The Chronicles of Jack Best

By Rodman Goode

Now readers can enjoy THREE Jack Best adventures in one volume. THE CHRONICLES OF JACK BEST features the non-stop action of TWO TEARS IN A BUCKET, THE MORE I LIKE FLIES, and UP JUMPED THE MONKEYall in on e place.

TWO TEARS IN A BUCKETFor Deputy Constable Jack Best, life is a bowl of cherries. But when his boss is killed while in the company of a lovely young co-ed (who happens NOT to be his wife), Jack must rekindle some old skills and do what it is that he does bestsolve a murder. Petty politics, stale grudges, and too many suspects paint the backdrop of life in North Texas as one man seeks the killer of Dallas Countys favorite bigoted big shot.

THE MORE I LIKE FLIESWhen a close friend is jailed for murdering a local party girl (who has just beaten the rap for killing her own child), Deputy Marshal Jack Best must once again ride to the rescue. But unseen forces work against him, and if hes not careful, those closest to him may end up paying the ultimate pricewith their lives. This fast-paced Jack Best Mystery takes the reader on a frenetic ride as the intrepid investigator tracks the killer of the most hated TV trial vixen in Dallas.

UP JUMPED THE MONKEYJack and crew are down in South Central Texas where Kayes working on a new movie and Jacks taking a break from crime in the big city. But when a local girl is found strangled in a church confessional, Jack is pulled into the fray once again. And if thats not enough, tragedy and death stalk Kayes movie shoot as cameras roll near old San Antonio.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496921710

Rodman Goode

Rodman Goode has pursued his passion for writing across various genres for more than thirty years, notably collaborating with 2-time Emmy Award winning actress and comedian Loni Love. After graduating Prairie View A&M University, he interned with the late great Robert Guillaume, television’s Benson, one of the most distinguished actors of our time, learning the basics of storytelling and comedy. Rodman also has a rich law enforcement background including ten years with the Dallas Marshals Office. Among his assignments: environmental investigations, special operations, internal affairs, training, warrant apprehension supervisor and watch commander. He holds an MPA in public policy from Texas Southern University.

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© 2014 Rodman Goode. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 06/20/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2172-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2171-0 (e)

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Book One Two Tears In A Bucket

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Book Two The More I Like Flies

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Book Three Up Jumped The Monkey

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

BOOK ONE

Two Tears in a Bucket

Chapter One

The threat of imminent death has a way of cauterizing one’s thoughts.

I’m gonna kill your bloated fat ass, you home-wrecking black bastard.

The gun fired, the bullet ripping through the unoccupied portion of my half zipped pants.

Fat? Shit, I’d lost damned near a hundred pounds in the last year. Who the hell did he think he was, calling me fat?

Another bullet whizzed past my ear causing me to refocus on the issue at hand.

Here’s the thing: forty-five years old, three-times divorced, and a deputy constable are not the usual social inducers that one would expect, you know, the kind that immediately make a woman drop her panties and crawl into bed with you, even if you do have a winning smile (which I do), even if you don’t have a fourteen inch cock (which I don’t.) No, forty-five, divorced and a deputy constable is the kind of status that gets you part-time security work, the occasional IRS audit, and the even more occasional bedded badge bunny.

Of course, last night’s badge bunny is the reason I found myself in my current predicament, crawling out the second floor apartment window of a woman whom I hardly knew and to whom I had earlier served an eviction notice. She said all the right things to entice me to stay like, Yeah, okay… I guess., although in retrospect, the one thing she probably should have said that I needed to hear were those four little words I have a husband. Four other words I also could have used hearing: he’s got a gun!

So, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Deputy Jack B. Best got the fuck out of there before Jack be dead. I don’t make it a habit to do married women— at least those not married to me for some small period of time. But this was one of those cases where one of my paramours assumed that what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. She was almost wrong.

Speeding away, I took stock of my physical status. Ten, ten, two and one. Yep, everything where it was supposed to be. No extra holes. That was good. I enjoy being fissure efficient.

I reached for my iPhone and punched in a number from memory. Honey picked it up on the first ring.

What’s up, Jack?

Same ole, same ole. Whatcha cooking tonight?

Salisbury steak, snap green beans, buttery rice, beef steak tomatoes.

My favorites.

I know. You on your way over?

Ten minutes.

See you in a bit, and she hung up.

Eight and a half minutes later and I was pulling my yellow convertible VW Beetle into the driveway of a small house in the M streets. I grabbed my Sam Browne belt, which I’d left in trunk back at the apartment, and headed in to see my Honey.

She greeted me at the door holding a blue martini glass and wearing a silky black thigh length robe with nothing on underneath. I wasn’t really shocked. I’d seen it all many times before, and besides, it was her house.

Hey Honey, I said, giving her a big hug and a kiss.

Hey little brother.

Where’s my plate? I’m starved.

She nodded over her shoulder toward the kitchen. I moved passed her into the living room, tossing my gear on her sofa.

Hey, watch it, Jack. Some people actually have nice things in their homes.

Life Fact #376: having a close relationship with your sister is like having a wife, only there’s no sex and the bitching is often more on target.

Honey is my only sister and a bit of a modern bohemian. She’s executive chef at a chic local restaurant and has a growing rep as a future Food Network star. Two different local news channels feature her recipes and signature dishes every couple of weeks or so on slow news days, and she writes monthly features on cuisine in the both the local rag and the city mag.

My sister, the classic under achiever.

Honey is also a practicing Nichiren Shôshû Buddhist, complete with a Gohonzon prayer alter. For at least an hour every morning and every night she chants Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. It’s a prayer or incantation that generally translates to I submit myself to the Mystic Law of Cause and Effect. It’s basically the same acknowledgment I make every morning that I drag my ass to a job I hate and an office I hate even more.

How was your day? I managed between bites.

Shitty. Remember my sous-chef, Bob? He called in twenty minutes before his shift was supposed to start and quit on me.

What? How come?

Oh, some bullshit about finding the lord and going off to Africa to help poor starving children. Fuck that, Jack, I’m African. If the sorry bastard wanted to help Africans, he could have just stayed at the restaurant and helped me.

"Honey, you — we — are African American. And you are not starving."

I will be if the restaurant closes for lack of a sous-chef.

Aren’t you being a little melodramatic? Just hire another assistant… or better yet, promote your saucier.

Promote my what? My saucier? My, my, look who’s been watching Iron Chef America.

I set my plate down and wiped my mouth. Ain’t nothing else to watch Sunday nights until football starts back.

Honey downed the last of whatever was in her glass, picked up my plate and took it back to the kitchen. Over her shoulder she said smiling You can’t fool me, Jack. You’ve been taking an interest in the culinary arts lately. I’ve noticed, and I’m flattered.

I shook my head. Don’t be, sis. You know, a man’s gotta eat. I just like to know what I’m eating… and on occasion, how to fix it too. Anyway, I did my budget recently, and Jesus, I spend a fortune on restaurants and take out.

And on behalf of my industry, Honey chimed, I thank you.

My phone rang.

Hello?

Jack? It’s Rogers.

Rogers was Frank Rogers, my chief. He’s an alright guy. Doesn’t interfere, lets the deputies do their job. I like him, but we’re not buddies. We don’t socialize, so if he was calling me after hours, it was business.

What’s up, boss?

There’s a problem. J.C. is dead. Shot.

This was a problem. J.C. was our constable. Our elected constable. The man who hired us, who was responsible for protecting our jobs from budget slashing county commissioners. With J.C. dead, the county court just might be inclined to appoint a temporary replacement more in tuned with its conservative fiscal attitude.

Oh yeah, and a man is dead. That too was bad.

What happened?

Don’t know… he was at one of his rent houses… with… a friend.

Not his wife I take it.

No. Not his wife.

And you’re calling me because…

Because I know your background, Jack. I need you on this.

I don’t do that anymore, boss. I’m just a civil process deputy, you know, subpoenas, evictions, writs. Nice and quiet, that’s me, boss.

Fuck that, Jack; as of now, you’re on special assignment.

Shit.

I need you to do that thing that you do best, Best. If you don’t, none of us may have jobs in three days.

What about the locals?

There are considerations…

He was right. Grand Prairie detectives were good, but not necessarily known for their discretion in sensitive matters. This was going to get messy, ugly. People were gonna get hurt. I didn’t want to be one of them.

I really didn’t have a choice.

Alright. I’m in. Where do we meet?

At his place by the office, on Beltline in Grand Prairie.

I’ll be there in forty minutes.

Make it thirty. Rogers hung up.

I was there in twenty.

Chapter Two

I need you to do that thing that you do best, Best.

Rogers could turn a phrase, and that particular phrase had turned my stomach. Rogers was one of only a handful of people around who knew that I used to solve problems for the United States Army. In fact, my nickname had been Shoveler, because for some reason I seemed to have the knack for quickly sifting and shoveling through bullshit. All bullshit – criminal, political, military, personal – you name it, bullshit was bullshit, and I’d been blessed with a nose for it.

Except for in my own life, that is. When it comes to my personal life, and my women in particular, my nose is especially blunt. Putting it in poetic culinary terms, Honey says when it comes to women, I wouldn’t know chicken shit from chicken salad.

I love women.

And I love chicken salad too.

I spent ten years in the service of good old Uncle Sam. I enlisted right out of high school and shortly after basic I found myself in the 170th Military Police Company at Fort Lewis, Washington. Three years, a hell of a lot of specialized training, and a re-up later, I was in CID, Criminal Investigation Division, where I spent the next seven years.

The world of Army CID was kind of like the Catholic Church, only with more rules to ignore and fewer pedophiles to excuse. In CID we were all priests of varying levels, regularly charged with exorcising demons, converting natives, and spreading—or hiding—the truth, depending on the case.

Ex-wife #2 used to say I had issues with the church. That’s fair, I guess.

I spent most of my CID time tracking down people who didn’t want to be found: AWOL’s, absconders, and felony suspects, and in the course of carrying out these duties, I perfected my skills at seeing the hidden, asking the unknown, and determining the unfathomable.

That’s actually how I met Rogers. His kid, Roy (yeah, I don’t know what the chief and his wife were thinking naming their only child Roy Rogers) had gotten mixed up with a rough crowd while serving in the infantry in Korea, the kind of crowd that plays it hard and loose—that’s hard liquor and drugs, and loose morals and women.

When one of those loose women got herself offed at the point of a K-bar, a type of combat knife carried by many U.S. soldiers, young Roy Rogers—that shitty name still makes me laugh—found himself in a Seoul jail facing a hostile Korean media, a public calling for his head on a pike, and a certain death sentence after an even more certain conviction.

Through what can only be described as piss-poor guard work and shoddy jail construction, Roy managed to escape, a feat that angered and embarrassed our Asian hosts. Army Command, seeking to maintain good relations with the South Koreans, ordered young Rogers found and returned to Seoul, post-haste.

That’s where I came in. It didn’t take me long to find the kid. He was holed up in a dirty Busan apartment with his moose, known in civilized society as a financially convenient girlfriend. Both she and Roy did their share of whining and gnashing of teeth, loudly proclaiming his innocence and that he’d been framed. I told them I didn’t care—and frankly, I didn’t—that I had orders to bring him back to Seoul to stand trial, to face Korean justice. The five hour drive back to Seoul was filled with even more sobs of I’m innocent and I’ve been framed and can’t you help me?

While the years since then have hardened me to a greater degree, by the time Roy and I arrived at our destination, he’d convinced me that there might be something worth looking into. Three things about the case bothered me.

To start with, while Roy’s fingerprints had been found all over the victim’s apartment, no blood evidence had been found on any of his belongings. And there should have been, because there was a lot of blood. The killer had eviscerated the girl, a local prostitute that Roy admitted he’d known socially – and biblically – for more than six months. You don’t do that much damage to a human body and not get at least a little blood spatter on your person.

Second, Roy had an alibi, albeit not a good one. His moose swore on a stack of kimchi that he’d been with her the night of the crime; but his good word, and the word of a part pro, part amateur girlfriend didn’t hold much sway with the Seoul authorities.

But the main thing that bothered me the most was the eye witness testimony the locals had elicited from two of Roy’s fellow soldiers, booze hounds with whom Roy told me he regularly got high, Rusty and Dusty.

With a moniker like Roy Rogers, what else would his associates be named?

Rusty and Dusty had a history of drunken outings that often led to fights with locals, including two arrests for beating up prostitutes. Both cases were dropped because neither girl would testify against the pair.

And just like Roy, their prints had also turned up at the dead girl’s pad, but Rusty and Dusty had vouched for each other, both swearing that each had seen Ray entering the victim’s apartment shortly before the crime. While their alibis were just as questionable as Roy’s had been, the Seoul cops were more inclined to believe the two over the one and had thus quickly closed what had fast become a heated, controversial case. With a suspect in jail, the main stakeholders were mollified: the Korean public was satisfied, the local police were heroes, and a U.S.-South Korean international incident was abated.

It was a solid case of circumstantial evidence, built on a house of straw. Sure, I knew of many a conviction that had been obtained on far less evidence, but that didn’t make it right.

I had orders to be back in the states in three days, so that didn’t leave me much time to find some answers. Also, I knew that any investigation I did had to be quiet and discrete; my bosses, that is to say, the U.S. Government, wanted this situation to go away, truth be damned, and if one AWOL drunken soldier had to be sacrificed to make that happen then so be it. No, if it were known that I was trying to unsimplify the simplistic, there would be a whole lot of people up and down my chain of command looking to hang me out to dry.

After turning Roy over to the Seoul authorities, I quickly tracked down his two buddies who had since returned to Yongsan, the U.S. Army Garrison that was the home to United States Forces Korea. Though not charged in the murder, the pair had been confined to base by their company commander for dirty pee tests and a number of other minor offenses. I found the duo in the motor pool washing Humvees.

Rusty and Dusty, I called out their names as I approached. They immediately made me for a cop.

It wasn’t me, the taller and skinnier of the two sneered. The shorter, fatter one snickered at his friend’s display of wit.

If it was a question of who last bathed, I would believe you, I said flatly.

Short and fat howled. Skinnier shoved him, whining shut up, fucker.

Language, ladies. Language. Which one of you is Rusty?

Tall and skinny spoke up. Who wants to know?

It’s been my experience that the one who asks that question is usually the one I want to talk to. I turned to short and fat. Beat it, Dusty. I don’t need you right now.

Dusty cut his eyes toward Rusty and acted as though he wanted to balk at my suggestion. Don’t look at him, I barked. Just walk. I leaned in toward him, balled my fists, and made as though I were about to jump. The rotund little man flinched and started to jog away, stuttering over his shoulder, I-I-I’ll c-c-catch you later, R-r-r-rusty.

After watching Dusty beat feet behind a motor-pool building, I turned my attention back to Rusty who was obviously shaken and still looking toward the path his comrade had just taken.

Now, Rusty, let’s talk.

Talk? Who the fuck are you?

It was a fair question since I was wasn’t in uniform; I wore my standard long-sleeve black t-shirt and khaki jacket and slacks. I whipped out my badge and ID.

That’s who I am. You can call me ‘sir.’

Rusty’s face took on a sullen, worried cast.

What do you want, sir?

That’s better, soldier, I said. I want to talk about Roy Rogers.

His eyes flinched a bit in surprise and he tried to mask it. What about him?

You and your friend told Seoul police that you saw Roy Rogers enter the dead girl’s place just before she was killed.

His eyes shifted slightly, his jaw tightening as he considered his answer. Uh, yeah. That’s right. Then, as an afterthought, What of it?

I looked him directly in the eye. That was a lie.

Now, when most innocent people are confronted with a direct contradiction of the veracity of their words, they usually issue one of two responses, usually with vehement. Either they immediately and definitively refute the claim, or they respond with a sudden and sharp invective, usually in the vein of Fuck you, be-otch!

Guilty people, on the other hand, usually respond quite differently. Often the response is muted or delayed, perhaps ever so slightly. In poker, they call it a tell.

Rusty had two tells. He blinked twice, then swallowed hard once before speaking. In other words, he was holding a pair of twos to my inside straight.

Uh, no it wasn’t.

He was about as convincing as a whore wearing white on her wedding day. (Re ex-wife #3.)

Rusty, listen. I personally don’t give a shit what happened. A dead Korean prostitute means nothing to me, and the fact that you two losers managed to pin it on a third loser is just comedy. Hell, good on ya’.

Rusty looked confused. I don’t… what… huh?

Look, you don’t have to say a thing. The brass is pleased as punch that this thing is over. That’s why I’m here. They sent me to find Roy, drag his dumb-ass back to Seoul, and put a lid on this whole ugly mess.

Rusty was dumbfounded, like a mongoloid watching a magic show.

It’s just… I trailed off.

Just what?

It’s just that… well, there’s one last part of my job before I head back to the states.

His eyes narrowed. He licked his lips. What that?

I cleared my throat and used my most official sounding voice. Well, as an official of the United States Army and the United States Government, I am required to inform you that a contract has been placed on you and your friend, Dusty. I am further required to inform you that due to your statements to the Seoul officials, neither the United States Army nor the federal government will be affording you the coverage or the witness protection that Roy Rogers will be afforded as an official target of the Korean gangpeh.

The word gangpeh literally translates to mobsters in Korean.

I paused, then reached into my jacket and pulled out a set of papers. Rusty stared, unsure of what was happening.

Due to your status as a, I used finger quotes, ‘marked man’, you are required to sign this notification as to where you wish your remains be sent in the sudden and unexpected event of your 1) demolition, 2) disembowelment 3) defenestration 4) decapitation—

Rusty was physically shaking. Wha-wha-what are you talking about, decapistration?

I held up my hand, continuing to stare at the papers. That’s defenestration and decapitation, Rusty, two completely different words. Son, you’ve got to keep up. I’m just into the D’s. I haven’t even gotten to the E’s yet, you know, electrocution, evisceration, exsanguination…

Rusty interrupted, "What are you talking about, man? What’s the gangpeh got to do with this? Why are they gonna try and kill me? What did I do to them?" The kid was now not only shaking, but also profusely sweating… and, unless my nose was mistaken, he’d also soiled his drawers a little.

Exasperated, I lowered the papers, stepped in closer, and cast a furtive look over my shoulder. "Look, Rusty. I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but here goes. That prostitute you guys were fuckin’ with was the runaway daughter of the top guy in the Korean gangpeh, and word on the street is he’s pissed, looking for revenge. Your buddy, Roy, is pretty safe now. They’ve got him in protective custody, and as long as he stays there the mob’s not gonna mess with him.

You guys, on the other hand, are in a world of hurt.

Wh-why’s that?

’Cause everyone knows you two are the ones who offed the girl—

No we didn’t! he interrupted.

Look here, Rusty. Lying to me don’t get you squat. Like I said, I don’t give a shit. But you gotta ask yourself this: how come the locals closed this case so quickly… just based on the testimony of two American idiots who vouched for each other and who had a history of drunken benders and assaulting prostitutes.

Rusty started to say something, then stopped.

Anyway, I continued, "Roy’s probably not gonna get more than two or three years, then he’ll be out, back home, and free from a Korean mafia hit list.

You and your compatriot, on the other hand, will probably be dead.

His eyes were wide, the reality of his situation slowly seeping through the concrete melon that was his brain. What do you mean, only two or three years? Ain’t Roy charged with murder?

Yeah, yeah, he’s charged with murder alright, but like I said, the victim was a prostitute, so even though he’ll most probably get convicted, judges here tend to give incredibly light sentences for the death of sex workers, so he’ll be back home in the states outside of three years.

I paused, giving effect to my words.

Wh-what should I do?

Make a will. Get your affairs in order.

It was Rusty’s turn to pause. After several moments he sighed. His voice trembled and his eyes were moist. Man, I don’t wanna die. What am I supposed to do?

I shrugged. Not my problem, dude. I again raised the papers. I just need you to sign these papers. It’ll be my ass if I get back stateside and find out you’re dead and I don’t have your signature on these next of kin papers.

Fuck those papers, man, Rusty exclaimed, knocking my first set of divorce papers to the ground. We did it, Agent Best. Me and Dusty, we killed that slant-eyed bitch.

I ground my teeth a bit, thinking about how well this backward-ass inbred redneck motherfucker was going to be received in the South Korean prison system. Still, I managed to stay in character.

Yeah, so what? It doesn’t matter. You two heroes told your story, sold your boy down the river. The deed’s done. Ain’t nothing left for you to do but live with it… and, eventually, die with it, I suppose.

No way, man. I ain’t getting knocked off by some motherfucking Korean mafia hit man just for killing some chink-whore don’t nobody but her daddy care about. Fuck that, man.

I shrugged. "I don’t know what to tell you, Rusty. About the only thing that might save you – and I’m saying might – is if you and Dusty come clean about what happened that night…and that ain’t happening, right? I mean, even if you do talk, that little bitch of a partner of yours won’t tell the truth. You saw the way he ran away a couple of minutes ago, just ’cause I said ‘boo!’"

He shook his head, still looking worried. Fuck that, man. Dusty’ll do what I tell him. I just need to talk to him.

It was my turn to shake my head. I don’t know… I mean, the brass is pretty happy with the current status… and they’ve already written you two off. I furrowed my brow and made as though I was giving the matter serious thought. I suppose… I trailed off.

What? What Agent Best?

I shrugged again. I suppose I could call back to HQ and tell them I was still trying to find you two… it might give you a few hours to get to the local police station, recant your statements, and sign a confession—

And get witness protection too, right?

Oh yeah, yeah. Definitely, witness protection too.

"Man, if you could do that, you know, just call and tell them you couldn’t find us… give us a little time to turn ourselves in.

I sighed. Well, I guess…

Man, me and Dusty, we’ll owe you for life.

That’d be about right, I thought to myself. Alright, man. Just for you. But do me a favor… keep my name out of this. I don’t want the brass thinking that I’m going soft.

Oh, no worries, man, he said with enthusiasm. We won’t tell a soul. He turned and started running toward the motor-pool building, calling as he ran, "Hey Dusty! Dusty! Hey, where the fuck are you?"

Twenty-four hours later, I was waiting outside the Seoul police station as Roy Rogers walked out the front door. I waved him over and observed a confused look on his face.

What’s wrong, kid?

Did you hear? Rusty and Dusty confessed. They killed the girl, they set me up.

I smiled and motioned to my car. Get in. The front seat, this time. Roy looked unsure at first, then opened the door and got in. He turned to me and asked, Did you have anything to do with this, sir?

Maybe. We sat in the parking lot and I told him about my conversation with Rusty. Roy barely breathed during the whole story; when I finished, he let out a long, slow breath.

I don’t know how to thank you, Agent Best. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be facing a noose.

He shook his head. I can’t believe it. Those guys were my friends.

No, they weren’t.

Roy looked at me, then nodded. Yeah, you’re right. They were just a couple of dudes I used to party with. They were in my unit and we just kind of fell in with each other.

You need to be more discerning about who you hang out with.

He nodded and said nothing. I started the car and headed back to base. After a short while, he asked, "What do I do