OLD SOLDIER
At seventy-three years of age, Holt might be old, but he wasn’t an old fool. The two young pups standing in his living room were up to no good or his name wasn’t Holt Cassidy.
Holt had placed a classified ad in the St. Helene’s Gazette for help with a job requiring heavy lifting. He’d spread the word around the parish the last couple of weeks as well. His rental house was situated two miles outside of town at the end of a rutted graveled lane, and while a few people had called about the job, no one had shown up at his home until tonight. When he’d opened the door to their knock, the two men had moved into the living room before he’d had a chance to react, pushing the door shut behind them. Now they stood close, invading his personal space, filling the tiny living room with their rangy meanness.
“Heard you was lookin’ for a couple of guys to help you lift a safe.” The short one bounced from one foot to the other as he spoke, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but at Holt. He was skinny, almost to the point of emaciation, with shaggy blonde hair in serious need of a shampoo and cut. Sweat glistened on his forehead and neck. He wore faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt bearing the logo “I’m From Louisiana, Let’s Get Drunk.”
“Might be,” Holt admitted. He shifted his weight, which caused his cane to wobble slightly. “Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, you boys look a little too scrawny to be lifting much of anything.”
The tall one spoke. “We might be stronger than we look, old timer.”
Holt pegged him as the older of the two, late twenties, maybe even thirty. He had a shaved head and hard brown eyes. Unlike his buddy, he stood quietly, gaze focused on Holt, thumbs hooked in his worn brown leather belt, index fingers touching the brass skull and crossbones buckle. The seven letters—four on the right hand, three on the left—crudely tattooed one to a finger spelled out what Holt figured was the tall one’s philosophy of life, an attitude no doubt formed by the circumstances of his birth and polished by the prison where he’d acquired the tattoos.
“The name’s Mr. Cassidy, not old timer.” Holt tried to pull himself up tall, but his rounded shoulders and stooped back made for a feeble attempt at commanding respect. He squinted up at the tall one. “Don’t think you fellers are right for the job, but I sure appreciate you stopping by.”
He gestured toward the door, but they didn’t move. The short one giggled and picked at a sore on his chin.
“What you need a safe for, Mister Cassidy?” he said. “You one of those old dudes don’t trust banks or somethin’? Got so much money you can’t hide it all in your mattress?”
He giggled again and looked sideways at his companion, seeking approval for his wittiness. The tall one ignored him.
“Just papers and things I want to keep safe,” Holt said. “Medals and such. From my time in the war.”
“What war was you in? The Civil?”
The short one cracked up at his own humor. When he laughed, Holt caught a whiff of rotting teeth. The sores, teeth, and general jumpiness marked him as one of those not-so-rare specimens of tweeker. Holt had seen quite a few of those birds in the three years he’d been moving from one Louisiana swamp town to another. Meth didn’t appear to be the tall one’s drug of choice, but maybe he’d had time to get straight while he’d been locked up.
“I’d like you boys to leave now.”
Holt’s voice broke on the last word, and the two men stiffened. Like dogs, Holt thought, finely attuned to the slightest smell of fear. He swallowed hard and took a step back.
One second the tall one’s hands were on his belt and empty, the next he was holding a knife in his right hand. He’s fast, Holt thought. Must have had that blade tucked inside his waistband. Emboldened by the knife in his friend’s hand, the short one grabbed Holt and shoved him hard. Holt yelped, but managed to hold onto his cane as his back slammed into the wall.
“Where’s the money, pops?” the short one demanded.
“I got fifty dollars in a jar in the kitchen, maybe twenty in my wallet. You can have it all. Just please don’t hurt me.” Holt cringed and closed his eyes. He whimpered. “Please!”
“Not after chump change, old timer.” The tall one had a cold voice, a voice to match his eyes. He backhanded Holt hard with his empty hand. Holt’s head made a clunking sound as it hit the wall. “Where’s the money?”
“All right, all right!” Holt raised the hand that wasn’t holding the cane, palm outward to ward off another blow. “I keep it in the spare room.”
“Show us,” the tall one said.
The short one took Holt by the shoulder and shoved him toward the hall. Leaning heavily on the cane, Holt hobbled to the door at the end. As he turned the knob, he twisted around and threw his cane at the two men. It struck the short one across the forehead, causing him to stumble backward into his buddy. Holt stepped quickly through the door and pushed it closed behind him, but before the latch could catch, the men hit the door hard from the other side and burst into the room.
“What the—” was all the tall one got out before Holt’s bullet penetrated his skull. The knife hit the painter’s tarp covering the floor a millisecond before the man who had been holding it did.
The short one stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth hanging slack. Holt pulled the trigger again, and the man dropped, his right arm falling over his friend’s back in a final gesture of camaraderie.
Holt straightened, standing tall, shoulders no longer rounded. He quickly removed the baggy plaid shirt that had hidden the holster clipped inside his rear waistband. As he holstered the gun, the hard muscles in his chest and arms rippled under the tight white tee.
Working quickly, he tore loose a tarp hanging from a wall, wrapped the short one’s body in it, hoisted it over his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and delivered it to the rusted pickup the men had arrived in. He used the tarp from the floor to wrap the tall one’s body and carried him to the truck. The rounds had not exited the heads, leaving minimal mess, so he carefully folded the tarps covering the other three walls. No sense throwing out stuff he could reuse. His Army pension and Social Security allowed for a comfortable life, but he economized where he could.
It was a three-mile drive to Diable Swamp. When he got there, he cracked the windows an inch or so, put the gearshift in neutral, and gave the truck a good hard shove. It picked up speed as it neared the water. The left front tire struck a rock causing one of the passengers—Holt thought it was the short guy—to fall against the horn. One short bleat, then he flopped away from the horn, nothing more to say, and the truck entered the water. It turned once in a slow-motion circle and began to sink, nose down. Within seconds, it was gone, the water calm and smooth again in the moonlight. A gator grumbled farther down the bank, angry at being disturbed. Holt heeded the warning and walked away at a fast pace.
When he got back to the house, he carried the suitcases stacked in the coat closet out to his Suburban, then checked each room carefully, opening drawers and looking under furniture for anything he might have forgotten to pack. In the kitchen, he lifted a large black briefcase, leather worn and cracking, from the floor of the pantry. He placed it on the counter beside the sink and popped the tab on a Miller’s.
Inside the briefcase were his medals, the first ones earned in Vietnam. Growing up, he’d been at war with himself. He’d been raised to be a good boy, but he hadn’t felt like a good boy. He had wanted to do things that a good person shouldn’t even imagine doing. He’d resisted the impulses, but it was kind of like having an itch he just couldn’t reach. But those impulses proved to be an advantage to a soldier in the dirty war that was Vietnam. He’d scratched that itch again and again, and he’d been sorry to see the fighting end.
When he returned home, he found a new theater for battle, one that satisfied both his needs and his conscience. The country had changed while he’d been overseas and had only gotten worse in the decades since. Sloth, greed, drugs, mass shootings, violence against women, children, the old—the nightly news was enough to make any soldier worth his salt take up arms and go hunting. But age had slowed him. Now, instead of hunting, he fished, dropping bait here and there until he got a bite. It usually didn’t take long, but this time the old-helpless-man-with-a-safe bait hadn’t seemed to be working. He’d been about to give up and head north where he’d gotten a nibble from a fellow in Indianapolis who thought he was talking online with a twelve-year-old girl. Then the rusted truck had turned into his drive.
While he sipped the beer, he ran his fingers over the medals earned since Vietnam. Watches, rings, a gold tooth, photos snapped of those who hadn’t had anything worth keeping. The briefcase was nearly full, but he managed to find a place for the skull and crossbones buckle, then closed the case and locked it. It was time to go.
He chugged the remaining beer and tossed the empty can into the bag of recyclables sitting next to the garbage he’d accumulated since the last pickup. He’d drop it all off on his way through town. If there was one thing he was good at, it was taking out the trash.
Holt had placed a classified ad in the St. Helene’s Gazette for help with a job requiring heavy lifting. He’d spread the word around the parish the last couple of weeks as well. His rental house was situated two miles outside of town at the end of a rutted graveled lane, and while a few people had called about the job, no one had shown up at his home until tonight. When he’d opened the door to their knock, the two men had moved into the living room before he’d had a chance to react, pushing the door shut behind them. Now they stood close, invading his personal space, filling the tiny living room with their rangy meanness.
“Heard you was lookin’ for a couple of guys to help you lift a safe.” The short one bounced from one foot to the other as he spoke, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but at Holt. He was skinny, almost to the point of emaciation, with shaggy blonde hair in serious need of a shampoo and cut. Sweat glistened on his forehead and neck. He wore faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt bearing the logo “I’m From Louisiana, Let’s Get Drunk.”
“Might be,” Holt admitted. He shifted his weight, which caused his cane to wobble slightly. “Although, if you don’t mind my saying so, you boys look a little too scrawny to be lifting much of anything.”
The tall one spoke. “We might be stronger than we look, old timer.”
Holt pegged him as the older of the two, late twenties, maybe even thirty. He had a shaved head and hard brown eyes. Unlike his buddy, he stood quietly, gaze focused on Holt, thumbs hooked in his worn brown leather belt, index fingers touching the brass skull and crossbones buckle. The seven letters—four on the right hand, three on the left—crudely tattooed one to a finger spelled out what Holt figured was the tall one’s philosophy of life, an attitude no doubt formed by the circumstances of his birth and polished by the prison where he’d acquired the tattoos.
“The name’s Mr. Cassidy, not old timer.” Holt tried to pull himself up tall, but his rounded shoulders and stooped back made for a feeble attempt at commanding respect. He squinted up at the tall one. “Don’t think you fellers are right for the job, but I sure appreciate you stopping by.”
He gestured toward the door, but they didn’t move. The short one giggled and picked at a sore on his chin.
“What you need a safe for, Mister Cassidy?” he said. “You one of those old dudes don’t trust banks or somethin’? Got so much money you can’t hide it all in your mattress?”
He giggled again and looked sideways at his companion, seeking approval for his wittiness. The tall one ignored him.
“Just papers and things I want to keep safe,” Holt said. “Medals and such. From my time in the war.”
“What war was you in? The Civil?”
The short one cracked up at his own humor. When he laughed, Holt caught a whiff of rotting teeth. The sores, teeth, and general jumpiness marked him as one of those not-so-rare specimens of tweeker. Holt had seen quite a few of those birds in the three years he’d been moving from one Louisiana swamp town to another. Meth didn’t appear to be the tall one’s drug of choice, but maybe he’d had time to get straight while he’d been locked up.
“I’d like you boys to leave now.”
Holt’s voice broke on the last word, and the two men stiffened. Like dogs, Holt thought, finely attuned to the slightest smell of fear. He swallowed hard and took a step back.
One second the tall one’s hands were on his belt and empty, the next he was holding a knife in his right hand. He’s fast, Holt thought. Must have had that blade tucked inside his waistband. Emboldened by the knife in his friend’s hand, the short one grabbed Holt and shoved him hard. Holt yelped, but managed to hold onto his cane as his back slammed into the wall.
“Where’s the money, pops?” the short one demanded.
“I got fifty dollars in a jar in the kitchen, maybe twenty in my wallet. You can have it all. Just please don’t hurt me.” Holt cringed and closed his eyes. He whimpered. “Please!”
“Not after chump change, old timer.” The tall one had a cold voice, a voice to match his eyes. He backhanded Holt hard with his empty hand. Holt’s head made a clunking sound as it hit the wall. “Where’s the money?”
“All right, all right!” Holt raised the hand that wasn’t holding the cane, palm outward to ward off another blow. “I keep it in the spare room.”
“Show us,” the tall one said.
The short one took Holt by the shoulder and shoved him toward the hall. Leaning heavily on the cane, Holt hobbled to the door at the end. As he turned the knob, he twisted around and threw his cane at the two men. It struck the short one across the forehead, causing him to stumble backward into his buddy. Holt stepped quickly through the door and pushed it closed behind him, but before the latch could catch, the men hit the door hard from the other side and burst into the room.
“What the—” was all the tall one got out before Holt’s bullet penetrated his skull. The knife hit the painter’s tarp covering the floor a millisecond before the man who had been holding it did.
The short one stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth hanging slack. Holt pulled the trigger again, and the man dropped, his right arm falling over his friend’s back in a final gesture of camaraderie.
Holt straightened, standing tall, shoulders no longer rounded. He quickly removed the baggy plaid shirt that had hidden the holster clipped inside his rear waistband. As he holstered the gun, the hard muscles in his chest and arms rippled under the tight white tee.
Working quickly, he tore loose a tarp hanging from a wall, wrapped the short one’s body in it, hoisted it over his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and delivered it to the rusted pickup the men had arrived in. He used the tarp from the floor to wrap the tall one’s body and carried him to the truck. The rounds had not exited the heads, leaving minimal mess, so he carefully folded the tarps covering the other three walls. No sense throwing out stuff he could reuse. His Army pension and Social Security allowed for a comfortable life, but he economized where he could.
It was a three-mile drive to Diable Swamp. When he got there, he cracked the windows an inch or so, put the gearshift in neutral, and gave the truck a good hard shove. It picked up speed as it neared the water. The left front tire struck a rock causing one of the passengers—Holt thought it was the short guy—to fall against the horn. One short bleat, then he flopped away from the horn, nothing more to say, and the truck entered the water. It turned once in a slow-motion circle and began to sink, nose down. Within seconds, it was gone, the water calm and smooth again in the moonlight. A gator grumbled farther down the bank, angry at being disturbed. Holt heeded the warning and walked away at a fast pace.
When he got back to the house, he carried the suitcases stacked in the coat closet out to his Suburban, then checked each room carefully, opening drawers and looking under furniture for anything he might have forgotten to pack. In the kitchen, he lifted a large black briefcase, leather worn and cracking, from the floor of the pantry. He placed it on the counter beside the sink and popped the tab on a Miller’s.
Inside the briefcase were his medals, the first ones earned in Vietnam. Growing up, he’d been at war with himself. He’d been raised to be a good boy, but he hadn’t felt like a good boy. He had wanted to do things that a good person shouldn’t even imagine doing. He’d resisted the impulses, but it was kind of like having an itch he just couldn’t reach. But those impulses proved to be an advantage to a soldier in the dirty war that was Vietnam. He’d scratched that itch again and again, and he’d been sorry to see the fighting end.
When he returned home, he found a new theater for battle, one that satisfied both his needs and his conscience. The country had changed while he’d been overseas and had only gotten worse in the decades since. Sloth, greed, drugs, mass shootings, violence against women, children, the old—the nightly news was enough to make any soldier worth his salt take up arms and go hunting. But age had slowed him. Now, instead of hunting, he fished, dropping bait here and there until he got a bite. It usually didn’t take long, but this time the old-helpless-man-with-a-safe bait hadn’t seemed to be working. He’d been about to give up and head north where he’d gotten a nibble from a fellow in Indianapolis who thought he was talking online with a twelve-year-old girl. Then the rusted truck had turned into his drive.
While he sipped the beer, he ran his fingers over the medals earned since Vietnam. Watches, rings, a gold tooth, photos snapped of those who hadn’t had anything worth keeping. The briefcase was nearly full, but he managed to find a place for the skull and crossbones buckle, then closed the case and locked it. It was time to go.
He chugged the remaining beer and tossed the empty can into the bag of recyclables sitting next to the garbage he’d accumulated since the last pickup. He’d drop it all off on his way through town. If there was one thing he was good at, it was taking out the trash.
