*Just another short character study.
Sorry
"You know, whenever you're ready, Chief."
He held up an irritated finger, felt the pull of his swollen cheek when he grimaced. Casino could wait. If he wanted gold—and Goniff said that there had to be gold in the Kraut's truck—he could damn well wait.
Chief fished the timepiece out of his pocket and turned a lazy circle beside the headstone, squinting at the numbers on the dial. Only crickets and the muted lattice of shadows thrown down through the trees by the almost full moon. The breeze shifted his fringe into his eyes and he swiped it out of the way with the back of his hand.
Speaking of the devil, here he was now, or rather there they were—Goniff and the Warden.
'Where's the truck, Goniff?" Chief asked.
"All right, how's this," Goniff rubbed his hands together, looked at him and paused dramatically for effect. "Sorry, mate."
Chief had to hand it to him. It wasn't bad. He really got those eyes behind it. If he hadn't known better, he would have totally bought it. It was without a doubt the most heartfelt and compelling sorry he'd ever heard from the man.
That being said, there hadn't been many to compare it with.
He nodded approvingly, waited. They all stared at each other. Sorry Goniff, Impressed Chief, Sarcastic Casino and Irritated—always that—Warden.
Finally Warden asked, "Sorry for what?"
Goniff blanked. "I don't know."
Chief walked a tight, disgusted circle around the grave and shook his head. Casino threw his hands in the air.
Goniff managed to look offended. "You didn't say anything about meaning it."
Chief hooked the toe of his boot beneath the shotgun on the grass and hackeyed it cleanly up into his open hand.
The Warden held up his own watch. "Well, they're late. Perhaps their plans have changed."
"So maybe we leave Chief out here and he notifies us when the gold comes along. That way I can get some feeling into my feet and hands again." He threw a dark look at Chief. "This was your gig, baby."
Casino was right about that. Sort of. They'd each done their part but Chief had found the cemetery, even went so far to map out the route the Kraut's had to take to get the gold transported to the city. Goniff, Actor and Casino had been there mostly in a coffee supplying capacity. Well, coffee drinking capacity more than supplying.
But now here they were, stymied by what should have been the easiest part of this mission. They were at the end of the day, rifles at the ready. Just no truck. He pocketed the watch and sat on the edge of the headstone, crossed his arms and jiggled his knees. He chewed his lip. Turned his thoughts to the improvised plan. It should have been a piece of cake.
He watched Casino meander through the graves nearby, stopping to read a few of the inscriptions. From what little German he knew they all had to do with Rest in Peace…Finally at Peace…blah blah blah. It was the same tired old crap, different names. No one ever just cut loose and said what they really thought.
Here Lies a Twisted Man. Good Riddance. How come there was never any epitaphs like that?
The wind picked up through the trees enough to give Chief pause. He tuned in to that internal radar, listened intently. He doubted it was anything they needed to worry about, but he swore to God sometimes the air got a crackle to it before the shit hit the fan. The wind died down again and he relaxed some.
Casino ambled over his way and had that real intent look on his face that meant only one thing: he wanted to talk. God help' im.
"You remember Casey?"
It was merely a second before red hair and flowery perfume that made your eyes sizzle came to mind. "The nurse?"
"You know, I'm sorry I never returned her call," Casino said.
Chief looked up, vexed. "No, you're not."
Casino flapped a hand at him. "Aah, maybe you're right. I will be next time we're drivin' to the hospital, though." He chuckled but it was without any humor.
Chief stood and stretched his arms above his head, fingers laced. "I'm sure she's not the only nurse in England, Casino."
"She was smart. Like, the Warden's kinda smart. Studying somethin'. Somethin' to do with becomin' a doctor and crap."
"You know, I think it's really beautiful—how would Actor say it?—the personal interest you take in these women." He felt in his pocket for the watch again.
Casino shrugged. Hey, it is what it is.
The Warden approached. "I hate to break up this little soiree, gentlemen, but it seems like we've been stood up at the dance."
Goniff swept an arm out around the moonlit cemetery. "Blimey, this isn't getting us anywhere." He rolled a hand encouragingly. "Let's have at it, Chiefy."
Eventually he answered. "You did hear those guards about the gold, right? We're not waiting on a garbage truck?"
Goniff's eyes narrowed and he lost his hundred watt smile as all heads turned towards him. "Yes."
"You sure?"
"'Yes."
"'Cause last time, you forgot about tha-"
"I'm not an idiot!"
"Okay, okay. I'm just askin'." Chief waved down Goniff's rising indignation.
He bounced the rifle down off his shoulder, feeling the smooth slide of the metal against his fingers and the weight of it through his wrist. He flicked it open and checked the chambers, snapped it shut again.
There was nothing moving in the shadows on the periphery. He knew it without looking directly at anything in particular. That was how you saw things at this time of night. By not looking at them. You waited for an absence in the stillness. And when something did move? In darkness like this, where you couldn't put a name to things until it was too late? It kicked into fifth gear every sense and every instinct. Chief doubted there was anything on earth that could get him anywhere near that split second of adrenalin between detection and reaction.
It made Goniff want to puke. Chief knew, because he had a few times. Not in the thick of things, but afterwards. And where Casino talked and talked, the Warden—well, he always got quiet.
Each to their own.
The graveyard was huge. Endless rows of tombstones in various states of disrepair. They had come in through some sort of memorial gardens, neat lines of plaques nestled between rosebushes and mulch, the air heavy with rich soil. In this section of the cemetery the stones showed more wear, sagged with the burden of neglect and forget. Grief had an expiration date. In a few years, who was gonna care?
Chief wandered to the edge of the pathway where the immaculate green of the soldiers cemetery began, the lines of markers falling repeatedly into formation down diagonals and straights as he walked the length of the path. Disciplined even in death.
He came back to the headstone and slid down against it, one arm wrapped around the barrel of the shotgun. He raked a hand down his face, groaned.
"Come on, where is this truck?"
Casino sank onto the grass beside him, forearms resting on his knees. The Warden had his own spot and Goniff perched on a nearby headstone, looking for all the world like some sort of skinny gargoyle. Truth be told, Chief really didn't mind the wait. He could think of worse things to be doing than sitting there in the cool crisp air, a comfortable silence between them. Nights like this he was happy to be outdoors, pitied people who curled on couches listening to the radio, living their indoor lives. This was where it was at. In the dark where the unspeakable things were, things that left you twanging—or dead—by daybreak. Doing something that mattered.
He felt purposeful. One hand curled around the cool steel of the rifle. The loose coil of anticipation winding behind his ribs. He felt capable and strong and useful. He knew who he was, what he was doing and why. How many people could honestly say that about themselves?
Right now, he knew. No question. No wonder he couldn't think of anything he was really sorry about, or for.
Chief shook his head and rolled his shoulders. His neck cracked audibly. Casino scratched the back of his head, started to say something and stopped. Chief sniffed, frowned at him.
"What?"
"I just—. You know Casey had a thing for you."
Chief winced, more out of irritation than anything else. He looked away. They hadn't done a lot of talking about the woman and what happened. Casino had made a few carefully timed attempts to discuss it but Chief had shot him down. He still had no idea how he felt about any of it.
Casino was still gazing out across the darkened cemetery when he broke the silence: "Where is the damn truck? My back is killing me." He shifted against the headstone. "Anyway, I'm sorry."
He looked so awful it was all Chief could do to keep from shouting: What's wrong with you? He fingered the outline of the switchblade in his boot and sighed. He tried not to look at Casino for fear the man would read what's on his face.
After the apology, which was contrite, which was so sincere, Casino retreated to the far side of the headstone, and checked his weapon. Their useless weapons. Chief sneaked a glance at him, but wasn't quick enough. Casino was staring. And now Chief was staring back.
"You get to do that once," Chief warned, holding up a finger.
Casino's lips pressed together and Chief knew he was thinking that although he was sorry he let things go that far, he'd do it again, given the same circumstances.
Chief wanted to get on with the mission so bad he could scream. With sudden, inexplicable clarity, he remembered what he said that night about Casey, just before Casino plowed a meaty right hook into his face.
And he wished that he felt that strongly about a woman, just once.
The rumble of wheels and a hard-chugging motor interrupted his thoughts. Finally.
Chief palmed the grass, came up smoothly onto his feet off the rifle. He monkey gripped Casino's outstretched arm, hauled him up beside him.
"Let's do this."
The End
11/15/17