The Case

by Leopold Borstinski

  The pair were no more than ten feet away from that reedy bank when it happened. Gunfire ripped out onto the water. Their two bodies floated to the surface, large red circles of blood pooling around them and the log floated away, turning round and heading downstream. What a fucking waste.

  The only good news was that we could see where the flashes of gunfire came from, because dusk was rapidly heading into night. Previously, I’d warned the men not to return fire because I knew it would give up our positions just as the Koreans had given up theirs.

  “Wilson. Call it in.”

  WILSON NODDED AND went to tell base what had just gone down. When he came back, his face was ashen like he’d just eaten something made of cockroach. The news from HQ was clear and simple: I was to lead the platoon with a full-on assault. If we throw enough GIs at a handful of Koreans eventually the Koreans will die and we will be the victors. Those of us who survive, that is.

  Made no sense to me whatsoever. What was the point of killing our boys when we could just easily go all the way around them and even sneak up from round the back - if we ever came this way again? Our aim was Pyongyang, not a couple of dudes in a tree.

  “Pass me the walkie talkie, Wilson.”

  He dialed base and I told them I thought their plan was dumbass at best and stupid at worst. If they wanted to send our own boys to certain death - those snipers were good, man - then they’d better find someone else to do it. I felt good after venting the tension out of my body and I’m sure the corporal at the other end of the phone felt good as he immediately demoted me back to Private and got me to pass the phone back to Wilson. Or should I say Interim Sergeant Wilson McCloy?

  Wilson listened to the corporal. The guy didn’t feel as good as I had imagined because there sure was an awful lot of shouting going on into Wilson’s ear. He kneeled there like a Trojan, taking it all through what became gritted teeth, as he realized he was going to send the boys across that river and few, if any, would make it to the other side.

  Eventually, the conversation ended and he put the phone back in its holder. Wilson looked at me:

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “Don’t worry about it. And now you’re the boss. Sorry straight back at you.”

  The corners of his mouth curled upwards in an attempt to smile and acknowledge my response, but he had weightier matters on his mind and I left him to his thoughts and walked away.

  Wilson took about twenty minutes to hatch his plan. Out of politeness, or because he knew I was good at plans, he talked it through with me first before issuing orders to the men.

  Phase one involved two pairs of men shooting at where the machine gun fire had come from. This would last around thirty seconds. Half way through, all but two of us would head into the river and get as far across as we physically could. If this was working the four shooters would keep on with the cover fire. If it wasn’t working, they’d join the main body of boys in the water and try to get across.

  The other two were there to try to pick off any spotters the Koreans had and to look after the radio equipment. Truth was they must have at least one spotter to be able to figure out where were Vince and Sylvester. I should have thought of that but I hadn’t. Their blood was on my hands, but it had long since floated down the river, along with their bodies.

  The two we were leaving behind - Mallory and Anyon - set themselves up by trees nearest the bank to give themselves some cover but also to ensure there was the least amount of shrubbery between them and the gun placements.

  The rest of us waited for the off, spread along the line of the river, hoping that we’d not get picked off like the others. I positioned myself on the far right of the crew: I figured the further away I was from the snipers, the better chance I had of surviving and maybe even getting across and doing some damage to those motherfuckers.

  THIS MEANT THAT by the time we were all ready for the push, I had made sure I was a solid couple of hundred feet away from centre stage. This was Wilson’s show now and I didn’t want to look like I was stealing the limelight.

  Wilson had the bright idea of spreading us quite thin to make the snipers’ job harder, which made sense and helped me be even further from the action than I’d planned.

  A short peep from Wilson’s whistle and the mayhem began. First the snipers were strafed with bullets and then a second peep from that whistle and we all hurled ourselves into the water and scrambled to get across in one piece. Because we were so spread out, those in the middle had reacted first to Wilson’s command and we quickly formed a chevron, as our feet got wet and the bullets started to whizz past our ears.

  The center section became a pile of bodies strewn across the river bed, blood and body parts bouncing out of the water as the Koreans lobbed grenades at us, as well as sniping away. Limbs, intestines and gunk floated past and into me - I’d stupidly chosen the wrong end of the line and was downstream from the main action.

  Those centre stage were dead. There wasn’t much light left but you could see that no-one there was in the water and, if they had got to the other side, they’d have been assaulting the snipers by now.

  As for the rest of us? Well, the pairs of shooters stayed on our side of the bank, either because they believed the plan was working despite the evidence in front of their own eyes or, more realistically, they didn’t fancy their chances in the shooting gallery in front of them. I certainly didn’t blame them.

  The other flank was the next to be assaulted by the snipers, presumably because they were ever so slightly nearer the far side of the bank than my right flank. Whatever the reason, they become dog meat just as fast as the middle tranche.

  At this point, I was only two steps away from the bank. Almost made it.

  Like the guy running next to me, I threw myself forward and rolled into the reeds. Steadied myself and Sanders and I both headed for the nearest tree to see what we could see.

  The fire coming from the ends of the sniper rifles were in plain sight to us and we picked both off in a matter of seconds. Any spotters who had been up in the trees sure weren’t there any more, but we didn’t know that then. So we stayed close and low and waited.

  And waited, but nothing happened apart from one more GI sitting next to us, who’d made it to the other side. Gingerly, we started scouting out the area and found four dead Korean bodies: two snipers and two spotters. The oldest looked about sixteen, the youngest hadn’t started shaving yet.

  We called out to the others and they joined us a few minutes later with the radio equipment and such. Wilson was one of the first to fall: he’d led from the front the way army lunk heads do.

  Later, much later, after we reached Pyongyang, they decided to pin a medal on me for surviving the assault on those boy snipers, but I never made it past Private. Couldn’t take orders, see, and that’s important in any man’s army, especially with Uncle Sam.

  I saw more guts and bodies and blood that day than on any other time I’ve spent on this planet, but nowadays I’m still haunted by the memory of Sofia’s fingers in the pool of her own fluid. And not by a bunch of GIs sprinting across a river fifty clicks south of Pyongyang.

  PART SIX

  ATLANTIC CITY 1979

  13

  ANYWAY, THERE I was walking down the steps of that plane with the Lambretti girl, Simone, waiting at the bottom. She knew what I carried in my hand and by that point, I had guessed it was about the most valuable attaché case in America, if not the world. There was blood on that case. Literally.

  As I looked down to make sure I kept safe footing on the steps, I noticed some splatter on the top and side. Not sufficient to cause anyone concern, but enough for me to see it and wonder whose blood was lining the leather exterior.

  As I surveyed the scene before me, I thought the whole situation was completely crazy. Here I was, a retired investigator, holding some case that too many people had died for already and I knew - deep in my gut - this was going to be the longest walk of my life. Too much depended on my getting this
into Simone’s hands. Too many people, too many agencies, had been chasing this thing around the country for it to be as simple as a stroll down a plane exit.

  When Don Michael first spoke to me about this after I came back from Nevada, we went through the usual shenanigans, hopping between different cars parked in a number of different underground garages so the Feds couldn’t follow us. I was frisked every time we swapped cars and so on. This was the time when the FBI had started to make real inroads in attacking the head of the Cosa Nostra and the Don was taking no chances. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life behind bars just for the sake of meeting me and giving me a job.

  Why did he meet me in person? Good question. Basically, he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he had to say to me. Call him paranoid, but he reckoned that if no-one heard him give an order then the order didn’t happen - or at least it couldn’t be proved in a court of law, officer.

  BACK IN THE Don’s library after all these years, reminded me of little Simone running in to bare her belly. The furniture was almost exactly the same as before. Same oak desk, same bookcases, but a different chair. This one looked considerably more modern and I could tell it had better lumbar support. We were all getting older, for sure.

  The great Don’s hair was silver gray and the number of wrinkles around his eyes had skyrocketed. But the piercing darts in those eyes remained exactly the same. Only a fool would have treated the Don with anything but the utmost of respect and an overwhelming assumption of an incredible intellect. For that was Don Lambretti whether in his twenties, fifties or his eighties. The man could think and the man knew, all right.

  His genuine disdain for me had not diminished with age either and he proceeded to lambast me with my ignorance and inadequacies, until he tired of this sport and focused on the real matter at hand.

  “My dear boy, I’d like you to collect a special package from an acquaintance of mine in Atlantic City.”

  “Sh ... Sure. But why me, Don? After all, there are younger and my agile men than me you could get to courier your parcel.”

  The Don raised one eyebrow at me for a second and then smiled; probably the only time he smiled at me in his life.

  “Why yes, there are many who are younger, faster and smarter than you, for sure.” He allowed those words to hang in the air over me and then descend like a cloud of thick cigar smoke.

  “BUT WE UNDERSTAND each other, don’t we.” Now it was my turn to offer a half smile to him. Yes I understood that if the Don asked me to do him a favor then I should immediately do it to the best of my ability. And if the Don asked me to do him a favor, usually people wound up dead as a result of that favor. Yes, I understood.

  “Besides,” he continued, “your ignorance is your strength. Because you know next to nothing of my business, you cannot tell anyone anything of any value to me.” And then a genuine smile spread across his face which, due to the inelasticity of his skin, stretched into a fairly unpleasant grimace.

  “Even if someone were to torture you, you couldn’t give up any information, because you know nothing. You. Know. Nothing.” The final three words were said slowly, emphatically and those cold darts had returned to his irises.

  I nodded because he was right. I knew nothing and that was the safest way for me to stay. However, the idea people might want to torture me just to get hold of a parcel was not sounding like the walk in the park that package collection usually involved.

  “As ever, I will pay you a daily stipend until the work is done. A day there and a day back should be more than sufficient, but I am a generous man, a kind man and a pessimistic man. We will pay you seven days in advance because nothing happens they way we plan it.

  “When you fly back, call my house and arrange with Simone for her to meet you at the airport. Then our business will be complete.”

  “I understand, Don.”

  Lambretti explained that the man who held the parcel was named Dakila Valdez, a Philippine guy, who’d been living in the US after he fled the Marcos regime a few years before. His English was acceptable, but he was only a mule. He had no better idea what was in the parcel than myself and it would stay that way for the duration of my trip.

  The Don passed me a slip of paper with Valdez’ address and, with a flutter of his hand, I was dismissed, so I walked out of his office quick as sticks and handled the payment details with Lambretti’s accountant. Well, he was a guy who was paying me from an enormous roll of ten dollar bills, so he had to have been the money man.

  Then back in the car, driving around underground car parks in the Tri-State area and back to Manhattan and my midtown one-bedroom apartment.

  THAT NIGHT I packed a small carry-on bag as I knew I was going to be in Atlantic City overnight and, if the Don’s prediction was right, a lot longer.

  Before I went to sleep, I phoned up my travel agent and got her to book me an open ended flight to AC for maximum flexibility.

  The following day I took a taxi to the airport, because I was flush with the Lambretti dough, and waited patiently by the gate for our departure.

  As much as the job filled me with terror - the Don and I only appeared to cross paths when blood was shed - I was still looking forward to visiting Atlantic City. I hadn’t been there in years and I always kept a faint smile in my heart for that town.

  The plane journey itself was uneventful and, because of the distance, wasn’t anything much more than a hop-on, hop-off experience. That suited me down to the ground as I was never big into flying and had got worse over the years.

  Valdez was holed up on the wrong side of the tracks. I would have guessed that before I even stepped on the plane. A recent immigrant in AC was never going to have a luxury apartment with a doorman and marble reception area. And Valdez certainly did not.

  THE RUNDOWN TENEMENT building was as inviting as a whore with crabs, but I pressed his apartment buzzer just in case he was in. The trouble with these situations is that you never know how willing the other party is to hand over the goods. I was in no state for a chase down the fire escape and Lambretti knew that so I was hoping this was going to be a nice and easy trade: the parcel for the Don’s pleasure. And there was also the five hundred dollars in an envelope I was supposed to offer him as well.

  Naturally, I got no response from the buzzer, but the concierge was so concerned about security, I pushed and the front door opened.

  Valdez lived in 4F and the elevator was in bad need of repair. I looked around the lobby and saw only needles on the floor, piss stains on the wall and an unpleasant odor similar to stale puke. Then in the corner, I spotted the stairwell and ambled toward it, knowing I had three flights to walk up once I’d got past that door.

  The stairs were a grubbier version of the lobby and I made sure I didn’t make the mistake of touching the banister rail as I climbed up. One, two, three flights later, I was wheezing, leaning my back against a wall and struggling to get my breath back. I sure was in no fit state for a chase down the fire escape. In fact, I was in no fit state at all. I waited for about five minutes until my lungs were back to normal and I pushed the stairwell door into the fourth floor.

  As I walked along, the carpet felt like it was sticking to my shoes. This place had seen better days - and had better days. If this building had always been a flea pit, it would have had linoleum flooring, but the carpet once had a deep pile and a shine to it. Just not today or any time recently.

  I found apartment F by using my eyes and knowledge of the alphabet. Knocked on the door but no response. Hardly surprising as I was an unexpected visitor and there had been no reply when I hit the bell downstairs ten minutes ago.

  I banged on the door in the vain attempt to get Valdez to open up, but I knew he wasn’t in and so did he.

  Two options: walk away or use my shoulder. The latter seemed better as going away meant I’d have to use my shoulder later on or spin some yarn to the super that neither of us believed and I didn’t have the energy to lie to a janitor.

  H
eave and in. My arm ached for forty-five seconds but, as I had suspected, the door jamb splintered beautifully when I put my weight into the door.

  This was not the finest apartment I’d stepped inside. There was a living room, diner, kitchen area and two doors. My guess was that one was a bathroom and the other was a bedroom. I opened both in case Valdez was playing games and returned to the living quarters.

  There were two easy chairs and a portable TV on a small table, a dining table with a set of four plastic chairs and the usual stuff you’d expect to see in a kitchen diner. And a fridge. I opened the fridge and found a couple of unopened TV dinners and some cheese turning blue. This matched the milk carton whose contents were heading the same color. I nearly wretched and turned my head away but I held my breath and opened the freezer box in case it had any secrets to reveal. Ice cubes and a half empty bottle of vodka.

  I opened all the cupboards in the kitchenette and found bupkis. So I turned my attention to the living room area.

  14

  THERE WAS NOTHING on the dining table except an empty fruit bowl. I checked under the chairs in case the parcel had been taped under them, but nothing. There were no shelves in a book case to go through and so I made my way into the bathroom.

  Pulling open the shower curtain, I was hoping to find a lovely brown paper parcel tied up with string, but instead there was a once-white shower unit with a deeply unpleasant brown stain running from the place where the hose came out of the wall down to the drain. I pretended to myself this was rust.

  The bathroom cabinet contained an opened bottle of Tylenol and a couple of sticking plasters, but nothing parcel shaped or even anything to give me an idea where the parcel might be - or where Valdez had got to either.