Talkin' Jive

by Erik Carter

  “Nurse, huh?” Dale said and pumped his eyebrows. “I like scrubs.”

  Penny chuckled. “Scrubs? Seriously?”

  “They’re surprisingly sexy.”

  “I think you’d change your tune if you saw—or smelled—me in mine after a twelve-hour shift. So what’s in Oak Ridge?”

  “Do you know your history, Penny?”

  She gave him another faux-embarrassed look. “I’m afraid history was my weakest subject.”

  Dale felt the tingly excitement of an impromptu history lesson coming on. “Oak Ridge has a fascinating history. It didn’t even exist a few decades ago. It was created by the government during World War II as part of the Manhattan Project, our development of the nuclear bomb. Its existence was kept completely secret from the public until the war was over, which is why it’s called the Secret City. And a major nuclear weapons facility called Y-12 still exists there to this day—though what exactly they do at the facility, I don’t know.”

  Penny nodded her head, impressed. “And what will you be doing in Oak Ridge?”

  “I’m… consulting.”

  “Consulting, huh?” she said, narrowing her kitty-cat eyes and tilting one side of her smile mischievously. “So Oak Ridge manufactures nuclear weaponry on the down-low—still a ‘secret’ city, very hush-hush—and when I asked you what you’re doing there, your first inclination was to tell me about its nuclear history. And you’re vague about your job. Annnnd you live in Washington, D.C. I think maybe your ‘consulting’ work is something you’re not permitted to tell me about, Dale.”

  Dale smiled and nodded appreciatively. “You might be right.”

  He admired how quickly she had been able to draw her conclusion. Penny was sharp.

  “So tell me about yourself, Dale Conley.”

  “Well, where do I begin?” Dale said. “I’m the kind of guy who…”

  He trailed off. Because he’d glanced over at Redbeard again—and saw that the man was still staring at him.

  “What is it?” Penny said.

  “There’s a guy across the street. Been staring at me since we got here. Don’t turn around.”

  Penny turned around.

  “In the flannel shirt? Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. And he’s backing away now.”

  The man had seen them looking at him, made eye contact with Dale, and started inching away.

  Dale stood up.

  Penny’s smile finally dropped. “What are you doing? That guy could be a nut!”

  “Be right back.”

  Dale pushed through the restaurant’s tables and slipped through the foot traffic then approached the street, never taking his eyes off the other man.

  But Redbeard took his eyes off Dale.

  And bolted.

  He rushed down the sidewalk, worming his way through the crowd.

  A car passed in front of Dale. As soon as it had cleared, Dale darted to the middle of the street and had to wait for another car to pass, coming the opposite direction. Slowly.

  “Come on, come on!”

  Redbeard was getting away. But Dale could track him via the disruption in the crowd on the sidewalk—people shouting, jumping out of his way.

  Dale was onto the opposite sidewalk. And running. He shouted at the crowd in front of him. “Make way!”

  Dale considered going for his gun. But didn’t. There were too many people on the sidewalk who he didn’t want to frighten. No need to create a panic. He’d hold off. For now.

  Ahead, Redbeard had gotten the jump on him. He had a lead of a block and a half. In front of Redbeard was a hot dog stand, and when he turned to take another look back at Dale, he ran right into it, falling to the cement.

  An amateur mistake. Redbeard had already been so sloppy to this point, letting Dale easily catch him spying on him. Evidently this guy was a bumbling fool. Whoever he was.

  Redbeard’s stumble gave Dale—who was now sprinting—a chance to catch up. He pushed past a group of elderly people, overly bundled for the chilly weather, and closed the gap to within a few feet.

  Redbeard scrambled to his feet, and before he darted off again, he looked back toward Dale. But he didn’t look at Dale. He looked past him. And a strange expression came upon his face before he quickly turned back around and reached full speed again.

  There was something about that expression. It was a look of recognition. And it made Dale steal a glance behind his back.

  And he saw another man. Running through the crowd. Looking right at Dale and coming straight toward him. He was tall, in his thirties or forties. Square-jawed. Thick stubble. Dark blonde hair and a deep widow’s peak. He wore a double-breasted jacket and brown corduroys. When his eyes met Dale’s, the guy pulled out a gun. People on the street screamed.

  Oh, shit.

  Farther behind the man with the widow’s peak, another man started sprinting after them. He too had a gun.

  Movement on the opposite side of the street. Dale turned. Another man with another gun who was also bolting after Dale.

  They’d set Dale up. Set a trap for him. And Dale had stepped right into it. Redbeard had been the bait that pulled Dale away from the restaurant, and now they were going to finish things with the other guys. Redbeard’s sloppiness had been intentional. This was a well coordinated attack.

  Now Dale had to go for his weapon. He pulled his tiny revolver—a Smith & Wesson Model 36—from its holster clipped to the back of his pants.

  More screams from the onlookers.

  Dale had gone from the hunter to the prey in one brief moment. And he needed to get the hell out of Dodge. There was a fancy-looking coffee shop to Dale’s right. No time to think. He ran in.

  Screaming. Panic. The smell of rich coffee beans. Growling espresso machines. Warm lighting. Brick walls with dark stained wood and copper adornments.

  Dale pushed through people fleeing the shop. He ran to the back, through the swinging door and into the florescent lighting of the kitchen. He positioned himself over the stainless steel order counter, looking back into the coffee shop through the open window. He aimed his gun at the front door.

  And he waited.

  The shop had cleared out. He was the only one there. If the men came through the door, Dale had the perfect angle to drop them—aim for the shoulders and then get some answers.

  The espresso machines had silenced. The shop was surprisingly quiet. The clock on the wall behind him ticked off the seconds. His hands were sweaty on the grips of the Smith. The kitchen was hot.

  Several moments passed. The clock ticked. Dale could see people cautiously eyeing the doorway from the other side of the street.

  But not a soul came through the door.

  Dale slowly eased away from the counter, back to the swinging door. He pushed through, keeping his gun leveled at the entrance.

  The tables were scattered, and there was spilled coffee and broken mugs on the floor along with half-eaten scones and fancy sandwiches. Dale’s motorcycle boots crunched the porcelain shards and splashed in the coffee puddles.

  At the doorway, he took a deep breath and darted back outside, swung his gun left then right, sweeping over Gay Street. This brought more panic, more fleeing among the nighttime crowds.

  The mysterious men pursuing him could be anywhere in the crowd or in the multi-story buildings surrounding him, leaning out a window, ready to snipe him. They could drop him whenever they wanted. Dale was a sitting duck.

  And, he realized, so was Penny.

  Penny!

  Dale sprinted back toward The Missing Wink, which was now a couple blocks away from him, yelling out to the people still loitering on the sidewalk.

  “Move! Move!”

  He ran through the bright light of the Tennessee Theatre’s sign and saw Penny ahead, still sitting at the wrought iron table, though most everyone else at the restaurant had fled. Her eyes went wide when she saw his gun.

  He reached out his hand as he approached.

  “Hold
ing hands on the first date?” she said. “You do move fast.”

  “Come on! We gotta get out of here.”

  He took her hand and yanked her out of her chair, her eyes growing wider yet. He pulled her along to the end of the block, tugging her around the corner. She stumbled in her lovely heels. Dale tried to accelerate to full speed, but she couldn’t keep up.

  He brought them to a stop. “Shoes.”

  Penny knelt and began to unstrap them. She fumbled with the complex straps in her haste.

  Dale bent and took hold of the straps of the right shoe, gave them a solid tug. They tore open along the seams in the back.

  “Hey! These cost fifty dollars!”

  “I’ll buy you a new pair,” Dale said as he ripped the other shoe.

  Penny slid out of the mangled shoes. They took off again, running now. Penny padded along, her feet covered only by her yellow tights.

  “I loved those shoes.”

  Another block, and Dale took them to the left. Then another block and to the right.

  They slowed down. Dale put his gun away. He looked behind them.

  Empty sidewalk.

  Ahead, Dale could see a crowd passing by on the next cross street. They came to a walk, turned the corner, and settled in behind the crowd.

  “I think we’re safe now,” he said as inconspicuously as he could.

  Penny turned to him with that smile of hers, breathing heavily. She’d been one hell of a good sport. Which made Dale like her even more.

  “So tell me,” she said. “What kind of consulting do you do?”

  Dale stood with Penny in the lavishly carpeted, cozy, dimly-lit hallway of their hotel. She had her back to the door of her room. Her hair was tussled. She was still catching her breath—and she was still smiling.

  She eyeballed him, not saying anything.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Penny?” Dale said.

  “You gotta stop doing that.” She looked at him for a moment longer, making some sort of assessment, then said, “I have to tell ya, this was the most unique first date I’ve ever had.”

  “Creative date ideas—it’s what sets me apart from the other guys.” Dale shrugged sheepishly and stepped closer to her, into the zone. He put a hand on her elbow

  She glanced down at his hand. “You’re the smoothest son of a gun I’ve ever met. Most guys would be stumbling over themselves to get into my pants, putting their paws all over me the whole night. But when you touch me … there’s something different there. I trust you somehow.”

  “So that means you’re inviting me in for a nightcap? Excellent. I warn you, I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Ha! Nice try, bub. No invitation. But … if you have time while you’re still in the area ‘consulting,’ I’d love to see you again.”

  She leaned in and kissed him. Smiled. And disappeared into her room.

  Dale stood there for a moment, both savoring the aftereffect of the kiss and wondering how the hell things had turned out so well for him.

  He left and headed for the stairwell. His room was two stories higher. He’d skip the elevator, get in the steps, a bit of extra exercise.

  And then he would ponder whether armed men were going to be chasing him the entire time he was in Tennessee.

  Chapter Three

  Marcus Sloane was back on Gay Street, in a phone booth. He had the receiver pinned between his shoulder and ear. He ran a hand absentmindedly through his shaggy hair, smoothing it from his recent bout of activity. With his widow’s peak, his bangs were constantly flopping into his face. He would have preferred to wear his hair a lot shorter. A crewcut. But his position required him to blend in with the crowd, and most men had shaggy hair these days. Much to Sloane’s chagrin.

  He looked through the plexiglas of the phone booth to the nighttime cityscape beyond. The crowds had returned, having recovered from the fright they’d received moments earlier. It was as though they’d completely forgotten about it. The merriment had recommenced. All smiles.

  The director’s voice spoke in Sloane’s ear—even, smooth, and with a bit of the depth and gravel that comes with age.

  “You almost had him?”

  His question had been straightforward. Matter-of-fact, not accusatory. That was one thing Sloane could always count on. The director’s trust. The man wasn’t judgmental. He knew Sloane was skilled, and he trusted Sloane’s command in the field. If Sloane hadn’t caught his man, the director wasn’t going to chew him out.

  “Yes, sir,” Sloane said. “And we’re trying to figure out why he was in Knoxville and not Oak Ridge.”

  The director breathed in. Sloane could picture him scratching behind his ear, a habit of his when he was giving things a moment’s consideration.

  “That’s certainly something to be watching,” the director said finally. Another slight pause. “Get your men back to Oak Ridge. And once you find him again, don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “We’ll be his living shadows, sir,” Sloane said.

  Chapter Four

  So this is what a nuclear weapons facility looks like, Dale thought.

  He was in a small, dingy room with a battered coffee machine flanked by a pair of equally worn vending machines. On the table in front of him was a steaming coffee in one of those paper cups with playing cards printed on the side. A hand of poker. Dale’s cup had a straight flush. He wondered if he’d won anything.

  He was by himself. Locked in the room. For twenty-six long minutes. He’d been closely monitoring the clock on the wall. Aside from the hum of the vending machines, the clock’s ticking was the only noise.

  The relative silence was broken by a metallic clack, the door being unlocked from the other side. It swung open, and in walked a man in his fifties carrying a briefcase. He had gray-blue eyes and fading blonde hair, bangs to his eyebrows. It was a rather stylish haircut, but from the looks of his drab dress clothes—brown suit pants; a short-sleeve dress shirt with tie; big, ugly glasses—any style points were accidental. He had a serious expression. A bit frazzled. With a smile, he could be a kindly young grandfather, but, as he was, he just looked at Dale, breathed in for a moment as though tempering some sort of frustration, and stepped up to him.

  Dale stood.

  “Agent Conley?” the man said. “Roy Becker.”

  They shook hands. Becker had a strong grip.

  “Nice to meet you,” Dale said. “Becker, huh? German name. You know, someone in your lineage was a—”

  “A baker. Yes, I know.”

  Becker made an impatient motion with his hand and pulled out the chair opposite of where Dale had been sitting.

  So much for introductions.

  As Dale sat back down, he caught Becker’s gaze and noticed a strange look on the man’s face. At first, Dale’s mind went to the frustration that other members of federal law enforcement frequently had when paired with him—a frustration that came from suddenly being forced to work with someone from a covert and unknown agency. Dale’s arrival often came as an unwanted interruption for people who didn’t have much time to spare.

  But that wasn’t all Dale was seeing in Becker’s peculiar expression. There was something else, another layer. It was almost like Becker was trying to figure Dale out.

  Very bizarre.

  Dale broke the ice. “This is some security you got here, Becker. I haven’t been felt up like that since the last time I went to Tijuana.”

  It was a bit of a test. A gag. An immature quip to see how Becker would react. Would Becker laugh? Would he return the volley with some humorous repartee of his own?

  Becker didn’t crack a smile.

  “We have to take security extremely seriously around here,” Becker said. “I’m sure you can understand. Which is why I’m floored that you were able to come here and get direct access to me. As the head of security police, most people can’t even arrange a meeting with me. You have some powerful friends, Conley. But I want you to understand what kind of operation I’m runni
ng. I have 500 security officers here at Y-12. Armored vehicles, anti-aircraft guns. And we’re permitted to use lethal force. A small army. We call ourselves ‘the Fort Knox of Uranium.’ We’re protecting some of the nation’s most valuable secrets and some of the worlds most powerful, most destructive technology. So you’ll forgive us for ‘feeling you up.’”

  “What do you do here, exactly?” Dale said.

  Becker hesitated.

  “Listen,” Dale said. “I’m going to be working with you side-by-side until I conclude my investigation. You’re required to assist me in whatever way I need. All I want is an inkling of what I’m dealing with.”

  Becker hesitated again. He took in a breath and smoothed out his feathery hair. “We’re a massive group of federal facilities—the Oak Ridge Reservation. The ORR. Where we’re sitting right now, Y-12, is a nuclear weapons manufacturing and storage facility housing the nation’s enriched uranium supply. There are two other major campuses in the reservation. One of those is K-25 Gaseous Diffusion Plant, a uranium enrichment processing facility.”

  Dale took a sip of his coffee and said, “Y-12 and K-25 were major pieces in putting together the bombs during World War II.”

  “Correct. There’s also Oak Ridge National Laboratory, the largest science and energy lab in the Department of Energy. All said, we cover 35,000 acres. As the head of the Federal Protective Forces for the ORR, I’m responsible for the security of the whole thing. And I’m a busy man.”

  Dale raised a hand. “I’m not here to interfere with your operations. But I will need your full cooperation until the situation is resolved.”

  “So I was told. And what exactly is the situation? The details I was given were really damn sparse.”

  “I got this message yesterday morning. It was in the classified ads of the Washington Inquisitor.”

  Dale pulled his wallet from his back pocket, retrieved the scrap of paper, and handed it across the table.