Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  George and Harry drove the stolen truck down the Levee Trail, parked under the Market Street bridge. They were separated from the Iron Works by five hundred feet of Susquehanna River. “I just noticed,” Harry said, as they unloaded the aluminum boat, “the trailer hitch hides the license plate, so any cop with a stolen F-150 on his hot sheet won't think to look for one towing a boat.”

  “Good to know.” George used an oar to push them into the current, then started the outboard. “Means it will probably be here, when we come back with the victim.”

  Harry pointed across the river. “There's a hell of a lot of people over there. I wonder what's going on.”

  “Yeah. Couple days ago it was a just a few guys driving dump trucks, and an asshole with a forklift.” George touched his Python. “I hope we run into him again.”

  He beached the boat on the narrow shore, and killed the engine. They clambered up the muddy embankment, climbed through a shattered window. Shafts of sunlight streamed through broken skylights, penetrating the gloom like the fingers of God. It reminded George of Saint Michaels Cathedral, and he resisted the urge to cross himself.

  “I hope there's not no rats in here. Bad enough I had to deal with the guy at the dump, pay for a box of 'em, the other day.” He picked up a piece of broken cast iron, a sprocket, threw it into the distance. It bounced against a girder, clanged onto the brick floor.

  Harry said, “There are no rats in here. I guarantee it.” He was pretty sure he was correct. If not, maybe his positive assertions would assuage George's trepidations.

  “How can you be so sure? It looks to me like a perfect place for rats. No humans around to bother 'em as they go scurry hither and yon.” Jesus H; I'm startin' to sound like Harry.

  “Nothing to eat, George. Unless they developed a taste for rusty iron.”

  George continued the argument; it kept his mind off the coming complications of kidnapping the mook, getting him across the river. “Maybe they eat out. Along the river bank. Stuff that washes up. And they just come in here, to get out of the weather, rest up, or fuck.”

  Harry decided to yank George's chain. “I was you, I be worried about snakes.”

  “I ain't afraid of snakes. Most people are, because of the one in the Garden of Eden.”

  “You were raised Catholic. You believe in Original Sin?”

  “No, I believe Adam was jealous of the snake, hangin' around Eve, sweet talkin' her. Why do you think they call it a trouser snake, the one-eyed serpent? It's in the Bible. You could look it up.” The empty grandeur of the Iron Works caused him to wax philosophical.

  “There was this guy named Fraud, wrote about snakes and dicks and wanting to jump your mother. And cigars. Cigars figure into it, someplace. But no, snakes don't bother me. Of course I ain't seen one in about forty years, so maybe if I lived in some place like India, where they come out of baskets, spit at you, it'd be different.” George kicked the debris on the floor. “Are you sure about the rats?”

  “George, I'll give you a hundred bucks for every rat you can point out.”

  “You don't have a hundred bucks.”

  “I will, soon as we find this McClintock. What do you suppose all those people are here for?”

  They picked their way across three hundred feet of scrap iron and river silt from serial floods, to the opposite side of the structure.

  —o—

  It' was eight o'clock, an hour until the Big Event, and the job site was massed confusion, with Jack's crew moving fences, TV trucks jockeying for space, and Eventz R Us erecting a bunting-bedecked stage.

  A bucket truck was mounting loudspeakers on poles, so all the speeches could be heard by the crowds. Crowds Honey had hired a publicity company to provide. At the suggestion of a political consultant, also hired by Honey. Always test the waters, he advised, before you jump in.

  —o—

  An hour ago Daddy Mac drove off in a company pickup, so Mags snagged his keys, took the Mercedes. Like her BMW, it had leather seats and lots of electronic crap to impress the rich and powerful. Like vice presidents of shell companies. The title sounded great, until you peeked behind the curtain.

  She was Thirteen when Daddy Mac incorporated, and had no idea what it meant at the time. And never really thought about it, until the other day. He'd opened her eyes when he opened that bank box full of cash. He'd handed her ten thousand dollars like it was twenty bucks for popcorn and a movie.

  Mom was the figurehead, but Daddy Mac held the reins. And being a VP didn't mean dick, unless Mister Macintosh told Jack to take orders from her. Shit. Who was she kidding? She wasn't ready for this. Sign the papers, he said. We'll blame Mom, he said, if what's-his-name, Spider, screws up.

  She didn't like the idea of relying on a guy who was kissing her mother yesterday. She was pretty sure it wasn't Spider who made the first move on the boss' wife. Time to get to the job site, do her job, and keep her eyes on Mom and Spider. She flew out the farm lane, and headed for the river.

  Slow down, girl. Dressed like this, if you get pulled over, you'll wind up in jail. Kinda like he did, yesterday. She couldn't wait to get him aside, and hear all the juicy details. Like, why was her Beamer half way to Harrisburg? Jail break. Fuckin' A; how cool was that?

  She pulled through the wide-open gate, gave Jack a thumbs up, and parked beside the trailer. His wife was cool; she'd met her one time, dropping off Jack's paycheck; wound up drinking solar tea, and had her fortune told with Tarot cards. You will travel far.

  She found the lawyer's envelope in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Holy moly, but there must be ten pounds of paperwork. She searched for a pen, then once again, for the dotted lines. Her heart skipped a beat as she signed her name with an extra flourish. She wasn't sure if she could give herself a title, but she did it anyway. It was her own mother who'd taught her it was better to ask forgiveness after, than permission before.

  She returned the company copy to the filing cabinet, left the other two on the desk. She wasn't going to carry them all over the place, searching for the government officials. If Mom knew who they are, then she could come here, and get the paperwork. Mags needed to find Daddy Mac, tell him about the strange phone conversation she overheard. Tickle and poke.

  —o—

  Mac scanned the crowd, searching for a pink baseball cap. He spotted one on a young guy, also wearing a pink shirt, and a sweater draped over his shoulders. It was a T-shirt kind of day, and Mac thought maybe the cap covered a bald head, and the poor guy was cold from chemotherapy. But what was a cancer patient doing here? Maybe fund raising for Breast Cancer Awareness. It was probably a good way to pick up chicks, or at least stare at their boobs without getting slapped. Mac told himself he was over-thinking the scene. Coincidences are for fiction, and this was neither a pink ribbon, nor a Code Pink type crowd.

  Keeping one eye on the bobbing hat, Mac moved through the throng, looking for Jack or Spider.

  Suddenly, a dog barked.

  It was a deep and mournful baying, one that sent shivers down the spines of anyone who had ever seen a chain gang movie.

  The pink hat turned in Mac's direction, and the guy wearing it pushed through the crowd. People stepped aside, and he was only a hundred feet away, eye to eye with his escaped prisoner, his hand looped in the leash of a baying bloodhound.

  Just as Duane had been fantasized all morning, a blonde in shorts and a tank top reached down to pet his dog. But Bugle Boy was on a mission. Not even the opportunity to dampen her crotch could deter him from his quarry, and he surged ahead, dragging Duane behind him. Filled with canine resolve, his olfactory encyclopedia was overloaded with fresh scents of Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine, marijuana smoke, and Mac McClintock.

  He focused with single-minded determination on the latter. This time he would not let poor, dumb Duane, and his boss, the fat, foolish sheriff, hijack his prisoner. After discovering drugs, money, weapons, and a long list of explosives, he should now be wearin
g a gold Detective badge on his collar, instead of his S&R Hi-Vis tracking harness.

  Suddenly, Duane disappeared. Swallowed up in the crowd.

  Had he released the hound, and was circling, to prevent his prisoner from escaping a second time? No, Duane had stumbled, fallen to the gravel, and Bugle Boy, focused on his mission, dragged Corporal Milt, who was yelling, “Buge! Heel! Stop! Shit!”

  Corporal Milt had forgotten all the commands he learned at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, in Glynco, Georgia. Duane experienced a Nantucket sleigh ride. He was pulled across the gravel, not by a whale with a harpoon in his back, but a hundred and fifteen pounds of single-minded bloodhound. A hound who continued his joyous, full-throated bellow, as he homed in on the scent of yesterday's prize capture.

  Mac was trapped, boxed in by the crowd. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no match for the sure-footed tracker of stripe-suited convicts. He knew he didn't stand a chance against a dog of this size, and he only hoped bloodhounds did not the share the canine ferocity of Pit Bulls, Rottweilers, and Dobermans. Or was it Dobermen?

  He wished he'd called his lawyer yesterday, instead of Spider.

  But Bugle Boy raced past Mac, and buried his nose in the crotch of a pair of whipcord trousers. Oh, the rapture! The escaped prisoner was in season! He planted his enormous paws on the baggy blue polo shirt, and his quarry went down hard. Buge's big, pink tongue slobbered the prisoner's face, while his other end displayed evidence of his primordial canine urges. Like his partner, Bugle Boy had forgotten everything he'd learned in Glynco, Georgia.

  Mags was face-to-face with Duane on the gravel. She snarled, “Hey! That's my hat!” She grabbed Buge's most distinctive feature—other than the one that was drawing interest and auto-focusing cameras.

  His ears. She locked her legs around his torso, rolled him over, her knees straddling his massive chest. His tail thumped the dust, evidence he was enjoying the attention. Bloodhounds are lovers, not fighters.

  Duane freed himself from the leash, and leaped to his feet, intent upon rescuing his partner from McClintock. The fanny pack, containing his badge, Glock, and cuffs, had moved to the location it was named for, so he reached for the escaped felon, attempted to pull him off his beloved Buge. Unfortunately for him, but to the delight of the onlookers, he only managed to get his hands on the blue polo shirt.

  The circling crowd egged him on with hoots and whistles. This was a bonus; all they expected this morning was a bunch of boring speeches, followed by a mighty explosion, and a landmark collapsing in a pile of rusty iron. Followed by free hot dogs and soda. Provided by H. Poitrine & Associates; Honey's way of testing the political waters.

  Duane's excitable nature led him to miscalculate their enthusiasm for approval, and he yanked the polo shirt over McClintock's head. The rasta beanie came with it, revealing shocking pink hair.

  Duane was confused. He'd been to Hooters often enough to know hooters when he saw them, even small ones. A serious breach of policing procedure had occurred, and he suspected the finger of blame would point to Marge Defarge. As the Department of Pubic Safety's designated jailer, she had failed to strip search the prisoner. What he had on his hands here was one of them metrosexuals. A girly-man.

  By now the media had arrived with professional equipment, and professionals at the controls. Mags, stripped to the waist, would become a YouTube sensation, one equaled only by Bugle Boy's legendary TSA performance.

  A pair of personal injury lawyers were slipping their cards into her hip pockets, even as she struggled to her feet, and battled in a three-way tug of war for her shirt. Her kick boxing skills won the day. A free-lance videographer asked if she and her dog were interested in adult film.

  Spider was treating his morning after with the hair of a different dog. He had modified a can of Mountain Dew with a shot of rye whiskey, and was waiting for the caffein and alcohol to clear the cobwebs. He crouched behind a rental podium on the bunting-draped stage, rigging a dummy hot box for the governor and Honey. A woman about to make him a rich man.

  Shouts and whistles drew his attention, and with bleary eyes he looked down at a topless chick with pink hair. Dancing around with a man and a dog. Performance art. What some people won't do for publicity.

  One of the homeless guys from last night climbed up on the stage. Spider had swapped VA horror stories with them last night, decided they were all too nuts to trust with what he had in mind for Mr. Mac. Maybe this one—holy shit! It was Mr. Mac.

  Mac stood beside Spider, and watched Mags kick ass. “Spider, that guy fighting with my stepdaughter is the Shaleville cop who arrested me. I gotta get out of here. Are you sure the building is ready to come down?”

  “I checked it again, last night,” he lied. This was gonna work out just fine. “Go hide from your cop in the Iron Works. I'll get rid of him, then come get you, before I make the final connections.” He looked twice at the girl. Yeah, it was her. Not bad; the mom had bigger jugs.

  “Well, I sure hope it's before,” Mac joked. He jumped off the platform and disappeared into the crowd. One of the final connections was at the main junction box, deep inside the structure, and that was where he headed.

  —o—

  Honey arrived at the job site, the donut spare tire thumping her rear end. Her opinion of Spider's competence hiccuped. Men were supposed to be good at stuff like that, it was why you never saw female mechanics. Except for her daughter, when she was probing the guts of that yellow monstrosity by the pond.

  Mags must have acquired an extra gene from her father. When Beau wasn't playing football or lifting weights, he was tinkering with the used cars at his father's dealership.

  Maybe she should have asked Mags to change the tire. Except her daughter was in Washington when it happened, delivering cash to the congressman. Her job. Except she was busy coordinating the luncheon, the governor's arrival, and getting rid of her husband. Speaking of which, she needed to find Spider, and reinforce his resolve.

  But first things first; find a safe spot for the Lexus. Darn it, she forgot to arrange for VIP parking, and the place was filled with down-market cars and trucks, parked every which way. She saw Mac's Mercedes beside the job trailer.

  When he came home last night, in the blackest of moods, he was driving a ratty old truck. So, who was driving the Benz? Mags. But why was she in the office?

  Inside, Honey saw the compliance documents on the desk, remembered she was supposed to give one to the old fool from the local authority, and the other to a very attractive army officer from the Corps. She idly flipped through the pages of meaningless legalese.

  Spider said he couldn't set off the explosion until Mac signed off on the job, and the two men had these authorizations in hand. The Lackawanna representative even called yesterday, to remind her. As if she'd forget something like that. But when did Mac sign them? Honey turned to the last page.

  What the H E double hockey sticks is this? Magnolia Poitrine, Executive Vice President, Operations? Son of a biscuit! First the bank box full of cash, and now her own daughter, barely old enough to vote, is an officer in the LLC. Mac had some 'splainin' to do. Time to strike, before he did. They do. If there was any doubt about enlisting Spider's help, this washed it away.

  But first she had to meet up with Governor Heftshank, prepare his finger for the moment they pose for the photographers, and push the button.

  Like all politicians, he was a touchy-feely guy, but the crepe-skinned creep gave new meaning to press the flesh. Thankfully, she had a solid decade of experience in dealing with Hollywood's gropers, the masters of casting-couch wrestling.

  Men are such pigs! There's a separate set of rules for them. When some politician got caught with his zipper down, his long-suffering wife stood by his side as he begged forgiveness—not from her, but God. Unlike God, the wife was stuck between a rock and a crappy divorce settlement.

  It was just a couple of days ago when Spider saw Mac and Mags swapping spit. That's when the clouds cleared
, the sun rose, and the day dawned. Flirting with governors and congressmen while Mac took the money was not a path to long-term security.

  A girl needed a retirement plan, one that didn't depend on a man. All trophies get tarnished, and husbands wander. Look what happened to Mia Farrow, when Woody Allen seduced little what's her name. His stepdaughter. Honey couldn't actually remember what happened, even though the sordid details were in all the tabloids at the time.

  She knew of more than one successful businesswoman who made the leap from beauty queen to boardroom to congress. Shirley Temple was an ambassador, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus was the Vice President.

  If the governor were to leave his DNA on a dress, he'd become an enthusiastic campaign supporter. Or else. She swept up the signed documents, and headed for the stage, resolve in her heart, as her eyes searched the crowd for anyone important.

  She heard a distinctive thwap thwap, and looked up as the governor's state police helicopter descended, the rotor's downwash kicking up dust. She quickly turned away, preserving her carefully applied makeup. She had spent extra time this morning, remembering all the TV tricks from her infomercial days. In a few minutes she would be playing to a much larger audience than a few local politicians. Maybe even the BBC would pick up the tragedy. Explosions always were good for a thirty second sound bite.

  Chapter Twenty-Fice

  “Hey,” George said, peering through the window at the crowd. “They're settin' up a stage, loud speakers. What's today? It ain't the Fourth of July, is it? Because I think I would of heard.”

  Harry said, “It must be related to the redevelopment of the riverfront. That looks like Governor Heftshank climbing out of the helicopter.”

  “Never mind him. Check out the broad, climbing out of the Lexus. Oh baby! World class hooters, and a dress that shows 'em off. I can see cleavage from here, and we're a hundred feet away.”