fancy little two-pound Kevlar vest. He’s got yellow glasses and ear protectors. He’s wearing everything but platform shoes. And he’s wailing, he’s got this AR-18 and he’s strafing the place, he’s busting it up.”
“What happens, he gets hit.”
“He gets hit but doesn’t know it. When he gets home he takes off his armor and sees this little hole in it. So he starts feeling his chest, his belly. He tells his driver maybe it got deflected into his lungs. He starts coughing and spitting, lookingfor blood. Finally his driver shakes out the vest and this small lead mushroom hits the floor. Which isn’t the worst of it. Ignorance of technique. The worst of it is that he’s supposed to isolate the subject before going to work. The subject’s supposed to be a-lone. Not a sin-gle wit-ness in sight.”
“You got the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre.”
“Jerk-off. I told Talerico. Where’d you find this jerk-off?”
“Augie the Mouse.”
Mudger laughed, hitting the bar with the palm of his hand.
“Tell you what, it was my fault. Ought to have used different people.”
“Such as?”
“Tieu to dac cong.”
“That’s not your average man in the street they’ll be dealing with,” Lomax said. “I have to tell you I felt a little surge of pride or satisfaction or what-have-you when I got word he walked out of the bar without a mark on him. Plus putting a bullet in the Mouse. I felt gratified, Earl, truth be known. Certain amount of my own time and effort invested there. This is the best penetration I’ve run, frankly. I don’t think your adjusters will find this is just another day’s work.”
Mudger shrugged. The phone at his elbow rang. He picked it up, listened a while, said something, listened some more. Lomax went out on the patio. It was a warm night. He stood in the garden watching Mudger put down the phone and say something over his shoulder at the same time. Lomax walked back into the room, belatedly realizing what it was Mudger had said.
“Congratulations, Earl.”
“Where’s your glass? We’ll have another drink.”
“How’s Tran Le doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s great. Never better.”
“I couldn’t touch another drop, honestly.”
“An eight-pounder,” Mudger said over his shoulder.
“What is it, a fish?”
“Where’s your glass?”
“Maybe just a wee snort, to mark the occasion.”
“Where’s your fucking glass?” Mudger said.
Lightborne stepped off the train and walked through a tunnel under the tracks. On the other side he entered the depot. Klara Ludecke was sitting on a bench near the newsstand. In her lap, for purposes of identification, was a copy of
Running Dog
magazine. Lightborne’s spur-of-the-moment idea.
He nodded and she followed him back out. Early evening. They walked toward the underground passageway he’d just come out of. The sole on Lightborne’s right shoe started flapping.
“I’m authorized,” he said, “to hand over the agreed sum in cash once the film is in my hands.”
“I’ll be happy to see it go.”
“Can I assume it was your husband who gave you my name?”
“My husband gave me three things. He gave me your name. He gave me an address in Aachen. And he gave me the key to a storage vault located at that address.”
In the passageway Lightborne lowered his voice, wary of the effects of echo.
“Have you seen the footage?”
“He wanted me to have nothing to do with it.”
“Did he tell you anything about it at all?”
“He only told me Berlin, under the Reich Chancellery, during the Russian shelling.”
On the opposite platform the flapping sole began to annoy Lightborne, and he suggested they sit for a while on one of the plastic benches.
“And so the film has been in a vault in Germany all these years.”
“Air-conditioned storage vault,” she said. “To preserve it properly.”
“I myself first heard of the item some thirty years ago.”
“When my husband was killed I knew that was the
“What happens, he gets hit.”
“He gets hit but doesn’t know it. When he gets home he takes off his armor and sees this little hole in it. So he starts feeling his chest, his belly. He tells his driver maybe it got deflected into his lungs. He starts coughing and spitting, lookingfor blood. Finally his driver shakes out the vest and this small lead mushroom hits the floor. Which isn’t the worst of it. Ignorance of technique. The worst of it is that he’s supposed to isolate the subject before going to work. The subject’s supposed to be a-lone. Not a sin-gle wit-ness in sight.”
“You got the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre.”
“Jerk-off. I told Talerico. Where’d you find this jerk-off?”
“Augie the Mouse.”
Mudger laughed, hitting the bar with the palm of his hand.
“Tell you what, it was my fault. Ought to have used different people.”
“Such as?”
“Tieu to dac cong.”
“That’s not your average man in the street they’ll be dealing with,” Lomax said. “I have to tell you I felt a little surge of pride or satisfaction or what-have-you when I got word he walked out of the bar without a mark on him. Plus putting a bullet in the Mouse. I felt gratified, Earl, truth be known. Certain amount of my own time and effort invested there. This is the best penetration I’ve run, frankly. I don’t think your adjusters will find this is just another day’s work.”
Mudger shrugged. The phone at his elbow rang. He picked it up, listened a while, said something, listened some more. Lomax went out on the patio. It was a warm night. He stood in the garden watching Mudger put down the phone and say something over his shoulder at the same time. Lomax walked back into the room, belatedly realizing what it was Mudger had said.
“Congratulations, Earl.”
“Where’s your glass? We’ll have another drink.”
“How’s Tran Le doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s great. Never better.”
“I couldn’t touch another drop, honestly.”
“An eight-pounder,” Mudger said over his shoulder.
“What is it, a fish?”
“Where’s your glass?”
“Maybe just a wee snort, to mark the occasion.”
“Where’s your fucking glass?” Mudger said.
Lightborne stepped off the train and walked through a tunnel under the tracks. On the other side he entered the depot. Klara Ludecke was sitting on a bench near the newsstand. In her lap, for purposes of identification, was a copy of
Running Dog
magazine. Lightborne’s spur-of-the-moment idea.
He nodded and she followed him back out. Early evening. They walked toward the underground passageway he’d just come out of. The sole on Lightborne’s right shoe started flapping.
“I’m authorized,” he said, “to hand over the agreed sum in cash once the film is in my hands.”
“I’ll be happy to see it go.”
“Can I assume it was your husband who gave you my name?”
“My husband gave me three things. He gave me your name. He gave me an address in Aachen. And he gave me the key to a storage vault located at that address.”
In the passageway Lightborne lowered his voice, wary of the effects of echo.
“Have you seen the footage?”
“He wanted me to have nothing to do with it.”
“Did he tell you anything about it at all?”
“He only told me Berlin, under the Reich Chancellery, during the Russian shelling.”
On the opposite platform the flapping sole began to annoy Lightborne, and he suggested they sit for a while on one of the plastic benches.
“And so the film has been in a vault in Germany all these years.”
“Air-conditioned storage vault,” she said. “To preserve it properly.”
“I myself first heard of the item some thirty years ago.”
“When my husband was killed I knew that was the
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