Hush Money Read Free Page A

hopped out of the cart and said, almost shouting, “You know that term you used, Carl—hush money? That’s a good term, hush money. I like that. There’s two different kinds of hush money, you know—the kind you pay to a guy so he’ll keep quiet and the kind you pay to have a guy made quiet. Permanently quiet.”
    Carl felt the heat rising to his face. Unable to contain his anger any longer, he whirled around, ready to deliver one final verbal burst, pointing his finger at Joey DiPreta like a gun.
    And Joey DiPreta doubled over, as if shot, as if somehow a metaphysical bullet had been fired from the finger Carl was pointing; or at least that was Carl’s immediate impression.
    Within a split second the sound of the high-power rifle fire caught up with the .460 Magnum missile that had passed through Joey DiPreta like a cheap Mexican dinner, tossing him in the air and knocking him off the mound and out of sight before Carl really understood what he’d just witnessed; before he really understood that he’d just seen a high-power bullet bore through a man and cut him literally in two and lift him up and send him tumbling lifelessly off the hillock.
    Carl drew back the pointing finger and hit the deck, finally, rolled off the hill himself, to get out of the line of any further fire.
    But there was none.
    The assassin had hit his mark and fled, satisfied with his score for the afternoon, and why not? As one of Des Moines’ finest would later caustically point out, it isn’t every day somebody shoots a hole in one.
     
     
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    HIS NAME was Steven Bruce McCracken, but nobody called him any of those names. His friends called him Mac. His sister called him Stevie. His mother, when she was alive, called him Steve. His father, when he was alive, called him Butch. His crew had called him Sarge. The VC had called him a lot of things.
    His reputation, it was said, was considerable among the Vietcong. That was what he’d heard from ARVN personnel, who themselves seemed a little in awe of him. To his own way of thinking, he’d never done anything so out of the ordinary; he was just one of many gunners, just another crew chief doing his job. As crew chief one of his responsibilities was to provide cover fire as men (usually wounded, since the bulk of his missions were Medivacs) were hustled aboard the helicopter. He would stand in the doorway, or outside of it, firing his contraband Thompson submachine gun (which he’d latched onto early in the game, picking it off a Cong corpse) and shouting obscenities in three languages at the usually unseen enemy, unflinching as return fire was sent his way, as if daring those gooks to hit him. Personally, he didn’t see how any of that could build him any special reputation among the enemy or anyone else. He always suspected those damn ARVN were putting him on about it—he had trouble understanding them half the time anyway, his Vietnamese lingo consisting mostly of bar talk and their English being no better—but later G-2 had confirmed that he did indeed have a name in Charlie’s camp. He supposed his appearance must’ve had something to do with whatever reputation he may have had. He stood out among the Americans, who, to the gooks, all looked alike, and he made a bigger target than most, which must’ve been frustrating as hell to the little bastards, missing a target so big. He was six-two and powerfully built—his body strung with holstered handguns and belts of ammunition and hand grenades—his white-blond hair and white-blond mustache (a slight, military-trim mustache that still managed a gunfighter’s droop on either side), showing up vividly against his deeply tanned skin.
    His appearance today, a month out of service, was little different, even if he wasn’t wearing guns and ammo and grenades. True, the hair was already longer than the Marines would have liked, but other than that he looked much the same. His physical condition was outstanding; even his limp had