Bookman's wake

own volition, as if the arm clutching it against the gingham dress had vanished. He had tried to cover it with a shawl, which was too small. I sat up straight in the seat, so suddenly that Trish jumped up with a jerk of her own. “What’s going on?” she said, but I was already out of the truck, splashing after the hooded squaw who moved between cars and headed across the muddy yard twenty yards to our right. He looked like old Mother Bates in Psycho , walking with the sure and deadly gait of a man. I fell in behind him and we headed out toward the row of cars parked by the road. The wind whipped at his shawl and clutched the corners of his hood. I got a glimpse of cheek as he half-turned and tried to look back. But he didn’t turn far enough: he was caught in the Satchel Paige syndrome, afraid to look, afraid to see how much trouble followed him. If he could make it to his car without having to look upon his enemy, he’d be home free.

He didn’t make it.

“Pruitt,” I said, and he spun on his heel and locked in my eyes from a distance of six feet.

His free hand slipped down into the folds of his dress. I danced in close and grabbed him. With the other hand I ripped away the suitcase and made him fumble it. It popped open on the ground and the wind sucked up the money, a fluttery gale of greenbacks that blew back across the yard toward the cafe. He cried out and tried to dive down and save it. I met him coming down with a knee to the jaw, flopping him back on his ass in the mud.

It was all fast motion and unreal after that. I stood over him and said, “Take out that gun and I’ll kick your head off,” but I knew that wouldn’t stop him. He cleared the dress with a handful of iron and I drove my shoe under his armpit. He grabbed at the sky, fired a round in the air, and I nailed him hard with the other foot. He withered, twisting in agony like a deflating balloon, rolling under the wheels with a gaffing, hissing sound. I kicked his gun and it spun off into a puddle. I knew I had hurt him, maybe busted his ribs, but he wasn’t finished yet. He still had the knife, and as I dragged him out, he rolled into me with the blade leading the way. I caught his wrist with a wet smack. For a few seconds we strained against each other while the point of the knife quivered like a seismograph that couldn’t tell if an earthquake was coming. Then I knew I had him. I saw it first in his eyes, that chink in the hard shell that comes to all bullyboys when they play one hand too many. He didn’t look mean anymore. He looked small and tired and astonished.

“Now you are going to tell me where the girl is.” I said this with the knife at my throat but the tide turning fast. His arm collapsed and he let the knife fall away as if surrender could save him. I hit him hard with my fist so he’d know better, and I hit him again, then again, then I lost track as I battered his face back and forth. I could hear my voice pounding at him as well, “Where is she…where is she,” with every punch, and after a while he stopped saying he didn’t know. I felt Trish on my back, heard her screaming at me to for Christ’s sake stop it, but for that long minute stopping was just not possible. I had slipped over the edge and become every bad cop who ever took up a rubber hose or swung a billy club in anger.

Trish grabbed me around the neck. I shrugged her off and went at Pruitt again.

Then I did stop. I lunged at him one more time, a reflex, but I pulled back without letting that last fist fall. I looked at him, bloody and cold, and I knew he wouldn’t be telling anybody anything for a while.

I got up and looked around. Trish was sitting in mud ten feet away. Bowman was standing far back, watching as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Farther back, people were running out of the diner as word spread that hundred-dollar bills were falling out of the sky.

In the babble of the crowd I heard the word police . I had a few minutes on the long end to do what I had to do and get out of there.

I dragged Pruitt around the car, took out Slater’s handcuffs, and locked him to the door handle. I didn’t see Irish when I looked for her again: I didn’t know where she’d gone, but Bowman was still there. I went over to him and said, “Gimme the truck keys, Mickey,” and he looked at me as if I was not a guy to argue with and he gave me the keys. I handed him the keys to the cuffs and told him to give them to Trish.

I headed toward the cafe. The crowd at the door pushed back and gave me a wide berth.

I heard voices as I moved through. Again the word police . Somebody else said they were on the way. A woman asked what the hell was going on and a man said, “Some crazy guy beat up an old lady in the parking lot.”

I pushed past the waiting area and saw Scofield and Kenney sitting at the booth in the corner. They were looking at something on the table between them, studying it so intently they couldn’t even hear the commotion up front.

I walked right over and pulled up a chair. Scofield jerked back, as startled as if I’d attacked him. He grabbed a book off the table and put, it out of sight on his lap. Kenney looked at me with unruffled eyes and I jumped into the breach as if we were all old friends.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

“Do I know you?” Kenney was wary now, but in his manner I caught a glimmer of recognition.

“That’s a good ear you’ve got. I’m the guy you’ve been talking to on the phone.”

He didn’t say anything. I could see he was with me but he tried to shrug it off. This was all a moot point: they had what they’d come for.

“Before you go flying back to Tinseltown,” I said, “I should tell you there’s a lot more where that came from.”

“Lots more what?”

“I don’t have time to draw you a picture. I’m talking sixty cartons of Grayson ephemera. I’m talking notes, diaries, letters, sketches, photographs. You name it, I got it.”