by Tom Wallace
The talent for killing.
A talent so enormous, so expert, that any commanding officer with the least bit of wisdom would gladly accommodate it, even if it meant accepting unmilitary behavior. Whatever it takes is what you do. After all, Lucas reasoned, men with such rare gifts are exempt from certain rules that apply to the mediocre among us.
“Jolly good,” said Lucas. “When you finish slogging your way through it, call if you have any questions.”
Collins was silent.
“Advise me as to your planned course of action,” Lucas added. “Most of all, be careful. And may God grant you his blessings.”
“Does God grant his blessings to killers, Lucas?”
This time it was Lucas who was silent.
Lucas White was lenient for reasons beyond peaceful coexistence with Collins. Lucas cared deeply for the younger man. Loved him, really. He regarded Collins as the son he never had. It was a feeling he’d had almost from the beginning.
They first met when Lucas and the boy’s father were stationed together at Fort Benning, Georgia. The two men, both full-bird colonels at the time, had known each other in Korea, but it wasn’t until they were at Fort Benning that they became close friends. Collins was fourteen at the time and a source of great concern to his father, who naturally assumed his son would choose a career in the military. Three generations of Collins men had been career soldiers, and young Michael—the elder Collins refused to call his son Mickey—was expected to follow in their footsteps. At the time, and given Michael’s anti-establishment leanings, neither his father nor Lucas White could see that happening.
“Richard, you may as well get that notion out of your head,” Lucas said to the elder Collins during a lengthy drinking bout. “The more you push him in that direction, the wider the gap between you will become.”
The elder Collins had only nodded. He knew his friend was right.
Lucas, not bound by the chains of family tradition, recognized from the beginning that a career in the military would serve only to waste a near-genius intellect.
Here was a boy barely fourteen who already had a staggering grasp of philosophy, history, music and literature. Condemned to the life of a nomad by his father’s frequent transfers, Michael Collins found friends not in the various military outposts, but in the books he read. Friends as diverse as Socrates and Spinoza, Kierkegaard and Kafka, Thomas Aquinas and T. S. Eliot. Ask him about music, be it Mozart or Dylan, and you could expect a discourse lasting long into the night. Here, Lucas knew, was a mind more fertile than any he’d ever encountered, a mind rich with potential.
More than anything, though, Lucas loved the boy’s audacity. How else can you describe someone who, at the tender age of fifteen, dared to take a graduate class on Nietzsche at the University of Heidelberg? Taking on the great German philosopher on his home turf. How could Lucas not be fond of this child?
Lucas also recognized in Collins an almost total isolation. The boy either didn’t need or didn’t want contact with other human beings, using his books and music to lock them out of his world. Lucas had seen this behavior in other military brats. Indeed, it was a common defense mechanism. To a child who might have to move at a moment’s notice, friendships were heartbreaks waiting to happen. After enough sudden good-byes, a child learned to isolate himself, to back away from making friends. To build walls for protection. But never had Lucas seen this behavior taken to such extremes. With Michael Collins, the isolation was total.
Never in a million years would Lucas have imagined this boy in the military. Yet, it happened. Without warning and completely out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning.
Given the clarity of hindsight, Lucas should have predicted it.
The hint came during a dinner party. One of those informal and boisterous affairs where old warriors discuss past battles through the haze of too many years gone by and too much alcohol consumed. During the course of the evening, when the discussion turned to the Battle of the Bulge, one of the men—Lucas could never recall which one—praised the brilliance of a bit of strategy employed by a certain Army colonel. Upon hearing the comment, young Collins flew into a rage, accusing the officer of a serious tactical blunder that had, only because of a series of outside variables, worked out in his favor. Collins then proceeded to lay out the plan as he would have implemented it, demonstrating with forks, knives, and salt and pepper shakers exactly how his plan would have looked, why it was the proper course to follow, and why it would have succeeded.
Lucas was spellbound by what he was hearing, not only by the boy’s understanding and passion, but by the correctness of what he was saying. Lucas had studied that particular battle and was familiar with the officer in question. Lucas knew that in the early hours after the battle, Eisenhower had recognized the serious nature of the blunder and the great good fortune that followed. Had it not been for luck or divine providence, many GIs would have died needlessly. Lucas also learned that only a handful of officers in high command had this knowledge. The blunder had been well covered up. Or so Lucas assumed until he sat and listened to a fourteen-year-old give a remarkably accurate view of what did happen, what should have happened, and why.
Here was a boy who professed his distaste for anything military yet had a profound knowledge and understanding of military history and strategy.
Lucas should have seen it then. He should have looked beyond the anti-military rhetoric, the rebellion, the screw-all-authority attitude. Perhaps if he’d only dug a little deeper, gotten further inside that iron curtain, he wouldn’t have been so surprised by Michael’s decision to enlist in the Army.
But hindsight isn’t always 20/20. Some things simply are beyond seeing, regardless of the situation. This was one of those instances when perfect vision wouldn’t have been good enough. For nothing, no amount of digging or psychological probing, not even the highest level of imagination, could have prepared Lucas for the way things turned out.
Pete’s place was really jamming, even by the usual Saturday night standards. College kids and professors, thankful for having survived another semester of mutual mental warfare, celebrated together on an almost-equal footing. The curtain of separation had been lowered—at least until next semester. “A temporary détente,” one professor termed it.
Collins spied an empty booth in the corner and led Kate in that direction. The waitress was there before they settled in.
“Pepsi for me,” Collins said, “and a vodka and cranberry juice for the lady.”
Kate reached under the table and squeezed his thigh. He smiled; she winked. “Just a Pepsi?” she said. “You’re being awfully conservative.”
“Conservative is my middle name.”
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
“Perhaps you don’t recognize it when you see it.”
Kate laughed. “If you were conservative, I wouldn’t be with you.”
“I don’t see you as the all-out left-wing radical type. You don’t strike me as someone who stirs the shit.”
“How do you see me?”
“A middle-of-the-road centrist. A pragmatist. You may lean a little left, but not much.”
“Ouch. What a nasty assessment.”
Collins laughed. “Not really. Radicalism, in either direction, is not usually a good thing. Being in the middle may resonate like an uneventful roll of the dice, but it is generally the best bet to make.”
Kate eyed him hard. “You’ve never been a centrist in your life. I see you as nothing but a lifelong rebel.”
“There are plenty of folks who would heartily concur.”
The waitress brought their drinks, told them to wave if they needed anything else, then walked away.
Kate stirred her drink. “Rumor has it that you’re taking a sabbatical next term. True or false?”
“It’s possible. Depends on how some things play out this summer.”
“Came rather suddenly,
didn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything serious going on that I should know about?”
“Not really. I only need a break; that’s all. Too much T. S. Eliot can wear a person down.”
“T.S. would be hurt to hear you say that.”
“Good. It’ll give him something to whine about to his old buddy Ezra Pound.”
“What about the Beats? Don’t you have them on tap next term?”
“They’ll still be here when I get back.”
“Are you sticking around here, or are you planning on leaving town?”
“Leaving town.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“More uncertain than mysterious.”
“That man, the one dressed in the Army uniform—it has something to do with him, doesn’t it?”
Collins leaned back against the wall. “You didn’t like General Nichols very much, did you?”
She shook her head. “Too arrogant, too pushy for my taste.”
“He’s a small man who’s spent his life doing secondary jobs. He tries to give an impression of authority, of being important. It’s his way of feeling necessary.”
“How come you know so much about a man like that?”
“I’ve known a thousand men like him.”
“You haven’t always been a teacher, have you?”
“No.”
“What were you before you became a teacher?”
“What do you think I was?”
Kate took a drink, leaned back, and sized him up. “A business executive … a salesman of some sort.”
“Now, that’s a nasty assessment.”
“Okay, what were you, then?”
“An infamous mass murderer.”
“So, I’m dating Jeffrey Dahmer?”
“Just call me J.D.”
“Be serious.”
“Seriously, I’ve always been a teacher. Different subject; that’s all.”
Pete broke through a crowd of dancers, spotted Collins and Kate, and walked quickly to their booth. A mile-wide smile crossed his face.
“Just the fella I’ve been looking for,” Pete said.
“How’s the wound?” Collins asked, pointing to the bandage covering most of Pete’s left forearm.
“Few stitches, but otherwise it’s fine. No permanent damage, praise the Lord. But you know what? That bastard is threatening to file suit against both of us. Some beady-eyed shyster was in here two days ago talkin’ it up pretty good. I took about three minutes of his jabberin’ then ran his ass outta here. I told him to do what he had to do; just get outta my face or I’d give him a reason to file his own damn suit.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him, Pete. He doesn’t have a case. Too many witnesses saw what happened.”
“That scumbag don’t worry me none.” Pete nodded to Kate. “Little lady, you’re runnin’ with a questionable character, hangin’ around with the likes of Michael James Collins.”
Kate shifted her eyes to Collins. “He’s all bluff, Pete. A piece of cake.”
“Mind if I join you for a few seconds?” He squeezed into the booth next to Kate. “I need to take a load off. Old Arthur has about got the best of these knees.”
Collins spied his old redheaded friend standing in front of a table, talking with two men. The conversation, whatever the subject, didn’t appear to be cordial. She was spitting fire at the younger man sitting to her left.
“Amy looks pretty upset, doesn’t she?” Pete asked. “Not to worry; it’s all an act. That’s her standard M.O. She acts real ticked off at some guy, makes him feel like shit, then turns it all around and takes the guy for a ride. Hell, before the night’s over, that bum will be eating out of her palm. She’s some worker, that Amy.”
Kate looked over her shoulder. “A hooker?”
“Hooker, schmooker,” Pete said. “No, I wouldn’t classify Amy as a hooker. A hooker takes the offer. Amy offers the take. That make any sense?”
“None.”
“Ah, hell, you’re too young to know about such things.”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Kate said.
“Good for you.” Pete shifted his attention to Collins. “By the way, Professor Cake. About the other night—how long you been doin’ that stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“That chink stuff. You know … judo, karate, whatever you call it.”
“Since I was about five.”
“Who’d you learn it from?”
“You really interested?”
Pete nodded his head eagerly. “Damn straight. Hell, man, I was impressed. I mean, I’ve seen that shit on TV and in the movies, but that’s the first time I’ve actually seen it for real.”
“I learned it from a man named Chin.”
“A chink. Figures.”
“He was only half Oriental. His mother was an American, the daughter of a Marine colonel.”
“You get a black belt?”
Collins laughed. “Yeah, Pete, I got a black belt.”
“Well, after what you did to the poor bum, I can believe it.”
Pete struggled out of the booth and hitched up his pants. “Well, better get back to the wars. Plenty of drachmas to be taken in tonight.” He put a hand on Collins’s shoulder. “God, how I love to make a buck.”
Kate watched Pete shuffle back to the bar. “What’s he talking about? Were you involved in a fight?”
“Not really. Some drunk cut Pete with a knife. I helped break it up. No big deal.”
“Knife? That sounds serious.”
“It wasn’t.”
She took another drink. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go for it.”
“It’s kinda personal.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“You’ve never been married, right?” she finally said.
“Right.”
“How come?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Sorry.”
Collins ran his hand through his hair. “It simply wasn’t in the cards, I guess. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked out.” He looked away. “My work wasn’t conducive to married life.”
Kate started to ask another question, caught herself in mid-sentence, let it go unfinished. Something in his eyes said she had intruded into territory best left uncharted.
Those eyes—
“Well, if you ever change your mind, I know an excellent prospect.”
She smiled.
He didn’t.
An hour later, after dropping Kate off at her apartment and making a quick stop at a 24-hour grocery store, Collins walked into his house. He stood motionless in the darkness, letting several minutes pass before turning on a light.
This time there were no tricky shadows, no plans and contingencies. No Lucas White.
But he wasn’t alone. Ever. The ghosts were forever with him.
Waiting. Always.
He sat on the couch and reached for the brown folder marked “Eyes Only.” In it was a history of his prize pupil, his oldest adversary.
Seneca.
The breeze was soft, the sun blazing like the fires of hell. Perfect, Hannah Buckman thought, as she loosened the bikini strap and removed the top. Her breasts, free from their confines, seemed to defy gravity. She liked her breasts. Always had. The best thing about her body. Large but not too large, firm, round, and, most important, created by Mother Nature herself, with brown nipples forever erect. Men continually raved about her Hollywood looks or her long, toned legs or her firm butt or her thick, pouty lips. But to Hannah, her breasts were the only part of her anatomy that rated a ten.
After five minutes of carefully applying sunscreen, she lay down on the lounge chair, lowered her sunglasses, and began reading the latest Danielle Steele novel. She had concluded by the end of the second chapter that this wasn’t one of Danielle’s better efforts. About a B minus up to now. But wi
th five chapters remaining, who knew? Maybe it would improve. It was getting more interesting, no doubt about that.
Hannah made a mental note to keep an eye on the time and not forget to turn over. Her breasts were easy prey to a quick sunburn. Ten minutes at a time were about all they could handle, sunscreen or not. Any longer and they would be cooked. That had happened a couple of times before, and it was damn painful.
Hannah finished a chapter, the best one thus far, when she felt her breasts begin to sizzle. Time for more lotion. As she sat up and reached for the bottle, she saw the two men who were about to board the yacht. They were an odd-looking couple, the medium-built dark-skinned man wearing shades and the mammoth, round-faced black man walking on unsteady legs. She lowered her glasses and peered over the top. The man with the shades was so strikingly handsome she had to get a better look at him. As they approached, she realized he was an American Indian. She also realized her uncovered nipples were fully erect and it wasn’t from the sun.
“Hello, I’m Hannah Buckman,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand. “I assume you’re here to see Simon.”
“That’s correct,” the Indian said.
“He’s below, in the cabin.”
The Indian squeezed her hand, gently. She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses, but she knew he was staring at her breasts. The black man, clearly embarrassed, looked away.
“Simon’s expecting you,” she said. “And he’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.”
The Indian released her hand and grinned. She followed him with her eyes until he and the black man disappeared down the steps. When they were out of sight, she sighed and went back to reading Danielle.
Below, Simon Buckman lay sprawled on an oversized couch, his face covered by a sailor’s cap. He was sixtyish, bald, and not nearly tall enough to accommodate his weight, which long ago had surpassed three hundred pounds. Simon was a man suffocating in the quicksand of his own flesh, a man whose every breath was labored, whose every movement was a struggle. Even the task of lifting himself to a sitting position to meet his two guests was accomplished only by using a cane to hoist himself up.
