by Don Drewniak
“Look, Bill, I don’t want to take a chance on anyone seeing it. Keep on driving toward White Sands. Look for a convoy which will be parked five miles out of the Range. It will guide you in. Once you get there, you’ll be left alone with plenty of ice. Leave it in the pick-up and cover it with the ice. Jim and I will be there first thing in the morning.”
“Damn, General.”
“I’ll pick up the next tab at Killer Two’s.”
The convoy was exactly where the General said it would be. Fowler was directed to pull into the middle of it. From there they were escorted to a small, unmarked building inside White Sands. Two soldiers opened a garage door. Without waiting for instructions, Fowler drove the pick-up into it. The building was empty except for two palates loaded with bags of ice, two cots with pillows and blankets, and a small table containing a variety of sandwiches, potato chips and coffee. The door closed behind them.
“What, no beer?” asked Fowler. He then scanned the inside of the building and said, “What kind of chicken shit operation is the General running? There’s no place to take a dump.”
“Never mind that, let’s ice Assassin.”
“You already did that.”
They pulled all of their equipment and weapons out of the truck bed, broke open the bags of ice and, after a half hour’s worth of work, had Assassin completely covered. Shortly after eating the food and drinking the coffee, they were asleep.
Both awoke a few short hours later to the sound of the garage door opening. Instinctively, they jumped off the cots. Each grabbed a rifle in time to point them at the General and Rappaport.
“Jesus, guys, put those things down,” yelled the General.
“We were just trying to keep undesirables out,” said Fowler.
“It’s great to be a civilian and have absolutely no fear of authority,” mused Williams.
The General and Rappaport walked directly toward the pick-up. Two burly soldiers who accompanied them into the building closed the door and stood in sentry positions just inside the door.
“Gee, I hope it didn’t decompose while we were sleeping,” smiled Fowler.
For a moment, Williams conjured up an image of the truck bed being empty except for melting ice.
Rappaport pulled down the gate to the pick-up and there for all to see was Assassin buried in the ice.
Williams breathed a sigh of relief and said to himself, “Damn that Fowler.” He then chuckled.
“What in hell’s name is that?” blurted the General.
“The latest manifestation of Assassin.”
Both the General and Rappaport were speechless. After what seemed like minutes, Rappaport motioned to the two soldiers. They proceeded to reopen the door. In came a two-and-half ton cargo truck with a driver and one other soldier in the cab. Thirty minutes later, Assassin was loaded into a steel container filled with fresh ice. The container was then transferred into the cargo truck with the help of a forklift. Rappaport got into the cab with the driver, while the remaining three soldiers climbed into the back of the truck with Assassin. The truck disappeared into the sunlight moments later.
“Best you don’t know where it’s going,” said the General. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
“We stink,” said Fowler, “and thanks for the toilet facilities.”
“Oh shit,” replied the General.
“That’s the problem,” quipped Fowler.
“Message received,” said the General. “and, yes, there are toilets there.”
An unmarked black sedan with a corporal behind the wheel was waiting just outside the door. The General stepped into the front seat, while his two less than clean companions climbed into the back seat. Minutes later they were in a large conference room.
The General pointed to a door in a far corner. “Go through there. At the end of the hall there are showers to the right and fresh clothes. Take your time.”
They returned to the conference room and a table full of food, orange juice and coffee. Fowler surveyed the table, looked at Williams and said, “Thank goodness, no scotch.”
Williams laughed, something he seemed to being doing constantly in the company of Fowler. The General just stared at the both of them.
Plates filled and drinks poured, it was question and answer time.
“Okay, gentlemen, take it from the top,” requested the General.
Williams entered into a long monologue which detailed everything from his having left Killer’s Two’s Diner to the moment Assassin materialized at the campsite.
Not a word was spoken by The General or Fowler during the entire time.
“Don’t move, I would hate to have to end you,” said Williams.
“What?” asked the General.
Those were the first words spoken to me by Assassin.”
“It talked?”
“Yes, with the help of Fred.”
“Who the hell is Fred?”
Fowler burst into laughter. The General was confused and flustered – a rarity for him.
Williams then described the physical appearance of the once again transformed Assassin and the incorporation into itself of a mountain lion and a hunter named Fred.
Despite having seen the Assassin’s body, the General was stunned.
Williams then continued describing the conversation with Assassin up to its saying that he would like to try the scotch.
“Now I understand.” He looked at Fowler, “You weren’t bullshitting!”
Uncharacteristically, Fowler remained silent.
The General turned back to his long time friend, who in many ways was the son he never had, and said, “You really did get the bastard drunk. How did you get him?”
“This part is a blur. I remember him finishing off the bottle. He was taking one glass to every sip by me. When I saw him having trouble with the last glass and his rifle beginning to drop, I didn’t think – just pulled out the knife and stabbed him in the neck twice. I remember blood spurting everywhere. Then Assassin dropped to the ground, looked at me with big, round eyes and asked, ‘Why?’ The next thing I remember was Fowler screaming, ‘Holy Shit!’”
Fowler took over. “There he was, General, sitting in a pool of blood and covered with it from head to foot and he says, “Give me the Merlot.”
The General shook his head.
“He then spent what seemed like an hour sitting there sipping the Merlot. Finally, he looks at me and says that Assassin wasn’t a bad guy.”
Fowler got up to get a second helping of food. While he was doing that, Williams asked the General what he could do for him.
“It’s being handled. His DD will be expunged and ten years will be added to his service with a rank of staff sergeant and back pay. That will give him a pension and V.A. medical. Good enough?”
“More than I expected. Must be nice to have unlimited power.”
“Tell that to Morgan.”
“You want me to let Fowler know what’s coming his way?”
“Yes. He’s a lot more intelligent that I had expected him to be.”
“I found that out in Uganda.”
Fowler returned.
“Gentlemen,” said the General with a serious look, “what are the chances of Assassin having created a clone of himself before you killed it.”
Before trying to answer the question, Williams took note of the fact that the General was giving credit to both of them. He knew that Fowler appreciated it. “Who the hell knows? In a two week span, it made an initial escape, made a replicate of itself, killed it to make a clean getaway, and killed both a mountain lion and a human being to incorporate what it wanted from both into itself. Finally, it could have ‘ended’ me if it wanted to. By our perspective, it would seem that there wouldn’t have been enough time to have made a replicate of itself. However, he didn’t play by our rules.”
The General then turned to Fowler. “Arthur, would you be willing to go to spend a few days at Bill’s place? At least long enough to let our team examine Ass
assin. I’ll pick up every tab at Killer Two’s.”
Fowler gave the General a long look. “Big spender, I see.”
Williams laughed, “Over the years, I’ve picked up ten tabs for everyone one he has. This is a helluva deal.”
“What the hell,” said Fowler, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I have to clear out of here. Leave here at seven this evening in the pick-up. I’ll arrange a reverse switch to be be done with the pick-up and your Pathfinder. The walk from the truck to Killer Two’s will do you good. Oh, one more thing, how Assassin was killed is classified information until further notice. I will share it with Jim and no once else. He can tell Stan and Alice who did it, but nothing more. It remains with us until, and if, we can use it to our advantage.”
The General shook hands with Williams and Fowler, and left.
“Bill, when I went back to the table, did he tell you where they are taking Assassin?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea of where.”
With a smile, Williams replied, “You and Killer Two.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BALANCE OF THE DAY was spent relaxing. This included visits to the range museum and the missile park.
Once they were on their way, Williams informed Fowler of his new status in life. Fowler was unable to speak for a short stretch of time. When he did, he said, “Up until now, the two best things that ever happened to me were being hired by the Deli Don and your saving my ass. Add this to them. Thank you.”
“I didn’t suggest it. The General had already put the wheels in motion when I asked him what he could do for you.”
“Maybe I’ll find myself a shack in a desert someplace and go soft.”
“Wise ass.”
By the time they walked to Killer Two’s after having left the pick-up in place, the diner had long since been closed. “Steak breakfast later this morning,” promised Williams.
Both men slept late into the morning and didn’t arrive at the diner until just after ten. “It’s everything you said it was,” said Fowler as he surveyed the miniature Killer Kowalski museum.
“Who’s this, Bill?” asked the big man.
“Another ex-Army buddy of mine, Art.”
Killer Two offered his hand and said his usual, “Any friend of Bill is a friend of mine.”
“I heard a lot about you from Bill,” said Fowler.
“Anything good?”
“Not much.”
It took Killer Two a moment or two to realize that Fowler was kidding. “You’re okay, Art.”
“He’s a wise ass,” added Williams. “How about a double order of steak, eggs, orange juice and what you call coffee.”
“Hey,” said Killer Two.
Fowler looked at Williams and said, “Wise ass.”
“How’d you want the eggs?”
It was scrambled for Fowler and sunny-side up for Williams.
With the breakfast clientele all but gone and lunch a couple of hours away, Killer Two had time to come out of the kitchen and talk wrestling. Addressing Fowler, he asked, “Has Bill told you to story of Haystacks Calhoun and the mailbag?”
“Nope.”
Killer Two, of course, proceeded to tell his version. All three laughed throughout. When he finished, Fowler said, “That’s good stuff.”
It was just the invitation to continue that the big man needed. He surprised Williams by coming up with a new Kowalski story.
“The Killer had a main event match scheduled one time someplace in Texas against Johnny Valentine. He was a Pollock just like Killer and he was one of the best. Well, Killer found out that on part of the card was Ivan Putski, who was another pretty good Pollock wrestler, and a couple of other guys, probably locals, who were going to fight a bear.”
“A bear?” asked Fowler.
“Yah, it was alive not like the dead octopus that Two Ton Tony fought.”
Williams interrupted, “You’re telling us that Two Ton boxed against a dead octopus?”
“No, no,” said Killer Two, “he wrestled a dead octopus, but that was after he retired from boxing.”
Williams couldn’t resist, “How the hell do you wrestle dead octopus?”
With a totally straight face, Killer Two said, “You have to do it in water.”
Fowler all but fell off the counter stool on which he was sitting. After composing himself, he asked who Two Ton Tony was.
Before Killer Two could answer, Williams said, “Back in the 1930s, Two Ton Tony Galento boxed more than a hundred times, ate everything from spaghetti to hot dogs before his fights, once knocked down Joe Louis and knocked out Jackie Gleason.”
“Knocked out Jackie Gleason?” asked Fowler.
“He sure did,” replied Williams. “First, let’s hear about the bear.”
Killer Two eagerly continued, “Kowalski always had a jar of honey with him when he had a match.”
“How come?” asked Fowler.
“He took a tablespoon before his matches for extra energy. When he found out about the bear, Killer went to the promoter and asked him to put the match with the bear at the end of the card because the bear would shed fur and drool all over the ring. The promoter said okay. Killer finished his match against Valentine and then there was a break while the bear gets brought out to the ring. The bear’s face was down near the mat and it was drooling all over the place. It was hungry.”
“Why didn’t they feed it?” asked Fowler.
“A bear that’s been feed wants to sleep. This one was trained to wrestle and it knew the better it did in the ring, the better it would get fed.”
“Sort of like it should be with people, the better you work, the more money you make, the better you get fed. If you don’t work, you starve.”
“That’s right, Art. Too many people think they’re entitled to a free lunch. Every now and then, some jerk comes in here and tries to use those goddamn food stamp cards. Bad enough the dollar ain’t worth much anymore.”
“What do you do if that’s all they’ve got when they get the check?”
“I take the card and tell them if they ever come in again, I’ll break them in two. Now Putski sends in the two local wrestlers first. They see the bear drooling like mad, head down and pawing the mat. They get scared as hell and run to the far corner of the ring. Meanwhile, Killer is in the dressing room with Putski. He scoops some honey from the jar with one of his hands and as Putski is heading out the room, Killer slaps him on the ass, smearing the honey on Putski’s trunks while he wishes him good luck.”
“This is too good,” says Fowler.
Killer Two was now beaming. “There’s no animal on Earth has a better sense of smell than a bear. Putski heads towards the ring showing off his muscles to the crowd. The bear smells the honey and rears up and is clawing the air with its front paws. As soon as Putski starts to go through the ropes, the bear charges and knocks him down and starts licking the honey off his ass.”
Fowler and Williams were laughing full throttle as were the only two other customers in the diner.
“The two stiffs think the bear is going to eat Putski and they take off. Putski finally gets away from the bear and races for the dressing room while the crowd is cheering the bear. But here’s the kicker. Putski tells the Killer, ‘I think the bear loves me.’”
“What a story!” said Fowler.
“There’s something else, Putski was one of the strongest men in the world and his most famous hold was the bear hug.”
“You kidding me?” asked Fowler.
“No, before some of his matches, he would entertain the audience by putting a metal storage drum in his bear hug and crushing it.”
When Williams finally stopped laughing, he asked Killer Two why he hadn’t already told him that story.
“It’
s like a menu, you always save some recipes to change your menu. That keeps the regulars coming back.”
Fowler turned to Williams, “I didn’t know Gleason was a boxer.”
“As a teenager living in Brooklyn, Gleason was a pool hustler, an amateur boxer, a carnival barker, a nightclub bouncer and he was a genuine tough guy. He began to get gigs as a stand-up comic in nightclubs, mostly dives. One of those dives was in Newark, New Jersey, which was a short distance from Two Ton Tony’s home town of Orange.”
Ever inquisitive, Fowler asked if Galento was called Two Ton because of his size.
“No, Galento owned a bar in New Jersey and also used to deliver ice in a horse drawn wagon. One time in his early days of boxing, he was late to a bout. His manager asked why. Tony said it was because he had to deliver two tons of ice. He was only five feet nine inches, but weighed over two thirty. He didn’t train much, ate like a pig, guzzled beer and was a pure brawler with a murderous left hook. He was probably the dirtiest fighter of his time and would break any rule to win a fight. Don’t know how true this is, but I’ve read that he would skip showering days before a fight hoping that he would stink so bad that his opponent would get distracted by the stink”
“Got to love the guy,” smiled Fowler.
“Being tough himself, Gleason enjoyed give and take with hecklers when he was doing his nightclub acts. Every now and then he would challenge a heckler to step outside. One night, as Gleason told it, he was doing a routine in Newark and was being brutally heckled by a guy he described as being fat, bald, middle aged and a beer guzzling, cigar smoking buffoon. Finally, Gleason asked him to step outside. He said he never saw anyone jump out of their seat as fast as the buffoon. They went outside and the next thing Gleason remembered was being flat on his back in the club with a doctor looking at him. Gleason asked what happened. What happened was a left hook by Two Ton Tony.”
“Another great story,” said Fowler.
Turning to Killer Two, Williams said, “Why don’t you tell him about Tony’s fight against Louis?”
Killer Two didn’t hesitate. “Tony was one of the ‘Bums of the Month’ who fought Joe Louis in 1939. Like Bill said, he was the dirtiest fighter around. Early in the first round, he caught Louis with a lead left hook. The Brown Bomber staggered back against the ropes. This is where Tony made his first mistake. He went after Louis swinging wildly. He missed with everything.