eye peering down at him past the straight line of the top of the automatic.
He fired and missed. Missed the way amateurs always do when shooting downward, aimed too high.
The stranger flung himself to the right, flattened himself against the wall down there. But still a target, still a target.
He fired again, and again he missed.
The stranger fired back, and shards of brick peppered his cheek as the bullet ricocheted by.
He couldn't stand that. If he lived to be a hundred and if someone shot at him with a gun every day until then, he would still never get used to it, never fail to give in to immediate panic. The stranger could be fired at repeatedly and still be alert and aware, still act in defense or offence. He would never know how the stranger did it.
For the second time he ran. Across the roof, pell-mell, all fears that he might fall through the tarpaper and the roof forgotten. He yanked open the door and pelted down the stairs, not noticing the kitchen chair standing empty in the hallway or the now-open door to Ellen's apartment. He ran on down, and out to the street, and a block away collapsed inside the Ford, frantic: and ashamed of himself and out of breath.
After a while he went back to the room, and here he was now, still in it, a small square room with beige walls, the room nine feet long, ten feet wide, nine feet high. He was looking out the window, feeling the stranger's eyes, knowing he would no longer have the courage to go searching for the stranger himself, knowing he didn't have the courage to try to run away, knowing he could do nothing but wait here to be found.
He hadn't wanted any of this. It was all Ellen's fault, Ellen's fault. If only, if only ...
The room was getting smaller, meaner, dimmer. He couldn't stay here forever, he couldn't wait here indefinitely like this.
He deserved some time off. The tension had been so meat for so long, it was about time he relaxed, forgot about things, found some way to amuse himself, distract himself.
He pulled the dresser away from the door and went out to the hall where the pay phone was. He called a friend of his, a guy he'd known in the old days, who said, 'When did you get back from Mexico, man?'
'Just a couple days ago. You doing anything tonight?'
'New, you know.'
'Why don't we take in a movie, have a couple beers?'
'Sure thing. Come on over. Say, wasn't that something about Ellie?'
'What? Oh, yeah. It sure was. Be right over.'
He hung up, having made the mistake that would kill him.
Two
Detective Dougherty wasn't at all sure he'd done the right thing. The smart thing, yes, there wasn't any doubt of that, but the right thing? Maybe not.
Driving downtown to talk it over with the lieutenant, Dougherty allowed himself little fantasies in which he got the drop on the man who'd called himself -- obviously lying -- Joe, in which he captured Joe, bested Joe, worsted Joe. In the cellar there, sitting as calm and deceptive as W. C. Fields playing poker, and then all at once - like Fields producing a fifth ace - whipping the pistol out and crying, 'All right, hold it!'
In the dining-room, as Joe copied down the names, distracted ...
At the front door, as Joe turned to leave ...
'He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.' Francis Bacon said that, whether he wrote Shakespeare's plays or not.
Detective Dougherty was a good enough detective to have been aware of all the opportunities Joe had given him to try for an arrest. But he was also a good enough detective to know they were all opportunities given him by Joe, not out of carelessness but as a challenge. Every opportunity given him deliberately to remind him of his wife and children, currently next door, safely out of the house but close enough still to hear the shot that would kill him. And listening for that shot.
That, Dougherty thought to himself as he drove downtown, is probably the most
He fired and missed. Missed the way amateurs always do when shooting downward, aimed too high.
The stranger flung himself to the right, flattened himself against the wall down there. But still a target, still a target.
He fired again, and again he missed.
The stranger fired back, and shards of brick peppered his cheek as the bullet ricocheted by.
He couldn't stand that. If he lived to be a hundred and if someone shot at him with a gun every day until then, he would still never get used to it, never fail to give in to immediate panic. The stranger could be fired at repeatedly and still be alert and aware, still act in defense or offence. He would never know how the stranger did it.
For the second time he ran. Across the roof, pell-mell, all fears that he might fall through the tarpaper and the roof forgotten. He yanked open the door and pelted down the stairs, not noticing the kitchen chair standing empty in the hallway or the now-open door to Ellen's apartment. He ran on down, and out to the street, and a block away collapsed inside the Ford, frantic: and ashamed of himself and out of breath.
After a while he went back to the room, and here he was now, still in it, a small square room with beige walls, the room nine feet long, ten feet wide, nine feet high. He was looking out the window, feeling the stranger's eyes, knowing he would no longer have the courage to go searching for the stranger himself, knowing he didn't have the courage to try to run away, knowing he could do nothing but wait here to be found.
He hadn't wanted any of this. It was all Ellen's fault, Ellen's fault. If only, if only ...
The room was getting smaller, meaner, dimmer. He couldn't stay here forever, he couldn't wait here indefinitely like this.
He deserved some time off. The tension had been so meat for so long, it was about time he relaxed, forgot about things, found some way to amuse himself, distract himself.
He pulled the dresser away from the door and went out to the hall where the pay phone was. He called a friend of his, a guy he'd known in the old days, who said, 'When did you get back from Mexico, man?'
'Just a couple days ago. You doing anything tonight?'
'New, you know.'
'Why don't we take in a movie, have a couple beers?'
'Sure thing. Come on over. Say, wasn't that something about Ellie?'
'What? Oh, yeah. It sure was. Be right over.'
He hung up, having made the mistake that would kill him.
Two
Detective Dougherty wasn't at all sure he'd done the right thing. The smart thing, yes, there wasn't any doubt of that, but the right thing? Maybe not.
Driving downtown to talk it over with the lieutenant, Dougherty allowed himself little fantasies in which he got the drop on the man who'd called himself -- obviously lying -- Joe, in which he captured Joe, bested Joe, worsted Joe. In the cellar there, sitting as calm and deceptive as W. C. Fields playing poker, and then all at once - like Fields producing a fifth ace - whipping the pistol out and crying, 'All right, hold it!'
In the dining-room, as Joe copied down the names, distracted ...
At the front door, as Joe turned to leave ...
'He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.' Francis Bacon said that, whether he wrote Shakespeare's plays or not.
Detective Dougherty was a good enough detective to have been aware of all the opportunities Joe had given him to try for an arrest. But he was also a good enough detective to know they were all opportunities given him by Joe, not out of carelessness but as a challenge. Every opportunity given him deliberately to remind him of his wife and children, currently next door, safely out of the house but close enough still to hear the shot that would kill him. And listening for that shot.
That, Dougherty thought to himself as he drove downtown, is probably the most
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