Ded Reckoning (6 page)

"Not a word."  She feigns a smile.  "Not to worry.  Go get cleaned up and be quick about it. I have brewed some tea for me boys.  And me grandmother's fine, fine minced-meat tarts for you to munch on with your tea.  Hurry now."  The two young men leave the kitchen.  Their mother shudders, shakes her head, and continues with her chore.  One she's done many times before as a young lass for her father, and later for her husband, on many additional dark, worrisome nights for others in her brood.

The woman, older looking than her years, prays in Gaelic or as some say, in the Irish, "Lord, thank ye for bringing me boys home safe.  Now bring me Paddy back."  Then makes the sign of the cross.

"Safely, Lord.  Safely."  Blesses herself again.

CHAPTER 4
 

 

"The 50-50-90 rule:  Anytime you have a 50-50

chance of getting something right, there's

a 90% probability you'll get it wrong"

 

Anon.  Murphy's Other 15 Laws

 

Hunter ambles inside from his patio and reheats this morning's now cold tar-thick coffee.  He putters around, washes his brandy snifter and slides it on a handy first shelf of the liquor cabinet.  The wall phone's shrill ring and its rattling in the cradle startle Hunter.  He snatches the receiver, answers with a simple but bad-mannered, "Yes.  Speak."

"Hunter?  It's Brad.  Gene Bradovich.  I'm calling from home."

"Yeah, Brad.  Didn't I just see you, Marine?  Hanging around the ammo dump."  Joking, wanting to BS with his Corps buddy, but shouldn't. "Hey, ol' buddy, I'm not supposed to be talking with you unless we're grousing about the Padres or Chargers.  And not likely then."

"Yeah, I know the rules.  The game."  He pauses.  "Hawk. I don't know what you're into and shouldn't care except ... I do, and  I love you, man.  I've been around.  The cops here. CID in the Corps.  Nam with you.  Listen, I can smell paddy shit.  Ambush.  Here, Nam, anywhere.    Something ain't right, buddy.  Got that ol' lovin' feelin'."

"Listen, Brad, I'm not supposed to ..."

"No, you listen, friend.  I'm here.  If you need help, call me, man.  I can take the point, or I can take the drag, but I'll cover your six no matter what.  Something's not right here, man."

"Brad, I'm fine.  Everything is okay."

"Major, I can smell paddy shit a long way off.  When the hairs on my arms and neck bristle, something' ain't right."  Bradovich exhales a long audible breath, "I owe you, Hawk.    Big time.  Call.  You copy?"

"Roger, I copy.  I do."  Hunter pauses, turns and props his butt against the counter's edge.  "But no sweat.  The crap today doesn't involve you or the city.  Won't happen again, at least not here.  I'm okay. In a way I'm doin' the same old things. Body count and MedEvacs so I'm in my element.  Right? "  

"Yeah, right.  I said my piece.  But ya know that booby traps and hand-to-hand ain't the San Diego element.  Remember, you call me anytime.  I can still hack it.  Semper Fi."  Then a click.  Seconds later a dial tone.

Wish I could, Marine.
 
Can't.  Not now.  God willing, wind and weather permitting, later.
 

Hunter hangs up, pauses a moment, moves the few steps back along the kitchen counter and grabs his mug.  He stares at the lines of lettering on each side of the mug.   On one, "Still a Marine."  On the other, "Not as lean but still as mean."  Taps the mug twice on the counter top.  
I hope.
 

He pours himself a cup of the now simmering coffee.  The steam twirls upward carrying a strong aroma of coffee beans from someone's mountain, however it looks like sludge.  Hunter stares at it and remembers "Black Death", the instant coffee in C-Rations.  His mind drifts back.  The nights, wet, lonely, with the sounds of the darkness.  The static, the rushing sounds, and the wanted and not wanted nothing of the radio's company "tactical net".   Then a click, a chest pounding heart beat, the hour-long single second of silence, then the welcome whisper, "Lima Three Alpha in place.  Out." Then the wait would begin again and the coffee, the bite of "Black Death", is a bunker's or a fighting hole's teddy bear.  It's wonderful.  Hunter stares at the mug.    

He takes a sip.  Follows with, "Ahhh, it hasn't lost its punch."  He grimaces, teeth clinched, head shaking. "Whew!"  
Perhaps the environment makes the coffee
.

The phone in his office rings.  He mutters, "Damn," takes another slug of slow death, sets the mug down on the countertop and hustles to his office.  Unlocks the closet, flips down the seat and writing board, closes the closet door and snatches the phone from its holder on the fourth ring.  Says, "Yes."

"You're supposed to say the password."

"I forgot it.  Actually I don't give a hoot right now."

"Well, dammit, Hunter, it's supposed to be used.  It's..."

"Make it Capricorn.  I can't remember that other one.  This is my birth month, so if I screw up again you can just hum Happy Birthday and I'll catch on."

"Capricorn, huh? That's more than four letters and doesn't start with an "f".  Might be difficult for you to..."

"Joe."

"Okay."  Zachary sighs.  "Capricorn it is. Anyway, just a quick call.  Everything's covered.  We'll take care of Samantha, her business, and whatever.  The locals are covered too.  So, take a few days.  Work out a plan.  Stop here and we'll talk.  Finish and cover details, and off you go.  This has to be done in a matter of weeks.  We'll lose Pisces if we don't.  This bastard is slippery, and I sense he's getting ready to disappear forever.  MacBeer wants him done.  Terminated.  Then you and I will take care of the other matter.  Got it?"

"Yeah, got it.  It's all ded reckoning, Joe.  Only one fix and it's old.  The remainder are just ports in a storm.  But, I'll get it done.  See ya Thursday morning.  You be ready with the latest Intel.  Oh, and Joe, make sure it's better than that F-1 crap you used to feed me in Nam."

"Okay, I will.  Geez, you never forget."  He laughs.  Then, "Now, Hunter, listen.  Please don't interrupt for a few minutes.  Pay attention and I'll ..."

"This sounds like the beginning of the fan and shit fable."

"Just shut up and listen."

"Wait a sec, let me put on my helmet and flak jacket."

"Dammit, Hunter.  Okay.  Okay.  Now then, you have a new teammate.  Ms. Columbo.  Well, actually, not in fact new.  I probably should have ..."

"What the hell are you saying, Joe?  Are you saying that Teresa Columbo is going to be in on this?  Are you, nuts?"

"Hunter, I said to shut-up and listen. Now pay attention, dammit.  It's a long story.  She worked here before she met her husband and came back a short time after he went missing.  Actually, been on the job for two years now.  She knows more about you than you might think.  And, this is important, we need to keep her in the loop."  He pauses to allow Hunter to react.  To blurt out a profanity.  Anything.  Joe gets no response, accordingly he continues, "She will be working with you.  Will pass herself off as not only your landlady but as your typist and editor.  Well, pass herself off is not descriptive.  She is a great steno, and writes well." Another pause.  More silence. Joe continues, "An author needs help.  And she's good at this, and other things."

"What other things?"  Hunter exhales audibly.  "Never mind.  Don't answer that.  So, all this shit has been going on behind my back.  She is, or was, Sam's backup?  Right?"

Zachary hesitates and says, "Not exactly.  If anything, more the other way around."

"Well, hell, Joe.  I fucked the wrong one.  Right?"

"Hunter, you said  ... oh, shit, never mind.  Listen."

Hunter exhales, and settles on the flip stool, holding the phone away from his ear, staring at the handset.  He takes in a deep breath.  Lets it out slowly and interrupts whatever Joe was saying, "You're saying that Sam worked for her?  And Dee works for you and MacBeer?  Right?  A woman, a widow, regardless of how it ... with two kids is involved in all this crap.  ARE YOU NUTS? "

"Hawk, I wish it weren't so.  Not necessary but we have to keep tabs on her to wrap this up. She is the mystery woman and can damn well take care of herself, and she has.  You need to remember that.  She can play any role, and has.  And incidentally, she's a damn good shot.  You need to remember that as well although she doesn't have to be ... would just be a few feet."

"A few feet. I won't do this.  Not with her tagging along."  He pauses, then continues.  "Wasn't there something fishy, more than fishy, with her husband's death?  I remember hearing rumors."  He pauses for several moments.  Then, "You know something.  Mystery woman my ass.  She's hooked in with ..."

"Not now.  We'll talk about this more when you get here.  Without her.  She'll go ahead."  Then he pauses, and his tone of voice takes on a harsh command timbre.   "You will do this or you're out.  Now.  So, is it yes or no?  Stay or go?  I'm busy and getting tired of your one-liners and bitching.  We have a mission to complete and that's all I'm interested in and you better be also."

Hunter stares at the phone.  He's sweating. The closet is making him claustrophobic, or he's back in a flak jacket listening to assholes in starched jungle utilities.  He remembers something an old sea dog Captain told him when he was a Second Lieutenant.  "Decisions made by someone above you in the chain of command will seldom be in your best personal interest."  He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath.  
Something's sure not right here.  But!  What would my father have done?  Execute the orders?  And me?  Take
Hill 22, or 46, or 229 or 881 or whatever.  Does it make a difference?  Not if you're in the fight.
His mind running full throttle shifts into the gunfighter's gear.  
Always cheat...always win...if you're in the fight.  The world remembers Joe Louis.  No one remembers Tony Galento.
 

Am I in the fight?  Yes. Therefore kill everyone in sight.  
He remembers another gunfighter's rule and mutters it aloud.  "The faster you finish the fight, the less shot you will get."

Joe says, "What was that?"

"Nothing. Okay, I'm in, but..."

"No buts.  Yes or No?  Now."

"Yes.  In.  Who is Oboe?"

"Never heard of him."

"You sent him.  He spoke on your behalf."

"Told you, I never heard of him.  Didn't send anyone.  Now let's get on with the task at hand."

Hunter snarls, "Okay.  Good.  Then I have your permission to kill this ghost of Ichabod Crane next time I see him."

"Whatever twitches your trigger finger, teammate."  

"Great team, right?  It's always
we
until the throwin' of hands start."

"It is a team.  The two of us.  Just like always."

"Yeah, and you always out-ranked me; you were always in a bunker,  and I was always the one laying in the paddy with the leeches and AK47 rounds buzzing around me like pissed-off bees."

"Well, hell, Hawk.  I was always the better thinker.  You were always better at killing.  It is what it is."  Joe pauses.  "So, get to know Columbo, but be careful.  She's a black widow.  We'll talk more about it when you get here.  Just get squared away.  Don't talk to anyone out there in San Diego, including Bradovich. And be here Thursday.  And plan to move on to the continent.  Preferably into London, then on to Geneva for cash, then on to Rome.  From there to Pisa, and wherever the currents and winds take you."

"Joe, c'mom, this is not good.  The woman does have a family.  Even spiders ..."

"Hawk.  Stop.  I know what we're doing."

"There's that 'we' again.  Joe."

"Right.  We.  Now listen, please.  She knows what she's doing.  Has for a long time."  He pauses.  "See you on Thursday.  Call me, or have her call me with your schedule.  I mean, after all, she's your secretary.  Make like she is one.  And stay away from the help."   Joe laughs, then adds nothing for several seconds.  Nor does Hunter.  Then, "Hunter.  Don't you do her." Click.

Hunter stares at the phone, holding it in front of him, then deliberately cradles it. Gets up, flips up the seat and table, eases out and locks the closet, returning to the kitchen.  Picks up his mug of coffee and takes a sip as he strolls back toward the patio.  He gags.  
This is bad.  It's not just sludge, it's ... it's asphalt.
 

He slides open the patio door, drifts out and onto a lounge chair next to the Jacuzzi.  He looks out over the same-as-everyplace wood fence and into the fading light.  Evening twilight has arrived quickly.  The day has swept past, as has the last eleven years, like the old Santé Fe Express.  He takes in a deep breath.  Takes another sip of the "Black Death."  Mumbles, "Whoa!"  Then checks his "Hush Puppy" in his rear waist band.  Looks at the mug and tosses the sludge onto the grass at the edge of the pool.

"Hell, I don't need paving.  I need a drink."

 

 

Pisces slinks into his study like a leopard on the prowl.  Even his loafers seem to be scratching the tile like angry claws. Rocco pads behind like a trained bear.  Robert Camack, aka Roberto Camack Catalano, slides in behind his huge antique mahogany desk as if settling on a tree limb to lay in wait.  Only a few items are on top of the desk.  An envelope.  A phone.  A calendar, page turned to today's date.  He puts the envelope in top center drawer.    Nothing to detract from the beautiful rust colored inset leather desk top.  The bear and leopard exchange a glance before the big cat takes in the paneled walls, also in mahogany, shelves on one wall crammed with books never read.  Original oils carefully hung on the other walls, as they are throughout the villa.  His works of art.  Pisces prides himself in his painting.

Bruno, comfortable, casual in deportment comes through the door of the great study and  eases toward the desk front.  Looks at Rocco and says in Italian, "Good day, yes?  Great weather. Better, a great trip for the boss," then looking away from Rocco to Pisces. "Right, Bossa?"