Liars and Tyrants and People Who Turn Blue (3 page)

The problem was who was supplying these useless weapons, and why? Did there exist somewhere some benevolent masked marvel who saw himself as a defender of the world's attempt to protect itself against itself? Was there someone who'd learned in advance of the insurgents' intentions and then took steps to make sure they failed? One could indeed argue that whoever had supplied those weapons had helped the UN's peacekeeping efforts in the world. Petty rebellions sometimes had a nasty way of growing into major revolutions.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Mr. Gilbert to see you, Sir John.”

“Send him in.”

Kevin Gilbert's normally tanned face had a gray look to it, which Sir John knew meant he hadn't had much sleep. Gilbert was one of those Americans who took a workaday approach to every problem they encountered, no matter how outré. It was Gilbert Sir John had sent to Honduras to find out what was going on.

“Well?” asked Sir John. “What's the final count?”

“As of last night, six hundred thirteen Hondurans dead, two Militia.”

“That's two too many.”

“Most of the Hondurans were killed in the first rocket attack,” Gilbert said. “The CO stopped the second launching when he saw the insurgents weren't doing much in the way of hitting back. So he just sent in mop-up squads, and that was the end of it. A lot of yelling and cursing, but the Hondurans couldn't really do anything when most of their weapons wouldn't fire.”

Sir John nodded. “I want to know why over six hundred people just died.”

“Political reasons this time, not religious ones. Free the people. Kill the UN slave-masters. Kill the dictator. Kill the tax assessor. Kill the postman.”

“Have a pew.”

Gilbert sat down and made his report. Extensive interrogation of the survivors had revealed a lot of slogans but very little in the way of hard facts. “One of them kept yelling, ‘Death to the tyrants! Death to the tyrants!' When we asked him
which
tyrants, he couldn't name a single name.”

“Your conclusion?”

“These rebels are the kind who'll hit out at any established power. They were planning an attack on the UN forces in Tegucigalpa when we learned of the arms shipments to San Pedro and stole a march on them. The fact that it happened to be the UN Militia they were after is almost incidental. Any bastion of authority would have done.”

Sir John himself had been thinking earlier that sometimes any excuse for a fight would do. Gilbert was probably right: any target would do, as well. “What about the supplier?”

Gilbert shook his head. “Nothing. The only two of the leaders who weren't killed said they'd dealt with a man named Pedro, no last name.”

“Pedro as in San Pedro?”

“Yes, sir. False name, obviously, as well as incomplete. We're trying to trace him—but it's the needle in the haystack. How many Pedros are there in Central America?”

Sir John nodded, his attention already elsewhere; he'd expected nothing else. He walked over and stood in front of the map of the world that covered the wall opposite his desk. “You think it will happen again?” he said to Gilbert.

“I'd bet on it,” Gilbert answered. “And I'd give next month's salary to know why.”

Sir John stared at the map. “Where?”

“Africa,” Gilbert said without hesitation.

“Why Africa?”

“Because the one time faulty weapons were supplied to a non-Third-World group, it didn't work. Next time our supplier will stick to people with little experience with modern weaponry. Or near-modern. That means a nonindustrialized people. Hill people in Afghanistan. Nomadic herdsmen almost anywhere. But African tribes are more populous and more easily accessible than wandering goatherds. I say Africa.”

“You may be right,” Sir John said darkly.

CHAPTER 5

I'VE GOT A LITTLE LISZT

“He does it on purpose,” Shelby Kent complained to her sister. “He deliberately tells me a lie, and then watches to see what I'll do.”

“What do you do?” Tee asked.

“Pretend not to notice. Have to, now—only way to avoid a fight. Oh, I took the bait when he first started doing it. And we had quite a few knock-down-drag-outs, I can tell you. Eric
wants
to fight with me, Tee. So he keeps setting these little traps.”

“Which you keep sidestepping. How long can you keep that up?”

“Not much longer,” Shelby sighed. “Confrontation Time looms. You know he wants me to give up the police work.”

“You're not going to, are you?”

“I thought about it. For a full five minutes, I thought about it. But hell, Tee, I'm the only person in the world who can read that particular aura people give off when they're lying. I should give up my one claim to uniqueness just because Eric Kent can't handle it? It's a valuable gift—I didn't ask for it, I didn't work for it. I was born with it. But I'm not going to let Eric bully me into giving it up.”

“Ah, come on, Shel,” Tee said unhappily. “You're both reasonable people. You'll work it out.”

Shelby looked at her sister's face and felt a stab of remorse. She had no business dumping her marital problem on Tee; Tee herself had retreated into marriage as a refuge against the mean hard cold ugly competitive world that intimidated her utterly.

“What's on this afternoon?” Shelby asked, changing the subject.

Tee made a face. “
Giselle
. Tinkle, tinkle, plonk, plonk. Sometimes I think I'll go mad if I have to play that insipid stuff one more time.”

Every day at noon Tee got into a cab and rode forty-one blocks downtown to the dingy loft the Metropolitan Ballet Company used as a rehearsal hall. There she sat at an upright piano for four hours, pounding out tunes that bored her stiff while the dancers bent and stretched and leaped and sometimes fell down. Then into another cab (Tee claimed that every bus she'd ever boarded had had at least six crazy people on it) and back home again to wait for her husband. Mornings were good; Tee could play her real music, practice scales, teach herself, improve and grow—a concert pianist who didn't give concerts. Tee was afraid. Of almost everything. Her piano, her husband, and her sister were the three points of the triangle that enclosed her life.

Hiding her light under a bushel
, Shelby thought.
Exactly what Eric wants me to do
.

“What about you?” Tee asked. “Any more police jobs lined up?”

“I never know until the last minute. I just get a call and somebody says they've got a suspect and could I come listen. That's why I have so few jobs on the west coast—they can hold a suspect only so long without charging him, and sometimes I just can't get there fast enough.”

“Oh sure—I never thought of that. They wouldn't know ahead of time who's going to be a suspect, would they? I didn't realize you have to be ready to pick up and go at any time.”

“It's not too bad. I keep a bag packed, just in case I have to stay overnight.”

All the time they were talking Tee kept squeezing a pair of hand grips, contraptions made of tough plastic handles and stiff metal coils. Tee had begun hand-strengthening exercises almost from the day she'd discovered what a piano was—with the result that the unathletic Tee now had the strongest hands of anyone Shelby knew. Whenever there was a jar with a tight lid that needed opening, it was Tee who did the opening.

“My agent got a call yesterday,” Tee said offhandedly, squeezing away.

“Oh?” Shelby perked up.

“New Orleans Symphony. Wanted to know if I was still available.”

“Tee …”

“I said maybe next year.”

“Oh, Tee!”

“Can't do it, Shelby. I'm just not ready.”

“The hell you aren't! You—”

“I can't. I just can't. But it's nice to know you're remembered. Maybe next year.”

“Tee.” Shelby used her stern-older-sister voice. “You've been saying that for over two years now. It's time you came out of hiding. Professionally, you're ready. You've got to stop making excuses.
You've got to stop being scared
.”

“Next year,” said Tee. “I promise.”

Shelby's phone rang. “Yes … yes, Sergeant. Twenty-fifth Precinct. Yes, I remember where the station is—on 119th, right? Be there in half an hour.” She replaced the receiver. “Got to run. They've picked up some guy in East Harlem guarding an arsenal big enough to equip a small army.”

CHAPTER 6

HOLD THAT LINE

Two Men of Steel Comment on Their Profession

Everything that happens in the game happens for the best. Regardless of all the things that are said and written during the season, I'm almost always able to walk tall. I've got the most powerful force a man can have on his side—God
.

—Mel Blount

Pro football is the enema of society. There's an element of society that uses football as a release. There's one Steelers fan who sits behind the bench at home games and berates Dwight White for four quarters. I figure it must be some kind of therapy for that fan to scream at White
.

—Randy Grossman

Eric Kent stared at the list he had just made out and swept it aside in disgust. Free Jersey Day. Free Helmet Day. Free Kick-in-the-Ass Day.

You couldn't
bribe
people into supporting a losing team. That's what baseball tried to do—but baseball had a 162-game schedule and interest was bound to flag now and then. Football was different.

The Jets had gone seven and nine this last season. The worse they played, the more the fans stayed away. The more the fans stayed away, the more the owners screamed at Eric to
do something
. What could he do? Nobody went to a football game with an objective eye, interested only in game-playing strategy. They went to take sides, to align themselves with one team against another. To fight in a surrogate war without getting hurt. So who wanted to side with losers? How could Eric pump up any enthusiasm for a team that completed only one pass out of every four, fumbled every third time they ran the ball, and missed twenty-five-yard field goals?

Laughter in the hallway interrupted his train of thought. Eric got up and opened his door, welcoming the distraction. Three men were walking toward him, a stranger flanked by two members of the Jets organization.

“Hey, Kent, we were coming to see you,” said Warren Hubbs, one of the assistant assistant coaches. “This is Bill Malone, new sports writer at the
Daily News
.” Eric eyed Malone carefully as they shook hands. Parrot or adversary? Most of them were one or the other, though they all thought they were somewhere in between.

“Hubbs tells me you're the man to answer my questions,” Malone said.

“Do my best.” Eric smiled. “Have a seat.”

Hubbs and the other Jets man, Buck Walters, took the two comfortable seats in Eric's office and left the aluminum-and-orange-plastic chair for Malone. The writer started asking beginner-type questions that Eric fielded easily, with Buck and Hubbs contributing anecdotes now and then. The atmosphere was congenial, and the three pros soon succeeded in putting the newcomer at ease. Malone was eager to make contacts within the Jets organization, and eager not to appear eager. A pussycat.

“I thought during the off-season would be a good time for me to get acquainted with the players,” Malone was saying. “I've been working in San Francisco for the last six years, so I don't know many of the Jets personally. What I'd like to do is go to their homes, the ones who live in New York—interview them with their wives, that sort of thing.”

Buck Walters muttered something under his breath and Warren Hubbs snickered. Eric hoped Malone wouldn't notice.

He didn't. “Could that be arranged? And maybe phone interviews with the ones who don't live in New York?”

“No problem,” Eric said. “Let me check on where everybody is, and I'll get a list to you. Two, three days. That all right?”

“That's fine,” said Malone, beaming. “And thanks.”

“The players' wives are gonna be kinda tame next to Kent's wife,” Hubbs said, and Buck guffawed.

Malone looked surprised. “Why's that?”

“Kent's wife is a mind-reader.” Hubbs grinned. “She knows everything he's thinking.”

“Shelby can't read minds,” Eric said mildly. “That's nonsense.”

“She knows when you're lying. That's the same thing as reading minds.”

Malone smiled easily, still not understanding. “Like my grandmother. I never could fool her.”

“Naw, that's not it,” Buck said. “Kent's wife really can tell when people are lying. They give off some kind of halo or something that she can see. Nobody else can see it, but
she
can. Don't ever try to slip one over on Kent's wife. She'll call you a liar to your face.”

Malone's eyes grew big, his mouth dropped open.

“Shelby's not as tactless as you are, Buck,” Eric laughed, trying to keep it light. “She knows everybody lies. Hell, we all know that.”

“She sees a halo around people?” Malone didn't know whether to believe Buck or not.

“An aura. A sort of red glow people give off when they're not telling the truth. It's a very special gift.”

Hubbs sniggered. “The cops think so. They're always getting her to come in and tell 'em who's lying and who ain't. Tell him about the cops.”

Buck laughed
haw haw haw
. “You must lead one hell of a life, Kent. Never able to lie to your wife! I'd shoot myself.”

Stop this, stop it right now
. “You probably want to interview the coaches too,” Eric said briskly to Malone. “I'll see that their addresses are on the list as well.”

“Appreciate it,” Malone said, his eyes gleaming. “But I think I'd like to start off with a story about
you
.”