Harlan's Race

off.
    For about 15 minutes, Chino was down in the hole, his brown fingers using a stick to dig around in the dirt and dead leaves. Finally he came up with a brass .22 casing. Carefully, without touching it, he tipped it into a plastic baggie from his pocket.
    “This ammo’s not new,” he said. “Probably bought at a garage sale. You never buy from dealers. You go as anonymous as you can.”
    “Is he using an old gun?”
    “Maybe. One that goes back before they kept good records on gun sales. He’s smooth. But not smooth enough, man. He shouldn’t have lost this. His first fuck-up. He probably went nuts looking for it. He was pushing his luck to stay any longer, so he scrammed.”
    “We can prove this came from his gun?” I was trying to think like a trial lawyer.
    Chino laughed at me.
    “Real life is not the movies. If he’s that smooth, he’ll do a little re-machining on his barrel now. You can make little changes, so ballistics can’t match the markings up. Maybe LEV. does his own gunsmithing. Or his group has a gunsmith. There are lots of tricks. He’ll keep moving through his tricks. He won’t set a pattern.”
    “Except one. He likes the .22 rifle.”
    “Expect him to zig and zag... even on that. He shot a rock at you on the Beach.”
    “Why is he sticking to .22 caliber? It’s a kid gun ... a varmint gun. I plinked with .22s for years. Why not something bigger — high tech?”
    “You mean those hot .50 caliber jobs we did in the Nam. Head shots at 3000 feet.”
    “Yeah.”
    “This isn’t Nam, compadre. A .50 caliber hit blows your head off. In the civilian world, an assassin sometimes wants to be more discreet. The .22 has its limits, but it can be a choice little assassin’s rifle. Light, easy to customize. If a .22 round hits the head at just the right angle, it whirls inside the brain cavity... destroys the brain. Minutes go by before people find the entry-hole and figure out what happened. Gives you more escape time.”
    I winced.
    Chino rested one booted foot on the log, and lit a Tiparillo. “So, my mate,” he said, “this little goat-fuck isn’t going to be over tomorrow. Understand?”
    I sighed heavily.
    “If LEV. was your standard sniper, you’d be dead. When they want to get you, they get you. A sniper has every advantage. But this kind of guy moves into your life and marries you. Harry and I deal with them in L.A. The crazy fan who is nuts about some girl star. Or a photographer who won’t let up. LEV. isn’t a fan, and he likes to hide in his maze of green. But he’s obsessed with you. He wants something.”
    ‘What?”
    “He shoots into your world during athletic events, and when you make love. That ought to give you a clue.”
    ‘Was he aiming at me? Or Jacques?” I asked.
    “Jacques. I’m sure of that. And who knows? He may not have intended to kill him.” Chino hefted the baggie. “In Montreal, they shot to kill. The Magnum is a hot round that penetrates. This time he used a hollow-point that fragments before it goes deep. That tells me he only wanted to wound ... maybe to warn you.”
    “Jacques isn’t my lover. If he watches me, he knows that.” “But you’re his coach. Maybe in LEV.’s mind, they’re the same thing. Notice he hasn’t fired at me, and I’m your security. But I’m not your lover, and I’m not your runner.”
    “What kind of a guy is he?”
    “A professional sniper is not your stereotype loco. He’s low-key ... calm ... patient. Good in the woods. Good on detail. Single-minded. Capable of operating on his own for a long time. Detached. But now and then he takes a target personally. He’s a surgeon who cuts out human tumors, man. Goes in, targets the disease, goes home and plays golf.”
    The shock — knowing Chino was right — went right to that flash point of emotion in my sphincter.
    “So,” I said, “let’s say that he and Mech are old sidekicks. Maybe some intense latency there. They go to Montreal to get Billy... they fuck up and Mech is arrested. So now we have Richie baby in prison and a very angry, heartbroken sidekick outside. That makes me a target that he takes personally.”
    Chino nodded, looking around thoughtfully.
    “If I’m a tumor, why not just kill me?” I asked.
    Chino was sucking on the little cigar, which had gone out. “I think he wants to jackal you. Nip you again and again and again. Bleed you slow.”
    Now the chills were chasing up and down me.
    “Harry and me, we both ran our little