Hard Case 12: Climate of Chaos (John Harding)

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  “Step back, big fella. This is a book signing for my brother Nick. What is it you want?”

  Gigantor was too dopey to realize he had been weighed, measured and found wanting. “Arm-wrestle me, punk!”

  “If it’s okay with Nick… it’s okay with me. You do know those steroids will rot your brain and make you smaller everywhere but your shoulders and chest… right?”

  “I…I should kill you for that!”

  “I’m fine with it, Champ,” Nick said. “Let’s hear from the crowd. How do you folks feel about it?”

  Only cheers and applause erupted. The Unholies helped me get a table, appropriate for the match, with sturdy frame and level legs. Gigantor and I sat across from each other and gripped hands in formal arm-wrestling style.

  “Start whenever you like, big fella.”

  He did. In seconds, Gigantor learned all the steroids in the world could not prevent me from slowly putting his hand to the table. He didn’t cheat and neither did I. Gigantor gave it up and the back of his hand hit the table. I released him and he tried to head butt me. Truthfully, only many months of training in the ocean, coupled with my recent friendship with Captain Hook, gave me the reflexes to swerve out of the way.

  I could have done many things, including smashing his face in with my knee. Instead, I slammed him down over the table and wrenched Gigantor’s arm behind his back at a very painful and incapacitating angle. Security moved in and handcuffed him. I released him into their custody.

  “That wasn’t very nice, big fella.”

  “Someday… I’ll get you for this, Harding.”

  “My advice, for what it’s worth, is don’t ever cross my path again. If you do… run.”

  Security took him away. I could see the older kids standing with knife hands hidden. They were all watching the line of people carefully. Kade watched them while standing on his chair, leaning against Al.

  Nick made a calming gesture at them. “Stand down.”

  The crowd loved the drama and applauded the entire time we spent putting the table and chairs back in place. I sat down again next to Nick.

  “I’m glad you didn’t need to bust a hand on that fathead’s face,” Nick whispered.

  “That makes two of us. The only thing we need now to complete the day is one of those grammar Nazis.”

  The Unholies, except for Nick, appreciated the humor in my completing the day statement. “Now you’ve done it, Dark Lord. The karma train will surely fulfill your ill-advised wish.”

  “Sorry.”

  Nick sighed. “Liar.”

  We almost made it through the signings without my wish coming true. Near the end of our time when the manager had closed the line, Jean spotted a grammar Nazi five people from the end of the line. A prim, hard-looking woman, with nearly white hair tied in a bun, dressed in black slacks, white blouse and red windbreaker, clutched a copy of Political Sanction.

  “She doesn’t seem to have any markers in the novel, Nick. Maybe she’s not a grammar Nazi.”

  “I wish I could believe that, DL.”

  Our suspect arrived with that little smile of self-satisfaction I’ve seen during signings. “When I read your novels, Mr. McCarty, I can hardly believe you’re a writer.”

  “Thank you. Did you want me to sign your copy of Political Sanction?”

  White hair tittered adorably with her hand delicately covering her mouth. “Did you not understand what I said to you?”

  Nick smiled engagingly. “I understand you can’t believe I’m a writer. Okay… thank you again… because I’m a storyteller. I write Pulp Fiction, not Shakespearean prose.”

  “You certainly have nothing to fear on that front. For instance-”

  The collective groan at our table caused our suspected grammar Nazi to stumble. Nick managed to never break eye contact or succumb to our disrespectful behavior. “Please… go on.”

  “I can see I will not be taken seriously, but I insist on my right to address what I think are heinous grammar errors in your novels.”

  “Of course,” Nick replied.

  “Your misuse of who and whom single you out as completely unprepared to write anything resembling literature.”

  “I do use a lot of dialogue in my novels. People no longer use whom in dialogue. My dialogue needs to reflect how people converse today.”

  “That… is simply outrageous. I use whom at every instance correctly in my day to day dialogue!”

  Nick turned to me. “Do you use the word whom, Champ?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Nick turned to the Unholies, whom were already shaking their heads in the negative. He returned his attention to the grammar Nazi. “While I appreciate your dedicated usage of proper word placement, I need to reflect peoples’ everyday jargon in Pulp Fiction. Example – a gangster yells at his cohort ‘this is the asshole who I met at the train station yesterday’. He would not use the proper form, ‘whom I met at the train station yesterday’.”

  “Silly examples do not make it right! You also use the word anxious wrongly. Anxious means a looming fear of something, not an eagerness as you write it.”

  “Let me use it wrongly once more – I am anxious for you to let me sign your book and get my life back,” Nick joked.

  She gasped as loud amusement washed over everyone within hearing. Nick gave us the signal and we gave her the collective grammar Nazi clap salute, including the energetic Kade. That was it for our unfortunate player in the grammar Nazi survival camp. We enjoyed joking around with the rest of the people in line. Afterward, we stood for pictures, posing and doing anything asked of us. When the time ended, we were all ready for rest and relaxation, except for Nick. We tidied up the place, helping the store manager and workers return things to normal.

  Outside, while entering the stretch limousine awaiting us, I noted a rather furtive look on Muerto’s features as I carried Kade. “I see in your face you have a task in mind, Nick. Whatever it is, I’m eating first.”

  “Me too,” Kade agreed.

  “Absolutely. A news flash streamed across my iPhone screen while we gathered our equipment. I learned Assio-Warez will be giving a speech at the Museum of Jewish Heritage, even though she publicly denounces Israel at every opportunity. Nothing puzzles and annoys the hell out of me more than the self-hating Jewish people,” Nick replied. “It will be a special time of 8 pm after the museum’s regular closing.”

  “I don’t think we should miss a date like that, Muerto.”

  “I could use a driver, but A&W knows you too well on sight. You’re too big not to attract attention. We’ll get Jafar on the network in Pain Central as our eyes and ears. You drop me off and then drive around until I reconnoiter the A&W event.”

  “I’m in. We’ll talk more after we eat.”

  “Eat light, DL.”

  “You eat light. I’m driving the car,” I replied. “I burned off a lot of calories protecting you today, especially when I had to mix it up with Gigantor.”

  “When he tried to headbutt you, I nearly shot him in the head,” Nick remarked.

  “I appreciate the thought. You may yet get an opportunity, unless he forces personal combat. In that case, I will handle Gigantor.”

  “You knew he could not win the moment you plucked his hand out of the air and held it,” Johnny said.

  “Exactly right, Johnny,” I agreed. “Equally weird was he knew it too and still insisted on the match. It makes me wonder if he intended it to end in a headbutt and beatdown.”

  “In that case, Muerto would have shot him in the head,” Gus added.

  “And we don’t have a boat or Captain Hook,” Jian remarked.

  “Thank you, Jian,” I replied. “It’s nice to know someone appreciates Captain Hook’s valuable assistance. You should go out on the water with me and Hook.”

  “Do not even speak of me in the same context as Hook, round-eye. I defer to Muerto in such things when I am in a boat. A huge great white bumped our boat and popped up all friendl
y as can be. Muerto emptied a magazine into his head. I approve of that response. I know Hook is your friend. Do not let the evil Muerto around your buddy, Dark Lord.”

  Kade picked up on everything Jian said, except for intentional humor. He turned in my arms. “Dad! Don’t let the evil Muerto kill Hook!”

  Oh my… did that ever make for an eruption of humor. I thought Nick was going to pass out. He kept trying to regain enough breath to refute Jian’s scurrilous remarks but failed.

  “I…I promise not to let the evil Muerto near my beloved Hook again, son.”

  * * *

  Nick called his buddy Paul. The CIA made an impossible to trace car at our disposal. I drove across the city to Battery Park. To say Nick looked completely different would be an understatement. He had somehow transformed into an elderly Jewish man, complete with slouchy gray suit, tattered beret and heavily lined skin.

  “How in hell did you do that, Nick?”

  “What… this disguise? Hell… I’ve become a Chinese citizen so perfect the Chinese police never gave me a second look. We’re in the right place at the right time, brother. I have a syringe of the good stuff. Has A&W arrived yet, Achmed?”

  “Not yet, Muerto. I have excellent satellite coverage. Your GPS tracker is also clear as a bell. Once I pinpoint A&W, I will be able to start a dual trace.”

  “Excellent, brother Achmed. How’s Mia’s teething?”

  “Don’t ask. Samira and I walk around like zombies, trying to keep Mia calm.”

  “Dr. Muerto is in the house! Freeze a banana, Achmed. Let Mia gnaw on it. The cold and flavor will keep her calm. She will love it.”

  “Oh my God… okay… be right back. Samira is with Mia in the nursery. We have bananas here.”

  “Where the hell do you come up with this stuff, Muerto?”

  “I multi-task, Dark Lord. I’ll be in touch on the network. Excuse me while I go kill someone. I’m not really sure if I can kill her. I need to hope she’s just dumber than a bag of rocks and not actually as hard to penetrate as a rock.”

  “Recon only if you spot trouble, Muerto.”

  “Did you just insult me, Dark Lord?”

  “Is English your second language, Muerto?”

  He left in good spirits. I began my driving exercise to keep from being spotted.

  * * *

  Nick shuffled in past the throng of Assio-Warez brain-dead fans, knowing Jafar would set him on the right course. He intermingled with the crowd, cheering and applauding in the same manner as the other mind-numbed robots spewing liberal/leftist clichéd dogma.

  “A&W arrived a moment ago. Her entourage headed for the front entrance. Hang back, Muerto. She will walk right past you. Your stuff doesn’t work immediately, does it?”

  “Nope. It will even give A&W time to get into her speech if I do this right.”

  “What do you mean if, Muerto? This isn’t horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  “Stay off the line unless you have something useful to say, DL,” Nick retorted.

  Nick smiled, listening to the humor appreciation. He picked a spot likely from Jafar’s guidance to be in a spot dead on in Assio-Warez’s path. Nick had picked up a sign to wave as he shuffled amongst the crowd. Nick slipped unnoticed between people, glancing constantly at Jafar’s signal tracing. He heard the roar of the crowd pick-up as some spotted Assio-Warez, whom Nick thought of as a dangerous dimwit.

  People streamed by Nick. He imitated their movements as they jockeyed into a place to cheer on their communist icon. Nick sidestepped, slipped in between people, and at times became unmovable in the crowd. He watched Assio-Warez’s path, altering his own position slightly. Nick gauged every movement from the throng approaching. He stumbled slightly as if off balance, moving closer to intercept his target. The wave approached. Assio-Warez swept into view. She halted momentarily to wave. Nick timed his slip and fall perfectly, poking the needle into her ankle with light expertise. He crawled rapidly along while others tried to help him up or kick him aside. Nick made it to the fringes and scrambled to his feet with an actor’s finesse.

  Assio-Warez reached down with a yelp of pain, rubbing at her ankle as the bodyguards and handlers ringed the startled woman. Nick did not even draw blood with the tiny needle. Sign in hand, he never glanced back at his target. Nick waited in the small crowd, wandering enthusiastically. He then retreated slowly toward the exit, clearing the incoming people without interacting. Nick jutted his sign up occasionally on his way out. He called it in as he left the building.

  “Dark Lord. I’m walking out of the building now. I will walk clear of Battery Park to the right.”

  “I’m on it, Muerto. Talk to you then.”

  * * *

  I drove alongside Nick. He entered the vehicle and began shedding his disguise immediately, using the kit placed on the passenger side floorboard earlier. In minutes, Nick wore jeans, black hoodie and a faded black ballcap with no markings. He held up the tiny poisonous syringe with care, covering the tip with its plastic shell and placing it inside the small holding case inside his bag.

  “I nearly jabbed myself with the damn needle, DL, after I got A&W. I nearly assassinated myself. I would have become the number one assassin in the world twice over.”

  I nearly had to drive to the side of the road. I heard Jafar, loudly appreciative of Nick’s description of near tragedy. “Denny supplied us with a few of those beauties. They have some sort of coagulant with anesthetic. When you pull them free, the puncture seals itself.”

  “Yep. The needle is so tiny, it’s undetectable unless someone knows the exact spot,” Nick remarked. “Even then, it leaves no telltale sign - very lethal and dangerous for the person using it too. Are you recording the speech, Achmed?”

  “A&W just now reached the podium. I want to have my nickname changed from Achmed the Dead Terrorist.”

  “What would you like it changed to,” I asked. “We’ve been over this before. Lucas will keep calling you Achmed anyway. Soon, you’ll end up having so many nicknames, like I do, that you forget who the hell you are in the morning.”

  “How about Savage?”

  “I don’t think you’ve thought this through, little brother. The Monsters will torture you verbally until you yearn to go back to Achmed.”

  “You could order them not to,” Jafar suggested.

  Silence as Nick and I both clamped hands over mouths. When I could speak, I offered the truth. “How do you think I could do that without becoming a target?”

  “Okay… forget I mentioned it, but you could say, I kill you,” Jafar said in excellent Achmed the Dead Terrorist voice.

  “You’re too entertaining as Achmed, little brother.”

  “Ah oh… A&W just collapsed,” Jafar reported. “The seizure hit her body and then nothing. The medical staff is giving her oxygen and doing cardiopulmonary resuscitation. I’m afraid she has passed into stupid-land with everything else A&W ever said.”

  “We should have a small ceremony with a candle,” Nick remarked.

  “We could put a few rocks together in a bag and paste her picture on the front. It will be like she never left us,” I added. “You can shut it down, little brother. Great work as usual.”

  “By the way, Dr. Muerto, your frozen banana chew toy worked like a charm. Thank you! Achmed out.”

  Nick and I left the unmarked car in the parking garage where we were told to leave it. We took a taxi to our hotel, entered the Nougatine Restaurant and sat at the bar. We ordered the brothers Bud and Beam. Breaking news hit the bar shortly after, reporting the passing of A&W due to a suspected stroke. Denny, accompanied by the Monsters and Unholies, joined us for a snort. Clint carried his son in one of those child backpacks. The boy was sound asleep.

  Lynn gestured at her son. “He loved the care center. They wore him out. I’m glad we decided to bring the little bugger.”

  “Have we run out of enemies yet?” Lucas asked.

  “The ones on the radar,” I answered. “We have book signings
and sightseeing. The next Barnes and Noble down 5th Avenue, booked you for only three hours, right Nick?”

  “Yes, from 10 am to 1 pm,” Nick answered. “They have another author doing a signing from 1:30 pm until 4:30 pm.”

  “A double feature, huh?”

  “Sort of, Case,” Nick replied. “Ephram Ring writes horror novels. We’ve crossed paths before, early in my writing career, after the first Diego novel displaced his newest book on top of the New York Times Bestseller list. My publisher gave one of those huge New York parties with famous artists, authors and politicians. Ring came over to let me know my writing was pure crap.”

  “What did you say, Delta Dawn?” Lucas asked.

  “I said thanks, like I told that lady today, claiming the same thing. Then, Ring warned me he would end my career. I told him I had a day job, so go for it. He tried, but the more interviews Ring did, blasting me, the more it enticed people to sample my novels. When he started getting criticism over his obsession with me, Ring shut up.”

  I thought that was funny. “Ring would have stroked out if he’d known what your day job really was.”

  “Ring got into drugs and went loopy for a time. When he straightened out, he wrote some real good stuff and got back on track.”

  “Do you read horror novels, Nick?” Lynn asked.

  “I don’t have much time to read anything lately; but yes, I did used to read Ring’s novels when I had more time. Tomorrow, we’ll pack our stuff quickly and get out of there. Lately, Ring has changed into an expletive spewing leftwing whacko; and he does use a lot of Illuminati imagery in his novels. We don’t need a confrontation with that clown. Besides, we managed quite a few confrontations as it was today. It sold a lot of books. The manager told me they want us back anytime. He told my agent, Cassie, he doesn’t care how many fights we get into during the signings. Cassie said the store will double security.”

  “Will the kids be going?” I didn’t ask Al and Kade if they wanted to go again.

  “Jean, Sonny and Jay will go. Those three really get into the people. They have profiles of every manner of behavior and variations to go along with each one. Tomorrow, they’ll be on watch for repeaters, like the woman with the blue hair.”