City Primeval

It was sure nice out.

There was a guy standing across the street. A young guy in a dark suit.

It was sure easier than going in with a gun. Pick out the right party, impress on the party why they should not call the police, then go to a downtown bank at once and cash the check. See, then if the bank calls the party to verify the check, the party is still seeing life through pain and fear and would say, you bet it’s good-fast.

There were three guys over there now, standing, talking.

Carolyn was probably upstairs looking out the window. Man, but it was a big place. Weird. High picket fence, like spears, all around and a blacktop parking area in the side yard-no grass-like the place had once been a residence, then a commercial establishment of some kind, with its big kitchen and bathroom, then a residence again. His car sat over there all by itself, up against the iron fence.

The three guys across the street, he realized now-looking through the fence at them as he approached his car-were wearing black suits. Dark-haired guys with mustaches and black suits…

Jesus Christ, he had never even seen an Albanian before yesterday. He said to himself, Oh shit-wanting to run for the Montego, but making himself walk, not wanting to get anybody excited just yet, least not until he was behind the car on the driver’s side and could open the door and reach under the seat.

The three guys were coming across the street. They looked like undertakers. They were opening their black suitcoats and reaching inside…

Clement was still five long strides from the car when they drew pistols and began firing at him. He couldn’t believe it. Right out on the street, three guys he’d never seen before in his life shooting at him through the fence, not asking him to wait-up there, find out if he was the party they wanted-Christ, just blazing away at him! Clement got his door open and saw the windows drilled and patterns form at the same time, the windows shattered but held together. He got the Browning from under the seat, edged to the rear curve of the Montego, extended the Browning over the edge of the trunk and, as he saw them through the widely spaced pickets, the three of them coming toward the drive, he began squeezing the trigger, feeling the gun jump, hearing that hard report in his ears, and saw them scatter, ru

He couldn’t believe he had never heard of Albanians.

24

SANDY WAS WEARING her Bert Parks T-shirt with tight faded jeans. She let go of the door, resigned, walked ahead of Raymond into the living room.

“We alone?”

“You mean is Clement here? No. But Del called. He’s coming back this weekend.”

“What’s that do to your arrangement?”

“It doesn’t do nothing. I move out.”

“Clement find another place?”

Sandy seemed worn-out. She didn’t answer, she moved in a circle, indecisive, before dragging herself over to the couch and curling a leg beneath her as she sunk down.

“Tired?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Out late last night, huh?”

“Pretty late.”

Raymond came over and sat at the other end of the couch, playing with a folded piece of notepaper now, rolling it in one hand the way you might roll a cigarette.

“I’m tired too,” Raymond said. “You want to know where I’ve been?”

“Not partic’larly.”

“First I went to Hutzel…”

“What’s Hutzel?”

“It’s a hospital. Up at the Medical Center.”

Sandy held her hands close to her face, idly concentrating on a fingernail, putting it between her front teeth then, holding the nail with her teeth as she twisted the finger.

“I saw Skender.”

“Then where’d you go?”

“Skender’s in traction. He’s go

“I don’t have to talk to you,” Sandy said, “so I don’t think I will.”

“You know the kind of person Skender is-quiet, very nice guy-”

“Hey, come on.” Sandy got up abruptly. She went over to the windows and stood with her back to Raymond, who rolled and unrolled the piece of notepaper between his thumb and fingers.

“What’d Clement call him, the chicken-fat Albanian?” Sandy didn’t answer. “You don’t have a typewriter, do you? I mean Del Weems.”

Sandy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He handed her the piece of notepaper.

“What’s this?”

“Read it.”

Sandy unrolled it, saw:

SURPRISE

CHICKEN FAT!!!

and let the paper curl up again. Raymond took it. He left her standing at the window and returned to the couch.

“He leaves the note and shoots up my apartment with a .22. The question is, was he trying to kill me, or was he just having some fun?”

Sandy turned to the television set that was in the corner between the banks of windows, dialed the knob through the cha

“Who would you?” Raymond said.

“Robert Redford,” Sandy answered, watching the television screen. An oriental-looking newlywed wife also said Robert Redford. The other three said John Travolta.

“One time,” Sandy said, with a little more life in her now, “Bob Eubanks asked them what was the most unusual place they ever made whoopee? And this girl goes-it’s bleeped out, but you can read her lips. She goes, ‘In the ass.’ And Bob Eubanks goes, ‘No! I mean a place like a location.’ I thought he was go

“You ever married?” Raymond asked.

“Yeah, once. This shithead from Bedford. His big ambition was to move to Indianapolis.”

“I guess you’ve seen some sights.”

“Not a whole lot worth remembering.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-three.” Giving the number an edge of panic in her tone.

“I don’t mean to sound square,” Raymond said, “but you might consider a different way of life.”

Sandy was still gazing at the television screen. “Look at that”-amazed-“all four of the husbands said John Travolta. Jesus. You know how many John Travoltas there are around? If I had my choice, who I’d pick, you know who it’d be?”