by Mike McKay
Tom modified the query again. “Only three hundred and fifteen hits! For those, I can extract the military records by midnight. Tomorrow morning, you will have a full list, sir.”
“Could you separate the men who are White? Plus, the Latinos, but with light complexion, close-to-White types?”
“Sure. But only after I get the personnel records from the Pentagon. The AFCOs have no race and no photographs in their DB.”
“That's what I suspected. Fine, no rush. Could you further separate the ones who have two healthy arms? Those, who have prosthetic legs, are still our potential candidates. Apparently, the Butcher has a little limp in his left leg. At least had, – two years ago.”
“The arms and legs would be difficult, sir. The military records have no such data. A ‘Purple Heart’ and ‘honorably discharged, such and such date.’ That's all you can have. For the medical records, we will need to send the request to the Wash. That surely will take a lot of time…”
“OK, never mind the arms and legs. Just give me the Whites and the Latinos, this would be fine for starters.”
“Easy-busy. Already doing it…”
Chapter 22
Five minutes later, Mark was back to his desk, sorting the remainder of the special ops records. This was going to work, after all! He felt like a fisherman with a big tuna not yet out of the water, but already firmly on the hook. Another two hours of work, and he had ninety-two photos, separated from the PDF and ready to be shown to Linda and Pedro Espinoso. In order to keep the investigation objective, he did not want to attach any names or other details to the files, just the numbers. It was good, the total file count was less than a hundred. Different people have different visual attention span. In some, the brain shuts down after ten or so photos, and all the photographs past the first dozen look identically familiar or identically unfamiliar. Mark wished Pedro's visual memory was better than his verbal abilities… Zipping the files up and sending them to Deputy Kim was a matter of seconds. Hello, tuna! Don't get off the hook!
Mark's excitement did not wear off till the very evening. Even after Kim sent an SMS, informing him that Pedro and Linda had flipped through all 92 photos and could not identify the perp, he did not feel disappointed. A typical attention span problem. They would shuffle the photos and try again tomorrow. And they might add in the photos Tom would eventually generate from the vets' records. Plus, the CSIs could sit with the witnesses to do a computerized face sketch, and then compare the facial features of the sketch with the service file photographs. One problem with the Pentagon service photos, they depicted young men, perfectly shaven, with short regulation haircuts and in dress uniforms. Add few years of age, Mark thought, some unkempt hair, unshaven cheeks, and some shabby clothes – and you would have a completely different look. ‘Old,’ he smiled for himself, ‘but not as old as you, sir.’ What a definition! Even better if we doctor the photographs, Mark decided. Natalie was very fast and proficient at it. She could age the faces, add facial hair, and change the military uniforms into the black tank top, to fit Linda's description.
From the Station, Mark went straight to the ‘nice lady’ garage shop near the school. He saw right away that over the past four years the business expanded dramatically. Now the former garage looked like a proper shop. Besides the impressive selection of anklets and other such things, the improvised fashion store also sold the other ‘bare necessities’ of the hippie lifestyle: from bandannas and sun-glasses to the handicraft tobacco boxes, smoking pipes, cigarette paper, home-grown tobacco and the Grass. Two school-girls, somewhere between Samantha's and Pamela's age, envied the display of bead bracelets.
The shop attendant, a girl of about twelve, spotted Mark's bike, jumped to the door and yelled into the house: “Pa? There is a plainclothes dude! With a Police bike!” The school-girls gave Mark a scared look. Twenty seconds later, ‘Pa’ appeared in the garage. He was about forty, and had John Lennon's long hair, complete with a beaded hair band and Lennon's round glasses. A black tank top read: ‘Say NO to Synthetic Drugs. Chemicals Kill You and Your Planet.’
“Are you after me, officer?” the man asked, “I told your guys at the Beat: we are a responsible business. Aren't doing nothing illegal.” Mark saw for himself that at least the official part of the ‘business’ was done responsibly: an announcement on the garage wall informed the ‘dear customers’ that no smoking implements would be sold to any person under fourteen, no exceptions, thank you, end of the story, have a nice day.
“Relax, man. I am in the ‘dear customers’ category,” Mark told the owner.
“Oh, sorry, man. Overreacted! Nowadays, you never know what to expect. My name is John, by the way.” He tried to extend his hand for a handshake, but decided not to and apologetically demonstrated Mark his hands, covered with reddish wooden dust. In his left hand he had a half-polished smoking pipe and a piece of sandpaper. “What do you smoke, man? Tobacco, Grass or Blend?”
“Oh, I don't smoke. Fortunately or Unfortunately. Name's Mark… Just need to buy some presents.” Mark pointed towards the anklet and bracelet displays.
“Cool, man. Kiri will be able to give you full professional advice. That is not my part of the shop. Now, if you excuse me, I need to finish this pipe today. ‘Dear customers’ can't wait.” Mark smiled and nodded, and John disappeared back into the house. The back of his tank top read: ‘SMOKE NATURAL. Good for the environment. Fun for you.’
“Well, what would you like, sir?” the teenager shop assistant asked.
“Do you still sell those ‘barefoot sandals’?”
“You mean: kama'a-ole sandals?”
“Yeah, must be them! I need four pairs, please.” The school-girls gave him another scared look. Now they would think I was some kind of fetishist, Mark thought.
The purchase went fine, however. Kiri indeed was an expert in the hippie and teen fashion. The school-girls soon joined in, offering the second, and the third, and who-can-count-them-now opinions.
Based on the girl's advices, Mark carefully selected the sandals. He picked up light-green-with-burnt-brown pair for Pamela (they would match real nice to the school uniform, sir!) The yellow-and-orange pair, with smiley-face beads perfectly fitted for Clarice (these are for the optimistic moods!) For the black pair for Samantha Mark needed no advice whatsoever: the design incorporated blackened and partially polished tiny ball bearings. They would match perfectly to Samantha's mechanical flower pendant, that strange thingy she got from Zap-the-welder yesterday.
Finally, Mark decided on one luxurious black-with-gold pair for Mary. Kiri sensed here they were talking the main present of the day, so an up-sale happened immediately. Mark ended up with not only the sandals, but also a matching bead bracelet and a matching bead necklace (if it's for your wife, sir, these are the must! You must see it for yourself, these crystals in the middle are real Swarovski! Very rare! You can find those only at the 'Fill, no other place, sir!)
The level of service was impeccable, not a bit worse than in an expensive high-fashion store before the Meltdown. First, the sizes were adjusted to match the intended feet (Good I wrote all sizes down, Mark thought.) Then, the presents were packed in the presentation boxes made from old glossy magazines. Then, Mark was explained the prices were ‘fixed,’ and was given a total price tag: four thousand five hundred dollars. Upon Mark's request, the John-Lennon ‘Pa’ was summoned, and gave Mark a generous volume discount. The entire lot went for just $3800. About the same as one pair of the ‘real’ tire sandals, Mark thought. Surely, the tire sandals were way more practical. But the bead ‘barefoot sandals’ were way more fun. Besides, at the price of one pair of the real sandals, he had the ‘footwear’ for all the girls in the family!
From the hippie shop, Mark went to the local market and bought a family-size apple pie from the bakery. With pretty brown crust, and a hint of custard sugar on top, exactly as Mary liked it. The logistical part of the today ‘Civil War’ battle had been completed.
Back home, he
found William and David-senior sitting at the front porch. “Oh, the rest of the troops have arrived. Perfectly in time for the action,” William commented, hearing the characteristic thump of Mark's bike upon the wooden railings.
“Don't tell me the battle has started,” Mark replied. He was a bit concerned that Samantha did not listen to him, despite her ‘real promise.’
“All quiet yet. The troops are still munching the dinner,” William assured Mark. “But: getting ready. Today, gran' David and I will be commanding the United Nations' Peacekeeping Force. Meanwhile, sitting here, taking a deep breath and watching the blue sky. According to the books, that's what one is supposed to do before and after every major action. But I did not do it while in the Engineers, admittedly. The diggers should look down, not up.” The sky was still overcast with clouds, but William, with his point-zero-zero-zero-four megapixel vision, conditionally accepted it to be blue.
“Where is Clarice?” Mark asked, kicking his shoes off at the entrance door.
“Upstairs. She was sitting with Davy all day. Apparently, he developed a little fever,” William said.
“Should we bring Davy to the doctor?” If we can skip the confrontation today, it would be nice, Mark observed. Without Clarice, their specialist peacekeeper, the battle might get too personal. David-senior in the peacekeeping role was not any good, and William, comparatively to Clarice, was an amateur. Besides, recently he started playing on the ‘Confederates’ side far too often, and the peacekeepers were not supposed to take sides, were they?
“I already told her that. She says: what's the point? The doctor would advise all the same: Aspirin, more water, and the bed, and we are doing all this already.”
“Ah, you didn't do the Loop today?”
“Ris and Davy didn't. But I did, all by myself. The collection comes to one hundred and seventy bucks, plus some change. Not too bad for the first try.”
“Wow! You mean, you went alone? How did you navigate?”
“Elementary. All you need, is to get out from our neighborhood to the main road. Because of our ‘navigation trials’ with Ris and Davy, I can sail through this part perfectly well. The rest is simple. I stand at the main road yelling ‘Change for Vets, Change for Vets!’ Once in a while, somebody drops a donation, so you say: ‘Thank you! You are not going to the market, by chance?’ Eventually, somebody does. Going back – even easier. I take a legless dude for a tow, and he shows me the way.”
“And you were at the market all day? By yourself?”
“Yep. Jack-the-Rapper was doing his usual today. I joined his ‘support group.’ Perhaps, Mister Todd can call it ‘spot-holding.’ But I don't give a damn.”
Mark imagined William standing at the marketplace entrance, with his red donation bucket on the neck. In the line of those other legless and armless vets. Surely, that rude Indomerican delivery boy was whispering to somebody again: ‘Why do you give these vets? They are useless. Better you pay me sixty.’ Indeed, useless. Who needed the vets anymore? Not the Government. The Government only smiled and pretended the problem did not exist.
“The guy is absolutely amazing,” William continued, “imagine: singing all day long, and only started repeating the songs towards the very end. Well, he officially renamed one of his compositions after me today. Now it is called Billy, Who Made Three Out of Each Five.”
“Oh, I've heard this one.”
“It's just about me. Spot on.”
“You mean: about the missing hands and blind?”
“No. Oh, this is too, I guess. I mean: the ‘war geek’ part. I never told you, but by my fourth month of deployment, I started believing I learned everything. Became a war geek, like in the song. Stupid, right? And that goddamn booby trap made: click! Exactly like the song says.”
“But William?”
“What?”
“How did you go… to the bathroom?”
“It went easier than I expected. Jack-the-Rapper's girlfriend, Mopkin, he calls her, took us both. She said: doing two for the price of one, something like this.”
“Oh, the blonde in nearly non-existent Denim shorts?”
“How the hell would I know if she's a blonde? Although, she has a nice touch, if you understand what I mean!” He laughed to his own joke.
Mark went inside and checked the disposition. Samantha, Pamela and Patrick were peacefully consuming the dinner, but on their faces Mark saw the determined readiness of the seasoned ‘Confederate’ troops. The infantry was lining up, with the drumbeat and sergeants' whistles, loading their muskets! Mary was at the dinner table too, with her cell phone, pretending she was surfing the Net. Mary obviously did not expect much support from Mark, but was more than capable of defeating the ‘Confederates’ alone. After all, she had the right to veto everybody else. But she did not know yet her former ally was not only at the ‘Confederates’ side, but also prepared a surprise flank attack.
Mark placed the apple pie on the dinner table and asked Mary: “honey, how about having some tea?”
“You are bribing me, so I let Samantha to become a drop-off, right?” Mary replied. Probably she suspected the ‘Union’ troops started defecting.
“Yes,” Mark boldly admitted. The other ‘Confederates’ held their breath to see what would be coming next.
“This will not work. I will never fall for a trivial apple pie. Despite it's my favorite,” Mary said.
“Unfortunately, the apple pie we must eat. The bakery will not accept it back for a refund. But of course, if you don't like these, I can return them to the shop tomorrow.” Mark solemnly placed the old magazine box on the table in front of Mary.
Mary smiled and opened the box. She did it like someone opening a red leather box with many carats of gold, platinum and diamonds inside. Something that would cost $3800 in the 1930's full-weight dollars. When the last time did I give her the real jewelry? It was… well, before the GFC version 2.0. Our five-year anniversary. The present of 2018 was planned before the Meltdown, but never happened, for obvious reasons. We had next to nothing to eat, and the diamonds somehow did not make it into the shopping lists. And now… All the jewelry they could afford was this: the cheap glass beads, but with the exceptionally rare real Swarovski crystals, the treasures being dug out from the 'Fill.
“Oh, they are… wonderful!” Mary exclaimed. She put the bracelet on and lifted the hand admiring the glitter of black and golden beads and the little rainbows in the crystal. The necklace went up next. “How do you put these on?” she asked, looking at the ‘barefoot sandals’ in the box, “and what are they called now? Kameole?”
“Kama'a-ole, Mom. You need to make it a double ‘a’,” Pamela smiled. The next second, she and Samantha got to the floor, fitting the fancy sandals over Mom's ankles.
“They fit perfectly,” Mary admitted, tapping her bare toes at the floor.
“I am still able to guess your size!”
“They are… so inappropriate! And impractical. And a total waste of money. But so cool! I love them. Thank you, darling.” She wrapped her arms around Mark's neck and delivered him a long-long kiss.
In order to make the attack's success permanent, Mark was quick to distribute the rest of the boxes. Pamela and Samantha immediately tried the new sandals on. William asked Mark to put the box ‘in his hands,’ and went upstairs to deliver the unexpected present to Clarice, holding the box between his teeth.
The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Without much struggle, Mary allowed Samantha to stay at the gasoline plant through the summer. Presumably, it would mean: permanently.
Patrick made an opportunistic attempt to send cavalry after the retreating ‘Union’ troops and get himself an approval for carrying his personal Army knife (all the boys of his age supposed to have one, he started to explain,) but the UN peacekeeping troops decisively went into action. The cavalry raid suddenly stumbled upon the Blue Helmets' personnel carriers, and the veteran officer (the one with the missing arms) politely and coldly advised the intrepid
ten-year-old ‘Confederates’ commander to abort the mission, or else! The raid was aborted and immediately forgotten.
