Pappas nodded his head and regarded the private sagely. “Uh, huh.” He puffed out his cheeks in thought. “You know Stewart, some day I’m going to have to ask you how you got your entire street gang through Fleet Strike’s personnel filters and into my basic platoon.” He paused. “Intact.”
Stewart smiled thinly. “But not tonight,” he said determinedly.
“Not tonight,” the NCO agreed. “However, I’m not going to trust to your streetwise for everything. Once we pass through the area we’ll take up over-watch until I think you’re doing okay. Don’t hurry, we’ll be there as long as we need to.”
“I’ll be fine, Sergeant,” said the private, with quiet confidence.
“Okay, then you won’t mind if we watch?” Pappas said with a smile.
Stewart shook his head in resignation. “Whatever, boss.”
“Okay,” said the NCO, “time to play.”
Stewart wiped his hands surreptitiously on his silks then stepped forward and slapped the broad shoulder of the soldier in front of him.
“Hola, ’migo, ¿dónde ’stá el licor?” The job was going to require some high-proof spirits.
The big Hispanic soldier turned with a snarl. “Que chingadero quiere saber, cameron?”
“Hey, we just got here. I need a drink.” A twenty appeared as if by magic in Stewart’s hand. The squad behind him had taken on the standard swagger, hands thrust into their belts or in pockets, hips thrust out, looking around. Just a bunch of home-boys looking for a party. Stewart had thrust the two broomsticks into the back of his jacket so that they jutted out the neck. In a pinch they would be in action in an instant.
The big soldier took one look at the gang and rethought his approach. He had his own group of bullies to call on, but the time was not right for a fight against unknown odds. He was pretty sure he could break the shrimp like a twig, but you never knew. He looked awful confident.
“It’s hard to find, man,” the big soldier said, taking a swallow of the raw tequila. “Maracone over by the bleachers, he usually got some.”
“Gracias,” said Stewart, the twenty suddenly sprouting from the pocket of the Hispanic soldier.
“De nada,” said the trooper and turned back to his buddies.
“Anything?” whispered Wilson.
“Had a shiv,” said Stewart quietly, “and some kind of pistol.”
“Had,” smiled the second in command.
“Had,” said Stewart, with a complete lack of humor. He was totally concentrated on the mission. “We’re gonna do a deal.”
Even at halfway across the field the dealer was obvious, a ratty little private surrounded by heavies and a group of female soldiers with their uniforms cut down to nothing but midriff tops and shorts. They must have been freezing in the cool, moist autumn night.
“Okay,” said Wilson, doing an automatic sweep of the area for threats. Then he checked to see that the rest of the squad was in position, looking out. They were and he nodded to himself in satisfaction; everything was rikky-tik as the gunny would say.
“Then I’m gonna do the sword swallower routine,” continued Stewart. He was thinking about future plans and tactics while Wilson handled the present and security. They had developed the relationship as a survival necessity in the barrio, never realizing that they had simply reinvented the officer/NCO continuum.
“Got it.”
“Here.” He slipped the private the small pistol. Using Stewart as a shield, the private quickly checked the .25 caliber automatic. “Cover me.”
Stewart stepped toward the dealer. One of the bodyguards stepped in front of him only to be waved aside. It was a pro forma demonstration of power that Stewart noticed no more than the wind. Now that he was inside the perimeter the dealer and at least two guards were dead even without Wilson’s backup. These guys are such fucking amateurs, he thought.
“Hola,” he grinned, “whacha got?”
“What you want?” asked the dealer in a bored voice. “We got about everything.”
“Need some high-test booze, man. We’re just in from basic and got us a powerful thirst!” He grinned maniacally, a stupid little basic trainee way in over his head. Yeah, that’s it.
“That’s pretty expensive, man,” said the dealer. “Booze is hard to get. The fuckin’ MPs keep raiding my stash.”
“Hey,” said Stewart, whipping out a wad of bills, “I got nothin’ but money, man. You got some high-proof tequila?”
“Sure,” smiled the ratty little soldier. He gestured to one of the girls who reached in a spray-painted ammunition box and pulled out an unmarked bottle. “That’s sixty.”
“Jesus,” said Stewart, shaking his head, “that is steep.” He counted out the bills and took the bottle. One sip was all it took to ensure that there was sufficient alcohol in the mix for his plan. “How! Time to Party!”
“Yeah,” the dealer said sourly. “Somewhere’s else, I got other customers.”
“Sure, man, later.” Stewart smiled again and walked back to the squad.
“Sniper on the top of the bleachers,” whispered Wilson. “I can’t see the rifle, but it’s there somewhere.”
“Can you take him from the other end?”
“Not with this fuckin’ little Astra. Maybe you, but even then not with the first shot. And somebody’s already got that end staked out.”
“No problemo. People are always willing to recognize talent,” Stewart smiled.
“You are a fuckin’ nut, Manuel.”
“My name is James Stewart. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Sure, and I’m the king of Siam.”
“Handkerchiefs,” Stewart said without comment, holding out his hand. The squad handed over the items and he tied them on the ends of the broken broom handles. Doused with the two-hundred-proof tequila they were torches waiting for a match.
“Here goes nothing,” he said and walked towards the group that had staked out the section of bleachers away from the area’s single dealer.
“Hey, folks,” he said to the group of white soldiers. They watched him approach suspiciously. He nodded at the obvious leader, a heavyset balding sergeant with rolls of fat on his neck.
“You know what this party needs,” Stewart asked in a loud happy voice.
“A fuckin’ idiot?” asked the leader. His group laughed at the rough humor.
What an Einstein, thought Stewart. “No, some entertainment!” He hopped up on the bleachers and took a swig of the raw whiskey. With a flick of a lighter he spit it back out in a cloud of fire. The belch of dragon’s flame lit the area and there were gasps from the group on the bleachers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out to the surroundings, “welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth! I will shock and amaze you with my powers of prestidigitation and psychic abilities! My powers know no bounds!” As he spoke he whipped out the batons, lit them and began twirling.
“Okay,” said Pappas, “that’s the signal. Get ready to move.”
The wait as Stewart moved into position had been an eternity, but now that the show had started the crowd was, in fact, moving. He decided to move with it.
“Fourth, head towards Stewart, try to get as close as possible. Third, head into the middle of the field. When Fourth is in position, head for the barracks.” He shook his head. “Fuckin’ everybody and their brother is headed for that little idiot.”
It was the largest crowd he had ever performed for; even the dealer and his bodyguards had moved over. These people must be really hard up for entertainment. On the other hand, it had gone well. The mental act always amazed people and the tequila had held out long enough to do both the juggling act and the fire-swallowing.