Runaway (7 page)

He found himself crying. He had not cried since he was thirteen and Molly found him with a girl in the apartment. He wasn't doing anything with the girl, even, oh, maybe a little feel, she was only a kid, too. But Molly had popped in, and the girl—he couldn't even remember her name—had tried to button up her blouse, and he could remember her long, thin fingers fumbling with the buttons now, and her small breasts quivering. And Molly had started screaming and chased the girl out, and then she'd beat him with a stick, and oh, Lord, he wished he had that stick now. He would kiss Molly's hands and let her beat him all she wanted if he could only have that stick now. And as he thought of the stick, and of Molly, and of that girl long ago whose name he didn't even remember, the tears came stronger, and he felt certain he was going to die now.

He almost passed the orange crate by. It was stacked alongside one of the garbage cans, and there was an oily paper bag in it, and some of the dripping from the bag had spilled over onto the bottom of the crate. He spotted the crate through blurred eyes, and he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and reached down for the box. The blood from his arm dripped in a steady tattoo on the thin wood, and he watched the way the wood absorbed the blood, the way the blood stained the wood and magically brought out its grain. He knew orange crates well. He knew how to take them apart expertly. You had to take an orange crate apart to get at the strong frame on either end of it. And you had to have those frames if you wanted to make rubber-band guns for shooting linoleum squares. He had almost blinded his best friend with a linoleum square snapped from a rubber-band gun a long time ago. The kid had moved shortly after that, up to the Bronx, but Johnny had never forgotten the time he almost blinded him.

He didn't need the hard frame of the orange crate now. All he needed was one of the slender slats, and he broke that off quickly, and then ran with it, as if he'd lifted a piece of jewelry or a purse. He found a dim hallway, and he went to the back of the building and crouched behind the steps, pulling his shirt out of his pants. He caught the material between his teeth, tasting the fabric, starting the tear. He tore it all the way with his hands then, having to tug harder where the seam was joined.

He didn't know quite where to put the tourniquet. He tried it just above the elbow, hoping to cut off the blood supply that way. He wrapped the cloth around his arm, and then he tangled it around the stick and started tightening it. He turned the stick like the handle of a vise, and he felt the pressure above his elbow, and he kept tightening, wondering if his arm would fall off when the blood stopped. He watched the stream of blood. He watched it with the careful scrutiny of a microbe hunter. It seemed to be letting up.

Yes, it was letting up. It wasn't bleeding so badly now. He held the stick tightly in his left hand, not allowing it to loosen. When the blood stopped completely, he almost started crying again. Man, he thought, this is the longest crying jag I've ever been on. But he felt a sudden peace inside him when the blood stopped, and he sighed thankfully.

Come on, blood, he thought, clot.

He held the stick for a long while, waiting for the blood to clot. He had no conception of time any more. Time was for people who had to be home for supper, for people who had to meet other people, for people who had to get up for work in the morning. He had no need for time.

When he thought the blood had clotted, he released the stick, slowly, very slowly, almost expecting the flow of blood to start again. It did not start. He tied a makeshift bandage around the wound, tearing off another piece of his shirt. He broke the stick and put half of it in his back pocket, in case he needed another tourniquet. He felt better, a whole lot better.

He'd solved one of the problems; he'd stopped the blood. Now he needed something to eat. A place to rest. An overcoat. He sure as hell needed an overcoat. He wouldn't bleed to death now, but he might very well freeze to death.

One thing at a time, he told himself. No more confusion, now. One thing at a time. Take a place to rest, something to eat, and an overcoat. Roll them all into one big ball, and what do you get? Help. He needed someone to help him. Molly? Cindy?

The cops had already questioned Cindy. Maybe she was the best bet. He'd have to try it, anyway.

He left the hallway and began scouting for a phone booth. It was funny how nobody looked at him. It was cold as a bastard, and he was walking around in his shirt sleeves, and nobody gave him a second glance. What a goddamn rotten world, he figured. Everybody so wrapped up in what they were doing, they didn't give two hoots about somebody in his shirt sleeves when it was so cold out. Well, that was to his advantage. Let them be all wrapped up in what they were doing. If they took a second look at his shirt, they'd take a second look at his arm. He didn't want that.

So how was he going to get into a phone booth without someone spotting that arm? Hell, why did everything have to be so difficult? A simple thing like making a goddamn phone call! You make a phone call by walking into a booth and dialing. You don't go around working out a strategy. That's plain stupid. Well, it may be stupid, boy, but you got to do it. Have you got a dime?

He fished into his pocket, pulling out the change there, the task made difficult because he kept his change in his right pocket, and he wasn't using his right arm at the moment. He twisted his left arm until he got the change, and then he jiggled it on his palm and studied it. Four pennies. A quarter. A fifty-cent piece. A subway token. A nickel.

No dime.

He wasn't surprised. The way things were going for him, he was lucky he had any change at all. But no dime, and that meant he'd have to make change, and that meant the risk of having the arm spotted.

Now wait a minute, don't start panicking again. Man, you're the most berserk-running cat in Harlem. Just take it easy. You think things out, and they're all easier that way. Like who says you have to get change at the cigar counter or the drug counter or whatever counter wherever you stop to make the call? Is there a law says that? Why can't you stop at one of the newsstands outside the subway? Why can't you stop there, show the newsstand keeper your left side, hell, find one run by a blind man, even? Let's start using that head, man, or we're gonna wind up behind the eight ball.

He walked to the nearest subway station, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He tucked his right hand into his pocket. He walked quickly, and he felt the cold biting at his skin. His ears were particularly cold. His ears and his feet, and when your ears and feet are cold, you feel cold all over.

The newsstand on the west side of the avenue, squatting near the subway entrance there, was closed. He cursed silently and crossed the street, a smile mushrooming onto his face when he saw that the newsstand there was open. He walked to the stand quickly. He picked up a copy of the
New York Post
, plunked down the quarter, and waited for his change. He stood with his left side toward the stand, hiding his bloody right arm. The news dealer put down two dimes on a stack of
Amsterdam Newses
. Johnny said nothing. He picked up the dimes and walked away.

There, now, wasn't that easy? The easiest, man, the very easiest. Now we find a phone booth.

A phone booth with particular advantages, though. A phone booth in a store that had two entrances, so he could slip in the back entrance without passing any cash registers or counters. Just slip in and hit the phone. Where was there a store like that? Lots of stores like that, but where exactly were they? It just took a little thinking, that's all. He thought. He walked as he thought.

Suppose he marched in through the back entrance and all the booths were occupied. That would be dandy, all right. He'd stand around with his red sleeve, and as soon as somebody spotted the sleeve, good-by, Johnny Lane.

Well, that was a chance he'd have to take. He found a cigar store on the third corner he passed. There was an entrance on the avenue and another on the side street. He glanced at the circular blue and white Bell telephone plaque set in the base of the store. Well, there was a telephone inside, at any rate. He turned the corner and walked to the glass-paned doorway. He stopped outside the doorway, trying to see the phone booths. He could see the booths, but only their sides, and he couldn't tell if they were empty or not. The back of the store was empty, though, so he'd have to make his play now if he was going to make it at all. Quickly he opened the door.

A bell over the door sounded, and he cursed these goddamn distrustful shopkeepers who put bells over every damn door. He shut the door quickly behind him, feeling the warmth of the shop, almost sighing heavily when he felt the warmth. He walked quickly to the phone booths, praying they were empty.

A thin man who looked like a bookie was in the first booth. He did not look up as Johnny passed him. He kept his mouth closed to the mouthpiece, and he talked excitedly.

A woman was in the second booth. From the stupid grin on her face, she was talking to a man.

There was one more booth. He walked to it rapidly, the fingers on his left hand crossed.

The booth was empty. He stepped into it without looking behind him, closed the door, lifted the receiver from the hook, and deposited a dime quickly. He was not used to dialing Cindy's number with his left hand. He kept the receiver in his lap while he dialed, and then he put it to his ear hastily as the phone on the other end began ringing.

Come on, Cindy, he thought. Come on, baby, pick it up.

He counted the rings. He wondered what she was doing. He could almost see her phone where it rested on the stand in her apartment. He could see it as clearly as if he were there. He could almost see the instrument vibrating as it rang. And where was Cindy? On the other side of the room, at the stove or the icebox? She was walking across the apartment now, passing the bed, closer to the night table, reaching for it now, now her voice would come on the line.

The phone kept ringing. He fidgeted nervously in the booth.

Come on, baby, come on, he pleaded. Pick the goddamn thing up.

Was she taking a bath or something? Was that why she hadn't answered yet? He kept counting the rings. He let the phone ring twenty-two times, and then he hung up. He was not so much annoyed as he was puzzled. Why the hell hadn't she …

Time.

Time was back with him again. What time was it? He opened the door of the booth and stuck his head out, looking toward the front of the shop. An electric clock hung over the doorway, and he watched the sweep hand, and then focused his eyes on the hour and minute hands.

Nine-thirty-seven.

Well, sure. Well, no wonder. She was at the club already. She was probably getting ready for the first show now. He thought of her doing her dance, and then he had to force the thought out of his mind. She was at the club. If you're at the club, you can't answer the phone in your apartment.

Well, that let Cindy out. For the time being, anyway. But he still needed a coat, and he was hungry as hell. Just thinking of the coat made him feel cold again, and he wanted to stay in the warmth of the telephone booth forever. No, he couldn't do that. He had to get out of there soon, and that meant bucking the winds outside again. It wouldn't be so bad if he could put down a hot cup of java, but how could he walk into a restaurant with his arm looking the way it did?

He didn't want to chance going back to his own place. The cops would surely be watching there, and besides, he didn't want to get Molly in hot water. He began running through the list of people he knew, and the third person he came up with was Barney Knowles.

Sure, why not Barney? He knew Barney well. Barney would do him a few favors, especially with all the luck Barney'd been having lately. Sure, Barney would help a guy. Barney had a heart as big as Central Park.

He smiled.

He smiled, and then he left the phone booth and the store, and it was just as cold outside as it had been before.

There's a stretch of Harlem known as Striver's Row. It stretches between Seventh and Eighth Avenues on West 138th and 139th Streets. It is not to be confused with the stretch east of Seventh Avenue on those same streets.

The streets in Striver's Row are tree-shaded. The houses lining those streets are made of attractive tan brick. The rents in Striver's Row are high, and most of the residents belong to the white-collar or professional class. Barney Knowles lived in Striver's Row.

He had not always lived in Striver's Row, mainly because he could not always afford the rental there. As a matter of fact, a good many of the people who'd been living there for a good long time rented out furnished rooms in order to keep up the rental. This was not one of Barney Knowles's problems. Barney never had any trouble keeping up the rental now. Not any more, he didn't.

Of course, it's doubtful that Barney's neighbors would have approved of him so readily if they'd known he was a bookie in the numbers racket. They saw only a rather portly, dark Negro who dressed conservatively, and who always had a cheerful smile for everyone he passed. The smile seemed doubly cheerful because there were two gold caps in the front of Barney's mouth, and you could usually see him coming two blocks away, even on a foggy day.

Barney liked Striver's Row. He liked it a lot, but he still kept his eye peeled for the day he could move to Sugar Hill.

A man's home is his castle, and Barney Knowles's home was just that to him. When he walked the streets of Striver's Row, the neighbors saw what he wanted them to see: the genial businessman, the smiling gent with the two gold teeth. When he closed the door of his apartment, he did as he wished.

On the night that Johnny Lane headed for Barney's pad, Barney was doing as he wished. His desire, on that night, was poker. His desire on almost every night, in fact, was poker. Barney was very lucky at cards, since the time his two front teeth had been knocked out. The teeth had been knocked out in a blackjack game when he was twenty-four. He had considered that the unluckiest night of his life, until things began happening to him afterward. He later looked back to the loss of those teeth as the turning point in his career. At any rate, his later good fortune seemed to stem from the time he had the gold teeth put in. Barney nearly always won at cards now. Tonight, Barney was losing.