Forty

For as much as I believe in God, the possibility of miracles and the existence of angels (and the willingness to admit I am far from being one) I doubt very much any of God’s legions of seraphim carry sniper rifles.

So, who made the other two sniper shots at the dock, catching a bad guy in the head and giving Tomás, Lucy and myself a new lease on life?

Drinking a beer on the stoop of my house two nights after the dock firefight (and after answering several hundred questions posed by Detroit PD, State cops, FBI, Homeland Security, ICE and DEA, with my trusted attack-dog attorney David G. Baker vigorously defending my dubious virtue) I had a feeling I couldn’t shake. That uneasy feeling of having been watched over a period of time from a distance. Every movement documented and annotated, every breath logged and tagged, every uttered word entered into an invisible ledger.

I didn’t like the feeling of someone doing to me what the Marines had taught me to do so well: put a human life in the crosshairs and wait patiently for the killing moment.

Between sips of my beer, my eyes kept landing on the house of a new neighbor. Trent T.R. Ogilvy.

Qui audet adipiscitur.

Who Dares, Wins.

Ogilvy was former SAS, which made him if not a brother-in-arms, at least a distant and highly respected cousin. And if anybody could shoot out the eye of a flying sparrow at two-hundred yards it was British SAS.

But all indications were Trent T.R. Ogilvy was who he said he was; a late-stage hippy with a ridiculous man-bun hairstyle doing socially conscientious works through an internationally recognized charitable organization. All while grossing out a few neighbors with his morning front porch yoga routine.

Whatever his background, Ogilvy had at no cost brought computers and Wi-Fi to people living in Detroit’s information deserts.

Who says America doesn’t need foreign aid?

Lucy had checked him out. As deeply as she burrowed into his digital footprint, he appeared only to be Trent T. R. Ogilvy, trust fund kid from an aristocratic English military family that possessed eight decades worth of commendations and decorations from the Queen herself. Ogilvy, it seems, had even served briefly with Prince Harry in Iraq.

Maybe I should just sit on my stoop, listen to the white-noise of traffic on I-75, drink cold Mexican beer and count my lucky stars.

Maybe I should just be grateful for two nights without ICE patrols creeping through the ’hood while they reassessed what kind of State-sponsored terror organization they wanted to be when they grew up.

And maybe I should just get back to flipping houses and daydreaming about Tatina naked in my bed. Or naked in her bed.

Maybe.

At seven thirty the next morning, the biker’s phone rang and I answered it.

“What happened?” the man on the other end said.

“What do ya mean, ‘what happened’?” I said trying to keep my replies terse.

“The shipment,” the man said. “Our—merchandise. It should have arrived at the next stop four hours ago.”

“I put ’em on the boat,” I said. “I don’t drive the fuckin’ thing.”

“Miss Olivier is, of course, concerned—”

“Just have my fuckin’ shipping fee ready tonight.”

There was an exasperated sigh at the other end of the phone. “Again, it is highly suggested you not bring any firearms as Miss Olivier travels with her own well-trained and equipped security detail.”

“Should I bring flowers or condoms?”

The man hung up.

I showered, dressed and decided to make my way to Trent Ogilvy’s house for a pleasant softball interrogation. As grateful as I was for whoever took those other two sniper shots, I found myself in need of an actual name and a face toward which I could direct my gratitude. Mysteries, enigmas, puzzles and paradoxes were best left to God Almighty.

And NPR’s Will Shortz.

I had just closed my front door behind me when I saw Lucy Three Rivers walking north toward Vernor Highway. She was nearly dwarfed by her oversized backpack.

“Going somewhere?” I said, catching up with her.

“Yeah, I uh—I gotta go, okay?” She nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“You know you can stay,” I said. “This is just as much your neighborhood as it is mine.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, unable to look at me. “Whatever.”

We stood quiet for a moment, letting the warm morning slowly wash over us.

“This isn’t about what happened at the dock, is it?” I finally said.

“No,” she said, finally looking at me. “No, that was—I’ve never been a part of something that—you know—”

“Meant something?”

“Yeah.” She issued a brief smile. After a moment, she said, “Being happy. It feels like—uncomfortable. Like a lie. I don’t trust it. I mean, one minute you’re dancing with it—laughing and, you know, grabbin’ each others’ goodies—next thing, it’s cutting your fuckin’ throat.”

“Happiness as a prelude to betrayal,” I said. “I hear ya.”

Awkward silence. Then she said, “It’s not that I’m not grateful—”

“But you’ve got to go away,” I said. “See if what you’ve felt here stays with you for a while. See if it’s got a draw on you after a couple months, maybe a year.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking away from me. Her eyes began to fill. “Whatever.”

“You need money?”

“No.” She wiped her eyes on her shoulders. “I’m good. I, uh—I left that letter you gave me at Carmela and Sylvia’s. I don’t need to be carrying somebody’s fuckin’ last-will-and-testament around with me. I need money, Skittles’ll work something out where I get paid.”

I brought out my wallet, emptied it and shoved the bills into one of her oversized cargo shorts pockets.

“Any idea of which way you’re heading?” I said.

“U.P.,” she said. “Back to the Sault. Ain’t said ‘hey’ to my mom’s spirit in a while. Maybe see what’s new in Mackinaw City—which I’m sure ain’t jack squat.”

Out of nowhere, she hugged me tightly, wept for about five seconds and almost as quickly pulled away.

“Hey! Where you goin’?”

It was Jimmy.

“I’ll let you kids talk,” I said.

Lucy attempted to smile at me.

I attempted to smile at her.

I walked away, turning back long enough to see Jimmy and Lucy shake hands. Then, standing on tiptoe, she gave Jimmy a kiss on his cheek.

Then she made her way to Vernor Highway, turned right and disappeared.

I arrived at Trent Ogilvy’s house just in time to see my real estate agent’s grandson, Claymont, hammering a for sale sign into the modest lawn.

“Hey, Clay,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Hey, Mr. Snow,” Clay said. “Seems Mr. Ogilvy moved out couple nights ago. Left instructions with Grandmomma Jesse to put the place up. Not much left inside. Said to donate any profit to charity. Gave her a couple grand in case there’s a loss—which there ain’t gonna be since white folk done rediscovered Southwest Detroit.” Clay reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. He held it out to me and said, “Left this for you.”

I took the envelope. Scrawled on it was a name that I no longer recognized: Lieutenant August O. Snow, FOB Lion, United States Marine Corp.

I opened it.

Inside was a small, worn piece of a map.

Korengal Valley, Afghanistan.

There were old stains on the map.

Blood from another time, another place.