The Big Heat

Chapter 18

Stone entered his apartment at eleven o’clock that night. He switched on the overhead lights, all the floor lamps, and then shouted for Alex. The room was cold, he thought, rubbing his hands together and pacing restlessly.

Alex came hurrying in, and Stone laughed at the look in his face. “‘Well, what’s wrong with you,” he said, taking a queer pleasure from the man’s fear.

“Nothing, nothing, Max. It’s just — just that everything’s up in the air.”

“That’s a lot of Sunday School talk in the Hall,” Stone said. He had spent the day winding up a few deals, and making arrangements to transfer his cash assets to banks in Detroit, Chicago and Los Angeles. It had been one nightmare after another all day long; Lagana’s death coming right after Deery’s statement had been a terrible jolt. Everything was slipping: Lagana was dead, and Cranston had the city in his hands.

“I want a drink, a double Scotch,” he told Alex. ‘Then pack me a bag and take it down to the car. Well, get going, damn it.”

Stone felt better after the drink. He checked his plane tickets, his cash and the gun in the pocket of his overcoat. This was the time for a vacation, a nice, long one. After about six months of sun, say, he could come back and knock down any indictments or warrants that had been issued for him or his friends. Art Keene was staying; he was a damn fool. Keene thought the heat would be off in a week, but Stone knew otherwise; this was the big blast and it was going to stick for a while.

Alex came in and told him the bag was down in the car.

“Good,” Stone said. “Now listen: I’m taking a plane trip. I’ll leave the ear at the field, in the parking lot with the keys in the glove compartment. You pick it up tomorrow morning. Give it to Jerry at the garage, and tell him to put it on blocks. If anybody wants me you tell ’em I went up to Maine to do some fishing. Got all that?”

“Sure, Max, sure. Am I supposed to know when you’re coming back?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back next week.”

“This trouble is bad, isn’t it?”

“Stop stewing. It will be over in a month.”

“But everybody’s scared, Max. Judge McGraw killed himself, I read.”

“He was always a weak sister. Do I look scared?” Stone laughed at Alex. “Take a drink and warm up, for God’s sake: So long, I’ll see you next week.”

He took the service elevator down to the garage. He unwrapped a cigar, and lit it, listening to the steady, reassuring hum of the elevator cables. He was relieved to be on his way.

The elevator came to rest with a soft jar. Stone let himself out and snapped on the lights in the garage. He walked to the corrugated iron doors, punched a wall button, and watched them roll smoothly up and out of the way. It was a cold night, with a light rain falling. Stone glanced up at the sky. It was probably okay for flying, he thought.

He turned back into the garage and his heart gave a sudden, uneven lurch.

There was a man standing beside his car, a huge man in a wet trenchcoat, a man with a pale, tired, merciless face. It was Bannion, Stone saw, and slowly, casually, he let his hands slip into the slash pocket of his coat.

“Taking a trip, eh?” Bannion said.

“Anything wrong with that?”

“It may disappoint Inspector Cranston. He’s thinking about arresting you next month, or maybe it’s next year. Depends on how long it will take to do it legally.”

“I don’t make plans that far in advance,” Stone said. “If he’s going to arrest me let him do it tonight.” His hand touched the gun in his pocket. He must slip his fingers around the butt, get one over the trigger, bring the muzzle up and shoot through his coat — without letting Bannion see what was coming. Stone wet his lips. He had eaten hurriedly today and had drunk a lot, and his stomach was burning painfully. He could taste the last drink he’d had, and, underneath that, something else, something dry and harsh and cold.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bannion said. “I can’t wait for Cranston to make it legal. I don’t make plans that far in advance either.”

Stone wet his lips, tasting again the cold, dry harshness beneath the last drink. “You’re making a mistake, Bannion,” he said, and his hand closed over the gun in his pocket.

Bannion laughed. “All right, you’ve got the gun in your hand now, Stone. Go ahead and shoot. Think of my wife while you’re shooting.”

“You sonofabitch,” Stone shouted, and twisted the gun up to cover Bannion. “Now you get yours.”

“I’m waiting,” Bannion said.

Stone backed slowly into the alley, wetting his lips, moving his legs with great effort, and trying desperately to close his finger down against the trigger. Something was welling in him, washing away his strength; he heard his stomach churning, and felt fear running like an electric current through his arms and legs. Sweat broke out on his face. “I’ll kill you,” he shouted, but his voice was pitifully weak in his ears. The wind seemed to tear it from his mouth and carry it away down the dark alley. Bannion was coming toward him slowly. He saw the overhead light in the garage touch the detective’s cold, hard face, and heard his footsteps strike the concrete with a deliberate, measured tread.

“No, you aren’t killing anybody else,” Bannion said.

“Don’t come any closer,” Stone shouted. “I’ve got guys to take care of you. I’ll put in a call. I’ll turn on the heat, you stinking cop.”

Bannion laughed.

Another voice said calmly, “Get your hands out of your pockets, Stone. You’re under arrest.”

Bannion moved swiftly to one side, and a gun appeared almost magically in his hands. Stone wheeled to the new voice, and a little cry of terror broke from his lips. He saw a shadowy figure at the side of the garage, and the blur of a lean, pale face. Suddenly his strength returned; this was just another cop, a fifty-dollar-a-week slob, a chump to be jerked around on the end of a string. He almost sobbed with relief. This was a thing he could handle; this wasn’t Bannion.

“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.