Hidden Charges

by Ridley Pearson

  He wiped at a stain on his apron. Looking up he spotted a girl of seven or eight standing with her mother at the counter. He smiled and the child giggled, burying her face in her mother’s skirt.

  When the store was empty, he turned to his plump Italian wife. His voice resonated like an opera singer’s, carrying rhythms even when speaking. “Have you been listening to this, Mother?”

  Popolov’s wife—“Mother,” he called her—was as round and short as he. “Mother,” to Mykos Popolov, meant Gaea—the supreme Greek goddess who bestows all good things to all people. Unlike the old man’s white hair and brown eyes, Gaea had graying black hair and sharp blue contented eyes. She wore flowered print dresses, usually containing a shade of red, and shiny black shoes. Her legs were mapped by varicose veins so she had taken to wearing flesh-colored tights. She shuffled stiff-legged when she moved about, pushing her feet noisily across the floor. She shook her wide round head. “I can’t listen to him.” She continued wiping down the wooden tables that occupied the front quarter of the large delicatessen mini-market.

  “I understand,” he said compassionately. Popolov positioned himself by the clock radio, listening intently. A young thickly accented male voice spoke stridently.

  “Who wants junkies and pimps in their back yards? Answer me that. These half-breeds aren’t worthy of dog pounds. They think they can run fear into our lives and drive us into hiding with their violence and filth. They’re nothing but street scum—sewage—meat scraps that should be flushed down the toilets and out of our lives. Why should we put up with needle freaks who corrupt our children just to maintain their own habits? Dog hair like that should be shaved and burned, if you ask me. I don’t see that there’s any choice, is there? Are we all a bunch of you-know-whats content to roll over in the face of a few greaseballs who think they can ruin the beauty of American life? Is that what we’ve come to?”

  The talk show host’s voice cut in. “But isn’t a citizen’s protection group simply a euphemism for a vigilante group, Mr. Civichek? We have the Guardian Angels. Some would say they cause enough problems already. Why do we need the Flock?”

  “Excuse me, one minute,” said the same Bronx-accented voice, “but the Guardian Angels have my respect until the day I die. You’re committing a sin by putting them down. These are people, just like the Flock, who volunteer their time to walk our streets, ride our subways, and patrol our schoolyards.”

  “Then what’s so special about the Flock?”

  “Listen here, the Angels can’t be everywhere, can they? They do their best to take care of the larger cities in this country. The Flock is for places like Hillsdale, Springfield, Providence, Portland, and the dozen other smaller cities we’re already located in. Our bylaws aren’t so different than the Angels’. We have dress codes. We ask our people to look nice. Many of our people are specially trained in CPR. Not even the Guardian Angels can claim that. We aren’t afraid of being tough—maybe a little tougher than the Angels, because sometimes you have to crack one of these goofballs over the head—and we aren’t afraid of the lawsuits. I’ve been to court many times over the last three years, and I’m here talking to you, aren’t I? I’ll let you be the judge of how the courts decided. You don’t see me in jail, do you? The goofballs, the greaseballs, the meat scraps are the ones still in jail. They can try and slow us down with lawsuits, but the Flock will never crawl; we just run slower, that’s all.”

  “You say we don’t see you in jail, but in fact you were once in jail for grand theft, were you not? Didn’t they call you the Elevator? Weren’t you a so-called second-story man?”

  “Sticks and stones, Mr. Commons. You dredge up my past and try to spread it around over your airwaves like so much crud. Yes, yes, yes. You think I’m going to sit here and deny it? Sure, I went the way of the environment I was raised in. I don’t deny anything. But where am I now? I recognized the very ingredients that led me down the wrong path, and I’m back to put an end to those influences that corrupt and degrade the minds of our youths. The Flock travels under the eyes of the Good Lord, not the Devil, Mr. Commons. Your listeners can certainly recognize the difference.”

  Mrs. Popolov had stopped sponging the tables. Now she looked up at her husband, who was bent over the radio. “You see, Mykos, he is a criminal.”

  “I read in today’s paper that he was arrested once. Can you imagine? A criminal! And now look. He claims he wants to clean up the streets, get the junkies out of the alleys, and give the kids a chance. Who can trust him? Answer me that.”

  On the radio Civichek said, “The Flock is what America is all about.”

  “Mother of God,” Mrs. Popolov gasped, making the sign of the cross, “he frightens me.”

  Popolov switched off the radio. “If I had any guts, Mother, I’d chase him out of town. No good can come of this.”

  The thought of her husband’s bravery renewed her concern over the letter. For weeks she had been awaiting the letter. Where could it be? Certainly the Italian government would award him the Medal of Honor for his work in the underground. How could they not? And for him it would mean so much—a simple acknowledgement of a country’s appreciation. He never spoke of it, but for years he had been waiting for that medal.

  Chuck Atkinson, the bald manager of the Safeway, stood in the doorway. “Peter has ordered them arrested!” he said gleefully. “My store is ruined, but we’re finally making some progress.”

  “The children?” Mrs. Popolov asked.

  “The gangs, yes,” acknowledged Atkinson. “I thought the president of the Retailers’ Association should know.”

  “That’s great news. Come in, Chuck. Have some coffee.”

  Mrs. Popolov glared at her husband. Their opinions differed sharply on finding a solution to the gangs of kids who roamed the mall and often scared away potential business. She was of the same opinion as Toby Jacobs, who advocated hiring the youths instead of trying to force them out.

  Her husband, the go-between representing the retailers to management, had taken a firm stance against the gangs, though mostly, she knew, because he felt the democratic obligation of representing the wishes of his constituency. Deep down inside Mykos was rooting for the kids, though he never showed it.

  “I can’t stay.” Atkinson explained the fight and the trashing of his store. “It will take us all day, maybe longer, before I can reopen. I don’t need to tell you what that means. The store is a mess.”

  “I’ll help you clean up.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Mother, you watch the store.” She nodded. It did not surprise her that her husband would offer his services—insist on helping a neighbor—as he just had. Helping others was at the very core of his personality. It was what he lived for. It was what had attracted her to him thirty-seven years ago, on a stormy night in the middle of an air raid. Mykos Popolov thrived on helping other people.

  “You’re kind to offer….” Atkinson hesitated, not knowing what a one-armed man could do.

  “Of course I will help. You will see. We will have you back in business in less than an hour.” On his way out the door, Mykos turned and said, “Mother, call Bill Dramboski and see if he can’t send some of his Puppy Patrol over to help us out. It’s almost noon. Most of the mothers pick their children up around now. The young ladies are probably standing around with nothing to do. Tell him we’ll have them back in no time. Tell him it’s a favor.” Popolov slapped his meaty left hand around the shoulders of Chuck Atkinson. “We’ll have you back in business before you know it.” His big voice was fading into the roar of the rushing crowds, but his wife heard him say, “Have you heard anything about a young man named Les Civichek? He’s a dangerous man. He plans on speaking in the mall tomorrow. I don’t think that’s such a good idea….”

  13

  “I’m awfully busy, so let’s get right down to it.”

  Marvin Haverill looked British. He sat at the head of the conference table, his gray pencil-thin mus
tache and black eyebrows giving him a distinguished look consistent with his Ivy League background. He wore a blue silk handkerchief in his coat pocket, matching tie, gold collar pin. His hair receded from a widow’s peak above a broad forehead with tire-track creases across it. His large ears wiggled as he spoke, an annoying and distracting occurrence that somehow contributed to his intimidating presence. He had the voice of a man who shouted too much.

  The conference room’s indirect cove lighting and hardwood appointments reflected Haverill’s professional attitude. There was no artwork on the walls to distract the participants. Each place at the table held an inverted water glass, a microphone on a flexible arm, and a small felt-padded paperweight embossed with the Yankee Green logo. The African-hardwood conference table was surrounded by ten chairs, though only three were occupied. Knorpp and Jacobs flanked Haverill.

  “What about this explosion?” the big man asked of Jacobs.

  “The police are conducting their own investigation, headed by a Lieutenant Shleit. He seems competent enough, but if you agree, sir, I’d like to conduct my own investigation as well.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’d like to turn over a good deal of the everyday management to Brock, freeing me to poke around some.”

  “The explosion is going to hurt our grand opening,” added Knorpp. “No question about that. I’d say we should step up our advertising in these last few days to try and overcome the negative publicity.”

  “Should we even open?” Haverill asked. He paused. “Toby?”

  “At this point there’s no indication the two are connected. No one has claimed responsibility for the bomb, probably because of the death.”

  “We certainly can’t stop the opening now,” interjected an irate Knorpp.

  “We most certainly can, if we have to,” corrected Haverill.

  “We’d lose what, a hundred thousand dollars in advertising and promotion fees? How can we justify that?”

  “A man was killed, Peter.” He turned to Jacobs. “I think you have a good idea. The sooner we know what’s going on, the sooner we can make a rational decision on the opening.”

  “But this could be exactly what the bomber wants!” objected Knorpp. “He could be trying to close us down.”

  “Who else would do something like this?” Haverill asked Jacobs.

  “Shleit and I discussed the unions with DeAngelo. Shleit thinks this is a little too obvious for Russo. He thinks Russo would try something a little more underhanded, something more subtle.”

  “After my dealings with the man, I’d have to say I agree. I don’t put revenge past a man like Russo, but nothing so blatant. He strikes me as a constrictor, not a venomous snake. He’s the kind to squeeze you to death. Who else?”

  “I mentioned downtown to him.”

  “I hardly think that likely,” commented Haverill. “They dislike us, yes. But bombing us? I don’t think so.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said a disagreeable Knorpp. “They’re getting desperate. Their second quarter sales were off another eighteen percent. That’s twelve straight quarters of losses. They can’t sustain that. Nothing would help them more than to have people afraid to shop the Green.”

  “I just can’t believe they’d resort to this kind of thing.”

  “They’re desperate. Desperate people are unpredictable.”

  “Toby, what do you think?”

  Jacobs felt uncomfortable constantly contradicting Knorpp, a position he often found himself in. “Peter’s right about the downtown merchants being desperate. And desperate people are unpredictable. But that particular group of men just doesn’t strike me as the criminal kind. I could be wrong. A few of them might have hired a professional to try and discredit us, but if I had to make a guess, I’d say this isn’t their work.”

  “I agree.” Haverill scratched a note to himself and asked, “What about people with past grudges? There’s certainly a long list there.”

  “That’s part of the reason I’d like a chance to investigate. The police won’t cover the long shots.”

  “I’ll expect daily reports.”

  Jacobs nodded.

  “But we continue as if we’re opening on Saturday, don’t we?” Knorpp wondered.

  “I think we should. Yes.” Haverill looked inquisitively at Jacobs.

  “I agree.”

  “And what about security arrangements for the lottery money?” Knorpp asked.

  “It’s worked out as we discussed. It’s the state’s responsibility. It’s their lottery after all, not ours. They’ve hired an independent security firm to handle the movement of the cash. It’ll be placed in the display on Saturday around noon and guarded heavily. I have a meeting late Friday with the company handling the job, and I don’t foresee any problems. I’m still uncomfortable with that much cash on hand—it’s simply too tempting a target—but I’ve said that before, haven’t I?”

  “There was little we could do,” Haverill said with the uncommon sound of apology in his voice. “The cash makes it such a good media event. After all the tax concessions city hall’s given us, we couldn’t very well turn them down.”

  Jacobs grunted. He didn’t like the situation, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  “It’s terrific PR,” interjected Knorpp, who had supported the idea all along. “Who the hell’s ever seen two hundred thousand dollars in cash? It’s gonna bring us a lot of business.”

  “Anything else?” asked an impatient Haverill, stealing a look at his wrist watch. Knorpp checked his Rolex.

  “There’s the truck accident outside the new wing,” Jacobs reminded. “If we could lean on those insurance inspectors it would help out the situation. We have nine tons offish about to go bad. If we don’t move that truck before tomorrow—”

  “What about off-loading the fish?” interrupted Haverill.

  “My people contacted the parent company. They’re reluctant to try and move the fish. They’d rather move the trailer.”

  “Christ, it’ll smell up the place something awful,” Knorpp pointed out. “That’s all we need.”

  “If they take much longer, the insurance companies are going to get themselves in an interesting situation,” said Jacobs. “By dragging their feet they’re going to get us sued, which, I assume is what they’re trying to prevent by making the inspection.”

  “Good point. I’ll run that by Phil Huff and see if we can’t light a fire under them…. Speaking of lighting a fire under someone. Where exactly do we stand on our anchor space, Peter? Any progress there?”

  “Is that all for me, sir?” Jacobs asked. The new wing’s biggest anchor, Northern Lights, a regional department store, had gone bankrupt without warning two weeks earlier. The result was an empty space the size of Fort Knox in the new wing. Empty space was a mall’s biggest curse. For two weeks Knorpp and Haverill had been struggling to fill the spot. Rumors were rampant that they would give the space away if the right tenant came along. Knowing Haverill, Jacobs thought that was stretching it a bit. Haverill didn’t give anything away.

  Haverill nodded.

  Jacobs stood to leave. Knorpp had the weasel face of a man about to announce failure, and Jacobs had no desire to stick around.

  14

  In total darkness he began to feel queasy. He switched on the headlamp, despite the noise in the distance. He felt as if he were underwater, swimming at night toward the target, still several hundred yards ahead of him.

  A simple training routine was all it was. SCUBA his way across the bay, plant the charges on the hull of the old freighter being used as a dummy, and swim back to a checkpoint. It had later been explained to him as an “operational miscommunication.” The Navy’s airmen were on a training mission too, that night. And their mission was to bomb the same deserted freighter that had been towed out for target practice.

  Instinctively he touched his head where there should have been skull. All he remembered was the darkness of the water and the blinding
flash. From that day on, total darkness made him queasy.

  He threaded the No. 12 wire into the wide conduit that ran the length of the narrow utility tunnel. These two wires would serve as his master trunk line for the detonators. His work on the last column had gone quickly, the cement softer than he had encountered previously. He had picked up a half hour.

  He was anxious to see the damage caused by the accidental explosion. It had a specific purpose, and a quick look would tell him if he had calculated its effects correctly. But the look would have to wait. That area would be far too hot for the next few days.

  His efforts consumed his every moment. For the past eight weeks he had worked furiously to accomplish all that had to be done. As usual, he had been sleeping very little. Now, with just days to go, each minute seemed more exciting than the last. Timing was everything. His moment was at hand.

  At first, entering the construction site had made him nervous. Then, after just a few visits, he realized there were too many subcontractors’ crews working intensely to finish up the project for anyone to notice him. Hundreds of workers were scattered around the three-hundred-thousand-square-foot pavilion, from construction supervisors to installers and testers of the numerous rides that would comprise FunWorld. He blended right in. He wore blue jeans, a T-shirt advertising Mepps fishing lures, and a tool belt. He looked no different from any of the others.