Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  The old miners watched him pull back onto the road, his dog hanging out the window, sniffing the air. Day pulled a pint of rye from his coat pocket. “That boy's dumber than dirt.” He offered the bottle to Dollar.

  “His dog's right smart, though. One time he sniffed out a bag of weed inside my fake foot.” He took a long pull at the whiskey. “I tole the magistrate it was for my traumatizing, from when I lost my foot in the gears, back there.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder at the crumbling relic dominating the skyline behind them.

  “You lost your foot thirty years ago.”

  “True, but the magistrate don't know that, and he says if I can show him a note from the union doctor, I can keep the weed. Released me on my own recognition, whatever that means.”

  “Means you know who you are.” He reached for the pint. “When was this?”

  “Oh, couple, three years ago. Whenever it comes up, I just say it's nigh on im-possible to get a doctor's appointment with them union pill pushers.” He laughed, and wandered off, to pee in the weeds.

  Dollar had finished up eighth grade, and followed his father’s footsteps down into the earth. He started out as a back sight rod man on an underground survey crew, and his best friend signed on as a door boy. The pair worked their way up through the ranks, to loader, laborer, and finally company miner with a union card.

  Through the years of layoffs, mine closures, down sizing, and bankruptcies, both continued to be company men, until Lucky Strike left, and they were reduced to working bootleg holes. It's all they knew.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spider took the phone from Honey, said, “Hey, Mr. Mac.”

  “What are you doing at the farm? You're supposed to be rigging the Iron Works.”

  “Yeah, well, I was, until your wife called, said you wanted me to come change her tire.”

  “She said that? God damn it, Spider, I got my ass in a crack, and you and my wife put it there. I need you to get your own ass to Shaleville, and explain to these fools why there's traces of explosive on that damn pistol you gave me.”

  “Shit. How'd that happen?”

  “I was pulled over for speeding, and a dog smelled joints in the glove box. And then Fido went into overdrive when the cop found the bank bag full of cash, and the Beretta. They say I planned to blow up a derelict building.”

  Spider gave Honey a look, shrugged. “I'm on my way.”

  She gave him a quick kiss. “I'm not finished with you.” Not until you figure out what I really want.

  Chapter Twenty

  Spider found Sheriff Claxon addressing the media in front of the Tucker Inn. It sounded like Mr. Mac had got hisself into a clusterfuck of governmental proportions. Judging from both the questions and the answers, Spider realized nobody knew nothing about anything.

  He'd had enough experience with bureaucrats and brass to know you didn't point out the emperor was naked in front of everyone, so he waited until the press conference broke up before approaching the sheriff.

  After listening to Spider's explanation, the sheriff saw it made sense, and said it didn't matter a lick. The ship had left port, and it wasn't coming back. Not without repercussions, red faces, and ruined careers. He studied Spider's outhouse T-shirt. “Blowing shit up, eh?”

  “Nineteen years of cleaning up after the warriors. Until I blew myself up, and out of the army, about six months ago. Now I'm working for your prisoner, riggin' a big old building in Wilkes-Barre.”

  “The Ornamental Iron Works? Yeah, I head about it; Governor Heftshank was on the six o'clock. He's got some kind of ceremony there, on Friday.”

  He took a closer look at Spider's T-shirt. “Ordnance disposal. I had to call the staties one time for that. Some kids found a box of dynamite in an old barn. Staties called in some expert from OSHA. He come by, took one look? It was winter, and the dynamite was froze, and he said it was too unstable to move.”

  Spider rolled his eyes. “So what'd he do?”

  “Said wait for spring, and I said bullshit, I got a town full of people about to shit themselves blind, so he had some more people come in with a robot to remove the dynamite, and burned it.”

  “Well, I wasn't there, so I oughta keep my yap shut. But dynamite is nothing but NC, nitroglycerine, mixed with a cellulose binder, some oil for friction reduction. It's safer than the rounds in your Glock.”

  Spider wondered how he was going to get Mr. Mac out jail, without six ways to Sunday, and a million bucks worth of lawyers. “Dynamite is only unstable during the thaw cycle; when it can sweat out liquid droplets. If they crystalize, and it's look out, Nellie. Fella should have just set up some heaters, thawed it in place.”

  He tried using the governor for leverage. “I'm just the rigger. Mr. McClintock needs to be there sign off on it, shake the governor's hand. Only you got him locked up for grand theft auto, firearms, and explosives possession.”

  The sheriff had three tours as an Air Force cop behind him, and saw this man was a kindred spirit. “Fella, between you, me, and the bedpost, I'll admit things escalated, got a bit out of control.

  “I did some checking, turns out your boss is the associate of H. Poitrine & Associates. Also has a firearms permit, from the state of New Jersey, so we'll honor that. All that's left is the explosives charges.” Sheriff Claxon pointed across the street at the media trucks. “And it's way past time I can do anything about it.”

  “Yeah, but I explained that. It's on me, my clothes. I don't know how a dog picked it up. Must have a pretty good nose.”

  “Ain't just Bugle Boy, mister. Now I got the government here, with all kinds of fancy equipment.” He shook his head. “And I also got the FBI, DEA, FEMA arguing about who's first one to get their hands on him. No way I can tell them to all go home, nothin' to see here. At this point, careers are on the line.”

  He lead Spider into the office, nodded toward the cell. “You can go break the news to your boss that he's here for the duration.”

  Spider faced Mac through the bars, told him the charges were a bit more serious than a stolen car and a pistol. He examined the lock on the cell, snorted. “But don’t worry, boss. I’ll get you out.”

  Back at the breaker, Spider unloaded a case of cold beer, the drum of ANFO, and enough C-4 to lift the Reagan Memorial into orbit. “You fellas still want to blow up the place?” Eyes twinkling, Day and Dollar danced a jig. At their age, tomorrow was a distant land.

  An hour later a timer was set for five minutes, and three drunks were in Spider's truck, racing back to Shaleville. Day and Dollar to face the TV cameras, and relate their brush with death, Spider to rig a jail cell with grandmother's clothesline.

  —o—

  “This wasn't what I had in mind when I told you to come get my ass out of a crack.” Mac was driving Spider's truck, knowing his master blaster was too blasted to get them back home without a wreck or a DUI.

  Spider had a cold Rolling Rock between his legs, and a sleepy smile on his face. He replied with an excuse that always worked. “The Army says leave no man behind.” When he didn't get an reply he tried one closer to the bone. “My old master sergeant used to say any problem can’t be solved with C-4 best be left for the diplomats.”

  Mac kept one eye on the speedometer, and the other on the rear view. His mind wandered back to the days of bombs and bribes, to Spider in the desert. To the land where might makes right. He had second thoughts about hiring an explosive expert with a TBI and a casual relationship with authority. Some corners are best left uncut. The jail break turned a small problem into a large one.

  The Shaleville police had his wallet and phone and shoelaces. They also had Mags' car, the cash, the Beretta. Mac wondered if his lawyer would be able to make a case for circumstantial evidence. That just left the jailbreak. He turned to Spider. “All my troubles started when you told my wife I was kissing her daughter.”

  “Yeah, well. Wasn't the first time I said something that got me in trouble.” Spider tipped the beer to his lips. “It
coulda been worse. I coulda said it was you started it, by kissin' the girl.”

  “It was an innocent kiss, Mags way of thanking me for buying her an expensive birthday gift.” Why am I making excuses to this loose cannon?

  “Hey, Mr. Mac. It was me, I'd of held out for a blow job.”

  Mac turned his head, and stared at Spider. “As long as we're discussing my family, why were you at the farm, changing her flat tire? I told her to call Triple A.”

  “News to me. I was in the middle of handling those thugs for you, she calls, said you wanted me to come fix a flat. Both of you are my boss, so either one says jump, I don't stop to ask how high, I just do it.”

  What the hell was she up to? “From now on you only listen to me. You got that? My wife's been acting weird all day, and I don't know why. And I don't have time to deal with it. All I care about is the building coming down on Friday.”

  He turned the old truck off the Interstate, glad to get onto country roads. “I'll drop you at the job site, then going to lay low at the farm, in case that sheriff comes looking me.”

  “You better be there for the countdown, Because I ain't pulling the trigger until you sign the government paperwork. Anything goes wrong, it ain’t gonna be Teresa Tarantella's baby boy standing there with his dick in his hand.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there for the final walk through. Did you get rid of those rent a cops?”

  “Oh yeah, they went away, no problem.” Spider chuckled at the memory.

  Twenty minutes later Mac rolled to a stop at the job site gate, punched in the code, drove through. Spider was asleep, or passed out, his face against the window, drool on his chin. Mac left the key in the ignition, eased the door closed. He hoped to hell the Iron Works was rigged as well as the Reagan Memorial.

  He noticed the glow of a fire in the far corner. Dark shapes moved in the flickering light. The Poor Souls. Time to call Health and Human Services. Honey was right, they should't be here, not on Friday.

  He couldn't afford any media distractions from the project, any questions for the governor about money for riverfront infrastructure instead of housing for the homeless. He walked across the yard, past the rows of silent machinery, unlocked the trailer, found the keys to a company pickup.

  Back at the farm, he woke Honey and gave her his version of holy hell for the 911 call. He showered, and went to bed in his monastic cell. Down the hall from Honey, and across from Mags.

  —o—

  Spider's bladder squeezed his cock, filled it with blood, murmured, wake this son of a bitch up, before he wets himself.

  Yeah, yeah. Wouldn't be the first time.

  Spider stirred, adjusted his equipment. That's an impressive beer boner, fella.

  We've had practice.

  It's as impressive as the one Honey gave you, snuggled down behind the dozer.

  Shame the daughter showed up.

  Spider opened the door, rolled out, peed long and loud against a backhoe. He needed to lean forward, bend his erection, or it would spout vertical, like Moby Dick.

  “The Great White Whale. You never let us down, big fella.”

  “Get your mind off fuckin' for a minute, and think about what she was hinting at. Saying she's broke, and her husband ain't.”

  “Yeah. Unless I'm wrong, she wouldn't shed too many tears if Mr. Mac had an industrial accident.”

  “A fatal one.”

  “It could happen. Let's go see if one of the vets is interested in a combat flashback.”

  He groped in his cargo pants, pulled out the wad of petty cash. Two grand, less the two cases of beer. He peeled off five twenties, tossed them beside the trash fire. “Who wants to make a booze run? Take my truck; keys are in the ignition.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The morning sun warmed Mags as she curled a twenty-pound dumbbell. Sitting on the low stone wall leading to what Daddy Mac called the Enron Entryway, she was dressed in high-top Everlast boxing shoes, a bright red Double-A protection cup over her black trunks, and Turtleshell chest guards inside a sports bra.

  Mac, mug of coffee in hand, came out the sliding door and onto the deck. Or verandah, as Honey continuously reminded them. He wore baggy blue swim trunks and a sweatshirt, thinking a dip in the pond would clear some of the kinks and cobwebs.

  But first he scanned the horizon for black helicopters, checked the tree line for SWAT teams slithering through the tall grass. Someone said nothing is more exciting than getting shot at without result. Maybe so, but being a terrorist on the lam was a close second.

  Yesterday had been more adventure than he needed. He knew ramifications would follow, but after Friday, after the multi-million dollar check was deposited, things would sort themselves out.

  The prospect of losing ninety thousand dollars a day was more important than paying a defense lawyer the same amount to make the jailbreak go away. That was just the cost of doing business. Besides,he had the governor is in his corner. And probably in Honey's pocket.

  He watched his stepdaughter count reps, admired the sinews and rippling muscles in her forearm. He was curious about the new hair. Yesterday it had been dark as a raven’s wing, and shoulder length. Now it was short, spiked, and pink. “What’s with the Clockwork Orange outfit?”

  “Fifty”, she said, dropping the weight on the grass. “Kick boxing class at the Y. M, not W. Over that side, it’s aerobic jazzercise. Tummy crunches, for Pete’s sake.” She bent at the waist, put her palms flat on the ground, looked back at him through sturdy legs. “How come guys have all the fun?”

  “Fun’s where you find it, kiddo.”

  She reached in a canvas Sierra Club tote, tossed him a handful of pink fabric. “I went to Washington, and all I brought you was this stupid shirt.”

  Mac held it at arm’s length, read the black lettering. “The truth will set you free. But first it will piss you off. G. Steinem. Cool.”

  “Glad you like it. I bought 536 of them.” She laughed. “The other 535 went to congress, via courier. That’s why there’s not much change from my trip.”

  “How was your meeting with our Representative?”

  “Piece of cake. Don’t forget, I grew up in Poitrine’s Traveling Medicine Show. Selling ladders, instead of snake oil, but the technique’s the same. I did a Honey on him, got inside his comfort zone, when I gave him the money. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched her use that move. Get just a little too close? And they hand control of the situation to her, like that.”

  Mags snapped her finger, a loud pop in the quietude. Like Mac, she was an early riser, wanted the world to herself, before it got all clogged up with people. “I may not have Mom’s beauty queen looks, but I’ve got some moves of my own. It’s amazing what can be accomplished, just by forgetting to fasten the top couple of buttons on a blouse.”

  She reached down and cupped her codpiece, made smoochy noises at Mac, who laughed, shook his head in disbelief. “What?” she said, and joined his laughter. Father and daughter, having a little fun.

  “Anyway, he offered me a job, an internship. So I fondled his necktie, asked him what position I would have to assume under him, and he got all red and flustered. I wondered, did they have a defibrillator handy for the old prick?”

  She rested her foot on the dumbbell, rolled it back and forth under the smooth sole of her shoe. “He’s coming to the Big Blast. Has a speech planned, probably taking credit, so heads up, Daddy Mac. But I guess that’s Mom’s department, getting all the assholes on stage, and in the right order.”

  “That’s an important part of the business, kiddo. Don’t forget, without the assholes, contracts don’t happen, checks don’t get signed.”

  “I know, I know. And I’m glad that she likes doing it, because it makes me puke, pulling on pantyhose and smiling ‘til my face freezes. I’d rather be spiking redwoods, or chaining myself to some endangered frog. Blowing up defense research labs, instead of abandoned buildings.”

  Mac placed his palms together. “
Remember, Grasshopper, ‘Troops thrown against the enemy as a grindstone against eggs is an example of a solid acting upon a void’.”

  She studied the notion, her stepfather. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Sun Tzu's The Art of War. Businessmen love to quote him, so I figured I’d better read it, know what I was up against. How did the rest of your trip go?”

  “We saw EMILY, then went to the Senate Armed Services hearing. Got our mugs on C-SPAN, and made the cable news shows, when we were thrown out.”

  “Yes, I imagine your hairdo attracted the cameras.”

  “I couldn’t find my Code Pink hat.”

  “You left it in your car.”

  “My cute little Beamer. Where is it?”

  “In a cute little town, halfway to Harrisburg. I ran into trouble yesterday; your car’s at the Shaleville police station. Unless the FBI took it to Washington. It’s a long story.”

  “I got nothin’ to do, and plenty of time to do it.”

  “The less you know, the safer you are. But I'll tell you this much. I broke out of jail last night, and if I wind up back inside, then I'll need you to take charge of Phase Two. Because your mother hasn't a clue.”

  “And you think I do?”

  “You're a fast learner, Mags. And Jack will be there, to hold your hand.” He set his coffee cup on the wall, pointed to the orchard. “Let’s take a walk, see what the Doctor’s been doing in the orchard. They say the high ground is a good defensive position.”

  Mags laughed. “Well, it already looks like a battlefield.”

  When Mac saw the crater, chunks of apple tree littering the landscape, he yelled, “What the hell is this?”

  “You can't smell the ANFO? When I got home from Washington, Mom was hunkered down behind the dozer with the weird man I saw at the job site.” The one who stripped and eye-fucked me. Mags kept her earlier conversation with Dr. Q to herself. Mac already had too much on his plate.