Chuck laid a card on the trick between them, the four of clubs. “Cronkite is a son of a bitch. I think he’d sell this whole country down the river if he could.”
“He’s just reporting it the way he see’s it,” Dan said, tossing the eight of clubs on the trick.
“He has an agenda; it’s obvious.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t keep our politician’s in check?”
“He wasn’t there,” Chuck said, “at least in an American uniform with gook guns aimed at him from the bushes.”
“Neither was LBJ.”
“Yea, but LBJ gets our shit reports every day. Cronkite just sits in his courtside seat and shouts foul.”
“He never shouted foul.” Dan sloughed off a four of hearts. Chuck moved the trick of cards to the bench between his legs.
”I know exactly what he said, I memorized it: ‘to say that we are closer to victory today is to believe, in the face of the evidence, the optimists who have been wrong in the past.’” Chuck spat the words out like acid. “Let’s consider the evidence. We kicked their asses on Tet. Sure, we lost six thousand guys, but they lost eighty-five thousand. And as for their so-called peasant uprising? The whole thing was a turkey shoot; other than Kue and Khe Sanh, we were dropping them like flies. I think if it wasn’t for Cronkite diatribing his leftist propaganda, making the whole thing out to be an American fiasco, that Ho Chi Minh might have even thrown in his little, red towel.”
“Yea, but do you just want to keep on fighting forever? I mean, I’m tired; I just want to rest,” Dan said.
Dan paused from the game and looked Chuck straight in the eye. “How many times you been called baby-killer since we got back?”
Chuck clenched his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair. “We ain’t baby-killers; how many babies did you kill out there in the field?”
“America’s got some pretty serious wounds. It’ll take time to heal,” Chuck said and resumed the game, leading with a king of spades. “I’m not going to be the one to lick blood from America’s cuts and bruises. I did my duty: two tours. I served honorably. But because Cronkite puts a bunch of pictures of our boys dragging dead gooks through the streets up on the TV, suddenly we are baby killers.”
Dan rolled his eyes. Here it came again, Chuck’s old grind.
Chuck continued his rant: “That fat-cat news SOB should run pictures of the VC aiming their guns at us. He should broadcast pictures of our friends being blown to hamburger just because they stepped in the wrong place. Where are the pictures of North Vietnamese soldiers executing U.S. G.I.s in the streets of Hanoi.” Chuck huffed then took a couple of deep breaths to calm down.
“You should lighten up; it’s a holiday for the love of joy,” Dan said as he trumped the game with a 4 of hearts.
“It’s a new age; wars aren’t won with grit anymore. It’s not a matter of how much power you put in the field. It’s not about honesty or taking the high ground. What matters is which pictures you put in front of the people. Cronkite knows his arsenal and he’s damn well winning the war for Ho Chi Minh and his little, red pip squeak parade.”
Something caught Dan’s attention. He looked up from the game over his friend’s shoulder. “Well this isn’t going to make your day; here comes the freedom brigade.”
Chuck craned his neck around so he could see what Dan had spotted. A group of young men and women peeled out of the crowd, decked in bell-bottoms, sunglasses, and hair. “Damn hippies,” Chuck said.
“At least there’s one thing we can agree on. You think they’re going to cause a scene?” Dan said.
“Look at them; they’re already causing a scene.”
One of the hippies wore a pair of pants made from a soiled American flag. Chuck glared at the kid. The hippie raised his hand and aimed a gun-barrel pointer finger at him. Then, just before popping off a pantomime shot, the hippie pointed to the sky and opened his hand, flapping his fingers as if they were the wings of a dove.
“Spoiled brat,” Chuck spat on the ground. “His daddy’s probably the CEO of some fat cat corporation. Kid’s probably never even seen a draft card.”
“I hate them too, but it’s best to ignore them. They’re all talk anyways.” Dan threw the ten of hearts into the game.
“I’ll only ignore them if they go away.” Chuck tossed the queen of spades on the trick. Dan swore; it would cost him thirteen points. But that November 11th in 1968 would cost both him and his best friend, Chuck, a lot more than points. The game they were about to play would be for keeps.
Chapter 6
Raymond Bixbie liked the smell of leather seats, animalistic and musky. In full dress uniform, he sat in his squad car: a 1967 Reliant K, fast and durable, white. He looked good in his dry-cleaned uniform but felt full of worry. He glanced outside at his skeleton crew of patrolmen.
Smash Williams and Fern Lenoy, partners, leaned against the side of their cruiser, talking, smiling. One of the first things Bixbie had heard come out of Fern’s mouth upon being transferred to Columbus was: “I was never prejudiced until I moved to Ohio.” That single statement had inspired Bixbie to assign Fern to a black partner: Smash Williams. If anyone could cure a bigot, it was Smash; hell, everyone liked Smash.
Due to the devastating act of Officer Greer in the parade of ’67, Commissioner Stillman had ordered the police out of the festivities. The usual motorcycle force, a formation of flashing cruisers and motocops, would not march today. Bixbie had however stationed a half-dozen men at the end of the parade route to keep the peace in case of holiday troublemakers.
Bixbie couldn’t blame Commissioner Stillman; officer Greer had never been stable. When Greer, having barely legitimate reasons, had drawn his pistol and shot a boisterous Nam protestor right in the middle of the ’67 Veterans Day parade, it hadn’t exactly surprised Bixbie. Internal affairs had handled the event with a hardcore shakedown of the whole department. Greer was behind bars, serving time for manslaughter. The rest of the department still reeled from the grievances of I.A.’s hard-core investigation, which had forced three officers to turn over their badges and guns.
Smash Williams laughed, his deep voice booming like a storm. Something his partner had said had tickled his funny bone. Bixbie smiled; Smash’s infectious laugh could drive even the deepest anxieties away. Bixbie leaned out the window and shouted, “Stay on your toes, boys, we only got four minutes until show time.”
“Sure thing, chief,” Smash said and tipped his eight-point service cap in Bixbie’s direction, his usual banana sized smile peeling across his face.
Smash and Fern went back and forth, arguing about who would win in a back-alley brawl, the Bangles or the Browns. Smash insisted that Jim Brown could kick Greg Cook’s butt and that those American League guys were pussies anyways. Fern maintained that Cook had a golden arm, just as good for punching as for throwing pigskin. Days later, Smash would remark that he and Fern’s argument about brawling was more prophecy than light conversation to pass the time.
Chapter 7
The first thing Needles Steiner noticed when he entered Thornbinge’s Pawnshop was the oversized confederate flag hanging behind the checkout counter. The pawnshop smelled like a mummy. Old paper, grease, and antique wood permeated the air. Marrian Thornbinge, the shop’s owner, specialized in guns. A broad wall displayed the latest in modern weaponry: pistols, rifles, shotguns. A 50mm cannon sat on a squat tripod, aimed straight at the entrance. A copy of the June 1968 issue of Time Magazine hung in the center of the gun display wall. The cover read: THE GUN IN AMERICA, the letters printed in yellow over a red and white halftone image of a fist holding a