Chapter 108 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 18
PAT
Our eyes meet. Full in the face.
A nce, the briefest of looks, but just for a second, I get a good look at him. And he of me.
Those eyes.
I don’t want to meet those eyes again.
Who is he?
He was at the morgue.
Borje knows him.
Why’s he chasing me?
Why was he at Lily’s apartment?
What’s he to do with her?
I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Get a bit of sleep.
But they’ve got me on the TV. They know who I am.
It’s hot. It’s so hot.
And my arm… It hurts…
*****
KLEMPNER
Hoodie pelts ahead of me, dodging bagden shoppers, women with strollers, men with briefcases.
Barging between a pair of suits yammering over take-away coffee cups, he staggers as he knocks one
down onto the sidewalk. I hurdle the fallen, ignoring the indignant yells of the other as he tries to wipe
coffee from his shirt. Heshes out, grabbing me at the shoulder, but Ish back, propelling the rest of
the coffee over him…
And in the two seconds it’s cost me…
Crowds mill and push, and Hoodie has vanished in among the surge.
But he can’t have gone far…
Another squad car appears, but not now squealing by. Instead, it meanders, both driver and passenger
scanning the milling crowds.
Dropping once more to a dogtrot, I weave through the hordes. At a corner ahead of me, a police officer
stands, all too obviously watching, head swinging one way, then the other. His gaze slides my way and
past, then double-takes back. For an instant his eyes lock with mine. He nods acknowledgment, then
mutters something into a handset.
Never did I think to be treated as a fellowrade by the police…
Surreal…
Then, I brush away my moment of unreality.
The officer has aplete view ahead and to the right. If Hoodie’s there, he should spot him. I turn left,
moving at a steady lope that, even in the heat, I can keep up indefinitely.
Police have the centre covered…
Where would he go to lose himself?
Where could he go…?
?
What’s ahead?
Ah, yes…
*****
The Golden Fleece Casino. I sometimes wonder if its owner, Vince Caproni, stuck his tongue in his
cheek as he named it. Certainly, the casino operates to painlessly separate clientele by the thousand
from their money, depositing it into Caproni’s waiting bank ount, and all whilst convincing them
they’re having a good time.
Great business model if you can pull it off.
Cutting past the schmucks making their way up for their voluntary fleecing, I take the front steps two at
a time to the be-columned, be-arched and overly grandiose entrance.
A pair of men stand as doorkeepers, calmly vignt in their remit of separating schmucks and suckers
from high-rollers, yers and other annoying professionals. I’ve not a clue how Caproni deals with
anyone he thinks might be trying to work the 5%-in-favour-of-the-house to their own advantage, and
since I’ve never so much as bought a lottery ticket, I’ll probably never find out.
As I charge up the steps, the doorkeepers swivel to face me. Others emerge from inside, squaring up,
hands resting suggestively inside jackets.
But one of the doorkeepers, I’ve met before, Decker. He’s a good man. His startled face greets me. “Mr
Klempner? What…?”
“No time to talk, Decker. I’m hunting. On the trail of a killer. I’ll give my apologies to Caproniter.”
The urgency in my voice prates and he jerks jolts to attention. “Killer? Who?”
“The Surgeon...” His eyes widen and he reaches for his phone. He’s already talking into it, rying my
words as I speak… “… Thirty-ish. Mid-brown hair. Medium height. Jeans. Undistinguished. Probably
sweating. Running from me. Check the local TV. His photo’s stered up on Breaking News.
Decker spills thest few words into his phone, then jabs a finger at the other security guards. “You
heard the man. Jackson, Williams, into the main hall. Morales, go check the security cameras. Ring
through to me immediately if you see anyone answering this bastard’s description. Anyone who runs
into Hickman, tell him what’s happening.”
Weaving through the milling crowds of the casino hall, I cover the left-hand side, waving Decker to the
right. Paralleling one another, we work our way along the hall.
The Ever-Hopeful feed coins, one after another, into kaleidoscopic machines as reels spin, click and
ring. A croupier at one of the ckjack tables scratches at her ear in a signal I know is used to signal a
possible ‘Counter’. At the roulette wheels, morons with more money than sense shove stacks of chips
across the table.
Many of the punters look to be here for the show, peering over shoulders, living vicariously through the
winners, indulging in a little schadenfreude with the losers. But I can see their faces. They’re no threat.
Others hunch over tables, faces huddled anonymously into clutched cards
But by the time I’ve reached the rear of the hall, I’ve not spotted anything untoward. ncing up to
Caproni’s mezzanine office of ss and brass and upholstered leather, one of Decker’s men raises
palms to me, shaking his head.
Amotion rises from somewhere near the entrance. Someone’s screaming and yelling. Pushing and
shoving my way back, across the tables I see that Decker too is ramming through the crowds, making
for the same point.
But it’s not Hoodie. Instead, a slot machine wails and hoots, vomiting a tter of coins to spill into the
tray, then bounce out and over the carpet. A beaming woman stoops, her purse open wide to intercept
the apparently endless waterfall of coins. Beside her, a man stands nose-to-nose with another woman,
scarlet-faced, hugely fat, almost incoherent with rage. Her collection of double chins wobbles with her
screams as she tries to shoulder past him. “That’s my money! It’s mine!”
An audience gathers around the drama, some cheering at the still-rattling jackpot, others egging on the
fight.
The man blocks Double-Chins. “No, it isn’t.”
“I’ve been at that machine all day!”
“Well, you weren’t there just now, were you...”
And there, I see him, Hoodie, standing at the exit, smirking, giving me a little wave as the rabble swarm
in, blocking the aisle, the crowd thickening and clotting ahead of me while I jostle and curse.
“You should have picked a different machine.” Double-Chins voice rises an octave. “That one’s mine! I
gotta use the john sometime.”
“Not my fault,” shrugs the man. “I only came in to pick up the wife.” Moving to block Double-Chins
again, he casts over the crowd to an approaching bouncer. “I was lucky. My Josie won the jackpot. You
didn’t.”
She shrieks at him, arms iling in some attempt at a punch, and I duck to avoid a clout on the chin,
then still stooping, slide under and past to the thinning edge of the mob.
The bouncer moves in, all looming six-three of him, grabbing Double-Chins by the elbow, steering her
for the door. “C’mon, Maggie. You know the rules. Her cash went inst. It’s her cashing out.”
Double-Chins squawks, batting uselessly at the b of muscle towing her to the exit but I don’t get to
see the end of the micro-drama. Decker arrives, another grunt in tow, clearing our way through.
Finally clear of the rabble, we barge out through swinging ss and brass.
*****
As we burst out into the daylight, Decker sweeps off to the right, waving his grunt across the road, me
off to the left. Hoodie was perhaps thirty seconds ahead of us. He has to be close.
I’d not realised I’m still clutching my water bottle. Running as I go, I take a final swig of my water, the
bottle tilting back as I drain it.
And as I lower it again, Hoodie’s there, running like the Devil’s on his tail…
Not slowing my pace, I toss the bottle at a trash can, miss and it bounces off to the side…
So, sue me…
… freeing the hand to tug my knife from its holster.
He’s still running, but he’s sagging, staggering almost. Elbows vee’d, he grips his ribs, twisting to look
back over his shoulder. I treat him to the sight of my de, holding it up to let the blood-streaked steel
glint reflections back to him…
…and he picks up speed once more...
The power of adrenaline…
Where he sank his teeth into me, my hand aches. But the sh I gave him was worse, and as fatigue
bites in, corroding the adrenaline high, the pain will increase. As it is, blood drips, half-inch sshes
making a trail at my feet. His improvised dressing must have soaked through.
And while he’s younger than me, by maybe twenty years, he’s soft. I doubt he’s ever had to deal with
real pain and fatigue. Few outside the medical or military professions realise it, but it’s a learned skill,
handling pain. Something you can train for. It may hurt. But you learn not to mind that it hurts.
Then too, the brief respite in the casino has reinvigorated me. I have my second wind now, gaining on
him moment by moment.
So…
… Hoodie’s stamina versus mine…
And my grin returns…
*****
PAT
The sun beats down on my head, the breath rasping in my lungs.
Who the fuck is he?
Not a cop…
Whoever he is, he doesn’t give up.
I fling a look back over my shoulder.
He’s still there.
*****
KLEMPNER
My lungs burn. My throat burns. My thighs and calves burn. Summer’s inferno reflected in my body. But
I’m close. He’s clearly in view. And there’re no crowds now. Noforting anonymous masses for him
to melt into. It’s him and me. He can’t lose me.
From somewhere ahead, traffic roars: a major junction. As I run, the junction growsrger, brighter,
louder. And Hoodie’s lead shrinks, growing smaller all the while.
He flings another look behind him, sees me closer, ever closer, gaining on him.
The junction is a five-cornered monster, bringing in trucks and wagons, long-vehicled eighteen-
wheelers with their night-time deliveries into the City. Saloons, station-wagons and 4x4s apany
them, delivering families,muters and shoppers. Stop-Go lights flicker red and green, staying and
releasing traffic in a pattern that makes no sense to anyone but the cone-heads that designed the
system.
I’ve almost caught up with him…
N?velDrama.Org: owner of this content.
He can’t have more than five yards on me now
A concrete-truck rumbles across the junction, the cylinder revolving as all three of its axles bang and jar
over a rut in the road. Right behind it, a bus, loaded with schoolchildren.
He’s almost in touching distance. As I reach and snatch, in a suicidal manoeuvre, Hoodie charges out
onto the highway, dodging between bus and wagon. Momentarily I halt, convinced I’m about to see the
world rid of the Surgeon as the bus swerves, tires spewing ck smoke, screams rattling from inside
before the vehicle screeches to a standstill.
But astonishingly, Hoodie’s still moving, stumbling before, tottering upright again, he lurches across
streams of traffic.
And the momentary dy is enough.
Four strides…
Five strides…
Then, throwing myself after him, arms outstretched… my hands brushes over his shoulders… and
misses the hold.
But he jolted…
…and looked…
…and hesitated…
…and on the second swipe, I’ve got him, hooking fingers into the neck of his tee-shirt, pulling him up
short.
Shrieking rage and fear, he yanks upwards from the hem, tugging it over his head and off. Leaving it
pping loose in my hand, naked from the waist up, he bolts.
Blood pounds behind my ears. My forehead drums. ck dots swim though my vision. Tossing down
the fucking useless fucking tee-shirt, I hurtle after him again…
Brakes howl…
A yell.
Of warning...?
The mour of horns…
The scream and smoke of ripping rubber…
And a bare heartbeat to see the vehicle bearing down on me…
The impact rips the air from my chest and the thought from my brain.
For an unending split-second…
Pain…
A brief moment… lifted from my feet, I roll across the hood...
Shrieks of rm...
Screams for help…
The wail of a siren…
And as darkness blooms, the triumphant grin of the Surgeon looking down at me…
*****