She brings him back from that camp. She bends down gently to kiss his scarred forehead.
He says, “Lady, don’t waste sympathy on me. I broke.”
She doesn’t quite understand.
“I talked. You know? Went on the telly… Iraqi TV.”
And in the black-and-white TV monitor in his mind he can see his whipped young self speaking straight into the camera with lifeless calm. He says to Anne, “I told the world how wonderful life was in Saddam’s paradise. I recited all the lies they told me to tell.”
She’s stroking him. “I see.” Then she says, “No one can blame you for wanting to stay alive.”
“Nobody stayed alive.”
She takes his face in both hands and kisses him. After a bit, he begins sluggishly to respond…
In the daylight he stands at the window in his stained trousers, sips coffee and looks out at parked cars and little kids splashing in an inflated wading pool. As the phone rings, Anne enters in a robe, toweling her hair. She makes a face when she looks at the condition of his trousers. “Let’s get you some new clothes.” And she’s picking up the ringing phone. “Hello? Oh — hi. Ha, right. Well none of your nosy business… What? Now? I, uh, I forgot. All right, okay, sure. I’ll be there in, like, an hour?”
She hangs up and says to Radford, “I promised some friends I’d go target shooting. Want to come along?”
He only looks at her, without any change in his expression.
The sign in the old building corridor announces the path to “Alvin York Memorial Gun Club — Open Mon — Sat 6:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Closed Sundays.” The sign is on a door, and Anne opens it. She’s very sexy, painted into skintight jeans. Radford, in new trousers and shirt, follows her in.
The foyer needs paint. Its scratched metal reception desk is unoccupied. The decor consists of gun ads, hunting prints and NRA posters. A long window separates Radford and Anne from a shooting range where they can see the backs of three men wearing ear-protector headsets and shooting rifles at targets; the snap of each shot is barely audible in here.
Anne leads the way through the inner door onto the indoor range. A big guy looks up — Harry Sinclair, 50, bearded, muscular and rough — from where he’s hand-loading ammunition at a work table. The thick beard hides most of his face. When he smiles, he has a badly discolored front tooth, second left from center.
Anne says sotto voce, to Radford, “Come on — lighten up.”
Harry says, “Hi.”
Anne says, “Hi yourself. Harry, this is C.W.”
“Ha’re you?” And, to Anne: “You havin’ any trouble breathing?”
“No. Why?”
“That outfit of yours so tight I’m havin’ trouble breathing… Got a weapon you want to sight in?”
Radford shakes his head. “No. I’m just a spectator.”
Anne teases him: “Oh come on.” And to Harry: “C.W. told me he used to compete in target matches.”
Harry looks at him with sudden recognition. “C.W. — Wait a minute. You’re, what’s the name, no, don’t tell me, I’ll get it—”
On the range one of the shooters looks this way. All three wear goggles; perhaps Radford recognizes Conrad, from the van. Conrad pretends no interest in Radford or Anne; so do his two companions. One is Gootch; the other is Wojack, 25, dapper and Ivy League in a high-priced suit.
Harry is going right on with his recognition exercise: “You were just a kid, you won the Wimbledon Cup on the thousand-yard range at Camp Perry… I got it. Radford. C. W. Radford. Am I right, hey? Am I right or am I right!”
Harry claps Radford amiably on the bicep. Radford’s reaction is stony but Harry doesn’t seem to notice.
Harry puts on a pair of thin gloves before he selects a 308 target rifle from the rack. “Damn gloves — solvent on my hands, don’t want to soil the goods.” He turns, smiling, and proffers the rifle to Radford. “Here, try this 308. I’d admire to see you shoot.”
Radford shakes his head, refusing the rifle. “You go ahead.”
Harry is taken aback, then puts on a smile and ushers them forward toward the firing line. Anne and Radford watch Harry load the 308 rifle; he still wears the gloves. The three shooters are intent on their own target-aiming. Their faces are concealed by goggles and ear protectors; Radford never gets a clear look at any of them.
Harry says, “This here’s the rifle, for my money. Shoot across rooftops or shoot across the street. Great support for a GPMG team. Your perfect weapon for urban area combat.”
Anne says, “Harry’s the world’s greatest combat expert. That’s because he’s never been to war. But boy, just let ’em invade Tenth Street and Main…”
Harry gives her a look. He and Anne put on ear protectors. Then abruptly, with a grin, Harry tosses the rifle to Radford.
Reflex: Radford catches it. He scowls at Harry, then studies the rifle briefly, then turns and aims casually and fires one shot downrange.
Harry puts his eye to a swivel-mounted telescope to spot targets.
“Jeez. A perfect bull’s eye. Wow. Awe-some!”
By this time Conrad, Gootch and Wojack are watching Radford with intense interest, but Radford doesn’t seem to notice this. With distaste he shoves the rifle back into Harry’s gloved hands. “No thanks.”
Harry says to Anne, “Fantastic. Dead center, perfect bull’s eye, like there wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
And now, behind Radford’s back, Harry and Anne exchange glances.
Anne’s car draws up outside the big sign of Charlie’s Cafe.
“Thanks. For the lift and — everything.” Radford is about to get out. Anne holds him in place while she takes something out of her handbag.
It’s a key. She slips it into his shirt pocket and gives him one of those bright smiles that can light up your whole day. Radford just looks at her — a grave beat. Then he gets out and she watches him walk to the cafe. She doesn’t drive away until he’s disappeared completely inside, but he never once looked back at her.
Night again, and the street’s deserted until Charlie’s side door opens. Radford, untying his apron, pokes his face out into the night air and takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear away his headache. Charlie appears behind him and takes the apron. “G’night, C.W. Take care.”
“Yeah.” It’s a noncommittal grunt. Radford walks around the corner, then past two hookers, then past the redheaded dealer, who gives him a glance. Radford is tired and everything hurts. When he puts his hands in his pockets, he discovers something in one pocket and takes it out and looks at it.
Anne’s key. He thinks about it.
But he goes back to his flophouse and finds it unchanged, the cot as always unmade. Radford rummages through the few paltry possessions in his duffel bag, finds a worn envelope, takes a creased photograph out of it and sits looking at the photo. He was very young then, handsome in his tailored class-a uniform, posing proudly with his arm around his best girl.
Dorothy McCune. In the photo she’s quite young and very beautiful in a cocktail dress. On her other side stands her father, a very distinguished guy. They’re at a posh political rally; big banner reads “Tom McCune for Senate.” They’re all happy.
Radford broods at the picture, then puts it back where he got it.
Outside Anne’s apartment court near the wading pool Radford stands in the night for a long silent stretch of time before he finally goes up to Anne’s door and pushes the bell. He waits, and when there’s no response he turns to leave. That’s when the door opens.
She’s in a nightgown, sleepy.
He’s apologetic, hesitant. “Hi. Sorry.”
“Well don’t just stand there.” She draws him inside.