streaming into his eyes. He tried to reach into his coat pocket. “Where the fuck’s my gun?”
Next to me, Diaz was still moaning. One of his legs was bent in a direction God never intended. I wrenched around, found the door handle, and yanked. It took two tries, then opened with a groan, and I climbed out and tumbled into the mud. One of the rear tires was still spinning. I lay there a moment, got my bearings, and scrambled on all fours, half crawling, half running away. Behind me there was a noise as Florio toppled out of the car. He was yelling at me, but I wasn’t listening. I straightened up and did a poor imitation of a broken-field runner dodging stalks of sugarcane.
My black wing tips splashed through puddles of water. I kept running, keeping my body low, cutting back and forth from row to row. Flames rose from the undergrowth, and black smoke hung over the field, choking me. I tried taking shallow breaths, the heat crushing my chest. As I ran, I put my arms up to ward off the leaves, their jagged edges stinging the heels of my hands. I missed one, and it swatted me just under the eye, drawing blood. I pulled off my suit coat and wrapped it around my right arm, using it as a shield.
The first shot was a firecracker in the distance.
Unlike the movies, I didn’t hear the bullet whistling by my ear, just a muffled blam from behind me. Second shot, same thing. I ducked out of one row and was suddenly left in an open field. I turned to go back into the forest of cane, but Florio was there, chugging after me.
Across the open field was a mud levee rising perhaps ten feet above the ground. The irrigation system. Everglades water would be running through the canal, draining the Big Cypress. I made a run for it.
The sound of the next shot didn’t reach me until I spun and collapsed headfirst into the muck. It felt like someone had smacked me in the back. I rolled over and touched the front of my left shoulder. Wet with blood. A clean shot through the deltoid. What Charlie Riggs would call a through-and-through if he was examining a corpse in the red-brick building on Bob Hope Road.
My first reaction was surprise. What a lucky shot for a pistolero who probably never did anyone from more than three feet away, if he ever did anyone at all. Then anger. What an unlucky shot for me.
I was on my feet again, stumbling up the levee. Another gunshot plunked into the dirt near my feet. I instinctively ducked. I touched my shoulder. Very little blood flow, but it was beginning to hurt. Not a great, throbbing pain, not at all what I expected. More like a hot stinging, what I imagined it would feel like to get stabbed with an ice pick.
At the top of the levee, I slid down on my bottom. The water in the canal was maybe three feet deep. I waded across, climbed the levee on the other side, slid down again, and started running for the closest cane field. A mechanical harvester combine, a huge machine with tracks like an army tank, circled the rows. Like a giant snout, a green metal chute formed a V at the front of the machine, sucking the cane in, where rotating disks sliced close to the base of the stalks and sent the shards up a conveyor to a chopping drum.
I raced after the harvester, yelling at the driver, but he was sitting in a glass-enclosed compartment high above the machine, and he never heard me, never saw me behind him. I turned to see Florio sliding down the bank of the levee. He raised the gun, and I ducked and ran again, a zigzag route.
Another gunshot, but it was wild.
I headed into the rows of cane, trying to disappear. The air was heavy with soot, the cane thick and sturdy, twelve-feet high and ready for harvesting. With the irrigation gates opened and the field waterlogged, I wasn’t running so much as slogging through the sludge. After a couple hundred yards, I became light-headed and wanted to sit down, but I didn’t let myself. I felt the shoulder with my fingertips. The blood was still trickling out, and the pain had grown worse. My skin felt cold and clammy. I was short of breath, dizzy, and just wanted to sleep.
I stumbled a few steps and dropped to my knees. I crawled for a minute or two, then sprawled out, my head on my arms. I wasn’t unconscious, but I wasn’t conscious, either. My eyes were closed, and when I opened them, the world was gray. I closed them again. From somewhere far away, I heard a bird squawking, a moment later, the distant rumble of the harvester. Charred leaves fell from the sky, coating me with soot.
And then a splash. Soft enough to have been a frog in a puddle.
Another splash, then the unmistakable splat-squish of footsteps in the mud. I heard his breathing. Heavy, labored breaths. The rumble of the harvester grew louder.
I opened my eyes. Nicky Florio’s Italian leather loafers, coated in mud up to his ankles, were six feet away. His back was to me. If I could get to my feet, I could blindside him, take him down into the muck. But there was no way to get up without rustling leaves and sucking up mud. By the time I was ready to pounce, he would have turned. He’d have a clear shot at me.
His shout startled me: “Where are you, asshole?”
I had to concentrate on not answering him. I pressed lower into the soggy earth. He turned slowly, looking left and right. One more quarter turn and he would see me. The noise of the harvester grew louder as it approached. When it came into view, Nicky spun that way, the sight distracting him, the sound muffling my movements.
As the rumble increased to a roar, I got to my knees. Then from a crouch, I stood up. I kept my eyes on Nicky, aware of the green steel monster chugging toward us, its tracks crunching fallen stalks and the burned debris on the soggy field.
I took one step, and Nicky whirled, either hearing me or sensing me there. His face was a mask of dried blood. A shaft of sunlight cut through the smoke and reflected a prism of colors from the shards of glass embedded in his forehead. His eyes were crazed with hate. The gun came up and pointed at my throat as I dived at him. Instinctively, I ducked my head to the left.
The gun was alongside my right ear when it discharged, breaking the eardrum. My good shoulder-the one without a hole in it-caught Florio in the chest and dropped him backward. The gun flew over his head and landed at the base of a cane stalk. I landed on top of Florio. I punched him with a right hand that had nothing behind it, and he gouged my right eye with his thumb, then clawed at my face. I grabbed him by the hair and bashed his head into the soggy ground. I wished we were on asphalt. He tried to knee me in the groin. I got two hands around his throat, but I had no strength, and he pried loose, then kicked at me, sliding out from underneath. I collapsed into the mud, my shoulder bleeding, my ears ringing, my eyes blinking.
Nicky got to his feet and came at me again. I was on my knees when he tried to kick me, but he slipped in the mud and fell on his ass. He got up again, and we came at each other, locking up like a couple of wrestlers. I pushed him back through the cane, the stalks bending and slapping at us. He tucked a leg behind mine and tried to trip me, but he didn’t have the leverage, and I used my heft to drag him across my hip and put him on his back. He just missed being impaled on a sharp stalk sticking out of the ground.
I lunged at him and pinned him down by sitting on his chest. He yelled something at me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Again he growled, and this time I could read his lips.
“You son of a bitch, Lassiter. I always liked you, did you know that?”
I answered by smashing him in the mouth with a fist. “You’re crazy, Nicky.”
He said something else, and again, I couldn’t hear a word. “What?”
“You stupid fuck!” he screamed, spitting blood onto my chest. “You always wanted to be like me, but you can’t admit it.”
That made me laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
The harvester churned closer. “You admire me, because I do whatever’s necessary to win,” Nicky screamed. “I took Gina away from a spoiled rich kid, and you didn’t. I work for myself and don’t answer to anybody. What do you do, get pushed around by judges with their rule books? I take what I want, Jake, and you don’t. I’m a winner. Can you fucking hear me, you punch-drunk second-string shyster?”
“You don’t look like a winner,” I said. “You look like a two-bit punk.” This time, I gave him a short chop to the neck.
He gagged and forced a sick smile. Blood trickled from his forehead in a dozen meandering streams. “You stupid prick!” he yelled at me. “You still don’t understand. It’s not just that I was going to make you my partner ‘cause you knew too much. I wanted you to be my partner. I let you fuck my wife. I knew all about it, even before I found the letter.”
He twisted his head around, looking toward the approaching harvester as it bore down on us.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“I remember you from when you played ball. I hung around training camp and knew half the guys on the team, but I’ve always been a loner, Jake. I was never on a team of any kind.”
