Infinity One by Robert Hoskins (Ed.) Page B

Hunzler. “How’s that sound?”
    The front door of the house was pushed in and two men in tan jumpsuits stepped over the threshold. They had net stockings with paisley patterns pulled over their faces. One aluminum revolver was in the gloved right hand of each man. “Okay, Big Wally,” said the man moving into the room. His stocking mask was sky blue.
    Into the phone Barry said, “Call the police.”
    “What kind of title is that for a gothic?”
    The other gunman, the backup man, jerked the phone cord from its baseboard slot. “We got no orders on the dame. Just you, Rasmussen. We hit here after ten, when the schmuck who lives here is at work.”
    Janey swallowed. “He’s not Wally Rasmussen. He’s my husband.”
    “Into the bedroom, lady,” said the man with the sky blue mask.
    “I’m not Rasmussen,” said Barry. “Her husband is home sick today. It’s me.”
    “Sure, sure, Rassmussen,” said the other gunman. His stocking mask was fire pink. “Look, you’re dealing with the real old established Mafia here. We aren’t amateurs. Giacomo Macri set this all up perfect. He even used a computer. Bam, we fly in, bam, we hit you, bam, we go
    back home on that new Penn Central train. It’s lovely.”
    “Look at him,” insisted Janey. “Does he look like Rasmussen?”
    “Sure. A little greener than in his photos, but more or less. Well, not that much maybe but we haven’t got time to fool around. We’re already one bam behind.”
    “Didn’t you hear him say Macri used a computer on this,” said the other masked man. “Those things don’t make mistakes. Rasmussen is supposed to be here weekdays after ten, so this is him. You want to be gunned down standing or sitting, Big Wally?”
    “Okay, punks, grab some ceiling,” said a harsh, faintly Irish voice. The bedroom door was swinging open. “Drop the roscoes and reach.” Carnahan, still unmade and rumpled, rolled up to the opening. From beneath his box springs two black .45 automatics were pointing.
    “Who’s under there?” asked the fire pink gunman.
    “The name is Carnahan, sweetheart. Drop the rods.”
    The man let his pistol fall, but his partner did not. He dived to the side and started firing at Carnahan.
    Carnahan’s two automatics roared at once with a tremendous sound. The gunman was hit in the left side, but he kept on shooting. The big bed was having trouble squeezing through the doorway. He had to tilt himself up partially sideways and that put him at an awkward angle. The wounded gunman put four bullets into Carnahan’s underside.
    Barry had jumped up at the first shot and rushed Janey across the room, down on the floor and away from the shooting. “Into the kitchen,” he told her now.
    The masked man who’d given up his gun grabbed it up and ran for the front door as Carnahan began shooting again. “This isn’t going as programmed,” he said as he left.
    His partner got off one more shot at Carnahan’s still exposed mechanism and followed out the front door.
    The living room was sharp with the scent of gunpowder. Barry waited for a moment, then stood. “You okay, Janey?”
    She hugged herself, said, “Yes. You?”
    “Seem to be.”
    Carnahan gave a rasping cough. His voice was dim when he asked, “Hey, are you two kids okay?”
    Barry approached the bed. “I’ll get you unstuck and we’ll have you repaired, Carnahan.”
    One of Carnahan’s automatics dropped from his retractable metal hand. “No, sweetheart, it’s too late for repairs. Too late for tears. I figure I can kiss tomorrow goodbye.”
    Janey got to her feet and came toward her husband. “We have some talking to do, Barry,” she said. “I’ll call the police now.”
    “No,” Barry said. “We’ll talk first, then call the police.” “The big sleep,” said Carnahan. “The big sleep.” He made a low ratcheting sound and ceased to function.

We are born to play a certain role. The fortunate in life find that role one of