My eyes blinked open early this morning, but it was late for being early. I had slept straight through from nine or so to only an hour short of the alarm. I had pushed it a little- I am trying to walk with the stupid brace and the stupid cane, experimenting with geezerhood on the slow road to recuperation.

I had driven to Willow, of course, earning myself in the process a Big Stink Eye from a stout middle-aged woman who was ambling across North Utah. She seemed to think that my swerve to secure a primo parking place directly adjacent to the bar entrance was directed at her, rather than available curb space.

I felt bad for a minute or so, considering (as I do so many things these days) that I enjoy giving the same judgmental glare at the idiot DC drivers.

She was long gone by the time I staged the cane out the door and did the herky-jerk to get the damaged leg out the door of the Bluesmobile while still encased in the rigid brace. A hobble to the uni-meter and one near miscue with the cane tip on some broken pavement near the curb after I dropped the proof-of-payment on the dashboard and I was into the cool darkness of the Willow afternoon.

“Whew,” I said to no one in particular. The fear-of-falling-thing is pretty profound and I am pretty much ready to be over it.

Old Jim and John-with-an-H were going at it hammer and tong at the Amen Corner. Well, better said, John-with was fulminating about something and Jim was giving him his version of the Stink Eye under beetled brows. I hooked a stool with the crook of my cane- they are useful for some things- and began to dismantle the brace on my leg so I could sit with some comfort.

A guy at the end of the bar wore a ballcap and shorts. He was clearly not dressed appropriately for Willow standards, and what’s more, he had taken the contents of his briefcase out and placed them on the mahogany in front of him. For all the world, it appeared he had established an office workstation at the end of the bar, perilously close to Old Jim.

His briefcase rested imperiously on the stool next to Jim. “Uh oh,” I thought. That is one of Jim’s pet peeves from his days on the business side of the bar: people who took up paying stools for their coats and briefcases. I thought if another stack of papers came close to him, Jim might take his cane with the snarling bulldog on the top and rap him across the forehead.

“So,” said John-with in a conspiratorial manner. “Did you get the link I sent you?”

“No,” I said. “It is on the publishing company website and I don’t check it that often. What was it?”

“Five greatest sniper kills,” he said. “Two of them ours.”

“Only two?” I said. “I thought we had the best snipers in the world. I hate snipers.”

“The Royal Marines had the best that one day,” said John-with. “It was incredible. A half-mile shot in a fierce gale. An Iraqi fighter was holding back a vital advance. The Marine gauged the wind speed perfectly to bend the 7.62 round from his L96 sniper rifle to the target. They say it curved 56ft in the air before killing the gunman instantly.”

“That is like getting lucky with a garden hose and hitting something almost nine football fields away.”

“He couldn’t aim at the guy. It was a complete offset shot.”

“Damn. That is astonishing marksmanship. I prefer my targets a lot closer.”

“You mean like the firing squad that greased Patrice Lumumba?”

“Oh, wow, I haven’t thought about the Katangan Gendarmes in a long time. I remember Moise Tshombe and the Congo crisis. Those must have been the days. I met one of the US soldiers who was there, and I knew a senior Indian Service official who went to the Patrice Lumumba Institute in Moscow. He had the diploma up in his office in Delhi. I think he got arrested later.”

“It is a strange world. The people who got sent to Lumumba U hated it. But the US military had nothing to do with Lumumba’s killing.”

“I am not so sure about that,” I said. “You would have to have met the guy I knew Master Sergeant Slowey. He had nothing to do with it like our military would never have an appreciation of the commercial sex trade overseas,” I said wit a smirk. “I am shocked. Shocked.

“Gambling at Rick’s,” said Jim, and hefted his Budweiser long-neck’s bottom ceilingward.

“It is an interesting story,” said John-with. “Ike ordered Allen Dulles to eliminate Lumumba because he was a pain in the butt,” said John-with. “That was the start of a lot of things.”

“Master Sergeant Slowey was driving around Leopoldville after the other UN forces pulled out . He was a spook and a half. But didn’t the CIA blow the hit?

“I think Bronson Tweedy was chief of the Africa Division at the time. He was old school OSS. He was the guy that recruited Mac to work at Langley. I think the story goes that he was sent out there to stage manage things. You can look it up.”

“He didn’t know Mac until much later,” I said. “That was the late 1960s, after the madness had pretty much run its course. Tweedy was number three for Richard Helms when Mac knew him.”

“The murder of Lumumba, whoever did it, was when things were starting to go really weird,” said Jim. “Before they got JFK.”

The guy next to Jim was putting things back in his bag, clearly unsettled by the conversation at the Amen Corner. He slipped his iPad into the case, squared his ballcap and got up. He walked as briskly as possible to the exit.

“So long,” said Jim to his back as he left. Turning back to us, he growled “Son of a bitch should know not to put his briefcase on a working stool.”

Happy hour had finally arrived. There was a regular parade through the front door. The lovely Mary Margaret, the most thoughtful woman I know, came in with the President of the Ornamental Concrete Workers International Union. She gave me a kiss before they swept back to the dining room. Then, Tracy O’Grady, the vivacious owner of Willow came in the front door in her white chef’s coat. She had clearly been working- she held a sheaf of lined yellow paper with proposed themes and menus for the holidays to come.

“Hi, Tracy!” we said in unison. “What’s cooking?”

She laughed, and then we stopped talking about short and long-range shooting and listened with interest to the menu for Cinco de Mayo and the Kentucky Derby. There were even a couple items from Tracy’s girlhood home in Buffalo, New York.

“It is too bad you took the Pomme Frites off the menu,” I said. “You make the best ones in town. How do they serve them in Buffalo? Drenched, right?”

Tracy nodded and hooked a strand of her rich copper-chestnut hair over her right ear. “French Fries in gravy,” she said. “That is comfort food.”

“It ain’t all haut cuisine,” Growled Jim. “We could all use a little comfort,” growled Jim. His lovely bride Mary arrived and hopped up onto the stool vacated by the briefcase. Jon-with-no-H appeared next to me and ordered something completely different from Jasper behind the bar.

Jasper said: “No vodka and iced-tea?”

“No,” said Jon-without. “It is feeling awfully summery out there,” he said. “How about a gin and tonic? Can you make it Hendricks gin?”
“Just for a change?” said John-with.

“Absolutely,” said Jon-without. “Just for a change.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com