I nodded. Keenan had been easier to find than the Sarge -- he kept a higher profile. I could have tracked Sarge all the way down eventually, I suppose, but I'd been pretty sure that wouldn't be necessary. Thieves of a feather flock together... and the feathers have a tendency to fly, too, when one of the birds is a vulture like Keenan.
"Of course," Sarge went on, "he tells me not to get any lethal ideas. Says he's taken out an insurance policy, my name in an open-in-event-of-my-death letter he'd sent his lawyer. His idea was that the two of us could probably dope out where Cappy'd buried the money if we put three of the four pieces of the map together."
"And split the swag fifty-fifty," I said.
Sarge nodded. Keenan's face was like a moon drifting somewhere in a high stratosphere of terror.
"Where's the safe?" I asked him.
Keenan didn't say anything.
I had done some practicing with the.45. It was a good gun. I liked it. I held it in both hands and shot Keenan in the forearm, just below the elbow. The Sarge didn't even jump. Keenan fell off the couch and curled up in a ball, holding his arm and howling.
"The safe," I said.
Keenan continued to howl.
"I'll shoot you in the knee," I said. "I don't know from personal experience, but I've heard that hurts like a mad bastard."
"The print," he gasped. "The Van Gogh. Don't shoot me anymore, huh?'' He looked at me, grinning fearfully.
I motioned to Sarge with the gun. "Stand facing the wall."
The Sarge got up and looked at the wall, arms dangling limply.
"Now you," I said to Keenan. "Go open the safe."
"I'm bleeding to death," Keenan moaned.
I went over and stroked the butt of the.45 up the side of his cheek, laying back skin. "Now you're bleeding," I told him. "Go open the safe or you'll bleed more."
Keenan got up, holding his arm and blubbering. He took the print off its hooks with his good hand, revealing an office-gray wall safe. He threw a terrified glance at me and began to twiddle the dial. He made two false starts and had to go back. The third time he got it open. There were some documents and two wads of bills inside. He reached in, fumbled around, and came up with two squares of paper, about three inches on a side.
I swear I didn't mean to kill him. I planned to tie him up and leave him. He was harmless enough; the maid would find him when she got back from her lingerie party or wherever it was she'd gone in her little Dodge Colt, and Keenan wouldn't dare poke his nose out of his house for a week. But it was like Sarge had said. He did have two. And one of them had blood on it.
I shot him again, this time not in the arm. He went down like an empty laundry bag.
Sarge didn't flinch. "I wasn't crapping you. Keenan jobbed your friend. They were both amateurs. Amateurs are stupid."
I didn't answer. I looked down at the squares and shoved them into my pocket. Neither one had an X-marks-the-spot on it.
"What now?" Sarge asked.
"We go to your place."
"What makes you think my piece of the map is there?"
"I don't know. Telepathy, maybe. Besides, if it isn't, we'll go where it is. I'm in no hurry."
"You've got all the answers, huh?"
"Let's go."
We went back out to the carport. I sat in the back of the VW, on the side away from him. His bulk and the size of the car made a surprise play on his part a joke; it would take him five minutes just to get turned around. Two minutes later we were on the road.
It was starting to snow, big, sloppy flakes that clung to the windshield and turned to instant slush when they struck the pavement. It was slippery going, but there wasn't much traffic.
After a half hour on Route 10, he turned off onto a secondary road. Fifteen minutes later we were on a rutted dirt track with snow-freighted pines staring at us on either side. Two miles along we turned into a short, trash-littered driveway.
In the limited sweep of the VW's headlights 1 could make out a rickety backwoods shack with a patched roof and a twisted TV aerial. There was a snow-covered old Ford in a gully to the left. Out in back was an outhouse and a pile of old tires. Hernando's Hideaway.
"Welcome to Bally's East," Sarge said, and killed the engine.
"If this is a con, I'll kill you."
He seemed to fill three-quarters of the tiny vehicle's front seat. "I know that," he said.
"Get out."
Sarge led the way up to the front door. "Open it," I said. "Then stand still."
He opened the door and stood still. I stood still. We stood still for about three minutes, and nothing happened. The only moving thing was a fat gray squirrel that had ventured into the middle of the yard to curse us in lingua rodenta.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go in."
Surprise, it was a dump. The one sixty-watt bulb cast a grungy glow over the whole room, leaving shadows like starved bats in the corners. Newspapers were scattered helter-skelter. Drying clothes were hung on a sagging rope. In one corner there was an ancient Zenith TV. In the opposite corner was a rickety sink and a stark, rust-stained bathtub on claw feet. A hunting rifle stood beside it. The predominant odors were feet, farts, and chili.
"It beats living raw," Sarge said.
I could have argued the point, but didn't. "Where's your piece of the map?"
"In the bedroom."