by Deforest Day
“That weird man is Spider Tarantella. He's setting the explosives to bring down the building on Friday.” Mac was uncomfortable with the image of Honey and Spider hunkered down. Because he knew her flirtatious tendencies, and the orchard had been a sore spot since she first laid eyes on it. Honey had a preference for style over substance. Wildflowers, rather than fruit. He had to give Mags something, an explanation. “He came out to change her tire.”
“Service with a smile.” She saw pain in his eyes, but forged ahead. Pussyfooting was for pussies. “He was playing tickle and poke with Mom.”
“Tickle and poke?” Mac blushed. This was not something he wanted to hear from his stepdaughter. He doubted his wife would sleep with Spider simply to win the battle of the orchard. But to advance some larger plan. . . He thought out loud. “I wonder what she wants.”
Mags picked three apples from a gnarled old tree, juggled them, the way Uncle Saylor taught her. “You know how she loves to talk.” The apples moved from hand to hand. “Want me to probe a little?”
It was a question he didn't want to answer, because he didn't want to know the answer, so he peeled off his sweatshirt and eased himself into the icy water, feeling his legs go numb. “Bite the bullet,” he muttered, and ducked beneath the surface.
A place he wanted to stay for about six months. He decided when the project was complete he'd take a break. Instead of the second honeymoon, he'd take both Mags and Honey somewhere warm. Before Iraq he spent six months in Belize, working for a paving contractor.
Coming up for air, he understood why Honey wanted a heated pool. He swam, hard and fast, to the far shore, then back to the source of all the cold water. When Mags had turned the spring into a pond she used the dozer to pile up rocks, and now the water tumbled in a noisy cascade into the ole swimmin’ hole.
Mac heard, “yee-hah!” and saw a naked figure, arms and legs flailing in mid-air. Mags landed in a cannonball splash. She swam to him, an apple in her mouth. “Fresh picked, just for you.”
He treaded water. “Don't tempt me.”
“Oh, Daddy Mac,” she laughed. “Are you afraid to eat the forbidden fruit? I’m your step daughter.”
“Maybe so, but it’s summer. The fruit’s not ripe.”
Mags bit off a chunk, crunched, changed the subject to one less fraught with innuendo. “Yesterday, Mom said I’m supposed to tell you I want a Keith Hairy print.” She smirked around the apple. “Because you always give me everything I want.”
“I do?”
“Uh huh. I'm supposed to tell you we need beautiful things for our house. So people will know we’re rich.”
“We’re not rich.”
“I consider a bank box full of cash pretty rich.”
“Money’s just a way of keeping score.”
“Well then, I guess we’re winning.”
“Kiddo, judge people by what they want, not what they have.”
“Wow, Daddy Mac, you're full of platitudes today.”
He studied his stepdaughter, the parts above the surface. “And you're full of fifty cent words. College words. Lehigh University is just down the road, and has a good engineering school.” He cupped his hands, squirted her. “It's not too late.”
“We'll talk about it, after we finish this project.” She rolled on her back, closed her eyes, floated.
“Magnolia!” The shriek shattered the serenity of the moment. “Get some clothes on! This instant. Have you no sense of decency?” Honey loomed on the shore, hands on hips. This morning she was casual chic in a Lilly Pulitzer shift and Michael Kors slingback sandals.
Mags opened her eyes and dove, flashing her bare bottom, then surfaced beside Mac. “Oh, right, Mom,” she called. “Miss Ole Miss can parade around half naked, but I skinny dip, and all of a sudden you develop a dirty mind. What’d you think was goin' on beneath the surface? Daddy Mac's all shriveled up like a peanut, in this the cold water. That is, I imagine that’s the case.”
“Well, now that you’re eighteen, I can’t control you.” She dramatically sighed. “Not that I ever could.” She put a hitch in her voice. “A single parent can only do so much.”
“Mac had heard this tune, and said, “Sweetheart, you haven't been a single parent for years.”
Honey gave him a dirty look. “Well, you haven’t been any help, letting her play with the machinery, encouraging her to indulge in whatever the temptation of the moment was.”
“Not temptations, Honey. Experiments and challenges. It's how we learn. Temptations are tests of one's moral fiber.” He felt a poke in the ribs below the surface.
“Yeah, Ma. I got my moral fibers at my mother's knee.” Mac poked her back.
“I tried to bring you up fearing God and respecting your elders. That includes me, and I won’t have you parading around in the altogether, it’s not seemly.”
”It doesn’t bother you when Doctor snake feathers does it. Don’t you ever wonder what he’s got inside the python skin? Or have you already found out?”
“Stop that filthy talk this instant. Besides, Dr. Q is a savage, and they have different customs than Christians.”
Mags swam a circle around Mac, who was busy treading water. “Oh Ma, it’s not like you weren’t a world-class bone jumper, back before we met Daddy Mac. I was just a little girl, but I had big eyes and ears.”
She clambered up the bank, and slipped on Mac's sweatshirt, covering just enough to warm her and cool her mother.
Honey glowered. “I suppose your idea of fun is following whatever ridiculous fad is current. Like the pink hair. I won’t have you embarrassing me on Friday, so wear a hat, or buy a wig. And wear decent clothing. Nothing with words on it.” Honey turned and headed down the hill.
Mac followed her, and Honey was relieved to see he was wearing swim trunks. Even if they were the baggy blue one's he'd owned for years.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Correct me if I am misinformed, George,” Harry Merkle said to his partner in crime. “But don't your brother own a boat?”
The pair were enjoying an afternoon of beer and bar food in downtown Wilkes-Barre. Where the row houses dated from the Age of Anthracite, and there was still a saloon on every corner.
McGinty's Tavern occupied the corner of Coal and Welles, in the shadow of the old Stegmaier Brewery, now the Stegmaier Federal Building. A magnificent, nineteenth-century Romanesque structure, now filled with USPS and IRS workers, instead of brewers and bottlers.
“Yeah, a sixteen footer. Aluminum, with a little fifteen horse Mercury. To annoy the fish, his place on Lake Wallenpaupack.” George shook salt in his beer; he liked to watch the bubbles rise. The tavern's ambience consisted of a wall-mount TV, neon brewery signs, and a shuffleboard machine. “Me and him go up there for beer season.”
“You mean deer season.”
“Hey, you ever ate one of them things? Like an old shoe. They eat acorns, and taste like one. Gimme cow meat, from the supermarket. Why you want a boat?”
“While you were fulminating over the loss of your Escalade, I have been researching this H. Poitrine and Associates.” Harry fished a pickled pig's foot out of the gallon glass jar on the bar. “And I developed a plan. One that will result in recovering ten times the cost of your Cadillac.”
“Ten times, eh? We talkin' what I paid for it, or sticker price?”
Harry gestured with the trotter. “Does it matter? Because you were leasing the vehicle, George. But, let us not get sidetracked.” Harry raised his voice, called to the afternoon bartender, a Polish fellow with a vowel-challenged name. “Another round here, Mr. Prysbyk, you can drag yourself away from The Young and the Restless.” He bit off a chunk of pig's foot and turned back to George. “Where was I?”
“Not getting distracted.”
“I went to the library this morning, and did some research in their archives.”
“The library? Where they keep the books? I tend to stay away from them things. They can be a source of confusion. I mean, your cruisin'
along, got your worldview, all safe and tidy, and next thing you know there's a new fact presented, and it turns your belief system topsy turvy.”
“For example?”
“For example, I always thought the earth din't move. I mean, stands to reason. We're sittin' here on these bar stools, and I fall off, it's the beer, right? Although, to be fair, sometime you have three or four too many, the room tends to spin. But, that's neither here nor there. One time I'm watching my Nickelodeon, and Mr. Wizard says—”
“Mr. Wizard? That's a twenty year old kiddie show.”
“Not with re-runs it ain't. And this guy says the earth turns around once every twenty-four hours. Which is a day. Hard to believe, right? I mean we're sitting in McGitnys, Wilkes-Barre, P-A.” George tapped a finger on the bar top. “And we go from here, all the way around, past where China is, every twenty four hours.
“Mr. Wizard says the earth is twenty four thousand miles around. So that means, you do the math, the long division, which I admit is not my best subject, but he says is a thousand miles an hour. So my question is, how come we don't feel it? You stick your head out the car window, goin sixty, the wind'll about blow your hair off, you had any.” George took a long pull at his fresh beer, all the talking being thirsty work.
“Atmosphere, George. Our little green marble sits at the bottom of an ocean of air. Which is moving, along with the terra firma. That's why you don't feel it.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I'm sure.” He decided George was not ready to learn about the speed the earth travels around the sun.
“So, what did you learn in the library, replacing my Escalade?”
“Do you remember, a few months back, the Live at Five story announcing the flood abatement project?”
“The five o'clock news conflicts with Judge Judy, so no, I can't say I have any memory of flood abatement. Floods, I remember. Every year, since I can remember.”
“Well, I used the library's computers to refresh my own memory. I searched the YouTubes, and I found a clip where Governor Heftshank was sticking a shovel in the dirt at the old Iron Works. With a very attractive woman. Who a little blonde twat with a microphone says is Honey Poitrine. Head of H. Poitrine and Associates. You do remember the big sign, right before the guy put us in the river?”
“How can I forget?”
“And, after the shovel work, another guy was interviewed by the babe. You ever notice they're always blonde? Anyway, it's a guy named McClintock.” Harry finished his pig's foot, wiped his fingers and mouth on a paper napkin. “From the way the man talked, he's the one doing the actual work. Coordinates the sub contractors, all that stuff. “ I'm listening to him, and a bell rang in my head. It's the same man I talked to on the phone, agreed to the five bills a day, our Premium Package.
“So, even if this Poitrine lady owns the company, McClintock is the grease that turns the gears.” Harry signaled for another round, lecturing being thirsty work. “Without him, things grind to a halt. Here's the interesting part. The government is paying them millions, but they don't meet the deadlines, it costs them big bucks.” Harry placed another twenty on the bar. “If this McClintock was out of action, then Ms. Poitrine would pay mucho dinero to get him back to work.”
Harry, you lost me with the hispanish. What are you talking about?”
“George, I'm talking about the big leagues. Kidnapping.”
—o—
The Reagan Memorial rose skyward, in the form of shattered timbers and cast iron, then fell back to earth in flaming splinters. The entire population of Shaleville, plus the visitors in the many guises of FEMA, FBI, and DEA followed the firetrucks toward the horizon's glow. Marge Defarge rode with Sheriff Claxon, weeping copiously in memory of her Paw and Peepaw.
Pandemonium reigned. Huddles were held, conferences were convened, asses were covered, and statements were issued. The Reagan Memorial Terrorist Attack was hastily renamed the Joint Federal, State, and Local Threat Assessment Exercise, and high marks were given to all involved. Letters of Commendation were promised by and for all participants.
Sheriff Claxon stood in the town square, watched the last of the out-of-towners head for the interstate, and summed up the day with some small town, cracker barrel philosophy. “Don't that beat all?”
Duane absently scratched his partner's ear. “I hope that Homeland Security fella comes through with Bugle Boy's award.” He turned to the sheriff. “I know it won't mean nothin' to him, but a Certificate of Merit will get LuAnn off my back.”
“Corporal, you best be worryin' about gettin' me off your back.”
“Sir?”
“You forgettin' we had a jail break?” The sheriff stalked inside the station. McClintock's escape, however it had been accomplished—and accomplices could not be ruled out— was a personal affront to his authority. “Let your award-winner sniff McClintock's Code Pink hat, and then get your asses to Wilkes-Barre, make like a Canadian Mountie.” When he paraded a shackled and chained McClintock before the cameras, the election commercials would film themselves.
Duane found the hat in the evidence locker. He took the shoelaces for extra measure. “I'll need the department credit card. Gas for the patrol car, meals for me and Buge.”
“No you won't. You're going undercover. Wear civvies, take your personal vehicle.” If things go awry, he didn't need his second in command identified as part of his department. If it wasn't for the new K-9 cruiser, and the dog that came with it, his part-time deputy would still be selling coffee and lotto tickets at Gas n' Go. “Save your receipts, and I'll submit them to the town council.”
“Sheriff, I don't actually own a car. The Pontiac is LuAnn's. And she needs it, for work.”
“Tell her ride with someone a couple of days.”
“She works second shift. Ain't nobody she can ride with.”
“Sweet Jesus, then she can use your cruiser. But only for trips to and from work. And no joy riding, foolin' with the lights and siren.”
Duane warmed to the assignment. “I figure I'll rig up a disguise, so McClintock don't see me coming. But I ain't sure what to do for Buge.”
“He's a dog. To humans they all look alike.”
—o—
LuAnn took the news badly. “You are not taking my car to Wilkes-Barre. Not if that hound is going. Gettin' his slobber all over the seats and dash. Fartin' on the upholstery.” She reached for a long-term, more financial reason. “Now that Pontiac is out of business, the Vibe is sure to be a classic, down the road. That car auction show you like to watch? Running old Corvettes and Firebirds through? And getting ten times what they went for new?”
“LuAnn, the Vibe's just a Toyota with a different name. And hatchbacks ain't in the same class as Corvettes. Trust me on this, I been reading Road and Track since I was a teenager.”
“Maybe so, but I ain't driving no cop car to work. What will the girls think? I done signed up to go under cover, rat-out all the people what smokes a little weed on break? I'd sooner walk.”
“LuAnn, it's ten miles.”
“You tell your high and mighty boss to go shove that K-9 cruiser up his ass. I'll get Mildred to play taxi cab. But you better not be gone more 'n' a day or two. The very idea, chasing off to Wilkes-Barre for a speeding ticket.”
“McClintock's a major felon, LuAnn. A desperado, who broke out of jail. I catch him, I'll get my picture in the paper. Maybe even Live at Five! will do a story. Remember, they done it last year, when Bugle Boy joined the force.”
“Yeah. It was one of those dumb feel-good, human interest stories, with a dog as the feature.” LuAnn had a second thought. “And mow the damn lawn, before you go.”
Duane folded the rear seat in the hatchback,making room for Buge. There was not no way the human-style seat belt would work. It was against Federal K-9 rules and regulations, but they were going under cover, and the circumstances were extenuating.
Bugle Boy voiced his displeasure; he liked riding shotgun, with the window d
own. He was somewhat assuaged when he saw the S&R Hi-Vis tracking harness and his Schutzhund seven foot leash. Duane needed the exercise.
The sheriff said this McClintock would most likely be found at the Wilkes-Barre Ornamental Iron Works, soon to join the Reagan Memorial as a pile of scrap. “Start your search there, and if that comes up dry, then go have a look at his farm, on old Route 5. It's listed as the corporate offices of H.Poitrine & Associates, so interview the president. Remind him it's a felony to harbor a fugitive.”
Duane decided on an Ivy-League look, since he knew they often owned dogs, and walked them in public places, to pick up chicks. He found the shirt with the button-down collar, the one that accidentally went through the wash with the red curtains, and he was embarrassed to wear, as he was raised in a household where boys wore blue, and pink was for girls.
Nobody knew him in Wilkes-Barre, so he put it on, then draped LuAnn's cashmere sweater around his neck. Jeans with holes in the knees and his duty shoes, worn with no socks, completed the disguise.
The look suffered when Buge refused to wear a neckerchief, and Duane couldn't find their Frisbee. He decided to wear the Code Pink hat, as it went with his shirt. Then he remembered he needed to hide his badge, Glock, and handcuffs. LuAnn's fanny pack, the one with the Monhegan Sun Indian casino logo, would have to do. It was pink, so at least it pulled his outfit together.
—o—
“You still ain't told me why we need a boat.” George was glad Harry was buying the beer. He was feeling broke after losing the Escalade, and he knew kidnapping was both expensive and complicated.
He recalled, from his time inside, a mook was caught when the FBI did something tricky with the payoff. The mook said you can't do a simple swap, cash for the victim no more, like in the Big Lebowski. Now it's electric. Offshore counting. Wire transfers. It made George's head hurt.