Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (33 page)

Ira squinted. There were two hearts, its seemed, and two
Moms. His heart rate slowed down. "Nice," he said. Or tried
to say. He couldn't be sure he got the word out. The guy was
talking to somebody else now, anyway. It didn't matter.

He was tired of this bar. In fact, he was sick of this two-bit
joint and everybody in it. He pushed up from his bar stool and
staggered to the door. Somebody came up behind him, and he
whirled, ready to throw a haymaker, let this guy's teeth wind
up on the floor, like the Jap's.

The man looked frightened. "You forgot your jacket there,
buddy." He held it out to Ira at arm's length.

The Indian grabbed it out of the man's hand. Who did he
think he was, anyway, following him around? His mom?

He let out a howl, like a wolf in pain. It sounded so good
he did it again. It was a mistake, though, because he was attracting attention.

"What are you looking at?" he yelled at the crowd beginning to form outside the bar. "Go back inside."

He turned on his heel and strode away.

Keyes Beech caught up with him. "Ira, Ira, take it easy,
man.

Ira shrugged him off and kept going.

"Where you heading? It's cold. Come on, let's go in here.
This looks like a quiet neighborhood joint. Nobody'll bother
its here. See? I'm going in. Come with me," Beech coaxed. He
opened the door and motioned Ira in.

The Indian was going to keep walking, but then he
thought, What the hell, and went in.

It was a workingman's bar. Sawdust on the floor. Men in
caps and thick jackets. Men who looked like Mike.

Mike Strank is the best platoon leader a guy can have. He
understands his marines, and he takes care of them. The Indian respects him. Reveres him. All Mike's men do. And even
though the Pima doesn't speak much to anyone, he's practically a chatterbox with Mike. He can tell Mike anything.
Mike doesn't judge. He just loves his men back by being the
best leader he can be and doing everything he can to keep
them safe. That's why they'll do anything for him.

Mike was born in Czechoslovakia but passed through Ellis
Island when he was three. He has the strong bone structure
common to Eastern Europeans that keep them looking young,
even in their old age. Mike's most prominent feature is a pugnacious chin.

The Indian walked up to a man standing at the bar, his
hands wrapped around a beer glass. The man wore a cap and
had a defiant chin. The Indian peered at him. "Mike?" he said
in a small voice.

"Look, I don't know you," the man said, keeping his eyes
on his beer. He had an accent.

Ira's head snapped back. "Sorry," he said.

Beech pulled him to the other end of the bar. "What are
you doing, huh? You want to get us thrown out of here?" he
hissed.

Ira looked down but didn't speak.

"Here, sit at the table. I'll get you something." Beech
shoved the Indian into a chair.

The sergeant returned to the table with two beers and
drank half of his in one swallow, as though it were his first of the evening, instead of his seventeenth. "We'll just sit here
for a little while, huh, Ira? It's a good place just to have a few
beers."

It was a quiet place. Every man in there had his own story,
and they were all keeping mum. They were just minding their
own business after putting in a day's manual labor at the docks
or the slaughterhouses.

Then something happened to fracture the silence. The
two marines didn't know what set it off. Not being regulars,
they didn't know the politics of the place. But somebody obviously stepped out of line because a man crashed into their
table, landing with his head practically in the Indian's lap. As
the guy attempted to stagger to his feet, the back of his head
slammed into the Pima marine's chin. The Indian punched
his enemy in the stomach.

The guy cries out, bent double. Mike is trying to lead the
Indian and several other marines across a dangerous strip of
ground. But Boatwright takes a bullet in the stomach. The
impact slams him into a shell hole. The others scramble for
cover. The sniper fire is unceasing.

Mike bends down on one knee, surrounded by his beloved
troops. He's drawing a plan in the sand to show the marines
how to get out of there safely.

But he doesn't get a chance to speak. A shell explodes,
ripping his heart out.

He was lying facedown.

The Indian crouched over him, sobbing. "Oh, Mike!
Mike!"

Rough hands pulled him up, shoved him away. "Don't you
think you've caused enough trouble, buddy?"

"Just go before you get what's coming to you."

Then-"Jesus, Hayes, you can't even have a beer without all this drama. Let's get the fuck out of here before we have to
take on the whole bar."

Good old Beech, bailing his ass out again.

It was cold, but the Indian wasn't aware of the weather.
Or much of anything else. He could hardly see straight, and
what he did see came in pairs. He felt pretty good, though.

Then he spotted it. It loomed ahead, mocking him. This
was the cause of all his troubles. He ran toward it. He was
going to pull it out of the ground and get rid of it, once and
for all.

The Pima grasps the piece of drainage pipe he and Franklin Sousley found at the top of the mountain. It weighs over
a hundred pounds, and they have to drag it over so the flag
Gagnon is carrying can be tied to it. Then they all have to
hoist up this pole and plant the fucking flag in the ground.
Some dumb officer wants to keep the Stars and Stripes that's
already flying for his own personal souvenir of the invasion of
Iwo Jima. So now he and some other guys from Easy Company
have to drag ass up the hill and take down a perfectly good
flag, just to put up a new one.

They're already on a mission to run telephone wire and
batteries up the mountain, so why not have them replace the
flag while they're at it? The brass are always sending marines
on stupid errands.

The pole is heavy, but he and Sousley are battle-toughened
marines. They can do what needs to be done.

He grabbed the pole and tugged with all his might. This
time, he wouldn't plant the flag. There would be no photograph of him and his buddies sticking the goddamn thing into
the top of Mount Suribachi. He yelled as though the pole
could hear him, his voice filled with grief. "You son of a bitch!
I hate you! I hate you!" Tears streamed down his face.

The copper was walking his beat when he heard a cry. He
quickened his step. At fifty-two, John Flanagan was beginning
to feel a little creaky. But he couldn't leave the job. Who would
replace him? All the young, able-bodied fellows were off fighting in the European theater or the Pacific or some damn place.
The Chicago Police Department needed him. Besides, what
would he do with himself? Police work was all he knew.

This hour of night, this part of town, he figured the yelling
was coming from some guy who had too much to drink. There
was a festive air in town these last couple days, what with the
war bond tour and all the Hollywood entertainers who were
participating so they could get their names in the papers. Flanagan smoothed his small mustache and pulled himself up to
his full five foot six inches.

Sure enough, there was some idiot hanging off a streetlamp,
screaming his head off. Flanagan reached down instinctively
to check his weapon. He swiped his left sleeve down over his
star. He didn't even notice he was doing it, he'd had the habit
so long. Wearing a gleaming star on his chest had been a point
of pride since he'd joined the force, and he had developed
the unconscious routine of shining it up before any potential
confrontation.

"All right, what's the problem here?" he bellowed. He
didn't know why, but drunks seemed to lose their hearing during the course of a night's imbibing. He'd learned early on that
if you don't shout at a drunk, you won't get through to him.

The idiot didn't respond. Just kept banging his fist against
the streetlamp and cursing it out.

As he got closer, Flanagan could see that the guy wore a
uniform. Great. Another drunken marine. He let out a small
sigh.

Then he realized it was even better than he'd thought.

The drunk idiot had a friend with him. Another marine. This
one looked three sheets to the wind too, but at least he was
quiet. He was crouched on the ground.

Now Flanagan could see what the guy was doing. Why
did he always have to get the drunks who puked? He hoped
he wouldn't get any vomit on his uniform this time. His wife
would have a fit.

"What's going on here?" he called out in his best basso
profundo. "What did that streetlamp do to you?"

The idiot didn't pay any attention to him. He sighed again.
Louder. Stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips.

"All right, listen up! Step away from that lamp and you
won't get hurt. You hear me?"

It wasn't working. The idiot was still lost in his own
world.

Flanagan crossed his arms, then almost jumped out of his
skin as he realized that the idiot's buddy was standing right
behind him. The guy had sneaked up on him like a thief in the
night. He whirled around and dropped his hand to his holster.
Then he realized there was no threat.

The sergeant was obviously standing so close to the other
guy because he could no longer gauge distance, he was so
drunk. He just stood there with a sweet smile on his face, his
eyes at half mast, swaying in the breeze. Lovely.

Well, as long as he was upright . . . "Do you think you can
get your buddy to leave the poor streetlamp alone?" Flanagan
jerked his thumb behind him. "After all, it doesn't look like
the light attacked him first. Why does he have to try to punch
its lights out?" Flanagan played to an audience of one. Himself. He chuckled slightly.

The marine sergeant just stood there with that big stupid
grin on his face. Useless.

Flanagan stopped laughing. He tried again. "Listen, pal, if
your friend there doesn't stop his screaming, I'm going to have
to lock him up. Let's try to be civilized about this, okay?"

Something must have penetrated because the guy came
to life. Well, he moved a little.

"We're-marines," he slurred. "Don't-lock up. Hafta be
back for-grblsh."

Flanagan could barely understand him. "I can see you're
marines. You want to help your buddy back to camp or wherever you belong, or do you want to spend what's left of the
night in jail?"

The sergeant visibly tried to straighten himself up. "It'sh-
okay. Fine. I'll take him-"

He thought the guy was going to puke again, so he made a
rookie mistake. He backed up, forgetting that the other drunk
was behind him.

The Pima marine grabbed him by the coat and whirled
him around. "You son of a bitch!" He punched Flanagan in
the stomach. "You goddamn son of a bitch! It's all your fault!"
Another punch. "I hate you, Rosenthal! Hate you, hate you,
hate you!" He underscored every "hate you" with another
punch.

Beech revived enough to try pulling him off the policeman. "Ira, enough! Leave him alone!"

Flanagan rolled himself into a ball to make a smaller target. If he could just get to his gun ... He managed to unsnap
his holster. He touched the grip of his pistol. Almost there ...
Then, fireworks. Then, darkness.

The adrenaline coursing through Beech's body rendered
him instantly sober. He wrestled with the Pima for possession
of the cop's gun.

The Indian is in the foxhole with Franczik when a flare explodes, lighting up the night. Two enemy soldiers are slashing the guys in the next hole with bayonets. They run over
there to aid their fellow marines.

One of the Japs hurls a grenade at them. It's a dud, but it
strikes Franczik in the head, and he goes down. The Indian
reaches inside Franczik's shirt to pull out the .45 he knows his
friend keeps hidden there, but the Jap is right on top of him.

He punches at the enemy soldier and wrestles with him
for possession of the handgun. Blood covers the gun, and it's
slippery in his hand. He may not be able to hold onto it, but
he won't give up. They go back and forth over the .45.

A tug of war for the gun.

"Ira, stop it! Let go!"

Beech grabbed for the policeman's gun again. The Indian
was still engaged in mortal combat. He wouldn't loosen his
grip. But Beech had sobered up, and Ira's body hadn't yet processed all the alcohol he'd consumed that day.

With a final tug, Beech managed to pull the weapon away
from the Pima marine. The gun went off.

"Shit!" Beech cried. "Why isn't the fucking safety on on
this piece of shit? You okay, Ira?"

Ira didn't say anything.

Beech scrambled to his feet and jerked Ira up. "Yeah,
you're okay. Thank fucking Christ."

Ira looked down at the spreading pool of blood.

"Oh my God," Beech said. "Oh fuck."

The blood pools all over the ground. It sinks in, staining
the dirt. There are so many dead and wounded that there's
nothing else to smell besides the coppery scent of blood and
the stench of decaying bodies.

The Pima Indian crouches down, trying to duck rounds
that he cant begin to guess the origins of. The enemy is hidden, and bullets seem to originate from nowhere and everywhere.

He sees blood pouring out of the man in front of him. He
presses the man's jacket against his chest wound. "You'll be
okay," he reassures him. But he knows he's lying.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of the prowling
wolves coming toward him. "Over there!" he shouts. He grabs
a gun out of another marine's hands. He hears rounds exploding everywhere. It's impossible to tell whether what he's hearing is his own gunfire or not.

"Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod ohmygod."

Beech came around behind the Pima and yanked his jacket
down to immobilize his arms. "Ira, we have to go. Now."

He shoved him toward the street, but not before the Indian spotted the two men lying on the ground. "What happened?" he asked, craning his neck to look.