Elsinore by Jerome Charyn Page B

Where’d you learn to walk without a wrinkle?”
    â€œIt’s not the walk,” Holden said. “It’s the quality of the wool.” And he carried the suitcases down to the car. But Phipps didn’t want them buried in the trunk.
    â€œThe back seat will do.”
    They caught the noon ferry. Holden sat with Phipps in the car barn. The engines churned, and water began to spill into the barn. The same puddles formed. Holden thought the car would float off in a lake inside the barn. Phipps wasn’t worried about water. He watched the suitcases. And that was fatal. Because he didn’t see Minot and Paul standing outside the car in their galoshes, holding Webley automatics with very long noses. And when Holden saw them, it was already too late. The boys had come from his blind side. They tapped on the window with their Webleys. The last time Holden had seen such long guns was in a British spy film, with Peter Lorre. He almost started to laugh.
    â€œOpen,” Minot said.
    â€œThey can screw,” Phipps said.
    â€œPhippsy,” Holden said. “We’re not immortal. They can poke us right through the glass.”
    He opened his door. Minot reached in. “You’re naive, grandpa. Did you really think you’d get off the island with our stash?”
    â€œIt’s my paper,” Phipps said.
    â€œBut you shouldn’t have let us sit on it so long.”
    Paul opened the rear door and collected both suitcases. Holden still couldn’t understand the old boy’s agility. He carried the suitcases across that little lake, up the stairs, and out of the barn.
    Minot smiled. “I think I’ll sit and watch the scenery with you, if you don’t mind. I promised dad I wouldn’t hurt a hair off your head, Mr. Phipps, unless I had to. He cried when I told him about this journey we were taking. ‘Phippsy’s my oldest friend.’”
    Minot must have been an actor in public school. He was much too involved with his own narration. He gestured with the Webley, and Holden picked it right out of his hand. And when he struggled to get his gun back, Holden dug the silencer into the old boy’s mouth.
    â€œHere, Phipps, take the gun. And if he blinks, blow his brains out. We have nothing to lose.”
    And Holden had to go up those stairs to look for Paul. He wandered into that little lake wearing three-hundred-dollar shoes. His socks had come from the Duke of Windsor’s closets. He went all around the ferry, from deck to deck. The ocean looked like coiling skin. He searched under the lifeboats, in the ferry’s luncheonette, in the storage bins. He wondered if Paul could have vanished inside the pilot room. Then he turned the corner and found Paul sitting on the suitcases and eating a hot dog. Paul was so busy with his dog, he never looked up. Wasn’t a soul around. Holden could have tossed him into the Atlantic, but he was done with all that.
    His instincts had gone bad. He’d forgotten that Paul had bumped before Holden was born. The old boy had sniffed Holden’s shadow. He reached for his Webley, and Holden hit him twice in the throat. Paul’s eyes bulged. Then he fell into Holden’s arms. Holden took the Webley and tossed it over the rail. The gun arced out, started to spin, and dropped like a hammer into the sea.
    Suddenly Holden had fingers at his throat. He’d hit the old boy as hard as he could, but it wasn’t hard enough. Their eyes locked, and Holden understood what a career Paul must have had. Ten years ago Sidney Holden wouldn’t have had a chance. There was no pity in Paul’s eyes, no alarm. He wasn’t burdened with memories of Cézanne or a fiancée who’d lost her reason. And he didn’t have Andrushka’s long legs to think about. Just murder and money. Paul found Holden’s windpipe, but not fast enough. He could have suffered from arthritis. Holden slapped Paul’s elbows