by Bob Neir
“Then, get rid of him!” Trent ordered.
“We can’t. He knows too much.”
“Then, he’s your headache.”
Madden righted the cot and hauled Harper up by his collar. Cleaning him off, he eased him back onto the cot. Harper clutched his painfully bruised ribs and drifted off in a drunken stupor.
“Dammit, Harper,” Madden said, his face tight, eyeing him sadly. He couldn’t forget Harper in his prime and what he could do with the big guns. Poor bastard, he thought, still running. Madden left, closing the door behind him.
“Well?”
“He’ll survive. No thanks to you.” Madden reached into his pocket and flipped a spiral notebook at Trent. “Harper went over it. The notes are his. I guess you didn’t know everything.” Madden walked away.
Trent shouted after him, “Sober him up and get him up on the roof. Graves and Hirsch are due in. And make sure he stays out of sight.”
“The roof?” Madden turned, his face puzzled. “Why the lookout? We got problems?”
“Maybe. They might be followed.”
“By whom?”
“You’ll find out when I do.”
* * *
In fits and starts, a blue truck meandered down Waters street. Harper watched it stop and park under a mid-block streetlight. He sniffled as he pulled his collar up against a bracing, cold wind. He thumped his arms; the thin, poplin jacket offered no protection against the chill. He slipped a hand into his inside pocket, just a nip, no harm, he thought, but his fingers let the pint slip back. Two men got out, set their hand luggage on the curb, locked up and walked back up to Eastlake, the main drag. Waters street fell under the spell of streetlights as evening faded into dark. A stray dog wandered from curb to curb, to nowhere in particular, poking his nose into cans and loose paper sacks. Harper felt compassion for the animal, alone, having to fend for itself. An animal didn’t hate like a human. Feared but didn’t hate. He hated Trent. He hated authority. He hated the Navy. He hated people ordering him around. But, with five million in his pocket, he could tell the world to stuff-it and the thought carried him.
It was shortly past midnight. Harper leaned over the parapet and caught a single set of bright headlights. They moved slowly, then hesitated, and then stopped alongside the blue Dodge truck. A door flew open. A pair of legs showed and a beautiful blonde emerged from a yellow Corvette with a black hardtop. Her hair was pulled back tied with a topknot. She checked out the blue truck then slipped back into the Corvette and sped away. To Harper, it wasn’t important; she didn’t steal anything. A small nip couldn’t hurt, he thought, again. No one would know. A coughing spell shook him.
* * *
“Hirsch and Graves are sleeping one off. They will be here in the afternoon,” Trent said as he slipped out from behind the wheel
“I checked the truck. No parking tickets,” Madden said. “Good thing the cops avoid the Point. They only show up for abandoned or stripped cars.”
“Where’s Harper?”
“Sleeping in back.”
“Get him up.”
Madden jostled Harper’s cot with his foot; Harper struggled, sat up, put his head in his hands and moaned.
“Another hangover, Harper?” Trent asked sardonically.
“Get off my ass,” Harper cried.
“What did you say?” Trent stared at him in disbelief. Taking a step forward, he rebuked him mildly. “I better have heard you wrong.”
“Mind how you handle me,” Harper stared up, his eyes bloodshot.
“What was out there?”
“The street was creepy. Aside from the blue truck, a good-looking babe in a yellow Corvette drove by. She looked lost.” Harper rubbed his face. Madden noticed a frown cross Trent’s face.
“Was she alone?” Trent asked.
“Near as I could tell.”
“Did she get out of the Corvette?”
“Sure did. She checked out the truck, got back in and took off.”
“Anything else?”
Harper furrowed his forehead. “Didn’t see too much. It was getting dark, nice legs. She stuck them way out.” He grinned wearily at the recollection.
A heavy knock rattled the metal warehouse door. Trent jumped up, gun in hand. He took a position beside the door. “It’s us, Graves and Hirsch.”
“In here, how was the trip?”
“The way Graves drives, it’s a miracle we didn’t blow up.”
“Trouble?”
“A cracked water pump; but we made it to Susanville and got it replaced. The State Patrol pulled us over for a busted tail light. They got curious and looked in back. The powder was all in sacks. Graves told them it was fertilizer. I damn near died,” said Hirsch.
“If one of them cops had lit up – Kablooie.” Graves guffawed as he threw up his arms.
“Were you followed?” Trent probed.
“Not so as I could tell. Wasn’t paying much attention.” Graves replied, his face quizzical. “We hit some long and lonely stretches. Had to pull off the road a couple of times, but Maxie kept her running. Don’t know how we could miss a tail.” Graves said, scratching his chin.
“How about a yellow Corvette?”
“No chance.” Graves replied. “If I saw one of those babies, I’d remember.”
“Did you get out of Reno clean?” Graves looked puzzled. Hirsch gave Trent a sharp look. “What kind of question is that? We let out the word we had jobs in Alaska, if that’s what you mean.”
“What’s going on here?” Graves snorted, looking around the room. Behind his back, he heard voices, he turned to see Madden amble in, followed by Harper. Graves broke into a big grin. Harper was ignored; his face expressionless.
“Get the truck inside,” Trent ordered.
“Toss me the keys, Graves.” Graves reached inside his pocket, hauled out a single key and tossed it to Madden. With the blue Dodge inside, the warehouse doors were shut and the sacks of powder carefully unloaded onto wooden pallets. Graves grinned and pretended to spit on his hands. His lips said, “Come on, let’s get the stuff to where it’s dry and cool,” Graves pointed, spotting a dry wall to his liking. “That bench will make a good drying table,” Graves wiped off surface moisture. “Black powder is dangerous when wet. The sooner we get it dried and bagged, the better.”
“Who needs a lecture?” Harper spoke up.
“Who the hell are you?” Graves exploded.
“Meet Ben Harper,” Madden interceded. Graves looked Harper over, and then ignored him.
“I picked up a couple of rifles, two M60 machine guns and plenty of ammo. Lucky the cops didn’t look under the powder.” Graves laughed; Hirsch cringed, shifting on his short, ungainly legs.
“Any problem getting the stuff?” Madden asked.
“Not in my line of work. I can get anything I want if I got the dough,” said Graves. “It’s a free county. Me and the NRA are gonna keep it that way.”
“You sound like a commercial,” Hirsch jumped him.
“Listen, I could start a war, arm my own army and nobody would say ‘boo,’” Graves’ mouth curled: there was a quick flash of laugher. Harper’s face remained impassive.
“You two check out of the Fairmont and move in here,” Trent ordered.
“Hey, I could get used to that fancy place,” Graves added.
“We’re a low budget operation, haven’t you got the word yet,” Hirsch said.
“How about spending some of the dough upfront?” Graves volunteered.
“You’d go soft as mush,” Madden added.
“Enough. We have work to do,” Trent ordered. The rest of the day was spent setting up living accommodations: bunks, a cook stove, tables and necessary utensils. A small refrigerator was hauled in and stocked with beer, the only convenience allowed. Harper added locks and latches and generally secured the building.
“Keep them busy, Peter,” Trent said “I meet Newby in twenty minutes.”
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 9<
br />
The whistle sounded as the Washington State ferry Hyak neared its Seattle Ferry Terminal. The ferry from Bainbridge Island slowed, bumped, reversed, and then coasted, barely easing under a car ramp that clattered down onto the ferry’s steel deck. To Trent, the sound brought back memories of oil-hungry destroyers fighting to hold station alongside the Missouri. Refueling hoses would tear loose and whip about like live snakes, spewing oil all over the deck. A man would be lost, snapped overboard by a broken hose. Or a destroyer would get sucked into the Missouri’s massive side, ripping fenders loose and rending metal plates, steel on steel.
Newby knocked on the window of the red ‘65 Mustang, opened the door and slid in. Trent sped away.
“Jesus! What a week!” Newby exclaimed, looking green under the gills. “The Brass is in a frenzy. The bids are in. They’ll sign anything to get the Missouri ready on time. Nobody expected the recall and after this weekend, all leaves are cancelled. Good thing for us, though, Eh?”
“Well! Do we get a contract?”
“How about the number two turret? We’ll be all to ourselves. Conover wants contracts signed by next Tuesday. There will be a contractor’s briefing this weekend. Details, you know. Can you make it?”
“I have a business trip coming up, but I can put it off. I’ll bring Madden,” Trent said. “Any work crews on board yet?”
“A Yard crew started opening up the engine spaces. It’s a tough job and could hold up the tow date. The turret should be straightforward.” Newby held up a folder and laid it on the car seat, “The diagrams and deck plans are in here. I’m still running an inventory check of gun parts.”
“Good. Here’s Harper’s latest list.”
“When do we take the Missouri?” Newby asked, his skin tingling with impatience. “After I retire, maybe?” Newby laughed, his skin crinkling about his eyes.
Trent dropped Newby off to catch the 1100 departure. He wheeled the few blocks up from the Ferry Terminal to the Olympic Hotel. Parking in the hotel garage, he shot up through the lobby and headed for the Holiday Fur Shoppe. Trent whistled at the fur pieces enticingly displayed on window manikins. The Shoppe’s walk-in trade had money. Sugar daddies probably found it simpler to reach for their wallet than say ‘no’. Trent patted his wallet. A brunette sat perched on a tall stool beside a white counter trimmed in gold.
“I’m trying to locate a young lady. She dropped in here about two weeks ago.” In the strong sunlight and against the sharp green of a drape, she was startlingly attractive. She lifted her heel until it caught the stool rung. She leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.
“A friend of yours?” She asked coyly.
“An acquaintance. I dropped her off here. I thought you might remember her.”
“No, not really,” She muttered, tossing the hair from her eyes.
“Long blonde hair, pulled back and tied in a knot.”
“Oh! That one! Lisa Mallory.” Her eyes narrowed to cat-like slits. “She’s not a customer. She works for some company that collects money, overdue bills, I guess.” She loosened her skirt and plucked it away from her thigh. “The owner wasn’t here, so she chewed me out instead.”
“Does she work nearby?” Trent asked.
“I hope the bitch is in big trouble.” She slipped off the stool and crossed through a curtained doorway. Trent heard papers shuffle. She reappeared and said, “There’s no address, just a name and phone number. Let’s see, the NARDO AGENCY.”
Trent gave a crooked grin then jotted down the phone number. “How about mine?” she said, sliding up on the stool and letting the slit in her skirt fall open.
Trent sighed, “Business before pleasure.”
“Don’t be a dull boy.”
Trent didn’t look back, but checked for his wallet safely tucked away on his hip.
* * *
Trent passed through Haury’s portals, but not before catching a glimpse of a parked yellow Corvette with a black hardtop. He marched up to the bar, a man on a mission.
“Has Madden been in, Charlie?”
“Not since Friday.” Charlie tugged at a beer tap, the glass frothed up and overflowed. He cut the foam and slid the glass down the bar to a pair of outstretched hands. The place seemed crowded to overflowing and the noise off the tin ceiling almost deafening. Trent shouldered through a milling Friday night crowd.
“Hey! Stranger!” A soft voice floated over gruff bar sounds. Unsure, Trent turned. She was sitting alone. “Remember me?”
Trent said dryly, “One so attractive is not easy to forget.” She raised her eyebrows at his comment.
“Flattery will get you everything. Join me?” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. They broke into laughter. He wedged his legs into the booth and signaled for drinks. He felt the electricity. She tossed her head back, gracefully folded her hands and tucked them under her chin. Pulled back blonde hair was tied in a knot. The mingled scents of freshly washed hair and Lily-of-the-Valley perfume taunted his nostrils. The aroma was doing a number on him. She looked even more attractive than at the Olympic Hotel. Feature by feature, Trent dared not confess she had been guilty of disturbing his dreams.
“I guess you wonder what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?” She cooed, her green eyes flashing.
“Do you read minds too?”
“I wanted to meet you,” she said, a coy smile parting her lips. “I heard you would be here.” Trent tucked his finger between his collar and neck and tugged at his shirt.
“I will be forever indebted to my benefactor, whoever it was. I too am flattered; but disadvantaged. We haven’t been introduced.”
“My name is Lisa Mallory.”
“Anthony Trent.”
“Married?”
“Was.”
“I’m a ‘was’ too, but, it’s not what you think.”
“There you go, reading my mind again,” Trent said.
“Sorry!” She pouted.
“Have you been practicing your parking?”
“Sorry about bumping your car.”
“I guess that makes us old friends. How about dinner?”
“That’s too good of an offer to turn down!”
“Let’s get away from here. I know a great place.”
Trent watched her creamy white neck and shoulders as she rose. Charlie was at first nonplused, but when Lisa’s hand passed under Trent’s arm, he grinned, the all-knowing male.
The Scarlet Tree was a quaint, out of the way bistro in north Seattle on Roosevelt off 65th. The place wasn’t fancy, but it was a favorite of the locals, a shoes-off kind of a place where the crowd didn’t put on airs and the food was great. Trent pictured Myrna sitting across the table: it did not stir unpleasant memories, but, that fire had been banked. Trent asked for a bottle of Chianti and ordered without looking at the menu. They shared hot bread and toasted with Chianti. The spaghetti arrived steaming hot and smothered with meat sauce. Lisa spun her fork expertly.
“It always tastes better when someone else cooks it.”
“When you smiled there, for a moment I thought you were Myrna, my ex-wife.” The disclosure was unintended; it just came out. Lisa ignored it but turned quiet and thoughtful, almost reticent. “Why did you want to meet me?” Trent asked, eyeing her curiously. “It wasn’t accidental, was it?”
“No,” her cheeks flushed, as if acutely ashamed.
“I’m on pins and needles,” he said, his laugh was thin, “and terribly flattered. It must be because I’m so virile.”
She laughed. “Then, you don’t think badly of me?” She glanced at him liltingly. Lisa softened, but he sensed a barrier.
“Let me guess. You’re a policewoman and you’re going to arrest me for some heinous crime I didn’t commit?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, but I will hear your confession, if you like.” She reached across, touching his hand. Trent felt nonplussed. He felt the flow of a strange attraction. Shelving discretion, he blurted impetuously, “May I see you ag
ain?”
She met his gaze calmly as she brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Her eyes fell silent, then flicked up again for just a second. “I would like that,” she replied, a slight quiver in her lower lip. It was a physical embrace, although neither had moved.
By the time he dropped Lisa off at Haury’s, she had his mind in a complete whirl. The excitement was like a drug. She squeezed his hand, tenderly, as they crossed the street to the Corvette. He opened the car door: she looked both vulnerable and desirable. Their eyes locked and held.
“Thanks for a lovely evening,” she purred.
She kissed him on the cheek, threw her beautiful legs aside and slipped into the driver’s seat. Lisa started the engine and sped away. The yellow Corvette disappeared in the distance. Trent felt the years roll back. He touched his face: a memento of an evening most pleasant. How did she know I would be at Haury’s? Why did she want to meet me? Who was she, really? To know would have spoiled the evening. The yellow Corvette with the black hardtop was showing up too many times. Lisa Mallory, in some way, was a threat. Lisa Mallory spelled ‘trouble’.
* * *
Trent felt the biting cold salt air lace his face as he stood out in the open on the upper deck of the Bremerton ferry. As the ferry plowed on steadily westward, he braced himself and clutched his fur-lined collar tight about his neck. The city of Bremerton and the Yard soon appeared in the distance, an inseparable pair. The bow propeller thrashed easing the ferry into her slip. Navy Patrol Boat #41, a number painstakingly painted on her gray hull, lay idling next to the ferry terminal. Disembarking, he and Madden were carried forward by a crowd of tourists heading for the Navy Base gate. They waited for a Marine guard to check their ID’s and place a phone call. Madden reminisced of the fast gearing up of the war years, 1941-45, when the Yard hit its stride. Now things were very different: no yard birds in sight, civilian workers, welders, ship-fitters, electricians, keepers of the Reserve Fleet, were off. Except for crews working the Missouri, these were unhurried times.
