The Company Man

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Garvey and Samantha sat next to each other on the cot, the stolen files laid on the ground, neatly organized into the most important parts. As the wild night had raged on out in the rest of the city they had both been far too restless to sleep. Garvey had found a small bottle of gin in the desk, no doubt squirreled away there by Hayes for his dry spells, and they’d sipped it while they waited for the wailing and the fire to die down. Now in the early reaches of the morning the drink wore off, and though the smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air and there was still the odd scream out in the streets Garvey figured it was now or never.

Samantha had laid out his suit the night before. She had not been sure why, though she had claimed it was to keep it from getting wrinkled. It had just seemed like something to do, something to occupy her mind, and she’d been grateful to have a task to focus on. She now helped Garvey get dressed in the bleak bunker-light of the safe house, still gray and drained even though the sun had finally come out.

When he was dressed Garvey picked up his pistol and walked to the back of the room to check it, as if it were a shameful act he’d prefer she not see. She heard him opening it, closing it, then opening it and spinning the cylinder. When he turned around it was gone, secreted away, and there was just a worried-looking man in a suit standing there.

“All right,” he said.

She gave him the briefcase and he walked to the door and stood there with one hand on the knob. She found she did not like the way he looked in that moment. It was as if he could have been someone else, just some random stranger. She asked what he would do if no one believed him. He said he had friends, friends in the state and federal offices. He told her she could catch a charge from this, being as she’d stolen from her employer. She shrugged. The world of courts and charges and offices seemed far away in the wake of disaster.

Then he turned around and looked at her, wry and weary, and suddenly he was hers again. They embraced. With his free hand he opened the door and let a sliver of light in.

“Stay here,” he said. “Stay here, damn you. Until I get back. It may be hours, maybe days, I don’t know. But stay.”

“I will,” she said.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and he walked out the door and up the brightly lit path of the canal.

Outside it was warm, warmer than he remembered its being in a long time. Garvey shaded his eyes and looked up at the sun and then took off his coat and draped it over one arm. Smiling slightly, he turned and walked up through the canal and onto Broad Street, headed toward a cabbie station, briefcase in hand.

It seemed as though in the wake of the fire the whole city had changed. It was some taste in the air, some relief that came washing up into the streets as the disaster subsided. People gabbled and spoke on the sidewalks, leaning in close to share news, sometimes embracing each other, stunned to find they all still lived.

He took a cab close to Evesden Central, but road repair had blocked off most of the main routes and he had to get out and walk the last four blocks. All traffic, both pedestrian and vehicle, was being directed down one single alley. Usually it would cause a backup, but these areas seemed deserted. No one wanted to be downtown today, or anywhere near any building of importance. Who knew when the union men would strike again?

He turned down a small lane, tapping his briefcase against his side. He walked along the narrow path of sunlight, trying to gather its heat onto his shoulders. Then he heard muttering. He looked up ahead and saw two men sitting before a shop, playing dice. He frowned at the strangeness of it but continued on.

When he heard the first pop he immediately recognized it as gunfire before he even felt the pain in his side. A little pop, just a . 22, barely noticeable to the ear, and his side lit up. He slapped his ribs as if he had been bitten and his hand came away dark red.

More pops. He wheeled awkwardly around and looked behind and saw a man leaning up against a wall to steady his aim, his gun trained on Garvey’s back. He squeezed off another round and Garvey heard something crack by over his head. Garvey turned and started forward, but then the two men playing dice stood and reached into their coats and he knew then he’d fallen into a trap. He skidded to a stop and ran down an alley beside, still clutching his briefcase.

He felt warmth running down his side and into his pants. It had gone in deep and since it was a. 22 he knew it was still in him somewhere. He reached for his gun and tugged it out of its holster, nearly dropping it as he did so. He cocked it and ran on.

He heard shouting. Echoing from somewhere near, someone calling, “He went in here! In here!”

Garvey kept running. He was limping now and he was not sure why until he looked at his thigh and saw he had been hit there as well. He could not remember when, could not remember how many shots had been fired. He stopped and ducked into a doorway, then leaned up along the side and waited. When he saw the man dash into view he began firing right away, wild shots. One took the man in the belly and he stumbled, his face stupid and surprised. Then Garvey abandoned his roost and ran on.

The alley turned ahead and somehow he knew his leg could not make the turn, so he gripped the wall and slid around the corner. He heard more pops from behind him and his right hand lit up with pain. He looked at it as he ran and saw the bone exposed and blood oozing from the side of his palm. He stared at it, amazed. As if it were some marvel or miracle. The blood ran down and pooled in his palm and he tried to move the gun to the hand with his briefcase but it clattered to the ground. He limped on, abandoning it, reeling and breathless.

He got onto a main street and staggered by a barber shop. A woman inside saw him and screamed and a man shouted to get back, get back. There was a crowd of children down the sidewalk, watching him solemnly. A woman shrieked and rushed down the front steps of her house and grabbed them and pulled them inside.

“Help me,” Garvey said as he ran. “For God’s sake, someone help me.”

He heard another pop. He looked behind as he limped and saw two of the men on the street behind him, aiming carefully. He tried to find cover behind a doorway but as he moved his right shoulder erupted in pain and he stumbled forward. There was another pop and his ankle screamed. He began crawling away on all fours, trying to reach the gutter to hide behind the trash pails lined up there. He moved through them with shaking, clumsy hands and the pails tumbled over, spilling papers onto the sidewalk. He tried to pull them up over himself to hide among the piles. His blood brilliant red on their white surface, like blood on mountain snow.

He heard them running toward him but somehow his mind did not register it. They stumbled around the doorway, guns firing wildly, randomly. He knew they had hit him in the chest and stomach, felt ice dripping through his rib cage and fire along his pelvis. He stopped moving. Held the briefcase to his chest and lay there gasping. The two men stood looking at him. As if they were uncertain of what they were seeing, or none of this could be real.

Garvey tried to say no. Tried to but did not have the breath or the strength. Then one of the men walked forward and put his gun against Garvey’s cheek and pulled the trigger. His head snapped back and he slumped to the side and lay still.

The two men stared at him. A man came out of the doorway across the street and looked at the body.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s him.”

Bells began ringing not far away. The three of them looked in the direction passively. One of them stooped and picked up the briefcase. “We’d better go,” he said.

Then they walked in different directions without looking back.