Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  Back at their table, over coffee and a tart which might have been flown in from Paris, Kat said, “Aren’t you worried this guy will get away?”

  “Not as long as he and his cell phone are sharing a spot on the planet. Satellite triangulation? There’s a GPS chip embedded in your handset.” He looked across the table at her. “You didn’t know that?”

  “Of course I know. But since I'm not paranoid I don't think about it.”

  Levon stirred cream into his coffee. “Thank God for the ignorance of the general public. We can track anyone anytime anywhere, and it’s not even illegal. All we have to do is hack the phone company’s computers.” He picked up his demitasse and grinned at her across the rim. “Not generally known, but we can also listen to their conversations, realtime.” He forked a bite of boysenberry tart into his mouth. “The more you know, the better you look.”

  His iPhone dinged, and a message told him the initial Paloma package was ready. They hurried down to his office, where they were met by a sinewy middle-aged black woman in an equally black Armani pantsuit and dreadlocks decorated with silver temple beads. Levon closed the door.

  The woman narrowed her eyes and used them to give Kat a full body scan. Levon made the introductions. “Katherine Sinclair, meet Major Machler. Geneva was teaching our cyber warriors at West Point before I lured her to Washington with promises of fame and fortune. Gen, Kat was a BU freshman when I was a grad student at MIT. She just started on Four, but I’m going to bring her up here a-sap. As far as this incident is concerned, if I can see it, so can she.”

  The Major pulled a side chair over to Levon’s desk, logged onto his computer, and muttered, ”You da boss, massah Le-von.”

  After a moment she sat back, summarized. “Army vet, NCO, Bosnia, early ‘90’s. Small arms technician.” She added with a wry smile, “For you civilians, that would include building and repairing sniper rifles.”

  She scrolled, touched the high points. “A few Article 15’s for insubordination. Missed a reveille call. Bar brawl in Heidelberg.” She paused, shook her head, beads rattling like dice in a cup. “Heidelberg. Man, they brew some fine beer in that town.”

  She turned back to the screen, summarized. “Vague charges of supplying arms to Muslims, but nothing official. He signed off on a Borderline Personality Disorder; probably quid pro quo. Spotty employment record since separation. Been with DC Traffic for the last three years.” She sent Nicodemo Paloma to the printer. “Lone nutter?”

  Levon stared out his windows as he filtered the data. Bumper to bumper traffic on the 395 streamed past the Pentagon. 295 was closed—and 495; he’d forgotten that. He turned away from the view. His cocky ‘what’s the rush’ upstairs could come back to haunt him if Mr. Paloma had an agenda.

  “Let’s tug at that BPD thread, Gen. Check the PACT databases. DC, Maryland, Northern Virginia. See if he’s in the system.” He explained to Kat how the Progressive Community Treatment laws tagged people enrolled in mental health programs. “They’re automatically reported to authorities when they either fail to renew their antidepressant prescriptions or miss a mental health appointment.”

  Geneva's fingers flew across the keys in a blur. “Nothing.” The Major looked away from the screen. “You want me to try CNS?”

  Levon stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, paced his office. “Yeah, go ahead. PACT doesn’t always keep on top of the government health clinics.”

  Kat had to ask, “What’s CNS?”

  The Major said, “Comprehensive NeuroScience, Inc. A subsidiary of Eli Lilly. It tracks mental health patients and their psychotropic drug prescriptions. Because when they go off their meds they can become extremely violent. A condition known as ‘discontinuation syndrome’.”

  Kat shook her head. “Wait a sec. What’s all this got to do with finding terrorists?”

  The Major drawled, “Ain’t she the bright young thang,” and scrolled down the screen. “Got a hit. Man has a VA file. Supposed to be on Luvox. That's the same drug one of the Columbine shooters was on.”

  Levon reached for his telephone. “Let’s pick him up. Bring him in for questioning.”

  Kat said, “Am I allowed watch?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Nick Paloma handed the insurance adjuster a jar of Vicks VapoRub. “You’ll want some of this.”

  The man reached for the Vicks. “Like the song says, the smell of death surrounds us?”

  “Remember the SUV we pulled out of the Potomac last year? Had the mom and two kids in it? At least we were pretty sure it was two, since only pair of little heads rolled out when we opened the doors. Along with a nice mess of crabs.”

  “Aww, Jesus. This is that bad?”

  “Nah. Not if you like barbecue.” He grabbed a wire brush, a wrecking bar, and a pair of gauze masks.

  Nick and the adjuster walked into the yard. As they approached the half-acre of burned and twisted vehicles, cordoned off with yellow POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape, the cloying stench of death became stronger. Neither man wanted to linger. Both smeared a glob of the pungent salve across their upper lip, and donned the masks.

  Nick pointed to a blackened, twisted hulk. “There's your Kenworth. Next to it is either your Chevy Tahoe or the Ford.” His voice was muffled behind the mask. “You’ve done this a lot more than I have.” He offered the adjuster the wire brush. “It's your job to find the VIN plates.”

  The adjuster shook his head. “Check ‘em both off the list.” He pulled off the mask, gagged, spat in the dirt. “Shiiit. I shoulda known better than to schedule this after lunch. Jesus, Paloma, let’s get out of here.” He turned and jogged back to the impound office, leaned against his car, sucking in fresh air.

  He opened the door, keyed the ignition, put the air on high, and slid behind the wheel. He handed his clipboard to Nick. “Fourteen claims, fourteen vehicles. Total loss, zero salvage value. Top copy’s yours; initial mine, and I’m outta here.”

  The emergency response teams had used the Jaws of Life to wrench off doors and peel away crushed roofs to extract the living, the dying, and pieces of the dead. It made Nick’s work easier, but it still took two hours to find and remove vehicle identification number tags from the fourteen wrecks.

  He used the last of his water bottle to rinse the taste of vomit from his mouth and headed across the street.

  Nick walked past the line of idling semi trucks waiting their turn at the scales. He waved to the weigh master behind his big window, and made his way into the depths of the yard. A line of rust-colored gondolas sat on a rail spur.

  A pair of forklifts splashed through oily puddles and dropped crushed automobiles onto a conveyor climbing to the top of the towering Wendt shredder.

  Nick headed behind the mammoth structure. The cacophony made speech useless. A shadow crept across the sun, and he looked up as a two-ton Scrapmaster electromagnet landed six feet from his own size tens.

  His eyes followed the magnet’s cable up to the sixty-foot boom of the tracked crawler, then down to the cab. He offered his middle finger to the operator, and hoisted himself on the machine. “Mo, you prick, you owe me a pair of fresh shorts.”

  The black man behind the sticks wore a faded denim shirt with ELMO embroidered on the pocket. He had the lower body of a man who sat all day. His paunch strained at the flap of his fly, exposing brass zipper teeth, and his thighs hid the seat beneath them. Elmo plucked a sodden cigar stub from the corner of his mouth. “Serve you right. This's a hardhat area. Oh, I forgot; you don’t need no hardhat. Not with that thick skull of yours.”

  Nick handed the printout listing the make, model, and year of manufacture to his business partner.

  Mo scanned the insurance form. “Shame the Kenworth ain’t newer. Best I can go is two. The usual fifty for the civilians.”

  Mo rolled his bulk to the left, shoved his hand in a trouser pocket, and came out with a fat roll of bills. He counted eight hundred and fifty dollars, and Nick handed him the VINs. “Pleasure doing business with you
, my friend.”

  —o—

  Levon picked up the internal hot line, poked three numbers. “I need a couple of FPS goons for a local pickup. Who’s available?” He paused, digesting the reply. “That's it? Send ‘em up to Five.”

  Kat asked, “What's FPS?”

  Major Machler said, “Federal Protective Services. Use to be part of INS, but now we own 'em. HomSec is a black hole, suckin' up everything in sight. FPS, Coast Guard, Secret Service, TSA, FEMA.” She winked at Kat. “We is the five hundred pound gorilla.”

  Levon explained, “FPS contracts with private security firms to supply the manpower. Mostly ex and retired cops, military.”

  Geneva snorted. “Folks that can't hack it in the real world.”

  Levon said, “Too true; they're sending us the Moran brothers.”

  “Lawdy,” the major said, with an eye roll for Kat. “Those racist bastards. Where's my gun?”

  Levon grinned at Kat. “FPS agents are caged in the basement. We let them smell a shirt, handle a pair of dirty socks, turn ‘em loose.”

  Geneva added, “Seriously, first time I set eyes on that pair, the one said, in that ‘Balmer-Merlin’ accent you hear a lot in DC, ‘Settle a question for us, puss. My brother says afro-merricans prefer their men to come in the back door, ‘stead of around front. That true?’ Then gives me a grin and wink, show he’s pulling my leg.” The Major shook her head. “So he’d have an excuse, in case I filed a harassment grievance. And the other brother comes back with, ‘Al, we ever need to change our luck, we know where to come’.”

  Growing up in northern Vermont, Kat gave the Major a blank look.

  “Honey, down home, white boys change their luck by miscegenation.”

  Before Kat could react to the remark the door opened and a pair of brick-shaped men came through, turning sideways to clear the door jam.

  They'd bought their matching black suits at Big and Tall. Always with a substantial discount, achieved by showing their federal credentials and sandwiching the manager as they softly inquired about today’s unadvertised special.

  Albert and Ernest Moran still occupied their childhood home in the Fells Point section of Baltimore. After their old man died from drink their old lady started talking to people who weren't there, and her boys gave her over to the tender mercies of the county home.

  As FPS agents they were hardly home anyway, so it just made sense, both financially and logistically. Besides, she stunk up the place with what the doc called her urinary incompetence.

  Al, Ern’s older brother by a year, leered at Major Machler, and pointed to the corner. His small blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he said, “Hey, Jemima, you missed a spot. Go get your mop and bucket.”

  Ern turned to Deputy Assistant Director Longstreet. “What’s up, sonnyboy?”

  Levon handed him the Paloma pickup order without comment, watched Special Agent Moran’s thin lips work on the words. “Nico-demo Paloma. Whatta we got; an Eye-Tie? Greenhorn without his green card?”

  It was his brother’s turn to laugh. “Hey, Ern. What kind of noise do flat tires make in Rome?”

  “Dago wop wop wop!” He winked at Kat, hoping she would join in the merriment. Not a hint of a smile. Another pointy headed computer freak. Probably got off with a vibrating mouse. Still, she wasn’t bad looking. Be nice to take her to Interrogation, do a full cavity search.

  Deputy Assistant Director Longstreet said, “Now that we’re finished with the big entrance, fellas, how about you listen up. Mr. Paloma’s ex-army, a shooter, so bring your A-game. And no side trips to the ER this time. I want him back here in one piece, and able to hold a conversation.” Levon couldn’t resist a bit of witticism of his own. “Capice?”

  After the Morans left Kat realized they had left a gym sock smell behind. She said, “You weren’t joking about cages in the basement, were you?”

  Major Machler looked at the empty doorway. “If anything, an understatement. I’ve run into MP’s who crawled up from the same gene pool. At least we had the Uniform Code of Military Justice to keep their choke chains tight.” She logged off Levon’s computer. “Now their kind have the Patriot Act to hide behind. It’s frontier justice, baby.” She headed for the door, muttering, “Goan cut mah dreads, transfer mah ass back to a combat command.”

  —o—

  Nick folded the bills and shoved them in his hip pocket. On the way out of the yard he noticed the forklift jockeys fooling with a 55 gallon drum. One arranged three soda cans on the drumhead while another clamped a set of jumper cables on an old battery. “Hey, Paloma,” he rasped. “Check this out. Initiation time for the new kid.”

  He yelled to a lanky teenager pushing a magnetic sweeper across the yard, picking up loose bits of iron before they found a tire. “Jeffy! Break time. Go grab us some sodas.” He pointed to the steel drum while his partner in crime crouched over the battery.

  As the boy reached for the sodas there was an explosion and the drumhead flew twenty feet in the air, landed with a clang. The sodas came down a moment later. The fork lift drivers laughed and the boy blushed. Nick said, “What the hell was that?”

  “Air bag. It’s why you’re not supposed to put your kids in the front seat. Radical, huh?”

  Nick's imagination took it a step further. “You got any more?”

  “In that old van. Help yourself.”

  Nick did, and carried one of the flat discs back across the street. He stopped in the office, checked the Dispatch Board, and handed Noodles a share of the VIN money, said he would be in the Cannon Works if anybody came looking.

  An ancient steel filing cabinet stood next to the turret lathe. Nick had cleaned out sixty years of paperwork, and coated the drawer slides with gun oil. He used it as a powder magazine, and filled it with primers, canisters of gunpowder, and brass. Along with a few handguns, and his Mad Money. After his VA visit, it looked like he’d be changing the name to College Fund.

  He pulled open the top drawer, added eight hundred to the nearly five thousand inside, then removed his medication, and rolled a dose. He wedged the air bag between the back of the cabinet and the drawer slide. Running a couple of wires took less than five minutes. All that remained was finding a twelve volt transformer and a kill switch.

  His cell rang. Noodles said, “Hey, a couple of feebs were just in here, looking for you. One of the dumb-ass drivers said he saw you crossing the tracks, so heads up.”

  He pinched the doobie, then took the little palm-sized Kel-Tec .32 out of the drawer, and shoved it in his jockey shorts. His friend retreated from the cold steel. He closed the file cabinet, and turned as the door opened.

  Two galoots, piggy eyes in pasty faces, flashed badges, said, “Nico-demo Paloma?”

  “You just missed him.” Nick pointed down the firing range. “Went out the back door.”

  “Har har. Grab the wall, pal. But I don’t need to tell you the drill, do I, Goombah?” Ern ran cursory hands over Nick’s arms, sides, legs.

  Al looked around the big space. “What’s this, your fuck pad?”

  “No, it’s where we shoot the porno. Feature length films, starring J. Edgar’s closet queens.” He turned his head, made kissing noises over his shoulder. “Nothing sucks like a Hoover.”

  Al slammed a fist into Nick’s kidney. “We’ll handle the jokes, asshole. Hook him up, baby brother.”

  The punch caught him by surprise, and the pain stabbed like a knife. Nick sagged against the file cabinet, sucked a strangled breath. Jesus, but that hurt. He fought it off, took a silent ten count and held out his wrists. They cuffed him, hands in front, and he knew he wasn’t the only asshole in the building. No self-respecting street cop would have neglected his crotch, and they sure as hell would have taken away the fat keyring clipped on his belt loop, and the handcuff key on it.

  Ern grabbed his left arm, Al the right. They walked him back across the tracks, led him to an Impala. He let them take more weight than necessary, buying time, getting a grip on the pain. Ther
e’d be pink piss in the bowl tonight.

  As they opened the rear door he noticed the tab of the child security lock in the engaged position. Nick grinned in spite of himself.

  “What’re you smiling at, asshole?” Al put his hand on the back of Nick’s head. Instead of guiding him into the seat, he said, “Watch you head, sport,” and slammed Nick’s forehead against the doorjamb. “Oops. I told you to be careful. Didn’t I, Ern? Didn’t I tell Nico-demo to be careful?” He laughed, shoved Nick inside, and slammed the door. “Some people just don’t listen.”

  Nick felt a tickle, and turned, checked his reflection in the glass. Blood trickled down his cheek. There was a cut above his eye, the kind you got in a clinch, when the other guy turned his glove, and raked the laces across your face.

  He sighed, leaned back, closed his eyes. Revisited another back seat ride, years before Liz was born. Before Mary, before the Army. Back where, if he’d returned for a second session with the VA shrink, she might have told him where it all started.

  In eighth grade Nick’s raging hormones generated so many schoolyard scuffles Father Ralph steered him into the PAL Golden Gloves program. Nicodemo progressed through the divisions, and a week after his thirteenth birthday he took his 12-0 record into the ring in a three round semifinal.

  His opponent, a sleepy-eyed kid from Puerto Rico, had a left that flicked out like a lizard’s tongue harvesting flies. And a goodnight right that put Nick down three times in the first round. Father Ralph encouraged him from the corner, telling him winners never quit, and quitters never win. The third time he met the canvas the voice of reason whispered in his ear, said discretion was the better part of valor. The meek shall inherit, and blessed are the peacemakers. Etcetera. Etcetera. He lay on his back, stared up at the kid, and retired from the ring with an honorable 12-1 record.