left – right –
left. Just like the Army.”
“I never was in the Army,” Charley said wistfully, “Almost,
but...”
“Morton building on your right, you turn left,” George said.
“Then right. Then left again. That’s so no one can get more than one block’s line
of sight on you. Now let’s do that.” They executed the maneuver, ending on a
small street just short of a noisy intersection.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” George said, “so no one’s going to get
too excited if you’re parked too long. Maybe a ticket, but no towing.”
“Your car will be right there,” he continued, pointing to a vacant
space along the sidewalk. “Your car will be right there, Charley, or on the
same block anyway, facing the same way, if somebody else is parked in that
exact spot. See that corner ahead? Turn right there, right? That’s the main
street; you’ll know it because there’s a sign on the corner that says “MAIN ST”
No one will notice one more car headed north. Say that.”
Charley was able to repeat most of what George had just
said, at least the important parts.
“And when you see the sign for Harrisburg, you follow that.
You’ll be turning left.”
“Harrisburg. Left.”
“Good! Now let’s retrace our steps and I’ll show you where the
car key’s hidden for you. Just to make sure it’s still there.”
They walked back and alongside the Morton Building. George
glanced up and said “See this ledge just above your head? It’s only about three
inches deep, but that’s just right for us. Reach up there, Charley, to the
left. A little more.”
Charley’s hand encountered something. He pulled it down.
Yes, it was a car door key-clicker combo. “Right,” said George. “Now put it
back. It will be there tomorrow. You can grab it after you – do your job, on
your way to the car.”
“I want to take it with me,” said Charley, “now.”
“Just in case you’re stopped by the police, I don’t want
that key found on you. Trace it back to the car, you know? And then to my
friends, who will be very unhappy and they have a long reach and they never
forget. OK?”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Charley firmly. “I’m keeping
the damn key.”
George put on a sorrowful look, but shrugged as Charley put
the clicker in his pocket.
“Tomorrow I’ll give you a Harrisburg phone number. Just call
that number as soon as you’re getting near that city. The people will give you
directions, so you go where they tell you to; they’re expecting you. You’ll lie
low for a while. And don’t worry about the car; it won’t be stolen or anything.
Just no speeding!”
They got into George’s Buick and drove back to the motel.
With Charley finally asleep, George went to the car, opened
the trunk, loaded a collapsible-stock sniper rifle, then replaced it in its
tote.
George got into the front seat and rehearsed, in as much
detail as possible, the moment after Charley will have killed Barnes. Even if
George didn’t quite get a clean kill-shot at Charley, he thought, all he had to
do was wound him, and Barnes’ security people would finish the job on the spot.
George had no friends in Harrisburg, of course, and no car would
be waiting for Charley. But Charley would never make it to that car, so the
lack of friends and absence of a car wouldn’t matter. Charley would be dead
before that. George was a very good shot with a rifle. Especially from a
rooftop.
Charley woke up . Where the hell was Art? Out for a smoke,
maybe, or something . Charley had packed a small bag with a toothbrush and
change of underwear. And a pint of Old Something-Or-Other – whatever was
cheapest at the nearest D.C. liquor store.
Where was that bottle? George must have hid it from him.
Charley rummaged through dresser drawers, found the bottle. He also found an
opened envelope – addressed to ‘Sebastian George’ with a Maryland address. So
that was his real name? Or more real than ‘Art’, anyway.
Charley had
left. Just like the Army.”
“I never was in the Army,” Charley said wistfully, “Almost,
but...”
“Morton building on your right, you turn left,” George said.
“Then right. Then left again. That’s so no one can get more than one block’s line
of sight on you. Now let’s do that.” They executed the maneuver, ending on a
small street just short of a noisy intersection.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” George said, “so no one’s going to get
too excited if you’re parked too long. Maybe a ticket, but no towing.”
“Your car will be right there,” he continued, pointing to a vacant
space along the sidewalk. “Your car will be right there, Charley, or on the
same block anyway, facing the same way, if somebody else is parked in that
exact spot. See that corner ahead? Turn right there, right? That’s the main
street; you’ll know it because there’s a sign on the corner that says “MAIN ST”
No one will notice one more car headed north. Say that.”
Charley was able to repeat most of what George had just
said, at least the important parts.
“And when you see the sign for Harrisburg, you follow that.
You’ll be turning left.”
“Harrisburg. Left.”
“Good! Now let’s retrace our steps and I’ll show you where the
car key’s hidden for you. Just to make sure it’s still there.”
They walked back and alongside the Morton Building. George
glanced up and said “See this ledge just above your head? It’s only about three
inches deep, but that’s just right for us. Reach up there, Charley, to the
left. A little more.”
Charley’s hand encountered something. He pulled it down.
Yes, it was a car door key-clicker combo. “Right,” said George. “Now put it
back. It will be there tomorrow. You can grab it after you – do your job, on
your way to the car.”
“I want to take it with me,” said Charley, “now.”
“Just in case you’re stopped by the police, I don’t want
that key found on you. Trace it back to the car, you know? And then to my
friends, who will be very unhappy and they have a long reach and they never
forget. OK?”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Charley firmly. “I’m keeping
the damn key.”
George put on a sorrowful look, but shrugged as Charley put
the clicker in his pocket.
“Tomorrow I’ll give you a Harrisburg phone number. Just call
that number as soon as you’re getting near that city. The people will give you
directions, so you go where they tell you to; they’re expecting you. You’ll lie
low for a while. And don’t worry about the car; it won’t be stolen or anything.
Just no speeding!”
They got into George’s Buick and drove back to the motel.
With Charley finally asleep, George went to the car, opened
the trunk, loaded a collapsible-stock sniper rifle, then replaced it in its
tote.
George got into the front seat and rehearsed, in as much
detail as possible, the moment after Charley will have killed Barnes. Even if
George didn’t quite get a clean kill-shot at Charley, he thought, all he had to
do was wound him, and Barnes’ security people would finish the job on the spot.
George had no friends in Harrisburg, of course, and no car would
be waiting for Charley. But Charley would never make it to that car, so the
lack of friends and absence of a car wouldn’t matter. Charley would be dead
before that. George was a very good shot with a rifle. Especially from a
rooftop.
Charley woke up . Where the hell was Art? Out for a smoke,
maybe, or something . Charley had packed a small bag with a toothbrush and
change of underwear. And a pint of Old Something-Or-Other – whatever was
cheapest at the nearest D.C. liquor store.
Where was that bottle? George must have hid it from him.
Charley rummaged through dresser drawers, found the bottle. He also found an
opened envelope – addressed to ‘Sebastian George’ with a Maryland address. So
that was his real name? Or more real than ‘Art’, anyway.
Charley had
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