“The coffee is done.” She didn't even glance up from her book.
There wasn't anything in the paper. Taking her purse from the drawer, I pulled out three five dollar bills, announced: “Get dressed, we're going to the beach.”
“Again? Tony, do you think it's wise?”
“I think it's very wise—and damn necessary!” I snapped.
“Being out on the street... Also, my back is still red...”
“You weren't worrying about your back last night, with that old pig! More sun will help your skin, make it brown. Stay here, if you wish!”
As she slipped on her dress and shoes. I told myself if the desk moron said a word, I'd break his nose.
But he wasn't around, probably in the can sipping his wine, and we managed to sit in an air-conditioned car on the Long Island railroad, so by the time we reached Wantagh, and finally Jones Beach, I was in a better mood. In fact I was so relaxed, I almost forgot about the police. Still, minus her harsh make-up Lucille looked different, and with my hair cut so short... we were fairly safe. Renting suits again, we had a glass of beer and hot dogs, then strolled along the beach to 'our' deserted dunes. I took a swim while Lucille sat on the edge of the sand like a big baby, let the waves wash her off, then we slept for an hour or so. She started reading a book she'd picked up on the way out, while I stared at the mixed-green of the Atlantic, remembering the clean, ultramarine blue of the Mediterranean, wishing I had oils and a canvas with me, dared use them. Some teenagers appeared on the beach, near us, and laying on top of the dune—the hot sun soothing on my back—I watched them horse around in the water with their fins and aqualungs.
When they left I went back to sleep until Lucille gently shook me awake. With her skin taking on a reddish-brown tan, glistening with lotions and oils, the dark hair, she looked quite charming and almost South Pacific-ish. “Tony, it's after three—how much longer are we staying here?”
Blinking at a pastel rainbow in the salt haze, I felt of the duffel bag tied to my right hand, stretched, and then slapped her backside. “Still hot, might as well make a day of it. Leave around six, safer to be in the crowd.”
“I'm hungry, give me a couple of bucks. What do you want to eat?”
“Hamburger, pie, and a beer,” I said, reaching for my pants, giving her three singles. “Long walk back to the snack bar.”
“I don't mind. My eyes are too tired to read, and I am hungry.”
“Me too—hurry back.
For a time I watched her walk the beach, the strong movement of hips and sturdy legs. I took a swim, enjoyed the sheer luxury of urinating on the empty beach. I tried skimming stones in the waves, took another dip and dried off, went back to the slight shade between the dunes, read Lucille's book. I gave up after a few pages and watched the waves, childishly wishing there was a secret tunnel in the Atlantic to take me... anywhere.
Getting thirsty, I stuck my head out to look for Lucille. She was down the beach, walking along the water's edge, carrying a paper bag of food... about a hundred yards behind her was a tall, thin man wearing a straw hat, a short, squatty, bareheaded man. There was no doubting they were Ping and the knife runt! Nor could there be any doubt about Lucille knowing she was being followed—only the three of them on that stretch of the beach and the two goons stood out—they were completely dressed.
It was too late for me to run—be a stand-out target myself if I moved.
Cursing her for selling me out, I picked up the duffel bag, crawled around the back end of the dune: then ducking-walking like we used to do in football training, I reached a dune farther down. Pulling Gus' gun from the duffel bag, I waited. I was neither excited nor cool—but absolutely impersonal about it all. I decided to gun Ping down first, then the knife-thrower, and Lucille last. But as she came nearer I noticed that if her hips still had a gay swing, her face was tense and strained.
When Lucille walked past 'our' dune, a sort of wild joy filled my throat—she
Knowing she was being followed, Lucille was deliberately walking on, taking the killers with her— and
Holding the gun in my left, I carefully dried my right hand on my chest hair, then gripped the gun firmly again. The top of the dunes were too far for an accurate pistol shot—at least two hundred feet from the water's edge where they were walking. Leaving the blue duffel bag, I came around the side of the dune as Lucille and the two goons passed. Walking silently on the sand, I followed them, holding my breath as best I could. When about seventy-five feet behind, I called out, “Keep your hands in sight!”
My voice was crisp, even tough. They both stopped abruptly, didn't turn. Lucille began circling back—keeping out of the way. Ping had a corny loud sport shirt over the top of grey slacks—obviously covering a hip holster. Never taking my eyes off Ping's hands, I came up behind Shorty, kicked the back of his left knee.
As the runt went sprawling on his face, Ping spun around, right hand going for his shirt tails. I fired once at his gut, raced toward him as he went over backwards—shot him again in the side of his peanut head at almost point blank range: his ear seemed to jump, then gush blood. Spinning around like a Western TV hero, I shot Shorty still on his knees, knife hand raised to throw. The slug tore into his wide chest. Dropping the knife, he knelt with his right hand still in the air—as if praying—fell over on his face.
Lucille came running. “Tony! Tony! I knew they'd spotted me, but there wasn't anything I could do but keep walking in this direction...!”
“Keep still!” Glancing around carefully, I studied the beach. There wasn't a soul in sight, the sounds of the waves had smothered the barking of the gun. Ping's head was a stepped-on tomato, Shorty's puss was buried in the hot sand.
Picking up his knife, I hurled it into the ocean. Turning to Lucille, who was clutching her belly and throwing up, I said softly, “Babes, back of that dune is the bag—get it. Fast!”
Nodding, she staggered over to the sand dune. I kept looking up and down the beach: the bathers far down on Jones Beach were spots on the sand: if only nobody came by within the next few minutes we'd be okay.
Face pale with hysteria and fright, Lucille walked toward me, dragging the blue bag behind her in the sand. Shoving the gun in the crotch of my swim shorts, I grabbed the bag with my left hand, told her, “Come on, get a hold of your nerves —well make it okay! Help me pull these stiffs behind the dune.”
I took Shorty's foot with my right hand, Lucille picked up his other leg. We started dragging him across the beach, toward the dune.
“I... I... can't...” she gasped, dropping Shorty's leg and throwing up again. Leaving the duffel bag, I took both of the runt's thick legs, pulled him up and over the dune. Then I ran down and stepped between Ping's long legs, grabbed his ankles, pulled him up the hill of sand. Reaching the top of the dune, I heard Lucille running behind me, mumbling, “So much blood...”
I turned to grin coldly at her. “Don't worry, hon, the tide's coming in, wash it all away... soon.”
The last word died in my open mouth. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Shorty up on one elbow, blood gushing out of his shirt, a large ugly .45 held by both hands. I flung Ping toward him, tried to push Lucille back as I made a tackle-dive for him... seemed to hit a wall of orange flame making me do a back flip in mid-air. I found myself sitting on the sand above him, sure he'd missed me... until a fiery wind swept through my guts, a dry scream actually whistled up my throat. In a daze I heard another roar of thunder, a hot flash zinged by my face... Lucille came tumbling down near me, one breast hanging out of her burnt bathing suit: horrible piece of bloody raw meat.
Digging my left hand through the fire in my belly, I found the .32—turned to face Shorty. He was glaring at me with cold, childish-large eyes, trying to raise the heavy .45 with trembling hands. I couldn't move my legs... falling on my face, left hand extended until it was inches from the bastard's head, I pulled the trigger until there wasn't any more thunder... nor much left of his stupid face.
Staring at the mess of hair, blood, crushed skull and pink brains, I whispered, “Little... smart sonofabitch... you had a gun...
I passed out in a burning red wave.
