Where There's Smoke полностью

The address Abner had given me for Rhoda Gibson, widow of the departed corpse, was in a row of brown-stones close to one of the city’s five universities, and about ten blocks from his funeral home. I located the building, and then drove around the block twice before I found a parking space. The car I drive is a 1973 450SL Mercedes-Benz, a gift from a grateful German countess for whom I’d recovered $700,000 worth of jewels stolen from her hotel room. I always leave it unlocked when I park it on any city street. The steering wheel locks when the ignition key is removed, and so I’m never worried that someone’s going to drive off with the car. But if a booster wants to steal my radio, I’d rather he simply opened an unlocked door, instead of slashing my con­vertible top to steal the radio, anyway.

1214 Matthews was the third brownstone in from Cooper Street, a stately three-story building with wide white steps leading up to the entrance door. As I approached the building, I saw a bearded young giant of a man inserting a key into the outer vestibule door at the top of the steps. He was wearing dungaree trousers, a pullover sweater, and track shoes. His hair and his beard were red. Since he seemed to fit the description Abner had given me of Jeffrey Gibson, the dead man’s son, and since he was inserting a key into the door of Rhoda Gib­son’s residence, I came to a not spectacularly brilliant conclusion, started up the steps, and said, “Mr. Gibson?”

Mr. Gibson (or whoever he was) turned from the door. I recognized the look in his eyes an instant before it was too late. The look was one of total panic. His right hand yanked up the ribbed bottom of his sweater, I saw the butt of a revolver sticking up out of the waistband of his dun­garees, and then the revolver was in his hand. I was at a decided disadvantage, being two steps lower than the gun and the man. I hurled myself up and forward, grabbing him around the knees and knocking him off balance, and together we came rolling down the steps and onto the sidewalk.

If there’s one thing I detest, it’s any kind of sweaty combat. The day I’d had my cheek permanently adorned, I’d struggled for a good ten minutes in embrace with a man holding a six-inch-long switchblade knife and intent on taking out my liver and intestines, though he wasn’t li­censed to practice medicine in this city. I’d clung to his wrist for what seemed an eternity, and had managed—but only after he’d slashed open my cheek—to bring a knee up into his groin, and finally to take the knife away from him. I had learned elementary judo at the police academy, but as soon as the cheek healed, I began studying the art in earnest. I still don’t consider myself an expert, but I know how to kill a man with a swift, hard, edge-of-the-hand blow across the bridge of his nose, or a sharp, two-fingered jab at his Adam’s apple. I also know how to break a man’s arm or leg with a minimum of effort, an economy of motion, and a power usually generated by his own physical thrust. I prefer my fights short and sweet, and preferably not at all. Real-life fights are not like those you see in the movies. Two stalwarts do not stand there punching at each other until one or the other falls sense­less and bleeding to the ground. Instead, there’s usually utter confusion, a tangle of arms and legs, broken knuck­les when bare fists collide with unyielding skulls, kicks, grunts, fingers clawing at eyes and hair, attempts to stran­gle, headlocks, biting—a totally animalistic display bet­ter suited to a pair of moose locking horns in the north woods. I’ve learned three things about street fights. (1) Unless it’s absolutely necessary, never start up with a man who has nothing to lose. He’ll kill you. (2) Get it over with fast, the quicker the better. (3) Never expect help from a passing stranger; this is the city.

As Jeffrey Gibson (or whoever he was) struggled to get the pistol in firing position while I kept a tight grip on his wrist, and as I struggled to get my free hand where I could hurt him, perhaps two dozen pedestrians walked past us on the sidewalk, intent on getting to wherever they were going. The pistol was a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson, meaning he had six chances to do me in. I didn’t know why he was so intent on having me dead, but panic is a good enough reason for murdering someone, and panic was stampeding his eyes like a herd of wild buffalo. My right hand still clenched around his wrist, and hold­ing his flailing arm out and away from me, I managed to clutch a handful of groin, and I squeezed hard, and he let out a wounded shriek and fell back on the pavement. I grabbed his wrist in both hands now, and battered his gun hand repeatedly against the sidewalk until he released his grip on the weapon. Straddling him, I slapped him across the face, and then slapped him again and again, humiliat­ing him, breaking his will to continue the fight. I was sweating, and breathing very hard.

“All right?” I said.