The Maroons
Diego watched a pigeon pick up a twig with its beak, balance it, and fly away in a straight line. Instinct? How could they be born knowing how to build a nest? Big Ben chimed, and Diego reached for his cell phone. He straightened on the park bench. “Hola.”
“Max L., here.”
“Sentient,” Diego said. The code word.
“Nine, tonight. Base camp. Don’t be yourself.”
“Nine tonight, base camp. Full stealth. It’s a loss to the world.”
“For everything there is a season,” Maximum Leader said, hanging up.
It was a cool morning in early spring. Diego stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked with a slight limp across the cobblestones. He was medium sized, squarely built. A close black beard partially covered a birthmark on his lower jaw. His eyes were light blue, almost gray.
“The calling,” he explained to the bronze sculpture of a kneeling lobsterman. He could wear the orthodox outfit—the hat brim, dark glasses, and extravagant beard hid his face completely. The long coat was warm, but it wasn’t made for running. Max sounded intense. When wasn’t he? Better to be the Celtic wanderer.
The Celtic wanderer usually appeared in warmer weather, but he could wear a turtleneck under the T-shirt, long johns under the patched linen pants. Everyone was going crazy with the cold weather. The wanderer had made a mistake, that’s all, come north too soon.
Diego kept his disguises in separate bags at the bottoms of other bags in his closet. He had different sunglasses and different shoes for each. In a nylon belt pack, he kept cotton gloves, a small flashlight, alternative ID, and his savings account—a roll of twenties that fluctuated in value, sometimes decreasing to zero.
Base camp was at the corner of Gray and Park streets, a neutral neighborhood two blocks from Dogfish Market. He was there five minutes early wearing a plain blue jacket, leaning against a tree, facing away from cars coming down Park. Max was strict on procedure. He’d drive around the block until he could make the pickup unobserved. A white Toyota passed and turned left down Danforth. Shortly afterward, the van pulled to a stop. Diego got in quickly.
“Rations secured,” Max said. He parked a block from Commercial Street and opened two bottles of Gritty’s Best Bitter. “Support your local brew pub.”
“No piss water,” Diego said. He unwrapped a roast beef Italian. “Dogfish?”
“Of course.”
“Good place.” One thing about Max—he fed his troops. It made sense; you can’t think on an empty stomach.
“I’m going to miss it,” Max said.
“What?”
“I’m out of here, Buddy. This is my last mission—at least for a while.”
Diego chewed in silence. “The calling, Max.”
“I’m getting married.”
“No shit! Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I was going to say something last time, but you know the procedures. The less we know about each other, the better.”
Diego raised his ale. “The few, the proud, the Maroons!” They clinked bottles. “Max, I’ve been wondering—how do birds learn to make nests?”
“They’re hard-wired, born that way.”
“How can that be? They could be copying other birds, but some bird would have had to be first. I don’t know.” He brightened. “Anyway, congratulations. You’re going to raise little Maroons. Where there was one, there will be many.”
Max sighed. “Yes. But, it will be different.” He handed Diego an envelope. “Severance.”
“Much obliged.” Diego folded the envelope and put it in his pocket. This was serious. “So, what’s the mission?”
Max pointed at a large box in the back of the van. “Illumination,” he said. “You know those new hotels in the Old Port—the one by Dewey’s and the one going up by the ferry terminal?” Diego nodded. Max lowered his voice. “Fake brick. The outsides are fake brick.”
“I hate that shit,” Diego said.
“You know what they call it? Thin brick. Thin brick. Jesus. They actually mortar the little fake bricks, bricklets, thin bricks,” Max was sputtering, “you have to know what you’re doing to tell the difference. You start out with all these beautiful old brick buildings; you add fake brick buildings; and pretty soon you don’t know which is which. They’re all fake or might be. You’ve lost the old brick.” He stared through the van window. “Little metal ears. Little ears stick out of galvanized strips. They glue on the fake bricks and then mortar the cracks. You know what holds the metal strips to the building?” Max was winding up again. “Staples! They staple the strips to the cement board. Can you believe it? The whole wall is held on by staples. Somebody might ask: if you can’t tell the difference, what is the difference? Well, come back in a hundred years, Goddamnit!”
“I hate that shit,” Diego said.
Max finished his ale. “I have alerted the media,” he said.
Diego retrieved the red wig and the headband from his pack, put them on, and adjusted his sunglasses. “Ready,” he said, although he wasn’t, quite. It was strange thinking that he wouldn’t be seeing Max again.
“Target: Hilton,” Max said. His voice was deep, musical, at odds with his stiff frame, all angles. “Another projector raid.” He pointed to the box. “There’s two in there, both lasers.”
“Spare no expense,” Diego said.
“I put them together from parts. They are tested at 150 feet. I’ve got them labeled ‘L’ and ‘R’ for left, right.”
“Where do they go?”
“Top deck of the ferry terminal parking garage.”
“What about power?”
“There’s an extension cord in the box. Also a sign that says, Danger — Electrified — Do Not Touch. You need to tape the sign on the cord right by the projectors.”
“Tape in the box?”
“That’s a 10-4, buddy.”
“Just checking,” Diego said. “Where’s the outlet?”
“There’s an exit door by Commercial Street—on the right. The outlet is just inside the door.” Max took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Diego. “In case anyone asks what you’re doing.”
“Jerry Geraldson, Hilton Productions,” Diego read.
“Probably won’t be anyone up there, but you never know. I’ll drop you by the side of the terminal. The elevator is out of sight from the toll booth. Go up to the top, and walk across to the exit door. You can unpack inside the stairway. The door’s hung badly; there’s enough room for the cord to go under it on the handle side. On the front facade by the street, there’s a flat copper top where you can set up the projectors.”
“Exit route?”
“Down the same stairs. There are four wedges in the box. On the way down, jam each door from the inside. The street door is locked and only opens out. That ought to delay them a few minutes, anyway.”
“Sweet,” Diego said.
“When I see the projectors come on, I’ll call in the strike, tell the media where to pick up the handouts. I’ll place them after I drop you.” He gave Diego a key. “The van will be in the Ben-Kay sushi lot. You can change inside. Leave the key under the mat on the driver’s side.”
Diego followed procedure and repeated the instructions.
“Where do you want them aimed?”
“I’m thinking—over the main entrance. But do whatever looks best once you’re up there.” Max started the van and drove down Commercial Street. He pulled in by the terminal. “I won’t be seeing you for a while.”
“Good luck,” Diego said. He put on his gloves, went around to the back doors, and dragged out the box.
“Mock on,” Max said.
“Mock on, man.” Diego closed the doors and carried the box to the elevator as Max drove away. He rested one edge on his belt, pushed the button for the top deck, and waited as the elevator rose. The harbor appeared suddenly, startling him; he hadn’t realized that the back wall of the elevator was ma
de of plexiglass. The water was black, reflecting streaks and sparkles of light. Two offshore drilling rigs under construction floated silently, welders and riggers gone for the night.
The elevator door slid open. Only a few cars and trucks were parked on the top ramp; no one was around. The sea air was more noticeable at that height, soft, muddy smelling.
Diego walked deliberately down the ramp and across to the exit door. Turning sideways, he got one hand on the handle and pushed the door open. A dim light inside showed the stairs. The outlet was where Max had said. He put the box down and took a deep breath. His heart was beating faster. It wasn’t as though he was committing a murder, but he didn’t want to get caught. Not at this point. One or two Maroon expeditions had gotten out of control; damage had been done, the authorities mocked. They were pissed. They would throw the book at the first Maroon they caught.
Diego opened the box. The projectors were less alarming than the orange extension cord, so he carried them out first, setting them on the façade next to where the wall rose vertically in a false front. Used to be funny to see false fronts in westerns, propped above the dusty street, overlooking the gun fight—endearing, almost. Now the whole culture was going that way. Car lights swung up onto the deck. Diego stepped quickly into the stairwell and held the door open a crack.
Two guys got out of a Cherokee and rode down in the elevator. Get this over with, he said to himself. He plugged in the extension cord, passed it under the door, and unrolled it along the wall. It reached with six feet to spare. Max knew his stuff. Diego taped the phoney warning sign on the cord and against the wall, facing out.
He turned on the L projector and pushed the target button, looking across the street for a disk of white light. He didn’t see it. He lifted the projector and swung it slowly, picking up the movement about three stories high. He adjusted down until the spot was just above the entrance. Perfect. He did the same with the other and looked behind him. The ramp was still deserted.
Diego flipped the main switches and moved behind the false front. He looked around the edge and saw a bright comic book corona around the words, FAKE BRICK. A few feet to the right, blinking slowly on and off,were three lines:
ANOTHER PUBLIC
ANNOUNCEMENT
BY THE MAROONS
“Mock on,” Diego said in a low voice. “Time to go.” Once inside the stairwell, he moved fast, jamming each door on the way down. He paused at the bottom for a moment, pushed open the door, and sauntered away. He didn’t look back. He was the Celtic wanderer, heading for sushi.
The van was in a corner of the lot. He let himself in and stashed the sunglasses, headband, and wig in his pack. He put on his jacket and left the key.
He walked back on Fore Street, avoiding the Hilton. Why take chances? Max had the media jumping through hoops. They would be down there with cameras. Cops. His job was to get in and get out. Professional all the way.
Adrenaline pushed Diego along. He was almost to Dewey’s before he slowed down. He passed the other fake brick hotel and walked into familiar sounds and the smell of beer and smoke and french fries. He took a seat at the end of the bar.
He ordered a pint of Guinness and sat quietly, glad not to talk to anyone. It had been an interesting couple of years—temp work and service with the Maroons. He opened the envelope Max had given him. $500. Good old Max. He didn’t know where Max got the money, and he didn’t ask. It was over now. Max—getting married. Diego felt a rightness about it.
His mind kept drifting back to Honolulu, the Ala Moana shopping center. He’d think about other things—Maine, his room with the view of roofs and Portland harbor—Kiersten, too alcoholic for him, probably playing pool right down the street—and then he’d be back in Hawaii at the cab stand on the lower level of the shopping center. A rainy day, warm and gray. Two Japanese men in their 60’s, nylon jackets, baseball caps, were waiting for a bus, talking story, laughing about their drinking days. “I cut way back, now,” one said. The other made a deep-in-the-throat sympathetic sound. The bus came, and as the two men boarded, in Diego’s mind’s eye, he remembered the pigeon flying away with its twig, making a nest as warm and secure as the one it remembered.
Time to go back to the islands, he said to himself and felt peace entering between his shoulderblades. He patted the envelope in his pocket. At the cab stand in the shopping center, there was an old driver with an artificial leg who used to limp around his white Chevy to open the door for passengers. He had a smile that was total, free, like the universe. Be good to see him again. You can only do so much, and then you’ve got to reconnect—you know—get centered. Be thankful for awhile.
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