A Glibertarians Exclusive: License to Kill, Part III

The head pulled back down from the ridgeline.  Paul waited a minute, two.  The head didn’t reappear.

Definitely a lack of motivation, he thought.  No gung-ho spirit.

Paul snapped his fingers.  The other Marines looked over at him.  He pointed at the ridgeline; he saw the others nod in reply.  Then he pointed to a small notch in the ridge off to the left.  The notch was clogged with brush, but it was the only place the attackers could come through without being silhouetted.

The Marines had all seen that notch and were prepared, noted it when they scouted the terrain.  The three Marines on the left half of the line reoriented to face the brushy notch.  The others continued to watch the ridgeline.

There was a big down coconut log lying at an angle to Paul’s front.  He laid the fore-stock of the Springfield on the log, sighted on the notch, and waited.  It’s always about waiting, he remembered.  He looked back over his shoulder.  There was old Sam, just as he said he’d be.


Honolulu, June 1946

Danny Greene woke up in his suite in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel with a skull-shattering hangover.  His two ‘bodyguards,’ muscle-headed farm boys sent along to help him do the job the Gilliard family’s head had assigned him, were several floors down in a cheaper double room.

“Ugh.”  He picked up the bedside telephone and called room service.  “Pot of coffee.  Dry toast.  Yeah, that’s all.”

His next call went to the cheap room downstairs. “You got anything?” he demanded when one of the muscle-heads answered.

“Yeah,” the man replied, sounding a little miffed at he and his partner being asked to do the grunt work while their boss partied.  “Guy’s name is Paul O’Doull.  He and your aunt are hitched, I guess.  They run and live in an apartment building on the canal, not far from Waikiki.”

“Fucking Mick.  Figures.”  The irony of his own background was apparently lost on Danny Greene.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Most Sundays the two of ‘em drive out to some place where friends of theirs live.  Way back in the woods, like, up the mountainside northeast of town.  Real secluded, Boss.”

“No neighbors?”  This seemed a little too good to be true.

“Couple other houses, ‘bout a half mile away on either side, up and down the road.  Dirt road.  Nothing but mountains behind them.  We get in, do the job, get out quick, nobody will know what’s going down until it’s over and we’re gone.”

Danny thought about that.  “Bring the car around,” he ordered.  “I want to see this for myself.”

Ten minutes later they were rolling out of Honolulu in a rented black 1946 DeSoto Diplomat.  Danny was in the back seat, enjoying the feel of riding in one of the first post-war American autos, not troubling himself as to how the still-new-smelling car came to be a “Chuck’s Rent-A-Ride” in Honolulu.

The muscle-head driving turned the big DeSoto off onto a narrow dirt road, only a track, two lines of red Hawaiian dirt through the jungle.  They rode past one small clapboard cottage in a clearing, surrounded by flowers, with the jungle closed in on all sides except the one facing the road.  Ten minutes later they found what they were looking for.  “This is it, Boss” the meathead in the passenger seat said.

“Slow down.  Go by nice and slow.  I want to see.”

This house was larger, a big, sprawling affair, with covered walkways between the house and several outbuildings.  There was a big open area off to one side that looked like a long lane had been carved out of the jungle.  A skinny man was walking from the open area towards the house.  It didn’t look like he took any notice of the big black DeSoto, but there was one unusual thing about him.

“He’s carrying a pistol,” the muscle-head driving observed.

“We got pistols, too,” Danny said.

“That place over there to the side.  Looks like a shooting range.  See the table there?”

Danny waved if off.  “So the guy likes to shoot.  So the guy has a pistol.  I still think this is the place to take them.  Nice, quiet, out of the way.  We come in fast, shoot them up, get out of here and back to Honolulu before anyone responds.  Piece of cake.”

“You say so, Boss,” the passenger-side muscle-head said.

“I do.  Come on.  Back to the hotel.”


Paul picked up the phone on the second ring.  “Hello.”

“Paul, buddy,” came the voice on the other end of the line.

“What’s up, Henry?”

“Wanted to ask you something.  You seen three rough-looking guys around your place recently?”

“Three?  No.  Two big bully boys? Driving a shiny new black DeSoto?  Them I seen yesterday.  Couple times.”

“Yeah, black DeSoto.  Nice looking car.  Went past here yesterday, nice and slow.  Anyway, they just rolled by here again, had some other guy in the back seat.  Again, nice and slow, like they were checking the place out.”

“Are you making any enemies here, Henry?”

“Not me.  I’m the friendliest guy around.  But you told me that story about Maggie, right?  These guys set off all the wrong vibrations, you know what I mean?  That’s why I called you.”

“Maybe.  We been talking about that.”

“If it is,” Henry said, “Then they don’t know what they’re taking on.”

“Neither do we.”

“Let me talk to Maggie.”

“You bet.  Let me know what you want to do.  You know the guys and me will have your back.  Semper fi, brother.”

“Semper Fi, pal.”  Paul hung up.

Maggie was sitting on the couch.  She looked up from her paperback book.

“Henry, I take it?”

“Yeah.  That car from yesterday, it came by his place.  Twice.”

“What does Henry think?”

“About the same as we do, I guess.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We get ready.  Figure they’ll make their move pretty quick.”

Maggie frowned.  “I’m not going back to Iowa,” she said.

“I have a funny feeling they didn’t come to take you back there.  I have a funny feeling they’re thinking of something more permanent.”

“You won’t let that happen.”



Now, he’s hell-bent for destruction, he’s afraid and confused,

And his brain has been mismanaged with great skill,

All he believes are his eyes,

And his eyes, they just tell him lies.


But there’s a woman on my block,

Sitting there in a cold chill.

She say who gonna take away his license to kill?