Slay Bells

by Remington Kane

  “What did the big man just say?”

  “That does not concern you, you however do concern me, and I think that I will let Rasa have you very soon.”

  “You’re all terrorists aren’t you?”

  Smith didn’t answer. He had decided to move his plans forward and so that was what he was going to do. In Arabic, he told the other men to join him by the plastic barrels that held the chemicals.

  When the men were standing before him, Smith laid out his plan to them in detail.

  Tanner listened while trying to appear as if he were unable to understand a word. And while whole sentences made little sense to him, he did understand enough of what Smith was saying to put things together, as the man demonstrated and explained to his men.

  Tanner was not a man who was easily shaken, but if Smith’s plan were carried out successfully, Times Square would become hell on earth.

  While Smith and the other men were discussing the contents of the barrels, Tanner looked over at Sharad and found that the young man was staring at him. Tanner sent him a small nod, and Sharad returned it, but then he mouthed the word, “How?”

  Tanner didn’t know how he would stop Smith and the others, but he mouthed two words to Sharad.

  “Be ready.”

  Sharad nodded again, but there was deep doubt in his eyes.

  Tanner didn’t blame him one bit.

  CHAPTER 17 – Crooner

  In Arkansas, Laurel’s melancholy mood had changed to one more pleasant, as she sat in the dark and recalled her days lived on the farm.

  Most of her happiest memories as a child were spent with her two big brothers, Merle and Earl, who had always treated her as if she were a princess.

  They had even bought her a horse for her tenth birthday, a gentle mare that she had named Lady. Their father thought the horse was too big for her to handle, but with Merle and Earl’s guidance, she learned to ride.

  Laurel sighed.

  She would reconnect with her brothers someday; somehow, she felt that to be true.

  Laurel left the home by the front door and returned to her rental car, where she called the airport and discovered that she could change her plans and arrive back in New York on Christmas morning.

  She was alone in the world now that her husband had passed away and had hoped to spend the holiday with family. It wasn’t to be, but still, Laurel felt better having come home.

  She was still a beautiful young woman and she would find someone else someday, and the two of them would perhaps make a family of their own.

  That thought made her think of Tanner, a man she still loved and would always love, but Tanner had run away from her because of personal demons that she couldn’t fathom.

  Laurel whispered, “Merry Christmas, Tanner, wherever you are,” and then she put on the radio and sang along to holiday tunes.

  ***

  Joe had always enjoyed Pia’s cooking, but Sam’s deteriorating mental state was on display during dinner and causing Joe to lose his appetite.

  Twice, Sam had called Pia by her late mother’s name, Antonia, while mistaking Joe for his grandfather. Joe’s grandfather had also been named Joe, but had gone by the nickname Crooner, because he had been a singer when younger.

  Towards the end of the meal, the elder Giacconi stared at his young grandson with a look of immense confusion lighting his face.

  “It’s me... you’re me,” the old man said in an awed whisper.

  Joe understood what was happening. Sammy resembled his grandfather greatly, and the elder Giacconi, while locked in the past, was shocked to see a man he had taken to be himself sitting across the table.

  The old man rose from his seat and walked over to stare down at his grandson. Twenty-one-year-old Sammy smiled.

  “It’s me Granddad, it’s Sammy.”

  Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then the old man nodded and caressed his grandson’s cheek.

  “Sammy, right, you’ve gotten so big.”

  “Yes, Granddad.”

  Sam Giacconi went back and took his place at the head of the table. He grew silent, then, after taking a long sip of his wine, he looked over at Joe.

  “Crooner... I mean, Joey. Contact Johnny R and tell him that I want to see him here tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Day, Sam,” Joe reminded.

  “I remember... but I don’t think what I need to do can wait any longer, do you?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Sam. I’ll have Johnny here early,” Joe said.

  When Giacconi left the table moments later and retired to his bedroom, Sammy looked over at Joe.

  “Granddad thought that I was him, didn’t he?”

  “I think so, kid, and you do look like him, well, you look like a younger version of him.”

  Sammy rubbed a hand over his face, and then ran fingers through his hair.

  “I’m going to let my hair grow long. If it’s long, maybe he won’t get so confused.”

  Joe sighed. When he looked across the table, he saw that Pia was wiping away tears.

  Not such a Merry Christmas, Joe thought. Not merry at all.

  ***

  The 1,000 Santas promotion was getting underway, with the Santa Parade set to take place in Times Square at eight p.m.

  Merle and Earl found that they were just two more Santas added to the hundreds of red-clad men who were already there.

  When Earl spotted one of the Santa Clauses toting a red velvet sack on the other side of Broadway, he pointed him out to Merle, and the two brothers headed towards the man. As they drew closer, they could tell that the man was too short to be Ricky Horton.

  When they took another look around, they saw that many of the other Santas were toting red sacks.

  Merle got a pained expression on his face.

  “We might never find Horton.”

  Earl pointed at the first man they’d seen with the sack.

  “That guy was too short to be Horton, but so are most of these fellas. If we just check out the tall ones we might find him quick.”

  That made Merle smile.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  ***

  An hour later, Merle couldn’t remember how many odd looks he’d gotten for asking strangers if he could look at the bottom of their shoes, but almost without fail the Santas would lift their feet so that the boys could get a peek.

  Whenever one refused, Merle or Earl would roll up the man’s sleeve to get a look at their forearm. Horton had a plethora of tattoos on both arms that would be easy to spot.

  When they found that they were beginning to bother the same men twice, they stepped from the crowd and leaned with their backs against the wall outside a restaurant.

  “Maybe he just ain’t here,” Earl said.

  Merle was about to agree and admit defeat when he spotted another Santa holding a red velvet bag. He had seen and talked to dozens of similar men, however, the man he was looking at now was the only one who was cradling the bag in his arms as if it were a baby.

  The man was also tall, and as he and Earl grew closer, Merle could make out shades of color on the tall man’s forearms, below the cuffs of the Santa suit.

  “Earl.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We got ‘im, brother.”

  CHAPTER 18 – Brazil will have to wait

  Ricky Horton was both giddy and pissed at the same time.

  He was giddy because he was holding fifty grand in his arms, but he was pissed because he had to be a part of the stupid 1,000 Santas promotion.

  The damn thing had been organized by the sister of his parole officer and the man had practically coerced him into being a part of it, just as he had forced him into taking the crappy job that required him to wear the Santa suit in the first place.

  For the last month, Ricky had to stand out in front Burt’s Electronics Store and ring a bell while dressed like Santa. As he swung the bell, he would say things like, “Burt’s prices are so low it’s like paying Ho Ho wholesale,” an
d, “Come Dasher, come Dancer, come on in, Burt’s has the answer.”

  Not only had he felt like an idiot, but people laughed and pointed at him too.

  But now that he had the fifty grand that would all change. Three weeks, just three more weeks and his parole would end and then he could leave the city and start fresh. Although, fresh didn’t mean he’d turn into one of those stiffs who spent their lives working 9-to-5. Now that he had money, Ricky didn’t have to stick around and force a living from the mean streets of the city.

  Once his parole ended, Ricky had plans to get a passport and travel to South America. He had never been farther south than Atlantic City, New Jersey, but he reasoned that the money in the sack would allow him to live like a king in Brazil.

  Would the money last forever? Of course not, but it would last awhile, and laying naked on a beach beside a brown-skinned beauty for a year or two beat anything else he could think of doing.

  When the money ran dry he’d deal with it then, but for now, he’d be a good boy, please his parole officer, and then get the hell out of Dodge and avoid having to live through another freezing New York winter.

  ***

  Ricky was daydreaming about laying on a beach under the Brazilian sun when Merle and Earl moved in on him. The brothers were just yards away and closing fast.

  Then, a voice called out from the other direction.

  “Horton!”

  Ricky jumped while clutching tight to the sack that held the money, and when he saw who had called his name, he put a fake smile on his face.

  It was his parole officer, Arthur Drake. Drake was fifty and had always wanted to be a cop, but had known he wouldn’t hack it because he threw up at the sight of blood, and often fainted as well.

  If he had been a cop and were ever called upon to work an accident scene or a shooting, the first ambulance to show up would have had to revive him. Still, he was a public servant at heart and was a good fit in the parole system.

  Ricky Horton was Drake’s pet project and he was determined to turn the young man into a productive citizen.

  “Mr. Drake; don’t you ever take a day off?” Ricky asked.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Ricky, I’m glad to see that you—” Drake had stopped talking. Merle and Earl were standing beside him and staring at Horton.

  “We’ll take that sack, Horton,” Merle said, as he tried to look tough. He hadn’t expected Horton to have a partner, and although Drake was fifty and graying, he also appeared to be in good shape.

  Ricky gripped the sack even tighter and then sent Drake a tight smile.

  “I don’t know these two, Mr. Drake.”

  Drake flashed his badge at Merle and Earl.

  “I’m Mr. Horton’s probation officer. Do you two have a problem with him?”

  Merle and Earl looked at each other and smiled. When Merle turned back to Horton, he pulled down the Santa beard.

  “It’s me, Horton, your neighbor; me and my brother come to get that sack you been holdin’ for us.”

  Ricky started to tell Merle to go perform a biological act on himself which was normally done with others, but then he saw that Drake was staring at the red sack with a curious gaze.

  Ricky didn’t know where Merle and Earl had gotten the money, but he had no doubts about it being stolen. If Drake knew that he was holding a sack full of stolen cash he’d not only be in violation of his parole, but he would get busted for whatever crime Merle and Earl had pulled. That meant more time in prison, and that was a place that Ricky never wanted to set foot in again.

  While feeling like he wanted to cry, Ricky handed the sack over to Merle. Merle opened the bag just enough to verify that it contained all five thick bundles of cash, and then he smiled at Ricky.

  “Thanks Horton, and enjoy the parade.”

  Merle and Earl had turned to leave when Drake spoke up.

  “Just a second. What’s in that sack? I hope that it’s nothing illegal.”

  Ricky laughed nervously.

  “Illegal? No sir, Mr. Drake. I’m walking the straight and narrow now, you know that.”

  Drake glared at Ricky and then walked over to Merle and Earl.

  “Let me see that bag.”

  Merle turned around and handed Drake a red velvet bag. After Drake looked inside it, he reached in and brought out more red velvet bags.

  Ricky did a double take and scratched his head while Merle and Earl just grinned at him.

  “What are the bags for?” Drake said.

  “Um, they’s just extra, you know, for the Santas that don’t have one,” Earl said.

  Drake knew that something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He asked to see Merle and Earl’s ID’s. After writing their names in a notebook he let out a sigh.

  “Don’t ask Ricky to do any more favors for you, okay? He needs to concentrate on keeping his nose out of trouble.”

  “No problem,” Merle said. “I hope I never see Ricky again.”

  “Me too,” Earl said, and tried to look menacing, instead, he appeared constipated.

  The boys took off and headed for their car, the stolen crapmobile. Once they were inside it, Merle slid the sack containing the money out from beneath his Santa coat.

  The bag full of bags that he had handed to Drake was what he had been using for his Santa belly. It had been the boys’ plan all along to switch bags with Ricky once they found him.

  Ricky was stronger and younger than Merle and Earl and they weren’t sure that they could win in a fight against him. However, they could trick him, and while Merle’s back was turned to Drake, he had switched the sacks.

  Merle handed the bag of cash over to Earl and, after six attempts, he started the crapmobile and headed to Forest Hills.

  CHAPTER 19 – Of mice and madmen

  Tanner thought that Smith’s plan was not only clever, but that it also had the potential to be the worst act of terrorism since 9/11.

  The fluid that Sharad had seen added to the liquid calcium chloride was an activating agent for the three chemicals that were stored in the blue barrels.

  The sanitation department would lay down the liquid calcium chloride in anticipation of the coming snowfall, and Smith’s team of fanatics would stealthily sprinkle the chemicals atop of that, as they walked about Times Square dressed as Santas.

  Once combined, the calcium chloride and the three chemicals only needed to be triggered, and that would occur once it snowed.

  Water, plain old H2O in a large enough quantity would mix with the tainted calcium chloride and the three chemicals to form a deadly gas.

  Smith planned to unleash the terror in the Times Square region. Tanner remembered hearing on the radio that there would be a concert there tonight, as well as some sort of Christmas parade.

  If the gas was as deadly as it seemed, the casualties could number in the tens of thousands.

  The caged mice had certainly succumbed to the gas quickly.

  Smith had sprinkled minute quantities of the chemicals into their cages. The cages were about a foot square, cube-shaped, and made of thick transparent plastic.

  Smith then added a single drop of tainted calcium chloride. The mice seemed unaffected, but after telling the other men to move back several feet, Smith donned a gas mask and picked up a bottle of water.

  One of the mice was nimbler than the others and he scrambled up and out of the sheer wall of his cage and ran off into a corner of the factory. Smith grunted in displeasure at the escapee as the mouse scampered for freedom, but then turned back to his task before another could escape.

  After pouring far less than an ounce of water inside each occupied cage, Smith closed the lids on the plastic cubes, and by pushing down hard, they clicked shut and sealed tight.

  The mice convulsed and rolled about on the bottom of their cages, and the last one to die didn’t stop twitching for nearly two minutes. From where he sat, Tanner had seen no tendrils of gas. Whatever the compound was, it was colorless, but deadly.
>
  Smith had removed the gas mask before the mice had all died and he stood by his men and pointed at the plastic cubes.

  “The weather forecast calls for six inches of snow. The water added to the cages of the mice approximated less than two inches of snow. It takes that approximate amount to trigger the chemical reaction, and as you can see, the death toll will be great. We estimate that there will be survivors among those on the fringes of the crowd, but those few that survive will be damaged for life.”

  All this had been uttered in Arabic. But Smith turned and spoke to Tanner in English.

  “I have one more question for you, Tanner.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’re not anything official, but I know a capable man when I see one. Are you a private detective? Did Sharad hire you?”

  Smith said those last words while turning his head to stare at Sharad.

  Sharad had become frozen in place by Smith’s words, but then he attempted to smile while shaking his head.

  “Mr. Smith, Khalid, I swear to you that I’ve never seen this man before.”

  “Perhaps,” Smith said. He reached into an inside pocket of his suit coat and took out a folded piece of paper. “This is the note you left inside the locker of that sanitation department police officer, Michael O’Leary. It marks you as the traitorous dog that you are.”

  Sharad looked as if he wanted to bolt, but the other men had moved in to surround him, and each of them was holding a weapon. When Sharad looked back at Smith he raised his chin in defiance.

  “If you found that note after killing O’Leary, then your plan won’t work. The first thing O’Leary would have done after reading it would be to alert his superiors.”

  “O’Leary never read the note. It was removed from his locker before he ever got the chance to see it. You’ve been under surveillance from the beginning Sharad. You were never meant to be anything but a scapegoat.”

  “What? No, my grandfather trusts me.”

  “Your grandfather is not a fool. He knew that the years you spent growing up in this country had warped you beyond redemption, and so he decided to use you. There are a handful of us who will know what a traitor to your own people you were, but like your uncles you will be seen as a great martyr. You will be blamed for everything.”