“AHA,” he yelled in recognition as she also placed a glass of water in front of him.
“Yes, sir. Only the best for my darlin'. A genuine Coca-Cola glass full of old-time ice water."
“I love it,” he said with heartfelt feeling, taking a delicious, incredible bite of the ice-cream concoction and a sip of the cold water. “Just as I remember. Wonderful."
“Okay."
“Fabulous. Pure essence of Shepherd's Drugstore.” He finished in a wave of nostalgic contentment. Some wife.
“So far so good. Let's see—the game of catch. The comic book. I got ‘em out of order but anyway—then the drugstore. Okay. Time to go to the show.” She pulled him back into the house and led him to his easy chair in front of the television in the living room and picked his feet up, sliding an ottoman up under his legs, then slipping his bedroom shoes off. He was still dressed in slacks, T-shirt, and his old Leo Gorcey pinback hat that he'd worn to play catch in. Nobody's perfect, he thought wryly.
She sat a small box in his lap.
“You're KIDDING! A CRIME CLUB movie! A serial! MY GOD IS THIS REALLY THE GREEN HORNET! FROM 1939?” He read the tape labels out loud. “How in hell did you find these?"
“Same guy I got the comic book from.” She took one of the tapes from him and went over to their video machine. “I've been practicing. Watch.” She had learned how to insert the tape. She pushed play. “Have fun. I'm going shopping,” she said, leaving Jack Eichord mesmerized in front of a buzzing hornet's image as his childhood began to flash before his eyes.
He watched four chapters of the old Green Hornet movie, wishing there was someone he could talk to who would understand the delight of the experience. Somebody he could tell about Al Hodge, whose voice had been synched to the lead character's speech. Al Hodge, out of the time warp on Eichord's happy birthday. He was halfway through the Crime Club movie when he heard the car pull up.
Donna blew in with her arms loaded down.
“Need a hand?” he said, revealing no intention to move from his seated position.
“I think I'll be able to manage. You having a good time?"
He smiled and nodded.
About fifteen minutes passed and he heard a radio playing or some music coming faintly from the bedroom. Another ten minutes or so and the movie ended, so he shut the equipment off and got up, then went into the bedroom to tell her how much he was enjoying his day.
“Mmmmmm,” he said. Donna was in a wispy thing that covered her shoulders and most of her large, high breasts. Matching wisp of a bikini. “Nice.” God, she looked good.
“Fire-engine red."
“Yeah,” he said, his heart in his throat.
“Come on over."
“Okay,” he said, wasting no time.
“Do I know what you like or what?"
“You know what I like."
“Do I know the way you like it?"
“Nnnn.” He tried to answer but his mouth was busy.
She took him through the sex just as she had the rest of his birthday surprises. Making it all for him, leading him, orchestrating it so their lovemaking would be just the way HE wanted it, just the way any man would like it. Biology and Mother Nature took over and when she was through he was spent, spread-eagled across the bed in blissful, or so it appeared, immobility.
But inside his copper core that thing that was with him all the time now remained cold and untouched. It was loathsome, whatever it was, because it had diminished the joy of the day and made fabulous sex routine, and the thing was all the more annoying because he couldn't put a handle on it.
He labeled it as apprehension, and Jack suspected that Jimmie was bringing this down on him, but when Jack felt apprehensive about something he could normally isolate the reasons why and do something about the emotion. This was something else and it was dogging him all the time now. A dark, unidentifiable silhouette of something too far away to see with clarity.
Neither the Hornet nor Kato nor Donna Eichord's tastiest ice-cream treats could manage to dispel the sense of foreboding he carried. A shadowy thing that he knew would be taking form soon. A paranoiac, ominous suspicion and dread that made Eichord unfit for the company of lovable ducks.
STOBAUGH COUNTY
By midafternoon they had reached Stobaugh, and they crossed over the county line. Chaingang was totally tuned out as the girl hummed and sang contentedly with the radio. He was physically as well as mentally in another time and place. He was back in Southeast Asia with Michael Hora.
What would Sissy have thought had she known the truth or even vestiges of it? Could she have begun to comprehend that this thing beside her with the deep voice and the huge girth and the strange mannerisms and the bandaged face—that this man was a true genius of sorts? A genius of assassination? He had been discovered on death row in Marion, most fearsome of our federal prisons. A security arm of the intelligence community, as it is laughingly called, had found him and in the sensitive early years of the war created a small, secret unit around this unlikely figure.
He had been tested, and a gamble was taken. He was sent to Vietnam along with other similar individuals, programmed—or so they hoped—to work in covert, counterinsurgency assassination teams. And he had performed his function better than they had ever dreamed. Bunkowski was a unique entity. Godzilla and the shark from Jaws or its human counterpart and the Pillsbury Doughboy all in one remarkable, bestial, freak mutation. A human being who truly lived for only one reason: to kill. A killing machine.
In Southeast Asia he killed the little people with a mad fury, both “good guys” and VC alike. In truth he saw no distinction. And there come a time when the security masters tried to terminate the members of the anomalous band that was fast becoming a dangerous potential liability. Chaingang and Michael Hora were two of the only survivors of this execution attempt, and they escaped.
They had not been close or even casual buddies. In fact, both of them were friendless, dangerous, self-contained killers who lived only for number one. Chaingang did not particularly respect Hora's abilities as a fighter, and Hora of course viewed Bunkowski as a monster or a total maniac, but they shared the common enemy and that had been enough for at least a begrudging relationship. During this time Daniel had learned of Hora's “place” south of Chicago. For a price, he was sometimes willing to shelter those on the run from the law. It was a piece of minutia to be filed away for possible future retrieval.
Now, these many years later, Chaingang Bunkowski looked at some old notes in the back of his “bible,” a ledger of escape plans he had worked on while in prison, and he saw the map of how to find Hora, assuming the man were still alive and the property still his. The thing that kept Bunkowski one step ahead of his adversaries made him feel confident Michael Hora would be there.
“Well, it won't be long now,” he told the girl, and presented her with an item from the trunk. She brightened when she saw the sack of magazines. “I think it's important for you to study for an hour or so. Read up on all these stars so you can learn their ways.” He handed her some of the schlock grocery-store tabloids and movie magazines.
“Sure. Great.” She was delighted and he knew she'd stay riveted to her important homework while he checked out the lay of the land.
“I should be back in an hour or less. But just wait here. You can sit over there"—he pointed—"or stay in the car. But stay nearby. Okay?"
She nodded.
He moved with the curious grace of the very heavy. That peculiar flat-footed, splayed, deceptively easy gliding movement that is somewhere between lumbering and waddling. From the distance his vast upper torso appeared to be propelled by the great tree-trunk legs, arms swinging slightly as he moved. Only when he was tired and his bad ankle could not fully support the bulk could you discern the slight limp.