War Games

Sundown in zion

Chapter forty

            “Permission granted to come aboard,” Sheriff Love said as Nelson entered his office Monday morning. “Which Gideon Nelson do we have the honor of seeing today: avenging angel, secret agent, horny sailor, or dedicated deputy?”

            Nelson laughed and pretended to think as he took his seat. “Maybe a little of each,” he said. “And what Sheriff Love do we have: jaded politician, former marine, star crime-fighter, or benevolent boss?”

            “Just a tired old asshole,” the Sheriff said, “but I have something for you.” Nelson looked surprised as the sheriff opened a side drawer in his desk and retrieved a small white box. “Here,” he said, pitching it to Nelson. “Never let it be said that I wasn’t willing to spend money on you.”

            Nelson opened the box to find and slid out an inner one filled with small cards. He fingered one from the pack, slid it out, held it before his face and read, “Gideon Nelson, Special Deputy.” The address of the Sheriff’s Office and phone numbers followed. He looked at Sheriff Love, his face registering a question.

            “Nice to leave around with folks,” the sheriff said. “Just in case they remember something they may have neglected to tell you.” He leaned backward in his chair and smiled. “Now please tell me you know things.”

            “I know things,” Nelson said, closing the box and placing it on his lap. He proceeded to relate the results of his efforts of the previous week, including the news on Clifton Sikes. “And the rest of the weekend was devoted to personal things. Don’t ask.”

            “I know they didn’t include your most fervent admirer in Armistead,” he said. “I saw her at noon yesterday, dining alone in the Cotton Bowl. Her chin was hanging so low that you could have cleared a minefield with it. The rest of her looked shipshape, though.” He stared into space. “Shipshape.”

            “As long as we’re using military analogies,” Nelson said, ignoring the message behind the Sheriff’s comment, “maybe we should talk war.”

            “I’ve fought mine,” the sheriff said. “Let these entitlement-laden assholes take care of the next one. It would do them good—might make them think twice before they vote.”

            “No doubt,” Nelson said, “but I’m talking about using military tactics to aid in our local crime fighting endeavors.”

            “You have my attention,” the sheriff said.

            “Things are too quiet and bottled up right now,” Nelson said. “Maybe we need to shake things up a bit … disrupt the homeostasis … make the rats run out from their hiding places.”

            The sheriff leaned back and thought. Then he leaned forward, opened his top desk drawer, withdrew a toothpick, placed it in his mouth and leaned back again. After another moment’s thought, he withdrew the toothpick and said in a slow voice, “If, by that, you mean let’s fuck with the bad guys, I’m all for it.”

            “That’s exactly what I mean,” Nelson said. “Any ideas?”

            Sheriff Gladson Love moved mentally back into battle fatigues, wilting heat, and the sour smell of rotting jungle. He nodded his head. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you ever did this, because you guys don’t stay in one place that long. But after we had been pretty much surrounded long enough, we jarheads tried a technique sent down from topside and borrowed from army airborne.”

            “Army airborne?”

            “A little thing called ‘mad-minute,’ designed to keep our foes off balance while we were encamped.”

            “And it worked how?”

            “We only practiced it when they knew where we were dug in and it wouldn’t have given away our position. At a secret time, between sunset and sunrise, usually on the mid-watch, the entire garrison would suddenly open fire on the jungle and maintain it for a full minute, supposedly keeping our enemy in a state of honest apprehension.”

            “Did it work?”

            “Does anything that the military thinks up ever work?”

            “Only when they seek the input of those who must actually carry out the mission,” Nelson said. “Tragically, they are almost always to hell and gone from the Pentagon.”

            “You are unusually perceptive for a sailor.”

            “So the mad-minute was a failure?”

            “It woke us all up.” The sheriff looked away to some distant place. “‘It worked once, sort of. The company commander had it set for 0137, after a new watch had been on for a while. There was this new kid in the company. Just been in-country for a couple of weeks. They “choppered” him out to our unit the day before. We had set listening posts that night, but had notified them to ease back into the perimeter in time to enjoy the fireworks ... all except for the new kid. We totally forgot about him. When we started firing, he panicked, and instead of flattening out on the ground, he started firing too. All anyone could see was his muzzle flash. We had no way of knowing the direction of fire.”

He paused and it took over a minute to compose himself. “We stopped counting the bullet holes in him next morning at 32. Seems he panicked after the first couple nicked him and started running back toward the compound.” He sniffed once, then again. “Nobody else wanted to know who he was, and the name on his blouse was obliterated. But I looked at his dog tags. Later, I found his name on the wall in Washington,” he said. “They didn’t put an asterisk after his name. I’m glad to say.”

“I’m a little confused,” Nelson said. “You say the technique didn’t work but you sounded just now as if you wanted to try it.”

“Just because something hasn’t worked doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea,” the sheriff said. “We’re not surrounded here, where all you can do is wait to see what happens. In fact, we should be the aggressors. Besides, there isn’t a bad guy in Armistead County who is as smart as the average NVA warrior.”

Nelson put a finger to his cheek and nodded in thought. So?”

“I’ll call some of those punks from that church in Connorville in and lay down some harassing fire,” he said. “You start spreading some bullshit. That’s something sailors are good at.” He smiled. “In the meantime, I’ll ask old Weasel, that police chief in Connorville, if he can be prepared to join us an a large-scale joint operation, but that I can’t tell him yet what it is. That will spread like a cosmic shit-storm. And don’t you have some suck with the press around here? Oh, and we’ll sweat a few meth-heads for good measure. We’ll do it all at once and see what happens.”

“That reminds me,” Nelson said. “Is meth a big problem around here?”

“Meth is a big problem in every rural county in America,” the sheriff said. “Ours seems to be centralized around the south-central part of the county. I’d love to take a look inside that so-called ‘hunting-club’ the gun nuts hang out at.”

“Is that the one where the Soul Warriors go?’

“The very one,” the sheriff said. “I just can’t get anything on it to justify a search warrant.”

“Did they build it?”

“Oh hell no. They don’t build things. They just destroy things, by shooting them. A bunch of rich men in Connorville built the club. Used to go there and gamble, drink, and run in whores. About 15 years ago the wives got agitated about it when one of them brought it up at the country club only to find out they were all equally pissed.”

“So they made their husbands sell it?”

            “Better than that. They ‘borrowed’ a trailer one night, one used to transport a diesel tank—most of the men were farmers, you know, and had all kinds of equipment.  They, the women, loaded on several five-gallon buckets of oil along with the diesel, then hauled it all over to a big wooden bridge on the only road into or out of the club. Got there about two o’clock in the morning.”

            “I think I see where this is going,” Nelson said.

            “They say you could see the flames all the way to North Little Rock,” Nelson said. “Took them three days to boat the last asshole out. Some of the whores may still be there as far as I know. Like I say, I can’t get a search warrant.”

            “They sold it then?”

            “Transferred the ownership to some legal entity or other. I think they lease it to this new breed of assholes.”

            “Did they replace the bridge?”

            “Oh yes. You can still get in right from the state highway, if you have a key to the gate.”

            “I thought the entrance was from a county road.”

            “That’s the new entrance,” the sheriff said. “They just keep the old one for an escape route, in my opinion.”

            “So meth is a problem and you think the hunting club is connected.”

            “Wouldn’t be surprised, but meth isn’t our only problem.” He smiled.

            “Oh?”

            “No. ‘Stuff’ causes us a lot of problems.”

            Nelson looked confused. “Stuff?”

            “Stuff … poontang, pussy, trim, cooter, snatch …”

            “Stop,” Nelson said. “I get the picture.”

            “Hiding the salami,” the sheriff said. He then yelled toward the closed door. “Now get back to work, Miss Manners, before I include some of your favorites.”

            There was a rustle from beyond the door. “Stuff,” the sheriff said, “The destroyer of kingdoms, fortunes, and power, plus the downfall of weak-willed men throughout history. Five of our last six murders were over stuff, including the man whose wife burned him alive in a house trailer, along with his girlfriend, a quality-checker from the ammo plant out on the Interstate. That’s where they both worked. She had been filching samples for some time and bringing them home. She had hidden them under her bed, so we had to wait until they quit going off before even attempting a rescue. By then they had both been plugged numerous times. It nearly drove the medical examiner crazy.” He shook his head. “Stuff,” he said. “The defense attorney got the wife off by claiming there would only have been minor burns without the accidental discharge of all that fire power.”

            Sheriff Love started scratching notes on a pad. After a moment, he looked up. “But I interrupted you. Why did you ask about meth?”-

            “I’m not supposed to know about this, much less repeat it, but I have it on good authority that the punk who killed himself driving too fast the other say had all sorts of meth traces on him?’

            “As in high on it?”

            “No, that’s the odd part. Just in his clothes.”

            “Like he had been involved in production?”

            ‘Big time.”

            “Holy hymn book,” the sheriff said. “When I get that report, I may be one step closer to a search warrant. That might be where the ephedrine is stored.”

            “The what?”

            “Ephedrine, actually pseudoephedrine, a main ingredient of both cough medication and methamphetamine, but highly regulated now. We can’t seem to find out where they are getting and storing it. Our federal friends are helping but they are stumped too.”

            Nelson was silent.

            “But,” the sheriff said. “Drugs are my problem, and I don’t have enough money to make you work on that problem for free, too.” He leaned back and smiled a broad smile, his dark eyes dancing. “’Anyway,” he said, “I’ve already wasted your time getting you off balance with a tirade about the dangers of stuff.”

            “Quite the contrary,” Nelson said. “And, as a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about the same subject myself. What say we go stir up some shit?”

 

Poor in Spirit

 What could better guide our lives during these divisive times than The Sermon in the Mount? What better way to describe its use in our daily lives? How could we live a better life than by using the lessons of this short sermon as our spiritual GIS device” Unfortunately a term from our attorney sisters and brothers comes to mind. They speak of practices followed “more in the breach than in the observance.”

As a test, consider the opening lines of the sermon:

Now when Jesus saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, 2 and he began to teach them. He said:“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:1-3 NIV)

It is one of those passages that has puzzled readers for years. This becomes more apparent when Luke, believed by most scholars to have followed Matthew in writing his gospel, phrased it in this manner:

“Looking at his disciples, he said: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20 NIV)

Some have suggested that Luke may have “cleaned and clarified” the original statement. The practice of aides or associates performing such censorship of problematic utterances of leaders is certainly not lost on modern Americans.

Of course, it could have been the other way around.

At any rate, Matthew’s account resounds not in spite of, but because of, its literary elegance. Considering Luke’s version, though, we might first seek a definition of the word “poor.” Two common terms we find associated with it are “scarcity,” and “marginalized.” The first poses no problem. The second rings to this very day as those without the power purchased through wealth are much ignored and disempowered. This includes the ability to control things, or take individual control of one’s destiny.

It applies to spiritual matters as well. It would be nearly two centuries after the Galilean spoke before Johannes Gutenberg and Martin Luther would combine to make personal reading and interpretation of the gospels possible. Until then, common folks would live with, yes, a scarcity of spirit. Somehow, we forgot that wandering rabbi on a desolate hill in Judea wishing blessings on the most marginalized and preaching for a wholeness in life.

Why were those suffering from spiritual bankruptcy blessed? Maybe the Galilean realized that such spiritual poverty removed all obstacles existing between a person and righteousness on the lonely road of life. That is an interesting thought in these times when we find ourselves deluged with teachings from one end of the political divide that personal economic poverty is the fault of the person and the poor deserve no blessings as a result. They deserve, instead, to wallow in scarcity.

Sad also is the prevalent feeling from the opposite end of the political divide that once a sinner, always a sinner. Even a life of redemption and goodness cannot cancel one sin. Even declaring spiritual bankruptcy, removing the barriers to righteousness, and choosing a new path are not sufficient to gain the kingdom of heaven.

New Friends. Old Friends.

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-nine

            The weekend came, promising a break in both the weather and, for Nelson, dealing with crime. There remained, however, the problem of beatings. After breakfast and a workout Saturday morning, Nelson showered, dressed, and drove to the hospital to check on Clifton. When he arrived, he found the room empty. Turning to head back to the information desk, he almost collided with nurse Christina Lopez. Both looked at one another, neither speaking. Nelson broke the silence.

            “Did something happen to Clifton?” He tensed.

            “Yes,” Lopez said, “but not what you think.” She smiled. “He’s been moved to the ICU, the Intensive Care Unit.”

            “I know what ICU stands for,” Nelson said. “I know all about them.” He drew in his breath. “Why?”

            “Internal bleeding,” she said. “Apparently something broke loose.”

            Nelson steeled himself for the answer before even asking the question. “How serious.?

            “I’m not allowed to make a diagnosis,” she said. “But serious. He’s in the best hands, though. We have an excellent staff.” She studied Nelson’s face. “What’s wrong?”

            He snapped his gaze back to hers. “Nothing,” he said, as much to himself as to her, “just thinking that I might have acted differently if I had known this would happen.”

            She nodded in understanding. “And that would have fixed everything, right?”

            Nelson didn’t answer for a moment. “How do I get there?” He said.

            “Forget it lad.,” she said. “They won’t let you in to see him. They could think you might be the one who put him there, or worse still, a homosexual lover.”

            A coldness spread from Nelson. His blue eyes seemed to turn steel-gray. His breathing slowed to an imperceptible slowness while his entire being tensed like a spring. Lopez moved back. “I’m not the enemy,” she said. “I like him too.”

            The coldness retreated a step. “I just want to know,” Nelson said, “how he is doing.”

            “The last time I checked, he was doing as well as could be expected,” Lopez said. “They had stopped the bleeding but were afraid to move him.”

            “They let you in to see him?”

            “Sailor,” she said, “I’m an old Hispanic broad with a lot of experience and a bad attitude.” She smiled, saw Nelson continue to relax, and smiled again. “And because I have always fought off the men here, they think I may be gay myself. So …” she looked around to see that no one was listening, and said, “they stay the fuck out of my way. Comprendes?”

            This had completely disarmed Nelson and extinguished his anger. He nodded and said, “Good for you. So you are still attending him?”

            “I didn’t say that,” she said. “I just go over when I get a chance and check on him.” She looked around again. “I’ve already told you, I sort of like the old fool.”

            By now, she had Nelson smiling, “Could you …,” he began.

            “Tell you what,” she said, interrupting him, “if you trust me enough, give me your cell number and I’ll text you reports when I check on him.”

            “You really do like him,” don’t you? Nelson said, retrieving a pen and note pad from his pocket.

            As he wrote, Lopez said, “Hon, any man who loves his dead wife so much that, even though he’s in the worst kind of pain you can imagine, his main worry is that somehow she might be concerned about how he looked after nearly being beaten to death, should make any woman like him.”

            Nelson handed her his number. “Thanks for everything,” he said, He nodded toward the paper. “Any time, night or day.”

            Lopez studied his number. “You keep your powder dry and your temper in check,” she said. “Clifton will need a friend while he recovers.”

            “I think he already has two good ones,” Nelson said. “Three if you count his late wife.” With that, he turned and left. Christina Lopez watched him until he exited into another hallway. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

            Two hours later, Nelson was leaving the martial arts studio. His teacher walked him to the door smiling. “Much better today,” she said. “Only a little too aggressive. A skillful opponent will use that against you.” She patted his arm. “As I did. Still sore?”

            “A little,” he said. “But isn’t that how we learn?”

            “True,” she said. “That’s what I tell my other star.”

            “The one who comes on weekends?”

            “Yes,” she said. “A special one, a faster learner than you but less experienced in the ways of the world.”

            “A ‘her’ or a ‘him,’ or can you say?”

            “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said. “No one must know and …,” she opened the door for him, “I know you are most skilled in surveillance, but remember one thing.”

            “What’s that?”

            “So far, I could still kill you if you get too nosey.” She laughed and pushed him out. “Now go in peace,” she said. “I’m going to do some needlework. You should try it. It’s a great way to relax.”

            His next stop was Tina’s house. He arrived, and before he could exit his truck, she came out carrying a blanket and small ice chest. She placed it in the truck’s bed, but held the blanket clasped in her arms as she turned a complete circle, holding her head high with her chin thrust forward. “That,” she said, “should keep the sons-of-bitches around here provided with gossip for a week.” She climbed into the cab, pulled Nelson to her, and kissed him with emotion and movement in equal measure. “That will add some spice to their speculations.” She stopped talking as she looked into his eyes and blinked. “Oh shit,” she said. “Do we have time for a quick …?”

            “No,” Nelson. “Believe me I wish we did, but I promised them we’d be there by mid-afternoon.”

            “The Navy’s loss,” she said, placing her hand between his legs. “Oh,” she said, “and the sails are filling in hope of a fine voyage.”

            “Will you stop?” Nelson said. He laughed. “And Homer thought his sirens provided temptation.” He moved her hand away, but slowly.

            “Homer’s sirens promised knowledge,” she said. “I could show you how to use the knowledge you already have.”

            “I can’t hear you,” he said. “I’ve mentally placed wax in my ears. It’s a trick they taught us at Coronado Island.”

            “Didn’t know they had sirens there,” she said. She moved away and fastened herself in place. “Now who is it we’re supposed to meet?”

            “Charlie and his new friend, Angela,” he said.

            “Angela who? Is she homeless as well? She bringing her shopping cart with her?”

            “Angela something or other,” he said. “I can’t remember her last name. And no, she isn’t homeless, nor is Charlie anymore, remember?”

            “That’s the last time I hoist your mainsail,” she said. “It seems to make you edgy.”

            The cheerful banter continued until they reached the park near Nelson’s home. They parked, found a quiet spot, and spread the blanket. Nelson went back to the truck and returned with the ice chest and a large bag. They were soon enjoying snacks and wine, quietly watching joggers, dreamers, and happy families enjoying an early spring day. The park was dominated by two structures, one an old building that had been a part of a federal arsenal before the Civil War. The other was a modern art center, the two forming a complimentary tableau. At the eastern         edge stood a building that had been started its existence as a medical school but now served the teaching of law. Tina talked of the site’s history.

            “They hanged a young man here once,” she said, “just a boy—for being a spy. The Yankees, your people, did.”

            “My people?”

            “Your people. Who else would hang a 17-year old boy for having information that was pretty much useless?”

            “They hanged him for that?”

            “And the fact that he wouldn’t give the name of his accomplice.”

            “Who was?”

            “One legend has it that she was his girlfriend, a comely and well-connected young belle.”

            “So he became a spy for her? Died for her?”

            “Gideon,” Tina said, “in case they didn’t teach you this at Coronado Island, men will do anything for the chance of getting a little ‘in and out’ off a beautiful woman, anything at all.” She paused then, “Although when they get older, they get a smarter about it. They don’t take as many chances.”

            This caught Nelson by surprise. His face grew serious and dark. He started to speak, but before he could, Tina yelled, “Oh my god.” With that, she rose, nearly upsetting the wine, and ran toward a couple, a man and woman, approaching on foot, but pushing two bicycles. When the woman saw Tina, she handed her bike to her companion and ran to meet the other. The two met in a long and excited embrace. Nelson had walked to where they all stood by now, and the two men looked at one another, astonished.

            “What the …?” Charlie said.

            Nelson shook his head.

            The two women parted and stood back step to look at one another. “Girl,” the stranger said, “where the hell have you been and why are you here?”

            Tina pointed at Nelson. “Trying to civilize this warmonger,” she said. Then understanding landed. “Oh Jesus,” she said, “are you the Angela?”

            “Fuck yeah,” the other replied. “Are you the Tina?”

            They both cried, “Yes,” again and resumed their embrace. Charlie pointed at one, then the other, then at Nelson and shrugged a question. Nelson nodded.

            When the women had parted for the second time, Angela pointed at the two men. “Did neither of these assholes mention just who their buddy’s girlfriend was?”

            “Hell no,” Tina said. “I thought you were a homeless person.”

            “And I thought you were just some bar-hog,” Angela said.

            “Oh, I am,” Tina said. “First class.” She grabbed Angela’s hand and said, “How have you been?”

            “Fat, sassy, and raring to go,” Angela said. “And you?”

            “Still working on becoming a legend.” They turned to stare menacingly at Charlie and Gideon.

            “You two know one another?” Charlie said.

            Angela shook her head sadly and said, “He ain’t much on the uptake but, given his health, can be damn good in bed when conditions are right. Yours?” She looked at Nelson.

            “Dumb as a bucket of paint at times. Bed? I don’t know. Both times I’ve nearly gotten him there, he fell to his knees and started praying for deliverance from temptation and forgiveness for evil thoughts.”

            Both women laughed. The men stared. After an uncomfortable silence, Nelson said, “How?”

            “She took a class I taught a few years back. We became friends and bummed around together awhile until she took and assignment out of state and we sort of lost touch. I’ve been meaning to look her up, but you know how awful I am.” She turned to Angela and then to Nelson. “Hon, this is Gideon Nelson, scourge of the evil-minded.”

            “And,” said Angela, “this is Charlie Winters, hope for America’s future.”

            The four were soon seated on Tina’s blanket enjoying wine. They filled in gaps, supplied background information, and hinted at future plans. Angela detailed Charlie’s progress in bicycling and in his general health. She prophesied that, “Before long, he’ll perform any time I slip a folded twenty into his jock strap.”

            Tina assured the others that before long, Nelson would get over his fear of strong women and seek a welcome port from life’s storms. The men took this in with mock resignation. The conversation led from levity to a more serious recounting of Nelson’s progress in finding Abbey Stubblefield’s killer, or killers. He outlined his recent interviews, including the one with Tricia Davenport.

            “You mean,” said Angela, “that’s she’s just finishing high school, and has the courage to be openly gay?’

            “She didn’t just come out of the closet,” Nelson said, “she broke the door down and stormed out like a soldier seeking vengeance.”

            “Bless her sweet heart,” Tina said. “But it took a trip to the Ransom Center to accomplish it?”

            “I’m not sure,” Nelson said, “but I think that trip to the Ransom Center was more for her parents than for her.”

            “And she didn’t try to run away?” Charlie said.

            “No. She served her time and came home.”

            “Well where else would a plain-looking lesbian with a goth-hairdo go?” Angela said.

            For the second time that day, Nelson abruptly sank into deep-thought mode while the party atmosphere continued to swirl about him. Tina snapped him from it.

            “Hey Boats,” she said. “Wake up. Somebody wants your full attention, and is quite willing to take it by force, if necessary. You do understand taking things by force, don’t you?” The others laughed.

New friends. Old friends

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-nine

 

            The weekend came, promising a break in both the weather and, for Nelson, dealing with crime. There remained, however, the problem of beatings. After breakfast and a workout Saturday morning, Nelson showered, dressed, and drove to the hospital to check on Clifton. When he arrived, he found the room empty. Turning to head back to the information desk, he almost collided with nurse Christina Lopez. Both looked at one another, neither speaking. Nelson broke the silence.

            “Did something happen to Clifton?” He tensed.

            “Yes,” Lopez said, “but not what you think.” She smiled. “He’s been moved to the ICU, the Intensive Care Unit.”

            “I know what ICU stands for,” Nelson said. “I know all about them.” He drew in his breath. “Why?”

            “Internal bleeding,” she said. “Apparently something broke loose.”

            Nelson steeled himself for the answer before even asking the question. “How serious.?

            “I’m not allowed to make a diagnosis,” she said. “But serious. He’s in the best hands, though. We have an excellent staff.” She studied Nelson’s face. “What’s wrong?”

            He snapped his gaze back to hers. “Nothing,” he said, as much to himself as to her, “just thinking that I might have acted differently if I had known this would happen.”

            She nodded in understanding. “And that would have fixed everything, right?”

            Nelson didn’t answer for a moment. “How do I get there?” He said.

            “Forget it lad.,” she said. “They won’t let you in to see him. They could think you might be the one who put him there, or worse still, a homosexual lover.”

            A coldness spread from Nelson. His blue eyes seemed to turn steel-gray. His breathing slowed to an imperceptible slowness while his entire being tensed like a spring. Lopez moved back. “I’m not the enemy,” she said. “I like him too.”

            The coldness retreated a step. “I just want to know,” Nelson said, “how he is doing.”

            “The last time I checked, he was doing as well as could be expected,” Lopez said. “They had stopped the bleeding but were afraid to move him.”

            “They let you in to see him?”

            “Sailor,” she said, “I’m an old Hispanic broad with a lot of experience and a bad attitude.” She smiled, saw Nelson continue to relax, and smiled again. “And because I have always fought off the men here, they think I may be gay myself. So …” she looked around to see that no one was listening, and said, “they stay the fuck out of my way. Comprendes?”

            This had completely disarmed Nelson and extinguished his anger. He nodded and said, “Good for you. So you are still attending him?”

            “I didn’t say that,” she said. “I just go over when I get a chance and check on him.” She looked around again. “I’ve already told you, I sort of like the old fool.”

            By now, she had Nelson smiling, “Could you …,” he began.

            “Tell you what,” she said, interrupting him, “if you trust me enough, give me your cell number and I’ll text you reports when I check on him.”

            “You really do like him,” don’t you? Nelson said, retrieving a pen and note pad from his pocket.

            As he wrote, Lopez said, “Hon, any man who loves his dead wife so much that, even though he’s in the worst kind of pain you can imagine, his main worry is that somehow she might be concerned about how he looked after nearly being beaten to death, should make any woman like him.”

            Nelson handed her his number. “Thanks for everything,” he said, He nodded toward the paper. “Any time, night or day.”

            Lopez studied his number. “You keep your powder dry and your temper in check,” she said. “Clifton will need a friend while he recovers.”

            “I think he already has two good ones,” Nelson said. “Three if you count his late wife.” With that, he turned and left. Christina Lopez watched him until he exited into another hallway. Then she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

            Two hours later, Nelson was leaving the martial arts studio. His teacher walked him to the door smiling. “Much better today,” she said. “Only a little too aggressive. A skillful opponent will use that against you.” She patted his arm. “As I did. Still sore?”

            “A little,” he said. “But isn’t that how we learn?”

            “True,” she said. “That’s what I tell my other star.”

            “The one who comes on weekends?”

            “Yes,” she said. “A special one, a faster learner than you but less experienced in the ways of the world.”

            “A ‘her’ or a ‘him,’ or can you say?”

            “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said. “No one must know and …,” she opened the door for him, “I know you are most skilled in surveillance, but remember one thing.”

            “What’s that?”

            “So far, I could still kill you if you get too nosey.” She laughed and pushed him out. “Now go in peace,” she said. “I’m going to do some needlework. You should try it. It’s a great way to relax.”

            His next stop was Tina’s house. He arrived, and before he could exit his truck, she came out carrying a blanket and small ice chest. She placed it in the truck’s bed, but held the blanket clasped in her arms as she turned a complete circle, holding her head high with her chin thrust forward. “That,” she said, “should keep the sons-of-bitches around here provided with gossip for a week.” She climbed into the cab, pulled Nelson to her, and kissed him with emotion and movement in equal measure. “That will add some spice to their speculations.” She stopped talking as she looked into his eyes and blinked. “Oh shit,” she said. “Do we have time for a quick …?”

            “No,” Nelson. “Believe me I wish we did, but I promised them we’d be there by mid-afternoon.”

            “The Navy’s loss,” she said, placing her hand between his legs. “Oh,” she said, “and the sails are filling in hope of a fine voyage.”

            “Will you stop?” Nelson said. He laughed. “And Homer thought his sirens provided temptation.” He moved her hand away, but slowly.

            “Homer’s sirens promised knowledge,” she said. “I could show you how to use the knowledge you already have.”

            “I can’t hear you,” he said. “I’ve mentally placed wax in my ears. It’s a trick they taught us at Coronado Island.”

            “Didn’t know they had sirens there,” she said. She moved away and fastened herself in place. “Now who is it we’re supposed to meet?”

            “Charlie and his new friend, Angela,” he said.

            “Angela who? Is she homeless as well? She bringing her shopping cart with her?”

            “Angela something or other,” he said. “I can’t remember her last name. And no, she isn’t homeless, nor is Charlie anymore, remember?”

            “That’s the last time I hoist your mainsail,” she said. “It seems to make you edgy.”

            The cheerful banter continued until they reached the park near Nelson’s home. They parked, found a quiet spot, and spread the blanket. Nelson went back to the truck and returned with the ice chest and a large bag. They were soon enjoying snacks and wine, quietly watching joggers, dreamers, and happy families enjoying an early spring day. The park was dominated by two structures, one an old building that had been a part of a federal arsenal before the Civil War. The other was a modern art center, the two forming a complimentary tableau. At the eastern         edge stood a building that had been started its existence as a medical school but now served the teaching of law. Tina talked of the site’s history.

            “They hanged a young man here once,” she said, “just a boy—for being a spy. The Yankees, your people, did.”

            “My people?”

            “Your people. Who else would hang a 17-year old boy for having information that was pretty much useless?”

            “They hanged him for that?”

            “And the fact that he wouldn’t give the name of his accomplice.”

            “Who was?”

            “One legend has it that she was his girlfriend, a comely and well-connected young belle.”

            “So he became a spy for her? Died for her?”

            “Gideon,” Tina said, “in case they didn’t teach you this at Coronado Island, men will do anything for the chance of getting a little ‘in and out’ off a beautiful woman, anything at all.” She paused then, “Although when they get older, they get a smarter about it. They don’t take as many chances.”

            This caught Nelson by surprise. His face grew serious and dark. He started to speak, but before he could, Tina yelled, “Oh my god.” With that, she rose, nearly upsetting the wine, and ran toward a couple, a man and woman, approaching on foot, but pushing two bicycles. When the woman saw Tina, she handed her bike to her companion and ran to meet the other. The two met in a long and excited embrace. Nelson had walked to where they all stood by now, and the two men looked at one another, astonished.

            “What the …?” Charlie said.

            Nelson shook his head.

            The two women parted and stood back step to look at one another. “Girl,” the stranger said, “where the hell have you been and why are you here?”

            Tina pointed at Nelson. “Trying to civilize this warmonger,” she said. Then understanding landed. “Oh Jesus,” she said, “are you the Angela?”

            “Fuck yeah,” the other replied. “Are you the Tina?”

            They both cried, “Yes,” again and resumed their embrace. Charlie pointed at one, then the other, then at Nelson and shrugged a question. Nelson nodded.

            When the women had parted for the second time, Angela pointed at the two men. “Did neither of these assholes mention just who their buddy’s girlfriend was?”

            “Hell no,” Tina said. “I thought you were a homeless person.”

            “And I thought you were just some bar-hog,” Angela said.

            “Oh, I am,” Tina said. “First class.” She grabbed Angela’s hand and said, “How have you been?”

            “Fat, sassy, and raring to go,” Angela said. “And you?”

            “Still working on becoming a legend.” They turned to stare menacingly at Charlie and Gideon.

            “You two know one another?” Charlie said.

            Angela shook her head sadly and said, “He ain’t much on the uptake but, given his health, can be damn good in bed when conditions are right. Yours?” She looked at Nelson.

            “Dumb as a bucket of paint at times. Bed? I don’t know. Both times I’ve nearly gotten him there, he fell to his knees and started praying for deliverance from temptation and forgiveness for evil thoughts.”

            Both women laughed. The men stared. After an uncomfortable silence, Nelson said, “How?”

            “She took a class I taught a few years back. We became friends and bummed around together awhile until she took and assignment out of state and we sort of lost touch. I’ve been meaning to look her up, but you know how awful I am.” She turned to Angela and then to Nelson. “Hon, this is Gideon Nelson, scourge of the evil-minded.”

            “And,” said Angela, “this is Charlie Winters, hope for America’s future.”

            The four were soon seated on Tina’s blanket enjoying wine. They filled in gaps, supplied background information, and hinted at future plans. Angela detailed Charlie’s progress in bicycling and in his general health. She prophesied that, “Before long, he’ll perform any time I slip a folded twenty into his jock strap.”

            Tina assured the others that before long, Nelson would get over his fear of strong women and seek a welcome port from life’s storms. The men took this in with mock resignation. The conversation led from levity to a more serious recounting of Nelson’s progress in finding Abbey Stubblefield’s killer, or killers. He outlined his recent interviews, including the one with Tricia Davenport.

            “You mean,” said Angela, “that’s she’s just finishing high school, and has the courage to be openly gay?’

            “She didn’t just come out of the closet,” Nelson said, “she broke the door down and stormed out like a soldier seeking vengeance.”

            “Bless her sweet heart,” Tina said. “But it took a trip to the Ransom Center to accomplish it?”

            “I’m not sure,” Nelson said, “but I think that trip to the Ransom Center was more for her parents than for her.”

            “And she didn’t try to run away?” Charlie said.

            “No. She served her time and came home.”

            “Well where else would a plain-looking lesbian with a goth-hairdo go?” Angela said.

            For the second time that day, Nelson abruptly sank into deep-thought mode while the party atmosphere continued to swirl about him. Tina snapped him from it.

            “Hey Boats,” she said. “Wake up. Somebody wants your full attention, and is quite willing to take it by force, if necessary. You do understand taking things by force, don’t you?” The others laughed.

 

The Man on Efficiency

The Sermon on the Mount causes a great deal of puzzlement. One of the most severe instances involves some of our most prevalent emotions. The Galilean certainly goes against much of our modern sentiment when, partway through this most famous sermon, he throws us this moral curve:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.” (Matthew 5:38-42 NIV)

This passage could equally inspire the “Defund the Police” crowd and the “Don’t take a knife to a gunfight” one. The first could say, “See who agrees with us? Be righteous.” The second could say “See what the weaklings want you to believe? Be afraid.” There is a third group, one believing in simple explanations, whose adherents would say, “His ways ain’t our ways. Be content.”

I’m not sure what the Galilean would say. He was more involved in preaching than in explaining. He leaves us much to figure out for ourselves.

Those for whom none of the foregoing responses suffice might view the passage from an “efficiency expert’s” view. Just imagine the time we waste in life dwelling on retribution and revenge, hoarding our possessions, thinking of how to avoid the unavoidable, or figuring ways to avoid sharing wealth. It might "free up a lot of our time" as the man in the TV commercial says.

What might we do with that time? We'll have to read the rest of The Sermon for that.

Hints

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-eight

            Nelson’s next stop took him to a small town 30 miles from Little Rock. It was set in an area of lowlands dominated by Pine Forests. He passed a large cattle farm dotted with specks of black in the distance: a herd of Angus cattle raised, in all likelihood, as a hobby, a tax write-off, or both, according to what Morgan Fowler had once shared with Nelson. The ranch was soon replaced by dense forests, with periodic gaps occupied by small homes or trailers. Nelson followed the highway into town and, after glancing at his notes, followed a winding route to the address he was seeking. An older and large white frame house, well-maintained and recently painted, graced the over-sized lot. A profusion of landscaping suggested both pride and modest affluence. He parked on the street and walked to the door.

            He rang the doorbell and the door opened to reveal a young girl of 18 years or so of age. She wore no makeup and her hair was black, falling straight on each side of a face dominated by large dark eyes. Straight-cut bangs completed the severe appearance, which was balanced by a black pullover and baggy pants, also black. She visually appraised Nelson for a few seconds and said, “You the man?”

            Nelson seemed surprised. “Sorry?”

            “Are you the jackboot we’re waiting for?”

            “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Deputy with the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department.  I’m here to see Mrs. Davenport.” He extended his ID.

            “Bullshit. You’re here to see Miss Davenport and I am she.” She waved his ID away with a dismissive gesture. “You want to come in or you want to talk out here?”

            “Is your mother in?”

            “Why? Are you afraid of being alone with me?”

            “Quite frankly, yes.”

            The girl laughed at this and extended her hand. “You’ll do. I’m Tricia Davenport. Come on in.” She turned and yelled into the house. “Mom, the cop from Armistead County is here.” She ushered Nelson into the room as a woman in her forties entered wearing a straw hat, a red plaid shirt and overhauls. She was holding a gardening spade in one hand.

            “Oh goodness,” she said, “I let the time slip up on me. Do sit. Trish dear …,” she said, turning to her daughter, “make our guest at home while I get presentable.”

            “Aye, aye, Captain,” Trish said, offering a mock salute. She looked at Nelson and said, “I heard you were a Navy man so we’ll talk some Navy shit, what do you say?”

            Nelson blew his breath and laughed. “I hardly know what to say.”

            Then it was Tricia’s time to laugh. “Cut the crap, sailor,” she said, “or you might make me start liking men.” She ushered him into the living room and motioned for him to sit. “Now tell me,” she said, “how can our town’s resident bull-dyke help you?”

            Nelson was obviously flustered. “Is that how you usually describe yourself?”

            “When my parents aren’t listening,” she said. “Besides, aren’t you here to find out why I was in the nut house?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said. “May I assume you are talking about the Ransom Center?”

            “You may assume anything you wish,” Tricia said, “including the possibility that I’m bisexual and like older men.” She saw Nelson blush and appeared pleased with herself. “But yes,” she said, “I’m talking about the so-called Ransom Center, where they cure you of anything that you like about yourself, or at least try to.”

            “So you don’t approve of the place?”

            “It’s fairly harmless,” she said. “I came out okay. I’ll bet you can guess why they sent me there.” When Nelson didn’t answer, she continued. “Not really for what I am,” she said. “It was because I got tired of justifying it to my parents and had gotten hostile—sort of created a battleground in the midst of our little well-landscaped heaven.”

            “Did they help you find a cure?”

            “They helped us find a truce,” she said. “Now they are free to plan what college I’ll attend and I’m free to plan on eating pussy while I’m there.”

            “Trish!” a voice said from the next room, “please don’t descend into depravity the moment I leave.”

            Mrs. Davenport appeared carrying a tray with three drinking glasses filled with iced tea. “Our guest will think,” she said, “that we have no breeding whatsoever.” She winked at her daughter mischievously. “Besides,” she said. “You’ve promised us to remain a virgin until you’ve finished your education.”

            “Did not,” Tricia said. “I promised you that you wouldn’t hear of my having any wild sexual episodes while you were paying for my college.” She wagged a finger at her mother and laughed. “Truth above all. Remember our pact.”

            “Honestly,” Mrs. Davenport said, placing the tray on a table between Nelson and Tricia. She handed Nelson a glass as she said, “Do you have any children Mr. …” She blanched. “Oh my,” she said. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Ramona Davenport, and this is …”

            “Her same-sex daughter,” Tricia said. “Honesty Mom, honesty.”

            Nelson rose. “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “Tricia and I are already acquainted.”

            “And he’s not nearly as dopey as I had feared,” Tricia said. “I think, though, that I’ve met his expectation as a nut case.”

            “Oh Trish,” her mother said. She turned to Nelson. “I was just going to ask you if you had children.”

            “No ma’am,” Nelson said. “I don’t.”

            “Then take my advice,” she said, patting Trish’s knee, “think it over long and hard before you do.” She and Trish looked at one another and smiled. “Honest, honey, honesty,” she said. They both laughed.

            The three of them relaxed for a moment and drank their tea. Nelson broke the silence. “Thank you for your time. When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t have much time to explain my mission.”

            “Oh boy,” Tricia said, “a mission. That sounds exciting.”

            “Which is to investigate the murder of a young girl named Abbey Stubblefield in Armistead County.”

            “The African-American girl who made the mistake of going to Connorville?” Tricia said, assuming a more serious tone. “Was she an inmate of the Ransom Center too?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “but a friend of hers went there and disappeared. She hasn’t been heard from since. Her name is Bridgette Thompson.”

            “Oh,” Tricia said. “I’ve heard about her. That was long after I left. Why are you asking about her? I wish I knew something, but I don’t.”

            “Abbey, the victim,” said Nelson, “was, as I say, good friends with Bridgette. I’m trying to find out if there is any connection between the murder and Bridgette’s disappearance.”

            “Like maybe they had a spat, Bridgette whacked her, and fled?”

            “Trish!” Mrs. Davenport said.

            “No,” Nelson said, “It’s more like Abbey was trying to find out why Bridgette disappeared when she was murdered.”

            “Oh my,” Tricia said.

            “How can we help you?” Mrs. Davenport said.

            Nelson turned to Tricia. “Do you recall if any patients of the clinic disappeared while you were at the center?”

            Tricia thought. “There was one,” she said excitedly, as if she’d discovered the answer to a math problem. “There was. A girl named Tymber, with a ‘Y,’ a real snotty bitch.” She paused for a moment to think, then said, “With a name like that, what else could she be?”

            “Trish!” Mrs. Davenport said.

            “She was, Mom. She was a cheerleader and Homecoming Queen. Kept telling us that she was going to be a model when she got out.”

            “Did you know why she was at the center?” Nelson said.

            “Everyone knew,” Tricia said. “She was skinny as a rail when she got there. She had taken that modelling shit way too seriously.”

            Mrs. Davenport gave forth a sigh of resignation.

            Nelson said, “Was it anorexia?”

            “No,” Tricia said. “Not that serious. I think it was just her ego. They fattened her up as soon as she got there and they were going to let her out after a few more pounds. She was getting near her normal weight.”

            “Did she talk about her treatment?”

            “She didn’t talk to me much at all,” Tricia said. “I hung out with the ugly girls. But I heard they convinced her that skinny-assed models weren’t the rage anymore.” She paused and smiled. “I would have told her they were only hiring dumb-assed ones that were fat.”

            Mrs. Davenport’s eyes rolled upward. “I have a whole semester of this to endure,” she said. “This one graduated a semester early and doesn’t start college until the summer semester.”

            “Honesty, Mom, honesty,” Tricia said. “Face it, you’ll bawl like a baby when I leave.”

            “As your friend Ernest Hemingway put it,” Mrs. Davenport said. “’Isn’t it pretty to think so?’” They both laughed. Nelson smiled.

            “So she disappeared just before her release?” Nelson said.

            “Just a few pounds away from a clean getaway,” Tricia said.

            “Do you think she ran away?”

            “Everyone thinks so,” Tricia said. “She saw the New York ad firms just waiting for her, and she had no interest in finishing high school. Besides, she was too stupid to.”

            “Did they try to find her?”

            “Not the police, from what I heard. But the ‘Goon Squad’ made a token effort. At least they questioned us about her.”

            “The Goon Squad?”

            “The Nazis from that church in Connorville. They didn’t try that hard to find her, though. One of them told my friend that the Ransom Center was only good for giving some of us the confidence to run away and seek our fortunes.”

            They discussed the center for some time. The Davenports wouldn’t allow Nelson to leave until he had inspected Rose’s greenhouse and Tricia’s collection of Grateful Dead paraphernalia, given to her by a grandfather who, she assured Nelson, had been at Woodstock. They tried to talk him into staying for supper and meeting Mr. Davenport, but Nelson begged off. By the time he left town, it was dark and by the time he reached Tina’s house, she had prepared a meal and was waiting for him.

            As they dined, Nelson filled her in on the day. “Looks like,” Tina said as he finished relating the results of his interviews, “that you got the same impression of that place they call The Ransom Center, as I.”

            “Oh?”

            “The folks that I and my colleagues talked to give it a ‘thumbs-up” professionally. They use scientifically-base treatment methods and medical practices. In addition, they have a higher-then-average success rate. No religious mumbo-jumbo at all, best I can tell.”

            “Interesting,” Nelson said, after a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t one think that a church-supported clinic would at least have them thank some god or other for their cure?”

            “You would think so,” Tina said. “I know I’ve been thanking The Flying Spaghetti Monster each night for mine.”

            Nelson laughed. “You are not only a bad girl, you’re getting worse,” he said.

            “Then we’ll just forget about that good time I promised you,” she said. “I have some papers to grade and you have plenty of reading to do.”

            “Wait a moment,” he said. “I may have been giving some thanks, and requesting favors as well.”

            She paused in mock contemplation. “I suppose Neptune is the stronger god of the two, so tell you what.”

            “What?”

            “Let me brush my teeth and straighten my hair, then I’ll clear the dishes while you grab that shower you requested. We’ll assemble at the designated rendezvous spot.”

            “Sounds like a fine battle plan,” he said.

            “It is,” she said, “but if I were you, I’d rig for some heavy weather.”

            As he took a deep breath, she scurried away toward the bathroom. He finished his wine.

“Hoist the Battle Flag,” he said aloud to himself.

After Nelson completed his shower, he walked down the hall to Tina’s bedroom. Two scented candles were burning on the night stands. A small night light burned on Tina’s side as she lay, her back to Nelson, reading. He dropped his clothes to the floor and raised the sheet. Tina was nude, her silky body turned to him in reverse, inviting but not wanton. As he eased beneath the sheets, she put down her book and turned off the night light. She eased backward toward him but didn’t roll over. Nelson extended an arm and caressed a shoulder. “Would you like a backrub?” he said. She made a purring sound and ease further toward him. His hand continued in motion.

            Tina made the purring sound again and straightened her body. A few moves later, she said, “That’s not my back.”