He had a checkbook issued by Frenchy, and could use it to pick up anything he wanted. That was one of the perks of working for the best outfit, Frenchy had assured him. No questions asked. If you need it, if it makes you happy, then you buy it.
Carnival was everywhere, but he pushed his way through the crowds, roamed across the Plaza de Armes, and found that most places were still open. At a sporting goods store better than anything in Blue Eye-or Fort Smith or even Little Rock, for that matter-he found a pair of very fine Abercrombie & Fitch hunting boots that cost more than most suits he'd ever bought. They were thick, sinewy leather, dense and soft, and protective. Jesus Christ, $75 for boots! He held them, smelled their supple leather, their weight, the waxy waterproofing that ran across the welt. They were quality, no doubt about it.
Go ahead. What differences does it make?
But something held him back. Instead, he bought the much cheaper Stoeger boots, the six-inch size, for only $5.95. They were fine. They were okay. There was no trouble with them, though the leather was duller and darker.
Then he went to the clothing department and acquired quickly a pair of Filson tin cloth bloused trousers in a dark green, a Filson shirt of the same cloth in the same shade, and a brush-brown waterproofed duck hat with a ventilated opening above the brim to let the air circulate. A canteen, a day-pack, a poncho and a pair of binoculars completed the wardrobe. He added gear: a waterproof flashlight, a compass, a good Buck knife, a plastic cigarette pack carrier, mosquito repellent, a first-aid kit and six pair of socks.
"Oh, a hunting trip, senor?"
"Yes, that's right."
"In the Sierras, the boar are very active this time of year. Big brutes, they go three hundred pounds. Their tusks are like razors and they are very violent, valiant animals. They do not surrender. I have seen them charge with two legs broken. They are like a fine bull. It will be a good hunt, I know."
"I expect so."
"Ammunition? We have extensive ammunition. Oh, except for.22 and 12-gauge. For some reason there's been a run recently and we are sold out until the new shipment. But you wouldn't hunt boar with.22."
"No, I wouldn't. But I'm all set in that department."
"I wish you luck, senor. You will have a wonderful time. Carnival this week, hunting the next. The best of all manly pleasures, hunting in both its manifestation. The pleasures of the flesh and of harvesting the flesh. What could please a man more?"
"Well, you make a good point, sir. I do hope I enjoy myself."
Even without the extravagance of the Abercrombie & Fitch boots, it still came to more than a hundred bucks! He wrote the check, feeling somewhat larcenous and compromised in the process. He expected some trouble too, as a stranger in a strange town who barely spoke the language. But there was no trouble. This was a well-to-do place, used to catering to wealthy American executives who fished or hunted dove or boar for their leisure, who paid by checks that never bounced. So it was not a problem.
Next stop was a laundry where he had all the new gear washed, to get the stiffness and the wrapped-in-a-factory smell out of it.
"You still open?"
"Yes, senor. Till seven, like any day. We must work before we play."
"Ain't that the truth. So, can you do this new stuff for me? Get the smell out?"
"The hat too, senor?"
"Yeah, the hat. It's like a derby. Make it soft like I've worn it a hundred times."
"Si, senor."
"And you have a big dryer out back, right?"
"Yes, senor."
"Here's what I want you to do. Put these boots in a laundry bag. You have some change in the register?"
"Si," said the man, looking at him quizzically. He'd obviously never been asked to dry boots, then if he had change, in the same breath.
"Good. Throw all the change in the laundry bag with the boots. Let it run the whole time I'm gone. And I know it'll be loud. But I'll pay, believe me, whatever you want. I want the boots banged up and the leather softened by the action of the coins. I may have to wear 'em tomorrow, and I want them as soft as possible. Okay?"
The two Cubans exchanged a look that expressed the universal befuddlement in the presence of the insane, but Earl didn't care.
"Be back in couple of hours. Is that enough time?"
"Yes."
He went for lunch, wandered a few blocks, getting shoved this way and that by the crowds, finally wandered into a lunchroom. Was he in Cuba? He had a hamburger and a Coke and some french fries. Everybody in the lunch room was an American, except the help.
Then he walked a bit, picked up the washed and folded clothes, no longer new, and the softened boots, went back to the hotel, laid everything out, took the rifle from its case, ran the bolt several times to feel its smoothness and solidity, checked the security of the sling, checked the scope settings, wiped the lenses with lens tissue, and tried to relax.
Impossible.
He put a call in to America, to Junie, because it had been some time and he felt restless and unsure. Something far inside was unsettled, as if he had a gripe and didn't want to be far from a john. But it wasn't that, it was just a little something.
Someone picked up.
"Hello?" It was the boy's voice.
"Bobby! Oh, Bobby, it's Daddy!"
The boy's voice, dullish in the answer, suddenly lit up with pleasure.
"Daddy! Hi, Daddy!"
And so Earl talked with his son. Except he could not. At key moments, he found words often difficult to produce.
"So, how are you?"
"I'm fine, Daddy. Seen lotsa deer. Them woods is full of deer."
"I'll get you one this fall, you bet on it."
"Yes, sir. Daddy, you aren't mad at me 'cause I din't shoot that one in the spring?"
He saw that the kid had assembled the two phenomena in his mind: his inability to shoot the springtime deer and his father's immediate disappearance.
"No, sir. Not one bit. No, I am not. You'll be fine, young man. We'll get you a nice one in the fall, if that's what you want. Now, is Mommy there?"
"No, sir. She's over to the church."
"Well, you tell her I miss her. I miss you, too. Bob Lee, Daddy loves you very much. You know that, don't you."
It was the only time he had ever used the word love with the boy.
"Yes, sir."
"I think I can polish this off soon. I'll be home. Bob Lee, I'm going to bring you a nice present, you'll see. And then it'll be like I was never gone, and I won't go nowhere no more, okay?"
"Okay."
"Now tell Mommy I called."
"Yes, sir."
"Bye now."
"Bye."
He hung up, feeling like he'd just failed some test. He'd meant to say so much. But he'd said nothing.
Lord, he needed a drink. Just one damn little one, a splash of gin against the cold ice, leavened by the tonic, almost a soda pop with just the softest little buzz to it. But that way was the road to hell, with no way back.
Instead he went to the window to observe the full spectacle of carnival. And there was a lot to be enjoyed: the music seemed everywhere and everywhere there was music there were the crowds. He could sense that the gaslit plaza across the way was jammed with them, and there were neon-lit amusement rides, temporarily erected across the way, as well as vendors selling all manner of drinks, the whole thing a great ocean of human want and need in the warm dark. The gaslamps flickered, giving the whole thing even more sense of life. It was like one huge parade.
Just watching it all, he didn't feel so cut off. He wasn't the killer. He wasn't the one man among them designated to put the crosshairs on a living being and press the trigger. This one was different from combat. He'd killed, too many times, but always an armed man trying to or planning to kill him, or his men. He'd never shot a prisoner, he'd never shot a wounded Jap. He shot what would hurt him and his and nothing else.