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Page 17.

8. Execution in an Alley

Rick barfed out some foul-tasting liquid that almost seemed steamy as it spiraled out of his open mouth and hurled in an arc, splattering on cobblestones. He seemed energized, almost electric, with wide eyes and a focused gaze. It was all like a dream, kind of. There went the ham, the cheese, the bread he had just eaten, all in little soggy puffs frothy with Stella Artois. His entire body arced, again and again, hurling the foul poison through the air. Anything—just please let me get away—emptying himself out. Sobbing at the evil and the injustice of it, he tried to get on his knees. If not on his feet, then at least up as far as his knees, to try and get some control over this. "Charley, where are you? I need you." But nobody came to help him.

Rick managed to raise himself up in a genuflecting position, and just as quickly fell. He tried to brace his fall with his right hand, landed on his right elbow.

He had been thinking this was about him—about his flight from the Army, his wanted status as a deserter and an alleged war criminal—charges he might be able to fight, because truth was on his side, but he didn't know if he had the heart to defend himself. Maybe it was easier just to run—or die. Now he realized that the craziness going on around him was about something entirely different, foreign, almost alien. This had nothing to do with him. He was just an accidental bystander. The stranger beside him hadswitched drinks with him—why?

Rick could see—clearly, for an instant, a snapshot, before confusion set in again—that he was in an alley behind the bar. He remembered the bar, foggily. Laughter and voices sounded distant. From somewhere, cigarette smoke drifted in a raggy haze across his nose, making him want to sneeze. Drizzle out on the brightly lit street seemed to cleanse the air. The asphalt had a nightlight quality, tranquil, burnished, almost affectionate in its gentleness. Rick felt himself pulled down to the asphalt, face forward, helpless and against his instinct to brace his fall. Rick also knew, at that moment, that they had not seen him—and he was afraid any second now they would notice him and turn in his direction. Then he too would be doomed—and he had no idea why.

Four persons—a woman and two standing men; plus a broken, pitiful man on the ground—were at the other end of the alley, which opened onto the next street with its own shine and its lights.

The man who had sat beside Rick in the bar now lay on the cobblestones in the alley, pleading for his life. Rick could see his face clearly. He recognized the grooves, the yellow tortured flesh, graying mussy hair, the rat eyes and anguished brows. The man's hands were upraised as he half lay, half sat propped against a pile of empty grocery boxes—the kind stores discard after stacking the contents on their retail shelves.

Standing over the doomed man were two men and a woman. Squinting, Rick tried to focus and figure out what this meant. Who were they? What were they? What was going on here?

The standing man was a tall, very dark-skinned man who looked African judging by his facial features and short, kinky hair. He wore a brown silky suit, white shirt, dark necktie.

The other guy was shorter, slim, dressed all in black including a beret. He had tattoos and looked Asian—maybe Japanese.

The woman was hard, of medium height, with shoulder-length black, almost glossy hair—judging from her skin tone, perhaps Mediterranean, which could mean anything from Spanish to Arab or Turkish to Berber and a hundred things in between, but definitely Caucasian. She looked firm and athletic, almost mannish, rather than stylish. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, but she had a certain verve or polish, from the beautiful, thick hair pulled tightly into a bun on the back of the head; to her dark, animated eyes and red-colored, expressive mouth. She wore a sort of drab military field jacket over a plain red skirt, nylons, and pragmatic black half-heels.

The three killers would never have attracted notice in a metro train or walking amid the crowds along a Paris boulevard. Neither seemed cruel, but more like this was business. They were here on a job. They wanted something, the pleading man wouldn't or couldn't give it up, and they were not so much angry nor even frustrated but simply running out of time. That was Rick's instant take. He felt paralyzed by the drugs and his own ignorance, unable to help the man who was about to die. Did any man deserve this wet, chilly, anonymous end in an alley smelling of mold?

Am I next?