Maybe so.
But tonight would be the last one. Honest.
Sure, the voice said, just like the one in New Jersey, three months ago. That was supposed to be the last one, right?
Right.
Now Adrianna was off the highway, navigating narrow state roads, heading to her target. She had scoped it out weeks before, and was confident that it would suit her needs. There. Up ahead. There were neon lights there, red, white and blue, marking a local VFW hall. It was a two-story wooden building, white, with darkened windows. Pickup trucks and other vehicles were parked in the gravel lot. She drove into the lot, found a place to park the minivan so that it wouldn’t be spotted from the street, and stepped out into the cool dusk. She shivered. She knew what she had to do. There was no turning back.
Adrianna walked up to the entrance, teetering a bit on the black high heels she was wearing, carrying her heavy purse in one hand.
Inside the place was dark and smoky, a jukebox in one corner playing a country and western tune. The bar was a square structure in the center, surrounded by tables and chairs, and off to one side was a polished wooden dance floor. The place was about half filled, more men than women, and Adrianna sat down in the corner at an empty table. There was a candle in the center of her table, unlit. She looked around, took in the atmosphere of the place. There were framed items on the wall, old Second World War recruiting posters and photographs of tanks, aircraft and ships. There were flags and banners as well, along with the usual bumper stickers plastered along the side of the bar:
Adrianna had to hide a smirk. Imperialism through bumper stickers.
A waitress, a sagging middle-aged woman, came over, wearing jeans and an old gray sweat shirt. Over the sound of the twanging guitars, Adrianna ordered a Budweiser — and then, slipping the waitress a folded-over ten-dollar bill, she ordered something else.
The waitress stood up, her expression shocked. ‘Tell me again what you want?’
Adrianna repeated her order. The waitress looked at the folded bill in her hand and said, ‘Well, I suppose Henry would fit the bill. He’s single, not bad-looking, but I tell you…he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean.’
Adrianna sipped from her beer. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
The waitress left and Adrianna sipped the cold brew again, wishing she had ordered something different. But in this place, she reckoned, she’d be lucky if imported beer meant a Coors from Colorado. It was warm sitting there, her long coat over the few clothes she was wearing underneath, but she left it on. She was making an impression, no doubt about it, but she didn’t want to cause such a big stir that a lot of people would remember her later.
There.
A man was coming over, a glass of beer in one hand, a pool stick in the other. She judged him to be in his late forties, close-trimmed beard — which was fortunate, since she liked men with beards, Brian Doyle notwithstanding — and had on khaki slacks and a red flannel shirt. There was a bit of a beer belly developing but, thankfully, there wasn’t a heavy gut. The man grinned and she was relieved again to see that he seemed to have good teeth. This night was turning out to be fortunate indeed.
‘The name’s Henry Spooner,’ he said. ‘Are you really looking for me?’
She looked up at him coyly. ‘My name is Adrianna, and yes, I really was looking for you. Or somebody like you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Please,’ she said, motioning to a chair, ‘do sit down.’ And of course, as she motioned to the chair, she let the coat slip open so that the white tank top was revealed in all its braless glory, and Henry definitely caught a good glimpse as he sat down. His grin was wider and he said, ‘Karen told me that there was a pretty girl sitting here by herself, looking to meet a single man. A vet who’d served in the Gulf. Was she right?’
‘Yes, she was,’ Adrianna said, gently running a finger around the tip of the beer bottle. ‘But you served in the first Gulf War, am I right? Back in 1991?’
He nodded. ‘That’s a big affirm, lady. Gulf War One, which would have been the last Gulf War, if Daddy Bush had had any balls.’
‘And what did you do when you were there?’
A satisfied smile. ‘Gunner on an M-1A Abrams Tank, First Army Division, Big Red One.’
Adrianna made a point of licking her full lips. ‘Really? That sounds so fascinating…and dangerous.’
A manly shrug. ‘We did what we had to do, that’s all.’
‘Did you…did you kill many Iraqis?’
Another manly shrug. ‘Some. It was real easy for us, in the M-1A. Called it a turkey shoot. Our thermal imaging could spot a T-72 out there, hundreds of meters before they knew we were even coming after them… sometimes you’d get a T-72 popped and we’d have crispy critters out there, smokin’…’
She reached out and gently touched his left wrist. ‘Thank you… thank you for your service.’
His smile was still there but she sensed he was suspicious and she was right — thank you, Camp Perry training — and he said, ‘So. Why are you asking me all these questions? Something wrong?’
Adrianna shook her head. ‘Not at all. You see… my uncle, he was in the Army as well. Served in the Gulf. He was a driver on one of those armored vehicles — the ones that carry troops — what’re they called?’
‘Bradley Fighting Vehicles.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s the one,’ she said, sitting up straighter, making sure that her chest was nice and prominent. ‘He served there as well, and was seriously hurt.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
Sure, Adrianna thought, sorry that I’m not flashing you my naked boobs, that’s what you’re sorry about. Aloud she said, ‘Oh, he survived. Somehow an anti-tank round hit his vehicle, damaged it severely. He was trapped inside and would have died, except another soldier, from another unit, pulled him out and saved him. My uncle never knew his name.’
Henry said, ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, miss, but that wasn’t me. Never did see anything like that, though it sure did happen in other sectors over there.’
Adrianna touched his wrist again. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t understand. You see, my uncle died last year, and he was upset that he had this debt, this obligation, that had never been paid off. That somewhere out there was an Army trooper who had saved his life, and he’d never got a chance to thank him personally. And before he died, so he could get some peace, I told him that I’d go out and find this man, and I would thank him. I travel a lot on business, and I knew I would have an opportunity to find him, whoever he was.’
Henry said, ‘Oh. Okay, I get it.’
Another touch of her hand upon him. ‘But… you see, it’s nearly impossible for me to do this. I’ve checked the official records of the incident, and there’s no record of this soldier’s name. So I’m doing the next best thing. When I travel, I go to the local VFW or American Legion Hall, and try to thank all the veterans from the first Gulf War that I can. I figure that this way, I just might thank the right soldier, without even knowing it.’