City Primeval

31

CLEMENT STILL HAD A KEY to the apartment that Sandy had given him. He went in and saw lights glittering outside the windows but not one was on in the apartment. He listened a moment and called out, “Hon?”

It was about 10:30; she could be asleep, she had probably smoked enough reefers to send her off early. Clement turned on the light in the hallway as he walked into the bedroom. “Hon bun?”

Nope. The bed wasn’t made. That was par-but there weren’t any of her clothes lying around. Clement turned the bedroom light on and went over to the closet. It looked like only Del Weems’ stuff hanging inside. He went to the dresser, was about to bend down to open one of the drawers she used, but never got there.

He saw the Walther P .38 lying on the dresser about ten inches from his eyes.

She still hadn’t dumped the goddamn thing. He could hear himself saying, with pain in his voice, “Hon, I don’t believe it. Twice now. Are you intentionally trying to fuck me or what?” He had a mind to throw the goddamn thing out the window, man, just to be rid of it. Like the goddamn thing had stickum on it. He picked up the gun.

It felt good though. Fired straight and true. He checked the clip, pushed the spring down, saw it was loaded but lacking about two rounds, and punched it back into the grip with the palm of his hand.

He walked into the living room trying to recall something. Fired five at the judge, three at the woman. He had reloaded when he got back to the garage, before he hid it. He seemed to recall he had fully reloaded it. Hadn’t he?… He turned on the desk lamp. A note written on pale-green paper lay squarely in position before the chair. Clement sat down without touching it, spreading his elbows to get low, close to the note, and laid the Walther to one side.

Dear Clement:-

If you read this then you don’t know yet I have left. I am not telling you where I’m going for I am leaving you for good as my nerves can’t stand any more of your kind of life and I’m getting too old for it. One thing I guess I have to tell you I did not throw the gun away again and I’ll tell you why. There was somebody every place I went. I would start to get out of the car and somebody would be there watching. I don’t know why but it is not easy to throw away a gun. I have had enough so goodbye.

Yours,

Sandy

P.S. I think you better run!!!

P.P.S. IT’S TOO LATE.

Clement frowned, staring at the note. Something here was weird. The second postscript was bigger and in a different handwriting. If she scribbled it quick, maybe-but it wasn’t like that. It was in big printed letters. Clement felt goosebumps crawl up his arms, over his shoulders and neck, up under his hair. He stared at the notepaper in the soft glow of the lamp, the rest of the living room dark, almost dark, wanting to look up, wanting to look out past the green-shaded glow of light. He had not heard a sound, but he could feel it. Someone else was in the room, watching him.

There was a button switch attached to a light cord that ran along the floor by the front windows. It was behind Clement’s chair, so that he had to turn half around and reach over with the toe of his boot. He punched the button and a chrome lamp beamed on, its light rising through the branches of a ficus tree.

Raymond Cruz sat only a few feet away from the tree, in a chair by the side windows.

“Jesus,” Clement said, his hand gathering the note, squeezing it into a ball.

“I’ve read it,” Raymond said. “In fact, I wrote part of it.”

Clement was still half turned; the desk, with the Walther lying on it, to his left now. “Was it you let me out?” He saw Raymond nod. “Go have some dinner and think better of it, did you?”

“Yeah, I gave it some thought,” Raymond said. “That wasn’t the way to do it.”

“I hope to tell you,” Clement said. “I thought what you’d do, open it up and tell me to sign a statement else you’d shut me in there for good.”

“I don’t want a statement,” Raymond said.

Clement cocked his head, looking at him warily. “Yeah? What’s this party about then?”

Raymond got up. As he came over to the desk Clement turned in his chair to get both Raymond and the Walther lined up in front of him. “I got something here,” Raymond said. His hand went into his coat. “Now don’t get excited.” The hand came out again holding the Colt 9-mm automatic. Clement sat rigid. Raymond moved the lamp aside and laid the Colt on the desk.

“Pick up yours and I’ll pick up mine. How’s that sound?”

Clement was squinting but starting to smile a little. “You serious?”

“Stand up.”

“What for?”

“You’ll feel better. Come on.”

Clement wasn’t sure. He sensed he should be laying back, not moving too much yet. It was true though, he’d have more choices on his feet. He rose, moving the chair back away from him. They stood now directly across the desk from one another.

“Put your hands on the edge of the desk,” Raymond said, “like this… Okay, now whenever you’re ready, pick up your gun. Or, whenever I’m ready.”

Clement said, “You think I’m fucking crazy or something? I don’t even know this piece’s loaded.”

“You checked it in the bedroom,” Raymond said, “I heard you. You want to check it again, go ahead. You’re short two rounds we fired in ballistics, that’s all.”

Clement stared, amazed. “You took the gun from Sweety, tested it and put it back?”

“With the same live rounds,” Raymond said. “You don’t trust me we’ll trade. You use mine, I’ll use yours, I don’t care.”

Clement’s expression seemed bland, open, as though he might be listening or might be off somewhere in his mind.

Raymond said, “This was your idea. Remember?”

“I don’t think you’re serious,” Clement said. “Right here? It’s too close.”

“We can go outside, or up on the roof,” Raymond said. “You want to go outside?”

“Fuck no, I don’t want to go outside. You got some scheme-I don’t know what, but you’re pulling something, aren’t you? Trying to spook me into signing a statement. Man, you’re going way around to do it.”

“I don’t want a statement,” Raymond said. “I told you that. You sign a confession, we come up in court you say it was under duress, coercion, some chickenshit thing. This is fair, isn’t it? You said, why don’t we have a shooting match. Okay, we’re doing it.”

“Just grab for the guns, huh?”

“Wait a minute,” Raymond said. “No, I think the way we ought to do it-pick up the gun and hold it at your side. Go ahead. I think that’ll be better.” Raymond brought the Colt toward him and held it pointing down, the barrel extending below the edge of the desk. “Yeah, that’s better. See, then when you bring it up you have to clear the desk and there’s less chance of getting shot in the balls.”

“Come on,” Clement said, “cut the shit.”

“All right, then you reach for yours and I raise mine,” Raymond said, “it’s up to you.” He waited.

Clement’s right hand edged over to the Walther, touched it, hesitated, then covered the grip and brought it toward him, off the table. He said, “I don’t believe this.”

“Okay, you ready?” Raymond said. “Any time you want, do it.”

“Wait just a minute,” Clement said.

They stared, face to face, three feet apart. There was no sound in the room.

“I SAID WAIT!”

There was a silence again before Raymond said, “What’s the matter, Wildman?”

Clement put the Walther on the desk and walked away. He said, “You’re fucking crazy, you know it?”

Raymond turned, his gaze following Clement as he went around the couch and through the dining-L. He heard Clement say from the kitchen, “You know we could both kill each other? You realize that?”

The kitchen was back of the wall that was a few feet behind the couch. Clement could come out again through the dining-L, to Raymond’s right, or he could come out from the front hall, to Raymond’s left.

Either way, it didn’t seem to make much difference.

Raymond moved from the desk over to the front windows, glancing out at the spectacle of lights and reflecting glass, before turning to stand with his back to it. The apartment looked more comfortable at night with the lamps on; Raymond still didn’t like the colors though, green and gray.

Clement was saying from the kitchen, “That was interesting, that talk we had in your office. I never done that before with a cop… like seeing where each other’s coming from. You know it?…”

He’ll have something in his hand, Raymond thought.

“… Yeah, that was interesting. Getting down to the basics of life, you might say. I mean our kind of life. You want a drink?…”

Here we go, Raymond thought. He didn’t answer.

“… Don’t say I didn’t ask you. We got some Chivas… No, that’s it for the Chivas, aaaall gone. How ’bout a beer? Got some cold Miller’s… That mean no? How come you’re not talking?”

It’s his turn, Raymond thought, holding the Colt 9-mm at his side, looking at the dining-L, then moving his gaze slowly across the wall that was behind the couch to the entrance hall.

Clement was saying now, “See, what I got out of that talk we had-me and you are on different sides, but we’re alike in a lot of ways…”

He’s trying to put you to sleep, Raymond thought.

“… You know it? I figured you were a real serious type, but I see you got a sense of humor.”

Clement appeared, coming out of the front hall with a bottle of beer in each hand and walked over to the desk. “It might be a little weird, your sense of humor, but then each person’s got their own style, way of doing things.”

Raymond watched him place the bottle in his right hand on the desk, then, maybe twelve inches from the Walther. The hand remained there.

“I brought you a beer just in case,” Clement said.

The hand came slowly, carefully, away from the desk to the front of his denim jacket.

“I got a opener here someplace, stuck it in my jeans. Okay, partner? I’m just going in here to get the opener.” He glanced down.

The hand moved inside the denim jacket.

Raymond raised the Colt 9-mm, extended.

As Clement looked up, Raymond shot him three times. He fired seeing Clement’s eyes and fired again in the roomful of sound, still seeing the man’s eyes, and fired again as Clement was slammed against the couch and almost went over it with the momentum but collapsed into cushions and lay there, denim legs stretching to the beer bottle on the floor with foam oozing out of it, his hands holding his chest and stomach now as though he were holding his life in, not wanting it to escape, his eyes open in stunned surprise.

He said, “You shot me… Jesus Christ, you shot me…”

Raymond approached him. He reached down, gently moving Clement’s hands aside, felt a handle and drew it from Clement’s belt. Raymond looked at it in his hand as he straightened. A curved handle that was fashioned from bone or the horn of an animal, attached to a stainless steel bottle opener.

Raymond went to the desk. He placed the opener next to the Walther, picked up the phone and dialed a number he had known for fifteen years. As he waited he reholstered the Colt. When a voice came on Raymond identified himself, gave the address and hung up.

Clement was staring at him, eyes glazed, clouding over. “You call EMS?”

“I called the Wayne County Morgue.”

Clement continued to stare, dazed, eyes unblinking.

Raymond could hear street sounds very faintly, far away.

Clement said, “I don’t believe it… what did you kill me for?”

Raymond didn’t answer. Maybe tomorrow he’d think of something he might have said. After a little while Raymond picked up the opener from the desk and began paring the nail of his right index finger with the sharply pointed hooked edge.