Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  —o—

  Senator Sagamore ‘Sags’ Scrimshaw III stood at the helm of the sloop Pequod, three sheets to the wind, and beating a tack across Buzzards Bay, when a Zodiac inflatable, its radar-reflecting gray surface stealthy as a shark, bounced over the chop and hove to.

  “Ahoy, Senator! Permission to come aboard,” called the Coast Guard officer through his loud hailer. Without waiting for a reply Ensign Pulver and two Able Bodied Seamen clambered onto the deck, their combat boots leaving black rubber streaks on the teak.

  The Senator was running unopposed, as he had for thirty years, and was taking advantage of an unseasonably warm autumn day for one last outing with a few members of his senatorial staff. The staff were sunning themselves on the foredeck, bikini tops safely stowed in the flag locker. They sat up and studied the three handsome sailors in their crisp white uniforms with a lack of self consciousness that only the young and privileged can pull off.

  “Senator Scrimshaw,” the young officer said, saluting. “The President sends his greetings, and notification that he has credible evidence an Act of War by a foreign power has occurred on American soil. We have been instructed to take you to safety at once.”

  The highways and byways of Ireland were mapped in some detail across the Senator’s cheeks, and his nose was a ruddy riot of downtown Dublin. Or, maybe it was sunburn. “This is outrageous!”

  “Yes, sir. I agree. A totally unprovoked attack—”

  “I meant what you have done to my deck. It will take hours and hours for these youngsters, on their hands and knees, to holy stone the teak!”

  “My apologies, sir. I will detail my Coast Guard personnel to put her shipshape again. My grandfather had a lovely old gal, much like this. Clinker built, out of Yarmouth. Trust me, Senator.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Men, help the Senator aboard the Zodiac, take him back to the ship. The helicopter is waiting.”

  “Wha, wha, what about my staff?”

  “Not to worry, sir. I will personally take the helm, see that both they and your sloop are safely berthed.”

  —o—

  Senator Beauchamp 'Beau' Charolais was hosting a get out the vote shrimp boil and beer bust when the downdraft of a big red and white Coast Guard Sea Stallion whisked away his towering swirl of white hair, settling once and for all the decades-long speculation as to the authenticity of his tonsorial splendor.

  The helicopter’s descent onto the manicured lawn of the Senator’s ancestral plantation on the Gulf of Mexico created a momentary tempest of plastic cups and shrimp shells. Ladies lost their decorum as their dresses were suddenly elevated in the updraft, and the elderly family retainers averted their eyes from such an unseemly display of feminine underpinnings.

  The rest of Senator Charolais was whisked away before he had time to offer his apologies for the indignities the Coast Guard had visited upon the assemblage. Nonetheless, they partied on.

  —o—

  Deep in the heart of Yoknapatawpha County six term Senator Shelby Fetlock heard the deep baying of his six leggy Walker hounds somewhere in the darkness of the fifty thousand acre Georgia Pacific pulpwood plantation.

  He could tell by their voice they’d treed a coon, and he hurried after Young Snopes, who had both the gun and the propane lantern. The Senator carried the GPS unit and his hip flask. Gettin’ lost with short rations was nothin’ to snicker at.

  “Over har, Cap’n Shel,” Young Snopes called, followed shortly by a blindingly bright light in the sky, and the boy wailing, “Oh Sweet Jesus, it’s The Rapture at last!”

  Not the much-anticipated Rapture at last, but another Sea Stallion, this one out of Mobile, and come not for Young Snopes, but old Fetlock.

  The boy and the dogs would have to find their own way home, as the Senator took both the GPS unit and the hip flask aboard the helicopter.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Nick abandoned the MetroDC wrecker in the middle of Cushing Street, behind an ambulance, two MPDC cruisers, and the Medical Examiner’s black wagon. The competing red, blue, and yellow lights flashing off the brick facades gave the narrow street a carnival air.

  A pair of neighborhood gossips clogged the sidewalk. “Oh, Nick, thank the Lord you’re here. I called the cops—”

  “No, it was me used the emergency button, on account of I had my Jitterbug in my apron pocket, like I always do—”

  “Okay, okay, she called the cops, but I was the one seen these two men coming out,” Mrs. Sylvester said to Nick, pushing in front of Mrs. Albertino. “With a rolled up rug.” She gave him a knowing look. “And we knew you wasn’t having nothing done, on account of Patty would of said.”

  Nick shouldered them aside, surged up the steps, left Kat in his wake to deal with the women. He crossed the threshold, took in the two cops, Patty, a man crouching over her.

  The Medical Examiner climbed to his feet, dropped a stethoscope in his bag. “Most likely her heart.” He pointed to the doorway. “One of the neighbors said she had high blood pressure. Also knew what medication she was on, and how many milligrams. I take it this is a close neighborhood?”

  “It wasn’t a rug, it was the green afghan, from the Lazy Boy,” Mrs. Albertino countered. “I remember when poor Patty’s mother, God rest her soul, crocheted it, like it was yesterday.”

  “Well, whatever it was, we was suspicious. So when they drove off, we went inside. On account of they left the door wide open.” She examined Kat. “Do we know you?”

  Mrs. Albertino expelled air at Mrs. Sylvester. “This is the one come home with Nick last night. Remember, I told you at the time, I wondered if they were keepin' company.”

  “Well, I hope she didn't stay over, not with the daughter in the house. Nick's a widower, but still.”

  “No, she and Nick left, and that crew of Poppy's was still in there. No idea what they was up to, all them old men, alone with Patty, and little Elizabeth, bless her heart.”

  Kat escaped, followed Nick up the steps, but stopped at the doorway when she saw Patty and heard Nick.

  “Where the fuck’s my daughter?”

  That got the cops' attention, and they pulled their eyes away from the enormous and very exposed breasts of the dead woman at their feet. “What daughter?”

  Nick pointed at the book bag, its contents spilled across the living room floor. “Elizabeth Paloma. She gets home from school about now.”

  “Maybe she saw the dead lady, panicked. Dropped her books, ran off.”

  The second cop said, “Little kids’ll do that. What we call your traumatic denial syndrome. The dead lady her mother?”

  Nick ignored them, pointed at Patty. “Doc, those two red marks. Could they be from a stun gun?” Nick turned his head, bared his neck for the Medical Examiner. “Like these?”

  Poppy pushed through the door, pushed the cops aside, knelt beside Patty. Mary’s death had come in the front door with an officer in his Class A uniform, and Poppy, a veteran from another war, knew before the young Lieutenant opened his mouth it was about Mary.

  Nick hurried to the kitchen, flipped through Poppy’s phone register, reached for the wall-mounted land line. He decided Lieutenant Fred was the man to get the call. He would know how to get in touch with the others, and could use his clout to get them here.

  Nick dropped to a knee beside Poppy, laid a hand on his shoulder. “I called Fred. Said he’d make sure this was handled right, whatever that means. He’s picking up some of your crew, be here a-sap.” He paused, checked to see if Poppy was with him. “Liz is missing.”

  “Wha—”

  Nick pointed at the school books strewn across the carpet. “I think she walked in on this.”

  The two cops pulled themselves up a notch as a tall black man with a detective's shield clipped to his belt gave the room a quick sweep. He decided Nick was the place to start.

  Nick shook his head. “I haven’t a clue what happened here. I just walked in a couple of minutes ago. That’s the woman’s fa
ther, Poppy Martin. Sky Six?” Nick caught Kat’s eye, jerked his head toward the door. “That’s my DCMetro wrecker outside, and I gotta get to work. You need me for a statement, I’ll be at the Impoundment Yard.”

  He pushed his way through the crowd, Kat following in his wake. “There’s nothing here for us. Let’s go to HomSec. That’s where they took me. If we don’t find Liz locked in one of your torture chambers, at least we can lay hands on the bastards that snatched her.”

  “Shouldn’t we let the police handle it?” I know last night you didn’t want me to call 911. But this is—”

  “Is what? Patty’s dead, and the M.E. will futz around for a week. Looking to cover his ass, in case it’s not a heart attack. 911 has already been called, and the wheels are starting to turn.

  “My daughter? They’ll check at school, ask about boy friends, did she ever run away from home. I know what the hell happened. And I plan to move fast and loose. You going to help, or not?”

  “Of course I’m going to help. But hey. I’m just a computer geek.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen you handle a keyboard.”

  Nick slowed in front of the HomSec building, checked out the Stryker, the Bearclaw troopers lounging against the ominous black vehicle, flaunting the arrogance of unearned authority.

  He continued around the side of the building, pulled the wrecker to the curb at the top of the ramp, and left the roof bar flashing. They walked down the smooth concrete, ducked under the crossbar, and hurried through the cool darkness. Their footsteps echoed in the man-made cavern. Kat pressed her palm against the turnstile reader. No click, no buzz, nothing.

  Nick pointed to the far end of the line of turnstiles. “When the Morans brought me in they used an elevator down there.”

  “Right. But it doesn’t go to Five; those interrogation rooms without door handles are on Three.” She tried the palm reader at another turnstile with the same results. “Looks like I lost my access. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s just the readers. Let’s go around to the main entrance, use my ID card.”

  —o—

  They decided to dump the kid at the cop shop on 5th Street. Since they were in Chinatown, they could swing past New Big Wong, on H Street, pick up a couple of cartons of chink on the way to the stakeout. Kung pao, Szechwan, and enough Tsingtao to quench the fire. And plastic forks. Chopsticks were strictly Georgetown fagaroony.

  Their FPS creds got them past the crowd of riffraff clustered around the desk Sergeant. Crying kids, battered women, handcuffed street punks, each contributing their unique resonance and aroma to the busy lobby. Static-laced radio chatter added to the bedlam.

  They dragged the girl back to the bullpen, handed her over to a black woman in a uniform that needed to be let out another notch. “She’s hopped up on some kind of middle eastern shit.” Ern flashed his HomSec ID. These days it carried more weight than a police badge. “Material witness we need to keep handy. Part of a foreign plot.”

  “She don’t look foreign. Looks like a schoolgirl.”

  “Half the hookers in here started out as schoolgirls.”

  “Yeah, you got a point. I can put her in with the ladies, but just for this shift. You better come back for her, you hear?”

  Al laughed, winked. “You can take it to the bank.”

  —o—

  Kat and Nick hurried back up the ramp. He stopped her at the sidewalk. “Let’s rethink this. There’s a reason your palm recognition doesn’t work anymore. And there’s a reason the FPS guards were replaced with Bearclaw security. It's the same outfit provides protection for diplomats in foreign hot spots. Famous for shoot first, and don't ask questions.”

  He climbed in the wrecker. “Whatever's going on, it doesn't concern me or my daughter. If we can't get in the building, then we'll go after the those FPS agents where they live. You happen to remember a first name?”

  “Who? Oh, the Morans. I think they’re brothers.”

  “They sure looked like a matched set.” He snapped his fingers in her face, urging focus. “Names?”

  She pushed his hand away. “I’m thinking. Al and Arn. No, Ern. Yes, Ern. Ernest? Al could be Allen, Albert, Aloysius. Why?”

  He killed the roof bar, started the engine. “We’ll try the computer at the Yard. When we tow an abandoned vehicle we pull up a name from DMV. Or VIN tracking. We have reverse directories for Maryland, DC, and Virginia.”

  As Nick pulled away from the curb a black Bearclaw Humvee took their place. Two troopers walked down the ramp. Kat slumped in the seat. “Shit. I bet I tripped an alert when I tried to access the building.”

  Nick looked over at her, nose peeking over the dash. “You really think you’re that important?”

  It didn’t take her long to process the latest data. “Yes.”

  —o—

  “Hey, honey, you don’t look so good. LaDonna, she don’t look so good.”

  “Don’t look Street, neither. She Embassy Row, that get-up. Them A-rabs like ‘em young. Hey, baby. Who you Old Man? You got someone to bail yo’ ass out of here?”

  “She-it, LaDonna, she too stoned to remember her own name, let alone who to call. What you on, honey? You got any more?”

  Liz floated to the top of the holding cell, and looked down on the women below. Through the Percocet haze she saw a black girl not much older than herself, and others as old and fat as Aunt Patty. They seemed to be having fun, despite the bars.

  —o—

  Nick returned his office Beretta to the desk drawer, booted the Metro Traffic computer. “Aha. There’s an Ernest Moran in Baltimore, and one in Silver Spring.” Sixty seconds later he said, “No A-L’s of any kind in either place.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe Al is his middle name.”

  “Maybe he doesn't have a driver's license.”

  “Everybody has a driver's license.”

  “I bet the president doesn't. Or my boss.” She shoved him aside, dropped to her hands and knees.

  “Al Moran's not in their league. What are you doing?”

  Kat crawled under the desk. “Hoping to get in the back door.” She surfaced, a tangle of wires in her hand, followed one to the console telephone on the desk, and unplugged it, then connected it to her laptop.

  A few keystrokes later she said, “I was afraid of that. Access Denied. O.K. fuckwads; you want to play rough, see how you like this.” She connected her laptop to the Impoundment hard drive, returned to her keyboard. A few minutes later MetroDC Traffic was talking to Human Resources at the Department of Homeland Security. “They live together. In Baltimore.” She disconnected her computer, stowed it in her carryall. “So, what’s the plan, Stan?”

  “We go to Baltimore. But first we go to the Cannon Works, pickup some serious weapons.”

  —o—

  The Five decided the public needed comfort and familiarity during the nation's moment of crisis, and someone to blame when things went awry, so the famous set of Yes, Sir, Mr. President was borrowed from the Smithsonian, and hastily erected in the East Room.

  The historic space blazed with studio lights as minions and functionaries scurried hither and yon, desperately hoping to recreate the zany moments etched in the memories of millions.

  “Sixty seconds.”

  Makeup and Wardrobe attacked the Leader of the Free World in a tumultuous frenzy. Wardrobe stepped away, put the back of his hand on his hip. “The tie has got to go.”

  POTUS checked the label on his Bvlgari seven-fold silk necktie. “Too European?”

  “No-no. Moiré, moiré. You’ll look like some flyover rube on community cable. How many times have I absolutely begged Mr. Drubb to let me go through your closet with a 60 dpi scanner? Moiré patterns are as deadly as red dresses certain individuals insist on wearing on camera. Honestly. Where is the professionalism these days?”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  Makeup tucked a towel into the now-open collar of the Brooks Brothers button down shirt. “Just a dab of the old Prep H under our eyes t
o whisk away those saggy baggies. And a puff or two of Instant Sunshine for that outdoorsy glow. Ready for your close-up, Mr. President.”

  “Ten. Nine. Eight. Sev—”

  DEERSLAYER handed SHORTSTOP a Venezuelan passport. “You might want to hold this up to the camera at the appropriate moment. When you mention Edge’s credible evidence would be a good time.”

  The president grabbed the document, flipped through the pages. “It’s blank. What gives?”

  “Five and four and three—”

  “Best we could do, on short notice. I assure you, the real thing will be showing up within the hour.”

  Squinting at the teleprompter, the president intoned, “Good afternoon, folks. I’m going to talk to you off the top of my head today. No script, no made-up words by speech writers, like the good old days on my Emmy award-winning show, Yes, Sir, Mr. President.” He considered using one of his famous ad-libs, but none came to mind, and the teleprompter was rolling.

  The president clasped his hands on the famous desk and looked directly at the unblinking red light on Camera One as the operator ever so slowly zoomed in for a tight head crop. “I'm told, by folks whose job it is to know, these gas truck crashes over the last few days, well, they weren’t accidents, after all. No sir. Aliens have infiltrated our sacred soil, and are attacking the very fabric of our way of life, which is driving our automobiles on the Interstates.”

  The president chewed a thumbnail, as if in thought. “First of all, I want to assure the American people I am assuming control of the situation, so you can go about your daily lives.” He stood, moved to the marks chalked in front of Gilbert Stuart's portrait of Washington, and faced Camera Two. The one tracking him with a following dolly shot, and angled up, so the president suddenly seemed six inches taller.