Recoil

There was no traffic; they made it to Forty-fifth on the single light and Homer wheeled left into the side street opposite the United Nations Building; he parked swiftly in front of a loading bay. No Parking. “So we get a ticket. They won’t tow it away this time of night. Come on, let’s move.”

Mathieson got out and turned toward the corner. Homer was retrieving something from the car—it looked like a plastic bottle of detergent fluid; and he had the styrofoam coffee cup. They went quickly around the corner. Homer was pouring liquid into the cup. He tossed the detergent bottle into the mesh waste can on the corner and they strode north to Forty-sixth Street.

Mathieson said, “What’s in the cup?”

“Window cleaner. Ammonia. Less drastic than acid but it does the job.” They went around the corner. “Good. He’s not here yet. It’s that second awning—the girl’s got an apartment on the seventeenth floor.”

“We go in?”

“No, there’s a doorman. We wait for him outside.”

They posted themselves on the curb just short of the awning where they were not within the doorman’s angle of view. “Which way will he come from?”

“No telling. Depends where he finds a parking space.” Homer held the styrofoam cup casually. Two friends saying good-night after an evening on the town, sobering up with a cup of takeout coffee. “Keep your hand in your pocket and your mouth shut. Use the gun if you have to—he won’t hesitate.”

He curled his hand around the .38 in his pocket. “We’re not here to do any shooting, Homer.”

“Sometimes something goes wrong. Just stay loose and be ready to—heads up, here he is.”

The big Fleetwood growled along the street seeking a place to park. There wasn’t any; the car disappeared around the corner, moving slowly.

“He’ll find a space somewhere. Take it easy—don’t get jumpy now, for God’s sake.”

Mathieson looked both ways. There was no one on the street. Above them numerous windows were still alight. Up at the farther intersection a woman with a heavy shopping bag walked across on Second Avenue. Eddies of mist curled like steam on the wet black surface of the street. The canvas awning dripped.

A taxi cruised past, empty, dome-signal alight; it paused hopefully but Homer shook his head and the taxi drove on. Then a pedestrian appeared at the corner of First Avenue and turned into the street, coming toward them—wide shoulders, heavy bulk, coat flapping: George Ramiro.

Homer said, “We’re having a conversation, OK? I just told you a joke. You’re a little drunk.”

Mathieson uttered a sharp bark of laughter. It sounded unconvincing to him but he said, “Hey that’s a pretty good one,” his voice sounding too loud and too forced. He turned without hurry, facing Homer, his shoulder to the approaching pedestrian. He could see Ramiro out of the corner of his eye—walking steadily, unafraid, unalarmed; but his right hand stayed in his coat pocket and with it, Mathieson knew, there had to be the .357 Magnum.

As Ramiro approached, Homer gestured with the coffee cup. “So I says to him, ‘Billy, the day she takes her pants down for you is the day whales start flying.’”

Ramiro was three paces away and Homer turned abruptly. “George? Hey, that you, George?”

It brought Ramiro’s head around and that was when Homer flung the contents of the styrofoam cup in his face.

4

When the ammonia hit his eyes Ramiro brought both hands to his face and cried out, lurching back against the brick wall. Homer was on top of him instantly, dropping the cup, pi

Ramiro whimpered and clawed at his face. Blinded and in excruciating pain he was completely without fight. Homer batted Ramiro’s arms away and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. “Come on, it’s only a little window cleaner.”

“What the hell——”

“Grab an arm,” Homer said.

Supporting Ramiro like a drunk between them they walked him toward the corner. He was in enough pain to disable him. They walked him around the corner and the Cadillac was just up the block.

They propped him against the back door of the car. “Keys,” Homer said. Mathieson went into Ramiro’s pockets again.

Ramiro was getting his breath. “I can’t see …”

“Take it easy, George, you’ll be all right in a minute.”

Mathieson unlocked the car door and reached inside to pull up the knob of the back door. They got it open and shoved Ramiro into the back seat. Mathieson got into the front seat and took out the Magnum and held it against the headrest, casually aimed at Ramiro’s belly.

Homer pushed Ramiro across the seat and got in beside him. The doors chunked shut.

The UN street lamps were bright; they threw reflected illumination against Ramiro’s features. He clutched the handkerchief and scrubbed at his eyes. “Jesus I’m blind—I can’t see. You fuckin’ bastards.”

Homer said, “I’m going to put some drops in your eyes; it won’t hurt you. Hold your head back now.”

“Fuckin’ bastards.” But he was still in terrible pain and he didn’t fight it when Homer shoved his head back and squeezed fluid from the little plastic bottle into the inside corners of his eyes.

“Now blink. Wash them out.”

Ramiro straightened slowly, blinking like a fish. He squinted, watery-eyed, trying to hold them open, lids fluttering like moths’ wings.

“Settle down, George, just take it easy. We’ll wait while you get your wind.”

“Jesus. Jesus God that hurts. Oh God you son of a bitches.”

“Just let them wash themselves out now, that’s a good boy.”

The inside of the car smelled of the stale sweat of habitual garlic eaters. Ramiro’s breath was like the panting of an overheated dog. Mathieson shifted his grip on the heavy Magnum. If it were fired inside the car it would deafen them all. He had no intention of firing it but it made an impressive prop—especially to Ramiro who doubtless had seen the results it could effect.

Ramiro threw his head back along the rear-window platform. He took in a deep breath that swelled his chest and stomach; he let it out and shook his head violently as if to clear it. He wiped at his eyes again and began to peer narrowly through his trembling inflamed lids. “Yeah. OK, OK. I still can’t see too good.”

“It’ll come back.”

“What the hell you guys want?”

Homer said, “It could have been acid, George. It was supposed to be acid.”

“Supposed to be.” Ramiro still wasn’t tracking too well.

“Put your hands in your lap and keep them there. It won’t do your eyes any good to keep rubbing them.”

“Aagh.” Ramiro clawed at his face again.

Homer batted his arms down. “Now keep them in your lap. Do as you’re told, George. You might live a little longer.”

Ramiro blinked at the Magnum. Mathieson curled his thumb over its hammer and drew it back slowly. The series of sharp clicks seemed very loud.

“Jesus. Take it easy with that thing.”

“You paying attention now, George?”

“What the fuck do you want?”

Mathieson showed him a slow cold smile. The gun in his hand was trained motionlessly on Ramiro.

Homer said, “You listening now?”

“I’m listening. Who the fuck are you guys? Do I know you?”

“No. We’re imported. You don’t know us.”

“Imported by who? For what?”

“To waste you, George.”

“To what?”

“A job of work. A hit, you know how it goes.”

“Me?”

“You’re George Ramiro, ain’t you?”

“You must have the wrong George Ramiro, man.”

“No, I guess not. It’s supposed to be an acid job, George.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Who’s paying you guys?”

“Even if we knew that, we’d hardly tell you. Would we.”