The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (12 page)

Laughing, he said, “Fuckin’ A.”

Though he laughed, his demeanor changed. His lips thinned and his eyes took on a feral gleam. I saw a hard edge to this man. There was a steeliness that transcended the business type hardness I would expect from a self-made billionaire. Somewhere, at sometime, this man had rubbed against violence, up close and personal.

“I’m having a bourbon on the rocks. What can I get for you?” he asked.

“I’ll have the same,” I said.

He stood and walked over to the closed cabinet I had seen him eyeing earlier. After opening the cabinet and selecting a crystal decanter, he opened a silver ice bucket and tonged some ice cubes into two glasses next to the bucket.

“Just two fingers for me,” I said.

“Before or after the rocks?” he asked.

“Before,” I said. I found myself liking this man. I’m sure he could’ve had any one of many people come in and fix our drinks.

After bringing my glass, he sat down across from me and said, “Do you mind if we talk a little more . . . about . . . ,” he looked at the ceiling searching for the words.

“What you’re going through?” I said.

“Yeah . . . I suppose,” he said, through another uneasy laugh.

This was a man unaccustomed to nervousness.

“What would you like to know?” I asked.

“Do you believe in God?”

I took a sip of my drink, it was Makers. “I don’t believe in a white-haired holy man sitting on a throne up in heaven dishing out destiny and justice.”

“What do you believe?”

“You may be asking the wrong person these questions,” I said.

“No, I think I’m asking exactly the right person,” he replied.

After thinking a moment I said, “I used to believe in God, before. But afterward, I figured He couldn’t exist. Any God that would take a beautiful spirit like Margie and leave me here, wasn’t any kind of God at all, so there must not be a God. Never-the-less I cursed Him. So, if he didn’t exist, who was I cursing? In retrospect, I see that God loved me. He had to, because I have cursed Him so profoundly that if He didn’t love me, I would surely be ashes in hell by now.”

His gaze was intense. “So you
do
believe in God,” he said.

“God is incomprehensible. So I believe God is the law of nature. Physics. That for every action, there is an equal and opposite, if you will, balancing reaction. The laws of the Universe. Space and time. God is nature and nature is God.”

He took a sip of his drink and said, “Space and time? What’s that about?”

“Time is so everything doesn’t happen all at once, and space is so it all doesn’t happen to me.”

He smiled and said, “Sounds like you’ve read a lot.”

“About eleven years after she was killed, I had a need to comprehend, spiritually, what had happened to me, to make some sense of it. George, you need to understand that this is happening to you, not to your wife. The anger you sometimes feel towards her is due to the fact that you have been left here to deal with this crap. She’s in a better place. You’re the one left behind to feel the pain and loneliness of grief and abandonment.”

He said, “I’ve never told this to anyone. But, sometimes I do feel angry at her. I do feel abandoned. Then I feel like an asshole for thinking like that.”

“You should feel abandoned, you were. What’s good to work on, is fault. There is none. It just is. That includes yourself too. It’s not your fault. It’s just one of God’s little Ism’s.”

“You seem to have come to terms with God.”

“George, you don’t come to terms with God. God, whatever you deem that to be, is a constant. It’s us that fluctuates, you know, that free will thing.”

I could see that he was physically hurting. I knew what that felt like.

“Listen, George, as I said, I’ve read a great deal, trying to understand what this is all about. I could give you a list of books to read, but I could also just tell you what I’ve gleaned from the studying I’ve done.”

Leaning forward, he said, “Tell me.”

I’m not a homiletic person, so I had to take a big breath and a likewise drink before saying, “Okay, here goes. There was once, only one. Just one, one entity, one intelligence.
 For millions of years
The One
contemplated his existence, and it came clear to Him what he must do. He divided himself into trillions upon trillions of pieces. These pieces became the universe and all it encompasses. All the planets, all the life forms, every atom . . .everything. The trick was, He could stay in contact with every atom on every level. As far as our level goes, the human level, we contracted to forget Him. Forget Him in order to find Him again. And the only way to find Him was through dysfunction.”

“Dysfunction?” he asked, looking completely lost. “I don’t understand.”

“The best way I could explain it is, ‘everything that has nothing to do with love and creation is dysfunctional’.”

After thinking about it, he said, “If that’s true, we all live dysfunctional lives.”

“There you go,” I said, raising my glass.

“How do we find God through dysfunction?” he asked.

“By living dysfunctional lives, we find out what doesn’t work. Once we eliminate what doesn’t work, what’s left?” I asked.

“What does work,” he said.

“And then we’re closer to God,” I said.

“How can we do that in one lifetime?” he asked.

“You can’t.”

“So now you’re telling me you believe in reincarnation?”

“Yes.”

“How can you believe in God and reincarnation at the same time?”

“If you think of God the way I do, it’s the only way to believe.”

“Do you believe in Jesus?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. I believe Jesus was a man, a remarkable man, who walked the earth and showed us how to be what we are capable of being.”

“I think what I meant to say is, do you believe he was the son of God?”

“Yes, but so are you or I.”

“How can you say that?”

“George, I’m not much on sermons. Like I said, this is information I’ve gleaned, information that for me was heartfelt, felt to be true. What one person feels to be true may not be the same for another. What’s important to me and should be important to you, is what rings true for you.”

He put his drink down and said, “I know this may not be what you thought you were coming here for, and you’re right. But, I’m interested in how you came to terms with your experience. I’m having a hard time. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’ve never been a very religious person. I tried the church scene a few times, and it just didn’t fit for me.”

“I had the same experience,” I said, taking another micro sip of my drink. “Just remember this. I believe everything is in Divine Order. I don’t have to understand it. Because I can’t see the big picture, it’s just too big. But somewhere down the road, some good will come from this.”

He looked hard at me and said, “Are you saying that what happened to you and to me was Divine? That some good will come of it?”

“Yes,” I said. “George, I like who I am today. I may not be as happy or feel as complete as I once did, but, I believe I’m a better person now than I was then. I feel I have more substance, more soul substance, if you will. I live a less dysfunctional life now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you I’m some kind of enlightened being, and I’ve done all the growing this time around that I need to do.”

I looked up through the ceiling and said, “You heard me up there, I hope I’ve had all my painful lessons, but if I haven’t, give me the strength.”

I raised my glass to the universe, took a vigorous swig, then rapped my knuckles three times on his desk.

George Carr finished his drink, walked over to the liquor cabinet and made himself another. He gestured questionably towards me and I shook my head, no.

As he walked back to his chair, the door to the office opened, and Rachael stuck her head in the door.

“Can I get you two something to eat?” she asked, as I stood.

It was as if she knew we were drinking in the early afternoon and may require food.

George looked a bit like a little boy caught drinking out of the milk carton.

“Not right now, Rachael, but thank you. I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll check on you a little later,” she said, ignoring his response.

As she closed the door, I stared at the space she had occupied.

“I like her,” I said.

“It’s hard not to. My wife found her and she’s been with us ever since. She’s very bright.”

Almost blinding
.

“I’d like to hear about it sometime,” I said.

“Well, Rachael will be the one to tell you, not me,” he said, knowing I meant her scars.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Look . . . Tucker, you said you believe in reincarnation. Why?”

I turned around, faced him and leaning against the edge of the desk, stirred the whiskey and melted ice with my finger. I could feel the alcohol warming my blood, relaxing me and warning me at the same time.

“George, I’ll tell you this one thing more. My spiritual philosophy is mine, a mish-mosh of Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Native American, and New Age beliefs. It’s what works for me. It’s what makes me accountable for my actions. You have to get your own. I am not, nor do I want to be a preacher, teacher, guru or any facsimile thereof. Nor do I want to be rude.”

His face tightened, “I don’t understand . . .”

“They’re all roads leading to the same house.”

He looked more contemplative than skeptical.

“Don’t get me wrong, George, I have a long way to go. My road is my road, and I’ll travel it quietly. After all, I’ve killed people.”

He nodded with understanding.

‘Tucker’s Spiritual Philosophy 101’, was over.

Chapter 23

He walked around behind his desk and sat down, facing me as I sat. The male bonding was over, and at last we were to talk business. He reached over, opened a large humidor, pulled out a cigar and said, “Would you like one? They’re Cuban.”

“No thanks, I’m doing my best not to take on any new vices, especially ones I can’t afford.”

“Do you mind if I have one?” he asked.

I knew if I said yes, he’d put it back. “No, I like the aroma of a good cigar. That’s one reason I’ve avoided smoking them.”

After the clipping and lighting ritual was over, he said, “Frank, would you please come in now?”

A few seconds later, the bookshelf behind and to the left of him opened and a man walked in. The shelf closed by itself, leaving the man standing to Carr’s left.

“Mr. Mysterious,” I said to myself.

I found myself standing, my right hand hooked into the edge of my coat, ready to pull it back and out of the way. I didn’t really feel threatened, it was more of a reflex. I must have stood when the shelf started opening. Some surprises put me on auto-pilot.

“I told you he’s good,” said Mr. Mysterious.

“Sit down, Tucker, please,” Carr said, with an amused expression

I remained standing and said, “I’ve got one of those.”

They exchanged queried glances.

“The secret bookshelf, only mine holds tools and stuff.”

“This is Frank LeCompte, Tucker. Frank is my personal bodyguard and head of my small security force.”

“Define small,” I said.

Carr looked at Frank LeCompte and nodded.

“Six, not counting me,” LeCompte said.

Standing there, LeCompte was even more menacing than when I’d seen him sitting, supposedly reading a paper, at Gun World. In a physical confrontation, I’d want this man on my side

“Oh, I believe I’d have to count you,” I said. “Maybe twice.”

“I saw you shoot it out with Spain last night,” he said, with just a hint of Cajun.

“It was impressive,” he added.

“What were you doing there, other than reading a newspaper?” I asked.

“Observing you for one thing,” he replied.

I didn’t remember seeing him once we had gone down into the basement. I wondered from what vantage point he observed.

Spain.

“And the other thing?” I asked.

“I had to get my gun back,” he said, and pulled his coat back and exposed the Colt 1911 Spain had used last night.

I’d never seen this man before. I would have remembered him. But I had definitely worked on that gun.

As I was trying to figure it out, he smiled and said, “I’ve had this old Colt for a long time. It was hard to let it go for a month, while Spain practiced with it. Not that it did him much good.”

“I don’t remember you,” I said.

“That’s because we’ve never met,” he said, with a smile that was fast morphing into a snicker.

“Okay. I give up,” I said.

He laughed and said, “Jerry Melchior.”

I nodded.

Jerry was a private gun dealer that periodically brought me 1911’s to accurasize. He would either buy a few and have me work on them, then sell them for a profit, or take one in from someone that didn’t know I existed and charge them approximately thirty percent more than I did to do the work. What I did wasn’t cheap, so I knew that LeCompte was paid well for his services.

Frank LeCompte’s features turned inquisitive when he said, “Tucker, what do you do to these guns? I used to carry a
 9mm Sig Suaer. Then I shot one of Jerry’s .45’s that you’d worked on. Which, by the way, I didn’t find out about ‘til later. I couldn’t believe it. I carried this Colt in the service and loved the caliber, but it used to kick like hell and was only accurate at short ranges. Now it’s smooth as silk, fast as a cottonmouth, and as accurate as a little .22. I don’t like carrying anything else.”

His Cajun accent was more pronounced when he said, cottonmouth. Also, not many people even refer to that snake.

Jerry Melchior always got the works, the deluxe Tucker-ized version as it were.

I looked up at the Pronghorn antelope, took a breath and in my best gunsmithing vernacular, said, “I lowered the ejection port by 3/16 of an inch and radiased the port’s back. What that does is allow you to shoot faster and also it doesn’t ding up your brass, which will help stop jamming. Then I radiused the entire slide and barrel bushing, so you can get quick entry in and get it out of your holster without drag. I took a 25 degree radius off the back of the slide and also around the metal on the frame where the custom Pachmeyer Walnut Grips with finger groves go, to better fit your hand. I put on an extended grip safety, a combat hammer and an extended slide release. Took your trigger pull down to a plus or minus 31/2 lbs. I put on an extended magazine well to fit the new eight shot magazine. I added low profile front and adjustable rear sights, so when you’re racking the slide back, you won’t tear up your hand. I put in a brand new recoil system with a Smart Spring, along with a recoil buffer pad. I ramped and polished the injection port for a faster feed into the barrel. I buffed the rails on the frame, as well as the slide for a much smoother movement. And I added a beaver tail back-strap, with a speed well for faster magazine loading for combat situations. And I had it hard chromed, so you won’t have to worry as much about rust.”

He looked over at George Carr and blinked a few times. He looked back at me and said, “Sure you didn’t forget something?”

“No. You’re from Louisiana,” I said.

“That’s right. I thought I’d lost my coon ass accent,” he said, smiling with white, even teeth.

“Almost. Most people probably wouldn’t have picked it up,” I said, still standing. He looked down at my right hand, then back up at my face.

“Levanda told me to say hi and ‘Get Fucked’,” he said, the smile turning into a grin.

That sat me down . . . hard. Bill Levanda, my best friend all the way through junior high and high school. Every year in high school the Navy would send some people, Navy SEALs, to try and recruit from the schools athletic department. They just wanted to talk to the football players and the track team. Later we found out why. It was because of the humidity. It was about the same as in Vietnam. They figured any kid who could play football or run track in that kind of heat would make a good SEAL. It was a very tempting presentation they put on. Every year one or two of the seniors that didn’t get scholarships to college would go off after graduating and try and make the SEAL teams. Every once in a while, we’d hear someone made it. It always surprised me, they were never the best players or the toughest guys. That’s why they didn’t get scholarships.

Levanda was offered a football and a baseball scholarship to Louisiana Tech. He decided to take the baseball. After his first year, his girlfriend since junior high dumped him. He came home on summer break and over some beers told me he was going to SEAL training camp in a few days. That was the last time I saw him. That was a little over 30 years ago. I would hear rumors from some of the other guys that had made the teams about Levanda, but no one really knew what happened to him after the war. I knew he did three tours, but the last I’d heard, he hadn’t come back from his last mission. Now, here was this man standing in front of me, I could see military written all over him, telling me my old best friend says hi and to ‘Get Fucked’. Levanda was the only person I knew back then that would or could say that to me. I once told him not to be afraid of my temper. I promised him I’d never hurt him, he was my best friend. So any time I got out of line, he would tell me to Get Fucked.

“You were on the Teams,” I said. “And Levanda’s still alive?”

“Yes, and yes.”

I felt myself getting angry. My best friend, that I thought was dead, was alive. And he was not there for me when I needed him. Bill, his girlfriend Brenda, Margie and me were inseparable. I still remember how Margie cried when we heard he didn’t come back from his last mission. I’d always harbored the belief he’d survived and was still out there somewhere. I knew he would be an efficient killer. He was a math major and was going to be an accountant or CPA. He was always so calm, nothing ever got him riled, not even me. He once stuck a fork in my hand because I tried to take a roll off his lunch plate at the training table. It used to drive me crazy the way he would eat so damn slow and just one thing a time. He would eat all the roast beef, then all the potatoes and so on.

The last thing he always ate was his roll. One day I asked him if he was going to eat it, and he said, “Yes, I’m going to eat it, and if you try and take it off my plate, I’ll stick this fork in your fuckin’ hand.”

Well, that surprised everybody at the table. Everyone knew there wasn’t anyone, including most of the teachers at the school, who could take me. I didn’t mind people thinking that either, it kept me out of a lot of fights. So, of course, I called his bluff. I reached for his roll slowly, to show how ‘not afraid’ I was. He stuck his fork in the back of my right hand. I mean stuck it, straight up, quivering like an arrow in a tree. Everyone at our end of the training table scrambled out of the way, and Coach Booth was down there in a flash to see what was going on. I’m sure it looked like a fight was about to break out. By the time the coach got to the scene, I’d already pulled the fork out and handed it back to Levanda, which he continued eating with.

I never got mad. He told me he was going to do it. I never again, doubted his word.

I looked down to find myself rubbing the back of my right hand with a finger, across four barely visible, little white dots,.

“The fork?” LeCompte asked.

“He told you about that?”

LeCompte walked around and sat in the chair across from me that earlier had been occupied by Carr. Now we were both sitting down. I was starting to feel a surrealness to all of this.

He said, “I was standing next to Levanda the very first day of SEAL training. This bad ass Sergeant Major instructor comes up, the first thing he said was, ‘Any of you pussy assed numbnuts that thinks he can take me, step up here and let’s dance’. I heard this guy next to me whisper under his breath, ‘I wish Tucker was here.’ It was Levanda, and it was just the first of many times he said that.”

“He was my best friend. I don’t know how to feel about him still being alive. I’ve missed him over the years.”

“Well, he missed you too. I could tell by the way he talked about you. You were a big influence on his life.”

“How and when did you talk to him?” I asked.

Frank LeCompte looked at his boss, who had been sitting quietly behind his desk, smoking and sipping at his drink. Carr nodded to him.

“When we started investigating you and I found out you were from Alexandria, I had to make sure you were the same Tucker he used to talk about. I mean, talk about your coincidences. I pulled some strings and called in some favors and found out where and who he’s with these days.”

Even through the surprised anger of finding out I’d been investigated, I was getting ready to ask him about my old friend.

He put his palm up toward me and said, “Don’t ask, I can’t tell you. He was one of the guys that couldn’t or didn’t want to come back.”

“Come back? You mean he’s still over in Southeast Asia?” I asked. He could at least tell me that. Southeast Asia is a big place.

“No, I don’t mean that. I meant come back to a civilian or I should say a civilized life.” His hand gesture encompassed the room and his eyes looked out the window, suggesting all that was out there.

I sat there, thinking about my best friend. He was the last one I ever had.

LeCompte said, “I talked to him on the phone, and it was scrambled so many times I didn’t know where he was. He did tell me when he found out about your wife, it was hard on him. After everything Levanda has been through, for him to say that, he must have really liked her. He also told me to tell you, don’t be surprised if one day he slips up behind you and slices your throat with a rubber knife, whatever the hell that means. He said you’d understand.”

Now, that opened a baggage car.