Curly is whipping toward the blonde’s booth while Larry and Moe keep Radford locked in their grip but now, seeing where Curly’s headed, Radford explodes. He hammers backwards with one heel against somebody’s shin and, with that opening breached, skillfully kicks his way out of their hold and now he goes after the three punks with the silent cold precision of a demolition ball. There’s no question of “fighting fair;” Radford swings a leg toward Curly at the booth, kicks Curly in the groin and flashes around to face the other two. He uses anything as a weapon—steel paper-napkin holder, table, bottle of ketchup, chair, his own hands and feet—this isn’t a neat clean choreographed thing. It’s a brutal fight; Radford fights dirty.
The blonde watches this, wide-eyed. Conrad and Gootch watch with clinical interest. Don the waiter stares, inscrutable. Charlie the owner comes from the kitchen scowling, drawn by the racket; picks up a kitchen knife and comes around the counter lofting his prosthetic hand, but by then the fight is over. Charlie is pleased with him—pleased for him. “O-kay.”
Radford has knocked the living shit out of all three tough guys.
Charlie says, “Finish ’em, C.W. Bust up their kneecaps.”
But the three are down, and Radford backs away.
Curly and Larry painfully pull themselves together and try to rouse the semi-conscious Moe.
Radford hardly even seems to be breathing hard. The scar on his face glistens with sweat.
Don the waiter fades back, disappearing silently.
The blonde seems to be looking for a way to sneak out without being noticed.
Curly and Larry help Moe outside.
Radford watches Conrad and Gootch as they cross to the door and exit.
Outside on the street, the redheaded dealer appears from shadows while Conrad flicks his cigarillo into the gutter; he and Gootch get into their van. This time Conrad takes the wheel (it’s his van). He says to his companion, “That’ll do it. They do a background, they’ll find out he just about beat three guys to death.”
Inside, Radford looks out through the cafe’s big picture window at the three punks who’re staggering away down the sidewalk. His attention is drawn to the van when its engine revs up. What he sees, reflected in window glass, is a puddle behind the van. In the puddle he can see an upside-down backward reflection of the van’s license plate—a reflection within a reflection. The plate number is 7734 OL, and seen upside down and backwards it reads quite plainly “To hell.” Even Radford may remember that …
The van drives away, rippling the puddle, destroying the image.
The blonde comes toward Radford’s shoulder. “Hey, I really—I’d like to …”
Ignoring her, he carries his mop back toward the kitchen.
Mystified, the blonde looks at Charlie. “He always so sociable?… What’s his name?”
“Radford. C. W. Radford.” Charlie shrugs, smiles and goes away toward the back, where he finds Radford washing out the mop as if nothing had happened. Charlie takes out roll of cash, peels off some, tucks them in Radford’s shirt pocket. “All right. Take the night off, will ya?”
Radford’s only acknowledgement is to hang up his apron and head for the back door out.
Charlie says, “See? You can still take care of yourself. Think about it, C.W.”
Radford doesn’t look back; he opens the door and goes out.
Outside as Radford trudges away from Charlie’s, the redheaded dealer intercepts him. “Hey, my man. You was pretty cool back there. This mornin’ and now those guys. You want to buy?”
Radford shakes his head “no” and walks on.
A car approaches him from behind. Its headlights throw his long shadow ahead of him. It seems ominous because of the slow pace with which it catches up to him but he only glances at it—particularly at its rent-a-car plate holder. The car paces him. Then its window opens and we see it’s the blonde who’s driving.
“You never gave me a chance to thank you.”
“Wasn’t looking for gratitude.” Radford’s voice sounds rusty, as if from disuse. Then he looks directly at her. “Lady, it’s three in the morning and this is no neighborhood to go driving around with your windows open.”
“I know. I’d feel ever so much safer if you were in the car.”
He looks back over his shoulder. He can’t be sure—is that slow-moving shadow back there the same van as before?
He keeps walking until the woman guns her car forward and pulls into the curb to block him. She gets out and confronts him.
He says, “Uh-huh?”
“You restored my faith—I was starting to think chivalry was dead, or at least traded in on a second-hand Toyota … That’s a pun, son. Not even a chuckle?”
She opens the passenger door. After a beat, with no break in expression, Radford gets in the car.
When she shuts the door on him Radford glances at the door’s wing mirror. The van’s still back there. Pinpoint glow of a lit cigarillo.
The blonde gets into the car beside Radford, behind the wheel, but before she puts it in gear she leans close and gives him a deeply questioning look. She runs her hand along his coarse beard stubble. “C. W. Radford. That what you call yourself?”
“Mostly I don’t call me at all.”
“Me, I’m Anne. Anne with an ‘e.’ “ Then after a momentary silence she says, “You’re supposed to ask if I’ve got a last name.”
It doesn’t inspire a response in him.
She says politely, “It’s Hartman. Anne Hartman.”
“All right.”
In the streaming hot water of Anne Hartman’s shower, Radford stands with a borrowed Gillette ladies’ disposable, shaving by feel. He’s not alone, naked in the steam. Anne is scrubbing his back. She’s laughing.
And then in her bed he’s clean and shaved and mostly ignores the woman while very gently she explores his many injuries. “All these scars—kind of sexy.”
Through slitted lids his eyes explore the room. It’s a stodgy furnished flat on the ground floor of an apartment court, impersonal as a hotel room. She says, “Where’d you get ’em?”
“What? The scars? Place called Kurdistan.”
Anne gets out of bed and crosses into the bathroom. Radford doesn’t stir; he lies on his back with hands over his eyes—that headache again.
Anne’s voice chatters at him from the bathroom. “Yeah, so I work for a political action committee. You know. Fundraisers, campaign literature, get out the grassroots knuckleheads.”
On the pillow he rolls his head back and forth in pain. Then he hears the woman approach—her voice growing louder: “C.W.? Hey—you okay?”
Anne sits down on the edge of the bed and gently strokes his forehead. “You don’t have a hell of a lot of small talk, do you? What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“You can’t think about nothing.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You can. You can teach yourself to do that.”
“Why would you want to?”
He’s thinking about that detention camp on the northern border of Iraq—primitive; stark. Watchtowers. Tangles of barbed wire. Prisoners dying slowly in filthy rags, Kurds mostly, a few volunteers from Kuwait and Armenia, and two gaunt Americans, one of whom is himself, Radford, just a kid then really, covered with suppurating bruises and cuts, and the other of whom is Charlie the cook—also that much younger, and even more beat-up—with a bloody stump, hardly staunched with rags, where his hand used to be.
She brings him back from that camp. She bends down gently to kiss his scarred forehead.
He says, “Lady, don’t waste sympathy on me. I broke.”
She doesn’t quite understand.
“I talked. You know? Went on the telly … Iraqi TV.”
And in the black-and-white TV monitor in his mind he can see his whipped young self speaking straight into the camera with lifeless calm. He says to Anne, “I told the world how wonderful life was in Saddam’s paradise. I recited all the lies they told
me to tell.”
She’s stroking him. “I see.” Then she says, “No one can blame you for wanting to stay alive.”
“Nobody stayed alive.”
She takes his face in both hands and kisses him. After a bit, he begins sluggishly to respond …
In the daylight he stands at the window in his stained trousers, sips coffee and looks out at parked cars and little kids splashing in an inflated wading pool. As the phone rings, Anne enters in a robe, toweling her hair. She makes a face when she looks at the condition of his trousers. “Let’s get you some new clothes.” And she’s picking up the ringing phone. “Hello? Oh—hi. Ha, right. Well none of your nosy business … What? Now? I, uh, I forgot. All right, okay, sure. I’ll be there in, like, an hour?”
She hangs up and says to Radford, “I promised some friends I’d go target shooting. Want to come along?”
He only looks at her, without any change in his expression.
The sign in the old building corridor announces the path to “Alvin York Memorial Gun Club—Open Mon–Sat 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Closed Sundays.” The sign is on a door, and Anne opens it. She’s very sexy, painted into skintight jeans. Radford, in new trousers and shirt, follows her in.
The foyer needs paint. Its scratched metal reception desk is unoccupied. The decor consists of gun ads, hunting prints and NRA posters. A long window separates Radford and Anne from a shooting range where they can see the backs of three men wearing ear-protector headsets and shooting rifles at targets; the snap of each shot is barely audible in here.
Anne leads the way through the inner door onto the indoor range. A big guy looks up—Harry Sinclair, 50, bearded, muscular and rough—from where he’s hand-loading ammunition at a work table. The thick beard hides most of his face. When he smiles, he has a badly discolored front tooth, second left from center.
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 h
appen.”
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.”
Hit and The Marksman Page 19