Thai Horse

  Linda, huddled in a bathrobe, appeared in the doorway beside Hatcher.

  ‘C’mon,’ she said, drawing Cody into the apartment. Hatcher and Linda got back in bed and watched Cody strip to his shorts, and as he sat on the edge of the bed taking off his socks, Linda looked at Hatcher and turned back to Cody and said, ‘Hey, sailor, come on over here, this bed’s warm already.’

  Cody smiled and looked at Hatcher, who motioned him over; he crossed the room and slid in beside Linda. And Hatcher and Murphy each put an arm around her and they all fell back to sleep.

  Hatcher, in remembering that night, thought, My God, was life ever really that simple and innocent? Had friendship and love ever been closer together than on that night?

  Then the next morning they were back on the bus, and suddenly Hatcher was ‘maggot’ again and it was as if the trip had never happened.

  Spring 1964. There was still a chill in the air but fifty miles away in Washington the Japanese apple trees were in bloom and tourists were crowding the malls and parks shooting pictures, and at the academy Hatcher was double-timing across the yard thinking, Two more months, only two more months, and this shit will be over.

  The now familiar voice cried, ‘Maggot!’

  Hatcher stopped immediately, chin in, eyes boring straight ahead. Cody stood behind him.

  ‘Tryouts at the gym, three tomorrow. Be there.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Hatcher got to the gym early and ‘worked the fast bag for fifteen minutes, loosening up, enjoying the familiar arena smell of alcohol and Ben Gay. Then Snyder showed up, cocky as always.

  Cody, still a few weeks from being captain of the team, was acting referee. When they called for the middleweights, Cody made sure Hatcher and Snyder were paired off against each other.

  ‘Three rounds,’ he said. ‘Winner makes the team, loser goes to the bone pile. Break clean when I tell you to, no rabbit punching. Shake and come outfighting.’

  He checked Snyder’s gloves, patted him on the shoulder, then crossed to Hatcher’s corner and, leaning over, checking the laces, said very softly, ‘I told you he’s got a glass jaw. He also has a left uppercut like a torpedo. He’ll try to infight and tag you with the left. Box him two rounds to slow him up, move in and keep on top of the left so he can’t throw it. One good shot anywhere from the point to the ear and you’ll plant him.’

  It was sound advice. Hatcher played to Snyder’s left, constantly jabbing and moving, crowding the left so Snyder couldn’t break it loose. Twice he took good solid shots and shook them off, countering quickly with combinations of his own. He was faster than Snyder and, he quickly knew, smarter. Snyder was a flat-footed fighter, a plodder, stalking his opponent while looking for a shot. Hatcher didn’t give it to him. Then Snyder made a move. He jogged in, threw the right and then brought the left up hard. Hatcher took it on his shoulder and there, right in front of his eyes and wide open, was Snyder’s flat, ugly jaw. Hatcher fired a hard, straight right cross over Snyder’s shoulder, right into the jaw just under the ear. He felt the power of the punch telescope up his arm to his shoulder, saw Snyder’s eyes roam wildly out of control, saw his legs turn to jelly. Snyder turned halfway around and fell straight to the deck.

  Cody walked across the ring and stared down at Snyder’s limp form for a moment, then nodded to Hatcher. ‘Welcome to the team,’ he said with a grin.

  Graduation day, 1964. Outside Hatcher’s room, there seemed to be a constant scurrying of feet as the midshipmen rushed to and fro across the yard getting ready for the dress parade. Hatcher was setting his cap when Cody appeared in the doorway, that stern hawk face glowing.

  ‘All right, you’re still maggots until after the parade. Everybody out but Hatcher.’

  Hatcher’s roommates vaulted out of the room. Hatcher stood at sharp attention in front of Cody, but for the first time he stared straight at the upperclassman, a practice forbidden the first-year frogs.

  ‘Maggot, do you know what a floogie bird is?’ demanded Cody.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘A floogie bird is a curious bird that flies in ever- decreasing concentric circles until it disappears up its own asshole, from which vantage point it slings shit at its adversaries. That’s what a floogie bird is, maggot. Well, mister, you had a tough time, but by God nothing could bend you. You are now a floogie bird, my friend, and you can start slinging shit at your adversaries.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  Cody took a bottle of vodka from under his tunic. A big grin spread across the stern hawk face. He handed the bottle to Hatcher. ‘You first, Mr. Hatcher. Welcome aboard,’ he said. And for the next two years he and Hatcher would be inseparable teammates and friends.

  ……anyway, Cody was a year ahead of me,’ Hatcher said to Sloan. ‘He went straight into the Navy Air Corps when he graduated. I went into intelligence. We didn’t see each other after that, but we kept in touch. Then in 1969 he asked me to be an usher in his wedding.’

  ‘Very fancy, I hear.’

  ‘Very high society D.C. affair, typical Washington bash. Congressmen, senators, admirals, generals, TV big shots, they were all there.’

  ‘What was his wife like?’ Sloan asked.

  ‘The model of icy perfection, a gorgeous woman, perfectly groomed. Had all the assets — proper schooling, proper background, proper, proper, proper.’

  ‘And you disliked her.’

  ‘No,- I think she disliked us. His old school pals were too rowdy. Her father was an admiral, you know the type.’ Hatcher thought back to the day, a collage of uniforms and chatty people. ‘I think Polo was unhappy about the marriage.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. Seems like he was awfully — cynical that day. More like the old Cody from hazing days at the academy. I don’t know why he should have been. At that point Cody had done everything right. Graduated from the academy, breezed through flight training, married an admiral’s daughter.’

  ‘Like he was filling in the blanks of an outline,’ Sloan said.

  ‘Exactly. I don’t know how the hell he got in the Brown River Navy.’

  ‘He volunteered.’

  ‘No kidding? Gung ho to the last.’

  ‘His father-in-law tried to block it, but from what I understand, Cody was insistent,’ Sloan added.

  ‘That was really garbage work,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘Whatever,’ Sloan said with a shrug. ‘And you never saw him again after the wedding?’

  ‘Once. At San Diego Air Base. I was there doing a security check and he was stationed on the base.’

  ‘Must have been just before you joined the brigade.’

  ‘Yeah. I had already announced I was retiring my commission. . . . We had kind of a run-in.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I never saw him again after that. And I sure as hell can’t see him now.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Sloan said and his grin became mischievous.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hatcher’s harsh whisper asked. ‘Supposing I told you that I got information that Murph Cody is alive.’

  ‘Where? Is he a prisoner?’

  ‘He’s free as a bad cold. Bangkok.’

  A little shock went through Hatcher when he heard the word. Bangkok. A place he had pa ked and put away forever. ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘I trust it.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question. How reliable is this source?’

  ‘A small-time Thai politician. He —wants a free trip to the States and a work visa. According to our information, Cody’s marked, so he’s on the run.’

  ‘Marked by who?’

  ‘The White Palms,’ Sloan said.

  ‘That’s a Macao outfit. What would they be doing in Bangkok?’ asked Hatcher.

  ‘It’s the source. And you’ve beer away a long time. The damn triads are everywhere now

  ‘What’s this guy’s g
ame — opium?’

  ‘We’re not sure. We suspect he was a courier for the White Palms. But we haven’t really dug into it for obvious reasons.’

  ‘What obvious reasons?’ Hatcher whispered, although he knew the answer already.

  If Murphy Cody was alive in Bangkok and had remained silent for all these years, there had to be a reason. And if military intelligence didn’t know the reason, it didn’t look good for Cody.

  ‘Don’t play dumb,’ Sloan said. What the hell’s he doing in Thailand? I mean if he’s alive, why hasn’t he surfaced?’

  Hatcher could think of a lot of reasons, none of them good.

  ‘Maybe he’s got amnesia,’ he finally offered.

  ‘Yeah, maybe I’m Doris Day, too, Sloan answered. ‘It’s a possibility. He could have amnesia.’

  There was also the possibility that Cody had been a collaborator, or a defector, or a deserter, or that he was involved in drugs, murder, white 1avery or any of a dozen other crimes Hatcher could think of.

  Sloan obviously had the same things in mind. He said, ‘I can’t think of a good way for this to turn out, if it’s true. There’s desertion, to start with. If he wasn’t killed, he still belongs to the U.S. Navy, heart and soul.’

  ‘Question is, why did he go underground in the first place?’ Hatcher said. ‘What I mean is, if he wasn’t killed and he wasn’t in Hanoi, where the hell was he?’

  ‘Well, wherever it was, the Navy was convinced he was KIA.’

  ‘Maybe that was his out.’

  ‘Or his trap.’

  Hatcher nodded slowly. ‘Or his trap. So what’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Nobody knows Thailand like you do, Hatch. You know the good guys and the bad guys, and you’ve worked both sides of the stream. I can’t let military intelligence handle this, everybody in the Pentagon’ll know about it in an hour. It has to be unofficial. If Cody’s alive and mixed up in something — improper, there’s the old man’s reputation to consider.’

  ‘Improper,’ Hatcher growled -with a chuckle. ‘Very delicate, Harry.’

  ‘You get the point,’ Sloan continued. ‘We need somebody who knows the territory and can keep his mouth shut. And nobody I know is better at keeping quiet than you, old buddy. Besides, you were a damn good investigator in your day, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘My day’s not over, and don’t call me your old buddy. And who the hell’s we?’

  ‘Half a dozen of Buffalo Bill’s old staff. Look, this Thai, his name is Wol Pot, brought the trade-out to the embassy in Bangkok. Luckily, the IO there is one of Cody’s old exec officers, Lew Porter.’

  ‘Windy Porter?’

  ‘Yeah, you remember him?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘He interviewed Pot. Right away he sizes up the situation, puts Pot on hold and calls me. I round up a couple of the old-timers from S-town, we kick it around. Finally we had to take it to the Old Man.’

  ‘Why?’ Hatcher rasped.

  Sloan stared hard into his eyes. ‘Because Buffalo Bill’s dying of cancer, Hatch. He won’t last the year.’

  That stopped Hatcher cold. He had a hard time picturing General Buffalo Bill Cody with some insidious worm eating up his insides.

  ‘We all love the Old Man, okay?’ Sloan said, and his voice turned husky. He stopped for moment and swallowed hard before he went on. ‘He asked us the favor. If his kid’s alive, he’d like to see him once before he dies.’

  ‘What if he’s in trouble?’

  ‘That’s why I need you, Hatch,’ Sloan said, his voice still shaky. ‘If he’s in deep shit, Porter can’t handle it. He’s a burned-out old trooper. Point is, the general will meet Cody somewhere — anywhere — Hawaii, Tokyo, Sydney. Wherever Murphy wants t meet him. Nobody needs to know it ever happened.’

  ‘A trip like that would probably kill the Old Man,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘His quality time’s running out anyway,’ Sloan said with resignation. ‘The thing is, it has to be handled with satin and lace by somebody who knows the score, who can roll with it, no matter how it might go, convince the kid we’re not out to dump on him, we just want to give the Old Man one last gift.’

  ‘He’s hardly a kid,’ Hatcher said. ‘He’d be — forty-two now,’ he said, adding a year to his own age.

  ‘Go to Thailand and find him, if he’s there,’ said Sloan matter-of-factly. ‘Or put the old man’s mind to rest.’

  ‘Prove he’s dead,’ Hatcher rasped.

  ‘Yeah, One way or another.’

  Hatcher laughed hard at that.

  ‘Navy’s been chasing down leads on Cody for fourteen years,’ he said, ‘and you want me to go to Bangkok, which has fifty million people, and turn him up, just like that.’

  ‘Nobody’s been looking for Cody. As far as the Navy’s concerned he’s dead meat. But you, hell, laddie, you’re the best I ever had.’

  ‘Can the shit, Harry.’

  ‘You got the edge, Hatch,’ said Sloan. ‘We’ll give you Wol Pot. We’ll give you Windy You know Cody. You know the territory. And you can keep your mouth shut no matter what happens. You proved that in Madrango. All I want you to do is go over there, find Cody and set up the meet. Or tell me he’s dead. Hell, you’ll even have Flitcraft at your disposal.’

  ‘Flitcraft’s still on the roster, huh?’

  ‘He’s my number one.’

  Hatcher poured himself another glass of wine and fiddled with the file for a few moments.

  ‘You know I can’t go back there,’ he said finally.

  ‘C’mon, that was, what? Eight, ten years ago?’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter if it was fifty..’

  ‘You get in a bind, I’ll give you all the backup you need. I’ve still got a few heavy hitters over there.’

  ‘What’s the deal with this Thai, what’s his name again?’

  ‘Wol Pot. Look, I don’t care what you do to the little slope. If he gives you any shit, break his legs, hang him on the rack, pull out his fingernails. I don’t care.’

  ‘Same old Harry.’

  ‘It’s his story, make him prove it.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Does he get his visa?’

  ‘If he delivers, I suppose I can arrange something.’

  ‘It’s got to be straighter than that. If he turns him up, I’ve got to know what kind of deal I can give him.’

  ‘If he turns him up, we’ll provide protection and get him out of Thailand.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘If I make a promise I want it kept.’

  ‘Done. You’ll do the job, then?’

  Hatcher stared at him for several seconds. He put the .357 on a table.

  ‘The price will be $236,600.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘That’s two hundred dollars a day for every day I was in that rat hole.’

  ‘Get real, man.’

  ‘That’s as real as it gets, Harry.’

  ‘Where am I going to get that kind of money?’

  ‘Hey, this is Hatch, remember? You got private-sector accounts all over the world. Panama, Switzerland, the Bahamas. So maybe you’ll have to scrimp somewhere else. Tough shit.’

  ‘You’re a rich man, Hatch.’

  ‘Punitive damages. The price is $236,600, non- negotiable. Take it or leave it.’

  Sloan’s grin broadened as big as it could get. His eyes began to twinkle again. ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes, pal. You miss the edge. You miss the old adrenaline pumping. Life’s too easy. Hell, when you’re hooked, you’re hooked forever.’

  Part of what Sloan said was true. But it wasn’t that razzle-dazzle feeling one gets running the edge that was sucking Hatcher back to the old life, back to places he’d sworn never to go back to, to people he never thought he’d see again, to work again for Sloan, a man he once thought he was going to kill. It was Cody, man who had once been more of a friend than Sloan hid ever been because Cody had always b
een honest with him.

  ‘I’ll take the jaunt because of Murph Cody and the old man, period. It has nothing to do with you and me. If Cody’s there, I’ll find him. If he’s not, I’ll let you know. And if you ever come back here again, I’ll feed you to the fish.’

  Sloan leaned over closer to him, the old teeth sparkling, the gray eyes twinkling.

  ‘You know, I think you’re serious, he said.

  Hatcher smiled back without mirth.

  ‘Keep thinking it,’ he said. ‘Your life may depend on it.’

  PREPARATIONS

  It was dusk when Ginia, responding to Hatcher’s call, returned to the boat carrying a wicker picnic basket. She opened it and took out the contents while Hatcher took the boat out through the sound and into the open sea, sticking close to the shore.

  ‘Fettuccine with fresh vegetables from Birdie’s, homemade clam chowder, cold shrimp and hush puppies from the Crab Trap,’ she said. ‘How soon do you want to eat?’

  ‘Now. I’m starving.’

  ‘What happened to your army buddy?’

  He leaned over and kissed her on the throat. ‘Gone,’ Hatcher growled and the subject was dropped. She knew better than to ask ‘Gone where?’ If he wanted her to know he would tell her. Obviously he didn’t. She was delighted that the stranger had left and Hatcher was hers for the evening.

  She went below, selected a bottle of vintage red wine from the liquor cabinet and opened it to let it breathe. She heated the food in the oven and set the table. Then she turned on the radio, keeping the volume low.

  ‘Hey,’ she yelled up to him, ‘you want to put this thing on automatic pilot and come eat?’

  ‘Done,’ came the hoarse answer. She heard the engines die out and the anchor splash in the water, and a moment later he appeared in the salon.

  ‘I decided to anchor for a while. We’re right off Sapelo Island,’ he said, dipping his fingers into the fettuccine and tasting it.

  ‘Mind your manners,’ she snapped.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said and poured each of them a glass of the red. They clinked their glasses in a silent toast. He leaned over and kissed her very lightly, tasting the dry, musky wine on her lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Then, making small talk, she asked, ‘How long have you known Jimmy Cirillo?’