“He’s never going to believe I got away from some hired killer.”
“Probly not, but he ain’t gonna have no grounds ta challenge ya and he’ll have no way ta track ya, so he’ll hafta live with it.”
Jack imagined what it would have taken for him to have actually gotten away from D if he’d decided to carry out his order after all. The thought was a bit daunting. “D?”
“Hmm?”
“When you were fighting that guy in the alley?”
“Yeah?”
“What kind of fighting was that?”
D frowned. “The bare-ass desperate kind. Whaddya mean?”
“No, I mean… you were trained in hand-to-hand combat, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind? Like, judo or something?”
D laughed. “Nothin’ that fancy. Military uses this fightin’ called Krav Maga. It’s real… useful. It’s all about savin’ yer energy and usin’ it where it counts.”
Jack turned in his chair, the idea surging into his head with urgency. “Teach me.”
D just blinked at him. “Teach ya?”
“Teach me to fight. Don’t you think I ought to be able to defend myself a little?”
“Jack, I cain’t fuckin’ teach ya ta fight in a coupla days and I sure as hell cain’t teach ya with a bum shoulder. Takes a long time ta get comfortable with that, and I can tell jus’ by lookin’ at ya that you ain’t never had a hand laid on ya in violence.”
He had a point, Jack had to admit. “Well, then… can you teach me how to shoot a gun? That can’t be as hard.”
“Oh, hell yes it can.” D hesitated, his lips pursing and unpursing. “Ain’t a bad idea, though.”
Jack had never even touched a gun. The idea of holding one and shooting it was suddenly appealing in a way it had never been. He supposed there was nothing like near-death experiences to make a person appreciate the utility of weapons. “So can we do that?” he asked, sounding absurdly like a kid asking permission to go to the zoo or something.
D turned to him, a half-smile on his face. “Yeah, we can do that.”
~~~~~
They set up a target along the longest clear path they could find in the backyard, and D produced some earplugs from somewhere in one of his magic aluminum cases. Jack lugged one out onto the porch and D began unloading guns. “You know anything about guns?”
“They shoot bullets.”
“Well, that’s a start. First thing about guns is safety. Y’always assume they’re loaded, don’t never point ’em at nobody you don’t mean ta shoot at, and always remember that yer holdin’ in yer hand a piece a human ingenuity designed ta cause harm, and ya better goddamn respect that, got it?” Jack nodded. “Okay, then. This is a revolver,” he said, handing Jack a gun. “Revolvers are kinda old-fashioned but the mechanism’s simpler and they’re less likely ta jam up or misfire.” He drew out a sleeker-looking black pistol. “This is a semi-automatic pistol.”
“What’s the difference between a semi-automatic and an automatic?” Jack asked. “I’ve just heard people say ‘automatic’.”
“Same thing. People say automatic when they mean semi. It jus’ means that the bullets come up from the cartridge by themselves so you can fire shots one after another without cockin’ it. Fully automatic means you jus’ hold the trigger and bullets keep comin’ ’til ya let up, like a machine gun.”
“Are there fully automatic pistols?”
D arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, but that’s some heavy shit. You don’t wanna mess around with that. Anyway, I ain’t got any here.”
“What do those look like?”
“Uh….” D squinted. “Didja see The Matrix?”
“Sure.”
“That part where they was shootin’ up that lobby fulla SWAT dudes? They was packin’ machine pistols fer the most part there. Ya hold ’em in one hand. Nasty bit a weaponry. Don’t use ’em, myself. Don’t got much call fer fully automatic guns in my line a work. Handguns ‘n’ rifles, mostly.”
“Rifles?” Jack said, perking up.
“Hold on there now, Tex. I ain’t got no rifles with me, and they ain’t fer beginners. It’s one thing ta shoot a handgun but somethin’ else ta fire a rifle.” He took the revolver and handed Jack the black pistol. It felt natural in his hand, like it had been made to fit it, which Jack supposed it had. It felt weightier than its mass, and deadly. “That’s a Beretta ninety-two. That’s standard military issue in the U.S. Spent a lotta time with one a them on my hip. This one’s a Glock seventeen, real common with police departments and such. Nine millimeter.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That’s the caliber a bullets it fires.”
“What about ones that are… what, three fifty-seven? Or thirty-eight?”
“Damn, you do watch a lot of movies. When they say thirty-eight that’s also the caliber, but that’s inches. Them are used with American-made guns. Glocks are Austrian so it’s metric.”
“What’s that really big scary one?”
D smirked and reached into his case again, withdrawing a pistol that dwarfed the other two. “That’d be this one, I guess,” he said. “It’s a Desert Eagle. I don’t think yer gonna be firin’ that thing. Tell ya the truth, it ain’t so useful as a handgun. Too big. Might come in handy if ya hadta shoot an elk or somethin’. Here, try this one,” he said, handing him a slimmer one. “That’s a Walther PPK. Look familiar?”
Jack looked at the gun in his hand, frowning. “Kinda.”
“That’s James Bond’s gun,” D said. “I like that one.”
Jack blinked and put the gun down. “I guess… you’ve used all these, huh?” he said.
D sat down. “Yep.”
“To kill people.”
“That’s what they’re for.” He sighed. “That’s what I’m for.”
Jack looked up at him, slumped to the side with his arm in its sling, his eyes on the array of death dispensation spread before them on the table. “That’s not all you’re for.”
“It is, or so you say. Killin’ or lettin’ people be killed.” D picked up a cartridge and began loading it with bullets in quick, precise movements. “Now yer wantin’ me ta teach ya how, and ain’t that jus’ fuckin’ ironic.” He loaded the Glock. “Only thing I was ever good at,” he said, quietly. Jack watched his face, transfixed. “And I was damn good. Too good, ’cause it got me inta this fucked-up business.” He handed the gun to Jack. “Come on, doc. Let’s get this over with.”
He led Jack to the far side of the yard, facing the target. “How do I…,” Jack began, but D was already moving around him, showing him with quick nudges and pulls how to position himself.
“There ya go. Plant yer feet. Support yer firin’ hand in the other one… yeah, like that. Brace yer shoulders; it will kick some.” D moved around to stand directly behind Jack. Close behind, so Jack could feel D’s breath on his ear. “Okay. That’s about fifty feet, no problem. You sight along the barrel, then let yer breath out and hold.” Jack did as D said, trying to find some center of stillness inside him while his entire body felt jumpy and fluttery, not only with the strangeness of the activity but with D’s sheer physical proximity, the effect of which was unexpected, although not entirely unfamiliar. “Then ya fire. Don’t pull the trigger; squeeze it.”
Jack took another breath and let it out, held it, sighted and squeezed. The gun jumped, a loud crack issuing from it. He looked up at the target to see that he’d hit it about a foot from the bull’s-eye in the center. “Hey, I hit it!” he said.
“Huh. Not bad fer a first time. Again.”
~~~~~
Jack had fired a full cartridge from all the semi-automatic pistols, and he was starting to feel somewhat comfortable with the sensation. It was a heady thing, to hold this tidy little feat of engineering in his hand and dispense bullets from it, bullets that could maim or kill if they found their mark.
After the first couple of rounds, D had backed off a little and observed him fr
om a few steps away. Jack finished firing a full magazine from the Beretta and lowered his arms. “Hey, what’s that thing where you hold the gun sideways?” he said, grinning.
D snorted. “That’s called being a punk-ass punk,” he said. “Might look good in rap videos. You see anybody holdin’ a gun like that ya know they’re cake, ’cause they’re more interested in what the gun looks like in their hand than what it can do, and they’re probly dumber’n a fuckin’ bag a hammers too.” He was loading the Walther again. “See if ya can group ’em better this time. Yer accuracy ain’t bad, but the precision is fer shit.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Don’tcha know? Ain’t you a scientist?”
“Physics 101 was a long time ago.”
“Accuracy is how close ya come to the mark ya wanna hit. Precision’s how consistently ya hit the same spot. See, if I take all them holes ya made and average ’em out, yer hitting on average close ta the bull’s-eye, but they’re scattered all over. Left, right, high and low. Not too precise.”
“Which one’s more important?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
D smiled and handed him the gun. “On how badly ya gotta hit what yer aimin’ at and how many chances yer gonna get ta do it.”
Jack looked down at the gun, then up at D. “Thanks.”
“Fer what?”
“For teaching me this. For trusting me with it. I mean… you’re teaching me how to kill you, in a way.”
“Uh, you coulda done that real easy a few days ago, Jack. Woulda died a infection if ya hadn’t—”
“I know, but… you know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” D sobered, then waved at the target. “Go ahead.”
Jack sighted, planted his feet, and breathed carefully, trying to group his shots close together. He was peripherally aware that D wasn’t really watching him, but was walking slowly back and forth to his right. He emptied the magazine, one shot at a time, then lowered the gun and grinned. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! D, look at that, they’re all within….”
Jack turned quickly, his arm swinging in enthusiastic gesticulation, not realizing that D was right behind him. His hand struck D square on his bullet wound. “Shit,” D hissed, stumbling back a step. Jack dropped the gun.
“Oh Christ, D, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
D was gritting his teeth, his other hand pressed to his shoulder. “Shoot me again while yer at it!” he snarled.
“I said I was sorry! Let me see,” Jack said, pulling D toward him.
“No, it’s fine—”
“I said let me see,” Jack said, prying D’s hand away from the healing bullet wound. D resisted, breathing in quick shallow pulls, but finally relented. Jack pulled D’s shirt aside and checked the wound. “Oh, it’s okay. Doesn’t look like it’s opened up again. It isn’t bleeding.”
“Hurts like a motherfucker,” D said, his face gray.
“Come on inside. I’ve got a few Demerol left.”
“Them things make me feel like my head’s stuffed fulla cotton.” He didn’t resist as Jack drew him into the cabin, though.
“You’ll live,” Jack said. He sat D down on the couch and fetched his bag, along with a glass of water. He shook out two Demerol and handed them to D, then pulled out his near-empty bottle of Lidocaine.
“Gonna shoot me up?”
“Just a bit of a local ’til the Demerol kicks in.” He injected D’s shoulder near the bullet wound. D relaxed almost immediately.
“That’s better,” he said, leaning his head back and letting his eyes close.
Jack put the bag aside and hitched one knee up on the couch so he was facing D. He watched his face for a few moments, their earlier conversation recurring. “I’m sorry,” he said.
D shrugged. “Ya didn’t mean ta hit me.”
“No… I’m sorry,” he repeated, letting the words carry some more weight than they normally did. “I’m sorry about your family.”
D turned his head and met Jack’s eyes. “Thanks.” He held Jack’s gaze just long enough for it to start becoming a little squirmy, then looked away again. Jack sat back on the couch at his side.
“So,” he said, attempting a light-hearted tone. “How’d I do for a beginning marksman?”
D chuckled. “I’ve seen worse.”
“I want to shoot that big one. Such a cliché, isn’t it? I never thought I’d be one of those guys who’d want to shoot a big gun. So much transparent symbolism. But I don’t care; I want to shoot that big one.”
“You don’t need ta shoot that Eagle. That gun’s bigger’n you.”
“You shoot it, and you’re no bigger than me.”
“I’m a professional.”
Jack thought for a moment. “It’s different when you’re shooting at a person, isn’t it?”
“I hope you never hafta find out.”
“You don’t like to see me shooting, do you?’’ D gave a half-shrug. “Why not?”
“I dunno, Jack. You jus’… ain’t that guy.”
“Which guy?”
“A guy like me. Yer….” He broke off with a frustrated sigh. “You ain’t spoiled. Yer whole. I didn’t want ya touched by all this.”
Jack watched him, half-silhouetted by the setting sun. “I’m not some innocent schoolboy, you know. I’ve—”
“Yer a babe in the woods, Jack,” D cut him off. “Take it from a guy who’s seen some evil men, and what they do, and who’s done some evil things.”
“So, what? You decided you weren’t going to just save my life, but my soul or something? I don’t need you to guard my virtue, D.”
“Thought if I could keep ya like ya are, then….” D trailed off, staring down at his slung hand, his other hand resting next to his leg. He shook his head, chewing on his lip. “I cain’t never go back ta that. But if I kept it from ya, maybe I could….” He looked away, and Jack saw him blinking. “I dunno what I’m talkin’ about. Fuckin’ Demerol’s talkin’ fer me.”
“Maybe it should keep talking for you, if you’re going to say things that are this important.”
“It ain’t important.”
“It is, D. Maybe more than anything else.”
D lifted his head and looked down into his lap, his lips twisting. “There is some fuckin’ dark shit around me, Jack. Sometimes it’s like I cain’t see nothin’ else.”
Jack shifted a little closer on the couch and spoke softly. “You thought if you could keep the dark away from me, that maybe some of it would leave you too.”
D turned to look at him, and Jack saw something naked and exposed in his expression, set free by the narcotics. That stoniness was gone, and Jack could see the child D had once been, and the father, and the husband. The young soldier, the hopeful family man, and it damned near broke his heart to see that man buried so deeply within the man D was now, a man he clearly detested but could not escape. His eyes were wide and shining. “I cain’t remember what things look like without it,” he said, his voice hoarse and shaky.
Jack didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t place himself in D’s position, or even begin to imagine the kinds of things he’d seen, and done, and wished he could prevent. He looked down and saw his own hand resting at his side, just a hairbreadth from D’s. He took a breath and held it, then slowly stretched out his pinky finger until it just grazed the side of D’s hand; a tiny stroke of tentative contact. D didn’t withdraw; instead, his hand flinched a little closer. Emboldened, Jack covered D’s hand with his own; D turned his palm up and their fingers slid together, interlacing and fitting against each other like they’d been waiting for nothing else but the chance to do so.
D exhaled and let his head fall back again, his eyes closing. Jack just sat there at his side, his shoulder pressed to D’s, their clasped hands hidden between them like lock tumblers, two sides separated by a harsh wooden barrier but joined by an unseen mechanism, waiting only for the right key to alig
n them.
Chapter Ten
Jack moved his knight to QB4. D frowned, staring at the board, then shook his head. “Wish I knew how ta play this fuckin’ game,” he said, moving his rook.
“Yeah, me too,” Jack said.
“I mean… I know the rules, but I wish I knew how ta play, for real, with strategy and shit. Feel like I oughta be better at it.”
“Why? Does the hit man business involve a lot of strategic tactics?” Jack said, a sarcastic edge to his voice that D had never heard there before.
“You’d be surprised.” He moved his king’s knight. “Uh… check.” Jack didn’t move. He met D’s eyes, looked down at the board and then back up again. D frowned, re-examining the pieces. “Oh, wait… checkmate!”
Jack heaved a weary sigh. “Best two out of three?”
“I’m hungry. Let’s rustle up some dinner.”
He seemed only too eager to abandon the chessboard. “Thought I’d grill some burgers tonight,” Jack said, going to the fridge.
“Burgers’re good,” D said, staying in his chair for the moment. He hoped he was putting up a good front, because he felt like he was crumbling and losing cohesion by the minute.
The afternoon had passed in a haze of Demerol. He could remember sitting on the couch with Jack, and holding his hand, and all he’d wanted was just to let his head fall to Jack’s shoulder or lay right down on his lap. Give it up, give it all over, and let Jack take care of him. Jus’ the fuckin’ Demerol. Sure, that was a nice fairy story.
Jack kept glancing at him, little sidelong looks that he probably thought were subtle, tiny appraisals that all said one thing: What the fuck, dude? D wished he knew what the fuck, dude. After a good half hour just sitting silently on the couch, Jack had pulled him to his feet and made him go to bed for a nap, not releasing D’s fingers until he had him tucked in. Crazily, D almost asked him to stay. Jus’ sit on the side a the bed, okay? Maybe pull up a chair? Don’t gotta say nothin’ or do nothing. Jus’ please… don’t let go a me. But Jack had let go, and D had let him, because what else? Nothing else.