several drinks, one after the other.
George walked back into the room, took the bottle away from
Charley, and poured what was left into the sink. He went back to bed and was
soon asleep. Charley, however, stayed awake, worrying.
At one point he poked George half awake, said “Just in case,
just in case I get questioned or something, what do I say?”
George said “Just say it was a drug deal. Cops see those all
the time.” Then he went back to sleep.
Chapter 10: The Day of the Assassination
The next morning, George and Charley drove into Grantwood
again, passed the Morton Building, pulled up two blocks from it. George left
the engine running.
“This is it, Charley,” he said. That was an unnecessary
remark, but George, for once and to his surprise and annoyance, found his hands
quivering and his breath coming in short, quiet gasps. If Charley failed,
George would be history, too. “You know where you are? Which way are you
heading now? Tell me.”
Charley pointed in the direction of a building, the Morton
Building.
“Right. Go on past that building and people should already
be gathering for Barnes’ rally in that parking lot.”
“Barnes? Is he the guy? Who is he?” Charley asked.
“He’s a politician,” George said.
“OK,” said Charley, “I’ve never met a politician. Where will
you be?”
“Away from here,” said George. “Just remember, you’re going
to Harrisburg. Here’s a number to call when you get there.” George handed him a
slip of rumpled paper. “Memorize it. Look at me and repeat it.” Charley did. “Find
a gas station someplace,” George said, “and call that number, after you get out
of town and you’re sure no one is following you.”
“OK.”
“Now give me that damn piece of paper.”
“OK.”
George reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bottle and
opened it. “Here. Take one of these.”
“What’s that,” Charley asked in a tone of deep suspicion.
“It’ll steady your nerves, so you can shoot straight. Don’t
worry, it isn’t a narcotic or prescription or anything illegal.”
Charley put the pill in his mouth and swallowed.
“Well, good luck, Charley,” George said.
Charley didn’t move. There was a moment of strained silence.
“Charley, it’s time now. Go on. Make sure that pistol is
loaded and cocked. Remember your daughter and your grandson, and don’t fail
me.”
Slowly, Charley opened the passenger’s side door and got
out. With uncertain steps he disappeared in the direction of the office
building.
George drove two more blocks, parked, and removed his black
tote from the trunk. With a large sigh as if resigned to working on a Sunday,
he walked back toward the Morton Building. He’d reconnoitered it the previous Sunday,
where he’d smiled at members of the rudimentary weekend guard force, said “Hi.”
He’d made sure the building would be open to serve Sunday workaholics, and that
there was roof access. A guard remembered the face from the week before, more
or less, and nodded idly to George, as he got on the elevator and pressed the
button for the top floor.
As the elevator creaked upward, George thought about the
collapsible rifle in his bag, a bullet especially for Charley, the same caliber
as Charley’s pistol. Just cleaning up loose ends, he thought, then understood
what a stupid metaphor that was. Unworthy of him. That phone number in
Harrisburg, though, was smart. Just in case Charley survived long enough to
tell the cops, what would they make of it? George had looked up the number of
the Greyhound bus station in Harrisburg; that’s the number he’d given to
Charley. Escaping on a bus was not Charley’s plan, although it could look that
way. And the car key in Charley’s pocket would be traced to a car that had been
junked six months before. Or more probably, not traced at all.
Charley Dukes, hands in pockets, walked as casually as he
could into the gathering crowd. An older woman approached him and said
George walked back into the room, took the bottle away from
Charley, and poured what was left into the sink. He went back to bed and was
soon asleep. Charley, however, stayed awake, worrying.
At one point he poked George half awake, said “Just in case,
just in case I get questioned or something, what do I say?”
George said “Just say it was a drug deal. Cops see those all
the time.” Then he went back to sleep.
Chapter 10: The Day of the Assassination
The next morning, George and Charley drove into Grantwood
again, passed the Morton Building, pulled up two blocks from it. George left
the engine running.
“This is it, Charley,” he said. That was an unnecessary
remark, but George, for once and to his surprise and annoyance, found his hands
quivering and his breath coming in short, quiet gasps. If Charley failed,
George would be history, too. “You know where you are? Which way are you
heading now? Tell me.”
Charley pointed in the direction of a building, the Morton
Building.
“Right. Go on past that building and people should already
be gathering for Barnes’ rally in that parking lot.”
“Barnes? Is he the guy? Who is he?” Charley asked.
“He’s a politician,” George said.
“OK,” said Charley, “I’ve never met a politician. Where will
you be?”
“Away from here,” said George. “Just remember, you’re going
to Harrisburg. Here’s a number to call when you get there.” George handed him a
slip of rumpled paper. “Memorize it. Look at me and repeat it.” Charley did. “Find
a gas station someplace,” George said, “and call that number, after you get out
of town and you’re sure no one is following you.”
“OK.”
“Now give me that damn piece of paper.”
“OK.”
George reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bottle and
opened it. “Here. Take one of these.”
“What’s that,” Charley asked in a tone of deep suspicion.
“It’ll steady your nerves, so you can shoot straight. Don’t
worry, it isn’t a narcotic or prescription or anything illegal.”
Charley put the pill in his mouth and swallowed.
“Well, good luck, Charley,” George said.
Charley didn’t move. There was a moment of strained silence.
“Charley, it’s time now. Go on. Make sure that pistol is
loaded and cocked. Remember your daughter and your grandson, and don’t fail
me.”
Slowly, Charley opened the passenger’s side door and got
out. With uncertain steps he disappeared in the direction of the office
building.
George drove two more blocks, parked, and removed his black
tote from the trunk. With a large sigh as if resigned to working on a Sunday,
he walked back toward the Morton Building. He’d reconnoitered it the previous Sunday,
where he’d smiled at members of the rudimentary weekend guard force, said “Hi.”
He’d made sure the building would be open to serve Sunday workaholics, and that
there was roof access. A guard remembered the face from the week before, more
or less, and nodded idly to George, as he got on the elevator and pressed the
button for the top floor.
As the elevator creaked upward, George thought about the
collapsible rifle in his bag, a bullet especially for Charley, the same caliber
as Charley’s pistol. Just cleaning up loose ends, he thought, then understood
what a stupid metaphor that was. Unworthy of him. That phone number in
Harrisburg, though, was smart. Just in case Charley survived long enough to
tell the cops, what would they make of it? George had looked up the number of
the Greyhound bus station in Harrisburg; that’s the number he’d given to
Charley. Escaping on a bus was not Charley’s plan, although it could look that
way. And the car key in Charley’s pocket would be traced to a car that had been
junked six months before. Or more probably, not traced at all.
Charley Dukes, hands in pockets, walked as casually as he
could into the gathering crowd. An older woman approached him and said
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