Get up offa that thing, p.21
Get Up Offa That Thing, page 21
McNulty waved toward the gunman who was reloading for his close-up. “I’m surprised you didn’t call him Liberty Valance, since you’re cribbing from everything else.”
Larry smiled. “Steal from the best. That’s my motto.”
“Steal from everyone you mean.”
Larry wagged a finger. “And that’s the cop in you.”
McNulty indicated the sign outside the bank, a big square plaque with the raised letters picked out in gold. TRES CRUCES WESTERN FIDELITY BANK. “Walter Matthau did it better, wearing old-man makeup and a pot on his leg.”
“Walter Matthau did everything better.”
“That why you’re using the same bank he robbed in Charley Varrick?”
Larry winked. “It’s called an homage.”
“It’s called theft.”
“It’s a tribute. Why do you think we’re using sprinklers and horses?”
“And flags and children. Don’t forget them.”
“That’s to set a calm and peaceful scene before the shit gets real.”
McNulty folded his arms across his chest. “Real, as in the veteran cop leaves his rookie on the street while he goes in for a donut, ten minutes after he’s started the shift?”
“Real as in, print the legend. This is the movies. Don’t expect real life.”
“I thought you paid me to make it real life.”
Larry squinted into the low morning sun. “I pay you to polish the legend. Make it pass for real life on screen. It’s called willing suspension of disbelief.”
McNulty unfolded his arms and put his hands on his hips. “You can suspend all you like. Polish a turd and it’s still a turd.”
Larry snorted a laugh. “You’re in a bad mood this morning.”
McNulty took a deep breath then puffed out his cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just hard watching police get shot in the line of duty. People need to realize that every time a cop goes to work he might not come back. They need to understand what that does to the family waiting at home.”
Larry slapped his thigh then wagged a finger at McNulty. “And that’s exactly why this is going to be Titanic Productions’ breakout feature. Butch Buchinsky finding out his kid brother got killed fresh out of the academy.”
McNulty lowered his voice. “Are you really going to call him that on the poster?”
“It’s stronger than what he wanted.”
“Chuck?”
It was Larry’s turn to lower his voice. “And it differentiates him from the other Charles Buchinsky.”
McNulty nodded. “Charles Bronson. Just like John Wayne and blood squibs. Nothing is what it seems.”
“That’s show business.”
“Print the legend.”
Larry got serious. “Do your job right and Buchinsky is a legend in the making.”
McNulty looked past his producer at the front of Maple’s Donuts. “Well, don’t look now but your legend just stole a donut.”
DENNIS CHARLES BUCHINSKY was big and wide and built like a brick shithouse. The ex-firefighter-turned-actor didn’t know what a shithouse was because they don’t have many outside toilets in America anymore, but he was all muscle and not a little heart. He was taking this acting thing very seriously, going full method whenever he got the chance. Eating donuts was his method of getting into character as a fire investigator who gets involved with police work.
“Do cops actually eat these things? They’re disgusting.”
Larry Unger joined him in the false-front donut shop. “Ask him. He’s my technical adviser.”
McNulty stood in the doorway. “Back in Yorkshire it was fish and chips.”
Larry threw him a sideways glance. “Pity we’re not shooting in Yorkshire then, isn’t it?”
McNulty smiled and looked up at the brick shithouse. “It’s the great American myth.”
Buchinsky put down the half-eaten donut. “Ah, I get it. Like The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” He had a twinkle in his eye when he looked at McNulty. “We’re printing the legend.”
Larry gave them both a questioning look.
McNulty shrugged. “We were talking about Marion Michael Morrison.”
“Who?”
Buchinsky answered. “John Wayne.”
Larry pushed the donut across the counter with one finger as if it contained some kind of communicable disease. “Well, it’s nice of you to show up but it is your day off. Shouldn’t you be pumping iron or something?”
Buchinsky didn’t need to pump iron; he was hardened by years of fighting fires and carrying fat men out of the flames. “I thought I’d come and watch my kid brother get shot fresh out of the academy. Give me some motivation.” He nodded across the street toward the young actor playing his brother. “It’s working. Kid doesn’t look old enough to drive. Gets me all choked up, seeing him get shot like that.”
McNulty glanced at the blood from the explosive squibs that had punctured the young actor’s uniform. “Yeah, it brings it home, seeing what can happen to any cop on any day.”
Buchinsky slapped McNulty on the back. “Police and fire. Holding the line.”
McNulty felt numbness spread across his shoulders. “Semper Fi.”
“That’s the Marines, but it applies to anyone on the front line. Always faithful, always loyal. Watch each other’s backs.”
Larry looked at his two ex-frontline troops. “Please. Now I’m choking up”
McNulty smiled. “Sometimes the fact is the legend. Print either one and you get what’s real.”
“Oh, we’ll print it. Just might exaggerate it a bit for effect.”
McNulty flicked the donut off the counter. “Yeah, donut in the morning.”
Larry shook his head. “Sprinklers and horses. Small town Americana. Then kick the dog.”
Buchinsky frowned. “There’s a dog?”
Larry indicated the young actor who didn’t look old enough to drive. “The sympathy-getter. Make the audience hate the bad guys.”
Buchinsky nodded. “Motivation.”
Larry held his hands out. “Voila.” He moved to the front door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the location catering.”
McNulty watched him go, then spoke to Buchinsky. “Amy’s going to fall through the floor. This is two movies in a row when Larry’s forked out for on-set catering.”
“Forked out?”
“Paid for.”
“Best makeup lady on the lot. She’d better not fall through the floor.”
McNulty nodded. Amy Moore was the best thing in his life, never mind her makeup skills. She’d helped bring him back from a very dark place, growing up in an orphanage and losing track of his sister until he’d found her in Boston, all grown up with a daughter of her own. He was still smiling inside and didn’t notice the change in Buchinsky’s mood.
“Vince, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever gone outside the law to uphold the law?”
Click here to learn more about Double Exposure by Colin Campbell.
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Here is a preview from Redeeming Trace, a crime thriller by Tom Schreck.
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PROLOGUE
They felt odd in the black, ninja-style suits. It seemed over-the-top and silly, almost nerdy, superhero cosplay. Still, it was their trademark, what they wore, and effectively concealed their identities. That was crucial; if it came out who they were, it would be a disaster.
Allied Security Systems was a logical target. They specialized in high-tech security systems, but their most profitable product was the “Virtual Fence.” It was all part of the government’s plan to secure the border. The Virtual Wall was slated to include actual fencing, vehicle barriers, radar, satellite phones, computer-equipped border control devices, underground sensors, and 100-foot camera towers. The towers were outfitted with high-powered cameras that could detect anyone trying to cross the virtual wall for 10 miles. Whenever activity occurred by the virtual wall, information was transmitted to the Border Patrol Office, who would notify agents in the field.
Allied specialized in the ultra-hi-tech radar, sensors, and cameras at the heart of the system. Anti-immigration politicians touted it as the answer to all the political jockeying and a viable solution to keeping the immigrants out. Allied was a perfect first target, and it would not only incapacitate this government’s initiative for a long while, but it would also send the desired message that the group wanted. Right now, the message was more important than anything else.
There were six of them in the white Econoline van, each with clearly defined duties, timelines, and contingency plans. All were armed with suppressed M4s and 9mms for sidearms, a redundancy that would probably not be necessary if things went as planned. The Colt M4 was quieter than the AK 47, making more of a “Pop, Pop.” They knew to limit their firing to one or two surgical shots. The 47 would shake the entire area and call a lot of unnecessary attention, especially if they let loose with an undisciplined volley. The plan’s execution had been practiced, rehearsed, and visualized to minimize anything that would slow it down or interfere with its success. The first two would neutralize the Allied guards at the security gate. This was an essential first step and would cause the entire operation to fail if not completed correctly. It may have been much to do about nothing, but today’s private security guards varied in their skill and commitments. An industry like Allied could have hired real ex-military, even ex-special forces and, if that were the case, then the opposing forces’ skills would be closely matched. It was what made all of this a risk.
When they pulled up, the Allied security proved a not-worthy challenge. A single guard emerged from the hut before any of them left the van. He was overweight and barely alert, and the short burst from the automatic weapon left him in a bloody heap on the threshold. A second guard followed at the building entrance, this one with a firearm that was probably a 9mm. He met a similar fate, and the team was in.
The first two team members stepped over the guard and scouted the hallways for threats, while the other four followed, carrying the equipment. The equipment, specifically chosen for its efficiency and size, was packed neatly in duffel bags. The strategic packing enabled them to access the items in order and eliminated any confusion that might result in the heat of the moment or under the stress of adversity.
With three carrying weapons and three carrying the duffel bags, the team headed through the hallways following the building layout they had committed to memory. The alarms were almost deafening, but they had anticipated that, and it did not slow them. When they came around the second corner, three employees were in the hallway arguing. The three men looked like typical middle management types with their horned rimmed glasses, khakis, and Allied yellow golf shirts. Instinctively, two of them jumped back as the team ran by, but one of them, a big athletic guy, grabbed at one of the team members carrying a duffel. It lasted about three seconds until he was shot by the lead gunner in the back of the head.
Everything was still on a schedule, and the plans could not be delayed. The team reached the double security doors that sealed the manufacturing plant entrance, and a quick burst from the M4 blew the doors open. From there, there was a flurry of activity, unzipping the duffels, arming the explosives, and placing them around the plant. They knew where the charges should go, and they were preset to adhere to the exact right equipment to bring down the entire Allied operation for the maximum amount of time. In less than three minutes, everything was in place, the bags were zipped, and they were headed back out the front door.
They knew from a study of the plant’s emergency preparedness plans that the rest of the employees would have left the building by now and gathered at the company picnic pavilion. The local police would be on their way, but they also knew from studying Allied’s drill reports that it took the police between six and eight and half minutes for them to arrive. That gave them four and a half minutes. They were ahead of schedule.
It was time to leave. They would set off the charges remotely from the van so a cascading chain would level the plant and destroy the production capabilities. The cascading explosions were designed to allow them to drive away safely while still having the power to maximize destruction. The human casualties were a necessary part of the plan, not a goal, but they knew that they would garner attention for better or worse.
The first seven team members ran through the front doors at full speed. The last member had a final task before they left the grounds. He pulled out the preformed wooden stencil and placed it at the entryway sidewalk’s center. He uncapped the black spray paint and took no more than five seconds to color it in. He then joined the rest of the group in the Econoline.
The Allied Security Systems sidewalk was now branded with black spray paint with a clenched fist and a single word in all-caps.
ANTIFA.
CHAPTER ONE
“Eddie, a woman got beheaded,” I said.
“Yup, lost her head. A damn shame,” Eddie Hutchins said and sipped his coffee. He was overdoing it. He always overdid it. He let out a coffee commercial “Ahhh…”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept quiet. It is called a therapeutic silence, and it is supposed to give the client time to think, reflect and feel. I was doing it at this precise moment because Eddie baffled me. I didn’t know what to say to him, and it happened every week during his required check-in. Eddie liked this game; he liked how he could take control back.
He took another sip of coffee. He brought it in his University of Southern California mug—I think on purpose because he knew I went to Notre Dame. I wasn’t a huge football guy but I kind of resented him flaunting a rival because he thought it would annoy me. I made eye contact with him. Go Irish! And all of that.
He nodded, gave me a pleasant smile, and took another sip of coffee. His smile was to let me know he could hang out and deal with the awkwardness indefinitely.
“Eddie, science tells us that when agents are exposed to repeated viewings of disturbing acts, it is important to process what emotions come up. We’ve been contracted with the CIA to provide this service. Since we’ve been checking in, you’ve studied an eight-year-old girl getting raped, a grandmother getting shot at point-blank range, and the beheading of a journalist.”
I did my best not to let any frustration enter my voice. I don’t think it worked.
“You don’t have anything to share with me?” I asked but tried not to plead.
He was a big guy. Probably 6’2” with a dark African American complexion. His hairline was receding a bit, and the temples had some gray, despite being in his early forties. He had the build of a good division three linebacker who stopped working out fifteen years ago. His speckled mustache gave him some character, and he smelled a little bit of Old Spice.
He crossed his legs and slumped a little bit, probably to let me know he was super comfortable. His defiance was subtle. Out and out defiance could get written up and reported. Eddie knew not to go that far.
“Dr. Trace,” I had asked him repeatedly to call me Trace. This was his way of giving me distance. “These things that happened didn’t happen to me. They happened to the poor people in the videos. I know the difference.”
I paused a beat.
“You’re human. You’re flesh and blood. What feelings come up for you?” I asked, drawing on his minute self-disclosure.
He shrugged. He raised his eyebrows.
“I watch it. I analyze what they want me to look for. I write it down, and I complete my report. At the end of the day, I hit golf balls,” he said. “Now there’s something that pisses me off. I got a damn slice that I can’t correct.”
He did an exaggerated head shake like a lousy sit-com character. He sipped his coffee.
This time I exhaled. For the last two months, every week had been a similar variation on this theme. The check-ins were required, and of the sixteen I had on my caseload Eddie was the worst in terms of frustration. Part of it was macho bullshit, and part of it was being out of touch emotionally, but the fact remained that he was a good agent who did excellent analyses of terrorist acts. It was necessary, and he was an asset to the program. He just wasn’t into touchy-feely stuff, I guessed. The problem was it is difficult to predict who is going to develop mental health issues and who isn’t. Some guys can act like Eddie for their whole careers, and their biggest worry is their slice off the tee. Others lose mental health and then lose effectiveness as an agent.
I was also a human, and I can only take so much of Eddie’s game. It got annoying and, though dealing with resistance is part of a therapist’s job, it isn’t a fun part for me. Some days I just had to let it go.
“Eddie, I want you to try something,” I said.
“Sure, Doctor Trace.”
“Close your eyes for a moment. Take a moment to focus on your breathing.” I was apprehensive about doing a mindfulness exercise with him. I just kind of wanted to get out of there.
Eddie closed his eyes.
“Now, I want you to observe your thoughts. Just notice what comes into your head. Don’t try to understand them. Don’t argue with your mind. Just let the thoughts appear and then let them go their own way. It is like they exist independent of you,” I said. I tried not to overdo the calming voice.
Eddie gave me an “uh-hmm.”
“Just let your thoughts flow like leaves on a stream. Let them come or go just like the leaves on a stream.”
“Leaves on a stream…” Eddie said. He was making fun of me through his compliance.
“Notice how thoughts, images, and emotions come and go. Sometimes they get more intense, sometimes they stay the same, and sometimes they go away. Let yourself know this is what happens and that you don’t ever have to struggle with them. Just let them do what they do. Your thoughts and emotions are not you,”
