Political Suicide Page 2

  “ ‘Their story is known to all of you. It is the story of the American man-at-arms. My estimate of him was formed in the battlefields many, many years ago, and has never changed. I regarded him then, as I regard him now, as one of the world’s noblest figures—not only as one of the finest military characters, but also as one of the most stainless.

  “ ‘His name and fame are the birthright of every American citizen. In his youth and strength, his love and loyalty, he gave all that mortality can give. He needs no eulogy from me, or from any other man. He has written his own history and written it in red on his enemy’s breast.’ ”

  The Mad Cow’s mouth had dropped open. He was still standing, unsure of what to do. As for the rest of the hall, I knew that I had them, or MacArthur did. Everyone had stopped eating. Some utensils were held in midair. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to hold a room spellbound. MacArthur’s words came to me, even when I thought they weren’t there. It was almost like I was channeling his address.

  “ ‘In memory’s eye I could see those staggering columns of the First World War, bending under soggy packs on many a weary march, from dripping dusk to drizzling dawn, slogging ankle-deep through mire of shell-pocked roads; to form grimly for the attack, blue-lipped, covered with sludge and mud, chilled by the wind and rain, driving home to their objective, and for many, to the judgment seat of God.

  “ ‘I do not know the dignity of their birth, but I do know the glory of their death. They died unquestioning, uncomplaining, with faith in their hearts, and on their lips the hope that we would go on to victory.

  “ ‘Always for them: duty, honor, country.’ ”

  The triumvirate of duty, honor, and country felled even the Mad Cow. He took a chair, and like everyone else, listened with avid attention. These were words that the cadets were thirsty to hear. These were sentiments and thoughts that defined who and what we wanted to be. Like Gregory Peck, I was playing the part of MacArthur. All I needed was the corncob pipe, but then smoking was no longer allowed at West Point. I spoke as he had of the challenges of the new world, but how our duty remained the same.

  “ ‘Through all this welter of change and development your mission remains fixed, determined, inviolable. It is to win our wars. Everything else in your professional career is but corollary to this vital dedication. All other public purpose, all other public projects, all other public needs, great or small, will find others for their accomplishments; but you are the ones who are trained to fight.’ ”

  MacArthur’s words, spoken so long ago, seemed ripped from the headlines. In the here and now, they still resounded.

  “ ‘Let civilian voices argue the merits or demerits of our processes of government: whether our strength is being sapped by deficit financing indulged in too long, by federal paternalism grown too mighty, by power groups grown too arrogant, by politics grown too corrupt, by crime grown too rampant, by morals grown too low, by taxes grown too high, by extremists grown too violent; whether our personal liberties are as thorough and complete as they should be.’ ”

  The longer I talked, the stronger my voice had grown, and my audience was responding in kind. Our wing was packed with four thousand cadets. They were like an evangelical congregation, exhorting me to greater things. I rode the MacArthur horse home in full throat.

  “ ‘The long, gray line has never failed us. Were you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise from their white crosses, thundering those magic words: duty, honor, country.

  “ ‘This does not mean that you are warmongers. On the contrary, the soldier above all other people prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war. But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers: Only the dead have seen the end of war.

  “ ‘The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen vainly for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll.

  “ ‘In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: duty, honor, country.

  “ ‘Today marks my final roll call with you. But I want you to know that when I cross the river, my last conscious thoughts will be of the corps, and the corps, and the corps.

  “ ‘I bid you farewell.’ ”

  As I finished speaking, tears were raining down from my eyes, but I wasn’t alone. Just as when MacArthur had spoken, there wasn’t a dry eye among all the cadets. My speech exceeded the thirty minutes allotted to breakfast, but not a single soul had departed the room. For once, the strict timetables of the Academy did not rule the student body. The cadets rose en masse and started cheering. I suspect most of the applause was for MacArthur, but knew some of it was for me. Even the Mad Cow was wildly clapping and shouting.

  From that moment on, I knew my veil of anonymity was lost. I had announced myself as a force to be reckoned with, but at the same time I set myself up to be scrutinized. I did this even with the full knowledge that in the military the nail that stands out is the same nail that tends to be hammered down very hard.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was five minutes until midnight and I was facing the prospect of another bar and another witching hour. I took a few deep breaths and hoped that my heavy breathing would energize me. It was time to work, time to be the human sponge.

  I was staying at the Blue Crab Inn located along Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. The resort featured two restaurants and one bar. I was shopping the property, a euphemism for spying. My job was to offer management my impressions and suggestions. I was the anonymous guest, the fly on the wall, and sometimes the fly in the ointment.

  The Jimmy Sooks Lounge overlooks the Miles River. Male blue crabs are called jimmies and the females are referred to as sooks, thus the name. I knew the lay of the land, having audited the Blue Crab Inn three times in the past year. It was a good account, meaning they were happy with my work and they paid promptly. Five years ago, I started my company, the Last Resort. At the time, the company name might have been a personal confession as well. The work is mostly corporate undercover. The company stationery lists my Maryland private investigator’s license number, but that’s strictly for show. When pressed by strangers as to my profession, I always say, “I’m a hospitality consultant,” the same answer hookers usually give.

  Another deep breath. Of late, it was the only kind of heavy breathing going on in my life. It was showtime. I walked into the bar and registered my impressions with one look at the room.

  Jimmy Sooks Lounge less than a third full. One bartender, one cocktail waitress on duty. ESPN on television. Muzak in background. Overall, lounge appears to be clean and kept up, though some debris under the table closest to hallway is clearly visible to anyone entering the room.

  There were three seats available at the bar. In less than a second, I decided on the best place to sit, a spot that afforded me a direct view of the register and the point-of-sale printer. As I made my way to the counter, I gave the impression of being just another business sort out to finish my workday with a nightcap. I was wearing my Invisible Man outfit—a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a loosened red paisley tie.

  Condiment tray needs attention. Fruit flies hovering over limes and cherries. Some swizzle sticks on counter. Toothpicks and a bar napkin on floor. Liquor display in disarray. Bottles not arranged neatly, some labels not facing forward. One patron with an empty glass. Bartender One slouching against back counter talking with what appears to be a friend, a white male, approximately twenty-five, with short, curly black hair, and a gold earring.

  I took a seat and casually craned my neck around for a look-se
e. There was a mirror stretching along the bar wall that would provide me the eyes that some people swore were in the back of my head.

  Cobwebs in southeast corner of bar. Nautical memorabilia also in need of attention from housekeeping. Dust on anchor and dip net displays. Cellophane wrappers and other debris visible on crab traps hanging on wall. Eleven patrons in lounge. Four at counter: Earring Man; Empty Glass, who’s an older white male; and Lovey-Dovey Couple, both white, she blond hair, him brown. In the lounge are three businessmen at a table, all clean-shaven, two white, one black; white male in corner; a Hispanic couple in the back booth closest to hallway; a white female in booth closest to wall.

  With my peripheral vision I took in the unhurried approach of the bartender. He stood in front of me and said, “What can I get you?”

  No opening pleasantries, no smile. Management needs to coach staff on proper method of approaching a guest. Bartender One is Todd, a white male, six feet tall, two hundred pounds, wearing a uniform and name tag. He has short brown hair, a mustache, and a tattoo of a bulldog on left wrist.

  “Vodka and tonic. Light on the ice. And a water back, please.”

  “You got it.”

  Bartender One makes no attempt to upgrade drink order. House vodka is Smirnoff. Judging by call bottles, he could simply have asked, “Stolichnaya?” Or, “Skyy?” Or, better yet, “Do you have a preference of vodka?” Bartender One uses glass to get ice instead of using ice scoop. If glass breaks in ice it is a potential hazard. Recommend that all bartenders be required to use ice scoop. He free-pours the drink. Five-count pour. Recommend to management that bartenders use shot glass and splash for a consistent pour. Lime garnish placed in drink.

  The bartender returned with the two drinks, placed the napkins down on the counter, and put the glasses atop them.

  “That will be seven seventy-five.”

  No offer to run a tab. No inquiry as to whether I’m a guest in the hotel. Lost opportunity for personalization of service. Management should encourage Bartender One to start a tab as it facilitates more drink orders.

  I removed a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. When performing an audit, you always pay cash at the bar to see if the staff is following what bean counters call cash-control procedures. One of my jobs is to bloodhound the path of the money. Since time immemorial publicans have worried about ducats safely landing in the till instead of in an employee’s pocket.

  Bartender One immediately retrieves tendered twenty-dollar bill. Money picked up without acknowledgment of appreciation. Management should stress that all servers thank guests upon payment.

  I don’t particularly care for vodka, but I always make a point of ordering a clear drink because it’s easy to look through. Raising my drink, I pretended to take a long sip. What I was really doing was peering through the looking glass. As the bartender approached the register, the tingle in my neck clued me to what was going to happen a moment before it did. Maybe it was the bartender’s momentary pause at the cash register, or it could have been the surreptitious tilt of his head followed by the almost imperceptible look to the right, and then to his left. I always wondered if my foreknowledge was the result of physical giveaways, or if I was sensitized to some unseen vibration. It was the kind of thing I never probed too closely for fear of losing the magic.

  At 11:58 Bartender One hits the NO SALE key on the register. He puts the twenty-dollar bill into the till, acts as if he’s depositing money for the drink, but actually removes twenty dollars in change. In his hand he palms a five-dollar bill.

  The bartender returned with my change, muttered, “Thank you,” then walked off.

  No receipt offered for obvious reasons. Management might consider having bartenders dispense receipts with all drinks. Twelve dollars and twenty-five cents in change returned to me at 11:59.

  I tracked the bartender’s movements. He stopped as if to tidy up some glasses on the back counter, but his subterfuge was obvious.

  At 11:59:45 Bartender One slips five-dollar bill into tip jar.

  There was a small sense of letdown. Part of the anticlimax was this feeling of having witnessed too many venial sins in my thirty-five years. There was also this sense that the last act had already been played out, but that my job as critic required me to watch the rest of an overly long scene. Management and ownership would feel cheated if I didn’t stay in the bar for at least an hour. They always liked the details and comments in my reports. I was living proof of the devil in the details.

  Though the kitchen is still open, Bartender One makes no attempt to sell appetizers and food. Management needs to stress that all lounge staff make this offer to patrons.

  Epitaph on my tombstone, I thought: Do you want fries with that?

  Only one table tent with bar menu visible at counter. Management should coordinate with bartenders re table tents to make sure an adequate number are on display.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched Empty Glass signal for a refill. The bartender, looking almost directly at the man, missed his gesture. Obliviousness in serving staff always reminded me of David McCord’s summation of a waiter’s being called to heaven: By and by, God caught his eye.

  “I’m ready for another one,” I heard the man say.

  The bar television was tuned into a cable news station that was covering the contentious state of the presidential primary season. The political divide was as bad as it had ever been, with elections marked by a bombing, as well as the assassination attempt on Mark Stanton. The Republican Congressman had suffered a wound to his arm, but that had only kept him out of the race for a few weeks. Most of the candidates had reported death threats, and security had been shored up. It didn’t help matters that no candidate had yet secured enough delegate votes to guarantee the nomination of either major party. Even though Super Tuesday had come and gone almost two months earlier, the dogfight continued.

  News station playing on bar television. Coverage on candidates and primaries. Management should consider instructing employees to tune station into ESPN so as to avoid potential disagreements among patrons.

  Alcohol and partisan politics went together about as well as gunpowder and fire. I took another sip of my drink, studying the bartender out of the corner of my eye.

  At midnight, Bartender One manufactures drink for Empty Glass. He dispenses five-count of Dewar’s and splash of soda. Drink rung up and placed on existing tab.

  At the sidebar, the point-of-sales register spat out a drink order. In no hurry, the bartender tore off the order from the printer, read it, and then started to make the drink.

  There were several point-of-sale terminals situated around the lounge where the cocktail servers could punch in orders. The system was designed to allow expediency of serving. It was a big lounge, and the setup allowed servers to stay on the floor instead of having to walk to the bar to turn in orders. P.O.S. systems are designed to prevent confusion and collusion between bartender and cocktail server. The drinks are specified on the order ticket going into the bar terminal. This prevents accidental and purposeful mistakes. By eliminating the “calling” of orders, management tries to control the flow of drinks into the lounge, as well as discourage the potential teaming up of bartender and server in their own side business.

  I looked up at the television, and pretended interest in the news story about the hotly contested presidential primaries, before gradually letting my eyes wander through the lounge. The cocktail server was chatting with the group of three businessmen. Though they were about fifteen feet away from me, I was able to tune in to some of their conversation. I also made out the writing on the server’s name tag. One girlfriend I used to take on audits said I had the eyes of an eagle and ears of a beagle. She sometimes also added that I had the soul of a frog, to which I would say that my amphibian makeover was merely awaiting the kiss of some princess to transform me to my true regal self. That same girlfriend eventually broke up with me over an argument about my business, or at least that was the final culmination of
other arguments. She said that she was tired of being my shill, tired of acting out her small role. I said to her, “There are no small roles, only small actors.” I remember she gave me a last pitying glance and then took her leave from my life. So much for getting in the last word.

  Cocktail Server One is Mercedes, five foot two inches, one hundred and ten pounds, Hispanic female.

  I picked up my drink, swiveled a little on the bar stool, raised my glass, and did my sneak-peeking and sipping.

  Cocktail Server One appears friendly and interacts well with guests but needs to police her station better. Several straws and bar napkins on floor. At least half a dozen empty glasses on tables that need bussing.

  My head never moved, only the eyes over my glass. It was my alligator impression. Like the reptile, I tried to disappear save for my peering eyes atop the water. My view of the swamp suddenly got a little interesting. Two heads went on alert at the same time. The heads belonged to the two singles in the lounge, the woman in the booth and the man along the far wall. I used the bar mirror to see what had prompted their interest and saw a man entering the room. The new arrival paused to study the interior of Jimmy Sooks. The man who was seated gestured almost imperceptibly with his head in the direction of the woman in the booth. The signal was immediately understood. The newcomer made eye contact with the woman and then started walking toward her. Instead of watching what was going on, the man who had signaled made a point of looking the other way, suddenly absorbed in the river view.

  My neck felt like it was holding auditions for flamenco dancers. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what. Through the bar mirror I studied the man as he made his way through the lounge. He presented himself as looking about forty, standing six foot two, and weighing around two hundred and twenty-five pounds. The man had short, dark hair, and behind horn-rimmed glasses were dark brown eyes. In this case, looks were deceiving. The wig was the first giveaway. It was very good, but I had several that were better. I suspected that his glasses were as unnecessary as his tinted contacts. There was padding going on inside his high-collared leather coat, and lifts in his shoes. The man was smaller, lighter, and older than he actually appeared. Because my work often requires me to change my own appearance, I can spot a toupee at a hundred yards. What wasn’t obvious was why the man was altering his appearance. This was Maryland, not Hollywood.