by Deforest Day
Harry explained, “The trickiest part of a kidnapping is the snatch. When you grab the victim, there's always the possibility of interference. You saw the job site, all the workers. With a boat, we can slip up on the river side, catch him unawares. I'll shoot him with my Taser, we toss him in the boat, make our getaway downstream.”
“You got a Taser? How come I never saw it?”
“I shoplifted it this morning, specifically for this enterprise. As the mastermind of this partnership, I plan ahead, George; take all contingencies under consideration, in the event things go awry.”
“I always did like a nice corned beef on rye. Which reminds me, I'm hungry. Pigs feet and pickled eggs ain't real food. Let's swing by the Colonel's, get a bucket of chicken. We can eat it on the way up to Lake Wallenpaupack, pick up the boat.”
“No can do. My car doesn't have a trailer hitch.”
“Well, shit. I though you were a plan aheader.”
“A minor glitch. We'll swing by the mall, pickup a pickup. One with a hitch.”
“Yeah, I guess if we're into kidnapping, stealing a car ain't no biggie.” George finished his beer, rubbed his hands together, warming to the task. He was a man of action, and stealing cars was child's play, compared to Harry's masterminding. “So, we got him in the boat, then what?”
“Then we stash him at your place, and send this H. Poitrine a ransom note. I figure a million ought to cover it.”
“My place? That ain't gonna work, Harry. He's bound to figure out where he's at. And after we let him go, he'll lead the cops right to my door.”
“Who said anything about letting him go?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mac awakened as dawn crept over the windowsill, and stole into his bed. Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the sunshine. Yesterday's disaster became today's challenge. In a matter of hours the Wilkes-Barre Ornamental Iron Works would be a pile of twisted steel, shattered brick, and rebar-laced rubble.
That's when two point three million dollars would electronically move from the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority to H. Poitrine & Associates.
Seconds later an algorithm would disburse funds to the subcontractors. M&M trucking. Big Mac Recycling. ABC Equipment Leasing. XYZ Financial Services.
He needed to get to the job site, and make damn sure everything went off without a hitch. Because after today, every day the monstrosity was still standing would cost him money he couldn't afford to lose.
Mac prayed Spider had slept off his beer binge. He prayed the building was ready for the governor and Honey to press the ceremonial button. If Spider could rig the old coal breaker while drunk, then there was hope for his work on the Iron Works.
After a quick shower, Mac remembered Honey wanted him to wear the Ralph Lauren chalk stripe. For once, she was right. He needed to look like the owner today, not the foreman.
Speaking of which, he wondered if Mags had sent the flowers to Jack's wife. Honey said his suit was in her walk-in closet, and he headed to the master suite. Waking her at the crack of dawn would be an added bonus.
Honey was in bed, the king size one they'd bought when the bloom was still on the rose, and he still slept beside her. Six months into the Iron Works demolition he moved down the hall, and there has been little time for even recreational visits to the master suite.
She was wearing a robe over her nightgown, so she'd been out of bed, and now she was on the duvet in fuzzy mules, her back against the pillows, and the phone to her ear. “Mac,” she said, surprised, as she quickly ended the call. “What are you doing in here?”
“Looking for the suit you insisted I wear.” He stepped into her closet, past the racks of shoes and miles of dresses, found his Ralph Lauren in a dry cleaner's bag. A Gucci horsebit necktie, still wearing the three hundred dollar price tag, was draped around the collar. “I'm heading to the site, to make sure everything is ready.” He gave her a wink. “See you there.”
He threaded new shoelaces in his steel-toed Timberlands. He'd catch hell from Honey for not wearing the black wingtips, but he'd be climbing ladders, inspecting girders, making sure Spider hadn't missed anything in his rush to complete the job.
Mac reflected on the jailbreak, blowing up the old coal breaker. Yesterday was a reminder of just how far outside the bounds of civilization Spider operated.
The man had saved his life in the desert with the application of casual violence. Other than checking to make sure the Iraqis were indeed dead, he had shrugged off the incident with the aplomb of a man who had done it before. Like he said, if it can't be solved with C-4, then leave it to the diplomats.
Mac knew combat opened eyes and hardened hearts. It didn't explain why he was out here yesterday, kissing his wife.
He found Rosetta in the kitchen, preparing for the post-explosion luncheon. She knew the governor was among the guests, but Mac saw she wasn't impressed. Compared to the dignitaries she'd fed at the Spanish embassy, a mere governor doesn't rate a second churro with his café doble.
Speaking of which, she had ground the Arabica beans, and brewed it the way he liked it in the morning. Espresso strong and inky black. Honey preferred Rosetta's Café con Leche, and Mags drank New Age tea.
Mac poured his first cup of the day, and heard an urgent beeping. He tracked it to the Great Room, where he found his FM pager right where he'd left it, on the mahogany pie crust table. Next to his BlackBerry, which he used to answer Jack's message.
“Hey, boss. I tried to call you, but it went to voicemail. It's not like you to have the phone turned off.”
“My iPhone is halfway to Harrisburg, a story I'll embroider later, over a beer. How's your wife?” He should know her name, but doesn't. “She have the baby?”
“Yes, and thanks for the flowers and stuffed bear. How'd you know it's her totem animal?”
“A boss makes it a point to know this stuff, Jack. When do you think you'll be back on the job?”
“Hey, we had the kid with Lamaze and a midwife. She delivered underwater last night, and they're back home. Her milk came in, and I came to work. And a good thing too; some weirdo is here with a bloodhound, literally sniffing around. Acting like those TSA bomb dogs at the airport. You have any idea what that's all about?”
Mac heard bloodhound and thought jerkwater cop. “I know exactly what it's about. Long story, and the short version is I was arrested yesterday, and our blast master broke me out of jail. So I won't be coordinating this morning.
“My Wife is entertainment chairman, in charge of pacifying the pols and bureaucrats, but I'll need you to make sure things run smoothly. Reset the compliance panels a hundred yards from the building, for crowd control. See that fire and rescue are in place. Deal with the media. My daughter will be there to help, but don't let her push you around.” He sipped coffee, added, “Mags is a smart kid, but still has a lot to learn.”
“Hey, Mr. Mac. You're asking a lot. Them two ain't gonna listen to me.”
“Jack, you see a problem, deal with it your way; I'll handle the fallout.”
“If you say so. You're the boss.”
“Not today, I'm not.”
Mac changed out of his suit, contemplated a new wardrobe. He found it on his closet floor; the oil-stained jeans and equally filthy sweatshirt he'd worn when he changed the oil and greased the farm tractor. He'd fit right in with his Poor Souls.
Mags opened her door, headed for the bathroom. She was wearing an extra large Rolling Stones red tongue T-shirt, and sleepy eyes. She eyed his outfit, said, “Hey, Daddy Mac. Is it Halloween already?”
He told her about the cop at the job site. “Spider won't press the button until he sees signatures on the state and federal inspection authorizations, so you'll have to sign them.”
“Me? I'm not qualified.” She yawned, stretched, the bottom of her shirt rising into the danger zone. Mixing up a batch of ANFO to build a pond was one thing, inspecting a building for code compliance was a whole different skill set.
“And your mother is? I bet
you thought you were plenty qualified, when you mixed up the ANFO for your pond. You thought I didn't know about that? Look, it's a formality; I have no idea if Spider made any mistakes. But it doesn't matter, because it's too late to correct it. The building doesn't come down today, we're out ninety grand.”
“Just so we're on the same page, Daddy Mac. Am I supposed to check out the building, or just sign the forms? And am I even allowed to?”
“We gave you a car for your eighteenth birthday, but I also added a little extra that Honey doesn't know about. I was waiting for the right moment to tell the two of you, but it looks like events demand it is now.”
He gave her a wink. “I appointed you a vice president of the corporation. You can legally sign papers.”
Vice President!” She gave him a kiss.
He pushed her away. “Don't get carried away with your power. As an officer of H. Poitrine & Associates, you now can go to jail for any number of transgressions.”
“Gee, thanks a lot. If things get fucked up, I get the blame.” She gave him a look. “Can I have my kiss back?”
“No. Mags, fucked up is not vice presidential language. But if you're worried, forge my signature, and we'll blame your mother. She signs mine on checks, whenever she can get her hands on one.”
Mags swelled with pride at this new-found power. Handing wads of cash to politicians was one thing, signing papers meant you were a Player. “Where are these documents?”
“In the job site trailer. You know the keypad combination, right? In the filing cabinet, top drawer. There's a large manila envelope from Kingman Brewster, my corporate lawyer. Sign all three copies, keep one. Officials from the Army Corps of Engineers and the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority will be on site. Your mother knows who they are, have her point them out.”
Mags headed into the bathroom, said, “Vice President. Woo woo,” and wiggled her butt.
He was back in the kitchen for a second cup of coffee when his wife hurried in with a list for Rosetta. Bullet points for the luncheon. Since the señora read English even less than she spoke it, Mags would have to translate it for her. Honey was still in her robe, and said, “Shouldn't you be getting dressed?”
“I did, and this is it.” He decided to pull her chain. “You can handle the event, so I'm staying home today.”
“What!”
“Thanks to you, I was thrown in jail yesterday, and no thanks to Spider, I'm out. There's a cop at the job site, looking to arrest me.”
“But you've got to be there!” There was shrillness in her voice that made Mac pause as he raised the cup to his lips. “I mean, Spider needs you to inspect his work.”
“How do you know about that?”
“He told me about it.”
“When?”
“Just now. That was him on the phone, wanted to make sure you'd be there to sign off, whatever that means.”
“Spider? Why did he call you?”
“Because he said your phone was still at that police station, and he doesn't know your Blackberry number.”
Mac wondered how he knew hers, but kept his mouth shut. Tickle and poke. “I can't afford to get arrested, not until the building comes down. Don't forget, we miss one day, and it's thousands out the window.” He put it in language she could comprehend. “That's a lot of Keith Harings.”
“I know that! I also know you have to be there. For the governor, the publicity photos, the interviews. Don't you forget, Mac, this is just the end of Phase One. There's another six months' work, and another four million bucks on the line.”
He wondered about this new-found sense of responsibility. It's almost as if she decided to be more than a figurehead.
—o—
Duane and Bugle Boy arrived in Wilkes-Barre, found the Iron Works, and were nosing about the job site, when they were approached by a man with a yellow hardhat on top of a pissed-off face.
Jack yelled, “Hey, Pinky! What the fuck are you doing in here? I guess you missed your Special Ed class on signs. See the one up there? Foot-high letters? I'd read it to you, but I'm kinda busy, as we are about ready to blow the shit out of this place.”
Duane was sorely tempted to badge this asshole, let him know he was disrespecting a sworn officer of the law, but he was undercover, and this officious bastard could be a friend of McClintock. So he said, “According to the billboard, this is the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority. Means it's public property. And so I am going to walk my dog on it. You have a problem with that?” It was fun being undercover, saying things you could never get away with in uniform.
“Damn right I mind. I'm busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest, and the last thing I need is dog shit for the governor and his pals to step in. Beat it.”
Duane waited until the man hurried to a group of workers unloading a truck-load of chain link fence sections, and headed toward the river. The partners conversed, the way long-married couples do. Not in so many words, but with an ear scratch for Buge, a leg bump for Duane.
Then Bugle Boy told Duane he was picking up strong evidence there was Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine nearby, as well as pentex, detcord and C-4. Buge also found several roaches on the gravel. Traces, but present enough to warrant a search warrant.
Duane, you're not listening to a thing I'm saying, are you? You're as bad as that wife of yours. I try to tell LuAnn she needs to be more attentive to your needs, from a romantic point of view, but all she does is gossip with Mildred next door. I can't understand more than one word out of five hundred, but their body language, says—Duane, you're not listening. I wonder why I bother. I'm going to take a break, and wash my balls. Let me know when you want to go to work.
—o—
Mac parked the company pickup a block from the site, shoved his wallet under the seat, and hid the keys behind a wheel. Making his way through an industrial wasteland, he slipped through a cut in the chain link fence, and rubbed a handful of dirt on his face.
“Morning, fellas,” he said, handing a large bag of Egg McMuffins to a man wearing the last war's camo.
“Hey, it's Mr. Mac.” The vet gave him the once over, asked, “What happened, the iron cunt throw you out?”
This drew a few laughs and whistles as the muffins were passed around. Mac joined their laughter. “She may, before the day is done. There's a cop looking for me, and I got to lay low. I broke out of jail yesterday, and I figured if I dressed like you guys, nobody would give me a second look.”
A fat black man with a long gray beard said, “That's us. Ralph Ellison's invisible men.”
“I'm going to slip down there, check things out. I need to connect up with my explosives expert, but I may have to high-tail it back here, sneak out the way I came in. Can you cover for me if a cop in a pink hat shows up?”
There were murmurs of assent, then the camo man said, “Explosives expert? You talking about the dude calls himself Spider? Sucker was up here last night, half loaded, goin' on about after today he was gonna be rich.”
Another added, “He was throwin' twenties around like he was already rich. You must be payin' him a big bonus, to blow this place up.”
Throwing twenties around. Mac wondered if Spider had paid off the insurance salesmen, or used his C-4 solution. Jack wasn't there, so he looked around for one of the truck drivers for an eye-witness report. Not that it made any difference now. He headed down to the staging area.
—o—
Mags brewed a cup of Lapsang souchong, and carried it out the sliding doors, perched on the low stone wall. For Mags sunrise was the best time of day. A time to reboot, stick yesterday's fuck-ups in the delete file. Vice president. Maybe the pink hair was a mistake. Hair grew out; at least it wasn't a neck tattoo.
Someone said a clever man learns from his mistakes, and a wise one learns from the mistakes of others. She was wondering which one her mother was, when she heard her voice in the Great Room.
“Mac said there's a cop there, with a bloodhound, to arrest him, for what you tw
o did yesterday. He was going to stay home, but I raised hell, and he took off, dressed like a bum. It's gonna be your job to keep the cop from making an arrest.”
Honey walked outside, saw Mags, and quickly said, “There you are! Your stepfather's being a bigger pain in the posterior than usual, and I'm going to need your undivided attention at the big event. Dress appropriately, and try to be pleasant to the governor.” She eyed the red tongue, shook her head in disapproval. “I hope there's underwear beneath that ridiculous T-shirt.”
She headed back inside, saying, “Not you; I was talking to my daughter. I have to get dressed. I'll see you at the site. Make sure all the electric gizmos are ready, for when the governor and I push the fake buttons.”
Well, that was weird. Mags hurried inside. Wear something appropriate, she said. Yes, I will, but not the way you think. A cop with a bloodhound, eh? She ducked into Daddy Mac's room, found yesterday's outfit tossed on a chair.
Lately, both parents had been acting odd. To be expected. The biggest job, by a factor of ten, the company had ever undertaken. Mags knew there was a lot riding on today, and she needed to make the Old Man proud.
His whipcord trousers fit fine, if a little tight in the hips. She shed the Rolling Stones, slipped on the faded blue polo shirt. It was baggy enough that her girly bumps wouldn't give her away. Besides, she was more interested in the smell than the look. Mags paused in the doorway, and shivered. A sexy tingle made her giggle.
Little girls usually play dress-up in mommy's clothes.
She crossed the hall to her own room, found her Bob Marley Rastafarian beanie, pulled it down over the pink hair. The mirror said she could pass for Daddy Mac in a dimly lit bar full of drunks.