A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

“Look, friend,” Ernie said. “You’re starting to piss me off. I’ll tell you one more time. Leave, and nobody gets hurt.”

  “That’s good advice,” Enrique said, the smile gone now. “You and your friend should take it. It’s healthier.”

  “Okay, asshole,” Ernie said, moving forward. “You had your chance. Now I’m going to—”

  Then it happened.

  Ernie reached out as if to shove Enrique. We never saw Enrique move, because Ernie’s bulk blocked our view. The next thing we knew, Ernie was rolling on the ground, screaming, clutching his knee. His partner said, “Why, you fucking son of a—”

  Enrique’s hand snapped out, and we heard a crunching sound. Blood spurted from Red Hair’s nose. Enrique brought up a knee viciously, and Red Hair dropped with a howl of pain.

  “Now,” Simon said to Amanda and me. “Get their weapons, then order them to leave.”

  By the time we walked over to Enrique, he’d already disarmed the men. As he handed me the weapons, he grinned. “Nice to see I haven’t lost my touch.”

  Ernie sat up, glowering at him with hate. “My knee. You broke my fucking knee, you son of a bitch.”

  “I’m getting all teary-eyed. Get your friend and beat it.”

  Ernie started to respond, but thought better of it. He grimaced and struggled to his feet.

  “What about our guns? We can’t leave without our guns.”

  Enrique looked to me. I removed the clips, pocketed them, then cleared the chambers and held the guns out to Ernie. He took them, muttering, “Shithead.” He hobbled over to his partner, who was still moaning, and helped him over to the car. As he got behind the wheel, Ernie said, “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  As the car peeled away, we became aware of several people watching us from their front yards. One woman hurried back inside her house.

  That was our cue to get going. But before we could, we had one other minor problem to overcome.

  “Bennie just quit,” Simon called out.

  As Amanda and I got into the limo, Simon was handing Bennie a wad of bills through the window and telling him he was sorry things didn’t work out. A visibly shaken Bennie nodded dumbly, then made his way over to the Jag.

  “Simon,” Enrique said, looking back from the driver’s seat, “you understand this is only temporary. I told you before, I’m not the chauffeur type.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’d also like to wear my own clothes. No uniform.” He plucked a piece of lint from his suit jacket, which he’d retrieved moments earlier.

  “I’m amenable to that.”

  “Now, about the pay—”

  “Double your previous salary.”

  Enrique grinned. “Well, okay. Where to?”

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” I said.

  Puzzled looks from Simon and Amanda.

  I explained.

  All I knew about the bar Andy frequented was that it was within walking distance of his apartment in northwest Alexandria. For someone of Andy’s girth and limited lung capacity, I guesstimated he could handle around three blocks, tops. Our best shot was to go to Andy’s place and drive around the neighborhood, check out the bars within the prescribed perimeter. One of them had to be it.

  Would Andy be there?

  I put the odds at better than even. For a borderline alcoholic like Andy, it was the logical place for him to hang out until the 2000 deadline passed. More importantly, as far as I knew, he’d never told anyone the name of the bar. In fact, he went out of his way to keep the location secret.

  When I’d once asked him where it was, he bluntly told me he’d rather I didn’t come there.

  “It’s nothing personal, Marty,” he’d said. “But I go there to forget about work, hang with my own kind.”

  “What kind is that, Andy?”

  He never answered me.

  Alexandria was a straight shot down Route 7 from Fairfax. Since we were going against traffic, the flow was moving. We spent the ride scanning through the various faxes and e-mails Simon printed out from his computer—the information he’d requested from his sources.

  As usual, Simon had gone overboard. There were hundreds of pages pertaining to our key suspects, everything from credit histories to newspaper stories to school transcripts. You name it, if the information was a matter of public record, and sometimes if it wasn’t, we had it there someplace.

  Amanda wearily tossed down a handful of customs declarations she’d been perusing and announced, “Andy told the truth. Only General Garber bought a bottle of whisky.”

  Simon glanced up from the computer screen. “Could you tell if his form was tampered with?”

  “Looks okay to me, but I’m no expert.” She plucked a page free and held it out to him.

  “Give it to Enrique.”

  She hesitated.

  “Pass it up,” Enrique sang out. “I worked forgery for a year.”

  As she crawled forward and handed him the page, she gave me a knowing look. I nodded, suppressing a smile. After three long years, it seemed like Simon had finally found a chauffeur to replace Romero.

  Simon was clicking furiously on the keyboard. He thrust out another stack of pages he’d just printed. Taking them, I said, “You know we’ll never get through all this in time.”

  “We might learn something important, Martin.” He smiled. “If it helps, you can ignore the data on the generals. We understand their motive. Concentrate on Weller and Secretary Churchfield.”

  Churchfield I understood, but…“Anything in particular you’re looking for on Weller?”

  “There are a number of questions about her that are troubling.” He shrugged. “The most pressing one is why she was so intent on implicating herself in the murder.”

  This again.Amanda stepped on my comeback line, saying, “I thought she was acting on orders to confuse the investigation.”

  “So did I,” he said. “But apparently we were in error.”

  I knew what was bugging him. “Listen, just because Andy wasn’t aware that she’d planted the shirt buttons doesn’t mean—Go ahead.” He was about to interrupt me anyway.

  “Secretary Churchfield,” he said, “didn’t know about the buttons either, Martin. Or the condom we found.”

  My eyebrows went up.

  Amanda said, “How do you know?”

  “Churchfield’s meeting with Senator Garber,” he said. “I fully expected her to try and blackmail him with the fabricated rape charge. She never did. She only asked him if he would drop the investigation for the good of the military and the country. She also added that it would be better for the senator if he never learned the truth.”

  “A threat?” Amanda said. “Was she threatening him?”

  “It didn’t come across that way. Her tone was straightforward, as if stating a fact.”

  I said, “And this ties in to Weller how?”

  “I confronted Churchfield with the evidence implicating Weller. I asked her why she thought it necessary to have one of her officers incriminate herself. Her initial reaction was one of shock. Later, she became very angry with me. Incensed, really. She insisted Weller had nothing to do with the crime and ordered me to leave her alone.”

  I said, “Churchfield could have been lying.”

  “She wasn’t. Her surprise—and anger—were genuine.”

  “Simon, the generals were aware of what we had on Weller. They would have told Churchfield.”

  “Obviously, they didn’t.”

  Amanda asked him what reason the generals would have had for keeping this information from Weller.

  “I don’t know. It’s suggestive that both Churchfield and Andy weren’t aware of Weller’s actions. From that, I think it’s clear Weller acted on her own.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting Markel?” Amanda said. “He could have ordered her.”

  “I disagree. I suspect Markel was similarly unaware of Weller’s intentions. If he’d known, he would have told Andy. There would be
no reason not to. Then there’s Weller’s emotional display in the compartment to consider. The only people in the room were the generals and Andy and his men. Why would she stage the scene if they were aware of her intentions?”

  I felt like we were going in circles. “Simon, when I spoke with Markel, I told you heknew about Weller planting the—”

  And then I recalled the timing, and the hole in his argument disappeared. I sighed. “Never mind. Andy found out about Weller the same time we did. He could have called Markel before I met with him.”

  Amanda said to Simon, “So you’re telling us that Weller was the only one who wanted the murder to look like it had been motivated by a rape attempt? That Garber really did try to rape her?”

  “I think it’s likely, yes.”

  We listened to the hum of the tires as we digested this new wrinkle. I glanced to Enrique and saw him watching us in the rearview mirror. He was trying to follow along, but looked as confused as I felt.

  Amanda said grudgingly, “If, and I still think it’s a big if,if Weller acted on her own, she did it to protect someone. That’s the only reason she would have for framing herself.”

  “Markel,” I said, jumping on the obvious. “She’s covering for him without his consent.”

  “Maybe,” Simon said. “And maybe not. All we know is that Colonel Weller has her own agenda. Any assumptions as to her motive are unwise.”

  Amanda looked at me. I nodded. Simon was thinking out of the box again.

  As Amanda and I began searching through the pages for information on Weller, the car phone rang. Simon picked up an extension, then turned to me and pointed at the console. I thought he wanted me to flip on the speaker, but as I reached up, he mouthed a different word. It took me a few seconds to locate the icon. I nodded when I had it.

  “Okay, Carter,” Simon said. “Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.”

  39

  Andy lived in a tired-looking eight-plex in the Latin section off Beauregarde Road, about five miles northwest and a world away from the upscale glitz of Old Town Alexandria. We looked out front for Andy’s car, but didn’t see it. As we circled the block, we spotted the first bar. Julio’s Hacienda. “Not a chance,” Amanda said.

  But I checked it out anyway. No Andy.

  Fifteen minutes later, we had hit four more bars and still came up blank. It was well after five; we had less than three hours until we turned into pumpkins. Simon shook his head in frustration. Even though he wouldn’t say it, I knew what he was thinking.

  I’d guessed wrong.

  Enrique said cheerfully, “Looks like people like to drink around here.”

  No one smiled.

  We turned a corner and spotted another bar. The last one within the three blocks. As we drove up, I knew at once we’d finally found it.

  Sunlight streamed through the enormous plate-glass window out front. Squinting against the glare, we could see several patrons sitting in inside. A heavy-set man at the end of the bar might have been Andy, but he wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his back was to us. If it was him, we now had the problem of him spotting us as we came in.

  Simon barked instructions to Enrique. After parking the limo, he took off down the sidewalk while Amanda, Simon, and I strolled up to the front door. Before we entered, I recalled what Andy had told me.

  I go there to forget about work…hang out with my own kind.

  That prophetic comment and the big sign mounted over the tattered awning confirmed this was the bar Andy often frequented. Club 114, it read.

  The same number as the hill in Vietnam.

  The bar was small, no bigger than the fast-food restaurant it probably once was. I counted seven Formica-topped tables on the scarred wooden floor, a long bar running along the back wall. The air was thick with smoke, and a battered jukebox in the corner was playing a scratchy version of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” On the wall adjacent to the door, I saw dozens of photographs of young men in military fatigues. Above them hung a wooden sign that read “Duty, Honor, Country.” Below, in smaller letters: “The Good Die Young.” There were only four patrons inside, all males in their mid to late fifties. Three were at a table, one leaning against the bar.

  All were staring at us, and none was Andy.

  The song on the jukebox ended.

  The bartender, a heavy woman with a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and teased red hair, said, “Can I help you?”

  Simon walked over and showed her his badge. “We’re looking for Andy Hobbs.”

  Her face went blank. “Never heard of him.”

  Simon looked at the men at the table. They shook their heads. The man at the bar said, “Nobody by that name comes here.”

  “I see.”

  Amanda and I went over to the end of the bar, where the man we’d seen earlier was seated. A freshly lit cigarette burned in an ashtray.

  Amanda said, “Andy’s brand.”

  I looked around. “Whose cigarette is this?”

  “Mine,” the man at the bar said. He sauntered over, picked up the cigarette, took a drag, and casually retreated.

  At a nod from Simon, Amanda and I sat on a couple stools. Simon took the seat beside me and smiled at the bartender. “Nice place you have here. Quite…rustic.”

  “We like it.” She kept staring at him. “I told you we never heard of this guy Hobbs.”

  Simon shrugged. “I’ll have a Coke, no ice.” He looked at Amanda and me, saw our heads shake.

  The bartender brought him the Coke. Simon sipped it. No one spoke. The bartender watched him, and we could see she was getting increasingly nervous. So were the patrons. The men at the table got up and walked out. The man at the bar killed his beer and followed.

  Finally, from somewhere at the back, we heard, “Quit pushing. Oww. Dammit, I’m going,I’m going! ”

  The bartender got a stricken look.

  Amanda got up and locked the front doors, turning over the Closed sign.

  Simon and I watched the swinging doors located behind the bar. Moments later, Andy appeared, followed by Enrique, who was holding Andy’s gun. Andy’s jacket was torn, and there was a slight reddening below his left cheek. He stood there, glaring at us.

  Enrique wedged the pistol in his pants, then produced a cell phone from his trouser pocket and passed it to Simon. “He was talking to someone when I spotted him.”

  Simon frowned at the phone. The flip-top hinge was bent, and there was a large scratch along the side.

  “He fell on it when I took him down,” Enrique said apologetically.

  Simon tried to key the phone; it was dead. He asked, “Who were you calling, Andy?”

  “None of your damned business,” he snapped.

  Simon smiled, laying the phone on the bar. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Fuck you. I’m not saying shit.”

  “A beer, please.” Simon handed the bartender a twenty. “Whatever he normally drinks. Keep the change.”

  She poured out a large draft and placed it before Andy.

  Simon said, “You’re in a lot of trouble, Andy.”

  “For what? I didn’t do anything.”

  I said, “We know about Hill 114 and what General Garber did to the men in your unit.”

  “What’s that prove? Nothing.”

  “It proves you had a motive.”

  Instead of a denial, he gave a harsh laugh. “See those?” He pointed to the photos by the door. “Sixty-three men—boys—dead because of that son of a bitch. Oh, yeah, I had a motive, all right.But I didn’t kill him. ” He was fixated on me with an intensity that made his jowls shake. He abruptly snatched up the beer, spilling some on his coat. He didn’t even notice. We watched as he stalked around the bar, sat down, took a long drink. He lit a cigarette and glanced at the bartender. “Tell them, Doris. Tell him what happened to Jerry.”

  She said, “Andy, I really don’t…”

  “Tell them,” he said again.

  She took a deep breath and looked to
us. “Jerry was my husband. He…he was burned horribly. They amputated his legs, one of his hands. He lived…he existed…for years. But he couldn’t take it anymore. One day, while I was at work, Jerry decided…I found him…” Her eyes misted. She wiped at them and smeared her mascara.

  We were silent, watching her.

  Simon gently said to Enrique, “Could you take her in the back?”

  “Sure.”

  As he led her through the swinging doors, Amanda said to Andy, “So what happened? Did Jerry kill himself?”

  Andy nodded, his eyes on his beer. “Blew his brains out.” He looked at her dully. “He was my best friend in ’Nam. Left Doris with two kids. The boy, Jake, is my godson. I helped Doris set this place up. Give her a way to make a living.”

  I said, “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  “Don’t be. Jerry should have done it earlier. That way he wouldn’t have had to suffer.” He took another drink.

  Amanda watched him with a compassion that mirrored mine. We now understood his fuck-the-world attitude and why he never gave a damn about anything. If we were in his shoes, maybe we wouldn’t either. I said, “We understand the survivors of the battle were never told Garber was responsible.”

  “No.”

  “When did you find out?”

  He shrugged, knocking an ash off his cigarette. “About a year ago.”

  I said, “When General Markel became vice chairman and pulled the file?”

  Andy blew out a cloud, scratched an ear.

  I said, “You really had us going. We couldn’t figure out how the compartment doors were locked from the inside. We now know you must have locked the main door, then left by the closet. Later you locked the closet doors after you broke in.”

  He yawned and reached for the beer.

  I decided to hit him with the kicker. I said, “We know Garber was killed in England, and you moved the body.”

  I had to admire Andy’s self-possession. His only reaction was a slight pause as he raised the glass to his lips.

  He set the beer down, crushed out the cigarette. “I’m leaving. I’ve got nothing else to say.” He went toward the door.

  Simon called after him, “There’s something you should listen to, first.”