The blow jarred the girder. I was holding on with a death grip. The metal edges cut into my palms. I shut my eyes and made myself unhook one hand… flex it… Move it down, move my right foot down, fumble for a new toehold… Unhook my left hand, lower it. My triceps were trembling, but my weight workouts stood me in good stead. As long as I kept my eyes shut and didn’t think about what was waiting for me below, I could keep up the rhythm of clutching and releasing the metal cross-strips.
Every twenty seconds or so the girder jarred as the operator slammed the spool against it, following me down the track. The cables have built-in brakes to keep their loads from slipping down too fast. Even knowing that, I jumped the last six feet, landing in a rolling heap as far from the crane and the hulks as I could manage.
I pulled my gun free as the men came for me. They were brandishing giant wrenches, but when they saw the gun they backed off a bit. From the corner of my eye I could see the other men climbing down the ladder from the upper platform. Seven men, eight bullets. I wouldn’t have time to reload. I couldn’t possibly shoot them all.
The hulks were between me and the loading dock. One of them suddenly slid his wrench across the floor to the reinforcements and disappeared outside. The other charged at me, brandishing his wrench like a torch. I fired and missed, fired again. He stumbled as he came up to me. I jumped clear of his flailing wrench and ran past him without stopping to see if I’d winged him.
I got outside before my pursuers realized what had happened. Jumped off the platform, and sprinted toward the front of the building and the road. Rounded the corner when headlights came up, blinding me.
The Hulk had gone to get one of the cars. The engine roared as he floored it. My legs knew what to do almost before my brain registered the car. I found myself hugging the foundation of the plant.
The Smith & Wesson had landed a good eight feet from me. Panting, wet with sweat, I started crawling for it as the car backed up. I reached the gun as the Hulk went into drive again. I could just sense the rest of my pals behind me, when I saw another pair of headlights join the first. I couldn’t run behind the trucks: the rest of the gang would pin me like a trapped rat.
My arms were quivering so badly, I could hardly lift the gun. I waited for the cars as long as I dared, shot once at each windshield, stuck the gun back in the holster and ran all out toward the canal. With the last strength I could muster I dove clear of the pylons into the middle of the foul water.
Recollections of a Midnight Swim
“You were lucky, Warshawski, fucking lucky. What would you have done if that barge hadn’t happened along?” Conrad Rawlings was shouting loudly enough to keep me awake.
“I wouldn’t have drowned, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had enough left in my shoulders to climb up the side.”
“You were just goddamn lucky,” he repeated. “That side is solid concrete. It isn’t meant for shinnying.”
“Out of curiosity, what were you doing along the canal at three in the morning?” That was Terry Finchley, his tone conversational.
I blinked at him from under the protective shroud of my police-issue blanket. When the Santa Lucia saw me floundering around under the Damen Avenue bridge, they’d fished me out and called the police department’s water patrol. I was blacking out by then and couldn’t see far enough to tell whether my Diamond Head pals were on the far bank dancing up and down in frustration.
The tugboat crew wrapped me in a blanket and gave me hot soup while we waited for the cops. When the river patrol came, the crew took their blanket back and the police issued me a nice blue-and-white job. It looked like the kind the mounted patrol put on their well-tended horses.
The river cops were pleasant, so pleasant that I suddenly realized through the mists of fatigue that they thought I’d been trying to kill myself. They took the Smith & Wesson from me and kept trying to find out who they should call.
“Terry Finchley at Area One,” I muttered, waking with a start every time they asked. “He can tell you about it.”
It wasn’t until the third or fourth iteration that I figured out they wanted a husband or sister or someone that they could turn me over to. I was exhausted, but I hadn’t lost my wits. I knew I wasn’t in shape to take on anyone who might be waiting for me, either at home or at Mrs. Polter’s. Normally at such a crisis I’d call Lotty, but I couldn’t do that tonight either. Anyway, she was staying with Max. I just kept mumbling Finchley’s name and dozing off.
It must have been close to four when one of the patrolmen shook my arm. “Up you get, honey. We found Terry Finchley for you.”
“She doesn’t have any shoes,” I heard one of the patrol crew say.
“She’s tough.” Finchley’s voice came from several miles away. “Her feet’ll take a few splinters without breaking.”
I stumbled behind the patrolman who’d awakened me. When we got to the gangway he turned and lifted me over the side and propped me up next to Finchley’s driver. I’m not used to being handled like a negligible load. It added a dimension of helplessness to my fatigue.
“She was carrying this; I don’t know if she has a license.” The sergeant handed my gun to Finchley.