by D. B. Silvis
Later that afternoon, when Kip and Maggie came to the ranch, they found the two men in the corral. They were sprawled on a pile of straw, passed out. Two pistols, over fifty brass shells, and two empty whisky bottles were lying by their sides. Nailed on the fence was a large cardboard sign with a rough drawing of a man and the bold printed words “Oswald” and “CIA”. The cardboard sign was riddled with bullet holes.
Three days later, they were among the thousands who lined Pennsylvania Avenue, and somberly watched the funeral parade for President John F. Kennedy. Tears came to their eyes as they saw the late president’s three-year-old son, John Jr. saluting as the horse-drawn caisson, with the catafalque bearing the flag-draped casket of his father, passed by.
The war in Vietnam continued to go badly for the South Vietnamese. The advisers for the CIA in Vietnam informed the U.S. government that things were fragile. On their advice, the new American president began attacks against the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army, by the air and naval forces. However, the war raged on and the Viet Cong continued its attacks on the ARVN and U.S. forces. American casualties grew. The Saigon government was unstable, and the United States didn’t increase its military involvement. On Christmas Eve 1964, the Viet Cong blew up the Brink Hotel, killing two U.S. Army officers and wounding fifty more. In spite of this, the president decided not to take any retaliatory action.
Killian had been managing the ranch for over a year when he read about the bombing of the Brink Hotel. It bothered him, as he had known some of the officers who frequented the hotel. It also indicated to him the Viet Cong were getting bolder if they dared to attack an American installation, which was in the center of the heavily guarded capital of Saigon. Killian knew the Vietnamese people. He knew they’d take the bombing, by the Viet Cong, as a sign the Americans were now vulnerable and could not protect them. Killian wondered why the president didn’t send additional troops to Vietnam. It was obvious South Vietnam was in deep trouble.
Then, finally, at the beginning of 1965, President Lyndon Johnson made the decision to deploy major U.S. ground, air and naval forces to South Vietnam. This was the beginning of the full-scale war in Vietnam.
Killian thought about joining the troops heading for Vietnam, but felt he still had unfinished business, regarding the Mafia underboss Mario Marcinetti. It gnawed at him that Marcinetti had gotten away with having his men kill General Dugan. Killian knew the order was confirmed by the real Mafia Don, who was referred to simply as the Boss. However, he knew Marcinetti was directly involved in the hit, and he was Killian’s target.
Killian drove to the National Airport, and boarded a plane to the newly renamed John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City. There, he hired a cab to take him to Big Ted’s Saloon. Before he entered he once again transformed into the young Italian Phil Rizzo. Killian wanted to talk to his so-called buddy, Loudmouth Louie Bono, but when he entered he didn’t see Louie sitting at the bar. Joe the bartender told Killian that Louie now hung out at a high-end uptown bar frequented by Underboss Mario Marcinetti. It seemed that since Louie had informed Marcinetti about the FBI raids on the Union’s warehouses in Miami he was now in good stead with the underboss. Joe gave Killian the directions to the Club Car Lounge.
That evening, still in the guise of Phil Rizzo, Killian walked into the fancy bar, which was modeled after a railroad club car. All the wood was highly polished mahogany, while the drapes over the windows were red velvet. On the ten foot-high walls were large, colorful paintings of scenes of Italy, complete with scantily dressed, barefoot women in huge wooden tubs, crushing grapes. As Killian’s eyes adjusted to the overhead lights, he spotted the half-assed wise guy he was looking for. Louie was sitting at his usual station, the end seat, at the long wooden bar. Killian smiled as he walked toward the thin, homely man, who clearly pictured himself as somewhat of a Don Juan. Killian knew Louie always chose that particular bar stool so he could talk to the waitresses and look down the front of their low-cut dress tops, maybe occasionally cop a feel of their ass.
Killian stood behind Louie and tapped him on the shoulder. “Louie, I’ve been looking for you.”
Louie turned on his barstool. He grinned when he saw the man he knew as Phil. “Where the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“Traveling, I went across the big pond for a while.”
“What for?” asked Louie.
“I heard about some good deals being made regarding drugs.”
“Do any good, Phil?”
“Let’s say I’m pretty set for cash right now.”
“Good for you. Sit down and buy me a drink, my well-heeled friend,” said Louie, laughing loudly.
Louie called over the bartender and they ordered a drink. Killian laid a twenty on the bar.
As they talked, Killian looked around the long, wide saloon, hoping to see Mario Marcinetti, but the underboss wasn’t there.
“I like your new hang-out, Louie; it’s a big improvement over Big Ted’s.”
“Yeah, I don’t go to those sleaze-bag bars anymore. Life’s gotten a whole lot better lately.”
“I heard you’re now an amico with Underboss Marcinetti,” said Killian.
Louie picked up his fresh drink, “More than just a friend, Phil. I’m doing some interesting work for him.”
“Wow, how about that? I’d like to meet him some time. Do you think it’s possible?”
The long-nosed Louie was looking past Killian toward the front door. “This is your lucky day; Phil. The sottacapo just came in.”
Killian turned and saw the underboss walking toward them, two wiseguy’s at his side. As he came by them Louie stood up, and tried to play the big-shot.
“Good evening, Mr. Marcinetti. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
The underboss stopped, “Louie, how you doing?”
“I’m just great, sir.” Louie then patted Killian on the shoulder. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Phil Rizzo.”
Mario Marcinetti glanced at Killian, nodded and walked away.
“There,” Louie boasted proudly, “I got you introduced to my Sottacapo.”
Killian pretended like it was a big deal as he smiled, picked up his drink, and clicked his glass to Louie’s. For the next hour they sat and talked, while other guys came into the bar and Louie introduced Killian to them as his compadre. When Killian spotted Marcinetti and the two wise guys at his table ordering dinner, he asked the bartender for a menu. He and Louie decided to eat at the bar, and both ordered a T-bone steak with American fries.
Thirty minutes later, Underboss Marcinetti got up and went to the men’s room. When he returned, he stopped by his table, spoke a few words to the two wiseguy’s, and continued on toward the front door. As he passed by, Killian could tell he was a bit buzzed. Killian checked his wristwatch and pretended he was late for a hot date. He told Louie he had to leave. He stood up and walked quickly after Marcinetti. When he got outside he saw the underboss walking to his black four-door Cadillac sedan. Killian hurried after him.
“Mr. Marcinetti, sir, I was wondering if I could have a word with you?”
The underboss turned, and looked at the young man standing before him. “Oh, it’s you, Louie’s friend. No, not now, kid,” he answered.
“It’s about drugs, sir,” said Killian.
Marcinetti opened the car door. “I said, not now. You tell Louie to call me.”
Mario sat in the car and started to close the door. Killian put a .38 pistol to his head.
“I want to talk to you now,” he said, as he pushed Marcinetti forcibly over into the passenger seat, then whacked him on the side of the head with the gun. Marcinetti slumped against the window. Killian started the car and drove off. Minutes later, he pulled into a deserted slum area and parked the car. He got out, walked around the caddy, and opened the passenger door. Marcinetti, who was beginning to come to, tumbled out of the car onto the dirty pavement. Killian stood looking down at him.
Underboss Marcinetti scrambled to his feet. “
Are you stupid?” he shouted. “What the hell’s wrong with you? My boys will kill you for doing this!”
Killian pointed the pistol at him.
“Whatta you want, money?” Marcinetti started to reach for his wallet.
“I don’t want your money,” Killian hissed. “I want you to pay for having General Dugan killed.”
Marcinetti paused. “What? Why the hell do you care about some asshole Army General?”
“He was a good man, and he was a friend of mine.”
“This is bullshit! I’m leaving.” Marcinetti started to get back into the car.
Killian grabbed the underboss and tossed him to the ground, then stood over him. “Tonight you’re going to kill yourself for the murder of the General.”
Marcinetti got back to his feet. “Like hell, you fucking weasel!” he yelled. He rushed at Killian, who struck him in the face with the pistol.
The underboss stumbled, then regained his balance and wiped the blood that was running down his face. He stood glaring at Killian.
“There’s one bullet in this pistol. You’re now going to shoot yourself,” said Killian with icy calmness.
He handed Marcinetti the .38 pistol.
The underboss took the pistol, astonished. He began to laugh, almost insanely, and then pointed the pistol at Killian. “Jesus Christ, I thought maybe you were unbalanced, but now I know you’re completely fucking crazy!”
Marcinetti pulled the trigger. The pistol fired, and the bullet hit Killian in the chest. He stumbled a bit, but he didn’t fall. Marcinetti pulled the trigger a few more times, but there was only a clicking sound. Blood began to show on Killian’s white shirt.
“You’re wearing a vest, you young fuck!” Marcinetti exclaimed.
Killian raised his shirt so Marcinetti could see his bare chest, and the bullet hole oozing blood. The underboss stared up at Killian’s face, and then back at the wound, which was now beginning to heal.
“What the hell…? Who are you?”
Killian smiled and morphed back into his real body. Marcinetti’s mouth dropped open, and he fell back against the car.
“What are you?” he gasped.
Killian reached out and took the .38 pistol from Marcinetti’s limp hand, and loaded it with another bullet. The Mafia underboss was staring with disbelief at the tall, muscular, red-haired, red-bearded man who stood in front of him. Then he turned and started to run, but Killian easily caught up with him, and shoved him to the ground.
“You’re going to kill yourself. There are many of us who want you dead, Marcinetti.”
Marcinetti crawled a few feet away and got to his feet. Killian stared at him, and then he morphed into an older man in an Army General’s uniform, who continued to look just as steadily at the mesmerized Underboss. Marcinetti was finding it difficult to breath; he was choking.
Next, Killian morphed into a broad-shouldered, black 1st Cavalry soldier, who pointed a finger at the wide-eyed Mafia criminal. Then he morphed into a tall Montagnard, who handed the loaded pistol to Marcinetti, and walked back to the Cadillac. Lastly, he morphed into a large Navajo Indian, armed with a long-handled spear, and took up a menacing throwing stance, glaring fiercely at the Mafia underboss. Marcinetti’s body was shaking uncontrollably as he put the barrel of the pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Satisfied, Killian morphed back to himself.
He left the underboss where he fell, and drove to the John F. Kennedy Airport to catch a plane back to Washington.
After breakfast, Killian and Zack went out to the stable to greet the veterinarian. He had come to the ranch for a routine check-up of the horses, and especially to examine one of the mares, which was in foal. Killian knew a lot about horses, but nothing compared to Zack. He was impressed as Zack walked along with the vet, asking questions and making suggestions. Zack was still alert and spry, but Killian knew the old man was beginning to show his age and needed someone like him to take over the responsibilities of managing the ranch. For the past year and a half Killian had been doing this for him, but now he wanted to go back to Vietnam. He was wrestling with the decision to stay at the ranch or follow his desire to leave.
That cool afternoon, there wasn’t a cloud in the blue, sunny sky when Killian saddled up one of the horses, put on his old buckskin jacket, and rode off toward the small pond at the far end of the ranch. When he arrived he dismounted, let the horse drink, and tethered the animal to an old wooden post. He stepped up onto the weathered picnic table and sat gazing out at the open land. While he was daydreaming and thinking about his leaving the ranch, Killian heard hoof beats coming his way. He looked up and saw Kip coming toward him. When Kip arrived he dismounted, and allowed Blaze drink from the pond.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
“What’s up? Why’d you ride out here?”
“When I came to the ranch, Zack told me he thought you were disturbed about something.”
Killian didn’t reply.
Kip tethered Blaze. “It’s in all the newspapers.” He stepped up onto the picnic table and sat next to Killian.
“What is?”
“About the Mafia underboss Mario Marcinetti, the police can’t figure out if it was suicide or a hit.”
Killian grinned. “I guess that’s going to be a real conundrum for them.”
“You couldn’t let it lie, could you?”
“No. I guess it’s not in my nature to leave open ends.”
“Sometimes you need to, Killian.”
Killian shrugged.
Kip looked at his friend. “That’s not what’s bothering you though, is it?”
“No, I’ve already forgotten about Marcinetti. I have other things on my mind, Kip.”
“Like what?”
“I’d like to have a normal life. I’d like to be like you, have family, have a career, be married, and maybe have children. But that’s not possible for me.”
“Killian, you have us as a family, and you have a career here at the ranch. Why can’t you meet someone, get married and have children?”
“Kip, I’m now one hundred and thirty-three years old. I’m not going to die. If I met a woman, got married and had children, I’d have to watch them get old and die. I can’t bear thinking about that.”
Kip looked at his friend. He was feeling his pain.
“Jesus, Kip, this morning when I looked at Zack, I realized I’m going to watch him die. I’m going to watch you and Maggie die. I’m going to see all the people I care about, die. It eats at me.”
“Killian, I have to admit, that in a way you’ve been cursed, but you have also been blessed. Look at all the good you have done in the past, and what you’ll be able to do in the future. If it wasn’t for your long life, I wouldn’t have you as my good friend. You wouldn’t have experienced being part of our family. We all love you, Killian.”
Killian looked away, staring out into the open land. Then he looked back at Kip. “Yes, that is the good part. But now I’m going to be leaving all of you again.”
“Why, for what reason, Killian?”
“Lupan,” he answered.
“Lupan, what’s he done now?”
“It’s not what he’s done; it’s what he’s going to be doing. The Viet Cong are forcing the peasants to dig miles of underground tunnels in the villages, and around the outskirts of Saigon. President Johnson is deploying thousands of our troops to Saigon. Lupan will see this as a great opportunity to kill Americans. I need to go back.”
“Killian, you’ve done enough. You can only do so much. Let Lupan go. Move on with your life. It can be the way you’d like it to be,” begged Kip.
“Too many years, Kip. Lupan and I have had over a hundred years of hate for one another. It needs to end.”
“It will only end with one of you being killed. And it could be you.”
Killian stepped down from the old picnic table, untied and mounted his horse.
“So be it, Kip. I need to do this. Maybe it’s possibl
e to have the life you’re talking about, but not until the matter with Lupan is settled, one way or the other.”
Kip stepped down from the picnic table, mounted Blaze, and they rode back to the ranch.
CHAPTER 18
It was the middle of June, 1965, when Killian arrived in Saigon. There was a marked change from when he had been there a year and a half earlier. As he rode through the streets in a pedicab, he saw weariness and sadness in the faces of many South Vietnamese. Killian knew the local people had had a rough time, and it didn’t appear it was going to get any better. The new arrival of United States military personnel was adding to the congestion on the crowded streets. Killian had the pedicab stop in front of the bombed-out Brink Hotel. Vietnamese laborers were busy removing debris. He realized the Brink would no longer be housing military personnel and told the pedicab driver to move on. A little later, he checked into the Saigon Caraville Hotel.
After a short nap Killian freshened and went up to the rooftop lounge for a drink. The bar was mobbed with the usual locals, military personnel and a new entity, female newspaper reporters. Killian went to the bar and ordered a drink. While he was standing, inspecting the crowd, he spotted the familiar face of Martin Bradberry. The sagacious and war-experienced reporter was sitting with two attractive women. Killian picked up his drink, and walked over to their table.
“Mr. Bradberry, it’s good to see you again,” said Killian, with a broad smile on his face.
The reporter looked up, “Killian! My God, I thought you’d be long gone from this insane place.” He stood and shook Killian’s hand.
“I did leave, but I’ve just returned.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“Unfinished business,” answered Killian.
“The business here will always be unfinished,” the reported chuckled. “Killian, please meet two of my fellow reporters, Ellen Devoe and Dolly Blue.”
Killian grinned when he heard Dolly’s last name. Ellen was a short, nicely built blonde with a firm handshake. Dolly was a tall woman with the body of a model. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair and a gentle handshake.
