G-Man by Stephen Hunter
“So by the time we get all this shit done and our soup up here, it’s going to be at least another month. You guys okay on dough?”
The chorus all jabbered in the affirmative.
“Great,” said Les. “Now, let’s—”
At that moment a wash of headlights rotated by and crossed them, revealing them, as another car turned down Miller.
“Shit,” said J.P.
“It’s a goddamned cop car,” said Fatso, as for a brief second the black-and-white color scheme of the vehicle stood out against the glow of Chicago to the east as it headed down the road before it disappeared momentarily behind the rise.
“Get down,” said Les. “And watch this.”
He went to his car, opened the back door, and from a briefcase on the floor removed his machine pistol and a few twenty-two-round magazines welded by Mr. Lebman.
“Helen, slip out low and get behind the wheel well.”
“Les, I—”
“It’s nothing. Got it covered,” he said, snapping in the magazines, heavy with fat .45s, and throwing the slide.
—
CHARLES GOT IN to see Purvis near 6, just as His Elegance was freshening up, tightening and aligning his tie, gargling with mouthwash, and combing his hair, at a mirror and sink specially affixed to the wall in his big, well-lit office, where the ceiling fan sliced the air into cooling motion.
“Yes, Charles, hello, sit down, I just have to priss up, my wife is dragging me to the Opera tonight.”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s up?” said Purvis, working intently on the part, running to the left side of his handsome head.
“I have a tip, I’m sure it’s nothing, but someone said he overheard someone say that some ‘big boys’ were meeting on a country road out in far north Cook at two a.m. tonight. Anyhow, this info went to a cop and he called me. Chicago Gang Squad said, forget it, it’s nothing, and I’m sure it isn’t, since there’s no names attached, but I thought I’d go out there and park and take a look-see.”
“Did you run it by Sam?”
“He left early. It just came in.”
“You sure you don’t want to take a couple of these kids and some Thompsons?”
“Mr. Purvis, these kids have been working like dogs, and it’s 100 out. I hate to put ’em on a double shift in this heat for something so unlikely.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. What are your plans if the one-in-a-million plays out and you strike something?”
“Follow from way, way back, get an address, then we’ll set up surveillance, and if it’s a go, we’ll set up a real good raid, off of recon intelligence, just like we did in France.”
“Good thought, Charles. Very thoroughly worked out.”
“I have a car chit, sir. You need to sign for Hollis to release a car to me.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Purvis, taking the chit and dashing out his signature on the appropriate line. “Sure you don’t want to log out a Thompson now since I’m signing stuff?”
“I’ll be fine. No action tonight, I guarantee it. I just want to get the drive mostly done while it’s light out so I’m not stumbling around in the dark.”
“Good. Okay, Charles, good luck. And let me know how it works out.”
“You’ll be the first to know, Mr. Purvis.”
“Call me Mel in here, Charles. You’re smarter than I am, more experienced than I am, braver than I am, whatever the ranks say, so in here, please, it’s Mel, Mel, Mel.”
“Got it, Mel.”
Charles took the chit, went to find Hollis, and found him in the arms room cleaning a Thompson.
“You clean ’em whether they’ve been fired or not, huh?” he said.
“Sheriff, if we need ’em, we may need ’em fast, so I want to keep them sparkling.”
“Good work, Ed. Here, I have the chit, I need a car.”
“Sure. Big date tonight?”
“Ain’t been on a date but once in my life and that was my wedding date. Maybe someday I’ll go on a real date, but I doubt it. Anyhow, no, I got a tip to run out. Help me figure out how to get out there.”
With that, the two went out to the main squad room, where a bank of rolled-up city and state maps hung on the wall. They unspooled Greater Cook County and spent several minutes locating the site, as indicated by the map Charles had just received from Uncle Phil, and the best way out there, considering the play of traffic.
“You want me to come, Sheriff? No problem. I’ll call Jean.”
“Nah, go home, take some time off. I’m sure this’ll turn out to be nothing but farmers sitting on the fence, talking pennant race, the kind of thing farmers talk about when they ain’t complaining about the weather.”
“Okay, Sheriff, whatever you say.”
The best route appeared to be a run out Michigan until he hit the Outer Drive at Oak Street, stay on that a few miles north of downtown, then head west on either North or Belmont.
“I’m guessing Belmont would be little lighter, though you do go by Riverview, the big amusement park. Maybe traffic will back up.”
“Nah, not in this weather, unless they figure out how to air-condition fun houses.”
“After the park, you run through River Grove, Franklin Park, and Bensenville. Belmont T-bones into Wolf. You go right on Wolf and, according to this map here, it’s about five or six more miles to this Miller.”
“He said there was a sign, a big Standard Oil billboard, on the corner. I’ll park there and mosey on down with binoculars and see what’s up.”
“You sure you don’t want me along?”
“Nah, it’ll be nothing, I’m almost certain.”
“I’ve got six cars left. The number thirteen Hudson is the best.”
“Let’s do number thirteen, then.”
All the paperwork taken care of, Charles took the freight elevator down to the underground lot and found number 13 by license plate number, and it started right up.
He exited onto Adams Street, hit State left, fought the Loop traffic for a bit, then took a right, which took him out of the Loop, passing under the looming fortress of the El station, then turned left on Michigan, heading out of town, finally hitting open highway on the Outer Drive, as they called it, which let him speed along the lakefront until it was time to turn west on Belmont.
The two-hour drive went pretty much as planned. The intersection of Miller and Wolf, set in farmland halfway to hell, or Wisconsin, whichever came first, was prosaic, and without the billboard, you’d never notice it. He scanned the field and saw that it was fallow, not plowed, and would be easy to traverse. He’d arrive, lights off, park, go diagonally across the field, hit Miller and ease down it, seeing if he could get close enough for a look, or even to overhear any chatter, assuming anybody showed up.
His plans made, he got back to his car and drove down Wolf, and ten miles farther on in Mount Prospect found a restaurant and had a meat-and-potatoes dinner. He read the papers while he waited for the food, forced himself to eat slowly, had coffee and rolled a cigarette to burn time. But time wouldn’t be burned, not readily.
He got back in his car, found a service station, and refueled, making sure to save the receipt for expenses. Then he drove stupidly around Mount Prospect in the dark, seeing nothing, until at last he came upon a movie theater on the outskirts of a town called Wheeling. He hated the pictures, but, what the hell, it would kill some time.
The only thing playing was a drama called Manhattan Melodrama, a Gable picture, and he paid his nickel and watched the thing. It was actually pretty good, if a little dopey, but who didn’t love Gable, with his commanding air, his self-deprecating humor, his easy way with the ladies, the sparkle of brains behind his eyes and a smile that would melt hubcaps even as it showed spade-like teeth, all polished and shiny. It was about two kid pals grown up to be a big gangst
He got out at midnight, found another diner, had a cuppa and a piece of pie, being the only customer, a real nighthawk sitting alone with nothing to look at but a brutal slab of dark through the window amid hard, dark angles. Soon enough, a couple came in, all lovey-dovey, and they had burgers and Cokes and paid him no attention, and neither did the counterman, who was too busy cleaning the intricate coffee machine to notice much.
Finally, it was moving on toward the appointed hour, so he paid his bill, went to his car—still hot, but maybe not as much—and started back down Wolf Road.
It was a twenty-minute drive, with no traffic oncoming or trailing, and with hypnotic regularity the darkened outposts of civilization passed on either side. His headlights illuminated the dash-dash-dash painted line at highway’s center dividing it into north and south lanes. A mile out from the Miller intersection, he turned his lights off, confident that no cars were headed his direction on the long straightaway ahead, and eased along at about thirty, orienting on the painted line but peering up every few seconds to look for the big Standard Oil billboard.
He saw it, and in the light of the half-moon, saw the intersection, saw the silver band of road running off to the right, slowed to stop, and then heard the unmistakable spasm of a burst of machine-gun fire.
—
THE CAR HALTED just short of Carey’s vehicle, the last in the line. Crouching behind Carey’s rear fender, sure that he was invisible even in the moonglow, Les saw the marking ILLINOIS STATE POLICE on the car’s white door. He could make out motion inside, identifying two shapes moving without urgency or suspicion in the dark containment of the front seat. The driver rolled down the window, switched on a searchlight mounted on the fender, and guided it to the three cars.
“Everything all right, folks?” came the cry.
Les stepped from behind the car.
“It’s just fine, Officers,” he said, and then fired.
The gun of course fought him, being small and light against the force of twenty-two hardballs spitting out of it jackrabbit fast, and its flash was a genie emerging from a bottle, leaping crazily into the sky above the muzzle in a slithering, flickering undulation, the superfast thrust and recoil of the slide pulling the muzzle up and to the right as the gun ate its ammunition, the hot spray of ejected empties flying to the right like a squad of pursuit planes climbing to apogee, then diving to attack. But his left hand, locked solid onto the Thompson front grip Mr. Lebman had welded on the dustcover, kept the fire stream steady into the police cruiser. The fleet of slugs all found glass to pierce, web, and atomize, and the two silhouettes yanked and twisted and shuddered as the bullets tore into them.
Then it was over. The machine pistol had gobbled its magazine in less than a second. The sweet smell of gun smoke drifted to Les’s nose and he sucked at it through his nostrils like an aphrodisiac. He had to have more. It smelled so good. He felt so slick, man-with-a-smoking-automatic-gun triumphant, this was the moment he so loved, he lived for, it was so GREAT! Coolly, he thumbed the mag-release catch, felt the empty slide out and caught it with his off hand, as he didn’t have too many of them, welded up so skillfully to take three times the normal number of cartridges, and couldn’t afford to discard it. Pocketing it, he fished another one out, slid it into the grip, where it disappeared with oily slickness until the mag catch snapped, locking it in. Then he pulled back on the locked-back slide, unlocking it, and it shot forward with a determined metal-on-metal clack, signifying the machine pistol was fully loaded and ready to go again.
He started to walk around the car. Had to finish them off. A burst in each body, no doubt about it, and they were food for vultures, and his war against those symbols of authority whom he had hated and feared his whole life had claimed two more definite kills. He circled around back of the car, aware that while one of the cops slumped over the wheel, the other had collapsed in his seat but had enough left in him to open the door, spill out, and begin a bloody crawl to the ditch.
Too bad for you, Mr. State Policeman, with your saddle-shoe cruiser, with your black uniform and tie, all spic-and-span, too bad for you but I’m going to saw you in half.
Suddenly a puff of dirt erupted at his feet, and in the same split second the crack of a heavy pistol reached his ears. He turned, and on the crest a hundred yards away, silhouetted against the glow of the city, isolated and stoic, erect and unflinching, stood a man with a gun, the last thing Les expected. The man fired again.
—
CHARLES STEPPED ON IT, the Ford spurting ahead, squealed through the right turn onto Miller, chewed up a ton of dust as his tires fought the surface of the country road for traction, and went like a dart to the crest of the hill.
He braked and spilled out. Maybe there were ten mobsters with Thompsons down there, and he didn’t want to drive into that kind of a mess. Instead, he stood on the crest, and since his eyes were already accustomed to the darkness, he had no trouble seeing what lay perhaps a hundred fifty yards beyond him, which was three cars pulled off to the side of the road, a black-and-white State cruiser, and a fellow hunched and bent with a gun walking around the back of the car with, by his posture, a depraved heart. The .45 came to Charles’s hand with raw speed, and he locked knees, hips, torso, elbows, shoulders, hands, after snicking off the safety, for an impossibly long shot.
He held off and high to the moving figure, and when his internal machinery told him he was on, it also fired the pistol. The crack, the flash, the jump of recoil, the trajectory of spent shell, and back on target, before time in flight had ended for the bullet. He saw the dust kick up maybe five yards this side of the mark, and a man ahead, and so quickly calculated adjustments, but by this time the man had stopped moving, considered, and bent in to his weapon. He and Charles fired at the same time, but where Charles fired once, Mr. Gangster fired ten times in half a second, the flash rising off the gun muzzle a gigantic blot of white heat.
Dust floated into the air as the burst dashed against the ground, erupted, and released the debris in rows of geysers, all neat and pretty unless it hit you. Charles didn’t care; he was shooting, and the only thing in the universe was the front sight, now adjusted a third time—two and a quarter men high and half a man forward—and he fired, seeing a splinter of a second later the man take a ragged step back as if hit.
—
THE GUN CAME TO Les naturally, and without thinking he jacked off half a magazine. His good instincts at flash shooting rained lead on the statue-like figure assaulting him from afar. He saw the dust kick, and expected in the next second to see a lurch, a spin, at the least a sprint, to cover. Instead, he saw a flash and felt the sting of dust way too close for comfort.
Knows what he’s doing came to his mind, even as a wave of astonishment hit him. The guy hadn’t buckled and run, hadn’t sought cover, but stayed hard and straight, calculating without fear the way to a hit.
He fired: flash, crack, the bullet hit the brim of Les’s hat, twisting it on his head, shredding the knitted straw.
Les pressed off another burst, emptying his piece into lock-back, and again, off his sound instinct for hip-shooting, the rounds seemed to straddle the guy even as they struck, and again they yanked dust into the air in spumes of grit, and again the fellow didn’t—wouldn’t? couldn’t?—move.
That was enough. Les launched himself, before a fourth round, perfectly adjusted for range and wind, would have caved in his skull, and sprinted back to his car. It seemed his pals had already departed the scene; J.P. was behind the wheel of the Hudson, Helen hiding on the backseat floor, and Les all but flew through the open window, at the last moment opening the door and diving in.
&
“What was that?”
“One of the cops. It’s nothing.”
“Is that sonovabitch coming?” J.P. said.
“I don’t see lights. He must have stopped to help the cops.”
“Jesus Christ, who was he?”
“I don’t know, but that guy could shoot. You see how close he came? One more and I’m whacked cold at a hundred fifty yards by the Lone Ranger.”
“Sonovabitch!” said J.P.
“You okay, Helen?”
“Just scared.”
“It’s okay. No damage.”
“I’m so scared, Les.”
“It’s okay, baby,” he said, and reached over the seat. Her hand came into his, and both squeezed to feel the firmness of flesh and to commemorate the joy of survival.
But Les’s mind was elsewhere.
Man, that guy had some balls.
—
CHARLES DROVE DOWN the road to the cruiser, where the one officer had gotten out of the ditch and now leaned into his vehicle and was working on his more severely hit partner.
“You okay, Officer?” Charles asked.
“I’m not hit bad,” said the cop, not looking up. “Fred’s shot up pretty bad, though. Man, what kind of gun was that?”
“Some kind of jazzed-up pistol. You got radio?”
“No. Maybe we could pull him over a little, and I’ll take off for the nearest hospital.”