Running Dog (25 page)

“The relatives. Always the relatives.”

“Paulie gave me a call. What? Ten days ago.”

“I never met the man,” Kidder said. “I know the man’s reputation.”

“He called me. That’s how I heard.”

“How did he hear?”

“Somebody named Lightborne called him. Out of nowhere. Said he was lining up bidders. Wanted to know if Paul was interested in bidding.”

“Interested in bidding,” Kidder said.

“Can you imagine that?”

“Interested in bidding.”

They would try to talk girls into getting in the car. Seven guys in the car, not too many girls were interested. You didn’t ordinarily find girls that curious. They kept a zip gun under the driver’s seat. They never went anywhere without the gun. This guy Kidder here. That was about his level. His sex life is probably restricted to the back seat of the car. He keeps a Navy flare in the glove compartment.

“Tell you what I could go for,” Talerico said. “I could go for some zookie.”

“What’s zookie?”

“Jewish nookie.”

“I had to ask, right?”

“It always gets a reaction. Zookie. It has that little sound people like.”

“See those lights?” Kidder said.

Twenty minutes later the car eased into the dark parking lot located across the tracks from the warehouse. A single freight car sat on the tracks.
Ship It On the Frisco!
Kidder turned off the headlights and they sat facing the warehouse. It was cold. Talerico got out of the car to put on his trench-coat, then slid back into the seat. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

Half an hour later they saw a figure emerge from beneath
the freight car, coming up from a position on all fours. Slender young man. Black. Wearing a heavy sweater. Carrying a flashlight.

“His name’s Daryl Shimmer. He looks after the kid.”

“Who looks after him?”

Daryl came toward the car, looking around him every few steps. Ten feet away he put his left hand under the sweater and lifted a small gun out of his belt. He approached the driver’s side.

“Shit,” Talerico said wearily.

Daryl had the gun in Kidder’s face. A .25 caliber automatic. Talerico could read the imprint
Hartford Ct. U.S.A
. above Daryl’s long dusty thumb extended along the barrel.

“I know you people looking for some motion picture. We don’t know where it’s at. Now Richie there, it’s all he can do to piss inside the bowl, the way you people keep pressuring. We’re saying get back. We don’t know the whereabouts. We don’t want to know. We’re walking away. It’s all over, we’re saying. You locate the motion picture, more power to you. Don’t even tell us about it.”

“Listen, hard-on,” Kidder said.

Daryl bit his lower lip.

“Get that thing out of my face. That’s in bad taste, a pointed gun. That’s ugly.”

“Who you talking?”

“Scumbag.”

“I fucking shoot.”

“Anything I hate, man, it’s being pointed at.”

Overlapping dialogue. Volume increasing all the time.

“You ought to put some meat on your bones,” Talerico said quietly. “You’re awful thin. I hate to see that.”

“Shut up all around.”

“You ought to eat more of that soul food.”

“Get that gun,” Kidder said. “If you don’t get that gun. Point it out of here.”

“Who you talking?”

“Dipshit. You hard-on.”

Daryl had the gun right in Kidder’s cheek and he was biting his lower lip again. Kidder was screaming at him, coming up with names Talerico hadn’t heard in years.

“You ought to spend more time with people,” Talerico said softly. “You’re alone too much. I don’t like to see that. It’s unhealthy. Look at you. You don’t know how to behave around people. You ought to get out more. And you ought to eat more. You ought to put some meat on those bones.”

Another figure appeared. This one at the side of the freight car. He came walking toward the Camaro. Daryl, keeping the gun in Kidder’s face, directed the flashlight into the car.

“They’re ready to listen, Richie.”

“I heard that yelling. We don’t need that here. Yelling.”

“This trouble’s yours,” Kidder said. “This is yours.”

“I came out to show we don’t have anything to hide. I came out in good faith. I don’t know anything about the item you want. You keep putting pressure. It’s aggravating.”

“The pressure’s in your head,” Talerico said.

“I didn’t even bring the dogs, to show good faith. To make an appearance. I thought this would lessen the mystery. You wouldn’t want to get in there so much if you saw me, if you saw there’s nothing special and that I don’t have the item.”

“He wants his Bugs Bunny teeth kicked in,” Talerico explained to Kidder.

“This is yours,” Kidder kept shouting. “I’m looking at you right here.”

Richie was wearing an oversized peacoat. His hands were stuffed into the deep pockets. He nodded in Talerico’s direction. A gesture meant for Daryl—shine the light on the other one.

Talerico turned the right side of his face toward the light. The dead side. The side with the chilled meat. His fierce eye stared blankly.

“I’m not even here,” Kidder was shouting. “The whole thing’s over.”

“He wants to eat this gun,” Daryl said.

“You stupid bastards. You cuntlaps. You don’t know where you’re standing.”

Talerico had heard this kind of dislocated shouting before. It reminded him of his cousin Paul. When Paul faced trouble, he got meaner, he got deadly. And sometimes he shouted things that connected to the situation only in the loosest of ways, if at all. Talerico had seen his cousin terrorize people—cops more than once, men with guns—simply by displaying rage that bordered on the irrational. He was obviously possessed. Too real to deal with. Once they see you don’t mind dying, they’re in serious trouble and know it.

All in all, Talerico was impressed by this aspect of Kidder. Kidder was tough. He didn’t take shit. He screamed and ranted. The closer he got to dying, the more he seemed to control the situation. The more he intimidated the opposition.

It wasn’t bluff, either. That was clear. It was genuine outrage and meanness and fury. Kidder was definitely impressing him. He didn’t think a man that exhausted could summon such insanity.

“I want to make like a statement here,” Talerico said.

“I feel we welcome that,” Richie said. “Whatever we can exchange in the way of views, that means it’s looking up.”

“You died five minutes ago. You’ve been dead five full minutes. You’re so dead I can smell you. That’s my statement.”

“I don’t want to know who he is,” Richie told his bodyguard.

“Look at the eye,” Talerico said.

“If you know who he is,” Richie said, “don’t tell me.”

He turned and headed toward the warehouse, slipping around the freight car and out of sight.

“Eat and run,” Kidder screamed.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Daryl said.

“I’m looking right at them.”

“You’re going. You want to go.”

“They don’t know the words. They’re someplace else completely.”

Daryl bit his lower lip. He squeezed the trigger and Talerico jumped into the door and bounced back and then found the handle and had the door open. He walked quickly, head down, his ears belling electrically. He went past the warehouse and then made a left. There were banks, shops, hotels. Very little traffic. No cabs in sight. He’d have to call for a cab.

He made a right and saw the Southland Hotel. It was roughly ten p.m. Very dead here in the urban core. He’d get a cab to take him to the airport. First plane out. New York, Chicago, Toronto. His overnight bag was in the back seat of Kidder’s car. He went over the contents mentally. Nothing there that might be traced to him. Not even a monogrammed shirt.

A cab pulled up at the hotel as Talerico approached.

Sooner or later, in this line of work, in acquisitions, you were bound to find yourself in a stress situation, especially if your business took you to a part of the U.S. where everybody owns a gun of one kind or another, for one purpose or another.

Cowboys.

Earl Mudger stood outside Lien’s, a Vietnamese restaurant located above the Riverwalk in San Antonio. He’d stopped off here, instead of flying directly to Dallas, in order to have dinner with an old war buddy, George Barber, who was now attached to the Air Force Security Service, stationed at Kelly.

He was glad he’d thought of it. They’d enjoyed themselves in all the time-honored ways. Affection, sentiment, vague regret. He was waiting for George to get his car from a
nearby lot and take him to the airport for the short flight to Dallas.

George had filled Mudger in on the latest hardware. It was a complex sensation, hearing that specialized language again, studded as it was with fresh terms. It reminded Mudger of Vietnam, of course. The brand names. The comfort men found in the argot of weaponry.

It also reminded him of the surreal conversation he’d had, long distance with Van, just before he’d left home to come down here. With Tran Le on the extension, translating when necessary, Mudger had listened to Van explain that he wanted to approach the subject by air. They’d traced the subject to an old encampment somewhere between U.S. 385 and the Rio Grande where it loops north above Stillman. It wasn’t enough for Van to say he wanted a helicopter. He tried to specify type, size, trade name, model number and technical characteristics.

All this nomenclature, which wasn’t even English to begin with, eventually defeated Van, who said he’d settle for whatever Mudger could come up with. Thanks largely to George Barber’s efforts, Mudger came up with a two-man patrol helicopter, a Hughes 200, one of the types used by U.S. customs agents to keep up with border smuggling. As an afterthought, Mudger asked George if a stretcher pannier could be fitted externally to this type of aircraft. It could.

Tran Le wanted to know what a “subject” was.

George drove up and Mudger got in the car. Vietnam, in more ways than one, was a war based on hybrid gibberish. But Mudger could understand the importance of this on the most basic of levels, the grunt level, where the fighting man stood and where technical idiom was often the only element of precision, the only true beauty, he could take with him into realms of ambiguity.

Caliber readings, bullet grains, the names of special accessories. Correspondents filled their dispatches with these, using names as facets of narrative, trying to convey the impact
of violent action by reporting concatenations of letters and numbers. Mudger loved it, both ironically and in the plainest of ways. Spoken aloud by sweaty men in camouflage grease, these number-words and coinages had the inviolate grace of a strict meter of chant.

Weapons were named, surnamed, slang-named, christened, titled and dubbed. Protective devices. Bearings of perfect performance. Reciting these names was the soldier’s poetry, his counterjargon to death.

“I guess I ought to hit it,” George said, “or you’ll miss your plane.”

Mudger didn’t really care. This operation was slop. Maybe it was true, what people seemed to suspect. Without PAC/ORD behind him, things were slipping badly. No doubt PAC/ORD itself was helping manage the process of deterioration. This whole thing should have been handled by now, without his presence becoming necessary. The other thing, Van and Cao and the adjustment, was an even greater mess, at least potentially, having the foreordained character of some classical epic, modernized to include a helicopter. But he was the one who’d let it go on. That was stupid. He wanted to be in his basement shop, right now, pounding a heated steel blank with a double-faced hammer.

Early man roaming the tundra. You have to name your weapon before you can use it to kill.

Lomax was motionless in the cashier’s shack.

It occurred to him that one day soon areas such as this would be regarded as precious embodiments of a forgotten way of life. Commerce and barter. The old city. The marketplace. Downtown.

What are we doing to our forests, our lakes, our warehouse districts? That’s how it would go. What are we doing to our warehouse districts, our freight yards, our parking lots?

He was tired, hungry and cold. The man who handed out
tickets and collected money had left some Ritz crackers stacked on a piece of wax paper. Lomax edged them away with his elbow. Other people’s food. Other people’s refrigerators. He’d always been vaguely disgusted by things he’d happened to see in other people’s refrigerators.

He heard a man shout. The sound had the tone of an insult. Briefly someone’s head became visible over the top of a car parked about fifty yards away. The voice again, screaming insults. A second figure appeared, moving toward the car.

Lomax sucked in his breath and removed the automatic from his waistband holster. He put his left hand on the door handle, ready to push it open if necessary. It was possible his silhouette could be detected in the very dim light cast by a streetlamp not far away. He remained motionless for several minutes. Some more screaming. No one else around. The old city. The abandoned core.

The second figure moved off, toward the warehouse. Lomax opened the door of the shack. There was a gunshot. He moved quickly to the nearest car, crouching down behind it. Someone passed within twenty yards of him, moving quickly, a man, head down, as if he were walking into a stiff wind. Lomax looked over the trunk of the car. Someone was walking in the opposite direction, slowly. Also male. He disappeared behind the freight car.

Lomax stayed where he was for three full minutes, listening. Then he headed toward the car where the shooting had taken place. He held his gun against his thigh. That arm he kept stiff, not swinging naturally as the other arm was. He saw himself leaving the scene. A jump in time. He saw himself getting off a plane at National in Washington. He saw himself selling condominiums on the Gulf Coast.

Both doors were open. On the ground on the driver’s side was a man, breathing deeply. Lomax crouched five feet away, his gun directed at the man’s head.

“Who are you?”

The same worried breathing. The deadweight respiration of a deep sleeper.

“Who are you?” Lomax said.

“Fuck off. I’m hit.”