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  Hood said nothing.

  "Okay," Newman said. "Let's do it."

  CHAPTER 8.

  Newman looked at the gun rack in Chris Hood's den. There was a lever-action Winchester.30/30, a semiautomatic Mi carbine with a fifteen-round clip, a five shot 12-gauge Ithaca pump gun, a Ruger.44 magnum bush gun In a locked case beneath the gun rack was a 9mm, Walther P.38 automatic pistol, a hammerless Smith amp; Wesson.32 revolver with a nickel plating, an Armyissue Colt.45 automatic pistol, a bone-handled bowie knife with a nine-inch blade, and a skinning knife with a four-inch blade that folded into the handle. In a wall cabinet beside the gun rack there was ammunition for all the weapons. The guns were all clean and filmed with a fine glaze of oil. The stocks of the long guns were polished, the holsters of the handguns were soft leather well treated. In the dim quiet room with the air-conditioner humming its soft white sound, the guns seemed precise and orderly and full of promise. Newman felt still and calm looking at them.

  "Take the.32," Hood said. "Five shots, small, easy to carry. Wear it on your belt and hang the shirt outside."

  Newman took the handgun and aimed it at a knothole in the paneled wall.

  He slid it in and out of the soft leather holster. He slipped his belt through the holster slot and redid the belt. He let the tails of his tattersall shirt hang out over his belt. The gun was invisible. He pulled it and aimed at the knothole again.

  Hood took a box of shells from the cabinet and handed them to Newman.

  "It breaks here," he said, taking the revolver from Newman and opening it. Newman fed five bright cartridges into the cylinder, closed the gun, and slipped it into his holster under his shirt.

  "What about a permit?" Newman said.

  Hood said, "I've got one." Newman said, "But I haven't. All I've got is an FID card. I can't carry this on your permit."

  Hood smiled. "We're setting out to commit murder, Aaron. I wouldn't sweat the unlicensed gun too much."

  Newman nodded. Hood put on a shoulder holster and slipped the P-j$8 in it. He put an extra clip of ammunition in his hip pocket and the folding knife in his side pocket. He handed the carbine to Newman.

  "Remember how to fire this?" "Yes," Newman said. "It's one of the things you don't forget. Like bike-riding." "Or sex," Hood said. He picked up the Winchester and a box of ammunition. "Come on," he said. "Let's get to it."

  "I think Karl might catch on," Newman said, "if he saw us walking up his driveway like this."

  "We'll stash the long guns in the car. I just figured we'd be better to have them handy."

  "And you might want to put on something over the shoulder holster." "Smart," Hood said. "You writers are a smart breed."

  They walked through Hood's small immaculate kitchen. On a peg by the back door was a short-sleeved cotton safari jacket. Hood put it on.

  They put the carbine and Winchester, wrapped in a blanket, behind the back seat in Hood's red and white 1976 Bronco.

  "You got the address?" Hood said.

  "473 Lynn Shore Drive. If it's the same Adolph Karl. It was the only one in the phone book."

  "Probably him."

  "Would he be listed?"

  "Why not. Don't thugs make phone calls?"

  Newman said, "Yes they do. Sometimes they make house calls."

  They drove from Smithfield to Lynn and through Lynn to the road that ran along the ocean. Number 473 was a three-story brick house on the Lynn-Swampscott line. Around it was a strip of dry lawn no more than three feet wide. On either side the neighbors' houses were close.

  There was a two-car garage and in the cement driveway that connected it to the street was parked a dark blue Lincoln with an orange vinyl top.

  "That's the car," Newman said. He felt the tension again in his solar plexus. He put his hand down on the butt of the gun under his shirt.

  "It must be the right place," he said.

  Hood drove on past and turned left at a drugstore a block beyond Karl's house. He parked.

  "Karl ever see you?"

  Newman shook his head.

  "How about the guys that laid it on Janet? They see you?"

  Newman shook his head again.

  "Then nobody in this group should know what you look like." "True," Newman said. His voice was hoarse.

  "So let's stroll back and look at the building a bit."

  They got out. Hood locked the car. They walked back a block along the seawall side of the street. Below them the beach was littered and beyond the beach waves rolled in from the open ocean. Across the harbor the turtle back of Nahant rose at the end of its causeway.

  Behind them a massive restaurant looked out over a cove where fishing boats rocked at tether.

  They leaned against the seawall and looked at Karl's house. On the ocean side there was a sunporch, the windows closed by Venetian blinds.

  Above the sunporch the house rose two more stories. The third story looked cramped beneath the slate mansard roof. The house actually fronted on a small side street. Four windows on the first floor, five on the second, two A-dormers through the slate roof on the third. There were Venetian blinds in each of these windows.

  "Nice-looking house," Hood said.

  "No land, though," Newman said. "Right up against the neighbors."

  "Yeah, you could reach out your window and into theirs."

  "No place to sneak around and shoot through the windows."

  "Even if there were," Hood said, "the damned blinds are closed. You couldn't see what to shoot at."

  It was a bright summer day, but not hot. The wind off the ocean was steady and pleasant. Newman felt strong. He was conscious of the thickness of his arms and chest, the resiliency of his legs, the small, good weight of the gun under his shirt. He realized he wasn't afraid.

  On the prowl, he thought. That's what makes the difference. I'm not slinking around scared, wondering what he's going to do. I'm after him. He should be scared. "Running makes you scared," Newman said.

  Hood said, "What?" "It's running makes you scared," Newman said. "Now I'm chasing instead of running, I don't feel scared."

  "Yeah," Hood said. He was looking at Karl's house. "There's no damned cover," he said. "No buildings we could get in and shoot from, no place where we could be under cover and wait. We could shoot from the car, but it's difficult driving and hard to get out of here. Traffic's bad. There's a cop up there on the corner. Probably usually is." "The gun helps, too," Newman said.

  "Helps what?" Hood said.

  "Not being scared. The gun makes you feel good. Like you can't be overpowered."

  "I wouldn't count on can't," Hood said. "The gun makes it harder, but it doesn't make you bulletproof, you know?"

  Newman nodded. "What do we do now?" he said.

  "I figure we watch," Hood said. "We get a feel for how this guy functions. See if he goes to work or something. Get him outside the house we may have a better chance."

  "We could go right up and knock on the door and when someone opened it in we go with the guns." As he said it, Newman hoped Hood would disapprove. Newman didn't like the idea as he said it.

  "Some things wrong with that, Aaron. We don't know who or what's in there. Guy like Karl may have some bodyguards. Also if there were other people there besides Karl, like his wife or kids or whatever, we'd probably have to kill them, or they'd be able to identify us to the cops, or Karl's friends or whoever. Besides, a guy like Karl probably doesn't just open the door when someone knocks. Even if we didn't get hurt, if we tried it and didn't get in, we'd make him suspicious. We don't want him suspicious." "That's for sure," Newman said.

  "We'll split it up," Hood said. "I'll be in the car up the road. If Karl comes out and gets in the car, you turn and look out to sea. I'll come down and pick you up."

  "Okay. And if no one goes anyplace?"

  "Come supper time we go home," Hood said. "What else can we do."

  "And come back tomorrow?"

  "And come back tomorrow," Hood said. "Unless you get bored and want to
quit."

  "I won't quit," Newman said. "Besides, as long as I'm watching him I know he's not after me."

  Hood nodded and walked up the street to where the car was parked.

  CHAPTER 9.

  At seven-twenty in the evening, Newman walked up along the seawall and got into Hood's car, parked on the street in front of the drugstore.

  "That's it," he said. "If I stand there another five minutes my toenails will fall off."

  Hood started the Bronco and they drove back past Karl's house. It was as impervious and blank as it had been since they arrived.

  "Well, the first day wasn't too thrilling," Newman said.

  "One day it will be," Hood said. "Things take time. You gotta be careful, and watch, and work out what you're going to do, and know what you're up against. Takes time."

  "Umm."

  At eight they pulled into Newman's driveway. Janet's maroon MG was there with the top up. "Never mess the hair," Newman said.

  Hood smiled. The house seemed quiet. Newman felt the threat of its silence.

  "Come on in for a beer," he said to Hood.

  "Sure."

  They got out of the car and Newman put his hand on the butt of the gun under his shirt. Janet appeared in the doorway. Newman moved his hand away.

  "Where've you been," she said. "I was getting worried." Newman smiled. "I'll tell you, when we get in. Come on, Chris."

  They sat at the kitchen table and Newman got two beers from the refrigerator.

  "I'll have a little wine, Aaron," Janet said. He poured her a glass of white wine.

  "You hungry?" Newman said to Hood.

  "For sure," Hood said.

  "There's steaks in the freezer. You want one, Jan?"

  "Yes, I'd love one. A small one, maybe half."

  "Yeah, you got a real fat problem," Newman said. He drank half the beer at one pull on the can.

  "Well, what have you guys been doing?" Janet said.

  Newman put the three steaks, still frozen, in a fry pan on the stove and turned the gas on medium. He drank the other half of the beer and felt it move through him like sap through a tree. He grinned.

  "We been stalking our quarry," he said. He opened his shirt so that Janet could see the nickel-plated.32 revolver at his belt.

  "Jesus Christ," she said. "Is that a real gun?"

  Newman opened another beer. He held one toward Hood. Hood shook his head. "Yes, m'am," Newman said, "it's real. And we have been circling in on old Adolph Karl."

  The steaks began to sizzle in the pan.

  "Well tell me about it. Tell me everything you've done today. Are you in on this too, Chris?"

  Hood nodded. Newman began to slice mushrooms into the pan with the steaks. "We found out where he lived," Newman said, "and we went and looked it over. We figure we can't get him there so we're waiting to see if he goes out, or goes to work or something like that. We need to get a place where we can hit him and get away clean. It may take some time."

  Janet Newman smiled and raised her glass. "Okay," she said. "Home from the hill is the hunter." Newman smiled back at her. Hood sipped his beer. Newman turned the steaks in the pan with a pair of tongs.

  "How long do you think it will take," Janet said.

  Hood shrugged. Newman said, "No way to tell. We'll just have to stay on him and see." He drank more beer and got another can. This time Hood had some too. Janet had another glass of wine. As he cooked, Newman could feel the swell of his biceps tightening his shirt as he bent his arm to move the mushrooms around in the pan. Janet set the table and put a plate of rolls out. Newman put the steaks on each of three plates. His movements seemed precise to him. Controlled. He added steak sauce to the mushrooms and let the sauce cook down a moment in the pan. Then he spooned a serving onto each plate with a spatula.

  He spilled none. Good at what I do, he thought.

  As they ate, Newman talked. "We watched that god damned house all day," he said. "All goddamned day, and nobody stirred."

  "Will you go back tomorrow?" Janet said.

  "Yeah. He's gotta come out sometime."

  "What about your writing?"

  "Priorities, lovey. I keep telling you there's got to be priorities.

  This is life and death. That's number one." The beer was very cold and tingled in his throat as he drank.

  "What made you decide to do it?" Janet said.

  "It has to be done," Newman said. "And the… the what… the insult of it all has to be wiped away. I can't stand to be cowed by those bastards. It's the insult. I just can't accept it."

  "Well, I think it's a good decision, whatever reason. I'm proud of you both." "Wait'll we do it, Janet," Hood said. "We botch it and you won't be proud of us."

  "I don't like to think about that," Janet said.

  "Well, it's a risk," Hood said, "you have to face that." "We won't botch it," Newman said. "We must be as smart as these bastards."

  "But it isn't just smart," Hood said, "it's also mean. Are you as mean as those bastards?"

  "If I have to be. I have always been able to do what I had to do."

  Janet nodded. She had finished her steak and was sipping wine. "That's true, Chris. He has always been able to do the things that had to be done."

  "I hope he runs to form," Chris said. "There may be some tough things to do. And when we're doing them is not the time to rethink your position on violence." "I know," Newman said. "I'm committed. I won't back off." Janet poured more wine. "My God," she said, "isn't it something.

  Sitting around eating steak, drinking wine, and talking about a killing."

  Her face was animated and full of color. / love the way her lower lip is, Newman thought. And how she looks when she's enthusiastic.

  It was nearly eleven when Chris Hood went home. They cleaned up the kitchen together. He locked the doors. And they went upstairs to bed.

  "Would you care to have a small screw," she said.

  "Don't mind if I do," he said.

  "I'll be back soon," she said, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

  He loaded the double-barreled shotgun and put it by the bed. He took the.32 off, belt and all, and hung it over the bed post. Looks like a paperback cover from the forties, he thought. My Gun Is Quick. He liked the way it looked.

  He undressed and got into bed. She came back from the bathroom, her makeup off, her face scrubbed. She locked the door behind her and went to pull the drapes closed across the windows.

  "Who do you figure will peek," he said. "Somebody up in the church steeple with a spyglass?" She smiled and pulled the rest of the drapes. Then she turned toward him and stood at the foot of the bed and undressed. The last thing she took off was her underpants, rolling them slowly down across the thrust of her pubic bone and then wiggling them down her thighs until she could step out of them.

  The red scratches on her belly were clear. AK. He felt the cortex of desire in his stomach.

  She stood still for a moment at the foot of the bed while he looked at her, then she turned off the light and crawled from the foot of the bed up beside him. He shifted over on his right side. She lay on her left facing him. She pulled the covers over them. He put his right hand against the delta where her thighs met. He put his left arm around her and pressed her against him. She kissed him with her mouth open. He put his tongue out, and hers met it at the edge of her teeth and kept his from penetrating. He groaned slightly and pushed his right hand against her. She pressed her thighs together slightly. With her right hand she pushed his hip away slightly and put her hand on his penis. He grunted. She began to move her hand. He groaned. She moved her hand faster. He relaxed the pressure on her vulva, though his hand remained. Her thighs relaxed a little. Her hand moved steadily. He rolled over onto his back, the covers kicked off, moaning steadily, arching his back toward her moving hand, his hand fell away from her body. Her eyes were closed, her face detached and calm. He twisted toward her. She moved her hand faster and he fell back. She rose to a half-sitting position and bent over
him. Her back was to his face and arms as she bent over his penis. Lying flat and twisting with sensation he reached toward her but could touch only her back and right hip.

  She sat up and lay back. She put her legs apart. He got onto his knees between her legs and she guided him into her. He lay on top of her, one hand holding her buttocks, the other beneath her back, his hand pressing between her shoulder blades. He tried to kiss her. She turned her head away. Her knees were half bent, her eyes closed, she lay quite still as he pumped above her. He put his left hand on her breast, and after a moment she pushed it away. She shifted slightly as his pelvis ground uncomfortably against her. The new position was more comfortable. She grunted once, softly, and put both hands on his rhythmic buttocks.

  He ejaculated.

  The decrescendo was brief and after a moment as he lay quietly on top of her, his face pressed in her hair, she made a small hip thrust that told him to get off. As he withdrew she shivered slightly as she always did.

  He rolled over on his back beside her, holding her hand. She squeezed his hand, then pulled hers away. And sat up on the edge of the bed.

  "I've got to get up," she said. "I'm full of glop."

  CHAPTER 10.

  In the morning Janet went to the Boston Public Library and spent the day in the microfilm room reading back issues of The Boston Globe for information about Adolph Karl. She went up to the university for her one o'clock class and came back at two-thirty and worked until five.

  When she got home at six that evening she knew that Karl was married, had two sons, had been in jail for five years on an armed-assault charge, had been arrested four other times for loan sharking and narcotics and had been released. She knew that one of his sons had graduated from B.C. and was now in Suffolk law school. She knew that Karl had a summer home in Fryeburg, Maine. That he liked to hunt and fish around Fryeburg, that he was probably active in organized crime, had probably killed four people. She knew that Mrs. Karl's first name was Madelyn and that her maiden name had been Corsetti and that she was active in Roman Catholic women's groups in Lynn and Boston. And she knew that Adolph Karl owned a discount furniture store on Portland Street in Boston.