Roy pushed it away. “You let that nigger Indin have half the dough?” With the dead look in his eyes.
Jack placed the glass on the phone table, his hand and part of his sleeve wet. “It was the other way around, Roy. It was Franklin gave half to Lucy. He’s the one had it.”
Roy was heading for the aluminum case lying on the bar. “He had it? What does that mean? Those guys up in the room had it, too, and you know what the nigger did to ’em? He tell you? He popped ’em, man. Both guys, twice in the chest.”
Jack said, “Franklin?”
“Your pal you had the long talk with’s gonna do you a favor, go up and get the keys. He got the keys, all right, and shot ’em dead. And you let him drive off with a million bucks? Fucking Indin never even had on a pair of shoes before? Jesus Christ, Jack, what were you thinking?”
Lucy said, “He didn’t tell us . . .”
Roy looked at her. “Had you known, would you given him all of it? I’d like to know how you people think. He’s gone—that’s it, huh? Jesus Christ, he even swipes the guy’s car and you two watch him drive off.” Turning to the aluminum case Roy said, “So what’re we left with? I suppose you’re gonna tell me she gets half. . . .” He opened the case, stared at the rows of currency. “How much’s this, a million even?”
“A million one hundred thousand,” Lucy said. She went into her straw bag, lying on the sofa, and brought out a pack of cigarettes.
Roy looked past her at Jack. “You and I split half, or we cut this three ways? Fuck Cullen, he didn’t help none.”
“The way it turned out,” Jack said, “you and I didn’t help much either. I told you, Franklin gave the money to Lucy. I was there, I saw it. He didn’t give me any or say, here, this’s for Roy. Uh-unh, he gave it to Lucy. She thought we should have a piece of it, but I convinced her otherwise. Take it to Nicaragua, ’cause that’s what this whole deal is all about anyway.”
Roy said, “If bullshit was worth anything, Jack, you’d have the fertilizer market sewed up. What I see is, the schemers have been scheming again. Hell, I can hear you. Let’s see if we can fuck old Roy. Tell him all the money’s going to the poor lepers. . . .”
Lucy was shaking her head. “Roy, it is, it’s for the hospital.”
“He knows it,” Jack said, “he’s looking for an excuse, that’s all.”
Roy said, “Why even talk about it.” He closed the case and lifted it from the bar. “If I can see it clear in my mind to take it off the Nicaraguans, I can surely take it off a you two, couple of lost causes.” He started past Lucy. “You have any complaints, take it up with the police. Tell ’em what you been doing.”
Jack put his hand around the brass candlestick, took it from the phone table to hold at his side.
Roy stopped a few feet away and opened his coat. “What’re you gonna do, take a swing at me? Jack, I’d shoot my mother for a million bucks.”
Behind him, Lucy said, “So would I.”
She stood by the sofa holding her dad’s nickel-plated .38 in both hands, arms extended.
Jack saw her as Roy, in front of him, half turned to look back.
Roy said, “Oh, shit, I forgot. You have your shoulder holster on? Show us. Jack, it’s like TV cops wear.”
Lucy said, “If you try to walk out with that I promise I’ll shoot you.”
Roy said, “Sister, if you had the nerve, you’d deserve the money.” He turned, took two steps toward the door.
Lucy fired and Roy screamed.
28
* * *
HELENE HAD THE BACK END of the hearse open and the mortuary cot halfway out, trying to get the goddamn legs to fold down. Jack walked up to her and said, “Here,” and released the catch. He said, “I’ll get him.” So calm about it. Helene watched him walk off, pushing the cot along the brick path through the garden. As he reached the shade trees a door on the patio opened and Lucy stood holding it for him. It didn’t take long. Helene watched Jack bring the cot out with a man lying on it, then stop to say something to Lucy and kiss her on the cheek. He came through the garden to the driveway, to the back end of the hearse. It wasn’t until Jack had the cot ready to load that Helene realized the man on it wasn’t dead.
His eyes were open. There were towels wedged in between his right arm and his side. He was saying ugly things trying to look mean, calling Jack a name Helene didn’t care for, usually said to women. It didn’t seem to bother Jack. He slid the man into the hearse and slammed the door on him.
She said, “Jack, I can’t pick up somebody who isn’t dead, can I?”
He said for her to come on and waved to Lucy standing over on the patio. Lucy waved back.
They got in the hearse and left, Helene driving, Jack sitting back lighting a cigarette, not a care in the world. The first thing Helene wanted to know was why they didn’t call an ambulance. Jack said because they’d ask how Roy got shot—reaching over and touching her just above the hip. Right there. Only on Roy it was a roll of fat. Jack said Roy would make up a story to tell at the hospital. Helene said, “Well, isn’t he pissed?” Jack said, who cares? Roy couldn’t tell on anyone without telling on himself. Jack asked her to save her questions till later. “Let’s get old Roy to Charity.”
At the emergency entrance they slid him out of the hearse and rolled him onto a gurney, Jack ducking questions from the orderly. He said to Roy, “You hurry up and get better, you hear?” The orderly was wheeling Roy off, so Helene missed what he said to Jack.
They drove off in the hearse. Jack said, “Go on up Canal. We’ll stop by Mandina’s and have one. How’s that sound? Leo and I used to drop in there after a funeral, unwind.”
Helene said, “If you think you’re gonna get your job back, you’re crazy.”
“It’s yours,” Jack said, “if it makes you happy.”
Helene gave him a look. He seemed so innocent sitting there, taking in the sights of Canal Street on a Saturday afternoon.
“I’ve never gone with a girl who worked at a funeral home; it’ll be a new experience.” He said after a moment, “I may go to Gulfport tomorrow, pick up a car. Guy offered to let me use his brand-new sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes, long as I want. Keys’ll be at the Standard Fruit office.”
“If you don’t have it, fake it,” Helene said. “That doesn’t sound like you, Jack.”
“Or I could sell the car . . .”
“That sounds like you.”
“Send the money to Lucy, in Nicaragua.”
Helene looked at him. “Are you serious?”
Jack didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he was or not.
The Extras
I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS
II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY
III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT
V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”
This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.
Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).
All by Elmore: The Crime Novels; The Westerns
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce (1969); Mr. Majestyk (1974); 52 Pickup (1974); Swag* (1976); Unknown Man #89 (1977); The Hunted (1977); The Switch (1978); City Primeval: High Noon in Detroit (1980); Gold Coast (1980); Split Images (1981); Cat Chaser (1982); Stick (1983); LaBrava (1983); Glitz (1985); Bandits (1987); Touch (1987); Freaky Deaky (1988); Killshot(1989); Get Shorty (1990); Maximum Bob (1991); Rum Punch (1992); Pronto (1993); Riding the Rap(1995); Out of Sight (1996); Be Cool (1999); Pagan Babies (2000); “Fire in the Hole”* (e-book original story, 2001); Tishomingo Blues (2002); When the Women Come Out to Dance: Stories (20
02).
The Westerns
The Bounty Hunters* (1953); The Law at Randado* (1954); Escape from Five Shadows* (1956); Last Stand at Saber River* (1959); Hombre* (1961); The Moonshine War* (1969); Valdez Is Coming* (1970); Forty Lashes Less One* (1972); Gunsights* (1979) Cuba Libre (1998); The Tonto Woman and Other Western Stories* (1998).
As of November 2002: Unless otherwise indicated (*), all titles are available from HarperCollins e-books. All titles are available in print form in dazzling new editions by HarperTorch paperbacks, with the exception of: The Moonshine War (1969); Swag (1976); “Fire in the Hole” (2001). “Fire in the Hole” is available within HarperCollins e-book and William Morrow hardcover editions of When the Women Come Out to Dance (2002).
The Crime Novels
The Big Bounce(1969)
Jack Ryan always wanted to play pro ball. But he couldn’t hit a curveball, so he turned his attention to less legal pursuits. A tough guy who likes walking the razor’s edge, he’s just met his match — and more — in Nancy. She’s a rich man’s plaything, seriously into thrills and risk, and together she and Jack are pure heat ready to explode. But when simple housebreaking and burglary give way to the deadly pursuit of a really big score, the stakes suddenly skyrocket. Because violence and double-cross are the name of this game — and it’s going to take every ounce of cunning Jack and Nancy possess to survive . . . each other.
Houston Chronicle: “[Leonard is] a sage poet of crime.”
From the novel:
She was facing him now, her cold look gone and smiling a little. Of course it’s loaded.
“You going to shoot something?”
“We could. Windows are good.”
“So you brought a gun to shoot at windows.”
“And boats. Boats are fun.”
“I imagine they would be. How about cars?”
“I didn’t think about cars.” She seemed pleasantly surprised. “Isn’t that funny?
“Yeah that is funny.”
“There’s a difference,” Ryan said, “between breaking and entering and armed robbery.”
“And there’s a difference between seventy-eight dollars and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nancy said, “How badly do you want it?”
Mr. Majestyk(1974)
Vincent Majestyk saw too much death in the jungles of Southeast Asia. All he wants to do now is farm his melons and forget. But peace can be an elusive commodity, even in the Arizona hinterlands — and especially when the local mob is calling all the shots. And one quiet, proud man’s refusal to be strong-armed by a powerful hood is about to start a violent chain reaction that will leave Mr. Majestyk ruined, in shackles, and without a friend in the world — except for one tough and beautiful woman. But his tormentors never realized something about their mark: This is not his first war. Vince Majestyk knows more than they’ll ever know about survival . . . and everything about revenge.
Bergen Record: “First rate . . . an excellent thriller . . . well-plotted and smoothly written and crackles with suspense.”
From the novel:
Majestyk was running across the open scrub, weaving through the dusty brush clumps, by the time Renda got out of the car and began firing at him with the automatic, both hands extended in the handcuffs. Majestyk kept running. Renda jumped across the ditch, got to the fence, and laid the .45 on the top of a post, aimed, and squeezed the trigger three times, but the figure out in the scrub was too small now and it would have to be a lucky shot to bring him down. He fired once more and the automatic clicked empty.
Seventy, eighty yards away, Majestyk finally came to a stop, worn out, getting his breath. He turned to look at the man standing by the fence post and, for a while, they stared at one another, each knowing who the other man was and what he felt and not having to say anything. Renda crossed the ditch to the Jag and Majestyk watched it drive away.
52 Pickup (1974)
Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn’t pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder — up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn’t get mad . . . he gets even.
Chicago Tribune: “A splendid thriller.”
From the novel:
The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sun-glasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.
“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-Country Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.’ Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”
As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and dismal gray skyline beyond.
“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the drive said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested some time back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States.”
At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver’s ear.
“Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.
Swag (1976)
Three guys with illegal expertise, a plan to snag a tax-free hundred grand, and a taste of summertime Detroit’s sweet life. But it means committing armed robbery. And being smart enough to get away with it.
Publishers Weekly: “An electrifying novel . . . with a murderous, well-timed suspenseful finale.”
The New York Times: “Leonard is nobody’s follower, and he has a style of his own. “Swag” is one of the best of the year.”
From the novel:
There was a photograph of Frank in an ad that ran in the Detroit Free Press and showed all the friendly salesmen at Red Bowers Chevrolet. Under his photo it said Frank J. Ryan. He had on a nice smile, a styled moustache, and a summer-weight suit made out of that material that’s shiny and looks like it has snags in it.
There was a photograph of Stick on file at 1300 Beaubein, Detroit Police Headquarters. Under the photo it said Ernest Stickley, Jr. 89037. He had on a sport shirt that had sailboats and palm trees on it. He’d bought it in Pompano Beach, Florida.
The first time they ever saw each other was the night at Red Bowers Chevrolet Telegraph when Stick was pulling out of the used car lot in the maroon ’73 Camaro. Frank walked up to the side window as the car stopped before turning out on the street. He said, “You mind if I ask where you are going?”
Unknown Man #89(1977)
Detroit process server Jack Ryan has a reputation for being the best in the business at finding people who don’t want to be found. Now he’s looking for a missing stockholder known only as “Unknown Man #89.” But his missing man isn’t “unknown” to everyone: a pretty blonde hates his guts and a very nasty dude named Royal wants him dead in the worst way. Which is very unfortunate for Jack Ryan, who is suddenly caught in the crossfire of a lethal triple-cross and as much a target as his nameless prey.
The New York Times Book Review: “Remarkably ingenious . . . Will keep you on the edge of your chair.”
From the novel:
A friend of Ryan’s said to him one time, “Yeah, but at least you don’t take any shit from anybody.”
Ryan said to his friend, “I don’t know, the way things’ve been going,
maybe it’s about time I started taking some.”
This had been a few years ago. Ryan remembered it as finally waking up, deciding to get off his ass and make some kind of run.
His sister drove him down to the Detroit police car auction where he bough a 1970 maroon and white Cougar for $250. His sister didn’t like the Cougar because it had four bullet holes in the door on the driver’s side. Ryan said he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind; he loved them.
The Hunted(1977)
Al Rosen was doing just fine, hiding out in Israel — until he decided to play Good Samaritan and rescue some elderly tourists from a hotel fire. Now his picture’s been carried in the stateside press, and the guys he’s been hiding from know exactly where he is. And they’re coming to get him — crooked lawyers, men with guns and money, and assorted members of the Detroit mob who are harboring a serious grudge. Playtime in paradise is officially over; Rosen’s a million miles from home with a bull’s eye on his back. And his only ally is a U.S. Embassy marine who’s been looking for a war . . . and who’s damn well found one.
Bergen Record: “Excellent . . . fun to read . . . a plot and a chase as good as anything he has ever written.”
From the novel:
Rosen first noticed the tourist lady on Friday, the day before the fire. He saw her and said to himself, New York.
She had the look — a trim forty-year-old who kept herself together: stylish in a quiet way, neatly combed dark hair and sunglasses; tailored beige sundress, about a size eight or ten; expensive cane-trimmed handbag hanging from her shoulder; nothing overdone, no camera case, no tourist lapel badge that said “Kiss Me, I’m Jewish,” Rosen, watching her walk past the cafe, liked her thin legs, her high can, and her sensible breasts.