Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “Don't forget, we’re on parole. I don’t want to have ‘Possession of a Firearm in the Commission of a Crime’ added to my sentence, should I be re-incarcerated.”

  George glanced over as he drifted out of his lane. “You believe in that crap? My sister-in-law subscribes to that nonsense. Last night I’m inna kitchen, grabbing another couple of frosties, and she’s puttin’ water inna bowl onna floor, filling a dish with kibbles. What’s this, I say, ‘cause I ain’t seen no dog runnin’ around the house. And she goes, ‘Putting out food for Muffy, in case she comes back.’

  “Aw, I go, what, she run off? ‘No, she passed away, under the UPS truck.’ See, like I said, she’s into this reincarceration, only I wonder, Muffy comes back, it ain’t necessarily gonna be as a little dog. Could be a coochie dancer, a Cat’lic priest, anything, and none of ‘em is gonna eat kibbles.”

  A semi's airhorn demanded his attention, and George swerved, shaking his head in wonder and amazement. Just when you think you know someone, spend five years sharing a cell, they pop something like this on you. Just goes to show, people are strange.

  “Harry, I never in a million years would of believed you subscribe to that baloney. Next you’ll be saying we can’t go see this Poitrine mook, 'cause your horoscope ain’t in alignment.”

  Chapter Six

  The tin sign was rusting away, its paint faded and flaking, but Copeland’s Appalachian Spring Water Co. was still legible. If anyone cared to pause long enough to find the sign in the overgrown hayfield.

  The company came with a thousand gallon-a-minute spring, and several hundred hardscrabble acres in the Moosic Mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania. It was close enough to Wilkes-Barre to make Mac's daily commute a brief one.

  The water company’s founder, E. Wendell Copeland, first failed as a dairy farmer—too rocky; failed as a viniculturist—nobody drank wine in 1950; and failed as a time share campground—too many toos to mention.

  Then, convinced that bottled water was the coming thing, he refurbished the old milk bottling equipment, repainted the delivery truck, and died.

  His son, a slip-and-fall lawyer and compulsive gambler, exchanged the farm in settlement of a Final Four wager with Tony “Two Ton” Tonnucci.

  Tony tried to sell Appalachian Spring to one of the cola companies. Since it was easier and more cost-effective to simply bottle municipal water, give it a catchy name and a strong marketing plan, there were no buyers.

  After Mr. Tonnucci relocated to a long term, rent-free residence, courtesy of the United States Justice Department, Mac McClintock, looking for a place to park some cash, bought the tumbledown farm at a tax sale. The Interstate absorbed what little traffic Route 5 carried, and the road became a quiet country lane. Mac McClintock liked it that way. Nobody needed to know where he lived.

  Several years later he carried his blushing bride across the threshold. Metaphorically speaking.

  As he turned into the farm lane he smelled smoke, and grinned. Dr. Q’s weekly fire, signaling the Others, somewhere out near Alpha Centuri. Or was it the Pleiades; he couldn’t remember the details of the Mayan history of the universe. Or was the old man Olmec? Mac thought all religions were just variations of a genetic need, but he enjoyed discussing them with the doctor.

  On second thought maybe he was just burning brush. Mac had the alleged doctor cleaning up the old orchard, trying to save the heirloom fruit trees. The ones Honey wanted to rip out.

  He parked his big German beside Mag's little one, recalling the day he brought Dr. Quetzalcoatl and Rosetta home.

  He’d taken Rosetta inside, first to show her the powder room after the long ride, then give her a shot of Calvados, a touch of familiarity to ease her anxiety, and put some color in her cheeks. An impossibility; Rosetta was as dark and wrinkled as those folk-art dolls you find in rural handicraft shops, the head carved out of an apple, the apple then dried into the semblance—if you don’t look too hard, and have an imagination—of an old woman.

  When he and Rosetta had gone back outside Honey was screaming in terror, and furiously waving her cars keys at the naked man with the penis sheath and the body paint.

  Who said, “That won’t work on me, lady.”

  Honey's panic turned to sarcasm when she spotted her husband. “Oh, and I suppose you have some kind of witch doctor’s immunity to pepper spray.”

  He shook his head and pointed at the little pink canister on her key ring; a promo gift, resulting from Magnolia’s donation to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. “Many of my female students carry one. You have to break off the tab, before you can use it.”

  —o—

  Mac reached for the First Union bag and Spider’s pistol, climbed out of the car, and waved to Dr. Q, up on the ridge. He spotted Rosetta through the kitchen window, in deep discussion with his wife.

  It had been more than a year since Mac picked up the pair in New York City. More accurately, was kidnapped by them. Followed shortly by him returning the favor. That they were still living at the farm could be seen as affirmation of the Stockholm Syndrome.

  When the three Basque Separatists shot out the tires of the Spanish Ambassador’s limousine on First Avenue, they’d assumed he was inside, and would be a useful bargaining chip in their negotiations for ETA recognition at the United Nations.

  Instead they found Rosetta, the legation’s chef, on her way back from shopping for a state dinner in honor of the Ambassador’s recent betrothal to a third runner-up Miss Universe. The rest of the vehicle was filled with crates and cartons of fresh fruits, assorted vegetables, and a live goat.

  On the other side of the East River a sinewy, copper-colored man, naked save for a few decorative streaks of charcoal and a foot-long koteka fashioned from the skin of an Amazonian rain forest reptile, was being forcibly removed from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden by two members of the NYPD assigned to a flying squad dealing with ecoterrorism.

  He had been attempting to take cuttings from a Banisteriopsis Caapi vine, the primary ingredient of Ayahuasca tea, a hallucinogen used, he told the cops, for healing and spiritual development; one of its hallmarks being a sense of communication with other life forms.

  He also told the arresting officers he was a visiting professor of comparative religion at NYU. They didn’t believe that either, and put him in their van for a trip to Bellevue Hospital.

  Since it was just a short distance from the United Nations, they paused to pick up three Basques, a Spanish chef, and a goat.

  Moments later the van was broad-sided by a sanitation truck, the rear doors sprung open, and the Basques melted into the crowd.

  The two cops told the Indian and the chef to stand on the center island, and wait for the accident to be cleared, saying, “You two don’t even think about going no place.”

  The Indian introduced himself as Doctor Quetzalcoatl, and explained to Rosetta since the cop had used a double negative, they were grammatically free to think about going someplace.

  She replied, “¿Que?”

  That’s when Mac stopped at the traffic light, and Dr. Quetzalcoatl opened the rear door, politely ushered Rosetta and her goat into the spacious back seat, then quickly followed, telling Mac to, “Take 34th Street to Broadway, then down to Battery Park. We’ll disappear among the visitors at the National Museum of the American Indian.”

  Mac glanced in the mirror at his passengers. This is a bright spot in a dull day. He headed across town to the Lincoln Tunnel.

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning Spider arrived at the Iron Works as the sun struggled to clear the saw-tooth top of some Pocono peak still shading the river valley. Which peak he had no idea; he'd grown up on the Kansas prairie, and all mountains looked alike. Annoyances between where you are, and where you want to be. Like most people.

  The nature of this job made it a solitary one; the flip side of the same coin carried by every Army 89D. Explosive Ordnance Disposal Specialist. Nobody wants to stand too close to a man taking apart som
ething designed to kill you. So you shove your baggage in the hurt locker. And talk to yourself, because you're the only one who understands.

  He wanted to get an early start, do the touchy work, before the front loaders and dump trucks started their crashing and banging, clearing the site for the Big Day. You can’t think straight, all the noise and confusion. It's bad enough, having to listen to yourself while you work. "You said a mouthful, Spider."

  An hour later he’d rigged the second level of the building with a web of detcord, and was ready to connect the charges. He returned to his truck for a carton of shock tubes, then decided to take some hygiene time, see to his personal needs, and headed for the fiberglass outhouse.

  That’s when he saw the black Escalade blocking the entrance to the site, and a line of dump trucks stretching to the street. He detoured to the gate, the rough gravel crunching under his work boots.

  A couple of drivers stood outside the chain link, smoking, working on containers of coffee. Their idling tri-axle Macks cast long shadows in the low sun. “What’s going on?” Spider asked, lighting a cigarette of his own.

  A driver nodded toward the Caddy. “Guy’s parked here when we turned in. Says he needs to talk to Mr. Poitrine. Says nothing happens until he does.”

  The second driver said, “Acted like he’s got a hair across his ass. When you could understand him. Lotta big words. I think maybe it’s some kind of building inspector, or something.”

  “Bullshit,” Spider said, clueless as to what kind of permits and inspections accompany civilian demolition. In his world the C.O. cut the orders, and you carry them out, kaboom, end of story. Anything else was called ‘collateral damage’, and you buried it, with or without the funeral. “Where’s your foreman?”

  The first driver said, “Jack’s old lady is in labor, called me, said keep the trucks rolling to the landfill, until he gets here.”

  “Yeah? Then why don’t you?”

  “Uh, you ain’t seen what’s in the Escalade.”

  “Shit. These guys don’t know nothin’. Near as I can tell, there ain’t no Mr. Poitrine. Let’s throw a chain on him, haul him out of the way.” Spider flipped his cigarette into the weeds, double timed to the Cadillac.

  Black paint, black glass all around. Asshole’s played too many video games. Spider rapped on the driver’s window. It slid down six inches, and Spider leaned close, saw a bulked-up dude behind the wheel and a pencil neck geek riding shotgun.

  “Yo, pal, move your toy outta the way. We got work to do.” What are Mac’s drivers afraid of? These two didn’t scare him. Then all four doors opened, and they did.

  The two assholes in the back had to go three hundred, and topped six foot six. As they climbed out the vehicle rocked on its shocks. They wore bib overalls over bare skin. Bare where it wasn’t covered with tattoos. Even their shaved heads were heavily inked. Wrap-around mirrored sunglasses completed the look. The driver was big, but paled beside the two monsters.

  Pencil neck circled the Caddy. “Mr. Poitrine, I assume?”

  Spider regained his composure, even though he would feel better with a SAW under his arm. “You assume wrong. You folks broke down on the way to the freak show?”

  Harry said, “You must be the comedian of the crew. No, funny man, we’re here to tell Mr. Poitrine he needs security on this site, see that nothing untoward befalls the equipment.

  “And until he puts in an appearance, discusses our Accident Prevention Plan, the vehicle stays where it is.” He tilted his head toward the big men. “The Cwyzlak twins are here as our own insurance policy.”

  If Spider was in charge, he’d tell a driver to fire up a front loader and feed the SUV to T Rex, with or without these assholes inside. But he wasn’t in charge, and sure as hell wasn’t married to the president of H. Poitrine & Associates.

  He turned to the drivers, said, “Somebody get Mr. Mac on the phone. This is what he gets the big bucks for.” One of the drivers fished out his cell, then his wallet, found a number, punched it in. And handed the phone to Spider.

  “Mr. Mac. Hey, it’s Spider. We’re all at the job site, got our thumbs up our asses. Some guy is peddling rent-a-cops, got the gate blocked, until you deal with him. Want me I should rig a block of C4, put their grift in orbit?”

  Mac was in the kitchen, filling a travel mug for the ride to Harrisburg, and listening to Honey and Rosetta argue over how to prepare lunch for twenty, something the diminutive señora had done several times a week for more than a decade, and Honey had done just the one time that Mac could recall.

  A wrap party for the crew, after they brought down the old Atlantic City Convention Center. That had consisted of phone calls to the Colonel for chicken, the King for burgers, and Taco Bell for the ethnically adventurous employees of McClintock Demolition and Cartage.

  Dealing with extortion was way easier than playing referee to these two, and he carried the bank bag and his phone into the Great Room, a space with all the ambience of an airport lounge.

  He stood at the soaring window wall, and watched the barn swallows catch breakfast above Lake Magnolia, a three acre hole filled with icy spring water. Mags had created it with a dozer she’d borrowed more than a year ago. From what job, and would she return it, Mac was afraid to ask. Daddy’s girl.

  He then turned his attention to the problem at the job site. Rent-a-cops. Everybody watches too many Sopranos reruns. Mac had learned his lesson early in the game, when he bought his fuel from the wrong supplier. And lost four days and a backhoe engine, after he discovered the diesel fuel had been spiked with brake fluid.

  That’s when he realized it was easier to pay them off than get the cops involved. And cheaper. Right now he had idling dump trucks costing money and earning none, and Saturday morning the penalty kicked in. “Let me talk to them,” he said.

  Spider handed the phone to bow tie, who said, “Good morning, Mr. Poitrine. We are offering Business Disrupt- What? Yes, that’s pretty much it. You are man of clear eye, and quick mind; one who grasps the import of a proposal with a swift and sure han— How much? Ah, five hundred a day, that’s our Premium Protect—. Yes. Right. Certainly, sir. It’s been my pleasure.” He handed the phone back to Spider. “Wants to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Mac.”

  “Spider, we’re out of there in a couple, three days, so pay these fools off, and get the crew to work.” He picked up the First Union bag, looked around the spacious room for a place to stash the gun. “Sorry to put you in the hot seat, but my foreman’s—”

  “Yeah, I know, havin’ a baby. How much they want, and where do I get it? They don’t look like the kind what takes American Express.”

  Mac unzipped the bag, removed the pistol. “There’s twenty-five hundred in the trailer. Petty cash box is in the file cabinet, under a green OSHA binder. That’ll keep them off our back until Friday. I’m on my way to Harrisburg, or I’d come deal with it myself.”

  As Mac ended the call he heard an engine come to life, tires crunching on gravel. Honey must have finished the luncheon argument, and was off to New York with her hair. He laid his BlackBerry, pager, and pistol on a small mahogany pie crust table. The iPhone was enough for today’s business, and the Beretta was nobody's business.

  —o—

  Spider tossed the cell to its owner, told bow tie, “You win, pal. Sit tight while I get your money.”

  He double timed to the trailer, found the petty cash box. All tens and twenties. Shit. He peered out the window at the hulking Escalade blocking the gate. The freak show had climbed back inside.

  “I gotta put up with this bullshit?”

  “I guess so. Besides, it ain’t your battle.”

  “Still, two grand that could just as well be in my pocket instead of theirs.”

  “I repeat, it ain’t your battle. And Mr. Mac already overpaid you for the C-4.”

  “He don’t know that.”

  “Don’t bet on it. Man’s pretty sharp.”

  “Yeah? Then why’s
he paying off these assholes?”

  —o—

  Mac was still holding the pistol when Honey walked in. “What are you doing, bringing a gun into my house? You know how I feel about them.”

  “It’s just for today. Spider insisted I carry it, but I don’t want to take it with me.”

  “Well it’s not staying in here. Go throw it in the lake.”

  Mac knew there wasn't time to get into a pissing contest with his wife, and he stuck the Beretta back in the bag with the money. What could possibly happen between here and Harrisburg?

  —o—

  Harry said to George, “Didn’t I tell you, bringing the boys along would put the fear of Yahweh in these people? See how that fella backed down when they climbed out?” He turned to the twins. “Soon as I get the money, you’ll get a taste. Easier than an evening in the ring, right?”

  Either Tedy or Nedy said, “Yeah, but not as much fun. We don’t get to do the Pile Driver, The Ruptured Duck, or nothin’. I don’t feel like I earned my pay, I ain’t bleedin’ somewheres.”

  Spider jumped down the three steps, still arguing with himself as he walked between the fork lift and T Rex. Shit. He lit a smoke. He looked at the Caddy, and made a battlefield decision. Shoving the fat wad of tens and twenties in a cargo pocket, he climbed on the forklift.

  It was Ford blue instead of Army green, but with its big knobby tires and the steel roll cage, it didn’t look too different from the ones at the depot they used to load pallets on the lowboys.

  Spider scanned the instrument panel. He turned on the fuel, set the throttle, thumbed the starter. The engine belched a puff of black smoke, caught, settled to the familiar diesel rattle. While he waited for the hydraulics to spool up, he read the data panel between his knees. 20,000 LBS. CAP. @ 27 FT. More than enough to get the job done.