Ring Game (20 page)

Three long seconds passed.

“You come to pay me my money?” Jimmy asked.

Hyatt thought, What money? He said, “Yeah. Whatever. Just open the door.”

“You can come in, but your friends stay outside.”

“They aren’t my friends!”

Hyatt heard a series of locks being opened. The front door swung open, and Hyatt stepped inside. The door closed. Hyatt blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The first thing he saw was a crinkled aluminum foil log about six inches in diameter and four feet long. The log had three pair of antennae jutting out at odd angles, with foil flags at the tip of each antenna. The fact that it was approximately the right length and that Jimmy Swann was pointing it at his groin led Hyatt to conclude that this was the latest stage in the evolution of Jimmy Swann’s shotgun.

“Let’s see it,” Jimmy Swann said. His voice, which Hyatt remembered as being on the light side, had taken on a shredded quality.

Jimmy Swann had evolved as well. Hyatt remembered him as a short, fidgety, and slightly plump young man with ruddy cheeks and an immaculate white smile. In short, a reasonably normal-looking human being, once you got past the woven copper headband.

Apparently, radio waves had become a larger part of Jimmy’s reality in the past couple years. The copper headband had evolved into a complex appurtenance, which now included brass tubing, bits of colored foil, and a fulgurite that Jimmy had found on the beach during his Boy Scout days. The last time Hyatt had seen the fulgurite—a root-shaped piece of fused silica formed by the action of lightning on sand—it had been displayed on Jimmy’s dresser. It now formed the centerpiece to the metal sculpture on his head. Shanks of long, matted hair threaded through the apparatus and spilled down over his bony shoulders.

The new Jimmy—copper, brass, foil, and fulgurite included—could not have weighed more than one hundred twenty pounds. Other than the headpiece, he wore nothing but a pair of oversized Levis that rode so low on his emaciated hips that a tuft of pubic hair showed above the waistband. His pasty skin looked as if it hadn’t seen the sun in years.

“It’s me, Jimmy. Hy.”

“I know who you are. Where’s the money?”

“Uh, let’s just talk about that.” Hyatt still did not know what money Jimmy was talking about. “How about you put the gun down?”

“You owe me, man.”

“I understand that. Uh, how much was it again?”

“You know how much it is. Three hundred forty-six dollars. Let’s have it!”

Hyatt tried to remember. Did he owe Jimmy Swann three hundred forty-six dollars? It was certainly possible. When Hyatt owed someone money, he made it a policy to put it out of his mind until payment was demanded.

He said, “I didn’t pay you that? Hey, no problem. I’ve got the money—” Hy slapped his wallet, which contained about fourteen dollars. “—and I’ll pay you. Aren’t you going to invite me in? Offer me a beer or something?”

Jimmy’s posture softened. He let the shotgun barrel dip—now it was pointing at Hyatt’s knees. “Who’s in the vette?”

Hyatt shrugged. “Just some assholes.”

“They pissed off my neighbors, man. I don’t need that shit.”

“Like I said, they’re assholes.”

Jimmy grinned. Everything else had changed, but the smile was exactly as Hyatt remembered. He shifted his grip on the shotgun, letting it dangle from one hand, the barrel now aimed in the vicinity of Hyatt’s right foot, giving him a better look at the weapon. Despite all the tinfoil, the gun appeared to be operational. The trigger was clear of obstructions as was the ejection port. The last two inches of barrel jutted ominously from the tinfoil casing.

“Come on in,” Jimmy said, backing down the hallway, which was lined on either side with stacks of magazines, books, and newspapers. Jimmy had always been a sucker for ordering subscriptions every year during the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, but the situation had gotten way out of hand in the two years since Hyatt had last been there. Access to the upstairs was completely blocked by stacks of magazines chest high on the steps, and to get to the kitchen required climbing over a pile of furniture chinked with periodicals. Jimmy led him into the sitting room where, it seemed, he now spent nearly all of his time.

The center of the room was filled with an unfolded sofabed piled with books and magazines. A full-size refrigerator, a microwave oven on a stand, and a large-screen television set stood around the bed like relatives visiting a dying uncle. A collection of empty pizza boxes filled the fireplace. The room reeked of stale beer and sweat and aging deep-dish pizzas.

“I just love what you’ve done with the place,” Hyatt said.

“I don’t get out much. Fact, I don’t get out at all.” Jimmy opened the refrigerator. “You want a beer?”

“You know what I really want? I want you to loan me that shotgun.” In the old days, Jimmy had always responded positively to bullying.

Jimmy closed the refrigerator door and faced Hyatt, renewing his grip on the shotgun. “Why should I?” he said, his tone of voice suddenly that of a child. “It’s mine!”

“I just need it for a minute, Jimmy.” Hyatt took a step toward him. “Then I’ll pay you.”

“Three hundred forty-six dollars?” Jimmy’s tongue crawled out of his mouth and explored his upper lip.

“That’s right.”

For a few seconds, it looked as if Jimmy, confronted by Hyatt’s superior intellect, would simply hand over the gun. Then his expression changed. He seemed to be listening to something—possibly an emanation from his headgear. After a moment he nodded, smiled triumphantly, raised the gun, and aimed it at Hyatt’s chest. “Pay me now.”

Hyatt did not like the way things were going. In the past, he had usually been able to tell Jimmy Swann what to do, but even then he had sometimes encountered interference from the local radio wave gods. Once Jimmy got a message from “certain interested parties,” he could become quite stubborn.

Hyatt said, “I’m going to pay you, Jimmy. But tell me something. Why do I owe you three hundred forty-six dollars?”

Jimmy glared. “You owe everybody money.”

“I know that. But why three hundred forty-six dollars?”

Jimmy’s eyes rolled up into his head, then snapped back into focus as the message came through. “That’s how much I owe the gas company,” he said.

Hyatt had thought it might be something like that.

Unfortunately, in Jimmy’s mind, admitting the spurious assignation of debt did nothing to cancel it. The shotgun was still there, and Jimmy still wanted his money, and Hyatt didn’t have it. He was starting to wish that he’d taken his chances with Chip.

Hyatt squinted and stared at the cone-shaped coil of copper tubing that crowned Jimmy’s headpiece. He said, “That’s odd.”

Jimmy tried to look up. “What’s odd?”

Hyatt said, “Look what it’s doing.”

“What? What what’s doing?”

“That.” Hyatt pointed. “There’s a huge cockroach on your wires, Jimmy.” He wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but when all else failed, it paid to improvise.

Jimmy took a step back, as if trying to get out from under his headpiece. “Where is it? What’s it doing?”

“It’s chewing on the wires. Have you been experiencing any degradation of signal quality?”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. He reached up with one hand.

“Don’t touch it!” Hyatt warned.

Jimmy jerked his arm down. “Where is it?”

“It’s on the coil now. It’s moving down the coil. Oh my god!”

Jimmy dropped the shotgun and grabbed the assemblage of wires and tubing and tried to tear it from his head, shrieking as shanks of hair, tangled in amongst the wires, refused to let go. Suddenly, he noticed that his shotgun had appeared in Hyatt’s hands.

Hyatt said, “Hold still.” He aimed the shotgun at the copper coil.

Jimmy dropped his hands and screamed, “No!”

Hyatt fired. Lead pellets ripped through copper, rattled off of steel and fulgurite. The force of the blast jerked Jimmy’s head back, sending him staggering onto the sofa-bed. He fell across the mattress, sending several dozen magazines sliding off onto the floor. Hyatt pumped a new shell into the chamber.

“I think I got it,” he said. His ears were ringing.

Jimmy, his eyes showing white all the way around his irises, reached up and explored his shredded headset with shaking fingers. “I can’t hear you, man. I’m not receiving.”

“That’s okay,” Hyatt said. “I didn’t have anything more to say.”

A five-year-old, beige four-door Plymouth Reliant, Crow had once read, was the least likely of all vehicles to be noticed or remembered, thus making it the perfect surveillance vehicle. That being the case, a three-decade-old, lemon-yellow, hood-scooped, gas-guzzling muscle car had to fall somewhere near the other end of the conspicuousness spectrum, right up there with the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile.

The two kids eyeing the GTO looked to be about twelve. They stood a few yards away on the sidewalk, talking and pointing at Crow and his car as though they were discussing a museum display: white man in automobile, circa 1969. Crow rolled down his window and beckoned them with a crooked finger. The taller kid, who had been doing most of the talking, fell silent. After a moment he took a cautious step forward and said, “Wuzapp’n.”

“Not much,” Crow said.

“That your car?”

“That’s right,” Crow said.

“You with thems?” He looked toward the Corvette parked beside Hyatt’s BMW.

“Nope. I’m a good guy.”

“How ’bout you take us for a drive?”

Crow laughed. The kids laughed, too. They edged closer. Crow said, pointing at the gated Victorian, “You know who lives in that house over there?”

The shorter kid said, “The scary dude.”

The other kid said, “He ain’t so scary. He just mess up in the head.”

“He scare me. He got a magic gun.”

“A what?” Crow asked.

The kids looked at each other. The tall kid licked his lips and turned away.

“You a cop?” the short one asked.

“Nope. Are you a gangster?”

The kid shook his head, taking Crow’s inquiry very seriously. “He got wires coming out his head.”

“Wires?”

“Uh-huh. And he gots this big silver gun. He shot Scoopy’s ass for going in his yard.”

“Who’s Scoopy?”

“Scoopy don’t live here no more.”

Crow heard a muffled report. “What was that?”

“Sometimes he just like to shoot.”

Crow saw the front door to the Victorian open. Hyatt Hilton emerged and started toward the gate. He had something long and silver in his hands. Crow lost sight of him behind a lilac bush, then the gate swung open and Hyatt stepped out onto the sidewalk and shouldered the silver object, pointing it at the front of the Corvette. Crow saw a puff appear at the end of the silver object and heard the blast. Blue smoke erupted from the Corvette’s rear tires and the car rocketed backward, in Crow’s direction. Hyatt fired again. The vette, still smoking its tires, suddenly slued around in a one-eighty. Hyatt’s third shot was drowned out by the sound of clashing gears and the roaring engine. The vette screeched past Crow’s position, its windshield shattered to opacity but still intact, the driver hanging his head out the window to see. Within two seconds it was out of sight, leaving behind a dissipating cloud of smoke and the reek of burnt rubber.

Crow sat with his mouth hanging open, his brain unable to accept what he was seeing as real. Hyatt had run out into the street, still holding the bizarre-looking gun against his shoulder. Crow suddenly remembered the two kids he’d been talking to, but when he looked for them they had disappeared. He returned his attention to Hyatt and found himself looking at the end of Hyatt’s weapon. The fact that it was more than half a block away did little to make him feel more comfortable. Crow jammed the Hurst shifter into first gear just as Hyatt let fly. The sound of pellets rattling his hood and windshield was distinctive—a hundred micro-impacts, all in the space of a millisecond. Crow cranked the wheel and stomped on the gas pedal, spinning the car, leaving a pair of hook-shaped rubber marks on the street. He made it all the way to third gear without ever taking his right foot off the floor.

Chuckles and Chip each had their own way of dealing with their recent near-death experience. Chip became uncharacteristically voluble, dissecting the confrontation in military terms.

“His mistake was to carry his weapon in full view, giving his opponents time to analyze the situation and neutralize the attack. We could have preempted his strike with our own firelight. A surgical strike.” Chip subscribed to
Soldier of Fortune
magazine.

Chuckles, staring at the crumbled remains of his windshield, grunted. “I’m just happy to be
alive
,” he said. He rubbed the grinning skull tattoo on his forearm with his thumb, an unconscious habit. Polly was always complaining about his tattoo. Said the skull was a holdover from his Death Program days, but Chuckles liked it. He called it Good Luck Charlie.

“You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress. You should increase your vitamin C intake.”

“Hey, screw you, man. You see what he done to my
ride
? Polly didn’t say
nothin’
about the dude havin’ no
shotgun
. Fucked up my
glass
, fucked up my
paint
. Coulda been my
face
, man.”

“It’s all part of the job.”

“All I know is, next time that bitch go down on me, I gonna be looking out both eyes and that ain’t no lie.”

Chip said, “She … what did you say?”

Play to behavior, not personalities.

—Crow’s rules

T
HE MORE CROW THOUGHT
about it, the madder he got. By the time he got home and got out and looked at the side of his car and saw the hundreds of tiny gray scuff marks on the hood and the right quarter panel, he was mad enough to turn around and drive over to Hyatt’s house to wait for him. So he did. He parked his car around the corner where Hyatt wouldn’t see it and walked up to the front door and leaned on the bell. Carmen answered the door wordlessly, blinking at him with sleepy eyes, containing not a scintilla of recognition. Crow told himself that he shouldn’t care, but it still irritated him that Carmen never seemed to recognize him.