City Primeval

There was a button switch attached to a light cord that ran along the floor by the front windows. It was behind Clement’s chair, so that he had to turn half around and reach over with the toe of his boot. He punched the button and a chrome lamp beamed on, its light rising through the branches of a ficus tree.

Raymond Cruz sat only a few feet away from the tree, in a chair by the side windows.

“Jesus,” Clement said, his hand gathering the note, squeezing it into a ball.

“I’ve read it,” Raymond said. “In fact, I wrote part of it.”

Clement was still half turned; the desk, with the Walther lying on it, to his left now. “Was it you let me out?” He saw Raymond nod. “Go have some di

“Yeah, I gave it some thought,” Raymond said. “That wasn’t the way to do it.”

“I hope to tell you,” Clement said. “I thought what you’d do, open it up and tell me to sign a statement else you’d shut me in there for good.”

“I don’t want a statement,” Raymond said.

Clement cocked his head, looking at him warily. “Yeah? What’s this party about then?”

Raymond got up. As he came over to the desk Clement turned in his chair to get both Raymond and the Walther lined up in front of him. “I got something here,” Raymond said. His hand went into his coat. “Now don’t get excited.” The hand came out again holding the Colt 9-mm automatic. Clement sat rigid. Raymond moved the lamp aside and laid the Colt on the desk.

“Pick up yours and I’ll pick up mine. How’s that sound?”

Clement was squinting but starting to smile a little. “You serious?”

“Stand up.”

“What for?”

“You’ll feel better. Come on.”

Clement wasn’t sure. He sensed he should be laying back, not moving too much yet. It was true though, he’d have more choices on his feet. He rose, moving the chair back away from him. They stood now directly across the desk from one another.

“Put your hands on the edge of the desk,” Raymond said, “like this… Okay, now whenever you’re ready, pick up your gun. Or, whenever I’m ready.”

Clement said, “You think I’m fucking crazy or something? I don’t even know this piece’s loaded.”

“You checked it in the bedroom,” Raymond said, “I heard you. You want to check it again, go ahead. You’re short two rounds we fired in ballistics, that’s all.”

Clement stared, amazed. “You took the gun from Sweety, tested it and put it back?”

“With the same live rounds,” Raymond said. “You don’t trust me we’ll trade. You use mine, I’ll use yours, I don’t care.”

Clement’s expression seemed bland, open, as though he might be listening or might be off somewhere in his mind.

Raymond said, “This was your idea. Remember?”

“I don’t think you’re serious,” Clement said. “Right here? It’s too close.”

“We can go outside, or up on the roof,” Raymond said. “You want to go outside?”

“Fuck no, I don’t want to go outside. You got some scheme-I don’t know what, but you’re pulling something, aren’t you? Trying to spook me into signing a statement. Man, you’re going way around to do it.”

“I don’t want a statement,” Raymond said. “I told you that. You sign a confession, we come up in court you say it was under duress, coercion, some chickenshit thing. This is fair, isn’t it? You said, why don’t we have a shooting match. Okay, we’re doing it.”

“Just grab for the guns, huh?”

“Wait a minute,” Raymond said. “No, I think the way we ought to do it-pick up the gun and hold it at your side. Go ahead. I think that’ll be better.” Raymond brought the Colt toward him and held it pointing down, the barrel extending below the edge of the desk. “Yeah, that’s better. See, then when you bring it up you have to clear the desk and there’s less chance of getting shot in the balls.”

“Come on,” Clement said, “cut the shit.”

“All right, then you reach for yours and I raise mine,” Raymond said, “it’s up to you.” He waited.

Clement’s right hand edged over to the Walther, touched it, hesitated, then covered the grip and brought it toward him, off the table. He said, “I don’t believe this.”

“Okay, you ready?” Raymond said. “Any time you want, do it.”

“Wait just a minute,” Clement said.

They stared, face to face, three feet apart. There was no sound in the room.

“I SAID WAIT!”

There was a silence again before Raymond said, “What’s the matter, Wildman?”

Clement put the Walther on the desk and walked away. He said, “You’re fucking crazy, you know it?”

Raymond turned, his gaze following Clement as he went around the couch and through the dining-L. He heard Clement say from the kitchen, “You know we could both kill each other? You realize that?”

The kitchen was back of the wall that was a few feet behind the couch. Clement could come out again through the dining-L, to Raymond’s right, or he could come out from the front hall, to Raymond’s left.

Either way, it didn’t seem to make much difference.

Raymond moved from the desk over to the front windows, glancing out at the spectacle of lights and reflecting glass, before turning to stand with his back to it. The apartment looked more comfortable at night with the lamps on; Raymond still didn’t like the colors though, green and gray.

Clement was saying from the kitchen, “That was interesting, that talk we had in your office. I never done that before with a cop… like seeing where each other’s coming from. You know it?…”

He’ll have something in his hand, Raymond thought.

“… Yeah, that was interesting. Getting down to the basics of life, you might say. I mean our kind of life. You want a drink?…”

Here we go, Raymond thought. He didn’t answer.

“… Don’t say I didn’t ask you. We got some Chivas… No, that’s it for the Chivas, aaaall gone. How ’bout a beer? Got some cold Miller’s… That mean no? How come you’re not talking?”

It’s his turn, Raymond thought, holding the Colt 9-mm at his side, looking at the dining-L, then moving his gaze slowly across the wall that was behind the couch to the entrance hall.

Clement was saying now, “See, what I got out of that talk we had-me and you are on different sides, but we’re alike in a lot of ways…”

He’s trying to put you to sleep, Raymond thought.

“… You know it? I figured you were a real serious type, but I see you got a sense of humor.”

Clement appeared, coming out of the front hall with a bottle of beer in each hand and walked over to the desk. “It might be a little weird, your sense of humor, but then each person’s got their own style, way of doing things.”

Raymond watched him place the bottle in his right hand on the desk, then, maybe twelve inches from the Walther. The hand remained there.

“I brought you a beer just in case,” Clement said.

The hand came slowly, carefully, away from the desk to the front of his denim jacket.

“I got a opener here someplace, stuck it in my jeans. Okay, partner? I’m just going in here to get the opener.” He glanced down.

The hand moved inside the denim jacket.

Raymond raised the Colt 9-mm, extended.

As Clement looked up, Raymond shot him three times. He fired seeing Clement’s eyes and fired again in the roomful of sound, still seeing the man’s eyes, and fired again as Clement was slammed against the couch and almost went over it with the momentum but collapsed into cushions and lay there, denim legs stretching to the beer bottle on the floor with foam oozing out of it, his hands holding his chest and stomach now as though he were holding his life in, not wanting it to escape, his eyes open in stu

He said, “You shot me… Jesus Christ, you shot me…”

Raymond approached him. He reached down, gently moving Clement’s hands aside, felt a handle and drew it from Clement’s belt. Raymond looked at it in his hand as he straightened. A curved handle that was fashioned from bone or the horn of an animal, attached to a stainless steel bottle opener.