Solomon got serious, too. “If it’s a timer…”
He shrugged. “…depends on the time. Most likely remote control though. So if you can keep their finger off the button.”
McNulty nodded. “We’ll keep them occupied.”
The room fell quiet again. Everyone knew what keeping them occupied entailed. The location manager stepped outside to find a production runner. Larry stood against the door. Reisman and Wong thought about props and bullet hits. Real ones, not squibs and fake blood. Keeping the gunmen busy meant putting real people, not stuntmen, in danger. If it went wrong this was going to get bloody. Really quick and really bad.
McNulty glanced at Larry. “You got the VFW number?”
Larry pushed off from the door. “You sure about this? They’re on the parade but, really?” He shook his head.
“They’re old soldiers. Not combat troops.”
McNulty looked at his producer. “Have you heard the saying; old soldiers never die, they just fade away?”
Larry stonewalled him. “So?”
McNulty returned the stare. “Well trust me, fading away isn’t how they want to go.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Banks Square wasn’t a square at all; it was a geographical area in Waltham where most of the banks were situated. Pretty much Main Street, where McNulty had made his false inquiries, and several streets either side of it. The parade route was an elongated rectangle running along School Street and Columbus Avenue heading west and then back along Main Street to the presentation stand at Waltham City Hall, which was set in the manicured grounds of Waltham Common. The marshalling area was beside the common on Central Street, which might have been central once but had edged to the right as Waltham expanded over the years.
The clapboard houses on School Street were festooned with bunting and Stars and Stripes. The Chateau Restaurant had food tables outside. Main Street was the business district and as such was lined with red brick and stone buildings, and even more flags. Preparations had been going on for days. Today was the culmination of everyone’s efforts, and it was a glorious sunny day.
Cotton candy and hotdog smells drifted across the route. The distant sound of a marching band signalled the approaching parade. A buzz went around the crowd and heads turned toward the music. Families had been camped out since dawn to claim the best viewing spots. Mothers and children and grandparents and husbands lined the route. Fat people sat in folding chairs that were molded to their bodies. Balloons were handed out by supporters of the various candidates in the election campaign. Plastic flags on little white sticks, lapel pins and bumper stickers, were given away by eager followers. Small children in sickly sweet uniforms gave out sweets to even younger children in the crowd. A bright yellow biplane flew the length of Main Street, trailing a banner that nobody could read.
A school marching band led the parade, their pale blue uniforms and peaked caps standing out in the sharp morning sunshine. A beautifully decorated float followed twenty yards behind with blue paper stars and red, white and blue stripes. The sign along both sides read, SUPPORTING OUR FIRST RESPONDERS. Bagpipes sounded farther along the parade route as men in kilts and funny hats marched in step. A huge inflatable firefighter in the shape of Mr. Potato Head came around the far corner, controlled on ropes by the ground crew who had to wrestle him to the ground whenever they approached the town’s overhead power lines.
The parade slowly snaked out of the marshalling area and onto the route. All eyes were on the floats, the marching bands, and the gaily colored outfits. All except for one person, who was trying to see a single float amid the forest of painted metal and bunting.
The production runner missed the beginning of the parade so he had to play catch-up. The eighteen-year-old, who had aspirations of Hollywood, caught up with the school marching band and the Stars and Stripes float outside The Chateau Restaurant on School Street, then worked his way back along the parade, around the corner into Church Street and all the way to the marshalling area. He was the only person going the wrong way along the parade route.
He was almost tempted by the sizzling burgers out front of the First Parish Church but managed to resist and very nearly succumbed to syrup and waffles on the corner of School and Church. But he managed to stand firm; you don’t make it all the way to Hollywood by shirking your responsibilities. A group of really old men wearing yellow shirts and red fezzes waved from the SHRINERS’ trailer, which was stocked with huge plastic camels. The sign along the side, painted on individual camel shapes, read, “Camel Herders Support Children’s Hospitals.” The runner smiled and shook his head. No doubt about it, he’d have to move to L.A.
He crossed Main Street behind City Hall and scanned the carnival floats all the way to the entrance of the marshalling area. There was another marching band playing something with more swing and melody and a float dressed as a red and silver fire truck, using shiny tinsel flowers. There were lots of flags and helium balloons and election banners. There was lots of music and laughter, but there was no sign of Mickey Mouse.
The runner scoured the remaining floats in the marshalling area parking lot. There was no smiley face with big black ears. The only thing out of the ordinary was one group taking a wrong turn out of the gate, heading around the back of Waltham Common. The banner read, Veterans of Foreign Wars, Waltham, Massachusetts. The old soldiers of the VFW.
The VFW marched straight and stayed in line. The honor guard up front consisted of three men carrying the flags of The American Legion, the VFW, and the ever-present Stars and Stripes. They marched proud and erect but a little slow and stoop-shouldered. The rank behind them had M1 carbines across their shoulders, and two carried Thompson submachine guns. The man at the end shouldered an unsheathed sabre with a tassel at the handle.
A World War II army jeep brought up the rear. It had dents and holes blasted along one side from having seen action overseas but had otherwise been lovingly restored to its original combat green with unit markings and transfers. A small painting of Donald Duck dressed as a G.I. adorned the passenger footplate and a sandwich board angled across the top of the hood showed a sketch of two G.I.s with the note, “WILLIE AND JOE ON BOARD.” Miniature Stars and Stripes stuck out of every hole and crevice. They fluttered in the breeze, making eerie flapping noises.
The men weren’t smiling. This wasn’t their usual Fourth of July Parade. They marched with hard eyes and steely determination, ready to go back into action after fifty years.
The runner phoned the production office and promised to make another search of the parade route. Larry Unger’s tone down the line left him under no illusions about his prospects of reaching Hollywood.
The sun was high and bright, burning out of a pure blue summer sky. The trees along School Street and into the bend of Columbus Avenue were a brilliant green. Between the blue and the green was a spectrum of glaring colors so bright they hurt his eyes in the sun. The runner ran, avoiding the congested sidewalk and using the road instead. He was short of breath, not because of the exertion but out of sheer panic. He knew what was at stake. He knew lives were in danger. And all because he’d fallen at the first hurdle—finding the carnival float.
Up ahead a pink and purple octopus the size of the Mr. Potato Head firefighter hung in the air like an escaped balloon. The wranglers kept it in position and prepared to drag it down under the overhead cables. The runner slowed down to catch his breath. He was developing a stitch in his side. He doubled over and thought he was going to be sick. Somebody in the crowd handed him a bottle of water. He nodded his thanks and straightened up to take a drink.
The runner stood upright.
The octopus was pulled down toward the ground, revealing Mickey Mouse turning the corner onto Columbus Avenue.
The runner dropped the bottle and took out his phone.
FORTY-NINE
“Because we’re going to steal it first.”
“Rob the armored truck? Are you fucking insane?�
�
Larry’s office, an hour earlier. Before the hastily arranged production meeting but after McNulty had explained about Mickey Mouse. McNulty nodded yes to the robbery but was borderline about admitting insanity. Sometimes, when all other options are off the table, the craziest move is the only sensible one to make. Given the narrow window of opportunity, his being persona non grata with the police, and the refusal to cancel the money drop, it was the only thing McNulty could come up with. The bad guys couldn’t steal the money if somebody stole it first, and he couldn’t steal it first on his own.
“Call a production meeting.”
So Larry did, proving that he was fucking insane, too.
The Mickey Mouse float crawled along School Street and followed the gentle curve as it became Columbus Avenue. The speed was dictated by the marching bands and the preceding floats and the kids giving out sweets to the crowd. The runner kept the big round ears in sight as per his instructions. Now that he’d found the float, he didn’t want to lose it again before Jerry Solomon arrived to do his stunt-driver bit. The alternative was to warn the crowd there was a bomb on the float and start a panic. Panic was a bad thing. It might provoke the robbers into pushing the button. The runner had been told to watch and wait. The VFW were supposed to stop the bad guys from pushing the button.
McNulty found the armored truck on Carter Street behind Waltham Common. The road was cordoned off, forming a quiet area behind the scenes of the parade route and the presentation stand in front of City Hall. The WWII army jeep pulled into the Enterprise Rent-A-Car lot across the Fitchburg Line tracks. Waltham Station ticket office was a low, wide single-story building blocking the view from the armored truck. The sandwich board had been removed from the jeep’s hood, but Willie and Joe were still on board.
The first squad of old soldiers crouched as low as they could crouch and formed a defensive line along the tracks. Three stayed put while the other three crossed the Fitchburg Line and set up on the embankment, then the first three joined them. The second squad went around the back of the Greenway Diner where McNulty had had coffee after the movie set shootings and entered the southwest corner of Waltham Common. They lined up beneath the trees and rested their M1 carbines across the park benches. The VFW now had the armored truck in a deadly crossfire.
Larry had been worried about sending a bunch of WWII veterans into battle with nothing but their ancient weapons and no bullets. McNulty had smiled. “This is America. You know any old soldiers around here who’ve got guns but no ammo?” Now that they were getting close to going into action, McNulty wondered if that was the right decision. He checked his watch and wondered how Solomon was doing? Through the trees, in the southeast corner, two men in black combat fatigues entered the common from Elm Street.
Jerry Solomon caught up with the parade as it was curling left onto Main Street before heading through the business district back toward City Hall. The marching bands were far enough apart that the music from one didn’t interfere with the next. Laughter and high spirits infected the crowd. Food continued to be served from roadside vendors and volunteer groups.
Mickey Mouse was halfway back along the parade route behind a school band and the inflatable octopus. It was built on the back of a flatbed truck with the nose and face disguising the cab and the head and ears extending from there. It was the only float without revellers lining the sides, throwing streamers and gifts to the crowd. Solomon wondered if it smelled of marzipan.
The float was almost at the end of Columbus Avenue where it would have to perform a tricky maneuver around Domenic’s Italian Bakery & Deli before turning onto Main Street. Solomon broke into a jog, assessing angles and distances and how much time he had. With the trigger mechanism still unknown, time was the one factor he couldn’t predict. He came at the truck from the front so he could see the driver. The first consideration was, is the driver one of the gunmen? He quickly dismissed that thought because the driver was a middle-aged man with a puffy face, carrying too much weight. Also, unless it was a suicide bombing, the aim was to steal a million dollars. You can’t spend that if you’re in heaven with your forty virgins.
Solomon reached the cab and climbed onto the footplate. He yanked the door open and looked the puffy-faced man in the eye. There was no argument. The driver got out. Solomon went into stunt-driver mode. Time was of the essence. He floored the gas and turned right instead of left, heading toward the high school fireworks display instead of City Hall.
McNulty’s pincer movement kept the armored truck in the crosshairs. The back doors were closed but one of the security guards was breaking protocol and having a crafty smoke in the parking lot. The passenger door was open. The driver lounged with his head tilted to one side, catching a few minutes of shuteye before being called into action.
The second squad kept station at the corner of the common while the first squad climbed the embankment and closed the distance to the target. McNulty kept low and moved to the edge of the station parking lot, positioning himself halfway between the two units. That’s when he saw the men in black coming out of the trees.
He gave a quick hand signal to the squad on the embankment and pointed to the security guard standing beside the open door. The squad leader nodded. He was one of the veterans with a Thompson. He spoke briefly to the man at his side, then levelled the submachine gun at the armored truck. McNulty watched the gunmen cross Carter Street toward the ticket office. The security guard stubbed his cigarette out underfoot. The Thompson fired a short burst at the side of the truck then the second squad did the same from the other side.
FIFTY
The gunfire was loud and sharp and destroyed the peace and tranquillity of the park. Ricochets and sparks lit up both sides of the truck but made little impact on the armor plating. The smoking guard snapped back into protocol and did what he was paid to do, protect the money. He slammed the door shut and dropped to the ground, rolling under the truck. The driver hit the central locking and sealed himself inside.
McNulty crabbed through the parking lot and pulled the gun he’d drawn from the props department. He concentrated on the guard under the truck while keeping the men in black in his peripheral vision. They seemed to be frozen to the spot by the sudden outburst of gunfire. This was their robbery. Who were all these other guys shooting at the truck they wanted to rob? Neither of them reached for a remote control. Neither of them took out a phone to call the bomb across town.
A ricochet chipped stone at McNulty’s feet. Two shots pinged off the windshield and whirred off into the distance without making an impression. McNulty glanced at the men on the embankment and hoped they could keep their heads for a few minutes longer. More shots sounded from the corner of the park; different shots, not from his guys. From the men in black combat fatigues. He stood up and stepped to one side and fired at the men in black. He’d promised to keep the gunmen occupied so they didn’t push the button. This was his idea of keeping them occupied but it wasn’t going to be enough.
Solomon took the corner through the school gates so fast he almost pulled his favorite stunt, the two-wheel sideways turn they’d used on that Bond movie with the oil tankers. He leaned to his right but the carnival float stayed on all four wheels. It mounted the curb and scarred the grass border, then straightened onto the entrance drive. The engine roared. All the band music was left behind. The gunfire was simply distant popping that he couldn’t even hear over the noise of the engine.
There were signs and banners everywhere.
July 4th Fireworks
and Evening Show
7 p.m. Waltham High School
Some had arrows directing the public to the showground and sports field. Smaller signs pointed to the backstage area with, NO ENTRY and STAFF ONLY warnings in big red letters. Solomon kept Mickey on the straight and narrow until he saw the, DANGER—NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT sign, then he veered left and slammed through the chain link fence into the designated safety zone. No public access. No dan
ger of accidental explosion. Unless somebody pushed the button.
McNulty crabbed his way sideways, keeping the armored truck between him and the men in black fatigues. The security guard was still under the truck. The doors were still locked. Bullet hits and ricochets proved how solid the armor was. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or rustiness that caused the change in tactics, but the VFW began to alter their positions. The first squad entered the parking lot from the embankment and moved counterclockwise until they had an angle on the front of the truck. The second squad moved clockwise from the park benches to the edge of Waltham Common, giving them a view of the back doors, the two squads on opposite sides. Not the best fire pattern for a deadly crossfire.
The M1 carbines peppered the truck. The Thompsons fired short bursts that seemed to be hitting anything but the truck. An old guy who might have been Willie or Joe took a hit in the chest. Blood spurted from his battledress jacket. Two men in the park went down. The gunfire slowed but didn’t stop. Voices were raised. Somebody shouted for a medic as if they were storming the beaches at Normandy. The gunfire would soon be attracting the few cops who were on duty covering the parade. Time was running out.
McNulty approached the truck and dropped to his knees. He nodded at the security guard under the truck and waved for him to come out. The two men in black dashed around the front and stood over him.
Solomon stopped the carnival float behind the fireworks display. In the narrow passage between the firing tubes and the boundary fence. There was nowhere else to go. He was as far from the madding crowd as he could get. He turned the engine off and tossed the keys out the window. He didn’t want anybody trying to move the truck to clear the display. Hot metal ticked as it cooled, sounding like a clock counting down. Solomon didn’t need any encouragement. He opened the door and dived across the grass. He was on his feet and running before the bombers could change their minds.
Tracking Shot Page 17