Miles grimaced and shook his head side to side. “Too much hassle, Eric. Too much hassle. Might be what drives me into retirement.”
“I doubt that, Jack,” Ridge said with a smile. “I doubt that very much.”
At 8 p.m., back at the apartment, Ridge lay in bed, lights off, feeling like shit. Exhausted really. And it didn’t help that Jayne was missing in action. But Mister and Pistol were nearby, and Ridge started thinking about Jack Miles, Sharon Nelson, Richard Chesterfield, and dead judges—Juliet Millsberg, Flynn in San Diego, Sayor in Arizona, Stevens in San Francisco and who knows who else. After dwelling and dwelling and dwelling on the deaths that just didn’t make sense, Ridge began to doze off. Then, as before, his feet got warm and his mind faded to combat.
Before his transfer to Laos, Viet Cong mortars hit Bien Hoa Air Base—almost every night. Rocket City, Vietnam. Usually, it didn’t interrupt the poker game, unless the rockets got too close. When that happened, Ridge and his buddies ducked under the table. Or, if it was really bad, they’d shout “diti mao” and rush to the bomb shelter, just outside the hootch, chips and cards still on the table. It all depended on how close was close. This particular night, it was all different.
Ridge shared his room in the hootch with his pilot buddy, Guru, already in the room when Ridge first arrived. Guru had been using the top bunk but learned Ridge hated bottom bunk. So, Guru agreed to flip for it. That’s how he was—everyone’s friend. Couldn’t do enough for others. Always a kind word and plenty of cheer. Ridge lost the flip but gained a true friend.
That night, however, about 1 a.m. rockets rushed in. The whistling sounded so loud, so shrill that Ridge and Guru yelled at the same time, “Rockets!”
In less than a second, the hootch next door exploded. The whole world rumbled like an earthquake. Ungodly screaming. More whistling. Then—the walls of their tiny room crashed in like a train wreck. Ridge was hurled to the floor. Pitch black. Smoke rising. Guru landed on top. Arms and legs intertwined. Debris and dust all around. Then silence and the smell of gun smoke. Stale. Suffocating. Ridge was bruised, beat up, but OK. He whispered, “Guru, that was close, man. But now, get the hell off me.”
No response.
Ridge pushed up and turned Guru. His face was raw meat. A bloody mass. Ridge realized he too was drenched in blood, everything running red over his face, down his neck, across his chest. Touching his cheeks and upper body with his fingers, Ridge discovered he wasn’t hurt. The blood came from Guru. So, Ridge shook him. Why, he wasn’t sure. He knew his friend was dead. Knew it could have been him on the top bunk. Flip of a coin. Probably better, he thought, if it were me. Guru was the better man. Ridge knew it at gut level. He pushed to his feet, lifted Guru in his arms, and carried him outside into the night, into another living hell. Full of stench. But the screaming, at least, had stopped.
The hootch next door had been two-level. It housed first responders—the med evac, paramedic and hospital teams. Now, it was shambles. Smoke and fire all around. Otherwise dark. As Ridge moved through the debris, with Guru draped in his arms, he almost tripped over the smoldering, partial remains of a nurse. Catching his balance, he saw her blackened head and upper body—still dressed in a scorched white uniform. He blinked and gagged on the reek of burning flesh and char. Everywhere. Arms and legs scattered across the courtyard. Belching smoke and hellish orange flames left and right. And everything surrounded by ghostly silence.
Then a man, forty yards away, bare-chested in only fatigue pants and boots, slowly stepped through rising vapors toward Ridge. As he trudged closer through the dark, settling dust, Ridge recognized him. A med evac chopper pilot. He had a guitar strapped around his neck and was strumming a song by ‘The Animals’. Ridge knew it well. He and his buddies often yelled, top of their lungs, after a night of booze and poker, just before lights out: WE GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE! But the chopper pilot, still gradually advancing through smoke, had his head down, singing softly, slowly, over and over again, in almost a moan, “We gotta get out of this place…outta this place…outta this place.” Then he stopped, turned and walked back, the way he had come, disappearing slowly into the murky night. His muffled words trailing off to silence.
Ridge sucked in air and looked down. He stared at the dead nurse—someone’s sister, wife, mother—closed his eyes, and whispered, “My God…we’re all too late. Too fuckin’ late.” His eyes opened and drifted to Guru in his arms. Ridge pulled in another deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. Then his chin struck his chest, he fell to his knees, still clutching his friend, and began to sob.
Later, he stood, Guru still in his arms, and watched faint images of others in the vapory darkness. Searching. Standing. Kneeling. Weeping. Staring. Heads down. Mourning the dead engulfed in smoke and smoldering debris. Stone silent—but for tears running, soaking into the ground.
When Ridge woke, his watch read 9 p.m. His chest felt hollow. His teeth, at gum level, ached like hell. Everything felt like he’d been run over. He pulled himself out of bed and quietly shut the door not to disturb Mister and Pistol. Made his way to the far bathroom and downed three Tylenol. Extra Strength. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He wished Jayne was here. Even if she was still asleep. Even if she didn’t say a word. Still. He wanted her close. Needed her close.
So he drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Went into the living room. Mixed some Jameson and Irish Mist and walked to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, surrounded by dark, he sipped his Irish whiskey, and fell into what he knew was depression. But he couldn’t pull out. He slogged through a morass. Into a sucking hole. He could feel it grabbing at the soles of his feet and tugging. Then, pain. Soreness, bruising, aching. Tears stung. His nose tingled. Suddenly, an electric pulse passed to his left shoulder. Ridge reached out with his right hand and smothered his heart muscle. Then he froze. Waiting. But the heat of his palm helped. He lowered his head and took breaths, slow then deeper. Thinking anxiety attack, not heart attack, he repeated and repeated his mantra over and over again. “Never, ever, worry about what you can’t control.”
The pains slowly subsided. Then they were gone. Pleased he wasn’t dying, but disgusted with himself, Ridge got up slowly, walked back to the bathroom and shut the door. He opened the cabinet. Twisted the top off a container. Sleeping pills. He swallowed one. Washed it down with his whiskey. Closed the cabinet and stared at the mirror. The past collided with the present. Ridge lowered his eyes. Gritted his teeth. And slammed his fist on the counter. “Damn. Damn it all to Hell.”
Then his mind flashed to eight human heads hanging from the tree. Silent. Staring at him. And Ridge remembered. It’s all about terror and control. Then he told himself the one thing he knew to be true: Can’t ever let ’em win. Didn’t happen then. Won’t happen now.
Ridge cast his eyes back up to the mirror, sucked in a breath and addressed the man staring back at him. “What do we fuckin’ have?” Again, his mind went over everything he knew. No help from Lake. No WebBird. Four dead judges. Plane quits, two thousand feet up. Assholes breaking into the apartment. Jayne could have been killed. Pistol shot. Terry, beat up. His head split open. The boat burned. And no matter what, not one lousy real break. And truth being, since the session with Dr. Peters, less sleep. More sweats. Even cases at the office—going to shit. Goddammit. Ridge’s eyes dropped to the pill container. He ate another half. Chased it with some whiskey, and thought, Whoever they are, they’re goddamn evil. But probably not Chesterfield if he’s CIA. Although, dammit, he can’t like us representing Uncle Cho. So maybe he is a part of it. But is CIA in on it? Or is it Gimuldin? The piece of shit. Can’t put anything past that sonofabitch and his floating, black-robed lackeys. But how to prove it? How in the hell can we prove it?
Shaking his head, Ridge felt another sharp pain. Upper chest. Just a split second. Then it passed. Ridge lowered his eyes. Turned. And walked into the dark bedroom. He flopped on the bed, his right hand starting to shake. Slightly. He grabbed it, stopped the damn thing. Just then, Mister jumped up. Burrowed into the back of Ridge’s knee. Pistol followed, stretching out close to Ridge on Jayne’s side of the bed. “Thank God, thank God for you guys,” whispered Ridge, as he stared at the ceiling. Burning eyes. Killer headache. Wanting to sleep. But still, he couldn’t stop wondering: How? Where? When the hell does this all end? Or does it? Goddammit. There’s gonna be more. I know there’s gonna be more.
CHAPTER 54
Judge Christian Gimuldin and Calvin Hess sat in the two overstuffed brown leather armchairs closest to the fireplace in the dark cigar lounge of the Rayford Club, high atop an elegant ten-story brick building in downtown Los Angeles. The Club, started over a hundred years ago, was an exclusive meeting place for the power elite of Los Angeles. Its private members included politicians, bankers, businessmen, doctors, lawyers, and brokers, all who felt they could claw ahead by hob-knobbing, kissing ass, backroom and double dealing, and feeding off others in positions of control. Monthly dues were steep, but influence didn’t come cheap—especially cloaked as networking.
With the light from the fireplace flickering in their brandy glasses, they were making small talk. His Eminence had asked Hess to drive the three hours down from the Camp, and for this special occasion, Hess sported a new haircut and wore a fine black suit, white shirt, and a blue silk tie. Hoping to blend in.
At 9:30 p.m. sharp, Richard Chesterfield joined them, lowering himself into a chair facing their direction. He held a brandy in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other. After introductions and some chit-chat, the judge asked Chesterfield if they could all move to one of the back rooms for a private conversation.
“Of course,” Chesterfield readily agreed.
When all three settled into the new walnut-paneled room, His Eminence began, “I understand your people and mine have worked together on a few projects, and that you were, at one point, loosely-affiliated with a Joshua Censkey. As were we.”
“Yes,” said Chesterfield. “But I believe Censkey has left the country.”
“That’s our understanding too,” interjected Hess. “He’s out of the picture, so to speak, for good. And that leaves something of a vacuum in certain circles.”
Chesterfield faced the judge. “To be frank, Christian—may I call you Christian?”
“Certainly, Richard,” His Eminence said.
“Well, my feeling is Censkey was something of a screw-up. But yes, his quick departure left some things unsettled.”
“If you’re interested,” said the judge with a raised eyebrow, “I believe we can help settle those things to your advantage.”
“What do you have in mind?”
His Eminence steepled his fingers and held Chesterfield’s gaze. “We believe the American justice system has drifted too far left. In fact, it’s broken. Utterly. My colleagues and I are determined to fix it. Before it’s too late.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Chesterfield said. “Frivolous lawsuits, plaintiffs always crying victim, the insureds paying pitiful premiums and demanding Rolls Royce representation, it goes on and on. And pardon my bluntness, Christian, the left-wing radical judges—especially in state courts—make it worse. They’re out-of-control.”
“That’s it, exactly,” said the judge. “And my colleagues and I want to put a stop to it. You, as a premiere American businessman and world-renowned insurance professional, can join us on the ground floor, so to speak. But, of course, only if you’re interested. If not, we can turn our conversation right now to any number of subjects—books, movies, sports—in fact, isn’t it atrocious what’s happening to the Dodgers?”
“Yes, without a doubt,” Chesterfield said with a laugh. “But before we talk baseball, let me assure you, I am interested. Absolutely. And I have things I’d like to cover with both of you. Let’s get some more brandy and discuss all this in more detail.”
“Of course,” said the judge.
