Thai Horse (11 page)

‘Elit-isss, yessir.’

Their laughter progressed toward a laughing jag.

‘Elit-isss-t,’ Cody said through his laughter.

‘Elit-isss-t,’ Hatcher replied.

‘Why’d you do this for me, maggot. I been giving you an awful lot of shit. Was it because I gave you that advice ‘bout Snyder?’

‘Maybe.’

‘F’r the record, I wasn’t doing you any favors, Hatcher, I’m an opportunis’, prob’ly the wors’ snob of the bunch. Next year I’m capt’n of the boxing team and right now Snyder’s our only middle-weight and Snyder’s got a glass jaw. A good, hard shot and ‘s ass is planted. I want a winning team, maggot, and I need a good middleweight for that, so I gotta keep you around until spring tryouts, see what kinda stuff you got.’

‘Well,’ Hatcher said with a shrug, “s good a reason as any.’ And then after a pause he added, ‘But it’d take more than you and Snyder to get rid of
m
e.’

Cody looked at him with surprise, and then, leaning back against the bed with the bottle perched on his knee, he nodded. ‘Y’know somp’n, I think you’re right,’ he said and passed the bottle back. ‘What the hell’re you doin’ here, maggot? Why aren’t you back in Boston?’

‘I couldn’t afford it. Besides, the only people I really want to see are out West skiing.’

‘No kidd’n. Me too, maggot, got n’place to go. M’ old man’s in the Far East somewhere and Mrs Cody’s on a Caribbean cruise. Wha’ the hell’s the diff’rence, anyway. Just ‘nother day, right?’

He took a deep swig and handed the bottle to Hatcher.

‘Mostly, though, it’s because m’ lady fair
—
sweet, adorable Cassie
—
decided to marry a lawyer. Can you believe that, she’s marrying one of those fuckin’ blood suckers. She decided she didn’ wanna be a sailor’s wife.’

‘Well, you can’t really blame her for that.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Also she didn’ wanna wait three more years to legalize her favorite sport.’ Cody giggled and held the vodka bottle up in a toast. ‘To past sport with Cassie.’

He took a swig and handed it back t
o
Hatcher.

‘I know how it is,’ said Hatcher. ‘‘1y girl dropped me for a
wrestler.
Talk about humiliating. No neck and solid muscle from the balls of his feet to the
top
of his head.’ He held up the bottle. ‘Here’s to stupidity.’

‘What’re you gonna do New Year’s Eve, maggot?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Ever seen Times Square on New Year’s Eve?’

‘Mr. Cody, I don’t have the price
o
f a bus ticket to the showers.’

‘Well, money is not one of my problems. It’s on me, jus’ don’t ever tell anybody that Cody and the maggot Hatcher spent the weekend together.’ He winked and laughed and took a swig. ‘We’ll stay in a fancy hotel, order up room service, maybe even fin’ a coupla
friendly
ladies. And at midnight, we’ll go down ‘mong the heathen hordes.’ Cody held up the bottle. ‘To the heathen hordes.’

And so Midshipman Murph Cody and maggot Christian Hatcher went off to New York for New Year’s.

From the moment they got on the bus it was Murph and Hatch, and finding lonely ladies was not a problem
—
selection was the problem. The bars
w
ere crowded, there were parties in the rooms that overflowed into the halls and parties in the streets. There was an epidemic of brotherly love. And occasionally when opportunity presented itself in the form of two lonely ladies, Hatcher and Cody would vote, holding the fingers of one hand behind their backs and then flashing them. If the total number of fingers for each was more than seven, they would make a move. They scored before dark.

The girls were roommates. Helen, who was with Murph, was an assistant photo editor for a news magazine. Hatcher’s date, Linda, was an usher at one of the Broadway theaters. Both were eights. And both slept in the same room, so there was the added sense of excitement that came with trying not to be too demonstrative with another couple a few feet away.

Two in the morning and the sharp, intrusive ring of the telephone. Helen took the call. ‘Hi Mom, Happy New
—
What?.
. .
Oh, no! When?.
. .
Oh God, Momma, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Yes, yes
. .‘
She cradled the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking and crying, and Cody sat up and put a blanket around her shoulders.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘My brother
. . .
was in an automobile
. . .
automobile
. . .
wreck. I’ve got to go straight to the hospital. They don’t think.
. .
don’t think
. .

‘C’mon, get dressed. I’ll take you.’

‘It’s way out in Queens.’

‘Hey, get dressed. I don’t care where it is, you can’t go alone.’

Cody was a true gentleman. His macho bravado had vanished when they met the girls, replaced by a tenderness that astounded Hatcher. Now C
o
dy organized the trek to the hospital quickly, and when they were gone Hatcher and Linda lay side by side in the bed, the news of the wreck somehow making sex
—
even touching
—
seem self-indulgent and frivolous. They lay there for a long time, Hatcher dozing off, then ‘waking, then dozing off again. The sky was turning gray when the doorbell rang.

Linda sat bolt upright in bed.

‘My God, who could that be?’ she whispered. Hatcher scrambled to the door and peered through the peephole.

‘It’s Murph,’ he said and opened the door.

Cody stood there with his hat under his arm.

‘Just thought you’d like to know that Fred
—
that’s Helen’s brother
—
is gonna make it.’

‘Hey, that’s great,’ Hatcher said.

‘I didn’t know the phone number, that’s why I didn’t call.’

‘Hey, right, we’re glad to get the news.’

‘Uh..
.‘

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t feel like going back to the hotel alone,’ he said quietly.

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 ca
l
l
e
d 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 uppe
r
classman, 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 bir
d
that flies in ever- decreasing concentric circles until it
d
isappears 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 t
h
e next two years he and Hatcher would be inseparable teammates and friends.

……
anyway, Cody was a year a
he
ad of me,’ Hatcher said to Sloan. ‘He went straight int
o
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 fro
m
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.
H
ow reliable is this source?’

‘A small-time Thai politician. He —
w
ants a free trip to the States and a work visa. Accordin
g
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
woul
d 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 game
—
opium?’

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

‘What
obvious
reasons?’ Hatcher
w
hispered, 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.