Tin Soldier: The Seven Sequels Page 2

  “Yes, I was at the funeral,” Lee said. “I remember thinking that kids these days hadn’t earned the right to wear their hair long like you do.”

  Earned the right to wear long hair? What kind of stupid thing was that to say? Webb thought. Maybe adults these days hadn’t earned the right to criticize kids they didn’t know. Especially since Lee Knox had no idea why Webb refused to cut his hair. Webb fought an irrational impulse to stand and fight.

  “I remember thinking that even though I didn’t like the way you looked,” Lee continued, “you sounded good on that guitar. Okay. Better than good.”

  And maybe I don’t care about your opinion and maybe I don’t like orange jerseys with UT in big letters, Webb thought. What business was it of Lee’s how Webb dressed and looked? But Webb needed information, and again he reminded himself there was no sense starting an argument.

  “I told Ruby I’d hear you out as a favor to her,” Lee said. “But I might be the wrong person for you to ask about the conflict.”

  Yeah, Webb thought, if you don’t like kids because of how they look, you might be the wrong person for anybody. But he kept that to himself as well.

  Instead, he said, “You fought in Vietnam, right?”

  “I served in Vietnam, son. I served my country and I served the people of my country. And since it’s apparent you don’t understand the difference between fighting and serving, I think you are proving my point. Which is this: I might be the wrong person for you to ask for help.”

  “Help me understand the difference then. You were a solider. You had to fight, right?”

  “That war was only forty or so years ago. I flew home in my uniform, and as I walked through the airport, people spat on me and called me a baby killer. Do you know why?”

  “No,” Webb said. “I don’t.”

  “Do you know why the war was started?”

  “No,” Webb said. “I don’t.”

  “Do you know why the war was lost?”

  “No,” Webb said. “I don’t.”

  “When did it start? When did it end? Who was president at the start? Who was president at the end? What happened at Kent State? Who shot Martin Luther King Jr. and why?”

  Webb didn’t answer any of the questions. He didn’t even speak. He suspected it would be a weak excuse to say he didn’t know because he wasn’t American.

  “See”—Lee drew a deep breath—“we’ve got a generation of kids who know nothing about what shaped my generation. In Vietnam, I held friends as they died in my arms. I’ve got other friends came back with me, missing an arm or a leg, who didn’t want to fight but were willing to serve. These are lessons we paid for in blood, son. I deeply resent the fact that these lessons are already forgotten, and that’s why I may not be the person you want to speak to about Vietnam. Because when it comes to Vietnam, I’m an angry person.” Lee paused and evaluated Webb. “You still want to ask your questions? Like you’re working on some report for school?”

  Webb didn’t shy from the man’s hard gaze. He’d faced worse. Way worse. “So you’re telling me I need to know the history, but I shouldn’t ask any questions about it. From a person who was there.”

  Lee looked at Webb for about thirty seconds, then snorted. “You put it like that, it makes me feel somewhat foolish.” He continued, “I’m aware that you did something wonderful for Ruby by bringing word to her about her father’s disappearance. I understand you faced down a bear in the process.”

  “Yes,” Webb said, not adding any details. It had been part of Webb’s time in the wilderness of the North. A mission for his grandfather that had helped him uncover something for Ruby Gavin. Webb’s business wasn’t anyone else’s business, especially not the business of a guy who thought it was funny to suggest that Canadians played football on skates.

  When Lee realized Webb wasn’t going to say anything more, he held out his hand for the ID cards. “Everyone around here is glad you helped her. She’s a good woman. What is it you want to know?”

  Webb handed him the card with the name Jesse Lockewood.

  Lee studied it. “Seeing a card like this brings back memories. I still have my card, somewhere.”

  Webb handed him the second card, with the same photo that identified the man as Benjamin Moody.

  “Interesting,” Lee said. “A little bit of fraud going on here.”

  Then he snorted, as if Webb were an idiot. “You think maybe somehow, out of 100,000 grunts serving at the time, I know this guy?”

  The guy expected attitude, Webb could give him attitude. “I’m from Canada. I meet people here and tell them I’m from Toronto, and they tell me they know someone in Vancouver and ask if I know that person too. It’s a forty-hour drive across the country to Vancouver. So no, I’m not thinking you know this guy. I was hoping you might know someone who might know someone who might know how to track him down.”

  “Did you wake up in a bad mood?” Lee asked. “Or are you like this all the time?”

  “Nope,” Webb said. He’d let Lee figure out the implications. Although it did seem that Webb was always waking up in a bad mood these days.

  “As a favor to Ruby,” Lee said, “I can find the right government office for you to start asking questions. You can take your bad mood there.”

  Webb had no intention of doing that. If his search went through official channels, maybe it would lead to the wrong person asking the wrong questions about his grandpa, and it might turn out that the man he had loved was a spy. If that information went public, it could hurt a lot of people. No way was Webb going to say any of this out loud. He could barely say it to himself.

  Webb stood. “Mr. Knox, I sure appreciate your time. And I think you are right. You are the wrong person to ask about this.”

  “Sit down,” Lee said. “Somehow we got started off on the wrong foot. If it’s my fault, I apologize. I’m not averse to asking around. And I’m not averse to minding my own business about it. As I said, Ruby Gavin is a good woman, and I know what you did for her was a big help.”

  Webb remained standing. Despite my long hair? he wanted to say. Webb wasn’t sure he liked Lee Knox. But it didn’t matter. Webb would be down the driveway in a minute or two.

  “My insurance business doesn’t take much of my time these days,” Lee said. “My wife, bless her soul, has passed away. My children are grown, and except for golf and tending to my flower bed, there’s not a lot happening in my life. You’ve got me curious enough that I don’t mind asking around, but I’d rather make you a deal than do this for nothing.”

  Webb sat again. If he didn’t start here, where else could he start? He didn’t know anybody in the military.

  “I need some parts from Montgomery for my Camaro,” Lee said. “That’s about two hundred and fifty miles south of here, straight down the interstate. How about you pick up those parts for me, and when you get back, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. Because yes, I have a few friends who might be able to help us track down this soldier, and while you’re gone, I’ll make those calls.”

  “I don’t have a car, so it might take me awhile,” Webb said, calculating how he’d do it. Probably by Greyhound. It was going to cost him the bus fare, but he could pack sandwiches in case he got hungry, and that would make it as inexpensive as possible. It was money he couldn’t afford to spend, but if there was a chance it would help clear his grandfather, he’d spend it.

  “You’re thinking bus, right?” Lee said. “I’ll cover the cost of the ticket and meals and even a night’s stay, if you need it. Plus I’ll pay you for your time. We’ll trade cell numbers. You’ll be looking for Jimmie Lee Jackson, and after you find him, send me a text.”

  Webb wondered if he needed to be suspicious about the offer.

  “Cash up front,” Lee said. “Hundred bucks for your time, and all expenses covered. I know someone who can tell me if either of those cards is fake, so leave them with me and I’ll check with my contacts and ask some questions. With luck, when you get back, I’l
l have some answers for you.”

  It might not lead anywhere, Webb thought, but it beat sitting alone in his apartment and trying to find the energy to write a song that he doubted would get cut anywhere anyhow.

  FIVE

  At 4:00 PM, a little more than twenty-four hours after walking away from Lee Knox, Jim Webb stepped out of a taxi at 400 Washington Avenue in Montgomery, Alabama, to get Camaro parts from a man named Jimmie Lee Jackson.

  Immediately, he wondered if he’d got something wrong.

  Webb’s total travel time for the day had been nine hours, his luggage a guitar travel bag with a small outer pouch. Webb had rolled toothpaste and a toothbrush into a clean T-shirt and tucked it in the pouch. That was all he’d anticipated needing for an overnight trip. As the bus had rolled up and down the gentle hills and around the equally gentle curves going south on Interstate 65, Webb had played softly on his travel guitar, trying to shake off another day and another bad mood.

  The guitar was a Baby Taylor, the wood a natural soft brown. Unlike his Gibson J-45, which was acoustic, the smaller travel guitar had a built-in pickup for a quarter-inch jack and cable. Webb could plug it into an amp, of course, but the real reason for the pickup was that he could plug his cable into an input device for his iPhone. That meant he could strum the guitar and listen to the music through his earbuds, and practice in almost complete silence. These days, though, he felt more like hitting the strings hard on a cheap, shiny black electric he’d purchased from a pawnshop. Nothing like a little heavy metal to brighten the day. Trouble was, the electric wasn’t a good travel guitar. And if Webb wasn’t playing guitar, it was like he wasn’t breathing.

  As he looked around, sunset was less than an hour away. Webb didn’t have much time to find Jimmie Lee Jackson if he was going to find a motel before dark.

  Webb felt a growing confusion. A bunch of elementary-school kids were lining up behind a few teachers, obviously getting ready to leave on a yellow bus. Schoolkids? Not what he associated with car parts.

  The address Lee had given him was not for a house or apartment or business. It was a monument of some kind. There was a huge circular black-granite table with water emerging from a hole in the center and flowing evenly across the top and down the sides. Behind the circular table was a black-granite wall, curved outward like a dam. Etched on the granite wall was an inscription easy to read from the sidewalk where Webb had stepped out of the taxi.

  …Until justice rolls down like waters

  and righteousness like a mighty stream

  —Martin Luther King Jr.

  That would be a cool hook to a song, Webb thought, if he ever felt like tinkering with lyrics again. He kept turning his head to search for Jimmie Lee Jackson. Behind the circular granite table and the curved granite wall was a three-story building with large black reflective windows.

  Webb double-checked his iPhone, glancing at a photo on the screen. He’d taken a snapshot of the sheet of paper Lee Knox had given him. Easy to lose a sheet of paper, but if he took a snapshot and uploaded it to the cloud, it would always be available.

  The handwriting on the photo hadn’t changed; Webb had not made a mistake. The note said, Jimmie Lee Jackson, 400 Washington Ave., Montgomery, AL. He’ll be out front, easy to find.

  The schoolkids marched in formation toward yellow buses down the road, and that left Webb alone with some middle-aged women who were running their fingers along the top of the granite circle.

  Webb moved closer, curious to see why they were doing that. Etched in lines around the edge of the circle were dates and names.

  18 • AUG • 1965 JONATHAN DANIELS • SEMINARY STUDENT KILLED BY DEPUTY • HAYNESVILLE, AL

  18 • JUL • 1965 WILLIE WALLACE BREWSTER • KILLED BY NIGHTRIDERS • ANNISTON, AL

  9 • JUL • 1965 CONGRESS PASSES VOTING RIGHTS ACT OF 1965

  Webb looked for more clues to understanding what it was all about. The sign on the nearby building said Civil Rights Memorial Center.

  Not much help there. He was here to pick up car parts. Had Lee Knox called Jimmie Lee Jackson and told him to wait all day at this spot for a kid with long hair and a guitar?

  That made no sense.

  Webb pulled out his iPhone and sent a text to Lee Knox. No sign of Jimmie Lee Jackson. And address doesn’t look like a place to pick up car parts.

  He put the device back in his pocket. People were running their fingers along the etchings, beneath the thin sheet of water that flowed perfectly in all directions from the center.

  Webb found himself doing the same, reading with a sense of outrage the names and descriptions etched on the granite table as the water flowed around his fingertips.

  He read about Virgil Lamar Ware. Thirteen years old. Riding the handlebars of his brother’s bicycle when he was shot by white teenagers who had come from a segregationist rally held after the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church.

  Segregation? Didn’t that mean separating blacks from whites? One of the questions Lee Knox had asked the day before came back to Webb: Who shot Martin Luther King Jr. and why?

  Webb walked in a circle, reading the inscriptions in the silence.

  Then he saw a familiar name: Jimmie Lee Jackson.

  26 • FEB • 1965 JIMMIE LEE JACKSON • CIVIL RIGHTS MARCH • KILLED BY STATE TROOPER • MARION, AL

  This was the purpose of the note? Webb pulled out his iPhone and looked at the photo of the note again. Jimmie Lee Jackson, 400 Washington Ave., Montgomery, AL. He’ll be out front, easy to find.

  As Webb stared back and forth between the iPhone and the etched letters, someone spoke behind him.

  “Hey, man, you Jim Webb?”

  Webb turned. The speaker was about six inches shorter than Webb. Asian. Mid-fifties. Wispy black mustache that looked like it had been dyed to keep out the gray. Jeans, leather jacket.

  “I’m Jim Webb.” One word flashed through Webb’s mind: Vietnam. And for that reason, his instincts made him suspicious.

  “Trong Ti.” The speaker extended his right hand, and although Webb was still trying to figure things out, he instinctively reached out as well.

  As Trong’s hand pulled away from the sleeves of the leather jacket, Webb saw tattooed symbols on Trong’s forearm. A coffin. Three candles. And initials: BTK.

  Gang symbols? Webb’s suspicion deepened.

  “Lee Knox said I could meet you here,” Trong said. “Glad I found you.”

  Trong pointed at a black Cadillac with tinted windows, parked illegally just down the street, hazards flicking on and off. “We’ve got a meeting set up at a restaurant for you. Hope you like Italian food.”

  “Great,” Webb said. He’d been sent to get car parts. “And you’ve got the painting Lee wants me to get for his collection?”

  “All wrapped up and ready,” Trong said, flashing a smile. “Hope you’re hungry. It’s a great restaurant.”

  Yeah, a painting. That was all Webb needed to confirm that it would be a big mistake to get into the Caddy with tinted windows.

  He wondered about options. Walk over and join the women behind him at the memorial? No, if something bad was happening, that would put them in danger.

  Just bolt?

  Call 9-1-1?

  None of the options sounded good.

  The sound of a revving motorcycle distracted both of them as it pulled over to the curb only a few steps away.

  It was a big bike—not a Harley, but around the same size. Gleaming chrome engine. Vibrant red fender skirts covering the tires. Rich leather seat with a chrome bar at the back. Saddlebags. Image of an eagle wing painted on the gas tank.

  The rider, who wore black leather pants and a black leather jacket, flipped up the visor of a starsand-stripes helmet. Long dark hair flowed out beneath the helmet, and the face that appeared was definitely female. As in good-looking female. About Webb’s age.

  “Webby,” she said. “Sorry I’m late for our date! Let’s get going. The movie starts in ten minutes.�
��

  There was a spare helmet snapped to the side of the rumbling motorcycle. She unclipped it and held it out.

  Webb weighed his options: a Cadillac with ominous tinted windows driven by a guy who might be a Vietnamese gangster, or a cool-looking motorcycle, definitely ridden by a beautiful girl. He’d have to wrap his arms around her waist and hold on tight.

  Not a difficult decision.

  Webb glanced down at his iPhone to thumb it to the camera app. He lifted it and took a quick snapshot of the face of the man in front of him.

  “Hey!” Trong said.

  “Got to run,” Webb said.

  Guitar bag slapping against his back, he jumped on the bike.

  SIX

  The girl gunned the motorcycle before he could get his helmet on, forcing him to hold the helmet in his right hand and wrap his left arm around her waist. She almost immediately did a U-turn as Trong dashed to the Cadillac. Her move to dodge a semi-truck heading toward them raised Webb’s heart rate by about a thousand beats a minute. She turned into an alley, waited for him to put the helmet on, then, without answering any of his questions, gunned the big motorcycle again, so hard that he needed to hang on with both arms to keep from falling. With survival the only thing on his mind, Webb didn’t give much thought to the whole hanging-on-to-a-beautiful-girl-on-a-motorcycle thing. He wouldn’t have cared if he was clutching a bearded man who hadn’t showered in three weeks. He just wanted the pavement to stop blurring, especially through the turns.

  The ride slowed down some, and with dusk almost on them, the dark-haired girl idled the motorcycle through the gates of a junkyard patrolled by roaming rottweilers. Webb wondered if maybe he should have chosen the Cadillac and the possible gangster.

  When she stopped the motorcycle in front of a shack between two large stacks of smashed and compressed junk cars, Webb wanted to go back to the blurry pavement. Might be good to be on a highway again, since the three rottweilers were moving in fast.