New York Strip

by W. J. Costello

  Years earlier Wallace and his people had joined forces with the U.S. Marshals Service to hunt down a military sniper who had gone rogue. It took us three weeks to find the sniper’s hideout in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana. In that time Wallace and I became good friends.

  I sat down on the sofa in my RV and picked up my phone and punched in his number.

  “Wallace Stone.”

  “Wallace? It’s Rip.”

  “The hell do you want?”

  “A favor.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “An opportunity to get into my good graces.”

  “And what’s that worth?”

  “Not much. But it’s something.”

  “You’re lucky I work for cheap.”

  “Damn lucky.”

  “What can I do for you, Rip?”

  “The Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal. I want to visit the place. I’m trying to find somebody who graduated from there. Can you set up an appointment for me?”

  “With?”

  “An instructor. Preferably the top instructor.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Phone you back in a few.”

  We hung up.

  Minutes later my phone rang.

  “That was fast, Wallace.”

  “Only because I’m trying to get into your good graces.”

  “And doing a fine job of that.”

  “Tomorrow morning. Oh-nine-hundred. The commanding officer will meet with you. Navy Captain Gordon Vance.”

  “The commanding officer. Very impressive.”

  “Try not to blow up anything.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE NAVAL SCHOOL Explosive Ordnance Disposal is located at the Eglin Air Force Base in Florida.

  Florida. Woo-hoo!

  I was sick and tired of the cold and snow in New York. A trip to Florida was just what the doctor ordered. Sunshine. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Key-lime pie. Sign me up for that.

  It took me ten minutes to book a flight from Syracuse to Pensacola. Not bad. Especially because it was a last-minute flight. Maybe I could have had a career as a personal assistant.

  It took me five minutes to book a hotel in Destin. A beachfront hotel. Might as well live it up a little. Life is short.

  I exited my RV and walked to the park office.

  “Good afternoon,” I said to the office manager.

  “What happened to your head? That looks painful.”

  “No worries. I heal quickly. I should be as good as new in another year or two.”

  “Really? Is that what the doctor told you?”

  “Just kidding. My head’s fine. Thanks for your concern.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Lane?”

  “I wanted to let you know I’m going to be out of town for a while. I’m not sure for how long. Maybe a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Anyway I plan to leave my RV here. If that’s okay.”

  She swiveled her chair around and checked her computer.

  “No problem,” she said. “But our rates increase in two weeks.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Florida.”

  “What part of Florida?”

  “Destin.”

  “Nice. I wish I could go with you.”

  “Pack your bags. We’re leaving this evening.”

  Her face blushed.

  “You are silly, Mr. Lane.”

  “Mr. Silly. That’s me.”

  “Have a safe trip.”

  “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You got any gun stores around here?”

  “There’s a place called The Gun Store.”

  The Gun Store. Clever.

  “Can you tell me how to get there?”

  Half an hour later I pulled into the The Gun Store parking lot.

  I needed guns. Mine were gone. The Russians had forced me to drop them into Lake Ontario.

  I could have gone back to the lake and looked for my guns but that would have been like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Besides I think the water had probably damaged them beyond repair. They would be nothing but squirt guns now.

  Squirt guns might be fun to play with in swimming pools but try to use one in a real gunfight and see how far you get. Squirt guns contain water but ironically they are useless for wet work.

  The District of Columbia and nine states impose waiting periods for gun purchases:

  California. Florida. Hawaii. Illinois. Iowa. Maryland. Minnesota. New Jersey. Rhode Island.

  New York imposes no waiting period.

  Lucky for me.

  I parked my motorcycle and shut off the engine and dismounted.

  “Howdy,” the clerk said to me when I entered the store.

  “Howdy. The Gun Store. Good name.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.”

  I nodded and walked down an aisle.

  Funny signs made me chuckle:

  AMMO IS EXPENSIVE.

  DO NOT EXPECT A WARNING SHOT!

  NO TRESPASSING.

  WE HAVE GUNS AND SHOVELS.

  DOG BITES.

  OWNER SHOOTS.

  I bought five items:

  Ankle holster. Ammo. Glock Twenty-seven. Glock Twenty-two. Hip holster.

  It felt good to be armed again. Armed and ready. Ready for trouble.

  Back in my RV I took out a black Swiss Army suitcase and unzipped it. The items I had bought from The Gun Store fit nicely into a pocket of the suitcase.

  I like to travel light. Especially when flying. A carry-on suitcase is all I need. Nothing else.

  Not checking luggage saves time and worry. No waiting at baggage claim. No lost luggage.

  But with guns and ammo in my suitcase I would need to check it.

  Florida can get chilly in late November. So I packed a pair of jeans and a pair of khaki pants and a few long-sleeved shirts. No need to pack a winter coat. Not for Florida. Not even in late November.

  I optimistically packed some shorts and T-shirts and sandals.

  But I packed no sunscreen. That would have been too optimistic.

  I decided not to pack my boating shoes (Sperry Top-Siders). I usually bring them on trips to the beach. But I had a feeling I wouldn’t have much time for boating or any other vacation activity.

  My black Swiss Army toiletry bag already contained everything I would need to maintain my charming appearance. Doesn’t take much. I put the toiletry bag in the suitcase.

  I went to the bookcase and knelt down and sat back on my heels. My eyes scanned the spines of the paperbacks. Paperbacks are more convenient to carry on trips than hardbacks. They are smaller. Lighter.

  For my trip to Florida it seemed appropriate to bring novels by some of my favorite Florida authors. Carl Hiaasen. John D. MacDonald. Randy Wayne White. Tim Dorsey.

  Decisions decisions.

  I grabbed a book by Carl Hiaasen and tossed it into the suitcase.

  Who else?

  I wondered what Serge and Coleman were up to. So I grabbed a book by Tim Dorsey and tossed it into the suitcase. I planned to read that one on the plane.

  I zipped the suitcase and picked it up and headed toward the entry door.

  Then I stopped.

  I half turned and looked back at Kelly’s red Samsonite suitcase under the dinette table. It reminded me of her absence. Her absence and my promise to her father. An undelivered promise.

  Outside I mounted my motorcycle and started the engine and headed toward the Syracuse Hancock International Airport.

  CHAPTER 42

  AT THE AIRPORT I left my motorcycle in economy parking and took the free shuttle to the terminal.

  On the way to the terminal it started snowing. Heavy snow. A good time to leave town.

  “I’m flying to Florida,” I told a woman on the shuttle. “Good riddance to ice and snow and cold. I’m sure not going to miss any of that. What’s your destinat
ion?”

  “Alaska.”

  “Oh.”

  When the shuttle got to the terminal I strode to the counter and checked my suitcase. Then I sat waiting for the boarding announcement.

  To entertain myself I read Tim Dorsey’s novel and watched passersby. Two things at the same time. Multitasking.

  Several people walked past in clothes that looked uncomfortable. High heels. Tight pants. Itchy sweaters.

  Some people travel smart. They know what to wear on a plane. With cramped seats and changing temperatures on flights it is wise to dress comfortably.

  A wise dresser walked past. I studied him.

  Comfortable shoes. Flat. No heels. Easy to put on and take off at airport security.

  Loose clothes. Nothing to restrict blood circulation.

  Layers of clothes. Layers to help regulate the changing temperatures on flights. Cold? Put on a layer. Hot? Take off a layer.

  Breathable fabrics. Cotton. Linen. Silk. Fabrics that allow air and moisture to pass through.

  The wise dresser deserved a trophy for best dressed. I would have awarded him one if I had had one.

  I turned a page and read some more about Serge and Coleman. Serge said something that made me snort. Nobody stared at me.

  A frazzled-looking woman sat down opposite me. Her son stuck out his arms and zoomed around as if he were a plane.

  “Sit down, Calvin.”

  “Zooooooom.”

  The mother smiled at me and rolled her eyes.

  I smiled understandingly.

  The pretend plane crashed into a chair. No flame erupted. No explosion boomed.

  But the nose sustained damage. A Band-Aid covered the damage. A Popeye Band-Aid.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Be more careful, Calvin.”

  “Zooooooom.”

  The plane transformed into Batman. Then a pirate. Then a soldier.

  Five minutes later the boy napped in a chair while his mother took the opportunity to enjoy some quiet reading time.

  On the plane I sat staring out the window. I always get a window seat when I fly. I like to look out the window.

  Some people are afraid to look out the window. They prefer aisle seats. Fortunately there are enough of those kind of people in the world to accommodate the rest of us who prefer window seats. Everything in nature balances out.

  At six feet two I need legroom. Otherwise I feel scrunched like an accordion. Seats with extra legroom cost a little more. No problem. The comfort is worth the price.

  A pale-faced man sat beside me. When the plane banked sharply he reached shakily for his barf bag. He got it open just in time.

  On the plus side he had little appetite for the in-flight meal. I ended up with an extra salad and dessert.

  It was about eight p.m. when I picked up my suitcase from baggage claims at the Pensacola International Airport.

  I walked past the car-rental counters and headed toward the taxi queue. My time in Florida would be too brief to bother with a rental car.

  Six minutes of waiting in the taxi queue.

  Then I got into a taxi.

  The driver spoke over his shoulder.

  “Where to?”

  “Destin Beach Hotel.”

  On the way there I powered down my window and enjoyed the warm Florida air. If I had had hair on my head, it would have whipped in the wind. Instead the wind flowed smoothly along my aerodynamic head.

  Fortunately I wore layers of clothes. I took off some of the layers and ended up in shorts and T-shirt.

  The driver eyed me in the rearview mirror.

  “You were dressed for a trip to Iceland.”

  “I feel like I just came from Iceland.”

  “Then this must feel like paradise to you.”

  “Florida always does.”

  The ride to the Destin Beach Hotel took an hour.

  The driver took my suitcase from the trunk and set it on the blacktop. He smiled hopefully at me. His teeth needed dental work.

  I tipped him well.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

  In the hotel lobby half a dozen people sat reading books and magazines and newspapers. You see them at every hotel. They stay planted in lobbies twenty-four/seven. Why are they always there? Why aren’t they in their hotel rooms?

  The windows of my hotel room faced the sea.

  I stepped out onto the balcony and enjoyed the expensive view for a few minutes before I got into bed and shut off the light.

  CHAPTER 43

  IN THE MORNING I woke up at five a.m.

  The breakfast room downstairs would open at seven a.m.

  Two hours until breakfast.

  Too long to wait.

  So I decided to eat breakfast elsewhere. Someplace where management understood that some people wake up early in the morning and want to eat breakfast before the day is half over.

  I dressed and went downstairs. In the hotel lobby I walked past half a dozen people reading books and magazines and newspapers. I exited the hotel and hustled across Emerald Coast Parkway to the Waffle House.

  Waffle House. Open twenty-four/seven. Good management.

  “Coffee,” I told the waitress. “Glass of water. Fiesta omelet.”

  “Hash browns with that? Waffles? Any sides?”

  “No thanks.”

  The omelet contained more calories than my usual breakfast. Adding hash browns and waffles to my order would have been living on the edge.

  After breakfast I went for a long run on the beach. By the time I had finished my calves ached from running on the sand. A good kind of ache. The kind that accompanies muscle growth.

  I showered and shaved. Then I dressed. Not in shorts and T-shirt. Though I wanted to. Instead I wore khaki pants and a black dress shirt open at the neck.

  When I exited the hotel I got into the waiting taxi and told the driver to take me to the Eglin Air Force Base.

  Forty minutes later the taxi dropped me off at the Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

  I took out my phone and checked the time.

  Ten minutes early.

  Better early than late.

  I entered the building.

  “I’ve got an appointment with the commanding officer,” I told the petty officer at the desk. “I’m a little early.”

  “Please have a seat. Captain Vance will be with you shortly.”

  But before I could sit down Captain Vance appeared.

  His hand shot out like a torpedo.

  “Welcome, Mr. Lane.”

  We shook hands.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Captain.”

  “You’re welcome. Come into my office.”

  An explosion boomed from outside.

  I flinched.

  Captain Vance chuckled.

  “That’s nothing to worry about. It’s a common sound around here. You’ll get used to it.”

  In his office he motioned me to a chair beside a glass case filled with medals. Then he went around his desk and sat down in his high-backed leather swivel chair. His hands rested on the desk.

  I sat down in the chair.

  He looked me up and down.

  “You keep yourself in good shape. Were you ever in the military?”

  “No. I was a deputy U.S. marshal. We like to work out too.”

  “You’re retired now?”

  “I am.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “You must have powerful connections, Mr. Lane.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because somebody at the Pentagon set up this meeting for you. That doesn’t happen every day. In fact it’s never happened before. So you must have powerful connections.”

  “After this meeting I’ve got one with Donald Trump.”

  Captain Vance exploded with laughter.

  Two explosions since my arrival.

  Dangerous place.

  When the laughter had died down he leaned forward with his elbows resting on the arms
of his chair. He looked me in the eye. He got right to the point.

  “So what’s this meeting about?”

  “I’ve got a few questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Simple questions. Nothing tricky.”

  He nodded. His lips pursed.

  “Go ahead. Ask your questions. I’ll be glad to answer them.”

  “What kind of person pursues a career as an explosives expert?”

  “Somebody who isn’t easily rattled. The job isn’t for the faint of heart. It takes courage. It is one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. An explosives technician must possess a calm mind. Exceptional powers of concentration. Great patience. Steady hands. The ability to lift heavy objects. Strong math skills. Strong analytical skills. Good judgment. The desire to work outdoors.”

  “Who employs them? I mean other than the military.”

  “Explosives technicians are in high demand. They work for a variety of employers. Fire departments. Police departments. Bomb squads. Mining operations. Construction crews.”

  “What states have the highest employment levels for explosives experts?”

  “Texas. Oklahoma. Indiana. West Virginia. Kentucky.”

  I wondered if Sam had moved to one of those states.

  “Which states offer the highest salaries for explosives experts?”

  Captain Vance took a moment to check his computer before he responded.

  “Illinois. Wyoming. Nevada. New York. Massachusetts.”

  New York. Maybe Sam was still there.

  Another explosion boomed from outside.

  This time I didn’t flinch.

  “So none of the states with the highest employment levels offer the highest salaries,” I said. “Why is that? Supply and demand?”

  “That’s as good a guess as any.”

  “What can you tell me about the Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal?”

  “Our standards are high. A third of our students fail.”

  Or bomb out, I wanted to say.

  “The instruction increases in complexity and we disenroll students who fail to keep up. But it is far better to fail in the classroom than to fail in the field. Explosives technicians have no room for error. The stakes are too high. Things must be done precisely. Otherwise people die.”