by Shawn Inmon
“Every good soldier’s philosophy, right?”
“Did you serve? I only ask because most of us did. That’s the most common element among us.”
“I did. Vietnam. My birthday was the first date pulled for the draft, so I signed up.”
“You are one unlucky son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Joey shrugged. “I volunteered because that’s what you did in my family. My dad fought in World War II. My Grandfather in World War I. My uncle in Korea. Which brings us back full-circle.”
“How so?”
“Signing up. I’ve done my best to fill you in on the operation. At least, as much as I am allowed. So, are you interested?”
Am I? What would it be like to be part of a team? To have that camaraderie again? To have brothers who are willing to lay down their life for you, and you know you’ll do the same for them? Yes, that would be good. This is a long, lonely road I’ve been walking.
Scott stalled by taking a long drink of Dr. Pepper.
But, when I got out of Vietnam, I swore I’d never enlist in any man’s army again. What would it be like to take orders from someone else? To kill for someone else again?
“You’re a pretty cool dude, Joey Ramone. But, I don’t think I can do it.”
“The whole ‘lone wolf’ thing, huh?”
Scott smiled. “I guess so.”
Joey smiled as well, but it faded from his face. “That’s too bad. I’m going to have to kill you then.”
Chapter Forty-One
Scott’s hand drifted to his side, where his karambit was sheathed. He eased it halfway out.
Joey’s face split into a huge grin. “Settle down, cowboy. I’m just joking. I mean, who are you gonna tell about us? Anybody that’s not one of us will think you’re loony. Tell enough people, the men in the white suits with the butterfly nets will be after you.”
Scott relaxed and let the knife slide back into the sheath.
Well,” Joey said, “I’ve gotta split. More disasters to avert, ya know? It’s a never ending stream.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood up. He offered Scott his hand, which Scott shook. “Be careful out there, lone wolf, and don’t let anyone sneak up behind you like that again. They might not be on your side. I’ll let you buy me lunch in exchange for saving your life last night.”
He strode to the door, but handed Stacy a five dollar bill. “He’s taking care of the tab, but this is for you.” Then, he was gone.
Stacy came to the table, laid the check there, and said, “Your friend’s pretty cute. He from around here?”
“Definitely not,” Scott said as he fished a few bills out of his wallet.
SCOTT HUNG AROUND NORTHERN California for a few more days. He wasn’t in a real time crunch to get to the next job he had chosen. He sold the pickup truck he had purchased the week before. He had bought and sold so many vehicles since that first Valiant that he had lost count years before.
Sometimes he would keep something he liked for a few weeks or maybe a month, but he was still careful about covering his tracks. He always gave a fake name when he bought a vehicle and still changed his appearance regularly.
At the moment, he looked like a typical ex-Vietnam vet, hair a little shaggy and grown over his ears and collar, and a droopy moustache, which seemed to be the only kind he could grow.
Since the next place he had to be was on the east coast, he decided to give himself the luxury of an airline flight, although he was still careful to pick an airport one state over. That meant he would have to ditch his crossbow, but it had been an inexpensive model that he had never fired – despite his plans to the contrary.
He caught a Greyhound to San Francisco, then hopped a city bus to the airport. He wasn’t even tempted to visit the VA hospital where he had spent more than a year of his life. One of his goals was to never step foot in that building again.
He flew into Philadelphia, then caught the Amtrak up to New York City. Even when he had dispatched David Berkowitz a few years before, Scott had managed to avoid the most crowded part of Manhattan. He didn’t like being around so many people, loud noises, and hustle and bustle.
He stepped out of Penn Station and a cruel wind bit into him while a freezing rain slapped his face. He turned up the collar of his green army jacket.
First trip to Manhattan and it’s gotta be in December.
He tried hailing a cab, but that proved difficult. It was as though the cabbies sensed Scott was a fish out of water and enjoyed passing him by. After half an hour of observing others, he realized he was being too polite and timid. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly at the next passing cab. That caught the driver’s attention and he pulled over.
“Westside YMCA.”
“The one by the Park?”
“Yeah.” Scott wasn’t actually sure, but he knew that Central Park was near to where he wanted to go.
The driver turned the meter on and merged into the late afternoon traffic. The cabbie was Middle-Eastern and wore a turban. After the first exchange, he seemed to forget Scott was in the cab at all. Although he seemed outwardly calm, the guy drove like a maniac and used his horn like a proctologic exam tool. At one point, they sat behind another cab, which was stopped at a crosswalk full of crossing pedestrians. Nonetheless, the cabbie leaned on his horn.
Finally, Scott asked, “Where do you expect him to go? He’d have to run over a dozen people to go anywhere.”
The cabbie looked at him in the rearview mirror and shrugged. The concept of not leaning on his horn wasn’t part of his thought process.
Scott was tremendously glad when the taxi pulled to the curb. He handed some bills across the seat and was glad to escape with his life.
I think I’ll stick to shoe leather from now on.
Scott didn’t have a reservation at the YMCA. He didn’t even know if it was possible to make a reservation there. The man at the front desk was happy to rent him a room, though, and it was only sixteen bucks a night. Comparing that to what everywhere else charged, that was an unbelievable deal.
When Scott saw the room, he understood why. It was, technically, a room. It had four walls, a floor and a ceiling. However, it could have been called a closet as well, and no one would have argued with you. It was a narrow room with no window, no bathroom, a single cot and rickety table with a lamp. There was a bathroom, but it was down the hall and Scott got to share it with all his best friends he hadn’t met yet.
Scott had been in the army, though. Spartan conditions were not going to put him off his feed. He dropped his pack on the bed and grabbed his jo, which he’d managed to use as his carry-on luggage on the plane.
By the time he walked out into the spitting rain, it was full dark. He popped his collar up again and started to walk.
He didn’t have a real destination in mind, he just wanted to get a feel for the layout of the city. He turned left, right, and left again completely at random. The temperature continued to drop, but walking kept him warm.
Without knowing where it was, or where he was going, Scott walked directly toward his ultimate destination for this trip. Towering above him, like a holdover from another century, was The Dakota Apartments, home to many of New York’s rich and famous. Most importantly to Scott, it was home to John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
Scott had been walking in a daze with no real destination in mind, but now that he was here, he stopped and mentally retraced his steps.
Not too bad a walk. Good. Now, one day to scout the place out, then I’ve just got to stop the nutjob from Hawaii who’s here to kill John Lennon, and I can be on my way.
Scott turned and walked away. He had to decide whether to cut across Central Park, which would have been quicker, or walk back the way he had come.
It was late, it had been a long flight, and he was tired. He decided to cut through the park.
Much of the park is well-lit at night, but some of the paths had dark and twisty sections. Scott was walking through one of these when two men stepped out of the
shadows in front of him.
One was a few inches taller than Scott and bulky. The other was smaller, but wiry.
The shorter man said, “Can you help a brother out?”
Scott pulled up short and said, “What do you need, brother?”
“Whatever you’ve got,” the big man said in an incongruously high-pitched voice. Scott heard the soft snick of a switchblade knife.
Scott didn’t bother answering. He took a single step forward and half-kneeled, while whipping his jo up. He used it as a stabbing stick and blasted the end of it into the big man’s forehead. He stumbled backwards, then collapsed onto the wet grass.
Before the other man had a chance to react, Scott whirled and cut a smooth arc with his jo. It slammed into the smaller man’s throat. A wordless cry that sounded like Gaaagh! issued from his throat before it cut off in mid-yell. He crumpled to his knees.
Scott took one step toward him and executed a perfect front kick into the side of his head.
An action hero would have made a quip.
Scott shook the tension out of his body and walked back to the YMCA.
Chapter Forty-Two
The next morning, Scott was up, showered, and out the front door of the YMCA before anyone else on his floor stirred. The spitting rain from the night before had intensified, but it didn’t bother him. His Oregon-born resistance to rain kept him in good stead. He stopped at a café and had two cups of strong coffee and a full breakfast. By the time he exited the café, the dim pre-dawn glow had just started to light the eastern sky.
He had left his jo in the room. He didn’t want to do anything to attract too much attention, and people tend to notice a man with a walking stick. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets and walked back to The Dakota.
When he arrived, a doorman was on duty, standing under an overhang so he didn’t get soaked. There was a deep vestibule that led back into the entrance to the building. In the early morning hour, businessmen and women were streaming through, carrying umbrellas and briefcases. None of them paid attention to the small group of people who had already gathered around the entrance.
Scott approached a young couple standing inside the vestibule. “Hey, how are you guys?”
“Guess we could be better if the sun was shining, but other than that, all is good in our world,” the young man said. He had the look of a young ad man or record executive, although it was possible he was just trying to look the part. That’s always possible in the city.
“So, how come there’s so many people here so early?”
The man looked around and laughed a little. “This? This isn’t much at all. By this afternoon, there will be five times this many people here. We’re here because we heard through the grapevine that John and Yoko were at the recording studio last night. When they are recording, they usually roll in about now. We’re hoping to see them and say hi.”
“And maybe give them a cassette of our music,” the woman said. She was a pretty brunette with her long hair pulled back. She produced a cassette and shook it like a tambourine.
“Well, good luck. I hope he signs you right up.”
The woman shrugged. “Probably not, but standing here is free and where else am I going to have a chance to meet a Beatle today?”
“Nowhere I know of, that’s for sure. I mean it, good luck.”
Scott faded away from them and moved back onto the sidewalk so he had a better view of his surroundings. Over the years of being a hunter, he had developed a keen sense of patience and waiting for the prey to come to him. He went into his waiting posture and when he looked up, two hours had passed. People had come, people had gone, but nothing of import had happened.
Then, Scott noticed him. A pudgy man with large dark glasses. He had a long dark coat on and a watch cap on his head. Scott hadn’t seen him approach, but he was standing alone in the vestibule. He held a copy of an album.
Tricky bastard. How’d he get past me? Must have been daydreaming.
Scott walked across the sidewalk until he was standing on the same side of the vestibule as the would-be assassin, just a few feet away.
If this was a regular situation, I’d take him out right here. But this is anything but regular. Whatever happens here is likely to be big news.
“You here to see John Lennon?”
The question yanked Scott out of his reverie and he realized it was the man he had come to stop.
Scott shrugged and didn’t answer. He looked pointedly away.
“I’m going to stand right here until I meet him.” If he noticed that Scott was ignoring him, he didn’t show it. He smiled ingratiatingly and held up the album he was holding. “I’m going to ask him to sign my album.”
How long will he keep talking, if I never respond to him?
Scott would never find the definitive answer to that question because the man talked and talked without an end in sight. He talked about John Lennon, the Beatles, a trip he had made from Hawaii to meet him before, and how he had failed in his mission to meet John that trip, but wouldn’t this time.
Scott tried turning his back on the chattering man and staring out toward the street. It didn’t matter. He continued to talk to his back.
If he doesn’t shut up, I might kill him right now in front of all these people.
Scott walked out to the street, where he saw more people were gathering. As he walked, he heard the man behind him say, “Hey, where you going? Who’s your favorite Beatle? Is it John? He’s mine...”
Scott took up his original spot, where he could keep an eye on the man, but not have to hear him. The rain had slowed and it was warming up. Scott took inventory of the people. Most of the crowd was younger, under twenty-five. The couple with the cassette they wanted to give to John had split, but their place had been taken by many others. His eye settled on one man who was alone, which was unusual in and of itself. It seemed more normal for people to treat it as a social occasion.
The man was young—Scott guessed maybe twenty—and was talking to the doorman, who seemed to be doing his best to ignore him. He walked away from the doorman and momentarily looked out at the street. When he did, Scott saw a large birthmark covered the left half of his face from his forehead clear down to his chin.
Tough break, kid. We’ve all got our crosses to bear, but I feel for you.
Scott was watching the kid with the birthmark instead of his intended target. Meanwhile, the kid saw the man holding the album. His eyes swept across him, then his head snapped back and he locked on him. He took a couple of automatic steps toward him, then caught himself.
Interesting. Why would this kid be so interested in my guy? He’s not one of Joey Ramone’s team, is he?
Scott looked him over more intently. Jeans, tennis shoes, a flannel shirt and a jacket that probably wasn’t warm enough. He held a black umbrella that still had the price tag dangling from the handle, but nothing else.
He could have a small gun strapped somewhere, but he doesn’t have the vibe of a guy who kills people regularly. Looks more like a kid on a senior trip to New York City than an assassin.
The kid moved into the vestibule and stood directly opposite the would-be killer who wouldn’t shut up.
You’re gonna regret that, I’ll wager.
The kid did his best to not stare directly at the man in the pea coat, but it was obvious that he was keeping him under sly observation. Soon, the man noticed and started talking to the kid. Scott couldn’t hear what was being said, and he was pleased about that. He hoped to never hear the soft-voiced man with the undeniable trace of a Southern accent again.
Scott watched the two of them converse across the vestibule. After a minute, he saw the kid start to edge away, one step at a time.
I coulda told you, kid.
Finally, just as Scott had done before him, he turned and walked away, toward the sidewalk. The man called after him, “Hey, where you going?”
The young man stood street side, waiting for the traffic to clear, then jogged acro
ss Central Park West to the park. It was the same route Scott had followed back to the YMCA the night before. Scott glanced at the man in the entryway, who seemed to have forgotten about being abandoned again.
There’s something about that kid. If I hadn’t just run into Joey Ramone, I might not have noticed it, but there’s something going on with him. I’ve gotta have a little chat with him.
Chapter Forty-Three
Scott crossed the street after the kid with the birthmark and jogged to catch up. He gave a little whistle, but the kid didn’t hear him.
Finally, he got close enough that he could say, “That guy’s a bit much, isn’t he?”
The younger man had been lost in his own thoughts and wasn’t expecting someone to speak to him. He glanced around with a slightly worried expression on his face.
Ah. He thinks I might be the other guy, chasing after him to either kill him or chatter endlessly about the Beatles.
“Sorry?” the young man said, obviously puzzled.
“That dude back there that wanted to be your new best buddy. He’s a little too intense. He did the same thing to me a couple of hours ago. He makes me nervous.”
Scott watched him carefully to see how he reacted to this.
The kid gave him a nod of agreement, but still seemed unsure of who Scott was or why he was accosting him. Scott thought back to his small adventure the night before and realized that not all people have good intentions for you in the big city.
“Anyway, didn’t mean to disturb you. Just wanted to let you know I noticed it too. There’s something off about that guy.”
Scott thought that one hit home. He already knows there’s something off with him. He’s here to do something, too. He’s another person like me.
“I appreciate it.” The other man reached his hand out to Scott. “Joe. Joe Hart.”
Scott gave him a quick grin. “Scott McKenzie.”
“Wait a minute. Scott ... McKenzie?”