Soul of Cole Page 11

  Cole recalled approaching the door of the Children’s Center. He heard the shouting of two men coming from the office.

  “You only pretend to help. You only help people who don’t know they are being used. You just want to be the great white father helping the little red brother. Nothing has changed in four hundred years!”

  “That’s not true.” Warren Poore sounded defeated and unsure in his response.

  “Little kids and women, coloring books and games are easy, but when there’s a real problem, a man’s problem, I can see you don’t care.”

  “I think you’re being very unfair. I have no idea how to help you.”

  “Yeah? And you’re not willing to go out of your way to figure it out either!”

  Suddenly a tall, dark headed man with sharp features and the build of an athlete burst from the office door. Cole looked at the man and realized his expression showed more disappointment and frustration than anger.

  “You don’t sound very happy, what’s going on? Do you need some help?” Cole smiled as the man approached him.

  “Well this certainly isn’t the place to get it.”

  “Then, maybe I could be of some assistance. What’s the problem?”

  “And who are you?” The man tensed, and coiled like an angry rattler.

  “I’m Cole Sage. I spent a lot of years as a journalist helping people with serious problems. Why don’t we go over there and sit down and you tell me yours?”

  “How about we go outside?”

  “That works too.” Cole moved to the door. Out on the sidewalk Cole extended his hand to the man.

  “I’m Michael Blackbear. I have a huge problem. And nobody will do anything to help me. I just returned home from two tours in Iraq. While I was there I met and married an Iraqi woman. We have a child, a son. While I was in country I did everything I knew to get them a visa so I could bring them home. There was no one I spoke to who was willing or interested in helping me. I was met with indifference, prejudice, and in a couple of cases, open hostility, about me marrying an Iraqi woman.

  “I’m not sure I can do anything, but I do know a few folks at the State Department. I know some folks in Washington who deal with immigration issues. I did a story a few years ago about a case similar to yours. I can reach out to the same people again to see if they can offer some suggestions.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Let’s just say I appreciate your service. That, and I don’t like it when people get the runaround.”

  “That’s certainly better than that guy in there. He’s supposed to be all about love for Indians. He wasn’t even willing to hear my story the first time I came in. I have written letters, he doesn’t answer. This is my third time in there. He said he would look into it but he didn’t.”

  “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that. I can’t speak for him, but you have my word I’ll do what I can, if anything. I’ll try to get you more information and possibly some help.”

  “I’m very grateful.”

  Blackbear put his number into Cole’s phone. His words were kind in the end, but rang hollow with disbelief. Cole had seen it a thousand times. Veterans who fought their way to the gates of hell and back, seen unspeakable horrors, given up careers, education, wives and sweethearts, and the normality of home, only to return to the country they fought for to be treated as the lowest of the low. From VA hospitals, disability claims, education benefits that somehow mysteriously turned to student loans, all tearing at the sinews of men and women who would have laid down their lives for the ungrateful, slow moving, soul crushing mechanism that is the Federal Government.

  It was a national disgrace. All the “Thank you for your service” comments in airports, restaurants, and bus stations didn’t move the needle a tick. It enraged Cole and he fought with thankless energy and faced hostility and disdain from the very people whose job it was to help Veterans. He would not give up and he picked up the gauntlet to do battle again.

  Cole watched as Michael Blackbear walked away. He noticed an old man sitting and smoking on a bench not far from where they talked.

  “Never changes.”

  “How’s that?” Cole turned to face the voice.

  “Ko-ree-uh. I was there three years. Purple Heart, Silver Star, bunch of other bangles they pinned on me. But you better damn well not bring home any slit eyed women. No sir. Kill who they tell you to. Take all the whores you want. But fall in love with a nice girl and they all tell you you’re a traitor to your race, just a homesick kid, it’ll pass, go home and find yourself a nice American girl. These slopes, they’re not like us.” The old man was gritting his teeth. “Damn their souls. I loved her. Still do.”

  “Were you ever able to bring her home?”

  “Never. I never made enough money to go back after the war. I got a letter in ’82 saying she died of a female cancer. She never married. We kept our promise to each other. That ol’ boy ain’t never gonna see that girl, or his boy, again. It isn’t in the national interest.”

  “That’s not always how it works.” Cole immediately wished he said something else.

  “You’re right. Once in a hundred, somebody does the right thing, or there’s a C.O. that signs the right papers. Back then, nobody gave two hoots about the rights of anybody. Not like today, when the damnable chickens in the too-small cages got more rights than veterans. Makes my blood boil. And that Indian? He ain’t got no rights at all, lessin’ some mobster wants to build a casino.” The old man spit a brown gooey blob of tobacco between his feet.

  “You’ve learned a lot. How’d you put all that wisdom to work?”

  The old man looked up at Cole. His expression was one of half amusement and half disgust.

  “You mean work?”

  “Yeah, I figure you’re retired. What did you do after the war?”

  “Gave up for quite a while.” The old man spit again.

  Cole decided maybe he needed to cut the conversation short. He clearly was rubbing the old guy the wrong way.

  “Automotive part procurement.”

  “Not sure I know what that is.” Cole thought for a moment before pressing on. “Like a pick-and-pull junk yard?”

  “No, more like stripping stolen cars in a chop shop.” The old guy grinned at Cole as if to challenge a comment.

  “Are you sure you should be announcing that to a stranger on the street?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Fibbie?”

  “No.”

  “Then who cares? The statute of limitations ran out a long time ago. I got car parts scattered to hell and back. Probably all in the junk yard by now. Stopped choppin’ about 20 years ago.”

  “I’m Cole, by the way. I’m supposed to meet my wife inside for lunch.”

  “You know the fella that runs this place?” The old man gestured toward the Center with his thumb.

  “Not well. My wife volunteers a few hours a week.”

  “I wouldn’t stand too close to him in the street.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s not real popular in some circles. You might take an arrow meant for him.”

  Cole stepped a little closer to the bench and took a seat next to the old man. “What’s the beef with him?”

  “Kind of like that young fella who you were talking to. Ol’ Poore talks a good game, but does nothing for anyone beyond the kids. Been a few husbands come in looking for his scalp. Same old thing, White Man education replacing Indian tradition. Mary around here eats the sheep; it doesn’t follow her to school. There ain’t no hill and Jack and Jill have to haul water by the truckload. And Jesus ain’t welcome at the Ghost Dance or Peyote rituals. These folks have been bamboozled by convert or die Spanish priests, phony do-gooders from the Government, and hell-fire missionaries for hundreds of years.”

  “Makes ya mad, doesn’t it?”

  “Me? Hell no, I hate Indians. Lazy, thievin’, drunks. I’m what you might call an observer of human nat
ure. White’s are just as bad. They’re either ingrates, dopers, drunks, or worse. Or they are a bunch of namby-pamby, do-gooder Baptists that would steal the pennies offin’ a dead man’s eyes, then lie to their mama about it, all the time hidin’ their girlfriend from their wife.”

  Cole couldn’t help himself and laughed. “Seems you don’t hold anyone in very high regard.”

  “Ain’t that. Listen, I’m just tellin’ ya. If anything ever happens to the good reverend in there, check to see if he’s got his scalp. Five’ll get you ten an Indian killed him.”

  “It has been most enlightening chatting with you. My wife probably thinks I stood her up. I better go see what she has planned for lunch.”

  “If you ever want more education, I’m here Tuesdays and Thursdays most of the day. Otherwise I reside at the third stool from the door at O’Malley’s. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “How’d you know I don’t drink?” Cole was genuinely curious.

  “I didn’t. But, I can’t. Rotted my guts out years ago. Coffee with lots of cream keeps my seat reserved. Talk’s cheap, the company is tolerable.”

  “I may just take you up on that.”

  “No you won’t, but it is nice of you to pretend. You really gonna help that Indian kid?”

  “The best I can.” Cole smiled at the old guy and stood up. “Don’t bet your last dollar on me not showing up. You’ll need it to buy my coffee.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.”

  Lunch with Kelly was a meatloaf sandwich she made the night before and a soda from the machine. The food didn’t matter. He loved spending time with her and hearing in great detail what she was doing at the Center. It was trivial, mundane, and anyone else in the world would have found it boring, but he loved the twinkle in her eye when she talked and the chance he got to reach out and touch her hand.

  Driving home after lunch Cole decided to go straight away and keep his promise to Michael Blackbear. Kelly wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours. He dug out a couple of old notebooks from his file cabinet. To the rest of humanity his filing system was nothing more than folders, papers, and small bundles of notebook pages bound with rubber bands.

  To Cole, every file drawer was a specific time, article, incident, and the background information that corroborated his memory. He always slipped into a stream of consciousness self-talk that worked as a road map to just the right sheet or sheets of paper he was looking for.

  There you are. Cole looked down at a piece of paper with a business card; Keith Strauss, U.S. Dept. of State. Cole carried the card to the kitchen and punched the number into the phone. He leaned against the counter and gazed out the window as he was transferred from one department to another.

  Finally the voice on the line said, “Mr. Strauss’ office”.

  “Cole Sage, calling for Mr. Strauss.”

  “May I tell him what this is regarding?”

  “It’s a personal call.”

  “Please hold.”

  “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a hundred years. How are you doing, Sage?”

  “I’m great, how’s the world of high fashion diplomacy?”

  “Not very high fashioned in this department. Once they figure out you’re about to retire you inherit a pointless desk in a pointless department with pointless tasks.”

  “How soon till you retire?”

  “Six months. It feels like an eternity. What can I do for you?”

  Cole tried to bring Keith Strauss up to date on his location, marital status and retirement, then dove into the matter at hand. “I met a local young man who did two tours in Iraq. He married an Iraqi woman in a civil ceremony. They have a child and he wants to bring them to the States. Seems he’s had every door slammed in his face. Can you direct me to somebody who could possibly care?”

  “Oh boy, I’ve been out of the loop for quite a while. Let me think a second.”

  “How about Angelo Firenze?”

  “I hate to tell you this, Cole, but our old buddy Angelo had the bad taste to die on us.”

  “When was that?” Cole felt as if he’d received a punch in the gut.

  “Almost two years ago, pancreatic cancer. By the time they figured out what it was it was too late.”

  Cole stared out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, we worked together for over twenty years. I probably spent more time with him than both my wives.” Strauss gave a soul-deep sigh. “Let’s get back to business. Let me make a couple of calls for you and I’ll get back to you. What’s this fellow’s name?”

  “Michael Blackbear.”

  “Branch of the service?”

  “Army.”

  “Okay. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate the help. And, I’m really sorry to hear about Angelo.”

  “Yeah.”

  The line went dead and something in the grass moved just beyond the fence. It was a jackrabbit. Cole watched as it hopped, grazed a bit, and hopped some more. He wondered if the rabbit felt anything when a farmer shot one of his friends.

  Cole spent the next two hours checking news sites on the internet and reminiscing about working with Strauss and Firenze. The time they spent together was actually very short in days, but they bonded and kept in touch until Cole moved to San Francisco.

  The sound of Kelly’s car door slamming was a relief to the tedium of killing time on the internet. He went out to meet her on the porch.

  “Welcome home!”

  Kelly gave Cole a big smile and held up two shopping bags. “Something special for dinner.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “It won’t be too much of a surprise because I intend to sit at the kitchen table while you cook.

  Kelly laughed. “Lonesome?”

  “Something like that.” Cole went down the steps and took the two bags from Kelly and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Tell me something. Do you know a guy named Michael Blackbear?”

  “Oh heavens, how do you know him?”

  “I didn’t mention it at lunch, but I ran into him when I came to see you at the Center.”

  “There’s something wrong with that guy.” Kelly shook her head. “He’s been in the center a couple of times and always ends up yelling at Warren. I was ready to call the police once.”

  “He’s a very frustrated guy. He married a woman when he was in Iraq. They have a kid and he wants to bring them home. He can’t get any help.”

  “So, of course, you’re getting involved.” Kelly gave Cole a concerned frown.

  “Well, kind of. I told him I would see if I could find somebody to help him.”

  “I think he’s kind of scary. I hope you don’t get tangled up in some kind of crazy mess.”

  “No, I just made a call. We’ll see what happens.”

  You haven’t touched your lunch!” Kelly scolded coming back out onto the porch.

  Cole looked up, still lost in his thoughts. “Uh-huh.”

  Funny, Cole thought. I can’t remember what the surprise dinner was. He wondered if the old man’s prophecy was fulfilled. A thought came and went so fast that Cole barely could process it. Michael Blackbear’s face came back to him. Cole tried to dismiss the thought that Michael Blackbear could somehow be involved, but knew if he was a cop he definitely would want to have a talk with him.

  “I’ll take it with me.” Cole picked up the plate and stood. He took the plate to the kitchen and picked up his sandwich, grabbed his keys and sunglasses, and was out the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sometimes the trip to town seemed a blink of an eye. But today it seemed a hundred miles away. As Cole drove, he finished off his sandwich and kept replaying his first-time meeting with Michael Blackbear. He remembered the angry young man yelling in Warren’s office. Looking back it was a volatile first meeting. The words of Michael Blackbear played in his mind with a whole new meaning.

  “I’ve
been here three times!” Blackbear had shouted. Why would he do that? If you weren’t getting help, why press it? Why go to an Indian Children’s Center, run by a semi-retired preacher that houses a day care, parenting classes, and an afterschool program? What made Blackbear think Warren could be any help in an immigration case? Cole did not like where his thoughts were taking him.

  He pulled into the only available parking space, about six cars from the police station. As he made his way to the door, Cole realized that Kelly was right. He only knew Michael Blackbear from their meeting and a couple of phone conversations. Their chats were strictly business, fact checking, and information gathering sessions to fill in the blanks. Blackbear seemed like a good guy, but he’d met a lot of ‘good guys’ that turned out to be criminals, and worse.

  Cole approached the desk inside the police department, identified himself and told the desk sergeant he wanted to see Michael Blackbear.

  “Have a seat, I’ll find someone who can help you.” The sergeant mumbled something into the phone that Cole couldn’t make out, and pointed him to a chair. For nearly an hour Cole sat as various people came and went. He read yesterday’s paper, or what was left of it, a couple of tattered copies of Sports Illustrated, which bored him to death, and a year old copy of Field and Stream.

  He was about to get up and have a word with the desk sergeant when the door opened and a man in a tan suit came in. He made knowing, friendly eye contact with Cole. “Mr. Sage?”

  Cole stood and approached the man. “Yes.”

  “I’m Dick Selvin. I understand we have a mutual friend in C.W. Langhorne.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “So, my friend, tell me what’s going on here, exactly?” Selvin shifted his brief case to his other hand.

  “Well, exactly, I’ve been sitting here for an hour being completely ignored.” Cole jerked his head toward the front desk. “Here’s the thing, an acquaintance of mine, Michael Blackbear, has been arrested for the murder of Warren and Judy Poore. They were fine people. I’ve been acquainted with them for several years. Mr. Blackbear was at work at the time of the murder. Seems to me an easy alibi to prove, one way or the other. So, what I want to know is, why’d they bring him in?”