rolled backward, coming up almost to my feet. He panted to a standing position in front of me, a film of blood on his teeth as he smiled and prepared to shoot me in the face. Something caught the light behind him and swooshed over his shoulder. Metal clanked on metal and Povey screamed, dropping his pistol. His fingers were bleeding from the slash of the sword Robeson held in his hand, ready to sweep again.
“If this were sharp,” Robeson said deeply, “you’d be a one-handed man. Sit down.”
Povey spat blood and I tried to stand up. Povey hissed something in German between his teeth and Robeson answered him in German. They went back and forth that way with Robeson advancing on Povey, who held his bleeding right hand with his left.
I didn’t know German, but I did know the word shvartz which meant “black” and which came out several times in a snakelike hiss. Robeson reached forward with his free hand for Povey, who lowered his shoulder, came under the sword, and ran into the actor, who staggered back enough for Povey to see a path to the open door. He went for it and I lunged after him. I tripped over the body of Alex Albanese, rolled into a pair of chairs, and landed on my back. I lay there exhausted, listening to Povey’s footsteps clack down the steps beyond the door.
“Are you hurt?” Robeson asked, kneeling at my side.
“I’m hurt,” I said, “but not as much as much as Alex. I don’t think he’s dead yet. He moaned a few minutes ago.”
We scuttled to Alex, who had two holes in him, one in his chest, another his neck. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t dead, not yet.
“I’ll call for an ambulance.” Robeson stood, then said “I’ve aged. Did you know I was an All-American end in football at Rutgers? I had letters in football, baseball, track and now I can’t even handle a creature like that.” He nodded toward the door through which Povey had escaped.
“He’s a pro too,” I said. “You’d better make that call for an ambulance and then get out of here. You don’t need this kind of publicity.”
“Don’t see how I can avoid it.”
“Leave that to me,” I said. “It’s my job.”
Robeson went through the doors and left me with Albanese. I checked his pulse, tried to talk to him, got no answer. I hid my gun and holster in a prop case on the stage and came up with what I thought was a somewhat reasonable tale for the police. It took the ambulance about fifteen minutes to get there.
While they carried Albanese off to Bellevue Hospital, a pair of cops in uniform asked me questions and suggested that I go to the hospital to have my visible bumps and bruises taken care of. They were polite when I told them that Alex and I were old friends, that I had come to pick him up for dinner after a rehearsal, and that we had stayed behind to talk about his new role in the play. A stray robber had come in. We tried to fight him off. Alex took a spray of lead and we scared the bad guy off.
The cops were sympathetic, said it wasn’t a good idea to leave doors open in this neighborhood. I acted worried about Alex after I gave them a more or less accurate description of Povey and they let me go. It’s nice to be in a town where you don’t have a bad reputation. It’s like starting clean. It had taken me almost half a century to make the police department of Los Angeles and its environs discount everything I uttered. New York was fresh turf.
When the cool, damp night air hit me, I felt sick. I held my face up to catch the rain and let the drizzle run off my nose and eyes. It helped. The ambulance had already gone, its siren blazing. I walked about a block and stood in a doorway to wait. The cops left ten minutes later. I could hear their voices as they went to their car and got in. They were saying something about plans for a Billy Conn–Joe Louis rematch. The incident behind them hadn’t even held their attention till they got back on the street. I waited till they had pulled away
“If this were sharp,” Robeson said deeply, “you’d be a one-handed man. Sit down.”
Povey spat blood and I tried to stand up. Povey hissed something in German between his teeth and Robeson answered him in German. They went back and forth that way with Robeson advancing on Povey, who held his bleeding right hand with his left.
I didn’t know German, but I did know the word shvartz which meant “black” and which came out several times in a snakelike hiss. Robeson reached forward with his free hand for Povey, who lowered his shoulder, came under the sword, and ran into the actor, who staggered back enough for Povey to see a path to the open door. He went for it and I lunged after him. I tripped over the body of Alex Albanese, rolled into a pair of chairs, and landed on my back. I lay there exhausted, listening to Povey’s footsteps clack down the steps beyond the door.
“Are you hurt?” Robeson asked, kneeling at my side.
“I’m hurt,” I said, “but not as much as much as Alex. I don’t think he’s dead yet. He moaned a few minutes ago.”
We scuttled to Alex, who had two holes in him, one in his chest, another his neck. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t dead, not yet.
“I’ll call for an ambulance.” Robeson stood, then said “I’ve aged. Did you know I was an All-American end in football at Rutgers? I had letters in football, baseball, track and now I can’t even handle a creature like that.” He nodded toward the door through which Povey had escaped.
“He’s a pro too,” I said. “You’d better make that call for an ambulance and then get out of here. You don’t need this kind of publicity.”
“Don’t see how I can avoid it.”
“Leave that to me,” I said. “It’s my job.”
Robeson went through the doors and left me with Albanese. I checked his pulse, tried to talk to him, got no answer. I hid my gun and holster in a prop case on the stage and came up with what I thought was a somewhat reasonable tale for the police. It took the ambulance about fifteen minutes to get there.
While they carried Albanese off to Bellevue Hospital, a pair of cops in uniform asked me questions and suggested that I go to the hospital to have my visible bumps and bruises taken care of. They were polite when I told them that Alex and I were old friends, that I had come to pick him up for dinner after a rehearsal, and that we had stayed behind to talk about his new role in the play. A stray robber had come in. We tried to fight him off. Alex took a spray of lead and we scared the bad guy off.
The cops were sympathetic, said it wasn’t a good idea to leave doors open in this neighborhood. I acted worried about Alex after I gave them a more or less accurate description of Povey and they let me go. It’s nice to be in a town where you don’t have a bad reputation. It’s like starting clean. It had taken me almost half a century to make the police department of Los Angeles and its environs discount everything I uttered. New York was fresh turf.
When the cool, damp night air hit me, I felt sick. I held my face up to catch the rain and let the drizzle run off my nose and eyes. It helped. The ambulance had already gone, its siren blazing. I walked about a block and stood in a doorway to wait. The cops left ten minutes later. I could hear their voices as they went to their car and got in. They were saying something about plans for a Billy Conn–Joe Louis rematch. The incident behind them hadn’t even held their attention till they got back on the street. I waited till they had pulled away
Similar Books
