I love kids.
Yeah, well, they seem to like you too. I guess they're not fooled by that scowl you're always wearing.
- BA and Amy, "Mexican Slayride"
What the hell is all this?
What is all this? What is all . . . well, it's sort of an underground top-secret research laboratory style . . . type of thing. Oh boy.
- Leon Styles and Al, "Killin' Time"
Chapter 16: Trust & Friendships
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1999
WAITING ROOM
PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP
STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO
11:00AM MOUNTAIN TIME
Al let out a huge sigh before pressing a button on the colorful Handlink, which he always thought looked like a mess of gummy bears, which opened the door to the Waiting Room. Sam had managed to successfully elude the MPs again . . . although he nearly spilled the beans to Hannibal. In a way, they were saved by the bell . . . or in this case, the sound of the sirens from the approaching MP vehicles. What he had to do next was going to be just as hard for him to deal with, if not worse.
He made his way down the ramp into the Control Room and then put the Handlink back on the charging cradle. Gooshie was standing behind the console, which looked like a larger size version of the Handlink. The Chief Programmer looked to the Project Administrator and greeted him, "Welcome back, Admiral." His tone was straight forward and serious, which indicated that something was going on.
Al couldn't help to roll his eyes a bit upon hearing that greeting. "I was just in the Imaging Chamber, Gooshie. It's not like I went to the next town over to get a box of cigars," he countered. It was clear that, after what he had just experienced with Sam, he was not in a mood for joviality. He still inwardly cursed to himself just how stubborn Sam could be when he thought he was right about something. He recalled that Ziggy predicted that if the truth was revealed at this early stage, the Leap would have failed. Although they theorized that Sam's Leaping was not connected to the success of a Leap, he sure in the hell didn't want to test that theory out first hand and find out they were wrong. He wanted his best friend back and not be stuck Leaping around in time.
"Actually, Dr. Beeks wanted me to relay a message to you while you were communicating with Dr. Beckett in the Imaging Chamber, but I was monitoring what was taking place and did not want to interrupt," the curly haired scientist explained brightly. He didn't divulge what the message was yet, but instead pressed a colorful button on the large console in front of him. The blue cube started to glow, which prompted him to pick up a clipboard that had been laying on the console and write down the results on a paper.
Albert Calavicci looked at the Head Programmer, expecting that he would just blurt it out now that he was out of the Imaging Chamber. But as the second ticked by and the curly haired man with halitosis failed to blurt it out, the Project Administrator couldn't help but to roll his eyes slightly. "Well, what did she say?" he demanded, his patience growing thin.
"Oh!" Gooshie exclaimed, almost as if he had just forgotten something. He looked at the clipboard and then back to Al. "Dr. Beeks has reported that our Visitor has been growing increasingly more anxious as the morning has gone on." His fingers traced a couple of notes as his brown eyes glanced at what was written before adding, "She didn't want to interrupt you while you were assisting Dr. Beckett, but she is concerned that he may try another escape attempt. She suggested that you attempt to speak with him, as you might be able to prevent that from happening."
Al tried hard to suppress a sigh. He knew that Verbena Beeks was right . . . he needed to talk to Templeton Peck. He got the A-Team's Supply Officer to trust him last night and return back to the Project, so if nothing else he owed it to him to try and answer at least some of his questions without revealing everything which meant that this conversation that he needed to have was going to be just as hard if not worse than what Sam just went through. Besides, he still doubted that he'd be able to handle the complete truth at the moment. "Fine," Al responded, not looking forward to this. "If you need me, I'll be in the Waiting Room."
Drawing in a breath, the Rear Admiral proceeded through the Control Room into the hallway and approached the Waiting Room door. After Face's recent Houdini stunt, he wasn't about to take any more chances with him that would give the talented con artist another opening to escape again. His was only the second attempt within Project history, and the last thing he needed was for Senator McBride to find out.
Trust . . . that was the one thing he really needed to build between himself and Face right now. It was necessary not only to keep the crafty Lieutenant from escaping again, but also to hopefully get the information that may be needed to help Sam on this Leap. It would be a lot easier, overall, if Face would willingly share those answers; however, that likely wasn't going to happen unless Al reciprocated in kind. He may not be able to avoid all of the Lieutenant's questions, but he'd have to be careful with his wording as to not give away everything. Maybe after a few more sessions with Verbena he might be ready for the full truth . . . but definitely not yet.
He pressed a button on the wall, and then watched as the door opened with a whoosh. He took a step inside, and then moved to the nearest wall panel and pressed a button there in order to close the door behind him and prevent any opportunity for Face to escape. After it closed, he turned to look at the Leapee who was pacing the room like a caged tiger, clearly not happy that he was stuck in this empty room again. That did not bode well, and was likely going to make this much more difficult.
Clutching a cigar in his right hand, Albert Calavicci cleared his throat in order to try and get the attention of the Visitor. "Hello, Lieutenant," he greeted him with his normal grovelly voice.
Templeton Peck hadn't reacted when Al first entered the room, but when he was addressed by rank he stopped wearing a hole in the smooth, cold floor with his bare feet. He didn't bother to come to attention or salute, but did take note of how the Admiral hadn't mentioned anything about that either. Most top brass wouldn't hesitate to bust anyone down who didn't immediately salute them, so why hadn't the Naval officer not do the same? He also noted the lack of the uniform, but that normally also didn't keep a higher ranking officer from calling out another one if they didn't salute. The fact that the Admiral didn't set off alarm bells in Face's head, which made him wonder if something was up. "Admiral," the con artist said dryly.
"Sorry we had to put you back in here and couldn't give you some guest quarters. They were all occupied," Al lied. He had no doubt that Face could see right through the falsehood, even though he had taken time to practice it so he could sound convincing and natural without it being too rehearsed. He shifted the grip on his cigar slightly as he pointed out, "With the high winds, nobody's being allowed to leave due to low visibility due to all the sand that's being kicked up. It's like the dust bowl all over again out there. The fact that you and Sami Jo made it to Alamagordo and back again in one piece is pure luck."
"Oh, it's okay," Face noted sarcastically. "This place kinda grows on you . . . if you're a doctor or a surgeon." For added emphasis, he waved his arms around to emphasize just how devoid the place was of furnishings. How was he supposed to wine and dine Tina later tonight with the room as empty as his memories seemed to be?
Al ignored the statement, figuring that it was just sarcasm from the con artist. He was gunning for something, and that likely meant not being held within the Waiting Room. That wasn't an option right now, especially after his escape attempt . . . at least not until they could get some assurances that he wouldn't try to escape again. He drew in a breath in order to steel himself for what was about to come. "I heard from Dr. Beeks that you didn't want to tell her anything else until some of your questions were answered," he pointed out.
Templeton Peck looked at the Admiral skeptically. Even though he clearly seemed to be in charge and even the shrink assigned to pick his brain reported to him, he didn't really expect much in the way of answers. This whole place reeked of a military operation and set off every internal alarm bell that he had. Even the fact that there were armed Marines standing guard at various places around the complex when he made his escape stood as proof of that. "That's an understatement," Face countered dryly.
Al shifted the grip on his cigar that he held within his right hand before stating, "Well, depending on your questions, I may not be able to answer everything but I'll try to tell you what I can." He had no doubt that Face would want to ask him a ton of questions, including ones that were on Ziggy's no-no list, double starred, or would compromise the security and safety of the Project. Besides, he still doubted that the young Lieutenant would be able to handle answers that would seem like they came straight out of an episode of the Twilight Zone.
Face looked at him skeptically before he decided to test the waters and see just how far he could get in terms of the answers. It was time to go for the jugular. "Million dollar question then," he stated before pausing. "What is this place? And don't give me that top secret and classified garbage. There's got to be something you can tell me."
'Oh boy,' Al thought to himself. It appeared that Face was going for the heart with the first shot. Rather fitting too, considering how he was trained as a sniper within the Special Forces. Honestly it was bad enough when Sam had Leaped into a young Samuel Beckett, who was in high school, right before his brother was to ship back out to Vietnam and be killed in the original timeline. When he Leaped into a young Albert Calavicci, that almost seemed worse because it was himself. But here, the person standing within the waiting room wasn't just someone he had known, but someone who had tremendous survival skills and instincts, and was always on edge due to his long history of being on the run.
As he thought back to Face's escape, he realized that he was lucky in two ways. First, he Lieutenant hadn't asked any questions about the technology in the car or how futuristic Alamagordo looked during the drive back to the Project. There was no way that he would have been able to hide or disguise that and keep him from seeing the technology, no matter how much he wanted to shield the Supply Officer from seeing it. Plus there was a concern of how much they might remember.
Second, Face had been given a compelling choice to return, and he made that choice willingly, if not a bit reluctantly. There had been a bit of hesitation there, almost as if he wasn't sure if what he was being told was true or not. Of course, if he had chosen not to return, Al would have used the tranquilizer gun on him even though using the tranq would have destroyed any chance of earning the Lieutenant's trust. Right now, he was certain that Face likely didn't trust him, and he was going to need to gain his trust in order to be able to get the details needed from the talented con man to help Sam.
"Well, this place is top secret, but we do scientific experiments," Al divulged, waving his right hand around a bit like a true expressive Italian.
Face frowned inwardly upon hearing that answer and also seeing the Admiral's gesture. It was clear that he was getting the brush off, and likely wasn't going to get the truth about this place. So much for promises. He looked the Admiral up and down for a moment, trying to see if he could get a read on his body language. From the way he carried himself, it was clear that he was confident . . . but also maybe a bit uncomfortable as well? His stance was relatively closed, as if guarded and trying to maintain whatever secrets that comprised this facility. "If this is some science facility, then what's with the Marine guards?" he shot back, clearly dissatisfied with the original answer.
"Oh, well," Al started, "this whole place was built right on ground zero, where the first atomic bomb was set off." He could see Face's reaction when he mentioned that and had to chuckle a bit. He never thought he'd see someone turn as white as a ghost as the Lieutenant did just then. It reminded him of how Sam originally reacted to the holographic image of himself just popping in without any warning. He fought hard to not laugh out loud at his reaction. He held up a hand and tried to reassure him, "The radiation isn't an issue anymore, so it won't kill us. But the guards are for our own protection since this area in in open country and there's a lot of territory. The guards at the gates can't keep every curiosity seeker away that might try to hop the fence."
"And you probably can't tell me what the scientific experiments are about . . ." Face quickly probed, although he didn't have much hopes in the way of getting an answer.
The Naval Admiral shook his head slightly before responding, "That's not something I can really discuss. I did mention that this is top secret so naturally pretty much everything we do is classified." As much has he hated to, since it might not allow the level of trust to develop between them that he really needed, there was just no way he could share what the Project did with him.
The A-Team's Second Officer was still plagued by a lot of doubts regarding the situation that he was stuck in. All of this top secret, hush hush stuff still set off alarm bells for him, along with the Marine guards throughout the facility. In his mind, it was time to ask the next question that he deemed to be important. "So you have no association with a Colonel Lynch, Colonel Decker, or General Fulbright, or plans to turn me over to the Army MPs?"
Al shook his head and raised his cigar to his lips, taking a quick puff of it before pulling it out with his right hand. He knew perfectly who those three officers were due to his rank and getting all of the reports, even without Ziggy telling him anything. Plus he had also tried to keep tabs on the A-Team himself. "Lieutenant, if I wanted to turn you over to the Army MPs, we would have put you in cuffs and thrown away the key until they could show up. Since you got here, you haven't seen any of the guys in green, have you?"
Templeton Peck hadn't expected the question to be reflected back at him. But as he thought about it, he knew that the Admiral was right. Once they learned who he was, they could have very easily put him in cuffs, and locked him up in some small cramped hole that would have been worse than the room he was in. They likely wouldn't have even allowed the shrink to talk to him, much less anyone else. "No, I haven't seen any," Finally admitted.
"And you won't see any either," Al quickly pointed out, wanting to really emphasize that fact. "Look, kid, if we really wanted to turn you over to the MPs, we would have done it long time ago. We haven't, and we don't plan on it for as long as you're here. We want to help you and the other members of the A-Team. You've got my word on that."
Face turned back to the table within the room, the only physical object there besides himself and the Admiral. He walked over toward it and rested a hand on the smooth material without looking down at the reflective surface. He already had a lot on his mind with the sketchy information he discovered with the phone calls he made at Sami Jo's home, but what was shared with him here in this room didn't answer all of the questions that he had. Even though he had promises that he wasn't going to be turned over to the MPs, he still had a lot of unanswered questions that he likely wasn't going to get the answer for.
Admiral Calavicci watched the young man, as he seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. The last thing he needed was for Face to shut down or clam up right now. That would possibly kill any chance for further progress in not only gaining his trust, but also with trying to help him stir up some of the swiss-cheesed memories and recall things that could be critical to help Sam. "I understand you served in Vietnam," Al started to mention, hoping to break the silence between them.
"Yeah," Face responded simply, still not looking at the Admiral. Even with all of this, he sounded very detached and aloof, but it was with good reason. He felt very much out of place here, like he didn't belong. Plus he still had no idea what was going on. Normally he was very good with adapting to thinking on his feet and adapting to new situations at the drop of a hat, but it was a challenge when everything kept changing on him every few moments as it seemed here and they still weren't telling him everything.
As Al continued to observe the Leapee, he could tell that he was still engrossed in his thoughts. He had no idea what he was thinking about, much less what he found out at Dr. Fuller's place, but he was certain that the Lieutenant wasn't going to like it if he did uncover anything at all. What was important now was to draw Face's attention away from that and get him to focus on something else. "I heard that you were part of the operation that nailed a Cong general outside of Khe Sanh," he brought up, hoping to get the conversation flowing again.
"Yeah," Templeton Peck responded again, not sure if he should share a lot of info about what happened. He was very hesitant, and with good reason. In spite of everything, even with the reassurances, he still didn't quite trust the Admiral even though he was pretty positive that, if he was going to be turned over to the MPs, it would have happened long before now. One thing was certain . . . when it came to the A-Team, the military never delayed or hesitated when it came to getting to a location where they may have been reported to be especially if they were in custody. So what was really going on to explain why the MPs hadn't shown up yet?
Al walked over to the examination table and sat down on it next to where Face was standing. Even with his feet dangling off the edge, the toes of his shoes barely touched the floor. "I was in 'Nam too," he revealed casually, although being very careful about his wording. He had to really make sure he treaded carefully when it came to anything that happened during that conflict. "I heard about the capture, but didn't hear any of the details."
Face practically scoffed when he heard that statement. He wasn't sure whether or not the Admiral was telling the truth about being in Vietnam. He looked to be older . . . but again, Hannibal was no spring chicken either when he was in 'Nam plus he had served in Korea prior to that. With all this time he had spent on the run, he was very skeptical and for good reason. There was something else at the back of his mind that irked him about the statement the Admiral just made. "I would have figured that someone of your rank would have access to the mission reports," he pointed out as he turned around and leaned against the table.
"Reports only tell you so much," Al quickly noted, turning his head to look at the Lieutenant. Even for someone of his rank, there was a strong chance that some things could be heavily redacted in order to keep certain intelligence from prying eyes, even after all these years. 'For security of the country,' they'd likely claim, although what they likely meant was to protect Americans in Southeast Asia from any kind of backlash or retaliation if those sorted details were to be made public. "Sometimes in a war details are often left out. It's often better to talk to someone who was there and actually went through it."
"Yeah, I guess," Face said as his voice trailed off, almost as if in thought. And honestly the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the Admiral was right. He had seen a few field reports in 'Nam, probably including a few he probably shouldn't have seen. Plus he had to fill out quite a few himself as Hannibal's Second Officer of the unit. It was by filling out such reports that he learned the fine art of what to include, and what details should be omitted.
Al continued to look at Face, wondering just how long he was going to keep this up. He had hoped that, maybe, by bring up Vietnam the Supply Officer would have been a bit more willing to engage in casual conversation. Although he was curious and wanted to find out, he didn't want to make it seem like he was ordering Face to divulge information especially something that might still be classified. Just like the decision to return to the Project, he wanted him to do this willingly and of his own accord and not because he was being ordered to. He wanted him to share this as he would with a trusted friend.
After a long moment, Face's voice broke the silence as he started to mention, "Well . . . I remember it was an unusual mission. Intelligence was tracking this Cong General . . . Shozen Tsuda, who was in charge of protecting the VC supply lines on the Ho Chi Min trail. You know how intel can be in a war."
"Yeah. It's anything but intelligent," Al chuckled at the irony of his statement. He hoped that, by sharing in the humor behind his words, it could help Face relax a bit more. It would ultimately make things so much easier on both of them if they could cross that bridge. Of course, Templeton Peck likely was going to fully trust him until he got the complete truth, but that was still going to take some time. He took another puff on his cigar, the smoke drifting from the ash at the end of it and dissipating into the air within the Waiting Room.
The response from the Project Administrator brought a smirk to the con man's face. Bad intelligence was notorious in a war, and it often would lead good and highly skilled units into ambushes that resulted in heavy casualties. Only an experienced soldier who had served in a time of conflict would know that with absolute certainty, which made it clear that Admiral Calavicci was telling the truth about being in Vietnam at some point. The more that he and this Admiral talked, the more he got a sense that there was something about him . . . something he couldn't quite put a finger on yet. Maybe, as the holes in his memory filled, he might be able to figure it out.
"Well, the intel was right . . . kinda. The size of the unit with the General was bigger than originally estimated. We got word that he was going to move out of the area, so we had to run night ops to capture him before he could leave. Running night ops is a risk anyways," Face noted with a bit of a frown. He shifted his weight around a bit as he continued to lean against the examination table, but it was clear from the way his shoulders had sagged a bit that he was starting to relax a bit. Of course, the validation that the Admiral had also been through the horrors of war in Vietnam also helped too.
"Yeah, night ops are the worst," the Observer noted solemnly as he shifted his gaze to look away from the young Lieutenant. He drew in a breath and then added in a tone that indicated that, as much as he wanted to hide it, he was still impacted by the loss of one of his best friends from the Naval academy days. "My tailpipe buddy was shot down and killed on a night mission over Haiphong. SAM missile caught him. Came out of nowhere and he had no time to react, much less evade it."
"Sorry to hear about your friend," Face expressed. Inwardly, hearing that reminded him about how many had lost good friends that they made during the war. A memory trickled to the surface . . . his first CO that he had once he got in country. Apparently, some of his own men took exceptions to the decisions that he made in the field that endangered the unit, including leaving a few of his soldiers behind to fend for themselves until they fell prey to the mercy of the VC. The guy never even bothered trying to mount a rescue mission, much less try to find them, so some of the guys decided to frag him. Thankfully, Templeton Peck hadn't even been there long enough to see what he had done first hand, or he would have gladly participated in the fragging himself. Heck, he would have been first in line. This, of course, was before he started his streak of being thrown into the brig for his cons and before meeting Hannibal.
"No need to apologize. War is hell, and a lot of good men die . . . a lot of kids die," Al pointed out, knowing full well that Face could related to this. Even though he likely knew it, he hoped that actually saying it would reinforce the potential of a bond between them. For now, it was probably better to help focus the Lieutenant's thoughts and keep him talking about that particular mission. "So, tell me more about what happened with the General."
"Well, it was only my second mission under Hannibal's command, and the first one since Murdock had rejoined us as a pilot. Nothing seemed to go right from the start. First, Murdock tries to fly us in and gets shot down . . . and with all of us in the chopper. We managed to get on the ground in one piece, but then Hannibal decides to go through the front door. I didn't know it at the time, but he always likes going through the front door," Templeton grinned slightly, almost as if recalling the memory with a tremendous amount of irony. "We managed to capture Tsuda, but as we were pulling out I wound up getting shot in the leg. We had to lay down a few false trails for the VC that were trying to find and recover him so they couldn't catch us, but eventually a rescue chopper showed up and pulled us out."
Al nodded a she listened to the Lieutenant explain some of what happened, allowing him the freedom to share the details as he saw fit. When he reached the conclusion, the Project Observer glanced over to him and pointed out, "Well, you guys sure made a difference. Word got to a lot of us who were POWs . . . kept us alive and gave us hope that maybe your unit might show up to free us from the VC."
Now it was the Supply Officer's turn to be stunned. Although he started to believe what the Admiral said was true about being in Vietnam, he never expected him to have been held captive by the VietCong. Hearing that totally caught him off guard and wasn't something that he expected. "You were a POW?" he asked, trying to confirm what he was just told. This was all starting to make his head spin, but he didn't want to admit that and be given some kind of a sedative or something that might knock him out. He really needed to stay alert.
"Yeah," Al chimed in. He knew that he needed to be very careful with what he said, as the last thing he could afford right now was to spill the beans. He didn't need the Leapee knowing that they had been in the same POW camp together. "I was shot down just south of Thai Nguyen in December of 1967. They moved me around a lot, putting me in tiger cages in various camps until I got repatriated in 1973."
"Six years?" Face noted in a surprised tone. It was one thing to hear that he was a POW, but for him to have been held that long and survived? The guy had to have had a very strong spirit to have made it that long, and likely had something that gave him he will to live. Other soldiers would have welcome death even after one week due to some of the torture that prisoners endured. The VC certainly didn't pay attention to the term of the Geneva Convention. "That's a long time to be a POW. Didn't the Navy try to mount a rescue?"
"Oh, sure they did," Al quickly answered, again pausing to think of how he was going to word this. He drew in a breath and then looked direct at Face. "From what I found out after I got repatriated, a Marine unit was sent to try and rescue us, but they got ambushed by the VC due to the Chu Hoi. They came under heavy fire and had to pull out after several men were wounded. A civilian photographer that was with them was killed . . . Maggie Dawson. She won a Pulitzer for her last photo . . . of me and a Colonel being led from one POW camp to another."
The Admiral made sure he gauged his words to exclude not only the name of the camp he and Colonel Eddie Wojehowitz . . . the father of Donna Elesee . . . were being moved to, but also the Colonel's name as well. Eddie had been a POW longer than Al before he was shot down, so he had often looked out for him in the camps. Although the VC eventually killed him, Al would be forever grateful for what Donna's father did to help see him through the early years of his captivity.
Face heard what was said and glanced down at the floor for a moment. He had so many questions on his mind that he wanted to get the answers for, but he knew that he needed to keep things to the most important ones. Even being told that something was classified helped, as it could refine the other questions that he sought answers for and perhaps actually get some of those details. That made him recall something that the Admiral had mentioned when trying to convince him to return here. "Back at Sami Jo's place, you mentioned something about a friend who was helping. Who is he and how is he helping?" Face questioned.
'Oh boy,' Al thought to himself upon hearing that question. That was going to be a challenge. He knew that he was going to have to be selective in what he shared as to not erode any chances of trust. If he were to just come out and tell the AWOL Special Forces officer that his best friend was stuck and traveling back and forth in time, Face would likely think he was ready for a trip to the funny farm with a straightjacket and everything. "His name is Sam, and he's my best friend. He saved me from being an alcoholic," he decided to reveal with a tone of admiration within his voice.
Face listened to what he said and was not too surprised. With all of the times that he had he had gone into the VA to bust out Murdock, as well as hearing some of the horror stories from the pilot, about how many of the soldiers that endured the horrors of the Vietnam war turned to the bottle as their way of coping with what they had gone through. Unfortunately, many ended up as alcoholics, and really believed that it could help to drown away the pain and memories. Of course, it certainly didn't help that beer was so plentiful for the soldiers that were stationed at various American base camps throughout the country. "So I take it you hit the bottle because of being a POW?" Templeton asked, making an assumption.
Al shook his head and drew in a breath. He glanced down at the floor, his brown eyes showing only a fraction of the sorrow within the depths of his soul . . . the pain that he endured over the years, at least until he met Sam and the Nobel Prize winning scientist helped to turn his life around. "Nah, not because of Vietnam," he answered earnestly. "It was because of what I found once I got back."
Concern began to be etched across the face of the Supply Officer. He hadn't expected the Admiral to open up to him in this way, but now that he was he almost felt a need to find out more. It wasn't every day that someone of that kind of a rank almost bared their soul to a lower ranking officer . . . even one that was on the run like he was. "What do you mean?" he quizzed, finding himself wanting to seek clarification.
Albert Calavicci glanced over to Templeton Peck and frowned a bit. Even to this day what happened saddened him, and it was etched over his face. Sure, he often tried to hide it, but sometimes he just couldn't . . . especially now when talking about the fateful decision that changed his life forever. He definitely had to take a moment to compose himself before sharing, "When I was in Vietnam, I was married to my wife . . . my first wife, Beth. She was the only woman I really loved. When I was caught by the VC and made a POW, the Navy obviously told her. But with how long I remained a prisoner, she eventually gave up hope. She had me declared dead and married some slime ball lawyer. Then after that she disappeared, and I haven't been able to find her since."
The A-Team's Second Officer had no idea how to respond to that. What do you tell a guy who was happily married before he went off to war, his wife had him declared dead with the government, and then went on to marry someone else? The guy didn't do anything wrong outside of wanting to serve his country, so that made him a victim of the war . . . but one not in a way that one would have normally imagined. Then again too, Face was never too keen on the idea of marriage himself. He seriously thought about it only with one woman . . . Leslie Becktall, but that wasn't meant to be. But that still didn't stop him from having his dream . . . of being able to one day get married and settle down. Obviously, that couldn't happen as long as he led a life on the run, wanted by the authorities. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to be empathetic. As much as he wanted to, telling someone that you're sorry when they went through something as heartbreaking as that just wouldn't cut it.
"Nah . . . no need for you to be sorry," Al mentioned as he glanced back to the Lieutenant. He let out a bit of a sly grin as he put the cigar in his mouth and puffed on it a few times. He then pulled it back out and added somewhat nonchalantly, "Besides, if you include Beth, I've gotten married and divorced five times."
"Five times?" Face parroted. His jaw practically fell to the floor upon hearing that one. "Are you kidding me?" In all honesty, the Admiral was starting to sound like his kind of guy, marriage aside. A womanizer, a skirt chaser who lusted after the best attributes of woman . . . but not really love them. Like Al, he had always believed that his heart remained only with one woman. But there was another . . . someone else that he could have shared the rest of his life with, and they were starting to get close to him. But she left him to be in another country. She had left him . . .
"I like marriages," Al admitted with an innocent grin that spread across his lips. He hopped off the table and back to his feet again. He continued to look at the Leapee as he added. "I just don't like alimony."
Face was still skeptical as he looked at him, but remained silent. That silence clung to the air like a wet blanket, weighing heavily on both men. The con artist had learned a few things from this conversation, but there was still a lot more that he wasn't being told . . . that much was obvious. But was it enough?
Al began to move back toward the wall where he had entered. He pressed a hidden button on the wall and the door immediately opened. He didn't walk out right away. Instead, he turned back to the Lieutenant and pointed out, "You know, Face, at some point you're just going to have to trust us." It wasn't that the Admiral wanted the young man's trust alone, even though that would be helpful. He wanted him to be able to trust everyone at the Project, since they had his best interest in mind and wanted to help him return to his own time.
Without saying another word, Albert Calavicci walked out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Templeton Peck with his own thoughts . . .
TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1986
CHALLENGER'S CLUB
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
4:30PM PACIFIC TIME
The dark asphalt of the fenced in yard sat up against a brown brick building with a canopy over the doorway. Above that canopy was a swatch of red bricks, which started at the doorway and continued on to the corner of the building. The other side of the building, which faced the street, was painted white with some blue trim running vertically along the corners.
Four young boys congregated together, talking among themselves. Three were African-American, and the other was Caucasian. All of them looked like they hadn't even reached their teens yet, but a few looked like they were close . . . probably just within a few years of reaching that mark. The oldest of the boys had a basketball tucked under his left arm as they all watched the adults expectantly, who were hard at work.
"They ain't gonna finish it today," one of them said.
"Sure they will," another of the boys chimed in.
"Yeah, man. Look at how far they are on it!"
"BA will get it done. He always does," the fourth youth added.
The metal bleachers were warm due to the summer sun, but not scorching hot. Siting on there was the muscular figure of Bosco Andre Baracus, the gold chains around his neck glistening within the sunlight. His muscles within his right arm flexed as he twisted the screwdriver, securing the strapping that went over the pole and would further secure the backboard in place. He didn't want to over-torque it, but it would definitely need some extra support. The kids at the center would eventually grow in size and strength, and the last thing he wanted was for them to break it.
Although he had managed to have Face get him some backboards, he wasn't very when he found out that they were scammed. Sure, it was for a good cause and all, but he liked doing things honestly, not cheating some place out of their money. He respected what his mama taught him and hated liars, cheats, and thieves. Face might have been made part of the unit for his knack at getting supplies on the down low, but that didn't mean that he liked his methods on how he managed to procure things.
His large brown eyes glanced to the slender man holding the pole steady while he worked. The African American was well groomed, wearing a pair of khaki pants and a short sleeve light blue button down shirt. He was thinner and taller, and he had a well trimmed Afro haircut and a light mustache that rested over his upper lip. His brown eyes glanced over to the boys that were anxiously waiting and smiled a bit. "They are just going to love this, BA," he mentioned with a hint of pride in his voice, along with a bit of awe. "I still don't know how you managed to get all of this."
Ever since Booker Wilson founded the Challengers Club with his wife, Cynthia, it became a safe haven from violence, crime, gangs, and drugs that many kids might have been lured into otherwise. When they decided to set up the club, they picked their current location since it was not too far away from Watts, a predominately African-American neighborhood which was known for the explosive riot at the height of the civil rights movement which cost the lives of 34 people. No, in actuality it was more than that. The Challengers Club had become a home for many of the children, from all races and walks of life . . . a home that they might not have otherwise had.
Running the Challengers Club was no picnic by any means. They always had creditors knocking on their door, demanding payment of that was owed on the property, taxes, and utilities . . . not to mention the money needed for food at the club as well as supplies for the sports, arts, and crafts that they encouraged the kids to participate in. They often barely managed to scrape by, often getting the money at the last possible minute through various fundraisers and donations that would come in. What often got him through all of this was his beautiful wife, Cynthia. She was his rock, standing by his side stoically and sharing in his same dream. If it hadn't been for her, they wouldn't have gotten as far as they had with making the Challengers Club a reality.
"Don't thank me," BA mentioned to him as he continued to tighten one of the metal straps. His gaze was focused on there, but he did pause for a moment to glance over to the kids. A small smile appeared upon his lips before he looked back to Booker. "Face got a lot of this stuff so you wouldn't haveta buy it."
"In other words, he scammed it," Booker chuckled, realizing what BA was getting at. Regardless of how he managed to come about getting the materials, he was thankful for it as it would really add to what was offered at the center without killing the meager budget. Either way, it was going to be of a great benefit for the kids. In the back of his mind, he could see reaching out the Lakers organization and see if he could get a few players to drop by in their spare time and play a game of pick up with the kids, or even run a few basketball clinics. "I never thought this would work, BA. Using those pieces of scrap metal and seeing how you've got this built, it makes sense now."
The muscular mechanic looked up to his friend for a moment and grinned slightly before returning to work on fastening the straps to the backboard. "Just all 'pends on how it's done. People are always throwin' away scraps of metal. Someone goes for a slam dunk it won't tear off the whole backboard. It'll stay up there like it was set in concrete."
Booker smiled a bit himself as he fondly remembered a moment from the past. As he helped BA to lift pole with the backboard attached, he couldn't help but to admire just how well it was constructed. Even here, some green and white paint and resources from elsewhere, along with some heart, soul, and love put into it, they managed to put together something that hopefully would be used by a lot of kids to come. "You know, BA, this reminds me of Pleiku in 'Nam . . . when you found some scrap pieces of wood, some parts, and a bit of paint, and set up a whole basketball court over there on the base."
"Yeah, that was a good set up. Don't know how Face got that lumber, but the guys on the base loved it," BA admitted, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Didn't like being in 'Nam with all of that killin', but stuff like that made it easier . . . to see the other fellas havin' a good time and forget 'bout the danger." His smirk quickly faded as he then added, "Then I got sent to the brig."
Booker remained thoughtful for a moment as he recalled that situation. He remembered how angry BA was when the MPs showed up not even 15 minutes after the fact and put him in irons before hauling him away. "Weren't you thrown into the brig because of General Ludlum?" he asked, trying to make sure that he was remembering the right thing. The Sergeant had been well known for this bad attitude, even back then, so it was surprising he hadn't been locked up a lot more often.
A scowl started to appear on the muscular mechanic's face as a hint of anger seeped into his tone. He looked up at Booker and stated firmly, "Yeah, man. Said I didn't salute him. Threw me in the brig 'cause of it. BA Baracus don't like people callin' me a liar." He glanced over to the kids for a moment, hoping that they hadn't heard or paid attention to that outburst. As much as he could, he tried to preach to them that it was okay to get angry and express yourself . . . that it wasn't good to keep it bottled in, but it was not okay to use that anger to fuel or resort to violence in any way. He had tried to show how they could funnel those emotions into other things that provided them with skills for the future.
"And you slugged one of those MPs too . . . almost knocked them into next week Sunday," he grinned a bit. He looked to his friend and then added, "You know, if he hadn't thrown you in the brig when he did, Colonel Smith may not have chosen you to be part of his unit. I heard he did it because of how you risked your rank to stand up for the truth against a higher ranking officer. You stood your ground and refused to get railroaded."
All at once, BA's tone seemed to become much calmer as he admitted, "Yeah, you're right 'bout that." BA knelt down and started to fasten the pole into the steel base that he had already bolted into the concrete. He had made sure that the anchor bolts were sunk deep so they could hold against the strain of the strongest dunk as well. The master mechanic took pride in his craftsmanship and in making sure that this basketball court was one that would last for a very, very long time. He made sure to hand fasten the bolts that would hold the pole to the base before he grabbed a ratchet and tightened it the rest of the way. Glancing at the kids again he asked, "Think they're ready to try it out?"
"They've been ready all day, BA," Booker admitted as he held the pole to provide additional support while BA bolted it into place. Once the Sergeant stood, the founder of the Challengers Club moved to check on the other pole, which they had installed earlier. "They're really going love this, thanks to you and the other guys for getting what we need and putting it together."
BA gathered his tools as he looked t the boys that were patiently waiting all day for them to finish. He gave them a bit of a wink before gently putting the ratchet and screwdriver back into the red toolbox with a black handle. He then grabbed a rag that rested next to the toolbox and used that to wipe any oils, grease, or other residue off of his hands before tossing it into the toolbox and closing it up. He looked back up to the kids and told them, "Okay, fellas, all set."
Booker approached the kids, which made them stop in their tracks before they could rush the newly created basketball court. He looked at each one of them and reminded them in a firm but gentle tone, "Remember our deal. No street ball here . . . no exceptions, and no back talk about it either. We want everyone to be able to play here without any gangs. The moment there's any signs of gangs, the rims are coming down. Understood?"
All four boys looked at each other for a moment and then looked back to the two adults. "Yes, sir, Mr. Wilson," came the chorus of replies from the boys. They all seemed raring to go. Two of them had already started to move a foot in anticipation of running over there and being the first ones to step onto the new basketball court.
The founder of the Challenger's Club looked to the Sergeant for a moment before turning back to the kids. A smile filled his face as he told them, "Okay, then. Go have some fun. The court's all yours." He watched as most of the boys ran for it right away, passing the ball back and forth among each other, whooping and hollering with glee. The youngest of the boys lingered behind a bit, watching the others run off before looking back to the two adults. Seeing this, Booker asked, "Something wrong, Breeze?"
"No, Mr. Wilson," the young African American boy responded with a soft and gentle voice. He watched as Booker knelt down to his level and then told him with a huge smile, "I just wanted to thank you and BA for setting this up for us."
BA gave the youngster a rare smile and reached down with his hand, adorned with several gold rings, to gently pat his shoulder. "Glad to do it, little brother. Now go on before they start the game without ya," he encouraged, his tone inwardly reminding him of his own father and how supportive he was in his tone to a young Bosco Andre Baracus.
An African American woman with a bit of a lighter brown skin tone, and a tight, well styled haircut, stood in the entryway for the Challengers Club. She held a tall glass in each of her hands, filled with a yellow liquid. The ice cubes within the glass not only clinked against the smooth material, but it caused droplets of water build on the outside of the glass as it literally sweated in the late spring warmth. "You'd make an excellent father someday, BA. Those kids really look up to you," she commented with a bit of a smile and a sense of admiration. "Thought you two might like a glass of fresh lemonade after working so hard. The court really looks great."
Booker took one of the glasses and took a sip, savoring the sweet taste of the lemonade that was accented by the coolness due to the ice that chinked around inside the glass. Leaning over, he gave his wife a kiss on her right cheek. "Thanks, hun. You know, I couldn't have done this without BA's help. He had some great ideas on how we could do this without spending a lot of money."
Cynthia gave the muscular Sergeant a smile as she handed him the other glass of lemonade. "BA, what would we ever do without you?" she wondered. "You spend so much time here with the kids and helping out with various repairs and even putting things together like this court."
BA's large hand accepted the glass with an incredible gentleness that one would not have expected from someone on his stature. Even the rings that he wore on his fingers of the left hand that held it the drink made it look like he could have busted the glass anytime by just squeezing. "Glad to help, Cynth," he told her with a gentle tone before taking a sip of the refreshing drink. "I know you've all been going' through some tough times, tryin' hard to keep the center open. I'll do anything I can to help ya both out when I can. Y'all're doin' a good thing here for these kids."
"We know it's hard for you too, BA," Booker chimed in as he wrapped his free arm around his wife. A gentle breeze was starting to pick up and he looked down at his wife gently. His gaze then moved to the kids, who were really enjoying the new basketball court. Even though some were relatively short, he was impressed that they were still able to throw the basketball to where it cleared the hoop . . . nothing but net! After a moment, he added, "It's got to be, being on the run all the time."
BA shrugged his large, muscular shoulders slightly, almost as if trying to brush off the danger that had become almost commonplace within his life . . . the threat that he could be captured at any time and locked away in a stockade for the rest of his days. "It's not bad. We manage . . . me and the guys. Those MPs aren't bright 'nough to keep us locked up for long." He smiled inwardly upon mentioning that, recalling the many times that they had been captured by the MPs, or even some of their adversaries, and Hannibal always seemed to come up with the right plan to get them out. "I just wish I could help y'all out more."
Cynthia reached out to gently put her hand on BA's arm as a sign of support and understanding. Her smile grew a bit, revealing a couple of dimples. "Well, we're glad for all the help you provide when you are able to come by," she expressed. Her head turned as her gaze settled upon the kids that were having fun on the court. She could hear them talk among themselves as they dribbled, passed the basketball, and made shot after shot for the hoop. "The kids all love having you around, especially Breeze there. He really looks up to you."
The electronics expert looked over to the young man who had personally took the time to thank both him and Booker for setting up the basketball court. There was a look of determination on his face when he managed to grab the ball and shoot, but when he was trying to get it he had the biggest smile ever . . . almost like a kid at their first Christmas with a ton of presents under the tree, all for them. "Breeze is a good kid," BA commented. "What's his story anyways?"
Booker looked in Breeze's direction and sucked in a breath. It was heavy laden, almost as if he carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. That was a clear indication that what happened in the past to children like Breeze had a profound impact on him and he had to carry the burden of not only trying to provide a positive influence in their lives, but also ensure that they didn't stray and get caught up by gangs, crime, and violence. After a moment, he let out a sign and revealed, "His dad ran out on him when he was young, and his mom was gunned down in gang cross fire. He's been on his own since then, in and out of trouble, running away from foster homes where he's claimed that they've abused him, and mad at the world. When he's not getting into trouble, he spends most of his time at the center, but he's angry . . . usually very angry."
BA's heart sank when he heard his friend recount the young man's life story. He hated to see or hear of someone so young having to go through so much pain. Just like pressure could turn coal into diamonds, it could also turn it into dust as well. Similarly, pressure for a kid at this age could help him become strong and rise above it all, or scar him for the remainder of his life to where he would never be able to stand up for himself and always fall prey to violence and gangs. "I know how he feels. I lost my dad when I was young. I was probably just as angry as he was, but my momma kept me goin' . . . kept me on the right path."
Hearing those words caused Cynthia's eyes to sparkle a bit and her smile to brighten slightly. "Maybe you could help him the same way your mother helped you," she suggested as she looked to Breeze. She saw a smile on his face as he managed to get the rebound and then shoot for the basket. In spite of his small stature compared to the other boys, the ball swished through the net like it had been thrown in there by an NBA star. That impressed her with the natural talent that he displayed, and made her wonder just how much more he could do if given the opportunity. "He could use a strong figure in his life like you, to teach him right from wrong, before any of these gangs show their ugly heads and recruit these kids at an early age."
BA nodded slightly as he looked to where Breeze was playing basketball. He could also see the pure joy on his face . . . and it was very clear that he was having fun and forgot about the troubles in his young life. "Can't promise I'll be around much as he'll need with what we do and the MPs on our tail. I can try to help out when I can," he reiterated.
Booker grinned a bit upon hearing that. He took a sip of his lemonade before sharing with a bit of a chuckle, "BA, I gotta admit. The kids do love running those MPs in circles. Just the other week they stopped by here to ask about you. The kids were all talking at once and giving them all sorts of bogus places where they thought you had gone to. Those soldiers looked just about dizzy by the time they were done getting all of the directions."
Cyntha's smile fell a bit as she lightly slugged her husband's upper right arm. "And you shouldn't be encouraging them," she admonished. She wasn't very happy that he condoned the children giving false information to authorities, even if it was to protect BA. Sure, she and Booker were happy to help run the MPs in circles and throw them off the trail of the mechanic, but she didn't want the kids having anything to do with that. It wasn't their burden, and many of them had enough things to worry about in their young lives.
"Come on, honey," Booker countered, still grinning a bit. "BA's a friend not only to us, but also to the kids. They're also trying to look out for him and keep the MPs from arresting him, and they have fun doing it like it's a game." It almost seemed as if he enjoyed it as much as the kids did, if not more, and got a huge kick out of hearing their stories about how they thwarted the military police.
"Booker Thomas Wilson," Cynthia started to say in a very firm tone. She put her hands on her hips as her usual gentle smile fell from her lips and it became clear from her body language that she wasn't about to be trifled with on this issue. She meant business and there was obviously no room for negotiation in this. "We set this club up for kids, especially the ones that have nowhere to go, so they won't be out on the streets. And while they're here, whether it's just for an activity or to spend the night, they're gonna learn right from wrong and we're gonna do right by these kids . . . teach them right."
The jovial tone that the founder of the Challengers Club had a moment ago was dashed by his wife's words. He knew that she was right, and also knew that when she was determined about anything there was no backing down. "Yes, dear," he responded dutifully.
BA couldn't help but to grin a bit as he heard Booker and Cynthia talk. He was happy to count both of them as friends, and this conversation reminded him a bit of his own parents. His momma was a very proud woman who was strong in her beliefs and could stand her ground on something, even if it differed from his daddy's opinion. It was probably why he got along with both of them so well and really put a lot into this place whenever he had the opportunity.
An electronic ringing sound forced him back to reality. He recognized what it was immediately and inwardly frowned. "'Xcuse me . . . gotta take this," he stated to Booker and Cynthia before walking to his van. There were only a select few people who had the number for the mobile phone. Still, they had to take precautions even with that method of communication just in case the MPs found a way to tap into the signal and could overhear everything that was being said. As an electronics expert, BA knew that it would be a challenge even for the best in the business, but not an impossible feat.
Still holding the glass of lemonade with his left hand, he used his right to open up the door of the van. He then deftly climbed into the driver's seat and reached into the center console. Lifting the handset from the cradle, he positioned it by his ear and answered, "Lou's Delivery."
"BA, it's Hannibal," the familiar voice on the other end stated simply. There was no mistaking the Midwestern accent or the rich tones of the Colonel's voice. If he hadn't joined the military, there was a pretty good chance that he could have been a major movie star that had all of the ladies fawning over him due to his good looks, charm, his captivating eyes, and his voice.
The Ordinance Officer was a bit stunned to hear his Commanding Officer's voice. They all needed a bit of time to unwind after that last mission considering what had happened. But there was a bit more within his tone that he could sense . . . that maybe something happened. Face was supposed to be with Hannibal at the studio today from what he remembered. "Hey, Hannibal. What's up?" he asked, not expecting him to call so soon, but not wanting to dig too much into what might have been going on.
"I know I said I'd give you guys a couple of days downtime after our last client, but we may have another one lined up," the Colonel noted. It was clear that his tone was apologetic and he had originally had every intention of giving the guys a few days off. They needed it and deserved it. He hated having to call BA so soon, but he had no other choice.
"Awww, Hannibal," the muscular Sergeant droned with disappointment. He had made a promise to help out, and he didn't want to have to break it due to checking out a new client so soon. This place and what they were doing was important to him, and the other members of the A-Team knew it. "You know I 16was gonna spend time at the center helpin' out Booker and Cynthia. They got some projects they've been puttin' off for a while that they need me to do."
"I know, BA," Hannibal acknowledged solemnly. He had even spent a little bit of time at the center himself and saw just how much Booker and Cynthia appreciated the Sergeant's help, as well as how fond the kids were of him. Even he saw potential in each of the kids that were there as he recalled his few visits. "I know how much the Challenger's Club means to you, and also Booker and Cynthia. Let's run this client tonight. Face has got is set up with Sam at the Golden Pagoda for 6pm. Depending on how it turns out, we can spring Murdock and then all of us give Booker and Cynthia a hand with some of those projects."
Booker and Cynthia both approached the van and couldn't help but to over hear what BA was saying over the phone. He didn't look very happy, due to the scowl that had appeared upon his face, with whatever he had just heard over the phone. "Everything okay, BA?" Booker asked as Cynthia slinked her right arm around her husband's left arm as a sign of solidarity and support for their friend.
"Just a sec, Hannibal," BA told him after hearing Booker's question. He shifted his phone into his large hand, covering the bottom portion of the handset with his large, muscular fingers as to muffle out most of the sounds. Looking to his friend, he explained, "Yeah, everything's fine. Hannibal's got a new client. He wants us to run them tonight."
Cynthia frowned upon hearing that. She knew that what they did was important with how they helped out others, but she was always disappointed when they had a lot of things that needed to have been done around the center and it took BA away from being able to help out. It's not that they couldn't manage, but it was a lot easier whenever BA actually was around, volunteering his time to ensure that things got done to keep the center running. "I thought you said he gave you a couple of days. We've got projects that we've been putting off that need your attention," she indicated.
BA appeared sincerely heartbroken in spite of the gruff look on his face. It was clear that even he also wanted to spend time helping out at the Challenger's Club too and completing some of the things they needed to get done. "I know but we gotta run this client. Hannibal promised that he could have the fellas here to help out with stuff, if ya's want."
A small smile crossed Booker's face when he heard that offer. He looked down at his wife and pulled her a bit close, putting his free arm around her. He then looked back at the Sergeant and mentioned, "Sure, that'd be great, BA. We'd appreciate all the help we could get."
Cynthia leaned into her husband's embrace as he expression brightened a bit at the possibility of the others joining them. "And we'd love to see them again," she told him warmly. "We haven't seen Hannibal and Face in a while, and Murdock always keeps the little ones entertained with his stories."
The Ordinance Officer nodded slightly upon hearing their words. He even quietly mused, "Fool's crazy, but you're right. He can tell some good stories."
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that they were right about Murdock. Even the Sergeant had listed in from time to time as the pilot regaled the kids with his stories. He told them some of the tales of the A-team in Vietnam, and even some of their recent missions with how they helped others. His words were like magic, making dangerous situations sound like an old story, like out of the pages of Robin Hood. The kids just ate it up and begged Murdock to visit more often and tell even more stories.
BA had to grin a bit, recognizing just how natural Murdock was around kids. He may act like a big kid himself sometimes . . . heck, a lot of the time, but even he found his antics amusing on a rare occasion when the Texan wasn't actively trying to push his buttons or get under his skin. Not that he'd ever really and openly admit that to anyone. He had a reputation to live up to as being the tough guy who was unflappable, unmovable, and wouldn't take flak from anyone much like a wall of bricks.
Returning the headset to his ear, BA gave a slight nod and a small smile to Booker and Cynthia before talking into the phone, "Yeah, Hannibal? Cynthia and Booker are cool with it. They'd love all the fella's helpin' out with stuff since they got lots for us to do." He knew, just as Hannibal did, that if they all were able to help out at the center they could get a lot more done faster and not inconvenience the client too much if they turned out to be legit. And if they weren't or they didn't take the case, then it'd give them a lot more time to help out. Either way, it was a win-win situation.
"Great, BA," Hannibal responded. With the light tone of his voice, it was very apparent that he was grinning. "Meet me and Face at his penthouse in Malibu in half an hour. We'll need to get to the restaurant a bit early so we can set up."
"Got it, Hannibal," BA acknowledged before hanging up the phone. He looked at Booker and Cynthia before telling them softly, "I gotta go. Hannibal wants me to meet 'im and Face 30 minutes. I'd stay if I could, but ya know how traffic is."
"It's okay, BA," Booker acknowledged as he put his arm around his wife's shoulders and watched as she took the glass from the Sergeant. He glanced down at his wife and noticed the supportive smile on her face before he continued, "We appreciate everything you do for us and the kids at the club, but we also know what you're doing is important for others who need you. We'll be here."
"Thanks," the master mechanic told them both gently with a smile as he closed the driver's side door to the van and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life as he looked through the open window on the door to Booker and Cynthia. He winked a bit before putting the van into gear and driving away . . .
