by JB Turner
Hard Wired
By
JB Turner
Copyright 2015 JB Turner
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
TWENTY TWO
TWENTY THREE
TWENTY FOUR
TWENTY FIVE
TWENTY SIX
TWENTY SEVEN
TWENTY EIGHT
TWENTY NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY ONE
THIRTY TWO
THIRTY THREE
THIRTY FOUR
THIRTY FIVE
THIRTY SIX
THIRTY SEVEN
THIRTY EIGHT
THIRTY NINE
FORTY
FORTY ONE
FORTY TWO
FORTY THREE
FORTY FOUR
FORTY FIVE
FORTY SIX
FORTY SEVEN
FORTY EIGHT
FORTY NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY ONE
FIFTY TWO
FIFTY THREE
FIFTY FOUR
FIFTY FIVE
FIFTY SIX
FIFTY SEVEN
FIFTY EIGHT
FIFTY NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY ONE
SIXTY TWO
SIXTY THREE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
The call came as night fell.
Jon Reznick was standing on the Rockland breakwater as the lighthouse strafed the dark waters of Penobscot Bay. The waves crashed off the granite breakwater slabs, sending cold spray into the air. He wondered who was calling at that time of the evening. His cellphone number was known to only a handful of people. When he finally answered, the voice on the line was a whisper. It had a sense of urgency about it.
"Who's this?" Reznick said.
Deep breathing down the line.
Reznick was about to end the call. But then the voice rasped angrily to life.
"It's T-i-n-y, man . . .You getting this?"
Reznick's blood ran cold. He recognized the voice as that of an old Delta buddy Charles 'Tiny' Burns.
"I'm checking out, Jon."
Reznick could make out sirens in the background. "Checking out? What the hell's happened?"
"I'm trapped."
Reznick began to pace the breakwater. "Shit . . .Where?"
"Goddamn car . . . Miami."
"Christ."
"Bleedin' out everywhere, man."
Reznick closed his eyes. "I'll call 911."
"Paramedics are here."
"You're gonna hang in there, do you understand?"
Tiny moaned and gasped as if trying to catch his breath.
Reznick pressed the cell tight to his ear. "Goddamn Charles, do you hear me?"
"Jon . . . not gonna make it. I'm goin' down."
"Charles," Reznick said, raising his voice, "you're not checking out on us yet."
The sirens grew louder down the line amid the gasps and sobs. "Goin' cold. Real fucking cold, man."
"Charles, where's your wife?"
"Too late, man . . ."
"What do you mean?"
"She's gone. Wife and my boy . . . Blood everywhere, man." He began to sob hard down the line.
Reznick's mind flashed up terrible images.
"Cold. So goddamn cold, Jon. Can't feel nothing, man."
"You will not fucking die on me, do you hear me? You will not fucking die on me!"
"Listen Jon . . . you need to know."
"Don't talk."
"I have to, man. You need to know . . ."
Reznick closed his eyes. "Need to know what?"
A beat. "They got me."
"What?"
"Yeah . . . Be careful, man. They're gonna kill us all . . ."
The last moments of Charles 'Tiny' Burns' life were played out in a mangled wreck on I-95 in downtown Miami amid the skyscrapers and residential towers. His car had flipped over after, according to eyewitnesses, losing complete control. Paramedics arrived on the scene after two minutes. There was nothing they could do. Major trauma to the heart, lungs and liver, a broken spine and two broken legs. His wife in the passenger seat and kid in the back were both killed outright as the car careered into oncoming traffic, killing an elderly driver.
Within the hour, the story had made the Metro section of the Miami Herald website which described in graphic details the tragic car crash. They quoted unnamed police sources saying the driver may have fallen asleep at the wheel.
The following day, the Herald was reporting that officers close to the investigation cited the driver's 'mental health issues', which may have contributed to this terrible crash.
The drip drip drip of stories continued for five consecutive days. And they covered everything there was to know about the former Ranger and Delta Force operator who was dubbed "a good guy, but troubled" by unnamed former colleagues.
The newspapers and local cable channels were building up a picture of a veteran who was having difficulties integrating back into society. They interviewed his neighbors in the low rent Overtown area, just north of downtown Miami. And they pieced together in gruesome detail the final moments of Tiny's life.
They seemed to have the whole story. Everything, apart from the final call he had made to Jon Reznick.
A week after the crash, under a perfect blue Miami sky, Reznick stood on the periphery of the group of mourners at the Burns' graveside, where the funeral of Tiny, his wife Lanelle, and their eight-year-old son, John, was commencing. Tiny's family and friends held each other tight for comfort and support. Tears spilled down the mourners faces as a few began to sob openly. It took six big guys to carry Tiny's coffin, a smaller coffin for his wife, and a child-size coffin for his son.
The minister dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief and began to recite the Lord's Prayer as the coffins were lowered into the three plots. Then he read some passages from the Bible and talked of the man who had fought for his country. He didn't mention Tiny living in some shitty trailer in Delray after a temporary split from his wife. No one heard about working the doors of dangerous nightclubs and bars across Miami. The relentless grind of making ends meet. No one gave a damn about what happened after he returned home. That's just the way it was.
The harsh sun beat down on the mourners. Reznick's mind drifted. He replayed Tiny's final call to him over and over in his head. The sound of his voice. The desperation. But most of all what did he mean by They're gonna kill us all?
The words had plagued him. And he had thought of little else in the days following the crash. None of it made any sense.
His gaze wandered round the seventy or eighty mourners. Standing on the far side of the cemetery from Reznick was a fair-haired guy wearing a navy blue suit, sharp white shirt and black tie, eyes darting back and forth amongst the mourners.
Reznick recognized the profile as being that of Pete Dorfman, a Delta operator from way back.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the minister said.
Reznick stepped forward and stared into the grave as close family threw handfuls of earth onto the coffins. The minister brought the funeral service to an end. The mourners hung around, shaking hands and exchanging commiserations and hugs. Then as they drifted out of the cemetery, he caught the eye of Dorfman.
Dorfman smiled. "Long time no see, Jon."
Reznick shook Dorfman's hand. "Yeah."
"Think everyone's heading down to the Deuce for a drink. In South Beach, where Tiny used to work. How does that sound?"
Reznick nodded.
"Meet up in an hour?"
The Deuce was a windowless dive. Inside was a horseshoe-shaped bar with a pink neon-lit sign flashed on and off. A Ramones song was playing full blast as Reznick and some of the others filed in. It was hardly a typical after-funeral function.
A few disheveled bar flies looked up from their drinks. He noticed some close family friends and relatives and members of Tiny's church looking a bit bewildered to be in such a place. Reznick shook hands and was introduced to a few. He offered his condolences and was offered a Scotch from Tiny's brother-in-law, an ex-Marine. He knocked it back, the warm liquid burning his insides. It felt good. He drifted away from the group.
Reznick noticed Dorfman sitting by himself in a corner near the pool table. He went to the bar and bought a couple of cold Heinekens, before he went over and joined him.
"Good to see you, man," Dorfman said, taking the beer gratefully.
Reznick sat down and took a long gulp of the beer. He looked at Dorfman who had tears in his eyes. He clinked his bottle of Heineken against Dorfman's. "You alright?"
Dorfman nodded. "Nothing some liquor won't cure."
Reznick said nothing.
Dorfman nursed his bottle of beer for a few minutes before they began to talk. First small talk. The atrocious heatwave engulfing the south. They moved on to the old days. About the Delta crew they'd known and served with. But more than anything, they talked of Tiny.
"Goddamn, man," Dorfman said, "why the hell didn't we keep in touch?"
Reznick took another gulp of beer. "Never seem to find the time."
Dorfman sighed, a far away look in his eyes. "Tiny worked in here a lot of the time," he said.
Reznick nodded.
"So, must be eight years, maybe more, Jon."
Reznick finished his beer. "Yeah, must be. What you been doing?"
Dorfman edged closer. "Close protection, mostly. Consultancy."
Reznick nodded.
"VIPs, that kind of stuff. Last one . . . some rapper numbnuts something or other. Had to go on tour with the fuck for three straight months."
Reznick leaned in close. "Lucky you."
Dorfman gave a rueful smile. "Paid well and we stayed in fancy hotels across Europe. But the guy . . ." He shook his head. "Major league asshole."
Reznick nodded.
"Spent half my time sitting at the next table as numbnuts and his dopey hangers on knocked back bottles of Krug and Grey Goose vodka, arms around some escort girls his manager rustled up."
Reznick ordered two more Heinekens from the barman who was wearing a Velvet Underground tee shirt. "Couldn't imagine anything worse."
"Yeah, pretty much what I was thinking about seven every morning when I got to my bed."
Reznick paid for the beers and took a long gulp. "How did you hear about Tiny?"
"His cousin from New York called me."
Reznick didn't feel much like mentioning about the last call from Tiny. He looked over towards the other mourners, mixing with the hipsters, boozehounds, tourists, workmen and others filling up the bar. "Good turnout."
Dorfman glanced round. "Yeah, popular guy."
"Thought there might've been some more of the cadre."
"We all went our separate ways, Jon. People lose touch."
Reznick sipped some beer. "Yeah, I guess."
Dorfman clenched his fist. "Good guy. Real good guy."
Reznick drank the rest of his beer. "Damn straight."
TWO
The sky had turned blood red when Reznick and Dorfman left the bar. They headed back to Reznick's nearby hotel, went up to the Winter Haven's roof terrace and kicked back with two more beers.
Reznick noticed a tremor in Dorfman's hand as he gripped the bottle. They talked again of the Delta cadre. They talked of Mogadishu. They talked about the hellhole that was Iraq. Fallujah. Baquba. The Sunni Triangle. The whole mess. The deaths. The screaming widows. The sniper fire. Then they talked at length of Tiny.
The memories flooded back as they rolled back the years. As the evening wore on, Dorfman revealed he had served time in jail for a bar room brawl. Reznick wasn't surprised. Anger boiling under the surface. He had been arrested numerous times for fighting in bars. Taking offence at imagined slights. Someone looking at him the wrong way.
Reznick listened as Dorfman talked. His wife Arlene had left him because of his drinking and he now lived with his eighty-year-old father in Fort Lauderdale. Dorfman got that faraway look in his eyes. He talked of flashbacks of ex-Delta operator Thomas Brading being mown down in Baghdad.
Reznick had seen countless Delta guys going the same way. The descent into darkness, struggling to contain the demons that had been unleashed by warfare. Withdrawing into themselves. Shutting themselves away from the outside world. Closing themselves off from loved ones.
Dorfman gazed off across the art deco rooftops towards the ocean. "Bad thoughts, all the time. Trouble sleeping."
Reznick nodded.
"What can I say? Just the way it is. So, what about you?"
Reznick shrugged. "What about me?"
"What do you do?"
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
Dorfman took a long hard look at him before he gulped down some more beer. "Man, you never change."
Darkness fell over the beach and a gentle breeze blew in. Dorfman was getting drunk fast as the sound of bass-heavy music pumped out of cars headed along Ocean Drive below.
Dorfman glanced at his watch and looked at Reznick. "I better be hauling my ass back to Fort Fucking Lauderdale."
"Why not get a room here?"
Dorfman shook his head. "I'll grab a cab. Stuff to do tomorrow." He got unsteadily to his feet and hugged Reznick tight. "Good seeing you again, bro."
"And you Pete."
"Keep in touch. Only one Dorfman in Fort Lauderdale. Not difficult to find."
Reznick watched from the roof terrace as Dorfman hailed a passing cab on Ocean Drive and he was gone.
Reznick snatched a few hours sleep and was up just after four. He showered, got changed and caught a cab to the airport. He sat in the departure lounge ahead of the American Airlines red eye to New York, gulping down his second black coffee of the day. His mouth felt dry after the booze, but he was neither up nor down after the drinks with Dorfman. He always knew when to call it a night. But it was clear his old friend had been hitting the liquor hard for years. The tremor in the hand, the way he finished the beers in three or four gulps. He had seen it all before. Dorfman was a functioning alcoholic.
His thoughts turned to the visit to New York. He knew his daughter was staying in the city as part of a trip round the museums and galleries in Manhattan. And he was looking forward to surprising her by turning up unannounced at the Guggenheim and taking her for dinner.
His cellphone rang and he checked the caller ID. It was Dorfman.
"Jon," Dorfman said, "sorry to bother you so early."
"You okay?"
"No I'm not okay."
"What's the problem?"
"Where are you?"
"Airport. Why?"
"You need to get a copy of the Miami Herald, Jon."
"Why?"
"Just do it. I'll call you back in five minutes."
The line went dead and Reznick wondered what had gotten into Dorfman. He sounded even more agitated than he had the previous night. Reznick w
alked across to a News Express stand and bought a copy of that day's Miami Herald.
Reznick stared at the photo on the front page long and hard. Staring back at him was a huge photo of Tiny, alongside his dead wife and child, with the headline
Miami Death Crash Driver Drunk at Wheel
It took a few moments to sink in. Then he began to feel angry. It began to build from deep within him. Raw anger until his head was swimming. He read the headline again.
Reznick shook his head. "Fuck," he muttered to himself. Tiny was barely in his grave. And they were already accusing him, the day after he was buried alongside his wife and kids, as being responsible for killing them.
His cellphone rang and he headed out of the shop.
"Jon," Dorfman said, "you seen it?"
Reznick ran a hand through his hair as he glanced again at the front page. "Yeah, I've seen it."
"Jon, this doesn't make any sense."
Reznick closed his eyes for a moment. "I know."
"So what's going on, man? It's a flat out lie. No way. No fucking way."
Reznick said nothing.
"On the once a year when we hang out, he's on club soda or Diet Coke or some such shit. The guy did not drink. So what the hell are they writing a story like that for?"
Reznick knew that was correct. He tried to block out the loudspeaker announcement that his flight was boarding.
"I mean . . . what the fuck, Jon? How can they write that?"
Reznick speed-read the story for a third time. "Look, I need to catch a flight."
Dorfman sighed.
Reznick felt as though his insides had been ripped out. And he knew Dorfman felt the same. He sensed his pain on the line.
"Tiny was a straight edge kind of guy."
The second loudspeaker announcement.
"They're not getting away with this."
Reznick was silent.
"Jon, we need to sort this out."
"I agree."
Reznick focused again on the facts. He knew that Tiny had been teetotal. His father was a drinker. And that's why he never touched the stuff. He thought of all the times Tiny had stood by his side during firefights. Hunkered down in back alleys. It was then that an idea began to form. "Tiny never left anyone behind. He was one of us to the end."
"I know, Jon . . . I know." Dorfman sighed down the line. "So what do you suggest? What can we do apart from call up the cops and tell them they've got it wrong?"
