“Sure.”
“’Cause Dirty-Bird Johnson and a ex-car makin’ executive decided how the war oughta be run. ‘Cause, like a lot of idiots, they thought power equaled ability, man. Elephants on ice skates, Crockett, compounded by greed, stupidity, and lust. War is war, dude. It ain’t politics, it ain’t no police action, it ain’t a fuckin’ conflict, it is kill or be killed. Its real corpses, real blood, real bullets, real wounds, and real shattered lives. It ain’t terrain models, statistics, an’ games. Not to the grunt on the ground. If ya ain’t prepared to do whatever it takes, don’t do fuckin’ anything. If ya ain’t got the balls to finish the fight, don’t get in the fuckin’ ring. There ain’t no easy way to do the hard shit. Christ! The Mississippi National Guard coulda taken North Vietnam in twenty minutes if the rest a them shitheads had gotten outa the way. But they didn’t. Fuck no, they didn’t. Dirty bastards.
“You were a cop, man. You been through some shit, too. You been shot, ya had a partner killed, your ass was scared to hell a fuckin’ bunch a times. But I bet you can’t even imagine what it was like for that poor little fucker sittin’ inside that wire, can ya?”
“No.”
“Me either, man. And that’s why I stick to a little wine from time to time and some dope now an’ then. I don’t drink enough to develop a problem, an’ reefer ain’t addictive. I’ve known a lotta cats, man. I never met anybody that was addicted to smoke. I’ve known a bunch a idiots that abused it, but that ain’t a drug problem. That’s a stupid problem. Ya can’t legislate stupidity, Crockett. If ya could, half the government would be in prison. If you could legislate morality, the other half would be there, too. Fuck.”
They sat quietly for a moment before Crockett spoke up.
“So how do you really feel?” he asked.
“’Bout what?” Stitch said, and walked away.
Crockett waited until nearly midnight for Clete to arrive, resisting the urge to pick up his satellite phone. He went to bed, but slept little, and finally groaned his way back to the kitchen around four-thirty the next morning. The coffee was still dripping when Clete walked in carrying a plump duffle bag.
Crockett grinned. “Texican!” he said.
Clete scowled at him. “Coffee. Right fuckin’ now,” he grunted.
“You betcha,” Crockett agreed, stopping the drip and reaching for a cup. “Strong and hot. Want some cream?”
“No cream. Just coffee. I’ll trade ya a big bag full a coke for it.”
“Everything go okay?”
“Yeah, ‘cept I didn’t git the shit until nearly noon. I’m beat to hell. Fuck the coffee. I’m goin’ to the house.”
Crockett watched Clete lurch away and moved the duffle to the coffee table. He unzipped it and regarded the heavy plastic bags inside. After picking one up to inspect it, he noticed some residual white powder left behind in a corner of the duffle bag. Licking the end of his finger, he dipped it in the powder and peered at the caked-on white residue clinging to the top half of his digit. At that point, Crockett’s curiosity got the better of him.
His first mistake was misjudging the amount of drug he was dealing with. His second mistake was not understanding the level of its purity. On impulse, he wiped his finger across the surface of his tongue. The scent was faintly medicinal and, almost instantly, the top of his tongue became numb. In reaction, he retracted the cocaine-coated member and closed his mouth. Again, almost instantly, the roof of his mouth was also numb. The sensation quickly spread to his gums. His next mistake was to lick his lips. In just a few seconds, he lost touch with them also. His fourth mistake was to swallow the rapidly accumulating amount of saliva in his mouth. Searching for respite, his fifth error was not recalling that the coffee in Clete’s untouched cup was hot from the pot. How hot became clearer when the steaming liquid hit his stomach.
Feeling like a fool, out of touch with everything between his nose and Adam’s apple, and with a fire in his belly, Crockett carried the duffle to his room, stashed it in the bottom of the closet, and lay back on his bed, still rolling his tongue around, searching for the roof of his mouth and his teeth, as he realized he hadn’t been to the dentist in a long time.
Damn.
It was about nine when Crockett ambled back out to the kitchen. Stitch was wiping down the counter.
“Mornin’, man. Ol’ Clete get back?”
“About four hours ago.”
“He get the shit?”
“Oh, yeah. He got it.”
“You okay, Crockett?”
“What makes you ask?”
“You sound a little funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“Coffee’s hot. Want some?”
“We got any iced tea?”
“Iced tea?”
“Yeah. Iced tea, goddammit! We got any?”
“Not that I know of,” Stitch said, looking a little perplexed. “I can build ya some.”
“Just some ice water, please. Thanks, Stitch.”
“Ice water? What’s the matter with you, dude?”
“Oh, I burned my mouth on some hot coffee early this morning,” Crockett replied, swallowing gingerly.
Stitch regarded him carefully. “Just your mouth?” he asked.
“Oh hell,” Crockett said. “Okay. I burned my lip, my mouth, my tongue, my throat, and maybe my stomach a little, I don’t know.”
“On just a sip a hot coffee, huh?”
“You’re not gonna let this go, are ya?”
Stitch grinned. “Not me, man.”
Crockett confessed. It took Stitch a while to settle down.
“Dude!” he said, wiping his eyes. “That shit is as pure as it gets! An’ you dump a quarter gram or so in your mouth? Twenty percent shit’ll numb your gums in a fraction a the amount you shoved inside your face. No wonder ya didn’t notice the coffee until it was too late.”
“Gimme a break, Stitch.”
“There’s a lotta other places people put that stuff, ya know? An’ not just the sex shit, man. I knew a chick that usta put a little on her eyeballs, man. Far out! How’d ya sleep after you sucked down that coke, dude?”
“I didn’t much.”
“I guess not, motherfucker. Ha! Didn’t feel the burn for a while in your mouth either, did ya?”
“No.”
“Woulda been the perfect time to had your fuckin’ wisdom teeth removed, dude, if ya had any wisdom in the first place. Wow!”
“You having fun, hippie?”
“Who me? I’m havin’ a ball, man. This is some choice shit. Let this be a lesson to ya, dude. If ya don’t know what you’re dealin’ with, leave what-the-fuck ever it is alone.”
“I was curious,” Crockett said.
“Famous last words of a lotta felines, man. What a hoot.”
Crockett stared at the counter top. “You’re gonna tell Clete about this, aren’t you?”
Stitch grinned. “Like, instantaneously upon his arrival, man,” he said.
For dinner that evening, Stitch prepared ribeyes, French fries, and corn-on-the-cob for the two un-scalded members of the troop. Crockett had luke-warm tomato soup with well-soaked oyster crackers followed by a large dish of ice cream.
“I hate this shit,” Crockett said. The boys were at breakfast the next morning. Clete and Stitch were having bacon and eggs. Crockett was continuing his luke-warm eating adventures with a small bowl of oatmeal.
“What shit?” Clete asked, knowing the answer.
“Waiting around for somebody else to get off the dime.”
“Oh. I though you meant the oatmeal.”
Stitch grinned. “Want a spoonful a blow on top a that, man? Sweeten it up a little for ya?”
“I want to get this over with,” Crockett grumbled. “I feel like we’re wasting time.”
“Time is some necessary shit, man,” Stitch said. “If we didn’t have time, everything would happen all at once.”
Crockett stabbed his spoon into the oatmeal and stalked from the room.
Stitch watched his exit and turned to Cletus.
“Fuck is the matter with him, man?”
Crockett stayed in his room most of the day. His mouth and throat hurt and he felt like an idiot. Around three that afternoon, feeling like an idiot for feeling like an idiot, he ventured forth. Stitch was sitting on the large living-area sofa scanning television channels. Crockett flopped into the recliner.
“You an’ ol’ Satin decided to tie the knot, dude?” Stitch asked.
“Yeah.”
“Far out. Ain’t never too late to get saved, man.”
Crockett smiled. “Me or her?”
“Yep.”
Crockett chuckled. “Thought I’d add a back porch and mudroom addition on the cabin, maybe blacktop the drive. Make a real yard, you know, so the place would be a little more livable. If I took the back porch up through the second story, we could expand the half-bath into a real bathroom and have a big walk-in closet, too. Make the bedroom a lot nicer.”
“Yeah,” Stitch agreed. “Maybe a wing on the east side for her sewing room an’ wing on the west side for her scrapbooking studio. Couple a skylights, maybe a breakfast nook. Don’t forget her office, man. Gotta have a place for that, too.”
Crockett glared at him. “What?”
“She ain’t marryin’ your crib, dude. She’s marryin’ you. Make all the plans you want, but don’t do nothin’ until you talk to her, man. It’ll be her house anyway.”
“Her house?”
“Sure. It’s always the chick’s crib, Crockett. That motherfucker can be a big-assed joint like this place, or it can be a little trailer like you got for me to crash in, don’t make no difference. If the chick is livin’ there, it’s her crib.”
“That’s what you think.”
“That’s what I know, man. Been that way since the beginning of time, dude. You can bet your ass that the average cave-man had a little lean-to or somethin’ down the trail a ways from the home cave, just to have some place to hang out without getting’ yelled at for trackin’ wildebeest blood on the new bear-skin carpet. It’s in the genes, man, an’ I ain’t talking Levi’s, motherfucker.”
“Satin’s not like that.”
Stitch grinned. “I’m gonna ask you a, like, personal question, okay, man?”
“Okay.”
“Ol’ Satin got a pussy, dude?”
“What?”
“’Cause if she does, she’s like that. Can’t help it. Beyond her control an’ shit. Best you can do is put up a garage or somethin’, an’ make it big enough you can wall off a room for you. Call it a shop. Chicks don’t go into shops much. Then take up woodworking, or model railroading, or radio controlled airplanes, or somethin’ that’ll justify spendin’ time someplace where you make the rules, dude. It’s your lean-to down the trail, Crockett. Women get the house, man. The guy gets part of the basement, or the shop, or the barn, whatever. An’ it’s cool. Keeps the wife happy. Happy wife, happy life.”
“What makes you such an expert on wives, hippie?”
“I’m married, dude.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Over thirty years.”
“Married?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Thailand, I guess. I ain’t seen the chick in twenty-five years or more. Name’s Ming. She’s Chinese and Thai. Met her when I went back over that way after the ‘Nam, ya know?”
“You went back?”
“Yeah. Three or four years after I stopped bein’ nervous in the service, I went to Thailand. Cat I knew in the Air-Cav needed another pilot for a business he had, so I went over.”
“Doing what?”
“Flyin’ shit around, makin’ pickups and deliveries. Mostly low level hop an’ drop at night, if ya get my drift.”
“You were smuggling?”
Stitch grinned. “I was expediting the delivery of needed goods that otherwise might not have arrived at their destinations due to certain governmental regulations an’ shit. Ha!”
“Damn, Stitch.”
“After the war, there was a lot of military surplus stuff available for sale from both sides of the parallel, ya know? I brought shit into and out of Bangkok. Made boo-coo coinage, man. Got me a crib outside Bangkok about twenty miles, flew Hueys, and raked in the cash. Met ol’ Ming an’ her family and married the chick. Hard workin’ bunch. I set ‘em up in a business, exporting Thai shit, craft stuff, pottery, carvings, jewelry an’ like that to a couple a wholesalers in Seattle. Built a bigger place, an’ the whole family moved in. They do a lot a that shit over there. Families stick together. I hung out for about five years or so, then I split an’ came back to the world, man.”
“You just left?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I was missed very much. They had a helluva business, dude. Makin’ a bunch more than most a the folks over there, had a nice big house all paid for. I figure they were in a lot better shape when I left than when I showed up.”
“You have any kids?”
“Almost, man. One miscarriage an’ a stillborn. Bummer, ya know?”
“And you’ve never been back?”
“Naw. Ol’ Ming was a pretty cool chick, man, but whatever else I was, I was a round-eye, man. It’s not like I just went AWOL an’ left her on her own, dude. She had her family an’ money an’ shit. Hell, there was eleven a us livin’ in my house, Crockett. You know how I like my privacy.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“So do you, man. Build yourself a shop or somethin’. It ain’t like you’re tryin’ to escape from Satin or nothin’, dude. Ya just need someplace to hang onto yourself, ya know?”
Crockett shrugged. “I guess.”
“Satin knows, man. You wait an’ see what happens when you start discussin’ plans with her, that chick is cool. You’ll see.”
“What about Danni?”
“She’s cool, too, man. For a kid. But that ain’t what you’re askin’, is it?”
Crockett smiled. “No,” he said.
Stitch returned his smile. “Ol’ Crockett,” Stitch went on. “Gotta be savin’ somebody. When all this is over, man, I thought I’d hang around for a while until I remember how old I am. Then I’ll split. Danni’s a great chick, man. I was in the right place at the right time. She needed somebody to help her forget an’ help her remember. That was me. Pretty soon, she ain’t gonna need my aged ass no more. Truth is, she don’t need me now. That’s cool. She an’ me’ll drag it out for a little longer ‘cause we think we owe each other somethin’, then let it fade away, man. Ain’t no thing, Crockett. She knows it, I know it, we just ain’t told each other yet, ya know? Playin’ bouncy-bouncy with her has been great, man, but she not only don’t need me no more, she don’t need anybody. She’s gotta get together with herself, dude. An’ her kid. She don’t need anybody getting’ in the way. I’ll fade out an’ feel bad about it for a little while. So will she. But then, ‘cause a you an’ her mom, she’ll get with the program. That way, when I see her a year or two down the road, I’ll be dazzled at what she’s done, and she’ll be proud a what she did. Progress. Dig it.”
“You’re a helluva man, Stitch.”
“I am one righteous motherfucker, dude. I just wish we’d hear somethin’ from Wook.”
They heard from Wook that night.
CHAPTER FORTY
At eleven-thirty the next morning, Crockett and Stitch got off their bikes in the small park near the Sonic Drive-in in Jefferson City. Stitch pulled three paper sacks and three drinks out of the Guzzi’s rear bag, and the boys retired to a picnic table for lunch. A brisk breeze blew Crockett’s napkins away almost immediately. They skittered across the parking area just as a black Jeep Wrangler pulled in. Dressed in a white polo shirt and blue jeans, Sergeant Pellmore climbed out and walked their way.
“Sarge,” Crockett said. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the hash marks.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Pelmore grunted, taking a seat at the table. “All a us look al
ike to you people anyway.” His gaze shifted to Stitch. “Who’s this?”
“That,” Crockett replied, “is Air-Cav. He’s in on the deal.”
“He looks like he would be.” Pelmore’s eyes raked the hippie up and down. “Jerry Garcia is dead, motherfucker,” he said, extending a hand.
Stitch took the hand and smiled. “So is Abe Lincoln, Chief,” he replied. “Guess we’ll just havta make it on our own, huh?”
Crockett slid a bag and cup across the table. “Have some lunch, Sergeant. Double cheeseburger, chili-cheese fries, and a Coke.”
“Where’s your other sister?” Pelmore asked, digging into the bag.
“Couldn’t make it today,” Crockett said. “Cramps. We’re gonna take him some Midol when we go home.”
Pelmore smiled. “Speaking of coke,” he went on, “what kinda shit are you ladies into?”
“If you can get your people together tomorrow evening, we can hand you at least two bad guys in possession of ten kilos of cocaine. If you look around their location, it is extremely likely you’ll find heroin, too. These boys have a direct line from their place to Italy, and from there to Afghanistan. They import smack monthly, hidden in Moto-Guzzi motorcycles that bypass the standard warehousing protocol and are shipped directly to their location from Italy.”
“No shit.”
“None.”
“In spite a the fact that you law enforcement types need a week or two just to plan a group visit to the latrine, man,” Stitch said, “this shit has to go down most riki-tik. You screw around getting’ your seams straight an’ shit, and Charlie’ll be over the paddy dyke an’ gone. Dig it.”
Pelmore flinched. “You still in Saigon?” he asked.
“Not me, motherfucker. But I get back over the delta now an’ then.”
“The point is,” Crockett said, “we’re sorry the time line is so short, but there’s no other way to do it. We delay this thing and the primary is gonna get suspicious. That would not be good.”
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