“Nobody is,” Krugman shrugged.
“That’s right, but they’re going to be because I’m going to make a big noise.”
“You gonna call in the Marine Corps, Lieutenant? That’s what it would take to police just part of this city. You’d have to put an officer in every crack house in the city, and you know how many that is.”
“I know.” Scarlotti nodded. “It’s like trying to keep a ship afloat that’s got about fifty holes in it. Every time you plug one, another one starts, and in the meanwhile all you can do is keep bailing.” He leaned forward, and his eyes burned with an intense fire. He lived for his department, for his work, and apparently the only joy he got out of life was seeing some criminal put behind bars. It had been the regret of Scarlotti’s life that capital punishment had gone out of favor, so that now all he could hope for was long sentences and no paroles. He hated to see men sent to the state penitentiary. He loved the federal prisons, for there was no parole from a federal prison.
Krugman sat there watching the wheels go around, almost, in his chief’s eyes. He had learned to read the man, and finally he was rewarded as Scarlotti said, “I’m going to make a big noise, Otto. So big that it’ll make every newspaper in the country.”
Interested, the sergeant leaned forward. “We going to move in on that Colombian that’s set up here? We know he controls the flow of drugs pretty much. If we could nail him.”
“We’ll get him, but he’s not ready yet. We have to have him standing over the body with a smoking gun. No. What I have in mind is something a lot simpler.”
A knock came at the door, and Scarlotti lifted his voice. “Get away from that door!” Then without breaking the pattern of his speech, he allowed the corners of his lips to turn up in a smile. This, in another man, would have been the equivalent of a huge burst of laughter, but Otto had scarcely seen Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti laugh. He wondered what was in the man’s mind, but whatever it was he knew that it would probably work. Scarlotti did not sponsor failures in the department, and Krugman knew this was something that the lieutenant had worked out completely.
“We’re going to bust Bobby Stuart.”
The statement came as a mild shock to Otto Krugman. He digested the essence of it, then shook his head. “From what I hear, it shouldn’t be too hard to set him up.”
“We don’t have to set him up. I’ve already had an inside man looking at the thing. He’s doping all the time now. If we can nail him, that’ll pass a message along to the young people of this country.”
Krugman wanted to argue. He wanted to say, “How many rock stars have already been busted, and how many kids have quit doping because of it?” He had long ago learned that once Scarlotti had his mind made up, it would take an act of Congress to stop him. So he simply said, “How are we going to work it?”
Leaning forward slightly and picking up the gold Cross pen, Scarlotti stroked it with his forefinger and thumb. It seemed to give him a sensual pleasure, and his eyes were almost dreamy as he said, “It’ll be in every tabloid and newspaper in the country.” Then he blinked and began to speak rapidly. “Here’s what we’ll do, Otto….”
The party was at Ossie Peabody’s house, and it had been limited to no more than twenty people, but each one of these twenty seemed to have brought a friend so that the house was packed with partyers. Ossie moved among his guests wearing a pair of chinos and a lavender T-shirt with the sleeves cut completely out. He was sleek and smooth and, as most of the others, his eyes were glazed. He murmured greetings to several guests and stopped once to put his arm around a young woman and whisper something in her ear. She looked up at him, gave him a blinding smile, and nodded with promise in her eyes. Moving on, Peabody stopped at the bar, and a young Filipino dressed in a white uniform served him a glass of brandy. He tossed it back and sat on the stool surveying the room, which was filled with smoke.
“Good party, man.” Bobby Stuart had come up to stand beside the drummer, and the two spoke for a time about various guests. Finally Peabody looked over at Stuart, and something troubled him. “You look washed out, babe,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned forward and examined Bobby’s eyes carefully. He noted the pale lips and then the trembling of the hands. “I think you maybe had enough,” he said under his breath. “You don’t look too good.”
“Must have gotten some bad dope,” Bobby said. He knew that he had drunk too much, and when one of the guests had offered him some pills that promised the biggest kick he had ever had, he had taken them. It had provided a sharp uplift, but then the effect passed over, and now he felt nauseated. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered.
“Come on, babe.” Ossie Peabody was the self-appointed caretaker of Bobby Stuart. He had been with him longer than anyone else, and only he was aware of the deep depression that seized Bobby periodically. It was Ossie who nursed him through some screaming fits that came after bad drugs, and now he took Bobby Stuart’s arm and piloted him through the crowd. He had almost reached the door of his bedroom when suddenly he was aware of shouting and screaming. Wheeling quickly, his eyes narrowing, he saw men piling in through the door and muttered, “Uh-oh! It’s a bust, Bobby! Somebody here must be a snitch. Quick, empty your pockets of those pills.”
It was too late. Stuart was growing sicker by the moment. The room was swimming, and the pills he was holding dropped to the floor. He was aware of a tall, bulky man with a pair of dark foreboding eyes who had come to stand before him. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Stuart, for possession of a controlled substance.”
“Hey, man. It’s just a party—” Ossie began. But one glance from those eyes, which were almost reptilian, shut him off. He recognized Mario Scarlotti, and said under his breath, “We’re in it now, Bobby. This is one tough cop!”
Bobby reached for his wallet. He was ready to throw up, and his head was spinning. Taking out a roll of bills, he shoved it toward the policeman and said, “Here, Lieutenant. Go buy yourself a Cadillac.”
Ossie whispered frantically, “Shut up, man!” He jerked the arm back, but it was too late. Scarlotti took the money, then turned to face Ossie. “It’ll be nice to have you witness against your friend. The charge now is bribing a policeman. Come along.”
“I gotta—call my lawyer.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of law there downtown. You can make your call, and you can have a bank of lawyers.” Scarlotti’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re going down on this one, Stuart.”
As Bobby was escorted outside, each of his arms in an iron grip of burly policemen, he threw a desperate glance at Ossie Peabody, but for once the self-assurance was gone. Ossie dropped his eyes and shook his head, and Bobby Stuart knew that he was in bad trouble.
The courtroom of Judge Bess Fryerson was perhaps the most controlled space in the city of Los Angeles. Judge Fryerson was a small woman of fifty with iron gray hair and direct blue-gray eyes, which she put on Bobby Stuart now as he came to stand before her. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and had been elected mother of the year two years earlier. Those outside of the courtroom knew her for her charm, for her generosity, and for her willingness to help in any cause that was worthy. She was widely admired by almost everyone—except those unfortunate men and women who came to stand before her as Bobby Stuart now did.
“She’s not a hanging judge,” one of the lawyers had told his client. “That’s too slow. She’s a guillotine judge, and heads have rolled out of her courtroom by the bushel baskets.”
“Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”
Bobby had been well drilled by his lawyer, Errol Baker—Baker, at least, was one of his lawyers. As Lieutenant Scarlotti prophesied, the bust had been highly publicized; the bail had been set at one million dollars, which Bobby had managed to make, and he had been on the program of good behavior ever since his arrest. Baker had told him, however, “It’s like locking the door after the chickens have been stolen, Bobby. The damage is done, and that dear lady is goi
ng to throw the book at you.”
As Bobby stood before Judge Fryerson, his mind seemed to scramble frantically. How did I get into all this? he thought. I can’t go to prison. It would kill me! He looked up at the judge with a speech ready, the one that Baker had grilled him on, but somehow nothing came. The trial had proved conclusively that Bobby had been guilty of using drugs, although Baker had foiled the attempt to prove that he had been selling them. This was ridiculous, for he had never sold anyone any sort of drug in all his life. He wanted to say, “Judge, you can’t put everybody in jail in Los Angeles that uses drugs,” but that thought died stillborn, and he remembered Baker’s admonition. “Don’t try to sweet-talk that lady on the bench. Don’t try to outthink her. Don’t try anything. Just tell her that you are guilty of using drugs, and you didn’t know what you were doing when you were offering Scarlotti a bribe.”
“Your honor,” Bobby said, his voice so thin that those spectators in the rear of the courtroom had to lean forward, “I’ve pleaded guilty to attempting to bribe a police officer, and, of course, I was on drugs when I did it.” The eyes of Judge Fryerson bored into his, and panic came to him. She’s going to put me in jail for a hundred years. He cleared his throat, then shook his head. “I was drunk, your honor, or I would never have tried such a thing. I don’t even really remember it. I know that’s no excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. I–I would ask for you to show leniency.”
Judge Fryerson had been prepared for more than this. She had never known a rock star, and all during the trial she had been mildly shocked by the manners of Bobby Stuart. He was quiet and subdued, not at all the smiling, frenzied young man she had seen on her screen so often. Secretly she was an admirer of rock music, and Bobby Stuart had been her favorite.
She had also been aware of Stuart’s family, for his father, Jerry, and his mother, Bonnie, had been in the courtroom and had served as character witnesses. She had also been aware of Bobby’s twin brother, Richard, whom she had met and whose work she knew. He was a genuine young man, Richard Stuart. The judge had pondered over the two young men whose pathways had gone in such different directions. Judge Fryerson had become interested in the family and was impressed with their credentials. Many of the Stuart men had served their country in the wars, and most of them were exemplary citizens, with the exception of Stephen Stuart, who had spent some time in prison.
All of this passed through Judge Fryerson’s mind. She had fought with her own conscience, for she never allowed sentiment to interfere with her sentences. Now, however, she looked at the young man who was waiting, his head held high and his lips pulled tight in a line of fear. She wondered if her original idea had been the best. She had a mind that worked like chain lightning, and sitting there she made an instant shift toward a much lighter sentence.
“Mr. Stuart, you’ve been tried and found guilty, and there is no question of that decision. Your plea that you were under the influence of alcohol and drugs is nothing to the point.” Judge Fryerson hesitated, her eyes turning toward Jerry and Bonnie Stuart. She saw the agony in their eyes and wondered what it was like, as a parent, to be in their position.
“You have more responsibility than most men, for all over this country young people look to you. You have failed miserably to show them what a man of honor should be….”
Bobby stood there facing the judge as his lawyer had instructed him, keeping his eyes on hers, and shame filled him as she continued to enumerate the failures of his life. Despair came to him then, for he could see but one end.
Finally Judge Fryerson said, “I sentence you to five years in the penitentiary.” She waited until the murmur had gone over the room, for it was a stiff sentence for a celebrity. She saw Bobby Stuart’s mother drop her head and knew that she was weeping; then she said, “Against my better judgment, I am suspending your sentence, and you will do community service during the period of your sentence.” She saw relief wash over the face of Bobby Stuart, and she leaned forward and said, “Mr. Stuart, I know this sounds very good to you right now, but I will be in touch with your parole officers. I am going to work closely with them, and let me say, if you step outside the line one time—one drug offense, one charge of any sort—you will be inside prison walls, and you will serve all of your term. Is that clear, Mr. Stuart?”
“Yes, your honor,” Bobby whispered, “—and thank you for your leniency.”
Once again the judge looked over at Bobby’s parents. “You have a fine family, and you have been a disgrace to them.” The judge’s voice rang like cold steel, not loud, but it entered into Bobby Stuart’s soul like a sword. “I am giving you a chance to become a decent, respectable member of this family. It will be your last chance, I think, Mr. Stuart.” Judge Fryerson picked up her gavel and smote the surface of the desk in front of her. “This court is dismissed!”
Bobby turned blindly, tears in his eyes, as his lawyer whispered in his ear, “It’s great, Bobby! It’s great! Couldn’t have been better.”
But Bobby paid no attention, for his parents were there, his mother’s arms around his neck and tears on her cheeks. He looked into his father’s eyes and saw the relief—but he could feel only shame. Others came, and he did not hear them, for he was saying deep in his heart, I can’t take another fall. I couldn’t stand it—and neither could my family.
Corporal Mark Stevens had become reconciled to the fact that the men who ran the war did not themselves understand it. When General Westmoreland had been asked to comment, he had said, “This is a different war than the Americans have ever been asked to fight.” When asked, “How is it different?” he had sputtered, “It’s just different.”
The Battle of Hue had been a hellish struggle for individual and corporate survival. It was not the bloodiest battle of the Vietnam War, but it was the hardest and bitterest, and even the coldest chronicles somehow revealed the white-hot fury of the battle that had raged.
Now, after Hue, there had been some lessening of the pressure, and Mark was sitting on the ground with three members of his squad wondering how they had made it through alive. He studied the face of Harold Stasom, the tall, blond wheat farmer from Minnesota; his glance moved to Johnnie Mayfield, a minor league pitcher for the Arkansas Travelers, and finally to Ike Cantor, an aluminum siding salesman from Detroit. The four of them were survivors, and bitterness rose up in Mark as he thought of the men who were not here but who had been carried away in body bags for burial back in the States.
The jungle around them brooded, it seemed, with some sort of tenacious threat that never left. Mark had forgotten what a full night’s sleep was like, and glancing at the strained faces of his buddies, he knew they were all stretched out tight.
Johnnie Mayfield was speaking of his days as a pitcher. He was a left-hander, and said, “I’m gonna play for the Washington Senators one of these days. You guys will say, ‘I knew him when he was only a hero in Nam.’”
The others all grinned, and Ike Cantor said, “I guess I must not have been there. When was all this heroic stuff that you pulled?”
“Why, you just don’t pay attention, Ike. I must have saved your life at least a dozen times, and you never even noticed.”
Ike Cantor summoned a grin and shook his head, saying nothing. He had a wife back in Detroit and a baby son he had never seen; Mark knew that his mind was preoccupied with his family, and he wished that the mail would come with good news.
Harold Stasom picked up a handful of dirt and let it run through his fingers. He watched the thick, gray soil as it fell to the ground and said in a discouraged voice, “I’d hate to try and farm this land.”
“Tell us again about that farm of yours,” Johnnie Mayfield said. “We haven’t heard it but about a thousand times.”
“Go on and laugh.” Stasom shook his head. “It’s all I want. Just let me get back to that farm and grow some wheat.”
The four men sat there knit together by the dangers and horrors of war. Finally after a time, Captain Sipes appeared, walked over, a
nd stood looking down at the four men, keeping them at ease. “How’s it going, Corporal?”
“Fine, Captain.” Mark nodded. He was aware of the officer’s eyes fixed on him, and he tried to sit up straighter. Lately he had been falling asleep even with his mess kit full of food. That was during the daylight hours, but during the night he often had nightmares, and Stasom or Mayfield would have to hold him down until they passed.
Sipes finally said, “That’s good.” He turned, walked away, and went at once to the command tent, where he found a short, stocky lieutenant named William Jefferson. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I think Stevens has gone almost his limit.”
Jefferson looked up in surprise. “Why, he’s the best man we’ve got in the company. Always out there on point, ready for any patrol.”
“I think he’s pushed himself too hard. Look at his eyes sometime.” Sipes nodded. “He looks just like Bristol did before he went off the deep end.”
Lieutenant Jefferson paused, thinking. He finally scratched his bearded face and said, “You’re right about that. I had noticed he’s moving slower, but we all are.”
“Well, just keep your eye on him.” He hesitated, then said, “I want him sent to R and R just as soon as this next patrol is over.”
“Yes, sir, and the rest of the squad too?”
Sipes hesitated. “I think we can work that. They’ve been together a long time. Yes, set it up right after this next patrol.”
“Shouldn’t be much of a problem. Don’t expect any VCs in that area.”
Moving carefully through the jungle under the tall trees, Mark was strangely at ease. He was happy, or as close as he had come to it in some time, for Lieutenant Jefferson had prompted him. “Just one more milk run of the patrol, Mark, then you and the rest of the squad go back of the lines for R and R.” He had grinned, seeing the light in Mark’s eyes. “You could use a little of that. I guess we all could.”
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