Alligator (12 page)

By nine o'clock, the two men were walking down Homestead Street. Levi's Dry Goods Store was located in a mud-rotted two-story clapboard building across from Everglades National Bank and just down a bit from the Four Oaks Package Liquor Store. Just about everything needed for hunting—booze, money, and guns—was close at hand.

The rotting-minnows, wax, and gunpowder smell of Levi's burned the nostrils of Maurice and John as they walked up to the counter.

"I don't know why you're bothering," said Maurice. "If anyone gets the alligator, it'll be Rye."

"I wouldn't be so sure," answered John.

"I would, if you value your job." Maurice laughed good-naturedly. Even if by some fluke he managed to get the alligator, he wouldn't know what to do with it.

"Things are changing, my friend. They almost got him at the proxy fight. He slipped through this time, but someday, someone is going to bring him to his knees."

"Don't tell me you're planning on being that someone?"

The look on John's face told Maurice that John didn't consider the idea quite as ridiculous as he did.

Maurice watched John, surprised. Though they both held equivalent positions in life and in Whitman Enterprises, Maurice and John were two very different kinds of men. Strictly speaking, they both belonged to the species
Corporate killerata.
But while Maurice was a flunky in the true sense of the word, killing on command, like the falcon for the falconer, John killed for the sheer joy of the sport. Maurice was not the kind of man who believed in vague feelings or intuitions, but there was something about John that scared him. He had felt it the first day he met him, ten years ago, and he felt it more than ever today.

John grabbed a Baby Ruth bar and wasted it in two bites. "No, of course I'm not thinking of trying," he said; then, leaning over the counter, he yelled, "Hey, isn't anyone gonna help us?"

An enormous man with a dime-store toupee perched on top of his bullet head lumbered out of the back room. He gave the men a look as if they had interrupted him in the process of creating the universe. "Can I help ya?" Charlie O'Neill grunted.

"I'm looking for a gun," said John.

"Well, you certainly came to the right place." Charlie O'Neill wheezed out his words as if even speech was a tiring exercise. "What do you have in mind, a two forty-three, a three o eight, a thirty-ought-six?"

"Which would you suggest?" said John, hoping to cover his ignorance.

"They're all good." O'Neill flipped open the counter copy of
Gun Digest.

John glanced down and seized at a name. "What about a Weatherby?"

"Sure, Weatherby? Hell, you just can't get a much better caliber. Maybe a Franchi. I don't know; it's a tossup."

John ran his thin, artistic fingers over the intricate scrollwork of the Weatherby that O'Neill handed him. He grimaced seriously and inspected the rifle as if he knew what to look for.

O'Neill winked and opened the locked glass case behind the counter. He pulled out a rifle and beamed at John. "Here's the queen, though." He stripped it from its case with the pomp worthy of the unveiling of Venus de Milo. "Awesome, isn't she?" He stroked the barrel of the pump action .742 Woodmaster, Weatherby Magnum, caliber 30-06, 280 Remington, 308 Winchester, 243 Winchester, and 6mm Remington. Twenty-two-inch round tapered barrel, 7 1/2 pounds, 42-inch length, walnut (13 1/4 inches X 1 5/8 inches X 2 1/4 inches) deluxe checkered p.g. and fore end, premier with gold inlays. "Takes a lot to handle her. But if you know what you're doing, she'll show you a real good time. Takes a big hunk of lead. Nothing like it—a good slug'll rip right into the cerebrum, adrenal cortex, and maybe the frontal lobe before it come out the other side."

Maurice shuddered and walked away, but everywhere he looked were guns or knives or hooks.

"You see," wheezed O'Neill, warming to the subject, "that's the beauty of them magnum, they always make you look good. Even if you muff a heart shot, chances are it'll shatter some vertebrae and drive right through one vital organ or another."

While O'Neill continued to list the kind of destruction a man who was wise enough to invest in a Woodmaster could look forward to, John caught sight of a poster on the wall. On it a young man with a shaved head was frowning and generally looking unhappy. Underneath was the saying: KEEP AMERICA CLEAN, DIP A HIPPIE. John looked back at O'Neill. Lucky man, he thought. Charlie O'Neill was not the type of man to be plagued by indecision and doubt. He knew what to believe. He wouldn't worry about what to do with a smartass kid, heavy into reds or greens or purples or whatever the fuck they called them, or a fifteen-year-old daughter who was passing it out to the whole neighborhood like it was lemonade. He'd slug them good and be done with it. There'd be none of this fancy talk about psychiatrists and military schools. He'd make short work of them with his belt. Jesus, life could be simple.

"Any chance of bear?" asked John.

"Always a chance. Should I wrap up the Weatherby?"

"Let me think about it," John said cautiously. He wasn't going to be talked into another mistake like the elephant gun.

"Take your time. Listen, you interested in this?" O'Neill groaned mightily as he reached under the counter and pulled out a Ruger H&H magnum.

"You think I'll need it?"

"Well, sir, that depends. Only reason to carry a pistol is to finish off what you ain't killed clean, that or to kill a man. So it depends if you're a bleedin' heart or you want to bleed a heart." He let out a sharp laugh that disintegrated into a coughing fit.

"I look like one or the other to you?"

"All men is one or the other. Yep, there's the ones that bleed and the ones that make 'em bleed. You ask me, I'd say you was the latter." O'Neill looked John up and down and nodded. "Yes, sir, that's what you are. You surely are."

Rye was still in his pajamas, reading the
Wall Street Journal
over his breakfast, when Maurice got back to the hotel. Rye tore off the front page and slammed it on the table in front of Maurice. "Read it," he said.

Maurice picked up the page. Globs of egg yolk and smears of butter obliterated part of the article, but he could make out most of it.

Miami, June 1: When viewed in proportion to the growth of the Gross National Product, Whitman Enterprises, under the stewardship of Rye Whitman, President and Chief Operating Officer, is alive and well. However, vague rumblings of discontent filtered out of the annual stockholders' meeting yesterday, and it is rumored that an incipient proxy fight was nipped in the bud by Mr. Whitman. The man, or men, behind this revolt were able to keep themselves anonymous, and there has been no major change in the executive lineup. Mr. Whitman was quick to say, when interviewed, that he reassured all investors as to the health of Whitman, Inc., and that this general airing of their views was salubrious for all involved.

"I'll have the balls of the fuckin' cocksucker," muttered Rye. He piled half an egg and a strip of bacon on his fork and slurped it down. "Just wait till I get back to Miami."

Maurice paused, unsure whether to tell Rye what he was thinking. He decided he'd better. "I think it was John," he said.

"Ha! That robot ain't got enough brains to fit on a toothpick, let alone try and take over my company."

"Are you sure?"

Rye abruptly stood up and knocked over his chair. He started pacing the room. Hell, no, of course he wasn't sure. He was starting to believe there were quite a few things he couldn't be sure of. He'd gone over and over his long list of enemies in his mind, but he hadn't considered that it could be a friend. He'd known John Patterson for ten years; he'd seen him every day; yet, now that he thought of it, he really didn't know him at all, and the little he did know led him to believe John could indeed be the Judas.

"So that half-baked All-American tackle thinks he can become quarterback, eh? Looks like this gator hunt might be even more interestin' than I thought."

Maurice stood by the table and watched Rye pace. His hand still clutched the egg-stained news clipping. "I don't know, Rye. John's a tough one. Men like him are the kind who win fights."

"Hell they do. Men like him don't even join in, they just feed off the carrion."

"What are you going to do?"

Rye stopped pacing and rolled the thought around in his brain like a connoisseur rolling wine in his mouth. "I don't know, but somethin'll come to hand; it always does." Rye smiled impishly at Maurice. He noted with irritation that Maurice still looked concerned. "Hey, don't tell me you're gettin' worried 'bout your ole buddy Rye?"

"Of course not. You can take care of yourself," Maurice answered, with a bit too much enthusiasm.

"So what's eatin' you? Don't tell me nothin', 'cause I can see it written all over that greasy face of yours."

"I don't know," said Maurice, unable to put into words the ominous feeling he'd had at the gun shop. "Maybe I'm just worried about myself."

Rye loved Maurice as much as he loved anyone, but he didn't respect him. Maurice wasn't a survivor, and recently it had scared Rye just being near him, as if it would rub off on him. "You? Shit, no need to worry about you," he said, "you're a scrapper like me."

Rye put his big arm around Maurice and shoved him toward the door. "You feel better now you got that piece of information off your chest? Ain't no call to go worryin' about that prick John Patterson any more; I'm on to him. Yes, sir, I'd say he's just about run his last play."

As Maurice walked down the corridor and back to his room, he felt relieved. Rye had a way of making him forget what was right before his eyes.

An hour later, Rye was still brooding on Maurice's report when there was a knock at the door. He was lying on the bed, and the covers were wadded up around him, as if he had been fighting them. He threw them on the floor, walked over to the door, and peeked through the keyhole.

"Well, well, Dan'l Boone, what a surprise," said Rye, as he opened the door; there was no surprise in his voice. He held the door open so Lee could enter.

Lee remained where he was. "You said you needed a guide," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well, aren't you gonna come in?" asked Rye impatiently.

"I'm comfortable out here."

Rye glared at Lee. The kid bugged him more than he could believe. Even when Lee was eating crow, he did it as though he had ordered it from the menu. It was no fun getting the better of a man if he didn't acknowledge it. Rye leaned against the doorway and smirked. "Heard you had a little trouble yesterday. Too bad. People are reluctant to take on guides who let their clients blow each other's heads off."

Lee shrugged and turned to leave. He knew Rye would stop him.

"Now hold on," said Rye. "I was just thinkin' out loud."

"Don't like the way you think any more than I like the way you talk."

"You know, you got a lot of balls for a man who's askin' a favor."

"I ain't askin' no favors" said Lee. "You need a guide. I need a job. It's as simple as that."

"No, sir, not exactly. The fact is, I'd say you just got your ass kicked in but good. Now, I'm prepared to offer you two thousand dollars."

"I don't much care what you're prepared to offer, the price is five." Lee almost sounded as if he didn't care.

"I'd say your bargaining position ain't exactly strong," growled Rye.

"Neither is yours," said Lee.

"Oh, yeah, how do you come to that?"

"You want that gator, Mr. Whitman, and you know I'm the only one who can help you get it. Five thousand is my price. It's a fair one, and you'll pay it. You would have paid me double if I had asked for it."

Saying yes was probably the most excruciating thing Rye had ever had to do, but he was a pragmatic man. Lee was right: Rye would have paid him twice the price. "I ordered a boat for dawn," he said finally.

"Can't manage it till the day after. We leave at nine sharp." Lee pushed his raunchy old hat farther down on his head, turned on his heel, and hunkered down the corridor.

Rye considered grabbing his Ml6 and making a sieve out of Lee. "You're awfully sure of yourself, ain't ya?" he yelled after him.

"It's a family trait," Lee muttered as he doublestepped down the stairs and out into the street.

Rye watched the empty hallway for a while, wondering whether the pleasure of cramming his fist into Lee's face right now wouldn't be greater than the hunt. He contented himself with loudly slamming the door closed. But Lee was well down the street by that time, and the slam was wasted on a couple of field mice.

Rye's outburst disturbed two other guests at the Rod and Gun. Six doors down the hall, General Randolph P. Hutchins and his very much alive son, Clete, heard Rye's door slam. General Hutchins looked up for a moment and swore loudly, but he didn't go into the corridor to investigate. He refrained for two reasons. The first was that he had been paid handsomely to keep the door closed, with himself behind it. The second reason was that he'd discovered an old copy of
Sports Illustrated
with a salute to Vince Lombardi, and nothing short of an earthquake could tear him from it.

When General Randolph P. Hutchins had learned that Vince Lombardi had died, he had ordered the flag flown at half-mast. General H. was not an overly sentimental man, so it was generally assumed that Vince's death meant something pretty special to him. It did to a lot of people. Vince was that kind of guy. He may have been fat and ugly, with gapped teeth you could stick a goddamned cigar through, he may not have been exactly the kind of man to whom you build statues, but it didn't matter. What mattered was, he always won.

For years, Randy had harbored a secret fantasy of fighting Vince Lombardi. He knew it would be a good fight. Randy liked a good fight. He also liked a bad fight; not the type to reject an easy win, he would take them as he found them. But best of all he liked a good fight, and in his estimation, Vince was one of the few men who could give it to him.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he wouldn't have given to have taken that man on, one on one. Anywhere. You name the place. If the fucker had wanted Lambeau Field, then Lambeau Field it would have been. County Stadium in Milwaukee? Madison Square Garden? The Lombardi living room? Anywhere.