Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “Gary Powers? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “American pilot shot down a couple years back over the Soviet Union. He was flying a high altitude reconnaissance spy plane called the U2. That plane wasn’t supposed to exist. But it did, and it came directly from Dreamland.”

  A wave of sadness washed through me. It must have shown on my face.

  “You okay?” Skipper asked.

  “I didn’t believe him,” I mumbled. “I pretended to, but I didn’t really. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Maybe if he would have come to me sooner, I could have helped, and then Lydia wouldn’t be dead too.”

  “Who’s Lydia?”

  “His girlfriend and a coworker of mine at the Sands.”

  “She was killed too?”

  “Yes, a few nights ago.”

  Skipper scratched his head. “You’re telling me two people are dead?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Huh. That’s interesting.”

  “Why?

  “Well, I’m not an expert on espionage, but what I do know is it’s very unusual for foreign operatives to kill locals.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “They’re called secret agents for a reason, son. Their job is to go unnoticed. Killing citizens inside their own country causes too much attention.”

  “Well, too much attention or not, Ken and Lydia are dead.”

  Skipper shrugged and took a drink from his cup. “So, is that all you need to know?”

  “I guess so. Except…never mind, it’s none of my business.”

  Skipper smiled. “You want to know why I left the agency and how I ended up out here? It’s okay. We don’t have any secrets in this jungle. All these guys know my story.”

  “They do?”

  “We all have stories, Mr. Callaway. Mine is I grew up in Syracuse, enlisted in the army after high school, and became an MP. When my hitch was up, the agency offered me a job. I moved out here in fifty-five. That’s when Paradise Ranch was being built—they called it Paradise Ranch, by the way, to make it sound more appealing to saps like me. Trust me, it’s anything but paradise. I basically lived at The Ranch the first year or so. We all did. But eventually some of us were allowed to move to Vegas and commute in. I met a girl, fell in love, and got married. Problem was, I couldn’t tell her what I did, or where I did it. I’d go away for a week, sometimes two, and she had no idea where I was, or what I was doing. That can be hard on a marriage.”

  “She left you, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, in matter of speaking. She died. A heart attack, can you believe it? Young, healthy, just a bad heart. Doc said it probably ran in her family. I was gone when it happened. Her body wasn’t found for four days.”

  “Skipper, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he said with no emotion. “After that, me and the bottle became good friends. Problem is, I’m a happy drunk. And when I’m happy, I talk—a lot. I guess I ran my mouth too much one night in a bar downtown. Next thing I knew I was in handcuffs. To this day I have no idea what I said, but whatever gigantic state secret I revealed had me looking at thirty years in the big house.”

  “What happened?”

  “Stanley O’Malley happened. Stan and I had known each other during the war. He claims I saved his life, but I don’t remember when or how. Anyway, when I moved to Vegas, we touched base again. We weren’t close, but we’d sometimes have a drink and exchange old war stories. When I got in trouble, he came to my rescue. Apparently, ol’ Stan has some pull in some very high places. The deal was I disappear, make like I was never born, and in exchange, I’d keep my freedom. Sounded good to me. So, I left Vegas.”

  “Where’d you go?” I asked.

  “I moved around a lot, worked as a ranch hand in Texas, picked oranges in California, even drove a big rig in and out of Canada for a while, but my wife’s death still haunted me, and I wasn’t much good at holding a job. So, one day I jumped a freight and lo and behold ended up back here.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the government will come after you?”

  “Nah. They don’t care about an old hobo like me. That’s why I can talk about The Ranch so freely. You see, we boes don’t exist. We’re little more than ghosts. And if anything I ever said did get around, well heck, I’m easily written off as an old drunken hobo. Who’s going believe anything coming out of my good for nuttin’ mouth? And that’s my story, Mr. Callaway. We all have them, don’t we, boys?”

  The men around us nodded. Some even uttered a quiet, “Yes, we do.”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Skipper, but why can’t you go into town and get a job? Like in security at one of the hotels? I’m sure Stanley could make that happen, and if he can’t, I know people who can pull some strings.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, son? I’m not here because I have to be. I’m here because I choose to be. And that’s how it is for most of us, isn’t it, boys?”

  All the men agreed.

  He looked at the man beside him. “Take the judge here. He used to be one of the best attorneys in Los Angeles, weren’t you, Judge?”

  “Not one of the best, the very best,” the old man replied with a nearly toothless grin.

  He nodded to a boy sitting across from us. “Young Shakespeare over there was one of the smartest kids in his school. Even now, you’ll hardly ever see that lad without a book in his hand. He showed up here one night after his mother passed and his stepfather started using him as a punching bag. You weren’t going to have any of that, were you, Shakespeare?”

  “No sir, Skipper,” the teenager answered, staring into the fire.

  “Then there’s old Teddy Roosevelt over there,” he said pointing to the ancient man in his undershorts boiling his clothes. “Hey, Teddy, can you hear me?”

  The old man looked over and waved.

  “Once upon a time, old Teddy was the mayor of Phoenix, Arizona. No lie, he was the actual mayor. You see, Mr. Callaway, we all have a story. And we all have a unique history. But the one thing that’s common to all of us is we’re all out here because we want to be out here. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because out here we’re free. We don’t have much, but what we have is ours, and we don’t owe nobody nothin’. But more importantly, we take care of each other out here. I’ve got Shakespeare’s back, and he’s got mine. And that, Mr. Callaway, is more than I can say for your world. So thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stay where I am.”

  I watched as every man nodded in agreement. There was no sadness in their faces, not a shred of self-doubt. They all looked completely at peace with their lot in life. I stood. “I should be going. Thank you, Skipper.”

  “Don’t mention it. Give Stan my regards. By the way, how’s his book coming?”

  “It’s…going to be a long read.”

  Skipper grinned.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out some bills.

  “I told you we’re not bums. We work for our money.”

  “And where I come from, a man’s knowledge is something you pay for. Here.” I handed Skipper two twenty dollar bills.

  He looked at the money and then back at me. “I’ll spread this around. It’ll make for a couple of good months of Mulligan stew for me and the boys. I thank you.”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 13

  No more than thirty minutes later I was back in town. As I drove down The Strip, I couldn’t stop thinking about Skipper and his raggedy band of boxcar brothers out there in the wilderness. They had nothing, but embodied something quite noble, regal even. So much so, it almost made their way of life seem appealing—okay, not really.

  You see, if I’m honest, I’m forced to admit I’m a man who loves this materialistic world and all the coupons that come with it. Shallow? Perhaps. But you have to understand that despite my immense talent, impeccable good taste, and impressively erudite vocabulary, I’m still just a starry-eyed Indiana farm boy
who spent most of his youth waiting for the Wells Fargo wagon to be a-comin’ down the street. As far back as I can remember, I coveted the better life and was never satisfied with the humble and otherwise invisible existence I was born into. Pop always proclaimed, “Be proud of who you are, son.” Sorry, I loved the old guy, but that just never worked for me. The chasm between who I was and who I wanted to be couldn’t have been wider. Maybe a life lived in austere obscurity was okay for Pop, but not for me. That’s why as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Cecil Callaway bolted, and Trip Callaway has never looked back. I live for everything this dog-eat-dog capitalistic world has waiting for me, and I make no apologies for it. Because in my mind, it’s not only right, but perhaps even holy. I ask you, if the Almighty had not wanted we humans to strive for the finer things, why would He have ever invented dry martinis? Or cashmere sweaters? Or Cheez Whiz? Think about it.

  I turned off Las Vegas Boulevard and headed for The Jam Jar. I deemed I had done all I could do for one night and decided my investigation could wait for a new sun. Besides, given what Skipper had told me, I needed some quality time alone in my brain.

  The Jam Jar parking lot was sparse but not completely empty. I considered going around to the rear and taking the outside stairs up to my apartment, but then decided a nightcap and a few tunes from Eighty-Eight might be a pleasant way to conclude a less-than-pleasant day.

  I slipped in unnoticed and found a seat at the end of the bar. Eighty-Eight was on the backside of his last set, and I made sure he knew I wasn’t interested in sitting in with a surreptitious wave of my hand. He responded with an understanding nod.

  “Drink, Trip?” Shorty asked, placing a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  “Three fingers, straight up.”

  “Luther and Bets took off early, but I could scare something up if you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll just nibble on these peanuts.”

  Shorty nodded, poured my whiskey, and left to attend to the remaining customers.

  As Eighty-Eight began improvising around an inspired rendition of “Mood Indigo,” I sipped my cocktail, closed my eyes, and took in the song. Talk about a tune fitting the moment. The Ellington classic was the perfect musical metaphor for the situation I found myself in; a melancholy melody weaving through a seemingly disconnected string of chords so confusing you could easily get lost if you weren’t paying attention. The melancholy melody was two lives ending before their time, and while I was not sure there ever was a right time, I was sure no one’s life should end the way Ken’s and Lydia’s did. The disconnected string of chords was the circumstances surrounding it all; a plethora of disjointed contradictions so confusing I needed a lead sheet just to keep up. But two things were crystal clear. Ken might have been telling me the truth, but he certainly wasn’t telling me the whole truth. And when it came to Lydia, whatever her relationship with Ken was, it absolutely went beyond just being his girlfriend.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t extend the metaphor to include why people were now coming after me. I didn’t know anything, nor did I have anything. It was infuriating. I’d had a knife held to my throat, was nearly abducted off the street, and had my domicile demolished, all because I was supposed to be in possession of something Ken had given to me. I seriously considered hiring an airplane to fly over the city and write the words in the sky, Whatever it is, I don’t have it! Sincerely, Trip Callaway.

  “Thank you very much,” Eighty-Eight said over the microphone as the audience applauded. “Gonna change it up a little, folks. This next song is another number made famous by the Duke, but it was written by the great Billy Strayhorn. It’s called, ‘Take the A Train.’ I hope y’all enjoy it. Uh one, uh two, uh one two three four.”

  I believe I’ve mentioned once or twice how I’m forever amazed at the way my brain works, but it’s worth repeating. It’s as if there’s a little room tucked away somewhere among the gray matter where I toss trivial yet highly combustible bits of information. Then, when I least expect it, life throws a match in there and boom! It explodes like fireworks on the Fourth of July, shining light on all that once was dark.

  “That’s it,” I muttered.

  I must have muttered louder than I thought because Shorty asked, “You want something, Trip?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Trip?”

  I tossed a few bucks on the bar and jumped up. “Thanks, Shorty.”

  To access the apartment from inside the club required me going into the kitchen, past Luther’s tiny office, and up a narrow wooden staircase located behind the walk-in freezer. I took the stairs three at a time and was so worked up, I had trouble getting the key into the door. Once I was in, I raced to the boxes Luther and I had brought back from apartment E. We’d stacked them five-high beside the couch, and of course, the box I was looking for was at the bottom. I dismantled the tower in seconds and took to my knees. The lid was only folded shut, so I had no trouble opening it. I took everything out of the box and scattered the contents on the floor. I rummaged through it twice.

  Frustrated, I got up and headed for the door, but then stopped, turned around, and went back for one more look. I may have uttered a mild oath once I surrendered to the fact that what I was looking for wasn’t in the box. Every molecule in my body didn’t want to do what I was about to do, but I saw no other choice. The epiphany that initially lit up my brain was now a full-fledged out of control bonfire, and if I was right, it would change everything.

  I raced down the stairs, through the kitchen, and back into the club. Shorty was drying a glass and seemed startled at my reappearance.

  “Thought you’d called it a night.”

  “I need to use the telephone,” I said, not asked.

  Shorty smiled. “Got a little after hours romance lined up, do you?”

  I did my best to stay calm and not snap at the man. “Please, Shorty, I really need to use the telephone.”

  “Of course, have a seat. I’ll bring it over to you.”

  As Shorty got the telephone, I went through my pockets for Detective Barnard’s business card. I found it just as Shorty set the phone down on the bar in front of me.

  I decided not to even try his work number and straightaway dialed his home line. It rang a total of seven times, and I was about to hang up when the call was finally answered by a craggily voice on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Detective, it’s me, Trip Callaway.”

  He made a sound that can only be described as bovine-like before responding with actual words. “What do you want, Callaway? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry I woke you, but I know what it is. It’s a record.”

  “What’s a record? What are you talking about, Callaway?”

  “What everyone wants. The guy you saved me from on the street, whoever went through my place, the men in the black Caddy, they’re all looking for a record.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s what they want, and I know where it is.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Meet me at my apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s where my records are.”

  “No, I mean why do I have to be there?”

  It wasn’t easy for me to say what I said next. I mean, I do have my pride, but this was not a time for foolish male ego. “I moved out of my apartment after it was broken into, and I don’t want to go back there alone, okay? There I said it. Please, Detective, I need your help.”

  Barnard made several more indescribable animal noises as I patiently waited for something resembling a human-like response. “Okay, give me your address.”

  I let out a sigh of relief and gave Detective Barnard the address to apartment E.

  “I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes,” he said.

  “Thirty minutes? Where do live, Neptune?”

  “I’m in bed, Callaway,” he growled. “Sleeping li
ke any other normal person is at this ungodly hour. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay, thirty minutes. Don’t be late. Thank you, Detective.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” And he hung up.

  I waited five minutes. That’s all I had in me. I knew I’d get to apartment E before Barnard, but I had to move. I don’t recall driving there, my brain was otherwise engaged, but as I pulled into my parking space, I do remember a swarm of butterflies fluttering around in my gut. I looked around to see if anybody had followed me and, of course, saw no one. I’d been in Barnard’s car earlier that night, so I scanned the street for a rusty Plymouth that looked more like a burn victim than an automobile. I didn’t see it. It only took a few minutes more before the ridiculousness of my cowering in the car like a frightened child hit me up the side of the head like a two by four. Once it did, the debilitating fear morphed into something else—anger. This was my home, my sacred space, and now I was letting the villains who violated Basilica de Trip continue their desecration by being afraid to enter it without armed security. No, I decided, this must not stand.

  I got out of the Falcon, stiffened my spine, and marched up the stairs. I bravely inserted the key into the door, opened it with authority, and entered the pitch-dark apartment like a hero. I turned on the light and went directly into the bedroom, looked in the closet, checked the window that sort of shuts, and looked under the bed…twice.

  Satisfied I was in no danger, I went back into the living room and attacked the pile on the floor. As I rummaged through the rubble, I struggled to stay focused. Questions about Ken and why he would do what he did kept invading my brain. Every scenario I conjured up played out more ludicrous than the previous one. Then there was the big question: why me?