David Morrell: First Blood

The office ceiling came down close to his head, and he felt so closed in that he wanted to stoop, but he did not allow himself. The floor had a rug that was green and worn, like grass that had been trimmed too close to the earth. On the left behind a desk, there was a case of handguns. He centered on a.44 magnum and remembered it from Special Forces training camp: the most powerful handgun made, able to shoot through five inches of steel or bring down an elephant, but with a kick so great that he himself had always disliked using it.

'Sit down on the bench, boy,' Teasle said. 'Let's have your name.'

'Just call me boy,' Rambo said. The bench was along the right wall. He leaned his sleeping bag against it and sat down extremely straight and rigid.

'It's none of it funny anymore, kid. Let's have your name.'

'I'm known as kid too. You can call me that too if you want.'

'You're right I will,' Teasle said. 'I'm at the point where I'm ready to call you any damn thing I feel like.'

The kid was more damn nuisance than he could tolerate. All he wanted was to have him out of the office so he could phone. It was four-thirty now, and figuring the time shift, it was, what, three-thirty, two-thirty, one-thirty in California. Maybe she would not be in at her sister's now. Maybe she was out having lunch with somebody. Who, he wondered. Where. That was why he was spending so much time with the kid — because he was impatient to call. You did not let your troubles interfere with your job. You kept your life at home where it belonged. If your problems made you start to rush through something, then you forced yourself to slow and do it extra well.

In this case, maybe the rule was paying off. The kid did not want to give his name and the only reason people did not give a name was that they had something to hide and were afraid of being checked out in the fugitive files. Maybe this was more than just a kid who would not listen.

Well, he would take it slow and find out. He sat on the corner of his desk opposite the kid on the bench, and calmly lit a cigarette. 'Would you like a smoke?' he asked the kid.

'I don't smoke.'

Teasle nodded and leisurely drew on the cigarette. 'How be we try this again. What's your name?'

'None of your business.'

Dear God, Teasle thought. In spite of himself he pushed away from the desk and took a few steps toward the kid. Slowly though, he told himself. Make it calm. 'You didn't say that. I can't believe I actually heard that.'

'You heard me all right. My name is my business. You haven't given me a reason to make it yours.'

'I'm the Chief of Police you're talking to.'

'That's not a good enough reason.'

'It's the best damn reason in the world,' he said, then waited for the heat to drain from his face. Quietly, 'Let me have your wallet.'

'I don't carry one.'

'Let me have your I. D. cards.'

'I don't carry them either.'

'No driver's license, no social security card, no draft card, no birth certificate, no —'

'That's right,' the kid cut him off.

'Don't pull that with me. Get out your I. D. cards.'

Now the kid was not even bothering to look at him. He was turned toward the guncase, pointing at the medal above the line of shooting trophies. 'The Distinguished Service Cross. Really gave them hell in Korea, did you?'

'O. K.' Teasle said. 'On your feet.'

It was the second highest medal he could get, ranking above the bronze star, silver star, Purple Heart, Distinguished Flying Medal, and Distinguished Service Medal. Only the Congressional Medal of Honor ranked above it. To Marine Corps Master Sergeant Wilfred Logon Teasle. For conspicuous and valiant leadership in the face of overwhelming enemy fire, his citation read. The Choisin Reservoir Campaign, December 6, 1950. That was when he was twenty, and he was not about to let any kid who didn't look much older mock it.

'Get on your feet. I'm sick of telling you everything twice. Get on your feet and pull out your pockets.'

The kid shrugged and took his time standing. He went from one pocket of his jeans to the other, pulling them out, and there was nothing.

'You didn't pull out the pockets in your jacket,' Teasle said.

'By God you're right.' When he pulled them, he came out with two dollars and twenty-three cents plus a book of matches.

'Why the matches?' Teasle said. 'You told me you don't smoke.'

'I need to start fires to cook on.'

'But you don't have any job or money. Where do you get the food to cook?'

'What do you expect me to say? That I steal it?'

Teasle looked at the kid's sleeping bag against the side of the bench, guessing where the I. D. cards were. He untied it and threw it out unrolled on the floor. There was a clean shirt and a toothbrush. When he started feeling through the shirt, the kid said, 'Hey, I spent a lot of time ironing that shirt. Be careful not to wrinkle it.' And Teasle was suddenly very tired of him.

He pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Shingleton, you had a look at this kid when he came through. I want you to radio his description to the state police. Say I'd like him identified the quickest they can. While you're at it, check if he matches any description we have in the files. He has no job and no money, but he sure looks well fed. I want to know why.'

'So you're determined to push this thing,' the kid said.

'That's wrong. I'm not the one who's pushing.'

The Justice of the Peace had an air conditioner. It hummed a bit and rattled every so often and made the office so cold that Rambo had to shiver. The man behind the desk was bundled in an oversized blue sweater. His name was Dobzyn, the sign on the door said. He was chewing tobacco, and as soon as he took a look at Rambo coming in, he stopped chewing.

'Well, I'll be,' he said and rolled his swivel chair squeaking back from the desk. 'When you phoned, Will, you should have told me that the circus was in town.'

Always it came, some remark. Always. This whole business was getting out of hand, and he knew that he had better give in soon, that they could make a lot of trouble for him if he did not. But here the crap was coming his way again, they would not let up, and Jesus, he was just not going to take it.

'Listen, son,' Dobzyn was saying. 'I really have to ask you a question.' His face was very round. When he spoke, he slipped his chewing tobacco against one cheek, and that side of his face bulged out. 'I see kids on the TV demonstrating and rioting and all, and —'

'I'm no demonstrator.'

'What I have to know, doesn't that hair get itchy down the back of your neck?'

Always they asked the same. 'It did at first.'

Dobzyn scratched his eyebrow and thought about that answer. 'Yeah, I suppose you can get used to just about anything if you put your mind to it. But what about the beard? Doesn't that get itchy in this heat?'

'Sometimes.'

'Then what possessed you to let it grow?'

'I have a rash on my face and I'm not supposed to shave.'

'Like I have a pain in my rear-end and I'm not supposed to wipe it,' Teasle said by the door.

'Now wait a second, Will. It may be he's telling the truth.'

Rambo could not resist. 'I'm not.'

'Then what did you say all that for?'

'I get tired of people asking me why I grew the beard.'

'Why did you grow the beard?'

'I have a rash on my face and I'm not supposed to shave.'

Dobzyn looked like he had been slapped in the face. The air conditioner whirred and rattled. 'Well, well,' he said quietly, extending the words. 'I guess I walked into that one. Didn't I, Will? The laugh's on me.' He tried a brief chuckle. 'I walked right into it. I surely did. My, yes.' He chewed on his tobacco. 'Just what's the charge, Will?'