The Sixteenth Man

by Thomas B. Sawyer

  “At this point a crowd could do us greater harm, draw too much attention. If I need help, I’ll get it.” The man was unable to conceal his impatience. He did not want to be having this conversation.

  The older man yanked the phone from its cradle in the armrest, thrust it at him. “No. I will not allow you to do this alone.”

  The man made no move for the phone, stared into the famously-cold eyes. “Senator, you don’t have a vote.”

  * * * * * *

  The elderly man was unable to appreciate the warm, moist, languid breeze off the river. Nor the gentle sway of the Spanish Moss that made the hundreds of tiny white lights in the live oaks appear to be twinkling. Nor the rest of it; the moon that had risen outsized, orange, and was now setting behind the far bank, it’s glow illuminating the rear facade of his splendidly restored red-brick antebellum mansion. An orchestra on the veranda was playing a ‘40’s arrangement of a Jerome Kern ballad.

  Mrs. Deveraux gushed: “Of course ah had heard, but ah simply cannot buhlieve how lovely – how tasteful it is.”

  The elderly man’s mouth smiled. “I fought my gardener, but he insisted we hide all of my cast iron flamingoes.”

  Unlike her condescending husband whose recently announced candidacy for State Senator had prompted this party, the young Mrs. Antoine Deveraux had the good sense to be embarrassed. “No offense, Mr. DiMartini.”

  “None taken.”

  Beyond the Deveraux couple, a man fumblingly placed his empty highball glass on one of the numerous bars, took a fresh one. With the telltale shuffle of a lifelong drinker, he moved toward the pool.

  “Excuse me.” DiMartini moved toward the man, past several couples who were now dancing a slow fox trot to the trumpeter’s muted take on “When Day is Done.” The women were elegantly dressed, their partners equally expensive-looking. Most of them acknowledged their host. Another hundred or so of their brothers and sisters stood in small clusters or were seated at the white-clothed, candlelit tables surrounding the pool, nibbling canapés, sipping tall drinks served by uniformed waiters. Santo DiMartini was not at his charming best. The news was distressing, his prostate medication wasn’t doing its job, and Alex Moffat was drinking too much. Which, especially on this night, was unacceptable.

  A decade younger than DiMartini, the ravages of Moffat’s addiction made him look older. He was abruptly defensive. “I – I’ll have that Fennelly brief on your desk in the morning.”

  A minor local real estate dispute was at the moment the furthest thing from Santo DiMartini’s mind. And, he knew, from Moffat’s as well. The older man’s tired eyes were inches from Moffat’s, his words emphatic, hissed. “Get – a – god – damned – grip.” He yanked the glass from the drunken man’s shaky hand, emptied it onto the ground.

  “Santo, I don’t want to die in prison.”

  DiMartini stared into him for a long count.

  Moffat blinked, looked away, then back at DiMartini. “Not everybody has your fucking church to absolve his guilt.”

  DiMartini bore his friend no animus for the remark. He felt only sadness. Had he been more verbal, he would have countered that first he would need to feel some guilt for that to which Moffat was referring – and second, a belief that the church – or for that matter anything – could save his soul. But something else had caught DiMartini’s attention.

  Several feet away, Michael Hartman was holding a hand near his face, pantomiming a telephone. He tipped his head in the direction of the house. “Virginia.”

  Alex Moffat sagged. “Ogod.”

  DiMartini glared briefly at Moffat, then followed Hartman toward the house, smiling perfunctorily as he passed his guests.

  DiMartini’s smile vanished as he entered the study. In repose, his face had rarely given much of a clue to its owner’s feelings. Now, well into his eighth decade, neither joy nor any other emotion had left its imprint.

  Hartman closed the French doors behind them. “She’s pretty crazed.”

  DiMartini’s earlier call to the widow of General Walton Meade Butler III had been the last of many, the one that was, basically, courtesy. He’d been relieved that she wasn’t at home, then wished he hadn’t left a message for her. Now he reached for the phone, hesitated for an instant, remembering a long-ago first encounter, a cocktail party at the home of the Deputy CIA Director, in Front Royal. Striking, tall, lots of auburn hair, and very young, she was on the General’s arm, his trophy. It had been wordless, barely even qualifying as a look, yet ten minutes later she and DiMartini were in an upstairs bedroom tearing at each other’s clothes. The affair continued sporadically for years, always passionate, even entertaining, but he had never quite gotten past his contempt for her – for the guiltless, matter-of-fact ease with which she cheated on her husband.

  DiMartini picked up the phone, punched the line that was flashing. “Mrs. Butler. Good evening.”

  Hartman lit a cigar, sat back in one of the wine-leather side-chairs.

  “What’s good about it?” Betty Lou Butler, over sixty but looking at least twenty years younger, handsome, confidently sexy, was pacing the length of Fair Oaks’ huge master bedroom, her silk peignoir billowing in her self-created breeze. She had the phone in one hand, a tumbler of Scotch in the other. Stressed. “...I am not happy.”

  “As we discussed long ago with your husband, we anticipated that this might happen. We were prepared for it.”

  “Uh-huh. Well prepare yourself for this, Santo, because now you’re discussing it with me...” She finished her drink, paused at the Duncan Phyfe table, poured a refill. And looked at the imposing, gilt-framed oil-portrait on the wall above it. A military man, square of jaw, stolid of bearing. Heroic. No-nonsense. Lots of ribbons. The small brass plate at the bottom of the frame was engraved: Lieutenant General Walton Meade Butler III, 1916-1992. “...If his name is ever connected with this, I will personally kill you. Do you fucking understand that, you guinea piece of shit?”

  DiMartini was briefly silent, then: “Mrs. Butler – if it came to that, you would have to stand in line. A long one...” He heard the click, felt a profound weariness. It had been an exhausting evening. He was dressing for the party when the call came through from Utah. Too late to cancel the festivities. First, a brief, intense meeting with Hartman and Thomas Vercelli who, as much as it was possible, had Santo DiMartini’s trust. Vercelli and two men had already departed for Utah by the time DiMartini started what turned out to be nearly an hour on the phone. Obligatory calls to Miami, New York, Chicago, and finally Washington – where, he was certain, they already knew – trying to assure them that this would not be a repeat of the fiasco in ‘63, that he would handle it. Personally, if necessary. The party was well under way by the time DiMartini emerged from his bedroom, began to greet his guests.

  DiMartini placed the phone in its cradle, his face as usual betraying nothing. He looked at Hartman. “McManus?”

  “It’s in work,” Hartman nodded as Alex Moffat entered, crossed unsteadily to DiMartini.

  “Santo, I...”

  DiMartini embraced him and whispered into his ear, “Better it happened now, Alex. While we’re still healthy enough to deal with it. It’s going to be all right.”

  But as he kissed his old friend, Santo DiMartini’s eyes showed a trace of uncertainty. And something more. The memory of enduring pain.

  SIX

  1963

  Tuesday, November 19th

  Charlie swung the Chevvie east on Route 66 out of Gallup. About the only thing keeping him awake was his bladder; he really needed to pee. He’d been behind the wheel for nearly 23 hours, east across Nevada, then Utah, down into Colorado and now New Mexico. Three quarts of oil had failed to silence the Chevvie’s clattering valve-lifters, but they at least kept the pressure gauge in the safe-zone.

  He’d turned south out of Grand Junction and finally, a half-hour ago at a coffee shop/gas station, phoned Noreen Miller, who had just arrived at her desk in Sacramento. And learned that he’d gue
ssed right. The final ticket to come in on Marjorie Brodax’s gasoline credit card was from Flagstaff. The day before. Which probably meant she and Joe Bob Millgrim had paused along the way for some sightseeing. Or they were exhausted from too much sex. Whatever.

  The fuel-gauge was hovering on empty. Charlie spotted the gas station sign a few hundred yards ahead, slowed as he approached the place. The steering wheel vibrated in his hands, the front-end in its worst wobble-range, between 25 and 30 miles an hour. He tapped the brake, waved to the Caddy on his tail that it was okay to pass him. And noticed the motor court just his side of the gas station. Good. Much as he hated to stop, Charlie knew he’d better grab a couple of hours’ rest.

  That’s when he got lucky. Passing the motel he happened to glance into the open end of the U formed by the collection of cabins, and there, a couple of parking spaces in from the highway, was a dusty red 1962 Ford pickup truck with a rifle racked across the rear window. He’d already rolled past it before he could make out the license plates. Charlie pulled onto the shoulder, stopped, gripped the wheel with both hands.

  C’mon – this kinda thing just plain doesn’t happen.

  He put the Chevvie in reverse and backed up slowly till the truck again came into view. There they were. Black on white. Texas. And damn if they weren’t Joe Bob Millgrim’s numbers.

  A tremble started between Charlie’s shoulder-blades and ran up to the base of his skull. He could almost feel Stan Brodax’s bonus money in his pocket.

  He pulled forward along the shoulder and on into the gas station.

  Charlie zipped his fly, hurriedly rinsed his hands in the grimy sink, appreciating his good fortune, the relief of having urinated. He caught a quick look at himself in the mirror. At his own eyes. And there it was again. That feeling about this job. That there’d be more to it. He splashed some cold water in his face, but it didn’t help.

  As Charlie stepped out of restroom, he saw Joe Bob peel out of the motel and onto the highway, headed east past the gas station with Marjorie beside him. Charlie started to sprint toward his car. Then, for some reason the truck stopped abruptly. So did Charlie. He could see Joe Bob and Marjorie talking animatedly, gesturing. Joe Bob jammed it into reverse, tires chirping as he backed into the gas station. He skidded to a stop inches from Charlie’s Chevvie, startling the attendant who was filling its gas tank.

  Fuck. The Nevada tags. Marjorie made my car. Or Joe Bob’s goon described it.

  Hoping he hadn’t been spotted, Charlie quickly retreated around the side of the service building, past the restroom door, ducked behind a couple of 55-gallon drums. Regrettably, his gun was in the Chevvie. The advantage was Joe Bob’s. Through the narrow space between the drums he watched the cowboy jump out of the truck, ask the attendant something that sounded a lot like “Where’s the fuckin’ guy drives this piece of shit – in the can?”

  The attendant, his back to Charlie, shrugged, said something unintelligible. Joe Bob reached into the truck-bed, came up with a tire-iron, approached the Chevvie. The attendant warily backed away.

  Joe Bob paused at the front of Charlie’s car, grinned reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I just wanna leave him a message is all.”

  Charlie winced, looked away as the cowboy went to work, starting on the headlights, then the windshield.

  “...And in baseball news, the Kansas City A’s traded Jerry Lumpe to the Tigers for slugger Rocky Colavito. Colavito has produced a consistent 35-to-40 home runs, at least till this past season.”

  Charlie found it mildly curious that the announcer was wearing a bolo tie. He switched off the TV.

  Colavito’s probably still got a coupla good years left. Not a bad move for KC.

  “Charlie...? Are you there?”

  He wished he hadn’t phoned. “Yeah...”

  “Well...?”

  The 40-watt bulb in the nightstand lamp brought the texture of the layered, peeling mustard-colored wall into vivid, depressing relief. “That’s – hey, I feel as bad as you do.” Actually he didn’t blame Phyllis for sounding like she was about ready to check into The Home. He just couldn’t connect. His yawn was only partially due to the late hour. And shitty day.

  “So what’re we going to do about it?”

  The part of Charlie that heard her felt a twinge of guilt over his disinterest. “I don’t know, Phyl. I mean it is what it is.”

  “Our daughter’s life is ruined and---? I mean for god sake---”

  He’d figured it was something like this. “Hey – you’ve gotta get ahold of yourself. Lynnie is not the first kid to get herself knocked up.”

  Charlie wisely chose to withhold the continuation of that thought – that it could be a lot worse – the father could be that pathetic zitface she’d been running with last summer instead of the boy she claimed it was. A kid from a prosperous Tahoe family. The mother was a heavyweight local realtor, and dad ran the second-biggest boatyard on the lake. A lot to lose if they chose to deny their son’s responsibility.

  “Charlie, she told your mother she doesn’t want to marry the boy.”

  His mind drifted again – to the more positive view that hey, it wasn’t a total loss. Joe Bob, at Marjorie’s shouted insistence that a passerby might report him, had reluctantly given up a couple of whacks short of destroying the Chevvie. With a final menacing glance at the attendant that clearly said if you mention this to anyone I’ll come back and kill you, he climbed into the truck and drove off.

  So, hell, the good news was Joe Bob and Marjorie were only a day ahead of him – and once they reached Amarillo and the rodeo, they’d be staying put at least overnight. Charlie didn’t know who he was more pissed at – Joe Bob for beating up on his car – Marjorie for pointing it out to him – or himself for being dumb enough to get caught.

  He had the car towed back to a shop in Gallup where a mechanic named Luther took one look and demanded cash upfront. Charlie tried to nap in the tiny office but between Luther’s agonizingly slow work-pace, interruptions while he dealt with regular customers, and frequent pauses to deliver homely philosophical nuggets (Re: Charlie’s tires: “Man, I gotta tellya them puppies ain’t worth cuttin’ up for Meskin sandals.”), it was dusk before Charlie finally drifted off.

  Luther shook him awake twenty minutes later and proudly displayed his handiwork: wrecking-yard headlights, taillights and windshield, plus he’d re-aligned the front end as well as he could given the worn-out tires and the injury Joe Bob inflicted on the wheels and tie-rods. He’d also poured numerous pints of Gumout into the crankcase (“Man – I just plain swear by that shit.”) in a futile effort to silence the tappets.

  When Charlie finally got back on the road he was out six-and-a-half hours, most of his patience and $232 of his last $400. But the Chevvie was running better than it had in weeks. By midnight he’d made it almost to Albuquerque.

  Phyllis’s voice intruded once again. “Charlie...?”

  “Okayokay, so I know this doctor over in Winnemucca that can---”

  “Ogod. I mean you act as if this is – that it’s like a hangnail or something.”

  “Look, honey, I – I can’t deal with it just now.”

  “There’s more. Last night the well? It started pumping brackish water. Dave Garson says it’s seepage from the whaddyacallit septic-tank field?”

  “The leach-field.”

  “Uh-huh. That. He says we’ll have to drill for a new one. A well I mean. He said it’ll cost around twelve hundred dollars. I went ‘twelve hundred?’ and he went ‘okay, maybe a thousand.’ But still and all...”

  “Right. Listen, I’ve gotta grab some sleep or we’re never gonna see that fifteen grand.” Charlie recognized his goof, sucked air through clenched teeth.

  “Fifteen? I thought you said five.”

  “What?”

  “You just said fifteen.”

  “It was a mistake, awright? Look, I’m beat. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Charlie, I ---”

  Charlie hung up
the phone, grabbed the beer can, sloshed it around. Warm. He took a final swig anyway.

  Shit. Maybe Dorothy’ll understand if I don’t get to keep the whole other ten bills. Dorothy? Hey...

  SEVEN

  Present Time

  Monday

  “Hi.” Packard was surprised to find Leslie there. She was on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of red and a glass, face intent, reflecting the glow of her laptop screen. The only other illumination was from the end-table lamp.

  She shot a brief glance at him in the doorway. “Shhh. Don’t move or say a word till I shut down.”

  “Is it okay if I pee in my pants?”

  “Stop it. You’re going to make me laugh and wreck something.”

  “Good.” He crossed to her, leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “Ohshit...” She’d pulled down the wrong menu, then found the right one. A final couple of mouse-clicks and the monitor went dark. Leslie was adept with her computer, but when she was writing she went into a semi-trance that always required a conscious effort to leave. She looked up at him. “So...?” Then she noticed the bandage. “Ooh – are you okay?”

  He nodded. He’d left a brief message on her office voice-mail, promised that he’d try to see her that evening. He poured some Merlot into her glass, took a swig.

  Leslie folded her laptop. “Okay, c’mon, c’mon. I’m dying.”

  “Old.”

  “My god, that’s - that’s marvelous.”

  He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

  She stood up. “Daddy?”

  “Pissed. Bigtime.” He grabbed the first-class mail from the entry hall table, headed for the kitchen.

  Leslie followed him. “Threatened. He knew it was only a matter of time, but... What about the one with the bullet? I mean that is so bizarre.”

  He glanced at the answering machine. It indicated there were no messages since the ones he’d picked up while at the lab. “Yeah. Still don’t know much.” He tossed the mail on the counter, turned to the fridge.