Excerpt

“Gaetano, is this the exit?” she asked, feeling the metal surface like a blind person, trying to discover the handle. At that moment, Gaetano grasped the knob, pushing wide the heavy door.

“Thank God! The way out.” Clara breathed a long sigh of relief.

Gaetano took her hand and tugged her outside. A torrent of water assaulted them so they wasted no time stumbling down an overgrown path alongside the castle ramparts. Upon reaching the main entrance, they peered cautiously around. As far as they could tell, no one stood guard so they darted across the castle grounds, slipping in the sodden grass.

Clara prayed that they couldn’t be seen.

They passed through the gate, broke into a run and didn’t stop until they’d reached the car. Once inside, with the pack stashed in the back seat, they removed their drenched jackets. Gaetano pulled away from the curb without turning on his headlights. After a few hundred meters, he flicked the headlights on, speeding through the deserted streets.

Clara took a prolonged drink from her water bottle before speaking. “Gaetano, someone was there in the castle, I’m sure of it. Someone was watching us.”

He nodded, his dripping face looking grim. “I believe you, Clara.”

Copyright 2008 Judy Woods. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

It was dark when Hawk woke, damp and shivering, by the side of the river.  Instantly alert, he was aware he’d not awakened naturally, but had been startled awake.  He strained at the twilight with all his senses yet saw no movement, heard no sound but that of the river, smelled nothing but the rich, sweet scent of clean mud and the faint iron whiff of his own blood.
The night was unnaturally quiet.
Hawk frowned, his pulse racing.  He’d been out long enough that the land around him should have reverted to its natural state of activity.  The air should have been charged with the sound of nightlife.  Instead there was only silence, hushed and eerie.
His knife.  He could tell by the light weight of the empty sheath at his side that it was missing.  Glancing down, he caught sight of a faint glimmer of light from the blade.  It lay where it had fallen when he’d dropped it, lodged in a crevice between roots.  Taking it up in his hand, he eased into an upright position.  His hair, still damp, hung around him in ropes as he bent to the arduous task of cutting away, as silently as he could, the other leg of his trousers.  He couldn’t walk with a bullet grating against the bone in his leg and he couldn’t swim carrying the weight of drenched buckskin.
As the knife sliced through the last inch of water-logged leather he heard the crack of a dead limb.  His head snapped around.  He held his breath, listening.
The sound had come from upstream.  In its wake, silence fell deeper than ever.  Something walked the land tonight, something the forest did not welcome.  Something that had silenced the songs of the night and caused him to awaken.  Skinwalker.  Now, instinctively, he hid from it the way the other creatures had, and like them, waited for it to pass.
Over time, the race of the river had hollowed out a small pocket beneath the roots of the oak tree.  Hawk dragged himself deeper into the black shadows until he was hidden from view, except for his injured leg, which stuck out stiffly before him.
A rustle of leaves. A clatter of limbs.  A sharp chirp and a flutter of wings as a bird took to the night sky.  Hawk’s grip tightened on the hilt of the knife.  He sensed the ominous thud of footfalls against the earth, one after the other, imagined it coming for him, huge and forbidding, a monster, its shaggy head swinging ponderously back and forth, its quivering nose snuffling the air, following the scent of his blood through the night.  Hawk could smell it too, rank and diseased, ripe with the stink of death and corruption.
A shower of debris rained down from the edge of the bank overhead.  Hawk could sense it standing above him, could hear its harsh, wheezing breath almost directly overhead.
A beam of light flicked out over the bank.  It skipped across the glittering surface of the river and found the rocky shoreline beneath the riverbank.  The light bobbled across his injured leg, then came back to it.
There was a sound of low laughter and the skidding of rubber-soled running shoes on rock as someone dropped over the bank onto the shore.
“Well, well.  Look what washed up out of the river…”
Terry Harland.
And yet, and yet, it wasn’t Terry Harland that had frightened the night into quiescence.  Nor was it Terry Harland’s rotten stench that Hawk could smell.
“Pee-yew!” Harland exclaimed as he shone the flashlight into Hawk’s tiny cave.  “What the hell have you been rolling in, boy?”
Hawk held up a hand to block the light and glared at him from eyes that were shadowed and angry and filled with the helpless, bitterly triumphant thought that Terry Harland deserved exactly what he was about to get.  His attention split, half of it with Harland, the other half on the opposite bank of the river, for there was true evil loose in the night, and it was staring at them both from edge of the woods on the other side.
Struck by the intensity of Hawk’s attention on the opposite shore, Harland turned to see what he was staring at.  Shocked, he staggered back a step.
“What the hell is that?” he whispered.  The flashlight dropped from his fingers.  It clattered against the rocky shore and its beam of light died, leaving them in darkness.
Yet they had no trouble seeing the beast, no more so than it had seeing them.  Of that, Hawk was certain.  Ephemeral, surrounded by the glow of a blood red aura, it seemed to burn from within with a hellish magic.  It wavered in and out of reality, one moment seeming solid, the next seeming no more substantial than the ghosts of river mist that presaged the fall of night.
Harland began to pant with terror, unable to pull his eyes from the strange and awful apparition on the opposite shore.  Human in form and yet not human, it had two faces melded into one: the uppermost, the face of a rabid wolf; beneath it, the face of human insanity.  Both were draped with rotting lengths of wolf skin that hung like hair.  The beast’s hands were fisted, its yellow wolf-eyes riveted on them.  It crouched suddenly, as if it would drop to all fours.
The breath exploded from Harland in harsh, ragged gasps.  He dropped to the wet soil of the shore, scrabbling on his hands and knees in search of the flashlight, whimpering “what the fuck? what the fuck?” mindlessly, frantically, over and over again, a mantra to hold the supernatural at bay.
The creature moved.
One second it was standing on the opposite shore, staring at them with its baleful yellow gaze.  The next it had leaped off the bank and was running across the surface of the river toward them, its fisted arms pumping, a feverish grin stretching the human face into a grotesque parody of humor.  Its feet raised small, steaming splashes of water as it ran.
Harland squealed, a high-pitched, womanish shriek of terror.  Forgetting the search for the flashlight, he tried to scramble back up onto the bank he’d dropped down from so easily just moments before.
The beast reached their side of the river and splashed out of it in front of Hawk.  It bent over him, leering, bathing him in its moist, rancid breath.  Hawk almost shouted with fear as one clawed fist opened and dropped a small, feathered body into his lap.  Gasping with terror, he stared down at it in dismay.
It was a chickadee.
A dead chickadee.
His chest heaving, Hawk raised his eyes to the beast’s as it turned its leering grin on Terry Harland.

Copyright 2008 Helen Lloyd Montgomery. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

CHAPTER TWO

Bob Bielanski put the cheese-covered cracker in his mouth, chewed once, then looked for a place to spit. Finding none, he calmly swallowed and turned to Ken Abud.
“What is that?”
Ken shrugged. “Blue cheese?”
“It’s Stilton.” Daniel Lazar spread some on a cracker, and topped it with a berry. “It’s made in Britain from cow’s milk.”
Bob examined the cheese. “What’s the green stuff?”
“Mold.” Daniel popped it in his mouth, then turned and put their cheese plates in the sink.
Bob and Ken quietly spit the cheese into their napkins, crushed them into balls, and hid them in their pockets. Bob wiped his mouth with his hand and whispered to Ken. “He might’ve suggested I salt a cow pie and eat that.”
“You disappoint me, Bob.” Daniel faced them and set a crystal decanter on the island between them. The decanter was filled with liquid that resembled human blood. “If you want to write, you’ll have to experience the world. And for you Midwesterners, that means traveling beyond the flavor boundaries of high fructose corn syrup.” He set four glasses on the counter. Each was spotlessly clean. “Now finish your champagne.”
Bob and Ken knocked back their glasses.
Daniel lifted the decanter and poured until each glass was a third full. “Notice the color,” he began. “A touch of brown is normal for a wine this age.”
Bob picked up a glass. “How old is it?”
Daniel set down the decanter. “Twenty five years.”
Bob stared at the glass. “So the poets are correct when they say wine gets better with age?”
“Not all wines.” Daniel handed a glass to Ken. “But this one certainly qualifies.”
Bob sniffed it. “It all seems counterintuitive to me. I mean, if a wine’s so great, why wait twenty-five years to drink it? Shouldn’t it be great right away?”
Daniel picked up his glass. “Let me answer your question with some questions of my own. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you think you’re a great writer?”
Bob nodded. “I have my moments.”
“Then why wait 25 years to write something great? Why do you need to study with me?”
Bob looked at Ken.
Ken shrugged. “He has you there.”
Bob turned back to Daniel. “I guess that’s why you’re the professor.”
Daniel nodded, then cleared his throat. “All right, class. Who can recite a poem about wine?”
Ken piped up. “They ask thee concerning wine and gambling. Say `In them is a great sin, and some profit, for men. But the sin is greater than the profit.’”
“Ah, the Koran.” Daniel smiled. “But aren’t you falling into iniquity, Mr. Abud?”
“Hardly.”
“But your surname”¦.”
“My parents are Christians, from Lebanon.”
“Oh, thank God,” Daniel laughed. “I thought you were going to declare a Fatwah on me.”
Ken laughed too, but Bob interjected. “With all due respect, Dr. Lazar, that’s insensitive.”
Daniel looked indignant. “I was concerned for his soul.”
“You were concerned he might be a Muslim.”
Daniel glared at Bob. “Which would be an issue, when serving alcohol.” He turned to Ken. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” Ken looked uncomfortable.
Daniel turned to Bob. “Alright, Mr. Politically Correct. Your turn.”
Bob looked confused. “What?”
“Give us a poem about vino.”
Bob looked alarmed. “I haven’t had time to prepare. I’ve been grading papers.”
Daniel turned to Ken. “Have you been grading papers?”
Ken smiled, then nodded.
Daniel turned again to Bob.
Bob sighed, then closed his eyes. “I cried for madder music and for stronger wine”¦.But when the feast is finished “¦.”
Daniel whispered, “Come on”¦Ernest Dowson”¦.”
Bob shook his head. “Lost it.”
Daniel raised his voice. “But when the feast is finished, and the lamps expire, then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine.” He looked askance at Bob, then raised his glass. “Gentlemen, take your glasses, but don’t drink. Just rotate and sniff.” He put his nose deep in the glass, then came up for air. “I decanted this two hours ago. It’s just beginning to blossom.”
They heard the front door open, then shut. Next came the sound of high heels stabbing the hardwood floor. Seconds later, Marina Gomez entered the kitchen, swinging her purse. Bob and Ken stared at her pelvis, which was barely covered by a leather miniskirt. She stopped in front of Ken, hugged him; moved on to Bob, kissed him on the cheek; then walked up to Daniel and kissed him on the mouth. Bob looked away.
Daniel handed her his glass. “Don’t drink this yet.” He got the other glass for himself.
Marina’s long, painted fingernails wrapped around the stem. She put her nose to the rim. “Woah. Pretty musty. Can I mix it with Diet Coke?” She looked at Daniel’s face, then laughed. “Just kidding.” She stroked his cheek. “I know this is very special.”
Daniel explained, “It’s a 1982 Chateau Cos d’Estournel.”
Marina gasped. “That’s older than I am.”
Bob and Ken exchanged glances.
Daniel turned to Bob and Ken. “My turn.” Then he looked at Marina and clinked his glass to hers. “Wine comes in at the mouth, and love comes in at the eye; and that’s all we shall know for truth, before we grow old and die.”
Marina held her finger to his lips. “I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.” She smiled. “Yeats.”
Daniel touched her chin. “Look who’s moved to the head of the class.”
A phone beeped. Marina pulled a pink phone out of her purse, looked at the message, and frowned. “Sorry, I have to answer this.” She set her glass on the counter and started texting a reply.
Daniel again turned to Bob and Ken. “Gentlemen”¦drink.”
___________________________________________________

CHAPTER THREE

Vicky Heyerdahl sang along with Marvin Gaye, and for a moment there was peace in her world. It was just her and Marvin – alone – in Hurley’s Bar, singing “Let’s Get it On.” Then the train horn sounded, and reality came roaring back. The room began to shake. Whiskey bottles knocked against vodka and gin. Vicky cursed, ran to her remote and turned up the volume. When that wasn’t enough, she stood next to one of the speakers, putting her ear against the fabric. At the counter, two men hunkered over their drinks.
Ronnie Odom heard the music from the men’s room. He sat in one of the stalls, holding an open phone. The display showed a photo of a young woman. She had black hair, brown skin and black eyes that looked warily at him.
The music got louder. Ronnie heard someone step into the bathroom.
“Hey, Ronnie?” It was Rusty Stubbs.
Ronnie growled. “What?”
“Vern wants another shot. It’s your round.”
Ronnie heard Vern Krpan shout from the bar. “Tell him to stop jerking off and get in here.”
Ronnie reached for more toilet paper. “Tell Vern to fuck himself and order another round.”
“But,” Rusty hesitated. “It’s your turn.”
“I’LL PAY IT!” Ronnie looked at the phone again. “Now get out of here.”
Rusty shut the door.
Ronnie looked at the message he composed:
I luv U Marina. Walk U 2 Ur car 2nite?
He hit Send and flushed the toilet. Afterwards, he stood at the sink, washing his hands. His phone beeped. Hands still wet, he picked it up and looked at the display.
Begone, limpdick
Ronnie threw the phone at the wall and watched it shatter. He turned on the faucet and splashed water in his eyes. Next, he dried his face with a paper towel, then used it to blow his nose. Finally, he straightened his shoulders and looked in the mirror. His gaze fell on the shoulder patch on his jacket. At the top arched the words “Normal State University.” At the bottom curved “Police.”
A moment later, he walked over the phone fragments and through the door. The music smacked him in the face. Once his vision cleared, he saw Rusty and Vern at the bar. Their crew cuts pointed towards Vicky.
Vicky remained by the speaker, eyes closed. She pulled back her hair and tied it in a pony tail. Ronnie sat down, finished his beer and called for another round.
Vicky, of course, didn’t hear him. Ronnie waved his glass in the air. “Hey, Vick! We’re dyin’ here!”
Vicky opened her eyes and looked at him. After a few seconds, she walked toward the refrigerator. Rusty and Vern sat transfixed as Vicky put each boot directly in front of the other. Her wrists bent upwards and her fingers snapped silently.
Ronnie ignored the show and lit a cigarette.
Vern leaned toward Ronnie. “Why not her? I bet she looks good under those jeans.”
Ronnie put his lighter away, then shouted back. “Rule Number One”¦. Never shit where you drink.”
The men were silent as Vicky approached the counter. She set down a beer for Ronnie, a shot for Vern, and a rum-and-coke for Rusty. That done, she walked to the other end of the bar where she’d parked her cigarette.
Vern stared at his shot glass. “I don’t know,” he said loudly. “Maybe I ought to go alone on this.”
“Uh-uh.” Ronnie shook his head. “Rule Number Two”¦.Stick together, if you want some action.”
Vern looked away. “I can get a date on my own.”
Ronnie looked at Rusty. “Hear that? Vern thinks he can get a date on his own.”
Rusty cupped his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear anything.”
Ronnie reached over the bar, picked up the remote and turned down the music.
Vicky stared at him, the tip of her cigarette glowing brightly.
Ronnie cocked his head and stared into Vern’s face. “How you gonna get a woman to sit down with your ugly ass and have a drink?” He pointed at Vern. “Look at you. You got no money, no education, and you smell of jail. Even the skanks are gonna pass you by.”
Vern scowled at him. “You think you’ll improve my chances?”
Ronnie put up his hands. “Hey I’m no Adonis, but I get results. And if you want to get laid, you’ll stick with my plan.” He smiled. “And share in the spoils.”
Vern wrinkled his forehead. “Why do you need me? You guys could do this on your own.”
“Rule Number Three.” Ronnie looked him in the eye. “Never look a gift ho’ in the mouth. “ Ronnie’s face remained serious. “And this one’s beautiful. And young. Man, her ass is so tight, you could bounce a quarter off it.”
“What about her tits?”
Ronnie squinted as he sucked on his cigarette. “Come on, man, you’ve seen the tapes. They’re gorgeous.”
Vern thought a second. “Which one is she?”
Ronnie exhaled smoke. “The one on all fours.”
Vern snorted. “That narrows it.”
Ronnie leaned close to Vern. “Long”¦black”¦hair.”
Vern nodded slowly. Then he crossed his arms. The sleeve of his t-shirt pulled up, revealing a tattoo of a cross encircled by a snake. “I still don’t know why you need me.”
Ronnie smiled slyly. “She’s a spirited one. It’ll take two to hold her down.”
Vern put his elbows on the counter and leaned his chin on his hands. “I don’t know. You and Rusty got no priors. I’m the one who’s fucked if we get caught.”
“We won’t get caught.”
“How do you know?”
Ronnie crushed out his cigarette. “Because I scoped out the target. I know when she’ll be alone, and for how long. Plus, I know how to pin it all on someone else.”
“The professor?”
“Yeah.” Ronnie nodded. “The professor.”
Vern looked at his drink, which he hadn’t touched.
Ronnie raised his voice. “How much longer can you wait, bro? It’s been two years since you even smelled a woman. If I were you, I’d be chompin’ at the bit. Unless”¦.”
“Unless what?”
Ronnie stifled a smile. “Unless you’re used to bein’ the bitch.”
Vern grabbed Ronnie’s collar and cocked back his fist. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your eyes out and fuck your skull. You hear?”
Rusty stepped around and politely – but firmly – removed Vern’s hand from Ronnie.
Vern yanked his hand free and glared at Rusty. “What’s he paying you, anyway?”
Rusty smiled gently. “You forgot Rule Number One.”
Ronnie nodded. “That’s right.” He watched Rusty sit back down, then looked at Vern. “This place may be a dump. But it’s safe here, as long as we’re cool.”
“What about her?” Vern indicated toward Vicky. “What if she hears us?”
Ronnie laughed. “Man she’s so high, she don’t know what day it is.” Ronnie slid the shot glass closer to Vern. “Look. You could buy a bitch tonight. But then you won’t eat for two days. Aren’t you tired of choosing between sex and food?” Ronnie spread his arms wide. “Brother, you can have it all if you do like us.” He smiled. “And I’ve practically gift-wrapped this one for you. All you need to do is show up. No one will know a thing. Not even her.”
Rusty laughed. “That’s a good one.”
Vern remained silent.
Ronnie leaned closer to Vern. “Come on,” he smiled. “Who’s ready to howl tonight? Vern the Sperm, that’s who.” He turned to Rusty. “Ain’t no pussy’s safe around this guy. He might show you a thing or two.”
Vern looked over. “Vern the what?”
Ronnie grinned. “That’s what we called you in Baghdad.”
Vern pushed Ronnie back. “I never heard that.” He glanced at his drink. “What’s her name, anyway?”
Ronnie grinned. “Marina.”
Vern wrinkled his forehead. “Sounds Mexican. She fat?”
“No, she got a little brown body. Like you saw on tape.”
Vern stared straight ahead. “I watched a dozen of those tapes, including that one with the president.” He shivered. “When’s this Marina alone?”
“Tonight at ten. That’s when the Professor leaves.”
Vern looked at the clock. It was 7:40.
Rusty stood. “Mind if I watch TV? I heard this before.”
Ronnie grabbed his beer. “Knock yourself out.”
Ronnie and Vern watched Rusty escort his drink to table across the room. He took a seat and stared up at the screen.
Vern turned to Ronnie. “Why’s he in this?”
Ronnie looked insulted. “We’re a team, remember?”
Vern scoffed. “That team hasn’t worked together in two years.”
“Well, it’s together again.” Ronnie grinned. “Plus, he thinks I’m still in command.”
Vern sniffed. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Who goes first?”
Ronnie patted Vern’s shoulder. “You do.”
“Wrong.” Vern pushed him away. Ronnie’s hand knocked against his bottle, spreading beer across the counter.
Vern growled. “The Professor goes first.” He downed his shot and slammed the glass on the counter.
Ronnie remembered the Professor from the videos. In one, he stood naked behind Marina, his face contorted while she bent forward, screaming things Ronnie never heard a woman scream before. Her voice echoed throughout Ronnie’s apartment. A neighbor pounded the wall, shouting “Enough, already!”
Ronnie took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. It tasted like dry oak leaves. He crushed it in the ashtray and reached for another.
He first met the Professor five years ago at a porn shop called The Grotto.
“Call me Daniel.” Professor Lazar extended his hand.
Ronnie was there to rent videos. He was surprised, and annoyed, to meet someone who wasn’t shopping.
Daniel was selling. “I specialize in erotic poetry,” he announced to the small crowd. “But I also write novels and short stories that focus on other aspects of human intercourse.” He smiled. “Not merely the goalposts.”
No one in the store appeared to understand, or care.
Daniel kept going. “My next one is called `Surrender.’” He started reading.
It was a seduction poem. Ronnie thought it similar to several plots he’d rented, so he stopped listening. He walked to Fish Friedman, who stood behind the counter.
“What do you think?” asked Fish.
Ronnie shrugged, and put the tapes on the counter.
Fish examined the tapes. “You know, we’re converting our entire library to DVD. Why don’t you just buy these?”
Ronnie thought a second. “How much?”
“Thirty bucks gets the whole lot.”
Ronnie grimaced. “For that price, I can get a real bitch. Make it ten.”
Fish laughed. “For that price, I might as well give ‘em to the homeless shelter. Make it twenty.”
“The shelter don’t allow porn. Make it Fifteen.” Ronnie put the cash on the counter.
Fish took the bills and put them in the register. “You’ll be back. Those tapes are wearing out.”
Ronnie pointed back at Daniel. “Who’s he?”
“English professor. New guy at the university.” Fish started entering data from a stack of DVDs. “He offered to read his poems if I’d sell his books. I think he’s good. They’re on sale for twenty bucks. Make a nice stocking stuffer”¦.”
The Marvin Gaye song ended, and the next train began. Ronnie took the cigarette out of his mouth and examined it. This one tasted as bland as the previous two. Perhaps the carton was old. Or maybe his taste buds were dull. Even the beer was boring — or what was left of it. The toppled glass still lay on the counter, which was wet all over.
“True,” he said, nodding. “The Professor goes first.” He looked down the counter at Vicki. “Hey Vick,” he shouted, “can we get a cleanup here?”
Vicky didn’t look at him. “I cleaned this mornin’. I ain’t cleanin’ again “˜til you boys leave.”
The horn blast grew louder, and the bottles started rattling again. Ronnie walked behind the counter, grabbed a towel, and wiped until the towel was soaked. Then he tossed it on the floor. Next, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and refilled Vern’s shot glass. Finally, Ronnie opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer and returned to his seat. Before sitting, he tossed a few bucks at Vicky. They floated to the floor, far from her.     Vicky stared at him, smoking.
The diesel engine passed, leaving behind the clacking sound of cars on the rails.
Vern leaned over his shot, which remained untouched. “I don’t know. You fucked me before.” He looked at Ronnie. “Remember that cathouse up the street?”
“Hey,” Ronnie shrugged. “It wasn’t my fault the police showed. Somebody must’ve said something.”
Vern was silent a moment. “Where were you that night?”
“I told you. I was with Sabrina.”
Vern stared at Ronnie. “Sabrina told me you left.” He needled him. “She said you didn’t do anything.”
“Oh that’s bullshit.” Ronnie straightened. “I fucked her three times. Of course, she wouldn’t remember “˜cause she was high. You gonna believe a junkie?”
“Hey, that’s what she said”¦.”
“Well the bitch was on crack.”
“All right, then.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever you say, Ronnie.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well”¦.” Vern tilted his head.
“Well, what?”
“That doesn’t explain why I got arrested and you didn’t.”
“Sure it does.” Ronnie lit another cigarette. “I was at the end of the hall. You were close to the stairs. When the cops came, I had time to climb out the window.”
Vern glared at him. “You got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Sure do. I even bailed you out next morning, didn’t I?”
“With Nadine’s money.”
“Hey,” Ronnie exhaled smoke. “I told her you got arrested for parking tickets, but the bitch found out.”
“Don’t call her a bitch. And you shouldn’t have told her.”
“Look,” said Ronnie, “I thought since she was a kid she wouldn’t ask questions, you know. But she did. That ain’t my fault.”
“She wasn’t a kid.”
“Sixteen ain’t a kid?”
“Old enough to drive.”
Ronnie coughed. “What, your car or your cock?” He tapped his ash. “You know, that’s how stupid you are. If you’d eloped, you could’ve avoided prison time.”
Vern glared at him.
Ronnie shook his head. “Fuck, man, it was bad enough she was your cousin.”
Vern looked away. “What’s wrong with that. She wasn’t my sister.”
“No, Vern. She’s the daughter of your daddy’s sister.”
Vern managed a smile. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cousins. Kings and queens do it.”
“Yeah, just ask Prince Charles where he got those ears.” Ronnie examined his cigarette, then crushed it in the ashtray. He got up, walked to the vending machine, and fed a five-dollar bill into the slot.
Vern stared at Ronnie’s back. “You shouldn’t have told her that stuff, Ronnie.”
“What stuff?” Ronnie growled as the machine rejected his money.
“That”¦genetic stuff.”
Ronnie flattened the bill and tried again. “The only thing I said was any kids you might have”¦might have problems. You know.”
“Like what?”
“Genetic problems.” The machine accepted the money, and Ronnie selected his brand. The pack fell to the bottom. “Anyway, let’s not dwell on the past. We’ve got big plans tonight.”
“You said the kid would end up retarded.”
Ronnie gathered his change. “Retarded, slow, missing teeth. Anyway,” he reached down, “Nadine was right to get an abortion. That kid would’ve been a freak. Have you seen my lighter?”
Ronnie’s face smashed into the vending machine. A second later, Vern’s hands spun him around. Ronnie took a punch to the stomach, then to the face. Lying on the floor, he felt for his pistol. Not finding it, he struggled to his feet and saw Vern pointing it at him.
Rusty ran towards Vern, but stopped when he saw the gun.
Vern’s forehead glistened with sweat. He aimed the pistol at Ronnie’s face. “Lost something, Mr. Rent-a-Cop?”
Ronnie’s eyes widened. “Vern”¦.”
Vern stepped closer. “That kid would’ve been fine, Ronnie. But you kept filling her head with all that DNA bullshit, and she kept listening.” He pointed the pistol at his chest. “I loved Nadine. We could’ve been happy. But you fucked it up.”
Ronnie stepped back until he bumped the vending machine. He looked at the exit. He saw Rusty, looking helpless with a drink in his hand. Ronnie turned back to Vern.
Vern was shaking. “But she went to that doctor, and got that infection. Now she can’t get pregnant, and she blames me.” He aimed the pistol at Ronnie’s face. “And all this time, we should be blaming you.”
Chick-chack.
Vicky aimed a shotgun at Vern. “Vern, I want you to bring that gun over here”¦slowly”¦and put it on the counter. Do you hear me? VERN!”
Vern turned his head toward Vicky, but otherwise didn’t move.
Vicky held the shotgun steady. “Vern, I already mopped this floor, so I’d rather not wipe your brains up. But I will if you don’t do as I told you – NOW.”
Vern stepped back, still pointing the pistol at Ronnie. He looked at Vicky again; her aim was steady.
“Put it on the counter,” she said.
Slowly, Vern walked over and set it down.
Vicky pointed the barrel at a stool. Vern sat.
Vicky grabbed the pistol with one hand, while the other aimed the shotgun at Ronnie. “And you,” she glared at Ronnie, “every child has a right to live, no matter how dumb or freakish. You jackasses are living proof.” She glanced at the pistol. “Oooh”¦.Glock. I’m keepin’ this.”
Ronnie begged. “Aw come on, Vic. That’s not mine. I borrowed it from the Chief. What do I tell him?”
“I guess somethin’ other than you lost it in a bar.” Vicky waved the pistol in the air. “Its time to put some money on the counter, boys. You ain’t tipped me yet.” Vern put two bucks on the counter. Ronnie slapped down a Five.
Vicky grabbed the money and put the pistol behind her belt. Then she waved the shotgun. “Now somebody play me some Al Green.”

Read more about Death & Circumstance and Clinton Sivert HERE.

Copyright 2008 Clinton Sivert. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Samuel Barnes stood, staring out the window of his room in a D.C. rooming house. It was his 45th
birthday, and all he could think about was her.
He barely noticed the dark and overcast August morning, the phalanx of pedestrians heading to work, the
seemingly eternal clog of vehicles on the nearby freeway. During this moment, a rerun of several such past
moments, his mind was overrun with images of blissful times, long since passed. The images were vivid to
him, almost as if he were experiencing them and living them at that moment.
Mavis greeting him on birthday mornings, with a wide smile and breakfast in bed.
Mavis calling him during the day at work just to say “I love you” and perhaps to utter some sensual words that would help
him through his day.
His mind focused on the day of his 37th birthday, eight years ago. It was one of the best days of his life;
second only to the day that he married Mavis on a sunny April day twenty-three years ago. Mavis had greeted
him after work with a big kiss and a smile. Afterwards, she had led him to the dining room, where his favorite
meal of lightly seasoned prime rib, collard greens seasoned with smoked turkey, and macaroni and cheese sat
on the table next to a homemade birthday cake and an unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio. She had then coyly
announced that she had conveniently arranged for their kids, Erica and Michael, to spend the day and night at
Samuel’s mother’s home. She would then flash a sly smile and lift her eyebrows to let Samuel know that it
would be a memorable evening.
Then one year later, suddenly, she was gone. To the media, she was just another statistic, the 257th murder
victim of the year in D.C.
It comforted him to remember the good times they shared together. Gracious, how he loved that woman
and everything about her, especially her sweet personality and easy-going manner. She had a face that glowed
with joy and promise, and a body that was just perfect. He was certain he would never find another woman
like her, and to respect her memory, he never tried. He had to focus on being a single father to his son
Michael, to try to assure a promising future for his boy, despite the fact that the tike missed his mom and
would occasionally act out in school because of it.
As much as it comforted him to think about the good times, the thoughts also occasionally fueled his
lingering anger and engaged his residual guilt. He wished he had more strongly urged her not to walk alone to
the store after dark, and he wished he had not been working late that night so he could have been with her.
But when his headstrong wife wanted something done, she had to do it immediately. She figured it would
take just ten minutes to walk to the store; dash in and grab some bread, milk, and cereal for the kids; and then
head home.
That fateful day, Mavis was on her way home, crossing the street at the corner of Oates and Lauren
Streets, when someone struck her from behind with the butt of his pistol. He snatched her purse and fired
two bullets in the back of her head, without a care in the world of who was looking. He retreated with her
purse and a few dollars, leaving Mavis splayed dead at the intersection, her blood mixing with the spilled milk
and cereal on the sidewalk.
Samuel didn’t understand why someone would shoot his wife dead just to rob her of a few dollars. He
didn’t understand why the police seemed so disinterested in solving the crime and why seven years later,
despite sufficient forensic evidence at the scene, the murderer has yet to be caught. All he knew was that out
there was an evil, heartless man who deprived him of his heart and joy, just to get a quick high. And that man
was probably still walking the streets, probably laughing about the lives he destroyed.
It was the moment that a spirit of bitterness had begun to take root in Samuel.
Samuel shook his head and turned away from the window. He glanced at his 10-year-old son, who was
still sleeping in the rollaway bed on the other side of the room. His son’s cherubic face, lying on the pillow
seemingly at rest, only reminded him of the next tragedy in his life.
His daughter Erica was only 17 years old when she left home to go to a party one night five years ago. She
never returned. Police had yet to find any trace of her. Some D.C. detectives investigating the case bluntly
told Samuel that they suspected that his daughter was dead. “After all, that’s how these missing persons cases
usually end up,” they had said. Samuel accepted that conclusion without much difficulty. After the murder of
his wife, it was easy for him to believe that he was God’s personal latrine. And Samuel knew how smart and
tenacious his daughter was. If she were still alive, she would have found a way to communicate with him, to
let her know where she was. No, she was dead.
And he knew exactly who had killed her.

Copyright 2008 Louis Jones. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter Eight
An Elephant Cage to Die For

ur military transport plane was in a holding pattern over Misawa Air Base, Japan. The aircraft scheduled to land before us ran into some problems with its landing gear so the maintenance crew down on the ground had foamed the whole runway. Ambulances and fire trucks were spread out all across the flight line. After a couple of dozen tries, the pilot had finally gotten the gear locked in place and was able to land safely. We were just circling until the mess was cleaned up and some of the emergency vehicles moved out of the way.

The captain of our little ship, having some time on his hands, switched over into his role as tour guide. The best ones do that, I have noticed. I cannot begin to count the bus drivers and airplane pilots who have made me curl up into a gasping wheezing belly laugh with their shenanigans, their preposterous hyperbole which is intended to calm the nerves of their passengers—put them at ease—whenever the situation aboard moves from normal to abnormal or even scary. Every one of us riding that U.S. Air Force transport knew that another plane had just barely avoided disaster minutes before. Gulp! Is it going to happen to us, too? Not if your jolly tour guide can help it. We might go down, if it was the Lord’s will for us to die that day, but we’d go down laughing.

The best of these tour guides I’ve ever encountered was a chipper old Southwest Airlines pilot who brought us safely through a terrible thunderstorm over Las Vegas. This was years after Misawa, of course. “Alright, everybody,” our hot rodding SWA pilot informed us that day, “we’re going to have to make a drop of about two thousand feet to get out of this storm and we’re going to have to do it REAL QUICK, if you get me. So, I want ya’ll to suck up your stomachs just as tight as you can. That’ll be tougher on some of us than others, but we’re just going to have to suck all together now on the count of three. Ready, now? And a One! And a Two! And a Three! SUCK IT UP! SUCK IT UP! SUCK IT UP!”

After that third “Suck it up!” old good-time Charlie of Southwest Airlines, formerly known in Texas and surroundings as Tree Top Airlines gave out a battle cry that sounded exactly like this: WHEE-EEE! WHEE-EEE! WHEE-OOOSH! And we plummeted down and out of the storm and continued our trip. One of the stewardesses confided to me later that we had actually dropped closer to three thousand feet—more than half a mile—but that the pilot thought we would feel better if he told us it was only going to be two thousand feet. The maneuver was necessary because the thunderstorm had suddenly intensified and had the potential to knock us out of the sky without warning. That would have entailed a considerably longer free fall of about seven miles followed by a very sudden stop.

The Air Force pilot who brought seven ditty bops fresh out of Tech School safely onto the tarmac of Misawa Air Base in August 1965 was a Captain named Blaine Knowles. I remember his name because, incredibly, I had the pleasure of flying with him three more times. Once, up to Wakkanai, Japan, on the very northern tip of the island of Hokkaido, and then a return trip to Misawa some six months later. Two months after that, it was Captain Blaine Knowles who had delivered me from Misawa to Tachikawa Air Base in the south near Tokyo where I would connect once again with Northwest Orient Airlines for my journey back to the United States. I began to wonder if the good Captain was the only transport pilot the Air Force was employing on the islands of Honshu and Hokkaido but I guess the reason for all our flights together was that our tours of duty more or less coincided. There weren’t that many passenger shuttles, so I guess he would have been piloting a large percentage of them. I even ran into Captain Knowles once down in AP Alley, a tiny street of wall-to-wall bars right outside the Main Gate at Misawa Air Base, which was a favorite watering hole for the airman on base, especially those who worked up on Security Hill. He had a two day layover and was tossing down a few whiskeys at a little place called Tony’s Bar, normally an exclusive hangout for members of USAFSS. Since most of the Security Service guys knew the old shuttle pilot, they welcomed him in like a brother, even made him the Semi-Official You-Saw-Fits Pilot of the Month. The partying Captain told me on that occasion that prior to Tony’s, he had been to the Bar Jimmy, the Flamingo, the Metro, the Prince, the Rhythm, the Black Pearl, the Top Hat and Toy’s which was a favorite among the DF crowd.

“How many is that?” he asked me in a voice that made me believe he had had more than one in each of the places he named.

“Oh, you’ve barely gotten started,” I answered. “There’s about twenty more bars here in AP Alley you haven’t made it to yet.”

“Naw,” said Captain Knowles. “This is my last bar. Not my last drink, though. You really should buy your old Captain a whiskey, you know. All the times I’ve driven you around this country and never charged you a dime. Set ’em up again, here, Cowboy! This young airman is buying.”

And so I did. You paid a hundred yen for a glass of whiskey in Misawa, Japan, back in 1965. At the exchange rate of three hundred and sixty yen for one U.S. dollar, I bought a whiskey for the Captain and one for myself and paid the bartender Cowboy what amounted to a little over four bits. Economical times, I tell you. Very economical times.

And money well spent. You wanted to stay on good terms with any officer in the United States Air Force. You never knew when you might need a character witness or a letter of recommendation. Or is it a character recommendation and a letter of witness? Something along those lines.

At any rate Captain Knowles was in fine form that Saturday morning as we circled Misawa. Gene and I and the other ditty bops were eager to land and get our “Machi Boots” on the ground. That was what old Tech Sergeant Bob Sharkey had said would be our first purchase once we arrived in Misawa. Machi boots were just high top rubber boots worn to protect your pants legs from the muddy or snowy conditions that always seemed to prevail in Misawa. The boots were also deeply serrated on the bottom which helped your traction in the ice and snow and usually but not always kept you from falling down if you had forked over too many one hundred yen notes down in the Alley that night.

Knowles was on his intercom pointing out to everyone the Buddhist shrines, the train station, Main Gate, Lake Ogawara and the North Mountains. Then he began his spiel about the Elephant Cage, that massive structure of concentric circles and silos that covered approximately forty acres of ground on the shores of Ogawara-Ko, which we called Lake Ogawara.

That was when Gene Thibodeaux and I began rolling our eyes at one another. We couldn’t go up there and take the microphone away from the man and announce to the others on the plane, “Shit, people. You know that ain’t no elephant cage. That’s the most sophisticated antenna in the world and it’s pointed directly at the Soviet Union over there. As soon as I get down from out of the air here and get assigned a position in the compound off to the left of that so-called cage which is really an AN/FLR-9 directional antenna, I’m gonna plug my headsets into the appropriate hole and start copying every dit and dah those communist bastards are transmitting.”

No, you couldn’t do that, of course. You could close your eyes and think, though: I know something you don’t know. Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!

Our man from the NSA, the National Security Agency, back at Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi had been Yuri Orrel. He was the only instructor we had for the Top Secret Codeword portion of our training as Morse Intercept Operators. He spent the better part of a week explaining to us how the AN/FLR-9 was the keystone to our national defense and part of the World Wide High Frequency Direction Finding System.

“Construction on the FLR-9 system at Misawa Air Base began in November 1963,” said Mr. Orrel. “That was not the only momentous event of that month, as you may recall, but, in the long run, the completion of the network of FLR-9 antennas at selected sites around the world may prove to be more significant in the history of our nation than the life or death of a single man. Just look at this thing, gentlemen!”

Everyone in the classroom looked at the color slide which Mr. Orrel had projected onto the screen covering the blackboard.

“Isn’t it magnificent? Isn’t it a dream? Isn’t it the damnest thing you ever saw?”

It certainly was. Half a century later, I still have about a hundred snapshots of that FLR-9. You definitely didn’t intend to photograph it on most of those occasions. It was just so damn big it was impossible to keep it out of the frame. There’s a picture of the Dawgs from Trick Four playing softball. The FLR-9 looms in the background like a Martian concert hall or something eerily similar. You’re having a picnic, playing golf, going down the little ski run on Security Hill, looking out the window of your room, walking to the Electron Theater or the Chow Hall and there it is…dominating your world. The FLR-9 at Misawa still exists today. You can google it up if you want. The damn thing is huge even when viewed from outer space. The mother of all antennas.

One of my favorite singers in the days I spent at Misawa was Dave Dudley. This probably confirms that I am indeed the hillbilly that Carson Little, my roomie back at Keesler, thought I was. But I don’t mind. Dave’s my man. In the Sixties he was singing Six Days on the Road (And I’m Gonna Make It Home Tonight) and other ditties like Phantom 309 and Truck Drivin’ Son of a Gun. One tearjerker among Dave Dudley’s ballads was a little item called Sugarland USA. Dave would sing in his old raspy voice that he was going back, going back to Sugarland USA. We had a Sugar Land down where I grew up. It was just a few miles south of Houston on U.S. Highway 59. They did for a fact make sugar in Sugar Land, Texas: Imperial Sugar. They don’t make it there anymore, of course, if you can imagine that: a town named after sugar that doesn’t have a sugar refining operation. Sugar Land is a fast-growing suburb of Houston now with high rises of its own and a smooth-talking Chamber of Commerce. Dave Dudley died of a heart attack a few years back and that’s probably just as well. I don’t think he’d want to go back to Sugarland anymore. I know I don’t.

But when I heard Dave Dudley sing about Sugarland USA back in 1965, I was no longer thinking about Sugar Land, Texas, but about a green-eyed girl named Annie Carver way across the Pacific Ocean over in Biloxi, Mississippi. Wherever Annie was, that was my Sugarland. One day, I knew, I would be going back to her, back to Sugarland.

Dave also sang a very funny song titled Give Me Forty Acres and I’ll Turn This Rig Around! Expert drivers can turn on a dime and back their trucks into places you never thought they’d fit, but Dave’s frustrated trucker needed a whole forty acres to turn his eighteen wheeler around. As I was looking out the window at the Elephant Cage, the FLR-9 which occupied exactly that much space, I thought, “Here it is, Dave! Here’s your forty acres. If you can’t turn that sucker around in there, you better give it up and get into another line of work!”

“In November of 1963, many more ships than usual began to arrive at the Japanese port city of Hachinoe,” Mr. Orrel had continued. “What was required to complete the FLR-9, in addition to tons of copper wiring and cables, were hundreds of monopoles and dipoles to support the concentric cages or fences which were to make up the structure. The inner ring of the FLR-9 at Misawa was to be a mere 210 yards across. The outer ring or screen was to be 366 yards in diameter. Trucks began to run day and night, back and forth, from Hachinoe to Misawa, throughout 1963 and 1964. There were giant silo-shaped tubes which were over 100 feet high that had to been transported and erected at Misawa. Many people still believe today that these tubes are missile silos, part of a nuclear strike force directed against the Soviet Union. They are not, of course. But rumors began to run rampant about just what this monstrosity was, this beautiful monstrosity, that is, that was employing thousands of Japanese locals as truck drivers and high rise construction workers. Several Japanese men would die building the FLR-9. One was thrown up in the air like a softball when an earthquake rumbled through the area. He landed a couple of hundred feet away. That’s when the myth of the Elephant Cage began to be used as a cover story. Too many people were asking questions. Too many people were devising their own answers. The funny thing about it all, fellows, is that everyone knew it was an antenna all along. That’s the way it was described in the American and Japanese newspaper articles of the time, a giant communications antenna. Of course, they reported the double-speak word for word as they got it from government people: Joint U.S.—Japanese project which will facilitate communications on the islands. Nothing in the articles about surveillance. Nothing about espionage. So, to be consistent, everyone began to explain it as an elephant cage. No one believed it of course but they suspected Security Hill people were a little off anyway and that just confirmed their suspicions. The FLR-9 is completed now, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thibodeaux. You others that are going to be stationed at Misawa. I envy you. I wish I was a young man again just to take part in this great experiment, this great adventure.”

“How much did it cost, sir?” asked Gene Thibodeaux. “I mean to build the whole thing? It looks very expensive.”

“The FLR-9 at Misawa cost right at one point two billion—that’s billion—yen to construct. At the current conversion rate, that’s a little over three point three million dollars. Quite a price tag, eh?”

I used to think about Mr. Orrel’s figure a lot. With whiskey at 100 yen a shot, how many drinks could I buy with a billion yen? What else could I buy in AP Alley with that kind of folding money? The answer was obvious: Anything you want, son. Anything at all.

Once our fearless pilot, Captain Knowles, put us safely on the ground, we were directed to a Blue Goose, an Air Force bus which would take the seven of us up the winding road to Security Hill which was separated by a lot of miles and a lot of other things from the Main Base at Misawa. Ahead of us, at the foot of the mountains, we could see beautiful Lake Ogawara and the dominating visage of the Elephant Cage.

Airman Second Class Cedric Burke was manning the orderly room on that last Saturday of August 1965.

“Welcome to Security Hill, gents,” said airman Burke. “I think you’re going to like it. The food is fantastic, the fishing is good, they’ve just put a brand new felt on the pool table over at the Rec Center, there’s a Annette Funicello movie starting at the Electron Theater tonight. I think it’s a different movie than her last one but sometimes I wonder if they don’t just change the sequence of the scenes, give it a new title, and send it back over here. If all this doesn’t excite you, well, there’s always our own little Ginza, Misawa-style—AP Alley and the Main Drag.”

“What’s AP Alley?” asked Enrique Nunez, one of our in-coming classmates from Keesler. He was a pretty good bantamweight boxer. Everybody called him Flaco. “No one told us about that.”

“Well, the AP part stands for the Air Police, of course,” answered Burke. “The Alley is just that: not one but two—actually—little elbow-shaped alleys which contain I don’t know how many bars. No one’s ever been able to count them or run them all. By the time you think you have them all identified, one of the bars will disappear and another one will take its place. Favorite hangout for people from Security Hill and also for our AP brethren whose mission in life is to stop you from having a good time. Totally humorless men, those APs. All brawn, little brains and no funny bone whatsoever. Your name, I take it, must be Nunez.”

“Why?” asked Nunez. “Because I’m the only Hispanic ditty bop here?”

“No,” said Cedric, “because I’m not blind. I can see your name tag plainly from here and it says Nunez.”

“Okay, I give up. I’m Nunez.”

“Airman Nunez, you’re going to be assigned to Able Flight. That’s Trick One, which is on its days off right now, so you’re out of work for the time being. I’m going to write your flight assignment, room number, everything you need to get around until you can be properly processed in next week. Hang onto this paper, it’ll get you into the Chow Hall temporarily and serve as identification if anyone questions your presence up here on the Hill.”

Flaco walked up and took the paper from airman Burke’s hand.

“Here’s how it works, guys. The work never stops in the Compound, or Gig, as they call it. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. There are four tricks or flights which work in the Gig: Trick One, Able Flight; Trick Two, Baker Flight; Trick Three, Charlie Flight; and Trick Four, which should be Delta Flight but is called Dawg Flight. That’s what the people on Trick Four want to call it, we just let it go. We’re not real sticklers for detail or protocol up here on the Hill. You’ll learn to appreciate that if, God forbid, you ever get reassigned to the real Air Force. You will work a rotating shift during your tour of duty here. They have experimented with the shift schedule off and on but the current madness involves working three evening shifts, three midnight shifts and three day shifts followed by three days off. It’s a bitch, just like it sounds, but you’ll get used to it. Now, Dawson and Young, where are you?”

“Yo!” said Eric Dawson. He was a tough, stocky guy who was known as “Big Red” to everybody.

“Here!” said Kevin Young, a quiet kid from Nebraska who had done fairly good in Tech School.

“You’ll be on Trick Three, Charlie Flight. They start mids on Sunday night. So, get settled into your rooms and report with your papers to the Gig at 2300 hours tomorrow night. They’ll process you there. Nunez, I forgot. Since you’re on days off, report back over here at 0800 hours Monday morning. They’ll start your processing so everything thing will be in order by the time Trick One gets back from its three day party.”

“What are we supposed to do until 2300 hours tomorrow night?” asked Kevin Young.

Dumbass! I thought. Never ask that question.

But A2C Cedric Burke had an answer for him.

“Any damn thing you want to,” said the orderly. “You’re You-Saw-Fits now. What do you think this is, the damn Air Force?”

We all laughed at that. I looked around the room and thought this must really be some kind of a freaky situation here. Seven out of twenty-five guys in our class back at Tech School had been assigned to Misawa. Out the window of the orderly room, however, I could see the AN/FLR-9 antenna. It wasn’t any coincidence that we were here, that the two airman who had accompanied Billy, Annie, Gene and myself to New Orleans back in April were also sitting here receiving their flight assignments. Misawa was big-time intelligence now. With its brand-new antenna and ideal location it was both perfectly equipped and perfectly situated to get some prime data back to the folks in Washington who would figure out what it meant and what to do about it.

Work had never really been a big thing with me. Of course I hadn’t had that many jobs at that point in my life. I was excited about this, however. I was ready to get into the Compound or the Gig or whatever the hell they called it and start chasing some dits and dahs. Let’s get this show on the road, folks!

Airman Burke addressed me.

“I saw you looking out the window, there, Thomas,” he said. “That thing is an Elephant Cage. Remember that. That’s our story and we’re sticking with it. You’re going to be asked about it a thousand times off base and every time they ask you, you’ll give them the old Elephant Cage rigmarole. They’ll think you’re an idiot when you tell it but they think that already about us, so it doesn’t matter. That’s not my directive, by the way. I’m just an orderly room clerk, granted, an orderly room clerk with a very high security clearance, so I don’t do directives. That comes straight down from Major Harry Prigget, the Commander of the 6921^st Security Wing. Major Prigget is alright if you meet him under pleasant circumstances. Don’t screw up, though. You don’t want him on your ass, let me advise you right now.”

We were all saying a silent prayer that our time would pass at Misawa without our even being noticed by Major Prigget.

“Okay, Thomas, that leaves you and who else?” asked Airman Burke. “Schmidt, Duncan and Thibodeaux. You’re all Dawgs, every damn one of you. Trick Four. The Dawgs, bless their little perverted hearts, are working their last midnight shift tonight. They’ll have their Roll Call in the morning and then go back on the day shift Monday. No point in you going in tonight. Report to the Gig at 0700 hours Monday morning for your first day on the job. Gentlemen, I welcome you all to the 6921^st Security Wing, best damn USAFSS site in the world. You’re going to work hard and play hard here. Remember to keep the two separate. Any questions?”

“What’s a Roll Call?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll find out,” said Cedric, smiling. “The guys in your barracks will be sure you’re present and accounted for. This will be your first Roll Call. You don’t want to miss it.”

I still didn’t know what a damn Roll Call was supposed to be. Can’t be much to it. Calling your name, I guess. Something like that.

Walking over to the Dawg Flight barracks, I snuck a peek at Gene’s paperwork.

“Damn, son, you and me are going to me roomies!”

“Well, my Daddy was a pistol,” said Gene, “and I’m a son-of-a-gun. What do you think about those biscuits, Bryan?”

“I think you’re not nearly as pretty as Carson Little, my last roomie, but you’ll do. Maybe we can develop some kind of meaningful relationship.”

“Go to hell, boy,” said Gene. “This is going to be strictly one of those plu-tonic situations of which I hear now and then. No way will I have your child. My mother wouldn’t stand for an ugly grandbaby like that.”

We threw our duffel bags in the room before making a mad dash to the Chow Hall. It was scheduled to close in a few minutes and we were both hungry as hell. The food wasn’t too bad. Maybe Sergeant McBride had been onto something. I don’t know if it was world-class cuisine or not, not having any basis for an opinion of that sort. Gene and I cleaned our plates, however, and then went back to the room and watched in amazement as mamasan made up our beds in sharp military style.

“We got maid service here,” said Gene. “I could get to like this.”

We stopped at the Post Office on our way to the Rec Center. We didn’t have mail boxes yet but Gene asked at the window and the clerk handed him a couple of envelopes.

“Well, looky here,” said Gene. “One from Momma and one from Linda. Can you beat that? And the boy has just arrived in town. You better check your mail, Bryan.”

I checked. I didn’t have anything. Shit!

We shot a few games of pool on the re-felted table Cedric Burke had recommended and then walked outside.

“Aren’t you going to read your letters, smartass?” I asked. I might have been a little pissed.

“Naw, I’m gonna save ’em,” said Gene. “I’ll probably read ’em aloud in the room later. You know. Share ’em with my new roomie.”

“Share this, sucker!” I said and then started laughing. I was over it. Hell, I would probably get plenty of mail in the next few days. And I did. In the thirty months I wound up spending in Japan I would accumulate enough letters to fill a good sized trunk. Hundreds of letters. I kept them all for many years and then, on one of the saddest nights of my life, I would feed them, one by one, into a bonfire I had built down on the beach at High Island, Texas.

“So what do we do now, seeing as how we have the night off?” Gene asked. “Shall we go to the Electron and watch Miss Annette play beach blanket bingo or beach blanket canasta or whatever she’s playing this time?”

So, I sang to my old bud: “M—I—C—K—E—Y!”

“M—O—U—S—E!” Gene sang back. “Bad idea, huh?”

“Very,” I said. “We’ll save Annette for a slow night. I’m going to check out this Static Club, drink one cold beer, and go back to the room for a while.”

“I’m with you, brother,” said Gene. “I’m just a one-beer man myself. You think they take this monopoly money in there.”

“I bet they do.”

Down at Tachikawa Air Base, when we had first arrived in the country, we had been advised to exchange our American greenbacks for military MPC and Japanese yen. The military currency—MPC—consisted of funny looking bills of the usual denominations but of some wild and fanciful colors. We immediately began calling it monopoly money. We were still on the gold standard in those days and an American buck was an American buck and it was never supposed to get into the hands of a foreigner. Unlike the border towns back in Texas where you could spend either dollars or pesos, the division was very strict in Japan. You spent MPC on base and Japanese yen off base. As long as it’ll spend, brother, I thought, you can call it whatever you want to.

The Static Club was more along the lines of dinky rather than plush. It was functional. It had to serve the needs of the four tricks, three of which were always working while the other one was off, not to mention the unofficial fifth trick, the so-called “day ladies” who worked straight days in the Compound and the few administrative types required to fill out the necessary paperwork on Security Hill. To serve all those needs, the Static Club stayed open twenty-four hours a day. It never closed. If you were coming off a swing or evening shift at 2300 hours at night and felt like a beer or a sandwich, no problem. It was usually more on the ratio of four beers to one sandwich, however. Now we are talking about a problem.

Gene and I picked up on this particular peculiarity about USAFSS people in Misawa early on in our tour. Our official motto, of course, in USAFSS was the well-known Freedom Through Vigilance. Our unofficial motto, one which was not as apparent to military historians or to our loved ones back home, was If You’re Not Working, You’re Drinking.

If you’re not working and you’re not drinking, what the hell are you doing, anyway? Spending time in the base library was not considered acceptable behavior. Ditto with going to church, watching flowers grow, or anything else which didn’t cause cirrhosis of the liver or lung cancer. Filtered cigarettes cost ten cents a pack at the Static Club. Unfiltered ones, like the Chesterfields I favored at that time, were nine cents. Most people smoked three packs a day, minimum. Some four or five.

If you could bribe a maintenance man in the Compound to supply you with a hundred foot extension for you headset cord, here is how your shift normally went. You came to work legally drunk. That was not out of the ordinary. That was the status quo. To sober up, so the dits and dahs pouring nonstop out of your headsets wouldn’t hurt your brain so much, you drank one cup of coffee after another and smoked continually. When your “Man” was quiet, when nothing was coming out of your headsets, you got up from your position, headsets still in place, and trailing your hundred foot cord, you walked the aisles and made rude obscene conversation with the other ditty bops who were dutifully copying their dits and dahs.

“Did I see you sneaking out the Top Hat with that bleeping bleeping Mari-ko the other night, brother? Don’t you know that bleeping bitch has got it bad, man? She gave it to half of the bleeping bleepers on Trick Three, those worthless sons-of-bleepers, and now they say she’s got her sights on the Dawgs, man. She wants to infect the Dawgs with that bleeping bullshit. You better go get yourself checked, boy. I don’t want you dripping that bleeping stuff in my aisle. Get away from me! Get away!”

Half the airmen in the aisle in the aisle were roaring with laughter. The other half were chasing those dits, man, six-ply paper streaming out of the big processors I came to call Popcorn Machines. When you had your headsets on, you didn’t hear anything else. They blocked out one world and opened the magic door on another more mysterious world. The Popcorn Machine had a light inside that kept it very warm. Nights got cold in Misawa, and there was nothing more comfortable, when traffic was slow, than to lay your tired old head on that Popcorn Machine and soak up a little warmth and much-needed rest.

My generation, which earned its stripes in the Sixties, was undoubtedly the very last Un-correct Generation. There was absolutely no room in our lives for the politico-social correctness of later decades. We were a bunch of bad bleeping bleepers, let me tell you. You could drink all you wanted to as long you quit in time to change into your uniform and make the dash over to the Compound. The big ashtray beside your Popcorn Machine was always overflowing with cigarette butts, half of them still smoldering. When the ashtray got too full, you dumped it into the big trash can between the consoles which was already full of the carbon sheets needed for the six-ply copy paper. It’s a wonder we didn’t burn the Compound down. Then the fabulous AN/FLR-9 antenna would have been standing out there all alone on the shores of Lake Ogawara picking up signals without anyone left to copy them.

Some guys escaped the madness. They went to church. They sat in their rooms and wrote letters. They played music on very nice equipment which they had purchased at the base exchange. Their tape decks and record players never wound up in the local pawnshops. These guys seldom went to town. Some of them never went to town. After a while, the other Dawgs gave up on them and let them live their nice quiet little lives.

I always wondered about these nice guys. How in the world did they do it? I didn’t really want to be like the wildest of the wild men we worked with but I never had any desire to be as isolated, as set apart as these guys either. I guess the situation existed because there wasn’t much of a middle ground, no in-between place where you could safely serve out your tour. You either ran with the crowd or you walked alone.

What happened to the nice ones after Misawa? I have no idea. You never got to know them, they never became your friends, never part of your group, so you didn’t follow-up on their lives at all. Did they all become chiropractors? Bank presidents? What? I don’t know but I guess they stayed healthier than the vast majority of us. There’s no guarantee on that either. Life doesn’t have any of those. Guarantees, I mean. Maybe they did all this niceness and went on to get hit by the proverbial truck. Nice guys still get heart attacks; they still get cancer. Years later, in the new millennium, when practically everyone in the world had quit smoking, lung cancer was still doing its number on the general population. Christopher Reeves, who did the best movie portrayals ever of Superman, died after years of paralysis caused by a fall from a horse. His wife Dana, a really nice person, had taken care of him throughout those years. She loved him. It was all very sincere and so un-Hollywood, that we began to think she might actually be some kind of modern-day saint. Shortly after Chris died, Dana passed away. Lung cancer. She had never smoked a day in her life.

I got tired of trying to figure out this kind of stuff long, long ago. If you think you have the answer, please, please don’t attempt to explain your theory to me. I’ve closed that account. It ran out of funds somewhere back in the early Seventies and the bank eventually wrote it off as inactive.

After our single beer at the Static Club, Gene and I were just laying on our bunks recapping everything that had happened over the last few days. He had read his mother’s letter aloud to me and parts of Linda’s letter. Not all of it, I noticed. Hmmm. What was he leaving out? The best parts, probably. The door to our room was open and people kept walking by saying something that sounded like, “JEEP JEEP JEEP.”

“What the hell is all this jeep shit about?” Gene asked.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “There’s a lot of things we don’t understand about this place yet, I guess.”

We talked about the flight over the Pacific on that great Northwest Orient airliner with the Japanese stewardesses. Gene had taken a different flight to California but from San Francisco onward we were together, flying seven miles high over the Aleutians—there were ditty bops down there, we knew, and thanked God we weren’t among them—and finally descending into the City of Dreams. Tokyo. Paris is a nice city but nothing on earth compares to Tokyo. It should have been a little bit before midnight on Monday when we arrived but something was wrong. The sun was shining like it was late mid-afternoon. It was. Mid-afternoon of Tuesday. We had crossed the International Date Line and lost a whole day out of our lives. What happened to that lost time, we wondered. Would we ever get it back?

At a snack bar on Tachikawa Air Base we discovered the best damned tuna fish sandwich in the world. Made with fresh tuna and absolutely delicious. I must have eaten two dozen of them before we departed for Misawa later in the week.

Outside Gate One at Tachikawa, we checked out the Bar Cherry and heard for the first time the cry of the Japanese barmaid: “Buy me drink, G.I.?” Our drinks cost two bits. The hundred yen price seemed standard everywhere I went in Japan. The drinks for the josans were, well, a little more expensive. Gene and I compared notes and decided we had just bought our last josan drink. We were only drawing Airman Second Class pay, after all. Not rich Americans like the josans kept insinuating.

We pumped the girls for information: what to do, what to see in the few days we would be in the vicinity of Tokyo.

“What should we do?” Gene asked his josan. “We only have three days and we want to have a good time.”

“You want good time?” Gene’s girl asked.

“No, no, not like that!” Gene said laughing. “I mean, if we go to Tokyo, what should we see? What’s the best part of the city?”

“You go Ginza.”

“Ginza?” Gene asked.

“Yes. You go Ginza.”

So, we went Ginza. The Ginza in Tokyo is all lights, all shopping, all party, all the time. The biggest box of Crayolas in the world. A combination Fifth Avenue and Las Vegas. We took a train from Tachikawa to the city and then commandeered a taxi. Making various signs with our hands, like we were taking a drink and then holding up one finger, we thought we had conveyed to our Japanese cab driver our desire to be taken to the best club in Tokyo.

He drove like a madman for twenty minutes and then pulled up in front of a very large, very expensive looking hotel.

No, not a hotel, we wanted to explain but had no idea how to start. It wasn’t necessary. The driver was pointing up in the air. We looked up and saw a bunch of people standing by a railing on the roof of the hotel. They were holding drinks. They looked very, very happy.

We paid the driver with some of our recently acquired yen and took the elevator up to the roof of the hotel. Yes, indeed, there was a party going on. The orchestra was on break, so we heard a taped rendition of Kyu Sakamoto singing Sukiyaki. It was the number one hit in Japan even though it had been out already for a couple of years. It was the Japanese equivalent of the big song back in the states: Unchained Melody. Kyu Sakamoto and the Righteous Brothers were becoming legends in their own time.

Gene and I sat at a very large table with about fifteen Japanese men and women. We were the only Americans there that night. There were no small tables. Everyone was sitting together, enjoying the company of friends and strangers alike.

A young Japanese man who had some English spoke to us.

“You know what song mean? You understand?”

“No, we don’t speak Japanese,” I said. “It’s a very pretty song but we don’t understand the words.”

“Yes. Very pretty. Whole world now like to hear Kyu Sakamoto. Number one song. Number one.”

“What is he saying?” asked Gene.

“He says he once happy but now very sad. Very alone. He walks with head back, how you say, tilt back, so tears not fall. Sadness hides in all things, the stars, the moon. But he remembers the happy days.”

“Very nice,” I replied. “It means more to me now that I understand what he’s singing about. Thank you for translating it for us.”

“Don’t touch the moustache,” the young man said in perfect Oxford English.

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking I had misunderstood him.

“Joke. American joke,” our new friend said. “In Japanese, to say you’re welcome is do itashima’shite. Americans make a joke. They say, don’t touch the moustache! You must learn some Japanese tonight. To say thank you is domo arigato. To say you’re welcome is do itashima’shite. Try it now.”

“Domo arigato,” said Gene. “Thank you for explaining the song.”

“Domo arigato,” I said. “We are new in your country and you have welcomed us like friends.”

“Don’t touch the moustache,” he said laughing.

We never asked his name, this young man on the rooftop. He would have been about our age, eighteen or nineteen, no older. A Japanese Baby Boomer, just as Gene and I were American Baby Boomers. When the war is over, everyone makes babies. It is one way of walking. Head tilted back. So the tears won’t fall.

“You guys must be some of the new Jeeps,” said a figure in the doorway. “We found two more down the hallway. One of them had the biggest set of ears I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Gene and I laughed. We knew he was talking about our old classmate Carl Duncan, the blushing man from Brockton, Massachusetts.

“What’s this Jeep shit, anyway?” Gene asked. “And who are you, by the way? I’m Gene Thibodeaux and my ugly roomie here is Bryan Thomas.”

“Jeeps are new guys. You’ll be Jeeps until you find your way around and start to act like real people. I’m Solomon Deleon,” he said. “Folks on the Hon call me The Wizard.”

He was wearing a starched set of fatigues but some kind of non-regulation cap that was black in color with patches on it. Lots of patches. Solomon turned the hat around on his head, beak facing to the back. Sure enough. Stitched into the back of the hat were these words: “The Wizard. Tampa, Florida. 1964-66.” Three lines that told a lot about Solomon Deleon: who he was, where he was from, and the dates of his tour in Misawa.

“So, are you Jeeps working tonight?” asked The Wizard.

“Naw, we just flew in,” I said. “We start Monday.”

“Well, you still got to make Roll Call in the morning. You don’t want to miss your first Roll Call, believe me!”

Roll Call, The Wizard explained to us, was held at 0800 hours sharp on the morning following the last midnight shift in the shift rotation. Out of the Trick’s slush fund, a band was hired along with a couple of the better-stacked strippers. One of the larger bars in AP Alley, usually a cabaret, was made headquarters for the Roll Call which primarily consisted of a bunch of young airman and a few NCOs getting drunk on their butts and generally having one hell of time for a few hours to celebrate the 24 hour break between midnights and days. Somewhere in there, preferably while everybody was still able to stand up, we would troop out into the Alley and have a group picture taken.

The Roll Call pictures were usually taken by one of the best photographers on the Flight. There was a darkroom on Security Hill where you could develop your own pictures if you were that talented. Kind of an informal photography club. Each Trick had it’s official photographers, those who could be trusted to capture that unforgettable moment—the beer softball game, the ferry trip to Hokkaido, the Annual Flight Picnic, the Roll Call—in a shot that would somehow define the moment, preserve it in all its essence, so that years later you could look back and say, “Oh, man. I remember that Roll Call. Had to be June of ’66 because Benjo Man was still there. Benjo left in July, remember?” “No, bakata’ri!—dumbass!—that one’s not Benjo! Benjo is right here standing with one arm around Sergeant Cortez and the other around Soupy Brumley, that ditty chaser from Super Four. What a guy Benjo Man was! What a bleeping guy!”

They were good quality prints and most of the Roll Call attendees would cough up the necessary change to buy a copy for themselves. Thousands of the Roll Call pictures survive into the new millennium, pressed behind plastic sheets in the albums or boxed up in the attics of old men who can’t raise one half the hell they used to raise in Misawa.

Old farts in their sixties and seventies—USAFSS vets who have found each other on the internet—attach the Roll Call pictures when they email each other.

“Here’s one from December ’65,” will read the caption. “Last Roll Call before the big fire. We lost a lot of good bars in that fire, man. A lot of good bars!”

The pictures, although they are group shots, seem to emphasize the individual. The faces in the photographs keep changing, being, as they are, a chronological record of the men who performed the mission at that particular Air Force site. I’m not in the Roll Call picture from July 1965, for instance. I hadn’t arrived yet. I’m not there in March of ’68, either. Back in the states, brother!

Whatever else the pictures are, they are revealing. They tell a story. Like empires, men rise and fall, you know. We did a lot of rising in those days. A lot of falling. We lived by the swinging of the pendulum, by the ticking of the clock, time always seemed to be running out on us—got to be to work in four hours, Jack! Time enough to hit one more bar—so we ran as fast as we could.

You can’t outrun old Father Time, of course. Can’t catch him. He’s one fast bleeping bleeper.

Here’s exactly how I made my first Roll Call in August of 1965 just outside the Main Gate of Misawa Air Base down in AP Alley, great beating heart of Misawa-shi, Aomori Prefecture, on the island of Honshu, Japan.

The Wizard and the rest of Dawg Flight came screaming back into the barracks after their midnight shift. Showers were taken, uniforms and towels scattered everywhere. No problem. Mamasan and the houseboys would pick them up.

“IKI’ MA SHIYO’ YOU DAWGIES! LET’S GO! MOVE IT OUT! THE ALLEY WAITS FOR NO MAN, SON. THAT OLD BLUE GOOSE WILL BE LEAVING IN TEN MINUTES AND EVERY DAWG WORTH HIS BEER BETTER BE ON IT. THE DAWGS ARE GONNA HOWL TODAY. WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!”

So we went and we saw and we ate, as we said in those days. Whatever that meant. The band was great, playing all the great songs we loved in the Sixties, the ones which made us so homesick even while we were performing random acts of stupidity so atrocious they would have gotten us arrested in a minute if we had tried to pull them off back in Beaumont, Texas, or whatever place you called home.

The highlight of the morning came when some guy from Super Three decided that the backside of our voluptuous stripper was just too delicious to pass up. He came to the conclusion that he had to—absolutely had to!—sink his teeth into those cheeks. Too drunk to stand up, totally obsessed with the gyrating derriere of the completely naked josan, the hapless ditty bop began to crawl across the floor on his hands and knees. Target: i’chi ban oshi’ri, baby. Number one booty. Watch this Dawg bite! It wasn’t going to happen today. A couple of the NCOs caught the ditty bop just before he was about to make a meal of the stripper and took him back to his table.

“Aw, let a Dawg eat, Sarge,” said the ditty bop from Super Three. “This Dawg is HONGRY! He didn’t get no breakfast, I tell you. He’s one HONGRY DAWG. WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!”

What we called it on the Hon—short for Honshu, the largest Japanese island, the one on which Misawa was located—was getting fired. Getting drunk. If you were just a little bit drunk, you were said to be partially fired. The stage beyond that was fully fired. If you were one wasted bleeper, then you were truly kilt. No doubt about it. I got truly kilt the day of my first Roll Call. So did Gene Thibodeaux. So did most of the people there. It was to become a way of life.

Gene and I were still young enough that August to count lifetime hangovers. On the fingers of one hand, if you can believe that. I awoke Monday morning with one bleeding, suffering, pounding hangover. It was only my second and far, far worse than the first one which had occurred in high school. Am I dying? I wondered that morning. What the hell is happening to me? Gene wasn’t in much better shape.

Then we remembered: we had to be at the Compound at 0700 hours! First day of work at the 6921^st Security Wing.

We shouldn’t have done that! I remember thinking. Too late. We had already done it and our bodies were telling us about it!

“Lord,” I said, “just help me get into and out of the coldest shower they have around here. Just let me sober up enough to make it over to the Compound and I’ll be your obedient servant for the rest of my life.”

The promises we break.

Quite a few of them to God, of course. Some to ourselves. Most of those broken promises, however, afflict the people who really love us, who used to love us, who wanted to continue to love us but found that task such an utterly thankless and infuriating one that they eventually had to give it up and so, they stopped loving us altogether.

Gene and I managed to get dressed in our baggy fatigues with our green regulation caps which told the whole world we were Jeeps. I’m going to get my fatigues tailored like the ones The Wizard wears, I thought. Get me one of those cool black Trick caps, too! Gonna be a ditty bop, you gotta dress like a ditty bop!

We had French toast, eggs over easy, bacon and hash browns at the Chow Hall and then made our way with the rest of the guys over the well-worn trail to the Gig, the vast Compound which sat right beside our very own forty-acre antenna. All we have to do now, as Mr. Orrel had told us back in Tech School, is find a hole which we can plug these bleeping headsets into, and we can start catching those dits and dahs.

The Compound, as we learned that first day on the job, is about a hell of a lot more than dits and dahs. Some of the smartest people I have every met worked in that Compound and I’m not talking about the little group of Keesler classmates who had just arrived on the Hill.

The inside of the Compound was like the set of a James Bond movie that was never made. They wouldn’t know how to make it, wouldn’t understand the plot of this story if you explained it to them, which, of course, you could not.

On the wall, at the entrance to the Main Floor of the Compound was a sign with letters a yard high that read:

WHAT YOU SEE HERE

WHAT YOU DO HERE

LEAVE HERE WHEN YOU LEAVE HERE!

We were different people inside the Compound than we were on the outside. Everything was serious on the inside. We joked and laughed but we all knew that the work we performed could signify life or death; bring us victory or defeat in Vietnam or elsewhere. Outside we partied. Inside we worked.

And the things we saw…and the things we did…in the Compound? Well, they stayed right there, brother! Except for the memories.

Copyright © 2007 George Welch.

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