The Vicissitudes of Fortune

Bob Siqveland

Description

Five teenagers from diverse backgrounds are brought together by a war. A Japanese, a Jew, a Native American, an African American, and a white kid from middle-class America form an interdependent relationship in the jungles of Vietnam. They become the most highly decorated squad in a war they don't understand, but their relationships transcend the social structures of racism formed through historical injustices, and they remain best friends for decades. Their iconic leader, Billy Stone, one day finds himself entangled with a Medicare scam dreamed up by his sister's husband. For his sister's sake, he must find a solution. The livelihoods of the others form within the law enforcement communities in their individual and collective quest for justice as they grow from boys to men of great character. Even the strongest of character has its flaws, but these men are the best of the best, and there is only one adversity they cannot overcome. From the Selma-to-Montgomery march, the internment camps of WWII, the poverty and desolation of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation; to the estrangement of a father and son and a suicide of great consequence, this team of five becomes one. At the same time, there are "takers" like Billy's brother-in-law who infect the American system. They need to be brought to justice, but the price will be high. On the smallest of scales, this is an epic tale of how the dream of a world community can become a reality.

Sujets

• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 23 avril 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781478788669
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Vicissitudes of Fortune
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2017 Bob Siqveland
v2.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4787-8866-9

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEDICATION

Hollywood, Washington D.C., the music world and all the athletic fields produce celebrities; this book however, is dedicated to our Nation’s law enforcement, fire fighters, and the brave men and women who so unselfishly serve our country in uniform. These are America’s HEROES and to have been a part of this elite fraternity…I am most honored.

THANKS TO ALL OF YOU
“One’s virtue is all that one truly has, because it is not imperiled by the vicissitudes of fortune.”

— Boethius
AUTHOR’S NOTE

Maybe I should have kept this story to myself. I thought about it, but in the end, it had such a profound effect on me that I had to share it with someone.
I knew all these people—some a lot better than others, and some only in passing, but I knew their backgrounds and the histories that influenced them. Several were real bottom-feeders, but the good ones were at the top of the human food chain. Still, what happened wasn’t fair. Yeah, I know. Life’s not fair. But there are still a bunch of us who cling to the delusion that at least it can be.
That said, I hate being part of a failed experiment, which it seems that man, in most ways, is proving to be.
CHAPTER 1

Greenwich, Connecticut
2010

S ome might say that the fine line between self-assurance and arrogance is one of many criteria defined by, and that define, character. It usually doesn’t take gifted intuition to figure out who’s got what.
With the affected posture of nobility vaguely reminiscent of an Arabian show horse, Winston Tyler III descended the half-circle staircase, holding the highly polished mahogany railings that topped the intricately carved and shiny brass balusters. He set the keys to his car on the Louis XIV pier table as he headed for the kitchen. A well-trained psychologist would intuit the subtlety in the man’s demeanor and body language as perhaps that of someone who was not quite comfortable in his own skin. The ambiance of the house was almost kitsch in its extravagance, but seemingly taken for granted, as is often the case with inherited money.
Tyler said nothing as he entered the kitchen, grabbed a mug from the cupboard, and filled it halfway with coffee. He saw his wife, Barbara, on her knees, retrieving some cookware from a low, deep alcove. For several minutes, the silence resounded like a polka band on a curtain call, only muted.
When it became uncomfortable, Tyler spoke in a tone more pithy than indignant. “So . . . is your brother going to be staying at the house all three days?”
Barbara didn’t respond, continuing with her pan-rattling task.
Tyler closed the physical gap and stood over her. “Couldn’t he find one of his soldier buddies to stay with? Hell, that’s why he’s in town, isn’t it?” This time he waited.
Barbara slowly stood, picking up a Crock-Pot in both hands and taking it to the sink to give it a quick wash. “Billy loves an old-fashioned stew . . . with veggies and brown gravy.”
The non sequitur irritated Tyler. He made a corresponding facial expression, but resigned himself to having had his question answered by her extraneous response. Still, he seemed to feel the need to fire one more shot over her bow. “Well, at least I hope he can stay sober and respect my house rules.”
Barbara stopped what she was doing, slowly wiped her hands on a dish towel, and turned to give her husband a penetrating stare. “ Your house rules!”
Tyler sensed the gathering storm.
“You really think you spend enough time around here to even establish house rules? Maybe you would care to share with me your house rules.” The slow drip of ridicule was beginning to stream. “Do your house rules also apply to the old man who lives upstairs? You know—your father—the one that requires a full-time guardian? And who do you think that might be? Or how about the procession of intrusive, unannounced business and golfing buddies you show up with for ‘drinks and a bite to eat?’”
A long silence followed until Barbara made her closing statement.
“Well . . . here are my house rules, Winston: you will be cordial and respectful to my brother while he is here.” She paused before finishing. “And in case you didn’t get the message, he’s here for a funeral, not one of your golf tournaments. So how about you just run along and play businessman and leave me to my work?” She turned her back to him and returned to the sink.
Admonished, Tyler set his cup down and went for his keys. He could hear her humming some old ’70s song as he left the house.

There was a light drizzle. Tyler stood under the porte cochere, admiring the silver 2012 Maybach 62 for which he had paid $723,000. Of course, he could have had a chauffeur—and actually, he did have one—but he loved to drive this car. What he really loved was to be seen driving this car, especially in this town.
The ultra-luxury car had been built by hand, to his specifications. Tyler had sleuthed to find a separator, something that told the world that he was cut from a different cloth, and this was it.
The German carmaker had been founded in 1909 by Wilhelm Maybach and his son. At some point, Daimler AG out of Stuttgart bought the company. However, Daimler announced in November 2011 that Maybach would cease to be a brand by 2013, and accordingly manufactured the last Maybach vehicle in December 2012. There had been only 3,000 cars sold since the brand’s revival in 2002. For almost a decade, Daimler AG had tried to make Maybach a profitable rival to Rolls Royce and Bentley, but ultra-luxury meant ultra-rich, and with a base price tag starting at just under $400,000, that was indeed a limited market. There was only one other model in the city of Greenwich, that being a Maybach 57 owned by an award-winning actor, and Tyler didn’t mind the comparison.
As Tyler left the long, circular driveway to his mansion, heading to the office, his thoughts returned to Barbara and her brother.
Tyler, at sixty-two, was ten years older than his wife, who was thirteen years younger than her brother, Billy Stone. Tyler’s first marriage had been a disaster, short-lived and expensive. Of course, there were exceptions to the basic laws of life, but Tyler wasn’t one. If you believed that easy money was detrimental to character development, Tyler was the poster child for that sentiment. If we left the planet for our teen years, figuratively speaking, most of us returned when we left the parental nest, went into the Army, created bills, or simply began to mature—whatever.
But Tyler, it seemed, was still hopping from Pluto to Uranus in his lavish spaceship of ignorance and apathy. From an external perspective, it seemed that his excursion was a good ride. His self-concept, however, stood somewhat at odds with that perception.
Barbara was Tyler’s home base. He knew it, but he would never tell her. Like Lassie, he always seemed to come home to her, if only to regenerate his power source and blast off again. Someone had said, “Still waters run deep,” implying that somewhere under a banal veneer was real value. But Tyler was little more than a wading pool, shallow and simple. In truth, it wasn’t totally his fault. Some blame had to be assigned to Winston Tyler II.

There was gristle in the roots of the early Tyler family tree. Winston the First had stumbled through the halls of Ellis Island in the early 1920s after a two-week torment in the bowels of a transport ship arriving from Liverpool. His relative success for the times was predictable. Ellis Island was like every other gate of entry throughout history. You want in? Show me the money. In this way, “Grease” Tyler, as he was known in the back alleys of Liverpool, had spent nearly a year prepping for his trip. He had a stash of saved and stolen documents and money, as well as the names, profiles, positions, and work schedules of immigration guards and customs officials so that his arrival into New York City would come without incident. After that, life became a bit dicier.
Tyler had formed a wry smile while clinging to the deck rail as his ship entered New York harbor and passed below the colossal green sculpture of Libertas , the Roman goddess of freedom. His senses were on overload. As part of his preparation for entry, he had become familiar with the history of this monument and Emma Lazarus’s inscription, and he stuffed his cynicism as he recalled the poem.
Most urgently, he yearned to breathe free . Actually, he simply yearned to breathe. The stench of the ship’s huddled mass of wretched refuse was overwhelming. He might have called it mongrel mania. The shouts and cries of his immigrant shipmates came in Greek, Hungarian, Italian, and other languages, and he envisioned the great city in the throes of an eclectic fit. He would need to be prepared for a difficult integration fraught with peril.
He also pondered the intent of this great gift from the French. France had never been big on almsgivin