by Steve Richer
But that was just the beginning.
Chapter 13
Preston landed in Atlanta just before noon, grabbed some overpriced lunch at the airport, and then drove to the town of Cumming, 40 miles northeast.
He had spent five days flying around Central America and the Caribbean to complete the creation of the structure which would mask the crime he was about to commit. He was glad to be back in America if only to put an end to the incessant puddle jumping.
Cumming was pretty rural and typical of small towns with its appealing Main Street and majestic courthouse. With the completion of State Route 400, it had become a commuter town for those working in Atlanta and new houses had been built. Given the distance and relative cheapness of the land, most of these homes were bigger than what Cumming had ever seen.
One such house belonged to William Carver. It was more than a comfortable residence, it was a genuine McMansion. It had been hastily built in a brand-new subdivision where every home was architecturally similar with their multiple sloped roof lines, dormers, light-brown brickwork, and three-car garage. Still, for trailer-dwelling Preston, it was luxury.
He was inside, enthusiastically shaking the hand of the owner for the second time since arriving. Carver, with skin darker than ebony, was in his mid-40s and wore his hair in the high-and-tight Marine Corps fashion. He was bulky but every ounce corresponded to a well-toned muscle. He was clearly happy to see him.
“It’s good to see you, man,” Carver said for the third time, a huge smile plastered on his face.
“It’s good to see you too, Carver. How have you been?”
“Like a two-dollar hooker getting paid with a five.”
Unable to resist chuckling, Preston said, “The last time I saw you we were sharing a tent in the middle of the desert. I see you’re moving up in the world.”
He looked around at the very well-decorated house. The living room they were standing in was understated with subtle crown moldings which matched the leather couches and armchairs as well as the mahogany bookcase. There were fresh flowers on a low coffee table and the fragrance in the room was soothing.
“I’m doing all right. What about you? Your house is bigger, or what?”
“It’s pretty big, for a trailer.”
Carver frowned, unable to hide his puzzlement. “A trailer?”
“Three things: Number one, I wasn’t in the private sector as long as you. Number two, the divorce was painful for my bank account.”
Carver sat down on the edge of one of the armchairs and motioned for Preston to sit down as well. Preston sat on the nearest couch and then scooted to his left because the flowers were blocking the view of his friend.
“And number three?”
“My father got sick, needed an operation. I paid, it wasn’t successful, he died, and now I live in a trailer.”
It had been over six months and it was easier to talk about now. He had been close to his father and losing him had been painful. Most of all, it had come at a bad time in his life.
There had been his last mission in Iraq, his wife leaving him – though he should have seen that one coming. There never was a good time for the passing of a close relative but his father’s death had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Preston had been rather well-off after leaving the private sector. He had close to half a million dollars tucked away when his wife served him with divorce papers. He could see she wasn’t happy with him because he wasn’t happy with her, not anymore.
She walked away with half his savings and he didn’t put up much of a fight. The only good thing was that they didn’t have any children to get stuck in the middle of things.
Then, when he learned that his father needed a liver transplant, he didn’t hesitate to put up the money, everything he had left. His father was lucky he only had to wait two months to find a suitable donor but in the end his body rejected the organ. He went into a coma and died two days later.
“Sorry to hear it, about your father I mean.”
Preston nodded his thanks and followed his host with his eyes as he went to a sideboard. He opened the cabinet door and revealed a collection of liquor bottles. Carver didn’t ask for Preston’s preference and poured two glasses of amber liquid.
As he did that, Preston continued looking around the room. His eyes came to a halt on the far side of the spacious room where there was a stack of something.
Squinting, he realized there were cardboard signs with their wooden pickets removed. He shifted in his seat and made out a picture of Carver and the words Carver for Mayor.
“What is this? You’re running for office?”
“Past tense, I ran for office, last November,” the African-American replied as he returned with the drinks. “I lost.”
“They’re stupid if they didn’t vote for you.”
And Preston meant every word of it. He remembered working with Carver overseas. The man was disciplined but fair. He was highly competent following a 20-year career in the Marine Corps and yet fun to be around when not working. He put 100% into everything he did and there had never been a challenge he hadn’t overcome.
“I’m the stupid one. I pick the one town in Georgia where white people outnumber black people.”
Cumming was in Forsyth County which had once been billed as the Whitest County in America and a favorite meeting place of the Ku Klux Klan.
“Fuck ‘em, their loss.”
Carver shrugged and took a sip of his drink, inviting Preston to do the same. The drink was identified as bourbon.
“What can you do? I grew up around here. Ain’t nobody gonna drive me away.”
“Amen,” Preston agreed, taking another sip.
“I’ll try again next time. I already got the signs and everything.”
“It’s good then, you have time on your hands.”
“Yeah, I might go fishing in Montana.”
“How about Africa?”
Carver looked at the younger man dubiously. “What are you talking about?”
“I was hoping to hire you for a job. I need a company of mercs for six weeks. I need you to recruit and train them.”
Carver sat his drink on the table, suddenly becoming very professional. “What’s the job?”
“The kind of job that pays a cool million. And that’s just your share.” Before he lost his friend to reverie, Preston asked, “What do you think the mercs will run me?”
“Africans would do it for twenty thousand. But what’s the job?”
“A coup. I need a hundred guys.”
“What PMC is involved in this?”
“None. I’ve been hired to lead this and I have a former British spook backing me up with the planning. Right now he’s in South America finishing setting up shell corporations, bank accounts, and whatnot.”
Carver’s analytical mind began working in earnest. Overthrowing a government was the Holy Grail of mercenary work. Before his time, in the 60s, they had been as common in Africa as hunger.
Now the world was so political, so proper that whenever someone staged a coup the international community got its panties up in a bunch, especially if there were foreigners involved.
It was a challenge Carver had never undertaken. And what if, by doing this, he could improve life for the average African?
“That’s a lot of money,” he finally said.
“Can I take you away from your busy schedule long enough to remove a dictator?”
Carver began to smile.
Chapter 14
Going to San Diego held no more interest than a visit to the dentist while being submitted to a prostate exam. No, Preston concluded. It was like getting teeth pulled without anesthetic while the prostate exam was being performed by a maximum-security cellmate.
It’s not that he didn’t like the town or his family. On the contrary. He had spent the first 18 years of his life in the area and the place was filled with good memories. He remembered hiking trips with his Boy Scout troop in Mis
sion Trails Regional Park.
There was that Saturday afternoon walking through Balboa Park with Stephanie Gerrard which led to his very first kiss and, two weeks later, his very first heartbreak. There were the Chargers games he’d attended with his father.
And that was the problem.
San Diego reminded him of his father too much. His death was still too fresh, the memory too painful. Everywhere he looked conjured up recollections of happy times together. The cancer had been fast and the liver transplant had given him too much hope. He had never thought his father would die so quickly.
Preston had always been a good kid. His parents had treated him as a responsible adult from an early age and he had honored that trust by acting maturely. He’d never disobeyed his curfew, made sure he had good grades, never got into drugs. There was only one thing he’d ever done that had disappointed his parents. He had never gone to college.
He had enlisted in the Army right after high school. His father had himself never attended university and had always regretted it. It limits your career options, he’d always lamented. You could get a good job but forget promotions.
But as much as he wanted to please his folks, the military wasn’t just a career choice, it was his calling. He’d always known that. There was no way he could sit in an office somewhere and write reports about the increasingly softening frozen pizza market, or some other mindless crap.
Sure, he could have gone to college and still gone into the Army as an officer but he’d been too eager to wait four years. Perhaps that was why he’d devoted his career to special operations, spending years shaping himself into the elite. Maybe he’d wanted to redeem himself by becoming the best, showing his father that he’d made the right decision after all.
Now that the man was dead, what was his benchmark for success? His mother had mellowed considerably since his return to the civilian life. There was nobody left to please. Yet, why wasn’t he happy?
He turned off the interstate and soon found himself into the Clairemont of his youth. This area just north of San Diego was one of the first suburban communities in America. It had begun construction in 1950 amid the baby boom and afloat in postwar money. As he turned onto West Monterey Drive, the bad memories conflicted with the natural beauty of the place.
It was a decidedly middle-class neighborhood with tract homes built several decades ago but the setting was clean, organized. Lawns were manicured and tropical trees dotted the landscape.
Toys lying around such as Big Wheels, skipping ropes, and basketballs indicated that houses were inhabited by families. Compared to his trailer park, this place was paradise.
Preston found his mother’s house and parked his truck on the curb since the driveway was already at maximum capacity. He took a deep breath, grabbed the package lying on the passenger seat, and headed into the house.
The place was similar to the others on the street. It was a single-story affair mostly covered with tan clapboard but there was a small section between the two-car garage and the front door which was fitted with fieldstones. The house wasn’t exactly sprawling but it did have three bedrooms and a considerable backyard. He had never appreciated it until he had moved out.
He rang the doorbell, instinctively wiped his feet on the doormat, and waited ten seconds to be greeted. It was his mother who answered and her face lit up when she saw her son. She was 60 but she was a proud woman and looked a decade younger. Her chin-length hair was dyed auburn and her makeup was carefully applied to downplay wrinkles.
“Hi, mom.”
“Preston, I’m so glad to see you.”
She stared at him as she had the last time he’d come back from war, her expression full of relief. She looked him over and approved of his attire. He was wearing khaki slacks and a black button-down short-sleeved shirt. He was even wearing loafers.
“I’m happy to be here.”
“Don’t lie to your mother, it’s not nice.”
She knew him too well. He smiled at her reproach and kissed her cheek. She had a way of delivering the truth without being completely nasty.
He followed her inside and saw that everybody was already here. There were 14 people in attendance, representing every age group, and he waved at everyone. He then headed toward the La-Z-Boy by the stone fireplace where a blue-haired lady well into her 80s was nursing a Seven and Seven.
“Hey, grandma,” Preston said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Happy birthday.”
“Now, that’s a birthday. I’m so happy you came.”
“Here, I got you a little something,” he said, giving her the small box wrapped in a pink ribbon. “You want me to help you with that?”
He didn’t wait for her answer as he saw she was powerless with the drink in her hand. He untied the ribbon and popped open the lid. He revealed three rows of small mouthwatering cannolis overflowing with sweet and creamy cheese filling.
Her mouth went wide and then her eyes narrowed.
“You shouldn’t have.” And then she added, “Are these kosher?”
“Kosher? What are you talking about grandma? Since when do you eat kosher?”
His mother’s mother was Jewish but she had never been observant, especially when it came to food. She was a sucker for Italian and cannolis were her favorite. He looked around the room looking for answers. An uncle nearby merely shrugged to signify the old lady was one giant mystery.
“I’m 85 years old today, Preston. I don’t have a lot time ahead of me. I figure I might as well not tempt fate. So, are these kosher?”
Speaking faster than his brain processed the information, he answered, “Of course they are. Got them at an Italian Jewish bakery.”
The nearby uncle frowned his disbelief and Preston winked at him. There was no sense in ruining what could very well be his grandmother’s last birthday party.
She squealed in delight and peered closer at the pastry. “We’ll save them for later,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
Chapter 15
And with that the party continued. Preston got himself a beer and sampled the chips, pretzel sticks, and peanuts on the IKEA coffee table. He politely answered questions from his aunts, uncles, and cousins but steered clear of any deeper conversations. He barely knew these people, having seen them once a year for the last 30 years.
Thankfully, the older people were busy talking with each other and his cousins were mostly tending to their own children. The thought occurred to Preston that maybe they were themselves making excuses to avoid him and it suited him just fine. Being an only child had taught him that solitude was not only tolerable but also desirable.
Still, Preston forced himself to smile and listened to what normal people talked about. There was his cousin’s wife who had trouble finding a suitable daycare for her new baby. His mother’s brother complained about the new glasses he’d purchased and how much they’d cost. Then, for some reason, everybody was in agreement that the DMV was in great need of reform.
There was a point in the conversation when they discussed poverty and war in Africa and Preston perked up. That was the first time he had a stake in the exchange and yet he couldn’t join in. What he was doing was secret and no one could know about his mission.
Dinner consisted of roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy. As always, his mom’s cooking was plentiful but a little overcooked. Conversations were continued, even repeated, and Preston lost himself in the food. The fake kosher cannolis were added to the Black Forest birthday cake for dessert.
Then, Preston excused himself to go to the bathroom and on his way back made a detour through the garage. On one side was his mother’s Ford Taurus while on the other was his father’s workshop. The man had been a civilian employee at the Navy base, working behind a desk all day, but carpentry was a hobby.
He had transformed the space into a man cave before the term had even been invented. In addition to a well-organized array of tools, there was an ancient Coca-Cola vending machine which kept his be
er cold, a neon Budweiser ad, an outdated calendar featuring hot rods, and a few bowling trophies, most of which highlighting his partaking in tournaments rather than victories.
Preston leaned back against his mother’s car and took a swig of his beer. This was the place his father had taught him how to hammer in a nail without crushing his thumb and how to use a screwdriver with only one hand. This was the place where he’d spent the most awkward five minutes of his life with the dreaded birds-and-bees monologue.
He could hear the women chattering inside the house as they cleared the table and began doing the dishes. There was laughter and squeals. Everybody was having such a good time but he couldn’t stop thinking about his upcoming mission. He had made an effort to appear relaxed though he doubted he’d been successful.
He was startled when the door abruptly opened behind him and he turned to see who it was. Probably one of the kids looking for a new area to explore, he thought. He was wrong.
It was his mother. She had a Hefty bag and she carried it to the trashcan. When she was done, she walked over to her son and leaned back against the sedan next to him.
“I miss him too,” she said.
“How do you do it? I mean, it’s hard for me but I’m far away and I don’t have to be reminded of him every day with this stuff.”
“I think of the good times, tell myself he’s better off now.”
“Does it help?”
“No,” she answered with a shake of the head. “But what’s the alternative?”
Preston nodded and understood her position. He’d seen a lot of people die in combat. Many had been his friends but he’d never been this affected by death before. As a soldier he had been aware that dying was a possibility, risks were weighed and accepted, strategies devised to minimize danger. His father never got that chance.
“I love you, mom. I know I’ve told you a million times when I was a kid but I don’t think I really meant it like I do today.”
