The Diehard
Page 22
“No kidding? I was in the Air Force.”
“I know,” Mulheisen said.
“What outfit were you in?”
“AACS,” Mulheisen said. “Control tower.”
“No kidding? I was in AACS.”
“I know.”
“I didn't really care for it, though,” Wienoshek said. “Before that I was a gunner. I was one of the last gunners in the old B-36's. It was good duty.”
Mulheisen didn't say anything. Clippert stared at the floor.
“I knew a guy one time,” Wienoshek said, “he was a gunner on a B-24. In World War II. Flew all over France and Germany. You know what he told me?”
“No,” Mulheisen said.
“He said they were on a bombing run over Germany one time and a bomb got hung up in the bay. The bombardier came back and tried to free the bomb. Finally, the guy got to kicking at the bomb, to get it to fall out. You know what happened?”
“What happened?”
“The bomb finally let go and the bombardier lost his balance and fell out right behind it! He fell right out the damn bomb bay, right onto Germany, with no parachute. And you know what his last words were?”
“What?” Mulheisen said.
“ ‘Oh fuck!’ Those were his last words.”
Mulheisen stared at Wienoshek. “Is that the truth?”
“My buddy was right there, he was the waist gunner. His name was Johnny Wood. We were in B-36's together.”
Mulheisen studied Wienoshek. “I see,” he said.
After a while, Wienoshek said, “Where do you think I'll go?”
“What do you mean?”
Wienoshek nodded at Clippert, “Well, I know where he's going.” He made a stirring motion with his forefinger near his temple. “But me,” he said, “there's only two places in Michigan for me: Jackson or Marquette.”
“Marquette is for the bad men,” Mulheisen said.
Wienoshek smiled. “That's me.”
Mulheisen smiled at that.
“I think I'd rather go to Marquette, anyway,” Wienoshek said.
“Why is that?”
“It's north. The Upper Peninsula. That's my kind of country.”
“You like the north country?” Mulheisen asked.
“Always have,” Wienoshek said.
“How about your pal, Service? Where's he going?”
“Service? Who knows?”
“We'll get him,” Mulheisen said.
“No, you won't,” Wienoshek said. “Not him. Besides, don't be so greedy. You got me, and you got him.” He pointed to Clippert with a thumb. “You ought to be satisfied with that much.”
Mulheisen laughed, despite his fatigue. “Well, I've got you, anyway,” he agreed. “I'm not so sure about this one, though.”
Clippert ignored them. He seemed far away. Wienoshek was puzzled, however. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course you got him.”
“Not necessarily,” Mulheisen said. “He's got good lawyers. The best. Hell, wouldn't surprise me if I get called for police brutality.”
Wienoshek turned a look of utter contempt upon Clippert. He looked back to Mulheisen and leaned forward. He was very serious. “Don't worry, Mul,” he said, “you'll have him.”
“I will?”
“You're damn right. No matter what happens to me, I can give you Clippert.”
Mulheisen could see that he meant it. Clippert appeared not to have heard. “All right,” Mulheisen said. “We better not discuss it any further, for now. Wait until you get a lawyer.”
Wienoshek nodded. “Right. But you can count on me, Mul. I won't talk to anyone but you.”
Mulheisen felt a little nauseous. He smiled at Wienoshek in a friendly way, however. He thought, Oh, let that sheriff come soon. He was thinking that he had to talk to Lou.
“It was no summer Progresse. A cold coming they had of it . . . The waies deep, the weather sharp, the daies short, the sunn farthest of in solstitio brumali, the very dead of Winter. . . .”
—Lancelot Andrewes
From “A Sermon Preached Before the Kings Majestie, at White-Hall, on Wednesday, the XXV of December, A.D. MCDXXII. Being Christmasse Day.”