Part 18 (1/2)
”If those cops were watching you, they might be showing up. Better watch the door. I'll dress our friend.”
Scott left.
Dukane slid the brown trousers up the man's legs, tugging to get them over his b.u.t.tocks. They were a tight fit, but he managed to hook the waist shut. The bulky, silver privates still hung outside the fly. Dukane hesitated, reluctant to touch them. Holding his breath as if he were handling excrement, he tucked the s.c.r.o.t.u.m into the pants, then pushed the p.e.n.i.s inside. As he started to withdraw his hand, silver fingers grabbed it and pressed it to the soft flesh.
Dukane jerked his hand away.
The man chuckled.
Backing off, Dukane drew the automatic from his shoulder holster.
”You don't need that,” said a quiet, raspy voice. ”I'm going with you guys.”
”Explain.”
”I been listening. Don't know who you are, but you're not with The Group. You get me out of here, protect me, I won't give you no trouble. I'll do whatever you want. You name it. Just don't let the others take me.”
”A deal,” he said, but didn't lower the gun. ”How are you feeling?”
”Like I got the s.h.i.+t kicked out of me. I been shot before, only not this bad.”
”Those wounds should've killed you.”
”Not me, man. I'm Sammy Hoffman, Wonder Man. Takes more than a few f.u.c.kin' bullets to switch me off.”
”Can you sit up?”
Grimacing, he pushed himself off the floor. He raised his arms in front of his face, and turned them. ”f.u.c.k, man, I look like the Tin Woodsman.”
”Put on this s.h.i.+rt.”
He took it. ”Where's my pal, Lacey?”
”Waiting outside.”
”She going with us?”
”Yes.”
”Oh good.” He drew the s.h.i.+rt taut across his chest and b.u.t.toned it. Dukane gave him the sport coat. ”You guys gonna try and walk me out of here?”
”That's the idea.” He found a pair of socks in Scott's suitcase, and tossed them to Hoffman.
”Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from the Group'll give us trouble.”
”We'll handle it.”
”Man, you better. They want my a.s.s.” He finished putting on the socks.
”Put your hands on top of your head.”
”Hey, come on.”
”Do it,” Dukane said, and tugged handcuffs out of his rear pocket. He stepped behind Hoffman, pulled one arm down behind him, cuffed it, then brought down the other arm and snapped the second bracelet around its wrist.
He put the sungla.s.ses on Hoffman's face, concealing the empty eye sockets. Then he placed Scott's old fedora on the man's head. ”Okay, on your feet.”
Hoffman stood up.
Dukane led him to the door, where Scott was crouched and peering through the ax holes.
”Any sign of our friends?”
”Looks clear.” Scott turned, glanced at Hoffman, and wrinkled his nose. ”He doesn't look like much.”
”It's the best I can do. He'll pa.s.s, as long as n.o.body gets a close look.”
”Long as they're a mile off.”
”Better leave your luggage here.”
”Gotta bring my galleys. And recorder.” He hurried away, and returned a few seconds later with his attache case.
They left the room, Dukane holding Hoffman's right arm, Scott his left. Dukane shoved open the fire door.
Two revolvers pointed at his chest. Two men grinned.
”Greetings,” said the taller one. ”Come in, come in. Don't just stand there.”
They stepped onto the landing.
”Well Arthur, looks like the FBI got their man-our man. Tough rocks, Sammy. That is you, I take it.”
”Go f.u.c.k yourself, Trankus.”
”You're not an easy guy to catch. I must thank you fellows, and of course Miss Allen, for being of such invaluable a.s.sistance.”
”Glad to help,” Dukane said. He glanced at Scott. ”Don't try anything.”
Scott nodded.
Arthur frisked him, taking his knife. Then he took away Dukane's automatic and switchblade.
”Very good,” said Trankus.