New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  Kane’s attire wasn’t in the same income bracket, or fashion consciousness, with his dyed black jungle fatigue pants, grey t-shirt and blue denim shirt, sleeves rolled. He wore scuffed jungle boots, black leather toes, green canvas uppers, bloused inside the cuff of the pants with boot bands. A forty-five-caliber pistol rested in a supple leather holster under the denim shirt on his left hip, two spare magazines behind it on the belt, a commando knife in the small of his back and more assorted weapons secreted here and there.

  “Ellis Island,” Kane explained his comment as he released one of the throttles and pointed. “Most of it is built on debris from subway excavation. Originally, it was only three acres, but landfill expanded that to over twenty-seven. On top of old oyster beds. The island wouldn’t exist without the subway and vice versa.”

  “Doesn’t look like much of anything,” Money said. “My waste yard on the ranch has more acreage. My people were in the States long before Ellis Island let in the riff-raff.” He checked his watch as if he had an important date, beyond the beautiful woman seated next to him who’d been vaguely pitching him a movie concept since they pulled away from the Battery on the southwest shore of Manhattan. “This is bullshit,” he muttered.

  The Actress reached out and put a hand on the Money’s arm. “See? History. That interests people. That’s our film’s motif and—“

  Money cut her off. “You know what the blackout did to Superman? How far over-budget that is?”

  “That’s because of Brando, not the city,” the Actress countered. “And that’s not a New York movie. They only shot a couple of weeks at the Daily News as a stand in for the Daily Planet. The rest was filmed elsewhere. Saturday Night Fever is under budget.”

  Money wasn’t impressed. “A dancing movie with that disco bongo drum crap. It’s buying a stud-bull that can’t get it up. It’ll disappear without anyone noticing it was ever made.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The city’s a pigsty.” He indicated Kane. “We need a man with a gun just to go out on a boat. Are there pirates out here?”

  Kane wasn’t sure if the question was addressed to him, the Actress or rhetorical. His default mode was silence although he found the concept of pirates in New York Harbor intriguing. He vaguely remembered Brother Benedict mentioning something about pirates being part of the city’s history. Captain William Kidd had used the harbor as his base for a while and had something to do with Trinity Church, which still overlooked Wall Street. Given the reaction to the Ellis Island/subway reference, he doubted Money would be interested in exploring history any further.

  “And there’s that loony, Son of Sam, shooting people,” Money continued his New York City tirade, interrupting Kane’s musings on Captain Kidd. “You know how much securing a set for three months at all the locations in that script would cost?”

  The Actress, a voluptuous blonde wearing a low-cut dress that displayed her assets, and whose name Kane also couldn’t remember although it rhymed with something, which he also couldn’t remember, made a tactical shift in her pitch. “Perhaps if I show you the storyboards? They’re in the aft cabin.”

  Money showed more interest in the possibilities below than above deck. The two descended via the hatch to Kane’s left, Money leading. The Actress gave Kane a wan smile and rolled her eyes which earned her some points with the former Green Beret. She slid shut the teak door.

  Kane checked his watch. Adjusted the engines and wheel, pointing the yacht north into the outgoing tide combined with the flow of the Hudson River. He considered dropping anchor, since he had no idea how long ‘going over the storyboards’ would take and he was to the west of the shipping channel.

  To the south, the arc of lights on the western part of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge occasionally came into view five miles away, the separating line between the Upper and Lower Bay. Kane focused on the faint silhouette of the Statue of Liberty to the port side, dredging up all sorts of history about it and the island upon which it was perched.

  Kane cocked his head when he heard a muffled yelp for help. He sighed and headed below. Turned at the bottom of the steps toward the aft cabin. He passed through the Actress’s scream as he slid open the door to the cabin. The Actress was on her back on the bed, scrambling to free herself, obviously panicked, naked from the waist up. Money lay on top of her, also with his shirt removed.

  “Okay, sir, leave the lady—“ Kane began, but sensed movement to his right and brought that arm up in a reflexive high block, partly deflecting the sap aimed at his head. The lead-filled leather weapon struck him a glancing blow and he staggered back.

  Kane dropped to the deck, sweeping the attacker’s legs with his left leg. As the man went down, Kane was on top of him, smashing his elbow into the attacker’s face at close range. The man scrambled to get away from the furious assault.

  Kane let him, getting to one knee and drawing the forty-five, thumbing off the ambidextrous safety as he brought it level.

  A muzzle flashed in the open aft hatch and a bullet snapped by Kane’s head accompanied by the sound of the gun firing. The shooter was behind and below the Sap Man, standing in a small boat bobbing behind to the narrow dive deck, which helped explain the miss. Kane fired, but the escaping sap-man got in the way and the round hit him in the shoulder, punch-spinning him out of the hatch and into the small boat.

  An outboard engine roared to life.

  Two flashes and the crack of shots from the boat. Bullets hit the ceiling above Kane. He sidled left, weapon at the ready.

  The engine accelerated.

  Kane crouched to the hatch on an angle. Peered around, muzzle leading. A zodiac rubber boat was accelerating to the west, a dark figure at the driver’s console, a wounded man in the back, and a third figure kneeling and aiming a gun this way, but not firing.

  Kane brought the forty-five up, but spun about as he sensed someone behind him.

  His finger twitched but he didn’t fire at the Actress. He turned back, but the boat disappeared between the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island in the rain and dark smudge of the Jersey shoreline.

  “Fuck New Jersey,” Kane muttered.

  “Help him,” the Actress said. She’d pulled her top up but that seemed to be the extent of her recovery.

  “What happened?” Kane checked Money. It was obvious that Sap Man had hit him. Kane also noted the not inconsiderable pile of white powder on the small table next to the oval bed.

  “I saw that guy coming up from behind and tried to warn Mister Crawford,” the Actress said. “Did you shoot him?”

  She was several lines behind in the script, but at least Crawford was stirring.

  “I shot one of them.” Kane felt along the wound on the older man’s head. “His skull isn’t busted. He’s lucky.”

  “You really shot someone?” the Actress asked. “That was really loud! Really, really loud!”

  Kane pulled off his denim shirt and used it to staunch the blood from the wound. “There’s a first aid kit in the cockpit. Get it.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “First aid kit. Now!” Head wounds could be bad bleeders, a fact Kane had first-hand knowledge of given the old scar just above his right temple and extending underneath his thick, dark hair.

  Crawford’s eyelids flickered. “What the tarnation? Who slugged me?” He tried to sit.

  Kane noted an old wicked scar on Crawford’s abdomen, just below the rib cage. There was a faded eagle, globe and anchor tattoo on the older man’s right shoulder.

  “Easy,” Kane said. “Stay down for a minute.”

  The Actress returned holding the kit. “Here.”

  Kane ripped open a gauze pack.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” the Actress said.

  “Head’s over there,” Kane said.

  “What?” she was confused.

  “Bathroom,” Kane amplified. He turned to the older man and replaced the shirt with gauze. The blood was mostly staunched, the laceration minimal. “You have a thick skull, Miste
r Crawford. You’ll be okay. What day of the week is it?”

  “What?”

  “Day of the week,” Kane repeated.

  “Friday.”

  “Date?”

  “Four August.

  “Year?”

  “Nineteen-seventy-seven. What in tarnation is going on?”

  Kane didn’t stop him from sitting up. “You don’t have a concussion. You’re probably gonna have a bad headache for a bit.” Kane checked the carpeted floor. Wet spots where the intruder had been. Kane walked to the hatch. Some blood spatter on the dive deck. The attackers must have rowed up in the dark from directly behind since he hadn’t heard the engine. “You got enemies?” he asked Crawford.

  “Sure, I have enemies. No one worth their salt doesn’t have enemies.” Crawford tried to get his shirt from the deck, but couldn’t make it. “A man who doesn’t have enemies isn’t a man.”

  Kane picked it up and handed it to the older man. “Enemy enough to want to kill you?”

  “What happened?” Crawford demanded as he buttoned the shirt.

  “I’ve got to radio the NYPD harbor patrol,” Kane said.

  “Whoa, buckaroo, hold your horses!” Crawford tried to stand, leaned right, and fell back onto the bed. He held up a hand. “Just give me a sec, hombre.” He slowly sat up once more, one hand on the bulkhead. “What happened?” he demanded in a voice used to being obeyed.

  Kane gave a brief summary of recent events.

  Crawford didn’t interrupt. It took Kane under twenty seconds.

  “No body?” Crawford asked.

  “One of them is wounded,” Kane said. “There’s three bullet holes in here.”

  “The holes can be patched,” Crawford said, but it was obvious his mind was moving on to larger issues.

  “Get to the point, please,” Kane said to Crawford.

  “I’m not going to get stuck in this hell’s half acre over a little blood on a boat and some bullet holes,” Crawford said. “I’ve got important business to attend to in the morning before I fly home.”

  “I just shot someone,” Kane said.

  “Not well enough. He’s still breathing.”

  Kane didn’t respond.

  “They came at us,” Crawford pointed out. “I doubt they’ll be going to the police. Let sleeping doggies lie.” He reached down and was able to pick up his Stetson without falling over. “Besides, you want to get the police involved in this, William Kane?”

  Kane remained still, waiting for the inevitable.

  Crawford felt his head, grimaced in pain. His hand came away sticky with blood. “Guess I won’t be wearing my hat for a bit.” He smiled crookedly at Kane. “Oh yeah, cowboy, we’re all in this together.”

  “You were a Marine,” Kane said.

  “And you were Army,” Crawford said. “Green Beret, right?”

  “Your scar?”

  “Jap bayonet on Makin Island.”

  “You were a Raider,” Kane said.

  For the first time Crawford seemed impressed. “You know a bit of history, eh?” He pointed at Kane with the hat in hand. “You got at least one scar I can see, compadre. And some fresh ones on your wrists and neck. I don’t know what you got into recently but it wasn’t pretty.” Crawford shook his head, but stopped and winced. “Let it go. They’ll be a tidy bonus in this for you. Take the boat back to the marina.”

  “You know who it was,” Kane said.

  “I don’t have a blessed clue who it was,” Crawford said. “But don’t worry. My people will find out. Let them take care of it. New York cops couldn’t find their behinds with both hands. Plus, all they’re worried about right now is that Son of Sam bastard.”

  The Actress came out of the head and stood close to Crawford. “Are you all right?” she asked him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Fine, darling.”

  Kane indicated the cocaine. “Is that why?”

  “It doesn’t put a pretty shine on things,” Crawford admitted. “But there’s nothing to prove you didn’t supply it.”

  “Please,” the Actress pleaded. “I can’t get in trouble.”

  “I shot someone,” Kane said, but as he spoke the words, he knew they meant nothing and he was the one behind the script now.

  “It’s a done deed, cowboy,” Crawford said. “And remember. We’re the witnesses. We can remember it one way or the other.” He looked at the Actress. “You’re with me on this, darling, aren’t you?” It was more a threat than a question.

  She gave Kane an apologetic look and nodded assent.

  “Right,” Kane said. “The marina.” He headed for the bridge.

  It was still a dark and stormy night, which was a cliché, but clichés are truisms and Kane didn’t have many of those in his life so he took it at face value. The rain made the current job easier as he scrubbed the blood off the dive deck. A positive was that the drizzle was warm.

  He’d docked at the pier from which they’d departed and where Crawford’s limousine had been waiting the entire time. Crawford had thrust five thousand in crisp, new hundreds, still bank banded, into Kane’s hands without comment, before heading to the limo. The Actress, whose name he still couldn’t recall, had scurried after him, barely getting inside before the door was slammed shut and rubber burned as it peeled away.

  He considered calling Toni, his boss for this job, and telling her about the evening’s events, but he wasn’t certain what to make of it, so tomorrow would be soon enough. He pulled out a flashlight and shined it on the deck to check his work. Clean of blood.

  There were scuffmarks in the decking that no amount of scrubbing was going to fix. The boat was a rental, via Toni, and he figured he’d gone above and beyond this evening. She could deal with the owner and the bullet holes and the marks. It was likely the boat had seen worse damage from partiers.

  He sat down, feet dangling over the edge, just above the polluted water of the Hudson River, not exactly feeling like Huckleberry Finn on the Mississippi. Unconsciously, he ran his hand along the scar on the side of his head.

  It didn’t make sense. One of the intruders had a gun, but the one who’d come in first had used a sap to attack Crawford. If the goal had been killing, the gun should have been first. Or both should have had guns. Unless a kidnapping? Crawford? The Actress? Or had the sap guy been in the cabin first, the gun man providing cover from the boat, and Crawford and the Actress interrupted something?

  Kane glanced over his shoulder. Went into the cabin to where the initial attacker had come from the side. There was another hatch there which led to the ladder descending to the engine room. It was unlatched. Kane pushed it open. He flipped on the light.

  The bomb was just inside, on the top rung of the ladder. A red light was flickering on top of the bundle of C-4, then it turned green.

  Wednesday, 19 November 1967

  HILL 875, DAK TO, VIETNAM

  “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”

  “Amen,” Kane whispers under his breath while he studies the topographic map spread on top of his rucksack with his platoon sergeant.

  “Finding God in the foxhole, L.T.?” Sergeant Carter asks.

  “He’s omnipotent,” Kane says. “He can find me if He wants to. Even here.”

  Forty feet away, Father Watters winds up the abbreviated service, holding his hands over the cluster of paratroopers kneeling on the jungle floor around him. “Ite, missa est. Go forth. And be safe, my sons.”

  The most important aspect of the mass in the midst of the jungle, as far as Kane is concerned, beyond the comfort it gives those who believe, and those who don’t but wish they could, is the large number of soldiers in the cluster. More than ever before. An indicator of the pervading fear that this op isn’t going to be an easy one.

  “Hey diddle, diddle, right up the fucking middle,” Sergeant Carter complains about the operations order in a low voice only Kane can hear. “They teach that at West Point?” Carter is from Detroit
, made his latest rank in Germany and this is, surprisingly for the stripes, his first tour in Vietnam. But he gets some experience points for his tough childhood.

  “They taught us Caesar, Napoleon, Grant and MacArthur, to name a few,” Kane says. “They all did right up the middle one time or another.” And Kane remembers from his lessons that Grant in his memoirs regretted only one order out of all the carnage he commanded in the war—the final, frontal assault at Cold Harbor; right up the middle.

  Kane looks at the objective; he can see as far as the dense surge of green that marks the base of Hill 875. “Not much choice.”

  “Why are we taking the hill, sir?” Carter asks.

  “Because it’s there.” Kane regrets the flippant answer. Carter, and the rest, are putting their lives on the line. He tries to explain. “A Special Forces CIDG company made contact on the hill. The general wants us to take it.” As far as the plan, Kane isn’t thrilled. Two companies, Charlie and Delta up, with Alpha in the rear, two up-one back, classic army tactics since men had been whacking at each other with swords. Except the NVA are anything but classic.

  “Why not just blast it with arty?” Carter asks.

  Kane tires of the questions to which there are no answers. After five months Kane is a veteran. He has more time in-country than Carter and most of the men in the reconstituted company of mostly replacements.

  Kane looks at the trail that runs through the position. They’d marched it this morning and the attack is going to follow it up the hill. “I want an OP with an M60 behind us,” he orders Carter.

  Carter frowns and Kane knows he’s thinking his platoon leader is putting a valuable machinegun pointing in the wrong direction. But memories Ranger School always hover in Kane’s brain. He can practically hear Charlie Beckwith screaming: ‘Don’t be stupid!’

  “Get the OP out with a 60 and check the men, sergeant.”

  Kane was moved to Alpha company after the disaster at Hill 1338 in June. He’s the senior platoon leader in the company. It’s disconcerting that he’s commanding Ted’s old platoon but no one in it remembers Ted.