“Now open the safe.”
“If I do that, you’ll kill me.”
There was a moment of silence as he digested this self-evident truth. Then he said, “No I won’t. I’ll just tie you up, ha-ha.”
Ha-ha was exactly right, because how was he going to accomplish that? Mrs. Richland had said he was a little man, her height, which meant about five-four. I was a foot taller, and had an athlete’s build these days thanks to chores and bike riding. Tying me up without an accomplice to keep me covered would be impossible.
“You will? Really?” I made my voice tremble, which was, believe me, not a problem.
“Yes! Now open the safe!”
“You promise?”
“Right-o, old bean-o. Now open it, or I’ll put a bullet in the back of your knee and you’ll never dance the tango again, ha-ha.”
“Okay. Just as long as you really totally promise not to kill me.”
“Already asked and answered, as they say in court. Open the safe!”
Along with everything else I had to live for, I couldn’t let that lilting voice be the last thing I heard. I just couldn’t. “Okay.”
I knelt in front of the safe. I thought he’s going to kill me and I can’t let him kill me and I won’t let him kill me.
Because of Radar.
Because of the shoe-woman.
And because of Mr. Bowditch, who had given me a burden to carry because there was simply no one else.
I grew calm.
“There’s quite a bit of gold,” I said. “I don’t know where he got it, but it’s awesome sauce. He paid his bills with it for years.”
“Stop talking and open the safe!” Then, as if he couldn’t help himself: “How much?”
“Man, I don’t know. Maybe a million dollars’ worth. It’s in a bucket that’s so heavy I can’t even lift it.”
I had no clue how to turn the tables on the little fucker. If we had been face to face, maybe. Not with the muzzle of a gun less than an inch from the back of my head. But once I got to the varsity level in the sports I played, I’d learned to shut off my brains at game time and let my body take over. I had to do that now. There was no other option. Sometimes in football games when we were behind, especially at away games where hundreds of people were jeering at us, I’d focus on the opposing quarterback and tell myself he was a nasty son of a bitch and I was going to not just sack him but fucking flatten him. It didn’t work very well unless the guy was a showboat who showed you his gloat-face after a big play, but it worked on this guy. He had a gloat-voice, and I had no problem hating him.
“Quit stalling, old bean old bean old beanbag. Open the safe or you’ll never walk straight again.”
Never walk at all was more like it.
I turned the combination dial one way… then the other… then back the first way again. Three numbers down, one to go. I risked a look over my shoulder and saw a narrow face—a weasel’s face, almost—under a retro White Sox ballcap with a high crown and a red circle where the O in Sox belonged. “Can I have at least some?”
He gave a tittery little laugh. Nasty. “Open it! Stop looking at me and open it!”
I turned the combination to the last number. I pulled the handle. I couldn’t see him looking over my shoulder, but I could smell him: sour sweat, the kind that almost bakes into a person’s skin after a long time without bathing.
The safe swung open. I didn’t hesitate, because he who hesitates is lost. I grabbed the bucket by the rim and overturned it between my spread knees. Gold pellets flooded out and ran across the floor in all directions. At the same moment I dived into the closet. He fired, the sound not much louder than a medium-sized firecracker. I felt the bullet go between my shoulder and my ear. The hem of one of Mr. Bowditch’s old-fashioned suitcoats twitched as the bullet passed through it.
Mr. Bowditch had plenty of shoes; Dora would have been envious. I grabbed a brogan, rolled over on my side, and threw it. He ducked. I threw the other one. He ducked again, but it hit him in the chest. He backed up onto the gold pellets, which were still rolling, and his feet went out from under him. He landed hard with his legs splayed but held onto his gun. It was a lot smaller than Mr. Bowditch’s .45 revolver, which probably accounted for the low-decibel bark.
I didn’t try to get to my feet, just squatted and uncoiled from the thighs on down. I flew over the rolling gold like Superman and landed on top of him. I was big; he was small. The air went out of him with a whuff sound. His eyes were bulging. His lips were red and gleaming with spittle.