The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination

by Bright,R. F.

  “They should make Philly in a couple hours,” said Tuke.

  Everyone on The Booby Duck looked up as the Peregrines swiped overhead, and were quickly gone.

  The IT guys at the Great Lawn were slowly warming to their perennial antagonists, the shiny coat hackers, who had been working hard to convert the area to a campground. Presumably for them. A curious turn of events. Christopher Eddy and Anita Boenig had run out of small talk, so Chris had to ask, “How did they, you, whoever, crack my systems? I had every point of entry covered.”

  “Are you a curious man?”

  “Not obsessively so.”

  “Are you a prudent man?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Have you ever found a thumb drive in, let’s say, the parking lot, the lunch room, or some other innocuous place?”

  “In the elevator. Once.”

  “And what did you do with it?”

  “I stuck it in my computer to see what it was. Who owned it.”

  She gave him her Cheshire Cat smile. “And that concludes our discussion on network security.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Around seventy-six per cent of the thumb drives we drop get plugged into a networked computer by the socially inept but well-intentioned. We keep score, of course. There’s no such thing as a secret.” She took his arm, and said jokingly, “We defeated your high and mighty security apparatus with some humble social engineering.”

  The acid green screens all began to pulse violently. A funky bass came in on the pulse. People started to move. A drum came in on the downbeat. People started dancing. A deep, mechanical voice boomed, “Behold!” The Tesla Coil turned into a ball of crackling tendrils with a buzz that ended in a sharp snap. It was just a test, but the two-hundred-year-old Tesla Coil could still amaze.

  And now a torrent of women flowed onto the Great Lawn — the coil beckoned. Raving beauties, fading beauties, but mostly just regular women. And thank god for that. Geeks are terrified by those leggy hybrids with eyes the color of rare gems and just as expensive. Geek life is lived in envy of the good-looking rich men those phony swans preferred. And why wouldn’t they? Geeks were a dime a dozen and paid accordingly. They would have been paid less, but they’d have starved. They were clumsy and tedious and had nothing in common with the light-footed folks who, no matter where they were, always looked like they’d come to dance.

  Just for fun, the woman atop the delivery truck cued a techno pop dance mix and signaled for another blast of the Tesla Coil — it was a doozy. Her flailing silhouette coaxed everyone to their feet. The IT guys were drawn to women who, like themselves, hadn’t gone dancing since they started working. These women too were wage-slaves in a town where a modest fling cost six months’ wages. They too stayed home on their days off and played video games.

  But by the looks on everyone’s faces, this day was shaping up to be entirely different.

  69

  The Booby Duck’s journey from Harrisburg to Philadelphia had been uneventful and as flat as yesterday’s beer, which Fred found extremely distasteful. The last flat place he’d been was nothing but sand. He brushed that memory aside, as the dauntless Booby Duck chugged into Philadelphia’s majestic Thirtieth Street Station.

  Scores of Philadelphia’s veterans crowded the platform, waving and cheering them down the line. A robust older man with ruddy brown skin wearing a crisp, dark blue Pennsylvania Railroad conductor’s uniform signaled them to slow. He caught the handrail and swung onto its stair step, grasping his hat by its sparkling patent leather brim — which he placed over his heart. “I’ve been waiting for you . . . ’bout thirty fuckin’ years.”

  Fred looked to Pastor Scott, who returned a querulous grin.

  “You’re at the end of the line,” said the Conductor, “but we’re putting the old Silver Streak back in service.” He studied his watch, as though that made a difference.

  “We’ll just stick with this train, if you don’t mind,” said Fred.

  “All the track for these burners was replaced decades ago, when electric trains came in. Can you imagine the smoke? In a tunnel? We’ll transfer you any minute now. So they say.”

  “Who said?”

  “Just came on every kiosk in the station.” The Conductor propped his hat back. “Screens turn that pukey green color, a departure notice come up, and then a robot voice said, ‘All passengers, the Silver Streak, departing track Number Five. Dinner in the club car.’”

  “Where’s this train goin’?” asked Fred.

  The Conductor looked surprised, then said proudly, “Pennsylvania Station. Madison Square Garden. New York City, via . . . Weehawken, New Jersey.”

  70

  At Meadowlands Stadium, in the old ticket office counting room, a team of veterans was pushing all the trash and debris into the corners to finish Todd Williams’ command post. It was cold, and just as Todd got used to the smell of mold, a young woman, Strumbellina, who wore her martini glass hat backwards, pulled up a playlist for the impending Dance-Off. He scanned it. “Take out anything with lyrics. Let’s make it simple. Just instrumentals.”

  A much shorter list appeared.

  “That’s interesting,” said a large woman, Clichénoir, who had perfectly smooth mocha skin and hair woven into elaborate, multicolored braids. “Ninety percent of those songs are from the 1930s. When we all listened to the same music, and everyone danced.”

  “Just dance bands?” asked Strumbellina.

  “Yeah,” said Clichénoir. “Make it simple.”

  Todd smiled and went off to see if the toilets had been fixed. This was the right pair for this job; they cared deeply enough about music to actually know a thing or two.

  “Damn,” said Strumbellina. “I’ve heard all these tunes.”

  “I like that title,” said Clichénoir. “‘Seven Come Eleven’. The Benny Goodman Orchestra.” She put a set of headphones on upside down, headband under her chin; it would have never made it over her ’do. She hit the spacebar, and her head started boppin’. She slid the headphones off. “Too fast.”

  Strumbellina agreed. “Goodman’s a horn band, of course they’re fast. Try this.” A list of bands led by piano players appeared. “Duke. Yeah! These folks need some Duke.”

  Clichénoir slipped her headphones back on. “Lemme hear.” A huge smile popped up between her two big eyes. “Make sure you start it from the beginning. That slide trombone intro is murder.”

  A harried field crew had organized as many veterans on the field as they could, after attaching a large handwritten number to each one. A much larger crew held the women who’d come to play Pick of the Litter on the jogging track surrounding the field. Both crews were severely undermanned, and confused, as the overlapping social games played out simultaneously.

  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa ... waaaaaa … waa waa waa waa . . .

  The opening trombone slide to Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train” woke everyone, toes a-tappin’. A joyful riot rolled in on the music. The Jumbo-tron blinked acid green, the stalwart ReplayAJ appeared, and although there were many dead pixels, the old Jumbo-tron worked well enough.

  “Good evening! You are here, on this historic occasion, not to witness but to engage in the birth of our new republic. To dance it into existence. But such a weighty occasion will be twice as sweet, if shared with a loving partner. A dance partner! Ladies! For your approval. A manly display of grace and strength in motion. Score them one to five. At the end of the song, the dancers with the highest point totals will be given first choice in the Manhattan housing lottery. That will certainly make them much more . . . attractive.”

  A combination of cheers and catcalls rose from those in the stands who thought that gave the advantage to the young Lotharios, but these women weren’t looking for that guy.

  “OK! Dancers ready? When the music starts, you rack up points with smooth moves and fancy footwork.”

  At first the men were reluctant, except for the very few who had always loved to dance, ho
wever badly. Slowly, those men who reserved their timid shufflings for weddings and anniversaries, and even then only after a few drinks, started moving their hips. The atmosphere was so inviting, the music so compelling, they couldn’t resist. Some could barely walk, but that didn’t stop them. The women on the jogging track shouted, “Come on number. . .” They all had their favorites.

  Max and Lily were eight hundred feet above, circling the stadium and watching in awe. Lily withdrew from the windshield, head bobbing, fingers snapping, put a hand on Max’s shoulder and shimmied her hips. He was transported back to that morning when she danced away from his bed. Was there ever a moment when he didn’t love her? He did his best to find the beat. It didn’t go well, but he hung in and that seemed to be all right. As he got more into it, she got happier and happier.

  Even Mr. Leun joined in, if only by tapping his foot, as did many of the men in the cargo hold who could hear the music but had no idea what was going on. The Duke is hard to ignore.

  The parking lot crowd had thinned once the music started, but there were enough men there to grab the tethers and haul Airship One down to the ground. The doors opened and out leapt the jubilant veterans. Hugs and spontaneous outbursts of boogalloos, Watusis, jitterbugs and fully improvised gyrations rippled throughout the parking lot.

  Although the Pick of the Litter rules had been clearly spelled out, the women could not contain themselves. Some ran to the nearest man, danced for a minute or two, then moved on. Others pranced about in the most noncommittal way, taking numbers and notes. No matter the method, this ritual was well known to the women. The men were oblivious, but they danced on and on – Whaaaaaaaa ... waaaa ... waa waa waa waa . . .

  The train conductor, never more proud of the uniform he’d kept in pristine condition all these years, led Fred and Pastor Scott up the immobilized escalator and into the station’s main terminal. Fred had forgotten how grand a place could be. The conductor lit an old kerosene lantern and the ten-story room came to life, shadows darting on bronze, marble and stained glass. Fred and Pastor Scott, stunned by the exultant beauty, stood anchored to a spot right in the middle of the vast terminal.

  The Conductor turned to them and held up the lantern. “Please, gentlemen. Let me show you something worth seeing.”

  They followed the Conductor across the inlaid floor to a towering marble plinth upon which stood the magnificent Angel of Resurrection, fifty-eight feet tall, golden wings raised straight up and over his head, a fallen soldier draped in his arms. The Conductor struggled to compose himself. “Look here,” he said in a wobbly voice, “at the inscription.”

  In memory of the men and women of

  the Pennsylvania Rail Road

  who laid down their lives for our country

  1941-1945

  “Thirteen hundred and seven,” said the Conductor, pointing to the plaque with each name engraved in eternal gratitude. “They live here, on this monument, as a reminder of our shame and silent complicity with those who betrayed them. Betrayed us all.”

  The Booby Duck Veterans removed their hats and drifted toward the angel.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” said Fred. “The angels of retribution are here.”

  Suddenly the whole room shuddered from the blare of a diesel horn. The Conductor snapped, “They aren’t supposed to blow the horn in the station.”

  Fred, ears ringing, said, “What was that?”

  The Conductor doffed his hat, brushed his lapels, and made a sweeping gesture. “Gentlemen! The Silver Streak awaits.”

  The Conductor led them onto the famed platform #5. The veterans marveled at the art deco skylight that crowned it end to end. An architectural masterpiece of public art, a true relic. On the tracks sat a fairly unremarkable Amtrak train, with a host of workers crawling beneath it, climbing over it, and running in and out its many doors. Spare parts and tools and sparks and blasts of compressed air defined the moment.

  “Gentlemen, your chariot,” said the Conductor.

  Fred’s stoic frown faded.

  Pastor Scott felt like a worn-out tag-along and was regretting having come in the first place. His feet hurt and he was starving.

  “Once it’s checked out, you can board and everyone can catch some sleep. The seats fold down and there’re many sleeper cars.”

  Fred and the Conductor headed for the engine, where they were met by a man in a similar but wrinkled dark blue uniform, no hat. The Conductor said to him in an officious tone, “You won’t be needed. I’m driving.” The man retreated with a respectful nod. Fred caught a glimpse of his name tag, but it was too tarnished to read. “Was that the Engineer?”

  “Yes,” said the Conductor. “Everyone in this uniform is an engineer. I drove this train for forty-one years before they made me Station Master.”

  “Do you have a name tag?”

  “I did, once. I threw it in the Schuylkill River. Didn’t deserve it no more.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  The Conductor looked at him with hollow eyes that were gazing into the past. “. . . Maybe tomorrow.”

  For the last twenty-four hours, the Polish Falcons Dance Hall had been fueled by loud music, uninhibited dance, competitive pinball and a successful take-down of Petey Hendrix. But the now slumbering Manhatmazons were proof that that much fun cannot be sustained. Turnstyle and Cellophane were half awake, jostling from one uncomfortable position to another in their desk chairs. All the monitors were black, which was getting on Turnstyle’s nerves. She looked out over the hall, where a few women sat at tables whispering. Others were curled up on the floor sound asleep, and yet others stared bleary-eyed at their blank monitors, lost in thought. Everyone was exhausted. Turnstyle couldn’t see Priyanka, but her drunken-sailor snore appeared to be coming from a vague form balled up in a chair and covered with several calico tablecloths. The old neon clock, a promotional item from Grandma’s Pierogi, struck 3:00 a.m. It was going to be a long night, thought Turnstyle, wishing she had a few of Grandma’s sauerkraut and potato pierogis, fried in butter with onions . . .

  Her screen blinked on and Tuke’s face turned away from someone off camera and onto her. “Hold on, Todd. Turnstyle?”

  “Yes, Mr. Tuke.”

  “Do you have any of our computers? The give-aways?”

  “This is one.”

  “Open it, and put it in the middle of the room. I should I have told you this before. Please forgive me, I just forgot.”

  She jumped off the bandstand and set the computer on the dance floor. “No prob.”

  Tuke yelled, “Bring Manhatmazon up, all monitors.”

  The dance hall filled with 3D projection cubes, each showing a different location, various angles. Turnstyle surveyed each one, and laughed. “There’re millions of people involved in this.”

  “Can you tell your friend, Madam Beamon, that we’re sending a man over to help her begin the move into Manhattan?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Right now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, ah. What’s his name?”

  “Jon. Jon Replogle.”

  “Quaker?”

  “No, just sounds like it. Can’t miss him, he’s got a huge beard and terrible eczema.”

  She leapt back onto the stage, sat before her computer, and soon Madam Beamon was smiling at her, looking fresh as a daisy.

  “What’s happening, my little warrior?”

  “Evening, Madam Beamon. Just got word from Tuke that they’re about to make a move. They’re sending a man to help you with whatever you might need.”

  “I’ve yet to find a man willing to give me what I need, but I live in hope.”

  “Die in despair?”

  “I’m planning on it. Does he have a name?”

  “Jon. Jon Replogle.”

  “Quaker?”

  “Just sounds like it.”

  A knock came on Madam Beamon’s door. She tossed a wink at Turnstyle, and said cautiously, “This better be him. No one comes here uninvited.�
��

  “He’s got terrible eczema.”

  Madam Beamon looked through her peephole and saw a massive crop of hair standing there. “Show me your hands,” she said.

  “I don’t have a weapon,” he replied.

  “Just do it.”

  He raised his palms to the peephole.

  “No, the other side.”

  He rotated his hands to show the tops, which were covered in scaly patches.

  “Jon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Replogle.”

  “Quaker?”

  “No!”

  The door opened and Madam Beamon checked him head to toe. “Well, no one could have guessed that name, and no two men would have landed here with a rash like that by chance.”

  “I’m the guy, Madam Beamon. I hear you have a tunnel.”

  “I do. But the bastards who guard the Weehawken ferry also guard the tunnel. If you can take over the Ferry Landing, the tunnel will take care of itself. We have an arrangement with the guards, but I’m sure it doesn’t cover what you have in mind.”

  “There’s a ferry, too?”

  “Two of them.”

  “We could use them. And what sort of bastards are they?”

  “Leprechauns.”

  Jon smiled ear to ear.

  A suffocating cocktail of boredom, anticipation and claustrophobia had driven Camille as mad as a jar of frogs. Thankfully, a woman entered MacIan’s room and began checking his vitals.

  “Doctor?” said Camille.

  “Oh, no, I’m not a doctor,” said the woman. “Sorry. But I did build this machine.” She pointed to one of many. “I’m a bio-regenerist. Self-taught, too. We’re helping him grow new tissue. I’ve put in a seeder patch from a pig’s intestine and some stem cells from his own fat — there’s precious little of that — a little cytoplasm from some sea creatures . . . I won’t bore you with the rest.”

  Camille looked relieved. “How long will he be like this?”