Final Stroke (59 page)

Tyrone had learned early in his health care career that all the shit started in Washington and was handed down. A congressman farts at the podium and the next thing you know there’s another new rule and another new form to be filled out. Trees cut down in the boon
docks to make paper they ship to Chicago where printing presses two stories tall spit out ten-part forms. The forms sent to every hospital and doctor’s office and so-called rehab centers like Hell in the Woods to be filled out. The forms converted to computer data analyzed in Washington so the farting congressman will have the fuckin’ data be
fore next election to spit into reporters’ eyes while he complains about government waste like he’s the first to discover it.

Yeah, he learned real fast that the health care system was a thing put there to make sure most of the money funneled on up to the docs, and to the drug company executives, and to the supply company ex
ecutives, and to fucks like DeJesus. All that money to fucks who could care less about poor folks hollering and screaming for God to let them live a few minutes longer.

The day after DeJesus’ visit, when the doctors had finished re
stitching his gut and the roof of his mouth, and when the cops called by the staff had finally gone away shaking their heads—but leaving a guard at the door—one of the prettier white nurses came in and asked Tyrone if there was anything he needed.

He stared at her a moment, suppressed one of the usual thoughts he had at moments like this—Yeah, one last blowjob—and pointed to the bedside table saying, “In dra’er.”

“Something in your drawer?”

He nodded.

After she held up about a hundred items—CD player, CDs, old love note from Latoya, copy of his living will, get well card from Hell in the Woods, gum he couldn’t chew, mints—she finally held up the business card.

He nodded.

She stared at the card and said, “Steve Babe, that’s a cute name.”

He tried to draw a circle in the air with his finger. “O’er. ‘Urn i’ o’er.”

When she turned the card over, she read the handwritten note on the reverse side, the note written by Steve Babe’s pretty wife the last time they had come to see him, the last time they asked if he didn’t want to unload on some of the big guns who ran scams at Hell in the Woods and who weren’t doing shit for him now.

“It says, ‘Give me a call when you change your mind, because after a while in this place on the other side of the fence, you just might.’”

The nurse looked up from the card with a puzzled look on her face. “You want me to call this guy for you?”

He nodded.

“You want me to say you changed your mind?”

He nodded again. But this time he struggled to speak as clearly as he could. “Tell ‘im I done foun’ Jesus. And I wan’ help ‘uture genera’ions.”

“Okay,” said the nurse, leaving the room. “I’ll call him right away.”

After the nurse was gone, Tyrone closed his eyes and tried to rest. But even though it hurt like hell, he had to laugh.

He laughed because he recalled Flat Nose telling him that DeJe
sus’ boss was an old 82
^nd
Airborne Division buddy, and that the big boss kept his nose out of the business but would be there in a min
ute if DeJesus needed protection, like if he needed to put out a hit on someone. He laughed because, now that DeJesus had mentioned Fort Bragg, he recalled Flat Nose once let it slip that while DeJesus and the big boss were stationed at Fort Bragg they came down on an
other soldier who crossed them, then went after the soldier’s girl. He laughed because he now knew, for the first time in his life, that what goes around really does come around. Yeah, he’d have the last laugh all right. He’d get DeJesus, get him good. And when he was finished getting DeJesus and Flat Nose, he’d be sure to tell Babe how funny it was, and what a stroke of luck that he worked at Hell in the Woods so he’d end up being the one to make it happen. Not only had Lamberti gotten his, but his Fort Bragg buddy DeJesus and an asshole named Flat Nose would also get theirs.

Tyrone tried to picture Steve Babe and his wife at his bedside. He wondered if he’d been hearing things when they said they might need someone like him working for their detective agency because they’d gotten some big jobs recently working for insurance companies in the health care field. Then he recalled the theory he’d developed about white folks years earlier when he worked at the VA Hospital where it seemed most patients were white men suffering from one thing or an other having to do with smoking cigarettes since they were PFCs with Betty Grable pinups thumb-tacked to their bunks. While delivering clean spit-up cups and taking away the old spit-up cups, he’d noticed the stuff in those cups made it seem like the men were slowly turning
black on the inside. His theory was that just before white folks die they turn black inside and finally feel how it is to be black, but they also realize it’s too late for the realization to do any good and they die screaming to the Almighty to let them live even if they have to suffer like black folks suffer. His theory was that part of the purpose of suf fering was to turn everyone black so that when they went to heaven— if they did go to heaven—there’d be no racial tension.

Tyrone fell asleep deciding that, ultimately, all he had left in the world was to trust someone. And Steve Babe and his wife were damn good people to trust. Good folks just like him.

And if it all went off real nice like in a dream, maybe he’d be able to tell all about it to Latoya some day. And after that, maybe he’d be able to tell it to his kids and even his nephews and nieces. Yeah, he could have nephews and nieces because Latoya—sweet Latoya—had enough brothers and sisters to make up for his lack of them. Some day down the line, little kids would cheer when old Uncle Tyrone came to visit in his classic Cadillac DeVille. They sure would.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

SIX

There had been no retirement party at the Miami office
when Valdez retired at the first of the year. At Langley they some
times had retirement parties, but not at outlying offices. In lieu of a party for his old friend, Skinner had arranged a visit later in the year to Valdez’s new home.

It was September, the height of the hurricane season. Although the entire city of Naples, Florida, had been ordered to evacuate for one of the hurricanes earlier in the season, and another hurricane was pre
dicted to make landfall in a couple of days, Valdez always stayed put. He did this, not because he was especially fearless, but because his home was built to withstand even category five storms.

Though the house was on the Gulf Coast, it sat on a rise overlook
ing a fishing pier. The house was built like a bunker with extensive foundation, backup power and pumps, built-in storm shutters, and walls surrounding the property that were as thick as the walls of the house. During a previous storm, Valdez had sheltered several emer
gency workers who had been unable to move inland in time.

Skinner, having lost most of his hair, now kept it shaved. Valdez, on the other hand, had allowed his gray hair to grow, giving him the appearance of a beachcomber. The two old men sat on the porch of Valdez’s home staring out at the calm before the storm. High clouds hid the sun and there was only one lone fisherman out on the pier.

“It’s pretty ironic,” said Skinner.

“What is?” asked Valdez.

“Your being here in Hanley’s old house.”

“Because of what happened in Chicago?”

“Yes,” said Skinner. “And even more so because you retained the housekeeper Hanley was so obviously fond of.”

“The events in Chicago were independent of what followed,” said Valdez. “From my point of view I could say it’s ironic that our contact in Chicago be chosen to go to Arizona.”

“She was already on the case,” said Skinner. “I simply felt it best to limit the numbers.”

“Did she locate Christensen and his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Did she …?”

“Yes. Both. It was obvious what needed to be done when she found they had moved to another retirement community and were liv
ing under yet another name. Christensen made the last move because he knew he had revealed too much to his wife.”

“It’s sad,” said Valdez.

“I agree,” said Skinner. “In the old days of ham radio we’d refer to him as a silent key.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Valdez. “Three brand new recruits pounding out Morse Code that anyone could have been listening to.”

“Except we never discussed agency business over the airwaves. And as far as Christensen is concerned, he knew that if a husband
or
a
wife loves their partner, they should keep things to themselves.”

“Is our contact back at Langley?”

“Yes.”

“I assume that means she’ll carry on after we’re out of the picture.”

Skinner smiled. “You assume correctly. She’ll be in charge.”

“Besides what’s left of the mob family in Chicago, will she be keeping tabs on the detective and his wife?”

“Yes. However, with the money having been located, perhaps things will begin to fade.”

Valdez turned and stared at Skinner. “Do you still trust my judg
ment in the matter?”

“I still trust your judgment,” said Skinner. “If you say the stroke distracted him adequately, I can only acquiesce.”

“I hope I’m right,” said Valdez, looking back out at the fishing pier. “But even if I’m not, with conspiracy theories launched at the blink of an eye these days, it would probably be a simple matter to shut it down on short notice. I assume you felt much more strongly about the danger from Christensen than you ever did from the detective.”

“I did,” said Skinner.

“Will the detective and his wife be under long term observation?” asked Valdez.

“They will,” said Skinner. “Speaking of long term observation, what do you tell your Maria when she asks questions?”

Valdez thought for a moment, then said, “I tell her she is younger than me and, therefore, still has many years ahead of her. I tell her it would be foolish for her to know what I know. She says that everything she knew of Hanley’s affairs came from vague references to visitors and phone calls he made and received. All she knows is that he called the Washington area a lot. I’ve told her my work revolves around concern for future generations.”

“And this satisfies her?” asked Skinner.

“It does,” said Valdez.

“Funny, isn’t it?” said Skinner. “Your housekeeper having the same name as our young colleague?”

“Yes,” said Valdez. “However, besides the age difference, there is another thing that distinguishes them.”

“What’s that?” asked Skinner.

“As I’ve said, my Maria knows nothing about our work, and will never know.”

Skinner turned and stared at Valdez. “Can you guarantee that?”

“I can,” said Valdez. “If it ever comes down to it, I’ve prepared myself …”

Skinner waved his hand. “No need to go into detail. I trust you. Who better to trust than an old ham buddy from simpler times?”

“I remember the old days,” said Valdez. “I remember the ham radio operators in Miami serving as the communications link before, during, and after storms. I remember taking my rig into the Miami office and setting up a communications post there.”

“The good old days before cell phones,” said Skinner.

“You can say that again,” said Valdez, just as Skinner’s cell phone chirped and they both laughed.

After answering, Skinner simply said, “Okay. I’ll be there,” before closing the phone.

“Time to leave already?” asked Valdez.

“They want to take off a little earlier because of the approaching storm,” said Skinner. “They want me at the airport in two hours.”

“That will give us time for dinner,” said Valdez. “You will stay, won’t you? I’ve asked Maria to join us.”

Skinner smiled. “In that case, I will stay.”

Both stood slowly, stretching their aching muscles. When they
went inside through the sliding door, Maria was already busy setting the table.

Two days later, as the slow-moving storm began coming ashore, Valdez and Maria sat together on the sofa facing the only sliding door not yet covered by a storm shutter. Despite the fact Valdez had already started the backup generator and the pumps, they sat in near darkness.

The approaching storm was named Tanya. A few weeks back, when hurricane names were coming from earlier in the alphabet, Maria had said she wished they would name one for her. Valdez had explained to her there had been a storm named Maria in 2005 and that perhaps her name would again be used some time in the future. He did not tell her his dead wife’s name had been used for a hurricane in 1974. He did not tell her Hurricane Carmen had caused extensive damage to Mexico and to Louisiana and the name Carmen had been retired. No, he did not tell Maria about his wife whose name had been used for a hurricane years earlier before the cancer.

When an especially strong gust of wind drove rain against the sliding door, Maria stirred in his arms. “I understand why you are angry, Tanya.”

“Why do you tell her that?” asked Valdez.

“Because of what her name has come to symbolize.”

“Yes,” said Valdez. “Many names have taken on symbolic meanings throughout the ages. Are you familiar with the name Barabbas?”

“Barabbas,” repeated Maria. “Isn’t that the name of the thief who was released instead of Jesus Christ?”

“Yes,” said Valdez. “I once knew of a man whose family had been given the name Babe. It was after the turn of the century when U.S.

immigrants came from Europe. The reason the man’s family had been given this name was because of the fear of being stuck with the name of the thief from the Crucifixion. It happened on Ellis Island where an official confused the name Barabbas with the family’s original Hun
garian name, Baberos. Trying to be helpful, the official suggested the name Babe, and for the last century, the man’s family has had to live with it.”

“I’m glad I do not have a name like that,” said Maria as the wind flattened a palm branch against the sliding doors. She lifted her head. “We’d better close up, I think.”

While waves swamped the fishing pier and winds whipped the palm trees that lined the concrete walls surrounding the fortified home, Valdez and Maria stood to attend to the last storm shutter. As the wind tore at him, Valdez braced himself just inside the door open
ing so he could reach up and release the weighted shutter. Maria held onto his belt with one hand while maintaining a firm grip on the slid
ing door handle with her other hand. After they got the last shutter closed and locked firmly to the eyebolts embedded in the patio floor, they closed the sliding door and retired into the dark house.

Outside, the storm named Tanya roared.

THE END

MICHAE
L

BERES

photo by KB

Michael’s experiences during the Cold War and his interest in the environment have shaped his novels. With degrees in computer sci
ence, math, and literature, he worked for the government, holding a top-secret security clearance, and in the private sector, documenting analytical software. His fi ction reflects our age of environmental un
certainty and political treachery.

A Canadian publisher published Michael’s first novel SUNSTRIKE in the eighties when environmental and political conspiracies were considered tall tales. Today we know differently. Medallion Press published Michael’s environmental novel GRAND TRAVERSE in 2005. It presents a realistic portrait of our frightening near future. His 2006 release, political thriller THE PRESIDENT’S NEMESIS, was compared to THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE by Library Journal and dubbed “a nail-biting thriller” by Midwest Review.

A Chicago native now living in West Michigan, Michael is a mem
ber of the Mystery Writers of America, International Th riller Writers, and the Sierra Club. He has driven a low-emissions hybrid vehicle since the beginning of the technology. His short stories have appeared in:
Amazing Stories
,
Amazon Shorts
, the
American Fiction Collection
,
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
,
Ascent
,
Cosmopolitan
,
Ellery Queen
,
Michigan Quarterly Review
,
The Missouri Review
,
New York Stories
,
Papyrus
,
Playboy
,
Pulpsmith, Skylark
, and
Twilight Zone
.

w w w.michaelberes.com