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“You’ve only got one round.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“If you miss, he’ll kill the girls,” I said.
“Then what do you want to do?”
“Stop talking about it and do it.”
We worked our way along the wall until we reached the conventional door over the barred door of the cell. I eased the outside door back until I had a clear view of the cell’s interior. The fat man had been busy while we were dealing with Pierre Dupree and the other three men. He had placed Gretchen in the sarcophagus and pulled the hinged lid partway from the wall so that its spiked weight loomed over her body and would fall upon her if anything caused him to release his grip. In his right hand, he held a small blue-black automatic with white handles. He had found the exact point of balance for the lid so that it caused the least amount of exertion in his arm and shoulder, but the strain was starting to show in his face.
“Your name is Harold?” I said.
“That’s right.”
He had the small mouth and cleft chin of the Irish, his face splotched like that of a man with a bloated liver. He had removed his coat, and his armpits were dark with sweat.
“Clete has your bud’s .357 aimed at the side of your head. You need to ease that iron lid back against the wall,” I said.
“That’s not what’s gonna happen,” he replied. “You two lovelies are going to throw your pieces inside the cell.”
I saw Gretchen raise her head from the sarcophagus. He had torn the tape loose from her mouth. She fixed her eyes on Clete but said nothing.
“Did you know she was supposed to clip you?” Harold said. “I think she planned to do it. Maybe we saved your life.”
“It’s not true,” Gretchen said.
“We got the word on her, buddy,” Harold said. “When she wasn’t balling guys from the Gambino crime family, she was blowing heads for them. She pulled a train in a fuck pad in Hallandale.”
I felt around the edges of the cell door and moved it slightly in the jamb. It wasn’t locked. “Get a couple of cushions off the couch,” I said to Clete under my breath.
“Stop whispering over there and throw your pieces to me,” Harold said. “I got a bad heart. I can’t hold this lid much longer. What’s it gonna be?”
“Your employers have bagged ass,” I said. “Why take their fall? With the right lawyer, you might skate. Angola is a bitch, Harold. Do the smart thing.”
He bit down on his lip, then shook his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clete retrieve two huge leather-covered cushions from the couch.
“The problem is he’s not smart,” Gretchen said. “Right, Harold? But low intelligence is not your biggest problem. Did you ever see Shack Out on 101 with Lee Marvin and Frank Lovejoy? Lee Marvin plays a Communist agent whose cover is working in a greasy spoon north of Los Angeles. Frank Lovejoy is the FBI agent who hunts him down in the last scene. Frank is holding a harpoon gun on him in the kitchen, and Lee is staring at the harpoon in this filthy apron with his mouth hanging open. Frank says, ‘You know what you are, fella? You’re not only a Commie, you’re a slob. And you know what a slob is, don’t you?’
“Lee shakes his head. He’s so covered with grease and kitchen shit, you can smell the BO coming off the screen. Frank says, ‘A slob is a guy who’s still dirty after he takes a shower.’ Then Frank shoots him through the chest with his harpoon gun. In the last frame, you see the rope on the harpoon quivering, which is a real skillful touch, because you know Lee is in his death throes on the floor, but the camera doesn’t show it.”
“Why should I care about a couple of dead actors?” Harold said.
“Because you’re about to join them,” Gretchen said.
I lifted the AK-47 and steadied it on one of the cell bars and framed Harold’s face in the iron sights. Clete had already positioned himself on my right side, the cushions hidden by the wall. “Last chance, Harold. I hear hell is pretty hot even in the wintertime,” I said.
“We’ve got your jacket, Robicheaux,” he said. “You’re not a cowboy. So fuck off on all this John Wayne stuff.”
The timing had to be perfect. If Clete was one second too slow getting inside the cell, Gretchen would die. If I was one second too soon in squeezing off a round, Gretchen would die. If the shot wasn’t clean and I didn’t cut Harold’s motors, Gretchen would die.
“Do it. Do it now, Dave,” Clete whispered.
I was breathing through my mouth, trying to control my heart rate, my eyes stinging with sweat. As I tightened my finger on the trigger, I saw the fat man’s eyes lock on mine and a strange moment of recognition swim through them, as though he had seen the entirety of his life reduced to a flip of a coin that had only one outcome: Harold had stepped through the door in the dimension.
The AK-47 long ago won great respect from anyone who ever went up against it. Unlike the early M16, which often jammed unless you burned the whole magazine, the AK was smooth-firing and had almost twice the penetrating power of its American counterpart and used a bullet that was over twice the weight of the M16 round. In semi-auto mode at close range, it was deadly accurate. I centered Harold’s forehead inside the hooded sight and whispered “One, two, three” to Clete, then snapped off two rounds just as he bolted through the door, the ejected casings bouncing off the steel bars onto the floor.
I had never seen Clete move so fast. The 7.62×39mm rounds blew the back of Harold’s head onto the wall, but before the lid of the sarcophagus could crush Gretchen’s body, Clete threw both thick burgundy-colored leather cushions on top of her and caught the edge of the lid before its full weight had swung down.
