Solomon's Vineyard (8 page)

“Don't, Winnie; don't,” Jonesy was saying.

Ginger stared at me, her face excited. “Scared?” I asked her.

“Get me a gun.”

I peered into the trophy room. The bartender was still shooting out
his window. I could just see him through the smoke. I saw Waterman and
the two wounded men on the floor. The tommy-gun began to work again;
the bullets knocking pieces off the fireplace.

“If you think I'm going to let you go out there, you're nuts,” I told
Ginger.

Winnie had calmed down a little. “Is he dead?” she asked between
sobs.

“He's fine,” I said.

There was a shout outside and the shooting stopped. The silence
seemed strange. I put my. revolver away and found a pack of cigarettes.
I lit one for Ginger, and then one for myself. The smoke burned my
mouth. “I guess we beat 'em off,” I said.

LIKE HELL we had beat them off. We found that out when Davison went
into the trophy room to look at Caryle Waterman. The bartender by the
window motioned him to bend down, but he didn't pay any attention. He
walked over to the body and just as he looked down at it somebody
outside let go at him. I saw the flash and heard the
crack
of
the bullet, and when Davison went down I thought he'd been shot, too.
But he crawled back to the office like a crab.

“God!” he said when he stood up. “That was close.”

Winnie asked: “Caryle?”

“He's dead.”

She must have known it, but it was a shock anyway. She began to cry.
“We'll all be killed,” she sobbed. “All of us.”

“Now, there,” Jonesy said, patting her back.

Ginger sat on Papas's table and crossed her legs. She had long,
slender legs. I wished we were alone. Blood always excites me. “It
looks like a stand-off,” Ginger said.

“So far,” I said.

“What are they trying to do?” Davison asked. “I never heard of
anything like this.”

I took my eyes off Ginger's legs. “Gangsters,” I said.

“But they've gone out of style,” Davison said. “They don't have
gangsters any more.”

“Suppose you go out and tell them that,” I said.

Winnie said: “Why don't we call the police?”

That was a good idea. I wondered why I hadn't thought of it. I lifted
the phone on Papas's desk. It was dead. I tossed the phone on the
floor. The crash made everybody jump. I heard a noise in the trophy
room. I looked out the door and saw Gus Papas crawling across the
floor. He caught hold of the first wounded man, the one by the
fireplace, and dragged him along. He brought the man into the office.

“Oh, boy! this is terrible,” Papas said cheerfully.

He started to pick the telephone off the floor. “No use,” Ginger
said. I looked at the wounded man. He wasn't going to die. The bleeding
from his shoulder had stopped”.

“We hold them off,” Papas said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Got three men in back,” Papas said. “And me and the bartender here.
They don't get in.”

He looked pretty happy. He had proved he was a hell of a fighter. He
had driven off Pug Banta.

Winnie was sobbing again and the men were trying to comfort her. I
crawled across the trophy room to the bartender by the window. He was
peeking out through one of the curtains.

“What are they doing?”

“Get your own window,” he snarled.

I crawled to another window. By moving the curtain a little I could
sec out. There was a fire going in back of the cars. I could see the
moving shadows of men by the gasoline pump. They were careful to keep
out of range of the cabin. After a while two men with torches left the
fire. The flames of the torches rose high. They had been soaked in
gasoline. The men moved towards us, keeping behind the cars. I saw the
bartender raise his rifle. We waited while the men crawled along, their
torches lighting up trees and bushes and the parked cars.

Suddenly two machine-guns began to rake the house. I could feel the
curtain twitch from the lead. The men with the torches ran for the
cabin. I bent my wrist around the window, keeping my body back, and
fired where I thought they ought to be. Papas and the bartender were
firing, too. I saw a torch sail through the air and land ten feet short
of the front door. The shooting stopped. I peeked through the curtain.
The other torch was lying near the cars. Somebody must have hit the guy
who had it. Papas leaned out his window and took a shot at something.
The machine-gun opened up again.

I lay on the floor, listening to the flying lead. I thought we were
lucky. The torches could just as well have hit the cabin. We'd look
fine trying to put out a fire while they sprayed us with the
tommy-guns. But that was over. We'd got two of Pug's men. He wouldn't
want to waste many more. Now he'd probably go away.

I crawled back to the office. Winnie had fainted. She was lying on
the table and Ginger was washing her face with a damp cloth. The two
men were watching Ginger. The wounded waiter was on his back, looking
up at the ceiling.

“What happened?” Davison asked.

I told him. Both the men were scared. “I fought in the war,” Jonesy
said; “But it wasn't like this.”

Winnie began to moan. I went through Papas's desk and found a pint of
some Greek liquor. When Winnie came to, I made her drink some, and then
I had some myself. It was terrible; it tasted like the stuff that oozes
out of pine trees. Resin, I guess.

“I'll take one,” Ginger said.

I gave her a drink. She made a face. Winnie sat up and Jonesy put an
arm around her. “Have they gone?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jonesy said. “It's all right now, dear.” The liquor had
authority. I felt it in my stomach. I took another drink. Davison and
Jonesy watched me. They didn't want any liquor.

“We'll have to get the police,” Davison said. “You go,” I said.
“They've gone, haven't they?”

“You find out,” I said. “I'm staying here.”

“Me, too,” Ginger said.

I gave her a drink, and then had another. I was getting a
buzz
out of the liquor. I sat on the table beside Ginger. Gus Papas crawled
to the door. “Hey,” he said to me.

He wanted me to come out. I crawled to a window in the trophy room,
following Papas's legs. He held the curtains apart an inch for me.

“What they doin'?” he asked.

I could just see figures moving near the line of cars. The bonfire
had gone down and it was hard to make out anything. I didn't know what
they were doing. It looked as though they were carrying buckets of
something somewhere. That didn't make any sense. I heard the sound of
the gasoline pump working. They were carrying gas.

“Damned if I know,” I said.

I heard the sound of a bucket hitting the ground. Then two men lit
torches at the fire.

The bartender spoke from his window: “They're goin' to try that
again.”

“Under cover of the car,” I said.

“Is good idea,” Gus Papas said.

We got ready to let them have it. I thought we could stop them.
They'd have to come out from behind the car to throw the torches, and
we could wing 'em. I saw one man get in the driver's seat. It was
queer; the men with the torches were ahead of the car, not behind it. I
heard the starter, and then the car began to move. It was pointed right
for the front door. I heard the motor race.

“What the hell,” the bartender said.

Suddenly the car jumped ahead; the driver leaped out;
the
two men threw their torches at the moving car; it burst into flames,
picking up speed as it came at us. The car was soaked in gasoline.

“Jesus!” I said. “And it's my car, too.”

It came at us in second gear, moving fast enough to make the flames
roar. The fire shot fifty feet in the air, thick and yellow. The car
was still picking up speed. I heard the sound of the tommy-guns, but
right then I didn't give a damn. I wanted to leave. I got up and ran to
Papas's office.

I must have looked wild. They stared at me. “Come on,” I yelled at
them. “We got to get out.”

I grabbed Ginger's hand and we ran for the screened porch. They
followed. I never saw Gus Papas or the bartender. Just as we reached
the porch the car hit the front door with a crash. There was a burst of
flames, a hot wind, and an explosion that knocked us to the floor. J
lost Ginger's hand. For a second I lay flat, listening to the crackle
of flames. I knew I had to get up, but I couldn't. I made myself get
up. I got Ginger to her feet. She was dazed. I didn't look for the
others. “Follow me,” I told Ginger.

I didn't see a door so I went right through the screen, hitting it
doubled up. A whole section of screen came loose. I landed on my hands
and knees. Ginger stepped through after me. I got up and we ran for the
lake. The whole sky was light with the flames. There was still shooting
out in front. I ran into the lake, the water sloshing around my ankles,
and got hold of a rowboat. I lifted Ginger in, and got in myself. I put
the oars in the locks and rowed away from shore. I couldn't make any
speed. It was like rowing in a dream. I rowed like hell and we barely
moved. I was scared for the first time. Then I saw what the trouble
was. I went by Ginger to the bow, and pulled up the anchor. I rowed
into the shadow of some willow trees, and then I rested.

“A nice quiet evening,” Ginger said.

We looked at the cabin. The flames were on the roof now, and over one
whole side. Against the purple sky I saw a big cloud of black smoke. I
didn't hear any shooting. The cabin was a goner; all the fire
departments in the world couldn't save it. I couldn't see anyone, not
even on the shore. I wondered if Winnie and the others had got out.

It was very still on the lake. The rowboat did not move at all. I
could see Ginger's face and hands in the light of the burning cabin.
Her hair glowed from the reflected light. She looked beautiful and
mysterious.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

I moved to her seat. “I'll show you,” I said. I swung her across my
knees and kissed her. She fought. She jerked away and slapped my face,
and when I held her hands she bit my wrist.

I let her sit up. She pulled down her skirt and straightened her
dress.

“You're quite a cave man.”

I felt the blood on my wrist. “You have a bad effect on me, baby.”

“I think all gals do.”

“Not like you, baby.”

I went back to the oars. I sucked the blood from my wrist and then I
began to row across the lake. I thought it would be a good idea if we
got the hell out of the neighbourhood. Maybe we could pick up a ride on
the main road. There would be trucks.

“Are you sore?” Ginger asked.

“No.”

“Next time, ask.”

“It's more fun the other way,” I said, rowing.

“The jails are full of guys who think that,” Ginger said.

The lake was only about half a mile wide. I benched the boat in the
mud and carried Ginger to the shore. We walked across a field to a dirt
road and down it to the main highway. In the distance I saw the red
glow that was Gus Papas's cabin. We stood on the side of the road to
wait for a lift. There were crickets under the trees.

“How'd you mix up with Banta?” I asked.

“I was broke, needed a job.”

“I'd call it more than a job.”

“Yeah?” Ginger said. “Well, it hasn't been.”

“And you don't really like him?”

“What do you think?”

The lights of a car lit up the road. The car was coming very fast
from Paulton. I heard the scream of a siren and I pulled Ginger to the
side of the road. We watched the car go by from behind a bush. It was
doing a good seventy miles an hour. We got back on the cement just as
the tail light faded away.

“What's this to you, anyway?” Ginger said. “What do you care about my
troubles?”

“I care a lot.”

“I know what you care for,” Ginger said.

“I care for that, too.”

She didn't say anything more. I saw a car coming along the road. It
was going towards Paulton. “Here's where we hook a ride,” I said. We
stood on the cement. The car was coming slowly. I thought it was a
truck, or a farmer. The lights made it hard to see. As it came up I
jerked my thumb in the direction of Paulton. The car came to a stop.

“Well, look who's here,” said a voice.

It was Pug Banta.

WE SLID along the dark highway at forty miles an hour, heading for
Paulton. Like hell heading for Paulton, I thought. Heading for a couple
of slugs in the gut. I was between two of Pug's boys in the back seat,
both with their rods in my ribs. Ginger was in front with Pug and the
driver. There wasn't any conversation. The guy on my left smelled of
garlic.

We turned off the highway at the city limits. To the left I saw
street lights. Goodbye, street lights! I thought. We drove on asphalt,
the tyres humming. Pug lit a cigarette, then held the pack to Ginger.

“Have one, babe?”

“No.”

He put the pack away. We turned down a lane that was lined with trees
and went to a big frame house. We stopped in front of the house. I
could hear frogs croaking.

“Joe.”

“Yeah, boss,” said the guy on my right.

“Take Ginger inside.”

“Okay.”

Joe got out. Pug climbed out, too, to let Ginger out.

“Pug.”

“Yeah, babe?”

“It isn't his fault.”

“I warned him.”

“I made him go out. I told him it would be all right.”

“It's all right,” Pug said.

“Oh, Pug.” Ginger's voice was husky.

This was creepy. She was badly worried. It didn't look so good for
me. I felt funny in my stomach.

“I wanted to make you jealous,” Ginger said.

“That's a good one.”

“Really, Pug.”

“Take her in, Joe.”

The guy with me said: “Sit still, dope.”

I heard Ginger crying. She didn't say anything to me. Pug got in the
back seat. “Let's go,” he said.