by Bob Neir
Good work, Burns, take the initiative to set me off balance. Then Simons slipped in the needle. “Scarese’s real mission was to kill Trent, wasn’t it?” Simons asked coldly.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Burns’ tongue moved slowly over his lips, wetting them, an edge of angst in his voice. “You are maligning the memory of a brave sailor. Trent murdered Scarese - that’s the only truth.”
“What did Proust have on Kindler?”
Burns shifted uncomfortably, every bone protesting violently. His eyes flashed. “You are out of your depth, Simons.”
Simons replied evenly, “Why did you lie on the witness stand? I have incontrovertible evidence you did. Kindler was protecting Proust, wasn’t he? Why? And your startling success, after a badly stalled career, is noted in Navy annals as quite remarkable. You lied for Kindler. Why?”
Burns’ jaw dropped, a horrified look on his face.
“Don’t answer yet, Admiral. So far, you are only guilty of perjury. I want to know what Proust had on Kindler. You know, don’t you?”
“No!” Burns paled.
“Did Kindler make a deal with you?”
Burns didn’t answer. He sat down and slowly swirled the gin around in his glass. He faltered; the words wouldn’t come. He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights.
“And if you don’t decide to play ball…” Simons sliced into him.
“What happens if I don’t?” He asked quietly.
“You can only get in deeper.”
“Yes. I had to lie: I had no choice.”
“We all have choices; yours was a poor one. What happened between you and Trent?”
Burns sagged back into his chair. “I hated Trent. He was well liked and on his way up, but I got even, I ruined his career. It was his word against mine and the court believed me. I always had to fight for everything. Do you know what it’s like, to make good then have it snatched away by the likes of Trent?” Burns, obviously buying time, had deliberately parried the question.
“Why did you meet with Kindler twice this past week? The last, just minutes before he committed suicide.”
Burns, caught off guard, was unable to look Simons in the eye. The corner of his mouth trembled slightly as he said, “Kindler feared Trent as I fear him.”
“Why should Kindler fear Trent?” Simons snapped. He bit down hard on his cigar. Burns countered, “Proust told me Farr wrote Trent a letter.”
“About what? What was between Proust and Kindler?”
“If Trent has Farr’s letter, you must know. Damn it. You don’t know, do you? Or, Trent would have told you.” Burns slammed his fist on the desk. He bounced back: Simons was ‘aced’. Trent had not revealed the contents of a letter.
“The letter does exist.” Simons faced Burns down. “What were you and Kindler arguing about just before he killed himself?”
“What!!!” His eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“Wingate was there, he saw the whole thing.”
Burns shook violently; his body trembled, his forehead broke out in a cold sweat. “Yes. I know everything,” Simons hammered in the last nail into Burns’ coffin. “Now, I ask again for the last time,”…
“Proust had Kindler in a death grip,” Burns spilled out. “But I never found out what he had on him. I lied for Proust, sure, but he protected me and after he died, I got worried. Kindler quickly turned a cold shoulder to my career. I went to see him about my future. He merely laughed at me, short, snarling vicious laughs that scared me.” Almost as calmly Burns reflected, “This crummy graveyard is my graveyard.”
“Kindler’s retired.”
“The Missouri was to have been mine: Kindler promised.”
“Proust and Kindler were schoolmates in Maryland.”
“So what?” Burns stiffened.
Simons eased back in his chair and said, “Well, let me tell you a story. It seems a young girl fell out of a fraternity window and was killed. The inquiry made a splash in the local newspaper; as it was a small town, and the local college involved, the story was quickly buried. An old picture put us on to it. The window was in a room shared by Kindler and Proust. The young girl had been raped and violently beaten. Proust and Kindler claimed they were together and that neither was present in the room at the time. No witnesses came forward. The finger of suspicion pointed to Kindler; however, as long as Proust stuck to his story placing them both elsewhere, there was no proof. Her death is still an open file. Kindler transferred to the Naval Academy at the end of the quarter, courtesy of his father, who exercised influence with a certain U.S. Senator. One year later, Proust followed Kindler, an appointment of that same Senator. From then on, Kindler and Proust were linked like Siamese twins. Proust was always one step away. Your relationship with Kindler since the trial is remarkably similar.”
“What?” Burns sprung to life. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying Kindler committed murder. Proust blackmailed him; but it resulted in driving Kindler to succeed. He pulled Proust along as dead weight. And, Kindler sacrificed Trent to save Proust’s career.”
Burns struggled upright in his chair and stared at Simons, the words locked in his throat poured out. “Did Farr say Proust was blackmailing Kindler?”
Simons took a final drag on his cigar and stubbed it out. “Evidently, not,” he answered. “In his letter, Farr intimated justice had been deliberately blinded. He meant to purge his own feelings of guilt and duplicity in Trent’s court-martial. We spoke with him in San Diego. He did fill in some of the blanks. But, somehow, I think you learned the truth.”
Burns suddenly turned white, and grinned.
Simons felt only rage. “I think I have the whole sordid story. It’s all a cruel game to you, isn’t it, Burns? You write your own rules and move the pieces when you think no one’s looking. If someone gets hurt or dies, well, it’s just too bad. You make a mistake and you get promoted. People like me get a bullet in the back. That Trent is still threatening the City, I suspect, barely touches your conscience. Do you always handle the deaths of innocents so easily?”
Satisfaction flashed in Burns’ eyes. “You have nothing on me, not a single shred of evidence. All you have said is pure conjecture. It should make interesting reading in your police files.”
“Proust, Kindler, Scarese. All dead. Only Trent lives.”
“Scarese’s murder and wanton destruction of the City is on Trent’s head, not mine or the Navy’s. Trent will be crucified,” Burns laughed as he re-filled his glass. “I’ll be glad to call Vice-Admiral Ambler, if you like. Nothing remains to be lost by granting Trent his wish for a re-trial.”
“The city has already directly contacted the Pentagon.”
Burns’ smile faded, “You had no right…”
Simons stared at Burns. That Burns saw things only through his own perverse, twisted keyhole angered him. That would not change. Conquering his revulsion, he got up and left before he threw up. On second thought - maybe, he should have.
* * *
It was Sam Simons’ first ride in a helicopter. The Mayor had insisted and he did not object. He could only imagine Trent demanding a helicopter to escape the Missouri. The flight afforded him a first-hand experience. He swore he would never do it again. On shaky legs as he entered the Public Safety building, his anxiety heightened and frightened him. He prided himself on never reacting emotionally and remaining unflappable under press. Burns badly mauled that core belief, left him ill and sick at heart at the terror of another shell falling on the City. 0500, tomorrow, would come quickly; his watch read 1530. As he stepped into an empty elevator, he caught sight of Frances and Gleese halfway down the lobby, fanning out as they hurried to intercept him. He held the elevators doors open as they rushed in and then let the doors close.
Gleese spoke up,” How was your helicopter ride? Charlie said had to push you on to get you to go.”
“Nonsense, it was a joyful experience.”
Frances blurted out a milli
-second later, “Trent radioed. He wants to talk to you. Frank says he refuses to talk to anyone else.”
“Does the Mayor know he called?”
“No. Frank said to find you first. “
“Good. Say nothing.”
Gleese rushed on, “Vice-Admiral Farr called and said he’d talk to Trent, if it would help.”
“Put a hold on that,” Simons ordered.
“Admiral Burns called about an hour ago. There’s a telephone note on your desk. He wants you to call,” Frances reported. “By the way, Vice-Admiral Ambler called the Mayor. The Mayor’s office says the Pentagon agreed to the re-trial and a PR release. Ambler said to work it through Admiral Burns. I suspect that’s what his call is about.”
“The Mayor, Chitterman and Mitchell are pacing up in the Mayor’s office. They had Murial looking all over for you, they’re nervous as hen’s teeth. Murial was just glad to be away,” Gleese advised. The elevator stopped and the doors snapped open.
“I’m not here!” Simons stepped away and left the two officers standing. The red light blinked off as the elevator doors closed and whirred in descent. Opening the door to his office, Simons flipped on the lights and groaned at the accumulation of unread letters and memos littering his desktop. Under his breath, he cursed the Egyptians for inventing paper. He vigorously searched until he spotted the clipped, pink telephone message. He read it, seized the phone and dialed.
“Admiral Burns, please. Chief Simons here.”
He eased onto his credenza and slid back against the wall. Jamming his feet up against the desk, he braced himself. The Admiral’s voice came on. “Simons. Burns, here. The Pentagon has O.K.’d the re-trial, but they insist on a complete investigation, first. Until then, it’s hands-off the Missouri. Trent will get his chance; you have me to thank. You can tell him.” Simons clenched his fist. “Our PR people will arrange the announcement for 1800. That should make the bastard happy. God knows why! He’s your headache, now. Good luck!”
Simons restrained a surge of annoyance. He kept his voice cool as he said, “We’ll do what we can. Can I still count on the Navy’s help?”
“The sooner you get him off my ship, the better. Work it through Conover,” Burns replied, and hung up. A small voice in the back of his mind told him to hurry to the Mayor’s office, that Trent was waiting, then to…?
* * *
It was a short walk to City Hall from the Public Safety Building. Sam Simons pulled down the brim of his fedora, gave a disgusted snort and shoved his way past a milling crowd. Deftly slipping behind a cordon of police officers, he entered a cold blue and gray building and ducked into an empty elevator. He rode up pondering his next move. No longer concerned with the money as Bud Mitchell assured the city it was ready. That he had confronted Burns pleased him; but he was also a realist. Burns had laughed in his face. With two key witnesses dead, Burns knew his lies would go unchallenged. Sure, Trent would get his re-trial, but without Proust and Kindler to take the stand, grounds to overturn would be lacking, the outcome grim. Denton, Johnson, Loomis…just bystanders, minor players, could offer only hearsay. Even Farr. Would Trent see the futility in another trial? Would he remain aboard the Missouri? Leave with his men, possibly? Or, surrender himself?
He shook his head and resigned himself to the unknown. Only time would tell. The elevator jarred to a stop. Murial waiting, rushed him into the Mayor’s office where Chitterman and Mitchell were arguing.
“No way,” Mitchell screamed, edging forward in his chair. “You agreed to guarantee the moneys safe return. No guarantee - no money. As far as I’m concerned, it can stay in SeaFirst’s vault.”
“Quit it, you two,” Grille interrupted. “It’s about time you showed up, Simons. Where the hell have you been?”
Simons offered, “Admiral Burns advised me of the Pentagon’s decision. I think Trent will be mollified by the announcement; but, make no mistake, he still expects a payoff.”
Mitchell tensed, glanced over his shoulder at Chitterman. Grille glared at both and said, “The Navy scheduled the announcement for 1800…the media will make a TV production out of it, Hiram.” The Mayor pronounced TV as if it were a four-letter word. He turned and said, “Murial, get Linda on the phone.”
Linda Darden, a pert, pretty little brunette, was the City’s public affairs representative and had been responsible for media contacts for the past ten years.
“What do you want of Linda?” Chitterman exclaimed.
“Murial, get her!” the Mayor shouted with irritation. “It has been five minutes.”
“She’s on,” Murial hollered. “Push the button.”
Grille pushed the button; Linda’s voice filled the room.
“Glad you called, Mayor,” Linda said. “Are you alone?”
“No. But you can speak freely. What’s the latest?”
“The media people are testy. This thing is a PR nightmare, Mayor. I have my hands full of irate and scared citizens and they aren’t blaming the Navy. They think the City is dragging its feet. They need to know we’re in control.”
Grille asked, “Have you checked with the Navy Base?”
Linda went on, “Yes, but I can’t get anything out of them. Base PR claims Admiral Burns intends to make the announcement. They insist they don’t know what he is going to say; but that’s bullshit. I’d bet a bundle they’re setting the Navy up to look like a bunch of heroes, like they won the war by themselves. That could leave the City looking bad. We better follow-up pronto with a media conference of our own.”
“Right-on, Linda,” the Mayor said, briefing her with details. She said, “I’ll get you on TV right after the Admiral. The public will want to hear from the City. I will draft up a statement.”
“Mayor, shouldn’t we be more concerned with Trent,” Simons interrupted. “He called. Wants to talk with me. Maybe, it’s best I talk with him, first. The war is not over.”
“Sam. You’re not a politician.” The Mayor’s voice was coldly official. “Sometimes, you have to face the public before you have answers.”
Mitchell said,” I agree with Sam, Mayor.
Chitterman added, “You said Trent called, Sam?”
Grille spoke into the speaker. “Linda, set up a media conference immediately after the Navy announcement. Meet us in the dispatcher’s office in ten minutes.”
Grille hung up, and then said, “Let’s go.”
* * *
The radio blared away filling the turret with the local weather report. Madden had just tuned out the daily shipping news, ships arriving or leaving port for distant destinations. Harper grumped and threw a dogged-eared magazine into a dark corner.
He complained, “Rain. Rain. Rain. That’s all that weather guy ever says. Every day he gives the same damn report. I bet every morning he phones it in and then rolls over in bed.”
Graves grumbled, “Gimme Reno. Cold and dry, so dry you can tell a native ‘cause they all look like prunes. I ain’t been dry a day since I got here. Give the damn heater a kick.”
Harper turned, “What’s eatin’ you, big boy, you could sleep naked in a walk-in refrigerator.”
“Go take a hike off the bow,” Graves snapped. “Two days and nothing…not a peep out of those City creeps. I don’t like sittin’. I want my dough and my ass outta here.”
Harper propped himself up on his cot and laced his fingers behind his head and chided, “When we get paid, you get paid; besides, enjoy the game, we move, they move – it’s like chess.”
Graves spoke, his voice held even, “Screw games. Harper, take my watch.” Graves’ eyes narrowed. The vein on his forehead began to throb as his face reddened.
Harper looked up, his face puzzled. “Screw you. Take your own watch. And you better get your ass moving, you’re already late.” He looked away and was not expecting what came next. Graves grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up off the cot in one motion. He shook him viciously. Harper clutched at Graves’ fingers, struggling to tear them apart.
&nb
sp; “I don’t take orders from the likes of you,” Graves roared.
Harper gurgled.
Graves laughed and slammed him back on his cot. Harper lay staring up helplessly. Graves’ eyes were burning; they held a hint of madness in their depths. He backed away, and moved cat-like to the hatch. He held himself framed in the light for a split second, then dropped out, his feet slapping the wet, teak deck.
Harper ranted, rubbing his throat, “He’s gone Looney.”
Madden said, “Keep cool, don’t let him get to you. This job is almost over. When we get paid, he can go his own way.” Then, he added quickly, “Have one of these turrets ever blown up?”
“Yeah! One I know of.” Harper sat up, still massaging his neck, said almost without thinking. “Off of Makin, ‘43, maybe ‘44, don’t rightly remember exactly. The Mississippi was shellin’ the Japs, you know, softening up them yella bellies so the 27th Infantry could get ashore. The explosion killed 43 guys: they didn’t have a chance. That’s when the Liscome Bay bought the farm, she was torpedoed by a Jap sub that slipped under the screen. A real charnel house, she was. Over 600 guys out of 900 were killed.”
Harper arose and said hurriedly, “One of the things you learn in gunnery school is to keep your powder cool. And, I’d tell ‘em to stay out of the turret until the last second. Make sure the breech is clear of hot debris before you reload. You have to load just right: one miss-step and blooie! Makes me think about that Scarese guy. If we had powder bags in here and the grenade had gone off, we’d gone sky-high.” Harper said, “Why don’t you flip on the TV, anything, but that As The World Turns. All those people; marrying, divorcing and screwing bugs me. Then, them kids running around and nobody claiming them. Reminds me of my own family. Stayed long enough to get my high school diploma, then I lit out and joined the Navy. I did, and I was gone-oo.
Madden’s face took on a rapt expression.
Harper exclaimed, “Hey! Listen.”