Got to sleep in an hour or so.
I dreamed. I dreamed I was spread out on a long wooden frame, my legs and arms tied to the ends of it. Then a girl, young and pretty, with the face of someone I loved once, began to twist a wheel which caused the frame to extend and started pulling my limbs apart from my body. I just lay there on the rack and screamed while she kept working the wheel, her face chiseled stone.
I awoke in a cold sweat, naturally, and shook off the damn thing as quickly as I could, before rolling over and back to sleep again. I had had to get used to the dream, because I’d had it as an unwanted bed partner for years.
When I got back to sleep the dream took over again and just as my right arm was being slowly stretched free of my shoulder, someone started playing kettle drums outside.
I sat up in bed.
Knocking. Someone at the door.
I said, “Damn,” and got up and threw on my trousers and kept on saying “Damn” till I reached the door.
When I opened it I found a man about my size, though not quite as heavy as I am, waiting for me patiently. He wore a rather handsome tweed overcoat and an air of having made it big in something or other. The only real catch was the undernourished look he had, complete with chalk-cheeked face with vein-lined bones jutting out from it at sharp angles. Also he seemed vaguely familiar, like something from an old newsreel, and he was smiling like a long-lost brother.
He said, “Hello, Smitty.”
“Okay. Hello. Who the hell’re you?”
“It’s been a while. Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me in, take my coat?”
“No.”
“Now, come on, Smitt...”
“Who the hell’re you?”
“It’s Vin, Smitt, Vin, don’t you know me?”
“Vin. Thompson? Vin Thompson?”
“Korea wasn’t that long ago, was it?”
“It’s been long enough.”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Oh no, everybody drops in at three in the morning.”
“I didn’t wake up the wife or kids, did I?”
“I’m not married and don’t have any kids that I know of.” “You didn’t marry that girl back home? That Karen?”
“No. I got a letter from her while I was still over
there. Married somebody else, the bitch.”
“Sorry, Smitt.”
“Don’t be.”
“Well, Smitty?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“No.”
“Smitty, we fought together.”
“The hell we did. I was a lieutenant and you were a lieutenant colonel. I barely knew you. Besides, ask me if I give a damn about all that army shit.”
“Do you, Smitt? Do you give a damn?”
That didn’t deserve an answer. I started to close the door on this unwanted ghost when he reached into one of the large pockets on the handsome tweed coat. When his hand came back it had an automatic in it.
“Okay,” I said, suddenly giving a damn, “come on in.”
“Good to see you, Smitt. Close the door, will you?”
“Drop dead.”
He shrugged and kicked it shut.
I rubbed by eyes, belched, and collapsed on the davenport.
“You tired or something, Smitt?”
“What makes you think that?”
A deck of cigarettes appeared in Vin’s hand from out the other kangaroo’s pouch on the tweed coat. He gave himself a cigarette and tossed another in my direction. He lit his with a steelcase lighter but motioned for me to use the book of matches in front of me on the coffee table. I thought about firing the whole book and throwing it in Vin’s face for a minute. For a minute.
“We were in the army together, Smitt, you and me.” He puffed the smoke in and out dreamily. But his eyes were hungry in their hollow sockets.
“I hardly knew you, Vin. You were my superior officer.” “We spoke a few times. I liked you. That’s why I remembered you.”
“I was a lousy soldier.”
“You weren’t bad.”
“I stunk. I drew flies, I stunk so bad as a soldier. I hated it and didn’t give a damn about anything but my own ass. And I was scared as hell most of the time. All the time.”
“You’re a modest man, Smitt.” Half his face smiled.
“Everybody was scared.”
“Not the way I was.”
“You went home with an honorable discharge.”
“That’s a laugh. I went apeshit when I got that letter saying Karen was married. I went off my nut and went out and slept with every slant-eyed thing with two legs that came along. You know how I got that discharge? Discharge is right. I got it for the eight kinds of VD I caught over there.”
“Don’t make me sick, Smitt.”
“I’m making myself sick. If I’d been an enlisted man they’d’ve tossed my in the brig instead of home. Shit. I don’t exactly feel like taking a stroll down that memory lane. So why not let it alone, Vin. Okay?”
“Shut-up, Smitt.”
So now “war buddy” Vin turns nasty, huh? “Okay, pal, it’s your gun.”
“I said shut-up, Smitt.”
I did.
“Your full name is Phillip James Smith, you are a veteran of the Korean War, presently working as a freelance insurance investigator.”
He looked at me as if he expected an answer; since he hadn’t asked a question I didn’t have one for him.
“Well?” he asked. Demanded.
“Well what?”
“Is what I’ve said correct?”
“Yeah, yeah, so what?”
“And you carry a firearm?”
“No.”
“You don’t? Don’t try lying to me, Smitty.”
“I own a gun, but I’ve never carried it with me. It’s a little .32 revolver. I never even fired it once. Carried it on a couple jobs, few years ago, but that’s about it.”
“Go get it.”
“What?”
“The gun. Your gun. Go get it. But no shells, please. I’ve got shells for you. Then throw on some clothes and we’ll get moving. Hustle, Smitt.”
“What’s going on?”
He showed me a plastic I.D. of some kind which identified him as an FBI agent. Looked legit, as far as I could tell.
“So,” I said, “Uncle Sam wants me.”
“You might say that.”
“Well he can’t have me. He had me once and that was one time too many.”
“I’m got giving you a choice, Smitt.”
“I have to take the gun?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s just a .32, wouldn’t stop a fly...”
“If you have to shoot, aim at the head.”
“If I have to shoot... what kind of shit is this...?”
“Hurry up.”
The man driving the car kept his mouth shut the whole time. He wore a black suit which looked slept-in and a black tie which was food-stained and black shoes which looked like they’d just finished kicking somebody’s teeth in. I noticed all of that because I was practically sitting on top of him; Thompson, the driver and I were all piled into the front seat of a black Lincoln Continental. There was a solid partition, a black padded wall without a window or anything, separating the front from the back. So I didn’t know who or what the hell was back there. Nor by this time did I care. Still had the migraine, paisley spots floating in front of my eyes.
The heater was on heavy and it was hot in the car, as crammed together as we all were, though outside it was cold, crisp October. The driver switched off the heater and rolled down the window. Since I was sweating like a pig on a barbecue, I took this as a gesture of good will.
“I appreciate that, buddy, thanks a lot.” I gave him a cheerful look.
The driver cleared his throat and shot a clot of mucous out the window. Then he rolled it back up and let me sweat some more. He turned his head toward me for a moment and his face looked like a slab of cement with a single crack running across it. An unfriendly crack at that, surrounded by pockmarks.