Read Online Ed McBain by Learning to Kill: Stories - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Learning to Kill: Stories
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Detective and Mystery Stories; American
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girl smiled. The embarking passengers rushed by her, and suddenly everyone on the platform was scrambling to get into the car again. She stepped in quickly, moving deliberately in front of the tall girl, and away from the man. He pushed into the car behind her, and she felt the girl shoved rudely against her, too. She heard the door close behind them, and she sucked in a deep breath as the heat descended again.
She knew what was going to happen, and she waited expectantly. The excitement was mounting in her again, and she found herself wishing desperately for the warmth. When it came she almost sighed aloud. The hands were gentle, as before, as she knew they had to be. They touched her, and then held tight. She shivered and the hands moved slowly, deliberately. For a moment there was sudden doubt in her mind, and then she put the doubt aside and thought only of the moving hands, the deliberate pressure of the hands.
They became more insistent, strangely so, strongly so. A perplexed frown creased her brow, and the doubt returned, and she was almost tempted to turn and look. But that was absurd ... that was...
The hands continued, moving feverishly, and suddenly she realized there was wild strength in the fingers. She looked down in panic. This wasn't ... couldn't be...
The hand she saw was covered with hair.
Long slender fingers, but dark masculine hair.
"I thought..." she murmured, and then she began screaming.
When the train pulled into 125th Street, she was still Screaming. The tall girl who'd also been standing behind her left the car with the other passengers, all shaking their heads.
The policeman held the short, squat man firmly.
"He was molesting me!" she told the policeman. "A man. A
man!
" And then, because he was looking at her so strangely, she added, "This man, Officer."
This story carried the Richard Marsten byline when it was first published in
Manhunt
in February of 1953. As a twist on a Woman in Jeopardy yarn, it combines an exotic locale with a sort of action-adventure hero and a true bandito-style villain. It is an absolute coincidence that the bad guy in this story is called Carrera whereas the good guy in the 87th Precinct series, three years later, would be called Carella.
I promise.
Carrera's Woman
T HE M EXICAN SKY HUNG OVER OUR HEADS LIKE A PALE blue circus tent. We crouched behind the rocks, and we each held .45s in our fists. We were high in the Sierra Madres, and the rocks were jagged and sharp, high outcroppings untouched by erosive waters. Between us was a stretch of pebble-strewn flatland and a solid wall of hatred that seemed alive in the heat of the sun. We were just about even, but not quite.
The guy behind the other .45 had ten thousand dollars that belonged to me.
I had something that belonged to him.
His woman.
She lay beside me now, flat on her belly, her hands and her feet bound. She was slim and browned from the sun. Her legs were long and sleek where her skirt ended. Her head was twisted away from me, her hair as black as her boyfriend's heart.
"Carrera!" I shouted.
"I hear you,
señor,
" he answered.
His voice was as big as he was. I thought of his paunch, and I thought of the ten G's in the money belt pressed tight against his sweaty flesh. I'd worked hard for that money. I'd sweated in the Tampico oil fields for more than three years, socking it away a little at a time, letting it pile up for the day I could kiss Mexico good-bye.
"Look, Carrera," I said, "I'm giving you one last chance."
"Save your breath,
señor,
" he called back.
"You'd better save yours, you bastard," I shouted. "You'd better save it because pretty soon you're not going to have any."
"Perhaps," he answered.
I couldn't see him because his head was pulled down below the rocks. But I knew he was grinning.
"I want that ten thousand," I shouted.
He laughed aloud this time.
"Ah, but that is where the difficulty lies," he said. "I want it, too."
"Look, Carrera, I'm through playing around,"
She knew what was going to happen, and she waited expectantly. The excitement was mounting in her again, and she found herself wishing desperately for the warmth. When it came she almost sighed aloud. The hands were gentle, as before, as she knew they had to be. They touched her, and then held tight. She shivered and the hands moved slowly, deliberately. For a moment there was sudden doubt in her mind, and then she put the doubt aside and thought only of the moving hands, the deliberate pressure of the hands.
They became more insistent, strangely so, strongly so. A perplexed frown creased her brow, and the doubt returned, and she was almost tempted to turn and look. But that was absurd ... that was...
The hands continued, moving feverishly, and suddenly she realized there was wild strength in the fingers. She looked down in panic. This wasn't ... couldn't be...
The hand she saw was covered with hair.
Long slender fingers, but dark masculine hair.
"I thought..." she murmured, and then she began screaming.
When the train pulled into 125th Street, she was still Screaming. The tall girl who'd also been standing behind her left the car with the other passengers, all shaking their heads.
The policeman held the short, squat man firmly.
"He was molesting me!" she told the policeman. "A man. A
man!
" And then, because he was looking at her so strangely, she added, "This man, Officer."
This story carried the Richard Marsten byline when it was first published in
Manhunt
in February of 1953. As a twist on a Woman in Jeopardy yarn, it combines an exotic locale with a sort of action-adventure hero and a true bandito-style villain. It is an absolute coincidence that the bad guy in this story is called Carrera whereas the good guy in the 87th Precinct series, three years later, would be called Carella.
I promise.
Carrera's Woman
T HE M EXICAN SKY HUNG OVER OUR HEADS LIKE A PALE blue circus tent. We crouched behind the rocks, and we each held .45s in our fists. We were high in the Sierra Madres, and the rocks were jagged and sharp, high outcroppings untouched by erosive waters. Between us was a stretch of pebble-strewn flatland and a solid wall of hatred that seemed alive in the heat of the sun. We were just about even, but not quite.
The guy behind the other .45 had ten thousand dollars that belonged to me.
I had something that belonged to him.
His woman.
She lay beside me now, flat on her belly, her hands and her feet bound. She was slim and browned from the sun. Her legs were long and sleek where her skirt ended. Her head was twisted away from me, her hair as black as her boyfriend's heart.
"Carrera!" I shouted.
"I hear you,
señor,
" he answered.
His voice was as big as he was. I thought of his paunch, and I thought of the ten G's in the money belt pressed tight against his sweaty flesh. I'd worked hard for that money. I'd sweated in the Tampico oil fields for more than three years, socking it away a little at a time, letting it pile up for the day I could kiss Mexico good-bye.
"Look, Carrera," I said, "I'm giving you one last chance."
"Save your breath,
señor,
" he called back.
"You'd better save yours, you bastard," I shouted. "You'd better save it because pretty soon you're not going to have any."
"Perhaps," he answered.
I couldn't see him because his head was pulled down below the rocks. But I knew he was grinning.
"I want that ten thousand," I shouted.
He laughed aloud this time.
"Ah, but that is where the difficulty lies," he said. "I want it, too."
"Look, Carrera, I'm through playing around,"
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