Chapter 1
“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” ̶ William Faulkner
The promise of spring is just that . . . a promise. And promises are
sometimes hard to keep. This year spring was having an especially difficult
time of it. You’d
go to bed after a sunny day that held out the hope of better things to come and
wake up to cold blustery winds shooting down the mountains and across the
valley and through your bones, a reminder that nothing’s easy. The daffodils
huddled together in the cold morning air to wait it out, tiny yellow suns
determined to shine under a Milky Way of white-blossomed Bradford pears that
lined the streets of downtown Braddock, a small city just far enough away from
Washington D.C. to be somewhere else.
Today the
gods declared a truce in the tug-of-war between winter and spring. The corner
bank sign registered a comfortable 71 degrees at 12:10
p.m. It being such a nice day I walked down to Juliet’s Café, an
Asian-Italian deli located just off of Braddock’s main drag. Once it warms up,
she puts out a couple of small round tables pushed up tight against the front
of the café, which takes up the first floor of a large corner townhouse. Inside
there is barely enough space to walk around among the shelves, freezer cases,
and display tables packed with things Italian and delectable. Most of the trade
is take-out, but she has a couple of tables wedged into a tight space in the
back for those who want to dine in. I prefer to eat outside, especially when
the weather is decent, as it was today. I was about to take another bite of my
pasta salad when I was startled by a question from a man standing nearby on the
sidewalk.
“Mind if I
join you?”
I say
startled because I had been following the comings and goings of some of
Braddock’s least likely to succeed as they gathered on the sidewalk in front of
a local counseling center across the street. The smack talk had reached a fever
pitch, so I hadn’t noticed him standing there near my table. Some people might
have found an excuse to say no, but he looked halfway normal, so after a brief
pause I said, “Sure, why not” and pointed towards the other chair.
My
unexpected guest looked to be about my age, which would put him somewhere just
north or south of sixty. He was small but sturdy looking, with wispy blond
hair, eyes the blue of a bright winter sky, a finely chiseled nose that I would
have paid good money for, and a thin smile that looked like it was just passing
through. He had that healthy open-faced all-American boy look to him like you
see out west where people spend most of their time outdoors riding bikes or
climbing rocks. The kind of guy who might have surprised you in an
arm-wrestling contest back in the day.
“You don’t
remember me, I suppose,” he said.
His voice
held the faintest echo of years spent somewhere in the mid-west but otherwise
nothing you could put your finger on in terms of point of origin.
“No, I don’t
suppose I do.”
“My name is
Thomas Clayton, and I remember you. You’re Frank Martinelli, right? Back then
you were Sergeant Martinelli, and I was Spec-4 Clayton.” I gave a tentative nod
of agreement, and he looked back at me expectantly, waiting for my inner light
bulb to click on. So far I was still in the dark. “It was a long time ago, so I’m not surprised if you don’t remember
me,” he added with a quick smile. After a pause he said, “We were stationed
together at Fort Myer in 1970. We
both knew Jimmie Ray Talbot. He was the one they sent home to die right after
you got there because he had the walking pneumonia and he let it get away from
him.”
I sat up and
took a closer look at him while I searched the memory banks. Like many Vietnam vets who
had been drafted, I had a few months left in my 2-year hitch when I came home.
My original assignment was Fort Benning, Georgia, but my
father pulled a few strings and managed to get me reassigned to Fort Myer, home of
the Third Herd and Arlington Cemetery. I don’t
remember a whole lot from that time except for seeing lots of funerals and Star
Trek reruns. My goal was to stay out of sight and out of trouble until my hitch
was up. There wasn’t time to make a lot of friends, and quite honestly I wasn’t
all that interested anyway.
Then I
remembered. He looked even more like an all-American boy back then, but
appearances can be deceiving. Thomas had picked up some nasty habits, including
a taste for heroin. He told me this one day over a beer, or two, or three at an
apartment he shared with his girlfriend, who I vaguely recall had long
strawberry blond hair and wore a brightly flowered blouse in the hippie style
of the day. I don’t remember her name or how I got to be there. Obviously, he
and I must have hit it off to some degree because we talked about the kinds of
things you don’t normally talk to people about, including his growing
attraction to heroin.
I remember
asking him why he was using heroin, and he looked at me like I was some sort of
idiot and said, “Because it’s good, man.” He felt it took him higher for longer
than anything else he had tried. Then he told me enough about what he did in Vietnam to make me
understand a little better why he was ready to become a frequent flier.
Chapter 2
Clayton,
Thomas, Specialist 4th Class, Serial Number RA45718364, was part of
a three-man team whose job was to track down and kill the VC tax collectors and
local political leaders who kept the peasants in line. He told me how his team
would be inserted by helicopter deep into Indian country, sometimes right along
the border where they would slip into Cambodia. They would
move noiselessly through the jungle under cover of darkness until they reached
their objective, identified only by a set of 6-digit coordinates marked with an
X on the map. Usually it was a small group of men huddled around a fire talking
softly in the sing-song rhythms of Vietnamese.
When
everyone was in position, the team would open fire with silenced submachine
guns. After searching the bodies for documents and any other “intel” they could
find, the team would melt back into the jungle and head for the pick-up zone,
only then breaking radio silence to make contact with the waiting chopper that would
ferry them back to their base camp.
This was not
combat as you or I understand combat, where opposing forces meet each other by
accident or by design and start shooting at each other until one side calls it
quits. The engagement is reported and recorded: location, time, number of
friendlies and enemies killed or wounded, equipment captured or destroyed. The
survivors move on to the next meal and the next firefight. What Thomas did for
God and country was targeted killing, assassinations that were never reported
or recorded in any logs you or I would likely ever see. There for damn sure
were no survivors to fight another day.
You can see
how fighting that kind of war could wear a fellow down. Sooner or later you are
bound to have second thoughts about what you are doing, and when you come home
those doubts and memories come home with you. That’s when the trouble starts.
This was before the phrase “post-traumatic stress syndrome” had become common
enough to get its own acronym. Vets were pretty much on their own when it came
to mental health, and Thomas had come up with his own solution. I was just
enough older than Thomas to know that using heroin to forget the past would
only result in a future spent fighting addiction. I brought up his girlfriend,
who he hoped to marry some day. Heroin would take away all his hopes for a
normal life if he let it take control. I remember him looking at me after my
fine little speech and asking me “How am I supposed to be normal again after
the things I’ve seen and done?” I had no answer for that one.
After that
day I have no memory of ever seeing Thomas again, until he showed up at
Juliet’s. I wondered what brought him here. Whatever it was, I was pretty sure
it wasn’t just to catch up on old times.
Chapter 3
I was brought
back to the present by Juliet bringing out a cappuccino that Thomas ordered
before he sat down with me. He took a slow, careful sip, returned the cup to
its saucer, then leaned back and gave me the once-over. I doubt that I passed
his inspection as easily as he had mine. I think I’m in pretty good shape for
my age, but I’m definitely not Iron Man material. No matter how hard I try to
lose weight I have this one layer of fat that never seems to go away, a legacy
of youthful dietary indiscretions and Mother Nature’s determination to keep me
ready for that next Ice Age. At least I still had most of my hair and almost
all of my teeth.
Feeling the
weight of his stare, I took another mouthful of my pasta. I figured sooner or
later he’d get around to whatever it was he had to say.
“I guess you
are wondering what brings me here.”
“Well,
yeah,” I said. “What’s it been, thirty years at least, I don’t see you–hell, I
don’t see anybody from those days–and then you just show up out of the blue. So
yeah, I’m wondering.”
“I owe you
one,” he said, “and now I’m paying it back.”
“That sounds
good,” I said as I took another bite of the pasta salad. “Tell me again what
exactly it is you owe me for.”
“You
probably don’t remember that time we had a long talk and you warned me that I
should think twice before getting too deep into the heroin thing.”
“Yeah, I
remember that.
“Well, I
took your advice.”
“I’m glad to
hear that,” I said as I checked out the crisply starched Ralph Lauren shirt,
the ultra-thin watch he wore on his left wrist, and the gold signet ring that
weighed down his right forefinger like an anchor looking for some place to
drop. “I guess things have worked out pretty well for you.”
That thin
smile made a brief return visit. Then he shrugged and said, “Well, you could
say so, I guess. Do you remember what I told you I did in the Army?”
“Uh-huh,” I
said, not sure where this was headed.
“Well, after
I got out in ‘71 I tried my hand at a few different things, but nothing really
appealed to me. Then I ran into a buddy from my old unit. He introduced me to
another guy who offered me a chance to continue where I left off in the Army,
only this time for a different part of the government.”
I guess he
was telling me in a not so roundabout way that he had gone to work for the CIA
or any one of several government intelligence operations that were far less
well known to the public than the spooks at Langley. I raised
an eyebrow at that revelation but let him keep talking.
“After a few
years of that, I retired and went into private practice.”
I
interrupted him. “Are you sure you want to be telling me all this? I mean, I
get what you’re saying here. I just don’t get why you are telling me all this.”
“It’s okay.
I’m telling you because you have a need to know.” I looked him a question,
which he ignored for the moment. “If you’re finished with your lunch, why don’t
we go for a walk?”
We got up
and went a couple of blocks over to Creekside Walkway, a piece of civic
improvement that was Braddock’s answer to San
Antonio’s River Walk and Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, only on a
much smaller scale. There weren’t a lot of people around, so it was easy to
find an isolated bench where we could resume our conversation.
“There
aren’t really all that many of us in my particular line of work, at least there
aren’t that many who can do it over a long period of time,” Thomas said. “I was
good at what I did. Work was . . . steady. For what it’s worth, I only took
jobs where I felt that the client warranted receiving my services, and believe
me, that still left plenty of business opportunities.”
I looked
around again to make sure nobody was in earshot and then leaned towards him
across the bench. “Let me get this straight. You only did ‘work’ that met your
ethical standards? Isn’t that kind of slippery moral ground to walk on every
day?”
For the
first time his voice betrayed some emotion. “Hey, you can thank Uncle Sam for
that. I was brought up just like you, believing all that bullshit the preachers
taught us in church. ‘Thou shalt not kill?’ Yeah, right. They forgot to tell us
about the loopholes. We found out pretty damn quick that those rules didn’t
apply out in the boonies. In fact, there weren’t any rules at all except for
the ones we made up for ourselves. I guess I just never stopped living that way.”
I knew what
he meant. When you enter a war zone, everything you believed in as a civilian
got checked at the gate. The old-timers–in Vietnam that could
be a 19-year-old farm boy from Iowa with dead
eyes and a soul to match–would tell you “War is hell, but combat’s a
motherfucker.” Killing and pillaging were part of the job description. Rape,
thievery, drug-dealing . . . well, that just came with the territory,
collateral damage that could be overlooked as long as you didn’t get stupid
about it. I had seen it myself first-hand, and I can tell you nobody cared all
that much as long as you did your job and looked out for your buddies. You
learned pretty fast that you could get away with almost anything if you are
bold enough and lucky enough.
A man could
get used to that way of living if he wasn’t careful. Too many guys did. And
when you went back to the world it was hard to start coloring inside the lines
again. It was like trying to believe again in the Wizard of Oz after you had
looked behind the screen and found that everything you had been brought up to
believe in was just a trick designed to keep you in line.
“A few years
ago, I let it be known that I was going into semi-retirement. I had started a
business as a cover for my travels. I dealt in a particular type of . . .
collectible that had a small but intense following. Well, turns out I was a
pretty fair businessman. I was able to make a very comfortable living, but
every once in awhile I would take the odd small job when I need a little extra
cash. Besides, I like to keep my hand in the game . . . just in case. That’s
where you come in.”
Chapter 4
A gust of
wind came up just then, rippling the water ahead of it. The sudden shift in the
air gave me a brief chill. Or maybe it was knowing that we were finally getting
to whatever it was Thomas had come to tell me. I was pretty sure that it would
not be to my liking.
“As I said
before, I only take jobs that meet my own personal standards. The man who makes
the arrangements for me understands this and always provides me with the name
of the individual that I will be, uh, dealing with, so that I can run
background checks to make sure they are the right kind of people, so to speak.”
“That’s a
delicate way of phrasing it,” I said dryly.
“Well,
discretion is everything in my line of work. And, thanks to the internet, I can
find just about everything I need to know without leaving my office. Funny
thing is, the name of my latest prospective client seemed somehow familiar, and
in fact it did turn out to be someone I knew. A fellow by the name of Frank
Martinelli.”
I looked at
him for a moment and then barked out a harsh sound that could have been
mistaken for a laugh.
“You are shitting me, right? Why would anyone
want to . . . you know . . . do that to me? I’m not anyone special. I sure as
hell don’t recall making anyone mad enough to want to terminate me with extreme
prejudice. Isn’t that how you fellows say it?”
“Actually,
that went out in the 80’s, and whether you like it or not you need to believe
me when I tell you that someone out there does indeed want you terminated, with
or without prejudice.”
“But why?
Did your contact man give you any hints?” I asked.
“No, it
doesn’t work that way. Like I said, I’m mostly retired. This guy only calls me
when he has a small job that he thinks I might be willing to take on.”
“Jesus . . .
a small job . . . that’s nice,” I said, unsure whether I was more insulted or
scared. Scared won out and with it came the anger. “Let me see if I have this
straight: I’m just someone’s little mess that gets cleaned up by people like
you for a nice fee.”
“Hey, I’m
just the messenger here,” he said with an ironic smile that was neither helpful
nor reassuring. “Remember, I’m the one who is doing you a favor. Anyway, it is
what it is. Naturally, I turned down the job.”
“Well,
that’s good to hear. Is this a
little-boy-who-pulled-the-thorn-out-of-the-lion’s-paw deal?”
“You could
think of it that way. Like I said, I do have standards and you are not the kind
of person who I would normally do business with, even if you hadn’t done me a
mitzvah back in the day. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad
news would be . . .?”
“I turned
the job down, and I asked my guy to put the word out that I would personally be
grateful if other potential bidders did the same. But if I was you I wouldn’t
count too much on that. It’s a tough economy for everyone, including people in
my line of work. The big money just isn’t there anymore. I would go on the
assumption that someone out there is hungry enough to take the job even if it
meant earning my displeasure. I can tell you for sure that as of the moment the
contract has not been issued. Nobody big will touch it, but there are lots of
other guys who will be happy to get the work. Like I said, times are tough. If
I hear anything, I’ll let you know, but you have to figure the clock is ticking
as of right now.”
“Well, this
sucks. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Good
question, one that I have given some thought to. It isn’t often I get to put
myself in the other fellow’s shoes.”
Again with
the unhelpful irony.
“And did you
come up with anything that might be useful to someone in my shoes?”
“Two things.
First, you need to start being more careful. I’ve been following you for a week
or so, and I have to say that you are far too much a creature of habit.”
“So I’ve
been told. Did you say that you had been following me for a week? I never
noticed anyone following me, not that I was looking.”
“Well, you
better start looking,” he said. “But don’t feel too bad. You wouldn’t have seen
me even if you were looking. But starting right now you need to be more
careful. Don’t always be in the same place at the same time every day. Better
yet, lie low until you figure this thing out.”
“How exactly
am I supposed to do that? I meant it when I said that there is no earthly
reason for anyone to want to kill me.” There, I had finally said the words.
Kill . . . me. Someone wants to kill . . . me. I leaned forward, buried my head
in my hands, and closed my eyes tightly shut, my all-purpose response to anything
that might hurt.
“That’s the
second thing you can do. Don’t worry so much about the “who” as the “why.”
Figure out why someone would want to do this and you will be able to figure out
who is behind this. In my experience it usually comes down to two or three
simple reasons."
“And they
would be what exactly?” I asked, looking up at him.
“You pose a
threat to someone, knowingly or unknowingly. You pissed someone off, knowingly
or unknowingly. Or most likely you stand between someone and something that someone
wants very badly, knowingly or unknowingly.”
“That’s it?”
I asked, my voice rising from a growing sense of frustration at this whole
situation. “That’s the sum total of what your vast experience has taught you
about human nature?”
“In my line
of work, yes, it really is pretty much that simple. Keep in mind I don’t deal
much with the Mother Teresas of the world. My customers are ordinary people who
have been pushed by circumstances to cross a line any one of us might cross if
placed in similar circumstances.”
“That’s a
pretty dark view of mankind, don’t you think?”
Thomas
looked at me with tired eyes that had seen too much of mankind at less than its
best.
“Let me ask
you a question. Suppose I knew who had ordered the hit. Suppose I was here to
offer my services to you, to solve your problem my way. What would you say to
that?”
I stared at
my sneakers for a few moments, but they weren’t talking. Finally I looked up
and asked him, “Okay, what do we do now?”
“There’s no we, brother. This is your problem, not
mine,” he said.
I started to
protest, but Thomas held up his hand. “You’re going to have to figure this
thing out for yourself.”
He sat back,
his arms resting on the bench, the relaxed pose of man whose work was done. A
passerby might easily mistake us for two guys with nothing more serious on
their minds than where to have our next beer.
“Look, no
one knows your life better than you do. Somewhere in your past you kicked a
pebble that has become a landslide. You may not have a lot of time, so I
suggest you get busy thinking. And if you know someone who is good with
security, you might want them to check out your house and your car. No reason
to make it too easy for them.”
He stood up
as if to leave and then stopped and gave me a last look.
“Lots of
people kill other people, usually in the heat of the moment. Not many people
engage in murder for hire. Hell, most people don’t have a clue how to find a
pro. They usually end up talking to an undercover cop who was tipped off by
some lowlife who was shopped for the job and is more than happy to rat someone
out in return for a little rhythm with the cops. Besides that, it’s
expensive–even for a small job like this one–and it brings with it its own set
of risks. So one thing we know for sure. Whoever ordered this has lots of
money. One other thing we can be pretty sure of. They really want you out of
the way.”
With that,
Thomas turned and walked out of my life, a life that was suddenly in pieces,
with only me left to pick them up. As I sat there pondering my uncertain
future, I heard Thomas calling to me as he walked away.
“Hey,
Martinelli, I almost forgot. Check your e-mail when you get home.”
Always leave them wanting more. You did, I do.
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