Crossfire: Land of the Evergreens -- Book Ii

By Johnny Sundstrom

Crossfire is the second volume of the Land of the Evergreens Trilogy.
These novels aim to create a cultural memoir based on unique aspects of this country’s 1980s. Set in the shadow of Washington State’s Mount Rainier, this book is focused on the area’s horse-racing track, its links to Seattle’s professional football team, and a group of individuals randomly woven together and connected by the conflicts and intrigue found in the midst of that era’s cocaine and arms trades. Hidden within big-time sports, and reaching from Panama to the White House, these activities result in high-stakes scandals, romance, and betrayal. The story’s central character is familiar from Book I, now living with a different name, but still facing constant risks and challenges to this assumed identity and his clandestine existence:

“One of the first things you learn underground is that you don’t
ever call the cops, not for anything… Now, as he surveyed the
wreckage of his ransacked apartment, this fact of life became
more real than ever.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796098655

Johnny Sundstrom

Johnny Sundstrom is a third-generation westerner and rancher-conservationist who’s been living on his family’s land in Deadwood, Oregon for nearly five decades. During that time, he has seen the collapse of the historic local timber economy, the listing of regionally endangered fish and bird species, and a transformation of the marijuana culture into a legal business model. He graduated from Williams College with a degree in English Literature and has written extensively over the years with seven historical novels previously published and available from the Author at [e-mail], from Xlibris, and from Amazon.

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Copyright © 2020 by Johnny Sundstrom.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/04/2020

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Prelude

Stewball was a racehorse

And I wished he were mine

He never drank water

He only drank wine

His bridle was silver

His mane it was gold

The worth of his saddle

Has never been told

The fairgrounds were crowded

And Ol’ Stewball was there

But the betting was heavy

On the Bay and the Mare

Then way out yonder

Ahead of them all

Came prancing and dancing

My noble Stewball

Traditional

By the same Author and available by inquiry

from his e-mail (see below), or Xlibris & Amazon

Dawn’s Early Light (2011)

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LAND of PROMISE Trilogy

For Spacious Skies (Book I – 2014)

Mine Eyes Have Seen (Book II – 2016)

Looked Over Jordan (Book III – 2017)

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LAND of the EVERGREENS Trilogy

Homegrown (Book I – 2019)

Crossfire (Book II – 2020)

Old Growth (Book III – Coming soon)

[e-mail]

Dedicated

to the Veterans of both

the Vietnam War and the Anti-War,

many of whom spent years of

their lives underground

or in some kind of recovery

Acknowledgements

I am grateful for my family and

my experience of growing up in the

Seattle-area from ages 10 to 17.

As with my other novels, the assistance of

Felisa Rogers, a wonderful writer herself,

has been invaluable in shaping and correcting

the content and language of this book.

(Remaining errors are the responsibility of the author)

Cover Photo: MOUNT RAINIER,

from iStock images

Author Photo provided by KATE HARNEDY

www.katehphoto.com

HORSE-RACE

Painting by PHIL HOLMAN (1920-2001)

Foreword

This novel was originally written, though unpublished, during the decade of the 80s when the US government was deeply involved in multiple international and national events, crises, and regional conflicts, These included the aftermath of the Vietnam War, assassinations, hostages, drugs, Aids, and several re-ignited power struggles in the Middle East and Central America.

Here in this country, the political see-saw between factions and parties was accelerating, and covert operations took the place of open warfare in various locations around the world. This book delves into many of these aspects of American life, as well as focusing on such national past-times as horse-racing and professional football, along with the smuggling of arms and contraband, and even classical music. Romance and relationships are problematic herein, to say the least.

The story has been minimally revised and updated for this release, and its subject matter and people are brought together in unexpected and often dangerous encounters. The central character is familiar from Book I of this Trilogy, with a new name, and is constantly facing challenges to his underground identity and existence.

The events of the book occur mostly in the Seattle-area of Washington State during the late 1980s, during its so-called War on Cocaine, and the resulting impacts of the Iran-Contra Affair.

(Comments, inquiries and purchases welcome at the e-mail address below)

Johnny Sundstrom

[e-mail]

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

Books by the same author

Dedication and  Acknowledgements

Table of Contents

Chapter 1    Dead Horse

Chapter 2    Pre-Season

Chapter 3    Race Day

Chapter 4    Injury

Chapter 5    Panama

Chapter 6    Breakaway

Chapter 7    Mr. President

Chapter 8    Party

Chapter 9    Moving Out

Chapter 10    Circles

Chapter 11    Test

Chapter 12    Homecoming

Chapter One

Dead Horse

One of the first things you learn underground is that you don’t ever call the cops, not for anything. For the past fourteen years, the man whose current ID said he was Dan Flint, lived with this fact of life, and now as he surveyed the wreckage of his ransacked apartment, this became more real than ever. Another truth of underground life was also clear: when your place gets broken into and torn apart, there’s probably no way to tell whether it’s the work of thieves or the cops.

He took a beer out of the open refrigerator. Judging from the temperature of the nearly warm bottle, the break-in likely happened that morning after he’d gone to work. He drank half the beer and kicked his way through the mess to the bedroom. A dresser was knocked over and he picked it up so he could get through the doorway. This room seemed to have been trashed more thoroughly than the other two. He finished the beer and smiled as he tossed the empty into the clutter where it didn’t make any difference now. Then he began checking the electrical outlets. When he’d moved in a couple of months back, he’d placed dabs of chewing gum on the screws that held the covers in place. He’d heard that the easiest place to bug a room was inside a wall socket. None of the screws were disturbed and he was starting to feel better. There was little in his place to interest a thief and nothing he couldn’t get along without, but cops were a different matter. They could take his freedom.

It took him at least an hour to straighten up the mess, an hour in which he had plenty of time for questions to roll through his mind on repeat. He had no one to ask about strangers coming and going; one of the reasons he’d taken this place was the private entrance by way of a back stairway. If it had been the cops, there was nothing for them to find. He had to laugh at the situation, him hoping he’d only been ripped off.

The picture of Sonya and her dog had fallen behind the bed but wasn’t damaged. He held it lightly and brought it slowly to his lips. It was well over a year since that election night in ’84 when he’d left her and his heart behind. Time enough for the pain to numb, but time also for the regret to grow. He’d resisted every impulse to make contact, even by mail. It just wouldn’t be fair to either of them. But he could hardly stand not knowing how she was doing. By now she had been District Attorney of Chinook County in Oregon for over a year and was either happy with the work or frustrated with its constraints. He wondered which and had to admit that even though he had loved her more than he thought possible, he really didn’t know her all that well. At least not deeply enough to predict how she would feel about all that and a whole lot of other things.

Supposing she’d lost the election. Perhaps the two of them would have relocated, lost themselves in the shuffle somewhere and made a go of living and loving together. If they’d met before the campaign began maybe she would’ve changed her mind about running and they could’ve stayed in the same area. But she had won the election and he’d even helped. She’d won and he was still a fugitive for the bombing in ’72, and also as a suspected pot grower and maybe as an accomplice in Jerry’s shootout. No way for him to know what they had on him, just depended on how gung-ho they got after he split. In any case, he was still hot, alone again, and walking on the edge.

It was midnight before he had the place back together again and was pretty sure whoever broke in hadn’t found anything they were looking for. He was feeling sentimental and trying not to be angry, so he put a Mozart horn concerto on the tape player. As the orchestra began playing, he slumped into the one comfortable chair, rolled a joint (the pot hadn’t been noticed under the false bottom of the clothes hamper in the bathroom), and settled back to see if it was possible to relax now. He had less than five hours until he was due to get ready to leave for his job at the track.

Working at a racetrack was good because no one asked questions about who you were, what you’d done before, or where you came from. Dan had gotten the job on impulse, asking for work in the stables at the state fair the year before and then working his way into a high-rolling outfit at the track just outside of Seattle. GreenTree Stables was owned by a syndicate that included an ex-mayor of the city, both the general manager and head coach of the Seattle Thunderbirds, and the owner of a chain of men’s clothing stores. Dan had never met them, but their names were on the paperwork.

As he pulled into the employee parking lot, he tried to shake off the drowsiness. He wasn’t late, but he sure wasn’t early either. He parked the pickup and looked around for Palmer’s car. He was okay as long as the stable’s head trainer wasn’t there yet. The man seemed to live to catch his workers out of line in some way, but there was no sign of him yet. Dan grabbed his thermos and lunch bucket and jogged toward the GreenTree barn.

At the end of the long row of stalls was a small office and he unlocked the door with the GreenTree symbol on it. He stuck his things in his locker and checked the bulletin board for his morning assignments. Saddle up Horizon and Doc’s Tune and have them ready to work out by six. Remove the wrapping from Angel Wing’s leg and clean out the grain room for a new shipment. Not bad. He turned to leave as the phone rang.

GreenTree, he answered.

Palmer there?

Not yet. Can I help you?

No. Just tell him this is only the beginning.

That’s it?

That’s enough.

The caller hung up and so did he. Strange message. He poured a cup of coffee and carried it out the door with him. This was the best time of day at the stables. The rising sun sent shafts of light weaving through the fine mist that hung low over the track. Horses called to one another and to their keepers, anxious for breakfast, exercise, or just companionship after the night’s darkness. He walked slowly along the line of stalls, scratching the extended noses of the animals as he passed. When he was a kid, he’d always promised himself he’d have a horse or horses when he grew up, but he never had. Now he was surrounded by them and it was still kind of surprising to him.

The tack room was located halfway down the row of stalls. He unlocked the door and got down two sets of workout saddles and headgear. He wasn’t sure what weight to put in the saddles, but that could be done at the last minute. He would set up Doc’s Tune first, as he was the most patient of the two. The horse was three stalls down from the tack room. As Dan got close, he registered that the animal wasn’t hanging his head out over the dutch door like he always did, anxious for grain, work or whatever. He hung up the gear and looked into the stall. The horse was lying in the straw, all four legs sticking straight out from the body. Dan flung the door open and knelt beside the head. One glazed eye stared up at him. A pool of coagulated blood had formed and an ugly slice stretched across the neck. How the hell could someone cut a horse’s throat like that? Then he saw the point of a large hypodermic needle protruding from where the neck met the shoulder muscle. The syringe was gone, but the needle was still sticking out of the horse’s stiffening flesh.

What to do? What to do first? Don’t touch anything. Wait for Palmer. Let him handle it. He backed slowly out of the stall, closing both halves of the door and leaning against it for a long moment. That’d been a good horse. No problems. Not a big winner, but hardworking and easy to work with. He liked the horse maybe more than most of the others, and it was hard to look at the still form without sadness. Who the hell kills a horse like that?

He turned away and headed for the office. Palmer was there.

Are they ready?

No. One of them is dead. Doc’s Tune. Needle sticking out of his neck and his throat’s cut. Lots of blood

Jesus Christ! You’re sure? Of course, you’re sure. Anything else?

No. Dan could see the man struggling with the news. Hard to tell what he was feeling. Except for a phone call when I got here. Guy said, this is only the beginning. Nothing else. Just that. I didn’t think much about it.

What the hell? What’d he sound like?

Normal. I don’t know.

Accent. Any accent?

Dan tried to remember but could only recall how drowsy he’d been. Not that I could tell. It was a man, sounded, uh, tough.

Okay, send the kid away when he comes. No workouts today. Close up that stall. And listen, don’t talk to anybody. We’re in some deep shit. Got to call the cops in, no way to hide this. Track authorities. No insurance without investigation. Jesus, what the hell’s going on?

He picked up the phone and then yelled at Dan, Get going! And be back in fifteen minutes.

Walking back to the dead horse’s stall, he thought Palmer was taking it pretty well, maybe calmer than he would have expected. But maybe he was one of those guys who blew up at little things so much that when a big one came along, he was able to stay cool. So, the horse thing and the phone call were probably connected. And all this along with his own weird scene with the break-in. Strange night.

He saw the exercise kid coming around the end of the stalls and waved to him, calling out, Hey, Billy! It’s off for today. He moved quickly to get between Billy and that stall. Palmer had something come up and said he wanted to rest them. Some change in schedule, I guess. How are you?

Fine. I still get paid, right? It means it’s a regular call.

Yeah. I’m sure you do.

All right. Did he say about tomorrow?

No but give a call later. I don’t know anything.

Okay, see ya.

He watched as the kid disappeared and wondered how many times he’d be saying, I don’t know anything in the next few hours.

By noon, the place was crawling with authorities: cops, track officials, vets, and finally a truck to haul the body away once blood and other samples were obtained. Dan had to tell his story about finding the animal to three different agencies, but he was out of the way now, watching them drag the horse from the stall. He still felt the shaky thing inside from talking with a uniformed cop and a detective. He supposed it was only normal that they’d be suspicious of the first man on the scene. He was pretty sure it was just a technical suspicion, part of the standard method. They hadn’t even asked him to produce ID, so it seemed he was being taken at his word. Still, it was always a risk to have anything to do with police, which was why he never broke the speed limit or even littered. Now this.

The detective came back to him and said he wanted to ask one or two more questions. Have you seen anyone in or around the stalls in the last week or so who doesn’t belong here?

There’s always people walking through here, he said and motioned to the wide walkway that ran between GreenTree’s stable row and the one across from it. Especially during race day.

What time do you leave here, as a rule?

Usually finish up around seven, eight o’clock. Feed them for the night and check any last- minute details that might come up.

Like what?

Maybe change a bandage, soak a leg, something like that.

You ever administer any drugs for these horses?

No drugs. Not unless it’s something added to the feed, and that’s only just vitamins and supplements.

Okay, that’s it for now. We’ll be working on this thing until we get something. Here’s my card. Use it if you remember anything else or notice anything unusual. And, uh, it wouldn’t look good if you couldn’t be found, so stick around.

Dan watched the man head back for the office and then looked down at the card: Joseph Wexler, Lieutenant, Seattle Police, Department of Vice and Narcotics. So, Joe Cop, a high up narc now had Dan Flint pegged and didn’t want him to go anywhere. Okay, this must be what they call karma. Once again, you’re hot, and feeling more than a little trapped by the circumstances. Maybe the best thing he could do for himself was to solve this thing, make sure the heat was off himself, and maybe get some brownie points with the cops. Sure, Dan, just switch costumes from outlaw to marshal in thirty seconds. Hey, where’s the nearest phone booth? Seriously, he thought, you better be real careful around here until this thing blows over, and only help yourself along for your own benefit.

The truck carrying Doc’s Tune pulled slowly away. Too bad, really too bad. The horse was a good one, scheduled to run twice more here and then head south to California for the fall season. Dan thought the owners were running him straight too, from what he could tell. The horse had won when he should have and had never shown any post-race signs of doping. Dan walked toward the stall, thinking to clean up the bedding and get rid of the blood and mess. Had to be done. Then he heard Palmer calling him.

He walked into the office, and Palmer motioned him into a chair

That cop ask a lot of questions?

Some.

What’d he want from you?

Whatever I knew…Which was nothing? Maybe he thought I had something to do with it, maybe that’s just the way they are.

Well, in any case, I’m pretty sure you didn’t. Palmer locked eyes with him and then looked down while he re-lit the thin cigar that hung from his lips.

Did you tell him about the phone call?

No.

Don’t. Again, Palmer locked eyes with him and he was forced to look away this time, not wanting to challenge the small man across the desk. Palmer had been just a little too big to be a jockey and probably still held it against the world, but he was a damn good trainer as far as the basics went. As a boss, or rather as a person, he wasn’t what you could call pleasant. His approach to racing seemed to be that the owners were shitheads, but shitheads were right because they had the bucks to get what they wanted. His job was to make money and tax write-offs for them, and not burden them with the details. You couldn’t say he was a crooked trainer because it’s a business where that kind of values don’t apply. Racing costs money, and it wins and loses money. Horses and people are just tools of trade.

Palmer picked up the phone and motioned for Dan to leave. Clean up the mess, and I’ll be out there to try and put this Humpty-Dumpty day back together again.

The next day’s newspaper carried the story with a banner headline across the top of the sports section. Dan sipped slowly at his coffee as he read through the articles. It was mid-morning and the day’s routine had slacked off after a few frantic hours of trying to catch up on the workouts missed the day before. Now he only had two horses to get ready for racing that afternoon, but that wouldn’t be for a few hours. One of the articles gave a history of the horse and a pretty good profile of GreenTree and its high-class roster of local owners. The other dealt with the crime and the investigation, with references to similar incidents at other tracks around the country. It said a stable worker named Dan Flint had found the horse and included several quotations from authorities. According to both articles, police and local track officials had no suspects or leads and security would be increased until an explanation was found.

Another main article on that page was related. It was about Seattle’s professional football team, with mentions of both the coach and the general manager. The team’s ace wide receiver had been a hold-out since the beginning of training camp, but Mason E. Lee was now reported ready to sign. A small photograph of Lee and his agent accompanied the article. Dan was about to turn the page when he caught the man’s name, Mike Lehman, agent and lawyer. He looked at the face again, trying to remember if he had ever seen a picture of him at Sonya’s. He couldn’t remember, but he knew she’d said her ex had been trying to get a job representing some of the T-Bird players. Still, it was hard to believe, too coincidental, himself quoted in the racing article and Sonya’s ex-husband in a picture on the same page of the paper. His first reaction was to send it to her, but of course she wouldn’t recognize him by the name Flint. Besides, he’d made a vow, promised himself no contact. None.

It was just after ten o’clock when Mason Lee tapped on the door and heard his agent’s voice answer from inside.

Just a minute.

He leaned against the wall and checked out the hallway in Mike’s newish building, thinking, nice place. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d have been in trouble if he’d been caught inside a place like this. The door opened, and he was in. Mike slapped him on the shoulder and directed him through to the balcony. It was a beautiful summer morning and just getting warm. The twelfth floor had a good view of the water and Mt. Rainier glistening in the sunlight. Mason scanned it all, thinking how it was really sort of his since he was the one paying Mike enough to afford it for himself. Not that he wanted it. He was perfectly happy with his own lakefront home and grounds. What he had now was so much more than anything he’d ever dreamed of when he was growing up just twenty-five blocks over the hill. Big difference those blocks made though, from the all-black neighborhood where he did his time as a kid to the lakefront and all of its wealth. When he was growing up, he wouldn’t have dared to walk through the area where he now lived. He’d have been hassled for sure, likely even busted.

He was lucky. Very few players landed a job with their hometown teams. When he’d earned a scholarship to the University of Southern California, he’d been pretty sure he was leaving Seattle for good, had even felt a little guilty for going off to play for USC instead of the hometown Huskies. Then the Thunderbirds had contacted him first when he was a senior. Since college, he’d been here at home. Three fairly incredible seasons during which he’d broken all the team’s records for individual scoring and receiving and led the league twice in total receptions. At twenty-five, he could look backward and forward with satisfaction; he was happy with where he was at and where he knew he was going.

Place is great, Mike, he said as he took a seat.

Yeah, I love it. How about you? Ready to play?

Yeah, I’m in shape, restless. Haven’t much else to do. Talk to the lab yet?

They’re just about done. Looks good so far.

Great. Got a joint?

Oh yeah, just what you need. Coffee? Mike asked.

No thanks, it’s a drug too, you know. He put his feet up on the balcony railing and leaned back. The sun was just reaching him.

Mike straightened out the paperwork strewn across the outdoor table and picked out two of the folders. He pulled a chair closer to Mason and sat. We’ve got pretty much everything nailed down, he said, except the injury clause and the no-trade thing. Soon as your test checks out, we can drop the no-trade and give them back a few grand and they’ll jump at it. You’re still clean, right?

Yeah, you think I’m stupid? They still think it’s about the bucks.

Far as I can tell. You’re probably the first player in the game to hold out this long so he can pass a drug test.

Yeah, maybe, but not the last. Maybe they didn’t catch on yet. I think Coach is hip, and he’s going to give me a rough time when I get back.

Did you see the paper today?

Nope, just got up. Went down to the gym and came straight here.

We’re in it.

No shit.

Here, check it out, and check out the rest of the page, speaking of Coach Pickett. I’ll be right back.

Mason studied the small picture of Mike and himself. He didn’t think he looked very impressive in a business suit. Kind of like O.J. in a car commercial. The rest of the page was about some scene down at Emerald Meadows racetrack. He didn’t see what it had to do with Pickett until his eye caught the coach’s name in the second paragraph. So, the sonofabitch lost a horse. Tough shit. Wonder if he felt bad? Probably not. Horses, jockeys, all players, and probably all the same to him. If it wasn’t for the hometown thing and some of the other advantages the Seattle organization gave him, Mason would have tried to get traded by now, just because of Mr. Arthur. Hammer Pickett, head coach and number one prick in the game. The dude was a bully and definitely racist, even though more than half the team was black. The hardest thing about going back to work would be putting up with all the shit he’d get from the Hammer without blowing it and dropping the bastard with a quick forearm to the middle of his face. But he’d promised his mom and Mike, and he’d already lost one agent due to his problems with management and with the coach in particular. It would be tough, but there was a lot more at stake now than his own ego. Besides, one or two more seasons the way he’d been playing, he’d be able to demand a new coach. Oh yeah, right.

Mike came back out. Okay, I just double-checked that stuff from the Players’ Union, and everything’s ready to go except your piss, and we should know about that any minute. What else have you got on for today?

Don’t know. Might do a little water-skiing if it gets hot.

Be careful, the injury-risk responsibility clause kicks in the minute you sign. Probably your last free time, too. You’ll start right in with daily-doubles and get docked if they don’t think you’re in shape.

No sweat, Mike. Told you I’m ready.

They sat quietly for a moment, Mason still reading the newspaper and Mike watching the lake. He was ninety-nine percent sure his player was telling him the truth, and that the test they’d done themselves would give the green light, good enough for him to go ahead and take the team’s own test. The one percent was enough to make him anxious, though, to cause his mind to shudder at the thought of having to give up everything he was just getting used to. The phone rang. He reached for it, but let it ring one more time.

Hello? Lehman here…yeah, hi Elliot…Thanks, thanks a lot. He hung up. It’s okay. We’re in, he said.

Told you. And that’s the longest I’ve been straight since I was thirteen.

Even in college?

They weren’t testing yet, least not at SC.

You want me to call the club, or you? He held the phone out to Mason.

Go ahead, that’s your job. Got any pop?

Yeah, in the fridge. Mike dialed the number of the T-Birds head office. When Mason came back, he told him that Lundeen, the general manager, was out, expected back in an hour or so. Mason said he’d check back in later and started to leave.

Hey, does this mean we can show up at the party this weekend? Or do you think that’s pushing it?

Let’s sign first, then see. Might as well, though, hate to miss it.

Right. Check you later. Gonna run home.

It was only a few miles from Mike’s place to his, and he meant to run home. He was dressed in sweats and running shoes and wouldn’t look much out of place jogging through the streets.

At Cherry Street, he cut left toward the old neighborhood. He’d finally talked his mom into a nice apartment down near his sister’s place in the Seward Park area, so he didn’t get by the old block very often. He thought of swinging by Garfield High, but it was probably too early to catch any pick-up basketball. Besides, like Mike reminded him, he was just one day away from the no extra-curricular sports clause in the contract. Wouldn’t do to turn an ankle on the asphalt now. He jogged easily until he got to his old block, where he slowed to a walk. He no longer knew the people who ran the store or hardly anyone else. The only reason his Mom had agreed to move was because she hardly knew anyone there herself these days. Her best friends had died or moved to be near their own kids and the only thing she was still involved with was the church. Becky, his sister, made sure to get mom there for at least one of the services every Sunday.

Some kids were playing baseball in the street. Mason glanced up at the window he’d broken on Mr. Winslow’s second story. It had cost him twice what it was worth, working it off for the old man. Now the ball from the street game came rolling toward his feet. He picked it up, tossed it back and asked if they needed another player. No grown-ups, was the answer. Better keep moving, he thought, they’re out of my league. He passed the Hendricks’ house, all boarded up now. Shit, somebody ought to make a museum out of it, like they do for Elvis and the other big names. Mason had been just a little guy when Jimi Hendrix was making it big and he could hardly remember anything about him, but later, when he himself was beginning to get a lot of notice, people used to stop him in the street too. Give ‘em hell, they’d say. You and Jimi the only good things ever came out of this block. Yeah, Hendrix was the rock and he must be the roll. Great block to get started in music, football, drugs, great block. Maybe someday he’d buy it, tear it all down, build a park and a Jimi/Mason museum. Big sign over the entrance, WELCOME TO MUTHAFUCKAHLAND. He broke into a sprint, ran a short out pattern crossing the street, caught the invisible pass at the right curb, turned, twisted and dashed to the end of the block. A quick six and no one even touched him.

The Thunderbird Players’ Wives Group was the primary sponsor of a volunteer program in the children’s ward at the University Hospital. Most of the women in the group tried to put in at least one afternoon a week reading to the children, playing with them, or helping the staff with such things as physical therapy and feeding. It was a rewarding though at times depressing activity, and it obviously helped both the children and the staff, as well as the volunteers. Marina Pickett usually worked Wednesday afternoons. She and her friend Annie Radford would meet somewhere for lunch and then go on to the hospital together.

On this particular afternoon she was helping a four-year-old burn victim learn to use his hands again. In spite of the discomfort, the therapist had told her it was crucial for the boy to flex the new skin as much as possible in order to prevent a loss of elasticity in the future.

Okay Mickey, she said, you hide the button and I’ll guess which hand. No, not behind your back, just behind your head. Don’t let me see.

The little boy smiled and did as he was told.

Now squeeze tight. She saw a flicker of pain interrupt his smile. Now, let me guess.

He held out both fists to her. The fresh skin was mottled, pink spots separated by darker areas where the damage hadn’t been as deep. His neck was still bandaged from surgery to repair the third degree burns from a gas stove explosion. When she’d first seen the boy three weeks before, he’d been covered with dressings from his waist to his eyes, including both arms. The nurses said he only cried in his sleep and mostly worried about whether he would be able to go swimming in the lake again before he started kindergarten.

Marina guessed the correct hand and went on taking turns, playing a little while longer. Then they counted fingers and made them disappear, and finally she read a couple of stories to him and to two other children in nearby beds. When it was time for her to leave, she helped the other two back to their own beds and then waited for Annie in the hallway outside the ward. She was still putting away artwork and supplies. Annie was not a player’s wife, wasn’t married in fact, but was the survivor of two very successful divorces, one related to the team. She and Marina had met at one of the countless booster parties that the team held during the year, hit it off immediately, and became good friends. Marina encouraged her to come along to the hospital program, as much to give her something worthwhile to do as for them to spend time together.

They left the hospital parking lot in Marina’s sports car and drove across the bridge to the Arboretum, where they parked at a favorite spot and sat quietly while Marina prepared a couple of lines on the mirror of her monogrammed compact. This little ritual had become special to them and was a good antidote for the heaviness they usually felt after the hospital work. Annie rolled a twenty-dollar bill and held it out to Marina, who sniffed the first line. They had surprised one another when coke first came up in a conversation. Neither had expected the other to be into it. Marina had been sniffing on and off for years and considered the small amount she used and shared with friends to be less than even the suggestion of a problem. For Annie, cocaine was something she could either take or leave, depending on the circumstances and who she was with.

Any change in little Frieda? Marina asked. Frieda was suffering from a brain tumor but didn’t seem to be getting any worse since coming to the hospital two months before.

I can’t see any. Annie cleared her throat.

One more?

Sure.

Marina scraped and cut two more lines. They sniffed, got out of the car and then walked slowly along the waterway. Ducks and geese paddled among the reeds and cattails and a few rented canoes could be seen drifting out toward the small islands. It felt so good just to be relaxing for a few minutes, free from the constant scrutiny of others. Marina, the glamorous ex-model, wife of coach Hammer and mobilizer of civic pride, and Annie, rich, available, and at the top of the guest list for every really important party. It was only here, in the privacy of their friendship, that they could let down their guard, giggle at the onlookers, and bitch about the hassle of being so privileged.

They both knew and talked about how they were where they wanted to be, had gotten there consciously, and were now living out so many other people’s fantasies. For Annie, it had never been any different, with a good family, the best schools, marriage to someone of similar social status, another marriage higher up the money-power ladder, and now freedom as an individual, and as a woman. Her main concern was that she would get bored with it all, but that hadn’t happened yet, and she had enough sense not to be arrogant about her place in the world. She knew she really hadn’t earned it. In fact, her main fault, according to most of her peers, was that she didn’t take anything seriously enough to make something more of herself. Marina was one of the few people who knew that beneath her humor and fun-loving behavior lay some very real questions about the ways of the world, about fortune and misfortune, and a lurking fear that her life was just a little too easy to continue rolling along without some kind of reversal.

Marina had not been born to the easy life. It found her. Back home in Illinois, she’d been one of those unique girls who make the honor roll and get to be the homecoming queen. Her beauty and her brains combined to lift her out of the small city where her father worked overtime every working day of his life, and her mother slaved away in the grade school cafeteria. Marina had earned a scholarship to Antioch, where her education accelerated both in and out of the classroom. She was somewhat radicalized by new ideas and the war in Vietnam. She hung out with folksingers and actors and did a little singing herself. They went to demonstrations, stayed up all night printing leaflets and smoking stemmy Mexican pot. Then came reality when her roommate was seriously hurt, and four others in the student peace movement were killed by National Guard troops. A scalding tear gas cannister exploded right next to where they were taking cover, burning her friend’s face and hair. As they carried the girl to safety, Marina had known this was going to change her own life and that she couldn’t face this kind of danger anymore. It was too real. The clouds of gas, the shots, sirens, and screams penetrated the idealism of her youth and she suddenly felt that in a revolution maybe everybody loses. For a while, she continued on the student strike committee, but her heart was no longer in it. The cold fear of personal danger put a damper on her enthusiasm and began to isolate her from those friends whose response was to become even more militant. Slowly, but with some conviction, she reached the conclusion that her best chance for a successful future lay in her good looks, and her fear of anything that could take that away from