Postcards from the Apocalypse
Page 17
I had never seen my uncle so ebullient. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his hands together in glee, looking for a moment like Scrooge McDuck in the counting house. “I tell ya, sonny, there’s not very much in this world I enjoy more than seeing self-important gasbags get what’s coming to them. I wish your dad had been here to see it; he would be damned proud of this little agency along about now.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” he said, looking me in the eye. “He would have been damned proud of you, too, the way you handled yourself last night.”
I tried to give him my best aw-shucks shrug, but I couldn’t help grinning. I hadn’t seen much of my dad the last ten years before he died and I have to admit it was nice to hear those words come out of his brother’s mouth.
“I’m just glad I didn’t have to shoot that poor bastard on the roof,” I said.
My uncle waved dismissively. “Forget about it, you couldn’t have shot anybody.”
“Are you kidding? That big ox was about to toss you off a five-story building; of course I could have shot him!”
“No, I mean it literally. You couldn’t have shot him. When I slapped the magazine into the Browning, I never racked the slide to chamber a round.”
“So if I had pulled the trigger . . .”
“Right,” Brick said. “Nothing would have happened. You could have pulled the trigger all night and all you would have gotten for your trouble is a blister on your finger.”
I looked at Brick incredulously, remembering the sheer mass of the big murderer and how close he had been holding my uncle to the edge of the roof. “But . . . what about the safety? You made sure the safety was on before you handed the gun to me.”
He shrugged. “That was all for effect. Come on, junior, I didn’t want you to actually be able to fire the gun; you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. You could have killed someone, for crying out loud!”
My uncle chuckled. Until he saw the look on my face, that is. Then he burst out laughing and didn’t stop for nearly fifteen minutes. Finally he stood, knees cracking, and slapped me on the shoulder, mostly stifling another round of giggles. “Don’t look so glum, kiddo, you’re a hero! Enjoy the satisfaction; that feeling doesn’t come around very often in this line of work.”
I must have seemed somewhat unconvinced, because he continued, “Come on, let’s hit Beekman’s Deli. My treat. There’s a BLT on toast quivering in fear with the knowledge that you’re on your way and you’re hungry.” He marched out the squeaky office door and down the hallway.
I sat brooding for a moment, then shook my head and followed him out of the office. By the time I reached the elevator, I was smiling, too. I just couldn’t help it.
***
About the author:
Allan Leverone is a three-time Derringer Award Finalist for excellence in short mystery fiction as well as a 2011 Pushcart Prize nominee. He lives in Londonderry, New Hampshire with his wife, Sue, three children, one beautiful granddaughter and a cat who has used up eight lives. Connect with Allan at http://www.allanleverone.com, as well as on Facebook and Myspace.
Also by Allan Leverone
FINAL VECTOR
Medallion Press, February 1, 2011
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http://www.allanleverone.com
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Air traffic controller Nick Jensen’s life is in a shambles. His wife Lisa is dead, victim of a horrific automobile accident, and the authorities suspect foul play. He finds evidence suggesting Lisa, Pentagon auditor, had discovered potentially treasonous material on a fellow employee’s computer. That employee also winds up dead.
Desperate to escape the pain of losing his wife, Nick throws himself into his work and is on duty at the radar ATC facility serving Boston’s Logan International Airport on the night U.S. President Robert Cartwright is scheduled to fly into Boston. Armed terrorists storm the facility, killing the security staff and taking Nick’s fellow controller hostage as he works.
Nick escapes capture, but with time running out, must use the information from his murdered wife to unravel the terrorists’ plot and stop an assassination while outnumbered, unarmed and on the run . . .