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Authors: Stephen Coonts
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almost two years in Washington, he knew only too well how close to the truth that comment was. “Well, you know that Rita is out in Nevada flying the first production A-1 2. She’s going to be pretty busy with that for a year or so, and they have a Test Pilot School-graduate bombardier flying with her. So I’m sort of the gofer in the A-12 shop now.”
Jake nodded and Callie said something polite.
“What I was thinking,” Toad continued, “was that maybe I could get a transfer over to your shop. If I’m going to make coffee and run errands, why not over at your place? Maybe get an X in the joint staff tour box.”
“Hmmm.”
“What d’ya think, sir?”
“Well, you’re too junior.”
“Oh, Jake,” Callie murmured. Toad flashed her a grin.
“Really, Callie, he is too junior. I don’t think they have any billets for lieutenants on the Joint Staff. It’s a very senior position.”
“Then it needs some younger people,” she told her husband. “You make it sound like a retirement home, full of fuddy-duddies and senior golfers.”
“I am not a fuddy-duddy,” Jake Grafton told her archly. “I know, dear. I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” She winked at Toad and he laughed.
The lieutenant rose from the couch, said his good-byes, and after promising to tell Rita the Graftons said hello, departed.
“Realy, Jake,” Callie said, “you should see if he could transfer to the Joint Staff.”
“Be better for his career if he cut his shore tour short and went back to sea in an F-14 squadron.”
“Toad knows that. He just thinks very highly of you and wants to work nearby. That’s quite a compliment.”
“I know that.” A smile spread across Jake Grafton’s face. “The ol’ Horny Toad. He’s a good kid.”
Henry Charon stood leaning against an abandoned grocery store in northeast Washington and watched the black teenagers in the middle of the street hawk crack to the drivers of the vehicles streaming by. Some of the drivers stopped and made purchases, some didn’t. The drivers were white and black, men and women, mostly young or middleaged. Knots of young black men stood on the corners scrutinizing traffic, inspecting the pedestrians, and keeping a wary eye on Charon. The wind whipped trash down the street and made the cold cut through Charon’s clothes. Yet he was dressed more heavily than most of the crack dealers, who stayed in continual motion to keep warm. Somewhere a boom box was blasting hard rock.
He had been there no more than five minutes when a tall, youngster detached himself from the group on the across the street and skipped through the cars toward him. “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” said Henry Charon.
“Hey, man, you gonna buy this sidewalk?”
“Just watching.”
“Want some product?”
Charon shook his head. Four of the teenagers on the corner were staring at him. One of them sat down by a garbage can and reached behind it, his eyes glued to Charon and his interrogator. Charon would have bet a thousand dollars against a nickel that there was a loaded weapon behind that garbage can.
“A fucking tourist!” the skinny kid said with-disgust. “Take a hike, honkey. You don’t wanta get caught under the wheels of commerce.”
“I’m curious. How do you know I’m not a cop?”
“You no cop, man. You ain’t got the look. You some little booger tourist from nowhere-ville. Now I’m tired of your jive, honkey. You got ten seconds to sun hiking back to honkey-town or you’ll have to carry your balls home in your hand. You dig?”
“I dig.” Henry Charon turned and started walking.
The intersection two blocks south was covered with steel plates and timbers. Under the street, construction was continuing on a new subway tunnel.
Using his flashlight, Charon looked for the entrance. He found it, closed with a sheet of plywood. He had it off in seconds.
The interior resembled a wet, dark, dripping cavern. Henry Charon felt his way along, inspecting the overhead
Jake nodded and Callie said something polite.
“What I was thinking,” Toad continued, “was that maybe I could get a transfer over to your shop. If I’m going to make coffee and run errands, why not over at your place? Maybe get an X in the joint staff tour box.”
“Hmmm.”
“What d’ya think, sir?”
“Well, you’re too junior.”
“Oh, Jake,” Callie murmured. Toad flashed her a grin.
“Really, Callie, he is too junior. I don’t think they have any billets for lieutenants on the Joint Staff. It’s a very senior position.”
“Then it needs some younger people,” she told her husband. “You make it sound like a retirement home, full of fuddy-duddies and senior golfers.”
“I am not a fuddy-duddy,” Jake Grafton told her archly. “I know, dear. I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” She winked at Toad and he laughed.
The lieutenant rose from the couch, said his good-byes, and after promising to tell Rita the Graftons said hello, departed.
“Realy, Jake,” Callie said, “you should see if he could transfer to the Joint Staff.”
“Be better for his career if he cut his shore tour short and went back to sea in an F-14 squadron.”
“Toad knows that. He just thinks very highly of you and wants to work nearby. That’s quite a compliment.”
“I know that.” A smile spread across Jake Grafton’s face. “The ol’ Horny Toad. He’s a good kid.”
Henry Charon stood leaning against an abandoned grocery store in northeast Washington and watched the black teenagers in the middle of the street hawk crack to the drivers of the vehicles streaming by. Some of the drivers stopped and made purchases, some didn’t. The drivers were white and black, men and women, mostly young or middleaged. Knots of young black men stood on the corners scrutinizing traffic, inspecting the pedestrians, and keeping a wary eye on Charon. The wind whipped trash down the street and made the cold cut through Charon’s clothes. Yet he was dressed more heavily than most of the crack dealers, who stayed in continual motion to keep warm. Somewhere a boom box was blasting hard rock.
He had been there no more than five minutes when a tall, youngster detached himself from the group on the across the street and skipped through the cars toward him. “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” said Henry Charon.
“Hey, man, you gonna buy this sidewalk?”
“Just watching.”
“Want some product?”
Charon shook his head. Four of the teenagers on the corner were staring at him. One of them sat down by a garbage can and reached behind it, his eyes glued to Charon and his interrogator. Charon would have bet a thousand dollars against a nickel that there was a loaded weapon behind that garbage can.
“A fucking tourist!” the skinny kid said with-disgust. “Take a hike, honkey. You don’t wanta get caught under the wheels of commerce.”
“I’m curious. How do you know I’m not a cop?”
“You no cop, man. You ain’t got the look. You some little booger tourist from nowhere-ville. Now I’m tired of your jive, honkey. You got ten seconds to sun hiking back to honkey-town or you’ll have to carry your balls home in your hand. You dig?”
“I dig.” Henry Charon turned and started walking.
The intersection two blocks south was covered with steel plates and timbers. Under the street, construction was continuing on a new subway tunnel.
Using his flashlight, Charon looked for the entrance. He found it, closed with a sheet of plywood. He had it off in seconds.
The interior resembled a wet, dark, dripping cavern. Henry Charon felt his way along, inspecting the overhead
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