“I’m taking a break,” he told the general.
“You? I don’t think so. What will you do as a civilian anyway?”
“Don’t know,” Paul had said. “Maybe it’s time I learned.”
There had been a pause. Maybe the general had processed his words. Finally, the general had stuck out his hand, and as they shook, the man said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Kavanagh. It was my job to try to keep you, since you’re a Marine, a damn good one, maybe even the best, but good riddance. We’re better off without you.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Get bent, Kavanagh. If I never see you again, it will be too soon.”
Paul kept smiling as he stared out of the taxi’s window. He was out, baby. He’d done his stint, and he’d done his duty. Maybe he’d become a private eye. It seemed the sort of job for someone like him. Yeah, he’d help people find things. Something different that took a knack for dealing with trouble.
The taxi turned down a street, and he noticed a change. The houses, the businesses looked rundown here, with bars over every set of windows. The people in the rain didn’t run to keep from getting wet. Didn’t look much whether they cared about wet one way or another.
Does Cheri live in this neighborhood? He looked at the slip of paper he’d shown the driver. He hadn’t been able to remember if it was the same address as during his last leave or not.
He shrugged. I’m coming home, baby.
The taxi took another turn, and the houses and apartments lowered another notch in quality. Those on the street who stopped to stare at the taxi had hard looks and mean features.
That bothered Paul. While he’d been fighting for his country with the latest tech, his wife had lived in squalor. That was wrong. Well, he had a few bucks saved up. He’d used the system of putting ten percent of his pay into an account. He’d cash out and get his wife and boy a good place to live.
He remembered a lesson from high school, which hadn’t made sense then. Maybe it did more now. The lesson had been about ancient Rome and its citizen-farmer legionaries. The Romans had been the best soldiers, and had beaten everyone they faced. But at the end of some long war, the good soldiers had each lost his farm because he hadn’t been home to work it. He’d been too busy fighting for his country. The generals had made out. But the grunt, the legionnaire, had been screwed.
Seemed like nothing changed: different era, different weapons, same outcome.
Not this time, or not for me, Paul thought. If I can make a good Marine, I can do something that will bring us the bucks.
It was going to be better this time between Cheri and him.
The taxi’s brakes squealed as it came to a stop before a beat-up apartment complex. Several young men leaned against a wall, in a dry area. They looked like scoundrels.
“You pay now,” the taxi driver said.
“Sure,” Paul said. He counted the bills, crisp new ones that felt shiny and clean, and added a few more for a tip, handing it through a slot in the glass partition between them.
“I ain’t gonna get out here,” the driver said.
“No problem. I got it.” Paul opened the door, and he aimed his legs out. The right leg had a brace over the knee. It had taken a pounding in China. He grabbed a pair of crutches, set the rubber tips on the ground and swung his body out.
With his good foot, he slammed the door shut. The taxi’s nearly bald tires spun and sprayed a bit of water, some of which struck Paul’s pants. Either the man was in a hurry, or he really didn’t like this part of town.
Yeah, Cheri and me are finding a new place tomorrow.
In his leather coat with a duffel bag slung over his back, he crutched his way up the main sidewalk. The three punks said something they thought was funny, and they laughed.
Paul stopped, glancing at the three.
One of them showed him a switchblade, letting the metal pop out. “What you got in the duffel bag, old man?”
Might as well get this over with. Paul swung off the sidewalk and crutched straight at the three young men. They needed shaves, and they were too skinny. The kid didn’t even know how to hold the switchblade right. He held it loosely, probably because he thought it made him look tough.
Paul didn’t say a word. He just stopped in front of them and stared as he leaned on his crutches.
The kid with the switchblade pushed off the wall. Paul moved fast, straightening, swinging a crutch, striking the kid’s hand so the loosely held switchblade went spinning.
The punk yanked his hand back, clutching it against his chest, staring at Paul.
Kavanagh stared back with his game face.
Maybe the ex-knifeman saw the death in Kavanagh’s eyes. Maybe the druggie recognized the heat of combat about to erupt. The punk wilted as his mouth went limp, and his harsh words dribbled away into silence.
Likely, the other two saw the same thing. They pushed off the wall. One of them mumbled something that sounded like, “Let’s jet elsewhere, man.” With hunched shoulders and hands in their pockets, they swaggered away, attempting to salvage some pride in their flight from death.
It took Paul half a minute to calm himself down, to put the game face and emotions away. Then he went back to the sidewalk, using the crutches and his good leg. The apartments had a center area with dead trees and weeds. He crutched his way to rusty stairs and negotiated them one at a time.
Yeah. He was here to stay. His wife wasn’t going to live like this anymore. And if he did live in this dump, he was going to bring changes to a lot of things here.
Paul’s heart began to beat quicker as he approached 232. Cheri, his darling bride, he missed her, maybe more than he realized.
He stopped, straightened and rested the crutches against the wall. That wasn’t going to be his wife’s first image of him. Tightening the brace, he raised a fist to knock. I hope she locks the door.
On impulse, he tried it, and the knob turned. He couldn’t believe it. How many times had he told her in the past to lock the door?
Pushing it open to his apartment, he gingerly used his bad leg. That caused a twinge in his knee, but he could take it for a few minutes.
The corridor was short, and he heard a rustle of paper. He stepped into a kitchenette, surprising his wife. Cheri sat at a counter, reading a magazine.
She looked up, and her eyes went wide. “What… what are you doing here?” she asked.
Paul didn’t answer. He moved toward her, forgetting about his bum knee, grinning, with his arms wide.
“Paul!” she shouted. “Paul, you’re home!” She jumped off the stool.
He grabbed her and spun around as she squealed with delight. “Paul, Paul!” she said, with tears running down her face. “You’re alive, and you’re home.”
He hugged her fiercely so her breasts squished against him. She felt so good, so very, very good. Then he set her down and began to kiss her lips, her salty cheeks, her nose, eyes and lips once more. She hugged him tightly, weeping.
After a time, he released her. “We won the war, sweets. We beat the Chinese and made them surrender. Now your man is home for good.”
“Do you mean that?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re moving out of this dump. I have a few favors I can call in, but that doesn’t matter now.”
“No,” she said, almost shyly.
He grabbed her hand. It was small and warm, the hand of his wife. With a gentle tug, he led his beautiful bride into the bedroom. She had already started telling him about things. That was good. He wanted to know. First, though, he kicked the bedroom door shut behind him. He was home, and he was going to enjoy the wife of his youth, his most precious love, beginning right now.