PAGE 7
Gun For Hire
by
“O.K., so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he screws everything up. But the way things are, there’s no way of making a get. So you’ll have to get some other patsy. Not me.”
“I am afraid you have no alternative,” Brett-James said gently. “Without us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, you do not even speak the language.”
“What’d’ya mean? I don’t understand summa the big words you eggheads use, but I get by O.K.”
Brett-James said, “Amer-English is no longer the language spoken by the man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only students of such subjects any longer speak such tongues as Amer-English, French, Russian or the many others that once confused the race with their limitations as a means of communication.”
“You mean there’s no place in the whole world where they talk American?” Joe demanded, aghast.
* * * * *
Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed in a museum. It had been more easily procured than the ammunition to fit it, but that problem too had been solved.
The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of what they had planned.
Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the others were on the verge of chickening out. He knew it wouldn’t have taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn’t any answer though. If they allowed him to call it off today, they’d talk themselves into it again before the week was through.
Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable, warm feeling that came to him on occasions like this.
He said, “You’re sure this guy talks American, eh?”
Warren Brett-James said, “Quite sure. He is a student of history.”
“And he won’t think it’s funny I talk American to him, eh?”
“He’ll undoubtedly be intrigued.”
They pulled up before a large apartment building that overlooked the area once known as Wilmington.
Joe was coolly efficient now. He pulled out the automatic, held it down below his knees and threw a shell into the barrel. He eased the hammer down, thumbed on the safety, stuck the weapon back in his belt and beneath the jacketlike garment he wore.
He said, “O.K. See you guys later.” He left them and entered the building.
An elevator–he still wasn’t used to their speed in this era–whooshed him to the penthouse duplex occupied by Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.
There were two persons in the reception room but they left on Joe’s arrival, without bothering to look at him more than glancingly.
He spotted the screen immediately and went over and stood before it.
The screen lit and revealed a heavy-set, dour of countenance man seated at a desk. He looked into Joe Prantera’s face, scowled and said something.
Joe said, “Joseph Salviati-Prantera to interview Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy.”
The other’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Indeed,” he said. “In Amer-English?”
Joe nodded.
“Enter,” the other said.
A door had slid open on the other side of the room. Joe walked through it and into what was obviously an office. Citizen Temple-Tracy sat at a desk. There was only one other chair in the room. Joe Prantera ignored it and remained standing.
Citizen Temple-Tracy said, “What can I do for you?”
Joe looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he reached down to his belt and brought forth the .45 automatic. He moistened his lips.
Joe said softly, “You know what this here is?”
Temple-Tracy stared at the weapon. “It’s a handgun, circa, I would say, about 1925 Old Calendar. What in the world are you doing with it?”
Joe said, very slowly, “Chief, in the line you’re in these days you needa heavy around with wunna these. Otherwise, Chief, you’re gunna wind up in some gutter with a lotta holes in you. What I’m doin’, I’m askin’ for a job. You need a good man knows how to handle wunna these, Chief.”
Citizen Howard Temple-Tracy eyed him appraisingly. “Perhaps,” he said, “you are right at that. In the near future, I may well need an assistant knowledgeable in the field of violence. Tell me more about yourself. You surprise me considerably.”
“Sure, Chief. It’s kinda a long story, though. First off, I better tell you you got some bad enemies, Chief. Two guys special, named Brett-James and Doc Reston-Farrell. I think one of the first jobs I’m gunna hafta do for you, Chief, is to give it to those two.”