by Phil Swann
Luther looked at me.
I didn’t say anything.
“You know what the simple difference is between you and them, Trip?”
“No, Luther, what?”
“You’re sitting here suffering. Your guts are all twisted up, and your soul hurts, and you don’t know how you’re ever going to close your eyes and go to sleep at night, ever again. Am I right?”
I swallowed hard and had to fight off the tears. “Yes, sir,” I said.
Luther nodded. “They never did that. That’s what makes you different.”
“Not just that,” Clegg said, appearing out of nowhere on the barstool on the other side of me. “You killed that Nazi while trying to save his worthless butt. His problem was he didn’t want to be saved. He knew what was in store for him. If you ask me, you did him a favor, and he got off easy.”
Joey came up and poured Clegg a scotch.
Clegg nodded a thanks.
“Is anything going to happen to Anthony Cabaneri?” I asked.
Clegg shook his head. “We got nothing on him. Nothing concrete, at least. It wasn’t his house, and everything else is at best circumstantial, at worst, pure speculation on our part. No, Colson was telling the truth about one thing, Cabaneri is never around when the bodies start piling up.”
“And Mrs. Jilani?”
“Nah,” Clegg answered after taking a drink. “She says she didn’t even know the garage was out there. Says she never goes outside anymore, and that anyone could have built it.”
“And everyone believes her?”
Clegg chuckled. “No one believes her. But it’s a plausible answer, and that’s all anybody wants. Everyone wants this case to go away, Trip. I’ve been told by my superiors in no uncertain terms it’s over. So,” Clegg raised his glass, “it’s over. Case closed.”
“It was her, wasn’t it? She was the real head of the Nokmim, not Cabaneri. Mrs. Jilani planned all of it.”
“One more, Joey,” Clegg said holding up his glass. “Come on, I got something to show you. You, too, Luther. You’ll want to see this.”
We followed Clegg out to the parking lot. I was two steps out the door when he spun around and extended his arm.
“Ta-da!” he sang out.
Sitting in the parking lot, shimmering in the glow of The Jam Jar’s neon sign, was my beloved yellow Falcon, looking as perfect as it did when it came off the showroom floor.
“My car!” I shouted, leaping off the step, and running to it. “It’s…it’s gorgeous. Thanks, Clegg.”
“Don’t thank me. This was all Carson and Stevens doing. They knew a guy in L.A. who could restore it. They also wanted to make sure you got it back as soon as possible. So, they drove it up here today, themselves.”
“Seriously? Well, where are they?”
“Oh, you know those two. Not one for ceremony. I’ll tell them you said thank you.”
“Please do. And tell them dinner and a show are on me, anywhere in town. Anytime.”
“I will. But you might regret that offer. Those two boys can eat.”
Luther laughed.
I never saw it coming, I only heard it. The pickup skidded to a screeching stop, missing my Falcon by only inches. I almost had a heart attack.
Betsy bounded out and slammed the door. She stomped up to me, and without saying hello, or howdy, or anything, slapped me up the side of the head as hard as she could.
“Hey,” I yelled.
Then she ran over to Clegg and did the same thing to him, bonking him right below the left ear.
She started toward her father, but Luther stepped back. “Don’t you even think about it, little girl,” he said, raising his finger at her.
“Bets, what the heck?” I moaned.
“Don’t what the heck me, Trip Callaway. You know what you did.” She turned and looked at Clegg and then Luther. “And don’t think I don’t know you two rotten birds had a part in it too.”
“Betsy, what are you talking about?” I asked.
“Rodney, he’s leaving, and it’s your fault,” she cried.
“How is it my fault? Wait. Clegg, did you check him out like I asked? What happened? Did you find out something bad about him?”
Clegg shrugged. “No. I mean, yes, I checked him out, but I didn’t discover anything bad. Quite the opposite. Rodney Eugene Bullard is an exceptionally fine young man and an excellent officer. In fact, I was so impressed I—uh-oh.”
“What did you do, Clegg?” I asked.
“NATO is setting up an elite squadron of fliers from all the western partners. They’re looking for good people. I might have recommended him.”
Betsy cried, “He left for the Anatolian Plate today, wherever that is. He said he’d be gone for at least a year. How could you?”
Clegg dropped his head.
I glanced over at Luther. He was beaming.
“I’ll never forgive you, Trip Callaway,” Betsy blubbered. “Never, never.” And then she stormed off into The Jam Jar.
“Well,” Clegg said, “That’s unfortunate.”
Luther walked over and put his arm around the G-man. “You know, Agent Clegg,” he said as they headed back toward the club. “I’ve always been a bit iffy about you. But I think I’m changing my mind. You might not be such a half bad ol’ boy, after all. Come on in and let me fix you up something good to eat. It’s on me.”
It was good to be home.
The End
About the Author
Phil Swann's career has spanned over 30 years as an award-winning performer, songwriter, and author. As well as having songs recorded by hundreds of recording artists, Swann is the composer of nine musicals including Play It Cool, The People Vs Friar Laurence, and Musical Fools.
As an author, his work includes The Song of Eleusis, The Mozart Conspiracy (published in Italy as Il Codice Amadeus), Cold War Copa, Mekong Delta Blues, and Tinsel Town Tango.
Phil lives in LA where he teaches the craft of writing at UCLA and the Los Angeles College of Music.
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