Sue Me
( The Destroyer - 66 )
Warren Murphy
Richard Sapir
Destroyer 66: Sue Me
By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir
Chapter 1
It was easy money. Maybe too easy. But then there was no such thing. Someone was going to make a bundle out of this somehow, although Carl Schroeder couldn't figure out how.
He got free airfare to London and a hundred dollars when he arrived, and all he had to do was loosen a plate behind the coffeepot in the galley of the Gammon 787.
"There's dope there, right?" asked Carl. There was an angle to everything, and he usually found it. "No. There's no dope there," said the man he could not see. The voice seemed to be coming from Carl's park bench. He knew the voice had been following him. It was nothing extraterrestrial though. Nothing ghostly. Just a normal sort of a voice whose owner said he wanted to be hidden. A voice he'd first heard in the lavatory of the poolroom on D Street.
Carl usually spent his mornings there. Pittsburgh was not much of a town in which to do anything else. Then again, in all his twenty-three years the world had not been much more to Carl than an endless series of poolrooms. He ran numbers for a while but the numbers bankers always demanded you show up at the same minute every day. It was worse than a full-time job.
He tried insurance fraud for a while but the third time he suffered whiplash in a single month, the insurance-company computers got the angle on him and he couldn't collect anymore.
Welfare was good, but Carl had made the mistake of listening to his teachers and staying in high school until graduation. If he were illiterate he might have been able to count on the City of Pittsburgh for pocket money. But when you were white and healthy and had a high-school degree, no welfare department would believe that.
And then there was that cursed workfare, which fortunately died under protest from civil-rights groups. Carl Schroeder shuddered to think he could have walked into an unemployment office in the morning and found a broom in his hand by afternoon.
The real problem with unemployment, a problem that Carl Schroeder saw and every commentator missed, was that you had to have a job before you could lose it and be eligible for benefits.
There was dope, of course. Big money in dope. But you could get killed dealing, or worse, be sent to jail for years. And in some jails you had to make license plates. Boring.
So when Carl Schroeder heard the voice in the lavatory telling him there was no work involved, he didn't believe it.
"Carl. There is no one here. I can see you but you can only hear me," came the voice.
Carl checked the booths. He peered behind the cracks in the mirror. He looked under the sinks. No microphones. No cameras. But the voice kept coming.
"Carl, you're not going to find any device. The way I do this is beyond your understanding. You would've had to take physics in high school. Somehow I do not believe you would do so much work in high school as to take physics."
"Who're you?"
"Someone who wants to give you a free trip to London and a hundred dollars to boot."
"Nobody gives something for nothing," said Carl.
"My business is my business," came the voice. "You want me to carry a little package, right? Screw you. I ain't doin' no dope deal for a hundred bucks and a plane ticket. No dope deal, no way." Carl examined the corners of the lavatory carefully. Cameras were often hidden in the corners, he had heard. Sometimes behind mirrors. But he knew there was no way to hide a camera behind the mirrors in this lavatory because there was solid concrete there. He had checked that a long time ago, because payoffs would often be left behind mirrors in public lavatories. While he had only found ten dollars once in what must have been fifteen thousand tries, it was still ten dollars and it sure was not work.
"Carl, this is not a dope deal, and you are no more going to figure it out than you can figure out where the voice is coming from."
"So what's your angle?"
"My angle is my angle, Carl. All you have to do is unscrew two simple Phillips screws."
"And then someone else comes along and picks up the coke or smack, right?"
"I told you, this is not a dope deal."
"Blow it. You're dealing with Carl Schroeder, not some bumpkin from Wheeling." To Carl, Wheeling, West Virginia, represented the height of backwardness.
But later the voice was back, this time from an empty car outside. It pointed out that Carl had nothing to do for a while. He would get a free luxurious meal on the plane and all the champagne he could drink. He was going to go first class.
"Hey, if you're going to spend so much on first class, why not give me the difference and send me tourist?"
"I have my reasons for things. I understand things you don't," came the voice from the empty car. "I understand how things work."
"Bugger off," said Carl Schroeder.
By the time he reached the park he was hungry and when the voice started coming from an empty bench, the thought of a first-class meal was more attractive to him.
"If I say yes, what do I have to do exactly? I mean exactly. "
"Exactly is the only way I work, Carl. When you are over the Atlantic, as the plane begins its descent into Heathrow Airport outside of London, you will take a Phillips screwdriver I will provide, and you will proceed to the rear galley, which services the tourist-class passengers. There you will see a coffeepot. Wait until the flight attendants are working the aisles, move the pot to the left and you will see a metal plate behind it. The first screw opens the plate. The next screw behind the plate holds an aluminum rod. Turn that screw two times to the left, replace the plate, replace the coffeepot in front of it. Go back to your seat and wait until the plane lands, whereupon you will be provided with your hundred dollars and a return ticket."
"I ain't takin' out no insurance policy on my life."
"This is no insurance scam, Carl."
"All right, where's the ticket?"
"Carl, do you really think I would give you a ticket worth eight hundred dollars so you could sell it? The one thing you have to remember about me is that I know how things work. You get your ticket just as you board. I already have your reservation."
"What about the screwdriver?"
"Look under the bench, Carl. Feel around."
Carl Schroeder moved a hand under the wood planking of the park bench, feeling the rough underside until his hand came to tape and a small cylinder. He ripped it out. It was shiny and dark and had a pocket clip.
"Hey, this is a fountain pen."
"Take off the cap, Carl," came the voice from the bench. The voice was somewhat squeaky.
Carl unscrewed the cap, and there looking at him was the crossed head of a Phillips screwdriver.
"Put the cap back on, Carl. By the way, you can only get a buck for it if you sell it on the street, so don't even bother."
"Hey, you've accused me of a lot of low dirt here," said Carl.
"No," came the voice. "I only know how things work. And I know how you work."
"Don't I need papers or something? One of them passport things?"
"Not this trip, Carl. Everything's been taken care of. I don't forget things, Carl. So don't worry about anything. You're the right man for this. Remember, I know how things work."
"Yeah, well look. If I'm gonna be working for you..."
"Not work, Carl. Don't ever think of it as work," came the voice.
"Good. 'Cause I don't relate well to labor. How do you get your voice to came out of things when you ain't there?"
"If it will make you feel better, Carl, I'll explain. Voices are sound waves. These waves can be directed. If you direct them with intensity, any metal object will resonate with the waves. Th
at's how it is done."
"Okay for the voice. But how do you hear me and see me if I don't see no camera or mike?"
"That is more complicated, Carl. Better hurry."
"What for?"
"Your flight to New York is leaving in a half hour."
"I ain't goin' to New York."
"That's where you get your flight to London."
"How'm I gonna get out to the airport?" asked Carl, who suddenly noticed a yellow cab slowing down just outside the park.
"That's your taxi, Carl. "
"Give me the money. I'll get my own cab."
"If you had fifteen dollars in your pocket now, you wouldn't even be listening to me, much less willing to take a plane ride. I know how things work, Carl, believe me. That's my problem. Always has been. There's your cab, hurry up."
So Carl Schroeder, in the bloom of his twenty-third year with less than a quarter in his pocket, boarded the waiting cab for a flight to London. At least he would eat well, and that as much as anything kept him going. The voice was right. If he had fifteen dollars he would have had himself a hot dog, gone back to the poolroom, and tried to parlay the remainder into serious drinking money.
The cabdriver knew even less than Carl about what was going on. All he knew was that he was paid half in advance to pick up Carl and would get the other half after he left him at the airport.
On the flight to New York, Carl ate a sandwich and cadged an extra drink. But on the flight to London aboard the Gammon 787, there was nothing to cadge. Everything was given to him. All the champagne he wanted. Filet mignon. A second meal of lobster. Playing cards. Magazines. Silver worth pocketing, and a doozy of a saltshaker.
As the pilot announced they would shortly begin their descent into Heathrow, Carl knew the time had come to do his work. Grumbling about the demands of life, he left the first-class cabin and made his way down the tourist aisles. He noticed how much more crowded the seats were, how much more tired the travelers appeared.
As the voice had predicted, the flight attendants were busy in the aisle. Carl saw the coffeepot, a drip affair that kept a bowl of the dark liquid warm on a heater. Gingerly he moved it to the side, and as the voice had predicted, there was the Phillips-head screw.
He snapped out the cylinder that looked like a fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and inserted the head of his screwdriver. A perfect fit. Several quick turns to the left and the screw came undone. He presed his hand against the almost seamless plate and it moved to the side.
Despite the voice being correct about everything so far, Carl still expected to see a little plastic bag of white powder. He didn't. Just the aluminum pipe with the Phillips screw. He turned it two times to the left, moved back the plate, replaced the screw, covered it with the pot, and feeling worn out from more work than he'd done in a month, returned to his first-class seat at the front of the plane.
Yes, he told the flight attendant, he would like one more glass of champagne. "I deserve it. A little reward for myself, so to speak, ma'am."
Then he noticed the first mistake the voice had made. There was a little white card on a tray beside the champagne glass and it was his landing card. He had to fill in his passport number.
He didn't have a passport. The voice had said he didn't need one.
"When you were ticketed didn't they ask to see it?"
"That all happened before I got to the ticket booth. They had everything waiting for me."
"Gracious. Let me speak to the purser. You can't pass through customs without a passport," said the flight attendant.
And I probably won't get my hundred bucks in London, either, thought Carl. He was so enraged at the voice that he was tempted to return to the rear of the plane and turn back the screw. Carl Schroeder at that moment realized another thing about honest labor. You could get cheated out of its rewards.
On the way back to him, the flight attendant seemed to jump slightly, as though a passenger had goosed her. But then Carl saw everyone seem to jump. The plane was bucking, bucking so hard that it threw everyone in the aisles to the floor, and then with a sickening lurch hurled every person not buckled in to the ceiling.
Carl would have heard the screams better if he weren't screaming so hard himself.
But the voice was right after all. He did not need his passport when he got to England. He arrived in the English countryside at three hundred fifty miles an hour and, like everyone else in first class and right back to the last four rows of the tourist section, was met not by a customs clerk but by hard English rock.
It was one of the worst air disasters ever, at a time of an increasing number of air disasters, and even before the grieving had begun the lawyers arrived to reap their sustenance from the blood on the ground.
Foremost was the famous Los Angeles negligence firm of Palmer, Rizzuto They not only got to the wealthiest families first, but they also provided the best initial case. They could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Gammon 787 had faulty ailerons. They were backed by the best witness in the business, engineer Robert Dastrow, a man so brilliant that even the high-priced lawyers of airlines and construction firms could never discredit him.
It was said of Robert Dastrow that he knew the company's product better than their own engineers. It was said of Palmer, Rizzuto that on the day the world ended, they would have Earth as their client and would begin legal proceedings against Almighty God.
Even the best negligence lawyers, those unused to taking second place to anyone, tended to back away when the awesome might of this gigantic law firm moved into a case. Airlines and plane manufacturers trembled when they heard the names Palmer, Rizzuto
Besides the major industrialists on the flight, whose lives and services were worth millions, there was even a good case for a ne'er-do-well from Pittsburgh, Carl Schroeder. One of the many junior attorneys working for Palmer, Rizzuto had found an aunt of the boy, and had guaranteed he could prove a loss in a British court, a substantial monetary loss.
His case against Gammon and its failure to properly secure the aluminum aileron-stabilization bar was that they had deprived this aunt of Carl's monumental potential in life. Why was it so monumental? Because, as the attorney intoned to the jury, young Carl hadn't used any of it yet.
The cost of Gammon 787s went up as the awards mounted and every new Gammon was recalled to resecure the aluminum aileron-stabilization bar and make access to it more difficult.
In Paris, France, a young art student pining for Seattle, Washington, made a strange, no-questions-asked deal. She would get her airfare home, provided she smoked a cigarette in a strange place.
She was a good deal shrewder than Carl Schroeder, the Pittsburgh hustler. She was not going to smoke that cigarette in the rear of the plane until it landed. And she didn't want a hundred dollars upon landing. And she also had her passport. And she did most certainly care about possibly harming the lives of others.
So only when everyone was debarking in Seattle from the French jet did she go to the rear lavatory, take two puffs of her cigarette, and put it out in the disposal bin loaded with used paper towels. She was not prepared for how quickly the jet went up in flames, and barely got out with her life.
Francine Waller was torn between going to the police and trying to keep herself out of trouble. She knew now, with the quick combustion of the plane, that she would have been dead along with everyone else on board if the plane had not already landed and discharged most of its passengers.
She did not sleep well for several nights, but what changed her mind, swung it over to the side of the law, was the talking brass bedpost. It was the same voice that had talked to her in Paris and told her how she could get home and make a hundred dollars to boot.
"You didn't earn your airfare, Francine," came the voice.
"I know how voices can be beamed and use metal as speakers. I looked it up after we talked the last time."
"So you know that."
"I do."
"You didn't follow instructions.
"
"I'd be dead if I did. The material on the plane seats was like kindling. It went right up."
"Yes, I know how those things work. Unfortunately I misjudged you. Some people are so strange. They're not as simply designed as airplanes."
"So what do you want from me?"
"I want you to forget about how you got back home, and I will forget about you."
"You would have murdered an entire planeload of people. Are you a spy?"
The voice laughed from the brass bedstand in Francine Waller's Seattle home.
"What's so funny?"
"A spy works for a government. Spies are killed by other spies. Governments don't work well at all; therefore I don't work for governments."
"Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone," said Francine.
"I do hope that's so. You know, you disappointed me mightily."
"If living does that, I'm afraid I'm going to try to disappoint you for a long time to come."
"Remember, if your conscience gets the better of you, it's your life that's at stake."
"It's the only thing that's keeping me from the police," said Francine.
"Thanks for letting me know how you work," came the voice.
In the following days, Francine became despondent. She thought of what might have happened to her and everyone else on board. She thought of that person who might have murdered others doing it again. She even heard of a similar disaster in Mexico where more than a hundred people died in the flames of the burning jet, fueled by the seats that had not been changed despite the Seattle fire.
She read that a law firm, Palmer, Rizzuto was calling this failure to change seat material "gross negligence" of the worst sort.
"They had ample proof in Seattle that their planes were death traps and yet they did nothing. The American public cannot be subjected to such negligence by airplane manufacturers who do not care about their product once it has left the assembly line," said a spokesman for Palmer, Rizzuto "Seattle was a lesson to everyone in the world except, it seems, the manufacturers. A jury that values life must make the air safe for travel by insisting through a significant penalty that human life is more valuable than a few dollars saved on seat cushions."
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