Макс Коллинз - Hush Money

But now that he was a civilian again — on the surface, anyway — he was glad he hadn’t gone the Air America route. He might have been killed as a mercenary, which was a risk he wouldn’t have minded taking before, and still didn’t, but not for money. The money a mercenary could make, which had once looked so attractive to him, seemed meaningless now. Dying wasn’t a disturbing concept to him, really; in fact sometimes it damn near appealed to him. What disturbed him was the thought of dying for no reason, without purpose. If he lost his life in pursuit of his private war, well, okay; at least he’d have died pursuing a worthwhile cause. You could argue the pros and cons of a Vietnam, but not this war, not his war. Anyone who knew the facts would agree — even the damn knee-jerk liberals, he’d wager.

Since parting company with Uncle Sugar, he’d been living alone in an apartment but spending some time with his sister and her small daughter. He didn’t have a job, or, rather, he didn’t have an employer. He told his sister he was planning to go to college starting second semester and actually had filled out applications for Drake, Simpson, and a couple of two-year schools in the area. Hell, he might even attend one of them, when his war was over; he had GI, he had it coming.

Not that he was thinking that far ahead. That was a fairy-tale happy ending, off in the fuzzy and distant future of a month from now, and he wasn’t thinking any further ahead than the days his war would last. Yes, days. With a war as limited as this one, a few days should be enough, considering no further reconnaissance would be necessary, to seek out and destroy the enemy. He’d been over and over the legacy of tapes, documents, committing them to memory, all but word for word, and he now knew the patterns, the lifestyle of the DiPreta family like he knew his own. A few days of ambush, of psychological warfare, and the score would be settled, the war would be won. He might even survive to go to college and become a useful member of society as his sister wanted. Who could say.

It was 4:47 p.m. when he arrived at the two-story white clapboard house, the basement of which was his apartment. The neighborhood was middle to lower-middle class, the house located on East Walnut between East 14th and 15th streets, two main drags cutting through Des Moines, 14th a one-way south, 15th a one-way north. His apartment’s location was a strategically good one. Fourteenth and 15th provided access to any place in the city, with the east/ west freeway, 235, a few blocks north; and he was within walking distance of the core of the DiPreta family’s most blatantly corrupt activities. A short walk west on Walnut (he would have to circle the massive, impressively beautiful Capitol building, its golden dome shining even on a dull, overcast afternoon like this one) and he’d find the so-called East Side, the rundown collection of secondhand stores, seedy bars, garish nightclubs, greasy spoons and porno movie houses that crowded the capitol steps like a protest rally. The occasional wholly reputable business concern seemed out of place in this ever-deteriorating neighborhood, as if put there by accident, or as a practical joke. At one time the East Side had been the hub of Des Moines, the business district, the center of everything; now it was the center of nothing, except of some of the more squalid activities in the capital city.

Location wasn’t the only nice thing about his living quarters; nicer yet was the privacy. He had his own entrance around back, four little cement steps leading down to the doorway. The apartment was one large room that took up all of the basement except for a walled-off laundry room, which he was free to use. He also had his own bathroom with toilet and shower, though he did have to go through the laundry room to get to it. Otherwise his apartment was absolutely private and he had no one bothering him; he saw the Parkers (the family he rented from) hardly at all. He had a refrigerator, a stove, and a formica-top table that took up one corner of the room as a make-do kitchenette. A day bed that in its couch identity was a dark green went well with the light green-painted cement walls. There was also an empty bookcase he hadn’t gotten around to filling yet, though some gun magazines and Penthouses were stacked on the bottom shelf (he’d given up Playboy while in Nam, as he didn’t care for its political slant) and a big double-door pine wardrobe for his clothes and such, which he kept locked.

The wardrobe was where he stowed the Weatherby, which he’d brought into the house carried casually under and over his arm. It was zipped up in a tan-and-black vinyl pouch, with foam padding and fleece lining, and he’d made no pretense about what he was carrying. He’d already explained to the Parkers that shooting was his hobby. Luckily, Mr. Parker was not a hunter or a gun buff, or he might’ve asked embarrassing questions. Someone who knew what he was talking about might have looked at the Weatherby and asked, “What you planning to shoot, lad? Big game?”

And he would’ve had to say, “That’s exactly right”

He laid the Weatherby Mark V in the bottom of the wardrobe, alongside the rest of the small but substantial arsenal he’d assembled for his war: a Browning 9-millimeter automatic with checkered walnut grips, blue finish, fixed sights, and thirteen-shot magazine, in brown leather shoulder holster rig; a Colt Python revolver, blue, 357 Magnum with four-inch barrel, wide hammer spur and adjustable rear sight, in black leather hip holster; a Thompson submachine gun, 45 caliber, black metal, brown wood; boxes of the appropriate ammunition; and half a dozen pineapple-type hand grenades, which he’d made himself, buying empty shell casings, filling them with gunpowder, providing primers.

He closed the wardrobe but left it unlocked.

He felt fine. Not jumpy at all. He sniffed under his arms. Nothing, not a scent; this afternoon had been literally no sweat. That was good to know, after some years away from actual combat. Good to know he hadn’t lost his edge. And that the helicopter crash hadn’t left him squeamish: that was good to know, too. Very.

But he took a shower anyway. The hot needles of water melted him; he dialed the faucet tight, so that the water pressure would stay as high as possible. If he told himself there was no tension in him, he’d be lying, he knew. He needed to relax, unwind. He’d stayed cool today, yes, but nobody stays that cool.

The phone rang and he cut his shower short, running bare-ass out to answer it, hopping from throw rug to throw rug to avoid the cold cement of a basement floor that was otherwise as naked as he was.

“Yes?” he said.

“Stevie, where’ve you been? I been trying to get you.”

It was his sister, Diane. She was a year or two older than he, around thirty or so, but she played the older sister act to the hilt. It was even worse now, with their parents dead.

“I was out, Di.”

“I won’t ask where. I’m not going to pry.”

“Good, Di.”

“Well, I just thought you’d maybe like to come over tonight for supper, that’s all. I came home over lunch hour and put a casserole in, and it’ll be too much for just Joni and me.”

Joni was her six-year-old daughter. Diane was divorced, but she hadn’t gotten out of the habit of cooking for a family, and consequently he’d been eating at her place several nights a week this last month. Which was fine, as his specialty was canned soup and TV dinners.

“I’d like that, Di.”

“Besides, I want to talk to you.”

“About school, I suppose.”

“About school, yes, and some other things. I’m your sister and interested in what you’re doing. Is that so terrible?”