A natty young man in a colonel’s uniform stood there in front of me. He wore no medals and had his officer’s cap under his left arm. His face would not grow into manhood for at least another decade. He was tall, slender of shoulder in spite of exercise, and his skin was olive colored, not from the sun.
“Mr. Rawlins?” the thirty-something officer asked.
“Show me some ID.”
“Excuse me, sir, don’t you see the uniform?”
“Show me some ID now,” I said.
“I represent the United States government, Mr. Rawlins. . . .”
He stopped talking because I pulled out my .38 and pointed it at his left eyeball. The young officer knew enough to see when he was in a no-win situation, so he carefully took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to show his military identification card.
This displayed his name, rank, and photograph.
I put the gun in my pocket and a smile on my lips.
“Come on in, Colonel,” I said. “It’s been quite a while since a man in uniform has told me the truth.”
I took the seat behind my desk and the young officer sat before me. We experienced a few seconds that dragged on into a minute of uncomfortable silence. I had pulled a gun on a man who was used to treating the smallest exhibition of insubordination with harsh retaliation. But here he had to swallow my defiance and continue as if nothing had happened.
“What did you mean?” the colonel asked.
“Come again.”
“What did you mean when you said that men in uniform were, uh, lying to you?”
I considered being cagey, putting out a few feelers to see how much Bunting knew. But I wasn’t in the frame of mind to tiptoe around. Bunting was either with Sansoam or against him; either way we were going to have to put our cards on the table. So I told him what I knew about Clarence Miles.
“I’ll have this Miles looked into,” he said officiously.
“Don’t bother, Tim,” I said. “There is no black Clarence Miles in your army, at least not no captain.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know things that would amaze you, Tim. Just take my word on it. Clarence Miles’s real name is Sammy Sansoam.”
Bunting knew the name. He might have been an officer, but he’d never be a cardsharp.
“You should refer to me as Colonel, Mr. Rawlins.”
“If you don’t like what I say, then get your ass outta here . . . Tim. I been jerked all around this city by everyone from security guards to colonels. I refuse to respect you because you don’t give a shit about me. So if you need somebody to kiss your ass, you can just move on down the hall.”
Again the young man needed a moment to collect himself. He was a soldier, and our country was at war. I should have been falling over myself to help him — that’s what he thought.
“Samuel Sansoam was an officer,” Bunting said at last. “We suspect him of having been involved with criminal activities in the army and even now after his discharge.”
“What crimes?” I asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Drug smuggling for a warlord in Cambodia, maybe?” I said, trying to look like an innocent.
Bunting was injudicious in his silence. He should never have been made colonel, but he’d probably end up with five stars.
“What other information do you have, Rawlins?” he asked in a hard-as-nails voice that he must have practiced at night.
“Mr. Rawlins,” I said.
This time a look of hurt went across Bunting’s face. If I could call him Tim, then why couldn’t he use my last name?
“Do you have any other information . . . Mr. Rawlins?”
“First you tell me how you got to my door.”
“I’m not here to answer your questions, sir.”
“You’re not here at all, son. You are a soldier and I am a civilian. I’m not answerable to you, and you hold no jurisdiction over me. So if you want to play nice, I will consider answering your questions. Otherwise we can go on playing this silly game.”
“I’m looking for Major Christmas Black,” Bunting said. “He was once a member of our special forces, but he left the army.”
“And you think that he is a part of your drug smugglers’ cabal?” I could tell that Bunting didn’t understand the
