by John Hart
“I see you, Sarge. I see you, and it is OK.”
“Bullshit!” screamed Jennings, “Bullshit! Who are you? Who are these guys with you? Spies? Motherfucking cheaters, fucking babykillers, wifestealers. . .” Jennings stopped rambling, then suddenly yelled, “Are you ready to go? I am ready to take you out!”
“Sarge, hey Sarge, where is home?” Gregg asked, soft and calm. “Where are you from, Sarge?”
“Chicago, you fucking asshole. Chicago is my home. . .no, I ain’t got a fuckin home. . .goddamn it no home, no wife, hell. . .nothing.” Jennings looked around wildly while he locked and loaded a round in the M16.
“Hey, hey, hey Sarge. . .Jennings. Come on, Chi-town, talk to me. You a Cubbies or a White Sox guy, Chi-town?” A long pause as Jennings looked at Gregg from far, far away, and then—
“Cubbies, dammit.”
“Well, I thought so. I thought you were a Cubbies man.” Gregg took a step closer. “And who said Aparicio was better than Mr. Cub?”
Jennings blinked, his eyes focusing on Gregg. “No fucking way. Sure Aparicio can play but he can’t even carry the glove of my man Ernie.”
“How about the stick?” Another step closer.
“Are you crazy? You know Ernie, he hits better than any shortstop in the game and. . .”
Almost within reaching distance of Jennings, Gregg kept it going. “I’m a Dodger guy, Jennings. Dodger blue, you know? Course you know Ernie Banks beats on us like a drum, but Koufax, when he is on, he is the man.”
Jennings, really looking at Gregg now, a bit of contact there, enough for Gregg to take another step closer, so close Gregg could feel the fear in him, the smell of him, the way his eyes came and went from that horrible place where his own brain was betraying him, where Jennings’ thoughts were like a record skipping speeds and songs in a nauseating, sickening way, and then another little moment of contact as Jennings bellowed out:
“Koufax! Koufax was just another shit Dodger. Fergie, he is a pitcher.”
“You got that right big man, Ferguson Jenkins, he can bring the ball. Hey, how bout you just hand that weapon here and we got cold brews outside, and you and me, we’ll talk some baseball. Come on, Chi-town, you and me. . . .” The other guys right behind him, Gregg took his last step towards Jennings, when outside the tent:
“Okay, we got the gas and we’re ready to go after him and—”
Shut up, shut up, I almost have him—
At the speed of thought Jennings’ eyes went cold and far away again, and Gregg was throwing himself on Jennings, pinning the rifle against his chest, wrapping his surfer arms around hulking muscle for all he was worth, and then came the mass of Washington landing on top of them both, while Hertz raced outside to shut everyone up and Robert David came in fast with the needle, plowing it down to inject the IM benzo into Jennings—enough to drop an elephant and still Jennings was bucking and crying and screaming while the cumulative pile of five hundred pounds struggled to hold onto him, and then suddenly—
It hit. Jennings was still. They rolled off.
For a while there was only the sound of Robert David’s and Washington’s and Gregg’s own labored breathing, and then another sound that had them looking up from the ground at what appeared to be the whole Special Ops group surrounding them.
Rick Galt was smiling, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he saw as he began the slow clapping….
*
“You guys were so fucking great. Like I said, it’s legend,” Rick concluded, having told the story that for the most part lined up with Gregg’s remembrance of it. A remembrance that had Gregg happy to accept the shared bottle Rick offered as he added the best part of all. “And, you know after you evaced him, Jennings got home, even got back with his old lady. He’s a training NCO now at Special Forces Fort Bragg. Not sure if you knew that, but I hear he wrote you, Gregg.”
Gregg winced at the sting to the back of his throat, but it went down smooth and he had to smile. “Oh yeah, he wrote me all right. Don’t know how he did it, but he had a case of Jack delivered—tasted just as good as this, maybe even better since there was a Cubs cap inside, a real one.” Not wanting the night to end too soon, thanks to a little too much Jack, Gregg grabbed enough beers to pass around their little group with a shared history, worthy of a toast:
“Here’s to another cold one and to good friends, old and new.” Gregg pointed his bottle to Izzy, then raised it high. “But most of all, here’s to Jennings, that lucky man back in the world.”
“Damn straight!”
“Here, here!”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Izzy picked up his guitar and went to work on “Classical Gas,” proving himself amazingly dexterous, despite an impressive consumption of beer, Jack, and weed. And as the music played on, as the moon floated paper white above the crystal blue sea, for that moment they were all back in the world in that someplace called home.
*
Peck watched from the Ironwood tree shadows, a safe distance and yet not too far away to discern the comings and goings of those he had a particular interest in watching.
This in particular would be Nikki and the retard on ethanol overdoses of testosterone.
Retard reminded him of his cousin, the poor relation who liked to say “boats, planes and women, why own ’em when you can rent a new one?”
Nikki, he would own. Or at least he would convince her she wanted to belong to him and if he didn’t tire of the game she didn’t know they were playing, then he might actually make good on the offering he planned to tempt her with tonight.
The entire set up was an elaborate ruse he had thoroughly enjoyed constructing.
He had the arrangements all made with a local character on this island, a self-aggrandizing little gook with a taste for American goods and a gold front tooth who called himself “Uncle Sam.” Now, Uncle Sam apparently had an inordinate number of nieces who specialized in more than the usual, and while that wasn’t what this paying customer was in the market for—at least not tonight—there was something else Uncle Sam had that Peck wanted.
For the equivalent for a couple of six packs and a carton of Marlboros, Peck had scored a secluded little pleasure palace which he had filled with all the bells and whistles for tonight’s bit of theater. He just had to get Nikki away from Margie and the rest of the group that hadn’t wanted to invite him to their precious beach party.
Well, he would show them, show them all. Donald Peck the Third had been collecting trophies since childhood and Nikki would be a splendid addition to the keepsakes in his cabinet. Besides, he had to entertain himself somehow on this tour and she was an excellent diversion.
Retard suddenly stood up, walked in Nikki’s direction and that seemed to be Margie’s signal to go listen to Moskowitz play his guitar. As much as Peck hated to admit it, Jew boy had some talent, at least it sounded that way from a distance.
There was a bit less of a distance from his hideout to where Nikki and Retard appeared to be saying their good-byes, but too far away for Peck to hear what was being said. Dammit. Still he could see her nodding her head and smiling and that really pissed him off. Then Retard took the hand she extended and kissed it—oh, please, who did he think he was, Sir Fucking Galahad? —and Nikki nodded and smiled some more, then the fucker was gone. Just took off somewhere with a wave and disappeared like he had wings.
Nikki started moving in the direction of the group. Peck seized his opportunity.
“Nikki. Psst! Nikki, over here.”
Nikki gave a little start as he emerged from the shadows, laid the same hand the retard had kissed over her heart.
“Don, you just scared the dickens out of me! What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to make the other night up to you.” He drew closer, slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself and have someone intrude before he got what he came for.
Nikki crossed her arms, shook her head, bu
t at least she kept her voice low.
“You pushed me, Don. I am not giving you a chance to do it agin—again.”
Every now and then her inner hillbilly came out. Peck knew she needed some work but that was part of the game. His family would be horrified. Meanwhile he could shape and mold her like Playdough, toy with her brain while he was at it. Family/Nikki: Win-win.
“I promise it won’t happen again.” He bowed his head so she couldn’t see his lips twitch. “Please let me make it up to you. Please?”
Now he looked up, his eyes pleading. Her own softened. Nikki always wanted to believe the best of everyone. That’s what made her such an easy mark.
“I don’t know. I mean, you were really ugly to me, just downright mean and—”
“And I should never drink whiskey. It has a terrible effect on me.” Actually, it was the uppers on top of the booze that had gotten him agitated, but Nikki didn’t know that. “I promise not to get drunk like that again. I wasn’t myself, you know. Tell me you know that, Nikki.”
“Well. . .”
“And tell me you’ll let me make it up to you.”
“We’ll see, Don. Maybe we can talk later. After—”
“No, right here. Right now. I want to make this right.”
He whipped out the velvet jewelry box on ready in his pocket. Good planning was essential. He had this down. Nikki gasped on cue.
“Oh no, Donny. That’s too much! I can’t possibly—”
“Yes, you can.” He extracted the fake diamond bracelet and smoothly latched the knock-off onto her wrist. The one Retard had been an inch away from kissing. Now who was top dog? Nikki was his bitch. When he got through with her she would roll over and beg and come on call.
“I. . .it’s beautiful.” She held it up, flashing the paste stones in the moonlight. “No one’s ever given me something so—so. . .I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll say good-night to the group and let Margie know Cinderella will not be home by midnight.”
“No?”
“No.” He smiled what he thought of as his ballroom dance smile—the one that dazzled silly girls and even their mothers into his charms and kept them there until he tired of them or went a little too far and had to pay someone off. “That’s just the beginning, baby. You really like this island, don’t you?”
“If I could, I’d stay here and never leave.”
“Your wish is granted. At least for the night.” He gestured toward the village. “I arranged a special place, just for us. There might even be a big wrapped box just waiting for you to open. And a little box, too. Something to go with the bracelet.”
14
In the early morning after the party, alone now in her private cottage at the mission, Kate laid in bed with nothing on but a bracelet. Her clothes and sheets were strewn more like flower petals than the aftermath of a tsunami on the bamboo floor. She was limp, exhausted, still shimmering with sweat on her skin and between her thighs, and she was blissfully, ecstatically out of her mind with the residual reminders of a night that was not at all what she had expected.
She actually felt like a corny version of Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. She could have danced all night. She still felt like she had him all over her, his taste, the scent of him. It was a very, very, very bad sign to wake up with this urgency to feel J.D. all over her, all over again, to keep replaying his whispers that were as sultry and suggestive as the French he spoke, the moves he made that were unlike anything she had ever experienced. My God what he had done with those pearls. . . .
She felt like someone who had been going out with adolescents all her life and hadn’t realized it until now. Her mother had been right. Beauty was a powerful but transient tool. Intelligence and strength is what lasted once the surface began to fade. J.D. saw more than the surface. He saw her. And he had let her know in the deep dark of the night that she was beautiful to him because of her imperfections, right down to the unseen scars of a botched abortion.
Gregg was one of the very few who knew about it too, but he wanted to hold someone else accountable. Why? Because Gregg thought he loved her. She knew better. What Gregg loved was an idealized version of the girl next door who never should have used him like a guinea pig in a biology class.
She never should have told J.D. about that. Never, ever should have. It was like breaking a sacred trust of a secret sin between her and Gregg who would probably make yet another excuse for her, say his rival had an unfair way of extracting information.
True enough. But she wasn’t laying any blame on J.D. for what she had too easily given up. Just like Nikki while they were walking the beach, talking girl talk, with Nikki a whole lot forthcoming after just a few beers, confessing Peck had introduced her to some naughty bedroom games that involved. . .oh, she just couldn’t say, and mercy her family would be so horrified if they knew, which only made such private activities all the more invitin.’
Kate slid a hand over one breast then the other, then over the belly that would probably never be able to carry a baby. Just for a moment, she felt a pang of regret. . .
But just for a moment. Raising the arms she had gripped J.D. with, she held them high and open above her head. A thin silver bracelet trickled down her left wrist and she thought of that delicate instant when he explained: My Montagnard friendship bracelets, from the tribal people in the Central Highlands. These are very precious to me. I never take them off.
And then he did. Just one.
Kate smiled again.
She knew how Audrey felt after dancing all night.
*
He hadn’t wanted to leave and J.D. knew that was a very, very bad sign. What had transpired between him and Kate was not part of the plan. He had, in fact, stayed longer than was wise before reluctantly forcing himself away in the very early morning. He needed some time to think. About Kate, about the night, about putting on his clothes then taking them off again when she beckoned him back with a single finger. About wanting her to wear something he treasured as if it kept his skin on her somehow after he was gone in the Bermuda shorts and aloha shirt he had worn to the island party.
Now he looked like an Aussie tourist hailing down a cyclo the morning after, the sky starting to redden and purple. Riding along, he chatted in Vietnamese with the driver who had moved to the city from Can Tho down in the Delta. There were so many search and destroy actions going on down there that he had given up farming to work for his uncle in the city, doing the cyclo to make money to send for his loved ones back home.
That’s when an insidious thought imposed itself upon J.D.: What would it be like to have someone he wanted to go home to?
The cyclo dropped him in the harbor area and he went directly to a familiar fishing boat and quickly arranged for a ride out to the island he sometimes called home. He loved this island and came often enough that he had rented a small house in the village from the Headman, who was like the elder or mayor of the little fishing town.
J.D. greeted the Headman and patiently sat and listened to all the local gossip with a cup of tea and shared breakfast. The Vietnamese with their ancient fears of ghosts had of course embraced the Ghost Soldier stories that had quickly made the rounds on the islands. Unfortunately the Headman had nothing solid to offer, only an echo of “Con Quy.”
After promising to lend his assistance with a local issue, J.D. declined another cup of tea and thanked the family, then walked down to his little cottage. It looked just like any of the others on the outside. Inside, though, he kept a radio and communications setup and a Teak stereo with a tape system that ran off a generator. There was a rattan book case, a traveling typewriter and desk, a box of supplies, and a rattan rocking chair. He had a tatami mat in what passed as a “bedroom” but the hammock in the trees outside was where he liked to read in the breeze that came off the sea, and that’s where he usually slept.
Changing into a bathing suit, J.D. took his mask and snorkel and fins off
the wall pegs and picked up his sling spear. He walked down to the fine sandy beach and then entered the water, headed out to the reef. The diving here was extraordinary; the reef very healthy and alive with every kind of tropical fish. There were the yellow Tangs in golden clouds and then he passed by a big blue rainbow hued Parrot fish and white mouthed eels. He took a deep breath and dove lower. He wasn’t really hunting for fish, he just felt calm here in the quiet blue deep. A different world with different rules where he could listen to himself insist: you know that you cannot really have someone like Kate.
He remembered her now as the soft, warm water caressed him, and how her skin felt on his hands, the way she smelled. He had someone once like that. . . .
He never allowed himself to say her name or even think her name because then he had to remember what had been done to her because of him. He broke his own rule that time. She paid.
Would Phillip tell Kate? No. At least J.D. didn’t think so. Phillip hadn’t even wanted her to be aware he was in Nha Trang the other day for a private strategy meeting. According to Phillip he had only sent her there on the pretext of doing some undercover work as a little reward for some favors she had granted him under the covers.
J.D.’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t liked that. But he had been careful to appear not to care.
He remembered yet again how Kate touched his own neck, how her lips felt on his skin. The way she made him feel…it wasn’t supposed to be happening this way.
Maybe he could see Kate a little, just for a little while, maybe that would be okay?
He never lied to himself and so J.D. knew he was lying now. But he so wanted to be touched by her again like that. So … maybe it would be okay. Just for a little while.
He watched as the octopus changed color and became nearly invisible as it entered the small cave and then took its prey.