the paper. Situational awareness was overrated.
Plus, he had his gun, just in case.
Frank suddenly remembered another one of his old partners, Steve Furrows, who had just up and one day decided to quit smoking. The guy had acted like a class “A” prick for about three months, but Steve got through it and never smoked again. Frank just needed to get past the need to always know everything that was going on around him. He needed to relax, make “not looking” his priority. If Frank could stick with it, like Furrows, maybe he’d break the habit.
Frank’s breakfast was gone and now he was having a piece of pie and finishing up the paper. Pakistan and Afghanistan were going at it again, according to the International section of the Dayton Daily News, arguing and threatening to invade each other over some random patch of scrub. That region, along with the Middle East, had been in bad shape for millennia, and nothing that had happened over the past twenty years was going to make anything better.
Frank knew the region well. During his six years in the Marines, he’d never been deployed overseas, but it had been the focus of all of their training.
And 1983–1989, the years he’d been in, had been a tense period in the region: Iran and Iraq were duking it out along their border, bombing pipelines and shooting down aircraft. Lebanon was undergoing “difficulties,” and Libya was on the warpath.
Incidents came to mind: 220 Marines killed when Hezbollah bombed the Marine barracks in Beirut in ‘83; the USS Vincennes shooting down an Iranian passenger jet; 270 people dying when that flight went down over Lockerbie, Scotland. Too much killing. Too much death.
Reagan and the U.S. stood by, tensely monitoring the situation and getting involved when necessary. Frank had trained for a war in the Mideast, a war that didn’t come until after he’d gotten out in ‘89. But he knew lots of people who ended up in Kuwait, rolling into Iraq with Desert Storm in ‘91.
By then, he’d been back in the bayou, getting on with the NOPD and trying to forget his time in the military. He hadn’t enjoyed his time in. He’d felt like an instrument of death that was never used, a weapon that had been loaded and aimed but never fired. It made him feel even more helpless, useless, to be fully trained and seeing all of the things that were going on in the world, and he couldn’t do anything about any of them. It had been a big part of the decision to become a police officer.
Trudy hadn’t been behind the idea. They’d married in 1985, and she was happy to get out of the service and move back to Louisiana. But she’d fought him on joining the force. She wanted him home, safe, especially with Laura being only two at the time.
Frank shook his head and went back to the paper.
In Afghanistan, the Soviets hadn’t been able to fix it in the ‘80s, and he doubted that the current U.S. war in Afghanistan would end any better. A hundred tiny fiefdoms, overseen by a hundred leaders, all squabbling to get a little more land or—
“I don’t CARE!” a male voice shouted, breaking the quiet of the restaurant. Frank looked up.
Gina, the waitress, was standing behind the counter near the door, where customers paid their bills on the way out.
So was her soon-to-be ex-husband.
Stan was a short man with a thick neck and big arms, wearing civilian clothes. But Frank could tell by the haircut; the man was definitely a cop.
Gina had been Frank’s waitress the first time he’d been in here, and he’d had most of his meals either here or at the Bob Evans across the way. She’d been crying that first day, and he’d asked about it. And Frank had heard the whole story.
He knew it was a mistake, as soon as he’d considered opening his mouth, but he hated to see a nice woman swinging from the gallows.
Of course, he should’ve left it all alone.
Stan was, according to her, an idiot. He drank and stayed out all night. And routinely and
Plus, he had his gun, just in case.
Frank suddenly remembered another one of his old partners, Steve Furrows, who had just up and one day decided to quit smoking. The guy had acted like a class “A” prick for about three months, but Steve got through it and never smoked again. Frank just needed to get past the need to always know everything that was going on around him. He needed to relax, make “not looking” his priority. If Frank could stick with it, like Furrows, maybe he’d break the habit.
Frank’s breakfast was gone and now he was having a piece of pie and finishing up the paper. Pakistan and Afghanistan were going at it again, according to the International section of the Dayton Daily News, arguing and threatening to invade each other over some random patch of scrub. That region, along with the Middle East, had been in bad shape for millennia, and nothing that had happened over the past twenty years was going to make anything better.
Frank knew the region well. During his six years in the Marines, he’d never been deployed overseas, but it had been the focus of all of their training.
And 1983–1989, the years he’d been in, had been a tense period in the region: Iran and Iraq were duking it out along their border, bombing pipelines and shooting down aircraft. Lebanon was undergoing “difficulties,” and Libya was on the warpath.
Incidents came to mind: 220 Marines killed when Hezbollah bombed the Marine barracks in Beirut in ‘83; the USS Vincennes shooting down an Iranian passenger jet; 270 people dying when that flight went down over Lockerbie, Scotland. Too much killing. Too much death.
Reagan and the U.S. stood by, tensely monitoring the situation and getting involved when necessary. Frank had trained for a war in the Mideast, a war that didn’t come until after he’d gotten out in ‘89. But he knew lots of people who ended up in Kuwait, rolling into Iraq with Desert Storm in ‘91.
By then, he’d been back in the bayou, getting on with the NOPD and trying to forget his time in the military. He hadn’t enjoyed his time in. He’d felt like an instrument of death that was never used, a weapon that had been loaded and aimed but never fired. It made him feel even more helpless, useless, to be fully trained and seeing all of the things that were going on in the world, and he couldn’t do anything about any of them. It had been a big part of the decision to become a police officer.
Trudy hadn’t been behind the idea. They’d married in 1985, and she was happy to get out of the service and move back to Louisiana. But she’d fought him on joining the force. She wanted him home, safe, especially with Laura being only two at the time.
Frank shook his head and went back to the paper.
In Afghanistan, the Soviets hadn’t been able to fix it in the ‘80s, and he doubted that the current U.S. war in Afghanistan would end any better. A hundred tiny fiefdoms, overseen by a hundred leaders, all squabbling to get a little more land or—
“I don’t CARE!” a male voice shouted, breaking the quiet of the restaurant. Frank looked up.
Gina, the waitress, was standing behind the counter near the door, where customers paid their bills on the way out.
So was her soon-to-be ex-husband.
Stan was a short man with a thick neck and big arms, wearing civilian clothes. But Frank could tell by the haircut; the man was definitely a cop.
Gina had been Frank’s waitress the first time he’d been in here, and he’d had most of his meals either here or at the Bob Evans across the way. She’d been crying that first day, and he’d asked about it. And Frank had heard the whole story.
He knew it was a mistake, as soon as he’d considered opening his mouth, but he hated to see a nice woman swinging from the gallows.
Of course, he should’ve left it all alone.
Stan was, according to her, an idiot. He drank and stayed out all night. And routinely and
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