Breaking Creed

28

The guy was skinny and small. He looked like he might be fifteen. Jason had seen plenty of his type in the military. What they lacked in stature they tried to make up for with their mouths. Big talkers. Bullshit talkers.

He told them his name was Falco, as he grabbed a chair from the corner and asked, “You mind if I join you fellows?”

Fellows? Not fellas. His English was good but too formal. And not good enough to hide the Spanish accent. Jason wondered why he bothered. Who cared?

“Suit yourself.” It was Tony who answered for them because it was Tony who Falco addressed.

Jason didn’t blame the guy for singling out Tony. Even gathered around their poker table, they probably looked like a sorry bunch of rejects: Jason with his empty shirtsleeve dangling, Colfax with his glass eye and Frankenstein scars, and Benny with both legs sliced off above the kneecaps.

Tony was the only whole one. In another world, in another lifetime, he’d be holding down a good job with benefits as an electrical engineer for some big frickin’ corporation. Unlike the other three, Tony was still in one piece. He had no scars, no missing limbs, no blown-off parts. Tony could have passed for one of the blond college boys down here on summer break, shooting the breeze until he took off to go catch some waves over on Pensacola Beach.

They joked about Tony having no scars — how fit and trim and good-looking he was, like a shiny copper penny — all the while knowing full well that he was about as worthless as a penny, as worthless as the rest of them.

Forget about scars. Tony had what he called brain fevers. Jason once saw Tony during a full-blown one. All of them had some level of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), but nothing like Tony’s brain fevers. His were beyond any brain injury Jason had seen since he got back. Technically they called it TBI — traumatic brain injury. Like that made a difference. For Tony, it was as if his brain began to boil, the anger sparked by an electrical storm from within. You could almost smell it — sweat and spit and sometimes blood. You didn’t want to be anywhere in the line of fire when it happened.

On days like today, when Tony’s meds were working — or when he decided to take them — he was a good guy. He was witty and told great stories. In combat he would have been the guy who had your back — no matter what. On the outside, Tony was the only one of them who probably sounded normal and looked whole. So Jason could understand this guy named Falco thinking that Tony was the leader at their table.

“I’m looking to recruit a few good men,” Falco said with a wide-tooth grin.

No one said a word. Colfax shuffled the deck of cards and started dealing them out, purposely bypassing Falco.

“I know you’re all ex-military.”

“Really?” Benny said. “What gave us away? The spit-and-polish shine on our shoes?”

Jason smiled. Colfax snorted and finished out the deal. Falco glanced at Benny’s wheelchair without a hint of humor or embarrassment, and definitely not a trace of apology. He was here to make his spiel.

“I know you guys have special skills, right? Ones you probably can’t use anymore.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Tony said. “We were all special ops. Highly classified, though. We can’t even talk about it.” He winked at Falco, then picked up his cards and gave them his full attention.

Some of the most annoying things about having only one hand were also some of the stupidest. Jason had to put his cards down every time he wanted to scratch his nose or take a drink of his soda. Alcohol wasn’t allowed on the premises. Most of the other guys drank Red Bull or coffee. He popped the soda can’s tab and everyone at the table looked up at him as though he had fired a gun. Sudden loud noises were always a problem, but not usually a soda can. Jason realized that this guy Falco had actually succeeded in rattling his buddies.

Falco noticed, too. From out of nowhere he placed a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill on the table. All eyes checked it out.

“We don’t play with money,” Colfax told him.

“I don’t play with money, either.”

The big-ass grin was gone. His eyes turned dark as they darted toward the door. He placed another bill on top, waited a beat, then placed another and another, as if he were showing a hand of cards. Only, he didn’t stop until there were ten crisp Ben Franklins staring up from the tabletop and he had exactly what he wanted — everyone’s attention.

“I know you guys must have some serious bills. You definitely don’t have enough cash or you wouldn’t be in a place like this,” Falco said. “You guys served your country. Took a bullet.” He waved a finger at Benny. “Or a frickin’ bomb, right? And yet, here you all are.”

He put his hand over the bills to emphasize his point. “There’s a lot more for each of you,” Falco told them. “This is just… Let’s call it a signing bonus.”

“Why don’t you tell us what it is you want,” Colfax said.

“I need a little wet work done. Oh, and it’d probably help if you hate dogs.”