Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

polygraph.” “No. I would have lied on the control questions anyway.” “Why would you do that?” “Just to mess up the first-round results.” “Skip, you’re not expected to behave when we’re questioning you as

you’ve been taught to behave when being questioned by the enemy. We

are not the enemy.” Skip said, ” ‘Enemy’ is no longer a term I’d use in any case. Ever.” “Why not?” “It’s just stupid, man. Have you looked around yourself lately? This isn’t

a war. It’s a disease. A plague. And that was my preliminary round the other day, with the phony polygraph. And this is the second round. Correct?” “No. Incorrect. This is just a pick-up. Sort of. I mean, it’s just time for

you to wrap up here, that’s all, so I’m here to get you.” “Then why are we sitting around?” “Intellectual curiosity. It’s always my downfall. Who was the colonel?

What was he doing? I mean, his little article was an act of professional

suicide, but the assertions are hard to refute.” “Voss told me he wrote most of it.” “The ideas came from the colonel. The semi-treasonous ones anyway.” “He was a great man,” Skip said, “and he wasn’t in any way trea

sonous.” “We all want to believe that, Skip.” “He was a force of nature, Terry, and now he’s gone. I’m confused and

you’re confused. He’s suddenly absent. It’s disorienting as all get-out.” “Then let’s orient ourselves, Skip, and deal with the colonel’s mess.” “You misunderstood him completely.” “Oh no you don’t! — you don’t turn this into a movie about Walt Whit

man or somebody—the shortsighted, narrow-minded boobs lynching the golden-boy visionary. You don’t turn this into the crucifixion. I’m asking you who was this guy, and you’re singing a bullshit movie theme song.”

“Hold on, hold on. I’m just trying to tell you something you don’t understand. I knew him all my life, and I swear to you, Crodelle, the colonel was exactly who he looked like. He really was this madman flying a plane with one wing blown off and smoking a cigar and laughing at death and all that. But he had this second side. He wanted to be intelligent, he wanted to be erudite, he wanted to be the suave bureaucrat. I’m surprised he didn’t take up smoking a pipe. He wanted to intellectualize, he wanted to monitor information systems, he really—somewhere inside him was this librarian, hidden away.”

“And that’s the part that fucked things up for us, Skip. Let’s deal with

that part.” “Deal with it?” “Come on, Skip, come on, work with me. We need to get everything

back under the light. The colonel didn’t share. He didn’t lend his efforts to the general endeavor.” “So?”

Crodelle poured the dregs from the teapot into his cup. “Look, Terry, am I supposed to be getting something right now? Be

cause I don’t.” “I want to ask you about these files.” “They’re right upstairs. Take ‘em.” “Really?” “Yeah, take ‘em. They’re shit.” “You realize at this point you don’t need to lie.” “I realize. The files are upstairs. The files are worthless. That is the

absolute truth.” Crodelle relaxed, as if perhaps he believed. “The guy was really

something. Really something.” “Yeah. Yeah. He was a lot of things.” “How did he characterize his relationship with John Brewster?” “Brewster?” “Yeah. I’m curious. How were their relations?” “Strained. Brewster had some concerns, and put him behind a desk.” “Hah! Concerns?”. “About his health.” “His health. You mean about his heart, and his drinking, and his ten

dency to suddenly slug people in the jaw.” Skip said, “His heart?” “Isn’t that what killed him?” “I have no idea how he died. I heard he was assassinated.” “I’ve heard all that nonsense too. The colonel threw a coronary up

stairs at the Rex. In the swimming pool. Or in the restaurant or some

where. Anyway, he didn’t go down defending the Alamo.” “Oh-oh, wow.” “What.” “You’re Brewster’s boy.” “I resent that.” “Yeah, but I repeat it: you’re Brewster’s boy. Brewster wants to look at

the files before anybody else finds out about them. Right?” Crodelle smiled. “Don’t leer at me like I’m an idiot, Terry.” “I can’t help it.” “This isn’t about any crazy unauthorized op. This is just about a bunch of note cards that might make somebody look bad. Somebody

who probably hasn’t done anything to worry about.” “That’s nonsense.” “Yeah, it is, it certainly is. I mean, considering the fucked-up nature

of the files. But that’s what’s going on here, isn’t it? Jesus Christ. Come

on, let’s look at them.” “Yeah?” “Come on.” Crodelle followed him up the narrow stairs. This time of day the

villa’s upper regions trapped the heat like an attic. Sands pointed at the spare room and opened his own bedroom door to get what they might of a breeze. Crodelle stood looking into the spare room. “Where are they?” Sands pushed past him and raised the lid of one of the footlockers.

“Cleverly hidden.” “That’s them?” “They’re all in alphabetical order. And cross-referenced. Go ahead,

look up Brewster.” “Come on. If the old man was serious, they’re coded.” “It’s not in code. Look up anything that might cross-reference with

Brewster. Place names, something like that.” Crodelle raised the lid of another and stared down into it. “You’re

willing to turn these over to us?” “Do I have a choice?” “Let’s load these babies in the buggy. If we stack things properly, we

can get them all to town in one trip.” “To the Language School, or where?” “The MAC–V compound. Tan Son Nhut.” “MAC–V’s not there anymore.” “There’s a little facility there.” “Oh, fuck,” Skip said. “What?” “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Crodelle looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Sands gauged the

redhead’s size, considered taking a page from Jimmy Storm’s book and throwing an uppercut into the man’s middle, just below the sternum, but thought against it. Having recently lost one fight, he didn’t feel like starting another one.

“Hang on,” Skip said. “I’ll get dressed.”

He went across the hall and into his own rooms, and Crodelle followed him and watched as he changed his shorts for long slacks, put on socks and shoes and a shirt. What else? He wouldn’t be returning. On his dresser, a stack of photos from the Philippines. He put half a dozen in his pocket.

From his dresser drawer he took his watch, his passport, and his.25caliber Beretta. “Shit,” Crodelle said. “Never happen.” Sands pocketed the passport, put the watch on his wrist, and stepped

forward and put the gun against Crodelle’s forehead. “Okay, okay, okay. Is the safety on?” “No.” Sands tried to think. “Here’s where it gets tricky.” “Just put the safety on, and step back, and let’s talk.” “I do all the talking. You do what I tell you. I don’t have to shoot if we

do this right.” “I’m with you,” Crodelle said. “Stand there.” “I’m standing.” Crodelle stood very still with his hands raised to the

level of his chest and his fingers splayed. “Just put the safety on, that’s all

I ask.” “Not one more word.” “Fine.” “I mean it. Sit in that chair.” Crodelle drew a chair from the tea table and sat. Sands opened his

dresser’s top drawer and with one hand pulled out socks and underpants, feeling for his first-aid materials. He placed several rolls of gauze bandage on top of the dresser. “Stand up. No talking.”

Crodelle stood. Holding the gun against his spine, Sands pulled the chair closer to himself. “Sit down.” Crodelle sat. “Cross your arms behind the chair. Open your mouth. Wider.” He jammed a sock into Crodelle’s mouth. Pulling the clasp from the roll of bandage with his teeth and managing as best he could with one hand, he wrapped Crodelle’s face and neck with the gauze and then girded him around the chest, going around him several times until he’d reached the end of the roll and pinned his arms behind him to the back of the chair. With one hand he was able only to make a rudimentary knot. He felt apologetic about his materials. An electric lamp cord would have been just the thing. Not possible in a house out past the power lines.