90 Church

by Dean Unkefer

  “No, I have to get back to the base. My orders were to drop you and come back. They said there would be people here waiting for you.”

  I climbed out of the plane and watched it taxi down the runway and bank over the coastline, flying north and out of view. It was very hot so I carried my jacket and made my way to the fishing cabin I’d seen from the air. As I approached the cabin, I sensed that something was wrong. I was alone. The door was open. Inside was a large radio panel but sections of it had been dismantled and taken out. The kitchen was stocked with canned food and there was a little bar with two half-gallon jugs of vodka.

  I sat on the porch and tried to relax. This wasn’t so bad; at least I was out of New York and out of Flowers’ reach, temporarily, so I decided I might as well enjoy it. I reached in my pocket and found my tobacco pouch – a leather bag with a zipper, which I used for cocaine – and set it on the counter. I had all the comforts of home – vodka and dope, plus a beautiful ocean and a sandy beach. I felt tired so I decided to lie down and wait for Greenway to show up with the others, wondering why I was alone.

  I woke up after a short nap and fixed myself some canned stew, then poured myself half a glass of vodka. I took a sip. It was water.

  I went outside and looked up and down the beach. A terrible feeling came over me. I went back inside and got my leather bag with my cocaine stash, opened it up, and dumped everything on the counter. All my little bags of cocaine were gone.

  Then I knew what was happening. I knew they weren’t coming for me. I knew I was going to be here alone. I should have guessed from the look on Greenway’s face when he first saw me getting off the plane. Sally was right. I was a drunk, a cokehead and a fool, and everyone knew it. And now I was going to do cold turkey – alone – and probably not live through it.

  By the end of the next day I had dry heaves, and then I fainted trying to walk up the steps of the porch. I lay on the steps, asleep, and half my body got burned red from the sun. I was talking to myself and beginning to have cold shakes.

  At night I ran out into the ocean. The water felt warm. I staggered back to the cabin before I noticed that I had gone into the water fully clothed. I sat down on the bed, took off my clothes, poured water out of my boots, and fell asleep. I wasn’t sure of the time, but it was very early morning when I woke up in a cold sweat.

  I stumbled out to the beach and began to scream and shake, and then ran along the shoreline. Finally I stopped and just lay down on the sand. When I awoke, the sun was directly overhead and water was splashing halfway up my legs. I was totally naked. There were small crabs all around me, waiting for me to die. I looked up and down the beach and didn’t know from which direction I had come or how far I had run. I had no cover and the sun was very hot. I would walk one way for about ten minutes and, not seeing the cabin, I would reverse direction and walk ten minutes the other way. I tried to find my original footprints but I had been walking in the shallow, lapping waves along the shoreline and they were all washed away. The sun was searing my bare skin, and the sunburn from the day before was beginning to blister. I tried to go into the jungle for shade, but with my bare feet the rocks were too sharp. Finally, I just staggered in one direction. I feared that, if it was the wrong way, the sun would bake me to death.

  It was late afternoon when I finally saw the cabin. I got down on my knees and cried. I must have walked for five miles, staggering and screaming along the shoreline. If I had walked in the other direction I would have died. I drank some water and fell asleep, but I had a dream, a horrible dream: I saw myself as a child standing on the side of a small stream, staring down into the water at a green frog. Suddenly, from underneath, a snake grabbed the frog in its mouth. The little frog looked back at me with a blank, cold stare, the look of death. The frog became Tony Degaglia’s mother in her chair, and then Lisa Marie and Stuckey and DeWitt and Calvin, and the man holding his bloody arm at the Medalley mansion. They were all there, all with the same blank stare, looking at me. I woke up shaking. When morning finally came, I tried to eat, but two hours later I was kneeling naked in the sand, throwing up.

  That afternoon I had some luck. Clouds rolled in and it started to rain, at first heavily and then in a light mist. At dusk, I walked along the beach – still naked and hurting from the sunburn. I thought I was feeling better, when all of a sudden I saw the footprints of a child in the wet sand. The right foot was curved inward; I was convinced they were the footprints of my five-year-old son Mark. I followed them along the beach for what seemed to be a mile. How did he get here? I had to find him. Then I saw the footprints curve off the sand and into the sea. I looked around, but it was clear; they went into the water and didn’t come back out.

  As I stared over the water, I saw a large, gray, slimy log about ten feet from shore. I stared at the log and saw that it was bent, almost in a half-circle. Suddenly it moved, making a huge splash, hitting me with water so hard it knocked me down. I looked up and saw the log was actually the body of a gigantic gray snake rising above me. Its head came down; its teeth tore into my leg and held me. I knew I was going to die and I just stared at the jungle and the beach, waiting for the snake to drag me under the water. I knew everything was finally over, and I felt calm resignation. Now I had the same stare I had seen on so many faces, and one by one, just like my dream, all the faces with that terrible calm stare came back to me. So many people were dead because of me, now it was my turn and I was calm too. The snake released me just for a second, perhaps to get a better grip. I scrambled toward the jungle, knowing it could easily follow and get me. I rolled around in the sand and cried, screamed and kicked – and then all was quiet. The snake was gone.

  I could hardly breathe. I staggered back to the cabin. There was a mirror in the bedroom and I looked at myself, expecting to see blood all over my leg; instead I saw that I was only covered with wet sand from head to foot. I looked like a cheap cement statue. There was no blood, only the scar on my side where Del Ridley’s wife had stabbed me. I lay down on the bed and wanted to die.

  Again, I woke up in the early morning. I couldn’t face another day, could not face another hallucination.

  I found my automatic and went outside to the porch in the hot burning sunlight. I stared at my blue automatic: something was wrong, it was too light. I pulled back the carriage, but nothing ejected. I squeezed the trigger, and again nothing happened. I popped the clip; it was empty. Greenway had thought of everything.

  BORN AGAIN

  By noon of the next day, my sunburn was so bad that I couldn’t go outside; I just peeked out the windows at the blue water and lay in bed. I was able to keep some food down, but couldn’t taste anything. By evening, I was able to watch the stars and even venture outside along the beach. I wondered what horror would visit me tonight. But I fell asleep and slept through the night, and when I awoke it was daylight.

  I had no idea of the time since I didn’t have a watch, and there was no clock or even electricity in the cabin. My head seemed clear and I began to think about things. I spent the whole day inside. Someone put me here I reasoned – but to die or to dry out? Greenway could not have done it alone. It could have been Michael or even Flowers, or Dewey with his CIA friends. But why? They were going to kill me in New York, or indict me; either way, sober or stoned … but there were easier ways to kill me than flying me to this beach. Once again I had that sinking feeling that I didn’t know what was going on. I guess it didn’t matter who or why. What was really important was that someone wanted me ready to face something.

  That evening I sat at the edge of the water with the waves lapping at my feet. A calm came over me. I was neither a killer nor a corrupt, cold-blooded agent. It didn’t matter that I had not made a single case, despite what all the reports said. I had done my best and fought as hard as I could to save America. That was all that really mattered. I was just a soldier, like the rest of them, fighting a war that society could not comprehend. It was so simple to me that I laughed at myself. I should have
seen it sooner. I wasn’t here to die. Someone wanted me strong and sober. I didn’t regret anything I’d done … except one “heroic act of bravery in the line of duty saving Michael’s life” that I would always be remembered for – killing Michael’s lover. I tried not to laugh, but it was too outrageous to hold back.

  I remembered my first day as an agent. How could I ever forget it? I remembered the tape Blanker played for us in his office that he was so proud of … “the agents of 90 Church are the most evil people in the world.” I screamed as loud as I could at the gathering waves as they rolled to the shore, “America be proud! America be proud! America be proud! Be proud of me!” Warm tears rolled down my face. I wanted someone, anyone, to be proud of me.

  The next day I still couldn’t go out into the sun but I had an appetite, and could eat. I stared at the rolling waves all day, anxious to return – yet afraid of the indictments that awaited me. I wondered about the penitentiary and for how long I would be sentenced and whether I could live through it. I didn’t think I could. I was mostly concerned about the embarrassment to my family, Daisy, Mark, and my mother and father. When I thought about Daisy I would start to cry. They were the most important things in my life and I threw them away first. They probably could have saved me from this mess.

  I didn’t hate Flowers anymore, he was just trying to do his job, doing what he thought was right. Someone else fighting for truth, justice and the American way. Everyone was trying to do the right thing: Flowers, the agents, even Rachel, who tried to save her real true love, Henri Manasso. She was strong and beautiful. I would always love her. Everyone was just trying to do what they thought was right – except Michael; Michael was just doing what the government told him to do … stop drug dealers. Everyone hated him the most, yet he was the only true hero.

  I was part of 90 Church and 90 Church was part of me. We all fought together. We were loyal to each other because we knew how things worked and that was the only way to survive in a war. No matter who betrayed me I would not betray them. It had to stop and it was going to stop with me. Dewey had saved my life many times and Michael forgave me for killing his lover. Why does the government always think it has to be right? The things we did were not as important as why we did them. I knew what was right and how much it was going to cost. The deals with the devil were over. I remembered what Manasso had said, “Mark well your accounts payable.” My bills have come due; I must stand up and go to prison for twenty years for causing the death of a lousy pimp and helping a strung-out junkie informant survive. What an outrageous, perverted price to pay.

  That evening I made dinner and again sat on the beach, watching it get dark. Since my first day, I had not worn any clothing. I sat on the cool sand, staring at the gray clouds gathering over the ocean. The stars were beginning to come out; as I looked at the brightest ones, I noticed something unusual about them.

  There were three stars in a straight line, separated equally. I hoped I was not having another hallucination. I watched them gently rock back and forth, gradually growing brighter, but always in a straight line and equally bright. All of a sudden, there was a loud roar and the stars went from a horizontal to a vertical line. The airplane banked to the left and out of my sight over the jungle. I couldn’t hear it anymore, but then saw the lights coming back to land.

  I rushed into the cabin and tried to put on my clothes. They were in a moldy heap. I couldn’t find my socks so I put my boots on over my bare feet. One side of a boot was ripped and my foot poked through. I ran down the path to the airstrip to find a long, thin, black plane with small white numbers painted on it. There were no other markings. The pilot lowered a ladder for me to climb and then slid the glass canopy closed. He didn’t say a word. The engines roared and he pivoted the airplane, rolled down the runway, and shot almost straight up in the air. The force crushed me against my seat and took my breath.

  After leveling off, the pilot handed me an envelope, a memo from George Blanker. It said I was to terminate my activities immediately and report to the Bureau for the Monday morning meeting, without fail. The date of the memo surprised me. I could only remember being on the beach for four days, but the date showed I had been there for seven. After about twenty minutes, the pilot turned to me and pointed down. “That’s Houston,” he said, and mentioned some Air Force base.

  At Houston, a station wagon drove me to the public airport and by 11:00 I was walking through the terminal in Long Island, New York. I saw myself in the glass of the shops and understood the looks that people gave me as I walked past them. I looked like a homeless person, with a stubble beard, long stringy hair, filthy moldy clothes, and my bare foot sticking out of my boot. There was a barbershop getting ready to close but I walked in and asked the man if I could have a haircut. He shook his head and said, “No, no way, I’m closed.”

  I dug in my pocket and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill of government money, laid it on the counter and sat in the chair.

  “I want it all off, one-inch length, so it lays flat. Cut it all off,” I said. My hair was so long it almost reached my shoulders. In twenty minutes I looked totally different and I left, hailing a cab.

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  The moment I walked into my apartment I could sense that it had been empty for a long time. The air was stale and a fine layer of dust covered everything. A note lay on the kitchen table. It was from Daisy and it simply read: If things ever change, let me know, but you’ll have to get a job, Love.

  I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I knew that I had bigger things to worry about tomorrow.

  I woke up early. This was my big day. I threw my pimp clothes in the trash, including my deerskin boots. I took a shower and shaved and looked for something appropriate to wear on my one-way trip to the penitentiary. I opened the closet door, turned on the light and looked up at the top shelf at a glorious sight. It warmed me all over and made me chuckle. When Flowers strapped me in to the lie-detector chair he asked, “Have you ever taken or misappropriated government funds?” What he did not ask was “Did I ever skim money from drug dealers?” There in the dim light on the shelf was a wall of envelopes and bundles, all shapes, sizes and colors stacked so high I would need to stand on a chair to reach the top. Every one of them had been handed to me on a dark street, or thrown in the back seat of my car, or counted out at the clinic, and even stuffed in my evidence locker. I was sure there was over three hundred thousand dollars. None of it had ever meant anything to me.

  I remembered how they caught Dewey with only ten thousand dollars in his bank account and was sure Flowers had gone through all of my pitiful bank accounts many times. Stacking all this money on the top shelf of my closet was the dumbest, most obvious place to hide it, yet it was probably the last place they would ever look.

  I earned every dollar of it – and now it was for Daisy. She would know how to spend it and I would tell her how to keep it secret. Staring at this strange wall of envelopes and packages was the best sight I had ever seen in my dark, miserable, wretched life.

  I chose a navy blue, three-button suit, with a white button-down shirt, striped red tie, and the wing-tipped shoes that I hadn’t worn in four years.

  Then I got on the subway to face my fate. I rode with everyday, honest people living a dull, meaningless life and I envied every wretched one of them. I thought about my disastrous, comical first day at 90 Church and my silly Superman creed “to fight for truth, justice and the American way.” I certainly knew what it was to fight for truth and justice, but what was the American way?

  I looked like any other businessman going to the office, except I had a terrific tan. As I climbed the subway steps to 90 Church, I remembered seeing the news trucks the morning they arrested agents Brown and Winkler, and wondered if I would see the same sight. I looked down the street. I didn’t see any, and was relieved. As I was about to enter the building, a man rushed in front of me, carrying a film camera. I walked to the edge of the block and looked down the side street. There were news car
s parked on both sides of the street. I was big time. I was the undercover agent coming in from the cold, being arrested for crimes ranging from drug-peddling to killing “Mr. Heyman.” I began imagining all the items on my indictment bill: assaults, theft, selling drugs, trashing government automobiles, murder. I realized that I would be facing a twenty-year sentence and that the combination of crimes and refusing to cooperate would rule out any leniency from the courts. But I was clean, strong, and sober. I was standing up. I gritted my teeth.

  I got in the elevator and stood in the back. Others got in, then Flowers stepped in just before the doors closed. He looked around but didn’t notice me. He still didn’t recognize me when we got off together at the top floor. Then he stared at me, and said, “Hello.”

  I looked back, smiled too, and said, “Fuck you.” I walked down the hallway into Group Two. Everyone looked at me like they were seeing a ghost. They didn’t know me with my haircut and suit. No one said hello or good morning or anything. They just looked at me then turned away, just like my first terrible day four years ago. I was calm. I sat at my desk, waiting for them to make the first move – and sure enough, Pike’s secretary asked me to come into his office.

  At first he tried to make light of everything. He said I looked good and then got right to the point. “Blanker wants me to pick up your gun and your credentials.”

  I laughed. “What do you think, Boss? Didn’t they take Dewey and Agent Brown’s credentials and piece before they busted them? Or maybe, do you think I’m going to be assigned to a new office?”

  He gave a nervous laugh. I went to my locker and got the “toy” aluminum gun, issued me on my first day at the Bureau, the one that I had used to kill Michael’s lover. Along with it were my leather-covered credentials with my picture on them, embossed with the United States of America eagle seal. I opened it and stared at a picture of a young man I did not recognize. It occurred to me that in my four years with the Bureau I had never shown my credentials to anybody – not my wife, not other agents, not the police, not to defendants, no one. But the greatest comedy of all was that from the beginning I let Michael and Dewey write me into the reports. No one except Dot, Blanker’s naïve secretary, believed that I had made all those major cases. I walked back and gave my “toy” gun and credentials to Pike.