Blown Away
Page 1
Blown Away
A Domestic Thriller
by
Deforest Day
Copyright © 2017 Deforest Day.
deforestday@AOL.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
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Blown Away
I wasn’t kissing her, I was whispering in her mouth. ~Chico Marx
Chapter One
Mac McClintock met his future wife and stepdaughter at a home show in the Atlantic City Convention Center.
He was there to study the roof trusses, examine the posts and piers and pillars, preparing to submit a bid on the demolition.
It was by far the biggest job he ever attempted, and tomorrow he'd meet with the city council, the planning board, and the mayor. Let them kick his tires, while he tried to sell himself as the new kid on the block, back from ten years overseas, where he lived out of a suitcase, working cost-plus contracts for anyone needing a man with wits and balls.
He’d be sure to mention he was a New Jersey native. Mention also he'd use local subcontractors. Because Mac McClintock believed in supporting the community, believed a strong tax base was vital to the economy, believed in God, and Mom, and Apple Pie. He wouldn’t need to tell these elected officials all the workers on the job would be registered to vote in New Jersey.
Saturday evening, and the convention center was crowded with weekend warriors drooling over chain saws, pressure washers, and a tall woman in a short dress demonstrating a folding ladder contraption.
Mac watched her work the crowd, middle-aged men more interested in the pitchman than the product. So when she asked for a volunteer it wasn't surprising there were several.
Then a preteen with pigtails and pink Oshkosh B’gosh overalls, edged forward. The woman smiled and leaned down to the child’s level. “How about you, little girl?”
“Okay, Mommy,” her daughter said, and grabbed the other half of the ladder. That always brought a laugh, and let the men know this was a mother as well as a stunning blue-eyed blonde, and gave her the chance to go into The Turn.
Turn the men from fantasizing about her to explaining the need for a Magic Ladder System to their wives. And explain the need for the FREE! as-seen-on-TV instructional video of Mom in shorty shorts, washing windows in a wet T-shirt.
Mac appreciated anything done well, and the way she worked the crowd was right up there with the final pitch of Game Seven, and the Gipper fooling all of the people all of the time.
After the show closed, and the exhibitors were buttoning up their displays for the night, Mac returned to the Magic Ladder booth with a gas, electric, and water schematic of the convention center, and a crowbar.
The mother had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, was putting the brochures and promo material behind the display, while the daughter ran a sweeper over the carpet.
He read her exhibitor's badge, identifying her as Magnolia Poitrine, Magic Ladder System, Booth 1208. “Hello, Magnolia. I’m Mac McClintock. I wonder if I could roll up your carpet for a couple of minutes?”
After a year on the road Mags thought she’d heard every line, learned all about marks and shills and grifters. She studied him for a second, wondering what his con was. Most likely roll up the rug, and steal her mother's purse.
He looked like what's-his-name; the guy Mom dated when she was trying to be a movie star. He got a part in Wedding Crashers, and she got this Magic Ladder gig. “What's your angle?”
“I hope I’m the guy who’s going to tear down this convention center, and I need to pull up a steel plate these blueprints say is under your space. It’s where all the utilities come into the building.”
That’s when the woman with Honey Poitrine on her badge joined the conversation. “Can’t you do that after the show’s over? We’re out of here tomorrow.” She glanced at her watch. “Mags and I haven’t had dinner yet.”
“Give me ten minutes under your floor, and I’ll buy you dinner.”
Honey had already checked out the salient points of Mr. McClintock. Slim and trim, wearing a turtleneck sweater and a wedding ring. “Sorry, I don’t date married men.”
“I’m not married, and buying you and your daughter dinner isn’t what I’d call a date.”
“Then why are you wearing a wedding band on the third finger of your left hand?”
Magnolia rolled her eyes, and sighed. “It’s his right hand, Mom.”
“Oh darn. Probably the reason I got a D in Weather Presentation.” Honey never missed a chance to drop her résumé into a conversation. “I couldn’t get the hang of pointing to a green screen, while I was looking at a monitor off camera.” In case Mr. McClintock was dense, she added, “I was a Communications major in college.”
He slipped off the ring, handed it to her. “And it’s not a wedding ring; it’s an ounce of 24 karat gold.” He'd learned the move was a useful way to gain the trust of others. “In some parts of the world it’s worth a lot more than the U.S. dollar.”
“Then we accept your invitation. Only we’re not dressed for anything nicer than fast food.”
When the elevator opened at the casino’s penthouse level they looked around the suite, and Mags said, “I guess this one’s rich, Mom.”
Honey said, “Mags!”
And Mac said, “Mags, I'm richer than God.” Setting the kid and her mom up for an ice breaker.
Mom rolled her eyes, because her bulldookie detector had been on full alert since this guy lifted their rug. But it was Mags who asked, “Richer than God?” She'd played straight man for Uncle Saylor, and was pretty sure she was playing one now.
“Uh Huh. He must be broke, because every time you go to church, they take up a collection for him.”
“You stole that from George Carlin. God is all powerful, and he needs money.”
The kid had him there, so he handed Honey a room service menu, and changed the subject. “It's à la carte, so if you always wanted to try snails, now’s your chance.”
“Eeeww,” Mags said. “I’ll settle for a burger, Coke, and fries.”
Honey wandered, checked out the sunken hot tub, the wet
bar, the entertainment center. She smelled the scent of opportunity. “How can you afford this suite if you’re not rich?”
“I deposited every cent I own, and some I don’t, in the casino bank. For high rollers they comp a suite, limo pickup at the airport, and anything else it takes to keep you happy losing your money.
“I learned to play baccarat in Dubai, a game with the lowest house odds, so I may actually win. Or drop a few hundred. Which still makes this room cheaper than Motel Six.”
Mags found a rack of poker chips and playing cards. She broke the seal on a deck, did a Hindu shuffle, and when she saw she had his attention, an overhand cut. “Want to see a card trick?”
He grinned at this kid. “Sure.”
“Give me a twenty dollar bill.”
Mac removed one from his wallet, handed it over. She folded it lengthwise, tucked it in the top pocket of her overalls, then fanned the deck. “Pick a card, don't show it to me, then stick it back in the deck.”
She shuffled, cut, showed him the Jack of Clubs.
“Nice trick, Magnolia. What's the twenty for?”
“That's the entertainment fee. You think I perform for free?”
“Mags! Give him his money back.”
“No, you earned it, Mags. What do you do if the guy gets mad?”
“They don't. Not if you've sized up the mark.”
A problem had nagged at him all afternoon. The convention center job was new territory. He knew how to deal with his peers—dozer jockeys and hammer-swingers—but when it came to the suits, the men with the MBAs and million dollar budgets, he was out of his league.
He needed someone with the polish to pull it off. Someone like this Honey Poitrine. Mac had lived—and stayed alive—by making snap decisions, and he made another one.
“Tomorrow evening I’m hosting a cocktail party for the mayor and the convention bureau. I watched you two work the crowd, and it gave me an idea. Would you ladies like to play hostesses for a few hours?” He added the Teaser. “Say yes, and I'll buy a ladder.”
Mags jumped in ahead of her mother. “Make it two, and we have a deal.”
—o—
SIX YEARS LATER Honey said, “The Times calls that pile of scrap a historic landmark.” She tossed the morning newspaper on the coffee table. “And they make it sound like it's my fault you're tearing it down.”
Mac glanced at the article. “When your name's on the letterhead you have to expect some negative publicity.” The writer had called him, fishing for quotes. “At least they spelled it right.”
Honey and Mac were in the Great Room addition to the old Pennsylvania farmhouse. It featured hand-hewn oak and chestnut timbers salvaged from the derelict barn, a cathedral ceiling, and a wall of glass to take advantage of the view. It was one of her demands, when they moved to what her Hollywood friends called God's asshole.
She wore a silk kimono and fuzzy mules; Mac his Timberland boots and worn jeans. Honey was headed to New York for her Spa day; Mac was headed to the job site, as he did every day.
Their company, H. Poitrine and Associates, was in the last days of Phase One, tearing down the mile-long Wilkes-Barre Ornamental Iron Works. Part of an Army Corps of Engineers flood abatement project. Honey was the Poitrine, Mac was the Associates.
Mac said, “I need you to go to Washington today, call on Congressman Varnish. He's the reason we got this job, and he needs to be stroked. And fed. It's time to make another campaign contribution.”
Instead of answering, Honey finished her coffee, and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, where she admired the bright red convertible with the matching red ribbon. She sighed. Mac knew it was her spa day, and she wanted to look her best for the governor and the media.
The morning sun turned the kimono translucent, and Honey glanced over her shoulder, making sure he noticed. Her personal trainer, coupled with weekly spa sessions, maintained the face and figure that won her Miss Ole Miss two decades earlier. She'd used both to her advantage as beauty queen, Vegas showgirl, and TV infomercial actress.
“Let Mags do it, Mac. It's time she learned the corporate side of the business, instead of hanging around the job site after school, getting grease on her clothes.”
“It's the grease that pays your spa bills, dear.”
Magnolia Poitrine, eighteen years-old since about an hour ago, wandered in, sleepy-eyed. “Morning Mom, Daddy Mac.” She wore baggy gym shorts and her vintage Melissa Etheridge Brave and Crazy T-shirt.
Honey gave her a hug and a kiss. “Happy birthday, Mags.”
Mac dangled a BMW key fob. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”
“What's that?”
Honey grinned. “Look out the window.”
Mags looked, squealed, ran outside in her bare feet.
Honey said, “I told you it was the perfect gift.”
“Uh huh. Nicer than the Timex I got for my high school graduation.” He joined his wife at the window, watched his stepdaughter jump in the roadster and race down the farm lane.
Last week she'd asked for a diesel pickup, saying, “We could write it off as a company vehicle, right, Daddy Mac?”
She turned around at the blacktop, and sped back in a cloud of dust.
—o—
An hour later Honey sped into the job site, trailing a cloud of dust. She was running late, and couldn't raise Mac. She left her Lexus, engine running and door open, between an all-terrain forklift, and the big yellow machine the guys called T-Rex, and speed-dialed Mac again as she headed for the job site trailer. Nothing. The man carried an iPhone, a BlackBerry, and an FM pager, and all were deader than Daffy Duck.
She climbed the steps, taking care to keep the spike heels of her Manolos out of the steel treads, and tried the door. Locked, gol dern it, and she'd never bothered to learn the keypad combo.
Honey considered herself a Big Picture person; more comfortable at cocktail parties, surrounded by politicians and bureaucrats, than getting her hands dirty. That was Mac's job; she signed the contracts, he hired the contractors. He liked to call her his figure behind the figurehead, bless his heart.
She scanned the yard; acres of packed dirt and heaped rubble, all enclosed by chain link compliance panels. Noisy loaders ate away at a mountain of refuse, and filled a line of dump trucks.
In a far corner she saw Mac’s Poor Souls chipping mortar off bricks, stacking them on pallets. She frowned. They need to be gone before the governor and the media arrive.
It was yet another of his sidelines; recycling the old and useless, repackaged as 'urban artifacts', then peddled to restoration architects and interior designers.
When she complained it looked uncouth, a bunch of homeless drunks and dopers camping out in lean-tos, cooking over trash fires, he said, “Honey, there’s nothing couth about a demolition site. Mountains of worn asphalt, busted concrete laced with rusty rebar, old doors, windows. But those bricks will end up in some Manhattan saloon, or a Wall Street conference room. For ambience.
“Besides, my Poor Souls are vets, dealing with PTSD, and the least I can do is give them a job, however temporary.”
All that made her eyes glaze over, and she told him so.
Mac countered with a touch of sarcasm. “Your architect pal seemed to like the bricks enough to grab a truckload for your new patio.”
Honey had the last word. “Veranda, Mac. Show some class.”
She picked her way down the stairs, and glanced at the Porta Potties, shuddering at the thought of using one. She hadn’t planned on stopping at the job site on her way to New York. Maybe it was a good thing she had; a chance to see it from a woman’s point of view. Make notes on things needed before the big day. Like fresh portable toilets for the media, the politicians.
Honey hadn’t been there since the day she and Governor Heftshank shared a gold-plated shovel, grinning for the cameras.
And she wouldn’t be here now if Mac would answer his stupid phone. So she could tell him to transfer twenty thousand into her debit card account
; be on her way, thank you very much.
She swung her gaze toward the infamous Susquehanna River, and focused on the towering monstrosity that was the Iron Works. A hundred feet high and a mile long, and scheduled to become a pile of rubble in a media savvy high-profile explosion.
The governor was coming back on Friday, to put a finger beside hers, press a ceremonial button for the cameras. At a safe distance. Mac said the real switch would be thrown by a blasting expert, a whole lot closer to ground zero.
That first day she ruined a pair of alligator pumps because some twerp wanted to photograph her and Governor Heftshank in front of the old cornerstone, and the ground was worse'n the hog wallow on Grandpa's farm.
Flood abatement was the excuse for spending half a billion redevelopment dollars to tear down miles of abandoned river front property. To be replaced with parks, bike paths, and hiking trails. A minor league ball park, for heaven's sake.
She paused, trying to overlay Mac's vision on this dreary reality. It gave a body a turn, the way the man was always thinkin' two steps ahead of the crowd.
Before they met he was just a small-time subcontractor with a line of bullpucky, and she was demonstrating gizmos at trade shows. Then Mac learned if a woman owned the company it got favored treatment from the folks handing out government pork. He formed H. Poitrine & Associates, LLC, named her President. A couple of years later he slipped the ring on her finger, and here she was.
Honey noticed a pickup with side boxes parked near a dozer-sized hole punched in the brick wall of the Iron Works. Mac’s crew had removed all the old machinery that once made cast iron grates, fences and manhole covers, and the building was a vast, empty shell. Maybe Mac was inside, in a dead zone. She headed for the opening.
Inside, Spider Tarantella was running 50 grain Primacord between the columns, connecting it to the hundreds of yellow shock tubes already inserted in the RDX charges. He preferred working alone, with nobody getting in the way, asking dumb questions. Touching things.