The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 60
“Indeed,” I said, my hand square on the Savage grip. “And you?”
“Yep. A month ago,” he said. “Wanted me to work both sides, rile things up, get the union throwing bombs and the cops busting heads. He wanted to avoid what happened in Missoula, the cops and mayor going soft.”
“Well, no one’s gone soft,” I said.
“You hire me to rile—I rile.” He looked away. “Maybe too much.”
“You think that’s why my employer didn’t tell me about you?”
“He didn’t?”
“No. I thought you were just one of the bums.”
“Really? He didn’t tell you?”
I shrugged. “Would have been good information to have.”
“For me, too.”
“I’m sure. A snake, isn’t he?”
“Did he do the driver bit with you?”
I laughed. “And the dossiers?”
“Jesus,” he said.
“So, what office are you out of?”
“Office?”
This confused me. “I thought you were a Pink. Are you freelance?”
He chuckled like there was a funny story in that, and shifted in his chair and looked around for a waiter. “I’m going to have a drink. You want one?”
Out the window I could no longer see Gurley or Ryan Dolan. I craned my neck. I’d find them later. “It’s lunch. They won’t open the whiskey,” I said.
“Of course they will.” Reston spun toward the passing waiter, “Excuse me,” but the man skated by without stopping, and when Reston turned back, it was with a lunge, the blade sliding between ribs and nearly lifting me off my chair. I felt more pressure than pain, a thrust-lift-swipe in my chest and lung, the man’s full weight—not jerking but easy and practiced, like a butcher cutting rib roasts, and what felt like eight inches of steel in my side and God I was dead on my chair—
My hand had come off the handle of the .32. I scrabbled for it, but it was gone.
Reston was leaning on the knife—Ah, there’s the pain—I yelled, coughed, and sputtered, but he was standing, bent over me as if concerned about my condition. He spoke with—was that an attempt at an English accent? “Oh, Del, what’s the bother?” Left hand on the handle of the knife, right reaching around his backside to tuck my gun into the back of his pants—can a man admire his killer’s method? Except for the shite accent—
“Oh my, you’re coughing blood, Del!” He called out to the bar: “Stay back!” He put that right arm around me, helped me to my feet. “My brother is consumptive,” he said. “I need to get him some air.”
The waiter gave us a wide berth, as Reston must’ve known he would, and he had me upright, pulling me out the door, the waiter held it for us, Reston’s right arm over my shoulder holding me up, his left reaching across his own body into my suit coat, onto the hidden handle of his knife, which jutted from my side and which he used like the tiller of a boat to steer me.
I got out a weak “Help” to the waiter, but Reston said, “I’m trying, Del, I’m trying to help,” and he gave the knife a slight twist, the pain buckled my knees, and I cried out again.
“My brother is quite ill,” he said as he lurched me down the block, over the curb, and into the street. “Consumption, stay back,” he repeated, knowing TB could explain the blood, and that people would steer away from a man coughing it up. He was so convincing that I almost wished he were my brother taking care of me—Oh, Del, dead Del, god Del—and I cried out again.
“Quiet now,” he whispered. “Won’t be long.”
I faked a stagger, mustered some last fight, and gave him a sharp elbow, and followed that with a fist, and was almost able to spin away from him, but that knife was heavy in my side and he gave another turn to the handle and oh-goddamn-weeping-sorrow-goddamn pain—I could do nothing but collapse against my brother and surrender to it.
“None of that,” he said.
“Fucking Brand—” I muttered, for that was my true killer—luring me to this hell-city and hiring me to kill my brother and God I wanted my brother to go and kill Brand next—God weeping sorrow.
“Quiet, now,” he said. “Tell me, are you a religious man, Del?”
“No,” I managed.
“That’s good,” he said, “because I don’t believe we have time for rituals.”
Oh God weeping pain
“I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” he said. “Try not to talk or breathe too deeply. We’re almost there. Stay quiet and I’ll help you along.”
Oh weeping God
“You shouldn’t have drunk so much, Del!” he called out to someone who must’ve seen us staggering, and him half-carrying me, for he was having trouble supporting my weight now.
I wished I could stop my weeping. Was this how it had felt for the people I’d planted? Jesus, the horror. At least I was quick. And the shame of it. I could have gone to see my grandson and daughter in Lexington. Oh, that little girl running into my arms. Shame weep shame goddamn Spokane morbs, sorry for it all, sorriest for me, shame weep God panic weep shame weep.
We walked east and then turned north. He had me step over railroad tracks. We were moving toward the river.
He laid me down in some wild grass and the pain nearly undid me. I opened my eyes. We were in a little grassy strip between railroad sidings, just above the south channel of the river. He was crouched, a little winded from carrying me so far.
“Exhale,” he said, and when I did, he pulled the knife from my side, and I felt blinding pain and then a loosening and a relief, that blade and handle out of me. But the burbling of blood in my breath was enough to know I would drown one way or another. He took my hand and pressed it against the wound. “Hold your hand here. And take shallow