Sometimes there is only the vague outline of a thing moving through an uncharted obscurity. What John Lourdes had suddenly was a sense of pure exhilaration he was hunting down a truth that would hold all this together. Yet, he also experienced a sense of pure dread. It seemed unremitting and without cause, but it was there.
When light from the doorway fell long upon that room John Lourdes saw he and McManus were not alone. The little man who'd been sleeping on the desk who Rawbone had roughed up entered and was carrying a shotgun. He made a wide berth around both men, keeping close to the wall. Where he was pointing those double black barrels was clear.
EIGHTEEN
MMANUEL, I'M GOING to relieve Mr. Lourdes of his weapon.'
McManus eased around John Lourdes and with a meaty grip lifted the automatic with slow care. He then slid it down into his belt.
He went to the projector and picked up the cigarette and took another long hit of smoke and placed it back down. His eyes got watery and he grinned a bit. He began to rethread the film through the projector.
'We're gonna see this newsreel again and you'll explain about these people and what you're doing here and why there's a truckload of weapons in my garage.'
'What you're doing is ill advised.'
'Is it! Well ... I smoked this marijuana just to keep me eased up. 'Cause I'm prone ... that's why I told you the tooth story. Oh, and that notebook of yours. Put it on the bench there.'
As he reached into his pocket, John Lourdes shot a cursory glance at Emmanuel that McManus caught. He finished threading the film, then walked over to the bench. He shook his head in coarse disappointment over John Lourdes. He picked up the notebook and in the same breath of motion brought his prosthesis down like a bludgeon across the side of John Lourdes's head.
The force drove John Lourdes back over the bench and he hit the floor with a ferocious groan. The room and everything about it were pure liquid. He struggled over onto his shoulder and tried to rise. He saw he was leaving splotches of blood on the wood slats.
McManus set the notebook in the palm of his wooden hand and thumbed pages with the other. John Lourdes used a bench to get to his knees. Blood from a laceration at the corner of one eye left a dripping red track down the side of his face. McManus remained impassive, reading page after page, while Emmanuel stood watch by the wall with the shotgun bearing down on John Lourdes. He was trying to collect himself when from that downturned face the eyes of McManus rose and they were telling.
'I see BOI written down here everywhere.'
'This has nothing to do with you.'
He took the notebook with his good hand. His great chest slowly expanded. 'A friend and me used to rob homes in San Francisco. I was watch; he was the window jockey. We robbed this woman once who was a piano player. This was her arm, that's why it's too short. And why the thumb and pinky,' he held out the prosthesis, 'are so spread apart. So she could hit the keys.' He made like he was actually playing. 'It was built by a gent in Northampton, England.' He turned his wrist as if John Lourdes might like to see where it had been engraved. 'It makes a fine club. But nothing compared to what I got here in my pocket.'
He wedged the notebook between two prosthetic fingers. With his good hand he removed a short and shiny black billy stick. He slipped his hand through the rawhide strap. He started toward John Lourdes and let it hang down at his thigh so he could get a good look at it. Standing over him, McManus asked, 'Does Rawbone know you're with the BOI?'
John Lourdes did not answer and the billy came down on his kidney. There was a blinding charge of pain up his back. He was asked again, and again his answer was silence. He was clinging to the bench with one elbow when he heard a whoosh of air. The next blow landed with flawless accuracy. A tide of bile came up into his mouth, but his mind was curiously clear.
'Does he know?'
John Lourdes's head hung down as he tried to wrench himself upright.
'Does he know?'
'Why don't you ask me yourself?'
Rawbone stood in the doorway with derby in hand, a burner of light behind his shadowed features.
