“Joe Billy!” I shouted. “Have you figured out why Willie and I weren’t in the van?”
No answer.
“Because we knew you had sold out to Royston. And we told Grafton. Even if you kill me, you’re going to prison for the rest of your life, maybe even the chair. How many people have you killed, anyway?”
“If I’m doomed, I might as well take you with me, Carmellini.” The voice came from the platform behind me.
I crossed over to the right side of the entry way, leveled the pistol with two hands. It’s impossible to hit anything beyond ten feet with a pistol with a two-inch barrel unless you use two hands and aim carefully.
I waited. I could feel a warm wetness soaking the back of my shirt and trousers. How much blood I had lost I didn’t know — I wasn’t feeling very chipper. Just holding the pistol at arm’s length with both hands took about all I had.
I saw him a second before he fired. He had climbed off the platform down onto the tracks and sneaked along until he was almost abeam the entrance. Then he popped up, leveled his pistol with both hands, and fired. In that masonry tunnel, his pistol sounded like a cannon.
I was going forward by then, and the bullet gouged the tile on the wall behind me.
I went all the way down onto my stomach and leveled the snubbie.
Of course, he wasn’t in sight. He had dropped down below the level of the platform the instant he fired.
The next time he popped up, he was going to be to my right or left, and he was going to nail me. I was going to die right here, lying on this subway platform.
As panic flooded over me, I sprang up and dashed for the stairs I had come down. Another cannon shot boomed and the bullet whacked the stairs just to my right — I saw the chips of concrete fly out. I went up those stairs like my tail was on fire.
I was scared, truly scared. I was an amateur facing a consummate professional in a fight to the death, and I didn’t like my chances.
The reason he ran from me on the sidewalk outside the Hilton was that he knew I was stupid enough to follow him. I thought I was the hunter and he was the prey. Ha! It was a miracle Joe Billy had missed me with his first two shots. He wouldn’t keep missing — oh, no! You could bet my life on that.
I was so scared I didn’t even feel my back. I went up the stairs three at a time, running for my life.
At the turnstile level I looked around wildly for some cover. Got behind a pillar with a trash can in front of me, got down on my knees and stuck the toy pistol out so I could shoot quickly the instant I had a target.
That was when I realized I was gasping for air. Getting to here had cost me all my strength.
I listened for his footsteps.
Nothing.
My pulse and breathing rate were slowing when I heard a subway train roar up to the platform below and stop. Thirty seconds later it got under way again.
So where was this asshole?
Someone coming up the stairs. I heard the footsteps.
I leveled the pistol. A black kid in a T-shirt and pants that were held up only by the dictates of fashion popped out of the staircase and headed for the exit. He didn’t even look at me.
He went through the turnstile and on up the stairs. ()h, Christ, my back was killing me! Maybe I needed to go find an emergency room right now, before I passed out and bled to death waiting tor a good Samaritan. I doubted if there were many Samaritans good or bad in the New York metropolitan area.
Where was he?
Fuck!
And where were the goddamn transit cops?
My back was on fire. I was on one knee and couldn’t stay there. I sank to a sitting position.
Tried to keep the pistol up and couldn’t. Where was the bas — I glimpsed him on the other side of the turnstiles. He was lev-ling his pistol. I rolled and fired all at the same time. Missed, of course. His bullet clipped me on the scalp, just a glancing blow, like a riendly tap from a baseball bat.
I concentrated on the sight picture. The good news was that I was now flat on the floor, lying on my left shoulder, steady as a rock. I squeezed off one, reaimed the piece and sent another on the way.
His pistol was firing, and I tried to ignore it. I fired again … and knew I had only one more left. He was a small target by then, down on his knees. I cocked the hammer, aimed as carefully as I could, and touched her off. Joe Billy Dunn sprawled on the concrete.
It was all I could do to get to my feet. Went over and looked at him. He had at least two bullets in his chest and one in his throat. The throat wound was bleeding badly. I kicked his gun out of his hand, then bent down and picked it up. If I left it there the first kid who happened along would snatch it. “You knew, huh?” he whispered.
“Royston said his suite was bugged. He said it in O’Shea’s suite, which I bugged after you left. It had to be you who told him.” Blood was leaking down over my ear from my scalp wound. I wiped at it. “How much did he pay you?”
“Not enough.” He breathed in and out, hghting to stay conscious. “I’ve had a good run,” he whispered.
“Your luck ran out.”
“How’d you know I was behind you?”
“Heard something. Maybe your foot scraping. Maybe I just sensed it. For sure you weren’t coming up those stairs.”
He coughed blood. When the coughing subsided he whispered, “Just ran out of luck. That’s all. Yeah.”
I left him there. Didn’t want to watch him die.
I felt better when I got up to the street. The night was misting rain again, and it felt good on my face. I was weak and tired and suffering from adrenaline aftershock, but I could still put one foot in front of the other. My back didn’t cause me agony — I was just sore as hell.
I put the empty snubbie in one trouser pocket and Joe Billy’s shooter in the other. Swabbed at the blood on the side of my face, wiped my hand on tree trunks, those baseball-bat-sized saplings growing up through holes in the concrete.
I wondered if Joe Billy Dunn was Stu Vine. Probably should have asked him that, but I didn’t think of it. Don’t guess it really mattered.
A wino staggered over. “Hey man, can you spare a dollar?”
“No.”
“How about some change, a quarter or two? Ain’t much. I need it bad.”
“No.”
“You’re bleedin’, dude. What happened5?
“Fell down.”
“Better get that looked at.” He turned and retreated to the store entrance that he was homesteading.
A young couple in expensive, fashionable clothes came along
(the street from the direction of the Hilton. They studiously avoided looking at me and passed on by.
I was leaning against a building, taking stock, when my cell phone went off. Took me a while to dig it out of my pocket. It was still buzzing.
“Yeah.”
“Where are you, Tommy?” It was Jake Grafton. I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Holding up a building. Had a little run-in with Joe Billy Dunn. He blew up the van and got a bullet in me.”
“Where are you precisely?”
I looked around, saw a street sign and read it off.
“The driver says we’re two minutes away. Stay right there.”
It I was going to get a ride, there was no reason to continue to stand. I staggered over and seated myself on the curb.
Sure enough, a couple minutes later a stretch limo pulled to the curb and Jake Grafton got out. He looked at my head and back, helped me into the car.
Callie was sitting beside Goncharov, and there were two men in suits who I didn’t recognize.
“What happened?” Jake asked as he inspected the hole in my back.
