Damascus Road

by Charlie Cole

  “The prodigal son returns,” he said to me. There was a twinkle in his eye that I admired. I hated myself for it, but I missed the old bull.

  The crowd burst into a sea of flashbulbs as pictures were clicked. I put my arm around him, and we waved at the crowd together. Father and son, side by side. The two Secret Service agents appeared at the door, glaring at my back. Ellis saw them and laughed.

  “Some things never change, Jim,” Ellis said.

  “Everything’s changed, General,” I replied. “We need to talk.”

  He nodded.

  “That we do,” he agreed.

  Ellis Marlowe apologized to the Secret Service agents. Their names were Hauser and Truman. Hauser had attacked me. Truman had been pummeled in the crossfire. They didn’t like me. I could tell from having a long, grueling history of not being liked. They scowled at me, and I smiled back.

  Ellis offered to buy dinner. I had no other plans, no other place to be, so I took him up on it. I offered to drive and he accepted. He waved off the Secret Service escort, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t take a dive that easily.

  I showed him to the Hemicuda.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was in awe or incredulous.

  “It was a gift,” I said. I was fidgeting with the keys, avoiding his eyes. He made me feel like a kid again, frustrated that he didn’t appreciate the car.

  “From a girl?” he asked.

  Ellis Marlowe had a way of calling me out. He did it with guile and guilt. Nothing was sacred. He could tear down beliefs and dictums as fast as you could put them up.

  I shook my head and looked at him, more than a little hurt.

  “It belonged to Chris Beck,” I said. “His father gave me the keys at the funeral.”

  Ellis smiled and opened his mouth to say something smug, some belittling remark to cut the gravity of the situation.

  “Get in the car,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  He got in and buckled without another word. I fired up the engine and let it prowl and growl. Ellis nodded, conceding the point.

  “It’s a ’71?” he asked.

  I nodded. We rode in silence.

  “Nice ride,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  “It’s yellow, though,” he pointed out, in case I hadn’t noticed.

  “Sunburst yellow,” I replied.

  I checked the rearview mirror and saw the Secret Service agents behind us. I turned left without the benefit of using my signal, then bailed down an alley behind the businesses. At the far end of the alley, I took a left. Up two blocks, then a right. Up and back, up and back I angled over and over again.

  I pulled to a stop under a maple tree and waited. When I checked my mirror, the Secret Service car was nowhere to be found.

  “Are they gone?” Ellis asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Dinner?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  I let out the clutch, pressed the gas and pulled away from the curb. It was not difficult for me to let the feel of the road take me where I needed to go. With blacktop under me and traffic lights marking my progress, I navigated my way through the city.

  “Have you been here before?” Ellis asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve been to this kind of place before,” I said. “I know where they keep them.”

  I cruised past the chic and the shameful. Past sandwich shops and sushi bars, ethnic restaurants of every color and creed from Chicago style pizza to Chinese in every flavor from Mandarin to Peking Duck. At last, I found it.

  The steakhouse was brick and mortar. Low profile, it only had a name above the door.

  Murphy’s Law.

  I pulled to the curb and we got out.

  “How did you know about Murphy’s?” Ellis asked.

  I tapped my nose and pointed at the door. The air was filled with the savory sweet fragrance of applewood smoke, seared beef and caramelized onions.

  “Can’t argue with that,” he said.

  We walked inside and caught the eye of our greeter. I gave her two fingers, either offering the peace sign, V for victory or that we wanted a table for two.

  She grabbed two menus and led us to a table. We sat and buried ourselves in reading the entrees.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” Ellis asked.

  “You heard what happened with Chris Beck?” I asked.

  “Ooh, filet mignon…” Ellis mused. “Hmm? Oh, yes, Chris Beck. Sad situation that was. You’re lucky I was able to help.”

  “Help?” I said.

  “You didn’t actually think that the State Police and Officer Tyrell released you out of the goodness of their hearts, did you?” Ellis asked.

  Shame rose in my chest, choking me. I shook my head.

  “I think I’ll have a baked potato,” he continued. “I buried your blood alcohol results. You were nearly twice the legal limit.”

  The news crushed me. The reality of it not surprising.

  The waiter returned and took Ellis’ order. I sat there stunned.

  “And for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

  I gestured at Ellis, muttering.

  “He’ll have the same,” he said.

  “Wine?”

  “I don’t drink,” I said, staring at my plate.

  “Since when?” Ellis laughed. He ordered a bottle of something expensive and French.

  “I’ve changed, Dad,” I began.

  “So, I’ve heard,” he said, all humor gone from his voice. “Obviously word got to me about your stunt in that diner.”

  “It wasn’t a stunt,” I said.

  “Quoting Scripture and pummeling criminals…” He shook his head. “I’m running a campaign here, Jim. I can’t afford to have loose cannons rolling around on my deck.”

  “Is that why I’m here?” I asked. “Because I’m an embarrassment to you?”

  Ellis was serious, almost pensive. His eyes scanned the room, quick and guarded. He rearranged his silverware, straightening, adjusting.

  “I know you, son,” Ellis said. He was agonizing over what he was about to say. I was more than willing not to let him off the hook.

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “Things are just different for me,” I said. “I have to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “If you died today, where would you go?”

  “Hell.”

  I was shocked by his honesty.

  “Jim, I have led men into combat on four continents,” he said. “I have taken lives since I was 17 years old in the Mekong Delta. I’ve carpet-bombed villages. I’ve patrolled deserts and jungles and cities. I’ve done some horrible things in my life to my fellow man and perhaps worse, I’ve ordered others to do the same. Call it patriotism. Call it the call of duty. Call it whatever you want, but a man doesn’t see that much death and have it not change him.

  “Forty years later and I’m a politician. If anyone deserves Hell, it’s probably me,” he said this last without pride or glory. It was a fact to be stated.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said.

  “Listen, Jim,” Ellis cut in. “I have a proposition for you. I have a problem. I think you can help me; and if you can, I would be more than happy to have that discussion with you about the good book.”

  It was my turn to sit and stare at him.

  “You have a problem?” I asked.

  Dinner arrived, so I mulled my next question. Platters of beef with baked potatoes and sour cream. Ellis received his glass of wine with great fervor and showmanship. I sipped ice water and waited. The waiter told us to enjoy our meal and vanished.

  “What sort of problem?” I asked.

  “A delicate one,” he answered and cut a piece of meat.

  “Is this how we’re going to play this game?” I said. “Forget it.”

  I turned my attention to my plate. I tried the steak. It was better than I expe
cted and more than I wanted to say. The potato was perfectly cooked, the sour cream whipped and cool in contrast. I sipped my water.

  “My, that’s a lovely bouquet,” I said. I tried more, “Ah, and just a hint of lemon. How delicious.”

  “Fine,” Ellis said in defeat. “So, you haven’t forgotten your time at the Officer’s Club.”

  “Or the country club,” I replied, smiling at his strategic defeat.

  “I have a problem,” Ellis said.

  “So I’ve heard,” I replied.

  “It’s a personal protection issue,” he said. His eyes were locked on mine again in that bombardier way that he had.

  “It’s a good thing you have Secret Service agents, then,” I said. “I assume they arrived with the news of your bid to run for President?”

  Ellis leaned close.

  “I had a special conference with the chairman of the party,” Ellis said. “Considering the state of the union, I am the preferred choice to receive the nomination. They want me. That’s why the Secret Service was here.”

  “So, why the protection issue?” I asked.

  “Somebody who knows me, knows my past military operations, has been sending me threatening letters,” Ellis said.

  “What has the Secret Service said about this?” I asked. “They must have some geek in a basement somewhere who analyzes handwriting and crazies with grudges.”

  “I can’t tell the Secret Service,” Ellis replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Aside from the aspect of bad publicity, we have the issue of containing intel. Keeping it from getting public,” Ellis said.

  “Intelligence?” I asked. “On what?”

  “During Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom I had oversight of a number of covert operations that involved civilian personnel,” Ellis said. His voice barely loud enough to be heard.

  I ate more steak while I listened. I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth.

  “Civilians?” I asked. “Spooks? CIA? What are we talking about?”

  Ellis didn’t answer. He sat back and watched the room again, tapping his West Point ring on the table. I pinched the bridge of my nose, suddenly feeling exhausted.

  “Black sites? Is that what this is about?” I asked.

  Ellis sat forward, fire in his eyes, his face flushed.

  “It’s about someone knowing more than they ought and coming after me,” Ellis said. “I can’t have it. I can not have it. Whoever they are, they know far too much. They could ruin me and ruin this election. Ruin this country’s future, for that matter.”

  Ellis slumped back in his seat, deflated.

  “The sins of the father,” I said.

  “So it would seem,” he nodded.

  “Why me?”

  “Jim…you have…an aptitude for improvisation,” Ellis said.

  “You’re too kind,” I replied.

  “I mean this in the best possible way,” he went on. “You have lived that life on the other side of the law. You’ve stolen cars, escaped police custody—“

  “I know my record, Dad,” I said. “There’s no need for you to remind me.”

  “You impersonated your brother for two weeks in Ranger training at Fort Benning when he sprained his knee just so he wouldn’t be dropped,” Ellis said. A smile cracked across his face. I hadn’t realized he knew.

  “We were twins after all,” I said. “And if you’ll recall, that didn’t end exactly the way I had hoped.”

  “Your brother graduated top of his class from Ranger school, earned his tab,” Ellis said. “The rest is, well, tragedy of war.”

  “Tragedy of war,” I repeated. “It certainly was that.”

  “Will you help me?” he asked.

  I took another bite of my steak, but the flavor was lost to me. All I tasted was flesh and blood. I swallowed hard.

  “After this is over, we’re going to talk,” I said. “About everything.”

  “Agreed,” Ellis said.

  “And we’re going to talk about what happened with Tom,” I said. “And Mom. Okay? All of it.”

  Ellis opened his mouth to object, but stopped short.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Bon appétit.”

  We ate our meal in relative peace after that.

  “I arranged for a room for you,” Ellis said. “It’s in my hotel.”

  “You were that sure I was going to say yes?”

  “Not at all,” Ellis confessed, “but if you did, you’d need a place to stay. I couldn’t just turn you out onto the street.”

  The thought that he wanted me close was not lost on me.

  I navigated the ‘Cuda back through the city and into the parking garage of the hotel. My bag was in the trunk. We walked inside together. I expected to walk to the front desk, to check in like every other palooka on the planet.

  “Here,” Ellis said. He was holding out my key to the room.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said. What else was there to say.

  “I’m right across the hall,” he smiled. “Good night.”

  Ellis left me standing in the hallway, holding my key. Without much recourse, I turned and let myself into my room. The bed was bigger than I needed, but looked comfortable. The bathroom was startlingly white with a coffee pot next to the toilet of all things.

  I dropped my bag in the empty closet and sat on the bed. The remote for the television was on top of the set, but I was too bone weary to retrieve it, nor did I have a lot of interest in seeing what was on.

  Instead, I pulled open the drawer of the nightstand. I reached in without looking and touched something cold and smooth. My hand recoiled, and I looked in the drawer.

  Inside, resting atop the King James Bible was my balisong knife. Stainless steel in construction and razor sharp to the touch, my father had bought it for me during one of his trips abroad to Batangas, Philippines. I was a teenager when he had given it to me, and I carried it for years. Somewhere along the line, Ellis and I had crossed paths, and I had left home in a huff. I remembered my car keys, but the balisong had been left behind.

  I picked up the knife in my right hand, the Bible in my left. I remembered the heft of the knife, the cold steel against my palm. The handle of the blade was actually two pieces, concealing the blade in inset grooves when closed.

  I flipped the blade open in a slow, awkward movement.

  Click-click-click-clack.

  I reversed it, closing it.

  The feel of the knife was familiar, like a bike you used to ride or your favorite dish at a restaurant that you haven’t had in a while.

  I opened the blade again.

  Clickclick-clickclack.

  Oh yeah.

  I closed the blade, folding it back into the handle.

  Open.

  Clickclickclickclack.

  Flipped closed.

  Open.

  Closed.

  The blade was liquid metal in my hand, twirling in a razor-bladed blur. Opened and closed and back without pause, without hesitation. Tumbling over my fingers, index, middle, ring and back again. Open and closed. Just like old times.

  I slammed the closed knife down on the nightstand. The lamp rocked back with the impact, teetered, then settled back on its base.

  Nothing…was ever going to be just like old times again. I nudged the knife back into the drawer with the Bible and pushed it shut.

  Sighing deeply, I sat on the bed, kicked off my boots, and laid back on the pillow. I cracked open the Bible and started reading.

  My sleep was interrupted by the sound of a door closing. I sat up, head blurry with sleep, still fuzzy, getting my bearings. A hotel room. Bible open on my stomach. I rubbed my eyes. I had fallen asleep reading.

  Sitting up, I pulled on my boots, then walked to the door. I pulled it open to find Ellis in suit and tie. He nodded a greeting, neither warm nor cold, but more acknowledgement of me reporting for duty, albeit disheveled and in my clothes from the day before.

  He was flanked by the Secret Se
rvice agents.

  “Hauser. Truman,” I said. They nodded. My presence was duly noted.

  “We’ve got an event today,” Ellis said. “I’m speaking at the auditorium today. We’re going to get there early, conduct sound checks, the usual.”

  “That’s a bit of exposure, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “We’ve got it handled, slick,” Hauser said.

  “That’s what we’re here for, sir,” Truman continued. I remembered him from the election office. He had tried to stop me from entering. He was cool, smooth. Definitely the senior agent.

  “I appreciate your work, gentlemen,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Ellis obviously hadn’t told them that I had agreed to help him. Of course he hadn’t, because he hadn’t told them about the threats. In the end, it worked out just fine. There was no way I was going to stand post with federal agents.

  “Isaac has the documentation that we discussed earlier, Jim,” Ellis said. “He’s aware of the situation.”

  “I understand completely,” I said.

  Ellis turned and walked for the elevator, agents in tow.

  “Senator?” I said.

  Ellis stopped and turned.

  “Yes?”

  “With all due respect, sir, watch your six,” I said.

  “All the way,” Ellis replied. He caught my meaning which was good. “Isaac is in the restaurant. Ground floor. He’s waiting on you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. And with that, he was gone.

  I walked back into my hotel room and changed quickly. I wet down my hair, combing it back into some sort of order. Rebooted, rewashed and recovering, I was as ready for the day as I was going to get.

  The Bible lay on the bed. I picked it up and slid it into my jacket pocket. I left my sling behind and opted to go with just the cast on my arm. It felt good and strong now. I’d need to get the cast off sooner rather than later.

  The balisong knife lay in the drawer of the nightstand. I picked it up and weighed its heft. Without a second thought, I deposited it into my pocket. A man was more than the tools he took with him.

  I pocketed my key and exited the room. I walked past the elevator to the stairs and jogged down them to the ground floor. I exited into the lobby and walked straight for the restaurant.

  Deep in the restaurant sat Isaac, alone with his thoughts, reading his morning paper, glasses low on his nose. I navigated past the line waiting to be seated, dodging a waitress with a serving tray full of entrees, and dropped into a seat across from Isaac.