Try Try Again (5 page)

That Saturday it rained. George was concerned if it were to
continue into Sunday, Barnes would call off the outdoor event or move it
inside; but with our luck, the rain had soon stopped, and Barnes’ rally was
still on for ten o’clock the next day.

George entered the Stirrup at twelve noon, as promised.
Charley wasn’t there. George waited, his accustomed composure fraying into a
bad metaphor.

But at twelve thirty-seven Charley appeared, looking
worried. George motioned him over to his table. Charley ordered a shot of the
house bourbon. No, make that a double. George told the waitress to forget it,
and handed her a twenty. The waitress went back behind the bar and reported to
a man drying glasses, using loud words such as “fuck they’re doing” and “beats
the shit,” and “whatever the hell they’re up to.” The man behind the bar told
her to shut the fuck up and get back to work, says that old guy in the corner with
a beard who sits there writing all the time, needs refreshing.

“Hi, Charley,” said ‘Art,’ “ready for the big day?”

Charley looked both glum and determined. “No,” he said. “I
want more money or I’m out.”

“Well, I’ve been reconsidering what you said, Charley, and
you were right; fifteen thousand in addition to the five thousand in tabs I
paid for you isn’t enough for what we’re asking you to do. So I’m making it twenty
thousand, just like you wanted, not counting what I’ve already paid. I already
told my friends to give you that amount.”

Charley looked surprised, then smiled.

Charley and George walked out of the bar, turned two
corners, and got into George’s Buick. He drove north to the Beltway, then west
to I-70.

“So where are we going, Art?” Charley asked. “I guess you
can tell me now.”

“Grantwood, Pennsylvania”

“Where’s that?”

“East of Harrisburg. I was there last week, arranging for my
friends to put you up for a while. To hide you. They’re going to leave a
getaway car for you just before you need it, and I’ve already stashed the spare
key where you can find it. I’ll show you this afternoon.”

There were several minutes of silence, and then Charley drew
a deep breath. “So give me the details,” he said.

“OK, here it is. We’ll stay in a motel this evening – miles
from tomorrow’s site – drive into town and take time to look around, see where
the man will be speaking. I’ll show you where our friends from Harrisburg will
park a getaway car for you, so you can make an easy exit.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll have dinner and sack out early in the motel
room.”

“One room?”

“I’m guessing you’re straight, Charley. I just don’t want
you having any second thoughts and sneaking away.”

“Ah – OK.” He paused. “And tomorrow? What time, anyway? What
time will I be doing – my job?”

“Ten o’clock, but politicians are always late; builds up the
crowd’s anxiety level, you know, so when the pol finally gets there he’s some
kind of savior protecting his fans from a wasted Sunday morning.”

George continued, “A man will be speaking to a crowd, maybe
two hundred people, from a platform. Then if he does what most people do in
that situation, and what he himself usually does, he’ll step down into the
crowd to shake hands. You’ll be there. You’ll edge toward him without being too
obvious about it. You’ll extend your hand – not the one holding the pistol in
your pocket. When he reaches for it you’ll pull out your gun and shoot him.
Two-three times, more if you need to, just to make sure.”

“Will there be cops? Guards?”

“Probably. But they won’t shoot into a crowd, as I said, and
that’s where you’ll be. As soon as you get those shots off, you get the hell out
of there as fast as you can.”

“And the getaway? The car? How will I recognize it?”

“I’ll show you this afternoon, the exact corner where it
will be parked. There’s a clicker key courtesy of our friends, and you can have
that tomorrow morning. I hid it where you can find it just before you get to
the car. Just click and see which car lights up. Are we OK so far? You don’t
sound calm. Show me your hand. No, that one. Shaking? I’ll give you some pills
tomorrow to take the edge off. But no more booze for a while.”

At three p.m., George and Charley pulled into an
unpretentious motel near one of the Pennsylvania Turnpike exits.

“Is this place an original?” asked Charley in wonder.

“Original and almost untouched, as I’m sure you’ll see when
you use the plumbing. One of the original Howard Johnsons.”

“And a restaurant. Is that …”

“Sure. It’s Chinese now, you know, since all the old
restaurants in the chain closed down.”

“Any good?”

“The restaurant? As good as Chinese motel food gets,
Charley.”

George got carryout and brought it back to their room. After
an early dinner, they drove to Grantwood and parked on one of the larger
streets. The sun was almost setting. “Need to wrap this up before dark,” George
said, “Don’t want anyone looking at us crossways.”

They strolled into a large, almost-empty parking lot. A
makeshift platform was already in place along one side, in front of a bare
concrete wall. “This is it, Charley.” Charley began to sweat. “Look around.
There are buildings on all sides here, five or six stories, but see that seven-story
one across the street? That’s called the Morton Building, just an ordinary
office building. Use it to get your bearings. Right?” Charley nodded. “Then
let’s do this in slow motion.”

“You walk around here like you know this town. You were here
last week, you said?”

“Yeah. Checking out the site where you’ll be tomorrow,
making sure the motel was still in business, finding a good spot for my friends
to park your getaway car – and so on.”

George and Charley walked north past the Morton Building and
turned left. “Remember: from in front of that building it’s 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 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.

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 “We’re
going to win, aren’t we?”

Charley saw red / white / blue banners, heard a hubbub of
excitement. He was nervous because he’d never actually shot at anyone before,
in spite of having those gun-possession convictions George had mentioned.
Charley had been worried that George would find out that he wasn’t really a
shooter and cancel the contract and he wouldn’t get all that money and he might
kill Darlene anyway. He wasn’t sure his aim would be good enough, although from
a distance of twelve feet or so, how could he miss?

But he had to do it, had to kill this politician, because of
his own daughter and now his grandson. Granddad the assassin, he thought
bitterly. Well, the kid would never know his ancestry, he was sure of that. Darlene
had renounced her father long ago, even though he still sent her money when he
had some. She might tell her son, whatever his name was, that his grandfather
was a famous political figure. Perhaps the one who was shot on a warm Sunday
morning in Grantwood, Pennsylvania, becoming a famous martyr, the one they made
a TV series about, and the stamp. Well, OK, one way or another.

On the rooftop, George assembled his rifle, checked the
sights, and got ready to put a bullet in Charley the second he saw that Barnes
had taken a fatal hit, or one that would at least take Barnes out of the Senate
race.

He checked the platform with a practiced eye. There was a
local cop, white-haired, pudgy, and bemedalled. George hoped he was a good
shot, so Charley would be taken out; but he couldn’t rely on that. He noticed
another man, this one in a suit with a bulge under his left shoulder, glancing
around the crowd. Ah, George thought, a security man who looked like he knew
what he was doing.

And there was Charley. He’d found a pretty good spot near
the platform, just a few feet from the speaker’s mic.

Since there was a crowd, it was unlikely either the cop or
the security man would fire at Charley, risking bystanders. So George aimed
carefully at Charley, ready to fire as soon as he’d done what he’d been brought
here to do: Kill and die.

Barnes’ bus rolled up. The Congressman made his way to the
platform, was introduced by the local party chair, raised his hands for quiet,
and began speaking. His team had planned a short speech, but the crowd cheered
whenever Barnes paused for breath, and the minutes dragged on.

He spoke about his goals as a Senator, hinted strongly that
Thomas Conning’s actions were “far below the standard expected of a United
States Senator,” without explaining himself further.

Barnes’ preference, he reminded himself as he was speaking,
was to let Conning take the hint, retire in peace, not cause a scandal that
would hurt many people. He was, however, prepared to expose Conning if it
looked like he might lose the race, if he could get some traction, some evidence.
About something. At this point, it was a toss-up. If he could really nail down
what Conning was up to, those supposed misdeeds that were being whispered all
around Washington. He hated to settle for adultery, but if nothing else …

“It’s an uphill fight,” he continued, “but I know you’re
with me here in Grantwood!” Cheering.

Barnes spoke for twenty minutes, then apologized to the
wonderful people of Grantwood, but his team was just hurrying him along and he
had to get over to greet those wonderful people at Monroeville Mall.

An aide shouted “Let’s hear it for the next Senator from Pennsylvania!”
The crowd cheered and waved and shook their posters up and down and right and
left as Barnes turned toward the notables on the platform.

He took his time, shaking hands with them and with an
occasional asexual hug, all the while waving to the crowd with his left hand
raised high. He made a special point of shaking hands with the Grantwood Chief
of Police who was providing security that day, at which the crowd roared its
approval. Chief Gardner glanced into Barnes’ eyes and smiled, but continued
scanning the crowd. He was professionally alert, but not on high alert.

After a few minutes, Barnes turned toward the steps.
Shouldn’t look down, shouldn’t take his eyes off the people, but those steps
didn’t seem very sturdy. Worst would be to take a fall, would look really dumb.
So Barnes looked down at the steps, carefully descended and stepped into the
crowd. He raised his arms again, like a victorious boxer, then lowered them for
grip ’n’ grins.

Slowly, Ezra Barnes approached the place where Charley Dukes
was standing.

Charley held out his left hand toward Barnes. Barnes had
seen him now, and he was approaching. He seemed puzzled by being presented with
the wrong hand.

Barnes had just finished hugging an older woman whose
perfume was strong enough to gag an alligator, when he noticed a middle-aged
man who looked undecided. Yes, unlike the old woman with the gator odor, this
man might vote for Conning. Better greet him very warmly, shake his hand
especially vigorously, look into his eyes and mutter something unintelligible.

Ezra Barnes advanced toward Charley Dukes, right hand
reaching out. He gave Charley a big smile.

Charley pulled the gun out of his pocket, aimed, fired.
Fired.

Barnes mouth came open. He staggered, reached for his
shoulder.

Charley got off two shots, three. He couldn’t tell if Barnes
was dead, but blood was spurting from somewhere into the Congressman’s face. He
didn’t look dead, just surprised. But that was what dead people were supposed
to look like, weren’t they, for the first second or two?

Barnes was standing, mouth open, blood beginning to bubble
up on his right shoulder and spurt toward his throat. Go for another shot? But
that cop was right there, looking grim and capable. Charley started turning,
preparing to run. He had to leave now. Had to turn around and run. He’d shot
Barnes, hadn’t he done his job? But what if Barnes wasn’t dead? Well hell, he’d
done what he could.

Just then he heard another shot, and it wasn’t his, and it
wasn’t the cop’s either, since the cop seemed to have trouble getting to his
weapon and the security guy was out of sight behind him.

Charley saw Barnes hit like a sledgehammer: another blow,
this one to his chest. Barnes looked up in the direction of a building on the
far side of the parking lot.

It occurred to Charley that George probably had a backup
plan, and that plan was for George himself to fire that last shot. Smart of
him. There might be no way a jury could know whether one of Charley’s shots had
killed Barnes, or George’s had. Shots echoing on all those buildings around the
parking lot, who would know how many shots had actually been fired?

Anyway, it didn’t matter: he’d intended to kill Barnes; and
if he was caught he didn’t dare speak up about a second shooter, out of concern
for Darlene’s life, or his new grandson’s. He had no evidence George was the
second shooter, anyway; who’d believe him? Or maybe Barnes had other enemies,
who’d taken advantage of Charley’s presence to kill him themselves? Yes, a
little comfort in that thought.

Charley turned and pushed people out of his way and ran as
fast as he could. Everyone in the crowd was too shocked to try to stop him,
except one old man he easily pushed aside. There was a corner of a building
ahead, the Morton Building. If he could just get around that corner and go for
the car, he’d have a chance.

Less than a minute before, on the roof of that very
building, George was looking through his scope sight and cursing that damned
Charley Dukes. Twelve feet away, and all that bastard could do was hit Barnes’
shoulder, and another shot had got that cop in the hand! Now Barnes would be a
hero, and was sure to be elected. Couldn’t let that happen. George took careful
aim and fired into Barnes’ chest. He saw the effect immediately. Unless Barnes
had been wearing a vest, which George thought unlikely, he was dead.

But that was the bullet he’d intended for Charley. He
swiveled, saw Charley pushing through the edge of the crowd, running, dodging.
He was almost at the base of the very building George was shooting from. George
knew he had only two or three seconds to hit Charley before he was beside the
building and George wouldn’t have an angle.

No time to aim carefully. George pulled the trigger. Close,
considering the circumstances; but Charley hadn’t been hit. A small gouge
appeared in the sidewalk. Charley was gone.

Charley was almost to the corner of the building when a
chunk of pavement was kicked up immediately to his right, and almost instantly
he heard the sound of another shot. Damn! George said Barnes’ security wouldn’t
fire into a crowd. Well, he’d left the crowd behind so he guessed they’d taken
a shot anyway. But with a pistol, from that distance… Still, it had almost hit
him.

George had intended to drive back to the motel immediately after
Charley was dead. But now, with Charley on the run, George had some unfinished
business. Would the police suspect that there was a second shooter? They might
find out sometime, he thought, but not in all this confusion. He’d have to take
the chance, stay in Grantwood a little longer.

George knew where Charley was going:  the street where there
wasn’t a getaway car, never had been. Charley had a head start and would be
there first. George had to get there before Charley discovered his key wouldn’t
unlock any car doors, or perhaps there was no car on the block at all. How long
would it take Charley to continue on from there, try to get away on foot? If he
did, he was pretty sure to be quickly picked up by the police. It would be a
shame if that happened. Sybille Haskin wouldn’t like that. When Haskin didn’t
like something, bad things happened.

But George hoped Charley would stand around in confusion
instead, clicking that key long enough for George to catch up with him and
finish the job. Too bad if he had to do that: the police would know there was
more than one gunman.

Charley was armed, so George had to be cautious. Wasting
Charley would be easy enough if he hadn’t concluded there had never been a
getaway car. George could just smile, wave and say ‘Hi, Charley,’ and shoot him
down where he stood. But if Charley had already discovered the truth about the
“getaway car,” well then …

But enough thinking; he had to get going. Stashing the rifle
in its bag in an inconspicuous place on the roof where no one was apt to find
it right away, George removed a small pistol from the bag and put in his jacket
pocket, then left the building, this time through the garage exit. He’d need to
come back for that rifle once the town had returned to its normal lassitude. He
forced himself to walk slowly up to street level. Then he quickened his pace.