LITMIR.BIZ

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before they could get off a shot. Their story was different than the one Jay had told me.

      “Then it happened again about three weeks after they got the award. This time the two tossed a grenade at an old man. They said he had a pistol on him too. The two got another attaboy, and they were strutting around like banty roosters. Then someone, I don’t know who, found some photos. I think they were on one of the sergeants’ computers, but I’m not sure. Anyway, the photos showed these guys with the two dead teens and the old man. They had taken pictures of each other so only one guy was in each shot. In one, one of the sergeants was smiling and kneeling next to one of the dead teenagers, and lifting the kid’s head by his hair. Another shot showed the other sergeant pretending to kiss the old man’s forehead. In another pic, the same sergeant was pretending to have sex with the old Afghani.”

      “Oh, man,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I read about it. The two were charged, weren’t they?”

      Nate nods. “Yes, they were eventually figured out. The Army is talking about the death penalty.”

      “So sad,” I say. “Atrocities happen in every war. For every hundred great, righteous warriors, there is one criminal psychopath.”

      “These two killed five people,” Nate says, his eyes penetrating mine, the skin across his forehead and around his mouth impossibly tight. “The sergeants planted the weapons on the people they killed. Jay told me about two of them. The other three happened after … after I knew about what they were doing.”

      “I’m not following.”

      “What I told you before about the heat, the toxic dust, the IEDs, the laughter, the constant tension … I … my … craziness … it peaked. I was so filled with hatred for the Afghanis. I pushed them around, insulted their culture, called them ‘dune coons,’ ‘camel jockeys,’ ‘towel heads,’ ‘dead meat.’”

      “Nate, I would think under such horrible conditions it wouldn’t be unusual for a guy to …”

      “Thing is … I knew what those two sergeants were doing—and I didn’t report it. Instead, I applauded it.”

      * * *

      Mai hasn’t answered my calls on Skype or my cell phone calls since I’ve been home tonight. I tried at eight p.m., eight thirty, and again at nine. It’s midmorning tomorrow in Saigon, so she should still be in the house. Plus, we agreed to chat at eight at night my time each day. I could call our father, but I don’t want to come across clingy and desperate, which I sort of am right now. Mostly I’m worried, remembering how crazy things were before I left.

      I’m sitting in my kitchen eating a yogurt blended with protein powder, blueberries, and a little Cool Whip, my usual post-workout meal. The black belt class went well, though Nate and I were a little down for a while after our talk.

      I think I did a convincing job of hiding my feelings about what he had told me as I greeted my black belts, many of whom I hadn’t seen for a few weeks. They have been my friends for years and have been infinitely supportive during all my troubles and in keeping the school going while I was in Saigon. I started the class and within a few minutes, Nate and I were enjoying the endorphin rush of hard training.

      The guy is carrying an enormous burden. He said his intense hatred for Middle Easterners has mellowed since he’s been home, but the feelings come back in a red hot flash whenever he sees a reference to Afghanistan, Iraq, or any of those other countries over there. The feelings don’t last long, but they bother him so much he doesn’t watch the news or read the paper. Still, no matter where he goes, there is always a magazine cover, a movie trailer, a TV playing, and there it is again.

      We discussed his seeking professional help, but unfortunately his insurance doesn’t provide for mental health, and there is no way he would confide in anyone in the Army. He will have a medical plan after he joins the fire department, but he needs help now. Doc Kari comes immediately to mind, and I told Nate I would ask her for recommendations.

      I try Mai again. Nothing.

      After a shower, I put on baggie pants and a T-shirt, and call Mai again. Damn! I try to read an old National Geographic magazine but I can’t focus. I head into my bedroom and lift the window to a chorus of barking dogs, sirens in the distance, and jets streaking overhead. I close the window.

      I must admit my first day on the job went pretty well. I’ll have to tip toe around Angela and hope her crush passes. Police officers work virtually shoulder to shoulder for eight hours and we share a variety of intense experiences. Sexual tension occurs sometimes. In fact, I’ve had a crush or two on female partners. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep my cool and wait for the crush to work itself out.

      BJ, I don’t have a good read on yet. I’ve heard guys say he is a good boss, which, they always add, makes up for his lack of street experience. Supposedly, the lieutenant, who has been on three years longer than I have, only worked the street for a couple of years before getting promoted to sergeant in Records Division. Five years later he made lieutenant and was assigned to Community Affairs for a few years after which he transferred to Intelligence where he’s been ever since. I’m not sure what to read into his accusation that I chose to use force on the street guy. Talk about jumping to conclusion without having all the facts. Guess I’ll have to tiptoe around him too.

      I try Mai once more. Double damn!

      Being back on the job felt okay. I didn’t feel bad and I didn’t feel out of place. It was like slipping on a favorite pair of shoes, easy, comfortable.

      Hell, tomorrow I might even carry my gun.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Yolanda Simpson laboriously made her way up the litter-strewn stairs, grasping hand over hand on the splintery handrail that threatened to rip from the stained wall with her every tug. Her brain was swimming from a thumb-thick joint and the however many pulls from the jug of wine she shared with Candy in her car. Sharing a little wine after they’d call it quits for the night was a two-month-long tradition for the two of them. The fat joint was an extra bonus she found at the bottom of her purse next to the Vaseline. On top of her brain fog, her legs were tired as hell from walking on concrete for the past several hours in high-heel shoes way too high and way too tight.

      Reaching the third-floor landing, she stopped to adjust her white headscarf, and to fight back the nausea from the exertion of climbing the stairs loaded. She leaned against the wall to pry off her pearl white shoes, lost her balance, and fell to one knee. She remained there for a moment to make sure she wouldn’t fall all the way over or heave up all the wine, and then palmed her way back up the wall.

      A statuesque black woman, Yolanda stood an inch shy of six feet and possessed a body that slowed traffic at her usual corner, especially when she had on the outfit she wore tonight. A regular gave her the full-length, fake-fur coat last winter, which was way too warm for June, but was always a real showstopper on Eighty-Second Avenue. More than one customer had told her that when she opened her coat to flash her butt-cheek-revealing gold satin hot pants, and the clinging pink camisole over her unencumbered breasts, they had to have her right then and there.

      At ten feet away, she looked like the 25-year-old she was, but up close, her eyes and face revealed years of dope, booze, and the countless johns who had frequented her body and then gone home to their wives and children. Normally, she wore a red wig to hide her alopecia, a disease that caused her to lose most of her hair. But a couple of weeks ago she had a hell of a fight with Rosie, the bitch, which Yolanda won, but not before the Mexican whore tore her wig off and chucked it into one of those big storm drains under a sidewalk curb. Now she had to wear a scarf until her new wig came in. Twelve hundred bucks, but there was no way she would wear some cheap over-the-counter thing.

      Yolanda counted aloud each apartment door, since most had long ago lost their numbers to vandals and thieves. She stood unsteadily in front of the sixth door, pulled a single key from her big coat pocket and fumbled it into the lock. Before opening it, she looked fuzzy-eyed to her left and right to ensure no one was in the hall. Unlikely at 1:20 a.m., but better safe than sorry, a philosophy that’s kept her alive

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