A Catskill Eagle

CHAPTER 31

HAWK AND I HUNG AROUND PEQUOD, CONNECTICUT, for the next twelve days. During that time I ran about seventy-five miles, did more than a thousand push-ups, the same number of sit-ups, ate badly, drank thirty-four long-neck bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, read The March of Folly and One Writer’s Beginnings, reread The Road Less Traveled, studied 203 box scores in The Hartford Courant, and discussed with Hawk whether there was a difference between good sex and bad.

On the thirteenth day, Hawk said, “I think I in love with Doreen.”

“Don’t blame you,” I said.

“How you feel about interracial marriage,” Hawk said.

“Against the law of God,” I said.

“You sure?” Hawk said.

“Says right in the Bible,” I said. “Thou shalt not marry a spook.”

“Shit,” Hawk said, “you right. I remember that part. How ‘bout I just fuck her?”

“Far as I know that’s okay,” I said.

We were at the bar. Red came in wearing fatigue clothes and a John Deere hat. The shirt hung out over his belt and he looked like an ambulatory mess tent coming toward us.

“Might have a job for you guys,” Red said. “Cadre chief wants to see you.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

We went in a Transpan jeep driven by one of the security people in blue coveralls. At the gate the driver said something to the gate man and we went on through and into the compound. To the right was a square-frame one-story building. We stopped in front of it and got out. The jeep pulled away. A black lettered sign over the door said ADMINISTRATION.

“You guys wait here,” Red said and went into the building. The frame building was central to the layout of the place. The metal Quonsets ranged along the far line of fence, and the manufacturing plant itself loomed directly behind the administration building. Past the factory and to the right of it was a white colonial house, partially concealed by trees. A white picket fence separated it from the rest of the compound.

Red came out of the administration building. With him was Chico, with his hat on backward, and a tall angular man wearing starched fatigues and gleaming engineer’s boots.

“This here’s Mr. Plante,” Red said. “He’s the cadre chief.”

Plante nodded. “Red tells me you gentlemen are hand-to-hand combat experts.”

I said, “Un huh.”

“We have an opening for two men, to instruct in that area. Are you interested.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Very well,” Plante said. He nodded at Chico and Chico produced a hunting knife with a six-inch blade from behind his back. He held it with the flat of the blade parallel to the ground and the cutting edge turned in. “Take the knife away from Chico.”

Chico grinned a little and crouched slightly and I kicked him in the groin. Chico gasped, doubled up, fell forward on the ground, the knife dropped from his limp hand, and I leaned over and picked it up by the blade. I handed it to Plante.

“We get the job?” I said. Chico was moaning on the ground. Plante looked a little startled.

“He wasn’t ready,” said Plante.

“It’s mostly being ready,” Hawk said.

“You want to give him another chance,” I said. “You want another go, Cheeks?”

“No mas, ” Chico gasped.

I said to Plante, “You want to trot out another one, or do we get the job?”

“What about him,” Plante said, nodding at Hawk.

“You got the knife,” I said. “Give him a try.”

Hawk grinned a friendly neutral grin. Plante leaned back slightly, caught himself, frowned and dropped the knife beside Chico on the ground.

“No need,” he said. “If he can’t cut it we’ll know soon enough.”

“I told you they’d be good, Mr. Plante,” Red said.

“Maybe you were right,” Plante said. “Get Chico squared away.” He looked at us. “You men come this way, we’ll sign you on.” We followed him into the administration building.

We gave Plante phony names, and when he asked for ID we smiled enigmatically and he nodded. We signed contracts including the pledge never to discuss the operations of Transpan. Plante walked over to one of the near barracks with us and showed us our quarters. Then a driver took us back to town where we picked up our stuff and checked out of the Pequod House. By ten that night we were in the employ of Jerry Costigan, and, if we were right, I was about two hundred yards from Susan.