Philip Kerr - The Shot

‘Moloch should be coming into view any second now,’ Sylvia said loudly, because, like her, the American was also wearing ear protection.

The American said nothing, already concentrating on his breathing cycle: he had been trained to exhale normally, and then hold his breath for just a fraction of a second before squeezing the trigger. He had no doubt that Sylvia would correctly identify the target when he hove into view. Like the rest of the local Shin Bet team in Buenos Aires, she knew Moloch’s face almost as well as she had come to know Eichmann’s. And if the American did have a concern about her, it was that to confirm he had hit or missed his target he was relying on someone who had never before seen someone shot dead in cold blood. Any rifle’s recoil prevented the shooter from seeing if he had hit his man. Especially when the target was standing more than a hundred yards away and in a crowd of people. At that kind of distance a shooter needed a spotter like a pitcher needs an umpire behind home plate, to call balls and strikes on the batter. The least amount of squeamish hesitation on her part and they risked losing the opportunity for a second shot. Observing bullet impacts was easy; detecting a miss — even the best marksman could miss — and describing where the bullet went was the hard part.

The American held no opinion of his professional skills except to say that he was able to command a high fee for his services. It wasn’t the kind of business where you could claim to be the best. Or indeed where others could legitimately claim that distinction for you. Moreover, he disliked that kind of reputation as much as he eschewed inflated claims of his own excellence. For him discretion and reliability were the two defining features of his way of life and the fewer people there were who knew about what he did and how well he did it, the better. The most important part of the job was getting away with it, and that necessitated the kind of quiet, unassuming, unsigned behaviour that was characteristic of only the most self-effacing of people. In none of this, however, did he consider himself to be at all atypical of anyone in that particular line of work. He knew there were other marksmen out there — Sarti, Nicoli, David, Nicoletti, to name but a few — but other than their names he knew very little about them, which told him that they aimed to be as anonymous as he was himself. His name was Tom Jefferson.

There was one thing he knew was quite unusual about his own situation, however, and this was that he was married, and to a girl who knew exactly what he did for a living. Who knew what he did, and approved of it.

Mary had accompanied Tom on the trip to Lake Tahoe to pick up the contract. That had been the plan anyway; things happened a little differently when finally they arrived in Lake Tahoe.

They flew Bonanza Air from Miami to Reno, from where they drove to the Cal-Neva Lodge on the North Shore’s Crystal Bay, at the invitation of a man named Irving Davidson. Mary, a second-generation Chinese, had never been to Tahoe, but she had seen the Cal-Neva’s advertisements in the magazines, (‘Heaven in the High Sierras’) and she had read about how the resort was part-owned by Frank Sinatra and Peter Lawford, and how Marilyn Monroe was a frequent visitor there, as were members of the Kennedy family. Mary, as interested in the Kennedys as she was a fan of Monroe’s, was keen to stay in such a glamorous spot.

And she took to the place as soon as she saw it. Or rather as soon as she saw Joe DiMaggio and Jimmy Durante having a drink in the Indian Room. But there was something about the Cal-Neva Tom didn’t like. An atmosphere. Something indefinably corrupt. Perhaps it was because the operating philosophy of the place seemed to be that money could buy you everything. Or perhaps it was because the resort had been built by a wealthy San Francisco businessman with the express purpose of circumventing Californian law. Located on the state line dividing California and Nevada, the resort comprised a central rustic lodge with an enormous fireplace, a cluster of luxury chalets, and a casino which, because of the laws banning gambling in California, was located on the Nevada side of the border. The state line ran right through the middle of the swimming pool enabling bathers to swim from one state into another. Tom was glad that, as things turned out, he only had to spend one night in the place.

Soon after their arrival it became clear that their host and potential client would be unable to join them. Telephoning the discreet chalet where Tom and Mary were relaxing together in the large hot tub, Irving Davidson explained the situation.

‘Tom? May I call you Tom? I’m afraid that some business is going to detain me here in Las Vegas for a while. Look, I’m very sorry about this, but I’m not going to be able to come up there and join you. That being the case, for which once again you have my apologies Tom, I was wondering if I could prevail upon your time and patience a little further. I was wondering if you would mind driving down here to meet me and my associates here in Vegas. It’s about four hundred and fifty miles down Highway ninety-five. You could leave just after breakfast, and be here late afternoon. It’s a nice drive. Especially if you’re in a nice car. Living in Miami, I bet you drive a convertible, Tom. Am I right?’

‘Chevy Bel Air,’ confirmed Tom.

‘That’s a nice car,’ said Davidson. ‘Well, there’s a Dual Ghia at your disposal while you’re in Nevada, Tom. That’s a really beautiful car. But here’s the kick: it belongs to Frank Sinatra. How does that sound? And when you arrive in Vegas you can stay in the suite Frank has here at the Sands. Everything is fixed. What do you say, Tom?’

Tom, who had never much cared for Sinatra’s music, was silent for a moment. He sensed that the suite was for him alone. ‘What about my wife?’ he asked.

‘Let her enjoy herself where she is. Listen, she’s got everything she needs right there. A drive through the desert with the hood down, she doesn’t need. Her hair doesn’t need it. Her complexion doesn’t need it. There’s a pretty good beauty salon in the Lodge. I’ve booked her a whole morning in there. And I’ve arranged for her to have five hundred dollars’ worth of chips to play with in the casino. She needs anything else, all she’s got to do is pick up the phone and Skinny’ll fix it for her. That’s Skinny D’Amato. The general manager? He knows all about how you and Mary are my special guests. I believe that some celebrity guests are coming in tomorrow. Eddie Fisher and Dean Martin. I can have Skinny introduce her if she wants. So what do you say, Tom?’

‘Okay, Mister Davidson. It’s your party.’

Early the next morning, Tom left Mary very excited about the possibility of meeting Dean Martin and drove Sinatra’s expensive convertible to Vegas, as requested. On the way down he listened to a country music radio station and, by the time he arrived, he thought he must have heard Hank Locklin sing ‘Please Help Me I’m Falling’ as many as a dozen times. Tom preferred Jim Reeves. Not just his most recent record, ‘He’ll Have to Go’, but also because he sometimes fancied he looked a little like a younger, slimmer version of the singer.

It was around five when he turned off 95 on to Las Vegas Boulevard, and saw the Strip, which was always a picture to warm the heart of any magazine pictures editor. He checked into the Sands and went up to a suite that was the size of the Fuller dome. On the Formica free-form coffee table was an enormous basket of fruit, a bottle of Bourbon, and a card inviting Tom along to Davidson’s own suite for drinks at ten o’clock. So he lay down on the bed and dozed a little, then took a bath, ate a banana, put on a clean shirt, and walked around the Strip for a while. Tom did not gamble. He did not even play the slots. Tom had little time for the old Vegas saying that the more you bet, the less you lose when you win. But he did like to look at bare-breasted girls, of which the Strip had a plentiful supply. The Lido show at the Stardust’s chic Café Continental was good, and so were the Ice-cubettes at the Thunderbird’s Ecstasy On Ice review. He liked to see breasts, lots of them too, but most of all he liked to see a woman’s ass, and for that you had to go to Harold Minsky’s harem headquarters at The Dunes, where there was more bare flesh on display than any other show in Vegas. A winning pile of chips on a craps table was nothing to look at compared with a good piece of ass in a spangled G-string. When he’d seen enough, he went back to the hotel, took another shower and then knocked at Davidson’s door.