The answer to that question came two weeks later when Newton brought him his new documents: Lucius Tribble. It wasn’t the name Bob had been hoping for, and Newton sensed his disappointment.
‘We never get to choose our parents in life, Bob, and consequently we never get to choose our names. If I’d had a choice in the matter, do you really think I’d have wanted to be named after a fig bar?’
Bob looked quizzical.
‘Newton. I’m named after Fig Newton. My parents were trying to think of a name for me, and my mother’s attention was caught by an opened packet of cookies on the table. She thought it had a certain ring to it and, for reasons I’ll never understand, so too did my father.
‘You’re stuck with Tribble, I’m afraid, but you don’t have to be called Lucius if you don’t want. It’ll always be your official name – and you can’t get around that – but you can decide on a nickname for yourself and then get people to call you by that.’
Bob’s mood lightened. It sounded like a plan – and plans, after all, were what he and Newton were supposed to be discussing that day.
‘What I’m thinking, Bob, is that it would be a good idea if you moved out of North Carolina for the time being. The place is crawling with military, and though they don’t have a base here in Charlotte, Fayetteville’s a bit too close for comfort.
‘The army still has you down as Missing in Action. Until they pronounce you dead and you get your money from that friend of yours, I’m afraid you’re in limbo. I’ve got contacts who can tell me if and when your status changes, but it will likely take time.
‘There’s a small town in the Blue Ridge I suggest you go to. Crawford’s the kind of place where they don’t ask questions; you’ll understand why when you get there. I know someone living there who’s in a similar situation to you and can be trusted. He’s renovating a house, and I know he could use some help. I’ve already talked to him, and in return for your labour he’s happy to provide you with board and lodging. Of course, as soon as I hear anything about your status, I’ll let you know.
‘How does it sound, Mr Tribble?’
Lucius Tribble said it sounded fine to him.
That night Miss Lettie cooked Bob a T-bone steak for dinner. He looked at it admiringly, savoured its taste and then named himself after it. Lucius Tribble became T-Bone Tribble.
Crawford
The town of Crawford sat on a high plateau in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was isolated and small – very small: it had one stop light and fewer than four hundred residents. It was the county seat of Crawford County, and where its two roads intersected stood a memorial to the Confederate dead.
For geographical reasons, all rivers and streams flowed out of the county, and from the late 1950s, and in search of a better life, so too did its population. Land and property prices plummeted and hippies moved into the small town. The new residents of Crawford wore their hair long and dressed in jeans, overalls and tie-dye T-shirts. Sweet aromas of incense and marijuana filtered from their houses into the streets, and the memorial to the Confederate dead became a meeting place for Confederate deadheads.
Newton stopped the car outside an old wooden house three hundred yards from the town’s centre, but still at its outskirts. A tall thin slat of a man pushed open the screen door and walked out on to the porch. He stood there silently while Newton and his passenger climbed out of the car, and spoke only when both men had climbed the steps. Newton and Bob followed him into the house.
‘Merritt,’ Newton said, ‘this is the man I was telling you about.’
The man held out his hand and introduced himself as Merritt Crow. In turn, Bob introduced himself as T-Bone Tribble. Merritt took three beers from the fridge and prised off the caps. He handed one to Newton and one to Bob.
‘New beginnings,’ he toasted.
‘New beginnings!’ Bob and Newton replied in unison and the three men clinked bottles.
Newton stayed long enough to ease the two men into their own company, and then headed back to Charlotte. Bob and Merritt drank more beer and Merritt made sandwiches. He apologised to Bob for not offering him a hot meal, but explained he didn’t yet have a cooker. As they ate, Merritt asked Bob if he’d ever had a rum bun.
‘Cain’t says I have, Merritt. What’s a rum bun?’
Merritt put down his plate. ‘Rum buns are similar to sweet rolls – but different, much stickier. So far as I can tell, the buns are made out of dough and a cinnamon sugar mix, and then glazed and iced. From what people say, the secret’s in the glaze and the kind of rum they add to it. It’s the only thing about Washington I miss. They used to serve them in the seafood restaurants on the south-western waterfront: always hot and always before dinner. Hogate’s restaurant had its own bakery and their rum buns were the best. If you ever figure out how to make them, I promise you, I’ll be your friend for life.’
Merritt Crow, whose real name was John Driscoll, had been an analyst with the CIA. He’d been recruited during his final year at Princeton and had gone to work for the Agency straight after graduating. He’d majored in international relations and been considered the brightest student in his year; throughout his four years at the university he’d maintained an unblemished 4.0 average. Merritt’s father had been a Vice-Admiral in the US Navy, and his family pedigree had been considered a plus by the CIA.
Merritt told Bob that for many years he’d enjoyed the work. It had been challenging and stimulating, and he’d proved adept as an analyst. In the seven years he’d spent dissecting information he’d been promoted three times, and by the time he left for the field was managing a team of six other analysts. It had been his decision to go into the field. He was unmarried and wanted adventure, a chance to do rather than read about what others had done, and a chance to put into practice plans he’d only been able to theorise about. His first (and only) assignment was Vietnam.
‘When I worked as an analyst, T-Bone, I worked in an office. I was hermetically sealed from the real world. Everything was abstract, and all the abstracts were clear cut. There was black and there was white, right and wrong, good and evil. We were the good guys and our enemies were the bad guys. It was as simple and uncomplicated as that.
‘And then when I worked in the field everything blurred; there was no black and there was no white. Everything came out of the wash grey. There was good and evil everywhere and no one side had a monopoly of either; there was as much evil on our side as theirs. I did things in Vietnam that were wrong – unjustifiably wrong.’ Merritt paused and stared at the floorboards.
‘I was in too deep to just resign though. I knew too much – and they knew I knew too much. I’m not saying they’d have put a bullet in my head, but I couldn’t be sure at the time that they wouldn’t.
‘I got transferred back to the States and they gave me a non-job. Subtle threats were made – not just against me, but against my family. I got home one night and found my house broken into. The only things missing were the journals I’d been keeping and some documents I’d photocopied without authorisation. I left the house that night and never returned.
‘And now I’m here. Thank God for people like Newton Ballard.’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ Bob said.
Merritt’s house was a mess. The roof leaked and the back part of the structure had collapsed. It took them six months to get the house back on its feet and furnished to a level of comfort both men found acceptable, and to celebrate its completion they threw a party and invited the town.
Merritt roasted a pig and guests brought bowls of salad, vegetable sides and desserts. Bob filled an old bathtub in the back garden with ice and crammed it with beer and wine. The music of West Coast psychedelic bands blared from speakers, and people danced, shared joints and laughed. The sheriff came by, drank beer and took tokes. Crawford, it seemed to Bob, was a good place to spend time when life was on hold; it was like being on holiday.
The following day, Bob and Merritt cleared debris and washed dishes. Merritt then w
ent for a walk and left Bob to watch the evening news.
The report of Che’s death came on Merritt’s black-and-white television set, but hit Bob in Technicolor. His friend, the newscaster said, had been captured by Special Forces close to La Higuera in south-eastern Bolivia and executed the following day, shot nine times by a single soldier who took his pipe as a keepsake. Che’s handless body had been flown to Vallegrande for display purposes, and his amputated hands to Buenos Aires for identification purposes.
Bob was one of the few people in the United States to be saddened by the news. He retired to his room and sat there thinking. He thought of Fidel and how devastated by Che’s death he would be – and also annoyed: Che hadn’t been wearing boots at the time of his capture! He remembered the beret Che had given him and took it from the polythene bag he kept hidden behind a chest of drawers. Che should have had a better ending, he thought, or no ending at all; not yet anyway. He put the cap on his head and shaped it the way Guevara had. He stood looking in the mirror for a long time and then saluted his old friend.
The date was October 9, 1967.
Che’s death released the logjam of suspicion that had surrounded Bob’s disappearance and kept his life in limbo. Among the objects found in the guerrilla’s possession was an M1903A4 Springfield rifle with a Stith-Kollmorgen Model 4XD scope attached to it, and Fogerty had known instinctively that the sniper rifle had belonged to Crenshaw. Knowing snipers the way he did, the colonel also knew that the gun would have comprised too great a part of Crenshaw’s being for him to have parted with it willingly. He concluded that Robert Crenshaw had been killed by Cubans while serving his country in the Congo. He closed the file and released his remains to Eugene Chaney III.
Newton gave Bob the news in person. He told him that he was to be buried with full military honours on December 22 – ironically, another Dismal Day.
Bob was laid to rest in Atlanta, in a plot close to his Aunt Selena. Six soldiers carried the lighter-than-usual casket, and as the coffin was lowered into the ground a volley of rifle fire tore into the afternoon’s silence. The Minister, Fogerty, the soldiers and the handful of mourners who’d shown up for the service – Bob’s baseball coach, a few of his friends who’d avoided going to prison, and three elderly women who’d been friends of Selena Priddy – didn’t linger for long, and slowly made their way from the cemetery grounds. Three figures remained at the graveside: Gene, holding the folded flag presented to him by one of the soldiers, and Gene’s mother and father. A fourth figure stood in the distance and out of sight.
‘’Bout damn time,’ Bob thought, and smiled at the thought of Colonel Fogerty having just given full military honours to a Cuban guerrilla fighter named Raoul. He never did know Raoul’s last name.
In early February of the following year, Bob paid a visit to his old friend.
‘I hope you ain’t spent my money, Gene.’
The ethereal voice came from the backseat of Doc’s car. Doc gave an involuntary yelp and drove straight into a fire hydrant.
‘Why in God’s name didn’t you just knock on my front door?’ Gene asked.
‘I gotta be careful, man. Wouldn’ surprise me if ol’ Fogerty ain’t got an eye open fo’ me yet – an’ I never knows which way that eye pointin’. If I’da marched up to yo’ house an’ knocked on the door, who knows who mighta see’d me.’
Doc and Bob stood in Doc’s closed garage looking at the damaged front fender. Doc looked at Bob and shook his head, unable to decide whether to punch him in the face or fling his arms around him.
‘Goddamn son-of-a-bitch, Bob!’ he shouted. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve put me through? A guy in a uniform comes to my house and tells me you’re missing in action, and then, six months later that you’re dead and recommends that I keep your casket closed. I just fucking buried you for Christ’s sakes!’
Bob gave him a big smile. ‘Look upon it as a miracle, man, an’ be happy fo’ me. No one give Lazarus shit when he come back from the dead.’
‘Lazarus didn’t come back from the dead in the backseat of a moving car, you dimwit! You could have got us both killed – and how ironic would that have been? Why didn’t you contact me, tell me you were still alive instead of letting me believe you were dead all this time. Did you think I’d turn you in or something?’
‘’Course I didn’ think that, Gene. You my bes’ frien’, man, but you a fuckin’ useless actor. Fogerty woulda read yo’ face like he was readin’ a chil’ren’s book; hauled yo’ ass off to jail, too. Had to be this way; no other way it coulda been. Tell you what, though: as recompense fo’ all the emotional upset I put you through, you can keep the flag they give you at my funeral. You can hang it out ever’ Fourth o’ July an’ celebrate my independence!’
Doc scrunched and un-scrunched his face, clenched and unclenched his fists and then, without warning, threw his arms around Bob and pulled him towards him. He then surprised them both by bursting into tears.
‘Man, you wettin’ my T-shirt,’ Bob said. ‘An’ all this cryin’s makin’ me thirsty – you got any beer in that house o’ yo’s?’
Doc’s emotional turmoil gradually quieted, and as the evening progressed he relaxed once more into the easy company of his resurrected friend. Although he’d often wondered what Bob did the times he disappeared from Durham, he had never known about Bob’s life as a sniper. He listened while Bob told him of his adventures, particularly intrigued by his tales of the Congo and his relationships with Che and Fidel. The story was too far-fetched to be invented, and Doc saw the pain in Bob’s eyes when he told him of the day he heard of Che’s execution.
Fortunately for Bob, the money Doc had received from the government was still intact, but the matter remained of how to transfer this money to his newly risen friend. Bob told him a man from Charlotte would contact him and arrange for the money to leave Doc’s account without drawing suspicion; it would be some kind of investment plan.
Over breakfast the following morning, Bob warned his friend that contact between them for the immediate future would be difficult, and possibly unsafe. He told him to look out for postcards initialled TT.
Doc left for the surgery with Bob lying on the backseat. Two blocks from the surgery, Bob opened the car door and climbed out.
‘You pull any shit like this again, Bob, and I’ll kill you myself!’ Gene said.
Bob laughed. His exit was unseen, and he walked to a car parked in an adjacent street with an air of nonchalance. The engine turned at the third time of trying. Bob pulled away from the curb and drove back to Crawford.
He left the town a month later – this time for good. He had $10,000 in his pocket and seemingly the world as his oyster. It therefore surprised Merritt when he learned that his friend had gone to work for a dry cleaner in Seattle.
The Dry Cleaner
If it had been Bob’s decision to head for Seattle, the initial suggestion had come from Newton. One meeting, he asked Bob if he remembered him mentioning a friend of his who’d be interested in seeing the documents given to him by the Cubans. Bob had nodded that he did.
‘The thing of it is, T-Bone, Morris is getting old and he could do with an assistant. He’s the person I got your new identity from, by the way. He asked if I could recommend anyone to him and I immediately thought of you. A person in his line of work needs someone he’s able to trust, and needless to say a person in your circumstances has the same need. He’d pay you well and you’d be as safe out there as anywhere. Is it something that interests you?’
Bob said that it might well interest him, but asked for a few days to think it over. His answer, when it came, was yes. He found himself in the same situation he’d been in when he first planned to leave the army and Fogerty had approached him: he had no idea of what to do next. There was also a part of him that believed in fate and the serendipitous nature of life: if something came up, then it probably came up for a reason. Seattle, he thought, might well be the destination that destiny itself intended for him.
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Ballard made a phone call to Morris and arrangements were made. Two weeks later Bob boarded a flight to Seattle; it was the first time he’d been on a civilian airplane and was surprised to find no parachutes.
Bob took the bus to downtown Seattle. He ignored the light drizzle and decided to walk the few blocks to the address he’d been given. The city’s economy was experiencing a periodic slide in its fortunes, and the neighbourhood of the dry cleaning store was similarly down-at-heel. Businesses either side of the dry cleaner’s were boarded, and the people he passed in the street looked dishevelled.
As he pushed the door open, a bell rang. A man came from a back room and gave him a gentle smile.
‘Good day to you, sir. How can I help?’
‘My name’s T-Bone Tribble, sir. I lookin’ fo’ Morris Fowler.’
‘You’ve found him, T-Bone. I’m the man you want.’
He took Bob’s hand and shook it firmly. He then walked to the door and changed the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Bob followed him behind the counter and into the back room.
Morris Fowler was a man in his late seventies. He wore black working boots that were badly scuffed and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, patched at the knees; above the waist he wore a thick woollen shirt and over it an out-of-shape cardigan. The glasses perched on the end of his nose had tortoise-coloured frames and thick tinted lenses. He was just short of six feet and looked to weigh around two hundred pounds. His shoulders were broad and his forearms big, suggesting an earlier working life that had demanded strength. His face was unshaven and a three-day growth of grey bristles contrasted with the smoothness of his bald head. He also walked with a pronounced limp.
Fowler poured Bob a coffee and asked him about Newton: was he well, and had he explained to Bob the nature of his work in Seattle? He also asked to see Bob’s Cuban documents. He studied them carefully but without comment. He asked Bob if he could hang on to them for a while, and Bob told him he could.
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 13
