Little White Lies (30 page)

“No, not really,” I reply with a shake of my head. “I was just trying to get your attention. In my view, you were being silly. I have no use for people who attack me physically… never did. I was serious though about not wanting to spend the night at the police station. I don’t want to have to defend my actions to some jerkoff lawyer trying to make a case against me by saying I should have gone easy on his client once I gained the upper hand.

“The system is seriously fucked up, A.J. Believe it. All that ridiculous bullshit you read in the papers about the absurd things happening in the courts doesn’t always happen to other people. All you have to do is get tangled up in the legal system and you have your ticket to the dance. I just don’t want to experience that crap first hand, that’s all.

Our system makes victims of us twice. Once when we’re attacked and again when we defend ourselves for our actions in a so-called court of law. We didn’t ask for that fight last night. And I cannot tell you often enough, we were exceedingly lucky to come out of it the way we did. My advice to you is to forget about it, but remember the lesson: don’t go soft when you get the upper hand. Take your victory and get the hell out. End of speech … end of lesson.”

I flip my papers on end, tap them lightly to even up the pile and prepare to leave the room.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” A.J. says with a laugh. “I’m referring to the part about cleaning them out before you clear out. It’s just so damned ironic… you nearly kill them and then you rob them! I can’t stop thinking about it. What a great move… the perfect ending, only I was too caught up in the action to appreciate it.”

“Some days it just doesn’t pay to pull a knife,” I observe. “It’s getting so a couple of well armed muggers aren’t safe anymore on our dark streets.”

“Yeah. Tough shit.”

“Well, it’s shit for sure… tough or not.” A.J. looks a little uncomfortable. “What do you say we take a little walk? We have a lot to cover this morning, so the meeting is going to have to get going on time.”

He looks at me for a second and then turns and starts up the aisle, and then turns again.

“By the way… I forgot to thank you. You probably saved my life last night. I don’t want you to think I didn’t notice.”

I laugh. “I seriously doubt it would have come to that, but you never know. But I’m sure we at least saved your watch. By the way… I have some extras if you’re interested.”

“No comment.”

No comment, indeed.

CHAPTER 19
 

I called Karen from Florida on the off chance she could meet me at the airport when we returned. She could not, but she can see me later in the evening. One of her favorite restaurants isn’t far from her apartment and it sounds fairly easy to find, so we agreed to meet there around 7:30 PM. As it turns out, I’ll have some time to kill after I arrive and a restaurant is as good a place as any to hole up for a while… assuming they have a bar.

It’s a nice little neighborhood-type spot called Mikey’s and, due to light traffic, I’m earlier than I expected to be. Waiting is not a problem for me since I like to watch people doing their thing. Mikey’s is sort of a clean looking place, something I would picture as very ‘in’ years ago. The decor sports a lot of chrome, marble, glass and black plastic… all hard, polished surfaces.

Kind of reminds me of a gangster movie set from the fifties, where the mob boss would walk in and toss his hat to the beautiful girl who just happened to be standing there, presumably for that very purpose… to catch his hat. The minions would snarl at the ‘little people’ standing around who would look appropriately cowed by the mobsters’ status in the community. Moments later the rival gangster group would arrive and start shooting the place up while everyone screamed and hid under the tables. Mirrored walls would cascade to the floor as bullets exploded against their shiny surfaces. Meanwhile, the band would attempt to play a few more bars before hitting the floor, instruments stowed neatly on their stands before the bailout. Yeah, this could be the place. Well if that’s the look they’re trying for, they’ve succeeded. There’s probably a sign in the men’s room saying Bogie peed here.

Tonight is quiet, however, and it doesn’t look like any gangsters are going to change the ambiance. I pick a spot at the bar and order a glass of wine. My seat offers a good view of the door where I can easily see Karen when she arrives. There’s only one other patron sitting at the bar and he’s engrossed in what appears to be some kind of text book. At least it has that look about it. He looks like a college-type… perhaps a professor. Medium height and build, hair combed just so, horn rimed glasses, tweed jacket with arm patches, sweater and a ‘I’m the smartest fellow in the room’ look about him… probably a real nice guy.

From my perch, high on a barstool, most of the other patrons come into view as well, either directly or via the mirror over the bar. The restaurant isn’t full yet, but the early arrivals are all busily attacking their food, engrossed in their conversations about all the important things that make up their lives. Some are obviously happy. Probably excited to be out on the town or simply out to dinner. Others are concerned with some vexing problem and the strain shows on their faces and in their postures. There is tension in their manner and every gesture.

Regardless, most people are interesting in their own right, especially when observed by a total stranger in an objective setting with no ax to grind. In the corner to my left, next to the bar, there is a table of four U.S. Marine non-coms, all in dress blues. The four men are quietly drinking beer in a somewhat subdued fashion. The decorations on their chests indicate they have all seen combat in one place or another. I don’t remember much about medals. We always used to kid around that everyone got the Good Conduct Medal and no one deserved it. Probably true.

The restaurants are about the only part of this town that still appeals to me. It seems the natives are more themselves when they are eating. In any other setting they tend to be more impersonal, distant from the world about them, disdaining real contact of any sort. I’ve often thought that every character in the world must eventually wind up in this place or at least come through here at one time or another… sort of a rite of passage. Something a real character has to do in order to get his character card. New York City is the Character Capitol of the planet. They show up everywhere: on the street, in the subways, driving cabs… absolutely everywhere. Dime a dozen and every one of them the real deal. Nothing put on or made up, these characters live their roles twenty-four hours a day.

Anyone who has ever visited this city for any reason has come away with a story and the tale inevitably involves one or more natives. The story is always crazy, probably because the people here are crazy, if not crazy, then different… different from any other people anywhere else on earth. I used to spend a lot of time here and I can reel off a dozen happenings, each one more bizarre than the one before.

Understandably, the city has grown cold. Although somewhat improved from its low point a few years ago, the environment can be hostile with large areas of urban decay and widespread crime. Territory has been ceded to youthful criminals and the homeless. Some areas are turned over to the lawless elements only when night falls… others are ruled by the underworld around the clock and the unwary go there at their peril. Some to experience a close call they will tell their friends and family about time and again as they count their blessings, others to become a crime statistic of some sort, but usually not a story told by the star in the play.

It’s difficult to know what the solution to all this madness could be. It’s easy to say we should lock up all the criminals and throw away the key. Unfortunately we already have a large number of our youth in jail, living their lives in a way that wastes their time and our money. It’s easy as well to say we should spend more money on education. But we have spent more money on education than ever before and the only thing we have proven is that money isn’t the answer. Somehow, some way, we have to find the means to harness all that misdirected youthful energy and make it produce a solution for them and forsociety. We cannot keep going on in the same way we have in the past.

Right now the solution du jour is that since the system isn’t working, then let’s do it harder and faster. If it doesn’t fit, get a bigger hammer. But whatever we do, let’s agree that it has to cost more money. Money is always the politician’s substitute for thinking.

I’ve often wondered if a possible answer might not rest within the many youth gangs that seem to exist everywhere. Society has always tried to eradicate the gangs, but that might not be the best thing to do. Gangs exist because young people are different from the rest of society and they want to have a place or group where they are understood and, more importantly, wanted. Trying to do away with gangs could be counter-productive. Instead of fighting them,perhaps we should join them harness their strengthand make it work for us in some way. Put them in charge of crime watches in their neighborhoods. Make them responsible for specific charities in their area. Recognize their contributions before the community and make other people aware of their good works. I think it could be worth a try, if for no other reason than the fact that what we’re doing now isn’t working at all.

It makes one wonder why those in power always want to stay with a system or plan when it isn’t working the way it should. The town leaders spend their time tearing apart and finding fault with new proposals, but remain unwilling to change a formula for failure that’s been in place for years.

There’s a sudden movement to my left as one of the Marines pushes back from the table and stands with four empties in his hands. He turns and walks to the bar where he carefully sets the bottles on the polished surface. The bartender nods as the Marine makes a small twirling motion of his index finger, ordering another round of the same. Glancing my way, we make eye contact. He nods a curt, but friendly greeting. I bow my head in return and pose a question.

“You boys in town on some kind of duty?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” he responds in a formal tone of voice. “We’re here for a military funeral. We finished up about an hour ago… decided to have one before returning to base.”

I nod. “In that case, I’ll buy this round,” I offer.

He smiles. “That’s very kind of you, sir,” he replies, “but hardly expected or necessary.”

“On the contrary, I’d consider it a privilege.”

“Then, thank you,” he replies.

He nods again and returns to the table where he quickly explains my gesture as he distributes the drinks. The others nod and raise their bottles acknowledging their thanks. I raise my glass in return. The Marines return to their conversation and I turn back to the bar.

A few moments pass and I see the professor-type close his book and slide off his seat. Instead of leaving he takes his book and the remainder of his drink and walks slowly in my direction. He places his glass andbook on the bar next to me, pulls the bar stool back from its position and takes a seat.

“Excuse me, but do you know those soldiers in the corner?” he asks with a conspiratorial smile. He glances in the direction of the Marines to confirm his subject.

“No, I don’t,” I reply.

Before I can say anything more he continues in a low voice I can scarcely hear in the growing din of the customers’ conversations.

“I have been coming here for years… my place is just around the corner.”

He gestures over his shoulder as if to make his statement more specific.

“This restaurant is like family, if you know what I mean. Most of the people here are regulars like myself.”

He steals another glance at the Marines, this time with a look of distaste on his face.

“I certainly hope we’re not on the way to becoming a favorite haunt of the military establishment… we have always had a nice crowd here.”

I can’t imagine what this fellow’s complaint might be. The Marines are still quietly talking and bothering absolutely no one. I can only imagine he’s one of the anti-military types who want the soldiers kept on the reservations until they’re needed. They like the payrolls, of course. Give your life if you must, but don’t date my daughter.

“I would hate to have to stop coming here,” he continues, “but that’s exactly what I’ll do if we continue to attract these people. Damn shame if you ask me.”

What to do? This ultra-liberal jerk needs a dose of something. I could grab him by the scruff of the neck and take him over and introduce him to the Marines, just to watch him squirm. Or I could kick his ass and be done with it. He cuts into my train of thought in a nick of time.

“I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness,” he continues.

Before my imagination can conjure up a possible reason for his apology, he explains.

“I’ve been running on here without introducing myself.” He extends his hand, “I’m, Thomas Bennett.”

I grasp the hand of Thomas Bennett and smile warmly.

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Bennett,” I reply. “My name is Colonel Richards.”

A little lie, not a big one… but appropriate, I think.

I feel Mr. Bennett’s hand flinch. He sits transfixed, our eyes locked in an unblinking moment of truth, before jerking his hand from my grasp. His left arm quickly rises as he scans his watch without seeing or understanding the time displayed there.

“My goodness, look at the hour! I don’t know where all the time has gone… I really have to be off.”

Without another word, Thomas Bennett grabs his book and without finishing his drink he slides off his stool and fairly flies from the bar, nearly running Karen down in the process. That would have been the final straw.

But Karen’s entrance manages to erase all this from my mind. She looks as cute and scrappy as ever and it seems like months since I’ve seen her. The reality is less than a week. Our eyes meet and she’s on her way across the room. I reach for her coat, but she deftly evades my outstretched hand and dumps it on Thomas Bennett’s now vacant barstool, simultaneously wrapping her arms around my neck in one swift motion. She knows I dislike public displays of affection and that’s all the incentive she needs to kiss me passionately on the lips. Talk about mixed emotions!