Big Guns

by Steve Israel

  “Operation Back to School Night” was under way.

  *

  Since Jack Steele loved dramatic entrances, he took his time preparing for his arrival at the League of Women Voters debate, as he would for any starring role—in a dressing room fit for a king, specifically, Louis XIV at Versailles. This was one of his favorite rooms in Villa di Acciaio—carved woodwork, gilded walls, parquet floors, and crystal chandeliers. A floor-to-ceiling shoe rack was stocked with polished boots in every conceivable color, style, and hide. Jack draped himself in a burgundy velvet robe and sat at a vanity with a towering illuminated mirror.

  He looked into the mirror and sighed. Eighty-two-year-old Jacob Stoll, born in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, stared back, sadly. He had an ashen, pockmarked face that looked like the surface of the moon. His thin hair was in a disorderly retreat, leaving brown splotches across his scalp. His neck had withered like a dried-out vine. His head shook slightly. Without makeup, Jacob Stoll looked like he should be shuffling through the early-bird buffet in Boca rather than kicking in doors in Baghdad.

  He began the transformation—not a makeover as much as a reconstruction project. He pasted his scalp with a concoction that smelled like curdled milk and covered it with a shiny gray toupee. To his face he applied various white lotions squeezed from small gray tubes as well as dabs of anti-wrinkle cream and drops of age-defying eye ointment. Plus, forehead rejuvenator, lip fortifier, chin restorer, cheek toner, blemish remover, neck revitalizer. All polished off with something called Hollywood Secret Bronzing Formula Pigment #42, which had the smell and sheen of varnish. Then he leaned in the mirror. Flashed a smile. And exhaled a satisfied “That’s better.”

  He curled two fifteen-pound weights five times. It was getting harder. He felt his chest heave, his lungs wheeze, and he imagined all the new parts of his heart rattling around. He sat to catch his breath.

  After a few minutes, he muttered, “Wardrobe.”

  Jack selected a pair of sharply pressed black jeans and a checkered shirt that could have been folded by a marine honor guard. He found a blue blazer from an endless rainbow display of blazers, and carefully inserted an American flag pin through the lapel. Then he slipped on a pair of crocodile-skin cowboy boots and perched a black cowboy hat on his head. He straightened his back. Snapped his spine into place. Projected his chin. Just the way George C. Scott had taught him.

  Next, he rehearsed the lines written by the campaign consultants, flicking his tongue and regulating his breath to ensure that perfect Jack Steele delivery: the recognizable clip of syllables and somber gray gravel of his voice.

  “The Constitution does not end at the village line.”

  “The Mayor of Mayhem.”

  “Lefty Lois.”

  He stole a final glance at the mirror. Issued a crisp “Carpe diem!”

  Showtime!

  *

  Jack found Amber in her bedroom, which she’d occupied in recent years when his snoring became insufferable and the sex became barely sufferable. She was sprawled on a plush red divan, dressed in black spandex shorts and a gym halter, lazily flipping through a glossy East End real estate magazine, previewing her options when Jack finally carped his last diem. He kissed her goodbye. She squeezed his hand in a sign of affection or, perhaps, a check of his pulse.

  A small elevator whisked Jack from his living quarters to a garage glittering with high gloss metal and redolent of fresh leather. Jack thought he’d look good in black that evening. He pressed a button, a massive platform rotated silently, and a vintage black Ferrari 328 GTS presented itself. He pressed another button and the garage door hummed open. He rumbled down the long gravel driveway, the flood-lit towers of Villa di Acciaio receding in the rearview mirror. Jack made a sharp left onto Asabogue Bluff Lane and accelerated, the Ferrari roaring. He sped past the Cogsworths’ place and then Caitlyn Turner’s, ignoring the stop sign near her gates. He felt just a little jealous that the mediocre actress with collagen-swelled lips was vying for an Oscar nomination. The closest he ever came was appearing at a Golden Globe tribute with Sylvester Stallone, Steven Seagal, and Chuck Norris. He comforted himself by thinking, In my day you didn’t have to show your tits to get an Oscar. Not on camera, at least.

  *

  The DPW van bounced, squeaked, and rattled with every pothole that the DPW hadn’t paved. Ralph winced whenever he heard jostling in the rear compartment. One tiny splatter of fuel, one errant spark, would bring Operation Back to School Night to a premature and inglorious end. He tightened his beefy hands around the jig-gering steering wheel.

  Bobby Reilly sat next to Ralph, nervously tapping his fingers against his knees. “Really could use a cigarette,” he whimpered.

  “Later.” Ralph looked at his watch. Almost eight. He calculated another couple of minutes to the intersection of Asabogue Bluff Lane and Main, then a straight dash to the high school. He narrowed his eyes on the dark road ahead.

  *

  Jack raced along the winding descent toward town. It was so dark he couldn’t make out the high hedgerows against the night sky. There were no other cars on Asabogue Bluff Lane, which made sense because famous actresses and fugitive Russian tycoons probably didn’t have the time or inclination to drive to the Meet the Candidates Debate at Asabogue High School. Not everyone on the Bluff was as civic-minded as Jack Steele.

  He rehearsed additional lines to the shifting of gears and the accompanying humming of the Ferrari.

  “My gun permit is the Second Amendment.”

  “It’s not gun control. It’s freedom control.”

  “Lefty Lois.” Jack really liked that one.

  He took the final curve with a growling downshift and squealing tires. Then accelerated toward the intersection of Asabogue Bluff Lane and Main Street, and that streetlamp that had been broken forever. He promised his first act as mayor would be to fix the damned thing.

  *

  Ralph Kellogg checked the rearview mirror to make sure his men were maintaining pace. Headlights bounced behind him. He returned his eyes to the unlit intersection ahead.

  “Oh shiiiiiittt!” screamed Ralph Kellogg.

  “Oh shiiiiiittt!” shrieked Jack Steele.

  It was, as Ralph would say shortly after the conjoining of a cargo van packed with thousands of pounds of explosives and a Ferrari packed with one hundred and seventy pounds of explosive ego, “a fuckin’ miracle” that they weren’t consumed in a massive fireball. The front end of the van T-boned Jack’s car as it sped through the intersection. Both vehicles came to a rest against the streetlight, which, in a moment of taunting irony, flickered back on.

  Jack Steele staggered out of his car, dazed and tottering, blood trickling from under his toupee.

  The convoy behind Ralph screeched to a stop. He could hear the urgent steps of his men approaching, accompanied by a chorus of breathless profanities. Next to him, Bobby Reilly moaned and rubbed his head. Ralph pushed open his door and stepped out. His legs wobbled.

  “Ralph Kellogg?” slurred Jack.

  “Mr. Steele?” asked Ralph.

  They stared at each other.

  Ralph recommended the customary exchange of licenses and insurance cards. Actually, he remained silent while considering whether to shoot Steele or just beat him to death. The question would have to wait. Ralph had a bigger problem. He left Steele standing in delirium and hurried toward the rear of the van. The doors had opened and were creaking back and forth. Ralph peered carefully inside. Everything was packed so tightly that the impact hadn’t done much damage, as evidenced by the fact that Ralph was peering inside the van and Ralph’s insides weren’t splattered outside the van.

  There was, however, the distinct odor of gasoline leaking from the van’s undercarriage.

  Bobby Reilly had plunked himself on the side of the road, near Jack Steele, who was babbling incoherently about needing his “next line.” Bobby held his bleeding head in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

  “Bobby!”r />
  Bobby blew a heavy gust of smoke. “Okay, okay,” Bobby said groggily. “Just one puff. Geez!”

  He flicked the cigarette into the air.

  Ralph watched in horror as the burning projectile floated toward the van. It seemed to travel in slow motion, straight out of a Jack Steele movie, the bright orange ember twirling as it approached.

  Ralph thought, This isn’t gonna be good.

  His final order of the evening, and, he considered, possibly for the rest of his life, was “Duck!!!”

  38

  Petey Scrafel was regaling Megan Slattery and a couple of million viewers with a brief political history of Asabogue when the entire Cafetorium shuddered to the dull thud of a distant explosion. There was a collective gasp from the audience, accompanied by the spontaneous howling of car alarms outside and a rush to the exits. Petey Scrafel was among the first out, sniffing for a local news story. His nose quickly filled with fumes.

  A fireball illuminated the high school from a mile away. Petey quickly realized this wasn’t the usual Village of Asabogue Annual July 4th Fireworks Extravaganza. This was more like the Village of Asabogue First Annual Reenactment of the Hindenburg.

  Oh, the humanity.

  Petey raced toward the scene, nearly leaping over cars in the school parking lot.

  “Wait for me!” a voice pleaded. He stopped and turned. Megan Slattery was rushing toward him, hobbled by her Christian Louboutin Pigalle pumps. Coming on fast was Harry Holt, cheeks puffing, preparing a vicious hip check against Megan. A furlong behind were the networks’ camera crews, equipment banging against their heaving shoulders. They all charged forward in the luminous night.

  The Asabogue Bugle would not be scooped. Petey ran faster. Sprinting across the school grounds, across Main Street, down one block, then another, toward the Bluff. He sensed someone gaining on him and turned his head sideways. Sam Gergala leaped past him.

  A wall of heat at the intersection forced them all to a sudden stop. The fireball had sunk to a roaring flame. The crowd caught up, then reared back, retching on searing air thick with smoke. Sirens wailed in the distance. Petey could make out the burning wreckage of a vehicle. Then saw the twisted remains of another. It looked like it used to be a sports car. Now it was rocking on its side, its alarm system futilely warbling for help.

  Someone screamed, “Heads up!”

  A chunk of metal temporarily wedged in a tangle of tree limbs suddenly crashed to the ground. It was from an old RCA television set. Then, the ashen remains of notepads fluttered on the crowd, like light gray snow. Plus the burnt remains of homemade flags from either Mexico or Saudi Arabia—Petey couldn’t figure out which.

  The intersection was sheer carnage, except for a streetlamp that glowed resiliently overhead. (It was later designated as the official village memorial to the evening’s events: “the Eternal Light.”)

  Petey heard soft moans coming from the side of the road. He could see several figures sprawled in various contortions. One sat against a tree, cradling his knees. His clothing was singed and shredded. He looked like a minstrel—face blackened from smoke, except for large white circles around wide eyes mesmerized by the flames.

  “That was awesome!” said Bobby Reilly.

  39

  Lois Liebowitz called Sunny and Sam to an emergency meeting at midnight. Sunny’s Parks Department sweatshirt reeked of smoke and her pinned-back hair was flecked with gray cinders. Sam stared catatonically at Lois’s kitchen table.

  “I want to discuss where we go from here,” Lois began.

  Sunny found her mother’s voice surprisingly steady, and suggested that in view of the tragedy, state officials would likely postpone the election. “Someone’ll need to check the state law on that. Review our options.”

  “None of that matters anymore,” Lois declared.

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m withdrawing from the race. I don’t want to be mayor.”

  “Mother—”

  “I’ve been thinking about it since the shooting. I mean, what difference does being mayor of Asabogue really make?”

  “You’ve been through a lot, Mother. Let’s talk about it in the morning. After we all get some sleep.”

  “We can’t sleep. We have work to do.”

  Sam mumbled, “You just said you’re quitting the campaign.”

  “I said I won’t run for mayor. I have a better idea. But we only have a few hours.”

  40

  Asabogue’s representative in the U.S. Congress was Otis J. Pickerling. A man of pleasing visage and perfect coif, the twenty-year incumbent hadn’t faced a competitive election in, oh, about twenty years. He dressed daily in a crisp blue suit, red-striped tie, and American flag pin glimmering from his lapel. In Washington, he’d compiled a voting record which, depending on the audience, he described as “fiercely conservative,” “moderately progressive,” “proudly partisan,” or “pragmatically bipartisan.” What was indisputable was his lifetime NRA Political Victory Fund rating of one hundred percent, for which he received from the fund the maximum contribution of ten thousand dollars in thanks every two years. Of course, there was no quid pro quo, though the congressman was quite the pro. Pickerling’s legislative gymnastics were exceeded only by his exceptional ability to angle his body into any assemblage of constituents and cameras. It wasn’t that he was a press hound, it was that he was a rabid one, foaming at the sight of any audience.

  So, when he received an early-morning call inviting him to a press conference with Mayor Liebowitz to discuss the tragic events of the prior night, he defied the usual congressional gridlock and moved swiftly. He never stopped to ask why Sunny McCarthy, who was always too important to return his fund-raising calls, would personally summon him.

  The national press corps herded into Asabogue Village Hall for the usual post-random-act-of-violence media availability. The Old Sitting Parlor was packed. Dozens of tripods were splayed, cameras pointed, pads unfolded, and recorders activated. The wooden floor groaned and the single air conditioner hissed at having to labor in the off-season. From their oil-painted perch high on the walls, the village fathers glowered. Or maybe those were nineteenth-century guffaws. Life was harder back then.

  Lois Liebowitz stood behind a podium, the brim of her straw beach hat hovering just above a thicket of outstretched microphones. She was flanked by Chief Ryan and Sam Gergala. The chief assumed his customary stance, feet spread, hands on hips, braced for incoming. Sam Gergala stared absently ahead. Behind them were politicians from every level of government, down to and including the deputy commissioner of the Town of Southampton Sewer & Water District. Plus the many representatives of local, state, and federal law enforcement. And Congressman Pickerling, who plastered himself next to Lois. So broad the bureaucracies, so narrow the camera apertures.

  Sunny strategically positioned herself within eyesight of Lois. They’d worked most of the night; she’d had just enough time to shower and change into a fresh Parks Department sweatshirt. Lois fumbled for her reading glasses, then fidgeted with the pages of her statement. She nervously cleared her throat, producing a guttural noise unprecedented in the headsets of the network audio engineers. She glanced at Sunny, who returned an encouraging nod. Sunny thought back to that day in Chicago, when it was Roy Dirkey seeking her support from offstage. She chased him out of her mind.

  Lois narrowed her eyes through her reading glasses and began: “At approximately eight o’clock last evening, a terrorist plot to attack and murder hundreds of Asabogue residents was disrupted by one of our neighbors, Jack Steele. Mr. Steele was en route to the Meet the Candidates Debate when he apparently encountered a stolen van belonging to the village. The van carried thousands of pounds of explosives. Its destination was Asabogue High School, where the debate was to be held.”

  The officials behind Lois commenced their officially grim nods.

  “It’s still unclear how Mr. Steele foiled the plot. We do know that had it not been for him, the perpetrators
would have arrived at the crowded school. Their intent was to detonate the vehicle. The fatalities would have been”—Lois bit her lip—“catastrophic.” She paused, drew in a deep breath, and returned a trembling sigh. Sunny wrapped her baggy-sleeved arms around her chest. Steady, she silently coached her mother.

  “Sadly, Mr. Steele did not survive. In this case, life has imitated art. Jack Steele’s final act was an act of heroism.”

  Sunny didn’t like that part. Too schmaltzy, she thought. But Lois insisted; and given everything her mother had been through—a brutal campaign, the Muffin Massacre, an attempted assassination—Sunny conceded. The fact that Jack had died of a heart attack seemed, well, anticlimactic.

  “The perpetrators of this crime are all in custody and receiving medical attention. As mayor, I can tell you the Village of Asabogue is . . .”

  Lois glanced at Sunny again. Sunny nodded back. Lois removed her glasses, glared straight into the phalanx of cameras, and proclaimed, “. . . dangerous.”

  The officials behind her fell out of rhythm. Some nodded robotically; some froze noncommittally; some darted their eyes nervously. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Where was the part about being stronger than ever; evil never wins; hearts and prayers; all that stuff?

  The reporters stirred from their “same story, different details” torpor.

  “We used to be a safe place. No one even knew we existed unless they were driving somewhere bigger and better. When we saw violence in other places, like Chicago, we thought it could never happen here.”

  Chief Ryan nodded indignantly, his ruddy cheeks now inflamed.

  “Now we know better. It’s happening everywhere. There are three hundred twenty-five million Americans and about three hundred million guns. So guess what? Law of averages, people. Random violence is coming to a theater near you. Or a mall, a school, maybe where you work. You’re all on the losing end of a national game of Russian roulette!”

  Lois waved an index finger in the air, to lightning bursts of flashbulbs.