“Later.”
Clay swings into her office and turns to slam the door in Ainsworth’s face. Dickinson squeezes in past both of them.
Ainsworth pleads. “Hey, how about it?”
Dickinson slams the door, shutting Ainsworth out. “Shitfuck. No witnesses, no physical evidence except the 308 softpoint ammo—you can buy it anywhere.”
The ringing phone interrupts him. Clay grabs it up. “Commander Clay. I trust it’s important?” Then Dickinson sees her react. “You’re kidding! Put him on—and trace it.”
Radford stands by his motorcycle around the blind side of the boarded-up filling station. He’s talking on the flipphone he borrowed from the doc. “I don’t have to make this call. I’m taking a chance, right? So listen to me. I didn’t even know about this new killing. I just heard about it on the radio. I’m not the one you want. I’m telling you because I want you to look for the real assassins.”
Clay’s voice reaches him as if from far away in the stars. “They out there with the real killers in the O.J. case? Well hell—describe for me the people you say you saw.”
Radford gives a thumbnail description of Harry, the way Harry looked the last time Radford saw him. He adds, “He knew the club—he knew the range. And there was a woman. A blonde. Natural blonde.” He describes Anne.
Clay says, “C.W., I want you to come in here. We can protect you. I give you my word, we’ll look for them.”
“Some other time, Commander. You find ’em first.”
“You haven’t got a chance.”
“You can’t always go by that. Anyway you’ve got rules. I haven’t.”
“Oh, we’ve all got rules, C.W. Even you … We’ve traced this call and I’m going to nail you.”
Radford clicks the END button, gives the cell phone a quizzical look, then sets it down gently on the lid of a trash can and gets on the motorcycle and rides away, not in a hurry.
He arrives at the back-road culvert on the motorcycle, stops, looks all around, and when he knows he’s unobserved, rides the bike down the embankment and hides it in the culvert under the road. He sits down in his hidey-hole, holding his aching head, talking to himself: “Okay, smart ass. Now what?”
This pain is unbearable in his head. He takes out the syringe kit and gets ready to inject himself. Then he looks at the painful needle—and finally puts it back in the case without using it. He puts the stuff away. Then he bends over—way over, nearly upside down, holding his throbbing head in his hands. And from that angle he’s looking at the culvert wall and he sees, upside down, the graffiti “To hell with tomorrow.” He reacts, because upside down, the “To hell” part looks like “7734 OL.” He sits up, staring at the graffiti. He’s remembering that cafe window reflection of the upside-down backward reflection of the van’s license plate.
Aloud, he says, “To hell.”
Slowly, relishing this discovery, he settles astride the motorcycle, starts her up, smiles, and—lets ’er rip.
At speed on the highway he thrusts his face into the wind and—he’s enjoying this …
Sign on the counter: “Department of Motor Vehicles.”
Radford casually shows his badge to a clerk, who then brings out a book. Radford looks through it, searching for a number—and with sudden triumph he jabs his finger onto the page.
There it is—the 7734 OL license plate—on Conrad’s van. It waits parked in front of a high-rise apartment house.
Radford rides his police motorcycle past it. His eyes study everything at once. He makes one pass, hangs a U-turn and comes back. Finally he parks the cycle. The van has just been washed; it sparkles.
Radford studies the polished van, then looks up at the apartment house above it. Balconies up there. Posh.
He takes a small object from the saddlebag and walks around, pretending to admire the sparkling van. Near the back he “accidentally” drops something in the street. He crouches to pick it up—it’s an all-steel one-piece ice pick. While he’s crouched by the rear bumper of the van he reaches out underneath and thrusts upward several times with great strength.
Fluid begins to drip from the punctured gas tank. It starts to form a pool. Without hurry Radford gets to his feet and, carrying his nutcracker nightsticks, strides purposefully around the side of the apartment house.
The service door is locked of course, but it’s only a spring-lock. He pries his ice pick in against the face-plate, works it hard and finally gets the door open and wheels inside toting the nutcracker.
Conrad is in the front room of his apartment talking on the phone and smoking a cigarillo. An open pack, and a lighter, are on the glass coffee table by the phone. The flat is a modern well-appointed masculine place on an upper floor. Glass doors, leading out onto the balcony, stand open. He’s saying into the phone, “Okay, we had an uptick; go ahead and execute the short sale.” He’s interrupted by the sound of the door buzzer. “That must be Gootch. Gotta go. I’ll talk on you later.” He hangs up and goes to the door.
When Conrad begins to open it, the door slams in against him, knocking him off balance, and a very angry Radford swarms in violently, kicking the door shut behind him, bashing Conrad to his knees and wrapping the nutcracker around Conrad’s neck all in one smooth coordinated move.
“Okay, Mr. Conrad. You can talk to me, or you can die.”
Conrad hacks, half choking, “Get this fucking thing off me.”
One-handed, Radford frisks him. He takes a revolver out of Conrad’s belt from where it was hidden under the shirt. Then he whips the nutcracker away from Conrad’s throat. “Don’t move a whisker.”
Radford does a quick search to make sure no one else is in the apartment: keeping one eye and Conrad’s own gun pointed at the motionless Conrad, he hurries from door to door, peering into rooms and closets. At one trophy cabinet he pauses to look at a couple of photos that are matted on the wall among various golf and fishing trophies. It includes a photograph of a group of rifle competitors at an outdoor meet. Mixed amid half a dozen strangers in shooting jackets and vests, he recognizes Harry (no beard), Conrad and Gootch. Harry, front and center, is holding a trophy and smiling. We see the bad front tooth.
“Hey Conrad. Tell me about your little shooting club.”
Conrad is still hoarse from the nutcracker. “How the hell’d you find me?”
Radford happens to be looking at the adjacent photo—this one showing Conrad standing proudly by his shiny new van, and favoring a banner: “Custom Van Show—FIRST PRIZE.” Radford returns to the photo of the shooters. He rips it down and stuffs it in his pocket. He looks at Conrad, then goes swiftly out to the balcony, looks around, looks down over the edge. From here he can see the street below and, straight below, the polished top of Conrad’s van. He can see the glisten of the spreading puddle of fluid behind the van.
Radford re-enters the apartment. Still holding Conrad’s revolver, he sits down by the phone, studies the photo of the shooting team and contemplates Conrad as if trying to figure out how to handle this. He reaches for the open pack of cigarillos; puts one in his mouth and lights it.
Conrad says, “Thought you didn’t smoke.”
“Why? What gave you that idea?”
“We’ve got a file on you—Look, I’d be sore too, in your shoes, but don’t mix that cigarillo smoke with melodrama, old buddy. I’m just a sub-contractor. A voice on the phone, that’s all I know. You can try bamboo under the fingernails but I still won’t know anything that’d help you.”
Radford goes out onto the balcony. He looks down, judges the wind against his moistened finger, then drops the lit cigarillo and steps back, looking deadpan at Conrad. A moment later they both hear the sound of a major explosion. The blast unsteadies Radford on his feet and as he rights them he sees Conrad’s eyes go wide as Conrad, peering past him, sees recognizable pieces of the van soar up past the window in a graceful arc.