Lost Soldiers

by Lost Soldiers (retail) (epub)

  Condley patted No Neck on one of his beefy shoulders as he waved goodbye to the others. ‘I like you, man. You’re sick.’

  * * *

  A gray Chevrolet with government license plates was parked in front of Macy’s Apartments, where Condley paid five hundred dollars a month for an efficiency unit. As Condley approached the car, a red-faced man stepped out of the passenger door and pointed toward him. The man’s eyes were commanding, electric with anticipation. He was wearing a gray polyester suit, a heavily striped shirt, and a loud red tie. He was in his mid-thirties and was overweight. And from the bulge underneath his left shoulder Condley could tell he was carrying. The man stepped in front of Condley, blocking the sidewalk.

  ‘OK, I give up. What’d I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the man.

  ‘Then get out of my way.’

  ‘You’ve got to come with me.’

  ‘Who the hell are you – Dick Tracy?’

  The man reached inside his coat pocket and showed Condley a Naval Investigative Service badge. ‘You’re Brandon Condley, right? The general wants to see you.’

  ‘Give me a break. I never even met Hillary Clinton.’ Condley noticed a small grin beginning to work on the NIS man’s face. He shrugged. ‘OK, we had a beer together, but that was it. I mean, she was married and I wasn’t ready to make a commitment. And, anyway, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘They told me you were a total wise-ass,’ said the agent.

  ‘Oh, they did, huh? Who is “they”? You got a file on me?’

  ‘We keep a file on everybody who’s important, Condley. Which means we wouldn’t waste any paper on you.’

  A small crowd had gathered on the street, watching the two. The agent seemed increasingly nervous. Condley gestured toward the car.

  ‘They know you’re a cop, driving a white-bread shit-box like that. You’re affecting my reputation, as they say in the press.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to write a story about you.’

  ‘Unless I get shot. You guys drive around town in these marked cars and everywhere you stop you leave bad will. Bad will, man! Look at these people! Now they think I’m in the mob or maybe the CIA, either that or they think I’m important and are now deciding they’ll rob my ass whenever you leave. So thanks a lot, dickhead.’

  ‘You’re a very hard man to find.’

  ‘Not if you know where to look.’

  ‘If you ever answered your phone this would’ve been a lot easier.’

  ‘That’s why I use caller ID. So when I see a government number I know it’s somebody trying to interfere with my First Amendment right of free association. And besides, I’ve been out of the country.’ Condley sighed knowingly. ‘Why does he want to see me?’

  ‘Because he needs your advice.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Condley sighed again. Then he brushed past the agent, on his way inside Macy’s Apartments.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, if you’re taking me to see the general, at least let me brush my fucking teeth.’

  Chapter Seven

  Condley and Dick Tracy drove slowly through the city, heading for the interstate highway that would take them toward Pearl Harbor. It began to rain, a brief, warm squall in from the sea. The car stopped at a traffic light. Condley watched from the window as a beautiful little girl whose eyes seemed to take up half her face led an old blind man from car to car, asking for money. She peered at him from one inch away through the window, jerking her head upward slightly, an urgent, almost seductive gesture. Her face dripped water from the rain. Her eyes were demanding, even condemning, and for a moment he wanted to climb out of the car and save her. The light changed. As the car inched slowly forward, her face changed to disgust, and she flipped him the bird. Condley found himself laughing merrily.

  ‘Tough little girl,’ he said. ‘She ought to take that blind guy and open up a franchise in Sai Gon.’

  ‘You’re a heartless asshole,’ said Dick Tracy, his car splashing another pedestrian as they drove away.

  ‘What’s heartless about wanting to see a little girl succeed?’

  ‘Don’t you have any feelings for the blind guy?’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Condley. ‘He’d never make as much money in Sai Gon, there’s too much competition.’

  Dick Tracy decided to ignore him. Soon the car turned right, and in minutes they were on the interstate. The agent could no longer hold back his curiosity. He eyed Condley, then probed him as they drove. ‘What the hell advice does the general think he needs from you?’

  ‘I manage his investment accounts. I’m a clandestine agent for Merrill Lynch. He invests heavily in foreign governments. China is high on his list.’

  ‘You’re loopy. You talk in circles.’

  ‘No, I talk in sentences. So stay out of my brain.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Condley. I doubt it’s a very orderly place to visit anyway.’

  To their front and then to their left as they drove along the interstate Condley could now see Pearl Harbor, majestic in its memories. He was still sentimental enough to remember the great, tragic battle that began World War Two and the millions of American servicemen who had poured from gray ships tied up at its piers over the past century on their way into and out of Asia. Pearl Harbor was a touchstone, and in a way a wailing wall. It dredged up a panoply of unconnected memories. And it made him glad that the general had decided to shanghai him for an afternoon.

  ‘He thinks I saved his life,’ said Condley.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The general.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Shit happens in wars.’

  ‘The war? That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not when you’re still alive.’

  The rainsquall ended. A grand rainbow streaked the sky above Pearl Harbor. The car kept driving, stuck in a mass of traffic, then turned right and headed up a steep hill toward Halawa Heights. Within minutes they reached a gatehouse and passed a Marine sentry, who waved the government car onto the base. Dick Tracy then drove past a complex of huge boxy old buildings that were the headquarters for the four-star admiral who commanded the American forces in the Pacific.

  ‘The general’s office is at Camp Smith,’ said Condley absently, wanting Dick Tracy to know that he’d been there before.

  ‘He’s meeting you at his house.’

  ‘So I guess he wants social advice.’

  ‘I’m not privy to the general’s thinking,’ said Dick Tracy with all the stiff formality that a GS-9 civil servant could muster. ‘But after meeting you my guess is that he wants to make sure you don’t embarrass him in front of a whole lot of people.’

  ‘You’re hurting my feelings, you know. Remind me to never save your fucking life.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said Dick Tracy. ‘What kind of a man would go out of the way to insult his own military escort?’

  ‘You’re not military and you’re not my escort. You’re more like a nightmare version of somebody’s parole officer.’

  ‘I rest my case,’ said Dick Tracy. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I fucking rest my case.’

  As he drove, Dick Tracy pulled out a cell phone from his jacket pocket and punched in some numbers with his thumb. Finally someone answered. ‘This is Combs,’ he said. ‘We’re a couple minutes out.’ He punched the END button on his cell phone and put it away. ‘The general’s been in meetings,’ he announced to Condley. ‘It’ll be about fifteen minutes.’

  They were driving along a street lined with old, sprawling frame homes. The homes had been on Halawa Heights since before World War Two but had been frequently refurbished and were meticulously well-kept. The highest-ranking officers in the Pacific Command lived in them. In a few minutes the car slowed in front of one of them. A sign was posted in the manicured yard:

  LIEUTENANT GENERAL WAYNE DUNCAN, USMC

  COMMANDING GENERAL FLEET

  MARINE FORCES PACIF
IC

  The car spun into a circular driveway and stopped underneath a covered portico. Dick Tracy stepped out of the car and moved to Condley’s side, opening his door so that he could escort him to the front door of the house.

  ‘You’re here for lunch,’ reminded Dick Tracy as they walked toward the house.

  ‘I already ate two baluts.’

  ‘You really are loopy. Those things are foul. I wouldn’t want to be inside your intestines right now.’

  ‘You’re insulting the eating habits of an ancient Asian culture. I should report you to the diversity police.’

  ‘I am the police,’ reminded Dick Tracy.

  ‘Have you ever had a balut?’

  ‘I smelled one once.’

  Dick Tracy rang the doorbell, all the while carefully watching Condley as if he might soon bolt. A servant opened the double doors and Dick Tracy nudged Condley forward, waving goodbye and declining to enter the house himself. Condley stepped onto a shining teak entranceway. It was so cool inside that he began to shiver. The servant, who was a Navy steward dressed in a white coat and black trousers, gestured toward the living room.

  ‘Would you like a drink, sir?’

  ‘I’ll take a San Miguel.’

  He heard a noise off to his left, and then a woman’s voice. ‘Maybe you’d like a Heineken?’

  He turned and saw the woman, who was descending a stairway. She was about his age, firm and athletic but tense-looking around her eyes and mouth, as if she were expecting him to attack her or break all her dishes. Her hand was on the outer rail. She was wearing a red silk dress, far too nice for a lunch at home. She looked mildly disappointed when she saw him, her eyes lingering on his rumpled shirt and faded blue jeans as if his clothes emanated a bad odor. But then she recovered, perfectly feigning happiness.

  ‘We have every kind of beer.’

  ‘San Miguel is fine,’ he said. ‘Beer isn’t worth drinking unless you can taste the rust.’

  She laughed. Once her face relaxed he could tell that she was unpretentious, and he decided that he liked her. ‘The infamous Brandon Condley,’ she said with tentative fondness. ‘Or shall I say, the legend?’

  ‘You better stick with infamous. Look, I don’t think I can stay for lunch.’

  ‘Of course you can! Wayne will be here any second. I’m Maureen.’

  He shook her hand and joined her at a small table that had already been set for three people. The servant brought him his beer and he drained most of it in one large gulp. She was studying him with a curiosity born of a hundred stories told through the decades until reality and imagination had fused into an impossibly complicated and mildly cartoonish persona.

  Brandon Condley, still on patrol, passing checkpoint infinity…

  ‘Wayne said you never did, actually, come back from Viet Nam. Not in the way the others did. That you’ve stayed in Asia all these years. What is it that you’ve done out there?’

  Music dominated the room, a compact-disc collection of classical strings. The servant entered from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray covered with succulent, elegantly prepared beef and vegetable appetisers. Condley picked at the appetisers, relaxing into the music and deciding to enjoy this moment of fairly exquisite living. The day’s quotient of beer had settled into him with a joyous glow.

  ‘Usually I just sell Bibles.’

  Maureen scrutinised his face even more intently, looking for some hidden significance or an indication that he was making a joke. Condley winked, nodding meaningfully. She nodded back, dropping her gaze and smiling as if accepting it.

  ‘Bibles,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ said Condley. He grinned, raising a finger into the air and winking at Maureen again as the servant poured her a glass of wine. ‘Luke, chapter five, verse seventeen. It’s what got me started and it hasn’t let me down.’ He had no idea what Luke five, verse seventeen, said, but he figured that Maureen would probably check it out before she went to bed that night.

  ‘Do you sell many?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘In the Philippines I’ve done real well. Truckloads of them. It’s a Catholic country. Everybody wants a Bible.’

  ‘Yes. But they don’t have any money.’

  ‘They’ve always got money for the Church.’ Condley appraised the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on a nearby wall and the wealth of artifacts the Duncans had collected over their years of travelling. ‘If you were in the Philippines they’d sneak in here and steal those antiques, then use the money to buy my Bibles.’ He winked again. ‘So you see, what you’re doing, what I’m doing, it all interconnects – politics, international security, commerce, crime, the Bible. Religion is a very powerful force.’

  ‘But you don’t… actually represent the Church,’ insisted Maureen patiently, now smirking at him with thinly veiled disbelief. Her eyes then lifted, staring past Condley. Behind them he heard the front door open again and then quickly close.

  ‘I don’t need to represent the Church directly,’ said Condley. ‘I have my connections in that capacity, but the Bible is its own church.’

  ‘Quit lying to my wife!’

  He turned his head. Wayne Duncan was standing just behind him, his hands on his hips, grinning madly. Suddenly the general put his huge hands on Condley’s shoulders and began bouncing him up and down in his chair. ‘Maureen, don’t believe a word that comes out of this cracker’s mouth!’

  ‘Be careful,’ howled Condley, straining to rise from the chair as Duncan kept bouncing him. ‘You’re being sacrilegious, and besides, you’re going to break my shoulders!’

  ‘Condley, you always were a sorry son of a bitch! Tell her you lied, you little prick!’

  Condley was getting whipped, but he was laughing. He felt happy and young again, fighting like this with Wayne Duncan. ‘All right, I lied! Did you want me telling your wife I hunted people down and blew them away before they gave me this job poking around in the dirt for bones?’

  ‘I already did, you idiot!’ Duncan quit pounding him, and they shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Skipper,’ said Condley fondly. Their handshake was firm and as exuberant as the general’s shoulder-crunching welcome. ‘What’s the idea, dragging me off the street?’

  ‘I reserve the right to kidnap you at any time. It was in the small print of your commissioning oath. Have a seat. Let’s eat.’

  General Duncan took the third chair at the table. With the wave of his hand the servant appeared, bringing him an iced tea, followed by a second servant who carried a tray with three plates of food. The plates were covered by the kind of metal lids that were often found on hotel room-service food. The servant set the plates delicately onto the table before each of them and lifted off the metal lids one at a time, revealing a pretty fine meal of beef stroganoff and mixed vegetables.

  As the plates arrived, Condley watched the etched face of his long-time friend and then let his eyes drop down to the eight rows of ribbons on Duncan’s chest. He was remembering all the months they were together before, when it had been too hot to eat during the day and too dangerous to cook over a little tin stove made of a punctured C-ration can at night. They’d both lost twenty pounds very quickly, even before Condley caught hookworms from the wormy water and lost ten more.

  Duncan was a fighter, one of the best company commanders of that long-ago war. And he had been smart enough and smooth enough and lucky enough over the ensuing years to have made it past all the wickets, the little traps in the promotion process where the gunfighters so often fell prey to the shrewdness of accomplished staff officers. Not only to make general officer but to have commanded a division after that, then a Marine Expeditionary Force, and now all of the Marine Corps forces in the entire Pacific.

  ‘So I can swear in front of your wife?’

  Maureen laughed throatily, fully relaxed now that Duncan had arrived. ‘I taught high school for twenty years, Mr. Condley. I don’t think there’s much you can do that would surprise me.’


  ‘Don’t give him a challenge!’ roared General Duncan, his face afire with memories. ‘The boy has a very active imagination. Believe me, Maureen, he could surprise you.’ He softened, slapping Condley on a shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you, even if I did have to arrest you in order to buy you lunch.’

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ teased Condley as the servants again disappeared. ‘Kind of reminds me of Gone With the Wind. Do the slaves turn back your bed at night? Leave a little mint on your pillow?’

  ‘Actually the mess attendants are here in your honor,’ said Duncan dryly. ‘I fragged them from the flag mess for a VIP lunch.’

  And finally Condley could hold it back no longer. ‘Skipper what do you want? I haven’t had food like this in years.’

  ‘I want you to enjoy a good meal,’ said the general. ‘And we’ll talk when we’re done.’

  They had a merry little lunch. Duncan and his wife told Condley all about their three children and where each one of them was working now that they had finished college. They talked about their assignments over the course of Duncan’s long career, the tours at the Pentagon and at Camp Lejeune, the years on the NATO staff in Europe, his unaccompanied deployments to Okinawa and the Mediterranean, and his most recent tour back on Okinawa as commanding general. They asked Condley about his lost decades in east Asia, glancing secretly at each other when he tried to make sense of his wanderings and to justify his panorama of bad choices, their faces tight with a pathos that informed him that he had indeed been the subject of many conversations. Brandon Condley, said the general to his wife through the flecking of his eyes and the small lift of their brows, could have been a great one. But he had cared too much, tried too hard, and in the end had lost not only the bubble but his very future.

  Sort of like the way I look at Dzung, he decided, not happy with the analogy but accepting that it was probably true.

  Finally lunch was over. Maureen stood, her face now warm with what he knew was a fond familiarity and a sweet kind of sadness, and delicately shook his hand.