This guy has to know he lost, Ray thought. His family is on the line… job and all.
Ray took out his phone, ignoring Bruce and Richard. He continued to look at his phone, then turned it toward the two men, pushing it into their faces. “Your wife looks beautiful in the early spring, Brucie. Tanned already, in a sundress. Kids in tow. Would be a real shame if she saw these pictures and the videos. Or, if she had an accident.”
Ray pondered if Bruce knew by now that he was Native American organized crime. This was about as bad a situation as one could be in, and Ray was catching a bad apple for his infidelities. This was, after all, Washington, and Washington was about power and politics. The congressman had to know he was screwed. On the drive down to D.C., Ray figured there was no way the congressman couldn’t comprehend getting around this if he wanted to stay in office and remain married.
Ray formed his hand into a fist and gave the congressman a punch in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. A loud arf was heard.
“Okay, Ray, okay,” Bruce said, then noticing Richard lunging for Ray. “No, don’t move, no Richard.”
Richard was ready to take Ray on, stepping closer to him. “Base will close, we’ll work on the red tape,” Bruce announced, making his decision on the spot. “And,” waving his hand toward him, “and we’ll propose a bill for a federal grant.”
“Get it completed, weasel. I’ll be in touch,” replied Ray as he walked off in the same direction from where he came.
“This isn’t your car?” Richard yelled to him, pointing.
“You’re a fucking stiff!” Ray yelled back in reply.
Richard was livid, dealing with bullies like Ray his entire life. Tempted to chase him down, he stayed with the congressman.
Ray kicked his leg down to start his motorcycle from the shadows near the playground and revved his engine a few times. He drove right past them, the distinct muffler and engine sound in full force, holding the phone up in the air as one last ‘screw you’ to him.
Ray Parker sped away, the bike sound becoming fainter with each passing second.
Both men got into their sedan and drove north on Ohio Drive in silence. Richard decided to break the ice first. “Congressman, I’ll take care of this.”
“Richard. Look at me. Stop the car,” he said sternly as he stopped the sedan in the driving rain. An uncanny moment, as the wipers made the repetitive squeaky sound against the windshield. Back and forth. Back and forth. “You, or someone else, needs to take care of this. You need to focus on what you are doing. Full concentration on solving this for me. For us.”
“I will, congressman, I said I would,” he replied, taking his foot off the break, driving slowly. A Washington Metropolitan Police Department sedan was coming down the other side of the park now, their distinct two blue lights illuminated on the roof rack.
“Stop the car, Richard. No, you don’t get it. You don’t understand how serious this is, do you?”
Richard was taken aback at his strict and demanding tone and stopped the car.
Nodding his head, he said, “Find someone at that base. I don’t care what it takes. Kill someone if you need to. Take care of this,” Bruce said, his face turning red.
There was no misunderstanding with Bruce’s targeted anger, as Richard knew he had a major problem to solve.
Bruce started weeping, placing his hands on his face. “What am I going to do, Richard?”
Richard did not answer, feeling that the congressman was screwed beyond belief. It was at this moment that Richard knew the congressman was in frightening trouble, and something he’d most likely not survive.
Chapter 11
328th Air Refueling Squadron
“What the hell?” Charlie said loudly as he sprang vertically from his bed and looked outside at the bright sky. Waking up later than he planned, Charlie learned a valuable lesson that morning in his Quarters room, experiencing the downfall of military base electricity. The on-base room he was in had a recent power surge, resulting in a reset alarm clock that didn’t display the correct time.
I gotta move it, he thought as he scurried around his room to get dressed. In a comedy of errors, Charlie tripped when his legs got caught in the sheets. Then, he ran around the room grabbing clothes, forgetting items like his wallet, then doubling back to retrieve things he left behind.
Charlie then ran down the building’s hall with his boots untied. No-no-no! he said under his breath, pressed for time. Missing the squadron meeting was the last thing he wanted.
A week had gone by and Charlie was feeling more comfortable in the squadron with each passing day. He focused on learning as much as he could about the aircraft and base, from the wing leadership to the local flying area.
He had looked around the Niagara Falls and Buffalo area for a two-bedroom rental apartment that was a short drive to work, and was taking his time to settle into the area. Because he did not have his own place yet, Charlie slept at night in his Bachelor Officer Quarters room on the base.
This week’s focus was arriving at the squadron early this week, as he was interested in attending the morning meeting each day at 7 a.m. It was the daily planning event that shared with everyone who was flying where they were going, which airplanes were being used for the mission, plus what aircraft were becoming available to fly in the future. Plus, he’d be flying with Chief Pilot Shorty later and wanted to be prepared.
Charlie needed to learn the power in the squadron, both the official and unofficial leaders. Just like in the restaurants he worked in, there was the manager by title, and then the powerful co-worker that had the real following of other employees. Charlie also needed to see how the flight schedule was written for perspective, in addition to seeing what problems had to be solved day to day.
As Murphy’s Law would have it, the first person he ran into in the doorway of the Ready Room was the 328th commander. Ford looked at the clock, nodded at it, then at Charlie.
“Nice job, His Royal Lateness. What did we just talk about last weekend at my place?” Ford said as he tapped on the face of his digital watch.
Charlie was deflated. “Ford, my alarm…”
Ford held up his hand. “Really, Boot?” Ford left the area and didn’t say anything else.
Disappointed, Charlie plopped into his seat and glanced around the room. He spotted some other guys he met over the past few days and gave them a wave. They made fun of his late arrival, clapping and making noise by kicking the seats in front of them. Shorty was up at the podium, “We’ve got big things for little Stevens lined up. Hey, keep it down.”
Shorty waved Charlie over, wanting to re-introduce Charlie to the rest of the guys since so many of them were in and out on a regular basis. He saw the room was filling up with more than just pilots now, with crews piling in late from the boom operators’ office. He took their ribbing as good-natured, met as many guys as he could, and felt at home. His attitude was less cranky and defensive, but he did feel bad about being late.
As the meeting ended, Ford returned with Richard, who was on base this week doing a few days of his part-time drills for the maintenance squadron.
“Richard, this is our latest new join, First Lieutenant Charlie Stevens. He’s open to learning about the base and Air Force Reserve. Knows the KC-135 because he’s straight from the school house. I told him of your civilian employment with the congressman, too, and Charlie is motivated to help you in that aspect. He knows of our meeting over at Water Street Landing,” Ford turned to Charlie. “Charlie, you can also learn a thing or two from Richard. Like how to maintain our 1960s jets outside on the line. Jets might have been born over decades ago, but fly like they are out of the showroom.”
Richard barely showed emotion towards Charlie, his normal reaction at work.
“Ford, I would be happy to assist,” Richard said with a low tone and expressionless face. “Come on down to mainte
nance, and I’ll show you around. Boys would appreciate the backing. And I know the congressman really appreciates the support. If you’re free, we can walk down there now.”
Charlie witnessed two things about his appearance, which really stuck out. First, his nose was flattened more than normal, as if a doctor had removed some of the cartilage. Made him look a bit peculiar, Charlie thought. The second thing was his hands, as if someone had run sandpaper over them. They looked red and raw, like meat at the grocery butcher counter.
The condition Richard had was called saddle nose deformity. The bridge of his nose had a concavity, or saddle just above the nasal tip, and it formed over time if someone received repetitive injuries to the nose and facial area. It was common to boxers.
Charlie had the time, so he agreed and made some small talk with Richard as they got a tour of the maintenance hangar, individual offices, and a KC-135 Stratotanker that was sitting on jacks. Charlie also toured the tool room, engines, airframes, and maintenance flight records. As they walked, he saw one jet’s tail sticking out of the hangar doors, exposed to the cool air and direct sunlight. Reminded him of a horse’s tail sticking out of a trailer, and now he understood why some referred to the hangar as the barn.
Ending the tour at Richard’s office on the second floor of the hangar, Richard had a last-minute idea.
“Always grab a rag or three, Charlie. Your hands get dirty on these things as you walk around ’em. Fuel, oil, hydraulics. Dirty. Right? Wipe your hands as you go,” Richard told Charlie. “Take these.” He handed a pillow-sized stack of rags to him. “Put these in your helmet bag so you have them for your next flights, Alex.”
Did he just call me Alex?
“Sir, I’m Charlie, not Alex.”
“Yes, yes. Sorry. I know your name is Charlie.”
Standing on the second-floor catwalk, Charlie was appreciative. “Thank you. These rags are immaculate, Richard. Looks like you ironed and folded them like that place in the mall that sells towels.”
Richard moved his head to acknowledge but didn’t say anything out loud.
Who is Alex? Charlie whispered to himself.
They wrapped up the hangar tour after an hour, and Charlie was impressed. “You got a good shop of guys, Richard. Nice and clean, smooth operation. Enjoyed the tour, thank you,” Charlie told him. “Thanks for a year’s supply of rags, too,” he added with a laugh.
“My pleasure, Charlie. Safe flying, and looking forward to seeing you around soon. You’re always welcome in maintenance; come back whenever you want. One more thing. If we get on the BRAC list, I know the congressman will need your support,” Richard told him. Richard then moved his arms and hands around super-fast, almost tough to see. It was weird, somewhat out of place to Charlie.
“I’m an avid reader of current events. Was a political science major and worked on a state-level campaign in college. Pretty savvy on federal politics and legislation proposals, too, so whatever I can do to help. I’m a police officer for my full-time job, too, so I understand community relations pretty well. Would like to get involved with the commission if it comes to that.”
“Thank you, Charlie. Here’s my cell number,” Richard said, passing an old wrinkled and scuffed business card. It looked like it had been in his pocket for a year. Charlie felt good he could possibly contribute, but the more he talked with Richard, the weirder he became.
“Thanks, Richard,” Charlie said. He had to ask, as it was killing him and he needed to know. “Hey, what was that little thing you did with your fists? Was that boxing?”
“Fastest hands this side of the Mississippi,” Richard answered. “College boxer. Middleweight at one-sixty-eight, as we used to rhyme. Used to be fast, real fast, like this.” Richard did some fast jabbing for a few seconds, attempting to demonstrate he had the touch after the years had gone by. “Shadowboxing.”
“Cool,” Charlie answered, nodding. “Thanks, Richard. See you around.” Charlie walked away thinking that the good-bye with Richard was as awkward as it got.
Is that a delusion of his or did he really box? Who the heck is Alex? Charlie thought as he made his way back to the Pilot Room.
Chapter 12
Lansing Residence, Sanborn, New York
“Sweetheart, I’m coming,” Richard announced in a strange tone to his empty basement apartment. Extremely neat and clean to the eye, but musty in scent, he scurried around his place doing a number of tasks. No one else was there to comment on his statement tonight, as it seemed Richard was having a conversation with himself.
Richard was in his original Sanborn farmhouse, living with his mother. Sanborn, started in the early 1800s, was originally a farming community that boasted a mill, then a medical doctor and hotel, and later a railroad. Small, quaint, and dedicated to its rural farming roots, the wide-open country land continued to be an area known for growing crops and raising livestock.
“Keep holding on, sweetheart.”
The Lansing family owned farmland ever since Grandpa Lansing immigrated from the Netherlands decades ago. Grandpa’s old-world philosophy, which was handed down to Richard’s father, was that you got up early in the morning, worked the farm, never complained, and repeated the next day. That’s just the way he did things, by habit. And it was successful for generations of farmers.
“I know you can’t wait for me to hold you in my hands.”
Richard was a creature of extreme habits, and to a casual observer, he complicated the easy. Everything he did and touched had to be exact and in their place, a result of his OCD.
Whenever he entered his basement apartment from the backyard, the three door locks were locked the exact same way, in order, from the brass doorknob at the bottom. There was only one way to do it, he thought, and it was from the doorknob, upwards. You worked your way up to the two steel deadbolts.
Shoes had to be in their place, left to right, starting with slippers.
Keys on the keychain sitting on the kitchen hook, always faced south. Quick adjustment there, he thought as he raised his hand to move a set out of place. He double-checked the bars on the windows behind the curtains, too, as the setting sun beamed onto the basement floor.
Finally, a hello to Muffin, his blue American shorthair cat, located in the same general spot in the kitchen each evening. The social isolation may have been strange to others, but that was the way Richard liked it.
“Hold tight, coming.”
Richard washed his hands in the lime-green bathroom no less than four times, ensuring they were clean, scrubbing his hands and fingernails until they bled. His OCD was strong tonight after reviewing the situation the boss was in. Richard’s mind raced as the topics consumed him, but all he wanted to do was please the congressman. Richard was fond of Bruce, the attraction was much deeper than he knew or let on, and the last thing Richard wanted to do was disappoint him. Richard wanted to make him happy, seeking affection from Bruce.
“I bet you can’t wait.”
Richard very deliberately laid out the silver cotton towel on his coffee table, as he had done for as long as he could remember. He smoothed out the towel, placing his palm in the center and moving first to the right, then the left, repeating the motion a few more times. Always smooth it out to the right first.
“Jeopardy” was on his television, as it was each and every night in either his Washington or New York apartments. The feed for the same episode of the game show was transmitted from his phone, as he watched the same exact show each night, with the same questions and answers being repeated in order. Richard knew each question, answer, mannerism, and commercial, which he mimicked with surgical precision. He also thought host Alex was talking directly to him, and that Alex could read his mind.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Richard said again, placing his P226 handgun on the towel, eyeing it, giving it a sinister smile and devilish wink.
“What is France? I’ll
take Geography for five hundred, Alex,” he blurted out, repeating the exact lines the game contestant was saying. Even his hand gestures matched those of “Jeopardy” host. Whether he was on screen talking, holding note cards, pointing, or gesturing, Richard did it exactly as Alex did.
He looked at the P226 with admiration, staring. Impressed with its look, the way the metal was designed to project power. Picking it up, he rubbed it on his bare chest, hugging it in an eccentric way. He then held it with one hand and pointed it at some photos on the wall, simulating aiming and firing the gun. Richard placed it down on the towel and closed his eyes during the automobile and Medicare commercials. Knowing the exact timing of each commercial, Richard picked up the weapon again once the show returned back on the screen. His interval pace was impressive. Then, like a robot, he started to break down the handgun and strip it into all its parts like an expert armorer.
“Really, dad, I don’t?” Richard started talking out loud. “I don’t know what I’m doing?”
The weapon’s parts were broken down in a methodical manner and placed in impeccable alignment on the towel, both vertically and horizontally. Each part had flawless placement. Then without pausing, he rattled off each part’s name as he played “Jeopardy.”
“Ejection port, rear sights, hammer, takedown lever, slide stop, decocker, trigger, and magazine release. What is Iceland? European History for three hundred, Alex.”
His timing was mesmerizing, saying each handgun part, then flowing into the “Jeopardy” answer as it came out of the contestant’s mouth.
Richard’s P226 handgun was a sidearm in use by global militaries, from German Spezialeinsatzkommandos to the Indian Army, and was used in the U.S. by many organizations, including U.S. Navy SEALs. The weapon worked well in saltwater, sand, and mud, and was known in the Navy as the Mk. 25.
Richard continued talking to himself, pretending to talk with the host.
The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3) Page 10