Though they would deny heatedly, when dealing with the big boys, power, position, money, and influence leavened the media's word selections.
Let 'em howl. Old Dog dropped a pair of single-0 buckshot shells into the sawed-off double barrel's chambers. He closed the action, appreciating the still solid snick of closely machined steel. The tang safety was automatic. Until he thumbed it forward, the shotgun would not fire.
The Yamaha purchased in Daytona was next. He had stashed the motorcycle in an old shed behind a Marklesville farm. Tim and Larry believed he had given it away. Externally, the cycle was a rolling disaster. Rusted, scraped, and bent here and there, the bike looked like junk, but it ran with a tight-cylindered fury that could pop a wheel on demand.
Old Dog dug out a long ignored full face helmet, dusted off the plastic face piece, and kick started the Yamaha. He cut a few figure eights before broad sliding through a number of over-fast turns on the dirt trace leading across their property.
Dog felt the unaccustomed weakness of arm and leg, but riding a scooter was like walking. As long as balance held out, he could do it.
Yet, even the few minutes of familiarizing tired him badly, and the ache across his lower back pounded unmercifully. He rode the cycle onto the positioned pickup and tied it down. He covered the cycle carefully. He had no doubt it would appear on television, and he did not want some casual observer recalling that Old Dog Carlisle had a machine like that.
Bat Stailey's media event would go off at two PM. That would allow plenty of time for editing before the evening news. Old Dog hoped public attendance would not be large. His plan approached foolhardy and contained too many seeds of disaster. A touch of ill luck could thwart his best effort, but he had no extra time. Old Dog saw no other way.
Stailey's house would now be an unapproachable fortress. Someone had set up Stailey, and the gangster would suspect an inside job. What outsider could have known about the money stash?
The coincidence of trying to stuff his derringer into the bathrobe pocket holding Stailey's money cache still tickled Old Dog's fancy. There had been seven thousand dollars in the packet. A handsome and unexpected bonus, and a valuable byproduct was Bat Stailey's probable belief in inside betrayal. Unfortunately, the mobster would be heavily guarded at home.
On the road, Stailey had his limo. Some said the car was bulletproof. Perhaps it was not, but its tinted windows hid occupants. Without knowing where Stailey sat, Old Dog could not just ride alongside and blast him with the shotgun.
The photo and press opportunity was the best chance. If Old Dog had preparation time, a distant sniping hide might have been found. Or, close study might have proven it practical to shoot from a little way out and ride away. The problem there could be shifting and unanticipated crowd movement. A clear shot might prove impossible. Old Dog did not have practice runs to find out.
There was one sure way, but it was not so certain that he could ride away unscathed, which, to come full circle, was why he and he alone was singularly equipped to do the job.
Unlike his planned execution of Hunch Watson, Old Dog would just go for it and hope for the best.
The vigilante would gallop his bronc into town, gun down the evil gambler, and ride into the sunset (a big maybe there) while grateful town folk gazed admiringly after him. Ha! Any admiring would not happen or be admitted publicly, but if Stailey went down, many a TV watcher would privately echo Old Dog Carlisle's own thoughts of "Got the bastard at last!"
It was still mid-morning, so he had a lot of time. A nap now was sort of essential. Old Dog would take his pain killers and buffer their impact on his sensitive stomach with a milkshake. He would sleep until noon, then motor on down to Harrisburg.
Stailey would not be early lest a news team arrive late. Old Dog would have time for a quick reconnoiter and selection of a waiting sight. When Bat Stailey started talking, Old Dog Carlisle would deliver thirteen or maybe the full twenty-six buckshot packed into his double gun. Dog doubted Stailey could digest all of them.
Chapter 19
Bat Stailey waited inside the courthouse with some impatience. It was not the best of times. The thought of the trap set for him, certainly by someone close, curdled his guts, and he still was not clear of it. The confessed killer could still recant, although such a foolhardy action was improbable. There had, in fact, been serious discussion as to when it would be best to eliminate the man.
One camp believed he should permanently disappear just before trial. The law could then spend eternity looking for him. Another side preferred elimination in prison following conviction. That solution closed the case. Stailey hoped that the confessor would be granted his rewards and the promised safety; he recalled a similar situation when a lawyer had appeared with witnessed and notarized damning statements by an associate too hastily terminated.
Those were only part of Bat Stailey's worry.
Powers far greater than Stailey were edgy. The organization did not like police investigations. Public interest in their activities was unwelcome. Images became tarnished, and who knew what might be uncovered.
Prominent individuals like Bat were expected to wear clean skirts. They were to be likeable, socially acceptable, and handsome—if possible, the kind of men others admired and respected. Hints of mob connections could add a touch of titillation, but nothing dirty should cling.
Stailey had long been an epitome of such a man. His too-close association to a double slaying required immediate public explanation and personal distancing. Bat intended his courthouse appearance—emphasizing unremitting harassment, personal indignation, and unequivocal innocence—to be a powerhouse.
The law had thought they had Bat Stailey cold, and the unexpected confession fell like a bomb amid their expectations. At the moment, the prosecutors and investigators were on the ropes, and Stailey intended hammering so hard they would be extremely leery of trying for him again.
Although he would have preferred having his attorneys handle everything, Stailey's very prominence demanded a public appearance. His familiar craggy features with his majestic crown of thick, gray hair was often featured at social and philanthropic gatherings.
Persons of power, men of respect, were expected to stand tall and to speak out. False accusations and personal affronts could not be tolerated, and Stailey's indignation would be understood and shared.
Everyone despised lawyers, and many citizens had serious doubts about law enforcement's sense of justice. Stailey intended to feed those dislikes and confusions. He expected that following his press interview his social presence would be in increased demand. Many would simply be hoodwinked. Others would desire his presence much as a viewer is attracted to a safely confined serpent. Hints of danger, mystery, and intrigue were irresistible to some. Rumors of CIA, FBI, and Cosa Nostra connections added spice to humdrum lives. Bat Stailey could emerge whistle clean and still be Harrisburg's acceptable bad boy. "The man you just have to have at your next social affair."
It was time. Bat checked his appearance—tie knotted dead center, perfect fitting jacket pulled tightly downward so no material rolled behind the neck, sharply creased trousers. Television stared mercilessly at such usually minor details. Noses must never wrinkle. Lips could not be moistened by an errant tongue, and avoid eyes darting and blinking. Look regal, elegant, above the pettiness forced upon you—that was the ticket.
No bodyguards could be present. Hard guys with suspicious underarm bulges would be contrary to the solid citizen demeanor. Flanked by a pair of lawyers, at least as well known as himself, Bat went forth. The waiting reporters began addressing their microphones, centered above the speaking spot, and cameras were focused on them.
Mixing a greeting smile with eye flashing determination and outrage, Stailey took his place.
Two microphones were on stands, and a reporter sat low on the step holding aloft a third. Hand-held TV cameramen braced their backs against curb parked cars, and a pair of still photographers snapped away. Stailey wondered
idly what they did with all the photos. Only one or two would ever appear in print.
Off to the left a motorcycle fired up. Its explosive rap caused a soundman to curse, and Stailey permitted a slight frown of annoyance to touch his brow. Until the noise abated, he would wait.
The cyclist wore a white upper garment and seemed slim. His features were lost behind a plastic face shield. The rider eased his machine into the approaching lane with a careful, unhurried grace. Inwardly Stailey fumed, but he looked away, smiling condescendingly into the cameras, allowing the delay to increase his empathy with the equally annoyed reporters.
Old Dog had cruised into Harrisburg an hour early. No crowd gathered before the courthouse, but they would come. Journalists worked with deadlines. They would arrive just in time, do their work, and be gone as quickly. No fuss, just a job to do.
Dog parked his pickup in an alley south of the square. He chose a spot where he could back against a high, protruding cement curb. That flattened his ramp's angle and made unloading the motorcycle less difficult.
The Yamaha was not a Harley. Hundreds of pounds lighter, it once would have offered no challenge. In his weakened condition, Old Dog had his work cut out, but he got the bike down and the kickstand out. Instantly exhausted and more than a little dizzy, he sat sidesaddle and let his wind come back. Phlegm clogged his breathing, and he hocked and spat it loose. Were there blood specks? He was not sure. God, what a mess he was, and why bother with all this? Nobody gave a hoot in hell about Bat Stailey anyway.
But he did! He had chosen to tackle the job, and he would see it through. One last danger-filled, worthwhile effort—it really was that—so he would do it.
And, it might well be his last effort. His plan was little more than a shop window smash, grab, and run. You relied on confusion and luck to get away. Sometimes it worked, but often it did not. One alert cop standing in the way could end a get away before he rode ten feet. Old Dog felt his heart begin to pump with adrenalin excitement.
Too soon for that. He had to husband what little energy and strength he had, because he was not going to just down Bat Stailey and roll over. He intended to escape, and that could require hard riding and lengthy effort.
Old Dog climbed into the truck cab and dozed away a half hour.
The day was brisk with overcast sky. Wind off the Susquehanna was sharp. It was a gloves and leather jacket day, but Old Dog's motorcycle jacket was rolled in the Harley Davidson's saddlebag, high in their barn peak. Instead, he pulled a white dress shirt over a denim jacket. The shirt afforded no protection, but if he rode free of close pursuit, he could shed the thing and disguise his appearance.
He hated full face helmets, but the plastic mask completely hid his features, and on a chill day like this one it was a welcome shield.
Dog laid the sawed-off shotgun across his thighs and draped an ancient towel over it. The muzzles lay to the right. He would shoot left handed. The Yamaha idled poorly, and his right hand would be busy with the cycle's throttle. He would bring the cycle to a halt in neutral using the foot brake. He would grip the gun, flick off the safety with his thumb, and shoot from beneath his extended right arm. The shotgun would kick like hell, up against his arm he hoped. If it did, he might control the damned cannon enough for a second barrel. Then, drop the gun onto his thighs, get the machine into gear, and ride like the very devil was in hot pursuit. He intended to be gone before shock wore off and people leaped at him or got their own guns working. It sounded routinely simple enough. He wondered if it would be.
Dog rode easily up Second Street, turned left and again left onto Front. He turned left a third time onto the courthouse street. Parking was easy. It usually was for motorcycles. Almost any gap would do. Dog backed the Yamaha into the curb, kickstanded, cut the engine, and relaxed.
Microphones were going up, and a reporter stood as if speaking for camera focusing. No one glanced Old Dog's way. A traffic cop was keeping cars moving. Dog took notice of the officer's quick draw pistol rig. The day of poor-shooting policemen with green, corroded cartridges frozen into ancient .38-caliber revolvers was gone. The streets were mean, and police had learned about pistol practice. How good and how quick a shot this officer was remained to be seen. His back tingling in apprehension, Old Dog wished he owned body armor.
Bat Stailey came out. His appearance was on schedule, but unannounced, and Old Dog felt suddenly unready. He steeled his nerve, and as Stailey took position on the steps, Dog kicked over the Yamaha. The engine caught loud and strong. Stailey glanced over and then disinterestedly away as Old Dog eased into the traffic lane.
As he had expected, the sidewalk between the speaker and the cameras lay empty. Like a classroom, Old Dog thought, everybody crowded the back.
The reporter holding a mike up to Stailey was a worry. Dog wanted no innocent victims. Stailey's lawyers ranged aggressively alongside their client, looking grave and offended. Highly effective, Old Dog believed. They held the cameras' attention, waiting for Dog's engine noise to subside.
His heart thudding, mouth suddenly parched, fearful of wetting his pants, Old Dog began his move into traffic. His lungs ached for air, his muscles felt like Jello. God, he'd never make it!
Then, without warning, with the skill of a thousand repetitions, Dog horsed the cycle over the curb and onto the sidewalk. He powered ahead, causing an observer to leap cursing aside, and he was there. He braked hard, booting into neutral, the Yamaha rocking on its suspension. Bat Stailey looked down at him, perhaps annoyed, but appearing regally above it all.
Doubts and anxieties buried, the cameras, spectators, and policeman forgotten, Old Dog's left hand gripped the sawed-off shotgun. His thumb slid away the safety. His concentration lasered on Bat Stailey's form, Dog snapped the gun up beneath his right arm just as he had planned. Acutely aware of consternation altering Stailey's patrician features, the seated reporter's frantic collapse and the lawyers' belated cringes away were barely peripheral.
Cold—as controlled as he had been those forty or so years past when he had killed other enemies until he went down himself—Old Dog Carlisle fired his first barrel point-blank into Bat Stailey's chest.
Irritation at the unexpected delay rode Bat Stailey. Timing in large part controlled an audience, and here he had to stand attempting to appear dominant, waiting out the racket of some fool on a motorcycle. If he had the power, Stailey would have murdered the idiot
With mounting disbelief he saw the cyclist cut back onto the sidewalk and power his way to a skidding halt directly before him.
Unnoticing, the traffic cop wagged his baton at leisurely moving automobiles. Stailey swore he would have the half-wit's badge.
The cyclist's black plastic mask was turned blankly toward him. Only then did the cold menace in the rider's lean frame strike Bat Stailey.
As if in slow motion, Stailey saw the twin muzzles of a shotgun appear below the rider's right armpit. Within his horror, Stailey's mind asked who had ordered and paid for the hit. Names flashed as he wished his body into motion, knowing he would have someone's soul for this. Until the buckshot struck, Bat Stailey did not consider that he was going to die.
The shotgun bucked like a mule, but Old Dog did not feel it. He saw the microphones in front of Stailey disintegrate, and a large piece struck Stailey's face. The blast ruffled Stailey's coat and shirt, as if a powerful fan had swung past. The big form appeared to deflate a little just before Old Dog squeezed his second trigger.
There seemed to be a lot of smoke, more than there should be, Old Dog thought, but there was no doubt his charges had gone home. The first barrel had frozen Stailey in place. The second shot-load buckled him like a jackknife. Old Dog stomped the Yamaha into gear and fed in power. The rear tire squalled on concrete, caught traction, and the motorcycle burst into motion.
The acceleration slid Old Dog back in his saddle, but he leaned forward, avoiding a wheely, keeping his front wheel on the sidewalk for steering. The shotgun balanced precariously across his lap
but stayed on.
Dog held to the sidewalk, driving for distance between his exposed back and possible shooters. The police officer was in the street and would have to gain the sidewalk to make a shot. Dog heaved around an astonished pair of pedestrians, glad to have them between himself and the policeman.
There was no time to consider how he had done. The run was like racing motorcross; he wove around walkers and rocketed across an alley's curbing. He hit the Second Street corner as hard as his machine could go. Dog muscled the Yamaha into a side-slipping right turn, right foot down and sliding, accelerating out, seeking protection behind intervening buildings. Second Street traffic traveled north. Old Dog stayed on the sidewalk and went south. Against the grain, he would be hard to follow.
The unexpected attack and cold-blooded execution stunned and paralyzed. Cameramen filmed automatically, their minds barely comprehending. One managed to follow the fleeing murderer, zooming in closely and holding until the rider disappeared. The others stayed on the chaos on the courthouse steps.
The steps reporter, his microphone still working, babbled wildly, attempting to record his observations and impressions. A lawyer huddled above Stailey's blasted form. The other had fainted and lay unmoving. For minutes, it was believed he too had been shot. The traffic policeman only belatedly realized that something awkward had happened. He did not even see the motorcyclist escape.
Confusion ruled. Men screamed for ambulances, and journalists spoke frantically and sought other views. The lone policeman hollered into his hand-held radio, but for long minutes no pursuit was mounted, and for many more minutes no one had much of a description of the "Killer Biker"—the name quickly adopted by the media.
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