The Nice Guys Read online

  He fell back against one leg of the arch and saw Healy pressing himself against the other, gun in hand.

  “How’d you get down here?” Healy asked. “I told you to go to the roof!”

  March was shaking, speechless.

  “Did you fall?”

  March thought for a moment about denying it, then decided, fuck it. “Yeah.”

  Healy popped out to exchange another round of gunfire with John-Boy.

  “Jesus Christ,” Healy said, once he was back behind the archway. “You kidding?”

  “I think I’m invincible,” March said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I don’t think I can die.”

  Healy wasn’t interested in this theory. “Where’s the film?” he asked.

  “It’s up there.” March pointed up toward the now darkened ninth-floor window. “We’ve just got to go get it.”

  * * *

  By the time Holly got to the projection room and burst through the door, Tally was already on her feet by the projector, sealing one of the metal film cans with electrical tape. She had a pair of scissors in one hand that she’d been using to cut the tape, and she hurled them in Holly’s direction. Holly ducked just in time—she was getting good at that—and the scissors flew overhead, lodging themselves point-first in the wood of the door.

  Holly ran at Tally and grabbed her around the torso, burying her face in the other woman’s chest. Tally rained blows down on her back and shoulders, but Holly held on tight. Lifting one leg, Holly stomped down hard on Tally’s instep, then tripped her with a kick to one calf. She let go as Tally went down. Tally wasn’t the point, she reminded herself. The film was.

  She snatched up the can and spun to race back to the open door—but Tally had gotten there before her, and now had a gun pointing at her.

  “Give me that,” Tally said, “you fucked-up little hippie.” She advanced on Holly with one arm extended for the film can.

  “You want it?” Holly said. “Go get it.” And like she was back at the bowling alley, she set the can down on its edge and rolled it toward the open balcony door.

  Tally howled and lunged after it, but Holly stepped on the hem of her dress and she went down, slamming her head again.

  And the film can—

  The film can rolled onto the balcony, then off the balcony’s edge, and out into space in a long, graceful arc.

  43.

  All eyes were on the can as it fell from the ninth-story window.

  March, Healy, Paulsen, John-Boy.

  It bounced once, twice, three times, before rolling to a stop on the turntable with the burning Chrysler.

  Paulsen turned to the two bodyguards he’d gathered to him, both bulky men in formalwear whose neckties looked too tight, but then a loose cravat would have looked tight on necks this enormous. One of the men had a narrow mustache that he’d been trying to grow out since junior year of high school, with only limited success. His name was Afasa, and his brother’s was Pati. Pati had gotten beaten up over it plenty as a kid. Not anymore. They were Samoan, and that’s all Bergen Paulsen knew about them. When he called them anything, he called them “those Samoan boys.” They knew he didn’t know their names, but eh, bodyguarding was bodyguarding, you didn’t do it for the ego strokes, you did it for the cash.

  Right now, Paulsen had no need to use their names. He just pointed to where the film can had fetched up against the side of the burning wreck like a fifth hubcap. “Get me that fucking film. Move it!”

  Healy saw the two enormous men break away from the crowd and go running for the can.

  “Cover me,” March said.

  “What? What?” Healy said. “March! March—”

  But March had already darted out from the cover of the archway, and was zigzagging toward the turntable. John-Boy raised his gun and got a bead on him. Healy raised his own gun, painfully conscious of how light it felt—one bullet left, probably.

  He aimed as carefully as he’d ever done in his life, knowing he had to make the shot count. Pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Well, it had felt light. He stuffed the gun in his pocket and started running like a tackle making for the five-yard line, yelling to get John-Boy’s attention so he’d stop firing at March—his last two shots had almost hit him. But then Healy saw hotel security racing toward John-Boy as well, three of them, shouting, “Drop your weapon!” John-Boy swerved to face them, and Healy tacked left to go after the bodyguards instead.

  Behind him, the three security guards leaped on John-Boy before he could fire at them, but it was a doomed attempt. Three against one would seem to be good odds, but John-Boy made swift work of them, grabbing one around the neck and ramming him headfirst into the second. The third he grabbed in an armlock and then snapped the man’s elbow over his knee.

  Healy didn’t see this happen. He’d climbed up onto a table and used it for a launching platform for a flying leap onto the backs of Pati and Afasa. The three went down in a heap. Healy began laying about himself with punches to both men’s faces, hoping for a knockout before it could turn into a proper fight.

  March didn’t see either of these skirmishes. All he saw was the metal film can, and he grabbed it before working through the equation that metal plus fire equals hot. He dropped it again, blew on his burned fingers.

  Then he looked up, only to see Healy kneeling on the chest of one of the bodyguards, dealing out punches. “March! Go!” he shouted. “I’ve got this!” March turned back to the can, took another grab at it, wedging it under his arm this time so it wouldn’t singe his skin.

  He felt his armpit warm up. It felt sort of nice, actually.

  He didn’t see the second bodyguard rear up behind Healy and take him down with a punch to the neck.

  He did see John-Boy rearing up from the pile of downed security guards, though. The tall man brushed off his pant legs, checked his gun, then casually put a bullet in each guard’s head.

  That was enough to send March running, scurrying back into the nearer of the hotel towers. There were escalators to take you to the Grand Ballroom upstairs or the parking level underground. Neither sounded great, but he shot up the former, taking the steps two at a time. He heard slapping shoe-leather beneath him, and glancing down saw John-Boy aiming back up. A bullet ricocheted against the wall by March’s head and he was off, running again. Another escalator up—then one down—

  How long could he keep this up? John-Boy was younger and faster, and crazier. And armed. March had dropped his own gun somewhere along the way, probably when he’d picked up the film can. Not that he could’ve done a good job of carrying both anyway, but he still wished he had it on him. Guns made everything better. When they were yours. Not so much when they were, you know, a hired killer’s.

  March jumped over the side of the escalator he was currently on, landing on a banquet table, which upended under him, dumping him on the ground. From behind it came gunshots, and bullet holes appeared in the wood of the table over his head. He got to his feet again and sprinted, the film can clutched to his chest.

  But now he was out in the open, and he was running out of places to, well, run. This was the level that exited onto the glass walkway connecting the two towers, and March made for that. But where was the fucking door? He reached a huge plate glass window overlooking the walkway, hammered on it with one fist in frustration—then saw it shatter to a million pieces.

  Did I do that? He spun, saw John-Boy standing behind him, his gun extended and smoking. Nope. He did that.

  March caught the next bullet in his chest—or would have, if the film can hadn’t been in the way. The bullet lodged in the center of the film, but the impact threw March backward, through the blasted window and out onto the walkway.

  He lost hold of the can as he fell, and saw it roll, on end, toward the edge. He crawled after it, one arm outstretched, desperately trying to get it before it—

  The can bounced over the edge and down to a lower level, landing on a glass floor through
which March could see the tops of cars passing below on the parking level. He hurled himself over the edge after it.

  The can had bounced and rolled on the glass, but that was because the can weighed, what, two pounds? Four? Ten? March went one-fifty-five on a good day, and when he hit the glass he smashed right through, landing with a shower of fragments on the roof of the car beneath him. The metal buckled, and all the air was driven out of March’s body. He groaned and just lay face down for a second, trying to breathe. But the can had fallen through with him, hit the pavement, and it was still rolling.

  March forced himself to get up, slide off the roof. He staggered out into the road, chasing after the can, dodging a honking taxicab and caroming off the grill of a town car. Thank god they were all driving slowly down here.

  He had the can in sight—still rolling, but not far away—when he was shoulder-checked from behind by a fucking linebacker in a necktie who knocked him to the ground and went chasing after the can himself.

  March staggered to his feet again, then ducked back when a gunshot from the walkway passed close enough to part his hair. Risking a glance back, he saw John-Boy up there, taking aim for another.

  Then someone behind John-Boy shouted “Hey!” and the gunman spun.

  Healy landed on his shoulder, took him down to the surface of the walkway.

  March allowed himself a smile. Just a small one. Then ran after the fucking can.

  * * *

  On the walkway, Healy and John-Boy were rolling around in broken glass, trading punches. It was brutal, but in some strange way nostalgic, too. There were backlots in the Bronx where the best thing you could hope to land on during a fight was a rusty nail, where broken glass was not in short supply and more than once had been used deliberately to inflict damage. Healy had seen throats cut. The kids he grew up with hadn’t been playing. You learned to fight young or you moved the hell out of the Bronx.

  Healy hadn’t moved.

  Which didn’t mean he enjoyed getting punched in the face, in the jaw, in the chest. But it meant he could take it, and he could dish it out, and even when this psycho got him in a choke hold, Healy on his knees, John-Boy standing behind him with a powerful forearm around his neck, he knew a trick or two he hadn’t taught to his students at the Learning Adjunct. Reaching back with both arms, he jammed his hands into John-Boy’s jacket pockets, gripped tight, and flipped the bastard forward over his head. The guy landed face down inches from the edge of the walkway, and Healy expected him to be out of commission for at least a beat or two, long enough for Healy to take him out with a kick to the head. But no—the guy jumped up again instantly. Fuck.

  Healy clenched his hands into fists again. He felt something in his hand, on his finger, something that had come out of John-Boy’s pocket when he flipped him, and looking down, Healy saw what it was.

  He held it up for John-Boy to see, too.

  And for the first time he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

  * * *

  March was running, trying to get to Afasa, who was inches from the rolling can. One car cut in front of March, who dodged and suddenly found himself flat on his back on the hood of another. Behind him, he heard the woman in the driver’s seat shriek. She hit the gas by accident, driving March forward a few yards, then stomped the brake. March sailed off the front of the car, hit the ground running—well, on his feet, anyway, momentum carrying him forward, and he rammed into Afasa from behind, tackling him around the knees. Both men went down. Afasa had grabbed the can, but now it slipped from his fingers and, damn it, went rolling again. March smacked Afasa’s forehead into the pavement, then climbed over him to get to the can—but a gunshot from behind struck the pavement beside him. John-Boy…? March risked a look back, and saw Afasa’s brother standing near one of the hotel exits, in the shadow of the walkway overhead, gun extended in one hand. He looked furious at what March had done to his brother.

  March raised both arms before him. Could his cast block a bullet like the film can had? Somehow he doubted it. But what else did he have? He couldn’t run anymore. He was done.

  Something going on over Pati’s head caught March’s eye then. It was John-Boy, and he looked like he was desperately trying to get out of his jacket. He whipped one arm out of one sleeve, then found himself tangled in the other. He angrily yanked it off, tearing the fabric in the process, and hurled the whole thing over the edge.

  It landed on Pati’s outstretched arm.

  Pati looked up, startled and annoyed. But only for a second.

  March dropped, pressed his face into the pavement, covered his head with both arms.

  * * *

  The thing dangling from Healy’s finger was a grenade pin.

  He turned and ran, dropping behind a planter and waiting for the explosion.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  At least until he peeked around the corner and saw John-Boy still standing, in his shirtsleeves, watching the aftermath of the explosion down below.

  At least the son of a bitch was distracted. Healy would take what he could get. He ran from behind the planter and got John-Boy around the waist. Wheeled him around, gave him a knee to the gut, another to the groin, took him down to the ground. Straddled him. Gave him the old one-two, right across the chops, only it was the old one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight by the time Healy had finished. Then he shot out his right hand, cinched it around the man’s throat, and started squeezing.

  It was good enough for Dufresne, motherfucker. It’s good enough for you.

  John-Boy struggled. This was a tough guy, all right. But Healy was a tough guy too, and this time he had the leverage. He leaned forward, put his weight into it.

  “Mr. Healy! What are you doing!”

  Looking up, Healy saw a wisp of a girl standing in the doorway, her eyes wide. Horrified.

  “Go away, Holly.”

  John-Boy was writhing under him. His face was turning purple.

  “Healy, stop! You don’t have to kill him!”

  Oh, but I do, Holly. You don’t understand. A guy like this? He can’t be cured. He’s rotten to the core. Evil. You can’t fix him. You can’t improve him.

  “Mr. Healy,” Holly said, “if you kill this man, I will never speak to you again.”

  He looked at her. Looked down at his hand, locked around John-Boy’s throat.

  He deserves it.

  It was true: he did. And the world deserved to be rid of him. And he couldn’t be cured, couldn’t be fixed, couldn’t be improved. It was all true, every last word of it. But something spoke to Healy, in that moment, a little voice in his head. He thought later that maybe it was Scotty, his sponsor, but that was only because he refused—refused—to believe it was his dad’s voice. And what this voice said was, You’re right. You’re right. Simple as that—you’re right. He can’t be improved. But you know who can? You can.

  You fucking can.

  He let up on the pressure, and under him John-Boy started choking, gasping for air.

  “Congratulations, buddy,” Healy muttered. “You owe your life to a thirteen-year-old girl.”

  John-Boy’s eyes were closed. He was still struggling to breathe. It’s okay. It wasn’t important that he hear it. It was only important that Healy could say it.

  Healy raised his fist, took aim, and slammed it into the bastard’s temple. His head smacked the concrete and he was down at last. Still breathing raggedly, but shallower now that he was unconscious.

  “Good night, John-Boy,” Healy said.

  * * *

  March was on his feet again. How, he didn’t know. But the can was still rolling and so was he. His jacket was singed from the explosion, his hair too. But Pati had gotten it worse, obviously. So March wasn’t complaining.

  He saw the can finally tip on its side and fall clattering to the pavement, and he staggered over to it, ignoring the sound of another explosion behind him. Who the fuck knew what that one was. Maybe someone was still shooting at him. Maybe Detroit had just r
olled out a new car of the future and one of the features was, it exploded. You know, on command. Fuck it. There was the film. There were his fingers. He lifted the can, hugged it to his chest. End of the line.

  Looking down at his hand, he saw the words that had been scrawled onto his skin were still there, just fainter and smudged. One word in particular was smudged to the point of being unreadable, and seeing that made him grin. The missing word was never. The sentence now said You will…be happy. Well, fuck me. If that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.

  “Dad!”

  He looked up, saw Healy and Holly looking down from the edge of the walkway.

  Holly was in tears.

  No, baby, he wanted to say, don’t cry, I made it. We made it. See?

  He held the film can up over his head. Smiled at her. Crooked his pinky in her direction.

  He limped toward the building, but gave up halfway there. There was a car with smashed windows stopped slantwise across the road. It wasn’t going anywhere. March sank down beside it, laid his head back against the driver’s door, set the film can down against his thigh.

  In the distance, he heard sirens.

  “And that,” he said softly to himself, “would be the cops.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, came back out with his lighter and a cigarette.

  He was smoking it with a look of deep satisfaction on his face when the cop cars drove in.

  Sometimes, you just win.

  44.

  But not this time.

  45.

  In the lobby of the courthouse, March and Healy were seated side by side. They both looked up when the doors swung open, thinking maybe it was Perry, come to tell them they could go. It wasn’t.

  “Jesus Christ,” March said.

  “Oh, shit,” was Healy’s version of the sentiment.

  “You know what?” March said. “Don’t even talk to her. Don’t even look at her, man.”