by Paul Watkins
Combat is different. It seems like it will never end. Most of the time you sleep outside and you do everything else outside. Eat outside and take care of all bodily functions outside. You try to stay clean, but you’re usually dirty. And diarrhea becomes a way of life. If it’s hot out, you’re always hot and if it’s cold out, you’re always cold. You’re very seldom comfortable and you’re almost always scared. When it finally ends, reality has a tough time catching up. Peace and quiet is unnatural and a difficult condition to accept. You are no longer the same person who stepped off the plane only a year and a lifetime ago. And you will never be that person again.
We fought in a war directed from a place thousands of miles away, Washington. I understand that no child of our nation’s leaders fought in that war. This one was strictly for people who couldn’t exempt themselves for one reason or another and people like myself who didn’t know any better.
I found myself in combat less than forty-eight hours after my arrival. Forty-eight hours after that I learned there were levels of exhaustion I had never dreamed of. There was no way to rest. Bugs, filth and dysentery were my constant companions. Our worthy adversaries were one enemy and just getting through the day was another. The war became a game with body counts, our bodies and their bodies, as the officially sanctioned system for keeping score. Americans always have to keep score… it’s the only way to tell who’s winning… isn’t it? The other score we kept was the number of days to departure.
I had five weeks to go when the Tet offensive hit. I was in the city, away from my team, working on some overnight shit detail when all kinds of hell broke loose. There was fighting everywhere. Small units, individuals, grenades, sniper fire… it was a mess. I gave up trying to get back to any kind of unit and decided to hole up and ride it out. I had no idea where to go anyway. A mortar round blew a hole in the road about one hundred yards to my front. It might have been ours, it could have been theirs… it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference who fires the shot that kills you. Istepped into a doorway when a second round went off… closer this time. I pushed the door open and walked into a room. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. A couple of windows were broken and a murky, dust-laden light ebbed through the room as though powered by a battery with only moments to live. I tripped and stumbled, almost falling, my hand and knee saving me from going flat out. Just as I looked to see what had taken me down, a bullet tore through the sleeve of my jacket. I didn’t wait for any explanations, I leveled my automatic in the general direction of the flash to my left and hosed the area with a full clip.
I waited but I couldn’t see or hear anything. My ears were ringing from the racket the gunfire made in the enclosed room. It would be days before my hearing would return to anything near normal. I wanted to run outside, but the continuing shellfire wasn’t all that inviting. Caught between two different ways to die, I slammed another clip in my weapon and stepped across the room. Again I stumbled and reluctantly looked down, afraid to take my eyes away from the source of the gunfire. Slowly the bodies of men took shape on the floor. Dead soldiers seemed to be everywhere.
They were G.I.’s… our guys. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard… it was tough to hold it together. I later determined there were six slain men lying about in different places in the room. The man I killed was the seventh, and another G.I. Evidently he was the lone survivor of a shootout that must have taken place only a short time before my arrival. But that wasn’t all.
On a table near the far wall, stacked in piles of various denominations, was the sum I later determined to be a little more than four and one half million dollars. Evidently I had walked in on a drug ring that had held its last meeting. Drugs… the only business that could generate that kind of cash and have it sitting in a pile in a shit-hole in the middle of Viet Nam. One problem with soldiers arguing amongst themselves in a war zone is that they often settle matters in the manner in which they have been trained. Trouble is, when you shoot the enemy, they call it killing. When you shoot your own, it’s called murder.
I had no illusions about what would happen to the money, assuming I could even think of anyone to give it to. I mulled it over for five or six seconds and decided to try to keep it. I say ‘try’ simply because it isn’t easy to hide and then move a lot of money… especially when there’s a war on. But after a great deal of thought and hard work I managed and the rest is history. I returned home, opened a business and have been fairly honest ever since. I never bothered to tell anyone about my good fortune, believing in the old adage that the best way to keep a secret is to tell no one. Two people can keep a secret, the saying goes, only if one of them is dead. I have kept my secret to this very moment.
“Phil!” Karen punctuates my name with a jab in the shoulder. “Where have you been? Sheri asked you a question.”
I turn to face Sheri and see a smile, but also a look of concern.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson,” I reply. “I was just thinking about something I have to do later on.”
I have to lie. The truth would be an insult. I don’t have the faintest idea of where the conversation has gone. Shit!
“Karen is going to leave soon,” Sheri continues. “Would you help her with her things, please? She has a heavy case and all those materials. I’m sure she could use a hand.”
“I’ll be happy to, Mrs. Jackson.”
I look at Karen, but she’s already pushing back from the table and heading for the door. I look over at A.J. but all he offers is his goddamned smirk. I hope I’m never in a situation where I need his help. I’d be screwed.
CHAPTER 13
The telephone’s ring is simultaneous with the sound of the quarterly reports hitting A.J.’s desk. The timing is perfect, so much so, it takes me a moment to realize the two actions aren’t linked together somehow.
“Jackson residence,” I say, somewhat preoccupied with two large gang-mowers crisscrossing the yard for what will probably be the last time before winter sets in. I watch as the two men operating the mowers sit hunched over the steering wheels in almost identical positions, each concentrating on the line of uncut grass immediately before him. I wonder what they think about?
“Hi, this is Karen.”
Her voice is certainly a welcome change from the tedium of my day. Her greeting seems full of energy, like an athlete who has just finished a run or a good workout, a very upbeat little lady indeed.
“Hello, Miss Adams,” I reply with genuine interest and warmth.
There must be something about talking to beautiful young women that engenders such feelings on my part. I suppose it’s another one of those things I’ll have to research one of these days.
“Mr. Jackson isn’t in right now, but if you will give me a minute, I’ll see if I can find Mrs. Jackson.”
“No, that’s okay,” she replies, “I called to speak to you. I wondered if you were free for lunch today?”
This is something I’m not at all prepared for. I’ve made it plain from the beginning regarding my desire to stay out of these discussions. And much as I would like to talk about other things, forbidden though they might be, I have to decline.
“Miss Adams… “
“Karen. I was Karen last night… I’m still Karen today.”
“Sorry. Last night was more of a social setting and I guess I got carried away. Anyway, thank you, Karen, but as to this other subject, we have discussed this before… I will not be a source for your article. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”
“Philip, what makes you think I would like to have lunch with you just to discuss the Jackson family?”
“Oh, maybe the fact you are a writer who is researching an article about the Jacksons and I’m a person who works for them. Other than that happy coincidence, I suppose there’s no reason for me to think yo
u were seeking material for your article. I don’t know what’s the matter with me… this damn suspicious nature of mine.”
“Philip,” she replies patiently, “I invited you to lunch so we can spend some time together.”
That’s a good one and I laugh with genuine appreciation for the thought.
“Forgive me, Karen. It’s just that I have so many attractive young ladies after me, wanting to spend quality time with yours truly… I’m sure you can imagine how difficult it must be… “
“Look, Philip,” she replies with seemingly equal parts of anger and exasperation, “I really mean it. I am calling you because I know you would never call me. I would like to see you and I finally realized that if we were ever going to get together, it would have to be up to me.” Her laughter tinkles through the line. “Just call me one of those women of the nineties.”
I close my eyes and try to clear my head. Am I being a jerk? Even if she isn’t on the level, what difference would it make? Certainly I can handle myself. There isn’t anything negative I would reveal about the Jacksons anyway… hell, I don’t even know anything negative. So there’s no harm in going along with her game, if that’s what it is. I can certainly afford a meal… but not today, too much going on.
“Okay, my apologies… I’d like to get together. In fact, I’d love to, but not for lunch… at least not today. I’m swamped.”
“That’s fine. How about dinner?”
She certainly gets high marks for persistence. Are all these women of the nineties like this? I must have stepped off the planet for a while. In my day the men did all the work while the women sat back with amused looks on their lovely faces. At least that’s what the women did who had lovely faces. Maybe I just hit on something. In the meantime, I’d better answer the question.
“Dinner’s all right. Are you coming out here?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m in the city right now, but I plan to leave early so I can get a room for tonight.
I’m meeting with Sheri tomorrow morning to go over a rough draft of our article.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t I check with her? I’m sure she would love to have you stay here. If there’s a problem you can always get a room later.”
“Great! When should I arrive?”
“Whenever,” I reply, looking at my watch and trying to remember enough of my schedule to figure how the timing might work out. “Whatever’s best for you. You can make yourself at home if you’re a little early… you must have things to do. I’m sure there won’t be a problem with the room. If I’m still tied up when you arrive, I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’m free.”
“Suits me. See you later.”
Karen rings off and I stand leaning against the desk trying to figure out what the hell is going on. The receiver begins to beep and I hang up. No sense tryingto figure out a woman… time will tell.
***
Things are going full speed when a security page informs me Karen has arrived. It’s only three-thirty. I instruct the caller to give her a place to work and tell her I will join her as soon as I can. ‘As soon as I can’ turns out to be five-thirty. Karen’s working at A.J.’s desk in the library and I knock quietly as I enter. Her dark rimmed glasses give her the appearance of a librarian… a very attractive and very sexy librarian, quite unlike any I ever saw in any library I ever visited, which makes me wonder why I think she looks like a librarian. I may not be able to handle this after all. If sex is a weapon, she’s a one-woman strike force. Oh well, I suppose there are worse ways to go down in abject defeat. Why is it some defeats are more appealing than others?
She looks up from her work and smiles, “Hi, good to see you.”
“Nice to see you. Are you ready to take a break? A.J. and Sheri are in the living room and they would like us to join them for a drink. Afterwards we can talk about where you would like to have dinner. I made a reservation at a place not far from here, but we can always change it.”
“That would be nice. But, Philip?” She pauses before continuing. A look of concern crosses her face. “I hope you are planning dinner for just the two of us.”
“Of course. The Jacksons are busy this evening anyway. Some friends from the city are coming to visit them.”
“Great!” Her face brightens and she looks visibly relieved.
Now it’s my turn for concern.
“I thought you enjoyed their company.”
“I do, I do,” she replies with a stamp of her little foot for emphasis. “I just wanted this evening to be an opportunity for us to get to know each other better. It would be easier if we had this time for ourselves… that’s all.”
I wait to be certain she is finished.
“Fine, I just wanted to be sure I’m not missing anything.”
We amble into the living room and quickly take up our drinking positions. We are all having white wine and everyone is content to sip. Sheri is in top form. She’s always up, but tonight she’s way up. She must have received some extremely good news at some point, although I don’t have a clue as to what it could be.
A.J. is his normal cool, laid back, unconcerned self. The small talk buzzes on for a time with the ladies controlling the conversation. It suddenly dawns on me that this will be the first time I’ve been out socially since I came to work here. Funny thing is, I don’t care if I go out or not. I’m either content or in a rut… or both. Our reservations are for seven-thirty and although the restaurant isn’t far, we should make preparations to leave before too long. I give Karen the high sign and she confirms her understanding with a slight nod. We make our excuses to the Jacksons and agree to meet in the foyer in twenty minutes.
A quick shower and change of clothes and I arrive back in the foyer a bit ahead of time. Karen doesn’t seem to be around anywhere, but I hear voices in the library. Just as I peek in the door A.J. spots me and immediately waves me in. Karen’s not here either.
“Where you going tonight, Phil?” A.J. asks.
“The Embers… it’s over on… “
“I know where it is.”
“I have the number here.”
I pull out my small personal directory and A.J. picks up a pen and prepares to make a note.
“What are you doing, A.J.?” Sheri asks. She’s standing over by the bar. She must have been hiding, because I didn’t see her when I came in, and I looked directly at the bar.
“I’m just getting the number for the Embers restaurant. Phil and Karen are going there this evening.”
Intent on taking his notes, A.J. doesn’t look up during his reply.
“A.J.,” Sheri says softly, but with perceptible agitation in her voice, “if you call Phil for any reason other than to notify him we are in an all-out war, I will personally see to it that you will be the first casualty.”
I’m not sure I follow all that, but I look on as A.J. completes the note and then looks up at Sheri with a look on his face that obviously questions her sanity.
“What the hell are you talking about? He works here… I have a right to know where he is.” Having settled his problem once and for all, he turns to me and says, “What time do you expect to get back, Phil?”
Before I can answer, Sheri shouts, “A.J.!”
A.J. actually jumps in his chair, the pencil drops from his hand and skids to the center of the desk. We both watch the pencil complete its journey. He glances at me with confusion in his eyes before looking back at his tormentor.
“Now what?” he asks with some belligerence in a futile attempt to retake the initiative.
“I’ll give you, ‘now what! Shut up! That’s, now what! Mind your own business!”
Now both A.J. and I are looking at Sheri as though she has taken leave of her senses. A.J. gets up from the desk, takes my arm and turns me towards the door.
“Stay in touch, man… stay in touch.”
I nod in understanding and walk towards the door just as Karen makes her entrance.
“What was that all about?” she asks casually as we take our leave. “I could hear the commotion all the way upstairs.”
“I don’t know,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Sheri seems upset about something.”
Walking out the door I turn back to see Sheri smiling at Karen. She points to A.J. and slowly draws her index finger across her throat, apparently a sign known only to the sisterhood.
A.J.’s a car nut. Everyone has a weakness and A.J.’s is of the four-wheel variety. He loves cars and, of course, he has the means to indulge himself in this expensive little diversion. In addition to the limo, he has a top of the line Lexus sedan; an Acura sports car, I can never think of the name, but I think it has an X in it; an old Rolls Royce he had restored; and a Land Rover. I decide on the Lexus for the evening.
Heading down the drive, Karen confirms my choice, “I like your car.”
“It’s not my car, it’s Mr. Jackson’s,” I reply. “I don’t have a car anymore.” Not entirely true, I still have the Porsche in storage.
“Why not?”
“Well, when I came here I decided to leave my car behind. A.J. has so many cars we actually have trouble keeping the batteries charged. There aren’t enough people to drive them. So, since I drive their cars most of the time, I decided to sell mine.”
Karen seems to mull over this state of affairs for a few moments before speaking again.
“Sheri says you never go out. Is that true, and if so, why not?”
I look over and smile at my inquisitor. “I guess I haven’t been out much… “
“Sheri says you haven’t been out at all.”
“Okay. Perhaps I haven’t been out at all. I honestly haven’t thought about it. I’ve been busy getting things organized at the estate and I guess I haven’t taken much time for myself. And now that I’m getting more involved with the restaurants, I seem to have even less time.”