Harry is going right on with his recognition exercise: “You were just a kid, you won the Wimbledon Cup on the thousand-yard range at Camp Perry … I got it. Radford. C. W. Radford. Am I right, hey? Am I right or am I right!”
Harry claps Radford amiably on the bicep. Radford’s reaction is stony but Harry doesn’t seem to notice.
Harry puts on a pair of thin gloves before he selects a 308 target rifle from the rack. “Damn gloves—solvent on my hands, don’t want to soil the goods.” He turns, smiling, and proffers the rifle to Radford. “Here, try this 308. I’d admire to see you shoot.”
Radford shakes his head, refusing the rifle. “You go ahead.”
Harry is taken aback, then puts on a smile and ushers them forward toward the firing line. Anne and Radford watch Harry load the 308 rifle; he still wears the gloves. The three shooters are intent on their own target-aiming. Their faces are concealed by goggles and ear protectors; Radford never gets a clear look at any of them.
Harry says, “This here’s the rifle, for my money. Shoot across rooftops or shoot across the street. Great support for a GPMG team. Your perfect weapon for urban area combat.”
Anne says, “Harry’s the world’s greatest combat expert. That’s because he’s never been to war. But boy, just let ’em invade Tenth Street and Main …”
Harry gives her a look. He and Anne put on ear protectors. Then abruptly, with a grin, Harry tosses the rifle to Radford.
Reflex: Radford catches it. He scowls at Harry, then studies the rifle briefly, then turns and aims casually and fires one shot downrange.
Harry puts his eye to a swivel-mounted telescope to spot targets.
“Jeez. A perfect bull’s eye. Wow. Awe-some!”
By this time Conrad, Gootch and Wojack are watching Radford with intense interest, but Radford doesn’t seem to notice this. With distaste he shoves the rifle back into Harry’s gloved hands. “No thanks.”
Harry says to Anne, “Fantastic. Dead center, perfect bull’s eye, like there wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
And now, behind Radford’s back, Harry and Anne exchange glances.
Anne’s car draws up outside the big sign of Charlie’s Cafe.
“Thanks. For the lift and—everything.” Radford is about to get out. Anne holds him in place while she takes something out of her handbag.
It’s a key. She slips it into his shirt pocket and gives him one of those bright smiles that can light up your whole day. Radford just looks at her—a grave beat. Then he gets out and she watches him walk to the cafe. She doesn’t drive away until he’s disappeared completely inside, but he never once looked back at her.
Night again, and the street’s deserted until Charlie’s side door opens. Radford, untying his apron, pokes his face out into the night air and takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear away his headache. Charlie appears behind him and takes the apron. “G’night, C.W. Take care.”
“Yeah.” It’s a noncommittal grunt. Radford walks around the corner, then past two hookers, then past the redheaded dealer, who gives him a glance. Radford is tired and everything hurts. When he puts his hands in his pockets, he discovers something in one pocket and takes it out and looks at it.
Anne’s key. He thinks about it.
But he goes back to his flophouse and finds it unchanged, the cot as always unmade. Radford rummages through the few paltry possessions in his duffel bag, finds a worn envelope, takes a creased photograph out of it and sits looking at the photo. He was very young then, handsome in his tailored class-a uniform, posing proudly with his arm around his best girl.
Dorothy McCune. In the photo she’s quite young and very beautiful in a cocktail dress. On her other side stands her father, a very distinguished guy. They’re at a posh political rally; big banner reads “Tom McCune for Senate.” They’re all happy.
Radford broods at the picture, then puts it back where he got it.
Outside Anne’s apartment court near the wading pool Radford stands in the night for a long silent stretch of time before he finally goes up to Anne’s door and pushes the bell. He waits, and when there’s no response he turns to leave. That’s when the door opens.
She’s in a nightgown, sleepy.
He’s apologetic, hesitant. “Hi. Sorry.”
“Well don’t just stand there.” She draws him inside.
In the afternoon Charlie’s Cafe kitchen staff go in and out on their errands. Don the waiter stacks dishes—and watches the aproned Radford scrub a griddle.
Charlie enters—with Harry. Charlie says to Radford, “Fella wants to talk to you.”
“Harry Sinclair. Gun club—remember me? Look, there’s a turkey shoot-out on the hill range tomorrow—small potatoes, but I’ll put up the side bets and you take a third of my winnings. Nobody around here knows you. We can make some bucks. What do you say?”
Radford studies him. “I guess not.”
Charlie razzes him. “Shit, go ahead, C.W. Shoot some bull’s eyes—have some fun.”
“Charlie, I haven’t shot targets in years. What if I get the shakes and come up Maggie’s drawers?”
Harry says, “Then I’ll eat my losses. But it won’t happen.”
Charlie says, “Man’s got confidence in you, C.W.”
Harry looks satisfied. “Tomorrow morning. Pick you up at eight. Hey. What d’you say?”
“Do it, C.W. I’ll give you the day off—hell you don’t even have to ask, you know that.”
Radford thinks it over.
On a general-aviation runway, the executive jet taxis to a stop. Its door opens. The motorized stair extends down and locks in place. A couple of cops stand at the foot of the steps, watching the horizon.
Led by motorcycle cops and flanked by squad cars, a limousine draws up—little flags above its headlights. Diplomatic flags. Several suits come down the stairs from the plane. We can tell by his carriage that one of them is the VIP and by his clothes that he’s foreign. Threading the phalanx of security people, he walks toward the limousine.
All this is being watched from the parked van by Conrad, smoking, and Wojack, who focuses binoculars on the activity at the plane. Conrad looks over his shoulder into the gloom of the van and he sees Slade still back there, a fat cop nearly busting the seams of his uniform, on the bench side seat looking uncomfortable with his wrists dangling over his knees.
Conrad says to Slade, “It’s on. You be in the building early.”
“Don’t sweat it, Conrad.”
“You’ll ice the perp in self defense. Just make sure he’s all-the-way dead, right? If he’s alive to talk—”
The fat cop waves it off. (“Sure, sure.”)
Harry Sinclair drives his SUV off the main road onto a rutted dirt track. Beside him Radford sits strapped in, not talking, not seeming to notice the scenery. Harry parks by a lean-to shack and gets out. He’s wearing gloves. He takes that familiar 308 rifle out of the back seat and walks around the car and hands the rifle up as Radford gets out. Then, talking, Harry walks away, past the shack. “Come on—it’s just up the hill.”
Hidden from Radford’s view behind the shack, Don the waiter and Conrad’s partner Gootch pull stocking masks over their heads to hide their faces.
Harry’s still talking: “We’re an hour early. I figured you’d want to get the feel of the place, maybe squeeze off some practice rounds.”
Radford, following without much interest, comes around the corner after Harry—and suddenly, without warning, is jumped: expertly attacked from behind by the masked Don and Gootch. One pinions his arms while the other’s hands grip Radford’s throat front and back with expert pressure, clamping off the flow of the carotid arteries. That’s when Harry grabs him around the knees to keep him from kicking.
Radford, taken by surprise, tries to struggle but it’s no good: the rifle drops away and the carotid hold renders him unconscious. He slips to the ground …