by J. L. Salter
“Escape and evasion. That’s a form of fighting back.”
“But not the same as Miss Dottie was talking about — make the barbarians invest in their gains. Don’t just give in and don’t just let them have it free. We need to make it cost them to commit their barbarity.”
Mitch looked at her face as intently as he could with illumination from nothing but a sliver of moonlight. “Kelly, I don’t believe I’ve ever thought about that before.”
Chapter Eleven
October 5 — Friday — late morning
Foss stared disdainfully at his lieutenants, Herve and Dante. “Put down that phone game and pay attention,” he yelled at Dante.
Herve punched his colleague’s bicep to reinforce their leader’s command.
“Hey! I was almost done.”
“I’m telling youse guys it’s gonna be different this time. A lot different. For one thing, Dante, forget those gorillas you collected last time. For this heist, I want three teams of loaders. Each team has one small wiry guy…”
“What you mean wiry?”
“Like me, man.” Herve pointed to himself. “Strong, but flexible, man.”
Foss slammed his tattooed fist onto the table top. “Quit interrupting. Each team has one small wiry guy and one bigger stronger guy.” He looked into Dante’s dull eyes to see if it registered. “And they have to work together, as a team.”
Herve, who already comprehended, simply nodded.
It wasn’t clear whether Dante was on board yet.
“Teamwork is key to this operation. And don’t pick stupid idiots like last time. At least the small guy on each team has to have enough brains to know what’s valuable and what’s not.”
“I thought you were gonna tell us what the haulers are supposed to haul,” Dante interjected.
“Which I can’t do if I don’t know what those people have. With as many places as we’re gonna hit, and the tight timetable we’re on,” Foss pointed to the newly stolen stopwatch, “I probably won’t even see inside a single house.” The field general don’t go into houses.
“Okay, okay, man,” Herve interrupted. “So you want three teams of two — big strong guy and little smart guy. We got it, man.” He punched Dante’s dark arm again.
“Is this racial?” Dante started to glare at his boss and colleague.
Foss slammed both hands to the table and it hurt. “Don’t you play the race card on me. I don’t care what color your haulers are. They can be red, white, and blue for all I care. But they got to be smart enough to pick out the good stuff, and quick, because this is down to the minute.”
“You know any particular place to get dese guys?” Dante’s question was straightforward.
“Git them from our old neighborhood or git them from Mars. I don’t keere. Now shut up about it.” Foss shook his head and slumped back down into his chair. “Youse guys are already screwing up my master plan and we ain’t even started yet.”
Neither of his lieutenants responded, but Dante picked up his phone again.
“Put that away or I’ll stuff it…”
Dante put it down.
Foss shut Dante out of his mind. If he could get a replacement in time, Dante would be history. After a deep breath, he shifted to Herve. “I got a special mission for you.”
Herve swallowed hard. “Besides getting the trucks and drivers, man?”
“Yep. You’re gonna be my advance scout.”
After a brief silence and confused expression, Herve responded. “You got the place figured out yet, man?”
“Not the exact spot, but I know it’s gonna be in one of the counties around the big lake.” Foss nodded to the Kentucky highway map quarter-folded on the table. “Everybody in them counties is rich and we just gotta pick a spot where the richest ones stay.”
Herve nodded and Dante just looked down at his phone.
“Okay, now both youse guys git outta here, so I can think.”
They started to leave.
“One more thing, Dante. I need a special guy to work with your haulers. He’ll be a rover, so he’ll be in contact with all your hauling teams.” Foss waited to be sure his slower-witted lieutenant was focused.
“Anybody in particular?”
Foss couldn’t help smiling. “Small, young, skinny kid that knows how to follow orders and keep his mouth shut.”
Chapter Twelve
October 7 — Sunday — early afternoon
Ellie noticed things were especially quiet Sunday after church as Chet read the paper at his house on Heath Street.
Chet was one of those individuals who often liked to read newspapers out loud. Sometimes just headlines, especially those with errors of spelling or usage. Other times it might be a few paragraphs of a particular story. He would have done this even if someone handed him a paper they’d just finished perusing right in front of him. So, it wasn’t that he assumed the other party hadn’t read the paper. To Chet, it seemed to be about sharing. Some typographical errors were too delightfully awful not to be shared. Certain story paragraphs seemed so idiotic he was unable to keep them to himself.
Right then Chet re-scanned a letter to the editor which he’d just read to himself silently.
“It’s from that liberal tree hugger whacko that moved here from Cleveland a couple years back.” Though his voice dripped with irony and his accent was decidedly Pulaski County, Chet carefully read the complete letter in the perfect grammar with which it had been so precisely composed. “Listen ta this, Ellie.
“As a responsible, progressive parent, it’s incumbent on me to complain vigorously about aged veterans in full uniform giving indoctrination programs in our public schools. For these former soldiers to talk about war to children just endorses the institutional use of violence to settle political issues, when other, more expedient avenues are routinely ignored. Their appearance and their bloody, exaggerated anecdotes do little but frighten most of the children.
“Not only do these presentations promote militarism generally, but they specifically glorify war, violence, and guns. As countless studies have clearly and repeatedly established, citizens should not own guns of any kind, for any reason. All guns of all types should be outlawed and all firearms manufacturing should be permanently shut down. All guns currently in the hands of citizens should be registered with restricted use, at the very least… and preferably rounded-up and destroyed if the person-power is available to do so.
“Americans should look to the progressive examples of Great Britain and Australia for effective measures to control guns, fight crime, and protect their citizenry.
Sincerely,
Chelsea Rodham Harris”
“My, my. That woman’s steam must’ve ruint the ink off the page.” Ellie peered over his shoulder. “How come she’s got such a Bless George bee in her ear?” Ellie’s use of George as an adjective dated from her high school reading of Shakespeare’s Henry V. King Hal’s famous “Once more unto the breech” exhortation at Harfleur included the lines,
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
Ellie the student was so moved by that entire speech, she often quoted its final line to her softball team between innings. As time went on, she just shortened it to “Bless George” and it eventually became an everyday adjective.
“Wonder if her kid’s in one of the classes I went ta,” Chet mused.
“I bet there’s gonna be lots of answers back.”
“Wait ‘til ole Gene Coffey reads this. He’s gonna love that part about England and Australia. Their crime rates went through the roof after they rounded up everybody’s private guns.” Chet shook his head sadly as he let the newspaper rest on his lap.
“Crime’s already gone Bless George crazy most everywhere except here.” Ellie pointed to a front page story. “Look at all them gangs busting up that neighborhood in Louisville.” She peered closer to satisfy herself about the location. “Mostly old folks living in
there with gates all around the place.”
“Dogs don’t know what a fence means.” Chet cleared his throat raggedly.
“That’s got nothing to do with punks robbing old folks.”
“Dogs can learn ta obey rules, but ya gotta teach them.” He pointed at the article again. “But if nobody never teaches them about laws and rules, they figure they can just take what they want and knock down anybody that’s in their way. Dogs don’t know what a fence means.”
“Well, somebody should’ve been Bless George teaching them. It ain’t right for gangs of punks to go stealing and stomping…”
“And killing. Good bunch of them think killing somebody is a badge of their menhood.”
“It don’t take a man to kill crippled-up old folks. Only wild animals do something like that.” Ellie slapped the sides of both thighs for emphasis.
“Yep. And animals don’t know what a fence means.”
“Well, I reckon I kin teach them about Bless George fences, if any of them punks think they can knock me down and take my purse.” Without realizing it, she squeezed a fist and her upper arm muscles showed their athletic definition.
“Settle down, Ellie. All them gangs run in the big cities. We got nothing down here worth driving that far. Plus, they’d stick out like a sore thumb coming inta small towns like Somerset.”
Ellie grunted softly and left the room.
Chapter Thirteen
October 9 — Tuesday — morning
The forecast had indicated rain, but it only looked cloudy. Temperature? Jacket weather. Just as Kelly was trying to decide whether to drive to the library to check e-mail, her phone rang.
It was Mitch telling her about an article he’d just seen in the paper. “Remember those vocal citizens who griped at the city council meeting late last month?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, one of them concocted a false emergency yesterday morning just to make a point, so he says. Now he’s in custody, of course.”
“What was his point?” Kelly was only mildly interested.
“He figured a federal and state holiday, like Columbus Day’s observance, was pretty similar to the kinds of controls they’re planning for this big drill tomorrow. So he decided to phone in a manufactured emergency and see how well the bureaucratic wheels clicked on a holiday.”
“So how was the response?”
“Lousy.” Mitch groaned. “Lots of agencies couldn’t be reached at all — holiday closures, you know. Others had only skeleton crews and in some offices, all the supervisors were gone. It was right out of Keystone Kops.”
“So, you think that hoaxer is right? That’s what would happen if there was a real emergency?”
“Well, not sure. I actually think this guy just succeeded in validating the opposing view.”
“Huh?” Kelly must have missed something.
“To him, yesterday’s fiasco meant we should not have a big drill on Wednesday, because it’ll be too costly and too disruptive. Plus, things won’t work anyway. But to the officials quoted last night, this false alarm just reinforces the need to conduct a full scale drill and at least identify the kinks.”
“No matter the inconvenience and confusion.”
“Right. Small price to pay tomorrow if the drill can help actual coordination and response later, when some real emergency arises.” Mitch paused, evidently looking for some tidbit in the article. “Plus, the police have a new Humvee special unit tactical something-or-other vehicle they want to try out.”
Kelly had long ago tuned out updates on the drill, which was already sounding like old news. “So, you got any plans for lunch? Or do you have any lake interviews scheduled?”
“Actually, yeah.” A piece of paper made noise over the phone. Likely Mitch’s directions. “I have a one o’clock with a widow lady who runs a small dock and bait shop down past Tateville, on Cain Branch, just a little east of Seed Tick Knob. As I understood her, it’s the eastern side of Cox Bend, of the South Fork.”
“Mitch, do you realize that sounds like gibberish?” She smiled. “You’ll be lucky if you ever find that place. And if you do, beware of widow women in isolated bait shops. And don’t be near Tateville after sundown.”
“How bad could it be? She’s just a stone’s throw from Sweet Lily Ridge, or so she says.” Mitch chuckled softly. “How about you? Interview today?”
“Yeah. While you’re chatting up the wild widow woman of Cain Branch, I’m meeting a Legion commander with a huge Army tank in his backyard… practically.” She thought it might make Mitch a little jealous, just like she’d felt since the widow was first mentioned. However, it appeared not to register with Mitch.
Chapter Fourteen
October 9 — Tuesday — afternoon
As Kelly had confirmed at the editor’s office the previous week, her key interview for the upcoming special issue was with Eugene Coffey, commander of the local American Legion Post.
Post 38 was on the south side of town, east of Highway 27 on Enterprise Drive. An M-60 Patton main battle tank stood guard outside the Legion Hall, a metal building of the type that could house anything from auto repair shop to carpet outlet warehouse. Probably many other things.
It was seeing the slightly rusty sixty ton tank that reminded Kelly her appointment was not at the Legion Hall, but downtown, which she’d just driven past. She tried to call Coffey’s office, but there was no answer. Maybe he took late lunches.
****
When Gene Coffey still worked full time, his title company in old downtown occupied the entire second floor of a brick building constructed in the 1930s. Since retirement, he used only two of those rooms, with nominal rent due to arrangements with the former owner of the office supply store downstairs. The remainder of the second floor was now storage for the store below.
Health and weather permitting, Coffey appeared for a couple of hours every weekday morning. Very little related to titles anymore — it was mostly paperwork or phone calls concerning Post 38. He occupied the inner space; the smaller, outer room was for a secretary. Both spaces were modestly appointed, with dark wood grain paneling popular in the 1970s. Several photos hung on the walls: Coffey with a former Kentucky governor, with a three-star general, with Ronald Reagan while he was California governor, and with the current Fifth District Congressman.
****
The secretary’s desk was empty when Kelly arrived on the second floor. Kelly had originally hoped to interview Coffey at the Legion Hall since she figured it would be steeped with veteran atmosphere, but he’d insisted there wasn’t really a suitable spot in that place. Maybe that’s why she drove there on autopilot… she’d rather have been there with the rusty tank than here with the dusty paneling. She could tell someone was in the inner office, though, so she approached and knocked on the doorjamb.
“Come in, come in.” He waved vigorously, as though she weren’t moving fast enough.
When the Commander stood to greet her, Kelly noticed he still favored his left foot.
“Gout,” he explained again. “Ull-rick’s acid. Not sure why it’s in my foot, though.” On his feet were oversized slippers. The window A/C unit was cranked up on high, which was unusual for early October. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” She continued toward his desk and extended her hand. “I guess I’m just a bit late, because I went…”
“No problem.” He motioned to the chair.
Kelly sat. “I didn’t see your secretary.”
He nodded. “She’s my niece. Just fills in occasionally.”
After a very brief silence, Kelly began. “Mister Coffey, when we spoke before at the paper, you caught me off guard a bit. I wasn’t certain you’d still want me involved with this upcoming veterans’ supplement for some reason.”
“Call me Gene.” From a glass dish on his desk, Coffey selected a piece of hard candy and popped it into his mouth. “I’d just told Kohlick that I wanted to meet the reporter before the section was written this year. The guy l
ast year missed the boat completely.” Coffey held out the dish, but she shook her head.
“Right.” Kelly leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. “I also thought it was pretty lame last year, but couldn’t put my finger on why. I couldn’t tell whether he had the wrong angle or if he was just a lousy writer.”
Coffey smiled broadly and sat back with his meaty hands up around the back of his head. Short hair, thinning and white. A tall, burly bear of a man. “Good. We can speak plainly. It was both — bad writing and a very surfacial angle.”
Kelly assumed he meant superficial.
“Actually, Mizz Randall, I thought last year’s assignment of what’s-his-name was deliberate. I don’t think your editor likes me too much. I’ve had to rattle his cage a few times.”
“Editors don’t usually like that.” She wondered how much small talk should precede her actual questions. Then she noticed Coffey checking his wristwatch.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” she said. “How long do we have before your next appointment?”
“No appointment.” His hand stretched toward the candy bowl but he withdrew it without snagging a treat. “My Junie’s in the hospital and I visit every afternoon. Intensive care. Fluid around her heart.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Coffey. I can come back another time. We could reschedule.”
“Gene.” He waved his hand. “Nah, it helps if I’m doing something. When she’s in that intensive room I can’t visit but a little while anyway. When I’m waiting for visit times, it’s better to be occupied.”
Kelly cleared her throat softly. “Well, like yourself, I want a fresh handle on Veterans Day. Not the same old stuff about how it began as Armistice Day and when it changed… and how it moves around now to end up on a Monday. I mean, I’ll include its history as a brief sidebar. But I want something deeper, something that explains why men and women serve in the armed forces. What’s their motivation? What did they sacrifice? Do they regret serving? Those kind of things.”
