“The Good Book also says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Surely you know that if you do what you said, I’ll bleed to death. So do you believe the Bible, or not?”
“I --- I don’t know. You’re messing with me and I don’t like it.”
“Look, uhhh, gee I don’t even know your name.”
“Jerome. It’s Jerome.”
“Look Jerome. I think I know what’s bothering you. I’ll bet Bruce Jenner, the Olympic athlete, was a hero of yours. I’ll bet you even had the Wheaties box with his picture on it. Then he got hooked up with the Kardashians and ultimately wound up as Caitlyn. That had to be hard for you.”
I saw a tear glisten in his eye. “Yeah, it was.”
“You’re not alone, Jerome. People are just people and sometimes our heroes let us down. Pete Rose was one of the greatest ballplayers of all time and he turned out to be a gambler. Does that mean we should start mugging ballplayers? Lance Armstrong won the Tour De France seven times and was stripped of his titles for doping. Should we start running all bikers off the road? It looks like our beloved Bill Cosby was a pervert. Should we start whacking all black men and comedians, or just black comedians? See what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I see what you’re doing, all right, but it don’t change nothin’. I got a job to do and I’m gonna do it.”
He came at me and lifted my skirt and I figured I was about to part ways with Mr. Winkie and the boys, when there was a knock on the door.
“Go away!” he shouted.
“It’s the pizza guy,” came the muffled reply.
“I didn’t order no pizza. Now go away!”
“That’s not what it says here. If I don’t deliver this pizza I’m in big trouble. I might even get fired. Help me out here.”
“Aww, shit,” Jerome muttered. “You don’t say a word or the pizza guy gets it too. Understand?”
I nodded.
Jerome opened the door and I distinctly heard my father’s voice. “That’ll be twelve dollars, please.”
“But I didn’t order no pizza.”
“Isn’t this 4001 Paseo, apartment 2B? Well somebody from here ordered a pizza. I guess it’s the age old question, 2B or not 2B.”
Leave it to my dad to quote Hamlet at a time like this.
“If I buy the damned pizza, will you go away?”
“Of course. I’m just a delivery guy trying to do my job.”
“Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
Jerome went into another room and I heard him rummaging around.
Soon, he returned. “Here’s twelve bucks. Now beat it!”
“What? No tip? Look, man, I’m just trying to earn a living. I got rent, a car payment. You know how it is. Can’t you spring for a few bucks?”
I could see the steam coming from Jerome as he stomped back into his bedroom.
When he returned, he found himself staring down the barrel of Ox’s .45.
My dad had stalled him just long enough.
After I had been freed and Jerome was in cuffs, Ox looked at the pizza box.
“Papa John’s Pizza. Poetic justice. Walt’s Papa, John, used a Papa John to save his kid. I love it!”
I was glad it was over and I vowed I’d never dress in drag again. Ox reminded me that was what I said the last time.
It wasn’t what we had planned, but the good guys won again.
Lady Justice works in mysterious ways.
CHAPTER 3
Seeing a wacko come at your private parts with a straight razor can be quite unnerving, and having just endured such an experience, my plan was to lay low for a few days and decompress.
I didn’t have that luxury when I was a cop. I was expected to be back on my beat the next day. Crime never takes a holiday.
That was one of the reasons I turned in my badge and opened my own P.I. business. No pressure. I am my own boss and if I want to take a few days off, well, who cares?
But it wasn’t to be.
I had just crawled out of bed and was about to have my first cup of coffee and read the morning paper when the phone rang.
“Walt? Kevin here. Ox told me about your little adventure last night. Well done. Glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks, I ----.”
“Listen,” he interrupted, “if you’re not doing anything today, let’s hop up to the K.C. Expo Center. The Gun & Knife Show opens this morning and I need to stock up on some ammo. You probably do too.”
“Well, actually ---.”
“Good! I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”
The line went dead.
“Well, crap!” I muttered. “So much for a quiet day at home.”
I put my paper aside, wolfed down a bowl of Wheaties and had just dressed and brushed my teeth when I heard him pull up in front of the building and toot.
As I slid into my seat, he said, “Should have called earlier. They’re expecting a big crowd today.”
The Expo Center is near the K.C. International Airport, about forty-five minutes north of the city. I had attended one other gun show there several years ago. It is a HUGE building and a hundred or more vendors have tables set up selling everything from pocket knives to military assault rifles.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, fishtailing away from the curb. “It’s a long ride up and back and I appreciate the company. Been needing to stock up on .45’s for my Glock and .40’s for my back-up. Are you needing ammo for that peashooter of yours?”
When I joined the force five years ago, I discovered that most of the officers carried the Glock .45. It was just too much gun for me. I had a nine shot .22 caliber revolver that I had hunted with since I was a kid. I was comfortable with the .22 and qualified easily with it. I was able to convince my captain that it would be much better to hit my target with a .22 than miss with a .45.
Needless to say, I was ribbed unmercifully by my fellow officers. They had been trained that if they had to shoot, they were to shoot to kill. They were quick to point out that if I was being attacked by some dope head high on PCP, my .22 would probably just piss him off, while a well- placed .45 would drop him in his tracks.
Fortunately, I only had to use my gun a few times during my five years.
The first time, I was in a dark basement being fired at by Lil’ D, a black gangbanger. When he charged, I fired and hit him in the left nut. Now I don’t care what the detractors say, if you shoot someone in the gonads with a .22 slug, it will get their attention.
Every so often, I go to the firing range and pop off a box of shells just to keep in practice. After my last session, I was definitely low on ammo. I called Walmart and two gun stores, but there wasn’t a box to be found.
“Yeah, I could use a few rounds. I hope they have .22’s. I haven’t been able to find them anywhere.”
“If anybody has them, they will.”
We just chatted about guy stuff and were soon near the airport.
As we turned off the freeway onto the road that led to the Expo Center, Kevin let out a low whistle. “Holy crap!”
Not only was the huge parking lot adjacent to the Expo Center completely full, so was the grassy field across the street. Cars were lined up along the road from the Center all the way back to the freeway.
The show had opened at eight. It was just eight-thirty and hundreds of cars were scrambling for a place to park.
Fortunately, Kevin had a four-wheel drive. He pulled over the curb and parked on a grassy knoll a quarter of a mile away from the entrance.
“Looks like we hike.”
At the entrance, a line had formed stretching fifty yards back. There was nothing to do but get in line and wait as it inched forward.
As we stood there, I looked at the people in the growing crowd. I had expected to see redneck types in flannel shirts and overalls, and militia types wearing camo, and, sure enough they were there. But at least half the crowd were women and ordinary folks you might see at the bank or the supermarket.
I had heard that the recent terrorist attacks a
nd the administration’s threats to make gun ownership more difficult had spurred gun sales, but I had no idea it was to the extent we were seeing here.
When we were finally inside, it was wall-to-wall people.
There were vendors selling knives, ammo, camping gear, rifles, shot guns and tasers, but the tables drawing the most attention were the ones selling handguns. People were lined up three deep looking at everything from tiny .22 Beretta’s to Dirty Harry’s huge .44 Magnum.
I chuckled when I saw a poster with a photo of the president and a caption that read, ‘Gun salesman of the year.’
We were worming our way to an ammo table when Kevin tapped me on the arm.
“Isn’t that your dad and Bernice?” he asked pointing down the aisle.
Sure enough it was.
We pushed our way through.
“Dad! What in the world are you two doing here?”
He was a surprised to see us as we were to see him.
“Hi Son. What are we doing here? Same as everybody else --- buying guns. Look what we got.”
He opened a shopping bag. “Got me a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, 9mm. Ain’t she a beauty? Got Bernice a .32. Not as much recoil.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But --- why?”
“Why? Do you really have to ask? San Bernardino. Does that ring a bell? Fourteen killed and twenty-two injured --- at a party, for chrissakes. Paris. Terrorists killed 130 people, including 89 at a theatre. It’s getting scary as hell out there. If Bernice and I are at the supermarket, and some black gangbanger, or ISIS towelhead terrorist or some piece of white trash comes in shooting up the place, I don’t intend to be standing there with my finger up my butt.”
It was comforting to hear that Dad was an equal opportunity bigot. Profiling was no problem to him at all.
“And what about last night? My son was in trouble and all I had to help him was a pepperoni pizza and a prayer that I could stall the wacko until Ox got there. That’s not going to happen again.”
“But Dad, what do you and especially Bernice know about semi-automatic weapons?”
“Never too late to learn, Son. We’re taking instruction at the shooting range and have signed up for the Conceal and Carry class next weekend. Just barely got in. Forty people signed up.”
“Swell,” Kevin whispered in my ear. “Just what we need. Two ninety-year-olds running around Walmart packing heat.”
“Dad, we should talk about this.”
“Nothing to talk about, unless you want to go to the range and practice with me and Bernice. Besides,” he said, holding up his shopping bag, “no refunds. All sales are final.”
I was about to protest more, but he cut me off.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but we’ve gotta run.”
He walked a few feet, stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way. A manila envelope came for you the other day. It was too big for the mailbox so the postman left it on the floor. I picked it up and was going to give it to you the next time I saw you, but the next time was when you were in drag. You sorta blew my mind and I forgot. Sorry. Remind me and I’ll give it to you when we’re both home.”
With that, he grabbed Bernice by the arm and they disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, I know I’ll sleep better knowing Bonnie and Clyde are armed to the teeth,” Kevin quipped.
I just shook my head, wondering how I was going to keep Dad and his moll from maiming each other.
We finally worked our way to the ammo table and made our selection.
The guy who came to ring up our purchase did a double take. “Kevin? Kevin McBride? Is that you?”
Kevin gave him the once over. “Mark? Mark Greenway. Well I’ll be damned. How long has it been?”
“Too long, old buddy.” He looked at his watch. “You guys got a few minutes? I need a break. Let me ring you up and let’s go to the coffee shop and catch up.”
As we headed to the coffee shop, Kevin filled me in. “I met Mark at a gun show in Phoenix and bought some stuff from him for my P.I. business out there. We hit it off and had a few good times together.”
After the three of us were seated, I remarked, “I can’t believe how busy it is. There must be a thousand people here.”
“It’s been gangbusters all year. In September alone, the FBI’s National Instant Background Check System processed almost 1.8 million firearms related applications. That’s a 23% increase over the highest September ever. It’s estimated that twenty million guns were purchased in 2015.”
“Holy crap! I wonder how many guns are out there all together.”
“The Washington Post estimates as high as 360 million. Our citizens are better armed than those of any other country in the world.”
“Yeah, but what good are guns if you can’t get ammo,” Kevin said. “You’re in the business, Mark. Any truth to the rumor that the government is buying up big chunks of our ammo?”
“The Denver Post ran an Associated Press article confirming that the Department of Homeland Security has issued a purchase order for 1.6 billion rounds of ammunition. That’s not the military, mind you, it’s Homeland Security. Based on previous conflicts, that’s enough ammo to fight a hot war for twenty years. It’s estimated that Homeland Security has purchased 2.11 billion rounds since 2012. That’s enough firepower to kill a third of the world’s population. So the question is, why does a domestic agency need that many bullets?”
“I don’t suppose it’s to keep us from getting them,” Kevin said.
“That’s what fifteen congressmen wanted to know. Of course, Homeland Security denied it, but one congressman wrote that the extraordinary level of ammunition purchases seems to have created an extreme shortage of ammunition to the point where many gun owners are unable to purchase any. I’ve got connections with most of the big suppliers, and I’ve had difficulty getting enough stock for my gun shows.”
Kevin and Mark shot the breeze for another twenty minutes before Mark declared he’d better get back to his booth.
As we were leaving, I looked at the swarms of citizens leaving with bags filled with guns and ammunition, fearing for their safety in light of the recent terrorist attacks, and fearing that their government was primed to take away their Second Amendment rights.
I remembered Dad’s words when I asked him why he’d bought guns for himself and Bernice. “It’s scary as hell out there.”
I really couldn’t argue the point.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning, I had just retrieved my newspaper when Dad stepped into the hallway.
“Morning Son. I figured that was you. Here’s that envelope I picked up the other day. Sorry I forgot about it. Hope it wasn’t important.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Probably just promotional crap from some advertiser. Listen, about those guns you bought ---.”
“Save it, Sonny,” he interrupted. “It’s a done deal. Coincidently, Bernice and I are heading to the shooting range to get the feel of the things. Care to come along?”
I could see I was wasting my breath. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Ohh, right! This coming from the senior citizen who has been abducted, thrown off a roof, nearly blown to bits and shot in the ass? You’re a good one to give advice.”
Then he softened a bit. “Don’t worry. I haven’t got ninety years under my belt by being stupid.”
I wished them well and headed back to my apartment.
I poured a cup of coffee and took a closer look at the oversize manila envelope. I figured it was probably filled with laundry detergent or the latest feminine hygiene product. Then I noticed that there was no advertising on the backside or even a return address on the front.
My curiosity piqued, I found a pair of scissors in the drawer and snipped off the end.
A moment later my worst nightmare came pouring out on the table.
There were tapes, USB thumb drives, documents and photos. On top of it all was a handwritten note.
�
��If you’re reading this, it means they have found me. There are only two possible outcomes. I will make every effort to disappear and start a new life far away, but there is a very good chance I won’t make it out of town. Either way, I have done all that I can do. The contents of this envelope contain everything I have uncovered about the government’s chemtrail conspiracy. I hate laying this burden at your feet, but now it’s up to you to expose this horrendous program that is filling our skies with poison. Good luck! Jack Carson.”
I sat back in shock and just stared at the stuff as if it were deadly poison, because in fact, that’s exactly what it was.
A few months ago, I received a call from Jack. He called me hoping I could get some information from Ox, my former partner, on a vehicular accident he had worked the night before. The victim, Dale Fox, or Falcon, as Carson knew him, was an Air Force pilot who had supposedly been flying missions whose purpose was to spread deadly chemicals into the atmosphere for both weather manipulation and military defense. Falcon was ready to expose the government’s clandestine program.
The whole thing sounded hokey to me until Carson shared the details of three previous meetings he had with Falcon. Dale Fox was on his way to a fourth meeting, supposedly bringing a sample of the stew being sprayed, when his car went off the road.
Naturally, Carson suspected foul play. I pressed Ox for more information and the CSI team determined that Falcon’s brake line had ruptured, but there was not enough evidence to support that the line had been deliberately cut.
Carson was livid, believing that Falcon had been killed to prevent him from talking, and vowed to continue his probe.
I was curious enough to enlist Kevin’s help to break into Falcon’s apartment where we found photos of the planes used in the missions and the huge tanks in their bellies that held the chemical stew.
Naturally, I passed the information on to Carson.
The photos aroused my curiosity enough that I showed them to Frank Katz, a professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, who had been referred to me as someone deeply interested in the chemtrail phenomena.
Professor Katz was ecstatic when shown the photos and declared that they were the last piece of information he needed to finish a paper about the chemtrail conspiracy which he planned to publish in several scientific journals.
The Chemtrail Conspiracy Set (Lady Justice Book 22) Page 15
