Freedom

by David Wood

  They sat down at the bar. Several televisions surrounded the perimeter, most tuned to pregame coverage of the Red Sox at Fenway Park. One had Keno playing, the timer ticking down to the next game. The place wasn’t nearly half-full. A few men played pool in the corner, the crack of the stick against the ball rising above the blended sounds of conversation, laughter, and baseball talk. Outside and above, the sounds of another subway train rolled through the station. A motorist honked their horn.

  “Nice ambience. It’s like drinking in the middle of a traffic jam.”

  Bonebrake shook it off. “Relax, dude. You need a drink, and an hour with the skankiest chick I can hook you up with.”

  Dane winced. “Does your voice have a volume control?”

  Bonebrake made a face as the bartender approached.

  “What can I get you guys?”

  Dane ordered a Dos Equis, which earned him a sneer from the bartender, while Bonebrake ordered a Samuel Adams. The bartender proffered two bottles, one green and one brown. He removed the caps and passed them over on warped cardboard coasters. Dane paid and took a long drink, enjoying the rich flavor, the feel of the cool liquid sluicing down his throat, and the chilled bottle smooth in his hand.

  “Thanks for the drink. Next round’s on me.” Bonebrake held up his bottle, “A toast to Maxie and the United States Navy. May they and all the babes we meet tonight regret our first leave as Navy SEALs.”

  “We’re not all the way through training,” Dane clinked his bottle against Bonebrake’s.

  “Yeah, but the hard part’s over.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “Maddock, some guys see the glass as half-empty. You see it as half-empty and filled with poison. You know that?”

  Dane made no reply. It wasn’t the first time he’d been told he was a pessimist. They settled into an awkward silence and Dane tried to gather in the ambiance of the run-down sports bar, what little it had. Truth was, calling it a dive would be high praise. A few items of sports memorabilia hung on the once salmon-colored walls.

  Dane wasn’t a huge sports fan, but he recognized the teams and faces. Pictures of Bruins retired numbers superimposed on the black and yellow spoked B, while a large photo of Bobby Orr hanging in mid-air took up half of a wall. Images of Larry Bird, Bob Cousy, Bill Russell and Red Auerbach held up a Celtics-themed wall, while still more of Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and a young Roger Clemens were behind the bar. A solo minuteman huddling over a football held a special place among the mementoes. Other than that, it was dark, dirty, and the clientele, if the patrons could call themselves that, wore tank tops and cut-off jean shorts, most favoring a few days’ stubble.

  Dane looked to Bonebrake. While he sported neither a dirty tank top, nor stubble running along his jawline, the tall Indian wore a garnet and black-colored South Carolina basketball jersey with the number 22 on the front, along with khaki shorts, bright red Converse high tops, and no socks. They cut an odd figure, Dane in a Hawaiian shirt and Nikes a few sizes smaller than his cohort’s gunboats.

  Dane absent-mindedly picked at the green label with his fingernail. He didn’t know how this weekend would play out. He and Bonebrake drove each other nuts, though Dane felt he had reasons aplenty to dislike the man. Bonebrake was abrasive, obnoxious, and immature. On the positive side of the ledger, he had the mettle to complete the first stages of SEAL training. He finished pulling the label off and dropped it on the bar. Bonebrake laughed and flicked the label onto the floor.

  “What’s so funny?” Dane asked, turning to his partner.

  “You, dude. You’re so sexually frustrated. How many labels have you pulled off bottles of beer in the past two years?”

  “Oh, come off it. I’m not sexually frustrated, Bonebrake.”

  “Hey, I told you. My name is Bones.”

  “Sorry.” He paused. “What kind of name is Bones, anyway?”

  “It’s just a nickname I picked up when I was just a little redskin.”

  Dane blinked. Bones loved to make people uncomfortable by throwing around derogatory terms about his own heritage.

  “Many moons ago, long before I first pulled handle on slot machine.”

  “Okay, I get it.” Dane took another drink.

  “No, I don’t think you do, dude. You don’t get me at all.”

  “What I get is that you don’t have a serious,” he paused and grimaced, “bone in your body.”

  Bones threw his head back and laughed. “You said serious bone. Sexually frustrated, just like I said. Speaking of which, I wonder if there are any ladies who might like to enjoy my...”

  “That’s what I mean. You think everything’s a joke.”

  “And you don’t know how to lighten up.” Bones gestured with his bottle. “If you’d get over yourself, maybe some of your comrades in arms, other than yours truly, would warm up to you. Maybe a few girls, too.”

  “I don’t know.” Dane took another swig of beer, remembering what Bones had said to him the previous day. That’s why nobody likes you. People respected him, he was sure of that. Maybe Bones was right. He didn’t exactly have any close friends in the service. “I’m fine with the way things are.”

  “That’s sad, bro. There’s a lot more to life than following the rules.”

  Dane suppressed the sudden impulse to punch Bones, but he’d been there, done that, and it hadn’t helped things. In fact, the fight seemed to make Bones like him even more. Now, he’d made it his personal mission to lighten Dane up, or at least convince him he was too rigid. He turned to stare at Bones, who stared out across the bar.

  “That’s not cool.”

  Dane followed Bones’ gaze to the far corner of the bar, where two young women were trying to evade the attentions of an aggressive bar patron. Neither could have been more than twenty years old; probably college kids with fake IDs who were looking for adventure and got more than they bargained for.

  “I think I’ve found my first fight of the evening.” Bones cracked his knuckles and made to slip down off his bar stool.

  “I got it.” Dane set his shoulders and marched across the bar. He knew Bones was eager for a brawl, but he didn’t want to spend the evening trying to bail a guy out of jail who wasn’t even his friend, and he certainly didn’t want to get locked up along with him. With Dane’s luck, they’d probably wind up in the same cell. He imagined calling Maxie and telling him they’d been arrested. That would be fun.

  The man had the two girls corralled in the corner, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of them.

  “There you are.” Dane shouldered the man aside without even looking at him and reached out to take the girls’ hands. “Dad’s been looking for you. We need to hit the road.” Surprise and gratitude mingled on the girls’ faces. And they followed Dane to the door. “I don’t think this is the sort of place you two ought to be hanging around,” he told them.

  “Definitely not.” The shorter of the two reached up and dragged a fingernail down his chest. “We’re gonna find a club or something. Want to come with?”

  Dane smiled. Her slender figure, glossy black hair and sparkling blue eyes held plenty of appeal, but she was a kid. “How old are you two, really?”

  “Nineteen.” The girl blushed and her friend giggled.

  “You two have a good night and stay out of dives like this.”

  He returned to the bar to discover Bones had ordered up another round. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.” Bones paused. “Tell me something, and I’m not trying to give you a hard time here, I really want to know. Why didn’t you drop that guy?”

  Dane sighed. “I wanted to, but I guess I’m always thinking a few steps ahead. I punch the guy, he calls the cops, I go to jail, maybe both of us if you mouth off, we have to call Maxie and it gets worse from there.”

  “That’s why you take it outside. Insult his manhood, get him all riled up so he can’t refuse, then you go out back where nobody can see, take him out quick, and ru
n. He’ll probably be too embarrassed to call the cops, nobody likes admitting he got his ass kicked, but even if he does, you’ve already found another bar long before they take the report. Besides, you’re a stranger to him. Which is why I always pay with cash. Can’t get my name off a credit card receipt that way.”

  “So you do think ahead.”

  “Sure. The difference between you and me is, you plan for the worst, I plan for the awesomest.”

  “That’s not a word, you know.”

  “Seriously, Maddock, how many beers is it going to take for you to be... human?”

  Dane found himself laughing. “Cheers, Bones.” This time, when they clinked their bottles together, it didn’t feel like compulsory behavior. “Speaking of not acting human, what is it with you and defaming your heritage?”

  “Defaming?” Bones sat his bottle on the bar and furrowed his brow.

  “Yeah. You’re not really what I picture when I think of a Native American. You throw around words that others find offensive, like redskin.”

  “I love their football team! I’ve got two or three of their jerseys. Plus the Braves, Blackhawks, the Tarheels...”

  “So, you’re from North Carolina, you like teams with Native American mascots, yet you’re wearing a South Carolina jersey?”

  “Are you kidding? South Carolina are the ‘Cocks. Those corn-fed South Carolina girls like those big old strong...”

  “I get it, I get it.”

  “Seriously, though. I do like to shock people and piss them off a little.” Bones paused, spinning the bottle in his hands. “But most folks are too uptight about the whole thing. They’re all gung ho about political correctness, getting their loincloths in a twist. Yet here they are, opening casinos on tribal lands, trying to make a buck. They want people to think they worship the old gods and hold the old ways, but they worship the almighty dollar like the rest of us. They’re so damn serious about getting offended-- they’re like you, only with burnt umber skin.”

  Dane huffed his amusement. “You’re a deeper thinker than I thought.”

  “Lower people’s expectations and it’s easier to take them by surprise.”

  They lapsed into companionable silence. Bones amused himself by whistling into the mouth of his empty bottle and looking around the bar. “Hey, Maddock. You remember the advice I gave you about taking it outside?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. You’re going to need it, because it looks like that dude finally got up the courage to make something of it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “I usually don’t let anybody mess with me when I’m hooking up the ladies,” a familiar voice called from somewhere behind them, “but I just couldn’t get over my shock at seeing my buddy, little Jane Maddock again.”

  Dane paused and closed his eyes. It couldn’t be. He stole a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, no way.”

  “You know him?” Bones asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. We were at Annapolis together.”

  Bones’ eyebrows rose. “Oh ho, an Academy brat.”

  “Pretty much. Upperclassman by the name of Paccone. Marc Paccone.”

  “Does he like his martinis shaken instead of stirred?”

  Dane shook his head. “He was a punk. Big and dumb. Loved to harass the underclassmen.”

  Bones nodded.

  “Hey Maddock, I’m talking to you.” The voice drew closer.

  “He turned out to be a huge bully and a sadist, freaking out a lot of Midshipmen. Word was, he had a connection with a senator, an uncle or something, and he used that to keep people from reporting him.”

  “So he was a bully and a coward.”

  “Big time. Last I heard, he was assigned to Charlestown.”

  Bones blinked.

  “Charlestown, as in right around the corner? On board the USS Constitution?”

  “Yep.”

  “You would think a guy like that wouldn’t get such an honor. I guess the senator hooked him up.”

  Dane stiffened as Paccone stepped up to the bar, ignoring Bones as if he were a cigar store Indian.

  “You aren’t going to say hello to your old friend, Maddock?”

  “I always speak to old friends. Problem is, I don’t see any in here.” Dane turned and met the man’s eye. He forced himself not to wince at Paccone’s toxic breath. It smelled as if the bartender had mixed him a lethal combination of motor oil and Jose Cuervo.

  “Come on. You steal my action and don’t even say hello when we haven’t seen each other in so long.” Paccone grinned, the light gleaming off the damp sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “Not long enough, Paccone.”

  Paccone’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s that supposed to mean? We were best buds.”

  “In your soggiest dreams, maybe,” Dane countered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bones cover a laugh by coughing into his clenched fist.

  Paccone’s jaw worked and Dane could almost see the gears in Paccone’s mind turning at three-quarter speed. After a few seconds Paccone tensed up and clenched his fists. “Aw, are you still mad that I ragged on you a little? If it bothered you so much, why didn’t you ever stand up to me, Jane?”

  “How about,” Bones interrupted, “you go sober up and get a freakin clue, dude? We’re trying to enjoy our drinks, here.”

  Paccone paused and turned his attention to Bones, his eyes wide as if he had just discovered the big man’s presence.

  “And who the hell are you, peckerwood?”

  “Dude, we’ve got to work on your slang. Peckerwood is for rednecks and white trash. You know, people like you.”

  “Whatever. Why don’t you keep your big nose out of my business? I think Jane Maddock has a problem with me, but he’s not man enough to do anything about it.”

  “Hey,” the bartender called, “we’re not going to have any brawling in here, you got that?”

  “Definitely not,” Dane said. “We were just about to step outside.” He’d had enough of Paccone, and it was high time he did something about the years of resentment that festered inside him. He tossed a ten on the bar and motioned for Paccone to lead the way.

  “Ladies first.” Paccone made a mocking bow and gestured toward the door.

  Dane smiled and led the way out onto the street without another word. They melded into the shadows of one of the side streets, well out of sight of any passers-by.

  “Tell your friend here not to jump in.” Paccone rolled up his sleeves and scowled at Bones.

  “He won’t.” Dane knew he should be worried about someone calling the cops, or Paccone using his senator connection to screw up Dane’s chances with the SEALS, but he found himself feeling surprisingly relaxed. Apparently, Bones was rubbing off on him, and even that didn’t seem to worry him. He raised his fists, turned slightly, and rose up on the balls of his feet, ready to spring.

  Paccone charged in, swinging a wild haymaker that Dane easily ducked. He drove a punch into Paccone’s gut. The man had gone soft around the middle, and he grunted as the breath left him in a rush. He reeled backward, Dane following, peppering him with crisp jabs. Paccone backed into a dumpster, bounced off, and charged forward, his face a mask of crimson from cuts above both eyes and a bloody nose. He tried to grapple with Dane, but Dane grabbed him by the ears, yanked his head down, and drove his knee up into Paccone’s face. Paccone’s knees gave out and he dropped to all fours. A knee to the temple and he was flat on his face.

  “Okay, so I took it outside. What’s the next step?” Dane asked.

  “Run like hell!”

  They dashed down the darkened street, slowing only when they were back on the main drag. No sense in drawing unnecessary attention. Bones got enough of that for being a six and-a-half foot tall Cherokee with a weightlifter’s build.

  “Nice job, Maddock. Good thing our fight got broken up as soon as it started. I wouldn’t want you messing up my pretty face.”

  “I didn’t need you beating me to a pulp either. I’m ugly en
ough as it is.”

  “True.” Bones made a solemn nod. “You know, the best part of our evening is, we can cross two things off our leave bucket list: drinking beer and getting into a fight.”

  Dane glanced up as another subway train passed overhead, the sound of steel wheels rocking away. “Yes, but what else can we do that won’t have us thrown into the back of a paddywagon?”

  Bones opened his mouth, but froze at the sound of screeching tires, the sick thunk of bone against sheet metal, and shattering glass.

  Both men turned their heads to see one of Boston’s famed yellow taxis stopped in the middle of the street with an uncharacteristic human hood ornament lodged in its windshield.

  “Oh, crap!” Dane dashed toward the scene of the accident with Bones right behind him.

  By the time they reached the cab, traffic had ground to a halt. The cab driver, a heavy set Hispanic man, stood outside the driver’s side door, a look of disbelief plastered across his tanned face. Another motorist stood outside his car, a bulky Motorola cell phone pressed to his ear, presumably calling emergency services to the scene.

  The injured man had managed to roll off the hood of the cab and now lay on his back in the middle of the street. His lined face and silver-sprinkled brown hair put him at about sixty years old, give or take a few. He wore a tweed coat with worn elbow patches, much like a college professor would wear.

  Dane knelt and pressed his fingers against the man’s carotid artery. His pulse throbbed madly, as if he had just run a marathon, and then suddenly weakened.

  He isn’t going to make it, Dane thought, as the whine of sirens pierced the air. “Hold on. The paramedics are on the way.”

  “Hey, what are you doing to that guy?” the cabbie demanded.

  “Stand back, sir.” Bones grabbed the protesting taxi driver and pulling him away. “We’re trained in first aid.”

  “Never... mind... the para.. medics.” The man’s blue eyes were glassy and his chest labored as his lungs fought to take in precious air. “Promise me...” he rasped, foamy blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. He grabbed the front of Dane’s shirt with surprising strength. “Promise...”