THE KILLING VOTE
by
Bette Golden Lamb
&
J. J. Lamb
Two Black Sheep Productions
Novato, California
Copyright © 2015 & 2019
By Bette Golden Lamb & James J. Lamb
Originally published as a trade paperback and e-book by Champlain Avenue Books
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical , including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the expressed permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter 1
Denny scanned the letters on the large storefront window. He read them again, threw his head back, snorted, and spit on the sidewalk.
CORPS
Coalition of Older and Retired Persons
Shit! There’s only one Corps. The U.S. fucking Marine Corps!
He spit again.
Man, they even used the stinkin’ red and gold colors.
He looked around for something to smash in the window, then stopped.
Be my ass if I pulled a friggin’ stunt like that.
He used his index finger to trace each letter of CORPS, then spun around and leaned hard against the glass.
Punk-ass job. Who cares about the stupid Coalition of Older and Retired Persons? Not this ex-Gyrene.
He pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch that he’d lifted off a smashed suit at the bar last night.
Late! Pays shit, then he’s late!
Restless, he stomped down to the corner, looked up and down Market Street, then over to Twelfth before slowly crossing to the other side of Franklin. He stood there for a moment, surprised at how much traffic there was in San Francisco this early on a Friday morning.
He started back toward the storefront, this time walking with more purpose, his arms swinging from the shoulders in an I-know-a-girl-who-lives-on-a-hill cadence.
Damn Marines!
Tossed my ass.
Eleven friggin’ years in The Corps. Would have gone twenty. Hell, maybe even thirty.
The dishonorable discharge had hurt. Still hurt. They didn’t give a rat’s ass about some grunt and the medals he’d earned in Iraq.
“Respect this, motherfuckers,” he growled, spinning around to give a digital salute to every sentry-straight lamppost in sight.
He stopped opposite the CORPS building and stared across the street at the plate glass windows. He was supposed to wait around the corner, but he’d wanted to see the place they were going to do. More like a hole-in-the-wall pizza dive. If it’d been his call, he’d have tossed a couple of Molotov cocktails through the window and let it go at that.
But he was just a grunt. That’s all. Just a friggin’ hired grunt.
* * *
Myra Jackson needed to get to San Francisco’s CORPS offices early. There was a big mailing to get out before the weekend started and she was stuck with training a new batch of volunteers. Thinking about it made her cringe.
She waited until the #41 Muni bus came to a complete halt before leaving her seat. She knew the delay aggravated the bus drivers, but a near-disaster after a jerky stop one morning made her change her habit of trying to be the first one off.
She tucked her purse under one arm, the strap over her head and across the opposite shoulder; her free hand gripped a shopping bag—Coalition of Older and Retired Persons was emblazoned in gold and red on both sides. An overhead Hallmark advertisement made her smile and remember the surprise 75th birthday party the volunteers had held for her last week, and how she’d never let on that she was really 78.
Arthritis gnawed at every joint as she inched her way to the rear door. She waved her thanks to the driver as she carefully stepped down through the bi-fold doors.
* * *
Denny checked his watch again, saw it was time to get back to the meeting place. When he got there, Al was waiting, leaning against the right front fender of his beat-up, black Sentra.
“Neat ride, huh?” Denny said, pointing to an orange three-quarter-ton utility company rig he’d driven to the site. South City Electric was painted on both doors and the tailgate.
“Hell, Denny, why didn’t you buy a friggin’ neon sign and set it up out here?” Al said. He pulled at his graying beard and walked around the truck, shaking his head back and forth with each step.
“What was I gonna do, man? My beater truck died yesterday, so I boosted this one. Got tools, supplies, everything in one package. Cool, huh?”
“You dummy! What if a nosy cop runs a check on it?”
Denny strapped on a tool belt. “I only took it last night.” He dangled the stolen watch by its gold chain and tapped the face. “It’s gonna to be at least another hour before anyone even knows the damn thing is missing.”
“I hope to God you’re right.” Al hoisted a backpack from the trunk of his car. “Let’s get moving.” He looked again at the garish South City Electric truck, scowled, and motioned for Denny to follow.
They walked quickly down the narrow alley behind the row of buildings that fronted on Franklin. When they came to the back door of the CORPS offices, Al reached for a large ring of keys attached to his belt by a retractable cable.
“Let me pick it,” Denny said, pushing forward. “I need the practice.”
He had a slim leather case already in his hand.
“Those things take forever, even for someone who knows what he’s doing.” Al elbowed him aside. In less than ten seconds he’d found a master key that let them inside the offices.
“Coulda done it.”
“Yeah, yeah! Maybe next time when we don’t have a big orange billboard announcing we’re in the neighborhood.”
“What billboard?”
“Just find the goddam fuse box and get started. I want to be outta here in less than twenty minutes.”
“Shoulda started earlier. I was here on time.”
“Put a lid on it and do your thing, will ya?”
“I’m doin’ it. I’m doin’ it.” The gray metal box hung next to the archway they’d just come through. Denny raised the latch, swung open the door, and stared at the fuses and circuitry. “Piece of cake.” He reached out and turned off the master switch. A refrigerator whirred into silence.
“Everything dead?” Al asked.
“I think so. Let me check.”
“You do that.”
* * *
Myra stood on the street corner and waited for the traffic light to change to green.
There were so many cars these days and the drivers were so mean and pushy. Seldom used her Ford Taurus anymore—only for an occasional weekend trip to visit friends in Monterey or Mendocino.
She watched her bus move away from the curb and into the traffic.
Everyone complained about the Muni system. But it brought her downtown just fine every weekday morning. Her half-day-mornings job at CORPS was perfect; it gave her the rest of each day to herself. Not only that, she really loved working with the CORPS director, Nathan Sorkin.
She sighed, thinking about the busy day ahead of her. She needed to get moving if she was going to get fresh, hot coffee ready for the volunteers, and for the meeting Nathan had scheduled with Ted Yost, who was helping them with the Washington thing.
The familiar clock on a nearby bank told her there still had plenty of time to stop at the corner deli and pick out some fresh bagels and Danish to take to the office with her. Nathan frequently chided her for spending her own money for the morning snacks, but she enjoyed watching h
im and others smile as they picked out a favorite treat to go with their morning coffee.
* * *
Al pressed a small wad of C4 into the narrow space on one side of a wall electrical outlet, the last of six in the small suite of offices. He pierced the explosive with a tiny detonator and tied it into the wiring, then replaced the faceplate.
“How’d you set it up, Denny?”
“Sequential. Flip any one light switch, then everything triggers—one after another. Whole fucking thing shouldn’t take more than two or three seconds.”
“Good!” He screwed the faceplate back onto the switch. “Help me fasten the rest of these.”
“Yeah, okay. But I hate even looking at this boom-boom shit.” Denny started to turn away, then saw a packet of the explosive flying through the air toward him. He scrambled to catch it, almost landed on his ass.
Al laughed. “It doesn’t do squat until it’s triggered. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Denny stared at the small, grayish brick of C4 in the palm of his hand. “You can tell me a million fucking times and I’m still not going to like this goddam stuff.
“But you’ll play around with enough voltage to electrocute an army.”
“Electricity’s my thing, man.”
“My point exactly.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Let’s finish up and get the hell out of here.”
* * *
Myra waited for the illuminated walking man sign to let her know it was safe to cross the street, but as she stepped off the curb, a bright orange truck almost sideswiped her. She watched as it accelerated up Franklin, gone in a blink. Her heart was still racing as she unlocked the CORPS office front door.
Nathan wasn’t here yet. She smiled.
First, for a change.
After turning over the Open/Closed sign, Myra locked her purse in the lower drawer of the reception desk.
She paused for a moment and looked around the empty offices. The semi-darkness had a calming effect, which she enjoyed for a moment. Instead of turning on the lights, she walked back to the break area, spread out a clean napkin on the counter, and made an arrangement of the bagels and Danish.
Going first to the reception area, she then went through each room, gathering up dirty coffee cups that had been left on desks, tables, and the floor. She rinsed the coffee pots and washed the cups in the cramped bathroom’s tiny sink, then got everything ready to make coffee and tea.
As she measured out the coffee, she looked up and gave her usual nod of acknowledgment and approval to the poster that dominated the reception area:
An attractive woman of at least 80 years languished against a palm tree, wearing a string bikini. The caption declared:
I AM Acting My Age!
Myra flipped the switch on the automatic coffeemaker. Nothing happened—no red light, no sputtering of water. She looked down behind the stand. As she suspected, the plug had been pulled out.
“Now who did that?” she asked, lowering herself painfully to one arthritic knee so she could reach the plug. When she straightened, the coffeepot was still silent.
“Power must have gone off last night,” she grumbled. “Or a breaker tripped off again.”
She went first to the circuit box, opened it, tested the main line, then pushed the individual on-off rockers. She heard the refrigerator go off and come back on, which meant the office at least had electricity. Back at the coffee table, she still couldn’t get the coffeemaker to respond. Frustrated, she tried the wall switch next to the table.
The coffeepot corner exploded and a thundering blast rocked the entire building. Water flew everywhere. Slivers of glass sliced into her face, arms, and legs. Her desk shattered and jagged fragments of wood and metal catapulted in every direction.
She gasped, slapped her hands to her chest and looked down—a large stake of wood protruded from between her breasts.
“Help!” she cried softly as an icy numbness took away her breath. She crumpled to the floor while the explosions echoed all around her.
Chapter 2
Ted Yost heard the faint click inside the bedside alarm that told him he had only seconds before the small speakers would vibrate with raucous music, a babble of voices, or jarring static. He pulled one hand from beneath the covers, ran his fingers across the top of the clock/radio and pushed the off button.
He enjoyed the moment of victory at having outwitted the alarm, then turned slightly to see if he had awakened Mel. For several seconds he watched a wayward strand of his wife’s hair rise and fall across her face with each soft breath, then he gently eased out of bed.
Ted had no desire to get up at 6 a.m., but he’d agreed to meet Nathan Sorkin at CORPS headquarters around eight. He hoped he’d allowed enough time since he had no idea how long it would take him to drive from Sonoma to San Francisco during the morning commute hours. But he was damned if he was going to get up any earlier than six. He’d just have to hurry along with his morning routine.
In the short time since he’d given up being a full-time newsman, he’d gotten used to sleeping in, having a leisurely breakfast, and taking a walk with Mel before settling down to write at his home computer.
Well, not really. Every so often he would get an itch, an itch to be out in the world chasing stories, reporting the news. But there was little work for freelancers anymore—national and international news-gathering organizations had cut back or were closed down. And those that remained were mostly tainted by the political bent of the corporate owners.
He’d tried to reassure himself that going into retirement had been the right thing to do. He’d been fed up, decided it was time to write the novel he’d been thinking about since the Vietnam War ended.
Then one day after surfing the web and reading a dozen or so unsatisfying blogs, he tried writing one himself.
He’d started with a weekly blog. And much to his surprise, he’d picked up a readership. Then a couple of months ago he’d struck a resounding note when he’d narrowed his focus, primarily commenting on and citing examples of how the public was affected by dirty political practices.
Now he was not only being read, he was being quoted.
Caught a lucky break, that’s all, he told himself as he shuffled into the bathroom.
Things were going smoothly until a couple of weeks ago when he got a call from Bill Tana, a friend and “reliable source” in D.C.
“It’s sketchy,” Bill said, “but it seemed the kind of thing you might want to run with.”
“Not another of your nutball conspiracy theories, I hope,” Ted said, laughing. “Or maybe you’re pulling my leg?”
“There’s always a reason for my paranoia, old man. Something’s floating in the air and it has to do with that healthcare stuff you’re always bugging me about.”
“Healthcare stuff.”
“That’s what I said. Don’t tell me you’re going deaf, too.”
“Smart ass!”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
“Go.”
“The word around the circuit is there may be a big push to ditch Medicare, or at least significantly undercut the funding.”
That put the novel back on hold.
Again.
He’d dropped Tana’s rumor into his blog as a gossip item and was surprised by angry reader response: If he knew something specific about the future of Medicare, he should put up or shut up.
* * *
“No more credit, Della. That’s final!”
“Come on. Please give me a break.”
Della Paoli paced in tight circles in the pre-dawn darkness as she talked. A gust of cool early morning air made her pull her sweater tighter around her shoulders. She hated having to plead with the grower at the San Francisco Flower Mart.
“It’s the new Winter Festival Celebration this weekend,” she continued. “I’ll sell every flower I can stock. After that, I’ll catch up … we’ll be even. Please!”
“Della
, it’s been three weeks. I got bills to pay, too, you know.”
“This is the last time. I promise!”
There were murmurs in the neighboring stalls. The grower looked around, saw the glares of other sellers. “All right, already. But this is it. From now on, cash only.”
With a broad smile, Della squeezed his hand and moved from one display of cut flowers to another, smelling and gathering the blossoms to her face as she went.
As usual after completing her order, she stopped at a nearby cafe for coffee, an English muffin, and conversation with other flower vendors. Della kept checking her purse to make certain her social security check was still there. A quick mental rundown of expenses reassured her—by the end of next month she would be debt-free for the first time since her husband died six months ago.
Her spirits soared as she walked to her ancient, faded red Volvo station wagon.
She turned on the radio while waiting for two large trucks to lumber onto the street ahead of her. The early morning traffic was light; she could divide her attention between the few cars and trucks on the road and the city’s skyscape.
Della crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, smiling when she passed truck-mounted workers in the center lanes shifting yellow pylons from right to left with circus-like dexterity to create more lanes for commuters headed into the city.
The coastal hills were still just an outline, with a hint of the dawn light beginning to show itself. She glanced across at the lights of the East Bay just before she drove under the painted rainbow surrounding the opening arc of the Waldo Grade tunnel. The pastel colors made her laugh out loud, as they always did. Soon she was on the long, coasting stretch leading into the outskirts of Mill Valley and on to her downtown flower stall.
She flipped on her turn signal, moved into the exit lane, and was suddenly cut off by a bread van driver, apparently in a hurry to keep to his early morning delivery schedule for fresh, hot sourdough. He passed too closely on her left and cut in front of her. She gasped and stomped on the brake pedal, tossing the Volvo into a skid.
The Killing Vote Page 1
