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Authors: Charles W. Henderson
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complected man said, his long, narrow face immediately flushing red, causing the shaggy blond tangle of thinning hair atop his head, fanning in every direction above his close-cropped temples like the fronds on a coconut palm, to take on a pink cast from the reflection of the blush glowing off his scalp. “I am in such a fluster this afternoon, totally out of sorts. Michael Carter here, Harvard Law, class of 1962.”
“Glad to know you, Mike,” Kirkwood said, offering a friendly smile to the strange-looking man.
“Same here, Mickey,” O’Connor said, chopping out the words with his rapid-fire, Philadelphia-born-and-raised manner of speech.
The man beamed a wide smile filled with tartar-caked yellow teeth spreading from puffy, pink gums and said, “I am equally glad to know you both.”
Jon Kirkwood suddenly took two steps to one side and pretended to look for his bunk, where he had left his seabag and valise. The full brunt of Michael Carter’s breath had assaulted him.
Not losing a beat, Terry O’Connor pulled a roll of peppermint Certs from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. Then he tore back the paper and motioned for Michael Carter to take one.
“Oh, thank you,” Carter said, fingering the mint from the pack.
“Ah, here’s my gear, right where I left it,” Kirkwood said, thinking that the last time he had smelled anything so foul as Carter’s breath, he had stumbled on the carcass of a dead goat at the mouth of a drainage run while hiking at Big Sur in August.
“Harvard Law, no shit,” O’Connor said, sucking on the peppermint lozenge.
“My undergraduate work was at Haverford College, in Pennsylvania, where I graduated summa cum laude,” Carter said proudly. “I applied for Harvard just on a lark, and what do you know!”
“I was Columbia all the way, both undergrad and law school,” O’Connor said. “Jon did the same at UCLA. Nothing like Harvard, but not exactly community college either.”
“I had also applied at Cornell, and was accepted,” Carter then beamed, “but who can turn down Harvard if you get in?”
“Very true,” Jon Kirkwood said. “While Terry and I will end up scraping nickels from the gutters, you’ll be up there in some Park Avenue high-rise stacking the long green.”
“Not at all,” Carter said, frowning. “I have dedicated myself to the poor. I intend to do legal aid in Boston when I finish my military service. The plight of the poor is no laughing matter, gentlemen. Money does not interest me at all. Justice is my cause, and my reward shall be the satisfaction of righting the injustices heaped upon our brothers and sisters who struggle against poverty.”
“Politics, I get it,” O’Connor said with a smile. “You’d really get along with this Swedish lady I know back in New York. I think she’s read some of the same crap that you did.”
“No, I am not political,” Carter said, stiffening and then looking back at the photograph of JFK on his wall, after seeing Terry O’Connor’s gaze travel to the pictures of the pope and the dead president.
“So you have Kennedy up there, draped with black bunting, for sentimental reasons?” O’Connor said, a tone of sarcasm lilting from his voice.
“Exactly!” Carter said. “I have ties with the Kennedy clan.”
“You’re related?” Kirkwood said, pulling a khaki uniform from the suitcase he had unfolded on his bunk, and then neatly hanging the garment in the wall locker.
“Philosophically related, if you will,” Carter said. “I greatly admired the president, and I subscribe to his philosophy of asking not what my country can do for me, but what I can do for my country.”
“You didn’t even get a draft notice then, did you?” O’Connor said.
“No,” Carter said. “I joined the Marines straight out of school. My duty to my country.”
“Your family must have a lot of money, pal,” O’Connor then said, grabbing his seabag and dumping its contents on his bunk, spilling
“Glad to know you, Mike,” Kirkwood said, offering a friendly smile to the strange-looking man.
“Same here, Mickey,” O’Connor said, chopping out the words with his rapid-fire, Philadelphia-born-and-raised manner of speech.
The man beamed a wide smile filled with tartar-caked yellow teeth spreading from puffy, pink gums and said, “I am equally glad to know you both.”
Jon Kirkwood suddenly took two steps to one side and pretended to look for his bunk, where he had left his seabag and valise. The full brunt of Michael Carter’s breath had assaulted him.
Not losing a beat, Terry O’Connor pulled a roll of peppermint Certs from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. Then he tore back the paper and motioned for Michael Carter to take one.
“Oh, thank you,” Carter said, fingering the mint from the pack.
“Ah, here’s my gear, right where I left it,” Kirkwood said, thinking that the last time he had smelled anything so foul as Carter’s breath, he had stumbled on the carcass of a dead goat at the mouth of a drainage run while hiking at Big Sur in August.
“Harvard Law, no shit,” O’Connor said, sucking on the peppermint lozenge.
“My undergraduate work was at Haverford College, in Pennsylvania, where I graduated summa cum laude,” Carter said proudly. “I applied for Harvard just on a lark, and what do you know!”
“I was Columbia all the way, both undergrad and law school,” O’Connor said. “Jon did the same at UCLA. Nothing like Harvard, but not exactly community college either.”
“I had also applied at Cornell, and was accepted,” Carter then beamed, “but who can turn down Harvard if you get in?”
“Very true,” Jon Kirkwood said. “While Terry and I will end up scraping nickels from the gutters, you’ll be up there in some Park Avenue high-rise stacking the long green.”
“Not at all,” Carter said, frowning. “I have dedicated myself to the poor. I intend to do legal aid in Boston when I finish my military service. The plight of the poor is no laughing matter, gentlemen. Money does not interest me at all. Justice is my cause, and my reward shall be the satisfaction of righting the injustices heaped upon our brothers and sisters who struggle against poverty.”
“Politics, I get it,” O’Connor said with a smile. “You’d really get along with this Swedish lady I know back in New York. I think she’s read some of the same crap that you did.”
“No, I am not political,” Carter said, stiffening and then looking back at the photograph of JFK on his wall, after seeing Terry O’Connor’s gaze travel to the pictures of the pope and the dead president.
“So you have Kennedy up there, draped with black bunting, for sentimental reasons?” O’Connor said, a tone of sarcasm lilting from his voice.
“Exactly!” Carter said. “I have ties with the Kennedy clan.”
“You’re related?” Kirkwood said, pulling a khaki uniform from the suitcase he had unfolded on his bunk, and then neatly hanging the garment in the wall locker.
“Philosophically related, if you will,” Carter said. “I greatly admired the president, and I subscribe to his philosophy of asking not what my country can do for me, but what I can do for my country.”
“You didn’t even get a draft notice then, did you?” O’Connor said.
“No,” Carter said. “I joined the Marines straight out of school. My duty to my country.”
“Your family must have a lot of money, pal,” O’Connor then said, grabbing his seabag and dumping its contents on his bunk, spilling
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