Chickenhawk: Back in the World

I read this man’s mind. He was thinking: What am I doing wrong? I don’t think I can make it through another goddamn day. If shit-for-brains says one more thing about my expenses, I’ll tell him to stuff it. I will. He nods. His mind drifts home: What’s eating Margaret? I can’t figure it out. What does she do all day? The boys are turning into fucking monsters. She’s turning into a surly slob. She always used to keep the place clean, kept herself looking nice, smiled now and then. He shakes his head, sips from Yogi. Can’t figure it out. I do my part. I put up with shit-for-brains for what they pay sewer workers in New York. I mow the yard every Saturday. I take out the garbage Tuesdays and Thursdays. What more does she want? The commuter shakes his head and smiles a cynical smile. On tap for regional manager, my ass. Shit-for-brains keeps saying that so I won’t quit. Sure, you bet. The chances of me getting sales manager over his dimwit brother-in-law are the same as me sprouting another dick.

That’s what the commuter was thinking.

The cop said, “You know, I feel sorry for you, Mason.”

Funny. So did I.

We left the commuter behind. The early morning sun washed his grim face in gold. I nodded at him, telling him not to worry so much; things could be worse. Start your own business; tell Margaret you love her; take the monsters camping. But he didn’t notice me. His mind was working on so many problems he probably didn’t see the road.

I wanted very much to be that commuter.

PART THREE THE PAYOFF

CHAPTER 20

“Bend over,” the marshal said.

The state cop who’d driven me in smiled awkwardly. The head cop behind the desk shot an embarrassed grin at the Treasury agent standing beside him. Somebody’s got to do it.

Humiliation is the tool of choice in basic training. Once, when I didn’t move fast enough in the run-fall-in-the-dirt-crawl-and-kill-the-enemy lessons, a sergeant made me grab my crotch.

“What do you feel there, Private?” the sergeant yelled.

“Balls, sir!”

“I don’t believe it! You have balls, Private?”

“Yessir,” I yelled.

“You aren’t a pussy?”

“No, sir!”

“Let me hear it, then!”

“I am not a pussy, sir!”

“What?”

“I am not a pussy, sir!”

I wasn’t humiliated that men made me drop my pants (Army training is good for something). I was humiliated that I’d gotten caught. There was nothing these guys could do to make me feel worse.

I dropped my pants on the floor, pulled down my underwear, and bent over. “Spread your cheeks,” said the marshal. I reached back and pulled my buttocks apart. I looked at the man behind the desk, the man in charge. He looked down at his desktop. The room was silent as the marshal checked me out. I think this was a kind of staring match: the marshal stared at me, and I, I presume, stared back. I think I was supposed to break down with embarrassment and tell them what they wanted to know. Moments later, the marshal said “He’s clean” to the man behind the desk.

I stood up and faced the cop behind the desk.

“You can pull your pants back on, Mr. Mason,” he said. He pulled a cord, opened the Venetian blinds behind him as I pulled up my pants. The ten o’clock sun was blazing down on a parking lot. We were in a government building near the federal court building in Charleston. A woman, dressed in the kind of professional clothes for women designed to mimic men’s suits, was leaning into her car to put her briefcase down. I zipped my fly.

“Have a seat,” the man said, nodding toward a chair in front of his desk.

I nodded and sat down. The guy looked at papers on his desk. He and the rest of the cops were dressed in business suits. I was wearing salt-stained, stiff, smelly jeans, two crusty shirts, and a pair of damp running shoes. I hadn’t washed for days. The freezing weather had made bathing impossible. I needed a shave.

“Says here you refused to cooperate with the arresting officers,” the head cop behind the desk said, looking up from the papers.

“I didn’t refuse,” I said. “I told them I wanted to cooperate. I still do. I just think I’d be smart to have an attorney with me when I do.”

“Bullshit!” said the Treasury agent, standing up to hover over me. “You don’t want to help us. You’re protecting your friends. You’re a lowlife drug smuggler; and now, when we give you a chance to prove you have a conscience, you continue breaking the law by protecting other criminals.”

“All I know is that the three of us were definitely on the Namaste. I have no idea where anybody else was. That’s the truth.” And it was, technically. I did know where the shore team was supposed to be, but that’s all I knew. Where were they actually? I hadn’t a clue.

“Okay,” said the head cop. “Let’s say that’s true. Tell us who was in the shore team.”

“I don’t know. I was just a crew member. Nobody told me anything.”

The Treasury guy nodded. He looked frustrated. I presumed he’d heard this before; they’d already interviewed John and Ireland. “How did you get the money to the Colombians?”

“I don’t—”