by David Freed
“Who needs a shotgun when your whole body’s a weapon, am I right? The point is you’re home, bubby. Mazel tov.” She gave me a heartfelt hug, then walked in like she owned the place which, in fact, she did. “Big news while you were gone. That meshuga kitty of yours got himself a girlfriend.”
“You’re kidding. Kiddiot actually likes something?”
“Not just likes, Bubeleh, loves. A mangier cat you have never seen. When this cat goes to the beach, other cats try to bury her. But your cat appears to have overlooked her looks, and isn’t that what love is all about? There truly is somebody for everyone in this world.”
I yawned.
“You look pooped,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said. “Why don’t you take a little nap? When you wake up, I’ll cook you dinner. My famous chicken soup.”
I’d had more than my fill of chicken soup in Hanoi, but I couldn’t very well say no. I thanked her for her kindness and told her I’d see her in a few hours.
V
Sleep eluded me. Images of Virgil Stoneburner’s body, sprawled on the pavement outside the hotel where he’d fallen, played on an endless loop inside my head. I’d been lying there nearly an hour when Buzz called me from Cleveland.
“Are you watching this?” he asked.
“Watching what?”
“This. On TV. Your former professor, Steve Cohen. He’s leading the news on CNN. Why didn’t you tell me he was having a press conference?”
“There were reporters waiting at the airport when we got in. I don’t know how they knew he was there but they did. I probably should’ve called and let you know what was going on. I was just too wiped out.”
“Didn’t you tell Cohen to keep his mouth shut?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“For Chrissake, Logan, standard operating procedure dictates that a classified op remains classified until it’s been deemed not classified, does it not?”
“It does. I’m sorry, Buzz. I guess I wasn’t thinking.” A long silence on the other end followed. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m just trying to figure out how we stuff the genie back in the bottle. This thing is rapidly spiraling out of control. I just got my balls handed to me over the secure terminal by the president’s chief of staff. His boss needs the whole truth and nothing but before he has to stand up in front of the cameras and tell the American people what the hell happened over there. So what I want to know from you is this: what the hell did happen over there? Did one of our guys murder this guard or not?”
“Hard to say. I’m not done digging.”
“I understand that, Logan. But if you had to guess . . .”
“If I had to guess, my money would be on Billy Hallady or, more likely his grandson, Sean.”
“Why the grandson?”
“Because younger men kill far more often than older ones, who know better. And because this one has a history of violence. Because he idolizes his grandfather who was abused by the North Vietnamese. Because he got the hell out of Dodge hours before the body of his grandfather’s chief tormenter was found stabbed to death.”
“Kid sounds guilty as hell to me,” Buzz said. “I want you on a plane first thing tomorrow morning to Salt Lake City. Find him and you get me the truth. Beat it out of him if you have to.”
“I’m sure he’d be a lot more cooperative if he knew there was the chance of immunity from the Justice Department.”
“I’ll run it past the appropriate personnel. Meanwhile, you get yourself to Utah A-SAP. I’ll have my people make the flight arrangements and e-mail you your itinerary. And one more thing, Logan. You damn well better keep me in the loop this time. Remember, I know where you live.”
I went to bed early that night after a bowl of Mrs. Schmulowitz’s chicken soup which, I have to admit, was every bit as good as the pho ga I’d had in Hanoi.
Kiddiot showed up shortly after midnight, squeezing through his rubber cat door and slurping water loud enough from his dish that it woke me up. I tried to coax him onto the bed with me, but he jumped onto the kitchen counter instead, then atop the refrigerator, where he usually slept. He was still snoozing there, a fluffy orange ball with his tail curled around his face, when I left for the airport four hours later.
V
In theory, I could’ve flown myself to Salt Lake City in the Ruptured Duck, but with the wind at his back, the Duck’s top speed is only about 120 knots. At that rate, factoring in at least one fuel stop, plus deviations for mountainous terrain and, possibly, weather, it would’ve likely taken me all day to get to Utah. Much faster to hop a commercial airliner. Probably smarter, too, as jet-lagged as I was.
I stopped off along the way at Larry’s hangar, across the field from the main terminal, to pick up any messages that had been left on my office answering machine while I was overseas. The red digital light on the machine was blinking the number seven. One call was from that cat rescue agency in San Jose, asking if I’d reconsider serving as the agency’s spokesman. Delete. Two calls were hang-ups with no messages. Delete, delete. Two were from prospective students. I jotted down their contact information. Message number six was an automated robocall offering me an “exciting new way” to reduce my monthly mortgage payment, which would’ve been cool if I could’ve afforded a house and had a mortgage to begin with. Delete. The seventh call was a 619 area code and one that definitely got my attention:
“Hey, Logan. Hope you’re doing well. This is Alicia Rosario in San Diego. Remember me? Anyway, I’m planning to be up in your neck of the woods on vacation in a couple of weeks and I was thinking about maybe, possibly, taking a few flying lessons. Lemme know if that works for you. Maybe we can get together, okay? Ciao for now.”
Did I remember her? Was she kidding? Alicia Rosario was a savvy and seductively earthy homicide detective who worked for the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department. I’d met her a couple of years earlier on a gig that had taken me down the California coast from Rancho Bonita to America’s self-proclaimed “Finest City.” Our mutual attraction was undeniable, but I’d pulled back before we could become intimate. Back then, I was still in love with Savannah, who was now gone. I jotted down Alicia’s call-back number that had been captured on the phone’s caller ID and left it in a rarely disturbed spot where I knew I’d never lose it—my unpaid bills file—and promised myself to call her when I got back from Utah.
V
“That’s the only car you have available, a Fiat 500? It’s not even a car. It’s a riding lawnmower. It’s what clowns drive in parades.”
The Jamaican-born clerk ignored me, squinting at her computer monitor from behind the car rental counter at the Salt Lake City International Airport. “So it says here you are employed by General Motors Employee Relations, Midwestern Operations. Is this correct, sir?”
“That is correct.”
“Yes, well, it says here the rental has been prepaid, and the subcompact is all your employer is willing to pay for.”
“But a ‘subcompact’ implies that it’s a car,” I said. “What you’re renting me is not a car. It’s a skateboard with cruise control.”
It was pointless, I realized, to argue, but it still felt good. She handed over the keys along with my rental agreement and told me where in the lot my tiny clown mobile was parked. It was easy to find, given that it was less than half the size of every other car on the lot. That it was also painted lime green didn’t help matters.
Always trying to save the taxpayer a buck. Thanks, Buzz.
People stared as I drove through Salt Lake City. Several pointed. Some laughed. One young guy in a black Ford Mustang wearing his Utah Jazz baseball cap backwards pulled up beside me at a traffic light, rolled down his passenger window, grinning, and yelled, “Hey, bro, does that thing mow the lawn, too?”
An aspiring Buddhist tries to avoid confrontation and seeks never to take the bait. I forced a pleasant smile, my hands on the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead.
V
The add
ress on Sean Hallady’s driver’s license corresponded to a two-story, graffiti-marred apartment building across from a cement-mixing plant, a couple of miles north of downtown Salt Lake City. Square and utilitarian in form, the building looked like it had been modeled after a military barrack. Hallady’s unit, number six, was on the top floor. I knocked.
An older Latina opened the door. I could hear young children laughing and playing inside.
“Hola.”
“Hola. I’m looking for Sean Hallady. Is he here?”
“Yo no hablo Inglés.”
“Sean Hallady.” I showed her a copy of his driver’s license. “Aqui? Is he here?”
She shook her head. “No. He no live here.”
“Did he move? Do you know where I could find him?”
She shrugged and smiled apologetically, her palms facing up.
“OK, señora, gracias.”
I rapped on a few other doors. People either weren’t home or they’d never heard of Sean Hallady. One older Arabic man with skin like cellophane who lived on the first floor gave me the number of the real estate company that he said owned the building. I called and left a message, saying I was from the California State Lottery Commission and that I was trying to contact the lucky winner, to pass along the hundred grand he’d won. They never called back.
The file Buzz’s crew e-mailed me indicated that Sean Hallady had been working as a food server for the past year and a half at Bindings Grog and Good Eats, a popular beer and burger joint at the Snowbird ski resort. It took forty minutes to drive there, up from the smog bowl that is Salt Lake City. This being near the end of April, the daily crowds of skiers and snowboarders had thinned. So, too, had the ranks of the restaurant’s workers.
“Sean’s working part-time these days,” said the manager, a clean-cut young man who looked like he belonged in the Eisenhower era. “He won’t be in until the day after tomorrow.”
“Any idea where I can find him on his off days?”
“We’re not really allowed to give out that kind of information.” He said it like he was afraid I might slug him. “I’m really sorry.”
“No worries. I’ll find him.”
“Could I at least tell him who was looking for him?”
“Let’s keep it a surprise.”
As I walked toward the door, a waitress in her early twenties with about ten piercings in each ear and a blue streak in her platinum-dyed hair said, “You’re looking for Sean?”
“I am.”
“You a cop or something?”
“No. I just need to talk to him. It’s kind of important.”
She pursed her lips, eyeing me, debating whether I was trustworthy, before turning and shouting over her shoulder, to where her manager was standing, “Taking a smoke break, Jason.”
“Around back, Angie,” came the response. “I don’t want to have to keep telling you.”
“Okay, okay. Thank you.”
I followed her outside and around the corner of the restaurant, near the trash cans and a bunch of propane canisters. Plowed snow was piled along the edges of the driveway. She dug out a pack of Spirit cigarettes from the back pocket of her jeans.
“They don’t like us smoking out front. Not good for public relations.”
“Or your health.”
“Can’t live forever.” Angie lit up with a red Bic lighter. “Is Sean in trouble or something?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I dunno.” She turned her head, and blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “He’s just been acting funny lately, that’s all. Not himself.”
“Funny how?”
“Just . . . funny. A little freaked out, I guess. He took this big trip with grandpa to Vietnam. It affected him, you know?” She flicked ashes and looked down at the ground.
“Is Sean your boyfriend?”
“Sean? God, no, nothing like that.” She sort of laughed. “I mean, he’s sorta cute, but he’s way older than me, like thirty. Besides, I think he’s into drugs pretty hard core.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“You name it. Anything he can pretty much get his hands on. So what is this about, anyway?”
I lied and told her I was a friend of Sean’s family, and that they were deeply concerned about his welfare. I also told her we were both veterans. There was truth at least in that part.
“Do you know where he lives, Angie?”
“All I know is somewhere down in town.” Another drag on her cigarette, then she said, “I do know he likes to go shooting. Real big into guns. Always trying to get me to go with him. I was gonna go, once, but . . . I dunno. He’s just weird, you know?”
“Where were you going to go shooting?”
“At one of those . . . what’d you call ’em?”
“A range?”
“Range. That’s it.”
“Do you remember the name of the place?”
“I’m really not into guns. I’m, like, the only person in Utah who’s not, you know?”
V
Angie wasn’t far off the mark in her assessment of the popularity of firearms in Utah, judging by the number of shooting ranges in and around Salt Lake City. The Survival Club, the Rifleman, Snapshots. I visited three of them before I scored a bull’s-eye at Blaster Bill’s, an indoor pistol range on the town’s south end.
“Yeah, he comes in here every couple weeks and runs through a box or two of .45 reloads. Why? What’d he do? Rob a bank?” the clerk asked as he scrutinized Sean Hallady’s photo from behind a glass display case filled with handguns for sale and rent. “Bill” was the name tag pinned to his National Rifle Association T-shirt. He had a sandy crew cut, reading glasses, and a handlebar mustache that curled upward at the ends. Holstered to his right hip was a long-barreled, Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, the model of revolver Clint Eastwood made famous in Dirty Harry.
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I just want to talk to him.”
Bill gave me a knowing look over his half-glasses. “Mister, nobody comes in here just wanting to talk to somebody. Either you’re a cop, he owes you money, or he’s sleeping with your lady. Which one is it?”
“Mr. Hallady recently visited a foreign country. An incident happened while he was there. I work for the government. It’s urgent that we locate him.”
“When you say ‘the government,’ you mean the feds?”
I nodded.
“Let’s see some ID.”
“It’s not the kind of agency, Bill, if you get my drift.”
He eyed me skeptically. “Well, if you’re one of those agencies, why can’t you just go find him yourself?”
“I’m confident we will eventually. I was hoping you might help us shortcut the process.”
“What makes you think I know where he is?”
“Target ranges usually keep the names and home addresses of their shooters on file for liability purposes.”
“Right. So what you’re wanting me to do is just turn over his address. What is this, a police state? Brave New World? Typical government. You guys think you’re all-powerful. Well, guess what? You’re not. Maybe ‘We the people’ doesn’t mean anything to you, but it sure as hell does to me.”
“Actually, Bill, Huxley’s Brave New World was a satirical look at the future, not an NRA manifesto condemning the evils of authoritarianism. You’re thinking more of Orwell’s 1984.”
Bill didn’t like being talked down to, especially by a man who was smaller than he was. He folded his arms across his chest defensively and told me he didn’t have to cooperate with me, federal government or no federal government, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
“Tell you what,” I said, trying to keep things cordial, “how ’bout the two of us have a good ol’-fashioned shootin’ match? Best out of five rounds. If I win, you give me Hallady’s home address. If you win, I’ll give you my official Special Forces chronometer.” I held up my left wrist so he could see my watch.
“Special For
ces my ass,” Bill said. “That’s nothing but a thirty-dollar Casio.”
“Exactly. Do you really think operators wear Rolexes and Tags in the field? You want a watch that’s reliable and expendable, that’s waterproof down to a decent depth and keeps good time. All the rest is marketing and Hollywood.”
“I’m not interested in your watch.” He pointed to the door. “Don’t let it hit you on the ass on your way out.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at the boxes of bullets stacked on the wall behind him, “let’s try it another way. How about I promise I won’t come back here in an hour with a search warrant and a team of agents who have nothing better to do today than turn this dump inside out looking for armor-piercing, cop-killing handgun ammo which, as we both know, is illegal.”
He stroked his chin, thinking it over. “Okay, fifty-foot range,” he said, “but I get to pick the guns.”
“Game on.”
Predictably, Bill chose to fire the .44 Magnum he carried on his hip. He picked a snub-nose, .357 Colt Python for me. He knew that his Magnum’s long barrel afforded greater accuracy than a revolver with a two-inch barrel. What he didn’t know was that I owned a Colt Python; I’d put thousands of rounds through it in training. I’d even terminated a few miscreants with it when I was with Alpha. I couldn’t help but smile when he pulled the little snubby out of the display case.
“This is gonna be like taking candy from a baby,” Bill said, smirking.
“Never were truer words spoken.”
He was correct. It was like taking candy from a baby—a big pouty baby with a handlebar mustache. Two of Bill’s rounds fell just outside the ten-ring. None of mine did. True to his word, he dug up Sean Hallady’s address.
Like they say: it ain’t bragging if you can do it.
Hallady lived on Emerson Street south of downtown Salt Lake City, not far from Blaster Bill’s, in a tidy brick duplex with a flat roof and a raised, weed-strewn planter box separating the two entrances. His apartment was on the right. Affixed to the front door was a faded American flag decal. Below it was a yellow bumper sticker with red letters that said, “Marine, your best friend, your worst enemy.”