burst sent him sprawling over the others.
Masters advanced warily to the beach, his weapon at the ready. The first Japanese shot was lying motionless, his eyes wide open, three blue holes over his heart. The officer continued on to the cave. The two he had next shot were also dead, sprawled in a tangle. The fourth was stirring, feebly trying to turn.
Sergeant Schneider came hurrying up to his side. “That one’s still alive!” he said hoarsely. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder, aimed deliberately, then shot the wounded Japanese directly in the head.
“What the goddamn hell did you do that for?” growled Masters.
“He was still moving!” said Schneider, his voice rising.
“I saw it, you asshole. Maybe I wanted him alive.” In disgust, he turned away. The patrol had come around the point and was wading up to the beach. “Pull them out,” ordered the officer. With apparent eagerness, the soldiers dragged the bodies from the cave and began to search them for souvenirs.
The last one shot was a sergeant, a saber hooked to his belt.
“It’s mine,” said Schneider. “I killed him.” The men looked up at Masters, leaning against the cave, smoking.
“Horseshit, it’s yours,” snapped Sergeant Yeager. “Look at his chest.” He pointed to three holes grouped there, just off center. “They’re from the Lieutenant’s tommy gun. You blew off that Nip’s head after he was dead.”
“He was still moving,” shouted Schneider. He turned to Masters. “Wasn’t he, Lieutenant?”
The officer straightened up and spat. “It goes into the pot, Sergeant,” he said sharply. We walked over to inspect the souvenirs lying by the bodies. The rule was three choices for the man who killed the remainder to be distributed by drawing lots.
He stopped at the side of the Japanese sergeant and gazed down at the face which had been disfigured by the rifle bullet tearing through his head. The crown had cracked open like a ripe melon. Beside him was a wallet. Masters picked it up. Next to the wallet was a thousand stitch belt with a coin sewn in the middle a good luck charm. He picked that up, too.
“Divide the rest,” he ordered.
Then he turned and waded into the sea, around the edge, away from this place of death.
Chapter 1
June 1965
Keith Masters jabbed his thumb on the doorbell, then, without waiting for a call to enter, opened the door and strode through the dimly lit hallway to the dining room at the rear of the house. A large, round table stood in the center of the room with a matching buffet off to one side.
“Hi, Mamie,” he greeted the fat Negress seated in front of a television set. He made his way around the table to the buffet and picked up an envelope marked ‘Metropolitan Life Insurance Company’. Inside was a receipt book and three one dollar bills. He marked down two weeks’ payment in the book, then opened his heavy debit book to record it there.
Mamie waited for a commercial before turning away from the television set. “Hi there, Mistah Masters. Where’s Mistah Bronsky?”
Masters grinned. “He’s sick. He got the clap from screwing all you girls on the debit.”
The fat woman shook with laughter. “Ah swear, Mistah Masters, Ah sure do miss you on the debit.”
Masters pocketed the three dollars, fired up a cigarette, and eyed her. “How’s everything going, Mamie?”
She pursed her lips. “Pretty good, considerin’ how sick Ah’ve been the last five years.” She cocked her head. “What you doin’ now. Ain’t seen you fur a long time.”
“I’m out with the boys all the time. Being an assistant manager is just a crock of crap.”
The woman, torn between wanting to watch her daily show or asking a question, dragged her eyes away to look back at Masters. “You tell that Mistah Bronsky Ah wants to know what’s goin’ on with that policy fur Lily.”
Masters shook his head. “Hasn’t he refunded the money?”
“What you mean, refunded the money?”
“For Christ’s sake, Mamie, I’ve told you a dozen times not to try grabbing a big policy for Lily. I told you to buy it bit-by-bit, quarter by quarter. Who dreamed up that ten dollar a month shit?”
“Mistah Bronsky said he’d get it through.”
Masters shook his head again. “Well, he didn’t get it through. It was rejected, just like the other three applications over the last five years.”
“What fur they always rejectin’ Lily?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Mamie, you know better than that. There isn’t a guy in town who hasn’t screwed Lily. The Company doesn’t mind you having a piece of ass now and then, but when you make a business of it...”
Mamie’s eyes narrowed. “That ain’t true, and you know it.”
He leaned over the table. “Name one guy who hasn’t fucked her?”
Her eyes narrowed further, then a twinkle came into them. “You!” she shouted, her heavy breasts heaving with laughter.
Master grinned as he closed the debit book. “I’m holding out for you, baby,” he chuckled, starting out of the house. Behind him, the room shook from her mirth.
On the street, he looked at his watch, surprised to see it was almost noon. He glanced at his route sheet. The next collection was in the Italian neighborhood. He walked the four blocks to where his car was parked and climbed inside. He turned the key three times before the motor caught.
Goddamn car, he muttered, eyeing the 1958 Chevrolet with distaste. If I ever get those fucking bills paid off, the first thing I’ll do is drop this heap in the junkyard.
He drove out of the Negro area to a drug store and sat at the counter to eat a ham sandwich. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way to the Italian section. He parked the car, got out, and opened the debit book to the route card. The first house to collect from was halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. He stepped off the curb.
(God!) his mind screamed, as a fiery slash of pain ripped at his chest! His mouth opened wide to gasp for breath.
(God!) He fell to his knees, the debit book sliding under the car.
(Help!) his mind cried out. Then he crumpled to the ground.
Mr. and Mrs. Elvino, seated on their porch across the street, saw him fall. The woman grasped her husband’s arm. “Tony, that’sa Mister Masters. Quick!”
The
