Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
He was probably right.
“Places, please!” Marvin called from his director’s chair. Clete trotted across the street to the dry-goods store, eager to get started.
“Anything I should know about these wax slugs?” I asked Bones as I tied down my holster.
“The squibs pull a tad to the right,” Bones said—
“But not enough that you should compensate,” Stony put in. “Aim for center mass, Toby, you’ll do fine. Good luck.”
“I’ll need it,” I said as I turned away, my mind already on the scene.
In the saloon, I took my place at the bar, facing the skinny, nervous bartender again. He filled a shot glass and slid it to me, as an air horn beeped in the street.
“Final call, people! Places, please! And... we’re rolling!”
“Wilson! Hack Wilson! I know you’re in there, damn you. Step out or I’ll come in and drag you out!”
Flinching at the anger in Clete’s voice, I glanced quickly around the crowded saloon. Surprise, surprise, no friendly faces today either.
Tossing back my fake bourbon, I slid my Colt out of its holster, spun the cylinder, then spun it into my holster for effect.
“Wilson!”
But I was definitely in no rush today. Let Clete sweat in the sun a little longer.
“Gimme one for the road,” I said, pushing my shot glass toward the barkeep, who did his best scared-rabbit bit.
“Please, Mr. Wilson, take it outside—”
“You already got trouble!” I roared, jumping his line as I hurled my shot glass at the replacement mirror behind the bar, shattering it to splinters all over again. “I said gimme another!”
He pushed a full bottle across the bar towards me, then backed away. Snatching up the bottle, I pulled the cork out with my teeth, spat it on the dirt floor, then guzzled down the dark tea, spilling half of it down my shirt.
But that was as much as I could stretch it. I’d stalled as long as I could.
Time to fight.
Faking a final pull from the bottle, I tossed it aside, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then shouldered through the doors into the sun’s glare.
Clete was waiting in the doorway of the dry-goods store, looking a bit edgy, I thought. No yellow duster today. Dressed all in black. For my funeral, no doubt.
“We don’t have to do this,” I called. “You can just ride out.”
He didn’t reply. He spat, but couldn’t conceal a narrow grin as he did it. He was totally confident, and had every right to be.
Stepping off the boardwalk, I began stalking towards him. No hesitation from Clete today. He came on immediately, matching me stride for stride.
We both stopped in the middle of the street, facing each other ten yards apart. Waiting. For an unspoken signal—
Clete winked at me. And I recognized it for what it was. I’d seen it the night before, in Tombstone. Holliday winks to trigger the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.
And in that distracted instant Clete went for his gun! Moving so fast his hand was only a blur!
I drew too, but I was much too late. My Colt was still clearing leather when Clete fired!
Something slammed into my left shoulder, spinning me halfway around. Bee sting my ass! Felt like I’d been clubbed with a baseball bat. My left arm was instantly numb, but somehow I was still on my feet.
Clete’s eyes widened, staring at me in surprise, but only for an instant. With a mad grin, he drew his second pistol, then cut loose with both guns! One round blew my hat off, another burned across my thigh.
I could hear the squibs whacking into the saloon wall behind me. The sunlight seemed to be dimming as my knees turned to rubber. On sheer reflex I returned fire, shooting from the hip without even aiming, as I had in the desert. Instinctively zeroing in on center mass.
My first slug slammed into Clete like a body punch, nearly lifting him off his feet. Stunned, he stumbled backward, onto the porch of the drygoods store. But he didn’t fall. He just stared at me, dumbfounded. Then looked down in utter amazement at the red bloom widening just over his heart. And then he did the right thing.
He took his “deads.”
Lurching sideways off the porch, Clete reeled back into the street, firing a final, dramatic round as he fell. He landed hard, making no move to break his fall. Facedown in the dirt. And didn’t move. Looked realistic as hell, I thought. A perfect take.
If I didn’t wreck it.
I was having real trouble staying on my feet. My legs had lost all feeling, and I was woozy. I tried to stay upright but couldn’t quite manage that, so I sank slowly to my knees instead. And it took every ounce of concentration I had to keep from toppling all the way. Knowing that if I fell too, it would ruin the shot—
“Cut and print,” Marvin yelled. “Wow! Great job, guys. That was freakin’ brilliant! Nice fall, Clete!”
Marvin hurried over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, but I was still watching Clete. He hadn’t moved. And my mental camera seemed to be zeroing in on him for a close-up, losing focus around the edges.
Sweet Jesus. Clete wasn’t breathing. And the numbness in my shoulder was spreading across my chest... Suddenly a great black sinkhole seemed to open beneath my feet and I was falling...
I felt Marvin’s arms around my shoulders, easing me down as he yelled something about calling 911.
Then...
I was back home in Whitehorse, on the ranch where I grew up, playing cowboys and Indians with my older brother and some neighbor kids. I knew it wasn’t real. My brother died at nineteen in the Korengal, killed by a haji sniper.
Yet he was here, playing cowboy with us in his bloody army fatigues. And we were shooting at the other kids, but they were cheating, wouldn’t take their deads. My cap gun was in fine working order. The cylinder spun freely, hammer cocked. I kept pulling the trigger and pop, pop! But nobody would fall. “Hey, no fair, you guys!” I yelled.
“Fall, goddamn you!”
I shouted that last so loud that it snapped me wide awake.
Tried to sit up. Couldn’t quite manage that. So I leaned back on my pillow, licking my lips, trying to focus.
I was in a white room. White ceiling, white walls, in a bed with white sheets. White machines standing beside it, some of them with tubes plugged into my arms.
Leah Bronstein was sitting in a white plastic chair beside my bed. Black business suit today, same black horn-rims. They made her look studious, and serious. In a good way.
“Are you all right, Mr. Gates?” she asked. “You shouted. Do you want the nurse?”
“No, I was just... I was dreaming. What’s going on?”
“You’ve been injured, Toby. Shot.”
“No, it hurt too much for wax. They—”
“The bullets weren’t wax. They were one-hundred-and-twenty-grain lead slugs. Mr. Benedict deliberately loaded your guns with live rounds. He wanted a bloodbath, revenge for being fired and forgotten all those years ago.”
“Sweet Jesus. Clete—?”
“Mr. Peterzak fired first, wounding you in the left shoulder, but somehow you managed to keep your feet and... well. You fired back.”
“But what about Clete? Is he okay—?”
Then I remembered seeing Clete fall. Facedown in the street. And Leah gently shook her head. Which was all the answer I needed.
I sank back on my pillow.
“My God,” someone said. Me, I guess.
“I know this is a terrible time for you, Mr. Gates,” Leah said, leaning in close, enunciating every word to be sure I understood. She wasn’t certain I was playing with a full deck. Neither was I.
“We need you to clarify your thoughts, Toby. The police are waiting outside to question you, and after them, the press.”