William McGivern - A Matter of Honor

But now, walking across the macadam, with the two MPs so close that he could feel the warmth of their bodies, Lasari thought with desperation that he had nothing left to bargain with, nothing at all to offer a watchful or caring God. He was a two-time deserter carrying an illegal cache of heroin, walking under armed guard across an airport lot, a man with no job, no money and no future.

But suddenly he became aware of the parts of a picture for which he had been searching. A stocky man in a tweed jacket and leather gloves was standing outside an open gate, not far from the Army jeep. The man was not coming closer, but he was not walking away. John Grimes... And the four maintenance men had completed repairs on the staircase and were pushing it in front of them, bending their backs to the task, covering Lasari from the rear.

A flash of hope lit his thoughts, he knew what he could bargain with, and made a silent promise more important to himself than to God. “Let me out of this,” he prayed, “save me one more time, and I will go to her and ask her and love her for the rest of my life.”

Suddenly a door of the parked limo opened and the black man with the briefcase stepped out, holding a gun this time, shouting, “Hold it, gentlemen! I’ll take that baggage now.”

As the black man stepped forward, John Grimes dashed in the gate, arms high over his head. Joe Castana made a dive to wrest the bag from Lasari’s grip, and the black man fired a shot that caught Castana in the wrist and jolted him out of the way. Lasari swung the bag in a looping arc toward Grimes.

The men in maintenance uniforms sprang forward with drawn guns, and one shouted, “Chicago police officers! Freeze!”

One officer tackled the black gunman from behind, knocked the revolver from his hand, spinning him around to sprawl face downward on the hood of the limousine.

Eddie Neal shoved Lasari aside and with a bellow of rage threw himself forward to seize the duffel bag, but Grimes was ready. He swung his boot in a powerful upward kick, catching Neal in the chest and sending him back on the macadam, stunned and lighting for breath.

Joe Castana was rocking on his knees, cursing through clenched teeth, trying to hold his shattered wrist together with his good hand.

“Take your man and split, Grimes!” one of the police officers shouted, and Grimes swung the duffel into the cab of the Army vehicle and signaled to Lasari.

“You’d better know where we’re going, soldier,” he said. “I never drove in this town in my life.”

Private Scales had finished cleaning off the steps in front of the Armory. The rain was now hardly more than a mist, and he began to sweep the wet cobblestones of the courtyard itself, never lifting his eyes from his work as he edged himself toward the open front gate and street. He paused there, wiped his wet face with a khaki handkerchief and looked up and down the street. There was only the normal early morning traffic, no strange cars parked in either direction, but his attention was caught by three men standing in the doorway of a warehouse near the corner and three others, in civilian clothes, sauntering in the rain half a block away.

The sight of the strangers brought no surprise to Scales, only a feeling of deep melancholy and a decision that had been hiding in his subconscious for some months. He knew he wasn’t going to tell Malleck anything this time.

One of the men at the warehouse was familiar to him. He had seen him twice before, at Cabrini Green, in uniform then, relentless, going from building to building, checking, rechecking, asking questions. There had been a lot of uniforms at the Green since Malleck ordered that lieutenant wasted, but this one Scales remembered most clearly. He was black and his face seemed more bitter and dangerous than all the others.

As Scales walked back over the courtyard he saw Malleck standing at the window, watching him. He waved and called out, “You just rest yourself, sarge. I’m watchin’ for you.”

At that moment Malleck spotted the Army vehicle as it slowed at the front gate and turned into the courtyard with a screech of rubber. And right on plan there were two men in the front seat.

A surge of relief swept through the sergeant’s body, so rousing and satisfying that he felt as if he had had a sexual catharsis. His legs, then his torso trembled with an emotion so violent that he had to sit down. It was going to happen, the matching condos, the sea breezes, the choice of broads, the numbered bank accounts. Sergeant Malleck, Mr. Karl Malleck, was definitely going to be a rich and envied man. He folded his hands to control the shaking, fixed his eyes on the main entrance to his office, and waited.

He waited several minutes and though the delay was not long enough to cause alarm, Malleck was taken by surprise when the door to Scales’ cubicle opened and Durham Lasari stepped into the room. He was in uniform, his face pale and expressionless, but his eyes were dark with derision.

He gave Malleck a snappy salute and said, “Private George Jackson reporting, sir. Private George Jackson making delivery.”

Lasari took three steps toward the desk, duffel bag in hand, and then Malleck gasped with disbelief as he saw three men with drawn guns and Private Andrew Scales step into the room directly behind Lasari.

“Sergeant Malleck, I am Sergeant Gordon of the Chicago Police Department,” a big black man said. “You are under arrest.”

“Goddamn it, Scales,” Malleck shouted, his voice almost breaking. “What the hell is this...”

With a panicked reflex he opened a desk drawer and found a gun. As he raised it, there was a sharp pop in the air, the sound of a single shot from an automatic pistol with a silencer, and Malleck’s body jerked once, then spun around and he fell face downward on the rug, his gun falling from his hand.

He looked almost graceful as he lay there, head resting on one arm as though trying to sleep, but there was blood on the rug beside him and a perfect curve of mandible bone that had fragmented when Scales’ bullet had shattered his jaw.

“You fucking idiot!” Sergeant Gordon said with fury as he snatched Scales’ gun from his hand. “You had my orders, all of you. This was to be a lawful, a peaceful bust. We needed that man, we wanted him alive.”

“You don’t understand, boss,” Scales said. “It had to be this way. Sergeant Malleck and I, we been together a long, long time. We’re something special. He’d of wanted me to do it for him, I know that.”

Lasari set the duffel bag on a chair, as though it had become repugnant to him. Sergeant Gordon nodded and one of the plainclothes officers stepped over to claim it.

“I’m not sure what happens from here on,” Lasari said. “Tell me, am I under arrest, Sergeant Gordon?”

“More or less protective custody, Mr. Lasari, like that shit we just confiscated.”

Three days later, after a four o’clock appointment, Laura Devers drove Bonnie Caidin home from the doctor’s office.

“It’s too early to tell really,” Caidin said as they left downtown Springfield, “but the doctor agrees I’m probably pregnant. At first I told myself I’d been knocked off my menstrual schedule by that godawful beating, but, no, there are other signs. My breasts have been sensitive, and I felt ghastly three mornings in a row. I thought that might have been worrying about Duro and the general.” She sat huddled in a tweed coat, a yellow scarf at her throat, and her face was pale and still. The older woman reached over and patted her knee.

“The doctor doesn’t do abortions, he made that clear,” Bonnie Caidin said. “He told me that under some circumstances he and a consulting physician might come to an administrative decision to prevent the birth. He acted as if, he just assumed, Laura, that I wanted to get rid of it.”