Like A Hole In The Head

     He came at me with two quick shuffling strides. I was handicapped by the rifle I was holding. His fist slammed against the side of my head with the force of a steam hammer. My knees buckled, then dimly I saw his fist coming again towards my face. There was nothing I could do about it. I felt the shock, then a white flash of light scorched my eyes, then nothing.

* * *

     I became aware of the sound of the sea pounding on the beach. Then I became aware my jaw was aching. The ache reminded me of the fist flashing towards my face. I shook my head, grunted and sat up. This wasn't the first time I had taken a punch, but I couldn't remember taking a harder one.

     I looked around. I was on my own. I fingered the swelling on my jaw, winced, then levered myself to my feet.

     The rifle with its telescopic sight and its silencer lay on the sand. I looked at it, continued to rub my jaw, coaxing my mind to work.

     Then I heard a sound. Raimundo appeared in the doorway. He propped himself up against one of the posts of the lean-to and regarded me. His eyes were bored; a cigarette burned between his fingers.

     I picked up the rifle and laid it carefully on one of the benches. "For a guy who's getting paid fifty thousand bucks, you certainly are some flop," he said.

     "That's right." I sat down, pushing the rifle along the bench to give me room. "Yeah, I guess that's fair criticism." I was still a little dizzy in the head. "What's with this jerk? Is he crazy?"

     Raimundo flicked ash off his cigarette.

     "He's nervous."

     "Just nervous, huh?" I tried my teeth carefully with my tongue. None of them seemed loose. "He's quite a puncher, isn't he?"

     "You could call him that."

     "What makes him nervous?"

     Raimundo flicked more ash off his cigarette.

     "He has his troubles. Don't we all ?"

     "He's more than nervous. He has a couple of screws loose and you know it."

     Raimundo shrugged.

     "Where is he?"

     Nick's taking care of him."

     I rubbed my jaw. It didn't help.

     "Get my phone connected. I'm going to talk to his father."

     "I bet." Raimundo sneered. "Right now, Mr. Savanto doesn't want to talk to you, soldier. When he does talk to you, he'll want to hear the goon

can shoot. He isn't interested in your problems. He pays. You deliver."

I got to my feet. "Then I'll talk to Timoteo."

Raimundo shook his head.

     "You've had your chance. You don't know how to handle him. He doesn't react to the soft approach. From now on, I'm handling him and tell your wife to lay off the palsy-walsy act. You be here at 09.00 tomorrow. Goon will be here, ready to shoot."

     Why should I care? I reasoned to myself. I was being paid to teach him to shoot not to act as a mental nurse.

     "Suits me."

     I unclipped the telescopic sight, ran a rag over it, unscrewed the silencer and put it and the sight into the box. I put the rifle back in its case and the box and the rifle case into the gun rack.

     "Nine tomorrow, then?"

     "That's it, soldier."

     I left the gallery and started across the hot sand to the bungalow. The time was 19.34.

     Lucy had finished painting. As I walked into the living- room, I heard the shower going. I went to the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of scotch and poured a slug. I drank it neat, then went into the bedroom.

     Lucy came out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her.

     "Did you bring Tim with you?" she asked, darting to the closet to find a dress.

     "No. Raimundo is taking care of him. You finished with the shower?"

     The note in my voice made her turn quickly. She saw the bruise and the swelling on my face.

"What happened? Your face !"

I stripped off my shirt.

"It's nothing, honey."

"But what happened?"

I told her.

     "He's as nutty as a fruit cake." I said as I kicked off my shoes. "Our luck . . . to get landed with him."

     She held the towel around her as she stared at me.

     "I can't believe it. He hit you!"

     I took off my slacks.

     "He carries quite a punch. Anyway, what's it matter? In the state he was in he'd have hit his own father."

     I went into the shower. After standing under the cold water for some minutes, I felt more relaxed. I dried off and came back into the bedroom.

     Lucy had put on a dress. She sat on the bed and watched me while I threw on slacks and shirt.

     "Why did he hit you, Jay?"

     "He was worked up. I don't know. He looked as if he were going to throw a fit."

     "But what did you do to him?"

     "I did nothing to him !" I found I was shouting at her. I throttled back. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm getting worked up myself. What's for supper?"

     "There's something terribly wrong. He wouldn't hit anyone. This worries me."

     "Well, he hit me." I tried to grin, but it didn't come off. "He's neurotic. Let's forget him. I've had him in my hair all day. What's for supper?"

     She got up.

     "Would you like eggs and ham or do you want something more fancy?" Her voice was unsteady and her eyes cloudy.

     "Eggs and ham would be fine. Come do . . . I'll help."

     We went into the kitchen and I sat on the table while she got the eggs from the refrigerator.

     "Is he coming to sleep here?"