The phone rang at four A.M.
I reached across Brandy for the receiver.
“Yeah, what?”
“Po, is that you?” The voice was urgent, frightened.
“Yeah, it’s me. Who are you?”
“Mapes, Eddie Mapes. Look, man, you said if I ever needed help to call you.”
“Eddie, it’s four o’clock in the morning.”
“Hey, man, I need help now!” he almost shouted. It was then that I noticed that he was practically whispering up to that point. There was an edge of panic in his voice.
I woke up.
“Eddie, what’s wrong?”
“I’m about to get both my arms broken, man, and that’s if I’m lucky.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t have time to explain, man. I need help!”
“Why not call the cops?”
“No, no cops. Look, man, get over here and then later I’ll answer all your damn questions, okay?”
“Tell me something now.”
“Shit! Look, I was supposed to lose that race Sunday, okay? Now get over here!”
He was in a hotel in the Village, a flea bag he had registered in to get away from three guys who were chasing him. He had barricaded himself into his room and was calling me while he watched the street from the window. I got the address from him and then told him, “I don’t know how long it will take me to get there.”
“Well, I don’t know how long I have before they decide to come in and get me.”
“Hang loose, pal, I’m on my way,” I said, swinging my legs out of bed.
“Hey, Po!”
“What?”
He hesitated. “These guys play rough, man.”
“Then get off the fucking phone so I can get dressed,” I told him, and hung up.
“What’s wrong?” Brandy asked sleepily.
“That was Eddie Mapes. He’s in a jam and needs someone to get him out.” Propping herself up in bed she tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Why you and not the cops?”
“I’ll find that out when I get there.” I pulled a shirt over my head and was dressed. Next I went to the closet and reached up on the top shelf where I keep my .38 revolver, which I rarely carry and have only fired three times outside of a firing range. I slipped the shoulder rig over my head, checked the cylinder and slid the gun into the holster.
When I turned Brandy’s eyes were fixed on the gun.
“What’s the matter?” I asked her.
“Uh, nothing,” she answered, shaking her head. She smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes never left the gun.
“Doesn’t Race Williams carry a gun?” I asked her, teasing.
“Yes, but that’s make believe, Henry. This is for real. You could leave here tonight and never come back.”
“That’s a possibility,” I admitted, with a bravado I didn’t feel.
“Damnit, you could get killed! “she snapped. “Don’t go out, tonight. Call the police.” She was kneeling in bed now, her hands resting on her thighs. “Don’t go, Henry.”
“I’ll be back in a little while,” I assured her, slipping into a windbreaker and zipping it up.
She opened her mouth to argue, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead she simply said, “You better.”
I tweaked her nose and said, “Go back to sleep.”
She grabbed my wrist in sort of a reflex action, then let it go and whispered, “Sure.”
I went down and got my car. The address he had given me was on Jane Street. It took me fifteen minutes to get there. I parked two blocks away from the hotel and started walking.
When I reached the block that the hotel was on I could see the neon sign outside of it. I kept to the shadowed doorways, hidden by the darkness, and tried to see if anyone was on the street.
It took some patience, and about ten minutes, but I finally caught some movement in the doorway directly across the street from the hotel, plus the glow of a cigarette.
I backed up a few doorways, then crossed over. Once I was on his side of the street I worked my way toward him, again moving doorway to doorway.
When I was in the doorway next to his I slid my gun out and moved in on him as quietly as I could. The gun felt alien in my hand and I started to feel like one of Brandy’s fictional private eyes.
When I jammed the gun into his ear — with all the dexterity of a Mike Hammer — he dropped his cigarette from the one hand, and his brown paper bag from the other.
The bottle in the bag shattered when it hit the ground.
That’s when I realized that he was just a wino.
“Shit!” I cursed out loud, disgusted with myself. I had spent all that time stalking a wino who had found himself a nice warm doorway for the night.
“Oh, please, mister, don’t shoot me. I ain’t done nothing.”
He smelled of booze, and he smelled scared.
Suddenly I heard the sound of breaking glass. I looked up in time to see something hit the ground and break. It had fallen or been thrown from a second-floor window, shattering the glass.
“Shit!” I shouted, and took off across the street. I just knew that had to be Eddie Mapes’ room.
I was halfway across when I heard the shots, three of them in quick succession, quick enough to have been fired from three separate guns.
I cursed again and exploded through the front door into the lobby.
On the stairway two men were in the process of running down, guns in their hands. When the front guy saw me he yelled something to the other one and started to raise his gun.
It was one of those long, slow moments that usually happens in your dreams — only I wasn’t dreaming. I saw him start to raise his gun and I started to raise mine, only it had suddenly become very, very heavy. I could see him very clearly, his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the beard stubble on his face. I finally got my gun up before he had me sighted and pulled the trigger — five times. I saw three of the slugs hit him in the chest and throw him back against the wall. Then he was falling and I could see the other guy. One of the shots had taken off the top of his head and he too was falling down the steps. The desk clerk was screaming like a hysterical woman.
I started up the stairs and it occurred to me that I had heard three quick shots. Had there been three men? When I reached the top of the stairs I decided that there had been three, because there was number three, waiting for me.
What followed was another dream sequence shoot-out, only I wasn’t as lucky this time. I had one shot left and we both fired at the same time.
I don’t know what happened to him, but this time I felt as if the top of my head had been shot off. My whole world exploded into a shower of fireworks, then the rug got pulled out from under me.