Free Understrike by John Gardner Page B

nostalgic), home-made cookies, wire teeth braces, pigtails (all part of the great American saga, thought Boysie: Andy Hardy and all that jazz). After Springfield there were the more interesting, and undoubtedly more glamorous, tales of New York and the model racket; then the wealthy husband who, after a two-year idyll with Chicory, had walked off with a counter assistant from Woolworths, called Ophelia Cocks. Thus Chicory reverted to her maiden name of Triplehouse and accepted the wayward husband’s sizeable alimony.
    “ Now,” she said with a pout, mimicking a hick accent, “I’m nuthin’ more’n a bored pussy, holdin’ off the tom cats and keepin’ out of the kitten way.”
    Night again, and the conversation petered out in fitful sleep. Boysie’s mind clicked back to New York: the abortive attempt to entice him from the hotel, and the subtle horror of the mamba. Try as he would, the pictures kept returning, shouldering their way into his dozing thoughts. The conclusion was always the same. Behind this seemingly simple operation, there lurked that old last enemy, death. Twice in New York. They would not let it go at that. There was purpose and method behind the two attempts. Sometime, soon, they would have another go. Boysie swallowed, and allowed his hand to stray to the satisfyingly hard butt of the pistol in his hip pocket. Third time lucky? It was all Mostyn’s fault. It was always Mostyn’s fault. Boysie began his favourite pastime of silently cursing his Second-in-Command.
    They slept a little and woke in Tulsa (“This is the place that chap was twenty-four hours from,” said Boysie. Chicory giggled), again in Oklahoma City, and once more in Amarillo, Texas, where the crickets were singing fit to snap their tiny wings. Sleep again, a little deeper, and at six in the morning, with the sun rising over the spectacular desert, the Scenicruiser pulled up in front of the Posting House Cafe, Santa Rosa, New Mexico.
    “ You gotta nour here, folks,” said the driver.
    Yawning and stretching, the bleary passengers lurched stiffly towards their respective rest rooms—cutely labelled “Señors” and “Señoritas”—and allowed the gastric juices to flow unimpeded at the thought of breakfast served by raven-sleek Spanish-American beauties who could be glimpsed behind the restaurant counters.
    The water was cold, the other male passengers bawdy and loud. It reminded Boysie of army days; freezing in the ablutions surrounded by false heartiness. He never could shave with cold water, and performed the operation painfully, cutting himself twice and drying the blood with little pieces of toilet paper. His tingling Onyx after-shave lotion stung more than usual; there was a very rude drawing, accompanied by an Anglo-Saxon word, etched on the lavatory wall. “Just like home,” murmured Boysie, realising that his travelling companions had all shaved, shined their shoes, and done the other thing at the double. They were now probably wolfing all the remaining hotcakes, crispy cereals, bacon, sunnyside-up eggs and coffee. He packed his shaving gear back into the neat green Lentheric Onyx de Luxe travel kit and—after taking one last look at his parting in the cracked mirror—turned towards the door.
    “ Mr Oakes?” The man spoke conspiratorially, leaning against the wall outside the rest room. He looked nattily expensive, his chin barbered as though someone had plucked out each hair independently by the roots and then given the skin a going over with varnish. Boysie stared into a pair of eyes which commanded attention. At first sight this was not the kind of man with whom Boysie felt an instinctive kinship.
    “ Yes?” Boysie’s hand prepared to move towards his hip pocket. The man’s right hand came forward and flipped open a leather identity wallet. Boysie caught sight of a badge and official-looking card.
    “ Henniger,” said Henniger. “United States Security. Have your breakfast with the girl, collect your