Robert Mason - Chickenhawk - Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

“And, of course,” I added sharply, “these pigs get their feet wet and track up the halls and stuff. Bet that pisses off the inside cleaning crew.”

“Yeah,” George said, shrugging. “It may not work out.” He reached into his shirt pocket, brought out a pack of smokes, and leaned forward to offer one. I crushed out mine—it was short—in my five-gallon plastic bucket so as not to ruin the swirls I’d made in the sand of my butt bucket, and took a new one from George. We lighted up.

We sat and puffed contentedly for a while. George was a real skinny guy, jumpy and serious. He puffed sharply and looked over his shoulder often. “You don’t have to worry about Simpson,” I said. “He told me our dorms were the pride of the camp.”

“He did?”

No, but what the fuck. “Yes. Yesterday.”

George nodded happily, gazing over at Dorm Five. I could see he was eager to get up and attend to a fallen leaf or something. I wanted just to wait the fifteen minutes or so until lunch, so I said, “So, George, you never talk about how you got here. Everybody knows how I got here.”

George smiled, looking embarrassed. “I know, but it’s so stupid. You’d laugh.”

“I promise,” I said, shaking my head.

George puffed quickly, deciding, and said, “Sporting goods.”

“Say again?”

George spoke so softly I could barely make it out. “Got arrested for buying stolen sporting goods.”

Naturally, I laughed.

George looked away and stared at a couple of guys—cooks, by their whites—walking down by the water. “Sorry. Sorry, George. It wasn’t funny. It must be the way you say it.”

George nodded. “Oh, I know what people think,” he said. “Compared to you guys—dope smugglers and crooked attorneys and rip-off stockbrokers and busted politicians and stuff—it must sound real wimpy. But I got five years for buying a truckload of exercise equipment from a guy. I had no idea the stuff was stolen. It was cheap, sure, but that’s business. Isn’t it? Looking for a good deal?”

“Yeah, sure is. I was in business once myself, George.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Manufactured mirrors in New York.”

“Huh.” George grunted. “Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, it was. Fascinating,” I said. “So, George. You buy the stuff from this guy. How do the cops know about it?”

“Oh. That’s easy. The guy is working for the cops.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” George said, leaning forward, all embarrassment gone, getting into the story. “See, this guy hijacks this big semi truck full of stuff somewhere in New York. Then he takes it over to New Jersey to sell it. He gets caught—I don’t know how. Then the cops tell him if he drives down the East Coast and sells the same truckload of shit to sporting goods places, they won’t prosecute him.”

“The guy who stole the stuff?”

“Yes. So he goes down the road stopping everywhere, offering the stuff at a third of what it’s worth. Anyone who goes for it gets busted the minute they say okay.”

“You didn’t actually buy the stuff?”

“Nope. I agreed to buy it. Then the cops come swarming out of cars parked nearby. Guy has a bug on him, you know?” George looked real sad suddenly. “I got five years, and then my business starts to fail because I’m in jail and my wife doesn’t know how to handle it and then she gets pissed off because I was away so long and she finally left me about a year ago.”

Now I was really not happy I asked. But I had to know: “George. What happened to this guy? The original thief?”

“Him? Oh, nothing. They kept their promise. They let him go for cooperating with the police.”

We sat smoking cigarettes for a while, not saying anything. I was beginning to think that the government spent most of its time setting up crimes and corralling the suckers who’d go for it. George’s was just one of many stories about a technique for crime control that is illegal in all industrial nations except our own. In England, for example, George could not have been arrested because the criminal act he was involved in had been set up by the police. You have to actually commit a crime on your own to get arrested in England.

But George could have been lying. People sought me out to tell me their stories because, they said, I was a writer and people ought to know what happened to them. When listening to these stories, I’d wonder, Why’s this guy telling me this? Does this story have anything to do with the truth? But I listened. You can learn a lot about people from the stories they tell and how they tell them. It’s all interesting.

“How long you been in charge of Dorm Five, George?” I asked.

“Coming up on a year,” George said.

“I think that if I have to work on this dorm that long, I will go nuts.”

“Yeah? I don’t mind. It’s easy work and I like making the place look good. I do that all the time at home. Jane is always saying—” George stopped talking and flicked his cigarette out on my yard and stared at it. The smoke swirled lazily in the still air. I’d have told him to pick it up, but this was a bad moment for George.

“I don’t know exactly why I hate it,” I continued. “But I hate it. I don’t care how this place looks. I want to get to a typewriter.”

“You can type?” George said, interested.

“Yeah. I’ve always been able to type. Learned in high school.”

“Well, Deacon just asked me if I knew anyone who could type. His boss is looking for a replacement for him.”

“Deacon’s leaving?”

“Yeah. In about a month.”

“Who do I see?”

“Deacon or that guy, what’s his name? The guy who helps him run the clothing room?” George stared at me, then his eyes rolled up looking in the top of his head, searching for the memory. I didn’t know who he meant. I thought a hack ran the clothing room. “Foster. Don Foster. He’s the guy. He and some of the others eat early chow. You probably can see him right now.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Heavy guy, black hair, short; acts like he owns the place.”

I jumped up. “I’m gonna try it, George. Thanks.” I left my tools out next to a tree and walked up the sidewalk behind Dorm Five and went into the mess hall. About thirty men were still eating from the ten o’clock lunch period. The regular line didn’t start until eleven. I saw three men sitting at a table with a guy that matched George’s description. I walked over.

“You Foster?” I said.

“Yeah,” Foster said, looking piqued because I’d disturbed him at lunch.

“I hear they’re looking for somebody who can type over at your place.”

“Yeah. Typing’s part of the job. You also have to know how to run a small business.”

“I’m your man,” I said. “Where do I sign up?”

Foster shrugged. “Okay. Come over to the clothing room after lunch. I’ll get you in to see Mr. Baker and you can talk to him.”

“What time?’’

“Say about two?’’

“I’ll be there.’’

CHAPTER 27

Baker was a tall guy, probably six feet four. He spent most of his time smiling. He sat in his executive’s chair behind a gray government desk, fidgeting with a wooden puzzle that could be made into the letter L, if you knew how. I stood in his office while his inmate lieutenants questioned me. The inmate cadre of the clothing room was Deacon, the head boss; Foster, next in line; and a guy they called Rusty, a crackly voiced old guy who seemed to be kind of a Gabby Hayes sidekick for Baker.

I told them about my business experience in New York.

Deacon finally said, “I think we could give him a try, Mr. Baker. I’m not leaving for a month; we got time to find somebody else if he doesn’t work out.”