It was nice work.
I liked it.
Canino liked it very much.
I heard him laugh.
It was a large booming laugh, not at all like the purr of his speaking voice.
Then silence for a little while, except for the rain and the quietly throbbing motor of the car.
Then the house door crawled open, a deeper blackness in the black night.
A figure showed in it cautiously, something white around the neck.
It was her collar.
She came out on the porch stiffly, a wooden woman.
I caught the pale shine of her silver wig.
Canino came crouched methodically behind her.
It was so deadly it was almost funny.
She came down the steps.
Now I could see the white stiffness of her face.
She started towards the car.
A bulwark of defense for Canino, in case I could still spit in his eye.
Her voice spoke through the lisp of the rain, saying slowly, without any tone:
"I can't see a thing, Lash.
The windows are misted."
He grunted something and the girl's body jerked hard, as though he had jammed a gun into her back.
She came on again and drew near the lightless car.
I could see him behind her now, his hat, a side of his face, the bulk of his shoulder.
The girl stopped rigid and screamed.
A beautiful thin tearing scream that rocked me like a left hook.
"I can see him!" she screamed. "Through the window.
Behind the wheel, Lash!"
He fell for it like a bucket of lead.
He knocked her roughly to one side and jumped forward, throwing his hand up.
Three more spurts of flame cut the darkness.
More glass scarred. One bullet went on through and smacked into a tree on my side. A ricochet whined off into the distance. But the motor went quietly on.
He was low down, crouched against the gloom, his face a grayness without form that seemed to come back slowly after the glare of the shots If it was a revolver he had, it might be empty. It might not.
He had fired six times, but he might have reloaded inside the house.
I hoped he had.
I didn't want him with an empty gun. But it might be an automatic.
I said: "Finished?"
He whirled at me.
Perhaps it would have been nice to allow him another shot or two, just like a gentleman of the old school.
But his gun was still up and I couldn't wait any longer.
Not long enough to be a gentleman of the old school.
I shot him four times, the Colt straining against my ribs.
The gun jumped out of his hand as if it had been kicked.
He reached both his hands for his stomach.
I could hear them smack hard against his body.
He fell like that, straight forward, holding himself together with his broad hands. He fell face down in the wet gravel.
And after that there wasn't a sound from him.
Silver-Wig didn't make a sound either.
She stood rigid, with the rain swirling at her.
I walked around Canino and kicked his gun, without any purpose.
Then I walked after it and bent over sideways and picked it up. That put me close beside her.