For a long while nothing at all happened, and when the truck parked across the street, in front of the museum, Hoskins at first thought that meant nothing, too. But he kept watching the truck and he saw that it had turned out its lights and there was no more puff of white exhaust at the back, and yet no one had gotten out of it. He didn’t understand what that meant, but he was sure it had something to do with Walker and Gonor and the diamonds, and when eventually he saw Gonor’s two young partners crawl out of the back of the truck and carry a lot of stuff into the building next door to the museum he’d known his hunch had paid off.
Nothing happened then for a long while until he heard a muffled sound like thum. It was more concussion than sound, and if he hadn’t had his window open a little to let out the cigarette smoke he wouldn’t have heard it at all. He frowned out through the windshield, wondering what it meant or if it had anything to do with the robbery, and then he saw the top floor of the museum starting to light up again, lights first in one window, then in two, then in all. And another thum.
Should he move now? Something was happening over there. Should he make his move or should he go on waiting and watching? Move here, or follow the truck and see where the diamonds went next?
Before he’d decided, the curb-side door of the truck opened. He couldn’t see it from where he was, but he saw through the window on the near side that the interior light had lit. He waited and watched, and the light went out, meaning the door had shut over there, and a few seconds later he saw Gonor walking on the sidewalk.
Strolling along up toward Park Avenue as though just out for an evening’s walk, taking the air, nothing on his mind at all. With those yellow lights gleaming in the top floor of the museum.
Hoskins watched, and he knew when Gonor saw him. He’d hoped it was dark enough in the car here, but Gonor’s halted posture was unmistakable. He saw that break in the stride, then saw Gonor try to pick it up again, try to act as though he hadn’t seen a thing. But Hoskins was sensitive to nuances where his own safety was concerned, and he knew he’d been seen.
He watched Gonor walk back toward the truck, and he wondered what he should do now. Maybe start the engine, leave the lights off, make a sudden dash for it. Wait till the light down at the corner there had been green for a while, just before it was ready to change.
But Gonor didn’t stop at the truck. What was he up to? Hoskins watched him walk all the way down to the corner, then cut across and disappear down Lexington Avenue, and he thought: Oh-ho, circling my flank. He got out of the rented car at once and walked up to the side entrance of the church on the corner and stood in the darkness there, and in a little while he saw Gonor walk by and go down and look in the car.
Hoskins followed him, walking directly up behind him, his own gun in his hand, and he didn’t plan what he was going to do or think about what he was going to do. He just moved forward. And when Gonor spun around and stared at him it was the most natural thing in the world to push the gun forward and pull the trigger.
So it was all going to work out after all. Gonor was lying on the curb beside the car, so Hoskins rolled him into the gutter and then shoved him partway under the car where he would be less likely to be seen. Then he went down to the truck, saw that it was indeed empty, and got into it himself. Those other black boys would be getting a surprise when they came out.
But it was a longer wait than he’d anticipated, nearly twenty minutes, and now that he’d actually done something this inactivity was hard to take, which is why he made his error. He saw the museum door open and then shut, he saw the two black figures hurry down the walk and open the gate and start across the sidewalk toward him, and he fired about three seconds too soon.
Not too soon to hit; he shot twice, and the one he’d aimed at flipped backwards and didn’t move after he landed. But the other one had time to dive for cover, and the cover of the iron fence was close enough, and he managed to leap over it before Hoskins could get a good bead on him. Hoskins fired anyway, and the shot pinged away in a ricochet.
Damn! Hoskins shoved the truck door open, knowing he had to get over there and finish that one off before he could get himself organized, and he jumped out on to the sidewalk, took two steps, and a voice called, “Hoskins!”
He turned his head, and to the left along the sidewalk was Parker running toward him. In a panic of haste, Hoskins tried to turn around, or point the gun at Parker, or run away, or keeping going the way he’d been moving, all the contradictory impulses slowing him long enough for Parker to stop running and raise his arm.
Hoskins tried to duck the bullet.
Four
1
Parker was in a bind. He had too much to do and too little time to do it in. And fools like Hoskins didn’t help.
Formutesca came out from behind the fence. He looked bewildered. He said, “What happened?”
“That’s the question,” Parker said. “Where’s Gonor?”
“He’s supposed to be in the truck.”
“Look in the back,” Parker said. He himself went down on one knee beside Hoskins. He was dead.
Parker got to his feet and looked up and down the street. Formutesca said, “Not in there.”
“Come on,” Parker said. There was a car parked across the street and up a ways, and Parker went over there and looked inside, but there was nothing in there. Then Formutesca said, “Underneath,” and that was where they found Gonor.
Parker dragged the body on to the sidewalk, and Formutesca said, “Is he hurt bad?”
“He’s dead. Take his feet.”
“What?”
“Take his feet. We can’t leave him out here.”
“Oh.” Formutesca went down to Gonor’s feet, but then said, “He’s face down. Shouldn’t we turn him over?”
“No,” Parker said. He bent and took Gonor under the arms. “Come on, Formutesca.”
Formutesca shook his head trying to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said. He lifted Gonor by the ankles. “His feet are skinny,” he said.
They crossed the street and went up to the entrance of the museum. Parker held Gonor propped up while Formutesca unlocked the door; then they carried the body in and set it down on the floor. Looking down, Formutesca said, “What a waste. What an awful waste.”
“Go move the truck,” Parker told him. He had to keep Formutesca moving; he was the only one left who could be used.
Formutesca looked at him vaguely. “Move the truck?”
“Put it down in the next block and then hurry back here. Go on, move.”
Formutesca nodded, still vague, but when he went out he did move fast. Parker followed him out, and as Formutesca got into the truck Parker went to the two bodies lying on the sidewalk. He grabbed Hoskins as he’d carried Gonor and dragged him up the walk and into the museum. He left the body beside the other one and hurried back out to take a look at Manado.
The boy was alive but unconscious. He’d been hit twice, once in the left side just above the waist, once high on the left shoulder. It looked as though neither bullet was in him. The lower wound was still bleeding, and his hands were cold.
Parker picked him up in his arms and carried him into the museum. There was a padded bench along the side wall and Parker put him down there. He turned as Formutesca came trotting in.
Parker said, “Shut the door.”
Formutesca did, and said, “What now?”
“We’ll take Manado upstairs. It’d be best to take the whole bench.”
“All right.”
The bench was heavy, and it was slow work carrying it with Manado on it the length of the building to the elevator. Once they got it inside and were on their way to the fourth floor, Parker said, “Do you have a doctor you can trust?”