Runaway (11 page)

He sat with his back against the cabin of the boat, and he listened to the lapping of the water in the stern, and the creeking of the wood, and the city noises in the distance. He started at every sound, and his eyes pierced the darkness, wary, afraid.

He thought he heard a rat once, and he leaped to his feet, only to discover it was a loose piece of canvas flapping against the cabin top.

He did not sleep that night.

Nine

It was morning in Harlem, morning on the day after Luis Ortega was shot to death with a zip gun. A foggy mist clung to the roofs of the tenements, spread its gray tentacles over concrete and brick, swirled around the television antennas and the back-yard clotheslines.

For Johnny there was a vast nothingness of gray fog that smothered the boat and the river and the riverbank, that smothered everything the day held for him. Somewhere in that gray fog was the man who'd killed Luis Ortega, and somewhere out there were the cops, too, but the cops were looking for Johnny and not the man who'd really done the job. He'd sat awake all night, and his body was stiff now, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He did not want to leave the boat, and yet he sensed the boat would not be safe during the daylight hours. He had to leave the boat, but he felt too weary to make it to the street, and he wondered if he would simply collapse, making the job nice and easy for the cops.

He was hungry again, too, and his arm was beginning to pain him, a dull sort of pain that gnawed at his elbow. He needed help, and he couldn't go to Barney Knowles again, not after the trouble he'd caused last night, but neither could he walk the streets, because he would most certainly collapse.

He didn't want to go to his own place because the cops would be there sure as hell, and he didn't want Molly to get in trouble. You shouldn't go around getting your own sister in trouble, not when she was the one who raised you.

There must be a lot of places I can go, he thought. I'm not the first guy who was ever hunted, and I won't be the last guy. They hole up somewhere, I know that, but where? There are a lot of places, and I
know
there are a lot of places, but I can't think of any offhand. If I
had
murdered Luis, I'd have picked out a spot to hide beforehand, but I didn't murder Luis, and so I didn't think that far ahead.

Someone murdered Luis, and I should be out looking for him, but how can I look for him when everybody else is looking for me?

Now we're thinking clearly, he told himself. Now we have the world where the hair is short. All I have to do is find the killer before the police find me. That's simple.

Except I'm tired, I'm so goddamn tired. Why'd they have to tell me about the rats? Why couldn't they have kept their fat mouths shut? I'd have slept if I hadn't known. Sure, and then I'd have had my throat ripped out in my sleep.

The thought chilled him. He shuddered, and then climbed wearily out of the boat and began climbing the embankment.

I've got to try Cindy again, he thought. Maybe the cops got tired and went home. Besides, what is she thinking by now? Hell, she gave me a key and I never used it. She probably thinks I'm lying dead in some gutter. I've got to get to Cindy's.

He was glad to be doing something again, glad to have set a goal for himself. As he walked, he felt the stiffness leave his body, but the fuzziness was still inside his head, and he knew he had to get some sleep soon. He could get sleep at Cindy's. He could sleep curled up in her arms.

He thought of Cindy, and he walked steadily toward her apartment, keeping the collar of his coat turned up against the fog. He was glad for the fog now. The fog hid him, and he wanted to be hidden. If only his arm didn't hurt so much, and if only he weren't so sleepy, if only he'd had a little more to eat, if only he knew who'd killed Luis.

When he reached her street, he looked down it quickly. There was no squad car in sight. That didn't mean anything, of course. The cops might be hiding out in a building across the street, just waiting for him to show. Well, he'd have to chance that. If they wanted him that bad, if they wanted him bad enough to stop him from getting the sleep he needed, well, they could have him. He was getting tired of all this running, anyway. How long can you run without getting tired?

He walked down the street, his head low, his hands in his pockets. When he reached her building, he did not turn to look over his shoulder. He went up onto the stoop and then into the hallway, and then up the steps to the fourth floor without once looking behind him.

He walked directly to Apartment 42, fished the key out of his pocket, and was inserting it into the lock when Cindy's voice came from behind the door, startled.

“Who is it?”

“It's me,” he whispered. “Johnny.”

He heard the rustle of bedclothes behind the door, and he twisted the key and pushed the door open, stepping inside and locking it quickly behind him. He saw her long legs as she stepped out of bed, and then she was running toward him, wearing a pajama top buttoned to the throat, looking very much like a little girl except for the firm outlines of her breasts beneath the pajama top, and the long curves of her legs.

She threw herself into his arms, and he held her close, leaning against the door, feeling the warmth of her against him.

“Johnny, Johnny, I was so worried!”

“It's all right,” he said, soothing her, his palms open flat against her back. He could feel the smoothness of her skin beneath the pajama top. She sucked in a deep breath that caught in her throat, and he felt the tremor that passed through her body. She pulled away from him suddenly, holding him at arm's length, looking up into his face. She wore no make-up, and the light passing through the drawn window shade put a pale yellow tint onto her face. Her eyes were clear, and she parted her lips slightly as she studied his face.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm sleepy,” he said.

“Your arm. Is it all right?”

“It's all right. It hurts, but it's not bleeding any more.”

“I'll give you a bandage.”

“It has a bandage.”

“A fresh one,” she said. Her voice was edged with sleep, and they both whispered unconsciously, he too tired to use a full voice, and she talking with the muted voice of someone who'd just come from a warm bed. “Take off your coat, darling.”

He took off the coat, wincing when it slid off his right arm.

“Does it hurt bad?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. Well, not too bad.”

“Come on. Lie down.”

She led him to the bed, and he flopped onto it, feeling the warm sheet beneath him, and under that the softness of the mattress.

“This is good,” he said, sighing.

“What happened last night?” she asked. She walked to the bathroom, and he watched the loose pajama top flap idly above her legs, just covering the curve of her buttocks.

“Cops here,” he said. “Downstairs.”

“Here?” she asked, rummaging through the medicine chest.

“Mmm. Downstairs.”

“They weren't here when I came home. Johnny, I was worried to death. I didn't know what to think.”

“I stayed in a boat on the river. Some of Barney's friends took me there.”

“Barney Knowles?”

“Yes.”

She came back into the room with a roll of gauze and a bottle of iodine. She put down her medicine and bandage, and then fluffed up the pillows behind him. Quickly she began unbuttoning his shirt. When she pulled the sleeve from his right arm, he opened his mouth in pain.

“I'm sorry, darling,” she said.

“It just hurt for a minute. The cloth was stuck.”

She unwrapped the bandage from his arm, and when she saw the cut she blanched for a second.

“Johnny, I … I think we should get a doctor.”

“No,” he said.

“Your arm …”

“No doctor. Honey, we can't take the chance.”

She bit her lip and nodded, and then she opened the bottle of iodine and poured a little of it into the cut.

An “Agh-agh-agh-agh” sound rushed from Johnny's open mouth as the iodine began to sting. Cindy poured it into the cut more freely now, and then she began bandaging the arm again. He felt the gauze tighten there, and he began to feel a little better. The pillows were very soft, very, very soft.

“I want to sleep in your arms,” he said.

“All right,” she answered.

“Do you mind?”

“No,” she said softly.

“I know it's crazy, but that's what I want. Can you understand, Cindy?”

“I understand.”

“Cindy, why do you work in that club? Cindy, I wish you wouldn't, I mean it.”

“Yes, darling,” she said.

His eyes were beginning to close, and he fought to keep them open. She pulled off his trousers, and then pulled the blanket to his neck.

“Cindy, really, I wish you wouldn't work at the club.”

“We'll see, darling,” she said.

She climbed in beside him and said, “Lift your head a little, darling.”

He lifted his head and her arm slid beneath his neck. With her other hand she tilted his head down until it rested in the hollow of her shoulder, her sloping breast soft against his cheek.

“Now sleep,” she said. “Sleep, Johnny. Everything's going to be all right.”

“Suppose the cops—”

“Never mind the cops. Just sleep, baby.” She began stroking his hair with her fingers, and he felt the length of her body against his, warm, supple.

He tilted his head up and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him with her eyes open, looking at his face as it came closer to hers.

Then his head was on her breast again, and she heard his heavy breathing become slow and even, and she knew he was asleep. She kissed him on the forehead and held him close.

“Looks like the sun's trying to come out,” the patrolman said.

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

The patrolman had time to kill. He didn't have to call in yet, and there'd been no activity this morning. Probably half of Harlem was still in bed.

“There's nothing like a dreary day in Harlem,” he expanded. “Why is it that nothing can get as dreary as a dreary day in Harlem?”

“Well, I don't know.”

“That's the trouble with you people,” the patrolman said, “you don't know nothing.”

He pulled a sour face and leaned against the counter.

“If I lived in Harlem, you can bet your ass I'd know all about it. Why, I'll bet right now, not even living here, just working here, I know more about Harlem than three-fourths of the Nigras in it.”

“That may be so.”

“Damn tootin' it's so. I can give you the location of every whore house and every drop. I know where all the shooting galleries are, and I can give you the names of everybody in Harlem pushing dope.” The patrolman nodded his head solemnly.

“If you know all this, why don't the police clean it up?”

“I can see you don't know nothing about the way we operate.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I don't.”

“The point is to keep it all out in the open,” the patrolman said. “This way we know where it all is, and we can crack down whenever we like. If we raided one whore house now, all the rest would go underground. Then where would we be?”

“Well, what's the difference? I mean, if you know where they are and don't crack down, they might just as well be underground.”

“You just don't understand,” the patrolman said. “This is politics.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Now, don't go getting ideas. I don't mean graft. I mean we work a kind of politics in Harlem, you understand?”

“A little.”

“What's the sense talking to you? You just don't understand.” The patrolman wiped a beefy hand over his face and then looked through the plate-glass window. “Yep, the sun
is
coming out. Happy day.”

“It
was
pretty gray.”

“Pretty gray is putting it mild. You could cut that fog with a razor.” The patrolman paused. “You carry a razor?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“That's a funny question to ask. Why should I carry a razor?”

“How should I know? Why does every other Nigra in Harlem carry a razor?”

“Well, I don't know if that's true or not.”

“That's what I mean,” the patrolman said. “You live right here, and you don't know what the hell's going on right under your nose. Every Nigra carries a razor.”

“I don't.”

“Then you're the exception that proves the rule,” the patrolman said righteously.

“You've got a pretty stereotyped picture of the Negro, I'd say.”

“A pretty
what
picture?”

“Never mind.”

The patrolman toyed with some of the items on the counter. “You mean you think the folks in Harlem
don't
carry razors, is that it?”

“Some do, I imagine. But just as many don't.”

“They're crazy if they don't,” the patrolman said. “You never know when you're gonna get killed in Harlem. Knifed or razored or zip-gunned or what the hell. You should know that, you live here.”

“I've never had any trouble.”

“That's what they all say until they feel that knife in their ribs.” The patrolman nodded sourly. “Look what happened to that sonovabitch Ortega. There's one guy who thought he was riding high. So what happens? Bam, with a zip gun. He ain't riding high no more, he sure ain't.”

“Luis wasn't exactly what I'd call an average citizen.”

“There ain't no average citizen. What the hell are you doing, selling statistics? Luis the Spic was like everybody else in Harlem, no more, no less.”

“I don't think—”

“He,” the patrolman said, raising his voice, “thought he knew all the angles. Only angle he didn't figure was the trajectory of a bullet, and that's a curve.” The patrolman laughed suddenly. “Well, serves the bastard right. I'm almost sorry they got the guy who done it.”