The Marksman

A Beginning…

On a sagging cot in a flyspecked room in an inner-city flophouse, a man tosses and turns. In his sleep he’s hearing a racket of combat — explosions, automatic weapons, screams. Against his eyelids images flash like the intermittent flare of artillery on a battlefield at night.

He pushes the half-awake nightmare away. The effort is enough to exhaust him. After a few moments his breathing steadies and he rises in a sweat, disoriented for a moment before he recognizes his drab surroundings.

He hasn’t shaved in a while. His brown hair is stringy. There’s a wicked long scar across his temple; the old wound makes his head ache — makes him wince when he bends over to get into his rumpled old clothes.

C. W. Radford — that’s his name. He’s got the remains of a good constitution but he looks barely one step up from a homeless tramp. The jeans and work-shirt are threadbare. His shoes are utterly worn out. He laces them up with bovine listlessness. The headache makes him dizzy.

In the rickety bedside drawer is a small case that was designed to be a diabetic’s insulin kit — its ersatz leather worn away at the corners now, cardboard showing through the edges. He flips open its lid on loose hinges to expose the syringe within, and the small rubber-topped bottle with its prescription label: “every four hours as needed for pain.”

Radford draws liquid into the syringe and injects himself with its needle.

Radford trudges across a filthy street in a bitterly silent part of the city — beat-up cars and derelicts human and inanimate. The corner is dominated by an all-night joint, Charlie’s Cafe — in its original incarnation a drive-in burger joint; subsequently expanded to a quarter-block sprawl of counters and Naugahyde booths, all of it much the worse for wear now — neon beer ads in the windows.

A dealer, wearing a wild shock of red hair and clothed in what used to be combat fatigues, transacts business with a skinny teenage girl. Radford glances at the two of them, shifts his glance away and continues walking toward Charlie’s Cafe.

With the deftness of a sleight-of-hand artist the dealer pockets the girl’s money, looks warily around and slips her a tiny package. When she hurries away, the dealer sizes up Radford with a bellicose challenge but Radford shuffles past, appearing to ignore him.

Reflections glitter off the license plate on a parked van — 7734 OL — and above the plate two men sitting in the van watch Radford. They both wear shirts, no jackets; collars unbuttoned, ties at half mast. The guy in the passenger seat is polished, neat, fortyish and smoking a cigarillo. Next to him the driver bats ineffectually at the smoke. This driver is big, tough, a body-builder. The van is a custom camping job — drapes etc.

It would appear that Radford gives them no more attention than he gave the redheaded dealer.

The two guys in the van watch while Radford approaches the side door of the cafe. The guy with the cigarillo has a file-folder open in his hand; in it is a printout dossier — he squints against the curling smoke to see a military mug-shot photo of a younger, neater Radford clipped to the file.

Radford climbs up onto the curb as if it’s only another step half way along a wearisome journey up a mountain-high pyramid. As he turns painfully toward the door of the cafe, a young dude comes rushing out of the alley, flailing an expensive attaché case in one hand and a heavy Glock automatic pistol in the other.

The dude is immaculate in a flashy tailored suit — the uniform of a drug wholesaler or a pimp, or both — but he’s hardly more than a child: a teenage kid trying to look like a big shot.

Radford stops. The dude is right in front of him, arm’s length. He’s laughing hysterically but behind the laughter the dude is able to make an instantaneous judgment: he dismisses Radford and wheels, grinning, laughing, and aims his automatic back at the alley. He’s wild: spaced out.

A pursuing policeman runs into sight — sees the dude; reacts, skids, ducks, and the dude’s shot goes wild overhead.

A lot of noise now, people dodging to cover and shouting inarticulate warnings — the two guys in the van dive beneath their dashboard out of sight and the dealer flattens himself back against a wall as if trying to press himself back through it into invisibility, and Radford stands bolt still.

The dude laughs on, full of wild bravado. He is trying to steady himself to take aim on the policeman when the sound of screeching tires brings his head whipping around in time to see a squad car squealing to a slithery stop behind him.

The dude’s gun swivels to meet the new challenge as two cops pop open the doors of their unit and brace their weapons across the tops of door and car, aiming at the dude.

One cop says, “Drop the gun.”

The other gestures. “On your knees, asshole. And then on your face. Now.”

Radford stands unmoving, without expression, while across the street the redheaded dealer slides around a corner like an eel and disappears. Radford appears to pay more attention to that than to the confrontation between dude and cops.

“Drop it, asshole!”

Now there’s the policeman at the corner — the one who was chasing the dude on foot — and there’s the pair of cops at the car, and there’s the dude, and they’ve all got their handguns up but the dude can’t quite decide which of them to aim at and he swings his pistol back and forth, first one cop and then another, and presently he stops with his finger whitening on the trigger and the muzzle of the Glock leveled toward Radford’s scarred forehead.

Radford faces the gun with utter indifference.

The cops hesitate, probably fearful that any move could get the bystander shot dead.

The dude keeps laughing. His head whips around in a frantic effort to keep all the cops in view. His arm wavers; he starts to drop into a crouch and his automatic goes off—

The bullet unzips a crease in the pavement within an inch of Radford’s foot.

Radford doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all.

Within a single broken instant of time all three cops fire simultaneously, and the dude is physically blasted off his feet by the combined firepower. The bullets drive him down hard…

In the wake of it, the echoes of the gunshots fade into a stunning silence.

In the parked van the two guys sit up and appraise the situation with scientific interest.

From their various directions the three cops cautiously approach the dude. He lies broken across the curb. Guns out, two of the cops walk past Radford with only a glance; they’re intent on the dude, whose brains are all over the sidewalk. One of the cops mutters dispassionately, “Angel dust. Laughing his head off.”

His partner says, “Where’s it say a spaced-out maniac can’t have a sense of humor?”

Radford trudges to the side door of the cafe as if there’d been no interruption. He knocks.

One of the cops is saying, “Get Forensics.”

Charlie the cook, who owns the cafe, opens the door from inside and stands in his apron, peering out cautiously. Charlie has a prosthesis in place of one hand. He recognizes Radford — they go back a long way together — admits him.

The two guys in the van consult rapidly and the driver turns the key and crams it roughly into gear. The van lurches. The passenger’s voice is pained: “Hey — Easy with my van.”

One of the cops is calling in on his car radio. The partner is swiveling full-circle on his heels, gun half raised, waiting for another shoe to drop. The foot-patrol cop strides across to the dude and kicks open the attache case that the dude dropped. He looks dryly at the dead dude. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Charlie the cook holds the door open. Several sleazeball waiters trail tentatively out to study the carnage.

Radford moves past them and goes inside. He pulls down an apron off a peg, ties it on without hurry and proceeds to stand all alone washing dishes.

Later in the day Radford, still in his apron, swabs the floor. Two or three scuzzy waiters move past him, carrying trays in and out. Cooks and other kitchen staff are at work — the place is busy.

Radford keeps to himself, talks to no one, looks at no one. A beer-bellied bruiser named Don — pack-leader of the waiters — sneers at Radford. Other kitchen staff are watching. Knowing he has an audience, Don picks up an open can of tomato juice, then steps on Radford’s mop, stopping it. Radford just looks at him. Don deliberately pours tomato juice on the floor. No reaction; Radford merely begins to mop it up.

“D’you used to mop up for the I-raqis like that?”

Don reaches for the side of Radford’s waistband, pulls it out past the apron and pours tomato juice inside the front of Radford’s pants. Radford pulls away but does not fight.

Don shouts at him — “What’s with you — fuckin’ coward?” — trying to get a rise out of Radford.

It’s loud in the room but Radford barely hears what Don says; what he hears, interspersed with clatter of dishes and silverware, is the growing sound of explosions and automatic weapons and the dreadful screams of the injured and dying.

Radford picks up a tray of dirty dishes. Don sticks out his foot. Radford can’t see it — the tray blocks his downward view. He trips over Don’s foot. In his head the sound of battle fades as dishes tumble with a loud clatter.

Don waits, taunting, hoping Radford will fight. Don’s one of your martial-arts types and he just knows he can beat up anybody — especially somebody who won’t fight back.

Radford is picking up the scattered dishes. He doesn’t even look up at Don.

Charlie the boss strides across the aisle and grips Don roughly by the arm. “Hey, bozo. Bust my dishes, you pay for ’em… I told you leave him alone.”

Don gives him a look, decides not to make anything of it right now, and walks away.

Charlie helps Radford to his feet. “You got to remember to fight back.”

Radford thinks about it, visibly. He has to marshal the things swimming around in his head before he can formulate an answer. Finally he says, “Don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“C.W., you gotta look out for yourself.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Radford resumes picking up dishes.

Charlie pulls him up straight and makes motions as if dusting him off. “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

At the sink of the tiny employees’ washroom Radford stands in his shorts scrubbing tomato-stain out of his trousers. Then he locks the door. His head aches terribly. He takes that same insulin kit out of a pocket and injects himself with painkiller. He’s hearing again that sound of sporadic combat fire.

He sees a Middle-Eastern town, arid, devastated by war, and a gaunt undernourished teenage girl moving silently through the night, alert, weapon ready, her face lit by sudden distant flashes; we hear continuing sound of combat fire. The girl takes a step forward — steps on a mine — abruptly Radford’s memory explodes in a white flash as the girl disintegrates…

He sees himself, then, watching from up in the gaping skull-like third-story window opening of a bombed-out shell of an apartment house. He holds a ’scoped sniper rifle. He’s very young (22), in camouflage uniform, face blackened, revealing no feelings except fear. Scared… sweating in the bitter cold, frightened, he aims his rifle at something in the distance. He can hear its approach, the Iraqi helicopter, and he squints into the scope, aiming up into the sky — steadies his aim and fires. The recoil rocks his shoulder gently; he’s used to that. When he lowers the rifle, his expression has gone blank — he seems no longer afraid. The sound of the helicopter rotors changes, becomes rattly and uneven, and Radford watches while the machine begins to sway from side to side as if on a pendulum before it shatters against the slope of a jagged rock hillside. The explosion lights up Radford’s face like daylight and he shrinks back into the shadows of the bombed-out building.

…In the cafe bathroom he puts the syringe and bottle away in the case, and pockets the case, and straps on his grease-stained uniform. In his aching head the sound of combat fades. He tries to open the door. It won’t open. Won’t budge. He shoves hard at it. Nothing now, except after a moment he begins to hear men chuckling beyond the door. He kicks the door. The voices outside begin to laugh aloud.

The harder Radford tries to open the door, the louder they laugh.

He feels as if the room is closing in on him…

Outside the door, in the cafe hallway, are grouped several waiters, including Don. They’re the ones who’re laughing. A chair is propped under the door handle, wedging it shut.

Don opens a fuse box on the wall. His finger flips a circuit-breaker from “on” to “off.”

Inside the bathroom Radford is plunged into darkness and panic overtakes him. He thrashes at the jammed door.

Out in the hallway the waiters’ laughter stops abruptly when the door is kicked out in splinters.

Radford comes exploding out through the smashed wreckage.

They gape at him.

In a sweating panic Radford stands panting.

Don backs away in sudden fear.

— And Radford walks away.

The waiters try to laugh again, but it’s uneasy and it trails off…

After nightfall the cafe’s trade changes. More of an upscale crowd now — thrill seekers looking for something they won’t find behind a velvet rope in the more trendy sections.

In a corner booth sit the two guys who earlier were in their van watching Radford on the street. Their names are Conrad and Gootch. Conrad’s the dapper dandy who likes to smoke cigarillos but he can’t smoke inside here so he’s drumming his fingers on the Formica tabletop, an unlit cigarillo between his fingers. He’s watching Radford swab the floor, mopping under tables. Conrad, the body-builder, is facing the other direction, intent on something or someone. Conrad asks, “What you lookin’ at?”

“Curly, Larry and Moe over there.”

Conrad swivels, hikes his arm up over the back of the booth and twists his jaw to look back over his shoulder. He sees three tough-looking punks drinking beer at the counter. “Uh-huh.” He looks at his watch. “You know that’s what I hate about theater. You bust your ass to get there on time and the fuckin’ curtain never goes up when it’s supposed to. Fifteen, twenty minutes later they get all the stragglers seated and some dickhead gets on the mike and says please turn off your fuckin’ cellulars and pagers. Where the hell’s our leading lady tonight?”

Back in a doorway, half hidden in shadow, Don the waiter swigs beer and watches everything.

Now a slim woman enters — attractive, blonde, thirties, well put together and nicely dressed; too sophisticated for this place. She looks around nervously.

Radford glances at the woman, looks away, continues to mop the floor.

Conrad says under his breath, “Curtain going up.”

And now — quickly…

Conrad and Gootch look toward the counter where the three punks sit.

The three punks — Curly, Larry and Moe — drain their beers and get up. Their path toward the exit just happens to take them near the blonde.

Don from his shadowed corner watches everyone.

Curly, the leader of the three, does a take as he play-acts recognizing the blonde.

She doesn’t look at Curly; she’s seen them out of the corner of her eye and she’s alarmed. Abruptly Curly shouts: “Your brother owes me two large.”

The blonde at first doesn’t look at him. Then, startled to realize it was addressed to her, she tries to conceal her fear. “Were you talking to me?”

Curly bellows, “He owes me money!”

Curly jerks the blonde forward roughly, his face an inch from hers.

“Let go!” She looks around frantically for help but there’s only Radford, mopping the floor.

Curly grips the blonde’s throat. She tries to fend him off but Larry grabs her wrists and stands behind her, immobilizing her arms, and Moe moves in close, menacing. The blonde whispers, “Somebody please…”

Curly says, “Let’s take it one more time from the top. Start with where’s your brother at?”

The blonde in terror finally blurts, “I don’t have a brother!”

Radford watches but makes no move.

Curly slaps the woman’s face hard and tightens his hold on her throat. Larry pulls her arms up behind her back. She cries out. Moe kidney-punches her from the side and Curly slams his fist hard into her midriff, doubling her over. “Let’s try one more time.”

The blonde can barely gasp. “What’re you talking about?… Please…”

Moe gets set to hit her again and then suddenly rocks back — something has hit him hard in the back — and as he falls away from the blonde his fall reveals Radford. He’s jabbed Moe with the end of the mop-handle.

Radford says, “Hey man, please.”

The punks react. All three turn on Radford. By the swiftness of their reaction, and the way they suddenly ignore the blonde, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see this whole set-up has been rehearsed. The one they’re really after is Radford.

As the three attack him he stabs the mop handle toward Larry’s eye and it makes Larry flinch away and in the flow of the same motion Radford swings the pole against Curly’s cheek, hard enough to knock the man off his feet, but now Moe has recovered from the kidney punch and he swarms toward Radford and all of a sudden the three of them are on him like bears on a honey pot and the pain in his head is beyond unendurable but still, somehow, moving faster than anyone ought to be able to, Radford protectively pushes the blonde into a booth before he swings to face them and speaks before any of them can nail him:

“Hey, guys, I don’t want to hurt you.”

That provokes Curly’s harsh laugh. They come at Radford and he backs away, looking for a way out, really a coward… And all three punks pile on him, beat on him, lock him in a hold that a crowbar couldn’t pry loose…

Conrad and Gootch are watching with keen interest. They see when Radford knows he can’t get out of it and begins to give in with unhappy resignation.

Conrad speaks under his breath to Gootch: “Now we see if he’s a player.”

The three punks have Radford pinned. His mind is screeching, running off the track now— All of a sudden he’s in a chilly fog as he comes heaving up out of a basement under some derelict building like a monster creature. He’s young, in combat fatigues, hauling his sniper rifle — he tries to slip away in the night but abruptly there’s the gleaming point of a bayonet against the back of his neck and he reacts… turns his head slowly to see a child holding a rifle at the other end of the bayonet. A boy, not more than twelve or thirteen, looking half stoned, wearing wretched street clothes but a soldier’s kepi on his head.

A blank mask descends over young Radford’s expression. With resignation he lifts his hands in surrender.

Curly is whipping toward the blonde’s booth while Larry and Moe keep Radford locked in their grip but now, seeing where Curly’s headed, Radford explodes. He hammers backwards with one heel against somebody’s shin and, with that opening breached, skillfully kicks his way out of their hold and now he goes after the three punks with the silent cold precision of a demolition ball. There’s no question of “fighting fair;” Radford swings a leg toward Curly at the booth, kicks Curly in the groin and flashes around to face the other two. He uses anything as a weapon — steel paper-napkin holder, table, bottle of ketchup, chair, his own hands and feet — this isn’t a neat clean choreographed thing. It’s a brutal fight; Radford fights dirty.

The blonde watches this, wide-eyed. Conrad and Gootch watch with clinical interest. Don the waiter stares, inscrutable. Charlie the owner comes from the kitchen scowling, drawn by the racket; picks up a kitchen knife and comes around the counter lofting his prosthetic hand, but by then the fight is over. Charlie is pleased with him — pleased for him. “O-kay.”

Radford has knocked the living shit out of all three tough guys.

Charlie says, “Finish ’em, C.W. Bust up their kneecaps.”

But the three are down, and Radford backs away.

Curly and Larry painfully pull themselves together and try to rouse the semi-conscious Moe.

Radford hardly even seems to be breathing hard. The scar on his face glistens with sweat.

Don the waiter fades back, disappearing silently.

The blonde seems to be looking for a way to sneak out without being noticed.

Curly and Larry help Moe outside.

Radford watches Conrad and Gootch as they cross to the door and exit.

Outside on the street, the redheaded dealer appears from shadows while Conrad flicks his cigarillo into the gutter; he and Gootch get into their van. This time Conrad takes the wheel (it’s his van). He says to his companion, “That’ll do it. They do a background, they’ll find out he just about beat three guys to death.”

Inside, Radford looks out through the cafe’s big picture window at the three punks who’re staggering away down the sidewalk. His attention is drawn to the van when its engine revs up. What he sees, reflected in window glass, is a puddle behind the van. In the puddle he can see an upside-down backward reflection of the van’s license plate — a reflection within a reflection. The plate number is 7734 OL, and seen upside down and backwards it reads quite plainly “To hell.” Even Radford may remember that…

The van drives away, rippling the puddle, destroying the image.

The blonde comes toward Radford’s shoulder. “Hey, I really — I’d like to…”

Ignoring her, he carries his mop back toward the kitchen.

Mystified, the blonde looks at Charlie. “He always so sociable?… What’s his name?”

“Radford. C. W. Radford.” Charlie shrugs, smiles and goes away toward the back, where he finds Radford washing out the mop as if nothing had happened. Charlie takes out roll of cash, peels off some, tucks them in Radford’s shirt pocket. “All right. Take the night off, will ya?”

Radford’s only acknowledgement is to hang up his apron and head for the back door out.

Charlie says, “See? You can still take care of yourself. Think about it, C.W.”

Radford doesn’t look back; he opens the door and goes out.

Outside as Radford trudges away from Charlie’s, the redheaded dealer intercepts him. “Hey, my man. You was pretty cool back there. This mornin’ and now those guys. You want to buy?”

Radford shakes his head “no” and walks on.

A car approaches him from behind. Its headlights throw his long shadow ahead of him. It seems ominous because of the slow pace with which it catches up to him but he only glances at it — particularly at its rent-a-car plate holder. The car paces him. Then its window opens and we see it’s the blonde who’s driving.

“You never gave me a chance to thank you.”

“Wasn’t looking for gratitude.” Radford’s voice sounds rusty, as if from disuse. Then he looks directly at her. “Lady, it’s three in the morning and this is no neighborhood to go driving around with your windows open.”

“I know. I’d feel ever so much safer if you were in the car.”

He looks back over his shoulder. He can’t be sure — is that slow-moving shadow back there the same van as before?

He keeps walking until the woman guns her car forward and pulls into the curb to block him. She gets out and confronts him.

He says, “Uh-huh?”

“You restored my faith — I was starting to think chivalry was dead, or at least traded in on a second-hand Toyota… That’s a pun, son. Not even a chuckle?”

She opens the passenger door. After a beat, with no break in expression, Radford gets in the car.

When she shuts the door on him Radford glances at the door’s wing mirror. The van’s still back there. Pinpoint glow of a lit cigarillo.

The blonde gets into the car beside Radford, behind the wheel, but before she puts it in gear she leans close and gives him a deeply questioning look. She runs her hand along his coarse beard stubble. “C. W. Radford. That what you call yourself?”

“Mostly I don’t call me at all.”

“Me, I’m Anne. Anne with an ‘e.’ “ Then after a momentary silence she says, “You’re supposed to ask if I’ve got a last name.”

It doesn’t inspire a response in him.

She says politely, “It’s Hartman. Anne Hartman.”

“All right.”

In the streaming hot water of Anne Hartman’s shower, Radford stands with a borrowed Gillette ladies’ disposable, shaving by feel. He’s not alone, naked in the steam. Anne is scrubbing his back. She’s laughing.

And then in her bed he’s clean and shaved and mostly ignores the woman while very gently she explores his many injuries. “All these scars — kind of sexy.”

Through slitted lids his eyes explore the room. It’s a stodgy furnished flat on the ground floor of an apartment court, impersonal as a hotel room. She says, “Where’d you get ’em?”

“What? The scars? Place called Kurdistan.”

Anne gets out of bed and crosses into the bathroom. Radford doesn’t stir; he lies on his back with hands over his eyes — that headache again.

Anne’s voice chatters at him from the bathroom. “Yeah, so I work for a political action committee. You know. Fundraisers, campaign literature, get out the grassroots knuckleheads.”

On the pillow he rolls his head back and forth in pain. Then he hears the woman approach — her voice growing louder: “C.W.? Hey — you okay?”

Anne sits down on the edge of the bed and gently strokes his forehead. “You don’t have a hell of a lot of small talk, do you? What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“You can’t think about nothing.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You can. You can teach yourself to do that.”

“Why would you want to?”

He’s thinking about that detention camp on the northern border of Iraq — primitive; stark. Watchtowers. Tangles of barbed wire. Prisoners dying slowly in filthy rags, Kurds mostly, a few volunteers from Kuwait and Armenia, and two gaunt Americans, one of whom is himself, Radford, just a kid then really, covered with suppurating bruises and cuts, and the other of whom is Charlie the cook — also that much younger, and even more beat-up — with a bloody stump, hardly staunched with rags, where his hand used to be.

She brings him back from that camp. She bends down gently to kiss his scarred forehead.

He says, “Lady, don’t waste sympathy on me. I broke.”

She doesn’t quite understand.

“I talked. You know? Went on the telly… Iraqi TV.”

And in the black-and-white TV monitor in his mind he can see his whipped young self speaking straight into the camera with lifeless calm. He says to Anne, “I told the world how wonderful life was in Saddam’s paradise. I recited all the lies they told me to tell.”

She’s stroking him. “I see.” Then she says, “No one can blame you for wanting to stay alive.”

“Nobody stayed alive.”

She takes his face in both hands and kisses him. After a bit, he begins sluggishly to respond…

In the daylight he stands at the window in his stained trousers, sips coffee and looks out at parked cars and little kids splashing in an inflated wading pool. As the phone rings, Anne enters in a robe, toweling her hair. She makes a face when she looks at the condition of his trousers. “Let’s get you some new clothes.” And she’s picking up the ringing phone. “Hello? Oh — hi. Ha, right. Well none of your nosy business… What? Now? I, uh, I forgot. All right, okay, sure. I’ll be there in, like, an hour?”

She hangs up and says to Radford, “I promised some friends I’d go target shooting. Want to come along?”

He only looks at her, without any change in his expression.

The sign in the old building corridor announces the path to “Alvin York Memorial Gun Club — Open Mon — Sat 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Closed Sundays.” The sign is on a door, and Anne opens it. She’s very sexy, painted into skintight jeans. Radford, in new trousers and shirt, follows her in.

The foyer needs paint. Its scratched metal reception desk is unoccupied. The decor consists of gun ads, hunting prints and NRA posters. A long window separates Radford and Anne from a shooting range where they can see the backs of three men wearing ear-protector headsets and shooting rifles at targets; the snap of each shot is barely audible in here.

Anne leads the way through the inner door onto the indoor range. A big guy looks up — Harry Sinclair, 50, bearded, muscular and rough — from where he’s hand-loading ammunition at a work table. The thick beard hides most of his face. When he smiles, he has a badly discolored front tooth, second left from center.

Anne says sotto voce, to Radford, “Come on — lighten up.”

Harry says, “Hi.”

Anne says, “Hi yourself. Harry, this is C.W.”

“Ha’re you?” And, to Anne: “You havin’ any trouble breathing?”

“No. Why?”

“That outfit of yours so tight I’m havin’ trouble breathing… Got a weapon you want to sight in?”

Radford shakes his head. “No. I’m just a spectator.”

Anne teases him: “Oh come on.” And to Harry: “C.W. told me he used to compete in target matches.”

Harry looks at him with sudden recognition. “C.W. — Wait a minute. You’re, what’s the name, no, don’t tell me, I’ll get it—”

On the range one of the shooters looks this way. All three wear goggles; perhaps Radford recognizes Conrad, from the van. Conrad pretends no interest in Radford or Anne; so do his two companions. One is Gootch; the other is Wojack, 25, dapper and Ivy League in a high-priced suit.

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…

Harry sits back and, in relief, peels the phony beard and stage make-up off. Now we see him clean-shaven.

Don produces a syringe, which he fills from a phial while Gootch rolls up the unconscious Radford’s sleeve…