The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (5 page)

“Morning, Dick,” said Horvitz in his laconic West Virginian accent. “Long time, no see.”

“Jesus, Eric. How the hell did you creep up on me like that?”

“Wasn’t creeping. That’s the way I move.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Next time I’ll cough or something.” Horvitz raised one eyebrow to show that he was joking.

“Thanks, I’d appreciate it,” said Marks.

“You eaten?”

Marks shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“I’ve a rabbit stew cooking,” said Horvitz, and turned away.

He threaded his way through the trees and, as always, Marks marvelled at the way in which Horvitz seemed to glide silently through the undergrowth. He didn’t appear to take special care where he put his feet but he never cracked a twig under his boots and branches, never snagged his clothes the way they seemed to grab hold of Marks. It wasn’t as if Horvitz was a small man, either. He was taller than Marks, and Marks was only half an inch under six feet. Horvitz was lean but not stringy; his figure belonged more to a quarterback than a basketball player, and Marks could see that three years in the wilderness hadn’t hurt him at all. He’d only known Horvitz for about six months, but he doubted that he’d lost weight living rough. If anything it had probably toughened him up. The first time Marks had met Horvitz he’d been surprised by the man’s height because, according to the file, Horvitz had spent nine months on attachment to the Tunnel Rats at Cu Chi, the Vietnamese stronghold which included a network of tunnels which ran all the way from Saigon to the Cambodian border. The Tunnel Rats were as a rule Puerto Ricans or Hispanics – small, wiry men who could move through the narrow, claustrophobic passages as easily as their Vietnamese enemy. Marks couldn’t imagine Horvitz crawling through the tunnels, he seemed too big, his legs would be too long for him to turn quickly, his head would be for ever banging on the roof. The Tunnel Rats fought a war like no other – deep underground, in the dark, never knowing what danger the darkness held, moving by touch towards an enemy they couldn’t see. They were all volunteers. Had to be, because there was no way a man could be forced to go underground to fight. Most soldiers couldn’t cope with the darkness and heat, never mind the booby-traps and the Viet Cong. Horvitz must have had a reason for wanting to go underground. A death wish, perhaps. The Tunnel Rats had an unofficial motto:
Non Gratum Anus Rodentum
. Not worth a rat’s ass. Maybe that was how Horvitz had felt, that his life wasn’t worth living and that going down into the tunnels would be a way of proving it, one way or another.

The only weapon Horvitz was carrying was a large Bowie knife in a leather sheath which was fixed to the belt in the small of his back. Despite living alone in the forest, Horvitz hadn’t wanted to take a gun or rifle with him when he’d turned his back on society. Marks had once asked him why but Horvitz hadn’t answered, in fact he hadn’t said anything for a few minutes and his eyes had seemed to glaze over. Marks had understood intuitively that Horvitz was afraid that if he had a gun in his hands he’d end up putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger and dimming the memories by ending it all.

Horvitz took him to a secluded clearing where a pot of stew simmered over an open fire. As Horvitz spooned out the food on to enamel plates, Marks raised the subject of Vietnam and whether or not Horvitz had had any thoughts of going back. He had been trying to persuade the vet over several months to take up his offer of a free trip to Vietnam along with other former soldiers. At first Horvitz had rejected the idea out of hand, but during his more recent visits Marks had got the impression that he was gradually coming around to the idea.

Horvitz wiped his greasy lips with the back of his hand. “Who else will be there?” he asked.

“Guys like yourself, guys who lost something in Nam. The trip is only for vets, and for their families; you won’t be with any tourists, don’t worry on that score.”

“And who’ll be taking us around?”

“We’ll be responsible for you until you get to Bangkok, and then you’ll be taken care of by the Vietnamese government while you’re in Vietnam. They’ll take you around Saigon, up to the Iron Triangle, a full tour. You’ll get to meet former VC, talk with them.”

Horvitz threw a rabbit bone into the fire and watched it sizzle and crack. “I’m not sure that I want to speak with any VC, Dick. I’m not sure I’ve got anything to say to them.”

“No one is forcing you to go, Eric. Hell, no one can force you to do anything, you know that. But do you want to spend the rest of your life like this? Living rough?”

Horvitz shrugged. “I chose it,” he said.

“Sure, you chose it. But I figure you chose it because you didn’t like the alternative. I figure you’re here because you’re frightened about what might happen if you live among other people. Am I right?”

Horvitz looked at him with dead eyes, unblinking. “Maybe,” he said.

“So our programme could maybe help you come to terms with your anger. It might help you lay the ghosts. And you’ll be doing it with others like yourself, guys you can relate to.”

“You wanna smoke?” Horvitz asked.

“Sure,” said Marks, somewhat surprised by the abrupt change of subject.

Horvitz got to his feet in a smooth, flowing motion and walked over to a shelter made from branches and reeds at the edge of the clearing which was so cunningly designed that from fifty feet it was practically invisible. He went inside and came out with a large joint. Marks had no idea how Horvitz managed to grow his own marijuana out in the Canadian wilderness, but he had to admit it was damn good shit. Horvitz lit the reefer with a flaming branch from the fire, took a deep pull, and then handed it to Marks as he exhaled. The two men continued to exchange the joint and after his fourth lungful Marks began to feel a little light-headed. The two men sat in silence, enjoying the dope. Marks always felt as if he got a better hit when smoking outdoors, or maybe it was just that Horvitz was growing a better strain of marijuana plant.

“When is the next trip?” asked Horvitz eventually.

“Couple of weeks,” said Marks. “They’re going quite regularly these days, though. If you miss that one, I can get you on another. And like I told you before, I can put anything you want into storage while you’re away.”

“Haven’t got much here,” said Horvitz. “One rucksack full of stuff, the rest I got from the forest.”

“Whatever,” said Marks. “I can take care of it for you, and if you decide you want to come back here afterwards, I’ll drive you.”

Horvitz ran his hand through his rough beard. “I haven’t any money at all, you know that?”

“It won’t cost a thing, Eric. Everything’s paid for, and we’ll give you money to spend. Not much, but enough to get by.” He sensed that Horvitz had finally decided to go.

“I haven’t got a passport,” said Horvitz. “I threw my old one away once I crossed the border. It’d be out of date, anyway.”

Marks reached for his haversack and opened it. “I’ve got the papers right here,” he said. “I’ll pick up a copy of your birth certificate for you.” He took a Polaroid camera out of the haversack. “And I can take photographs right here.”

“Hell, Dick. Did you know I’d say yes?”

Marks grinned. “I’d love to say that was so, Eric, but I’ve had this with me for the last three visits. Does that mean you’ll go?”

Horvitz got to his feet and scraped the remains of his stew into the fire where it sizzled and spluttered. He looked over at Marks and nodded. “Shit, okay. What the fuck have I got to lose, hey?”

Marks helped Horvitz fill in the application form and took half a dozen Polaroid shots of him, then said goodbye and walked back to his car. The walk back was easier because most of the route was downhill, but it took him longer to cover the distance because of the dope he’d smoked. He eventually emerged from the trees a couple of hundred yards to the rear of the Jeep.

He opened the passenger door, threw the haversack into the back, and climbed in.

“How did it go?” asked the man with the military-looking haircut sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Perfect,” said Marks. “He’s agreed. I’ll get the passport fixed up and I’ve arranged to pick him up here in ten days to get some new clothes, a suitcase, stuff like that.”

The man nodded and handed over a bulging, white envelope. “Here’s another 5,000,” he said. “I’ll give you the rest when Horvitz is on the plane.”

Marks took the money as the man started the Jeep and drove down the road. He didn’t know why the man he knew as Joel Tyler was so keen to see Eric Horvitz back in Vietnam, but the amount of money he was paying was more than enough to stifle his curiosity.

It was getting hot in the boiler room, really hot, which was just the way Dan Lehman liked it. When the atmosphere heated up the adrenaline flowed, everyone worked that much harder and they could all feed off each other’s excitement. It was a buzz that almost came close to the rush he got from cocaine. Almost. He took a pull from his can of Diet Coke and leant back in his black leather swivel chair and surveyed the room. There were two ranks of desks facing each other across the room, ten on each side, linked at one end by two long tables so that a huge U shape was created which filled most of the floor space. Each of the desks had two telephones and a console on which flashing lights indicated calls coming in and steady red lights showed which lines were in use.

All the desks were manned: mostly by men but in two of the positions were women, an unemployed actress who Lehman had once seen in a dental floss commercial and a middle-aged woman who reminded him of his mother. The men were a mixed bag, young thrusting guys in their twenties who worked standing up, pumping their fists in the air as they talked, middle-aged guys in staid suits who polished their spectacles between calls, and one old man in his sixties, a former mutual fund salesman who spoke with a marked stammer when he was on the phone but who had no speech problems when he chatted with the guys in the room. Each of the desks also had a red plastic covered pitch book, a Rolodex, a yellow order pad and a glass pot of pens and pencils. As the orders were taken over the phone they were placed on a metal spike and periodically a stocky, square-jawed man with a thick moustache walked around pulling the slips off the spikes and carrying them to his desk where he jotted down the details, marked them up on a white board on the wall behind him, and then dropped the papers into a large white bucket.

The board showed the value of the orders taken so far that month. Lehman was in second place with 280,000 dollars. In the lead was the man with the stammer who had grossed 340,000 dollars. The stammer helped. It made his clients feel sorry for him and a few minutes into the pitch they’d usually be finishing his sentences for him. It was a hell of a technique and Lehman had nothing but admiration for the man. The wall to the left of the board was all glass but the blinds were drawn and the only illumination came from the fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling.

Two lights were flashing on the console but Lehman made no move to lift his receiver, figuring that he’d leave it up to one of the other slammers to do it. He’d just sold 25,000 dollars’ worth of shares in a non-existent oil and gas drilling company to a schoolteacher in San Francisco and he reckoned he deserved a couple of minutes to himself. He took another mouthful of Coke and put his feet up on his desk. Max Cilento stood up and with a black felt-tipped pen marked up the new figures. Gordon Dillman, the man with the stammer, had sold another 40,000 dollars and his lead had widened. Cilento turned around from the white board and grinned at Lehman. Lehman pulled a face and took his feet off the desk and began to flick through the reference cards which contained the details of all his clients.

Cilento sat down and dumped the sales slips into the bucket and then checked the tape on the cassette deck on the table. Wires from the deck snaked along the floor and up the walls to four speakers mounted in the top corners of the boiler room from where the sounds of a busy brokering operation blared out: ringing telephones, dealers shouting share prices, secretaries typing. The sound effects helped keep the adrenaline levels of the slammers up but more importantly helped convince the suckers they were dealing with a busy, and successful, firm.

Lehman raised his arms above his head and stretched like someone deprived of exercise for too long. He looked like a man who would be good at sports. He was a little over six feet tall and lean, clean-shaven and with dark brown hair which was just a shade too long to be neat and which he was always brushing out of his eyes. His eyebrows were bushy and Mephistophelian which made him appear vaguely sinister when he smiled and positively evil when he was angry. As he went through his cards his brow furrowed, giving him the look of one in pain or deeply troubled. In fact he was completely at ease; the look of anguish was his normal expression.

“You’re lagging behind, Dan,” said Cilento. Cilento, who ran the boiler room operation for his brother, a Los Angeles-made-man, put a hand on Lehman’s shoulder. He squeezed and Lehman could feel the power in the large, sausage-like fingers. “Don’t let Dillman get away from you. Your reputation is at stake.”

Lehman looked up at Cilento. They were about the same age, but Lehman had been in the boiler room business for a hell of a lot longer than Cilento. Cilento was only in charge because his brother carried weight in the mob. Lehman had signed up three months earlier after investigators from the Orange County District Attorney’s office had closed down his last workplace. Lehman hadn’t been in the office at the time so he’d been able to find another base pretty quickly. A week or so after he’d joined Cilento’s operation he’d discovered that it was connected to the mob but he’d figured that so long as the cash kept coming through he’d grin and bear it. The only drawback had been Cilento himself, who seemed to think that slammers needed constant goading if they were to perform. The white board had been his idea, as had been the idea of taking away the chair of the worst-performing salesman so that he or she had to work standing up. Cilento could be brutal, verbally and physically, but Lehman was certain that it was the brutality of a bully who wasn’t sure of himself. He’d seen him reduce a young woman to tears because he reckoned she wasn’t producing enough, and he’d slapped around a former accountant who’d answered back when Cilento had cursed him out for not following the sales pitch to the letter. Cilento usually left Lehman alone because he was consistently one of the operation’s top three producers.