rolled over while another shot hit a folding chair and pushed it back, as if it had been kicked by an angry elephant. It toppled another chair, but the domino effect stopped there.
Albanese wasn’t screaming. He was either dead or close to it, and my chances for future appearances in the theater didn’t look too good either. I rolled to my right behind a clump of chairs, turned, and got to my knees. Another shot went past me. I got up and made a charge at the low stage, swinging the sword over my head and I plunged ahead. I swiped at the glowing cord above it, and brought down an electric sputtering rain that ended in near darkness. The next shot hit something metal. I turned and threw the sword at the light bulb in the socket on the rear wall. I missed. The sword clattered to the floor. It was time to try for my .38. I started to go for it, but an accented voice came out of the darkness.
“No, no, no, Peters. Don’t touch it. You’ll live a few precious minutes longer if you stand perfectly still.”
Povey stepped out of the darkness near the doorway, his Walther held out, an extension of his straight right arm, right out of the manuals for proper small arms firing and maintenance. I let my hand go back to my side.
“If you had heeded my warnings, recognized my sincere efforts to frighten you off,” he said, stepping forward, “we would not be in this situation. This is very awkward for me.”
“Hey, I feel for you.”
Povey stepped even closer, the light now catching his white hair, and shook his head. “No, no you do not,” he said. “Killing you, killing him solves a problem, yes, but it creates another which impedes … It that the correct word, ‘impedes’?”
“Sounds right to me,” I said, not about to give a lesson in English to a sensitive killer with a gun in his hand.
“It impedes my real goal and opens the possibility of interference from the police, even federal agents. You are a professional who deals with such things, even though on a miserably low level, but perhaps you can appreciate my situation. My task is to dispose of certain people. I get no great pleasure in eliminating you or the actor there.”
“No great pleasure,” I said. “Just a small kick or two.”
“You wrong me,” he said. “I’m not in this for pleasure or hate. Those I work for are obsessed with hate, hate of Jews, Gypsies, Negroes. Whatever satisfaction I get is professional. I’ll tell you a secret.”
He looked around and put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. He was having a hell of a good time. Albanese let out a low groan. “I think the people I work for,” he said, “will not win this war. I think I will have to offer my services to your side eventually, but I can wait till I’m sure how things are going. I must sense that delicate moment when it is time to have a sincere change of heart, to come to the Allies with repentance and a gift of secrets. Now I am afraid I cannot converse any longer.”
He smiled, dropped his aim to my chest, and I knew I would take a leap at him, knew I would be shot before I reached him. I shifted my right foot forward, deciding to go in low, trying not to think of the bullet that would hit the back of my head or my neck or my spine.
“Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them,” came Robeson’s voice from the doorway.
Povey turned to the door, leveling his pistol at shadows. I took two steps to the edge of the platform and leaped toward Povey, who was just bringing his Walther back toward me when I caught him, waist high. We skidded back into chairs, spraying them out as we hit. Povey clubbed me on the neck with the pistol, and I threw an awkward left into his kidney. His gun hand was near my face. I bit his hand and he yelped as we rolled over again. He didn’t drop the gun, but I had to let go of the bite when he gave me an open-palmed chop to the head with his left hand.
Povey’s foot caught my stomach just above the groin, and I
Albanese wasn’t screaming. He was either dead or close to it, and my chances for future appearances in the theater didn’t look too good either. I rolled to my right behind a clump of chairs, turned, and got to my knees. Another shot went past me. I got up and made a charge at the low stage, swinging the sword over my head and I plunged ahead. I swiped at the glowing cord above it, and brought down an electric sputtering rain that ended in near darkness. The next shot hit something metal. I turned and threw the sword at the light bulb in the socket on the rear wall. I missed. The sword clattered to the floor. It was time to try for my .38. I started to go for it, but an accented voice came out of the darkness.
“No, no, no, Peters. Don’t touch it. You’ll live a few precious minutes longer if you stand perfectly still.”
Povey stepped out of the darkness near the doorway, his Walther held out, an extension of his straight right arm, right out of the manuals for proper small arms firing and maintenance. I let my hand go back to my side.
“If you had heeded my warnings, recognized my sincere efforts to frighten you off,” he said, stepping forward, “we would not be in this situation. This is very awkward for me.”
“Hey, I feel for you.”
Povey stepped even closer, the light now catching his white hair, and shook his head. “No, no you do not,” he said. “Killing you, killing him solves a problem, yes, but it creates another which impedes … It that the correct word, ‘impedes’?”
“Sounds right to me,” I said, not about to give a lesson in English to a sensitive killer with a gun in his hand.
“It impedes my real goal and opens the possibility of interference from the police, even federal agents. You are a professional who deals with such things, even though on a miserably low level, but perhaps you can appreciate my situation. My task is to dispose of certain people. I get no great pleasure in eliminating you or the actor there.”
“No great pleasure,” I said. “Just a small kick or two.”
“You wrong me,” he said. “I’m not in this for pleasure or hate. Those I work for are obsessed with hate, hate of Jews, Gypsies, Negroes. Whatever satisfaction I get is professional. I’ll tell you a secret.”
He looked around and put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. He was having a hell of a good time. Albanese let out a low groan. “I think the people I work for,” he said, “will not win this war. I think I will have to offer my services to your side eventually, but I can wait till I’m sure how things are going. I must sense that delicate moment when it is time to have a sincere change of heart, to come to the Allies with repentance and a gift of secrets. Now I am afraid I cannot converse any longer.”
He smiled, dropped his aim to my chest, and I knew I would take a leap at him, knew I would be shot before I reached him. I shifted my right foot forward, deciding to go in low, trying not to think of the bullet that would hit the back of my head or my neck or my spine.
“Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them,” came Robeson’s voice from the doorway.
Povey turned to the door, leveling his pistol at shadows. I took two steps to the edge of the platform and leaped toward Povey, who was just bringing his Walther back toward me when I caught him, waist high. We skidded back into chairs, spraying them out as we hit. Povey clubbed me on the neck with the pistol, and I threw an awkward left into his kidney. His gun hand was near my face. I bit his hand and he yelped as we rolled over again. He didn’t drop the gun, but I had to let go of the bite when he gave me an open-palmed chop to the head with his left hand.
Povey’s foot caught my stomach just above the groin, and I
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