Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

A Long Time Dying by Will Cotton

Johnny wasn’t afraid of death, because he knew he was already dead. What troubled him most was that he had been given a chance to live and muffed it.

* * * *

Johnny Martin pulled the door of his room shut and went over to the mirror. He stood there awhile, his forehead wrinkled, studying the outlines of his face. It was an old mirror, and the glass was flawed, so that it distorted his features. It made his skin look sallow. But he could get the idea all right.

He smiled, and then he remembered what he had called his old man down at the filling station, and what his old man had said. He guessed his old man was right. He was no damn good. But it didn’t show in the face looking back at him from the lousy mirror.

He examined each feature carefully — the clear brown eyes under straight black lashes — the square jaw with the hint of a cleft — the firm lines of his cheekbones — the full, serious mouth. Well, maybe there was something not quite right 86 about the mouth. But nobody would notice it. There were a lot worse-looking guys out in Hollywood, who got paid big money because of the way women went for them. To hell with his old man! He’d get along.

He pushed back a lock of black hair that had fallen out of place, then went over to the wooden chest of drawers and rummaged around, until he found his lastex bathing trunks. He stripped of the greasy pants and shirt he wore for work at the filling station and tossed them on the bed. He noticed again how badly the paint had chipped from the bed frame. His old man said he ought to paint it. But he wasn’t going to be around long enough to make it worth while.

The small room was hot and smelled of cabbage from the boiled dinner his mother was cooking. Johnny glanced out the window, across the alley, at the baked brick walls of the tenements, noting the drawn curtain in Liz Nolan’s window. Then he wiped a hand over his chest, enjoying the smooth firmness of his flesh under the sweat.

No damn good inside, he thought again. And then, fiercely, What the hell did they expect? No one gave him a chance any other way. If he was going to get anywhere, it wouldn’t be by knocking himself out at the filling station. He’d have to go make out himself. In his own way — like Rusty.

You had to admire Rusty. He knew what he wanted, and he went out and got it. It didn’t matter how. Maybe, like Rusty said, Johnny had a streak of chicken in him.

Johnny Martin grimaced. He had his trunks on, now, and he straightened up, catching a glimpse of the muscles sliding smoothly under his brown skin in the mirror. He drew on a pair of faded levis and a T-shirt. He smoothed his hair again and caught up a towel.

As he went through the kitchen his mother called out to him from the stove.

He answered sharply. “Don’t expect me.” The smell of cabbage was stronger.

“You aren’t going back to the station?”

“You’re right, Ma. I’m not going to the station.”

“Your paw needs you. He isn’t so young any more, and it’s awful hot.”

He hesitated, irritation crowding in on him. “Pa can handle it. Anyway, he likes the smell of gas.”

He watched his mother pick up a chunk of meat on a long fork. Steam billowed from the pot.

“I don’t know what’s come over you, Johnny,” she said, her tone listless under a defeat she couldn’t cope with. “You didn’t used to be this way.”

“Stow it,” he told her. “Or else find something new to say.”

He turned away, hearing the lid clatter as his mother replaced it on the pot. He went out the back door quick, so she wouldn’t have a chance to nag him any more.

He walked up Cambridge Street, feeling the sun beat up at him from the pavements, trying to figure out why the tightness in his guts didn’t go away. At Bowdoin Square, he went down into the subway, finding the damp coolness pleasant, after the heat of the sun. He lit a cigarette, dropped it and crushed it out under the toe of his shoe when the train came rattling in.

While the train rushed through the tunnel, he found he could think better. He would have to get away. Working for his old man at the gas station — his mother’s continual nagging — they were getting him too nerved up. He could team up with Rusty for a while. Rusty knew the angles — how to make dough fast and easy. It would mean being nicer to Liz, who hung around with Rusty and the gang. He didn’t care much for her. She was too damned easy.

The tightening of his eardrums told him they had left Atlantic Avenue and were passing under the harbour. He wished, for a moment, that the water above them would crack the tunnel walls and come swirling in around him. Then he wouldn’t have to decide these things — because there was risk tied in with teaming up with Rusty, and he was too old for reform school, now.

It hadn’t been too bad, those six months, but now, if anything went wrong, it would mean a real rap, at the Old Charles Street jail, maybe. But Rusty was careful — like last night. There was that Cadillac, and it looked like an easy set-up, but Rusty decided there might be trouble, so they had gone back to drinking beer.

Coming out of the tunnel after Maverick, the sun was bright and blinding. Johnny stopped trying to think. He didn’t want to look ahead — or to remember. The train flashed by the airport, the beaches, Orient Heights. He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

An old lady with a shopping bag, crammed with groceries, sat down beside him. She smelled of stale sweat and garlic, and he turned his head away, thinking that, when he had a car, he wouldn’t have to be riding in the subway, and there were lots better beaches than Reverse you could make if you were driving...

He had a quick swim, and then he went across the street to Jerry’s Hot Dog Stand to get a frank. He was standing on the sidewalk, just in front of the stand, finishing a coke, when the blue Packard convertible with the top down came lazily along the road. He regarded it enviously, admiring its sleek lines, the glitter of the chrome against smooth paint.

The convertible came abreast of the stand and seemed to hesitate. Johnny Martin saw the girl behind the wheel, then — the fluff of blonde hair, the red lips, the smooth tanned skin across high cheekbones. Class, he thought, real class! He felt sudden excitement inside him.

He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. The girl had brought the convertible to a halt. Behind her, a string of cars began backing up. A horn blew irritably. She glanced at the stand, wistfully.

Johnny said, “If you want something, I’ll get it. You can go around the block and pick it up when you get back.”

“Oh... thanks,” she said. “I’m so thirsty. I’d love a coke!”

“Roger,” he said, liking the sound of her voice.

She smiled gratefully. The convertible began moving again. Johnny bought another coke and waited with it at the edge of the sidewalk, wondering if he’d ever see her again. After a few minutes, he spotted the blue convertible heading toward him in the string of traffic, and he felt his hand begin to tremble, so that he spilled a little of the coke over the rim of the paper cup. When the convertible came up to him, he opened the door and slid in on the tan leather seat.

“I didn’t expect that,” she said, watching the car ahead.

“I come with the coke,” he told her.

She laughed. It was a light, happy sound. “All for a dime?”

“Not even a dime,” he told her. “You get this one on credit.”

She drove him around the block. She didn’t say any more. He watched her, liking the intentness of her as she drove the big car through the traffic. He could hear the shouts of the bathers on the beach, the roar of the roller coaster in the distance.

When she got to the stand again, she slowed, “This is where you came in,” she said.

He reached for the handle of the door, feeling a sinking in his stomach. “A good feature, I like to see twice,” he told her.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But this is the last show.”

But it wasn’t. Suddenly a parked car pulled out in front of them. Johnny told her to drive into the vacant space, and she did. Cutting the motor, she swung around to face him. Her blue eyes studied him, in amused appraisal.

She must have liked what she found, Johnny thought, because she asked suddenly, “How’s the water?”

“Cool — but good.”

“I’d like to try it. But the beach is so crowded.”

“There’s a place up the road a ways — a little sandy cove. It belongs to a cottage, but the people don’t come until August. You’d like it.”

“Do you come with it?”

“I guess so. Don’t you like that?”

“It might not be a good idea. I don’t know anything about you.”

He ran a hand over his chin. “I could give you a reference,” he said, “but I’d want some from you too. After all, these days a fellow has to be careful who he goes out with.”

She tossed her head and laughed lightly. He liked the way the sun caught her yellow hair, making it shine.

“You win,” she said, “No references.”

He went across the street and came back with his levis and T-shirt rolled up in his towel. He wasn’t sure she would be waiting for him — but she was. He remembered the face he had looked at in the old mirror, and he guessed he knew why. His eye ran over the sleek lines of the convertible again — over the girl. He slipped in beside her, excitement making his blood hot.

“Take your next left,” he directed. “Incidentally, I’m Johnny.”

“Thanks for the formal introduction. I’m Lois.”

He leaned back against the leather, his eyes squinting into the sun, while the breeze rippled over his body. He thought, maybe he wasn’t going to need Rusty, at that. Maybe he could work something out for himself. This girl was class. And the wagon was worth plenty. He’d play it slow and close. When the time came, he’d know what to do...

Lois stood up suddenly and began to brush the sand from her long, slender legs. “It’s late, Johnny. I have to go.”

He looked up at her, noting the full curve of her breasts against the smooth gleam of her white bathing suit, the slimness of her waist, the lithe contours of her hips.

“It can’t even be six,” he said lazily.

“It’s after that.”

He had not touched her. He had wanted to, desperately — especially after they had come in from the water and had stretched out so close to each other on the sand. He got up slowly. She was putting on slacks over her suit.

“Lois, does it have to end now?”

Her eyes fastened on him. Wrinkles formed across her forehead. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I think it had better.”

“I don’t have much money. But we could go out sometime. I’d like to dance with you.”

She seemed suddenly serious.

“Most young writers don’t have much money — unless they’re lucky. But that doesn’t matter.”

He had almost forgotten telling her he was a writer. It had seemed like an occupation to intrigue her. Now he said, “What does matter, then?”

She turned away. She had picked up her blouse and was buttoning it. “I don’t trust you entirely. I don’t understand it exactly. But I’m afraid.”

“There’s no reason for that.”

It was odd she had said what she did. Johnny felt a small, cold finger working along his spine. “So let’s leave it this way — a pleasant afternoon on the beach.”

He went over to her. Took her shoulders and swung her around. She tilted her face up, her lips parted a little, and he bent down and crushed her to him. There was sudden fire in him, like nothing he had ever known, and he felt her body straining against his, her lips hot and eager. He thought, hating himself for it at that moment, that she would see him again. Then, abruptly, she broke away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d really better go. Can you get back wherever you have to go?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I shan’t.” It was cool, ladylike, brutal. “Good-bye, Johnny.”

He watched her walk rapidly away from him, to where the blue convertible was parked, leaving her towel still on the beach. He thought, she could at least have given him a lift back to Revere.

In sudden anger, he turned away, sprinting down the beach toward the sea. The water splashed up over him as he ran in, cold against his burning body. He swam out with long, fierce strokes, until fatigue sapped his anger. Then he came in, dried himself and put on his levis and T-shirt.

He noticed then, that in her haste to get away, Lois had left her wallet lying in the sand beside her towel. He opened it, ruffled quickly through the impressive number of bills, found her driving licence. He put it in his hip pocket, smiling thinly.

He could find Lois, now. He would find her and make her pay for leaving him here like this — for running away when he kissed her. He walked slowly through the sand to the road, to thumb a ride back to Revere where he could get the subway.

The juke box was blaring out a souped-up version of Temptation. Johnny Martin filled his glass from one of the opened bottles of beer on the table. His mouth tasted ratty from too many cigarettes and too much beer. He realised he was a little drunk. His head was fuzzy, and, when he touched his chin, it felt as if someone else was touching him.

He was sitting in a booth with Rusty and Joe Levis and, right across from him, Liz Nolan. They had been there a long time. He took out another cigarette, put it between his lips and scratched a match. Then he tried to move his leg, so Liz couldn’t find it with hers. But, after a moment, the pressure was back against his thigh, and he gave up.

The music stopped, leaving only the sound of the whirring fan, which was supposed to clear out some of the smoke, but didn’t seem to make much progress.

Rusty pushed back a mop of red hair and squinted at Johnny. “We took Liz out to the quarry this afternoon. She was as cool as could be.”

Joe laughed. “Scared some of the boys plenty,” he said. “She went in bare, like the rest of us.”

Rusty said, “She’s been pestering me to take her a long while.”

Liz looked angrily at Rusty. “You didn’t have to tell Johnny about it.”

Rusty picked up a bottle of beer and tilted it to his lips. When he had finished he said, grinning, “Johnny knows you’re a slut. We aren’t giving anything away.”

“She likes you because she thinks you’re refined,” Joe said to Johnny. “Are you refined?”

There was smug self-assurance in Rusty’s tone. Johnny felt the pressure against his leg increase. The beer was making his stomach queasy.

“You’re a punk, Rusty,” Liz said. “A pain you know where.”

“But you put up with the pain pretty good,” Rusty smirked. “As long as Papa pays — or can you make more yourself on the side?”

Johnny got up unsteadily. The movement overturned a bottle on the table. He picked it up while a trickle of beer ran on to the floor. He had to get out of here. But he should talk to Rusty first.

“Want to come with me a minute, Rusty?” he said thickly.

“Sure, chum. If you’ll promise to put Liz out of her misery.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He pushed clear of the booth and waited while Rusty got up. Joe was making some crack he didn’t hear, but Liz and Rusty laughed. Rusty followed him over to the men’s room.

“You going to be sick?” Rusty asked.

Johnny looked at him — the red hair, the squat, tough body, the narrow eyes. He didn’t like Rusty, any more than he liked Liz. But he needed him now. He shook his head.

“What can we get for a Packard convertible?” he asked.

“This years?”

“Yeah.”

“Plenty,” Rusty said, eyeing him sharply. “What’s your angle?”

“I got it figured.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed. His lips were tight over his teeth. “You won’t make it,” he said. “You never do, when it comes to the point.”

“This time, I will, Rusty. I’ve got to.”

“You said that before — but you always go chicken. That’s why I didn’t try anything last night with the Caddy. You might have gone screaming for the cops.”

Johnny felt the blood flush the back of his neck. He reached out and caught Rusty’s silk shirt in his fist. He swayed a little, as he said hoarsely, “I’m telling you, Rusty. This time is different.”

“Okay,” Rusty said then. “Leave go of me. Well split, fifty-fifty. When the time comes, I’ll give you the pitch.”

“Sure.”

“If you don’t chicken out, I’ll cut you in on something big — bigger than you can imagine — something I’m working on now.”

“And lay off Liz. She likes to play around, and I kid about it, but she’s my woman.”

“I know that, Rusty. Thanks.”

Someone came in then, and they went back to the booth. Johnny had another beer, and then he went home.

He sensed something was wrong, when he climbed the stairs and saw the light leaking out from the door. But he was feeling muddle-headed again from the beer, and nothing made much sense — especially the light being on.

Taking out his key, he fiddled for a few moments with the lock before he could work it. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw his father rising from his chair, his bulk strangely menacing. He saw his mother, too, rubbing her eyes as if she had been suddenly awakened. Johnny stood there, steadying himself on the flat of both feet.

“Well,” he said thickly, “quite a reception!”

He heard his mother say, “He’s drunk, Paw. My Johnny’s drunk!” Her voice sounded as if all the cares of the world were on her shoulders. Johnny felt sorry for her. “A couple of beers...” he muttered.

He looked up, to find his father standing very close to him. A big man, his father — bigger than he would ever be. In the stillness that fell over the room, he could hear his father’s heavy breathing, and he was suddenly afraid. It was as if he had never known this man before.

“I guess I’ll hit the sack,” he said thickly.

“Just a minute.”

It was his father speaking — his father who reached out and grabbed his T-shirt, holding him there. “There was ten dollars missing from the till at the station when I tallied up,” his father said. “You took it, Johnny.”

Johnny felt as if he was going to be sick. The beer was making him that way. He wished his father would leave him alone. He said, out of the corner of his mouth, “So what? I needed the dough. It’s all in the family.”

His father seemed stunned. “How old are you, Johnny?”

“Don’t be dumb. You know how old I am.”

“Twenty — you’re old enough to act like a man. But you don’t. So I’ll treat you like a kid.”

He hadn’t let go of the T-shirt. Johnny felt the sickness in him getting worse. But it was mixed up with anger, now. He pulled back, tearing the shirt. Then, when his father came closer, he brought up his right fist and swung it at his father’s jaw. But his legs weren’t steady and he missed. Then he felt the side of his face explode, as his father’s open palm slapped him hard. He went over sideways, hearing his mother scream.

His father picked him up, and he felt himself go limp. He couldn’t seem to do anything. The room revolved around him crazily, and his throat was as dry as if it was stuffed with dust.

Then his father was beating him, and he had to bite his lips to keep from crying like a baby as the blows came, slamming pain through him. It went on a long time — it seemed like a long time. And then he was sick, and his mother was bending over him, crying and saying, “You shouldn’t have done it while he was sick.”

And his father, answering heavily, “He’s got to learn sometime. He’s no damn good, and, unless I can teach him, the cops are going to have to.”

His father went away, and he managed to get up and stumble to his room. But he knew he couldn’t stay here any longer. In a way, he didn’t blame his father. He had it coming, all right. But still, he couldn’t stay here now that his father had beaten him. He waited until the sounds died down, and then he crept out on stocking feet, his body stiff and sore, his head still giddy.

He started up the street where Rusty had a room. Maybe Rusty could look after him. But he didn’t like the idea of Rusty seeing him beat-up this way; Rusty would want to know what had happened. He couldn’t tell him it was his old man, and he didn’t think he could make up a story, either.

He sat down on the stone steps of an apartment, holding his head in his hands, trying to figure out what to do. A couple passed by, arms around each other, not noticing him. Then he heard the click of heels on the brick sidewalk, and he thought he’d better get moving before a cop found him. It was an effort to stand up. He had to steady himself against the side of the building to keep from falling. The footsteps grew closer.

Then they paused, and Liz Nolan said, “Johnny! What’s happened to you?”

He looked at her, but all he could see was a twisting shadow.

“Beat up,” he managed to say.

“I’ll get Rusty — I just left him. We’ll get you home.”

He ran a tongue over dry, cracked lips. “No — Don’t get Rusty. I can’t go home, either.”

“Come to my place, then.”

He tried to draw away. But she took his arm. He went meekly then, not knowing what else to do. She helped him up the stairs, into a room that smelled of some heavy, sweet perfume. The smell almost gagged him. He sat on the edge of the bed, while Liz went over and pulled down the window shade. Hammers were pounding inside his skull. He felt as though he might be sick again. She came over and kissed him, lips slack and moist.

He let himself fall back on the bed — away from her. “You better leave me alone, Liz,” he said. “I’m in bad shape.”

She looked down at him a moment, contemptuously. She said, “You’re so right. I should of known.”

In the morning, he left before Liz woke up...

He stood on the sidewalk in front of Jerry’s Hot Dog Stand. It was almost six o’clock, and Lois had said she would be there before six. But he couldn’t be sure — women were late, lots of times. Or, maybe, she wouldn’t come at all. She had hesitated when he phoned her — as if it was hard for her to make up her mind.

He glanced impatiently up the street. There weren’t so many cars, and he would have seen the blue convertible right away. Johnny set the paper bag he was carrying between his feet and took out a cigarette. He cupped his hands against the wind that was blowing in from the ocean. Dark clouds banked against the horizon, and there were whitecaps on the dark water. Not many swimmers were out there.

The cigarette didn’t taste good, and he tossed it away and picked up the paper bag again. He wished, suddenly, that she wouldn’t come. It was all worked out with Rusty, but, if she didn’t come, he wouldn’t have to go through with it. Yet there was a part of him that had to see her again. He felt mixed-up, not knowing which part of him was real. He knew, desperately, that it wasn’t good to be mixed-up this way.

He heard the roar of the roller coaster up the street, and he smelled the hotdogs from the grill of Jerry’s Hot Dog Stand, and he tried hard to figure things out straight. Figure out just what he wanted — because you had to know that. The time had come when he couldn’t kid himself any longer.

But it made his hangover stand up inside when he tried to figure it out, and then there wasn’t time anyway, because he caught sight of the convertible coming along behind a 1941 Chewy. Suddenly, he felt every nerve in him snap tight and brittle.

The convertible pulled over to where he was standing and stopped. He reached to open the door and tossed the paper bag on to the seat. He looked into Lois’s face and felt his guts knot. The mechanical organ at the Merry-Go-Round began to blare You Can’t Be True, Dear.

“Well?” Her lips pursed delightfully. The wind blew a lock of yellow hair across her forehead. He got into the blue convertible, and Lois pulled out into the street.

They drove for a few moments in silence — past the pitch games, the Fun House, the stands selling frozen custard. She turned off, away from the waterfront.

He found his voice then. “I bought some sandwiches and a couple of cans of beer. For a picnic.”

“I don’t have much time, Johnny.”

“It won’t take much time. After all, I came all the way out to bring back your wallet.”

“You could have sent it to me.”

“Yeah, I could have.”

But he could tell that she really wanted to be here, with him. He didn’t know how, but he could tell. “There’s a place up the road,” he suggested.

She followed his directions, turned off the highway, down a dirt road that led into a pine grove at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. The dark clouds were closer now, edging in toward the land.

“Oh, Johnny,” Lois said as he gave her a sandwich, “what is there about you?”

He looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know. Something restless — disturbed. It’s hard to tell.”

“Don’t try then.”

He kissed her lightly, almost as if it didn’t matter. Then he looked at his watch. It was later than he had supposed. _

“I really can’t stay,” she said. She hadn’t even unwrapped her sandwich. “I promised I’d get back.”

“And us?” Johnny asked. “You’re not giving us a chance.”

Lois looked at him searchingly, as if she was trying to see what really lay inside him. He felt strangely uncomfortable under her gaze, as if she could actually look inside him. He knew it didn’t matter just then that his face was a good-looking face, or that his body was slim and hard and well proportioned. He could see that for himself in the old mirror in his room, and it was only the outer part of him.

She was trying to probe deeper, and he didn’t want her to find his secret self. Yet he knew that, before very long, she would know. Because he would have to show her himself.

She said, very slowly, “You know, Johnny, we don’t have a chance — because I’m afraid of you.”

He tried to laugh. It didn’t sound right. And then she took out the car key. “So we’d better go,” she added.

He knew this was the time. The wind from the ocean felt very cold. Even the blood, beating in his temples, couldn’t drive the numbness out of him. Like Rusty said, he was chicken. This was the time, and he couldn’t do anything.

He heard the starter begin to purr, and then something broke inside him. He reached for the switch and cut the motor. He tried to block off any emotion — any sense that this was Lois. This was a car and a woman, and he had to do a job.

She looked at him a moment, straight into his face, her eyes going wide, her nostrils flaring, the blood draining from her cheeks. It almost got him — but then he said tightly, “It’s just the car I want. If you don’t make any trouble, I won’t hurt you.”

But she did make trouble. She tried to struggle. He had to clamp his hand over her mouth and almost choke her to keep her from screaming. As he was getting her out of the car, one of her arms came free and her nails scratched the side of his face. He had to slam her to the ground before she grew quiet.

He worked fast then, ripping off her blouse, tearing strips to tie her arms behind her back, and her ankles together. He stuffed some material in her mouth, having to pry open her teeth, and then he tied a gag around her head. He left her lying on the ground and gunned the big car down the dirt road, cutting into the highway and heading toward Lynn, where he was to meet Rusty and turn over the car.

He glanced at his watch. He was late — but Rusty would wait. Better not drive too fast, because that might call attention to himself.

Darkness was closing in. He switched on the headlights. The highway was almost deserted, and he drove faster than he should. But he was different, now — not the Johnny Martin he had known. He had given up everything — work, family, a girl he loved — to be a new Johnny Martin. A guy without any good in him, even though he looked all right outside.

The air, rushing against his burning face, stung his eyeballs. His grip on the wheel was tense, as if his fingers had grown rigid. His jaw was set so tight it sent an ache up into his forehead.

Headlights rushed toward him. He swerved just in time. Steady, Johnny, he thought. Get hold of yourself, or you’ll have an accident. Maybe kill yourself.

But Johnny was already dead. Funny, he could see that now, hurling along the road, with the headlights spraying out before him. He had been dying for a long time — ever since he had stuck up that store and gone to reform school. That ten dollars he had lifted from his old man’s till and a lot of things in between — little things at first, but growing bigger each time. Only never so big as this. Tyres sang under him, as he swung around a bend in the road.

Yes, look at yourself, Johnny Martin. You don’t need any mirror to see yourself now.

A figure came out of the shadows, as he braked. It was Rusty — Rusty coming over to the car — Rusty saying, “I got to give you credit, Johnny. It’s a beaut.” And then Johnny finding himself saying, “You were right the first time. I’m so chicken.”

Rusty had a hand on the car door. He sucked in a deep breath. “What d’ya mean? So chicken?”

Johnny was surprised how easy it was to answer. He felt sure of himself, with all the confusion washed away. “Just that I’m taking the car back where I got it.”

He heard the sudden wrench of metal, and then Rusty had the door open and his hand flashed out, stinging the side of Johnny’s face.

“Oh, no, not this time!” Rusty said. His voice was low and menacing. “Not after you fooled around with my woman. Besides, I need the dough.”

Johnny swallowed hard. His head was ringing from the blow. He bent forward, trying to get the motor started.

But Rusty slammed him hard against the side of the car. He knew a sudden fear that brought a cramp to his stomach. He remembered, with stunning vividness, the time Rusty had given Joe Levis a going over. The way the blood had looked, smeared over Joe’s face, as he lay crumpled on the sidewalk afterwards. Joe had gone to the hospital. He had been Rusty’s boy ever since. It could happen the same way to him.

Rusty had grabbed his shoulders, was pulling him across the seat, out from behind the wheel. Johnny tried to tear himself away.

“You no-good punk!” Rusty said between tight teeth.

Johnny doubled up a knee, straightened his leg, jamming it at Rusty. Rusty grunted and tugged at him. Johnny felt himself slide over smooth leather. He went down, sprawling, beside the car, banging his head against the pavement.

He struggled to his feet, a blazing light bursting inside his skull, a kind of crazy madness flooding through him, so that he didn’t care what happened to himself, as long as he showed Rusty he had meant what he said.

He jerked his body sideways, just as Rusty drove a fist at him again. Bone crunched sickeningly against metal. He heard Rusty cry out, saw him back off, bring up his battered fist and shake it, as if he was trying to understand what had happened.

“‘Let’s call it quits,” Johnny said. “You hurt your hand.”

For reply, Rusty cursed thickly. He charged Johnny like a wounded bull.

They were trading blows, then, the two of them — smashing, harm mering blows that tore flesh and bruised muscles.

He jammed his teeth together and lashed out, knowing now a desperate urgency, because he couldn’t last much longer. He thought Rusty was tiring. He knew his raw knuckles connected, ah though he felt nothing. The impact sent him staggering back. The convertible broke his fall. He stood leaning against the car, panting, hearing the soft thud as Rusty’s body crumped against the pavement. He thought, There lies the old Johnny Martin — beaten, finished, out like a light.

He said, “So long, Rusty. It had to be this way.”

They sat in the parked convertible, he and Lois. Out over the water, the clouds had disappeared, and a rising moon was making the whitecaps glisten.

“Johnny,” she said after a while, “I had a feeling you’d be back.”

He didn’t say anything. He rubbed a hand over his swollen jaw. He must look a mess. But he didn’t care. He’d break that mirror when he got home. It didn’t show him what was important — what sort of a guy he was inside.

Then he said, “Still scared of me?”

“Not any more.”

“Even after what I did?”

“If you hadn’t tried,” she told him, “you wouldn’t even be worth my contempt. You came close, Johnny — closer than you knew. But you aren’t anything — you aren’t even weak enough! Shall I drive you to the subway?”

It was the slap of courtesy that got him. She was right — he was nothing, going nowhere. On impulse, he got out of the car. He said, “No, thanks, I’m sorry.”

Wherever he was going, he was going to have to walk.