“Don’t be a sucker,” he shouted at the man who stood in the shadows.
“You’re under arrest, Stone,” the man said.
Stone laughed, and swung around. He fired twice at the voice, and felt the bullets rip through his coat. His hand, holding the gun awkwardly, twisted under the recoil. A blue-orange flash exploded in the darkness, and Stone felt a bullet strike his stomach, and another his chest, but for an instant his mind was clear and untouched, and he marvelled that there was no pain, no sensation at all, only the solid, jarring impact of the bullets.
He tried to squeeze the trigger once more, knowing with a giddy illogical relief that it wasn’t Bannion who had shot him, but the pain hit him then, sharply, sickeningly, and he forgot Bannion, forgot everything, and began to scream. Stumbling into the alley, he turned and ran toward the intersection, bent over, hobbling like a drunk and shouting with wild, fierce anger.
Bannion stepped out of the garage and saw Burke standing in the shadows, a gun in his hand. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds without speaking, and then they put their guns away, and walked down the alley, their shoulders nearly touching, following the sound of Stone’s voice.
Stone stopped at the intersection. This wasn’t happening to him, not to Max Stone. He wasn’t running through the night, screaming, tasting blood in his — throat. He coughed and began to strangle. There was nothing to do but run, run from the pain, the hoarse bellowing of his own voice, from the man named Bannion. Somebody must take care of Bannion. Stone shouted orders; he must have help.
He reached Walnut Street and stopped at the comer, clinging weakly to a street lamp. The street was empty. Rain glistened on the car tracks, and the tracks stretched out to infinity. He shouted again, sobbing, and his voice was the only sound in the silence.
He looked around wildly. Bannion was coming after him, walking slowly, hands lost in the pockets of his trenchcoat, his gray, merciless face shadowed by the brim of his hat.
Stone turned and ran, but his legs gave way and he crashed to his knees. He tried to think, plan, but a river of pain washed through his mind, washing his thoughts and plans into darkness.
Watching, Bannion saw him climb jerkily to his feet and raise his hands high above his head. Stone was still shouting wildly, and his shadow, grotesque and menacing, fell across the city. But when he staggered and toppled to the wet pavement, the shadow shortened with a rush, contracted magically to the small and unimportant size of a dead man lying in a gutter.
Bannion stood in the yellow glow of the street lamp staring down at Stone’s body. He rubbed his forehead tiredly, thinking, now it’s over, over at last. He had lived with anger and sadness for an eternity, it seemed. Now the anger was gone, and there was nothing left but the sadness. For himself, for everyone, even a reluctant bit of it for Max Stone.
Burke said, “Cranston wasn’t fooled, Dave. He knew you were after Stone.”
“Cranston’s smart,” Bannion said.
“He told me to pick him up,” Burke said.
“It didn’t work out that way.”
Burke shrugged. “Just as well.”
A crowd was forming. A street car had stopped, and the motor-man was in the street, and from Stone’s building two uniformed bellboys were hurrying to the scene. People were trotting along the sidewalks, their footsteps sharp and excited in the cold night.
“All right, all right,” Burke said, walking up to Stone’s body. “This is police business, folks. Don’t hang around blocking traffic. Go on home, go on home...”
Bannion watched him for a few seconds and then turned and walked slowly away, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trenchcoat.
Chapter 19
There was another doctor on duty now, and he told Bannion it would be all right for him to see Debby. “You might just as well,” he said, as they walked along the silent, tile-floored corridor. “I don’t think it will make much difference.” He opened the door of Debby s room, and went on about his work.
Bannion walked to the side of her bed, and she turned her head to him and smiled. They had changed the bandage on her face, and someone, a nurse, Bannion supposed, had combed her hair. She looked desperately tired; there were purple hollows under her eyes, and her skin was transparently white.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“Oh, fine,” she said, in a low soft voice. “Sit down, Bannion. Can you stay a little while?”
“Sure, of course,” he said, and sat down in the straight-backed chair beside her bed. “You look pretty good, considering the excitement you’ve been through.”
“I feel all right,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done it, Bannion. I shouldn’t have shot her. I did it to get Stone, but it was wrong.”
“Well, let’s don’t talk about it now,” he said.
“You never want to talk,” she said, and turned her face to the wall. They were silent for a few moments. Bannion noticed a soft, early dawn light at the windows. It would go away after a few minutes, and return strongly in an hour or so, he knew.
“I felt I was doing right,” Debby said. “Stone shouldn’t have ruined my looks. It was a terrible thing for him to do. A girl with only looks to keep her from being a bum can’t afford to lose them. And it hurts worse when you don’t have anything else. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for someone with a family and kids, or an education even, but I didn’t have those things. I thought it was right to pay him back, but I shouldn’t have killed her, Bannion.”
“It’s all over now,” he said.
“Don’t do anything to Stone,” she said, looking at him, and shaking her head slowly, tiredly. He saw that she was near tears. “Don’t mess yourself up, Bannion. Let him alone. Let the police take care of him.”
“Okay, Debby,” he said.
“It’s not worth it. It’s all bad, this hating people.” She wet her lips. “Am I going to die?”
“—I don’t know, Debby. You look in good shape.”
“Oh, I’m in great shape.”
They didn’t talk much for a while. Debby turned her face aside and Bannion sat there, feeling the need for sleep in his eyes, and watched her slim, pale hands. He sat quietly, watching her hands, as the dawn slanted slowly into the room. The nurse was in and out, and came back with the doctor. They moved around her quietly, adjusting her pillow, checking her pulse. The doctor caught Bannion’s eye and shook his head slowly.
“Should I go?” Bannion said.
“No, you might as well stay.”
Debby turned her head. “Bannion, why aren’t we talking? We’re sitting here like bumps on a log.” Her voice was so low that he had to lean forward to catch what she said.
“Okay, we’ll talk then,” he said.
The nurse and doctor left quietly.
“You were mad when I asked you about your wife,” she said. “You thought I wasn’t good enough to know about her, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bannion said. He tried to laugh casually.
“No, I knew what you meant.”
“You’re being silly. My wife’s name was Kate. You and she would have got along pretty well, I think.”
“Yeah? What was she like?”
Bannion swallowed the sudden dryness in his throat. “Well, she had quite a temper for one thing. She was a genuine Irish blow-top, if you know the type. Fortunately, she got over it in a hurry. She couldn’t stay mad very long. She’d raise hell with me for missing dinner, or leaving the bathroom in a mess, and five minutes later she’d bring me a drink as if nothing had happened.”