But it doesn’t work out that way because at six the phone rings and Harry Dupont — which is really a code name for three people who are in charge of operations in your end of town — calls.
“Melvin?”
“Yeah,” you say, not recognizing the voice but knowing the tone. “Yeah, this is Melvin.”
“At the Greek’s, this afternoon.” And the receiver is hung up quickly.
You know what the call means and you pick up the gun again and wipe it once more with an old silk handkerchief and peer down the barrel into the light, then you take out a box of shells and load it for the first time. You get a feeling you can’t describe and only then you can go back to sleep.
You wake at noon, breakfast, and it’s as if you’re plugged in, your skin tingles so. Your appointment’s for 3:30 — all appointments with Harry Dupont are for 3:30. It’s a well run organization. There are men involved who’ve attended Harvard Business School, those up and outs whom you never meet but only guess about or hear mentioned in whispers, sitting in Chicago, New York, Vegas and Washington, in big offices, behind respectable businesses, men ostensibly occupied in the manufacture of paint, or soft goods, and in labor unions, with IBM machines at their disposal, which sort of makes you proud to be a part of it.
You shower at two — there’s something almost religious about a shower then — and you’re tense while waiting for the arm deodorant to dry. You shave carefully, then dress, and all the while you’re thinking about the gun. Some of the others you’ve owned you called Princess, and Buck, Van Doren, and General Dynamics. And you look at it lying there quiet on the night table. Picasso? No. Jackie? No. Zsa Zsa? You try that on every new weapon you get. Charley, in honor of a buddy, Charley Abeloff, doing time in the Federal Penitentiary in San Quentin? Maybe. Charley. Sounds good. You’ll think about it.
It’s 2:45 then. You pick your tie, take two handkerchiefs in case you need to cover your face, put on a hat, look in the mirror once more and you’re off.
The Greek’s is Natie Goldstein’s apartment near the river. You park several blocks away and check to see if anyone’s trailing you. No one. You move inconspicuously, like anyone else on an afternoon walk. A big dame wearing a silk polka dot blouse comes your way. Too big. Another dame; too old, A blonde holding one kid in each hand; too old. Still another; also old. And you’re at Goldstein’s apartment house.
You take the elevator to the seventh floor, make sure no one’s looking, then walk down one flight. Again you make sure you’re alone before you reach up and press a button on the top of the door frame; the reach makes the gun rub up against your armpit — it’s still a stranger.
There’s a movement behind the door and you know someone’s examining you and unconsciously you straighten your posture. The door opens and you walk in, leave your hat on a tree in the foyer, pat your hair down. In the big room you nod a hello and of the four men there only two nod back. This is business, no time for ceremony. You sit, without another word, in the empty chair and a little fat guy whom you’ve never seen before comes out of the bedroom.
“This is your mark,” he says without introduction and shoves an enlarged photo at you. You take the photo and everyone’s eyes are on you, which makes you feel good; you’re an important cog in this machine. You study the photo and try to look serious but it’s times like this that something inside of you wants to giggle or burst out laughing, you don’t know what it is, you’ve had it ever since you were a kid, and when you think you can’t fight it any longer you take out a handkerchief and wipe your lips. That sends it away.
“His name,” the little fat guy says, “Is Tzimick. Capital T-z-i-m-i-c-k. He lives at 3708 Hurley Road.”
You take out your pad and make a note.
The little fat guy snaps his fingers and someone puts out the lights and someone else turns on the slide projector. “Tzimick’s house is between Argyle and Hooten Boulevards. It’s a community of small houses built after the war on medium-sized plots. It’s a middle-middle class neighborhood.” A map flashes on the screen and the little guy uses a pointer as he speaks. “There’s a supermarket here. Hurley Road is one way toward Hooten. Now, this is the house.” He’s using a clicker now and a color slide of a contemporary split-level, painted pink and gray, is flashed on. Definitely not your kind of place.
“Now,” he goes on. “There’s a lawn in front of the house, as you can see, but most of the plot’s in the rear, which narrows your target area. Tzimick likes to garden and he’ll be in front of the house fifteen minutes after he returns from his office, which should be about four-thirty. The weather tomorrow will be fair and mild.” Nothing about who this Tzimick is, what he has done, why the organization wants to get rid of him; it’s one of the drawbacks to the profession, I mean being left in the dark so much. And again the little fat guy clicks his clicker.
A movie projector is turned on next. There are shots of the corners of Hurley and Argyle, of Hurley and Hooten, of the supermarket and of the traffic light, the neighboring houses. It’s a disappointing film. Whoever shot it should have used a filter and the editing leaves a lot to be desired; where the cameraman could have used zoom shots, he didn’t, and where no zoom is indicated, he did. It’s the first time you’ve known the organization to turn out a sloppy job. You cross your legs and the gun, which you’ve forgotten, jabs you in the ribs and you straighten up again.
“Run that over again, slow,” you say to make an impression and this time you’re convinced that the camera work was done by an amateur. When it’s over the lights are flicked on.
“Neil, here,” the little fat guy goes on, pointing to a thin, blonde man in a grey striped shirt sitting next to one of the lamps, “will be your driver. Neil,” he says, turning to him, “do a couple of dry runs to get the feel of it. While Melvin’s checking the mark you time the light. We clocked it at twenty seconds but make sure. When it turns green, count to twelve. Then you, Melvin, fire, and Neil’ll take off. You’ll catch the light just beginning to turn red. Any questions?”
“How am I sure that Tzimick’ll be working in the front of the house?” you ask.
The fat guy looks pleased and smiles. “Good question,” he says. “I’m glad you asked it. Because he has his vegetable garden behind the house and it’s too early for vegetables. This time of year he’s pruning bushes.”
There are no other questions. Everyone gets up and the fat guy hands you a stack of bills in a rubber band. You count them and there are five hundred in old bills, just half your fee, like the contract calls for. You nod, place the money in your jacket and your hand brushes the gun. You walk over to Neil who has also just finished counting and you shake hands, being very business-like.
“I heard about you,” you say to Neil. “I heard about that time the carburetor flooded in front of the bank.”
Neil smiles modestly. “I know your reputation, too, and I want you to know it’ll be a pleasure working with you.” Then the smile disappears and he’s all business. “Leave your car in the municipal parking lot on Pearl. Here’s a dime for the meter. Walk to the RKO Theatre where the Arthur Miller picture will be playing and be there exactly at four.”
You nod.
Neil holds out his wrist, looks at his watch and you do the same. “Four twenty... two.”