High Midnight: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Six) (18 page)

“Let’s call it a workout,” I said, dropping my hands. Hemingway popped me in the face, not too hard, but not too friendly. If it was going to be the end, he was going to have the last whack, just as he probably insisted on having the last word. I threw a hard right at his stomach and came back with a left to his mouth. Blood welled around one of his upper teeth.

“That’s enough,” said Cooper, but Hemingway was happy now. This was real. This was earnest for Ernest. I let him hit me with a solid right to the side of the head, hoping it would satisfy him, but it didn’t. He followed with a pair to my chest and a left to my head. The gloves were light and the punches hurt. I felt like reminding Hemingway that we were on the same side.

Hemingway had everything on his side, but I had a singular advantage. It was the one thing that probably made me a reasonable detective and a pain in the ass to have around. I just didn’t give up. Hemingway continued to pop at my head, sending me back over the chair. I came up and went for him. For every five punches he gave me, I gave him one, but I was sure mine hurt. I went for the kidneys and the stomach. I got in a good rabbit punch when he ducked down.

“You crazy bastard,” he said, unsure of whether to laugh or get angry. “There are rules to this game.”

“This isn’t a game,” I said and went for him again. I thought I was Henry Armstrong. I probably looked like a bad imitation of an irate Donald Duck, but it was wearing Hemingway down. I doubted if he had ever been in a real use-what-you-can battle. Hell, I had been in one the day before. Pain was part of the job. For Hemingway, pain was something you learned to endure. You even enjoyed it. At least that’s what he said in his books. I’d lied. I’d read more than one of them.

Hemingway began to pant and lower his guard.

“We’ll call it a draw,” he said.

“You call it what you like,” I answered, putting the right glove between my legs to pull it off. “I call it a bunch of horseshit.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, with each of us taking turns at the window. Eventually Hemingway began to ask me questions about being a private detective and a cop. He listened like no one I had ever met. His eyes told me that his mind was registering everything, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being converted into a character for future use.

By dinner time we were so bored that we said the hell with watching the window for a few minutes and all pitched in to cook the roast Cooper had brought with him. Dinner was better than lunch, and Hemingway was mellow. We shared sad stories about former wives who misunderstood us, and were on the way to being besieged buddies. After dinner Cooper took apart and reassembled his rifle.

“Knows a hell of a lot about guns,” Hemingway said, nodding at Cooper, “but not about how to shoot them.”

“Maybe so,” agreed Cooper, “but I’ll outshoot you blindfolded.”

Since I knew I couldn’t shoot at all and had proven it as a cop and a detective, I let them rattle on and turned them off. They decided to test their abilities in an evening hunt. I suggested that they put it off till the morning to be sure I wasn’t followed, but they would have no part of such cowardice. Out they went, rifles in hand. Castelli stayed behind, and I followed the pair further up the hill. The sun was setting but still had maybe an hour to go.

“Watch for rattlers,” Cooper warned, taking long strides with his eyes on the ground.

I watched and followed them to the top of the hill, where they or someone had dug out a little pit to sit in. On the other side of the pit was a clearing for about seventy yards, and then woods.

Cooper settled in and pointed to the clearing.

“Water hole just beyond the trees,” he whispered. “Pigs sometimes stick their snouts into the clearing.”

“One hundred a pig,” said Hemingway. Cooper agreed, and I checked my holster and .38, which could surely not kill a pig at fifty yards. We sat waiting with the mosquitoes and the calls of birds. Something that might have been a grunt sounded in the trees, and both Hemingway and Cooper sat up.

“How’ll you know which one killed the pig?” I said.

“Dig out the bullet,” Hemingway whispered. “Quiet.”

Both men raised their rifles, and a miracle happened. The pigs shot first. A bullet dug up ground in front of the pit and a second one buzzed over our heads.

“Get down,” I said, and both men ducked into the pit.

“They found us,” said Cooper.

“Who?” said Hemingway. “The ones after you or the ones after Luís?”

“Got us nailed down,” said Cooper through clenched teeth.

“We have the high ground,” said Hemingway. “We can wait till dark and …”

“We have to get the hell out of here,” I said. “It’s as simple as that. We’ve got to get behind them, or they’re going to keep us on this hill till they kill us. Do you have a phone in that cabin?”

“No,” said Cooper.

“Is there some nice safe way down where someone can’t hide and wait for us?” I asked.

“No,” said Cooper.

“See my point?” I said. “One of you can stay up here and keep them busy. The other one can come with me and go around behind them.”

“Right,” agreed Cooper. “I couldn’t make it down behind them without making a lot of noise, not with my back and hearing. I’ll stay up here and keep them busy.”

“I think I’d better stay here,” said Hemingway. “My leg would slow you up.”

I looked at both of them, and they looked back at me. Good-bye was in their eyes. It was my job and welcome to it, but there weren’t going to be any words.

“Hell,” said Cooper after a long pause and another bullet from the woods. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” I said, rolling over the side of the hill, away from the woods. Hasn’t every private detective stalked killers in woods infested with wild pigs and rattlesnakes? This wasn’t my jungle, but I was stuck with it.

The sun went down on one side of the hill and I went down the other. I got to the bottom before the sun. My feet had picked up about twenty pounds each and were taking on ounces fast as I made my way around the hill, trying to look for snakes and at the same time not be killed by hidden Fascists or some combination of Fargo, Gelhorn, Bowie and Lombardi, a firm with which I wanted no further business.

CHAPTER TEN

W
hat the hell are you doing this for?” I asked myself as I slid down the last few feet of hill drenched in sweat. I’m not sure I asked the question to myself. Hysteria was a real possibility, and I may have been talking aloud in spite of the potential danger, but it was a good question and one I couldn’t answer.

I sat in a hole at the edge of the woods, panting. Nature had etched on me, using twigs, branches and rocks. A shot from the woods tore into the hills a few feet below the pit where Cooper and Hemingway were holding fort. One of them responded with a shot that came closer to hitting me than any enemy in the woods.

When I could breathe without making as much noise as the MGM lion, I ambled forward through the trees and bushes in a crouch with my trusty .38 in hand. When I hit a small murky clearing, a rifle bullet spat into a tree nearby and a voice shouted, “Stop there.”

Part of the mystery was now settled. It wasn’t a team of Fascists after Castelli. It was Max Gelhorn.

“Gelhorn,” I shouted, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You know damn well what we’re doing,” he answered. “We’re going to shoot Gary Cooper.”

“And me too?”

“Yes,” shouted Gelhorn.

“And the two others with us?” I went on, trying to see where his voice was coming from.

Apparently he didn’t know that there were four of us. I could hear him conferring with someone before he answered, “Yes. It’s too late for anything else.”

“I see,” I said, moving behind a large rock and resting my pistol on it for support. “Since you’ve already killed, it doesn’t matter how many more you do in.”

“We haven’t killed anybody,” came Mickey Fargo’s voice.

I could make out the two figures now behind a clump of bushes no more than forty yards away.

“It’s kill or be killed,” shouted Gelhorn. “Since I can’t deliver Cooper and Lombardi insists on him, it’s all I can do. You pointed that out.”

I hoped our voices weren’t carrying up the hill. My best tactic in case they were was to change the subject.

“Maybe we can nail Lombardi for the murders and get him off your back?” I said.

“No,” cried Gelhorn, taking a shot in my general direction that came no closer to me than twenty yards. “Don’t try to reason with me,” Gelhorn screamed in anger. “This isn’t a reasonable situation. This is a desperate situation.”

To prove it a few more shots whistled in my general direction. Realizing that time was surely no longer on their side, Gelhorn and Fargo began to move forward in the bizarre belief that they were being hidden by shadows or trees or magic.

“Why not,” I told myself and stepped out from behind the rock. Fargo was the first to spot me. He fired. The bullet hit about midway between us in the clearing.

“That’s enough,” I shouted with as much authority as I could muster. I raised my .38, aimed at Gelhorn’s chest, knowing I’d be sick if I hit him, and fired. There was a scream and Tall Mickey Fargo, who had been standing five yards to Gelhorn’s side, went down.

“I’m shot,” he yelled. “Oooch. My leg. You crazy bastard. You shot me.”

“You’re lucky I decided not to shoot to kill,” I lied. “The next one goes between your eyes, Gelhorn.”

The two had obviously thought that their rifles were at a distinct advantage over my .38, but my fortunate shot had given them pause. The trick now was to keep from shooting again and let them know what a rotten shot I really was.

Gelhorn dived behind a tree, and Mickey hobbled to another one, still screaming ouch and calling me a crazy bastard.

“You’re trying to kill me, and I’m a crazy bastard,” I laughed.

“I’m shot,” Fargo called back.

“That was the general idea,” I said.

Gelhorn unleashed four shots, none of which put me in any danger. Mickey regained enough courage in spite of his knee to take a shot up the hill and one at me. His wound had improved his aim but not enough to make anyone worry. It would probably have been safe to charge right at them, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there. Would I really be able to shoot them if they didn’t give up?

As the sun dropped over the hill, the problem was settled for me. At first I thought a wild pig had wandered into the battle. There was a sound like a squeal from the hilltop. My second thought was that we had awakened some historical ghost who was going berserk over our inept battle. A figure came over the hill a few yards from where Cooper and Hemingway were holed up. The figure came shouting down the hill with the sun blazing at its back. Held high in its right hand was the ax that had been imbedded in the log outside of the cabin.

“What the hell is that?” shrieked Gelhorn.

The madly charging figure was now close enough for me to see that it was Luís Felípe Castelli. He was shouting in rage as he charged toward the woods where Gelhorn was standing and Fargo kneeling, transfixed. Castelli was shouting in rapid semi-hysterical Spanish, and I could catch only a few words, one of which was certainly “Fascisti.”

Gelhorn and Fargo both took shots at Castelli but probably came closer to shooting themselves than him. Gelhorn turned to run from this lunatic attack and almost dropped his rifle. Fargo yelped like a stepped-on dog and tried to hobble away as Castelli came crashing through the bushes and trees, swinging the ax.

I holstered my gun and tried to run to beat Castelli to the two terrified would-be killers, but my legs were heavy and tired.

“Luís,” I shouted, “don’t. They are not Fascists.” But I might as well have been talking to a movie. Castelli continued the charge. I got to him as he leaped over a bush, landed in front of Mickey Fargo and raised the ax with a look of glee, ready to split the fat former cowboy into shank steaks. Fargo covered his head with his arms and moaned, “No.” I caught Castelli around the waist and went down with him, rolling over.

“Luís,” I said, trying to keep him from chopping my head off. “It’s me, Toby Peters.
Cuidado. Basta. Por favor. No están Fascisti.
” He was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked, and if I didn’t get through to him, I was sure he’d break away and start swinging, but apparently something I said or the sight of Tall Mickey convinced him.

“
Está bien
,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

I patted him on the shoulder and rolled away. Hemingway and Cooper were making their way down the hill, weapons at the ready. I lay there for about twenty seconds, catching my breath, while Luís rose and walked over to Fargo, who had thrown his gun away.

When Cooper and Hemingway stumbled into the clearing, I got to my knees.

“Mickey,” said Cooper, recognizing the fallen figure clutching the wounded leg.

“Get him back to Los Angeles,” I ordered, getting to my feet. “Call Lieutenant Pevsner in Homicide at the Wilshire district. Give him to Pevsner and Pevsner only, and tell Pevsner I’ll bring in Tillman’s killer by tomorrow.”