Resurrecting Langston Blue

by Robert Greer

  “Damn, it’s like old times,” Henry had said, shaking his head as he rebandaged the wound, recalling his days as a combat corpsman with their 42nd River Patrol group during Vietnam. “Haven’t done this in years,” he’d added as he thought about the hundreds of men he’d treated for everything from shrapnel wounds to organ eviscerations during the war.

  Sensing that CJ’s attention had drifted, Mavis lifted her head. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking about Henry and that damn war.”

  “The war’s been over for a long, long time,” said Mavis, watching what she called CJ’s “foggy look” creep across his face. It was a look that she dreaded. A look that meant that CJ had, at least momentarily, been swept back to the killing fields of war. Sitting up in bed, she gently massaged CJ’s neck, hoping to get the look to fade.

  “Henry said my knees will be fine, other than a little scarring,” she said, continuing the massage.

  “What about your forehead?” asked CJ, his thoughts still drifting.

  Mavis swallowed hard before answering. “He said I may need what he called a little cosmetic recon.” Mavis tried to smile but couldn’t. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. Her voice cracked as she continued. “He said that it was way out of his league and he gave me the name of a plastic surgeon he works with at CU.”

  CJ gently removed her hands from his neck and turned to meet her gaze. Eyeing her bandaged forehead, he thought about who the woman he’d been in love with for most of his life really was. She’d always been beautiful in the dark-haired Nubian princess sense of the word. And smart. And driven. He’d never thought of her as being the least bit vain. And she’d always worn her good looks as if they were a mandatory component of one of the things he admired most about her—her class.

  He knew it wasn’t vanity that had Mavis teary-eyed over some minor cosmetic surgical procedure down the road. He suspected that what had her really upset was that fact that she had discovered that she was vulnerable in ways she’d never known, and more fragile than she’d ever expected.

  Squeezing her hand, he said, “The hurt’s going to linger for a while, Mavis.” He kissed her, barely pressing his lips to hers. He could taste the salt from her tears. “We’ll make it through this. We will.”

  Shivering, Mavis said, “I’m not like you or Flora Jean, CJ.” She fought back the urge to sob. “I’m not a war hero or a combat marine.”

  “But you’re just as tough. Think about it. Look at what you do. You run a successful business and two more of your father’s on the side. You’re a civic leader whose opinion everyone in Denver seeks out and respects. You’re educated and beautiful, and nothing but class. Flora Jean and I couldn’t climb that mountain in a thousand years. Your only real problem is you’re stuck with me.” CJ forced a smile.

  Mavis remained silent, choking back tears.

  CJ gently lifted her chin until their eyes met. “I started working on something today that will help.” When Mavis didn’t answer, he said, “Mavis?”

  “Yes.”

  “I went by to see Dave Johnson this afternoon. Talked to him about selling the building. Told him I’m packing it in.”

  Thinking that she’d somehow heard CJ wrong, Mavis sat back and stared at him blankly.

  “I said, I’m getting out of the bail-bonding business.”

  At a loss for words and unable to fully comprehend what CJ was saying, Mavis asked, “Have you said anything to Flora Jean?”

  “No, but that’ll get handled. I’m going to ask Julie to draw up a partnership agreement.”

  “Partnership? You just said you were getting out.” There was a tinge of disappointment in Mavis’s voice.

  “I am, but I have to do it my way.” Recognizing that Mavis was seeing the glass half-empty instead of half-full, he said, “I brought you something to take a look at.” He rose, walked over to where he had draped his jacket over the back of a chair, and returned with the limp, slightly damp section of the Denver Post he’d been carrying around all day. “I circled it, page 8.” He handed the paper to Mavis.

  Mavis slowly read the real estate ad that CJ had circled. For Lease, antique row section of South Broadway. 800 square feet. Perfect location to start your business. Call Lou Biggs, 303-555-3551.

  “What do you think?” said CJ, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Worth looking into?”

  Mavis nodded, eyes on the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her words came out slowly, as if she’d been storing them up for a long, long time. “This has to be something you want, CJ. Not something you’re doing because you feel sorry for me.”

  Recognizing that he’d just bombarded someone he loved, someone who’d been through the most traumatic episode she’d likely ever face, with too many issues at once, CJ said, “Think about it. There’s no hurry.” He squeezed her hand. “You’ll have a part in it too. You can teach me the ins and outs of running a business. How to market and advertise, all the dos and don’ts. Sound like a plan?”

  Mavis smiled, aware of how hard it must have been for CJ to decide not only to shift gears at this stage of his life but to sell the only home he’d ever known.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said softly, forgetting her own problems for the moment, snuggling comfortably into the crook of CJ’s arm.

  CJ ran his finger in loose circles along the nape of her neck, the way he usually did as a prelude to their lovemaking. Instead of continuing the rituals of passion, he squeezed her closer to him and said, “Love you,” as they listened to the satisfying crackle of the fire.

  The day broke crystal-blue Rocky Mountain clear, leaving Denver awash in sunshine. The 8 a.m. view of the Rockies from Julie Madrid’s twenty-second-story 17th Street law office was glossy-brochure convention-bureau perfect, and the temperature, a notch above 60, was slated to rise into the 70s by midafternoon. Flora Jean had arrived at the law offices of Thorne, Hawkes, Slater, and Madrid just before 8. Per Julie’s instructions, she’d been immediately whisked into Julie’s office by a tiny young secretary, who, gawking at Flora Jean’s size and fixated on her African bracelets, had nearly walked into the door.

  Julie had walked in moments later, a briefcase in each hand, with CJ on her heels. “Frick and Frack,” said Flora Jean, admiring the view from a nearby window. “Glad you could make it,” she added, looking directly at snow-capped Long’s Peak. “Snow in July. Hard to believe.”

  “Unless you live here,” said CJ, taking a seat.

  Julie placed both briefcases next to her desk and, looking harried and hurried, said, “Be right back; I have to photocopy something.”

  She returned a few moments later with several papers in her hand. “I’ve got an arraignment at 9,” she said, checking her watch and handing the photocopies to CJ. “Where was I? Oh, yes,” she said, continuing a conversation she’d started with CJ earlier in the elevator. “Bad news, bad news. The bad news is, Blue’s still in jail. I called Carmen and told her earlier. Because her father’s a deserter, even setting aside his minor trespassing charge, the army still has dibs on him. And the cops know that. Even though they’ll have to let him out on the trespassing charge once he’s arraigned and pays the fine, they can drag their bureaucratic feet while they look for a connection to Margolin’s murder and delay the arraignment, in cop language, just a wee tad. You know the game, CJ. By then the MPs will have shown up to cart Blue away, and the cops will still have him under lock and key.”

  Nodding, CJ asked, “How long do you think the cops will stall?”

  “No more than twenty-four hours, at the most thirty-six.”

  “Then what’s next?”

  “We can’t do much about Blue. He’s going to have to cool his heels for a while. If I were you, I’d try to find Margolin’s killer. I can deal with the desertion charges later.”

  CJ stroked his chin and slipped a cheroot out of his vest pocket. “Got a mess.”

  “And a bigger one if you light that thing,”
said Julie. “You know there’s no smoking in here.”

  CJ put the cheroot away. “Thought chewing on it might help me think.”

  Julie checked her watch. “Better think real fast. I’m due in court in forty minutes.”

  “Okay, let’s start with what’s new since yesterday. I met with Ginny Kearnes. I’m surprised she didn’t have her guard dog with her, that Boulder Camera editor, Owen Brashears.”

  Julie whistled. “Brashears. Now, there’s a heavy left-winger from way back.”

  “How do you know him?” asked CJ.

  “You’ve gotta know editors of newspapers in this business,” said Julie.

  “Well, in addition to being a newspaper editor, he was one of Margolin’s longtime friends.”

  “Makes sense,” said Julie. “They mugged around the political circuit together for years, supporting all the right political causes. Word is, he was Margolin’s Fourth Estate lapdog.”

  “Ummm. Anyway, Kearnes did drop one pearl. She told me that a colonel named Elliott Cole gave Margolin’s Star 1 team their marching orders.”

  “Elliott Cole! He’s head of the state Republican Party.”

  CJ nodded, surprised at Julie’s political savvy. “You’re sure in the know.”

  Julie smiled. “Have to be. Knowing the political landscape means money for the firm. As for Cole, he’s a real wheeler-dealer, and a card-carrying right-winger. Comes from an old-time Colorado cattle-ranching family on the Eastern Slope. I hear they made a lot more money brokering water rights and selling land than they ever made running cattle.”

  CJ thought for a moment and stroked his chin. “Take away their politics and Brashears and Mr. Republican Party Cole have two things in common: Peter Margolin and Vietnam.”

  “What did Brashears do during Vietnam?” asked Julie.

  “He was a Stars and Stripes reporter, according to Kearnes.”

  Flora Jean, who had been strangely quiet, looked at CJ pensively. “Hey, folks, wanna get back to Blue? I been thinkin’, could be Blue’s Star 1 team went all-out rogue. We had a few of those during Desert Storm. Killin’ just to be killin’, wild dogs instead of men.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think that’s the whole problem here,” said CJ. “From what I’ve heard, Margolin was a soldier’s soldier. And so was Blue. Any bad apples had to be either above or beneath them in the chain of command.”

  “Or fightin’ on the other side,” said Flora Jean.

  “Le Quan?” asked CJ, giving Flora Jean a thumbs-up for the timely assist.

  “Why not? He was there, accordin’ to Blue, silver streak in his hair and all. And he was a communist youth organizer, accordin’ to what Alden told me. Could be Margolin and them Star 1 boys got sent on a mission to wipe out a bunch of budding Vietcong communist youth-camp guerrillas.”

  “Then why all the fuss?” asked CJ. “Firefights with Vietcong guerrillas who were no more than kids happened all the time. Sending a special unit to eradicate a group of guerrillas, regardless of whether or not they’d just started to shave, wouldn’t be big news. Guerrillas were guerrillas. Nobody asked them their age. Nope, there’s something else bubbling up from below the surface here, and we’re all missing it. Something that runs deeper than the plain old everyday savagery of war.”

  “What could be worse?” Julie asked.

  “I’m not sure, but my guess is that whatever it was, or is, got Peter Margolin killed.”

  “Well, we need to find out pretty quick because more than likely thirty-six hours from now Blue will be in the hands of MPs and under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Army, and it will be a heck of a lot harder for me to try to help.” Julie looked at her watch. “I’m going to have to run.”

  “Two more minutes, Julie, and that’s it. Promise.”

  “As long as you understand the meaning of the word contempt.”

  “First off, did you find any dirt on Margolin?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve got a law clerk working up a detailed profile on him. The only thing I got so far is that over the past twenty years, Margolin made a lot of money. I’ll have more for you before the day’s out.”

  “Good,” said CJ. “And while you’re at it, add Ginny Kearnes to your list.”

  “What about Le Quan and that kid you mentioned on the way up to the office, Jimmy Moc?”

  “No need,” said Flora Jean. “Carmen and I have plans for Moc this evening. I’ve got a call in to Alden about Quan.”

  Julie picked up one of the briefcases she had brought in. “Gotta go.”

  “Go,” said CJ, watching Julie rush out the door.

  “Talk to you this evening,” she called back.

  CJ grinned as he watched the only high-priced trial lawyer he could ever say he had affection for rush through the door. It was the grin of a proud older sibling.

  “She’s somethin’,” said Flora Jean, shaking her head.

  “I know,” said CJ, thinking as he watched Flora Jean head authoritatively toward the exit as if she owned the building, and so are you.

  Chapter 27

  It was midmorning, and Flora Jean had just hung up after talking to Alden Grace when CJ walked up to her desk carrying a photo album under one arm. She looked up, excited, jotting a note at the bottom of a Post-It. “Got another lead in the Blue case. Alden says to keep hammering at Jimmy Moc and Quan. He doesn’t know what really happened at Song Ve, but he did find out from another old-time SOG operative that during the weeks leading up to that Star 1 team mission, a man fitting Le Quan’s description, right down to the silver streak in his hair, was rounding up kids from all over Quang Ngai province and arming them. Sounds like Margolin and his men walked into somethin’ they didn’t expect.”

  CJ looked unconvinced. “Except that Blue claims that whoever was in the school building when they arrived never opened fire on them. Most of the action was between Blue and the men in his unit. Sounds screwy to me. The little VC river rats we ran up against wouldn’t have thought one second about coming up out of the bottom of a sampan and blowing your head off, or lobbing grenades at you from the tall grass at the edge of the Mekong River and turning you into sausage.”

  “Does seem strange, sugar, but it is what it is.”

  “’Til we find out something different,” said CJ.

  “Trust me. We’ll crack the nut,” said Flora Jean, salivating over the fact that she was as close to once again being a marine intelligence sergeant as she’d been in years. Watching CJ take a seat, she said, “Me and Carmen got a date with Jimmy Moc tonight.” Puzzled by the look arching across CJ’s face, she added, “Nothin’ big. Just your basic surveillance and meet-and-mingle kinda evening.”

  “I’d be careful, Flora Jean, especially if Carmen’s tagging along. This is probably way out of her league.”

  “I don’t think it is, CJ. Her fiancé, that MI captain I served with during Desert Storm, says the good doctor’s a lot more than eye candy. Claims she’s got Freon runnin’ through her veins and she can flat-out ride a motorcycle like Evel Knievel. Besides, I need somebody who looks Vietnamese along with me.”

  “Your call. But remember you’re partnered up with an MD, not a daredevil.” CJ rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth, the way he did when he’d been pondering something for a while. He shot a quick glance at the photo album he was holding and placed it on Flora Jean’s desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “Pictures.”

  “Somethin’ to do with the case?”

  “No. Take a look.”

  Flora Jean opened the album and started scanning the pages. “Damn, sugar. Never knew you were actually young.” She snickered. “And look at this one of you decked out in your uniform. Shit, sugar, you wasn’t much more than a baby.”

  “Nineteen and …”

  Flora Jean cut him off. “On your way to Vietnam.” She turned to the next page. A page filled with photos of a much lankier CJ standing on the aft deck of a 125-foot navy patrol boat. He was wrapped in a
flak jacket, his helmet shading his eyes, hammering away at the Mekong River shoreline with a .50-caliber machine gun.

  “The next page is the one I really want you to see. Check out the photo in the bottom right-hand corner.”

  “Ain’t that your Uncle Ike on a ladder?”

  “Yep, he’s putting up that little hand-carved sign that still hangs out front over the door. The one that says Floyds Bail Bonds.”

  Flora Jean chuckled. With the array of the neon signs now on the street, signs that screamed Bail Bonds Anytime; Bonds; OPEN 24 HOURS, the tiny sign above the door had all but been lost.

  “Notice anything special about the sign?” CJ asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you see an apostrophe in the word Floyds?”

  Realizing what CJ was getting at, Flora Jean said, “Well, I’ll be damned, sugar, there sure ain’t none.”

  “You’re right; the word’s plural. Ike bought me the blank piece of wood the week I came back home from ’Nam. Had me carve the sign myself. Told me that when two people become partners, the ‘baby’ partner always gets the job of making up the business sign.”

  CJ walked over to the coffee island. The bitter, acidic smell of overbrewed coffee wafted up his nostrils. Bending, he teased a three-foot-long, one-foot-high piece of smooth-surfaced Philippine mahogany from behind the coffee island, walked back over to Flora Jean with it swinging from his hand, placed it on her desk, and said, “Floyd & Benson will do just fine.”

  Twenty minutes later, Flora Jean was still floating on an adrenaline rush that had her thinking she was in a dream. She’d been pushing CJ for three years to make her a partner, and now that he’d said he would, the strongest emotion she felt was disbelief. She’d never owned much of anything in her life except a car. And the only thing she’d ever totally vested herself in was the U.S. Marine Corps. She’d been pinching pennies, denying herself, stashing every cent she had earned for more than four years, hoping that one day CJ would ask her to become a partner.

  When she called Alden Grace to tell him that CJ had just handed her what, except for her promotion to sergeant major in the marines, was the highlight of her life, she’d sounded flat-out giddy. They’d talked about the fact that she’d have to buy CJ out and take half ownership in the building, and Grace had told her that if necessary, he would float her a loan. Near the end of the conversation he’d asked her once again to marry him.