We went out a side door to where a hack waited. Le Caron prodded me inside it. He sat facing me. A long black barrel jutted from beneath a length of cloth, pointed unwaveringly at my chest. His eyes flicked toward the cash box.
“Now I got the money and you,” he said, leering. “You meddling fine-haired bastard!” His breath reeked; I glimpsed broken, discolored teeth. “If you’da kept your goddamn hands off’n me, you wouldn’t be in this fix.”
I worked my tongue inside my parched mouth and managed, “Where’re we going?”
“Depends,” he said. “How much is in there?”
My brain showed signs of thawing. “Everything we’ve made on the tour,” I mumbled. “You can’t take it.”
“How much?”
“Everything, thousands,” I lied. Champion had already exchanged the hefty Brooklyn receipts for a letter of credit. The box held only our cut of the Irvington gate, maybe three hundred at most . . . and my gun. I pictured the nickel contours, imagined the satisfying weight in my hand, saw flame stretch from its barrel into Le Caron’s sneering face.
“Open it.”
“No.” My voice held a tremor.
He moved the long barrel slightly. “I said open it!”
“I won't.”
He snarled and smashed the gun against my collarbone. Through a curtain of pain I saw that he was vulnerable for an instant. But before I could react he’d trained the gun on me again. I doubled over in exaggerated agony. “Please,” I groaned.
That tickled him hugely. “Oh, the big bastard don’t fancy being hurt.” He leaned back with pleasurable anticipation and motioned for me to open the box.
I clutched my right shoulder and kept my right arm stiff, as if it were paralyzed—which wasn’t far from the truth. Moaning with each movement, I lifted the cash box to my lap and unlocked it with my left hand. I hoped desperately that I’d remembered which way the gun lay. Still using my left hand, I lifted the tray from the box and raised it slowly. “Why don’t we work something out?” I said. “How about just taking a thousand or so and . . .” Meanwhile I’d lowered my right hand. Praying that the tray would occupy his attention long enough to mask the movement, I eased my fingers into the box, felt the rubber-gripped butt of the derringer—thank God it was pointing away!—and, without trying to remove it, stretched a finger forward to the trigger.
“This don’t look like no thou—”
BLAM! The box bucked. A tongue of flame spurted. Nerves at the snapping point, I bellowed and dove forward, hurling the box ahead of me. Le Caron screamed. There was a bright flash, a deafening boom. Then I was on him. With both hands I seized the arm holding the pistol and wrenched it backward until it gave way with a snap. The pistol dropped to the floor. Shrieking and twisting, Le Caron aimed a knee at my crotch that caught my thigh instead. Muscles straining, I jammed my forearm against his throat, pinning him. With my right hand I pounded his face. Blood foamed from his nose and mouth; his skin grew slippery. He wrenched sideways and tried to dive for his gun. I jerked him back by his hair, forced his head out through the hack’s window, and drove my fist into his stomach like a piston until he went limp. For a moment, seeing his chest not moving, I thought I’d killed him. Then he sucked in a convulsive breath, retched, and vomited.
As I slumped there gasping for air myself it dawned on me that the hack wasn’t moving. I tucked Le Caron’s pistol in my belt and retrieved the derringer from the wreckage of the cash box, checking to make sure its other chamber was ready to fire. Keeping a wary eye on Le Caron, I opened the door. The horses stood placidly, whisking flies with their tails. The driver was nowhere in sight. Who could blame him? We were on rocky, uncultivated land. A hundred yards to the right the Hudson shone golden in the setting sun. I guessed that we’d come only several miles from Jersey City toward Hoboken.
Pondering what to do, I dragged Le Caron outside. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. I trembled, remembering the gunfire. How had we missed in the cramped space? Checking myself, I found that my hand had been sliced by the cash box; then I saw a round hole in the sleeve of my coat. When I propped Le Caron against a tree, blood seeped through his shirt. I tore it away. The derringer shell had torn through his armpit and exited below his shoulder. I tied the shirt over his wounds as best I could, wondering that he’d been able to fight so hard. I removed a long, ugly-looking knife from the sheath taped to his ankle.
I put the money from the cash box into a bag I found beneath the driver’s seat, thinking that I needed to get back at once. The team must already be on the train to Philadelphia. Or had they delayed to search for me? Would Champion think I’d stolen the money? If only phones existed!
“You hear me?” I bent over Le Caron, gun leveled.
He mumbled and opened his eyes.
“I’ll kill you next time, you fucker.”
He spit phlegm and blood at me. My intimidation campaign was not off to a good start.
“What do I have to do? Shoot you right here?”
“Go ahead, shoot.” He spat again; I felt wet flecks on my face. “You ain’t got the balls.”
I almost did shoot him. A crazy hotness spread through my brain. Loathing him and how he affected me, I raised the derringer and sighted on his face. I imagined squeezing the trigger, but couldn’t do it. Le Caron’s fixed stare gave way to a sneer.I started toward the hack, then had another thought and ransacked Le Caron’s pockets. Nothing there, but I discovered a leather pouch secured by a cord inside his
