“Nearly there,” I said.
One of the cops fired twice more. Bullets flying past us, hitting nothing. Well, hitting many things, but not us. How were they going to explain this in their log? Probably say we were carrying sawed-off shotguns or Armalites or something.
Colfax closer and closer.
And the ketch lets you exist outside of time, outside of place, as if you are a being seeing yourself from above. Can’t get caught up in that. Disembodied. Running.
Hubris, saying they were hitting nothing.
A bullet nicked a soda can, then clattered sideways in front of me, I fell, spun, smashed my shoulder into the ground.
“I’m hit,” I said to John in a panic.
This time it was John who had his shit together. He pulled me up with one arm.
“You’re not hit, you’re ok,” he said.
Quick look at my shoulder. A slice through the sweat-drenched jacket and T-shirt and a nasty cut on my shoulder. But I was ok. I had been lucky. He looked at me for another quarter of a second and then we both gazed back. Only one cop, staring at us, frustrated. We were too near Colfax, he couldn’t risk a shot now. He had that much sense, at least.
“Let’s go,” John said.
We cut down the first alley on our left and dodged back up, running north to Colfax Avenue.
Seven at night. The main strip of Denver, busy, packed. This part of Colfax was like all those main streets in Westerns: wide avenues, big store-fronts, low-rise buildings. But past its peak, run-down, decaying, dirty. Prostitutes everywhere. Scores of them. Same as yesterday. Black and Latina girls in short skirts and tank tops, pimps, men cruising the drag, checking out the talent, looking for regulars. Pushers, users, hangers-on. No cops.
“You ok?” John asked.
I looked at my shoulder, it was bleeding, but not deep.
“I’m ok,” I said.
We caught our breaths. The sidewalks were thronged and it was easy for us to blend into the masses of people.
“Just walk, don’t run, don’t run, I think we’re safe,” I gasped.
My shoulder was stiffening up but already the bleeding was less. No one was looking at us. No one paid us any attention at all.
After about five blocks we juked behind a car and took a check back. Peeler Pete scoping for us, inventive — standing on top of a parked car, looking everywhere, speaking into a radio. We were lost in the sidewalk crowd and backlit against the sunset.
“No chance, peeler,” John said with satisfaction.
“Yeah.”
“What now?” John asked.
“Hotel, get our stuff, leave town,” I said.
“Forget Victoria?”
I looked at him to see if he was fucking insane.
“Of course, forget Victoria,” I barked.
We walked all the way to the state capitol and downtown. We got back to our hotel. Desk clerk watching a game show. Ignoring us.
We entered the room. It hadn’t been cleaned. Our stuff was all still there. The beds hadn’t been slept in. We packed quickly, saying nothing. At one point John went to the bathroom and threw up.
“Ok, now, John, listen to me and listen good, you’re going to cut your hair short, just do the best you can, and I’m going to shave my beard off, ok?” I said gently.
He nodded.
I got my razor and clippers and trimmed the beard and then shaved the bastard. I had a quick shower and looked for something to use as a bandage on my shoulder. There wasn’t anything, so instead I stuck on four or five Band-Aids. When I came out, John had done a reasonable job on his hair. It didn’t look crazy, at least.
“John, you got any aspirin or anything?”
“No. How’s your shoulder?”
“Ok.”
“You took a spill.”
“I know.”
“I killed a man, Jesus Christ, Alex, I fucking killed somebody. Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe it.”
John put his head in his hands. He sat on the edge of the bed and started to cry. I let him get on with it for a minute or two. Good thing. Let him cry it out.
“Listen, John, he went for you, it was an accident. It was like a car accident. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. He wasn’t Mother Teresa, either. Remember, he was a bad man, he was an accessory after the fact to a murder, withholding evidence,” I said softly.
It wasn’t true, Klimmer was just scared and we really might have talked him into going to the peelers. John had fucked up big time.
“Yeah, I suppose,” John said.
“Ok, we have to get out of town.”
“How?”
“Greyhound bus, anywhere, now.”
We went downstairs and left the desk clerk our keys.
“Checking out?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“Ok.”
He didn’t seem a bit interested, so I didn’t spin him any kind of story. We walked out onto Broadway. Dark now. We asked the way to the bus station and someone told us it was downtown, but there was a free shuttle bus that took you there.
The outdoor Sixteenth Street Mall was stuffed with people. The Colorado Rockies were playing a baseball game. People kept bumping into our luggage on the free mall bus, giving us dirty looks. Final stop. Two coppers standing outside the bus station. Could have been there because of the baseball game, they could have always been stationed there. But we couldn’t take the chance that they had our descriptions. It had been well over an hour since Klimmer’s fall, plenty of time to get the word out.
“Fuck,” John muttered. “What now?”
We were concealed by the crowds going to the game but we couldn’t wait out here forever.
“Walk with the crowd,” I said, “follow them away from the cops.”
A lucky break. We walked nearly all the way to Coors Field and when we were close we saw a train waiting in Union Station.
“The train, John, we’ll get the train,” I said.
“Aye.”
We tried to cross the street with our backpacks, but traffic was again heavy because of the baseball game.
A loud air horn, a pause, and the massive train began to move.
“Holy shit, it’s leaving,” I said. When I’d come to America before, I’d traveled on Amtrak. I knew that the east-west trains were very infrequent. This might be the only train leaving Denver’s Union Station that day.
“John, we gotta get this train,” I said.
John nodded.
We ran across the street, dodging the traffic. Brakes squealing, people honking, swearing. We sprinted up the wheelchair ramp and onto the platform. The train was moving very slowly, but it’s hard to get onto any kind of moving thing with a backpack on your back and your shoulder hurting and exhaustion and jet lag eating at your coordination.
A really little guy in front of us hopped on one carriage down. John found an open door and jumped in. He put out his hand and pulled me on too.
Darkness. The train shunting out of Denver in big curves. It took me a while to realize we were heading west. I went to the bathroom and looked at my shoulder. There was a nasty scrape where the bone met the skin, the whole area an ugly scab of blood. The Band-Aids had fallen off. It didn’t hurt much, but there was always the possibility of infection. I stripped, scooped water from the sink, and bathed it. I cleaned the wound with soap and water and bandaged it with paper towels. Changed my T-shirt, put my jacket back on. We found a couple of seats in the bar car and ordered beers and a sandwich. We asked the barman what train it was and he was used to dealing with stupid questions and said it was the California Zephyr going to San Francisco — which suited us just fine. California was ok. We could fly from San Francisco to London or Frankfurt or anywhere, really, just as long as it was bloody miles from here.