Shoot the Piano Player (16 page)

"Yeah. Wonderful."

She held him on his feet, urging him forward, and they went out of the yard and started down the alley. He saw they were moving in the direction of the Hut. He heard her saying, "There's nobody in there now. They're all on the other side of Spaulding Street. I think we got a chance--"

"Quit saying we."

"If we can make it to the Hut--"

"Now look, it ain't we. I don't like this we business."

"Don't," she said. "Don't tell me that."

"I'm better off alone."

"Save it," she gritted. "That's corn for the squares."

"Look, Lena--" He made a feeble attempt to pull away from her.

She tightened her hold under his armpits. "Let's keep moving. Come on, we're getting there."

His eyes were closed. He wondered if they were standing still or walking. Or just drifting along through the snow, carried along by the wind. There was no way to be sure. You're fading again, he said to himself. And without sound he said to her, Let go, let go. Cantcha see I wanna sleep? Cantcha leave me alone? Say lady, who are you? What's your game?

"We're almost there," she said.

Almost where? What's she talking about? Where's she taking me? Some dark place, I bet. Sure, that's the dodge. Gonna get rolled. And maybe get your head busted, if it ain't busted already. But why cry the blues? Other people got troubles, too. Sure, everybody got troubles. Except the people in that place where it's always fair weather. It ain't on any map and they call it Nothingtown. I been there, and I know what it's like and I tell you, man, it was sheer delight and the pace never changed, it was you at the piano and you knew from nothing. Until this complication came along. This Complication we got here. She comes along with her face and her body and before you know it you're hooked. You tried to wriggle off but it was in deep and it was barbed. So the hooker scored and now you're in the creel and soon it's gonna be frying time. Well, it's better than freezing. It's really freezing out here. Out where? Where are we?

He was down in the snow. She pulled him up. He fell against her, fell away, went sideways across the alley and bumped into a fence. Then he was down again. She lifted him to his feet. "Damn it," she said, "come out of it." She bent over and took some snow in her hand and applied it to his face.

Who did that? he wondered. Who hit who? Who hit Cy in the eye with an Eskimo Pie? Was that you, George? Listen George, you take that attitude, it calls for a swing at your teeth.

He swung blindly, almost hit her in the face, and then he was faffing again. She caught him. For a few moments he put up a tussle. Then he was slumped in her arms. She went sliding around him to get behind him, her arms tight around his chest, lifting him. "Now walk," she said. "Walk, damn you."

"Quit the shovin'," he mumbled. His eyes were closed. "Why you gotta shove me? I got legs--"

"Then use them," she commanded. She was bumping him with her knees to push him along. "Worse than a drunk," she muttered, bumping him harder as he tried to lean back against her. They went staggering along through the heavily falling snow. They went past four fence doors. She was measuring the distance in terms of the fence doors on the left side of the alley. They were six fence doors away from the Hut when he fell again. He fell forward, flat in the snow, taking her down with him. She got up and tried to lift him and this time she couldn't do it. She stepped back and took a deep breath.

She reached inside her coat. Her hand went under her apron and came out holding the five-inch hatpin. She jabbed the long pin into the calf of his leg. Then again, deeper. He mumbled, "What's bitin' me?" and she said, "You feel it?" She used the hatpin again. He looked up at her. He said, "You havin' a good time?"

"A swell time," she said. She showed him the hatpin. "Want some more?"

"No."

"Then get up."

He made an effort to rise. She tossed the hatpin aside and helped him to his feet. They went on down the alley toward the back door of the Hut.

She managed to keep him on his legs as they entered the Hut, went through the back rooms and then, very slowly, down the cellar steps. In the cellar she half-carried him toward the high-stacked whisky and beer cases. She lowered him to the floor, then dragged him behind the wooden and cardboard boxes. He was resting on his side, mumbling incoherently. She shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. She said, "Now listen to me," in a whisper. "You'll wait here. You won't move. You won't make a sound. That clear?"

He gave a slight nod.

"I think you'll be all right," she said. "For a while, anyway. They'll search all over the neighborhood, lookin' for you and Plyne. It figures they're gonna find Plyne. They'll try the alley again and they'll find him. Then it's the law and the law starts lookin' for you. But I don't think they'll look here. That is, unless they make a brilliant guess. So maybe there's a chance--"

"Some chance," he murmured. He was smiling wryly. "What am I gonna do, spend the winter here?"

She looked away from him. "I'm hopin' I can getcha out tonight."

"And do what? Take a walk around the block?"

"If we're lucky, we'll ride."

"On some kid's roller coaster? On a sled?"

"A car," she said. "I'll try to borrow a car--"

"From who?" he demanded. "Who's got a car?"

"My landlady." Then she looked away again.

He spoke slowly, watching her face. "You must rate awfully high with your landlady."

She didn't say anything.

He said, "What's the angle?"

"I know where she keeps the key."

"That's great," he said. "That's a great idea. Now do me a favor. Forget it."

"But listen--"

"Forget it," he said. "And thanks anyway."

Then he turned over on his side, his back to her.

"All right," she said very quietly. "You go to sleep now and I'll see you later."

"No you won't." He raised himself on his elbow. He turned his head and looked at her. "I'll make it a polite request. Don't come back."

She smiled at him.

"I mean it," he said.

She went on smiling at him. "See you later, mister."

"I told you, don't come back."

"Later," she said. She moved off toward the steps.

"I won't be here," he called after her. "I'll--"

"You'll wait for me," she said. She turned and looked at him. "You'll stay right there and wait."

He lowered his head to the cellar floor. The floor was cement and it was cold. But the air around him was warm, and the furnace was less than ten feet away. He felt the warmth settling on him as he closed his eyes. He heard her footsteps going up the cellar stairs. It was a pleasant sound that blended with the warmth. It was all very comforting, and he said to himself, She's coming back, she's coming back. Then he fell asleep.

13

He slept for six hours. Then her hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He opened his eyes and sat up. He heard her whispering, "Quiet--be very quiet. There's the law upstairs."

It was black in the cellar. He couldn't even see the outline of her face. He said, "What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty, thereabouts. You had a nice sleep."

"I smell whisky."

"That's me," she said. "I had a few drinks with the law."

"They buy?"

"They never buy. They're just hangin' around the bar. The bartender's stewed and he's been givin' them freebees for hours."

"When'd they find him?"

"Just before it got dark. Some kids came out of the house to have a snowball fight. They saw him there in the yard."

"What's this?" he asked, feeling something heavy on his arm. "What we got here?"

"Your overcoat. Put it on. We're going out."

"Now?"

"Right now. We'll use the ladder and get out through the grating."

"And then what?"

"The car," she said. "I got the car."

"Look, I told you--"

"Shut up," she hissed. "Come on, now. On your feet."

She helped him as he lifted himself from the floor. He did it very slowly and carefully. He was worried he might bump against the wooden boxes, the cardboard beer cases. He murmured, "Need a match."

"I got some," she said. She struck a match. In the orange flare they looked at each other. He smiled at her. She didn't smile back. "Put it on," she said, indicating the overcoat.

He slipped into the overcoat, and followed her as she moved toward the stationary iron ladder that slanted up to the street grating. The match went out and she lit another. They were near the ladder when she stopped and turned and looked at him. She said, "Can you make it up the ladder?"

"I'll try."

"You'll make it," she said. "Hold onto me."

He moved in behind her as she started up the ladder. He held her around the waist. "Tighter," she said. She lit another match and said, "Rest your head against me--stay in close. Whatever you do, don't let go."

They went up a few rungs. They rested. A few more rungs, and they rested again. She said, "How's it going?" and he whispered, "I'm still here."

"Hold me tighter."

"That too tight?"

"No," she said. "Still tighter--like this," and she adjusted his arms around her middle. "Now lock your fingers," she told him. "Press hard against my belly."

"There?"

"Lower."

"How's that?"

"That's fine," she said. "Hold on, now. Hold me real tight."

They went on up the ladder. She lit more matches, striking them against the rusty sides of the ladder. In the glow, he looked up past her head and saw the underside of the grating. It seemed very far away.

When they were halfway up, his foot slipped off the rung. His other foot was slipping but he clung to her as tightly as he could, and managed to steady himself. Then they were climbing again

But now it wasn't like climbing. It was more like pulling her down. That's what you're doing, he said to himself. You're pulling her down. You're just a goddam burden on her back, and this is only the start. The longer she stays with you, the worse it's gonna be. You can see it coming. You can see her getting nabbed and labeled an accessory. And then they charge her with stealing a car. What do you think they'll give her? I'll say three years, at least. Maybe five. That's a bright future for the lady. But maybe you can stop it before it happens. Maybe you can do something to get her out of this jam and send her on her way.

What can you do?

You can't talk to her, that's for sure. She'll only tell you to shut up. It's a cinch you can't argue with this one. This is one of them iron-heads. She makes up her mind to do something there ain't no way to swerve her.

Can you pull away from her? Can you let go and drop off the ladder? The noise would bring the law. Would she skip out before they come? You know she wouldn't. She'd stick with you right through to the windup. She's made of that kind of material. It's the kind of material you seldom run across. Maybe once in a lifetime you find one like this. Or no, make it twice in a lifetime. You can't forget the first. You'll never forget the first. But what we're getting now is a certain reissue, except it isn't in the memory, it's something alive. It's alive and it's her pressing against you. You're holding it very tightly. Can you ever let go?

He heard the waitress saying, "Hold on--"

Then he heard the noise of the grating. She was lifting it. She was working very quietly, coaxing it up an inch at a time. As it went up, the cold air rushed through and with it came flakes of snow, like needles against his face. Now she had the grating raised high enough for them to get through. She was squirming through the gap, taking him with her. The grating rested on her shoulders, then on her back, and then it was on his shoulders as he followed her over the edge of the opening. She held the grating higher and then they were both on their knees on the pavement and she was closing the grating.

Yellow light came drifting from the side window of the Hut, and glimmered dimly against the darkness of the street. In the glow, he saw the snow coming down, churned by the wind. It's more than just a snowstorm now, he thought. It's a blizzard.

They were on their feet and she held his wrist. They moved along, staying close to the wall of the Hut as they headed west on Fuller Street. He glanced to the side and saw the police cars parked at the curb. He counted five. There were two more parked on the other side of the street. The waitress was saying, "They're all empty. I looked before we climbed out." He said, "If one of them blueboys comes outa the Hut--" and she broke in with, "They'll stay in there. They got all that free booze." But he knew she wasn't sure about that. He knew she was saying it with her fingers crossed.

They crossed a narrow street. The blizzard came at them like a huge swinging door made of ice. They were bent low, pushing themselves against the wind. For another short block they stayed on Fuller, then there was another narrow street and she said, "We turn here."

There were several parked cars, and some old trucks. Halfway up the block there was an ancient Chevy, a prewar model. The fenders were battered and much of the paint was chipped off. It was a two-door sedan, but as he looked at it, the impression it gave was that of sullen weary mule. A real racer, he thought, and wondered how she'd ever managed to start it. She was opening the door, motioning for him to get in.

Then he was leaning back in the front seat and she slid behind the wheel. She hit the starter. The engine gasped, tried to catch, and failed. She hit the starter again. The engine made a wheezing effort, almost caught, then faded and died. The waitress cursed quietly.

"It's cold," he said.

"It didn't gimme trouble before," she muttered. "It started up right away."

"It's much colder now."

"I'll get it started," she said.

She pressed her foot on the starter. The engine worked very hard, almost made it, then gave up.

"Maybe it's just as well," he said.

She looked at him. "Whaddya mean?"

"Even if it moves, it won't get far. They get a report on a stolen car, they work fast."

"Not on this job," she said. "On this one they won't get a report till morning, when my landlady wakes up and takes a look out the window. I made sure she was asleep before I snatched the key."

As she said it, she was pressing the starter again. The engine caught the spark, struggled to hold it, almost lost it, then idled weakly. She fed it gas and it responded. She released the brake and was reaching for the shift when two shafts of bright lights came shooting in from Fuller Street. "Get down," she hissed, as the headlights of the other car came closer. "Get your head down--"

They both ducked under the level of the windshield. He heard the engine noise of the other car, coming in closer, very close, then passing them and going away. As he raised his head, there was another sound. It was the waitress, laughing.

He looked at her inquiringly. She was laughing with genuine amusement.

"They just won't give up," she said.

"The law?"

"That wasn't the law. That was a Buick. A pale green Buick. I took a quick look--"

"You sure it was them?"

She nodded, still laughing. "The two ambassadors," she said.

"The one named Morris and--what's the other one's name?"

"Feather."

"Yeah, Feather, the little one. And Morris, the backseat driver. Feather and Morris. Incorporated."

"You think it's funny?"

"It's a scream," she said. "The way they're still mooching around--" She laughed again. "I bet they've circled this block a hundred times. I can hear them beefing about it, fussing at each other. Or maybe now they ain't even on speakin' terms."

He thought, Well, I'm glad she's able to laugh. It's good to know she can take it lightly. But the thing is, you can't take it lightly. You know there's a chance they spotted her when she raised her head. They ain't quite the goofers she thinks they are. They're professionals, you gotta remember that. You gotta remember they were out to get Turley, or let's say a step-by-step production that put them on your trail so they could find Turley, so they could find Clifton, so that finally they'd reach out and grab whatever it is they're after. Whatever it is, it's in South Jersey, in the old homestead deep in the woods. But when you called it a homestead, they gave it another name. They called it the hide-out.

That's what it is, all right. It's a hide-out, a perfect hideout, not even listed in the post office. You mailed all your letters to a box number in that little town nine miles away. You know, I think we're seeing a certain pattern taking shape. It's sort of in the form of a circle. Like when you take off and move in a certain direction to get you far away, but somehow you're pulled around on that circle, it takes you back to where you started. Well, I guess that's the way it's gotta be. On the city's wanted list right now you're Number One. Hafta get outa the city. Make a run for the place where they'll never find you. The place is in South Jersey, deep in the woods. It's the hiding place of the Clifton-Turley combine, except now it's Clifton-Turley-Eddie, the infamous Lynn brothers.

So there it is, that's the pattern. With a musical background thrown in for good measure. It ain't the soft music now. It ain't the dreamy nothing-matters music that kept you far away from everything. This music here is the buzzing of the hornets. No two ways about that. You hear it getting louder?

It was the noise of the Chevy's engine. The car was moving now. The waitress glanced at him, as though waiting for him to say something. His mouth tightened and he stared ahead through the windshield. They were approaching Fuller Street.

He spoke quietly. "Make a right-hand turn."

"And then?"

"The bridge," he said. "The Delaware River Bridge."

"South Jersey?"

He nodded. "The woods," he said.