A Bomb Built in Hell

by Vachss, Andrew

  The police-band was frantically screaming instructions to all units again—about thirty men had entered the building and were slowly making their way up the stairs with the aid of sandbags ... then they were even more slowly taking down each door on their way to the top. It was 2:45 p.m.

  The kid made a gross U-turn right in front of the cop and the cab headed back toward Times Square. This time, they angled toward the water and finally pulled up on Twelfth Avenue just past 26th Street, right in front of the Starrett Lehigh Terminal. The huge, abandoned building had a giant SPACE AVAILABLE sign on its facade.

  “There’s going to be a whole lot of motherfucking space available in one building I know about,” Wesley said. “Are we still within range?”

  “Easy,” the kid responded. “We got about four-tenths-of-a-mile leeway from the Erie Lackawanna Yard and that’s a couple a blocks further north.”

  “The building’s about as full as it’s going to get now. Hit the switch before they get into the room.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I set the dynamite to blow upwards, you know? I just wanted to blow out that one room, so’s they won’t find anything. We need at least one body so they won’t catch wise—it should look like the guys in that room decided to check out together instead of surrender.”

  The kid didn’t reply. He reached forward and pushed the three buttons on the radio transmitter in correct sequence. In seconds, there was the familiar dull-booming throb, followed by a space-muffled crash. It wasn’t impressive at that distance.

  The cab turned right at 42nd and slowly threaded its way back east. They picked up the FDR Drive down by the river and headed back toward home.

  79/

  As soon as they got inside, they both went to Wesley’s apartment, first setting all the security systems and leaving the dog in the garage. Wesley flicked on the television. The picture showed a huge, milling mob that the police were trying to control, not being too gentle about it. The TV announcer had a huge bulb-headed microphone with a white numeral “4” on its base. He looked harried.

  “One of the worst tragedies in the history of our city—Prince Duvalier has been assassinated by person or persons unknown and the killers have apparently blown up the building in which they were trapped in an effort to avoid capture. At least four police officers are missing in the wreckage and presumed dead. The fire department is on the scene and rescue crews are working at top speed to clear the debris. The building from which the shots came is apparently owned by a major firm, but we have been unable to contact a spokesman....”

  Wesley clicked off the set and looked at the kid. “Not dead, huh? The fucking maggots.”

  “I should’ve known,” the kid said. “You think they’ll find anything?”

  “Not this year.”

  80/

  Wesley couldn’t get anything solid about Haiti on the radio or TV for days. The papers were mostly full of the destruction in the building across from the Pier. The one thing that puzzled the police so far was the absence of any bodies that could have belonged to the killers ... they continually referred to the job as the work of several men. Several cops privately told their reporter contacts that the killers had been blown into such small particles that the lab boys would never be able to identify anyone. The FBI was asked to enter the case on the presumption that the killers had crossed a state line in the preparation of the crime. The CIA outbid the FBI and the locals—and promptly collected a ton of useless information. Wesley finally found what he was looking for in the Times.

  Port au Prince, Haiti--A brief attempt at a military coup has failed on this Caribbean island once ruled with an iron fist by Prince Duvalier as it was by his father before him, the infamous “Poppa Doc.” A spokesman for the provisional military government announced that the island was completely under control and that Generale Jacques Treiste would temporarily assume command until free democratic elections could be held. If such elections follow the former pattern established by “President for Life” Duvalier, the island will undoubtedly remain a dictatorship.

  It is not known how the islanders will react to the rule of a strictly military regime. “Poppa Doc” was widely believed to have occult powers stemming from his intimate relationship with the dark gods of obeah. His son, appointed following the old ruler’s death, was actually controlled by Duvalier’s wife. Any relationship between Generale Treiste and Mrs. Duvalier is unknown at this time, but insiders believe there will be no change.

  Wesley read the article over several times, then slammed it to the floor in disgust. The dog jumped, startled—it had never seen Wesley move with such a vicious lack of smoothness. Wesley never left the room—the kid brought him the papers every day. Four days later, he found the confirmation.

  Port au Prince, Haiti--Earlier today, Madame Duvalier, the former wife of the infamous “Poppa Doc” Duvalier and mother of the recently assassinated Prince Duvalier, was married to Generale Jacques Treiste, head of the provisional military government of Haiti, in a lavish ceremony attended by thousands of cheering islanders.

  “President for Life” Treiste allowed his new bride to do most of the speaking to the assembled journalists. The crux of her remarks was contained in her opening statement: “I am in constant communication with my husband. This marriage is at his wish, so that the great nation of Haiti can continue to show the unity and strength that has marked its recent period of growth. My son died for his country, as did his father before him. In Presidente Treiste, we have a new leader ... a leader with the blessings of both my husband and my son.”

  Mrs. Duvalier, as she still prefers to be known, told journalists that her son knew there would be an assassination attempt if he came to America, and that a Communist plot to overthrow the government was behind the killing.

  Inside sources also reported that a brief armed rebellion by guerrillas in the southern part of the island was crushed by 2,500 Haitian troops without difficulty. Persistent rumors that American troops were involved have been denied.

  Wesley stared at the newsprint until it blurred and faded. He focused on the white paper from which the black print was disappearing.

  It was dark by the time he went down to the garage. The kid had the intake manifold and the heads off the Ford and was working under a single little trouble-light.

  “It didn’t work, kid.”

  “I know—I read it, too. Those niggers got no fucking guts.”

  “Forget that shit. It’s not guts. All people got guts when it means enough to them. A woman once tried to take me out with a tiny little knife when I was holding a loaded M1 at her chest ... because of her kid, you know? I think ... there’s another way the weasels do it and I don’t know what it is. Like in the joint, right? How come we got any rats in the joint? We should all be against the hacks, right? But they get your nose open. They make you think about yourself so much you don’t ever think about yourself ... you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. In the training school they used to give you a parole if you grabbed a kid trying to run. The bigger guys used to make the little kids run, so’s they could catch them.”

  “They make you run?” Wesley asked, curious.

  “The first time I was in, they did. And they caught me and beat me with that fucking strap until I couldn’t stand ... and I went in the Hole for thirty days ... and the motherfucker who caught me got to go home.”

  “You didn’t learn nothing from that?”

  “The next time, as soon as I got out of the Hole, I went up to another big one and told him I wasn’t getting my ass whipped for nothing. I told him I’d run again but he had to leave me his radio when he went home ... and I told him I wanted some money, too. He said okay—probably laughing himself to death—and I went over the fence the next damn night. I told him I’d meet him by the big tree just about a hundred yards outside the fence. I was waiting for him up in the branches. I dropped a cinderblock right on his skull and split it wide open. I thought he was dead
and I was going to hat up ... but I could see him breathing, so I dragged him back to the fence and screamed up at the guards. They threw him in the Hole when he got out the hospital, and I got to go home.”

  “That was good.”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t have no home, so they put me in this foster home upstate. It was just like the joint—they fucking beat you and you worked all day on this fucking farm. They told me I’d have to stay until I was eighteen. I split from there, too. I was going to burn down the motherfucker’s barn, but I didn’t want to get a freak-jacket if they ever picked me up again.”

  “You learned a lot earlier than I did,” Wesley told him. “Yeah, the only way we get to beat them even a little bit is to beat ourselves. It’s like...”

  Wesley pulled a soft pillow off the kid’s cot and held it in front of him.

  “Here. Punch this, as hard as you can.”

  The kid viciously slammed his fist into the pillow, deforming it but not tearing the cover.

  “You see how it comes right back?” Wesley asked, fluffing it up. “You see how you can’t hurt it no matter how hard you hit it? That’s what their system is like, I think ... I think now, anyway.”

  “You can blow up a pillow.”

  “Not a real good one ... it’s so soft and flexible, it keeps readjusting ... but it fucking stays a pillow—like that bitch marrying that general. There’s got to be another way, but I can’t figure it. That’s what you’re here to do. Me, I was here to clear the shit out the way for you.”

  “This means you’re going home?”

  “No. Not now. There’s still some of it I do understand ... some more shit to clean up. When I go home, I’m going to leave you a clean piece of paper to draw on. You stay in from now on—I’m going out and I’m going to look around. The next time I leave here with stuff, I won’t be coming back ... a whole mess of motherfuckers not going to be coming back then. I know this: it’s gonna be right here—no more of this overseas stuff for us. Right here, right in our country.”

  “It’s not our country.”

  “Then whose is it? If we can’t have it, maybe nobody can have it.”

  “Nobody can blow up America....”

  “No? I can sure as hell make them think somebody can.”

  81/

  The next morning, the Firebird slipped out of the garage and made its way up Water Street and then over to the FDR. Wesley followed the Drive to the 59th Street Bridge and crossed into Queens; he took Northern Boulevard through Long Island City, Woodside, and Jackson Heights, watching the neighborhoods change past his eyes.

  He crossed Junction Boulevard and into Corona. By the time he reached 104th Street, it was as much a slum as anything Wesley had seen in Manhattan. A young black man, built like a human fire hydrant with huge tattoos on his arms, crossed in front of Wesley’s windshield. He glanced into the Firebird and caught Wesley’s eye. He’s going to do the same thing as I am, Wesley thought, but the black man’s expression never changed.

  Wesley crossed 114th, passed Shea Stadium, and followed the signs to the Whitestone Bridge. As the Firebird climbed over the bridge, Wesley saw LaGuardia Airport on his left. He threw two quarters into the exact-change basket and followed the signs to Route 95 North.

  Wesley saw the giant crypt they called Co-Op City on his right and thought about dynamite. It’d take a fucking nuclear attack, he thought. Anyway, it was full of old people, and they couldn’t breed anymore.

  Wesley kept driving at a sedate fifty-five until he saw the signs for Exit 8. He turned off then; right to North Avenue and then right again, driving through downtown New Rochelle. Moving aimlessly, guided by something he didn’t understand but still trusted, Wesley drove past Iona College on his right and then turned right on Beechmont. He followed this up a hill surrounded by some lavish houses until he reached a long, narrow body of water.

  This was Pinebrook Boulevard and Wesley noted the NO THRU TRUCKING signs near the large 30 m.p.h. warnings. He followed Pinebrook until he reached Weaver Street. A furrier’s truck passed him, doing at least forty-five. He turned left and followed the street to Wilmot Road, then he ran across a pack of long-haired white kids with SCARSDALE ENVIRONMENTAL CORPS lettered on their T-shirts, aimlessly hanging around an open truck with a bunch of earth-working tools in its bed. Wesley saw a light-green Dodge Polara police car, its discreet white lettering tastefully proclaiming its functions and duties. Wesley saw St. Pius X Church just ahead and turned left onto Mamaroneck Road. He drove steadily down this road until he saw a sprawling, ultra-modern structure on his left. He swung the car between the gates and motored slowly toward the entrance. The sign told Wesley all he needed to know: HOPEDALE HIGH SCHOOL.

  The kids hanging around the campus hardly glanced at the cheap-shit Firebird. They sat on polished fenders of exotic cars and looked at Wesley briefly. They were creatures from another planet to him. But he didn’t need that excuse....

  It took fifty-five minutes to get back into Manhattan and only another twenty to get into the garage. The kid was waiting for him. “I went to your place to see if the dog wanted to go upstairs and run around,” he said. “I couldn’t even get in the door.”

  “I know—he’s like me. This time, I’ll take him with me.”

  “What do you need?” the kid asked.

  “I need a refrigerator truck with some very professional lettering on the sides. I need a dual exhaust system on it and flex-pipe connectors to reach them from the back up into the box.”

  “Who’s gonna be in the box?”

  “They all are, this time. Now listen to me; there’s a lot more. I need a two-hundred-gallon tank with a high-speed inlet valve, and I need a mushroom of plastic explosive from the roof down ... so everything in the truck explodes toward the ground, not up into the air. I need fifty hundred-pound bars of pure nickel and I need about twenty of those pressure bottles they keep helium in. Now listen: buy this stuff if you can. If you got to steal it, leave anyone you find right there. This is the last time and it’s got to be perfect.”

  “I’ll get it all, Wesley.”

  “And find out when school opens each day at Hopedale High—it’s a 914 area code—and class hours, if you can. The Westchester Library’ll have a floor plan of the building, too.”

  It took the kid almost five weeks to assemble all the equipment. Inside the garage stood a huge white refrigerator truck with PASCAL’S FINEST BEEF FROM ARGENTINA lettered in a flowery, blood-red script. The tank was installed inside. Wesley and the kid screwed off the top, laid it on its side on the floor of the truck, and carefully loaded in the nickel bars.

  “With the meat shortage, those assholes won’t think nothing strange about a rich man ordering a lot of beef,” Wesley said. “This is what we do now, we extract the carbon monoxide and fill the tanks, then we—”

  “Just from the truck’s exhaust?”

  “That crap is only seven percent carbon monoxide—we need pure stuff.”

  “I guess seven percent can snuff you all right,” the kid said. “Like when those kids checked out together ... in their car?”

  “Yeah, but not quick enough ... and it don’t work in the open air. When we play the right stuff over the pure nickel inside a pressurized tank at exactly fifty degrees centigrade, we get perfect nickel carbonyl, right? That’s one million times as potent as cyanide. It’ll work in open air and it has an effective range of about five miles if there’s no wind. But the explosion’s got to be light—we might blow this stuff all up in the air and the extra heat would screw things up, okay?”

  “You want a steady fifty degrees centigrade, right?”

  “Yeah,” Wesley confirmed. “Can you get this truck to reach it and hold it?”