Nelson Demille Page 13

  The men ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, mostly good-old-boys as likely to buy you a beer as split your head with a barstool, and meaning nothing personal by either. The women were dressed like the men—jeans, running shoes, and T-shirts—and they smoked and drank beer from bottles like the men. All in all, it was a happy and peaceful enough crowd at this hour, though Keith knew from experience it could get a little rough later.

  He swiveled his stool and watched the billiards game awhile. He'd had little opportunity to hang out in any of the few taverns in town because he'd been drafted and was being shot at about the time he could legally vote or drink. Now you could be shot at and vote, but still had to wait until you were twenty-one before you could order a beer. In any case, he'd hit John's Place and the Posthouse once in a while when he was home on leave, and he recalled that a good number of the men at the bars were recent veterans with some stories to tell, and some, like him, were in uniform and never had to buy a drink. Now, he suspected, most of the men in John's Place hadn't been far from home, and there seemed to him a sort of restless boredom among them, and he thought they had the look of men who had never experienced any significant rite of passage into manhood.

  He didn't recognize any of the men his own age, but one of them at the end of the bar kept looking at him, and Keith watched the guy out of the corner of his eye.

  The man got off his stool and ambled down the bar, stopping directly in front of Keith. I know you.

  Keith looked at the man. He was tall, scrawny, had blond hair down to his shoulders, bad teeth, sallow skin, and sunken eyes. The long hair, the jeans and T-shirt, and the man's mannerisms and voice suggested a man in his twenties, but the face was much older.

  He said in a loud, slurred voice, I know who you are.

  Who am I?

  Keith Landry.

  A few of the men around them glanced their way, but otherwise seemed disinterested.

  Keith looked at the man again, and realized that he did know him. He said, Right, you're . . .

  Come on, Keith. You know me.

  Keith searched his memory, and a profusion of high school faces raced through his mind. Finally, he said, Billy Marlon.

  Yeah! Hell, man, we was buddies. Marlon slapped Keith on the shoulder, then pumped his hand. How the hell are ya?

  Keith thought perhaps he should have gone to the Posthouse instead. Fine. How are you, Billy?

  Just great! All fucked-up!

  Buy you a beer?

  Sure can.

  Keith ordered two more Budweisers.

  Billy sidled up next to him at the bar and leaned close enough for Keith to smell the beer on him, and other odors. Billy said, Hey, man, this is great.

  Sure is. -

  Hey, you look great, man.

  Thanks.

  What the hell you doin' here?

  Just visiting.

  Yeah? That's great, man. How long you been back?

  A few weeks.

  No shit? Great to see you.

  Obviously, Billy Marlon was happy to see him. Keith tried to recall what he knew of Billy, what they'd had in common, so he could carry his end of what promised to be a stupid conversation. Finally, it all came back to Keith as Billy jabbered away. Marlon had been on the football team with him, had played halfback, but not very well, and mostly sat on the bench cheering on the starting lineup. Marlon had been the sort of kid who wanted to be liked, and there was little not to like about him, objectively, but most people found him annoying. In fact, Keith still found him likable and annoying.

  Marlon asked, You get fucked-up in Vietnam?

  Probably.

  Me, too. You was with the First Cav. Right?

  Right.

  Yeah, I remember that. Your mom was worried sick. I told her you'd be okay. Hell, if a fuckup like me could survive, a guy like you would be okay.

  Thanks. Keith recalled that Billy had been drafted right out of high school. Keith had availed himself of the college draft deferment, which in retrospect was a monumental government blunder. The rich, the bright, the privileged, and anyone else who could get into college had four good years of protesting the war or ignoring it, while the poor and stupid got killed and maimed. But instead of the war ending in a reasonably acceptable time frame, it went on, and the college graduates, like himself, started getting called. By the time he got to Vietnam, Billy Marlon and most of his high school class were already out of the Army or dead.

  Billy said, I was with the Twenty-fifth Division—Jungle Lightning. We kicked some gook ass over there.

  Good. But not enough gook ass to end the damned thing.

  You saw some shit, too.

  Yes, I did. Apparently, Billy had been following Keith's Army career while probably regaling Spencerville with his own exploits.

  You kill anybody? Billy asked. I mean up close.

  I think so.

  It's a kick.

  No, it's not.

  Billy thought a minute, then nodded. No, it's . . . but it's hard to forget it.

  Try.

  I can't, man. You know? I still can't.

  Keith looked at his former classmate. Clearly, Billy Marlon had degenerated. Keith asked, What have you been up to?

  Oh, shit, not too much. Married twice, divorced twice. Got kids from the first marriage. They's all growed now and live in Fort Wayne. They went there when they was young with their mother. She married some, like, asshole, you know, and I never really seen the kids. Second wife . . . she moved away. He went on, relating a predictably barren life to Keith, who was not surprised by any of it, except when Billy said, Shit, I wish I could do it over again.

  Yeah, well, everybody feels a little of that. But maybe it's time to go on.

  Yeah. I keep meaning to go on.

  Where you working?

  No place. I do odd jobs. Do some hunting and fishing. I live a mile outside of town, west of here, got a whole farmhouse to myself. All I got to do is look after the place. Retired people living with one of their kids in California. Cowley. You know them?

  Sounds familiar.

  They got the place sold now, so I got to find something else by November.

  Why don't you check yourself into a veterans' hospital?

  Why? I ain't sick.

  You don't look well.

  Ah, I've been pounding the suds too much since I learned I got to move. I get real nervous when I don't have no place to live. I'll be okay.

  Good.

  Where you stayin'?

  My folks' place.

  Yeah? Hey, if you need company, I can pay a little rent, do the chores, put some game on the table.

  I'll be gone by November. But I'll see what I can do for you before I leave.

  Hey, thanks. But I'll be okay.

  Keith ordered two more beers.

  Billy inquired, What're you doin' for a living?

  Retired.

  Yeah? From what?

  Government.

  No shit. Hey, you seen anybody since you been back?

  No. Well, I saw Jeffrey Porter. Remember him?

  Hell, yeah. I seen him a few times. He don't have much to say.

  They spoke a while longer, and it was obvious to Keith that Billy was too drunk. Keith looked at his watch and said, Hey, I've got to run. He put a twenty on the bar and said to the bartender, Give my friend one more, then maybe he should head home.

  The bartender pushed the twenty back to Keith and said, He's cut off right now.

  Billy made a whining sound. Aw, come on, Al. Man wants to buy me a drink.

  Finish what you got and be off.

  Keith left the twenty on the bar and said to Billy, Take that and go home. I'll stop by one day before I leave.

  Hey, great, man. See ya. Billy watched him as he left, and waved. Great to see ya, Keith.

  Keith went out into the fresh air. The Posthouse was on the other side of Courthouse Square, and Keith crossed the street and began walking through the park.

 
There were a few people on the benches, sitting under the ornate lampposts, a few couples strolling. Keith saw an empty bench and sat a moment. In front of him was the Civil War monument, a huge bronze statue of a Union soldier with musket, and on the granite base of the statue were the names of Spencer County's Civil War dead, hundreds of them.

  From where he sat, by the light of the lampposts, he could make out the other war memorials, which he knew well, beginning with an historical marker relating to the Indian Wars, proceeding to the Mexican War, and on and on, war by war, to the Vietnam War, which was only a simple bronze plaque inscribed with the names of the dead. It was good, he thought, that small towns remembered, but it did not escape him that the monuments seemed to diminish in size and grandeur after the Civil War, as if the townspeople were getting frustrated with the whole business.

  It was a pleasant night, and he sat awhile. The choices of things to do in a small town on a Friday night were somewhat limited, and he smiled to himself, recalling evenings in London, Rome, Paris, Washington, and elsewhere. He wondered if he could really live here again. He could, he thought. He could get back into a simple life if he had company.

  He looked around and saw the lighted truck of the ice cream vendor and a group of people standing around. It had occurred to him that if he came into town on a Friday night, he might see Annie. Did the Baxters go out to dinner? Did they shop together on a Friday night? He had no idea.

  He remembered the summer nights when he and Annie Prentis sat in this park and talked for hours. He recalled especially the summer before college, before the war, before the Kennedy assassination, before drugs, before there was a world outside of Spencer County, when he and his country were still young and full of hope, and a guy married the girl next door and went to the in-laws for Sunday dinner.

  This park, he remembered, had been filled with his friends; the girls wore dresses, the boys wore short hair. Newly invented transistor radios played Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Dion, and Elvis, and the volume was low.

  The preferred smoke was Newport menthols, not grass, and Coke was drunk, not snorted. The couples held hands, but if you got caught necking behind the bushes, you got a quick trip to the police station across the street and a tongue-lashing from the old police magistrate on duty.

  The world was about to explode, and there were inklings of it, but no one could have predicted what finally happened. The summer of '63, Keith reflected, had been called the last summer of American innocence, and certainly it had been his last summer of innocence, when he lost his virginity in Annie Prentis's bedroom.

  He had never seen a naked woman before Annie, not even in pictures or in the movies. Playboy existed in 1963, but not in Spencer County, and risqué movies were censored before they got to Spencerville. Thus, he had no idea what a naked woman, let alone a vagina, looked like. He smiled to himself and recalled their first fumbled attempt to consummate the act. She had been as inexperienced as he, but her instincts were better. He had gotten the condom, which he'd carried in his wallet for no good reason, from an older boy who had gotten a box of them in Toledo, and it had cost Keith two dollars for one, a fortune in those days. He thought, If we had known what lay ahead, we would have tried to keep that summer going forever.

  Keith stood and began walking. A boom box blasted somewhere, rap music, a few teenage boys sat in a circle on the grass playing handheld electronic games, and a few old men sat on the benches. A young couple lay side by side on the lawn, grappling in fully clothed frustration.

  Keith thought back to that summer, then to the autumn of that year. He and Annie had become perfectly matched lovers, reveling in their experimentations, their discoveries, their adolescent enthusiasm and stamina. There were no books on the subject, no X-rated videotapes, no guide to the mysteries of sex, but in some incredible instinctual way, they'd discovered oral sex, the sixty-nine position, the erogenous zones, erotic undressing, a dozen different positions, dirty talk, and playacting.-He had no idea where all that came from, and they would sometimes jokingly accuse the other of having long sexual histories, or watching illegal blue movies made in Europe in those days, or of getting information from their friends. In reality, they were both virgins, both clueless, but they were inquisitive and surprisingly uninhibited.

  They had made love every chance they had, every place they could, and kept it secret, as lovers had to do in those days.

  Away at college, they could be more open, but the dorms were segregated by sex and tightly policed. The motels refused that sort of trade, so, for two years, they made love in an apartment off campus that belonged to married friends. Eventually, Annie rented a single room above a hardware store, though they still lived in their dorms.

  Keith wondered again why they hadn't married then. Perhaps, he thought, they hadn't wanted to destroy the romance, the mystique, the taste of the forbidden fruit. And there seemed to be no rush, no need, no insecurities, while they were in the cloistered world of college.

  But then came graduation and the draft notice. Half the men he'd known then regarded the draft notice not as a call to arms, but as a call to the altar. It didn't get you out of the Army, but it made life easier if you were a married soldier. You got to live off post after training, got extra pay, and being married reduced your chances of being sent into the meat grinder.

  Yet they never really discussed marriage. Ultimately, he thought, we had different dreams. She liked campus life. I was itching for adventure.

  They had been soulmates, friends, and lovers. They'd shared thoughts, feelings, and emotions. They'd shared their money, their cars, and their lives for over six years. But for all their openness with each other, neither could broach the subject of the future, neither wanted to hurt the other, so in the end, he'd leaned over her bed, kissed her, and left.

  Keith was nearly at the other side of the park, and he could see the Posthouse across the street.

  He heard loud voices to his left and turned. About thirty feet up an intersecting path stood two uniformed policemen. They were shouting at a man lying on a park bench, and one of them was tapping the man on the soles of his shoes with his nightstick. Get up! Stand! Stand!

  The man stood unsteadily, and, in the illumination of a postlight, Keith saw that it was Billy Marlon.

  One of the cops said, I told you not to sleep here.

  The other cop shouted, You're a goddamned drunk! I'm sick of seeing you here! You're a bum!

  Keith wanted to tell the young men that Billy Marlon was an ex-combat vet, a onetime football player for Spencerville, a father, a man. But he stood there and waited to see if the incident was finished.

  But it wasn't. Both cops had Billy backed up against a tree now, and they were face-to-face with him, hurling verbal abuse at the man. We told you to stay out of town! Nobody wants to see you here! You don't listen real good! Do you? and so on.

  Billy stood with his back to the tree, then suddenly shouted, Leave me alone! I'm not bothering nobody! Leave me alone!

  One of the cops raised his nightstick, and Billy covered his face and head with his hands. Keith stepped forward, but the cop only hit the tree above Billy's head. Both cops laughed. One of them said to him, Tell us again what you're going to do to Chief Baxter. Come on, Rambo, tell us. They laughed again.

  Billy seemed less frightened now and looked at both of them. He said, I'm going to kill him. I'm a combat vet, and I'm going to kill him. You tell him I'm going to kill him someday. Tell him!

  Why? Tell us why.

  Because . . . because . . .

  Come on. Because he fucked your wife. Right? Chief Baxter fucked your wife.

  Billy suddenly sank to his knees and put his hands over his face. He began sobbing. Tell him to stay away from my wife. Tell him to stop. Stay away from my wife. Stop, stop . . .

  The men laughed. One of them said, Get up. We're taking you in again.

  But Billy had curled up into a ball on the ground and was crying.

  One of the cops g
rabbed him by his long hair. Get up.

  Keith walked up to them and said, Leave him alone.

  They turned and faced him. One of them said, very coolly and professionally, Please move away, sir. We have the situation under control.

  No, you don't. You're harassing this man. Leave him alone.

  Sir, I'll have to ask you—

  The other cop poked his partner and said, Hey, that's . . . He whispered in his partner's ear, and they both looked at Keith. The first cop stepped up to Keith and said, If you don't leave, I'm going to arrest you for obstructing justice.

  I haven't seen any justice here. If you arrest me or him, I'll tell the district attorney exactly what I saw and heard here, and I'll press charges against both of you.

  The two policemen and Keith stared at one another for a long minute. Finally, one of them said to him, Who's gonna believe you?

  We'll find out.

  The other cop said, Are you threatening us?

  Keith ignored them and went over to Billy. He helped the man to his feet, got Billy's arm around his shoulder, and began walking him toward the street.

  One of the cops yelled to Keith, You're gonna pay for tonight, Mister. You are definitely going to pay.

  Keith got Billy on the sidewalk and walked him around the park toward the car.

  Billy was staggering, but Keith kept him moving.

  Finally, Billy said, Hey, what's happening? Where we going?

  Home.

  Yeah, okay, not so fast. He broke free of Keith and navigated the sidewalk on his own. Keith walked behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. Billy was mumbling to himself. Goddamn cops always bustin' my balls. Hell, I never did no harm to nobody . . . they got it in for me . . . he fucks my wife, then—

  Quiet down.

  A few people on the sidewalk looked and gave them a wide berth.

  That son-of-a-bitch . . . then he laughed at me . . . he said she was a lousy lay, and he was finished with her . . .

  Keith said, Shut up! Damn it, shut up! He grabbed Billy by the arm and propelled him up the street and pushed him into the Blazer.

  Keith drove out of town and headed west. Where is this place? Where do you live?

  Billy was slumped in the front seat, his head lolling from side to side. Route 8 . . . oh, I'm sick.