We just need to know a name.
Now, you want I should go away again, give you some more time to, uh, think about this? I can do that, you know, leave the bosun here to, uh, stimulate your thoughts, so to speak. That what you want?”
Garlic closed his eyes and gave a weak cough, covering his mouth with his left hand. Jackson could see a trace of bright red blood on his hand when he finished. Then he realized Garlic probably couldn’t talk so well.
Martinez leaned forward and tapped Garlic on the shoulder. “You tell him what you told me, asshole.”
Garlic moaned, wiped his mouth, and then shook his head weakly. Jackson got his attention.
“Hey, listen up. We think it’s Bullet—EM One Wilson.
Are we right?”
Garlic nodded, his eyes closed.
“And it is drug money, isn’t it?”
Another nod. Garlic’s mouth was filling with something.
Jackson thought he looked really bad.
“And you’re ready to tell this to the XO or to a court martial, with no second thoughts, right?”
Another nod, smaller this time. Garlic was sitting a little crooked in his chair.
Jackson looked up at Martinez, who nodded. Martinez lifted Garlic’s triple chins with the edge of the wrench, gave him a steely look, and then left the office. Jackson, with one last look at Garlic, followed him out and closed the door. He thought he heard a trash can moving across the deck inside.
“Let’s go to my office,” Jackson said.
“Funny thing,” muttered Martinez as they headed toward Broadway.
“What’s that?”
“After I got his attention, he gimme Bullet like we figured.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Then he had a problem with something’ in his throat, started mumblin’.
I asked him how they worked the money—how he and Bullet moved it around. He said—I think he said—that he just got it from ‘em from time to time and then loaned it out.”
Jackson stopped in front of his office to unlock his door. “Right. The operation accumulates cash, you get a wad built up, give it to Garlic—”
“No, you ain’t seem’ it. He said them, not him. He got it from them.
Like they wuz two of ‘em.”
“Two kingpins? Naw. These druggies don’t work that way. They’re like animals with a territory. One boss animal per patch. These assholes aren’t into sharing.”
As the two chiefs hurried by, Rocky stood motionless in the back shadow of the scullery gripping the stainless steel counter with both hands and trying not to breathe.
Alerted earlier that something was up, he had watched their visitation to Garlic’s office through the tray window in the scullery after securing the mess decks. He had seen Jackson go in first and had listened to Chief Martinez settle himself on a locker not two feet away on the other side of the bulkhead. Then Jackson had closed the door. He had frozen in place, not wanting to take the slightest chance of attracting Martinez’s attention. When Martinez had crept to the door, where he would be close enough to listen, Rocky had let his breath out in tiny little puffs, a cold feeling spreading in his stomach as he bent over and watched through the tray window.
This was not good at all. Bad enough to have Jackson talking to Garlic after hours, but with Martinez along, it meant Jackson wanted something very specific from Garlic—like maybe some kind of confirmation about Bullet.
Trapped in the scullery until both Jackson and Martinez had gone, he had been considering the possibilities when he had seen Jackson come out, to be replaced by the monster. He heard what happened next. There had been a flare of light from the galley door as old man Steiner had come out to see if the overhead had fallen in.
The light had disappeared. Moments later, Garlic’s door had opened and Jackson had gone back inside Garlic’s office. He would have given anything to have heard what was being said, but he didn’t really have to: This had to be about drugs. The sons of bitches had figured out the money angle. Now, the big question: Who was Garlic going to finger—both of them, or just him, or just Bullet?
His ribs still hurt from his last encounter with Garlic, so he felt a tiny bit of satisfaction that Garlic was now getting his. But the fact remained that the operation was probably blown all to hell, and the baddest badass in the boat would soon be on somebody’s trail. He shivered at the thought.
He had been about to steal out of the scullery and get gone while they were still in there when Garlic’s door had opened again and he had heard Jackson say something about his office. He had frozen again as the chiefs went by. Now, what did they know? He could go to the office and try to eavesdrop, but if Garlic had fingered him and Monster Man caught him, he’d be dead meat. On the other hand, Jackson had been bird-dogging Bullet, not him. If Garlic had fingered only Bullet, then he, Rock heart, could show up at the MAA’s office on a pretext, listen outside, and, if caught, say he had to see the Sheriff. He had to go for it. He had to know.
He looked both ways out the small tray window and then let himself out of the scullery, locking the door behind him. He walked quickly forward to Broadway and then stopped. He could just see the CMAA office, thirty feet down the passageway. There was light coming out from under the door. It took everything he had to walk to that door, treading on his tiptoes, hoping fervently that nobody else would come waltzing down Broadway just then.
“So now we know, what do we do about it?” Martinez was asking.
Jackson sat in his chair, while Martinez stood with his back against the door. “Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” he said.
“I can go get him, break his ugly neck, and throw his ass over the side,” Martinez said helpfully.
Jackson grinned. “No, I want the satisfaction of busting his ass and shipping him off to pound some government rocks. The problem is, now that we know what we know, how do we nail his ass good enough for a court.”
“Buy some dope?”
“I don’t think so. The two controlled buys I’ve made in the past six months have been from pretty junior people. The guy who runs one of these operations never sees the customers and they never see him.”
“Those buys from black guys?”
“Yup. Both of ‘em, which confirms what Marcowitz told me. Actually, it’s a pretty clever system—the chances of a black guy ratting out on another brother are slim to none. Even if it’s just a small hard-core bunch doing it, any guy who buys, especially any white guy, has to feel that all of them would come get his ass if he ever talked about it. And the bad guys will stand by one another as a matter of racial pride.”
“All that shit’s gonna come up, we go after Bullet.”
“True. I think the next step is to talk to Holcomb, tell him what we’ve found out. Maybe he can think of a way to get at Bullet and his gang.”
“How’bout the XO?”
Jackson shook his head. “I don’t think so, not yet. If he was dicey about the drug angle, he’ll be really dicey about the racial angle.
First, I’m gonna talk to Holcomb.”
“You probably ought not to tell him how we convinced Garlic to talk to us; he’s too much a straight arrow for that kinda news.”
“Yeah. I’ll just say Garlic decided to cooperate rather than lose his little banking business. Holcomb’s a good head; he’ll probably figure it out, but if we don’t tell him—”
“He don’t know it for a fact. Yeah, I like the guy. I think he’s getting’ his ass inna crack over the mast cases.”
“Probably—what the hell was that!”
Rocky’s heart was pounding when he finally heard the name Bullet. They were talking about how to get evidence on Bullei, not him. Now he could—
Shit! He nearly jumped right put of skin when a hand touched his shoulder. He whirled around, forgetting where he was or what he had been doing. It was Seaman Coltrane, the side cleaner, the guy who couldn’t talk, out on another one of his walks in never-never land.
&nb
sp; “Coltrane, what the fuck are you doing out here?” he demanded in a loud voice, just as the CMAA’s door swung open and the figure of Martinez filled the doorway.
“What’s going’ on out here?” rumbled the boatswain, looking from Rockheart to Coltrane. Jackson was trying to see under Martinez’s shoulder.
“I was coming up the passageway and this guy was standing here outside your door, Sheriff, like he was listening or something,” replied Rocky, his voice a touch higher than usual. He had a hold on Coltrane’s left biceps, as if about to take him into custody. Coltrane looked at all the faces around him, blinking at everybody and making a gargling noise in his throat. Jackson stepped around Martinez and looked down at Coltrane.
“Seaman Coltrane, you come to see me about something?”
If he had, it was now the last thing on Coltrane’s mind as he twisted away from Rocky’s grip and scuttled up the passageway toward First Division berthing.
“Crazy little fucker,” muttered Rocky, trying not to look at Martinez, who was staring at him.
“He’s okay,” said Martinez, still looking at Rocky.
“He works and he don’t talk, which is the opposite of what the rest of those dickheads do.”
“Why are you still up, Rocky?” Jackson asked.
“Two guys got into it over a seat at the movie; I went back to M Division compartment to make sure they didn’t continue it back there.
Snipes, what can I tell you.
I was on my way to OI berthing. It’s all cool back there.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Right, Sheriff,” Rocky said as he headed forward.
Rocky hurried forward once he was out of Broadway, his thoughts tumbling over one another. They had Bullet, or at least his name. Garlic had squealed, probably in return for getting to stay in business. What would Bullet do when they went after him? That was the question. Would it do him any good to finger Rocky? Not if the Sheriff still thought that Bullet was the main man; any accusations he made against Rocky would be just accusations. And they wouldn’t believe him—unless Garlic corroborated.
Then he would be in the shit. So the trick was to silence Garlic. That would leave Bullet swinging and Rocky safe.
Wait a minute. Martinez had done something to Garlic back there in the galley office. Three big thumps, and then Jackson is in and out of there in a few minutes.
Suppose … suppose Garlic’s injuries were worse than Martinez or Jackson knew? Suppose he had some internal injuries, took a while to do their damage? He owed that fat fuck for busting his chops. He stopped dead in the missile magazine’s passageway and looked at his watch: 2240—about a half hour to midrats time. Maybe, if he moved real fast.
He doubled back, climbed one ladder, and headed back down Broadway. He hesitated when he got near the CMAA office, but there was no light showing under the door, so he walked boldly by, pretending he wasn’t afraid. What the hell. He was an MAA; nobody would question what he was doing up, especially when he had taken movie duty in place of Marsden.
When he got to the mess decks, it was dark and quiet except for Steiner in the galley. He looked at his watch again. In fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, the midrats mess cooks would show up. Unless one of the other cooks had been rousted, Garlic was supposed to have soup made and something to eat out on the line by 2315.
He looked around the mess decks again to be sure he was alone, then knocked softly on the door of the galley office. Nothing. He knocked again.
“Garlic, it’s me, Rocky. Open up, man. I gotta talk to you.”
There was a groan from inside and the sound of a chair moving, then silence.
“Garlic, I know what happened. I saw the fuckers who did it. Let me in, man. I’ll get you some help. Those chiefs can’t do this kind of shit.
Unlock the door.”
There was another minute of silence and then Rocky heard the door being unlocked. He waited and then pushed it open.
Garlic was half in, half out of an armchair. His face was deathly pale and he held a blood-soaked rag to his mouth. His little pig eyes were pinpoints of pain. The clear plastic bag in the trash can under the desk was filled with blood-soaked rags and paper towels. Garlic looked like a wounded whale, but there wasn’t a mark on him.
Rocky went over to him and knelt down on one knee.
“Goddamn, man. What’d that bastard do to you?”
Garlic tried to talk, but he could only groan, covering his mouth again as more blood welled up. He was having trouble breathing and he was inches from falling on the deck.
“You want me to get the doc, man? I can get the doc—”
Garlic tried to nod his head, but then he began coughing on his own blood. He tried to get up but finally lost his balance and fell over onto the deck like a 250 pound sack of potatoes. Rocky had to jump to get out of the way. He looked down on the hugely fat man sprawled on the galley deck, doubled over as he fought for breath and spraying bright red blood out of his nose.
This is the only guy who can finger you, Rockheart thought. They’re after Bullet as the main man, and only this obscene piece of shit can corroborate anything Bullet might say when they arrest his ass. Yeah, but you don’t get the doc in here right fucking now, you’re talking murder here, man. Big step up from moving a little dope.
Garlic moaned again from the deck as he slipped in and out of consciousness. But you didn’t kill him; that gorilla did. Bullshit. You found him. You don’t call for help and he croaks, you own a big piece of it. And if he dies that way, it’s no help, man. As long as it’s called a murder, this ship will be swarming with cops, NIS, feds, the works.
Whole thing’s gonna blow up.
He thought fast. Gotta fix it. Gotta make it look like something else.
Garlic moaned again, his breathing taking on a rasping sound. Rocky stepped over the mounded heap that was Garlic and reached down to feel his pulse along his neck. He had to feel for a long time to find it, moving his finger around a deep crease in all that fat to find the big artery, and when he did, he pressed down hard with his thumb. Bust up my ribcage, will you?
Garlic made a grunting sound but did not really move, and after a couple of minutes, he stopped breathing.
Rocky made sure, then straightened up. Fat bastard was finished, anyway; he just speeded it up. Now let them go after Bullet.
He looked at his watch again. One minute before 2300.
He looked around the galley office, saw the plastic trash bag full of bloody rags and paper, and the rag Garlic had had in his hand. He grabbed the rag and the plastic bag, secured the bag, and began to scrunch it up as tightly as he could get it. He looked back at Garlic, lying in an inert heap on the deck, a thin trickle of blood coming from his mouth and nose. Heart attack. Stroke. Big fat guy like that. That’s what’d they say. And ole Garlic, he’d have nothing to say at all.
He flicked on the other overhead light, turned on the adding machine, and spread some papers across the desk, knocking a few onto the deck with his hand. He upended Garlic’s chair, then reached down and took Garlic’s fat right paw and put it up to his neck, as if he had grabbed himself, choking maybe. He headed for the door, taking one last look around. Perfect, fucking perfect.
He cracked the door open and looked out. The mess decks were still dark.
The mess cooks would be here in ten, fifteen minutes for midrats. He wiped off both sides of the door handle with the rag, checked again, then reached inside and locked the door before pulling it closed. He went aft this time, heading for the nearest weather-deck door, out by the fantail, the plastic trash bag rolled up under his arm like a slicker. As he hurried through the red-lighted passageways, he considered what he had done: He had saved his ass, that’s what. And the beautiful part of it was that Martinez would think he had killed Garlic.
Rocky’s only regret was not knowing where Garlic kept his bank.
At 2340, Brian was being relieved by Vince Benedetti when the bridge called
in on the bitch box.
“Combat, Bridge, Evaluator?”
Brian still technically had the watch, so he answered up. The OOD, Lieutenant (junior grade) Bendtner, asked him to pick up the bat phone.
He obviously wanted to speak privately, but without calling the CO in the process.
“Yeah, Paul. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a report from the mess decks that the head cook, Garlic Wol-something or other, has been found dead in his office.”
“Holy shit. Any idea of what happened?”
“They called in the doc, and he says it looks like a heart attack or a stroke. Maybe both. Garlic is, or was, that big fat guy, the mess decks master-at-arms and the senior stew burner. I’ve notified the XO and the Old Man.”
“Yeah, I know who he is. What’s the plan?”
“The plan is to get about a dozen guys to carry him to sick bay. I think they’re gonna bag him up, put him in one of the reefers overnight, and send him on down to the carrier. The Sheriff’s down there, and he says there’s no sign of foul play. Just looks like the guy had a seizure of some kind and croaked. His office was locked. They didn’t find him until the mess cooks realized there was no chow for midrats.”
“Bet that dampened appetites somewhat. Okay. Are there some reports that have to be made?”
“Yes, sir, but XO’s gonna take care of it; a personnel casualty report is the first thing that’s gotta go out. XO says they’ll probably take him to Da Nang, box him up, and ship him home with all the rest of the boxes they send outta there.”
“Lovely. Okay. I’m sorry the guy’s dead. I’ll pass on what’s happened to Mr. Benedetti.” Brian hung up and told Vince the story. Vince shook his head. “Not too surprising,” he said. “The guy was huge. And he smoked perpetually. Okay, Brian, I got it.
This is Mr. Benedetti, I have the evaluator watch.”
After a chorus of
“Aye, aye, sir”, Brian left Combat and went down to the wardroom. The stewards had recycled the evening meal as midrats, so Brian elected to hit the peanut butter and jelly, accompanied by a glass of reconstituted milk. The 2000 to 2400 watch section was relaxing in the wardroom, taking the luxury of their time because they knew they had a full night’s sleep coming to them, even though it was just after midnight.
The Edge of Honor Page 53