Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Darn it, I told you I wasn't spying. That's only a part of intelligence. I'll be in research or statistical compilations."

  The words rolled easily and sounded solid. They were Logan Dell's first deliberate lies.

  +++

  Bill Weller did not survive the war. Although listed among the casualties of battle, to most, details of Weller's death remained murky. Sis knew and told Mickey, who, as a matter of course, shared them with Logan. Her husband had died in the 310th Field Hospital, Heidelberg, Germany, from an overdose of bad whiskey.

  The form of Bill Weller's demise appeared curious because Weller had not been known as a drinking man. Had war changed Bill's style, or had a single night's carouse taken his life? Those details were unavailable and mattered little anyway.

  What was important to Mickey Weston was that Sis Ruby Weller was a widow and again available.

  Logan advised, "Make your move, Mick. Don't sit around waiting for a proper time or something. When men come courting, they should find you sitting on the porch."

  "Darn it, quit shoving. Bill isn't even cold yet. Sis needs a little time."

  Logan stepped away and examined his friend in pretended awe. "My God, you're doing it again! You're going to stand around with your finger in your nose while someone else takes over,"

  Mickey flushed, "I'm just trying to be decent, Logan."

  Still exasperated, Logan said, "Look, Sis is an attractive woman. She's collected ten thousand dollars in government insurance, and Bill probably had mortgage insurance, so their house is paid for.

  "Now, she is going to look real inviting to a bunch of men who aren't as noble and considerate as you."

  Mickey grumbled unintelligibly.

  "Get off your duff, buddy. You've got an undeserved second chance. In the army we say, 'Use it or lose it.'

  That's what you'd better consider right now."

  "You're not in the army anymore, Logan, you're into spying."

  "I told you that in strictest confidence, and I don't ever expect to hear it mentioned again, Mick."

  Logan preened, "Probably I should go over and put a few of my worldly moves on the widow Weller. Sis always liked me and if someone's going to pick her off right under your nose, it might as well be me."

  They drove into Bloomfield, and Logan supervised Frownfelter's Nursery in selecting a bouquet of flowers he considered appropriate.

  Logan referred to his choices as a proper flower bunch. There were so many, Mickey barely showed behind them. They decided a card would also be fitting and Logan suggested various passionate endearments that riled his friend, who wrote his own words without letting Logan see.

  Mickey got out at the Weller place and plowed a heavy-footed stride onto the front porch. He held his flowers out in front like a flag bearer and cast a final baleful glare back at Logan before he disappeared through the Weller doorway. Sis leaned out and waved at Logan. Then she smiled and shooed him on his way.

  Logan took the truck down to the square where he planned to hang out until Mickey finished his visiting. He pulled into an empty slot in front of the Askin Store. A trio of older Carson Long cadets was going in. Good, he thought. When they come out I'll talk a little football. It's Saturday, so they'll be playing somebody. Mickey probably won't be long anyway. Damned fool doesn't know the first thing about courting.

  +++

  The courting took three months and Logan came home for the wedding. Mickey had a new suit and a Red Stoops' haircut. He acted a trifle dazed and displayed a sappy smile that Logan claimed improved his looks.

  Logan wore his pinks and greens, Captain's uniform. The Ike jacket made him appear exceptionally broad shouldered, and Mickey accused him of trying to make the groom look even smaller than he was.

  "I thought you quit the army, Logan."

  "I'm practically out. Thought I'd have one last dress up, special for you."

  Mickey studied on it a minute. "Fact is, you don't own a church going suit, isn't that right, Logan?"

  Logan flushed, "No, that isn't it, Weston. It just seemed a shame to put these nice uniforms away." He touched the creased sleeves and the rows of service ribbons.

  "Dang it, Mick, I've been in uniform since I was eighteen. That's eight years. I don't feel dressed up without brass buttons."

  "Oh, you're going to make a wonderful spy. You'll have your medals pinned to your underwear or something."

  Logan hissed, "Shut up about that, Mickey. I'm getting sorry I told you."

  Old pap Ruby gave the bride away for the second time, and best man, Logan Dell, kept flirting with the maid of honor. Sis looked good in yellow, a color Mickey favored.

  The marrying was quick and the small reception only a little longer. The Dells and Westons attended and even John, the Weston's handyman was present, with a tie so crooked it came out near his shoulder.

  Logan went around telling one group that he was going to work for a Texas oil company and another couple that he was entering a real estate venture in Arizona.

  When a man asked him what Logan planned to do, Mickey answered straight-faced that Logan Dell had signed aboard a whaler working out of Iceland and might be gone for a year.

  Logan heard him and openly gritted his teeth. Mickey didn't care. If liar Dell liked stories, he would just help him out.

  Cal and Daniel Ruby had moved out west, but pap Ruby got drunk enough for them all and had to be carried home.

  Logan had arranged for boys to tie some old shoes and a can to Mickey's bumper. He had also managed the dead fish on the engine block. Knowing Logan, Mickey hunted out the fish before the honeymooners got to Meck's Corners.

  He didn't locate the fish in the hubcaps until four days later.

  +++

  1948

  When the Beaver patrol was gathered close around the fire, Mickey began the storytelling. The night was clear with the stars showing their best. The wind had died with the daylight, and fire smoke rose straight, instead of strangling and blinding one side of the circle.

  Logan lounged across the fire, a little back because he was only a visitor. The Scoutmaster had been to the camp before. Each patrol went through its rituals and sang around the campfire. They slept in lean-tos earlier patrols had built and did their business in the straddle trench Mickey had dug for the purpose.

  Each overnight camping began with a stiff hike from downtown. Later, they loaded onto Mickey Weston's hay wagon and were tractored by old logging roads to the camping place hidden beyond Dix Hill.

  It was a good spot. Mickey, Logan, and Sis had used it as children. There was a spring and the trees were large without brush and thorns underneath. The camp lay in a sheltered hollow, protected from winds, which added to the illusion of being far from home.

  When scouts used the camp, Mickey made sure the firewood was dry and plentiful. The campers left in the morning and Mickey checked the place. The fire was always out and the camp policed up, but scouts forgot things and Mickey returned jackets, canteens, and assorted accoutrements.

  Logan complained that a farmer who worked the hours Mickey did shouldn't waste weekend evenings fooling with other people's kids. On the other hand, Logan always helped out, grumbling more or less constantly, but clearly enjoying himself.

  "Why don't you just shut up and admit you like this stuff, Logan?"

  Logan appeared shocked. "Like camping? I quit liking camping when I was eighteen. The army bivouacs all the time. I've slept out more times than all these scouts put together. I hate it."

  "Not the camping, Dell, the kids. You like the idea of scouting and you get a boot out of helping boys learn things."

  "Well, it's all right if you have the time."

  "I've noticed you always have the time."

  Mickey began his story.

  "A few years ago, some friends of mine went hunting down in Dark Hollow. Most of you know how big and gloomy that place is. Some say Big Foot could be in there and nobody would know."

  "Anyway, these hunters agr
eed that if one of them got lost, he would shoot three times into the air so people could find him. Then they separated and went out to find their deer."

  "Well, sure enough, one got turned around. The sun was behind clouds and every hill looked alike. The hunter climbed trees and hooted and hollered, but no help came. Finally he gave up and shot three times into the air, but no help came. Again he shot three times, still no answer. When he shot three more times without anyone coming, the lost hunter knew he would have to find his own way."

  "What he did was follow water downstream. If you do that, you'll sooner or later come out. The hunter hit a road and by morning made it back to camp. Boy was he mad. He hollered, 'Where were you guys? I shot three times over and over, and nobody came!'"

  "A friend asked, 'Well, why didn't you keep it up until we found you?'"

  "The mad hunter answered, 'Because I only had one arrow left."

  When Mickey stopped, Logan groaned in pretended agony. It took the scouts a little longer, but they too groaned and guffawed and one boy claimed that the dumbbell could have been his brother.

  When the scouts settled down, Mickey and Logan took the tractor and hay wagon in.

  Logan asked, "How come you're driving and I'm bouncing around on this fender?"

  "It's planning. I'll always be comfortable and you will always be miserable."

  "Mickey, if you could see some of the luxury hotels and apartments I live in, you'd turn even greener with envy. I had a place in Manila one time that a king would admire: tile floors, indoor pool, even three maids. I got bored after a while and moved on."

  "Liar."

  "Unbelieving infidel."

  "I figure you lurk around poorly lit drinking establishments, wearing a dirty trench coat and looking sinister. I doubt you ever find out much though. I'd fire a guy like you, Logan."

  "Hey, Mick, I'm working in production efficiency right now. Why would I wear a trench coat?"

  "You liar."

  "Communist."

  Mickey didn't believe any of it because Logan carried a gun. It was a small framed revolver, fitted into a leather holster strapped to his ankle.

  When Mickey discovered the gun, Logan simply poo-poohed its importance. "Pay no attention. Regulations require everybody to 'pack a rod.' That's gangster talk I saw in a movie."

  "You said you had a desk job."

  "So? I just told you the rule applies to everyone."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Look, Mick, forget the gun. Hell, I don't hardly know how to shoot it."

  Logan did though. Logan had always been a good shot. Now, he was almost uncanny. Logan never fired his revolver but Mickey got him out shooting with his old Hi-Standard .22 pistol.

  After Mickey shot off a magazine or two, Logan got interested. Logan shot deadly straight with either hand and from awkward positions. When he was finished, Mickey was almost speechless.

  After a while, he said, "Logan, you've been practicing."

  Logan laughed, "Well the army taught me a lot, Mick." He hastened to add, "Of course, I don't do any of that now."

  "Liar."

  "Nazi."

  "That was a good story you told the scouts, Mick. It was funny but it also taught something."

  "You mean about following the water flow."

  "Yep, good rule. Unless you were on the north slope of Alaska's Brooks Range. Then all the streams flow toward the North Pole. Not many people up that way."

  "Doubt our scouts will hike to Alaska."

  "Nope, but most of them will be hunters, so you've told 'em a useful rule."

  Logan was silent for a turn. Then he asked, "When are you and Sis going to start a family, Mick? You're not getting any younger."

  Mickey was slow answering, and Logan felt a heaviness in the silence.

  "Well, it looks as though we won't be having a family, Logan. Fact is, Doc Johnson's found out that Sis can't have children. Some sort of female constriction that they don't know how to fix."

  Logan said, "Ah hell, Mickey."

  "Yeh, that's about how we took it."

  They drove without speaking, each burdened with thought.

  "Doctor Johnson says there's no fixing it, huh?"

  "She's sure about it. Doubt there's a test Sis hasn't taken."

  "How's Sis taking it? I didn't have a hint anything was wrong."

  "Well, she's handled it Ok. Feels guilty about not being able, I guess. I get to feeling guilty for having wanted kids and putting guilt on her—if you follow that."

  "Yeah, I can see that."

  There was more silence between them. Then Logan asked, "How about adopting, Mick?"

  "Not now anyway. I don't feel the need and I think Sis is looking beyond child raising, thinking about the things she and I can do without the burdens of family raising."

  "There's something to be said for that. Kids'll tie you down and make you pay, for most of your best years. Guess no one thinks of that until they're hip deep in dirty diapers."

  Mickey chuckled, "You've got a point, Logan."

  He shifted subjects. "So, what are you doing about settling down, Dell? Don't give me stories about exotic Eurasians with dresses slit to their waists. I'm talking marriage here."

  Logan was adamant. "Not me, Weston. Not this year and probably not ever. Logan Dell is like quicksilver, the harder you squeeze, the easier he slips away. I'm like wood smoke, here today, gone in a puff."

  "Nobody will have you, huh?"

  "Laugh if you like, Mick, but I've seen females over more than half the world. What I've seen keeps me light on my feet, with a back door always open. Old will-o'-the- wisp Dell can't be trapped, haltered, or hobbled."

  "He doth protest overmuch."

  "Don't get literary with me, Weston. Who said that, Barney Google? Just you watch and see."

  +++

  1955 - Sabot

  The village hung above the Aegean, seemingly plastered to the rocky hillside by the summer sun's unrelenting heat.

  A cliff fell directly into the sea, with only long fallen boulders to confuse the water's surge against the stone. The cliff was capped by a narrow, stone-paved road that descended to the island's only port and rose to pass ancient walls that once guarded villages from sea brigands seeking easy gains.

  Brigands now landed in sleek jets on a concrete runway across the island, where no one chose to live. Men wearing expensive European clothing, with gold chains and Rolex watches came to reserved rooms in the great hotel overlooking the sea and the cliff road.

  Some arrivees were overlords of crime, dealing in smuggled guns, electronics, or drugs. Cartels involved in cunning business ventures met here, and men with internationally recognizable faces could be found dining or absorbing sun at poolside.

  There were no unwritten laws protecting island visitors. Men of importance brought their guards, therefore visits were usually peaceful. Violence did occur and occasionally persons disappeared, without trace.

  The police did little investigating. There were rarely witnesses to criminal acts, except those proving someone completely innocent. Authorities recorded and forgot the incidents. Life went on.

  Secret men came to the island. They mingled with the tourist horde that trampled ancient ruins and marveled over deeply entrenched cannon that had once dominated inter-island passages.

  Sabot came as a tourist. He wore a soft shirt outside pleated Italian trousers. When he bent or stretched, no hidden weapon revealed itself. No trick camera fired bullets and he had no gas pens or poison rings. Sabot was unarmed—except for the five-shot Smith and Wesson revolver holstered against his left calf. The two-inch barreled pistol was round butted and weighed little. Sabot had worn the gun so long, he was seldom aware of its presence.

  The case officer had been late arriving. Sabot was gratified. A day or two in the sun, without the constant look behind, or the hasty eye search for enemy in every gathering, was welcome.

  Habit made him cautious and he did not don swimming attire, but
for a full day he had checked arrivals. No familiar faces appeared. He had not been followed. Why should he be? The man called Sabot was not known in the Middle East.

  His duties had not yet been outlined, but without language, Sabot assumed his role would be peripheral to an established operation. That, too, could be welcome. Lately the strains had become many and a mental fatigue wore at his ability to remain interested.

  The case officer's tardy arrival allowed the agent to accompany legitimate tourists on their island wanderings. At thirty-six, Sabot was solid, without the potted belly many developed. His hair remained thick and his eyesight clear. He subverted his natural exuberance and blended easily with the gaggles of twittery, camera-burdened tourists.

  The few who noticed Sabot saw only an attractive man, approaching middle years, apparently alone. Sabot avoided eye contact and did not encourage conversation. His opinions were not sought and he was easily forgotten.

  Because it was wise to know things, the agent spent a morning on the docks. He included coffee with a Spanish speaking fisherman, who enthusiastically explained his business and the prospects of those around him to the friendly stranger who spoke his language with accomplished grace.

  The case officer answered to Andre. He arrived, sweating and harried on the afternoon of Sabot's third day. The agent recognized him easily; Andre resembled his photographs.

  Despite careful examination, Sabot did not identify anyone else on Andre's flight. In preparation, he had studied a large number of photographs of opposing players. His time had been short, and the Middle East teemed with secretive people. Sabot had been shown only the most dangerous.

  Andre passed his agent without apparent recognition, but Sabot did not doubt the contact. In his own time, the case officer would call and the agent's real orientation would begin.

  Andre was a careful man. He had wound a circuitous path to his meeting. Still, he felt uncertain and made his own examinations before ringing L. Sabot's room.