Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Oh. Well, uh, I guess I should thank you for the other night.”

  Vince propped his legs on the coffee table. “Accepted. Besides, it was fun.”

  “A real blast, man. I can’t wait to do it again.”

  “Understood. So, those guys friends of yours?”

  Lenny put his dinner aside, walked to the refrigerator, and pulled out two Miller Lights. He handed one to Vince, then sat in his recliner facing the television.

  “I’m in trouble, Vince, serious trouble. I should have listened to what you said to me a long time ago.”

  Vince leaned back, sipped his beer, and studied Lenny as he spoke.

  “The fellas that jumped me . . . they work for this guy in Stillwater.” Lenny stared blankly at the TV as he spoke. “Big Joe McCain. He’s a bookie for most of Oklahoma. Anyway, I placed this bet with him about two weeks ago, and I lost. Man, I lost a lot. I don’t know what to do. I mean, this is big-time trouble—”

  “How much money?”

  “—I’m in here. I can’t pay this back. I guess I could try and get a loan, but hell, all my credit cards are maxed out—”

  “How much money?”

  “—and I still owe lots on my new car. Man, I’m in deep. Big Joe sends these two gorillas to collect. I mean, I should have suspected he would, right? I missed the payoff date.”

  Vince leaned forward. “Lenny, how much money?”

  Lenny snapped out of the trance. “Eight-thousand dollars,” he said, and took a long swig from his beer.

  “You’re right—you’re in deep shit.” Vince downed the last of his beer, walked to the fridge, and retrieved another.

  VINCE ALMOST FELT SORRY FOR HIM. How this skinny geek got into this kind of mess remained a mystery. But, there were more factors to the equation now. The second he stepped in to rescue Lenny, he became involved. Whoever these guys were, they would be back, next time with more friends. No doubt they would search for two people now, instead of one. This was an aggravation he did not need right now. It did not fit into his plan to maintain a low profile while at UPT. He had only one choice.

  “I’ll give you the money.”

  Lenny didn’t move.

  “Lenny, I said I’ll give you the money.”

  Lenny looked up, his red eyes glazed in disbelief. He sank into his chair and started to ask a question but stopped before any words came out. He ran his hand through his ruffled hair, unsure of what to say.

  “This is not a gift. It’s a business deal. There is no negotiating, no more price adjustments, no more B.S.”

  “The tests, right? Okay, there’s a couple more coming up. No problem.” Lenny started to perk up.

  “I don’t think you understand. I want all the tests. T-37’s, T-38’s, T-1’s and every stan/eval test in between.”

  “Holy crap, Vince, that’s not fair.”

  “Look, you little bastard, I’ve been more than generous to you, but I’m sick and tired of your bullshit. I’ve sponsored your debt long enough. I saved your ass two nights ago, and now it’s over. I’ll get your money to you tomorrow, but I want those tests.”

  “Yeah, sure . . . but don’t expect ‘em all at once. I mean, I’m not sure how they hand out the stan/eval tests.”

  “Make it happen, Banks,” Vince said. “And by the way, old friend, don’t crash and burn on this one. I promise you, if you do, you won’t walk away from it.”

  16

  August 29, 1995

  * * *

  LENNY HAD BEEN NERVOUS ON THE HOUR-LONG drive to Stillwater. To arrive without the money might not be a bright idea, but he decided it would be a good show of faith. It was also better than being killed in a dark alley. No doubt Big Joe would want him dead after what Vince did to Monroe and Bob Allen. He parked outside Eskimo Joe’s, meandered into the bar, and headed upstairs. Bob Allen stood at the top of the stairs; his eyes were watery and red; his breath smelled like booze.

  “I’m here to see Big Joe,” Lenny said to the drunken cowboy.

  Bob Allen glared at him, his face bruised from the fight with Vince. Lenny assumed it would not be discussed. He walked untouched to Big Joe’s table. There was still a crowd there and the same two girls fawned at Big Joe’s feet. Perspiration gathered on his forehead as he scanned the room for any sign of Monroe. Bob Allen, he could stomach, but he felt Monroe wanted to kill him.

  Big Joe’s eyes shot daggers at him as he approached the table. “Well, well, look what the storm blew in. You better be here in a delivery capacity. You owe me something, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lenny eyed the other people at the table. Two of the men wore business suits, engaged in a conversation with each other. Another in a football jersey ordered from a waitress while his hands admired the smoothness of her legs. Another pair of cowboys sat at the opposite side of the table and stared silently at their drinks.

  “You’re one dumb flyboy. Them two cowboys would have killed you if I hadn’t a told ‘em to take it easy on you. You see, when you don’t pay, you’re takin’ food out of my family’s mouth. All these here folks,” he, said gesturing around the table, “this here’s my family.”

  “I’m sorry Big Joe. I got tied up at the base with training and all. I couldn’t get away because I had to work. They wouldn’t let me off the base. I had a check ride—”

  “Look at this face, boy,” Big Joe said. “Do I look dumb to you? Is there something in my genetic makeup that says to your scrawny ass that Big Joe McCain is a dumbass? I hope not. I been dealing with varmints like you for well over twenty-five years. Do you think this is the first time I’ve dealt with some young Air Force pup?”

  “No, sir, I just’—”

  “At least you got manners, I’ll credit you that much. Tuggar, you and the rest of the boys take a walk. Me and you, Mister Banks, have a little business to discuss. You girls, y’all just stay put. I like the way you look tonight, and I think I want you to stay right here.”

  The two girls giggled like teenagers as Big Joe gestured to a chair for Lenny to sit at the table. Lenny moved to the seat, his eyes darted around the room. This was not an ideal situation. He owed the bookie eight-thousand dollars. The payment should have been made two weeks ago and Vince beat up his two henchmen. Lenny placed his sweaty palms on his thighs and looked at Big Joe.

  “You know, boy,” the fat cowboy began, “you have caused me a great deal of headache and aggravation over the past two weeks. I don’t know who you got helping you but whipping my two boys didn’t help out your case none.”

  “I didn’t do that. It—”

  “I’m doing the talking here, Mister Banks. Roughing up Monroe must have spooked Bob Allen something fierce. Monroe is one large Negro. Bob Allen ain’t anxious to get back to Enid real soon. But Mister Banks, I don’t like my employees getting hassled by my customers. And when you’re late with your payments . . . it all just makes my business look bad.”

  Lenny could feel his heart beat faster. Bob Allen moved from his position behind Big Joe toward Lenny. Big Joe reached under the table and retrieved a knife with an eight-inch blade.

  “But—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me, boy, I ain’t from West Virginia,” he said as Bob Allen stepped behind Lenny and grabbed him from behind. Bob Allen held Lenny’s left hand forward, flat on the table, with the fingers spread. “The way I see it, boy, is you owe me eight-thousand dollars, again. Now I usually take a thousand dollars a finger as collateral. I’m even gonna let you decide which two you’re gonna keep.” The large knife moved toward Lenny’s hand.

  “NNOOO,” Lenny screamed. The noise pierced the otherwise quiet restaurant/bar as the blonde at the table jumped. Tears streamed from Lenny’s eyes, and he started to scream again, Bob Allen clasped a hand around his mouth. Through the tears, Lenny noticed Big Joe smile. A smile that turned into a loud laugh. Everyone laughed with Big Joe, even Bob Allen, who relaxed his grip.

  “I’m through with you, Mister Banks. Get out of here. Don’t set foot
in here again until you’ve got my money.”

  17

  September 1, 1995

  * * *

  THE VANCE OFFICERS CLUB was small compared to other officers clubs around the country, but easily held the number of people who used it. The club had two dining rooms, one of which doubled as a meeting room. It also contained a formal cocktail bar and an outdoor patio for barbecues when the weather cooperated. Then there was The Cockpit. It was a room isolated on the far side of the club. It was about thirty by sixty feet with a stage at one end and a bar at the other. On one side sat a large snooker table; on the other several small tables and chairs.

  The Cockpit was where the action was on a Friday night. It gave the student pilots the opportunity to relieve a little stress without the fear of driving home. In the old club, one could do anything in The Cockpit—as long as no one got hurt, it wasn’t too disgusting, and whatever was broken was paid for. That philosophy went the way of the dinosaurs with the Air Force’s new era of political correctness. Pilots weren’t allowed to have fun these days.

  It was five in the afternoon when The Cockpit started to fill up with flight suits and miniskirts. By the time the sun set a little after seven-thirty, the bar was packed and overflowed into the formal bar. Lenny and Gus were busy building a team for a game of Crud.

  Crud was an Air Force tradition. The exact origin of the game was unknown, but it is linked historically with Air Force fighter pilot squadrons. Almost all O’clubs have a snooker table, for the ritual game of Crud. There are two teams, consisting of any number of players, though usually six on each team. One team starts on offense and the other on defense. There are two pool balls on the table: the white cue ball and the black eight ball. The object of the game is for the offensive player to roll the white ball at the black ball and knock it in one of the pockets on the table. It is the defensive player’s responsibility to prevent him from doing so. Players on each team rotate after each shot. Each player is given three lives. The last team standing is the winner. Combine alcohol with the players’ cocky attitudes, and the games could get rough. Many a fight broke out over a crud game.

  Gus recruited Matt and Lenny, and convinced Samantha Williams to play, when Jason approached the table.

  “We got five,” Gus hollered across the table. “What’s your call sign gonna be, Conrad?”

  “Call him Comrade,” Vince butted in, “and I’ll be number six.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Jason said sarcastically.

  “No problem.” He smirked and handed Jason a Coors Light Longneck.

  “Who are you?” the captain refereeing the game asked, as he wrote down the call signs of each player on the scoreboard.

  “Loan Shark,” Vince said, smiling at Lenny.

  Gus gathered his team at the far end of the table and started his pep talk. “Okay, guys, get mean, get tough, get drunk, and make good shots. We drink for free if we win. If we lose, we’re quiche-eaters.”

  The game began slow, but the pace increased rapidly. The other team consisted of T-38 students who had the experience of playing together longer. Gus started the game and served to the other team. He hurled the cue ball across the table at the eight-ball sitting at the far end. The two balls hit with a loud smack and the first opponent darted around the side of the table to grab the cue ball. He scurried back to the end of the table to try to knock the eight ball in the corner pocket. No sooner had he moved in to a position to shoot, Lenny was in his face.

  The opponent shot, and Lenny grabbed the cue ball to get his shot off. Both teams had a full rotation of players before Gus claimed the first “life” from the other team. And so, the battle went back and forth, for the next ten minutes. The friendly game soon grew into a physical grudge match; both teams threw elbows, stepped on feet, and tossed bodies away from the table. The remaining three on Jason’s team managed to hang on to win the first game.

  The following games got rougher as the teams got drunker. Jason had taken a solid elbow to the ribs, while Matt caught a forearm across the back of his head. Samantha was all but broken into pieces, but she continued to play. Vince, on the other hand, was virtually unscathed. In fact, he seemed to dish out more punishment than all his teammates combined. At one point, he was so rough, the major who acted as referee had to step in and warn Vince to ease up. Once things settled down, the boys and girl hung on to win consecutively for the next forty-five minutes.

  During their fifth game, Kathy walked into The Cockpit and worked her way to the crud table. She spotted Jason at the end and waved. Jason flashed a big smile, then burst toward the table to take up a defensive position. He blocked a score, snatched the white ball, and moved in for a shot. As the new defensive player positioned himself for the shot, Jason threw the cue ball with too much power and it smacked into the black ball. The white ball shot off the side rail and sailed off the table into the crowd.

  “Life,” shouted the opposing players.

  The referee turned to make a third X by Jason’s nickname. “That’s three, Comrade— you’re dead.”

  “I’m too drunk to play anymore,” Jason said. He pushed his way through the crowd over to Kathy, who grasped his hand and kissed his cheek. Jason was startled at this greeting. “Hey, I like that. What was that for?” He struggled to say anything coherently.

  “I wanted to thank you for being so sweet to me,” she said, and led him into the formal bar. “Besides, it’ll give all the gossip mongers around here something to talk about. I’m on the wives’ club watchlist.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She nodded. “I’m feeling a little wild. How about tequila?”

  Jason’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he stumbled to the bar.

  She sat at one of the small round tables, and in no time, Jason returned with four tequila shots and two Coronas with lime.

  “You’re pretty ambitious tonight, aren’t you,” she said more as a statement than a question.

  “If I have too many more of these, I won’t be able to find my way to the bar again.”

  “Wonderful. Well, bottoms up.” Kathy licked the salt, shot the first glass of tequila, sucked the lime and took a swig of beer. Jason, somewhat amazed a female could drink with such vigor, followed suit. Kathy smiled at him and repeated the process. She doubted he would have another.

  “You don’t look so good,” she said with concern and a smile. She reached over to grab his hand.

  “I think I forgot to mention I can’t stand tequila shots.”

  Kathy laughed. “You macho flyboys. You’ll do anything to try and save face. My gosh, Jason, you’re turning green.”

  “It’s nice to know I look as bad as I feel,” he said. “Do you mind if we go home? Real fast?”

  “Under the circumstances, I think it’s best. I’m a little cooped up in here anyway.”

  The room was dark when they entered Jason’s quarters. Jason maneuvered to his bed. Kathy was not as fortunate.

  “Ouch.” She hit her knee on a solid object. “Okay, Jason, where’s the light switch?”

  Jason teetered on the edge of the bed. He tried to talk, but the words came out incoherently.

  “Here, lie down,” she said as she lifted his legs on to the bed. “Are you okay? You’re not going to get sick, are you?”

  More mumbles as he fell back on his bed. He was done for the night. He maneuvered a pillow under his head as Kathy walked across the room to the kitchen and turned on the light. She took the boxes of food left on the counter and organized them in the cabinets. The cabinets were essentially bare, typical of most student pilots, who ate on the run or got take-out. None of them really had time to cook.

  She placed the last box in the cabinet and admired the newly arranged shelves. Kathy opened the refrigerator, reached in, and pulled out a Coors Light. When she checked the freezer, she jumped as a frozen pizza slid out and crashed on the floor. Kathy laughed at the plethora of frozen dinners, returned the pizza to the freezer, and closed the do
or.

  She took a sip of beer as she walked back to the bed. Jason, eyes barely open, sprawled out across the mattress. Kathy set her beer on the nightstand and removed his boots. He would hurt in the morning. As she set his boots on the floor, she shoved him to the far side of the bed and crawled up next to him. She turned off the lamp and laid her head on the pillow next to him. Within two minutes, he was asleep.

  THE TEAM LOST THEIR LAST GAME, a victim of their own success. That was the way crud worked. Losers bought the winners drinks. Winners drank for free, until they were too drunk to win anymore. Vince staggered around the bar, searching for signs of any young women who might want to share his bed. He had drunk far more than his usual limit.

  In time, he ran into Gwendolyn, the travel agent he met at Chicaros. Vince talked to her for a few minutes and bought her a drink on Jason Conrad’s tab again, which she found humorous this time. They chatted until her girlfriends dragged her out of the bar, anxious to leave the rowdy scene.

  Gwendolyn gave him her card, which had her home and office phone numbers on it and urged him to call her soon. He tucked the card in his breast pocket and walked out the front door of the Officers’ Club toward the dorm. He had too many drinks tonight and felt like crap.

  When he crossed the parking lot to the dorms, the darkness of the near-empty lot was suddenly lit up. The truck screeched to a halt in front of Vince; its headlights blinded him. In a matter of seconds, the door on each side swung open and the familiar figures from Chicaros were upon him.

  Vince braced himself for the confrontation, and focused on the larger black man, when he was knocked down from behind. His right arm cushioned his fall, just before his body smacked on the pavement.

  They were on top of him in no time. Vince realized there were four of them, not two. Two of them hoisted him to his feet and the first punch landed on his jaw and snapped his head to the side. The blows came fast and furious; body shots with an occasional head shot.