Walk on the Wild Side

by Bob Mayer

  “He’s not a plague,” Caitlyn objected. “He’s done a lot of good. He stopped the attack on the Statue of Liberty with minimal assistance. Before that, he took out Sean Damon and a serial killer. Quinn would have been a Sanction if we’d have known what he was doing.”

  “Quinn was British. Not in our mandate.”

  “He was operating in the United States. That’s our mandate. You would have queried the British and received their permission.”

  “You suppose I wasn’t aware of Quinn?”

  “Apologies, sir.”

  “I’ve read your report, Caitlyn, I sense more than just a professional aspect to your support of him.”

  Caitlyn didn’t say anything although she noted the use of the name from her current assignment. A subtle point, but it indicated that her past didn’t matter. She was who she was supposed to be for the mission. Nothing more or less.

  “He’s been connecting dots faster than I expected,” Nero mused.

  “What dots, sir?”

  “The ones he’s been exposed to,” Nero said. “He started with the divorce of Alfonso Delgado, a minor player in the Cappucci crime family, which connected him to Quinn. Who played his hand badly, but he was not completely aware of the sleeping wolf he’d aroused. Fatal over-confidence on Quinn’s part. Then Kane was on to Damon and Marcelle. And now Crawford. In the midst of all that he, as you noted, took out a team of IRA terrorists from committing a terrible act.”

  “We assisted with that,” Caitlyn said.

  “Yes, we did but only after he was hot on the trail. He found you, in a circumspect way.”

  “I was where you told me to be, so it wasn’t entirely coincidence. Is there more?” Caitlyn asked.

  “There’s always more.”

  “Regarding Crawford?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Crawford and beyond,” Nero said vaguely.

  “Beyond to where? What is in the ledger?”

  “Secrets,” Nero said. “That many people desire never see the light of day. Many powerful people.”

  “That means there will there be other players on the board?” Caitlyn stated/asked, wishing she could clearly see Nero, because she could only work off his words, without any idea of facial expressions. Of course, his lack of eyes, the gateway to a man’s soul, diminished that possibility. She was startled for a moment as the thought occurred to her that perhaps Nero had no soul. It did not, of course, occur to her, to wonder if she had one since she was in this vault with him and he’d chosen her years ago.

  “Other players are always a possibility in our business,” Nero said. “Kane has killed three of the Flint Boys. Crawford must be getting nervous. He’s rattled and people in that condition tend to make mistakes. He’s in a precarious position. If he reaches out for assistance, he’ll appear weak. Also, those he contacts, if he does, will want to know what the threat is. He’ll lose containment.” A deep sigh. “But that bridge was crossed when Kane took out Damon and exposed Marcelle who was the link to Crawford.”

  For long seconds the only sound was the filtered air being pumped into the room.

  “What about the two million that burned up?” Caitlyn asked.

  “You take Kane’s word on that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Money isn’t a motivator for him,” Caitlyn said. She indicated the file on Nero’s desk, aware the gesture was wasted. “It’s not his personality and he has the diner and the income from the two Nung mercenaries”

  “You mean tribute from them,” Nero corrected.

  “He saved their lives.”

  “Fair enough. I concur. If he says the money burned up, it burned up. He was, at least, cogent enough to grab the ledger.”

  “Do you know whose money?”

  A longer silence than usual descended. It was broken by a whirring noise as the ticker on the right side of the desk deposited several feet of tape into the growing unread pile, then stopped.

  Finally, Nero spoke, his rough voice almost a whisper. “This goes back to the very beginning of the Cellar. Before that even, to what made me into the man you can almost see in this darkness.”

  “It’s personal, then?” Caitlyn asked.

  “My dear, nothing is personal in this room. That is precisely why we are both sitting here. That is the core of why the Cellar was initiated and given its mandate. We evaluate and make our decisions dispassionately. Plato wrote that man must never let go of what he called the ‘sacred golden cord of reason’. When emotion interferes with that cord there is disease of the soul. That is why the Cellar was created.

  “There are other players involved and Crawford retreating to Utah indicates a hint of desperation, but also that he is wiser than Quinn. He is not under-estimating Kane’s abilities any longer. Crawford is endangering an apparatus that has proven beneficial to a number of people over the years. But the apparatus is something that should not have continued past its official life expectancy.” Nero’s voice indicated a rare tint of disapproval. “I never liked it in the first place, but it was authorized.”

  “The French Connection?”

  “A misnomer as this was more involved with the Golden Triangle. Both revolved around opium, heroin and money. Mrs. Rodier will provide you with the history in your briefing folder.”

  A short silence ensued as Caitlyn considered the situation. “What about Kinsman, sir?”

  “Do you think he rapidly and randomly showed up with the story Kane needed at this most opportune time? Living just a few hours away?”

  “No, sir. That’s why I’m asking. Is it a story? Or was he on Makin?”

  “He was there,” Nero confirmed. “I’ve been aware of Kinsman for many years. He tried to tell his tale of betrayal when he got back to the States after the war and that was, he learned to his great chagrin and nearly his death, a mistake. Too many powerful people involved and, after all, who cared? Makin was recorded in the annals of history as a daring victory. Even the accurate Japanese accounts uncovered after the war and the recovery of the bodies of the poor beheaded Marines who’d been left behind, couldn’t change that. As this current situation started to heat up, I brought Mister Kinsman closer to the stove.”

  “From where?”

  “The reservation in Northern Arizona,” Nero said. “What would a Navajo be doing in the Pine Barrens? A weak cover story at best.”

  “Kane tends to be overly trusting,” Caitlyn said. “But even he is wondering about Kinsman. He asked me if he’s for real.”

  “Kinsman is more than for real,” Nero said. “He has a personal stake in this as Crawford murdered his best friend. Kinsman survived many subsequent brutal battles in the Pacific as a Code Talker. He is not to be under-estimated.”

  “Do you have many like Kinsman in your records?” Caitlyn asked, over-stepping her boundaries.

  Nero smiled around the glow of the cigarette. “Ah, my dear. I have many files culled together over the years I’ve been here. Sometimes they get their opportunity to shine, but most end when they fade into dusty death.” He indicated Kane’s file. “This is the only unredacted version of Mister Kane’s. Fascinating reading.” He reached under his desk and a dim glow lit up behind him, revealing rows of filing cabinets covering the entire wall. “There is much fascinating reading in this vault. Certinaly you didn’t think the large door was only for me?” A buzz interrupted. Nero turned the light off and picked up a receiver that had been out of sight to the right. “Yes, Mrs. Rodier?”

  Silence reigned then: “Thank you, Mrs. Rodier.” Nero hung up. “Crawford has reached out for help.”

  Caitlyn waited.

  “He dispatched some local help, three drug dealers from a biker gang for immediate damage control. Most assuredly a sign of angst. Of more import, and dangerous, the network just received a shipment of heroin. It’s being escorted to Utah by four of General Vang Pao’s men.”

  “’Vang Pao’?” Caitlyn asked.

  “It will be in the briefing folde
r. Mrs. Rodier is updating it as we speak.”

  “That’s seven in addition to the four surviving Flint Boys. Kane is going with just Kinsman. He’ll be heavily outgunned.”

  “It’s a hostage rescue mission,” Nero said. “The priority of the bikers and the others will be the heroin, not Crawford.”

  Caitlyn cut to the heart of the mission. “Is Crawford a Sanction?”

  “He is officially outside our mandate as a private citizen and never having been an operative.” A bright red glow as Nero inhaled. An audible exhale. “I believe Mister Kane will decide Mister Crawford’s fate for us. He’s been doing a rather good job so far on his own. Sometimes we have to let things run its course.”

  “Is Kane on his own, then?” Caitlyn asked.

  “He hasn’t been since he’s met you, has he, my dear?” He dismissed her. “Mrs. Rodier will have the file for you with pertinent information.”

  “Apologies, sir, but I need something more specific than that.”

  “You are correct. You have green authorization for support as needed.”

  That gave Caitlyn pause. “But it’s not a Sanction?”

  “We do more than Sanction,” Nero said. “Mister Kane might be a valuable asset. After all, you’ve vouched for him. Coordinate with Mrs. Rodier. As far as taking action, this isn’t an official Sanction, but I trust your discretion to do what you determine appropriate, especially after reading the file. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  15

  Friday Night,

  12 August 1977

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT,

  MANHATTAN

  Kane lay on his back staring up at smog-faded stars. A nice breeze was coming off the Hudson from the west, a slight odor of rotting garbage with it, reminding him of his childhood when his father was a ‘sandman’, working the truck, tossing trash from metal cans into the gaping maw at the rear.

  Competing with the odious smell was the fragrance of Thao’s cooking as he made a late dinner for the members of the planning team. Kane hadn’t felt hungry, his system going into pre-mission mode. He’d climbed up, careful not to bang the trap door as he got on the roof to avoid waking Truvey in Thao’s shack. He’d unrolled his sleeping pad, taken off his denim shirt and rolled it up to be a pillow.

  He heard movement and his hand curled around the grip for the forty-five, which was already drawn. He glanced left. Truvey, wearing a long white shirt and nothing else, was tiptoeing toward Kane.

  “K? Are you awake?” she whispered.

  Kane’s instinct was to whisper back ‘no’ but he caught himself. “Yeah.”

  “Scooch over,” Truvey said, which was an irrelevant comment because Kane had cut the sleeping pad down to reduce weight to a width just enough to keep his body off the ground. He slid off, onto the cooling tar roof as Truvey lay on the pad.

  “Hot, isn’t it?” she said.

  Kane was tense, feeling her body touching his along his side in several places. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t mean to, but I heard some of what you guys were saying in the diner. The sound is amplified by the pipes like those tubes on ships where they talk to each other.”

  Kane didn’t say anything to that, since Truvey was part of this given her life was at stake.

  Truvey shifted position, pressing more of her body against Kane’s side. “I heard why you won’t take any help with you, other than the old Indian who wants to die. That’s really sad.”

  Kane wasn’t sure which part she was referring to. He felt her hand creeping along his flesh on his forearm like a five-legged spider, until reaching his hand. Then her fingers intertwined with his. She squeezed.

  “It’s not good, either,” she said.

  “What’s not?” Kane asked, trying to follow.

  “What you’re doing.”

  Kane turned his head. He could smell her above the cooking and the pervading odor of garbage in the city, a subtle perfume that actually wasn’t offensive. She was staring straight up, her face in profile, less than a foot away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your reason for going alone don’t make sense. I’m no soldier, or ex-soldier, or whatever, but even I can tell bullshit when I hear it.”

  “What bullshit?”

  “You.” Truvey turned her head and her face was inches from Kane’s. He could feel her breath on his face as she spoke. “Your reasons didn’t make sense. You’ve got friends down there who would die for you. You know how many people got that? People who will be there for you no matter what. When I called and you came to the theater and helped me, it like, blew my mind, man.” She gave a slight twitch of her head. “But that’s not the thing. The thing is you saying no to the help. Why you did that.”

  That last was a sentence, not a question. Kane waited, his anxiety at being close to someone physically subsumed by his fear of what she was about to say.

  “I had an older brother,” Truvey said. Her gaze didn’t waver but a sheen of tears covered her eyes. “Our parents split when we were kids. Mom did her best, but it wasn’t much ‘cause she was a mess, always missing our dad who’d gone off and never looked back. Never saw him again and he can rot in hell. My brother had idolized my dad. My brother didn’t make it out of high school, just packed his stuff one day, like dad had, and moved to Seattle. Got a job on a fishing boat. Drank and drugged a lot. I saw him once and he was a mess. He lived alone in a cabin in the woods when he wasn’t out on the boat. One day he got up to go to work and his truck wouldn’t start. So he went back inside, got into his stash and overdosed. The cops called it accidental but he knew what he was doing with drugs. He did it on purpose. I got no doubt about that. Just because the truck wouldn’t start, but that was the last straw. He was broken all his life but that snapped him. We all have a breaking point.”

  A tear dropped out of her lower eye and one slowly traveled over the bridge of her nose and hung there, before falling.

  “I’m sorry,” Kane said.

  “This thing. In Utah.” Her hand squeezed his so tight it hurt, but he didn’t react. “Don’t make it your truck not starting, K. Promise me. You have friends here and people who need you. I need you. Okay? Promise?”

  Kane took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as to not blow hard on Truvey. “I promise.”

  16

  Saturday Morning,

  13 August 1977

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT,

  MANHATTAN

  Kane’s hand was still holding Truvey’s when he woke which surprised him. She was lightly snoring, her head rolled against his shoulder. Her body, on her left side, curled to his as best it could while he was on his back. It was still dark and Kane’s internal clock calculated somewhere around 5:15 in the A.M..

  He turned his head. Thao was seated in a chair, the crossbow across his lap, his eyes open. When he saw Kane was awake, he pointed toward the trap door and mouthed: “I must go down.” He gestured at a pile of gear, then at Kane, indicating it was what Merrick had left for him before departing back to Fort Devens at oh-dark-thirty in order to be at his duty station.

  Kane nodded that he understood. As Thao headed down, Kane gently disentangled his hand. He stood up. His denim shirt was bunched under her head. The white shirt had pulled up, exposing her right flank and Kane reached down to tug it back into place. That woke her. She wasn’t startled, but woke calmly into the new day.

  “Was I snoring? I’m so sorry, but ever since the nose job I’m told I snore.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Kane said.

  Truvey sat up and stretched her arms, pushing the buttons on the shirt to their limit and the bottom of the shirt to a dangerous height. “I’m hungry.”

  “Thao is firing up the grill,” Kane said.

  Truvey stood. “Wonderful. I think my meal today will be breakfast.” She headed for Thao’s shack to get dressed.

  Kane picked up the denim shirt and put it on. It smelled faintly of Truvey. He went over to the pile of
gear. Merrick had left a kit bag full of explosives, goodies and ammunition, the latter his ‘specials’ which he loaded by hand. Kane’s rucksack, loaded with his own equipment, and LBE were next to the kit bag.

  Kane squatted and stared at the pile, the flaws in his half-ass, more a quarter-ass, plan beginning to pop up, an entire tableau of whack-a-moles at once. Frankly, he had no plan.

  “Come on,” Truvey said, “let’s get some chow. Isn’t that what you army guys say?”

  Kane straightened. “Yeah. Chow.”

  Truvey smiled. “It’s a new day, K. Be thankful for that.”

  Kane followed her down into the diner.

  As they entered, Thao was just unlocking the doors. Morticia came in and took a look around, noting the table from last night covered with glasses, mugs, beer bottles, an empty Scotch bottle and full ashtrays. “Looks like the hotel chambermaid didn’t show up for turndown last night. And now we’re running a bar too.”

  “I am sorry,” Thao said, not adding he’d blown off clean-up to sit guard all night.

  Morticia looked at the three of them. “You look like you had a rough night.”

  “Hey Morti!” Truvey piped up.

  “Except you, my dear Tru,” Morticia rhymed, but smiled as she did so. “How do you look gorgeous around these Neanderthals?”

  Kane and Truvey pitched in and they had it cleared off quickly. Truvey and Morticia were soon engaged in conversation about acting gigs, Thao was in the kitchen and Kane slumped down in his booth, trying to plan through the problems.

  The first customers came in, a quartet of hookers who viewed the opening of the diner as punching the clock at the end of their shift. They were followed by several meat truck drivers who actually had just punched out. One headed for the jukebox and Kane started to get up to stop him, needing all his faculties to focus, but Morticia spotted the trucker’s move and pre-empted him, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and telling him it was out of order.