The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

“You figure Bullet could be the kingpin?” asked Martinez.

  “I don’t know,” said Jackson with a sigh. “There’s nothing firm in any of this–just a bunch of scared fish running their mouths. There’s gotta be another way in.”

  Jackson sighed again. Holcomb was right. He should have seen it himself.

  Maybe he was getting too close to this thing. “There’s gotta be another way in,” he repeated.

  “This drug shit,” rumbled Martinez. “For the kids, it’s cops and robbers, getting high, givin’ the finger to the Navy regs. For the dealers, it’s money. Find a guy with lots of money, more money than he oughta have, and lean on him. Maybe get lucky.”

  “I haven’t seen anybody on board wearing banker’s clothes,” Brian said.

  “You say banker?” asked Jackson, looking at Martinez.

  “Shit, yeah, the banker,” Martinez said. “The loan shark.”

  “Garlic,” Jackson and Martinez said together.

  “You guys just lost me,” Brian said.

  “Garlic, the mess decks MAA. Big fat guy. The head cook. He’s the ship’s loan shark. You know, we get to Subic, a guy runs out of liberty money, he goes to see the loan shark. Garlic loans him five for six: Every five bucks you borrow, you pay back six on the next payday.

  You borrow two hundred bucks, you owe two forty next payday. Ship’s gonna go back out on the line for six weeks, that’s three paydays.

  Plenty of time to pay it back, specially when you ain’t got nowhere else to spend it when we’re on the line.”

  “And Garlic has cash. Always has lots of cash,” said Jackson.

  “At those rates, he ought to have cash,” muttered Brian. “I thought this sort of thing was illegal.”

  “It is,” Jackson said. “But most ships let it go on as long as the chiefs keep an eye on it, make sure there’s no enforcers getting loose.

  Somebody’s always going to go into business, so the theory is better to know who it is and what he’s doing than to have it out of control.”

  Brian thought of Martinez when Jackson mentioned enforcers; what else was the boatswain but an enforcer for the XO? But what was the connection between the loan shark and the drug business?

  “So what we have to do is to tie Bullet to Garlic,” Jackson was saying.

  “If we can show that drug money is somehow tied to Garlic’s bank, we might be able to break the whole thing up—if it is.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Martinez. “Take their money, they can’t buy no resupply.

  You could really put the hurt on ‘em.”

  “How would you do it?” asked Brian.

  “I get one of my snitches to make a buy with marked money, say a bunch of twenties,” Jackson said. “Then I wait a couple of weeks and get Garlic’s owe-me list. Like I said, he operates with the chiefs’ permission, so to speak. I call his fish in, see if I can find any of the marked bills. I also check with the ship’s store operator, see if any of those twenties are back in circulation. If they are, it means the drug guy is investing instead of just stashing.”

  “How’s that get you to the kingpin?”

  “Only the main man is going to have enough money to invest it with Garlic’s bank. The boats here and I lean on Garlic.”

  “I’ve seen Garlic. That would take some leaning.”

  “I’ll lock him up in an offline boiler. Fat guy like that, he’ll talk to me,” said Martinez. Brian shuddered at the thought.

  “But first we have to get some marked money out. I’m going to have to wait until after we get back out on the fine again, because otherwise, it’ll just go ashore,” Jackson said.

  “Shit, that’s going to take a while,” Brian said.

  “It’s the only lead we have right now, unless the Marcowitz case comes up with something once we get in. In the meantime, I’m going to put the eye on Bullet Wilson.”

  San Diego Maddy turned on the evening news and looked at her sunburned arms in disgust. This is going to peel tonight and I’m going to look like a damn leper at work tomorrow.

  She had spent Saturday with the wives at the North Island Naval Air Station’s Navy beach, where Mrs. Huntington had reserved a family cabana for the afternoon and evening. There had been enough children flitting around the beach that all of the women had to assume Mom duty, taking turns overseeing playtime and then generally interfering with one another to cook hamburgers and hot dogs over a charcoal fire that had taken forever to get going.

  Tizzy Hudson had even shown up, which was something of a rarity. She had not joined in the surrogate motherhood activities, choosing instead to spread out a large beach towel and soak up some rays. Maddy had enjoyed watching how the male traffic patterns on the beach changed when Tizzy arrayed herself in a careless sprawl, her gold bikini glinting in the afternoon sun. She had wandered over.

  “What’s that thing made of, Reynolds Wrap?”

  Tizzy had grinned beneath her opaque sunglasses. “If I get it wet, it’s even more interesting.”

  “Well, I swear, Tizzy. One would think you’re fishing instead of sunbathing.”

  “Well hell, Maddy, it is the beach. I sure as hell don’t come down here to swim in this frigid water. How you and Mr. Autrey doing, dear?”

  Maddy had looked around quickly to make sure none of the other wives could overhear. She plopped down beside Tizzy; in her Bermuda shorts and knotted jean blouse, she felt like a frump next to long, tall Sally there.

  “If you can keep that delirious mouth of yours shut, I’ll tell you. And the answer is, we are not doing anything.

  He asked me to go to dinner with him, and I … well, I felt I owed him that courtesy, given what he did for mee.”

  “And what exactly does he do for you, Maddy?”

  “Did. The operative word is did. He’s a pretty exotic guy, actually—teaches Marine officers how to take care of themselves when they go behind enemy lines, or so he says. But I went to dinner, and that’s that, okay?”

  Tizzy had flopped over on her tummy and slowly adjusted the bottom of her bikini, causing two officers walking along the beach to collide.

  “If you say so, Maddy,” she said. “But you sure are sensitive about all this. I mean, if all you did was go to dinner with this guy, what’s the big deal? He didn’t ask you out again, did he?”

  “Nope. And if he should, I’m not available. Hell, Tizzy, think of the trouble I’d be in if anyone found out—”

  “Found out what, for crying out loud? Just for grins, you went to MCRD—with me, I might add, although that might not be held in your favor by this bunch—you got in a little jam, this guy bailed you out, you went out to dinner with him to say thanks. So what? Fox would just laugh.”

  “Brian would not laugh,” Maddy had replied. “Definitely not.”

  Tizzy propped herself up on one arm. “The presumption being that you’ve done something wrong?”

  “Well, not if he thought it through. But I think it’s more a question of bad form—he’s stuck out there on that ship and his wife is going out with an unmarried man to the Grant Grill?”

  “Oooh, the Grant Grill. I like this guy’s style. Next time he calls, you tell him you’re married and serious about it, then give him my number.”

  Maddy had laughed. “And how do I describe you, Tizzy? Married and not serious about it?”

  Tizzy had pulled her sunglasses down on her nose to look at Maddy. “Why not, dearie—you don’t want him, do you?”

  Maddy had spent Sunday morning running household errands and recovering from sunburn, having been deceived once again by the cool beach breezes and the gentle San Diego sunlight into thinking that there was not much sun out. The tanning lotion had not done much to keep the red away and now she smelled like mothballs after lathering on a few pounds of a white sunburn cream.

  After an entire day with her ‘Navy family,’ as Mrs. Huntington was fond of calling them, she felt like she had done her duty for the week. And Saturday had been a good day, although everyon
e there recognized it for what it was—a diversion, a way to have a day out of the house, in company with other women who were all in the same spouseless boat. It was hard to be lonely and depressed when chasing a bunch of kids around the surf, even if none of them was hers. Her mind veered away from the subject of children. In her heart, she’ really wanted to start a family with Brian, but she could not bring herself to do it when Daddy was going to be away at sea for months on end. She sometimes wondered if that was an excuse, a way to cover up the real reason—her old phobia.

  Her father had left her; their father was not going to leave them, by God.

  Amidst the busy work, Maddy had just about managed to squeeze Autrey back into his box. She had mentally arrayed layers of excuses between what she had felt—she had to admit it, what her body had felt—and what she knew to be her true feelings about Brian. And her marriage.

  But that was the problem, wasn’t it? When Brian was gone for seven months, she didn’t have a marriage.

  Okay, so you focus on Brian, on your feelings for him, on your love for him and his for you. There, that’s straight, she thought. Her brain had no problem making the distinction, but she was having more trouble than she had anticipated keeping another facet of her personality in its box.

  Damn the man: The fact was, he could make Brian disappear by just standing there. And damn Tizzy Hudson. She acted as if she and Autrey were in this together just to get Maddy Holcomb into trouble.

  The phone rang. She got up to turn down the television and then went to the phone and picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Maddyholcomb.”

  She gripped the phone, pressing it tightly to her ear, and tried to think of what to say.

  “Got back tonight,” he was saying, his tone of voice easy, as if they had been having this conversation for an hour. “I’ve been up at Warner Springs—in the mountains east of San Diego, where the Navy runs the POW training camp. Man, you should see it. They have an honest to God prison camp: barbed wire, vicious-looking dogs, towers, searchlights, big ugly guards, even these scary interrogation rooms, the whole bit. Any officer going in country to Nam and all the aviators have to go through this course; they call it SERE: survival, escape, evasion, and resistance.

  They turn a class of about forty officers loose in a two-hundred-acre high desert area and then hunt them down with dogs and helos and round them up.

  Then they get to experience what a prison camp is like.

  Damn fine training. And you are trying to decide what to say to me, right?”

  She hesitated, swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s a good start. All the Gods smile on a woman who says yes.

  You don’t have to say anything else, because yes is the right answer.

  Wednesday night, there’s a dynamite folksinging group going to be playing at Parker’s Place, up on College Avenue, in the university district. They’re called The Three of Us; they do Peter, Paul, and Mary stuff. They’re from Long Beach, and they’re outta sight. I’ll be there from about nine-thirty.

  I’ll have a table right up front, because I’ve bribed the manager.

  Actually, he owed me a big favor and I’ve called it. Please come, Maddy Holcomb. Wednesday night. Nine-thirty. Dress casual. Parker’s Place. See you. Please.”

  She closed her eyes, lowering the phone to hold it in both hands but not hanging up. Now. Do it. Tell him thank you, but you can’t. Give him Tizzy’s number.

  Anything. But this is over. Good night. Goodbye. Then hang up. It’s easy. Just do it.

  But she didn’t. Okay, don’t tell him. Just hang up the phone. But she didn’t.

  Neither did he for a moment, but then, before she was ready, just as she was remembering to breathe, she heard the phone click and then the dial tone. She sighed and put the phone down. She hadn’t said yes. You hadn’t exactly said no, either. But I don’t have to go. I can just—I can just stay home, or I can go over to Tizzy’s, or I can—. Or you can go to Parker’s Place and listen to some folk music. Damn this man. Mr. Cool himself.

  Every time, he makes the decision mine.

  A jazz bar. She had done that scene in Boston many times, usually with some guy she was toying with, tantalizing a little bit. The music …

  well, the music wasn’t the point, was it? The music, the bar, the drinks, that was the playing field, and she had always been in charge.

  Her rules, her game. But Autrey: … well, Autrey was acting as if it was his rules, his game. She felt the old familiar challenge. And what the hell, this isn’t for score: He’s not going to do anything—that’s the beauty of it.

  He doesn’t paw, he’s not a covert toucher, not one of those clowns who get too close and breathe in your ear.

  You go in your own car, come home in your own car.

  Just like last time.

  Except the last time—well, that’s the damn problem.

  Yeah, but last time it was all the booze—champagne, red wine, liqueurs.

  That was the mistake. You can go this time and stick to Coca-Cola, or maybe have one beer.

  Yuk. Hate beer. Okay, but don’t drink. Don’t let that other part get out of control. Play it cool, listen to the music, and then go home.

  Recapture the game and the rules. Just another diversion, no different from going to the beach with the wives: one more day down.

  She sat down on the couch and gnawed her lower lip.

  That last bit was, of course, a bunch of BS. It was not at all like going to the beach with the rest of the WESTPAC widows. How did Brian put it, about the old Navy headquarters rule: the Washington Post test?

  If you would not want to read about it in the Washington Post, then don’t do it. If she wasn’t ready to tell Mrs. Hunting ton that she was going up to a bar in the university district with a single man, for the second time, to listen to some folk music, then she ought not to do it.

  Tell Mrs. Huntington? How about telling Brian?

  Fine. I just won’t do it. I didn’t say I would. End of problem. See?

  That was easy.

  On Tuesday, she had received mail from Brian. She had been delighted, almost relieved, to find the letter, until she read it. It was a say-nothing letter, just more about what they were doing, PIRAZ jargon, the weather, the Weapons Department. No more dirt about the drug incident or news on the prospects for his fitness report or how he was getting along with the captain and the exec and the other department heads. He closed with his usual

  “I love you and miss you.” Except for the closing, it was about as personal as a Navy newsletter. She sighed and put it down on the table with the bills. It was good to get mail, but she wished—oh well. During the Decatur deployment, he had occasionally written soulful letters, late-at-night letters—okay, love letters. These she had opened when the mail came, read a few lines, recognized them for what they were, and closed them back up at once, to be savored, again and again, just before she went to sleep. She sighed again.

  As she had flipped through the rest of the mail—the bills, a promotional flier from the Exchange, notice of a rate increase from San Diego Gas & Electric—she had to admit that her letters to him had not been much different.

  Her job, activities with the wives, progress with her backhand, a late-arriving allotment check, a mysterious noise in the car, all the mundane events of her life that she seized upon and even magnified to make the days go by. He’d been gone for over two months and she hadn’t written any love letters, either. Why was that? she wondered.

  Brian’s letter said he had little time to do anything but stand his watches and sleep, that he was port and starboard with Austin. Maddy did not know what that meant, and, not up to another verbal sparring match with Tizzy, especially after Autrey’s latest call, she phoned Angela Benedetti, a fellow department head’s wife. Angela was an abrupt, sensible woman from a large Italian family in New Jersey; she managed a family of four kids with an iron hand. She had been married to Vince Benedetti since he
was a fresh-caught ensign right out of Officer Candidate School. She was normally bright and cheery on the phone, but tonight she seemed to be down. She told Maddy that she had received almost no mail from Vince, which usually meant he was struggling, if not over his head, in his current assignment.

  “Vinnie’s a trooper, you know? He slugs away at it, whatever they hand him, and he usually gets it done. But he can’t handle problems when the command won’t admit they’re there, like all the druggies he’s got down in the holes.”

  “Brian mentioned in one of his letters that drugs were involved in whatever went wrong with the shooting mission, but he hasn’t said any more about it.”

  “Yeah, see? There’s something funny going on in the Hood on the drug scene. I think Vinnie knows but feels he’s gotta go along with it, and he doesn’t like it, you know what I mean? He gets like that, I don’t get any mail. So, enough already. How you doin’?”

  “De, lonely, horny.

  Feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Yeah, right, the usual.” Angela laughed.

  “But I had a question: What’s port and starboard mean? Brian says he’s port and starboard with Austin.”

  “Means Brian is standing watch six hours on, six hours off, alternating with Mr. High and Mighty. That’s kind of a bitch, although I’ve gotta say, the enlisted engineers do it all the time. Practically speaking, it means the guys stand their watches, grab some chow, hit their racks, and get up again in five hours to do it all again, day in, day out. It’s okay for the enlisted; that’s all they have to do anyway when the ship’s out at sea. Really makes the time go by. But for the officers, with all that paperwork and the personnel stuff on top of their watch duties, port and starboard gets old quick. Especially if he’s stuck with the mids, which I suspect Prince Austin or whatever they call that jerk has sniffed off onto Brian. Hey, that also might explain why I’m not seeing much mail. It probably means Vinnie’s off the CIC watch bill so’s he can keep an eye on all those potheads he has running around in the boiler rooms. And knowing Vinnie, he feels bad about putting the other two guys in port and starboard, and so he’s spending twenty-six hours a day in the main spaces.