by Rick Boyer
"Just as I'm considering this along comes Vilarde—second in command—coming off sentry, and we get to talking. Before long I've taken the Siva out of my pack and we're both looking at it and trying to guess what the market value is. What should I do? Keep it, he says. I won't say anything, he says. I'll even cover for you. Well, I figure the guy's such a straight shooter that I'll split it with him. The odds were pretty good that some of us wouldn't make it back in one piece anyway. So what the hell. It's funny the way you begin to think in combat. In action—especially behind the lines deep in the boonies—a week is a long, long time. I decided to go halves on that statue as easy as giving away a pack of smokes. And I tell you both something, too: I never—until these past few months—regretted it, either."
"And now you regret it," I said.
"Yeah, sure. But not because of Ken. One of the reasons I split it with him is because I knew he hadda wife and kid and they dint have much money. Also, if I was to get hit and the guys'd find the thing in my pack, I'd want them to know I had at least mentioned it to somebody else. And Vilarde, as it turned out, was not only second in command but the only married guy. I thought it made sense. So anyway, we moved out of the village and made our way over to the ammo dump that we'd found out about."
"What happened to those soldiers who were still alive? Did you take them with you or leave them in the village?" asked Mary.
"Oh them. Well, they dint survive Youn's interrogation. Nobody ever did. But what would we have done with them if they had lived? Turned them over to the villagers, of course. Either way, they were dead meat."
I couldn't conceal my revulsion at this, no matter how necessary or expedient it might have been. Mary's similar reaction was written on her face.
"Just before dawn we got to the ammo dump and the main camp of the Khmer Rouge battalion. We placed the bugs and split, walking away in dead silence with the clock ticking. We radioed the secret frequency and the big birds came in overhead, way high up and invisible and silent, and let go their payload. Two days later we were back in Nam, then flown on to Nha Trang for debrief. It was tricky, but we kept that statue out of sight from the brass. We had a leave coming, and we all took off in different directions. Vilarde and I went to Hong Kong with our friend Siva. Our first idea was to sell the thing. But the dealers we tried wouldn't give us squat for it. I think the best offer we got was ten grand. Screw that. Besides, we were going back into combat: what would we do with the money then anyway? We'd just blow it on broads and junk or get ripped off in a cathouse. So we went across the harbor over to Kowloon, where we figured things would be less rushed and more honest. We went to the Barclays Hank and had one of their appraisers look it over. He said it was worth over a hundred grand easy.
"But thing is, Doc, Mary: he wouldn't buy it, or even give us a certificate of appraisal. Same thing was bothering him that bothered everybody else: where'd we get it? Here we are, a coupla army stiffs just off combat. We're not brass. Where'd we get it? Was it stolen? Why would anyone wanta buy a stolen pipirce? For ten grand maybe, but not for six figures. Too risky.
It was a question of loot again. These merchants and bankers were afraid that the MPs or the British officials were going to come down on them for fencing loot. Vilarde and I went to lunch and thought it over. What was our Siva really worth? At that time and place? About ten, maybe twelve grand. We decided the best thing was to keep the statue until our tours were up, then take it to the States and sell it there. That way the thing would increase in value and we wouldn't blow the money in the meantime. We'd each have something when we got out—a nest egg to take care of us, right? We wouldn't tell the other Ducks. They'd gotten their loot and cashed it in. And there was no way to divide that statue eight ways except to cut it into li'l pieces, which would wreck it. The deal between us was this: we each got a key to the box. If one of us got killed, the other guy could claim the statue all for himself if he could show that his partner was dead or if he brought in both keys."
"Couldn't that be faked?" I asked.
"Sure. But it was the best solution we could think of at the time. What should we do? Unload it for a tenth of its value? Naw. It would be damn hard for one guy to get the other's key if he dint wanna let it go. I know it would take at least five or six trained men to get mine—and, if they did, at least two of them wouldn't be alive. Vilarde's the same. But the plan was mainly good because we trust each other. You can't depend on a guy to keep you alive every second of every day for two years and not trust him like a brother."
Roantis paused here to sip coffee and light another homemade cigarette.
"The bank had a deal that if you had a certain amount of money in an account with them, you dint hafta pay box rental. So Ken and I chipped in and opened the account, knowing the statue would be safe there as long as it hadda be. They photographed the piece, locked it up, and away we went. That was over ten years ago. We got back to Saigon and then were flown to the Long Binh special forces camp. Within four days were were back in Cambodia doing the westward sweep toward Thailand again. On the way we happened to be near Siu Lok's village, so we decided to sneak in there and see what was going on. That's when we heard the story of how remnants of the Khmer Rouge battalion fingered him for collaboration with us and skinned him alive. There was almost nothing left of the village, and needless to say the people dint welcome us back. It sort of makes you sad . . . There's no way to win in a situation like that.
"Well, after two more months of this, I was tired and pissed off. When my tour expired I decided to leave. It dint take a genius to see we weren't gonna make it over there, and I dint wanna hang around and watch. Vilarde had almost a year left on his tour, and told me he was going to re-up when it was over. He wanted to be a career man, so I knew he'd stay in Nam as long as America did. So we agreed when he mustered out stateside he'd look me up and we'd fly back to Hong Kong together."
"Weren't you kind of impatient?" I asked.
"Well, yeah and no. I knew Ken wouldn't budge until Vietnam was resolved. Secondly, since he was in constant combat, I knew my odds of getting the whole statue to myself increased the longer we waited."
"Isn't that pretty cold-blooded, Liatis?" Mary asked. She had her chin in her hands and was eyeing the man with a mixture of curiosity and horror.
"Maybe. Or maybe it's just realistic. I think, considering the life I've lived, it's just natural. I knew as long as Ken was soldiering and I was teaching karate in Boston, the odds of my surviving were far greater than his. Therefore, my odds of getting the entire sackful of cash were greater too. But he dint seem to care. Don't forget, he wouldn't even have known about the Siva if I hadn't told him. Besides, what choice did I have? I think both of us had the same line of thinking about waiting to claim the statue. Then money got scarce, so I worked awhile in Africa. Ken wired me there in seventy-three to say he was ready, but then I wasn't. In seventy-six I was set to go but he was in the Middle East, in Syria. He didn't reappear until seventy-eight. He was about to do a tour in Afghanistan. But I couldn't go. I was inna li'l scrape with the law just then. Doc, maybe you remember it."
"You mean the kid who almost died after that barfight in the Combat Zone?"
"Naw. Dis was before that. Down in Southie. And a li'l more serious too, because the guy did die. I was told not to leave the state, so I couldn't leave even if Ken wanted to. So that was that for a year. Finally, last fall, he was back in Washington. We were all set to go just after Thanksgiving. Then he disappeared."
"He was still in the army?"
"No. He left the army after the Afghan thing. Part of it was, I think, he got divorced. He was kinda down on his luck in general. Anyway, he called me from Washington. He said he was going to fly up here and meet me. But he never showed up. I called and called the number he'd left me. I got no answer and later a recording saying the number was no longer in service. I even called Rosie—looked her up where she'd remarried out in LA—and she hadn't heard from Ken in almost a year. So where i
s he, eh? That's what I need help on."
"Let's see: you and Ken Vilarde put your golden Siva friend in that safe deposit box a long time ago. Over ten years. I can't believe that neither of you has made a move for it."
He placed his palms against the edge of the table and shoved back until he balanced the chair on its rear legs. He seemed to chuckle to himself silently.
"Well, for starters, the round-trip airfare from Boston to Hong Kong is over two grand. Think about that. That's a big stumbling block right there. And remember, we still don't know how much we can get for the Siva. It may not be more than about twenty grand. But . . . I think the odds are that we can get a lot more for it. Another thing is, I'm the kind of guy who lives in the path of least resistance. A bed, a broad, a bottle, and a roof over my head is all I want. Wait: you can skip the roof. Up until now those were my only goals. So I know that if I did get the money back in seventy-two or seventy-six or something, I'd just have blown it. I'd drink and party every night. Buy fast cars, travel, lend money to other broken-down old soldiers. I could promise you—promise you—there would be nothing left today. But now there is. And now something's come along that I really want. There's a building for sale down in Quincy that I could make into my own martial arts school."
"And leave the Union club?" asked Mary.
"Yeah. I got a lot of friends there I know, but the pay's lousy.
In my own club I could do what I really like and maybe even make some bucks. Most important of all, maybe I could finally make something of myself besides a broken-down old soldier. Maybe I'd finally want more than just a bed, broad, and bottle, you know? My son's fifteen now. I want him to go to college. I need the money now. I want it. It's mine."
"And Vilarde's."
"Yeah. His too. If he's not dead."
"You think he is?" asked Mary. "And if he is, then why ask Charlie to help find him?"
"I think he's dead because he's not here, ready to fly with me to Kowloon to pick up the piece. He wanted that bread as much as I do. So where is he? I've contacted army friends, called his wife . . . I've reached a dead end. I don't know where to go next. Now, I've seen the way Doc can track down things, Mary. He's good. And if you help me, Doc, half` my share's yours, whatever the piece brings. If it turns out he's dead and I get the whole thing, then you get half the total."
I stared down at my coffee cup. Tan-white swirls of cream spiraled in its center, like a miniature galaxy.
"No," I said. "If you want, maybe I can get some of my policemen friends to do some digging for Ken Vilarde. But as for me going snooping around a bunch of paratroopers and mercenaries, helping you find your partner, no way. I'm sorry, Liatis. But I've used up all the survival luck I have during that last caper."
"Listen Doc: that's why I want you. You got guts and brains. You got what it takes."
"Not anymore I don't. There's nothing like getting beat up and shot at and almost killed to make you have no more guts left. Now are you going to call Suzanne and tell her you'll be spending the night?"
Mary shot me a glance that both questioned and accused. But noon she was convinced of the wisdom—the necessity—of not having Liatis attempting to drive all the way to Jamaica Plain or around the block, for that matter. We offered him the guest room but he declined, saying it was too much trouble. He flumped down on the porch sofa, explaining that he had enough antifreeze in him to forgo the blanket Mary brought him. She left it by his side anyway. He nestled down into the pillow and asked if he could borrow my Browning nine-millimeter auto pistol for the night.
"Get serious. There won't be any intruders here. This is Concord, not Jamaica Plain or Roxbury."
"I'll just sleep better with it. Habit I guess. If I don't have it in my hand or near me I'll keep waking up."
So I trudged upstairs and took the piece from its hiding place in the bedroom, removed the loaded magazine and flicked out all thirteen rounds, checked the breech, replaced the clip, decocked the hammer, and took it downstairs. I saw Roantis standing in the dark, looking out the window again. I handed the pistol to him. I knew he would know instantly if the magazine weren't in place, but I wasn't counting on the fact that he could tell by simply hefting the gun that it wasn't loaded.
"Don't trust me, eh?" he said, his eyes crinkled up in a mischievous grin. "Sure, I can tell by the weight. I can tell by the weight if half the rounds are gone. Now when you go get them I can go to sleep, okay?"
"This is dumb, Liatis."
"Please Doc. Force of habit. I do it every night. You can ask Suzanne."
When the piece had been loaded Roantis placed it on the coffee table inches from his face, closed his weary and bloodshot eyes, and began to breathe deeply. He made no noise as he slept. He did not snore heavily like so many people—myself included—who have been partying. He was silent and motionless, his left arm bent and hand near his head, ready to reach out and snatch the pistol in an instant. Was this grotesque bedtime ritual a habit, a preference, or the indelible hallmark of the long-range boonie stalker?
I went up and joined Mary in the sack. She was already asleep. I nudged her, then put my arm around her and began nuzzling her neck. But she drew away, turning her head. Unusual. Was she still angry, or was it something deeper? I felt a cold shudder go through me. I suddenly felt a gap widening between us, cold and desolate. I hadn't felt it before, ever, and it scared me.
This would not make sleep easier. Nor would the fact that Liatis Roantis was asleep on the lower floor. Asleep and no doubt dreaming of pleasantries like laser-guided bombs, victims flayed alive, and a golden dancing god guarded by thick steel doors and inscrutable Chinese.
And the rest of the Daisy Ducks . . . Where was that glorious gaggle now?
Perhaps I'd breathed too much smoke from Roantis's funny cigarettes, but I had an unforgettable dream that night. It was filled with vivid sound and laced with bright color. I was in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic, watching the sinking of the Titanic. In my dream, for some reason, the ship was our home. Mary and I had lived aboard her for twenty years together. The lights on the ship were still twinkling as she dove slowly down into the icy blackness in a roar of rushing water. The moon was out, and icebergs were floating by. Mary was on one of them, talking to friends. She did not seem concerned and was enjoying herself. I yelled at her and waved my arms, but she never turned her head. Bright colored lights shot up on the horizon. The northern lights. Mary watched them, laughing and smiling with her friends on the ice Hoe. I beat my hands against the cold as the ship went down. I was crying. Mary was laughing. Whales leapt and snorted in the dark. The moon was bright. I called and called, but Mary and her friends drifted farther and farther away. Then the tears were frozen on my face.
3
WHEN I AWOKE, the world was looking razor blades at me. It was not going to be a nice day.
Fuzzy-tongued and with ringing head, I rolled over to look at Mary, who stared at me with big brown eyes.
"How do you feel, Don Juan?"
“Okay."
"Bullshit. Close your eyes before you bleed to death."
“Mmmmm."
"Now we must get rid of your hunter-killer friend downstairs, then finish cleaning up, then —"
"Stop. Not so fast. I've got to slide into this day obliquely—if I hit it head-on it'll kill me. Now we'll just quietly amble downstairs with our fuzzy bathrobes on. Put on soft music. Soft. Then sip a bloody mary and some coffee. Then we'll take a long sauna bath followed by a cool shower. Then we'll do it again. Next, we'll have our deli brunch of lox, bialys, cream cheese and tomatoes. Then I'll run four miles. Slowly. Can't do six today, but four in this cold air will help. Then it'll be time for the opera broadcast. Today it's Tannhauser. Finally the playoffs at four-thirty —"
"Wrong. We're going down and cleaning up the kitchen.
You're doing the floor. Then you've got to clean the gutters. Remember, you were going to do it last week?"
Her words struck me like ringing swords. I hu
ddled down under the covers again and wished it weren't so.
"Seriously, how do you feel?"
"I feel like I'm inside a painting by Hieronymus Bosch."
"Oh dear. You mean those weird pictures that show people being pecked apart by giant birds? And imps hatching out of giant eggs? And people with flowers stuck up their butts?"
"Uh-huh. That guy. And I don't like it one bit."
"Well it serves you right. You go around fondling Janice's ass again and you won't have one of your own to stick a flower up. Understand? Now get up."
We dressed and went downstairs to find a note from Jack and Tony saying they'd gone into Boston and wouldn't return till nightfall. That simplified the day somewhat, except it meant I had no young co-workers to help me with the chores. The thought of hanging on to a steep slate roof three stories high working on gutters did not appeal. I ambled into the sunporch, expecting to see Roantis supine on the couch. He wasn't. He was standing at the windows peering intently out, sweeping his keen predator gaze to and fro like a leopard on a limb.
