William McGivern - A Matter of Honor

“Karen look for you,” Carlos said. “After school, she go in your room...”

“My room? She came upstairs? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Carlos shrugged. “I no get her in trouble with her mama. She afraid for you.”

A draft of air hit the partly opened window, sending the curtains inward, wet and cold with rain. Duro Lasari was silent for a moment, listening to the spatter of drops and the accelerated beat of his heart.

“Carlos,” he said, “I need to make a call, but from a pay phone. If there is someone outside, if someone is following me, I want ’em to believe I’m coming back here. I don’t want them to think I’ve spotted them and I’m running, understand?”

“Tell Carlos again,” the old man said.

“Come downstairs with me,” Lasari said. “Stand by the front door. When I bring my car around, you yell at me to bring you something back from the store — tobacco, vino, anything. Comprende ahora?”

Carlos nodded and Lasari went to his room for a lined windbreaker. Passing the parlor, he saw that Mrs. Swade had fallen asleep, the glass on the floor beside her limp hand, the TV set blaring. Karen was not in the room.

Lasari turned up his collar and made a dash for his car, parked in the tar-papered garage beside the house. He checked the rear view mirror before backing into the street and gave a gasp of surprise as Karen Swade’s head rose from the back seat.

“Jesus Christ!” Lasari said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was listening by the stairs and heard you talk to Carlos. I have to tell you something. I had to wait till Mama passed out because they paid her not to tell.”

He waited a moment as a van came out of nowhere and moved down the street, tires hissing on the pavement. “Tell me what this is about, Karen,” he said. “Straight and simple. I don’t want any lies.”

“Two men knocked on the door this afternoon and asked to talk to mother. I was doing homework but I listened. They were in ordinary clothes but they showed Mama a paper and told her they were Army MPs, that they were looking for a certain guy at this address. They said they had to find him to pay off a disability claim or something. They asked what you looked like, what kind of car. Mama said what you looked like and that your name was George Jackson. Then they said, ‘Sorry, ma’am, we got the wrong person.’ ”

“That’s it?” Lasari said.

“Not quite,” the girl said. “They told Mama you hadn’t done anything wrong and they didn’t want her to worry. They gave her twenty dollars not to tell they’d been there and she took it.” Lasari reached back to open the car door. “You’re a good friend, Karen,” he said. “Duck in the back way and don’t let anybody see you. That’ll be the second big favor you’ll be doing me tonight.”

Lasari put the car in reverse, letting it ease backward down the driveway and into the street. The front door of the boardinghouse opened and Luis Carlos leaned out, cupping his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Hey, Duro! Mas vino, por favor. Mas vino, amigo.”

Lasari held his breath and looked up and down the street. There was no movement and no sound except the echo of the old man’s voice.

The phone rang while she was showering. Bonnie Caidin reached for a towel and hurried to the bedside phone. It was Larry Malloy on the city desk.

“Did I miss something?” she asked, her mind checking over the last story she’d covered that day, a three-car accident near the airport. A private bus carrying an English rock group on its way to a gig at Rosemont-Horizon had been rear-ended by a tailgating limo rented by some groupies. Minor facial cuts for the lead singer, four girls taken to Passavant Hospital with minor injuries...

“No, no, Bonnie, you got it although I still think maybe we fell for a publicity setup on that one,” Malloy said. “What I’m calling about is that someone wants to get in touch with you. A man called here, asked for your phone number and they switched him to me. I told him that as policy we didn’t give out staff numbers. I asked him for his number so you could call back if you want to.”

“Let me get a pencil, Larry.”

“Don’t bother,” Malloy said. “He wouldn’t leave it. Said to tell you that it was George from last night.” Malloy paused. “I didn’t know how important that might be to you, Bonnie.”

“Not as exciting as you think, old dear,” Caidin said. “George is one of the people I talked to at the Vets’ Bureau last evening, that’s all. He came in for advice. How do I get in touch with him?”

“You don’t,” Malloy said. “He’s going to call me again in five minutes. If it’s okay, I’ll give him your number.”

“He gave you no idea where he was calling from, or why?”

“No. I asked but he insisted he had to talk to you directly. If he does call again, what do I tell him?”

Bonnie was thoughtful for a moment, then glanced at her bedside clock. She hadn’t had dinner yet but that could wait. “I know you’re going to give me a lecture, Larry, but when George Jackson calls back, give him this number.”

“Bonnie, a reporter’s home phone number should be as sacred as the Ark. Do you want all the kooks in the world to know where to reach you?”

“This guy is no kook, Larry. I told him I’d help him. Give him the number, will you?”

Bonnie Caidin replaced the phone and put on a blue cashmere robe. She towelled her wet hair and twisted the damp ends together with a rubber band, then took a pencil and notepad from the night table drawer and sat on the edge of the bed to wait. When the phone rang, she let it ring three times before picking it up.

His voice was as she’d remembered it, deep and touched with a southern twang, but strained now, almost a controlled whisper. “Miss Caidin? Remember the fellow who came in to talk to you last night about Luis Carlos? A little after midnight or so...?”

“Yes, yes,” she said sharply. “Of course I remember you. George Jackson, right? Is something the matter?”

“Why do you ask that? Do you think something’s the matter?”

Bonnie felt a stir of irritation, then apprehension. “Listen, I don’t think anything’s particularly the matter except that you called my office and refused to give a number and now you’re calling me at home and playing guessing games on my time. That’s all that’s wrong. This is your call. If you’ve got something to say, George, I wish you’d say it.”

The phone was silent for so long that Caidin thought perhaps the man had hung up. She said firmly, “You must tell me why you made this call...”

“I made this call to ask you a question, lady, and it’s this. Last night, for the first time, I pay a visit to your office and tell you a few things in confidence about an Army deserter, a buddy of mine, right?”

“That’s right,” Caidin said.

“That’s last night. Then today — out of nowhere — I get a strong impression I’m being followed, first at work, then at a tavern I hang out at. And I know for sure that two men who claim they’re Army MPs came by where I live and interviewed the landlady. All this happened since I talked to you. Somebody’s looking for me and they know where to look. So my question is, Miss Caidin, who is looking for me and did you set me up?”

Bonnie Caidin drew in her breath, suddenly aware of the chill, empty silence of the apartment. She tucked her bare feet under her and pulled the coverlet from the bed up around her thin shoulders.

“I would never do that, George,” she said. “I told you last night our records were confidential, that you could trust me. Whatever you think is happening to you has nothing to do with the Veterans’ Bureau, believe me. I never asked for your address, where you worked or any identification. It was entirely up to you to get in touch with us again, you know that.”