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It had to be. Whoever it was, alone on the pier in the fog, seizing the weapons, firing at Doom.
Annie Oakley, the rifle lady herself? I wondered.
Bang. Take that you son-of-a-bitch. Bang. Take that you bastard runaway lover. Bang. Take that you unholy womanizing— freak. Bang!
Wham and again wham, far off but blowing in the wind.
So many bullets, I thought, to make something impossible die.
It went on for twenty minutes.
When it was over, I could not sleep.
With three dozen wounds in my chest, I groped over to my typewriter and, eyes shut, typed out all the rifle shots in the dark.
“Offisa Pup?”
“How’s that again?”
“Offisa Pup, this is Krazy Kat”
“Jesus,” said Crumley. “It’s you. Offisa Pup, eh?”
“It’s better than Elmo Crumley.”
“Got me there. And Krazy Kat’s right for you, scribe. How goes the Great American Epic?”
“How goes the Conan Doyle sequel?”
“This is embarrassing, but ever since I met you, son, I’m doing four pages a night. It’s like a war: should be outa there by Christmas. Krazy Kats, it turns out, are good influences. That’s the last compliment you get from the offisa. It’s your nickel. Speak.”
“I got more possibilities for our list of maybe future victims.”
“Jesus in the lilies, Christ on the cross,” sighed Crumley.
“Funny how you never notice—”
“It’s a laugh riot. Proceed.”
“Shrank still leads the parade. Then Annie Oakley, or whatever her real name is, the line marksman lady. Someone, last night, was shooting on the pier. It had to be her. Who else? I mean, she wouldn’t open up her place, two in the morning, for a stranger, would she?”
Crumley interrupted.
“Get her real name. I can’t do anything without her real name.”
I felt one of my legs being pulled by him and shut up.
“Cat got your tongue?” said Crumley.
Silence from me.
“You still there?” asked Crumley.
Grim silence.
“Lazarus,” said Crumley, “damn it to hell, come outa that Christ-awful tomb!”
I laughed. “Shall I finish the list?”
