If Freeman asked him the question his face would shatter like frozen glass.
Two hours and two minutes.
Coffee? He had had three cups this evening. That was more than enough caffeine. No booze. No beer. No alcohol, period.
God, he was going to get stinking drunk tomorrow night. He was going to go on a world-class bender and stay yellow-puke drunk for three whole days.
If he was still alive tomorrow night, that is.
Two hours and one minute. A hundred-and-twenty-one minutes.
He picked up the automatic and ran his fingers over it. He would take it with him tonight. In ten months he had never carried a gun, but tonight … Maybe it would give him an edge, since they wouldn’t expect it.
Two hours flat.
Captain Jake Grafton was feeling expansive. He had had a delightful day with his daughter, Amy, and had finished most of his Christmas shopping. Callie had gone by herself to buy Amy’s presents and presumably one for Jake. He had glimpsed her sorting through his clothes this morning, probably checking sizes. This evening the captain smiled genially and let his eyes rest happily on Amy Carol, then on Callie at the other end of the dinner table. Two beautiful women. He was a very lucky man.
The captain’s gaze moved down the table to Toad Tarkington, who was paying no attention to anyone except his wife, Rita Moravia, who sat beside him. Tomorrow Toad would probably have a crick in his neck. Rita was also the object of Amy’s undivided attention. Amy adored the navy test pilot, but this evening as she regarded Rita a curious expression played about her features.
When Callie’s gaze met Jake’s, he nodded toward Amy and knitted his brows into a question. His wife shook her head almost imperceptibly and looked away.
One of those female things, Jake Grafton concluded, that men are not expected to understand or concern themselves about. He sighed.
Across the table from the Tarkingtons sat Jack Yocke and his date, Tish Samuels. Tish was a lovely person, with a pleasant smile and kind word for everyone. In several ways she reminded Jake of his wife, like the way she held her head, the way she listened, her thoughtful comments…. Tish also listened intently to Rita as she finished telling a flying story. When Rita concluded, Tish smiled and glanced at Yocke.
Whether the reporter knew it or not, the woman was obviously in love with him. Yocke seemed mellow, more relaxed than he had been the first time he was at the Graftons’. Or perhaps it was just Jake’s mood that made him seem that way.
As usual when he was relaxed, Jake Grafton said little. He nibbled his food and took sparing sips of wine and let the conversation flow over him.
Callie turned to Yocke and said, “I’ve been reading your stories on Cuba. They are very, very good.”
“Thank you,” Jack Yocke said, genuinely pleased by the compliment.
Callie led him on, and in a few moments Yocke was talking about Cuba. Toad even tore his attention away from Rita to listen and occasionally toss in a question.
At first Yocke’s comments were superficial, but it seemed as if the company drew him out. Even Jake began to pay attention.
“… the thing that impressed me was the sense of destiny that the people had, the common people, the workers. They were gaining something. And then I realized that what they were talking about, what they wanted, was democracy, the right to vote for the leaders who made the laws. You know, we’ve had it here for so long that we’ve become blasé. It’s fashionable these days to sneer at politicians, laugh at the swine prostituting themselves for campaign money and begging shamelessly for votes. And yet, when you’re up to your eyes in dictatorship, being ordered around by some self-appointed Caesar with big ideas in a little head, democracy looks damned good.”
His listeners seemed to agree, so Yocke developed the thought: “It’s funny, but democracy rests on the simplest premise that has ever supported a form of human government: a majority of the people will be right more often than not. Think about it! Errors are part of the system. They are inevitable as the political currents ebb and flow. Yet in the long run, a shifting, changing majority will be right a majority of the time.”
“Will these countries which are embracing democracy for the first time have the patience to wait for the successes and to tolerate the errors?” Jake Grafton asked, the first time during dinner that he had spoken.
Yocke looked down the table at the captain. “I don’t know,” he said. “It takes a lot of faith to believe in the good faith and wisdom of your fellow man. Democracy will stick in some places, sure. I think it needs to get its roots in deep though, or it’ll get ripped up by the first big blow. There’s always someone promising instant salvation if he could just get his hands on the helm and throttle.”
“How about democracy in America? A fad or here to stay?”
“Jake Grafton!” Callie admonished. “What a question!”
“It’s a good one,” Yocke told her. “One of the common errors is to get rid of the system. We’ve got a lot of problems in America and two hundred and fifty million people advocating solutions. I should know—I make my living writing about the problems.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Toad Tarkington said, and grinned.
“I don’t know the answer,” Jack Yocke told him.
“I don’t think anything could make us give up our republic,” Callie declared.
“What do you think, Captain?” Tish Samuels asked.
Jake snorted. “The roots are in deep all right, but if the storm were bad enough…. Who wants coffee besides me?”
As Callie poured coffee, Jake saw Rita speaking softly to Amy. The youngster listened, her face clouding heavily, then she abruptly fled the room.
Jake folded his napkin and excused himself. He didn’t get past Callie. She thrust the coffeepot at him, then followed Amy into the bedroom.
“How do you want it, Toad?” Jake leaned over the lieutenant’s shoulder.
“In the cup, if possible, CAG.”
“Rita, have you picked up any new lines to teach this clown? His act is getting real stale.”
Rita grinned at Jake. “I know. I was hoping that since he works in your shop now you could give him some help.”
“You work for Captain Grafton?” Jack Yocke asked Toad.
“Maybe I should go visit with Callie and Amy for a minute,” Rita said, and rose from her chair. She came out of it supplely, effortlessly. Toad and Jake watched her until the bedroom door closed behind her.
“Yeah,” Toad said to the reporter. “CAG can’t get rid of me. Actually I have been of some small service to Captain Grafton in the past in his epic struggles to defend the free world from the forces of evil and all that. I suggested yesterday that he buy a Batmobile and I’d keep it over at my place until he needs it. He doesn’t have a garage here.”
“What do you two do over in the Pentagon?” Yocke asked.
“It’s very hush-hush,” Toad confided, lowering his voice appropriately. “We’re drafting top-secret war plans to go into effect if Canada attacks us. We figure they’ll probably take out the automobile plants in Detroit first. Surprise attack. Maybe a Sunday morning. Then—”
“Toad!” Jake growled.
Tarkington gestured helplessly at Tish Samuels, who was grinning. “My lips are sealed. Anyway, it’s a real dilly of a tip-top secret, which as you know are the very best kind. If the Canadians ever find out …”
As they cleared the table, Jake said to Toad, “Rita seems to be fully recovered from that crash last year.”
“She’s got some scars,” Toad said, “but she’s amazed the therapists. Amazed me too.”
They had the dishes in the washer and were in the living room drinking coffee when Amy and Rita came out of the bedroom holding hands. Both looked like they had been crying. Callie headed for the kitchen and Jake trailed after her.
“What was that all about?”
“Amy worships Rita and has a crush on Toad.” Callie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Hormon
es!”
“Ouch.”
Callie smiled and gave Jake a hug. “I love you.”
“I love you too, woman. But we’d better get back to our guests.”
“Aren’t you glad we invited Jack Yocke?”
“He’s a good kid.”
Fear increases exponentially the closer you get to the feared object. Harrison Ronald made this discovery as he drove toward Freeman McNally’s northwest Washington house.
He could feel it, a paralyzing, mind-numbing daze that made him want to puke and run at the same time.
He was paying less and less attention to the traffic around him, and he knew it but couldn’t do better. That was another thing about fear—a little of it is necessary, keeps you sharp, makes you function at peak efficiency in potentially dangerous situations. But too much of it is paralyzing. Fear becomes terror, which numbs the mind and muscles. And if the ratchet is loosened just a notch, the terror becomes panic and all the muscles receive one message from the shorted-out brain—flee.
He drove slower and slower. When the traffic lights turned green he had to will himself to depress the accelerator. A man in a car behind raced his engine and gunned by with his middle finger held rigidly aloft. Ford ignored him.
In spite of everything, he got there. He eased the car down the alley and into a parking place behind McNally’s row house. The guard was standing in the shadow of a fence. Ford killed the engine. He was not going to retch, no sir. Under no circumstances was he going to let himself vomit.
“Now or never,” he said aloud, comforted by the sound of his voice, which sounded more or less under control, and opened the door. The guard walked toward him with his hands in his coat pockets.
Oh, damn! This is it!
“You Z?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Ain’t nobody in there. You’re supposed to go over to the Sanitary and pick up a load.”
He stood there beside the car staring at the man. It didn’t compute. Think, goddamn it! Think! The Sanitary Bakery …
“The guard’ll meet you there.”
Ford turned and reopened the car door. He seated himself, then tried to remember what he had done with the key. Not this pocket, nor this … here! He stabbed it at the ignition. Turn the key.
With the engine running a tidal wave of relief rolled over him. He pulled the shift lever back a notch and let the car drift backward, toward the alley.
Everything’s cool. Everything’s cool as a fucking ice cube.
Look behind you, idiot. Don’t hit the pole.
As the guard returned to the shadows he backed out into the alley and fed gas.
The relief turned to disgust. He had sweated bullets all day, for what? For nothing!
Maybe he should just split. Why not? He had proved to himself he could make it through today. That was the main thing. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, and why should he deliver another load of shit for Freeman McNally? The feds already had enough evidence for 241 counts on an indictment. Why add another?
What are you proving, Harrison? You’ve had no sleep, you’ve been scared shitless for ten months, you killed a guy, you got enough evidence to send McNally and friends up the river so long that crack will be legal when they get out, but you have to be alive to testify.
Why dick around with it another night? Don’t lose sight of the main thing—you’ve made it through today.
But he knew the answer. He pointed the car toward Georgia Avenue and fed gas.
“How well do you know Captain Grafton?” Jack Yocke asked Toad Tarkington. It was about ten o’clock and they were standing on the balcony looking at the city. It was nippy but there was little wind.
“Oh, about as well as any junior officer can know a senior one. I think he personally likes me, but at the office I’m just another one of the guys.”
“By reputation, he’s one of the best officers in the Navy.”
“He’s the best I ever met. Period,” Toad said. “You want paper shuffled, Captain Grafton can handle it. You want critical decisions wisely made or carefully defended, he’s your man. You need a man to lead other men into combat, get Grafton. You want a plane flown to hell and back, nobody’s better than he is. If you want an officer who will always do right regardless of the consequences, then you want Jake Grafton.”
“How about you?”
“Me? I’m just a lieutenant. I fly when I’m told, sleep when I’m told, and shit when it’s on the schedule.”
“How does Captain Grafton always know what the right thing to do is?”
“What is this? Twenty questions? Don’t you ever lay off?”
“Just curious. I’m not going to print this.”
“You’d better not. I’ll break your pencil.”
“How does he know?”
“He’s got common sense. That’s a rare commodity inside the beltway. I haven’t seen enough of it in this town to fill a condom, but common sense is Jake Grafton’s long suit.”
Yocke chuckled.
“Better watch that,” Toad admonished. “Your press card may melt if you crack a smile. Your reputation as an uptight superprick is on the line here.”
Jack Yocke grinned. “I deserved that. Sorry about those cracks the first time I met you. I was having a bad day.”
“Had one of those myself one time,” Tarkington muttered. He stamped his feet. “I’m getting cold. Let’s go inside.”
Harrison Ronald stood by the side of the Mustang and stared at the right front tire. Flat.
Traffic whizzed by on Rhode Island Avenue. When he felt the wheel pulling and heard the thumping, he had pulled into a convenience store parking lot.
Fate, he decided, as he opened the trunk and rooted in it for the jack and lug wrench. On the way to his rendezvous with destiny, Galahad’s horse threw a shoe. How comes this stuff never happens in the movies?
He got the front end off the ground, but the lug nuts were rusted on. Damn that Freeman, he never had these tires rotated or balanced or aligned. Got so damned much money he never takes care of anything.
He needed a cheater bar or a hammer. Frustrated, he sat on the pavement and kicked at the end of the lug wrench. The wrench flew off, scarring the nut. He tried it again. And again. Finally the nut turned.
A police cruiser pulled into the lot and stopped in front of the store. Two white cops. They got out of the cruiser, stood for a moment or two silently watching Ford wrestle with the wrench, then went inside.
Jesus, didn’t they see the outline of the automatic in the small of his back, under his coat? Those shitheads. A weapon was the first thing they should have been looking for.
As Ford kicked at the last nut, he glanced through the big plate-glass windows. The cops were sipping coffee and flirting with the girl behind the counter.
He skinned his knuckle and it started bleeding. Well, it wouldn’t bleed long. The dirt and grease would get in the skinned place and stop the blood. His father’s hands had always had chunks missing, cavities full of dirt and grease that slowly, ever so slowly, healed just in time to be ripped open again. As a kid he had looked at his father’s thick, heavy hands and asked, “Don’t they hurt?”
Dad, wherever you are, my hands are cold and hurt like hell and my ass is freezing from the pavement and my nose is dripping.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
So what did’ya expect? The cops’d help? Get real!
Jack Yocke found himself staring at Tish Samuels. He had been watching her for several minutes when he realized with a start what he was doing. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Jake Grafton met his eyes. Yocke smiled and looked away.
Okay, so she’s not Playboy beautiful, she’ll never be on the cover of Cosmo. In her own way she’s lovely.
Standing there watching her move, watching her gestures and body language, he remembered the Cuban madonna on the hood of the truck with the baby at her breast. How long had he looked at that girl? Thirty seconds? A minute? That woman had b
een life going down the road. In spite of war, revolution, poverty, starvation, she rode with courage from the past into the future.
He looked at Tish and tried to visualize her on the hood of that truck. She could ride there, he concluded. She’s a survivor.
He poured himself another drink and settled on the couch to watch Tish Samuels.
Maybe he was just getting older. His ambitions somehow seemed less important than they used to be and he was rapidly losing faith in his own opinions. How many of his colleagues truly believed in the ultimate wisdom of the voters? Opinionated, egotistical iconoclasts—Jack Yocke marching bravely among them—they believed only in themselves.
Okay, Jack. If your meager brains and wisdom won’t be enough, what will be? What do you believe in?
Musing thus, he found himself contemplating his shoes and in his mind’s eye seeing the people walking on the road to Havana, walking as the dust rose and the sun beat down, walking into the unknown.
In front of the Sanitary Bakery Harrison Ronald turned the car around on a whim and backed it up beside the others. Six other cars. A crowd tonight.
He went to the door and knocked.
The man inside shut the door behind him and bolted it and jerked his head. “They want you upstairs, second floor, way down at the end.”
The interior of the warehouse was dark, no lights. The only illumination came from streetlights outside through the dirty windows high up in the wall. He knew what was in here though and went along confidently as his eyes adjusted.
Second floor, down at the end. God, there was nothing down there but some empty offices with six inches of dust, dirt, and rat shit, and some broken-down furniture that was so trashed the last tenant had left it.
He checked the position of the automatic in his waistband at the small of his back and pushed against the thumb safety to ensure that it was still on. Wouldn’t do to shoot yourself in the ass, Harrison Ronald.
He went up the stairs and turned left, toward the east end of the building. He could hear moaning. A male voice.
He stopped dead. Someone groaning, a deep, animal sound.
Harrison Ronald stood frozen, listening. There! Again!
05.Under Siege v5 Page 30
