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“What about us Rangers?” asked Griffin, playing the straight man.
Harris grinned. “Single Ranger comes in, plays with the snake, then eats it.”
Starkey snorted out a laugh, then he turned off Armistead Street into the lot for the Corps Headquarters. “Remember, this is just business. Conduct yourselves accordingly, gentlemen.”
Griffin and Harris barked, “Yes, sir.”
The three of them gathered their briefcases, put on lightweight suit jackets, and tightened their neckties. They were the senior sales team for Heckler & Koch, and they were at Bragg to promote the sale of guns to the army. In particular, they were trying to build common interest in the gun manufacturer’s PDW, which weighed just over two pounds, fully loaded, and could “defeat all known standard-issue military body armor.”
“Hell of a weapon,” Thomas Starkey liked to say during his sales pitch. “If we’d had it in ’Nam, we would have won the war.”
Chapter 19
THE MEETING WENT as well as any of them could have hoped. The three salesmen left the Army Corps offices at a little past eight that night, with assurances of support for the Personal Defense Weapon. Thomas Starkey had also demonstrated the latest version of the MP5 submachine gun and talked knowledgeably and enthusiastically about his company’s fabrications system, which made its gun parts 99.9 percent interchangeable.
“Let’s get some cold beers and thick steaks,” Starkey said. “See if we can get in a little trouble in Fayetteville, or maybe some other town down the line. That’s an order, gentlemen.”
“I’m up for that,” said Harris. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it? Let’s see if we can spoil it.”
By the time they left Fort Bragg, darkness had fallen. “On the road again,” Warren Griffin started in on his theme song, the old Willie Nelson standard that he sang just about every time they started an adventure. They knew Fayetteville, not only from business trips but from when they’d been stationed at Bragg. It was only four years since the three of them had left the army, where they’d been Rangers: Colonel Starkey, Captain Harris, Master Sergeant Griffin. Seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment, Third Battalion, originally out of Fort Benning, Georgia.
They were just entering town when they saw a couple of hookers loitering on a dark street corner. In the bad old days Hays Street in town had block after block of rough bars and strip joints. It used to be known as Fayette-nam. No more, though. The locals were trying to gentrify the downtown area. A billboard put up by the chamber of commerce read METRO LIVING AT A SOUTHERN PACE. Made you want to throw up.
Warren Griffin leaned out the side window of the Suburban. “I love you, and especially you. Stop the car this minute! Oh God, please stop the vehicle. I love you, darling. I’ll be back!” he called to the two girls.
“I’m Vanessa!” one of them called. She was a real cutie too.
Starkey laughed, but he drove on until they reached the Pump, which had been there for at least twenty years. They strolled inside to eat and party. Why work, if you couldn’t get a reward? Why feel the pain, unless you got some gain?
During the next few hours, they drank too many beers, ate twenty-four-ounce steaks with fried onions and mushrooms slathered on top, smoked cigars, and told their best war stories and jokes. Even the waitresses and bartenders got into the act some. Everybody liked Thomas Starkey. Unless you happened to get on hi
s bad side.
They were leaving Fayetteville about midnight when Starkey pulled the Suburban over to the curb. “Time for a live-fire exercise,” he said to Griffin and Harris. They knew what that meant.
Harris just smiled, but Griffin let out a whoop. “Let the war games begin!”
Starkey leaned out his window and talked to one of the girls loitering on Hays Street. She was a tall, rail-thin blonde, wobbling slightly on silver platform heels. She had a little pouty mouth, but it disappeared when she flashed them her best hundred-dollar smile.
“You are a very beautiful lady,” Starkey said. “Listen, we’re heading over to our suite at the Radisson. You be interested in three big tips, instead of just one? We kind of like to party together. It’ll be good, clean fun.”
Starkey could be charming, and also respectful. He had an easy smile. So the blond hooker got into the Suburban’s backseat, beside Griffin. “You all promise to be good boys,” she said, and smiled that wonderful smile of hers again.
“Promise,” the three of them chorused. “We’ll be good boys.”
“On the road again,” Griffin sang.
“Hey, you’re pretty good,” the girl said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She was good with men, knew how to handle them, especially soldiers from Fort Bragg, who were usually decent enough guys. Once upon a time, she’d been an army brat herself. Not so long ago. She was nineteen.
“You hear that? This beautiful lady likes my singing. What’s your name, sweetie?” asked Griffin. “I like you already.”
“It’s Vanessa,” said the girl, giving her made-up street handle. “What’s yours? Don’t say Willie.”
Griffin laughed out loud. “Why, it’s Warren. Nice to make your acquaintance, Vanessa. Pretty name for a pretty lady.”
They rode out of town, in the direction of I-95. Starkey suddenly pulled the Suburban over after a mile or so and shouted, “Pit stop!” He let the Suburban roll until it was mostly hidden in a copse of evergreens and prickle bushes.
“The Radisson’s not far. Why don’t you wait?” Vanessa asked. “You boys can hold it a little longer, can’t you?”
