Drago #6: And the City Burned. Art Spinella
Nick’s comment “No one important came from Maine” in Drago #5 and sent long lists of high profile people from that state, I have but one thing to say: Don’t blame me! It was Nick who said it. Complain to him. I love Maine.
-- Art Spinella
PROLOGUE
Sal and I sat across from each other at McFarlin’s, a pizza and pitcher of Hef between us.
“You ready for a round of Name Links?”
“One, two or five seconds.”
“Two.”
Sal and I reached into our respective pockets and pulled out quarters. We always carry quarters. Donuts are sold in increments of 25 cents.
Since it was my idea, “I start.”
Sal nodded agreement, leaned forward, steely eyes staring at me. Tree-trunk arms on the restaurant table, hands wrapped around a frosty mug of brew. Ready to pounce.
I looked him in the eyes, squinted hard, looking mean and said, “George Washington.”
I pushed a quarter to the center of the table.
He fired back, “George Bush,” his quarter clinked on mine.
My return, “Herbert W. Bush.”
Another quarter.
The volley had begun with 25 cents going to the pot with each response.
“Herbert Hoover.”
“J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Edgar Allan Poe.”
“George Allen.”
“George Foreman.”
“George Foreman, the son.”
“George Foreman the second son.”
“George Foreman the third son.”
“King George.”
“Martin Luther King.”
“Luther Andros.”
“Lex Luthor.”
“Martin Luther, the preacher.”
“Mary Martin.”
“Martin Sheen.”
“Bishop Sheen.”
“Joey Bishop.”
“Joey Badass.”
Sal slapped the table. “Challenge.”
“Hip hop artist. Hah! Look it up.”
Sal Googled it. ”How’d you know that?”
“I am a musical genius.” I swiped the pot of quarters toward me.
“Ready?”
Sal nodded.
“Little Abner.”
“Abner Doubleday.”
One-thousand and one, one-thousand and two. My mind was blank.
“I got nothin’.”
Sal laughed. “Well, there’s Abner Cotto, the boxer. Abner Mares Martinez, another boxer.”
Sal slid the small pot to his side of the table.
My bearded buddy took a long draught of beer, leaned back and in a quiet voice said, “Tom Cruise.”
CHAPTER ONE
EIGHT HOURS, EIGHT MINUTES
It perched in the center of Forte’s desk looking as out of place as a cow on a Beverly Hills driveway.
The Bandon police chief crooked a finger at me and pointed to the backside of the five gallon propane tank.
Sal and I walked to the side of his desk. Duct taped to the rear of the tank were three sticks of dynamite sprouting a pair of black wires running to a small electronic timer like those used to turn a house lamp on and off at set hours.
“Holy Mother of God!” I backed away from the desk. “Is that thing live?”
Forte nodded, casually tipped back in his chair. “Living and breathing.”
“Well, crap, should you have it on your desk?” I backed away another couple of feet.
“Probably not, Nick.”
Sal walked to the propane tank, gripped both black wires in his huge hand and tugged.
“Don’t do that!” I was now across the room, next to the door. I’m smart enough to know I can’t outrun an explosion, but there is a piece of everyone’s brain that in conditions like this says, “Get the hell out of here!”
Sal held the two strands of wire and tugged again, this time pulling them free of the dynamite cap.
“All fixed,” he said.
“Are you nuts?”
Sal grinned. “Some say I am.” Balling the wire and tossing it to Forte, “But this is so crude and easy to deactivate, it’s almost a joke.” The big man plopped into a guest chair next to Forte’s desk.
The smell of burnt cop-house coffee filled the room.
The Chief didn’t smile, but he calmly leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk’s gnarled wood top and stared at the timer. “Now for the reason I called. See what the timer says?”
Moving closer, I stared at the display. The amber LEDs read the current time and date. A small blinking number in the corner of the screen indicated when the “lights” were set to go on.
“8:22 a.m. Timer goes off at 4:30 p.m. Eight hours and change.” Touching the propane tank, “Where’d this come from?”
“Hennick’s Hardware.”
“They have a bomb department?”
“Blue Rhino. Those replacement propane tanks? Bring in an empty; exchange it for a full one.” Forte began picking at the edge of the duct tape. “Someone cut the chain and stole a dozen of these things.”
“Could you please stop playing with the explosives?”
Forte quit his picking. “Yeah, probably a good idea. May have fingerprints on the tape.”
The Chief climbed from his chair, picked up the tank and moved it to a corner behind his desk. He then went to the small table under his dusty window and poured a cup. Dowsed it with sugar and a full packet of Cremora.
Gag-o-roonie.
“The State Mounties are coming to get it. They’ll do an analysis of the darn thing. Don’t expect they’ll find much, though. Each of those tanks must be handled by a dozen people a month. The only hope is finding fingerprints on the dynamite or the tape, but bad guys have gotten smarter. Wear gloves. I don’t hold out much hope.”
Stretching my legs and swinging them up on Forte’s desk, which he quickly swiped off, “You didn’t answer the question. Where’d you find it?”
Sipping the coffee and making a sour expression, “I didn’t. A kid came running into the station yelling he’d found a bomb. Bill went with him and they brought it back. Was in the gorse behind the station. Maybe 50 yards away.” The Chief glanced over his shoulder at the cylinder, “Like idiots they brought it back with them and plopped it on my desk.”
Sal climbed from his chair to the coffee maker and poured two cups. Cop-house coffee is bad, but sitting five feet from an explosive device ignites a craving for caffeine.
Putting the coffee mugs in front of each of us, Sal asked, “Strange to leave it so close to the station and, obviously, pretty much where it could be found. Intentional?”