Tomorrow, I begin.
Tuesday, October 22
They have suggested the railroad station as the most advantageous spot, knowing the train will pause here, knowing there will be a crowd to welcome him. They have assumed that I will be able to use the crowd as a suitable cover before the kill, and as a distraction later to help in my escape. But I have very carefully kept from them all knowledge of how I will work, and I see at once that the railroad station will not serve my purposes. I meet with Hester late in the afternoon. She is wearing slacks and feeling very ballsy. She chain-smokes cigarette after cigarette, using a long black holder, the smoke swirling up around her face. She is trying to look like a European spy, and the pose bores me. Hester is head of the university’s English Department, and we are in the English Department office. She presses a button on her desk, and the door opens. Sara enters with a notebook.
“What’s this?” I say.
“If we’re to pay you fourteen thousand dollars, we’re entitled to a record,” Hester says.
“Who’s the girl?”
“I thought she picked you up at the airport,” Hester says, puzzled.
“Yes, but who is she? I know nothing about her.”
“Tell him who you are, dear,” Hester says, and smiles.
“Sara Horne,” she recites. “Twenty-one years old, native of Philadelphia, graduate of Northwestern. A law student at the university here.” She smiles bleakly. “I’m entirely trustworthy.”
“She is entirely trustworthy,” Hester repeats.
I look at them both. Sara’s pencil is poised over the pad.
“What’s your involvement in all this?” I ask her.
“I want him dead.”
“So do a lot of people.”
“Yes, but I’m doing something about it.”
“What? Recording an assassin’s complaint?”
“If you have a complaint,” Hester says, “voice it The girl stays.”
I look at them both again, and then I sigh heavily. “The railroad station won’t do,” I say, and Sara’s pencil begins to move.
“Why not?” Hester asks.
“To begin with, it’s in the center of town. Since my own safety is prime among my concerns, I choose not to encumber myself with a longer escape route than is absolutely necessary.”
“The crowd will help you.”
“Or hinder me, as the case may be.”
“Either way, you’re here to do a job. I find your sense of caution excessive.”
“Too bad. Would you like your money back now?” Sara looks up at me. I am aware of her glance, and recognize that I am seeking her approval, and therefore read approval into it
“Why else is the railroad station bad?” Hester asks.
“For such a small town, it’s a very busy terminal. There are trains moving in and out at every hour of the day and night If I’m to do this properly, I need to study my terrain. I can’t very well do that in a place as busy as your depot. Not without being noticed sooner or later.”
“Your caution again.”
“Yes. It’s my neck, not yours.”
“Which is why you’re being paid fourteen thousand dollars to risk it.”
“Would you risk yours for the same amount of money?”
Hester smiles. “No,” she answers. “Are you getting this, Sara?”
Sara nods.
“What else about the depot?” Hester asks.
“It’s where they’ll be expecting trouble. Crowds are dangerous, and they know it. They’ll be watching and waiting for something to happen. I’d prefer to surprise them.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet”
“When will you know?”
“When I know, I’ll tell you.”
“Meanwhile, you have seven thousand dollars of our money.”
“I won’t run off with it, if that’s what you’re…”
“You wouldn’t get three feet beyond the town limits.”
“Then what are you worrying about?”
“That the money might be better spent. On someone else.”
“I know my job,” I tell her.
“Do you?” she asks.
Our eyes meet It is a question of who will turn away first.
“I know my job,” I say again, hoping that at least someone in the room will believe me.
That evening, I call Sara again. I have not yet called home, but I call Sara. When she answers the phone, I am certain she is wearing only her leather Mexican sombrero. The notion is absurd, but it persists.
“What’s the second best restaurant?” I ask her.
“How did you like the first best?”
“It was terrible,” I say. “If you haven’t had dinner yet, I thought…”
“I haven’t…”
“Good, then perhaps you’d like to join me.”
“I can’t”
“Why not?”
“I’m having dinner with Gwen.”
“Gwen?”
“Yes, my…n
“Yes, your snotty roommate.”
“She’s very nice, actually.”
“Then bring her along.”
“I don’t think she likes you.”
“Ask her anyway.”
In a conversational voice, Sara says, “Gwen, do you like Arthur Sachs?”
Gwen, who is obviously sitting not two feet from the phone, says in a very loud voice, “I despise him.”
“Do you want to have dinner with him?”
“Yes, okay,” Gwen says.
“Settled,” I say.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes. Where shall we go?”
“There’s a place called Anthony’s on South Engels. It’s Italian and very student rah-rah.”
“Sounds fine. Eight o’clock?”
“Yes, all right,” she says, and sounds suddenly dubious.
“What are you wearing?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure yet”
“I mean now.”
“Now? This minute?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Are you naked except for your sombrero?”
“Fuck off,” Sara says angrily, and hangs up.
Anthony’s is on a windswept corner at the southern end of town. The foothills of the mountains are clearly visible from the sidewalk outside. The railroad tracks disappear into a distant bluish crotch. I arrive at ten minutes to eight and stand silently watching the tracks, wondering what is beyond that curve where they vanish. At a quarter past eight, the girls arrive. Sara is wearing a tan corduroy jacket, wide-waled, with chinos and boots, a leather headband across her forehead. She introduces me to Gwen, who is perhaps twenty-three, a curly-haired blonde with a pumpkin face and humorless blue eyes. She merely nods when we are introduced, and I sense that Sara finds our mutual hostility amusing. I frankly find it a pain in the ass. I am forty-two years old, and I do not need a college girl's petulance. Besides, I want to be alone with Sara. I admit this to myself. And while I am at it, I also admit that Sara is a very real part of why I am here, assassination or not. The knowledge comes as no surprise to me. It is something I have known all along. The recognition, the admission are at best disappointing.
Anthony’s is populated with university students, but I do not feel at all self-conscious because I am an assassin and therefore ageless. I am beginning to feel very good about this whole job. The only thing bothering me is that I have not yet called home. I have been gone since Thursday night, and this is Tuesday, and I have not yet called home.
“What brings you to town, Mr. Sachs?” Gwen asks.
“I’m a tractor salesman.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Tractors and heavy machinery.”
“How nice.”
“Yes.”
“How do you and Sara know each other?”