Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “Did you call him yet?

  “I’m gonna do that…if you’ll hang up and get off the phone. I’ll call soon and send some money when I can. Don’t worry about anything.”

  He picked up the seabag and looked down the street where a pale neon sign proclaimed the Laclede Hotel had vacancies. He’d stayed there once before with the old man and his mother when they came to St. Louis for a river cruise on an old paddle-wheel steamboat. The Pudarskis had saved for nearly a year to take that trip. Now, years later, the little hotel was rundown and seedy. Walking in that direction, Willy Pud decided the dilapidated old hovel fit a blighted inner-city neighborhood and matched his current mood.

  Outside the hotel entrance on the dim edges of pale pool of light that spilled through the doors, a pair of razor-thin black men smoked and watched the dark downtown street through yellowed eyes. Despite the heat, one of them was wearing the remnants of an old field jacket. There was a patch on the shoulder that proclaimed service with the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. The guy looked about the right age to have come by the coat honestly at some quartermaster store. His buddy wore a sweat-soaked St. Louis Cardinals tank-top. Willy nodded politely as he headed for the lobby doors. The pair flipped cigarette butts into the dark and moved to block his path. Willy Pud could probably push past the roadblock but he was standing about 30 meters from the entry, and there wasn’t any kind of doorman or valet in sight.

  “You guys need something? I’m just trying to check in here.” He dropped the seabag and nodded toward the hotel.

  When the veteran of the pair spoke, Willy smelled the cheap wine on his breath. He looked at their eyes and decided they were probably drunk or stoned…maybe both.

  “We just lookin’ for a little somethin’, dude. You got a little somethin’ to help a brother out, ain’t you?”

  “I just got in on the hound,” Willy said nodding toward the bus terminal. “And money’s tight right now.” He had exactly $78.50 in his pocket with no idea how much a hotel might cost or how long he’d be in St. Louis. The trip had been almost spontaneous and certainly unplanned in detail. He’d left Chicago in a rage, driven by frustration, and the crumpled newspaper article tucked in a pocket of his jeans.

  The vet in the field jacket nodded at the seabag sitting at Willy’s feet. “You a vet, ain’t you, man? Marines, right? In the Nam you dudes was up north of us.”

  “There it is.” Willy affirmed the obvious, hoping it would buy him a little consideration from the two men who were clearly no strangers to the business of shaking down strangers. He shuffled his feet, setting up a better body position and hoping he wouldn’t have to fight. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them both a smoke.

  They lit up, sharing a match between them. “Don’t take much to help a brother, dude.” The tank-top examined his smoke and then glared up at Willy with an angry smile. “You chuck dudes got no business down here. Maybe you ought to pay us a little fee…then maybe we let you get on with your business.”

  “Like I said, money is tight right now.”

  “There it is…and all the more reason you ought to be sharing what you got.”

  They both separated a pace and the veteran reached into a pocket of his field jacket. Willy knew what was coming. He just stood trying to decide which man was most dangerous, which one he’d have to deal with first. He felt for the strap of his seabag, formulating some sort of vague plan to use it as a battering ram. If the man on his left brought a knife or pistol into play, the bag might work as a temporary shield. When he saw a long thin blade flash in the neon light, he lifted the bag and went into a fighting crouch.

  “Freeze! Stay right where you are and show me your hands!”

  A hot cone of white light burned over Willy’s shoulder turning the angry black faces in front of him a pale grey. He set the seabag down gently and raised his hands. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw two dark figures approaching slowly from the right and caught a flash of light off a policeman’s cap badge. The black men muttered under their breath and raised their hands in a practiced gesture. Willy heard the knife clatter on the pavement.

  There was a police radio squawking now as the cops called in the situation and got a response from some command post elsewhere in the St. Louis downtown district. He heard a car pull up and they were bathed in flashes from the light bar on its roof. Car doors slammed, and Willy watched four St. Louis Metro cops moving into position to surround the trio with pistols draw and leveled. A firm hand gripped the collar of Willy’s shirt and he was frog-marched toward the wall of the hotel where the cop told him to assume the position. Willy wasn’t sure what that position might be on the mean streets of St. Louis, so he started to ask for instruction.

  It was the wrong move. The cop slammed him up against the wall and kicked his feet apart until Willy was leaning on his nose and totally off balance. The two black men suffered no such misunderstanding. They were leaning spread-eagled, propped by their hands on the wall wearing bored expressions. Rough hands in black gloves ran up and down his body and around his waistband. The search was quick and professional, ending when the cop plucked the worn wallet from the left rear pocket of Willy’s jeans.

  He was just starting to explain his presence to the cop when he heard a whoop from one of the men searching the black guys. The cop leaning on Willy released his hold and fired up a small flashlight. Willy inclined his head to see the officers juggling a plastic bag that looked to be filled with white powder.

  “Well, what do we have here,” the cop said bouncing the baggie in his hand. “I’m betting this is a bag of smack.”

  “And I’m betting we find out at least one of you has a warrant out.” The cops who had been covering the search moved in and began to cuff the prisoners. “Somebody is gonna spend the night in the crossbar hotel.” He moved over to Willy and showed him the baggie. “This what you were looking for? You down here to score some dope?”

  One of the cops confronting the black men was parroting Miranda rights in a bored voice. “I just got into town on a bus from Chicago,” Willy said. “I was trying to check into this hotel when those two dudes tried to ambush me.”

  “Checks,” the cop examining Willy’s wallet said. “He’s got an Illinois driver’s license...Chicago address.” A beam of light hit him full in the face. “Turn around,” the cop said.

  Willy Pud complied squinting into the beam. In the glare he could just make out a stocky policeman holding a big heavy Colt Python in one hand and his wallet in the other. When the light was snapped off, he looked around to see the two dopers being jammed into a cruiser. The man holding his wallet and looking at him intently was wearing a metal name tag opposite the badge identifying him as Sergeant E. J. Miller.

  “You OK with that one?” One of the cops making the bust called to the two men standing in front of Willy Pud.

  “I got this,” Miller said. “Book those two and we’ll take the rest of the shift.” Both of the remaining cops holstered their pistols and Miller handed Willy’s wallet back to him. “I do believe I know you, Pudarski.”

  “Can’t remember…sorry.” Willy pocketed his wallet and took another look at the man. “Anyway, thanks for coming to the rescue. There’s a knife on the sidewalk over there…” He pointed toward the hotel entrance. “And no doubt in my mind that guy was gonna use it on me.”

  “If you are who I think you are,” Miller smiled, “that would have been a big mistake.” The other policeman snapped on his flashlight searched a moment and then retrieved the knife. “All over but the paperwork,” he said when he returned to drop the knife into an evidence bag. “We should get something to eat if we’re gonna cover the shift.”

  Police Sergeant Miller pointed toward a White Castle hamburger joint just up the street from the hotel. “Come on, Pudarski. I’ll buy you a burger. You can’t come to St. Louis without scarfing down a plate of White Castle sliders.”

  “I need to check in and get a room
for tonight.”

  “If you’re really bound to spend the night in this shit-pile, we can take care of it later. I want to know what brings a Medal of Honor man to our fair city.”

  Coffee was free in downtown White Castle joints for Sergeant Eddie Miller and the other St. Louis beat cops who kept the infamous cheap food emporiums from becoming constant rip-off targets. They were on a second cup after a plate of delicious little burgers, fried with onions in the ground meat, a low-rent St. Louis specialty that Willy decided were delicious after eating six. Once Willy Pud confirmed he was the guy Miller thought he was, both cops treated him like royalty, apologizing for the rough handling on the street.

  “Like I said,” Willy shrugged, “I’m just glad you showed up before the cutting started. And thanks for not hauling me down to the slammer for an overnight stay.”

  “No way was that gonna happen,” Miller’s partner said. “Even if he hadn’t recognized you, I was pretty sure you were straight. Guys who come down here to score dope from the street creeps don’t go around carrying a duffle bag. I figured those two spooks were trying to roll you the minute I saw the situation. We’ve been watching those guys for weeks. Lots of Nam vets in the projects are dealing the stuff they got used to over there.”

  “You guys both vets?” Willy Pud nodded, popped another slider into his mouth and chewed.

  “Just him,” said Miller’s partner. “I had a student deferment. Draft passed me by and I got to finish school.”

  “Some guys got all the luck,” Miller grinned. “I enlisted in ’67, right out of high school. There was a war on and I figured what the hell, you know? I’m not gonna miss that. That’s how I knew who you were by the way. Not that you’d remember me, but I recognized the name right away.”

  “Were we in the same outfit or something?”

  “Yeah, Tet ’68…north side of Hue. I was third platoon of Delta 1-5. I think you were in second platoon back then.”

  “That was me. Glad you made it out of there OK.”

  Miller checked his watch, ordered more coffee, and then began to relate his experiences in the Marine Corps. It was familiar stuff and Willy Pud recognized all the landmarks and touchstones as Miller talked.

  “You know the drill…boot camp in San Diego, infantry training at Pendleton, and then off to the Nam as a grunt. Made it through Tet, but I stopped one on some stupid LZ south of Danang…medevac and discharge after I got out of the hospital. It was a tough deal, but I always respected the Corps…probably why I’m a cop today.”

  “I’m betting St. Louis is glad to have you.”

  “What brings you to town anyway? Anything I can do for you while you’re here?”

  “I’m just looking for a guy I used to know.”

  “We’re cops. We specialize in finding people.”

  Willy Pud pulled out the newspaper article he’d saved and spread it on the table. It was a big photo-feature spread from the St. Louis Post Dispatch about city housing projects that had turned into violent slums. Maggie Hogan had a cousin in St. Louis that sent her interesting articles from the local paper. She brought it by one evening, and Willy Pud immediately spotted the byline. It was one of the things that led him to leave Chicago after Ricky stuck a bayonet in his guts.

  “You know this guy?” he asked tapping the byline.

  “Spike Benjamin? Oh, hell yeah. I see him all time…Marine Corps League and a bunch of other stuff. One of our precinct cars took him into the projects to get this story. That the guy you’re looking for in St. Louis?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Can you put me in touch?”

  “I damn sure can,” Miller said. “I got his number in my book at home.”

  “Well, can I call you about it tomorrow or something?”

  “We can do better than that…and you ain’t staying in that fleabag down the street tonight. Look, I’m divorced…no kids. How about we take you by my place and then we’ll finish the shift. We can tip a few when I get home and we’ll call Spike about mid-morning.”

  “I don’t want to put you out, Miller.”

  “Call me Eddie…and you ain’t putting anybody out. It would be an honor to have a Medal of Honor man crash at my place.”

  j

  “He’s here in St. Louis?”

  Spike Benjamin swiveled away from his word processor and reached for a pencil. His hand was shaking so much that he snapped the point. Reaching for a replacement, he upset a half cup of cold coffee. What a blast from the past he thought as he listened to Eddie Miller laughing on the other end of the line.

  “Where are you gonna be in…say an hour?” Benjamin jotted a note and reached to shut down his machine. “Stay there. I’ll be over as soon as I can get clear here.”

  “Pudarski says he doesn’t want to put you out or interfere. He says to be sure I tell you that.”

  “Put him on the phone.”

  The voice he heard was familiar and brought a big smile to Benjamin’s face as he rocked back to put his feet up on the desk in his private office suite.

  “Willy Pud…I am so stoked to hear from you, man. I knew you were in Chicago somewhere. I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “No sweat, Spike. I know you’ve been busy.”

  “That’s no excuse…for me or for you. And it doesn’t matter now that you’re in town. I’m coming over to see you. We got a lot a catching up to do.”

  “That’s part of why I’m here, Spike, but I don’t want to put you out.”

  “Willy Pud, stop talking shit, man. I’ve got to see you. Tell Miller to take you down to the Car Barn on Broadway. He knows the place. I’m gonna tie up a few things and then I’m headed your way.”

  Spike Benjamin hung up and tried to get himself organized. The appointment calendar on his cluttered desk posed no pressing problems. He was due at his lawyer’s office for an alimony adjustment meeting with Wife Number Two at four, but that could wait. He called his assistant and told her to postpone and reschedule. An editor at the Post-Dispatch had two of his features on the spike that needed some work, but that was weekend stuff and there was time. His agent was still negotiating with the Time magazine people over the piece they wanted him to do on urban blight, but he didn’t need to get involved in that just yet. And the congratulatory letters on his National Press Association Award needed answering but…well, Willy Pud, one of the people he admired most in life, was in town.

  His assistant wandered in carrying a stack of paper towels and began to mop at the coffee he’d spilled. “One of these days, you’re gonna spill something into the machine. Then what?”

  “Then we get another one. I don’t have time to worry about it right now. I’m gonna be gone the rest of the day.”

  “Are you gonna tell me where? Something might come up….”

  “Nothing that trumps getting to see an old buddy of mine from Vietnam. He’s a Medal of Honor winner. Haven’t seen the guy in five or six years, I guess. He’s in town and I’m meeting him for lunch over at the Car Barn. Probably deteriorate from there. Don’t call unless we get nuked or something.” Spike grabbed a coat and headed for the door. “You haven’t seen me, you don’t know where I am, and you don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  j

  Willy Pud and Eddie Miller were mopping at remnants of a bratwurst and sauerkraut special at a back booth when Spike Benjamin shouldered his way through the lunchtime gaggle. Willy buried his face in a beer mug wondering how long it would take his old friend to spot him in the crowd. Benjamin’s ruddy face looked the same despite a halo of shaggy hair going grey in streaks over his ears. His green eyes were looking through a pair of wire-rim glasses these days, but Benjamin was still lean enough to be described as underfed. And he still moved with the sliding, graceful stride that Willy remembered from the Nam. Give him a haircut, a set of jungle utilities and a bunch of beat-up cameras hanging around his neck, and you’d never know any time had passed since Spike Benjamin was the 1st Marine Div
ision’s top combat correspondent.

  Spike pointed a finger at him and grinned. Willy felt like he did when Benjamin showed up just before a major combat operation. Somehow things were better, would be better, now that Spike was moving at his shoulder. And suddenly the vague plan that had brought him careening down Route 55 from Chicago seemed a bit more plausible despite his misgivings.

  “Chew tobacco spit...” Spike growled as he headed for their table.

  “If you ain’t Marine Corps, you ain’t shit.” Willy and Eddie Miller sang the remainder of the old saw and trundled out from the booth to embrace Spike Benjamin.

  Spike held the hug tightly and then backed off to take a long look at Willy Pud. “Jesus, you never change. How long’s it been? Gotta be five years or better, right?”

  “Pendleton, I think, Willy said as they got seated. “We were both in separations barracks together.”

  “That’s it,” Benjamin thought for a moment while Eddie Miller slid out to replenish their beer supply. “You got front of the line privileges with that medal, and I just tagged along like your assistant or something. You saved me a shit-load of hassle when I really didn’t need it.”

  They were trying to remember a night in Danang when they’d nearly been busted by MPs on a clandestine skivvy-run to an infamous whorehouse at No. 19 Doc Lap Street when Miller returned with two foaming pitchers and an extra glass for Benjamin.

  “I heard about that place,” he said. “I think everyone based in or around Danang heard about No. 19 Doc Lap, but I never made it down there.”

  “You missed a great cultural experience, Eddie.” Spike poured beer and laughed. “So one night after a long op in the Que Sons, me and Willy Pud decide we need to get laid, see? I know the area, so I volunteer to take him downtown. It was like being on a long recon insert. We had to dodge patrols in Dogpatch, hide in the benjo ditches, the whole snoop-and-poop deal. When we finally get to the house, Mama-san trots out two of her finest, see? One of ’em was what passes for fine in Danang, and the other one…”