side, driven by two plainclothes men from the state police. One puffed a big cigar. Both wore sunglasses and Panamas and guayabera shirts, burly men in their thirties, handsome after the dark Cuban fashion, one a negro, the other white. Both looked comfortable, settled, on the way to a meaningless detail.
Frankie stroked the Star machine pistol on his knees. He was ready. Christ, was he ready.
Frenchy watched from a bodega across the way. He hid behind two bunches of bananas and looked through a dirty pane of glass to the station. For some reason he knew he ought to be there. He wasn't sure why, he just felt obligated.
The transaction unfolded without drama. How could there be drama? Frenchy just watched as Earl came out, in his suit, his hands behind him where they'd been manacled. There was no tension in him, as everybody seemed to be buddies. The two cops led him down the stairs to the car, and a third walked behind, talking to Earl, laughing with him.
He watched Earl. He was the same as he'd been when Frenchy first laid eyes upon him seven years ago, perhaps more etched with age, perhaps a few pounds heavier, but essentially the same man, the eternal noncommissioned officer, blessed in battle, narrow otherwise in vision, the salt of the earth, the man who's made it happen for four thousand years of war. Now he, Frenchy, little Walter who'd been so mischievous in prep school, was planning his execution.
Frenchy tried to feel something but one of his talents was the way in which he disconnected himself from events he planned or executed. He didn't really have a conscience, though flashes of regret would occasionally pass through him. He'd once imagined something better for Earl, and maybe part of getting him down here was a way of making something up to the man for the way Hot Springs had ended, though he'd tried to make up for it in other ways, too. But it hadn't worked out. You couldn't save an Earl Swagger from his own nature. You couldn't make him see the point, you couldn't get him to bend. He wasn't a bender.
The car passed and sped down the road.
Frenchy made the sign of the cross. Not that he believed in such hocus-pocus; it just seemed appropriate somehow.
Via con dios, amigo, he thought, and turned back to buy a banana.
The policeman next to Earl was talkative, as the car picked up some speed and headed out into traffic.
'So, you're a cop, right?'
'Back in the States, yeah. State cop.'
'Ah, we are state policemen, too. It's a good job, is it not, senor? People show you respect.'
'Well, I agree that it's a good job, but there's been days when I've wished I got a little more respect.'
The man in the backseat with him laughed.
'Oh, yes, the bad ones, they have to be instructed. That is why all policemen must have big hands so that when they strike a bad one, he knows he has been struck and therefore he shows respect and feels fear.'
'That's pretty much my theory, too,' said Earl.
The driver barked something at Earl's seatmate, and watched Earl in the rearview mirror briefly.
'He doesn't like it?' Earl asked.
'He thinks I talk too much.'
'You do talk too much, Davido,' said the driver. 'You always talk too much. A policeman should not talk so much.'
'So, I like to enjoy myself. Anyhow, this man is not a criminal but an American policeman, a man very like ourselves.'
'That's fine, but do your duty.'
They drove now through a slum, and the traffic grew heavy. The streets were full, and now and then the cars jammed up, sometimes even halting.
'I don't want to miss my plane,' Earl said. 'It's a great country, but I have had a better run of luck in my time.'
'Look,' said Davido, 'he's a policeman too, and my cousin Tony vouches for him. We can take his cuffs off. A policeman shouldn't be in no cuffs.'
They broke free of the traffic as the buildings dropped away, yielding to fields and huts. The car speeded up.
'Well, I think you should put them back on when we get to the airport,' said the driver. 'Who knows who is watching.'
'I don't want to get you boys in any trouble,' said Earl.
'No, it's no trouble?' but then Davido laughed as Earl withdrew his hands, uncuffed, from behind him.
'Did you see that? Jaime, did you see that? He slipped the cuffs! Amazing! How did you do that?'
'I've worked a lot with these here old-style cuffs. There's tricks to shake 'em a boss con once showed me. You didn't set 'em tight enough. I was able to shift my wrist and bring some pressure in a certain spot. You need to have a lot of strength in your fingers. I'll show you how to set 'em up so no bad guy ever does the same to you, okay? Maybe save you getting your throat cut one fine night.'
'See, this is a very helpful man,' said Davido, and it was only because Earl had rotated toward him, was not sitting back with his hands locked behind him, that he was able to see the black car scoot out from behind, accelerate to equal their speed, and the barrel of the gun rise, behind it the grim and determined face of Frankie Carbine.
'Faster! Faster!' barked Frankie.
'No, no, not here,' corrected Ramon from the backseat.
But Frankie could hardly control himself. His whole body shook in fury and hunger. He leaned forward, his eyes bugging, his breathing hard.
'It's too crowded ahead,' Ramon warned. 'We'd never get away. Wait till the road is clear, and we are out of the traffic. Then we pass him and bzzzzzzt! it is finished, and off we go.'
Frankie settled back, but some incredible fever gripped his brain. He wanted to get in close, open up, watch the death and be done with it. Ahead the unmarked police car poked along, completely oblivious to the executioners so close behind. Frankie could see Earl and the cop in the rear, talking, even laughing now and then. They all seemed to be having a pretty good time. It filled him with rage. It was so wrong. Blowing out Ben Siegel's eye, then having a wonderful time in Cuba. His breath came harshly, through a dry nose and mouth, almost hurting as he sucked at the air, as if there weren't quite enough air available.
'Frankie, this is hunting. You must be patient for your shot. We wait for the ideal moment and it will come when it comes. To rush is to fail. Corporal, you are doing an excellent job of driving. Frankie, see how the corporal is doing. He is smooth, relaxed, in command. He has perfect control. He knows exactly when the moment will be, and he will spurt ahead. Bzzzzzzzt!'
The corporal, some kind of Indian with a dark though not negro face, laughed, showing white teeth. His eyes glittered like another true killer's; this was extreme pleasure for him.
The car ahead slowed, tangled in traffic. The corporal pulled expertly to the side of the road, let two cars glide by, then slid back in line. He didn't want to get too close, but just to stay in contact, to be close enough to spring when the moment arrived.
But whatever was holding up the progression suddenly vanished, and the traffic lurched into motion. For a while, they drove through dense city streets, sometimes coming close to their prey, sometimes sliding back inconspicuously.
Then their quarry turned, found a broader road, and accelerated. The corporal adjusted accordingly, and the buildings on either side fell away, giving way to peasant shacks, small shops, unused, scraggly plots of land and the odd bar or so. Overhead, the scream of a multi-engined plane at a low altitude suggested they were approaching the airport.
And then, suddenly, a car between them and the police car pulled over. Ahead beckoned open road, no oncoming traffic, and the opportunity for the clean kill.
'Vamos!' said Ramon, for this was the moment, but the corporal had read it too, and was already accelerating. Frankie twisted sideways and back, lifting the machine pistol, vaguely aware of Ramon in back bringing his heavier gun up to rest on the window frame. It was now, it was happening.
Almost in slow motion, the cars closed distance, and in even slower motion the corporal began to drift to the left, floating out in the oncoming traffic lane, not lurching as if in attack, but in a fluid, controlled maneuver that
