“Easy conclusion that it has something to do with the Vietnam War.” Lee grunted. “I was talking to Roy on the phone while Ali was giving you a ride to Marion. He says the guy who tried to take you at the memorial was a Vietnamese gangster.”
“Maybe this helps,” Webb said. After telling this much, there was no point holding back the rest. “The Sean Alexander passport also had two other identification cards tucked between the pages. Not military, just ID. One for a man and one for a woman. Both Vietnamese.”
“Yeah,” Lee said. “It does help. All of it points to Vietnam and the war. If we can find out what the link is, we’ll get our answers. If your grandfather was a spy, you want to prove he wasn’t a traitor. Me? I want payback for a burned-down house.”
ELEVEN
The next morning at seven, Webb was sitting in a booth at a breakfast restaurant across the street from the Atlanta motel where Lee had paid for two rooms the night before.
This was a new day. Webb had changed from his Blue Bombers T-shirt to his Calgary Stampeders. Iconic white galloping horse against a red background. Six for thirteen in Grey Cup appearances. If you wanted to see a beautiful city, you had to check out Calgary. Rocky Mountains for a backdrop, wide open plains spread out in front. Home of Canada’s Sports Hall of Fame.
Webb held his iPhone at arm’s length and smiled and took a selfie. His mom knew that he was in the States, just not all the things he was doing.
“There’s proof of a generation that thinks it’s important,” Lee said. “The world revolves around you guys, right?”
“Or proof that every morning I email a new photo to my mom,” Webb said. “Subject heading, Smile of the Day. That way she knows I’m thinking about her and that I love her.”
“Don’t I feel like a pompous ass,” Lee said. “Give your mom my best.”
Webb bent over his phone to compose the email and attach the new photo. It would be the usual email, telling her that everything was great and that he missed her. No sense making her worry when she was so far away. That’s when someone slid a pile of twenty-dollar bills onto the table and sat down at their booth.
The man was in paint-splattered jeans and an old work shirt. Webb had seen him pull up in an old pickup with a sign on its door: JOHNSON RENOVATING.
“Don’t want the money from you,” the man said to Lee. “Be nice if you answered some questions, but if you don’t, I’m fine with that too. I’ll tell you what you want either way. That Purple Heart of yours gives you as much credit as you need with me.”
Lee left the money where it was. “I’m taking you away from work. You should be compensated for it.”
The man’s name was Marcus Johnson, and he was a few years younger than Lee. He had a goatee, and his nose looked like it had been flattened by punches a few times. His skin was ebony black, and the wrinkles around his eyes showed that he laughed plenty.
“I’ll just get to the job site late and stay a little later,” Marcus said. “You’re not paying me to help, and I hope I’ve made that clear.”
The waitress stopped at the table. She was mid-twenties. Her hair was in cornrows. She held a pencil and a pad, and her fingernails were clipped short. No rings. Normally, Webb didn’t give much thought to skin color, but it occurred to him that he was the only white person in the restaurant. White. He decided he preferred that to calling himself Caucasian. Put him in Lee’s camp when it came to color definitions, although it’d be nice to live in a world where all that mattered was the shared color of blood.
“You have kids?” Lee asked the waitress. Friendly.
She put a hand on her hip, cocked her head and said, “What kind of way is that to order breakfast?”
“Two eggs over easy, pancakes, bacon,” Lee said. “You have kids? Humor me.”
She wrote the order down, looked up and said, “Two boys. Five and three. Best thing that happened to me. Any other questions?”
Lee shook his head. “Nope.”
Webb ordered the same thing as Lee. Marcus chose an omelet.
“Notice her fingernails?” Lee asked Marcus.
Marcus shrugged.
“Webb?” Lee said.
“Clipped short,” Webb answered.
“That’s what I saw too,” Lee said. “She’s working hard, doesn’t spend money on fingernails. Some places I go, women have long curving nails with artwork on glossy paint. Takes money to maintain. Nails that long and beautiful, you make sure they don’t get chipped, means you’re more worried about your nails than doing a good job. I see nails like hers, cut short, tells me that for her, it’s all about take-home pay for her two boys. That sound about right?”
“I’d rather hear about where you’re going and why I’m here,” Marcus said. “Some girl on a motorcycle stops by my house last night and hands me an envelope with money, as a thank-you for my time, and instructions to show up here at 7 AM and make sure nobody follows me. I’m more curious about that than what somebody does with their fingernails.”
Lee straightened out the twenties, but left them on the table. “If you don’t take this cash, we should leave it as a tip for her, knowing it’s probably going to be used for her two little boys and not for painted fingernails. That way, we both get to feel good about helping her and I won’t feel like I put you in harm’s way without making it worth your while.”
“Harm’s way?” Marcus asked.
“You got a call from Michael Durant, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m trying to establish the chain of people who were involved in the questions I asked. He’s a friend from way back to my time in ’Nam. I asked him if he had any connections to help me get information. He named you. That makes you second in the chain. I’d like to know the next link after you.”
“Makes me a friend of a friend, is what you’re saying.”
“Yeah. Durant told me he called you, wondering if you had any way of looking into the military background of two soldiers. Jesse Lockewood. Benjamin Moody. Durant was going to get back to me with what he learned from you, but stuff, um, happened.”
“Yeah,” Marcus answered. “He was up-front about it—said it was a favor to you. Said you were a standup guy and did three years in ’Nam. Purple Heart. That was good enough for me. I told him I could ask someone I knew still in the military, and I did.”
“The person you asked. The next link in the chain. You give him my name?”
“I did. Saw no reason not to mention it. Michael Durant didn’t make like it was secret. What’s that got to do with making sure no one followed me here and putting me in harm’s way?”
“Someone burned down my house to get rid of the old identification cards.”
Marcus turned his head and stared out the restaurant window. Gray sky, a few drops of rain. Not much to see except rundown storefronts. And the cheap motel where Webb and Lee had stayed the night before. But it didn’t appear that Marcus was looking out the window for the view. He was thinking things through.
“Some reason then,” Marcus finally said, “that those names are dangerous. Flagged in a military computer maybe?”
“Maybe,” Lee said. “By someone with enough juice to shut down my cell signals and tap my cell phone.”
“You got a burner cell now?” Marcus asked.
“Walmart special,” Lee said. “Doesn’t mean that they can’t tap your incoming calls. If they knew you were somewhere along the chain, they could be watching you, waiting for me and the kid here.”
Marcus gave a slow nod. “That’s why I got a message on a piece of paper from you instead of a call.”
“If you followed my instructions, you made sure no one followed you,” Lee said. “We’re both safe. Off-grid.”
“Fair enough,” Marcus said. “Thanks for covering me. Durant was right about you being a stand-up guy.”
Marcus gave Webb some attention for the first time since sitting down. “How you involved?”
“I’m the one who started it all,” Webb a
nswered. “I asked Lee if he could help me.”
“That’s how I’d like it to stay,” Lee said to Marcus. “You’re helping me. Not Webb here.”
“Message received loud and clear,” Marcus said. “I’m in front of you now. What questions you have?”
“Same ones that Michael Durant had for you first time around. Except for a different reason. If I know your contact, maybe I can track down who wanted my house burned. Also, it would help if you gave me any information on the two names. Lockewood and Moody.”
“First answer. I called General Sutton. I knew him long before he was an Air Force general. He told me he had to make a call to DC, to his contact there.”
As in Washington, DC, Webb guessed.
“You have the name of the DC contact?” Lee asked.
“I can get it from Sutton and pass it along to you as soon as I find out.”
“Thanks,” Lee said. “Second answer?”
Marcus nodded. “Jesse Lockewood, 198th Infantry Delta Company Second Platoon. Shipped home in a body bag in ’72. Was nineteen at the time. Posthumous Bronze Star. Died in enemy fire while trying to evacuate three wounded. Saved the life of a solider named Casey Gardner.”
“Parents still alive?”
“Mother gone. Father lives in Gainesville, Florida. Matt Lockewood. In his early eighties. Jesse’s sister is Natasha Bartlett, lives in a place called Sandpoint, Idaho.”
“Anything on Casey Gardner?” Lee asked. “Might be helpful to talk to him.”
“He’s officially listed as a deserter. No official trace of him since Vietnam.”
“And Benjamin Moody?” Lee said.
“Here’s what’s strange,” Marcus said. “He’s got a full military record right up to his time in Vietnam. He served until ’72, but after that, he disappears from any computer records. No record of tax returns, no driver’s license, no social security contributions. No death certificate. It’s like the guy completely vanished.”
Lee tapped his spoon on the table as he gave it some thought. Then he asked, “You had a chance to tell any of this to my buddy Michael?”
“Nope. Just got it last night.”
“How about calling him later this morning and giving him all the information?” Lee said. “Make sure it sounds like neither of us has any idea what’s going on. If your phone is tapped, that might give me a leg up, because they’ll have no idea that I’ve already learned all this.”
“Done.”
“Thanks,” Lee said.
Lee slapped the table with a palm and stood and looked at Webb.
“Well,” Lee said to him, “let’s head back to Tennessee.”
Webb looked back as they were leaving the restaurant. He saw the waitress fan the twenties in joy and disbelief as she stopped at the table to pick up her tip. Lee caught the look too, and gave her a thumbs-up so she’d know it wasn’t a mistake.
Short fingernails. That did say something, didn’t it?
TWELVE
“What did you think of Casablanca?” Lee asked an hour into the road trip. “You know, the movie.”
Lee sipped a coffee while Webb drove the Camaro, cruise control set at two miles per hour above the speed limit. They were on Interstate 75 heading south and had just passed a sign that said Macon 10. The Georgia countryside in December looked good to Webb, greener than in Nashville, five hours north, and plenty green compared to the gray city snow of Toronto. Webb loved the feel of the Camaro on the road and wished he could drive about twenty miles an hour faster.
“What did you think of Casablanca?” Lee repeated with no trace of impatience that Webb had ignored his question the first time.
The night before, alone in his motel room, Webb had watched Casablanca again on Lee’s iPad before falling asleep. The actor Humphrey Bogart played the proprietor of a nightclub in Casablanca, a city in Morocco, on the African coast. Bogart got priceless letters of transit that would let refugees escape German control. Bogart sacrificed those letters to help the woman he loved leave with another man. Webb liked the line that Bogart said when he first saw her: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Casablanca?” Webb said. “Before I tell you what I think, maybe you should be more up-front with me. You told the guy in the restaurant we were headed back to Nashville to visit your buddy. That’s north. I’m nearly out of patience waiting for you to tell us why we’re heading south.”
“Nice to see you’re paying attention.”
“No answer?”
“I told him we were headed to Nashville in case he was reporting back to our Bogeyman. That gives us extra time before they find us.”
“So where are we going?” Webb asked. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there are two of us in this car.”
“Gainesville, to visit Jesse Lockewood’s father. Might as well see what we can learn from him. Who knows, maybe that’s not even his son’s photo on the ID card. While you were putting gas in the car, I called Roy Hawkins. He texted me Lockewood’s address a few minutes ago.”
“Nice of you to keep me informed,” Webb said. “Like I did for you when you wanted full disclosure about the identification cards and my grandfather.”
“Trust is something I don’t do easily,” Lee said. “I’d apologize, but it would be insincere.”
“So that’s how it is. I answer your questions, but you play Mr. Clam for me?”
“All I asked was if you liked Casablanca.”
“Without telling me why you wanted me to watch it. Seems like somehow I’ve become your pet project, but this whole Grasshopper thing is old. Maybe you should tell me why you wanted me to watch it.”
“Grasshopper?”
“Yeah. Like in the old Kung Fu movies. Where the master says something like, ‘Grasshopper, when you can snatch the pebble from my hand, it is time for you to leave.’ Thing is, and I say this with respect, I didn’t sign up to be your student.”
“What happened in Macon, Georgia,” Lee said, “a few years before the Vietnam War?”
“Let me see,” Webb answered. He wasn’t sleeping much these days, and that made him irritable too. “I’ll bet that somewhere, at some time, the traffic lights turned from green to yellow to red. Cars stopped. The lights turned green, and cars moved forward again. I’ll bet that happened. Rain probably fell. Dogs pooped in parks. Babies dropped ice-cream cones on sidewalks. I could come up with a whole list of things that must have happened there before the war. Oops, that was me ignoring the pebble in your open hand.”
Lee remained calm. “Early sixties, a black man named Billy Randall organized a boycott of the buses,” Lee said. “Until then, blacks couldn’t sit in a white section of a bus. So not one black took a bus for three weeks. Boycott ended three weeks later. No violence. No more segregation. Something we can learn from.”
“I’m not your grasshopper.”
“You’re the next generation. Twenty, thirty years from now, you and your friends are going to be making the decisions that matter. Coal-fired generators for electricity? Or nuclear? Or solar-powered? Equality? No equality?”
“I don’t think you’re listening,” Webb said. “You could have picked anyplace in Atlanta to meet that guy, but you took us to a restaurant in a part of town where people stare at me because my skin is white. Think I can’t figure out you’re trying to make a point about what it’s like for a black man to be surrounded by whites? Let me repeat. I didn’t sign up to be your grasshopper.”
“And I didn’t sign up to get my house burned down.”
“Wondered when you’d bring that up,” Webb said. “Wondered when you’d use it to make me feel guilty and do it your way.”
Webb hit the signal light to indicate he was taking the next exit. He brought the Camaro to a stop on the shoulder at a safe place and gave Lee a cold smile.
“This long hair you think is the whole hip-musician look?” Webb said as he put the Camaro into Park. “Not that at all. I had a stepfathe
r in the military who controlled every aspect of my life. Didn’t try to control it. Controlled it. Right down to the buzz cut and signing me up for cadets. It’s why I ran away from home and lived on the streets, eating from Dumpsters. I grew my hair out so that anytime he saw me after that, he’d see the hair that told him I was doing it my way, not his. And one of the ways he controlled me was just like you did. Guilt.”
Webb unbuckled his seat belt. “Mr. Knox, thanks for all you’ve tried to do to help, but I’ll be going my own way, if you don’t mind.”
Webb hit the button that popped the trunk. He stepped out of the car, took his guitar travel bag from the open trunk, slammed it shut and began walking up the hill that led to the overpass ahead. The weight of the guitar in the travel bag felt comforting to him. His guitar had never let him down.
Lee stepped out from the passenger side. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Just listen, okay?”
Webb kept walking. Lee had to walk with him. A breeze blew from behind them, fanning the long grass in the ditch.
“No more guilt,” Lee said. “Not your fault my house is gone. And trust me, it was well insured.”
Lee stayed at Webb’s side, keeping up. “My bad for pushing my agenda on you. I can’t help it. Two reasons. First, I’ve spent my whole life fighting for civil rights. It’s who I am. It’s wrong to be prejudiced against someone for the color of their skin. Second, it’s not too difficult to see there’s something good about you. You’re better than drugs and rock and roll. Kids like you can make a difference, if you care.”
“Now you accuse me of doing drugs? That’s what the long hair says to you? Talk about prejudice. Maybe I need to make you my project.”
“Come on,” Lee said. “Look at me. From age ten, I’ve never asked a white person for any kind of help. I’m asking now. Don’t walk away. Because you were right. I’m wrong to be forcing this on you.”
Tin Soldier: The Seven Sequels Page 5
