by Pat Mullan
Jimmy Connolly hung up the phone and pushed through the throng at Costelloes bar into the small cosy dining room at the rear. As he approached the round corner table, David, his Chinese chef, materialized from the kitchen in a haze of smoke that floated upwards from a juicy sizzling steak he held in both hands. The succulent sauce permeated the dining room. The sizzler was Costelloes special. Jimmy reached the table just as David placed the sizzler in front of Owen MacDara.
"Owen, that was Jay on the phone. Running a half hour late, as usual. That means an hour, you know! By the way, where's the rest of your gang?"
"I don't know. Jim and Murph should have been here before me. It's not like them to be late", said Owen, as he cut eagerly into the sizzler. Owen was already on his second Bud and he didn't seem concerned.
Jimmy Connolly owned Costelloes. He stood at least six feet four with wide shoulders and a shock of prematurely silver gray hair. His lionine head housed a broad Irish countenance tinged with ready humor and a mischievous and knowing glint in the eyes.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy could see his bartender, Mike, heading directly towards him. Mike looked agitated.
"Jimmy, it's the phone again. Jack Cummins. You better take it. Sounds serious."
Jimmy grabbed the extension in the dining room.
"Connolly here............................"
"Jimmy it's real bad! We've had a shooting here". The stress in Jack Cummins voice vibrated over the phone. "Murph's dead! If Owen and Jay are there, break this to them and tell them I'll be there some time - after I give a statement to the cops. Tell them not to leave. I'll be there - no matter how late."
The phone went dead. Jack Cummins had hung up without giving Jimmy a chance to utter a word.
Jimmy opened the bottle of Mondavi Cabernet and placed it in the center of the table between Owen and Jay. He did not pour any into their glasses as he usually did. Not tonight. Jay had just arrived and he and Owen were still stunned by the news of Murph's killing. It was Connolly who broke the silence.
"Murph was the greatest guy; wouldn't hurt a fly."
"I know. There's no justice in this world. The Good die young."
"Yeah! The bastard who did this will probably get away. Even if they catch him, some clever lawyer will get him off on a technicality."
"It sucks! It just sucks! When are we going to get tough on crime in this country? When are going to make them pay?"
"Oh, we make them pay alright. In prisons like country clubs. Exercise equipment, television, counseling."
"You're right! They come out fat and sassy after doing three out of twenty. Time off for good behavior. No wonder they have no compunction about blowing your head off. If they're caught they do three years in a country club."
MacDara just sat there. He wasn't even tuned in to this exchange between Connolly and Russo. He still hadn't said much when Cummins finally joined them about ten thirty. It was going to be a long night. Costelloes didn't close till 4 a.m. This was turning into an Irish wake. An Irish wake for a black brother. Murph was black. Jack Cummins went back over the shootout between the albino and the cops in the Peppermint Stick. He blamed himself for Murph's death.
"If only I hadn't called the cops."
"But, you had no choice," said Owen, "you couldn't let your girls be molested and you wouldn't have been able to tackle the guy yourself."
"How were you to know he had a gun?" said Jay.
Jimmy Connolly had just arrived at the table again in time to overhear the conversation.
"They're right, Jack. It wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."
But Jack Cummins was inconsolable. He was on his second Paddy's and getting more maudlin by the minute. Yes, thought Connolly, this will be a long night.
The late night news persisted on the TV in Costelloes dining room. Sandwiched between a mass murder in a McDonalds in Texas and a murder suicide in upstate New York, the killing in the Peppermint Stick was just one more ingredient in the nightly diet. MacDara was watching in a trance when the regular news was interrupted.. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had died from a heart attack he had suffered earlier in the week while on a visit to the Guantanamo Bay base in Cuba. The President announced his replacement, a four star Pentagon strategist unknown to the public, General Zachary Walker.
"My God, that face!" MacDara remembered.
Korea, 1970. And he remembered that Murph had been there too. A crazy thought entered his head. Is that why Murph is dead?
TWO
It all began one night in Washington, six months ago…………………
Zachary Walker was tired, mentally tired. He took off his jacket and shoes, loosened his tie and collapsed on the bed. His feet protruded from the end so he tucked up his knees and turned over on his side. It was eleven o'clock at night and he had just arrived home. It was not unusual for him to work a twelve to fifteen hour day. He was in good health, physically fit, and had great reserves of energy. General Zachary Walker lived alone. The army was his life. He had little time for anything else. Unless it was his God. At least, that's what he told himself.
Today had been more stressful than any day he had spent in a long time. It started with a strategy meeting at six thirty a.m. with the President and the National Security Council. His boss was away on a field trip and he was the acting Chief. The meeting was called to assist the President in the latest crises in Europe. The war in Bosnia had lumbered from one disaster to another. It was intractable. The Serbs were advancing again. The President's close political allies on Capitol Hill were advising him to aggressively arm the Bosnians. The Russians were threatening to intervene on the side of the Serbs. NATO was impotent. Their Western European allies refused to act decisively on the matter. The President was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. He couldn't avoid assessing the political damage from either course of action. It was a 'no win' situation. But the President's primary motivation was a desire to end the fighting and bring the parties to the negotiating table. Even if it took force of arms to achieve that. They had met for two hours. Nothing was resolved. No decision was taken. General Walker felt that Washington was becoming as impotent as NATO on this one.
He was back in his office at nine a.m. when the past came back to haunt him in the voice of Major Henry Whiteside. The Major was in Washington and wanted to see him. He agreed. As he hung up the phone, he could feel his heart beating faster and a wave of the claustrophobia he suffered as a youth swept over him. The past was closing in on him again. He got up from his desk, shut his office door, turned the key in it and then lay down on the black leather couch in the conference area of his office. The claustrophobia made the walls and ceiling move toward him, giving him that old feeling of suffocation he hadn't experienced since his teens. He felt frightened and vulnerable after years of self control and success. Like a little boy. He could hear his Mamma's voice:
"Zachary! Oh, Zachary!" She always used Zachary, never Zach, when she was angry or stern. Isobel Shepard Walker was a God-fearing woman. He had respected her but he had also feared her. She was a domineering woman who broached no straying from the rules, her rules. She was always in the front pew in church on Sundays. She always sang louder than anyone else. The Shepards and Walkers were Scots-Irish. Their ancestors had left Ulster in the 1750's and worked their way south from Pennsylvania through the Cumberland Gap towards Appalachia. By the 1780's they had established a homestead in the Waxhaws, a settlement north-west of Charleston, South Carolina. When General Walker's great-grandfather, Zachary (all the first born males in the Walker clan were named Zachary) was born in 1832 the family was firmly established in the hardware and livery business in Charleston. The family had a long history of military service. An ancestor had fought with Andrew Jackson in his campaigns against the Creek Indians in 1814. His great-grandfather distinguished himself at Appomatox during the Civil War. And his father was one of the first to step ashore on Omaha Beach during the Normandy landings in World War II.
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"Zachary! Oh, Zachary!" His mother was waiting for him at the door. He was late coming home from school again. But he couldn't tell her the reason why. He couldn't tell her about Charlie Pettigrew. Mrs. Pettigrew and his mother were very good friends. And Charlie was one of his mother's favorites. He was nine years old and he didn't know what to do. He remembered the day it started. He was only seven years old. His mother had been visiting Mrs. Pettigrew one afternoon. Charlie was fifteen years old then. Mrs. Pettigrew told Charlie to take little Zach out to see their new Spaniel puppy. The puppy was only three months old, liver and white, and very playful. It was lying on its back and Charlie was petting its stomach when he leaned over and asked Zach to put his hand in his pocket. He said he had a surprise for him. Zach innocently reached into Charlie Pettigrew's pocket. He still remembered his shock. There was no bottom in Charlie's pocket and Zach's small hand circled Charlie's erect penis. It felt warm and strong. He was both fascinated and repelled. And he knew he was doing something very, very wrong. Charlie warned him not to tell his mother. But Zach would have been too frightened to tell such a thing to his mother. That's when it all began.
The memories flooded in and out with the waves of claustrophobia. And as the claustrophobia subsided, so did the memories. His anxiety attack gradually left him and his breathing became regular again. He used to worry that his past would come to destroy him. The years had passed. He became more powerful. He stopped worrying. Until now. He resolved to call Senator Sam. But first things first. His military sense of order took over. He would meet Major Whiteside.
His mind went back to that night in the 53rd MASH in Korea. Twenty years ago. Only two people knew about that, the Major and Senator Sam. The Major had agreed to hold the matter in absolute confidence for ever. As the years passed, General Walker had accepted that commitment of the Major's with confidence. Senator Sam also knew. But, as the Senator had said, the future of America and the world was bigger than that and no event in the past should be permitted to undermine the future. The Senator would know what to do. But, first, I must meet the Major.
The Colombia Cafe was just another coffee shop. The customers were mostly blue collar, maybe sixty percent black. It was safe from the Washington elite. The Major was already savoring a large mug of their special coffee when General Walker arrived. He had changed quickly into civvies, jeans and a turtleneck, before setting out. They both appraised each other and came to the same conclusion. The years had been kind to them.
"Harry, You're looking good."
"I was just about to say the same about you. I never felt better. I think Ruth is enjoying my retirement more than me. And Kate has grown up into a beautiful young lady, Zach."
There was a wistful look in the General's eyes as the Major moved his newspaper and made room for him to slide into the booth directly opposite. He nodded to the hovering waitress who filled a large mug of coffee, placed it in front of him, reached into the pocket of her apron and handed him three small plastic containers of cream. She left the menu and moved on.
"Thank you for taking time to see me."
"I had to come. What's this all about?"
"I'm not sure where to begin. After I took early retirement Ruth and I went back to our home in Gloucester. I still do some work for the V.A. But I always had an urge to write. And I wanted to put down my memories and experiences. My view of the times and events I lived through."
"But, what can I contribute?"
"I thought you might help. Shed some light. I've always kept my word, But I'm troubled. Seems as though nobody wants me to write my memoirs. And that bothers me. What is everyone worried about?"
"What do you mean? Who's trying to stop you?"
"Well, nobody's trying to stop me. It's not as obvious as that, But everybody's clammed up. Washington is not at home to me. Most of my old colleagues are either too busy or have previous engagements. People know I'm on my way before I arrive. They've been warned in advance not to talk with me."
"Are you sure you're not imagining these things? You know, you have a lot of time on your hands. Most of us still don't"
"No, I'm sure of it. It's nothing innocent like that. I can smell it. I believe I've turned over a rock and found something rotten under it."
"Harry, that's very melodramatic! What are you saying?"
"OK. I'll put my cards on the table. Let me tell you what I think. Then maybe you'll help."
Major Whiteside discussed his research. His memoirs covered his entire military career but focused on Korea, Vietnam and the aftermath. Being a physician he was also viscerally interested in the nation's well-being. And he felt that America's conduct had been damaging to the nation's health. The failure to treat the returned Vietnam veterans with the same respect as the vets of other wars was a symptom of the malaise at the heart of the nation. He wanted to explore that malaise in his memoirs. He had ended his military career disillusioned over the handling of the Vietnam war. Now he was interested in the healing process of those involved, those in command in that conflict. The more research he did, the more people who were willing to talk with him, convinced him that America's soul was sick. Some of these former colleagues were prescribing a treatment for the illness that would surely kill the patient.
"And, you know what that treatment will do for us, Zachary. It will destroy our democracy. It will destroy our freedom. And we will enter the millennium under the dictatorship of the Right. We will sow the seeds of our own Armageddon”
"But your fears are all based on very circumstantial things. You might be magnifying this out of all proportion. Remember, this democracy is very resilient. It can bend without snapping."
"I only wish that I believed you. But I don't. And I'm concerned about you. You're in a most powerful position in this nation. You're vulnerable. I must be frank. I have to talk about it."
"Well, Harry, if you must. But, I assure you, I am not vulnerable."
"I went to see Rev. Andrew Magee. I know all about the Followers. I know about your involvement. Korea was not just the result of your own personal weakness, Zachary. It was a ritual, wasn't it? Who else knows about that?
"Nobody knows" lied Zachary Walker. "Those things are behind me. They're between me and my God. And I want it kept that way."
"There are powerful forces at work in this country. And many are operating with the authority of God. I cannot walk away from that. I fully intend to keep my pledge of confidence to you. But I want a quid pro quo. I want people to talk with me. You can make that happen, Zachary"
It was three o'clock when General Zachary Walker got back to his office. He picked up the phone and dialed Senator Sumner Hardy's private number. "Sam, I need to see you. It's important."
Uijongbu, Korea
Hajin Kim sat cross-legged on the satin cushion at the head of the table in Madame Ahn's mission house in Uijongbu, thirty miles north of Seoul. He was the Guest of Honor, as befitted the head of the Church of Solitude and Contemplation whose followers were commonly referred to as the Costies. Worldwide, they had become as familiar on the streets of major cities as the Hare Krishnas whose members wore saffron robes and shaved heads. The Costies wore charcoal gray Nehru style uniforms adorned only with a large wooden cross hanging from their necks by a heavy leather thong.
Madame Ahn sat to his right and her chief minister, Chae, sat on his left. About twenty-five Church members were dining at the four tables in the central room of the mission house. The meal was the traditional Korean one of bulgogi and kimchi, strips of sauteed beef over rice and fermented vegetables. Small cups held makli, the favorite Korean rice drink. Custom dictated that one should not sip the makli; when raised to the lips one must drink it all. Of course, an attentive host will refill the cup immediately. The wise drank sparingly. Makli was extremely potent.
The meal had just commenced when the telephone was brought to Hajin Kim. He had instructed Seoul that he was always available to his people. He insisted on an open line policy, if not an open door poli
cy. None of this was very practical given his schedule and itinerary. His life was usually booked six months in advance.
"How can I serve you?" said Hajin Kim in his customary greeting as he picked up the telephone It was General Zachary Walker. It had been at least two or three years since they had spoken. The General wanted to know if Kim had been contacted by Major Whiteside. The Major was writing his memoirs and was unearthing matters that would be best left forgotten. Kim assured the General that he had not had any contact from the Major. As he hung up the phone a sense of wonder entered his mind. All those years ago. And yet only yesterday. But I've traveled so far, he thought. And so has the General. That was another time. Another place. He remembered again.
Hajin Kim's early religious experience had been Buddhism. His early life in Pusan had been marked by frequent attendance at Buddhist retreats, many of them in total silence. At twelve he rejected his disciplinarian father and his father's religion too. Until his teens he rejected all religion. Then, one day in Seoul, he was handed some literature by a Follower and invited to spend an hour in a coffee shop. The hour stretched into late evening and Kim joined the Followers.
A new convert to the Followers was always assigned to a Mentor for the first year. Hajin Kim's Mentor was the person who had recruited him, the Follower with whom he had spent that seminal day in the coffee shop in Seoul; an American, Charlie Pettigrew.
He had been a member for a year when he met Zachary Walker in 1970. He was only twenty.
