breaking, doors being shattered and other signals of men moving aggressively against an objective. It was over very quickly.
'That's it?' said Frenchy.
'I guess,' said Carlo.
'Well, let's get in there.'
But Carlo wasn't sure. He realized now he had no clear post-raid instructions.
'I think we ought to hang here till we're released.'
'Come on, it's over. You can tell it's over. I don't want to miss the party.'
'There's going to be plenty of party. Let's just sit here a bit longer.'
'Shit, sit here in the dark, while everybody else is having a great time? Come on, this is stupid. Who died and left you in charge? That's where we're needed, not sitting out here like a couple of Boy Scouts.'
Carlo let it simmer. Rather than argue with his partner, he just hunkered yet more solidly against the weight of the tree, saying nothing, moving not a muscle or a twitch, signifying the conversation was over.
'Look,' said Frenchy, 'we were put out here to cover this back entrance. Nobody's coming out this back entrance. So we're just wasting our time.'
Finally, it seemed he was right. There was no more bustle from the kitchen and no evidence of movement or escape from the door.
'All right,' Carlo finally said, 'let's go.'
They got up.
'Put that safety on,' said Carlo. 'I don't want you roaming around with a live gun.'
'Safety's already on,' said Frenchy, though of course it wasn't, nor did he have any intention of putting it on, not till the party was over.
The two young men walked to the kitchen door, feeling the bulk of the would-be plantation house loom over them. Carlo bent, unlocked the padlock, coiled the chain, and opened the door, stepping in.
Frenchy followed him and?
Whoa, there.
He caught a peripheral movement from his left, spun, and saw a second figure leap silently from the window, collect himself, join his partner and start to head off.
Frenchy dashed at them, intercepting them halfway to the trees.
'Hold it!' he screamed. 'Hands up!'
He braced them from thirty feet with the Thompson, his finger dangerously caressing its trigger, which strained ever so gently against the pad of his fingertip.
But neither man seemed particularly challenged by the heavy gun aimed at him.
'Hey, hey, watch it, kid, them things is dangerous.'
The other laughed.
'He's more gun than man, I'd say.' They separated slightly.
'Don't move!' barked Frenchy.
'We're not moving? Are we moving? I don't see us moving. Do you see us moving?'
'I'm not moving,' said the other. 'If a lawman tells me not to move, I'm not moving, no sir.'
'Hands! Show me hands!'
But neither man raised his hands.
They were two tough-looking customers in suits with hats drawn down across their eyes, mid-to late thirties, both handsome in a rough way. They were utterly calm. The one on the right was even smiling a little bit. The signals they were putting out utterly confounded him.
'Look, kid, why don't you put that gun down and go inside before somebody gets hurt,' said one. 'You don't want to do nothing stupid now, do you? Something that you'd regret your whole life? I mean hell, this is just a penny-ante gambling bust that ain't supposed to happen and it's all going to be straightened out in?'
Frenchy fired. The gun shuddered, heaved, flashed, spit smoke and flung a line of empties off to the right, pounding against his shoulder. Three-round burst? No siree bob. He hosed them, blowing them backward like tenpins split by a bowler's strike, and they tumbled to the earth in a tangle of floating dust and gun smoke.
'I don't do stupid things, asshole,' he said.
Then he fired another burst, to make sure they stayed down.
Carlo, halfway through the kitchen, got there first. He found Frenchy standing thirty-odd feet from the bodies, screaming hysterically.
'Asshole! Assholes! You fucking pricks!
A tendril of smoke curled out of the compensator of the tommy and a litter of brass shells lay at his feet. The stench of gun smoke filled the air.
'What happened?'
'Fuckin' guys made a move. I got 'em. Goddamn, did I get 'em. Got 'em both, goddammit!'
'You okay?'
Clearly he wasn't. His eyes were as wide as lamps and his face was drawn into a mask of near-hysteria. He sucked at the air mightily. He seemed to stagger, then dropped to one knee.
'What the hell happened?' yelled Earl, arriving in a second.
Frenchy was silent.
'He nabbed these two guys making a getaway. He braced them, they drew and he dropped them. Looks like he clipped them both.'
Earl walked over to the bodies as D. A. arrived. Two other raiders showed up, and then Becker, alone.
'What the hell is going on, for God's sake? I have two Little Rock photographers and two reporters out front, and they want to know what the hell happened.'
'The officer dropped two runaways,' said D. A. 'They drew on him? Isn't that right, son?'
But Frenchy was silent.
Earl kneeled, put a hand out to each throat to feel for a pulse, but purely as an obligation. Each pulse was still. The two men lay on their backs. Frenchy had shot very well. Dust and smoke still floated in the air, and the blood continued to ooze from a network of wounds, absorbed by the material of the suits, so that each man was queerly damp, a sponge for excess blood. One's eyes were open blankly. The other's face was in repose. A hat was trapped under one head but the other hat lay a few feet away. The wounds were mostly in the torso and gut; both faces were unmarked.
'They drew on you, right?' asked D. A.
Frenchy was silent.
Earl heard the question and did the next bit of very dirty work. He pulled the sodden suit coats away from the bodies and checked for weapons. No shoulder holsters, no hip holsters, no guns jammed in belts, no guns in pockets, no guns in ankle holsters, no guns in suit pockets.
Earl rolled one over slightly, and gingerly withdrew a wallet. It contained what looked to be about $2,000 in cash and a driver's license in the name of William P. Allgood, from Tulsa, Oklahoma. A business card identified Mr. Allgood as an oil equipment leasing agent.
'Shit,' said Earl, turning to the next body. That was a Phillip Hensler, also of Hdsa, a salesman for Phillips Oil.
He walked back.
'They wasn't armed,' he said.
'Shit,' said D. A.
'Oh, Christ,' said Becker. 'He killed two unarmed men? Jesus Christ, and I've got reporters here? Oh, Jesus Christ, you said they were trained, this wouldn't happen! Oh, Christ!'
'It's worse. One's a goddamn oil salesman, one leases drilling equipment. Both from Tulsa.'
'Oh, shit,' said D. A.
By this time, the Hot Springs police had arrived, and out in the lot, the gumballs flashed red in the night. A heavyset detective came around the corner with two uniforms.
'Mr. Becker? What the hell is going on?'
'One of my investigators shot two fleeing men,' said Becker. 'Naturally, we'll want a full investigation.'
'Shit,' said the cop.
