Go Get'um, Old Man. Adult. An African Odyssey. (standard:adventure, 11089 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 16 2020	Views/Reads: 1172/859	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An unexplained killing in his youth continues to haunt an old retired military man. The answer is found on a trip to Uganda to find abandoned American prostitutes.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“And pigs can fly on nights with a full moon.” 

“Fuck it.” I kicked the door, right under the knob. It slammed open
against a cabinet, the noise reverberating down nearby corridors. 
Glancing at each other with fear-filled eyes, we dodged across the hall 
to hide in a broom closet. That door open a half-inch, we listened. 

After a few minutes, silence uninterrupted, Tom whispered, “Ain't nobody
here but us church mice. Come on.” 

Hurrying across to the office, we dodged inside. It was empty. 

“Now, where's that damned money? I hope he doesn't have a safe.” 

“I never saw one, less it's in a hidden room,” I answered. “I've cleaned
or been in every room here. The fool probably expects God to protect 
him.” 

“God don't like money-grubbing assholes like Pastorious. I talked to Mr.
Gribble, where I work. He says he pays that fucker $40 a week for me. I 
get $5 in spending money and gotta put fifty-cents of that in the 
church basket on Sunday?” 

I laughed. “Someone's gotta pay for that fried baloney we get for Sunday
dinner.” 

“An' the boiled dandelions that come with it.” 

“Na,” I retorted. “The county pays the girls to pull them up for the
cook. They're for free.” 

Meanwhile, we were searching cabinets, closets, and drawers. No money
yet. 

“Another locked door,” Tom said, automatically kicking at it. I saw his
back as he went through. 

A loud “Blam” sounded, then two more. I swear I could see one bullet
coming out of the back of his head, brain matter and blood scattering 
and spattering as far as my left shoe. Even before Tom hit the ground, 
I was out that damned door. At a dead run, I hit the still-open 
backdoor and ran into the parking lot. It wasn't until several blocks 
away that I paused to breathe. 

*** 

I knew better than to fake it by going back to the church dormitory or
even showing up for work. Me and Tom were known to hang together. The 
authorities would be certain to check on me, first thing, and would 
have found my empty bed. Also, I'd stored a hand-drawn map of the 
church, with the route outlined, under my mattress. At the tender age 
of seventeen, I was on the run. 

I hid out for a week. I had no friends, no relatives. The only place I
could sleep was deep in bushes at a town park. Not able to bathe or 
change clothes, I was a mess. Cops or even groups of people were things 
to avoid. Trash cans and begging gave me my meals, such as they were. 

I did make a point of sneaking into the public library to check
newspapers and use the restroom to clean up a little, also looking for 
articles about the robbery. To my surprise, it wasn't mentioned. Nor 
was Tom's death. For a town our size, that was unheard of. Even an 
occasional stolen bicycle made the front page of our one local 
newspaper. Cautiously checking out the church grounds, I found business 
as usual. There were no unmarked police cars, no strange men in suits 
loitering around. 

Finally throwing caution to the winds, I visited Murphy's Greenhouse to
talk to another boy from the church group, Jimmy Evans, that worked 
there. 

“What you talking about, Sam?” he asked, shoveling some kinda shit onto
a long table. “Tom was sent to Africa. Lucky fucker. The only guy among 
all those girls. Where you been?” 

I was told that nobody was actively searching for me. 

“Maybe you're smart to run away, though,” Jimmy said. “I wish I had the
nerve.” 

I was confused to the max. I knew Tom was dead. Nobody can live with
half a head. God sure as hell didn't repair him. Where did that leave 
me? Any which way, I couldn't go back. 

While thinking in those terms, I passed an army enlistment storefront.
At the time, we were getting our asses kicked way over in Korea. They 
badly needed new cannon fodder. 

“We'd love to have you join us, Mr. Stone." The recruiting sergeant
looked spiffy in a starched uniform, large yellow rank insignia on each 
sleeve along with a brightly-colored shoulder patch -- though I had no 
idea what any of them meant. Then there were several rows of ribbons 
over his heart, signifying adventures in faraway places. 

He made me comfortable on a soft chair in a businesslike atmosphere,
action posters covering the walls, and talked to me man to man. I 
couldn't remember ever being talked to like that. 

I was only a kid, seven months shy of eighteen. To have such an icon
speaking to me as an equal was impressive. And I was well-aware of his 
beerbelly, meaning he must have rarely missed a meal. I didn't know 
where my next was coming from. Probably from a dumpster behind some 
restaurant. 

Yeah. You can bet I signed those papers. Needing a parent's permission,
I borrowed a pen from the sergeant, who gave me a knowing wink as I 
left and walked out front to sign a fictitious parent's name. 

He knew, he must have. It would have taken me more than a couple minutes
to go home to get someone to sign. 

“Why don't you go sit in the back ... Recruit Stone,” he suggested.
“There's coffee and sandwiches there. Even beer in the fridge. Go light 
on that, though. Two more men and we'll get you transportation to the 
reception station.” He reached across his desk to shake my hand. 
“Congratulations. You're in the army now.” 

*** 

Still confused over my friend's death and knowing the police were after
me ... or not, I did feel at least a little safer on a train speeding 
toward Fort Knox, Kentucky. In a car reserved for we recruits, the 
miles piled up behind me. I felt even better when arriving without 
incident; meaning no police had checked with the recruiter and chased 
me down. If so, they would have been waiting for me to get off the 
train. 

Basic and advanced training in driving a Sherman tank wasn't easy, but I
made it. After the orphanage and then the Pastor's dormitory, barracks 
life came easy. It wasn't until July of 1953 that I finally entered the 
hold of a troop ship bound for far off Korea. 

*** 

“You hear, Sammy,” Goofball asked as we stood at a rail of the “General
Allen”, watching the waves, “the war's over? The brass is wondering 
what to do with us. Lieutenant Jones told me. We're halfway there and 
the scuttlebutt is they need the ship to take guys home from Korea. 
We're extra baggage or something. Turning around and taking us back 
first will slow down the evacuation.” 

“Hope we're not dumped overboard,” I answered. Damn, but that was good
news. I wasn't looking forward to a winter driving a drafty tank 
through snow, ice, and below-zero cold. Whatever was decided was 
alright with me. 

We ended up being dropped off on Okinawa, an island south of Japan that
was at that time under American military rule. Word was it already 
contained many thousands of troops -- but no tanks. It was also fine 
weather, all year round. 

*** 

“I hope you people love cops,” our captain addressed his assembled
company, “cause that's what we are now.” He continued to tell us that 
since so many soldiers were coming there from Korea and that we had no 
tanks, we'd been formed into a new MP company to help control the 
sudden influx of combat vets. The “222nd MPs” is what he said, attached 
for training under the “98th MP Battalion.” 

Recently out of schooling at Fort Knox, we were still used to keeping
our uniforms clean and tidy. The combat soldiers weren't. They were 
mean, lean, and violent. In combat, it seemed, nobody gave a shit about 
uniforms or haircuts. Shined shoes were a non-issue and they didn't 
give a damn about anything except having fun. After spending months or 
years in fear of dying, duty on The Rock appeared to them a form of 
heaven on Earth. A time to drink, get laid, and impress untried troops 
like us. 

We didn't have “arrest” powers, only able to “apprehend.” Actually, it
was the same, only not saying “you're under arrest,” but “I'm 
apprehending you.” They still had to come with us in hand-irons. Of 
course, they had little or no respect for us non-combat guys, meaning 
more fights than not. 

Surprisingly, the job was made to order for me. Fighting had been an
almost weekly event at the orphanage. Good food and physical exercise 
in the army had me growing like Topsy, reaching for the sky at six feet 
three inches and 210 lbs. 

Oh! And we always won. We were taught to think twice before engaging in
violence but never to back down, never. We were issued clubs and 
pistols, along with whistles, radios, or telephones to call for all the 
help needed. Those were huge advantages against one to four unarmed 
drunks. 

Having been simply dumped onto the island, we didn't have normal tours
and were subject to reassignment at any time.  It was, however, damned 
good duty for single young men like myself. Girls, girls, girls 
everywhere. Even on privates' pay I had plenty of money if I watched my 
spending. 

I discovered the comfort and value of privacy, something I'd never
experienced as an orphan. I rented a small thatch-roofed shack in the 
suburbs. It had no running water or electricity, but did have privacy. 
For the first time in my life I had control of two small rooms with 
lockable doors. I could sit in a soft chair, drink in one hand and 
cigarette in another, knowing no one, but no one, would be interrupting 
me. It was well-worth the $4 a month cost. 

It took a few days to become used to sleeping without several radios set
to different stations blaring out over a large room. No drunks woke me 
in the middle of the night, knocking my bed around. The only water was 
from a hose outside, next to a three-hole privy. 

Other guys thought me a little strange. Some of them lived downtown with
their girlfriends, but never alone and never in such simple 
surroundings in a native-only section of town. I never figured out why, 
but GIs out on the town are like girls going to a restroom, always 
preferring to do it in groups. When you see younger soldiers off duty 
it's usually in gatherings of at least three.  Probably cause of age 
and experience, sergeants and above don't seem to mind going out alone. 


I became a singular individual, a trait I carried over into other
aspects of life. Such was in learning to keep my mouth shut while 
listening to others gossip. You learn a lot of secrets that way without 
giving away many of your own. 

Other manifestations of that trait were in avoiding useless complaining
to my buddies, simply following orders, and not caring what my fellows 
thought about me. Let them call it ass-kissing if they wanted. I didn't 
give a damn. 

When I finished work, I'd go home, just like a civilian, and not become
involved in barracks intrigue. Some called it brown-nosing, others 
dedication to duty. Such an attitude did get me an early advancement to 
corporal. 

*** 

“We know he's in there, Corp. Jones and Tripper are behind the house to
watch the other door, and there aren't any windows. Now what?” 

The decision was up to me. We had an AWOL marine rapist cornered and I
carried the only live ammo in the bunch. It was in a rural area without 
telephones and, the unit being put together hastily, our jeeps didn't 
yet have radios. 

There had been a recent spate of careless discharging of firearms. We
were used to having five rounds issued along with the weapon when going 
on duty, then taken back at end of shift. One man shot his foot when 
loading his .45 with the magazine.  Another fired a round into a floor. 
When a third carelessly shot through two walls, almost clipping Captain 
Edwards in the shoulder, the shit hit the fan. Now, only us NCOs were 
issued ammo, though all the MPs still carried pistols. 

The rapist did have a firearm of some kind. He'd shot at the MP that
found him then dodged into a small house. I removed my magazine, 
ejecting and handing four cartridges to Private Meadows. “Take two of 
these to Jones and Tripper. Tell them not to shoot unless fired upon. 
If they miss, to get the hell out of here. You and Thompson back me up 
with the other two.” That gave each of us one round to play with. 

“I'm going in. If you hear any gun-play, I want you to fire your bullet
through the door and into the ceiling, then standby for backup or to 
run. Remember to fire at the ceiling. If you shoot my ass I'll never 
forgive you.” 

I stood far to the side, reaching way over to knock on the door. Two
shots blasted through the thin wood, narrowly missing me. 

“Heckman! We have you. Where the hell you expect to go? Remember, man.
This is an island, half fucking jungle. You ain't going nowhere, 
nohow.” 

“Fuck you. You want me, come on in and try.” 

Shit, I thought. He sounded drunk. 

“Maybe I won't. Know something, Heckman? The natives are also looking
for you. There are already dozens of them milling around these streets 
with clubs and knives. So far,” I lied, “we're holding them back. The 
leader, one of the girl's brothers, said he wanted to cut your dick off 
and make you eat it ... before really getting down to business. And he 
was in the Jap army during the war. They used to do that to prisoners. 

“Maybe,” I said, seriously, “we'll go on back to base and let him?” 

“You're shitting me ... aren't you?” 

“Your choice. Can I come in? We'll talk.” 

“You do and you're dead.” 

“Well. Guess it's goodbye, then. Bye, Heckman. Have fun.” 

It was silent for a few seconds. 

“Okay. But just you. I'll shoot the second one in the door.” 

Forcing myself to go through that doorway was as bad as that time at
Pastorious's. The inside was dark, Heckman only a thin shadow sitting 
on a floor mat in one corner of the room. 

“Unbuckle your gunbelt and drop it,” he ordered. 

“No.” 

“I'll shoot. I ain't got nothing to lose.” 

“Only your cock. That's all.” 

“Sob.” I heard sniffling from the dark lump. 

“Come on, Heckman. Time to go. Cut the bullshit and get up.” As I
waited, my asshole feeling ready to burst open any second, I heard a 
scuffling sound as something heavy hit the floor, metal clicking 
against a stone. He rose to his feet, hands empty. It was over. 

That occasion got me buck sergeant stripes and, for Christ sake, a
choice position in our new battalion Criminal Investigation Division, 
CID, where I stayed for almost thirty years. 

*** 

I walked through an empty house in a suburb of Chicago. Too damned
empty, I thought as I dropped a worn duffel-bag near the entrance. I'd 
visited it a few months before, when first thinking of buying the 
place. The other family was still there and it was furnished. I hadn't 
considered that they'd take everything with them. Guess I was too 
damned used to renting furnished apartments. 

I wandered through empty rooms, greeted only by musty smells. One
bedroom still stunk of perfume, a woman's odor, another of unwashed 
kids. Speaking of smells, the basement really stank, of petroleum. Was 
there a leak in a gas furnace, or simply from being shut up tight for 
over a month? 

I'd hoped for at least an old mattress being left behind, but was
disappointed. They took everything but the stink with them. At least it 
was fairly clean, as the real estate woman had promised me. 

Through a window, I could see the sun was already going down. My tired
old bones needed something other than a bare floor to sleep on. And my 
back? Shit. My back had been fucked up by an exploding car in Saigon 
during that fucking war. Normally, if no one was around to see me I 
still walked with a slight slouch. Three pieces of shrapnel had barely 
missed my spine -- one of them still in there. Now in my fifties, the 
doctor said it was trying to force itself out and I had to wait. One of 
these days, he said, I'd probably find it in the bed beside me. Fuck. 

I gotta do something, I thought, even considering renting a hotel room
for the night. The hell with that. With all the money I paid for that 
place, I'd be damned it I wouldn't use it. 

Instead, I returned to a rental car, sans baggage, and drove around
looking for a store. Eventually, I found a furniture store, a discount 
place, open for business. I spent a half-hour and considerable amount 
of money picking out a shit-load of furniture. 

“Yes, sir,” the clerk told me, “we'll deliver it tomorrow ... 'bout
one.” 

“Tomorrow afternoon? What the fuck'll I do tonight?” 

He sold me a large heavy air-mattress that, even packaged, filled the
back seat. Somewhat angry but very tired, I stopped at a Mom-and-Pop 
store for bread and baloney -- along with a case of beer -- before 
returning to my new home. 

Only then did I find there was no electricity. Water, but no electric.
Christ! That fucking mattress depended on an electric pump. Knocking on 
a few nearby doors got it inflated and a sore tired back brought it 
back home for a well-deserved rest. 

Being an old army man, I persevered. In a couple of days, I was
comfortable. In a week, everything was coming together. A month later, 
I was bored. 

*** 

“You can fill out an application, sir,” the local police department
clerk told me, “but at your age I doubt you'll be hired.” 

“Why's that? I've got one hell'a a lot of experience.” 

“Too much, actually. I don't think you could take the patrol regimen,
and wouldn't fit in anyway with the young people you'd be working with. 
You don't know the city. And some'a the bosses don't ... I hate to say 
it ... think military detectives are the real thing.” 

That was that. Least I filled out the forms. When interviewed by a
female lieutenant, although not being as abrupt, I could see the same 
reaction as the clerk's. 

Hell, I didn't really need the money. Retirement pay as a master
sergeant filled my needs. I simply wanted something to do with myself, 
so I tried a nationwide security firm. 

“We'd be glad to have you, Mr. Stone,” I was told. 

Right away, that night, I found myself in uniform and walking around an
empty factory -- at minimum wage. I'd thought sitting at home was 
boring. I was wrong. At least, at home I could go out for a drink or 
something, walk around WalMart's. At that factory, it was nothing but 
empty rooms and hallways, watching for fires to start and grass to grow 
outside a small guard shack. I even wished for intruders. If I'd found 
any, I'd have invited them into my hootch for a cup of java. 

On my first night, I sat a bundle of pocket novels, thermos of coffee,
and a six-pack of beer on a desk inside the shack, ready for a long 
12hr shift. 

“On, no, Stone,” a teenager, the site security manager or something,
told me. “You can't drink on duty. That's a no-no.” 

“Why the hell not? I'm not an alcoholic.” 

“Against the rules. The sergeant might show up and catch you.” 

“No shit.” 

After an hour of “training” he was ready to leave. Seeing me with a
cigarette, I was also told there was no smoking on the fucking 
property. 

I lasted a month before quitting. As the police clerk had told me, I
didn't fit in. 

At first, I spent a lot of my free time, meaning about 24/7 minus
sleeping, at puttering around the house. I've never really gotten into 
hobbies and couldn't saw a straight line to save my life. Growing 
gardens is for old ladies, not old men. 

The local bars always seemed to feature noisy modern shit for music, not
my style at all. I prefer soft instrumentals to relax by, not screaming 
and acoustic trickery. They never heard of freakin' Sinatra. 

I was chomping at the proverbial bit, that house as a fucking harness
threatening to choke me. 

Thinking of having at least a modicum of companionship, I took to
visiting whores on the strip, finding even that no solution. There were 
more fucking cops in both uniform and skirts than there were hookers. 

Since, for all I knew, there still might be that ancient robbery warrant
out on me, I didn't want to take chances. With that in mind and knowing 
they only chose the prettiest cops for their stings, I was restricted 
to the old and ugly -- them being safer bets. Crap. When I was with 
them I wanted to complain about MY old-age problems, not hear them 
bitch about theirs. 

When first in a supervisory position in the army, I'd checked with the
FBI, but didn't find any warrants awaiting me. For all I knew, one 
still might exist, lying dormant for thirty fucking years. They 
couldn't get me for the robbery, statute of limitations, but there was 
a death ... Tom's. I didn't know the laws for that state but might in 
some way be held responsible. 

Not being very good at cleaning the house, meaning pushing a vacuum
cleaner around on a regular basis, I decided to hire a cheap 
housekeeper for a few days a week. Besides, it would give me someone to 
talk to. 

Mrs. Edmond was a single mother with no skills. She didn't like kid
stuff or rock & roll, which fit in well with my own attitude on those 
subjects. When she began bitching about her teenage girl, Janice, 
running wild I hired her on the spot. Simpatico. 

For a couple of years I led a lazy life.  One morning I found four other
old guys sitting at a McDonalds. They were talking about Vietnam. 
Hearing them, I moved my chair over and joined in. Since then, we met 
for a few hours every day over a cup of coffee. Ex-soldiers all, 
especially those with compatible memories, get along well together. 

One day, Jimmy brought in a Chicom pistol he'd stolen and brought back,
almost getting us all evicted from McDs. 

“This guy was, see, banging away with this here toy, ya know? I stood
still, aiming the fifty on my tank, tiny 9mm bullets whizzing toward 
me.” 

“Yeah!” Joe asked, seriously, “Did he kill you?” 

“Course not,” Jimmy missed the irony, waving the weapon in a circle
encompassing several dozen yuppie customers. Ignoring them, he raised 
it toward the ceiling, clicking it a couple times. 

By that time, customers and staff were ducking for cover, those not near
the doors, that is. They were already gone. 

When the cops came, he had to show his carry license and it was glossed
over. The kid that managed the place, though, gave us a stiff warning. 

At least according to the bullshit, we all missed those “good old days”
spent in physical danger around the world. One time, we compared 
numbers of dangerous events we'd gone through, such as gunfights, and I 
came out on top with twenty -- five in combat and fifteen as a police 
officer. Most of the latter were in Vietnam, where every drunk I tried 
to apprehend was -- by the rules -- required to be carrying a loaded 
weapon at all times. Even in bars and military clubs. 

“Listen, guys,” Jimmy said one sunny morning, “I've been reading this
series of novels about a guy working as a private detective. No 
license, no taxes, like under the table thing. Maybe we can do that 
instead of sitting around shooting the shit? What you guys think? Sam 
here's a detective. He can be the boss and train us? On-the-Job 
Training shit.” 

Jimmy and Ted tried to talk me into it but I, at first, laughed them
off. “We'd need money, for a start,” I reminded them. 

“I've got some built up, a few thou',” Jimmy said, “And Sam and Teddy,
here, have houses we can mortgage.” 

“Bullshit,” Ted replied. “I've already got a second mortgage to fix my
roof. The interest on both of them are killing me now.” 

“Think it over, guys,” Jimmy said. “We can do it.” 

*** 

I did think it over. The idea ate at me for a couple of weeks. I even
bought a handful of pocket novels featuring that offbeat detective guy, 
and it did seem like a more exciting life. Not the parts about being 
beat up in every issue, but how he helped out people who didn't have 
the skills to protect themselves. Such as housewives who's ex's split 
on them to avoid alimony and child support. Killers and con-men cases 
where the police were baffled by restrictive laws or lack of manpower. 

The kicker was when a recently-retired police sergeant joined our table.
As a Vietnam and Iraq vet, he fit right in with us. His name was Jeff 
Peters and he was our only black member. Also, he still had contacts 
with the local department. 

Mornings when I woke up without a hangover, the idea looked better and
better. 

*** 

“I think it's workable,” Jeff told us when the subject came up again at
McDs, “but we'd have to keep a low profile. No official office, name, 
business papers, or even logo. No written records or canceled checks 
that can come back later to bite us in the ass. Cash all the way.” 

“What about email or texting?” Ted asked. 

“Absolutely not! No cellphones in our own names, period. I still have
status as a reserve officer to direct traffic and that shit during 
emergencies, so I have a badge, uniform, and access to the station,” 
Jeff told us. “We have dozens of computers at the station, one in 
almost every car. I can't risk my old sign-in code, but remember a few 
others. I can sneak access to some files and databases. I can't do 
anything sensitive, of course. Nothing out of the ordinary that might 
be flagged down.” 

“IF we do it,” I said, “we'll start slow. Jeff and I are the only
trained people. You others will learn but have to start out simple, 
like with stakeouts and extra muscle.” 

“What muscle?” Ted asked. “Jerry's got plenty of fat but no muscle left,
and Joe's blood pressure won't let him do one hell of a lot of ‘muscle' 
work.” 

“What about money? How much we need to start?” Jerry, a retired
accountant, asked. 

“Probably, I'd say ... ten or twenty thousand?” I said. 

“What the hell for, if we don't even have an office or keep records?”
Jerry replied. 

“There are both initial expenses and long term ones,” I said. “I don't
know, off hand, what the initial ones will be, but we'll need money for 
travel, hotel rooms for out of town, maybe bribes, and fuel for our 
vehicles.” 

Jeff chimed in with, “Cheap disposable cellphones for all of us. CB
radios, maybe? Weapons and carry permits. In this state, to get a carry 
permit you have to take a recognized training course and pass a test. 
Those cost a few hundred each.” 

“What the hell for?” Jerry asked. “We've all had firearms training in
the military.” 

“That don't count,” Jeff told us. 

We argued for a week over gallons of coffee but finally worked out our
differences. By the end of the third day we knew we'd passed the 
point-of-no-return and were committed. 

I'd be the leader and most active, both in working any cases and in
training the others. Jeff, recognized by the police, would stay 
low-key, aiding at the station when needed and helping in training. The 
other three would concentrate on manual labor and odd jobs. Contacts 
would be mainly by disposable cellphones with at least two individual 
visits a week at my place, through the back door. We wanted to avoid 
team contact except at the fast-food place, even that changing 
occasionally. 

*** 

From the very beginning, we had a lot of fun. There were, however, a
million bugs to be worked out. Outside our daily meetings at McD's, we 
adopted numbers as nicknames. I was, of course, number one. Citizen 
band radios were installed in our homes and automobiles. 

Codes were developed and memorized, only to be changed often. What we
ended up doing was start a month with one set. Every week we'd move the 
code numbers up by the number of the week. The next month, it would be 
in reverse. For instance, on the first week of the month “Two Fifteen 
One,” would mean Jeff (Two) meet with (fifteen) Sam (One). The next 
week the same message would be “Three Sixteen Two.” During the third 
week of the month, it would be “Two Fifteen One.” The voice codes 
weren't all inclusive and not too complex to keep in memory. Hell, I 
figured, nobody was listening in anyway but it made the others feel 
more professional. 

*** 

“Look, guys. I been a thinking about this,” Jeff told us over our sixth
cup of coffee that day. He looked around the dining room, seeing only a 
sprinkling of teenagers. “Look. Sam says we're ready. Why don't we take 
on one of these coke dealers in the newspapers?” 

“Fine, man, but we should try to make a profit. Someone to hire us,”
Jerry, the retired accountant, said. “We haven't got much in our 
treasury.” 

“Their rivals would. Hire us, I mean,” Ted said, laughing into his foam
cup. 

“Good idea, Ted,” I said, sitting up straight. “Plenty of money there. I
see nothing wrong with financing ourselves with their cash. We destroy 
the drugs and keep the money.” 

“That's illegal,” from Joe, ever the pragmatic one. 

“Who gives a shit? Our group is supposed to work outside the law.” 

“Sure,” Jeff said. “Even beating up bullies is called assault and
battery. Taking the drugs to destroy is also illegal. Who cares? I 
don't.” 

“I suppose you have inside information on local dealers?” I asked. 

“Sure do.” 

“Okay guys,” I said, “lets make us some plans.” 

*** 

Blinky Evens left his home through a back door. Dressed in a black
chauffeur uniform, complete with saucer cap, he headed for a black 
Caddy parked in an alley behind the house. To Blinky, a longtime gang 
member semi-retired due to a bullet in his spine, it was a normal day. 
He worked nights, picking up and delivering packages such as drugs for 
his boss, Jamal Johnson. The Caddy had built-in hiding places. The only 
time he saw Jamal was when picking him up and taking him home after 
Jamal finished selling for the day. Even then, all drugs must be out of 
the vehicle. 

Mr. Evens was surprised when two men, one black and the other white,
surrounded him before he could enter the vehicle. They'd come out of 
the side door of a blue van parked behind the Cadillac. 

“Not there ... in the van,” the black man ordered, showing a police
shield. “Move it.” 

Once inside, he was ordered to, “Undress. Down to your undies, Blinky.” 

“What's this about, officer? I ain't done nothing.” 

“Move it.” 

After stripping, Blinky was cuffed to an eyebolt in one corner of the
vehicle while the policeman dressed in the chauffeur uniform. 

“I want my lawyer. You can't arrest me for no reason at all.” 

The two laughed. “We're not cops,” the white man answered. 

“Christ.” Blinky stared back and forth at them, only then becoming
frightened. The police might, just might, beat him, but rival gangs 
would.... “Don't. Please. Don't kill me. I have six kids.” 

“To start with, Blinky, we want to talk for a few minutes,” the white
man said while opening a large plastic box, then donning a rain coat 
and face mask. “This might get messy,” he told his partner. Smiling 
wickedly, he brought out a battery-operated electric drill, fitting the 
battery into place with a click. “Bzzzzzzz,” it went. “Let's talk.” 

Blinky decided, immediately, to talk. 

*** 

“Mother fuck,” Jamal Johnson muttered. “Where's that fucking Blinky?” 

Blinky was nothing else if not dependable. Every working night, he'd
pull up at exactly ten-oh-seven, without fail. In case of police 
interference, Jamal didn't have any weapons or drugs on him. He never 
allowed drugs within a city block of himself, never carried and never 
used. He did bring along a briefcase containing his weekly receipts, 
though. In a doorway nearby, two armed gang members stood-by to protect 
Jamal until Blinky picked him up. The entire scene, from the time he 
left the building, usually took around two minutes. 

In the darkness, his Caddy turned the corner, coming to a shuddering
stop beside Jamal. The drug dealer angrily jerked a back door open and 
jumped in, ready to read the riot act to his driver. 

As the car pulled away, Jamal noticed he wasn't alone on that seat. A
white man sat at the other side, a pistol aimed at him. 

*** 

Ted, Joe and Jerry drove the van, Blinky still cuffed in the back, to
Jamal's stash house. Blinky, afraid of the spinning drill bit as it 
hovered around his privates, had spilled his guts about the operation, 
which was damned near everything. 

The place was a decrepit farmhouse outside town, long abandoned.
Typically, according to Blinky, there was only one guard, an old man 
too useless for other duties. He lived at the house and carried a 
cellphone in case he needed help. Most of his time, though, was spent 
sleeping or watching television. 

The main stash was hidden behind an upstairs wall, the guard not knowing
the location. Jamal was smart enough to keep that knowledge from the 
old man. The only drugs the guard knew about were a relatively small 
amount in a cupboard downstairs. That bundle was cut way down and 
poisoned, left to placate any searchers. Both that small stash and the 
guard were considered expendable. 

*** 

Sam, sitting in back of the Caddy with a pistol on Jamal, heard a
ringing. “Gimme,” he ordered the drug dealer. It was a cellphone. 
Holding it to the captive's ear, he opened the phone. 

“Boss,” came an excited voice. “Boss, some men are here in a van. I see
Blinky with them. What should I do?” 

“Tell him you sent them, to let them in,” Sam ordered, jamming the
pistol into Jamal's skinny chest. “And don't get brave.” 

“Let'um in, Mikey. No problem.” 

Sam closed the phone. 

“Where we going?” Jamal asked. 

Sam ignored him. Let the fucker worry, he thought. 

When the car pulled up behind the house, the three went in to find Sam's
men already in control. They were sitting around a mostly-bare living 
room. Blinky and old Mikey sat on the floor in a corner. 

“Four and Five. Take those two with you. Blinky will show you where the
drugs are hidden. Have them help you carry everything down to the 
kitchen,” Sam ordered. 

While Jeff, the ex-cop, searched the residence for anything
incriminating or useful, Sam escorted the dealer to the kitchen. While 
waiting, Sam tried the taps in a large kitchen sink. They worked, 
though there wasn't any hot water. Jerry stood quietly, a revolver 
aimed at Jamal. 

“I haven't been here for years,” Jamal stated. “Too close to that shit
for me.” 

“Don't worry, you won't have to suffer for long,” Sam replied, standing
where he could see out a back window. “Not long at all.” 

Jamal shut up, visibly quaking. 

About that time Joe, Ted, and the two prisoners came back in, loaded
down with kilo-sized bags of powder. Ted held a small suitcase over his 
head, waving for attention. “A bonus. Cash in small bills,” he said. 

“Dump the powder over by the sink,” Sam ordered. “That all?” 

“Yeah,” Blinky said. 

“You two sit down with your boss,” Jeff ordered them. “Four. Come out to
the van with me. We have something else to bring in here.” 

“Jamal, get over to the sink,” Sam ordered. As the drug dealer rose, Sam
was already slicing a bag of powder. He poured it into the large sink. 
Wide-eyed and shivering, Jamal standing beside him, Sam turned on both 
water taps. “Hands in the sink. Swirl it around until it goes down the 
drain,” he ordered. 

“My God. Don't make me do this, please. I haven't even paid for this
shit. It's on spec. Over a million dollars worth.” 

Sam and his men laughed. “It's a tough life, isn't it?” 

While Jamal and Sam worked, Jeff and Joe came in with a case of dynamite
and blasting caps. They wired the downstairs of the house. 

When finished, the three gangsters were taken down a rural road and let
out to hitch rides back to civilization. Jamal didn't stay in town 
long, though, thinking it prudent to look for greener pastures. 

*** 

That job didn't exactly make us wealthy, but the drug money was welcome
and let us modernize our equipment. We rented a large storage locker in 
another county and worked out of there. For several years, we did a job 
or two a year, helping out the community and adding excitement to dull 
lives. I admit, chances for enumeration colored our decisions. Not that 
we split up the money or anything. Most of it went into a working fund 
that Jerry kept track of. A bit went to pay for a prostate operation on 
Joe, and a family emergency for Jeff. 

On a personal level, I asked Jeff to use his police sources to check out
my childhood transgression. Oddly enough, nothing ever came of it. 
Neither Tom's death nor the attempted robbery had ever been reported to 
the police. 

“I think I'll go back to Rotherham, Ohio and check that matter out,” I
told the group at McD's. “It's been bothering me forever. Why didn't 
Pastorious ever report the break-in or my buddy's getting killed?” 

“From what you say, it might have interfered with his own scams,” Jeff
replied. “Something an investigation might have revealed.” 

“That's what I've been thinking,” I replied, grinning. 

*** 

Rotherham, Ohio. Mid-sized city. Chief industry Acme Inc., makes
diapers, cloth bandages and tampons for the military. Farming under 
Highlands, Inc., a conglomerate employing few people and much huge 
machinery. Cumahoggie River runs through the downtown area, named after 
an obscure Indian chief with only a slight paragraph in the school 
history books. Even then, town officials had to pay by the word for its 
insertion. 

I cruised by the old homestead, finding it still there though the
buildings appeared worse from wear. There were still teens wandering 
around the church grounds. A new concrete-and-wooden sign out front 
said, “Have-A-Heart, Inc.”. “Reverend Johnathon Peters, in charge,” 
below it in smaller letters. 

The change surprised me until I, belatedly, realized that almost forty
years had gone by since I left. Pastorious had probably retired long 
ago, or died. If I had any sense, I realized, I'd go back home and 
forget it. One premise I try to live by is that if something can't help 
you and might harm you, leave it the hell alone. In combat, you don't 
stoop down to pick up that nifty souvenir lying beside the road. You 
know? The one that might be booby-trapped. Stirring up these old ashes 
could end with me being tried for murder. I had to know. I just had to 
understand in order to put it behind me. 

I sat across the street for at least an hour, debating with myself as to
what was next. During that time, a dozen cars stopped, people going in 
or out. I noticed some drivers were teenagers. Although most of the 
compound was in tatters, the kids seemed clean and well-dressed, which 
was more than we had been. 

“Fuck it,” I told myself, getting up to stop a boy from there that
happened to be walking in my direction. “Hey, kid! Hold up a minute, 
will you?” 

“What you want, mister?” He stood still, picking his nose while watching
me. 

“You in that Have-A-Heart place?” 

“Yeah. So what?” 

“What's the place like?” 

“What's it to you? Hey! I gotta get to work, over at Huffmeyer's green
house.” 

“I was there as a kid. Wondered if it changed much.” 

“Like how? That place never changes. You still work your ass off and
don't get paid shit.” 

“How's the food, and do they still beat you?” 

“I been there two years now and haven't seen anyone get their ass kicked
yet. Food's pretty good now.” 

“Now?” 

“Yeah. When I got here, this old man called Pastorious done run it. The
state got rid of that bastard.” 

“He was there when I was. Still cheap with the pay, uh?” 

“Not all that bad, really. I'm saving up for a computer. And we do get
schooling.” 

“Yeah! We didn't get much. Maybe an hour a day was all.” 

“Too damned much now, if you ask me. Four years of high school in three
years.” 

“What happened to Pastorious? I hated that creep.” 

“We all did. The state prosecuted him but he got off. They fired him,
though. I really gotta go. Take it easy, ya hear?” The kid, already 
antsy, turned and took off. 

I returned to the car to think. Eventually, I started up and cruised the
business district. It didn't seem to have changed much. Same buildings, 
same parks, though with a sprinkling of shopping centers and chain 
discount stores. Seeing a sign saying, “Damper and Damper Law firm”, on 
a whim I turned in and parked. 

“Can I help you, sir?” a pretty blond woman in her fifties asked. God, I
am growing old, I realized. Where the hell had sweet sixteen gone? 

“I need information,” I told her, “and can pay for it.” 

“Both Dampers are busy at the moment. Would you like an appointment?” 

“Na. I don't expect to be here long. You know anyone else I could talk
to ... today?” 

“It have to be a lawyer?” 

“Not really. It's about an old case I heard about. I'd like to know some
of the particulars. To satisfy my curiosity is all.” 

“I've lived here all my life. I take lunch in an hour. Give me a few
bucks and I might be able to help you?” 

“Sounds good. Where can we find a decent meal, cheap?” 

“.... so you see, that woman was the only one we found that actually
returned from Uganda to tell about his operation there. Congressman 
Adams even went down to the farm to investigate. He closed the place 
and brought the few women they found back home,” Sheila, the 
receptionist, told me. “Most, though, were either dead, missing, or 
scattered around brothels in several countries. Ugandan officials said 
Pastorious had been supplying half the white hookers in their 
territories.” 

The gist of her explanation was that a girl had escaped and, somehow,
made her way back to the US. Pastor Pastorious had been investigated at 
state and federal levels. He'd been cooking the books. His supposedly 
non-profit church and work programs had made him a millionaire several 
times over. 

The boys had, like me and Tom, been forced to work with the lion's share
of our pay going to Pastorious, himself. Good-looking girls were 
shunted to Uganda to work on a farm his church and organization owned 
over there. Living and working conditions were purposely lousy, 
eventually forcing most of them into the arms of local pimps. 

The girls would work from sunup to sundown, with the pimps free to visit
them at night. It didn't usually take long for them to run away to work 
as prostitutes. Why kill themselves with farm work when they were 
constantly promised the easy life ... lying on their backs? Naturally, 
the preacher made money off each pimp. They couldn't get in to the 
girls without his permission. 

Time and money constraints forced Congressman Adams back to his
district, leaving any further investigation to Ugandan officials who 
weren't all that interested. The CIA, busy with fictional terrorists, 
wasn't any help at all. 

In the end, Pastorius was fired and excommunicated from his church. He
hadn't been found to break any US laws. It was never proven that he 
made a profit from prostitution, for instance. He'd only made it damned 
tempting and easy for the girls to choose that life. His official job 
project records were complete. So what if he charged us kids for our 
meals and beds? The money had been shunted between job projects, 
Uganda, and church, bouncing between countries until no government 
auditor could hope to keep track. 

All they could do, in the end, was fire him and make damned sure his
replacement had more oversight. The former preacher was now, according 
to Sheila, living somewhere in New York State. I did get the address, 
though not really certain of why. It wasn't worth a visit and what 
would I do if I did find him? I couldn't turn him in and get myself 
prosecuted and couldn't see myself kicking his ass for my screwed up 
robbery. 

Me, I was in a quandary. Tom's death was never mentioned. If I were to
make an official inquiry, it might pop up. I'd like to see the bastard 
in jail, but what could I do without incriminating myself? 

On the way back home, I had an idea. 

*** 

“I don't know, Sam.” Jimmy shook his head. “I got a wife and four kids.
I can't take off like that. My one kid's graduating college in another 
couple months and I should be there for him.” 

Joe also had prior commitments. That and a bad case of arthritis. He
didn't want to spend time traipsing around in the humid heat of an 
African summer. 

Jeff and Jerry, though, didn't offer excuses and were fairly excited at
the prospect. We geared up to fly to Uganda to try to track down some 
of the ex-farm employees, now probably hookers. 

Thanks to ripping off assorted drug dealers, we had enough in our
treasury for a nice long vacation there. Assuming, of course, that we 
watched our finances. No flying first-class or living in five-star 
hotels. As our treasurer and accountant, it was up to Jerry to explain 
spending so much money for hookers. Hee-hee. Just kidding. We didn't 
pay taxes on our illegal income. Hell, our organization didn't even 
have a name or stated mission. 

*** 

“What the fucking hell,” Jeff complained, looking over one of our two
rooms in Gulu, the Republic of Uganda. It was supposed to be furnished. 
It was, with two stained mattresses, no beds. Also a lamp with no bulb 
and a ten-cubic-inch refrigerator making as much noise as the truck 
traffic ten feet from an outside wall. There was half a bottle of stale 
beer or something growing algae in the fridge. My guess was that was to 
make up for the missing light bulb. 

“At least we have a stove,” Jerry said, fiddling with what looked like a
large hotplate standing next to an inverted gallon bottle of liquid. 
“What's in the bottle, he asked, lighting a match to try it out. 

“Gasoline, probably,” I said, having run into the setup in Japan. 

“My god,” he hurriedly snuffed out the match on a hardwood floor. “Won't
it explode?” 

“Never has yet,” I assured him. “I used one for six months.” 

“You said no five-star hotels, but this is fucking ridiculous,” Jeff
said. 

“Don't worry about it,” I said, dropping to one of the filthy
mattresses. “At local prices, we spend a couple hundred on furniture 
and we'll be set. A good hotel would charge at least that per day.” 

“First. First, we get a good air-conditioner,” Jerry said. “It's
hotter'n hell in here.” 

I shook my head. “First, we buy us some security. Otherwise, the first
time all of us leave for any reason the place, including our new 
furniture, will be stripped. By now, locals will know there are three 
rich Americans living here. I hear the police don't like to even enter 
this part of town.” 

“Who can fucking blame them?” from Jeff. “Tell me again, Sam. Why the
hell are even WE living in this dump?” 

“Figure it out. You were a cop. To talk to hookers, it's best to live
among them. You get a better rapport.” 

I stayed in while the other two went out for groceries. When they
returned, Jeff was armed with an AK-47. He dropped three pistols onto a 
mattress, along with a cloth bag heavy with ammunition. “The grocery 
store offered a large cardboard box of assorted weapons. These seemed 
the cleanest,” he said. 

“Half the men we saw were armed with firearms or large knives,” Jerry
told me. “We sort'a stood out without them.” 

It was my time to go out. I walked dreary dirty streets, a pistol
conspicuous in my belt, until I came to what I thought was a police 
box. It was a concrete block building set back from the road with 
uniformed men sitting around in the shade of a few stunted trees. They 
looked reasonably clean. 

After introducing myself, all I got in return were strange looks.
Finally, a young woman in uniform came over. “You American?” 

“Yes. American. You police?” 

“Security. Most of us speak English,” she told me, a broad smile on her
face, “but don't care much for Americans.” 

“Even better. Me and my friends moved here for a few months, maybe. We
need security.” 

She nodded. “We furnish domestic security on several levels.” 

“We need it 24/7. How much does that cost?” 

“Being Americans, you'll need an armored car and maybe three guards at
all times, spotted around outside your residence. Also, a couple to 
accompany you on trips, plus a driver. That would be, let me see.” She 
consulted a list written in a foreign language, at least to me. “Are 
you paying in Ugandan Shillings or American?” 

“What's the difference?” 

“Officially, the Shillings are about two for an American dollar.
Unofficially, American money can be sold on the black market for at 
least three times that. Many of us don't trust our own currency. It's 
changed after every coup.” She looked around, steering me to a corner 
of a desk. “Tell you what. You pay me, personally, in American dollars 
and I'll give you a good rate. Anyone asks, though, it's in Shillings?” 


When I gave her a slight nod, her smile became even wider. 

“We only rent two rooms.” I gave her the address. At that, the smile
turned to shock. “You can't live there! Americans never live there.” 

I nodded again, a smile on my own face. “If you do investigative work, I
can pay for it.” 

“You a reporter? A famous American television reporter doing a story?” 

“No. We're only here looking for prostitutes.” 

“Bullsh--! Excuse me. Wait until the sun goes down. They come out from
everywhere. You don't need help.” 

“Only the white ones, the Americans.” 

“Mostly black ones here. The best whites work in Kampala.” 

“We're only looking for the old white ones.” 

“I ... uh ... don't ... understand? You come all the way here to look
for old white hookers?” 

“You got it.” 

“There aren't any in America?” 

Anyway, the young security expert, named Anita Besigye, was intrigued by
the assignment, agreeing -- for a stiff fee by her standards -- to help 
us in our investigation. Being a high-ranking member of her firm, she 
rated a car, saving us the expense of renting one. We were also graced 
with three home guards a shift. Mostly they stayed out of our way, only 
coming in from the almost daily rain to look out of windows and play a 
noisy local card game at one of our new tables. 

Luckily, I saved the old mattresses, since the night shift needed them
for naps. Security-wise, it wasn't much, but seemed to work. At least 
nobody tried a home invasion of a two-room apartment containing three 
to six armed men. 

At first, we had a shitload of problems. Hookers saw us with security
guys and refused to talk. We were afraid to walk the streets alone 
after dark to talk to them. As Anita had told me, there were damned few 
white ones. 

See, Pastorious's farm failed eight years before and the average life
expectancy there was only in the early-fifties. Most of the white 
hookers in that area were in their thirties and forties, and after a 
hard life. There wasn't any sense talking to blacks or young whites. 
The girls we were looking for had been from sixteen to nineteen ... at 
least eight years before. Also, the ones still young enough to have 
retained their looks would be in the big cities. It was hopeless. 

Things became easier the second week. Word had gotten out and they came
to us. Most of the time, we turned the pretty ones away. Most of the 
time, hee-hee. Hey! We were single men pent-up in a small area, you 
know? 

That's how we met Alice. She wasn't from Wonderland, but from the US and
in her late teens. 

“I was kidnapped,” she sobbed. “Please take me home with you. My parents
will be worried.” 

Ignoring Anita shaking her head in the background, we allowed Alice to
move in with us. The two didn't get along and her presence brought our 
first bit of trouble. 

Two nights later, Alice's pimp decided to get her back. While we played
cards with two of the security guards, there was a long spate of 
gunfire up the street. 

The guards jumped to attention, grabbing for AKs. A few minutes later,
Anita, uniform torn and with a dirty face, appeared at the entrance. 

“You owe me another fifty, American,” she said. Apparently, she was
aware of Alice's pimp and had augmented our security without telling 
me. They killed the pimp. “You're also responsible for three girls 
being out of work,” Anita said. “All of them have children.” We paid to 
tide the ladies over until they found a new Daddy. 

Alice was a huge help, though. Although not herself from the farm, she
knew of girls who were and could ask around for others. American 
hookers in that country tried to keep in touch.  She even told us of 
one of the girls who had made it, and big. That one was now the widow 
of a Ugandan diplomat, the former ambassador to Turkey. 

Finally, we were getting someplace. 

*** 

“We gotta stop, before long,” Jerry told Jeff and myself. “Our money's
getting tight. Not to mention room in the apartment.” 

By that time, we had Alice and three of the former farm-girls living
with us and the guards in those two small rooms. Two of them had kids 
with them. We could hardly walk in there. 

“Shit. How can we get these women to the states?” I asked. “None of them
have passports anymore. They all have local police records.” 

“I'll see what I can do,” Jeff said. “I also want to see this
ambassador's widow.” 

“Don't we have enough to prove our case?” Jerry asked. “They'll all
swear Pastorius sold them for a cut.” 

“Sure. But would a court believe them?  Hookers from here with long
police records?” Jeff reminded us. “Now, an ambassador's 
highly-respected widow would be something else. Add her to the mix and 
we'll have a real case.” 

We rented a used bus, hired security for it, gave up the apartment, and
headed for Kampala. 

Somehow, Jeff fixed that matter up with the American Embassy In Kampala.
 They listened to the girls, including Alice, checked Pastorious's 
records and agreed to take the women off our hands. Not to prosecute, 
only to take them back for immigration authorities in the States to 
deal with. 

*** 

Elizabeth Kavuma looked more like British royalty than American. She
even spoke with a British accent. When I dropped Pastorious's name to 
her secretary she agreed to receive us. Her residence in Kampala was a 
virtual palace. I wondered what the King, Emperor, or fucking 
President's abode looked like. And with all those starving people 
visible around the outside of thick stone walls. 

“I haven't heard that name in ages, Mr. Stone,” she told me, nose
lifting as though smelling a bad odor. “That son of a bitch. Excuse my 
English. I have to watch cursing in public but can't resist when 
thinking of that bastard. He stole my youth, you know? Worked us half 
to death then encouraged us to escape into prostitution. Some escape. I 
was damned lucky to meet Peter, my ex.” 

We sat in silence until a servant came in with a teapot and two cups. He
poured for us, then swiftly backed out of the room. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Kavuma. I don't drink much tea.” 

“It's not really tea, Mr. Stone. When you mention that bastard I need
something more powerful. It's fine Scotch, mixed with a little perfumed 
water.” She giggled. “I don't want rumors getting around that I'm 
hitting the bottle, hence the cups and teapot.” Taking a large gulp, 
she sighed and said, “What was it we called that fucker? Pastor 
Pastorius pees something or other.” 

“Pastor Peter Pastorious Pees Pasteurized Purple Piss,” I reminded her,
getting a low laugh in return. 

“I appreciate the update, Mr. Stone. I've sent word a couple of times to
find the bastard. I think my husband countermanded the request, though. 
I'd like to kill the fucker, get him off this fucking earth.” She 
emphasized the last by slamming her cup back into the saucer. “I've 
been lax.” She reached over to pull on an orange cord hanging from the 
ceiling to alongside her chair. 

Almost immediately, a liveried servant appeared in a doorway, a
questioning look on her face. 

“Jannel. Please tell Mr. Mao I'd like to see him.” 

We spoke a little more about our time at Have-A-Heart until an
extremely-tall very-black man came in. He walked with a pronounced 
limp. 

“He got that in one of those nasty little wars we have over here,” she
half-whispered. 

“It was in our country, ma'am, when I fought alongside Idi Amin,” the
man answered. 

“Sorry, Adam. I forget. For someone not born here or involved in them,
these altercations tend to merge together.” 

“You wanted me, Elizabeth? Someone been bothering you that you need my
services?” 

“Not this time, loyal Adam.” She grinned, raising her hand for him to
kiss. “I only wanted to introduce you to Mr. Stone, here.” 

“Mr. Stone? Are you the one been stirring up the citizens in Gulu?” He
smiled as we shook hands. It was a smile like a cobra would make before 
striking, cold and emotionless. The only way I could tell it was a 
smile was by a loosening of his lips. 

“If you mean with the prostitutes, Mr. Mao? That would be me and my
friends. You might have heard of our problems, and our mission here?” 

“I wish you luck Mr. Stone, and please call me Adam.” 

“And you can call me Sam, Adam.” 

He went into another room for a spare cup, then poured himself a drink
of scotch before continuing. “For Elizabeth's benefit and upon her 
request, I've been in contact with our legal department. It's slightly 
different in some respects from yours, but the same in others. Frankly, 
Sam, I don't fancy your chances of any meaningful conviction. 

“Foreign hookers testifying against a rich preacher? His lawyers would
knock you for a loop and the prosecutors would realize it. They tried 
to get him once and wouldn't want to lose face twice. 

“I even traced down one of those pimps from his era. Unfortunately, the
man died while being interrogated, as sometimes happens. You were an 
investigator in the second Iraq war, so you should know.” 

He'd hit a sore spot in my past, one I'm not proud of and generally left
to associates. 

I looked over at Mrs. Kavuma. Her face had reddened a little, as though
Adam had said too much. I recognized the signs of embarrassment. 

“I was sort of hoping you would agree to come to America to testify,” I
said. 

“Out of the question, Mr. Stone,” she said, shaking her head. “My
reputation would be ruined. Right now, I'm living this lifestyle on 
sufferance, on my and my ex-husband's reputation. If I become a 
political embarrassment, that can end. Drastically.” She smiled and 
slashed a finger across her throat. 

I was down in the dumps. I'd been depending on her hatred of Pastorious
to gain her aid. 

“What I will do for you and your friends, Mr. Stone, is give you a
better image of our country. I'll call the best hotel in Kampala and 
tell them to expect you as my honored guests. Live it up for a week at 
my expense. Then there will be first-class tickets back to the US.” 

“The lady wants to get rid of us, Adam,” I joked, giving him a smile
that was definitely NOT returned. Instead, his dark eyes had hardened 
to dead black pools seeming to say I had overstepped my limits. 

*** 

With nothing else to do, the three of us stayed for a week at the
Kampala Serena Hotel. After a month in those other rooms, it was luxury 
beyond compare. Our money was worthless, Mrs. Kavuma paying for 
everything, even the ladies we didn't interview. 

On the eighth morning, first-class tickets were delivered. That
afternoon, we were on our way back to the US. 

*** 

After a few days back home, I thought to call my friend at the lawyer's
office to inquire if anything was being done about Pastorius. Whatever 
happened, unless called on by authorities, we were out of the loop. 

“You haven't heard?” Sheila asked. “Pastorious was assassinated a couple
of weeks ago.” 

“They catch the killer?” I asked, not really shocked. 

“Na. All the police have to go on is the brief sighting of a very tall
black man with a bad limp. He might or might not be a suspect.” 

Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I mentally chided her. That's why she wanted us to
stay for a week, out of the way while Adam did his work. 

The End.


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