Chicago Typewriter

10.

A couple of miles of shoe-leather later, I found the only plausible alley. I never tracked the chief's morning driving habits, but I remembered where he liked to park, and this was the best way to get there. It did have a gutter down the middle, stained with muck. I could barely see straight through my headache, and every breath brought new pain from my ribs. I'd go try to convince somebody at the station to help in a minute, but right now I needed a rest. Like some drunk, I slithered down into the corner of an alley doorway and shut my eyes.

The rattle of a car going by disturbed my slumber. I pried my eyelids open. Something was wrong. I tried to sift reality from my dark dream. It was light out.

I struggled to a sitting position. I was cold. My neck was stiff. And something was wrong.

I heard Chief Largo, some little distance away. He was bellowing at somebody. A comfortable sound, like I'd heard a hundred times before. "Move your car, I said!"

Some part of me moved my right hand to my shoulder holster and drew my gun. My legs pushed me standing. Some part of me battled the bewildering dream fog. That part felt no surprise when a Thompson machine gun rattled and spat. Stray bullets scattered down the alley.

The world moved in slow motion. I stepped into the alley like I was a mile underwater. My first look was toward the noise. Muzzle flashes sparkled in the window of a car parked broadside to the alley. The stream of lead riddled into the chief's car, and some bullets scattered my way.

Behind me, a voice rasped, "Get 'im, Iggy!"

I turned my head, still in slow motion. Hack was there, grinning, a tommy gun held loosely in his hands. He saw me. His gun raised.

My own gun made a pop sound, tiny in the cacophony. A tiny hole appeared in the center of Hack's chest. His gun lowered. He looked at me accusingly for a moment, then toppled forward.

Hack's dive opened a new line of sight. A purplish four-seater blocked the other end of the alley. Behind the wheel was Buster Largo. Our eyes met. My gun hand swiveled to take a bead on him.

He ducked forward as my gun popped. A hole punctured the far window, surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. He gunned his engine and popped the clutch. Screeching, the car rolled forward. I tracked the front window with my pistol, but Buster's head did not appear. And then the car was gone, hidden behind brick walls.

I swiveled and aimed at the muzzle flashes from Iggy. I squeezed off shot after shot.

My empty chamber clicked.

Iggy screamed screams of horror, of mindless primeval terror. Lungful by lungful, they continued, even as the car squealed into motion, driving forward. Splashes of fresh crimson garishly decorated the inside of the windshield as the car left my field of vision.

Metallic crashes mingled with the screams. I ran toward the end of the alley to see. By the time I got a clear view, the car was on its side, and it was on fire. Screams ripped from Iggy's throat, still, over and over and over.

I turned back to view the chief's car. It sat quiet and dead on flat tires. No glass was intact. Bullet holes peppered the grill and hood and roof. I wasn't asleep anymore. My heart thudded like a manic bass drum and my hands were shaking. I approached the driver's side door, wincing with apprehension.

The chief was curled up in a ball, horizontal and centered on the front seats. Over a bloodstained shoulder, his bull-mad eyes met mine.

"Chief! You're alive!"

"Lucy! Good man! C'mere. They nicked an artery. You got to press on it."

I was doubtful, and I was shaky. But I brushed broken glass off him, peeled back his coat and put my thumbs on his upper arm where he gushed blood.

"Ugh. Lots of blood, Chief."

The chief stayed put, and stayed looking at me. "Ow! I mean, ow, but keep pressing, Lucy. Don't stop until the ambulance comes, and maybe not even then."

At long, long last, Iggy's screaming stopped. I heard sirens in the distance.

Largo asked, "Who was that screeching his head off?"

"Oh, that was the guy with the Tommy gun. Iggy."

"Where'd you shoot him to make him scream like that?"

"Don't know." I lifted my head and looked back down the alley. A forlorn heap of meat lay motionless, face down. "Hack Sawyer's dead."

"Damn, Lucy. Did you leave anybody alive?" The chief smiled, his lips flecked with his own blood. He spoke weakly, and his face was pale.

"Buster." I spoke without thinking.

The chief didn't reply. Maybe he was slipping into unconsciousness and he didn't hear me. A crowd was starting to form. Mostly, they were watching Iggy and his car burn. But a few were looking my way and I growled out, "Send the ambulance in here, wouldja? The Chief of Police is wounded."

When I look back at the chief he glared at me savagely. "Not Buster."

"Sorry, Chief. I'm sure about it, though. Buster was part of Ebony Gardens, and driving a car today. Plus, I heard some talk."

"What about Deacon?"

My thumbs were going numb as I pressed, kneeling over the chief. I winced. "Reasonably sure he's the boss of a whole ring, Chief."

Largo's eyes closed. "My own brother. I didn't want to believe it."

"Chief, I don't know what to say. I think you got two kids that miss their dad, but the third kid and your brother that want you dead. And ..." And, I shut up.

The chief wasn't fooled. "Bianca, yeah. Mistake to marry that hellcat. I knew she was poison. I'm starting to faint, Lucy. I feel cold."

"You'll be alright, Chief. It's only one bullet."

"I found a good woman, now, Lucy. A good woman. I can't wait to divorce ... to divorce ... so cold, Lucy."

He went limp. I kept pressing on the hole in his arm until the medics came.