Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  Harry searched for hooters. “I believe that's the Poitrine woman. She was similarly dressed, in the news clip I saw.” George was becoming a distraction. Harry wrote it off to his partner's brain damage resulting from a barroom argument with a mook over a gash. “Since you like breasts so much, maybe we should kidnap her, instead. You could fondle her bosom, while we wait for the ransom to arrive.”

  “No way. You kidnap a broad, then you have all her feminine needs to take care of. I'm not about to go shopping for that stuff.”

  “Then we have to develop a new plan. With all these people here, there's no way we can snatch McClintock. It can't be too hard to find out where he lives. We'll pick up a couple of ski masks, grab him as he comes home from a day of toil.”

  “Yeah, we ca—. You hear something?”

  They cocked ears, listened intently. “Someone's coming this way, from the other end of the building. Let's get out of here.”

  —o—

  Mac slipped into the Iron Works. For a hundred years it had dominated the Wilkes-Barre waterfront, and employed hundreds. Now it was a relic, and about to become recycled scrap.

  He loved these majestic old places, with period architectural details, and a pride of workmanship that was missing in modern buildings. Today's factories were quick to throw up, and quicker to tear down. But easy to recycle; trash to cash.

  He stooped to brush silt from a cast iron manhole cover. A pair of art deco fish circled the words Croton Aqueduct 1894. This was worth something to someone, somehow. But it was too small to be a coffee table, and too heavy to ship via UPS.

  East Coast No.1 Heavy Melting Scrap was bringing two-fifty a ton. Torching these beams into bite-size chunks, and feeding them to T Rex cost twenty bucks a ton, but the resulting uniformity would bring a premium at the furnace mouth. Something to explain to Mags. Along with depreciation, demurrage, and sale-leaseback of business assets.

  When Honey saw the quarter million dollar price tag on T Rex, she shook her head, asking, “Why not just haul it all to the landfill?”

  “Because tipping fees for demolition debris is currently running sixty-two bucks a ton, close to two grand a truck load. And I bid this job with a very sharp pencil.” He added a complimentary ego massage by saying, “It was your special attention to the man from Lackawanna that got a performance bonus included in the contract.”

  He saw movement at the far end of the structure. In the shadowy darkness Mac made out two men. Maybe Jack sent them in on some last minute chore, remove a forgotten scissor lift, or Bobcat.

  Nah, Jack knew better. Mac headed toward them. Probably print reporters, looking for an interesting sidebar for their story. Word pictures; as dead as print itself. The legendary Wilkes Barre Ornamental Irons Works, long a landmark on the riverfront, had survived two World Wars, the Great Depression, and multitudinous floods of Biblical proportions, but earlier today the derelict structure proved no match for the tectonic forces of high explosives.

  He needed to chase them out before the sidebar headline was Two Morons Killed In Iron Works Demolition.

  The two morons were standing on either side of the junction box, and to Mac's untrained eye it looked like Spider had already made the final connection. He needed to get the hell out of here.

  George lowered his voice as Mac approached. “It's some homeless guy. Be cool, and let me handle him, Harry.” He slipped his hand beneath his shirt for the Python. “They're mostly freaks, got a case of HIV, PSD, from ISIS. You never know what's gonna set 'em off.” He gave Mac's filthy clothes and dirty face the once-over. “Looks like you been livin' in here, fella.”

  Mac nodded, offered a wry smile. “The last six weeks, it feels like it.” The big guy looked nothing like a reporter; his skinny pal, with the bow tie and tattersall shirt, did. “You two better beat it.” He pulled back his cuff and checked his TAG Heuer. “The whole damn thing is set to come down in about ten minutes.”

  George tightened his grip on the revolver. “The fuck you talkin' about?” He didn't sound like no homeless nutcase.

  Mac pointed to the spiderweb shooting off in all directions from the primary initiator, decided to give the reporters some backstory for their sidebar. “You see the green tubing between the girders? That's Primacord, connecting the blasting caps in the RDX charges. It burns at twenty-four thousand feet a second, so we can program millisecond delays between the explosions. That way the building comes down where we want it, and not in the river, or on top of all the people out there, watching.”

  Harry said, “It sounds like you know what you're talking about.”

  “I know just enough. I'm the general contractor.”

  George was busy translating feet per second in miles per hour. He came up with three different speeds, all of them beyond belief. He said, “Bullshit, Harry. Fuses can't burn that fast. I lit enough cherry bombs to know you got like five seconds to throw it.”

  He grabbed a section of Primacord, and yanked. “Look at this shit, Harry. It's fuckin' plastic tubing. I bet this asshole is setting up an illegal mary wanna factory in here.” He waved the Primacord in Harry's face. “And these are for irrigation.” He paused to offer iron-clad proof. “I seen it on TV.”

  Mac wondered which section of explosives this dope had pulled loose, and was it before or after the primary ignition charge went off. He peered out the filthy window. Where the hell was Spider? “Suit yourself. I'm leaving.”

  George held up his hand like a traffic cop. “The hell you are, Poitrine.”

  Harry sighed. “George, this is McClintock. H. Poitrine is a woman.”

  “Like one of those shemales? Chicks with dicks?” He turned to the window, wanting a second look. “She sure had me fooled.”

  “George, you sometimes don't listen. We went over his. She is a she, and runs the company, this guy does the actual work.”

  “Oh, yeah.” George studied Mac, arranging the details in his head. “So, you're McClintock?”

  “Yes. Do I know you?”

  Harry said, “We talked, briefly, on the phone.”

  “Help me out. I talk to a lot of people on the phone.”

  George pulled his Python from his pants. “You're a lucky man. If you wasn't working for a rich broad, I'd plug you right now; wrecking my Escalade, and nearly drowning us in the river.”

  “Escalade?” Mac looked to Harry for an explanation.

  “One of your employees speared George's Cadillac with a forklift, then dumped it in the river. With us inside.”

  George said, “After you said you was gonna pay us the five bills a day.”

  Mac ignored George, said to Harry, “Five hundred a day? You must be the ones selling business disruption insurance.”

  Harry said, “Indeed, we are one and the same.”

  Mac was confused. “What's this about forklifts? I told him to pay you off. Two thousand bucks.” He remembered the Poor Souls comment about Spider tossing twenties around, and laughed. “America, the land of opportunity. Speaking of which, what's your scheme today? It couldn't have been easy, getting in here.”

  George said, “You're tellin' me. We come across the Susquehanna. In a boat. My brother's boat, which is a story in of itself, and don't concern you, except the part where you ride back in it.” He waved the revolver in Mac's general direction.

  Five feet away was close enough that a bullet would probably hit him. Also close enough Mac could kick it out of his hand, but he'd only seen it done in movies, but this wasn't a movie, and he wasn't Jackie Chan.

  So he tried bluster, a ploy that had worked in the past. “No boat rides.” He waved his hand at George's revolver. “Put that back in your pants, sport. We both know you're not going to use it.” He turned to Harry. “Better luck next time, pal. Now beat it, before you get buried under a thousand tons of rusty steel.”

  Harry said, “Oh, we're leaving, McClintock, and you're going with us.” He pulled the Taser from his hip pocket and aimed it at Mac. “This packs a fifty-thousan
d volt wallop. When I shoot it off, you'll be flopping like a fish. We'll hog tie you with some of this tubing, and toss you in the boat.”

  Mac pointed to the controller mounted on the girder. “I wouldn't fire it in here, if I were you. The fifty-thousand volts just may trigger the initiator.”

  George yelled, “And maybe you're blowin' smoke up my ass. Your ass is gettin' kidnapped, mister, and that Poitrine lady is gonna pay us a million bucks to get you back.”

  Bluster wasn't working, so he tried the truth. “I have some bad news, fellas. She doesn't have any money. And I'm not so sure she wants me back.”

  George said, “Enough of this bullshit. Zap him, Harry, and let's get out of here.”

  —o—

  The Lackawanna man, bustling about the site with pompous energy, found Honey, and checked the documents. They were signed in the proper places, and he didn't much care by who.

  She then tracked down the Colonel from the Corps; not as easy as she thought it would be. The place was overrun with uniforms; fire, police, EMS, and a pair of state troopers shadowing the governor.

  Compliance documents distributed, she stepped on the stage, and tapped the mike with a fingernail. Only amateurs said, “Testing, testing. Is this thing on?”

  She felt a familiar tingle as she grasped the microphone, and hearkened back to her intern days at WQRZ, where her job was to stand in the rain, and give the traffic report. She realized the tingle wasn't the thrill of once again performing in front of a crowd, it was electricity. The damned sound system wasn't properly grounded.

  She had asked the sound man for a headset mike, so she could strut the stage, and use her hands in expansive gestures, the way Vanna White buys vowels. But he said a wireless transmitter was a bad idea, this close to the explosive charges, and he wanted no part of it, should things go awry.

  Honey wished Spider was here to tell the guy he was full of it, but her master blaster was off somewhere, doing something, so she was stuck with a tingly microphone. She wrapped her Hermes scarf around it, and soldiered on.

  Saylor Brannigan had taught her how to begin the pitch with a joke, one that was self-deprecating. Poke a little fun at yourself, and the crowd is on your side. Honey used the dumb blonde one that always got a laugh. “I felt terrible yesterday, and went to the doctor. I told him I hurt all over. He said show me where it hurts, so I poked my elbow with my finger, and I yelped. Then I touched my knee, and I cried ouch. Finally I touched my ankle, and I screamed.”

  She waited a beat, let her eyes drift across the crowd. When she was selling Magic Ladders this was the moment to find the marks. Lock eyes, and seduce them. “The doctor told me my finger was broken.”

  The crowd laughed on cue as she cocked a hip, threw a sexy look over her shoulder, and told everyone to please turn off all cell phones, while our Master Blaster makes the final inspection and hook up.

  “We don’t want a premature detonation.” There was more laughter, whistles, as a festive air permeated the river’s edge. A cable TV reporter told her viewers we haven’t had this much excitement in Wilkes-Barre since the flood of 2006. The Centennial Celebration, when they evacuated the city.

  Honey continued, “While that takes place, we will have some brief remarks by Governor Heftshank, but first I'd like to introduce the man who made this riverfront beautification project possible.” She turned with a big smile, and threw her arms wide for Congressman Shelly Varnish.

  It was a game show gesture she'd perfected, presenting winners with their new refrigerator, washing machine, or hydro massage foot bath.

  Congressman Varnish climbed on the stage, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Keep it short, sport,” she whispered in his ear, her warm breath giving him a non-electric tingle.

  “Save the campaign speech for the Rotary Club. And keep in mind the fist full of cash my daughter gave you the other day, when you speak about H. Poitrine, and the excellent job we are doing.” She tossed him a wink and an air kiss to soften the steel in her voice. If all went well, in two years she'd be running for his seat.

  During her remarks Spider slipped into the handicap shitter, left a package for Honey. If she wants to go through with this, then she's gonna be the one with her finger on the button. Earlier in the week Honey told the event coordinator to replace the yucky job site Porta Potties with pristine, steam-cleaned units, making sure there was a handicapped one, in compliance with the politically correct nonsense. Spider zipped, stepped out, found Honey with the governor, and drew her aside. “I have my plan in place. You remember the Rothenbuhler we used to blow up the tree?”

  “Who?”

  “Not who, what. The gizmo with the buttons? You pressed FIRE, and the tree went bye-bye.”

  “Oh, that gizmo. What about it?”

  “It's in the handicapped crapper. On a wire, in a ziplock. Arm all four remotes, press the button, and you're a widow. Put the unit back in the bag, I'll come get it, later.”

  “Why can't I just throw it in the toilet?”

  “Because that Rothenbuhler Mini Controller cost me four thousand bucks, that's why.”

  Honey uttered an exasperated sigh. “I don’t see why I have to do this.”

  Because I don’t trust you, lady. “Because you're the one who put the bug in my ear, so you need to be the one who makes the final decision.” He didn't have a clue if she saw any difference between murdering your husband, and getting a no-fault divorce. Or between shooting a bunch of Arabs in the heat of the moment, and killing a fellow American for a suitcase full of cash. “If you're getting cold feet, tell me now, and we'll call it off.” He locked eyes with her. “Making plans is easy, carrying them out is harder.”

  “OK, OK. When should I do it?”

  Spider pointed to the Iron Works. “Your husband is in there right now, so right now would be a good time.” He gripped her arm, squeezed. “I need an iron-clad alibi that I had nothing to do with your premature detonation. So I’m gonna stay here, show the governor how to push the fake button, while I keep both my hands in front of the TV cameras.”

  Honey excused herself, told Governor Heftshank the excitement was too much for her, she needed to visit the facilities one last time. She gave Spider a nod, and headed for the line of Porta Potties, zeroing in on the one with the handicap logo on the door.

  Inside, she tore off a sheet of tissue, used it to lift the seat. Ugh. Someone had unloaded a load. She hadn’t noticed anybody in a wheel chair, so it probably was a scofflaw. Honestly, some people. Or maybe Spider did it, just to remind her who's boss. Yeah, well, we’ll see about that later, after the doo doo hits the fan.

  She squinched her nostrils shut, and held her breath as she looked for the slim wire he promised would be under the seat. There. She grasped the end, pulled it up like a trot line, felt the satisfying weight of the fish that better be a Rothenwhatchamajig in a plastic baggie, not something nasty.

  She dropped her catch on the floor, used another piece of tissue to open the zip lock, and removed the device. “Arm all four remotes, press the button, and you're a widow,” spider said. She stared at the unit, not really remembering anything about how it worked.

  In the orchard she'd been focused on seducing the creep. There were ten buttons, the top two OFF and ON. Was it already turned on? She knew Spider thought she was a dumb blonde; most men did. Being blessed with beauty and brains was the Lord's way of telling you life was hard. A constant reminder to be tolerant of the less fortunate.

  She pressed ON, just to be sure. Now what? “Arm the four remotes”. What remotes? There were buttons numbered one to four, so she pressed them. There was a button marked ARM, so she pressed that, as well. The tenth one was marked FIRE. She remembered pressing that one. The noise when they blew up the tree was deafening. Now it was going to be a mile-long building. She wondered how sound proof a portapotty was.

  Honey wanted to lower the lid and sit, contemplate the enormity of the moment, but she was wearing her new silk Armani.

 
; It wasn't the kiss that brought her to this moment. It may have been the catalyst, the spark that lit the fuse, but the box full of cash, and Mags' vice president signature on the documents was the handwriting on the wall. If she was going to be pushed out the window, then she was going to have a golden parachute.

  Enough! Her feet hurt, standing in this fiberglass closet, and even with the steam cleaning it smelled like shit. Her thumb moved to the FIRE button.

  —o—

  Mags circled the crowd, frantically searching for Mac. She'd had him in sight, and then the damn dog knocked her down. Her shirt—Mac's shirt—was damp with doggie slobber. She jumped up on the stage, swept her eyes across the confusion.

  The crowd screamed, cheered, recorded video of the building going up and coming down. It was similar to scenes played countless times on the Disaster! Channel, along with exploding fertilizer plants, and airliners crash landing in Third World countries.

  At first a lone puff of smoke burst from the far end of the structure. It was followed a millisecond later by a series of explosions at ground level, progressing from left to right at twenty-four thousand feet a second.

  For a tantalizing moment the structure still stood, but then gravity took charge, and the walls fell in, followed by the top crashing down in the world's largest belly flop.

  The Iron Works was supposed to gently settle upon its foundation like a fat old woman easing herself into a favorite chair. Not with half of it in the river. The best laid plans, as the Scotsman said, gang aft agley. Either Honey had not armed all the remotes, or George's yanking on a Pentex line rescheduled the carefully-timed progression of explosives. Or Spider had fucked up.

  A cloud of dust boiled from the wreckage, a mushroom cloud, rising toward the heavens, then spreading toward the assembled crowd, enveloping everyone like the fog in a horror movie.