by Ed Griffin
"Need paint?" she asked.
"No. Great place for posters."
The door to the club was ajar. Old dusty offices lined the wall on the left. They had military titles and letters on the doors. To the right there was a ballroom with a stage up front. Through the dusty darkness of the room they could see a broken window and a stage curtain billowing in the wind.
"Gil, a ballroom!" She clutched his hand tightly and smiled. "Our daughter will have her first dance here."
"Slow down, fine lady, we haven't even - " He paused and squeezed her hand in return. "A ballroom."
"Take me around the floor once, like you used to, Gil."
He held her and moved her around to the music she hummed. "Jesus, Jesus, it's good to be with you," he said. "Thank you for coming here. I love you."
She hugged him. "Ah, Gil, come on, we can see this place another time. Let's go home."
He turned her back toward the entrance to the ballroom. "Look at that bar," he said pointing across the hall. They walked across and looked at the polished wooden bar, the round tables and chairs, neatly stacked in the corner. The walls and the bar were done in a nautical motif and old anchors, fishnets, and harpoons were scattered about.
"This is perfect!" he said. He glanced back at the series of offices. "And offices and - let's keep going."
As they walked down the hall a middle-aged man in coveralls walked toward them, his eyes on the ceiling, following an exposed water pipe. He had been a few ahead of them in line at the air terminal. He reminded Latisha of the handyman in her apartment, not that they looked alike, but that they both presented themselves to the world as possessed of the only real truth - the secrets of plumbing.
"This is your water main," the man said pointing to the pipe in the ceiling.
"Is that right?" Gil answered.
"Yeah, it's in pretty good shape. You should see some of the buildings, pipes ripped apart. Earthquake did it, you know. Name's Nelson," the man said offering his hand.
"I heard of you. They call you The Plumber."
"Right. Studied it in the joint."
"Any idea when we'll get water hooked up again?"
"Nope. You'll get it right in your turn. Houses first."
"If we got running water, we'd sure be grateful. And indoor toilets."
"You and everybody else. Fresh water first, then the toilets. Just have to be patient."
Latisha smiled to herself. This man was no maybe man. This was a man of yes and no.
"I mean, we'd pay extra," Gilmore said and winked. "A few extra dead presidents in your wallet. You could buy better tools."
He patted a crescent wrench on the side of his coveralls. "Tools I have are fine."
"I'm Boss Gilmore, you know."
"I know." Nelson gestured with his hand. "Damn fine building. Villa wants it for a family rec. center."
Gil looked irritated. "Yes."
Nelson stared at him for a second then turned to her. "Nice to meet you, Ma'am. Gotta follow this pipe. Ain't no damage I can see."
She watched him go, smiling to herself. She had just witnessed a first. Somebody told Boss Gilmore no.
"I didn't know Villa wanted this building."
He ignored her and walked further down the hall, where he opened a set of double doors to reveal a small dining room. The wallpaper was brown and peeling and water had damaged some of the ceiling tiles, but the room had a dignity about it that suggested it might have been an officer's mess.
Gilmore shook his head. "Unbelievable." At the back of the dining room they found a well-preserved kitchen with a stainless-steel service counter and a full set of pots and utensils.
She put her hand on the service counter. "My mother used to run a kitchen like this before she met my father. Oh - that reminds me. Your mother gave me a letter for you."
Gilmore took the letter with a look that said he knew what was in it. Latisha could guess, too. She liked Gil's mother. For two years Mother Gilmore took the bus every weekend from Detroit to prison to see him.
Gil read the letter and handed it to her. It said she was happy he was going to Adak with Latisha and it ended on what Latisha recognized as a usual Mom Gilmore theme:
James, I probably won't live until you return in fifteen years, so please, for me, lead a good life on Adak. Love Latisha, have children, raise a family. Use your abilities for good, not evil. I will see you in the next life.
"She's a good woman," Latisha said.
First he responded with a quick 'Yeah,' but then he stopped as if to remember his mother. "Yes, she is."
"Gil, do we have to tour this place right now? Can't we go to our house?"
"Almost finished."
"I thought you wanted to - you know."
He laughed easily and swung his arm around her. "Come on, it's only gonna take a minute more."
They walked through the dining room and down a long hallway. What looked liked hotel rooms lined the hallway. "Damn," he said, at the end, "it's damn near perfect."
"Perfect for what?"
He ignored her question and opened the door to the last room. As he was about to enter, a door from the outside opened. The wind and rain howled in, followed by Carl Larson struggling with a wooden crate.
Latisha shivered at the look of the man, his massive size, his small mean eyes. This was the husband of the drunken woman on the plane who had spilled all the newspaper clippings on the floor. This man was the I-65 killer.
"Hey, Boss," he said with a slow, dull voice, "This is the second load of stuff I've hauled from Clam Lagoon. There's at lease three more loads. This weather is the shits."
Suddenly his eyes were all over her. Gilmore nudged himself in front of her, but Larson looked around him.
Rainwater dripped from his face, off his chin. He looked like he was drooling. His mouth was sensual, greedy. A wave of terror swept through her.
Gilmore blocked his view again. "Take it down to the office, Larson. Now."
Larson grunted and, with another look at her, sauntered down the hall.
"He scares me," she said.
"A mean bastard. Kind of a sad story."
"What?"
"They lived in New Orleans. Larson took their little boy down to the docks one day when he was doing a deal. The boy wandered off, fell in and got chewed up by the propeller of a freighter."
"Oh, that's a tragic story."
"Larson snapped after that. A week later he did the first of the I-65 killings. And his wife became a hopeless drunk."
"Who did he kill?"
"You don't want to know."
"Who?"
"Women driving alone on the road. He'd ram their cars from behind, then…."
She shivered. "I thought you said these were reformed convicts. And what was he carrying? Does he work for you?"
Gilmore opened the door to the room they were standing in front of. "Come on, let's have a look."
Latisha did not move. "What was he carrying?"
"Come on, Latisha."
"No."
"Ah, it's just liquor. I told you I'm opening a club. These guys need to relax. I had some Inuits drop it before the Feds controlled the island."
"Damn. Villa's trying to - "
"Ah, come on, Latisha. Prison makes things a lot worse by denying everything. The idea in life is to learn how to use things like alcohol intelligently."
She shook her head. "I want to go home."
"Let's just take a look at this room, fine lady, come on."
She shrugged and walked into the room behind him. East and south there were windows presenting views of barren hills, low black clouds, and rain. The room contained a single bed, a dresser, a simple desk, and a bathroom. A thick layer of dust covered everything. "What do you think?"
"It's a small hotel room. Dusty."
"I mean if we got a double bed?"
"What?"
"It would only be temporary. I've got to be on call. I've got to get things started before anyone else do
es."
"You mean there is no house? This is it?"
"Yes."
"Shit." She stomped her foot and walked out of the room. "Take me back up the hill where everyone else is staying."
"But, Latisha…"
"Now." She started down the long corridor. He followed.
When they reached the car, she got in and he tried unsuccessfully to start it. After several attempts, she returned to the room he had shown her without saying a word. She went in, locked the door and pushed the dresser in front of the door. Facing the window, she watched the wind whip the tundra grasses.
She put her hand over her mouth and knew she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Chapter 9
Frank had promised Judy he'd be home shortly, but he wasn't doing very good. When he finished carrying the body of the man killed by the piece of roof to Doc's clinic, he returned to the airport to find the lights out. Frank struggled through the rain to the power plant, only to find no one on duty. He had to return to the airport to find out who had that assignment and where he lived. Then he had to walk to the man's house. "Be damned," the man said, "didn't even notice the lights were out. Me and the old woman been sort of busy."
The man accompanied Frank back to the power plant where Frank found Doc waiting for him. Doc's thin hair was still wet, but he now wore a dry sweatshirt with ARMY printed on it.
"You in the army?" Frank asked.
"Wise ass. The feds are gone. We got to post a guard on the airport."
"Who?"
"How the hell should I know? You're the leader of Adak. By the way, what's with the medallion?"
Frank looked down. He forgot he was wearing it. "Nelson gave it to me. It's the wind god, Williwaw."
"Shit. I thought you were trying to look boss for all these females around here. Chains and medals, that turns 'em on."
Frank snorted in derision.
Doc raised an eyebrow. "You see Boss Gilmore's woman?"
"Yes."
"Now that's one fine piece of ass. You been home yet, Frank, with your woman?"
Frank felt a pang of guilt. "No."
"Me neither. Shit, man, that's gotta be the scariest part of the day. I go home and take my clothes off in front of my lovely, prison-provided wife, Hanna, the Hag." Doc scratched his head. "I forget where everything goes."
"I'm sure you'll remember."
"Well, let's go," Doc said, starting for the door. "Face the music."
"I can't leave the airport."
Doc stuck up his middle finger. "Fuck the airport."
"We can't let Gilmore have it."
"Okay, Frank," Doc said, slightly annoyed. "You take a couple of hours, then I'll relieve you. I'll get you a rifle."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"I'll guard the airport without a rifle."
"You're crazy, Frank."
Doc left and Frank stood guard. Alone, he reviewed his discussion with Doc. It was crazy to stand guard without a weapon, but what about his vow of no violence?
Darkness came and the rain continued. He heard drunken shouts echoing off the barren hills and occasional gunfire. The wind and rain came in through the hole in the roof. The air was muggy, but the wind brought the smell of the sea.
It felt good to be alone. Yes, Judy was waiting for him, but he could figure things out better by himself.
What to do about Judy? They were in two different worlds. It was as if they had danced together a long time ago, then they had each gone on to new places where they were respected. She owned a house and had a salable past at Gold's. He had conquered the world of knowledge and had started an innovative prison. They had little in common.
His knees hurt and he wanted a cigarette. He pictured her nude, rolling in the bed with him. But who was she? What would they talk about?
Two hours passed, then another two and still Doc did not show. At midnight he figured the airport was safe for the night. Maybe he should go home, but Doc was probably busy with some medical emergency, which he should know about as the leader of Adak.
He set off for the hospital, walking north into the wind. It took several minutes to walk the short distance, the wind fighting him, ripping off his parka hood. As he struggled forward, Frank felt his energy drain. He'd been awake for thirty-six hours, hours filled with worry and decision. Freedom was wonderful, but it was damn tiring.
At the hospital, Frank found Doc busy, concentrating on a patient in the middle of the crowded beds. Frank debated going home, but then decided to wait for Doc. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall by the door.
He watched Doc work. Even at sixty the man looked lean and hard. He was doing a ten-year bit for selling drugs and for writing phony prescriptions. He told Frank once about his nightmare. "The judge cursed me at my sentencing," Doc said. "He stared at me for a full minute, then said, 'I hope to God you come to know the horror of young people dying of drugs, Doctor Raymond.'"
Doc told the story without his usual foul vocabulary. "I tell you, Frank, ever since I've had this recurring nightmare. Young body after young body rolls off a hospital gurney, dead from overdose."
The door to the clinic opened and a man came in carrying a young man with a bloody shoulder. "Put the motherfucker over there," Doc ordered. "Over there, over there, on that table." Frank could see the fatigue in his motions. "Right, right, use the table, we're out of beds. One night on this fuckin' tropical paradise and there are no beds left in the hospital. What happened to this kid?"
"Gunshot, Doc," the man said. "He and I - had this fight. He's my son."
Frank shut his eyes tight. A gunshot victim. How was he going to stop the shooting?
Doc tore away the teen's shirt. "Easy now, turn him this way so I can see."
"We - just lost our tempers," the man said.
"Bullet's still in there," Doc said, ignoring the father. The young man moaned. A woman raced into the clinic and bent over the boy, a worried look on her face. She blocked Doc's light.
"Would you get the hell out of my way, lady? Do you want me to treat this dumb bastard or not? Go home or help the nurse or wash the floors or some damn thing." Doc pointed in Frank's direction, noticing him for the first time. "Go sit by our fearless leader."
The woman and the man walked toward Frank and joined him on the floor.
"Damn it, Hanna," Doc shouted, "get in here and help me."
Hanna came out of a rug-covered doorway. She had a well-proportioned face, a pretty woman, with a full figure. Her once-brown hair was now mostly gray. "Yes, sir, Mister Doctor, God, sir. You called?"
"Check the druggie, will you, old woman?"
"Yes, Doctor Small Dick."
Frank smiled at the banter, the affectionate insults. Not twenty hours previous they'd been married in the Anchorage airport:
"Hanna, do you take this man to be - "
"Is that what he is?"
"Doc, do you take this woman?"
"Do I have to?"
He was Doc's best man. Doc and Hanna had never met before last night, Hanna coming from a west-coast women's prison.
Frank closed his eyes. As soon as Doc was free, he'd talk to him - about how to get control of this island, then he'd head home to Judy. Outside the wind worked at a loose board on the building and occasionally a sheet of rain pelted the metal panels covering a hole in the wall. The Navy hospital had once been a fifteen bed facility with two surgical suites, an outpatient clinic and a pharmacy. Only a quarter of the building was usable now. In the next room a generator chugged, providing light, electric heat, and a lot of noise. He drifted into a light sleep.
"Doc." Hanna shouted suddenly. "This one's going." Frank awoke and stood up. Doc was racing for the patient in trouble.
"Son of a bitch, son of a bitch," he said, his voice rising, "don't die, you bastard, don't die." He pushed on the man's chest. "Come on, come on."
After a minute Doc's hands fell to his side. "God damn it. God damn it."
/> Frank walked over and put his arm around Doc. "Take it easy."
Doc shook his head. "That's number six. And seventeen wounded."
"Oh, my God. Doc. Six?"
"Six."
It was too much to handle. Suddenly Frank pictured himself lying on his bunk in prison, reading a book. In prison he was not responsible for others. People did not die on his watch. In fact, he had no watch.
Doc rested his hands on the bed and bent his head down, weariness overwhelming him. "I tried, Frank. The kid OD'd on something." Doc paused, then raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Listen, I'm sorry."
"Who you talking to, crazy man?" Hanna asked.
"Never mind. Just do your job."
She raised her hand in a mocking salute. "Yes sir, Mister Doctor, sir."
Doc looked at Frank. "It's that fuckin' Gilmore. Bet that's where this kid got the stuff."
Frank shook his head, dejectedly. "Can you break for coffee? Is there any in the back room?"
Doc nodded. "Let me finish the kid first," he said, pointing to the young man with the bullet wound.
Frank trudged through the rug-covered door into a small section of the old hospital that used to house the medic. On one side of a little hallway there was a bedroom and a bath, and on the other, a lab area converted into a kitchen. The kitchen had a refrigerator, hot plate, 36-cup coffee maker, and a large kitchen table. Two of the kitchen walls were temporary plywood. The roof leaked in several places. Half-unpacked suitcases and boxes were scattered about.
The whole place smelled like the basement apartment he and Judy first lived in.
Six dead.
Frank poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down at Doc's table and stared at the wall. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. He'd won all the battles. Here he was on Adak. His idea had passed Congress. The Bureau of Prisons had given him start-up money - half of what he'd asked for, but money still. Originally he'd asked for the equivalent of keeping the three hundred in prison for six months. Instead they gave him the amount for three months and they jockeyed the number down from the true figure of $150.00 a day to $100 a day.
And there was a factory, thanks to Congressman Murphy's friend, Alexander Duban. Jobs waited for people Monday morning and - most important - a source of future income was in place on Adak. The press said it was Alexander Duban who had convinced Congress to go along.