Mickey's Wars

by Dave McDonald

  “Listen to your father, Mick,” Mom said. “Please.” She touched my arm. “Don’t ruin this wonderful opportunity the United States Government is giving you.”

  I patted Mom’s hand, but focused on my father. “What would you do, Dad? What if when Mom was pregnant with me, she’d left you for an ex?”

  “That’s not a fair question to be asking your father,” Mom interjected. “You should be asking me what I would’ve done if I were in Sara’s shoes. Your father and I took an oath before God to love, cherish, honor, and obey. And unlike Sara, I would’ve never left my husband in the first place, but if I foolishly had, I would’ve gone back to him and begged him for forgiveness.”

  Dad nodded. “She left, Mick,” he said. “Leave it be. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. Start over. Take advantage of what you’ve so gallantly earned. Follow your mind, not your pride.”

  I looked away at nothing. Sara’s asking me to stay away after what we had, and the risk she took to be with me in the first place strongly supported what I already knew; John Venturini was a dangerous man. She had to be afraid and obviously, she feared for me too. If she feared for me, I knew she loved me. And knowing that, I had to do anything I could to help her.

  “I just want to talk to her.”

  “If you could believe anything she said, what could she possibly say that would change things?” Mom asked.

  I glanced at Mom wondering if she had ever liked Sara.

  “I don’t know.” I had to strain to keep my voice calm. “She could say she loves me and was forced to leave me.” I shook my head. “She might say she’d run away with me.”

  “Son, you know that’s wishful thinking. And if she did want to run with you, it’d never work,” Dad said. “The woman is with her husband where she belongs.”

  “But the baby—”

  “You have no idea if that baby is yours,” Mom said.

  I stood and threw my napkin on the table. “I . . . I’ve got to go. Have a safe trip home.”

  My dad reached in his pocket and then extended his hand with his lucky shell in the palm. “Take this, Mick. I fear you’re going to need it much more so than I.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  The next day was the last day of March and moving day.

  I had changed cabs on my way from the hotel to the train station in Washington D.C. And I had constantly checked my back. I couldn’t see anyone following me, but what did I know. If they were damned good; I wouldn’t see them.

  I had a week before my bond tour started in New York City, seven days. The train ride was longer than I’d expected, and Youngstown was grayer; a steel and rubber manufacturing city with smoke billowing from tall stacks across the skyline.

  I hired a cabby to drive me slowly past 172 West Elm. Not that I could see much. The estate was surrounded by what had to be an eight-foot high stone wall. What I could see of the white mansion through the front gates reminded me of Tara from “Gone with the Wind”; although larger. The ground-to-roof columns supporting a full-frontal length second-story balcony were impressive.

  I knew Sara had money, but seeing her wealth was eye-opening. Having been raised in small-town Bluffton and having never left the area except to go to Korea, my spectrum of wealth was very small. I experienced a rare feeling; I felt out of place. My dad’s words, mixed with Sara’s, kept repeating in my head, “Can you imagine how you or I would feel,” and “Do not try to see me, ever.”

  I was starting to understand how John Venturini could engage someone like Richards a half-a-world away. The man had inordinate wealth which had to make his world much smaller than mine.

  My stomach churned. Maybe I should take my dad’s advice and go home.

  I asked the cabby to drive me to a grocery store and then to the nearest motel.

  Getting here was one thing, being here was another. I needed more time to think.

  The motel was relatively new; a dozen rooms advertising TV’s.

  One beer and a TV wrestling match later, I found myself scribbling on motel stationary. I had learned the hard way you couldn’t make an assault without a plan.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  A pseudo, half-assed-plan scratched through and rewritten multiple times sat on the Youngstown motel’s bedside table. I’d stretched out on the bed hoping to nap, but the walls had begun to close in on me. I was isolated; no car. I couldn’t follow Sara if she left home. Although, I doubted if her husband would let her leave alone, knowing I was home from Korea and threatening to see her.

  I tried to watch TV, though TV was a novelty for me, my mind kept returning to Sara. We were in the same city; close. But she was walled in, and I was here by myself in a motel, with nothing but hope and not much of that. Finally, sleep subdued my torment.

  The next morning, with Dad’s .45 pistol in my pants pocket, I called a cab. Then I packed a lunch bag and surveyed the room. I took a book of hotel matches, a poor man’s flashlight.

  A cab-ride into suburbia later, at my direction, the driver dropped me off about a quarter-mile past John Venturini’s mansion. I crossed the road into a vacant lot that was heavily wooded, and doubled back under the cover of untamed shrubs to settle in and watch the front gate.

  After forever plus a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a warm Coke, a ’51 Lincoln 1EL sedan appeared coming down Venturini’s driveway. The car stopped by a light pole, and the driver lowered his window and reached out and pushed something. The gate opened, and the limousine drove through. There were two men in the car, one driving and one in the backseat. I assumed the person in the back of the car was Sara’s husband, John.

  But would he leave Sara at home by herself? I doubted it.

  The gate mysteriously closed by itself as the limo drove out of sight. I’d never seen anything like that before. This place must have some kind of new electronics. If Venturini has state-of-the-art electronics, he probably has great security as well.

  I walked over to the ten-foot high river-stone wall topped with glinting shards of glass. Carefully, I peeked around through the gate. The white, Tara-like mansion had to be several hundred feet of manicured lawn from the gate. A man stood at one corner of the second floor wrap-around balcony with binoculars and what looked like a shouldered Tommy-gun. Was John that concerned about me? For the first time since arriving here, the metal taste of fear coated my tongue.

  I ran around the exterior wall to the rear of the property into the woods. A sturdy oak looked like it would hold my weight. I made quick use of my Basic Training to haul myself up high enough into the leaves where I could see over Venturini’s wall.

  Another armed man paced the balcony on the rear of the house, and there was nothing but lawn and some decorative pole-lights in the expanse between the house and rear wall.

  This was the assault on the East Hill at Hagaru-ri all over again. If I went over that wall I’d be a target, an easy target. With all the open ground, if I tried an assault, my dad’s .45 pistol would be as useless as a bee-bee gun.

  My limbs didn’t feel as trustworthy coming down the tree as they had going up.

  I couldn’t get in, and Sara most likely couldn’t get out. Had Sara’s husband added these guards because of me, or had he created a prison for her?

  With my senses peaked like night perimeter guard duty in Korea, I worked my way back to the front of the house with an idea.

  I lay in the ditch near the front gate as the sun began to set. It was risky business being this close to the front entrance in the daylight. I’d been here too long. Too long to keep my mind from chewing on all the things that could go wrong with my plan. I was on the verge of abandoning my idea when the Lincoln returned.

  This was my only chance. I had to do this to see Sara. I pushed my fear aside with a deep breath.

  When the car slowed to turn, I rolled out of the ditch behind the car. As the driver eased the car though the dip between the road and the driveway, I crouched low and grabbed the encased spare tire Continen
tal kit attached to the trunk. Keeping my head below the top of the kit, with a nimble hop, I managed to get a toehold on the rear bumper. Although the car was heavy, I’d hoped the dip would mask the effect of my added weight.

  The car stopped in front of the gate. My stomach flipped. Had the driver seen me in one of his mirrors? I fought the urge to jump off and run before it was too late.

  “Bugs Bunny,” a voice yelled.

  The gate opened, and the car eased through past a pole topped with a button and a speaker. I let out a small breath of relief. The opening of the gate was obviously controlled from within the mansion.

  The limo accelerated. Between my stiff muscles and sweaty hands, my fingers started to slip. I gripped harder, willing them not to betray me.

  As the car slowed for the turn into the portico, I hopped off the bumper, hitting the ground in a hard but practiced combat roll. I scampered on all fours behind a row of decoratively trimmed bushes fronting the foundation of the home.

  Sucking in several long, deep breaths, I was able to calm my racing heart. I was inside the perimeter and so far undetected. Now all I had to do was find Sara. However, my gut was telling me getting into this mansion was going to be harder than getting out of the Chosin Reservoir.

  As the sunlight faded, the yard was lit up by the pole lights and wall-mounted spotlights, bathing the entire grounds in the equivalent of daylight. My idea to wait until it got dark to enter the house was a waste of time. I’d gotten this far, but how was I going to get out with a pregnant woman? My plan was sorely incomplete.

  With Dad’s Marine-issued .45 cocked and gripped, I eased my way, shadow to shadow, to the side of the house where I found angled trap doors which normally led to a basement. Hoping that was the case here, I tugged on a door, and it opened a crack. With all this security, who needed locks?

  My free hand patted my pants pockets, and found Dad’s talisman. My luck was holding.

  I glanced around and then eased one of the large enclosures up silently, and stepped down to a basement door, closing the hatch behind me. In the darkness, I slid my hands over the wood panels until I found the cold metal handle, my fingers closing over it. The knob turned; also unlocked. Dad’s shell was working overtime.

  The basement was pitch black, clearly without even a dirty window to let in ambient light, and the air was heavy with dampness and disuse. I waved my arms cautiously in front of me as I moved to keep from hitting something; primarily spider webs. I fucking hated spiders.

  It was pointless to move when I had no destination. Plus, I didn’t want to slam into something and announce my presence. I lit a match. The wall to one side of the door was lined with shelves containing canned fruits and vegetables and the opposite side had rack after rack of wine bottles. The concrete floor was strewn with old furniture, plows, mowers, yard implements, and tool boxes. This was where the caretakers stored their tools. No wonder the doors were kept unlocked.

  It took three matches for maneuvering through the stuff, before I found the staircase leading to the main floor.

  The floor boards above my head creaked with activity. It had to be dinner time. I prayed they didn’t need wine.

  I tried to imagine Sara just feet above, sitting down to dine. The image of her being that close made my yearning to hold her and then free her from this prison more difficult to control, until it was replaced with another image. What if she were smiling and happy? Home in comfort, luxury, with a baby coming, who could blame her? A deep breath, eased out, shelved my mental games. I needed to focus on finding her before I was found. I hadn’t trembled my way through cold and fear all over Korea just to get this close to her and fail.

  I climbed the stairs and put my ear to the door to listen.

  Several sets of footsteps went by.

  I waited through a long term of silence. I looked down at my gun. This wasn’t Korea. This was Youngstown, Ohio, and I was an intruder. Could I really bring myself to shoot a civilian if I had to?

  Fuck it, these guys were armed, they wanted me dead just like Richards, and they had Sara. I opened the door a crack with my hand-gripped .45 leading the way. No one was in sight. I stepped into an empty, carpeted hallway that connected the front of the house with the rear where I could see a lit patio. The passageway, tattooed with family portraits, had to be sixty feet long.

  Easing the door closed, I headed toward the front of the house hoping to find a stairway up to the bedrooms. I was in luck.

  As I climbed the stairs, I tightened my grip on the .45; this was the floor of balconies and guards. My ascent led to a wide corridor interspersed with tall, double-door entrances. There had to be a bathroom or a closet somewhere. I searched until I found a single entry; as I had hoped it was a broom closet. I entered leaving the opening slightly ajar. I assumed Sara was downstairs dining. When she returned, I needed to see which room she went into, and if she was alone.

  I sat on a mop bucket and looked down at the gun in my hand; my father’s gun. My shakes had returned.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  I sat in the broom closet on the bucket so long that I knew I probably had a permanent indention in my ass, a ring around my bottom. Then footsteps approached, tensing my entire being into the standing, rigid killer I’d hoped I’d left behind in Korea, but was now happy I hadn’t. I peeked out the slit.

  It was Sara.

  The sight of her took my breath.

  She was alone.

  I dared not blink for fear she’d disappear.

  Her long black hair was down, a long blue dress clung to her slender frame. She was even more beautiful than I remembered.

  A tingling raced up my spine, and I stepped into the hallway, freezing Sara in a gasp.

  Her eyes, enlarged like she’d seen a ghost, held me pinned. I expected them to morph to joyful surprise, but she snatched her gaze away and frantically looked beyond me and then over her shoulder.

  I rushed to her, pulling her against me as if my hug would erase the past and prevent her from ever running away again. The months of separation bulldozed the fact that she was married. The woman I loved was in my arms, soft and warm, just like we used to be and should always be. Her jasmine perfume brought back too many memories as she pressed into me. I so wanted to kiss her, but . . . but something was wrong. Sara’s stomach was flat against mine.

  As if reality had interrupted her solace, Sara squirmed free, and pulled me into a room, a bedroom.

  “Are you insane?” she whispered in a harsh tone; her bluer than blue eyes larger than I’d ever seen them. She stared at me for a second, her eyes softening, and then kissed me like that night so long ago in her Packard. Her soft lips pressing, her tongue exploring.

  She tasted so good, so familiar. God, it had been so long. I began to return the kiss without thinking, my hands reaching up into her hair. Then she broke the kiss and stepped away.

  “Mick, I’m sorry,” she whispered, her fingers touching her lips. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m . . . I’m just so proud of you; a hero. Now you’ve got to leave. You don’t understand. And I don’t have time to tell you. John just came home for dinner but had to go back to town tonight, or he’d be-”

  “What happened?” I asked looking around. “Where’s the baby?”

  “I, uh,” she chewed on her lip and then lowered her head, “I lost the baby.”

  “What? How?” I grabbed her hands. “Are you okay?”

  “I-I can’t explain now. I’m fine.”

  I closed my eyes in an attempt to dull her cutting words. Our baby, my baby was dead? Per Sara’s written words, our baby had become my purpose for living; my hope for a future; a family; my legacy. A stark hollowness seeped into my gut, consuming my energy.

  She grabbed my limp arms and squeezed. “Someday I’ll explain all of this to you, but not now.”

  She shook me.

  “Mick, snap out of it. You’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’m . . .” Slowly I opened my moist eyes. “
I’m not going without you.”

  She let go of me and stepped back, shaking her head. “That’s impossible.”

  “Sara, I love you. I need . . . we’ll make another baby.”

  “No. I can’t.” Her words quieted as if being carried away. “I can’t leave.”

  “Why not? I got in here, we can get out.”

  Her sparkling blue eyes lost their luster as she stared at me. “Cause we’d both be dead in a day; two tops.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The rectangular beams of the yard lights angled through the windows in a second floor bedroom of John Venturini’s home.

  I couldn’t believe Sara and I were standing here just feet apart. It had been so many long hell-filled months since we’d seen each other. I was sure that, like me, she had doubted if this moment would ever happen. And yet here we stood, in a bedroom no less, a step or two apart, not even touching each other.

  I spread my hands, one still holding the .45 pistol. “I fought my way through thousands of Chinese to get here. One man and a few armed guards don’t scare me. Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

  “Mick.” Her eyes darted around the room. “John’s uncle is one of the top bosses in the Pittsburgh Mafia. John is second in command to one of his uncle’s lieutenants assigned to managed their operations in Youngstown.”

  My head involuntarily nodded. “The dots are connecting.”

  She gave me a questioning glance. “They are extremely powerful. They have people all over the United States; throughout our police forces, our justice system, and our government.” She took a breath and pinned me with her pleading blue eyes. “If they decide you must die; you’ll be rotting in some landfill within hours. This isn’t Korea. This is far worse than any war you’ve ever been in; they own us . . . and they own me.” Her eyes looked away.