The smart way was to be in a spot where I could dump the gun over the side. I stepped out of the radar shack and looked down the passageway to where the skipper was waving his arms and ranting on the boatdeck. There was a gun mount tacked to the side of the ship just outside the passageway and the radar shack. The hatch was closed, and I undid the dogs on it, and shoved it out, and then stepped outside, stationing myself near the magazine box alongside the 20mm mount. I could see the ladder leading up to the bridge and the captain’s cabin from where I was standing. My idea was to plug the captain, dump the gun, and then rush inside, as if I were just coming out of the radar shack after hearing the shot.
I could hear the captain ending his tirade, and I thought to myself that it was the last time he’d chew anybody out. I thought everybody was going to be real tickled about this. Hell, I’d probably get a medal from the crew. It was all over out there on the boat deck now, and I peeked into the passageway and saw the old man step through the hatch and glance briefly into the radio shack.
I pulled the .45 out of my shirt.
The gun was very heavy and very hot. My hand slipped on the walnut grip, and I shifted hands and wiped the sweat off on the back of my dungarees. I took a firmer grip on the gun, with the sweat running down my face and over my neck and trickling down my back, sticky and warm. I thumbed off the safety, and the old man passed the radar shack and didn’t even look in, and I sucked in a deep breath and waited.
And then he was starting up the ladder, and I thought, Now, you louse, now! and I sighted the gun at the back of his neck.
I squeezed the trigger.
There was a dull click and nothing else, and I was shocked for a second, but I squeezed off again, and there was another dull click, and the old man was already halfway up the steps, and he still hadn’t turned. I squeezed the trigger twice more, but I got empty clicks both times, and then the old man was out of sight, heading toward his cabin.
I looked down at the gun on my hand, realizing it was empty, realizing there was no clip in it. I remembered the captain’s orders about no magazines allowed in sidearms or pieces, and I remembered that Ferguson had gone to the gun locker to get a clip for his own empty .45.
I was still sweating, and the hand holding the gun was trembling now, as if I was just realizing what I’d almost done, just realizing that I’d almost killed a man.
I felt kind of foolish. Maybe an empty gun makes you feel that way. Or maybe the anger had burned itself out when I’d heard those stupid empty clicks. Maybe that, and maybe I was a little glad the gun had been empty, because chewing out a man is one thing, but killing a man is another. He chewed everybody out, when you got down to it, and nobody had gunned him down yet. Just me. Just me, who would have already committed murder if it hadn’t been for an order the captain issued a long time ago. Me, from Red Bank, New Jersey — a murderer.
I dumped the gun over the side, and I heard the small splash when it hit the water, and then I heard the speaker in the radar shack calling, “Cavalcade, Cavalcade...”
I ran in and began copying down the weather forecast for Guantanamo Bay, and the weather forecast said there would be rain tonight, and I all at once felt a lot cooler.
Return Engagement
by Frank Kane
“I killed Al six months ago,” the man told Liddell. “Then, yesterday, I read in the paper that he’d just died.”
1
The man in the client’s chair was old, tired. White bristles glinted on his chin. His eyes were dull, colorless, almost hidden by heavy, discolored pouches. A thin film of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He watched Johnny Liddell study the torn newspaper clipping.
“I killed him, Liddell. He ruined me. I had to kill him.” He tugged a balled-up handkerchief from his hip pocket, swabbed at his forehead.
Liddell scowled at the clipping, tossed it on his desk. “When was this, Terrell?”
The old man licked at his lips. “That’s the crazy part about it. It was six months ago. Last September.”
Liddell grunted. “He sure took his time about dying. This is Monday’s paper. Says he was just killed.”
Terrell nodded jerkily. “It’s a trap. They’re trying to trap me, Liddell.” He plucked at his lower lip with a shaking hand. “Don’t you understand? That story’s a plant.”
Liddell considered it. “Why bait a trap six months later, Terrell? Why not right after it happened?”
“How do I know?” The old man pulled himself out of the chair, paced the room. Abel Terrell had been a big man. Now his clothes hung in pathetic folds on his gaunt frame, and his expensive suit was shabby and worn. He stopped next to Liddell. “I just know it’s got to be a frame.” He jabbed at the clipping with a bony finger. “They say he was killed in a hit and run accident. I should know how he died. I pulled the trigger. I saw him die.”
“The paper says he was unidentified. What name did you know him by?”
Terrell walked back to his chair, dropped into it. “Lee. Dennis Lee.” He rubbed the palm of his hand across his eyes. “And don’t try to tell me it’s a case of mistaken identity, Liddell. I’d know his face anywhere. I’ve seen it often enough in my dreams these past six months.”
“And you’re sure it’s the same?”
“Positive.”
“Well, there’s one way to find out if it’s a trap.” The private detective reached down into his bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle and some paper cups. “You get yourself some rest and I’ll amble down to see if the John Doe they’ve got on ice is an old client of mine.” He motioned to the bottle. “A drink help?”
Terrell nodded, gnawed nervously at his thumb nail. “You don’t think they’ll suspect something? Follow you, maybe?”
Liddell grinned. “It’s been tried.” He picked up a cup, walked across the room to where a water cooler stood against the wall, humming to itself. He filled the cup, brought it back, set it on the corner of the desk. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” He pushed an empty cup and the bottle to the edge of the desk, watched while the older man poured himself a stiff drink and softened it with a touch of water. “Was there any identifying mark on Dennis Lee that would make the identification positive? In my mind, at any rate.”
“He won’t be there, I tell you. He couldn’t be. He’s been dead six months!”
“That’s just, the point,” the private detective nodded. “I don’t want them to be able to palm off a phony on me. How about it? Anything I can look for?”
Terrell took a deep swallow from the cup, wiped a vagrant drop from his chin with the side of his hand. “There was a scar. Right under the right ear. You wouldn’t notice it until he got mad. Then it turned red.” He finished his drink, crumpled the paper in his fist. “About three inches long, ran along the jawbone.”
Liddell nodded. “That ought to do it. You got a place to stay?”
The old man shook his head. “I’ve been afraid to stay in one place more than one night. I’ve been running ever since it happened.”
“Well, maybe now you can stop running.” He walked around the desk, scribbled a note on a sheet of paper. “You take this note to Ed Blesch at the Hotel Carson. He’ll know what to do.”
Terrell took the note, read it incuriously. “Hotel Carson? Where’s that?”
“47th off Sixth. It’s a fleabag, but you’ll be safe there. Stay in your room until I call you.”