WAR

 As I’ve said, been studying the life of Herbert Hoover, a complicated person who was responsible for saving millions of lives around the world during its wars and disasters but bears the historical onus of neglecting his own people in our great crisis. In Kenneth Whyte’s massive biography, I ran across an interesting passage. It states how Hoover felt that WWI would forever change how societies dealt with each other.

“Total war [Hoover] realized engendered total hate.”

That’s an interesting observation. World wars tend to change the paradigm of history. Our politicians today spend the money that could be used to feed the hungry to buy bombs. In an oxymoronic dribble that only fools would cherish, they claim that war brings peace.

Does it? Or does our warlike compulsion resonate more like peeling away layers of an onion representing our society, revealing a more pungent evil with each stripping?

When one considers how so many so-called followers of the Galilean have abandoned his sermon of love and now embrace and worship our dictator’s rages of hate, we weep for Zion. It seems that in the history of Homo sapiens, we have learned much more about how to destroy than how to love.

In short, we have abandoned our better nature, layer by layer.

WARS

 If you hear or see me say something disparaging about our military, please know that I am not referring to the brave women and men who serve in the various uniforms of our armed services. Nor do I intend any criticism of the remaining conscientious officers who have chosen to serve in a noble career and to do it nobly.

If I grouse about the military, I refer to the military-industrial complex that Dwight Eisenhower warned us about. These are people, companies, and institutions who must have wars, or rumors of war, to finance their insatiable demand for riches and power. Satisfying it is not an option. It will not be satisfied, cannot be satisfied. Like Monty Python’s famous character, it will feast until riches spout from every orifice and then demand more. And we will feed it while the last child starves, the last veteran dies from wounds acquired while serving it, while the last neighborhood withers from the effects of drugs and wars, while the last institution of learning smolders in ashes, while our planet burns, and while the last family stumbles from a collapsing home into a barren world.

DEFEAT FASCISM

 Reading “Murder Among Friends” by Candace Fleming. It’s the latest recounting of the murder of 14-year-old Bobby Franks in 1924 by teenagers Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb. All lived in Chicago near one another and the murder shocked the world, created new standards in criminal law, and caused generations of concern about mental capabilities.

The two murderers were from wealthy families and well educated. They lived under the Nietzschean idea that some individuals were superhuman and marched to a different moral drum than mere mortals. They chose their victim because he was walking home from school. They simply wanted to experience the thrill of murder.

Disclaimer. I’m no psychiatrist. Nor am I a psychologist. I’m not overly educated. Both degrees originated from state-supported public universities. I do claim the right, however, to be fascinated. I am.
Some analysts suggest that two people acting together will participate in horrific actions that neither would consider when acting alone.

Some increasingly accepted scholarship suggests that interactions with peer groups largely determine our adult proclivities and that parental upbringing contributes little. See “The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out the Way They Do” by the psychologist Judith Rich Harris. (Don’t yell at me.)

What fascinates me is this: In a younger life, I joined thousands of youth, some as young as 17 years, who learned from respected authority figures that it was perfectly acceptable to do what Loeb and Leopold did, i.e. murder a randomly selected youth from another tribe. The burden posited that it was not only okay, but our duty, to murder on demand, whether by hand, pistol, rifle, knife, artillery, or (for the more timid at heart) with bombs dropped from thousands of feet in the air. Almost all of my peer group would have complied if ordered to.

Now we ask ourselves why millions of Americans blindly follow a command to murder the American dream.

Further reading: The Milgram Experiment On Obedience to Authority.

Oh, clicking on an ad helps me fund these efforts.

THE CENTER

 Heard a new phrase today that fits me perfectly: "The sensible center." Do you sometimes feel like you are in a crater in the middle of "no man's land" and both sides are firing heavy artillery at one another and it passes over you in a dreadful exchange?

That's me. I don't think there is a place in the center for me. Not to trivialize the poor, but I feel that I, and many of my friends, represent the politically homeless. Life wants one to choose from the extremes these days. I don't feel comfortable with either. Here are some examples, not intended to change your mind but to illustrate how I feel as the bombs pass overhead.

I believe strongly that I have no standing on the abortion issue, and I support the privilege of a woman's deciding, along with her physician, what is best for her body.  On the other hand, the use of abortion to determine the sexual makeup of a family's children bothers me.

I believe that there is a portion of my homo sapiens colleagues, some 0.6 percent of the adult population, born with a condition called gender dysphoria. I believe they deserve acceptance, grace, and treatment. On the other hand, I accept the consensus of scientists who state that there are two sexes, male and female. Telling young children that gender is an arbitrary choice from which they may choose disturbs me.

I believe that capitalism, along with the exercise of life, must be regulated. On the other hand, I think America is often over-regulated. When one's job is to address the problems that confront dense living, one must often use regulations to meet those problems. When one's job is to write regulations, one does so, regardless. Using regulation for aspirational purposes and not for the betterment of society disturbs me.

I believe, as Oliver Wendell Holmes stated, that taxes are the price we pay for civilization. On the other hand, waste and pork-barrel spending suck the lifeblood from America. Rewarding loyalty with government largesse disturbs me.

In short, I think that societal choices are complex and not to be addressed with sound bites or on social media. For example, I think the dropping of nuclear bombs on Japan was a horrific act. But then, I was not a 22-year-old man who had landed on the beaches of Normandy in June of 1944 and had helped defeat the Nazis only to be assigned to a legendary infantry division that would have been in the first boats ashore if the United States military had landed at Kyushu.

Don't get me wrong, my safe place tends toward the left. But I don't choose blind dogma. I think, and therefore I ponder and evaluate. At the end of the day, I love America more than I love a political party.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 EXCESSES

As strange as it seems, drinking too much water can kill a person. As reported in Scientific American in 2007: “Earlier this year, a 28-year-old California woman died after competing in a radio station's on-air water-drinking contest. After downing some six liters of water in three hours in the ‘Hold Your Wee for a Wii’ (Nintendo game console) contest, Jennifer Strange vomited, went home with a splitting headache, and died from so-called water intoxication.”

If consuming too much of one of life’s essential intakes can be deadly, are excesses of other kinds harmful? How about intellectual propensities? Let’s see.

Too much exuberance for a just cause created the harmful yapping of “Defund the Police” that threw thousands upon thousands of votes to the most despicable political candidates our country has ever fielded.

Too much patriotic zeal sanctioned an unwarranted war in the Middle East that has now metastasized into conflagrations that could spell the end of humanity.

The excess of religious ideology led to the horrendous deaths of opposing believers and now fills the daily news.

Moreover, the forces of darkness become adept at utilizing the effects of excessive zeal. We can’t imagine for a second that some won’t seek to lure voters by the use of videos of innocent people held in traffic stops from reaching their jobs, families, and emergency care.

When we see a draft-dodging, anti-veteran, mendacious individual hugging the American flag and then sparking an attack on our nation’s capitol, we must accept some logic in the assertion of Dr. Samuel Johnson that “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

The no-regulatory stance on capitalism has allowed the purchase of the United States Supreme Court justices by a small percentage of American and foreign individuals.

Some have even posited that an overabundance of study can create a numbing experience something like “educational incapacity.”

What can The Center do? The Center can’t control or change the minds of the extremists. The Center can support just causes.

The Center gave tacit support and enabled victory in the American Revolution.

The Center gave tacit support and enabled progress in the Civil Rights Movement.

The Center gave tacit support and helped end our horrendous experience in Vietnam.

The Center gave tacit support and helped vote Donald Trump out of office.

There is still more work to be done.

 

A Simple Act

            “Christ, but I’m hungry.”

            “Why don’t you just shut the hell up about it?”

            There was no way I could fault either sentiment. We were hungry, and we had a long wait ahead of us. On the other hand, it wasn’t doing much good to keep mentioning it. Doing so was sort of like scratching at a scab and hoping it would help heal the wound. My life, if you want to know, was like one big scab at that time so I didn’t know where to start scratching. Not just me either, the other two fellows were pretty much in the same boat.

            “In the same boat.” That’s pretty funny. We weren’t in the same boat but we were in the Navy, all three of us, and our beloved Navy had screwed us over pretty bad.

            The first speaker was a Seaman Apprentice from Tennessee. Wilson was his name, Robert maybe. We had been together for over six weeks now and had gotten to know one another well. The third man was Eddie Conners, a Seaman from East St. Louis—a brown-skinned fellow as rough as his hometown’s reputation. The fourth of our crew, Seaman James Dykes, hadn’t travelled from San Diego with us and we weren’t sure where he was.

            We knew where we were. We were at an airport terminal in California, waiting for the plane to take us to Da Nang in the Republic of South Vietnam on a lonely Saturday in late November of 1967.

            It was like this. We had joined the Navy to ride the Waves, as the old joke goes. Each of us, in our own way, had managed to piss off this venerable institution, and it had gotten back at us in classic fashion. I have no idea what the others did. I dropped out of one the Navy’s “A” schools and had told the personnel officer that I had joined the Navy to go to sea and see the world, not to spend my time studying at some shithole base in California. I had foolishly thought that the ghost of John Paul Jones would break into a broad sailor’s smile up in Navy Heaven upon hearing this 1967 version of “Give me a fast ship and so forth.”

            I had misjudged the prevalent sense of humor in the modern Navy and was now waiting for the goddam plane that would take me to Vietnam.

            “N-A-V-Y,” as in, “Need Any Vaseline Yet?” In short, I, we, all of us were in hell of a fix. Some Navy higher up—had to be an Annapolis grad, it was such a strange idea—decided that it was a waste of good Marines to guard Navy bases in the war zone and they should train predominately misfit sailors for the job. So, they had sent us to a few weeks of training on shooting various weapons, throwing hand grenades, standing guard, and going on patrols, things that would be of no value either in the free world or our subsequent Navy careers.

            “Give me a cigarette then,” Wilson said. “If we can’t have breakfast, at least we can have a cigarette.”

            He had a habit of explaining things that way when he talked. Sometimes it got on a person’s nerves like when they had us throw hand grenades with the marines at some god forsaken Marine Base out near San Diego. I hadn’t thrown one as far as they would have liked so on the way back, Wilson explained it to me. “They want you to throw it as far as you can so the shrapnel doesn’t fly back and hit you.”

            “Shut the fuck up about it,” I had said, “I don’t care what the Marines want or don’t want.” For the present, I handed him a cigarette and said, “Make it last. We have a long time to wait.”

            He lit the cigarette and leaned back. “They wanted us to get here early so we wouldn’t be late.”

            “Moron,” I said and leaned back to consider why I hadn’t fled to Canada when I had the chance.

            “Wake me up if they decide to leave early,” Conners said. He leaned back in his chair and pulled his “Dixie Cup” hat over his eyes so it rested on the bridge of his nose. He had creased such “gull wings” in it that it looked like if it slid off, it would sail ten feet. The Navy didn’t care much for that shit. They wanted you to wear that silly hat just like they gave it to you, completely round. Only Yoemen, or “squat to pees” as they were lovingly called by the Bosun’s Mates, did that. It is said that if all the hats on a ship got mixed up and had no names on them, a person could find his hat by the way it was rolled or creased. I don’t know. There is a lot of crap they say about sailors that never has been proven.

            Anyway, here is the deal. During the weeks of training for this assignment, the United States Navy had screwed up our pay records big time. Actually they didn’t screw them up, the payroll guys told us. It was that the large training bases didn’t like to pay all those temporary trainees that came through. They just kept adding your pay to your records. “What’s your beef?” was their attitude. “We give you a place to live and three meals a day. What you need money for? You’ll get paid when you get in-country.” That term “in-country” was a strange one. It meant to them that we weren’t their problem. To us it meant the physical location whereupon we could start counting the days until we returned to the “land of the round-eyes.” To others, it would mean the end of the road, that “in-country” was where they would buy the farm.

            We eventually would get paid when we arrived at our permanent location. But right now, it wasn’t helping. We had to get from San Diego to the airport on our own and be at this crummy place, they said, at 0600, or six in the morning, to catch a plane for Da Nang. The Navy talked like that, “Zero Six Hundred.” They, the Navy, didn’t add “hours” like the Army guys do. So if you ever see a movie where a character playing a Navy officer says, “Zero-Six Hundred Hours,” you will know it is bullshit and the scriptwriting lacks verisimilitude.

            So, after spending every cent we could muster between the three of us, and picking up a ten-dollar money order my daddy wired to San Diego, we got to town, procured three bunks at the YMCA, bought hamburgers, two packs of cigarettes, and a six-pack of beer—which we had to drink in the goddam alley behind the “Y.” They take that “C” in the cornerstone very seriously. Despite all we managed to follow orders and arrive at the airport, broke and hungry, right when they told us to.

            “Good,” the “squat-to-pee” who signed us in said. “Now your plane leaves from here between 1900 and 2000 so don’t get lost.”

 For those of you in the free world, that’s a wait of between 13 and 14 hours. Each of the three of us expressed our disappointment in our own way.

            “Jesus.”

            “Oh hell. They want to get everyone signed in on time so the plane wouldn’t be held up.”

            “Goddam mutherfuckin’ son of a bitch’n asshole Navy pricks.”

            I, being the oldest, and nominally in charge, did think to ask, “Are there any arrangements to feed us while we wait?”

            The yeoman looked at me as if I had just asked to be promoted to admiral. He attached tags, one by one, to our sea bags and placed them with a stack of others, behind him.

“Meals,” I said. “We haven’t had anything to eat and we haven’t been paid in six weeks.”

“Next,” he answered, looking past me to where stood a small, young Seaman Apprentice in line who had his mom and dad with him. I recognized him from our weapons training group but didn’t acknowledge it. You could tell that all three had been crying. We left and found a seat, orders in hand. Just then, a snappily dressed man in a blue blazer and white pants walked up to us. He wore a serious-looking badge that identified him as manager of the terminal. He looked at each of the three of us in turn and then asked, “Who is in charge here?”

            We looked back at him and didn’t answer.

            “Would you mind?” He said pointing to a far corner of the waiting room where some metal folding chairs had been placed. “We have a special waiting area for our servicemen.” He smiled.

            I looked at the metal chairs and at the soft cushions on the ones where we were sitting. “Doesn’t look that special to me.”

            His smile disappeared faster than a whore’s hug. “We like to keep the military personnel separate from our regular passengers,” he said.

            “They want us to sit by ourselves because we bother people,” Wilson said.

            “Mister,” I said, “do you have any idea where we are headed?”

            His face took on a stony look now. “Sir,” he said, “that’s not important for me to know. I’m just asking you to respect our rules.”

            “Fuck your rules,” Conners said.
            “Sir,” the attendant said, “The military has an MP stationed nearby and I wouldn’t like to have to fetch him.”

            “Fetch him?” What was this guy, a godammed trained puppy or something?

            “I’ll bet you would too … wouldn’t you?” I said.

            His smiled returned. “If I must,” he said.

            Conners started to rise. “No,” I said to him. “We’ll move.”

            “If we whip this motherfucker’s ass,” maybe they won’t send us over there,” Conners said. The attendant took a step back and put his hand to his mouth.

            “No,” I said, “they’ll still send us. They’ll just give us a shittier assignment once we get there. Come on.” I rose and took my orders in hand and headed for the segregation area. It wouldn’t be the last one I saw during my military career.

            So there we sat, our stomachs beginning to growl and our asses already sending protests up our spine to our brains. It was 0700, almost.

            A short time later, Dykes showed up. “Where you been?” I said. “We thought you might be a ‘no show,’ and you’re the squared-away one.”

            Dykes was a tall Seaman with a ruddy complexion and short hair somewhere between brown and red. He was one of those guys—you know the type—that could pick up any girl in any bar and no one could ever figure out why. He just had that something. His hat was cocked to the side of his head, the brim formed into a ‘circle-lip’ of even geometrical proportions. “I’ve been here since before daylight,” he said. “I stayed in a hotel last night.” He said it like someone might say “I graduated from Harvard.”

            “La di fuckin’ da,” Conners said.

            “He just said that to make us feel bad,” Wilson said.

            “So you must have money,” I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.

            “Had,” he said. “That’s the right word, ‘had,’ as in I had some money but I just spent the last cent on a sweet roll.”

            We deflated like three balloons. “You were our last hope,” I said. “We’re all financially embarrassed at the moment.” Then I added, “And hungry, too. We didn’t even have a sweet roll.”

            “It wasn’t much of a sweet roll,” Dykes said. He sat. “Why aren’t you sitting in the comfortable seats?”

            “Don’t ask,” I said. “Patriotism probably.”

            “They want us here so they can keep an eye on us,” Wilson said.

            “Cocksucker motherfuckers,” Conners said.

            Having thoroughly explained the decision regarding our location, we welcomed Dykes into our little sea of misery. It was almost 0730.

            Several “Navy-Years” later, Conners was softly snoring, his hat just ready to slide from his nose. I was, with closed eyes and an open mind, trying my best to reconstruct the series of events that had gotten me to this place at this moment. Wilson was reading a newspaper he had retrieved from a trash can, his lips moving with each word and his head nodding with each sentence—a sort of literary ballet in action—while Dykes studied a group of keys on a chain.

            “Why am I taking all these keys with me?” he said to no one in particular. “What am I going to need keys for in Viet-fucking-nam?” It was the first time I had heard that name. I would hear it again, and again.

            I opened my eyes and turned to him. “Hell,” I said, “Wilson is taking his alarm clock.”

            Wilson quit reading. “I’ll need to know when it’s time to go on duty,” he said.

            “I think they’ll let you know things like that,” Dykes said.

            “But if they ever forget to, I’ll have a backup plan.”

            We nodded in appreciation of this exquisite slice of logic. “Backup plans are nice,” I said. “I only wish one of the four of us had thought of one for today. Then maybe we could all eat.”

            Connors was awake now and chimed in. “Goddam asswipes led me to believe we would be winging our way to the Orient by now,” he said. “Why would we need a goddam backup plan?”

            Again, the logic was unimpeachable. “Have you considered,” Dykes said, “that we are the first generation to fly off to war in a commercial airliner?”

            “I guess we are,” I said. “Never thought of it before.”

            “It will beat a troop ship,” Wilson said. “They don’t have stewardesses on troop ships. There are too many troops.”

            Why was our country sending such deep thinkers to fight in somebody else’s war halfway around the world? I suddenly suspected that there had been more pristine logic expressed in our little group this morning than in all the cabinet meetings held on the war so far. With Wilson as Secretary of State, Conners as Secretary of War, and Dykes as Chief of Staff, our country wouldn’t have been in this mess. As for me, I didn’t see any role in politics. I thought for a moment and decided that my role would be to report. Yeah, report. I made a vow that I would put all this down on paper someday when I thought the world at large was ready for it. It was 0900.

            A thousand years or so later it was 1000, or “four bells,” if you must. I know that was the time, for Dykes gave a start, punched me, and politely asked, “What the fuck time is it?”

            “Ten hundred, I said. “Nine hours or so hours to go. Why?

            “I fucking forgot something.”

            “What?” I said. “Your Bible?

            “Hell no,” he said indignantly. “I nearly forgot to do something.”

            “All you had to do was show up here,” I said.

            “No,” he said. I promised my mother I would call this aunt who lives here that I don’t even know.”

            “You don’t know your own aunt?”

            “It’s a long story,” he said. “They moved here from Pennsylvania nearly 20 years ago and haven’t been back since. I don’t even remember them.”

            “But you’re supposed to call them?”

            “I promised my mother.”

            Now for a short lesson in nautical propriety. You can mess with a sailor. You can mess with the Navy. You can mess with his ship. You can mess with his shipmates or about anything or anybody that impacts his life. Hell, you can mess with an admiral if your rigging is tight enough. But you don’t mess with a sailor’s mother. I understood fully the moral obligation that Dykes felt. “So go call your aunt,” I said.

            “Do you have a dime?”

            “Hell no. I have maybe three cents.”

            “Wilson,” Dykes said. Wilson looked up from his paper. He had gotten to the third page by now. “Do you have a dime?”

            “I pitched my last dime in on the cab fare so we could make sure we got here on time,” Wilson said.

            “Pile it on, motherfucker,” Conners said from beneath his hat.

            “He’s dreaming about food again,” I said. “Wake him up.”

            Dykes looked at the skull and crossbones tattooed on the back of Conners’ hand and the scars on his knuckles. “You wake him up,” he said, looking at me.

            “I know he doesn’t have any money,” Wilson said, “so you really don’t have to.”

            “Shit,” Dykes said. “What am I going to do?” He reached under his top and pulled out a wallet that was folded over his 13-botton pants. He showed me that it was void of folding money. Then he pulled out a piece of paper. “I have their number right here.”

            “Maybe the airline folks will let you use a phone,” I said.

            “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll bet when I explain it they will.” He sprang from his seat and rushed toward the ticket counter. I watched as he moved from agent to agent, his enthusiasm evidently dropping with each move. Finally, he moved to a desk manned by the same man who had made us move earlier. I saw Dykes gesture, his arms spreading toward the sky and I saw the man shake his head and say something. Dykes sagged and walked away, but when he had gone about ten feet, he turned and shot the man the finger with a loud slap of his free hand. Passengers stared as he returned.

            “They all said …” he began.

            “I know,” I said. “I watched.”

            “They won’t do it for one because they would have to do it for all,” Wilson said.

            “Shut the fuck up,” Dykes said. “Only one thing left to do,” he said.

            I said, “What’s that?”

            “Turn beggar,” he said. “Either that or tell mom I failed.” With that, he rose and headed toward the main part of the waiting room.

            It was painful watching him. The few passengers that would listen shook their heads as soon as he started talking. One lady even moved her young child to behind her in a gesture of protection. One thing I’ll say for him: he was persistent. The Navy was lucky to have a man who stuck to his mission like Dykes. It appeared, nevertheless, that he was destined for failure. As his dejected figure started back, he passed a janitor mopping an area of the terminal. Dykes looked at him, stopped, stared, and spoke. The man listened quietly and nodded. Then he thrust a hand into a pocket, pulled it out, and handed Dykes something. They talked for a moment. Dykes patted the man on the arm, said something to him and started back toward us.

            He reached us just as the terminal manager arrived with a huge, muscular Army MP following. As Dykes sat, the manager pointed at us and said to the MP, “Them.”

            “I’ll handle it,” the MP said, motioning for the manager to return to his duties. He then turned to us. “You boys been causin’ a little ruckus, I hear. Y’all got some problem or t’other?”

            Oh shit. There is no meaner creature on earth than an illiterate southern redneck with the tiniest speck of military authority. None of us spoke.

            “I ain’t askin’ you agin.”

            “We’re just waiting for a plane, Sir,” I said, “to take us to our duty station in the Republic of South Vietnam.” Now that’s a subtle way of pissing them off, these authority-crazed enlisted men, calling them “Sir.” They know you’re mocking them but there’s not much they can say or do.

            He considered the situation, probably computing behind his thick skull how much paperwork he faced if he harassed us too much. “Let me tell you soon-to-be war heroes somethin’.” He drew himself up and, I’ll swear on my parents’ graves, actually patted his pistol. “If I have to come back, you’ll miss that plane and that ain’t no way to start off being a hero.”

            We said nothing. None of us had been in the military long, but we knew already that backtalk was nourishment for the bullies that drifted through the service like damaged goods passing along an assembly line. He waited, sniffed the air, turned, and walked away.

            “Got it,” Dykes said, holding up his dime.

            “And from a janitor,” I said. “What made you ask him?”

            “I saw the anchors tattooed on his arm,” Dykes said. “He told me he was World War Two, USS Arkansas. Bosun’s Mate Third Class.”

            “Well jack me off with a bilge pump and call me a snipe,” Conners said.

            “I’ll be back,” Dykes s said and, with that, he was off. It was 1030.

            He was gone less than 10 minutes before he came back on the run. “Come on,” he said, “They’ll be here shortly.”

            “Who?” I said.

            “My aunt and uncle. They’re coming for us.”

            Conners stood. “All of us?”

            “All of us,” Dykes said. “Turns out they just live a short ways from here.”

            “They don’t want us to spend the whole day here bored to death,” Wilson said. We all looked at him and shook our heads.

            What else is there you would like to know? They were there in less than 20 minutes and we were at the terminal entrance to meet them. Since we were the only four sailors standing in one group, they had no trouble finding us. Dykes ran around and identified himself, spoke to them briefly, and motioned for us to get into the car. We introduced ourselves.

            What about them? They were a quiet couple in their early fifties, ancient to us in other words. Uncle Earl had landed at Normandy with the Big Red One and fought his way through France and Germany. Aunt Louise married him while he was attending college on the GI Bill. He was a mechanical engineer and a hell of a nice guy. She was, well she was a sweet aunt. What else can I say? They lived in a ranch-style bungalow in a subdivision near the airport.

            He was tall, with brown hair beginning to turn grey. She looked as if she had just stepped from one of those 1940s movies about a happy family. For reasons we didn’t discuss, they never had children, but Dykes later hinted at war wounds.

            Uncle Earl dropped us all off at the house and left us there to freshen up and enjoy coffee and snacks. Then Aunt Louise ordered us to go into the living room and make ourselves comfortable watching television.

            It was much nicer than the airport terminal.

            Uncle Earl came back with groceries, including a big bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey and six of the thickest steaks I had seen up until that point in my life. Dykes went into the kitchen and caught Aunt Louise up on family news. Wilson helped Uncle Earl cook the steaks. Connors and I watched a football game and drank whiskey. It all ended too soon. We finished the meal with an explanation by Wilson that they had left the steaks medium rare because “It improves the flavor.” We never would have guessed.

            We even napped for a few minutes before Uncle Earl and Aunt Louise took us back to the airport. After hugs all around, we watched them drive away. I was thinking how a simple act of kindness could transform one of the worst days of my life to one of the best. It wasn’t, I regret to say, the best time in American history to be a member of the armed services and it would be a long time before the kindness of a stranger was shown me to me again. I never complained though, for it made the support of shipmates that much more important.

            Speaking of shipmates, when we joined the line for the plane, the young Seaman Apprentice who had checked in behind us that morning was there. We introduced ourselves and welcomed him into our group with him appreciating the comradeship. He sat with me all the way to Da Nang and we got to know one another. He was an only child and devoted to his parents. This would be his first time away from them. He came from a long line of sailors and, facing the draft, joined the Navy more from tradition than any longing for adventure on the high seas. During our in-country processing, he became a part of our bunch and never tired of telling us how nice it was to have friends.

            His name was Matheson and we learned that he wanted to go to college on the GI Bill when he got out of the Navy. He planned to be a teacher and, as we got to know him better, we would often tell him how good we thought he would be at it. That always made him feel better about being away from home.

We eventually received our permanent assignments and would be parting ways. Someone suggested we share a final evening in the EM Club at Camp Tien Sha, sort of a “goodbye shipmates, hello Vietnam” party. We met up there, had a few beers, watched the first of many USO shows we would see while in-country, and wondered about our future. Far too soon, our time was up and we had to leave.

Standing outside the club, Matheson wanted to hug us all before we left. We weren’t used to such displays, and the Navy would hardly have sanctioned it, but his family had moved to California from Ohio and that’s how they do things there. So, being a little drunk, we humored him, because by then we thought of him as our little brother. Even Conners joined in—albeit reluctantly—observing, “You white motherfuckers are crazy.” It was just a small act of kindness, and it seemed to make Matheson so happy: a group of grown men hugging one another under a brilliant oriental moon as drunks staggered by laughing. It was the second good time the original four of us had together before our tours got underway, and Matheson enjoyed being a part of it this time. He always seemed to feel good about knowing us. For our part, he made us smile and feel a little better about ourselves. The Navy was lucky to have him, and so were we on that warm night with a soft breeze blowing in from the South China Sea, the mingling smell of salty air, ancient vegetation, rotting fish, and human endeavor flowing over us like messengers announcing our place on the planet. It was a smell you wouldn’t easily forget.

We said goodbye in a sort of “So long, it’s been good to know you,” style and wished each other smooth seas. Matheson insisted on a final hug so we lined up and complied before we went our separate ways on unsteady feet that faced an uncertain future.

            It had been a great night, wrapping up an adventurous trip over from the states. Conners, Wilson, and I would meet again one year later as were processing out of Vietnam to new berths. We would have enough stories to last all the way back stateside. Dykes wasn’t there because, according to Wilson, he had extended his tour for six months. If you did that, the Navy gave you 30 days off free, a reward called “Basket Leave.” They would fly you anywhere in the “free world” and then back to Vietnam. According to Wilson, who ran into Dykes at a PX after he returned, Dykes had used the opportunity to go to Paris, France because he wanted to climb that big tower there and because he had read that they—the French—drank wine with breakfast, good reasons, I suppose. It sounded like Dykes anyway.

            We talked a lot about our trip over and the party we had the night when we first got in-country. We were changed, I suppose, and would never be the same young men that stood outside the EM Club in their new, but ill-fitting green uniforms—Matheson’s being at least a size too large making him look like a kid playing grown-up—and all of us with our stiff, clean, combat boots. We were just “new guys” but we would learn fast.

Oh yes, we also talked about Matheson. He didn’t make the whole tour. The Tet Offensive hit a month and a half after we got there and he bought it in a rocket attack out near Marble Mountain on the third day. I imagine we would have hugged him again that night if we could have foreseen the future—that he wouldn’t be there a year later to fly back home with us.

But that was one of the many things we had no way of knowing at the time.

Justice

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

            As Nelson settled into his truck and inserted the key, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the number. He pressed the “talk” button, placed it into position, listened, and said, “Agent Benson, so nice to hear your voice. Calling before you leave for services?” He waited, smiled, and said, “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” He listened again. “Tomorrow at 10:00. Got it. Is this with the Chief himself? Good. I’ll tell him we were fraternity brothers.” He listened again and then laughed. “I’ll just tell him you owed me a favor.”  He punched the phone and placed it in his pocket.

            Before leaving, he pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and examined it. Then he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a city map of Little Rock. He studied it for a moment and then jabbed a spot with his finger. He traced route and placed the map on the seat beside him. Pulling away from the Stubblefield home, he headed north, and then west.

            At first, he retraced the route he had taken to the University earlier. This time, he continued west and crossed University Avenue. Then he turned south and wound his way into a subdivision of middle-class homes. He stopped alongside a curb and reviewed his map and notes again. He then continued south before turning onto a quiet, tree-lined street. He drove slowly, observing the house numbers. He stopped, checked his notes again and eased his truck to a spot in front of a brick veneer home with an open garage that housed a four-year old Honda Civic. An older Ford sedan was parked in front of the house on a lawn that showed little sign of maintenance.

            Nelson drew a breath and opened his door. Before stepping out, he looked both ways. He eased himself away from the truck and walked the short distance to the front door. The doorbell pad was missing so he knocked three times against the front door. From inside, there was the sound of movement. A chair scrapped, there was a sharp exchange of voices and the footsteps could be heard approaching. The door opened and a large man stood facing Nelson. He had “life-guard” looks with long blond hair partially covering a tanned face. “What?” he said.

            “Is Mrs. Charles Winters in?”

            The man glared at him and said, “What do you want?”

            Nelson spoke in a low, even voice. “I want to talk to Mrs. Winters.”

            “What about?”

            “Is she in?” Nelson fixed his eyes on the face of the man, a face that now showed a slight hint of confusion.

            The man’s face gave a jerk to the rear. He yelled, “Connie.”

            A woman’s voice came from within, “I’m busy.”

            “Come here,” the man said.

            “I said I was busy.”

            “And I said ‘come here’ and I mean right now, godammit.” The man returned his glare to Nelson.

            Nelson said, “Thank you.” This seemed to confuse even more the man, who stepped aside as footsteps approached.

            His figure was replaced by that of an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and secured with brightly colored bands. She wore a sleeveless pullover with no bra beneath it. She had on faded jeans showing her knees beneath worn spots. She was on the verge of being overweight, but moved with a practiced sensuality. She took one look at Nelson and said, “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,”

            “Mrs. Winters?” Nelson said.

            “Who are you?” she said.

            “Gideon Nelson of the United States Navy. May I speak with you about your husband Charles?”

            She brightened. “Charlie? Did something happen to him?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said.

            “Come in,” she said, looking pleased and holding the door for Nelson. She led him through a well-kept room that was furnished with a large-screen TV, stereo equipment, and an exercise machine. The kitchen contained a new refrigerator and other upscale appliances. She motioned Nelson toward a seat at the kitchen table. She said, “Coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. He took a seat and placed his hands on the table in front of him. She sat across from him. Her companion stood by the kitchen sink, watching.

            “Now tell me what happened to Charlie,” she said. “Something bad, I expect.”

            “No, Nelson said, “actually something good.”

            Her face darkened perceptibly. “Good?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “Something quite good.”

            She looked at her hands. There was no wedding ring on her finger. Looking up, she said, “And the Navy sent you to tell me about it?”

            “No, I’m just reporting as a friend.”

            “I thought you said you were with the Navy.”

            “Oh, I am,” Nelson said. “But they didn’t send me.”

            She appeared confused for a moment but then took a breath. “So what good thing has happened to old Charlie, my, … uh, estranged?” The other man laughed.

            “He met me.” Nelson said.

            Her face tightened. “He what?”

            “He met me and found a friend,” Nelson said.

            The other man stirred and said, “Just who the hell are you mister?”

            “You might say that I am a modern Jesus,” Nelson said, continuing to look at Charlie’s wife, “come to earth to protect the righteous and poor in spirit.”

            “Bullshit,” the man said as he started toward Nelson. “I threw that cripple bastard out of this house and that’s all we want to know about him.”

            “You need to go outside and stay out of this,” Nelson said, his eyes still fixed on Connie Winters.

            “Mr.,” the man said, “I’m giving you about one minute to leave before I throw you  ...”

            He didn’t finish. He had walked over to Nelson’s left and was leaning in to yell in his ear when Nelson grabbed the man’s arm and, taking advantage of the downward momentum, slammed his face into the kitchen table. As he fell on the floor, Nelson spun from his chair, grabbed the man by his shirt and delivered a sharp blow to the side of his head, his fist traveling no more than a foot. There was a sharp crack and the man’s eyes rolled upwards, then closed as he thudded to the floor. Nelson released him, sat, and turned in his chair back toward Connie Winters.

            “Is it true that you have taken Charlie’s bank records and checks from him and used Sluggo here,” he nodded at the form of the other man, “to keep him from coming back to claim them?”

            She said nothing.

            “And is it true,” Nelson said, “That you threatened bodily harm to my friend if he filed for divorce?”

            Connie Winters stared at her hands for a moment and then looked at Nelson defiantly. “So what if I did?” she said. “The wimp ain’t no use to me and I’m still young. The VA will take care of him. But I’ve got to take care of myself, and that’s all I’ve been doing.”

            “Thing is,” Nelson said. “It’s over. Watch and learn why.” He stood, turned and walked into the living room. There was a loud crash accompanied by the sound of electrical sparking and glass shattering. He walked back into the kitchen. “That was your TV,” he said. “Would you like to get his checks and bank records for me now?”

            “Fuck you mister,” she said.

            Nelson walked back to the living room and there were more sounds of destruction. When he walked into the kitchen, he moved to the counter and lifted a large microwave and threw it onto the floor beside her. She screamed and jumped aside and glass flew. “His bank records please. I have all day and you have lots of goodies.”

            Connie Winters eyes were wide now and fear had frozen her face. “How will I live?” she said. “I haven’t paid the rent this month.”

            “Put Sluggo to work,” he said. “Shall I take on the refrigerator next?” He moved toward it.

            “No,” she said. “Wait a moment. I’ll get them.” She hurried through the kitchen door and down a hallway. As she entered a room off the hall, Nelson stepped over the broken glass and stood out of sight against the wall. When footsteps sounded her return, he flattened himself against it.

            He watched as a hand holding a revolver broke the plane of the door opening, followed by an arm, and then the body of Connie Winters, her face wild and looking for Nelson. Too late, she sensed him and spun. He grabbed her wrist and with one jerk sent the pistol flying toward the still form of her companion. “Stupid,” he said. “Really stupid. Now don’t make me mad … the bank records please, and his other military documents.” He released her.

            She was breathing heavily. Nelson walked over to the gun, reached down, and grabbed it. He removed the bullets and the cylinder, placing them in his pocket. He threw the remainder of the gun into the kitchen sink. When the man on the floor moved and groaned slightly, Nelson bent over, raised the man’s head by his long hair and clipped his chin deftly, putting him to sleep once more. He turned and said, “Now.”

            Sometime later, Nelson was checking a cardboard box full of paperwork. Connie Winters stood in a corner crying softly, her hand across her mouth. Her companion still lay senseless beside the table. When he seemed satisfied, Nelson turned to the woman and said, “Now here are the rules of engagement. One, if, when I take Charlie to the bank, there have been any withdrawals from this moment until then, I will return. Is this understood?”

            She nodded. Nelson closed the flaps of the box. “And if I have to return, I will be pissed. Look at me,” he said to her. When she did, he said, “Really pissed. Do we understand one another?”

            She nodded. “And let me assure you, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “you don’t want to see me really pissed.” As if to emphasize the point, he walked over and opened a cabinet door. With one hand, he sent its contents, a collection of cups and glasses onto the floor. “Now,” he said, “for the second rule of engagement. In a few days, you will receive paperwork for a ‘no-fault’ divorce. I’ll wait one week for you to return them. Do and you won’t see me again. Don’t and I will be pissed. Okay?”

            She nodded and began to cry again. Nelson said, “Final rule of engagement. I think, after the divorce is final, it would be nice if you and Sluggo here moved to a climate more suited to your health. Don’t you?” She looked at him and nodded.

            “Good. “I love it when great minds agree.” He smiled at her and said, “After the body parts pass through the grinder, as the butcher said while disposing of his wife, everything falls into place.” He lifted the box and started toward the door. Reaching it, he turned and said, “It has been a pleasure dealing with you. I’m sure Charlie would want me to extend his thanks as well. He’s busy, though, regaining the health that you and this thing,” pointing at the body on the floor, “along with our foreign enemies, attempted to take from him.”

            He stopped. “Oh,” he said, “one more thing I almost forgot … the car keys please.” When she hesitated, he said, “As my mother would say, Don’t make me have to come back in there.”

            She took her purse from a kitchen counter and rummaged through it. She pulled out set of keys and pitched them to Nelson. He caught them and said, “After I leave, put the title into the glove compartment. Sometime, probably late at night, I’ll come and get it. If I see either of you, I’ll wreak major damage. Understood?”

            The form of Connie Winters seemed small and frail as she stood among the ruins of her kitchen. She nodded and then summoned enough energy to say, “Who the hell are you, mister?”

            Nelson turned. “Why, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “like I told your friend there, I’m Jesus. Haven’t you ever read about the cleansing of the temple?”

            With that, he turned and was gone.

Remnants

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER SEVEN

           

 (Our hero does his morning exercise and makes new acquaintances)

On Sunday morning, Nelson began his run early. He reached the place where he practiced his kicks and moves as the sun had begun casting its long shadows across the park grounds. As he spun and kicked, he would emit a soft but sharp “kihap,” adding force and violence to his movements. Nothing this morning interrupted his exercise, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. He finished his routine and uttered “shiuh” into the morning stillness. He bowed to an imaginary opponent and turned toward the river.

            It was then that he saw a face peering from behind the row of vegetation bordering the river. He snapped into a defensive posture and quickly glanced to his right and to his left. He then turned his attention to the face and prepared for action.

            “Hey, hey,” a voice said from behind the vegetation. “No sweat. Just me. Old homeless bum me. Not a problem.”

            When Nelson didn’t respond, a man rose from behind the growth. He was a thin, brown-haired man with a stubble of dark beard, wearing a faded windbreaker and jeans. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just watching you move,” he said. “No harm intended.”

            Nelson relaxed from his crouching position and stood. “Who are you?”

            “Just old Charlie,” he said. “Can I come out?”

            “Sure,” Nelson said. “What are you doing here?”

            “I live here,” the man said as he walked forward.

            “Here? In the park?”

            “Right here,” Charlie said, coming closer. “Down there,” he pointed to the river, “on the bank, out of sight. They say it’s okay. Bill Clinton himself told me ‘Charlie I want you live right here and keep an eye on things for me.’ So I do.” Part of this he said in perfect imitation of the voice of President Clinton. Nelson laughed.

            “So you are the grounds custodian?”

            “Might say I am,” Charlie said. “Might say I am.” He was standing with Nelson now and studied him carefully. “Who the hell are you? You look familiar.”

            “Nelson. Gideon Nelson. You look a little familiar yourself. Ever been in the Navy?”

            “Hell no,” Charlie said, “Marines,” then “I got it. You were at the VA Hospital.”

            Nelson looked at him with renewed interest. “By god, you’re right,” he said. “We swapped lies out in front of the building. At least some of us did. You just stood there.”

            “Howdy brother,” Charlie said, extending his hand. Nelson shook it.

            “You weren’t the one with all the wives,” he said.

            “No,” Charlie said. “That was some other feller. I’ve just had two.”

            “Two?”

            “One died,” Charlie said, “the other kicked my ass out of the house two months ago.”

            “What for? Drinking?”

            “Hell no,” Charlie said. “She was making room.”

            “Making room for what?”

            “Someone who could service her.” He took on a somber look. “She moved herself a younger man in.”

            Nelson didn’t speak for a moment. “You don’t look that old to me.”

            “Just turned 40.”

            “She thought that was old?”

            Charlie looked off and then back at Nelson with sadness on his face. “It was more than that.”

            “So you live here now?”

            “Temporarily, I hope.”

            “Doesn’t the VA have somewhere you could stay?”

            “I can’t get help other than medical ‘cause I ‘m still married and she has an income. I mean a job, in addition to my disability pay that she gets, and, which is why she won’t file for divorce.” He spat. “Says she needs the money.”

            “You must have really pissed her off.”

            “That last bullet pissed her off.”

            “What last bullet?”

            “The last one I got in Iraq. Doctors say it clipped something, some nerve or gland something, and it just got more and more, you know … difficult to perform on demand, maybe the stress from being commanded to do something that you should volunteer for.”

            Nelson took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Jesus,” he said.

            “Yeah,” Charlie said. “Jesus”

            “Family?”

            “Folks both dead. I do have a brother but he lives in New York and teaches at Columbia. He hasn’t spoken to me since I joined the Marines.”

            Nelson shifted the topic. “Are you from around here?”

            “South of here. City of Pine Bluff.”

            “Are you familiar with this town called Connorville?”

            The other man looked at him and frowned. “Don’t mix me up with those folks,” he said. “That’s one badass bunch.”

            “That seems to be the general consensus,” Nelson said.

            “Don’t know about that,” Charlie said. “But stay the hell away from there, if you want my opinion.”

            “I hear they don’t like black folks.”

            “They don’t like anybody who is not like them,” Charlie said, “but they really hate blacks.” He thought. “Gays too.” He paused. “Jews and Catholics … liberals of course …Democrats on principle.” He pursed his lips. “But blacks are their favorites, I guess.”

            “Not in a good way, though?”

            “No, not in a good way.”

            “Do you ever go there?”

            Charlie said, “I used to, when I had a car. I have an old military buddy who lives there. I am a former Marine but he was Army. Runs a ‘concealed carry’ school. Does well. I used to go help him every once in a while. I didn’t stick around any longer than I needed to, though.”

            “How long were you in the Marines before you got hurt?”

            “Hurt the last time?”

            “Yes.”

            “Fifteen years. Went in when I was 22.”

            “A little late in life, wasn’t it?”

            “Went to OCS after college.”

            “So you were an officer.”

            “Until my body gave out on me, I was and officer and a gentleman. After that I was just a freeloading bum sponging off the taxpayers.”

            “With a college degree, you can’t get a job?”

            “That goddam bullet again.”

            “How?”

            “I have seizures. Not good for job security.”

            Nelson hung his head. He reached into a pocket and retrieved a bill. It was a ten spot. “Here,” he said. “It’s all I have but it might help.”

            Charlie looked the bill and then at Nelson but didn’t move to take it. “One vet to another,” Nelson said.

            The bill hung suspended for several seconds. At last, Charlie took in and closed his hand around it. “Thanks,” he said. “A man can fall a good ways in life if he doesn’t watch out where he puts his feet.”

            “Semper Fi” was all Nelson said as he jogged away.

            He skipped his coffee break and was back home and showered by ten o’clock. He put on a sweatshirt, fresh jeans and and his running shoes. After he had secured the house, he got into his truck and headed north. A few miles from town, he left the freeway and followed the old highway. It led him through and area marked by substantial homes on large lots interspersed with smaller homes and house trailers, some in deplorable condition. When development gave way to pastures, he continued until he came to a sign announcing that Connorville was five miles away.

            Before he reached the city, scattered development began to appear with increasing density until he reached the city limits. Slowing, he entered the city and observed it with interest. The highway corridor was devoid of any development pattern. Homes and metal commercial buildings appeared side by side. Most of the homes facing the highway were older ones, many in advanced stages of decline. One, adjacent to a strip commercial center, was graced with sign stating that it was for sale and was zoned commercial. The commercial development became more dominant as Nelson drove further north. The highway veered to his left and ran adjacent to a major rail line. The corridor then intersected with another highway fronted by more commercial development. Just when a visitor might expect to find downtown, the commercial development began to disappear and the highway became flanked by new subdivisions.

            Nelson drove along a non-ending collection of subdivisions, all containing homes of similar design. Most of the developments were served by one entrance but an occasional one would sport a second access. There was little diversity of design and the area took on the appearance of a desert of dark-toned rooftops and grey bricks. When he came to a church, he turned into the packed parking lot, circled it, and re-entered the highway headed in the opposite direction. When he reached the main intersection, he turned right.

            This was apparently the primary commercial corridor of the city. Businesses were packed haphazardly along it and, even on a Sunday morning, traffic was intense. The highway comprised four lanes of traffic and a center turn lane, all occupied by the furious and anxious residents of Connorville. Each business enjoyed a minimum of two entrance drives and for some, curbs were nonexistent for their entire frontage, allowing access at any point. This caused Nelson to concentrate on his driving and he saw little of the garish befuddlement that characterized the corridor. He did notice a diner ahead to his right and he turned into its lot. He drove to the rear of the building where he parked. Stepping from his truck, he surveyed his surroundings before locking it and walking toward the entrance.

            It as a concrete block structure advertising itself as “Betty and Bob’s Place” and promising fine home cooking. It sat back a ways from the street with parking in the front, the side, and the rear. With the exception of Nelson’s truck and a late-model car, all the other vehicles were parked in front.

            Nelson entered the diner, looked around, and settled for a seat at a long counter. Behind it, a stocky woman with frosted hair and a ruddy complexion moved toward him. “Coffee?” she said. Nelson nodded and she moved off briskly.

            The customers sat mostly without moving, comprising the “pre-church” crowd who appreciated the quiet before the rush. When the waitress returned with his coffee, Nelson ordered ham and eggs. She took his order and he began to drink his coffee and regard his surroundings. The place was neither new nor old, just one of those age-defying places that evoke no particular era. The fixtures were not new, but well maintained. There was a window midway the length of the bar through which the waitress yelled his order. A large man repeated it and the place became quiet again.

            When the woman refilled his coffee, Nelson said, “Are you Betty?”

            She looked surprised. “No,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

            “No reason,” Nelson said. “I just saw the name and wondered if you were the owners.”

            “Betty and Bob are both dead,” she said, and walked off. In a moment, she returned with his order. “Two eggs over easy with ham,” she said, placing the plate in front of him. She asked if he needed anything else. When he shook his head, she turned away again.

            Nelson ate in silence but when he was half through, an elderly man dressed in khaki work clothes came in and sat beside him. “Morning stranger,” he said.

            “Good morning,” Nelson said.

            “Ain’t seen you in here before,” the man said.

            “Just passing through town.”

            “Pass through fast,” he man said. He yelled to the waitress, “Charlene … coffee.” She waved an acknowledgement and he spoke to Nelson again. “Not the best place for a stranger.”

            “You’re not from here?” Nelson said.

            “Born and raised,” he said. “A rare specimen.”

            Nelson smiled and studied the man. His eyes danced in a face burned by years of defiance of the sun. Once red hair was losing the battle with gray and his hand were freckled and scarred. Nelson said, “A specimen of what?”

            “Someone who was born here and lived here before the assholes came.” He laughed. “A real specimen.”

            The waitress walked up with his coffee. “You eatin’ anything Clifton?”

            “Just coffee.” She walked away.

            Nelson continued eating. When he was nearly finished, he turned to the man. “Did you know about the young girl whose body was found here in town?”

            “Hell,” the man said. “Everbody knows about that.”

            “Do you know where her body was found?”

            “No, but he does,” the man said, turning and pointing to a man seated at a nearby table. “Hey Joe,” he said, “come here a minute.”

            A middle-aged man in overalls rose and walked to where the two sat. “This here man,” Clifton said pointing to Nelson. He stopped, “What did you say your name was?”

            “Gideon Nelson.”

            “Mr. Nelson here wants to know where they found that little colored girl’s body.”

            “On Cardinal Lane,” the man said. “A block from Calvary Baptist Church, same side of the street. In the ditch.” He looked and saw the waitress coming. “Hey,” he said, “I ain’t lookin’ to get involved in this.” He returned to his table.

            The waitress appeared in front of them. “Clifton,” she said, “drink your coffee. Mr.,” she said, turning to Nelson, “you’re upsetting our customers. We would appreciate it if you would finish up and leave.”

            “I suspect you would,” he said. Then, ignoring her, he turned to Clifton. “Thanks for the information,” he said. “Can I pay for your coffee?”

            “Hell yes,” Clifton said. “Hey Charlene,” he said. “Mine on his.”

            The waitress glared at them, spun around, and walked through a swinging door into the kitchen. In a moment, the cook came to the order window and gave Nelson a hard look. Nelson turned to Clifton. “A warm and friendly town,” he said.

            “Stay the hell away from here,” Clifton said, drinking his coffee.

            Nelson paid for his meal to a silent hostess and, waving to Clifton, left the diner. He walked to the rear of the building and was about to get into his truck when he heard a door open and close behind him. He turned to see the cook standing a few feet away with a baseball bat in a huge hand. His face flamed with rage and it formed a snarl as he raised the bat to eye level.

            “Mr,” he said. “I’m about to give you a lesson in minding your own business.”