“What would that be, Colonel?”
“Don’t you care at all that this money will go for arms and munitions to kill your fellow countrymen?”
Wilson smirked. “Colonel, I don’t care where the money is going. It’s entirely your business. I just want our product so we can be on our way.”
Stepping out from behind his desk, the Colonel looked Sal up-and-down with contempt. “You Americans honestly believe that you are masters of your destiny. When this struggle is over, our history will tell of how the People’s Army defeated the once great American military. Even though you are a superior fighting force, we will teach you a valuable lesson that you won’t soon forget.”
Sal raised his weapon, pointing the muzzle directly at the Colonel’s head. In a flash, every NVA soldier was on their feet, locked-and-loaded, with their AK-47s leveled at the team.
“We didn’t come here for a history lesson, asshole! Just give us the junk so we can go.”
“Scalise! Put down that fucking weapon,” Wilson shouted angrily.
Sal slowly lowered his weapon and flashed a contemptuous smile at the Colonel.
“You Americans have so much anger and violence in you. Eventually, it will bring about your destruction.”
“Colonel, I’m terribly sorry for his actions. Please accept my apologies.”
“No need to apologize, Wilson. I probably would have done the same if the situation were reversed.”
“Be that as it may, we’ll take our merchandise now, Colonel.”
Motioning to one of his soldiers, the Colonel signaled them to bring in the duffel bags containing the heroin.
“Check it out,” Wilson instructed Smith.
Smith opened his pack and removed a pouch containing purity testing equipment. He then set up two vials and poured a clear liquid into each. After opening two separate kilo bags of heroin with a pocket knife, Smith scooped out a small portion of the powder from each, and placed it in the clear liquid. The liquid turned blue. Looking up, Smith nodded, “It’s pure, sir.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I’ll see you again in six months.” Wilson shook the Colonel’s hand once more.
“Six months it is,” The Colonel replied coldly.
Exiting the hut and eager to put distance between themselves and the village, Wilson navigated the harsh terrain with speed and silence. After covering a good portion of ground, Wilson heard something suspicious ahead in the dark brush. Knowing that they were not friendlies, Wilson raised his fist and the team covered, as a Vietcong patrol came into view. As he listened, Wilson could hear the patrol leader arguing with one of his soldiers about where Colonel Nguyen wanted them to set up their ambush for the Americans.
Feeling the harsh sting of betrayal, Wilson’s face tightened in rage, as he resigned himself to the fact that his long-time business associate had planned a double-cross. Wilson thought, Why didn’t they just take us out in the village? They probably would have if Scalise hadn’t made a move on the Colonel. They figured we were expecting something. Scalise must’ve spooked them. Nguyen didn’t want to be caught in the middle of the action.
Understanding that his business dealings with the Colonel were now over, and that he must find a new supplier, Wilson refocused his efforts on getting out of the area. The team hid in the brush until the patrol left the area. When he felt it was safe, Wilson motioned the team to move out. With a sense of urgency the men trekked to the pick-up-point and waited.
“What time is the extraction? The sun will be up soon,” Sal asked impatiently as he checked his watch.
Wilson sat on a large rock honing the blade of his sizable knife on a sharpening stone. “Let me ask you something, Scalise. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You’re bullshit heroics back in the village put not only our operation in jeopardy but the entire team. I can never allow that to happen. Ever! So I would really like to know, what the fuck were you thinking when you drew down on the Colonel?”
“Fuck him!”
“That’s all you got to say? I warned you what I’d do if you pulled any of that cowboy shit with me. Didn’t I?”
“Hey, I’m not taking any shit from some fucking gook warlord. That motherfucker was an NVA officer and we’re buying smack from him. I didn’t say nothing before but I’m telling you right now, what youse are doing, it ain’t fucking right.”
“Listen troop, we don’t like it either. But this junk finances our operations and keeps us in business,” Smith fired back coldly.
“Is that so?”
“Those fucking assholes in Washington wanna fight this war with one hand tied behind their backs. All that approach to warfare gets you is dead. So if they won’t let us win, we might as well get rich.”
Suddenly, Sal felt queasy, much like he would right before an ambush. His mind raced and he thought, Why are they telling me all this? Why now? Trying to clarify his position, Sal explained passionately, “Look, I don’t really give a shit. Awright? Do whatever the fuck you wanna do. You’re absolutely right, it’s your business. It doesn’t concern me at all. You got no reason to worry about me.”
“No reason to worry about you, huh?” Wilson lifted his head revealing a disturbing gleam in his eyes. “You just want to get back to your rat-hole apartment in the Bronx. Don’t you grease-ball?”
“That was the deal we made when you got me outta the stockade.”
“Well that contract has been terminated, and so has your usefulness to this team.”
“Fuck you!” Sal readied his weapon.
“There’s no need for that, Scalise. You’re a highly trained soldier now. A real fucking killing machine from what Smith tells me. Perhaps you could even give me a run for my money. But I doubt it.”
“Look, I’m fourteen days short. I ain’t gonna do nothing that’ll compromise you or your operations. I swear. I just wanna go home. So back the fuck off,” Sal pled as he moved toward Wilson at a non-threatening pace.
Laughing, Wilson blurted, “Whoever said that you were going home?”
With an angry roar, Sal kicked Wilson squarely in his face. Wilson flew backwards off the rock and he hit the ground with a thud. Turning toward Murphy and Jones, Smith ordered, “Use your knives. We don’t want to attract any unfriendlies.”
Placing their M-16s on the ground, Murphy and Jones drew their bayonets and they rushed Sal. Using his newly acquired martial arts skills, Sal became a whirlwind of kicks and punches, making quick work of the two would-be assassins. Bloody and beaten, Murphy and Jones fell to the ground.
“Bravo, Scalise. I taught you well. It’s a shame to have to kill someone with your talents.” Smith drew his bayonet.
“No! He’s mine,” Wilson yelled as he rose up onto his knees and wiped the blood from his mouth onto his sleeve. “You were a fucking dead man the moment I laid eyes on you, Scalise. We were never gonna let you leave the ‘Nam alive.”
“I was ready for this, asshole. I knew back in that cell that someday it would come down to you and me.”
“Now you’re gonna die.” Wilson smiled, showing his blood-stained teeth.
“Let’s do this.”
Distracted by the sound of a helicopter flying up the valley, Smith shouted, “Kill him quick! Before the chopper gets here.”
Like a wild bull, Wilson attacked Sal with a flurry of vicious kicks and punches. However, Sal was able to thwart Wilson’s initial assault and deliver a roundhouse kick squarely to Wilson’s ribs, knocking him to the ground. Springing right back to his feet, Wilson kicked Sal in his chest, driving him back several steps. Countering quickly, Sal struck Wilson in his solar plexus and he dropped to one knee. Realizing that he couldn’t defeat Sal fairly, Wilson snatched up a handful of dirt and threw it up into his eyes, temporarily blinding Sal. Wilson kicked Sal in his midsection, and then delivered a vicious right upper-cut knocking Sal to the ground. Managing to wipe the dirt from his eyes, Sal quickly got back to his feet.
As they circled around each other like gladiators in the Coli
seum, they knew only one man could survive. Bloody and injured they engaged once more. Finally, Wilson wrestled Sal to the ground and administered a lethal choke hold. Feeling light-headed, Sal knew that he was finished if he lost consciousness. All at once the hours of training and punishment he received at the hands of Smith kicked in. Remembering the simple counter that Smith had taught him to break free from this choke hold, Sal sunk his teeth deep into Wilson’s arm. Blood spewed from the limb as Wilson screamed. Sal escaped from Wilson’s grasp, and reversed position earning a firm grip on Wilson’s neck. In one strong, decisive twist, the vertebrae cracked and the light of life drained from Wilson’s eyes. Releasing his hold on Wilson, Sal rolled away and quickly retrieved his weapon.
“I guess this is what you call a Mexican stand-off,” Smith declared, amused by Sal’s victory.
“You coulda shot me. Why didn’t you?”
“You saved my life. I owed you one. Besides, we were getting tired of working for that asshole, anyway. Wilson makes us even. Fair enough, Scalise?”
Sal nodded as the chopper touched down.
“We get to keep the merchandise and you get to live. You must have a Guardian Angel looking out for you or something.”
Sal smirked.
“Narcotics is a dirty business, Scalise. Sometimes your most dangerous adversary isn’t your enemy. Sometimes it’s the guy standing on the rung just below you on the ladder of power. Remember that.”
“I didn’t know you CIA guys were so fucking philosophical.”
“So what are you gonna to do now?”
“I’m going home. And I don’t want nothing to stop me. Understand? If you guys know what’s good for you, you’ll leave all this shit in the field.”
“You want a lift? We’ll be glad to drop you at your old base camp.”
“Get on the fucking chopper and take that piecea shit with you.”
Promptly, Murphy and Jones gathered up the duffel bags of heroin. They each grabbed one of Wilson’s arms and dragged his body to the Huey.
As he headed toward the helicopter, Smith stopped and started to remove something from his pack.
Pointing his weapon at Smith’s head, Sal warned, “That’s enougha that.”
“Don’t get nervous, I’m just getting something from my pack.” Smith removed a small pouch and tossed it to Sal. “Here, I think this belongs to you.”
Letting the bag hit his chest, Sal watched it fall to the ground at his feet. “What the fuck is this?”
“Call it a going away present. You know Scalise, things got a way of evening out. Maybe someday when you least expect it, when you’re at your most vulnerable, one of us will show up in the Bronx and pay you a visit. You won’t hear us coming and you won’t be so healthy when we leave. I can promise you that.”
“Go fuck yourself. You’re not soldiers. You’re fucking garbage. Be advised, if I ever do see any of youse back in the world, I’m gonna fucking kill you. Capisi?” Remembering their first encounter, Sal exaggeratedly enunciated his last word. “Now get on the fucking chopper before I light your ass up.”
Climbing into the helicopter, Smith flashed Sal a disconcerting smile. The Huey ascended and the remaining team members were gone in seconds. The morning light over the horizon gave Sal confidence. Slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, he picked up the bag Smith had thrown to him. Sal untied the string and removed the contents to find the cherished framed photograph his grandmother had given him. Smiling, he tucked it into his pack.
Though he knew his chances of making it through the enemy patrols and brutal terrain were slim, Sal also understood that his odds of surviving the journey through the hostile jungle were better than his chances of getting home on that chopper with Smith. Determined to make it back to the Bronx, Sal took a deep breath, and darted into the dense, black brush.
* * * * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The eardrum-shattering scream of commercial jet aircraft taking-off and landing were a stark contrast to the soothing female voice announcing flight changes and delays. Weighed down by his heavy medals and citations, Sal wore a well-pressed Class-A uniform and patent leather shoes. His face beamed, reflecting a feeling of pride in himself and his heroic service. With his lone green duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Sal strolled through the New York airport as if he were taking a morning constitutional.
As he made his way through the terminal, Sal encountered several passing long-haired hippies in ripped blue jeans, leather sandals, and tie-dyed t-shirts. Knowing that the majority of returning soldiers were cursed, ridiculed, and even spat upon, Sal refused to give them the satisfaction of making him feel uncomfortable. As the hippies fired looks of contempt in his direction, Sal reciprocated with an unemotional gaze of indifference.
Marching out of the nearest exit, Sal hailed a taxi. One speedily arrived and came to a screeching stop. Opening the back door, Sal tossed his bulky green bag onto the seat and climbed in closing the door. The driver, a heavy-set, older black gentleman with gray thinning hair and several missing teeth, wasn’t exactly the welcome wagon. Peering up into the rear-view mirror, the cabby set the fare flag. “Where to, soldier boy?” he inquired rudely.
“The Bronx, Arthur Avenue.”
“You just coming home from overseas?”
“Yeah.”
“You survived Vietnam just to come back to that?” the driver remarked unkindly.
“Shut the fuck up and drive, asshole.”
The cabby slammed the vehicle into gear and stammered mockingly, “You gots it, General.” The vehicle tore away from the curb, frightening some pigeons gathered on the sidewalk.
As the cab weaved in-and-out of traffic, Sal scanned his surroundings happily, recalling his first trip through New York as a boy while riding in his father’s car. Putting his head back, Sal closed his eyes and drifted off into a light sleep. Before he even had time to dream, the vehicle came to an abrupt halt. Sal’s body drifted forward, and then slammed back hard against the seat.
“We’re here. Which building is your’s, young man?” the cabby yelled, trying to wake him.
Taking a few moments to get his bearings, Sal looked around for his father’s car, hoping he still owned the same black Cadillac, and was home. A big smile broke over his face the moment he located the familiar vehicle parked in its usual spot right in front of the building.
“This is good. I’ll get out here.” Sal peeked at the fare meter. It read six dollars and ten cents. Pulling out a roll of bills from his pocket, Sal handed the cabby a ten dollar bill. “Keep the change, mister,” he said politely.
“Thank you, sir.”
Duffel bag in hand, Sal stepped out of the cab and the vehicle pulled away. He stood in the middle of the street for several moments savoring the feeling of being home and reacquainting himself with the old neighborhood. Sal smiled as he looked up-and-down the block. Boys played stickball in the street. Young girls jumped rope, and played hopscotch along the busy sidewalk. The familiar mouth-watering aromas of the restaurants and bakeries were still present. Inhaling deeply, Sal relished the bouquet of Italian cuisine. “It’s like nothing changed at all,” he whispered to himself.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Sal proceeded to the front entrance of his father’s apartment building and climbed the steps to the third floor. Standing before his father’s door, Sal remembered his contested departure several years ago. Sal knocked and listened as footsteps approached the door. He saw the knob turn, and the door slowly opened. The moment Peter laid eyes on his son, his face lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July. “Madonn da mi! Salvatore, is that really you?” Peter shouted with elation.
“How you doing, Pop?” Sal smiled.
“Welcome home! God, I’ve missed you!” Peter rushed his son and hugged him tightly.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“Come in! Come in!” Releasing Sal from his bear hug, Peter ushered him inside. “Sit down, Salvatore,” Peter insisted as he pulled out a
chair at the kitchen table.
Setting his bag on the floor, Sal took a seat. Excitedly, Peter hovered over him like an over-protective grandmother. “You want something to eat? Something to drink? What? What can I get for you?”
“I’m good to go, Pop. Why don’t you just sit down?”
“You sure.”
“I’m sure. Just sit down. Okay?”
“Why didn’t you call me? I woulda picked you up from the airport,” Peter asked as he sat down next to his son.
“It’s okay. I took a cab.”
“So how’ve you been?”
“I’m okay. I’m doing pretty good.”
“You sure you’re okay, Salvatore?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask me that, Pop?” Sal asked defensively.
“Your eyes...you look different to me. That’s all.” Peter had seen this look before: in the hard stare of the young soldiers he served with in World War II, and in the chilling glare of his sociopathic Mob associates.
“I’m just tired. It was a long flight.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Forget I said anything. You wanna take a nap or something?”
“I think maybe I will grab a little sack-time. If that’s okay?”
“You know where your room is.”
“You sure you don’t mind, Pop?”
“I don’t mind. Why the fuck would I mind. It’s your room. Actually, this works out pretty good. I gotta take carea some things, anyways. It oughta take me couplea, two, three hours. When I get back, I’ll heat up some manicottis and wake you. Then we can eat, and catch up. Awright?”
“Manicottis?” Sal said, surprised.
“The old ladies...they still drop off food and take carea things around here for me.”
“Okay, Pop. That sounds good.” Sal picked up his bag and started down the hall toward his old bedroom.
“Salvatore, the sheets was just washed. Everything’s clean. The old ladies, they took carea everything for you. Awright?”
“Okay, Pop.”
Sally Boy Page 17
