The Vultures. Mark Hannon

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СКАЧАТЬ through his system when he fired at real people, Krauts in Europe who were trying to kill him with everything from grenades to machine guns and where a fraction of a second, a single misfired round meant death. “Yeah, good teachers,” he said, thinking of the bloodied bodies of those a shade too slow, and his son, far away in a hospital.

      He put the pistols away in their cases and put the remaining bullets in the bowling bag with them. Clean the pieces when I get home. Reload them, put them in the holsters and forget about it, he thought.

      As he walked up the steps, Pat looked at his watch. Hell, it’s early, he thought. I’ll just head over to County Hall and hand in my qualifications. Walking outside, he saw a patrolman looking at his car and pulling out his ticket book.

      “Don’t waste the paper, young man.” The blue shirt looked up.

      “Oh, I’m sorry, lieutenant. I didn’t recognize your car.”

      “No problem, officer. I’m riding off into the sunset anyway.”

      The patrolman touched the brim of his cap and smiled. Pat started the car up. As he backed out, he thought how he’d miss the respect, the camaraderie and the friends over here. Time to move on, he thought as he drove. Take the pension, make another salary to help pay for Tommy’s college and... the ache came into his stomach and forehead as he thought again about his shattered Rory. What can we do, what can we do? What can money do for my boy?

      The car behind him blew his horn when the light changed. Pat clenched the steering wheel and drove. He pulled into a deputy’s spot behind the county court house and grabbed the paperwork. He spotted a gray uniformed sheriff’s deputy coming out of the county hall and waved him over.

      “What’s up, pal?”

      “My name’s Pat Brogan,” he said, putting out his hand. “New Investigator in the DA’s office. Ok if I park here?”

      “Hey, you’re the sheriff’s old partner in the city, right?” he said, gripping Pat’s hand. “Welcome aboard. I’m Rocco Buscaglia, work outta the jail. Don’t worry about the parking, boss. Just tell ‘em at the desk, and it’ll be fine.”

      Pat nodded, relieved at the easy transition. It was just as easy in the Hall where he got his parking pass, met the lieutenant on duty and turned in his shooting qualifications to the bureau chief’s secretary.

      That’s done, he thought as he drove home. Just keep the detective special on my hip and lock the rest of this stuff up.

      9.

      HR looked out the storefront window of College A at St. Joseph’s School across Main Street at dismissal time. As nuns and lay teachers stood watch, the patrol boys with their white and orange belts dispersed and took up their posts while a few parents gathered at the end of the driveway on Main Street to meet the littlest ones. Children streamed from the school in orderly lines carrying book-bags and lunch boxes, their breath visible on the cold day. When they hit the street, shouts of joy erupted and the kids scattered running or waited for friends behind them.

      Tom watched too. He remembered hoping to arrive on the sidewalk in front of the school just at the right time to meet up with a girl named Linda, perhaps to exchange a greeting that might lead to walking home with her in that incipient mating ritual.

      “The Catholic Church is probably the biggest institution of fascist indoctrination in Buffalo,” HR said, standing just behind Tom. “Look at those kids. All in nice lines, learning to conform. Learning imperialism – they teach those kids Columbus discovered America, the annexation of the Southwest and the massacre of Indians as Manifest Destiny, and overrunning the Philippines as liberating the Filipino people. It’s really going to take something to wake these people up to it – direct action against the ruling class to show them the powers that be are using every facet of society to keep power and make money, waging war on the Vietnamese people to do it.”

      Tom thought about Rory’s letter—so we set the cache and a bunch of hooches on fire and left. HR stepped a little closer to Tom and lowered his voice.

      “We trashed the room where Dupont was doing recruiting over in Lockwood Library last night. They’ve got the contract from the Defense Department to make napalm. Shit, all they say on the news is ‘vandals attack library on campus’ and give the estimated cost of the damages. It’s going to take something bigger than that to make these people,” he said, nodding towards St. Joseph’s, “realize how they’re being used.”

      They continued to look out the window for a few minutes more as the school children exited.

      “I just heard they might be shutting down the experimental colleges,” Artie said from behind them. “The townies are complaining we’re a bad influence on the local kids, some of the faculty objects to the self-grading policy, stuff like that. It’s a mess, man.”

      “Hey, that would make you eligible for the draft!” HR laughed, pointing where Artie was pinning up a poster for a Buffalo Draft Resistance Union Rally. Tom and Artie looked at the names of the speakers.

      “Martin Teeley, Vietnam vet. He went to school with Rory,” Tom said.

      “Jake Cross,” Artie said. “He’s the guy with all the connections underground in Canada.”

      “That might come in handy if I don’t keep my grades up,” Tom chuckled.

      “Hey, let’s go get a beer at the place next door,” HR said. “I’d like to check out the townie bar.”

      “I gotta close up,” Artie said.

      “I’ll go with you,” Tom said as they walked out the back door of College A, avoiding the stares and comments of the parents and children on Main Street. Walking down the alley, they entered the back entrance to Bickleman’s Lounge. As they approached the bar, two regulars turned on their barstools, their eyes narrowing when they spotted the long hair.

      “Hey Tommy, long time no see, my man,” the white aproned bartender greeted as the regulars continued to stare.

      “Hi Harley,” Tom said, taking off his Army field jacket.

      “Paul, Joe,” Harley said, “You remember Tommy, don’t you? Pat Brogan’s younger boy.”

      Paul and Joe looked again, their faces eased, and Paul said, “Oh, sure, sure. Hiya, Tommy. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. Get Tommy and his friend a beer on me, will you, Harley.”

      HR stood stock still, his hands in his pockets.

      “A couple of Schmidt’s drafts, Harley. Thanks, Mr. Paulino.”

      “Cheers, boys,” Paulino said, raising his bottle of Genesee.

      “How’s the family, Tom?” Paulino asked, “I haven’t seen your dad in here in a while.”

      Tom froze, fearing Mr. Paulino would mention his dad’s occupation in front of HR.

      “Ok, Mr. Paulino. He doesn’t get around much these days, I guess.”

      “Yeah, that’s terrible about Rory,” Paulino said. HR looked on, fascinated as Tom interacted with the locals.

      “Yeah, thanks,” Tom said, putting down his beer.

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