I was in the midst of another colon scourge when I heard the phone ring.
Maggie came to the bathroom door. “It’s for you. Some woman named Blondie. She says it’s an emergency.”
“Oh, swell. Here I am pouring out my guts, and my new wife takes a call from an ex-hooker who gave me a lap dance. This day just isn’t starting well.”
I opened the door just far enough for Maggie to hand me the phone. I thought I heard her cough and mutter, “Oh my God!”
“This is Walt.”
“It’s Blondie. You know, at the Red Garter.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Remember you and Ox stopped by last week and told us to watch the soft drink canisters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when I came in this morning, there was a delivery on our back dock. One of the canisters has a funny thing on the top that I’ve never seen before.”
Just then, an enormous gas bubble reverberated from the porcelain throne.
“What was that noise?”
“Never mind. Where are you now?”
“I’m still at the club.”
“Get out of there as fast as you can and take everyone with you. Get far away. It may be a bomb!”
I called the precinct and alerted the captain, and then I called Ox. I told him what was going down and asked him to pick me up at the apartment.
The bomb squad had been dispatched to the Red Garter, and we were on our way when Maggie’s miracle cleanse struck for the third time.
“Ox! Quick! Pull into that 7-Eleven!”
“But this is an emergency—”
“No! This is an emergency, and if you don’t pull over, we’ll be giving our car to Hazmat!”
By the time Mother Nature had finished with me, everything was over.
“I just heard over the radio,” Ox said. “The Red Garter is gone!”
Chapter 11
When we gathered in the squad room the next morning, Captain Short was already there, along with Dr. Max Leighton, Stumpy Deardorf, and a long table filled with bottles and containers.
Captain Short stood and addressed the squad.
“I’m sure you’re all aware that we lost the Red Garter yesterday. The good news is that no one lost their life. I know that sometimes I hear you grumble about the grunt work that comes along with this job, but you need to know that lives were saved yesterday because of it.
“If Ox and Walt hadn’t stopped at the Garter a few days ago to warn them about the canisters, our body count would have been significantly higher today. Good work, men!”
Ox and the rest of the guys had given me a full ration of crap about knowing a former hooker from a strip club, but that relationship had proven invaluable, and it brought to mind one of the professor’s many lessons in life: “Never burn bridges. You never know when you’ll have to cross the river again.”
The captain stepped aside. “Now I’d like to turn the meeting over to Dr. Leighton. His team has been working on the profile of this group. Give him a listen.”
“When we started looking at the parade bombing incident, we weren’t sure whether this was the work of one sociopath individual or an organized group.
“When the TV station received the scriptural warning, we, of course, knew that whoever was behind it had a fundamentalist religious background, and they believed that they had a commission from God to lay waste to the sinners of the world.
“Yesterday, after the bombing at the Red Garter, WDAF TV received another message through their website.” Leighton opened a notebook and read,
“The fearful and unbelieving, and the abominable and murderers and whoremongers and sorcerers and idolaters and all liars shall have their part in the lake, which burneth with fire and brimstone.” So sayeth the Lord. Repent or feel the fire from the avenging angels of heaven.
“The word whoremongers was written in bold, an obvious reference to their bombing of the Red Garter. The explosion at the Garfield apartment last week was the work of a very young man, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen.
“Putting all of this together, we are now speculating that this was the work of a highly organized group, obviously religious in nature. Typically, radical groups are a lot of hat and no cattle. They talk a good game and rattle their swords but rarely resort to violence. In those rare instances when they cross the line, it’s usually because of the emergence of a highly charismatic leader who assumes control of the group. Two examples come to mind.
“In 1978, the Reverend Jim Jones convinced 909 people, including 303 children, to commit suicide. In 1993, the Branch Davidians, led by David Koresh, fought the ATF and FBI at Waco, Texas, leaving over eighty dead.
“It takes a powerful leader to convince people that premeditated murder is not only acceptable but actually commissioned by God. Somewhere out there is the next Jim Jones or David Koresh, and this killing will continue until we find him.”
I, of course, had read about Jones and Koresh and, like most people, was horrified to think one man could have such influence over others. But, also like most people, I had thought that stuff like that only happens somewhere else, certainly not right here in Kansas City. Then the memory of the child’s arm lying in the gutter flashed into my mind, and I knew we had to find this madman before he killed again.
Captain Short took the podium.
“Now I’m afraid I have more grunt work for you. The bomb squad has a pretty good handle on the explosive devices these guys are using. He’s going to show you what we need to be looking for.”
When Stumpy moved to the long table, it brought to mind my years as a landlord.
There was a time, not too long ago, when Jackson County was dubbed the meth capitol of the Midwest. When crystal meth became the street drug of choice and scumbags learned that anyone could buy the ingredients and cook the stuff, homemade drug labs sprung up everywhere. Busts were made in fancy houses and motel rooms, but the highest incidence was in low-end rentals.
The police and health departments warned landlords that if a working lab was found in one of their buildings, the place would be shut down and could not be reopened without extensive and very expensive rehabilitation. Our landlord’s association had an officer from the police department come to a meeting and bring all of the ingredients and paraphernalia that the dopers used to manufacture the meth.
The program worked. Good landlords became vigilant, and if they discovered anything amiss, they called the cops and started eviction proceedings.
Stumpy showed us the ammonium nitrate fertilizer and the nitro methane gas used as the fuel and the hydrogen peroxide, muriatic acid, and acetone used to make the detonation device. Finally, he showed us some small white crystals, the finished product, used in the detonation device.
He explained that it was very unstable and highly combustible, and if handled improperly, as did the poor kid on Garfield, the result would be an explosion.
He held up a small capsule about the same size as one of the five Maggie had made me swallow. He dropped it on the concrete floor, and it exploded with a bright flash.
It certainly made a believer out of me.
It had been a long day. I was happy to get home.
Maggie had had a light day at the real estate office, and when I walked in the door she was busy bustling around the kitchen.
She handed me a glass of Arbor Mist and basically told me to get lost. Since she was home early, she had decided to make us something special for supper.
That’s not always a good sign.
While I love Maggie dearly, I didn’t marry her for her culinary skills. She had been a career woman all her life, and I’m willing to bet that over the years she had eaten more meals out than she had prepared at home.
With glass in hand, I was headed out the
kitchen door when I spotted the open cookbook. The title was Dr. Don’s Organic Cookbook. Immediately, my mind was flooded with thoughts of tofu, seaweed, and other gastronomical unmentionables.
“Maggie! Are you sure I can’t take you out for dinner?”
“No, silly. I’ve been working all afternoon on this meal. You’ll love it! It’s something new you’ve never had before.”
“I’ll bet that’s right,” I mumbled as she pushed me out the door.
I had just settled down on the front porch when Willie joined me. What with the move and everything going on with the bombings, I hadn’t seen much of my old friend. He had been busy too, taking care of all the little maintenance items at the Three Trails and the six-plex that didn’t get done while we were in Hawaii.
Willie greeted me with his usual salutation. “Hey, Mr. Walt. How’s it hanging?”
“Well, Willie, I’m just happy that it’s hanging at all, since I nearly got it blown off last week.”
“I hear ya.” He grinned.
“Have you talked to Mary the last couple of days?”
Mary had loved her three weeks in Hawaii, but when she returned to her duties as housemother at the Three Trails, she found the place in turmoil. She called the day after our return, and I had to hold the phone six inches from my ear.
“I’m gonna kill old man Feeney!”
“Whoa, slow down! What’s the problem?”
“Right after we left, that crazy old man stopped up the toilet in the number two bathroom. Instead of using the plunger or calling the Rooter guy, he just left it that way and then plugged up number three. Can’t nobody around here do nothing but me!
“Then we had twenty guys sharing the only two good toilets, and the two stopped-up ones stunk to high heaven. Three guys couldn’t take it no more and moved out, so I came home to two stinky toilets and three vacancies.”
“So are the toilets functioning now?”
“Yeah, they’re working now, but the Rooter guy charged extra ‘cause they stunk so bad.”
“Has Willie cleaned the rooms?”
“He’s working on it. I’m about ready to put the Room for Rent sign in the front yard.”
“Mary, you sound stressed out. I have an idea. Go put on your Hawaiian CD—you know, the one by IZ. Sit down, take a deep breath, and relax.”
“I might be able to do that today, but yesterday there wasn’t no one around here taking any deep breaths.”
Willie brought me back to the present. “She’s doin’ betta now. She got two of de rooms rented, and most of de stink’s gone.”
Just then a car pulled up to the curb in front of our building, and a young man came up to the porch. He had a manila envelope in his hand.
“I’m looking for Willie Duncan. Either of you Willie Duncan?”
Willie looked at me and shook his head.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“I have a delivery for him,” he said, holding up the envelope.
“Is you a process server?”
“Oh hell no, if that’s what you’re worried about. This isn’t a summons or anything like that. It’s just a delivery.”
“Who’s it from?”
The guy looked at the envelope. “It says it’s from the law firm of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe.”
“I ain’t takin’ nothing’ from no lawyer.”
“Then you must be Willie Duncan,” he said and dropped the letter in Willie’s lap. “Have a nice day.”
Willie just stared at the envelope.
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”
“Can’t be nothing’ good if’n it’s from a lawyer.”
“Well, you’ve got it, so you might as well open it.”
Willie tore it open, pulled out an official-looking letter and, after studying it awhile, handed it to me.
The letter read, “Your presence is requested at the law offices of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe at four o’clock p.m. on the twenty-seventh of this month to settle the estate of Bertha Wright.”
“Who’s Bertha Wright?”
“Dat’s my auntie. She raised me afta my mom passed.”
“Well, Willie, you must be included in her will, or they wouldn’t have sent you this invitation.”
Willie was deep in thought. “Will you go wit me, Mr. Walt?”
“Sure, Willie. I’d be happy to.”
Just then Maggie called down, “Supper’s ready!”
Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs. I was starving, but I dreaded what might be waiting for me on the table. I opened the door, and the intoxicating aroma of meat filled my nostrils.
Hmm, that certainly doesn’t smell like seaweed.
I sat down at the table, and Maggie placed a sizzling hunk of something that resembled Alpo in a can on the table.
“Ta-da!” she said proudly.
“Gee, that’s really—uh—unusual. What exactly is it?”
“Meatloaf, silly.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s made of ground turkey, ground beef, eggs, spices, and a whole bunch of other stuff. And it’s all organic!”
“I guess that’s good?”
“Of course! No pesticides, no hormones. It’s all natural.”
Natural wasn’t exactly the adjective I had in mind. Maggie watched anxiously as I scooped the first bite onto my fork. I had prepared myself to stifle my gag reflex, but to my surprise, it tasted wonderful. I shoveled in a second bite just to make sure.
“Maggie! This is actually good!”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“Oh, sorry. So this stuff is really healthful?”
“It’s a whole lot healthier than greasy pizza, cheeseburgers, and fries.”
“So if I eat this stuff all the time I can get out of cleansing my colon—maybe forever?”
“Don’t push your luck!”
Chapter 12
Willie had been unusually quiet on our trip to the downtown offices of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe.
“So, Willie, I really don’t know much about your family. Exactly who is Bertha Wright?”
There was a long pause, and I could tell that Willie was searching his mind for some dim memories buried in his past.
“My momma was Nellie Wright, an’ she had a sister, Bertha, my auntie. Momma married a guy named Frank Duncan. Frank and Momma had a boy de called Frank Jr. after his daddy. Den de war came, and Daddy went off to fight, not knowin’ dat Momma was pregnant wit me. Daddy was a marine, and he was kilt in 1944 at someplace called Saipan. I never seen him, an’ he never seen me.”
“So you have a brother?”
“Did have. Frank was four years older den me. Got hiself shot by a street gang.”
“Sorry to hear that, Willie.”
“Yea, well, stuff like dat happens when live in de projects. Families get busted up all de time.”
I glanced at Willie and could tell he was going places he hadn’t visited in a long time.
“I was twelve when Momma took sick and passed. After dat I went and stayed wif my auntie Bertha. She treated me good, but when I turned sixteen, I hit de streets an’ been on my own ever since.”
“Did your aunt ever marry or have children of her own?”
“Nope. I always suspected dat she was more partial to women dan to men, but back den nobody talked about dat stuff.”
When I thought about what Willie’s life had been, I marveled that the little guy sitting next to me had not only survived but survived with dignity. Lesser men would have been swallowed by the environment into which he was born. I was proud to call him my friend.
I pulled into the underground parking of the big building at Tenth and Grand, and we took the elevator to the seventh fl
oor offices of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe. A matronly receptionist ushered us into a conference room, and soon a distinguished-looking gent emerged from an adjoining office.
“Good afternoon. I’m Martin Cheatem.” He turned to Willie. “And you must be Mr. Duncan.” Then turning to me, he asked, “And who are you, sir?”
“Walter Williams, a friend.”
“Very well. Let me get right to the point. We’re here to settle the estate of Bertha Wright, and you, Mr. Duncan, appear to be her only living relative. Unfortunately, Ms Wright’s estate was quite meager, and since she died intestate—”
“Died what?” Willie asked.
“Intestate. That means that she didn’t have a will. Estates without a will require a great deal more legal work, and I’m afraid that all of her liquid assets were used to pay for court costs and legal fees.”
“Gee, what a surprise,” I muttered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Williams. Did you have a comment?”
“Uh, sorry. No, please continue.”
“The bottom line is that you are the beneficiary of the remainder of her estate. Everything is in a storage locker at this address, and here is the key to the locker. Any questions?”
“Dat’s it?”
“Yes, Mr. Duncan, that’s it.”
We drove to the address, which was in a seedy part of the East Bottoms. The storage locker was one of those freestanding things that look like a whole row of garages hooked together.
An old guy with a gray beard sat in a tiny office behind a gate that that was keycard controlled. We didn’t have a keycard, so I honked.
The old guy ambled out of the office. “Whadda you want?”
“We need to get into unit C-17. We have a letter from an attorney that explains everything.”
The old guy went back to his office and shuffled through some papers. When he returned, he said, “Sorry, can’t let you in.”
“But we have permission, and here’s the key to the lock.”
“That key don’t work no more. Thare’s back rent owed on that unit. We cut that lock off and put on our own. Ain’t nobody gettin’ in there until it’s paid.”
“How much?”
[Lady Justice 04] - Lady Justice And The Avenging Angels Page 6