Frank’s Monkey
1985, Southern Spain
Jim Smith arrived at work just after 8:00. He was from the big-sky corn fields of Iowa and tall like the rest of the Smith clan, standing a few inches over six feet. Originally from farmer and coal-mining stock, he was built tough but with a soft heart. He was good natured and studious—he was the first in his family to earn a university degree and was now the sole representative of the Drug Enforcement Agency at the Rota Naval Base in Spain. He was rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes when Chief Simmons walked into his office with a troubled look on his face.
“Jim, can I talk to you about Norton?”
Jim sat back expecting to hear another sordid story about how Norton was caught drunk on duty. “C’mon in Deron—what’s he done now?”
Chief Simmons sat down in the chair opposite and exhaled. “He’s busted up really bad in the hospital. He went out drinking, and squared up against a real animal. This guy not only gave him a hell of a beating, but made him eat broken glass.”
Jim sat up straight. “Good God, Deron! Who the hell was this?”
Chief Simmons shook his head, “That’s just it, the hard-headed dipshit isn’t saying. He’s just inches away from being medically discharged but he won’t tell us squat. The rumor mill says it’s one of the SEALs-- I’m hoping that you can find out who.”
Jim sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his desktop. “Well, I do know their Officer in Charge-- Commander Frank Gutierrez. Since it’s Wednesday, I’ll be seeing him over at the Hay Motivo bar for lunch.”
“How well do you know him—I’m just worried that these Special Forces guys will cover for each other.”
Jim smiled at the inference that Frank was lean & mean warrior, “Frank isn’t a SEAL. He respects them enough, but he’s more an underhanded efficiency expert that was sent out here to make something of them. I’m sure he’ll deal with this appropriately.”
At 12:30, Jim walked over to the small Hay Motivo bar. It was only open on Wednesdays, but was a great way to deal with the tension during the middle of the week. At only 600 pesetas per month, you could drink all the booze and eat all the Tapas that you could hold.
As usual, Frank had gotten there earlier than Jim and was just now standing in the doorway holding his third beer. “Hello Dickhead!” he shouted grinning ear to ear.
Frank was a strange bird. He hade gone bald in his early thirties and for spite, took it out on everyone else. He was jovial but loved to punch shoulders and swear. He sported a U.S.M.C. tattoo on his forearm from his first tour as a Marine. He was accepted into the Citadel and graduated, but didn’t care to become a Marine officer. He was forced to serve his contracted time as an enlisted sailor until his skipper sent him off to Officer Candidate School.
