Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“You saw Morressy, too?”

“You don’t know that?” Roper asked. “He came to the hotel, bold as brass, out in the open.”

“I told you,” White said. “I haven’t been watching you.”

Roper drank some beer and wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin.

“What’d the colonel want?” White asked.

“He wanted to know what I was doing in Washington,” Roper said. “Who I was seeing at Dupont Circle.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That it was confidential.”

“Did he buy that?”

“He did.”

“He’s slipping, you know,” White said. “Losing it. But Morressy covers up for him.”

“He can’t be the only one.”

“No, he’s not,” White said. “But nobody really lets him make any important decisions.”

“That third bird.”

“Yeah, that’s it. The third bird.”

“Why don’t they just give it to him, then?” Roper asked. “Why make him wait?”

“The Army doesn’t give anything away,” White said. “The word ‘give’ isn’t in their vocabulary. I think that’s what’s behind this recall of Medals of Honor. They feel they gave away too many of them, which weren’t earned.”

Maxwell the waiter came and set their plates in front of them. White told him to bring two more cold beers.

“Yes, sir.”

“These are cooked perfectly,” White told Roper. “You’ll see.”

And they were, along with the potatoes, onions, and other vegetables.

“So, did you find out about my man?”

“Westover.”

“That’s right.”

“Howard.”

Roper stared at White.

“Oddly,” the man said, “your man’s service record is…missing at the moment.”

“And you can’t find it?” Roper asked. “You?”

“Well…there was a fire a few years ago,” White said. “Some of the records were lost. His might have been among them.”

“How long will it take to find out?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I’m sure as hell not going to stay in Washington.”

“I’m glad you asked me that.”

Roper put his knife and fork down and sat back in his chair.

“Why do I have the feeling this free meal is going to cost me more than I could have imagined?”

“Now, just keep eating and hear me out,” White said. “We just want you to do a little job for us. It won’t even require you to stay in Washington.”

Roper eyed the steak. It looked and tasted too good to make it suffer for whatever Donald White was about to say, so he picked up his utensils again.

“All right, damn it,” he said to White. “Start talking.”

16

“The Army does not want to recall any medals that were well earned,” White said.

“That’s nice of them.”

“So you will need to prove that Howard Westover deserved his medal.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“You’ll need to get affidavits signed by men who served with him stating he deserved his medal.”

“After twenty years?”

“We were around back then, Tal,” White said. “A lot of men still are. Just find them and get them to sign.”

“How do I know who I’m looking for?” Roper asked. “You can’t find his records. You can’t tell me where he served, or who he served with.”

“No,” White said, “but you can get that information.”

“From where?”

“From him. He’s your client, isn’t he?”

Roper hesitated, then said, “Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, his wife is my client,” Roper explained. “Westover is confined to a wheelchair. He needs to be fed, dressed, changed…”

“Can he speak?”

Roper thought back. He’d only heard the man say two words: “Mr. Roper.” Did that mean he was lucid? In possession of his faculties? That he’d be able to speak sentences that made sense?

“He can speak…I’m just not sure how much sense he’ll make.”

“Well, find out, man! I’m trying to help you here, Tal. You need those affidavits.”

“What about his records?”

“I’ll keep looking,” White said. “Stay in touch with me. When I find them, I can feed you information that will make your job much more doable.”

“Yes,” Roper said, “yes, all right. I’ll go back and see what I can find out.”

“Where is Westover living?”

“West Virginia.”

“You can catch the first train tomorrow, be back there in eight hours.”

“Why do you want me to leave so soon?”

White dropped his utensils to his plate and sat back, staring at Roper.

“Aren’t you the one who wanted to get out of Washington as soon as you could?” he asked. “Don’t get suspicious on me, Tal. I’m telling you how to get this done. You wanted my help, and I’m giving it to you.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Roper said.

“Jesus,” White said, picking up his fork, “I’m feeding you on Uncle Sam’s dime and this is the thanks I get…”

“Okay, okay,” Roper said. “I’m sorry. This steak is very good.”

“Wait until you have their pie.”

* * *

After their pie—apple for White but cherry for Roper—White paid the bill and they walked outside. Roper was the first to hear the shot. He slammed his shoulder into White’s, taking him to the ground. From there he drew his gun and got himself to one knee. He heard someone running toward them and pointed his gun.

“Easy,” White said. “That’s my driver.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” White said, “thanks to Mr. Roper.”

“Did you see where the shot came from, son?” Roper asked.

“No, sir,” the young man said, “I was down the street.”

Roper and White got to their feet.

“Come on,” White said, giving Roper a push, “let’s get to the carriage.”

Roper turned around. He noticed that the bullet had missed the windows behind them and instead imbedded itself in the door of the restaurant. Inside, diners had hit the floor, and were now warily getting to their feet.

“Come on!” White said. “Before somebody comes outside and starts asking questions.”

The three of them hurried down the street, Roper and the driver with their guns out, keeping White between them. It seemed to be the general consensus of opinion that White had been the intended target.

When they reached the carriage, they climbed in. The young soldier leaped into his seat and got the horse going at a gallop.

Roper holstered his gun and asked, “Does this happen to you a lot?”

“Once in a while.”

“So not everyone in Washington thinks you’re a bullshit politician.”

“Apparently not.”

The man on the roof withdrew the rifle and his head, because he knew the men on the ground were the kind of men who would look up first. They’d look for a gunman on a rooftop. He needed to get himself off this roof as soon as possible.

He ran to the back of the roof, dropped down through the open hatch to the floor below. From there he found the back staircase, made his way out the back door to the alley behind the building. He knew he was ahead of the other men. They’d need time—even if it was a matter of seconds—to be sure there wasn’t going to be a second shot, before they’d be able to move.

He’d been instructed to take one shot, and one shot only. And miss. It went against the grain for him to miss deliberately, but he was being paid enough to take the sting out of it.

And when he did take a second shot, he sure as hell wouldn’t miss.

When they got back to the hotel, the young driver stopped right in front and drew his gun.

“I don’t think anyone followed us, Hopkins,” White said.