The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters Page B

of working the trigger when the back of his head ruptured open. He was almost able to turn around to see what shot him before he went limp. I made a quick move to the right and dodged the falling body.
    Ranalli was just inside the doorway holding a .357 Magnum. I collected my tossed gun and came up the steps.
    â€œQuick, Tommy, get this bird inside before a car comes by and sees us,” Ranalli said.
    I didn’t think it would be possible for someone as skinny as Tommy to be able to move someone that large. Yet he managed to lift the stiff off the railing and into the house without any sign of strain. I followed behind him and Ranalli slammed the door shut.
    â€œWe got to get out of here quick. The blast from this cannon will get someone to call it in,” Ranalli said.
    Tommy went through the dead man’s pockets and found nothing but a tin cigarette case, tobacco, and a few bills on his person.
    â€œThis clown got nothing to show for himself,” Ranalli said.
    â€œHe knew we were coming,” I said. “Did you tip him off?”
    â€œWhy the hell would I do that? I don’t have to go through that much work if I just wanted to kill a nigger. And, if I recall, I just saved your ass. So lighten up and get to searchin’ this joint!”
    â€œSearch for what?” I asked.
    â€œI dunno, maybe a map to where his boss is.”
    â€œAre you playin’ dense?”
    â€œHey, just shut up and do as you’re told!”
    I didn’t bother arguing it out with him. I walked through the house, which had pine floors and a twelve-foot ceiling. The rooms were built behind each other in single file like a fire drill line-up. I went through all of them and found nothing. At the utility room, I came upon drippage that was seeping out of a crack that went into the attic. A single cord hung down. I tugged it and released the upper hatch. There was a tumble and the body of a man came plummeting to the floor. He was young, in his early twenties, with blond hair and an athletic build. He’d been shot in the side of the head with a small-caliber gun. It looked like the barrel had been pressed against his skin, leaving a burn impression of it behind. He was in a state of full rigor mortis, to the extent that you could probably balance him out on a chair.
    Ranalli had heard the noise and he came in with Tommy.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” Ranalli asked.
    I didn’t say anything.
    Ranalli removed his handkerchief and went through the dead man’s pockets, taking out a wallet, rolling papers, tobacco, and a comb. He flipped the wallet open and whistled. “This guy been stuffin’ flatfoots in his attic. His ID says he’s with the PD.”
    Sarcastically, I said, “That’s perfect.”
    The sound of far-off sirens came.
    â€œWe gotta get. Tommy, you and Jackson move the cars down behind us. Fletcher and I will tidy up and take the back out and cut through and meet you at Alix Street.”
    Tommy left, and Ranalli went through the motions of wiping all the doors and everything we touched down with his handkerchief. We went out the back and onto a side path and through people’s property until we got out onto Alix. The rumbling of emergency sirens got louder as we got up to the waiting automobiles.
    â€œTommy, you ride back with Jackson,” Ranalli said, as he got behind the wheel of the Deuce. I took the passenger seat as he revved up its flathead engine and popped it into gear.
    â€œThis bus got some power, right,” Ranalli said as he steered south on Elmira Avenue. “Had a mechanic do some cylinder boring to the engine and altered the stroke of the crankshaft. This heap can now do over a hundred easy.”
    He proved that by getting the machine up to near eighty. There was a prowl car waiting at the corner of Eliza Street. Ranalli punched it and passed the cop at close to ninety. Ranalli had cleared through three blocks by the time the