Free Hard Case Crime: Songs of Innocence by Richard Aleas Page A

the match went out, I saw that the wall was a relatively recent addition, a layer of cinderblocks spanning the rough-hewn tunnel from one side to the other. Maybe they did this after Hechtman’s spree, to keep people out of Pupin. Didn’t matter—what mattered was that we weren’t going any further this way.
    I returned to Julie and was about to lean over and whisper to her again when a bellow split the air.
    “Julie!”
    It came from right beside us.
    I pressed Julie back against the stone wall with one arm. Thank god she didn’t make a sound.
    From inches away: “Where are you?”
    I bent the four remaining matches down with my left hand, the way I’d seen Julie do it. With my other arm, I raised the wooden plank. I pressed down on the match heads with my thumb. From the main tunnel came the sound of movement, footsteps.
    I snapped the matches against the friction strip. All four flared to life at once, burning the pad of my thumb. In the sudden flare, I saw him, slightly farther away than I’d thought, wheeling to face me. One arm extended. Finger on the trigger.
    I threw the matches at his face and swung the plank.
    I saw flashes, reflections, before the flame went out. The side of his gun, narrowing, vanishing, as it swung in my direction. His face, furious. The edge of the plank, sweeping toward him in a wide arc, striking his forearm.
    Then darkness. And the gun went off.
    The explosion was like a thunderclap, deafening, though in its aftermath I could hear the metallic zing! of the bullet ricocheting from wall to wall. In this confined space, he’d be as likely to hit himself as he would to get me or Julie. Maybe he realized this because he didn’t fire again.
    I could hear him coming toward me. I tried to swing the plank again, but it stopped halfway through the swing and was wrenched out of my hands. I heard it clatter to the ground some distance away. Then a pair of muscular arms wrapped my torso and his forehead crashed into mine. My knees buckled and I felt bile rising in my throat. Only the pressure of his arms around me kept me upright. I could smell his sweat, and his breath. His sandwich—salami, I thought. Onions. Jesus. His head cracked against mine again.
    I tasted blood inside my mouth, where I’d bitten myself. I tried to clear my head by moving it side to side, tried to struggle against his grip, but I felt myself lifted off the ground, my feet dangling. All this in nearly total darkness. With Julie it had felt intimate, the brush of her hair and skin against my lips. With this man it felt like a nightmare—buried alive, two to a coffin, fighting to breathe.
    He squeezed and I felt one of my ribs snap. I gasped, cried out.
    I tried to raise my knee to his groin, but I had no leverage.
    I ducked my head forward, felt his chin with mine, his cheek, his nose. I gripped his nose between my teeth and bit down. He howled and let go, dropping me.
    I tried to roll away from him, but something drove into my side, hard: a foot. For an instant, I couldn’t even think. All I knew was pain.
    Then I heard Julie’s voice, shouting “Hey!” and heard the man take a step toward it. Then a whack, the sound of splintering wood. I heard the man groan, followed by a sound like a heavy bag of laundry dropping.
    A cluster of matches flared to life. Julie stood above the man’s still form, half the plank nestled in the crook of her right arm. I saw beads of sweat on her face. She didn’t look well.
    “My hand,” she said. “I need a doctor.”
    I got to my knees, felt the rib grate in my chest. I didn’t say anything. The matches went out. She lit some more.
    “How many of those things do you have?” I said.
    “I smoke two packs a day,” she said, wincing.
    “Good for you,” I said.
    “Fuck you,” she said. “Just get us the hell out of here.”

Chapter 8
    They took Julie into surgery. We were at St. Vincent’s, where she’d had her original operation; we checked her in under her real name,