SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 

            Nelson spent the rest of the day unpacking clothes and equipment that had remained boxed. The next morning, Charlie rose late and wandered in for coffee as Nelson was getting ready to leave. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved black knit shirt, and hiking boots. One item of attire caught Charlie’s attention.

            “That’s one ugly-assed belt buckle,” he said.

            “A present. And I’m going to see the donor’s dad this morning so he will notice I’m wearing it and report the news.”

            “What are those things on it? Fishhooks.”

            “Anchors, asshole. They are anchors.”

            “Oh. So where you headed?”

            “To stir up trouble. Want to help?”

            “My particular area of expertise. What would be my mission?’

            Nelson explained the concept of the “mad minute” and how he and the sheriff’s department intended to initiate it. “I’m hesitant to ask you to get involved,” he said. “But if you want some action, I have an idea.”

            “Action is my trademark,” Charlie said. “Besides, I owe you.”

            “Would your girlfriend be interested?”

            “Like she told you, she knows Abbey’s dad. She’ll be game.”

            “Is she working today?”

            “Waiting for some data files to be sent in,” he said. “We intended to ride our bikes, then shower, and spend the rest of the afternoon working on improving my consistency in wild …”

            “Spare me all the details,” Nelson said. “Here’s what I had in mind.”

            An hour later, Nelson turned onto a graveled road in south Armistead County. Pastures framed the road on either side and the cows stopped their chewing to watch Nelson as he drove by, wondering if he had come to feed them. When he drove by, they lost interest and turned away. Farther on, woods replaced the pastures and the road narrowed. It curved slightly and soon the main highway was out of sight in the truck’s rear view mirror. A half-mile later, the road curved again and a fenced area and large metal gate came into view. Nelson slowed and took in his surroundings.

            He eased slowly until his truck was within ten feet of the gate and stopped. He opened the door and stepped out, once again examining his surroundings. Seeing no one, he walked to the gate. It consisted of two sections joined in the middle by a latch that swiveled to connect the two sections. A heavy metal chain bound the sections together and a lock connected the chain. The lock hung inside the compound, indicating it had been last touched from within. Nelson reached and pulled it to the outside. He examined it and let it drop. A small metal sign on the gate announced that it formed the entrance to “The SW Hunting Club.” A larger sign warned intruders away.

            The ground on either side of the gravel was soft and Nelson walked several feet in both directions, making sure that he was leaving footprints. Returning to his truck, he took a card from its box, and examined it. Then he took a pen and drew a large “X” on the front. Turning the card over, he wrote the name of the road on which he had turned and scribbled, “hunting club?” beneath it. He rubbed the card along the bed of his truck and bent it in the middle. He dropped the card into a footprint on the right side of the gate, stepped on it, and returned to his truck.

            As the reversed the truck’s direction, he made certain that the front tires left tracks just beyond the gravel. He drove away slowly, watching the rearview mirror intently. When he was certain that no one had observed him, he gunned the truck and left the scene. Minutes later, he turned onto the state highway and headed toward Armistead.

            The morning rush had ended at Barker’s by the time Nelson arrived. Only one vehicle was parked there, a late-model Toyota Camry, polished to a high sheen. Nelson parked alongside it and walked into the store. Inside, he turned toward “The Collusion Corner.” A thin and youngish man dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis sat in serious conversation with Elvis. When the man saw Nelson, he rose and rushed across the store and caught Nelson in a tight embrace. When they had parted, the man said, “Gideon Nelson. Mr. Badass.”

            Nelson smiled. “Rick Duffey, Ace Reporter.”

            “Editor Emeritus now,” Duffey said. “Thanks to you.”

            “I hear my investment has paid off handsomely,” Nelson said.

            “One can only hope.” Duffey led Nelson to the table where Elvis sat. “And just when did you intend to stop and see your old partner in crime? I hear you’ve been back for a while.”

            “Stopped in twice,” Nelson said. “Both times you were in Caldron. I understand you now own the paper there as well.”

            “Double the pleasure. Double the debt,” Duffey said. “The folks up there begged me to take it off their hands before some national bunch bought it and quit publishing the news from all the rural churches.”

            “Does the Armistead Announcer still do that?”

            “Hell yes,” Duffey said. “How else would folks know that Mrs. Harry Roberts came to services with her nephew Hatchet Maynard, here on a weekend pass from the state pen in Calico Rock?”

            “Hatchet?”

            “Just a name he picked up in the football team’s shower back in high school.”

            Nelson thought for a moment and then laughed. “Are you trying to tell me he is a strutting man”?

            “Strutted himself right into bed with a fifteen-year old girl or, as they call them around here, a ‘slow starter.’ Now he’ll have to post a sign in his yard, when he gets out, stating that he is a sexual predator. She was Pastor Cody’s youngest daughter and half the men in Armistead County are thinking, ‘Hell that could have been me.’ They keep that type prosecution up and there won’t be a high school football team in state in a few years. These are good times for news hounds. That why you told the proprietor here,” he said nodding at Elvis, who had been quietly listening, “that you needed to see me?”

            Nelson nodded. “You know what I’ve been up to, don’t you?”

            “I hear things.”

            Nelson leaned forward. “I thought you might want to help plant the seed for a future scoop.”

            “I’m listening.”

            Elvis rose and walked toward the soft drink cooler. Nelson leaned back and looked Duffey in the eyes. “Wealth and fame haven’t made you honest, have they?”

            Elvis returned and sat three Diet Cokes on the table. “Hell,” he said. “Old Rick here has gained so much stature that he has been trading diphthongs with old Amanda Courtney.”

            Nelson arched an eyebrow. “She’s back in town?”

            “Back in the state and claiming no kin to her recently incarcerated father who, by all accounts, is pretty much enjoying life in maximum security,” Elvis said.

            Duffey reddened. “She comes into town on bank business,” he said. “She handles some of the advertising and that brings her to the newspaper. She wants to talk about publicity, ads and stuff.”

            “As I heard,” Elvis said, interrupting, “to check on a new insertion.”

            Duffey frowned. Nelson laughed. “I’ve missed you guys,” he said. “Now,” he said, turning to Duffey, “can we move from deep insertions to deep background?”

            “What sort of semi-ethical escapade do you want me to join you in?”

            “Simply reporting the truth,” Nelson said. “For you newspaper types, that’s a noun indicating the existence of honesty, accuracy, and conformity with facts.”

            “Heard of it,” Duffey said. “Doesn’t sell worth a damn.”

            “Will you two white devils cut the crap and get down to business,” Elvis said. “My noon crowd’s gonna come in any minute, and I might miss something.”

            Nelson and Duffey both laughed. “Here’s the deal,” Nelson said, and the conversation became serous.

            Nelson left Barker’s as the noon traffic began to build. He shook hands with Duffey before they drove away in opposite directions. Nelson drove toward Armistead and, arriving there, drove to the courthouse. He had to park in the next block because a group of pickup trucks occupied the spaces in front of the building. He walked to the Sheriff’s office at a slow pace, looking around him with his arms in position for ready action. Reaching the office, he entered and found a group of the Soul Warriors occupying folding chairs that had been moved in to handle the temporary crowd. Their eyes filled with hot anger as he walked by.

            Nelson stopped at Mrs. Matterson’s desk and caught a mischievous smile. He winked and said, “Guess he’ll be tied up for a while?”

            “Actually no,” she said. “He’s interviewing his last … uh,” she glanced toward the seated group, “visitor now.”

            At that moment, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Bully Bridges emerged, clutching a worn baseball cap with a large cross stenciled on the front. When he saw Nelson, he stiffened for a moment, made eye contact, and then turned his eyes to the other men who rose as one. As he walked past Nelson, he brushed him slightly with a shoulder and, in an almost silent whisper, audible to Nelson only, said, “Soon.”

            Nelson watched the group leave. After the last one exited, he turned and smiled at Mrs. Matterson. He shook his head toward the sheriff’s office and said, “May I go in?”

            “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you,” she said. “Would you like for me to fetch some spray and fumigate the room first?”

            “We’ve smelled worse,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “At least I’m sure he has.” He turned and walked to the door and knocked softly. A voice from within yelled, “Come on in.”

            Once seated, Nelson related to the sheriff all his activities of the day thus far. Sheriff Love listened intently, nodding from time to time. Once he interrupted. “Do you trust all these fellers?” he asked. “You don’t know this man that lives with you that well, or his girlfriend.”

            “I think I know them well enough,” Nelson said. “I think they can pull off the act as a loving couple that well. And you know the local boys,” he said. “They’ll do anything as long as it has a little deceit and trickery involved.”

            The sheriff nodded, and then raised his head to think. Lowering it and nodding toward the reception area, he abruptly altered course. “You know what those motherfuckers told me?” he said.

            “That they love Jesus?”

            “Pretty much,” the Sheriff said. “They all claimed that they didn’t know nothing about no dead colored girl … although they used a different adjective.”

            “Isn’t that what you expected them to say?”

            “Yeah,” the sheriff said, “but that wasn’t the crazy part.”

            “Oh?”

            “Get this. They claimed they only hung out at that club in the woods to hunt during season and to conduct bible studies at other times. Can you fuckin’ believe it?”

            “Bible studies?”

            “Bible studies. They also claim to be spend time renovating the old cabins the original owners built there.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and said, “Oh yes, and cleaning the place, that being next to godliness, you know.”

            “Well,” Nelson said. “As you folks say down here, ‘I’ll swan.’”

            “Indeed,” the sheriff said. “Now what did you find out at the club while I had them all here?”

            “It was locked,” Nelson said. “I poked around the entrance and made sure they knew that I had been there.”

            “Good,” the sheriff said. “That’ll piss them off. Did you notice anything strange?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said, “but there was this one small thing that seemed odd for a hunting club.”

            “Oh? And what was that?”

            “There were no postings prohibiting hunting. You know … the purple paint and all that.”

            “No shit?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “just one sign with a skull and crossbones stating that trespassers would be shot on sight.”

 

Mourning

 The second of the Beatitudes promises happiness to those who mourn. In typical fashion, the Galilean doesn’t specify the cause of the mourning. Is it for loved ones lost to death or separation? Is it for a family beset by the bad fortunes of the times? Is it for a nation beset by seemingly insolvable calamities? Is it for a dying world?

 These days it might be for the loss of a fortune, an election, a bet, a race, or a game of sport. He just doesn’t say. What he does say is that we should be happy because we shall be comforted. Perhaps the reason he wasn’t more specific is because mourning is universal. Each of us, or at least the overwhelming majority of us, mourn, and we can discuss it.

 Yes, there are some who apparently do not mourn, primarily because they lack the ability to face reality or perhaps they were born lacking the ability of introspection, and suffer blindness of the conscience.

 And there might be some who have reached the highest level of Abraham Maslow’s “hierarchy of needs,” a state of being he called “self-actualization.” This refers to having reached the highest level of human potential. Do they mourn? Maybe they mourn the most of all, for they, like the Galilean, know the struggle toward perfection. After all, his devout followers believe in his perfection. Even so, the scriptures sometimes reveal a tortured, mourning soul.

 This is a tough passage, for Americans have so many reasons to mourn at present. In ancient terminology, we observe that the righteous perish while the wicked goeth free. It appears to us that tribulations will never cease. Should we feel blessed?

 The devout followers of the Galilean should rest happy in the knowledge that they will be comforted. The blind composer of Christian hymns Fanny Crosby reportedly said, “Blind Christians are the most blessed, because the first face they will ever see is our Lord Jesus.”

 Others may take a non-spiritual comfort from Algernon Charles Swinburne, sometimes called “the poet-laureate of the atheists,” who told wrote that “… even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.”

 Then, some among us may choose to follow the Bard of Avon’s words and, “ … take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.”

 The Galilean seems to have left it up to us. Perhaps we’ll handle it better than Hamlet did.

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.