Blunt Darts jfc-1

by Jeremiah Healy

  "Okay. Assuming Stephen left involuntarily, he could have been taken to a place none of us would ever guess or stumble on. So let's assume that Stephen's on his own. We don't know where he went, but we have to start somewhere. So how would he get where he's going?"

  "Hitchhiking," said Val as she squeaked open the Styrofoam chest. "John, I'm sorry, but I'm starving. Can we start just a little bit early?" I didn't like her voice when it wheedled.

  "Yes, we can start," I said, "but hitchhiking, at least toward his destination, isn't likely. He's smart enough to fear he'd be remembered and recognized. He might have hitchhiked away from here, though, and toward some other form of transportation."

  "Like a bus station?" She unwrinkled some aluminum foil.

  "Good thought, but they've been checked, apparently competently." I sat up.

  Val said, "Just let me toss these away so they won't blow, and then we can dig in." She trotted off with some paper toward a trash basket. I noticed that the Dallas Cowboys were headed back toward us. As they approached Valerie, Big Boy made some remark that sounded like, "Hey, hey, school is out, boys." Val shook her head and trotted back to the blanket. The boys whooped a little at her distinctly feminine gait.

  "I just so hate people like that," she said as she reached into the cooler.

  "Can you think of any type of transportation Stephen might try to use?" I asked.

  She cut a hunk of cheese and passed it and some gourmet crackers over to me. I reached over and poured the wine. I had my head down as she answered. "No, not really. Of course, he-Hey!"

  I looked up to catch part of a rooster-tail of sand in my wine and all over the cheese.

  "Sorry, lovers, but that pass was in the fourth quarter, and we needed it to keep our drive alive," said Big Boy over his shoulder as he loped away from us.

  I raised my voice so it would crack. "You fellows ought to have some respect for others, you know."

  "Oh, I have lots of respect for Miss Jacobs, pop," he yelled, his pals hooting. I noticed Big Boy was wearing jean cut-offs held up by an old belt. Off to our right, the old man was sputtering again.

  Val was looking at me oddly, the way you react when someone you've so far liked shows some weakness or failing, like dropping a racist remark.

  "Sorry about the cheese," I said as I brushed it off.

  "Oh, that's okay, John," she said uncertainly, dropping her eyes a little and fussing with the crackers.

  "By the way," I said, "do you have a hairbrush in that bag of yours?"

  She looked up. "A what?"

  "A hairbrush."

  She turned awkwardly for it without taking her eyes off me. "Yes, yes I do." She dipped into her bag and produced a big blue plastic one with a thick handle and a broad working end.

  "Thanks," I said, and slid it between two folds in the blanket. "Now, can you think of any form of transportation Stephen might favor?"

  She tried to refocus her thoughts. "No. No."

  I heard some thudding behind me and, sure enough, my imitation of the all-American wimp was drawing the all-American schmuck inexorably back toward us. He did a stop-and-go turnaround, which again showered the elderly couple. He then came chugging at us full tilt, following the wobbly arc of the ball, his face turned back over his shoulder.

  Val, believing, reasonably, that she had to try to take charge of the situation, rolled up onto her knees and yelled, "Hey, watch out!"

  Big Boy did nothing to show that he heard her. He was about twenty feet from us. I figured he would glance once at us to orient himself and then plant his left leg, the one closest to us, just outside our blanket in order to (1) turn sharply to receive the pass and (2) inundate us with another tidal wave of sand. I waited and then did what every schoolyard kid knows how to do.

  I stuck out my foot.

  Big Boy's left foot landed just before my outstretched calf. As he pivoted on that foot to redirect his momentum, the sand flew all over me. As he stepped off, though, my lower leg was a bar to his left leg, and he toppled. He hit the sand heavily on his left shoulder, with the awkwardness and impact that you see only when an athlete who knows how to fall from combat goes down because of an accidental shot from his teammate. He also missed the pass.

  I was standing a count before he was. I hoped that what I'd done would so embarrass him that he'd think only a punch could avenge him. He came up spitting sand and obscenities. He wound up with his right list and let fly at my head. I parried it with my left, slashing the edge of my hand into his forearm. As I slashed, I cocked my right hand, fingers outstretched but slightly cupped to avoid jamming them, and then drove it up and into his solar plexis. There was a noise from his mouth like the sudden flapping of a sail that's lost its wind and purpose. He sank to one knee and started to gag. I dropped to one knee, reached back for the hairbrush, and then yanked him by his hair over my other leg. I spanked him hard and loud with the hairbrush. He had about enough air to go "Emphh!" on each swat and wriggle a little.

  After about ten strokes, my palm was beginning to ring, the way it feels if you catch a hardball in the wrong part of the glove. I tossed the hairbrush onto the blanket and looked around for his friends. They were transfixed about twenty feet away. I rolled Big Boy off my leg and stood up. I reached down, gripped his belt dead center at the small of his back, and lifted him like a four-limbed suitcase. It's really pretty easy to do, even with a heavy man, since you are able to lift him at an almost perfect balance point, but it's impressive as hell. I then walked purposefully down into the water until I was at mid-thigh. I yo-yoed him five times into the water to help focus the sting the spanking imparted. He was making little gurgling sounds. I carried him back up the beach and stopped in front of his friends. I dropped him like a sack of battered junk.

  "And if you do this again," I said to them, shaking my index finger, "you're all going to bed without any supper."

  As I returned to our blanket, the elderly man caught up with me. He was grinning and hopping from one foot to the other. He started pumping my hand.

  "Boy, oh boy, son, that's the best show I've seen since the war! That miserable bastard's been terrorizing this beach for years. My name's Graden. Charlie Graden. If you need anybody to stand up for you with the cops or anything, you call me, me and Edna. We're in the book. Boy, oh boy!"

  I smiled at him. "Thanks, Mr. Graden. If this were twenty years ago, I'll bet I'd be the one shaking your hand."

  "Damn right!" he said, giggling. "Take care of yourself, son." He trotted, only a little uncertainly, back toward his chair.

  When I reached the blanket, Val had already packed everything back in the chest and had her tank top on.

  I said, "We can stop for lunch…"

  She glared up at me with tears in her eyes. "You're just as bad as they are, you know. Only you don't know it. You could have handled that boy easily, any time you wanted. You used that whiny voice to encourage him to come back." Now her voice cracked with emotion. "I thought you were a sincere, caring guy looking for a poor little boy. But all you are is a showoff too, just like those college kids. The only difference is, your shows are a little more clever and a lot more violent." She picked up her cooler with one hand, yanked up her blanket with the other, and strode determinedly off, trying unsuccessfully to gather the sand-trailing blanket into a bundle with just one hand.

  As I picked up my keys and shook out my towel, it seemed that her version edged closer to the mark than the old man's and mine did. I spent most of the drive back to Boston trying to persuade myself the other way.

  FOURTEENTH

  – ¦ I stopped at the apartment to shower. While I was drying off I found the telephone number of one of the two contacts I planned to speak to that afternoon. Dave Waters and I had been first lieutenants together in Saigon in 1968. He absorbed a lot of indirect abuse during his first week until the day that a good ol' boy told him to shag his black ass after some coffee. About ten minutes later Dave began absorbing a lot of direct respect. The good
ol' boy told the doctors he'd been hit by a Renault.

  The last number I had for Dave was with the Denver P.D. I tried it.

  "Lieutenant Waters' line," answered the voice.

  "May I speak to him, please? Tell him it's Lieutenant John Cuddy."

  "Hold on, sir." A pause.

  "Waters here."

  "Still a lieutenant, I see."

  "Christ, I was afraid it was you," his voice becoming jocular. "You still padding insurance claims?"

  "No, but that's a long story. I'm on my own now, and I need some information about a war hero in 'Nam."

  "I didn't know anybody recognized heroes anymore."

  "This was in your sector, your second tour, April of sixty-nine. A captain named Telford Kinnington led a charge from a protected position against some VC attackers. Remember it?"

  A sigh at the other end. "Jesus, I'll never forget it. When I read the initial field report, I was scared stiff that old Telford was one of my persuasion. So I checked the reports and his file myself. He wasn't, but a lot of the cooks and drivers he got the asses shot off were."

  "What happened?"

  "Kinnington was a wild man. He'd been back in Hawaii a couple of times for battle fatigue. Only he'd never been in battle. He was in intelligence and had spent a tour in Saigon as a lieutenant. Wasn't promoted because, though his two-oh-one file didn't say so, he was damned near a psycho. Even so, he was from some big-time family up by you, so the pressure was put on to promote him. They did, and somehow he wrangled a staff position in a base camp."

  "A staff position?"

  "Yeah. Some sort of special-liaison crap. One day, while the infantry troops were out on a search and destroy, a 'copter spotted a concentration of VC approaching the camp. The gunships were a little too far away, so the base commander put his only remaining line troops at the points where Charlie was most likely to hit. He put Kinnington with the bakers and candlestick makers at the best natural-barrier side of the camp with sort of ambiguous orders to fend off the attack. It was the ambiguity that saved Telford's memory if not his ass, because when the VC hit the camp at the expected place, Kinnington jumps up and leads his 'company' on a charge at Charlie's flank. Just then the gunships arrive and maul the VC and Kinnington's commandos. The son of a bitch got thirty-some killed and wounded, mostly by 'copter fire."

  "How the fuck did he get a medal then?"

  A derisive chuckle at the other end. "How the fuck do you think, John? The family's friends applied pressure. The ambiguity was emphasized and the 'copter killing was excused, and old Telford got himself commended."

  "Dave, I appreciate your time. You coming back this way in the near future?"

  Another chuckle but different this time. "Thanks anyway, but if my kids are gonna ride buses, I'd sooner they be in Denver than Boston."

  "I wish I could disagree with you. See you, Dave."

  "'Bye, John."

  I hesitated to call Val, because I wanted to catch my other contact before his cocktail hour, which probably began when most people were finishing lunch. But during the drive back to Boston, I had thought of more than my bully-whipping on the beach.

  "Hullo," she answered huskily.

  "Val, it's John."

  "Oh, um…"

  "Val, please don't hang up."

  Quietly she said, "I won't," and sniffled. I was fairly certain she hadn't developed a cold in the last two hours.

  We simultaneously said, "I'm sorry," and laughed. I stopped sooner than she did. "Oh,. Iohn," she said finally, "I'm so sorry I acted that way at the beach. It's just that violence, in any form… well, it makes me feel sick, and…"

  "It's all right. After I thought about it, I agreed with you. It's just the way I am. Let's forget it. Okay?"

  A final sniffle at the other end of the line. "Okay," she said.

  "Va1, I've been thinking. Stephen doesn't seem to have confided anything to his family. Was there anybody in his class he was friendly with?"

  She paused before answering. "Gee, John, that's a tough one. Like I told you at L'Espalier, he really is different from other kids his age. I never noticed that he palled around with any of the other boys."

  "How about the girls?"

  Valerie chuckled. "I'm not sure he was feeling the urge yet, although after what Miss Pitts said… Hey, wait a minute. There was one girl in the class who kind of, well, looked him over, if you know what I mean."

  Boy, did I. "What's her name?"

  "Kim Sturdevant. I'm not sure, but I think I remember seeing them eating lunch together when I was on cafeteria duty."

  "Can you fix it for me to talk with her?"

  "I don't know," she replied. "I've met her mother at parent-teacher conferences. Kind of mousy but okay. Her father I haven't met, but I have the impression he runs kind of a tight ship."

  "Maybe if you called the mother and sweet-talked her…"

  "I'm not so sure my sweet-talking is very effective anymore."

  I let Val's oblique comment pass and pressed about Kim. "Val, I don't see any other way for us to get inside Stephen's thoughts."

  "Well," sighing, "I'll give it a try. Call me-no, I'll call you to let you know how I made out."

  "Right. 'Bye and thanks."

  "Why not show your thanks?"

  "How?" I said before thinking.

  "Dinner!" she whooped. "But at my place, since you treated at L'Espalier and since the picnic was, well…"

  I thought about Val, and then I thought about Beth. "I don't think I can make it."

  "Oh, the men of your generation are so backward about accepting dates. I'm having supper with a friend from college in Boston tomorrow night anyway. How about Saturday?"

  "Val, I don't know how the case will be-"

  "Like I said about the picnic, you still have to eat. See you here at seven. I'll even provide the wine."

  "Val-"

  Click.

  That was twice.

  ***

  "I'm tired, John. Dog-tired, damned-tired, down-and-out tired."

  I let him unwind for a couple of reasons. First, we were in his office. Second, in my opinion, Mo (for Morris) Katzen at age fifty-three is the best reporter in Boston. He is also the only reporter on the Herald American who will speak to me, and I don't know anybody on the Globe. Since there are only two major newspapers in Boston, and since I was trying to locate a reporter or ex-reporter, I needed to talk to Mo. So I let him unwind awhile.

  "I'm tired of sports. I'm tired of the Red Sox breakin' our hearts. I'm tired of the Patriots not even breakin' our hearts. I'm tired of prizefights in hockey games and ballet dancing in prizefights."

  "Sports can be frustrating, Mo," I said.

  "Tell me about it." Mo paused to puff obscenely on a cigar that looked as fit for a human mouth as a wolf's turd. He had a dour face and so much white wavy hair that at first you thought it was a toupee. Mo was wearing his uniform: a gray suit with a too-wide tie, visible because he wasn't wearing the coat and the vest was completely unbuttoned. I once asked Mo why he wore that suit. He said it made him look like a lawyer, which made it easier for him to get past screeners of all kinds. Since in twelve years I had seen neither the vest buttoned nor the jacket, period, I had to reserve judgment.

  "Tell you what else I'm sick of. Politics. We got a mayor who builds buildings instead of neighborhoods. We got a school committee run by a Federal judge and school kids who can't read and write English. And we got two fuckin' newspapers that don't do anything about it because one's a black-and-white version of Sports Illustrated and the other's a gossip rag with one foot in the fiscal grave."

  "Politics stinks, Mo," I said, and then, to be sure I wasn't being deficient in my commentary, I added, "And the newspaper business isn't like it used to be."

  "Tell me about it." Four more puffs. "At least," two more puffs, "at least in the old days, we covered stories. Aw, people got bought, sure, then as now, but it was more, I dunno, more understandable somehow. People were selling ou
t so their kids could have food or operations, and the stories were good because they'd hurt you, you know. You'd write the story and proof it and say, 'You know, that gets to me, what that poor shit must have been goin' through and now what's gonna happen to him!' And you'd read it, you'd read the story in the evening edition and you'd say, 'Jesus, that coulda been me, I learned something today.' "

  "I remember those stories, Mo."

  "Sure you do. Everybody does." Three puffs.

  "Everybody old enough anyway. Nowadays, look around, what do you see?"

  I looked around. All I saw was Mo's office, which could have passed for Hitler's bunker or a hazardous waste dump.

  I looked back at him without an answer. "Youth!"he boomed, coming forward in his chair. "Youth!"

  "Youth is everywhere, Mo," I said, nodding my head.

  "Damn right. These kids, the kids that the school committee doesn't educate, they graduate from high school anyway. Half of 'em never wrote a book report. Shit, half of those probably never read a book. They intern here-'intern,' that's the word they use nowadays for office boy, although both boys and girls can be office boys and you sure as shit better call them men and women or interns for neutral-they intern here because they saw the movie All the President's Men a couple of years ago and they wanna be 'journalists'. You hear that, 'journalists.' I haven't met one yet, not one, that's read the book All the President's Men, and only two could spell Bernstein's and Woodward's last names right the first time."

  "Youth can be sloppy, Mo."

  "Aw, it's not just sloppy, it's the way they've been brought up. On TV and now videogames.

  Videogames, can you imagine? I got a niece, she can't speak a word of Hebrew. When I was growing up in Chelsea in the late thirties, it was maybe seventy-five percent Jewish, twenty-five percent Italian. All the Jewish kids could speak enough Italian to be polite to the old store owners and whatever, and understand the dirty jokes. The same for the Italian kids with Yiddish and Hebrew. Now, Jesus, we don't even give them names you can recognize anymore. That niece of mine is Jennifer. Jennifer, can you fucking imagine! When we grew up it was Morris, and Mario, and Patrick. Now it's fucking Jennifer, and Scott, and…"