But Nobody Wants To Die

by David M George

  Mitch ran his fingers through his hair, and scanned the imaginary perimeter, making sure it was safe,

  “Twenty-four hours prior we knock on the door, say we’re here for your appointment for the annual maintenance on the AC unit. We’re both wearing our Premier Heating and Cooling caps and shirts, carrying our tool boxes, the Premier Heating and Cooling truck parked in the driveway, got the visual?”

  “Got it,” Carlos said.

  “They say, quite possibly, no thank you, or words to that effect,” Mitch said. “We say, okay, your choice, but it’s a long hot summer especially when you don’t have AC and if you say no now, we just might not be able to fit you into our schedule later. Then they might have one of the guys go check the unit to be on the safe side. He might come back and say something like, it ain’t a Premier unit, the sticker says Chas Robert’s or whatever. We say, oh yeah, we do all the sub-contracting for them, here’s the card, and you can call to confirm your previously scheduled appointment if you like.”

  Mitch hands Carlos a business card. It looks authentic, Premier logo in red and black. Carlos examines it, “That’s my phone number,” he said

  “Yeah, we’ll have Melinda answer the phone, and she’ll say, ‘Premier Heating and Cooling. Oh yes sir, we do all the subcontracting for Trane, Genair, just about everybody. We show you have an appointment scheduled for today.’ That’s her name right, Melinda?” Mitch said.

  “Yeah,” Carlos said, “that’s her name.”

  “So if we get in, I service the unit,” Mitch said, “you hand me whatever tool I ask for. When you get the chance after they relax a little, start looking bored, you ask to use the restroom. Take a peek in that other office. See if you see the hostages. If you do, when you come back to where I’m working, you touch the bill of your genuine Premier Heating and Cooling hat twice, and I’ll know to install the smoke bomb. We’ll set the timer for let’s say 1630 hours the following day.

  “If they’re not there,” Mitch continued, “we just service the unit and leave, no blood no foul. If they are there, at 1629 hours the next day, we’re parked around the corner, dressed as firemen, complete uniform in every detail: coats, helmets, Self Contained Breathing Apparatus, the whole nine, except no name badges. Thirty seconds or so after it detonates, Engine 13 pulls up, lights flashing, siren wailing. Except that Engine 13 now has reflective tape cut with an X-Acto knife to convert Engine number 13 to 43.

  “Turns out the Las Vegas Fire Department does not carry an Engine 43 on its roster of motorized vehicles. This Engine 13, a 2001 Pierce Quantum Pumper, was recently retired by LVFD and is sitting in the maintenance yard, where it just had its first quarterly check-up. We use it that afternoon and return it the same evening.” Mitch runs his hand through his hair and scans the perimeter again.

  “You with me so far?” Mitch said.

  Carlos nodded.

  “The firemen then dash up to the warehouse and order everyone to evacuate immediately. They run in, drag in some hoses, spray water everywhere. If need be they create even more chaos and mass confusion than caused by the smoke bomb. The two extra firemen, carrying fire axes, break down the office door that holds the four hostages, and place them in the four empty storage bins of the Pierce Quantum, two located on each side of the unit. The real firemen, also coincidentally, not wearing name badges, quickly contain the situation, roll up their hoses and disappear into the night before anyone discovers the hostages are missing. What could possibly go wrong?” Mitch said.

  “You mean other than the mob guys filling them full of holes?” Carlos said.

  “There’s that,” Mitch said.

  “Okay, let’s review,” Carlos said. “The Captain of Fire Station #13, your uncle, agreed to do this for you in lieu of him having to repay the $12,000.”

  “Right,” Mitch said.

  “Why would you do this for me? This wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened in the Korengal Valley would it?” Carlos said.

  “It might,” Mitch said, looking away.

  Carlos nodded, getting it finally, “I would have done that for anybody.”

  “I know,” Mitch said. “But it just so happened that you did it for me.”

  “But what about the firemen? They have nothing to gain by participating in our little escapade,” Carlos said.

  “Here’s the thing,” Mitch said. “These guys love to play practical jokes on one another. And not just romper room antics like a box of Ex-Lax in the chocolate pudding or half a tube of Ben Gay in someone’s underwear, but seriously demented shit like a live diamond back rattlesnake in the other guy’s bed; hiring strippers to perform at another guy’s wedding rehearsal.”

  “So they would just believe this was another in a long series of sick practical jokes?” Carlos said.

  “That’s the idea, in fact, they have a long standing on-going feud with Station #10. They might actually believe that the Captain in Station #10 and two other firemen that work there own a share of this warehouse,” Mitch said.

  “Please stop. The less I know the easier it will be to plead the Fifth later. How long will it take to set this up?” Carlos said.

  “They need 48 hours’ notice,” Mitch said.

  “What about the smoke bomb?” Carlos said.

  “It might be in my garage,” Mitch said.

  “So what was Plan A?” Carlos said.

  “We drive up to the front door in a stolen Nello’s Pizza truck, carrying pizza and when they open the door we drop the pizza and kill them.”

  “Maybe we should go with Plan B,” Carlos said.

  “Whatever,” Mitch said.

  “Why don’t you give me and my partner here ten minutes to discuss your more than generous offer and we’ll give you an answer,” Carlos said.

  “Go right ahead. I need to use the restroom anyway. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” Mitch said as he got up and walked away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  THE BUY IN

  “S o, what do you think?” Carlos said.

  “I think Mitch has some major PTSD issues, and that maybe he should sit in on a few more counseling sessions at the VA,” I said.

  “I don’t think he attends,” Carlos said.

  “I gathered as much,” I said

  “So put that aside for a minute and let’s not deal with personalities, just tell me what you think about Plan B,” Carlos said.

  “I like it better than Plan A,” I said.

  “Good. Anything else?” Carlos said.

  “It might just work if all the planets align and none of the mob guys got past the 3rd grade,” I said.

  “It has a few holes,” Carlos said.

  “Yeah, maybe more than a few, but I guess it’s the best plan we got,” I said.

  “So we give Mitch the green light?” Carlos said.

  “There’s one thing you need to know. I got a call this morning from Dad’s friend at LVPD. He said the plates he ran for us are registered to Global Entertainment. So we give Mitch the green light only if I get to come along as the third fireman.”

  “No way, it’s too dangerous,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

  “Look,” I said, “none of the hostages know you or Mitch. Why should they let themselves be rescued by total strangers, they might be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. I need to be there. They know me, they trust me. I need to be a part of this.”

  “So you’re going to convince them to jump from the frying pan into the fire truck,” Carlos said.

  “Oh, that’s good,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Carlos said.

  “So you’ll tell Mitch?” I said,

  “He’s not going to like it,” Carlos said.

  “He doesn’t have to like it; he just has to do it,” I said

  “He’s doing this as a personal favor to me. He’s not on the payroll,” Carlos said.

  “Okay, your right and I’m sorry,” I said. “I get it. Just vouch for me. Tell him I won’t be a liabi
lity.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Carlos said.

  “Thank you,” I said

  “Let’s go give him the good news,” Carlos said.

  We went back to the park bench and waited for Mitch. He came out of the restroom and headed our way, running his hand through his hair and scanning the Oleanders on both sides for invisible insurgents, repeating the gesture several times while covering the eighty yards between us and the restroom. I felt sorry for him. We ask so much of these men and give them so little in return. They come back as damaged goods, held together with duct tape and bailing wire and we expect them to just pick up their old lives as if nothing ever happened.

  “So what do you think?” Mitch said.

  “We’re in, under one condition,” Carlos said.

  “What’s that?” Mitch said.

  “She goes along as the third fireman,” Carlos said.

  Mitch paused, ran his fingers through his hair. “This could get real hairy,” he said.

  “She can take care of herself,” Carlos said. “She’s not asking for any special favors.”

  Mitch looked at me for a long time. “If the shit hits the fan,” he said, “I’m not risking my ass to save yours.”

  “If you did,” I said, “the rumors about you being retarded wouldn’t just be rumors would they?”

  Mitch smiled for the first time, then he looked at Carlos. “She has balls, huh?”

  “They clang when she walks,” Carlos said.

  I tried to smile demurely, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “Okay,” Mitch said, “you’re in. Oh, there’s just one more thing,”

  “What’s that?” Carlos said.

  “The 2001 Pierce Quantum Pumper parked in the Maintenance Yard,” Mitch said.

  “Yeah, what about it?” Carlos said.

  “You have to steal it,” Mitch said.

  Carlos raised his eyebrows, “And just how are we going to do that?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard, I’ve got an official signed, City of Las Vegas Purchase Order, in triplicate, stating that the City of Henderson, Nevada has agreed to purchase said 2001 Pierce Quantum Pumper for $22,000,” Mitch said.

  “So what do I tell them when I roll up to the gate and ask for the keys,” Carlos said.

  “Just tell them to keep the pink copy,” Mitch said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  PREMIER HEATING AND COOLING

  I t’s just before 11:00 AM on another of an unending series of hot Las Vegas summer days, and even with the AC cranked to max, Carlos is worried that the first drops of nervous perspiration are already starting to stain his crisp, newly laundered, lightly starched Premier Heating and Cooling work shirt.

  Mitch turned to Carlos, “Are you ready?” he said.

  “If you mean ready to engage a well-armed superior hostile force with nothing but a screwdriver, what would make you think I’m not ready?” Carlos said.

  “There’s only four of them,” Mitch said, smiling. “You want to go over the plan again?”

  “No,” Carlos said. “I think I got it.”

  “Okay good,” Mitch said, “What about Code Yellow?”

  “Hot sauce,” Carlos said.

  “Code Red?” Mitch said.

  “Salsa,” Carlos said.

  “If things do go code red, just stick that screwdriver into the nearest goombah and grab his weapon and take out the two men closest to you. I’ll take the one nearest to me and do the same,” Mitch said.

  “Roger that,” Carlos said.

  Mitch begins to recite the last lines of the SEAL Creed as we rounded the final corner and head towards the warehouse. A pre-game pep talk, “Anything in life worth doing is worth overdoing, moderation is for cowards. I’m a lover, I’m a fighter, I’m a UDT Navy Seal Diver.”

  Carlos responds with the last sentence, words now and forever etched in stone in his memory, and they recite the closing words of the Creed together, “I wine, dine, intertwine and sneak out the back door when the revealing is done. So if you’re feeling froggy you better jump because this frogman’s been there, done that, and is going back for more. Cheers Boys!”

  They pulled into the driveway. “Brothers?” Mitch said.

  “Brothers,” Carlos said.

  “Let’s freaking do this,” Mitch said. They opened the doors of the truck, and Carlos grabbed both of the tool boxes and they headed for the entrance. Mitch rang the bell. They wait, knowing they are being scrutinized. Eventually a voice from inside, “Yeah?”

  “We’re here for the annual maintenance on the AC unit,” Mitch said.

  “Hang on,” the voice said. They wait again, the seconds pass, Carlos can feel the sun beating down on the back of his neck. The success of the mission entirely dependent on them getting in the door. The voice finally returns, “We don’t know nothing about it.”

  “Oh yes sir, we scheduled this appointment six months ago. Here’s my card. You can call the office to confirm our appointment,” Mitch said.

  Mitch takes the card out of his pocket and holds it towards the crack in the door. “It’s up to you,” Mitch said, shrugging his shoulders, “but it’s a long hot summer especially when you don’t have AC. Mitch pauses, radiating indifference, “Don’t matter to me, but if you say no, I doubt we can fit you in later.”

  Finally there is a click and the door opens just wide enough for the guy to take the card. The reptilian part of Carlos’ brain is screaming at Mitch, Now, Now, but he knows from hard experience that adrenaline is a two edged sword and misplaced, used at the wrong time, it can get you killed. The door closes, the lock clicks and the opportunity closes with it and Carlos is glad, the urge to act drifting away in the heat. It’s up to Melinda now.

  Finally the door opens and they are told they can come in, Melinda doing her job. They get no farther than the waiting room when two more mob guys come out of the office, joining the guy who let them in.

  They are all dressed in sport coats and slacks, much too formal for a warehouse in summer, the bulges under their coats clearly indicating they are armed.

  The spokesman for the trio, an older guy going gray at the temples, with an expanding waistline, says something about having to frisk them. Telling them they keep considerable amounts of cash on the premises (a lie, thinks Carlos, who keeps large amounts of cash in a warehouse?) and the fact that they have had problems previously (another lie, thinks Carlos, told merely to support the first; they want to frisk them because of the hostages in the next room)

  But he and Mitch discussed this possibility previously and decided carrying any weapons would be too risky, immediately blowing their cover. Mitch nods his head, plasters a big goofy Midwestern smile on his features and spreads his arms like he was a big ass bird about to fly, sure go ahead he says, no problem. They turn Mitch around have him lean up against the wall and pat him down. He’s clean says the youngest one.

  Carlos’ turn. He imitates Mitch’s motions, spreads his arms facing them, pretending he has no idea whatsoever how this is done, a complete novice. They motion for him to turn around and lean up against the wall and he does so. They frisk him and the same guy, the youngest one, says he’s clean. They ask to look in the tool boxes. Sure thing Mitch said. They find nothing out of the ordinary; the smoke bomb is painted black and looks something like the coil you would find in the engine compartment of a car.

  “Show them where it is,” the spokesman said, and the youngest one takes the lead, the two others fall in behind and they walk through the office into the hallway, past the two smaller offices and the restrooms, through a double doorway and out into the warehouse itself. The unit is just outside the door.

  “It’s a TRANE 2200,” Mitch said, as if he was a tour guide in the Louvre announcing the painting we’re admiring was a Renoir. He reaches for the larger of the two toolboxes Carlos is carrying and sets to work. The HVAC is just for the offices, about 1,250 square feet. The warehouse is cooled by evaporative cooling, and runs on a much l
arger separate system. Mitch opens the back panel and Carlos steps closer to the maze of wiring as if he knew what he was looking at. It looks like so much colored spaghetti. But he turns and opens his tool box, lifting out the various compartments as if confidently readying himself for the complex job ahead.

  After a few minutes, the spokesperson for the group gradually loses interest. He turns to leave, telling the two remaining guys to keep an eye on them and that he would be back in a few minutes. Mitch catches his eye for just a split second, while asking for a pair of needle nose pliers. The look telling him now is the time to make your move. Carlos waits maybe twenty seconds; just long enough to make sure the guy who just left is gone for good, then turns and asks the older guy if he could use the restroom.

  The two mob guys confer. They decide to let the younger one accompany Carlos to the restroom while the older one stays with Mitch. Carlos considers drawing the younger, hopefully less experienced mob guy a small victory. They step back through the double doors and Carlos takes the opportunity to eyeball the doorway to the smallest office. The window is covered in dark film with no way to see in. Shit, thinks Carlos, now what? Carlos apologizes to the mob guy, telling him he should not have eaten dinner at Del Taco last night, that he’s had the runs ever since. The mob guy laughs, says he’ll wait in the hallway.

  Carlos enters the restroom and heads for the last toilet stall on the right side, knowing from the building schematic that this wall adjoins the smallest office. He enters the stall, locking it behind him, flushes the toilet to see how far the sound carries, and to announce his arrival to the hostages in the next room. He wants to send a message in Morse code, but even two card counters from Duluth, held hostage because they owe the mob 50 grand might know enough Morse code to respond to an SOS. He needs a specific message with a specific response, one that will confirm the identity of the hostages.

  He raps hard on the wall with his knuckles: dash, dot, dash, dot; pause; C; dot, dot, dot, dot; pause H; dot, pause; E; dot, dot, dot; pause; S; dash; pause; T; dash, dot, dash, dash; pause; Y; He waits, nothing. Carlos flushes the toilet again. This time he is rewarded by the sound of a metal chair being drug or pushed across a bare floor. He waits until the chair sounds stop and tries again: dash, dot, dash, dot; pause; C; dot, dot, dot, dot; pause; H; dot; pause; E; dot, dot, dot; pause S; dash; pause; T: dash, dot, dash, dash; pause; Y. This time he hits pay dirt and hears the muffled sound of somebody banging what could be the edge of a chair against the wall. Dot, dash, dash, dot; pause; P; dot, dot, dash; pause U; dot, dash, dot, dot; pause; L; dot, dash, and then the sound of the bathroom door banging open and the young mob guy hollering, “Hey, what in the hell is going on in here?”