Try Try Again Page 5

  George was explaining the getaway “…You’ll need to get out of town fast. I’ll have a clean car waiting for you, no outstanding tickets, no BOLOs. It will be three blocks from where you’re going to shoot – the man. You take off in the car and hide out with some people whose phone number I’ll give you, not speeding, not driving recklessly. They’ll give you the money. OK? And you won’t come back to D.C. again – at least not to the Stirrup.”

  Charley’s eyes narrowed. He’d been fooled too often before, had developed caution.

  “So I’m just supposed to trust these ‘friends’ of yours that they’ll give me the money? Why should I? What if your friends run off with it?”

  George laughed. “Are you kidding? These guys launder half a mil a day. Would they risk that for a few thousand bucks?”

  “But it’s enough money for me to kill somebody?”

  “Sad to say, Charley, but that’s true. That’s the way it is.”

  “But twenty isn’t enough.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I want more,” Charley said. “Twenty, plus the five thousand you paid some of my debts with."

  George sighed. “Look, I’m really stretched here. Don’t get the wrong idea, because I gave you a couple of hundreds and paid some of your bills; that’s all I’ll have until my customer comes through with your – fee. But still, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  Thanks,” said Charley gratefully. George was really an OK guy. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Be right here in the Stirrup at twelve noon this Saturday. Got that? With a piece that works, loaded. Do you have a pistol? A .38?”

  “Yeah,” said Charley. “An old one, but it works. Too cheap to buy me a better one?”

  George put on a wounded look, said “I don’t have all your connections, Charley. It’s not easy to buy a street gun these days, unless you’re tight with the right people. And I’m not.”

  Chapter 9: One Day Before the Assassination

  That Saturday it rained. George was concerned if it were to continue into Sunday, Barnes would call off the outdoor event or move it inside; but with our luck, the rain had soon stopped, and Barnes’ rally was still on for ten o’clock the next day.

  George entered the Stirrup at twelve noon, as promised. Charley wasn’t there. George waited, his accustomed composure fraying into a bad metaphor.

  But at twelve thirty-seven Charley appeared, looking worried. George motioned him over to his table. Charley ordered a shot of the house bourbon. No, make that a double. George told the waitress to forget it, and handed her a twenty. The waitress went back behind the bar and reported to a man drying glasses, using loud words such as “fuck they’re doing” and “beats the shit,” and “whatever the hell they’re up to.” The man behind the bar told her to shut the fuck up and get back to work, says that old guy in the corner with a beard who sits there writing all the time, needs refreshing.

  “Hi, Charley,” said ‘Art,’ “ready for the big day?”

  Charley looked both glum and determined. “No,” he said. “I want more money or I’m out.”

  “Well, I’ve been reconsidering what you said, Charley, and you were right; fifteen thousand in addition to the five thousand in tabs I paid for you isn’t enough for what we’re asking you to do. So I’m making it twenty thousand, just like you wanted, not counting what I’ve already paid. I already told my friends to give you that amount.”

  Charley looked surprised, then smiled.

  Charley and George walked out of the bar, turned two corners, and got into George’s Buick. He drove north to the Beltway, then west to I-70.

  “So where are we going, Art?” Charley asked. “I guess you can tell me now.”

  “Grantwood, Pennsylvania”

  “Where’s that?”

  “East of Harrisburg. I was there last week, arranging for my friends to put you up for a while. To hide you. They’re going to leave a getaway car for you just before you need it, and I’ve already stashed the spare key where you can find it. I’ll show you this afternoon.”

  There were several minutes of silence, and then Charley drew a deep breath. “So give me the details,” he said.

  “OK, here it is. We’ll stay in a motel this evening – miles from tomorrow’s site – drive into town and take time to look around, see where the man will be speaking. I’ll show you where our friends from Harrisburg will park a getaway car for you, so you can make an easy exit.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll have dinner and sack out early in the motel room.”

  “One room?”

  “I’m guessing you’re straight, Charley. I just don’t want you having any second thoughts and sneaking away.”

  “Ah – OK.” He paused. “And tomorrow? What time, anyway? What time will I be doing – my job?”

  “Ten o’clock, but politicians are always late; builds up the crowd’s anxiety level, you know, so when the pol finally gets there he’s some kind of savior protecting his fans from a wasted Sunday morning.”

  George continued, “A man will be speaking to a crowd, maybe two hundred people, from a platform. Then if he does what most people do in that situation, and what he himself usually does, he’ll step down into the crowd to shake hands. You’ll be there. You’ll edge toward him without being too obvious about it. You’ll extend your hand – not the one holding the pistol in your pocket. When he reaches for it you’ll pull out your gun and shoot him. Two-three times, more if you need to, just to make sure.”

  “Will there be cops? Guards?”

  “Probably. But they won’t shoot into a crowd, as I said, and that’s where you’ll be. As soon as you get those shots off, you get the hell out of there as fast as you can.”

  “And the getaway? The car? How will I recognize it?”

  “I’ll show you this afternoon, the exact corner where it will be parked. There’s a clicker key courtesy of our friends, and you can have that tomorrow morning. I hid it where you can find it just before you get to the car. Just click and see which car lights up. Are we OK so far? You don’t sound calm. Show me your hand. No, that one. Shaking? I’ll give you some pills tomorrow to take the edge off. But no more booze for a while.”

  At three p.m., George and Charley pulled into an unpretentious motel near one of the Pennsylvania Turnpike exits.

  “Is this place an original?” asked Charley in wonder.

  “Original and almost untouched, as I’m sure you’ll see when you use the plumbing. One of the original Howard Johnsons.”

  “And a restaurant. Is that …”

  “Sure. It’s Chinese now, you know, since all the old restaurants in the chain closed down.”

  “Any good?”

  “The restaurant? As good as Chinese motel food gets, Charley.”

  George got carryout and brought it back to their room. After an early dinner, they drove to Grantwood and parked on one of the larger streets. The sun was almost setting. “Need to wrap this up before dark,” George said, “Don’t want anyone looking at us crossways.”

  They strolled into a large, almost-empty parking lot. A makeshift platform was already in place along one side, in front of a bare concrete wall. “This is it, Charley.” Charley began to sweat. “Look around. There are buildings on all sides here, five or six stories, but see that seven-story one across the street? That’s called the Morton Building, just an ordinary office building. Use it to get your bearings. Right?” Charley nodded. “Then let’s do this in slow motion.”

  “You walk around here like you know this town. You were here last week, you said?”

  “Yeah. Checking out the site where you’ll be tomorrow, making sure the motel was still in business, finding a good spot for my friends to park your getaway car – and so on.”

  George and Charley walked north past the Morton Building and turned left. “Remember: from in front of that building it’s left – right – left. Just like the Army.”

  “I n
ever was in the Army,” Charley said wistfully, “Almost, but...”

  “Morton building on your right, you turn left,” George said. “Then right. Then left again. That’s so no one can get more than one block’s line of sight on you. Now let’s do that.” They executed the maneuver, ending on a small street just short of a noisy intersection.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” George said, “so no one’s going to get too excited if you’re parked too long. Maybe a ticket, but no towing.”

  “Your car will be right there,” he continued, pointing to a vacant space along the sidewalk. “Your car will be right there, Charley, or on the same block anyway, facing the same way, if somebody else is parked in that exact spot. See that corner ahead? Turn right there, right? That’s the main street; you’ll know it because there’s a sign on the corner that says “MAIN ST” No one will notice one more car headed north. Say that.”

  Charley was able to repeat most of what George had just said, at least the important parts.

  “And when you see the sign for Harrisburg, you follow that. You’ll be turning left.”

  “Harrisburg. Left.”

  “Good! Now let’s retrace our steps and I’ll show you where the car key’s hidden for you. Just to make sure it’s still there.”

  They walked back and alongside the Morton Building. George glanced up and said “See this ledge just above your head? It’s only about three inches deep, but that’s just right for us. Reach up there, Charley, to the left. A little more.”

  Charley’s hand encountered something. He pulled it down. Yes, it was a car door key-clicker combo. “Right,” said George. “Now put it back. It will be there tomorrow. You can grab it after you – do your job, on your way to the car.”

  “I want to take it with me,” said Charley, “now.”

  “Just in case you’re stopped by the police, I don’t want that key found on you. Trace it back to the car, you know? And then to my friends, who will be very unhappy and they have a long reach and they never forget. OK?”

  “I’ll take my chances,” said Charley firmly. “I’m keeping the damn key.”

  George put on a sorrowful look, but shrugged as Charley put the clicker in his pocket.

  “Tomorrow I’ll give you a Harrisburg phone number. Just call that number as soon as you’re getting near that city. The people will give you directions, so you go where they tell you to; they’re expecting you. You’ll lie low for a while. And don’t worry about the car; it won’t be stolen or anything. Just no speeding!”

  They got into George’s Buick and drove back to the motel.

  With Charley finally asleep, George went to the car, opened the trunk, loaded a collapsible-stock sniper rifle, then replaced it in its tote.

  George got into the front seat and rehearsed, in as much detail as possible, the moment after Charley will have killed Barnes. Even if George didn’t quite get a clean kill-shot at Charley, he thought, all he had to do was wound him, and Barnes’ security people would finish the job on the spot.

  George had no friends in Harrisburg, of course, and no car would be waiting for Charley. But Charley would never make it to that car, so the lack of friends and absence of a car wouldn’t matter. Charley would be dead before that. George was a very good shot with a rifle. Especially from a rooftop.

  Charley woke up. Where the hell was Art? Out for a smoke, maybe, or something. Charley had packed a small bag with a toothbrush and change of underwear. And a pint of Old Something-Or-Other – whatever was cheapest at the nearest D.C. liquor store.

  Where was that bottle? George must have hid it from him. Charley rummaged through dresser drawers, found the bottle. He also found an opened envelope – addressed to ‘Sebastian George’ with a Maryland address. So that was his real name? Or more real than ‘Art’, anyway.

  Charley had several drinks, one after the other.

  George walked back into the room, took the bottle away from Charley, and poured what was left into the sink. He went back to bed and was soon asleep. Charley, however, stayed awake, worrying.

  At one point he poked George half awake, said “Just in case, just in case I get questioned or something, what do I say?”

  George said “Just say it was a drug deal. Cops see those all the time.” Then he went back to sleep.

  Chapter 10: The Day of the Assassination

  The next morning, George and Charley drove into Grantwood again, passed the Morton Building, pulled up two blocks from it. George left the engine running.

  “This is it, Charley,” he said. That was an unnecessary remark, but George, for once and to his surprise and annoyance, found his hands quivering and his breath coming in short, quiet gasps. If Charley failed, George would be history, too. “You know where you are? Which way are you heading now? Tell me.”

  Charley pointed in the direction of a building, the Morton Building.

  “Right. Go on past that building and people should already be gathering for Barnes’ rally in that parking lot.”

  “Barnes? Is he the guy? Who is he?” Charley asked.

  “He’s a politician,” George said.

  “OK,” said Charley, “I’ve never met a politician. Where will you be?”

  “Away from here,” said George. “Just remember, you’re going to Harrisburg. Here’s a number to call when you get there.” George handed him a slip of rumpled paper. “Memorize it. Look at me and repeat it.” Charley did. “Find a gas station someplace,” George said, “and call that number, after you get out of town and you’re sure no one is following you.”

  “OK.”

  “Now give me that damn piece of paper.”

  “OK.”

  George reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bottle and opened it. “Here. Take one of these.”

  “What’s that,” Charley asked in a tone of deep suspicion.

  “It’ll steady your nerves, so you can shoot straight. Don’t worry, it isn’t a narcotic or prescription or anything illegal.”

  Charley put the pill in his mouth and swallowed.

  “Well, good luck, Charley,” George said.

  Charley didn’t move. There was a moment of strained silence.

  “Charley, it’s time now. Go on. Make sure that pistol is loaded and cocked. Remember your daughter and your grandson, and don’t fail me.”

  Slowly, Charley opened the passenger’s side door and got out. With uncertain steps he disappeared in the direction of the office building.

  George drove two more blocks, parked, and removed his black tote from the trunk. With a large sigh as if resigned to working on a Sunday, he walked back toward the Morton Building. He’d reconnoitered it the previous Sunday, where he’d smiled at members of the rudimentary weekend guard force, said “Hi.” He’d made sure the building would be open to serve Sunday workaholics, and that there was roof access. A guard remembered the face from the week before, more or less, and nodded idly to George, as he got on the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

  As the elevator creaked upward, George thought about the collapsible rifle in his bag, a bullet especially for Charley, the same caliber as Charley’s pistol. Just cleaning up loose ends, he thought, then understood what a stupid metaphor that was. Unworthy of him. That phone number in Harrisburg, though, was smart. Just in case Charley survived long enough to tell the cops, what would they make of it? George had looked up the number of the Greyhound bus station in Harrisburg; that’s the number he’d given to Charley. Escaping on a bus was not Charley’s plan, although it could look that way. And the car key in Charley’s pocket would be traced to a car that had been junked six months before. Or more probably, not traced at all.

  Charley Dukes, hands in pockets, walked as casually as he could into the gathering crowd. An older woman approached him and said “We’re going to win, aren’t we?”

  Charley saw red / white / blue banners, heard a hubbub of excitement. He was nervous because he’d never actually shot at anyone before, in spite of having those
gun-possession convictions George had mentioned. Charley had been worried that George would find out that he wasn’t really a shooter and cancel the contract and he wouldn’t get all that money and he might kill Darlene anyway. He wasn’t sure his aim would be good enough, although from a distance of twelve feet or so, how could he miss?

  But he had to do it, had to kill this politician, because of his own daughter and now his grandson. Granddad the assassin, he thought bitterly. Well, the kid would never know his ancestry, he was sure of that. Darlene had renounced her father long ago, even though he still sent her money when he had some. She might tell her son, whatever his name was, that his grandfather was a famous political figure. Perhaps the one who was shot on a warm Sunday morning in Grantwood, Pennsylvania, becoming a famous martyr, the one they made a TV series about, and the stamp. Well, OK, one way or another.

  On the rooftop, George assembled his rifle, checked the sights, and got ready to put a bullet in Charley the second he saw that Barnes had taken a fatal hit, or one that would at least take Barnes out of the Senate race.

  He checked the platform with a practiced eye. There was a local cop, white-haired, pudgy, and bemedalled. George hoped he was a good shot, so Charley would be taken out; but he couldn’t rely on that. He noticed another man, this one in a suit with a bulge under his left shoulder, glancing around the crowd. Ah, George thought, a security man who looked like he knew what he was doing.

  And there was Charley. He’d found a pretty good spot near the platform, just a few feet from the speaker’s mic.

  Since there was a crowd, it was unlikely either the cop or the security man would fire at Charley, risking bystanders. So George aimed carefully at Charley, ready to fire as soon as he’d done what he’d been brought here to do: Kill and die.

  Barnes’ bus rolled up. The Congressman made his way to the platform, was introduced by the local party chair, raised his hands for quiet, and began speaking. His team had planned a short speech, but the crowd cheered whenever Barnes paused for breath, and the minutes dragged on.