Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  Mr. Mac he could tolerate; the man was smart enough to know what he didn’t know, and keep his hands in his pockets and his tongue in his head. Besides, the man cut his check.

  He headed outside for another reel of detcord, and noticed a blonde babe in a yellow dress, jiggling across the gravel. Out to here, and a caboose for counterbalance. “Spider, my man, I think the sun’s shining a little brighter.”

  He answered himself with a warning. “Easy, big fella; that looks like Officer Country.”

  “Roger that. But we’re back in The World now. So when she comes over, just smile and say hey howdy. No harm, no foul.”

  “Play it as it lays.”

  “Go with the flow.”

  Honey heard voices, then saw a man hurry out of the building, swipe something from the truck, and duck back into the gloom. More of Mac’s homeless vets, up to who knows what. No good, that's what.

  This one wore army surplus cargo pants and a T-shirt with a cartoon outhouse sitting on a stick of dynamite. Surrounded by the words ‘Bravo Company 57th Ordnance Disposal’.

  She paused at the opening, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. He was hanging a clothesline between two of the rusty steel columns.

  Honey studied his face, looking for threat level clues; not about to walk into an abandoned building with a nut case. Some of them have crazy eyes, and everyone knows eyes are the window to the soul. Her hand slipped in her bag, found the pepper spray.

  His eyes were deep set, framing a nose that has lost a fight or two. Made her think of Daddy; aged by Joe Camel, Jim Beam, and too much Mississippi sun. Daddy was a panty dampener from the git-go, and this one was a match.

  She shook it off. Mac was too easy on these people. She raised her voice. “You plannin' on doin' your laundry?”

  He tossed her a toothy grin. “Yeah, it looks that way, don’t it?” He pulled a pair of snips from a pocket, cut the Primacord, then secured it to the column with orange vinyl tape. “I was teamed with a detachment of NATO troops from Finland. Cleaning up the mess, after Saddam.”

  Spider paused to light a cigarette, let the smoke leak from his nostrils, and added, “Finnish army calls it anopin pyykkinaru. Mother-in-law's clothesline.” He spooled a coil from the reel, offered her the end. Her fingers were ringed, the nails painted, but the veins and tendons told him she had mileage on the clock.

  “The core's a powdered explosive called Pentrite. Detonation velocity's twenty-one thousand feet a second. I use it to connect all the charges, set them off in sequence. Put a five millisecond delay on each series, the RDX goes bada-boom, and the walls come tumblin’ down.”

  He checked her eyes to see how his riff was working. Introduce yourself to the lady; get some conversational intercourse started, lay some groundwork for future encounters. Aloud, he said, “I’m Spider, world class blast master, in case you was wondering.”

  Honey carefully placed the detcord on the ground, stepped back. “I’m wondering if you should be smoking around all these explosives.”

  “Aw, that’s Hollywood stuff, John Wayne touching his cigar to the fuse. RDX needs an electric initiator for detonation.” He piled it on. “Trinitrotoluene.”

  She peered around the interior of the building, cathedral high, and just as dark. Red and yellow detcord climbed the steel beams like honeysuckle vines. No sign of Mac. Or anybody. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Myself. Most people do it, only they don't answer. VA Doc says I got a cortical bifurcation.” He saw she was still a step behind and added, “A TBI, from a premature detonation.”

  So the guy wasn't a Poor Soul, but an employee. If he was allowed to handle explosives, probably an important one. Mac wanted her to take more of a day-to-day interest in the business, so why not start here, connect with the men on their level? Flirting never hurt.

  “I know all about premature detonations.” She cocked her hip. “My first husband ran a four-five forty, and wasn't much slower between the sheets. Beau was a top-ten NFL prospect, before he blew out his knee.” Curiosity nagged. “What’s a TBI?”

  “A traumatic brain injury. I’m fighting with the VA for full disability, and they’re dragging their feet. So I take my meds, and I’ll either get better, or die. Either way, they win.”

  Honey had no interest in this man’s problems, and was still exploring her premature detonation witticism. Did this man even get it? And, what did it matter? She needed to get on the road to New York. “If you’re by your lonesome, it means Mr. McClintock isn’t here. And I can’t raise his phone. I have bars, so he must have it turned off.”

  “Yeah, he was here earlier, watching me test the main circuits. I told him, turn off anything with an electronic signature, less you want to shake hands with your maker. You work for Mr. Mac?”

  Time to let this man know how it is. “The other way around; he works for me.”

  Honey pointed to the billboard mounted at the entrance to the job site.

  SUSQUEHANNA FLOOD ABATEMENT PROJECT

  LACKAWANNA REDEVELOPMENT AUTHORITY

  U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS

  DEPARTMENT OF ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION

  General Contractor H. Poitrine & Associates

  “That’s me up there. Honey Poitrine.”

  “Son of a gun.” He offered his hand. “Tazio Tarantella, Spider to my friends.”

  He began gathering his gear, as he wasn’t going to get any work done with H. Poitrine bending his ear, and showing no sign of leaving. “Honey Poitrine. You don’t look like no general contractor I ever run into. Certainly not the ones in the Middle East.”

  She wondered what this guy meant, ones in the Middle East. “How do you know Mr. McClintock?”

  “I met him when I was clearing mines, unexploded ordnance, and Mr. Mac was handing out cash to crooks. See, in that culture they got what they call baksheesh, lubricates the wheels of commerce. Gratuities, bribes, call it what you will. Against the law here, a way of life over there.

  “He's out in Indian Country, carrying a big aluminum Zero Halliburton full of U.S. hundreds. Has him a couple of towelheads for protection, and they ain’t worth squat. Run off at the first sign of danger. Leaving Mr. Mac with his dick in his hand. Pardon my French.

  “And then we come along. Nick o' time, since a batch of dune coons is about to perfolate him.” Spider played air machine gun, complete with sound effects. “I lit 'em up with the SAW—that’s Squad Automatic Weapon to you— smoked their ass.”

  Honey clenched her teeth. Typical male reaction. Use a gun to solve one problem, and it becomes a bigger one. Growing up in the Delta, she saw too many Friday night arguments turn into Saturday morning wakes. She hated the things, threw a tantrum when a neighbor asked Mac if he could hunt on their land.

  How much of Spider’s tale was macho bulldookie, war stories to give the girls a tingle? Honey needed to ask Mac for his version. He'd never mentioned this part of his life. The bribes sounded about right, if current practices were any indication. Except now they're called campaign contributions, and birthday gifts. Her eyes glittered with mirth as she teased Spider one last time. “Smoked his ass. Did you inhale?”

  “Hey, you ever smell an oil fire? Mixed with spent powder and roast Muslim? Damn right we inhaled. Anyway, he told me I ever need a favor, get in touch. Which I did, when I needed a job.”

  Spider field-stripped his cigarette from force of habit, let the tobacco shreds ride the breeze. “It’s a good one. Doing what I do best, and nobody’s shooting at me, while I do it.”

  She followed Spider outside, watched him stow tools, lock the side boxes on the truck. She'd let herself get sidetracked by this intriguing man. “Did Mac say where he was going from here?”

  “Something about a bank, but then his trophy wife come by, and they drove off.”

  Honey went from confused to startled to angry in the time it took Spider to grab a bottle of water from the cab and crack the seal. “Trophy wife?” she yelled. “Trophy wife!” she shrieked. “
Who the H E double hockey sticks is this trophy wife?”

  Spider picked up the dismay in her voice, choked in mid swallow. “There you go, Spider, the ol’ trotter in the maw again.” He drank half the bottle, capped it, tossed it in the cab. Wondered what made the mouse run up her leg. Maybe she didn't know he was married, and Mr. Mac's been bonin' the boss. Spider, you could get fired by one, or the other, or both. Explain your way out of this, before that mouse starts ticklin' her fancy.

  “You didn’t know about Iraq, so you probably don’t know about the first Mrs. Mac. Didn’t work out, what with her here and him there, and that. Too young, too far apart. Anyway, we meet up again, years later last week, and he tells me second try, he nailed the trophy wife. Nailed as in, ah, won, not—never no mind.

  “Half hour ago she showed up in her shiny little convertible, gave him a wet one.” He raised his gaze to the cloudless sky, a big screen to replay the scene.

  “Nice lookin’ girl.” That tripped a circuit in the other part of his brain, and it went down a side road, taking a brief detour to re-run the wife checking him out, over Mr. Mac's shoulder, during the hello hug.

  There was a spark of interest; most likely in his rugged, outdoor appearance. Man of action. Some women like it sweaty. Wishful thinking dude, and keep it to yourself for once. “She has that athlete's build, like them tennis sisters. Venus and Demilo?” And young; I’m guessin’ she’s half his age.”

  Of course Honey knew about Mac's first marriage; it had worked out as disastrously as her own. “Wait a minute. This convertible. Was it a BMW? Red?”

  “Red? Yeah. I couldn’t tell you the make. Except for this old truck, I ain’t been car shopping for twenty years.”

  “She is half his age.” Honey fumed. “That was my daughter. The Beamer was Magnolia's eighteenth birthday gift.” She yelled, “I’m the trophy wife.”

  “Oh, shit. Looks like Mr. Mac's in trouble, ‘cause that didn’t look like no daughter kiss.”

  “Stepdaughter.” Dern right he’s in trouble. Curiosity overrode embarrassment, and she asked, “Was he, uhh, kissing her back?”

  “Hey, don’t be makin’ me the judge and jury here. It was just a quick hello smooch. Maybe I seen some tongue, but they wasn't real close. To me, I mean.” He shook his head in frustration; every word was getting him deeper in the shit. “Damn, Spider, will you shut up!” Due to his TBI he refused to listen to himself, so he kept on riffing with this MILF. “I bet it's just my lackanookie embroidering the event.”

  Spider climbed in his truck, slammed the door, leaned out the window. “I gotta run down the road, pick up more RDX. I hope you find your husband.”

  As Spider pulled away he checked her out in the side mirror, told himself, “Trophy wife is right. She'd be a ride to remember. ”

  “If you could get her to shut up.”

  “She's a broad. It's in their genes.”

  “Yeah, well, I'd like to get in those jeans.”

  “She's wearing a dress, jackass.”

  “Figure of speech. I'd stuff her panties in that mouth.”

  “I'd make her squeal for more.”

  “Face it, Spider; neither one of us is is gettin' any of that.”

  —o—

  Honey watched him bounce across the gravel, fly out the chain-link gate, and disappear up River Road.

  She tried Mac again, and again got no answer. Maybe his phones were off for something besides dynamite, since when she speed-dialed her daughter it also went to voice mail.

  She knew the temptations of the flesh; men were pigs, and in Hollywood sex was the currency of ambition. But she'd never had cause to mistrust Mac, never doubted his fidelity. After all, it was Mac who joked, “Why go looking for sugar, when you have Honey at home?”

  Although, these past few months he had been on a sweets-free diet. His excuses were always some emergency at this darn place. Or so he said.

  The seeds of doubt sent tendrils into her fertile imagination. Lately Mags was never home, off at graduation parties, field hockey banquets. So she said.

  Honey re-ran Spider's remark. Gave him a wet one; didn't look like no daughter kiss. Images of May-December screen kisses swam unbidden into view. Harrison Ford kissing Anne Heche in that marooned movie. Bogie and Bacall, in The Big Sleep. Young starlets, working with movie legends.

  It had almost happened to her, a one-day shoot for Publisher's Clearing House. Ed McMahon rang her doorbell, and handed her a six-foot long check for a million bucks.

  The check wasn't real, and she didn't even have a speaking part in the commercial, but she did get his autograph.

  But that was years before she met Mac, and by then they'd both been around the block a few times, double parked for a quickie or two, and sown enough wild oats to feed a horse.

  Only—speaking of horses—last week he spent the night in Jersey, buying some used equipment at an auction. The same night Mags slept over at a friend's. And came home so sore, she could hardly walk. Horseback riding, she said.

  Honey drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The old joke about trading in a forty for a pair of twenties was no joke. Not when one of the twenties was eighteen, and your daughter.

  She tromped the accelerator, and yanked the wheel toward the First Union National Bank.

  Chapter Two

  Mags jumped in her BMW, and followed Daddy Mac to the First Union National Bank, a nineteenth century granite cube with neoclassical aspirations.

  Due to mergers and acquisitions it was now owned by an unpronounceable Welsh conglomeration of consonants, but its customers still knew it by the letters and Roman numerals chiseled in the cornerstone a hundred and forty years earlier.

  Mags raised her eyes to the bronze chandelier twenty feet above her head. “Wow,” she breathed, turning to take in all the marble, brass, and polished oak. “Time warp.” She turned to her stepfather. “I bet the old Iron Works did their banking here. Is that cool, or what?”

  Mac paused to enjoy her youthful awe; he was in and out so often it was just a relic of a bygone age. The vault and its anonymous boxes was all that interested him.

  He introduced his stepdaughter to Heston Collander, the bank's president, and arranged for Mags to have a key and access to his box. Not the smaller one, held jointly with his wife.

  The president added his stepdaughter's name to the authorized list, and Magnolia Poitrine signed and dated the card for the first time.

  Collander escorted them to the vault, where its round door, six tons of bronze and stainless steel, displayed the rows and rows of polished brass safe deposit boxes. He used Ms. Poitrine's new key and the First Union guard key to unlock door No.342.

  This was usually a teller's task, but Mr. McClintock was not a usual customer. The president carried the heavy box to a privacy cubicle, and took his leave.

  Box 342, the size of the Zero Halliburton Mac had carried in Iraq, rested on the narrow shelf, the new key lay beside it on the varnished oak.

  Mac told her to open it, and she raised the lid, giving her thick, dark eyebrows a Groucho wiggle. “Man, there's more green here than an Olive Garden salad bar. Where's the dope and the balance scales?”

  Mac gave her a look that said don't even joke. “This money might not stand up to an IRS audit, but I mostly acquired it through honest labor. Our subs work close to the bone, and more often than not the lowest bid is predicated on some cash up front.”

  Mags did a quick measurement, three across and six back, that’s fifteen, and the box was four or five inches deep. If all the bundles were hundreds like the top layer. . .

  “Holy smokes, Daddy Mac, there must be a gazillion bucks here.”

  “At least a gazillion." He paused to send a message, let her know she was entering a world far different from high school, and weekly allowances. "It's both operating capital, and cash for incidentals and contingencies.”

  “Does Mom have a key?”

  “No. Her whims are at the mercy of temptation, so we’l
l keep this our secret.” He pointed to the key. ”Do not lose that. Put it in a safe place.”

  She scooped it off the counter and into her palm. “I’ll put it in a hiding place, where no one ever goes.”

  Mac recalled the verse. “In the pantry, with your cupcakes?”

  “Or in my veejay.” She dropped it in the pocket of her denim work shirt, a Peterbilt logo on the right, MAGS on the left.

  Mac raised an eyebrow.

  “Daddy Mac, I’m stoked. On my way to Washington, to fuck with The Man.”

  He began removing stacks of cash from the bank box. “Mags, 'fucking with the man' is job-site language. You may talk that way with your hockey teammates, but you need to realize these Washington assholes have no sense of humor when it comes to their own feelings of self-importance.”

  “Message received, Daddy Mac. Then it's OK to call them assholes?”

  He knew better than to debate his stepdaughter; her bullshit detector was even better than his. He changed the subject. “And wear something nicer than that shirt when you see Congressman Varnish.”

  “Don't worry, Daddy Mac. I'll scare up something Mom would approve of. And a bra.”

  He noticed a new tattoo on her ring finger. “What's with the Roman number five?”

  “You're looking at it upside down. It's a Greek Lambda; international symbol for gay and lesbian rights.”

  “Has your mother seen it?”

  “Uh huh. I told her it was V for virgin.”

  Mac shook his head as he placed a stack of cash, bank strap printed $10,000, in front of Mags. Her sex life was none of his business, and the birds and bees lecture was Honey's job. “Deliver five to EMILY and twenty three hundred, the limit, to the congressman. Make sure he knows you're a registered voter when you hand him the cash.”

  He watched her riffle the pack beside her ear, tell him yep, it's all there. She was having fun with this, her first foray into the world of politics.