“Now,” said Burke, “about the girl.”
“The girl,” said Karras. “Well, the girl is gone. She’s heading south, gone back home with her brother. Down to some shitkicker’s town in Tennessee, or wherever the hell they’re from.” Karras glanced at his Hamilton for effect. “I’d say they’re on the interstate right about now. I imagine that overhead V-eight is purrin’ pretty good.”
“Goddamn you, Pete,” said Recevo. He stabbed his cigarette savagely into the ashtray.
“You’re a dead man,” said Burke.
Karras smiled grimly. “Whatever made you think that I would’ve turned that girl over to a broken-down lush like you?”
“Joe made me think it,” said Burke, his voice growing very quiet. He stood slowly from his chair. “Isn’t that right, Joe?”
Recevo jumped up, brushed by Reed, went to Karras, stood before him. His eyes were hollow and enraged as he raised his right fist.
Karras stared into Recevo’s eyes. Recevo slowly lowered his fist.
“You scared, Joe?”
“No.”
“Our day,” said Karras.
Recevo placed his hand on Karras’s shoulder. Karras brushed the hand off. They looked at each other for a moment, and then they laughed.
“Hey,” said Reed. “What the hell is this?”
Karras put his hand inside his topcoat. He reached beneath his suit jacket, drew Lou DiGeordano’s .45 from its holster. He pulled back on the slide, put a round in the chamber.
Reed wheezed, took in breath.
“So long, Reed.”
Karras straightened his gun arm, squeezed off two rounds. Gunshots thundered from the jerking .45. A piece of meat that had been Reed’s face jumped off to the left. The rest of Reed was blown back straight; his body dropped heavily to the floor, bounced one time, did not move further.
“Joe,” said Burke dreamily. His hands went up, palms facing out in surrender. “Joe.”
“Yes, Mr. Burke.”
Recevo drew his .38, pulled the trigger. The whiskey bottle exploded on the desk, shards of it slicing into Burke’s grimacing face, the bullet entering his groin, the hole there ejaculating blood. Burke cried out, raised his hands to shield his face. Recevo shot him in the stomach two times. Burke began to pitch forward, his tongue thick and darting comically from his mouth. Recevo blew him back with two quick shots to the chest. Burke spun and fell.
Recevo pointed the revolver down, squeezed the trigger; the hammer fell on an empty chamber. He dropped the .38 to the floor.
“You,” said Karras, tossing the Colt to Recevo.
Recevo released the magazine, checked it, slapped it back into the butt.
Karras picked up a chair, heaved the chair across the room. The glass of the gun case imploded, the sound of it loud as a bomb. Karras walked to the case, reached inside, pulled free the racked Thompson gun.
“This loaded?” said Karras.
“All the way,” said Recevo.
Karras hefted the Thompson, pulled back the bolt. “How many?”
“Thirty-shot mag.”
“Now,” said Karras, “we’re gonna see.”
The men were organizing down in the foyer; their voices were shrill and bursting with nerve and anticipation and fear, and Karras and Recevo could hear them well. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, heavier as they ascended and without hesitation, because now they were charging up the stairs and the charge itself had conquered the fear.
“Here we go,” said Karras.
Recevo spat to the side as the first man rushed through the door.
Karras saw the muzzle flash from the blue steel pistol even as Recevo blew the man off his feet. Karras was driven back from the lead that slammed flat into his shoulder, shattering his clavicle on impact.
“Ah!” said Karras.
Recevo kicked the big table over on its side, crouched behind it, came up firing as the next man entered the room. This one screamed as he fired, moving diagonally across the room, firing wildly, his legs twisting up from the shots spitting from the Thompson gun, the bullets stitching him thigh to chest as Karras blew him down.
“I’m hit!” said Recevo.
Then Medium was in the room, running straight in through the gun-smoke that was heavy now and nearly impenetrable, firing straight at Karras, Karras firing back, the hardwood floor splintering at his feet as he lowered the gun, thinking how it felt to be shot, thinking how it was like being punched, body blows landing over and over again. Medium lay dead in front of him, a large purple rip steaming in the middle of his throat.
Karras gripped the leg of the overturned table. He bit down on his lip, feeling the warmth of his own blood flowing down his leg.
“Joey,” said Karras.
“I’m here, Greek,” said Recevo. And he was there, just to the right of Karras, holding the bloody .45 tight to his gut where a slug had opened him up.
A look passed between Recevo and Karras. They could hear the rest of them crowded outside the door.
Karras cradled the Thompson gun, pressed the butt tight against his ribs.
“Well,” he whispered. “Come on if you’re gonna come.”
They charged into the room.
Karras saw white fire as he heard the reports, heard Joey’s gun explode, saw one man fall, heard Joey scream, watched Joey’s fedora tumble by as if it had been, blown by a strong wind. Karras squeezed the trigger, saw men diving through the gunsmoke, the doorframe disintegrating in spark and dust. He fell back to the floor from a blunt shock that felt like a hammer blow to his chest.
Karras winced, got himself up onto the balls of his feet. He leaned his face against the table, rested it there, caught his breath. He listened to the others move about the room.
Swim, you Greek bastard.
And he was over the table, landing on his feet as softly as if he had landed in water. And they were there, the Welshman and the others, moving toward him, emptying their guns at once, the sound deafening now and riding over their caterwauling screams and the bottomless scream coming from his own mouth.
Karras went forward, humming as his finger locked down on the trigger, the Tommy gun dancing crazily in his arms, the gunmen falling before him through the smoke and ejecting shells and the white gulls gliding against the perfect blue sky.
Red flowers bloomed on the chests of the men who had come to take Peter Karras to the place where he was always meant to be.
Six
Washington, D.C
1959
41
Nick Stefanos downshifted, gave the car gas. The Chevy kicked smoothly into gear, cruised south on Beach Drive through Rock Creek Park. Through the emerging leaves, the sun brightened the wild white dogwoods and planted daffodils, adding color to the muted brown and flat green of the woods. Stefanos patted the knee of the toddler at his side, hummed along to the song coming from the dash radio. Next to the boy sat Costa, reading the morning Post, one arm out the open passenger window, the wind blowing back his unruly, uncombed hair.
Stefanos chuckled. “The pethi, he likes the music.”
“Aaaah,” said Costa, not looking up from the paper.
The boy moved his head arrhythmically to the stuttering guitar, smiling as the smooth vocal came back into the mix.
“Whatsa matter, re, you don’t like Elvis Presley?”
“I take him or leave him,” said Costa.