Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [49]
The next morning, Carcini saw blood on his pillow. When he looked into the mirror, he saw that the knife had traced a four-inch-thin red line just beneath his Adam’s apple. He considered not reporting the attack but the cut was too blatant to go unnoticed. Besides, he’d had it with Silva. And there was patriotism to be considered. The marine corps didn’t need a flaming fag in its ranks. He told his superior what had occurred, and the captain passed the story up the chain of command. This wasn’t the first experience the brass had had with Silva and his penchant for settling every argument with physical force. It was time to get rid of him, and Carcini’s testimony was the basis for his removal from the corps.
Silva maintained his proud bearing as he walked out of the hearing. He paused where Carcini was seated, smiled at him, and left the base and his career in the United States Marines behind.
It took several years for the right circumstance to present itself for Silva to be in contact with Buddy Carcini again. Carcini had left the corps and was working and living in Chicago according to posts on his Facebook and Twitter accounts. Silva, who’d supported himself in Washington as a bouncer at topless clubs and by applying muscle for local bookies and mobsters, went to Chicago, staked out where Carcini worked and lived, and spent three days shadowing him. On the third night, when Carcini left a girlfriend’s apartment at three in the morning, Silva followed him to where he’d parked his car.
“Hey, Buddy, remember me?” Silva asked as Carcini, who’d had too much to drink, fumbled to insert his key in the lock.
Carcini turned and squinted in the dimness of the streetlight.
“Emile, Buddy. Emile Silva,” he said with a throaty laugh.
“Oh, Jesus, I’ll be damned,” Carcini said. He extended his hand. Silva grabbed it, pulled him close, and rammed a knife into Carcini’s throat, severing the jugular vein. His former friend slid to the pavement and was dead in less than a minute. Silva wiped the knife on Carcini’s shirt and walked away, a satisfied smile on his face. He took the next available flight back to Washington and assumed that the murder of his former friend and fellow marine would become another in Chicago’s unsolved-cases file. He knew one thing for certain: he’d never felt more alive than that night.
He continued to work odd jobs in the D.C. area until one night when he met a well-dressed man in a bar. They fell into an easy conversation and the topic of what Silva did for a living came up. He mentioned his work as a bouncer.
“You can handle yourself, huh?” the man said.
“I do pretty well.”
“Ever been in the military?”
Silva said that he’d been a marine, and after some gentle probing by the man he told him why he had left the corps. “I don’t like to be pushed around,” Silva added as an explanation for having threatened his fellow serviceman, leaving out the reference to his sexuality.
“I’d have done the same thing,” the man said.
“There are people in this world who don’t deserve to live,” Silva said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Their conversation flowed easily, with Silva’s drinking companion smoothly segueing from topic to topic until it settled on politics.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Silva said, “all this pantywaist diplomacy with these bastards around the world who hate us is a waste of time. We should just take ’em out, get rid of them.”
The man agreed with this, too. He’d agreed with every philosophy Silva had espoused.
“Same with some of the lefties in this country. What good are they? We’re too soft, that’s our problem. I think Jamison might finally put us on the right track. What do you think?”
“I like the new president. He’s tough, doesn’t take guff from anyone including our so-called allies.”
“If I