“Andy? I saw the lights, I-” He quit talking and pulled up short, gaping at me and at the gun in Greene’s hand. His eyes had a glassy look and there was a slackness to his mouth; he seemed to sway a little. “Jesus, Andy,” he said in a different voice. “Jesus.”
I moved sideways a couple of steps, carefully, so I could see both of them without swiveling my head back and forth. The Browning moved with me.
When Greene looked at Kellenbeck again his upper lip flattened in against his teeth. “You goddamn drunk,” he said, and that told me all I needed to know about how things stood between the two of them. Maybe the bootlegging had been Kellenbeck’s scam in the beginning, and he had brought Greene in for the use of his boat; but whether or not that was it, Greene was the one running the show now.
“I only had a few,” Kellenbeck said, “I lost track of the time.” He slid a hand across gray-stubbled cheeks, across his slacked mouth. “What’s he doing here, Andy? Why’d you bring him here?”
“I didn’t bring him here. I saw him snooping around your house and decided to follow him, see what he was up to. Good thing I did. He came straight here, busted in, and searched your office; I nailed him on the way out.”
Damned fool, I thought again. It must have been Greene in that low-slung sports job in Carmet. And him again in the car that passed after I parked down the highway; I had been too intent on getting into the building, on playing the souped-up detective, to notice it was the same car both times.
“He knows, then,” Kellenbeck said. He sounded sick and frightened.
“Sure he knows. What’s the matter with you?”
“How did he find out?”
“How do you think? You and that fucking hooch. I told you not to keep any of it around.”
Kellenbeck moved forward a couple of steps. A belch came out of him; he wiped his mouth again. “Andy,” he said, “Andy… ”
“Shut up.”
“Let him say it, Greene,” I said. The rage was stronger, blacker, inside me now-and that was good because it smothered the fear. Blood made a surflike pounding in my temples.
“You shut up too.”
I looked at Kellenbeck. “He’s planning to kill me, all right. Is that what you want? Another murder on your conscience?”
“Andy, for Christ’s sake…”
“Killing me won’t get you off the hook,” I said. “What do you think will happen if I disappear like Jerry Carding-two disappearances within a week? The cops will be all over this place. And they’ll find out, Kellenbeck, just like I did-”
“One more word,” Greene said, “I’ll blow you away right now.”
He meant it; I could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes when I faced him. I locked my teeth together, made myself stand still. Made myself not think about dying, because if I did the rage and the thin edge of panic would prod me into doing something crazy, like trying to jump him for the gun.
“He’s right, Andy,” Kellenbeck said. His face had a collapsing look, as if all the muscles had loosened at once. “You know he is.”
“The hell he’s right. We can cover this one too.”
“How?”
“Get rid of any more hooch you’ve got stashed, stay out of touch with the people up north. Let the cops come around; there won’t be anything for them to find.”
“But suppose he’s told somebody something?”
“He hasn’t told anybody anything. He’s just a smart-guy private dick, that’s all. Working on his own.”
“I don’t know, Andy. Another killing… I don’t know if I can handle it, face the cops again, all those questions…”
“Sure you can, Gus. You’ll be fine, baby.”
There was something in the way Green said that, something in his voice that jarred an insight into my mind. Kellenbeck was a drunk and he was coming apart; it was a good bet he would let something slip to the police, maybe even blurt out a confession, when the pressure got too heavy. And Greene knew that as well as I did.
He was planning to kill Kellenbeck too.
I wanted to say something to Kellenbeck, try to turn him against Greene. But I knew if I did that, Greene would use the gun on me without hesitation. He was in total command; there was nothing I could do and nothing Kellenbeck could do.
Not yet, I told myself. Not yet.
Kellenbeck belched again, sickly. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we got no choice. But Jesus, let’s get it over with.”
“Your car right out front?”
“Yeah.”
“You sober enough to drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Head out, then. Get the car started.”
Kellenbeck nodded, put his back to us, and went into the shed with uneven jerky strides. When the outer door banged a few seconds later Greene said to me, “Your turn. Move.”
I moved. The joints in my legs still felt stiff and there was a tight prickling sensation in my groin. I had an impulse to grab hold of the door on my way through, try to slam it shut between us; but it was standing too wide, and Greene had crowded up close behind me. The shed was full of boxes, tools, machine parts-none of them within reaching distance. I opened the outer door, kept my hand on the knob for a second. Greene jabbed me with the automatic. And I let go, struggling with my control, and went out into the cold darkness.
Fog crawled over the highway, obscured all but a three-hundred-yard strip of it. No headlights showed anywhere in the mist. Kellenbeck’s Cadillac was slewed in near one of the hoists a few feet away; the engine was running and the lights were on. Greene told me to get into the back seat, slide over against the far door-and waited until I did that before he got in with me, holding the Browning in close to his body so there was no chance of me making a lunge for it.
“Okay,” he said to Kellenbeck. “You know where.”
Nothing from Kellenbeck. His breathing was rapid and irregular; I could smell the sour whiskey fumes even from where I was. The shape he was in, I thought he might kick the accelerator hard enough to buck the car and throw Greene off-balance. I braced my feet and body, tensing. But Greene anticipated that too; he issued a sharp warning to take it easy, drive slow. And Kellenbeck, obeying, crawled the damned car out of the lot and onto the highway, northbound.
I sat with my hands fisted on my knees, watching Greene in the faint glow of the dashlights. He was sitting half-turned toward me and he still had the gun pulled in against his chest. I thought: God, if I could get my hands on him I’d tear him in half. I thought: I’m being taken for a ride, private eye being taken for a goddamn ride just like in the pulps. I thought: Is this how Jerry Carding felt-twenty-year-old kid, scared, shaking, on his way to die?
Wild thoughts. Breeding more wild impulses. The rage and the fear boiling inside me now like gases coming to an explosion point. I had to do something to keep the lid on my control; if I didn’t, if I gave in to the impulses I said, “Where are we going? Your boat, Greene, is that it? A little trip out into the ocean?” Talking was the answer. Making words to keep from making myself dead. “Sure. The deep-six. Take me out a mile or two, shoot me or knock me out, weight my body, and I’m gone without a trace. Just like Jerry Carding.”
Greene had nothing to say.
“Let’s see if I can put it together,” I said. “How did Jerry find out about the bootlegging? Overheard the two of you talking, maybe, when you didn’t know he was around. Sure, that makes sense. So he does a little investigating, gets hold of a bottle of hooch or the label off of one. But instead of going to the police right away he decides to write an article first; that way, when the story breaks, he can have it published immediately. He’ll not only be a full-fledged hero, he’ll be an overnight sensation as a journalist.
“He finishes the article on Sunday night, takes the original and his only carbon down to the post office. But he doesn’t mail both of them. Just the carbon, to somebody for safekeeping; the original he keeps with him. Then he heads straight for the-”
