Like a Hole in the Head

by James Hadley Chase

  “You could call him that.”

  “What makes him nervous?”

  Raimundo flicked more ash off his cigarette.

  “He has his troubles. Don’t we all ?”

  “He’s more than nervous. He has a couple of screws loose and you know it.”

  Raimundo shrugged.

  “Where is he?”

  Nick’s taking care of him.”

  I rubbed my jaw. It didn’t help.

  “Get my phone connected. I’m going to talk to his father.”

  “I bet.” Raimundo sneered. “Right now, Mr. Savanto doesn’t want to talk to you, soldier. When he does talk to you, he’ll want to hear the goon

  can shoot. He isn’t interested in your problems. He pays. You deliver.”

  I got to my feet. “Then I’ll talk to Timoteo.”

  Raimundo shook his head.

  “You’ve had your chance. You don’t know how to handle him. He doesn’t react to the soft approach. From now on, I’m handling him and tell your wife to lay off the palsy-walsy act. You be here at 09.00 tomorrow. Goon will be here, ready to shoot.”

  Why should I care? I reasoned to myself. I was being paid to teach him to shoot not to act as a mental nurse.

  “Suits me.”

  I unclipped the telescopic sight, ran a rag over it, unscrewed the silencer and put it and the sight into the box. I put the rifle back in its case and the box and the rifle case into the gun rack.

  “Nine tomorrow, then?”

  “That’s it, soldier.”

  I left the gallery and started across the hot sand to the bungalow. The time was 19.34.

  Lucy had finished painting. As I walked into the living- room, I heard the shower going. I went to the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of scotch and poured a slug. I drank it neat, then went into the bedroom.

  Lucy came out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her.

  “Did you bring Tim with you?” she asked, darting to the closet to find a dress.

  “No. Raimundo is taking care of him. You finished with the shower?”

  The note in my voice made her turn quickly. She saw the bruise and the swelling on my face.

  “What happened? Your face !”

  I stripped off my shirt.

  “It’s nothing, honey.”

  “But what happened?”

  I told her.

  “He’s as nutty as a fruit cake.” I said as I kicked off my shoes. “Our luck… to get landed with him.”

  She held the towel around her as she stared at me.

  “I can’t believe it. He hit you!”

  I took off my slacks.

  “He carries quite a punch. Anyway, what’s it matter? In the state he was in he’d have hit his own father.”

  I went into the shower. After standing under the cold water for some minutes, I felt more relaxed. I dried off and came back into the bedroom.

  Lucy had put on a dress. She sat on the bed and watched me while I threw on slacks and shirt.

  “Why did he hit you, Jay?”

  “He was worked up. I don’t know. He looked as if he were going to throw a fit.”

  “But what did you do to him?”

  “I did nothing to him !” I found I was shouting at her. I throttled back. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m getting worked up myself. What’s for supper?”

  “There’s something terribly wrong. He wouldn’t hit anyone. This worries me.”

  “Well, he hit me.” I tried to grin, but it didn’t come off. “He’s neurotic. Let’s forget him. I’ve had him in my hair all day. What’s for supper?”

  She got up.

  “Would you like eggs and ham or do you want something more fancy?” Her voice was unsteady and her eyes cloudy.

  “Eggs and ham would be fine. Come do… I’ll help.”

  We went into the kitchen and I sat on the table while she got the eggs from the refrigerator.

  “Is he coming to sleep here?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.” I watched her as she set the frying pan on the stove. “Now look, Lucy, don’t get worked up. He has a screw loose. I’m sure of it. I should have let Raimondo handle him from the start. We made the mistake of being soft with him. Raimondo says he starts shooting tomorrow morning. That’s all I want to hear. Let’s forget him for tonight. I’ve had enough of him.”

  She turned to face me.

  “He’s desperately frightened.”

  “You call it one thing. I call it another. Let’s forget him for God’s sake!”

  “Yes. Jay.”

  I watched her break the eggs into the hot fat.

  “You’ve forgotten the ham.”

  She flushed and began to dither. She turned off the gas and put on the grill.

  “That’s not a hot idea, is it?”

  She started shaking.

  “Oh, Jay, I’m so worried. What does all this mean?”

  “You’re making a mess of our dinner,” I said. “Come on, Lucy, forget him !”

  I left her and went out on to the verandah. Maybe I was being unkind, but I had had enough of Timoteo Savanto and my jaw ached.

  After a while, she brought out two plates. The eggs were like bullets and the ham soggy. While we ate, I told her about the bond in the biscuit box and where I had buried it.

  “Are you listening, Lucy? This is important.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a lot of money. I’d look a dope if it were stolen.”

  We left most of the food on our plates.

  “I’m sorry, Jay. It was badly cooked.”

  “I’ve eaten worse.” I lit a cigarette. “Anything on TV?”

  “I don’t know… I haven’t looked.”

  I went inside to get the TV Guide. There was a six-year-old Western with Burt Lancaster. My jaw was now beginning to ache in earnest. I turned the set on.

  Lucy took the plates into the kitchen. I sat down and watched the antics on the screen. Men rode down the mountains in a cascade of falling rocks and dust. They killed each other with guns and knives. I held my throbbing jaw and watched.

  Later, Lucy came and sat near me. She didn’t look at the screen. She sat still, looking out of the open window as the darkness slowly settled over the beach and the sea.

  The film finished with a massacre as most Westerns do. As the credit titles came up, I switched off.

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Is it all right to leave everything open?”

  I knew she was thinking of Raimundo.

  “Why not? I’m here.”

  We went into the bedroom. We took turns in the bathroom and then we lay on the bed with the view of the moon lighting the sea and the palms outlined against the dark sky.

  My jaw still throbbed, but I was being brave about it.

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow, Jay?” she asked out of the darkness and in a small voice.

  I slid my arm around her and pulled her to me.

  “Why worry about tomorrow?” I turned her so she could see over my shoulder as I held her. “Look at the moon.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was at the gallery a few minutes to nine o’clock and I didn’t have to wait long. As the minute hand of my watch moved on to the hour, I saw Raimundo and Timoteo coming across the sand.

  I watched them come. Raimundo walked with his usual swagger. Timoteo, his head bent, shuffled along, a step or two in the rear. He was wearing his sun goggles and his shirt was already sticking to him.

  I had the rifle ready. I didn’t know what to expect and I wasn’t in a relaxed frame of mind. My jaw was sore and the bruise was turning black. I still couldn’t believe a slob like Timoteo could have punched that hard.

  When they were within ten yards of me, Raimundo said something to Timoteo who stopped short and stood like an ox waiting for the yoke. Raimundo joined me.

  “Take him,” he said. “He’ll do what you tell him. Get him shooting, soldier. Don’t chat him up. Just get him shooting.”

&nb
sp; I beckoned to Timoteo. I decided to treat him like an Army recruit : nothing personal and all business.

  Without looking at me, he walked slowly and heavy-footed into the lean-to and stopped, looking helplessly at the distant targets.

  “Get those goggles off !” I barked.

  He flinched, but took them off. As he was about to put them in his shirt pocket, Raimundo moved forward.

  “I’ll have them.”

  Timoteo hesitated then handed them over. Raimundo took them, paused while he looked at Timoteo, then he dropped the goggles on the sand and trod on them. I wouldn’t have done that, but I was glad it was done. The goggles were to this goon as a rag is to a kid who thumb-sucks.

  “The rifle is loaded,” I said. “Get shooting.”

  He took the rifle. There was a dumb, broken look on his face. I suddenly thought : suppose he turns the rifle on me or Raimundo? What a couple of jerks we’d look ! Seeing the way he stood, wavering, the rifle in his hinds, brought me out in a sudden cold sweat, but it was all right. I could see the thought had never entered his head. He turned and went to the shooting rest.

  This was the first time he had looked through the telescopic sight. I saw his back stiffen as the target seemed to leap at him.

  “Take your time,” I said in my instructor’s voice. “Get the cross wires on the bull. Don’t pull the trigger; squeeze it.” I gave him a couple of seconds to get ready. “Shoot when you want to.”

  Another couple of seconds crawled by, then the rifle banged.

  Both Raimundo and I looked towards the target. He had hit the bull dead centre.

  “Good shot,” I said. “That’s the way. Now keep on shooting.” With that telescopic sight, unless you had Parkinson’s disease, you couldn’t fail to hit a bull, but with his next ten shots he only hit the bull twice.

  I kept him at it : reloading for him, handing the rifle back without looking at him.

  Raimundo sat on one of the benches and smoked. After the first shot, he didn’t bother to look at the target, but he sat there and I knew his presence was keeping Timoteo shooting.

  After an hour, and after he had scored ten bulls out of sixty shots, I said, “Okay… break it off.” I turned to Raimundo.

  “Take him for a walk. I want him back in an hour,” and I walked out and headed towards the bungalow.

  Lucy was busy scraping the paint off the front door. She paused in

  her work and looked inquiringly up at me.

  “He’s taking time off,” I said. “How are you getting on? I have an hour. I’ll give a hand.”

  “It’s all right. I like doing it.” She stood up. “Do you want a beer?”

  “It’s too early.” I moved to one of our crummy sling chairs on the verandah and sat down. She joined me.

  “I didn’t hear any shooting.”

  “He’s using the silencer. He’s shooting… not bad.”

  “But how is he?”

  “He’s okay. He’s shooting. That’s all we need worry about.”

  “Is that man with him?”

  “Raimundo? Oh. sure. He’s sitting in on the session. He’s the oil that makes the goon function.”

  “Oh, Jay! Haven’t you any heart? Can’t you see this boy is frightened to death?” She wrung her hands. “Can’t you see this awful man is terrifying him into shooting?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck while I restrained my impatience.

  “I couldn’t talk him into shooting. You couldn’t mother him into shooting. Okay, Raimundo is scaring him into shooting. He’s got to shoot. I’m being paid fifty thousand dollars to get him to shoot so…”

  She got up abruptly and went into the bungalow.

  So we were going to start this all over again, I thought. I sat there for five minutes, feeling the ache in my jaw, then I got up, kicked the chair away and walked into the living-room.

  She was sitting on a stool, facing the empty fireplace, her clenched fists against her face.

  “Lucy, will you please try to be helpful,” I said. “It’s tough enough to have this nut in my hair without you going neurotic on me. This is important to us ! I’m trying to earn…”

  “Oh, stop it !” Her voice was shrill and her eyes a little wild. “I’m not neurotic! You’re just mad about money ! Can’t you see…?”

  “Lucy ! My bark stopped her dead. An Army voice when it is pitched right can stop a clock. “What’s with it between you and this goon? Are you falling for him? Have you fallen for him?”

  Her face crimson, her eyes shocked, she stared at me.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m asking you. What’s all this protective stuff with this creep? What’s he mean to you?”

  “He’s a human being! He’s frightened ! I’m sorry for him. That’s what he means to me!”

  “Well, okay… just stay sorry for him, but nothing else. asked you, Lucy, to keep out of this. Please stop throwing spanners in the works ! I have enough to handle without you getting protective.”

  “Money means everything to you, doesn’t it?”

  “We’re not talking about money ! We’re talking about this goon !”

  “To von, it’s the same thing.”

  “I’m being paid to teach him to shoot. That’s what I’m trying to do!”

  “He doesn’t want to shoot… he told me.”

  I held on to the explosion that was building up in me.

  What he told you and what he is going to do are two different things. Will von please leave this to me?”

  “Why don’t you find out why he doesn’t want to shoot? Why don’t you start treating him like a human being? Why do you let a thug dictate to you and to him?” She jumped to her feet. “I can tell you! All you think about is the money you will make!”

  “Is that something to be ashamed of?”

  “I think it is.”

  I touched my aching jaw. It looked to me as if we were back on square A.

  “I’m sorry you feel this way about it, Lucy,” I said. “You’ve made your point. This is a job I’m going through with. I’m asking you to stick with it for another eight days.” I didn’t wait for her to make a come-back, I left her and returned to the shooting gallery.

  I would have to get Timoteo shooting soon at moving targets. Nick Lewis had an antiquated machine which I had inherited. Sometimes it worked… sometimes it didn’t. It was run by a small electric motor which turned cogs which turned a conveyor belt. Attached to the belt were six screw bolts. On the bolts you could fix decoy birds, targets, beer cans and so on. The motor could be speeded up if it felt like speeding up or it could take the targets along at a snail’s pace.

  I was working on the machine when Raimundo and Timoteo came in.

  “We’ll keep to target shooting for today,” I said to Timoteo as I handed him the rifle. “Tomorrow, we’ll try a moving target.”

  I wasn’t sure if he had heard me. He didn’t look as if he had, but I was past caring. His despairing, broken down look bored me.

  He shot until noon. His score of bulls was increasing. A few minutes after noon, his concentration began slipping and I could see it was time to stop.

  I turned to Raimundo who was lighting yet another cigarette.

  “I’ll take him to the bungalow and feed him. We’ll start again at 14.00.”

  Raimundo got to his feet.

  “I’ll feed him, soldier. He stays with me. Come on, Mr. Savanto, let’s go see what Nick’s cooked up for us.” He cocked a mocking eye at me. “I’ll have him here at 14.00.”

  That suited me. The less I had to do with this goon the better I liked it.

  I watched them walk off towards the line of distant palm trees, then I went back to the bungalow.

  The next three days are of no interest to record: they followed the same pattern. Raimundo delivered Timoteo to the gallery at nine o’clock every morning, took him away to eat at noon, brought him back at 14.00 and took him away at 19.00. During this time Timoteo shot, used up a lo
t of ammunition, did what he was told, often badly and sometimes better than badly.

  I had to contain my impatience and control my temper when he started on the moving targets. He either shot ahead or behind, but after some hours he began to hit a few beer cans that were being conveyed along at the slowest speed the machine would operate at.

  Lucy continued to paint the bungalow. She no longer asked about Timoteo. She had no chance of seeing him anyway. Our personal feelings for each other had suffered a knock. We were both too goddam polite to each other, and we had long minutes of complete silence that hadn’t come into our lives before.

  I knew she was worried sick and she was hurt, but I kept telling myself that when this was over it would be forgotten and we would get together again as before.

  After the third day I became more aware that time was running out and I began to turn on the heat. It wasn’t good enough for Timoteo to hit two beer cans out of five as they crept along the belt. He had to sharpen up his ideas.

  I gave the wheels driving the belt some machine oil and advanced the motor.

  The cans jolted along at three times their previous speed. He fired off forty shots without hitting a can.

  Exasperated, I shouted at him, “Shoot ahead ! All the time you’re shooting behind !”

  I didn’t believe anyone could sweat the way he sweated. He was trying all right, but his reflexes were those of a cripple.

  He kept shooting, kept missing, and I could see by his desperate expression he was becoming hysterical.

  “Okay, stop.” I turned to Raimundo. “Take him away. Let him relax.” I switched off the motor. “I’ve had enough of him for today.”

  Raimundo stared at me, his black eyes evil.

  “He hasn’t time to relax, soldier. Mr. Savanto is coming to check on him the day after tomorrow. You’ll be the one who’ll need to relax if he isn’t doing better than this.”

  I would have to be deaf not to catch the threat in his voice. So I kept him shooting until dusk, but it was a waste of ammunition. He hit three of the beer cans out of a hundred shots. By then he was in no condition even to hold the rifle.

  “That’s it,” I said in disgust. “He can’t shoot any more. Take him away.”

  I was sweating myself. If Savanto was coming in forty-eight hours and expected to see something for his money, time was certainly running against me.