Ralph introduced him to the group. “Fellas, this here’s Tommy. Explosives/ordinance specialist. Marine Corps. ‘Nam.”
A tall, wiry man in a flannel shirt with its sleeves cut off stepped forward.
“What the hell was you and that nigger laughing about out there? I saw you through the window.”
Tommy wanted to pull his walking stick from the holder on the side of the chair and take the man’s teeth out. “Trying to act normal. It sounds like we have something big to do here. I’m not going to wear my heart on my sleeve and attract attention. Not until after tomorrow.”
“Sounds smart to me,” Ralph said.
“You’re a damn fool, Ralph,” the flannel man said. “What the hell are you thinking, bringing in someone new this late? I told you I can handle the C-4. What if he’s a goddamn cop or Fed? Don’t say my fucking name. I want nothing to do with this guy.”
“You calling me a cop?” Tommy challenged him. “Fuck you, pal. I’m on your side. I’m looking to make a difference here, and I ain’t got much time left. Cancer. I got nothing to fear and nothing to worry about. You fuck with that C-4 without knowing what you’re doing, and you’ll blow yourself and your own people to bits.”
“Yeah? Well, I was in ‘Nam too, buddy. Let’s see what you know about C-4. Tell me how us grunts used it sometimes?”
Tommy was silent for a moment. He knew that he knew the answer—it was there somewhere in his addled brain, but he couldn’t call it forward. He struggled to summon the memory, and became frustrated, which seemed to push it further away.
The man put his cup down on the counter and confronted Tommy. “See, the motherfucker is a fraud—probably a cop. He should know the answer. What the fuck we gonna do, Ralph? We got to kill him or something. I ain’t going to jail for your stupidity, Ralph. I’ll shoot this old pile of shit myself.”
Just try it, asshole. The diversion was enough for Tommy’s brain to work, and the answer came to the surface. “Calm the fuck down, moron. We burned it to cook with sometimes, or to start cooking fires. It burns like wood. Doesn’t explode without a blast cap or detonator.”
The man stepped away, grumbling. “I still don’t trust him.”
“Let’s go over everything in the back,” Ralph said. They all followed him into the rear office.
Tommy listened to the plan. The police had already designated areas outside the convention center for the protesters and Brand Brigade, and both areas would be cordoned off to prevent any mixing of the groups.
“The security team and local police are probably already working with the Feds,” Tommy said. “They probably already have a list and pictures of the leaders and prominent folks on both sides. If you guys have been to the rallies, or been active on the internet, especially if you’re a hardcore supporter, they probably already know you, and they’ll be watching you.”
The flannel-shirt man spoke up. “You know what then, buddy? That makes you the perfect person to do the legwork. They don’t know you at all. You plant the package for us, then.”
He laughed at his own mean-spirited joke, and Tommy hated him even more. “I agree. Like I said, nobody bothers someone in a wheelchair, and I know how to handle the goods.”
“I told you he was the right man,” Ralph said to the group. They all seemed relieved to have their own roles in the plot diminished.
They sat at the table, going over every detail again and again. Tommy had won the confidence of the other men, who weren’t much better than the one wearing the flannel shirt. Hateful human garbage, all of them. The kind of assholes who would’ve taunted my kid mercilessly.
One of them spoke up. “I can’t wait to see those sniveling fucking weasels go flyin’ through the air.” He slapped the table in his excitement.
“This guy can carry the package, but I don’t trust him with the detonator,” the flannel shirt man said. “I’m keeping control of that like we planned.”
“That’s fine,” Ralph said. “You guys do your thing at the rally; the rest of us will wait here. When the shit hits the fan, come back, and we’ll all hole up here for the night.”
Satisfied, the group dispersed, leaving only Tommy and Ralph behind.
“Mind if I borrow what I need from the store to finish this up?” Tommy asked.
“Take whatever you need. I’m gonna lay down and get some sleep. Wake me when you’re done, and I’ll let you out.”
Tommy grew sicker and more exhausted as the night went by. He worked alone in the back room to prepare the charge, blast cap, and remote detonator as they had described. When he was through, he woke Ralph.
“I’m done. I’ll take the package with me and plant it in the morning when I get there. I have a pass to get in, so I’ll have it in place. It’ll be right in the middle of the scum, they’ll never notice it. I colored and shaped it to blend in with the concrete barriers they have set up.”
He handed Ralph a large, older model-mobile phone. “Here’s the detonator. Tell your guy to pull up the wire antenna. That part is critical, to cover the distance to the package. Then he should just make like he’s placing a phone call. Tell him to enter 666 and press the Send button. There’ll be a small delay. Tell him to make sure to act like he’s really making a phone call, actually talking to someone, or the cops might get suspicious.”
Ralph paid close attention, repeating each step as Tommy recited it.
Tommy used his phone to call for a taxi, then attempted to wheel himself to the door. He found he could barely move the chair—he was spent. Ralph moved behind him and began to push him the rest of the way, and opened the door for him.
“You sure you’re gonna be able to do this?” Ralph asked.
“Yeah, no problem,” Tommy said. “Long day. Tomorrow the adrenaline will be flowing. Big day.”
25 Cravings
Thomas Brand paced the office restlessly. “I'm all right, damn it. I can function. This is bullshit.”
His campaign advisers held their ground from around the conference table.
“We’re unanimous on this,” Brenda said. “Nothing to drink until the rally is over, or we’ll quit. If you go out there drunk, it’ll be obvious. This isn’t the primaries anymore. The klieg lights are on you.
“The media doesn’t like you, and they’ll have a field day if they know you’re drunk. And it’s becoming more evident. You’re getting out of hand. You’re going to blow it, and we all have too much invested, sir. You have too much invested.”
He strode to her defiantly. “You’re talking to me this way? I’ll replace you in a heartbeat, young lady.”
“You’ll have to replace us all,” Stinson said meekly.
Brand gave him his staunchest glare. “Oh, Christ. Now the fat guy is talking shit to me. I’ll ruin you too, tubby. Get your fat ass up and get me a cup of coffee.”
“Brand—the bullying has got to stop, too. We’re all on the same team. It’s divisive.”
Brand turned to see who had spoken. It was Alex Carenton, his wealthiest backer, and someone he could not afford to lose.
Carenton continued. “There’s a lot of stress in a campaign. The booze doesn’t help. You can certainly get by until after the event tonight. It’s only ten fucking hours. Then you and I will have a few at the reception, and get hammered in your suite after that if you want. But we have to make this event a success tonight.”
Brand groused and sat back down at the head of the table. “I’m going to hold you to that, Carenton. Alright, what’s the status? Let’s go around the table.”
“Everything is in place,” Brenda said. “You don’t have a Secret Service detail until next week, so we’ve beefed up security.”
“What? Where’s my Secret Service? I’m the nominee.”
“It’s not normal to have a big event this soon. You asked me to schedule it right away, remember? Also, there will be a significant protest outside, along with our usual large group of supporters.”
“Fuck those trouble-making libe
ral swine,” Brand sneered. “My Brand Brigade is going to take care of them, believe me.”
Everyone paused. “What are you saying?” Brenda asked. “What do you mean ‘going to?’”
He looked around at them. “Never mind. You know what I'm saying. They’re bigger, tougher, and they love me. They’ll take care of any problems those filthy hippies cause.”
“You’ve got to focus on issues and stop trying to turn everything into a big battle,” Carenton said.
“This is a goddamn battle,” Brand snarled. “Politics is a cesspool. I don’t need this bullshit. I never expected to get this far, all I wanted was free publicity for my business and a chance to shit on the Democrats for a while.”
“I understand that,” Carenton replied. “I think we all know that. But now we’re one step away. You can be President of the United States, Thomas. Think about that for a minute. One of the great men in history.”
Brand got up again and examined himself in the mirror. “I’m already one of the great men in history. Of business history, anyway. You’re right though,” he said straightening his tie. “There’s only been what, twenty presidents or something? My name would be right up there with them.”
The group looked at one another, and Brenda shook her head to warn them not to correct him. A few appeared to be suppressing laughter.
“Exactly,” Brenda said. “Right where it belongs.”
“I’ll get elected, and we’ll cut taxes and create so many goddamn loopholes we’ll never pay a cent again. It will be pure profit. I’ll get rid of all the fucking red tape and regulations.”
“Just be careful,” Carenton said. “You’ll get pushback. Don’t forget that some of those regulations are for safety and environmental concerns. People will get scared.”
“Fuck that,” Brand said. “Nobody cares about that. Just those idiots on the left. We’re winning, so obviously more people are with us. This must be what they want.”
“The last item we have on the agenda for this meeting is for you to go through tonight’s speech for the group, sir. I think their feedback might be valuable. We might come up with a few last-minute tweaks to make this a big success.” Brenda said.
Brand had picked up a remote control from a wall-mounted holder and turned on the meeting room’s television. He flipped channels until he found a news station that was showing images of him and discussing the event. He turned up the sound to an unbearably loud level.
“Sir?” Brenda asked.
“Fuck that,” Brand said. “I need to watch my coverage. I think we’re done here.”
As soon as the room had cleared, he began searching through his briefcase, hoping to find a few stray miniature bottles of booze from the flight.
26 The Big Event
Tommy woke to darkness and panic. He was fighting hard to breathe, but still felt like he couldn’t get any air. He struggled to get up and get to the window, feeling dizzy and ready to pass out. He resorted to rolling off the bed, landing in an explosion of pain on the stained, flimsy carpet, face down in its stench. I can’t breathe. Fucking cancer must be in my lungs now.
He tried to crawl toward the door, but after a few failed pushes realized he wasn’t going to make it before he lost consciousness. Think. Think, damn it. You can’t fail now. He felt for the St. Michael medallion from Moses. Not yet. Can’t die yet. Help me out, Moses.
He turned onto his back, looking up at the nightstand. A cord hung from it, and he reached out and tried to pull it as everything slowly started to fade to black. He pulled again and saw the edge of the phone appear over the lip of the top of the nightstand. Almost. Come on, damn it. Suck it up, Marine.
One more pull, his chest heaving, his throat wheezing and gasping for air, and it came crashing down, just missing his head.
He grasped the receiver and brought it to his face, then laid it on the carpet. He reached out for the keypad, hearing the dial tone, afraid it would time out, and pressed the glowing button labeled Front Desk.
He heard a voice and responded with what he believed could be his last words. “Help me.”
HE CAME TO, THIS TIME in blinding light instead of darkness. His vision was blurry, and he heard the static chatter of people talking on radios. They were moving around him, and he was off the floor, on a gurney. He was breathing.
A Latina woman in white leaned over him.
“Carmen?” he asked.
“Easy, sir,” she said. “Is Carmen your wife? We couldn’t find any emergency contact info in your things.”
“Where am I? What’s happening?” He looked up and the smoke-and-water stained ceiling answered the first question.
“You’re in your motel room. You had some kind of attack and weren’t breathing. We’re the ambulance squad. Lucky for you, we got here just in time. We dosed you with albuterol to open up your lungs. Do you have asthma?”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “I think it was just a panic attack. I’m under a lot of stress lately. I have a lot of trouble sleeping, and I worry a lot. This toxic waste dump of a motel doesn’t help the lungs, either.”
A black EMT joined them. “We’re going to take you to the hospital. They’ll run some tests and get to the bottom of it.”
“Nope,” Tommy said. “No hospitals. No doctors. I’ll be fine.” He was still wheezing.
“Sir, it could come right back, as soon as the bronchodilator wears off. It probably will, in fact.”
He again tried to summon a way out. “Alright, I lied. I do have asthma. I thought I was over it; I haven’t had an attack in quite a while. I stupidly didn’t pack my inhalers for my trip here. Can you give me a few to use until I reach my doc in the morning and have him call in a script?”
They reluctantly agreed and left. Tommy crawled shakily back into bed.
HE WOKE AGAIN, WHEEZING. It was daylight. He reached over for the inhaler, hit on it hard, and began the slow, painful process of getting out of bed, getting to the bathroom, and taking his pills. He wasn’t going to bother with a bath. I’ll likely be dead or in jail by the end of the day. Fuck it.
After wheeling himself to the closet, he sat for a moment and looked at the uniform hanging there. U.S. Marine Corps dress blues. Finest uniform in the world. He took some time to think back over his years of service: his pride at completing the rigorous basic training, going home in that same blue dress uniform to his proud mother, then shipping off to Vietnam. Then the lifetime he seemed to spend there, and finally coming home in his dress blues to start a new life.
Life is so long, but goes by so quickly. I wish I would’ve cherished every day. Here I am, at the end of it, not knowing what comes after it. I don’t really care, though, as long as I can be with my boy. All I want before I go is to take this scum out so he can’t change this world for the worse, and to kiss Tara one more time.
The thoughts gave him energy, and he determinedly pulled the uniform down and dressed. He wheeled over to the smudged, cloudy full-length mirror on the bathroom door and applied his ribbons and medals. The Corps was good for me. Taught me discipline. I’ll need it today. One last combat mission.
He made his way outside. TQ helped him into the van and handed him a cup of coffee. “Damn, looking sharp today, Marine!” TQ exclaimed.
Tommy took a long slug of the coffee. “You’re a savior, TQ, thanks,” Tommy said.
“You heading to the gig this early?”
“Right. I like to be early, get a good spot, find my way around.”
“You don’t sound too good today, my friend,” TQ said.
“Yeah, must be the humidity here screwing up my asthma,” Tommy said. “Sorry I can’t talk much.”
They rode in silence. Tommy watched out of the van windows as laborers labored, people who were probably illegal working and perspiring in the heat. He thought of how they were paying taxes for the benefit of others, to pay for things like social security that they would never be able to take advantage of as noncitizens.
People of a
ll working classes rushed down crowded sidewalks, looking stressed and unhappy. For what? To put up with this and get a few weeks a year off the treadmill? We’re just like disposable batteries, cogs in a wheel. This is your one life. Treasure every day. Nobody ever died wishing they had worked more.
He knew they had no choice, and that they were likely doing what they were doing for their children’s sake.
A limo pulled up next to them at a red light. Tommy peered inside and saw a well-dressed man and woman sitting in the back, enjoying drinks and laughing.
“Probably some of Brand’s people right there,” TQ said. “Probably going to the event tonight the same way, in style and on the taxpayer’s dime. I can’t change it, so I ain’t worrying about it.”
“Either that,” Tommy responded, “or they’re executives hoarding the profits while screwing over the people that work for them.” He looked back over at the limo. I wish I had more time, so I could take some of you greedy fuckers out, too.
He tried to block out the pain and effort that every breath was starting to take. Pulling the inhaler from his pocket, he took a puff of it. He considered taking more of the pain meds, too, but didn’t want to make himself drowsy or dull his mind further.
They approached the convention center. Tommy removed the bracelet Micco had given him and reversed it, so the arrow pointed to the right. Time for war. He placed his hand over his dress jacket and felt the St. Michael medallion from Moses and the peace sign necklace from Tara. I have all my talismans. Be with me, all of you.
“Looks like all the entrances are still blocked off,” TQ informed him.
“Go around to the employee entrance,” Tommy advised.
TQ unloaded him, and he proceeded to the door. It opened, and the same security guard stepped out to hold it for him.
“Back again?” the guard asked. “You look great, sir. Not too many people around yet, it’s very early.”
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 40
