street.

“
Dawes!
” Fenner yelled importantly.

One of the cops said: “Oh shut the fuck up. You’re just encouraging him.”

There was an embarrassed silence and in it the sound of sirens, still distant, began to rise. He put the Magnum down and picked up the rifle. The joyous delirium had left him feeling tired and achey and needing to shit.

Please let them be quick from the TV stations, he prayed. Quick with their movie cameras.

 

When the first police car screamed around the corner in a calculated racing drift like something out of
The French Connection
he was ready. He had fired two of the howitzer shells over the parked cruiser to make them stay down, and he drew a careful bead on the grille of the charging cruiser and squeezed the trigger like a seasoned Richard Widmark-type veteran and the whole grille seemed to explode and the hood flew up. The cruiser roared straight over the curb about forty yards up the street and hit a tree. The doors flew open and four cops spilled out with their guns drawn, looking dazed. Two of them walked into each other. Then the cops behind the first cruiser
(his
cops, he thought of them with a trace of propriety) opened fire and he submarined behind the chair while the bullets whizzed above him. It was seventeen minutes of eleven. He thought that now they would try to flank him.

He stuck his head up because he had to and a bullet droned past his right ear. Two more cruisers were coming up Crestallen Street from the other direction, sirens whooping, blue lights flashing. Two of the cops from the crashed cruiser were trying to climb the stake fence between the sidewalk and the Upslingers’ backyard and he fired the rifle at them three times, not firing to hit or miss but only to make them go back to their car. They did. Wood from Wilbur Upslinger’s fence (ivy climbed on it in the spring and summer) sprayed everywhere, and part of it actually fell over into the snow.

The two new cruisers had pulled up in a V that blocked the road in front of Jack Hobart’s house. Police crouched in the apex of the V. One of them was talking to the police in the crash cruiser on a walkietalkie. A moment later the newest arrivals began laying down a heavy pattern of covering fire, making him duck again. Bullets struck the front door, the front of the house, and all around the picture window. The mirror in the front hall exploded into jumbled diamonds. A bullet punched through the quilt covering the Zenith TV, and the quilt danced briefly.

He scrambled across the living room on his hands and knees and stood up by the small window behind the TV. From here he could look directly into the Upslingers’ backyard. Two policemen were trying the flanking movement again. One of them had a nosebleed.

Freddy, I may have to kill one of them to make them stop.

Don’t do that, George. Please. Don’t do that.

He smashed the window with the butt of the Magnum, cutting his hand. They looked around at the noise, saw him, and began to shoot. He returned their fire and saw two of his bullets punch holes in Wilbur’s new aluminum siding (had the city recompensed him for that?). He heard bullets punching into his own house just below the window and on both sides of it. One whined off the frame and splinters flew in his face. He expected a bullet to rip off the top of his head at any moment. It was hard to tell how long the exchange went on. Suddenly one of the cops grabbed his forearm and cried out. The cop dropped his pistol like a child that has grown tired of a stupid game. He ran in a small circle. His partner grabbed him and they began to run back toward their crashed cruiser, the unhurt one with his arm around his partner’s waist.

He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled back to the overturned chair and peeked out. Two more cruisers on the street now, one coming from each end. They parked on the Quinns’ side of the street and eight policemen got out and ran behind the cruiser with the flat tire and the green sedan.

He put his head down again and crawled into the hall. The house was taking very heavy fire now. He knew he should take the rifle and go upstairs, he would have a better angle on them from up there, could maybe drive them back from their car to cover in the houses across the street. But he didn’t dare go that far from the master fuse and the storage battery. The TV people might come at any time.

The front door was full of bullet holes, the dark brown varnish splintered back to show the raw wood underneath. He crawled into the kitchen. All the windows were broken in here and broken glass littered the linoleum. A chance shot had knocked the coffee-pot from the stove and it lay overturned in a puddle of brown goo. He crouched below the window for a moment, then bounced up and emptied the Magnum into the V-parked cars. Immediately fire intensified on the kitchen. Two bullet holes appeared in the white enamel of the refrigerator and another struck the Southern Comfort bottle on the counter. It exploded, spraying glass and southern hospitality everywhere.

Crawling back to the living room he felt something like a bee sting in the fleshy part of his right thigh just below the buttocks, and when he clapped his hand to it, his fingers came away bloody.

He lay behind the chair and reloaded the Magnum. Reloaded the Weatherbee. Poked his head up and ducked back down, wincing, at the ferocity of fire that came at him, bullets striking the couch and the wall and the TV, making the quilt shimmy. Poked his head up again and fired at the police cars parked across the street. Blew in one window. And saw—

At the top of the street, a white station wagon and a white Ford van. Written in blue letters on the sides of both was:

Panting, he crawled back to the window that looked out on the Upslingers’ side yard. The news vehicles were crawling slowly and dubiously down Crestallen Street. Suddenly a new police car shot around them and blocked them off, tires smoking. An arm dressed in blue shot out of the cruiser’s back window and began waving the newsmobiles off.

A bullet struck the windowsill and jumped into the room at an angle.

He crawled back to the easy chair, holding the Magnum in his bloody right hand and screamed: “
Fenner!
”

The fire slackened a little.

“
Fenner!
” he screamed again.

“
Hold on!
” Fenner yelled.
“Stop! Stop a minute!
”

There were a few isolated pops, then nothing.

“
What do you want?
” Fenner called.

“
The news people! Down behind those cars on the other side of the street! I want to talk to them!”

There was a long, contemplative pause.

“
No!
” Fenner yelled.

“
I’ll stop shooting if I can talk to them!”
That much was true, he thought, looking at the battery.

“No!”
Fenner yelled again.

Bastard,
he thought helplessly. Is it that important to you? You and Ordner and the rest of you bureaucratic bastards?

The firing began again, tentatively at first, then gaining strength. Then, incredibly, a man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans was running down the sidewalk, holding a pistol-grip camera in one hand.

“I heard that!” the man in the plaid shirt yelled. “I heard every word! I’ll get your name, fella! He offered to stop shooting and you—”

A policeman hit him with a waist-high flying tackle and the man in the plaid shirt crunched to the sidewalk. His movie camera flew into the gutter and a moment later three bullets shattered it into winking pieces. A clockspring of unexposed film unwound lazily from the remains. Then the fire flagged again, uncertainly.

“
Fenner
,
let them set up!
” he hollered. His throat felt raw and badly used, like the rest of him. His hand hurt and a deep, throbbing ache had begun to emanate outward from his thigh.

“Come out first!”
Fenner yelled back.
“We’ll let you tell your side of it!
”

Rage washed over him in a red wave at this bare-faced lie.
“GODDAMMIT, I’VE GOT A BIG GUN HERE AND I’LL START SHOOTING AT GAS TANKS YOU SHITBIRD AND THERE’LL BE A FUCKING BARBECUE WHEN I GET DONE!”

Shocked silence.

Then, cautiously, Fenner said: “What do you want?”

“
Send that guy you tackled in here! Let the camera crew set up!
”

“
Absolutely not! We’re not giving you a hostage to play games with all day!
”

A cop ran over to the listing green sedan bent low and disappeared behind it. There was a consultation.

A new voice yelled:
“There’s thirty men behind your house, guy! They’ve got shotguns! Come out or I’ll send them in!
” Time to play his one ratty trump. “
You better not! The whole house is wired with explosive. Look at this!
”

“
You’re bluffing!
” the voice called back confidently.

“If I hook this up to the car battery beside me on the floor
,
everything goes!”

Silence. More consultation.

“Hey!” someone yelled. “Hey, get that guy!” He poked his head up to look and here came the man in the plaid shirt and jeans, right out into the street, no protection, either heroically sure of his own profession or crazy. He had long black hair that fell almost to his collar and a thin dark moustache.

Two cops started to charge around the V-parked cruisers and thought better of it when he put a shot over their heads.

“Jesus Christ what a snafu!” somebody cried out in shrill disgust.

The man in the plaid shirt was on his lawn now, kicking up snow-bursts. Something buzzed by his ear, followed by a report, and he realized he was still looking over the chair. He heard the front door being tried, and then the man in the plaid shirt was hammering on it.

He scrambled across the floor, which was now spotted with grit and plaster that had been knocked out of the walls. His right leg hurt like a bastard and when he looked down he saw his pants leg was bloody from thigh to knee. He turned the lock in the chewed-up door and released the bolt from its catch.

“Okay!” he said, and the man in the plaid shirt burst in.

Up close he didn’t look scared although he was panting hard. There was a scrape on his cheek from where the policeman had tackled him, and the left arm of his shirt was ripped. When the man in the plaid shirt was inside he scrambled back into the living room, picked up the rifle, and fired twice blindly over the top of the chair. Then he turned around. The man in the plaid shirt was standing in the doorway, looking incredibly calm. He had taken a large notebook out of his back pocket.

“All right, man,” he said. “What shit goes down?”

“What’s your name?”

“Dave Albert.”

“Has that white van got more film equipment in it?”