Read Online Death Is My Comrade by Stephen Marlowe - Free Book Online Page B

whistling. The attendant’s shack, next to one of those glass-walled outdoor phone booths, was shut for the night. It was one of those lots where you pay in advance and can leave your car all night.
    Allen went down the aisle between two rows of cars. He stopped at a four-or five-year-old Buick and unlocked the door. I fumbled with my keys at the door of a Volkswagen next to it. Suddenly I stiffened. Volkswagens don’t have door locks on the passenger side. If Allen knew that, he’d realize something was wrong, and I wouldn’t get a chance to take him when he was off his guard, crouching to enter the Buick. He rolled down the window of his car before climbing in. It was a hot night, with the sun just now setting.
    â€œDamn,” I said, and straightened my back and started to turn. Allen was aware of me now. That was all right, I wanted him to be. “Damn this lock,” I said.
    Allen stood less than a yard from me, half-crouched to get into his car. As I turned all the way around he looked at the Volkswagen and the ring of keys in my hand, said, “What the hell,” backed out pivoting and swung his big right fist. I leaned against the partially open door of his car. His fist hit its edge. While he howled I yanked out the Magnum and rotated the cylinder one click, putting a round under the hammer.
    â€œStick up?” he said, sucking his torn knuckles and watching me warily.
    â€œNot tonight, Mr. Allen.”
    It was the name that did it. The name meant I knew. He pivoted again in a blur and dived across the front seat of the Buick, clawing at the glove compartment. I did two things. I flicked my cigarette after him and it struck the window on the passenger side of the Buick and showered sparks in his face. And I opened the door all the way and shoved the sole of my shoe against his rear. His head struck the window hard. His left hand jabbed at the button of the glove compartment, but missed.
    I said: “Try it again and you’re dead.”
    He didn’t try it again.
    â€œBack out of there slowly. When you do, I’m going to shut the door. You’re going to lean against it with your hands on the roof. Got it?”
    He didn’t say anything, didn’t move.
    â€œI’d just as soon kill you as spit on you,” I said. “If you think I’m kidding, try something. But you’d be making your last mistake. Now move.”
    He moved. He backed out of the car as I’d told him to. I could smell his sour sweat.
    Then he started to turn, swinging the right hand again. I might have expected that; I hadn’t shown him yet he had anything to lose.
    I blocked his fist with my left arm, the ring of keys jangling. He ducked his head and charged me. I took one step back with my left foot and slammed the barrel of the Magnum against the side of his head.
    That drove him to his knees. He shook his head and glared up at me.
    â€œOn your feet, Allen. Turn around. Hands on the roof of your car.”
    This time he did it, but he was rocky. He swayed.
    â€œWhere are they?” I said.
    He told me to do something as unpleasant as it was impossible. Though I had hurt him, I still hadn’t showed him he had anything to lose. He had me and the Magnum to worry about here, sure; but he had a kidnaping rap hanging over his head. I heard street sounds, but no crunching of gravel, no other sound at all in the parking lot. I stiffened the fingers of my left hand and extended the thumb at right angles to them, tightening the ridge of muscle on the edge of my palm. I chopped with it at his side, striking for the kidney. His broad back moved to the right and he went halfway down again, one knee scraping gravel. He started to shout. I shoved his face against the car door and the noise he made became a whimper. But then his back stiffened. He had it in mind to turn and take his chances with the gun.
    â€œDon’t do it, dead man,” I said. Then I told him softly,