Hit and Run

     The target was being difficult.

    Waiting for the limousine to crawl off, Lamarque clicked on the car radio. He flipped past rock music, commercials, and a screaming evangelist, settled at last on a news broadcast. The announcer made even minor items sound cataclysmic. He talked about unrest in Eastern Europe, gave way to a correspondent who described the devastation of a South American earthquake, returned to lament scores of dead from a terrorist bombing in the Middle East. The announcer was saying, “And in local news,” when the limousine pulled away. Lamarque followed several blocks back and one lane over.

     From the radio came the name of his quarry. Lamarque sat as though flash-frozen, listening. A man’s voice droned: “... who will attend his first American baseball game tomorrow at the stadium.”  

     The announcer said more about the target’s life and work, but Lamarque no longer listened; he’d already learned all the most intimate details of the subject’s history in planning the hit. All that was unimportant now, in light of this new information. A flashbulb had gone off inside his head. He, too, would attend his first big-league game tomorrow.

     Lamarque slept soundly, for the first time in several nights. The next morning, he bought a newspaper and ate a leisurely breakfast. According to the Sports Section, the local team was playing a double-header. Nowhere in the paper did it mention which game the target would attend, so Lamarque would have to be there for both.

     Lamarque arrived early for the late afternoon opener and, after paying a fee, parked in the first row of the ten-acre lot fronting the ballpark’s main entrance. 

     He waited in the car, mapping strategy. It wasn’t going to be easy. Crowds were always a fifty-fifty proposition.

     On the positive side, American baseball meant movement. Lamarque had watched a couple games on television since he’d been in the States. He’d noticed how spectators milled around constantly, from first inning to last. Another slight motion, the ripple of the stalking hunter, would never be noticed.

     There was a steady, high level of noise at a baseball game, too.  Enough to cover the sound of a solitary scream.

     And, of course, it was easy to get lost in a crowd, once the deed was done. 

     Drop weapon. 

     Toss hat. 

     Lose jacket. 

     Become another anonymous face, part of the normal flow.

     There were drawbacks to the setup, naturally. The main problem was to locate—and keep in contact with—the target in a mob of excited sports fans.

     The other big problem was fifty thousand potential witnesses to the hit. Fifty thousand chances for something to go wrong. Any spectator could suddenly jump up to signal for beer or bat at a stray beach ball or start a rallying cry, and spoil a clean kill. All the fans were prospective roadblocks to escape.

     Lamarque watched as the yellow-lined asphalt around him disappeared under sleek forms in chrome and steel. They disgorged knots of people who wound towards the light-crowned stadium like columns of ants after a sugar bowl.

     Now and then, he lifted compact binoculars, scanning rivers of traffic for the familiar shape of the limousine.

     The torrent slowed to a trickle. There was still no sign of his quarry.

     Sweat broke out on Lamarque’s upper lip. Had the target come by another entrance? He cursed himself fluently, in several languages. Why hadn’t he hired others to help watch? 

     Because, he answered, you wanted to keep all the money for yourself.

     “Stay calm,” Lamarque said aloud in the next breath. “He’s an important person in a fancy car. He’ll come the front way. Just fashionably late, that’s all. Be patient.” 

     The lot was a sea of silent vehicles. No humans visible, except along the stadium fence, a chain-link barrier high as the border of a military installation. There, idle parking attendants in red jackets loafed under a still cloud of cigarette smoke. A gaggle of small boys with large mitts collected on the sidewalk outside the ballpark, waiting and hoping for a ball to be propelled out of the stadium.

     Lamarque wove on foot through the lot, watching for any car long enough to take up two spaces.

     Even at a distance, he could smell popcorn. Faint cries of vendors burst and died in the air like spent bombshells. “PROgrams!  SOUveneers! BEer HEre! HOT dogs!” Saliva sprang up in his mouth.  His stomach rumbled. 

     The signs of hunger annoyed him. He’d slipped up. He should have thought to bring along a sandwich, a flask of something to drink or a magazine to read while waiting. Sure, it was a little thing.  But when you started to forget the small details in this dangerous game, it was time to get out, to do something else for a living before your mistakes caught up with you. 

     There was only one thing wrong with the idea of quitting the profession: in his adult life, he’d never had any trade other than devising ingenious ways to eliminate targets to order.  

     He was good at his job—he’d never missed yet—that’s why he commanded top dollar, franc, mark, pound, ruble, piaster, yen or lira. The projects were exciting, a new and stimulating challenge every time. They gave him the opportunity to travel the world with class, to live in a style most men could only dream of. 

     And no, he never suffered from nightmares.  

     From the beginning, he’d had the ability to view targets as lifeless, two-dimensional cutouts, not real flesh-and-blood humans, and this detachment kept him from becoming affected by the destruction caused by his bombs, bullets and poisons.

     How could he give up all the benefits of his chosen occupation? Lamarque wondered gloomily. What would he do instead? Take up plumbing? 

     Inside the stadium, a band played. Before the last note died away, a hollow-throated cheer arose from the crowd.

     Innings passed. 

It grew dark but the stadium blazed like day. 

Latecomers straggled in. 

A few people left.

     The first game ended. A mass of humanity came and went.  Lamarque checked his luminous watch dial for the hundredth time. 

     What if the target doesn’t show? he wondered. Suppose the man’s plans had changed? What then? 

     There was no answer.

     Then it was all right. As Lamarque completed yet another restless circuit on foot, he saw the huge black limo, like two fat Cadillacs welded seamlessly end-to-end, edging through puddles of pedestrians. He strode towards the vehicle as it stopped before the main gate, unloaded occupants, and glided away.

     The target and his men approached the ticket windows in a compact, many-legged body. Lamarque, standing in the next line and close enough to overhear where the group would sit, consulted a framed map of the stadium and paid for a seat closest to the target he could obtain. It was twenty rows back of the bald man.

     The target’s party ambled, tightly bunched, up the sloping concrete ramp and through an archway. 

     Thirty seconds behind and shielded from view by knots of chattering fans, Lamarque showed his ticket and was waved through.

     Led by an usher, the target descended metal stairs, flanked by two large men fore and aft. They were shown to reserved box seats made separate by a waist-high metal rail a dozen rows behind the third-base dugout. The target nestled between two bodyguards. The other watchdogs took seats directly before and behind their man.

     From his perch above the quintet, Lamarque’s view of the target was nearly obscured by an unruly thicket of heads. He caught only an occasional glint of light from the bald man below. 

At this distance, under these conditions, it would take exact timing and a perfect shot to drop him. No, it would take a miracle, Lamarque thought. He’d have to get closer. His choice of weapon demanded it.

     Lamarque stole a glance to his left. A red-faced, corpulent couple sat like lumps, glazed gazes glued to the field. 

     To his right, a thin, dark-haired man wearing a baseball cap was absorbed in a newspaper, elaborately folding and refolding it so no more than a palm-sized section was visible at any time.

      Pretending an itch, Lamarque ran the fingertips of his left hand along the plastic tube concealed beneath his right sleeve. No bigger around than a fine cigar, and only slightly longer, the tube was strapped to the inside of his forearm. The end toward the wrist was punctured with six small holes. From each, a spring-loaded, needle-sized graphite dart tipped with a lethal dose of fast-acting poison could be noiselessly launched.

     To use the weapon, a Bulgarian invention, you merely nudged it forward into your hand, aimed between your fingers, and pressed a recessed thumb button, as many as six times. 

     The first one for the target. 

     The next four for each of the guards, if necessary.      

     The last for himself, if capture was certain. 

     Lamarque fervently hoped he’d have to use only one or two.

     At ten meters, the needle gun was useless—the feather-light projectiles simply did not carry well. But up to five meters the weapon was unerringly accurate and deadly sure.

     Lamarque had witnessed the results of the poison before. Upon being struck, some victims jerked as though bit by an insect or struck with a minor muscular twinge. Some never felt the needle at all, if it was placed right. 

     Within three minutes, the target would claw at his collar, unable to breathe. In five minutes, he would fall over dead.

     To have a fair chance of making that happen, Lamarque had to cut the distance to the target. Perhaps, he thought, as people left he could slip closer. Then, during an exciting play, he’d let the target have it. At the very least, he had to get over to the aisle so, if all else failed, he could make the hit as the target passed on his way out, and hope for the best.

     No use to worry about it now. The job couldn’t be done as things lay, except by someone bent on suicide. He’d wait and see what happened. Patience was a necessary trait in his profession.

     Lamarque studied the terrain, rechecking security arrangements. It was obvious nothing out of the ordinary had been laid on for the special, if obscure, guest. A few pot-bellied policemen lounged at the ends of dugouts. A couple others, near retirement age, loafed about along the foul lines.

     The target settled in. He plucked wispy strands from a fuzzy ball of cotton candy, stuffed them in his mouth, and licked his fingers. His men ate and drank like they hadn’t been fed for days.

     Ravenous himself, Lamarque surrendered ten dollars for two hot dogs, a brace of gigantic pretzels dotted with salt crystals and topped with squiggles of mustard, and a beer poured into a translucent plastic cup. The franks looked quite ordinary, but somehow tasted better than any he had ever eaten. The pretzels were incredibly delicious. The beer was cold and refreshing.

     As he munched, Lamarque studied his surroundings. 

     It was very different from watching baseball on television. The stadium was cavernous, with tiers of seats rising ten stories into the stratosphere. Banks of dazzling lights made everything bright as a Caribbean morning. It all looked unreal. The playing field was green, of an impossible color for grass. The infield’s raw, red earth was the shade of dried blood. Precise, pure white foul lines diagrammed a perfect right angle from home plate to outfield. Lamarque wondered: if the lines were extended beyond the fence, through what places would they pass? And, after circling the globe, would they meet again at home plate?

     Even at a distance, athletes on the field looked larger than life.  They ran and fielded and threw with consummate grace. But Lamarque reserved most admiration for the batters. It amazed him the men waving those wooden clubs could connect with a small ball, thrown so viciously it was only a blur. 

     True, often the struck ball did not stay in the field of play.  The batter swung, a split second later a crack like a pistol shot sounded, and the white sphere arced backwards into the stands.

     These stray missiles drew spectators like gravity. Fans who had calculated the approximate trajectory packed the area of likely descent, arms outstretched. Whoever ended up with the ball displayed it, danced with joy, and tucked it away.

     In the third inning, one of these off-course rockets flew over Lamarque’s head, well out of reach. His eyes followed the flight, like the eyes of all around him. When he looked back, he noticed the target had also craned around to see landing and follow-up celebration. The bald man had gotten a baseball glove from somewhere. It was on his left hand and he grinned like an idiot.

     In the middle of the fourth inning, Lamarque purchased another beer and a bag of peanuts. He decided to support the home team, dressed in white with red trim, rather than the visitors, who wore gray outfits piped in blue.

     The home team responded, scoring four runs, three on a home run off the bat of a well-built black man, who jogged around the bases.

     The Blues came back with three runs in the fifth, held the Reds scoreless, and tallied five in the sixth for an 8-4 lead.

     A family got up, halfway between Lamarque and the target, collected their belongings, and left. Lamarque, carrying a fresh beer obtained from the concession stand after a visit to the restroom, moved down where the family had been.

     The target was to his left now, six rows away. The little bald man still wore the leather glove. He talked animatedly with the hulk on his right and pointed towards the field.

     The home team loaded the bases but did not score in the sixth. 

Before the next inning began, a voice boomed out of the loudspeakers and echoed off the fences, reminding fans of upcoming dates and events. Ticket stub numbers were read off for prizes. Lamarque did not win the weekend in Acapulco, the motorcycle, the woman’s wardrobe, the set of cookware. Neither did the target or his men. Music blared and the fans clapped and stomped in ragged rhythm.

     When play began again, Lamarque angled towards the target at a tangent, using a throng of youngsters as cover. There were only four rows and ten seats to go now.

     The top of the seventh came and went. Then, virtually the whole crowd stood, cheering. The target, finally grasping the significance of the ritual, stood, too, and stretched.

     In the bottom of the inning, the Reds got a leadoff walk and a hit batsman, and the Blues changed pitchers. A single to right brought one run home. A double down the left field line plated two more, cutting the deficit to one run. The crowd went berserk, incited by an organist who whipped emotions into a frenzy with a series of fanfares, each louder and further up the scale. 

     During the commotion, Lamarque climbed over the back of a vacant seat at his knees and sat.

     The Blues sought relief from the bullpen again and the babbling crowd relaxed a notch.

     Lamarque glanced at his right-hand neighbor: a woman, barely out of her teens, shrieked incoherently at the Blue team. In her arms she cradled a sleeping baby dressed in a miniature version of the home team's uniform.

     In the eighth, Blues bats came to life, pounding out five hits, good for three runs. More people left. 

     Lamarque gained another row. He was now stationed two meters behind, and to the right of the target. Just past the craggy profile of the rearmost guard, he saw a smooth, rounded patch of hairless skin.

     A two-out, two-run homer gave new hope to Reds’ fans.

     The Blues were promptly disposed of in the ninth.

     The hometown faithful sat forward. They stood and applauded when, after one out, the third baseman lined a double off the center field wall. They went wild when the next hitter was called out on strikes, and booed when the cleanup man was intentionally walked.  Everyone in the stadium, including the target and his guards, stood and stamped and hollered.

     Lamarque moved forward beside two boys, about eight and ten, who stood on the armrests of their seats to see better. He was within an arm’s length of the guard at the target’s back. The man had a neck thick as a telephone pole.

     The next batter hit a sinking liner the left fielder misjudged.  The ball rolled to the wall. Both runners scored to tie the game and the batter slid in for a triple. The stadium shook with sound.

     Lamarque pushed the plastic tube down his forearm, until its snout cleared his cuff and lay concealed in his curled palm.

     The boy beside him suddenly screamed, “Home Run!” in a voice as sharp and thin and painful as an ice pick.

     The runner danced off third base. 

     The Blues pitcher glanced at him, wound up, flung the ball towards the plate. 

     The batter swung. The ball ricoched off his bat, rifled off the padded backstop. The crowd made a sucking noise.

     The nose of the needle gun poked between Lamarque’s fingers, looking like the business end of a salt shaker.

     A man behind him said, like a mantra: “Hit it out, hit it out, hit it out.”

     The pitcher threw two straight balls, low and outside. Fans jumped up and down.

     Lamarque felt along the smooth plastic shaft, now warm and tacky with sweat, now feeling huge and heavy and conspicuous as a cannon. Where was that damn button?

     The batter fouled a pitch weakly. The next offering sailed high and outside. The tumult was deafening.

     Lamarque found the dip in the tube’s curved surface, gingerly touched the small protrusion with thumb tip. He raised his two-ton forearm until it was parallel to the ground, aimed at the foot-square patch of the target’s back visible beyond the bodyguard’s broad shoulder.

     On the field, the pitcher toed the rubber.

     Wiped away sweat.

     Checked the catcher’s sign. 

     Looked at the runner on third. 

     Adjusted his cap. 

     Tugged at his belt. 

     Set the ball in his glove. 

     Checked the sign again. 

     Nodded.

     Glanced at the runner. 

     Wound up. 

     Threw the ball.

     The batter swung and lifted a high, lazy foul fly into the stands behind third base.

     The target looked up, lifted his hands, one bare and one gloved, as if in supplication. The bodyguards and surrounding fans raised arms and faces, too.

     Lamarque flicked eyes up and away from the square of gray cloth at which his weapon pointed.

     A white star hung in the night. Then it fell, hurtling right at Lamarque’s head, blotting out the sky. 

     He flung up his left hand, fingers spread, to ward it off.  Lamarque felt a crush of bodies from all sides. Even the target pressed against him, looking straight up as though balancing a crystal vase on his shiny forehead. The guards leaned back, like petals curling outward to expose pollen.

     As the ball descended, the target turned in place, glove extended, and put his free hand on Lamarque’s shoulder to steady himself.

     The ball missed the target’s glove by millimeters and smacked into Lamarque’s open palm. As it hit, he pressed the button under his thumb twice—once by reflex, once with determination. Two darts flashed away.

     The target appeared not to notice. Perhaps he hadn’t felt the sharp, slender shafts burrow into his flab. Or maybe he thought the sudden slight pricks were from an attack of gas after stuffing his face. It didn’t matter. He’d know what was wrong soon enough.

     Lamarque, left hand stinging, held up the ball as he’d seen others do and felt his lips form into a grin. Simultaneously, he ran his right arm down his thigh to drive the tube back up his sleeve. 

     His eyes met those of the man he’d been sent after.

     The target looked about to cry. He stared at the ball in Lamarque’s hand and punched his fist into the pocket of the glove. His face registered disappointment, longing, and envy.

     On the field, the batter took a walk.

     Lamarque leaned towards the smaller man, hand holding the ball outstretched.

     The bodyguards, looking angry, reached for underarm weapons, closing ranks. The target motioned them back.

     Without speaking, Lamarque placed the ball in the glove that had never before tasted horsehide. 

     The target’s eyes swelled to the size of egg yolks. His mouth gaped. It was too soon for the poison to take effect, so Lamarque reasoned the man was showing surprise. “For me?” The heavily accented voice was a child’s at Christmas. “But why?”

     “It should have been yours,” Lamarque said in perfect English. “If you had been an inch taller, the ball would have fallen right into your glove. Take it. I have no use for such a thing.”

     A last gift for a dying man. Perhaps they would put it in the coffin with the corpse.

     The other man’s liquid brown eyes seemed to melt towards the baseball in his glove. “Thank you,” he said, fingering it as though it were made of gold and encrusted with precious jewels. “Thank you!”  He turned and the guards, made almost benevolent by smiles, bent to see the prize.

        Lamarque slipped away a moment later, thinking of how to spend the money he’d earned. 

     A villa on the French Riviera? 

     A cruise to the South Seas?

     Or just squirrel it away towards his early retirement?

     He was already walking across the parking lot when the Blues pitcher balked and sent everyone home happy. 

     Well, almost everyone.

Contact the Author  - Citizenem@aol.com

Author Site - www.authorsden.com/jackewing