by J. L. Salter
Henley didn’t retake his seat. “I need to head on out pretty soon to see if Irene needs any help. Was there something else you wanted to ask about the Honor Guard?”
“Yeah, if you have just a couple more minutes. But first, tell me why Herb has sawdust all over him. He looks like he just left a workshop.”
“Maybe he did. Some guys practically live in their shops. Only place some of them can find peace and quiet.” Henley looked around as the vehicles cleared out.
“Right. Well, tell me a bit more about the significance of what you and these other soldiers are doing for deceased veterans.”
“Well, it’s to honor the veteran of course, but the biggest impact is for their families.” Henley sat on the bench again. “Most people don’t realize this, but the government provides very little for a standard veteran funeral. They’ll send out some uniformed men with a flag for the casket. No shooting except if you die in battle, or as a result of battle, or you had a full military retirement, or you’re otherwise eligible to be buried in a national cemetery. No Taps unless one of the relatives can play it. What we do for Pulaski veterans is bury each one with full military honors, no matter where in our county they get buried.”
“I don’t mean this question to sound so awful, but why do you go to all this trouble if most people are expecting only a flag?”
Henley squinted up at the late morning sun and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m not sure I can explain it. Our Legion Post Honor Guard has been doing this for eighteen years — started before I got involved with the detail. I never even asked anybody why they were doing it. It just seemed natural. Seemed fitting to send these men off the right way, even if they couldn’t or wouldn’t get buried in a special cemetery somewhere. Just felt proper.” Henley scraped at a weed with the polished toe of his low-quarter shoes. “That’s about the only explanation I can give you.”
It was sufficient. Kelly had a lump in her throat. After it cleared, she asked, “How do you find out when a veteran dies?”
“Funeral homes stay on top of it and notify our Post Chaplain. Chaplain, that’s me, calls the callers. I make the calls for the flag detail and bugler. One of the wives — it’s Irene right now — calls enough men for the firing squad. It’s often the same ones over and over again. And some of these men report for three and four funerals a week sometimes, in every kind of weather you can imagine. It’d be better if we had enough for two full contingents so members could rotate out occasionally.”
Kelly scratched on her tablet. “I noticed not everybody fired on each volley.”
“Yeah. Some honor guards might do it differently, but ours has seven shooters plus one man designated to call the commands: Ready, Aim, Fire. First volley is the two outside men. Next volley is numbers two and six. Final volley is the three inside shooters.”
Kelly wasn’t even certain she heard three shots in the final volley. “Why not just have all seven guns fire each time?”
“When you’re shooting blanks, there’s not enough combustion pressure to throw back the bolt, eject the spent case, and cycle in another cartridge unless you have an adaptor on the end of the barrel… which we don’t use. Our Garands also don’t have en blocs — eight-round clips to fire semiautomatic. We just load one blank in the chamber right before the service. If the men shot more than once, it would take too long. Slows down the service.”
Kelly scribbled notes. “I noticed somebody gave an empty brass shell to the family.”
“We used to have a member who’d take one of the casings, scribe the name and date, and get it to the family. But he’s not on the detail any more.”
“Final question and I’ll stop bugging you.”
Henley nodded.
“I noticed this person’s flag was already folded. I thought the Honor Guard did that.”
“If the family wants the flag folded and inside the casket next to the veteran’s head, it only involves two for that detail. But if the family wants the flag draping the casket, it takes four men because the flag has to be folded during the funeral service.”
“What about the trumpet? I’m no musician, but I think that guy missed a note.”
Henley smiled. “Some Honor Guards use a digital device that slides into the bell of the bugle. You flip a switch and have about three seconds to put it to your mouth before it starts sounding Taps. Our Honor Guard has used a recorded version in the past, but now we have a man who plays trumpet, so it’s live.” Henley cleared his throat softly and stood. “I better get going.”
“When we talked on the phone you said I could bring a friend to the luncheon. Still okay?”
“Sure. Sure. Bring whoever you want. Irene loves to feed folks.”
“What are you cooking out there, a whole cow?”
“Little bit of everything.” Henley smiled. “There’s a feller named Lawrence who lives in Cincinnati but has a house up north of town.”
“That wouldn’t be Lawrence W. Lawrence III, would it?”
“Yeah. Know him?”
“We’re good buddies and practically neighbors.”
“Well, he’s grilling all the meat. Irene and her gal-friends have everything else thrown together.”
“Wade’s cooking the meat for this luncheon?”
“Lawrence. I knew his granddaddy in the war.” Henley departed.
Moments later, Kelly called Mitch on her way. “You still willing to eat some lunch at the Henley’s place?”
“I’m starving. Give me some clues how to find it.”
“Okay, but first let me tell you about a really strange, bald ex-Green Beret named Gary who rubbed his knee on my hand.”
“Huh?” Mitch’s jealousy had a hair trigger.
“Oh, never mind. You’d never encounter him in a million years.” Instead Kelly told him how to get to the Henley condo on Placid Lane. “It’s the duplex with a huge American flag.”
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday
Foss was riding high. He had recently stolen a brand new semi-automatic pistol and plenty of 9 mm ammunition. He’d freshly shaved his scalp and had even remembered to bring his newly pilfered stopwatch. Time and logistics were extremely important to successfully implement his exquisitely complex, large scale plan.
Foss was about thirty and singularly un-handsome; besides being bald, pale, and thin, he had a large ornate tattoo on the left side of his neck.
Normally he was distinctly mean-tempered. But Foss was pleased so far today because his grand plan allowed for occasional serendipity. Earlier that morning, en route with his new gang to this site, Foss had spotted a druggist opening his small store as they drove through Danville’s outskirts. Target of opportunity. He’d jumped out of his van and whacked the pharmacist’s head with his new pistol. Then Herve and Dante helped him gather the most profitable drugs in that store’s relatively small inventory. Their haul nearly filled a thirty-three gallon trash bag. Serendipity.
Of course the challenge today would be to keep his motley new crew on task, on time, plus peak performance. And that was the fly in his ointment: Foss hated having to rely on anybody else.
Chapter Nineteen
Wednesday at 11:20 a.m.
Chet had changed his clothes at home and was waiting when Ellie met him there. She’d intended to drive her pickup to the luncheon, but he insisted his own truck needed airing out. So she said a few Bless George’s and complied.
Right before Chet drove off, Ellie jumped out, jogged to her own vehicle, and retrieved her Louisville Slugger.
“What’s that for?”
“Never know when you’re gonna run across a varmint.”
Ellie had been friends with Pete Henley for several years and was also acquainted with his wife Irene. In addition to knowing all the Honor Guard members, Ellie was familiar with many of Henley’s neighbors since her Dirt Angels cleaning service had handled post-construction interior cleaning for several duplexes in that neighborhood. Some of the other lun
cheon attendees went to Ellie’s church and a few were relatives of people she knew elsewhere.
****
Kelly parked slightly up on the hill of Placid Lane, about two duplexes along the pronounced curve to the Henleys’ west. Not expecting Mitch that early, she began looking for Wade, who was supposedly the event’s chef.
Wade was lumbering from the back yard around the west side of Pete’s duplex when Kelly spotted him. When they intersected, he displayed a typically enthusiastic grin and then swooped her up in a clumsy hug. It took her breath away.
“What are you doing in town again so soon, you big galoot?”
“Don’t want to miss a big party.” He was still grinning.
“Pete told me you’re cooking all this meat. How’d you get conned into that?”
“Didn’t I tell you I hire out now and then?”
“As a chef?”
“Well, shoot. A good grill operation needs somebody that knows what to do with meat. You can’t just toss it down — burn and turn. Got to do it right. It’s like art.”
“Somehow I never thought of grilling meat as art.”
“Well that’s my cover story anyhow.” Wade tried very briefly to pretend he was mysterious.
“So, what’s your real reason?”
“You know how I sometimes buy a piece of equipment here and there?”
Kelly laughed out loud. “Wade, you’ve got more equipment than a third world government. In fact, you ought to sell off some as surplus.”
“Hmm. Wade’s Surplus. Nice sound.” He paused while that title likely wafted in his mind. “Well, anyhow, my girlfriend’s been riding me like a swayback mule gone lame.”
“A what?”
“She don’t want me buying all that stuff.” Wade didn’t explain his imagery. “But she said if I am gonna buy so much equipment, at least I oughtta set up a company so I can write it off.”
“Did you?”
“Well, not me. I let her write up the company and then write off my equipment.”
“Sweet.”
“So when Pop said the Henleys was looking fer a meat man, I said, I’ll grill their dadblamed meat fer twenty bucks, plus I take home what ain’t ate.”
“Not much cash flow in that deal, but likely plenty of leftovers.”
“I got three freezers and one’s just fer meat.”
Kelly didn’t ask what the other two were for, but figured ice cream for one. Maybe a man’s freezers are as private as his dresser drawers.
Wade practically twitched with excitement. “Oh, guess what else.” Wade didn’t give her time to speculate, however. “I bought over my new invention.”
“The Vegge-whatnot?”
“Vegge-zilla. And we’re calling that my ‘corporate entertainment expense’.”
“You think that’s gonna fly with the tax people?”
Wade rubbed his considerable chin. “Well, it ain’t no Super Bowl halftime, but I figure it’s entertaining. Them folks at Deer Holler think pretty high about theirs.”
“Those customers out there are mostly children, Wade. What if these grownups aren’t suitably entertained by apples blasted from a pipe?”
He looked disappointed.
“Wait, I got an idea. Just categorize your Vegge-slinger as R-and-D instead.”
“Huh?”
“Research and development.”
“Sounds better anyhow.” He grinned again.
“By the way, what’s the name of your brand new company?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Wade’s Cooking.” He manifested enough pride for his family to have operated this business since 1925.
“Is that a noun or a verb?”
“What do you mean?” Wade probably didn’t sit still in school when they talked about grammar.
“Does ‘cooking’ refer to what you’ve grilled? Or that you’re in the process of grilling it? The second one’s like ‘Wade is Cooking’.”
“I like the second one. Makes me sound hot.” He smiled cheesily.
“You are hot, you big galoot.”
Wade watched another guest arrive. “Well, that’s not the only reason I’m here. Pete said one of his neighbors was an old artillery man or something and he might be able to help me work out some kinks in my Vegge-zilla.”
“You’re not planning to shoot apple rockets in the Henleys’ back yard, are you?”
“No, ya doofus. Over yonder at them hay bales out back.” He pointed toward the general area — not visible from their position — where a hay shredder and spreader had been deposited, to be used later when the preliminary landscaping was done. “They dropped that hay in the wrong field. Ought to be over there where they’re building the new part.” Wade pointed the opposite direction to something also out of sight; then he hustled away, presumably toward his grill.
Kelly turned as a familiar green SUV drove up and Roger Jenkins got out. He went to the passenger side and helped a frail lady, dressed like she was going to church. Kelly went over to greet him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“This is my aunt.” Roger pointed with his entire hand. “Aunt Lucille, this is Kelly Randall. I told you about that cave-in last spring, Gordon’s Cave. Kelly was with us.”
“Not just with you. I helped dig us out.” Kelly poked his upper arm.
“How do you do?” Lucille’s voice was as frail as her form. “Do you know the Henleys too?”
“Not really. I mean I just met Mister Henley today. Interview.”
“Sergeant.” Lucille spoke so quickly that even she seemed surprised. “Were you at the funeral this morning?”
Kelly nodded.
“Was it nice?”
Kelly didn’t know how to respond.
“I wanted to go. My Ardis used to be in the Honor Guard. Ardis knew that boy they buried today.” Lucille looked up at Roger. “Can’t remember his name but I used to be friends with his first wife.”
Aunt Lucille lightly touched Kelly’s elbow and then slowly made her way toward the Henley condo.
“I was supposed to take her, but got a flat tire.” Roger displayed the remaining grease on his hands. He was mid-sixties, with a handsome face and short gray-white hair. He’d kept his waist pretty trim until his fifties and currently was fighting a belly with a combination of diet and exercise. So far the belly had stubbornly resisted those efforts. “We were lucky to get here for the big feed afterwards.”
“Is she in your Uncle Chet’s family?”
“No, my dad’s sister in the Jenkins line. No relation to Pop at all.” Roger watched until his aunt got through the front door and then turned again to Kelly. “She lives out here on Cordial Lane. Two of their streets are temporarily blocked by utility trenches. Makes it hard for these older folks to get around.”
“Well, it’s good you could make it for the luncheon. Wade’s here, with a promise to demo his fruit-shooter.”
“Couldn’t very well miss that, whatever it is.” He smiled. “But, in truth, I would have passed on Wade’s entertainment. I’m just here because Aunt Lucille really wanted to come to Irene’s lunch.”
“Too bad your wife couldn’t come.”
“Yeah. Lena’s in Lexington with her mom.”
Kelly nodded once and then looked around a bit.
Roger turned to head toward the house. “Guess I’ll go say hello to our hosts.”
****
Roger encountered Pete just inside his front door. “Glad you could bring Lucille to Irene’s do. Your aunt’s a fine lady. Her Blackie sure was a good man.”
Roger didn’t often hear his deceased uncle called by his nickname anymore. “Sorry we didn’t make the funeral today. Flat tire.” He showed his greasy hands again.
“Probably best. The way that widow acted would’ve upset Lucille.”
Roger’s gaze swept over the part of the condo interior where he stood. “These units look real nice inside. I think this has a slightly different layout than the ones over on Aunt Lucille’s street. G
ot enough space here?”
“By the time you move somewhere like this, you’ve either downsized or you should’ve. Me and Irene had to get rid of lots of things, but it was probably time anyhow.” Pete sighed wistfully.
“I hadn’t remembered how much the elevation changes in this subdivision. How far down is that creek bed over there?” Roger pointed north through the open front door.
“Oh, that little piece of the branch is something like seventy-five feet lower than I am here. Don’t know the last time you saw it…”
“Only driving by just now on Great Vista.”
“Well, it used to be enough water you could catch a little fish here and there.” Pete shook his head. “Now it’s mostly dried up.”
“I notice they’ve also cut back those heavy woods.”
“Yeah, still real thick, but they took them back enough to lay a good bed for that north loop road. They’re adding an entire new double row of condos up there. Probably two dozen more new duplexes. They’ll start framing next spring.” Pete pointed to a hallway wall where a scale drawing of the Community development was hanging. “My great-grandson did this for a school project. Liked it so much I told Irene to frame it up. This doesn’t show that new loop — North Serenity — but you can see where it would be, right up against the line of trees. Right now they’re just clearing and rough landscaping. But somebody with a loader apparently had extra time on their hands and started digging out some of the cellars. Just the rough-outs.”
“Is that the way it actually looks?” Roger’s greasy finger approximated the shape in the frame.
“Well, Little Pete modified it to make it easier to draw. Irene says it’s shaped a bit like a kidney, with the inside curve to the left.”
