Try Try Again (4 page)

George reached out to his underworld contacts – not
irresponsible drunks or 7-11 holdup artists, but pros who could keep a secret,
who could hear out his list of requirements, make their recommendations, and
then forget there ever was a list, or a Sebastian George.

After three weeks of search and secret enquiry, and
consultations with underworld figures, and access to a few data collections he
wasn’t supposed to know even existed, he had looked at the records of some
sixteen men and three women in the D.C. area who met his criteria – except the
last: susceptibility to coercion.

But persistence paid off, as Sebastian George eventually identified
an ex-convict named Charley Dukes as the ideal assassin-slash-fall-guy. Dukes
met all the criminal requirements on George’s list:

.. “Not too bright” was the word on the street; “hard of
thinking”

.. Habitual criminal (robbery, mostly)

.. Two firearms convictions

.. Not strung out on dope

.. Not currently sought by police

.. No record in Pennsylvania

.. And most important, seriously coercible.

George’s sources mentioned a place in D.C. where Dukes might
be found: The Stirrup on New York Avenue Northeast – good, he thought: heavy
traffic on that street; no one would notice him going in or out.

Poor Charley, George thought, even though said to be not
very bright, or ‘dull normal’ as researchers would say, might still see he’d be
on what could be, a suicide mission. But Charley had a weakness that George
discovered: an illegitimate daughter in Roanoke whom he hadn’t seen since she
was three years old, but to whom he sent anonymous money whenever he could,
which was typically right after he’d held up a convenience store. Poor Charley,
George thought. Caring for his daughter seemed to be his only virtue; but it
would soon be his downfall. If Charley had never sent his daughter money, George’s
friends would never have known he had any relatives at all.

George had been in the Stirrup once, several years before. The
full name of the place was the Stirrup Bar and Grill, but habitués referred to
it as the “Strip Bar and Girl” for the goods on display to be rented by the
hour, or by the quarter-hour for those of limited means or energy.

He drove by, parked his dark Buick two blocks away, and
carefully put on his hairpiece. No, Sebastian George wasn’t bald, or even
thinning, although he kept his hair cut short. That night he planned to be ‘Art
Albright,’ and ‘Art Albright’ was bald and wore a wig – a good one and only
observant people could tell it was a wig – both as a disguise and so those
observant people would assume he was bald – which he was not.

He walked into the Stirrup. The place was almost deserted
that Wednesday at 9:30 p.m. His intentions seem to have been mistaken, because
the tit-feast who approached him said “Slow night, special price. It’s double on
Saturdays. I’m Bella.”

“And Sundays?” George rejoined.

“Off duty. Go pray.”

“No thanks, maybe later,” said George, “but I appreciate the
offer.” He handed her four twenty-dollar bills and said “I’m looking for
Charley – Charley Dukes – haven’t seen him in months. I’m Art Albright, an old
friend, just got released.”

Bella looked at her hand. “Four of a kind,” she remarked.
“How about a flush?”

“If you can tell me how to get hold of Charley, sure.”

“OK, she said.”

“Well?” he said.

“Money first.”

George looked at her carefully. Had to take a chance, didn’t
he? He didn’t blame her for wanting money up front; in her place, he would too.
He gave her another twenty.

“Charley’s in here maybe two-three nights a week,” she said,
“but not on Wednesdays. Who knows why? Meeting or something I guess, maybe his
parole officer or A.A., what a laugh. Because then he comes here to drink, I
mean. Tomorrow or Friday, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance. But he’ll be here
sooner or later.”

She started to turn away. “What does he look like?” George
asked.

Bella frowned. “I thought he was your friend?”

“He will be,” said George.

She stared at him, looked as if she were about to spit.
George thought she must take him for an undercover. But she shrugged, said
“Chunky white guy, about 50. Not much hair. Usually wears a collar shirt with
sleeves rolled up, has a beer and swears it’s his last. OK?”

“OK,” said George. “By the way, I’m not the law, so don’t
scare him off.”

“Shit,” she said, “who gives a fuck?” She stuffed the bills
in a pocket and went back to the bar.

George dropped by the next night, but no one was there who
could be Charley. On Friday, there was something of a crowd, but he did see a
plausible Charley, cuddling a Lite. Charley, however, was sitting at a table
with several other men.

George waited at the bar until he saw Charley head for the
men’s room, and followed him, waited for the room to empty, and said hello.

When George said hello, Charley looked at him suspiciously.
Who the hell would bother saying
hello
to him?

“Whatever, I don’t want any dope and I don’t do that other
stuff,” Charley said, pulling back against the wall.

“Charley Dukes?” George said.

Charley looked at him. “Not a chance.”

“Calm down, Charley. I’ve got a job for you.”

“A job, or a ‘job’”?

“You know. Now I’m going back into the bar and find an empty
table. You go back to your friends and suddenly notice me, right? Then come
over to my table. Say you just noticed your old friend Art.”

Fifteen minutes later, Charley was sitting across the table
from George. “What makes you think I’m Charley?” he asked.

“Because you are.”

Charley took a deep breath. It occurred to him Bella must
have ratted on him. But the police knew where to find him; they didn’t have to
send this guy. He looked tough, but he fit in his clothes. Charley had never
fit well in his clothes, and to do so was a mark of distinction, in his mind,
the mark of success as a crime professional that had evaded him.

“OK,” he said, “to do what?” Nobody was going to fool good
old Charley.

“Kill a man,” said George.

Charley’s chin dropped. “Are you crazy?” he asked. George looked
as if he were about to answer the rather insulting cliché, but did not. There
was a brief silence, then Charley said “OK, maybe. With conditions.” whispering
this time.

George outlined the situation. He didn’t tell Charley the name
of the victim, or the place where the job, and the victim, would be executed.

“In a crowd, you said?” Charley asked.

“Yeah,” said George. “Maybe one-two hundred people.
Outdoors.”

“And where am I when I – do it.”

“Right in front, Charley, with a handgun. You won’t be twelve
feet from him.”

“Fuck that! You’re crazy.”

“Good money, Charley. Five thousand. No, make that ten.”

“But I’m dead.”

“Nobody’s going to shoot into a crowd. Someone might try to
tackle you, but you can run for it.”

“Twenty.”

George put on the face of a car salesman whose integrity had
just been impugned. “I know two-three shooters who come cheaper.”

“So why me?”

“I can trust you to do the job, not back out at the last
minute, like you did at that bank job in Hyattsville a couple of years ago.”

Charley’s eyes widened.

“I checked up on you, Charley. Gun violations: 7-11’s,
corner groceries. I’ve been told you chicken out sometimes, but you’ve hung in
there enough to get caught with an unregistered gun twice, and sent up for it once.”

Charley nodded. “So?”

“So you can do this job for me. And I know you will.”

“What if I won’t?”

“Then I’ll hunt down your daughter over in Roanoke, and kill
her.”

Charley gasped. He gulped a few times, and with an unsteady
voice said “How do you know about Darlene? Nobody knows that. I was never even
married. That’s not in my record.”

“My friends have their own records,” George replied.

There followed several minutes of silence. Charley sucked on
his bottle of Lite, as if seeking the consolation of a tit. Finally, “OK,” he
said, “what choice do I have? I’m broke and nobody will hire me and Bella said
Sid said this is my last beer because I owe so much. But it’s got to be
twenty.”

“That’s fine,” said George.

But then a thought. “Up front,” said Charley. “I want my
money in advance, at least a good chunk of it.”

“No,” said George. “You’d just blow it where people would
notice, or get a ride out of town and I’d never see you again. Besides, I need
you to be acting alone. If the cops see you flashed a wad they’d know better.
The next time we meet, I’ll show you the money in cash so you know it’s real.

“But here’s what I’ll do for you right now. To show you I
mean business, I mean. I’ll bet you have lots of debts. The bar tab here, for
instance, as you just said. Or certain parties you can’t pay and who might
shoot you down right outside here on the New York Avenue sidewalk, just as an
object lesson.

“I’ll pay off five K of that debt, this week. So you’ll hear
some unknown person did that. Your creditors will have every reason not to
mention it to the police. And you get the remaining fifteen thousand after the
hit – less five hundred in cash.”

George reached in his pocket and pulled out five hundreds,
handed them to Charley.

“What happens next?” asked Charley, staring down at the
bills.

“The hit will be the first week in October, not in town here
but a place we’ll drive to, you and I. Don’t get in trouble with the law in the
meantime, or do anything stupid. And give me a list of your debts right now.”

“I’ll think about doing the job. Is that OK?”

“Sure. Take some time. I’ll be back here on Monday, so you
be here too.”

“And you won’t hurt my daughter? I screwed up everything in
my life, except her. Now I don’t even dare call her. But she’s all I have.
Nothing else matters. She’ll be OK?”

“She’ll be OK if everything works out. If you show up here
on Monday, and if you do the job. And don’t tell her to run away – my sources
can follow her anywhere. I won’t hurt your daughter if you do this job for me, and
I won’t hurt your new grandson, either.”

Charley’s mouth opened and his brows went up toward his
receding hairline.

“You didn’t know you had a grandson, did you?” George said
casually.

GEORGE

The following Monday at ten o’clock, George reappeared and
sat down at Charley’s table. They ordered drinks.

“How are you doing, Charley?”

“Not so good. I’ll be kicked out of my room if I don’t…”

George reached in a pocket and handed Charley another
hundred. “Money goes fast when you haven’t earned it yet, right? That’s the
last money unless you do the job I want.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Murder conviction…” Charley murmured. “Life, or …” He
looked up at George.

George quietly pulled an ordinary paper bag out of a
briefcase and gave Charley a flash of its contents. All the bills on top were
hundreds.

Charley swallowed, began to sweat. “This place – where the –
job will be,” he said, “Do they have capital punishment?”

“You know how many times killers are executed?” said George.
“Damn few. And those are the ones who didn’t plan or have any money, and no
place to hide.”

“And I’ll have all – three, right?”

“I’ll give you all three.”

“The guy must be important.”

“He is.”

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” said Charley after a pause, “I
don’t know, money’s good, but the getaway? How chancy will that be?”

George was wondering if this was the point where he should
mention Charley’s daughter again, but he was interrupted by a firm hand on his
shoulder. He looked up into the smiling face of a man whose name he didn’t
remember. “Well hello, George,” the smiling face said, “What the hell are you
doing in a shithole like this?”

George stood up and stared into the other man’s eyes. “Look,”
he said quietly but firmly, “I’m really sorry, but I’m conducting a critical
business transaction here and I’d be very grateful if you’d just leave right now.
Out the door. Now. I’ll catch you later.”

George’s voice and rigid chin were convincing. “OK, all
right.” the man said. “No problem. Just going.” The man left the Stirrup
shaking his head and muttering something about so much for being friendly, and
some people were just nasty shit jackasses, and he should’ve just told him to
fuck off.

George returned to his seat. He hoped Charley hadn’t heard
that ‘George’. No, he thought, Charley’s face expressed its usual room-for-rent
vacancy. What were we talking about? About money? No, about getting away. Well,
he’d have to say something to Charley about that. Make up something good.

But Charley had indeed heard ‘George’. Not that Charley had
assumed ‘Art Albright’ was a real name, but now he knew what ‘Art’’s real name
might be. Might. That information could be useful. Charley decided not to ask
‘Art’ why someone had just called him ‘George’
. That’s my advantage
,
Charley thought. ‘Art’ is George. Or ‘George’ is someone else. Whatever. It’s
one step closer to the truth, if Charley ever acted on his thought that
blackmail would probably be the next logical step after the killing. Yes, Art-George
seemed to be worth a lot of money – a lot more than twenty thousand. Art-George
had something to lose. And could pay for silence.

George was explaining the getaway “…You’ll need to get out
of town fast. I’ll have a clean car waiting for you, no outstanding tickets, no
BOLOs. It will be three blocks from where you’re going to shoot – the man. You
take off in the car and hide out with some people whose phone number I’ll give
you, not speeding, not driving recklessly. They’ll give you the money. OK? And
you won’t come back to D.C. again – at least not to the Stirrup.”

Charley’s eyes narrowed. He’d been fooled too often before,
had developed caution.

“So I’m just supposed to trust these ‘friends’ of yours that
they’ll give me the money? Why should I? What if your friends run off with it?”

George laughed. “Are you kidding? These guys launder half a
mil a day. Would they risk that for a few thousand bucks?”

“But it’s enough money for me to kill somebody?”

“Sad to say, Charley, but that’s true. That’s the way it
is.”

“But twenty isn’t enough.”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking. I want more,” Charley said. “Twenty,
plus the five thousand you paid some of my debts with."

George sighed. “Look, I’m really stretched here. Don’t get
the wrong idea, because I gave you a couple of hundreds and paid some of your
bills; that’s all I’ll have until my customer comes through with your – fee.
But still, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Thanks,” said Charley gratefully. George was really an OK
guy. “Now what?” he asked.

“Be right here in the Stirrup at twelve noon this Saturday.
Got that? With a piece that works, loaded. Do you have a pistol? A .38?”

“Yeah,” said Charley. “An old one, but it works. Too cheap
to buy me a better one?”

George put on a wounded look, said “I don’t have all your
connections, Charley. It’s not easy to buy a street gun these days, unless
you’re tight with the right people. And I’m not.”