of the air. Like killing the cop, Shank remembered. All that power and all that emptiness. The tremendous noise of the gun—six noises grouped into one—all that power and all that emptiness.
God!
The worn pigskin wallet fitted into Shank’s pocket. The gun—empty now, and useless—fell clattering to the ground. For a shadow of time, Shank stood poised in the alleyway, listening to the potent silence, waiting for something undefined. Then he ran. He raced out of the alley to the street, turned down the street and headed west as fast as he could go. He ran at top speed for three blocks without stopping, expecting the high-pitched squeal of police sirens, the whine of a bullet, the voice of a cop shouting,
Shank walked to the bus station. Because there was no time to return to the hotel for Anita and Joe, no time at all. Soon the dead man would be found in the alley. Maybe ten minutes of grace remained—maybe an hour, a day. The cops would run down Shank. They could trace the gun, trace it to the dead cop with the hole in his chest, trace it to Shank and Joe and Anita. Cleveland was far too small. Too small to hide in, too small to stay in.
Run.
Run!
He ducked in a phone booth in the Greyhound station, dropped a dime in the slot. The man in the alley was dead. His wallet was in a mailbox. His money was in Shank’s pocket. Run, damn you. Run like hell and where do you hide? Where? He dialed the number of the hotel. The desk clerk answered, his voice thin, whiny.
“Room 304.”
Joe picked up the phone. His hello was guarded, frightened. We’re all afraid, Shank thought. Afraid and running, running scared. No way to do it.
“Greyhound station,” Shank said. “Fast as you can. Don’t waste any time.”
Joe rang off without reply. Shank walked to the ticket counter where he obtained the information that a bus was leaving for Chicago in less than an hour. He bought three tickets one-way.
He entered the Post House and ordered a cup of coffee. It was bitter, weak. He drank it anyway and went out to the waiting room. He felt conspicuous.
Joe and Anita came. They walked like somnambulists, their eyes open but sightless, their feet leaden. Shank told them they were going to Chicago. They nodded vacantly.
Anita sat on a hard wooden bench and stared at nothing. Joe took a paperback novel from his blue jeans and began to read.
The bus left on time. They were on it, nervous, waiting, headed for Chicago. The night was black and the sky was starless. The bus raced to Chicago and they raced with it. It went fast but not fast enough.
“Joe—”
He looked up. Anita was speaking to him. She had said hardly a word in days. She had lowered a copy of the
“He killed a man, Joe. In Cleveland. That’s how he got the money for the tickets. He stuck up a man and shot him six times in the back. He used the same gun he got from the cop in New York, He killed him, Joe.”
Joe had guessed as much. He wished Anita hadn’t said anything. It was bad this way. Best to forget it, to sink gracefully into immobility, to bury your head in the sand. Shank was out now. They were waiting for him in the hotel room that in effect reproduced the rooms in Buffalo and Cleveland.
Now Shank was looking for someone named Bunky. Bunky would give them money, or a connection, or something. Bunky would save the day. Then the trio would be safe again; the three could stop running. Joe wondered how it would feel to stop running. They had been running for a long time.
“He’s a killer,” Anita persisted. “He didn’t have to kill that man, Joe. He didn’t have to kill the cop, either. He could have let him live. He meant to kill him. You don’t shoot someone six times unless you want to kill him. He’s a murderer.”
“We’re all murderers.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we are. I don’t know any more. We were going to live clean, Joe. Do you remember? Our own apartment on 19th Street near Gramercy Park. All by ourselves. You were supposed to have a good job and I would be keeping the apartment nice for you. So wonderful. It would have been so wonderful.”
“A dream, Anita.”
She looked at him.
“A dream,” he continued in a monotone. “Everything’s a dream. No apartment, no clean. No anything. Just running.”
“Can we ever stop?” Anita’s voice climbed higher.
“I don’t know.”
“They’ll catch us, Joe. He must know that. You can’t get away from murder by crossing a state line. You just can’t do it. They’ll catch us.”
“Maybe.”
“And then what? How far can we run? How fast? They’ll kill us. Just like he killed the cop. And just like he killed the man in Cleveland.”
Joe was silent.
“What next, Joe?”
“I think he wants to get out of the country.”
She laughed. Her laughter was low, bitter, humorless. “Of course,” she said. “Out of New York, out of the state, out of the country. Run like a rabbit and wind up dead as a doornail. Where to?”
“Mexico.”
She was all eyebrow.
“I think that’s what he wants to do,” he explained. “Connect with this Bunky. A guy he knew in Frisco or something. Connect with Bunky and get some bread together. Then head for Mexico. He thinks we’ll be safe in Mexico.”
“Until he shoots somebody. Then what? Guatemala? Brazil? Spain? Where next?”
“If we get to Mexico—”
“We won’t get to Mexico. We won’t get anywhere. We’ll be killed.”
Joe lit a cigarette. “You can still walk out,” he said “Shank won’t mind, he won’t even know where you went.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly,” he said reasonably. “Chicago’s a big town. You can walk out on us and disappear. You’ll be safe. The cops know about you, sure. But they don’t know who you are. They don’t have your picture. You can find a niche for yourself and be safe.”
“Do you want me to do that?”
He glanced away from her. “I don’t know. I want you to be safe. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Joe—”
“I really don’t know,” he said. “I think I…this is silly, Anita. So silly.”
“Go ahead, Joe.”
“I still love you, Anita. Isn’t that silly? All washed up, the whole world, all falling in. And I just plain love you. I don’t understand it.”
“I love you, Joe.”
“Don’t talk silly. I ruined you, loused you up. You had a life.”
“It was an empty life.”
“This one’s worse.”
