by Ted Lewis
Then I light a cigarette and wait. It’s getting really hot now. There’s no shade; it’s almost too hot to lay your hand on the metal of the car. I look in the back. Draper’s talking like a crazy man at Florian, but Florian just sits there having made his own peace.
I smoke another cigarette and I’m almost finished when I suddenly see what I’m looking for—the dust thrown up by the car I’m expecting. Then I get the sound way behind the mirage-like appearance, and in a couple of minutes the car will be here. So I walk around the front of the President and look in under the hood like the driver of the approaching car expects the driver of this one to be doing.
Then the car arrives and stops parallel to the President. I keep myself well hidden behind the raised hood so I’m not recognized.
The engine doesn’t stop on the other car, but the door opens, doesn’t close, then there’s footsteps. The front passenger door of the President is opened, a button is pressed and the rear windows slide noiselessly down to let out the unintelligible screaming of Draper trying to let the new arrival know that it’s all wrong—it’s a set-up. But that noise doesn’t last long because it’s cut out by the sound of a single shot, and the desert is quiet again except for the echoing ghost of screams and gunshot. Then almost immediately there’s another shot and that part of the job is over. Then the footsteps begin to move toward the front of the car so that a few words can be said to the chauffeur who’s in on the deal; while the few words are being said, of course, the chauffeur’s to be taken out, too, while he’s not expecting it. But it’s not going to work out that way and Styles is just about to realize that.
I have to fire the minute I appear from behind the raised hood but that’s fine because Styles is strolling toward me, gun dangling at arm’s length, a pose intended to reassure the conniving chauffeur. Naturally the swiftness of my appearance makes Styles begin to go into action but by then it’s too late for him. I’ve loosed off two shots, one in the shoulder and one in the upper arm, shattering it completely, throwing Styles backward so that he collides with Draper’s body which is hanging half out of the rear window. I walk forward and pick up Styles’s gun and Styles keeps wriggling backward, clutching his useless arm, trying to bite back his screams of pain. I look in the back of the car; Florian’s body is lying across the jump seat. Blood is leaking from his ear. I turn my attention back to Styles. He’s still trying to crawl away but the pain is great and he’s hardly covered any ground at all. I kneel down next to him and smile into his contorted face.
“Your turn, baby,” I tell him. “Now this time, you eat it.” I raise his own gun and put the barrel against his lips. He thrashes his head this way and that so I put my own gun down and grab his hair and beat his head on the ground a couple of times until he manages to keep himself still. His mouth is wide open with his agony and I’m just about to push the barrel of his gun down his throat when above the sounds of Styles’s pain another sound comes through—the sound of another car approaching. I look up and the car is less than two hundred yards away, and in looking up, I give Styles the only opportunity he’s ever going to get. In spite of his pain, he shoots out his good arm and grabs my gun off the ground by my knee, sweeps his arm upward and fires. The bullet catches me in my right side and lifts me backward so that I hit the open door of Styles’s car. My body floods with pain but I hang onto the door and squeeze the trigger of Styles’s gun and the bullet bounces off the ground a couple of inches from Styles’s head. I squeeze again, unable to aim, and the bullet goes for the same spot; only Styles, in his efforts to line me up, has moved his head into my own line of fire and the bullet enters his head next to the bridge of his nose just below his right eye. There is a sound like a bag full of water bursting and Styles’s good arm shoots skyward, perpendicular, still holding my gun. The arm quivers, shudders, then abruptly crashes to the ground again and after that Styles is completely still. Then I look down at Earl Connor’s shirt and the stain is spreading all over the front and I can no longer hold onto the open door, so I have to let go of it—let go of Styles’s gun; all I can do is fall to the ground and clasp with both hands to where I’m bleeding, drawing up my knees as if that will make the pain go away.
A car door slams. Running footsteps. And then Lesley comes into view appearing from behind Styles’s car. She stands stock still by Styles’s body. Then she screams and throws herself across him and calls his name and screams again and while she’s doing that, all I can think of is I didn’t count on Styles having a back-up in case of anything going wrong for him. I should have counted on that; after all, I’ve arranged a back-up for myself. When Lesley’s finished her screaming and her sobbing and her calling, and when she’s seen the figure lying there who’s responsible for Styles’s death, she picks up my gun and begins to walk toward me, her face blank, and that’s when I hear the sound of my own back-up approaching—the sound of the pickup lurching along the desert road.
But I’m never going to hear it arrive.
