Mafia III

by Marsheila Rockwell

  When the brilliant ball of the sun cleared the eastern horizon, Lincoln heard the first thump of a mortar, followed by a blast as the round landed inside the camp. Shouts came from the Pathet soldiers, and almost instantly, machine guns on the camp’s eastern edge started to spray into the trees on that side.

  Next came an RPG. Lincoln swelled with pride as it struck the watchtower at the southeast corner and exploded. Etched against the rising sun, he could see people inside it thrown out and falling to the ground. The drop wasn’t far enough to be fatal, but the blast might have been, and it would make the men dizzy and disoriented, at any rate.

  More mortar rounds landed inside the wire, including one that came very close to Colonel Phan’s headquarters. By that time, the barracks had emptied out, and the vast majority of the soldiers were rushing to defend the eastern flank.

  “Here we go,” Lincoln said. There was still the watchtower at the northwest corner to contend with, and soldiers had spread out all around the camp, to defend against just this sort of attack. But he was sure those soldiers would be busy counting their blessings that they weren’t under direct fire and, at the same time, looking over their shoulders to see what was happening behind them.

  He gave the signal, and two soldiers with RPG launchers at the ready fired. The first grenade just missed the guard tower, sailing to a harmless landing outside the fence. The second also missed its target, a machine gun bunker at the center of the western flank, but landed close enough to spray the soldiers manning the gun with dirt and shrapnel.

  With those as a cue, the soldiers who had carried a mortar into the woods behind Lincoln’s team opened fire. One round hit a barracks, starting a fire. The next landed on the empty space in front of the colonel’s headquarters. A third barely missed a bunker Lincoln had identified as a possible ammo dump.

  Lincoln grabbed Pos and held his palms together, then, keeping them connected at the base, spread his fingertips about half an inch apart. “Get back to that mortar, fast,” he said. “Have them shift their aim that much to the right of that last shot. No more, no less.”

  Pos scurried off to do his bidding. The men with the RPGs had reloaded and fired again. This time, one hit the roof of the watchtower and the second fell just in front of the machine gun.

  There was no more time to waste. On the eastern side, the men were already advancing, as Lincoln had shown them, alternating running forward at a crouch and covering one another. His men had to get closer, too, because the big machine guns had more killing power at this range than his ARs did.

  “Go!” he cried. He’d rehearsed this with the men enough that they understood the English word. “Go, go, go!” He charged with them, his AR-30 blasting toward the defenders amassing on the western line. After running for a stretch, he dropped to one knee and provided covering fire for the next man.

  On his third sprint, Lincoln heard the mortar from behind him and watched the round arc into the camp. The angle looked good, the trajectory seemed right. He winced before it hit, because he knew what was coming. Then it dropped right into the bunker he had identified, and the ensuing explosion told him he’d judged correctly. A cheer went up from his men as the ammo dump blew.

  He was pleased with that result, but he could already tell the battle was lost. The machine guns facing this way were still operable, and when his men tried to cross the open space, it became a killing field. He couldn’t tell for sure what was happening to the east, but they had started with far fewer men. It seemed like more of the Pathet soldiers were shifting toward the west, to face the main attack force.

  Desperate, he threw a grenade at the central machine gun. It landed a few feet short, rolled, and blew. It bought a moment’s respite, but not enough. He had lost six men—no, seven—that he could count so far.

  “Fall back!” he cried. He gave the hand signal he had taught them for retreat and shouted again, “Fall back!”

  The men did, gladly. The machine guns at the camp didn’t stop firing, and more of Lincoln’s men fell before they were out of range in the woods. It looked like the men on the eastern flank had retreated at the same time, but he couldn’t see them anymore.

  He knew the Pathet would send out a force to mop up the retreating Hmong, so there was no time to lick their wounds and—as much as he hated to abandon them—no way to collect their dead. For that matter, some of those who had fallen might still be alive, just badly hurt. By retreating, he was leaving them to become prisoners of the Pathet Lao. Who knew what they might tell their captors, including the information that the attack had been led by an American?

  He had no other option, though. His men weren’t ready for that kind of assault. He’d tried to convey that, to Corbett and via coded message to Donovan. He had been ordered to make the attack anyway, and he had obeyed that order.

  It had been a tragic mistake.

  One he wouldn’t make again.

  From now on, he was in charge of this op, top to bottom. If Donovan didn’t like it, he could replace Lincoln. But as long as Lincoln was in charge of the men of Vang Khom, he wouldn’t risk their lives for nothing.

  • • •

  They rendezvoused at the far side of the jars, just below the path back up the mountain. The Pathet had given chase for a while, but their hearts weren’t in it and it hadn’t been long before they had given up.

  Fourteen men were missing from the rendezvous. Lincoln was furious. Sixty men weren’t an army. American soldiers had more experience and training coming out of boot camp than his Hmong had. And Lincoln was no drill sergeant. What had the brass been thinking when they’d ordered this? Donovan was right; the deskbound fuckers at the Pentagon had no idea what was what over here.

  And why had he even agreed to the mission? He had known he was unqualified for this task and that his lack of qualification would get people killed. Now he would have to go back into Vang Khom and explain to wives and mothers and children and sisters that some of their men weren’t coming back, and it was his fault.

  The creed of the Special Forces said you never left your dead behind on the battlefield. Did it matter if the dead weren’t Americans? He didn’t see why it should—the Hmong men were fighting for the same cause—but trying to retrieve them would just have resulted in more dead.

  He had been stupid, stupid, stupid. For the men who had willingly, bravely followed him to death’s doorway, his stupidity had cost them their lives. He would never be able to lay down that burden.

  Back in the village, only one woman—Burlee’s mother—actually struck him. Two others spat on him. The rest wept in his arms, or turned their backs on him, or simply refused to react in his presence, though he later heard wailing from houses throughout the village. Kaus made the trip to Lincoln’s longhouse to tell him what a mistake he had made in agreeing to let an American stay with them and lead them against the Pathet. Lincoln agreed with him, which only seemed to piss off the old chief even more.

  Later, Sho held him and stroked his forehead and tried to tell him that it was all right, that the men had known they might die and had gone anyway, that ridding Laos of communists was worth any sacrifice. She had told him the Hmong were used to sacrifice. Her people had been driven from China, had migrated into Laos and Vietnam and Cambodia and Thailand in search of someplace they could live in peace, but always they found more strife, more conflict. They were not afraid of it. Their souls would be reincarnated.

  None of it helped. Not one little bit.

  26

  * * *

  As promised, Giorgi and Danny were at the Heritage Square rally three weeks later with a couple of their “closest buddies”—the flesh-and-blood kind, not the sort manufactured by Alfredsson, Ellis was relieved to see.

  “Vanessa,” he said, “these are the friends I was telling you about. This is Giorgi.”

  Giorgi took her outstretched hand and brought it up to his lips with a flourish.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said, bowing to her gallantly.
Ellis had never wanted to punch him more than he did at that precise moment. Right in that smarmy Italian kisser.

  “Yeah,” Danny added, sticking out his own hand to shake hers. “What Giorgi said. Ellis said you were a knockout, but—no offense—I mean, it’s Ellis, so . . . well, we didn’t really believe him.”

  Danny he did punch, in the shoulder. Hard.

  “Ow! Sorry, man, but it’s the truth. You’re not exactly Sidney Poitier.”

  “You’re no Burt Reynolds, either,” Ellis shot back.

  “Well, I happen to think Ellis is very handsome,” Vanessa interjected, obviously trying to head off the exchange of more blows, good-natured or not. “I really appreciate your coming today. I hope your presence won’t be necessary, but it makes me feel that much safer knowing you’re here.”

  “Anything for Handsome Ellis,” Giorgi quipped, earning him a laugh from Danny and chuckles from the two other guys he’d brought along—Ellis thought their names were Mickey and Tonio; they’d pulled a job together a year or so back. Competent enough, if not too bright. Generally how Giorgi liked his muscle.

  His women, too, now that Ellis thought about it. He supposed he shouldn’t have bothered getting jealous when Giorgi started sweet-talking Vanessa. He didn’t have anything to worry about—she was way too much woman for the likes of Giorgi Marcano.

  Vanessa excused herself for a moment to go talk with some of the other rally organizers, and Ellis took the opportunity to reiterate the rules of the road.

  “This is a strictly nonviolent event, got it? Cops show up and aren’t immediately persuaded by your good looks and charm to turn tail and run, then you fade into the woodwork. Comprend?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we got it, Saint Ellis. No guns, no knives, no fisticuffs. We’re just here to look appropriately menacing. Jesus, you’re gonna owe me about a case of beer for this. And maybe a hooker or two.”

  “I’m easy,” Danny said. “Just let me borrow Lincoln’s Drifter tonight. I got a hot date with Nicki’s friend Wanda. You know, the one with the boobs?” Danny cupped his hands in front of his chest for emphasis.

  “After the mess you left last time? Hell no. Lincoln would fucking kill me if he knew what you did in his back seat.”

  “But that’s the beauty of it, Ellis,” Danny said, coming over to him and slinging a brotherly arm over his shoulder. “He’s in ’Nam, man. He never has to know.”

  “I’ll know, so forget it,” Ellis muttered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Then Vanessa returned, and he and Danny had to shelve their discussion on the etiquette of getting laid in the back seat of a borrowed car for another time.

  Ellis shrugged off Danny’s arm and walked over to Vanessa, Giorgi trailing behind like an annoying younger sibling.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, noting the frown lines marring her usually smooth forehead.

  “Everything’s fine. It’s just . . . we have donors, people who give money to the cause privately, who don’t want to be publicly associated with the movement because it would hurt their business or whatever. We don’t necessarily like it—it’s the worst kind of hypocrisy, if you think about it—but we’re not really in a position to turn down their donations.”

  “Right . . . ,” Ellis said, not really following her. Except that he kind of thought accepting the money made her group hypocrites, too.

  “Well, sometimes the donors like to show up at rallies—usually in disguise, so if someone’s snapping pictures for the local newspaper, they won’t be recognized. They want to see how we’re spending their money. And Oretha just told me we’re going to have one here today. So it’s more important than ever that your friends keep the police at bay if they show up. Because this guy donates a lot of money—not just to us but to a lot of civil rights organizations—and if this is anything other than a peaceful rally, he could up and pull his support. I don’t know what we’d do then.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing,” Giorgi interjected. “We’ll make sure everything runs smooth as silk.”

  Ellis looked at him askance. There was something in the other man’s tone he didn’t like, some oily, car salesman bravado that he usually reserved for marks in a con. What the hell was he up to?

  “I sure hope so. Because we’re about to start.”

  • • •

  “. . . and so I say to you, my fellow citizens of New Bordeaux—do not go gentle into that good night! Rage, rage, against the dying of the light! It’s not old age we’re fighting against here—well, not most of y’all, anyway,” the last speaker, a pastor from Vanessa’s side of town, quipped, to much laughter. “It’s stagnation. If we don’t fight against the way things are, the way things have always been, then that’s the way they will always continue to be. But just because something’s always been done a certain way, that doesn’t mean it’s the best way, does it? We used to light our homes with candles and lanterns before we harnessed electricity. We used to travel by horse before Mr. Ford and his Model T. We found a better way to do things. It’s called progress and enlightenment, and it makes the world better—for everyone.”

  Ellis had time to wonder if the candlemakers thought so, but then the pastor was talking again.

  “It’s the same thing with segregation. Just because it’s always been done that way, here in the South, that doesn’t mean it’s the right way to do things. Denying a man his basic rights is not the mark of an enlightened society, but of one still in the darkness. We need to shine the light on inequality and not let it die out until inequality itself has died. We need to rage against anything that would threaten to snuff out that light.

  “And before y’all get excited about that word, ‘rage’—I’m not advocating violence. That’s not what we’re about. We’re about action!” The crowd erupted into cheers at that. As Ellis applauded along with everyone else, he scanned LaValle Street for any sign of cop cars. If the pastor would just hurry up his rhetoric, they might get out of this without any unpleasant encounters.

  As the pastor droned on, Ellis became increasingly more nervous. He was the last speaker. The longer he talked, the more likely it was that their luck would run out.

  And then it did.

  Three black and whites pulled up to the curb, and a pair of cops climbed out of each one. One of them had a megaphone, and they all wore helmets and carried billy clubs. As they made their way to the sidewalk, Ellis saw Giorgi, Danny, and the others move to intercept them.

  Damn it, what was he going to do? Fight them? It was four to six, so good odds, even with the cops being armed, but still—not exactly what Vanessa had wanted when she had asked them to keep the police at bay. Ellis started moving through the crowd toward them, not sure what he could do but knowing he’d better intervene before things got ugly.

  But Giorgi and the others were closer, and Ellis could only watch as they approached the cops and Giorgi reached inside his white vest.

  Shit! Had he brought a gun after all?

  Ellis started to run.

  But before he’d made it more than a few steps, he saw that it was a thick envelope Giorgi held, not a weapon, and the cop with the megaphone took it and stuffed it into his shirt after a few moments of conversation. Then he turned and motioned to the other cops and they all got back into their cars and drove away.

  Ellis reached Giorgi and the others a few moments later, out of breath.

  “What did you just do?” he asked when he could talk.

  “Got rid of the cops. Just like you and your little honey mama asked me to do.”

  “Jesus, Giorgi, I didn’t think you’d have to bribe them. I thought your dad already owned them.”

  “He does, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t expect a little bonus at a time like this. Anyway, you wanted them gone, and they’re gone. All copacetic, right?”

  Ellis started to relax. His worst fear had been violence, some show of force, and that had not been realized. “Right,” he said. “And thanks. I owe you one.”


  “You definitely do, buddy boy,” Giorgi said with a grin, “and I’m here to tell you exactly how you can pay me back.”

  Ellis felt a chill at the words.

  “And how is that?”

  “Easy. I found out who their donor is. And you and Danny here are going to help me rob him.”

  • • •

  They were back at Sammy’s after the rally, sitting at the bar, talking about Giorgi’s proposed heist.

  “. . . if you rob him, he won’t have money to give to CORE or any of the other civil rights organizations. It’s like you’re taking money from them. From Vanessa!” Ellis protested, slamming his beer bottle down on the table.

  “When we rob him, you mean,” Giorgi replied. “And that’s a real shame. But you should have thought about that before you asked me and Danny to play security at your little rally. I did you a solid—the Marcano family did, really—and now you owe us—”

  “What’s this?” Sammy’s voice came from behind them. “Ellis owes Sal money? How did that come to be?”

  Ellis heard the fury in his father’s tone and winced before turning slowly to face him. “Not money,” he said quickly. “A favor.”

  The frown didn’t leave Sammy’s face. “How?” he asked again.

  “You know I’ve been seeing that girl with the civil rights group, Vanessa? Well, Giorgi and Danny and some guys were protection at this latest rally. They wound up paying the cops off the keep them off our backs. It’s not about the money, it’s just that they did me a favor, and now I owe them one. It’s no big deal. I’ll handle it.”

  “You’ll handle it?” Sammy scoffed. “You know in our business, owing a debt—even a favor—can always become a big deal. And for some girl? You don’t have the sense God gave a goose!”

  “I’ll make this right, don’t worry.”

  “You had better.”

  Sammy turned as if to go, then looked back at Ellis.

  “You haven’t even brought her around to meet me. Whatever happened to good manners? To respect?”