North Korean Blowup

by Chet Cunningham

At noon he and Shirley walked to the deli up the block and split one of the big sandwiches. They talked and things fell into place like they had been before he went to Korea. She was wonderful, marvelous, beautiful and a real nurse. They laughed and talked and she told him more about her family.

  The rest of the day slammed past so quickly he hardly believed it when the last patient had been tended to and the lights turned off.

  Outside in the dark next to the front door they kissed softly and she clung to him.

  “I’m so glad that you’re here again. I worried what you might be doing. I’m just glad none of it was dangerous. Hey, see you tomorrow.”

  She turned and hurried over to her car. He watched her get in and drive away. Then he headed for his car. Half a block down the street two black men jumped out of the shadows in front of him. One of them was tall and skinny. He had to be Long John. Foster heard something behind him and saw two more black men there.

  Long John ahead of him laughed. “So, mister hot shot with a sucker punch, you gonna keep bothering me? I say we take it on right here and right now. Just our bare fists and we’ll see who the best man is. Come and get it.” The four men closed in on him. He didn’t have a gun, not even a pocket knife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Long John Garrison pulled a baseball bat from behind his back as he advanced on Foster.

  “Just you and me and my trusty bat, little man. Oh yeah!”

  Foster knew he had no where to go, nobody to protect his back. He shuffled sideways until he backed against a car parked there and waited. Long John moved in quickly, swung the bat then pulled it back, swung it again not aiming at Foster, then he lunged forward and this time the bat targeted Foster’s legs.

  Foster’s reaction was automatic. He kicked out with his right foot encased in a tough running shoe. The sole of the shoe hit the bat half way up the barrel and tore it out of Long John’s hands. Then Foster attacked. He threw two punches that missed as Long John bobbed and weaved. He’d had some boxing experience. Foster drove in hard before the others got to them. He connected with a hard right jab to Long John’s nose and then a right hand that caught the taller man flush on the jaw and drove him back two steps. He wobbled and Foster tried for the kill. But before he could follow up his advantage, four strong arms grabbed him from behind.

  Long John shook his head and stood in front of Foster. “Yeah, just you and me, Foster, and a couple of my friends.” His fist smashed into Foster’s belly and the SEAL sagged. Then a series of three blows hit his head, one smashing his nose, the other high on his cheek that drove him back against the men holding him. Two more thundering fists hit him, another in the belly that almost made him vomit, and the second one a stinging uppercut that jolted Foster’s head back and made him black out for a few seconds.

  When he got his sight back he was on his hands and knees on the sidewalk. All he could see were Long John’s feet and legs in front of him. Then one foot left the ground and slammed into his stomach, blasting him over on his back.

  Long John stood over him and laughed as he urinated on his chest.

  “Now, motherfucker, you belong to me. Your ass is mine whenever I want it. You do what I say and when I say so. You understand you pissed on shit head?”

  Foster’s head lay hard on the sidewalk. Not a chance he could nod, it took all of his strength just to stay conscious. The four young men laughed as they walked away shouting obscenities at him for half a block.

  A wave of blackness washed over him and he thought he was back in the ocean. Then the pain blasted through his nervous system and he groaned so he wouldn’t scream. Slowly he tried to sit up. It brought a cacophony of drum beats and clanging symbols in his head and he lay back down.

  It was half an hour before he could sit up, and another hour until he could lean against the car and pull himself up by the door handle. His car. Where was his car? He had no idea if he could drive or not. He had to get off the sidewalk before somebody stole everything he owned.

  He blinked, then wiped sweat and blood out of his eyes. His belly felt like a twenty millimeter had just hit him. He tried to swallow but felt warm blood and spit it out. He blinked a dozen times before he could see well enough in the dark street. Street light. He had parked next to a street light standard. Where?

  He looked ahead. He had been going that direction. After rejecting the first six cars at the curb ahead, he saw the next one he thought might be his. A Honda. Yes. His was a Honda Civic, four years old and blue. He took a deep breath and leaned on the car as he staggered to the front fender. The next car was four feet away. He took a deep breath and lunged that way, staggering and stumbling once, but he made it across the open void.

  Ten minutes later he came to the blue Honda. His. He found his car keys but it took another two minutes to get them out of his pocket.

  A black older couple walked toward him. The man frowned.

  “Hey, mister, you all right? You got blood on your face.”

  Foster held up his keys. “Fell down. Can you unlock my car?”

  The man took the keys, found the right one and unlocked the door, then opened it slowly so he wouldn’t knock Foster down. A moment later he helped Foster sit down in the driver’s seat. The SEAL slumped there behind the wheel.

  The black man scowled. “Some local gang do this to you? Beat you up this way? You want me to call the police?”

  Foster shook his head. He tried to say no, but the words wouldn’t come out of his battered mouth.

  The man rolled down the window, then closed the car door. “You want me to start the car for you?” He shook his gray haired head. “No, not a good idea. Close up the window, I’ll do it and lock the doors. You sit right there all night if you need to. There’s a clinic just down the block here. You wait until morning and go in there. They good folks. They’ll patch you up. You hear?”

  The elderly black man rolled up the window and locked the door. He went around and tried the passenger’s side door. It was locked.

  He took one more look at Foster, then shook his head. He hated it when the gangs beat up a man just because they didn’t like the way he combed his hair or wore his clothes. He was sick and tired of it.

  He shook his head once more, then walked on down the street with his wife, to their small apartment a block past the clinic.

  Inside the car, Foster leaned back on the head rest and closed his eyes. He knew he hurt too much to sleep. But after shifting positions three times, he felt sleep overtaking him. It was best. Yes. In the morning he’d feel better. Then he could walk down to the clinic and Shirley would take care of him.

  Foster awoke three times that night, but he had no idea what time it was. The last time dawn was creeping over the buildings and streaks of daylight stabbed through the darkness. He rubbed his eyes carefully. No more blood. Good. He lifted his hand to look at his watch.

  Seven thirty. The clinic would open at nine. Could he drive down there and park in front? Usually there were cars parked there. No driveway. No, he’d stay there and try to walk down. He moved his legs. At least no broken bones. His arms felt like they weighed twenty pounds each. He lifted them and flexed his fingers. No broken fingers. Should he call that Arlington cop who gave him his card? He still had it in his wallet. Later. He watched it get light. Foster sat up straight, testing himself. He knew his nose must be broken. It had bled enough. He’d probably have one black eye, maybe two. Damn.

  At least he was on leave. He could get a cheap hotel nearby. He looked at his watch again. Four minutes had screamed past.

  The next time he checked his watch it showed him the time to be 0830. Time enough. He made sure his car keys were in his pocket, then he used his left hand and opened the door. Pain daggered through his head with the exertion. He beat it down and pushed the door open. Then he had to get his feet out of the car. After three tries he had both feet out of the car and on the sidewalk. He slid forward, ducked his head to miss the top of the door and then rested. No rush.
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br />   It took him another three minutes to get standing upright beside his car. He leaned out to reach the door to close it and almost fell down. But he caught himself and was rewarded with darts of pain in his head and belly. He prayed that Long John’s kick had not ruptured any vital organs in there.

  This time when he moved from car to car heading for the clinic, he made it without too much staggering. Then he came to an opening. Somebody had driven his car to work. Sixteen, maybe twenty feet separated him from the next car he could lean on. He stood there and felt tears threatening to erupt.

  He saw someone coming up the sidewalk toward him. He blinked and then stared at the man. An older black man with gray hair. The man walked up to him and stopped.

  “So, you made it through the night. I’ve been wondering about you. I helped you get in your car last night. You heading for the clinic?

  “Yes.” Foster was surprised he could say the word.

  “Lock your car?”

  “No.” Foster realized he still had the keys in his hand. He gave them to the man who locked the driver’s side door and put the keys in Foster’s pocket.

  “All right now, son. You just lean on me and you and me are gonna get you down to the clinic. Just a half block. Get there bout when they open.”

  The man put his arm around Foster and urged him forward. Every step was an adventure. Why wouldn’t his legs work right? He gritted teeth and made his feet move the correct direction.

  Ten minutes later they came to the clinic. Shirley had just arrived and when she saw Foster she ran up to him, tears splashing down her face.

  “What in the world? No, don’t talk. Let’s get him inside. Thank you, sir for helping him. He’s been here all night?”

  “In his car, half a block up. Who would do this?”

  “Who? Long John Garrison and I’m calling the police.”

  Foster shook his head. “No. No police.” She looked at him curiously, then nodded and pushed open the clinic door.

  Later Dr. Claremont shook his head. “Foster, you have a smashed nose, two black eyes and some bad bruises on your belly, but outside of that, you look like you’ll live.”

  “My nose?”

  “I’ll straighten it up and put in some pillows to keep it straight until it heals. You’ll do a lot of breathing through your mouth. No teeth missing, your eyes aren’t damaged. Long John Garrison and three or four of his home boys?”

  Foster nodded.

  “I’ll be glad to file a police report. Trouble is it was at night and you have no witnesses. He’ll have six guys who swear that they went to the movies with him or to a ball game.”

  “No police. My problem.”

  That afternoon, Dr. Claremont had straightened out his nose and given him enough pain pills to dull everything in the room to a gentle whisper. He lay on a cot in the storage room. Shirley came in every ten minutes to check on him.

  “Damn him,” she said softly. “I wish now that I had killed that sonofabitch when I shot at him.” Foster heard her and tried to smile but his face didn’t work right.

  He stayed in the clinic that night. Shirley was there with him until ten o’clock when she gave him a sleeping pill. When she was sure he was sleeping, she slipped out and went home less than five miles away.

  She was back at eight the next morning. She found Foster sitting up on the cot.

  “Hey, what’s with you?”

  “Figure I should pay my way here.”

  “We’ll talk about that. First breakfast.” She brought him take out pancakes, syrup, sausages, two cups of coffee, and an apple turnover. At first he didn’t think he could eat. Then he did and discovered he was starved. He ate everything she brought.

  Shirley made him walk around the clinic. He found he could navigate quite well. His belly still hurt and his nose was a constant pain, but he was alive. Long John could have stomped him to death last night with a few well placed kicks to his head.

  At noon they walked to the deli and shared a sandwich. That afternoon he handled the front desk. And told those who asked that he was a walking advertisement with his bandaged nose for the work of the clinic.

  They finished work early that night, only seven thirty.

  “I’m going to drive back to the barracks,” Foster told Shirley. “Something I have to do.”

  “You’re not driving an inch until I give you a driving test,” She said. She stood beside him and watched critically as he stepped inside the car, closed the door and started the engine. She hurried around to the passenger’s side and slid inside. He pulled out safely and drove down the block, around two more and stopped at her car half a block down from the clinic.

  “Did I pass inspector?”

  “You did, but your reaction time is a bit slow. Be careful.” She hesitated. “You don’t have to go back. You could stay at my apartment. I have a couch I can sleep on and….”

  He held up his hand. “Something I need to arrange at the barracks. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Drive safely.”

  She reached over to kiss him but the bandage got in the way. They both laughed.

  “Later,” he said. He touched her hand. “Something you can do for me. You know anybody in the Arlington Police department?”

  “I know a clerk down there. He tried to date me for six months, finally gave up. Why?”

  “I need Long John Garrison’s home address.”

  “Wow.” You’re not letting him get off free, are you? “Wow. Okay, I’ll see if I can get his home address. Something about his not paying a bill he owed us. I’ll think of something. He can get the address, if he will.”

  “Flirt with him a little.”

  She punched his shoulder gently. “I’ll get the address.”

  When Foster drove into the Farm late that night, he found only three SEALs still in residence. The rest of them had taken their leaves and vanished. He woke up Rattigan, Gorman and Tram and told them he needed to talk to them in the head. In the lighted bathroom the three SEALs stared at his battered face.

  “You been playing punching bag, boy?” Rattigan asked.

  He explained to them what happened and the leading up events.

  “Tomorrow I’m getting this bastard’s home address. I’d appreciate it if you would help me cook up some surprises for the kid, before somebody kills him and I can’t hurt him.”

  “I can hang here another day,” Tran said. “We go in after dark?”

  “Best time of day,” Rattigan said. “I’m in.”

  Gorman scowled. “The little shit deserves something. What do you have in mind?”

  “Not much. If he has a car we trash it delightfully, maybe set it on fire. Maybe we strip him naked, tie his hands behind his back and put on a firm blindfold, and let him loose in a shopping mall somewhere. I’m open to ideas.”

  “The car is good, if he has one,” Tran said. “He live at home? We’ll have to get him out of the house.”

  “He wear dreadlocks?” Rattigan asked. “If he does we shave his head. That would bum him out more than anything.”

  “Love to break his legs, but the cops would have to investigate that,” Foster said. “Come on, guys, we need ideas to humiliate him but not really damage him.”

  They worked on it half the night and came up with four ideas that looked like they would work. Then they sacked out.

  The next morning, Rattigan drove Foster to work at the clinic.

  “Meet you here at seven thirty,” Rattigan said. “We’ll have all the equipment and supplies that we need. Take it easy now at this clinic.”

  Inside the clinic, Dr. Claremont examined his nose, cut down on the size of the bandage and pronounced him fit for duty. His headache had vanished. Shirley had brought a pair of large sunglasses with lightly tinted lenses. They would cover up most of the black eye bruises and cut down on comments from the patients.

  Foster went back on the front desk and helped in back with patients when they got too busy. He loved it. Shirley fussed o
ver him like a mother humming bird and he loved that, too. She gave him Long John’s address and worried it.

  “Don’t do anything to him where he has witnesses. And be careful. If you hurt him, I mean really hurt him, the police are going to be all over it.”

  “We’ve taken that into consideration with our plans.”

  “We?”

  “Three of my friends from the barracks. Now, don’t worry. We won’t kill him or anything like that. Humiliation is our goal.”

  The day tore by and at seven that evening he told Shirley he had to leave early. He met the other three SEALs in Tran’s four door Buick parked down the block.

  First they drove past Long John Garrison’s address. It was a ten unit apartment house. There were three cars sitting out front. They parked up the block and watched the cars. At eight o’clock they got lucky and Long John came out of the apartment house, vaulted into a ten year old Chevy convertible and drove off. They followed. He stopped at a neighborhood drug store and went inside. When he came out three of the SEALs were sitting in his car. Foster watched from the Buick.

  “What the hell, motherfuckers? Get the shit out of my car.”

  “Your car?” Tran asked. “No, this is my car. I just repossessed it for non payment.”

  “You lie. I own these wheels free and clear. Get out of my car.”

  “Tell you what, Long John. For three hundred we’ll get out of your wheels. Fair enough?”

  “What? Me pay you? No way. How you know my name, man? I should call the cops.”

  “Yeah, call them. Ask for Detective Jackson. I understand you already know him.”

  “What the hell is this? How come you know me and about Jackson?”

  “We’re just three white boys trying to make a living. How long you had those dreadlocks, boy?”

  “Long time, now out. I’ll go get some friends and throw your white asses out of there.”

  “No chance. You wouldn’t get twenty feet.”

  Rattigan and Gorman eased out of the car and edged in behind Long John.

  “Get in the car and we’ll go for a test drive. I never buy wheels without a test drive.”