Stacy Woodson is a U.S. Army veteran, and memories of her time in the military are often a source of inspiration for her stories. She made her crime fiction debut in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine’s Department of First Stories and won the 2018 Readers Award. It is the second time in the award’s history that a debut took first place. Since her debut, she has placed stories in several anthologies and publications—two winning the Derringer Award. Her short fiction has also been adapted for animation. This is her first story selected for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year.
The date was August 26, 1965, the day I took the case that changed my life forever—at least my perspective of it, anyway.
I sat in my PI office, two blocks from the Vegas strip, eating a Swanson TV dinner, watching the CBS Evening News. Cronkite, the most trusted man in America, was at the news desk. A soda-straw view of the Vietnam War rolled through the screen. The audio faded in and out, too.
Someone pounded on my door.
I ignored it, my focus still on the TV. I pushed up from the couch. Looked for my cane. Gave up. Limped over to the Magnavox. Adjusted the rabbit ears. Then smacked the box for good measure.
The sound finally kicked in.
Cronkite was talking about President Johnson, how he needed more men to fight the war against communism. Which wasn’t news.
The change Johnson planned to make to the draft—this was news.
Hours ago, Johnson announced deferments would still be granted to men who married before midnight. Tomorrow, however, men could no longer get married to avoid military service.
Good, I thought. Fewer opportunities for men to shirk their duty. I had stepped up to the plate. It was time others did, too.
More pounding.
“Jack—” Lou called. I recognized my friend’s voice through the door. He was a big-deal defense attorney and a pal I’d served with in the Marine Corps. He sometimes threw me a job. Usually, to look through police reports, copies of evidence, photographs, witness statements for inconsistencies, so he could get a guilty client off on a technicality.
“Come back during office hours,” I yelled.
“Damn it, Jack!”
I groaned. “Fine.” I clicked off the TV, made my way to the door, flipped the dead bolt, eased it open. Lou was dressed to the nines—shirt starched, suit perfectly pressed. A sharp contrast to my boxers and T-shirt.
“Nice threads,” Lou said.
“Hey—it’s me time.”
Lou eyed my stomach. “A whole lot of it, apparently.”
He wasn’t wrong. My belly was round. Definitely not the six-pack I had before Korea.
Before I was shot.
“Do you need something?” I asked. “Or did you come here to bust my balls?”
“Both.” Lou handed me my cane. “Found this in the hall.”
“Christ. I was looking for that.” My mind went back to the previous night, one too many bourbons, stumbling home from The Atomic.
Lou followed me to my desk—the transition smoother with the cane. My pants and shirt were draped across my chair. I tossed them aside and took a seat.
“You know, it’s only a matter of time before the landlord catches you living in your office.”
I shrugged.
“He could bounce you, Jack.”
“I’m not worried.” I offered him a cigarette and the couch. He waved away both. I lipped a cigarette from the box, lit the tip, inhaled. “What gives? Must be something big if you’re declining a smoke and a seat.”
“You’re going to be getting a call.”
“Ain’t that mysterious.”
“Don’t screw with me, Jack. It’s a big client. Work that needs the utmost discretion.”
I smiled.
Lou didn’t. “I’m serious.”
I could tell he was serious and nervous, too. Which was unusual. During the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, I watched him charge the enemy. He didn’t hesitate. The man was fearless. This whole anxious thing I’d never seen before.
“Jack …”
“I get it,” I said.
“Good.” He folded his arms. “You do this job, you do it right, the firm will offer you a permanent position. More money—maybe enough to afford a roof over your head. At least enough for some real food.”
“I have a roof over my head. And don’t knock the Salisbury steak. It’s better than those C-Rats we used to eat.”
“That doesn’t say much.” Lou looked like he was about to say more, but my phone rang. He pointed at it, bug-eyed, like I didn’t hear it. And I couldn’t resist the opportunity to screw with him again. I grabbed an ashtray, crushed out the cigarette, my movements slow and deliberate.
“Pick it up, Jack.”
“I’m working on it.”
“I swear to God—” He yanked the phone from the receiver and pushed it at me.
I grinned.
Asshole—he mouthed.
I cleared my throat. “Vegas Investigations.”
“Please hold for the senator from Nevada.”
I frowned, covered the mouthpiece. “Senator?”
But Lou wouldn’t look at me, his eyes laser-focused on the phone.
A man came on the line. “Is this Jack Taylor?”
“Speaking.”
“Senator Wilkerson here. Calling from Washington. There’s a bill on the Senate floor that needs my attention. So, I’ll be brief. Lou tells me you’re the best. I have a family matter that I’d like you to handle.”
The senator told me about his son. That he’d been drafted to serve in Vietnam. How he’d left for Vegas for an I-do-and-dash.
“At least that’s what the wife thinks,” the senator continued. “Thomas has an old flame who lives in Vegas. This afternoon, he cleared out his checking account, took my Ford Fairlane, left Carson City. The wife found an address for the Clark County District Courthouse in his bedroom.”
In true Sin City fashion, the county’s license bureau offered same-day-marriage licenses and no-wait weddings until midnight daily. Odds were the senator’s wife was right.
“Even if he’s planning a quick wedding, it isn’t illegal,” I reminded the senator.
“True. But here’s the thing. The policy change, the one President Johnson announced today, I’m the one who wrote it. You can imagine how this will look for me, politically, if my son marries to secure a deferment after this announcement.”
“Yeah.” He’ll look like every other self-entitled kid who had dodged the draft.
“I fought in World War II,” the senator continued. “I understand you served in the Korean conflict. We all have a duty to our country. Don’t you think? I want my son to honor his. The Selective Service board requested Thomas report for induction tomorrow. I want him to be there.”
Even though the senator’s motives were self-serving, he wanted to hold his son accountable, and I respected this. “What would you like me to do?”
*
Twenty minutes later, I was showered, dressed, and in my Buick Riviera, driving to the Clark County District Courthouse. The senator wanted me to stop Thomas’s wedding and convince him to return to Carson City. If the kid refused, I was supposed to detain him until someone from the senator’s staff arrived. Lou would handle things for the senator moving forward. He gave me a picture of the couple and details on the Fairlane.
My first task was to locate Thomas.
When I arrived at the courthouse, couples spilled out of the license bureau, down the sidewalk, and onto the lawn. They were young—some dressed like they were going to church, others to a protest rally.
All had anxious faces.
I tried to feel some empathy for them. But I couldn’t do it. Kids who didn’t have money, kids who couldn’t afford to run away to Vegas and get hitched—they would be drafted and forced to take their place.
Someone always took their place.
I tightened my grip on my cane, pulled out the picture from Lou—a prom shot of Thomas and Lilly. It was a few years old. But it didn’t matter. Their likeness was all I needed.
I worked my way up the line, comparing faces—one after the other.
No Lilly. No Thomas.
I continued into the license bureau.
No luck.
At the counter, the sign said the clerk’s name was Betty. She looked as young as the people she served. She seemed stressed, haggard. The pace she processed paperwork determined who would make the deferment deadline, and the responsibility clearly weighed upon her. I needed to question Betty and find out if Thomas and Lilly had been here.
I elbowed my way to the front.
“Hey, pal,” a kid with a flattop whined. “There’s a line here.”
I ignored him and tried to get Betty’s attention. “Excuse me, miss.”
“Ms.” She corrected me, her hands still working—typing, stapling, processing. “You need to move to the back of the line. When it’s your turn, I can assist you.”
“I’m not here for a marriage license.”
“Then you’re in the wrong place.” Betty looked at Flattop. “That’ll be eight dollars.”
Flattop elbowed me out of the way and handed Betty the money. She pushed a ledger toward him. He signed it. Then, she handed him a license. “Go through the double doors on the right. The justice of the peace will see you in the back.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” the girl with Flattop whispered.
His eyes went wide. “Don’t you love me?”
“It’s not that.” She visibly swallowed. “It’s just … we’ve only been dating for three weeks.”
“Do you want me to die in Vietnam?”
The girl’s breath caught. “God, no.”
“Make up your mind!” someone in line yelled.
She started to cry.
“Tick. Tock.” A man in a sports coat chimed in. “We are running out of time. Your indecisiveness is going to get the rest of us killed.”
The yelling seemed to prompt a security guard to emerge from the judge’s chambers. He stood near the doors, arms folded.
“Here’s the thing,” the girl started again, “I just applied to be a stewardess.”
“You’ll be married,” Flattop said. “You won’t need to work.”
“But I want to travel.”
“Do you want to save his life or not?” Betty demanded.
“Well, since you put it that way …”
“We’ll sort it out later, okay?” Flattop grabbed the girl’s hand and tugged her toward the judge’s chambers.
“Excuse me,” I tried to get Betty’s attention again, my mind on the ledger. I needed to see it. If Thomas had picked up a license, his or Lilly’s name would be inside.
Betty still ignored me.
I walked behind the counter.
“You’re not allowed back here.” She motioned to the security guard.
“It’s my leg,” I said, gripping it dramatically. “Sometimes the pain is too much, and I need to sit. There are no chairs in the reception area. Please forgive the breach of protocol.”
She looked at my leg. Then, at my cane. Her face flushed. “I didn’t know.”
The security guard hovered over me now, so close I could smell the tuna and rye he had for dinner. “Is there a problem here, Betty?”
“I’m good, Tom.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She nodded.
He walked away, his eyes still on me. I flashed Betty a grateful smile.
She continued to work. “How did you get injured?”
“Korea.”
“Damn wars.” She shook her head. “They take something from everyone, don’t they?”
The conviction in her voice, the anger. I could tell this ran deeper than politics. It was personal. “Did you lose someone?”
“My brother.” She pointed to a picture on her desk, a snapshot from a huge family gathering—at least fifteen faces. “Teddy is on the bottom right.”
He looked young.
They always did.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told her. And I meant it. I waited for her to finish with another couple before I said, “There’re a lot of people here to manage by yourself.”
“Normally, two of us process marriage licenses, but my coworker didn’t come back from her break today.”
“She picked a hell of a day to play hooky.”
“Tell me about it.”
I eyed the ledger on her desk, watched Betty work, considered my next move. If I told her my purpose, to stop a wedding and a deferment, she wouldn’t help me. Hell, she may even try to stop me. I needed to take another approach, find the right angle. Something that would resonate with her. And then, I got it—the picture on her desk. Family was important to her.
This was my way in.
“Look, I know you’re busy, and you’ve been so kind. It’s just—I’m looking for my little sister. She’s getting married today, and my mother is beside herself.”
Betty frowned.
Crap. She thinks I’m trying to stop them.
“My mother,” I paused, reworking my approach, “she can’t imagine her baby taking such a big step without someone from the family being there. I’m here to support my sister, of course. I didn’t see her in your line. I’m worried I may be too late. That she’s already married.”
“Of course.” Betty glanced at the picture on her desk and nodded knowingly. “I can’t imagine getting married without my family.” She wheeled an application into her typewriter. “If your sister picked up a marriage license, she or her fiancé signed for it.” She motioned to the ledger. “Feel free to take a look.”
“Thank you.” I reached for the book, flipped through the pages—nearly one hundred entries today, so far.
None for Thomas and Lilly.
“Any luck?” Betty asked.
I shook my head. “Maybe they haven’t arrived yet, or maybe one of them changed their mind.”
“We’ve had a few of those today.”
“I know you’re swamped. But will you take a quick look at a picture for me? Just in case they came through your line but didn’t finalize their license. I need to tell my mother something.”
Betty glanced at the line of people, which didn’t seem to end.
“Please,” I pressed.
“Fine.” She exhaled the word. “Put the picture on the desk. I’ll look while I work.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “I feel like I’m saying that a lot to you today.” I slid the picture over.
She took money from another applicant and directed them to the judge’s chambers before she finally looked. “Lilly Miller? Seriously? She’s your sister?”
“You know her?”
“You’re sitting at her desk.”
“What?” I said, surprised.
“Lilly took her break. Left here with that guy in the picture. She left and never came back.”
*
Lilly Miller’s brother should have known she worked at the courthouse. Thankfully, Betty was too busy with applicants to notice. I quickly disappeared before she got wise to me.
I located a phone booth outside, flipped through the white pages, found Lilly’s address, and headed to her apartment.
On the drive, I considered my latest development—that there was no evidence Lilly and Thomas applied for a marriage license. The assumption that Thomas had come to Vegas to marry Lilly for a deferment seemed less likely.
So, why would Thomas come here the night before his induction? Maybe he wanted one last night with Lilly in Sin City before Vietnam? I suppose this could be true. But then why not tell his parents? Why leave Carson City in such a hurry?
*
The Grecian was a Mediterranean-style apartment complex with open-air units that horseshoed around a pool. Lilly lived on the third floor. Navigating the stairs was an event. When I reached her apartment, sweat pooled under my arms, and my leg screamed.
I sucked in a breath. Then, another. Tried to steady my ragged breathing before I finally knocked on her door.
No one answered.
There was a light on inside. I pressed my face to the window. But there were curtains—thick, like cotton. I could only make out shapes, no details.
I went back to the door.
Knocked again.
Still, nothing.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my knife to jimmy the lock. Reconsidered it. Tried the knob instead. It turned in my hand.
“Hello?” I eased the door open. “Lilly?”
Her studio apartment looked like it had been tossed—drawers half open, clothes strewn on the bed, costume jewelry scattered on the floor. I continued to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was empty. Lilly’s toiletries were gone. In the closet—empty hangers. No suitcase.
If Thomas had come to Vegas to party with Lilly, she’d have no reason to pack, no reason to leave her apartment in a hurry.
None of this made sense.
I raked a hand through my hair, circled the room again, found nothing. I needed to figure out my next steps. I tried to sort through the facts and the assumptions I’d made.
I knew Lilly and Thomas were together—thanks to Betty. Thomas picked her up at the courthouse. Lilly had her suitcase with her, or they came back to her apartment and packed. The order didn’t really matter. They planned to disappear together—at least, that’s what it looked like. But where? Canada, maybe?
This would make sense if Thomas was dodging the draft. But why become a fugitive if there were a legal way to gain a deferment?
Desperate for answers, I went to her trash cans. The bathroom one was empty. But the kitchen can was full. I pulled the bin from under the sink, the contents nearly spilling over the sides, and dumped it onto a table. Food leftovers, wrappers, bottles—everything you’d expect in a kitchen can was there.
Nothing useful.
Which meant I would need to question Lilly’s neighbors. See if they knew anything. Interviews like these took time, time I didn’t have.
I had to call Lou. I washed my hands. Found Lilly’s phone, dialed his number.
“Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“Any luck?”
“No dice.”
“What do you mean no dice?”
I told him about my trip to the courthouse, going to Lilly’s apartment, how I had nothing.
“I can’t go to the senator with nothing.”
“I hear ya, Lou. I’m not happy about it either.”
“You need to give me something, Jack.”
“I’ll continue to look for leads. But it could take some time. If you want to move things along, have the senator call Vegas PD, report the car stolen. I know he wants to keep this a private matter, but this may be the quickest way to locate his son.”
“I don’t know.” Lou blew out a breath. Ice dropped into a tumbler. A splash of liquor—whiskey, maybe? That’s what it sounded like over the phone. Lou took a long sip and sighed. “I’ll suggest it to the senator.”
“Good.” I pulled out a chair, collapsed into the seat, my leg still sore from the stairs. I leaned back, my eyes rested on the space under the kitchen sink, the spot where I’d yanked out the trash can. Then, I saw it—the newspaper. It must have tumbled out, and that’s why I’d missed it.
“Did you hear me, Jack?”
I ignored Lou, put the receiver on the table. Made my way to the sink. Reached for the newspaper. An issue of The Rebel Yell—UNLV’s student newspaper.
On the front, pictures of antiwar protests, students burning draft cards, an editorial encouraging students to join the campus resistance movement. It mentioned the Student Union for Peace Action, the Committee to Aid American War Objectors, and the Anti-Draft Programme—all Canadian groups willing to help resisters once they crossed the border. The name of the person who wrote the piece was circled: Arlo Stanley. His picture was included as part of his byline.
Did Lilly and Thomas plan to connect with Arlo and use his connections to make a run for the Canadian border?
I walked out the door and was halfway to UNLV before I remembered that when I’d left Lilly’s apartment, Lou was still on the phone.
*
It was only the second week of the fall semester, and UNLV’s Student Union was busier than I expected. Still, I managed to find a parking space next to the building. I walked through double glass doors that opened to a common area. Students sat at tables drinking coffee, talking, studying. I walked to the Student Union’s directory, located the newspaper, and followed the signs to their office on the first floor.
When I arrived, The Rebel Yell was in full swing—students at desks typing copy, others proofreading—everyone seemed to be working to put the newspaper to bed.
No one matched Arlo’s picture.
A pimple-faced kid saw me at the reception desk and walked over. I told him I was looking for Arlo Stanley. He turned to a group of students gathered by a desk. They were debating the placement of an article.
“The piece about Johnson’s new policy should be above the fold,” someone in the group said. “I know UNLV seniors that had college deferments who got married today because they didn’t want to be drafted when they graduated in the spring.”
“I still think the piece on substandard housing conditions is more wide-reaching for our student body,” another person argued.
“Anyone seen Arlo?” The pimple-faced kid asked before the group could wind up again. “There’s an old guy here looking for him.”
A blonde seemed to study me. Her eyes narrowed. Maybe it was the haircut or maybe it was because I still carried myself like a soldier that set her off. But it didn’t take a genius to see she didn’t trust me.
“You just missed him,” she said, her voice tight.
“Really?” A kid with Buddy Holly glasses thumbed toward a row of closed office doors. “I could’ve sworn I just saw him in the—”
“Shut up, Walter,” she hissed, her eyes still on me. “He’s gone for the night.”
I considered pressing Walter. But the way he clammed up when the blonde yelled at him, I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything in front of her.
The pimple-faced kid returned to the reception desk. “Sorry for the confusion, man.” He handed me a business card. “If you want to call tomorrow, Arlo’s usually here between classes.”
That wasn’t going to work for me. I took the card anyway and thanked the kid.
Arlo was clearly nearby. The question was where.
*
Outside the Student Union, I followed the sidewalk that looped behind the building until I was on the back side of the newspaper office. My plan was to peer in the windows and see if Arlo was in one of the offices.
But I didn’t get that far.
Along the sidewalk, at the curb in a no-parking zone, was the senator’s Ford Fairlane.
I stood there stunned. “I’ll be damned.”
I walked closer.
A parking ticket from campus security was clipped under a windshield wiper. I looked inside the car. There was a suitcase in the back seat. I didn’t know where Thomas and Lilly were on campus, but I did know one way to slow them down.
I glanced around, confirmed I was still alone. Pulled out my knife. Slashed a tire. In case there was a spare, I slashed another. I waited until both tires were flat before I turned to the Student Union and peered through the windows.
The newspaper offices were empty.
I walked up the sidewalk, looking for Thomas. Maybe he and Lilly were at a table in the Student Union with Arlo, and I’d somehow missed them. I went through the common area again.
They weren’t there.
I continued through the rear doors of the Student Union, which opened onto the quad, a wide-open space that connected one side of the campus to the other. That’s when I saw them, huddled under a cluster of palm trees.
Three people—two men, one woman.
At least, I thought it was them.
Despite the lights that ran along the sidewalk and the full moon overhead, the trees still cast shadows on their faces, making their features difficult to distinguish.
I dropped behind a group of kids walking across the quad, a cloud of pot wafting behind them. I did my best to stay upwind while I made my approach. When I was closer to the trees, I shortened my gait and confirmed their faces.
Arlo was talking. His Afro was big, probably the biggest I’d ever seen, and I fought the urge to stare. He tapped an envelope against his hand. “Everything you need, man—passport, driver’s license, credit cards—it’s all here.” He stopped talking and looked at me.
My stomach tightened. I glanced away, pretended to struggle with my cane.
“Everything okay?” Thomas asked Arlo.
I walked toward a bench. It was close enough that I could still hear while I pretended to nurse my leg.
“Sorry.” Arlo shook his head and laughed. “I’ve been doing this for a year now. I’m still a little paranoid. Guess I still expect the feds to rush in and arrest us.”
He handed the envelope to Lilly.
She looked inside, seemed to confirm the contents before she dropped the envelope into a leather shoulder bag.
Thomas handed Arlo a wad of cash. “You sure this will work? I don’t want any issues at the border.”
“No issues so far,” Arlo said.
“None that you know about,” Thomas muttered.
“There is a list of addresses in the envelope,” Arlo continued. “Sympathizers, safe houses, places where you can stop if you get jammed up.”
Guess I was right. Thomas was making a run for the border. The kid couldn’t commit to the military or a woman. Why get married when you can buy a new identity and disappear instead?
They continued to talk. But I didn’t need to hear anymore. I pushed up from the bench and walked back toward the Fairlane. My job was to ensure Thomas made it to his induction. And that’s what I planned to do.
*
I leaned on the hood of the Fairlane and waited for Thomas and Lilly. It was secluded behind the Student Union. If I was going to honor the senator’s request for discretion, this was the best place to confront them. It wasn’t long before they were walking toward me. When Thomas saw me, he stepped in front of Lilly.
Kid was chivalrous. Certainly not what I expected.
“Can I help you?” Thomas asked.
“No.” I folded my arms. “But you can help yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Friday, June 1, 1949.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not into riddles. We are in a hurry. So, if you could get off my car—”
“That was my induction date for the Korean conflict,” I continued, unwavering. “I watched rich kids like you avoid the draft. While kids like me, kids with working-class parents, took your place. What makes your lives more valuable than ours?”
Thomas frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I did my duty. Your father sent me to make sure you do yours. You have an induction date in Carson City tomorrow morning. It’s my job to make sure you’re there.”
Thomas blinked. Then, his eyes went wide. “Wait. My dad thinks I’m dodging the draft?”
“Aren’t you? I saw you with Arlo—the documents.”
“Thomas.” Lilly tugged on his arm. “This has gone too far. We need to tell him.”
“It’s not safe, Lilly.”
“If he worked for them, I’d already be dead.”
Thomas shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m not going to cause a rift between you and your father.” Lilly stepped forward. She looked petite, smaller somehow than when I first saw her in the quad. “The documents aren’t for Thomas. They’re for me.”
She told me about her job at the license bureau. How she also worked as a stenographer in the courts. The bribes she’d witnessed. Cops, judges, government officials—all connected to the mob. “I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t like I could look the other way. So, I collected evidence, contacted the FBI. And—” Her voice cracked.
Thomas put his arm over her shoulders.
She sucked in a breath, tried again. Her eyes started to mist.
“The agent Lilly was supposed to meet was murdered,” Thomas filled in. He handed her a handkerchief.
She dabbed her eyes and nodded. “I knew I needed to run. But I had no money. No car. No resources. I called Thomas.”
They both stopped talking and looked at me now like they were waiting for me to say something.
“It’s the truth, sir,” Thomas added.
I thought about what they’d told me, compared it to what I knew. The rush to the courthouse but no marriage license. The meet with Arlo—he’d handed Lilly the documents, not Thomas. There was only one suitcase in the back seat of the Fairlane.
Thomas was never running to Vegas to avoid the draft.
He was running to Vegas to help a friend.
“Maybe if you explained things to the senator,” I tried. “He could help you.”
“We considered that,” Thomas said. “But political circles in Nevada are small. If this leaked, if something was said in my father’s office in front of the wrong person, it wouldn’t take much for them to find Lilly.”
Sirens.
My eyes went to the ticket still under the Fairlane’s windshield, and my stomach tightened. “You need to get out of here.”
“You think they’re coming for Lilly?” Thomas asked.
“No, they’re coming for you.” I told him how I’d advised the senator to report the car stolen. How when campus security filed their parking ticket with the local precinct, it alerted the Vegas police department the Fairlane was here.
“If the police find me,” Lilly said, panicked, “you may as well hand me over to the mob. Give me the keys, Thomas. If I leave now, I’ll be gone before they get here. You can tell them it was a misunderstanding.”
“That won’t work,” I told her. “The Fairlane has two flat tires.”
“What?” Thomas asked.
“Take mine.” I tossed him my keys. “It’s the Buick Riviera in the Student Union parking lot. I’d take Lilly myself, but you’ll be faster without me. I’ll smooth things over with the police.”
The sirens were louder.
Thomas locked eyes with Lilly. Some silent exchange I didn’t understand.
“What are you waiting for?” I pressed.
She reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out a large manila envelope, handed it to me. “I trust you’ll know what to do with this.”
And then, just like that, they were gone.
*
Two weeks later, I sat on my couch in my PI office wearing my boxers and T-shirt, another Swanson TV dinner in front of me, waiting for the CBS Evening News to start. I wondered if Cronkite had received the envelope yet. The one with Lilly’s recordings—evidence that connected Vegas officials to the mob.
After I left Thomas and Lilly that night, on the cab ride back to my office, I’d contemplated what to do with the tapes. I thought about going back to the feds, even giving the recordings to Lou. But in the end, I decided to send them to Cronkite. He was the most trusted man in America, after all. If anyone could shed light on the truth and hold people accountable, it would be him.
Lou wasn’t happy when I told him that I’d found the senator’s car but had no luck detaining the kid.
The next morning, I received a telegram from Thomas telling me where I could find the Buick. The kid must have used the registration paperwork in my glove box to find my address. He could have a future in the PI business if he survived Vietnam.
Truth was, I didn’t know if Thomas made it back to Carson City in time for his induction date. And for the first time since I started this case, I didn’t care.
During the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, Lou had charged the enemy not because of some obligation to our nation. He did it to protect the people who served by his side—his friends. No different than when Thomas risked everything and rushed to Vegas to help Lilly.
Meeting Thomas made me realize my hang-up with deferments had nothing to do with dodging the draft. It wasn’t a person’s lack of service that bothered me. It was their lack of character.
And just like Lou, Thomas had it in spades.
Cronkite started to speak. The audio faded in and out on my TV. A picture of the Clark County District Courthouse filled the screen. “Corruption and the mob. Early today, CBS News broke a story—”
“Jack.” Lou pounded on my door. “It’s me. Open up.”
“Come back during office hours.”
More pounding. “Damn it, Jack!”
I limped over to the door, flipped the dead bolt, turned the knob.
Lou pushed past me. “Are you watching the news? I’ve got a job. It’s a big client. Work that needs the utmost discretion. It’s about the tapes that went to Cronkite’s office.”
My eyes went wide.
“I need you to track down the whistleblower. You do this, Jack. And you do it right. The firm will offer you a permanent position …”
I looked past Lou at my TV dinner, the smell of Salisbury steak wafting in the air, and I couldn’t help but think that I’d be eating them for a while.
*Michael Bracken is a wonderful friend and mentor. When he was accepting submissions for Groovy Gumshoes: Private Eyes in the Psychedelic Sixties, he asked that I write a story with a military character. I told him that I’d never written a private eye story and couldn’t land on an idea that worked for me. Michael suggested looking at a PI hired to recover a draft dodger. This was the spark that inspired “One Night in 1965.” The heart of the story was inspired by my father, a man who taught me to appreciate history and a Vietnam veteran who volunteered to serve.