Undertaker's Wind
Copyright 1997 by James Hubert
Chapter I
I first heard about the boat, oddly enough, while doing some local
advisory work for "Spenser, For Hire", the fine television series which
based itself in Boston and starred Robert Urich. The program did
considerable site work in the area surrounding Boston; today it was New
Bedford, an hour's drive to the south, and my work consisted mostly of
coordinating the show's shooting schedule with the New Bedford Police and
other city departments. It was an easy task, helped enormously by my
familiarity with local conditions and personalities. Which, of course, was
why I had the job.
As "technical advisor" I was allowed to be on the set during the
actual shooting, and during one of these periods, while drinking coffee and
waiting for something to happen between shots, I was approached by a New
Bedford police sergeant who I knew faintly. He shook the rain from his
greatcoat as he ducked under the awning set up to protect the crew's coffee
pot from the rain, ( in New Bedford, it rains or snows an average of nearly
one day in two; the climate is similar to London, England, and offers
similar results), and grinned at me. I noted the name plate neatly attached
over his badge and remembered that it had been he who had issued my
credentials at the station when I applied two days earlier.
He started to speak, but our conversation was interrupted by the
sound of an air horn, signaling that a shot was imminent. We watched in
respectful silence as an expert stunt driver screamed down the street in a
black BMW, closely followed by the requisite black Caddy, which in spite of
its bulk seemed to have no problem keeping up. The BMW came abreast of our
position and abruptly turned sideways, blocking the street. The Caddy,
unable to stop, swerved into a parked car on the opposite side of the
street and came to rest, impressively mangled. After a moment of silence,
the crew burst into applause as the Caddy's driver pulled himself from the
wreck, assisted by enthusiastic members of the New Bedford Fire Department,
who then crawled all over the wreck, checking for possible leaks or flame.
The sergeant smiled sadly and shook his head, and I wondered how
many kids would try that same stunt in daddy's beater Ford and end up in a
hospital bed for their efforts. Car crashes are a standard part of TV fare
these days, and the Spenser crew was certainly no worse than many others,
but even they were bound by the god Nielsen to compete. At that, they were
far more careful in their portrayals than that standard of automotive
improbability, The Dukes of Hazzard, who, I had learned from a crew member,
still showed their heroic vehicle, the Jumpin' General Lee, to packed auto
shows across the country, even though the series itself had been long
cancelled.
I grabbed two cups and filled them with coffee from the steaming urn
behind us, handing one to the sergeant. He took the cup and drank
appreciatively, ignoring the near scalding temperature, though he seemed to
grow several inches in the process. He drained the cup in three long
draughts, and tossed it into a nearby barrel. He regarded me for a moment.
"Shooting's over today?"
"Yup." It wasn't really, never would be as long as the show continued,
but the shots here in New Bedford were finished, as was my stint as
"technical advisor".
He turned to gaze across the harbor, visible to the east from our
location. He seemed to be debating with himself, and losing. He finally
seemed to reach a decision and turned back.
"I have a friend...lives in Dartmouth. He owned that big Marietta
that was stolen from Padnaram last week. He asked me for the name of a good
investigator. I could tell him about you...if you're interested in the job."
I considered. I was familiar with the story, if not this particular
chapter. Boat theft happened every day, and since most of those stolen were
both fast and infrequently used, the odds of recovery were rather slim. The
coast abounded with inlets and bays for hundreds of miles in each
direction, and with each one having an ever increasing number of boats,
finding one amongst the others approached impossible.
However, I DID need some kind of employment; the Spenser job had
been nice, and paid well, but between child support and my car payment,
steady income was truly necessary.
"Sure...as long as he understands the odds against finding it.
Which are slim to none. Tell him two hundred a day, plus expenses." I held
my breath.
The sergeant's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't laugh.
"I'll tell him...give me a number for you, just in case..."
So I gave him a business card, and promptly forgot the whole thing,
for NO ONE spends two hundred a day, plus expenses, to recover an insured
quarter million dollar boat. And it WAS insured, had to be, because no one
who can afford a quarter million dollar boat is stupid enough NOT to insure
it.
The rest of the day I spent "advising" the Spenser gang...mostly
watching their efficency in operating WITHOUT any advice...and accepted an
invitation to join them at a local inn after the day's shooting ended.
To my surprise I found that I was the subject of some little
interest on the part of the cast and crew. They plied me with drinks and
food, and encouraged me to share my past with them. Even the writers, whom
I had heard variously described as odd forms of semi-humanity during the
shoot, were accepted and joined the convivial group. The writers seemed
most interested in my past, and I soon learned that they grilled all their
technical advisors in this manner; it provided them with some excellent
ideas for future scripts, when suitably edited for television.
I had just finished a ribald story of a divorce case I had worked
on a few years earlier when I felt a tap on the shoulder. I looked up to
see a waiter holding a cordless telephone, which he handed to me with the
comment that I had a call. I took the handset and pushed the switch to ON.
A rough, squeaky voice sounded in my ear.
"Knox? Frank Knox?"
I answered in the affirmative.
"This is Jacobs. Be in my office at nine tomorrow morning...I want
you to find my boat."
I nearly dropped the phone, and made a secret vow to make sure my
friend the sergeant never did me any more favors. Charles "King" Jacobs was
as near to organized crime as New Bedford offered...a kingpin of local
activities who had twice served time in state prison, in spite of his high
priced legal talent. He was known as colorful, merciless and unforgiving,
and was the last person in the world I wanted to work for. I tried to be as
humble as I could, and explained that I did have a job, and would not be
available for several days. Perhaps he would prefer to hire someone else
who could begin immediately?
"I want you, Knox. I know what you guys make, and there ain't no
way that anyone is paying you two hundred a day to take pictures of their
old man in bed with some broad. Be in my office tomorrow...or I send out
for you. Got it?"
Having little choice in the matter, I agreed, and King Jacobs hung
up with a crash. I turned off the phone and sat back, thoroughly disgusted
with myself. Why hadn't I just refused?
Because, you dummy, my subconcious reminded me, you like you as you
are, and if you make an enemy out of King Jacobs, Social Security is a very
real possibility. So you look for his boat for a few days until he gets
impatient and buys another one. That's not too tough at two hundred a day,
is it?
I silently agreed with me, and vowed to be less receptive of
sergeants bearing gifts in the future...to insure that there WAS a future.
Working for the King could do considerable harm to one's respectability, if
it became generally known that one did such work. Of course, I could just
leave town...if I planned never to return in the King's lifetime...let's
see, how old is he?
Around me the Spenser cast was continuing their noisy party, and I
took the opportunity to escape to the lobby, then to the parking lot and my
car. I climbed in, and reached for the keys, buried in my pocket.
Only the fact that a modern computer type had a hand in designing
this particular product saved my life, for as I inserted the key and
snapped the ignition on, an unfamiliar light gleamed on the dashboard. The
offending light was part of a larger display which was in the shape of a
car seen from above...and the lit portion displayed was the hood.
HOOD UP, the light blinked.
HOOD UP.
HOOD UP.
I looked out the windshield, but the foggy darkness gave no clue as
to whether the hood was really up, or perhaps the car had finally succumbed
to whatever passes for computer insanity in Detroit. I climbed back out,
and moved around to the front of the car.
Sure, I was tired. Yes, I was preoccupied with King Jacobs. No, I
had no reason to even suspect that anyone would be trying to scatter me
around a parking lot in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Don't be silly, the
little voice said. The hood is just loose. You just push it down and you're
off.
Right?
I dropped to my stomach and eased under the car. A tight fit. The flat
cardboard package was mounted at the base of the firewall, where the
blast would sweep up into the frontal area and continue up into the sky
with whatever remained along for the ride, as well as trashing the interior.
There were four wires leading up into the recesses of the engine. I squirmed
around and followed their path.
One was obviously a ground. It ended at a shiny engine bolt,
fastened tightly to it in clean and ready contact.
I explored further.
A second lead ended on the starter post, where the key's turning
would supply plenty of amperage.
I felt liquid trickling down my neck, either perspiration or rain,
as it had begun to sprinkle and the water ran readily off the shiny waxed
surface of the car. The third wire apparently terminated at the battery,
though I couldn't see exactly where. The fourth wire headed for the center
of the grille, and terminated at the hood latch, in a small switch from
which another wire ran gaily to the battery. A trap within a trap. I was
supposed to see the HOOD UP warning (maybe), climb out, slam the hood, and
scatter myself all over New Bedford.
But why?
I considered this even as I disarmed the nasty thing. Who had I
been mean to, of late? Nobody, the voice said. You've been disgustingly
nice to everyone around here. So do we eliminate the local people? I
doubted that New Bedford could provide the talent to rig a bang like this
on short notice, anyway. It HAD to be someone from out of town, or somebody
brought in from out of town by someone IN town. Back to Question #1.
Why?
I removed the offending wires, ending up with a tightly wrapped
package about the size of a cigar box, packed tightly with some type of
plastic explosive, probably C4. I wasn't expert enough to tell. The whole
job had a distinctly smooth appearance....but I had a funny hunch about
this. To check it out I would need someone who KNEW explosives, and
devices. I placed the package gingerly in the back of the Shelby and lined
out down I-195 for Providence, RI, and the home of the New England Mafia,
and also Eddie Mancuso (USN, UDT, SEALS, Cosa Nostra, Ret.), who could tell
me everything I wanted to know.
Chapter Two
Providence, RI, is a funny place. You could live, work and play here
for years and never realize what that this whole city is a living breathing
hotbed of morality. In the 1970s, the state triumphantly arrested and
subsequent imprisoned Raymond L.S. Patriarca, purported head of crime in
New England. Having depicted Mr. Patriarca as a one man crime wave during
the trial, and at great lengths to publicize the mortal wound that his loss
gave to crime in general, it no doubt shocked the prosecution team, most of
which were busily redecorating new political offices, when the removal of
this one man from the streets, amazingly enough, failed to halt the spread
of crime in the region.
Recently the Chief Justice of the Rhode Island Supreme Court was
heard to comment that he was acquainted with, nee a close friend of,
another purported organized crime figure of the area, and the public again
reacted with commendable speed and severe punishment. A year later, the
Chief Justice was suspended for two months, and only after returning to his
seat on the Court did public opinion force his resignation.
And everyone has heard of Claus Von Bulow. If you ever get a chance,
read the trial transcript; it would make a great movie. I wonder if
Hollywood would choose to find him innocent, though, as he was in RI.
Don't get me wrong. I like Providence. The bars are clean, the police
aren't excessively obtrusive (as long as you pay your parking tickets), and
the laws are sufficently flexible to allow a certain amount of latitude in
the way they operate, and on whom. There are plenty of girls around, both
free and of the charging variety, and neither intrude upon the normal
citizenry. Even the trains run on time...but then, so did Mussolini's.
They even have Brown University, a lovely Ivy League school where some
co-eds reportedly added substantial income to their part time jobs by doing
short term rentals on their bodies to affluent local businessmen. Newspaper
reports being what they are, of course, I tend to doubt that the arrest of
three such students was more than coincidental...there are entrepeneurs in
all walks of life. The cruelest blow was a sign held up at a Brown-Syracuse
basketball game by male students from Syracuse on which was printed in huge
letters:
"How much are your cheerleaders?"
The Brown cheerleaders dissolved in tears...and Brown lost.
No, what I really like about Providence is that it is alive. Alive as
New York, Chicago and Miami are alive. Alive with the noisy satisfaction
that here is a place where you CAN! Providence entices that special feeling
of freedom in those who choose to come here for entertainment. There is
always something going on within the Civic Center, be it basketball, an
auto show, a rock concert or the Ice Capades. The Trinity Square Repertory
Company has offered New York class stage performances for years, and in
general you can partake of any of these with a less than average chance of
misadventure on the streets. Less visible are the multitude of lounges and
nightclubs, which abound with enough good amateur and professional talent
to suit even the most discriminating party.
It was in one of these lounges that I found Eddie Mancuso, crouched
over a beer and looking every bit of his 50 or so years. He was currently
engaged in a hushed conversation with a slinky brunette who was comfortably
draped over one of his huge shoulders, head nestled close to his. He was
not happy to see me. I waved and took a seat in the back.
I leaned back and ordered a beer from the waitress who appeared. I
sipped, then studied the surrounding crowd and watched the door casually. I
had sensed a tail shortly before I passed thru Fall River, a new turbo
Thunderbird, and had taken the Shelby up to soprano range for several miles
as soon as I cleared the Braga Bridge. I had held the speedometer off the
dial, and the tach at a steady 5200. Everything had become still for a few
minutes except the scenery flowing past, the occasional other car, and the
headlights of the Thunderbird fading in the mirror. When I slowed at the RI
border, they were no longer visible.
A stock Dodge Daytona Shelby, is a good little sports car. Its 134
cubic inch four is torquey, albeit noisy and rough, the standard
intercooled turbocharger system is reliable and relatively maintenance free.
Title weight is around 2800 lbs, and it claims a top speed in the
neighborhood of 135 mph. It's pretty, too, stylish and comfortable.
It is not, however, a kick ass pavement scratcher. Its cornering
ability is limited by both its weight and its rather mundane and dated
suspension. The horsepower is only average. Soon after I purchased the car,
I realized that if we were to peacefully coexist, changes were needed.
The stock wheels were replaced by a new set of 7X16 beauties, shod
with 245/50ZR16 Bridgestone RE-71Rs all around, accomodations within the
wheelwells being made for these. The turbo elves in Old Lyme had reworked
the standard intercooler, added the 16 valve Shelby head, and smoothed the
power curve to the tune of 240 horsepower. A larger, firmer anti-sway bar
was installed at each end, bigger shocks were added on all four corners;
a Bose stereo system rescued from a Corvette and Recaro seats completed the
package. Aside from the wheels and tires, the image was unchanged, and
performance far exceeded the original. Plenty to lose the overweight
Thunderbird, which sported a considerably more anemic power to weight ratio.
The tail, however, alerted me to the fact that my failure to die in a
flaming mass of wreckage hadn't gone unnoticed. Obviously someone had
stayed around to document the blast, and once aware of its failure, had
either tailed me himself, or called for help. Only the speed edge I had
held had prevented a second, possibly more fatal, confrontation.
Someone was out to get me, big time.
I had nearly exhausted the beer, as well as my patience, when Eddie
finally peeled the brunette off, patted her bottom suggestively, and
wandered over to the table, looking even more unhappy than before.
Eddie Mancuso was a stocky bear of a man, carrying fully 250 pounds on
a frame something under six feet. His shoulders were huge, his arms massive
and his legs short and powerful. I had seen him carry a V8 engine block,
with crankshaft and pistons installed, clear across a garage, and lift it
onto a workbench located there. He had once pushed a Cadillac Seville 8
miles, explaining that he was afraid to leave it, for fear it would be
stripped in his absence. Much of the trip had been uphill. He armwrestled
for beers frequently, and even today I had yet to see him lose. His voice
was comparable to the sound of a cement mixer, and he had the general
personality of a wounded grizzly. He also owed me ten years of his life, to
date, which was of considerable comfort when trying to deal with him. He
was not a real friendly man.
He was, however, one of the best explosives experts on the East
Coast, and had plied the trade for several different employers over the
years, including the government, who repaid him by sending three people to
see to him shortly after him last period of employment. The three had been
very good, and only the appearance of a young beat cop named Knox had
prevented the demise of their intended target. I had taken out the third
one. The other two were already out of it, one with a broken neck. The one
remaining talked at length before dying, saying enough to convince me that
it would be best for me if the thing had never happened.
It also told Mancuso who was responsible for the incident, and anyone
reading the paper for the next few weeks later would have been briefly
curious at the number of government employees who retired, resigned or
were victims of freak accidents. Fast Eddie had sent a simple message to
his former employers, and after several such accidents, they understood.
Not so simple his dealings with some of the other employers, most of
whom carry a very pragmatic opinion of hired help. Eddie simply dealt with
them directly, and never took contracts within the family. There had been
two tries, but the results were so abysmal and the retaliation so swift
that Eddie Mancuso was one who was left alone.
His gravel truck voice was low as he sat down.
"What's on your mind tonight, Junior, that you gotta ruin my love
life? I ain't gettin' any younger that stuff like that grows on trees. This
better be good."
I removed a cigar from my jacket, handed it to Eddie, who sniffed
with pleased interest at the imported fragrance. I ordered another beer for
both of us. I sat back, lit a cigar of my own and sipped the beer.
"When you finish, I've got something to show you. In the car."
His eyes watched me through the veil of blue smoke.
"I see. Do I need any tools to look at this?"
"Nope....but bring some opinions."
Ten minutes later, we approached the Shelby in the lot outside. I
stopped as a thought struck me, but Eddie strolled up and leaned against
the fender casually.
"No sweat, Junior, this place is covered. One man on the fourth floor
across the street with night glasses. The place is OWNED, if you know what
I mean."
I dug the cigar box out of the back, and Eddie tenderly removed a
tiny pinch of the contents. He rubbed it softly between thumb and
forefinger, sniffed cautiously, and touched it to his tongue, after which
he spat viciously several times. He shook his head in sorrowful anger.
"Not military, Junior, and not even good quality commercial. Maybe a
portable lab, or somebody's kitchen. How did they wire it?"
I raised the hood and showed him the remains, including the switch on
the hood latch. He was much more respectful.
"Nice job. If you had closed the hood, you'd be landing soon. Very
neat, and the placement was perfect. Most of these little jobs have a
fiberglass or tinfoil firewall, not real metal. The blowback from under
here would have creamed whoever was inside. Funny though, that they used
the kind of crap they did for the charge. Real garbage." He stared at the
engine briefly,taking in everything, fished the unfinished cigar from his
pocket and relit it, then closed the hood.
"Junior, you need a vacation. Never mind the material quality, this
was a good job. Sloppy, but good. Maybe somebody in a hurry, or they had a
plane to catch. What the hell have you been up to?"
So I told him. About the Spenser job, what went on before it, during
it, and especially after it. Specifically, King Jacobs. He grinned, a
grizzled old campaigner, at the name.
"He still around? He's older than me, and meaner, too. He ran that
rumor about being connected into a good thing. Every fisherman in New
Bedford goes by his place every few months to pay their respects. A regular
godfather, the guy. What kind of boat?"
I admitted I didn't know yet, and really didn't want to, either. He
laughed.
"Probably that Marietta he bought at the DEA auction a couple of
months ago. I had some friends bidding on that one, but he ran them right
out. There's a rumor that somewhere aboard is a big stash of something the
Coasties and DEA couldn't find. A ghost boat."
He shrugged, relit the cigar, and stared at me.
"Just consider the vacation, Junior. Whoever planted that firecracker
wants you to go away, permanently. And next time they might not be so
careless."
I asked him for an opinion. He considered, studied the stub of the
cigar significantly, and lit the replacement I provided before answering.
"If anything, I'd guess maybe foreign. They train kids in Lebanon now
right along with school work. Good training, but not a lot of opportunity
to practice. They know the theory, but never did it before, at least not
much. Could explain the sloppy job, and the junk they were using. Look,
junior, if you find that Marietta, call me. I want to have a quick look at
it before Jacobs gets it back. I got a couple of ideas from my friends, ya
know?"
I promised him a look, thanked him, climbed into the Shelby, and
headed out of Providence. Behind me in the parking lot, a cigar glowed
softly as the Shelby's matching taillights faded from sight.
Chapter Three
I lived in North Dartmouth, a few miles west of New Bedford, but that
night I had no plans to go there for a while. The housekeeper had the key,
there was little worth stealing, except in the windowless room I used as an
office, and kept very securely locked. Going there would be a study in
futility, for there was no doubt in my mind that the mysterious enemy
trying to kill me would be there, waiting. No, I could not go home.
I did, however, have a place to stay. A summer cottage, used
infrequently by a photographer friend from Boston, who had left me a key
and urged me to use it. I had had occasion to go by and check for vandalism
a few days earlier, and as a result the key was still in the console of the
Shelby. Since the cottage was rather remote, and my connection to it nearly
unknown, it would provide a fine hidey hole.
As I pulled the Shelby in off the road, lights danced off the trees
and sparkled on the windows of the tiny cottage. Barely 3 rooms and a bath,
it sheltered among a stand of mature hardwoods, their lush greenery
shielding it from the road and sheltering it from wind and weather. Its
clapboard siding was faded, but it was sturdy, and the small high windows
were all unbroken. A porch extended from the back, and a large traditional
fireplace dominated one end of it.
I carefully placed the Shelby in back of the cottage to hide it from
the road, and studied the terrain as I got out. The driveway was packed
gravel and showed no tire tracks on its surface. The Shelby was safely
invisible from the road; a curious visitor would have to drive completely
up the drive and around behind the cottage to see it. The road in front was
rural and traffic was nearly nonexistent, except for a handful of local
residents. I dug for the key, and moved to the door of the cottage.
Listened. The Shelby ticked noisily behind me as its exhaust cooled, the
sound slowing as the temperature decreased. A smell of woodsmoke hung
peacefully in the air.
I looked up. The smoke hung dark in the moonlit haze which permeated
the south coast at this hour on most summer evenings. Must be a neighbor,
taking advantage of the plentiful supply of dried wood left by Gloria a few
summers before.
But the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away, and there was no
wind...
I left my feet in a dive, curling up in a ball as I sought the
shelter of the neatly stacked wood next to the cottage. The Beretta AutoMag
I had removed from the concealed compartment in the Shelby during the ride
back from Providence was a comforting presence in my hand. The .44 Mag was
a nicely balanced firearm, and its artillery like penetration and massive
stopping power were a great comfort. I could virtually guarantee to down
whatever I aimed at, provided I could hit it. The thing would stop an
automobile, drop a Kodiak bear, and as a side effect, severely damage the
user if mistreated. The recoil was brutal.
After a long moment, my mind began to work again. Anyone interested
in me would hardly have lit a fire to warn me off before I even got in the
place. I gathered my feet under me and rose, staying close to the wall of
the cottage. I took one step toward the door, and it burst open, exposing a
scantily clad girl in full flight. I tried to grab her, but with the
Beretta in my outside hand, the attempt was awkward, clumsy and far too
slow. She did, however, see the gun, and screamed a scream of pure terror
as she fled. I followed, stuffing the useless weapon in the pocket of my
jacket.
She ran well, lithe and graceful, arms swinging in step with her
stride and long legs white in the faint light. She was crying like a child
would, sobs indisbursed with little screams of fear, and ran heedless of
obstacles, blindly. I knew if I just waited she had to trip or stumble and
would be unable to move once she stopped. Animals do it. They run for their
lives, but if cornered by something totally terrifying, they simply
surrender and are eaten. The girl was like that. I was driven to catch her
before she broke, to save the spark that dies when it happens. My chase was
complicated by the shoes I was wearing, the gun in my pocket, and the fact
that I was taking some moderate precautions to prevent a painful
and disasterous fall.
At last I drew close enough to make a midflight grab, and we rolled
together across a tiny clearing covered with a carpet of pine needles. She
went rigid at my touch, and we lay still for a moment, gasping for breath,
my torso lying half across her and my hands on my shoulders.
She was blonde, I noticed, and even what the dirt and tears had done
to her could not conceal her attractiveness. Her eyes were wide with fear,
and her body beneath me was taut and firm, and warm to the touch. She was
wearing a grubby pair of shorts and a thin white T-shirt, and her full
breasts heaved without restraint as she gasped for breath. Her arms lay
outflung around her head, and she watched me with a fixed gaze, a strange
yellow light in her eyes.
She was still breathing in little sobs, and I waited until she seemed
calm enough to understand, then moved my body carefully off hers,
maintaining my grip on her shoulders. I relaxed my hands slightly but
stayed ready to renew my grasp if needed. She remained still and tense,
waiting.
Her breathing had slowed to near normal; most of her fatigue had been
emotional, not physical, and she was beginning to relax a little. She
looked at me and without a word, reached down and began pulling her T-shirt
up, exposing the lovely curves of her lower breasts. I released her
shoulders and grabbed her wrists, preventing the movement, and firmly
pushed the garment back down. She did not resist, but let go and raised her
hands to their former position.
I noticed that the left side of her face was badly bruised, and I
suspected further damage farther down; an involuntary wiggle had told me
all was not well there when I had moved a few seconds earlier. No doubt
about it, the girl had been abused, probably sexually as well as
physically. She required some professional help, and fast.
I stood up, and helped her to her feet. She stood uncertainly, all
the former grace and beauty gone from her pose. She was only a frightened,
hurt little girl, and there was no trace of life in the lovely eyes. I took
her arm and led her back through the silent woods, heading for the car.
* * * * * * *
I delivered the girl to the hospital in New Bedford and turned her
over to the staff there, who promptly and correctly called the police. As I
waited for their arrival, I was beseiged by a string of endless questions
from one of the staff members there, most of the content of which had to do
with who was going to pay for the girl's treatment. Since giving the
exasperated woman who was questioning me my name was not on the menu, I
simply ignored her requests and told her to take it up with the police when
they arrived. I was not inhuman, and if necessary I would have paid for the
girl's treatment, but a glance at her in decent light had shown the
remnants of a well groomed and manicured young lady, who I suspected would
have someone more than ready to pick up the tab, as soon as she was
identified.
Outside, a cruiser pulled up, and two uniforms exited the vehicle and
entered the lobby. After a hurried consultation with the woman who had so
recently badgered me, they headed my way, moving apart in a way that made
it clear just what kind of story they had just received. A malicious glare
from the woman confirmed the possibility.
I held up my hands, palms out, and made no move to get up as they
approached. They like you seated, the minions of law. Seated you are
basically immobile, and in addition, I have always felt that the height
advantage gained by standing over someone contributes to the feeling of
superiority every cop eventually surrenders to. Finally, if the idiot does
make trouble, it's easier to cave in his skull when standing over him.
These two were a matched pair, both around six feet, broad shouldered
and trim, appearing for all the world like a police recruiting poster.
Their belts were festooned with an endless variety of gadgets, ranging from
a suitably large handgun (holstered), to handcuffs (also holstered), to a
can of what I assumed to be chemical MACE (you guessed it, holstered), and
a black nightstick in a donut loop. Also included in the belt were several
snapped pouches containing, no doubt, Batarangs and Bathooks. A hand held
transceiver hung by a strap from each, occasionally adding to the
atmosphere by squawking some unintelligible gibberish which, not being a
police officer, I was unable to translate.
The Dynamic Duo would have been proud.
The pair stopped next to me, one on each side of the chair, and the
one on the left spoke.
"Got some ID, fella?"
I produced my driver's license, my permit for the Beretta, still in
my pocket, and my PI license, and handed them to the officer who had
spoken, apparently a sergeant, as evidenced by the silver chevrons on his
collar. He examined then briefly, and passed them to his partner, who sat
down and began writing industriously. The sergeant gestured at the bulge in
my pocket.
"Carrying?"
I produced the AutoMag, getting a raised eyebrow from my
interrogator. He handled it carefully, ejecting the clip and jacking the
shell from the chamber. He then made to pocket it, a motion halted by my
outstretched hand. He considered, then handed it back reluctantly.
"And the clip".
I was in no mood to leave the hospital unarmed, if indeed these two
would allow my eventual departure. He was even more reluctant, but gave me
the clip, which I shoved into my trousers, placing the Beretta back in the
jacket pocket.
After a short pause, Number Two finished with my IDs, and handed them
to me. The sergeant then headed back to the desk, and disappeared into the
emergency section. I leaned back and closed my eyes, finding sleep almost
instantly. It did not last long, however, as the next thing I felt was the
click of handcuffs around my wrists, and the weight of the Beretta lifting
from my pocket. The sergeant, flushed with anger, hauled me to my feet and
trundled me toward the exit, mumbling under his breath.
"Youhavetherighttoremainsilentifyoudonotchoosetoremainsilentanythingyousayc
anandwillbeusedagainstyouinacourtoflawyouhavetherighttoanattorneyandtohavea
nattorneypresentduringquestioningifyoucannotaffordanattorneyonewillbeprovid
edforyouatthecourtsexpensedoyouunderstand?
Miranda would have screamed. I nodded, and dodged the roof of the
cruiser as Number Two sadistically tried to decapitate me with it.
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