by Peter Gent
“That’s because it ain’t your knee,” Simon spit. He had stopped sobbing. His voice again turned cold, passionless. “You’ll see one day. I swear to God, you’ll be sorry.”
“Simon, this is stupid....”
“Don’t call me stupid!” Simon screamed, pushing himself to his knees. One of the trainers grabbed Taylor by the shoulder and pushed him toward the door to the training room. Ox Wood walked into the weight room. He looked at Simon on the floor and then at Taylor. Taylor shook his head and walked out.
“Ox,” the trainer said, “give us a hand here. Simon fell down.”
Taylor didn’t even bother to dress; he just grabbed his clothes and drove home in his shorts and T-shirt. He felt sick. Simon had needed help and understanding and Taylor had only succeeded in humiliating him in front of others. They could never be friends again. Taylor arrived at his apartment and decided to call Buffy and explain to her what had happened. But when he got his door open the phone was ringing. It was Doc Webster calling from his ranch.
Taylor never did make that call to Buffy. He regretted it the rest of his life.
THE EXXON CONNECTION
THE STORIES PUZZLED him slightly as Lamar Jean Lukas read the news of the proposed bond sale by the Domed Stadium Authority, which was already building the Pistol Dome in Clyde, Texas, south of Park City, north of the new Regional Airport. “All our season-ticket holders will get preferred treatment because they were the ones who stuck with us when the going was tough. Now that we are a playoff team, it is a sacred trust to remember their loyalty.” The article quoted A.D. Koster, the new general manager.
Lamar believed him.
The article didn’t mention the financing details that would be required as a prerequisite for the purchase of a season tickct: the buying of a five-thousand-dollar revenue bond with a buy-back clause paying two percent interest for thirty years, one percent less than Conly had suggested. A.D. failed to mention the secret agreement with the mayor and city council of Clyde, promising to exempt the Domed Stadium Authority and its two thousand acres along the proposed Airport Freeway from property taxes for twenty-five years while providing municipal services at reduced rates.
The mayor and city council of Clyde considered themselves big league and pro-growth rather than stupid.
Those facts would be totally unsatisfactory to Lamar Jean Lukas, who believed in honor, trust and fairness, which was the reason the facts had been omitted from the morning paper Lamar Jean had under his arm when he arrived for work at the gas station. The boss had his car parked under the canopy and was shoving his television set into the backseat.
“What’s the trouble, boss? TV broke?” Lamar Jean slapped the newspaper across the fender of the red Chrysler. “A.D. Koster said the Pistol Dome down in Clyde is gonna have a roof and air-conditioning and theater seats.” Lamar thought a moment. “I wonder if they’ll call them the Clyde Pistols? Naw ... naw.” He shook his head.
The boss said nothing and continued to wrestle the television onto the red and white plastic backseat cover. Lamar Jean looked around the station. Something was wrong with the morning routine; several things were amiss.
“Hey, boss, you ain’t put out the tires or the oil cans. Hell, you ain’t even turned on the pumps. Jesus, your TV set breaks and you go all to pieces.” Lamar laughed, rolled up the sleeves of his blue work shirt and limped over to the door to turn on the pumps and pull out the tire and oil display racks.
Lamar reached for the knob. The door was locked.
“The TV set isn’t broken, Lamar,” the boss said, watching Lamar wiggle the doorknob.
“Well, then why are you taking it away?” Lamar turned. “And you haven’t even unlocked the station. What’s the matter, boss?”
“I’m not your boss anymore, Lamar.” The boss slammed the passenger door of the big red Chrysler.
“Am I fired?” Lamar’s face went white. He had never been fired from a job and always considered himself a hard worker. “I gave you a good day’s work every day, boss.” Lamar limped toward the boss.
“No, you ain’t fired, Lamar. I guess if anybody got fired, it was me. Exxon finally got me.” The boss stared at the cement drive that he had swept and cleaned for over twenty years. “They doubled my lease and halved my gasoline allotment.”
“What are you talking about?” Lamar began pacing, limping. “They got more gas now than a dog’s got fleas. It says so in this morning’s paper.”
“That don’t mean they have to sell it to me, Lamar,” the boss said. He reached into his coverall pocket and withdrew a folded envelope. “There’s a week’s pay here, Lamar, and a letter of recommendation. I wish I could do more.” The boss held the envelope out and shrugged his shoulders.
“No! No!” Lamar slapped the envelope out of the boss’s hand and it fell to the pavement. “They can’t get away with this.”
“They already done got away with it, Lamar. They are Exxon and they can pretty much do what they damn please.” The boss pointed to the envelope lying on the concrete. “Now pick that up and calm down. It don’t do no good to try and change things you can’t change.”
Tears ran down the old man’s rough, unshaven face. The sight shocked Lamar Jean Lukas to silence. He hadn’t seen a man cry since the yellow Communists shot his calf muscle to shreds.
Lamar stood openmouthed as the boss jerked at the Chrysler door.
“There’s ... a ... fella’s ... card ...” The boss wiped away the tears and tried to sniff back the mucus that began to run from his bulbous red nose. “... inside.” He pointed at the envelope, which Lamar was now slapping angrily against his thigh. “I already called him.... He says ... to ... come ... see him.”
The boss suddenly ducked into the red Chrysler, cranked the engine over and pulled slowly from beneath the canopy, leaving behind twenty years.
Lamar Jean Lukas stood next to the unleaded pump, slapped the envelope against his leg and watched the red Chrysler crawl slowly into the traffic and lurch out of sight.
“Well, goddam Exxon,” Lamar said, opening the envelope, taking out the cash and stuffing it in his jeans pocket. “Goddam Exxon ain’t heard the last from Lamar Jean Lukas.”
Lamar unfolded the letter of recommendation. It said that Lamar Jean Lukas was a loyal, hardworking employee who always kept his promises, was honest and dependable and would be a welcome addition to any company that wanted loyal, hardworking, dependable employees. A business card was folded inside the letter. It was from the man the boss had called about Lamar.
“I guess I better go see this feller,” he said to himself; then suddenly Lamar Jean Lukas whirled and, using his good leg, unleashed a devastating series of kicks against the unleaded pump. The metal dented and bent, the glass broke out, the numbers shattered.
Lamar shook for a while after he stopped kicking. Standing by the ruined pump, taking long, slow, deep breaths, Lamar finally stopped shaking enough to read the name and address on the crumpled business card.
JACK PATRICK “PAT” GARRETT
SECURITY SERVICES, INC.
200 HOUSTON STREET 347-8899
Security Guards; Attack Dogs; Burglar Alarms; Complete Security Services for Home and Business; Polygraph Tests; Brain-Wave Reading; Detection Dogs: Drugs, Alcohol, Explosives; Electronic-Security Specialists: Freearms Experts; Escape/Evasion Driving School; Survivalist Training; Executive Protection: Shotgun Training
Lamar looked at the card in wonder; a short narrative of the progress of the American Dream.
“Well,” Lamar said to himself, as he often did, “a job’s a job.” He jammed the letter and card into his work-shirt pocket. “Drop your cocks ... grab your socks.” He patted the ravaged gas pump apologetically and limped away.
SECURITY CONSCIOUSNESS
LAMAR JEAN LUKAS changed buses twice, then hitchhiked the last miles to the far edge of Amos Chandler Industrial Park.
A small one-story beige brick building had thick opaque glass block windows which
allowed the passage of specific light rays and only very heavy-caliber slugs. Beside the entrance a small white and black sign read:
SECURITY SERVICES, INC.
Pat Garrett, President.
The heavy-gauge steel door was locked. Lamar pushed the white button on the call box built into the door frame. Ten feet above the doorway a small TV camera was aimed down at Lamar.
“Can I help you?” It was a woman’s voice.
Lamar Jean looked up at the camera and said nothing.
“Can I help you?” the woman’s voice repeated.
“Hey, am I on that thing?” Lamar pointed up to the small camera.
“Yes you are, sir.”
“Well, doggies!” Lamar grinned into the camera. “I never been on television except one time this guy from the network interviewed me.” Lamar cocked his head at the camera. “But he and the cameraman and all the film caught a friendly mortar round. Blew ’em to smithereens, film and everything.” Lamar paused. “I guess this is the first time.”
“Can I help you, sir?” The woman’s voice was more urgent this time. Lamar looked away from the camera and down at his feet. He didn’t hear the woman. He heard the mortar round exploding.
“Sir, can I help you?” The voice was insistent and loud. “Please, sir, what do you want?”
Lamar Jean was jerked back across the Pacific.
“Oh? Ah? Yeah ... sure ... yeah ...” Lamar dug into his work-shirt pocket for the business card the boss had given him. The card was damp and wrinkled; Lamar’s shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Damn hot out today, ain’t it?” Lamar said as he tried to return to the present, gather his jumbled thoughts, read the card and ask for a job. Any job. “I’m here to see a Mr. Garrett. My name is Lamar Jean Lukas.”
“What is the nature of your business?” the voice asked.
“I’m looking for a job. The boss sent me here to see Mr. Garrett.” Lamar double-checked the name on the card. “Mr. Jack Patrick ‘Pat’ Garrett.” Lamar shook his head and frowned at the small camera now panning up and down the length of Lamar’s sweat-soaked body. “Can you let me inside? It’s kinda hot out here.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
Lamar leaned on his good leg and heard the whine and heavy crunch of a mortar round. He thought about the ARVN mortar crew and the dead network guys. Then he thought about Exxon. Lamar Jean Lukas ducked up against the building.
“Sir? Sir?” the voice from the call box was coaxing him back. “Sir? Are you there? Please step out where the camera can see you.” The voice floated out of the black iron grillwork built flush with the burglarproof door frame. Lamar backed out, looking up at the camera panning around in search of him.
“Ah, there you are, sir.”
“Yes.” Lamar nodded slowly at the camera. “Here I am.”
“Mr. Garrett says to come right in.” The voice had a friendly lilt to it now. A raucous buzz from the door made Lamar flinch. He grappled clumsily with the door, finally pulling it open about three inches. He had underestimated the weight of the heavy bullet-and blast-proof steel. It began to close under its own weight.
Off balance, Lamar propped his bad leg against the doorjamb and jerked hard with both hands, opening the door wide enough for him to slide sideways into the entry way.
The entryway was a long hallway that ended at another door, monitored by another camera.
When Lamar reached the second door, it also began to buzz. Leaning back and gripping the knob with both hands, Lamar Jean yanked as hard as he could. He grossly overestimated the weight on the second door, slinging it wide, banging into the wall, skinning his knuckles.
Lamar stepped onto the tile floor of the brightly lit reception area. Red and black straight-back imitation-leather-and-steel chairs lined the white walls. In the center of the room was a red six-cushion steel-framed sofa. The plaster walls were covered with pictures of Security Services, Inc., in action: armed guards in group photographs, attack dogs ripping at heavily padded arms, close-ups of snarling Dobermans and German shepherds. There was a large photo of the complete contents of the security services personal survival pack, including a year’s supply of freeze-dried food, a water purification system, a tent, a sleeping bag, a .22 rifle that fit inside its waterproof floating stock, an AR-15, a .45 automatic and fifteen thousand rounds of ammunition, plus reloading equipment.
Directly across from the door was a small window in the wall with sliding bulletproof glass. Through the thick glass Lamar could see a young woman at a telephone switchboard. She held up one finger at Lamar.
Above the window was a color photo portrait of Jack Patrick “Pat” Garrett dressed out as a major in the Green Berets. Lamar Jean Lukas had never had much use for Green Berets. He had liked their boots, but he had thought their manner, like their hat, was silly. He had never seen many dead Green Berets, though; mostly he had seen dead draftees. Not that any of that mattered to him now; Lamar was just looking for a job, and Security Services, Inc., President Pat Garrett was looking for bodies to fill an armed security service contract. SSI had just signed with Apartment Management, Inc., a Canadian firm that had taken over the Seasons Apartments from a bankrupt dentist whose apartment manager had taken the rent money and run off with two Delta Airlines stewardesses. Apartment Management, Inc., wanted Security Services, Inc., to protect their property.
The Seasons Apartments were eighty-five percent full, but only thirty percent of the tenants were current with their rent. Texas Pistols quarterback Taylor Rusk was one of the few who always paid it in full and on time; he had ever since he’d moved into the Seasons as a professional football rookie.
Lamar Jean Lukas almost turned the job down; he didn’t want to carry a gun, but he needed the money for his season-ticket payment. The full price was due six months before the football season began, giving the Franchise interest-free “float money.” This year the Pistols had also added two exhibition games to the season ticket, making it eleven games at twenty dollars a game. The Texas Pistols ticket office let Lamar pay in “two easy equal installments.”
So Lamar Jean Lukas got back into guns because he owed the Franchise $220.
THE MAJOR
“CALL ME THE MAJOR or just Major if you like.” Pat Garrett led Lamar into his office. A fierce-looking Doberman stood at parade rest in the corner, eyeing Lamar Jean’s throat. Lamar sized up the time and space between him and the ferocious dog, then scanned the Major’s desk, deciding on the trench knife that the Major used as a letter opener. Lamar knew he would win and the beautifully vicious two-thousand-dollar attack dog would just be 115 pounds of dog meat. But Lamar knew he would never get hired by an ex-Green Beret who called himself the Major if Lamar killed the Major’s favorite attack dog with his bare hands and the Major’s letter opener while the Major was deciding whether to pay Lamar the minimum wage to shoot people with a heavy-caliber pistol. Lamar Jean Lukas had been a good soldier who understood the military system. If Lamar killed the two-thousand-dollar dog, Major Jack Patrick “Pat” Garrett would write Overqualified on the application.
“You can call me Pat.” Garrett was dressed in a khaki leisure suit and ankle-length zipper boots. A small star embroidered with gold stitching sat on the upper lift flap of the four-flap patch-pocket jacket. Over the small gold star were stitched the small white letters SSI.
Lamar didn’t notice how Major Pat Garrett dressed or look too closely at the plaques, certificates, pictures and neatly boxed and framed gold-and silver-plated special-edition pistols that hung on the office walls. Lamar mainly kept track of the dog and the trench knife that lay across the Standard Employee’s Contract with Consent to Take a Lie Detector Test that Lamar would have to sign before he was ready to go out and work.
One steamy afternoon at Tan Son Nhut, Lamar saw an attack dog eat its handler. They kept dogs out by the aircraft all the time. Mean fucking dogs. This dog just went nuts and ate a complete air policeman, who was able to draw his .45 but never got off a roun
d. Dogs went nuts over there just like people.
Lamar had always heard that seeing a horse go crazy on the battlefield was the most unnerving thing to soldiers in the horse wars. Lamar would put that dog that went berserk guarding F-4s up against any horse. Anyplace. Anytime.
“I’m actually not even named Patrick,” Major Garrett continued, seating himself in his wooden swivel chair. He motioned for Lamar to sit on the wooden stool across the desk from him. There were no other chairs or seats of any kind in the spacious if rather Spartan office. If the Major had many visitors, they stood.
“I really didn’t have a middle name,” Garrett went on. The dog rumbled low in his throat. “I just took Patrick after I got out of the service. It fit in well with the Security Service. You know? Pat Garrett? The famous marshal?”
Lamar nodded and listened to the dog.
“You’d be surprised the number of calls I get just from putting Pat in my Yellow Pages ad.”
The hair along the back of the dog’s neck began to stand as the rumble turned to a growl.
“Louie Deal tells me you’re a good worker, you’re dependable, you got an honorable discharge and you got skragged in ’Nam.”
Lamar flinched when the Major said skragged, but then nodded and watched and listened to the dog.
“I wanted to go there myself,” the Major said. “It would have looked good on my record.... Well, it actually does look good on my record.... You know what I mean? Just before I retired, my record went to Vietnam, but I didn’t actually go. One of those little bureaucratic creations one learns about.”
The Major leaned forward and the hair on the dog’s neck turned straight up. The Major didn’t notice. He had the dog on a “tryout loan” from a service buddy who got them off the Air Force base in San Antonio. The guy’s job was killing the crazy dogs.
He sold them instead.
“Anyway,” Major Pat Garrett droned on, “I would have liked to have gone there ... seen it ... you know, felt it ... smelled it ... you know what I mean?” The dog was onto all four feet, baring its teeth. Lamar Jean moved forward on the stool. The growl was quite audible.