The Death Of America 5n52i

THE DEATH OF AMERICA

ROBERT L. STEVENS

Copyright © 2012 by Robert L. Stevens.

Library of Congress Control Number: ISBN: Hardcover Softcover Ebook

2012911002 978-1-4771-3077-3 978-1-4771-3076-6 978-1-4771-3078-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

106726

CONTENTS

1 One for the Lions

2 Man of His Word

3 The Circus

4 A Hard Day’s Night

5 Ace in the Hole

6 Just Get Him Home

7 Viva Women’s Lib

8 A Friend Indeed

9 One More Time

10 You Got Me, Babe

11 Children of a Lesser God

12 Jo-Jo Was a Man . . .

13 A Patriot, Is a Patriot, Is a Patriot

14 It Looks Like Rain

15 Ain’t Gonna Study War No Mo

16 These Guys Are Good!

17 Freedom’s Flag

18 Race Car Driving Is Dangerous

19 Hello from Mama

20 Que Sera, Sera

21 I’m Baaaaaack

22 The Barrio Queen

23 Failure Is Not an Option

24 A Small Army

25 Play without the Ball

26 Truth to Truth

27 What the . . . ?

28 Washington, D.C.

29 What Would Bill and Harvey Think?

30 The City of Angels

31 The Safe House

32 Shakespeare: You Ain’t No James Brown

33 Damned If They Do . . . and

34 Your Own Personal Hollywood Movie

35 Ask Not What Your Country . . .

36 A Ball Way Outside

37 Where the Dance Is Being Held

38 It’s Payback Time

39 A Damn Dirty Day

40 Everybody in the Room Is Smart

41 Who Let the Dogs Out?

42 Last Chance To Be a Man

43 If I Had Known?

44 The Clash

To Judy my friend in Las Vegas, Thanks for setting me strait.

And to Sweet Louie and Bill, and The Checkmates Ltd Thanks you all for a Hell of a Life’s Ride!

There is a plot to destroy America. The president knows just the man to help him put a stop to it. The only problem is, he’s scheduled to die in the gas chamber tomorrow! The Death of America

Robert L. Stevens

1

One for the Lions

When you make a deal like this, how can you be sure it will come off? Ha! Who has ever made a deal like this? Still, Wesly Miller was a man of his word as a major in Korea; would he now be any different as president? But how can you count on what a man, any man, said when he was half dead and his guts are spilling out over your hands? Well, damn it! If it is going to happen, it had better be soon; how could this have happened anyway? For fifteen years, he had been working the streets, been a PI for eleven of those years. Knew every game, hustle, and trick bag out there; so how could he, how could he, Miles Carter, have been suckered into taking the big fall? And why this offthe-wall deal? He is brought out of his thoughts by the clanging of the cell door as the priest enters with two guards at his side. “It is time, my son.” Miles rises and faces where the voice is coming from. The script is playing out like a scene in a bad “B” movie. His head is screaming: What happened to the deal? The dumb stupid deal, what happened to it? The priest stepped forward and put his arm around Miles’s shoulder, one guard moved to the outside of the cell door, the other circled around behind him, put one hand on his weapon, motioning Miles through the cell door with the other hand.

He walked past the priest through the open door. As he exited the cell, the guard on the outside of the cell smiled an ice sickle, then turned and walked about one step to the right of Miles. The priest and the second guard fell in behind and to the left of him, creating a pocket to ensure that he continued in the right direction. He could feel it start, first in his throat where the powder he was now breathing for air became white-hot and refused to go down when he tried to swallow, and because it stuck to the sandpaper that the once-smooth walls of his throat had now become, it made each inhalation a scorching flame that entered his lungs only long enough to deliver more powder where he so desperately needed air, his heart begin to beat harder and faster. The fire, the sandpaper, the powder—they must be what were causing his heart to beat so fiercely, fear had nothing to do with it. How many people do you know who can breathe what was nothing more than gravel ed off as air and still walk? Let alone not have their hearts beat a little faster? They walked for what seemed like no time at all down death row. As he ed the homes of the living dead, he stole last glances at the hollow faces that stared back through the bars. The emptiness in their eyes told the story of the lives they had led, reflected the broken dreams, the lost hopes, the one too many long shots that had failed, bringing each one of them here to this outhouse of inhumanity waiting to be flushed away like so much waste. “Wait here,” the lead guard commands, as he pushes a button on the wall by the green door of a room, which if you are on death row, you know it is the death chamber. A third guard appears from inside of the darkened space, opens the door, and turns on the lights. He is allowed—directed into the chamber—which is dominated at its center by a single long table adorned in stark white—maybe the circumstances dictated its sharpness—sheets and outfitted on either side by large brown leather straps.

The table was cold. Impersonal. He knew he could not escape it. He could not change its mind. It would not allow a final argument to challenge its right to kill him. It was the undeniable, unavoidable instrument of death.

Nothing! Not even the fear felt in the throes of the war in Korea where he saw young boys with a leg blown off, left with just a bloody stump, trying to replace the limb with government-issued medic’s tape; or grown men blinded by a misfiring weapon—the arms dealers sold them; they didn’t guarantee they would work—in subzero weather; or a grenade exploding in their foxhole; men now wandering through the fields crying for their mothers; or the first time you came face to face with “The Enemy,” both of you programmed to fear the other, victims of “The Big Picture,” you fire your weapons at what seems like pointblank range at each other, his bullet whistles past your head as you dove for cover returning fire in mid-air at the same time. You see parts of his face blown away . . . causing you to return everything that was a bad breakfast to the front of your field jacket . . . But not even that could prepare him for the feeling of fear that he felt when that door opened, and he saw that cold white table and realized that this time there was no wiggle room; he was going to die on it, and there was nothing he could do about it! Get out of here you fool! Save yourself! Forget Wesly Miller! curse, scream, shout, fall on your knees and beg; but for God’s sake, don’t just stand here and let these people kill you for something you didn’t even do. With all the racket that was going on in his head, you would have thought the guards would have been ready for his telegraphed move, but they weren’t. They were caught completely off guard when he grabbed the priest and pushed him into the steel gray chamber of death. Quickly, he reached for the lead guard’s gun, but the trail guard recovered, slamming him against the near wall. The third guard from inside the room forced his way between Miles and the trail guard— he was huge—grabbed Miles by the arm twisting it behind him forcing him to bend over, as he pushed him through death’s door. Once in the room, he allowed Miles to straighten up, as he brought his forearm across the back of his neck, pushing his face up against the double pane of the

cold glass window that allowed the witnesses to view the executions. The third guard leaned his face against the left side of Miles’s face hidden from the other two guards’ point of view, faking hurting him more than he really was. Feigning anger, the guard loudly questioned, “You gonna act like a man if I let you go, or we going to have to handcuff you? While still in the control position, he whispered into his ear “Cool it, Carter, or you’re going to blow your ticket out of here.” Miles couldn’t believe his ears, was he going crazy? Did he hear this fool right? He was two steps from seeing Venus up close, and this fool is telling him to cool it or he could blow his chance of getting out of here. Boy, something was really wrong here. Really wrong! The priest rose from the floor, brushed off his frock as though he had merely tripped while walking in the park on a Sunday afternoon stroll, gave Miles that disappointing holier-than thou-look that only religious entities can give, and left the room to occupy the seat reserved for him in the outer chamber. Once outside, he stopped, made the sign of the cross through the glass to Miles, and took his pre-assigned seat near the window where he could console, comfort the condemned through the final minutes of his life’s journey. Following protocol, the guards took his vitals and strapped him to the table; placing restraining bands around his forehead, arms, waist, and legs; doublechecked each for any shortcomings; checked the telephones to the governor’s office to that there were no last-minute appeals; and placed a pan under the table, and left the room, He saw the people shuffle in and take their assigned—by number—places on the bleacher-like seats. The victim’s family sat in the first row, presumably to give them the satisfaction of seeing their daughter’s killer brought to justice up close. Then, came the usual mixture of press, law enforcement, and politicos. The lights dimmed, the door closed on what he knew was to be his final day on this earth. He wanted to shout to her family that he did not kill their daughter,

that he was being framed, but he begin to feel the gas as it entered his nostrils, dimming his senses, clogging his lungs; impending death does different things to different people; with Miles, it made him recall how he came to be here in the first place. He was awakened from a sound sleep and a damn good dream—he had just about convinced Lola Falana to live with him—when he heard the banging on his door and a plaintive voice he recognized as that of Stella, a high-end call girl he had helped over some rough spots in return for some inside info from time to time.

By the time he separated Stella’s voice from that of Lola’s in his dream, he heard the gunshots, Stella’s scream, the screeching of tires racing away.

Stella fell into his arms, as he opened the door. She looked anything but a highend call now. Her full breast were there, the legs that seemed to start at her neck were still as full as a glass of chocolate milk and just as brown. But the face was bruised and beaten, blood trickled from the right corner of her full lips; there were cigarette burns up and down one arm. Three fingernails were gone from the left hand.

Maybe, just maybe, the people who shot this girl, pulled most of her fingernails out and tortured her were just kidding? If so, they were probably sitting at a bar somewhere having a beer and laughing it up at how much fun they had tonight with Stella’s body.

But what if they were dead serious about doing her in? It almost seems logical that they would turn around at the corner and come back to make sure they finished the job.

So get out of the doorway with the light behind you before you get your head blown off! Following his own advice, in one quick move, Miles threw himself back into the room, pulling Stella’s complaining body with him.

They landed near the center of the room in an ironic intimacy, Stella’s body on top. Her long legs around his middle, one breast breaking through the too-tight barriers of her halter bra, spilling out, touching the naked skin of his chest exposed by his robe falling open, as they tumbled to the floor.

Being a true man, he could not help but think, another time and place, and wow! But this was neither.

Rolling over, he kicked the door shut, crawled on his belly military style to the bed he so peacefully rested in scant moments ago, savoring the possibilities of Lola’s companionship, reached under the pillow to retrieve the Army issuedblack market purchased 45 automatic always kept there. Yeah, there were better guns, but he had a history with this one.

Silently, internally he voiced, “Well, you have come this far, baby, just hold on a little longer, we ain’t dead yet.

The hairs on the back of his neck were on full alert as if he had eyes back there too. You could get it from either side, front, or back, and carrying this guy around with his guts only being held in with the contents of army-issued Johnson & Johnson medical kit, wasn’t helping his chances any. This same guy back in the states probably wouldn’t give him the time of day, but here he was, like a fool lugging his near dead body over half of Korea.

No matter what was wrong or right back home, you could not leave a guy wounded this seriously for these bastards to come across. They might play games with him for God knows how long before they became humane enough to kill him or let him die.

Now living in the ghetto of south central Los Angeles taught some hard lessons about the facts of life and to survive, you had to learn them and use them; so in his lifetime, he has done some things, as the flawed are fond of saying, “that he was not proud of.” But walking up to some poor bastard who’s wound is oozing life’s last fluids and putting out his lights with a government issued-black market purchased 45 to save him from a worst death was not going to be one of them.

So he ended up doing his best “Sam Magee” impression for three days and nights, in weather that not only “stabbed like a driven nail” but made you afraid to ask questions about God and country for fear of what the truthful answers would be.

The eye in the back of his head told him to turn around! and not a moment too soon. He just had time to get off the round that saved his life. The.45 tore a death path through the Korean before he had time to bring the wire down around his neck.

The sadistic son-of-a-bitch; had he been satisfied to use his Russian-supplied rifle, he would still be alive.

His partner was no sadist. The bullet from his rifle plowed into Miles’s left arm, spinning him around, causing the front of his field jacket to look like it had been splashed by a modern art painter, as the blood ran like salmon upstream.

“When you lose your head, your ass is soon to follow,” the only fatherly advice he had ever ed receiving from a miscreant of a parent, but it now seemed a good a time as any to apply it.

He hadn’t lived in La La land all of his life for nothing; so, ignoring the searing pain in his arm, he overacted, dropped Major Miller to the ground in a heap, clutching his chest, gave his best Boris Karloft bad take, and pitched forward facedown.

Man’s ego is universal. Because although he, like every infantry man in any army anywhere in the world was drummed at by his training sergeant: “Make sure he is dead before you approach him. , you don’t buy the bullets, we do!” this guy just had to turn the body over to see the great shot he had put into this imperialist Yankee dog who had killed his partner.

Hooray for Hollywood! The.45 coughed twice as he was rolled over by a dead man who didn’t die until he stumbled and then fell to his knees with disbelief in his eyes, blood spurting from the holes in his throat. Miles knew that as he entered that after-life promised all of us, he heard the voice of his training sergeant saying “Make sure he is dead before you approach him.”

Still, two lifecycles ed before he trusted himself to release the hammer on his.45 and crawl back to Stella’s barely breathing, mutilated body. Hearing the rise and fall of her labored uneven breathing, seeing her lips move, forming words that did not come out, he put his ear to where it almost touched her lips; her words were mostly warm air . . .

He was here in the room somewhere, Miles, more so Stella, could feel his presence. The Reaper was like a spider weaving a web, as the numbness begin to claim more and more of her body, and the cold, boy, even he could he feel the

cold! As the Reaper became bolder and more demanding of his right to claim his prize, Stella’s eyelids flickered once, then again, he knew she would be dead soon.

“Hart, they are going to kill . . .,” she whispered in a cracked voice, determined to get the words out before the Reaper silenced them forever.

Her eyes, which had first reflected fear of the Reaper’s claim for her soul, now mirrored the spirit of her ancestors who fled the south via the underground railroad as a simple peace reflected in them, came over her. It was a realization that although she was beaten, bleeding, and dying, she, like them, knew when she had reached a safe place or at least a better place to die in.

Sensing with each laboring breath, that she was near an end of time, She took a last courageous breath and finished, “God, Miles, they are going to kill them all. Dr. Hart . . . my doctor.” Then before crossing over, she smiled—that smile that all of us from the best to the worst have, that smile we had when all things that hurt could be kissed away by Mama’s hug and a “You didn’t give up, that’s what was important,” When dad, or in his case an older brother, would step in and stop anyone from taking that smile away from you.

But more than anything, you could share that smile with someone you loved or truly trusted like Stella was sharing it now, as the Reaper made his final demand for the body as it went limp in her friend’s arms with that smile still on her face

Rocking her lovingly in his arms as the last breath freed itself from any responsibility to her soul, a slow hot tear made its way down his cheek, as he thought out loud in a taunt, cracked whisper, “All right, all right, score One for the Lions.”

2

A Man of His Word

Don’t believe what anyone tells you, death it is cold and damp. But wait a minute! Something was wrong, somehow he still had the knowledge of life. That is, he was aware of things, things he could not make out or feel but nevertheless was aware of and knew they were real. A voice, a stream of light. Motion. Air! Then cold! Moonbeams, he could feel them over him. He was alive!! He could hear, but he could not speak or form words, but he knew he was alive! He was being moved, no, being carried through the night. He could sense things, but he could not move a finger or arm. He was being lowered into, what from the scent of it, was a pine box; was this his coffin? What a strange bedfellow this death was. He wanted to scream out to them that he was alive and not to close the lid or he would surely die from suffocation, but whoever they were, released him down into the box onto a soft cloth of some kind which provided padding for the bottom of the box. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, Why would a dead man need padding in the bottom of his coffin? No matter, dead is dead. He couldn’t make his lips move or make a sound. They were looking right at him, so he tried to blink his eyelids, hoping that maybe they might notice the movement; applying the top, they completed the task of covering the box by nailing its top shut, raised it from the ground with the help, from what he could discern from the “You’re Welcome” and “Any Time” sign off voices, were two others, probably employees from the prison.

A quick tap at each end to ensure that the lid was firmly in place then they shoved the—what he now accepted as being a coffin—onto the flatbed of an idling vehicle. ‘I’ll drive” decided and informed the voice that moved down the left side of the vehicle. “Lak I had a choice,” mocked the voice on the right of the vehicle as the crunching feet of both voices walked around the vehicle, opened the respective doors, and got in. He was in and out of consciousness. But as he came back this time, he knew he was in pitch darkness, being moved through space in some kind of time capsule with wheels? No he ed now, he was put in a coffin and loaded onto the bed of a vehicle. He resigned himself to the darkness, trying to make some sense of it. Use it to try to recall the whole matter. Was he dead? Was this what death was going to be like? Was he going to spend an entirety in a half-waken, cold unfeeling world invisible to those who are still alive? Like someone in that TV show The Twilight Zone who is being punished for committing some act against “The People” in the “Real World,” a world lost to them because of a wish or an act that he or she has lost control of? Was he crazy? Yeah, that was it. He had gone crazy. probably cracked under the stress of death row. Hey, it’s happened to a lot of guys. That’s it! He had never made the execution, Yeah! Now that made more sense! He had dreamed all that stuff about the priest, and his old army major becoming the President of the United States, sending him a message by the big guard that “The president needs you and he will get you out of here.” Now, he could accept that, he was coming out of a state of shock; everything was going to be all right! Being crazy, well, that meant at sometime in his life, he had been sane. But being executed in the state prison receiving death row messages from the President of the United States, hearing sounds in the night while people carried you in a pine box, after you had just died in the gas chamber hours before, Now that was crazy! The muffled sounds of the automobile humming along snapped him to another

level of awareness. The fog was lifting in his mind; bringing more of what he formally had known as life back to him. The box rocked as the vehicle ran over some small thing in the road. Sometime later he heard a ing horn whiz by, he became aware of another sense becoming functional, his eyes. Although he could only see darkness, he could now open his eyelids yes, he was alive! That simple action which all of us perform unconsciously millions of times in our lifetimes before death now caused tears to break the confines of his eyelids and flow freely down his cheeks. Oh boy! He was alive! By whatever miracle, whatever twist of fate, whatever wills of whatever gods, he was alive! Out of prison, going to he didn’t know where, except that it was away from death and toward life.” It was beginning to become uncomfortable lying in the same position for so long a time. With every bump in the road, causing a small skin prick here or scratch there. Adding to the small tortures, was the growing problem of the heat given off by his body multiplied by a factor of three in the sealed almost airtight space of the coffin. Aggravated by the return of one more body function: He defecated. The combination of his sweat, bowel movement, urine, made him gag as he breathed in the polluted environment causing him to cough uncontrollably. “Stop da truck” he heard ordered by the enger to the driver “stop da goddamned truck! Don’t you know wen som thang is wrong? He shouldn’t be cough’ fn, dam it, he shouldn’t even be alive!” he continued. Adding “dey gave him nough gas to kill ’em ten times over, he shoulda been fucking dead! Fucking dead! Lak dey told me he would be!” The driver complied, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop on the gravel shoulder of the road. Miles heard the doors open and slam shut. Then he felt the brunt of the night air when the top of the coffin was pried open and removed. The rushes of moonlight striking his unprepared eyes made him flinch involuntarily bringing his hands up to try to block them.

“Shit!” exclaimed the one at the tailgate on the driver’s side with the crowbar in his hand jumping back, reacting to Miles’s involuntary movement responding to the coffin being opened and the light spilling in, “He’s alive! dis ain’t the deal; you’se told me we’s was contracted ta deliver a dead body ta a designated house collect our money and disappear.” “Phew! Smells like he shit hisself” came from the enger side of the truck bed. Driver’s side: “Dey didn’t say any a thang ‘bout ’em being ‘live or shit ‘n on his self.” enger side: “I heard somewhere dat when you die everybody shits dheir pants.” Driver’s side, abruptly: “Put his hands down! Do he look dead to you? Put da top back on for a minute,” he instructed. “I gotta thank! I mean dis changes evea thang from da de’livery, to the money, specially da money. “Dis guy ain’t dead, he weren’ never dead. “Dis was some kind a break-out plan. We’s was never sposed to know ‘bout. “Somehow dey didn’t get the mix right and dey gave ’em ‘nough juice to knock ’em out, fool da doc at da prison morgue, but not ‘nough to keep him out until we’s deliver da body to deere house stead of da city morgue. “Na you knows wah dat means? Dat means dis guy means a lot ta somebody and had some strong s in som very high places ta git him outta da shit he was in?” “I ain’t no pan nurse,” said enger side. “Well like it or not,” countered driver’s side, “we’s gonna ta be pan nurses or any thang else it takes to keep mister big shot here ‘live ’til we’s figure’s out what cards ta play, and if we’s plays ’em right, it could mean that we’s ends up in the Ba-ho-mas sippin tall cool ones fo da rest of our lives.” Driver continuing: “Wit a lot more din da measly ten thousand we’s was’ sposed ta git.” Driver, hatching a plan: “Ain’t you’se got some clothes in dat bag a your’n?

enger side: “Yea, but why don’t you use some of your clothes? I might never get dat stench outta my stuff.” Driver: ‘Stupid fool! I don’t know why I let you’se use my truck ‘n came along wit you’se in da first place, you’se is worried ‘bout a shirt and a old pair of pants when even if da job hadda gone regular, yo share would have bin three thousand, just fo’ know’n the folks who needed dis job done, now dat woulda bought you any new shirt and pants you want.” Driver continuing: “Where’s yo kommon sense? Dis ain’t just no pick-up and drop off job no mo, we done hit da jackpot! It’s a whole new ballgame! So let’s git to one of dem motels up ahead and clean this little tar baby up. “We’s gonna need some place to stay where we’s kin keep an eye on ’em til we’s kan dim Wash-en-ton boys of your’n, we’s sur ain’t taking ’em to dere house now where dey can just show up an act lak dey don’t know noth’n, and dey is just as ‘sprised as we is dat he is alive, pay us a measly ten grand and steal ’em away from us. “B’sides, addressing the earier question, “you mo’ his size den me.” Miles screaming in his head: Washington boys! He said Washington boys! That could only mean one thing: The President had pulled it off! He had somehow arranged to get Miles killed and out of the prison alive! Thus, convincing the authorities that he was dead when obviously he was not. Argument settled, doors slammed, motor powered up as they squirmed back onto the road again He felt pain as the rough edge of the box sent a splinter into his thigh as the speeding vehicle traversed back onto the road causing blood to trickle down his leg. The burning sensation of the broken skin bringing life’s final confirmation caused him to paraphrase in his head one of the slogans of the sixties, “burn baby burn,” only in his case it would be “Bleed baby Bleed.” The crisp sharp voice of his grandmother visited him as he ed the character tester she had given him when he left home for the army. “Ya’ll gonna be meeting up with all kinds of folks, good ‘n bad, most a dem white, judge ’em simple! Not by the thousand thangs dey say to you, but by the one thang dey do to you. “If a man’s word ain’t no good den he ain’t no good.” The major, he now knew was A Man of His Word.

3

The Circus

Have you ever noticed, even in the movies, the police always suspect the wrong person? I mean you call them up, tell them that there is a dead call girl on your living room floor with cigarette burns up and down one of her arms, missing fingernails on one hand and four slugs in her back and from a distance you can’t be sure who was really shot, her or the carpet because they both seem to be bleeding. Yet, when they show up, they put you up against the wall, pat you down—he had long since put the.45 in a safe hiding place—while hitting you with questions that Shirley Temple at nine would be embarrassed to ask. And they are always “Just doing their jobs.” What else would you be doing at two o’clock in the morning if you are roaming through someone’s house or apartment taking pictures of a dead body but your job! I mean, even the guys who wasted her didn’t stay around to take pictures. “No I didn’t kill her.” In his head: “Can’t you see dummies I’m in my bathrobe. Back to the clowns: “Yes I knew her. Right, I know that anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. Of course I want to keep my P.I. license, and if I hear anything, you better believe I will beat a path down to the station with it.” It is now three thirty in the morning, and the circus has gone, the clowns in the blue suits have folded their tripod cameras, blown the last of the magic pixy dust that can make fingerprints appear from nowhere—although in this case the trick failed because none did—and the feature attraction has been whisked offstage in a manner befitting a star in a long black Cadillac with sirens wailing.

The only trace left of her appearance this night in this show is a slight red stain left onstage by some careless attendant, or from the hot lights making the star’s makeup drip? He had talked to Stella two days ago. Why hadn’t she said something? Given him a small clue? Intimated that she was in danger?

The answer to those questions spoke volumes to an old pro like Miles. She didn’t know! Which meant that the people who did these wretched things to her most likely knew her through her profession—making them clients or ex-clients which meant that they had to have met her recently, within the last few days. Thus, they were probably in her black book. He had to get his hands on that book. He also knew that the interest would be the same on the other end of the equation, they, the killers, would be investigating him also, they were going to want to know why she picked his apartment? Was it just a random choice? Made at a desperate time? Or did she know where and to whom she was running all the time? And if so, why did she run there? Conversely, he needed the same answers about and from them. The word of his grandmother, ever in his ear about times like these came to him, as he fluffed up the pillows on the bed arranging them in the form of a body at rest, pulled the covers over them to further complete the deception, dimmed the the lights and folded himself into the closet for a couple of hours’ sleep before daybreak Gramma’s advice: “When the stew is in the kettle, all you just need is to turn up the fire under it to get it to boil.” He intended to make it boil until the lid popped off. He knew just where to get the first match to light the eye beneath the pot, but that was tomorrow, he still had to deal with what was left of tonight. Why sleeping in the closet? Well you know how some people are so crazy about them, that they would kill to get in The Circus.

4

A Hard Day’s Night

The truck bore on through the night for what may have been another half hour but seemed to Miles because of his bowel movement, assorted bruises, scrapes, and confinement of the coffin, forever. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, but his mind queried “Where is this danm house anyway? Chicago? Finally the driver’s side said, “’em gonna pull in up dar, hell dey all ‘bout the same and anyone of ‘m will do just fine for what we’s got to do. Plus, dar’s a chick’n place right kross from dat one.” The left blinker light went off in the bed of the truck. He could hear its ticking, not see it. He assumed the driver made the appropriate maneuvers to gain the turning lane, because the truck came to a brief pause then made a left turn into— from it’s sound and feel—a gravel driveway, came to a stop where he heard the driver question of someone in authority. Driver: “Ya’ll got a vakancy, is dat rite?” “Yes, sir, we have three rooms left,” was the reply after the sound of a window of some kind slide open. Completing the information request, “One with a single and two with two queen sized beds.” “OK save one of dim wit da two queen sized beds fo us and we’s will be rite back soon as we;s park. Ya’ll got telephones in dem rooms?” “Yes sir,” the window answered again, “we have telephones in every room, you just have to dial nine to dial out; all local calls are free.”

Driver: “Al right din, we’s be rite back!” The truck moved forward for a short distance, made a sharp left turn then proceeded straight for another fifty to one hundred feet, and braked. “Dat looks like one of dim rooms he was talking ‘bout and its fur ‘nough away from da front so’s we won’t git no nosy neighbors a sniffin ’round while we’s do what we’s have to,” the driver said, deciding, ’em gonna pull in dar.”

The truck turns right, stops, reverses, then proceeds slowly forward again to a short stop. Finally! He thought he will be able to stand up, get out of these messy clothes and see what his traveling companions look like and assess what his chances are for escaping. Then just as quickly he thought, did he really want to try to escape even if he could? After all, from what he’d picked up from their earlier conversation, they were still going to deliver him to The Major—President—Miller, only for more money. The two men disembark, slam the vehicle doors, the driver stretching from his side of the vehicle speaking over the hood. “Damn my legs is stiff from all dis dri’vin.” Informing, the driver said, “Em a gonna check us in, be rite back with da keys so’s we kin settle in and dem Wash-en-ton folks of your’n.” Finalizing, he added, “Din, I’ll give you a hand with getting our ‘tar baby’ inside fo som body sees us.” Damn right! They were going to take him in the Motel, Hotel, whatever, as footsteps crunched away becoming fainter and fainter, he smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke as the enger, who now had traversed around the vehicle leaned against the driver’s side of the truck struck a match on it, lit a cigarette and begin to smoke it. Moments later, the driver whom he learned was named Jessie when the enger inquired on his return: “Jessie you thank we can really git mor ‘n ten thousand for dis here tar baby? Sound of keys unlocking Motel-Hotel whatever, doors followed.

Jessie, slyly sarcastic, said, “Not if we let ’em smotha ta death, so shut yo mouth n help me git his tar baby ass in da room.” ing the enger at the rear of the truck, he added, “Now come on lets get his stink ‘n ass inside so’s he can kleen his stank’in ass up.” With that, they took up positions one by each side of the truck’s tailgate. Verified by the enger’s voice on his side: “Slide da coffin down toward da n so’s we’s kin git a better grip on each side to lift it up wit.” enger: “You’se is right about his clean’n his ass up’ cause I ain’t stay’n in no room all night wit him smellin like dis.” Jessie, thinking ahead: “When we’s git him n da room you’se come back out ‘ere and bring my shotgun an dat stretch a rope from da truck because we ain’ lettin ’em outta dat box wit out me hav’n a bead on ’em whilst he cleans up and a rope to tie em’ down wit wen we’s goes ta sleep. “Even den, one of us watches ’em four hours at a time til I makes ‘rangements fo us ta deliver his ass and gits our money.

Taking full control of the operation, Jessie declared, “Noth ‘n ginst you, but dees folks is busnis men and you’se ain’t xzackly busnis trained. I knows how ta deal wit ’em.”

Accepting the diminution of his status, the enger said, “Long as we gits da money, long as we gits da money.”

The coffin reaches the end of the truck bed and is lifted with a few mock grunts and groans by the enger. Driver: “OK, OK, he ain’t da heavy, but I ‘grees wit you, yo’ sho kaint say he ain’t dat smelly.”

Jessie accepting and exercising his new authority, entered the room, saying,

“Lets set em over dere under da window so’s anybody walk’n by or sneak’n a peak inside won’t see ’em sides, after he cleans da box out, he kin sleep in it fo ‘owever long we’s has to be ‘ere.” Jessie contuning: Sav;in us from havin to pay fo ‘nother room, Ha ha ha.” They slap hands.

The coffin is placed under the window and the enger leaves the room returning with what Miles assumes were the ordered items. Jessie: “Leave da door open fo a minute so’s I can catch my breathe fo we’s opens dis thang.”

The enger said, complying: “Yeah, ’cause it sure is a gonna stank rite off.” After what seems like about five minutes, Jessie ordered, “OK gimme da crowbar lets git his tar baby ass out of dere so’s we’s kan make some money!”

The task is attacked at each end of the coffin, then on two sides. Miles feels the foul air escape as the fresh air enters when the lid is removed. “Damn! Da’s worst din I thought it was gonna be,” said the enger, as he lowered the coffin’s lid to the floor.

Jessie: “Whew! Git outa dere tar baby, ‘n git in dat shower room ‘n kleens yo self off.” Forcefully, he added, “Now! I means now!” Not sure of his legs, Miles pulls his body to an upright sitting position. Then, on further command of “Com on tar baby get da hell outta dare com on!” he maneuvered to the end of the coffin. The enger extended one hand to him while holding his nose with the other. Holding the enger’s hand while he was also holding onto the side of the coffin for , he came to a shaky standing position, continuing to hold the enger’s hand for added , he is guided to the rest room, watched every step of the way by Jessie, shotgun cocked and pointed. Pushed in, Miles heard “Kleen yo ass up, I mean kleen, ‘n don’t try no funny

stuff ’cause dis gun will be trained on you every second you in dat shower.” “When yo’s is finished, don’t try to git out thru da winda neither kause we’s got yo clothes so’s yo’ll be buck naked if’n you do, directed Jesse. Miles thought, Duh! I’ve was just busted out of prison and have now been officially dead for nearly thirty six hours or so, have no ID and not a penny to my name, don’t even know what city I’m in, yeah, I’m going to try to slip my black ass buck naked out of the window.” “You gits yo clothes when you thew kleening up n kom back in dis room. You hear me tar baby?” Jessie instructed and questioned. Miles signals confirmation to the question, insult, ing intended compliance and opens the shower door; the bathroom door is left open behind him. The hot water stung as it hit some of the cuts and bruises inflicted during the long trip, but to him they felt like the soothing hands of a fine masseuse calming his every muscle, attending to every hurt and waking every cell in his body. Yikes. This life was an even stranger bedfellow than death and a more amazing one. He busied himself with the scented soap. He didn’t have that on death row, life was looking better all the time! “Hey! Dat’s long ‘nough! Yo’se shoulda be kleened by now yo been in dar more’n ten minutes hell dar won’t be no hot water left, we wants to kleen up too you know! Jessie informed and notified. Danm! He knew, but he did not have the heart or the desire to try to attack his ignorance by informing him that Motels—Hotels, whatever, don’t run out of hot water. Reluctantly, he turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off with a large soft clean white linen towel; at least they had picked a decent Motel-Hotel, whatever . . . Wrapping himself in the towel to cover his personals, he re-entered the bedroom where the two men were waiting, Jessie with the shotgun and the enger standing near a cache of clothing lying on the far bed. Apparently, he had made a few more trips to the truck while Miles was in the shower, from which he extracted a pair of pants, long sleeve plaid shirt, black cowboy boots, a pair of

wool socks, jockey shorts, and a belt. Tossing them toward Miles: “‘ere, put dim on” den take a bar of dat soap you’s was bath’n in and start cleaning out dat box.” He sized them up, the enger was husky about six-foot one-inch tall, two hundred twenty pounds. Jessie was more like five-foot ten, one eighty but very svelte and missing the third finger on his left hand, probably from a hunting accident, Miles assessed, because he could tell from the accents and the “dems and does” that they were from the country. He guessed, based on he fact that they knew or had with some of the President’s people, it had to be near Washington; his best guest, Virginia. The clothes fit surprisingly well and after dressing, he approached the coffin to clean it. “Use dis.” The enger tossed him a plain white handkerchief which he tied bandana style around his face. “Might keep you from throw-n up,” added the enger as he handed Miles two large hand towels from the bath room and an ice bucket of hot steaming water. Miles nodded his thanks and applied the hand cloths, soap, and water to the cleaning task at hand. “Take dis ‘n sit over dere so’s he kain’t jump you while I gits in da shower and gits some of dis road grease offa me; if you have to shoot ’em, Henry,”—he now knew the enger’s name—“aim for da legs or som other body part. We don’t want to kill ’em ‘fore we kollects da money due fo ’em.” Jessie, presenting the logic of their situation: “If you’se smart tar baby, you won’t give us no trouble, if yawl behaves, we all gits wha we’s after and nobody gits hurt.” Entering the bathroom, he closed the door behind him. The water started up shortly thereafter. Henry moved to the second bed farthest away from Miles, sat at its foot with the shotgun pointed at Miles. “You’se heard ’em tar baby, just do wha you sposed to do n I won’t hav ta to shoot ya.” Miles was thinking He didn’t just escape from being killed a first time in the gas chamber to get killed trying to escape from these clowns, a second time. So he set himself about the job of cleaning out the coffin. Luckily for him, the

movement had been in his pants, and so only a minimal amount had actually stained the box. Most of the smell they were referencing came from the soiled prison pants and underwear he had been wearing which had absorbed most of his bowel and urine movement, but they had already thrown them in the waste container outside. Jessie finished. Then Henry took his turn. Miles finished his chore to their satisfaction, and when they all were done, Henry said, “I kant call dim back ‘der now it’s to late. Yeah but we’s can call ’em first thang in da morn’n.” Jessie dictated: “First thang in da morn’n.” Out of the blue: You’se thank you’se can eat som ‘thin tar baby? You’se won’t shit all over yo’self again if we’s gits som ‘thin to eat?” probed Jessie, Miles was finally speaking. “The last meal I had which was really the last meal thought I was ever going to have, was over what? Maybe over a day and a half ago? So yes I could eat” something and yes, I can keep it down.” Jessie exercising fully his newly self ordained authority over the group, “Dar’s one of dem chick’n places rite kross da road. Henry, why don’t you git us a bucket, wit da works, and on yo way back stop and git us som bottled sodas from da machine up-front der?” Within twenty minutes—Miles timed it from the clock on the wall; he was eating chicken, biscuits, and mashed potatoes and drinking ice-cold Coca-Cola. Even as a prisoner of these two hillbillies, it was good to be alive. “Dey had some extra blankets ‘n pillows in da pantry.” Henry’s pantry was the Motel, Hotel’s whatever’s bedroom closet. “So here you’se can use dem to hept you sleep in dat box tonight.” Jessie forwarded on the bedding from Henry by tossing them to Miles at the casket. The night was fitful, uncomfortable, and every time he turned or sat up as far as his rope restraints would allow, he came face to face with one or the other of his capturers and the barrel of the shotgun. Collapsing back into the coffin for the nth time, Miles concluded it had been A Hard Day’s Night.

5

Ace in the Hole

If the presidents of the world knew the likes of the Marcia Mendozas’s of the world, and he was sure that there were at least one or more like her in every city in the world, they would not need to spend billions on the CIA, FBI, Secret Service, or the multitude of other agencies that sap the national budget. They could just place a call—as he had done and drop in on them—as he was doing, and get any kind of information they needed for nothing more than, because she had run low this month, a hefty bag of groceries.

Some of them are people who just know how to listen better, but Marcia is more than that. She is a true physic, not the ha! ha! kind that wave their hands over a crystal ball while trying to hustle you for party money, but a real sensitive person who feels the power of life that flows through each of us and knows how to interpret that energy into information. She can tell you how you feel before you say hello, find people lost to the police for years—she really has done that—and most of all because everybody at one time or another have come to her for something, they’ve all had to leave something in return. Thus, he was ringing her door bell. “How are you Miles? Tough night huh? Didn’t sleep too well, did you?” See what I mean? “The streets have been talking all morning about Stella so I’ve been expecting you.” Directing, she said, “Have a seat there on the couch while I fix up some tea”— she never drank coffee; said tea smoothes her insides and calms her soul so she can be more receptive to others’ vibrations—“and we’ll talk”

Whenever he left Marcia’s place, he always felt more empowered, an equal player in the game. It was like knowing you had that extra hundred bucks stashed away in you boot top when you were in the army, and you and a buddy were both after the same Lady of the evening but you knew that you were going to be the one to enjoy her company, because in the end, the one with the most money was going to get the action, and you knew something he didn’t, you had that extra hundred saved from doing other guys’ KP duty for the last month. Marcia was like that extra hundred, but today, the fifty bucks worth of grocery was all he needed. He now knew who Stella’s Dr. Hart was, thanks to his Ace in the Hole.

6

Just Get Him Home

His rehab was a combination of flits and darts from imaginary dangers and one long series of Alfred Hitchcock movies. Because it seemed like the hospital’s answer to boredom, panic, pain, or just plain desperation, was to roll you into the “Day Room” so you could watch whichever Alfred Hitchcock movie that was selected for that day. It wasn’t that they were ignoring you on purpose but that there was such a steady stream of newly wounded arriving every day, and there were not enough doctors and nurses to give the much-needed more personal attention to each of the patients all of the time So the walking wounded, the wheelchair-bound, or, in his case, the ones who were still fighting the war in their heads got “Day Room,” or what he and most of the guys in his barracks dubbed it because they all seemed to like his films, Alfred Hitchcock Therapy. It helped him. It meant an hour or two of shielding his mind from the constant thought of the war, a break from that proverbial one with you’re name on it bullet that pierced his brain but left him alive. He still had not figured that one out. To stop the noise of the 1000 horses stampeding in his head and through his life to this point, he just needed some time without this dead weight slung over his shoulder. and a break from this wretched cold! Alfred Hitchcock did that for him. They had nothing in common. You couldn’t start a conversation off with a guy

who’s nearly bleeding to death one day and damn near as stiff as a board the next with: “Well what do you think about them Dodgers?” Still, there was something to this guy that would not let you walk away from him, a strength that reflected itself when ever you looked into his eyes, something that said to you, “Yes what you see when you look at me is the truth, I am white, I am educated, and I am very well off, but in the whole of life, I could be you’re brother.” He had known two white guys of that stripe before in his life; he did not think that there could be many others. So you started each day looking for some place to just dump him but found yourself instead cursing your fortune, your country, and the complete idiocy of war. Still, doing all you could to keep him alive because somehow you sensed, without him being able to voice it, that if you could just get him home, everything would be all right, or at least a damn site better. Which is what he was thinking when he staged a scene straight out of Hollywood to draw in that crazed Korean bent on finishing the Major off and stealing his American officer’s wool-lined field jacket. He knew someone had been tracking them, he could not see him, but he knew it. So, when he came across the abandoned jeep, he decided to deal with it. Not knowing what “it” was, only that you had to face “it.” Accept “it.” Deal with “it.” Propping the Major up in the driver’s seat of the abandoned jeep with only a whispered “Don’t worry Major, I know what I’m doing” and a reassuring “It’s going to be all right,” he lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth to make it look as though he was just taking a smoke break before continuing his trek. Covering over his tracks that led around the jeep to where he hid, leaving only the tracks made by him as he discovered the jeep and placed Major Miller in it. There was just enough life left in the Major’s body to convince anyone—the Korean stalking them—that he was smoking—as far as the Korean was concerned—his last cigarette before gathering himself to push on. Since he had been carrying Major Miller over his shoulder, there was nothing,

except the depth of his tracks leading to the jeep, to suggest that there were more than the one person in the jeep smoking to deal with, giving false security to the approaching Korean making him think that this would surely be an easy kill. Which it was for Miles. Which is why and how the Korean ed the departed, so designated by four rounds from Miles’s black-market secured.45 as they entered his back left side, tearing his heart open on their exit path, he died probably thinking: “Damn you can’t trust these Americans, even the dead ones are dangerous. Your mind wanders. As his was doing as he gathered the Major up after letting him take one last draw from the warm fire of the cigarette and loaded him over his good shoulder. He was thinking, they had survived one more threat like that time when the mortar landed in the foxhole next to them, spewing body parts of it’s already dead occupants over the two of them. His mind wandered to the frozen tundra of Robert Service’s Alaska when he spotted the faint outlines of his “Alice May” through the swirling wind the night he died. Like Service, his mind also wandered, but he had made a promise that must be kept. He did not know why, but he knew it was important. Although the trying got him killed, but even facing the barrel of the Korean’s pocket pistol the night he died, he was thinking, I’ve got to Just Get Him Home.

7

Viva Women’s Lib

“Dr. Jonas Heart” the raised gold-embossed letters on the right side of the at least two inches thick walnut double doors read. Doors was an understatement. These things had hand-carved pure ivory handles and were as smooth as a baby’s behind. This was like entering King Tut’s throne room. The right side slid open at his slightest suggestion. The carpet was nearly deep enough to hide the tassels of his penny loafers from view, as he surfed his way to face the sign that read Ms. Wilson’s desk. They were very big on signs around here. Any street-aware person knew that you would never get to see Dr. Hart if Ms. Wilson did not want you to. She was one of those women that Playboy would pay a hundred thousand dollars just to photograph nude, rich and powerful men and women would pay that much and more to have her kind around to liven up parties, or help find insecurities in foes, take on long yachting trips to pay off bets lost or won or as a reward to a particular inside man or women for a dirty job done well. But never, never are they executive secretaries and never are you seen in public with them unless you are the mark or the marked. The cops don’t bust her kind as hookers because they don’t work the streets or even use phone services. All their clients are introduced to them by the Dr. Harts of the world. Sure they have jobs, just like this one, draw paychecks which at the end of the

week, they sign and reverse back to their employers, in this case, Dr. Hart. Hell, they even pay taxes. Why not, he is her cover. Anyway, who needs three to five-fifty a week when one good mark is worth ten times that much. And if for any reason, she is arrested for anything, she will be represented, no questions asked, by a top flight attorney, probably one of her secret clients, and released within an hour. After all, you can’t keep friends of the rich and powerful in jail too long; it doesn’t look good in the papers. Women like Ms. Wilson, if that was even her real name, if not so wellconnected, might be called mistress’s call girls, or even the “other woman,” but never, never, top-end executive secretaries. Of all the things she probably wasn’t, the one thing he was sure she was, the things that stood out from your first glance—the manicured nails, regularly managed hair, spa-cared-for body—told you that she was a “professional,” and like any true professional, they are always up for a good challenge. The kind where there are no holds barred and the winner takes all. She made her appraisal of the humanoid approaching her, Miles, the male animal would then have to read the traffic light and proceed accordingly. Ms. Wilson leaned forward, exposing more round full breast than was necessary for the movement she made. Thus, stating clearly that yes, the light was green. He was an acceptable opponent, and the no-holds-barred rule was defiantly in effect. “May I help you . . . in any way?” In most legit secretaries that would be a standard polite occupational beginning of discourse, but coming from Ms. Wilson, it was just what it sounded like, a couscious invitation to start the Games!

Viva women’s lib! Miles leaned closer, she allowed him another minute to review the spoils to be gained to assure him that the prize was worth the quest, then she sat straight back in her chair.

She looked Miles directly and suggestively in the eyes, with an expression that clearly stated that it’s your serve, and if you want to play in this league, you better be very, very good. “Your best defense is a great offense,” he ed his grade school coach, Mr. Barley, hammering into the collective team’s head all the way to the city championship—which they won walking away. So he made his move, crossing past her, heading for the second set of double doors—basket—that also read “Dr. Jonas Hart.” I told you they were big on signs around here, Like the guard he shredded with his cross-over dribble on his way to the winning basket in the championship game—he still had the newspaper clipping—she hadn’t expected his feint and countermove directly toward the basket—doors; rising unsteadily, their eyes met, but hers were not as sure as before. But her movement completed the picture, suggested when she was seated, her legs were perfect matches to the waist and the rest of the godly body. But she, unlike his grade school opponent, recovered, arriving at the second set of doors—basket—slightly before him, issuing a not-so-confident “You can’t go in there without an appointment.” Her sentence warning was interrupted by his finger tips gently touching her lips and then sliding down her neck to her full breast, pausing just long enough to record the change in heartbeat, signaling her interest and desire for the game to continue, so he continued the exploration of her luscious body to the split in her front-buttoned uniform. When his hand reached the warm life center between her legs, she crossed them to keep it there. Softly inhaling the scent of him as she buried her head in the nape of his neck, she gently leaned back on the door. He let his body follow her lead. Her free hand pulled his face to hers. The kiss was wet and warm. Her tongue danced like a gypsy deep inside his mouth. His free hand was first at her thighs, then her hair; she moaned softly then moved her body closer to his, never caring that someone might walk in and find them like that or that her boss was just on the other side of the double doors. Yeah, you gotta know your boss real well or be the best executive secretary there ever was to feel this secure in you’re job. With another ardent moan, she finally came up for air, her cheeks were flushed,

the nipples of her breasts firm and straining against her uniform. Freeing his hand and stepping back from their embrace, still breathing deeply, her eyes said: “Ok, the score is fifteen-love, and our court time is up, but because you broke your racket, it’s raining, or whatever; since this is for the championship, we will have to reschedule the match for another time.” She wisped the blonde bangs of her hair back from her forehead with a sharp upward breath of air from her full lips, brushed her uniform back into place, and used his handkerchief to wipe her lipstick from his lips, asking: “What did you say your name was?” He told her. He could see by her smile that she thought it went well with his manhood. Turning, still fondling his personals, she knocked twice softly on the door. A muddled voice from within said, “Come in.” With one last look at Miles, who nodded his confirmation of their future match, she opened the door, announcing him as though she had known him for years. “Mister Carter to see you Dr. Hart. I know he does not have an appointment, but he promised me he would only take a few moments of your time.” As Miles ed her to enter the office, her hand hidden from Dr. Hart’s view rubbed gently over his buttocks in a parting gesture; she whispered into the back of his head “fifteen-love,” as she closed the door behind him. The office reflected the man, well-heeled, tasty but not tasteful, organized but not orderly; in other words, here was a once poor kid who had worked his way up from probably inner city Los Angles, using only his wits and hard work. And now that he has made it to the top, he had succumbed to the taste, habits, thoughts, and lifestyle he was highly suspect of when he was on the other side of the tracks. In short, he had become “The Enemy”; therefore, he reflected the best taste that money could buy. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Carter, is it? Rising from behind the expensive mahogany desk, the hand extended to Miles as they met at the center of the room harkened him back to the time when he was in survival training. The gruff, rugged sergeant before starting the exercise said, “I hope you gentlemen have learned what we have been trying to pound into your thick heads for yea these many months, because for the next seven days and nights, you are

going to be on your own.” And just before he blew the whistle to start the exercise, he threw in the fact that “oh by the way, we will be using live ammo!” You almost became sick right there, your legs had a slight wobble to them, and when you rubbed your hands together, they were wet and clammy; much like Dr. Hart’s hand was when he shook it. But your hand became clammy from fear of impending death; he wondered what caused Dr. Hart’s hand to go clammy? Now he knew how Daniel must have felt. Because even with the plush carpet, oversized desk, diplomas on the wall, the Mickey Mouse telephone on it’s own desk high stand, built-in bar and bookcases, this was still a lion’s den, and this particular balding hawk-like animal was indeed a lion. Glad to get his hand back, he extended it again. This time with his business card in it, glancing at the card, Dr. Hart returned to his executive throne behind the desk. Sitting down, he motioned for Miles to do the same in one of the two custom-made chairs in front of the desk. Still looking at the card, he rubbed what was left of the silver gray hairs on the sides of his head, kicked back in his chair, swiveled his back around to Miles looking out of a huge single window onto the heart of the business section of Beverly Hills. He asked Miles reflection, “Private detective, huh? So what could my wife possibly want now? I’m paying her through the nose for my one and only detour from our wedding vows.” “It’s about Stella Davis.” Bam! It was as though Miles had hit him with an Ali right cross; his hands came away from the back of his head, the chair turned faster than he wanted it to, returning him to face Miles before the color returned to his cheeks. When you casually walk into a lion’s den unannounced and slap him across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, he is caught off guard, he will most likely feint a growl, retreat to the back of his den, walk in a measured circle to regroup himself. Which is exactly what this lion did. His hand rubbed his nose, circled his mouth twice, buying time to assess just what kind of animal he was being challenged by, fool or foe.

What most people don’t know about lions is that unless they feel that the threat is real, they will try to avoid a fight; apparently, this lion thought this was one of those times. “Stella Davis did you say?” Miles nodded yes. “Ah, well. Ah, she was a professional call girl, you know?” Now the lion was doing something they rarely do, because they don’t do it well and that is fish. Miles nodded yes to the question statement. The lion continued to slap the water with a semi-lame paw. “Far be it from me to judge another person’s lifestyle, you know.” Damn! He hated any sentence that was ended in that phase—“you know?” or “you know what I mean? Damn! Miles did not answer because, of course, he did now know. “So, ah she, ah . . . came to see me once, ah she said she had some complications, I treated her. She paid in cash, ah, I treated her once or twice after that here in the office each time. It turned out to be minor so ah, I wrote her a refillable prescription; that was about it.” Extending the paw to deeper water, he asked, surely rhetorically, “Why, is something wrong? Has something happened to her?” He was talking to Miles, but Miles could hear the real conversation going on in his head every word loud and clear, because they were the same questions the guys in the holding cells and interrogation rooms of jails all over the country asked themselves, trying to figure out how the simple little sure thing—gas station heist just to pick up a little party money for the weekend turned into a shoot out, a cop gets killed, and the buddy took one in the chest, leaving them to face the wrath of some conservative judge.

And they found themselves sitting in a jail cell after hours of interrogation, asking themselves the same questions the good doctor was asking himself right now.

“How did it get this far? No one was supposed to get hurt. How did they tie me to it so quickly? How much do they really know? Those klutzes, they couldn’t

cool out a two-bit hooker without leaving it on my door step?”

Miles had found out what he came here for, the doc was in with whoever or whatever Stella had been into, there was more to know, but not now.

He explained that Stella was dead, which he knew came as no surprise to the doctor, although his acting—feinting concern—was quite good, and that he was merely hired by the girl’s family to nail down the loose ends and that they obviously didn’t know that she was a “call girl” and that it would be best if they never found out.

The lion breathed a sigh of relief. He thought that he had guessed right in judging Miles fool not foe.

Miles thanked him for his time, sidestepped another clammy handshake, but could not avoid the patronizing pat on the back as he was escorted to the door by a well-fed lion who didn’t know he had been stuffed with sacrificial lamb made up mostly of bull.

As he ed Ms. Wilson’s desk on the way to the last set of doors, she said, “Mr. Carter, you’re forgetting you’re prescription now , right after you take this, you’re supposed to go directly to bed and keep really warm.”

He didn’t have to read it, he knew what it was. On the way to the elevator, he kept thinking Viva Women’s Lib!

8

A Friend Indeed

He woke from the sound of his own snoring as surely as from the ring of an egg timer. He had to get ready. Stella’s funeral was today. He didn’t know just how or if he would survive it, but it was another of those responsibilities he had learned from life’s lesson taught by his mother and grandmother and his stint in the service that when you were called on to do a job, you did it. So showered and shaved, an hour and a half later, he was out the door. His mind was split as to his purpose, there were many things that he needed answers to. The why and what of Stella’s relationship with her killer, or killers, and for that, he knew just the man for the job. A guy who floated in and out of both the Street and the legit world. A guy who had done time up state but was tight with someone in the local police department. A guy who knew and cared for Stella and her family as much as he did. “Yea, yeah, I’ll do it. I was wondering what took you so long to call” was Jo-Jo’s response to his roadside phone call. “I don’t need no money, man; she was my friend too.” But Miles refused to take advantage of their long working and personal friendship with. “I know, man, but this could be dangerous, and most of all, you’re a pro at what you do, and you should be paid accordingly” After a prolonged silence, a reluctant, “OK” came back through the telephone. “The usual?” Miles confirmed. “That’s cool,” Jo-Jo accepted. “Now what do you

want?” Miles laid out the job completely and succinctly: “Pull every chain you are connected to and squeeze any pair of balls you have to, but get me something that gives me the inside on what really went down.” Clarifying, he added, “No sugar-coating, the straight-up and down, the good and bad.” “You got it, man, I’m on it right now,” Jo-Jo guaranteed. “You call me the minute you turn something up,” Miles dictated. Jo-Jo confirmed the orders given. Hanging up the public phone outside the liquor store, Miles boarded his waiting steed and continued on toward his dreaded destination. The last time he had been this vexed about anything, he ed, was Test Day at Fort Riley Kansas when he fought Chrétien, a five-foot eleven bull of a kid from Louisiana who did not want to take orders from a black guy even if he was designated as trainee platoon sergeant by the barracks NCO and the first lieutenant. The representatives of each of their camps chose the spot where the ring (fight) would take place, underneath the huge water tower with the base emblem The Big Red One embossed on it that was near their barracks. This was going to be tricky. He had to try to win the fight, yet not create an enemy. Show that he could hold his own to his men,but not shatter the fragile peace that existed between all of the other soldiers on the base into a color thing. He took it as his first test of leadership. Whack! The blow that landed on the side of his jaw was not about leadership, it was about, wake up you fool! You have to win the fight first before you can practice any of that leadership crap. Chrétien’s head snapped back from his right jab landing just under his eye, opening a small cut, but the uppercut that landed directly under his chin sent him sprawling in the Kansas clay, eliciting a show of for him even from Chrétien’s side of the crowd. Recovered. Blood streaking from his nose across his lips filling his chin, causing him to breath hard and deep, Chrétien abandoned the The Marquess of Queensberry rules of boxing and charged directly at him tackling him to the ground football style, smacking heads in the process.

Rolling in the damp ground underneath the water tower, he felt the strength of his opponent and realized that if he had to go the distance with this guy, he could lose! Summoning all of his strength, he broke away from the grip around his neck and stood separating himself from his more powerful antagonist. His only hope was to keep him at a distance, out-jab him and hope to get in another uppercut and end this thing. Chrétien was a fighter and bar room brawler, not a boxer. He interpreted every punch received from Miles as an insult that only made him less cautious and more blindingly mad. Making him eat more jabs and short straight punches with each rage-filled charge, Miles could see, he was ready to be taken. But Miles had to it to his inner self, that he wanted more than the satisfaction of literary knocking the hate, prejudice, and just plain arrogance out of this guy with each punch. Which is what caused him to delay the final uppercut as long as he did. Once he did and the fight was over, he thought to himself, This is how you go about leaving the guy enough pride so that he can save enough face to bury all of this and be a member of you’re squad again without holding a grudge? Extending his hand to help Chrétien to his feet, he posed the question, “Are we OK?” After a long look that ended in a respectful grin, Chrétien brushed the mud and dirt from his army green T-shirt, gave his followers the OK sign by shaking Miles hand in the Soul Brother handshake. Rubbing his chin where the result of Miles’s last uppercut was beginning to manifest itself in a puffed cheek, he said, “Yea, yea, man, we’re OK.” America had won again. They each gathered their clothes discarded in preparation for the fight, and in a show of in the end, we all wear the same uniform and may someday be thankful that you had my back resignation, they walked shoulder to shoulder, the lot of them, back to their barracks. And as with jo-jo- in later years, they became a Friend Indeed.

9

One More Time

Jessie, missing his metaphors, to his end of the telephone: ‘Well you boys kind a pissed in the pot now did’t ya? Straight out lied, you’s knew da boy woun’t be dead all along, you’s was bus’tin him out from der from da git go, but us hicks wast n’t ‘spose to know bout it was we? We’s was just ‘spose to deliver a dead body to ya’ll’s house take our shit money and walk away none duh wiser”

Jessie strike two: ‘Duh shoes is on the wrong foot now, we do knows but we’s don’t care why you’s bus’tin e’m out, yo’ secret is safe wit us both just so long as we’s come to a new money ‘rangement.” After pausing to listen to the voice on the other end of the conversation, he responded to the questions asked: “Well we’s figures dat now he hav to be worth ten times dat much, dat’s right, we’s wants one hundred thousand dollars, and we’s will bring ’em to wherever you’s want. Affirming, he said: “Dats right! A huh, a hundred thousand dollars if ya’ll got the muscle to pull off a trik like what you’se don, den you’se Wash-en-ton boys ought to be able to come up with dat much easy.” Consummating the agreement, he added: “Yeah, in cash? Yea, we kan bring ’em der, I knows where it is. From here, it will take us ‘bout ten, ‘leven hours. Twelve to one a clock tamorra morn’n p.m. We’s will be der, you’se just have da money ready and noth’in gonna happen to yo tar baby we’s ain’t gonna lay a hand on ’em.” Slapping his hands as he hung up the telephone, jumping for joy, exhilarated! “We’s got it! We’s got dem Wash-en-ton boys right by da balls, tar baby, by this

time tamorra, after we’s drops you off with dem Wash-en-ton boys, we’s be head’n for da Ba-ho-muns.” Henry ed in the celebration, dance-slapping Jessie’s hand as he dances past but keeping the gun available at Miles. Celebrating in his heart, Major Miller had done it! Life to this point had been unreal, deadly, and uncertain how or what it would be like from here on in; he could not know, all he did know, felt he knew, that the president was into something, and it must be something important and deadly serious because no one, not even the President, a man he had saved from certain death, would go through this much trouble just to see him One More Time.

10

You Got Me, Babe

The unease knotted his stomach, off putting his physic balance; he tried not to let it show grazing his hand across his face to prevent the release of a tear. He felt small trying to hide it. Hell! He was a grown man who’s been in and out of a war; wait, better correct that, they, the press, referred to it as a “Police Action,” but you just try to convince anyone who was at “Pork Chop Hill” at four in the morning when the horns and the lights and the fireworks started. Then the horror of the human roar as “The Enemy” started to charge, the lights flashing brighter, then they were upon you using bayonets, because they had the superiority of numbers and preferred the personal kill compared to bullets; yeah, tell the boys who were there that it was just a “Police Action.” But this was worst. At least there, you could act and die like a man, but here, how do you deal with a ten-year-old who mostly knew her mother through presents at birthdays and Christmas time that now even that was gone? For Stella, like so many others, did not make good mothers; not that she didn’t try or care, she just didn’t pull it off well. So little Lynnette lived between a loving aunt and a dedicated grandmother. No one can say for sure how it is that kids born to such fortune sense they’re on their own even at the age when most of us are just beginning to learn to cross the streets alone, they are going to the grocery store by themselves, coming back with correct change, handling the bill collectors at Gramma’s front door, helping the reverend set up the church seats and collect the day’s take, and everyone in the neighborhood looks out for them from the preacher to the bookie and the butcher to the local private eye.

She had taken it all too well. Even for someone of her steel, it was “Erie” all through the service, no tears, and the ride out here nothing, nothing! Miles had grown to love this little fighter, this bantamweight who had been cast by fate to only draw heavyweights (she was fifteen well before she was five), and still somehow managed to have an undefeated record. The Joe Louis’s the Sugar Ray Robinson’s they had the “Gift” so you expected them to win or put up a great fight, and somehow come out on top, but to see this little string bean kid standing in the winner’s circle celebrating, was enough to make you believe in miracles. And here she was again ready to take the best punch that life had to give her right on the chin, seeming to say “I’ll give you one free swing, but I bet you can’t knock me out.” Hauntingly, she walked to the graveside, stood looking down into the still open grave at the casket; there was just the four of them, Miles, her Grandmother Ida Mae and Aunt Rozena; everyone else, including his estranged girl friend, Jeane, who had lovingly squeezed his hand whispering in his ear, “Gotta get to work, I’m really sorry about Stella,” and left. He began the conversation with what he thought was the expected assurances. “We don’t know who did this, but the police will find them.” Almost as though he had not spoken, her thoughts spew out, “Uncle Miles,” the thin voice filtered back, crackling in the somber air, “was my mother a whore? What’s a whore?” Now the tears came, she dropped to her knees. Ida Mae moved to be by her to embrace her but she refused the attempt at solace, and broke away rushing to Miles wrapping her arms around his legs “You never lied to me, Uncle Miles, what’s a whore? And was my mother one?” The body was uncoiling. He now understood why she hadn’t cried before, how stupid could he be? The streets always knew what happened in this town before the cops or anyone else did, and Lynnette lived and played in the streets, they had already told her! Before the funeral, before he picked her up. That’s why she was ready. She knew! That’s what had tightened her in knots; it was the news that this angel who was always dressed in a white nurse’s outfit, whenever she visited or took her anywhere was somehow less than pure. It is said, that the cruelest thing you can do to any child is to foul the thing they

all need to believe in most. That is, that mother and father are good and decent and something special.

She began to beat against his stomach with her fist. Weeping out of control. Rozena tried to put her arms around her in an effort to still her tears, but she moved around to Miles’s side still crying, still posing that plaintive question, was my mother a whore? Is it what they said? That she did nasty things for men? That they did nasty things to her? That they paid her to do things to them?”

“Child, those are just rumors, your mother . . .” Damn! He liked this kid! He cut short the proposed lie by Ida Mae. “Nette,” he always called her by the abbreviated version of her name, “come here.”

She slowly begin to wind down as she took deep breaths, readying herself for yet another blow which she would take straight on the chin, because life had taught her even at this tender age—she was fifteen long before she was five—that she would survive it.

She stepped back, looking up to face him, her eyes still cloudy. Rozena touched Miles’s arm in a final effort to preserve the lie, but Lynnette gently removed her hand from Miles’s arm, giving silent permission for the truth and looked him in the eyes again as he knelt to face her tear filled questions.

Miles reflected on another solemn choice of his life: when he was sitting in a mud-filled foxhole drinking bad water and there is not enough food to last for more than a day to split between five more like him, and camped somewhere to the south of you, not more than thirty five hundred feet, are at least five hundred enemy soldiers who would have attacked three days ago if they had known that they had done a better job than they thought with their mortars, and that between his entire six man squad, there was only fifty rounds each of ammo left.

But they didn’t. So they sat out there waiting for this fortnight to fall, but by that time, reinforcements had arrived, and when they did attack, it was too little too late! But through all of it nobody cracked, some guys went about doing things as if they were still in base camp, writing letters which they knew might never get mailed, or sitting in a circle playing cards (even Major Miller), not for money (matchsticks) none of them had or may ever collect, and he though to himself, what a wonderful group of guys to be with at a time like this, what raw courage.

But now, he realized that was nothing compared to the courage this little tenyear-old kid with no M-1 rifle to protect herself with, no bayonet training to give her the last-minute satisfaction of dealing with her mother’s killers up close and personal! No, she was alone in her war zone with only her heart and Uncle Miles to protect her.

He swallowed the last of his apprehension, looking at her at her eye level, put both hands on her shoulders, and said it straight out; for he heard somewhere that you should never lie to children or talk down to them but always give them facts to deal with.

Her watery eyes were as bright as the sun and just as big, her little body was wound as tight as the rubber band on a model airplane, braced to take the blow that she, even at her tender age, had learned to expect.

“Whatever your mother was or wasn’t, she loved you, and she never stopped loving you. And you should that all of you’re life, and you shouldn’t ever stop loving her”

He thought that maybe it was not going to be enough, that maybe she would

think that he too was a phony, just another adult she believed in that would let her down. Slowly, ever so slowly, her tears subsided. “I understand, Uncle Miles. I do love her, and I love you too.” With that she came back to being ten again and fell into his arms, sobbing softly.

Holding her close, he could no longer fight back tears of his own and openly wept into her shoulder, thinking, she sure had not had much luck with parents, her now-dead mother was a prostitute, and her uncle would turn out to be a convicted murderer. Damn! Damn! Damn! he thought, as he whispered a second solemn promise to a member of her family “Your mother may be gone, but for the rest of this thing that we call life, however long that might be, You Got Me, Babe.”

11

Children of a Lesser God

The incessant cold had actually been a blessing in disguise; it kept both he and Major Miller from bleeding to death. Still, the “Sam McGee” syndrome was beginning to take hold, making Miles, like Sam, wanting to just get rid of this albatross any way he could. Then through the swirling snow, he could make out the faint outlines of his “Alice May.” He approached carefully, because no matter how many times you’ve done this in the drills or how careful you are to dot the i’s and cross your t’s, ing every little thing they taught you in boot and advanced training camp, you still get the willies when you approach a structure, because here more than any place you could get it! You can never be sure that they haven’t seen you and are not just waiting for you to expose yourself far enough for you not to be able to get back to cover so they can blow you apart. So your skin bleeds sweat, your eyes extend almost out of your head trying to see farther and sharper than they were designed to do, and your heart stops beating or at least you stop hearing or feeling it do so. What you do feel is the searing heat of that imaginary bullet with your name on it as it rips through your flesh each time you make a move toward the objective. Something moved in the dark just out of the corner of his eye off to his right. He turned as fast as he could with this one-hundred-and-eighty-five-pound “McGee” around his shoulders to face the motion and what he was sure was going to be his last living day on earth. It was as if he was in slow motion, a portion of his life begin to materialize in his

head, his eyeballs receded back into their slots and froze. He forced his being to overcome the fear, as he shed Major Miller’s body while completing the turn to face where the noise emanated from. His finger tightened on the trigger preparing to fire, as he raised his gun to kill or be killed. Seeing the outline of the rooster in the moonlight caused his knees to turn to water, slumping him to the ground next to Major Miller’s tortured body. The irony of it all suffered a muffled laugh to escape his lips, then more laughter, and more until he was rolling in the snow, laughing out of control. He might have gone into complete hysteria had the door to his “Alice May” not opened, and the light from its interior slicing across his face brought him back to reality. Instantly, a lithe body was beside him and the voice in broken English sternly instructed him: “Quiet, Joe, you keep making noise, you get us all killed including my family.” In his bout with fear and death, he had forgotten about Major Miller. Recovering fully, Miles recalled where he was and what was at stake. Turning to the voice, he looked into the face of a Korean angel of seventeen or eighteen years of age. She was both woman and girl at the same time-—seeing that he was all right— she wasted no time moving to where Major Miller’s suffering body lie in a discarded heap. He ed her. Together they sat him up working as a team; he threw his M-1 rifle toward the light springing from the front door of the house. It landed two or three feet short, as he moved beside her, helping her to pick the Major up. As they did so, their hands touched, hers were warm and soft even in the dead cold of the night. For the briefest of moments, they looked into each other’s eyes; her eyes were fifty years old! He wondered what his eyes said. She broke off their visual intimacy. “We must get him inside quickly and cover up your tracks before the patrols come along.” Agreeing by motion, Miles took his hand away and straining, picked up Major Miller’s limp wistful body, placed it over his good shoulder again, and followed her and the light into the front door of the little farmhouse.

The young girl retrieved his rifle just short of the door, used it to hold the door ajar enough to allow Miles and the now coughing Major to enter. The house, if you could call it that, was nothing more than a box of hardened clay with a hole cut in each facing wall to house crude hand cut wooden windows, the ceiling was constructed of cross-tied poles strung together with rope made of bamboo strands that ed compacted squares of straw weighted down with bags of mud.

A four-legged wooden table covered most of the center of the room surrounded on three sides by handmade wooden chairs. On the table were two bowls and a hand-carved ladle.

The windows were covered with what would be called in the states potato or gunny sacks. The right far wall of the hut was occupied by an old man and women resting on separate straw mats; a few farm tools made up the rest of the furniture, or so he thought.

The old lady, who had been feeding the old man, fearfully turned to meet the young girl and her two strangers, as they entered the room. The old man, who appeared too weak to move, made his displeasure and concern known by the expression on his face. It was clear he did not want them there! The girl brought Miles’s rifle in closing the door behind her, motioning Miles to an opposite wall where a pot-bellied GItype stove, which he had likewise failed to perceive probably because of his fatigue, was giving off much-welcomed heat. She directed Miles to sit the Major next to the stove. After ensuring that they were both comfortable, she retrieved the two bowls from the table along with the ladle and a plug of something else. Removing the top from the simmering pot atop the stove, which he had also not noticed, danm man wake-up he chastised himself, there is a war going on, but snapped back to the present as she quickly filled them both, presenting one and a

piece from the plug which turned out to be a slice of farm bread to Miles. Miles gulped the contents down. It was weak, but he did not care; he and the major had been living on cold K-rations and whatever they could salvage from the packs of their dead comrades,that they came across in the field for three days, making this weak fluid seem like a home-cooked meal! Yes, it was weak, but he didn’t care, as he wiped the drippings from his four-day-old beard. With the concern of a nurse in a wartime hospital and the comion of loving mother—which she was too young to even have knowledge of—she rested Major Miller’s head in her lap and begin to ister the life-saving fluids. Miles, watching her, thought, If one were ever to believe in the goodness of the human race, this was a time. As he dipped a last sop of soup from the bowl with his bread, once again he saw her face! In the full light of the fire roaring in the stove’s belly given off through the open slits in its door and the three strategically strung gas military-style lit lanterns that hung around the room. Yes! She was beautiful! His mind challenged him. What the hell are we humans doing anyway? Here is a girl angelic enough to be a nun, an old lady trying to help the man she has loved the whole of her life to meet the Reaper with some honor and dignity, all people who just want to till the soil, raise their children, live and die here in this little corner of the world, people who don’t know or care about “The Big Picture” and Miles, what was he doing here? Over five thousand miles from that creaky old house on Lewis Street where, in the summer you sweltered, and in winter you nearly froze, his mind questioned, what they were all doing here? Being a part of it all, he could not help but wonder, was planet earth just a ship of fools? And what of this latest conflict as the news labeled it each night, what was the sense of it? After all, neither side was going to totally eliminate the other, such was the rules of modern day warfare, boy! He thought, is that an oxymoron. And what of war itself? Time and the making of new enemies would always require new alliances with past enemies. And even here, both enemies know that for progress, growth, and maybe even for their country’s survival within ten to twenty-five years and a few new istrations on both sides, that they will establish embassies, exchange students, trade missions, and pray tell, a Hilton Hotel or two?

Feeling strengthen after eating the hot soup, he checked his own wound for leakage, satified that he had stopped bleeding for the time being, he moved to the Major’s side, removing the bowl from the girl’s hands, he again felt their warmth. Major Miller’s coughing reestablished the now, so they withdrew each other’s hands back to a neutral zone. She stood, asg the Major’s keep to Miles, as she shifted her position, collecting both bowls taking them back to the table. Cradling the Major’s head to his chest, he heard a shadowed whisper that he deemed to be a desire to speak. Miles leaned over so the major would not have to strain more than necessary to accomplish that goal, and he would be close enough to hear him. “Carter? Is that you Carter?” came the gurgled-voiced question. As if to emphasize the truth of his words, the major summed all of his strength, his hands gripping the lapel of Miles’s field jacket as he spoke. The girl returned to the huddle. To the room, but mostly the girl, stating emphatically, the major documented: “Look, I know he could have left me for dead back there, and no one would have been the wiser, but he didn’t.” With emphasis, “He didn’t!” Looking directly at the girl catag: “He’s been logging me cross the better part of this country.” Miles tried to free himself, but the major surprisingly increased his grip on his lapel, forcing him to remain. “You half wanted to let me die and half wanted to kill me (almost rhetorically). I mean why should you give a damn about some half-dead white man from some upscale ritzy college back east?”

Stating the obvious: “We both know that things are not right for your people back home, and this stinking little war is not going to do much to change that.” Miles tried to speak. The last thing he needed was a born-again, converted conservative to spend his last days of this rotten, stupid war with. Seems like the NCOs and the grunts were right when they said: “Everybody gets religion in the foxhole and loses it the minute the ship docked state side.”

“Naw,” the Major is continuing, “I understand how you feel; I mean you wouldn’t be much of a man if you didn’t feel strongly about it” He coughed a more sustained cough; prompting the girl to bring a second bowl, this time filled with water from a small jug. She knelt down, holding the bowl to his lips. Drinking from it, he rested his head on the center of Miles’s chest, as he longingly studied her. “You understand English?” he probed. She nodded. “Then listen to me. We have problems in this world between people who are black and white (motioning to Miles and himself) and yellow (he included the girl and her grandparents). I mean you name it, and we got it in this crazy world, only it isn’t so crazy anymore it’s beginning to threaten the existence of everyone on the planet.” Miles tried to rescue himself again from the major’s grip by telling him not to talk, save his strength for later, that they were not in the clear yet, but he didn’t loosen his grip, and he didn’t stop talking. “There are people who want it to stay that way, some are even trying to make it worst,” then continuing, “it’s a game to them, for instance, they’re getting rich right now off of the blood and suffering and the thousands of lives being wasted in this little war! (cough) Police Action. They don’t care who wins as long as they make a profit!” “Ha, (rhetorically) I bet you both think that I’m delirious, don’t you? Well I’m not!” He coughed harder than before and small paths of blood tricked down the side of his mouth. The girl looked worryingly at Miles, as she dabbed at them with a part of her dress that she had torn off from the bottom seam of the garment. “I am from a very wealthy family, so I know what I’m talking about. I have seen my father and his rich friends’ wheel and deal with people’s lives, especially your people, Carter, all in the name of profit!” He spit the word out like dirt or an insect that had gotten into his mouth. “Well I’m going to dedicate my life (emphasis on my life) to changing that (then deferring to Miles). If you get me out of here alive (further committing, pledging almost dictating), I promise both of you that.”

“I am never going to forget what you have done for me, Carter, and you either (inquiring); what’s your name?” “Mae Ling” came the lyrics of the song from her lips, then a quieter and more personal “Mae Ling” continuing: “What both of you have done for me, your actions, have made even an old agnostic like me see that there will be wars, rumors of wars, genocide, and a dead future for all of mankind as long as one side thinks and believes that the other side are Children of a Lesser God.

12

Jo-Jo Was a Man . . .

His eyes followed the slim lines of the skin tight dress to the point where it split to allow the smooth brown legs to escape from it as if to say, do you want to see more? Yes he did. So he followed the camera up to the almost non-existent waist which was flat and firm. Slowly on up, revealing two perfectly proportioned breast (he always thought that more than a mouthful was not needed anyway), finally resting on a pixie face with wet smooth lips, that cute little button nose and eyes that were jet black water pools, then the voice, now stating an irrefutable, undeniable fact to him and the larger television audience that “whatever Lola wants, Lola gets!” The phone rang, he ignored it, allowing “and little man, Lola wants youuuuuu” her strong finish. It rang a second time; he fought the habit long formed in most of us that demand we respond. She bowed gracefully. “Lola Falana, ladies and gentlemen.” Johnny Carson was reiterating, “Lola Falana!” As he proceeded to center stage to greet her, kissing her on both cheeks, as he invites-guides her back to the conversation area of the set. “We will be right back in sixty seconds to talk to Lola after this brief message from our sponsors,” Ed McMann promised. Only then did he address himself to the third ring of the telephone, and only as he watched the beautiful brown image fade from view did he pick up the receiver. “Miles,” the anxious, excited voice of Jo-Jo charged at him through the telephone, “what the hell took you so long? You tell me to hit the streets, find out everything I can about Stella’s whereabouts for the last week or so, you say it’s a grand to me and to call as soon as I get something.”

Befuddled: “So I’m standing out here at this phone booth about to be mugged by the first bunch of punk kids that happen along and you don’t even bother to answer the phone!” Miles, snapping back to reality, weakly apologizes to his right hand man with something like “I got to the telephone as quickly as I could, man, I was in the john,” turning the TV down so that he could concentrate on what was being said. “Is our deal still on?” Jo-Jo interjects, “’cause this stuff is hot, man, I mean hot! You know?” Damn! He hated that term. After all, if the person you were conversing with knew what you were telling them, why would you be telling them, and why would they be asking in the first place? It made no sense; it just made no common sense. Miles assured him that they were still financially ened, and he continued, “Okay, here goes.” Jo-Jo begins to perform. “There’s something that Stella was into that was way above her action, you know.” (Damn it, he said it again.) He almost answered why would I be paying you a grand if I knew? But he suppressed his discomfort with Jo-Jo’s sloppy use of the English language and waited for the answer that usually followed the non-question, rhetorical question. “My man downtown said that they found three or four ports at her place stamped to places that she couldn’t get to even if she had the kind of bread it took to get there, you know?” In his head, Damn! “And receipts from hotels, the kinds of places that you have to have references from some pretty well-connected people just to make reservations at, let alone have the kind of a credit rating to get them to hold a room for you. What’s more, dig this . . . he said there were three, count them, three mink coats in her closet worth at least ten, fifteen grand apiece, dresses, shoes handbags, and hats; you name it, she had them fronting labels from shops in New York, London, Paris Madrid, and Beverly Hills. Adding: “But they did not find anything personal of hers. They took the place apart, nothing! Now, Miles, you know how she was about that little girl of hers and how grateful she was to her mother, Ida Mae, and aunt, Rozena, for all they done helping her raise that little girl?” That he did know.

“Well not a picture anywhere.” Miles was trying to think of the last time he was at Stella’s apartment, how impressed he was with the fact that there were pictures all over the place of little Lynnette and the other family . He ed her saying that this was her sanctuary. “The cops figure it was a john,” Jo-Jo interrupts him in mid-thought. “And from the looks of all the S&M material stuff they found, he must be a pretty weird dude,” Jo-Jo continues after allowing for Miles to catch up with the picture being painted. “They figure that maybe he and Stella were getting a little ‘kinky.’ He started or wanted to go further, but it was getting a little too far out of her comfort zone, so she shuts him down,and cuts and runs, he feels that maybe she is going to spill the beans on who he is and what his sex habits are like, so he calls his muscle . . . you know, anybody with a little money is connected these days.” Yes, that he knew also. “They’re supposed to slap her around a little bit, you know (Damn!), put the fear of God in her not to talk, but they went too far. “They call him, he’s probably still at her place, sniffing her panties of some other sick shit like that, tell him things have gone wrong, he panics when he finds out, cleans the place out of anything he thinks might tie them together or he can use later to stimulate himself with, I told you there are some sick puppies out there, and splits.” After all, he had paid up front for the session. Miles waited, he knew that there was more, Jo-Jo never just told you what happened, he also told you what he really thought happened which was usually right on and why he used him in the first place to dig for him, The water faucet came on “Now that’s the way the cops figure it” Miles primed the pump. ‘But you think different? Jo-Jo starts the water flowing: “There’s something, something that don’t fit, I mean what hooker do you know of who takes a john, even a heavy money mark to her own place to do business? Stella was more of a pro than that . . . And what about this torture thing? You and I both know that Stella wasn’t into that kind of action; with Stella, it was wham-bam-thank-you Madam.” Reflecting emotional involvement: “I mean, unless she really dug you.” Miles, noting the choke in his voice, interrupted him with a sympathetic grunt of approval of “Yeah,” giving him time to cover the slip of the tongue that had given away his inner feelings for a brief second.

Jo-Jo recovered: “No, man, she must have fallen into some heavy stuff, so heavy that my figures the cops are going to give it the one time through and wash it under the rug, chalk it up to a crime of ion, do a light press number about ‘Girls of the Night’ warning that these kinds of things are often where that kind of life leads to, but I feel it in my bones that this is something big, man, big enough to get people hurt, you included man but we got to do something (half pleading, half imploring him); we can’t just let them get away with killing her like that.” Miles thanked Jo-Jo for his concern, sensing from the depth of his heartache, that he, Jo-Jo, had known Stella as more than just a friend, told him that he could pick up his grand at the usual place which Jo-Jo knew without saying meant “The Chocolate Bar.” Hanging up the telephone, turning off the now frazzled TV, he sat back on his couch and for the first time really contemplated just how “big” this thing might get and the fact that someone else could get hurt and that someone might be him. Then flashing through his mind in a searing flame came the picture of the bleeding, tortured body of Stella lying on his living room floor, that half smile on her face that seemed to say what her lips could not, and the trembling body of that little bantamweight who was counting on Uncle Miles not to let her down, and all apprehension left, and he was back to the hunt again, thanks largely to the fact that Jo-Jo . . . Was a Man.

13

A Patriot, Is a Patriot, Is a Patriot

Miles thought he heard a noise outside? A military beat—this time he was sure he heard something. The girl heard it too; in one elongated move, she was at the front window like a cat pouncing on an unsuspecting prey. Miles slipped the Major to the floor, abruptly interrupting him in mid-sentence to the girl at the window. Mae Ling, he thought her name was beautiful too. As he glanced at the old couple, their eyes ed the fear that whatever tranquility they had before these strangers arrived could soon be a thing of the past. The fear present in their faces as they observed the two of them scampering to the window confirmed their earlier apprehensions that their worst nightmare was about to materialize. Then they saw them coming! Through the dark of the icy night, came two of them, then three more. He was trained for this, had already survived numerous scrimmages to get this far, yet his guts began to tighten up, his brain said run! But where? Then the deadly resolve of it sank in, it had come down to this, he was born to a shabby, little three-bedroom shack with barely hot and cold running water, and now he was going to die in a shabby little one-room shack halfway around the world. Rhetorically, he demanded of himself: “Why hadn’t he left that moaning halfdead carcass lying facedown in the snow like many others had probably done and just looked out for himself? If he had, he might have taken a different path, found another trail, and he wouldn’t have ended up here about to die at the hands of these approaching barbarians.

The girl turned to him starring deeply into the depths of his soul. Whatever it was she was about to do, he sensed it was of monumental importance to her, it was a life-and-death decision she was about to make, and his response would greatly impact it. “Do you believe that he meant what he said about, I mean about changing things for all of us?” She plumbed in a deep whisper to the side of his face, while maintaining a view of the approaching barbarians. Miles was thinking two things at the same time. How he was about to die for this stupid war and how at a time like this with her grandparents’ lives at stake, the people who most likely raised her from childhood, she could be thinking or even caring about a speech made by a half-dead white man that she had never seen before in her life? “Well do you?” she pressed further. Mile thought, what difference did it make? They would all be dead soon anyway, so what difference did it make if this innocence, unsuspecting angel had been taken in by the silver-tongued devil? Hell, look at his own people, they had been buying his story in the light of irrefutable proof to the contrary for over two hundred years, and there were still enough of them who believed it to help swing elections when he came around the black community every four years to shake a few hands, out a few goodies, and kiss a few babies, maybe even take a picture with one of them setting on his or her lap. So why shouldn’t this angel of innocence, with no defense or history to enlighten and inform her against his treachery, be sucked in by this particular incarnation of his act? Miles thought what difference could it make? And answered against the truth of his soul, “Yeah, he probably meant it.” Gripping his hand tighter and searching his face again for conformation she demanded, “Do you believe him?” Miles repeating more believably, “Yeah, Yeah, I believe he meant it,” thinking in his mind I hope Gramma was right when she said judge ’em simple, if a man’s word ain’t no good, den the man ain’t no good, judge ’em simple. At the end of his confirming declaration, she sprang into action, stating

distinctly, emphatically and unequivocally, “Then we must all help, quickly, follow me and bring him.” He was instructed not by an angel but now by a warrior preparing and fortifying herself for battle. Still not quite sure of what to expect, Miles picked up the major and followed her to the other side of the room where the old couple sat. After exchanging a long soul-searching stare, the old lady moved measurably aside, allowing the girl to remove the blanket hanging on the wall behind her, exposing a hole in the wall leading to a hollowed-out small room or box but what must appear from the outside, to be an ordinary bail of hay. She motioned for Miles to crawl in and take the Major with him. Speaking now as though she had resigned herself to the worst, she said, “I know how to handle them, I know what they want, so don’t come out, or you will get us all killed before our time including my grandparents.” This space was meant for her grandparents! This was their last-chance escape route! But she had selected Miles and the Major over them, giving them the chance to live and taking the chance that her family might die! The situation reminded him of the time when on one of his earliest dates with Jeane, he was selected by the hypnotist in the club they had chosen for dinner and a show, and the audience and Jeane playfully urged him up on the stage; so trying to appear the good guy and a decent date, he halfheartedly and with great trepidation, allowed himself to become part of the show, accepting the assurances of the hypnotist that everything would be fine and his absolute guarantees that he would have no regrets, but suspecting in his own heart of hearts that one misspoken word, one long kept secret, an unguarded revelation revealed, and this thing could go terribly wrong! Miles felt that way now. He didn’t like the odds, didn’t like leaving this young girl one against seven men, who could all be, and probably were murderers. That last thought almost solicited a “no response to the choice being offered. Instead, his heart said “no!” But like in the night club, his desire to salvage the best possible outcome prevailed, and he went along with the program. From the small peephole in the blanket, Miles saw the first one to enter the room; he was large by anyone’s standards. Over six feet tall, he wore a GI-issued hat, had a standard issue Russian-made equivalent of an army.45 in a shoulder

holster that rested just under his left armpit, signaling that he was right-handed. His gun belt, worn bandito-style across his upper body held American ammo, no doubt taken from fallen soldiers. Around his waist was another gun belt that carried more ammo but no gun. Instead, three shrunken human heads hung from the left side of the belt and a silver samurai sword encased in a hand-tooled leather sheath hung from the belt on the right side, suggesting an affinity for the sword over the Russian-issued pistol. The rest of his dress was standard Korean issue. There was a nasty scar just under his left ear which ran to a point where it disappeared into his fatigue jacket just at his shoulder. Thus, leaving no doubt that he had been involved in hand-to-hand combat more than once in his combat life, and from the looks of his trophies, he had won more times than he had lost. Fast behind him came four more unorthodox-looking companions. It was becoming clear to Miles this was no ordinary combat unit separated from the main company or platoon, these were renegades. Troops, who for one reason or another had separated from their regular companies or platoons or maybe deserted them, concluding that they would fight this war on their and for their own personal reasons taking what rewards they wanted to. That last thought caused his heart to quicken as he fought to keep his breathing even when the last two entered, heading directly to and circling around the GI stove, warming themselves while appraising the occupants. Satisfied that there were only the three people in the room, the big one (leader) spoke to the girl in Korean. She answered him in the same Pidgin English she had conversed with Miles and the Major in (the dance had started). She was speaking in English so that Miles could better gauge the situation and temper his responses accordingly. “There is only my honorable grandparents and me here . . . But we have food enough for you and your brave soldiers.” He thought what guts! She had to be shaking in her proverbial boots, but she still had the presence of mind to palm an ace from the deck. “No one but you three?” the big one questioned. (The bait had been taken.) She had pried his best English out of him as he answered. He slowly ed a sinister

gaze to the others then back to the girl only this time his eyes appraised her womanhood more completely and disrespectfully, He could feel the tension mounting in the outer chamber as one of the smaller agents moved toward the girl. She deftly countered by moving to the table, pausing long enough to slice a piece of the farm bread, gather a Bowl, and continue on to the stove top pot and using the ladle left there from her earlier feedings of Miles and Major Miller, fill it with soup returning with her offerings intending to present them to the big one, selecting who she thought was in charge and who she wanted to deal with, thereby keeping control of the mood in the room which Miles knew she could sense could change at any minute. A renegade wearing a pirate-style eye patch over his left eye, and grinning through decaying teeth grabbed her hand as she ed by, twisting it behind her while pulling her to his body which caused the three top buttons of her blouse to pop, laying most of her breasts open to view and sending the bowl of soup crashing, spattering it’s contents over the saw dust floor. Widening his crocked grin to a snarl, he forced her to kneel before him. The others sensing the free-for-all that could ensue, begin to tease, taunt the two in native Korean. Miles didn’t understand what they were saying, but a story from his childhood about a great, great uncle he had who lived in the deep south afflicted with a cleft palate that made his every utterance barely intelligible, causing him to be preyed upon when the local kids on their way home from school openly stole watermelons from his front yard, responding to his muted utterances with the typical politico hand gesture to the ear used when they do not want to respond to a journalist’s question, until one day, he met their gestures with a shotgun blast over theirs heads, from then on the story goes. They may not have understood what he said, but they understood what he meant!

Miles understood what these ruffians meant, the space became white-hot he was about to move, but Major Miller offered a weak but restraining hand, whispering, “She told us no matter what to stay here, don’t try to do anything.” “I think she knows what she is doing.” Heading his statement-semi order, Miles reverted back into his prior position, still ready but not sure of what to do.

Creating a defense from a whole cloth, Mae Ling broke away from the grasp of the pirate turning to the big one, “Do you’re men often disrespect you as now? Throw your foods at you’re feet and claim your woman?” Continuing the challenge, retorting: “If you are truly what they say you are, Oten, the death man, one who has killed more than fifty men single-handedly, the one who generals fear so much that they allow you to fight at your will and choosing? Surely such a man does not share his women with lesser men?” God! Did she have guts! She was gloating, no choosing, the one to rape her, trying to gloat this egomaniac to be the one to take her, thereby claiming her as his own and protecting her against the others. At the same time, speaking English and getting him to speak English so that Miles and the Major would understand this was her choice and not make a move. She must really love these two old people. He thought. Through the peephole providing his limited point of view, he caught slight glimpses of the old man, his breath coming in slow uncertain rhythms, eyes reflecting off the fire of the stove that watery shine that come late in age to us all. The sight reminded him of his own parents, not so much his father, because he did not him too much. Miles had left to the army, escaping his alcoholic tirades put on mostly to cover the fact that he had lost his week’s pay check at the local watering hole again, when he was very young; getting his understanding mother to sign the entry form that he was eighteen when he was really seventeen. No more his mother, who still set a plate for his father at every day’s end, even if he had not been home the whole weekend as though she expected him home from work. He understood the love for these kind of people’s thinking, You’re mine, so I love you no matter what, I’ll take the bullet socially or physically, for you, because you would do the same. He felt that way about his mother and held a sadness for other kids who, although visited with greater forms of physical wealth and property, probably

never witnessed the kind of love that he saw practiced by his mother, who, after ensuring that the family was fed and bedded, retired to her place of honor, the big chair in her bedroom no one else in the house ever sat in. It had been their collective Christmas present to her in his sixteenth year, his last Christmas at home. They had all saved their earnings, pennies really, from the past summer’s work to buy it for her, not enough really for the years of hard work she suffered for them because of their father’s alcoholism. To this day, he had never touched a drink, hit of pot or any other legal or illegal drug for fear of becoming like him. Yes, he could see her now, the day’s partially unread newspaper spread over most of her lap her arms hanging loosely over the side of the chair, her feet in the matching house shoes they also bought resting on the foot stool (we called them footstools; to the more sophisticated, they were ottomans), a rough snore fluttering from her lips. As sleep prepared her resources for another sixty—to seventy-hour week, while the radio held a Gospel conversation with itself Yes he could understand that she would do anything for them. But why for him and the major? She owed them nothing. The easiest thing for her to do would be to turn them over to the death squad, saving her family the misery of this night. This must be one of those moments he thought that caused the old soldiers to say, “You will come to respect the truly patriotic enemy in the end as much as you hated them in the beginning.” One of those moments to when people frown at the returning warrior of any war who married the enemy and brought her or him home—to the shame of the parents and disgrace of the flag and disruption of a staid community, who just cannot understand how anyone could do a thing like that to God, country, baseball, Chevrolet and apple pie.

Miles thought all those people should be here on this frozen night in South Korea for they will never read about this in their hometown newspaper, because no local newspaper would be able to put it delicately enough so the refined sensibilities of middle American consciences would be able to relate the acts of

this young Korean girl lying on a dirt floor in a shack in the middle of nowhere giving herself to this animal of a man not just to save the lives of her beloved grandparents but also to save the lives of two American soldiers, one of which is destined to become the President of the United States of America.

He did not know how much longer he could watch this, he prayed for the monster man to finish, climax, but no, he seemed to want to destroy the girl to punish her for some private misdeed of his past, as he rose and fell on her again and again strewing the foulest of obscenities with each stroke. The others gathered in a circle around the foul deed, blocking the old couple’s view of the acts (they did not need to see this anyway) speaking in terse Korean and making vulgar gestures. She had not cried out, resisted, or fought in any way, thinking that it would just incite the others more; she was just keeping the bare minimum of the bargain struck. However, this seemed to annoy the big one, squelch his lust and not stave off or end the obscene, vulgar gesture which was its purpose. Her ive surrender, the questioning taunts of his men made him cajole her with questions more designed to keep him erect than solicit response or answers. “You like it, huh? Am I not big enough for you? Not good enough for you? You like it?” Still afraid to respond in kind for fear of getting the others more aroused than they already were, the girl remained silent, participating only with her body, causing the others to tease the big one even more. His manhood on the line, his partially nude body pounded harder into the girl, still nothing! Suddenly, with a plaintive moan, he stopped, rose to his feet, dropped his pants to his ankles. His stringed army-issued shorts was all that remained, he grasped the girl by her long silky straight black hair, forcing her face to the opening in his shorts where his manhood had softly retreated. She had chosen the wrong tiger. This one tamed too easily. She tried to bring him back to life, but now the emotion was gone from him also.

She continued, fear entering her actions; the others, sensing something was wrong, became bolder, stroking her hair, as she now worked feverishly trying to bring the big one to life (another pair of hands pulled the remains of her dress from her; she was nude; still she lingered). The pirate argued in his best broken English: “If she cannot please you . . . let her please us? We may all die tomorrow.” To salvage what was left of his image and avoid further embarrassment, he forced the girl to stand up. “I don’t please you? I’m not man enough for you? All right, you need more men, I give you more men.” He flung her to the floor, motioning to the others to have at her. The grandmother who had been biting her lips throughout the ordeal could no longer hold back. She screamed, grabbing the big one’s jacket sleeve, pleading in exceptional English, “No, no, god no, she’s had enough. She’s just a child. She’s done what you wanted! No more please! Do not punish her further for your failure. Prove your manhood another way.” Breaking her grip on his sleeve, pushing her to the floor, the big one retorted, “Shut up you old witch! I am Oten, the death man, and I do as I please.” Slowly, he withdrew his sword, raising it above his head, as the others stopped their assault on the girl to pay respect to the savageness of their leader. Miles could wait no longer. He pulled the trigger on his M-1 three times. Because of the confined space from which he was shooting, his aim was off causing the first two bullets to hit Oten in the right thigh, the third caught him square in his stomach, knocking him back into the group, as red molten lava erupted from the holes in his body. He landed in stunning surprise on top of the others. “Oh shit!” Miles heard Major Miller say, as he rolled through the hole in the wall to the freedom of the larger room’s confines. Oten’s crashing arrival, almost in slow motion, caused enough confusion that he got off two more shots point blank into the pirate’s face, totally disfiguring its features. Standing to his full height, he had no more use for the M-1 rifle (not agile enough at close range), so he discarded it in favor of his 45—more versatile and efficient—against targets that now, in various degrees of undress, were scrambling for their own guns. Miles was quicker. The adrenalin pumping

in his blood caused his mind to the earlier scene of rape and torment. He was both mad and ashamed that he had not acted sooner, damn the odds or the girl’s instructions. He had been selfish thinking of himself and the Major (mostly himself); he knew all along in the back of his mind what she might have to do to save their lives, and he never should have let her try it! Like if he had never gotten up on that stage, he would not have ended up flapping his arms and cackling like a damn chicken! The.45 at close range was doing its dirty work well. He hit another one of them straight on, as he turned with a half-drawn gun, making a mess of the bones of his chest and forearms. Another one bent over to access a weapon in his uniform, which he had thrown to the floor in his haste to be in on the fun, got his in the top of the head, which now looked more like the insides of a busted tomato. The forth one made it to his gun and was about to punch Miles’s ticket when the bullet from the major’s carbine sprung him around, causing him to fall across the red hot stove screaming, as he fell to the floor; withering in pain, his skin seemed to be melting, as he slid down the length of the stove, rolled over, and mercifully for him, died. The two, who had been on top of the girl when Oten landed on them, separated themselves from their lustful endeavor, rushing Miles. He managed to get off one shot, falling backward, which ploughed into the naked one’s groin (he deserved it); he became awash with blood from that area, as his forward momentum even after being shot caused his body to roll past Miles’s coming to rest in front of the hole in the wall blocking Major Miller’s line of fire and view of the room. Miles, barely recovering, was hit by the last Korean, knocking his 45 from his hand and in the same instant, using his head as a battering ram applied it to his chin, stunning him, they both scrambled for the closest weapon that being the Samari sword previously dropped by Oten. The Korean won the death race. Grabbing the sword, he sprung to his feet, preparing to wield the instrument of death for what he must have through was its divine purpose, killing Yankee imperialist.

But he never got to raise his arms above his head, because the girl who had freed herself during the fighting from the weight of Oten’s body, recovered one of the weapons of the fallen Koreans and fired it twice point blank, taking out both knee caps of Korean number six. He fell forward on the stubs which were all that was left of his legs. She kneeled to his height in front of him and seemingly void of emotion, she put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. What was left of his head left a trail of blood and brain down her naked thighs and smooth sun-colored legs. Miles helped the old couple to their feet, sitting the old man in a chair close to the warm glow of the stove; Then he moved to where the dead Korean’s body blocked the crawlway, rolled him over with the toe of his boot, because his shoulder was on fire with pain, knelt down and reached inside with his good arm and pulled Major Miller through the hole. This done, he turned to the girl who still knelt nude in the middle of the room gun in hand staring down at the blood and mess seeping down her body that only a few minutes ago was a man’s human head.

He wrapped the blanket, taken from the spot where her grandparents had sat watching in terror only a few seconds before around her and gently took the gun from her hand. He threw it into the far corner of the room out of harm’s way. The facts of what she had done, what had taken place sexually in front of the people she revered and wanted to respect her most, her own sexual bout with the devil, and the near death of her grandparents, caught up with her. She begins to shake and then convulse. She ran her hands over her bloody thighs and wiped the blood over her breast and face stating derisively in a sing song voice “I’m a nasty girl” I’m a nasty girl” and laughing in nervous spurts. Miles shook her to no avail, in an attempt to stop her because he knew what almost happened to him earlier, could happen to her if he allowed this to go on too long. She, like he, could lapse into a subconscious protective coma. So he made an on the spot decision. He hit her with a short sharp jab to the chin, knocking her

unconscious. The act brought a pained whimper from her grandmother. Picking her up, he carried her to where the old lady, who extended open arms and an understanding half smile sat. She took the girl from him, cradling her to her breast. Drained, he was totally drained a near dead object with a numbing pain shooting through his left shoulder nearly rendering him unconscious, a mind that slipped in and out of the present and past and still he managed to cross the room to where Major Miller lay, propped him up in a sitting position against the wall. Major Miller’s face still ed fear. With what reasoning ability he had left, he tried to comfort the major and arrest his fears. ‘Relax, sir, it’s all over.” But the major continued to stare past him to something or someone behind him. Then Miles felt that same eerie feeling he had when he returned home from that night on the town where he had just been made a fool of by cackling like a chicken in front of a roomful of strangers and especially the women he wanted most to impress on a first date, the one that he knew was “The one for him”, and even before he noticed the door ajar or turned the lights on to find his television gone, and that his house has been ransacked, meaning that someone has been in his home and worst yet, may still be there. He had that eerie feeling So, he entered slowly, hoping against hope that his worst suspicions wouldn’t be realized as he is doing now. As he turned to face Oten who raised to his full height, blood pouring like small waterfalls from the two slugs in his thigh, one hand holding an army-issued greenish handkerchief to the hole in his stomach (its purpose not being served effectively because Miles could see red innards escaping the fortress that was the size of a half-dollar coin), leering as he pulls a gun unnoticed by anyone before because it was hidden in his boot. He smiled that same smile he smiled before he turned the girl over to his buddies, only this time he was looking at Miles. It had all taken its toll, the long trek across this cold barren part of the world, the bullet wound that was frozen shut, but leaked little droplets of life and pain from time to time, the weight of carrying this frozen, sometimes babbling, sometimes bleeding Sam Magee over his shoulder and the constant fear of turning the wrong corner and coming face to face with death.

Whoever said that “A coward dies a thousand deaths but a brave man dies but once,” was wrong; in war, everybody dies a thousand deaths, and now it was his turn. Looking down the barrel of the Russian-made, Korean-issued revolver, he was frozen in place like a deer in the headlights for what seemed like an eon, taking a last look at the occupants in the room dead and alive, keying on the unconscious angel asleep in her grandmother’s arms, the major staring deadpan past him, he did not know how long they had to live, but watching the Korean’s finger closing on the trigger, he let the blackness overtake him, and he died knowing that he had lived long enough to see clearly that A Patriot Is a Patriot, Is a Patriot.

14

It Looks Like Rain

Jessie apologetically reasoning: ‘We’s had to put ’em ta sleep to make sure he didn’t try to escape whilst we’s brought em’ to ya’ll, he ain’t hurt none, I mean dead or noth ‘n, you knows what I means? He thought he had died in Korea; surely, he died in the gas chamber, but here he was, waking to the voice of his transporters and a gentle slap on the face and inquiring voice coming from a misty outline of a person, a person he had not seen in over fifteen years. “Carter, Carter, snap out of it, Carter.” To the transporters: “What did you give him? Damn! It if you hurt him in any way . . .” Where the hell was he? The bells that had been ringing in his head clang to a slow dull stop. Slowly, his senses began to clear further. He ed the celebration by his captors after they struck the final deal to deliver him to “Dem Wash-en-ton boys” and the decision by Jessie as he reasoned to Henry: “Dis is gonna be a long ride we’s only be stopping ‘long da way to piss ‘n such so we’s need to be surd dat he don’t do noth ten stupid like yell lin out to some body at a gas station or such.” Instructing: “So look in dat box in da truck bed n bring me dat needle wit da horse tranquilizer in it so’s we can be surd he will sleep all da way dere.” He tried to sit up with no success, so he relaxed back onto his elbows to allow for more of the brain-clearing process to take place. “Carter, you all right? Come on now, shake it off; (to a third blur) bring me a shot of that bourbon.” Helping him sit straight up, the two transporters held him upright while the drink was abruptly poured down his opened mouth . . . the sting of it made him cough. He coughed several more times gasping, breathing

deeply as he did so. Something was snapped under his nose. He reacted by sharply snapping his head back, almost falling from the table or whatever it was that he was sitting on. “Get him,” commanded the voice from somewhere in his past He was grabbed on either side by what seemed like a different set of hands then the transporters, stronger with the accompanying smell of Old Spice after-shave lotion that he ed smelling a long time ago when the guard pushed him up against the glass bearing wall in the execution room of the state prison. Now his stomach wretched, emptying the last of the tension, fear, doubt, and anxiety that had been his constant companion for what seemed like a lifetime into a bowl hastily held up by one of the new arms. He wretched hard into it, coughing spiting the phlegm from deep in his chest loosened by the bourbon, the smelling salts and time. In doing so, he cleared the last of the cobwebs from his brain coming face to face with the reality of his situation and the truth of the moment. “Thank God! He’s coming around; for a moment there, I thought we’d lost him, pulled off this whole plan for nothing,” a relieved voice stated. That voice was the final reminder that he had taken a long trip and had now arrived at the end, or was it the beginning? No matter, he no longer was unsure of where he was; he was among friends. The steel gray eyes that peered into his, the silver gray crown of hair that flowed, neatly combed over his ears and disappeared duck-tailing down the back of his head, the thin nose, high cheekbones and broad lips all belonged to Major Wesly Miller! A man whom he had carried for three terror-filled days and nights through a now-forgotten war, a man who as of the last election was now the President of the United States of America. ‘You made it, Carter,” the voice declared triumphantly. I told these doubting Thomas’s that you would make it.” To no one, the room: “Didn’t believe me, did you? “Didn’t think we could get him out of there? Let alone alive! But by God! We did it! We did it!” Continuing to no one, to Miles: “But I must be honest with you, even I was worried there for a while, especially after they told me you tried

to break out on your own; you almost killed the whole plan.” Flashed in his head: “Cool it, Carter, or you’re going to blow your ticket out of here!” The room was closed to the outside by walls that were not allowed windows, and it was furnished sparingly, a few scattered pieces of furniture here and there, a standard military hospital bed, an old comfortable-looking couch two chairs and a wall-mounted sink in the corner. A door at the far end of the room behind him looked like it led to another smaller room, Miles surmised, possibly a bath room. The window of the door immediately facing him was covered over with blackout paint. The occupants were a marked contrast to the furniture. Although, they were as few in number, they nevertheless had more discernable features. His two transporters, Jessie and Henry, sat sheepishly on the couch in the center of the room. But there were two others. One he could not make out. The one closest to him was tall and lean, with eyes that looked like silver droplets because they were hidden behind a pair of one-way sunglasses. His arms were like miniature tree trunks hanging loosely at his side. The clothes he wore fit awkwardly as they so often do on muscle-bound kind of guys. The though of reviewing the big guys clothes caused him to his mother proudly commenting as he left for the prom, “Boy, you wear a good suit.” His shoes were strictly military issue, likewise his haircut. The expression on his face told you that he was somewhere else, but Miles knew from experience that this was a misleading ploy, one move toward the Major-President by anyone who didn’t safe, and this seemingly disinterested bystander would take your head off! Advancing from the shadow of a dimly lit corner of the room came the other figure to contend with if one violated the “safe space” around the MajorPresident (he was just going to call him The President or Mr. President like all the rest of them did ); he was smaller by comparison to the big one, but you got the impression that he was more deadly. When he finally came full into the light, you were struck by the fact that he was ashen white! With no eyebrows or hair of any kind on his face or head. His hands were covered by white gloves, the black turtleneck sweater, pants, and

black leather jacket he wore made him look like some actor who had just stepped out of and old Vincent Price movie. He too wore black military shoes.

Miles wondered what the Major—President of the United States had in common with men like this. President Miller met the question on his face with a verbal one of his own. “Can’t quite put you’re hands on what is going on can you, Carter? Well don’t worry, you eat, get yourself a full night’s sleep, and it will all be made clear to you at the briefing first thing in the morning. By the way, I never believed that you killed that woman, but I couldn’t show my hand during the trial; there was too much going on. We had to wait for just the right time.” Adding: ‘I know you went through two lifetimes of hell on death row in prison; but I had people watching (motioned to muscular guy) you no matter what; nothing was going to happen to you.” “Major Miller, what are you doing here? How did I get here? I mean where am I? Where are we? How did I get here?” Major Miller soothing: “Easy, Carter, one thing at a time. “Like I said, first thing in the morning. For now, eat, sleep, I’ll bet you could use a decent meal after that prison slop you been eating for food the last couple of months.” Disengaging: ‘We will talk tomorrow; you’ll learn everything you need to know.” Miles brought his hands to his face to prevent the tears of relief, stress, and fear that were about to break the dam. Consoling: “You go on and let it all out. When that Korean died before he could pull the trigger and you ed out, ending up in the base hospital half out of you’re mind, you probably thought you had been to hell and back in a hand basket, but compared to what were up against this time around, it may make what you’ve been through, including death row seem like a stroll down Broadway.”

A hand on each of his shoulders looking him directly in the face eye to eye: “Get a good night’s sleep my friend, believe me, you’re going to need it.” Final departure: “I have to go now; I need to settle with these two boys.”

With that, he motioned to the transporters, the two other men, he, and they left the room, and Miles sat drained of all emotions save that he was alive and among friends. The President’s last words mapped across his brain, and somehow, he knew that he would never see Jessie and Henry alive again.

After some time, an elderly heavy-set black lady entered the room bringing a meal of steak, salad, baked potatoes, hot buttered cornbread, a piece of apple pie ala mode, and a bottle of French wine.

He shamelessly indulged himself while the lady observed with comion (she had to be a mother with kids) and pleasure, as he ravished the meal she obviously had prepared.

The next trip brought a pair of pajamas, white terry cloth bathrobe, soft fur-lined house shoes, and a TV that she plugged in and tuned it to the local sports station (the Lakers were playing); he fell asleep watching them.

She must have turned it off sometime after that because the night had gone frettingly. Once he awakened perspiring and it wasn’t on.

This was the real thing! With the familiarities of life and manhood all around him, the towel around his neck, the hot shaving lather on his face, the steam rising from the face bowl, and the tools of masculinity, Gillette double-edge razor, toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste in hand, and his favorite men’s after shave

lotion, Aramis which someone had placed there before he awoke (probably her) working on a week-old beard, brought life full face.

If we could only see the future, he had read once, we would truly appreciate the present. The truth of that statement would become blindingly clear as he was soon to come face to face with the present that his new life was to become.

But for now, he was alive, back in the “real world.” The shower was beautiful, just beautiful! He smoothed both legs, arms with Jerkins Lotion that had also been provided, slipped one leg then the other into the coffee brown slacks that must have been placed across his bed while he was in the shower.

He byed the boxer briefs, he never liked to wear that style, preferring jockey instead, threw the rustic gold sweater over his head, entering it one arm at a time, feeling the warmth of it as he pulled it down over his shoulders then abdomen. The socks were a lighter shade of brown and the penny loafers matched them perfectly. Someone had gone to great pains to get the kind and color of clothes he liked. It mattered. After all he was a Virgo. He brushed his hair into a conformable natural style and turned to meet the door as it opened. Which probably meant that someone had been watching him all of the time he was dressing (he wasn’t sure that he liked that), and then he thought, I have nothing to hide anymore, I’m dead. A smile came across his lips as the full realization of that fact sank in. Wow! That’s right! I’m dead! I mean they slipped the juice to me officially at 12:00 p.m. Pacific Coast Time in the state prison of California to cancel my debt to society. “Mr. Carter,” a new one, younger, but just as business like, was instructing him professionally, “would you please walk this way and follow me.” He didn’t know if she meant for him to walk exactly the way she was walking, which was with a great deal of swing and sway or for him to just follow her, he decided on the latter, following her through the open door down a short narrow

hall way to a flight of stairs that led to what seemed like another world compared to his former lodgings because of its size, the added light that engulfed the room and its design—early twentieth century San Franciscan borough—and color. The furnishings alone, made his previous space look like a cot at the Salvation Army. To his right, as he entered the room, was a well-stocked Mahoney bar with a silver coffee pot quietly percolating on an electric pot warmer at one end. The back of the bar where the liquor was stored had a floor-to-ceiling mirror the entire room was a sea of blue carpet. All of the walls were white. A shade lighter in some places, darker in others, but still white Pale blue colored drapes fell from the top of the windows like waterfalls stopping just inches from flooding the floor. Priceless antique pieces sat at proper angles to each other on matching antique furnishings, in tasteful arrangements here and there but not overcrowding the room and never approaching gaudiness. “Come on in, Carter,” warmly invited the president (he always called him by his last name, an old habit long formed in the military; they used your last name so as to get your attention and ensure that you know who is the officer or NCO who is giving the orders and who is the grunt receiving them), His voice rang from across the room. He was standing facing the door that Miles and the women had entered through with his back to an oversized painting of Lincoln that hung over a huge working fireplace that warmed the room, keeping it pleasant and comfortable. flanked on either side by his two stealth shadows. Already Miles sensed a pattern. The two of them were never more than ten feet from the president at all times.

Two wing-backed chairs faced the fireplace, a lone antique coffee table with legs that ended in claws sat between the two chairs, and as he advanced to meet the outstretched hand of the Major-President (he was going to have to decide which name to use), he thought he discerned a figure occupying one of them. “You look whole again; a good night’s sleep will do it every time, want some

coffee?” Miles shook his head no, while continuing on to greet the hand of the Major-President whose grip was firm and sure. “The hell with this.” The President took a step back still holding Miles’s hand in the handshake. “Is this any way to greet a man who saved your life?” Then pulling him full force to him chest to chest, the president engulfed him in a warm bear hug, holding him close for the better part of a minute patting him on the back while swaying him from side to side. Finally stepping back, he used the space to retrieve a handkerchief from its place on his jacket and wiped moisture from his cheeks. He looked Miles over from head to toe. The President opined, “Considering the mess you’ve been through in and out of the war, you look pretty good,” adding, “wouldn’t you say so, Mae Ling?” With that, he guided Miles around the chair on the right to face the person sitting in it. It did not seem possible, she looked younger, what had it been . . . fifteen . . . years or more at least, but there she was, with the same angel smile, that look in her eyes that pronounced her both woman and child warrior, lover, life saver, killer, and angel! The body that rose to meet him was more animal than human being, sleek, smooth, responding to the merest request of its master. The coal black hair, unlike the last time they were together, was now cropped in an American business cut at its end at the nape of her neck; the arms were like golden rods ending in five perfectly matching miniature extensions. Her oliveshaped eyes never left him all the while; she shook his hand in the formal greeting, although he stole fleeting glances, his eyes roaming to appraise the shapely legs that showed through the two slits on either side of her native dress to the open-toed shoes that caressed her child feet. In short, she was a living breathing work of art. “Do you me?” Not like this, Miles thought, more like a scared kid or wonder women, but not like this. “How could I forget you?” he retorted. “I often wondered what happened to you, but after I was released from the base hospital, they shipped me out, back state side, and I kind of lost track of everybody and everything.” She seemed pleased, as if it would have hurt her if he had not ed her warmly, but at the same time, Miles thought he detected a flush of her cheeks as

the memory of the last time they had seen each other came full to both of their minds. Miles could understand the flush on her part, as he was sure she was reliving that night in her mind and realizing that he watched her nude body arching in the firelight of the GI stove as she strove to satisfy the big Korean while her grandparents watched as the others touched private places of her body, lauding her performance, stripping her of the smallest degree of dignity and respect, and it was that thought that he had last seen her nude in that way that was causing the flush in her cheeks Even in this clear bright room, the president and the others present, he was sure that she was ing that night, and for all intents and purposes, she was still standing nude in front of him now. The flush was not one of shame, but of a woman making with a man in a physical way but at an inopportune time, sort of like being at a cocktail party with someone you’ve been dating for some time and looking across the room and seeing the person of your dreams. And they’re looking back! They did the proper formal embrace—she smelled like a lily field on a summer’s day—then stepped back while still holding hands, still staring into each other’s eyes. Miles declared, “You’re all grown up and even more beautiful than I .” She nodded her acknowledgement and approval of his statementappraisal of her and reluctantly removed her hand from his to accept the cup of tea that the lady who led Miles into the room was serving. Miles took a glass of orange juice from the tray as he watched her trim body return to where she had been sitting when he entered the room. Having returned the room to normal, the lady’s next stop was to serve the President in the chair he had taken, allowing the long reunion between Miles and Mae Ling. “Sit here,” the President instructed, patting the seat of an at least hundred-yearold chair placed next to him, also brought by the lady who had escorted him into the room. Following the President’s instructions settling in the chair adjacent to him, he began to feel the fires in that old GI pot-belly stove, stoke up again. As he listened to the President, he did all he could to concentrate on what was

being said, even though every fiber of his spiritual body was tuned to the female animal resting not ten feet away. “There’s something threatening going on around me. I can smell it. Something bigger than anything we’ve been up against before,” the president began. Miles did his best to listen intently, because the president he knew as as a major was not a finger-pointer, a -the-buck when things got hot or someone who used the little guy as a scapegoat in his dealings—probably one of the main qualities that got him elected by a landslide. No, he was the kind of a guy who, when his guts were spilling out into his hands, took the time to assure a young Korean girl and a black dogface that if they helped him to live through that nightmare, he would dedicate the rest of his life to beginning the nation on the long journey to practicing what its Constitution preaches, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, with liberty and justice for all. And here he is these many years later, still dedicated just as much as when he lie dying of the gunshot wound on that dirty mud floor in Korea, still trying to keep that warrior’s promise. Again asking Miles’s help. Miles was glad that she finally took pity on him and left the room. For it had been like holding on to one end of a live wire while she was sitting there, you were being singed and wanted to let go but couldn’t. The rest of the briefing went as those things do, the more Miles heard the more he understood why at no time the president had asked him if he would undertake the mission, for he knew this was a cause that he could or would refuse. “There is going to be no glamor to this. It’s going to be a thankless mission. If you’re successful, you won’t even be able to take any bows, I can’t even give you a public medal, because the fact of the matter is, you’re dead, you don’t exist, and all the time you’re risking your life for this country, there will still be people who will move out of any neighborhood if and when someone who looks like you moves in. You know that don’t you, Miles?” Yeah, he knew that, but he was seeing the other end of the spectrum. Picturing little Lynnette not being allowed to go to the school of her choice, and a small smile came over his face, because for a fleeting moment he saw Lynnette standing on the winner’s platform in the Olympics, setting behind the CEO’s

desk of a major corporation, then leading a revolt in the streets. No, he wasn’t worried about the Lynettes and Mae Lings of the world, they only needed the chance, and he was going to do all he could in his lifetime to give it to them. “I know that it is common practice nowadays for a leader when he or she may be a little low in the polls or no longer seems to control their party to conjure up skeletons in the closet of this or that bogeyman to keep the people or his party on his or their side, but believe me, Carter, this is not that . . . it’s not that. There is something serious and sinister going on, something that is going to hurt this country in a way we may never recover from, ways that we have never been hurt before, something unthinkable! “That is why I need you to help me get to the bottom of it. In short, I need an outside man! Someone I trust 100%. It can’t be one of my staff snooping around; everyone knows them and would sniff them out in their first five minutes of questions. “I can’t use the FBI, CIA, or any of the other intelligence agencies, because I don’t know who is in this thing and who isn’t, and besides, they’re are all following each other around all the time anyway. “No, you’re it. You are just what I need. You have the investigative experience; you’re fingerprints have been taken out of the government data banks because you’re dead! You don’t exist. “There are only seven people who know you exist. Mae Ling and me, the guard who istered the drug that paralyzed you in prison, his wife, who is the lady who brought you up here, the lady who cooked for you last night, my personal nanny who practically raised me, and my two associates.” Miles interjected, “And the two guys who drove me here.” The president, after accepting a confirming nod from one of his two stone men, with finality said, “No, no, there are just seven, Miles.” Understanding the full meaning of the president’s pronouncement, Miles now had the answer to the question he had posed earlier to himself of what did the president need these kinds of men around him for?

Continuing with his protestations: “Even if you left tracks, they wouldn’t know where to start to trace you. They would hit a dead end(no pun intended) You can come and go like the wind leaving no trace of ever having been anywhere.” Warriors are different from soldiers; soldiers will fight and kill for almost anybody or cause regardless of the right or wrong of it, merely needing the justification that “it’s my duty or that it is the right thing to do or that it is for god and country.” The flag is flown, and they willingly do the biddings of kings, selfmade generals despots and illegitimate presidents, with their only concern being the degree of their chances of success. But warriors, which is why he found the war (Police Action) he had just survived problematic, will only fight the fair and principled fight, and in winning will not require the loser to live without honor or dignity, because they realize that they are the enemy to the enemy, and that victory although won, is a small defeat for everyone. For every time we humans slip to resolving our differences through physical conflict, we lose some of that quality of what we are supposed to have that make us the superior animal here on earth, that which made us different enough to have been chosen as the earth’s keeper.

The President and Mae Ling were warriors, and they were now making Miles warrior three; the rest of the briefing went as those things do, until the President mentioned that the wheels of government were still operating although slowly, proof of which was his recent selection of a prominent ob-gyn from LA, Dr. Jonas Hart for surgeon general. If he were any other race, the president would have seen the flush of his skin, the vent of his eyes, his hair standing on end, but because he was black, the President only suspected a stomach discomfort in asking, “Are you feeling well? ‘Can I use your bathroom?” Miles managed. “Yes, its just in the next room. Second door on your left,” the president pointed out. He just managed to lock the door behind him and fall down in front of the toilet before yesterday’s meal and today’s drinks hawked into the toilet bowl, turning the clear water into a messy mix of his frustrations. “Miles? Are you all right, Miles?” came through the French door’s pleated vents.

A second, then again, “Miles are you all right? Can I get you something? Mae Ling inquired. Less than forty-eight hours in his new life, and the name of the man who had contributed most to his ending up on death row went flashing across his wheelhouse at warp speed, Flushing the toilet and turning on the faucet to cover his silent empty air sobs, he lied through the door. “Yea, yea, I’m OK, it must have been just a stomach cramp. I think I ate too much of that great food last night, or something like that. I’ll be OK, just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be out. An accepting but quizzical reply: “Oh all right, but you’re sure you’re all right?” Mae Ling double-checked. Regaining some of his equilibrium: “Yea, I’ll be fine as soon as I splash some cold water on my face and wash my hands. Still concerned: “All right then.” Departing: “I’ll see you back in the living room.” Mae Ling confirmed. His reflection in the vanity mirror made it clear that he was not ready, not nearly composed enough to face the two of them yet. So he lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down to think and give himself time to peer deeper into this puzzle. Dr. Hart was moving into the upper echelons of government. Why? What was he scheming to do that he would need government clearance or access to pull off? And who proffered Dr. Hart to the President? Square that triangle and you might begin to find some of the answers to the who, what, where, and why of the President’s suspicions. Feeling that he now had a leg-up, he made a performance of flushing the toilet again as testimony to the seriousness of his stomach ailment and washed his hands loudly, just in case a certain person had not fully disengaged to the living room and needed to know that he was about to exit to do so. Reaching the living room just as Mae Ling took her seat (ah ha! She had lingered at the door), he walked to the fireplace held his hands out to the fire,

rubbing them together in an effort to demonstrate his return to normalcy. The President concluding as though nothing had happened, “There is nothing glamorous about it, it is a thankless job, and what’s worst, even if you are successful, you won’t be able to take any bows because I, we, can never tell the country that you exist, not even the next President, who may or may not need your services. If we see a need, we will just have to fill it. No proclamations or questions asked. “Understand what you’ve signed up for. We are a secret cabal for freedom as long as we live.” Completing his argument for Miles’s enlistment in their inner sanctum, the president concluded with: “That is the greatest sacrifice a citizen can make for his country, and I am asking you to make it. To be there for this country whenever it needs you, no matter who is in power. Our job from here on out is to protect and serve, period!”

Warriors are more humane than soldiers, and Miles could see the humanity deep in this warrior’s face, as the agony that constituted the deep fears and suspicions which he was now voicing manifested themselves there. To quote his favorite uncle loise, whom he bonded with much better than his father and who often took him fishing although he knew Miles did not like the sport, especially the gutting and cleaning of the fish, who was fond of nonconnected mutterings: “Your raincoat don’t have to get wet for you to know it’s gonna rain.” Even on a clear day in sunny California, with the sun high in the sky and the Lakers in the midst of a winning streak, It Looks like rain.

15

Ain’t Gonna Study War No Mo

Even as a kid, there were decisions to make. You did not see them as hard decisions because they usually involved or revolved around things that you pretty much wanted to do. But all the decisions he made after ing the army were made for him: when to eat, what to wear, how far to walk or run, how many push-ups to do. All stuff that made sense, so he didn’t question it; mostly because everybody else was doing or had to do the same things. But this last decision, to rescue this dead body, to become responsible for the well-being of a perfect stranger. A rich white one at that. This went far past any decisions he had made as a member of the armed forces of the United States and tested the teachings long bred in him—do unto others—of his doctrinaire Southern Baptist mother. And this decision had cost him. The cold pain of his near-dead, then on fire, left shoulder and the weight of his selected burden slouched over his right one were constant reminders of the price he had paid and continued to pay each regretted terror-filled day. Why had he done it? Even stopped or paid attention to the mournful moans coming from a body half covered from the results of that day’s snowfall? Why? Hell, the place was awash with pain. It wasn’t like this was the first time he had ed a bleeding snow pile with half a body part protruding from it or a boot, a rifle, or even a head. He had stopped at those opportunities just long enough to ensure that he could

do nothing that would contribute to keeping death’s door open a little longer for the interviewee. In most cases just long enough to share a cigarette; take a last letter back to base camp to mail for a poor departing soul? But he had to it, although cursing the onition that surely, he had ed others and he had not stopped at all; maybe not as pronounced as this one, but in a war this wide, with a path of destruction this deep, there had to have been more like this one in his eighteen-month tour of duty that he had ed half dead. But ing this one was like ing the Salvation Army worker standing next to the pot, gently ringing his bell, reminding you that he wasn’t asking for himself but for his fellow man of which you were one, and if you walked on by, did not put something in the pot, or at least acknowledge the need with an inquiring glance, someone would die. And the world would be the worst for it. Someone, a life that the smallest effort by you could help save would perish. So you stopped, as he had done that ice-cold day in Kansas where he had just finished his advanced training crossing the street to the train station to head home for leave, to fumble in his pockets for some coins—ended up including several dollars from his recently cashed paycheck—to put into the pot. Receiving the same muffled “God bless you, son” from the guardian of the pot as from this near-dead body he now heaved over his shoulder. We make too light of war, glamorizing it in painless movies while we down a hot dog, hot buttered popcorn, and a Coke, ooohing and ahhing at the special effects blood and planned explosions that take off fake arms or legs of a stranded cast member soon to be saved (just in the nick of time) by a Cavalry and superstar hero who only ever get just flesh wounds. To be grunted away as he mounts a last victorious counterattack to crush the enemy. In that temperature-controlled theater, we don’t feel the true depth of war, not the core deep pain of a limb as it is shattered by a bullet, or a hand grenade exploding against a human body, or a tank hit by an incendiary bomb that cooks the skin off the crew inside. While all the people outside, fellow soldiers, comrades in arms, can do is to put the earplugs issued for this unthinkable occasion in their ears, or failing that, place their hands to their ears to block the screams or scatter out of hearing distance but still have to view the horror as the bodies inside sizzle and snap.

Still, the people inside those theaters viewing the staged horrors of war will most likely, spurred on by the latest stay-at-home soldier, politician vote to start another one at the slightest provocation in the name of God, country, Chevrolet and apple pie! With the dull pain in his left shoulder and the frozen words “God bless you, son, God bless you” of the major seeping through his soul, he, for one, made a final decision to take with him to his grave, that if he got out of this one alive with anything nearly approaching good health and a choice, he was one soldier who would donate to any movement, stand with any cause, and take any side as long as it said we Ain’t Gonna Study War No Mo.

16

These Guys Are Good!

Mae Ling informed over the telephone: “The guy who worked on the plane is just a handy man so, we got nothing there.” She added, “But when we checked the tail codes you sent, to see who the plane was ed to, jackpot!

“We found the owner to be one Mr. Jay Cookman of the world-famous Cookman Enterprises, and your flunky, his only L.A. employee, one Edward (Eddy) Russell, is carried on his company payroll.”

Now, in a Sherlock Holmes sleuthing tone, she said, “We must ask ourselves why is a supposedly die-hard liberal Beverly Hills doctor depositing on the private plane in the wee hours of the morning, a black Vegas hooker to be delivered to America’s number one archconservative?

Changing to her best Ricky Ricardo voice, Mae Ling continued, “Seems like your doctor got some splain’in do.” Miles surmised in his head that Mr. Cookman has a thing with race; he dug black chicks, sort of a can’t live with them and can’t live without them quandary, a side of him he was guessing that none of his die hard conservative friends knew about.

Before he could ask the next obvious question, the answer came streaming through the other end of the line.

“The girl used to work Vegas. Hadn’t been working there long before she caught the eye of one of the floor bosses who hit her up with the sixty four thousand question, you wanta make some real money? She did. So he took her off the floor, put her in his private stock. About six months ago she was sent to LA and was told to the good doctor who promptly got her hired at the local pharmacy across the street from his office.

“Probably a you take her or I take my pharmaceutical business somewhere else deal. Besides, if she breaks anything, they can just take it out in trade.” He heard the gasp at the other end of the line. “Gosh, I can’t believe I said that, please forgive me? It won’t happen again.”

Acknowledging her apology, he instructed her to continue. “That’s about it for now, except that Mr. Cookman’s companies were very deeply involved in genetic and biological engineering until about six months ago. About the time the hooker arrived in Beverly Hills.

“He begins to sell them off piece by piece until now he only has one, a chemical company with only one government contract which is with the Pentagon.”

The kicker: “His address is 12342 Walsh Road in Atherton, California 94027. Home phone number 415-854-5060. There’s more, he had two children. One dead, a son. And a daughter who attended Berkley in the late sixties; anyway, according to her rap sheet, she didn’t inherit his love of color because it shows that she was arrested for involuntary manslaughter toward the last part of her senior year.”

Tying it in a bow, she said, “The report reads that she was going to her dorm one

night after a basketball game on campus, and a black guy she had been seen with at other times on campus approached her, made some lewd advances toward her, threatened her, tried to rape her, and she, fearing for her life, took out a.22 caliber pistol her father had made her carry because of the unstableness on college campuses at the time, and killed him.

“The charge was later reduced to aggravated assault, and she was asked to leave school without receiving her degree. She has not been heard from since. Her last known address was a commune somewhere in Mill Valley. The stress of the trial, the loss of her daughter, and the rumors that her father’s men had actually done the killing because the daughter had actually been involved romantically with the black guy, and Mr. Cookman wanted to break them up caused a serious rift in the family.”

“The plea the daughter took to divert attention from her father and just to shut the whole thing down drove her mother to the brink of insanity, so Mr. Cookman had her committed to the Wayside Home for the mentally insane on 2977 Appalachian Road in San Diego, California, which is where she is to this day.”

She signed off with “I hope this helps or at least gets you started on the right foot . . .”

Miles could not believe that just three days ago, he had overnighted the pictures and information to her, and now he knew three new players, motives, and home address of the main player.

He had to it that These Guys Are Good!

17

Freedom’s Flag

“You two guys set up a lookout post just over that ridge, and if you see anything, anything at all, aim you sniper’s sight so the beam will hit the window of the building so we can get the hell out of there,” Lieutenant Engleheart instructed Privates Mason and Pine. A scraping six-foot two of a man, dead out of the midwest character book, he could have been John Wayne, except for the fact that he was actually in a real war, distinguishing himself before he was twenty-one and, thus, was promoted to first lieutenant with honor. It was a fact that he never threw in your face or practiced a false patriotism about. He sat with his men, but never drank, he played cards with them but never for money, but when it came down to the real army stuff, he marched every mile, did every push-up, broke down every door, usually the first one through them. His Midwest Bible belt upbringing caused him to see every man in his platoon as a child of God; therefore, while he expected them to perform to the highest level of the staunch military code of honor, he didn’t ride you like many of the commissioned officers and NCOs did, if you did your job to the best of your ability; he left you alone. This engendered a fierce loyalty from every one of his men. Which is why each of them, Miles included, had volunteered to go along when he asked for volunteers. “This ain’t gonna be no cakewalk,” he warned,” we will be deep in enemy territory, just our squad, no communications with HQ until and if our mission is successful and we make it back to this side of the line.” Seriously warning: “So think real hard about what it is you’re g up for,

because I can’t give no guarantees about whether any of us will make it back in one piece, if we make it back at all.” When all of the hands remained in the air after his disclosure speech, he put his hands on his hips and looking at the group with the pride of a true leader and the heart of a born patriot. He said in a broken voice, “You guys, you guys . . .” Before he could complete his phrase, he was interrupted by the Portuguese Pine. “You didn’t think we was gonna let an amateur like you go it alone, did ya? Hell you’d probably louse the war up single-handed.” They all burst out in laughter. They loved the guy every man jack of them. Committed to the raw truth: “I would be lying if I did not say how proud I am that men like you would decide to put your lives in my hands, trust me to lead you at such a desperate time on such a dangerous mission.” Near tears: “Believe me it speaks to my soul about how you feel about me, personally, and what kind of nation produces such people.” Then moving to stand nearer the center of the group so as to be able to see into their souls: “But if I have to leave one or all of you, I’ll do it! And you have to be prepared to leave me if you have to.” This is a critical, vital operation, and we each have to be prepared to do whatever is required to save the mission. That and only that is what is important.”

Two flashes of the red beams hit the windows of the building. But they couldn’t leave; they didn’t have the maps yet. They were still waiting for the shifts to change and their inside man who was the plant manager in charge of the maps that designated troop movements, storage facilities, ammo dumps and camouflaged airfields to come on board, all information that he had access to that in the hands of the allies and frontline troops could save thousands of lives and maybe shorten this war by years instead of days and months. No, they had no choice, they had to wait, they had to get those maps. Knowing the answer before he posed the option, Miles voiced the obvious. “Lieutenant, we should go, we got the signal over five minutes ago. Maybe the procedure changed; maybe he won’t make it today. But we got to go.” Looking at the absolute resolve in the lieutenant’s eyes, he knew he was not

going to leave, which meant they were not going to leave him there alone and further meant that there was a very good chance that they might all die tonight. Then he thought, This is one of the reasons that leaders and countries should think long and hard about and before starting wars. Exhaust every avenue of resolution, stand up to the war profiteers who are in it just for the money and refute those who wave the flag in the faces of our young men and women charging them, using that same false patriotism of God, country and apple pie, that John Wayne and all the others stay at home,cowboy soldiers parade out to pay their debts for their salaries earned and promised. Because someone has to actually fight these wars, someone has to lose an arm, leg or both. Someone has to become incontinent for life or see that hill not taken that he or she had been told that if it is not, will threaten the security of mom, dad, chevrolet and apple pie. Someone is going to be dedicated, trained, and in the end, charged with a mission, a mission they believe is right and righteous and absolutely vital to the security of his or her nation, and they are going to be ready to give their very lives to save that mission just as Engleheart’s squad is prepared to do tonight. Before that sacrifice is asked of any man woman or child to give that which cannot be replaced by any medal, protestation of heroism or patriotism, that which may leave them needing medical treatment for the rest of their lives, which when the war is over and the threat diminished, the same country that asked them to sacrifice their very lives to save it, will vote down raising necessary taxes to pay for medical treatmen needed by the survivors, because it may stretch the budget, before we ask that which may not be right, proper or even required, we must know the true girt of what is being asked.

Because someone, like Lieutenant Engleheart and his platoon, black, white, yellow, and brown may hear the call and take you seriously, believing every word of it and end up like they are tonight, just outside of hell just waiting for the devil to open the door.

“That’s the whistle for changing of the shifts, we can still pull this off,” Lieutenant Engleheart breathlessly informed Miles and the two other dogfaces with him. Luckily, the peasants wanted to get home to their peasant wives and children, so the plant emptied rapidly, leaving the replacement crew to settle in their respective replacement positions and begin to earn their proper dues from the state for a day’s work The office of the plant supervisor was not well lighted, where their man worked, and the papers they were risking their lives to secure and deliver to HQ were housed in it, at the far end of the plant. The state didn’t waste money where it didn’t have to (their man was just a working supervisor) they did not need to flood his office with light for him just to smoke cigarettes and watch the working men and women through his dirtstained interior office windows. He had one standing light in the corner of his office where his desk was, in case he needed to read any of the maps rolled up and stored in various cabinets in the room. To inspect the workers, he needed only to peruse the plant floor or listen for the hum of one of the war machines to stop to know if and where there was trouble. The trio could see the red lights flashing on the factory window more insistently as they stole their way along the walls of the building, staying out of the moonlight, stopping only to hear if a stray car transcended the adjacent company road. Satisfied they were still invisible, they continued on to stop just under the window to their man’s office. Dropping the cylinder container which contained the maps and a lot more gold to be mined later back at HQ, out of the window, the manager spoke in very plain English to the open window. Retrieving the roll of hundred dollar bills from the other end of the transaction on the return string which he pulled up from Lieutenant Engleheart: “You tell them at HQ that this is it, this last payment is the final amount I needed to pay for the ports for me and my family to get out of this god-forsaken country, I’m taking no more chances so tell them don’t ask.”

Emphasizing statement: “You tell them that! Don’t try to me. I’m busting up the radio so no one will be able to me after this.” Lieutenant Engleheart, guiding the tube as it slid down the side of the factory exterior walls controlled by the thin strands of bamboo string, collected it when it reached the level where a man standing on the ground could catch it and ed it on to Miles and company with direct orders, “Get this back to HQ, don’t stop for no one.” Miles not understanding the order, questioned, “But, sir, aren’t you coming with us? We got the damn stuff; so what do you want to hang around here any longer for? There was that I know you won’t understand this, but I got to do this look in his eyes, as he turned to his loyal band. “You heard what he said, he wants out, he’s going to destroy the radio he uses to communicate to HQ, that means were going to lose our eyes and ears in this part of the country.” Miles said, pleading on behalf of the platoon to Lieutenant Engleheart. “Sir, we could understand if we had failed our mission; you’re wanting to penetrate deeper in country to see if we can scrounge up something, anything that would make this trip worthwhile, but we got what we came for, so why are you doing this?” Lieutenant Engleheart, final orders: “You tell HQ I’m going to take over his radio, they will have a new call sign starting tomorrow night, and my call sign will be ‘Old Glory.’ Now get out of here before you cause us all to get caught.” No more reasoning was allowed. Bear hugs and weepy-eyed separation all around, then to Miles before he parted: “I told you before we left what the most important thing was, this isn’t about one or a hundred thousand dogfaces like us, we’re replaceable, our country is not.” A final bear hug and a formal respectful salute, and they left him there to sew one more stitch in the Freedom’s Flag.

18

Race Car Driving Is Dangerous

Miles handed her the prescription paper containing her address and telephone number, which she took laughingly as she let him slide past her near-nude body through her apartment door. The minute he cleared the doorway, it hit him, if there is one thing that is common among most of us in this world, it is the preconceptions that we have of people due to judging them by first impressions, their jobs, the kind of car they drive, or what kind of person we think they’re supposed to be. Case in point, unlike Dr. Hart’s office, Miles was taken aback by the tasteful way the colors and furniture of Ms. Wilson’s apartment had been blended to match the carpets, by the quality and variety of art which hung and rested in highlighted places on the walls and designated places throuhtout the room; even the bar glasses complemented the décor. Nothing was unnecessary or unfunctional in the room. The sound system which took up most of the far wall was playing, soft and low “Chances Are” by Johnny Mathis. The crystallized chandelier that hung like an interior moon in the center of the room was out; all together still; the room was blanketed by a soft glow coming from the cracking fireplace near the center of another wall. At a right angle to the fireplace wall was a four-poster, king-sized bed which was raised about eight inches off the floor on a platform whose side s were covered with the same deep brown fur-like material that the spread that covered the top of the bed was made of, giving the impression in the fireside glow of a small brown pond floating in that section of the room.

The four-poster throne was adorned by a very expensive hand-painted, goldframed picture of her lying nude on the same bearskin rug that tonight lie staring into the fireplace, hanging above it. Floor-length curtains on another wall were open to allow the natural light from the city to invite itself into the room to further infuse an aura of beauty and peace. He thought, what it must be like for her to sleep in this tranquility. A doorway lead off to a hallway which he surmised from the soulful aroma he inhaled coming from that direction, led to the kitchen. And she cooks too! Closing the door behind him, her eyes followed him across the room to where he had stopped at a pair of sliding doors which exposed a step down patio that revealed a workout bicycle in the far corner and in its center a fully set dinner table for two, complete with a bottle of champagne being chilled in a silver chalice and two candles gently flickering in the early fall night. The picture was completed by matching salt and pepper shakers in the form of silver horse heads in the center of the table (the spice came out of their noses when you shook them), cream-colored plates trimmed in silver (what else) knife, fork, and spoons at proper angles on each side of the plates resting on monogrammed matching cloth napkins. Her style, grace was the opposite of Dr. Hart’s. She knew the what, why, and wherefore of everything in her life much like Jeane, which is one of the main reasons he was attracted to her; from their first date, he knew that she fit the marriage pronouncements of his mother who had always stressed: “Son, if you marry, marry up, marry someone smarter than you are so that you each have something to give and teach the other. Yeah, Jeane had a great bod, a disarmingly warm (just don’t hurt me ) smile, but mostly he knew she fit his mother’s criteria; she was inherently intelligent. As was Ms. Wilson. Possibly because of her life, experiences—meeting, and mixing with the rich and powerful—had made her intuitively intelligent and independent. Or maybe, she just had better taste than Dr. Hart. He could smell her perfume as she closed in behind him, not because it was cheap or that she applied it too heavily, more because it was like a breath of a summer meadow gently flowing across the room ing the moonbeams that stared in through the double-glass patio doors.

“Can I take your jacket, I don’t think you are going to need it here, you’re supposed to go to bed and stay warm,” she teased. He turned to take in all of her. She was wearing a bedspread-matching soft brown see-through peignoir negligee tied at the waist with a satin belt; the garment was cut low from the neck revealing those breasts to the fullest. She turned after extracting his black sports jacket (hey, he could be cool too) and walked to a door that he had not noticed before, because it represented the backside of a floor-to-ceiling mirror; seeing two of her as she approached the mirror required that he remind himself of what he was here for. There was no bra or uniform to hide anything this time. The panties she wore were a step above being a full out G-string. The negligee clung to her legs as she crossed the room to hang up his coat, forming a wispy cover and made the tan she already had appear darker where the gown came in with her skin. The blonde hair that had been partially professionally pinned back at their first meeting now rested in all of its glory at its natural length at her shoulders. He thought. You lucky dog! What have you done to deserve all of this and heaven too? Over her shoulder: “So what will it be?” He told her. “Is that all? “Are you in training or something?” Suggestively: “Or are you saving your strength for a special event of some kind? She wisped around him, taking up the position of bartender and busied herself behind the bar. “Orange juice and Canada Dry Ginger Ale,” she chided at his order. “Are you sure you don’t want something a little stronger than that?” Miles reaffirmed his order as he took a seat on the opposite side of the bar. Leaning over the bar to give him his drink, the whole top of her gown opened to his gaze. Men, real men, dream about women like this, women who aren’t just women because of the fact that they were born with a female body so they try to make the best of it. All the time not really knowing what is expected of them or what to do with all that power and glory that makes up the true mystery of feminism. So some flaunt it to the point of cheapening it, some try to hide it, still others try to force it down your throat, and others are so uncomfortable with it that they reject it so much so that to be around them you almost begin to believe that God

has cursed them rather then blessed them with the miracle that started the world. But not this kind of woman; she was in it for all it was worth, enjoying the thrill of being female, because she seemed to know that at the end of this thing called life, what all or any of us will have is the memory of the experiences, and it is up to us to make those experiences beautiful ones. So live! The food, the drinks, the small talk, it was all like a soap box derby race car poised at the top of the run, and when the starting barrier was removed, it’s predetermined journey to the finish line began. Building up speed along the way, going faster and faster until it ended up where they now arrived breathing deeply, savoring the race, as the thrills of the race itself slowly drifted into a world of things ed. Oh, but the ride had been great! Along the way, she had wrapped her long legs around him locking her to him so tightly that at times he could hardly get his next breath, all the while nibbling on his ear as though they were still at the dinner table and she was finishing up her desert. Her hands searched every secret of his body, bringing him to previously unknown pleasures, stimulating deeper desires. Now, her wet tongue was everywhere, covering the length of his body. His chin, the nape of his neck, the nipples of his chest did not escape. Her lips pulled his navel into her mouth so that the waiting tongue could have its way there too. He fought to withhold sighs of ecstasy when it arrived between his legs seeking to bury itself in the bushes that surrounded the prize that was the object of the search in the beginning. Throughout the search, the seeking, there was a soft, almost kitten-like purr, a murmur that came from her. This was a woman. A free, sensual woman. There was no pretense in her! Again, her hands added to the desire that her tongue and lips had fanned to a mounting fire; they dug deep into his back then circled his manhood, causing him to raise, ready to do her bidding. But she had more she wanted to accomplish before she would allow the arrow to pierce the target.

Things like taking his large toe into her mouth as though it were the real thing. Sucking it deeper and deeper, coming up for air just long enough to lock her glaze onto his, satisfied that they were both still on the same mission; reengaging, she nudged him to turn onto his stomach, giving her tongue permission to start another sensual safari up the backside of his legs, over the calf muscles, over the mountains of his buttocks. Then, she pulled herself up to a position that allowed her to function as though she were the man and he was the woman performing penetration. No women had done that to him before. He squeezed his pillow to his mouth to stifle outright pleasure, she gently pulled it away saying, “Do not deny me the pleasure I am working for, don’t hold anything back from me, I want to hear as well as feel your response.” With a silken move, her tongue was behind his ear, her voice spoke in a baby soft tone. “Believe me, I will let you know when you please me.” She had used long moments to bring him to this point, now his hands and tongue were returning touch for touch; this was not lovemaking, this was sex. This was two people, a man and a woman, having downright righteous sex! Working to satisfy each other’s deepest sensual needs. His tongue was now probing, causing the nipples on her breast to go cherry red, rising to a hardness that matched his own; finally, she allowed his access to her warm, scented treasure. He applied his tongue to its best use; she rewarded his work with hands on the back of his head, encouraging him to explore deeper, legs that came up and rested over each shoulder and ed behind his head, all the while emitting sounds that were as much animal as human. When she had arched her back, squirmed, shivered, and cried out, demanding that he wait no longer that she could, would not wait any longer, he knew it was time to claim the prize. Slowly, he rose to face her, her eyes were molten lava, breast rose and fell in uneven gasps, matching her accelerated breathing; arms wrapped around him, legs opened to receive him, then they were one. Together on that race car ride that ended here at the bottom of the hill both holding on to each other as though there was still a chance they might fall out.

They lay that way for a long, long, time, late into the night saying nothing; two people who, for all to brief a time, had shared the epitome, the essence of raw sex. Then softly, she said, “I know what you really came here for tonight. It was about that poor woman wasn’t it? Well I will tell you everything I know about it and she did.” It was something but still he needed more. Somewhere before daybreak, he quietly slipped from his side of the bed and made his way down the hall, past the pleasant aroma still emitting from the kitchen, to the bathroom. He eased into the shower, turned on the water, mixed it to the proper temperature (regardless of the water shortage, he liked it hot), and proceeded to take a long shower. Emerging some minutes later, using the extra large towel secured from the nearby cabinet, not the rack, he toweled himself dry then still rubbing his hair with the part of the towel that was not wrapped around his waist, he returned to the bedroom; it was time to finish the primary business of his visit. Feeling the chill of the late night air, he pondered: Had he left the patio door opened?Unresolved, He silently closed it, went to the fireplace, revived the smoldering ashes to a flame, added two logs from the pile neatly stacked (he liked this women at home much more that at work) at the side of the hearth, warmed himself for a moment, returned to the patio, and ed—Yeah he had closed that door, moved through it—poured two more glasses of champagne in the glasses left there, threw the towel over his shoulder so that he could carry them, and returned to the roller coaster ready for the final ride, the one which would resolve his yet unanswered questions about Stella. She was lying facedown with the pillow over her head as if to block the noise of the shower so that she could sleep a little longer. He sat the glasses on the night stand on the side of the bed where he had slept, leaned over the bed to her side to wake her. That’s when he saw the hole in the pillow. Even suspecting what he would see if he removed it, did not prepare him for the grizzly sight that presented itself. The bullet had entered her forehead, exiting the left side of her head, taking parts of her brain with it, leaving bits and pieces deposited on the sheet. Pulling the sheet back further revealed blood everywhere. It was a professional

job. And whoever had done the handiwork knew Miles or someone was in the shower; why hadn’t they finished him too? As he looked closer, hoping against hope that there might be a chance that she was still alive, the screaming sirens answered his question. He jumped across the bed where his clothes lay in an unconcerned pile, in doing so; he caused her body to move slightly. That’s when he saw that her throat was cut from ear to ear. A reminder of what happens to anyone who talks. Now he knew why they hadn’t killed him too. He had been left to pick up the tab for this little party. They needed a fall guy! The rest is history: he was caught leaving the complex half dressed; apparently, the call to the cops had been put in before the hit to give the police plenty of time to get there; although, when you call 911 and say that you think you heard a man killing a woman in the apartment right across from yours and you can’t be sure but you think you saw a strange black man around the building when you came home earlier from shopping, it doesn’t take long for the police to get there . . . especially when it is nearly three in the morning and the neighborhood is Beverly Hills. The kill had been a result of serendipity more than any plan to “set him up” as a way to deal with him originally. They must have had her apartment secretly bugged for some time after all; she was one of, if not, their primary employees who were exposed to some pretty powerful people. It only follows that they would want to know If she was building up a private client list outside of work for her own nest egg. By chance, they had picked up everything they did and said that night, giving them plenty of time to dispatch a kill team to shut him down before he could on the information he learned about Stella’s death to anyone. But they killed her for two reasons, one, because they now realized that that she knew more that they thought she did about their night-out with Stella, making her a threat to their plans and two,to keep her from speaking up for Miles at any legal proceedings that might arise in the future. A two-fur. He presented his PI license, badge, and theory of it being a set-up including the fact that Ms. Wilson had invited him, even wrote it on an office prescription

pad., But since the pad was nowhere to be found, the DA was not interested in his theories. The trial was swift: only three witnesses, The neighbor; no note, no proof Miles; and Dr. Hart’s testimony of how Miles had been around his office a week or so ago and left when his secretary, the now dead Ms. Wilson, threatened to call the police if he would not leave. His testimony stating further that Miles had made advances to her right there in his office (ah ha, so he didn’t trust her completely, he must have had hidden cameras somewhere in his office too), and the fact that she had been raped and murdered, only proved that he had made good his threats. The DA’s argument, buttressed with the undeniable fact that another woman had been found dead (also shot to death) in his apartment less than two weeks ago, capped his case. Since the note she supposedly gave him written in her handwriting with her address inviting him over any time was not found, justice had to be done. Justice sold a lot of newspapers, upped the ratings of all the local and network television news and talk shows for six weeks or so and gave him death in the gas chamber. Sitting there on death row, defeated, disillusioned, and stunned like the many innocent men who had been convicted before him of crimes they did not commit, he cursed the law, cursed the system, finally cursing the one person most responsible for his failure, himself! Yeah, he had failed himself, turned the curve too fast and spun out of control, proving that Race Car Driving Is Dangerous.

19

Hello from Mama

He never understood how these places thought that a wall would keep the people out that they didn’t want in. It was clear to him that they did not understand the first rules of war: infiltration is better than confrontation or armed penetration. So he had spent the last week in a cheap Motel-Hotel whatever, down the street from the Wayside Home for the Mentally Insane on 2977 Appalachian Road in San Diego, California, scoping out the comings and goings of the place, when stuff was brought in and when and what stuff came out. Settling on the best, least-questioned form of entry, being the laundry truck, his only decision now was how to commandeer the uniform and needed vehicle. He decided on using the easiest, oldest, and most successful tool of war, compromise. Either by reputation (he did not have enough time to scope out the background of the driver for weaknesses, sexual history, lifestyle), who cared anymore? So he settled on the thing that ranked right up there with lifestyle? Yes! Money! In his favor was the fact that the van ed right by the Motel-Hotel whatever, he was staying at on its way to make its twice weekly deliveries. He had but to devise a way or reason to stop it. She, the woman in room 114, was perfect for what he needed. He noticed that she came and went at almost all hours. Sometimes in cabs, but often was dropped off from eighteen-wheelers. She was a highway hooker. Perfect! Just perfect!

Answering the knock on her door about dusk on Wednesday evening (the driver would make another delivery on Friday afternoon) in the merest of her working clothes, she, with no fear that he was a perfect stranger, invited him into her room. Shutting the door behind him, she proceeded to the little kitchenette cabinet stove top, where her dinner was cooking. “Sit down,” she invited. “What can I do you for?” She had mistaken him for a referral or a quickie customer. Miles countered, “It’s what I can do for you that’s important.” Seeing that it was not going to be a normal kind of daytime business, she tightened her robe, removed the pot from the flames, brought it to the small formica top table, emptied its contents into the bowl which was half filled with crumbled up soda crackers, making a mushy soup quickie meal. Returning to the kitchenette, she reached into the cabinet above it, retrieved a coffee cup, held it while she filled it with coffee from the pot on the unit top. Straddling a chair across the table from him inquiring: “All right Mr. Mystery Man, what can you do for me?” “I can make you five hundred dollars for ten minutes’ work,” he replied. Sitting the coffee cup down, leaning across the table (she couldn’t help but display her business cards): “What do I have to do? And to who?” He thought, Whom, to whom? But he did not correct her English for fear of creating unneeded animosity between them before he had even pitched his plan. With the five one hundred dollar bills laid out on the table in front of her as his bargaining chips, Miles laid out the and conditions of his proposal: if she did not get the van to stop long enough for him to make his pitch to the driver, no money. He had not thought seriously about how she could afford to work out of a MotelHotel whatever, on a weekly basis. But he knew it had to be expensive, and the five big ones next to her coffee cup would certainly help her well into next week. How do you get a perfect stranger to stop in the middle of a work day without suspecting foul play? It was going to be a hard task, he thought.

In the Motel-Hotel whatever, in her bathrobe, hair pinned back, a loose-fitting robe and teddy bear house shoes on her feet, she looked like maybe she could pull off the part. But he worried that he might have miscast his little play. That is until he saw her in her full regalia, standing on the side of the road in front of the Motel-Hotel whatever, in spike high heels, skin-tight red silk pants, and a nearly no-material chemise blouse, clinging to the lines of her body like a second skin. Blonde hair reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe caressing her shoulders; she was knock-out! You’re damn right he stopped. “I don’t know anything about gas stoves, but I’ll be glad to come in and take a look,” offered the driver. “It might be something as simple as a pilot light went out,” he explained, following her curvaceous butt to the front door of the unit. She, not able to not be herself, even though she had already struck a deal for more money in that day than she would probably make in a working week, still had to hook this potential customer for a possible appointment. Some people just love their work. So she over-teased for the bargain she had struck, “I’ll be most grateful for you just looking at it, the damn manager don’t know nothing, about nothing in this place.” After allowing for a proper interval for him to check the pilot light (of course he lit it), seeing as how there was nothing wrong with it in the fist place, he knocked on the door. She answered, ‘Oh, Bobby, come on in.” He had not given her his real name. He was dead, ? The driver straightened up from his pretended inspection of the stove, wiped his hands off with the counter cloth hanging from the handle on the oven door, moved to the drawer where the kitchen utensils are usually kept, and stationed himself there. “Look, man, I don’t want no trouble, the lady invited me in to try to help her fix her stove pilot light, if I had known she had an ‘ol man, I would never have stopped.” Rebecca stopped his misspeak. “Whoa, brother, he ain’t my ‘ol man (declaring her hooker impendence). I ain’t got no ‘ol man; I work alone, do my own thing; he just paid me to get you to stop and come in my room so he could have a conversation with you.” Punctuating: “That all!”

Wiping her hands of the matter, to Miles: “So why don’t you pay me my money and you’ll take your business to your room.” Reaching inside his coat for Rebecca’s money, caused the driver to slowly, silently slide the utensil drawer open (he was going to be ready for whatever Miles came out with) but was flabbergasted when he saw the roll of money he paid Rebecca from. Then turning to the driver: “There is a thousand in here for you if you want it?” The driver responded with the universal question of people who made their living from the streets. Not is it right or wrong, good or bad, but “What do I have to do for it? To Rebecca: “Are we straight?” “Yeah, we straight,” Rebecca confirmed, after scooping up the five bills from the table and depositing them in the safety deposit box of her bra. Responding to the driver’s unanswered question: “Walk with me to my room, and I’ll tell you.” Relieved: Closing the utensil drawer, he gave a regretful look to Rebecca and followed Miles through the door to the shouted RSVP from Rebecca. “Don’t worry, honey, with that kind of money, you can stop by any time.” Walking to his room, he wondered, why so many girls of the night, be they street hookers, call girls, or plain pimp-run prostitutes, all give themselves white protestant names like, Stella, Ms. Wilson, Rebecca, the very type of women that they despised in real life—go figure. The driver was more than cooperative, he was downright helpful, informing him in a short ten minutes’ time the back story he had with the guard at the main gate that would be on today. The how and why of collecting and distributing the linen around the facility, name of his supervisor in case the guard inquired, and even the room number of Mrs. Cookman, informing him that she paid him to sneak letters out for her and mail them to her daughter and for a post office box that she had him set up for receiving the return letters from her daughter and bringing them to her, agreeing. “Naw, man, she ain’t crazy. Adding: ‘If you want her to open up and talk to you, just tell her Franklin said

you all right.” Emerging from the bathroom with his uniform in hand, he asked Miles, “Do you have anything I could wear, ’cause with this five hundred dollars you just gave me (Miles had paid him half up front), “I think I will visit Rebecca while you’re gone.” “The closet is right there,” Miles told him, “I have several pair of sweat pants and tops, the one-size-fits-all kind, help yourself.” One last piece of information and advise about the overall operation of the clinic, and he was off and they had lost only about twenty minutes.

“Where’s Franklin?” inquired Terry, the guard at the front gate. Leaning out of the driver’s side of the van to sign the entry sheet. Miles to. Terry, “Heck man, I don’t know.” “The dispatcher, Tony,” he used the name Franklin had given for the dispatcher to immediately put the guard at ease, “called me this morning said he wouldn’t be surprised if he is tied up with some women and just couldn’t break loose; anyway, he asked me to cover his route today, and that’s what I’m doing.” “Ha ha ha that’s Franklin for you, that boy just seem to fall into pussy. Ha ha ha ha, well ain’t no need to hold up your day, go on in man. It is a wonder he ain’t tapped a few of these ‘ol ladies here, some of them are still pretty spry, ha ha ha.” For a woman in her mid-sixties, she was still very attractive, reminding him of a good friend of his who lived in Las Vegas. No sagging chin, wobbly skin dangling from her upper arms, a great smile, and a sexy head of silver brunette hair. They talked for the better part of a half hour. She confirmed that they had two kids, lost their first child, a boy named Samuel who would be thirty-five this December eleventh had he lived, their daughter Tammy is now about thirty-two, explaining, “It took me a while to get over the death of Samuel.”

She found out late in the marriage that her husband was a racist, a bigot, and a very unscrupulous tragic man who allowed their only daughter to plead guilty to a crime that he, in a drunken stupor, ordered his men to carry out against a young black man whom he discovered his daughter was secretly dating and had fallen in love with at school. When she told them that she wanted to marry Otis upon graduation, her father went ballistic, swearing that it would never happen. He wasn’t going to have no nigger son-in-law or nigger grandchildren. And that was that. She did not learn of his actual involvement (that he had ordered his men to “get rid of that nigger, get rid of him now, not tomorrow!)” until her daughter confided in her that she did not kill Otis. That she had only confessed to the crime after her father visited her in jail before posting her bail, telling her that the whole family and much of his life’s work would be destroyed if the police discovered the true facts of the case. That he was paying for the funeral through one of his charity companies so it would not be connected to him, and he had created a fund in the boy’s name through another of his front organizations, so his mother would be taken care of until she died. So everybody walked away with something. But Tammy would have to go away for a while until things died down. Tears began to stream. “So without telling me why, she went away. She went away, but she never came back.” Mrs. Cookman cried into her hands and the napkins Miles plucked from the Kleenex box on the nearby dresser. Voicing again the painful results of her daughter’s decision, caused the old wounds to open again, and she wept openly, this time into Miles’s shoulder. Stating the pure facts of their lives: “She could not bear to speak to her father again, let alone share the same house with him.” Adding up the accumulated damage of her life because of her husband’s racism: So I never saw my daughter again after that.” Coming back to herself: “I became deeply depressed. I could not eat or sleep. I would go for days without opening the blinds or taking a shower.” They had lost a son, and now her husband had caused them to lose the only child she had left. It was too much. After months of suffering in silence, she warned him that she

could not take it anymore and was going to the police with the truth, in hopes of getting her daughter back. He got her drunk one night and kept drugging her up every night for months until her already questionable behavior became more unstable and erratic enough so that he could get a few of his doctor friends to sign papers stating that she was a danger to herself and others unless she was under constant supervision and the proper medications, so she ended up in the Wayside Home for the Mentally Insane. Looking at it from an overall positive point of view, she pronounced, “In a way, it was a blessing in disguise. Because it stopped him from drugging me, and I am now clean and sober again with one mission, to reunite with my daughter and bring him down for what he did to her and our family and the family of that poor young black boy,” she vowed. He took her latest letter meant for “The Franklin Delivery Service” with him when he left. Promising: ‘I’ll find her, and I will help her get you out of here.” I’ll start at this PO Box in LA A final warning: “In you’re pursuit, don’t let up; don’t relax because he has billions of dollars, a dead soul, and a black heart. Reiterating the danger he was about to confront: “And he will use all of them to smite anyone who goes up against him.” He wanted to tell her that he had a couple of pretty powerful weapons himself. One, she was talking to a dead man that was invisible to the world, so her husband would not see, or hear him coming, and two, his boss was the President of the United States. But he settled for her grateful handshake, a -it-on-to-my-daughter kiss on the cheek, and “oh just one more thing before you leave,” proof of life, a copy of her marriage license. A final joke or two at the front gate, then on to the Motel-Hotel whatever, pay Franklin the other five hundred for his services, let him change back into his uniform, then on to L.A. in the twilight of the evening to post a letter to a P.O.

Box address with the message scrolled on the back of the envelope that said Hello from Mama.

20

Que Sera, Sera

He had not asked the President the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question of who first injected Dr. Hart’s name into the government raffle drawing bowl, because he did not want to introduce false straw horses into the game before he knew the jockeys. He did not need to follow him to his front doorstep either, because of his own (PIB) Private Information Bureau (Marcie and Jo-Jo), he knew where the doctor worked and he knew where he lived. However, because of his new life status, he did not want to draw attention to himself by surveilling him in his residential area. A black guy in a new Volvo poking around the neighborhood would be a dead giveaway for the cops to stop him. But putting him to bed by picking him up at his office at the end of business day and following him to the gates of his estate was a no-brainer. Only tonight, he diverted from his routine. The headlights of the cherry-colored Rolls Royce flooded the roof of the parking garage, as it gnawed its way to the top of the grade which led to the exit. It sprang like a large powerful cat over the final edge of the Parking garage onto Canon Drive turning right to Wilshire Boulevard then right down Wilshire, heading in the direction that led toward the on ramp to the 405 freeway north toward the airport. It was one of those California nights made for the Santana music, which was, as is his want, quietly pulsating from the Volvo’s sound system. Occasionally, he played an eight track of a group called The Checkmates Ltd. They weren’t a big recording group, having only one charted album and two chart-making records.

One, a classic Phil Spector “Wall of Sound” ballad followed by a chart-topping single, but he liked their music. The Santa Anna’s were blowing east to west. The palm trees danced a wellrehearsed number for the season they were in, and there was just enough of a light breeze to kick up a thin flurry of street dust and dirt to make you close your windows but not turn on the air-conditioner. Where the hell was he going? Hell! At about 9:00 p.m. the pharmacy across the street finished its day, releasing the soul sista with the sweet-swinging hips from her duties. She quickly crossed the street, made her way into the building by buzzing his office, and then took the elevator to his floor and the short steps from it to his office door. Dr. Hart’s secretary let her in as she exited for the day. The lights in his office went out about 9:45 and had just come back on twenty minutes before 11:00, giving the two of them time to do whatever two people do in the dark for fifty-five minutes or so; now, at 11:22, the Rolls carrying both of them exited the parking garage, making their escape from the building. But where were they going at this time of night?

The answer to that question suggested itself in several plotlines to any story involving an experienced PI on the chase. He followed the Rolls north on the 405 freeway toward LAX airport off ramp. Knowing the streets available to access the main terminals of the airport, Miles faded back some while still maintaining observational distance. Dr. Hart’s car made an unexpected move, taking an access road turnoff, leading behind the main terminals to where many private planes were housed. Caught unaware, Miles had to fight his way across two lanes of traffic to regain his vantage point behind the Rolls. Noting, as he exited the main airport drive and turned right onto the secondary road, that it was a two-way paved road which would easily expose him if he continued his direct pursuit, he reluctantly aborted it, pulling off the road into a turnaround, cut his lights, and waited for the good doctor’s return trip. After all, this was a Monday night (Heck! He was missing Monday night football), it was

late, and the doctor like most Angelinos had to go to work Tuesday morning. The wait was short-lived. Some twenty minutes later, the good doctor’s Rolls, less the sultry soul sista slid by. He had surmised right, the doctor has sampled some of the cookies before he resealed the box and taken or sent it on its way. In any case, what was going to happen tonight had happened, so he followed (vowing to himself to be better prepared the next time) Dr. Hart’s Rolls back to the freeway and to Beverly Hills, giving him up at the entry to the residential estate section of the town; after all, thanks to Marcie, he knew his home address. Turning the Volvo back down Wilshire, he took a short cut to her street. Things had been moving so fast that he had not really thought much about her, but standing at the end of the long driveway that led past the front house to her small but warm and comfortable apartment, he now understood why the end of love, like death, had to be final and permanent. For if we, like him, were able to come back, reclaim, see the things we left behind only a short time ago, things which were formally a part of our lives, things which had made promises, in his case, more like slight suggestions, to our hearts and had loved our bodies, at least sexually, or given our spirits strength, things which we deemed to be ours and ours alone, now sharing, doing with someone else, what they had previously done only for, with, and to us, like Jeane was now doing, wouldn’t we die all over again? To make things worse, he thought he recognized the silhouette of her new love. He was staring down the driveway as the lights from the small rear apartment where he had spent loving times with Jeane were turned off, and the people inside prepared for a night of love or sex, or both. He realized that he was no longer a part of her life, that she came to the funeral more out of respect for Lynnette, her grandmother, and Aunt Rozena than any remembrances or lingering feelings or need to see him. Whatever “it” had been, “it” was over. And it was probably better that “it” stayed that way . . . breaking off his stare at the now-darkened window of the apartment, he turned to walk down the lonely street to where he had parked his car, reciting through the rain that was falling in his heart and beginning to fall

lightly on the streets of LA, the lines of a poem he wrote in honor of the love she had unwittingly and unknowingly awaken in a prior dry, fallow me first, garden of a man. He thought, We had some good times together, sharing the secrets of life, Laughing, sometimes crying, with me all the time trying to convince you to be my wife. But we were never really together, for you were more like a bird on the wing, close enough to see, still far enough from me so that I couldn’t hear the song that you sang. You never said that you loved me, you never promised you would stay, Sill, I think of you kindly when you cross my mind, because love has just left me that way” A slight mist on his shoulders (ed the downpour in his heart) began transforming into a drizzle, then a sprinkle which, by the time he reached the Volvo, turned into an outright deluge. Pausing with his key in the car door, he turned his face full up into the wailing sky to receive its welcomed raindrops for the two services they provided. One, they washed away the interior debris surrounding his heart, and two, they hid the exterior tears streaking down his face. He made his way back to Wilshire Boulevard, followed it until he came to Crenshaw, turned right to Martin Luther King Boulevard, making his way to the two-bedroom bungalow Mae Ling had secured for him It was owned by her parents who had long since moved to Encino as the neighborhood turned from Oriental and white to black and Hispanic. At her request, they had vacated the last set of tenants, and the place had sat vacant for the last month and a half, while the president and his men formulated the plan to secure his freedom and foil the plans of the devil’s disciples, before he took occupancy. Opening the door out of the rain and into the warmth and solitude of its confines, he hung his coat on the clothing tree at the right of the door as he entered the living room and deposited the umbrella in the antique (the woman had taste) tin holder she had purchased for him, laughingly stating that it doesn’t rain in

California, it pours. Boy was she right! Heading directly to the basement area, the main feature of which was that it was completely stocked with the latest, state-of-the-art visual and sound equipment of the day, he deposited in the soup, the film from his camera which contained the total of today’s shoot. She had balked at the price of a few of the items, but when he explained that unlike when he was a working PI, he could no longer ask favors of people he knew on the force or even do regular business with everyday businessmen. He had to be self-sustaining. She understood and set about filling his equipment list.

Back to the den area, he discharged his shoes on his way to the well-stocked kitchen, retrieved a box of wheat thins (he liked the original ones), ed it with several slices of extra sharp Wisconsin cheddar cheese and a bottle of pure orange juice and Canada Dry Ginger Ale, which when mixed proportionally, comprised his favorite drink and snack. Resettled in the den, he turned on the television just in time to hear Johnny Carson say “Ladies and gentlemen, that was Lola Falana, thank you Lola. If you want to see her in person, she will be appearing at the Century Plaza Hotel in Century City for two weeks starting tomorrow night. That’s our show for tonight; let’s hear a warm round of applause for Doc and the Tonight Show Band and all of our guests tonight.” Bowing appropriately, he dissolved into the ether of the television world. Damn it! He had missed her and Monday night football! It felt like when you were a kid, and to punish a misdeed, your mother made you go to bed without supper. He was still hungry even though he knew that he could go see her at the Century Plaza Hotel. With Jeane gone, Lola had become his Linus’s comfort blanket; he needed her, yeah, he really needed her. Reg himself to tonight’s double-header loss, he gathered his snacks and headed for the bedroom, mouthing to himself the words of an old Doris Day song, “Que Sera, Sera.”

21

I’m Baaaaaack

Having slept well because of the fact that his body was tired from the long trip to and from San Diego, that clock that is in all of our heads rang at six-ten in the morning, reminding him that he had not been fulfilled yet. So after brushing his teeth, he gathered his favorite comfort, snack food (call it what you want), and settled down on the couch in front of the TV to watch “The Tonight Show,” starring Johnny Carson, pretaped the night before.

Lola became both lover and loved one. She appeared twice. Both times inviting and daring, endearing and beguiling, a fantasy and truth. He needed to see this real life goddess, to still believe in something, someone so full of life, living it racing it to the end, and daring it to win.

Isn’t that what most of us follow celebrities for in the first place? To have a road map of how, maybe, just maybe, how to deal with life?

Still, he could not totally relax. He was beginning to come down from the thrill of being alive for the second time, working for the president even if it was without recognition, and having found Mae Ling.

Touching her, seeing her as a grown woman, having a second chance to do something about Stella’s death, and maybe clear up the terrible lie that he was a

murderer and serve his country in the process and to weave his way through this strange web that had started to form in front of him as the investigation (hunt) begin to unfold.

He knew what the whole can’t sleep, worry thing was about. It had all happened too quickly, and now, he was feeling the first signs of it catching up to him—the realization that he was truly back in the real world, the land of the living, seeing an old girlfriend through the rain with a new lover, and not allowed to see little Lynnette at all.

Off like a bat out of hell chasing something or someone that he was not sure of what, being reunited with the major, now President Miller.

It had all been whirling around in his brain like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, all a part of the whole but not enough of any one thing to make the picture come into clear focus.

The hot water of the shower washed the last bits of remorse, confusion, angst from his mind and body; he emerged from it feeling clean, relieved of the great weight of it, fully prepared to accept the fact that he was indeed back, and no matter what he did or wanted to do, he could never return to life as it was before this nightmare started, and that he would have to stay and see this thing through to the end.

Her last bow and Ed’s pronouncement of “We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsor” officially released him back to the present. After accepting losing Jeane, just seeing Lola helped, seeing Lola helped a lot.

Placing the snack on the end table at the corner of the couch, he proceeded toward the kitchen, making a right turn at the door which led directly to basement darkroom where he had deposited yesterday’s catch of film negatives. Leaving the images to develop in the darkened room, he returned to the den in time to catch the fading image of Lola as Johnny Carson’s voice-over pronounced that “we will have her back again soon. Good night, everyone.” Damn! Damn! He cursed out loud; he had forgotten the time and missed her second performance.

The warmth of his new confines, the knowledge that he had now reconnected with the major, now president, and the availability of Lola—even superficially— was enough to cause him to say in his best Ed Mc Mahan announcer’s voice, as he retired down the hallway to his sanctuary (bedroom )to prepare for the whatever this day would bring), I’m Baaaaaack.

22

The Barrio Queen

He chose his clothes carefully. Someone had said that “the clothes make the man.” But in the barrios of East Los Angeles, clothes could get you made. And so could your car, so he took the bus to the innermost part of the barrio, disembarked, and spent a half an hour becoming part of the scenery, absorbing the local mannerisms, eating food from the local street vendors, wiping his hands on his clothes, hoping this and his three-day old beard would help him to not appear too far removed from the culture and the people. It took all he could do to play three games of pool at the Las Cassorio Bar and Grill as badly as he did, purposely losing, and paying his losses with cash and four beers before he even asked one question. “Yes, some white chicks lived in the neighborhood, the young ones are mostly pot or coke heads, but the older ones are serious about their men and the people who live here, they do not apologize to anyone and are upfront with who they are and where they stand.” Enrique reported. A snapshot of his friend in Vegas flashed at the description. Expanding: “You get the right kind on your side and you’re set for life; take Mario’s ol’ lady, he hooked-up with her about four years ago. Now, that chick is a serious revolutionary! Like she set up this Domestic Servant Service, you know.” Damn! He hated that phrase. “Placing maids, gardeners to work in rich white folks’ homes. You know (damn), a job is a job, so we went along with it. But that chick was serious.” Miles was really getting the value of the ten bucks he has purposely lost and the four cold Buds he bought Enrique so, he ordered another round.

Making the universal street sign for “thanks” with the touching of his closed fist to his heart area, Enrique, continued, “Well, everybody thought she was just another white chick on a guilt trip looking for some hot Latino sex, but like I said, this chick was serious. “She trains the maids to case the ts, making and keeping a log of anything and everything of value they own, from dice to ice, where it is kept, and their vacation times. The works! She picks Mario, the hardest dude, except with her, in the barrio to be her ol’ man shows him her hustle, and they have been systematically ripping off the ‘Man’ ever since.” This was like opening an encyclopedia. “I mean they’re statewide now. But do they party the money up or drive big cars go to dope city? No, they live average lives. Share a piece of the money with the people who work for them in the system.” Testifying to the obscurity and irony of it all: “Ain’t that funny? She’s getting the poor workers higher wages through her agency’s advocacy and ripping off the honkies and feeding the other of their families below the border at the same time. “Ha! Whew man she got them coming and going making ’em pay both ways.” Beginning to feel his beers: “She’s like a saint to these people, aaanybody cause her a minute’s trouble, and they don’t see the morning.” You don’t just drop your pool stick and run out of a place like east LA when you found out what it is you were looking to pick up, shouting “I got it, I got it!” No you lose a few more games, protest that you are “tapped out,” lay around from place to place blending in, waiting for nightfall, working your way toward the edges; that way, you arouse less suspicion until you can make a run for it with no one being the wiser. But the minute he turned the corner exiting the alley, he knew something was wrong because the streets, in this part of town, which are all ways filled with kids playing until they have to surrender to the call “Ya’ll get in here now and get washed up for bed so’s you can get to school on time tomorrow.” In broken English and fluid Spanish parental demand did not come, and front steps where older people escaping the rigors of overcrowded non-air-conditioned apartments

were empty . . . Nothing was moving, save a lone stray cat or two. They knew! He racked his mind. Trying to discern, pick out the thing that had given him away, but no time was allowed for this fruitless exercise, he spotted a form approaching through the night silhouetted by the moon; it was cold. No! It was hot! He reached for his M-1, wishing that the major was conscious he felt that he could use the extra firepower right about now. At a sharp right angle, another shadowy figure appeared then another, three more; what the hell was happening? Hadn’t he been here before? Where was he anyway? It was supposed to be friendly territory when he made it this far. He was supposed to be picked up by an army rescue helicopter unit and be the hell out of here. He looked to the sky. Where were the copters? He heard Latino music blaring from one of the tenement buildings, in Korea? Naw . . . that couldn’t be. But still he could not get a fix on what was happening. He only knew he had to resolve this conflict in his head soon if he was going to live till chow time in the morning. “Who are you man? What was this, a Korean speaking broken English with a Spanish accent while listening to Latino music on a transistor radio? The blow came from nowhere, striking him on the right side of his face, sending him sprawling face first into the ground, which in this case was cement . . . Odd, he thought as he felt the fire of the hot blood rush down his cheek. I didn’t know that the Koreans had cement roads this far out side of their villages a thousand miles from nowhere. Collecting himself in a ball on the hard but surprisingly not cold ground in anticipation of the next assault, he was not disappointed as two massive hands grabbed him by the lapels of his shabby camouflage suit, which he thought would provide him the cover he needed to get in, reconnoiter the enemy camp, learn what he needed to, and get out undetected; bringing him to his full height, he could see the glint in the eyes of the Korean, or was he Latino—hell, he couldn’t tell anymore except that either or both of them meant him no good.

Another sharp blow to his kidney felt like he was breaking apart. Part of him was here and part somewhere else, doubling him over into the midsection of his attacker. More forcefully this time: “I said who are you, man? Both halves, the top and the bottom, were trying to perform the t goal of staying alive by gasping huge bellows of air. “I want answers man, who you are?” Rapid fire: “You the man? You the law?”

Voice from the corner of the triangle of men, “He ain’t the man, that’s for sure, look at the way he dressed.” “You shut up, Enrique,” demanded a stronger more authoritative voice continuing, “if you had kept you’re mouth shut, he would have left here as dumb as he came in.”

The salty taste of his blood entered his mouth from the tracks it had mapped down his cheek from just underneath his eye, he could feel his tongue beginning to swell, he was still not sure of who, what, and where he was and why he was here. The voice stepped closer and took over the interrogation. “You want to be a tough guy? I assure you, you don’t want to be a tough guy with me.”

Another blow landed squarely in his gut. This one really did the damage intended because it had been delivered by a much more powerful delivery machine.

Miles could not survive consciousness any longer. He heaved dry air. His captures shook him violently, trying to keep him in the now, he felt like he was coming apart from the inside. Die! Damn it! He all but willed himself, but there came a splash of cold water preventing that luxury while extending the pain.

He came back. He felt the bones in his chest rattling around inside making the sound of shaking, then rolling dice “Damn it, man, who are you?” The brain, like every other machine, short circuits when it overloads to save the whole. Miles’s brain saved the whole.

Like a broken Polly Want a Cracker toy or a babbling brook, he took over the interrogation. “Who am I? Who am I? You tell me who I am, yea genius, Oten or Poncho or whoever the hell you are, you tell me who I am.” He slumped to the ground like a bag of rags. His body had slumped to a sitting position, legs wide apart, arms to either side, and head ed by the wall to seek the solace that would be unconditional, hoping that it would be a gracious lady angel rather than devil angel who would come to claim his soul. He heard the voice of what turned out to be the lady angel. “Mario, we don’t want him to die here, we got a sweet thing going, and we don’t want dead bodies turning up on our doorsteps attracting the cops.” Completing the point with cold logic, the angel onished, “If you’re sure that he doesn’t know anything, and you aren’t gonna get anything more out of him, take him to the edge of the barrio and dump him.” With all of the pain he felt and the knowledge that if they stopped beating on him, he would not feel any more of it, he quite agreed with the angel’s voice standing behind him that they should take him somewhere and just dump him. No one was more grateful for the warm rays of the morning sunlight that filtered across the dilapidated walls of the wooden building slowly making its way down its side to include the groups of thawing bodies huddled there than Miles, and the winos who had slept there the night before knowing that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west as well as any Boy Scout. But for all of them, it was more than a required lesson on their way to becoming an Eagle Scout, it was a matter of life and death. Somehow, he crawled his bruised and battered body to a sitting position, feeling

a sharp pain race up his side; he winched, almost doubling over but managed to stand, pushing himself up against the rough wall of the building until he reached his full standing height. Rolling his body so that his back was against the wall, his front fully bathed in the warm sunlight. Hacking up the obstructions from his swollen tongue and throat, and spiting them out nearly yelling out loud with the effort, sensations of pain visited him again, this time from his swollen jaw. Putting his hand to his face in an effort to quell the sharpness of the pain, he felt the half-open gash there. The other winos along the wall were starting to stir. He looked as bad or worse than any of them. Animals have a keen sense of smell for the most part to alert them to danger; with humans, a sixth sense is included. But with those humans who have spent a lifetime as warriors or hunters or the hunted, they have a sense almost like builtin radar—a sense that takes over when they can’t protect themselves giving them that extra second to accomplish the primary purpose of life. Survive! Miles used that extra sense to gain the seconds needed to right himself before the police patrol car turned the corner entering the far end of the alley on their regular morning “roundups,” grabbing up whatever and whoever they can to boost their arrest records, proving to the citizenry that they are in fact “protecting and serving.” This is another fine mess you gotten yourself into, he paraphrased Laurel and Hardy in his mind, taking his first staggering unsteady steps toward the street. Lets get the hell out of here, he self-instructed. Now! Although he didn’t know it at the time, for he was just trying to keep from being arrested (for how could he explain being a “dead man” to the arresting officer?), he made the move that not only saved his life but could possibly save the lives of millions of blacks and other minorities in the United States . . . Calling on all that he had left in his very sinew, he rolled down the wall to the near corner and around it, painfully hobbling down the street toward the bus stop, as the patrol car crept slowly up the belly of the alley looking for acceptable first-time players for its daily game. Searching his pockets for a coin to pay the fare with (Thank God they had only

wanted his blood and not his money), he found five one-dollar bills and some small change. He paid the fare with swollen, blood-crusted hands. engers’ questioning eyes looked him over, as he painfully made his way past them to select a seat farthest away from them at the back of the bus, while picking up the driver’s eyes as he filed the image of him along with the questions the engers’ gaze posed to him. Finally deciding that this was still America and that there was nothing in the manual about a dress code except that you had to be wearing something, so taking one last long hard look in his interior rear view mirror, he pulled the door closed and started the bus. Breathing a sigh of relief as he settled back into his seat, relieved at the fact that he had kept the first part of his promise to Mrs. Cookman, he had found her long lost daughter. He had not seen her, but while taking a punishing beating in an alley in south central LA had heard her in the soft but determined voice of his angel of mercy who in actuality was Tammy Cookman, The Barrio Queen.

23

Failure Is Not an Option

He had received his marching orders from the president, with the caveat that this was going to be a “thankless job,” that there would be no tickertape parade, no confetti falling from the skyscrapers along Fifth Avenue in New York, and most of all, no recognition from the president on behalf of a grateful nation privately or publicly even if he succeeded. That the mission was desperate and dangerous surely meant he could get hurt and, as in any conflict, possibly die. He accepted that. But to be so badly outfoxed on his very first venture into the enemy camp made him wonder if the president had chosen the wrong man. Internally, he questioned did he really have the stuff to meet the challenge of this mission? Was he the right man for it? Or was there any right man for it? If he had been handed his proverbial head in a hand basket his first time out, who else could the president turn to? Surely not any of the movie star super heroes (they only operated in fixed scenarios with prewritten lines along with fake blood and blank bullets, no way they could cut this or sort it all out. Regular police forces? They were too big, too unorganized to detect the subtlety of such a plot, and way to slow to react to the dictated timetable. The president had already eliminated any of his own staff or government organizations because of their cross-pollination of operation and information. No, he was it. First failure or not, he had to find another way to penetrate this fog of mystery, negate its blinding thickness, and proceed at a reasonable enough

speed to save the day. So in the words of that old song, he was just going to have to Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again! Because Failure Is Not an Option!

24

A Small Army

When you’re in the field, you’re on your own. When you hurt, the old medical adage “physician heal thyself” applies, so Miles was doing the best job he could with what he learned in Basic Meds 101. Properly cleaned and bandaged, his wounds garnered from his first trip to the barrio became secondary to his mission. The central computer of his brain was filing, sorting, deciphering all the information it had been fed, verbal and written, conscious and unconscious, blatant and hidden, pictures and words pinging through his brain at warp speed until they formed a cohesive blueprint of thoughts that made sense of it all. Soaking in his tub with the water as hot as he could stand it, he finally saw the print take shape fading in like a Polaroid film snapshot forming all but the one missing link. The day was burning itself out. Soon the night would expose itself like a streaker from behind a parked car in full view for all to see and deal with, triggering not only action but reaction. Miles’s reaction to the night was a calm welcome, he felt a kinship with it, because of the times he had used its blessed cover to get those much needed two or three hours of sleep safe from the enemy or to find shelter from the cold or to use its cloak as an element of surprise in the life-and-death struggle of war. Back at the hunt, he was using it again. He picked up Enrique as he left the Las Cassorio Bar and Grill followed him to where he stopped at the alley entrance to light a cigarette. As he did so, he spotted Miles coming out of the corner of his eye; yet, the human habit of staying with the lighted match until the cigarette

was lit cost him the time that he needed to reach the equalizer underneath his left shoulder. Cursing the lighted match as it burned his hand flicking it away, he reached under the Wrangler jacket for his help. He was too late. Miles hit him with all the force of a man long overdue for a fight, sending him crashing into the garbage dumpster, scattering smaller cans that surrounded it. Then he was on him in cat-like movements, kicking him in the ribs while circling him to stay at his back. “Hey! Man, I got no beef with you, who are you anyway?” Enrique questioned. He was right, except for a little loose talk that had gotten Miles’s ass handed to him like a pig on a platter, he had not done anything to him; but Miles did not want Enrique to think that his was a small beef. He had to first make him think his life was in danger, serious danger. Enough danger that he would give up the address (he only had a post office box number where her mother’s letters were addressed to) of Mario and the girl whose voice he had heard before he was dumped in the alley. If he didn’t miss his guess, that voice belonged to Tammy Cookman, the missing daughter of the Cookman family and one of the keys to getting to the bottom of this little adventure. Enrique came out of the ball he had rolled himself into to defuse and deflect the blows being rained down on him by Miles, swinging with a knife concealed in his boot. Mile dodged the kamikaze-like charge like a matador in the ring, but instead of delivering the death blow by cold steel, he deposited Enrique hard against the side of another dumpster. He literally ricocheted off the dumpster, flailing blindly at shadows, cursing out of control, responding in blind rage, “I’ll kill you, motherfucker, when I catch up to you, I’ll kill yo ass!” Miles foiled the attack with a knee delivered directly to the groin; a right cross to his chin followed by the deal closer, a karate chop to the back of his neck as he was going down. That ended it. When he gathered Enrique’s limp body to a sitting position, squatting to look him directly into the eyes, the compromise was complete.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, man. I’ll do anything you want, but don’t kill me!” He had said the magic words, “I’ll do anything.” Now, did he mean it? A light splashing off the wall from a ing car revealed a first time clear picture of Miles’s profile to Enrique. “That guy! You’re that guy, that guy that was asking the questions, you’re him.” Leaning close, whispering into the side of his face, “And if you don’t want me to finish this job, you’d better start answering my questions.” Miles drew his arm back as if to continue the beating process. Enrique flinched, spurting out, “Look, I didn’t mean to get you roughed up, but Mario was crazy; it was your neck or mine.” Talking to the side of his face again in a Clint Eastwood gravel voice, “That ain’t good enough, my man. Sorry, but that just ain’t good enough.” Pulling Enrique to a stand-up position, the difference in their physical make-up clearly favored Miles, and Enrique acknowledged it by blurting “OK, OK,” raising his hand to fend off the expected continuation of the beating. “Just tell me how I can square it with you huh, how?” Miles whispered the answer to him. “But I can’t do that! If I do my life ain’t worth a plugged nickel, I mean I’m dead.” “Like you’re gonna be now if you don’t tell me, it’s you’re choice. Make it now or make it later, it’s up to you,” Miles propositioned. He gathered Enrique’s jacket by one hand at the nape of the neck, and with the other, he slowly removed his own.45 from his holster and placed the cold steel barrel against Enrique’s forehead. demonstrating conviction and decision, he released the safety, engaging the hammer, and said, “Would he do this for you?” Enrique’s decision, under the circumstances made perfectly good sense. A few more hours of life with the possibility that anything could happen that might swing things his way, maybe giving him the chance to survive this whole fiasco. Yea, that was the path to take, the right way to go, yeah, his brain was telling him, buy the time you need to get even, at least give yourself the chance.

Miles could see him actualizing the thoughts in his brain. Ha! Tell him what he

wants to know, do whatever he wants you to do, because this fool is crazy enough to just keep on beating on you, but he ain’t crazy enough to take Mario and his men out. So do what you have to do to buy time to even up the odds swing thing in your favor. When they, Mario’s men had killed him, he would spin his story to Mario as to why he deposited him on his doorsteps. He might even endear himself to Mario for bringing him around so he could be dealt with once and for all. That’s a plan! Surrendering to his pain, Enrique said, “OK. I’ll take you to him, but I’ll tell you right now, you ain’t coming out of there alive, maybe me neither.” The sounds of the night were normal this time for this part of the city, as he and Enrique made their way down the dark streets of the barrio, the steps were filled, the music was blaring from apartment windows and even a few kids were disobeying final orders of the night to surrender their self-made hockey sticks and baseball bats to come in for the night, buying a few more minutes of playing time. They threaded their way through the concrete maze arriving, at Enrique’s directions at an old brown stone stand-alone apartment building near the heart of the overall apartment complex. Mounting the stairs to the two dilapidated doors to enter the place, Enrique stopped, turned to make one final plea, “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean if you cut out now, you still got a chance, they gonna still come after you, but you got a chance, you seem to know this part of the city well enough that you could get out of here,” Placing the gun to the side of his head was Miles’s response to the advice given . . . “That gun don’t mean nothing, once you get inside, there are guys in there that will gladly die to protect this family, and I’ll be one of them!” Miles moved to Enrique’s side, pushed the gun against his ribs, motioning for him to knock on the door. Enrique threw his hands up in resignation, turning to the doors, speaking over his shoulders, “I’m gonna tell you something, man, that I’m sure you know, you crazy, man, you certifiable, you not well! Not well at all,

but at least if you don’t go through these doors, you will still be alive but when we clear these doors, whatever you suffering from now will become terminal.” A last pleading look back, then turning to the doors knocking softly twice, twice more then once. “OK, fool, here we go.” The doors open. Once inside them, a long dimly lit hallway led to another set of doors which you never would have seen because unless you knew the secret knock, you would not have gained entrance in the first place. Enrique performed. This time, it took three quick knocks followed by a of “We are one” to gain entrance.

Entering the room, you realized for a fact that there has always been a deadly thinly veiled game played between the oppressed and the oppressors. The oppressed, through suffering, deception and subterfuge, buying time to survive, so they could gather their numbers, train their in the subtle art of deception (the slaves did it with “Ya, sir maser, no sir maser” for four hundred years), all the while living in squalor, hopelessness, and abject poverty until they were strong enough for direct (thank god nonviolent) confrontation that effected a positive change for their people and billions of people all around the world.

While the oppressor’s game plan is to use every ill-gotten penny of profit to keep control by starting wars (OK, Police Actions) and use the oppressed children to fight them sparing their own flesh and blood. All the while selling them, using false patriotism and the veiled promise of a path to the upper class, and the elusive American dream. This was the subtle trick of the oppressor, the final twist of the knife in the wound, to get the oppressed to participate, no, voluntarily and enthusiastically participate, helping to create a self-imposed bondage by trading each other’s secrets, weaknesses, needs to the oppressor for his meager favors which he hands out through a strainer of poverty, disillusionment, and degradation. While justifying their hypocrisy with the mantra of “We the troops” and at the same time increasing their wealth, by selling the bullets, tanks, and guns to both sides, looting other nations’ treasures both in natural recourses and physical wealth, and pray tell, convert a new piece of the world’s population to their brand of the Gospel.

But one look at the inside of the main room of this old house, and one could see that one part of that cycle had been broken and that someone was in for a big surprise. The room was completely restored to what it must have been forty or fifty years ago and beyond, to when the German Jews lived in this part of the city. Huge chandeliers hung in perfectly designated spots throughout the room, blending with Spanish style décor. Spanish tile floors were populated by handwoven, domestic, bright-colored rugs, a mixture of traditional Spanish and early American antique furnishings occupied the open spaces of each room. The pictures on the walls were either original seventeenth and eighteenth century Spanish art or the best dammed copies by a master forger he had ever seen. One almost thought that they had been transported back to the days of the Spanish haciendas of the early 1800s, just without the cattle.

Hand-carved wooden banisters led up completely refurbished wooden stairs to the second level of the home where more art adorned the walls as one ascended them and huge drapes, you couldn’t tell Miles that they were not at least a hundred years old, hung like sentinels standing watch at appropriate distances from each other along the corridor leading to what he imagined were the bedroom, suites on that floor.

It had all been so different from what he had expected in a place like this at a time like this that he was completely caught off guard, and his expression must have reflected and telegraphed this.

Because Mario addressed that very point and thought when he entered the room through sliding oaken double doors which parted with merely a whisper, accompanied by a very beautiful (what he assumed was a far from dead) Tammy Cookman on his arm.

“Surprised, brother? Well, you shouldn’t be, this is just a sample of how we can all live, if we that a person is oppressed only when he (looking at Tammy) or she accepts it in their heart. “To escape it, we all need only strive to rekindle that bond of honor, trust, and love we held within ourselves before we became infested with fear and hatred, feelings of inferiority and self-doubt, all of which were visited upon us by the man to keep us from dealing with the cause rather than the problem!” She had taken on the hue of a Spanish beauty; dark silken hair rested on her shoulders, a face that was creamy rather than white, a chiseled nose, and deepset brown eyes. The rest of her body displayed the results of someone who had always respected and nourished it. Ample breast shown through the sheer modern day version of the Mexican serape she wore, her straight neck, arms that did not display the upper flab of many women her age (he guessed about thirtyfive) and long legs bore witnesses to regular exercise and healthy eating.

‘I agree.” Miles testified. “Well, right on brothers” interrupted Miles appraisal of the home and its occupants by Enrique’s attempt to forestall what he thought was going to be the violence of the occasion. A menacing glance from Mario and repositioning of the three other occupants of the room to points closer to Enrique caused him to doggishly take the nearest seat and curl his tail under himself.

The biting, condemning glance from Mario said more than just sit down and shut up! It said, We are serious here, and you aren’t a part of the conversation, you don’t even speak the same language, where you are coming from is an old movie that we have all seen before. It’s tired, the plot is worn, and we all know and hate the ending. This is a new day!

One could sense it in everything here. Because unlike the hippies and love children and freedom riders of the past, these people did nothing to draw attention to themselves; except for fringe-dwellers like Enrique, there were no give away signs of ego, no visible leaders to be shot or bribed or discredited. Although one privileged to visit this inner sanctum could easily see that all the

elements were still there. “Follow me,” came the directive as the couple exited through the same doors they had entered. The other three men herded him and Enrique. in compliance with the instructions. As a second thought: “Maybe you’ll learn something.” The second room must have been in the early forties what was called the “polar room.” The small adjacent room, which had been a butler’s pantry, was now being used as a photo laboratory to process and print drivers’ licenses, green cards, and California ID cards.

The workers barely looked up from their jobs as he was escorted through to the next room. These people were serious all right. On to the completely restored 1921 décor kitchen but with all modern appliances. The back door of the kitchen led to an alleyway exposing a small, for the days’ standard, garage,

“Come on,” Mario commanded. Still she hadn’t said a word, almost as though she somehow transcended rather than was a part of the activities she was there but she wasn’t there. Or was it just that she knew what it was all about and there were no surprises? Like a condemned man on death row, you know what to expect.

They had long since disarmed him. Knew he was alone, why hadn’t they killed him by now? Aw, but he had forgotten, these were the new revolutionaries, men didn’t run everything, and there was a lady present.

After a series of like revelations from house to house, only one knock at this door, two at another, it was more of the same, none as grand as the first house, but all restored to prime condition, clean, comfortable homes, hidden behind decaying facades which for all practical purposes was in the heart of the ghetto. Then through back alleyways and underground tunnels that led back to the pallor

of the main house, it was over. Now, they would kill him.

Directing him to a seat, strange for someone you are about to kill, the others in the room stood, invisibly healed. Armed, but discreetly hidden under loose ponchos, jackets and loose-fitting vests. Mario and Tammy sat together on the couch directly across from him. “Okay, you’ve had the cook’s tour, you know what we’re about, what we are doing; now, before we have to go to fist city again, why don’t you tell us what you’re doing here? Anyone can tell by the way you operate, coming right into our operation, that you ain’t indigent, look at you now, those were not your regular clothes you were wearing on your first go-around, and you ain’t looking for no illegitimate hookup, so what is it?”

Continuing: “And if your story is good enough, maybe we won’t turn Enrique here loose on you to get even for what you did to him; just look at his face. I’m sure he wants another chance to dance with you, right Enrique?” “You damn right!” voiced Enrique, protecting his character weakness with false machismo, “he caught me off-guard that’s all, that’s all.”

“I’m here to give a message to Tammy from her mother, Mrs. Cookman.” She turned from creamy to milk white to burnt orange; the glass of wine she had poured herself while Mario spoke almost dropped from her hands. As it was, she spilled a large part of it on her multi-colored serape, as she stumbled back to her seat beside Mario who cuddled her around the shoulders for , partially because he too was off put.

She slumped deeper into his arms. He ively rubbed her shoulders, further comforting her. “How do you know my name?” she questioned weakly, now sheltered deeply in Mario’s protective embrace. Confronting: “You haven’t seen my mother, he does not let anyone see her.” Then that part of the female which

makes up her complexity of being a woman took over, and she went from silent and strong to vulnerable and fragile and the tears, probably never seen by anyone in the room but Mario before, begin streaming down her face. Sitting up, directly to his face, wiping the tears away recomposed, the barrio queen Tammy again, “You were bluffing before, how can I be sure that you are not bluffing now?” Removing his seaman’s style wool cap (no one searches underneath a cap), he retrieved the dainty envelope which contained the letter and the copy of the marriage license Mrs. Cookman had entrusted him with and handed them to Tammy. With a soft gasp of breath, she accepted them and replaced herself next to Mario to read the proof of life Miles had presented her with. Mario’s disposition toward him softened as he watched her devour the items. When, upon completing her perusal of them she whispered a solemn “thank you, thank you very much.” Mario was totally disarmed and crossed the room to embrace Miles in a warm bear hug. Adding a verbal one with “Sit down, my friend, you are welcome here.” And a questioning Tammy interjected, “How is my mother? Is she recovering like her letters say? Or is he controlling that too?”

He told them everything, except the part about being dead before, but all about his relationship with the president in the past, which was the main reason he picked him for the mission of trying to get to the bottom of whatever was going on, because he suspected something vile was afoot in the country and how his pursuit of the perpetrators had led him to Tammy’s father and his associates and what he suspected their involvement in it all was, and that this had led him to discovering her mother and his coming here in hopes of getting her help, gaining more information about her father after all, who would know about her father than she did, but in their first meeting, he did not get a chance to talk much, or ask many questions. Also, with her help, he would try to get her mother out of the institution she was in.

The new revolutionaries were well schooled in the art of survival, they didn’t elect leaders or meet in churches, announce causes over and through the system’s media which could be controlled or manipulated by this or that power group against them.

No, these were silent warriors, resolute, undaunted, dedicated to the long hard fight, fully aware that the enemy was well organized and well trained, entrenched behind walls of military and civilian armor refortified by reams of paper laws constructed to form a first line of defense against their demands for their exercise of their free legitimate rights and freedoms.

After all was this not his modus operandi? A war, a broken promise, a treaty of paper, an army to enforce the piece of paper, a law ed to deal with all the people who challenged the paper, then policeman to enforce the illegitimate law. The silent warriors knew this enemy well, of his cunning, his ability to justify rape, murder as the act of restoration of law and order, just keeping the peace, and they were having none of it!

So they avoided his offer to go public with their grievances, and unless you were one of them, you would never know that they were here at all. Invisibility surviving in mundane jobs, living seemingly throw-away lives; so they understood the president’s fears because they were also their fears and his enemies, the hate mongers, sleight-of-hand politicians, and racists, were their enemies too.

For they believed in their heart of hearts that the FBI killed or aided in the killing of Martin and that the CIA killed John either by design or neglect and that the Secret Service finished off Bobby because you can’t stop a man from being a racist or a bigot just by training and paying him well, giving him a badge or a uniform and requiring him to take an oath.

You can only change mankind for the good with truth, real and blessed truth. And the silent warriors were going to make sure that when the next revolution came, it was going to find them in the position of the eight-hundred-pound gorilla, they were going to be able to eat, sleep, live, and love anywhere and anyone they wanted to. Although they had not received an official briefing as Miles had from the president, did not hear and see the president as he expressed his solemn fears, they, more than anyone, or any other citizen would understand because they were living days that challenged everything they believed about this America, her promises made, inferred but not kept, days that were reminiscent of those infamous days in November when treason-tension filled the air . . . for again the people had elected a president and charged him with making sweeping changes, changes that could cost him his life, even without knowing what had gone on in the country in the last days, or what was going to happen in the short days to come, they feared with him and were ready, to the fight whole heartedly. He now had A Small Army.

25

Play without the Ball

To play without the ball! His grade school coach, had stressed: You have to know the game backward and forward, heck, sometimes, your teammate may not know or care that you are wide open under the basket or can touch the rim from a flatfooted stand still, but he or she can’t deny you the ball when you’re in the right place at the right time, and the crowd can see that you’re open and the game is on the line.

The president was playing without the ball when he plucked Miles from the state prison to head up this life-and-death game of hide and seek against an opponent who he could not only not see, had never played before, and whom he had no scouting report on, and worst of all, had a big lead on him with time running out in the game but whose team was made up of scabs.

This was not football, so you could not punt and hope or even expect to get the ball back, nor was it tennis where a return serve was required to keep the game going. No, this was the bottom of the ninth, two out, three two count, one man on third, and you are down one to nothing! You got to have a hit or the game is over!

He had always liked sports because the games were fundamentally fair, open. Officiated by rules everyone was knowledgeable or at least aware of, and everyone had the same equipment and system, rich or poor.

The game he was now drafted to play in was just the opposite. Hell, he couldn’t even see the field it was going to be played on, let alone the kind and size of ball they would be playing with or the rule book it was being graded by.

To further complicate things, one of the main players was not even suited up or known to his team. So you could not watch him during pre-game warm-ups, to judge how fast his fastball was or how far he could throw the football or even if he had a net shot or booming serve.

The only thing he did know, could know, was that the team he played for one was formidable. How did he know that? Because even to play in this league, at this level, you had to be dangerous, deadly, and most of all, unscrupulous.

His disadvantage was multiplied by the fact that he didn’t even know where the game was going to be held or at what time and if it was going to be a home or away, day or night game. Damn!

Then, he ed when he had lost his keys to his brother’s car hours before he was to pick up his prom date. He was wretched with anxiety, literally bummed out because he had courted this girl for a solid month to get this date, borrowed his eldest brother’s car—with help from his favorite sister-in-law, his brother’s wife, Betty, washed the car that afternoon, gassed it up two hours before he was due to pick her up, and now he had lost the keys to the damned car.

That night had been saved by the soft whisper of his mother from knowledge gained over years of playing games that were rigged against her and against opponents who clearly cheated; so to win against them, you had to have a few

unpublished rules in you’re own playbook

“If it ain’t where it is supposed to be, look where it ain’t supposed to be” was the timeless advice given as she looked up from her sewing machine with the keys in her hand. They had been in the pockets of his tuxedo pants which he had given her earlier that day to take in a bit off the waist.

He applied the theory to his current prom date problem, and the answer came as easily as boiling an egg. This act of treason had to be corvert! So, it had to take place under the cover of a something that was big that would distract from the negative plan enough so that it would not be noticed until it was too late.

And what had dominated the news for the last week? The huge military exercises scheduled for this weekend at one of the biggest military bases in California. Camp Pendleton! He now knew where the game was being played. If it was going to be played at all, now the only question was, would they let him Play without the Ball?

26

Truth to Truth

Something was screaming to get out of his head. Something too easy to overlook but too obvious to see.

Damn it! Think! He besieged himself. What is the worst thing you could do to disrupt the tranquillty of the country in such a way as to require some form of military presence in the streets? The answer, citizen upheaveal, riots, in short, a race war! But why would anybody want to start a race war? What was there to be gained? There could be no clear-cut winners no matter how it went. It could only lead to a protracted unresolved stalemate. leaving a scar on the Whitehouse and the nation. Shazam! It hit him like a bolt of lighting, a bat out of hell, a clap of thunder. That’s what they wanted! To paralyze the government. To stop it functioning. To make it necessary to draw up a whole new system of governance. To do away with this republic as it now stands, to remake it without all of the rights it now professes, promises, and guarantees to its citizens and justify a new control system. Controlled from the far right! The far, far right! That is what was trying to seep out of his brain all the time, but he did not or would not believe it. It was simple. They didn’t want to eliminate black people or any other minority. They wanted a race war to justify the use of the military to supposedly restore

order which when finally settled would be a dictatorship, a new order of governance much like or maybe even more restrictive than the old order of the pre-civil rights South, only with no constitutional restraints to muddle up the operation of things this time around. This time, they would create and keep a low wage workforce, a no-complaint army, they would use the losers as the fighting force as well, if they died, they could be replaced with fresh fodder from the fodder pile. They could not use the constitutional amendment path because the whole of the country, especially the big liberal states would never go for it. The ballot route would have to include the youth voting, which they knew that in this post-segregated world would blow them out of the water. No, it had to be by justifiable force of arms. But how were they going to handle the white people who didn’t go along with the new plan? Simple, throw them in with the other trash. Assuming, it would not take long before they would begin to see the light and accept the point of that old Lone Ranger joke where when surrounded by a group of hostile, marauding Indians, the Lone Ranger turned to Tonto in a resigned voice to say his final goodbye, “Well I guess this is it, Kimo Sabe, we surely won’t make it through the day.” Tonto is said to have drawn himself up to his full height donned his plainsmen feathered head gear and turning to the Lone Ranger said “What do you mean ‘we,’ White Man.” Only this time it was no joke. The truth of the matter is that they were going to force every white person who didn’t go along at first to make that choice. In the end they were enacting the Nixon philosophy of “When you have them by the ball, their hearts and minds will soon follow.”

Miles and his small army could delay, possibly stop the plan, but he had to report to the president first. See if they were still on the same page with what should and had to be done. It was time to talk to the Commander in Chief face to face, man to man, Truth to Truth.

27

What the . . . ?

It was nearly midnight. Dr. Hart had made his pick-up and glided by his observation station in deep conversation with his pseudo—employee one hand on the wheel and the other, your guest is as good as mine.

He wasn’t even waiting to get back to his office to open the box of deep chocolate cookies. He knew where they were going and did not feel the need to follow him step for step back home so, he lingered.

This time, he had been ready for the trip back to the airport for the pick-up of the sweet soul sista. But why did it always have to be on Monday night? And why did it always have to be so late?

As he sat at the turnaround listening to the “Wall of Sound” arrangement of The Checkmates Ltd.’s “Love Is All I Have to Give,” his last night with Jeane came full to his memory.

The strength of the arrangement, pulsating rhythm, and the haunting melody of the song was too much to relive. He did not know why he did this to himself, because every time he did, it caused the same reaction of restlessness, anxiety, and emptiness. But the song spoke to his situation so well that although it hurt, stung deeply, almost as though he had written and lived part of it himself, every

so often, he just had to play it! Thank you, Phil Spector.

He had to move, do something. He cut off the tape, started the motor, and backed deeper into the turnaround to give better cover to his car. He exited the car, locked the door, and proceeded on foot toward the private section of the airport about a hundred yards away. He was going to get a look, up close and personal, of the whole airport operation.

In his previous daytime visit, he used the long lens of his camera, taking shots of an employee working the grounds, the ation or side numbers and the plane in general for posting to Mae Ling for entry into her data bank; that day,he arrived at the farthest point of a section of the area that afforded a view of the grounds that would give him the best view of the whole facility, But tonight, he was going to get up close and personal, into the belly of the beast, as deeply as he could, without being detected, at least he thought he wouldn’t be detected. But the cold thud of a monkey wrench on the back of his head proved him wrong.

He came to, slumped in a steel-framed 1940s style airport hangar desk chair. Along with feeling the blast of a cold bucket of water being splashed in his face, he heard the dope laced voice of the repairmen-henchmen direct his other (he had not come up on Miles’s radar yet) partner.

“Hope ya didn’t hit ’em too hard I just beat a rap six months ago; if Mr. Cookman had not needed some muscle to do some clean-up work, I’d be out on the street right now or in jail,” extolled the repairmen-henchman. “I don’t need no face time with the police.

Reviewing the soaked, bleeding prisoner, the repairmen-henchman addressed the monkey wrench applicator as Vick, informing him that “This is above my pay

grade,” assessing the damage to their captive, as he picked up the telephone and turned it around to dial the telephone number of his LA boss.

Explaining the problem and reason for his call: “Vick sneaked up behind a stack of pallets while I just kept on working on the plane, he never knew what hit him.”

In answer to the telephone’s question: ‘Well he’s black, ‘bout six one or two, reminds you of that guy who got the chair a short while ago for killing that bawd in Beverly Hills.” The “what?” came through the telephone line so loud, Miles could hear it as though the person was right there in the room. “You guys just hold him there, but don’t do anything, I mean nothing! Until I get there,” instructed the telephone.

“That’s why I called you, so we would know the right thing to do,” replied the repairmen-henchman. ‘We won’t do a thing, just hold on to ’em . . . His sentence was terminated by the slamming of the telephone in its cradle at the other end.

Looking at the telephone, shaking it and holding it to his ear as if to determine that the disconnect was not his fault or that of any technical error, the repairmenhenchman, satisfied that the disconnect must have been intentional, hung up the phone informing his partner, “Doc is coming with a crew, said just to keep ’em here until he gets here.”

Sometime later, through the clear pane glass of the hangar window that extended the horizontal length of the retractable garage style door and the regular window in the door to the left of it for normal entry, Miles could clearly see through either the short parade of cars make their way to the end of the narrow back road where it spilled into the private section of the airport where two hangars, three

WWII vintage aircraft, and several private jets, one, a sleek silver job sat poised, waiting for their call to action. The tail fin of the silver baby sporting the exact numbers in the photo he sent to Mae Ling a few days ago. The lead car, which Miles recognized as a four-door Lincoln Continental jet black with smoked windows all around except for the front, stopped short of the rear building where he was being held, allowing for the smaller trail car to pull up, it’s bumper nearly touching one of the doors. He could hear the squelch and screed of the radios in both cars as they came alive with conversations. A voice from not too long ago in his past, informing: “If this is who I think it is, he is either the second coming of Jesus Christ or he has friends in god-awful high places, and we want to make sure that we show the proper respect.” Normally, that sentence might have been one a person would say to someone they respected and wanted to impress, but the chill in Dr. Hart’s voice, and make no mistake, that was Dr. Hart’s voice, left no doubt of its real intent. The driver acknowledged the instructions with a “10-4,” hung up the receiver, and with a slight directional nod of the head to the blacked-out window of the limo, signaled what his intentions were. The natural order of things followed: the driver, who answered “Red” to the question that came from behind the door when he knocked twice, waited a second and knocked a third time, and got back in the lead car. The repairman-henchman pressed a large red button by the left side of the door, causing its’ slow loud rise to where it cleared enough for the two cars to enter a room the size of a kindergarten classroom.

Once inside, the button was pressed again, and the door performed the same function, only in reverse. The original occupants took up their position around their captor, the repairmenhenchman took up a position directly behind him so that he could not gauge his true distance or position.

A tap on the back of his head ensured the retention of his advantage. Sort of a peek-a-boo thing of now you see me and now you don’t. An old interrogation trick used to throw off a newly arrived prisoner by circling him throughout the interrogation. Thus, the prisoner could never be sure of where they were; therefore, the ability to brace for a blow, if it were coming, was muted, causing a heightened state of anxiety. So from the very first moments of capture, the prisoner was off-guard, and his negative adrenaline flow was off the charts. The face of Dr. Hart was drawn and discolored with the infusion of blood to his temples, as he dismounted from the black limo and entered the space where Miles was being taunted. He did not use any such deceptive tactics. His backhand slap across the face was direct and pinpointed; the blood that seeped from Miles’s broken nose was testimony to its force. The kick to his kidneys as he tried to regain his footing from the first blow which had sent him crashing to the floor was paralyzing, so much so that he had to be lifted by Vick and the repairmen-henchmen back into the chair. Making an exhibition of removing his thousand-dollar camel-haired overcoat (a blurredeyed estimate by Miles) and black suede gloves, then donning a mechanic’s apron held out to him by the repairman-henchmen and fingering his way into a pair of regular work gloves likewise, provided he took up a position in Miles’s bloody face, prepared to begin the real work of peeling back the seal of silence covering his knowledge of what and why he had been to his office within days of Stella’s death in life and how he now was sitting here in a chair very much alive after death. “You’re an amazing man!” The doctor begin as he delivered another pain-filled blow to his chest just below his neck, further complicating breathing and increasing the flow of blood that was seeping from his nose as a result of his initial blow. Genuinely curious: “Just how the fuck did you get out of that prison? Hell, I saw you myself get the gas treatment, Got myself invited as her doctor (so, he had been at the execution), stayed until I saw them cart your dead ass out to the prison morgue. Statement of assumed fact: “You were as dead as a door nail!” Muttering to himself: “I can’t finish this right now, hastily removing the apron,

and gloves, and putting his overcoat and dress gloves back on. I don’t have the time. “I’ll get blood all over my clothes, and besides, I just wanted to be sure you had, who I thought you had.” He instructed the pair, “Keep at it. Don’t let up on him until he comes clean, I mean everything, so that he will have the answers to my questions when I get back from my medical conference dinner,” adding coyly, “they’re giving me the Physician of the year Award tonight. Spitting the word into Miles’s face: “We’re going to get rid of the lot of your kind; but this time, we will only let most of the women live, so they can keep us supplied with a cheap labor force; this time around, there will be no question who the real man is.” With that, he mounted the tinted glass limousine by the left rear door, tapped the driver’s shoulder as the starting command. Miles could not see who the driver was or what he looked like because of the alignment of the cars as they stopped inside of the room and the tinted driver’s side front door window; the larger chain-driven door opened again this time by Vick to allow their exit, both cars backed out turned around and they were gone. The door had barely completed its clang of metal hitting cement before Miles came out of his slouched pose act. He could not believe that they were such amateurs; how do you allow, even a badly wounded prisoner not to be restrained in some way when you are conducting an interrogation? Too late, because Miles brought the steel garage chair down across Vick’s head as he turned from his goodbye salutations at the door, he went down like a sack of Idaho potatoes. The repairmen-henchmen was just that, more repairmen than henchman, because his reaction to seeing Vick go down was to rush wildly open-fisted toward Miles threatening, “I kill you motherfucker; I’ll kill you black ass!” Leaving him wide open for the chair to be applied to his forehead as he entered the strike zone, which it was and Miles did. Twice, once to bring him down, and the second time to keep him down. Escape was easy; he simply used the hangar telephone on the repairmenhenchman’s desk and called an airport taxi cab to take him back to his car sitting recessed back in the turnaround 100 yards from the beginning of the entry road

to the private area of the airport. Paying the cabby with a fifty-dollar (you never saw me tonight) tip. He boarded the Volvo and commanded it to life, following the cab to the exit onto the airport’s circular drive that led back to the freeway.

He did not worry about Dr. Hart exposing his being exposed, who could he tell it to? Without exposing his own complicity in the plot and with the plotters? Who would believe him? After all, the two henchmen were dead and the driver never got out of the limousine which was parked facing away from his point of view and the one who answered as Red, had never seen him before and didn’t know him from Adam.

Turning The Checkmates Ltd. Live at Caesars Palace album up to full volume was what he needed to clear his head of the fog of confusion he now suffered caused from the beating Dr. Hart had given him. As he ed the flow of late night traffic back to LA, he could imagine what Dr. Hart and whoever else accompanied him back to the hangar reaction would be when they returned to step knee-deep in his handiwork: “What the . . . ?”

28

Washington, D.C.

The plane touched down in the late evening light; he had picked this time of arrival because of his affinity for the night. It had always been his friend in war and on the streets of LA. He was traveling light. His leather military carry-on bag with a day’s change of clothes, his toiletries, and his.45 automatic was all that he had, so he retrieved it from the overhead compartment and exited the plane, followed a cluster of engers down a long exit ramp and through the double doors past the luggage area out into the night. This was not going to take long. What he had to tell the president would be straightforward and succinct.

Either he would get the green light or he would leave with only one purpose left in this new life and that would be to try to stop this thing on his own, find out who framed him, killed Stella, and orphaned little Lynnette and clear himself in anyway he could of the phony murder charges he had been convicted of, and maybe, now that he knew she was alive and available, connect with Mae Ling and gain his life back. Failing that, survive his new half-dead, half-alive existence as best he could.

That last part might cause some friction in the government and more than a little embarrassment to the President but as that old saying goes, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

It was clear by his ride that the President was working under the theory that less is more, because the car that blinked its lights two times, then after a five-second wait, blinked them once more as he approached it in stall #30 in the parking garage, was a plain 1978 green ford sedan with a black vinyl top.

Opening the left rear door and asg his bag to the far side of the rear seat, he bent his head, entered accepting the soft grunt of sound from the two occupants of the front seat as the best he was going to get in the way of a “Hello” from two people who, although they were as dedicated as anyone could be to the President, the country and their jobs, had the combined personalities of two bricks sinking slowly in muddy water. As his ride sped through the damp Washington, D.C., night, he pondered how to start with the President? What would his reaction be like? After all, what he would be proposing was some pretty wild stuff.

Even he would have had a pretty hard time believing it if he had not discovered it himself. And even then, after dissecting it over a thousand times from a million different angles, he still came to the same conclusion. Wild! Unbelievable!

But as wild and unbelievable as it was, it was happening, or at least going to start happening within seventy-two hours. Would the President believe it enough to move on it? Give him and his street army the authority to move on his plan to stop it? And even then, they were going to need all the rosaries Mario’s people could say and more than a few Hail Marys on the side to pull this thing off, because the other side had a deeper bench and a longer training camp. And if they did not come out victorious, it could all just end up one big heap of crap, causing them their lives and President Miller his presidency.

He cringed at the thought that seventy-two hours might be all that was left of America as he knew it today! “Carter! You going to get you’re damn fool head blown of if you don’t pay more attention,” chastised his special training camp sergeant when he led his squad in an exercise for the first time. “You have men’s lives in you hands! You have to be more attentive to what’s going on around you, and most important, you must have and follow a plan of attack! “You understand me?” He asked again directly in his face in front of the whole squad, “Do you understand me?” His weak “Yes, sir” had only gotten him guffaws later in the barracks, but it taught him a valuable lesson that he would never forgot to this fateful day. So if he got a yes from the president, he had come ready and had a plan. In one way, you’re disappointed when you enter the building, because you become aware once inside that the many long and close-up pictures, news shots and descriptions you heard and saw of the White—House were misleading. The structure though, grand, palatial, and historic, is much smaller than you thought. Still, it is commanding, politically regal. Standing in the grand foyer, it is awesome! Making even the most nonplus of its occupants seem important. If you have ever had any doubts about whether or not you love your country, or if it is truly worth fighting and dying for, or that it is the last greatest seat of democracy and freedom left on the face of this earth, you lose those feelings the moment you step on the White—House grounds, and they become not even creditable thoughts when you actually enter the White—House itself. Maybe that’s why they have those tours. The place reverberates with the pride, ion, sorrow, hopes and fears, determination, spunk (Who in the hell thought up this little gem? And who and how did they pull it off?), upstartishness, farsightedness, and love of the whole of a people of which you are one. Even for a first-timer, you are visited with stirrings of emotions akin to those aroused by a true lover’s touch; a firstborn’s chortle, or a mother’s love or

father’s well-done hug. Because at that moment of entry, you see and march with the millions in and out of uniform who have given and pledge to give their lives to preserve this freedom house forever. Call them what you want, forefathers, part slave owners, double-talkers, but when you visit the house that the foundation they laid is built on, you are less than honorable if you don’t proclaim deep inside a profound Amen! He followed the servants of democracy to the outer office. He was greeted by the outer office secretary (Helen) who waved off the g in protocol Hey he’s dead right?(can’t go around leaving tracks all over the place) and then escorted him to the main office, the Oval Office. You knew this because each president selects his or her own style and design for the oval office and this president choice a gold-plated plaque to adorn the right door which read “Oval office.” Approaching this shrine of freedom made his pulse rate race; the thought that he, the son of a day laborer, was meeting, no, summoned to meet the highest elected official of the nation and was expected, through his service, to help possibly effect the direction and life of it, humbled him. But it assured him that someday when the true story is told of the contributions all of the people of this nation have made, large or small with their hearts, blood, courage and their very lives, the flags that hang behind the sacred desk will have truly witnessed freedom. The flags, the circular windows, the desk, the carpets with the grand bald eagle holding the chaff of wheat in its beak, again the new presidents personal design, all bedazzled in red white and blue, helped create the aura of grandeur and majesty that made the whole experience more unbelievable and stimulating. Mae Ling stood at the edge of the desk facing the door with a tablet in her hands. She was dressed in something made for a goddess not the special assistant to the President of the United States. But on her, it looked sophisticated, subtle, and proper still at the same time sensation. The President didn’t seem to even notice. Miles assumed that by now he had just become accustomed to her beauty and intelligence. There were few lights on in the room; it was filled mostly by the moonlight spilling through the floor to

ceiling windows and doors, so there were more than a few shadows that took up positions across its occupants, making Mae Ling look more mystical. So much so that you almost felt that you should bow when in her presence. Her eyes took in his slow measured flight across the room, and when he got within touching distance of her, she broke the beam that connected each of their souls, revealing the truth of the need each of them had for the other and reminding both of them that they would not be able to deny the inevitable much longer, with a measured smile. “Mr. President.” He did not respond to Miles first address of him. Thinking he had not heard his first address, a second time: “Mr., President.” Now he turned from where he had been standing at the window arms crossed reflectively peering out as if to say: God, I wish I was anywhere else but here now. He walked to his desk, sat down, and then motioned for the two of them to be seated, in chairs stationed at either end of his desk. The two shadowy figures that had also been given entry (they were never more than ten feet from the president) took seats on the couch just behind Miles and Mae Ling. The pressure was there. He knew that whatever Miles was about to tell him was going to require that he dig deep down in that reservoir that all great people have, that capacity to go beyond the safe ground that most of us accept every day just to be able to live our lives with as little stress as possible, but the great ones, they breath the same air, walk the same ground, face the same fears but with a quiet confidence, they have the ability to face the unthinkable, with the calm of a mother rocking her baby to sleep, because like that mother, they have a soul that is clean, a spirit and a undaunted heart filled with love for their child and all mankind. “I’ll leave you alone,” Mae Ling informed. Rising, she turned to exit through a door almost invisibly tucked into the circular wall; her movement was like that of a butterfly taking to air, more form than motion. “No stay,” the President recalled her. “You know we have never had any secrets from each other; besides, I am going to need your input too.” She stopped short midway to the door and returned to her seat at her end of the desk. Again, they caught each other’s eye for a split second. He thought “with a

woman like this in your life, a man could feel safe like a ship in the harbor,” then just as quickly, he ed a picture in a bank in downtown Los Angeles that featured on the main wall behind the manager’s desk a beautiful yacht moored at the dock. The caption read “Ships are safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are made for.” Refocused on what was at stake and what they were all up against, their ship had an entire ocean to navigate! The President: “I wish I could say that I’m glad to see you, but since you insisted on bringing your report rather than mailing it in, I can only assume that you are not the bearer of good news. And no matter what that report says, I’m going to be required to make a grave decision quickly which may affect many people’s lives.” Miles prepared to ask him how he knew all of that just from his request to present his report in person, telling him nothing of its content. “How did I know?” The President plumbed the thoughts right from the stare in his eyes before he could verbalize them. “How did I know?” he repeated. “Because after the first six weeks on this job, you develop a sixth sense for trouble, and if you don’t, you won’t make it the next six weeks.” Removing himself from the desk, he returned to peering out of the window. Speaking into the glass with the voice of someone who had almost seen it all, someone who knew the true odds of life, someone who, but for that smallest hope that penetrates the soul of mankind, that hope that lives in all of us that no matter how hard things may get, what the odds against success are, life will go on and things, no matter how hopeless will get better and human kind will survive. With the dimmest glint of that hope in his eye, he addressed Miles, “Well, let’s have it.” The grand ‘ol flags behind the great desk, the carpet with the great bald eagle, all things he had seen faithfully reproduced in movies or pictures to be sold or used to create the feeling that one was in fact in the Oval Office of the White-House now paled. Sitting here now in the middle of history where soon another great decision, which he would be involved in, will have to be made by the leader of the keepers of freedom made all other representations pale in comparison. This was real.

He embodied that same hope that sparked the idea of this country in the first place and has served it so well for these nigh on two hundred years But he knew you could lose that hope, unless you put up one hell of a fight for it and make no mistake, they were in for a hell of a fight! A hell of a fight! Over his shoulder flatly, matter-of-factly: “This office is sold like a fast food franchise ever four years to the one who can come up with the most money and the best catch phrase, the people vote, but they are only voting for the franchise package with the best slogan. “No real serious thought is put into it. My team against your team. Not what is best for the republic regardless of whose team you are on? Not realizing that for the most part, whoever comes into this office is already bought and paid for, and the franchise they think they voted for is a wholly owned subsidiary of a privately held corporation. Not them!” Statement of fact: “Well not this time, we raised most all of our money through the people! Refused most of the big money backers so we would be clean when we took office. “I tried to come in cleaner than any President has ever, I used almost all of the family’s fortune, still even I owe favors to a few people. The kind of people I wouldn’t trust to pour me a cup of tea with my back turned. Powerful people.” There was more regret than sadness in his voice as he turned his back to them. Continuing: “When we win, we spend most of our time here working to arrange and rearrange the laws of business and life to pay back the IOUs we owe to this or that cabal who put us here!” Now he looked older than Miles had ever ed him. “Yea, I owe debts too, but I ain’t paying them!” He got to the gist of the problem. “So now what? They are coming at me from the bleachers aren’t they, Miles? They couldn’t win it fair and square, so now what do we have? What are we up against? I know it’s dirty. How dirty?” Looking directly at him, with all of the awesome weight and power of the office reflected in his face, the aching in his voice, he looked a hundred years old.

He knew that there could be no soft-selling, no sugar-coating of the facts, no best-case scenario. The President was the kind of drinker who took his bourbon straight So he, like Sergeant Friday, gave it to him straight. “The facts, madam, just the facts.” Mae Ling set a cup of tea in front of him. “Sugar?” she asked. He had been so enthralled by the President’s words that he had not noticed her leaving and returning to the room. ‘No, no, I’m fine,” he deflected. Their hands brushed slightly as she sat the cup on the edge of the desk anyway and gave him a spoon to stir the tea with. The brief sensation that charged through his body was different than what he felt when he entered the Whitehouse for the first time but just as strong. Taking a long slow sip of his tea anyway, he did not want the slightest confrontation with her; he stole a glimpse of her. She was looking right through him; the hot liquid that he was swallowing became her stare burning its way through his body coming to rest in his loins.

The light sparring was over. It was clear that she wanted the main event. Sitting the cup and saucer back on the edge of the desk nearest him, he returned to the task at hand.

Miles felt that what happened from this point forward would determine whether or not his faith had been well placed over fifteen years ago when he and Mae Ling decided to throw their lot in with this man and made their gift to freedom in a dirt hut in the midst of winter in a land known as Korea.

He was not sure of just how or where to start because the information was almost too much to believe. But he was freed by the president’s “Don’t’ hold back” declaration. “This may sound like a campaign speech, Miles, but we are truly at a crossroads in this country with a lot of issues, and starting tonight, we may be deciding if the skies above this country will be filled with doves or

hawks.”

He knew that he would have to present the information slowly and accurately if he was to get the answer he was seeking, because the more he thought about what was about to go down in the next seventy-two hours, the more he feared that the president or any other clear-thinking person would not believe it.

So he started at the top and just let the story flow. At times, he referred to the paper version of his report to stay on course, but for the most part, it came form his head and heart.

Although he could see that the president was taken aback, because he squirmed in his seat through parts of it and brushed his hair back more than once, as he looked at Mae Ling to see her reactions, he continued presenting proof and suspicion one step at a time.

Concluding: “As you know, Mr. President, in the early years of the settlements here, there was much less separation of the races. Mainly because many of the settlers who came here were ex-slaves or prisoners, former indentured people themselves, and had no desire to inflict that lifestyle on anyone else.

Also, because, they did not, or could not bring women with them, they integrated or intermarried with the Native American population.

The split along racial lines came as more and more white female settlers arrived, and they begin to form more of a society that reflected where they came from (more puritan, less inclusive); in short, having learned the survival skills needed, they no longer desired or needed to co-exist, and thus begin the quest for power

by starting wars, spreading of disease (however unintentionally), and cobbling of land. This worked all right until that pesky little thing called “The Constitution of the United States” came into being.

This gave redress by law to all citizens. From that point on, the argument for and against its fullest implication or to just what degree the laws and freedoms espoused in it were to be vested on the whole of the population has been the central point of contention between the populations.

With one group vying for and vowing to sustain it and the other group working just as hard to abolish its central tenets and return to a darker time.

Within seventy-two hours, we will know which group will win out because for the second time in our history, we are on the brink of civil war.

Returning to his desk at the sound of a clap of thunder, he moved back from the windows as if to say: This is too much! I don’t want to hear anymore!

Mae Ling took the occasion to refill their cups. Rising, she picked up the tea pot and approached Miles with the half-question half-phrase “refill?” extending the pot toward Miles who extended his cup to a spot somewhere in mid-air where she maneuvered the pot’s spout to meet it like a tanker plane refueling a fighter jet in midair.

“You too, sir?” she queried the president, leaning across his desk to perform the same feat for him. His return from the window allowed him to arrive at his desk

in time to cancel out the question, waving her off with a polite cupping of his hand over his half empty, cooling cup with his question: “So they are no longer going to even make a political pretense at trying to take over the country by the ballet. They are going straight to the gun? Huh?”

Out came the dirt house warrior slamming her fist on the desk: “Then they must be stopped!” She had been listening to Miles relate the results of his findings to the president with deep concern and a quiet intenseness that belied her true emotions at hearing the depth of the report.

Her reaction was simply the natural response of a true warrior, an honest broker. Standing now, pacing the room: “I am sorry, Mr. President, for my outburst, but something has to be done or you, rephrasing. We have wasted the last fifteen or so years, and this country and may lose the last fifty years of progress.”

The determination in her eyes and voice was reminiscence of fifteen years ago when she made that fateful decision to take on a band of murderers and marauders with just her wits and save their lives.

Rounding his desk in a blur of movement, the president became the concerned father figure, embracing Mae Ling while rubbing her shoulders. Soothing: “We been through worst than this before, and we’ll make it through this.” Warriors are different.

Leading her back to her seat, he continued gently rubbing her shoulders while giving Miles his full attention.

“What are you trying to say, Miles, that there are a group of people out there

trying to get rid of black people?” Miles clarified, “People of any color,” adding matter-of-factly, “not trying, Mr. President, doing, and they are using top echelon people in the government to help them carry out the plan.”

“They are going to use the cover of the military exercises to do it?”

“Unless we move quickly, we’re going to be too late to even have a chance at stopping them.”

Now, back behind his desk finally accepting the truth of it all as though a brick had fallen from the sky and struck him on the head, the president placed his head in his hands. “It all makes sense now. It ties in perfectly with the name of the exercise. I didn’t get it when the generals first told me what it was.”

Continuing: “The Pentagon said that ten of our most highly sophisticated fighter planes would be taking part in the exercise the ones we only use to put down terrorists, nuclear attacks and riots.”

“What is the code word for the exercise, sir?” The president seemed to have trouble releasing the word from his lips. Finally, with both elbows on the desk cradling his head in his hands, he murmured “BLACKOUT.”

Walking down the long hallway to the Lincoln bedroom, entering through a door held open by an ashen white gloved hand, his bag was already there, he paused momentarily at the door then entered.

The bed clothes on the large eighteenth century bed had been turned down for him; his mind drifted back to his childhood, of playing stick ball in the streets of the ghetto neighborhood where he was raised to being one of, if not, the first mixed groups to appear on the new medium called television locally, basic training, the war (sorry, the Police Action) for a total of three years of serving in the armed services, and tonight, he was going to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom of the Whitehouse! Wow!

A voice that sounded like it had been dragged over a jagged rock made of slate brought him back to the now. “Be ready to go at six o’clock in the morning, you can eat on the plane,” the voice instructed.

Looking closer at the ashen face, he saw a man with no life of his own. He lived to die in the service of his country and the president. But why? Miles mused, as the fellas’ on the street would say when striking the smallest of bargains, what’s in it for me? Or in his case, him.

Pausing before leaving the room as though the question had been streamed in a ticker tape on a building in Times Square, he turned back into the room and said, “I’ll tell you why I do it.” Bearing long hidden wounds: “I was a . . . I was a Major General during the conflict, had my own command. Then, one day an incendiary bomb hit our HQ almost dead center, killing most of the command officers. And as you can see, I was burned over 80% of my body.

“I was sent to the same base hospital you were in. They tried everything. But when the skin grafts did not take, compared to now, they didn’t know ditly about skin grafting then, the powers that be decided that I did not look like the image of a successful officer the kind that they wanted on the frontlines leading the men.”

He moved to the large window, closed the curtains to the mid-morning moonlight and returned to face Miles. “I challenged many of my superiors and their orders as just plain stupid, and warned them that if we didn’t fight the war full out, it would just become a prelude to other challenges from other countries.

“That unnerved them, I guess I sounded too much like MacArthur and the tiff he was having with President Truman.

“I became a pain in the neck to them before I was wounded so, after I was wounded and laid up in the hospital for so long, my being disabled gave them the out they needed to get rid of me.”

Miles interjecting: “But how could they?” Cutting him off at mid-point, the Major continued, “They said I showed (here he raised his two ashen hands to make the sign of air quotes) poor leadership, judgment in selecting the HQ site and that I should have known the enemy potential better, making me indirectly responsible for the deaths of the others who were there with me.

“I could have fought them, but it wasn’t in me anymore. That’s when I met the president. Every time he would come to visit you, you didn’t even know he was there half the time; you were on so many drugs and in and out of it, much of the time, so he would also visit me and other soldiers who did not have visitors. He really cared about the men.

“He spent hours just sitting with me, and I got to know him, and he pledged to me what he pledged to you and Mae Ling that if he was ever in a position, he would reach out to me.

“I took my pension and shipped out stateside after a year of bedpans and therapy. When the Major won the presidency, no one was more surprised than me when he looked me up and made me his aide. Along with Johnson (he assumed that was the name of the other suit) and Mae Ling, and now you, we are the only people he truly trusts.

“He put me above all those assholes who thought they had buried me, left me for dead to rot away on a government pension.

“In the end, I’m doing it for the same reason you are here doing what you are doing, the same reason you lugged him halfway across Korea, because he gave you the chance to die like a man rather than live less then one.”

The hand he shook looked white and pale, but the warmth he felt in his heart and the expression on the frail face of the person who offered it said that they were brothers in the same struggle and that common bond of respect and understanding made no words necessary for confirmation of that fact.

Miles had seen that same expression of brotherhood on Mario and Tammy’s faces when they parted in Los Angeles; he would be glad to report to them that the ranks had grown by two.

Somewhere between the time that Mitchell left and six o’clock, Miles died and went to heaven. For somewhere between those hours, he awoke to the tender caresses and molten kisses of a long unanswered lover in the form of an angel lying beside him.

She was not wrapped in white or lavender. Rather, she wore nothing at all. Her

skin was not pale but a soft shade of gold; her brown black eyes were on fire as he turned to face her she said the words that make the whole of life on planet earth eternal. “I love you, I have always loved you, and I will always love you, no matter what.”

What followed made the entirety of his lovemaking life to that point meaningless, the women before her were mere promises of what the act and the pure fulfillment of it, could and should feel like.

Whereas with everyone before her he ed things erotic; they had been more about the satisfaction he derived, his manhood. For all the physical was matched, no, topped a thousand times over; but it was accompanied by a spiritual, something that made all normal senses see, feel, and know more of what life and love is capable of than with any other person.

He only felt the love, not the lovemaking, the result, not the act itself. They did not talk. They did not make love, they loved.

There were other nights and lovers where he thought his manhood had served him well, but this night, he felt both man and woman, that their organs were merely conduits to the heart, and it was not important at what moment who was man and who was woman, for at the point of release, he was sure that she would have been glad to be him and he would have been glad to be her, because both people this night were truly being and had been loved.

He fell asleep with an angel lying across his shoulder. When he awoke, she, like all angels, had flown away. The scent of her wings, the glow of her lovemaking remained even through his shower. He thought he caught a glimpse of her out of the rear view window of the ‘78 ford as he and his two new brothers cleared the front gates of the Whitehouse.

As the salute was given to the occupants in the front seat by the Marine detail at the front gate as they exited to Pennsylvania Avenue, he met the eyes of the enger, the one who had revealed himself to him last night—in the rear view mirror his stare finalized his value and dedication to the mission.

The airport porter gathered his bag from rear seat of the car ing it on to him at the curb when he exited the backseat heading for the entrance to his flight. Taking his tip in a smooth exchange of the item for the money Miles had in his hand.

As he reached the revolving door entrance, he heard a sharp “Sir!” In a threehundred-sixty-degree response to the address, he faced two wrought iron rod humans come to full attention and show him the truest form of respect that can be afforded one person to another. They both gave him the formal military salute He dropped his bag to his feet and returned their unwritten pledge of camaraderie before boarding his plane to leave this cradle of freedom, Washington, D.C.

29

What Would Bill and Harvey Think?

Boy, this America, what a trip. What a stroke of genius, how a system could be derived by man, not even modern man, but by a bunch of white landowners mostly determined and dedicated to protecting their landholdings and their wealth, could have evolved into this. The most sophisticated, complex, yet simple system of governance in the history of mankind. Because in the end, it boiled down to the most common of goals, human needs and human desires. Each person within it is allowed to dream, accomplish, and work to own whatever and however much he or she may desire as long as in the process, they do not (outside of the rules) illegally interfere, prohibit, or otherwise impede another person’s right to do the same thing. Brilliant! Just Brilliant! Because what it does is to make each person their own policeman, their own guardian of the system, keeper of its most important tenets, “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours, and I, the impersonal me, will defend to the death your right to attain your life’s goals because they invariably are my life’s goals.” As he fell asleep in the Lincoln bedroom that last night before they were to try to take down a group of people who violated those principles to their very core, he wondered what would Bill and Harvey, two young white Americans he had met in high school years ago when the country was still living “The Superiority Lie” which over time had manifests itself into the very real threat he was now directly confronting.

Actually, he met Bill through Harvey who played linebacker on Southside high’s football team. Miles played third string quarterback for Central High. He really played first string varsity guard for the basketball team (made it as a sophomore), but the coaches, in order to fill out their respective rosters would loan each other’s players as long as they were not put in positions that could get them hurt, making them unavailable for their primary sport. So you never played in any game that was close or very important, but it was a way to get a second “letter.” So most of the players didn’t mind it; besides, it kept you in shape and in the school spotlight for most of the year. Although he also ran track, or more to the point, pole vaulted, so he was also on the track team, which earned him great props in the school yearbook. So, he was inserted late in the fourth quarter of a blow-out game, mostly to gain some reps in case he ever had to play in a meaningful game. After all, they, thanks to Willie Ware, their black first string quarter back, who had already been plucked by the state college for a full ride scholarship, were deep in the hunt for the city title; so there was an offhand chance that he might see some real action. Because being on the third string relegated him to limited practice with the primary offensive line, he did not have command of the full spectrum of the plays available to Willie or the second string quarter back, Norm Shear, making him rely mostly on calling his own number. Each time he did this, it resulted in a strange occurrence, a tackle by Southside’s linebacker. Harvey would hit or tackle him long after he had handed the ball off or the play which he kept the ball had ended, causing him a great deal of frustration and more than a few bruises. Bent of confronting this crazy white boy who had pursued and attacked him with the fervor of the Hounds of the Baskerville, he headed him off where both teams loaded onto their buses which were parked one behind the other in the same parking area. He saw Miles coming, and as you did in those days if you were a minority or majority member of society confronting the other, you braced for the inevitable physical confrontation. Face flushed from battle, Harvey turned to deal with the, from his point of view, crazy “black guy” who was entering his loading space. His teammates slowed their loading onto the bus just in case something did

occur; they would be “available” for physical -(help kick this nigger’s ass)if needed. Miles face to face with Harvey: “Hey, man, what did you think you were doing out there?” By this time his teammates begin to drift to be within close proximity of the front of Southside’s bus so they to could be ready to kick some white ass if this thing jumped off. “What do you mean? I was just playing the game,” retorted Harvey, “what’s you’re problem?” “My problem,” Miles replied, “is that you hit me when the play was over or even when I had ed or handed the ball off! What’s with that?” Then came a truth born out of naiveté, ignorance, and over a hundred years of hate and misunderstandings. “Coach told me that ‘you guys’ have softer leg bones than us, and if I hit you hard and long enough, I would slow you down and probably crack your shin bone and help us win the game.” “You’re joking, you can’t mean that? Right?” Then over his shoulder, Willie, who was first in line to back him up if something had jumped off (he was a real leader), began laughing, then the rest of his teammates ed in with the of the Southside team who had been within close enough ear shot to hear Harvey’s explanation, and the laughter continued as the story spread throughout both buses as teammates shook theirs heads as the story was repeated as they loaded, leaving he and Harvey realizing, as they shook hands before boarding their respective buses, that they had both had their first encounter with the “Superiority Lie,” a lie that, if not corrected, would distort, weaken the foundation of the nation and cause “The Death of America.” A year or so later, they met in a local talent contest put on by the local radio station, liked what they saw and heard in each other’s music enough to form a high school band. Harvey, who played a mean guitar, brought Bill who played a solid uncompromising bass, and Miles brought two of his friends, one who taught himself to play such soulful drums that later in his career, Buddy Rich, one of the greatest drummers ever, would make it to his shows to set in with him and made him godfather to his daughter (the times, they were a changing). The five of them became fast true friends, forming a bond that lasted until they graduated high school when the strains of the times and the dictates of just

growing up in America caused them to disband. That was his first lesson in testing the theory of America and through it, he had gained a perspective, combined with the southern teachings of his mother that was to guide him throughout the rest of his life and make him two true lifelong friends. Now he thought what if they had stayed together, what if Bill and Harvey were here now when one arm of the government was about to strike against another arm of the government, What Would Bill and Harvey Think?

30

The City of Angels

The plane ride back was like leaving your mother’s funeral. You felt like all that was ever important to you was lost. Yet you knew simply by the fact that you were still alive and able to feel the hurt that you felt, that you had to somehow keep on going.

Who was it that said “Parting is such sweet sorrow?” He couldn’t , but he totally agreed. It was near late Thursday afternoon when the plane entered California airspace. He now had less than seventy-two hours to stop this thing; if it could or would be stopped at all.

The weather in Los Angeles was hot and muggy, just the kind of weather that would redound to the best advantage for detonating a “dirty bomb.” It would keep the contaminates low to the ground, thereby making them more deadly

Even after reporting the wildness of their plan to the president, all the way back on the long plane flight,his brain was still asking the question any sane person would ask, how could they be sure they would only kill black and Latinos? Surely, some white people would die.

To answer that question, one would have to understand the inner workings of the racist mentality. As far as they were concerned, there are too many people in the

world today anyway, mostly the wrong kinds of people, they thought. Hell, so, if a few white people had to die (hopefully they would be bleeding heart liberals) then so be it. It would just begin to resolve a problem that they are going to have to deal with someday soon anyway. To them, that would be the price of real progress.

There had been many things he had overlooked, or more accurately, misevaluated. It all started with Stella’s death. He should have known from having lived and survived life in the ghetto that it was not the work of some wacko who got carried away with the sex game he and Stella were playing.

No, her death had to have been ordered by someone. Someone, who had, while in a drunken stupor, or drug-induced high, or because of an unguarded whisper in his sleep, had said something, let a truth slip. Or, with false pride, just had to boast even to a black woman ( how slave owners spoke in front of slaves), had to wax on about that great getting up morning when all would be right again the way he and his ilk thought it should be.

I mean, why should she not know? They did not intend for the women to die, they needed them to breed the low wage workforce.

After the war was over, they intended to reestablish concentration camps much like the ones used on the Japanese to house the female producers (at least this time they would not call them slaves) and laborers. Plantations would be too good for them this time around.

If she was as high as he was at the time of his declarations, then maybe he could still salvage something out of this and hang on to his hot sex partner. As with all weak men, he wanted to have his cake and eat it too, but if he had said or she

had ed too much about operation “Blackout” than he had to know.

He did not know or could not be sure exactly what he said or how much she ed, but what if she had taken him seriously? She would be headed straight to the newspapers, cops, or the damned Black Muslims. Shit! He had to stop her.

So killing her was not intended, but once done, it solved one problem and created another. Now, they could not be absolutely sure of how long Stella lived before the ambulance arrived to pronounce her dead, and what if anything she might have told Miles or whomever lived in that apartment.

Reflecting back, Miles was sure that Dr. Hart thought she must have said something, which would explain why Miles showed up at his office the very next day.

Figuring Miles had to know something that could put their plan in jeopardy, they postponed “Blackout” indefinitely until serendipity struck in the form of Ms. Wilson making her play for Miles breaking her radio silence to him at her apartment.

They heard and saw everything. As luck would have it, it came through loud and clear on the peek-a-boo system they had set up to monitor her (for another reason altogether) to see if she was double-booking clients after they had been introduced to her by Dr. Hart. No more, no less.

The tag team did its job to perfection, canceling out Ms. Wilson and setting Miles up for the murder. Dr. Hart hated losing a top operative like Ms. Wilson,

but she had become a liability and she had to go.

When Dr. Hart witnessed the execution going off on schedule, they retuned, refined the operation, and brought everything back on line.

And what better cover could they have than the largest military operation of the year, set for the months end in Camp Pendleton, California.

Through Mr. Cookman’s Pentagon with a General there, Dr. Hart was proffered to an unsuspecting president for the post of surgeon general, giving him rhyme and reason to be invited by that same General to see and take part in the exercise. Their timing was mostly luck but also impeccable.

Where to? Asked the cabby who had edged out the other two cab drivers at the curb side by taking his bag and slinging it over his shoulder while holding the cab door open for him. Miles thinking he really must want this fare, informed him as he entered the back seat. The cabby deposited his bag in the trunk of the cab, circled the vehicle to the left front door, seated himself, engaged the meter, put the cab in gear, and ed the challenge that was the process of clearing the pick-up area of LAX. Finding his way onto the freeway leading away from the airport toward what Miles thought was the most direct way to town. He questioned. “Hey! Buddy, you don’t mind if I take a shortcut do ya? The freeway into town is jammed this time of day,” the driver inquired through the space between the glass separating the front and back seat area. He continued, “In this afternoon traffic, I won’t get back to my station at the

airport in time to make a day’s wages if I don’t.” Miles signaled his approval of the request with a head nod and a condition statement of “As long as it saves time, it’s all right with me just get me back in time to grab a quick nap, I’m beat.” “OK then,” the driver sealed the bargain with a sharp right turn off the freeway at the off ramp onto the streets of Los Angeles, cursing and mumbling under his breath at the other drivers directing and imploring them to “Get the hell outta the way, don’t you dumb bastards see me coming?” Weaving sharply through and around cars, as if he had to be somewhere in a certain amount of time,and talking as though the other drivers could hear him: “Then just get the hell over enough for me to get through.” As best he could in the throes of the mini version of the Indy 500, Miles adjusted to the ebb and flow of the road race and the pleadings of his driver. “How did you people get a license? How?” Reflecting on what had happened with the President, Mae Ling, and the parting salute from both of the President’s Man, concluding in his head: It all started with Stella. Stella knew something, or at least they thought she knew something, about them, their plans that could throw a wrench into everything. Something was wrong. His sense of direction came back to him, and he voiced it to the cabby. “Hey, this isn’t the way to the Crenshaw district.” The cabby responded by turning the cab sharply into the next alley bringing the cab to a screeching stop a little more than halfway in, pushed the driver’s side door open and made his exit, diving to the ground. “Yeah, I know” came back through the window, as he gathered himself quickly, scrambling along the brick wall toward the front of the car, running for the alley exit. Through the front window of the cab, Miles saw two men enter the alley, they walked slowly, deliberately, and menacingly. The driver put on his brakes, reversed his path. The men walked about three feet apart but staying side by side. The long western style cattlemen’s overcoats they wore were inappropriate for the heat of the season which indicated to Miles that their purpose was not to shield its wearers from the climate, but to shield what each were carrying under them.

The driver, now in full panic mode, frantically searching for a safer exit, ran back past the rear door of the cab toward the opposite end of the alley. Through the rear view mirror, Miles witnessed an ominous black vehicle enter the other end of the alley behind the stopped cab, progress about fifty feet in and squat there. Then it proceeded slowly, almost at a growl, like a cat stalking its wounded prey, with only its running lights on. Silently, like a periscope rising on a submarine, a radio antenna rose slowly from its left front fender. Not the listen to your Top 40 radio station kind of antenna, but the field communication operational kind verified by one of the figures who had entered the alley on the left in front of them stopping, raising his hand to his ear area, listen to the end of his coat sleeve then moving it to his face, talking into it. Call and answer. “We all make mistakes,” he ed his grandmother saying to him as she retrieved the item he had hastily opened without reading the address tag on it on Christmas morning, simply because it was wrapped in a good-sized box, which turned out to hold a pair of large women’s underpants, his mother’s gift to her mother, as she took the package from him, “but if nobody gets hurt, its no matter.” But as the tag team in front of him took up stations and whoever it was in the large limousine to his rear that crept imperceptibly closer, he thought of the first mistake he made of packing his.45 in the secret compartment of his carry-on suitcase, because on his first test flight of his new identity, he had wanted to stay clear of any authority figures. He wanted to stay invisible. The driver had thrown his bag in the trunk of the cab stating, “You won’t need this until we get to your pad so you can use the whole backseat to stretch out from your long trip to D.C.” He really must have been tired or he would have caught the tell sign of the fact that the cabby knew he had come in from D.C. Yes, that terminal serviced engers arriving from D.C., but it also serviced people coming in from Jersey, Philly, and several other cities back east so, he could have been coming in from anywhere. But the driver knew D.C., and he had not caught it. His second mistake. He had been so deep in thought about what he had reported to the president,

what had to be done about it, and the memories of his night with Mae Ling that he packed his.45 in his army carry-on, secure in the knowledge that he would not need it, because no one knew he was alive, so how could anyone know he was arriving in LA from Washington, D.C.? His third mistake. He cursed himself for not having paid enough attention to the cabby who now was rolling down the brick wall like a cat in a windstorm looking for a safe escape route. A second car entered the alley, lighter in color but with the same accoutrements. He had seen these cars before. The cabby with both hands on the lowered driver’s side window of the black limousine addressing the driver pleading, bargaining in panic. “I ain’t staying. I did my part. He’s here ain’t he?” Less confident: “Look, I’m just a working stiff, yea, I went for the money for dropping this guy off here, pleading his case with street logic. But you woulda too.” The car door knocked him back up against the wall as sure as an Ali right cross. The limousine driver kept him pinned against the wall by applying pressure with his feet on the inside of the door. The sharp edge of the door striking just under the cabby’s chin did not allow him to fall to the ground, crawl away, or secure any form of release but elicited an agonizing gargled scream as blood gushed from his mouth. A tall red-headed(he had surely seen this one before with Dr. Hart in a small room behind the airport) man with a pocked face exited the rear door of the smaller car on the driver’s side, he wore the standard uniform of a hired killer, a nondescript dark suit (probably off the rack of any of the local chain stores), plain white shirt, black tie, and hat, and black gloves one of which, he threw back into the backseat of the smaller car upon his exit. When he rose to his full height, he was at least six feet tall. Applying his gloved hand to the cabby’s throat to keep him pinned against the wall, he closed the limousine door that had been performing that service. Mechanically, he retrieved the cold black.38 Colt with a silencer attached from a hand that extended out through the driver’s window of the black limousine. The cabby, now accepting the realization that the odds of his surviving in good health were markedly diminishing, begin to plead in earnest for his life with

every argument of the betrayed, “But I did what you told me to, you promised! Jesus, he’s here ain’t he? I did my part. Look, you keep the money! I know I bargained a little hard, hey, I know a thousand is a lot of money.” Dead serious now: “Look I wouldn’t have demanded that much if you hadn’t said how important he was to you in the first place.” The gun is placed against his head. Final arguments: “I gotta get this cab back to the garage. My dispatcher knows where I am at.” Trying to create a concrete, irrefutable logical why you can’t do this reason. “I mean, if I don’t call in the next few minutes or so, they will report me miss . . .” Big Red finished his chore with practiced efficiency, the results of which were that there was now not one thing on the face of this earth that could help the cabby perform even the slightest impersonation of life, so he slid down the wall to the ground. Life leaving him in the form of an unfinished sentence, skin, bone, and brain matter all of which propelled themselves out of the back of his head. Big Red wiped the barrel of the death stick clean, placed it in the hand that had delivered it-proof of his professionalism, the shooter is to be found no where near the gun or the shooting as quickly as possible—and returned to the invisibility of the backseat of the second car, tapped the driver on the shoulders as both cars sat idling, talking to each other, the cab radio begin to spit unintelligible bursts of screech as if it were trying to clear its throat, so he leaned over the front seat and twisted the knobs on the two-way radio until he heard a cold grey voice. “My friend, be reasonable, we have one and a half-inch-thick armor-plated s on both cars, bullet proof windows, and our boys in front of you both are wearing bullet proof vests and carrying AK-47s under their coats.” Summarizing the cold hard facts: “If we wanted to, we could wipe you out, finish you off in ten seconds. But we don’t want to kill you, we want to talk to you . . . now what do you say? You want to end it here? Or do you want to talk to the man?” On a hunch, he pushed the lock button of the glove compartment of the cab. The door flapped open. A cursory search revealed a standard Saturday Night Special. Releasing back onto the backseat, he tucked it into the back of his pants at the waist.

Leaning forward again, he closed the glove compartment, took the radio mike in hand and pressed the button answering the question. “I want to talk.” He needed time. Time to find the hole, the hole that the leak had come through, was it on the East Coast? Or the West Coast? The red head found the gun in his belt just as he had wanted satisfying any need for a search for bigger fish so; he did not bother, beyond the professional pat down. However, wanting to make sure that there were no leads for the police to follow up on when they discovered the “crime scene,” he retrieved his bag from the trunk of the cab, depositing it along with Miles in the backseat of the larger black limousine, where he came face to face with the hole in the roof that had sprung the leak, As he brought himself upright between the two men in the backseat, Enrique punched him across the face with the butt end of his gun then countered to the stomach with an elbow before Big Red separated the two of them. Red refereeing: “That’s enough . . . you hear? Dealing with the work to be done: “Now get out of here and give Moose a hand with the body, and when you’re through, I will give you a lift back to the your side of town before you’re missed. You’re job is done . . . for now.” Taking full responsibility of the situation from that point: We’ll take care of our friend from here. And as soon as we find out exactly who he is and how much he knows, who he is in this with and more importantly, who did he see in D.C., we will be more than glad to honor our deal and turn what’s left of him over to you.” Enrique’s gun had hit the soft part of his cheek. It hurt like hell, barely breaking the skin. Still, a trickle of blood escaped. He watched as Enrique, collected his rat money, and with the help of one of the cattlemen from the front of the car, dragged the cabby’s body to the front seat of the cab and slumped it over the steering wheel then ransack the coin box and glove compartment (too late to find the missing gun), so his deception would hold for now. Staging the driver in his cab was their way of trying to make it look as though a enger had forced him into the alley then mugged him and killed him in the course of a robbery.

His heart was broken for Mario and Tammy and all of the people of his race and movement who had shared the trust in their future with him. But most of all, he was heartbroken for Enrique, for he had become the least of all men, a traitor. He could not let them kill him or the plan, his promises to Stella, little Lynnette, and the barrio, all would die with him, he had to make a play and soon. Get to his gun in his suitcase that was the move, but how? The crime scene deception completed, Enrique boarded the trail car with Red to be taken to the edge of the barrio and dropped off. Advantage Miles: The two gentlemen in the cattlemen coats signed off through the cuffs of their coats and disappeared around the corner, probably heading back to their cars. Game. The limousine driver actually allowed him to get a handkerchief from the outer pocket of his suitcase where his gun was to stop the bleeding. Set! Trigger, as he called the.45, because it always came when he whistled, kicked the driver right in the back of the head, resulting in his head and body slamming into the steering wheel; the combined weight and force of his body lodged over the wheel, setting off a prolonged blast of the horn. Miles gained the front seat of the limousine, revved the motor, gunning the car forward, propelling it into the cab, driving the cab, dead cabby and all, directly toward the alley exit as the two cattlemen rounded the corner back into the alley, responding to the sound of the horn blast created when the limousine driver’s body landed on it. The sustained mayhem of the horn as the cab being pushed by the limousine scattered both the men to one side of the alley or the other as the whole shebang cab, propelled by the limousine, ended up in the middle of the street, hissing steam and leaking water and antifreeze, with the cabby’s dead body in the front seat. Match! Or so he thought. Before he could clear the door, jammed in the rear end collision of the limousine into the cab, and excavate himself from the driver’s seat of the limousine and take flight, the two cattlemen ordered him to “freeze” from their positions on the ground to the rear right of the car.

Quickly gaining their feet, they presented what Miles considered was a perfectly logical choice (seeing as how he was dead, he did not want them to know that), and they obviously did not know exactly who he was and had now become a key cog in his central mission. “You want to stay here and deal with the cops? Or do you want to get in our car and get the hell out of here?” Not really waiting for his answer, which would have been “Go with you guys,” they gripped an arm on either side and pressing guns to his gut, forced him around the corner and across the street to their car, one of them plunked into the backseat beside him and the other mounted the front seat and started up the car and sped away. The one in the backseat with Miles, speaking into the sleeve of his coat: “All shit broke lose, the cabby went off and tried to escape, so we had to waste him, the target killed Pete and wrecked the limo, damn near killed me any Nicky. “Were going to need new rides and someone is going to have to clean-up the mess at the drop site. Quick!” Confirming: “Yeah, we got him, he’s still alive. A little banged up, but he is breathing, and there doesn’t seem to be nothing broken.” Final information: “Were going hold up at the safe house until we hear from you on what to do next.” Listen. listen. listen, then. “Ten four, over and out.”

With that he released himself in a what just happened? ball of exhaustion back into the seat, stealing one last exasperated look at Miles, as the driver took a sharp right turn heading deep into The City of Angels.

31

The Safe House

He knew that the longer he stayed in the “Safe House” The less safe, he would be. They clearly did not know who he was yet. Enrique had surely told them about his visit to Mario and the story he spun about the plot, but they did not know how he came about it or if he had any way of stopping them.

Whom ever the coat sleeve in the car had spoken to about him must not have set off any bells or whistles or they would not have had so casual a response to his capture. Or maybe they just hadn’t talked to the right person yet?

No personal information had been ed on, which is often the case with contract killings, they mostly get the job, agree on the price and the target, whoever it is. So, they did not have the full 911 on him yet. Which meant that the clock was ticking on just how long he had before they did discover who he really was and terminate him along with any outside chance he and his citizen army had of stopping operation Blackout?

As with all safe houses, this one conveyed a false sense of security to its occupants just by the fact it was designated a Safe House. Its residents assumed certain protections which may or may not really exist.

Such as, it could not be breached. Just this thought in itself was a weakness.

Because if you believed that the prisoner could not escape, you made mistakes, small ones to be sure, but just as deadly. Like throwing the prisoner into a room with interior bars on the windows and doors that locked and unlocked electrically, but with standard electric wall sockets that would short out all the fuses in the house and locks on the doors throughout the house as soon as they were pulled out of the wall, wires separated and doused in cup of liquid, any liquid, even urine.

The wailing of the fire department’s sirens came to a decending whoop upon arrivial as the firemen scampered to various positions around the building dispersing water from their hoses at the same time doing their best to deal with, and accomadate everyone in the apartment complex where the Safe House was located as they made panicked exits when their lights, toaster, coffee makers, and televisions went out or begin to fry. Resulting in flames shooting out of electrical sockets and smoke seeping up from your floorboards, your neighbors ceiling.

Miles slipped out of the now open front door of the Safe House in the cover of his friend, pitch darkness, and the thick bellows of smoke,past his confused guards, who themselves were trying to flee the scene to avoid answering questions that would be coming from the local authorities when this was all under control and the fire investigators began asking, among other things, who owned The Safe House.

32

Shakespeare: You Ain’t No James Brown

His mother never graduated fifth grade; nevertheless, she always seemed to amaze. Her knowledge was more deep than wide, I mean she just knew the truth about life. A truth that was non-contestable, infallible that ran deeper than the roots of the Redwood trees that grow in the cherrished forrest of California. She imparted one of those truths (an unforgettable lifelong lesson) about how to go through life when she spoke Shakespeare to him on a cool Saturday night when on his fifteenth birthday, he was preparing to slay the teen ladies of the town with his “James Brown” look by processing his hair—a style worn by many of the adult black men at the time. It was a tricky procedure. One had to be very adroit at it to do it well. Not a novice like he was. Nevertheless, he was fifteen, and all things were possible. Or so he thought, until the heat from the virtual lye (which was the main ingredient of the compound used to accomplish the procedure) begin to burn his scalp to the point that it caused him to dance around the kitchen floor, shouting in a fashion equaling the best of the most fierce Indian war whoops. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” his mother demanded, as she entered the room in response to his chanted and fevered exclamations. “What’s wrong with you?” Then she saw the lather in his hair and knew that he had failed a step in the application process of applying the “Konk” as the gel mixture was called by the more experienced men who used it, and took action.

Grabbing him by the scuff of the neck, she literally dragged him to the large kitchen sink, forced his smoking (he assumed it was smoking because it seemed to him to be on fire) head over the sink, turned on the cold water, and using a bar of plain laundry soap proceeded to wash the concoction from his hair. Once the fire in his head had been reduced to a slow simmer, she tossed him a towel she had retrieved from the nearby bathroom to complete the job with, and as he applied the towel to the task of completely putting out the fire, she taught him his most unforgettable life lesson, one that would stay with him throughout every trial he would ever face in his life. Hands on her hips love and disappointment in her eyes, she said: Son you is what you is, cause if you ain’t what you is, den you isn’t. What he learned that Saturday night is that in all things in life, be yourself! Because you cannot and should not be anything or anyone else! You are black, so be black, accept and live with the hair god gave you. Be yourself! Shakespeare said, “God grivet us one face and we makeifth for ourselves another.” If he had been cooler, or known my mother, he could have just said “be who you are, ’cause you ain’t no James Brown!” He had applied that lesson learned in so many situations. throughout his life. Like when offered the chance to a local roughhouse group. You couldn’t really call them a gang, because there were no real gangs at that time, and the closest thing to a gang was the guys who fenced stolen cigarettes or rigged the bags of rags with bricks when they sold them to the junkyard. And the closest thing to a drive by! A drive-by? It was when your mother was sitting on the front porch after Sunday morning services and waved at the preacher’s wife, saying, “There goes sister Dupree.showing off in their new ford” That was a drive-by.

So he ed on them. Or the group of kids who stole bikes; it was easy to see that they were not the brightest bulbs on the tree because the bikes they stole, they just repainted them and tried to sell them right back in the neighborhood, they always got caught, so he ed on them too. But in all other instances where there was an honorable choice to be made, one he knew his mother and all the other “church-going people would” sing the phrases of, he did not hesitate.

Like now, as he prepared to Mario and his Small Army by loading extra rounds of ammo into the gun belt he slid around his waist and pulling his shirt over the black bulletproof vest, and slipping into the military-style combat boots and tucking the letter with all the information about why they might find him dead and who to (mainly Jo-Jo), and Lynnette’s grandmother. Most of all what and why he was doing what he was doing and addressed it to Lynnette and propped it up against a box of wheat thins on the end table in the living room of his bungalow and closed the door slowly and silently behind him. He was leaving as much proof behind as possible to let her know that he had come back for her and that he did not let her down, that he loved her and was the man she thought he was. That he ain’t no murderer, he ain’t no liar, and, of course, He Ain’t No James Brown.

33

Damned If They Do . . . and

He opened his eyes to the blur of the face peering at him in return, framed by the brightness of the hospital light in the sky behind him and coming into focus as it came closer leaning into him, it was the man he last saw in a mud hut, what? Two days ago? A week? Or a year? He could not . The voice that went with the face was speaking in low soft tones. “I know you can’t, or don’t what has happened to you, Carter, but you saved my life. And Mae Ling and her family’s too. “I can’t stay long, but I want you to know that this is probably the last time I will be able to visit for a while, because this thing is winding down, and they are shifting a lot of the officers around, so god knows where I will end up. “They tell me that you are getting better, slowly, but getting better and that they will be shipping you back stateside pretty soon so you can get even better care, I didn’t think either one of us would survive this war, but I want you to know that I am indebted to you for life, and when you get better and I finally get back stateside and the time is right, I will find a way to pay you back.” Funny, he thought, that he should that wisp of a promise and visit of so long ago now as he sat in his prison cell waiting to die in the gas chamber. He only ed bits and pieces of their trek across Korea, a minute about the deaths he had caused to safeguard their venture and flashes about the pain and fear he felt for those three days and nights. But now, as he made his way back across town after his escape from the safe house to meet up with Mario and his comrades, inform him of Enrique’s betrayal

and the heightened desperation of their challenge, the years, images, and the thoughts raced through his head like bullets echoing off a wall and twice as fast: the first Korean who tried to kill him; the holes in the throat of his partner that he killed; the major’s broken and bleeding body; the one he killed at the jeep; the stark beauty of Mae Ling’s angel face; and the warmth of her hand as they touched while raising the major to carry him into The Alice Mae. The fear, the constant blank black sheets of fear while watching Mae Ling (the woman he now realized that he loved) giving herself to these strangers, these human incarnations of animals, to save their lives; then the shame and disgust he felt for himself for not killing them earlier or at least try to; And finally, the eight-by-ten picture framed in his mind of the grateful look on the old lady’s face when he delivered the angel to her arms before he died; the satisfaction of killing them, all of them, except the one who killed him; Then dying again on death row, only not dying on death row; then back to life again only to watch the cabby get killed, then kill the limousine driver; and his killing of the repairmen-henchmen and his partner, Zack; The shot of Stella’s tortured body falling into his arms; the pain of telling little Lynnette that, although she was still loved, she would never see her mother again. In their proper order: Ms. Wilson sexuality, Dr. Hart’s betrayal, Jeane’s new lover, and Tammy and Mario’s joy at his finding Mrs. Cookman (he still had it as a PI), and yea, even Enrique, the dedication of the president’s men, but most of all, the one picture, the still photo that came to life and held the most meaning was the night in the Whitehouse in the Lincoln bedroom with Mae Ling. They all whisked past and through him. Not allowing for, or paying the toll their ing exacted. The pure vacuum created by losing Jeane, the torture of his baby brother’s funeral, all ing through him, making the journey anyway; damn the cost he had to pay for their ticket. Forcing him to accept the fact that he had lived and done all of what he had just witnessed, but even more important, preparing him for what must still be done. So clearing his head of the past, he knocked on Mario’s door, knowing full well that when he related the hobson’s choice to him, they would be Damned If They

Do . . . and . . .

34

Your Own Personal Hollywood Movie

By now, he was no stranger to killing in the service of his country, he practiced the art of it, more times and in more ways than he ever thought a half man, half kid would ever learn to do. From behind barns and hedges in the summer, piles of snow and even the rotting carcasses of dead animals in the winter (when you shell a location from a mile away, you don’t know who or what you hit, until your boots on the ground occupy the target).

Then, going from house . . . rather hut-to-hut, you learn fast who, how, and what you hit. Damn it, you hit everything from schools, railway stations, and hospitals to churches, restaurants, and children’s nurseries. Yeah, you hit them all, and there is no denying the horrific effect you have had on all of them. Mutilated children still in their beds, a customer in a bar whose face and limbs are peppered with glass that shattered in all directions when your bomb landed, exploding into a thousand pieces, shredding everything in its path, men, women, even visiting monks. No one has been spared from your barrage of metal, fire, and hate. OK, you just followed orders, so, yes you did not mean to do the killing, but you did, now you realize, this was not killing to protect yourself or save your country from aggression, this was legalized murder. Standing in the middle of it, walking

through its aftermath, you had to realize that no matter how or what Excuse you used to justify it, it, in the end was murder and you, your calling in the coordinates helped pull the trigger. Even if you were lucky and made it through this demonic part of your life and got shipped back stateside, you knew that would not be the end of it. Because that would be when the real horror of how you had lived for the last eighteen months would begin to really take its toll. Because you had made a really bad movie, and the theater where it would be exhibited is the subconscious of your mind and you may or may not control the screening times. That’s right! It may begin playing at any hour of any day or night for the rest of your life, and although you have seen it a hundred times before, you would just have to screen it again and again until you die. The only question that remained would be what condiments would be accompanying your screening dates. Would you adapt a filter to be applied every time it played like so many of the others who tried to escape its soundtrack of the agony of the voices that played, (moaned, cried, begged) along with the film? Thinking that the cocaine, marijuana or booze would numb the sensation of worthlessness that you felt when it begin to play, making you want to do things to loved ones and perfect strangers that never occurred to you before you lived through eighteen months of the Police Action. No, there was no escape hatch, no fire exit backdoor to slip out of; you had done these things that was you forty feet high up there on the screen; in the movie, you were the star! And like every other star, loved or despised, you were just going to have to live with the film (war) you made, because this was Your Own Personal Hollywood Movie.

35

Ask Not What Your Country . . .

He did not tell Mario and Tammy about his temporary captures or narrow escapes when he ed them to put part two of his plan in operation. He did not want them to know how close they came to failing before they even got started. Listening to him lay out the scope of his plan, they knew they could not directly or otherwise overthrow the U.S. military. that was a non-starter. The very idea of it made him think of all the times he saw the right wing radicals on TV in their Salvation Army military outfits playing their version of war games with a chew of tobacco in their mouths telling of how they were going to be ready to repel the U.S. government (their word for armed forces), if it ever tried to take away their home or farm or whatever. Yet, these same right wing zealots who would condemn you for being unAmerican and a traitor if you even hinted that we may not have the greatest fighting forces in the world, trained to fight two wars at the same time and win! But they, these week-end soldiers, were going to face that same army out in the woods and fields of America if need be and take them down with, in some cases nothing more than ten-year-old weapons, limited amounts of stolen arms. No. That was not going to happen. Miles knew better. Any rationally thinking person knew better. His plan was to get to the people, the ones who would have to give the secret signal to the few on the ground or in the air to start the rouge action that would then catch everyone else up in it. That meant prevention—But how? The answer to that question lie in, thanks to

Marcia, the one constant they had, Dr. Hart. They knew where he lived and worked, and unless he wanted to tip the whole thing off by disappearing, he would stay put until notified to move. He was their lynchpin to the grenade. He was one part of the equation, and they only had to wait until he received instructions from the leaders or leader as to where the staging area or command posts would be and follow him. Miles thought, “Thank God this was a military operation controlled and directed by a military people?, because it would have a command structure.” It would have a commander who would issue the go orders, a lesser officer who would it on and finally, grunts who would execute it. So follow Dr. Hart! Don’t lose him because he would take you to the heart, no pun intended, of the operation. But would that be enough? Would there be enough time to react, stop the thing if they waited until the good doctor lead them to the target? Miles opined that it may not be, and that they could not wait, they had to be in control of the timetable to ensure any real chance of being a deterrent to the plot, because once the exercise started and the planes were in the air, they would be in the same position as the weekend soldiers, up the creek with a small paddle; there would be no way to take the plane or planes down or determine who were the good ones and which ones carried the payloads. No, they needed something to spook Dr. Hart, to make him move faster. Make them expose the plan prematurely; that meant they had to really induce them to do something to get them to jump off sides, jumpstart the deal; it may only gain them hours, a day, but a day was better than nothing. He laid it out to Mario and Tammy. They both agreed to call the meeting. Everyone who entered the room was a little bit on edge; after all, they were last instructed not to gather or do anything to draw attention to themselves or cause local law enforcement to see anything different in their part of town. So he could understand their apprehension at this meeting being called two days early after they had all been instructed by Mario and Tammy to lie low, be invisible until the order to strike was given.

No telephone calls that might be intercepted, no family disagreements that might cause a slip of the tongue at a booking procedure, and most of all, the two people who were plucked to follow Dr. Hart were not to be in the same block, let alone in the same room at the same time. So what was going on? The apprehension, the edginess, was what he wanted in them. He always played his best when things were a little iffy or there was a special practice called to put some new wrinkle in the game plan at the last moment. So yes, he wanted them edgy; but mostly, he wanted the last person who entered the room to be All Shook Up, because the expression on Enrique’s face was just that as Miles entered the room and stood beside Tammy and Mario “Come on up front, Mario,” instructed Enrique. “Now!” When any animal knows that they are trapped, the fight-or-flight syndrome takes over, because they have only that degree of reasoning ability to think with. But in humans, they also have the bargaining, pleading, screaming for mercy ability to try to salvage their situation. Enrique was good at all of them, and he wasted no time using the bargaining and pleading options in trying to compromise his plight. Employing the algebraic process that a negative plus a negative equals a positive, the show began. “Before you take his word for what happened, I was doing what I thought would help us. Getting inside their operation, seeing how much they knew about Miles, so when they approached me to them, I went along with it. I had to be hard on him to convince them I was with them. You know?” (Damn!) He hated that phrase, “I’m sorry I hit you so hard, Miles, but I had to be convincing.” Mario moved to within two feet of Enrique. “You forgot one thing, Enrique. How did you know about them in the first place? And how did they know about you?” Building: “How did you know where to hook up with them? Huh? How is it that they trusted you with any information? And what could they tell you that we didn’t already know?” Then the clincher: “If you don’t come clean! And I mean right now, I’m gonna beat you within an inch of you’re life. But not fast so you will out but long

and slow.” Cold hard reasoning also tells humans when they have lost and not to fight any longer or the penalty could be death, so they discard the reality of reasoning and do the best they can just to survive the threat whatever it is and just give up. Totally defeated: “You’re right, man, you’re right. I wanted my comeuppance for the beating he put on me. It looked like you was just gonna just let it slide. “Look, I’m a man too, I have to walk around this barrio every day, and I have to have some respect! The man put a whooping on me! Everybody knew it, yet you and Tammy take him in, treat him like a long lost brother and leave me to salvage my street rep the best way I can.” Trying to add reasoning and logic to his argument: “Hell! this whole thing he prepped us with was about the blacks; we don’t know for sure if it will even touch us, and you just volunteer us in their fight.” Although Miles was sure that Enrique expected the possibility of it at some point, he likewise was sure that he didn’t expect it that immediately after the last word cleared his mouth, but the punch by Mario sent him cat-walking into the nearby coffee table head first. Picking him up by the collar of his jacket from the rear, Mario spun him around, punctuating the first punch with a knee to the groin and a short sharp shot to his ribs. Miles ed how that punch felt when he had received it less than a week ago and winched for Enrique when it landed. This was not going to be pretty, but he had explained to Mario how and why it had to be done because of the timetable, because they needed Enrique to fear for his life enough that to save his life, he would betray the opposition as truly as he had betrayed them, and finally, because the other warriors would understand and accept the beating if it came from him, their leader. Enrique, now bleeding profusely from the first punch to the chin and still hurting from the beating Miles had inflicted on him just days ago, thought his life was in serious jeopardy, and with each punch, became more amenable to any resolution of the problem short of death, pleading profusely for any option, any other possible solution to his misdeed.

Not diminishing his fury and acting as though the offense was so egregious, so irreconcilable as to merit no comion or settlement short of the forfeit of his life, Mario extracted a stiletto switchblade knife from his waistband, flicked it open, and leaning down to where Enrique knelt as a result of the knee blow, grabbed him by the hair pulling his head back, exposing his neck. “No, man! No! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just wanted to get some respect.” Now for dear life: “Mario!” Louder: “Mario!” Bargaining: Everybody here knows me, you know me! I’m weak! I don’t mean to be, but I am!” Pleading: “Man, you know me!” Then finally the right plead: “I can still help! They think I’m on their side, they trust me, I can help just tell me what you want me to do, man, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” The bargain now struck, only the had to be dictated and instructions given. “You get this one chance, if you fuck us, we kill you on the spot ’cause we won’t have nothing to lose, because most of us will be dead by then anyway, if you betray us again. With the grace of the dammed: “I won’t betray you, I won’t betray you, man, just give me a chance I won’t betray you, man. Please?” Mario to Miles: “Carter, what do you want him to do?” Miles not wanting to make it look like he was totally sold allowing for the final act of contrition: “How do we know we can trust him? Sure he goes along here; hell, any one would to stop the beating you are putting on him, but how can we be sure he won’t sell us out the minute he walks out that door?” The sealer: “Because we gonna send Jesus with him, and his family still lives here, and he knows what we’ll do to them if he crosses us, don’t you, Enrique? Don’t you?” Mario demands. “More’n that, man, I want to come back home when and if this thing is done. I live here. I don’t know how to live nowhere else,” Enrique professes. Miles, setting the play for the team: “OK, here is how it needs to go down.” They, Mario, Tammy, Miles, and Enrique gather around the living room table; one of the other warriors stands behind Enrique, puts his hand on his shoulder

for confirmation of what is being proposed and to ensure he understands that from that moment on, someone will be in close physical with him until this thing is done. “We have to push this thing up, if we want to stand a chance of stopping it. We have to shake up their timetable. That’s where you come in Enrique, they trust you now. They will believe what you tell them if you tell them in the right way,” Miles informs. Miles directing: “You gotta go to Dr. Hart’s house tonight late, tell him that we found out about you’re helping them, that we know about their plan.” Adding: “The bruises will go far to make you believable.” Enrique in a thank-you-fornothing voice: “Yeah, thanks.” “Tell them that you held out as long as you could, but you had to tell us or you would have been killed. “Tell him that tomorrow, we are going to hit his home, kidnap him, so he got to get out of there. Lie low at the hide out of one of the other players until it is time to give the order to launch the exercise.” With emphasis: “Tell him that he has to move to a safe place until the exercise is scheduled to start. “Don’t worry; someone we’ll be with you. Once we have the rouge officers, we have the trigger. Nothing, at least the terror part can’t start without them or him.” Asking for confirmation: ‘Now do you think you can convince him of that?” “Yea, but what is to stop him from just calling the others and telling him to just skedaddle out of wherever they are to a new place? Enrique questions. Miles matter-of-factly: “Because, they will want to play it safe, they won’t want any change in the protocol that might not look right to the other legitimate players. And the president, he is going to be on that platform too. “He might suspect something if the man he just appointed surgeon general and who wrangled an invitation to the affair, never even bothered to show up. “If the main players are not at the jump-off site of the exercise, the secret action

ops squad won’t have anyone to issue the launch orders. Hart can show up, but if the main players are somewhere hiding or just late, the whole thing is dead.” Finishing the information for him, Enrique said, “So we have to use Hart to flush out the the main players so we can get our hands on them!” Miles: “Right!” Miles to Mario: “We still have to get our other people into the neighborhoods all over the city in case we fail and some action is begun, they have to get the word to the people there to stay cool, that it ain’t real and not to get sucked into whatever’s happening—that blacks and browns are not the ones who started this, and to just get off the streets to keep them from going at each other’s throats in retaliation. Mario summarizes, “So we follow Hart, he takes us to the leaders and we snatch them up.” “And the launch codes,” Miles informs, “Which is probably Something or some particular words or order of words in one of the speeches,” Mario continues. “Then what? We can’t stop the whole U.S. armed forces.” Miles: “No, that’s it; this thing is designed by the armed forces as an exercise just like thousands of others they do during any given year. The ‘Blackout’ portion is the rouge part but without the Go orders to the rogues’ gallery; the exercise will just be one of a thousand taking place all over the country and the world this year.” They need the blacks and Hispanics fighting with the whites in the streets as justification to expand the exercise to conform to their larger goal, a national race war. Then, everybody is in! Mario: “OK, Enrique, you wanted to be somebody, get some respect from your people here in the barrio, here is your last chance, go on, get out of here and make us proud of you,” Mario orders. “We’ll be right behind you.” Enrique’s departure brought an uncertain calm to the room as the enormity of the task at hand seemed to settle in on its occupants.

Mario, to quell the small doubts stood, ed hands with Tammy and Miles in the center of the room inviting the others to complete a circle and spoke in the voice of hope. “We ain’t doing this just for ourselves, we are doing it for every citizen of this country, a country that has taken us in and given us a better way of life than we had before coming here. “Sure, it’s not perfect, but we’re going to strike a blow to make it A More Perfect Union; we got a long way to go before it resolves its problems with its minority populations, but it is still, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, ‘The best form of government compared to all those others that have been tried from time to time.’” “Now we have to do our part to help preserve it. Like every citizen before us who have enjoyed the blessings of its freedom. what Kennedy said in the 1960s? Ask Not What Your Country . . .”

36

A Ball Way Outside

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dr. Hart demanded indignantly of Enrique and Jesus after opening the door to his knock. In a lowered voice but no less upset, “I have guests! You know better than to come here to my house, especially with the event just days away.” Enrique, brushing him into the outer foyer of the house stopping short of the double French doors which opened to a larger living room that led to the dinning area where the guests were still seated at the table, waiting for the return of their host before returning to their meal, and his frayed conversation that was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell stopping at “we’re all in for a change in this country and not a moment too soon.” Ignoring the doctor’s angst, Enrique, through the slits of the French doors said, “Let’s step outside so we don’t disturb your guests.” Turning to face the doctor in the tight space, he took over ordering under his breath but forceful and demandingly, “Damn it, man, let’s step outside!” Dr. Hart, fearing any embarrassment that may result if his guests saw these street Mexicans in his house who were obviously not in an employment capacity but on a social occasion and arguing with him to boot, acquiesced, sticking his head inside of the doors, he apologized to them in a matter-of-fact voice. “Everybody, don’t stop enjoying yourselves and let your dinner get cold, go ahead, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Then he continued, softly onishing, “Don’t let that wine get warm that’s forty-year-old Château Lafitte Rothschild, and it should be enjoyed chilled.

“I’ll be there in a minute. Eat and drink up, don’t wait on me.” Turning to Enrique with Mount Vesuvius eyes, he asked, “Now what the hell is so important for you to blow your cover and come to my house goddamnit? Pointing to Jesus: “And who is this guy? “I told Cookman you damn Mexicans were as bad as the blacks when it came to keeping to a plan. I told him!” Enrique, vaulting past the doctor’s racial insult, setting the stage for his act which he knew had to be convincing enough in fact and fiction to get Dr. Hart to shut his dinner down and take or lead him to one of the othersl, cursed right back. “Shit, we can’t keep a plan? “We can’t keep a plan? Why the fuck do you think I’m here? Why do think I look like I just went ten rounds with Mohammad Ali? Ask Jesus, ask him? He’ll tell you, they know! Besides, he saved my life! “I’m supposed to be dead right now! Jesus was supposed to be throwing dirt in my face somewhere in the desert right now. You know why I ain’t dead? I’ll tell you why.” The big sale job, the closer: “Because us Mexicans can keep a plan.” Wrapping his arm around Jesus’ shoulder in a false show of camaraderie, he actually cried. “Because this one, this one right here didn’t do it. Didn’t go along with the show. He figures why should we die to save a bunch of niggers?” Then, after a long pregnant pause, he said, “He stopped it; he didn’t kill me.” Dr. Hart, completely sold by Enrique’s performance, assessing the injury to date to the plan, asked, “How long ago was this Enrique?” “Just the time it took to get from East LA to here; maybe thirty minutes.” Scheming, trying to put the building blocks back together Dr. Hart issued a small act of contrition. “You know I didn’t mean any of that stuff I said. I was just shook up over seeing anyone connected with the plan, especially after we all received our orders of what to do and where to be.” Knowing he had made this sale, Enrique reeled him on in on a short line. “Hey, man, we all trying to get through this thing alive, I mean look at me.” Seeing the doctor’s reaction to his swollen face, and lips, quickly flipping the switch: “But

we got to move fast now; they will be expecting Jesus back any minute now, and if he ain’t, they gonna start looking for him (heavy breaths) and me.” Putting the car in gear: “The first place they’re gonna start looking is here, man. They know where you live. They know about your part in this thing (feigning brotherhood). I couldn’t help it, they beat on me most of the night, one would finish then another would start.” Reg: “Hell even Jesus had to put in some licks. But when Mario held the hot knife up to my eye (and he would a blinded me too), I couldn’t hold out no longer. The final straw: “We got to move! Get out of here ’cause they may be on the way over here right now! Dr. Hart had bought it all (Mario could not have sent a better salesman), hook line and sinker. He reached back inside of the front door and retrieved a set of car keys from a rack on the wall. Quietly, he closed the door, and flipped the keys to Enrique. “If the police see the three of us in that El Camino even I won’t be able to talk us out of being detained, we will take my car. That way, Enrique, you can act like my chauffeur, and Jesus, you can report back to your people and buy us a little more time.” Hugging the house just below the window line, he led Enrique around the house down the driveway to where the Rolls Royce stood like a crimson version of “Trigger” just waiting for his master’s call. They mounted the steed and quietly spurred it into action. lights off, motor barely humming, it rolled down the driveway nearly invisible to the people through the widow of the house who were standing one after another lightly clinking their glasses together, toasting their good fortune to have a friend with such a well-stocked wine cellar. At the gate, Enrique spurred Trigger into full gallop, punching the lights on, bringing the motor to full throttle. “We have to get to the airport,” Dr. Hart directed from the backseat. “We can pick up Jay Cookman there, then he will know where the leader General Hollins is staying; each of us only knew about one of the other.” “Let me do the talking when we get there,” Dr Hart directed of him, “you are too excitable.”

Enrique did all he could to not just laugh out loud at the doctor, as he thought of the incongruity of his statement. Inside his head: I am too excitable? Me? Hell, you just bought a story made up on the fly, and you got shook up enough to take a side against your own plan, leave your guest with full excess to your house, and give the keys to a brand new Rolls Royce to a beat-up Mexican, if this were baseball, you would be out for having swung at A Ball Way Outside.

37

Where the Dance Is Being Held

“What the hell are you doing here?” snapped Mr. Cookman at Dr. Hart and his Latino companion. Reasoning: “You could blow the whole thing to pieces; we’re not supposed to meet for another two days.” Justifying his presence: “You think I would take a chance on messing things up if something wasn’t grossly wrong? That’s why he is with me, Carter and them others, they know. “This guy (pointing at Enrique), they set him up to be dusted, but he got away, he tells me that the PI, saying publicly what he has known privately for days, Carter, we thought was dead, well he ain’t, and he’s on to us! the face he presented to Mr. Cookman was obviously a fake one to cover any blow-back that might come his way if this thing went wrong. Again feinting shook and azement, he killed two of our best soldiers, and destroyed one of our Safe Houses. And got back at our man here just a few hours ago. Hell! Look at him! If he catches up to us, the whole plan may go right out the window. “Which means that Washington knows too; we got to touch base with the General, move things up or at least let him know about what has happened,” Dr. Hart charged. “I told you trying to off that Carter character was a bad idea, that it would cause pushback from his side. Now you’ve put the whole operation in danger,” retorted Mr. Cookman. Enrique interrupting and playing his role to perfection: “Look, while you two are playing the blame game, my ass is blowing in the wind, after all they may not know exactly how and where your plan is going to strike, but they sure as hell

know who put you on to them and their plans.” With finality: “Me! That’s who. Me! So if I’m going to have a shell’s chance of crossing the 405 freeway at noontime alive, we, which means you guys, are going to have to move and I mean move fast.” Punctuating: “Now!” Mr. Cookman, moving about the room, gathering clumps of clothes, throwing them in a very expensive-looking carry-on size suitcase, talking mostly to himself, but more like thinking out loud: “They don’t have to see the two of us on the stand, but they do have to see the general for the order to be obeyed.” Moving through the door, followed closely by Dr. Hart and Enrique, they all boarded Dr. Hart’s Rolls and followed the instruction from Mr. Cookman: “Take the freeway, we’re headed for San Diego!” The expedition was off. Enrique was in the driver’s seat, having accomplished the first part of the plan to spook first Dr. Hart and now Mr. Cookman to change the structure of their planed operation and lead or at least reveal the city the general (the third piece of the puzzle) was residing in; still, he had the problem of how to get separated from them long enough to get the information to Mario, Miles, and Tammy when they reached the staging point. Think! Man think! This had worked out just the way they had wanted it to, except it could still all be for naught if he could not get the word to his group of the exact location of the triggerman. we’re headed for San Diego, but was that Where the Dance Was Being Held.

38

It’s Payback Time

Mario tapped him on the shoulder, waking him from the memories of an evening at Jeane’s apartment. “Jesus just reported back, it’s on, they’re on the move.” Fully dressed in minutes, he ed the others in the main polar. Jesus reporting: “He went for it. Enrique really spooked him good, he was so rattled, he even left his house with people at the dinner table without telling them he was leaving, and dig this, he gave Enrique the keys to his Rolls to drive.”

Mario: “Why didn’t you follow them? Jesus: “Didn’t have to, he told us, they are going to the airport to pick up a Mr. Cookman; then he will take them to meet some General because only one of them knows about where the other is. Each one would lead the other one to the other and then when they are all together, they would go to the exercise site to launch the plan.” Finishing report: “Enrique said he would find some way to call us after they pick up the number two man in all of this. And then try to find some way to us when they arrive at the number three’s location.” Mario taking over: “It can’t be far from the airport.” He is interrupted by the telephone ringing. One of the men nearest it answers. Man, opening the drawer of the desk that the telephone sat on and retrieving a pad and pencil from within, then answering: Ya ya, I got a pen and paper; give it to me.” Then he busied himself listening and writing. Dismissing the caller: |

“No problem, he’s standing right here.” Man handing telephone receiver to Mario: “Man. “It’s Enrique, he wants to talk to you.” Mario taking the telephone leaning against the desk, then speaking in a rewarding tone: “Ya, I believe in you. Yeah, we’re straight; you done good; now just hang in there till we can get there; yeah, you done fine.” Hanging up the telephone, to the room: “Let’s go!” Delegating authority and responsibilities, Mario to Tammy: ‘Look, babe, I know you want to be a part of this, to be there when things go down, to see him brought down, but we need you to run things from here. In case this doesn’t go as planned, we still have obligations to whoever of us is left.” Tammy settling: “OK, but promise me he won’t get out of this alive. Promise me that.” Mario, holding her close enough for their hearts to touch, kissed her lovingly then whispered to her heart, “I promise you that, my love, I owe you that.”

They each filed past Tammy, giving her the fist bump salute as they did so, leaving Miles to be the last one to leave the room with Mario. Tammy to Miles hand in hand: ‘Don’t you let me down, Mr. Carter, I want him out of my life and I want my mother back.” “She’ll be back or I won’t. Vowed,” Miles, kissing her on the cheek before departing. One last long embrace by Mario and they were gone. Mario reminded him a lot of Lieutenant Engleheart, that long lost friend in Korea, the dedication in his eyes as he disappeared into the Korean night, reappearing again years later to receive his second Medal of Honor.

Mario, like Lieutenant Engleheart, was a true warrior, knew the possible

consequences of believing in that mindset, and no doubt, similar thoughts were swirling through his head as he led the citizens’ caravan down the highway to try to head off Dr. Hart, the now revealed Mr. Cookman and the other, as yet unidentified players in this game, and stop them from delivering the darkness they intend inflicting on the nation.

The caravan to the airport traveled at a measured speed, doing nothing to draw attention or even suggest that they were acquaintances, let alone of the same group traveling to the same place for the same reason. All dedicated to the fact that It’s Payback Time.

39

A Damn Dirty Day

The weather was turning more inclement the closer they got to the airport, reminding him of the kind of day it was that he killed his younger brother (rather authorized his death) by releasing him from the constant pain of stage five kidney disease and pneumonia, accompanied by the open blisters on his feet that were due to lack of circulation in that area. He had dwindled from a healthy 180 pounds of a fighting Arizona State first string scholastic and athletic scholarship full ride basketball college athlete to a mere 112 pounds, barely breathing, bedridden shadow of himself. So after consultation with the two remaining of his immediate family, he authorized the discontinuation of his life system—but to him it would always be killed him. He had always been the “strong one” in the family; thus, most of the hard decisions fell on him even though he was next to the baby, his younger brother, Charles. “Miles will handle that doctor; he understands these kinds of things better than we do, and we will all accept whatever decision he makes,” voiced his oldest sister to the doctor at his brother’s bedside in response to his question, “Who will be the person exercising the power of attorney over your brother’s health, because we may have to make some serious decisions about his health status fairly quickly in the coming days?” He accepted and, at the same time, despised the authority bestowed upon him by the last living of his immediate family surrounding the hospital bed: his older brother, Otis, who now was two years into his eighties, and his sister, Helen, who was approaching seventy-nine. Another sister, Evelyn, seventyseven who had lived under his care for the last forty years of her life but was now in a nursing home, did not process the mental wherewithal to understand or

participate in such decisions. It was going to be another of the hundreds of “Miles, you do what you think is right; we’ll leave it up to you; do what you have to do; whatever you think is best” decisions he had to make throughout the life of his family. He despised his position of authority, but it was like eating that last piece of cake that broke your diet, you knew it was not something you should do; still, you did not work hard enough at not doing it because part of you wanted to do it. It, like this, turned out to be the kind of day that you know will not be of any value even if the sun comes out from behind the clouds, or if you win the lotto, because the day is already lost to emotions that you never thought you would ever feel (how does a younger brother die before you?) How could a country sink so deep into the mire of hatred, suspicions that such a day as the one he embarked on today was even possible or necessary? And most important, like the day of his brother’s death, how could he have become an integral part of such days? The President, like his family, had asked him to help, participate, take on a problem that may not have been solely his and that someone else may have addressed better to a different resolve, and maybe he was not needed at all. But, as he had done throughout his life, he knew that he had to help. He had to be a part of the answer, he could make a positive difference. He hated it when he heard people say, “I want to make a difference.” Hell! Hitler made a difference. You want to make a positive difference! What he had gotten himself into this day was going to do that in spades. So use that unquestionable dedication to the cause at hand that you developed in the run-up to real life (your teen years) that got you over heartaches through the rickets and life without a real father, taking you to top honors in just about every endeavor you strove to be a part of and face up to, and damn it, deal with this just another in what has been a lifetime of a Damn Dirty Day.

40

Everybody in the Room Is Smart

Of all things, it started to rain as they reached the outskirts of the city. Damn! One more thing to hinder their plan. The rain would surely make the disbursement of any particles from a dirty bomb more long lasting, allowing them to get into other public systems that would reach more people, causing more harm. Come on, Enrique, where are you?,Why haven’t you called us by now? Have they caught up to you? Or did you turncoat again? Miles fretted. He didn’t want to think that way, but they were damn near the airport, and they still had not heard from Enrique, had no idea of his location or his status. This worried him greatly. Over the caravan’s radio system, the word was given by Mario to “Lock and load, we’re getting close, it surely won’t be long now.”

The rains begin to come down in buckets, adding to the exigency of their mission and making the lack of communication with Enrique all the more desperately longed for. Just give us a sniff of where the bastards are, and we’ll do the rest, they were like a dog chasing its tail. Were going around in circles, accomplishing nothing! Miles seethed.

Finally, Enrique was instructed by Mr. Cookman, “Take the next off ramp, and then go left two blocks down. It’s the third house on the left, 5650.”

Per the instruction dictated, Enrique delivered the Rolls to the sidewalk of the house marked 5650 Blakelin Street and turned the motor off. Disembarking, the three men approached the house, covering themselves with various objects selected to shield the rain that was now coming down in sheets; Enrique with an AARP magazine taken from the front seat, Dr. Hart and Mr. Cookman both with their own umbrellas. It’s a class thing. Welcoming the cover of the porch, they each discarded their cover agents, Enrique rolling his in a tight circle clenching it in his hand he two others just shook out their umbrellas and posted them in the designated container beside the door. It’s a class thing. Mr. Cookman knocked on the door that was answered by a question posed by the general(yeah, he was wearing his uniform in the house) with a gun in his hand: “What the hell are you doing here, Jay? “And who the hell is he?” he added, waving the gun, a nine-millimeter Luger, in Enrique’s direction. Mr. Cookman brushing past the general, entering the house as the others followed: “Arthur, put that damn thing away!” More emphatically: “The shit has hit the fan and we’re about to get it all over our faces if we don’t move and move quickly!” The general, lowering the gun, stepping aside to allow them to enter, slammed the door behind them and asked, “This has something to do with that black bastard, doesn’t it? What is it with your operation, Jay? Who is it that keeps on stepping in it at your end?” Giving Enrique a long cold look, he questioned, “Is he with us or against us?” Dr. Hart moving deeper into the room, turning to face the general’s question: “Who do you think set me straight on this in the first place? Without him, the whole operation could go up in flames.” Continuing: “No, he is not our problem, our problem is how to pull this thing off, salvage it with maybe the other side knowing about it, and what are or can they do to fuck it up? That’s the question and the problem.” Mr. Cookman, slapping the rain out of his hat by smacking it across his hand and

taking a seat on the nearby couch: “I sold off all my companies to get the money to finance this operation privately so no one would be able to sniff it out, and we could operate with impunity, I can’t go back now! Christ! With the left-wing liberals chomping at the bits to ‘save the country from itself,’ we may never get this far again.” The general, regaining control of himself and the room, moved to a window and shouldered his gun in its holster, reassuring Dr. Hart and Mr. Cookman that all was not lost. “Look, they don’t know where we are and when we are supposed to appear or how were going to launch the deal. Right? Nods came from his two partners in agreement with his question statement. “So all we have to do is stay out of sight until time for tip-off and I give the order.” Seeing the logic and possibility of success in the general’s statement, his two compadres rallied to his point of view with a “you’re right” by Mr. Cookman and a “you’re damn right” from Dr. Hart. “So all we have to do is sit tight for a few more days and dot all of our i’s and cross all our t’s, which means,” he turns quickly drawing his gun from its holster, placing it at Enrique’s gut, “we take no more chances of something leaking out.” ‘But he’s our side,” proffers Dr. Hart. “I told you he put me on to the fact that they knew about the plan in the first place.” “Which could have just been their plan to get us all together in one place?” the general countered. “I mean look, aren’t we all together now?” “Naw, they ain’t that smart,” countered Mr. Cookman. “Or are we that dumb?” rebounded the general. Challenging Dr. Hart and Mr. Cookman. “Are we that dumb?” Sensing that he might fast become the weak link in the chain, the problem with the whole operation, Dr. Hart made one last-ditch effort to legitimize Enrique’s participation.

“Look at him! He took a hell of a beating for us before he got away from them, would you be on anybody’s side that did that to you?” Answering his own question: “I know I wouldn’t.” Strengthening Dr. Hart’s argument, Enrique added more proof to the pudding: “If I got as far as the Doc’s house, don’t you think I could just have kept on going? I didn’t have to say or do a danm thing.” The general weighing the merits of the information, was still not convinced. He voiced his reasoning in a story from WWII: “The way the Germans infiltrated their enemies was to use other Germans posing as defectors, deserters, or just plain spies who wanted out or had turned against the Third Reich. “It was very effective in almost every instant.” Having reached a conclusion: “You know how we busted it up? We gave them a reverse mission, one we knew was fake, had no military value at all that could only expose the spy-infiltrator and advance our cause.” Enrique making his last and best bluff turned to face the general, gun still at his gut and said, “What do you want me to do? Or say? I’ll do it.” Internally, his motive was clear. Stay alive! Don’t crap out on your last chance to be somebody, for yourself and for your people. Stand up like a man. Externally, the general misread the opportunity in his words, seeing a chance to flush out the enemy, old style. Both men were sure in their hearts that their actions were the right ones, so they took them. Enrique followed the general’s directions to the letter, calling the number he had for Mario and telling the female voice that answered exactly what he had been told by the general to say. “Get to Mario and Miles and tell them that I’m with all three of them and we’re at the CO’s office at Camp Pendleton, and we are going to be hiding out here until the jump-off time two days from now.” Hanging the telephone up, the general now sure that the opposition had been foiled and that the operation would go off without a hitch, relaxed into a seat, gun still pointed at Enrique but relieved and less guarded. Enrique, allowed to sit down after giving his pitch-perfect performance as

instructed, also relaxed in the knowledge that he had finally risen to the occasion; for once he had done the honorable, the right thing at the right time for the right reason. He knew that the general’s telephone number would appear on Tammy’s telephone and all she would have to do is trace it through everyday information to get the address of where he had called from and relay that on to Miles, Mario, and the others for them to know where they were actually hiding out and save them the problem of dealing with the larger military, et al. With the satisfaction that was felt in the room on both sides of the problem, it could easily be assumed that Everybody in the Room Is Smart.

41

Who Let the Dogs Out?

Mario responding to the buzz of the two-way radio revealing the caller ID known to him and assigned to Tammy. “Oh crap,” he voiced. “It’s Tammy, something must be wrong.” “I’m going to leave the speaker on so you can hear too,” informed Mario as he laid the phone down on the hump that separated the driver’s seat from the enger’s seat in the van. Tammy’s excited voice jumped out to both of them. “Mario, he did it! he did it!” “Did what?” Mario questioned the speaker. “They’re in San Diego at 5650 Blakelin Street.” “How can you be so sure?” Miles challenged. “Because I just heard from Enrique, he outsmarted them. “They must have forced him to use their telephone so they could listen in on whatever he said to see if he tried to double-cross them.” “They had him give me some phony directions to where you guys should go to find them. But it backfired. Enrique jumped into the briar patch, knowing that they would not know that we had the ability to see the caller number on our phone! “Once I had the number, well you know how easy it is to trace it through any operator to get the address, so I did, and they are at 5650 Blakelin Street, San Diego, California.” “That guy turned out to be worth his salt after all,” Mario proclaimed half to the

speakerphone and half to Miles. That means they’re not at the airport or the operation site and that they are all together,” Mario surmised. Praising their good fortune, he added, “Could it get any better than that? “Now, we can deal straight up with them.” Looking out at the grey day as the windshield wipers won temporary victories with the rain, Miles voiced, “Unless they brought along some hired help.” Mario paused. Shutting down the two-way-radio and looking into his driver side mirror, ing the conga line of vehicles behind him, then over his interior shoulder into the rear of the van crowded with the soldiers of their small army, he factually observed, “ We ain’t exactly traveling light ourselves, man.” Miles agreed that their firepower, if needed and when employed, would be considerable and would leave the residents of 5650 Blakelin Street wondering, “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

42

Last Chance To Be a Man

He couldn’t believe that they had not suspected something, that they did not have a clue as to why he went along with their demand to , what they thought was his version of a headquarters, and that when Tammy said that she did not know exactly where the group was but she would them and send them to the phony location that he was instructed to give her, that she would be able to trace the call and pinpoint where they really were. Really amazed, he thought, These are the guys who want to take over the country? These are the people who are still pushing and wholeheartedly believe that they are smarter, better, and truly superior to everybody else just because of their skin color? “You,” the general addresses Enrique, as he exits the kitchen to the main room of the house to plunk down a cup of coffee on the table, seed it with four cubes of sugar from a small bowl centered on it, then plucks three packets of artificial cream from a small weaved basket, excuses his way by Dr. Hart who was already seated at the table, having finished his meal now enjoying a fine cigar. Blending the ingredients into his cup, the general finished his question. “How long do you think it will take them to organize on the info you gave them in you’re call? And act on it?” Dr. Hart, with a third ener: “How many people do they have who could act against us anyway?” Enrique could not believe his luck. They were allowing him to set the assessment threat, to gauge the response they would need to deal with Mario and Miles at the other end of the spectrum. When Mario sent him on this mission, he knew that no one in his camp truly

trusted him, which is why they sent Jesus with him, to terminate him if he fell apart and things went wrong. No, neither Mario nor Miles trusted him to pull it off, why should they? After all, he had been the street talker, the loud mouth, the “fool” and traitor mostly allowed in their union because his mother was a firm and top performing member of one of Tammy’s domestic crews. But now, deep in the bowels of the opposition, on his own, he was beginning to feel and understand what they felt about being dedicated to something, to each other, and it made him believe and act differently. He was now the arbiter of his own fate and that of his people, who trusting or not trusting in him had nevertheless sent him on this mission, and he was not going to let them down. Using his best street gamesmanship, after all had he not outwitted them so far? He set about throwing an even bigger wrench into their works. Answering Dr. Hart’s question first, then the general’s: “They could muster up maybe 1,000 people at any one time, with a few days more, maybe 1,500 more.” His gamesmanship taking hold, the general responded, “Hell, that’s a small army, but it still won’t be enough to stave off our boys.” Concluding: “Plus, they are untrained, disorganized, and what could they be armed with? Shit they stole from a pawnshop or another gang after a turf scuffle?” The general smirking: “Our boys will wipe them out in five minutes of face-toface fighting; it’s clear sailing. “I just can’t figure out how they got that goddamned Carter out of the prison, I saw his ass dead as a door knob. I saw him. I’m a doctor, and I know dead when I see dead,” mused Dr. Hart. “He had to have help! A lot of help. That’s what he was doing in D.C. He is connected to someone in the government, someone who could pull off a trick like that. Get him off death row alive,” he surmised.

Questioning, backtracking: “Now who could it be? Enrique, seizing his chance to direct the narrative, blurted out: “He was in the army with the president, saved his life in Korea. He was some kind of hero.” “That’s it! That has to be it. No one else could have pulled off a black opp. like that, and no one else could keep it completely hush hush this long,” said the general, slapping the table in a demonstration of his utter distain for not having suspected something before. The general thinking to himself, “he had not given the president enough credit for deception. He would not make that mistake again.” The phone rings. The general answers. “It’s for you,” said the general, addressing Dr. Hart as he es on the telephone. Strongly to the telephone: “What the . . . ? Are all of you guys amateurs? You had him but he got away? And he destroyed one of our safe houses?” Something else to him, then his final reply, a terse: “Thank God, we have already prepared for the worst; he is headed the wrong way, and he can’t hurt us anymore.” Cutting the conversation short: “No thanks to you, guys!” He ends the conversation with the receiver being abruptly returned to the base. A flat assertion: “Carter got away from the kill I had set up for him.” Affirming to Enrique: “But you said he was with them when they tuned you up? Right?” So incorrectly deducing: “That means he is with the gang who can’t shoot straight on a wild goose chase.” “Just the same,” said the general, picking up the telephone, I’m going to get a little backup down here for ourselves, because when they get to the end of the yellow brick road we sent them down, they might really come looking for us.” Enrique, realizing he had overplayed his hand, causing the general to call on more men to come to his aid at their location, which Mario and Miles were barreling toward now, tried to readjust the scales by interrupting the general’s call with, “But if were here, and they don’t even know about this place, shouldn’t you leave your men deployed as they are, so they will be in position

for when the exercise begins day after tomorrow; no one will be the wiser? And everything will go off as planned? Pausing with the telephone halfway to his ear, the general considered Enrique’s proposal seriously as he pondered and returned Enrique’s thought-question with: “You may have something there, we want to be at full strength when we make our move, less chance to foul things up that way.” Returning the telephone to its base, he concluded, “Were like a needle in a haystack, the chances of them surviving our boys are minute and the chances of finding us, are one in a million.” Moving to the large leather reclining armchair, sitting his cup of coffee on the small table next to it, he released himself into it, took a sip of his coffee, acquired the TV remote from deep in its cushioned seat, and clicked on the TV to the local news which was filled with stories of the war games at Camp Pendleton, California, to begin day after tomorrow. Dictating to Dr. Heart and Mr. Cookman: “We’ll just wait things out.” Mr. Cookman, bringing Dr. Hart a drink from the bar, sliding his shot glass to him on the other side of the table where he stood, entreating Dr. Hart to do the same, raised their glasses to meet in mid-air in a soft clinking toast of “here, here,” then they each drank them down, returned the glasses to the table then adjourned to the couch to watch the news. Satisfied that he had stalled any effort to beef up the protection around them, which meant that the force Mario and Miles would arrive with and his inside position should be more than sufficient to overrun any opposition that would be mustered against them by the three occupants in the house, Enrique excused himself with: “Man, this is chance for me to catch a few winks, and let these wounds heal up a little more.” He asked the general, “Is there a bedroom I can lay down for a while in?” The general agreeing: “Yeah, you look beat.” He directed him, “The third one on the left, down the hall.” Following the general’s directions, he ended up lying down in a queen-sized bed in a large room with a color TV, sitting couch, beautiful pictures on the walls, and most appreciated, black-out curtains on its two windows. He took advantage of their imposed serenity and fell asleep thinking, when

Miles, Mario, and the rest of their civilian army finally get here, he would have one Last Chance To Be a Man.

43

If I Had Known?

“If I had known I was going live this long, I would have taken better of myself” was the quote from Mickey Mantle upon reflecting on a great life, but one that had been plagued with the foibles and pitfalls of alcoholism, As in most cases, at that point in life, the reflection stands but a ghost of a chance of being little more than a wishful thought, but as the caravan bore down on 5650 Blakelin Street, Miles knew they had a better-than-average chance of acting on their dilemma of not just knowing, but actually doing what it takes to take better care of themselves. So when everyone received radio instructions to “lock and load,” this time, they did so with the utmost sincerity and purpose. And as they rounded the corner onto 5650 Blakelin Street, they were ready to put an end to the threat of the looming nightmare that was operation Blackout. Fan out! Cover the back and the front! Don’t let anyone out, but we have one of ours in there,” Mario stated proudly, “and we want to get him out of there alive!” “The, 'one of ours,’ everybody knew was Enrique who had now endeared himself to everyone in the mission and possibly saved some lives by getting the information to Tammy which directed them here and saved them from having to confront a much larger force with graver possible consequences. Looking at his watch to confirm his best estimation of his team’s possible arrival time, Enrique sat up in the bed, freed his gun from its holster and proceeded to the bedroom door, cracked it just enough to pick up the conversation from the front room.

“Imagine not having to consider the Constitution every time we have to deal with those people? Knocking down their straw leaders most of whom don’t even have a college education, Would Caesar have spent a minute of his time trying to get on the good side of his subjects? No!” The voices waffled down the hallway. Proceeding toward the door, gun drawn, Enrique paused, as he thought he heard someone rise and proceed toward the hallway door from the other direction, answering over his shoulder, “Hell no!” the mover testified “and he would have canceled the Constitution at the first sign of resistance to his rule.” The doorknob was being turned from the other side but stopped at the sound of a several motors revving up coming down the street. “What the hell is that?” the general questioned the room, rising quickly heading toward where the sound was emanating from outside of the house. Mr. Cookman, who had been watching the TV, sprang from the couch to the general at the window. The knob of the hallway door stopped turning and was released as Dr. Hart now also ed the two other men at one of the windows. As the civilian army caravan begin to come into view, the general exclaimed, “Goddamn it! That looks likes the bastards we sent on the wild goose chase, how did they get here? How did they find us?” Mr. Cookman proffered his conclusion. “That fucking Mexican! That son-of-a bitch! He got over somehow, got a message to them.” Dr. Hart, trying to cover his insinuated participation or any responsibility for any part of what has or was about to happen, defensively stated, “But that couldn’t be! We didn’t’ even stop for a piss stop after we picked you up Cookman, and he’s been with us all the time he’s been here.” The general, scheming as he pulls out his gun from a military holster under his left arm moves back more to the center of the room, informs them, “Yeah, but he’s been back in that damn bedroom for the better part of four hours, how do we know that he didn’t have some kind of homing device that he used to signal them?” Rushing back to the window as the vans pulled up in front of the house and armed men begin to dismount and scatter to take up positions around the house,

it was Dr. Hart recalling: ‘No! it was that telephone call! That is what it was, it was the only he or any of us had with them. He must have given them some kind of signal, something we were not likely to pick up during that call; some kind of tracking device.” Concluding: “That’s the only thing that makes any kind of sense.” The general agreeing and proposing a solution: ‘Let’s get his Mexican ass out here and ask him.” Hearing the rush toward the hallway door, Enrique quickly retreats back to the bedroom and lies down on the bed, figuring that they don’t know for sure, and he can still stall them stall them until the caravan is in place and ready to take action. The three men rumble down the narrow hallway and not bothering to knock, burst into the room confronting the (as far as they know) now awaking Enrique. “Wake up man!” demanded the general. “You gonna tell us what you know about this truckloads of Mexicans in our front yard.” Menacingly pointing the gun at Enrique’s chest, threatening: “And you better be straight, or I’m gonna blow a hole right through ya.” ‘What are you talking about man?” Enrique defended himself. “What Mexicans? Where? Hell, I been right here with you all the time, so what would I know or how could I have brought anybody here?” Moving in closer proximity as Enrique sat up in the bed and then on its side, Mr. Cookman ed the general in his cross-examination. “Bullshit, boy, you know something, what did you have, a code or something? I don’t know what it was, but you gave us up somehow, you gave us up.” The noise of the vans arriving and the slamming of doors, as the people in them dismounted to take up positions around the house, made it clear that someone must have tipped someone off somehow. The how and why of it was not as important as the how many of them are out there? And how do we deal with them? Those questions the trio rapid-fired at Enrique. The general, in typical military fashion, took control, directing their escape, if there was to be one. “You think I would be here naked (meaning, not armed) by myself? he asked rhetorically.

Grabbing Enrique by the gruff of the neck, he ordered, “Come on with me, boys, if this son of a bitch did bring them down on us, he’s going to pay for it by being the first one to die tonight!” Pushing Enrique through the bedroom door out into the hall, he informed and directed, “Get in that front bedroom, there is a secret door in the closet that leads to a way outta here. There is enough guns and ammo, in there, to hold off Patton himself.” Stating triumphantly: “And there’s a ageway that runs clear of this place to that little church across the street and a vehicle I keep there for just such occasions.” Half boasting and half gloating: “It pays to donate to the church’s youth summer kids sports fund every year; the priests there think I’m a saint and practically let me have the run of the place.” Turning into the master bedroom, they were led directly to the large walk-in closet. Its contents verified the general’s predictions, because the walls were adorned with just about any weapon one could want to fight a war, turn back an aggressor, or just plain raise hell. Enrique knew, as surely as any kidnap victim, that if he left the room with them, he was DOA when they reached the other end of the trip. Mario and Miles would not have a clue as to where he was or of how they escaped the house. And even if they did find the camouflaged sliding door in the wall of the closet, the general and crew would be long gone, free to do their dirty deed on an unsuspecting public, many of whom looked like him. They had taken his gun, but again just like Bro Rabbit, he let them lead him right into the briar patch. So while they busied themselves loading up on as many arms and ammunition as they could carry, he let Mr. Cookman push him up against a wall that had several handguns nestled on it. With hand raised in the I surrender position, Mr. Cookman did not suspect that he had made up his mind to die tonight if he had to. He pressed his back against the wall to conceal the two guns hanging there to the best of his ability, hoping that when he made his move, he would not select the one weapon that was not loaded. The breaking glass of the front windows was the alarm and distraction he needed

to gain the move he made to access the gun. If these guys are going to conquer the world, they better get a whole lot smarter than the street people they are up against, because as soldiers, they sucked! Everyone of them turned their backs on him at the sound of the breaking glass and doors being breached, his first shot (thank God, it was loaded) hit Dr. Hart square in the center of his back, slamming him into Mr. Cookman who was the closest one to him. The blood-curling scream that left his lips made the closet seem smaller than it was. It was as though he was screaming directly into your ear. His blood gushing from the wound as the bullet exited the front of his body washed over the right side of Mr. Cookman’s face, sprigs of it caught the general too, as he revolved in a quick pivot, addressing the sound of the gunshot, the blood and the agonizing scream of Dr. Hart. The banging that they all heard came from the assault that was being waged against the front door by the avengers, but the bullets that they scrambled to avoid came from Dr. Hart’s finger being frozen in a death grip on the trigger of the AK-47, causing it to cut a swath of disintegrating plaster and breaking glass throughout the room as he stumbled, bumping into the wall as he died with a look of pure unbelief that this stupid wetback had gotten the better of him from the git-go. Boom! It felt like a double-barreled shotgun going off, as the front door finally gave up its fight with the insistent banging of the sledge hammer that was applied to it in a ceaseless series of blows lodged by the of the citizen soldiers commanded by Mario, and directed by Miles. Inside the closet, decisions had to be made and made quickly between life and death. “Kill the bastard!” shouted Mr. Cookman to the general whose gun was trained on Enrique. “Goddamn it! Kill him! The general responded with a barrage of words instead of bullets. “All right, you son of a bitch, you can make a play now, and you might get one of us, but one of us will surely get you, or you can shoulder your weapon and come with us, and you might live to see another day. Well! What’s it going to be?” Enrique liked the idea of living another day. After all, look at what had happened when Miles gave him that same choice less than three days ago. His life for the

last three days had not been great, but at least he was still alive with a chance to buy another day. The idea sounded good to him, so he took it. Slowly lowering his weapon, he stopped mid-stream. “How do I know that if I give up my piece, you won’t kill me anyway?” “We won’t kill you for two reasons. One, because Hart, he was the weak link in our chain, the reason all of this even occurred. He had a tick up his ass ever since he saw the tape of his secretary making out with that black guy on his office surveillance camera (so he did not trust her), and two, we could use an extra hand to help out on the road getting away from here.” Adding: “You can keep the gun but just put it in the holster.” “Lower yours first,” Enrique instructed in compromise. They both, after exchanging short nods of agreement, did so in a convincing enough fashion to cause Enrique to holster his also. With the fractural peace in place, the general moved to the right corner of the room, pressed a button concealed from everyday view by a leather banded cowboy hat, causing the center of the wall to split by two sections of it sliding apart, revealing a ageway leading to a tunnel with dimly lit wall lights on either side for as far as anyone could see from the entry way of the tunnel. “Go on, man!” shouted Mr. Cookman. Not fully trusting his situation yet, Enrique countered with a suggestion of his own, “Naw, you go first,” pointing to Mr. Cookman, “general you be in the middle and I’ll bring up the rear ’cause I trust your word more’n his.” The order formed, the three men entered the ageway. The general pressed something else and the doors closed behind them. “Take these,” the general directed as he reached into a small box just underneath the first step and ed on to each of them a gas mask. “Put them on, put them on! If you don’t, you’ll be dead in two minutes, because gas will be released into the tunnel exactly two minutes after the door closed,” informed the general. His people would not stand a chance of following them even if they were lucky

enough to find the secret jackpot in the other room under the magic hat, Enrique thought. He had to do something, but for now, he put on the gas mask and secured it tightly thinking, “I don’t want to be the canary in the mine.” “Whoa, man!” Mario and Miles exclaimed as they burst into the closet from the master bedroom. “Whoa . . .” Spinning around, guns at the ready to defend themselves from return gunfire, but the only guns capable of firing on them were the ones left hanging or mounted on the walls of the closet. “What the hell happened?” questioned Mario, “they were in this room!” “One of them is still here,” voiced one of the crew standing over Dr. Hart’s bloody and still bleeding body. “And from the looks of all these holes in the wall, a lot of drama went down in here.” Mario returned to his original question. “Yeah, but where is everybody? Where’s Enrique? How did they get out of here without going past us?” Miles supplied the next plausible thought. “This must be some kind of trick room. Like in those old horror movies, I’ll bet you a dollar to a dime there is some gadget, latch or other form of lever somewhere that opens up to an escape route out of here, I’ll bet my life on it.” Gotta find a way to warn them, gotta find a way to warn them, gotta find a way to warn them! Is the one thought throbbing through Enrique’s head as they make their way deeper and deeper into the tunnel. But how? Then he knew. The answer came as clear as the sound of a chapel bell on a Sunday morning. He knew. “Any one of these things on the wall could be ing or hiding the release mechanism, but be careful, move very slowly, because they, or it, could also blow up in your face,” Miles warned to start the hunt. “We don’t have all day to spend looking for a needle in a haystack while these bastards get away; and don’t forget, they may have Enrique with them,” Mario stated matter-of-factly. “So what are you suggesting?” queried Miles “Even a ground hog comes up sometime, somewhere, so let’s get outside, spread out and wait for these

groundhogs to pop up. It makes more sense than plowing through a room that might be bubby trapped,” Mario concluded. Emerging from the darkness of the tunnel, the brightness of daylight caused a strident reaction from each of the three men climbing out of the sewer grate into the rear alley behind the small church. “Follow me,” the general ordered, leading the group toward the double garage doors of an old stand-alone structure setting off from the church. Mario, Miles, and their men exited the partially destroyed house just across the street from several other houses, businesses, and one old church. “Get you glasses out and make a sweep of everything standing,” dictated Mario to one of the men in the group, “they have to come up somewhere around here.” Continuing: “They couldn’t burrow too far under city ground without hitting some pipes carrying water or electricity, so look for a spot that they could surface from without attracting too much attention, that is mostly secluded and would have the least and lowest people traffic on most days.” The old priest caught a glimpse of the trio through the rectory window as they made their way from the escape hole toward the dilapidated structure, recognizing the church’s main benefactor as the trio discarded their gas masks as they covered the distance between the departure point and the structure. “What is General Hollins doing with those weapons? he thought. And Who are those men with him?

The old priest emerged from the rear door of the rectory, just as the trio flung the rickety doors of the struture open, exposing a military-type vehicle covered over by a green-colored cloth, which was quickly snatched away by one of the men at the rear of the vehicle and discarded. The general moved with deliberate speed to the left front door of the vehicle, opened it wide and threw the weapon he had slung over his shoulder into the front seat area, reached under the floor mat, retrieved what must have been the keys for starting the loud motor. The other two men took refuge in the rear seat, tugging their arms with them. One more loud revolution of the engine to ensure its performance, and the vehicle was backed out of the barn swiftly.

Running to a position in the only exit route (a dirt path), the priest blocked the escape route for the vehicle, intending to stop the car long enough to inquire of Generals Hollins, what he was doing here? And why he was so heavily armed? Waving his arms in a standard signal to indicate “Stop,” he was flung to the ground by the force of the hail of bullets that rained from the window on the driver’s side of the vehicle striking him in both legs. The vehicle nearly hit him too (he could not move), as it gained speed in its exit path. “You hear that?” Miles questioned the team, “it sounded like it came from across the street. There!” pointing to the church cat-a-corner across the street. “I got ’em shouted the citizen soldier manning the glasses, pointing to the large green military type vehicle speeding away from his view point. “That’s gotta be them. Damn it! They’re getting away! exclaimed Mario. The van, which had been accessed by Jesus when they exited the house earlier, screeched to a stop beside them. Coming to a rolling stop, Jesus said, “Hop in. We gotta go now if we want to have any chance of catching up to them before they hit the freeway” Miles took the enger seat, Mario occupied the left rear seat in the first row of seats behind the driver, and they sped off blowing their horn loudly to avoid hitting any oncoming traffic when they entered the front street. By now, you could hear police sirens in the near distance. Something must have happened at the church, Miles reasoned, based on the speed the military vehicle was traveling when they first caught sight of it and the gathering of people in the church yard as they sped past it. Pulling over to the curb, the general ordered Enrique, “You drive from here,” as he slides from the driver’s seat to the enger’s seat, waving his gun at Enrique, indicating that he wanted him to exit the vehicle and take over the driver’s seat. Hearing the sirens, he became more agitated. “Come on, come on, we ain’t got all day, move it!” With no clear way to escape available, Enrique followed the directions and took

the driver’s seat, put the vehicle in gear, stepping hard on the gas, forcing it to quickly pick up speed, heading for the freeway entrance. “We have no idea which way they went, they could be anywhere,” the driver Jesus surmised. “Yeah, we may not know where they went, but we sure know where they are going!” Mario stated empathically. “Which means they gotta hit the freeway quick; so where is the nearest freeway on ramp to Camp Pendleton?” “Father Fisher has been shot, wounded in both legs pretty badly, he says that one of his best parishioners did it, a General Hollins,” came over the police scanner in the van. Mario breathing a sigh of relief: “It didn’t say anything about a second body, which means that Enrique is probably still with them and alive!” “But time is running out for him; as soon as they hit a spot where they can get rid of him, they will finish him off and dump him by the side of the road,” feared Miles aloud. Gaining the freeway, Enrique brought the vehicle up to the maximum speed allowed, moving to the center lane of the four-lane highway. “Now, Mexican, you can give me that gun of yours, just slip it out and lay it right here on the front seat where I can get to it easily.” “Make one false move, and I’ll drill a hole in your back right through this seat,” promised Mr. Cookman from the seat directly behind Enrique. They are going to kill me now for sure, thought Enrique, they aren’t going to let me live to see the rest of the conspirators in this plot, I have to stay alive, I am the only one who has seen their faces, I’m the only one who can identify them. What to do? What to do? He had to speed up to a car in front of them, but he just kept on going at top speed. “Slow down you fool!” exclaimed the general, “you want to get us killed? Enrique made his second power play of the day after killing Dr. Hart. What did he have to lose? He was in charge because he was driving, so he played his new hand.

“You are going to kill me anyway. So what difference does it make how I die? By a bullets in the back or in a freeway accident? Makes no difference to me; so, I think I’ll just keep my gun, and if you want to take it away from me, you’re just going to have to shoot me while were going down a crowded freeway going, oh, somewhere between 70 and 80 miles per hour.” Forcing his bluff: “It’s up to you” Choosing the one on ramp that would allow them to reach Camp Pendleton, Mario informed the others in their various vans of their position and instructed them to “catch up to us and catch up quick!” Hanging up the two-way mike, he was back to the chase. “They won’t be far behind, but first we got to catch up to these bastards ourselves and stop their asses.” “Yeah, they are spooked, which makes them more dangerous than before they were exposed; if only Enrique could us, give us some clue as to where he is, where they are,” Miles commiserated. In a praying mode to himself, Mario voiced, Come on, man talk to us! Miles had been directionless like this once before back in Korea. The snow and the cold had frozen his eyelids closed. The wind was as though he was pushing against one of those football sleds they used to test the linemen to see how strong they are and how quickly they can get off a block when engaged by an opponent of equal size and strength. The frustration of not knowing where you are in the universe, let alone on the trail (if it was a trail), it could just as easily be the edge of a cliff. Then, like now, you had no way of knowing. So, now, as then, you trusted your instincts, finally, taking over responsibility for success or failure of the mission, Miles turned to Mario in the seat behind him and said, “Lets roll the dice, our best bet is Camp Pendleton. OK? That’s where the legitimate exercise will be held, that’s where the real action will be, and I bet you a a dollar to a dime, that’s where they are headed.” Finalizing his logic: “So we could be way off today, but eventually, they are going to have to end up there, and while it may be harder to stop it there, but at least, we will be there to try!”

Mario, tapping Jesus on the shoulder from the back seat said, “Haul ass!” “Just slow down!” With hand motions suggesting the same, the general repeated the plea in a calmer, lower, more accommodating voice. “Just slow down, OK? You slow down, and I’ll tell you where to go, we have a backup place just off the base, kinda like a fallback position. I’ll show you where it is, we can go there.” Compromising: “You can keep your gun, if it makes you feel better. Just slow down so we can keep the cops out of this.” Enrique did not want police interference either, but for completely different reasons than the general. So in response to the general’s plead, he eased his foot off the gas ever so slightly, resulting in the road speed decreasing back within the legal limit. “Yeah, now that’s better. Just keep it like that until I tell you where to turn off, it’s only a few more miles up ahead,” the general reasoned. Observing the highway signs informing drivers of their choices. Camp Pendleton five and one fourth miles, Camp Headquarters ten miles. No weapons allowed on the base they instructed, informed and dictated. Miles to Jesus. “See that? The sign said ten miles to Camp Pendleton; we might still catch up to them.” “If they went back to the base,” Jesus questioned. “The games start day after tomorrow, they will have to be there to give the goahead to whoever they are in cahoots with, where else would you go?” Miles returned the question to the Jesus. Out of comebacks, Jesus just hunched his shoulders in logical agreement. “Where are you guys at?” Mario asked the mike in a coordination check. “By my reckoning, maybe fifteen miles from there; when we get there, how will we know which gate to enter? And how do we hook up with you?” questioned the trailing vans. “From here on in, just listen for my call,” and listen for my call,” returned Mario. g off: “Over and out.” “See that two-lane road angling off to the right up there? asked the general. “It’s

maybe five miles down it. Then you will see a dirt road that leads off to the right toward the hills, take it!” The general was getting more forceful, less compromising; as they reached the last options for his survival, Enrique thought, I’ve got to make my move soon or there won’t be room or time to exercise any option. Sensing his realization of his diminishing positive prospects as the vehicle neared the appointed turn-off point, Mr. Cookman pressed the gun against his back harder. “Don’t get crazy, you’ve made the right decisions up to now, and you’re still alive, just keep making them,” he whispered in Enrique’s ear. “Maybe I should just keep on going, I mean, if you get me on some back county road, what’s to say you decide you don’t need me anymore, and you just pump a couple in my back, dump me along the road and keep on chugging? How’s that for good decision-making?” Enrique questioned the voice in his ear. “Ain’t that them up ahead? Look! Look! That’s the vehicle I saw back at the church!” proclaimed Jesus, the driver. Using his field glasses to the statement of identity, Mario confirmed the driver’s proclamation. “That’s them! Stay a little bit off them until we are sure where they are going and if Enrique is still with them,” he stated the new game plan while at the same time, he grasped the mike to notify the others in an all-ornothing voice. “We got em, we got em. They’re about three miles from the base, going straight in. No, they are veering off to a side road.” Continuing: “Wherever they are going, it ain’t the main base, at least not to day, not now.” Enrique caught a soft blurry glimpse of the brown van out of his driver’s side mirror and instantly made up his mind to obey whatever was the next order given by either of the two men, because he now had backup; he had a chance, his Cavalry was coming over the hill, and all he had to do was stay alive long enough to light the signal fire that would tell them just where the enemy had set up camp so they could make their charge. As soon as the vehicle turned onto the soft dirt of the country road, the general became Dr. Hyde. “I will take you’re weapon, now!” he demanded, making eye with Mr. Cookman who pushed harder with his weapon against

Enrique’s back, grinning into rear view mirror adding, “It seems like we don’t need you anymore, my little wetback friend.” ‘Pull over there,” demanded the general. Enrique performed on the instructions. “Now, get out of the vehicle, but leave the weapon on the front seat.” Enrique complied, exiting the vehicle and leaving his gun on the seat. He expected to feel the force of the bullet hitting the back of his head accepting the inevitable, that this time maybe the Cavalry was not going to arrive in time to save the settlers, troops, Texas Rangers, him. How could he still have thoughts if his head had been blown away? But clearly it hadn’t. The only sound he heard was that of the enger’s door being slammed shut and the footsteps of the general traversing around the front of the vehicle. Arriving behind him, he ordered, “Turn around; I need to know something before we punch your ticket. How much do you know about the plan? You know, us?” Enrique sensed an opening, a chance to extend the time for the Cavalry to save the day, he was a dead man anyway, so what could it hurt to try to draw one more card to see if he could extend the game by holding it close to his chest and bluffing! So he played the strongest card he had in his hand and responded to the general’s doubts, fears that if this thing went wrong, it could mean the end of his military career and total disgrace in his fall from power, not to mention the loss of a small fortune on the part of Mr. Cookman. Laying his cards on the table colors up: Enrique started with his hold card—You mean what do we know about operation Blackout? “Damn!” exclaimed the general, slamming his rifle butt against the driver’s door, addressing Mr. Cookman who had disembarked to be in on the kill. “I gave strict orders to that damn Hart to back off that nigger PI until after we completed the operation; but no, he had to frame him, put him down because his secretary damn near laid the guy right there in his office.” Mr. Cookman, sensing the next thing attacked would be his weaknesses; after all, Dr. Hart had practically been his own personal pimp, supplying him with the objects of his sexual desire, leading to that one time when he was in Los

Angeles, and on Dr. Hart’s guarantee, met the meat as he called the woman of the night Dr. Hart supplied him with, which turned out to be that terrible, terrible night that Stella (he even ed her name) just did not understand the game he wanted to play, that he had to play it that way or he couldn’t climax; the other girls understood, they never questioned why he had to have a child in the room. Not as part of the act, but to fixate on during the act. He had to have that. Why didn’t Dr. Hart explain that to this one before he sent him to her apartment that night? He just wanted the picture of the little girl on the dresser to be in bed with them, that’s all, that would do it. But she refused! She threatened him that if he tried to make her do that, she would expose information about “Blackout” that she had learned from a Vegas hooker that Dr. Hart had confided in during the throes of lovemaking, assuring her he would not let any of it touch her or her family. When Stella threatened him with going public with that and what his pet sexual peccadillos were, he panicked; he slapped her around, just trying to find out how much she knew. Failing in his efforts, he let his men in who were just outside the door to get it out of her. But after taking all she could of their handiwork, she used a break in the torture that they used to coke themselves up getting ready for the second round of torture, to escape from the apartment, and when their heads cleared of the cokeinduced haze and discovered her gone, they struck out after her, catching up to her at some, as he discovered later, PI’s apartment and did her in. He cleared out all of her family pictures so that when the cops traced her body back to the apartment, they would have to start from scratch, have bupkis to work on. Now, it had all come full circle as the general turned his wrath on him. “And you, with them black bawds, with all the white snatch floating around you at the Pentagon, and damn near every government office in Washington, you got to get back at some black guy who laid your daughter in college by banging every black piece you can get your hands on. Jeez us Christ! man, Jeez us Christ! What a pair of fools I picked to run an operation with.” It was working, so he poured more fuel on the fire. “It’s not just us, our group

who knows, the President of the United States knows, who do you think we take our orders from? You think one black man and a band of Mexicans would have the wherewithal to pull off something like this? Hammering the final nail in the coffin: “He all ready got enough on you general to cancel you, you’re commission and blackball (excuse the pun) you out of the service and put you straight in Leavenworth penitentiary.” The gun went off, but Enrique didn’t feel a thing; he realized that it was because the general had shot Mr. Cookman! Moving to where he lay, he stood over him and fired two more times, professing with each shot, “You and your dick, ain’t going to cost me forty years of my life and the wrecking of the only plan that could turn this country around without a Constitutional amendment . . .” Sorrowfully regretting: “It was perfect. No way would it not work, except for me needing private financing and having to come to people like you and that damn lowlife pimp, Dr. Hart.” “That’s the road!” Mario pointed excited, “take that!” Jesus followed directions and turned onto the road, kicking up dust that could be seen by the Enrique over the general’s shoulder as he turned to deal with Enrique. The general, following Enrique’s line of site, saw the dust too. “This is getting shittier and shittier,” he said to himself. To Enrique: “Get in the vehicle. Looks like your driving again, see that building at the top of the hill? Stay on the road and head for it,” commanded the general, “I got friends up there.” Over the radio, Mario asked the caravan, “Do you see the cutoff road that is coming up about three miles ahead?” Without waiting for the positive reply required, he added, “Take it!

“We got them in sight and just ed one dead; so now there is only one of them left, unless they got friends in high places like that bunker like building at the top of this hill.” “Were right behind you,” answered the radio. “No more then four or five

minutes at the most.” Miles’s stare was straight ahead, as he focused like a laser beam on the window of the barn where the strength of the firepower was emanating from. They had been pinned down for three days by the constant fire from the building. It was deadly, killing an NCO and ten infantrymen. It had to be taken out, but how, like the hill they were now climbing, there was very little cover to use; the four groups of two who had tried it earlier, lay mangled in the cold field, moaning until finally the last two survivors crawled to within feet of each other, pulled their pistols and on the agreed upon count of three, fired point blank into each other’s chests, dying, instantly ending the misery that for two frozen, painful days had been their lives. How did we take that hill? They certainly were going to be downrange when the vehicle of the enemy, that maybe Enrique was driving, would surely reach the high ground before them and take positions, mirroring the one his platoon assaulted that cold, snowy death-filled day some years ago, how did they do it? “We’re turning off onto the road, and we can see the dust that the two of you are kicking up,” came over the radio in the van. Looking into the rear view mirror, Jesus told Mario, “Tell them we can see their dust too.” Paraphrasing into the radio mike: “We copy; we have you in sight too.” “Okay, over and out” terminated the conversation between the chain of vehicles. We created a diversion, that’s what we did, Miles ed. We gave them more than one thing to defend against, Miles ed and exchanged his thoughts with Mario, as they drew closer to the target at the top of the hill. Stating a strategic fact: “If we keep going straight on in, they will pick us off like targets in a carnival sideshow, we have to dismount and spread out to stand a chance of breeching that place.” Just as matter-of-factly: “The good news is, unlike back there in the city, they have no way out. If the bulk of their forces are holed up there, we got them right where we want them!” Miles, feeling better about their chances now that the successful strategy employed in a similar situation years ago was recounted, and shared out loud with Mario: “If my memory serves me right, we just have to wait for two things

to happen, our guys to catch up to us and night fall.” Then we can take them, But If I Had Known?

44

The Clash

The general’s vehicle piloted by Enrique ed through the barbed wire barrier that was lifted by a rough-looking, heavily armed man mirrored on the other side of the gate area. They both snapped to attention and gave a stiff formal salute as the vehicle ed closer to them and they could recognize the higher ranking officer in the enger seat. He saluted back as they entered the confines of the compound. To Enrique in a tight voice: “Them other two, they were expendable, these boys are the ones that count, pull over there, this is the end of the line for you, boy.” Not if I have anything to do about it, Enrique thought. He had never served in the armed forces, but he knew and reestablished from his survival thus far in these small war games he had been playing the last week, when to hold them and when to fold them. “The president knows who you are general, so even if you pull this off, you are through as a member of the armed forces of the United States of America, cover you ass with an insurance policy, namely, someone to vouch for the fact that you were coerced into this and fought it all the way. Even killing the two responsible for the plan and who executed it until you executed them.” Making his final unmonitored pitch before they were surrounded by the rank and file: “But if you get rid of me, you get rid of your trump card if this thing does not go well . . .” Enrique finished making his final bid for salvation, as a soldier approached the vehicle. “Who is he?” questioned the captain that approached the group from the

building’s front porch. So he did not hear Enrique’s last-ditch pitch. Lowering his weapon and facing Enrique as he came around the front of the vehicle accompanied by one man on each side, the general pointed to Enrique with an agreeing glance and said, “He is our get-out-of-jail free card,” thus cementing the previously proposed agreement. Wholeheartedly accepting the premise, he repeated with conviction, “Yeah, that’s what he is.” Enrique fell in with the group as they migrated toward the door of the fortresslike building, smiling a short agreement of the general’s statement. He had won! The general was covering all of his bets. “This is close enough, we don’t know how many of them there are holed up in there, or how much firepower they have and we can wait for the group to catch up to us here so we will be at full strength whatever we decide to do,” Mario said dually to Jesus, Miles, and to the radios of the fast-approaching caravan. Miles thought, There is no easy way to do this; someone was going to die here; depending on how many recruits the opposition had managed to persuade to their scheme is the only thing that would determine the number. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was still the question of Enrique. How had he managed to survive this far into the plot? Was he in with them? Was he still undetected? Or was he dead? The totality of the answers to these questions had to be weighed and positioned against any move they were to make in the next few hours. Miles felt that they only had that much time, maybe less, before they made their move, because the sun was fast disappearing in the east, insisting that they decide if and how they were going to confront this latest assault on democracy and freedom. Hell, there were at least twenty-five men in the encampment, all well-armed (the general had spent Mr. Cookman’s money well), and all were dead-set on their mission, Enrique observed. The captain, after coming to a pole-like attention and saluting the general respectfully, spoke on his concerns. “Sir,” posed the captain to the general, “no offense, sir, but just how is this wetback going to help our cause? What can he do for us that we can’t

accomplish without him?” The general, after a long look, Enrique could see him creating his response in his head to be presented as the final position on the matter of his (Enrique’s) position in the plot and the compound. Using Enrique’s line of logic, but spinning it differently: “We have planned this operation to the pinhead, we even went so far as to imagine what and how to salvage it if something went wrong, which was and is the reason for this fallback location; but this guy just fell into our laps, he is a godsend. Even I did not think of taking a hostage, of having a bargaining chip for our personal get-out-of-jail free cards in case of a breakdown in the plan.” Closing the sale: “Even I did not think of that! But here we are two days from jump-off, and we have sprung a leak in the roof of our plan.” Continuing: “We have damn near a small army camped outside our front door. “But this guy is connected to the very top, what was that movie with Paul Newman back in the fifties? Ahh ah, yeah! Somebody Up There Likes Me! Yeah that was it. Well, my friend, it just so happens this wetback is tied in with people who have direct line to the White House. That’s right, the president himself. “Back there on the road, he thought he had played me well enough to stay alive, but he just opened my eyes to the fact that we need an insurance policy big enough to blanket us all with immunity if we are discovered before or caught after the operation.” Professing: “Now, I, like every one of you, men, believe to my marrow that we can and will be successful in our mission, but what if it does not go as planned,” pointing to the window and the gathering clouds of dust created by one van after another arriving, until the last of the ten-van caravan was in position facing the structure. Deploying men that went scattering to positions around the structure: “I for one did not put forty years in this man’s military to end up in the brig at Leavenworth.” Finalizing: “Like true soldiers, we fight our way out of here perform our mission as outlined, then disperse back into our various units with no one the wiser if this thing goes as planned.

“But if we fail (pauses for Enrique to answer the question posed by his hand, beckoning to him in the air after the word Mr.? Mr? Enrique answers, “Enrique.” The general completes his statement with the information provided by adding, “Enrique, could mean the difference between ending up on some Latin American island drinking Kalulas or playing dead man’s poker in Leavenworth prison, so stash Mr . . . . (short pause while ing the name just given him is recalled) Enrique in one of the rooms in the back there somewhere, but keep a close watch on him until we are either clear of this or caught.” The night is closing in on the high desert above Camp Pendleton. The lights from the base are reflected above it creating miniature copies of themselves in the sky. The calm of the settling night is disturbed only by the wailing sound of the coyotes preparing for the night’s hunt. Fully loaded and deployed around the confines of the compound, Miles and the band of citizen soldiers await only the complete setting of the sun and total cover of darkness to start their hunt, which will also be life or death. He could die during this mission, she thought; why she had not pressed the president earlier in his presidency, before they heard about his incarceration, as soon as they got back from Korea. After all, they knew where he was, what he was doing; maybe if they had reached out sooner he would never have been caught up in the murder thing at all? She paced the floor as her mind raced. She knew she loved him from that first touch of their hands outside her grandparent’ s little isolated hut. Then, the courage he displayed in effecting their rescue, saving her life and her grandparents before slipping into the coma and being confined to the base hospital. She had visited with Major Miller on many occasions but remained mute when his deliria caused him not to recognize even the major during the visits but to flail about in his bed, no doubt ever staring down the barrel of a gun that truly threatened but never fired. When they shipped him back to the states without her knowledge, she made a vow of the heart that someway, somehow, she would see him again. Then a week after the last of her grandparents—her grandmother—died, the major on his last

visit to say his final goodbyes, recognized the state of aloneness she was in and asked her if she would come to America with him and work in his family business as a way of beginning the “payback” for what he conceived was saving his life. She jumped at the invitation as much to him in his quest for justice born of a love for his country, but more because it meant that they would both be in the same country, on the same continent which meant there was a chance she would find him again. The Major, grew into, the President, and she grew from a private secretary to “Special Assistant to the President,” and he—Miles—she learned became one of the best and most sought-after private detectives on the West Coast, and then a convicted murderer. She almost died when she first heard the news. Not this man who had held her hand in the middle of a blood quest of a war on a cold, bone-chilling night in the middle of nowhere and rescued her from the worst nigh of her life. No, not that man, she could not have been that wrong about him. She had to find out! She pressed the president with: “If you only do one thing for me because you think you owe me for some past act, I know he didn’t, but I need to know from a source better equipped than my heart that he didn’t do this thing that he is accused of.” The president assigned his two right hand men to the resolution of her request, promising her: “No matter what, he won’t die, I can’t let him die after what he did for me, if he did do it, I will pardon him before I let him die in the gas chamber no matter the hell fire my istration will suffer for it.” She had lost him for all those years until now; they had one perfect night of love —not love making—and now she could lose him again, this time maybe forever. Why had she not stayed with him longer? Of course he knew she loved him, he had to know she loved him, didn’t he? Why had she not told him so? He knew, they both knew from the first moment their hands touched, they knew. Damn it, you better come back, she chided him. The telephone rang at her bedside; the voice that responded to her “hello?” was just as frazzled as her thoughts. “Have you heard anything?” inquired the president. For a moment, relieved to be outside of her own thoughts, she responded, “No

Mr. President, no I haven’t. But this is too important, too big; he won’t let us down; some way, he will get it done.” “Of course, of course, agreed the president, but if you hear from him, anything at all, any time at all, you call me.” He sounded like a man without a country, alone again in the wilderness of the Korean winter, needing someone to get him through the night, to get him home, and again, he had called on the two of them to do it. He had done all he could do. Now, as before, it was up to them. After sincerely g off, she slowly returned the telephone to its cradle, cuddled her hands across her body, chiding Miles in a prayerful plea, in her mind, “Damn you, Miles, you better come back or I swear, I will kill you.” After a final pat down ensuring that he was free of any offensive weapons, he was shoved into a room. His deliverer posted himself at the door, another armed soldier took up a post out side the bedroom windows, blocking his best possible escape route, the only windows that the room was allowed. “Well, Ollie, this is another fine mess you’ve got yourself in,” he paraphrased Laurel and Hardy, as he paced the room formulating an escape plan and or how he could communicate with Mario and Miles, who no doubt was hoping against hope the very same thing as they clung to their radio in one of those vans that now surrounded the fortress. “Everybody, step to it, if they are going to come at us, it will be now, during the night,” the general, peering out of the window watching the sun disappear behind the nearby mountains, alerted his men. All of them quickly took up positions at various windows, while others put out ammo cans that accompanied a soldier at each window post. Dousing all the lights in the room and ing the general behind an overturned table in the center of the room, the captain opined, “Don’t they know how many of us they are going up against? How well armed we are?” “No, I doubt that they know our strength, but more importantly, we don’t know theirs either,” the general responded. “But I bet that Mexican knows,” countered the captain. “Yeah,” agreed the general. Take two—the first rounds hit the house with devastating effect,

breaking panes in the windows where different pairs of soldiers ducked in response to them—before the general could finish his sentence, directive sending both men seeking cover behind the table. “You got weapons, use them!” commanded the captain. “Fire! Fire! Shoot them down! Now!” Enrique heard the first salvos of engagement and rushed to the window to ascertain a vantage point from which to observe or at least gain a point of view of the caravan’s positions. The return fire was weathering. Mario witnessed several of his men fall from heavy weapons’ fire that pierced the walls of their van from which they were hiding behind. “Son of a bitch, they have armor-piercing bullets in there, fall back and hide yourselves as best you can, these boys are going to play rough,” he ordered. Questioning the van’s radio, Mario demanded, “What’s the heaviest weapon we have? Reports came back one at a time.” One by one a voice came through from a vehicle radio or a military-styled backpack carried-field type, all of which were disappointing. Miles wrested the mike from Mario’s hand shouting in frustration, “That’s all we got? You mean that AK-47s are the best we got? Damn!” He answered the confirming statement, looking at Mario, “Were fucked, if we can’t get close enough to use our grenades. Shit, from this distance, our small arms’ fire will irritate them but it won’t do much more than that.” Mario agreeing, ordered, “Spread out, get away from the vehicles, take cover the best you can and move toward the target,” adding, “but watch your asses.” The men scattered, resulting in some falling in the wall of fire that followed their every move; broken bones, shattered limbs, and dismembered torsos, made Miles a promise made a long time ago deep in the throes of war that “I ain’t gonna study war no mo.” But goddamn it! Here he was again, right in the thick of one, and that cold fear that had supplied him with enough adrenaline to get through the first one begin to seep ever so slowly through his veins, causing his heart rate to escalate, pulse to raise, and subconscious actions to manifest themselves. The righteousness and desperation of their mission directed his every move from

that point on. “Cover me,” he shouted to Mario, as he dashed from cover behind van number one and flung himself into the nearest ditch. He was visited there almost immediately upon arrival by a solid barrage of fire from the fortress, dictating that he curl up in a small human ball until it ed. Mario hollered into his control mike, “What did you guys come here for? To watch? Don’t just leave your weapons in your back pockets, use ’em! Cover him! You guys in the rear of the house lay down some distracting fire!” The night begins to light up like a Fourth of July exhibition, as return fire from his men and Mario ricocheted off the exterior wall of the fortress pinging and ponging in a weird song of war being matched by the heaviest volley of fire yet from the fortress causing vans and any of the other vehicles they struck to creek and cry in a strange sound of surrender as they hissed, and popped in the process of dying as surely as if they had been humans struck crossing the field of battle. Scampering out of his temporary safe place behind van number one, Mario firing random bursts at a high volume ed him in the rut. “Good to see you man,” Miles greeted his company, as he landed by his side in a splash of mud and water, “I could use the extra firepower; the major isn’t much help in his present state and these Koreans don’t seem to care if they die or not just as long as they take a few of us with them” Mario didn’t ask “what major? What Koreans?” allowing him time to come back to himself with, “Sorry, for a minute there, I forgot where we were.” “No matter man,” Mario accepted, “you’re here now, so let’s finish this thing.” The fire being laid down from the rear of the building drew the guard stationed outside his door to assess the threat by leaving his post to investigate what was going on outside the backdoor, allowing Enrique’s door to be unguarded for a split second. He used the time well. Slipping quickly through the door, he gained the advantage over the surprised guard who turned too late to meet his assault. Before he could free his gun from its sling position over his shoulder, Enrique was upon him, landing with a thud on his half-turned back; he completed the task the soldier was trying to perform to greet his arrival by jerking the weapon

from him and firing it, all in the same motion. The bullet went through the pane of the back door window, making the citizen soldiers return fire thinking they had been fired upon. Enrique used the soldier as a shield, pushing him against the door, using his own weapon in a chokehold across his neck, causing the stream of bullets that was the return fire from his men to strike the soldier full in the chest, right arm, and head. He died instantly. Pushing the dead soldier through the door whose frame was weakened by the bullets, Enrique was not able to exit himself because of the fire he received from two of the general’s men who had burst into the hallway from the other end, firing as they did so making him take cover behind the body of the fallen solider on the floor. A few of his men with a line of sight through the shattered rear door returned fire through the open rear door, forcing the soldiers to retreat back to the main room from which they had come. Pas the opportunity to escape through the now-shattered rear door, Enrique ed a second target (he had miles to go before he slept) and raced back to his bedroom (previous cell) directly to the window. He smashed it open with the butt of the weapon he had taken from the dead guard and fired point blank into the exterior guard, as he tried to dodge the falling particles of broken glass. He was catching on to this “being a man and doing the right thing” thing. Peaking out of the bedroom door to make sure that the coast was clear, he slid down the hallway wall back to where the first guard laid half in and half out of the doorway, bleeding cups of blood. He removed two hand grenades from the fallen guard’s belt, pulled the pin, and threw one after the other back down the hallway toward the door at the other end. The door flew into the main room upon their almost simultaneous explosions, sealing the doorway with the resulting debris of the door, wall plaster, collapsing structure of the framing materials of the house.

A wild stream of return fire was the answer to the hand grenade assault which hit several of the soldiers who were huddled at the door of the hallway. The only other damage done was to remove the veil of invulnerability from the remaining soldiers in the room. ‘If we stay here, they will pick up off one by one,” the general hurled at the remaining troops huddled with him in the main room. “We got the firepower, let’s get out of this box and take them, kill every damn one of them.” With that declaration, the captain, leading the charge, kicked the front door down, and the war was on. He had gone through months of rehab in the hospital, watched at least one thousand of hours of Alfred Hitchcock movies (or at least it felt like he had), repulsed, in his head, hordes of Koreans bent on his demise, and killed in handto-hand combat more than ten times, and carried a half-dead man for three days and three nights through the jowls of winter in a frozen land to save his life, only to end up here, still facing this horde of men charging at him again. When would it ever stop? When would it be over? How many more of these wars could he fight? Was this latest incarnation real? Had he really slept in the White House? Made love to an angel in the Lincoln bedroom? The Korean’s bullet hit him squarely in his left shoulder, spinning him around, causing him to drop the body he was carrying for some reason, somewhere and pitch face first into the freezing snow. “What the . . . ?” at the same time, the Mexican next to him slapped him hard demanding. “Snap out of it! This is the wrong time to go mental on us, man, come on!” Then an angel removed the Mexican’s hands and replaced them with her own on each cheek. The snow melted, the questions answered themselves and she kissed him full on the lips then whispered in his ear, “Damn you, Miles, you better come back or I swear, I will kill you myself.” Then she was gone into the black of the night, fading into the white of the moonlight just like another night a long time ago when he first met her and a second night when she took him to heaven and back with her.

“I’m all right, man, I’m with you,” he rebounded. Mario questioning for final assurance: “You sure, man? ’cause you had me going there for a minute.” The solid sheet of bullets raining down on them cut Mario’s questions short, and he accepted the status quo and busied himself with returning fire and directing his men to do the same. He implored, “Hold your ground, don’t give an inch! what this is really about.” Then, it was Pork Chop Hill in Korea all over again, only this time he knew exactly why he was (there) here. This time, the mission had been laid out by the president himself, this time he had already witnessed the courage of the angel who had given her very soul to save him and the major and future president of the United States. So as he returned fire and fixed bayonets for face-to-face battle, his head was as clear as a summer night in Los Angeles, as focused as a batter facing a major league curve ball, as vivid as the picture of Jesus that hung over his mother’s bed—because all of that and more was why and what he was doing here. His first kill this night was a soldier wearing captain’s bars. He came straight at him, hate spewing venom from him in language and behavior that could have only been taught in a bad home and blind rage that comes from years of pent-up misguided anger. He met the thrust of his bayonet-tipped rifle with the smooth parry of a welltrained professional who truly knew he was operating from a place and level that can only be achieved in the representation of a cause that justifies the taking of a life for it. ‘You dirty n . . .” was the beginning and the end of his last words spoken here on earth by the captain; as Miles pierced his body with his bayonet blade, he knew the world would be the better for it. The stiletto blade of a knife slicing through the night air plunging into the rouge soldier’s neck, preventing him from severing Mario’s backbone with the butt of his gun, was the ghetto special calling card announcing Enrique who, after leaving the interior or the building in shambles with the depositing of two hand grenades at the living room door, had crawled out of the bedroom window after

canceling out the exterior guard, reed the citizen army of the people. “Damn, man! You’re alive,” exclaimed Mario, clutching Enrique to his chest in a heartfelt gesture of appreciation and respect for the timeliness of his arrival, as he witnessed the rouge soldier collapse to the ground beside him. There were joyous protestations of “Hey Enrique’s back, he made it, he made it!” cutting through the fighting, as each man realized that the turncoat-turnedpatriot had ed through the test of fire. And had not only withstood it, but was here beside them fighting a mano, a mano. The attackers, recognizing that they had underestimated the size of the fight in the dog of their opponent, retreated back to their quarters on the top of the hill to regroup. Miles focused on the man leading the retreat wearing the uniform of a four-star general. That must be him! He thought, that must be the leader of this act of desperation, that’s the one who would have to give the signal at the official opening of the “war games” to start this whole damn thing. He was the one they wanted, had to have to put a stop to this insanity. But no one cold get anywhere near him before, he along with a large segment of his group reached the front door of the structure and entered. The citizen soldiers reviewed their losses, wounded and just plain scared, after all, none of these people had done more than carry a weapon to protect themselves on the streets of LA. But to be face to face with someone who intentionally was trying to kill you especially with the kind of firepower felt here tonight was frightening, even to street-raised and revolutionary-prepared minds. Miles surmised that the general, likewise, was taking count of the toll this first skirmish had taken on his soldiers as well, and from the mangled bodies left on the field, he couldn’t be too pleased and would want a better outcome from the next encounter, and there would be another one. Because it had to end here, now. Both sides knew that. The wounded could not be properly treated or taken to hospitals, because neither side wanted anyone to know that they existed in the first place. From Miles’s side of the ball, the plot would not be foiled until the general and

his men were totally defeated and this battle field mopped up before the police got wind of their little “Korean War” and showed up in force. His problem paralleled the same dilemma that had probably fostered this foul exercise in the first place when the general and his colleagues originally pondered the problem of “what to do with the black man?” The lull in the taking stock and review process ended with the keen whistle sound of a handheld army early version of the Soviet SA-7 shoulder-fired missile left the open window of the structure, streaking through the pitch dark night, tail ablaze, missing its intended target, the van nearest Miles and Mario and striking a large stand-alone boulder some half a mile away in the background. The shooter was probably cursing his miss and reloading, preparing to correct his mistake on the next try. Miles knew that he could not allow that next try. Leaping out of his shallow foxhole, shoulder on fire with pain, and running like a sprinter in a hundred-yard dash, he braved the wall of bullets that the general’s men laid down to give the shooter time to reload, surviving the gauntlet with only the loss of his helmet which was knocked off his head by a bullet glancing off of it during his race to save the lives of his men. He performed a forward somersault to both give him momentum for throwing the grenade when he came out of it (much like a discus thrower winds himself to affect the greatest thrust when throwing the discus) and to not make himself a straight up-and-down target for the riflemen who were laying down cover fire while the rocket man reloaded. He came out of his roll, throwing the hand grenade with all the strength that was left from his momentum after one of the freelance bullets slapped him in his (ain’t this a bitch) left shoulder, the same one he damn near died from taking a hit in Korea, spinning him off course and taking some of the snap out of the finish of his throwing motion, resulting in the hand grenade landing inches short of the open window of the house where the rocket man leaning out of the window was preparing to fire from again, its explosion propelling him through the window along with his weapon and stunning the household but not as effective in blowing up the whole room and most of its occupants as was its

intention. The main threat of the shoulder-fired missile being removed, made it possible for Mario to reach Miles and drag him back to the impromptu foxhole. “How bad is it?” Mario questioned. “The same damn shoulder I got hit in in the war, can you believe that?” Miles answered amazed. “We got to stop the bleeding,” Mario declared. “Then we got to take that house! Wipe them all out!” Miles, replaying the role of the major of years ago, gripped the arm of Mario as he begin to apply a handkerchief as a tourniquet to stop the blood running down Miles’s left arm, with a profound. “No! No man! There is a general in there with them, he has to be the one we’ve been trying to find. We got to take him alive, he has to show up on that podium tomorrow and give the signal to stop this thing, so the rest of the crazies will see that they are no longer invincible. “The other two, were important, but only he, the military component of this movement could give the order to start or stop this thing, we need him alive.” Accepting Miles’s deduction, but questioning its possibility for success, Mario put in verbal form his concern for Miles, his men, and himself: “Just how do you expect to accomplish that? There has to be ten of them still holed up in there with God knows what kind of weapons, just waiting for us to storm their front door so they can shoot us down like dogs and get on with their little (finger air quotes) “race party.” Accepting the difficulty of the task and now weakened by the loss of blood streaming from his body, Miles tried to sit up in the mini foxhole enough so as to appear to be able to command the action he was suggesting. “I don’t know exactly. But we got to bring him out of there alive and in one piece or the true goal of the mission is lost. Because even if he does not show to give the order to launch this thing, how will we ever know the real depth of the movement? How many were in on it? And the long-term threat to our country? Concluding as much in wistful thinking as logic, Miles pondered, “There has to be a way to get him and still kill them, and not get any more of our people killed in the process?”

A quiet voice now forged of steel, stated, “There is.” Enrique rose from a squatting position to a kneel, looking directly into Miles’s face at eye level. “I had made some inroads with the general before you guys arrived, I think we were both of the same mindset, above all, in the end, he is a military man, and I believe he still wants to go out that way.” “So what are you saying?” Mario asked. “What he is saying is,” Miles injected, “that if the general has a way, what in the advertising business is called “a weasel,”the smallest chance to get out of this, now that it has gone bad, he might take it. Right, Enrique?” Miles questioned. “Exactly!” Enrique exclaimed. “When we talked before, the reason I am still alive is that I proposed just that to him as his (air quotes again) get-out-of-jail free card, and he bit. At least to the extent that he let me live using the same logic to his men.” He added, “But that was before you guys hit here, and he was dealing with mostly me. There still may be a way to get him to go for it, break away from his men if he thinks in his heart of hearts that the offer is genuine and that they won’t ever know he took it.” “That’s the kicker,” Mario contributed. “How can we guarantee anything? To anybody, we’re just foot soldiers? “No, we’re more than that, we are in the direct employ of highest representative of the United States government, we work for the president of the United States of America, albeit secretly.” The small circle sat in stunned silence for the better part of a minute, before Mario posed the obvious question. “What do you mean? We work for the president? How can, better yet, how do you know that? And even if you can answer the first two questions, how can you prove it?” Enrique said, “I bluffed with that card, and the general believed it enough to sell it to his men as to why they should not kill me on the spot, but I thought you was just using that to tool us up to get us to go along with you, but I didn’t really

believe it, that’s why I went the other way earlier.” “You want me to prove it?” Miles asked. “Didn’t we a gas station just before you turned off on this dirt road?” The answer was “yes” from Enrique and nod of the head from Mario. “Then do whatever you have to, to hold out here no matter what to buy us enough time to take me back there, we have to use a phone.” The two men were now more mystified than informed, but after making eye with a man he had come to respect for his love of country as much as the blood he was willing to spill and even now was spilling in defense of it, Mario decided that he had come this far, so he would go this last mile and issued a “ it down the line” order to “stand your ground to the last man,” that he would be right back, “and no one is to give an inch.” As the order was being whisked though the lines, they gathered Miles and placed him into the headquarters van, circled it back to the entry road, and quietly departed the area. The general who was observing the battle zone through field grasses witnessed the departure of the van, wondering as to its meaning and application to the battlefield? Thinking that he would like to take out the retreating van, but knowing that having lost their main offensive weapon, the Soviet SA-7 (Mr. Cookman had bought most of their arms from foreign arms dealers; they did not want anything to be traceable to them or the American military), he did not have the wherewithal to reach the fleeing target. But having been in the military for the bulk of his adult life and in an officer capacity for most of that, he knew you only retreat if you can’t stand your ground or if you are going for reinforcements. Either way, he was not going to let this opportunity slip away or not be tested by force of what arms he did have at his disposal. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” he ordered his men. “We are going to attack as soon as that van reaches the turn off to the highway. Something is wrong, or one of the main leaders is hurt, so save your ammo so that we can fight our way out of here.”

The street army welcomed the cessation of the firestorm of bullets and other small arms fire that had been constant since the hand grenade went off, taking out the Soviet SA-7 but seriously wounding one of their own. Miles and his companions reached the telephone booth. extracting an officiallooking piece of paper from the inside pocket of his field jacket, Miles gave it to Mario. “Just dial it and say this is Miles Carter, and wait.” Opening the paper to access the number, Mario saw that it was written on official Whitehouse stationery and paused. “Go ahead, dial it,” Miles said. Mario to Enrique: “Give me some change, man.” “It’s a toll-free number, all you have to do is dial it,” Miles informed, becoming slightly disoriented due to the slow loss of blood. Jesus, now the officer-in-charge due to Mario’s absence, ordered “give them everything we got” to his citizen soldiers, in response to this second surge by the general and his men who poured out of what was left of the bullet-riddled framed fortress, with guns blasting. Mario put his hand over the hearing portion of the telephone, looking at Miles somewhat puzzled; he questioned, “It’s some women’s voice answering, how is she going to OK anything to do with granting the general’s immunity?” “Just say my name like I told you, and she will put the president on the line, She is the Special Assistant to the President.” “What?” Mario responded confused. “Just do as I say,” Miles anxiously replied. “This is Miles Carter.” Mario informed the voice at the other end of the telephone. A small gasp, then a question. “Miles is that really you? Are you all right?” Mario, now a believer replied, “He here, he all right but he’s wounded, and he just can’t come to the phone.” The gasp turned into a sigh of concern. “Wounded? How bad is he? He is not dead is he?” “No, No, nothing like that, he’s just saving his strength to talk to the president. Then professionalism came into the voice. “Yes, yes, I will put him right on.

Hold for just a minute.” The next voice was that of a man of tremendous authority. You could tell by the sharpness in his questions and the pointed way which he addressed his informers, then accepting of what he had just been told but concerned for the welfare of his surrogate. “Put Carter on, I need to hear it from him.” Enrique and Mario held Miles up to speak into the telephone, as he confirmed everything back to the man then returned the phone back to Mario for the president to confirm if they needed any further confirmation of what was authorized by him. Mario responded respectfully. “No, sir, no, sir, Mr., President.” Allowing Miles the final sign off, Mario felt a renewed dedication for the mission and to the country in the fact that he, and his men, Enrique included had been chosen at all to be a part of it. “Hold your ground; hold your ground.” Jesus kept exalting his troops in their response to the second assault from the general and his men, this one, seemingly more desperate, more determined to succeed than the last. In his mind, he pleaded, Mario, Miles get back here as quick as you can, because I am not cut out for this. I can be the soldier, but this leader stuff is another whole animal. The general could see the headlights of the van returning from nearly two miles off. Whatever their mission, they must have accomplished it and their returning to the fight rather than abandoning it must mean that whatever they did contributes to their believing they will be stronger in the short run. That could not be good, he thought. If his men could not mop this up shortly, he might have to think of a different strategy. Who would have though that a bunch of untrained street thugs could last this long against his men anyway? The van was getting closer and the conflict was heating up. Damn those two amateurs he had allowed in his ranks anyway! If it had not been for them, this thing would have gone of as smooth as silk! But he needed Cookman’s money to finance the thing and Hart to feed Cookman’s weaknesses to keep him providing the dough.

If he could have gotten a few military top brass to go along with him; but they were all to patriotic to pledged to; this international melting pot of a world; this one man one vote, new world order. The van screeched to a stop, Mario and Enrique dismounted, then reached back to evacuate Miles. Mario relieved Jesus with a “Well done, man, I couldn’t have done better myself” as he reed the fray, guns blazing. He could not believe he had just talked directly with the President of the United States of America! Hot Dog! “What did he say? How did he sound?” Mae Ling quizzed the president. “Why didn’t he want to speak to me? ‘He did, he did want to speak to you, but they are in the thick of it out there, and he would not have even spoken to me had he not needed my green light for something he wants to try that he thinks may be an option in ending this whole thing,” said the president. Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die was the featured line in one his favorite sermons given by Reverend Dupree on Easter Sunday of his fifteenth year; little did he know that within two years, he would be in the middle of one of the biggest wars (he kept forgetting that was a Police Action), helping as many who deserved it, to go to heaven. And with any luck, he would add a few more to the list tonight. Enrique, manning the one weapon they had that was capable of repeating heavy firing, istered it to its fullest capacity against the available targets that were visible in the moonlight. Although the return fire was equally harsh, it nevertheless was beginning to become more sporadic and located in one area of the killing field. Miles still had three hand grenades left, and he dispensed one to each of his colleagues. They make good use of their application. Mario’s took out a fiveman foxhole with his, Enrique’s made it all the way to the house, rendering it uninhabitable, and Miles used his to ensure that there was no place to hide for anyone who occupied what was left of the rubble by scoring a direct hit on the pile of wood and stone that was left from Enrique’s strike.

The old bartender’s adage at closing time came into the equation. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here! The opposition was fast running out of choices; there were fewer and fewer places for them to go. In short, they couldn’t go forward (the citizen warriors were too strong, and they couldn’t go home as it had been blown to bits by the barrage of two well-placed hand grenades. The choice was coming down to the same one the major had to make the time he found him buried upside down in a pile of snow, gut shot, literally bleeding to death. As Miles attended to his wounds as best he knew how, applying the Johnson & Johnson and the tube of powder that they gave you to apply to wounds and everything else that stung or bled, he, the major had to decide, did he want to go home to his maker or stay here. Thank God, he decided to stay. The general’s army must have decided that they would rather go home than stay (surrender to the citizen soldiers) here, because almost to a man, the few that were left rose as one and charged the positions in front of them, demonstrating that although misguided, how formable, they were as men, Americans and soldiers. They did not stop, although their leader, the general, struck or not struck, fell before them. “Damn it! Miles you come back to me or I will kill you myself,” she screamed in her heart that he heard in his. At about the same time, Miles felt a searing pain in his chest as a bullet struck him where his vest was most lose fitting, rolling him over on his side , his back to the conflict barely breathing, barely alive. Mario, avenging the shot, emptied his gun into the shooter, who fell facedown in the muck consisting of blood, body parts, and mud. Enrique rolled Miles over, so he now was facing whatever acts of death that chose to confront him; then he sat right up against him, shielding him from further possible injury. This guy whom he had bested in an alley fight in South Central, pegged as a

traitor to their cause, was now putting his body between Miles and near certain death. He voiced in his mind, using what was left of the reasoning ability of it, “Is this a great country or what?” Mario ed Enrique, forming a complete blockade of his body from any physical assault by man or arms. Miles fading in and out of consciousness: “Is this a great country or what?” They kept coming. But they were no match for the citizen warriors who took cover behind vehicles and deep ruts in the terrain created by the wheels of the previous arrival of the general’s men heavy equipment vehicles earlier during the rain and the last vehicles manned by the citizen warriors. In the end, the die was cast in their blood as they fell, one, two, and three at a time in their ill-fated charge, until there was just the general to pull from the fallen bodies, bind with bungee cord and pack into the rear seat of the lead van. Likewise, Miles was made as comfortable as possible in the second row of seats, with Enrique assigned as his protector and the guardian of the general against any possible escape. They started the final stage of their mission, which could yet be derailed if the general proved unpersuasive as to his best remaining life options. But first, they had to get out of here, this mini-war had not gone on in a vacuum; local police helicopters and distant sirens were beginning to evidence themselves in the area, seeking the exact location of the many reports of gunfire that had inundated their hotlines for the past half hour. Mounted and ready, with not a man, dead or alive, left behind, they exited the area back road in single file until they reached the main highway, then, as ordered, they broke off into separate lanes and traveled at different speeds so as not to attract the attention of the many police cars that were now streaming toward the open graveyard they had just created. “You guys head on back home” came over the radio from Mario in the lead van. “We got the general and we got Miles, he needs medical attention right away, but we can’t take him to any of the local hospitals, No matter, we have to stay near the base to be ready to do what we can and have to do tomorrow.”

g off: “You did good! I am proud of all of you, go on back home, but be ready for anything in case we are not able to button this thing up from here.” Ten fours went in order as each vehicle acknowledged the “well done” and signed off and peeled off the freeway designating their own route home. “The president!” Enrique shouted out of nowhere. “What?” questioned Mario. “The President,” Enrique repeated, finishing his thought. “He must know some doctor or safe place where we can take Miles to have him treated.” “But will he take another call from us? Especially since we have not completed our mission yet?” wondered Mario. “He will, if he talks to Miles directly,” Enrique proffered. “But he is out like a light, can we bring him to? And even if we can, will he stay conscious long enough to save his own life?” After a long thinking pause, Mario said, “It’s our only chance, if we don’t, he could bleed to death right here in this van.” Without hesitation, Mario pulled off the highway at the quarter-mile information sign that noted “Rest Area Ahead” and had separate pictures of a knife and fork, a bed, and a phone booth, signifying everything they needed in the resolution of their problems. “Oh shit!” Mario thought as he pulled into the complex, spotting a police car at one of the set of pumps. “Knock him out!” “What?” came from Enrique. “Knock him out now!” Enrique pointed to Miles first then the general. Mario agreed with his second choice by the nod of his head into the rear view mirror. Enrique was quick to follow instructions once they were made clear by delivering a sweeping blow from the handle of his AK-47 to the general’s chin from his position in the second row seat of the van. The general went out like a light and slumped down in the seat out of sight of any one looking into the vehicle from outside. Just what Mario wanted. “We’re coming up on a cop car up ahead and I didn’t want him to be pliable,” Mario explained the terse and sudden order.

Turning off his turn signal, as he glided past the police car at the pump, Mario directed the vehicle to the bank of telephone booths at the far end of the facility to avoid the officers who were (of course) taking a coffee break inside and chatting it up with the attendant, hoping they would not notice the bullet holes that peppered the van. Pushing the envelope, he alighted from the van with the paper Miles had given him earlier in his hand, entered the booth, and quickly but calmly dialed the number (it must be four or five o’clock in the morning back there, he thought) and waited anxiously for the response. A sleepy dusty voice said, “Hello? Who is this?” Mario, half not expecting an answer, stuttered back into the telephone, “It’s me . . . calling back about Miles again.” Hearing the breath at the other end quicken, he then heard, “What do you mean calling back about Miles, why can’t he call himself?” Then, as though someone pushed her off a cliff, she shouted into the telephone. “Oh my god! He dead isn’t he?” Before he could answer, he heard the receiver hit the floor and the uncontrolled sobbing of someone who had just lost their only reason for living in this world, and he tried to not panic too, but he had to get her back on the line and wrap this thing up, because he could see the two policemen wind up their conversation with the attendant heading for their patrol car. Loudly with the telephone held tightly to his face and ear, he tried to get the person at the other end to pick it up. “Hello? Hello? Look, I really need to talk to you, please pick up the telephone, Look! He is not dead!” He shouted “he’s not dead” a second time as loud as he could, without attracting the officer’s attention by being too animated. She must have heard some part of his last pleas, because she came back to the telephone in the middle of a deep sniffle. “He’s alive?” She nearly begged. He answered, relieved to be back in with the voice that he now knew must be Miles’s soul mate, and fearing losing her again, he quickly spurted out as much information about the situation as he could to avoid another separation from her voice. She took it all in, her breath lightening with each sentence until finally she cut him off with. “I have an uncle who is a doctor in San Diego! He will help, but

first he will have to hear the request from the president. (The patrol car hit it’s lights, moving toward the end of the pump area and ing some 200 feet from where the van was parked at the well-lighted multiple telephone booth area, slowed down as the driver glanced slightly in their direction, and proceeded to the on ramp of the freeway.) Following its exit all the way up on to the freeway, Mario chilled, as the siren and the overhead flashing light bar came on both at the same time, fearing that they had been detected until he saw the car fire it’s way onto the far speed lane of the highway and disappear into the night in the direction of Camp Pendleton. “How bad is he?” came that authoritarian voice over the receiver. “Pretty bad, sir” Mario reported, “we got to get him medical help quickly. Mae Ling is on the t line to her uncle in San Diego, how far are you from the city?” Mario told him. The president, becoming more deeply involved: “Well, that is in our favor; now, if she can just reach her uncle, I will give him the go-ahead, any luck?” Mario could hear him ask the female on the other line. Then, “I’m going to put the president on the line. Mr. President, my uncle Doctor Jon Lee Park.” The doctor, “Good evening, Mr. President, well, I guess it is morning back there, what can I do for you and my lovely niece?” The minute he heard the president begin to speak in the native Korean language to Dr. Park, he knew that they had given Miles a fighting chance at another day here on earth. “Did you get those directions and address?” the president asked Mario. Affirming and confirming his respect and love of Miles also, Mario signed off from the three voices on the other end, exited the telephone booth, and headed for the nearby garage of the doctor’s son where they would be able to exchange their bullet-riddled vehicle for a less conspicuous form of transportation that would safely deliver them to the doctor’s private clinic. “He looks pretty bad,” agreed the doctor’s son, sliding the van door open to help with extracting Miles, “but who is he?” addressing the crumpled and bound body of the general. “He is the reason we’re in this trouble in the first place,” Enrique answered, as

he began the process of removing Miles’s body from the van by cuffing both of his hands under each of Miles’s arms at the shoulder and moving him ever so gently toward the open van door. Comforting the still-shaken Mae Ling, the president said, “You know your uncle is one of the finest surgeons on the West Coast, if anyone can save him, he can”. “You keep your chin up, he is counting on us to be strong for him as he was strong for us. That is the only way he will make it through this.” assured the president, holding her in a friend’s embrace. “We will both see him tomorrow; I have to be there for the exercises to officially begin.” Using the hours left in the early morning, they both adjourned to their respective quarters and prepared for the day. He lie there in a small private office of a doctor born in Korea, educated in one of the finest medical schools in America and living in a white gated community in San Diego and he wondered how a person like the general who may not have had any of that kind of privilege, but was a walking talking four star general in the armed forces of The United States of America, could come to the place he now occupied, that of an enemy of the state, the very state that nurtured him from a poor uneducated southern boy of 18 years of age, voulenteering to put his life at risk for his country, to this thing-plotter of its downfall,—then he ed what his mother had said to him during the height of the civil rights movement when many black leaders and clergy were advising and speaking out against the movement and teachings of Dr. King.

He asked her why? Why did they not all him? After all, were they not black also? Were they not clergymen too? So, how could they not be by his side like Harry Bellefonte, a man light enough he could for white or at the very least, do to his celebrity, live in Hollywood or where ever he wished as long as he kept his nose out of movements like this’

His mother answer as always was drawn from the very bottom of the well of

pain and suffering, heart and soul and love of the spirit the society as a whole call religion she spoke a truth, clearified a fact as only she could, when she said, ‘Son, the problem is not that no one cares anymore, the problem is that no one cares that no one cares anymore.”

Anxiously, the day started, they were in the Oval Office now, waiting to see if Miles would make it through surgery and waiting to see if they still had a country to govern as they knew it. “So no matter how these last days end, we still have a country to run, let’s get started, we have a full day ahead of us,” the president said, as he moved to his desk, took his seat, and pressed the bottom on his intercom asking, “Helen, what do we have today?” Mae Ling wiped any lingering desperation, worry, and sadness from her eyes and took her place across from the president, notepad in hand as usual for a workday, greeting the executive secretary with “Hello Helen how was your weekend?” And democracy was being served. “It is not as bad as thought, it was a clean through and though, which is why there was so much bleeding,” a circling Dr. Parks informed Mario and Enrique. “But it is still good that you got him here as soon as you did, because he could have become severely weakened from the loss of blood and that in its self would have been a problem.” Directing: “I know you are very concerned with your friend’s life right now, but you’re going to have to leave the room and let my team and I do our jobs.” The three of them, Mario, Enrique, and the son were escorted out of the room by an already-masked operating assistant, needing only to wash her hands to be allowed to the team of three other trusted personnel assembled by Dr. Parks at a moments notice to perform the private and secret task requested by the president and prayed over by Mae Ling and his newly melded friends. “The president will be here tomorrow in time for the exercises to begin, just like you planned, but he won’t be flying blind like he would have been two days ago, he knows what your part in all this was, and if you are smart, you will think long and hard about how you want to play this thing out,” Mario read into the

general’s ear. “If it were up to me, I would just take you out somewhere and have you shot. That is the way they would do it in my country,” Enrique promised. “You’re a lucky man, you pulled your little rebellion in America at the midpoint of an election year against a president that just from the fact that he will even talk to you and not shoot you bodes well for your chances of surviving this thing.” Mario matter-of-factly: “If I was you man, I’d take the carrot, if it is offered.” The general’s response was mute. He only barely acknowledged their presence in the room by the glares he threw their way when they addressed him. The telephone in the motel room rang. Mario picked it up. “He made it, he is going to be just fine; he needs to rest a few days, but he’ll be back to full strength in a month or so,” informed the voice of Dr. Parks through the speaker. “Thank you, thank you, sir” went sailing back through the telephone from Mario’s end and a “when can we pick him up?” came from Enrique, standing behind the chair (now playing the peek-a-boo game too) during the informal interrogation by the two of them. “Let him rest here for the rest of the night, and I’d say first thing in the morning” came the answer to the question by Mario shouted across the room by Mario’s thumbs-up signal to Enrique at the news. “Tell my niece she picked a strong man and a good one from the stories the president told me over the telephone about how he saved her grandparents and my niece as well as the president; you tell her I would be proud to have such a man associated with our family.” Mario hung up the telephone after confirming and voicing his gratitude again with “Thank you, sir, I will tell her and we’ll be there first thing in the morning.” The trip to California on Air Force One was solemn and measured. The president did all the pre-arrival things required to make this trip look as much like every other presidential trip taken this year. But, of course, it was not. He spent one-third of the three hour trip working in the on board office, gave a short Q & A session to the on-board press, but for the

last hour or so, he sat in his quarters and thought about how you approach a man of a clearly venomous heart who had served his country faithfully for over forty years of his life and had now betrayed every oath of a member of the armed forces and become a traitor! What he wanted to do was walk in the room with a loaded gun and blow his brains out or after disgracing him publicly, banish him to one of the Black Ops prisons he had access to around the world to be dealt with in a manner befitting his crimes. But what he was going to have to do in the next hours was to summon up enough strength to sit down with this man and convince him to that he was once a soldier, that he was once a patriot, and most of all why he put the uniform on in the first place and how it felt that first time when he walked down the street in it, shared a beer at bar with his fellow soldiers in it, and most of all the pride he saw in his parents’ eyes when he came home from basic training in it. If he could get him to those things, maybe he could talk to him about what he wanted him to do, and why those memories were good enough reasons to do it. “Damn, he could walk with the help of crutches and his friends who embraced and ed him from both sides guiding him to the spiffy new van waiting at the curbside. “Wow!” Miles exclaimed, “This looks a lot better than the one we came down here in.” ‘What are you trying to say about my van, brother?” Mario teased. Miles clarifying his statement: “Naw, man, I just wondered who you had to rob to score wheels like this in such a short time, that’s all.” Enrique, sliding the door back in a smooth silent motion said, “We didn’t have to do nothing, the lady in Washington, got the doctor to lend it to us.” Miles’s head and heart said, “Of course, of course she did.” “We got that general stashed in a hotel-motel whatever, a couple of blocks away, and the president said to leave him be until he arrives; he wants to end this thing his way.” “What about Mae Ling?” Miles asked. “You mean the lady in Washington?”

Enrique chimed. “She is going to be with the president. Air Force One gained the air like a bird leaving a tree branch, spectators watching from their various vantage points, depending on their pecking order in the political scheme of things; ooohs and ahhs attested to its almost birdlike qualities. In San Diego, the dignitaries took their proper places across from each other along the red carpet which had been rolled out from the bottom step of the portable staircase which had been rolled into place against the fuselage of the plane. He wasn’t the Rolling Stones or the Beatles on their first tour of America, but you would have had no way to tell, because of the response of the assembled flag-waiving, band-playing, crush of people, young and old melding together to greet him, get near him, would have fooled anyone not familiar with the lives’ and travel of rock and roll stars. He had been a good president, and the welcome reflected that fact; the presidential organizers could gin up a crowd to impress the local press, but they could not artificially generate this kind of enthusiasm. This was real; they genuinely loved the man. Hell, it had even rained last night, and the forecast for the day was light showers. The President ran the gauntlet of the photo ops, handshakes and rope line hugs arriving at the podium to satisfy the local and traveling press with a short stump speech ending with “and God bless the United States of America” before mounting the long black limousine that had likewise dismounted Air force One, only from the other end. Protocols performed, press indulged, he took to the limousine like Roy Rogers to trigger and rode away, waving back to the crowd (adoring fans) into the sunset and the destiny of the country and his presidency. At his hotel, he quickly changed clothes with his traveling double-every president has one, it is the worst kept secret of the government-and with mustache, wig and false nose applied, easily slipped out of the hotel’s rear entrance while simultaneously holding court in front of the bevy of cameras and reporters.

Three Secret Service men entered the motel-hotel whatever, room in prowl mode; they exited, returning with that man. The one who won by nearly nine million votes in the last election, the one who the man sitting in the corner of the room on a padded chair with two crutches by his side and left arm in a sling, had carried through a seemingly endless war a lifetime ago, who, after a sincere “You all right?” and a grateful “I knew I could count you” returned to the crux of the purpose of his presence in the room. Straddling a chair placed with its back facing the general by one of the Secret Service men, America spoke in a slow strong purposeful voice of a true warrior. Motioning to the Secret Service agent who reluctantly approached and allowed, with great trepidation, the president to remove his service pistol from his holster; then, the president reaching over the back of the chair, placed it, fully loaded in the general’s hand. Each Secret Service agent gripped the weapon in their respective holsters, not fully understanding the president’s actions which were way beyond any protocol they had ever trained for. The room fell still. All eyes were on the general now, with a loaded gun in his hand, and the president who sat directly in front of him in his line of fire. Miles thought that even the clocks in the room stopped, along with the free flow of air. Death was in the room in the hands of the general, it had only to act. The general raised the gun and pointed it toward the president’s chest, hands shaking and breathing deeply through his mouth. The Secret Service agent who had provided the gun, moved to interface with the general, but the president waved him off. The general burst out in tears, both hands, although still tied with bungee cord, cupped his face, and he wept profusely into them. The gun turned loosely on one finger before dropping to the floor. “You ed me up for that freak over there!” The general, pointing to one of the two right hand men (the ashen one) on the president’s staff who along with his counterpart, had entered the room during the gun exchange and taken up positions behind the president’s chair, ready to die if the president’s ploy failed. Sobbing profusely: “Even guys who I knew were gay got promoted over me!”

Dropping his head, looking at the floor: “And the blacks, it wasn’t like that before.” Trailing off: “I got over forty years in this man’s army, and I was being shut out! Shut out! I had nothing to show for it; who was looking out for me? Who?” Raising his head back to eye level of the president: “Not you, Mr. President! You were just going about your merry way, with progress! Well, progress was killing some of us rolling right over us! And nobody cared. “Not just the armed forces, but all over; we, the whites who built this damn country, won the greatest wars ever fought by the country, and you and your cronies gave it all away in the name of, righteousness and for progress!” A long tear-filled pause: “It wasn’t our country anymore, we only counted the same as one of them (pointed to Mario) or them, then to Miles and you and you’re istration, you didn’t see that, you were promoting the fall of the white race in this country.” Standing, kicking the gun away from his feet: “Christ man! What did you expect? You think we were just going to roll over and play dead for you bleeding heart liberals? Did ya?” Wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand: “This country owes us, and we intend to collect what’s due.” With that final pronouncement, he sat back down awaiting his fate. “Can’t you see, you, this country owes us! The white people of this country this country owes us!” he said to the room, the president. The president walked to where the gun had come to rest, retrieved it and came back to his chair. Everyone in the room appraised his next actions with bated breath, as he pointed the gun at the general, released the safety in a deliberate move and leaning his chair forward to make his next move possible, he placed the barrel of the gun between the general’s eyes. “That’s the difference between us, general, I do care, I care about every young man and woman that this country has ever committed to some war that maybe could have been avoided but was fought anyway to stuff the pockets of some industrialist or arms dealer and let’s not forget armchair politician who vote for this bill or that to please a lobbyist to get him to contribute to his campaign so he

will get reelected to protect his or her fat pension but will vote down the bill that would provide decent hospital and medical care for the vet who returns home a paraplegic or dead inside. “You stand there on the podium and dish out the medals, but you are nowhere to be found when the time comes to fight for that same hero-soldier who can’t get a job or needs a college grant so they can return to school or is pushed out of the service after years of faithful service because he or she is gay. “Even though some of those men and women fought and died with you, did you bother to put up as much as a hey, this ain’t right in their behalf? No! You know what you and your types did, general? You did your twenty or forty, took the pension and ran to the nearest retirement community.” Pressing the gun to the general’s forehead: “I gave you the chance to do this, but like all of you boardroom officers, you don’t have the guts to do it. “I am the president of all the people, and no matter how I feel about the injustices I see all around me in the “Let’s stay where we are or go backward world you racists are trying to sustain, I have to protect you too.” “So here’s what I am going to do, you guys play dirty, so I’m going to play dirty. Dictating. You will get on that stage today, and you are going give the speech of your life telling the world about how much you love this country. How only in this country could a country boy like you rise to a full four star general. And at the end of that speech, you are going to give the signal for stopping this thing to the rest of your crazies out there.” Final bargaining: “You do that, and I ‘m going to let you retire with you fat pension, medical coverage, rank that you now hold, and with your reputation intact. “If you cross me up and give the opposite signal, then this wing nut (points to major ashen face) as you call him will take you out, he can knock the eye out of a dollar bill at a thousand yards on a bad day, and in the ensuing days of the race war that you may cause if you give the wrong signal, these other misfits (points to Mario, Enrique, and Miles) will eviscerate the rest of your men like they did yesterday. Then slowly but surely, I will purdge this man’s armed force of the rest of your kind.

You will lose all that you have gained to date. “Your name and military record will be besmirched, your family disgraced, and you will be taught as a traitor in every military school from West Point to the farthest flung bases in this man’s armed forces forever, you will become a pariah; in the military history of this nation it’s your choice.” Rhetorically: “But if I am the president of all the people, how can I sanction out right killing of women and children?” The president answers the rhetorical question. “For the same and only reason, we should ever fight any war; take any life, only as a last resort to protect our population, keeping them out of harm’s way and to repel any clear and present danger.” The final choice: “That’s the deal, take it, and you live to fight another day, decline and you and most, if not all of your men die by tomorrow—when it comes to this country, I play for keeps; I am the president, of the United States of America and make no mistake, I don’t bluff! The presidential black limousine with both flags mounted and flying, pulled up to the entry gate of The Wayside Home for the Mentally Insane at 2977 Appalachian Road in San Diego, California, a hand presented from the middle window of limousine, a piece of paper to the guard at the gate. He took it and quickly returned it to the driver’s side window with a “is that you in there, man?” “Yeah, it’s me.” Miles shook the hand of Terry, the gate guard, through the middle seat side window. “You look like life is still treating you well.” “I’m still kicking it, man, I’m still kicking it, ya’ll go on through, she’s all packed and waiting for you’ll in the lobby . . .” The limousine made the curve around the circular driveway, arriving in front of the main lobby double doors and stopped. Flinging the doors open, Mrs. Cookman exited from the building, followed by Franklin with her bags. Miles stepped out of the limo to take Mrs. Cookman’s hand. With tear-filled eyes, she hugged him and kissed both of his cheeks. Turning to Franklin to do the same: “I’m going to really miss you, Franklin, thank you for everything.”

“You more than welcome, Mrs. Cookman,” Franklin returned, sliding past her to place her baggage in the trunk of the limousine. Tammy clung to her mother with the desperation of someone saving a drowning child. Once in the limousine, they hugged and kissed, tears spilling down their faces. Tammy pulled back long enough to introduce her man to her mother. Mrs. Cookman thanked Mario for looking out for her daughter all this time and rewarded him with a motherly hug and kisses to both cheeks. All three of them ed in a giant bear hug. Miles could have sworn Mario was crying. Miles ed Mae Ling in the middle seat. Returning to the driver’s side of the car, Franklin in a jovial mood, pointed to his finger, revealing a wedding ring, proclaiming, “Me and Rebecca got married, man, can you believe it?” Miles, looking at the wedding ring through the rolled down window that was being held out for his perusal, said. “Yeah, man, this is America, I can believe it.” Sharing the soul handshake, both men snap their fingers at the end of it. The limousine slowly completed the oval turn out of the driveway, clearing the front gate. The guard waved goodbye to the limousine with Mario, Tammy, Mrs. Cookman, and Miles and Mae Ling, and with Enrique in the driver’s seat, The Checkmate Ltd.’s version of “Ebb Tide” from their Live at Caesar’s Palace album was blaring from the centrally located speakers throughout the limousine. As the sun splashed in through the sun-roof slid open as a result of Enrique pushing the release button on the dash board as the Limousine made the short jaunt to the on ramp to the 405 and ed the freeway to LA. Mae Ling held her third index finger up to the sunlight spilling in through the sun roof. “Humm . . . marriage, huh.”

Miles thought, Is this a great country or what?

The End

OTHER

PRODUCTS BY ROBERT L.(BOBBY) STEVENS

Bobby Stevens & The Checkmates Ltd Life album