Day of the Bomb (20 page)

***

Fred had to readjust his sales route the following
month because headquarters wanted him to attend a seminar in
Dallas. Risk management was unfamiliar to many in his profession
and everyone seated in the audience. But the instructor for the
daylong class proved to be enlightening from his opening to his
closing remarks.

“Risk. How would you define it?” He pointed to an
attendee.

“Taking chances.”

“How about you?”

A chief executive officer scratched his head.
“Running a business?”

“Good. And you, sir?” He pointed to Fred.

“I don’t know about anyone else but my life has been
just one risk after another it seems.”

“That’s it!” the presenter danced a little jig.
“Think about it. What if your mom falls or is in a car wreck while
you’re still inside of her? There’s a chance you end up stillborn
or are born premature and die hours or days or weeks later. Let’s
say you’re just an average baby, pretty safe as long as a crib
keeps you in line. But then you start to crawl, then walk. You’re
big enough to step outside into a world filled with risks.” His
eyes bulged.

A few laughed nervously at his imitation of a mad
scientist. Others stared at one another.

“My job is to get you to think risk management six
days a week, eight to twelve hours a day depending on how many you
work. Take the rest of the time off or else you are at risk for a…”
He motioned for answers.

“Ulcer.”

“Heart attack.”

“Going crazy.” One of the two ladies in attendance
said. “As a wife and mother and business owner I never get any time
off.”

The instructor walked to her side. “God bless you.
Now here’s someone headed for an early grave. Who can help her
out?”

Fred cleared his throat. “She needs to delegate.”

“Define your terms.”

“You know. Find someone to run her business so she
only has to be at her business one or two days a week.”

“But that takes money to hire a manager.” The woman
turned toward Fred.

“At least you’ll live longer. So what if you’re
poorer?”

As the day wore on, the instructor taught rudimentary
principles of how to define risk for an individual, a family, a
community, a nation, a small business, or large corporation. For
the last two hours he taught them how to use risk management for
their professions.

“Any insurance agents here today?”

Eight hands were raised.

“Good. From this day onward when you sit down with
prospects, define the risks that they face. Tell a husband or wife
how devastating their death would be to the survival of those they
leave behind. If they balk, pull out actuarial tables and give them
the lowdown. Say, ‘you see sir, according to the table; men of your
race typically live 63.7 years. But because you work in
construction we have to factor in possible death due to accident.
You live in a large city with a higher rate of auto accident
fatalities. No offense but that beer belly you carry around also
puts you at risk of earlier death.’ If he still doesn’t buy it,
tell him how much life insurance you carry. People like dealing
with those who practice what they preach.” He paused. “Now if
you’re selling insurance covering a business, point out the danger
from earthquake, flood, fire, labor strife, vandalism, tornadoes,
forest fires, you name it, based on where the business is
located.”

By the end of the seminar Fred’s notebook was full.
His horizons seemed limitless when he called home from his hotel
room that evening. “Honey, it was incredible. After what I learned
today, there’s no stopping me. As soon as I meet with my manager
again, I’m going to ask him to move me into selling insurance to
businesses. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“No.”

“That I can travel closer to home from now on.”

Sally cried. “I sure hope so. We miss you too
much.”

Fred dreamed that he was with her later that night.
The next afternoon he was four hours south of Dallas when a strange
sight lifted his foot from the accelerator. On the shoulder sat the
biggest motorcycle he had ever seen. It was missing the front
wheel. A half mile later he saw its rider rolling the flat tire
along the edge of the shoulder. Summer was in full force in Texas
and the man stumbled among the heat waves radiating off of the
pavement. Still feeling invincible from his newfound knowledge and
reckoning such a needy soul as a small risk, Fred stopped thirty
yards ahead of him.

“Need a lift?”

The man responded by pushing the misshapen tire
faster until it bumped into Fred.

“Sorry, man.” He held up blistered hands. “It’s so
hot I couldn’t stop it before it hit you.”

Fred helped him to load the chrome-rimmed wheel into
the trunk. “That’s okay. Let’s get you to a gas station.”

The cross that dangled from the rear view mirror
returned to its pendulum like motion as Fred pulled into the
traffic.

“You selling fire insurance?” The rider fished an
unfiltered Camel from his vest pocket and lit it.

Fred turned so that one eye was on the road and the
other on his passenger. “Not yet. But I’m planning on going into
it. How’d you know?”

The rider poked the cross. “This.”

“Huh? I think you pegged me wrong. I sell life
insurance but want to move over to insuring businesses.”

“Oh. You remind me of a holy Joe I knew in the war. I
thought you stopped just so you can preach to me and sell me some
fire insurance to keep me out of hell.”

“Oh. Where were you during the war?”

“England mostly. We flew B-17s over Germany. Like I
was saying, you remind me of Zach Malinsky. He was a waist gunner.
Real holy Joe, always quoting the Bible. But some Messerschmidt
pilot shot him up. He bled to death before we got him back to
England. You in the war?”

“Yeah. I was on a transport ship in the Pacific.”

“Navy boy, huh? Good gig?”

“Sometimes. What did you do?”

“I was a co-pilot.”

“So where were you headed when you got the flat? San
Antonio?”

He dragged deeply on his cigarette. “Maybe. Depends
on what it’s like down that way.”

“You from Dallas?”

“Nah. San Bernardino. Didn’t you see my colors?”

“Colors?”

“On my vest.” He turned so Fred could see the logo
emblazoned on his back. A leather helmeted skull grinned at him.
“I’m part of the Pissed Off Bastards of San Bernardino.”

“California? What are you doing way over here in
Texas?”

“Don’t you listen to your radio?” He tapped the dial
on the dash that was numbered 530 to 1600. “North Korea invaded
South Korea. It won’t be very long before they start calling us
veterans back to go over there to save the gooks, just like we had
to save the French and Brits.”

“You serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

Fear gripped Fred’s stomach, the kind that had
whenever Captain Uley had ordered a zigzag course to avoid being
torpedoed. “So what’s it like being in a motorcycle gang?”

“Club, man. We’re not gangsters. We’re a club.”

“Sorry.”

“It was okay at first. We were mostly veterans and
understood each other. But then we split. Some of the guys broke
away and formed a new club they call the Hell’s Angels. Now that
there’s another war going all that doesn’t matter much anymore. I
got to find a place to lay low. You travel a lot?”

“Yeah.”

“Any suggestions on where I can hide out?”

Fred’s chin quivered. “You running from the law?”

“Let me guess. You read about how we took over
Hollister and Riverside for a few days. Why’s everybody so upset?
Some of the rowdiest people weren’t even from our club. The Market
Street Commandos and the Booze Fighters were there too. Look, I’m
just an average guy. I got an old lady and two kids. I just don’t
want to fight another war is all. One’s enough.”

“Why not?”

“You kidding? They’d probably stick me in a B-29 this
time around. Sure, it’s bigger and faster than the 17s I flew but
the jets they got now can shoot down bombers like shooting fish in
a barrel. No thank you. I watched way too many B-17s get blown to
hell or go down in flames. You know what the worst part was?”

“No.”

“Counting the number of parachutes that got out of
those planes. I never counted ten chutes getting out of planes
going down.”

Fred’s throat tightened. “But what if your wife gets
the letter for you to report? What are you going to do then?”

“Nothing.”

“But you’ll be AWOL.”

“Not if she never tells me.”

“Huh?”

“This is between you and me, one vet to another.” He
shoved his hand in front of Fred’s face. Its blisters caused him to
shake it lightly. “Okay. If you rat me out now, maybe one of my
brothers from the club will come looking for you. Or I might just
look you up after I get out of Leavenworth. Comprende?”

Fred gulped as he redefined the risk of offering
strangers with flat tires rides. “Yeah. I’m no dirty rat like
Cagney says.”

“I took off without telling my wife where I’m going.
She’s going to take the kids back to her folks’ farm in Kansas.
Since she’s leaving no forwarding address, it’ll take the military
a while to track her down and send the letter to Kansas. But I told
her I won’t be in touch with her until the war is over. That way
we’re both off the hook.”

Fred whistled. “I bet you’re even going by a fake
name.”

“Nah. Then the military could throw the book at me
for evading a return to duty. If I keep my real name and play dumb
when they finally catch up to me, what are they going to do?”

“But like you said, they will find you
eventually.”

He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray. “Yeah, I
know. But maybe not for a year. If I’m real lucky, maybe even two
years. World War II only lasted three and a half years for us. I
figure this one won’t be any longer.”

Dubbed a “hangaround” by the biker, Fred felt
obligated to wait while the flat was repaired. His new acquaintance
explained that to become a prospect would require a vote of the
entire gang. Full membership could be bestowed only after Fred
proved himself worthy during probation. The biker laughed when Fred
said Sally would only allow his peripheral status of a hangaround
to the Pissed Off Bastards of Berdoo.

As Fred dropped him off to reattach the repaired
tire, he handed him a $20 bill.

“What’s this for?”

“An evangelist told me I need to do two things if I’m
going to live by faith: love God and love my neighbor as myself.
You look pretty hungry.”

The nameless biker smiled. “I knew you were a holy
Joe.”

***

For Ron Ohayashi, life had been a series of moves;
as if perpetual motion would bring him justice he had been denied.
Born in California’s fertile San Joaquin Valley, he had worked on
his parents’ farm from age five to seventeen.

Then on November 12, 1941 the FBI stormed into Little
Tokyo in Los Angeles and detained fifteen Japanese-American
community leaders and businessmen.

"We teach the fundamental principles of America and
the high ideals of American democracy. We want to live here in
peace and harmony. Our people are 100% loyal to America." That
Central Japanese Association’s statement went unheeded. The fires
at Pearl Harbor had barely been doused before local law enforcement
and the FBI had rounded up 1,291 leaders of the Japanese-American
community.

In February 1942 FDR’s executive order banished Ron
and 120,000 other Japanese-Americans to ten facilities that the
President called “concentration camps.” Most of the imprisoned were
U.S. citizens or legal permanent resident aliens. When the young
men of the camps were offered a chance to enlist in the Army, Ron
volunteered. He spent most of his enlistment in Burma as part of
the Military Intelligence Service interrogating captured Japanese
soldiers, duty that saved thousands of Allied soldiers’ lives.

After the war he and his family returned to their
farm south of Stockton to try and “pick up where we left off.”
Strangers chased them from their land, fruit trees, house, and barn
that they no longer owned. Such scenes with evil triumphing over
good played out for almost every returning internee.

Ron’s family sought refuge in the Florida panhandle,
where the farmland was reasonable enough for them to start over. He
first met Fred in the parking lot of a VFW hall after one of his
speeches on life insurance.

“Mr. Rhinehardt, may I speak with you please?”

“Sure.” Fred tossed his briefcase through his
Pontiac’s open window.

“Would you be so kind as to come to our home? My
grandfather and father need some term life insurance that you spoke
of.”

“Okay. I’ll follow you there.”

“If I may burden you further.” Ron bowed. “I walked
here. May I ride with you?”

“Hop in. I have to be up in Montgomery by tonight.
Let’s get moving.”

Fred’s questions made Ron reveal his family’s wartime
imprisonment. Fred shook his head after listening to the saga.
“That’s a shame. You all got shafted six ways to Sunday.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Huh?”

“What if my parents had remained in Japan instead of
coming to California? Then I would have been taught that the
Emperor was God. Instead of fighting for America, I would have
probably died as a kamikaze pilot or as a soldier in a banzai
charge on some island.”

Severed heads, arms, and legs and a burning Zero on
his ship’s deck flashed into Fred’s mind. His hands shook the
steering wheel so hard that the car swerved onto the shoulder.
Tears flowed as the car rolled to a stop.

“Are you all right?”

He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his shirt
sleeve. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“There’s a store up ahead. Perhaps a soda will help
calm you down?”