“Damn, Carmellini,” he said, “I thought you was gone out west somewhere on the lone prairie learnin’ to rope and ride and sing to the dogies, whatever they are.”
“I’ve only been gone three days, Willie.”
“Come back to reenlist in the CIA, have you?”
“Nope. Come back to break Jake Grafton out of prison.”
“I saw the Post. And heard about him on TV. He’s famous now. Arrested and all for tryin’ to kick Barry Soetoro outta the White House and get him started on his way to Hell. You ain’t serious about bustin’ him out, are you?”
“I am.”
He made a rude noise. “You are a real damn fool, Tommy. I’ve known some real losers in my day, people so damn stupid they needed help to pee, but you take the prize. Where they got ’im?”
“Camp Dawson.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a National Guard camp over in West Virginia.”
“Ahh, the beatin’ heart of civilization. I should of heard of it, cultured as I am. And after you get him outta there, where pray tell are you two gonna go? Yemen? You can share a goat herder’s hut with some holy warriors. I heard the summers are kinda warm there. Maybe you can summer up at the North Pole in an igloo.”
That was Willie, always asking the tough questions. “I don’t know. Haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Better get that figured out before you cross the line, Tommy. Send me your address in a year or two when you’re settled so I can send you birthday cards.”
“How do you like living in a dictatorship? Transition going okay?”
“So far so good. There’s a kid down the street teachin’ me the Sieg Heil salute. Want a beer?”
“Why not?”
We settled down with longnecks in the back room of the shop. That was where I broke the news that I needed some help.
“Oh, no!” Willie roared. “Forget that! Wash out your filthy mouth, Carmellini. I ain’t ever goin’ back to the joint, and how I know that is because I ain’t ever goin’ to do anythin’ that would get me sent back there. Livin’ in the joint with a bunch of losers who would as soon kill you as look at you, eatin’ mac and cheese, no liquor or beer or women, jackin’ off under the sheets… nope. Ain’t gonna do it again, Tommy, so you just forget whatever shit is in your twisted head.”
“I know you’re a patriot.”
“The hell I am! Who told you that? You go wave the fuckin’ flag somewheres else.”
“One of the sons of liberty.”
He said a crude word that is illegal to say on the television or radio. Maybe even on the telephone. I knew I could talk him around, so we each had another beer and talked about Barry Soetoro and martial law and all that.
That evening I stopped in to see if Mrs. Grafton was home. I buzzed the door in the front lobby, told her who I was, and she let me in. Rode the elevator up.
Callie Grafton looked tired and out of sorts. She offered me something to drink and I chose bourbon. She poured me a healthy drink over ice.
She knew all about what the government spokesmen were saying to the press about her husband. “None of it is true. He has devoted his life to serving America. I can’t believe that anyone could say these things about him with a straight face. Tonight on television they named two other men they said were coconspirators. I’ve never even heard their names before.”
“They’re sacrificial goats,” I said, and watched her face.
She reached for my drink and took a sip. “I think so too.”
“I’m thinking of busting him out of Camp Dawson, or wherever they move him. It can be done, but afterward he’ll be a fugitive.”
“So will you. And anyone who helps you.”
“Can you go visit him? Like tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I can call him and ask.”
“Please do so. Right now. Don’t tell him that I’m here.”
She went into the master bedroom, I suppose, and I sat at the little kitchen dining nook working on my drink and looking at the lights of Washington. Lots of lights, all the way to the horizon. Thought about being a fugitive in Barry Soetoro’s America.
I also thought about the possibility that the Grafton condo was bugged. It was a very slim chance, I thought. There hadn’t been enough time, and why Grafton? Sure, they were setting him up as a human sacrifice, but why would they care what Callie Grafton said? There was nothing she could do about it.
Finally Callie returned. “I can see him tomorrow afternoon. They are still allowing visitors.”
“Good,” I said. “I doubt if they’ll have the visitor’s rooms wired up already, but they might.” I handed her a watch. “Put this on and wear it. Pushing the stem in turns on a very high pitched sound, too high for human ears, but it will overpower any listening device and mask a conversation.”
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“Liberated it from the CIA. I thought that someday I might need it more than they did, and darn if that day didn’t come. When your conversation is over, don’t forget to push the stem again to turn the squealer off.”
“How will I know it’s working?”
“The second hand will cease to move when the squealer is on, and resume when it’s off.”
“Okay.”
“You need to ask him if he wants out. That’s the only question, and it’s yes or no. He’ll understand about being a fugitive if we get him out. Maybe they’ve been threatening him, maybe they haven’t, but Jake Grafton will know the score. Yes or no. Can you do it?”
“Of course.” She acted as if that were a silly question.
“On your way home, please call me. I’ll give you my cell number. If his answer is yes, he wants out, you will tell me that he looks good. If the answer is no, tell me he looks tired.”
“He said they were listening to telephone calls.”
“It’s worse than that,” I admitted, and decided to share some classified information. “NSA is recording and data mining every telephone call in America. All of them. Have been for at least six months. Never say anything on any telephone that you don’t want the government to hear.”
She sniffed. “Handling that much information, they couldn’t be very efficient.”
“Computers are marvelous things. Never bet on bureaucratic sloth and incompetence. Just pray for it.”
She stared straight into my eyes. “Tommy, how are you going to get him out?”
“I don’t know just yet,” I said. “I’ll get some help and we’ll put our heads together and see what is possible.”
She started to say something, thought better of it, and examined her hands.
I hoped Jake Grafton would say yes, and I told Mrs. Grafton that.
“Why?” she said.
She was a tough broad, so I looked her straight in the eyes and explained. “Cynic that I am, I suspect if we don’t spring him the Admiral is bound for a maximum security prison. Or a graveyard. Accused, convicted, and executed, he wouldn’t be around to embarrass the crowd that needs him as a scapegoat.”
She kept her eyes on mine. “You may be right,” she said softly.
“Mrs. Grafton, if the White House didn’t need some scapegoats, why did they accuse your husband of something ridiculous?”
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ll call you tomorrow on the way home, Tommy. Thank you for coming.”
“He looks good or he is tired.”
I finished the drink, punched my cell number into her phone, said good-bye, and left. In the elevator down I thought about the fact that Callie Grafton didn’t once mention herself, ask what she would do if her husband escaped custody. In her own way she was as tough as Jake Grafton. If I were Barry Soetoro, I wouldn’t want to share an elevator with her.