by Dale A. Dye
“Not yet. Just get down here with that picture.”
Eddie Miller hung up before Willy could ask any more questions about the strange request. He secured the grainy enlargement from its customary place over their worktable and slipped it into a folder. No telling why Eddie Miller wanted the picture of Salt and Pepper brought to the hospital where they were questioning the lone survivor of the attack on Spike, but he sounded serious and in a hurry. Willy Pud got the keys to Spike’s car from the kitchen and headed for the front door.
“Eddie wants me down at the hospital; I’m taking your car if it’s OK.” Spike just waved a hand and focused on the screen in front of him. “There’s a cop car right outside on the street. Let them know right away if you see or hear something you don’t like.”
Spike waved again without looking up from his screen. The only one of them who’d been physically threatened seemed a lot less worried than the other two about further attempts on his life.
Willy Pud shrugged into a light jacket and stared over Spike’s shoulder at the story outline he was working feverishly to complete. The plan was to try and generate some interest among Spike’s newspaper or magazine contacts. The attempt on his life had advanced their planning.
“How’s it going with the story?”
“It’s bullshit…just a bunch of wild, charges and war stories. It’s not gonna mean much without names…unless we decide to hawk it to the supermarket tabloids.”
“We’ll take a look when you’re done. I gotta go see Eddie.”
“He get anything from the survivor?”
“Nope…this guy Shack Burton took a look at Halley’s picture and swore he never saw the guy before in his life. He gave a description of the guy who hired them that could fit a couple of thousand white guys in St. Louis.”
“He probably used a cut-out, you know, some kind of middle man so he could keep his hands clean.”
Willy Pud headed for the door. “By the way, you interested in how much your life is worth on the mean streets of St. Louis? Five grand…they found it all bundled up nice and neat in a car registered to Burton’s mother.”
A uniformed cop intercepted Willy Pud at the entrance to the hospital’s security wing on the third floor. He checked ID, phoned into the reception area and spoke to Eddie Miller before pressing a red button that unlocked the door.
Miller was talking to a couple of plainclothes cops, doing some kind of high-pressure sales job while they waited for fresh coffee to perk. He patted one of the detectives on the shoulder, winked at the other, and motioned for Willy Pud to join him on a sagging couch.
“Those guys are the detectives assigned to this case. Good men.”
“Are they still tap-dancing about confronting Halley?”
“I see their side of it. The guy’s got serious clout, you know? And nobody wants to piss off the Pope without a damn good reason.”
“Are they even gonna talk to him?”
“Can’t…at least not directly and not for a little while longer. We found out he was staying at the Hyatt down by the river under the name John Bradley. He checked out this morning and left out of Lambert on a flight to New York He’s out of reach for a while. The detectives put in a request for an interview with NYPD, but that’s way off in the future if it ever happens.”
“Spike figures Halley must have used a go-between to hire the two hitters.”
“No doubt in my mind, Willy Pud. That’s the way a guy like him would do these things. He hires somebody who hires somebody who hires somebody else.”
“So what am I doing here with the photo of Salt and Pepper?”
Eddie Miller tapped the folder and smiled. “I think Shack Burton knows Pepper.”
Willy Pud stared at the veteran cop with a shocked expression. “How the hell do you figure that?”
“I got to thinking about something Spike said in his statement about the shooting. He claimed Burton and the other guy acted like soldiers in a firefight. On a hunch I ran their records and it turns out both of them served in Vietnam, same unit, same time, with the Americal Division around Chu Lai in ’68 and ’69.”
“Another Vietnam Veteran success story…”
“It gave me something to work with, so I sat up most of the night playing let’s make a deal with Burton. I said maybe as a fellow veteran, I might just put in a good word for him at trial. So, early this morning when we’re swapping war stories, he starts telling me about this black guy he knew in the Americal who fragged an NCO and then went AWOL. He said the guy got grabbed by the VC and nobody ever heard of him again. I want to see if he can ID Pepper from the photo. It’s worth a shot.”
“Can we trust him to tell the truth?”
Eddie Miller stood and led Willy Pud toward the rooms at the other end of the hospital corridor. “I told him if he even thinks of lying to me, I’ll sell his ass directly to this big black fag I know who’s doing life at Joliet.”
Shack Burton was propped up in bed, lying on his side favoring the buttock and thigh where doctors had probed for two of Eddie Miller’s pistol rounds. They pulled two chairs up next to his bed and sat for a few moments watching him glare back at them.
“You bring my Kools, dude?”
Miller reached into a jacket pocket and produced the smokes. Burton eyed Willy Pud suspiciously as he fumbled with the pack and fired up a cigarette.
“Was you in the Nam too, white boy?”
“That I was,” Willy nodded. “I was Marines up on the DMZ north of you.”
“Officer or EM?”
“Grunt sergeant...squad leader.”
Burton sucked on his cigarette and nodded. He seemed satisfied with Willy’s responses.
“Miller says you want to know about Theron Clay.”
Willy opened the folder and handed Burton the photo. “I want to know if you recognize this man.”
“Don’t fuck me around on this, Burton.” Eddie Miller cautioned. “Remember what I said.”
“Relax, man. Why am l gonna lie about shit like this?” Shack Burton stared at the photo for a long time just to let Miller know he was cooperating, but he’d recognized one of the men at first glance. “I got no idea who the chuck dude is, but the other one is Theron Clay. Dude used to run with me and the Panthers here and over across the river in East St. Louis. He used to go by the name Mustafa when we was into the movement back in the day. But his name is Theron Clay, used to live over on North Florissant with his momma.”
Willy Pud glanced at Miller and got a nod. Eddie was buying the story. “And you knew this guy Clay in Vietnam?’
“Yeah. I was in Charlie Company and he was in Bravo, first of the Twentieth, Americal, down at Chu Lai.”
“And Clay disappeared over there?”
“Yeah, dude, he fragged this fuckin’ cracker sergeant and then split. They was lookin’ for him all over Chu Lai. He was hid out with a couple of brothers in a crib up by Tam Ky ville and they never found him. Word was that the VC got him. That’s all I know.”
“How do you figure the VC got him?”
“Some of the brothers heard it from a woman he was shacked up with. From what I see in that picture, it looks like he got captured. We all figured the VC had killed his dumb ass.”
Willy Pud stood and tapped the photo. “Look again. Are you sure this is a picture of the man you’re talking about?”
“How many times I gotta say it, dude? This here is Theron Clay, homeboy from the northside.”
Willy put the photo back in the folder and nodded for Miller to follow him out of Burton’s room. They stopped at a phone and Willy dialed with trembling fingers.
“Spike? Yeah, listen…check the MIA list for Theron Clay.” He spelled both names carefully and clearly and waited impatiently for an answer.
“OK…now check the KIAs.” There was another pause and then Willy nodded. “OK, Spike I got it. Now get your tape recorder and hop in a cab. Get down here to the hospital right a
way.”
He hung up and grinned at Eddie Miller. “No listing for Theron Clay, home of record St. Louis, Missouri, on either list. You know what means, right?”
“It means we’ve just found Pepper!”
They went to the waiting room to get coffee and a few police witnesses for the sworn deposition that they would record when Spike Benjamin arrived.
NEW YORK
Cleveland Herbert Emory, Senior, took the ring reverently, compared it with the one on a finger of his right hand, and then laid it gently on the antique coffee table in his office. The yellow gold had been polished respectfully by the jeweler who made the ring so that it glowed with a rich deep luster.
Sergeant Major Schaeffer stared at the bowed figure across from him and noted the livid flush spreading across Emory’s well barbered neck in sharp contrast with a pristine white collar. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Emory. I know it must be difficult, but I thought you’d want the ring.”
“Please call me Cleve,” he said. “And please accept my thanks for bringing this to me personally.” He hesitated and shook his head sadly. “I guess it’s all I have left…and I’ll treasure it.”
“I really wish I could do more…”
“You’ve done a great service, Shifty, believe me. I just keep thinking of all the young men…such a waste…such an awful thing.”
“That’s the way with war, Cleve. We send our best and we too often lose them.”
“You say a man in a refugee camp gave you this ring?”
“Yes, sir. He had a story about a live American in one of the North Vietnamese reeducation camps that gave it to him and told him to show it to the first American he found. He wanted a hundred dollars and I gave it to him. He probably found that ring somewhere in the jungle where your son lost it…or got it from some Vietnamese soldier who took it off your son’s hand. There’s a regular market for this kind of things in those refugee camps.”
“You said he also had a note with my son’s name written on it? How would he come by something like that?”
“We don’t know, sir. Maybe he found a letter or something, saw the initials and matched it up. It’s a mystery but that’s not really important since…”
“Since my son is dead and buried.” Cleve Emory finished the thought and shook his head again. “Just to think my son’s ring became some enemy’s war trophy…it’s so sad.”
“It’s the nature of the beast, Cleve. Both sides do it in a war, you know, collect souvenirs from dead enemy and things like that. I guess it’s some part of the warrior mystique, like counting coup among the American Indians back in the old west days.”
“And this man who had the ring, he was some kind of camp guard you said?”
“He was a former VC soldier who enlisted in the People’s Militia after the war ended. That’s sort of comparable to our National Guard. He claimed to have worked at a camp where he met your son and was given the ring because he was planning to run for Thailand and try to find his family. Looking at it in hindsight, it’s all pretty far-fetched.”
Cleve Emory rocked back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. “That seems so odd, doesn’t it? I mean, if there really was an American left over there, why would the North Vietnamese still be holding on to him? They claim they released all the POWs.”
“That’s hard to say, sir. Those people are devious and they tend toward long-range thinking. Hell, they’ve been at war with somebody or other for the past twenty years. Nobody knows if there are any live Americans still being held and if there are, nobody knows why…except for the North Vietnamese. If you’re asking for my opinion…well, I think it’s unlikely that there are any live Americans left in Vietnam…as prisoners or any other status.”
“But you keep looking.”
“Yes, we do…some of us anyway…those of us who served over there. The truth is, we’d love to find someone still being held…and we’d love to show the world how devious and evil those communist bastards are.”
“Thank you again, Shifty.” Cleve Emory stood and held out his hand. “I can’t tell you how much your visit has meant to me.”
When they reached the door to his office, Emory held on to Schaeffer’s elbow for a moment. “Just one last thing, Shifty…did this man who gave you the ring mention where the camp was located? I’d like to do a map search, you know…just to get it all clear in my mind.”
“I can send you the spot where this guy claimed the camp was located, Cleve, and I’ll do that.” Schaeffer looked into his host’s eyes and thought he saw a flash of hope. His son was dead but Cleve Emory wanted to believe there might be other Americans still alive over there and trying to get home. The guy needed to hear the truth. “But please let me give you a little advice on this thing. The refugees over there are running a con game and getting rich off of other people’s grief. You might find some kind of ex-military cowboy willing to take a lot of your money and find that camp looking for any live Americans. But you’d be wasting your money. I know how you must feel and you’ve certainly got the assets to pay for a search, but I’d strongly advise against it. You don’t need any more pain neither does this country.”
When his office was empty again, Cleve Emory stormed behind his desk and mashed an intercom button.
“Get in here!”
Justin Bates Halley pressed a counterweight and pushed on Emory’s wet bar which swung aside to let him walk into the private office. He crossed the room and folded himself into a chair. Several tense moments passed while Emory glared at him from behind his desk.
“Your opinion?”
“You handled it very nicely, Cleve.”
“I’m not talking about that! I’m asking if you think there’s some possibility that it could be true. Is there any chance my son is alive over there?”
“You heard what the man said, Cleve. It’s a con game. Some little Vietnamese found that ring in a rice paddy or somewhere in the jungle and used it to extort money from this guy Schaeffer.”
“I don’t like this…not any of it. I told you about loose ends once before.”
“It’s not a loose end. If there was any chance that he’s alive over there, we’d have heard about it by now. For God’s sake, we’ve been negotiating to do business with the Vietnamese once the sanctions are lifted. They know who you are. They’d be trying to cut a deal with us…with you. I took extraordinary measures back in 1970, and there’s no reason to think they failed to do what was intended.”
“I want some insurance on this thing, Justin.”
“What do you suggest?”
‘“I suggest you stop screwing around and get over there. Look into this thing. Make sure we are covered. I want you to guarantee me that my son is dead.”
j
Sergeant Major Shifty Schaeffer shuffled through a stack of phone messages in the elevator headed up to his hotel room. Six of the notes were from people who wanted him to know Wilhelm Pudarski was desperate to get hold of him. A seventh indicated Willy Pud had finally tracked him down in New York.
He loosened his tie, got a cold beer from the service bar, and picked up the phone wondering what put Willy Pud so hot on his trail. As he listened to the phone in St. Louis ring, Schaeffer recalled Pudarski was working on an MIA project. Maybe he had some good news. He was emotionally drained by the session with Cleve Emory.
“Willy Pud! I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“Hey, Sarn’t Major. I’ve been chasing you all over the country.”
“So I notice from the phone messages. What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor…something you might be able to do for me right there in New York.”
“Tomorrow’s fairly open…what do you need?”
“I need you to locate a guy and set up a meeting.”
“Who…and why?”
“The guy’s name is Justin Bates Halley. He’s a former Army colonel with MACV and the why is because he tried to have a very good fr
iend of mine killed.”
“Whoa, Willy Pud! That sounds like a police matter.”
“I can’t prove he’s the guy who hired the shooters, but we know it was him. I want somebody who can get in to see him and let him know we are onto him and he needs to cease and desist.”
“Pudarski, what the hell are you smoking? I can’t just get up in some guy’s face and accuse him of conspiracy to commit murder with no proof.”
“Yeah, it’s a long-shot, I admit. I just couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
Schaeffer stuffed tobacco in his old briar pipe and thought about the desperation he was hearing in the voice on the other end of the line. A man like Willy Pud didn’t let much shake him, so this was serious business of some kind. “Listen, my friend. I’m willing to help any way I can, you know that. But you’re gonna need to tell me what’s happening here. I thought you said you and a couple of buddies in St. Louis were working on an MIA project.”
There was a long silence. Schaeffer could almost hear the struggle in the mind of the man on the other end of the line. “Just lay it out, Willy Pud. Whatever it is that’s got you worried, you can tell me.”
“OK, here goes. Over in the Nam, Sarn’t Major…did you ever of Salt and Pepper?”
“Yes…and so did just about everyone humping the bush over there. Supposed to be a couple of turncoats fighting with the VC or the NVA, right? As far as I know it was BS, written off as a grunt scare story. So what?”
“So...it’s true.”
“What’s true? That two Americans defected and fought with the other side? C’mon, Willy Pud! I just got back from a month of hearing nonsense stories like that in Thailand.”
“Sarn’t Major, there’s something I never told you. When I was with recon over there back in ’70, I went out on an insert and I saw Salt and Pepper. I mean they were literally right on top. of me…spoke to me. Spike Benjamin was along on that insert and he took pictures!”
“Jesus! Is that for real?”
“Absolutely…and it’s what we’ve been working on here in St. Louis. We’re trying to find out who those guys were.”
“Well, if you’ve got pictures that shouldn’t be too hard.”