The Incident at Naha

by M. J. Bosse

  Virgil’s look was professional. “The paper’s due soon.”

  “I really hate you, Virgil Jefferson. I do that work and we both know it’s for nothing. I mean, the manuscript.”

  “It’s not for nothing.”

  “We’re stopped cold without the rest of it.”

  “Perhaps only for the moment.” Virgil laid his pipe down. “Martin could be the key.”

  I waited for Virgil to continue, but he didn’t. And the night before, he had refused to theorize about Martin’s strange remark. I felt something was worrying Virgil. He was having ideas that he could not or would not share with me, and I had to respect his silence. So I changed the subject. “About the wiretapping, you were jiving me, weren’t you?”

  “Why would I?”

  “To convince me I should stay with Linda because it’s dangerous here.”

  “It is dangerous here.”

  “Then why are you here?” I went over to his armchair and knelt beside it.

  “Don’t forget I learned a few things in Vietnam. But if you stay here, that makes me doubly vulnerable, don’t you see? So for a while you stay with Linda.”

  “She’ll turn me into a sex maniac,” I said, and slipped my hand along his knee to his thigh.

  Virgil reached over and caressed my hair with that special delicate touch he has. We made love then. I am glad that Virgil has color. When above or below or around me, Virgil changes color. I mean, during the daylight he does. When we’re turning and moving together, I have these glimpses of a shoulder, a cheek, an arm. . . .

  I was so very happy with Virgil that afternoon, and I remember how the light outside was a kind of hazy orange and came into our room to blend with the browns of his slim body. But afterward he was like a parent again and told me I had to leave. Of course, he explained once more the good sense of it, and I understood and appreciated his concern for me, but I wanted to stay with him. It may be exciting not to see each other and then to make it, like, accidentally. I mean, there’s romance in living apart. But what the hell, I wasn’t out for sexual kicks, I wanted to be with Virgil. At the door I didn’t look at him. No amount of logic was going to keep me from feeling rejected, and I guess I would have left in the midst of a real downer if he hadn’t reached out at the last moment and touched my cheek.

  I waved at him when he shut the door, and through it I called loudly, “Don’t forget to feed the turtles!” It was the way he had touched my cheek that allowed me to leave like a woman and not like a pouting girl.

  *

  That evening at Eros, the first person I saw was the Feeler, who navigated toward me like a rowboat in a storm.

  “Boy,” I said when he reached me, “you are really goofed up.”

  He took my hand and pressed the palm of it against his chest. “This is wild,” he said. “When I do this, like, put your hand here, I can feel the wind blowing right through my body. Dig?”

  “Work out of what you’re in,” I told him, “or the wind will be blowing right through your brains.”

  “You cats lecturing me are stupid, man. It’s me who’s all together.”

  “Sure. Where’s Thing?”

  “Not here,” he said grinning broadly. “Won’t be here tonight.”

  “I suppose she got busted.”

  “She’s sick.” For a moment he frowned and looked away. “A little cold.”

  “A little cold. You mean she got burned on bad stuff,” I said rather cruelly. “What’s her thing these days? Smack?”

  “Come on, you know she drinks ginger ale.” And he laughed as if he thought it was funny.

  I started past him, but he gripped my arm. “You used to like me. Why don’t you like me?”

  “I like you, but you’re, like, dropping too many drugs, man. I don’t know where you are.”

  “Hear me groove tonight. Am I gonna groove.”

  “The other night you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “You were way up there yourself, listening to sounds only you could hear. You, like, forgot to take the people along.”

  The Feeler looked sort of crushed then. He had become awfully thin; his cheekbones stuck out like those of prisoners you see in the concentration-camp movies. I had been cruel to him, which is a square way of dealing with a head like the Feeler. Cruelty wasn’t going to turn him off stuff. So I put my arm around him and gave him a sisterly hug and kiss. He was smelling, those days. I think the Feeler had just forgotten all about washing himself. It was acid, Speed, his guitar, and nothing else. I think he had forgotten all about his girl friend, too. Poor Thing with the little cold that could kill her someday. I gave the Feeler another hug.

  “I’ll groove tonight,” he said. “You better believe it, man.”

  “I believe it,” I said.

  He brightened up then and winked the way he used to do. Then he shook his great mane of hair, the way he does when the guitar is in control of him, and he began dancing around, and for a crazy minute or so the two of us grooved to sounds only he was hearing. There we were, moving together in the dim empty room, snaking around the dance floor to the beat in his head. It was a thing that happens and when you remember it you believe it was a dream. It was beautiful, and then as suddenly as our dancing had begun, it stopped. I stood there wondering what in hell had happened.

  “See what I mean?” He winked at me.

  “My God, you got to me.”

  “Sure, man; like, I’m the power. Like, people pay just for my name”

  “You mean, ads? Guitar manufacturers?”

  “No, no, man.” The Feeler snapped his lingers. “Nothing to do with music. This author type pays for my name.”

  “What do you mean, name?”

  “My Bostonian name. Dig it.” And the Feeler turned away from me to slap hands with an arriving musician. He made the Peace Sign at me and trailed the drummer into the band room.

  *

  Halfway through the busy evening I was yawning at the bar, waiting for my drink order, when out of the corner of my eye I saw this guy. He was sitting at a far table, alone and hunched over a drink, staring right at me. There was something familiar about him, but I didn’t know what. Then after a few minutes I realized that he was one of the men in Smith’s photographs. I remembered the bull neck and the little piggish ears that had, like, an undeveloped look to them.

  Curiosity got the best of me; I had to speak to him and find out who in the hell he really was. I arranged to take his table, which actually was Sally’s, and I found myself waltzing over to him, with his eyes following every step I took. When I asked him would he like another drink, he invited me to sit with him during my break.

  After the next set, during which the Feeler played with a beauty and passion that tore everybody up, I went over to the dark corner table, bold as you damn please, and sat down beside Mr. Bull Neck. “Wasn’t the Feeler great?” I said.

  Bull Neck nodded in a kind of eager way that made me feel he would have nodded to anything I said. He wasn’t listening at all. What he was doing, he was staring, and that sort of intense staring always turns me into a nonstop talker. I asked him his astrological sign; I asked him was he born in May, because he looked physically like a Taurus—powerful, quiet, and all. Did he like to eat? Was he possessive? Did he have a temper?

  “I was born in January,” he said, a silly grin spreading over his broad face. But his eyes were intelligent, cold, under control. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five, but a lot of lines crisscrossed his forehead and made the edges of his mouth seem to pull down, even though he hardly ever stopped grinning.

  I asked him did he live in the East Village and he answered, “Do you?” I had the impression that in a contest for information, he would win. So I giggled the way I do when uncertain.

  “Back to work,” I said, rising from the table.

  “Anybody meeting you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Afterwards.”

  “Why?”


  “Why do you think?” He grinned in a fixed way.

  “You’re turning me off,” I said, trying to act tough.

  “My name’s Hack.”

  “Hello, Hack.”

  “Ray Hack. And you are—”

  “A girl who works here.”

  “Well, girl who works here, what about afterwards?”

  “I go home alone.”

  “A chick like you? Meet me afterwards.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “So you are meeting somebody.”

  With hands on my hips I leaned toward his grinning Capricorn face. “That’s none of your business.”

  “No harm done. Just thought we could get together.”

  “See you around,” I said with a casual wave.

  I felt his eyes following me as I walked away from the table.

  Now, that was what I call a conversation having two possible meanings. He could have been attracted to me, and all that talk about me meeting him could have been an honest pass. Or he could have been trying to find out if Virgil was meeting me afterward. The more I thought about it and the more I let go of my ego trip, the more I realized that he had been angling for information about Virgil. It wasn’t me, it was Virgil he wanted. I just knew it. Smith had laid it on this Ray Hack that I was Virgil’s girl.

  In the dressing room I called Virgil and told him that Linda was coming by later and would go home with me. I didn’t want Virgil coming to Eros where this bullnecked character would see him. Then I asked Sally would she share a cab with me, because a creep out front was trying to hustle me. Near closing time, I looked at Ray Hack’s table. For a moment I felt relief because he wasn’t there, but then I saw him coming out of the Men’s Room. He motioned toward me, and with heart pounding, I went over. While paying his bill, he stared at me. “Sure about tonight?” he asked, and he dropped a three-dollar tip.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Thanks.” And pocketed the money.

  “No harm done.” He whistled as he strode out of the club.

  Something occurred to me. I asked Sally to wait another minute and I went back to the band room, where the Feeler was wiping sweat off his face with a towel.

  “Did I groove or didn’t I?” he asked happily.

  “You grooved. Say, like, you said something weird tonight.”

  “Baby, I’m straight. You know that. I’m never weird, baby,” he said, giggling.

  “Like, you said something weird about your Bostonian name.”

  The Feeler looked confused.

  “You said somebody paid you for your Bostonian name.”

  “Oh, that. My academic bit, baby. My scholarly bag.” He grooved a little, snapping his fingers to music in his head. “A black cat told me to keep mum, and I’m mum.”

  “You’re flying,” I said, laughing. “What black cat?”

  “This black cat say, man, keep mum, and so I’m mum. Believe it, baby, I am very big in Boston.”

  “What in hell are you rapping about?” I said, trying to keep him talking.

  But the Feeler was through for the night. “I’m mum,” he said, and he meant it.

  *

  First thing in the morning, after Linda had dressed and gone her way—hinting darkly, however, of a prowler in our neighborhood, someone who stood on the corner watching our apartment—I phoned Mr. Smith at the number he had given me. Someone answered and said that Mr. Smith was not there, but would call me as soon as possible. Not more than a couple of minutes later, while I was brushing my teeth, the phone rang, and it was Smith.

  “I saw one of those men,” I told him. “One of those in your photographs. He came to Eros last night.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Ray Hack.”

  “There was a long pause. “What did he look like?”

  “You mean, that wasn’t his real name? He was the bullnecked one, with the funny little ears.”

  “I see. What did he do?”

  “He just sat, though he did try to make it with me.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “You didn’t say not to.”

  Another pause. “Did he mention Virgil?”

  “Not exactly. He wanted to know who would pick me up after work.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t, Miss Benton.”

  “What I want to know is why you sicked this character on us.” The long silence told me that Mr. Smith wasn’t going to answer unless I made him. “Better lay it on me, Mr. Smith, or I’ll go to Virgil and tell him who showed up at Eros last night, and for some reason I don’t think you want that.”

  “No, I don’t want that.” Again a pause. “All right, then, Miss Benton. I was, you could say, instrumental in seeing that this man found out where you worked—”

  “And exactly who I was.”

  “True, but not where Virgil is.”

  “I knew my woman’s intuition was grooving. I was, like, absolutely certain he knew I was Virgil’s girl.”

  “Had I known you would talk to him—”

  “Did you tell me any different?”

  “No.”

  “Without my woman’s intuition working so groovily, I might have told this guy Hack what he wanted to know.”

  “You do understand, then, Miss Benton.”

  “I understand I’ve been made the bait.”

  “The man won’t harm you, Miss Benton. But in a sense—” Smith paused again.

  “I’m the bait.”

  “Yes, in a sense. We can watch the man through you, that’s all. Please be careful when you go to see Virgil. Understand?”

  “You mean ditch this Ray Hack, if he follows me.”

  “Quite right. We don’t want him to know where Virgil is. That is very important.”

  “I’m glad to know what is important for a change.”

  “Moving you in with Miss Bowstead was sensible of Virgil.”

  “Listen, are you going to protect everybody? I don’t like the looks of Ray Hack.”

  “Of course.”

  I thought of Linda’s fear of someone watching our apartment. It was like the boy who cried wolf. “Are you watching us now? Because if it isn’t you, it’s Hack. Linda Bowstead saw someone watching our place.”

  “Yes, we’re watching you.”

  “And Virgil too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll cooperate, if you tell me exactly what to expect.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know what to expect.”

  “It’s dangerous, though.”

  “Not for you.”

  “But for Virgil?”

  “If Virgil has something someone wants very much then possibly it is dangerous.”

  “Virgil doesn’t have a damn thing that concerns Alpha.”

  “How can you be so sure, Miss Benton?”

  “Because Virgil Jefferson is a man of honor.”

  There was such a long pause that I was no longer sure Mr. Smith was on the line.

  I said, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And one other thing, as long as we’re rapping. Don Stuart was no blackmailer either. Maybe you guys don’t know men of honor when you see them.”

  “Miss Benton, I’m afraid we are getting off the track. I am going to trust your intelligence. When this man contacts you again—and I am sure he will—try not to make him suspicious, but let him know nothing of Virgil. You’ll know best how to handle the situation.”

  “I dig.”

  “Miss Benton.” There was another of his thoughtful pauses. “You should know that we have never suspected Virgil Jefferson of complicity of any sort in the Dong Nai massacre.”

  “What a comfort to me,” I said, “if he gets killed.” And I hung up.

  *

  When I left the apartment, the first thing I did was look around for a man following me, but the streets were crowded and in the surging mob I didn’t k
now which person to be suspicious of. The whole thing was a gas—I mean, right out of a detective movie—and I couldn’t believe it was actually happening. What bothered me, though, was the haphazard way Mr. Smith seemed to be conducting everything. Playing it by ear is what my father would say. Why didn’t Smith have Virgil and me to his office so we could all sit down and plan strategy, the way Perry Mason does? Here Smith had got me into it without my knowledge, banked on my woman’s intuition, and now was going to “trust my intelligence.” Wow. Trust my intelligence. I certainly didn’t trust it. What if I wasn’t expert enough to shake Ray Hack? Or what if I was expert enough to shake the CIA man, but not Ray Hack? Well, I had to admire Smith for one thing: he knew how to stir people up. And I had to admire him and his boys for their grinding patience. But do they sleep at night? They can have their creepy life.

  I came to the subway entrance, hesitated, and probably like a fool looked around for Ray Hack or for the anonymous CIA man, either or both. I saw a little guy in a delivery uniform standing against the wall of a building. In the movies they sometimes wear delivery uniforms when tailing a suspect, but do they do it in real life? I smiled at him, he frowned back, and so I ducked into the subway station, more from embarrassment than from any attempt to shake him. The thing was, I didn’t want to shake him, I wanted to shake Ray Hack.

  Well, the whole thing was too awfully complicated for me, and I was feeling the early stages of a downer when I got on the train. At least I didn’t see Ray Hack or the delivery man, but then another man caught my eye. He was sort of plump, shabbily dressed in a dark suit, like a hardworking clerk from the garment center. I couldn’t help staring at him, and he seemed to return my stare, but then he looked away, as if he weren’t sure how to behave. I almost went up to him and said, “You know me and I know you, so why can’t we be friends?” How would a CIA man react to that? But if I were wrong? The man might call a transit cop. Or more likely, he’d say in a low voice, “Sure we’re friends, if you’re not asking too much, baby.” See what Linda was doing to my sexual imagination?

  I walked a zigzag path from the subway station to Virgil’s house, stopping on the way in a stationery store to check if anybody was following me. But then, what the hell, how would I know? I nearly called my parents, collect. While pretending to browse through the magazine rack, I imagined the conversation we would have. “Mother? Would you believe I am being followed by a young man with a bull neck and piggy ears? All right, then, would you believe a plump little man in a dark suit who’s actually with the CIA? No, Mother, I’m not on dope. I am on my way to Virgil’s place, where he’s going to teach me the latest Sioux war dance.”