Filed to story: American Sniper: The Last Round (Carl Oliver) Book PDF Free
The cemetery was out in Kenner, fifteen long miles west of the city, a place Nick had chosen on his own because it was so open and grassy. None of those looming, dark, jungly trees and the soupy ground sheathed in thatches of reeds that seemed everywhere in what passed for “country” around New Orleans, just an expanse of green overlooking some tract houses and, in the far-off, the lake. Nick liked it because it seemed midwestern to him, and he liked all the sun, the grass and the trees that weren’t cypress or fern.
And of course it was a bright and shiny day, a bit chilly, everybody at their best. It was formal in the most meaningful sense; it gave Myra the idea of having counted and being part of some larger, more organized whole, a society.
He even spoke a few words over the bier, after the minister had finished.
“Look, um,” he mumbled, “I wanted to thank all of you and your wives for taking time off to come on out and help me say good-bye to Myra. Uh, she was a terrific gal, as you all know, and it’s real great that you guys came on by. I know it would have made her real happy. So, uh, thanks again for, you know, coming on by.”
It sounded lame but he didn’t care.
Then they filed by and shook his hand and said dumb, stupid things and he nodded and watched them go.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” said Sally Ellion, one of the pretty girls in the Computer Records Section.
“Oh,” he said, somewhat startled to see her here. “Yeah, well. Uh. Thanks for coming.”
“You were so brave,” she said.
“Huh? Me?”
“Yes, you, Nick,” and then she moved on.
One of the last in the line was Hap Fencl.
“Nick, take some time off, for Christ sakes. You been through a lot. Give yourself a break.”
“Hap, the best thing for me is to get back to work, you know? I’d just get bigger and dopier if I hung around the house. And there’s all the things to remind me. So I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
“Nick, you take care of yourself, you hear?” said Hap’s wife Marlee. “You need any help, you let me know.”
“Sure,” he said.
Then he watched them go, until he was alone with the box, except he could see some old black guys standing way off with shovels. They’d wait and wait until he left, and then they’d lower her and discreetly cover her over. With dirt. That was all. That was it. That was what had to be faced.
Okay, babe, he finally said. The guys with the shovels are here. Time to go. I’ll always remember. Goodbye.
“Now, people,” Hap was saying when Nick showed up, late, still in his dark blue suit, “we’re getting the buzz out of Washington on these Colombians still and DEA all over the goddamn board is howling that we’re not putting them in our loop so-“
“But if you give it to those guys, it’s all over the street in fifteen seconds-“
“Okay, DEA has a slightly different agenda than we do, you all know that, they’re going for the quality bust because they don’t have enough guys to burn small fry like us, so once in a while, yes, Mike, they do let a little something loose so as to turn it for something bigger. Still, what I’m giving you is the official word from on high, you guys gotta share with DEA.”
There was a murmur of disapproval from the twelve agents of the New Orleans FBI narcotics squad. Outside, in the bright afternoon sun, the traffic snorted and honked up Loyola Street in front of the Federal Building. Nick slid in next to his partner, Mickey Sontag, who’d held a seat for him.
“I miss-?”
“Same old,” the Mick whispered, “just shit on paperwork flow, on some new buy-money regs due out, some news on qualifications and SWAT applications, the same old same-old.”
“Great,” said Nick.
The meeting continued, the usual early Thursday afternoon ordeal and Nick wondered why Hap didn’t just cancel. But Hap was old Bureau, no matter how much a one-of-the-guys type he pretended to be, with a dad and an uncle having retired as supervisory agents, and so he’d always play rules, rules, rules. That was the FBI way, as Nick knew better than most.
Then they moved to cases, as one by one the agents briefed their pals on what was hot and what was not, all of it standard and routine. The point was that in give-and-taking like this on a formal basis every week, maybe somebody would notice connections between cases, make quantum leaps or free associations, and it sometimes happened. But it didn’t this time: just droning men in their law enforcement-dud voices ripping fast as hell through stuff that nobody else much cared about, no patterns in it anywhere. Nick couldn’t pitch in, having not really leaned into his job since Myra died and that goddamned guy got whacked in the Palm Court Motel. But he made a noise when it came to Questions One and All.
“Questions one and all?”
There were a few, nothing much, and finally Nick got his hand up in symphony with Hap’s glance in his direction.
“Say Hap, on that guy whacked at the Palm Court, what’s the disposition?”
“Not much. DEA has no record on him in the dope loop and NOPD can’t commit any real manpower, thank you, you know how those guys are in throwing bodies at cases that look like they’re not headed to an arrest.”
“So where does that leave us? Guy was trying to reach me, he-“
“You know, Nick, it’s not really our bailiwick if he’s not fleeing a federal charge or committing a federal crime. I think it’ll end up in NOPD’s I-hope-somebody-tells-us-who-did-this file.”
“Come on, Hap, you know we can ride hard on anything if we can find the angle.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t look remotely promising. Drugs, maybe, but there’s no evidence anywhere in the system. The guy’s not from here. You say he’s Agency, but the Agency doesn’t say he’s Agency.”
“The Agency never says they’re Agency. According to the Agency, the Agency doesn’t exist. But this guy’s not a Panamanian, Hap. My source told me he was a Salvadoran.”
“Yeah, well, the paperwork doesn’t bear it out. That was a legit passport.”
“Which could mean he’s major league spook.”
“Which probably means he’s minor league nothing. And if he were spook, you damn well know the Agency would be here running a damage control operation. They freak when we’re talking national security, you know how that bends them out of shape. They don’t care. No leads, no nothing. It could be jealous husbands, squabble over profits, family problems, that sort of thing. It’s interesting like a mystery novel, clues, that ‘Rom Do’ bit, yes, I give you that. But there’s gonna be two hundred fifty unsolved homicides in this area this year, and I’m looking at one of them, eh, pardner? It’s just not interesting. You know in D.C. they want body bags to brag about, indictments, convictions, that sort of scalp hunting; so I can’t commit to big maybes.”
“You know-“
