his goal multiple times. That was all they ever said on the phone. But there were always new women, skinny blondes in business suits, black girls in platform shoes. He made them dance braless in the window like he wanted people to see.
The next night, Goetzler waited in the Jeep Cherokee after Rosen walked the block to the restaurant bars. He did not hear the rain. He was listening to the Nick Adams Stories on tape. Hemingway had taught him how to stop the room from spinning when he was drunk, the proper way for holding a newspaper at a café table, even how a man should look at hills and trees. But Hemingway didn’t work in Vietnam, even though Goetzler tried. The martinis tasted funny in Southeast Asia because the Vietnamese bartenders never got the vermouth right. After the story “The Battler,” Goetzler stepped from the Jeep and crossed the street with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, thinking himself Nick Adams when he first noticed his hurt knee from the brakeman slugging him off the train.
There were red stickers on Rosen’s windows from Windy City Security Systems on Kedzie. Goetzler went around the back and pitched alley stones at the glass, then waited. No flashing lights or alarm sirens. He pushed against the back door, and waited again. There was nothing.
He returned two nights later, after learning Rosen’s routine. He came with a glass-cutter and took out the window in the back door, then reached through and let himself inside. It was the kitchen, a big white room with an eight-burner stove, a rotisserie spit built into its own enclave, and black marble countertops. He worked a Maglite against the floor, looking for dog food bowls.
He carried in the backpack only what he needed: one rolled picture of Nguyen Ngoc Loan shooting the Viet Cong, Scotch tape, a pair of black shorts, a plaid madras shirt, and military police handcuffs. He forgot sandals, but he wasn’t sure the Viet Cong even wore them. The .38 was between his belt and his coat, a pearl-handled revolver like Loan’s. Back in 1968, he’d been in Saigon the day the Tet Offensive hit and Eddie Adams got the famous picture. Goetzler was one street over, on Tu Ten Loc, looking for his glasses on the floor of the Jeep. His nose had been sweaty and Sergeant Olszewski braked too fast. He didn’t know about the picture until the next day, but he told guys how he watched the general raise the pistol, and that he even bummed a cigarette from a one-eyed staff officer after the VC fell backward.
In the Maglite beam, he saw Tiffany lamps, ten to a room, vases from Ming dynasties, a Matisse pastel above the fireplace. The windows were framed in stained glass, and the white rugs lay over hardwood floors. Rosen had cabinets of Hummels, the little German girls in dresses, the small boys with watering cans.
Goetzler followed the beam back to Rosen’s office. Last week, the lawyer bought a desk that Grover Cleveland used in his law practice after his presidency. He told the locker room. Goetzler figured Rosen hid his cash retainers like this. The money was all in things.
He emptied the backpack over the desk and put it back on. He lay the picture beside the desk lamp, leaving the shorts and the shirt upon stacked paper, then turned on the small light before reclining in Rosen’s swivel chair. He put his feet up, waiting a minute before removing the pistol from his holster. He lit the desk lamp.
Uncle Kerm would laugh about this stunt. Goetzler saw himself getting points with the old man.
You made him dress up like the VC in that picture, he’d say. You even wore a William Westmoreland mask? I bet Rosen’s colon hasn’t stopped since you left him shaking. I’ll bet he won’t speak a word about it. The cops aren’t his friends.
Kerm would beat the table with his fist, and howl like he did telling Goetzler how his father got kicked out of the navy for messing himself. He messed them standing in the chow line at Great Lakes, he said,
The next night, Goetzler waited in the Jeep Cherokee after Rosen walked the block to the restaurant bars. He did not hear the rain. He was listening to the Nick Adams Stories on tape. Hemingway had taught him how to stop the room from spinning when he was drunk, the proper way for holding a newspaper at a café table, even how a man should look at hills and trees. But Hemingway didn’t work in Vietnam, even though Goetzler tried. The martinis tasted funny in Southeast Asia because the Vietnamese bartenders never got the vermouth right. After the story “The Battler,” Goetzler stepped from the Jeep and crossed the street with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, thinking himself Nick Adams when he first noticed his hurt knee from the brakeman slugging him off the train.
There were red stickers on Rosen’s windows from Windy City Security Systems on Kedzie. Goetzler went around the back and pitched alley stones at the glass, then waited. No flashing lights or alarm sirens. He pushed against the back door, and waited again. There was nothing.
He returned two nights later, after learning Rosen’s routine. He came with a glass-cutter and took out the window in the back door, then reached through and let himself inside. It was the kitchen, a big white room with an eight-burner stove, a rotisserie spit built into its own enclave, and black marble countertops. He worked a Maglite against the floor, looking for dog food bowls.
He carried in the backpack only what he needed: one rolled picture of Nguyen Ngoc Loan shooting the Viet Cong, Scotch tape, a pair of black shorts, a plaid madras shirt, and military police handcuffs. He forgot sandals, but he wasn’t sure the Viet Cong even wore them. The .38 was between his belt and his coat, a pearl-handled revolver like Loan’s. Back in 1968, he’d been in Saigon the day the Tet Offensive hit and Eddie Adams got the famous picture. Goetzler was one street over, on Tu Ten Loc, looking for his glasses on the floor of the Jeep. His nose had been sweaty and Sergeant Olszewski braked too fast. He didn’t know about the picture until the next day, but he told guys how he watched the general raise the pistol, and that he even bummed a cigarette from a one-eyed staff officer after the VC fell backward.
In the Maglite beam, he saw Tiffany lamps, ten to a room, vases from Ming dynasties, a Matisse pastel above the fireplace. The windows were framed in stained glass, and the white rugs lay over hardwood floors. Rosen had cabinets of Hummels, the little German girls in dresses, the small boys with watering cans.
Goetzler followed the beam back to Rosen’s office. Last week, the lawyer bought a desk that Grover Cleveland used in his law practice after his presidency. He told the locker room. Goetzler figured Rosen hid his cash retainers like this. The money was all in things.
He emptied the backpack over the desk and put it back on. He lay the picture beside the desk lamp, leaving the shorts and the shirt upon stacked paper, then turned on the small light before reclining in Rosen’s swivel chair. He put his feet up, waiting a minute before removing the pistol from his holster. He lit the desk lamp.
Uncle Kerm would laugh about this stunt. Goetzler saw himself getting points with the old man.
You made him dress up like the VC in that picture, he’d say. You even wore a William Westmoreland mask? I bet Rosen’s colon hasn’t stopped since you left him shaking. I’ll bet he won’t speak a word about it. The cops aren’t his friends.
Kerm would beat the table with his fist, and howl like he did telling Goetzler how his father got kicked out of the navy for messing himself. He messed them standing in the chow line at Great Lakes, he said,
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