by J. L. Salter
Most remained skeptical, however.
After a long absence, Joe trudged up behind the duplexes, around the Henleys’ retaining wall, and onto the back deck. He stopped to take a breath before entering the back door. Pete saw him and hurried over. They conferred briefly and then Pete clapped him on his sore shoulder. Joe winced noticeably and headed toward the back door. On his way out, he grabbed a cookie from a plate Irene had not yet wrapped and exited toward Stanley’s one-man scout station to the east.
Pete returned to the small group. “Joe says the lead truck has moved up in front of the next duplex and the second truck has turned onto North Pleasant. The third truck is right at the corner. I told him to pull Stanley back one more building this way.”
****
Opposing Force
Foss fumed as each of the three large vehicles advanced only slightly along North Pleasant Drive. “C’mon you guys! Ain’t no reason this should take so long. Just get the good stuff and leave all the junk. No books, you idiots! Just silver, jewelry, electronics and cash. Check in the closets for guns. Hustle. Hustle. Hustle.”
Herve stood beside him and shook his head. “This ain’t going so fast, man. My loading guys are just standing around waiting on Dante’s haulers to bring stuff out.”
“They’re spending more time looking around than hauling.” Foss examined his stopwatch and then closed his eyes for brief mathematical calculations. “This is taking too much blitzin’ time. Those morons wouldn’t know what was valuable if it bit them on the butt.”
“They’d recognize money, man. Where do old folks keep all their money?”
Foss couldn’t contain his disgust. “Probably in blitzin’ CDs.”
Herve shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Can’t Dante get them guys moving, man?”
“Dante can’t wipe his own nose. Once we’re done with this operation, he’s history.” Foss looked at the lead truck. “That truck should’ve been down past the first side street by now.”
“Just waiting on the haulers, man.” Herve looked around. “Somebody should’ve brought some boxes.”
“What?” Foss felt pole-axed.
“Yeah, man. Those guys are carrying stuff loose out to my trucks. We don’t have nothing to put that junk in, man. So they’re just piling it up in corners. We need boxes, man.”
“Boxes are supposed to come with the blitzin’ trucks!” Foss fumed and clicked the stopwatch indiscriminately.
“Maybe when you’re renting, man, but not when you steal them.”
Foss poked Herve’s chest with the stopwatch. “You’re in charge of gitting the trucks. You should’ve took care of the boxes!”
“Don’t touch me, man.” Herve brushed away his hand abruptly. “You’re the big shot said you had all them lo-tis-gics worked out. Ain’t boxes lo-tis-gic, man?”
The look in Foss’s eyes obviously unnerved Herve.
“Hey! What about bags, man? Got any more big black bags?”
“We just had two that somebody left behind the seat in that big truck.” Foss snarled. “Only one bag’s empty. We used the other one at the drug store, which is the only thing that’s gone right today.”
Herve didn’t speak for a few moments, and when he did, it was a different subject. “You seen all them old folks heading up that hill?”
“Yeah. So what?” Foss clicked his stopwatch absent-mindedly.
“Nothing, man. Just letting you know they’re getting away.”
“Okay. Great. Now how about your guys helping Dante’s idiots git this junk loaded?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday at 1:05 p.m.
Barricade
Pete motioned to Chet. “Break out the Honor Guard rifles.” He handed over a small ring of keys and inclined his head toward an inside utility room near the garage. “Red key opens the door.”
Inside was a wooden floor rack with a padlocked bar, so Chet went though all the smaller keys. He quickly inspected the seven unloaded M-1 Garand rifles.
“Leave the bolts back and breeches open,” instructed Pete.
Chet carefully placed each rifle back in its slot and got Mitch to help haul the loaded rack into the small space inside the front entrance. Then Chet returned the keys. “Prophet said his firing pin was busted.”
“Yeah, I’d set it aside at the cemetery but forgot to check it once I got home.” Pete pointed to his own head.
Chet shrugged. “Anyhow, we got six M-1s working. Is Garands all we got? I didn’t bring my guns over here. Didn’t figure ta need them at a cookout.”
Pete held up sequential fingers until they totaled four. “I got a .308 deer rifle, Winchester Model 70. Plus a Savage 330 over ‘n under 12-gauge, and my .45 pistol. Irene’s Dad left me an old Springfield ‘03 that the breech was spiked before it came back overseas.”
“They wouldn’t ship it to the U.S. before they ruint it, right?” Chet shook his head.
“I’d left it with a gunsmith who said he’d get it back to working order.” Pete almost growled. “It sat in his shop four months and I finally said the blazes with him.”
“That’s eleven guns, but only nine working.” Chet grabbed Wade’s elbow as he re-entered from outside. “How about you? Guns.”
“I got a snake gun.” Wade held up a .410 single barrel shotgun with a pistol grip. “And a little paintball gun that looks like a .45 pistol.”
“That’s thirteen pieces but only ten working firearms.” Pete frowned. “Anybody else?”
“I have a .38 snubby I keep locked in my glove box.” Mitch turned and hustled outside to retrieve it.
“Fourteen.” Pete had run out of fingers.
“I bought my Louisville Slugger, out in Chet’s truck.” Ellie wanted in. “That’ll do me just fine.”
Chet nodded. “I reckon that counts for fifteen.”
“Ellie, get rakes, hoes, and shovels from my garage for the other women.”
Irene just looked on. Her stronghold was her own kitchen and she rarely visited Pete’s garage.
Pete tapped Chet’s shoulder. “You remember how to field strip the M-1?”
Chet couldn’t help smiling. “Upside down and blindfolded. Why?”
“Pull the bolt out of the one with the busted pin. We don’t want any mix-ups out there on the line.”
Chet nodded and turned to leave.
Pete stopped him. “I got a special tool for that bolt assembly.” He went back to his locked utility closet for the tool and also retrieved two boxes of ammunition for the Honor Guard rifles. “I forgot all we have is blanks.”
“Beats nothing.” Chet cleared his throat loudly. “Pete, we need a complete ammo check.”
Wade was ready. “I got plenty of .177 paint pellets, but only four shells for my .410.”
Mitch returned from his jog up the hill with a sore hip and heavy breathing. “All I have is the five .38 cartridges in this snubby. Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special.”
“Pete has most of our firepower.” Chet turned to the host. “You got ammo for all yours?”
“Yeah. Two boxes of .308’s for my deer rifle — that’s forty rounds. About half a box of shells for the over n’ under, so I guess that’s about thirteen rounds of 12-gauge. Half a box of .45’s for the Colt, so about twenty-five rounds.”
Chet rubbed his chin. “That ain’t much, but it’s enough ta get started.”
“Also got two full boxes of ammo for the old Springfield — forty rounds more.” Pete winked. “Springfield ammo works in those Garands too.”
Chet closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah, you’re right — .30’06. Good thinking. Got any clips?”
En bloc clips were not necessary for the Honor Guard’s single fire shooting. Pete shook his head. “Probably best anyhow, with as few rounds as we got. Somebody gets excited they could fire eight rounds before they took a deep breath.”
Chet started to turn away but Pete tapped his shoulder again. “Once we settle exactly who’s on our barricade, you hand
out the working Garands to the men who can use them. If you got extras, give them the briefing, quick and dirty. And divvy up the live ammo from the Springfield.”
“We got ta be sure they know the difference between this live ammo and those blanks they been shooting for so long.”
Pete was silent a moment. “Any suggestions?”
“Yeah, give all the blanks ta me. Nobody’ll get confused then. Plus, I know how I can use them.”
Leo the Liar came up. “You guys worried about ammo? No sweat, you can shoot nails.”
“Nails?” That was obviously an exciting prospect for a machine and equipment nut like Wade.
Leo seemed mildly surprised to get a reaction. “Yeah. Norm said his buddy Gary was talking about it. Gary shot a bunch out of his M-14 in ‘Nam.”
“Nails?” News to Pete.
Leo nodded. “Norm said you put your blank in the chamber, close the bolt, and drop a ten penny nail down the barrel. It’ll rest up against the tip of the blank. Pull the trigger, and that bad boy goes lickety-split down the barrel. Just like a real long, skinny bullet.”
“Won’t spin, though.” Chet made that motion with his forefinger. “Because it won’t be steered by the barrel grooves.”
“No, shouldn’t spin.” Leo made the same motion.
“Bet it wobbles a bit.” Wade’s fingers did a good wobble. “Wonder if it tumbles after a while?”
“I don’t know. I never shot no nails from a rifle. I’m just telling you what I heard.” Leo looked slightly disgusted. “The point is, if we run out of live ammo, we can fire nails with those blanks. We’re not talking about hitting bull’s eyes at the state fair, this is about stopping gangsters from killing us.” Leo sighed heavily and left.
“Gary knows what he’s talking about. I just hope Norm got the story straight from him.” Pete rolled his eyes. “And I wonder if Lyin’ Leo got it straight from Norm.”
Chet examined the long bayonet left by the resident who’d already fled to the main complex. Sixteen inch blade — manufactured for the Springfield 1903 rifle.
Wade went to the garage, probably to look discreetly for some large nails.
Pete was still thinking about nails and turned to Chet. “We got plenty of blanks and lots of nails, but, that’s our last resort only. Nails would ruin those M-1 bores and we’d never get replacements.”
“You boys finish talking about hardware stores?” Ellie had returned in time for the recent conversation.
Both nodded.
“Well, I wasn’t keeping exact count, but it sounds like we got a bit over a hundred and twenty-five rounds of actual bullets, all calibers total. I ain’t counting paint pills, nails, ner hatpins. That won’t last us five Bless George minutes if them punks is trigger happy out there.”
Pete nodded slowly. “True. True. Pass the word — pick your targets and space your shots.” Then he remembered. “Well, we have to do that anyhow, with no clips for the Garands.”
“Sarge, these old rifles aren’t sighted-in.” Herb pointed to the rack. “At funerals, the only aim we take is holding a forty-five degree angle. We can’t hit nothing with these sights.”
“No time for target practice now, even if we did have enough ammo.” Pete rubbed his chin. “Just do your best.”
As Herb hobbled away slowly, Pete said softly, “Wouldn’t make much difference if the Garands were sighted-in. Most of these guys are half blind anyhow.”
Panting heavily, Joe appeared at the condo’s back door again and Pete rushed over to get the word. Joe’s briefing was succinct and rather breathless.
“Tell Stanley to pull back another building. That’ll put him between Melvin’s and Earl’s places.” That was the next alley to the east, about a hundred and twenty feet away from where Pete stood. He again clapped Joe on his aching shoulder.
Likely knowing what was coming, Joe lowered his shoulder as Pete’s hand struck. It lessened the impact, but only slightly. Joe winced and headed back outside. Irene handed him a large cookie as he hustled by.
Pete returned to the main group in the dining space. “They’ve advanced a few more households. Lead truck’s about to make the turn onto our street.”
There were several murmurs.
Chet moved closer, cradled Pete’s elbow, and turned him away slightly. “With ammo short, we’re gonna need Wade’s mortar contraption more than ever. Plus all them firecrackers he’s been tinkering with.”
Pete looked him straight in the eyes. “Can we count on Lawrence?”
“Yep.” Chet nodded twice. “He’s practically kin.”
Moments later, Pete watched from his garage as Wade retrieved binoculars from his golf cart and headed across Placid toward Leo’s deck. As the younger man climbed the ladder to spy on the intruders, Pete crossed the lane and stood behind him. “What kind of weapons have you spotted so far?”
“I seen what I think is three AK-47s, maybe half dozen pistols that’re probably 9 mm, and something looks like an Uzi.”
“So everything they’ve got is at least semiautomatic fire. Those Kalashnikovs are capable of fully-automatic fire, but not very accurate.” Pete furrowed his brow. “Except for my Colt, all we’ve got is single shot arms, a few garden tools, and Earl’s spray washer.”
Wade shrugged. “And Ellie’s bat.”
“Lawrence, you think you can control that mortar of yours?”
****
Wade’s eyes lit up as he listened to the old soldier who knew his grandfather during the war.
After being briefed by Pete, Wade encountered Chet, then exiting the front door.
“What?” asked Wade after the older man beckoned.
Chet pointed his left thumb toward the rusty yellow Caterpillar dozer in the construction area behind the last duplex at the west end of Placid Lane. “Can ya drive that?”
“What kind is it?”
Chet nodded. “Regular D-8, probably about twenty years old. Last ones with the oval-shaped tracks.” His thumbs and forefingers made that approximate shape. “After the K model, they stacked the final drive up on top.”
“Same number of bogey wheels, ain’t it?” Wade squinted toward it. “The new high-tracks are shorter and let the dozer maneuver in tight spots.”
“I ain’t trying ta buy the dingin’ dozer.” Chet acted impatient when people were slow to catch on to his telepathy. “Can ya drive it?”
“Did the Pope go to Catholic school?”
Chet just cleared his throat and motioned with his head.
Wade understood and ambled toward the massive machine.
After a few moments, there was a huge backfire and the exhaust manifold belched a thick black cloud. The tractor successfully started, Wade tapped each lever to see what it controlled. He fondled every knob before he figured how to raise the blade and finally get moving. By the time Wade located the correct control and the proper touch for each track, the dozer had run over the corners of wooden forms for concrete footings where walls eventually would be erected. He moved the machine slowly eastward, aiming toward the long retaining wall which extended north from Norm’s back corner.
The construction workers had left a five-gallon insulated aluminum cooler out near a pile of Canadian pine two-by-fours. Wade ran over the cooler just as a test of his driving skill. The dozer’s seventy-three thousand pounds crushed that container like a stale cheese puff. The boards splintered into a zillion imported toothpicks.
Though Chet often insisted he’d foresworn chewing tobacco, he’d clearly forgotten that abstinence. His jaws worked slowly and silently as he watched Wade line up the bulldozer between Norm’s west wall and Bernie’s east side.
Wade deftly maneuvered the huge machine along Norm’s retaining wall and only clipped the tiniest corner of Bernie’s wooden deck. Then he throttled it up for the final fifty feet, before bringing it to rest just short of Placid’s north curb. He put the dozer in neutral, hopped down, and ambled over to Chet and Pete, who’d just joined them. “Runs like wild
hawg shot in the butt yesterday morning. Where’d you want this thing?”
“Lay back about a hundred feet back from our main line of resistance.” Pete pointed west of the barricade. “In case there’s a breech, we’ll need to plug it.”
“What if I ain’t here to drive it?”
“Art was an engineer. He’ll figure it out. If he can’t, it doubles as a redoubt if we get overrun.” Pete held up his hand to keep Wade’s attention. “Raise the blade up a bit more. Leave it idling. And be sure to set the brake on this hill.”
“It’s got a brake?” Wade ambled back to the dozer, tapped several levers and brought it to a stop at the curb. He had to yell over the noise. “These tracks gonna dig down into that street surface. Neighborhood macadam ain’t made fer heavy tracks. It’ll be somebody’s butt.”
“Never you mind, Lawrence. I’ll take responsibility for any tread marks.” Though Pete’s voice didn’t carry as well as it used to, his next statement was loud enough that Wade heard it even over the engine noise. “We got lives to protect and property to save.”
It sure ain’t gonna be pretty. Wade maneuvered the dozer into position on Placid Lane.
****
Mitch, on Leo’s deck, had witnessed that entire scene.
After Wade had positioned the dozer, he joined Mitch on the deck and climbed half-way up the step ladder. Wade adjusted his binoculars and scanned the gangsters again. “That big truck in front is a regular renter van. Probably twenty-four footer. They can haul lots of stuff with that sucker if they got plenty of boxes. Next one back looks more like a fourteen-foot box van.” He ascended another step and scanned farther to the north and east. “Wow. Take a look at that other one.” He didn’t share his binoculars, however. “Whoee! Heavy duty chassis with a turbo diesel! Sweet! Double cab with custom steel bed.” Wade whistled and the additional effort nearly made him lose balance. “Them boys got great taste in trucks. Looks brand new.” He descended the creaking ladder rather tentatively.