by Phil Swann
“Well done, Clegg,” I said. “Very well done, indeed.”
“I have my moments,” he replied, over Michelle’s shoulder.
“This just might warrant you an autographed picture from Eydie Gormé.”
He smiled.
I looked over and saw Barnard wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Sam?” I asked, not hiding my surprise, nor my amusement. “You okay?”
“What?” he grumbled. “Of course, I’m okay. I’m just hungry. My eyes always get watery when I’m hungry.”
I laughed out loud.
Luther, on the other hand, never one to be shy with his emotions, was bawling like a baby. Possible even more so than Michelle.
“Clegg, how did Wilson do it? How did he locate Michelle’s father?”
“I honestly don’t know, Trip. Nor do I know if he found him before he hatched his plan for the factory, or after. Either way, Johnny was right about one thing, Wilson was a most gifted hunter.”
“Well,” Luther announced, getting a hold of himself, “it looks like this has turned into a big ol’ celebration. So, come on, y’all, I can’t keep all this food warm forever. Everybody grab themselves a plate and dig in. There’s plenty, so don’t be stingy with your portions.”
We pulled tables together and dug in.
Surprisingly, the conversation soon moved off the ugliness of Johnny, Wilson, and Cavendish, and onto lighter fare like the food, the weather, even who had seen or not seen The Sound of Music. We were almost finished eating, when I glanced over at the booth and saw Jean-Claude opening his eyes.
“Mother?” he called out, stretching out his arms.
“Good morning, dear,” Michelle called back. “Are you hungry?”
Jean-Claude nodded, and Michelle got up. Luther helped her fill a plate, and she took it over to him, along with milk in a highball glass.
“I can’t believe you found her father,” I said to Clegg.
“We probably wouldn’t have if Cavendish hadn’t had those pictures in his desk. Wilson must have given them to Cavendish to further convince him that Michelle was in cahoots with the enemy.”
“But to confirm his location, and that he was still alive? How did you do that?”
“That wasn’t hard at all. I wired a couple of the photographs to the C.I.A. station chief in Saigon, and he immediately recognized her father. I didn’t tell her this, but the C.I.A. has been trying to recruit him for years. He’s a very influential man among his people.”
“What else didn’t you tell her?”
“Just how sick he really is. Probably has no more than a few months left, at best., but she’ll get to see him again, and Jean-Claude will get to meet his grandfather. So, that’ll be good.”
The phone rang, and Luther went behind the bar and answered it.
“Detective,” Luther said, “it’s for you.”
Barnard got up, wiped his mouth, and went to take his call.
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Sam asked about James. Are we going to be able to help him?”
“The U.S. Marshalls picked him up an hour ago. He’s going to spend some time being grilled by the Bureau about a lifetime in the Triads, but in the end, he’ll get what he wanted.”
“That’s fantastic. What’s the story you’re spinning?”
“James Wu was killed in a shootout, along with his brother Johnny, at a magnesium factory in the desert.”
“You can sell that?”
“Already have. The cremated remains of Charlie, Johnny, and James Wu are on their way back to Hong Kong at this moment for burial in the Wu family crypt.”
“Where did you get a third—wait, Gene Armstrong?”
“Armstrong had no family and no friends to speak of. It would have been a shame to let a perfectly good corpse go to waste.”
I sat back and shook my head at the sheer poetry of it. Granted, it was gruesome, but it was also poetic.
Barnard returned and sat down.
“Everything okay, Sam?” I asked.
“Fine. That was the station just letting me know Wilson had been staying at The Desert Inn, and they just completed going through his room.”
I slapped my forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? He gambled at The Desert Inn. It never occurred to me he kept a room there.”
“That’s because you’re not a cop. Perhaps if you’d have told me—oh, never mind.”
“What did they find in his room?” Clegg asked.
“A couple of guns, several bottles of kerosene, and a box of rags.”
“Not exactly subtle,” I said.
Barnard chuckled. “That wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t subtle about. Our Mr. Wilson liked to gamble, usually large, and usually lost. He left this world owing more unpaid markers than I’ve got dimples on my butt. Including, IOUs to all the players in that all-night poker game he and Johnny were at.”
“Wait,” I said, “Wilson was at the poker game with Johnny?”
“I didn’t tell you that? Sorry. Yeah, they were there all night together. The hotel staff confirmed it. Wilson lost a bundle, too.”
I didn’t say anything, but the wheels in my head were spinning like Julie Andrews on top of a mountain.
Michelle came back to the table and sat down next to me.
“You okay,” she asked.
“Yeah, of course,” I answered, trying to change whatever it was she saw on my face to cause her to ask the question. “How’s he doing?”
“Remarkably well. Children have the most amazing ability to adapt to their situation. Wish I had a little of that.”
“I suspect you do,” I replied. “Did you tell him about his grandfather?”
She smiled. “He can’t wait to meet him. Neither can I, for that matter.”
“Okay if I go over and say hi?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I got up and went over to the bandstand, retrieved the trumpet case, and then took it over to the booth. I sat it on the floor in front of Jean-Claude.
“Thought you might be needing this in Paris.”
He lit up. “My horn!” he shouted. “Thank you, Trip.”
“You’re very welcome. Actually, it was Detective Barnard that went over to Miss Jaqueline’s and got it. She’s fine, by the way.”
I sat down next to him.
“So, I hear you’re going to meet your grandfather.”
“Yes. I can’t wait to play for him,” he answered, looking the case over.
“Well, I know he’s going to love that.”
He smiled. “I hope so.”
“You know, Jean-Claude, you’re quite a boy. You were really something on that dam. I’ve never seen anyone be as brave as you were.”
“I was scared,” he said.
“I know you were. So was I. But you were still brave.”
“I guess we both were.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.” I paused briefly, so I could choose my words carefully. “You’ve sure seen a lot in your thirteen years, Jean-Claude. More than you should have, to be honest.”
“I’m okay.”
“I know you are., but still, you know what to do with everything you’ve been through, right?’
“Put it in my music?”
“That’s right. Just like all the greats. Put it into your music. That’s my final lesson to you.”
“Thank you.”
I sat back as he finished off the last of the fried apples on his plate. I decided on the direct approach.
“Jean-Claude?”
“Yes,” he said, putting down his fork.
“I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Who do you think killed Charlie?”
“Johnny?”
“No, Johnny was playing poker all night. Besides, hitting someone over the head when they’re not looking is not how people like Johnny do things.”
“Mr. Wilson?”
“No, he was with Johnny.”
“Then, I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
Jean-Claude looked at me, he was fighting it as hard as he could, but it was futile, his eyes began to fill.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Just tell me what happened.”
“He was going to hurt my mother. I heard him. He said she was in a lot of trouble and could go to jail.”
“And what did you do?’
His voice cracked, “After she went upstairs, I got one of the statues, and I went into the room, and I hit him with it. I didn’t mean to…but he was going to hurt my mother.” He burst into tears.
“Shhh. I know, I know.” I put my arm around him, and I checked to make sure the others weren’t watching us. “It’s okay. It’s okay, but you did something else, didn’t you?”
He swallowed hard and then nodded.
“You took something. What was it?”
“A book.”
“What kind of book?”
“A big book. He was looking at it.”
“Where is the big book now?”
“I have it.”
“Where?”
He leaned over, opened his trumpet case, removed his horn, and then took out a green ledger.
“Am I going to go to jail, Trip?”
“No, no, you’re not going to go to jail.” I put the book inside my sport jacket and buttoned it. I looked at Jean-Claude and then rubbed his head. “Look, Jean-Claude, your step—Charlie Wu was not a very nice man. He hurt a lot of people in his time, and…well, you were just protecting your mother. As far as I’m concerned, it was sort of like self-defense. As far as I’m…well, that’s what it was, self-defense. All anybody ever needs to know is Johnny Wu killed his father. Don’t you agree?”
He nodded
“But, Jean-Claude, you can never, ever, tell anyone about this. Not even your mother. This must stay our secret. You think you can do that?”
He nodded.
“And if you ever need to talk to somebody about it, you know where I am. Just call me, and we’ll talk about it. Okay?”
“Yes, but can I call you even if I don’t need to talk about it. Can I call you just to talk?”
I had to smile. “Of course, you can. You call me anytime.”
I put out my hand, spit in my palm, and offered it to him.
He made a sour face.
“It’s how we promise things where I’m from.”
He opened his hand, spit in his palm, and shook my hand.
“Hey, you two,” Michelle said, walking up, “what are you talking about?”
“Music, what else?” I lied. “J.C. and I have decided that when I play in Paris, we’re going to perform together. Right, J.C.?”
Jean-Claude looked at me and smiled.
Michelle said, “Okay, this whole J.C. thing ends the minute we get back home.”
“I like it,” Jean-Claude said.
Michelle laughed. “Okay, I do too a little.”
“I think I need some more grits,” I said, getting up.
“Uh, no, you don’t,” Michelle said, tapping her belly.
I stuck my tongue out at her, and both she and Jean-Claude laughed.
Making sure the book was securely against my chest and hidden under my sport jacket, I went over to Clegg. He was talking to Luther, but when Luther saw the look on my face, he excused himself.
“Hey, I got something for you.”
“What?” Clegg replied.
I opened my jacket and handed him the book.
I talked softly, but quickly, as he thumbed through its pages. “I couldn’t understand why Johnny was so intent on getting that blue dossier back. I know what you said, but still, it was a heck of a risk to take just to get something back that, more than likely, nobody would ever see. He was going to kill us all, and Cavendish was already dead, so why would he care about that thing? Then it hit me, that blue dossier wasn’t what he was after, at all. He wanted that ledger you’re holding.”
Clegg’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head. “This is everything on the Triad’s heroin operation for every state west of the continental divide. Names, places, times, everything, it’s all here. Where’d you get this?”
I stared at Clegg for a long moment. I said nothing and made sure my face didn’t either.
He looked over at Jean-Claude, and then back to me. He nodded. “Forget I asked. Good work, Trip. Very good work.”
Epilogue
I thought about Michelle. I thought about her eyes, and I thought about her smile. I thought about the sound of her voice, and the way her hair smelled. I thought about her walk, how she drove a car, and of course, her laugh, I thought a lot about her laugh. I thought about the first time we met, and I thought about when we said goodbye. I thought about the things I’d wished I said, and the things I wished I hadn’t. I thought about Michelle, and I smiled.
I thought about Jean-Claude. It had been three weeks, and I wondered how he was doing. I thought about the last time I’d heard from him. How he’d called to tell me he’d met his grandfather, and how he’d played the trumpet for him in the hospital. I thought about how I busted out laughing when he told me how the nurses nearly blew their top. I also thought about how I knew someday he’d have a reckoning of the soul about what he’d done. But that was someday, and not today. I thought about Jean-Claude, and I smiled.
I thought about Michelle and Jean-Claude because it made me feel warm and happy inside. But more than anything, I thought about them to keep from thinking about Clegg. Because every time I did that, my gut tightened, my temperature went up, and I wanted to throttle the man’s stupid, long, oversized neck, for putting me in the position I now found myself in.
The interior lights inside the bus came on, and I looked around at all the other guys around me. Most were waking up and wiping the sleep from their eyes. For me, however, it was still the middle of my workday, and as such, I was forced to endure every uncomfortable mile of the journey wide awake—one of the many challenges I suspected that lain ahead of me.
There were about twenty of us on the bus, and it was clear I was the oldest. The rest were kids barely out of high school.
The door opened, and two uniformed men, both wearing silly looking helmets, boarded. Apparently, something had perturbed them, because both began yelling at us, and calling us vile, offensive names.
They ordered us off the bus, but no matter how fast we moved, it wasn’t fast enough. We were lined up, ordered to be silent and to look straight ahead. Then, a third man, this one wearing a cap, stepped forward and introduced himself. Maybe I have a good ear for voices because I’m a musician, who knows, but this guy’s voice sounded vaguely familiar—though I couldn’t for the life of me place where I’d heard it before. At any rate, he said his name, Sergeant Something-or-Another, and then proceeded to go on and on about how we were to address him. But no matter how loudly we assured him we understood his directive, it still was not loud enough—this was becoming irritating. Then, for reasons known only to himself, he felt the need to go on a tangent about how we were all now in the United States Army—as if we hadn’t already figured that out—and that we had taken the first step in becoming a first-class fighting machine—or words to that effect. It was all quite ridiculous, and I’d had about of enough of his nonsense. So, I decided to tell him so.
“You don’t need to shout. We can hear you,” I stated, as a matter of fact.
Sergeant Big Mouth stepped up and put his face inches from mine, obviously clueless to the concept of personal space. His eyes were wide, and his breath reeked. “What’s your name, scum?” he asked.
“Trip Callaway,” I answered, calmly.
“You have the nerve to come into my army and tell me—” He stopped talking, squinted, and then stepped back a few inches. “Where you from, Callaway?”
“Las Vegas, Nevada.”
“I was just in—”
He stopped talking again, turned around, and motioned for his two buddies
to join him. All three men proceeded to stare at me. After an uncomfortable few seconds, they all nodded at once.
Sergeant Bad Breath got in my face again. “My wife Darleen says, hello.”
I scanned his mug more closely, and finally realized where I’d heard his voice before. It was the one I heard threatening to rip out my liver while I was running for my life out of the Riviera a few weeks earlier. My boot camp drill sergeants were none other than Billy Bob, and his two idiot buddies.
“Oh,” I responded.
He gave me the most sadistic smile I’d ever seen. “Oh, indeed. Welcome to the army, Trip.”
I dropped my head. It was going to be a long eight weeks.
The End
About the Author
Phil Swann's career has spanned over 30 years as an award-winning performer, songwriter, and author. As well as having songs recorded by hundreds of recording artists, Swann is the composer of nine musicals including Play It Cool, The People Vs Friar Laurence, and Musical Fools.
As an author, his work includes The Song of Eleusis, The Mozart Conspiracy (published in Italy as Il Codice Amadeus), Cold War Copa, Mekong Delta Blues, and Tinsel Town Tango.
Phil lives in LA where he teaches the craft of writing at UCLA and the Los Angeles College of Music.
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