Ed McBain by Learning to Kill: Stories

surprises,
señor,
" she answered.
    "I thought last night meant a little more than..."
    I stopped and shook my head.
    She was interested. I could see the way her brows pulled together slightly, a small V appearing between them.
    "Never mind," I said. "We'll just forget it."
    "What is there to forget?" she asked.
    She wanted me to go on. She tried to keep her voice light but there was something behind her question, an uncertain probing. Carrera was halfway across the clearing now. I saw the .45 in his pudgy fist and I began to sweat more heavily. I had to hurry.
    "There's you to forget," I said. "You and last night."
    "Oh, stop it," she said. "Last night meant nothing. Not to you, not to me."
    "It meant everything to me," I said, and took a step closer to her.
    "That's too bad," she said. "I'm Carrera's woman."
    He was no more than fifty feet away now. I could feel the sun on my shoulders and head, could hear the steady crunch of his feet against the pebbles.
    "Is that who you want?" I asked.
    "Yes," she said.
    "Look at him, Linda," I said, my voice a husky whisper now. "Take a look at the fat slobbering pig you're doing this for."
    "Don't," she said.
    "Take a look at your boyfriend!" I said. "Is that who you really want?"
    "He's not my boyfriend," she said.
    He was almost upon us. I could see his features plainly, could see the sweat dripping off his forehead. I took another step toward Linda.
    "He's my husband," she said.
    She lowered the .45 for an instant, and that was when I sprang. I didn't bother with preliminaries. I brought back my fist and hit her hard, just as the gun went off into the ground. She was screaming when my fist caught her, but she stopped instantly, dropping the gun, crumpling against the ground.
    Carrera was running toward us now.
    I picked up the gun and fired at once. He wasn't hard to hit. Something that big never is. I fired two shots that sprouted on his shoulder like red blossoms across his white cotton shirt. He clutched at the blossoms as if he wanted to pick them for a bouquet, and then he changed his mind and dropped the gun, and fell forward onto his face.
    I looked over my shoulder at Linda. She was still sprawled on the ground. I climbed over the rocks and walked to where Carrera was lying, breathing hard, bleeding. I rolled him over and unfastened the money belt. Carefully, slowly, I counted the money. It was all there, ten thousand bucks worth. I picked up his .45 and tucked it in my waistband. Overhead, the vultures were already beginning a slow spiral.
    I walked back to the rocks, the .45 cocked in my right hand.
    She was just sitting up when I got there: Her knees were raised, her skirt pulled back over them. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, looked up at me.
    Her voice caught in her throat.
    "Carrera?" she asked.
    "He's hurt bad," I said. "But he isn't dead."
    She nodded, stared at the ground for a moment. She got to her feet then, dusted off her skirt, glanced up at the vultures.
    "Do you have the money?" she asked.
    "I have the money."
    "Did you mean what you said about last night?" she asked.
    "Yes," I said.
    "Then let's go," she said, and nodded.
    "Just what I plan to do," I said. "Alone."
    A puzzled look crossed her face.
    "You're Carrera's woman," I said. "Remember? Go back to him."
    I turned away from her then, and started walking down the twisting path, the sky a brilliant blue above, except where the vultures hung against it, circling.

    In 1955, when I began writing the first of the 87th Precinct novels, I thought it would be a good idea to make Steve Carella's girlfriend (and later wife) a deaf mute who would get into all sorts of trouble because she could neither hear nor speak. The ultimate Woman in Jeopardy, so to speak. Over the years, Teddy Carella has developed into a strong and independent woman and no one in his right mind would ever consider her vulnerable—but that was the notion back then. Perhaps I'd forgotten that in that very same year,