I held the pipe in one hand and gently tugged at the top side of the assembly. It swung out toward the rear at a right angle to the tube and kept going for another forty-five degrees until I met resistance. I didn’t force it. The box was hollow, like the top of an old Zippo cigarette lighter.
“Be careful,” Amy warned, moving away.
“My middle name, Amy. It’s a trigger assembly,” I told her. “Look, under the box is a small sliding switch. That tiny bubble on the tube next to it looks like an LED.”
“Exactly, it’s a bomb,” she said. “Please don’t blow up my house. I just got a new espresso machine.”
“Nobody got de-res’d. This is a firearm, although it’s been completely reinvented. I think it’s electrical or maybe piezoelectric.”
“De-res’d?”
“De-resolution. Blown to bits.”
“Oh. Sounds bad. You’re sure it’s not an explosive device?”
“Not unless this copy of the others is a Shanghai Surprise and is rigged to blow up when we find it and play with it. I think it’s a hand cannon.”
I reached over and slid the tiny switch. The tiny LED glowed red.
“Jesus,” Amy gasped.
I slid it back and the red light went off again. Amy started breathing again. I folded the trigger assembly back to the initial safe position and picked it up. I put my right hand around the tube, over the trigger area, and used the butt of my left hand to brace the end of the weapon for recoil.
I pointed the gray muzzle away from us, holding both arms straight out.
“There’s a small triangle of metal on the upper end,” I told her, “a fixed gunsight. Except for the switch and fold-down trigger assembly, there are no moving parts, no bullets, no shells, no firing pin, no ejector mechanism. I think all you have to do is squeeze with the trigger hand to send a charge to the black powder in the tube, which discharges a silver ball and silk wadding into the chest of the victim at point-blank range. Then, all you’d have to do is hide it and walk away.”
“Wow,” Amy said. “You brought this here so I could tell my GOP customers the real deal and alert them to possible future danger?”
“Of course. With pictures. I’m emailing them to you now. I still work for you, right?”
“Right.”
“You have a few hours to do that before I file it with the Daily Press. I also still work for them.”
“What are you going to do with this thing?” Amy asked. “You know it’s a state felony to steal evidence and it’s a federal crime to possess this gadget? It’s also not a nice thing to do to your cop buddies.”
“Yeah, I feel bad about that but I may find a use for it. I’ve helped them a lot more than I’m hurting them, if at all. They’ll get it eventually, but I wasn’t here and you never saw it, okay?”
“For sure. I don’t intend to join you in jail. If you live that long. The cops were here earlier. You know they think you assaulted those mafia goons again?”
“Yeah, thanks. Jail is the least of my problems,” I told her, heading for the door. “I have to go home and change and go out on a date with one of the concierges at the hotel and eat a $2,000 dinner that’s been cooking for the past month.”
“Does Jane know about this?”
“Not yet.”
“Shepherd, I know you’re a young guy but don’t be an asshole. Jane is a wonderful girl. You’ll regret this later.”
“Maybe but at least my paper will be paying for it. Oh, you mean with Jane? Relax, Amy, everything’s cool. As Phil would say, everything is awesome.”
70
Jane wasn’t home but Skippy was glad to see me. I took him out for a walk and called Jane. She said she was trying to catch up and was booked until at least nine. Perfect.
“That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ve got a business dinner at eight. When I get home, I’ll tell you about what I found at the hotel.”
“What? Tell me now.”
“Not on the phone, okay?”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Text me.”
“Nothing on the phone or online.”
“This is unfair. Now I’m dying to know. Who are you eating with? Izzy and Phil?”
“Actually, yes. Plus someone from the hotel, which reminds me, I have to call and make reservations.”
“Okay. See you later.”
I looked at the time: after five. I called L’Éveil. I asked to speak to the executive chef, whom I had met before, a man named Henri Plouffe, and told him I needed a custom order for dinner.
“This evening?” he asked, doubtfully. “This is very close, Shepherd, not many hours.”
“Yes. It doesn’t matter what it costs, Henri. The paper will pay. It’s very important and it’s a surprise. I’m sending you the pictures and measurements now.”
“This is business or pleasure?” he asked.
“I guess you could say it’s both but what it really is, is preparation and misdirection.”
“I do not understand.”
“Magic, Henri. I’m asking for some of your magic. On short notice.”
“I make art, okay, Shepherd?”
“Yeah, sure, but you use science to make magic, which is an art. Great art.”
“Yes, thank you, this is true.”
French chefs are so sensitive.
When Skippy and I got back home, I fed him, took a shower and changed into my one suit: a navy-blue two-button jacket number, a pink short-sleeve dress shirt and purple power tie. It didn’t feel powerful, just tight and sweaty. I felt overdressed, and underequipped without my backpack. My cell rang.
Tiffany Mauser was calling.
“Hi, Tiffany. Long time, no see. How’s the weather in D.C.?”
“Quit it, Shepherd. I just heard about the pipe pistols in the toilets from the security people. You found those damn things, didn’t you?”
“Off the record, yeah. On the record, the cops found them.”
“Bless your heart. I just called to thank you for continuing to work on the case after the way we treated you. You are amazing. The senator…”
“I’m awesome,” I corrected her. “Are we still talking about my work or…”
She responded with a naughty laugh. What was I doing?
“Seriously, you’re a good man.”
“And they’re hard to find,” I reminded her.
“This is not why I called… Okay it’s not the only reason I called… I’m back in town for a day. I was wondering if you were free tonight. I’d like to see you. I also have something to tell you. It’s important.”
“I’d like to see you, too,” I heard myself saying.
I told myself I was just being polite. I told her I had a business dinner at eight but I’d meet her for a late dinner at ten at Park It, a cool little bistro near the park.
“Great, that’s right near my hotel,” she said, I’m sure for no reason at all. “You’re going to eat two dinners?”
“I’m a growing boy. Besides, I’m chowing down at a very fancy, trendy spot, an artistic, artisanal eatery for RWPs, so I’ll probably be starved.”
Looked like it was going to be a busy night. After Tiffany hung up, I tried to ignore the guilty Jiminy Cricket voice in my head, slut-shaming me with a man-whore lecture. Fuck the little bug.
I pulled my beat-up MacBook out of my new backpack but the shattered screen made it impossible to work on. My new one wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. I wrote my story on Jane’s home office desktop and called Sparky. I told him about the pictures I had taken of the mini-musket inside Senator Carroll’s crapper and the stills and video I had taken later. I told him to take credit for the shots and video and say it was a secret source.
“Fucking hey, man. These are great! I’m popping a woody. This shit is exclusive?”
“Totally. But the cops and others have them so we have to file tonight, in case there’s a leak.”
“No problem, amigo. You rule. This time, I�
��ll split the photo resales with you, right? No argument.”
I agreed. I walked him through the murder device description and operation.
“Okay, Sparky. I’ll send you a copy of my story, so you can write your captions. It’s past six o’clock, I’ve got to call Mel now.”
First I called Izzy’s cell and told him I was going to pull the trigger on my story on the toilet tubes at eight. I also requested that he and Phil do me an interesting favor. He agreed without questions.
I then got my boss on the line and predictably, because it was close to deadline, Mel Greenbaum cursed at me. At least, as close to cursing as Mel the Mild got.
“I got an exclusive break in the Tea Party Animal story, Mel, with exclusive photos and video—use it or lose it.”
“What friggin’ story? Why don’t I know about this shih-tzu?”
“You know now,” I told him. “I sent you my story, Sparky is sending pictures. You should have both by now.”
I read the top of my copy out loud to him:
* * *
After assassinating presidential candidate Percy Chesterfield and four other top GOP pols, the Tea Party Animals hid their smoking murder weapons—five high-tech mini-muskets—inside the sealed toilet tanks of their dying victims, the Press has learned exclusively.
The bizarre gadgets—electrically fired plastic tubes— remained secreted inside the opulent bathrooms, under the noses of an army of local, state and federal investigators since the killings—until the elite NYPD Major Crimes Squad discovered them today. The crucial find came just hours before the suites of the five victims were to be opened again to the public.
* * *
I continued, reading Izzy’s anonymous quote about the guns. Mel stopped me before I got to the background copy.
“Yeah, I got the cheese-licking thing in front of me. Nice of you to finally do some more fuggin’ work,” Mel complained.
“You don’t want the story, Mel? I know someone who does. I spoke to Faith today. The New York Mail wants me back at twice my current salary.”
“No, no, no! I want the mother-trucking story—I’m just sayin’. Don’t be an asshat, okay, Shepherd? The story is good, nice pictures. How did you get all this?”
“I found them.”
“No spit? The Press found the evidence? You buried your forking lead, dumbnuts—that has to go up top.”
“No, Mel. Sorry, but I’ve got a deal with the cops. They get the credit and I get the exclusive. Just hold it until eight o’clock and then blow it out on the web, okay?”
“Don’t make Coke-sipping deals like that!”
One thing I had noticed about newspaper work, during my brief time in the racket, was that no matter how good it was—it was never good enough.
“Too late, Mel. I made the deal and can’t break it. Any problems or questions? I’ve got a dinner date… with some important sources.”
“Sources? Dock me! I assume that means the parsing paper will be paying for this forking dinner?”
“You bet.”
“Well, thanks for a few moments of your precious porking time, Mr. Shepherd, it’s been a freaking honor.”
“The freaking honor is all mine.”
“Remember to get a mother-mugging receipt.”
“My mother-mugging pleasure.”
71
I still had an hour and a half before meeting Bryce, so I grabbed a cab over to Park Avenue. My parents had apparently knocked off for the night, along with the other demonstrators. Only a few signs were strung from the saw horses in their pen on the opposite sidewalk. I thought maybe my nice suit might get me in the door. I went up to the doorman, a different one this time, and asked if I could see the Roehm brothers.
“Which one, sir?”
“Whichever one is home.”
Wrong answer. He asked if I had an appointment. I didn’t lie.
“You’ll have to contact their office, sir,” he told me.
“Okay, thanks. Umm… is Walter home?”
“Mr. Cantor?”
“Yes. I’m F.X. Shepherd. We’re friends. Could you call him and ask if he’s got a quick minute to see me?”
He looked me up and down. He obviously thought I was some random guy but the suit and tie and my fancy initials forced him to give me the benefit of the doubt.
“Very well, sir. Please step inside and I’ll inquire.”
He pushed the heavy glass and brass revolving door and I entered the sacred precincts of the gods. The lobby was opulent, with plush red carpeting. I waited as the doorman spoke to someone on a wallphone.
“What is your name again, sir?”
“F.X. Shepherd,” I said, as if my name had launched a thousand ships.
The doorman listened to a voice on his intercom and then asked me if I was F.X. Shepherd from the Daily Press. I decided to keep trying the truth.
“Yes.”
The doorman listened again, nodding. Were they telling him which bones to break?
“Please have a seat in the lobby, sir. Someone will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
I was still inside. I sat in a comfy armchair, wondering if they had called the cops and I was about to be arrested for trespassing. I sweated it out for ten minutes. If I were a betting man… The large elevator across the lobby opened, giving a flash of mahogany paneling, a velvet bench and a small crystal chandelier inside.
Walter Cantor, in tan cargo shorts, sandals and a turquoise Caribbean reef shirt, walked out and came over to shake my hand. Son of a bitch.
“Thank you, Eddie,” he said to the doorman. “Hi, Shepherd. How are your parents? What can I do for you? Sorry I’m all wet. I just finished my laps.”
Of course he had a pool. Nice.
“Hello, sir. They’re fine, thanks. I just wanted to quickly run something past you, off the record, in confidence, if that’s okay?”
“Off the record? Sure. Call me Walter. Let’s sit down.”
We sat on the couch. I quickly shared what I knew about the Tea Party Animal killings, including the silver musket balls and the hidden zip guns, presumably very expensive custom items. I realized I was showing off for the rich guy. I couldn’t mention that the silver probably came from melted antique coins.
“Why haven’t I read about any of this?” Walter asked.
I told him the hidden tube guns story would break at eight but the fact that the bullets were made of silver was a police holdback.
“A holdback?”
“A vest card, something only the bad guy and the cops know about. It gives them a gauge of guilty knowledge and eliminates the fakers. I also think the killers used squares of a rare Revolutionary War flag to wad the silver shot.”
“A flag?”
I explained about the yellow silk, which had originally been bright green, and how the silk patches had been used.
“Why would someone use pieces of an historic flag?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Maybe to literally wrap the whole plot in Old Glory.”
“Fascinating,” Walter said. “Oh… I get it. You’re here because you think Hans and Gert might be the bad guys, because they’re rich and right wing.”
“Yeah, maybe. And one collects Revolutionary War muskets.”
“True. Anything’s possible but I doubt it,” Walter chuckled. “Hans and Gert are gentlemen. Why would they do something like that?”
“To change history, to be king-makers?”
“They already have and they already are,” Walter pointed out. “Courtesy of the Supreme Court, their corporations are now officially people and their cash is considered free speech. But I haven’t heard a shred of proof against them yet, Shepherd. This is still America. I certainly haven’t seen my neighbors ripping up flags.” He laughed.
“Okay, thanks for your time.”
“Eddie said you were on your way to dinner?”
“Yeah, I’m meeting a lady at L’Éveil over on the park,” I told him, bragging a
gain.
“Great place, amazing. Enjoy,” Walter said. “Eddie can get you a cab. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“I just wanted your opinion and you have been helpful. Thanks again, Walter.”
“Any time,” he said, shaking my hand.
72
I was more than half an hour early to L’Éveil on Central Park South. I rode a glass elevator up to the eighth floor duplex restaurant overlooking the park. My phone chimed. Mel had sent me the headlines that would be used on my exclusive, about to break on the website.
HIDDEN HOT RODS
Cops Flush Out Secret Stubby Shooters
Tea Party Animal Arsenal of Mini Muskets
I shut off my phone, knowing the restaurant had reception-blocking technology to cut off all communications. Henri would not allow anything to compete with his fabulous food. His place was world famous for cutting-edge sous vide cooking—vacuum-packed preparation at low, slow temperatures and other radical culinary techniques, including 3D food printers. The science behind it all concluded that traditional oven and stove cooking dried out food and destroyed the cells of meat and vegetables. But the cellular structure could be preserved by slowly heating food in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag at an exact temperature between one hundred twenty and one hundred fifty degrees for many hours. It sounded ridiculous but tasted much better than anything I had ever tasted before. Unfortunately, Henri charged $2,000 a plate, and that didn’t include liquor.
The cocktail lounge of the restaurant was an ultra-modern affair with a dozen tables and chairs on a shiny black marble floor, with a black marble bar on the right wall. Six bartenders were mixing colorful drinks overflowing with white fog and rippling with blue flames. Over the bar, three large screens displayed a live feed from the kitchen, famous movie food scenes—currently Tom Jones—and an informational video on scientific cooking. A glass wall featured a view into the busy kitchen, which looked like the engine room of the Starship Enterprise. The chefs worked at strange machines, which had brass labels on them like “Carbon Dioxide Foam Machine,” “Liquid Nitrogen Chamber,” “Cryo-Griddle,” “Immersion Blender,” “Thermal Immersion Circulator,” “Centrifuge,” and “Ultrasound Oven.” A large piece of equipment, labeled “3D Printer,” had arms that darted quickly left and right and back and forth, like a map plotter. On a tray, small sculptures of bright green artichokes were magically growing, as computerized nozzles built them.
Shoot Page 25