Ripple Effects

by Laura J. Mixon

  “They told me you’d died in the blast,” Rip said. He made air quotes. “‘Obliterated by otherworldly energy.’ That’s what they said. Imagine my surprise when I learned that wasn’t the case. That you’d run off and left me there, and started a life somewhere else.”

  Finally the sneering mask peeled away. The edges of his mouth tugged down. “We were going to get out together, Juanma. We were going to escape together. And I come find you ran off alone. You left me crippled, you asshole! You let me think you were dead.”

  And as he spoke, John knew. Bigger and beefier, now; he’d been a boy then, for all his height. And he, too, wore a different face than he had when they were boys. But he had the same intense green eyes, the same blond hair. The same Boston accent. And he was the only one who’d known of John’s desire to get out of Southie at all costs. Because he’d shared it. He gasped. “Titus?”

  Rip gave him a thin smile. “Took you long enough. Though admittedly, I had some work done, too. Want to see more of your handiwork?”

  He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. A patchwork of grafts and scarring—the remnants of melted flesh—mottled the musculature of his chest, neck, and abdomen. He lifted his arms; the burns extended around into both armpits and up the underside of his left arm past the elbow. “This is what you did to me that night.”

  John rubbed his mouth, covering his shock. Rip pulled the shirt back on. They just stood there looking at each other across those seventeen years. “I was in the room with you when your ace turned the rest of the way. Or whatever it was that happened, that second time they manifested.

  “I came by every day to check on you after you fell into your wild card coma. Were you aware? I was waiting for you, Juanma. For months. I wanted to be there when you woke up. And I was right next to you when you exploded into flame. I saw you open your eyes and look at me, and yellow flames were shooting everywhere. I tried to put you out but the blankets caught fire too, and so did I. I passed out, and when I woke up I was in the burn unit, with burns over nearly twenty percent of my body, and you were gone.

  “I spent months in the hospital, Juanma, just for trying to save you. I lost count of the operations. The hospital bills put me so far under with Fagan it was a life sentence.

  “You know how skin grafts work? They strip flesh from other parts of your body, like the inside of your thigh. They patch them onto the burned areas, bit by bit. They let those patches heal and then take more. Before you know it, you’re one big walking scar. And of course there were the infections. And the multiple plastic surgeries to return my boyish looks, because this part of my face was burned too.” He laid a hand on his lower left cheek, chin, and neck. “And there were those years of physical therapy to give me full use of my left arm back. That was a barrel of giggles. When you could have healed me with your green flames at any time.”

  The silence stretched. “Titus … I had no idea …”

  “No. You didn’t. Because you never bothered to check.”

  John pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  “Well.” Rip clapped his hands together. “This has been real. And we have a lot more to talk about. But I must be going. Lady Liberty is coming up soon. From there it’s just a short way to Pier 88.” Rip checked his watch. “It’s going to be a busy day. We should both see if we can get a little shut-eye. Meet me at Battery Park, at precisely eleven fifty-two a.m. Not a minute before, not a minute after. By the Staten Island Ferry, but don’t worry, we won’t be going to Staten Island. Come alone. I have something important to discuss.”

  “Why should I? Why should i do anything you say?”

  Rip shrugged. “Up to you. But if you don’t show precisely at that time, I’ll release the evidence I’ve compiled regarding your secret past.”

  “What evidence? There is none.” He’d made sure of it, long ago.

  “None? Really?” Rip tapped his chin with a finger. “I bet if someone knew your true identity—knew who your mother was, say, and where your father was buried—it would be a fairly simple exercise to collect a bit of familial DNA to compare yours to.

  “And if it comes down to that, we’ll let the public weigh the evidence for themselves. The great and powerful Candle is linked to a notorious Boston crime syndicate? He has a pretty impressive criminal record from his youth and he’s been lying about who he is all these years? Wow. Ace celebrity art cop turns out to have been a street punk all along. Should I give the story to TMZ, Deadspin, or Aces Online? They’ll eat it up. ‘Should this guy be entrusted with safeguarding priceless artifacts for the world’s top art insurer?’ I’m betting the answer is no.

  “And at that point …” He walked to the door and laid his hand on the latch. “I imagine certain people from our shared past might get very curious about what you recall about them. And they know where your family lives, too.”

  A muscle jumped in John’s jaw. “Fagan.”

  “Bingo! So unless you’re up for public exposure and taking on Riley Fagan on your own, seriously consider my offer. I’m good either way.”

  “Wow, Titus. That’s low.”

  “When it comes to you, Juanma, I’ve had a lot of years to explore just how low I can go.” He pulled the door open. “Ta!”

  He stepped out and shut the door behind him.

  At five in the morning, the Queen Margaret docked on the Hudson at Pier 88. Tiffani stood at the curb in front of the pier, waiting for Rip. She wore her favorite summer cardigan wrap, a lightweight, silver-gray raw-silk weave that went all the way to her knees. Even at this hour, the air was a bit too hot for the sweater, but more importantly, it hid what she had on underneath: a pair of grease-monkey coveralls with AeroLux Airship Tours stitched on the breast pocket.

  A nondescript gray sedan with smoked-over windows pulled up. The passenger door opened. Rip was in the driver’s seat. “C’mon, hustle! We’re on a tight timetable.”

  She scooted in and, as he pulled away from the curb, wiggled out of the cardigan and stuffed it into her bag. Tug, tuck, glam, and roll, she thought, ignoring the gibbering animal fear in the back of her mind. She pressed a shaking finger under her nose so she wouldn’t cry. Tug, tuck, glam, and roll. I can do this.

  He drove to an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Jokertown. The flatbed driver met them there, an older man—rotund and taciturn with a bald head and big ears—who let them inside. Rip called him Brody. While Brody climbed into a forklift and loaded the catapult onto the flatbed, Tiffani tied her auburn hair back in a ponytail and pulled on a baseball cap, and tugged the end of ponytail through the gap. She did some big arm circles and deep knee bends, more to get rid of nerves than anything else. “Rip, hon, are you sure I won’t need a crash helmet? Have you seen it/”

  “You’ll be fine.” Rip popped the trunk and pulled out a package. “Here.” He removed a box from the bag and handed it to her.

  Tiffani nearly dropped it, it was so heavy. Her eyes went wide. “Jesus, what’s in this? Gold bullion?” The box was about the size and shape of a medium pizza box. Thrust Bearing, the label said, and below it, in big red letters: URGENT SAFETY RECALL—REPLACEMENT PART.

  Tiffani stuffed it into her messenger bag. Then she looked over at Rip. Not gonna ask, she thought. No point in knowing what it does. It wouldn’t change anything.

  “Okay, let’s do a final equipment check,” he said. “Gloves?”

  She pulled out a disposable nitrile pair from her right pocket and wiggled them at him.

  “Spare turbine part.” She showed him the box in her messenger bag.

  “Change of outfit?”

  She felt around in her messenger bag for the items she’d brought with her, per instructions: makeup kit, heels, clean blouse, and slacks. “Check,” she said.

  “All right, then. Looks like you’re good to go.”

  She grabbed his sleeve as he started toward the car. “Rip—”

  “Ah-ah. No second thoughts,” he said. “I’ve kept your family safe an
d I’ve spent a lot of money caring for them.”

  She released her grip with a sigh. “I know.”

  “Trust me. I’ve run through a hundred different scenarios, and this is the only way that works. I need that part to be on board the dirigible before shift change at six.” He took hold of her arms. “I’ve worked out the physics and the timing, Megan. You’ve practiced this a hundred times. Just remember.”

  “I know, I know. Tug, tuck, glam, and roll.”

  “OK. One last walkthrough?”

  She hugged herself. “Sure, OK.”

  “How do you get in?”

  “There’s an outside stair. I go in through the window—after I put on my plastic gloves,” she added, holding up her hands, “so I don’t leave fingerprints.”

  “And once you’re inside?”

  “I find the key card in the supervisor’s office and use that to get into the airship. Leave the card on the stairs. Find the machine room.” She paused.

  “Where … ?”

  “Where there’ll be a big spherical tank next to a panel of blinking lights.”

  “That’s the helium.”

  “Right. And there’s another machine in back of it, that looks sort of like a jet engine lying on its side.”

  He was nodding. “The thrust turbine. Next?”

  “Next I swap out the pizza box by the machine with this one.” She touched her messenger bag.”

  “And then hide where I showed you—”

  “I know, I know—in the storage locker in the corner, just outside the machine room.”

  “And you have to be out of that room and in the storage locker by what time?”

  “Six oh four.”

  “Six oh three.”

  “That’s what I meant!”

  “Don’t mess it up, Megan.”

  “I won’t. I mean, you’ve seen this, right? I make it through?”

  “You make it through. As long as you play it exactly the way I told you.”

  “I will. Just like you said.”

  “Good girl.” He laid an arm across her shoulders and they stepped out of the way to allow Brody room to finish strapping the catapult down. “Now, after they’re done with their maintenance procedures,” he told her, “they’ll fly the airship from Jersey to the Empire State Building to pick up the passengers. That’ll be at ten till noon. Then, when the airship reaches its cruising altitude, the flight attendants start serving drinks. What do you do next?”

  “I’ll hear two bells—”

  “That’s right, when the airship reaches a mile up. And what time is it then?”

  “Twelve oh one and fifty seconds, plus or minus five seconds.”

  “Correct. And at that point, your passage will be clear, for exactly one minute and twenty-two seconds.”

  She nodded, and ticked the steps off on her fingers. “I get out of the locker when I hear the ‘ding-ding.’ I take off my shoes and coveralls and leave them there and put on my flats and sweater. I open the hatch, close it behind me, and quietly descend to the gondola.”

  “Right. And?”

  “Make sure the flight attendants aren’t looking, then walk normally through the kitchen like I belong there.”

  “Yep! Then you can just join the other tourists. Take an empty seat anywhere—there’ll be several open. And relax! Have a lovely tour of the city, with free champagne and catering. Hobnob all you like. You’ll return to watch the concert from the air at sundown.

  “And it’s going to be quite a show, you know.” He touched her jaw and gave her a searching gaze. “They have giant windows and you’ll be able to see the whole thing from above. Plus they’ll be broadcasting it onto big screens and speakers inside the gondola. Best seats in the house. And afterward, there’ll be fireworks.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.” She gave him a phony smile and hated herself for showing him her fear. But existential terror’ll do that to a person. Over the past six weeks, since they’d stepped off the Queen Mary from their own cruise, she’d learned way more about Rip and his proclivities than she’d ever wanted to know.

  It was too late to back out now.

  For my family, she thought. I can do this for them.

  “That’s my Tiffani.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Now, it’ll be a long wait in that locker. Did you bring something to read?”

  She nodded. The latest issues of Cosmo, Aces of Hollywood, and Rock and Gem were rolled up in the bottom of the bag. And she’d bought one of those super-chargers for her cell phone, so she wouldn’t run out of juice.

  “I have to get going. You follow my instructions to the letter, just like we practiced. We’ll meet back at the hotel after the concert, and make a clean getaway.”

  “Maybe I can find a way off while folks are boarding the airship. That way I can help you with the heist.”

  “Uh-uh. We can’t risk being seen together. Just get the turbine part to the spot where it needs to be, get down into the gondola, and enjoy the ride.” He kissed her on the forehead and then on the lips. It was a good-bye kiss—a real one—the first kiss he had ever given her that felt one hundred percent like it came from the heart. She’d touched her fingers to her lips as she watched him drive away, and nodded to herself.

  You’re over me already, she thought. But not over the Candle yet, after all these years.

  And now it was a quarter past five a.m., and she sat in the flatbed cab with Brody, making their way down Hook Road in Bayonne. The truck’s headlights flashed on a sign: AeroLux Maintenance Hangar Entrance: 1 mi. Brody turned onto a gravel road that ran alongside the security fence. He shut off the engine and turned off his headlights. “Now we wait here till the security service finishes their rounds.”

  The dirigible hangar was there in the distance. A car drove slowly out from behind it, shining a floodlight across the surrounding field. It looked like a cop car, but Rip had said it would be a private security company doing the rounds. The car disappeared behind the building and several minutes later, a car with the same markings passed by on the highway behind them.

  “All righty, ma’am,” Brody said. “You’re up. You’ll wait for my signal, yes?” He showed her a fist, held up where she’d be able to see it through the cab window. She nodded, and climbed out and scrambled up onto the flatbed.

  The catapult was a platform with handrails on both sides. The right handrail held the launch pull cord: a red triangle that dangled at its front end. She pulled her cap down tight, swung her messenger bag in front of her, and took hold of the launch pull. Then she gripped both rails. Over Brody’s shoulder, the dashboard clock said 5:32. No time for a do-over—it was now or never. She waved so Brody could see her in the mirror. He nodded. The truck started moving.

  Tiffani held on tight as the truck lurched onto the gravel road. Brody sped up. She tried to stay upright, and suppressed shrieks every time Brody hit a bump. He followed the road along the fence. The road would curve away and then back as they neared the far end of the property, and they needed to be going at least sixty, Rip had said, so that by the time they swung back toward the fence, she could clear the top. Brody was in charge of making sure she jumped at the right point, at the right speed.

  The bag banged against her midsection, heavy-laden with the spare part. Bits of hair escaped her scrunchie and whipped in her face. The security fence whizzed by alongside them, about a hundred feet away. Twenty feet high, with razor wire on top of that. Aw, shit.

  “Timing will be everything,” Rip had said. A burst of anger broke through her resolve. I’ll give you ‘timing,’ the next time I am anywhere near your sorry ass. Mama wouldn’t believe this. Little Meg wouldn’t even climb a tree.

  Here came the jump point. She could see it in the headlights through the bug-spattered windshield of the cab. She closed her eyes. Jesus Christ on a Harley knockoff—what have I gotten myself into?

  Brody turned hard into the curve, and the truck’s wheels skidded, flinging gravel. Her feet slipped across the
catapult platform. As he straightened out of the curve he held up his hand. Three fingers—she released the left handhold and clutched the bag to her belly; two—she crouched; one—she tensed—and go!

  She yanked the triangle and—BANG!—the platform shoved her up into the sky.

  Tiffani soared high above the truck as it braked and skidded around the next curve in the road. She drew her legs up and hugged them tight, with the bag between legs and belly. Her diamond coat snapped on with a crack. Four inches deep in hard-polished glam, tip-to-tuchus, she tumbled in an arc. Razor wire whispered a kiss on her crystalline-coated ass, and the world and sky spun cattywampus, till the ground came up and slapped her silly.

  She bounced and rolled across the field like the world’s biggest, shiniest croquet ball, kicking up dirt clods and tufts of grass. Finally she rolled to a stop, and dropped her glam. She leaned back, knees up, gasping for air, dizzy and knocked about.

  Oh my God—I’m still alive!

  She felt her limbs. Nothing seemed broken. “Well, Rip honey,” she said to the early morning air, “You were right about that part, at least.”

  She stood, brushed off the dirt, and slung her bag onto her back. Tug, tuck, glam, and roll. Check. The moon, a quarter past full, hung low in the west. In the east, a dull maroon glow had appeared above the line of trees. Directly before her, not a hundred yards away, stood the hangar, lit up by ugly orange sodium lights. Shit and shebangles; it was HUGE. What the hell am I doing here?

  Keeping your family alive. Get a move on.

  She pulled on her disposable gloves (check), hiked across the field—as light-footed as she could so as not to leave big tracks—waving away the clouds of mosquitos—and climbed up the metal stair along the side of the big hangar (check). It was at least a ten-story climb along the long back side of the hangar. And she could see right through the pressed metal stairs, all the way to the ground. Thank goodness she’d worn her good sneakers. She had to stop more than once to catch her breath.