Fiction 2, Chapters 7 & 8
Copyright © 1992
Chapter 7
"Thou see'st an island desolate and waste;
No friendly port nor hopes of gain to tempt,
Nor host to welcome in the traveller; ... "
Philoctetes, Sophocles.
I couldn't just sit around and wait for them to come and get me.
It was imperative that something be done to even up the odds. Right then, the only advantage that showed up on my side of the ledger was that I was useless to the bad guys if they killed me. There was an edge there; small, but comforting. Until I remembered what else might happen.
Occam's razor; that was the answer. William of Occam had the right idea. The simplest solution is the best solution.
-Let's get the hell out of here!-
Once I was back in New Jersey, the police would have a tough time getting me extradited to Texas as an escaped material witness, unless they actually brought somebody __maybe me__ to trial for Roxanne's murder and/or possession of counterfeit currency. At the very least, I'd demand twenty-four hour mobile protection; that is, outside a cell. I could always claim that I was in danger in Texas.
Hell, it was true enough!
Grabbing a stuff bag, I tossed in a couple of day's worth of underwear, socks, jerseys and a spare pair of slacks; good padding for my pistol. It had to go as luggage on the plane, and I'd be naked between the check-in and the departure gate, except for a carbon-fiber "CIA letter-opener."
Even as I started the truck, I vaguely knew the plan wasn't going to fly, nor I. Escape didn't have the right "feel" to it. I should have paid more attention to my instincts, but up to then I had done most of my escaping into a television set.
What did I know?
Three-quarters of the way down to the Corpus Christi International Airport, the reason why it wasn't going to work occurred to me in the form of a Plymouth in front and a Ford pick-up tailgating me. I was being "boxed."
Sure enough, then came a van in the left lane, overtaking the pick-up. I cut the van off, switching into the left lane to pass the Plymouth and break out of the pocket. The driver in the Plymouth had a partner in the passenger seat telling him exactly what to do.
-Guess who it was?-
Whichever lane I switched to didn't matter; he was there before I was, and both lanes behind me were blocked by the van and pick-up. The latter made no attempt to close up and box me in on the right. Why should it? They wanted to pull me off to the right.
I could see the man with yellow teeth, "Jaws," working a CB type two-way radio; you know the kind, hand-held, with an aerial sticking up.
We were already past the center of Portland, running south and about two miles north of the Neuces Bay Causeway. There's an exit there, that runs around under the roadway just before the water. It's for making U-turns and for the occasional fisherman; equally useful for the occasional kidnapping. We were all doing around sixty, giving me almost two minutes to review my wasted life and entertain the odd flash of hysteria, now and then.
-What have I got going for me?-
My pistol, hurriedly dug out of the stuff bag, two fourteen-round clips and a cartridge in the chamber. Twenty-nine rounds in all and four thousand pounds of the least responsive, least maneuverable small truck on the road. The Suburban is superb for hauling eight thousand pounds of trailer; however, the engine, rear end, the weight and the long wheel base leave it out of the running as a sports-car.
With a regular heavy-duty trailer hitch, jamming on the brakes would have been a good idea to sink at least one of the trailing vehicles, and teach the other one a little respect. Unfortunately, mine was a Pull-Rite hitch, which works on a swivel principle and is stored to the right rear side of the truck, when not actually hooked up to a trailer.
A great hitch, but useless as a battering ram.
My "escorts" knew the facts of life: that ordinary tires don't stand up very well to playing bumper-car. One blow-out on any one of the vehicles could kill us all. Of course, they had a choice; I didn't. One option, a dangerous one, was beginning to look good to me.
They were pissing me off all over again.
Then all of a sudden the pressure was off, except for the Plymouth in front. They all dropped back to fifty-five, and the pick-up and the van fell back a couple of car lengths. We were all about a mile from the causeway now. A second's thought and the reason was obvious. -They've got a radar alarm- Five seconds later and the obvious reason was also evident; a police speed trap well ahead. I pulled over to the right shoulder, still doing the limit.
Safety!
Sure, safety. For how long? For how far? Unless I spent the rest of my life in a high-security solitary prison cell, I could never feel safe again. And the Treasury agents would make sure that I remained hanging out to dry, for as long as it took the tiger to come to the bait.
Intolerable!
It really was. I couldn't bear the thought that I'd be reduced again to human jelly. Somehow, I realized if I just ran away, I'd never stop. While it might delay the day of reckoning somewhat, all that would mean to me was that I'd spend the rest of my life burning to death, no matter how long it took. That left only attack, as my defense. If I could keep on rolling downhill on the yellow-fanged bastard, maybe I wouldn't have time to be terrified.
It seemed like an attractive alternative to thinking too much.
I didn't stop at the police cruiser and that was the point of no return. My honor guard would now be absolutely sure that what they wanted was right in the truck with me.
As soon as we were past the trap, the Ford truck and the van, a Chevy, closed up on me again. This time the van filled in the left side of the box __half a car-length back__ but now there was a plan, a pattern forming. A truck like mine, designed to pull eight or nine thousand pounds shouldn't have too much trouble pushing three or four thousand for a time.
I sped up till I was a few feet ahead, pulled left -Surprise!- and squeezed the van.
That didn't work, exactly. The van's driver jerked the steering wheel to the left before he could control himself, and hit the divider with his left front bumper. Another jerk of the wheel, and the right front bumper bounced off my center left door with the same door-closing "thunk" that sounds so nice on a new Lincoln.
Any further forward or back, and I would have had a blow-out, or at least a spin-out.
My truck swung over and crowded him again -Halfway over- spraying sparks off the van scraping the divider. -Give way, you bastard!- But the bastard wouldn't give enough way -Here I come!- so I ignored the van alongside for a moment, hit the gas and slammed right into the vehicle in front of me, practically picking it up like I had a fork-lift. -Pedal through the floor, now-
My transmission was making noises like a garbage disposal, wheels singing like new snow tires but my Suburban and their Plymouth went from fifty-five to at least seventy in maybe ten or twenty seconds. There was a neck-snapping shock when I finally had to give up second gear.
There was plenty of time to think then; the longest, and damned near the last, twenty seconds of my life.
On with the flashers____ -Ok.. Now!-
Quick! Swerve left____ -So long, "Jaws"-
The villain in front, reacting to being bull-dozed at an ever increasing speed, finally jammed on his brakes with a screech that came right through the sliding right-to-left, metal-to-metal contact of our bumpers. His rear end started to roll out to the right. Just after the bumpers lost contact, I surged ahead and more to the left, clipping the Plymouth's left rear quarter-panel and the van's right fender at the same time.
!Pow!____ -Gunshot?- No! Blowout____
-Mine?- No! It was the Plymouth's left front tire.
The timing was lucky for me, I admit; very lucky.
The driver with "Jaws" had no choice: steer away from me or roll over; no choice at all.
I squeezed through the gap, slowed then mooned the van with my flashing red rear-end.
-Believe they're brake lights, sucker! Please?-
The only ones not standing on their brakes at that moment were the Ford pick-up and I. And not being blocked by the other two gave me a slight advantage.
The rear-view showed three toy cars spinning around, hitting each other on occasion, as I pulled away. Only one of them turned over __and it wasn't the Plymouth with "Jaws" inside__ damn it! That car did get hit by the Ford truck, though; hard enough for the pick-up to pop its windshield.
After that, I was able to slow down and enjoy the remainder of my scenic drive, serene and aloof to the plight of those unfortunates behind me. You know how it is: You'd like to stop and help them, but you're never quite sure that it's the best thing to do.
It was only after turning off onto I-37 that the shakes hit me. There was also a strong desire to throw up at one end, and dispose of the sharp objects that were prodding me in the bowels at the other; although I managed not to embarrass myself. Actually, my mini-breakdown gave me a chance to review how my day was going so far. A swift consultation took place among my three favorite organs. The brain was aghast, and the other two wanted a drink and a woman as soon as possible.
I didn't head for the airport; instead, the truck turned northwest toward San Antonio on a roundabout detour back to Rockport. There was an unavoidable appointment awaiting me somewhere; it might as well be there.
They'd be after me again and how did I feel about that?
Me? Maybe I had lived too long without feeling this kind of intensity. Them? Maybe they had just lived too long.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Mishlietu, glonth gyuck. Mishlietu myjielle an thasp-
Come on, money man. Come to me and die.
* * * * * * * * * *
At the house in Ingleside, he tried to comfort his creature.
After a call from the spotters watching the campground exit had drawn Weller and his cretins away from the temporary headquarters, the Chairman had tuned in to the Geraldo show that afternoon, while awaiting the arrival of his own scheduled guest. It was a disappointment to find out that sadism wasn't featured on the show every day, but he still managed to become absorbed in a session about the rewards of motivation in the workplace. The show had run the full opening scene of "Patton," with George C. Scott's inspirational speech in front of a giant American flag.
Now that the aborted kidnapping was over __and it had turned out to have been a debacle__ the Chairman was trying to demonstrate his newfound ability to inspire the troops.
Chapter 8
"he who exhibits a pattern of that at which he aims,
should in nothing fall short of the fairest and truest..."
Laws, Plato
As long as it's going to take a bit of time to get from Corpus Christi back to Rockport on a roundabout detour, there's a bit of detail that should be covered now on some of the more interesting history of counterfeiting in America. There are many, many tales of culpability, cupidity and counterfeiting in America worth reading about.
N.B. Author's Note: The original version of this book contained an essay on counterfeiting for most of Chapter 8. It was really inappropriately placed, retarded the action, and contributed little to the story line, so I have eliminated it here. It may, however, be found in the Essays section.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Jough tha, to shulk rajd shtammers ina reshpoon. I shan tha chat-
Listen to that: Making counterfeit bills in jail. I love it!
* * * * * * * * * *
The future did not look bright for the banking business in Texas. Banks went boom and banks, like insurance companies, went bust in Texas with casual regularity as though there was some inevitable law of the life-cycle at work.
The Chairman was deeply concerned this time, because it was his banking business that was in trouble. Without the counterfeit to patch things up, his whole empire would unravel. He thought back to the demonstration that Gary had put on.
"Amazing!" He took a crisp one-hundred dollar bill from his wallet. "Copy that, then."
"No can do, Mr. Salburton. This thing's only set up to make tens for a demo right now, and even if we had the optional software for hundreds loaded in the computer, it wouldn't copy your bill. The image of a perfect bill is already in the software in the machine. You get tens and twenties in the basic package; fifties and hundreds is extra. Am I making myself clear?"
Visions of "Mission Impossible" percolated through the Chairman's mind.
"How do I know this isn't some trick, that these bills are really being printed, and they're not just hidden in the machinery?" The Chairman attempted to peer into the printer.
Gary tried not to smirk at the little man looking into the machine. "Tell you what: How would you like to see a page of tens, each one with the same serial number you got on that bill? It's easy; we just override the randomizer." Actually, he had no idea of what a "randomizer" was, any more than the Chairman did, but he had been well trained in the operation of the unit.
"And this is all it takes?"
"No, sir. The full set-up is about three times this size, with the scanners and the other printers. But it'll still fit on a good-sized desk. You can see what the scanners do from the samples in the bag here. When you're set for a production run, you don't have to run the sheets back through the same printer or change cartridges. It's all continuous. You get maybe one or two sheets out of a hundred that get kicked out by the scanners. It's not even worth cutting them up to salvage the good bills. You burn all the bad sheets so you don't ever have to worry about letting a bum bill slip through by accident."
The sample tens, with the serial numbers identical to his hundred, had been virtually perfect; still, the Chairman still insisted that his "computer expert" __Russell Tiddler__ had to go over the whole set-up before he would turn over the bearer bonds. Actually, it gave him more time to raise the required capital as well; although that wasn't mentioned.
"Tiddler?"
"Yes, Russell Tiddler." And wasn't that a smart move.
You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 7 & 8