packing his duffel bag, which was emblazoned with a Marine Corps insignia. The sweats had been replaced by a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt and dark brown slacks and shades-of-brown running shoes. He might have been the president of the Young Republicans on a campus somewhere.
When I went to his door, the nine millimeter was in my left hand, in front of me, so that anyone passing by wouldn’t see it.
Not that anyone was passing by. The Homewood Motor Court on this Monday morning was deader than the driver of the Geo. I knew housekeeping didn’t come on for another hour. Plenty of time.
The day, I noticed, was crisp and almost cold, the threat of rain making the sky dark. Days like this were surprisingly common in Vietnam, even if muggy hot ones were the norm, in the jungle.
I knocked with my free hand.
The door opened, allowing the room’s inhabitant a suspicious look over the night latch, and I was tempted to replay what I’d done to Louis, just shoot the prick in the eye and be done with it…
…but instead I shouldered through, popping the night latch, shoving the door shut behind me with my right hand, and pointing the nine at him with the other.
DeWayne, stunned by the intrusion, belatedly raised the glock he’d had sense enough to take with him answering the door, and with my free hand, I batted it out of his grasp, like a mean sibling slapping a rattle out of a baby’s pink fingers.
The gun landed on the nearby bed and bounced off onto the carpeted floor with a clunk, out of view, and reach.
DeWayne’s room was larger than mine, a businessman’s mini-suite with a meeting area. The framed paintings were abstractions, as if gore had been spattered around in here already.
My reluctant host-a little taller than me, and about as heavy, but overly muscular in a steroid-ish way-just stood there agape, his stubbly blond gyrene haircut seeming to stand on end. His light blue eyes-disturbingly long- lashed pretty eyes, really, feminine in the midst of all that otherwise rugged-jaw masculinity-had the same startled expression they’d worn when I slipped in beside DeWayne in his car outside the Log Cabin, a few months ago.
Right before he thanked me for not killing him and I locked him in his trunk-remember?
I shoved my nine millimeter in my waistband. But that didn’t seem to make DeWayne feel any better- in fact, he seemed unnerved, perhaps because I appeared so calm.
And I was in fact calm, entirely matter-of-fact and unemotional. Which he should have been thankful for. If I hadn’t slipped into my battle zone, he’d have been dead now.
I asked, in a purely conversational tone, “What the fuck was that about back there, DeWayne?”
DeWayne blinked.
I raised my eyebrows. “The car, DeWayne? The one you rigged that blew up this morning? Oh, but maybe you didn’t hang around to watch.”
His mouth twitched, like it couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown or scream.
“In which case,” I continued affably, “you’ll be pleased to know it did go off and blow Janet Wright’s car to hell and gone-driver and all.”
His expression tightened into defensiveness. “Well, somebody had to do it! After you’ve been farting around for days!”
“…How long have you been watching me, DeWayne?”
He shook his head. “I told you-I followed Mr. Green’s slutty little princess here. She wasn’t supposed to be part of the mix, you know.”
My hands were on my hips. “But, then, neither were you, DeWayne. Was that the plan? Let me do the job, then get rid of the loose end?”
“No! Hell, no! I told you-”
My eyes slitted. “I told you, last night. This is my job.”
DeWayne risked getting in my face, just a little: “Which included fucking her, I suppose? Where is that in your job description, old man? You ain’t exactly a stealth missile.”
I drew in a breath, let it out. “Car bomb,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Car bomb. Yeah. That’ll play as an accident.”
My remark took the boldness out of him, replacing it with chagrin. “Yeah, well…things were…out of control. I made a…a pre-emptive strike. But you don’t need to worry.”
My eyebrows went up again. “I don’t?”
He smirked humorlessly. “No-you’ll get your money.”
“…Well, isn’t that thoughtful. And then there’s all the credit-I’ll get that, too.” Finally I frowned at him. “Jesus, DeWayne-I’ve been seen all over town with that woman!”
Now his eyebrows went up. “Is that my fault?”
“No,” I admitted. “That’s my fault. Blowing her up in her car, that would be yours.”
He backed away, hands half-up, saying, “Listen, I’m sorry I stepped on your fuckin’ toes…but I had orders to follow…and now I got a plane to catch.”
Cautiously DeWayne returned to the duffel bag he was packing; his gun was over there on the floor, somewhere. Part of me wished he would go for it, please go for it, right now, go for it…
“I need to finish packing,” he said, doing his best to sound casual, gesturing to the bag. “You got a problem with that?”
I shook my head. “Not at all-but why don’t you pack after your shower?”
“My what?”
“When’s your plane, DeWayne?”
Various vague gestures accompanied his reply: “Two hours from now, but I got to drive over to-”
“You got plenty of time for a quick shower.”
He stared at me like I was a raving madman, even though I was not raving. “What the fuck…?”
Slowly but steadily, I removed the nine from my waistband and pointed it at him. “Take your clothes off, DeWayne.”
His eyes and nostrils flared, the short blond hair damn near bristling. “The hell! ”
I gestured a little with the gun, not vaguely. “Go on and strip…I’m locking you in the bathroom so you don’t follow me.”
He shook his head, wild-eyed, blurting, “I’m not gonna fucking follow your ass!”
“That’s right,” I said. “Because I’m locking your ass in the can, and taking your clothes. That’ll give me the lead I need, to get out of this podunk.”
DeWayne sighed. Shook his head. Opened his palms placatingly. “ Please, buddy. Come on, will ya? What the hell’d I ever do to-”
“Skivvies and all, DeWayne. All the way.”
“…Christ.” His eyes popped with alarm. “Oh, Christ, you fell for her!”
“ Now, DeWayne…”
Frantic, pawing the air, he said, “Look, you can’t blame me for this. It was Mr. Green. Once a guy like Mr. Green decides you’re dead, you’re fucking dead! You know that! She was a dead man walkin’-I was just the means to an end, and if it wasn’t me, it coulda been any-”
“Spare me the horseshit, DeWayne, and strip the fuck down.”
DeWayne slumped in defeat.
Moving in slow motion, he began unbuttoning the pale yellow shirt, then-and this was admirable, he didn’t telegraph it all-swept a curving martial-arts kick around that popped the nine millimeter right out of my grasp.
The gun slid across the carpet and hid under a chest of drawers, as if wanting nothing to do with any of what was about to come.
Shaking my head and smiling, I said, “This isn’t really necessary, DeWayne.”
He went into a karate-school stance that I wish I could say looked hokey, but it didn’t-he was a muscular young ex-Marine who clearly knew his shit, and it hadn’t all come out of Black Belt magazine, either.
“That’s my call, Pops!”
It was my turn to sigh.
“Go ahead, kid. Take your best shot.”
