THE MUNCHAUSEN ENTERPRISE
a short story by
Vincent A. Palazzo
Maggie O’Connor drags her small
metal cart and one uncooperative leg up Cooper Hill towards Greeley
Gardens. At the corner, she turns right
and walks the entire length of the park on the opposing side, dutifully
stopping at very meter to collect the town’s parking tariff. The coins are just as dutifully deposited in
the cart designed for that purpose; in almost fourteen months on the job, the
sixty-four year old Maggie has not lost or misplaced so much as one
quarter. In a previous life, before a
stroke made speech difficult and her left leg lazy, Maggie taught High School
English and led the Community Theater.
Her route takes her to Palmer Circle
and the entrance of the park. She
crosses, taking a moment to observe the monument to the town’s war dead, as she
does every day, and heads back in the opposite direction. She enjoys the downhill walk and looks ahead
to the bench at the corner where she will have her lunch. At a silver Volvo, parked by an expired
meter, she hears the first sounds of trouble coming from inside the park. There is a series of quick explosions, like
firecrackers but somehow hollow. Maggie
is reminded of the sounds of men hunting in the woods by her childhood home. Those reports had a hollow muffled sound just
like the explosions in the park but Maggie does not have the time to make the
connection with gunfire. Her damaged
mind jumps from popping sounds to the screams that follow and then to the squealing
of car tires. She turns in time to see a
late model SUV fishtail out of the park entrance and head in her direction at
high speed. She has just enough time to
think about writing down the license plate number, just enough time to reach
for the pad she keeps for remembering what her brain forgets too quickly when a
single bullet crashes through her skull.
She is literally dead on her feet until the good leg finally catches on
and she crumbles to the pavement. She is
discovered with her hand still on the handle of her metal cart.
I have no trouble shooting her. She was a bitch in High School.
☼
A group of young children enter the
park tethered to a length of clothes line.
They are all young students from Ms. Edith’s morning kindergarten class
and they are all excited to be on their first field trip. Ever! Each kid dutifully holds a loop in the rope
and marches in lockstep towards the amphitheater. Allie King, the smallest in the group, walks
at the head of the line holding the rope with one hand and Ms. Edith’s hand
with the other. She can see the
performers setting up the stage and grows animated.
“They’re starting! Ms. Edith,
they’re starting!”
“It’s okay, honey. They’re just getting ready. They know we’re coming. No one is going to start without us.”
☼
The man in the black SUV is dressed
in a black sweatshirt and black cotton pants.
He sits behind black sunglasses and tinted windows watching from the
parking lot as the children get settled on the grass. He has been there for thirty minutes, well
before the kids crossed the street and entered the park, but no one pays any
attention. He is just some guy sitting
in his car sipping a cup of hot coffee.
Just some guy enjoying the morning.
I cut quite the dashing figure. The Man in Black in the black SUV may be a
little stereotypical but I enjoy the image.
A Clementi symphony flows from my Bose
sound system; my hand conducts the music through the open car window as I
casually scans the pathways and roadways that lead to the amphitheater. The rest of the windows are closed; the tint
provides just enough cover. No one
notices my .44 caliber Bulldog or the Mac10 pistol sitting on the passenger
seat. A large digital countdown timer
sits next to the weapons. It now blinks
“2:08”.
Time.
Ms. Edith is standing behind her
charges facing the puppeteers as the car pulls to a stop. She is drinking her own cup of coffee. There are only a few yards of grass
separating us as my Man in Black raises his Bulldog and fires.
The first shot is wide. It hits Ms. Edith but not as planned. The bullet catches her in the shoulder and
literally spins her around. Just like in
the movies. As she drops to one knee,
she sees the Man in Black. She sees the
black glasses. Sees the little boy
smile. Her mouth flops open. Shock.
Amazement. There is no time for
fear or recognition. There is no time to
cry out. The second round is true. Just as planned. The kill shot hits her in the chest and
destroys her heart. She is dead before anyone
realizes. Before the children start to
cry. Before the performers, the spectators, the vendors, the joggers and the
occasional lover recognize that the real drama is parked in a black SUV.
In that moment between murder and
understanding, my Man in Black drops his Bulldog and fires the MAC10. I immediately miss the smaller pistol. It is much lighter, a mere 23 ounces, and
much easier to control. The MAC10 feels
like trying to hold an angry big mouth bass by the tail. My aim is high; my hand shakes under the
weight and sheer power of the weapon.
Its magazine empties in less than two seconds – I think about screaming
as I squeeze the trigger – but the spectacle has the desired effect. Anyone moving in my direction has reversed
field. Everyone is running for
cover. Terror has taken center
stage. There is screaming and confusion
and chaos. The kids are now crying
almost with one voice. It is pandemonium
and it is perfect; exactly the scene I imagined when I first decided to
act.
The Man in Black does not wait to see if
he has hit anyone else. It does not
matter. The play is proceeding as
planned. The morning is not over; there
is more to do. The car is in gear and
gaining speed. The digital clock
continues to count down. 1:18.
The
play may be behind schedule. Just a few seconds,
but today seconds matter.
The car hits the turnabout fast barely
slowing to prevent a skid. I hear the
sound of metal on metal as the older Honda I cut off loses control and strikes
a parked car. That should slow pursuit! For
the moment it does. I am now travelling
at highway speeds on Palmer Avenue.
Maggie O’Connor is doing her coin
collecting thing as I raise the Bulldog. I sees her stop and shudder, almost as
if a bug flew into her eye, but I can’t pause to evaluate my work. Three. I
make a mental note and plow through a controlled intersection against the
light.
There are pedestrians in the crosswalk
up ahead. An old man with a walker, his
wife with their cart of wet laundry and some kid on a skateboard threaten to
block my path. The Man in Black switches hands and fires a single shot out the driver’s
side window. This time I miss completely
but the effort has the desired effect.
As bits and pieces of asphalt spray into the air, the old and infirm
fall backwards; the kid on the board propels himself forward creating a hole
for the SUV. I click off another bullet
– four – and glance at the clock.
Less than half a minute remains.
☼
The rail lines are up ahead. The Man in Black hears two sounds at the same
time – the horn of an approaching train up ahead and the wail of police sirens
closing in behind him. The cops took up the chase just after I shot at the old
man in the intersection. They didn’t
even stop to help the old guy. He sat on
his ass until some neighbors pulled him from the street and helped him into a
lawn chair.
The train whistle sounds again. At one hundred feet from the corner I can see
the silver engine and the cars that will cross in front of me. They are coming fast. The countdown clock beeps and blinks 0:00. The SUV is just a second or two behind
schedule and Amtrak, miraculously, is on time.
I will not make it past in time. The barrier is down, the lights are
blinking and I do not have the courage to ignore the warnings. The Man in Black would make the leap but he
is not driving. Not really. He will have to listen to me. The long train will not provide cover; the
cars will not allow me to escape. It is
time for Plan B.
☼
The SUV fishtails onto the gravel
service road, gains purchase and barrels forward at dangerous speeds. The SUV bounces furiously over the uneven
surface, forcing the Man in Black to drop both guns on the floor; this is
two-fisted, white-knuckled driving. To
my left, the train glides past at an almost similar pace. Up ahead, I can see where the rails curve
away from the road. I can see the tunnel
in the distance and I can just barely make out the next intersection. It is paved but crosses the rails at a
difficult angle. The train will clear it before I gets there.
The police cruisers are having some
difficulty on the gravel service road.
They are unable to close the distance, promising a little breathing room
at the corner. The Man in Black moves the
vehicle to the left but does not attempt the hard turn. He uses the paved intersection to guide his
vehicle onto the rails. This is not the
movies. The car’s tires do not ride the
rails like a train gliding effortlessly towards the tunnel. Instead, I find myself bouncing over the
rail ties with the right rail running under the car. Steering is complicated; every time the
vehicle drifts left, the rail rubs against the inside of the right wheels
causing the SUV to buck insanely.
It is an impossible ride but the
tunnel is only a quarter mile ahead. The
Man in Black gets there ahead of the police cruisers.
☼
Patrolman Michael Granger was one of
three officers involved in what was a very short high speed chase. He piloted the car closest to the black SUV,
flying through city streets at dangerous speeds that would have been dangerous
on an open highway. His position leading
the chase had more to do with luck of the
draw or right place at the right time
than it did with driving or police skills.
The rookie had little of both. He
was responding to a call involving the SUV when he heard a single gunshot right
in front of him. He saw the subject
vehicle fly through the approaching intersection. He saw an old man with a walker fall
backwards into the roadway and thought briefly about offering assistance. The chase simply had more appeal. Granger
bore down on the accelerator and took the left turn at speeds well above
published safety limits. Surely someone
else would stop and assist the old man.
Besides, this was why he became a cop.
In his mirror, he saw two other patrol cars speed past the old guy. They validated his decision. The man in the SUV came first. The radio reported injuries and fatalities;
this guy was not getting away.
The turn put Granger within shooting
distance of the gunman. He was certain
he could put a stop to this quickly but there were rules to high speed chases. Discharging a weapon risked collateral
damage…a big no-no. If he got the guy,
no one would care. If he clipped a
civilian in the process, the family would be all over the papers. His badge would be worth less than already
chewed gum. There would be a PR
nightmare for the department and probably a lawsuit. Shit-heel lawyers would be all over the
place. Granger ending up out on his ass
would be the least of his worries. No,
there were other ways – by the book ways – to stop the gunman without damaging
the indigenous population.
Granger bore down on the accelerator
bringing his cruiser closer to the SUV.
The railroad crossing was only a few seconds ahead. The open space would afford him an
opportunity to stop this perp – god, he loved the word perp – and eliminate risk to civilians. Granger could take him down single
handed. When the newspapers showed up, he’d
be standing next to the Commissioner.
Granger’s mind drifted back to his training. Quickly, he reviewed the procedure for
deliberately clipping a fleeing vehicle causing it to spin out of control. If he did it right he could end up with one
dead mother-fucker or a bloodied killer in handcuffs. Both made a good picture.
Granger’s focus was shattered when
the SUV’s window exploded outward in his direction. His cruiser was close enough to be pelted
with glass. Worse, Granger heard and felt a small thud near his left
elbow. His rear view mirror – driver’s
side just a couple of feet from his head – blew apart. What remained was a jagged piece of navy blue
plastic. Nothing more. Granger was taking fire. Instinctively, he eased off the gas. Both hands tightened at ten and two.
Granger took the turn onto the
gravel service road at high speed. He
fishtailed all over the place before regaining control. The heavier SUV was handling the rough road
better than his cruiser. The two other
vehicles in pursuit followed with greater caution increasing distance between
the lead vehicles. Granger cursed and
complained that his Academy driving classes were nothing like this but he kept
going. This sonovabitch was not getting
away.
Granger was taken completely by
surprise when the SUV bounced onto the rail bed and started riding the rails
towards the tunnel. You’ve got to be kidding me and cunt-lapping-mother-fucking-sonovabitch
and quite a few more colorful expletives filled the officer’s head. What he shouted out loud was not as
imaginative – No Fucking Way! – but
it managed to force him forward. Granger
took the turn in much the same way as the perp, positioned his vehicle like the
SUV, with one rail running under his cruiser, and bounded after the shooter. It was a stupid thing to do. The patrol car bounced so violently that
Officer Granger’s face kept hitting the driver’s window. He would have a nice bruise to show when this
little bit of police work was done.
At this point, the rookie should
have called in but Granger did not dare take his hands off the wheel. Ten and two had become a sick joke. He would have to rely on his fellow officers
– behind him – reporting his position.
Had Granger taken a moment to look in the mirror, he would have noticed
that they had stopped at the intersection.
Other cars were now entering the area.
They all stopped at the intersection.
No one followed him onto the rails.
Ten or fifteen very painful seconds
later, his front wheel hit a particularly deep rut. The tire hit the rail tie but the wheel did
not roll out of the hole. The physics of
force and immovable objects took over.
The car stopped abruptly but not before metal bent, the axle broke and
the cruisers wheel assumed a very unnatural angle. Inside the vehicle, the patrolman was thrown
forward. The seatbelt lock caused a
nasty burn diagonally across his chest.
The airbag deployed blooding his mouth and breaking Granger’s nose. When he wobbled out of his car, more than a
little disoriented, the pain in his back almost dropped him to the ground. His right arm, thrown over the top of the
door, kept him from falling. He hung
there like an old Raggedy Andy doll while his fellow officers ran down the
tracks to offer assistance.
Granger was still a quarter-mile
from the tunnel. The SUV had disappeared into the darkness. It was no longer visible. For the moment, there was nothing for him to
do. He watched the black maw ahead and
listened to the pounding of black boots behind and waited. One officer was closer than the rest.
“Hey, Mike! You okay?”
There was something whimsical in his
tone.
Yeah,
sure! What do you think; Granger
wanted to answer but didn’t get the chance.
A huge explosion literally burped out of the blackness. A plume of red and yellow flame shot skyward
across the stone face of the tunnel.
Debris, the flotsam of rail walkers and derelicts, took flight and flew
towards the officers. And empty beer can
cracked the windshield of Granger’s cruiser.
The concussion knocked him to the ground; he screamed in pain as his ass
hit a rail tie and pain shot upward through his back.
For the first time in his short
career, Officer Michael Granger thought of disability as a blessing.
☼
The Man in Black stands in the dark
next to the SUV. If the police give me
two minutes, Plan B will still work.
I work in near darkness. The only light comes from the interior of the
car. I remove the Man in Black and toss
him into the car. The black sunglasses have
already been discarded. Black boots land on the floor next to the
firepower. A new uniform, baggy running shorts and a well-worm t-shirt, recast
my main character. The new actor is
closer to reality. The play, for the
first time is more autobiography. The
Man in Black entered the tunnel; Eddie McDermott was about to walk into the
sunlight. I climb a concrete utility
shaft. Everything else is left behind.
I exit an abandoned utility shed less
than a ninety seconds after losing the
SUV. I am well on my way, just an
average guy jogging in baggy blue shorts and a red pocket “t” when my watch chimes
a two-minute warning. I feel vibration
in the ground as the SVU and the tunnel explode but keep my pace steady and
calm. A half mile further along Crescent
Street, I stop at a mustard yellow, late model Ford Mustang. I get in and drive off without incident. Plans C or D will not be necessary.
☼
There were no redemptive,
hand-of-god hiccups. I drove to the
airport at posted highway speeds without incident, top down, elbow slung out
the window. It was a completely enjoyable
ride. Twenty minutes later, I slid into
a rent-a-car parking lot, dropped my paperwork and keys into the rapid check-in
box, avoiding unnecessary, casual conversations with extraneous humans, before
taking the shuttle to the long-term parking lot. The family CRV, Hermione, sat waiting patiently.
She has been waiting for the last five
days; my most recent business trip was
about to end.
☼
The police were not at my house when
I pulled into the drive. They will come
– I left enough victims to keep them busy for a while – but, for the moment, I
planned to relax, collect myself and enjoy a tall whisky. Neat. When they come, I will
be ready.
My briefcase and keys are dropped by
the front door. My coat is tossed
carelessly over a wing-back chair – signs that there is a new sheriff in
town. I plop down on the sofa and drop
my feet on the cocktail table. I take a
deep pull on my drink; the remote in my other hand finds the Chicago game. The Cubs won’t win the division but the
season is still young; at least, they might win the day.
In the quiet of my living room, adrenaline
drains away. I feel the need to sleep. When the police come, they can wake me. That would look more natural, anyway. In the meantime, I will sleep my most peaceful
sleep in years. As I sink into the
cushions of the couch, I see my wife Edith drift by on the digital frame. She is surrounded by snow, bathed in the
steam of a hot tub. It was a shot from
our winter trip to Breckenridge.
Just
like a ghost, I think.
Eddie McDermott sleeps.
I smile.
☼
I wake to a dark house and a
somnambulant neighborhood. The police have
not come to express their condolences and ask a few questions. It is after one and this surprises me – and
maybe offends me just a little. You’d
think my work deserves a bit more attention.
Oh, well…in the morning, then! I lumber up the stairs and onto the bed
without changing. I never liked pajamas
anyway.
The alarm wakes me at 6AM. Half asleep, I go into the bathroom, strip off
yesterday’s clothes and climb into the shower.
The water refreshes me and brings me back to life. I step out of the tub ready to face a new
day.
Edith is sitting on the toilet. Her panties are at mid-calf. Her black nightgown covers her knees and most
of the view. I cannot conceal my surprise; I stand there dripping on the
bathmat, my mouth agape.
“Sorry,” she giggles, “when I wake
up I need to pee.”
“It’s okay,” I shrug, shaking the
shock and confusion from my face and voice.
“It’s not like you’ve never seen me naked.”
Edith shrugs, changing the
conversation.
“You were talking in your sleep…”
I still haven’t reached for a
towel. Edith has my complete attention.
“Sorry. What did I say?”
“I’m gonna kill you, Dotty…”
I laugh. The truth makes answering easy.
“Seriously? She’s a character. I was working on her big scene all day.”
“Dotty must be giving you a hard
time. You were really tossing around
last night…”
I watch as Edith grabs some paper
and finishes up. She pulls her panties
up and rises in one motion. Not once is
she exposed.
“She’s a little difficult…:
I watch her leave the bathroom. When the door closes, I reach for a towel and
dry quickly. Only dampness remains.
“Don’t worry,” I muttered, “I’ll
work on it…”
Maybe
something simpler.
No comments:
Post a Comment