by Jeff Gulvin
‘Hey, Miss Lady Mam.’ Harrison leaned against the porch of the motel room. She wore flat, open-toed sandals and she slipped her arms about his waist and hugged him. Harrison stood there a little awkwardly at first, and then he just delighted in her touch and felt himself relaxing. ‘I’m showered and scrubbed, Miss Lady Mam,’ he said. ‘But these are the same duds I been wearing since the last time you saw me.’
‘I don’t care.’ She laid her face against his chest. ‘I’ve missed you, Johnny, and I was worried about you.’
He went to the truck box for his case and found she had cleaned and pressed all of his spare clothes. Jean was in the bathroom and he could hear the shower falling. He stood just outside the door with his back to her.
‘Have you spoken to Penny?’ he asked.
‘This morning, after you called.’
‘I want to meet with him and Andy Swartz. Where’d you put the cellphone?’
‘It’s still in the truck.’
Harrison stepped outside into the cooling Texas evening and sat in the cab of his truck. It was familiar and yet unfamiliar, and he wondered at that for a moment until he realised it was the smell. He smiled widely to himself. The cab smelt of Jean. He dialled New Orleans and got hold of Penny. ‘Matthew,’ he said. ‘Johnny Buck. I’m in Brownwood, Texas, and it’s time I met with my case agents.’
Jean was out of the shower when he went back inside, sitting on the bed and massaging her wet hair with one towel, another wrapped round her. Harrison felt the dryness in his throat and stepped back outside. He pinched a Marlboro from his shirt pocket and stared west toward the sunset, a strange sense of loneliness coming over him.
‘How’ve you been getting along?’ he asked Jean quietly. ‘You must be real sick of that truck by now.’
She moved into the doorway alongside him. He could smell a burnt quality in her hair; maybe it was her shampoo, maybe the heat of the water, but it mixed with the natural scent of her skin. He looked round at her: onyx-coloured eyes and a clarity to her skin he had only seen in Asian people. All at once he was in Vietnam, evacuating the South Vietnamese from their villages. There was one woman in particular, with seven young children huddled round her like chicks. She had not wanted to go, but the NVA were shelling the place and half the buildings were on fire, smoke and yellow flames licking about their heels. He grabbed her round the waist and hefted her over his shoulder, yelling at the children to follow. They did, and he bundled them all into the open door of a helicopter. That was his first tour of duty, before he had volunteered to go underground. They had been pinned down in a firefight that lasted two weeks. The choppers couldn’t get them out, but dropped C rations and menthol-flavoured cigarettes.
Jean suddenly reached up and cupped the side of his face. Harrison felt his flesh pucker and he smiled.
‘Where were you?’ she said softly.
‘I was in your homeland, Miss Lady Mam.’
She let go his face, sat on the bed again and helped herself to one of his cigarettes. He popped a match and lit it for her.
‘Did you like the fighting?’
‘No, mam. I didn’t.’
‘But you went back because of your friend.’
Harrison squatted on the edge of the bed next to her. ‘I was young and pissed off,’ he said. ‘So I went back and fought underground.’
She touched his arm where the tattoo was under the shirt. ‘Hence this.’
Harrison looked past her to the open door, where little dust devils were rising in the parking lot. ‘Kinda dumb thing to do,’ he said. ‘But I was a kid and the Tunnel Rats were a sort of family, I guess. Close-knit. Elite. A really tight group of men. I got the tattoo done when I finished with them. I was drunk at the time and for a long time I regretted it.’
‘But not any more?’
Harrison sighed. ‘Jeanie, I’m near on fifty years old and I got no family, no regular home or anything. When I went on my little vacation, I spent a lot of time thinking about the past. The Rats were a big part of my life. I’ve never again been quite so up against it, never had to rely on my wits, my own instincts, quite like I did back then.’ He looked into her face. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. There I go rambling like some sad old soldier and it’s your country I’m talking about.’
Jean shook her head. ‘No it’s not,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been back. The Communists killed my father. I fled with my mother. England’s my home. It has been for twenty years.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments after that. Outside, the wind was getting stronger and it whistled through the wooded eaves of the buildings, and reminded Harrison of the sound it made in the boxcars. A single truck rolled by on the highway. Jean still sat on the bed with the towel wrapped round her and Harrison looked at her then, the gentle arc of her neck, the shape of her collarbone and shoulder. His gaze roamed the towel to her knees and the smooth skin of her calves. She reached forward, cupped his face in her hands and pressed her lips into his. Harrison trembled with the weight of sudden emotion. It was a long, long time since he had felt anything vaguely like this. He kissed her on the mouth, the bridge of her nose, under the eyes and dragged his face through the scent of her hair. The towel gradually slipped and her breasts pushed against him, tight mounds of flesh thrusting at the material of his shirt. Jean pressed him back on to the bed and, standing naked above him, she unbuttoned his shirt.
‘It’s been a long time, Miss Lady Mam. I’m not as young as I was.’
‘It’s been a long time for me too, John, and I’m nearly as old as you.’ She stripped off his shirt and singlet and traced the crude lines of the tattoo.
‘I got it from a picture we used to hang on the door of the hootch,’ he explained.
She touched his lips with a finger and worked at his belt. Then she took his penis in her hand while he lay back, eyes closed, and when he was ready, she climbed on top of him.
The door to the parking lot was still open, but nobody walked past and the dust devils hurried themselves out to the street. Harrison rolled her on to her back and, raising himself on his hands, made love to her, his hair hanging loose in her face. Afterwards, they lay on the bed in their own sweat and talked quietly together for an hour. Eventually, Harrison got up, closed the door and looked at her, still naked there in the bed. Her breasts were small and perfectly round, and the nipples lifted under his gaze. Her belly was flat, with dark hair curling at the top of her thighs.
‘You’re beautiful, Jeanie.’
‘Thank you.’
They shared the shower and Harrison soaped her breasts and shoulders for a long time, then gently rinsed her off. He dried her with the towel and brushed her wet hair, aware of a new lightness in his movements. They got in the truck and drove north towards Dallas and the diner on the Stephenville city limits. Penny and Swartz had jumped a National Guard helicopter from New Orleans to Shreveport, and another from there to Dallas. They had picked up a rental car from the Texas field office and driven down Highway 377. Harrison and Jean got there a little before them and were sharing a carafe of wine in a booth when they walked in.
‘Well, you two look cosy,’ Penny said, and he and Swartz slid into the seat across from them.
Harrison told them what he had accomplished so far. ‘Check all the names with Spinelli’s file in Spokane,’ he said. ‘See what else he can come up with.’ He told them that Sidetrack had invited him up to Millwood Lake in Arkansas.
‘So you’re in, then?’ Penny asked him.
‘Not yet. I’ve played it pretty carefully, you know, like I don’t give a shit. I think I might’ve rode my luck once or twice, but that’s just the colour of the territory.’ He told them about the first little test they had put him through and then he mentioned the drop they had made north of Coleman.
‘Pick-up truck?’ Swartz said.
Harrison nodded. ‘The Blacks travel in twos and often when they jump the trains, there’s a spare pack between them. We’re talking large quantities of drugs, Andy.
Three or four keys per pack.’
Penny rested his elbows on the table. ‘Have they talked much about it?’
‘Innuendo, is all.’
‘What about a wire?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But later?’
‘Matt,’ Harrison lit a cigarette. ‘There’s not a whole lotta point being out there unless I can get some evidence.’
‘Isn’t wearing a wire dangerous?’ Jean asked then.
Penny and Swartz looked at her. ‘Jean, the whole thing’s dangerous,’ Penny said.
Harrison squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Lady Mam. I’ve worn a wire before.’
He looked back at Penny. ‘I’m gonna make the trip to Arkansas. See what happens there. Once I’m in, I’ll wear the wire.’ He sat back for a moment and thought about the attitude he had built so far. The Blacks he had met knew not to get too physically close to him, which lessened the danger of some stray finger running an exploratory line up and down his back. The mobsters had done that in Florida, fortunately in the early days and not when he was wearing a wire. Harrison had taken a leaf out of Joe Pistone’s book and threatened to kill the wiseguy who did it. He doubted the Freight Train Riders of America were that sophisticated, anyway. Southern Sidetrack himself had said that nobody knew who they were. That had pretty much been true. Nobody would ever have really known, if Spinelli had not been so vigilant. He sipped some more wine and put out the cigarette. ‘We knew from Spinelli that the overall leader, the one who strings the three bands together, is a guy they call Whiskey Six. I’ve had that confirmed.’ He sat back and rolled his sleeve high on his arm. ‘Apparently, he’s got some tattoo like this. That might make him a Tunnel Rat.’ He looked at Swartz, then back at Penny again. ‘There weren’t that many of us. It’s possible I might even have known him. Matt, I want you to check with the military records office and find out what you can. Who is dead, who is still alive, etc.’
‘That won’t be easy, JB. Have you kept in touch with the army since you quit Vietnam?’
‘Actually,’ Harrison said, ‘I have. Or at least, I tried to. From time to time over the years, I tried to find out what happened to the other guys in my battalion. Rats were a strange breed. You had to be pretty damn crazy to volunteer to go down there in the first place. Check it out. You might be surprised.’
When the two case agents had gone, Harrison stayed a while longer with Jean. They sat in the window, watching the rain blow in from the south. Jean hunched against him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Are you happy to go on with this?’ he asked her.
She nodded, pressing her hand against his arm.
‘I can’t tell you how long I’m gonna be undercover. How long can you keep trucking round the country waiting on a phone call?’
‘John.’ She turned to face him then. ‘My only son is dead. I’ve leased my flat and taken a sabbatical from my job. I can’t think of a better way of spending my time and money than tracking down his killer.’
‘And what if I don’t get any evidence to link any of the Southern Blacks with the murder? The FBI might put some people away for drug-dealing, but you’ll be no further forward.’
She looked at the floor then. ‘That’s a chance I’ll have to take, isn’t it? I know there are no guarantees.’
They went back to the motel and made love again; and afterwards they lay together long into the night, listening to the rain sweeping across the parking lot outside.
Fachida Harada drove his cab into the Federal Triangle unhindered by any of the police officers that seemed to be everywhere now. It was what he had expected, a massive show of force, as if in some way their obviousness alone would deter him. Fools. His mission was sacred and nothing would get in his way. They had begun to remove some of the trash cans. He had used them twice now and they had finally reacted, but there were still both trash cans and waste paper bins on the metro.
He regretted the two civilian deaths, but no war in history had ever been prosecuted without some collateral damage. He pulled over outside the Metro Center station and waited. There were two cops, in a road unit, moving down the street ahead of him. He saw their tail-lights come on at the stop sign, then go off again as they eased forward. Three sidewalk stallholders were selling various goods to tourists: Washington D.C. shirts, sunglasses and hamburgers. All that was America. Harada got out of the cab and walked into the heaving mass of the Metro Center station. It was on two levels where the lines crossed, and he stood for a few minutes reading the street map and considering which receptacle he would use. A uniformed cop was stationed by the platform-entry booth, where hordes of people were passing beyond the barrier. Harada went back to the cab.
He drove out of the Triangle, beyond Capitol Hill, where he was stopped by a cop and his ID and cab licence were checked. The cop looked carefully at him, then handed back the documents and waved him through. He headed due east past Lincoln Park and made a circuit of the Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium. Then he crossed the Anacostia on the Whitney Young Bridge and took the freeway towards Barry Farms. He recrossed the river on the Douglas Bridge and cruised past the naval yard, watching, thinking, assessing. He crossed the Washington Channel and the Potomac, then made a right turn towards the National Airport. He parked in the short-stay lot and locked his cab, before entering the metro station and crossing to B terminal.
It had recently been finished and was very ornate with yellow metal pillars and glass everywhere. He went down the escalator and saw the aircraft being prepared beyond the glass wall, then headed for the men’s room just ahead of the escalator on the left-hand side. He had been here before, three months ago now. Fortunately, the third cubicle was unoccupied and Harada closed the door. He crouched over the bowl and scrutinised the inspection hatch, behind which the cistern was hidden. From his trouser pocket, he took a small screwdriver and deftly undid the screws, peeked inside using a pencil-light torch and rescrewed the hatch. He urinated into the bowl and then flushed the toilet, and spent a long time washing his hands, watching the all but hidden security cameras. They covered the main area and urinals only. The American public would, no doubt, take umbrage at ‘big brother’ watching them shit.
Outside, he checked on the police patrols and then went back to his cab. From the glove compartment, he took his little coded diary and checked the dates and times, and made some additional notes. He would give them a few days and then he would take a train ride.
Swann and Logan were trawling Chinatown, a four-block section of D.C. between Pennsylvania and Massachusetts Avenue. ‘Jack,’ Logan was saying, ‘Chinese people can tell the Japanese apart.’
‘I know. But we have to cover all the bases. Is there a major Japanese community in town?’
Logan made a face. ‘There’s more Vietnamese and South Korean, I think. Residentially, they’re north-west of Georgetown.’ She glanced at him again. ‘They can tell each other apart as well.’
‘So, are you telling me there’s no Japanese people working in this part of town?’
‘I’m telling you that the Chinese and Japanese don’t exactly get along, unless they’re Triad or yakuza, who sometimes work together. God, this guy’s giving us the run-around.’
They stopped the car and moved from store to store, restaurant to restaurant, showing Harada’s picture and asking if anyone had seen him. Nobody had. In the end, they walked back to the car, hot and defeated. Swann listened to the sounds of the city: engines, horns blaring, sirens. It served to accentuate how vast the place was, how many people there were in it, and how difficult their job really was.
Back at the field office, agents, police officers and additional support staff drafted on to the task force were sifting the massive public response to the information put out by the Fugitive Publicity unit. They had taken literally hundreds of phone calls from all over the country—people claiming that he was living next door, or they had seen him on the metro or walking the street. The best lead was from a witness who had seen the picture
and claimed to have used the phone booth on 4th Street just before Harada made his call. Carmen McKensie had the man in Kovalski’s office. Kovalski was at headquarters in yet another meeting with the Director and members of the National Security Council.
The witness was in his fifties, an office worker from the United States Labor building that fronted Pennsylvania Avenue, a couple of blocks from the field office. He was small and bald, wearing a bad suit, and clearly enjoying the sudden attention heaped on him.
‘I was making a personal phone call,’ he said, as Swann and Logan returned. ‘We’re not allowed to make them from the office. House rule.’
McKensie nodded. ‘What did you see?’
‘I was on my lunch break. I went a little early as it happens, ten before twelve. Usually I take my lunch between twelve and the half-hour, but that day I was a little early on account of other people changing theirs. I like to be flexible when I can.’
Logan sat down and he smiled a little self-consciously at her. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘don’t mind me.’
‘Well, I wanted to call about how my cable TV’s not working. So I go to the stand of phone booths, only one isn’t working. It’s always the same in this city. Try to find a phone booth that’s working. Goddamn phone companies need more competition. I get to use one finally and then I can’t make the connection.’
‘What did you see, Mr Riddington?’ McKensie asked him.
‘Oh, sorry. I saw your Japanese guy come to the phone right after me. I stood a while, thinking how I’d maybe try again. I saw him dial, speak for a few seconds, then I left.’
‘Did he look like he did in the picture?’
‘I guess.’
