A Matter of Honor

Chapter Eighteen

Dawn light was streaking the canals near the X-14th Command Armory as Detective Frank Salmi parked his unmarked squad car and walked the two blocks to the old building, footsteps echoing in the silence. The man’s normally sallow face was pale and he moved with his shoulders hunched forward, as if breasting a cold wind. Outside Sergeant Malleck’s office he rapped, then pushed open the door.

Malleck was at his desk, typing out a report, talking aloud as he worked, his voice sounding out over the clatter of the typewriter. Sergeants Neal and Castana stood at ease on either side of the door. Detective Salmi took off his hat and waited nervously while Malleck changed papers in the machine. Without turning the sergeant said, “Well, Salmi, can we say ‘mission accomplished’?”

“Yes,” Salmi said heavily, “Lieutenant Weir died about forty minutes ago on the operating table.”

“He have anything to say, any statement?”

“He never regained consciousness...”

Malleck swiveled around in his chair and looked hard at the three men. “Then the lieutenant is no longer a part of our problem, is he?” He stared at Salmi. “You don’t know me as well as my men here, Salmi, but I’ve always been a positive thinker. So now I’m gonna tell you what I like about our current situation. We are all in on this and we’re going to stick together. Nobody can save himself by second thoughts anymore. Who fired the bullets is immaterial. Might have been Neal, might have been the Mex here. They both used imported, foreign-made guns so ballistics can’t trace anything back to army issue. But we’re all in on it.”

Eddie Neal grinned and said, “Let’s give credit where credit is due, Sarge. Castana’s the hot shot, he won all the medals in the division shootout.”

“You shit!” Castana said, staring at Neal. “You rednecked, two-timing shit!”

Eddie Neal chuckled in an embarrassed fashion, as if deflecting a compliment, and said, “Kind of hard words you’re laying on your best buddy, Mex. I’m not saying for sure it was you put him down...”

“Shut up, both of you,” Malleck said. “We don’t say one more fucking word about this, you understand? I knew it was going to happen, so I’m an accomplice, Frank Salmi set it up...” He paused. “Detective Salmi buzzed Weir on the police radio, said he was a concerned citizen, that he had a tip on the Private Lewis case. It was Salmi who asked his compadre for a meet at Cabrini Green...”

“I told him what you said I should, that I was kin to Mrs. Lewis. I thought you wanted to meet the lieutenant to make a deal. That’s all I knew.”

“Did you go into a bad-ass nigger act on the phone for your buddy, Salmi?”

The detective’s face went gray. “I’m not a clown, Malleck,” he said. “I’m an officer of the law. I made a certain phone call because you asked for it.” He took a step toward Malleck and lowered his voice. “Listen, sergeant, those other wipeouts, you said they were matters of expediency. I understand that. But Weir... a fellow officer. You didn’t tell me you were blowing him away.”

“Spare me your man-with-a-badge shit, Salmi,” Malleck said. “You don’t give a damn what happened last night just so long as you keep on collecting your paycheck. We both know that.”

Malleck took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and poured a shot into a canteen cup, his face flushed with anger. “Like I just said, that part of our operation is over and done with. Weir was getting too smart, he was crowding us. Now we go on to the next phase.”

He tapped the paper in his typewriter. “I’m preparing a report to cover Lasari.”

He began to read in a mocking, singsong voice. “Our first tip came from Chicago Police Detective Frank Salmi who noted a suspicious car near an unofficial veterans’ office and checked plates. Such information was turned over to us and we checked Army reports. Learning the subject was a deserter, currently employed in Calumet City, Privates Neal and Castana, operating on orders from First Sergeant Karl Malleck, went to Calumet City to attempt to locate the deserter, checked place of business, local bars and so forth. Army personnel located subject’s rooming house, hoped to apprehend subject and bring peacefully into custody. Subject attempted to elude our surveillance and was declared fugitive.”

Malleck looked at the other three men in the room and controlled an almost diffident smile. He was pleased with himself because this was an area of expertise he had mastered and felt at home with — the “truth” of records, the “sanctity” of clerical reports issued in quadruplicate on official paper, fake or real, marked and stamped and sealed with proper endorsement.

“Subject was surveilled from Indiana to state line and then to center city Chicago. Surveillance lost when subject left car. However, acting on an anonymous phone tip, we had reason to believe that the subject had barricaded himself in an apartment rented by one Bonnie Caidin.”

Malleck smiled. “I added that little variation of the truth about a tip just to make the civilians look good. We never lost Lasari. When he parked his car in the lady’s neighborhood, we knew exactly where he was going.”

Malleck sipped his whiskey. “And on and on and so on and so on. When I finish the report, it’s gonna read that Lasari resisted violently and had to be subdued with force. That’s our story. It’s clean, it’s legal, and I can swear by these six stripes I wear that it will go down with the brass like a cold beer after a hot march.

“We got him by the balls on this. If Lasari doesn’t buy the proposal I’m gonna make him, he’s facing five or ten years minimum in a federal pen.”

Malleck smiled easily. “Okay, get out now, all of you. Castana, tell Homer Robbins I’ll want to see him in about an hour. Salmi, adios and buena suerte. Neal, go get yourself a real GI haircut and make a request for some new uniforms. You may be doing some traveling. But first, tell Scales to bring Lasari in here. I want to talk to him alone. I’m gonna take that yellow prick up to the mountaintop and show him the promised land.”

Salmi said unexpectedly, “I want to make one thing clear before we break up this meeting. You guys think you got some kind of protection because you wear the same uniform. Well, don’t try to double-cross me just because I’m not part of the club. If it ever slips that I fingered Mark Weir — even if I didn’t know I was doing that — he’s got a lot of friends in this town who might want to shorten my life expectancy. Nobody likes going down alone, just remember that.”

Malleck said, “Frank, if there’s one thing I got no use for, it’s a whiner. As I remember, you came to me with a sad story, wanting in on this action cause you had good contacts with Mr. M. Me and my soft heart, I bought your story — five kids that you want to educate and you gotta keep feeding them first. You don’t want ’em on drugs, you don’t want ’em turning into the kind of spies that’s made this city a cesspool. You wanted to be Santa Claus, the big daddy. You wanted a better shake for your kids. Well, you’re going about it in the American way, Salmi. You’re paying for it.”

The report was typed in quadruplicate in stilted Army language on appropriate forms without erasures or strikeovers, addressed to one Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Facknor, Special Processing Department, Fort Lincoln, Illinois. The subject was Francis Durham Lasari.

Seated in front of Malleck’s desk, his face and lips dark with dried blood, Duro Lasari read the account of the charge against him. The report was studded with ponderous, quasi-technical jargon — “subject was observed,” “surveillance commenced at 1900 hours,” “acting on information received” and “subject advised of charges according to Articles of War.” It ran four and one-half pages.

When Lasari finished reading the report, he looked directly at Malleck, waiting for him to speak. Lasari had spent the night on the floor of an old tack room at the Armory, a chill, dark place that still smelled of saddle soap and horse leather. About an hour ago, a black orderly had brought him coffee and aspirin and whispered, “I’m not going to wash you up, man. Tops don’t want me to do you nothin’.”

Lasari was unclear about what had happened at the apartment last night only minutes after Bonnie had left. There had been the turn of a key, the door bursting open suddenly, and the crunch of a zap against the side of his head. He had been aware of two men, but the movement had been so swift he hadn’t really seen them. They must have struck him again, adding other injuries after he was unconscious from the first blow. He had been dimly aware of sick, antic laughter.

He was not sure where he was now, but he was well aware of the sergeant’s immaculate and perfectly creased uniform, the rows of campaign ribbons and the man’s stem and tanned facade, an impeccable but ruthless military facade.

Finally, Sergeant Malleck said, “Lasari, I’ve looked over your records and you’ve got a pretty fair IQ, so you gotta know you’re into this shit up to your shoulders. Make one little slip and you go all the way under.”

“I was planning to turn myself in. I can prove that, sergeant.”

“Too bad you never got around to it, soldier.”

Although he knew he had little to bargain with, Lasari said, “First off, I want to know how you found me. How did you know where I was?”

“I think this will go faster if you just hear me out.” Malleck stood and began pacing, rubbing his big hands together. The movement caused the muscles to flex in his upper arms.

“It couldn’t be Carlos,” Lasari said flatly.

“I told you the ground rules, soldier. You’d better start listening.”

“And it couldn’t be the Vets’ Bureau. She told me that was confidential.”

“Now we got two ways to go,” the sergeant said, pausing to look down at Lasari. “You can pretend you didn’t hear what I told you and keep up these damned fool questions, but I sure as hell wouldn’t advise that. Or you can sit there and listen to what I’m going to tell you about that report on my desk.” Malleck tapped the report with a blunt forefinger.

“You’re looking at five to ten years in the federal pen, and I don’t give a shit one way or the other. I don’t like deserters. Not that you’re a yellow bastard, you didn’t walk out on your buddies under fire, but the reason I don’t give a shit about you is because deserting is dumb. You’re a stupid fucker, a stupid ginzo idiot.

“You could’ve stayed Army, tried stealing from the quartermaster, made money on the black market or arranged some kickbacks, I’d say fine. You could’ve used your military career to better yourself, trade dollars for bigger profits, buy yourself some real estate with a slope partner, run some whores, all that can make sense. Or if you lack guts for business, just do your duty, brownnose the officers and wind up with a pension and a one-bedroom condo in Fort Lauderdale.”

Malleck leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. He felt an uncontrollable flush on his cheeks and an agitated, heavy stroke to his heartbeat. He would have liked to take a drink of whiskey but didn’t dare break his poise.

“Want a cigarette, Lasari? Some coffee? I got a colored orderly makes the best coffee this side of New Orleans. Uses chicory and a fresh eggshell in it.”

Lasari shook his head.

“Then let’s get down to business,” Malleck said. “If I send that report to Colonel Facknor, you’ll be shipped out of here in handcuffs to Fort Lincoln, there’ll be a court-martial that will last, if things move slowly, about fifteen to twenty minutes. I’ll be called as a witness, so will my men, if need be.”

Malleck grinned without humor and opened the top drawer of his desk. He took out a small, transparent bag of white powder. “Hell,” he said, “we can make that court-martial go even faster. I’ll change my report to read that we found contraband drugs right on the deserter’s person. We can even have Scales decorate your right arm with a few needle marks. Scales is good at that.”

Malleck pressed the buzzer on his desk and immediately the door opened and Private Scales put his head in. He avoided looking at Lasari.

“Bring me a pot of coffee and one cup, Scales. On the double.”

When the door closed Malleck resumed pacing, cracking his knuckles and twisting his hands together in the same powerful motion, muscles bunching in his arms and neck.

“I’m going to tell you something about Karl Malleck now, soldier,” he said, “so you can evaluate exactly the position you’re in. The one thing going for you, and I’m telling you this frankly, is that we share one thing in common. We both got fucked by that goddamned Vietnam war. Sometimes I think the U.S. got into that war just to get rid of a lot of second-class citizens. I was there. Maybe I didn’t see the fighting you did, but I was there. I paid my dues. But we were greeted like a bunch of crazy killers when we got home, right? You see any parades, any welcoming committees? I didn’t. A bunch of egghead congressmen and gutless generals and mealy-mouthed Jews and Catholic liberals, they saw to that.

“Pretty fucking funny when you think about it. Some guy with a stiff cock just like I got puts his collar on backwards or wears a skullcap and lets his fucking sideburns grow and suddenly he’s got the right to get on a soapbox and tell the world what immoral fuckers you and me are.

“A lot of poor slobs cracked under that. They missed those bands playing, thought they’d earned it. But I don’t have much respect for them either, Lasari. Most of them are a bunch of fuck-ups. They crept home with their tails between their legs and hands out like trained monkeys for G.I. rights, disability payments, psychiatric treatment, for Christ’s sake, pissing up a storm for ramps and handrails for their goddamn wheelchairs, whining about ‘delayed stress syndrome,’ like they were the only fucking generation that ever fought a war.”

Malleck hesitated a moment, then opened a desk drawer and poured two inches of whiskey into a canteen cup and sipped it greedily, running a rough, red tongue over his lips.

“When I point out we got something in common, that means I may sympathize with you, but it doesn’t mean I respect you.” He pointed a thumb at the three rows of service ribbons on his chest. “I respect men who take what they deserve, even if it means making up their own rules. That’s what I’ve done with this outfit. We formed our own kind of welcoming committee, we reward ourselves. If life ain’t drained all the guts and manhood out of you, you can be part of it, Lasari. Battles aren’t fought on maps, you and I know that. Sure, I went over your combat record, but that’s ancient history. It’s what the Army’s gonna know about you now that counts, what’s on that report you’re looking at. Typed up on the right forms, initialed in the right places, endorsed by the proper stamps, that’s the paper truth this man’s Army runs on.

“So here’s the deal. I can take that report back, tear it up and write something else...”

“Whatever you write about me is the truth, is that what you’re telling me, sergeant?”

Malleck shrugged. “What I write is accepted as truth, so what the fuck’s the difference?”

Private Scales entered with a pot of coffee and a single cup and placed them on Malleck’s desk next to the small packet of heroin. Scales looked at the sergeant for a moment and then Lasari, his face and eyes impassive. Leaving the office, he closed the door carefully behind him.

Malleck lifted the pot of steaming coffee and poured some into the cup of whiskey. “I like a little pickup,” he said, “because I don’t take sugar and cream. Sure you won’t have some?”

Lasari shook his head. “I don’t want to jangle my nerves,” he said dryly. “I think you’re about to make me an offer.”

“Okay,” Malleck said, “this is it. We want you back in the Army but only for a limited engagement. I do the paperwork, send it to the right desks, make a phone call or two, and you’ll be sent for duty with an army division on a ready-alert status in Colorado. I work fast, you catch up with them. It’s an outfit that’s scheduled for an airborne trip to Germany, some field work, then some action in an integrated NATO field exercise on the Czech border. You’re gonna be our new pigeon. For now, Lasari, that’s all you need to know and that’s all you’re gonna know. The right people will contact you at the right time and tell you exactly what’s expected of you. When it’s over, you’re on your own.”

“What makes you think the Army computers won’t cough up the truth about Durham Lasari?”

“Because this is one trip Lasari ain’t gonna take,” Malleck said. “You’re going back into uniform as a man with a good, clean record — George Jackson.”

“Yeah, but I have only your word that I get out of this a free man.” Malleck shrugged and held the canteen cup close to his face, sniffing at the warm fumes of whiskey.

“You’re between a rock and a hard place, soldier,” he said. “You got only one friend left in this world and you’re looking at him. Maybe ‘friend’ is the wrong word because we both know I wouldn’t give you a glass of water in hell if you couldn’t pay for it. You take the offer I just made you, or you pick the federal slammer, peddling your ass to horny blacks just to keep alive and get cigarette money. Make up your own mind. Don’t come to me for sympathy. If you’re looking for sympathy, it’s between ‘shit’ and ‘sweat’ in the dictionary and that’s the only place you’ll find it. But I’m willing to help you, Lasari, because you can help me. Everybody else has already fucked you over good.”

... “everybody else has already fucked you over good”... Lasari felt a tightening of rage and emotion in his throat muscles so strong that he could barely speak.

“That brings us back to our first question, sergeant. I want to know how you found me...”

Malleck shook his head in mock sadness. “Why don’t you use that bright IQ of yours, soldier? The little newspaper cunt has been on my payroll from the beginning.”

As he came out of his chair, Lasari was sure of only one thing, to touch Malleck violently, to make a connection between their flesh, to hurt him as he’d been hurt, and he did that by swinging his foot high and arched over the desk, catching the sergeant squarely in the stomach and knocking him to the floor.

Lasari scrambled across the desk, scattering files, and grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle. Leaping toward Malleck’s back, he swung the bottle toward the big man’s head, but Malleck jerked an elbow into Lasari’s face, knocking him aside and sending the bottle shattering against a wall.

Standing now, his face tight with anger, Malleck drew back his foot and slammed it into Lasari’s side. It was a potentially murderous kick, even fatal if the victim tried to roll away from it, exposing his kidneys, spleen and testicles. But Lasari was trained in unarmed combat and he swung the full weight of his body forward into the force of Malleck’s swinging leg, blocking its destructive power and toppling the sergeant off balance.

Castana and Homer Robbins burst into the room, with Eddie Neal just behind them. Neal pushed the other men aside and said, in his honeyed drawl, “You all let me have him, sarge. You don’t have to take this shit.”

“Stay back!” Malleck shouted at the man. “Don’t come near this ginny bastard!” The sergeant locked his hands together and brought them down like a swinging axe against the back of Lasari’s neck.

Lasari fell to the floor, his cheek wet with his own blood, whiskey stinging the cuts in his face. He knew that Malleck was going to kick him in the ribs and there was nothing he could do about it. He experienced a curious, almost therapeutic disorientation. He knew he was alone again, he had always been alone, alone in his childhood, alone in ’Nam, alone in Jackson Hole, and now once again. That’s what Malleck wanted him to know.

The sergeant was panting heavily. “You just don’t think good, ginzo,” he said. “You hear any knocks last night? You were waiting for knocks, weren’t you? My men opened the door and walked right in, don’t you know that?”

Malleck kicked him in the side and Lasari began to retch, feeling the acid bile rushing into his throat.

“Who do you think gave us the fucking key, you ginny bastard?” Those were the last words Duro Lasari remembered hearing.