Mortal Sin jl-4 Page 29

  Over the noise of the copter and the racing car engine, I barely heard it. Not as much pop as a firecracker, the first gunshot missed. The second one pinged off the hood, and Florio nearly lost control, swerving toward the canal bank, then across the road toward the cane field, before straightening the wheel. I looked up, and there was Hank Scourby, door open, leaning out with his. 44 Magnum, blasting away.

  The next shot missed, then another ricocheted off the trunk. Finally, one squarely hit the front windshield, splintering it into a spider’s web of fissures. Again, the Bentley swerved, but Florio kept driving, and the copter stayed with us.

  Diaz lowered his window, stuck the. 38 out, and fired two rounds toward the copter. He didn’t appear to hit anything. He took a look at me, poked the gun out the window again, and I turned toward him. In a flash, the gun was in my face, the barrel pushing at my cheekbone.

  “You want to try something, abogado?”

  I shook my head, no.

  Florio slowed down as the black smoke became thicker. The burning leaves now saturated the air, black papery cinders swirling in the breeze. Inside the car, the smell of the cordite combined with the sickly sweetness of the fire. Suddenly, Florio hit the brakes and slid to a stop. The copter wasn’t visible. We were engulfed by clouds of smoke. Waves of heat from the blazing fields poured over us.

  “If we can’t see him, he can’t see us,” Florio said. “But we gotta get off this road.”

  We sat a minute, maybe more. Then I heard it again, growing louder. As it drew closer, the smoke was beaten away by the rotor. Suddenly, a clang from above. Scourby had set the copter down on top of the car. Now he was bashing our roof in.

  Up, down, bam, bang. Twice more.

  I slumped lower in the seat. Again, Florio hit the gas and took off, the copter in pursuit.

  “There, boss.” Diaz was pointing at what looked like a dirt path coming out of the cane field. It connected with the gravel road at a right angle.

  Florio swung the wheel to the right and slid onto the path. It was narrower than the Bentley. We careened through the burning field, the car knocking down cane stalks with a whackety-whack, the wheels spinning in the soft earth. Singed leaves were plastered to our splintered windshield, smoke curling around us. The helicopter was nowhere to be seen, or heard.

  Florio slowed as we entered a canebrake. In a moment, we were in an adjacent field. Here there was no fire, and the earth was soggy. Twice, our rear wheels spun helplessly, whining in the mud, but Florio kept the car moving, fishtailing his way onto firmer ground. Now, I saw them, a legion of cutters in tattered khaki work clothes and bandannas, wiry, dark-skinned men swinging machetes at the base of the stalks, cutting and gathering the cane. They wore shin protectors and thick Kevlar gloves like a platoon of hockey goalies. Hanging from their belts were flasks of energy-laced “petrol,” a high-calorie brew of beer, sugar, and eggs. As we approached, they stopped and stared in wonder as our battered English sedan invaded their territory.

  Again, we emerged into a clearing, and still we drove on. This time I saw the copter before I heard it.

  Straight ahead.

  Half a mile in front of us.

  No more than ten feet off the ground, and aimed straight for us.

  Hank Scourby was playing chicken with Nicky Florio. I didn’t know who was crazier.

  “Son of a bitch!” Florio cried out.

  The copter dropped a couple of feet lower. On this path, its struts would come right through our windshield. Florio floored it, and we bounced through the mud on a collision course. At the last moment, with the roar of the car’s engine lost in the drone of the copter, Florio swung it hard right, toward one of the burning cane fields, and we skidded and bounced over a muddy incline, the car flipping onto its side, tumbling me into Guillermo Diaz. The car continued its slide through the flaming brush, mowing down a row of cane, finally rolling onto its dented roof and slowing to a clunking, thudding halt.

  I was upside down. My neck was twisted sideways, my head pressed against the ceiling, and my ears ringing. I hadn’t felt like this since an offensive lineman grabbed my face mask and twisted my head around like Linda Blair in ‘The Exorcist. Now my shoulder was squeezed against the door, and the backseat was a jumble of arms and legs: Diaz’s and mine. I untangled my legs from his, and he screamed in pain. Then he moaned softly, “Mis piernas tienen fracturas, mis piernas estan rotas.” I groped for his gun, but I couldn’t find it.

  In the front seat, Florio was cursing. I heard glass tinkling. Florio was hanging on to the steering wheel but was upside down. He scrunched his neck and turned to face me. His face was studded with glass, rivulets of blood streaming into his eyes. He tried to reach into his coat pocket. “Where the fuck’s my gun?”

  Next to me, Diaz was still moaning. One of his legs was bent in a direction God never intended. I wrenched around, found the door handle, and yanked. It took two tries, then opened with a groan, and I climbed out and tumbled into the mud. One of the rear tires was still spinning. I lay there a moment, got my bearings, and scrambled on all fours, half crawling, half running away. Behind me there was a noise as Florio toppled out of the car. He was yelling at me, but I wasn’t listening. I straightened up and did a poor imitation of a broken-field runner dodging stalks of sugarcane.

  My black wing tips splashed through puddles of water. I kept running, keeping my body low, cutting back and forth from row to row. Flames rose from the undergrowth, and black smoke hung over the field, choking me. I tried taking shallow breaths, the heat crushing my chest. As I ran, I put my arms up to ward off the leaves, their jagged edges stinging the heels of my hands. I missed one, and it swatted me just under the eye, drawing blood. I pulled off my suit coat and wrapped it around my right arm, using it as a shield.

  The first shot was a firecracker in the distance.

  Unlike the movies, I didn’t hear the bullet whistling by my ear, just a muffled blam from behind me. Second shot, same thing. I ducked out of one row and was suddenly left in an open field. I turned to go back into the forest of cane, but Florio was there, chugging after me.

  Across the open field was a mud levee rising perhaps ten feet above the ground. The irrigation system. Everglades water would be running through the canal, draining the Big Cypress. I made a run for it.

  The sound of the next shot didn’t reach me until I spun and collapsed headfirst into the muck. It felt like someone had smacked me in the back. I rolled over and touched the front of my left shoulder. Wet with blood. A clean shot through the deltoid. What Charlie Riggs would call a through-and-through if he was examining a corpse in the red-brick building on Bob Hope Road.

  My first reaction was surprise. What a lucky shot for a pistolero who probably never did anyone from more than three feet away, if he ever did anyone at all. Then anger. What an unlucky shot for me.

  I was on my feet again, stumbling up the levee. Another gunshot plunked into the dirt near my feet. I instinctively ducked. I touched my shoulder. Very little blood flow, but it was beginning to hurt. Not a great, throbbing pain, not at all what I expected. More like a hot stinging, what I imagined it would feel like to get stabbed with an ice pick.

  At the top of the levee, I slid down on my bottom. The water in the canal was maybe three feet deep. I waded across, climbed the levee on the other side, slid down again, and started running for the closest cane field. A mechanical harvester combine, a huge machine with tracks like an army tank, circled the rows. Like a giant snout, a green metal chute formed a V at the front of the machine, sucking the cane in, where rotating disks sliced close to the base of the stalks and sent the shards up a conveyor to a chopping drum.

  I raced after the harvester, yelling at the driver, but he was sitting in a glass-enclosed compartment high above the machine, and he never heard me, never saw me behind him. I turned to see Florio sliding down the bank of the levee. He raised the gun, and I ducked and ran again, a zigzag route.

  Another gunshot, but it was
wild.

  I headed into the rows of cane, trying to disappear. The air was heavy with soot, the cane thick and sturdy, twelve-feet high and ready for harvesting. With the irrigation gates opened and the field waterlogged, I wasn’t running so much as slogging through the sludge. After a couple hundred yards, I became light-headed and wanted to sit down, but I didn’t let myself. I felt the shoulder with my fingertips. The blood was still trickling out, and the pain had grown worse. My skin felt cold and clammy. I was short of breath, dizzy, and just wanted to sleep.

  I stumbled a few steps and dropped to my knees. I crawled for a minute or two, then sprawled out, my head on my arms. I wasn’t unconscious, but I wasn’t conscious, either. My eyes were closed, and when I opened them, the world was gray. I closed them again. From somewhere far away, I heard a bird squawking, a moment later, the distant rumble of the harvester. Charred leaves fell from the sky, coating me with soot.

  And then a splash. Soft enough to have been a frog in a puddle.

  Another splash, then the unmistakable splat-squish of footsteps in the mud. I heard his breathing. Heavy, labored breaths. The rumble of the harvester grew louder.

  I opened my eyes. Nicky Florio’s Italian leather loafers, coated in mud up to his ankles, were six feet away. His back was to me. If I could get to my feet, I could blindside him, take him down into the muck. But there was no way to get up without rustling leaves and sucking up mud. By the time I was ready to pounce, he would have turned. He’d have a clear shot at me.

  His shout startled me: “Where are you, asshole?”

  I had to concentrate on not answering him. I pressed lower into the soggy earth. He turned slowly, looking left and right. One more quarter turn and he would see me. The noise of the harvester grew louder as it approached. When it came into view, Nicky spun that way, the sight distracting him, the sound muffling my movements.

  As the rumble increased to a roar, I got to my knees. Then from a crouch, I stood up. I kept my eyes on Nicky, aware of the green steel monster chugging toward us, its tracks crunching fallen stalks and the burned debris on the soggy field.

  I took one step, and Nicky whirled, either hearing me or sensing me there. His face was a mask of dried blood. A shaft of sunlight cut through the smoke and reflected a prism of colors from the shards of glass embedded in his forehead. His eyes were crazed with hate. The gun came up and pointed at my throat as I dived at him. Instinctively, I ducked my head to the left.

  The gun was alongside my right ear when it discharged, breaking the eardrum. My good shoulder-the one without a hole in it-caught Florio in the chest and dropped him backward. The gun flew over his head and landed at the base of a cane stalk. I landed on top of Florio. I punched him with a right hand that had nothing behind it, and he gouged my right eye with his thumb, then clawed at my face. I grabbed him by the hair and bashed his head into the soggy ground. I wished we were on asphalt. He tried to knee me in the groin. I got two hands around his throat, but I had no strength, and he pried loose, then kicked at me, sliding out from underneath. I collapsed into the mud, my shoulder bleeding, my ears ringing, my eyes blinking.

  Nicky got to his feet and came at me again. I was on my knees when he tried to kick me, but he slipped in the mud and fell on his ass. He got up again, and we came at each other, locking up like a couple of wrestlers. I pushed him back through the cane, the stalks bending and slapping at us. He tucked a leg behind mine and tried to trip me, but he didn’t have the leverage, and I used my heft to drag him across my hip and put him on his back. He just missed being impaled on a sharp stalk sticking out of the ground.

  I lunged at him and pinned him down by sitting on his chest. He yelled something at me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Again he growled, and this time I could read his lips.

  “You son of a bitch, Lassiter. I always liked you, did you know that?”

  I answered by smashing him in the mouth with a fist. “You’re crazy, Nicky.”

  He said something else, and again, I couldn’t hear a word. “What?”

  “You stupid fuck!” he screamed, spitting blood onto my chest. “You always wanted to be like me, but you can’t admit it.”

  That made me laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

  The harvester churned closer. “You admire me, because I do whatever’s necessary to win,” Nicky screamed. “I took Gina away from a spoiled rich kid, and you didn’t. I work for myself and don’t answer to anybody. What do you do, get pushed around by judges with their rule books? I take what I want, Jake, and you don’t. I’m a winner. Can you fucking hear me, you punch-drunk second-string shyster?”

  “You don’t look like a winner,” I said. “You look like a two-bit punk.” This time, I gave him a short chop to the neck.

  He gagged and forced a sick smile. Blood trickled from his forehead in a dozen meandering streams. “You stupid prick!” he yelled at me. “You still don’t understand. It’s not just that I was going to make you my partner ‘cause you knew too much. I wanted you to be my partner. I let you fuck my wife. I knew all about it, even before I found the letter.”

  He twisted his head around, looking toward the approaching harvester as it bore down on us.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “I remember you from when you played ball. I hung around training camp and knew half the guys on the team, but I’ve always been a loner, Jake. I was never on a team of any kind.”

  “Yeah, you were a jock sniffer. You were always one of the guys who wanted to belong, but you didn’t, Nicky. You were a lowlife then, and you’re a lowlife now.”

  His body shifted underneath me. “Yeah, but I got something you don’t.”

  I looked him the question.

  “The killer instinct,” he said.

  I drew my fist back to smack him again, but a pain stabbed me in the side. I looked down, my mouth hanging open in surprise. Nicky’s hand was driving a sharp piece of cane into my flesh just below the bottom rib. He was twisting it, trying to dig deeper. It felt like a sword had gutted me. I reached down to wrest him away, and he used his free hand to yank me sideways. I toppled off him, the cane stalk still stuck in me.

  He rolled over and got to his feet, his eyes searching for the gun. Behind Nicky, I saw the harvester approaching. The sight froze me. No more than thirty feet away, headed straight at us, stalks of cane disappearing into its mechanical maw.

  Nicky saw it, too.

  The gun was directly in the path between the machine and us. If we both dived for it, we’d be struggling there when the harvester chomped everything in its path. If one of us dived for the gun, he’d likely get it and roll out of the way.

  One could live.

  Or both could die.

  I didn’t like the odds. But then I wasn’t a god.

  I backed up, stumbling over severed stalks of cane. Nicky Florio dived into the row, sprawling headfirst in the mud. He speared the gun by the butt on the first try. He made his own rules and his own luck.

  Ten feet away, the harvester boomed like pealing thunder, the tracks clinking, the blades clop-clopping through the wood-like stalks.

  Florio had timed it just right, but with no room to spare. Gun in one hand, he braced himself with the other and tried to stand. His leather-soled loafers slipped in the mud, his legs churned, and his feet slid out from under him. He fell headfirst, both hands in front of him. He wriggled backward, his body moving, snakelike, getting his torso and head out of the path of the swinging steel blades.

  Twisting like a corkscrew.

  Backing out of harm’s way.

  Making it.

  Everything but his hands.

  Nicky Florio’s hands were caught in the path of the V-shaped snout. He tried to pull back, but the steel held fast, yanking him higher toward the blades, dragging his body through the mud.

  Clop-whomp-clop.

  I never heard him scream.

  On the conveyor belt, amid stalks and leaves, were two bloody hands, severed just above
their knobby wrists. One hand still gripped a. 38 revolver. The conveyor carried the hands higher, where they disappeared into the chopper drum. A whirring sound like wood through a sawmill; then, along with billets of sugarcane, bite-sized pieces of his fingers were ejected into the following trailer.

  Nicky Florio lay facedown in the mud, his body twitching. He tucked both stumps under his armpits, trying futilely to stanch the blood flow.

  He said something to me, but the words were drowned out in the noise of the harvester as it continued down the row. I leaned down next to him with the ear that could still hear. His face was in a puddle, his nose and mouth barely above the water.

  “Tourniquet,” he pleaded. His eyes were glazing over. “Bleeding to death.”

  I straightened and looked down at him on the soggy ground. “No, you’re not. You’re going to drown first, Nicky. The water level’s been increasing ever since we got here. It’s your water, Nicky. Enjoy it. Lick it up. Savor it as you would the finest French Bordeaux 1961.”

  “Stupid fuck,” he said, his voice dying. “You could have been my partner. You could have been my friend.”

  He tried to stand, but he didn’t have the strength. The effort sank him deeper into the puddle, and water began filling his nose. Blood pooled out from under him in the mud. He exhaled sharply, tried to hold his breath, then after a long moment, inhaled and choked, spitting out water colored with his own blood.

  “Help me,” he sputtered.

  Again he swallowed water. The arms came out from underneath, the stumps spurting blood, and he struggled, trying vainly to flop onto his back. His face sank into water again, and his body went into convulsions.

  I didn’t help him.

  I just watched him die.

  I couldn’t have saved him anyway. That’s what I planned to tell myself later when I would ask the tough questions. Like what was I really feeling then? Joy? Relief? I would try to convince myself it didn’t make me happy-it didn’t make me anything-to see his blood stain the brown earth. But beneath the glib reply was something else, another question I couldn’t answer. What was I really feeling then? Was it that I was safe from harm? Was it that Nicky Florio deserved to die? Or did it have something to do with Gina? Just what was it that made me want to see Nicky Florio die, and die hard?