Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “Let’s get you into your car.”

  We followed Clegg down a steel staircase, onto the floor, and to the set of tracks where my car was located. One of the men put out his hand and pulled me up onto the platform while another opened the door to the Falcon. I got in without hesitation.

  Clegg stepped up onto the platform and leaned into the car. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen, Trip. This cover is going to come down over you, and it’s going to get real dark. Don’t worry, it’s just what we use to protect our cargo. It makes things a bit more aerodynamic too. Today, you’re the cargo. After the boys secure it in place, you’re going to be shot out of here like a cannon ball. Trip, listen to me, it’s going to go fast, real fast, but it’s completely safe. After a few minutes, you’ll start to slow down. Once you come to a full stop, this cover will come off with the help of my men on the other side. They won’t say anything to you, so don’t try to talk to them. Once they have the cover off and the car is released from the platform, they’ll direct you out. Follow their instruction exactly. Once you’re out of the shaft, you’ll find yourself on a dirt road that only goes one direction. Follow it for about two miles until you reach the main highway. Once there, you’ll only be a couple more miles away from the gas station.” Clegg looked at his watch. “If all goes well, you’ll get there with five minutes to spare. Got it?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard.

  “Trip,” Clegg said, changing his tone, “no matter what happens, make sure whoever shows up leaves with that record. Not to be corny here, but your country’s depending on you. Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” I answered, swallowing hard again.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, let’s get going.”

  “Wait,” I yelled. “Where’s Skipper?”

  “I’m right here,” Skipper said, stepping onto the platform.

  "Call The Jam Jar. Tell Luther you’re a friend of mine. Tell him I have the record and I’m off to get Betsy. Tell him not to worry, I’m going to bring her back safe and sound. Will you do that for me?”

  Skipper patted me on the shoulder. “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks. Okay, now I’m ready.”

  I saw Clegg look over his shoulder and nod. The canopy began descending over of me.

  “One last thing, Trip,” Clegg said, just before I was completely covered.

  “What?”

  “Fasten your seat belt.”

  As I sat there in total darkness, I remember telling myself, Trip, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s only a converted mine shaft and a little train the government uses to get stuff from one place to another—valuable stuff at that, so it’s going to be safe. That’s all it is, a freight train, and I’m a passenger. Skipper and his friends do this all the time. Hey, I continued to reassure myself, I’m a hobo too. That made me smile. Then I started moving, and for a few seconds, it was nothing extraordinary until…

  I don’t know if it’s possible for one’s stomach to actually touch one’s spinal cord, but mine did. It was as if an elephant had gotten into my car, decided it wanted to drive, and slid over on top of me to take the wheel. The force was so intense, it was impossible for me to keep my head held upright. It occurred to me it was conceivable the old melon could be ripped right off my shoulders from the sheer force. That happy thought led me to lower my chin into my chest and to try and remember to breathe. There was complete silence, as though I was being hurled at the speed of sound on a cushion of air. There was no roar of an engine, no sound of metal wheels screeching against iron rails, there wasn’t even a rattle. Only silence. And since I couldn’t see anything, there were no objects whipping by me in a blur, either. In fact, the only sensation of motion I had was the overwhelming pressure being exerted on my body. I’ve ridden my fair share of roller coasters in my life, and I can honestly now say, they’re for sissies.

  Just as Clegg said, it wasn’t long before I started to slow down and the force on my body began to lessen. Once my transport came to a full stop, the canopy lifted off immediately. I saw a man in blue coveralls standing atop a steep incline several yards in front of me. He held two flashlights with orange cones and began waving them toward his chest the way a guy does when he’s directing an airplane around a taxiway. I started the car up, put it into gear, and drove toward the man. My ears popped as I climbed. When I got within a few yards of him, he directed me to the left where I saw another man standing with flashlights atop another incline. Same thing, I headed toward him until he too directed me to turn. The only difference was this time he added a quick salute. I thought that was a nice gesture. I’d never been saluted before. I started to return the salutation when I saw an immense door sliding open in front of me. Seconds later, stars filled the night sky. I grabbed the steering wheel tightly and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

  Once I made it to the highway, I began to think about what I was going to do when I got to the gas station. For Clegg, it was all about the record. But all I cared about was getting Betsy safely back to Luther as quickly as I could. I couldn’t have cared less about his little spy game. Clegg had his mission, and I had mine.

  It was just as old, just as dilapidated, and every bit as creepy as the first time I saw it. I stopped the car, checked my Timex, and took a deep breath. Clegg was right. I was five minutes early. I switched on my high beams and surveyed the surroundings. I couldn’t help but see Kenny and recall the terrified look on his face when he and I sat in the same spot a few nights before. I remembered how melancholy he became when I told him I was going to go sit in with Eighty-Eight. I could still hear his voice when he lamented on how he wished he could be there to hear it. I wondered if he knew his ticket was about to be punched? Maybe he did. Maybe that was the thing I sensed he wanted to tell me before he ran off into the darkness. But then again, maybe not. Maybe I read it all wrong. After all, he wasn’t really Kenny, was he? He was some East German named Yuri. And he’d been lying to me since the first day we met.

  Through the opening in the shack with no door, I saw movement. This was it. I left the engine running, the headlights on, grabbed the record off the seat beside me, and got out of the car. I walked to front of the Falcon and stopped. I considered yelling out something like, “I’m here,” but then I realized whoever was inside knew that already. So, I stood there, not moving a muscle, hearing nothing but my own heart pounding.

  It felt like I stood there for hours before a figure slowly emerged from the building. At first, it was only the outline of a person, and I couldn’t make out who it was. But as they got closer, there was no doubt who it was. It was Betsy. I took a few steps toward her when she shouted.

  “No, Trip, stop!”

  I froze.

  “Put the record on the gas pump and get back in your car.”

  “But—”

  “He’s got a gun on me, Trip. Do what he says, or he’ll shoot me. Put the record on the gas pump and get back in the car. I’m going to take it to him.”

  I looked past Betsy to see if I could spot anyone. I couldn’t. “Then what?”

  “Then he’ll let me go.”

  “How do I know you’ll let her go?” I yelled toward the building.

  There was no response.

  “We have to do it his way, Trip,” Betsy pleaded. “Just put the record on the gas pump. Please.”

  She was rightfully terrified, and that more than anything forced me to do what I didn’t want to do. I walked over to the ancient pump and set the record on top of it. I turned around and stared at the building. “Here it is,” I yelled.

  “Get in your car, Trip,” Betsy said.

  “It’s going to be okay, Bets. I promise, it’s going to be okay.”

  “I know,” Betsy replied, forcing a frightened smile. “Just get in the car.”

  I went back to the Falcon and shot a look of utter contempt toward the
building before opening the door and getting in.

  I watched Betsy walk over to the pump, retrieve the record, and head back to the dilapidated building. When she disappeared inside, my whole body shriveled. What had I done? I had given away the only thing I had to get her back with. Why did I do it? I never should have let her go back inside that building. The seconds felt like days. Where was she?

  Mercifully, Betsy finally came out of the building. I opened the door and leaped from the car. When she saw me, she started running, and I rushed to meet her halfway. I grabbed her by the hand, and we ran back to the Falcon.

  I had the car in gear and peeling out before my door was even shut.

  I made it back to town in record speed. Betsy spent most of the journey with her head on my shoulder while holding tightly onto my arm. She didn’t cry, that was not her style, but she didn’t let go of my arm. She assured me she wasn’t hurt and said, in that way only Betsy can say it, “I never saw the punk-bugger’s face. Wish I had,” she added. “I’d like to know who I’m going to smack silly someday.”

  I pulled into The Jam Jar’s parking lot, and Luther came flying out the door before I’d come to a complete stop. Eighty-Eight followed, and the look of sheer exhaustion on his face said it all. I’m sure keeping the big fella in check all day and night hadn’t been a walk in the park, to say the least. But it didn’t dim the old guy’s hundred-watt smile one iota. Father and daughter met in the middle of the parking lot, and I thought Luther was going to squeeze Betsy to the point of breaking her.

  After some drying of the eyes, tension-releasing laughs, and telling her father for the umpteenth time she was fine, Betsy asked, “Daddy, where are all the customers?”

  Luther looked at me and chuckled. “Well, baby girl, there are none on account we’re closed.”

  “Closed,” Betsy responded. “Why?”

  “Because you got took.”

  “Well, I ain’t took no more,” she replied. “Lordy, we can’t afford to be closed. Open this place up. Eighty-Eight, call the—”

  “I’ll call the boys.”

  “Daddy, get in there and call—”

  “Shorty. Right.” Luther looked at me and let out a long sigh of relief.

  I only nodded.

  “For Pete’s sake, I’m only gone for a few hours, and you start running the place into the ground,” Betsy said, marching inside the club. “I got to make some calls and get some cars in this parking lot. Daddy!”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming, already.” Luther smiled at me. “Looks like there’s going to be a party at The Jam Jar tonight.”

  I laughed. “Looks like it.”

  “My baby girl’s back, Trip.”

  “Yes, she is, Luther.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  Chapter 18

  I don’t know how they did it, but Luther had Shorty behind the bar, Eighty-Eight had the boys back on the bandstand, and Betsy had customers coming through the door inside of an hour. First round was on the house. I’m sure none of the patrons knew why, but that didn’t matter to Luther. For him, it was a celebration. And when Luther Beaurepaire celebrates, everybody does.

  A few cocktails and a handful of inspired solos later, I decided it was time for yours truly to retire upstairs. I wasn’t so much tired as I just needed some quiet Trip-time to digest everything that had happened. I still hadn’t come to terms with Lydia being a government agent named Veronica Simon, nor Ken being a Soviet spy named Yuri Something-or-another, but how does one come to terms with something like that? Oh, how I longed for the good old days. You know, the week before, back when Veronica was still Lydia, Yuri was still Ken, and The Ranch was a place where Ben, Hoss, and Little Joe resided. No, it was going to take awhile to adjust to this new reality.

  That’s probably why, when I got up to my room, I walked straight to the bed and fell belly first onto it. I laid there for a few seconds with my face buried in the pillow before I rolled over on my back and proceeded to contemplate the plaster on the ceiling. Something wasn’t right. Betsy was safely back home, the mystery of why and how Ken and Lydia were killed was solved—sorry, Yuri and Veronica—and America was going to remain free from tyranny by the clever hoodwinking of some very determined, if not a bit shady, officials in our own government. It was over. There was nothing left for me to do. I had every reason to feel good about things, or at the very least relieved, but I didn’t. Because something wasn’t right.

  The summer before I went off to college, Pop and I drove to Cincinnati to catch the Redlegs play. When it came to baseball, I could take it or leave it, but Pop loved the game, so I always went along and feigned more interest than I actually had. Besides, I knew it was Pop’s way for us to have some father-son time together before I left home. He never said anything, but I knew me leaving was harder on him than he let on.

  It took around four hours to get to the ballpark. We’d been doing it since I was old enough to walk, so it wasn’t anything new. But this time, about halfway into the trip, Pop became very tired. So tired in fact, he asked me to drive. By the time we got to Crosley, he was feeling a little bit better, but by the seventh inning stretch, he was worn out again, so we decided to call it a day and head back home. I drove.

  Pop claimed there was nothing wrong with him a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure. He said he’d been putting in long hours and just needed to get some shut-eye. I knew he wasn’t putting in any more hours than he usually did, but I went along with it anyway, even though something in my gut told me differently. Pop died four months later of a heart attack. I’ll go to my grave wondering if I’d listened to my gut and demanded he go to the doctor and get checked out, he might not have died when he did. I’ll never know. But here’s what I do know. When something feels wrong, it is. And from the moment I heard about Pop’s passing, I’ve never forgotten it.

  I got up from the bed, grabbed my pencil and paper, and started jotting things down. My intention was to list everything that had happened from the time I talked to Rosie at the Sands, up to rescuing Betsy at the gas station. My thinking was if I replayed every moment, maybe, eventually, I could isolate what was troubling me. I was prepared for a long night. It wasn’t. Ten minutes in, I had my answer.

  Have you ever known something you didn’t want to know? I sat on the couch for well over an hour, studied what I’d written, and tried my best to be wrong. I couldn’t. No matter how many different ways I looked at it, the answer always came back the same, and it made me sick. It wasn’t just a body blow. It felt like I’d been hit by a truck.

  I waited until the music coming from below me had stopped. I reasoned that would be the best signal the night was almost over and everybody would soon be going home. I was right. By the time I got down to the club, it was all but empty, except for Eighty-Eight, who was packing up his charts, and Shorty, who was wiping down the bar. I didn’t see Luther or Betsy.

  “Thought you’d turned in?” Eighty-Eight said, closing the lid on the piano.

  “Yeah, so did I,” I replied, walking up on the stage and over to the piano bench.

  “It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  “It has at that, Eddie, it has at that. Hey, did I leave my jacket back there next to Silas’ kit?”

  As Eighty-Eight went back to the drum kit, I quickly opened the piano bench, took out his Colt, and hid it under my shirt.

  “I don’t see it. Are you sure you left it down here?”

  “Maybe I didn’t. Is Luther around?” I asked.

  “Betsy got tired, so he took her home. She said she could get there by herself, but there was no way Luther was letting her out of his sight. I guess I can understand that.”

  “Yeah, I guess I can too.”

  “Well, that’s it for me. These old bones weren’t built for days like today. I’m all tuckered out. Good night, Trip.”

  “Good night, Eddie.”

  Eighty-Eight picked up his satchel and left through the front door.


  I casually walked over to the bar. Shorty looked up and smiled.

  “Quite the shindig in here tonight,” he said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Can I get you something before I leave, Trip?”

  “Why, Shorty?”

  Shorty cocked his head. “Because you might be thirsty?”

  “It was you.”

  He made a face. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re working with them, or you’re one of them, or something, but you’re a part of it. How could you, Shorty? How could you do that to Betsy? To Luther?”

  “Trip, what in heaven’s name are you going on about?”

  “It’s over, Shorty,” I yelled, slamming my fist on the bar. “It was you.”

  If he was taken aback by my sudden outburst, he didn’t show it. He simply tossed the rag in the sink and leaned against the bar.

  “Just tell me why, Shorty?”

  Again, he said nothing and only stared at me.

  “Okay, have it your way.”

  I walked around the bar and picked up the phone. He came toward me, and I pulled out the gun from under my shirt. “Don’t come any closer, Shorty.”

  “You know how to use that, Trip?”

  “Try me,” I answered.

  Shorty took a step back, and I started to dial.

  “You calling the police?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered. “Someone you should be far more afraid of. Luther.”

  “Put the phone down, Trip,” I heard a familiar voice say.

  I whipped around and saw Skipper standing by the kitchen door. He had a gun in his hand, and he was aiming it at me.

  By that point, I had no more shock left in me. I let out a sigh and dropped my head. “So that’s why you wanted to go with me to the Ranch.”

  “Opportunity does have a way of showing up at unexpected times, doesn’t it?” he replied. “Thanks for getting me back in. Now put down the phone and lay the gun on the bar. I will shoot you, Trip. I won’t enjoy it, but I will shoot you.”