Sunset People. Herbert Kastle
the jungle.
The sharpshooter hurried to catch up.
The guide turned, waving him on . . . and suddenly went down and out of sight. A brief scream told the sharpshooter what had happened, and he confirmed it when he reached the man. The guide was in a narrow pangee trap, impaled on a stake that had entered his stomach and come out through his back. He shook his head feebly as the sharpshooter raised the sub. “Tai Sao?” Why?
After finishing him, the sharpshooter reached down and got the guide’s long pistol. Rifle and sub slung over his shoulders, and holding the pistol, he began following the trail. He glanced back often, praying that the VC hadn’t picked up on him.
When the trail ended, he used his pocket compass. And swore to God that if he got out of this alive, he’d find a way to quit the Company.
At four-thirty, exhausted, dehydrated, ready to begin discarding the special weapons in defiance of A-priority orders, he broke out of the Cordillera and stood dazed and blinded by intense sunlight.
The chopper came at dusk, and returned the sharpshooter to the kickoff point—the Marine airport perimeter base at Danang. He showered, changed into fresh fatigues, and ate at the officers’ mess. Back in his tent, he glanced at the two empty bunks, and thought of the weapons. High-priority orders or no, he could say one had been lost. This would strengthen the image of an agent whose nerve had begun to fail, and help him get back home.
He speculated on what such a silenced firearm would bring in the States. Ten times the actual value of the gun would be a modest price; double that would be possible if Maxie, a Syndicate chieftain the Company had dealt with, was still filling contracts out of Frisco. Maxie would want handguns only . . .
He went to the locker and took out the guide’s Hi-Standard HD: lean, hungry, beautiful to anyone who had ever staked his life on a firearm. A ten-shot .22 automatic as deadly as a .45 because of its special hollow-point dum-dum load, and far more accurate. A target pistol in its civilian role, and not markedly reduced in range or accuracy by the superb MAC silencer. Hit men swore by it in urban situations.
Maybe he should keep it for himself?
But he shrugged and put it away. He was finished with such passions. He would return to law school. He would find the right woman and begin to live the good life.
And the pistol would help finance that life.
ONE: Friday, July 28
The cab sped west on Olympic, carrying Frank Berdon home from his shop. It was almost ten o’clock. He stayed open late Fridays, and had also taken his time closing up. He much preferred work to home lately.
It had been a hot day, but in typical Los Angeles manner had cooled rapidly at dusk. Now it was mild and pleasant, and Frank sat away from the direct whip of air from the open window.
He was flung to the side as the cab turned sharply north, toward the Hollywood Hills.
He righted himself, a heavy man of thirty-six, on the short side, which made him look even heavier. A balding man with a round, pink, almost cherubic face who smiled often, as he did now, catching the driver’s eyes on him in the rear-view mirror. A man who rarely meant his smiles, as he certainly didn’t now. The cabby was big and surly and drove with an aggressiveness which seemed directed as much toward his fare as toward the traffic. And there was very little traffic.
Especially on this side street, one lane in each direction, along which the cabby sped, before braking to a sudden stop for the traffic light. Frank was flung forward, and back. Again he smiled for the pugnacious eyes in the rear-view mirror, but they jerked left, toward the window. Another car, traveling in the same direction, was pulling alongside them, half in the opposite lane.
“Excuse me,” a voice called. “How do we get to Santa Monica?”
The car held two men in the front seat; the passenger was doing the speaking.
“City or street?” the cabby asked, and inched the cab forward against the soon-to-change light. The other car inched forward even more.
“Street,” the man said, and put his arm out the window. The cabby said, “Jesus, no!” and twisted the wheel toward the car. Frank saw a long shadow at the end of the man’s pointing hand, and then it jerked. The cab jerked too, into the car, but too late. The cabby slumped over the wheel.
Frank was jolted; there was a brief grinding of metal; the cab stalled.
Headlights were coming toward them.
The two men in the car were arguing. The passenger was opening his door, or trying to since the cab had jammed it. “. . . fell on the street,” he was saying. The other snapped, “Fuck it!” and backed up, freeing his vehicle with another brief rending of metal; then he screeched forward and out of the way of the approaching auto.
Frank watched it speed off, and watched the approaching car pass without slowing. He got out and leaned toward the driver’s window. The man’s face rested against the steering wheel. It dripped blood. But it was the back of his head which made Frank jerk away. There was no back; just a big wet hole.
Frank stepped on something that almost turned his ankle. He bent and picked up a pistol, unnaturally long.
Another car was coming, this time from behind the cab.
Frank hesitated an instant; then stooped low and ran around the front of the cab and across the intersection. He put his hand with the gun inside his jacket, and kept running until he saw the alley.
He turned into it, panting, and looked back. The approaching car simply pulled around the cab and kept going.
Another car came up and stopped behind the cab; the traffic light had changed to red again.
Frank began walking through the alley. He would try to find a cab, but he was close enough to walk home in about half an hour.
A horn blew several impatient blasts back on the street. Frank was startled, and came to a stop. He took hand and gun from under his jacket, and stared at the weapon. His face was oily with sweat.
The horn blew again. Frank loosened his belt and jammed the gun under it, on the left hip, butt forward. He buttoned his jacket and began walking again, carefully, differently, because of pressure on that left hip and thigh.
He came out of the alley and turned north on the dark street. He was alone. People didn’t walk in Los Angeles at night. Only an occasional prostitute.
He began to feel ill.
Footsteps sounded. His head jerked around. A woman was strolling on the other side of the street: young, dressed in tight pants, blouse, and very high heels. She was blonde and pretty, and glanced across at him.
He heard heavy breathing. His own.
The girl turned and began walking the other way.
Strolling. Walking the street. Up and back.
He opened his jacket and stepped into the street. He was ready to cross . . . when headlights flared and a car pulled to the curb beside the girl. The driver said, “Sorry I’m late. They tried to make me work another shift. How’s that sweet mother of yours?” And they were gone.
Frank buttoned his jacket and walked north. Nausea tickled his gullet. His head throbbed.
Near the corner he gagged, bent to the curb, and threw up.
Tacos and enchiladas for dinner. And that cabby’s head . . .
He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood still. The little eyes in the big face blinked. Then, slowly, he continued walking toward Sunset Boulevard, the Strip, the Hollywood Hills.
TWO: Saturday, July 29, a.m.
She had taken the midnight-to-eight-a.m. shift because she wanted a rest. She’d handled too many men the past month.