“Commence firing!”
“Play guns! Come on, play guns, guys!”
“I said — Commence firing!”
At first Radford can’t tell what’s going on and doesn’t care. He pays no attention to the raucous uproar. He gets a barmaid’s attention and grits out the words in pain between his teeth: “Double vodka. Straight up.”
Then he waits, enduring his pain until after an eternity the barmaid sets the drink before him. Radford slugs it down fast and waits for a hint of surcease.
There’s a tumult of enthusiastic yelling — finally he turns to see what’s going on.
Up there on stage four women are dressed in tight T-shirts and skimpy bikini panties. They’re wet. He sees bursts of water drops, and thin streams of water, coming at the women from the audience, soaking them. Not understanding, he shifts his gaze to the men in the audience — all ages; rough clothes mostly; blue collar guys. They’re having a wild time shooting at the women on stage with water-guns that are look-alike models of real submachine guns and rifles and pistols. The guys aim and shoot — some with gleeful enjoyment, some in combat stance with deadly grimness.
“Shoot ’em in the crotch, guys — Right in there between the legs!”
Not believing what he’s seeing, Radford squints.
On stage three of the women thrust themselves forward, pelvis first, grinning at the guys; streams of water soak them. The fourth woman — a little shy, scared — hangs back.
“I wanta see some wet pussy! Man, she’s hot! You see that? I got her — and she likes it!”
Here and there in the audience Radford can see a few women, most of whom obviously have been dragged here by their men and would rather be anywhere else.
“Come on, Francine, you can’t win prize money if you don’t make like a good target!”
The fourth woman gives it a game try, pushing herself forward, but somebody’s spray hits her in the face and she flinches.
The streams of water are zeroing in with increasing accuracy on the four women’s crotches.
“All right! You guys shot like this in Vietnam, we wouldn’t of lost the war!”
Unable to take this, Radford shoves away from the bar and flees out of the place.
He stumbles outside and looks back at the Green Beret Bar. “Jesus H. Christ.”
He disappears.
At some ungodly hour of the morning in the kitchen of Charlie’s cafe, Denise Clay is interviewing Charlie while Dickinson examines Don the waiter’s ID. Don is explaining, “I been working out of Vice…”
“Yeah,” says Dickinson, “so what do you know about this Radford son of a bitch?”
Charlie is saying to Clay, “Said he didn’t do it. Said they put the gun in his hand after the shooting. And I believe it. I know him. If C.W.’d killed the guy, he’d say so.”
Don says to Dickinson, “He’s a loony, man. Beat three guys damn near to death — right here in the dining room.”
Charlie says to Clay, “Said something about a gun club in a building on Broadway.”
Clay and Dickinson come out the side door of Charlie’s Cafe and walk toward their car. Dickinson yawns, big. Clay tells him, “That waiter — talk to Vice, find out who sent him down here. Something funny there.”
“Yeah. Gotta tell you I am whipped… If we don’t nail this turkey fast—”
Commander Clay says, “What if he didn’t do it?”
“Come on. You’re not buyin’—”
She indicates the cafe. “That guy’s his old Army buddy. Knows him better’n we do. And — why is it the murder weapon had his fingerprints all over it — but there’s no prints on the ammunition?”
They get into the car…
The Army base is asleep, its drab military buildings and parked vehicles silent. On a company street a couple of enlisted soldiers walk by a sign that indicates the way to the dispensary. Radford, emerging from shadows, goes in that direction. At the dispensary door he looks all around, then tries to open it. It’s locked; it won’t budge. In a sweat, trembling, he fades back around the side of the building.
There’s a high window at the back. Radford strips off his jacket, wraps it around his fist and punches in the window. He uses the jacket to sweep slivers of glass from the frame before he crawls in through the high opening. If he sees the small red light glowing on a keypad panel he disregards it; how’s he to know the light was green until he smashed the window?
Dr. Trong and his wife are awakened by a strident buzzing noise. Dr. Trong fumbles for a switch, finds it and silences the alarm buzzer. He gets into his robe and slippers, and takes a revolver from a drawer. At the door he pauses and smiles at his wife. “Yes, dear, I’ll be careful.” When he goes out, his wife yawns and goes back to sleep.
In the back room of the dispensary Radford paws with increasing desperation through cabinets. He finds a bottle of tablets and tries to read the label — “Aspirin” — he stuffs it in his pocket and searches on…
Dr. Trong arrives on foot outside the place, in bathrobe and slippers, carrying his revolver. With absolute silence he unlocks the front door and enters, cocking the revolver.
In the back room Radford opens a cabinet door and discovers — a big steel safe, like a half-size bank vault. And a sign on it in great big printing: “In here, stupids. The narcotics. Don’t break in. It’s booby-trapped.”
Radford reacts: hopelessness. He’s trembling violently and soaked with sweat. He looks ghastly. And now he glances around and for the first time really notices the glowing red light on the alarm keypad. As he gapes at it he deflates even further. He seems paralyzed. Then — did he hear something or is it his imagination?
Dr. Trong moves cautiously through the corridor toward the door that leads into the back room. He moves through the dark without sound, and the cocked gun is ready in his hand.
He slowly enters the back room, silent, gun up. He flips the light switch. Lights come on. And just then—
Radford jumps him from on top of a steel filing cabinet.
Dr. Trong starts to struggle, then recognizes him and relaxes. It requires little effort — too little — for Radford to wrestle the revolver away from him.
Radford stands back, holding the cocked revolver, and gestures toward the safe. Dr. Trong obeys: twirls the combination dials. “You look god-awful, C.W.”
When the vault door begins to open, Radford pushes the doctor back, pulls it wide and looks in. Vials, bottles, papers. He rummages among them.
Dr. Trong says conversationally, “Where’s it hurt? Your head?”
“No. My big toe, you asshole.”
Radford finds a syringe, loads it from the vial, rolls up a sleeve, prepares to inject himself — all this while keeping the revolver close at hand and one eye on Dr. Trong across the room.
“I didn’t assassinate anybody.”
“All right,” Dr. Trong says. “Who did?”
“We didn’t get formally introduced.”
“You saw a face? Faces?”
Radford makes no answer; he’s distracted, reading the label of a vial. He puts it back and tries another. This one satisfies him.
The doctor says, “Between them and the police, it must feel like Kurdistan all over again — you can’t see them but you know they’re coming back to nail you again, maybe now and maybe next week, and it’s got you all bent out of shape.”
Radford says, “I don’t need your sympathy.”
“My sympathy won’t kill you.”
“Don’t mess with me. I don’t want people messing with me any more.”
He injects — and unexpectedly the injection hurts.
“Oww!!” He bends over with pain; rocks in agony, finally fumbles for the revolver. He points it accusingly. “What’d you put in this stuff?”