You say, “Right,” and set your watch.
You shake Neil’s hand once again and one of the men who hadn’t said a word accompanies you to the door, opens it, looks up and down the corridor, and lets you out. You climb to the seventh floor and take the elevator there. You’re too busy thinking of tomorrow to notice anyone in the. street.
You take in a movie that afternoon to relax you and that night you eat well, oysters, steak, potatoes, big salad, milk and dessert; it’ll be your last big meal before the job. You stay away from the club, go home and read a little. You pick up the gun from time to time, palm it, examine it, then put it back. You would like to fire it just once before the job, but that’s out. When you’re fixing your bedroom window for the night you notice the car outside; someone inside is smoking a cigarette. You smile. What an organization! You’re asleep by midnight.
The next morning you loll in bed until eleven, eat a breakfast of juice, bacon-and-eggs, English muffins, butter and lots of jam and milk — all energy foods. You leave the dishes in the sink and, still in your pajamas and robe, you relax in the living room, like you always do before a job, and listen to a stack of Sinatra records. Good old Frankie. Hey, you think, maybe you’ll call the gun Frankie? You pick it up and palm it again. Not a bad idea. You doze on the sofa for a while, and try to think of nothing until the alarm goes off at two.
From then on it’s all business. You shower and shave, put on lots of deodorant and brush your teeth vigorously. You dress carefully, pick out just the right tie, one that’ll go well with the job — you’d be surprised how you can tell when it’s wrong. You buckle on the holster, pat the gun a few times and say, “OK, baby, do your stuff,” get into a jacket and hat.
The car outside trails you all the way to the parking lot, then takes off. You know someone’ll be watching the front of the RKO Theatre, which gives you confidence. You’ve got more than an hour on the meter but you put the dime in anyway. It’s five minutes to four. You walk to the RKO, look at your watch and just at four Neil, in a blue car, pulls up and you climb in and shake hands.
“Nice day for a job,” you say as Neil turns into traffic.
“Couldn’t be better,” he answers, not taking his eyes from the windshield.
After a few minutes, just to make conversation, you say, “What do you think of the Common Market, Neil?” Anything to keep your mind from tensing up.
“Well,” Neil answers still not taking his eyes from the road. “I think it’s a great idea, but a lot will depend upon the French. Did you read Lippman’s column on it?”
You say yes even though it’s a lie. Neil has a point. You make up your mind to see more of him. He’s someone you can talk to.
You’re at Hurley Road then, driving north and there’s no more time for conversation. You unbutton your jacket and release the safety strap and you’ve all but decided to call it Charley; it’ll be a fitting tribute to a nice guy. Before you know it Neil says, “Argyle Boulevard,” and he slows down and moves to the left. It’s exactly 4:30. You watch Neil light one of those filter cigarettes and you wonder if he has any information on this cancer business — you make a mental note to ask him after everything’s over.
Just like the fat guy says, Tzimick is in the front garden clipping bushes. The sun’s just right, to your left — they really can plan things. Tzimick’s bending over so you can’t see his face. Should be easy, you tell yourself. Neil, timing the light, says, “Twelve,” and picks up speed.
“Everything all right?” Neil asks as you turn the block.
“Couldn’t be better,” you say, taking the gun out of the holster and placing it in your lap.
“If everything’s OK with you I don’t think we need another dry run,” Neil says.
“OK with me,” you answer.
“I mean it’s up to you,” Neil says. “I don’t want to pressure you. You think you want another dry run, I’m ready.”
“I’m all right,” you say. Gee what a swell guy.
You turn the corner and are back on Hurley Road. Traffic is still sparse. Neil cuts easily to the left. You jerk the brim of your hat down and Neil pulls up noiselessly in front of the house, counting. You place the gun on the window frame to steady it — it doesn’t sweat at all, you notice happily. There’s no one on the sidewalk, Tzimick’s back is toward you, Neil is saying, “eight, nine,” you aim, “ten, eleven, twelve,” and you fire.
The noise is loud and there’s the usual stink of powder but the damn gun jerks up and to the right, the slug hitting into a bale of peat moss. Neil says, “Merde!” and the car leaps forward. You fire again, trying to compensate for the pull, but Tzimick has fallen on his belly and you don’t even see where the second slug goes. Neil is still cursing and the car is racing toward the intersection trying to make the light when suddenly a milk truck pulls out of a driveway and Neil has to swerve to the right. There’s a thud and he’s slammed into a parked car.
There’s a siren and screech somewhere behind you and you’re just about to make a run for it when you look up and there’s a cop with a frayed cuff holding a pistol.
“Drop the gun,” he snarls.
Out of the corner of your eye you see that Neil has already got his hands up and you drop the miserable gun as if it has the plague.
When you meet Charley. Abeloff the first time in the exercise yard you introduce him to Neil.
“Neil says that he isn’t impressed with the Peace Corps idea,” you add just to start conversion.
“Hell!” Charley, who’s a Democrat, answers. “If they’d’ve listened to Harry Truman in the first place there wouldn’t be any commies left.”
“That’s sheer nonsense,” Neil says, “If...”
But just then the bell sounds for marching back to cell block, and you’re convinced it’ll be some ten years.
Mirror, Mirror
by Pauline K. Prilucik
Those who look upon Alice in Wonderland with disdain should definitely pass this story by lest the psychic powers of this mirror foment a psychosis.
It was September 15, 1898. The Spanish-American war was over. The town of Patuka was celebrating. Everyone who was hale and healthy enough to trudge down to the depot had turned out to welcome back the volunteers.
The fireman’s band was playing. And the children, bobbing up and down like frogs in a mill pond, were spilling flowers and fruit over the immaculately swept platform. Everyone was jabbering and jittery with excitement. It wasn’t often that something this important happened in Patuka.
Someone began shouting that he saw smoke rising from the engine stack about a half mile away. The tracks were low, in the valley along the river bank. The train wasn’t visible yet.
Then everyone heard the whistle and began cheering. And before the band found the page and the people could start singing, the train had pulled in and the soldiers tumbled out, laughing, hullabalooing, like a pack of broncos at round-up time.
John Trumbal jumped down from the last car wearing a civilian suit. He greeted his neighbors gayly, then turned to help a lady down from the car.
The station rang with laughter and cheers and kisses and tears... until the woman clutching Trumbal’s hand stepped down. Instantly she evoked a startling change in the atmosphere. Everyone became quiet, hushed, self-conscious, as though a hostile stranger were spying on an intimate family affair. It was odd! It was unexplainable!
She was beautiful — the most beautiful woman the town had ever seen. She was tall, almost as tall as John Trumbal, and slender as a willow reed. She had hair so black it shone blue in the sunlight. Iridescent glowing eyes, shimmering green and yellow like a cat’s, peered from a pale, flawless face. Full, moist lips smiled at them distantly. The men in Patuka afterwards swore she had the warmest looking lips and the coldest looking eyes they had ever seen.