[Lady Justice 04] - Lady Justice And The Avenging Angels

by Robert Thornhill

“Teams of ten people pay five hundred dollars to participate in the day’s events. The Beaumont Club is the base for the event, but there are nineteen bars in the Westport/Midtown area that participate. The Crawl starts at one in the afternoon and ends at five.

  “Each team is to visit five of the nineteen bars. At each bar they are given four tickets that entitle them to four pitchers of beer. You do the math; four pitchers at five bars is twenty pitchers divided by ten team members—means each member is consuming two pitchers of beer during the four-hour crawl. Fortunately, trolley busses are available to shuttle the teams between the bars. From five in the afternoon until eight in the evening, everyone congregates at the Beaumont Club for the after party.”

  Now I don’t consider myself a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but for the life of me, I just couldn’t see how the scene the captain was describing could be considered a good time. I couldn’t hold two pitchers of anything. I can barely hold two glasses of Arbor Mist.

  The captain continued, “By the time everyone gets back to the Beaumont, there will be between four and five thousand people. The beer is free all evening for paying team members. Needless to say, after a full day of beer drinking and free beer all evening, things can get pretty wild and wooly.

  “If the Avenging Angels were looking for a poster child for drunken reveling, the Crawl is a doozy.”

  Someone spoke from the back of the room. “If everyone thinks the Crawl is the next bombing target, why don’t they just cancel the event?”

  “That, of course, was our first thought. We contacted the event coordinators, but they were adamant against canceling. This is a huge event. It’s actually conducted in nineteen different cities across the United States. The coordinator told us that the event raises over two hundred thousand dollars, which is donated to various cancer charities.

  “I believe their spokesman’s comment was, ‘We’re not about to let some religious, right-wing terrorists ruin our day.’ So you see our problem. Five thousand people roaming through nineteen different bars scattered over several square miles of Midtown Kansas City—and a bomb could be anywhere!”

  We spent all day every day the rest of the week visiting not only the nineteen clubs on the crawl but every Subway, McDonald’s, and Quik-Trip—any place that could have a soft drink canister.

  About mid-week, some genius figured out that if they could rig a Coke canister, they could probably rig a beer keg as well, so we started the whole process all over again, checking every beer keg at every watering hole in Midtown. By week’s end, we had been in The Blarney Stone, The Riot Room, The Dark Horse Tavern, and Buzzard Beach so many times that the bartenders knew us by name.

  Of course, the media got wind of the terrorist threat, and the Kansas City Star warned that the pub revelers might get bombed in more ways than one this year. The news didn’t seem to have much effect. No team cancelled. After all, that bad stuff always happens to someone else. Right?

  I had called Dan the Catfish Man and cancelled our St. Clair County tour. I told him that if I was still in one piece after the weekend, I would try to reschedule. He was cool with that.

  Finally, the big day came. Every available officer had been pressed into duty. At least two cops were stationed at each bar, three at the larger ones. A blue uniform could be seen on every corner, and black and whites cruised the area in predetermined grids.

  The Crawl didn’t start until the afternoon, so the morning was spent making a last-minute check of all the soft drink canisters and beer kegs.

  We had done all that we could do. Now we just had to be vigilant, let the day play out, and hope that Lady Justice was in our corner.

  Ox and I had been assigned to the Beaumont Club. We arrived at 8:00 a.m. The after party wouldn’t be over until 8:00 p.m., so it was going to be a long day.

  We parked our black and white on the curb directly across the street from the Beaumont and began setting up the barriers and cones to rope off the area where a half-dozen trolley cars would park to load and unload the revelers.

  A few of the bars were just a stone’s throw away from the Beaumont, but some were far enough away to justify the ride. The crowd started pouring in about noon.

  We discovered that not only did participants get all the booze they could drink for their fifty dollars, but they got a t-shirt as well.

  The teams started checking in and came out of the club wearing t-shirts with the inscription:

  20 Pitchers of Beer

  10 People

  5 Bars

  1 Perfect Day

  Not being a clubber myself, this was definitely not my idea of a perfect day.

  My t-shirt would probably read:

  1 Bottle of Arbor Mist

  2 Glasses

  2 Old People

  2 Recliner Chairs

  1 TV

  1 Perfect Day

  If I hadn’t known that I was witnessing the Crawl For Cancer, I might have believed I was in the middle of a Halloween parade. While some teams were content with just their t-shirts, others let it all hang out.

  One team was dressed all in gold, each member wearing gaudier bling than an NBA star. Another team was all pink, including the sprayed hair. Another was dressed in raggedy everything.

  My favorite was the Marilyn Monroe team. Every member, including the guys, was dressed as the blonde bombshell.

  It wasn’t hard to tell when the festivities began. At first, I thought that somebody was torturing a cat, but Ox pointed out it was just the band blasting away their first set of hard rock.

  I had seen a sign posted on the door listing the Misfits, the Jackyl, the Transients, and the Disappointments. I thought maybe this was a list of folks that were not to be let into the club, but it turned out they were the bands.

  Since I happen to be a firm believer that very few good songs were written after 1965, I knew I was in for a long day.

  Some teams took off down the street to one of the closer bars, while others climbed into the trolleys to be whisked off to their first of many pitchers of beer. Coors Light was the corporate sponsor of the event, and Coors posters and banners were everywhere.

  The afternoon went smoothly enough. There was the usual loud and boisterous behavior that seems to always rise to the surface when surrounded by the inebriated, but all in all, the crowd behaved remarkably well. If anyone was worried about being blown to smithereens, it certainly wasn’t apparent.

  About three o’clock, a goofy-looking guy parked a van in front of the club. I approached him to let him know that he couldn’t park there, but all I got was a big grin and, “Dude! I’m the DJ. I can park any damn place I want.”

  I was about to let the smartass know who was boss when Chris, one of the event organizers, appeared.

  “About time you’re getting here!”

  “Dude! Chill! I’ll be ready!”

  “Who is this clown?” I asked.

  “Didn’t anyone tell you about the DJ at the after party?” Chris replied.

  “Nope, news to me.”

  “There’s no way everyone can fit inside, so we set up a DJ right over there.” Then turning to the newcomer, he said, “Get your ass in gear.”

  Chris stalked off, and the DJ turned and gave me a wink and a smile. “Dude!”

  Wonderful! More loud, obnoxious music to go with the loud, obnoxious people!

  About four thirty, the revelers started pouring in for the after party. Chris was right-on. The club filled quickly, as did the area around the DJ. I was beginning to feel the need to empty my bladder, so I checked out with Ox and entered the club.

  I had thought the DJ’s music was loud, but when I walked in the door, I could feel the little hairs in my inner ear wither and die.

  It was wall-to-wall people, and each one had a cup or pitcher of
beer in hand. I tried to worm my way through the crowd to the restroom, but it seemed to be a losing battle. By the time I had made it halfway through, I was soaked with suds.

  In one weak moment, I actually considered whipping out Mr. Winkie and relieving myself right there on the floor. There was already an inch of swill down there, and Mr. Winkie, diminutive as he is, probably wouldn’t have been noticed. Not that anyone would have cared.

  I forced my way through and finally reached the john. I was suddenly made aware of a fact of nature. What goes in must come out, and these guys had been guzzling pitchers all day long. Needless to say, the wait was excruciating, and the occasional reveler vomiting in the corner didn’t help.

  When at last I found my way back to the curb, the last trolleys were pulling in. Ox reported that so far the radio had been quiet. No bombs yet.

  When the last trolley pulled to the curb and all the passengers had alighted, something caught my eye that I hadn’t noticed before. A fifty-five-gallon barrel that had been painted to resemble a Coors Light can was attached to the back of the trolley.

  I pointed it out to Ox. “Do you remember seeing that before?”

  “No, can’t say that I do. It’s cute though. That’s one big beer can.”

  I was about to shrug it off when I saw the driver climb out of the cab and walk away. He looked familiar. Maybe I had just seen him come and go so many times today.

  Then it hit me. “Ox! It’s Rowdy Yates!”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Rowdy Yates, or whatever his name is—you know, the kid from the Three Trails who got away. He was driving that trolley.”

  We both looked at the big Coors can at the same time. “It’s the bomb!”

  I looked around. There were between four and five thousand people in and around the Beaumont. The Angels couldn’t have picked a better spot to blow away partakers of strong drink.

  Ox reached for his mike. “We gotta get the bomb squad here, pronto.”

  “Wait. The way that kid high-tailed it, the fuse must already be lit. There’s no way the bomb squad can get here before that thing goes off.”

  Ox looked at the crowd. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to get these people out of here.”

  “Then we’ll just have to move the bomb!”

  “Walt!”

  “Listen! I’ll bet that thing has at least a ten-minute fuse to let the kid get far enough away. We can move that trolley a long way in ten minutes.” Then I had an idea. “Get in the black and white, and clear me a path down Main Street to Loose Park.”

  “What if we don’t have ten minutes?”

  “Let’s just say we do. Now get moving.”

  Ox jumped in the black and white and flipped on lights and sirens. I climbed into the trolley and breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the keys still in the ignition. I cranked the engine, shoved it in gear, and followed Ox down Pennsylvania Avenue to Westport Road.

  He blasted across Broadway and headed to Main, but some clown just ahead of him pulled out of an alley and hit an oncoming car. I saw Ox jam on his brakes, and I realized in the nick of time that I was not getting through to Main.

  I hung a sharp right on Broadway, but just as I turned the corner, a vendor was pushing a Jim’s Tamale Cart across the street. I suspect the poor vendor might have dropped a load in his pants, seeing the big trolley bearing down on him at full speed. I know I would have.

  The poor guy jumped out of the way just in time, but the tamale cart wasn’t so lucky. I T-boned it, it exploded, and whatever the brown goop is that they put in the tamales covered the windshield. It just hadn’t been a good month for tamale carts.

  So there I was, barreling down Broadway at sixty miles an hour, totally blind with a bomb big enough to take out a city block strapped to the back of the trolley.

  I frantically searched the dashboard for the windshield wipers, hoping it was equipped with washing liquid. I found the wipers but no liquid.

  The wipers got off the first layer of goo, but it was like looking through peanut butter. I caught a glimpse of the road just in time to swerve and miss the car in front of me.

  Remembering how volatile the detonation material was, the last thing I needed was an accident. Then I noticed a pitcher of beer that some inebriated traveler had left on the trolley. It was just within reach. I steered with one hand and poured the beer on the windshield with the other.

  Begrudgingly, the wipers cleared a hole in the goop. I never thought I would find myself muttering, “Thank heaven for Coors Light.”

  I was just about to reach Forty-Seventh Street on the Country Club Plaza when I realized I had to make a decision.

  Broadway doesn’t cut through to the park. Loose Park is at Fifty-First and Wornall, but to get to Wornall I would have to turn right and drive through the heart of Kansas City’s premier shopping district.

  If time was running out, I would blow up a national treasure.

  I could turn left and go to Main, which would take me to Fifty-First, but it would be longer. I glanced at my watch. It had taken me five minutes to get from the Beaumont to the plaza. At the last minute, I made my decision and swung over to Main Street.

  It turned out to be the right decision. Just as I reached the intersection, Ox screamed through with lights and sirens blazing. I fell in behind him on Main Street, and we made good time to Fifty-First, where I hung a right.

  At Wornall I made a sharp left and turned into the entrance to Loose Park. I drove off the pavement and crested a hill, and there below was Loose Park Lake. There was a steep grade from where I stopped, sloping down to the lake. I put the trolley in neutral and ran like the hounds of hell were on my heels.

  I saw the trolley slip into the water as I scrambled into Ox’s waiting car. We had gone about a half block when I heard the explosion. It was followed by a shock wave that lifted our cruiser and flipped it on its side.

  The last thing I remembered before passing out was a rush of water and a big carp hitting the windshield.

  Chapter 17

  I awoke to a scene that an onlooker might have mistaken for a wake.

  Maggie was at my bedside holding my hand. Standing at the foot in silent apprehension were Dad, Bernice, Willie, Jerry, and the professor.

  “Wha—where am I?”

  “You’re in St. Luke’s Hospital,” Maggie said, tears streaming down her face.

  I started feeling for body parts. “Am I okay?”

  “You’ve been out since last night. You took a nasty blow to the head, and you took some water in your lungs, but no broken bones.”

  Everything started coming back to me. I remembered the explosion and the water. “Ox?”

  “He’s fine,” Dad said. “He was strapped in when the car flipped on its side. It’s a good thing too. If he had hit his head and passed out, you’d probably both be dead.

  “You didn’t have time to strap in, and when the car flipped, you fell right on top of him. When the water rushed in, he was able to hold his breath and hold your head above the torrent.”

  “The explosion. Was anyone hurt?”

  With all the seriousness of an undertaker, Jerry said, “I’m sorry, Walt. Over two hundred and counting—fish that is. You bombed the shit out of that lake.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The explosion took out the levee between the lake and Wornall Road. What water wasn’t blasted away turned Wornall into a raging river for several minutes. Most of it had disappeared down the storm sewers by the time it reached Fifty-Fifth Street.”

  “So no one was hurt?”

  “Nope,” Jerry replied. “Lots of damage, though. Windows were shattered for two blocks along Wornall, and there are dead fish and turtles everywhere. The Parks Department wasn’t too thrilled with your handiwork,
but look on the bright side—Loose Park Lake will be deeper and wider when all’s said and done.”

  About that time the door flew open, and I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know there are sweet, young, pretty nurses with saucy ponytails. I’ve seen them. So why do I always get stuck with the reincarnation of Nurse Ratchett from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?

  If this gal hadn’t been a nurse, she probably could have been a linebacker with the Kansas City Chiefs. Her arms were about the size of my legs. She had the demeanor of a linebacker as well.

  “Okay, all of you, clear out! I’ve got work to do here.”

  My friends stared in amazement.

  When no one moved, she raised her voice an octave. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Why don’t you folks go to the cafeteria and get some breakfast. I need to check Mr. Williams. You can come back when I’m finished.”

  On the way out of the door, Jerry quipped, “Walt, maybe you can save her sometime. If she needs samples of your urine, blood, semen, and stool, you can just give her your underwear.”

  Dad chuckled, and Nurse Ratchett glared as they filed out of the door.

  Things were going better than I had hoped for. She checked my blood pressure, took my temperature, and listened to my heart. As she was packing away her goodies, I rose up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  “Nope. Your chart says you might possibly have internal injuries, so you have to stay down until the doctor runs some tests.”

  “But I have to—uh—you know.”

  “Then you’re going to have to—uh—you know in this.” She pulled a bedpan off the closet shelf.

  I looked at the plastic contraption. I’d seen them before, but I’d never used one. “Look, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can certainly walk to the bathroom.”

  Then she got that look that I’d once seen in the eyes of Mean Joe Green.

  “You’re fine when we say you’re fine. Do you understand? Now get your feet back in that bed.” She plopped the bedpan in my lap.