But she wouldn’t look.
“See? You can’t do it, you’re a nice lady. You don’t shoot people, you won’t even look at dead ones. I’ll tell you something, that slug gun would make a bigger hole than the one there.” He inched one foot along the rag carpeting to take the next step, the big one.
“Miss, you don’t want to put a hole in me.”
Saying it to that slug barrel. She had both eyes open but they didn’t tell him anything, the gun aimed at his chest. He was sure he couldn’t talk her into putting it down. Maybe, if he hadn’t shot Richie in front of her; but knew he would do it again, so forget it. He noticed the barrel waver a little. The gun became heavy holding it like that for so long. She had to be scared. Her nerves could make her pull the trigger when she didn’t want to. Though it looked like she did.
Armand said to her, “You’re not gonna shoot me. You know why?” He raised his left hand slowly and extended it, pointing a finger. “You see that little button? ...You got the safety on.”
He had her.
Saw her eyes change. Saw her finger come out of the trigger guard to feel for the catch, that push button. Armand grabbed the barrel, no problem, got both hands on it and gave it a twist, the gun was his. He took a moment to check the safety. It was off. She got nervous, didn’t remember. Now she wouldn’t need this thing. He threw the 12-gauge across the table to skid and land on the floor, over on the other side, turned back to her and said, “Oh, shit.”
She had his Browning.
That fast, Christ, she had it aimed at him, holding it in both hands with her eyes wide open—not scared-to- death open, just open, staring at him.
He raised his hands to show her, Look, I’m unarmed, and stepped back saying, “Okay, take it easy, Miss,” trying to think of a story to tell her...And she shot him. Fired his own gun at him and it was like the sound of it punched him in the belly, made him grunt and double over. He put his hand on the table to straighten up, said, “Wait now,” and she shot him again, socked him in the chest with it so hard he went back against the chair and sat down. She was still pointing his gun at him. He told her, “Jesus Christ, you shot me.” She didn’t say anything to him. He was holding himself and had to take one hand from his body to lay his arm on the table and lean against the edge to keep from falling. She was holding the gun in two hands, her eyes the same as before, still not telling him anything. He was thinking, Never stick them in a bathroom like that nurse and say she didn’t see you good. Never talk to them before. Never let them get hold of a gun you didn’t know was there. He couldn’t believe it, a woman in her fucking underwear had shot him and he was going to die.
Armand told her that. “You shot me.” Like saying to her, Look what you’ve done. Wanting her to feel sorry for him. He said, “Don’t you know you’ve killed me?” and saw her lower the gun. Now she spoke. What? Said something about her house. He couldn’t hear too good and was slipping in the chair and had to hold on to the table. He said, “What?” and she spoke again, this time loud enough for him to hear.
She said, “You walked in my house!”
Mad. He thought, Yeah ...?
She wanted to hit him because he was dead and wouldn’t listen to her. The son of a bitch. The feeling lasted a few moments. The only thing left to say to him was, “Goddamn you,” for making her do it. She phoned the detective with the Michigan State Police and went outside to wait. They had better not ask her if she had an attitude problem.
Hours later, after they’d gone, she cleaned the kitchen, threw out all the food that was left, the candy, the gum she found in a drawer, the plastic tablecloth, and washed the wall in the dining room. She couldn’t stay in the house. She put on her navy coat, turned the porch light on and went outside to walk in the field and wait for her husband. The wind had died to a cool breeze. Carmen would raise her face to it, her eyes closed.
“I got stopped,” Wayne said, “goddamn it. I figured the shortest way would be take Fifty-seven up to Seventy, cut across to Indianapolis, catch Sixty-nine, take it up to Ninety-four and follow Ninety-four home. Is that the way you came?”
Carmen shook her head, standing with him in the porch light, at the foot of the steps. “I took
Fifty-seven all the way to Ninety-four.”
“How’s your mom?”
“The same.”
“You go see her?”
“Not yet. I spoke to her—”
“I should’ve done that, stayed on Fifty-seven,” Wayne said. “What happened, I missed the turn in Indianapolis, had to keep on Seventy all the way to Ohio and get on Seventy-five north. Well, you know what happened. Shit. I’m almost to Findlay and see the gumballs closing on me fast. ...You call that cop?”
“I called,” Carmen said, nodding, and could keep talking now if she wanted to, but paused.
“So the trooper comes up to the car, has the hat on. ‘Sir, you know you were going seventy-eight in a posted sixty-five zone?’ I tell him the reason I’m in a hurry there’s an emergency at home.”
Carmen listened.
“The guy never changes his expression. ‘Sir, would you follow me, please?’ What’re you gonna say, no? They take your goddamn registration and driver’s license. So I got to see beautiful Findlay, Ohio, and it only cost me fifty bucks.”
Carmen watched her husband look out at the dark mass of woods, his woods, giving him time...maybe giving herself time. What was the hurry? They were home.
“Less than two weeks to deer season,” Wayne said. “I can hardly wait.”
She felt his arm come around her shoulders to hold her close, both of them looking out at the woods now as he said, “You want to try it this year?” Gave her shoulders a squeeze and said, “Hey, it’s something we could do together.”
The Extras
I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT IV. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT” ~
This section was prepared by the editorial staff of PerfectBound e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard's longtime researcher and aide-decamp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.
Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other PerfectBound editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).
All by Elmore
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot (1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap (1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (2002).
The Westerns
The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five
