THE FOURTH WATCH (35 page)

Sal had no intention of returning to the United
States and finding a job at a car wash. The drug business was too
lucrative to leave in the jungles of South East Asia. No, he wanted
connections and a source of supply when his tour was up, and so
when he heard the stories of this Major, he started asking
questions. He was looking for a supply line. He didn't feel he
could approach the General's or their staff, what with the little
free enterprise business he was running on his own. He wanted to
find someone in this Major's organization with whom he could make
an arrangement. A mutually profitable arrangement that would
provide him a steady supply state side. But now, as he sat across
the fire from this snake-eating nightmare, he realized that he was
in very deep shit indeed. All the danger that he thought was far
away in Saigon had arrived at his doorstep. He was lucky, he
realized, that he was not dead already.

"Believe me, Sir ... I had no intention of
being disrespectful. In fact, quite the opposite is true." Sal told
him, the boy switching instantly and effortlessly to Mandarin. "I
am a business man! As far as stealing from you I wouldn't think ...
"

"You are a thief and you will die the death of
a thief this night!" the boy spat at him, almost in unison with the
staccato voice of his master.

"No, no ... you must listen to me, Sir! I can
help you ... we can help each other ... much profit!"

The boy glowed like golden wax in the trembling
shadows that pooled around him. "Do not be so insolent as to speak
to me in pidgin, as if I am a peasant." The boy turned his torso in
the direction of one of the soldiers, "Vu, slice out his tongue so
I will no longer be offended by it!"

The soldier was on him instantly. Sal screamed
and tried to squirm away. "NO!

Let me tell you ... " A rifle butt thundered
into the side of his head, lightning exploded behind his eyes. Two
others were on him as he went limp. He could feel himself drifting
away as they stretched him out on the ground.

The Major held up his hand and the soldiers
moved away. "Keep your tongue for one more minute," the boy's
lilting voice intoned, "to tell me about how you have stolen from
me."

Sal's equilibrium was off, his ear bleeding
from the blow. His stomach churned with bile as his vision wobbled
in the dancing flames. His torso convulsed and he vomited into the
dirt. "Supplies ... " he said stupidly between retches , "camps ...
the convoys ...”

"Speak your filthy language plainly," he heard
the boy say as darkness washed. over him and then the light went
out.

*****

SAL TOLD IT ALL
when he regained consciousness, delighted to find his tongue
still in his mouth. As his mind cleared, he realized that it was
his only possibility of survival. He knew that the farmers and
middlemen that he was naming would be dead by dawn, or folded into
the Major's network, but he had no choice. He had to impress upon
this murderous monkey that he had value. And so he explained it
all. How he used the farmers to supply him directly with the
majority of the product he moved. How he bought a modest amount
directly through the General's in order to maintain their
protection and not attract too much attention. How he used his
position as a logistician to set up distributors in the outposts
reliant on his source of supply. How his tentacles stretched out
across Laos. He watched the Major's slant-eyes go round with
astonishment when he told honestly what the monthly take was from
his operation, and how he used the wounded as mules to move the
cash out of the country. He explained that his business here was
only temporary and that when he left for home he would be in
position to create a profitable outlet for merchandise in Los
Angeles. He said he would gladly place his organization under the
Major's control while he remained in country. He suggested that it
might be a terrible waste to kill him and thus destroy this oh so
profitable business, when the Major could simply absorb it, and
him, and create a partner and customer for his merchandise in the
United States in the future.

The Major listened to it all with great
fascination. He asked questions and made threats and cursed him for
his treachery, but all the while, Sal felt that he was making
headway as the eerie voice of the blind dwarf-child murmured in the
firelight. Just before daybreak the Major suggested that if all Sal
had told him were true, there was a chance that he would not slit
him open and leave him for the panthers. There would be a trial
alliance. Seventy percent of the amount that Sal had indicated
would be paid to the Major each month, beginning immediately. This
was very fair, the Major reasoned, when one considered that Sal had
been swindling him for a long time now. The Major would supply a
man, a South Vietnamese soldier, to work with Sal. There would be
no trouble having the man assigned to Sal's unit. This man would
learn the business, collect the Major's share of the profits and
act as an intermediary between them. When Sal left the country,
this man would take over and the Major would now take one hundred
percent of the proceeds. In return, the Major would consider
assisting Sal in the establishment of a distributorship in
California when the time came.

With dawn's light filling the sky Sal was lead
blindfolded to within a half klick of his barracks and released. He
was very satisfied with his new arrangement. He would no longer
deal with the farmers, no longer worry about the danger of finding
supply. It would be provided and he would be fully protected. His
profit would be slashed dramatically, true, but he would not be in
this filthy place much longer, and he had kept his head and made a
pact for his future.

24

WALTER DEMARIS SAT
in his car on a hill behind St. John's Cemetery
eating cake donuts out of a wax paper sack and drinking black
coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The horizon was bruised purple with
storm clouds. Wind rattled in the trees, and the first leaves of
autumn were spinning out of them and twisting to the earth. A light
drizzle was falling, and there was a ground fog going despite the
wind. The temperature was down. Graveyards gave Walter the creeps.
Especially with the fog crawling around the stones and all. He
shuddered.

A little after ten o'clock he saw the lights
from the cars in Carolyn Whorley's funeral procession snaking along
slowly among the monuments, heading in the direction of the open
wound in the earth just below him. The Hurst led the way, followed
by a half dozen long, black limousines and, behind them, a long row
of the various cars that carried the mourners. As they arrived
graveside and exited their rides, Walter put down his coffee and
hefted a pair of high-powered binoculars. He studied the
crowd.

The cops had taken hold of this theory that
Knight and Whorley had been caught in the crossfire of a gang
shootout. Innocent victims, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Walters's bullshit detector was warbling wildly. He didn't like
coincidences, and it would be one mother of a coincidence if this
thing weren't related to Knight's investigation of the Whorley
broad's father drowning. Not to mention the fact that the witnesses
all thought that the gun reports sounded the same, and came from
the same direction.

Pallbearers carried the coffin to the grave,
and laid it in the hammock of the one way elevator that would lower
Carolyn Whorley into the eternity of her crypt. The mourners
gathered around and the Minister began. His voice floated over the
silence and the fog, murmuring timeless words of sorrow and faith.
Walter rolled down his window and listened.

"Oh God," the Preacher prayed, ''take our
sister into your eternal embrace. You have called her from this
life so young. We rest assured that your purpose, so
incomprehensible to us, draws her to a greater and more beautiful
place."

Walter studied the faces of the crowd around
the grave. There was the usual knot of politicians and dignitaries
that attended all the funerals of the wealthy. The Mayor was there,
and two State Representatives. One from the decedent's district,
the other, rumored to be challenging for a congressional seat. The
incumbent Congressman, tall, square-jawed; iron-haired and suitably
somber stood with the Mayor, conveying an alliance. Andreason was
there, immaculate, looking dry in the drizzle. He stood alone, but
before the service was over, every politician in the crowd would go
over and shake his hand.

There was a crowd of young people, presumably
friends of the dead woman, red-eyed and consoling one another.
Father Jack was at the edge of the crowd. He wore no collar. He had
a tweed skimmer on his head, and a light rain jacket against the
drizzle. He prayed silently along with the Minister. Walter knew
that he had come for Kato, who was lingering in a comatose state,
no change in his condition, each day that passed eroding his
doctor's confidence for his recovery.

There were a few plain-clothes cops milling
about. Walter hoped they weren't just there to preen for the
politicians. He noticed Deputy Chief Matte Genetassio near the
front, and further back, Madigan, the cop that was first on the
scene when Red Whorley drifted off into the void. What's he doing
here? Walter frowned.

A crescent of folks that looked like relatives
surrounded the immediate family and pressed up close to the casket.
Walter scanned their faces. The brother, Teddy, looked devastated.
His thin hair was disheveled and plastered the wrong way across his
forehead in the soupy air. A tall and statuesque woman, dressed in
black, a pillbox hat and half-veil covering her eyes, stood next to
him, her hand on his arm. His wife, Walter assumed. On the other
side of Whorley, a grim faced blonde stood ramrod straight. There
were no tears in her eyes that Walter could see. She wore a black
pantsuit over a lavender button down shirt, open at the throat, a
string of pearls around her neck, a coat over her shoulders,
nothing on her head. Her hair was wet and curling. She
looked...what? ... not sad but ... pissed, Walter
thought.

The service concluded with a procession to the
casket. Beside it, on the ground, was a basket of roses. Each
mourner took one on the way and laid it on top of the vessel. Ted
Whorley was the last. His wife stood behind him, her hand now on
his back, as he lowered his head into the roses and his shoulders
shook with grief. At last she gently pulled him away, and led him
slowly to the limousine. Most of the mourners had already gone to
their cars and driven quietly away. Many to attend a reception
being held at the Whorley's club, others simply about their
business. Matte Genetassio intercepted Whorley and his wife on
their way to the car. The blond had long since climbed in and
closed the door behind her. The Deputy Chief stood between the two,
no doubt offering words of consolation. After a moment, Whorley
held up his hands and walked away, shaking his head and climbed
into the limousine. His wife started to follow him, then suddenly,
to Walter's surprise; she came back, and lifted her veil and got in
Genetassio's face. She had beautiful features, and her eyes were
aflame. Her words were clipped, but Walter was sure they were
angry, and then just as suddenly as she had returned, she spun and
strode to the car, opened the door and climbed in. As the car
pulled away, Matte Genetassio stood looking after them. Then he
turned, stuck his hands in his pockets and went down the hill to
his car. As he drove away, Walter put down the glasses and chewed
the corner of his lip. "Huh," he said to himself. “What the fuck
was that all about?”

*****

"SO SHE'S PISSED OFF
at the cops,” Skids said eating peanuts from a
bowl on the table.

"What for?" Walter drank beer from his glass
and looked over the rim of it with raised eyebrows.

Skids shrugged. ''I don't know, because the
cops told them the whole thing with the old man was an accident,
and now maybe they think it wasn't."

"Who does?"

"The family."

“Not the cops?"

“No." Skids agreed.

"Because they think ... or say they think ...
that Kato and the Whorley chick got caught in a cross-fire,
right?"

"Right."

"But Kato told me the family didn't believe
that the old man was murdered. Thought the whole thing was a waste
of time. Just a shyster lawyer milking the misguided suspicions of
a heart-sick girl."

"Maybe they changed their minds," Skids said.
“Now that another one of them got croaked."

Walter thought about that, then shook his head.
"I don't know, maybe. It was just ... weird, you know? It was, like
... familiar or something, the way she dressed him
down."

Skids shrugged again and shoveled some peanuts
into his mouth. "Whatever," he said.

O'Hara's was all shadows in the gloomy
afternoon with no natural light coming in the windows and dim
ceiling fixtures throwing yellow cones of illumination on the bar
and tables. It was a little after 4:30 PM and the after work crowd
was starting to wander in. The Sox were on TV, about to close out a
win. A pretty girl with long chestnut hair was leaning over a sink
behind the bar washing beer glasses. Walter admired her cleavage. A
bartender in a green vest and white shirt was watching the game
with one hip on the beer cooler.