Fuck it. It was either watch what was about to happen or stay alive. I couldn’t do both. Turning, I broad-jumped as far as possible out into the open air. I caught more flashing sparks and one lone male voice, drowned out—desperately yelling an unheeded warning.
I hit the water, shockingly cold for summer, and let myself sink deep into the cold, quiet darkness. Above me, the water lit up like someone had flicked a light switch but the brightness was mostly streaming from the other direction. The water around me throbbed with the tremendous blasting bellow of a giant beast, spitting a huge stream of dotted red fire over my head, into the pier above me. The steel girders rattled as thousands of twenty-millimeter depleted uranium slugs from the USS John S. McCain’s Phalanx guns ripped the pier apart. I tried swimming away underwater but I ran out of time. Mammoth chunks of metal and concrete pounded into the frothing water all around, a seaquake trying to crush me. I surfaced into a racket of shrieking metal and distant yelling. Again, I could watch—or live.
I swam for my life.
Later, I clawed my way up a rotting wooden bulkhead and collapsed in a dark parking lot. A stiff cool breeze off the river chilled me. I could hear sirens and helicopters to the south, lights on the river. I looked around. I was alone. Mission accomplished.
I hoped the drone went down. It was unlikely the Semtex was set off by the shooting but I hoped the bird was hit by rounds or crushed in the collapse. Objectively, it was a very dangerous thing to do, but damn, I was tingling with adrenaline from my toes to my fingertips, pulsing with life and death-cheating power. I howled up at the moon, even though there wasn’t one.
I felt blue and cold as Papa Smurf. I stripped off my shirt and wrung the water out of it before putting it back on. I took out my wad of cash. I squeezed the money and salty brine dripped out. A lot of water also came out of my bathing suit shorts and, finally, my gun gloves. I got re-dressed, smoothed my hair back, replaced the cash and gloves in my pockets and sat down to catch my breath. It felt good to be alive.
The New Minutemen would ride no longer. I didn’t take any orders and I didn’t fire a gun. Of course, I helped them provoke the dragon, or, at least, a Phalanx. The assholes who hurt Skippy were dead—because they brought shotguns to a Gatling gun fight.
81
Amy was surprised to see me alive, although a bit damp, but asked no questions. She handed me my keys and my iPhone, which was still connected to her cellphone, with unlimited voicemail.
I ended the call and told Amy I would see her in the morning. She left for home, to complete the loop of the lie and then reschedule her fake dope deal. It was a shame Jane would not see her in her get-up. I should have demanded a quick-draw demonstration from her bra holsters. Instead, I fed Skippy, took a shower and changed into dry clothes, including long pants. When I got out, Jane was home. She was tired but not surprised to see me. She asked questions and I lied shamelessly. We heated up some leftovers. I ate like a condemned man and had a few araks. Jane had some wine and I offered a toast.
“To the U.S. Navy—a global force for good. Cheers!”
We clinked glasses and drank. I turned on the TV. CNN was in a red-letter breaking-news frenzy over “TERROR ATTACK IN MANHATTAN?”
Ahh, the almighty question mark. Apparently a group of bearded men, possibly Islamist terrorists, had tried to sink a battleship in the Hudson River, possibly with rockets, sparking a wild firefight. Hmm. Jane and I watched with interest, as they aired videos of tongues of flame from the ship, tracer rounds zipping across the water and demolishing the pier. Cool.
I hoped it was too dark and all the video cameras were too distant to detect a lone guy jumping into the drink.
I dialed Izzy’s cellphone.
“What?” a harried Izzy answered, a lot of noise in the background.
“I’m watching CNN. What’s with this attack on the river?”
“That’s what we’re trying to nail down,” Izzy replied. “First there were internet threats—from your Tea Party pals the New Minutemen—vowing to destroy the symbol of Zionist-American aggression, the USS John S. McCain.”
“No shit? That’s crazy. Wow, I’d better get on this.”
“There was a lot of chatter over the last few hours. Our terror alerts, NYPD and the military’s, got ramped up. Also, we got a 911 call that four bearded men were pointing tubes at the destroyer from Pier 95 on the Hudson. Before we could respond, the ship detected and fired on what they say were multiple sources of heavy hostile fire from shore— directed at the vessel.”
“Incredible. So, is it the New Minutemen, my New Minutemen?”
“Looks that way,” Izzy said. “Whoever was stupid enough to attack a destroyer was shredded into thousands of pieces. The ME is trying to separate small body parts, weapon fragments, hair, blood, bone and leather but no IDs yet. This is going to be done slowly and carefully with DNA and a spoon.”
“Wow. Well, it couldn’t happen to nicer guys. Thanks, Izzy.”
“No problem.”
I called the paper and filed what I had just learned, plus a bit more from my own experience. Mel wasn’t there but the editor on the desk was very happy. I suggested a headline. It was out within the hour, added as a new top to my earlier story:
TIME RUNS OUT FOR NEW MINUTEMEN
82
Izzy and Phil were at our door bright and early and refused Jane’s offer of coffee. We sat in the kitchen.
“Where were you last night?” Izzy demanded.
“When I spoke to you? Right here.”
“No, earlier.”
I gave them the sanitized version, saying I came home to Jane’s after I left the animal hospital—leaving out little details, such as the coffee shop, the car service, the pier and the calling down of hellfire onto evildoers.
“Funny thing,” Phil said, looking at his notebook. “Somebody anonymously posted online threats against the ship on behalf of the New Minutemen.”
“Yeah, Izzy told me.”
“It seemed valid—they had the authentication code.”
“Okay, Izzy didn’t mention that. So the New Minutemen made the threat, tried to carry it out and got wasted. Sounds like a happy ending to me.”
“Yeah,” Izzy agreed, “but here’s the thing. Late last night, the 911 operator got a call from some guy who claims he picked up a man in shorts and sandals and took him to the same pier just before this shitstorm blew in. He says the young man acted weird, called the cops, threw away his phone and ran—and that four guys with long beards and coats and hats showed up in a black van and ran after him.”
“Sounds like my guys, alright. What happened to the other guy?”
They were silent.
“We don’t know,” Izzy admitted. “The caller didn’t want to get involved. He said he left but called after he heard about the attack.”
“Too bad. Maybe he’ll call back? Who does the van’s plate go back to?”
“The van was gone and the man who called said he didn’t get a license plate. There may have been another guy in the van, a wheelman—who took off when the shit hit the fan.”
“But what about the guy the New Minutemen were meeting? The guy in shorts and sandals? Was he killed with them?”
“Who said that man was meeting them?” Phil asked. “The anonymous caller said he thought his passenger was going to jump in the river but when he saw the other guys run in, he thought maybe they were chasing him. He didn’t want any part of it. He may be shy because he’s an illegal.”
“So I should look for this car driver and maybe for the guy in shorts and sandals?”
“How do you walk with those nuts?” Phil asked. “Don’t they pinch?”
“What?” I asked, in mock shock.
Phil asked me if anybody could verify that I was at home from about nine thirty until ten thirty. I told them Jane found me at home about eleven and I spoke to Izzy around then but they said that was too late and asked what I was doing when I was home alone.
“Nothing,” I told them. “I spent most of the time on the phone, talking about the case with my boss, Amy.”
“That’s good,” Phil said. “Very good.”
“If anybody asks Amy, she’ll back you up? If some agency happens to look up the phone records and cell tower hits, will they show that?” Izzy asked.
“Absolutely. Why? Are you going to check?”
“Not us,” Izzy said. “But it’s comforting to know you’ve got a solid alibi.”
“And comforting to know we won’t go down with you,” Phil smirked.
“For what?” I asked. “You think I blew away the New Minutemen?”
“Not directly, a harmless pacifist like you,” Phil sneered. “But it is a serious crime to make terroristic threats. Also, I don’t like destroyers spraying cannon fire around my city. It’s a damn good thing innocent people didn’t get hurt.”
“Shepherd would never do that,” Jane scolded them.
“I agree,” I said. “It’s a good thing innocent people didn’t get hurt. And it’s also not a bad thing that guilty people got hurt.”
They didn’t argue.
“I hope it’s all over,” said Jane. “I worry about Shepherd.”
“Jane, trust me, don’t ever worry about Shepherd,” Izzy told her, with a smile. “El Diablo se ocupa de su propia.”
Jane laughed. “The Devil looks after his own.”
I hoped to hell it was true.
“He’s right, Jane,” Phil added. “The Force is strong with this one.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll keep him,” Jane giggled.
I suggested we all go out to dinner to celebrate.
“Later,” said Izzy. “In a day or so. We still have a lot of work to do. I’ll be thirsty when we’re done.”
I was worried that we still didn’t have any evidence against the management of the New Minutemen corporation, so I asked if any of the hotel shooters they had arrested, along with Bryce, were saying anything—like who the possible criminal mastermind was?
“Zilch,” Izzy said. “They denied everything and clammed up. I’m not even sure they know enough to tell us much more. There may not be some Mr. Big,” Izzy chuckled. “Most of them come from serious old WASP money but we can’t find any links to your Aryan Purity Nation, your four attackers. So, we have four dead enforcers, six hotel shooters in the jug—except for a possible van driver in the breeze, that may be the whole gang. Close enough for government work.”
After Izzy and Phil left, Jane asked me what that was all about.
“Guys I didn’t like got killed, so that was professional routine,” I explained.
“But those killers shot at the ship and the navy fired back,” she said. “It’s silly to think you had something to do with it.”
“Exactly. They’re just touching the bases.”
“Okay. Are we finally done with this nightmare?”
“Looks that way.”
She looked at me and sighed.
“Shepherd, I hate it when you lie to me—especially when you think it’s for my own good. I’m going to ask you that question again. This is very important to me, to us. If you tell me the truth this time, I promise I won’t be angry. But, if I ever find out you lied to me again, we’re through—do you understand?”
Damn. For the past ten years, I had done little else except detect and eliminate threats and then keep my mouth shut about it. I took a deep breath and told her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. She listened and waited until I was done.
“I knew it!”
She began cursing and slapping me on the chest. I backed off.
“You promised you wouldn’t be angry at me!”
“I lied! Of course I’m angry—who wouldn’t be? Are you crazy? You go off on some insane secret mission for no reason and…”
“There was a reason.”
“What possible reason would make you act as a live target for psychos with shotguns?”
I told her my reasons.
“Oh, so by sneaking out on this suicidal operation you’re protecting me and Skippy and America and all the ships at sea?”
“Yes. It was a matter of time before they or someone else decided I was a problem and one way to get at me was through you or Skippy.”
“You are no longer in the army.”
“I know but I am a reporter and, now, I guess I’m a private detective. I’m pretty good at it but sometimes it comes with some risk.”
“Only the way you do it. I think you’re doing all this because you’re not in the army anymore. You miss the rush, the charge, the danger.”
I didn’t disagree.
“Are you going to stop doing things like this and live a normal life?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t know what a normal life is.”
“I’ll teach you. If I ask, will you stop this risk-taking, Shepherd?”
“If I ask, Jane, will you stop being an animal doctor?”
“That’s not the same. That’s my chosen profession.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, my God. It’s not over, is it?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“And you think we still might be in danger?”
“Yeah, maybe. Nothing is settled, but I’m trying to find whoever was behind the killings. I don’t yet know what I might have to do.” I hugged her. She hugged back.
“Shepherd, I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen.”
“I know. Me too. That’s just life, isn’t it?”
We were still together but up in the air.
83
My suit had been destroyed in the shotgun attack on me and Skippy so I put on my best chinos and walked out into a beautiful, blisteringly hot day. My parents were back on the picket line at 740 Park Avenue but now they had a lot of company—hundreds of demonstrators shouting against the Roehm brothers. Dozens of cops held them back behind barricades. Signs proclaimed them TRAITORS. One used the phrase from my column: GUTTERSNIPES OF PARK AVENUE. The attack on the naval vessel was worse than just bumping off a group of GOP politicos, apparently. Radical tea baggers were now considered to be evil and un-American. Everybody was mad at the right-wingers, even a lot of Republicans. Bizarrely, I got a hero’s welcome from my parents and the others. They cheered my name out loud. Very odd. Even stranger, my mother hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, an event I had not experienced since my sixth birthday. My dad grabbed my hand and told me what a great job I was doing. Now I was in Alice in Wonderland territory.
“Just in time,” Amy told me, pointing to the front door of the billionaires’ building. Several pumped security guards in uniform appeared in a phalanx around two lanky gray men in suits, escorting the twins to a waiting black limousine at the curb. The mob went wild, surging against the barriers, roaring hatred. One brother sneered and said something snarky that was drowned out. His silent twin looked scared. I shouted questions but they vanished into the vehicle, which sped away, leaving two PR people handing out pieces of paper. It was a press release, denying any involvement in the deaths of Speaker Chesterfield and the others. It also detailed their open scorn for “libelous falsehoods published in the Daily Press,” which implied the siblings had some kind of connection to illegal events. The release said they were considering legal action. I assumed that would be against my “Park Avenue Guttersnipe” column.
I had to get into the building. I went to the doorman and tried to get my toe in the door and asked to see the other tenant I knew, Walter Cantor. The doorman used his phone and told me Mr. Cantor was unavailable.
Amy pulled me aside to give me a surveillance report. She said it was virtually impossible to get into the vertical fortress of 740 Park Avenue, especially now—security had been increased, especially around the Roehm brothers.
“In a month or so, I can try my Fedex woman uniform or my city building inspector disguise. My dog-walker lady won’t work because none of these guys have dogs,” Amy told me. “So, I’m temp
orarily out of tricks—unless you have a Plan B?”
I did. I told her. She laughed. I started to explain but she stopped me.
“Pass. I’m not up for this one. I will assume what you just said was a joke. I’m going to tell the GOP that we are done with the case. Shepherd, you have to learn when to back off.”
“Not something I want to learn, Amy. Do I still work for you?”
“Sure. But take a few days off. Chill out. Develop a relaxing hobby.”
“Good advice. Thanks, Amy.”
After she left, I had fun with my parents while it lasted— chanting slogans and singing songs. In between songs, I called Sparky and arranged to meet him later. The next song was my favorite—“We Shall Overcome.” But what do you sing when, fifty years later, you have to overcome the same injustices all over again? For some reason, I remembered Sparky’s joke about the silver bullets and werewolves— monsters who could only be killed with pure weaponry. The New Minutemen were certainly hairy but the whole scheme seemed more like the Lone Ranger—killing bad guys with silver bullets. The Lone Ranger was also a good guy who hid behind a mask—because the bad guys controlled the law and the government. Who was that masked man? I wanted to thank him. My mom interrupted my wandering thoughts to inform me they were flying back to Kansas in the morning. I could have my apartment back. Just in time for Jane to kick me out again?
“Have a nice flight,” I told them.
* * *
That night, after dinner, I changed into long black pants and shirt and put on my backpack. Jane asked where I was going. I told her I was meeting Sparky and would try to interview somebody on the case.
“Who?”
“It’s important that you don’t know. Please trust me on this, Jane.”
“Okay, Shepherd, I trust you. Will you be in danger?”
“I don’t think so but there is a certain element of risk involved,” I admitted. “Of course, I may not be able to get the interview, in which case I will be home sooner.”
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