Veteran Avenue

by Mark Pepper

  He pushed the bathroom door shut and stepped into the cubicle. He opened the jets straight onto his body. The cold water shot hard against his chest and made him gasp, but he didn’t reach to adjust the faucet – he had been flashed back to the Gulf.

  Yanbu al-Bahr on the Red Sea, Saudi Arabia, September 1990. 2REI arrives, the first contingent of the Daguet Division. John is there to do a job. Hopes he won’t have to, but reckons he will. The Western powers aren’t shipping all this hardware and manpower halfway across the world only to bring it back unused. Life has suddenly become surreal. Death dominates his thoughts. In a ground war, he will be expected to kill. Trained for just that, it is still a concept his mind struggles to grasp. The Iraqi conscripts are just kids; they don’t want to be there, much less get shot for it. The force amassing against them is frightening, even to John, and he’s on the frightening side.

  The Legionnaires train for months in the desert, get used to wearing their C86 NBC suits. But with body armour on top, uniform beneath, equipment all around and the Saudi sun above, no one really gets used to it. It’s like life in a portable sauna. Each time John sheds the load and takes a cool shower he feels physically released, but somehow mentally worse. The water acts as a wake-up call to his senses, makes him question his purpose on this earth, in this region at this time. Will the Coalition effort fail for the lack of one man? If he kills another and soils his conscience, will the world be a better place? Because his won’t. He’ll never be the same again.

  It’s all moot. He is there, and he will be until the matter’s resolved. His apprehension can be no worse than the next man’s, the doubts he has no crime against his profession. He’s not a machine, he’s a man, and not inured to his deadly function. Of course, prolonged combat might change all that, cut him off from his emotions. And that’s his greatest fear, because they’ll one day return with a vengeance and he doesn’t want to live his life haunted by the past.

  John found himself suddenly thinking of Dodge. How many lives had he snuffed out? How many NVA? How many Vietcong? How many innocent villagers mistaken for Vietcong? On how many tours of duty over how many years?

  He stopped the flow of water, dried himself, tied a towel around his middle and went through to the main room.

  ‘Virginia, do you want to call your dad? See how he’s doing?’

  ‘I just did. I got his answerphone.’ She appeared pensive more than worried.

  ‘We can go back,’ John offered.

  Her smile dismissed it. ‘He’ll be asleep. I’ll call tomorrow. How about you check out the route while I take a shower?’ She pulled a night-shirt from her case and nipped into the bathroom.

  John changed into a fresh T-shirt and boxers and sat on the sofa with the map. The route was simple. He traced it with his finger. Stay on Highway 95 out of Nevada, traverse the south-east corner of Oregon into Idaho, join the I-84 north of Boise, then cut back into Oregon and straight to Baker City.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘I am on a mission.’

  He was starting their tour near to where he had met Chuck. They had stayed in Baker City the night before his strange encounter. He put the map to one side and pulled his wallet from his jacket, extracted the photo of the girl in the Disney dress and studied it. Keeping it with him had simply been the fulfilment of a childhood promise – the girl’s image sparked nothing inside him. He was only curious, as he had been at eight years old. Why had Chuck been so convinced? Then why so devastated at John’s absence of understanding?

  He lay back on the sofa, held the picture to his chest and closed his eyes. He listened to the shower for a moment, and to the muted sounds of a TV in the next chalet. He couldn’t concentrate for long. His head was swimming with tiredness. Already his body had begun to twitch at the doorway to unconsciousness. Six hours of motoring now gave him a weird sensation of forward movement, like he was physically tumbling into sleep.

  A little later, Virginia woke him with a soft touch on his wrist. The chalet was dark except for a corona of light around the bathroom door.

  ‘Come on. Come and lie on the bed,’ she said. ‘You need a good night’s sleep.’

  She took his hand, led him across the room and turned down the sheet. He climbed in and she joined him, folding the sheet back across them. She lay further up the bed than John, opening an arm for him to lie in.

  Out on the highway, an eighteen-wheeler was passing through Hawthorne. The tires rushing on the blacktop struck John as the loneliest sound; the driver miles from home, his wife in an empty bed, praying he’s safe.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, his eyelids already heavy again.

  ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  Sex was not on the cards, John knew that. Yet he doubted he would ever spend a finer night with a more beautiful woman.

  The chalet was filled with the wonderful aroma of fresh, rich coffee. Its smell enticed John from his slumbers and he surfaced with a huge smile. There wasn’t much in the world to rival waking up on clean white sheets in a broad bar of sunlight beside a person you’d fallen in love with.

  For John, it was better. He had found a place where he felt at home. Whether that was in the United States or merely in the presence of this woman, he couldn’t yet be sure, but something inside him had settled. He had to fight the temptation to roll over and kiss his bedmate. He turned his head, but Virginia was not lying next to him. Puzzled, he sat up in bed. On the cabinet beside him was a large Styrofoam cup, black liquid steaming away inside.

  ‘John!’ came a voice from the bathroom. ‘Rise and shine! Coffee!’

  ‘I’m up,’ he groaned. ‘Thanks.’

  Virginia emerged in her night-shirt, which made him really confused. He watched her pad round the bed and jump in.

  ‘Uh ... Virginia, have you just been out for this coffee?’

  She nodded and switched on the radio in the console between their heads, releasing a country and western tune. Feet swaying like metronomes, she picked up her drink and took a sip. Not wishing to be presumptuous, John decided not to pursue his query.

  ‘Why don’t you grab a shower?’ she said. ‘Wake yourself up. Long drive today.’

  ‘I showered last night.’

  ‘Have another.’

  He gave her a bemused look. ‘Uh ... okay.’

  Inside the bathroom, one thought kept crossing his mind. One image: Virginia stepping into the shower with him. Was this all a ploy? It seemed odd she should have gone out for coffee and then put her night-shirt back on. He stripped off hopefully and stepped in the shower.

  ‘Nice and hot now!’ Virginia called through to him.

  He did as he was told and took a long, hot shower, giving her plenty of time to join him. Why not? It always happened that way in the movies, and she was a movie person, after all.

  Ten minutes later he decided it wasn’t going to happen. He shut the faucet and stepped out into a room thick with steam. He grabbed a towel from the rail, then noticed it. The condensation on the mirror had revealed a formerly invisible message, written by a wet fingertip.

  Sergeant Frears, come through and stand to attention.

  A grin spread across his dripping face. He went through naked. Virginia was lying on top of the covers, similarly naked, her shirt now discarded on the floor. She was a vision, more stunning unclothed than he had ever imagined.

  ‘Well,’ she said with a wicked smile, ‘you did say you needed a written invitation.’

  He smiled back. ‘And here I am to RSVP.’

  Virginia eyed him up and down and lingered on his penis.

  ‘Guess there’s no point my asking you to stand easy.’

  The briefing room was filling up and still no sign of DeCecco. Lieutenant Möhler was standing in front of a whiteboard, waiting for the last of his officers to come through from the locker room for roll-call. A computer file page was being projected onto the whiteboard, ready to be opened.

  Larry checked his watch. Where was the fucking rookie? Probably in Gilchr
ist’s office, doing what Larry had expected him to do yesterday. In five minutes he’d no doubt get a call upstairs; pass DeCecco coming down.

  ‘Okay, listen up!’ Möhler began.

  But Larry had trouble paying attention. He was wondering whether to follow through with the threats he’d made. He had always promised himself: one day, people would take him seriously. Why not start today? Make a stand. If DeCecco had thrown down the gauntlet, shouldn’t Larry do him the courtesy of picking it up?

  ‘You’re screwed, DeCecco,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Officer Roth!’

  Larry gathered from Möhler’s tone that he’d been addressed once already but hadn’t heard. His heart began to speed up.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ll be riding with Mallory today; DeCecco called in sick.’

  Larry had to hand it to his absent partner: he’d been smart. He was staying out of trouble. He had opted for box number three when Larry had thought there were only two choices: play ball or snitch.

  ‘Hey, Lar, any idea what’s wrong with Joey tonight?’

  Larry ignored Mallory and kept on driving, eyes straight ahead.

  ‘Lar?’

  ‘Kevin, I have a full Christian name, not just some fucking note Mary Poppins sang in The Sound of Music.’

  ‘Julie Andrews. Mary Poppins was a character she played in a movie of the same name.’

  ‘Kevin … I don’t care. Call me Larry or don’t fucking speak to me.’

  Mallory huffed. ‘Okay, Larry ... Jesus, I only asked what was wrong with Joey.’

  ‘Yellow belly,’ Larry muttered.

  ‘What?’

  Larry didn’t expand. He was thinking about DeCecco again. Oddly, his malice towards him had pretty much disappeared. DeCecco had taken the out that was least damaging to all. In spite of serious provocation he had opted not to retaliate. His attitude stank, of course, but at least he hadn’t broken the cop code of brotherhood.

  But if DeCecco thought his absence would wreck Larry’s plans for the evening, he had naïvely misjudged. Mallory might have been DeCecco a few years from now and even less inclined to go for a maverick bust, but that problem was easily overcome: Larry simply wouldn’t mention it. If DeCecco was smart, Larry was smarter. More to the point, Larry was driving.

  21:20 hours. Six Adam Nine was nearing the end of their shift, patrolling the streets of Little Armenia along the perimeter between the Hollywood and Northeast Divisions. Suddenly, Larry slammed his foot on the brake.

  ‘What is it?’ Mallory asked.

  Larry reversed the Charger and stopped adjacent to a service road that led to the entrance to a construction site.

  ‘Put some light down there, will you, Kevin?’

  Mallory obediently directed the car’s spotlight into the shadows. The site was fenced off by green netting. Beyond the fence was an old hotel that was due to be renovated. And parked almost out of sight at the end of the service road were a black Suburban and a black Mercedes. Until that moment, Larry had been unsure whether tonight was the real deal, or merely Eddie spinning a yarn to sound more important than the low-life he was.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I got a suspicious nature ...’ Larry said. ‘Would you leave expensive vehicles like that parked there?’

  Mallory switched off the spotlight. ‘Let’s check it out.’

  Larry pulled the Charger off the street and unbuckled his seatbelt. He liked the way Mallory was taking the lead. It would look good if it came to an enquiry – providing they were both alive to give evidence.

  As Mallory climbed out and shone his Maglite down the service road, Larry unlocked the shotgun from the dash. He wasn’t going in with just a sidearm, not against Armenians with automatic weapons. He needed instant stopping power. The model in his hands was a 12-gauge Remington 870 with 20-inch barrel. Eight shells of double-o buck, each the equivalent of nine .32 caliber slugs – trauma you didn’t get up from.

  The building had no electricity, so the crack of light along the first-floor hallway made Larry halt in his tracks. The glow beneath the door was an intense white, the sort made by fluorescent tubes. Larry guessed the hoods had brought a couple of portable lanterns. He could faintly hear a clandestine exchange, and soundlessly indicated that they should get closer, but Mallory grabbed his arm and pulled him into a doorway.

  ‘Listen, Larry, let’s sit tight and call for back-up. Meantime, anything develops, we can play it by ear.’

  Larry’s brain was racing like a man on PCP. If Mallory put a call through to the station and reinforcements showed up, Larry would be relegated to the same role his wife always assumed in her career: uncredited bit-part player, peripheral to the action.

  ‘We’re going in,’ he whispered.

  ‘Into what? We don’t know. We got no idea who’s inside, how many, what they’re doing, if they’re armed. Shit, they could be Armenian Power. Those guys have all the latest hardware. And so far all we got’s a couple of vehicles parked outside.’

  ‘Sounds like probable cause to me,’ Larry said, and broke away down the hallway, padding quickly and softly on the threadbare carpet.

  ‘Roth!’ A coarse and desperate whisper.

  Larry raised the shotgun and jammed the stock hard against his shoulder. His system was gripped by fierce shakes of adrenaline that made his lower back pound painfully.

  ‘Roth!’ Mallory tried again. ‘Fuck!’

  Larry kicked the door open, planting his foot back down and canting his body forward to counteract the imminent recoil that could knock a man on his ass. He spotted a Mac-10 machine pistol and pulled the trigger, turning the nearest Armenian into a bloody, backward-leaping rag doll. In the surreal fluorescent glow, he took in the fact of five more figures, plus a table piled high with kilo bags of white powder.

  The hoods reacted; Larry saw a host of muzzles arcing round at him, among them a mini-Uzi held by a boy no older than sixteen, standing behind the table. Larry sent the second blast his way. It ripped through the top load of narcotics and caught the youngster full in the chest. Larry screamed for Mallory to lend some firepower as the terminal kid released a spray of nine mils and the room became an expensive snowstorm.

  His third shot took both lanterns and another perp but it was no longer one-way traffic. As the lights went out, muzzle flashes lit the room. Dodging into the bathroom doorway, Larry expected to feel each one drill his flesh, but he remained miraculously unscathed.

  The smell of cordite, the taste of cocaine – Larry felt he was in the middle of a nightmare as he pumped shells four through eight at targets obscured by a misty-white darkness. Still yelling for his partner to come to his aid, he pulled his Glock and emptied the clip willy-nilly into the murk.

  Only when the weapon was spent did he realize he had been the only one shooting.

  The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.

  After shoving a fresh clip into the Glock, Larry pulled the neck of his white undershirt up over his nose so he didn’t OD on the atmosphere, then held his breath and listened. The pulse thudding in his ears made it difficult to tell, but he reckoned he was the only one left alive. Juddering uncontrollably, he allowed himself a smile. A coke deal foiled, the bad guys dead. He was a hero.

  Or not.

  ‘Ah, fuck.’

  Someone was rather conspicuous by their silence. Larry unhooked the Maglite from his utility belt and hurried into the hallway.

  Mallory was motionless on the floor. Closer inspection revealed he had been hit by several shots through the plasterboard wall. His undershirt body-armor had stopped some, but the bullets had traced up from his stomach and the last three had entered his neck and head. Larry didn’t need to check his carotid to know the guy was a stiff.

  A sudden jolt to his senses told him this was no longer a defining moment in the history of law enforcement, this was a monumental fuck-up. When DeCecco heard about this ...

  He had to claw some good from it all. His flashlight swung bac
k into the room, its beam catching a black holdall on the floor beside the table. The other half of the deal: the money. If his cop days were over, he would gratefully accept a golden handshake from the criminal community. And if they weren’t ... what the hell, a little extra cash never hurt anyone.

  He entered the room again and quickly counted the kilo bags left intact on the table. Sixteen. Plus what looked like four destroyed, their contents still swirling and settling like fallout. Twenty kees in total. Depending on purity, wholesale value around $500,000.

  So, take the remaining sixteen kees to sell, and four-fifths of the folding; make it appear the deal was for only four. Before he got on the radio, he would stash the haul in another room and sneak back for it the next day.

  He holstered his weapon, set his Maglite on a wall shelf and worked in its coke-hazed beam. With his hands in the surgical gloves from his belt kit, he transferred the cash out of the holdall and divided it five ways. All the time he was tittering to himself, and wondered if he wasn’t thoroughly stoned despite his makeshift mask. He returned four piles of cash to the holdall and added the sixteen bags of C to a large suitcase, then, still cackling like a dope fiend, he closed them both.

  With the cash and the coke, he was just about to clock off on an $800,000 shift.

  But the amusement caught in his throat as a voice came from the hallway.

  ‘Freeze. You fucking psycho.’

  For a moment, Larry thought Mallory had risen from the dead and was about to chew him out for leading them into this. Then he recognized the voice, but kept his back to the source.

  ‘DeCecco? That you?’

  ‘Put your hands where I can see them.’

  Larry dithered, his right hand wavering close to his holstered Glock.

  ‘Touch the gun, you’re dead; I won’t hesitate.’

  Sensibly, Larry clasped his gloved hands behind his head, then waggled his jaw to make the undershirt drop from his mouth.