SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR #10

DECK APE 

This was a Cheech and Chong situation if I 

had ever seen one. The floor of the car I was sitting 
in, a Datsun 240Z, was absolutely littered with 
white cross. Speed. Uppers. Go-Fast. Whatever the 
hell the slang was for it then. The shit was 
everywhere. Must have been two hundreds hits 
spread all over the floor and the seats and between 
the spent bottles of Heineken. I was bent over in the 
passenger seat trying to pick the tabs out of the 
carpet, my eyes tearing up from the smoke from the 
lit Marlboro that was stuck in my mouth.

"Jesus Christ, Jay! If the fucking highway 
patrol pulls us over we're gonna wind up getting our 
assholes reamed in the Los Angeles County Jail. If we 
even get that far. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Jay belted out that loud laugh of his. "Denny 
and I did a little partying last night. I forgot about 
the mess."

Denny was Dennis Barry, a good buddy of 
ours. Bar none the wildest son of a bitch I would 
ever meet in my life. With a short squat hairy body 
and huge stevedore arms, Dennis would stroll down 
the decks of the ship like a lost silverback gorilla, 
swinging those tree trunk arms of his. Good natured 
and funny when sober, shit in your pants funny 
when stoned, and short tempered and dangerous 
when drinking, Dennis was one of a kind. 

The son of a Hollywood film lot worker, Dennis planned on 
getting on at Fox Studios as soon as his enlistment 
ran out. It was amazing that he had lasted almost 
four years in the service. But amongst the non-lifers 
to the Dixie, Dennis had achieved God-like status. 
He had been assaulted by the Captain of our 
ship. And lived to tell the tale. Captain K. J. Bligh 
was a blowhard of epic proportions. 

A former football playing washout who had tried out with and 
miserably failed with the Green Bay Packers, Bligh 
was a huge lug of a man with a tiny head who 
favored wearing cowboy boots and carrying a silver 
six shooter in a monogrammed holster as he strutted 
around the ship like a deranged combination of 
George Patton and a fucking bandy rooster. 
Equipped with the brain the size of a pea, he was 
the never ending target of practical jokes from the 
crew which included having his engraved bowling 
ball thrown over the side which divers were unable 
to locate in the murky waters of Sand Diego Bay, 
calling his stateroom late at night: "Quit jacking off 
up there, Bligh," his sheets on his bunk short-sheeted 
constantly, mess cooks pissing in his coffee pot, and 
the almost daily theft of his sports section from the 
newspaper delivered to the door of his stateroom. 
Even though a football failure he lived vicariously 
through the box scores.

"Sons of bitches!" he would scream over the 
ships intercom as he stood on the bridge with spit 
flying out of his mouth. "Sons of bitch bastards! I 
want my fucking paper back right now or liberty is 
canceled for the crew for the next goddamn year." 
He would never get it back.

The ship was in dry-dock and was torn all to 
shit. It was like being stationed on Satan's private 
yacht. Smoke. Welding sparks flying everywhere. 
Flush one toilet it would back up two rows down on 
someone taking a crap - now that was funny! 
Hammers banging. With all the needle guns and 
knuckle-busters going as deck hands chipped off 
years of coats of paint you couldn't hear yourself 
think.

Dennis and I were up on the O-2 level of the 
ship up by officer's country, shirking from our 
duties as we smoked, Coked, and joked. With all the 
yard noise we were both wearing Mickey Mouse 
ears and were mostly just trying to read each other's 
lips. It was so fucking loud that we couldn't hear the 
ship's pipe, which is the Naval term for a 
loudspeaker announcement that Captain's Mast was 
about to begin. Captain's Mast being the equivalent 
to a civilian's misdemeanor court appearance. Only 
in the civilian world you aren't normally sentenced 
to 45 days restriction to a ship where you spend your 
nights scrubbing shit stains and cum tracks off of 
toilets.

Since we were wearing ear protection and 
you couldn't hear the goddamn announcement 
anyway we weren't expecting Captain Bligh, trailed 
by his cast of flunky officers, to come charging 
around the corner like a fucking maniac and hit 
Dennis with a block that I can guarantee the dumb 
bastard never threw as hard in the Packer's training 
camp. If he had he might have made the team. 
Dennis never saw it coming and went flying 
into the bulkhead (wall), bounced off it and came 
back with a cocked fist that he most likely would 
have broken the nose of his assailant with in any 
other set of circumstances, until he stunningly saw 
the commissioned moron standing in front of him.

"Goddamn you! Don't you know how to 
come to attention, asshole?" screamed Bligh. The 
spit of course flying out of his mouth again, 
spattering the front of Dennis's coveralls.

"I'll have your ass court martialed! I'll have 
you in the brig tonight sucking a Marine's cock!"

He turned and stormed off down the deck followed 
by his stunned henchman. Bligh had his time line all wrong. By that night Dennis's parents had secured the services of a 
top notch attorney. Within a month, Captain Bligh, 
who was in line for admiral had not only lost his 
command but was forced to retire. Fuck thinking 
about making Admiral.

Dennis was rewarded with an early 
honorable discharge and we all kept in touch after 
he got out.. But he wouldn't let the Bligh incident 
go. For sort of a hobby he had taken to calling Bligh 
late at night and tormenting him about the loss of 
his command and promotion. Dennis had a buddy at 
Ma Bell who kept getting Bligh's phone number 
when he kept changing it. Within a year, Dennis 
would be dead of a morphine overdose. Bligh 
eventually capped himself with his service revolver. 

In his typical fuckup style he wasn't successful and 
spent his remaining years in a veteran's nursing 
home.

***

"Fucking A! There's even some black 
beauties and a hit of ...shit this looks like a tab of 
blotter acid," I yelled out in glee. "This is gonna be 
a fun drive I can see." I popped the top on the only 
remaining full beer, warm, and washed down a 
white cross, a black beauty, and the tab of acid. 
The year was 1979 and our ship, the USS 
Dixie, was home-ported out of San Diego. The ship 
had been in a major overhaul at Todd Shipyard in 
San Pedro when Jay and I had met.

Since then, the ship had finished up it's overhaul early - which is 
another epic story in itself and had cruised back on 
down to San Diego. Jay and I drove back to LA 
almost every weekend together. He owned and lived 
in a apartment complex in Hollywood. I had kept 
my apartment in Long Beach when the ship 
returned to San Diego and commuted on weekends 
and days off. I planned on living in Los Angeles 
when my enlistment ran out. It had been slightly 
over a year since I had left Hawaii. It had been the 
only year of my time in the Navy that had been 
relatively calm. Although I still worried about 
Brewer talking about the NIS incident, it was filed 
farther back in my mind. The briefcase rested 
comfortably in a safe deposit box in Long Beach.

The Dixie hadn't been a bad ship to finish up 
my tour of the Navy on. It was a destroyer tender. A 
huge floating hulk with dozens if not hundreds of 
shops on it. Any Navy ship, destroyer class or 
smaller, could tie up alongside of her and get damn 
near any problems it had taken care of. It rarely got 
underway so the many of the crew lived off of the 
ship. It was a den of thieves, drug dealers, drunks, 
and Navy castoffs - a typical post Viet Nam Navy 
vessel. I had laid low my year onboard the ship but 
had witnessed hundreds of drug deals, busts, 
assaults, and even an attempted male on male rape. 
Recently four crewman had been arrested for 
hanging out along the Mexico border, which was 
just a few miles away, and robbing illegal aliens as 
they crossed the border.

"Hey man! Check it out, dude. That new 
guy is Beaver from that television show." There was 
new meat laying a fresh coast of paint on the 
anchor. I had walked over and taken a look at him. 
Negative. I walked back over to the guy spreading 
the scuttlebutt. "You're full of shit, Jimmy. That's 
definitely not Jerry Mathers." Jimmy was Jimmy 
Carnahan, a pasty skinned little fart that liked to 
paste a sign up in the bus windows every night 
when the lifers bussed us back to the barracks. 
Same goddamn message every night. "Girls - show 
us your tits!!" The little bastard drove me nuts. 
"Hey new guy," I shouted. "What's your 
name?"

"Jay ******," Jay had shouted back like he 
hadn't given a shit who he was and had turned back 
to his coat of battleship gray.

I looked back to Jimmy. "****** The 
******, not Leave It To Beaver, dumbass. Two 
different shows and two different people." Jimmy 
tore off towards the stern of the ship to spread his 
hot new gossip, probably stopping off at a head to 
wax his cane as he was a well known and notorious 
shipboard masturbator.

***

Jay started up the car and pulled out of the 
parking lot like he was late for a date with a five 
hundred dollar prostitute with a purse full of 
Bolivian blow and I banged the top of my head on 
the glove box in the process.

"You're sure getting short, aren't you? Shit, man. That's fucking great."

"Couple more days, man. I'm short. Short as 
a motherfucker." Short was short for short-timer. 
Military slang that meant my enlistment was soon to 
expire. My time ran out the following week and I 
had enough leave to burn out the rest of my 
enlistment. My shipboard days were done. This 
would be the last time Jay and I would be making 
the LA run together. I rubbed the bump already 
growing on the top of my head.

"Stop at a liquor store before you get on the 
highway so we can score some beer for our long 
journey. I think we'll need some with all this speed 
in the car. We might wind up with a bit of the 
proverbial cottonmouth."

Jay pulled over at a package store and I ran 
in. Throwing two twelve packs of Holland's finest 
and a couple of packs of Swisher Sweet cigars onto 
the counter, I perused the stack of skin magazines, 
always looking for lesbians pictorials, while I 
waited for the clerk to ring out the customer ahead 
of me.

"Would you like to share that beer with me? 
We could have a party, you and me." I looked up to 
see a black wino leering at me. He had a big booger 
hanging out of his nose and bleeding chapped lips 
that he was smacking at me. Bathing also didn't 
appear to be a high priority on his list. "I'll blow 
you for a beer," he whispered. The dirty old 
degenerate looked eerily familiar. 

Just in case in might need it, I reached into 
my back pocket and felt for my folding Buck knife 
which was standard issue for sailors in those days.

"Get the fuck out of here you old rummy," 
hollered the clerk who was obviously retired Navy 
by the faded tattoos on his forearms. "Fucking class 
of people we get around here these days," he 
muttered as he shoved two jugs of Thunderbird into 
a paper bag and handed them to the drunk. "Now 
get the hell out of here you smelly old bastard."

The wino followed me out the door staying 
about five feet back. I turned around and faced him. 
"What in the hell is your problem, asshole?"

He had an evil grin on his face. "I know you. 
You was in my last company. Your ass is in hot 
water, boy. Hot motherfucking water! I've had 
people who came to talk to me about you. Bad 
motherfuckers, too. Been looking for your ass. 
Gonna put a cap in your ass someday, that's for 
motherfucking sure."

"What the hell are you talking about? What 
company? What bad motherfuckers?" Who the hell 
was this guy? Looked just like another San Diego 
alky to me but still eerily familiar.

"Less than a goddamn year and they kick 
my ass out. I lose my pension, Everything. Just 
cause some boot can't keep his mouth shut. Could 
have been you. Maybe you was the one that talked."

I stood there silently looking at the wreck in 
front of me. Then it registered! My boot camp 
commander. Only four years had passed since I had 
seen him. Laying back in his chair with a recruit 
named Murphy kneeled in front of him. The passing 
of time had not been kind to this wretch. I tossed a 
five dollar bill down on the sidewalk and walked 
quickly to the car.

"I don't need your charity you prick! Look at 
me! This could be you! This may be your future!"

I jumped in the car and threw the beer onto 
the floorboard. 

Jay looked at me oddly. "What in the hell 
was that all about?"

"Did I ever tell you about that time in boot 
camp when I saw that recruit blowing the...." 
Jay's laugh echoed out the windows as he 
headed on to the on ramp.

I turned around in my seat and looked back 
at the liquor store. Former Navy Chief Jackson was 
standing in the middle of the street. Giving me the 
finger. I uneasily settled back into the passenger 
seat. What did he mean? Bad motherfuckers? Who 
was looking for me? I once more felt the need to 
disappear. Disappear into the mist. 

I'VE GOT THOSE OLD VOMIT ON THE 

SHOES BLUES 

The dream was back. It usually came in the 
nights when I had drank too much and kicked in at 
the point when the body's blood sugar is altered and 
drops as it is effected by the amount of demon rum 
pumping through it's veins, heart, and brain. First 
the eyes snap open. Looking at the clock you 
realized you've only been asleep a few hours. You 
already feel the start of a hangover. Terrible 
cottonmouth. The dreaded hot pipes. You need a 
drink of water but don't get out of bed. You need to 
piss but you don't stir. Your eyes close. You start to 
drift off. The snakes and spiders in your brain start 
to stir and to move about.

The dream is about Rose. It almost always 
is. You now know that Rose is dead. Or worse. A 
year or so ago you called a buddy of yours back in 
Hawaii. Big time weed dealer on the island. A Navy 
guy that got into the business while stationed in 
Pearl Harbor and decided to stay after his hitch 
ended. He's always full of colorful stories, 
information, and gossip. Which is one of the 
reasons you call him. That and to check up on the 
past.

Janine has found Jesus and changed her 
cock chasing ways and is now the secretary to the 
Pearl Harbor Chaplain. A huge drunk. The chaplain 
not Janine.

Chief Mason dropped dead of a heart attack 
at work. "That guy was a prick with ears." Old 
news.

Then he tells you that Rose came back to 
Hawaii. Somehow she was still in the Navy. Some 
big wig admiral on the island liked that pussy so 
much that he pulled some strings and got her reassigned 
to his staff. Then one day she disappeared. 
The kind of disappeared that involves being ground 
up and fed to the sharks or buried in a shallow 
grave. The rumor going around is the old Admiral 
flipped out and beat poor Rose to death over some 
weird sex thing gone wrong. Supposedly a couple 
of enlisted pukes took care of the dirty work for the 
feeble prick.

In the dream, which is always the same, you 
walk into Rose's apartment. You call out her name. 
Your looking for Reggie but will fuck Rose if she's 
willing. The place is dark, disheveled, and smells of 
death. When you call out her name, she answers 
from the bedroom. The bedroom is even darker than 
the living room, lit only by a candle. A black 
candle. Rose is sitting on the bed. Naked. Her body 
is emaciated. Her face is battered and covered in 
dried blood. Her eyeballs have eight ball 
hemorrhages. She looks at you as she plays with 
herself and beckons you to come to her with her 
free hand. When she smiles at you, you can see that 
her teeth are rotted and stained like she's been 
chewing betel nut. Like an old Viet Namese whore.

Sometimes you wake up screaming. 
Not this time. A loud clicking noise wakes 
me. It's my answering machine shutting down after 
taking a message. I had turned down both machine's 
volume and the telephone's ringer. Even though I 
had been a full time, dues paying member of the 
longshoreman's union for almost three years I was 
still considered a rookie. So if a ship came in 
unexpectedly on a weekend - this was a Saturday 
morning - I was often called in for the unloading, 
hence the answering machine which I fucking 
hated. 

The sun was coming through the only 
window of my shitty studio apartment - one room 
that holds a bed, ratty couch from the Salvation 
Army, small stove and refrigerator, television, and a 
tiny bathroom off to the side. My hangover appears 
to be bad but not crippling and I painfully roll over 
and discover that I still have company from last 
night. A cute, chubby Mexican gal named Felicia, a 
waitress from the bar that is just across the street 
from my apartment. One of those bars that is so 
ancient and so nasty that it doesn't even have a 
name any longer. 

For some reason it used to be called "The Gong" but now is just referred to as "The Place." She's laying on her back and has her 
mouth wide open as she snores softly. The sheet is 
pulled down just below her belly button, exposing a 
beautiful pair of jugs. This is her third or fourth 
time at my place. She's in the country illegally, 
speaks very little English, and sends home money 
faithfully every month to her husband and two 
children who live back somewhere deep in the 
interior of old Mexico. I recall drinking shots of 
tequila chased by iced down bottles of Pabst Blue 
Ribbon - a nasty combination - with Felicia and the 
bar's cadaverous-looking owner, Rocky. Rocky had 
been an old time pornographer back in the fifties 
and had actually served time in San Quentin for 
producing and distributing a film of two women 
getting it on with a large pig.

I gently run my hands across Felicia's breast 
and then down to her bush. She is truly a beauty and 
I sincerely wish that she wasn't married. She sighs, 
mumbles something in Spanish that sounds like 
"knock it off, fuckstick" and rolls over on to her 
side and resumes her snoring. I roll over back to my 
side of the bed and sit up with my feet on the floor.

The alarm clock tells me that it's ten o'clock. By 
union rules I have two hours to respond to their call. 
I grab my pack of Camels and light one up with my 
battered Zippo. I sit and stare at the lighter for 
several seconds. It has my old Navy ship, the USS 
Dixie, inscribed on it, the only keepsake I have 
from my days in the military except for my 
honorable discharge certificate. Standing up I 
shuffle over to the small refrigerator and get out a 
can of beer. Testing the waters I gently sip it. Tasty. 
The old hair of the dog. It seems like everything is 
going to be all right. 

I think I'll call the dock office and take a sick day. They won't be able to say much since this will be my first and then I'll take Felicia out for brunch and then maybe we'll got to the 
beach later. She loves the beach. I take my cigarette 
and beer and sit down on the couch and pull out the 
answering machine from under the couch. One call 
is waiting to be listened to. I turn the volume up 
slightly and hit play:

There's a pause then a coughing jag. I about 
shit the couch when I hear the voice. 

"Hey, asshole. Long time no see. I just wanted to let you know that 
I got some bad news yesterday. My old man got 
shanked up at Stillwater. The poor old fucker died 
in the prison infirmary before they could an 
ambulance out to the prison. Bad fucking way to go. 
Seventy some years old and a nigger runs a 
sharpened up piece of plastic through you. Shit! 
Anyway, that means all bets are off. I know that my 
old man and yours used to be tight but as you can 
see, those days are fucking over. So I hired a private 
detective to look you up. Didn't take too fucking 
long since you left quite a trail. Plus, we have a 
mutual acquaintance. A little birdy in Leavenworth 
prison. He got hold of me and said you he had some 
information about you. That made things a lot easier 
for the dick I hired. So anyway. Here's the deal you 
miserable little prick. You got two weeks to come 
see me. If you're one goddamn second late I'm 
going out to your dad's house and break both his 
fucking legs and burn his house down with him in 
it." There was some wheezing laughter. "Just like 
what happened to your buddy. Mike was his name 
wasn't it? And I've got another nice little tidbit for 
you. I just discovered that you have an older brother 
who's married and has two beautiful children. I 
never knew that before. They live down in Florida. 
Pensacola I believe. Very successful couple. Pity 
for anything to happen to them because you're such 
a fuckup. You can leave a message for me at the 
Aragon Bar. Have a nice day."

I almost jumped out of my skin when the 
hands touched my back. I whirled around to find 
Felicia standing, still naked behind me. She looked 
at me quizzically.

"Problem?"

"Yes, baby. Big fucking problem." 

I leaned over and put my head in my hands. 
It was time to pay up. I looked back up a Felicia 
who was looking at me with genuine concern in her 
eyes. I wished to God I could just crawl into bed 
with her and never have to go anywhere again.

"I have to go home for a while. But on 
Monday I need you to go to the bank with me. I 
have a safety deposit box there. I'm going to put 
your name on the access list so that you can get a 
key to it."

To be continued....

JUMPING OFF THE VINCENT THOMAS BRIDGE

BY

SCOTT L. ANDERSON

There was no other way to say it. He was a dirty agent.

But after over two decades working in the witness protection program, with less than a month to retirement, it was all going straight down the crapper unless this intelligence report that just came across his desk was accurate.
 
Agent Jerry Banks had always played the system. The skels that he lorded over had always been more than willing to cut him in on the action to keep from going back to the joint. The whole program was a joke. Did the idiots up in Washington actually think that you could take a career criminal, promise him immunity after he snitched off all his buddies, change his identity, move him to some backwater shithole, and from then on he was going to live a normal life like John Q. Citizen? Christ, what a joke!
 
But Banks had severely underestimated Jake Morrow. Morrow was most likely the biggest drug dealer that the U. S. military had ever called one of it’s own. A Navy SEAL stationed out of San Diego, Morrow had run a huge operation involving over fifty sailors stationed on the area’s many ships. Every time one of these naval vessels returned from an overseas cruise, one of Morrow’s contacts on board would be bringing back pounds, sometimes tons, of high grade marijuana, cocaine, or heroin. Morrow, a weightlifting fanatic, also had a big hand in the growing steroid black market. After earning an estimated 1.5 million dollars in only two years, Morrow had been busted on a sting operation and had been sentenced to fifty years at the Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks in Kansas.
 
Jerry Banks had cut a deal with Morrow to get him out of the slammer. To earn his semi-freedom he would have to roll over all of his major connections on the west coast. To keep his freedom, the ensuing busts would have to provide a sufficient bonus to Jerry’s retirement fund.
 
The problem, of course, was that Banks did this all without Washington’s approval. He had paid off the warden of the Disciplinary Barracks to keep Morrow on their roster while Banks carried out the drug busts. Agent Banks never planned on letting Morrow remain free. He also never planned on having a .357 magnum shoved into the back of his skull in the parking lot of Kansas City International only two hours after gaining Morrow's release. Banks had been forced to lay down on the greasy floor while Morrow's rescuer, a big cowboy redneck, had removed the cuffs from Morrow's wrists and had cuffed Banks to a Toyota. 
Morrow had disappeared into the wind like a fart in the wind.
 
For three weeks Banks had heard nothing. Then this little bit of information floated to him:
 
The USS Dixie, a destroyer tender home- ported out of San Diego, had been robbed one day before payday. Two white males had walked up the brow of the ship at approximately 0020 hours on a Monday morning, flashed their military I.D.s and had been allowed onto the ship. The finance officer had been on duty that evening and had been awakened by a knock on his stateroom door at 0120. When he answered the knock he was greeted by the sight of a large man with a rubber Richard Nixon mask on. Tricky Dick was holding a .45 in his hand. He was ushered up to the finance office, which was already opened and the financial officer, Lt. Perry Palmer, was forced at gunpoint to open the ship’s safe which contained the payroll for the entire crew. A tidy sum of over two hundred thousand dollars. The two thieves had packed the cash up in plastic garbage bags, wrapped them up with duct tape, and had placed the bags inside of two large scuba diving bags. Duct tape was wrapped completely around the whimpering body of Lt. Palmer, and he was locked up in the office and wasn’t discovered missing until the following morning when he didn’t report for morning muster. Two lines were found leading from the main deck of the ship down to the water line.
 
Banks had two suspects in mind, which he was not presently sharing with authorities involved in the active investigation. This thing had Morrow and his redneck buddy written all over it. Tony Hendrichs, an old marijuana dealing buddy of Jake’s, who had been busted in the sting, had been stationed onboard the Dixie prior to his arrest. Hendrichs had been a Gunner's Mate, and one of his duties on the Dixie had been the cutting and issuing of keys on the ship. 
It all fit.
 
If the civilian authorities arrested Morrow on this charge, everything was going to explode in Jerry’s face. He poured a generous amount of Chivas Regal over the ice in his glass and fired up another Marlboro while he dialed the number in Kansas. Colonel Morgan answered on the second ring.
 
“I’ve got an idea where Morrow is. What I what to know is if you can handle your end of the bargain if he’s where I think he is?”
 
Morgan sat up in the chair behind his desk. “What do you have in mind?”

“From what I can gather, he may be holed up in San Pedro, California. I’m planning on flying out there in about six hours, and if I find him, I’m going to try to bring him down with either a tranquilizer or stun gun. I’m going to have a flight crew ready to fly us straight back to Leavenworth.”

“I can lock him back up, that’s not a problem. But have you ever thought what would happen if he gets hold of the media about this? He has nothing to lose. I’d be fucked big time. And so would you, my friend.”
 
Banks took a hard hit on his Chivas. “Now you listen to me you gutless little shitbird. We can make this all go away if you don’t run around like a schoolboy pissing in his pants. As soon as I get Morrow back to your prison, you get him down to the hole and make it look like a suicide. Slash his wrists or string him up so it looks like he hung himself. But for shit’s sake don’t beat the son of a bitch to death and then say that it happened during a cell extraction like they did to that convict in Oklahoma. That’ll bring to much heat. You got me?”
 
Morgan was silent for several moments. “Banks, what happens if you can’t take him? What if he doesn’t come easy?”
 
“Then we’re double fucked. I’ll put him down and as soon as I contact you, report him missing on the next count. Report him as escaped. That’s all we can do. The investigation will be worse that Watergate, but it’s our only option.”
 
“Make goddamn sure you get him, Banks,” Morgan hissed in the phone.
 
“You just do your job, I’ll do mine.” Banks slammed the phone down and grabbed his intelligence folder.
 
The reports on Tony Hendrichs showed that he had purchased a home in the San Pedro area while he was stationed at the Long Beach Naval station. A records check also had shown that he owned a deep sea fishing rig that was kept in a slip in Long Beach harbor and was regularly hired out for charters. Pretty impressive for a E-6 in the military who’s ass was now sitting in the brig.
 
Banks, on a whim, had placed a call to a Naval Investigative agent in Long Beach who had done a quick stakeout at the house. Banks had given him a bullshit song and dance story about how he had information that drugs were possibly being dealt to sailors on the navy ships in the local shipyards by some shipyard employees living at that address. 
Although there was not a lot of activity around the house, the one occupant the NIS agent had seen was definitely yardbird material. Big pickup truck covered in NASCAR stickers and the perp himself was all redneck. Right down to the cowboy hat and boots. Fucking bingo!
 
Banks glanced at his watch. Might as well call flight ops now and get that flight going to Long Beach. No need to put off the inevitable. He slammed down another shot. The stress was getting to him, his bottle of liquor was getting dangerously low and he was starting to feel it’s effects, but a couple of toots of blow would help take the edge off that. He pulled out a replacement bottle of Chivas and threw it in his briefcase with the file, his service revolver, stun gun, and tranquilizer pistol.
 
**
 
A Lear jet that had been confiscated by the government from a high rolling smack dealer was waiting on the tarmac. Banks had taken a seat facing the rear of the aircraft so that he wouldn’t be observed cutting his lines on the side of his briefcase and taking shots of Chivas straight out of the bottle.
 
As the jet taxied toward the hanger in Long Beach, the agent checked the clip in his .45 caliber service weapon and placed it in the holster on the back of his belt next to his handcuffs. He put a spare clip in his jacket pocket along with a blackjack and a stun gun. He didn’t really want to get that close to Morrow. Better to bring the big moose down with the tranq gun. 
The jet stopped with a sudden lunge as it entered the hanger and Banks toppled over into the aisle. “What the fuck?” he shrieked.
 
The pilot looked out through the cockpit door. “Sorry, sir, I’m not use to the brakes in this rig. They seem to real touchy,” said the young pilot.
 
“I’ll show you touchy, asshole,” muttered the agent.
 
Banks gathered up his jacket and briefcase and headed towards the open hatch where the pilot stood by. “Uh, excuse me, sir.”
 
Banks glared at the officer. “What now?”
 
“Your nose, sir. You have something right here.” The pilot made a wiping motion under his own nose.
 
Banks wiped his nose with the back of his hand and saw a dusting of the coke he had been snorting on the flight. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
 
A generic government four door sedan sat outside the hangar with the keys in the ignition. Banks fired it up and turned the dome light on to check his map for the directions to the suspected house. Had to cross the Vincent Thomas toll bridge over to San Pedro, follow the road into town, stay on the main drag for about seven blocks, take a right and head up the hill. Not too bad. If things went smooth, he could pop Morrow, cuff him and load him in the trunk, and be back here to load him up on the jet within a half an hour.
 
Banks reached over and took a pull off of his bottle. Shit! He quickly pulled the jug down as he met an oncoming San Pedro police car. Better cool it here. Wouldn’t be a good time to get a driving while shitfaced charge.
 
Banks took a right and started up the hill as he squinted at the houses and mailboxes for street numbers. There it was!

He maintained his speed and went down another block before he turned around and parked about a quarter block away. There was a pickup in the driveway. No lights on in the house, but he could see the blue flickering light of a television set through the closed curtains. He got out of the car, put the tranq gun down the front of his pants, and crossed the street and began to walk down the dark sidewalk. 
The house was just your basic rental shack. Square little dump with a living room in the front, kitchen in the back, and two small side bedrooms off to the side. Banks walked down a little further and crossed back over. Walking up to the side of the pickup, he took a quick glance in, nothing besides empty Heineken bottles. He reached in and opened the glove box. Just a couple of maps. He ducked down and and crept into the back yard. With his flashlight he looked into the two garbage cans. Same thing in there. Lots of beer bottles, pizza boxes and buckets from the Colonel. Nothing to show who might be inside.
 
The drapes were pulled tight on both bedrooms and the bathroom. The back door appeared to have had the window knocked out of it and had been replaced with a piece of plywood. He tried the door, it was locked tight. Banks crept back up the driveway to the side of the living room. The curtain to the room had about a inch to spare at the bottom of the window, just enough for the agent to attempt a look inside.
 
Sitting on a ratty sofa, while she drank a Mountain Dew and munched on some pretzels out of a bag, was a woman wearing nothing it appeared, other than a T-shirt and a pair of panties. She seemed to be alone and it didn’t look by the decor of the place that the house was occupied by too many people. The living room had a couch and old recliner and the TV, that was it. Shit! The agent’s instincts told him that this might have very well been a wild goose chase. Better check it out though. Banks pulled out his badge and walked up the front steps.
 
He gave the door an official rap. Through the door’s window he saw the woman stand up and walk to the door. She looked out out quizzically and Banks flashed his badge. She opened the inner door but kept the screen door latched. The TV was blaring. Some made for television movie produced for idiots just like her.
 
“Can I help you?” She was bleach blond, white trash, wearing a Raiders shirt that was cut down to show some ample cleavage and which barely covered the worn white panties she had on. Banks glanced down, he swore he saw a glimpse of her bush.
 
“Uh, good evening, mam. Sorry about the late hour. I’m Special Agent Jerry Banks. We had an attempted burglary at the Bank of San Pedro and one of the suspects has been reported in this area. I’m conducting a door to door check to see if anyone in the neighborhood has seen anything out of the ordinary.”
 
She glanced back into the living room and turned back and smiled at Banks. “Hang on a sec, I need to turn that damn thing down.” As she walked back into the living room, Banks noticed what a fine ass she had.

The television shut off, bathing the room in darkness. Sudden movement. The coke and booze had delayed and clouded the agent's response time. Holy shit! 

Something was charging the door. Banks fumbled for the tranq gun as a fist exploded through the mesh of the screen door and drilled the agent directly in the nose. Banks felt the cartilage snap as he staggered back and fell down the short set of steps. Jake Morrow charged out the door, down the steps, and kicked Banks savagely in the stomach as the agent tried to regain his feet. Banks blindly tried to grope through the grass to find the tranquilizer pistol, but Morrow punched him twice in the kidney, and then reached down and grabbed Banks by the throat and front of his belt and proceeded to actually military press the agent over his head with a maniacal scream and then slam him down across the metal handrail of the steps.

Banks came down across the handrail on his sternum and felt something crack. A cloud of red was crossing his vision and he felt himself beginning to black out. Morrow now had him by the front of his shirt and was raining one handed punches to the agent’s head. Banks’ survival instincts were trying to kick in but all he could do was feebly try to cover his arms around his head in an attempt to ward off the blows.
 
“Get some, get some, get some, get some, motherfucker!’” Morrow was screaming. He let go of Banks who slumped to the ground and began kicking him savagely in the ribs. “Get up and fight me you fucking pussy,” screamed the frustrated Morrow.
 
“The police are on their way so you better just stop that right now!”
 
Somebody ran up behind Jake, wrapped his arms around him and twisted him away from Banks.
 
“Goddamn it, Jake! We gotta get the fuck out of here! The neighbors are calling the cops!”
 
Jake broke free of the grasp and took a wild roundhouse swing at the person who quickly ducked and moved out of Jake’s range punching range.
 
“Jake, stop! It’s me, goddamn it.”
 
Jake stopped in his tracks and stared at his partner and then down at the battered and bloodied agent, who was now face down in the grass and not moving. If he hadn't been stopped , Banks would surely have been beaten to death.

"Jake! Come on, goddamn it! I got over here as fast as I could. I got a call from my contact at the Navy base, he said this fucking cop had been calling and asking about the house! We gotta get the hell out of here!"
 
“I’ve already called them, they’re on their way!”
 
The two men turned to see a large Hispanic woman, her rotund body illuminated by her porch light, standing in the front yard of the house next door. “I’ve already called,” she repeated.
 
His partner jammed some car keys in Jake’s hand. “You go! Take the truck. Me and Angel will get our gear and take his car.” He pointed down at Banks. Turning Jake towards the truck, he gave him a light shove. “Go! We’ll meet you at the boat.”

Jake gave Banks one more solid kick to the rib cage of Banks for good measure, “You were lucky this time, you prick,” and ran to the truck.
 
“Angel, grab the bags and let’s haul ass.” He rolled the agent over to search for his car keys. Banks had his Colt .45 in his hand and reached up and jammed it into his chest.
 
The force of the slug blew him up and off of Banks and deposited him on his back . A large red blossom stained the front of his embroidered cowboy shirt. He never heard the screams of Angel and the woman next door.
 
Banks rolled back onto his stomach, pushed himself up onto one knee, and began firing wildly in rapid succession at Morrow as he was backing down the driveway. The sound of the firearm and the slugs hitting sheet metal and glass was deafening.
 
Jake dropped down sideways on bench seat of the truck and stomped on the gas, as the truck shot out of the driveway, across the road, and into a neighbor’s Camaro, setting off its car alarm. Jake sat up and threw the gear shift into forward and tore out of the driveway and down the street, taking out the side of a El Camino as he raced by it.
 
Banks staggered to his feet, popped out his empty clip, and slammed its replacement home. Looking down at his feet, he saw the lost tranquilizer pistol, but as he reached down to retrieve it, he was suddenly driven back down to the ground.
 
“You killed him you son of a bitch!” Bank was once more down on his back as the punches pounded down on his face from the ring covered fists of the enraged woman. Blindly reaching up, he jammed the tranq pistol under Angel’s jaw line and fired the dart. She screamed as she grabbed at her throat and rolled over onto the grass. Banks had put enough dope into that dart to bring down Morrow, a steroid monster. Shot into a woman Angel’s size would probably fry her brain and put her into a nursing home and eating Cream of Wheat for the rest of her days.
 
Banks once more staggered to his feet. Neighbors were pouring out the front doors of their houses and the agent had to fire two rounds over the heads of two men to back them away from his car. They turned and hightailed it down the street.
 
Banks jumped in his car and glanced up at the rearview mirror. There was so much blood across his head and face that he couldn’t even see where it was coming from. He looked like he had been in fire fight, as did the neighborhood. Bodies were sprawled across lawns, cars were destroyed, their alarms screaming as loud as the neighbors. The agent looked backed down and saw a man coming down the street carrying what looked like a shotgun. Banks threw the car in gear and floored it. The man tried to get out of the way but was knocked airborne by the force of the impact and crashed into the windshield, shattering it, before he rolled off the side onto the street.
 
Jerry kept his foot right down to the metal. He had heard Jake's partner tell Morrow to meet him at the boat. He had to have meant Hendrichs’ boat that was moored over in Long Beach. The fastest way to get there was the route that Bank’s had just used. Over the Vincent Thomas Bridge.
 
****
 
The truck was dying fast. By the time Jake hit the bridge, steam was pouring up from the shot out radiator and the engine was screaming like it was running out of oil. A slug must have pierced the engine somewhere and all the idiot lights on the dashboard were lit up. He was a quarter of the way up the incline of the suspension bridge when the engine gave up the ghost. Jake wrestled it over to the side and jumped out. He started running up the bridge.
 
Car were flying by him as he ran. You could hear the sounds of the police sirens all the way onto the bridge. Sounded like they had called out for reinforcements. Jake was almost to the top of the bridge when he looked back over his shoulder and saw Banks coming up the bridge.

Jake stopped running. He had no gun, his weapon was back at the house. He was defenseless out here all alone.
 
The sedan screeched to a halt. A bloodied and battered Special Agent Banks jumped out of the car and sighted his pistol at Jake. He was holding his side and gasping like a big fish who had just been pulled up onto a dock after a hard fight.
 
“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, motherfucker.”
 
“You look like shit, Jerry. Better get to a hospital.”
 
Jake put his hands on the top rail of the bridge and hoisted himself up, balancing himself by holding onto the one of the huge cable supports.
 
“I said freeze, asshole,” screamed Banks.
 
“What are you going to do now, Jerry? If you shoot me and I fall in the bay, how are you and Morgan going to explain how I wound up dead in Long Beach harbor when I’m suppose to be sitting in Leavenworth?”
 
Jake could see from his vantage point the blue lights of the police cars as they came racing down the turnpike towards the bridge tollbooths. Cops. Prison.
 
“Morrow, if you turn yourself in, I promise, I can make this all go away. But we don’t have much time. It has to be now!”
 
“Go fuck yourself, special agent!” Jake stepped off the bridge and disappeared into the night.
 
“Goddamn you, Morrow!” Banks ran as well as he could in his condition to the side of the bridge and looked over. It was total darkness. He could barely see the water. It must be damn near a two hundred foot fall to the waterline from there.
 
Banks could hear the screaming of the brakes and tires coming from the police cars, but he didn’t turn around. He kept staring down at the water, looking for any sign of Morrow.
 
“Let me see some hands! Right now!” 
Banks didn’t turn around or raise his hands. “I’m a government agent,’ he said wearily.
 
“I said show me your hands, goddamn it!”
 
All these years. All these years and it comes to this, thought Jerry Banks. Jumping like Morrow just did flashed through the agent’s mind. Fuck that! He was afraid of water and he couldn't swim.
 
Special Agent Jerry Banks spun and raised his pistol.