to the lobby. I scramble down the stairs and stumble into the wall. The nerve in my back is on fire.
Hank is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“She jumped in a taxi going west on Cork.”
“Where the hell to?”
“Probably the midnight train to L.A. You’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before it pulls out.” Hank hurries over and reaches behind the counter. “Jack,” he calls and tosses me a set of car keys. “It’s the black Ford Coupe out back. Go west on Cork. A mile after you cross the bridge, turn right on Depot Street.”
CHAPTER THREE
SHOWDOWN AT MIDNIGHT
I gun down Cork in the midnight rain, the windshield wipers working overtime, the tires hissing over the asphalt. I fly past the Rescue Mission, Sal’s Pawn Shop, and The Blue Rose Dance Hall. I clatter over the Santa Paulina Bridge, the water black and raging one hundred feet below. When I get to Depot Street I snap a sharp right and slide up to the platform.
Passengers fold their umbrellas as they file into the train. A few turn their heads to watch the stone-faced man in black dragging the lady away from the tracks. The women avert their eyes. The men are afraid to get involved.
Teague drags Angel across the platform toward a black Caddy whose driver’s side door is open, like this is going to be an easy grab. I guess it’s up to me to screw up his plan. I get out of the Ford. Angel sees me.
“Jack!” she cries, “Jack!”
The blue raincoat is missing a few buttons. The sleeve is torn, exposing an angry bite mark. She’s lost a pink shoe and one of her pearl earrings.
At the sound of my name, Teague turns toward me with a sneer. With my gimpy leg I look about as threatening as road kill.
“Don’t waste your time,” he says. “You’ve had your free roll in the hay. I’ve got legal custody of this little tramp.” He holds her tightly by the wrist. She struggles, her hair a golden tangle in the light above the station door.
The stationmaster pokes his head out of the ticket window.
“We got trouble here, mister?”
“Call the precinct,” I say. “This man is wanted for murder.”
“I’m not wanted for shit,” says Teague.
The stationmaster pulls his head back inside and slams the window closed.
I’m not in fighting form. No one knows that better than I do. If Hank has connected with Tunney, he could be here any minute. If not it’ll take the city cops about ten minutes once they leave the station.
I limp to Teague’s Caddy. Nice car. New and shiny. I reach inside. It smells like a new pair of Italian leather shoes. I switch off the engine.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says.
I fling the keys into the darkness like I’m on the pitching mound in the big leagues. His arrogance slips a notch. In his moment of distraction, Angel Doll slams him in the head with her purse. His hat tumbles away and she twists free, backing away from him as I advance.
I power-limp across the platform. Teague swivels toward Angel and slams her to her knees with a bunched fist. In the second it takes him to gloat, I land a good one to his jaw. I hear a satisfying snap...a tooth...maybe a bone. I can’t strut like a horny rooster, but there’s iron in my fist.
“You son of a bitch,” he says, and comes at me hard. His shoe slams my ribcage. Cartilage rips from the bone and I stagger sideways.
Angel screams as she watches me struggle to stay on my feet. My body clenches around the pain. I hear a distant siren. Jim should be here in two minutes, maybe three. Either way, Teague isn’t going anywhere without a car.
Teague gives me a bloody, broken-toothed smile. A straight razor materializes in his right hand. I have nothing to lose, so I make one final play. Where I come from if you gotta go down, you go down fighting. He thrusts toward my gut and I grab for the knife. Angel rises to her feet. I’ll never know how successful my effort would have been, because a bullet whines past my ear and the razor clatters to the wooden planks.
Teague needs both hands to plug the hole in his throat. He’s sprung a sizeable leak and blood dribbles between his fingers. He looks surprised, like how can so sterling a fellow as himself come to such an ignoble end? He drops to his knees with a gurgle, falls forward on his face and bleeds out on the boards.
Angel looks down at him with the gun in her hand. My gun. One of her eyes is swollen closed and a bruise is spreading across her cheekbone. She doesn’t seem to comprehend what has just happened.
“It’s all right,” I say. “Hand me the gun.”
She looks at me with a dazed expression, like she’s doesn’t know who I am, like I’m a stranger who’s wandered onto the scene. I take a step toward her and she takes a step back. The gun is heavy and her arm falls to her side.
The whistle blows. Cars begin inching down the tracks.
“Angel, everything is going to be okay. We can clear this whole thing up.”
Patrol cars pull onto Depot Street. The train moves slowly over rails that are silver with rain. Angel looks at the train, then at me, then at the train again.
“Angel,” I say, but she’s in a dead zone beyond my orbit.
She drops the gun and runs along the platform as the train picks up speed. I start after her, but my leg buckles and I go down. She raises her arm. A hand reaches downward and grabs her wrist. She’s briefly suspended on air, then disappears inside the train. My last vision of Angel is her tear-stained face at the window and her little hand pressed against the glass as the train picks up speed.
I’m pulled to my feet by a strong hand. It’s Jim. He walks over and pockets the gun, then looks down at the body, his face expressionless. I throw my weight on my good leg. A second patrol car pulls up to the depot. Two young officers climb onto the platform and out of the rain.
“Duggan,” says Jim, “see that the Ford gets back to Hank Featherstone at The Rexford? This gentleman is too injured to drive.”
“Yes sir.” Duggan can’t take his eyes off the body. I’m not sure that any of us have seen that much blood in one place at one time.
“Duggan, now, if you don’t mind,” says Jim.
“The keys are in the ignition,” I say. He walks off looking a little green around the gills.
The other officer stands waiting for orders.
“Boyle, forget the ambulance and get the coroner down here.”
“Right away, sir. Do you know who’s responsible for all this...blood?”
“Mr. Dunning seems to be the only witness. I’ll see what he has to say.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“There
