Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “I go, S’cuse me, I need some aspirins.”

  “‘Take a coupla Midols,’ she says, waving at the medicine cabinet. ‘In the blue box, there. TV pushes 'em for menstrual complaints, but they work real good for a regular headache.’

  “So I reach in the cabinet over the sink, peel a coupla these blue pills off the foil strip, not paying too much attention, on account of I’m checkin’ out her bazooms. See, she’s in her nighty, got this frilly collar, neckline, and she’s got a pair of Montezuma's that could smother ya, youz fall asleep, her on top. I mean, she’s my brother’s old lady, but a look ain’t out of bounds, right?’

  “Absolutely. A cat can scrutinize the visage of a king.”

  “If ya say so. Anyways, I pop the pills, and head downstairs. Have a few more brews, me and him are watchin' the Wrestlemania. Tag team, Total Divas? I tell ya, them broads can kick some ass. Anyways, me ‘n’ him finished off that thirty pack of silver bullets, and I zonked out onna couch.”

  “Passed out, you mean.”

  “Up yours. Youz wasn’t there, so if I say I fell asleep, that’s the way it was.” George was proud of his capacity, one developed over decades of excesses in many forms. "Take more than beer, make me pass out." He offered Harry a dismissive wiggle of the hand. "It’s not like we's doing shots with the suds.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Anyways, I’m layin’ there, sawin’ wood, in—whatta they call it? The Land of Nod. Next thing I know, my sister-in-law is bending over me on the couch there, and the whole front of her nighty is open, the pair of them swingin’ free. And I got a stiffy like I ain’t had since I was a teenager. I mean ya could of done chin-ups on the thing.Then she leans down, clamps a lip lock on me, and ka-blooey! I shoots my wad. Which wakes me up. Of course she wasn’t there, it was a dream. What they call a nocturnal emission.”

  “Who the devil calls it that?”

  “Sister Mary Theresa, back in fifth grade. Says it's a natural occurrence, for young men, boys. That’s what she tells us, which makes me wonder, how's this broad, married to Jesus, know about these things. He whisper in her ear, she's dreamin' about Him?

  “I figured it was a beer boner, ya know how they are. Only the next morning I learn different, cause the two of ‘em are smirkin’ their asses off at the breakfast table. Turns out I took a couple of his boner pills by mistake.”

  George was a useful fool, and Harry relied on him to play Mister Hardon to his own Man of Reason, as they sold Business Disruption Insurance, sometimes called an Accident Prevention Plan, to local establishments.

  The new mall, once the Wilkes-Barre Tannery, now Susquehanna Place, was home to startups, mom and pop owners, and sole proprietorships who had no idea how to deal with extortionists like Harry and George.

  Earlier, Harry had slipped the girl in the mall office a C note for a list of lessees, and now he returned it to his pocket, just as Lester Twill, owner of Nature’s Bounty, approached their table.

  He naturally focused on Harry and his bow tie. “The waiter said you gentlemen wanted a word. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sure the repast will be sumptuous, Lester. My associate and I are impressed with your operation, its positive cash flow, its potential for success, and we wish to discuss our new insurance plan.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. My partner is an insurance broker, and we are fully covered.”

  “Uh huh. Well, we feel that you still need our basic Business Disruption Plan. It assures that nothing untoward happens, especially during the hours you are open. Nights, sure; a fire breaks out, or thieves break in, you got your police, your firemen, to respond.

  “And the insurance policy you mentioned handles any damage that might occur on the periphery of the event. Slip and fall, E. coli outbreak. What we’re talking about is disruption.” Harry paused, to give the man time to catch the train of thought.

  In case it had left the station with Lester still on the platform, George spelled out the itinerary. “Suppose a couple patrons gets a hair across their ass, starts breaking up the place. Ya gotta close up for a day or two, fix the damage.

  “Or, God forbid, some jamoke gets a case of the heaves, pukes on a customer. People lose their appetites over shit like that, maybe don’t ever come back for another try at your goat food. Ya see what I’m sayin’?”

  “Two hundred dollars, Lester,” Harry told him. “I calculated it at less than half an hour’s lunchtime gross.”

  Lester’s partner had mentioned just this sort of thing. The possibility of extortion. “You have to be firm at the outset,” Martin had said. “One must put one’s foot down in no uncertain terms, and put it down firmly, so there is no room for misunderstanding. Their sort deals in fear. Fear and threats.”

  Lester followed Martin’s instructions, drew himself up, and said, “I’ll have to ask you gentlemen to leave. Now, or I’ll call mall security.”

  “Do that, Les,” George said, his facial tic adding emphasis. “Get some rent-a-cop in here, start a ruckus; and you'll see how fast a civil suit can be filed against your faggoty ass.”

  Harry placed a hand on George’s arm. “Now, now, no need to mention legal action, all the expenses entailed. Let us enjoy our lunch, give Lester here a moment to peruse our offer, and if he still declines, we’ll simply leave.” He looked up at the owner of Nature’s Bounty and grinned. “No harm, no foul, right, Lester?”

  Lester turned away without reply, found their waiter, told him to be quick about the order, and marched to the kitchen, to check on the goat cheese delivery. Feta and Oil Cured Green Olives on Flat Bread would be tomorrow’s special.

  When the quiche came Harry poked at it with his fork. “Some kind of pie. And the punk forgot your aspirin.” He pushed his quiche away. “Time to up the ante, George.”

  George turned and scanned the crowded restaurant. “Leave my aunty out of it, Harry. She ain't that kinda woman.” He decided a table for four, a quartet of lunching ladies, shopping bags beside their chairs, was the best option.

  He reached under the table for the cardboard carton, gave it a shake. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” he said, heading for the ladies, who looked up, tentative smiles of inquiry appearing as the large man leaned over them. “Good grub, eh? Allow me to offer youz dessert, compliments of the house.” The smiles widened, the ladies tittered, made appreciative sounds, pressed hands to bosoms. George opened the box, and dumped three large, angry rats in their midst.

  Ten minutes later Harry and George, still at their table, alone now in Nature’s Bounty, watched Lester approach. Mall security had made a cursory search for the alleged rodents, said there was nothing they could do, any witnesses having left not only the restaurant, but the mall itself.

  A call to the police resulted in laughter as Lester related the atrocity. He couldn’t reach his partner. Things had been so much simpler in the actuarial department at Met Life. Steady paycheck, paid vacation, health insurance.

  “So it's two hundred a month?” Lester asked, laying ten twenties on the untouched quiche.

  Harry stood, pocketed the cash. “A week,” he replied, following George to the next place on their list.

  Chapter Five

  Mac walked his wife to her Lexus. He had the bank bag tucked under his arm, and she asked about it. No way would he tell her it was full of cash, not after deflecting her Haring prints ploy.

  “Government paperwork, for Friday. The Big Blast is less than forty eight hours away. Did you remember Governor Heftshank is coming?”

  “Remember?” she yelped, “of course I remember, that’s why I’m going to New York. Get my hair done, pick up my dress at Bergdorf, and buy new shoes.” She slipped in an editorial comment on his attire. “And you have to dress appropriately, Mac. There'll be a lot of media; both print and cable. I alerted the local affiliates, so maybe we'll get some network coverage.”

  “I guess you want me to wear a tie.”

  “Don't even joke. I told Rosetta t
o plan a luncheon for the governor and his people, after the event. You do realize he's running for reelection? I think I can help with his image. The man does not know how to do television. Who dresses him, his wife? Last week I saw him on Good Morning America, and it was a disaster.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It's not what he said, it was his houndstooth jacket; it had a moiré pattern that flashed like a stoplight. On-air talent knows not to wear clothing with small stripes or checks.” She rummaged in her purse for her keys. “He needs some guidance from an experienced hand, and I intend to offer it.”

  “I'm sure he'll appreciate your help. I have to get back to the job site, and make sure my master blaster is on schedule.”

  “Are you sure this Spider person knows how to set off the dynamite at the right moment, after the speeches, and I do the countdown? I don’t want to say, ‘three-two-one,’ and then stand there looking like a fool.”

  “Sweetheart, you looking like a fool is an impossibility.” He took her hand, and kissed it, along with her car keys.

  —o—

  Mac drove through the open gate, swerving around busy dump trucks and loaders. He parked the Mercedes beside his blast master's old pickup. Spider was unloading olive drab boxes, carrying them into the job-site trailer.

  He told Mac he'd hooked up with a friend at the Tobyhanna Army Depot, got a good deal on some Mil Spec C4 that somehow got overlooked last time they ran inventory. Three grand; half the price of civilian RDX, and no questions asked.

  “I told him I’d settle up tonight, cash money, if you can swing it.”

  “You caught me at a good moment.” Mac unzipped the bank bag, ran his thumb under a paper strap, counted out thirty Franklins. He assumed Spider had included a Finder's Fee.

  “Jesus! You said you was going to the bank. What'd you do, rob it?”

  “Trip to Harrisburg, buy a couple of dump trucks, maybe another beaver tail trailer. My lawyer has a client filing Chapter Seven, and needs to liquidate some equipment, before the court gets their hands on it.” He handed the bills to Spider, tossed the bank bag back in the Mercedes.

  “Last time I seen that much money, we was in the desert, with you about to get your clock cleaned.” Spider reached under the seat of his truck, pulled out a camo ditty bag.

  “Picked these up from a supply sergeant I know, same place I got the C4.” He opened the bag, showed Mac three nine millimeter Beretta pistols. “Rebuilt at the depot; good as new.” He handed one to Mac. “Take this along.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Hey, I ain’t gonna be there to save your ass this time.”

  Mac put the pistol beside the bank bag. Why argue? He’d leave it at home, Spider would never know.

  Spider lit a cigarette, started a riff with himself. Improv at Open Mic Nite. “And by the by, heads up, Mr. Mac. Your wife was here a little while ago, and I put my foot in it pretty good.”

  “Well, that’s an understatement. I was checking out the hot chick, and when you said trophy wife—"

  “—A trophy wife is a nympho millionaire that owns a liquor store—"

  “Shut your pie hole, dickwad.”

  “Hey, Mr. Mac knows that’s just guy talk, don’t mean nothin’.”

  “Yeah, and what’s he gonna think, you eyeballin’ his daughter—"

  “Stepdaughter, fool.”

  Mac interrupted the bit. “Knock it off, you two. I got an earful a few minutes ago. Don’t worry about it, not your fault, not your problem. Honey’s high maintenance, and tends to self-detonate when she thinks she being crossed.” He winked at his most valuable employee. Until Friday. “That’s the trouble with trophies, you got to keep after ‘em with the polish.”

  He headed back to the farm, mentally kicking himself. It was a dumb mistake, bragging to Spider, calling Honey a trophy wife. He turned off the AC, opened the windows. He needed some unfiltered country air.

  Mac had no illusions about his wife. She was a statuesque beauty, fond of spike heels and designer dresses, and he was a rough-edged guy, most comfortable in work clothes. But Honey sure as hell hadn't started out that way. If she was a trophy, he'd made her one.

  Like many dirt-poor kids, she'd escaped from the trailer park to the state university. In her case it was a baton-twirling scholarship, and she parlayed it into homecoming queen and a bad marriage.

  Honey discovered good looks and flirty ways translated from campus to reality, but crying in TV commercials and selling ladders to rubes was a far piece from convincing bureaucrats to award contracts to a guy with a sketchy history.

  After he hooked up with Honey there were a lot of late nights in job site trailers, with Mags doing her homework while Mac taught Honey how to lobby the men handing out taxpayer dollars.

  And later, sharing a three bedroom apartment he called the office—Mac said it just made sense, tax wise—the occasional nooner resulted in a proposal that was more merger than marriage. His new wife remained a figurehead. The real money was in his LLC companies, a bunch of tax dodges his lawyer had set up. He'd thought he was in love, but he knew he wasn't stupid.

  The life of a demolition contractor was the opposite of glamorous, and Honey wanted no part of it. Mags was the one who took an interest in the nuts and bolts of wrecking things. Jackhammers and hammer drills. Fifteenth birthday she'd asked for a cutting torch. Today's trip to Washington would tell him if she was ready to make the leap from wrecking ball to partnership.

  Needing to touch base with his Jersey roots, he reached in the glove box, found the Boss. Workin' on the highway, layin' down the blacktop.

  —o—

  As Honey turned into the farm lane she noticed smoke rising from the old orchard. Another bone of contention; Mac wanted to nurse the trees back to life, and she wanted to tear them out. Gnarly old things, like something in the Wizard of Oz.

  She told him if you want apples, buy them at the store, like normal people do. And his answer was you can’t get the old varieties any more. Oh? And if they’re so great, how come you can’t get them anymore? He didn’t have an answer for that impeccable piece of logic.

  She guessed it was his crazy Indian up there, pruning and burning. Seems like their entire world was populated with weird people, Mr. Spider being the latest example. Although he did have a certain sexy masculinity. Probably why he reminded her of Daddy. Every little girl’s first love. She caught herself wondering what the dynamite man looked like with his shirt off, then firmly tamped the thought down and out of sight. Getting Rosetta started on Friday's luncheon menu was more important than fantasizing about the help.

  She parked her Lexus beside Mag’s little car, and pondered a rental tent by the lake. Time to go online, see if at least the weather was going to cooperate with her plans.

  —o—

  George Glum used the remote to unlock his new Escalade from a safe distance, explaining to Harry you can’t be too careful, what with suicide bombing being such a popular occupation these days. He wasn't too sure just where the Middle East was, but he sure as shootin' knew New Jersey was close east of here, and a Jersey Tomato was mobspeak for dynamite.

  He had eight hundred dollars in his pocket, half the day’s receipts from Susquehanna Place, and closing in on enough to make this month’s payment on his pride and joy.

  Three tons of American steel, four hundred American horses under its hood. He climbed inside, went about his ritual of adjusting everything adjustable, while Harry buckled up, asked if the thing had an ashtray.

  “You kiddin’? You can’t smoke in here. Not with my leather.” He started the engine, listened to the rumble of the custom exhaust system, as he scanned the cockpit gauges, touched the NavTraffic screen. “Says we’re on Carey Avenue, at the Market Street bridge. Is that cool, or what?”

  Harry looked out his window at the same bridge, the Susquehanna running fast and brown beneath it. “Yes, the technology is quite astonishing.”

  “It’s got the OnStar. You
get in a wreck, it calls this good-looking woman with a headset.” He slid his blackout glass window down, used the power adjustment to angle the outside mirror, get a look at himself. He curled his lips, admiring his new teeth. Prison offered benefits not available to ordinary folks.

  “What would be so awesome, get me one of those Darth Vader helmets, a cape. Scare the shit outta people. Whataya think?”

  “I think you have a screw loose, and your synapses are shorting out. Hang a right, go over the bridge. We need to pick up Tedy and Nedy, the Cwyzlak twins.”

  “Cwyzlaks? Ain’t they the rasslers?”

  “One and the same. Seven hundred pounds of tattooed fat. One look at them, and Mr. Poitrine will comply with our proposal.”

  “Since we’re going across the river, we might as well run by my brother’s place, pick up a piece.”

  “A piece of what?”

  George turned, pointed a finger gun at Harry, shot him. “Colt Python. He gave me a look at it last night. Completely clean, came out of some old man’s car, was in for an oil change and tire rotation. Gun was in the trunk, prob’ly stole, else why keep it back there. Ain’t no use to nobody, sittin’ in the trunk, right?”

  “Your logic is impeccable. However, we don’t need a gun to shake down this Poitrine outfit. As Sun Tzu writes, in The Art of War, ‘He who struggles for victory with naked blades is not a good general’. It’s why we’re taking the twins with us.”

  George said, “Well, I sure as hell ain't gettin' naked. Who’s this Sunny Sue you keep quotin'?”

  “A Chinese general, writing two thousand years ago. I perused his work while inside. He had many words of wisdom that apply to today’s world.” Harry turned in his seat, faced George, who was concentrating on keeping the Cadillac in its lane.

  Five years inside had made his driving skills rusty, and they'd been none too good before the sentencing. Harry shuddered, remembering what happened to George’s previous vehicle. It was astonishing, what could be accomplished with the Jaws of Life.