A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle Read Free Book Online Page A

wearing a flak jacket. I did an eyeball to eyeball with his Tommygun-wielding partner. “He’s okay, he’s gonna be fine. Let me grab the loot and we’ll deal with these fuckheads later.”
    The agent edged forward and sneaked a peek to make sure his fallen comrade was still drawing breath. He was. The agent nodded and said, “No one else blinks!”
    I helped myself to one of the four canvas bags in the rear compartment of the armored car. “Maintain your positions, do not fire,” I said over and over as I dragged canvas bags to the curb. Sirens began to wail, many blocks off.
    I surveyed the standoff with a jaundiced eye. The pomade twins with their itchy trigger fingers, Jimmy, his .45 on hot standby, all wearing those ridiculous Zorro masks. And the buzz cut number one son of J. Edgar Hoover compulsively training the muzzle of the Thompson from one target cluster to another.
    It was almost funny. Christ, it
was
funny. I filled my lungs. “Put up your weapons you comical dipshits and do your god-damn jobs!”
    Pencil Mustache and his pal snapped to it. They scooped up the canvas bags, tossed them into the trunk of the Lincoln and piled into the back seat. Jimmy and Mr. Tommygun continued their face off.
    â€œHey Zorro,” I said, indicating our getaway car. “Care to join us?”
    Jimmy didn’t budge. I jumped into the back seat with the pomade twins and told the driver to get going. Jimmy, his .45 still trained on the FBI agent, backpedaled fast enough to jump on the Lincoln’s running board as we took off. Mr. Tommygun co-operated by not cutting us to ribbons.
    Our driver careened down the icy street, swung a wide slippery right on East 7 th and headed south. The pomade twins dragged Jimmy in through the back window. Wailing squad cars flew by on Carnegie, headed east. We stopped and waited for them to pass. Either through incompetence or complicity the Cleveland PD was doing their bit.
    â€œWell now,” I said, leaning back with a sigh of relief, “that went okay.”
    It was the leaning back that saved me.
    The right rear window exploded in a burst of machine gun fire. Our driver floored it, got clipped by an oncoming bus, shook it off, got the nose of the Lincoln pointed west down Carnegie and sped off, Jimmy’s nickel-plated spitting lead out the window as high caliber Tommygun rounds stitched our rear end.
    The machine gun fire came from an unmarked car carrying two men in gray suits. The FBI was in hot pursuit!
    I felt warmth on my cheek, scratched and saw blood on my fingers. A good amount. In fact I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Superficial cuts from busted glass I figured as I performed a five-finger inventory of the right side of my face.
    Then again maybe not. Something was missing. I patted the seat cushion, felt around on the floor mat with my hands and found it. The top half of my right ear.
    We barreled across the Detroit-Carnegie Bridge and down Lorain. The unmarked car peeled off. I clamped my handkerchief against my head. It soaked through. Pencil Mustache handed me his. The bleeding slowed.
    We hooked a left on Fulton Road, then a quick right on a narrow street, Cesco. Half a block down we slowed at H&R Manufacturing, a squat brick building with tarred windows that looked like any other Cleveland foundry or machine shop save for the coils of barbed wire atop the chain link fence.
    The front gate rolled open by remote control. A big dog barked from somewhere close. We parked the Lincoln in a detached two-car garage. The big dog ran circles around us as we hurried to the back door. His name was Hector.
    The Schooler, looking natty in a gray homburg and polka dot bowtie, was waiting for us in H&R Manufacturing’s front office. A card table stood against a wall. A card table that held an ice bucket, bottles of tonic, soda, Coca Cola, bonded Scotch, rye, bourbon, vodka and gin. We went there. We stayed a long time.
    I only