Part 63 (1/2)

Dutch and I piled into the Kid's car and followed the ambulance to the hospital. It was like a front-line medcorps unit. Doctors, nurses, and attendants raced in and out of doors in bloodstained robes, while several of the wounded lay on stretchers in the hallway, waiting their turn in the emergency room.

”How bad is this one?” a hawk-faced nurse asked as they wheeled Graves in, a blood bottle stuck in his arm.

”Bullet in the chest and bleeding,” the attendant said.

”Room three,” she snapped officiously, and then to Graves, ”Do you have hospitalization?”

Graves looked up at her and managed a smile.

”I'm on welfare, lady,” he whispered. And they wheeled him away.

Kite Lange and Dutch filled us in on the particulars. Dutch had hardly finished his phone call to me when Nance and his sidekicks had whipped into the street. One car had gone in from Morgan Street, across the empty lot to the side door. Nance had driven straight to the front of the church, gunned down one of Graves' men, and thrown a stick of dynamite through the front door. Then all h.e.l.l exploded. Lange, coming in close behind, rammed Nance's car and ruined his own in the process. Nance had headed up the alley beside the drugstore, only to run into Stick coming toward him, slammed into reverse, and backed out. We knew the rest of the story.

”My car's a wreck,” Lange moaned.

”Your car was already a wreck,” said the Kid. ”We'll go to the city dump tomorrow and get you another one.”

Dutch was as busy as a centipede with athlete's foot, a.s.signing cops to the wounded and trying to get a final count on dead and injured. Miraculously, only one cop had been hurt in the melee. He had broken a toe jumping out of his burning patrol car. A quick count showed two of Graves' men dead, three shot or burned, and the boss himself fighting for his life. Five more had been arrested at the scene.

”We may be missing one or two more,” volunteered the Kid. ”I think there was thirteen of them, countin' Graves.”

Nance had not fared well either. Three were dead, two more hanging on for dear life, two had minor wounds, and three were in custody.

”One of 'em looks like he got struck by lightning,” Dutch said. ”The whole top of his head's stove in.”

”That was me,” the Kid muttered.

”What'd you hit him with, a meat cleaver?” asked Dutch.

”Table leg.”

”That's gonna look great on the report,” Dutch said.

”Anybody see how many there were in the getaway car with Nance?”

”Three or four,” said the Kid.

”Not bad,” I said. ”This may have been Waterloo for both gangs. They've got to be running out of hoodlums about now.”

”Let's hope Stick nailed Nance and the rest of his bunch,” Dutch said.

”If anybody can, he can,” I said.

I was right-and wrong.

A few minutes later an ambulance wheeled into emergency, followed by the Stick. The ambulance held three more of Turk Nance's gunmen, one of whom had literally lost his head in the shooting.

”That was me, too,” Mufalatta murmured again.

”You had some day,” Lange said.

No Nance.

”They headed for the interstate bridge,” Stick explained. ”I radioed ahead, had the bridge sealed off. They tried to go cross-country and hit a delivery truck. Nance was AWOL. I don't know what the h.e.l.l happened to him, but I've put an all points out on him.”

”We got the little s...o...b.. this time,” Dutch said. ”We can nail him with murder, arson, creating a public nuisance, discharging firearms in the street . . . ”

”Yeah,” I said, ”all we got to do is find him.”

”How about Nose?” the Kid asked. ”What do we charge him with? He was just protecting his a.s.s.”

”Concealed weapons?” Stick suggested.

”There wasn't anything concealed about them,” Dutch said. ”I don't know what we're gonna do about Nose. There's gotta be something we can stick him with.”

”One thing for certain,” Stick said, ”it's sure as h.e.l.l gonna attract a lot of people.”

It did. Within thirty minutes Chief Walters, t.i.tan, Donleavy, and several other dignitaries were in the emergency clinic, all asking questions. I had better things to do. I asked the Stick to run me back to the park to get my car and check on the progress of our black-water diver. As we started to leave, t.i.tan grabbed my arm.

”What the h.e.l.l happened over there?” he demanded.

”Ask Dutch,” I said. ”I'm busy.”

”I'll bet my pension you shook up this ruckus,” he said, his voice beginning to rise. He sounded like a dog whining.

”That's right. I attacked all twenty-five of them with my nail file,” I said, and walked out.

A few doors down from emergency, a bronze casket was being loaded through the morgue entrance into a hea.r.s.e. Doe Raines was standing alone, watching the procedure. I walked down to her. She was wearing a severe black suit and a black hat and was carrying a black purse. As usual, she was dressed impeccably for the occasion.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”If it's any consolation, I really think Harry was one of the few people in this town who weren't involved in the whole mess. His only sin was naivete.”

She looked up at me. She was drifting aimlessly through a bad dream. Her makeup, heavier than usual, could not cover the grief lines around her eyes. Her voice, low and husky with sorrow, sounded like it was coming from someplace far, far away.

”It's been ghastly,” she said in a tiny voice. ”The newspapers in Atlanta and New York have been calling. TV stations. I don't know what to say.”

”Let somebody else do the talking. Let Donleavy do it. Besides, when they get down here they're going to find a lot more to interest them than you.”

”I've done a lot of thinking,” she said. ”Can we talk a little later on? I'll be at the funeral home until seven. Can we have a drink after that?”

”Sure.”

”I'll be at the townhouse,” she said. ”It's on Palm right up the street from the hotel. The Breezes.”

”I'll see you about seven thirty,” I said.

”Yes, thank you,” she murmured, s.h.i.+fting her attention back to the hea.r.s.e.