Nature of the Business: A Smuggler's Tale

By Joshua Sandler

Nature of the Business

Is about interwoven destinies and the ties that bind.

It follows two men from childhood to the battlefields of S.E. Asia; where loyalties are forged in the crucible of combat.

At wars end their future looks bright until events take them down a darker path. The realization of where they are headed comes too late. In an instant they become fugitives.

Forced to separate; life takes them in different directions. One finds a family, the other a war. Nevertheless, the friendship, the brotherhood, endures until fate sets the stage for the final test of a lifelong bond.

The question;

Is betrayal the true Nature of the Business of life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2007
• ISBN: 9781425987145

Joshua Sandler

About the Author   Joshua Sandler writes from personal experience. From a future filled with promise to a 6’X8’’ prison cell; elite east coast schools to international fugitive; good Samaritan to hired gun; black tie balls to the killing fields of three continents; his life is a cautionary tale.             Joshua Sandler is a pseudonym used to protect the (not) guilty.

Book preview

Nature of the Business

A Smuggler’s Tale

by

Joshua Sandler

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2010 Sandler-Gottlieb Trust. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/9/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4259-8714-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4259-8713-8 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006911056

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

EPILOG

Dedication

On a wall of an airbase in Vietnam a pilot once wrote, … you have never truly lived until you’ve almost died…. It is an oft repeated sentiment.

It is only half the truth.

Facing death can make one savor life; but, finding someone to love completes your life.

I had never expected to find that person, but I did. For a brief shining moment in time I had, I felt, something I only now understand in its absence. Something I ignorantly, idiotically and unbelievably let slip away. I was a fool.

This book is dedicated to the woman I loved; the woman I hurt; the woman I lost; the woman whose disdain has caused more anguish than I ever knew existed.

She was the light and the darkness; the hope that someone is out there for each of us.

I wish my readers well in finding the half that makes them whole. And, if you do, don’t throw it away. You will regret it forever!

This book is for her. I’m sorry.

Acknowledgments

I’ve read through many acknowledgments and listened to uncounted awards’ speeches scoffing at the number of people mentioned. I thought, Surely it can’t take that many people to make it happen. I thought wrong. So, here goes. And, if I forget someone I am sorry.

To my contributing editors,

Kal Wagenheim, Michael Behn, George Corbett, Mike Fuscaldo, Fred Neulander, Bill Judd and Beverly.

Thanks for making it better.

To steadfast friends,

William DeMarzo, Tova Friedman, Ginny Phelan, the Baux family, the Taylor family, the Kozlowskis, the DeRoos, Liz Johnson, JoAnn Roberts, the Fergels and Nortons, Dave Lev, Ellen B., the Parkers and the whole G.S. family.

Thank you for still believing in me even when logic screams, run away!

Special thanks to,

Sharon and Debra for turning a pile of notes on miscellaneous scraps of paper into the first draft of this novel. How they managed to read my illegible scrawl is a mystery for the ages.

And, last, but not least, Brian Appel, attorney-at-law, and good friend, who in the end makes it all possible by never giving up on me; even when I try to give up on myself.

Prologue

The Fort Worth Star Telegram

Thursday evening, July 14, 1995

SMUGGLER’S PLANE CRASH KILLS ONE

San Antonio, TX

(Associated Press)

Authorities in Laredo, Texas today released the name of the pilot killed in Tuesday morning’s fiery crash of a C-123 transport plane at a private airstrip located twenty miles north of the city. David Kern, 45, was confirmed dead in the crash and ensuing fire. A press statement released by the Justice Department describes Kern as a longtime drug smuggler who was the primary suspect in the death of a federal agent in 1990.

Acting on five years of intelligence gathering and investigative work, authorities surrounded an airstrip adjacent to a ranch rented in the name of Brian Moss, a known alias of Kern. In the early hours of July 12, a plane loaded with marijuana and cocaine landed on the 3000-foot dirt strip.

As the plane came to a halt, federal agents surrounded the aircraft. The pilot, refusing to surrender, fired shots from the cockpit and tried to take off. Authorities returned fire in an attempt to disable the aircraft. Sources say the pilot lost control and crashed into a fuel storage area containing thousands of gallons of fuel and chemicals used to refine cocaine. The ensuing blaze burned out of control for four hours as fire companies from three counties fought to bring the inferno under control…

Chapter I

Somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico - July 14, 1995

Tense hands make minute adjustments to the throttle and mixture controls. Years of experience inform the subtle changes made to maximize fuel economy and smooth the faint irregularity in engine tempos that is more sensed than actually heard. The plane could make landfall on one engine, but that would mean jettisoning the load from the aft cargo area. There can be no declared emergency when carrying contraband. The pilot’s life rests upon skill and fate. To have a problem is often to die, as so many have died before - in fiery crashes, in watery graves, or worse, in the special hell of prison. Of the three, only one is totally unacceptable. Those who have been busted have no fear of hell, for they have been there.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - June 6, 1959

The last bell of the last class of the last day of school is one of the most joyous sounds of childhood. It signals the start of the all too fleeting, but seemingly endless days of summer. Even though it’s been warm for weeks, it is only now that you feel the glory of the sun beating down. The entire world comes alive with color. Pretty soon, Little League will start, and with it will come the chance to try out the new glove. Philadelphia is a good city to be a child in. Best of all is that vast expanse of wooded mystery, Fairmount Park.

It was in that park that a friendship began that would span decades; the boy was nine the summer he met Steven. It was not friendship, not at first, but rather, anger that brought them together. He was an unwanted intruder in a private kingdom. Just the year before, David’s first year alone in the park, he’d found a small pond shielded by a screen of pines. It was there that he went to seek solitude and play through the fantasies of childhood. He was Robin Hood leading his merry men, Frank Buck stalking a man-eating tiger, or best of all, an explorer on a distant planet. The boy and his grandfather were reading Jules Verne that month.

The first time David saw him, he was staring intently at the pond; a thin, scrawny boy about David’s age wearing baggy shorts, a blue tee shirt and Converse Hi-Tops. Their first conversation indelibly etched itself on each boy’s mind.

Hey, hey you, what are you doing in here? The fact that the interloper seemed to totally ignore David infuriated him until he glanced at the pond and saw the Jolly Roger. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. A four-foot long, fully-rigged pirate ship, a galleon of Spanish design, patterned after the ships of the late 16th Century; not that he knew a galleon from a barque at that point. Most amazingly of all, like magic, it was sailing against the wind, making lazy figure eight’s toward shore. As the boat nosed into the bank, the kid raced to the model and bent over, blocking his view. He did something that stilled the persistent hum, which he only then realized was the sound of an engine.

Can I see that? That is so cool. The words were out of his mouth before he realized it. David was a supplicant at the altar of childhood envy. What did he own that could possibly compare to this marvel? Watery eyes stared at him through the lenses of thick glasses - the boy’s voice deeper than expected.

What’s your problem? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Why had he given him a hard time? He didn’t own the park. On the other hand, you can’t apologize, You were playing in my pond, David said with all the righteousness of his oh so advanced years.

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was part of the public park. He actually looked contrite.

Well, it is, but I’m the only one who plays here. I found it. The logic of conquerors and school children.

Okay, I’ll go somewhere else.

As he bent to pick up the boat, David realized that if he let him walk away, he’d never get to see that magic ship again.

Hey wait a minute. You can play here. Just don’t tell all your friends about it.

The stranger actually smiled at that, a strangely bitter smile for one so young. David was to learn later that he had good reason to have learned cynicism at an early age.

Okay, I won’t tell. Want to see my boat? And that quickly, they were the fast friends of preadolescence.

For the rest of the afternoon, they played by the edge of the pond. He explained the ship, My dad works for the Navy designing control systems. I don’t see him very much. He and my mom are divorced. Whenever he comes, he brings something he made for me. He took the top off the galleon and showed David the inside. You see this little box? He said, pointing, If you put in one of these control cards, the ship follows the pattern on the card. From his pocket, he produced a handful of small metal sheets. Each 2 x 2 card was punched full of holes and had a pattern drawn on top. There were figure eights, circles, rectangles and a couple of others. At nine, David couldn’t comprehend the effort that must have gone into building that ship. It was not the nineties, when micro control circuits were readily available and remote control common place. This was a first generation hand-tooled guidance unit.

It was not until he saw his own son for the first time that David realized the amount of love and willingness to do anything for your child that accompanies parenthood. The time you’re willing to spend to make them happy. The union that brought the child into the world might break apart, but not the bond of fatherhood. Of course, that truth was twenty-five years in the future. For now, all he saw was a cool toy.

They lost track of time until David noticed how far the shadows hung over the water. Hey, I’ve got to go! My grandmother will kill me if I’m late for dinner. Look... At that instant, he realized that he didn’t know the other boy’s name. A little late to introduce myself, but, My name is David Kern. What’s yours?

With a shy smile, he answered, Steven, Steven Harper.

To which he replied, Like I said, I’m late for dinner. Why don’t we meet here tomorrow at two o’clock?

He seemed quite happy about the idea. With an Okay, I’ll see you then David, he left and David ran for home.

That first meeting led to almost daily encounters in the park. As the summer wore on, the bonds of friendship tightened. Amidst the furor of a dawning new age, the coming of Kennedy’s Camelot, the two children laid the foundations of a brotherhood that would span a lifetime.

An Apartment near Havana, Cuba

Staring down at the palette, Hector decided a touch more white was in order. That shade of ivory was still not right. It didn’t do justice to the dusky skin tones of the young model. This was to be his pièce de résistance - the fourth in a series of nudes featuring Elena. Nothing less than perfection would serve. But that was a hallmark of all his work. As one of the best young artists in the country, it was his duty to preserve her beauty for all time; to do as DaVinci did for Mona Lisa, or Botticelli for his Venus. It had taken years to make his father understand and years more to gain acceptance; thank God his mother had supported his efforts. The woman was a saint, a willing buffer between her soldier-husband and artist-son; although, of late, her intercession had been unnecessary. These days, his father spoke of him with pride - and why not, when the President himself had sought the boy as a portraitist.

The squeal of tires interrupted his reverie and broke his concentration. He started for the window to yell out at the transgressors. The clatter of footsteps came echoing up the stairwell. The resounding knock, and shouted open up caused a brief moment of fear. That passed quickly. His father was far too powerful for him to ever have to worry about his physical safety.

Unlatching the door, Hector faced a contingent of four soldiers. Without asking permission, they strode into the studio. Their commander, a lieutenant, was dumbfounded by the sight of the beautiful nude woman. That amused the artist who slept with her at his pleasure. The moment passed and he snapped, How dare you come barging in like this. My father will certainly have something to say.

The soldier replied, Your father sent us. He wants you home now. That sobered him instantly. A summons from the old man was rare and always of grave import. After instructing the model to return the next day, he followed the four downstairs.

A fifth soldier was manning the jeep’s pedestal-mounted machine gun. That made for a very crowded vehicle, one of the hundreds on the streets. The unusual concentration of military vehicles made him ask, What’s happening?

An obviously nervous officer replied, That bearded bastard is trying to come down from the hills. Everyone fears that the revolution is here.

For a child of privilege, it was the worst news possible. He sympathized with the plight of the peasants. However, that didn’t make communism the answer. Madre de Dios. If the President were deposed, what would happen to his supporters and their families? Especially a son who frequented palace functions.

His parents’ hacienda was in total chaos. Servants were busy packing family treasures. Theresa, the youngest of his sisters, was in tears. She was screaming, I won’t go! I’m not leaving Frederico.

Go? Go where? The next shock was the appearance of his father in combat fatigues - and carrying a rifle. Generals in the army didn’t do that. Not unless things were far worse than he could possibly imagine. Father’s hurried explanation made it clear. The communists were within days of taking over the Capitol. Their troops were executing loyalists on the spot. It was to be the boy’s duty to get his mother and sisters to safety in the United States. The older man would follow in a day or so. Appearances had to be maintained. Senior staff couldn’t leave before the President. But you could bet they wouldn’t be far behind.

The two went into the library together. From the wall safe, the General drew bundles of currency and a handgun. His son might be an artist, but he was still a man. As a father, he’d made sure of that. Here’s twenty thousand dollars. I’ll bring the rest when I follow. Protect our family with your life. And then he did something he hadn’t done in years. The hug was accompanied by the statement, I don’t tell you enough; but I’m proud you’re my son. With that, the soldier went out the door.

Immediately taking charge, the youth got everything readied in short order. The drive to the airport was accompanied by the distant thunder of artillery. At the terminal, the four were joined by others fleeing for their lives. Many of them were acquainted, as is the case of the upper classes everywhere. It was strange to see the sons of diplomats and businessmen carrying weapons. And to a man, each had a briefcase or portfolio. It wasn’t hard to guess what they contained. Like refugees everywhere, you took what was most valuable. A DC-4 in TWA livery took eighty of them to Miami. After landing, it did an immediate turnaround for another load. That night, the family settled into one of the city’s better hotels. The hundred-dollar-a-day suite was paid for in cash, as were the rest of the rooms in the sold-out hotel. On TV, they watched as the American President swore to help the beleaguered President Batista. A lie.

A few days later, the nation fell. Families waited for the arrival of husbands and sons who’d stayed behind. They waited in vain. It took two weeks before the boy accepted the fact that his father was gone forever; something his mother never did.

That made him head of the household, and its sole provider. Moving the family into an apartment, Hector began to look for work. Nothing presented itself for months. Money was running short when the American came. He promised a return to the homeland. Hundreds rallied to the call. After a brief, but intense training period, they stood again on the soil of their country. The invasion was a success for a few hours. Then the Russian-built tanks came. What didn’t come was the promised air support. The American President lost his resolve at the last instant. In the ensuing defeat, many were killed. Others were imprisoned only to suffer much slower deaths. He, at least, was one of the lucky ones; plucked off the beach at the last moment and returned to the United States. The last sight of the land of his birth, La Bahía de Cochinos, - The Bay of Pigs, where the future was lost forever.

While Castro cavorted in Havana, the survivors examined their options. Many advocated continued resistance. They would build another army and attack again. The son of General Mendoza-Vega knew that was ludicrous. The longer the communists had to dig in, the less likely their defeat. No. That opportunity had come and gone forever. It was lost when the B-26’s failed to show. That night, at home, he considered other alternatives. Artists were not in great demand. However, those skills could still provide a livelihood. The very next day, Hector had set out to begin a new profession.

A Catholic Seminary, Rome - 1960

He hadn’t meant to get the girl pregnant. But that wouldn’t matter. When his father, HERR LEISINGER, THE BANK PRESIDENT, found out, he’d be ostracized - forever. There was only one thing to do. Swallowing the bottle of pills was easier than he’d anticipated. The note would explain why. As he lay back in bed, the young man hoped God would understand. After all, suicide was a mortal sin. There is no question that he would have died, had not his roommate forgotten a notebook for Latin class. Fast thinking on his part saved the boy’s life. An understanding Bishop released Leisinger from the seminary. That left the way clear for him to marry the girl.

It was only later that he told his father the whole story. And then, only after being assured that the stern banker hadn’t been angered by his leaving the priesthood. It was the first time the man had ever seen his father cry. That very night, a letter of deepest thanks was sent to a young priest. It offered the services of the family should that ever be necessary. That seemed like far too little. Not to the stoic Swiss father who’d been given a second chance with his son. And now, he had a grandson as an added gift from God.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - September, 1960

In September, they found themselves in the same classes at the Fairmount Friends School. It made it easier to keep up the friendship. Both were serious about the obligations of blood brotherhood.

Time passed in that curious never-never land of childhood.

Steven’s mother dated. These men never seemed to be around for very long. That was fine with Steven. If only his father would just come home, but that didn’t seem very likely. Every attempt to convince him to come back ended with, Your mommy and I don’t love each other anymore. But always remember, we both love you. Those talks always resulted in a new improved hand-built toy.

The models kept the boys occupied through many an afternoon. They’d go to David’s house after school, where his grandmother had homemade cookies waiting in the kitchen. They’d be allowed to play in the fenced back yard. If the weather was bad, they’d move indoors to one of the family rooms. Some days he’d stay for dinner, but usually his mother would pick him up after work. Since the separation she’d been working at Gimbel’s, a popular department store in Center City. On weekends, they’d take turns sleeping over at one another’s home. No matter where they were, one of the sophisticated models was sure to be around.

In the last year, the metal control cards had been replaced by a dial-covered box. Steven’s father had spent a day with the boys explaining the new radio-control unit. It was the neatest thing in the world. You could steer toys around from almost a hundred feet away. None of the other kids had anything even close to that cool.

In the fourth grade, the radio-controlled boats, cars and trucks took on an even greater significance for Steven. That was the year his friend started playing football in a local Pop Warner league. After school practices kept the two apart three days a week. During those times, he played by himself.

Repeated entreaties to his mother to be allowed to play football fell on deaf ears. She thought he was too young to be risking injury in a contact sport. And, there was always the possibility that the asthma might flare up again.

On weekends, he went to the games. David was already showing the natural abilities that would earn him an athletic scholarship in later years. In a league full of ten-year-olds trying to learn laterals, he was throwing touchdown passes. Fathers were constantly commenting on the extraordinary skill the Kern boy displayed. Sons were encouraged to befriend him. That was fine with him. But no matter how many kids vied for his attention, he never left Steven behind. Invitations to play or visit either included Steven, or were refused. Once or twice, other boys tried to pick on the slightly built Harper. They soon learned, that to fight with one, was to challenge the other. Not to say that Steven wouldn’t fight; he just wasn’t very good at it.

It’s hard to say where they would have wound up in life had things progressed normally. Perhaps they would have drifted apart and gone their separate ways. But events were to occur which would bind them together in the way only traumatic ones can.

It started on David’s twelfth birthday. The party was held at his grandparents’ home. Over twenty kids had been invited. And, for the first time, there would be as many girls as boys. The huge, Gothic structure was a favorite place for the children to visit. Its twenty rooms, numerous attics, and two basements made it a great place to play.

On that Sunday morning, Steven got up early to wrap his friend’s present. He purchased it with money earned from his allowance. It had taken weeks to pay for the pair of tickets to an Eagles game. The December match-up against Dallas would be the first professional football game either of them had ever attended. It never occurred to Steven that his friend might take someone else. Not for something this important. The only problem might be convincing somebody to get them to the game. David’s grandfather was really cool. He’d probably be willing to take them. He was the one who’d taken them to their first Phillies baseball game two summers ago.

When the phone rang, he yelled, I’ll get it, Mom! In his most adult voice, he answered, Good morning, Harper residence. The tinny echo of his friend’s voice came over the line, Hi, I just called to tell you the party’s off. My grandmom isn’t feeling too good. Granddad took her to the hospital. I’ve got to call everybody else. See you in school tomorrow. After they hung up, Steven went and told his mom. He was kinda worried. David sounded funny, and not the ha ha kind.

She reassured him, It’s probably nothing serious. You know his grandparents are a little bit older. I’m sure she’ll be fine.

The next morning, David was pale and quiet during the car pool ride to school. Usually the back of the station wagon was a riot of laughs, tickling bouts and funny faces, with David right in the middle of it all. Today, he just sat and stared out the window. Monosyllabic answers were offered in response to Steve’s questions. Sensing his friend’s distress, he tried to think of something to say. He was still too young to understand that sometimes words are useless.

It didn’t get any better at school. In two different classes, he got reprimanded for not paying attention. Late in the afternoon he was called to the principal’s office; he didn’t come back.

On the ride home, Mr. Wach, the driver, said, David’s grandmother died today. The silence in the car was more one of non-comprehension than sympathy. Death was still too much of an abstraction. Not even Steven understood what a profound effect that loss would have on his friend.

His mother signed the register, Mrs. Robert Harper and son. Tugging uncomfortably at his collar, Steven walked into the funeral home. It had taken an entire day to convince his mother to bring him. She said she didn’t want him exposed to death at such an early age, but at his insistence, she relented. It was his best friend’s family, after all.

In the reception line, two friends on the verge of manhood shook hands. It felt peculiarly adult. Neither realized that it was the first time they’d ever shaken hands. There was something frightening about his friend’s glassy stare. Like one of those stuffed animals at the five and ten store.

For David, the whole day went by in a fog. At Aunt Hannah’s house, after the burial, he spent most of the evening hiding in a third-floor room. Although he didn’t remember his parents, who had been killed in a car accident when he was a baby, the sense of loss was somehow familiar. And somewhere in his head, he was sure that if he begged God long enough, Grandmom could come back.

Steven noticed the change in his friend almost immediately. The normally ebullient boy was quiet and withdrawn when he came back to school. At recess, he stopped playing with the other kids. Instead, he sought refuge in books. Wherever he went, a book was in his hand. He’d even stopped playing football. That actually told everyone that something was really wrong. As far as Steven was concerned, there was only one thing to do: be the best friend he could. That, and hope that David snapped out of it. Unbeknownst to the youngster, the problem was far more profound than he was capable of understanding. Without his grandmother’s presence in that house, nothing could ever be right again.

Coming home from school to the empty house was something to be dreaded. If Grandpa were five minutes late getting home, he’d freak out. Calls would be made trying to find him. Once, an hour late because of a flat tire, the older man arrived to find the police trying to calm the distraught child. That incident got David sent to a child psychiatrist. That helped a little. And the pills they made him take helped a little more. The two friends looked up antidepressant in the dictionary. From what they could tell, the small white tablets were supposed to make you happy. Steve tried taking one, but got really sleepy. It made them decide that you probably had to be sad for the things to work.

For a time, the days regained a semblance of normalcy, or what passed for normal those days. Late in May, Steve found the envelope with the football tickets inside. In all that had happened he’d forgotten about them. They still hadn’t gone to an Eagles game. Maybe next season... In the meantime, it was almost the end of seventh grade. Next year, they got to run the school as the oldest boys around. What a great time that was going to be.

Over the summer, the two spent most of their time in Fairmount Park. David loved going to the batting cages. There, for ten cents, a mechanical pitcher would throw twenty-five balls at you. Steve would watch, often for an hour or more, as his friend swung at pitch after pitch. Sometimes, when the boy was finished, they’d have to pry his fingers off the bat. The funny part was he’d never play in any of the pickup games. For that matter, he didn’t even play catch; just that grim determination to hit one fast ball after another. Years later, it would result in a peculiar situation. A high school teenager, who batted .625, but couldn’t play the field at all. Steve started to wonder if his friend would ever be okay again. That was the year they became teenagers.

It all started with their thirteenth birthday parties. At his party, David got to play post office with Mary Kramer. They wound up in the closet a lot longer than the allotted two minutes. Steve couldn’t resist ribbing his pal when they finally resurfaced. That was a bad move.

Three weeks later at his birthday party, Steve got caught on film kissing Stacy Shumacher. The innocent explanation, I was just checking out my new Polaroid camera didn’t wash. For years after, whenever Steve would meet someone new, David would come out with the picture of the first kiss. So he’d looked a little startled. What do you expect from a thirteen-year-old?

The first discordant note came at Christmas. His grandfather hadn’t been feeling very well. A trip to the doctor’s turned into a two-day hospital stay for tests. David wound up staying at Steven’s house.

Trying not to appear nervous, David spent the night goofing around. But, long after everyone else was asleep, he was still up. He called the hospital for updates on his grandfather’s condition. Finally, a cranky night operator yelled at him, He’s the same as he was thirty minutes ago: stable. They won’t update the report again until 9:00 AM. Does your mother know you’re up, young man?

The boy snapped back, Only if she’s awake in heaven and hung up the phone. Stable. What was that supposed to mean? The dictionary said, Solidly balanced. Not likely to fall. A place to keep horses. That was comforting. He finally fell asleep at 4 AM. He never knew that he’d been watched the entire time. .

Steve didn’t know how to comfort his friend. But he could at least share the vigil. That night he noticed something odd. David was sleeping with a thumb in his mouth. It was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen the other do. They stopped doing that, years ago, hadn’t they?

The results of the tests came back a couple of weeks later. Whatever they were prompted the scheduling of minor exploratory surgery. That took place in early February.

After it was over, a family discussion was held. Everyone thought the doctor in the family could best explain what was going on. That led to David and his uncle taking a long drive together. He’d always thought his doctor-uncle was pretty cool; especially the fact that he could help people who were sick. The boy had a secret he’d never told anybody. When the time came, he was going to go to medical school. Then the two of them could have a practice together one day. That was the plan, until they took that drive together.

The words, I have some bad news. Dad isn’t doing very well changed everything.

Dry-mouthed he asked, What’s wrong?

His uncle said a single word, Cancer. And then the soap opera dialogue began. I’m afraid he doesn’t have very long.

Those words aged David ten years, in as many seconds. Yet, he was still a child in his perception of time. How long was not very long? His next words proved the innocence of youth. He said, Ten years? That certainly wasn’t any time at all. The blank look on his uncle’s face provided answer enough.

Well, then it had to be Five years? A year? And finally came the single statement, Six months. Very long? That was no time at all. It was a football season, for God’s sake. Not the amount of time left in someone’s life.

The next words his uncle said fell on deaf ears. Although over the years, during many a sleepless night, he would hear them as if on tape, We’ve got to be tough. They’re going to do everything they can. But, everything wasn’t much of anything at all.

Sometimes it seemed as if the treatments were deadlier than the disease. Chemotherapy sessions left his grandfather weak and nauseous. His hair fell out as a result of the toxicity of the drugs being administered.

One spring day, the two friends skipped school and took a bus downtown. At the University of Pennsylvania Medical School library, they asked for books on cancer treatment. A dubious librarian provided them with a long series of reference numbers. Going through the texts left them both ill. One of the volumes held David in dread fascination. Its pictures were something he’d remember until the day he died. One of the photo plates finally caused him to say, I’ve got to get out of here. I think I’m going to be sick.

Later, one of the assistant librarians cleared off the table they’d been using. The top book was still open to a particularly gruesome photo of an autopsy in progress. The title, Aspects of Organic Failure in Advanced Sarcomas wasn’t important. The fact that things like that were happening to his grandfather was all that mattered.

That summer, Steven watched his friend die by inches. Not in any physical way; but in the less obvious, more devastating, emotional sense. Curiously enough, none of David’s relatives seemed to notice the change. Or, if they did, there was nothing they could do about it. The losing battle against the ravages of disease occupied all their time. By the end of the summer, his grandfather was bedridden. Not even painkillers were helping anymore.

On more than one night, he tried to fall asleep listening to the moans coming from the next room. His grandfather’s plea, Please let me die! echoed constantly in his mind. More than once he thought about suicide. Years later, he’d be unable to tell you why he hadn’t killed himself.

It ended in September. By an odd coincidence, he wasn’t there that morning. Someone had misread a schedule and thought that school started that day. His uncle had driven him to campus only to be told, Come back tomorrow. When they got back to the house, a black station wagon was parked in the driveway. His uncle recognized the vehicle immediately. Pulling to a stop, he ran inside. David was only a few steps behind. In the hallway, he nearly collided with two men carrying a long wicker basket. Before he realized what it was, his uncle grabbed him from behind. There was a brief struggle when it finally clicked in his head. They were taking his grandfather away, and he hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

So, he went to a second funeral. This one, Steven couldn’t attend. His mother wasn’t feeling well that day. If he’d been there, maybe he would have realized a truth that no one else did. Throughout the day, everyone commented on how well his friend was handling the grief. They didn’t know the secret. Perhaps not even a best friend could have understood what was happening. But, David knew. When they lowered the casket into the ground, they were burying more than just his grandfather. In that same hole, they buried all that was left of his soul. The other part had been buried in the adjoining plot twenty-two months before.

With his grandfather gone, the question arose of where he was to live. There were a couple of possibilities. Eventually it was decided that he’d stay with an aunt and uncle. They and their daughter lived in upstate New York. So, the two friends faced being separated for the first time in almost six years. Nearly half their lives had been spent in each other’s company. They promised to write each other but both knew how hard it would be to stay in close touch. On the trip north, David wondered if he’d ever see Steven again. He vowed that one day he would. It just happened sooner than expected.

His uncle had led him to believe that the four would be a family; however, he must not have fully explained the situation to his wife. Or, perhaps the young teenager misunderstood. But one day, soon after his arrival, she asked, How long are you staying? The question left the boy dumbfounded. Forever, he’d thought.

Later than night, he listened to a fight between the two adults. The bottom line was simple. His aunt wasn’t ready for the responsibility of raising a disturbed teenager. And that wasn’t her fault, although for years after he wrongly blamed her. If anything, at least she was honest about the whole thing. What came next was a compromise. It didn’t serve anyone very well. David was enrolled in a boarding prep school in Pennsylvania. He’d live on campus and travel home for the holidays. That was fine with him. By then, it didn’t matter where he stayed. At least he’d be close enough to see Steve once in awhile. The school was only an hour from the city.

His problems started on day one. Enrolling late made him something of a curiosity. By the time he had arrived, cliques and friendships had already begun to coalesce. Worse, the only available room was on a floor full of upperclassmen. They viewed freshman as play toys and objects of derision. And, at night, he wasn’t protected by the separation offered to those on underclassmen floors.

So the battle began; one he was ill equipped to handle on any level. He would have been fine had he learned to acquiesce to the demands of his elders. But that was something he didn’t know how to do. His rebellion resulted in a never-ending string of short-sheeted beds and cold showers. It finally culminated in a trashcan-swinging free-for-all, with him trying to fight the entire floor.

He tried to talk to Steven about the whole thing, but his friend was having problems of his own. Seemingly out of the blue, both his mother and father had found people to marry. He hated both of the newcomers. His stepmother was nearly twenty years younger than his dad. And she wasn’t really happy about the idea of a teenage son. That could be tolerated. He wouldn’t be seeing much of them anyway. What really sucked was his stepfather. Something about the guy gave him the creeps. His pleas to Mom to reconsider fell on deaf ears. All she’d say was, You two will get along just fine when we’re all living together.

His response, Bullshit! got him grounded for a week.

Somehow, they both got through the year. Once a month, Steve’s mom would pick David up at school for a family weekend. Scarcity made the two friends learn to value time spent together.

That summer, David returned to upstate New York to experience the bliss of family life. Steven went to Houston and spent two months with his father and step-mom. Then, a bright spot – David was transferring to a school closer to Philadelphia. In fact, a local commuter train stopped right on campus. That meant the two would see more of each other - even if they had to sneak around and do it. That approach never became necessary. Steven’s stepfather didn’t care where he went when he left the house. And, David learned how to manipulate the school’s day-pass system in short order.

On Saturday and Sunday, their ritual was to hang out in downtown Philadelphia. A favorite place was an Oriental restaurant near 13th & Race, close to the train station and the subway. It became their standard rendezvous. The owners, the Kwans, a young Chinese couple liked the boys, and the friendly connection led them into a set of disciplines that would stick with them for life.

One evening, as the friends came down the short flight of steps from the front door of the restaurant three guys in their late teens approached them. Their black jackets bore the emblem of a cobra, spitting fire.

With a smirk, one of them bumped into Steven hard enough to stagger him. Rather than apologize, the older boy snapped, Hey, jerk, watch where you’re going.

David’s response was, Watch where he’s going? You ran into him!

The speaking cobra spun around. Fuck you. He just hit me; and that’ll cost him ten dollars. You’re going to do something about it?

This was a lesson he’d learned last year at school. Not one in the curriculum, but a little something picked up after classroom hours. If someone’s looking for it, give it to them - first!

David’s quick right fist caught the older boy square in the mouth. Blood dripped from split lips. Smirking with satisfaction, he said, No, fuck you.

What he didn’t understand was the difference between a fight with classmates and one with half-assed gang members. In school, blood usually ended a fight. In the street, it was just the beginning. That lesson was taught in the next few minutes.

Two Cobras grabbed and held him while the third started beating the hell out of him. Steven tackled one of the trio, but fighting wasn’t his bag. A kick to the face left him dazed. It could have gotten really nasty. The words, I’m going to kill you didn’t sound like an idle threat. So any interruption was welcome.

Old Mr. Kwan, the grandfather of the restaurant’s owner, had come to the door. In a faintly sing-song voice, he said, You boys stop that now. Go away.

The gang leader wasn’t much on respect for his elders. He told the man, Suck my dick, pops. And then he belted David in the face again. That prompted Kwan to come out and walk over.

At his slow approach, the three toughs dropped the dazed boy, and turned to face the adult. Trying to catch his breath, David knew he had to help the man. He must be nearly seventy. It wasn’t right to fight someone that old. Half retching, he gasped out the words, Hey you faggots. What are you trying to do, quit?

That earned him a boot in the gut, and a ringside seat. Lying on the ground, he watched what happened next. Two of the teens tried to grab Kwan, with the obvious intent of repeating their holdem-beatem strategy.

Moving in what looked like slow motion, the old man avoided the group. Hands danced in the air and struck out. One of the two screamed and clutched at an obviously broken nose. The other made the mistake of being stunned by the scream. A slipper-clad foot struck his right knee, and he hit the ground. That left one very angry leader standing alone. If the old gook wanted to dance, he had something for that. The opening snap of the nine-inch switchblade brought a smile to his face. Time to carve a little turkey.

Waving the blade in the air, he said, You’re fucked, Charlie Chan. A noisy cough behind him made the guy whip around. Son-of-Kwan was standing at the doorway holding a large carving knife. Speaking very politely, he said, I’d appreciate it if you’d put the knife away. Someone might get hurt.

The Cobra with the switchblade didn’t like the look of that butcher knife. But there was no way to back down and keep the respect of his boys. Besides, he’d been in knife fights before and had the scars to prove it. In his best street voice, he growled, It’s just as easy to slice up two slopes as one. That knife ain’t going to help you.

A gentle smile crossed Kwan’s face as he tossed the knife over to his left hand, Oh, this? This is for cutting vegetables, not swine.

Then, bending over, Kwan placed the blade carefully on the top step. Identical thoughts crossed the minds of David and the gang leader, Why the heck did he do that?

Confident of the outcome, the teenage Cobra took two strides forward. Spinning like a top, the middle-aged man arched his foot through the air. David heard the sound of the boy’s wrist break at the impact. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers.

Calmly retrieving the switchblade, Kwan snapped the blade off on the edge of the steps. With a sorrowful shake of his head, he said, You should have someone look at your hand. Looking toward his father, he added, Are you coming in? Dinner’s ready.

The two went upstairs to the restaurant. David heard the Grandfather’s You must learn control, my son. Kenpo is too violent ...

To which the younger man replied, I’ll study Aikido when I’m old, like you Father. The door closed on their combined laughter.

David and Steven watched as the three older boys limped away. Helping his friend to his feet, Steven asked, Did you see that?

On the very next Saturday, they went back to the restaurant. After thanking the Kwan men for their rescue, David asked, Where do you learn to fight like that?

The elder Kwan sat them down and explained that it was a complete discipline. Fighting and winning wasn’t the objective. Harmony with one’s body was the goal. The ability to defend one’s self, a secondary aspect to the arts; only to be used if one was unable to run away. Neither of the boys could understand why you’d ever run. Not when you could fight like that. Okay, it was something they’d learn over time. Until then, it would sure be nice to be able to kick anyone’s ass that tried to hurt you.

It took a lot of cajoling to get the name of a teacher from Mr. Kwan. Steven was most insistent about his need to learn martial arts. Something compelling in the boy’s manner finally made the man relent.

The Dojo, occupied the top floor of a downtown warehouse. There they met Sensei Li, dressed in baggy clothes, all black with a black belt. There was nothing notable about his height or weight, but he seemed solid even when he wasn’t talking or moving. The first lesson was that Sensei meant teacher, along with a lot of pushups, sit-ups and stretching.

For the next three years, they would meet at the Dojo two or three times a week. It took a lot of juggling on David’s part to manage school, his renewed interest in sports and the trips downtown. He might not have pursued the study of martial arts were Steven not so determined to learn. Something about being able to fight had Steve awfully excited. Sensei Li was impressed by the boy’s determination. Nothing seemed to slow the new student down; not even a dislocated finger.

Early in the boys’ training, Sensei Li had decided each would be served best by studying a different form. David’s greater size and weight was better suited to the more aggressive style of Karate. Steve’s slighter build lent itself to the mastery of Aikido, a style relying more on precision and control than brute strength. Sensei’s hunch was right and each excelled.

Physical successes were matched on an academic front. David won an Engineering Development Award for a bridge design. Steve took first prize in a statewide science fair with a robot butler that mesmerized the competition.

The summer after their junior year, David forged his mother’s signature on a consent form, and took his first flying lesson. After about four minutes into that first hour in the tiny Piper Cub, he was hooked. This is something I want to do for the rest of my life, he declared, but his efforts to explain the high to Steven were futile. Not even a half-hour ride with an understanding instructor could help him see the light. As far as Steve Harper was concerned, models were just fine.

David felt disappointed and perplexed that there was such a big difference between them. In time, David learned to accept his friend’s disinterest. They didn’t have to have all the same likes and dislikes, and Steve wasn’t dumping on him for it, not even because flying was expensive. Every dime he’d saved for three years was going to the DelVal Flight Academy.

With a shock, the two realized that the start of senior year meant that college wasn’t all that far away. Where to go? They wanted to be at the same school even with their growing acknowledgment of diverse interests. Steven wanted an engineering degree like his father. David was vacillating between pre-med and physics. They teamed up and spent roughly two days pouring over a Barron’s College Guide that helped to narrow the decision to two hundred possibilities.

Does it have to be a big-time football school? Steve asked David, without any awareness of the recruiting that foretold the final pick of schools to choose from. David surprised him, I’m not even sure I’ll keep playing; but, if I do, I’m better off on a Division II or III team. I’d be able to make good grades and still play ball. The Division I stuff is pretty intense. On the day after Christmas they marched to the Post Office with fifteen applications.

Acceptance letters began to roll in. Steve received thirteen offers to David’s twelve. In early April, after animated discussions, they narrowed down to the pool to Lehigh University and Gettysburg College. The final decision would be made after college weekends. The two-day visits were designed to expose students to campus life. Upperclassmen were assigned as guides to show around the potential freshmen. There were unpredictable nuances to these visits, subtleties that had an impact in the decision far out of proportion to their actual importance. Steve and David had been told that they would get a gut feeling about the better choice. They were also warned that a decision might be based on staged perceptions.

When a school was interested in particular prospects, the guides were told to woo the hell out of them. Cheerleaders were assigned to show around star high school athletes. Seventeen-year-old collections of hormones on feet were dazzled by the promise of twenty year old, invariably gorgeous, escorts. These girls wouldn’t remember their names the following year; but, for that day, the treatment made the boys feel like superstars. Not the best reason to choose a place to study, but effective.

David, and by extension Steven, got the goods, so to speak. Varsity players and cheerleaders were their escorts at both schools. Kern was a hot prospect. Triple varsity letters and good grades to boot. A jock they could save tutoring fees on.

In the end, it came down to a virtual coin toss. The vision of the wild college life had its moment. The parties at the Burg were a little better, than in Little Town of Bethlehem. They mailed their acceptance letters in one envelope, as a hint that they’d get along as roommates.

Gettysburg College, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

Steve met his first girlfriend the second week of college.

He and Dana started going at it hot and heavy. David was kind of amused by the couple’s intensity. But that was cool. She seemed okay and, she treated his friend well, so who could bitch.

There was only one thing he could find fault with. The chick was gonzo on all the anti-war stuff. I mean, wearing buttons that read, Nixon is the Antichrist, get real. The weird part was Steve tolerating the bullshit. Where was the relevancy between their lives, Flower Power, Black Power or Ho Chi Goddamn Minh? They were part of the establishment, or at least working on it.

Out of curiosity, he decided to join Steve and Dana at a peace rally. They drove to Washington, DC, for one of the endless series of marches that punctuated the late sixties. When the day was over, he still didn’t get it.

A bunch of raggedy-dressed white kids chanting Hell no we won’t go! Of course, they weren’t going to go, most of them had college deferments. At least the inner city black kids had a reason to protest. They were going. And, all that Black Power militant crap wasn’t going to help. Someone needed to tell them that as a method of change campaign contributions worked better than pipe bombs.

On the way home, an argument broke out. David started it with the statement, Some of those people were cartoon characters. The guy wearing the flag like a diaper; what’s that about?

Dana jumped right on her hobbyhorse. The tirade of anti-government rhetoric ended with, You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a capitalistic pig like all the rest.

He probably should have let it slide, but the joint he’d smoked had put him in a philosophical mood. That was one thing you could say for the rallies. Everyone sure partied a lot.

Half-baked, he retaliated, Hey Dana, why don’t you cut the crap? You and the rest of the unwashed masses! You wouldn’t know poverty or despair if they bit you in the ass. The only black experience you can relate to is a power failure that kills the lights. And, sleeping with one of the brothers doesn’t make you a liberal. Face it - we are the enemy you guys scream about. Tell you what. If you’re so serious about the whole thing, do this. Tell your parents to donate your college tuition to charity.

From that day forward he hung out less with the couple.

When Steve was with Dana it left David at loose ends. He solved that by flying more. It had taken another forgery to get a pilot’s license. But, now he could rent a plane at will.

One Sunday, he decided to do a short cross-country flight. Of course, there was an ulterior motive behind the idea. The girl he had decided to chase thought planes were cool and didn’t know he could fly. So, a little surprise was in order.

The picnic he had promised was going to take place, but at a park a hundred miles away. He borrowed a car to pick Robin up. On the short drive to the airfield, he said, Have I got a treat for you!

She thought he was kidding when he pulled up next to the small plane. Half an hour later flying west at about twenty-five hundred feet, the girl knew he was serious. This was too wild. Wait until she told everyone.

Miami, Florida - June, 1968

The chubby, middle-aged man shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Fingers mindlessly twisted the brim of his baseball cap with the leaping Dolphin logo. For the first time in his life, he knew real fear. What he was about to do was the most dangerous act of an otherwise peaceful existence; but his son’s life could be at stake. That required taking any risk; even the possibility of vengeance by an entire government would not deter him. Oddly enough that wasn’t the main consideration, or the main source of anxiety. However, the power wielded by the man he was going to see, that was another story. What right did he have to approach a member of the Honored Society? A lowly plumber, just one generation removed from the docks of Sicily; a man without connections or means.

The decision to act had been compelled out of desperation as the ominous deadline approached. Who else might he turn to that could fight the might of a country’s government?

His reverie was interrupted by the return of the dark-suited doorman. With a brusque follow me he led the man inside. Oh Lord, of all times to come, when he would bother one such as he while they were eating. Bad luck or fate? Almost genuflecting, he tried to think of the words to begin.

The pause stretched out. With nothing forthcoming, the seated man said, Come, my friend, sit down and tell me why you wished to see me.

Speaking softly, the supplicant began, My name is Luigi Bartello. I’m a plumber with the Union. I’m here about my son.

Surely this couldn’t be about a union card. This poor man was sweating like a pig. It was a reaction he was used to. In that low, menacing voice he was famous for, came the question, What about your son?

Pulling together a little confidence, Bartello replied, They wish to draft him for the Army. His mother is frantic that he will be killed in Vietnam. We heard there are ways to avoid this, but only for the rich and powerful. We are not rich or powerful. I would not have come, but the Fiorello boy was sent there two months ago; and they buried him yesterday.

To smile would have belied the image. All this distress over a draft exemption; but wasn’t it the little things that helped them maintain power. Speaking softly, he said, You have come to the right place. It will be very difficult; but perhaps there is a chance. Leave your son’s name and I’ll see what can be done.

The plumber’s effusive thanks continued as he was led away. A moment later, the escort returned for instructions. In his hand was an envelope with a name on it.

Call whoever we’ve got down at Selective Service. Get the kid a 4F. While speaking, the seated man opened the envelope. It contained two thousand dollars. That had to be the plumber’s life savings. The exemption would only cost a couple of hundred.

Ah, what the hell, he added as an afterthought, Get the kid into the union too. Maybe he’ll be good for a favor one day.

That drew a respectful, Yes, Don Carlo.

With a satisfied sigh, he returned to the interrupted meal. Although not of European royalty, he understood the concept of noblesse oblige. After all, what was the point of becoming a Man of Respect if you couldn’t help the neighborhood. Or so, Don Carlo Castillore, the head of Florida’s largest crime family, had been raised to believe.

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

The first semester flew by. But when Thanksgiving came, the boys were at loose ends. Steven had no intention of going home. The relationship with Dana was all but over and the anti-war ardor had cooled. But there was a legacy of the relationship: Steven’s ponytail.

What to do with five days of