Good Fences Make Good (A Dan Wilder Short Story) Page 2

pulled harder on Raney’s tie, twisted it around his head, and pulled Raney farther in through the window.

  Raney’s face wasn’t white anymore. It was thickening up, turning red, then purple. Raney kept moving his lips, snarling, trying to spit words, but the tie was too tight now for him to speak.

  Wilder slid away a little to keep Raney from getting any teeth into him. Drogo plucked at Wilder’s sleeve.

  “Don’t, Wilder,” he begged. “They’ll find both of us.”

  Wilder shook the hand off. “Shut up.”

  He heard Drogo opening the back door.

  “Stay here, Drogo, or I’ll find you myself.”

  Drogo got out of the car, slammed the door shut, ran one way, found himself blocked by one of the cars parked in back, turned, and ran the other way, around the front end of the Chrysler. He disappeared into the park.

  Wilder returned his attention to Raney, holding onto the .38 and ramming Raney’s wrist and forearm against the dashboard until he let go of the gun. Dropping it onto the seat beside him, Wilder belted him again and was grabbing for Raney’s other hand when Raney slumped and was quiet.

  Wilder held onto Raney’s wrist and tie a moment more, to make sure. Then he loosened the tie choking Raney’s neck and shoved Raney back out through the car window. He heard Raney hit the pavement as he was sliding behind the steering wheel.

  Good, at least Drogo had left the keys in the ignition!

  Starting the engine, he moved the Chrysler forward a foot or two so there would be room behind it and the car parked there. Putting it in neutral, he braked, took the keys out of the ignition, slid across the seat, and got out.

  For the moment, there was no one in sight. All right, that was a plus.

  Wilder tried to keep the car door open, but it kept swinging shut by itself. He wanted it open to hide what he had to do next, in case anyone passed while he was in the middle of it. He jammed the edge of the car door into the side of the next car.

  Watching it a moment, he decided it would hold that way for as long as he needed. He went back to where Raney lay and hauled him behind the car, opened the trunk, and tumbled Raney in beside the spare tire.

  He couldn’t tell if Raney was dead or not, and he didn’t have time to bother finding out.

  Driving slowly, he left the parking lot, turned left at the end of the park, and waited for the traffic light on Main Street. He couldn’t see Drogo. When the light changed, he turned left, drove along the street, back the way he’d just come but on the opposite side of the long narrow park.

  Wilder figured Drogo would have cut through the park, but he couldn’t be sure he would stay on the main drag or keep going. If Drogo was smart, he’d be on a phone now to “the people who ran things around here.” Wilder chuckled, thinking that. Drogo would be trying to cover himself for whatever happened to Raney.

  All right, Wilder decided. Drogo would be phoning. He wouldn’t be trying for distance, not yet. The people he phoned would tell him to stay put. That meant Drogo would be in some store along the drag, here, waiting for reinforcements.

  Checking for side streets, Wilder saw that none ran into Main Street for the entire length of the business block opposite the park, so he decided to stop and wait at the first cross street, down by the railroad overpass. Drogo should then be somewhere behind him.

  Finding a parking spot at the curb, he checked the .38, slipped it into his pocket, got out of the Chrysler, and put some change in the parking meter. Standing close to the buildings, he looked over the heads of strollers and shoppers, back the way he’d just come.

  He waited five minutes before he spotted Drogo.

  There wasn’t much traffic on Main Street. A car coming toward Wilder double-parked at the curb about the length of a regular block away. Drogo appeared, scuttling across the sidewalk, where he leaned down and spoke into the car, waving his arms, pointing over the roof of the car to the park across the way.

  Three men got out and started across. The last one beckoned to Drogo, went on, glanced back, and saw Drogo still standing on the sidewalk, unwilling to follow. The man called something, beckoned again angrily, and Drogo started across after them, not going too fast.

  Wilder grinned, got back in the Chrysler, made a U-turn, and cruised back toward them. The park slid past on his right. The three men went in among the trees on a path through the park.

  Drogo was almost across the street.

  Wilder sped up. When Drogo reached the opposite sidewalk, Wilder drove past him, stopped, and swung the door open nearest the curb.

  “Drogo!” he called.

  Drogo turned and saw whom it was. He skittered sideways a step or two, peered in through the trees, and looked back at Wilder.

  “Get in,” Wilder told him, pointing the .38 at him. “Get in or I’ll pump you right here.”

  Drogo stared at the gun, licked his lips, looked into the park once more, and came over to the Chrysler.

  “In!” Wilder ordered. “Quick!”

  Drogo climbed in and slammed the door shut, still staring at the gun.

  “Wilder,” he whispered, “I didn’t know they were . . .”

  “You can talk later,” Wilder growled.

  Putting the .38 away, he swung the Chrysler out into the center lane and drove off. In the rearview mirror he saw one of the three men come plunging out of the park and across the sidewalk. He stopped in the road, staring after the Chrysler for a long moment before turning and going back in among the trees again.

  “Is this Raney’s car?” Wilder asked.

  “What? This . . .?”

  “Who owns this car?” Wilder snapped. “Answer me.”

  “Oh, the car. Yes, it’s Raney’s. What did you do with him?”

  “Then they’ve spotted us,” Wilder said, ignoring Drogo’s question.

  Driving the length of the park, he passed the drugstore, caught a break in oncoming traffic up near the corner with the traffic light in his favor, and made the turn down the side street where Drogo had fingered him for Raney. Driving along for several blocks, he got off it, did some zigzagging, and finally stopped in a lonely stretch of road leading up to a highway that skirted the western edge of town.

  “Wilder, what did you do with Raney?”

  “Raney’s out of this,” Wilder told him.

  “Where’d you leave him?”

  “Back there in the park.” Wilder grinned at Drogo. “He was out like a light. Maybe he’s dead by now.”

  Drogo’s eyes grew sick.

  “Wilder,” he whispered, “they won’t forget. They’ll kill the both of us now. Why didn’t you leave me back there? You drag me along like this, they’ll think I’m in it with you . . .”

  Wilder slapped him.

  “You dragged me into this,” he snarled. “Don’t forget that, you little creep.”

  He slapped Drogo again, harder this time. Drogo’s head snapped to the side and stayed that way. For a second, Wilder was afraid he’d hit Drogo too hard. Grabbing the front of his coat, he pulled him nearer.

  Drogo’s eyes opened, looking vague, then his gaze sharpened as he came out of it.

  “Keep quiet,” Wilder told him. “Understand? Keep quiet.”

  Drogo nodded.

  “Sure,” he whispered. “Sure, Wilder. I only . . .”

  “Keep quiet,” Wilder told him again. “All the way quiet.”

  He stared into Drogo’s eyes until he was sure Drogo realized what all the way quiet meant. Then he released Drogo’s coat front.

  Drogo fell back, staring at him, his hands making clumsy movements trying to straighten the lapels of his suit coat.

  “You answer me, and you tell me only what I ask you, understand? Drogo, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understa—”

  “Just yes is enough,” Wilder interrupted him.

  Drogo swallowed, nodded, and said bitterly, “Yes.”

  “Now tell me about it,” Wilder ordered. “And keep it short. Who’s got my pl
under?”

  The first words burst from Drogo’s mouth in a rush: “Wilder, I was peddling the stuff like I always do. Then they told me they were gonna hold onto it . . .”

  “Who? Who’s got my goods? A name!”

  Drogo gulped, then murmured, “A man named Harris. He’s got this town sewed up.”

  Drogo realized he was talking too much again. He muttered, “Sorry, Wilder . . .”

  “I know,” Wilder said absently. “You just can’t keep your mouth shut.”

  Wilder thought about it a moment before saying: “Drogo, I turned the stuff over to you. You got a recommend. I deal with you. Not with any Harris or any Raney. Just you. And you turned me over to them.”

  “You don’t understand,” Drogo said desperately. “They run things here, the whole town, even some of the cops.”

  “They don’t run me,” Wilder said quietly.

  Drogo stared at him, his mouth hanging open.

  “They may run this town and they may run you,” Wilder said evenly. “But they don’t run me. They aren’t getting any organization’s hooks into me. If they had you working your grift with their say-so, you shoulda told me before I handed over the ice. You didn’t tell me. So that means I was still dealing with you. Only with you.”

  “What . . .?” Drogo’s voice was a dry croak. He licked his lips, swallowed and tried again: “What’re you gonna do, Wilder?”

  Wilder took out Raney’s .38 and held it loosely in his lap.

  “You turned me over to them,” he said, “so I’m gonna leave you on your face in those woods behind you.”

  “Wilder, you don’t know!” Drogo screamed. “I just thought they was customers. They never tried nothing like this before. I’ve pushed stuff through them plenty times.