Hit and The Marksman (25 page)

Anne says
sotto voce
, to Radford, “Come on—lighten up.”

Harry says, “Hi.”

Anne says, “Hi yourself. Harry, this is C.W.”

“Ha're you?” And, to Anne: “You havin' any trouble breathing?”

“No. Why?”

“That outfit of yours so tight I'm havin' trouble breathing … Got a weapon you want to sight in?”

Radford shakes his head. “No. I'm just a spectator.”

Anne teases him: “Oh come on.” And to Harry: “C.W. told me he used to compete in target matches.”

Harry looks at him with sudden recognition. “C.W.—Wait a minute. You're, what's the name, no, don't tell me, I'll get it—”

On the range one of the shooters looks this way. All three wear goggles; perhaps Radford recognizes Conrad, from the van. Conrad pretends no interest in Radford or Anne; so do his two companions. One is Gootch; the other is Wojack, 25, dapper and Ivy League in a high-priced suit.

Harry is going right on with his recognition exercise: “You were just a kid, you won the Wimbledon Cup on the thousand-yard range at Camp Perry … I got it. Radford. C. W. Radford. Am I right, hey? Am I right or am I right!”

Harry claps Radford amiably on the bicep. Radford's reaction is stony but Harry doesn't seem to notice.

Harry puts on a pair of thin gloves before he selects a 308 target rifle from the rack. “Damn gloves—solvent on my hands, don't want to soil the goods.” He turns, smiling, and proffers the rifle to Radford. “Here, try this 308. I'd admire to see you shoot.”

Radford shakes his head, refusing the rifle. “You go ahead.”

Harry is taken aback, then puts on a smile and ushers them forward toward the firing line. Anne and Radford watch Harry load the 308 rifle; he still wears the gloves. The three shooters are intent on their own target-aiming. Their faces are concealed by goggles and ear protectors; Radford never gets a clear look at any of them.

Harry says, “This here's the rifle, for my money. Shoot across rooftops or shoot across the street. Great support for a GPMG team. Your perfect weapon for urban area combat.”

Anne says, “Harry's the world's greatest combat expert. That's because he's never been to war. But boy, just let 'em invade Tenth Street and Main …”

Harry gives her a look. He and Anne put on ear protectors. Then abruptly, with a grin, Harry tosses the rifle to Radford.

Reflex: Radford catches it. He scowls at Harry, then studies the rifle briefly, then turns and aims casually and fires one shot downrange.

Harry puts his eye to a swivel-mounted telescope to spot targets.

“Jeez. A perfect bull's eye. Wow. Awe-some!”

By this time Conrad, Gootch and Wojack are watching Radford with intense interest, but Radford doesn't seem to notice this. With distaste he shoves the rifle back into Harry's gloved hands. “No thanks.”

Harry says to Anne, “Fantastic. Dead center, perfect bull's eye, like there wasn't nothin' to it.”

And now, behind Radford's back, Harry and Anne exchange glances.

Anne's car draws up outside the big sign of Charlie's Cafe.

“Thanks. For the lift and—everything.” Radford is about to get out. Anne holds him in place while she takes something out of her handbag.

It's a key. She slips it into his shirt pocket and gives him one of those bright smiles that can light up your whole day. Radford just looks at her—a grave beat. Then he gets out and she watches him walk to the cafe. She doesn't drive away until he's disappeared completely inside, but he never once looked back at her.

Night again, and the street's deserted until Charlie's side door opens. Radford, untying his apron, pokes his face out into the night air and takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear away his headache. Charlie appears behind him and takes the apron. “G'night, C.W. Take care.”

“Yeah.” It's a noncommittal grunt. Radford walks around the corner, then past two hookers, then past the redheaded dealer, who gives him a glance. Radford is tired and everything hurts. When he puts his hands in his pockets, he discovers something in one pocket and takes it out and looks at it.

Anne's key. He thinks about it.

But he goes back to his flophouse and finds it unchanged, the cot as always unmade. Radford rummages through the few paltry possessions in his duffel bag, finds a worn envelope, takes a creased photograph out of it and sits looking at the photo. He was very young then, handsome in his tailored class-a uniform, posing proudly with his arm around his best girl.

Dorothy McCune. In the photo she's quite young and very beautiful in a cocktail dress. On her other side stands her father, a very distinguished guy. They're at a posh political rally; big banner reads “Tom McCune for Senate.” They're all happy.

Radford broods at the picture, then puts it back where he got it.

Outside Anne's apartment court near the wading pool Radford stands in the night for a long silent stretch of time before he finally goes up to Anne's door and pushes the bell. He waits, and when there's no response he turns to leave. That's when the door opens.

She's in a nightgown, sleepy.

He's apologetic, hesitant. “Hi. Sorry.”

“Well don't just stand there.” She draws him inside.

In the afternoon Charlie's Cafe kitchen staff go in and out on their errands. Don the waiter stacks dishes—and watches the aproned Radford scrub a griddle.

Charlie enters—with Harry. Charlie says to Radford, “Fella wants to talk to you.”

“Harry Sinclair. Gun club—remember me? Look, there's a turkey shoot-out on the hill range tomorrow—small potatoes, but I'll put up the side bets and you take a third of my winnings. Nobody around here knows you. We can make some bucks. What do you say?”

Radford studies him. “I guess not.”

Charlie razzes him. “Shit, go ahead, C.W. Shoot some bull's eyes—have some fun.”

“Charlie, I haven't shot targets in years. What if I get the shakes and come up Maggie's drawers?”

Harry says, “Then I'll eat my losses. But it won't happen.”

Charlie says, “Man's got confidence in you, C.W.”

Harry looks satisfied. “Tomorrow morning. Pick you up at eight. Hey. What d'you say?”

“Do it, C.W. I'll give you the day off—hell you don't even have to ask, you know that.”

Radford thinks it over.

On a general-aviation runway, the executive jet taxis to a stop. Its door opens. The motorized stair extends down and locks in place. A couple of cops stand at the foot of the steps, watching the horizon.

Led by motorcycle cops and flanked by squad cars, a limousine draws up—little flags above its headlights. Diplomatic flags. Several suits come down the stairs from the plane. We can tell by his carriage that one of them is the VIP and by his clothes that he's foreign. Threading the phalanx of security people, he walks toward the limousine.

All this is being watched from the parked van by Conrad, smoking, and Wojack, who focuses binoculars on the activity at the plane. Conrad looks over his shoulder into the gloom of the van and he sees Slade still back there, a fat cop nearly busting the seams of his uniform, on the bench side seat looking uncomfortable with his wrists dangling over his knees.

Conrad says to Slade, “It's on. You be in the building early.”

“Don't sweat it, Conrad.”

“You'll ice the perp in self defense. Just make sure he's all-the-way dead, right? If he's alive to talk—”

The fat cop waves it off. (“Sure, sure.”)

Harry Sinclair drives his SUV off the main road onto a rutted dirt track. Beside him Radford sits strapped in, not talking, not seeming to notice the scenery. Harry parks by a lean-to shack and gets out. He's wearing gloves. He takes that familiar 308 rifle out of the back seat and walks around the car and hands the rifle up as Radford gets out. Then, talking, Harry walks away, past the shack. “Come on—it's just up the hill.”

Hidden from Radford's view behind the shack, Don the waiter and Conrad's partner Gootch pull stocking masks over their heads to hide their faces.

Harry's still talking: “We're an hour early. I figured you'd want to get the feel of the place, maybe squeeze off some practice rounds.”

Radford, following without much interest, comes around the corner after Harry—and suddenly, without warning, is jumped: expertly attacked from behind by the masked Don and Gootch. One pinions his arms while the other's hands grip Radford's throat front and back with expert pressure, clamping off the flow of the carotid arteries. That's when Harry grabs him around the knees to keep him from kicking.

Radford, taken by surprise, tries to struggle but it's no good: the rifle drops away and the carotid hold renders him unconscious. He slips to the ground …

Harry sits back and, in relief, peels the phony beard and stage make-up off. Now we see him clean-shaven.

Don produces a syringe, which he fills from a phial while Gootch rolls up the unconscious Radford's sleeve …

A Middle …

The office building is a high-rise with a multi-story parking garage connecting to one side of it. Inside a fourth-story office, vacant of all furniture, Conrad and Wojack stand at the window looking down at the street below. Both wear surgical gloves. Wojack looks like a bright Ivy League college senior dressed for a job interview. He has a suction cup against a lower corner of the window; he's working around it with a glass-cutter. Finally he pops the glass disc loose and sets it aside on the windowsill, leaving a neat, open hole in the window. We notice he leaves the glass cutter and the suction cup on the sill. He picks up that familiar 308 rifle and screws a 'scope sight onto it. Conrad doesn't smoke here—he's too professional for that. He wears a headset-and-mouthpiece cell phone. He listens to his headset and talks back to it: “Affirmative.” He turns to Wojack: “It's on. It's a ‘go.'”

Conrad looks at his watch. Wojack aims his rifle down through the hole in the glass at the street below. Conrad steps forward beside him to look down out the window. Wojack says, very dryly, “Do I get fifty points for a little old blind lady in the crosswalk?”

Down there through crosshairs he's peering at the steps of the government building across the street. On the fringes of the 'scope's image he can see a gathering of cops, officials and reporters with their TV cameras and microphones, all waiting for the limo to arrive …

Now Conrad and turns to look past Wojack into the darker recesses of the unfurnished office. He sees Gootch and Harry bracketing the unconscious Radford. Harry is pasting his phony beard back in place.

Conrad says to Harry, “Time to give him the upper. Wake the son of a bitch up.” Then, to Gootch, “Lock the elevator and go start the van.”

Obeying, Gootch exits.

Conrad watches Harry take a disposable syringe from its package and begins to fill it from a phial.

At the window Wojack, sighting down through the hole, tightens his aim.

In the 'scope sight he can see the windshield of the limousine—the one with the foreign flags—as it pulls up, escorted by cops on motorcycles. Reporters crowd against a cordon of cops; a wedge of security people surrounds the man emerging from the limo—that same vaguely foreign VIP from the plane. Wojack's practiced grip zeroes in the crosshairs on the center of his torso and there is the sudden sound of the shot: the image jerks upward in recoil and then settles down again as the VIP falls dead on the steps.

By the time the VIP has fallen dead to the steps, Wojack has already wheeled back away from the window and is jacking a fresh cartridge into the chamber of the rifle.

Conrad and Harry drag Radford across the room, stooping to remain below sill-line, dragging the groggy man directly beneath the window.

In the street there's a crowd around the body; people are pointing up this way. Cops rush across the street toward the building.