King Suckerman
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Серия: D.C. Quartet #2
- Год: 1997
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-69590-9
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «King Suckerman». Краткое содержание книги:
Ronald did it.
“Now drop it or use it,” said Adamson.
Ronald raised the .357.
They faced each other, guns pointed, expressionless. A barrage of rockets ripped across the sky.
Ronald Thomas fired his gun; Al Adamson fired his. Twin muzzle flashes flared in the night.
Cooper said, “You hear that, Clay?”
Clay nodded.
Cooper grinned. “Even with all those rockets and shit, the sound of a gun stands out. I guess you brought along some help. My money’d be on the Thomas brothers, you want to know the truth.”
Marcus Clay did not respond. Clagget slipped his finger inside the shotgun’s trigger guard, wrapped his hand around the pump. Karras snicked the hammer back on the .38 and aimed the gun at Clagget’s chest.
Cooper laughed shortly. “You lookin’ a little shaky, Greek boy. By the way, was pleased to make your momma’s acquaintance. Like a woman with a little back to her. Maybe I’ll look her up again, soon as we’re done.”
Clay said, “You gonna talk all night, Cooper?”
“All right,” said Cooper, “I guess we ought to just go ahead and get this done. Seein’ as how y’all got all your shit drawn and ready, and we standin’ here, basically at a disadvantage, maybe you’re thinkin’ now that things are gonna go your way. But here’s how I see it—”
“No,” said Clay. “Here’s how it is. Your sissy ain’t racked that pump yet, number one. Would be like him to wait for the drama rather than to come prepared.”
Cooper’s smile died.
Clay said, “And that leaves you and me.” He leveled his gun at Cooper.
Karras shifted his weight, sweat dripping from his hair to his eyes. He tried to blink away the sting.
“Shoot him, Dimitri,” said Clay.
“Marcus,” said Karras.
“You know your boy ain’t gonna use that gun,” said Cooper.
“Shoot him now, Dimitri!”
Karras did not move. The pipes cried in the stairwell below.
Clagget racked the shotgun’s pump.
“Aw, shit,” said Cooper. “Here we go, T-Man.”
Cooper crossed his arms as Clagget brought the shotgun around.
Karras closed his eyes, pulled back on the trigger of the .38.
There was a deafening explosion. Clagget fell back, the shotgun flipping from his grasp and clattering down the stairs.
The automatic in Marcus Clay’s hand kicked three times as Cooper’s fingers grasped at the grips of his .45s.
A high-pitched tone sounded in Karras’s ears. Through the gun smoke, he saw Clagget writhing on the floor. A black hole showed in the thigh of the kid’s white slacks, and blood was shooting from the hole with the force of water flowing from a hose. The blood was washing over the walls and splashing back on Clagget. He was in a heap and holding his fingers over the hole, but the blood was finding its way through, and Clagget’s face was blue and stretched back.
“Marcus.”
“Shut up.”
Clay went down to the landing. Cooper was sitting up, his back against the wall, his maroon polo shirt flapping at the sucking wound in the center of his chest. One elbow was white and shredded where the second round had hit, and two fingers were gone from the right hand where the third bullet had taken them off. Cooper stared into Clay’s eyes, his own eyes glassy, his mouth open as he tried to take in breath.
Clay looked down at Clagget. He had seen a femoral artery wound before, in the war. The blood was everywhere now, overflowing the lip of the landing. Clagget had stopped trying to stanch the flow. He let his head fall back in the crimson pool.
“Come on, Dimitri.”
Karras didn’t move.
“Come on,” said Clay. “They’re done.”
Karras stepped around the dying men and followed Clay. Their shoes made blood prints on the stairs.
Clay got behind the wheel of the Riviera. Karras dropped into the shotgun bucket, lacing his fingers tightly and resting his hands in his lap. Clay looked in the rearview mirror and smiled.
“Marcus.”
“Al.”
Adamson sat low in the backseat. He shook a cigarette out of a pack and put fire to its end.
Adamson blew smoke out the open window. “You make out all right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Uh-huh. One of ’em had a little life in him after it went down. Followed me halfway down the fire escape, took a blind shot at me in the dark. He ain’t gonna last but another minute or so. I gut-shot his ass, blew some shit out his back, too. He’s gone.”
Clay and Adamson’s eyes locked in the rearview.
Adamson nodded to the back of Karras’s head.
“He all right?”
Clay thought of the first time he had killed a man.
“He’s all right,” said Clay. “He’ll be fine.”
“Get all your shit, then,” said Adamson, “and put it in this bag.”
Adamson passed the olive green pack through the opening in the buckets while Clay removed his shoes. Clay looked inside the open flap at the chain cutters and Adamson’s gear. He dropped his own shoes, gun, and gloves in the pack.
“Now you, Dimitri,” said Clay. “Take them Clydes off, too.”
Karras did it, and Clay passed the pack back to Adamson.
“Better get goin’,” said Adamson. “Don’t know if you noticed it or not, but you’re parked in a fire zone.”
“Where we off to, man?” said Clay.
“Anyplace where there’s water,” said Adamson, “provided you can get to it. Need to get this shit to the bottom of a river right quick.”
Clay drove to the next intersection, turned right, and headed east.
Ronald Thomas came out of the alley clutching both hands to his stomach. He felt as if his insides were falling out on him, right there. His hands were slick with blood, and his trousers were soaked with it down past the crotch. It hurt like a motherfucker, too. Goddamn did it hurt. He had never taken a bullet before, and he had no idea it could put a hurting on you this bad.
Ronald had lost his gun just before dropping down from the fire escape. No matter. All he had to do was get to the Dodge. He had the keys in his pocket; at least he had been smart enough to keep them on him. Maybe Russell was waiting for him there — Ronald hadn’t seen Russell on the roof since he had gone off to take a piss. He hoped Russell had been smart enough to slip away when he got a look at the bald-headed dude. It would be like Russell to do just that.
A cop was standing by the yellow Dodge.
Ronald knew he shouldn’t have double-parked that Mopar out on the street. He turned his head and walked south on the sidewalk, standing as straight as he could manage without screaming out from the pain, and did a slant-step across 15th, straight into the park.
There were people everywhere in the park, laughing, clapping, talking loud, like this was the party they had been waiting for all their lives. The rockets above exploded without a break now, brightening the park with sunlight intensity. The faces of the people were unfamiliar, distorted in the colored light.
Ronald thought if he could get someplace quiet, a country kind of place, it would be all right.
He stumbled onto a concrete stairway, passing a group of people sitting on a statue.
“That nigger’s drunk as a white boy,” said a man, but when Ronald turned to look at him the man was just a dark face in a crowd of many dark faces, none of them friendly or warm.
Ronald lost his balance, cried out, tripped down the steps and rolled, landing on his back at the edge of a fountain. Everyone in the park stood then, cheering and applauding as the finale was loosed above the Mall. Ronald looked up: red, white, and blue diamonds burned across the sky.
Not here, Lord. Please, not here in front of all these strangers. I’m too far from home.