Operation Bamboozle by Derek Robinson Page B

traffic crossed in front of them; nothing waited ahead, nothing behind. Theirs was the only vehicle in sight. They sat and waited while a brainless traffic light wasted a small but irreplaceable fraction of their lives. Fitzroy stretched his legs and braced his arms against the wheels, then relaxed. Murphy opened his window. “See that shitty little light?” he said. The
flash-crack
made everyone jump. Off to their right, fifty yards away, a streetlight shattered and darkness rushed in. They heard the tinkle of glass on the road. “Maniac!” Fitzroy shouted. He tried to turn and look back but the bench seat made it difficult. “You crazy?” He twisted farther and his foot hit the gas pedal and made the motor roar so much, the car shook. He cursed long and hard. Lutz pressed himself into a corner. Murphy sat motionless. Perhaps he smiled. It was dark without the streetlight.
    â€œGreen,” Tony Feet said.
    â€œDumb shit,” Fitzroy said. “Not you, Tony.
Him.
Suppose a cop …”
    â€œGreen,” Feet said. “Or would you prefer red?”
    â€œOh. Yeah.” Fitzroy faced front and drove on. “Sorry.”
    â€œToo easy,” Murphy said. “I could of plugged that crappy little light at twice the range. In Korea I picked off Chink soldiers two, three hunderd yards away, regular. Head shots. In one ear, out the other. Best sharpshooter in my unit. I can—”
    â€œGimme the rifle,” Feet said.
    â€œIt’s a sniper special. Cost me-”
    â€œHere’s the deal. Either you give me that piece of shit or we stop right here and we all get out and I shoot you in the balls. You decide.”
    Murphy gave him the rifle. “I got a medal,” he said. “Then the army took it back.” He shut the window.
    Feet looked at Fitzroy. “Dishonorable discharge, you said. Let me guess. He shot a pretty little crippled blind Korean orphan girl, age six.”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    Nobody spoke until they reached the Glades Motel.
    A figure came out of the darkness and stopped to speak to Fitzroy. “He’s still here, in the end cabin. The radio’s playing.”
    Tony Feet turned and pointed at Murphy. “You stay. Count up to ten thousand. Do it slowly. If we’re not back, do it again. Understand? I want to know the exact figure you reached.”
    â€œYessir.”
    Feet, Lutz and Fitzroy got out. Feet stared at Murphy, and cocked his head. “One,” Murphy said, and cleared this throat. “Two. Three. Four.”
    â€œNice,” Feet said. “Not too fast. Use your fingers if you have to.”
    They walked across the parking lot to the last cabin. Its curtains made a soft glow, and Jo Stafford sounded a little husky about Moonlight to Vermont. Maybe she was homesick for the state. Maybe she wasn’t properly tuned in. Maybe the band was smoking cigars. Tony Feet knocked on the door.
    There was silence while you could count to ten. Maybe six, if you were Murphy. Then Frankie Blanco said: “Yeah? Who is it?”
    In a clear contralto voice, Feet said: “Jo-Beth, sir. The maid. Manager asked me to bring you a six-pack of Budweiser, compliments of the motel, sir.” His thumb and forefinger were under his jaw, pressing on his throat.
    Frankie was sitting on the bed, counting his money. Not enough. He should be at the Texaco station, working. He’d be fired. Free beer … never heard of that before. Hell of a day, hell of a day. Motel probably overcharged a couple of bucks so they could pretend to give you a six-pack … Cheating bastards. He could use a Bud right now. Help him think. Hell of a day. “Leave it at the door,” he called.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Jo Stafford had finished with Vermont. Now she was Deep In The Heart of Texas. “Where you should be,” Frankie told his reflection in the mirror, “Where I should be. We’ll both go