Mitch grunted, yawned, rolled to his hip, and leaned against the wall before rubbing the cobwebs from his eyes. “Sorry–must’ve fallen asleep,” he mumbled. “Where was I?”
“No matter. We got ‘portant business t’ discuss. Foller me an’ keep quiet. You’re hotter ‘n a cast iron skillet on blazin’ coals.”
Nurse drew the curtain and waited for Mitch, who raised to his knees and groped his way toward the opening, bumping his head on the low ceiling. A lump already on the back of his head, he let out a low moan.
“Gotta watch yer noggin, boy. Th’ room ain’t made fer standin’.”
Ashen-faced, Mitch stepped from the shelter. Nurse waited for the “all clear” from Sound, who was stationed at the back door of Eddie’s gym, then lit out like an alley cat crossing a four lane highway.
When the Alley Team had convened once more in Eddie’s bedroom, Nurse got right down to business. “Gotta move quick. Ain’t safe here no more. Mitchell Wilson, these ‘re my friends, an’ ever’ last one’s ready t’ help ya’ get ‘at tar-baby off yer back. Now I knows we don’t look like much more ‘an a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest, but you seen what we does in a pinch. Got street smarts–th’ kind Mr. Vinnie’s never seen ‘fore. So you want us t’ help ya’, just say so. If not, Ritter an’ Sound here’ll show ya’ t’ yer car and getcha on yer way.” Ritter nodded; Sound, his head tucked into his skeletal shoulders, raised one hand from his lap in a gentle hello.
Nurse drew her lips tight. Everyone turned expectantly to hear what the young man’s answer would be. Like a new law team with their first client, they waited. Mitch lowered his head, rubbed his eyes, scrunched up his face and struggled to form his words. “It’s not . . . that I don’t appreciate what you did for me out there, but . . .” Greg carefully watched the body language of the team as Mitch spoke: Sound put his hand under his chin to keep his pointed chin from falling into his hollow chest; Ritter folded his arms as if he bore some sort of grudge; Smitty, his arms wrapped around himself, tugged on his beard; Cap’n, the squad’s second in command, stood stone-faced, the veins popping on his forehead; and Nurse chomped her gums and focused the best she could on the prattling young man. “. . . but I don’t know a thing about you and . . .”
Ritter slid his chair out across the floor behind him and opened his mouth to speak. Nurse raised her fingers and pretended to zip her mouth shut, then motioned for him to sit down. The old matriarch paused and once more turned to Mitch, motioning for him to finish his thoughts. “ . . . and I could never ask you to put your lives in danger for me. I don’t think you have a clue what you’re up against.”
Nurse’s lips broke into a big smile. “Been hopin’ you’d say somethin’ like ‘at. Now I wanna introduce my friends proper-like.” She pointed to the big military man, sitting at her left. “Cap’n here’s ‘bout the strongest fella I ever met, yet he’s got a heart a’gold. While’s you ‘n’me were havin’ our talk, he was out on the street learnin’what he could. Tell ‘im, Cap’n.”
Cap’n jerked down hard on the front of his open coat, snapping it against his chest. “Seems some young dude disabled two a’ the three elevators at Three Queens, ‘fore he started a whale of a panic–somethin’ ‘bout a 5thstory fire. Word’s out that the phantom might be some sort a’Federal agent. Had a gun and everything. Management don’t have a clue who the guy is, but all the bouncers and security guards say he’s got forty-grand on his head.”
Nurse nodded her approval. Then she turned to the middle-aged guy coiled up on his chair. “Ritter?”
“The Guard’s name’s Carl–‘at’s the one that had his bloomin’ gun pointed at your head last night. The ol’ boy’s got a chipped tooth and a broken jaw. Thinks there were two a’ you in on the whole bloody thing and were trying to steal Mr. Vinnie’s car. Rest o’ the guards think the old woman in the alley has a mate.” Ritter refolded his arms across his chest to signify his report was complete. Greg, sitting at Nurse’s right, leaned over and put his arm around her waist, a leering grin planted on his lips. The rest of the team snickered as the old woman shooed him away. Mitch smiled from the lingering embarrassment of having seen the old woman’s backside.
Sound started in before Nurse even acknowledged him. “The maids say that someone fired a gun in Mr. Vinnie’s thirteenth-floor suite. Some say three shots, others say four.” He gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, pantomiming each point he made in frenetic circles and jabs, as would a musical conductor. “Mr. Vinnie told the police it must’ve been the commotion in the elevator they heard. The police don’t even have a suspect to charge the false alarm to, and Mr. Vinnie couldn’t . . . or wouldn’t help them.” The thin fellow slapped his hands on his knees. “Oh, and my name– since I became homeless, that is–is ‘Sound.’ I used to work as an electronics specialist.”
“Our friend Smitty here’s a locksmith.” Nurse pointed to the mute man. “Worked for his daddy ‘til th’ poor ol’ man died. Can’t say much, but don’t mean he’s dumb like ever’one says. Just does more thinkin’ than th’ rest a’ us.”
Smitty opened his mouth in a gaping smile, baring his black and rotting teeth, nodded and offered his hand in friendship, then shook Mitch’s hand vigorously.
“An’ Sunny here, you already met a short time back.” Nurse gave Greg a pat on the leg.
“My real name’s Greg Hart,” he said as he uncrossed his legs and blinked back the tears. Mitch stared hard in the room’s dim light, past Greg’s bristly chin, peeling skin, scruffy clothes and greasy hair. The man stared earnestly back at him. “I owe you,” Greg continued, “and my friends here, my life. Thank you . . .” He stood and took a step across the small circle to offer his hand. “I hope you’ll forgive me for the pain I’ve caused.”
Mitch stood to return the gesture. “I found you. . . . I mean . . .” Greg, full of emotion, leaned forward and took the young man in his embrace.
“A’right,” said Ritter. “‘At’s enough a’ your bloody love-makin’. We gonna get on with a fight, o’ what?”
“Ahh, leave them alone,” Sound replied, then pressed his hand to his mouth to suppress a yawn. “I thought it was rather sweet.”
Cap’n smoothed his bearded face with his massive hand and likewise let out a shallow shriek of a yawn. Smitty silently imitated the gesture.
Nurse intervened. “Don’t let a sheep out yet, boys. Got work t’ do ‘fore ya’ hit them downy pillows.” She turned back to face Mitch. “Well, young fella. What you got to say now?”
Mitch squirmed in his seat as he tried to organize his words into a positive phrase. “Well, I’m definitely impressed with your, uh, resourcefulness.
. . . And . . . well, I’m . . .”
“Spit it out, boy. Ya’ gonna cast your lot with us? Yes ‘r no?” Cap’n
demanded.
“Yes . . . And I think we can bring Vinnie down.”
“Think?” Cap’n and Nurse uttered in unison. Cap’n pounced first.
“If we go to war, we might not be comin’ back.”
Nurse jumped in the moment Cap’n paused for a breath. “An jus’
cause we’s crazier ‘an a rubber crutch don’t mean we can’t whoop ‘at
young pot-licker and send ‘im packin’ with his tail ‘tween his legs.”
She smacked her fist in her open hand. “Now get goin’, boys. You’re
movin’ slower ‘an cold tar in winter goin’ up hill.”
When Mitch got up to leave, Nurse took him aside for a word. “Young
fella,” she said, her face serious, “I thin’‘Mitchell Wilson’just disappeared
fer a season or two. We’ll call ya’ ‘Greased Lightnin’for now on. Be best
no one but your close friends here knows your real name.” She took him by
the arm and gently directed him toward the door. “So, Lightnin’,” she called
out to the group, “got anythin’ else ‘sides your friend in ‘at car you need
‘fore we torch it?”
Ritter’s eyes lit up. “Aright! Haven’t lit a bloody-good fire in years.” “Sorry, Ritter, you needs to get Eddie’s ol’ truck runnin’. Smitty’ll
start th’ fire and Cap’n’ll get th’ body outta the trunk. Now, young
fella, like I was sayin’, you need anythin’ from ‘at car?” “My suitcase. . . . Oh, and the phone in the glove box.” “You heard ‘em, now get th’ lead out,” the old woman scolded. “Hey, I could fix the truck,” Mitch offered. “And we might want to
hide Mike’s car–it’s still parked out front.”
Nurse paused in thought. “Come on, Nurse,” Ritter begged. “Let
me blow the roof off his bloody garage. I swear, I ain’t about to get
nobody hurt. I’m a pro at fires; if I light it, it’ll look like a blasted
accident. Sound’ll start a torch like an amateur fire bug’s had one too
many brews.”
“He’s right, you know,” remarked Sound. “I’ve never lit a building
on fire before.”
Greg couldn’t believe his ears. “I’m not very comfortable with arson,” he finally said. “We could all go to jail for a very long time.” Nurse shook her head. “Ain’t likely. The place’s been scheduled for
demolition since December. I been scroungin’through Mr. Vinnie’s trash a long time. Seems he’s been stallin’ so’s t’ keep his business runnin’. I just ain’t had th’ nerve t’ tell nobody ‘cause I didn’t want ol’ Eddie endin’ up on th’ street like we is. Word is, whole darn block’s comin’ down t’ make room fer a new casino.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Vinnie own the property?” Greg asked.
“Far as I can tell, some big corporation back ‘n Jersey does. Now if’n you and Lightnin’ll watch th’ alley an’ fix ‘at ol’ truck, it just might keep you from bein’ part a’ th’ trouble. I gotta go get my papers. The Reverend said they’d come in handy one day.” She hurried off to her shack.
Ritter, Cap’n and Smitty strolled casually down the alley. Stopping in front of Carson Auto, they glanced around to making sure they were alone. After Smitty worked his magic on the lock, the garage door slid up a few feet and each crawled inside. Near the power box outside Nurse’s shack, Greg hunkered down to keep watch, while Sound waited on the far end, down past the body shop.
Meanwhile, in the side alley beyond Nurse’s hideout, Mitch opened the squeaky door to the old pickup and checked the ignition for a key. A quick probe under the ashtray, behind the visor, and finally under the rubber floor mat produced a single key that fit the ignition. Mitch pressed the floorboard starter down and listened to the old engine crank over, then cough and die.
In a matter of a minute Mitch had removed the battery cables, cleaned the connections with his pocketknife, pressed them tightly back on their posts and reclosed the cover in the floorboards. Turning the key again, the battle-worn truck backfired, sputtered, and finally roared to life. The steady rumble was pure combustible music to Mitch’s ears. He tapped the dash and shut off the engine. “They sure don’t make them like this any more.”
Inside the hut, Nurse, a penlight wedged between her lips, transferred papers from one old metal milk crate to another, until all her personal information was crammed into one highly disorganized vagrant file system. She gathered up the motheaten wool blanket from the bare mattress and, wadding it up in her arms, fed it out the curtain near where Greg sat. “Sunny,” she whispered in her gruff old voice.
Greg took a step toward the hut as she shone her light from between the curtain. “Sunny!” she repeated, a bit louder.
“I’m here,” Greg answered.
“Take the blanket down th’ alley an’ tell Cap’n to wrap up Lightnin’s
Greg wandered down the alley and rapped lightly on the garage door. By the reflective light from the parking structure he could see Smitty’s eyes, shoot back and forth like a guilty school boy caught in the teacher’s lounge.
The door rolled up a foot and Smitty’s smiling face peered out from below. “Give this to Cap’n and have him wrap the body in it,” Greg whispered, thrusting the blanket underneath. Smitty nodded, then pulled the door down with a soft thud. As Greg turned around he was startled by a harsh banging on the glass pane in the side door.
Cap’n’s enormous white eyes stared wildly out the window. “Here’re the keys to the car out front,” he said through the glass. “And Ritter needs a candle; ask Nurse,” he ordered. “Then bring that truck down here so we can move out the troops.”
Greg slid the keys under the door and stepped sharply up the alleyway. From the other direction came Nurse, bent over, dragging her crate, on her way to the pickup point. Mitch jumped from the driver’s seat and offered to lend a hand, then hurriedly jumped back in the truck–having been on the blunt end of a hushed reprimand to stay out of sight.
After the old woman returned and rummaged through her hut one more time, she emerged with a half-burnt candle about four inches long and a single match. “Sunny,” she whispered, pressing the candle and match forward, “tell ‘em boys to wait ‘til we pull th’ truck alongside th’ door. Them guards are due to make rounds. An’ tell Ritter this here’s my only match, so make it count. Then get ‘at dead boy’s car outta sight. Ya’ never know when it might come in handy. . . . And make sure ya’ shove th’ keys up th’ tail pipe.”
Once again Greg skulked down the alley, feeling more like a messenger boy on wall street than a homeless executive. A light rap on the door again produced Smitty’s smiling face, followed by Cap’n’s harsh stare. The door slid up and Greg passed the match and candle underneath, along with Nurse’s whispered instructions.
Ten minutes later Greg sat on the passenger side of the old Ford pickup, Mitch on the driver’s side, with Nurse sandwiched in between, her bent legs straddling the stick shift. Mike’s car was parked safely in Three Queens’ garage. The old woman whispered over to Mitch, reminding him to keep an eye on the parking structure through the cloudy rearview mirror. “Them parking lot boys have a favorite peep show on cable. Don’t get out on their rounds ‘til ‘bout two. I can hear ‘em walk-in’overhead ever’night, same time. But ya’never know. . . .” She gave Mitch a poke in the ribs with her bony elbow. “What time you got?”
Mitch squirmed in his seat and pressed the light on his watch. “Five till.”“We’ll wait ‘til ten after. No sayin’if’n your shenanigan changed their routine or not.”
Inside the dark garage, Ritter crawled out from under the Escort and spanked the dust from his pants and shirt. “‘At ought’a bloodywell do it,” he said with the pride of a college grad. Carefully pinching the lone match between his thumb and index finger, he struck it on the floor. It sparked, then blazed into a tiny flame. “Twenty minutes, plus or minus two, I’d bet the family pub on it.”
Cap’n bristled in anger. “You stupid redcoat,” he growled. “I told you that were our only match! You were supposed t’ wait ‘til th’ truck came.”
Ritter finished lighting the candle and bit his cheek to hold back the scathing barrage of insults that had formed on his tongue. The serious nature of the task at hand and Cap’n’s imposing stature seemed the only things holding it at bay. He and Cap’n had never gotten along that well. If he let loose now, it would surely explode into violence. Something more important was about to explode. In fact, a puddle of gas was dripping from the gas-tank and spreading slowly in the direction of the lit candle, which Ritter had stuck firmly to the floor by a few drops of wax.
“You stupid redcoat . . .” Cap’n repeated.
The volatile words proved to be the last spark. Already at the end of his fuse, Ritter now unleashed his barrage, full-bore. “You always callin’ me a redcoat!” he howled. “Kind of like callin’ the kettle black, ain’t it? Big strong boy like you, and your own army don’t even want you.” He rose to full height and slapped his chest with both hands. “Come on, let’s bloody end this right here. Last man standing walks away, the other stays–gets burned to a crisp!”
Singed to the core by the racial smears, Cap’n’s already smoldering temper blew. He bullrushed his longtime rival, shouting, “Don’t no white man call me boy! An’ you, redcoat, is gonna be the one that gets burned!” Ritter doubled his fist and took a swing. Cap’n lifted his own brawny hand and snatched the flying fist out of the air. Giving it a vicious shake, he squeezed down hard. Bones popped like brittle tooth-picks. The pain dropped the Englishman to his knees and a blood-curdling scream could be heard rattling the rafters.
Smitty, standing watch at the garage door, began stomping his feet up and down like a Mexican hat dancer with his pants on fire. Cap’n looked up, his face that of a child in shock. He released his crushing grip and pushed Ritter away with a final warning: “Settle down, ya’ hear?” Ritter slumped onto the grimy concrete, writhing in agony, his hand cradled against his stomach.
Cap’n went to see what all the commotion was about. Smitty, wideeyed and panic-stricken, pointed frantically out the window towards the parking garage. The mute’s troubled gaze shifted back and forth between the cowering Ritter and some horrible scene outside the window–where, in the early-morning shadow, a security guard patrolled the parking lot. Turning sharply on his toes, the guard’s gaze fell on the garage door. A moment passed, whereupon he turned away and continued on his rounds.
Cap’n knelt over his suffering colleague. “Sorry, Ritter. Didn’t mean to hurt ya’. But you shouldn’t ought’a a’ done that.”
Still clutching his broken hand, Ritter moaned and rocked side to side on the floor. Finally he managed to mutter, “You broke me hand, you . . . you bloody, dumb ox!”
Cap’n looked on sheepishly. “Weren’t on purpose. You made me mad. Shouldn’t ought’a’ swung on me . . .”
Slumped inside the cab of the truck Mitch and Nurse watched as the guard ambled up the employee parking ramp and out of sight. “Looks like he’s gone,” Mitch finally said, half holding his breath. “Should we go?”
Nurse held up her finger. “Ten seconds more.”
Mitch subconsciously counted in his head, then started the old truck, which rolled backwards until it was fully into the alley. He tried to shift gears. The transmission groaned in protest. “The clutch is gone– or maybe the syncro,” he muttered, shutting off the engine. “I’ve got to drive it with the motor.”
Nurse fidgeted. “Whatcha mean? We’s sittin’ ducks if ya’ don’t get movin’.”
“Don’t worry.” Mitch slammed the shifter into first, turned on the key and pressed the starter pedal to the floorboard. The truck lurched ahead. “If the battery’ll hold out, I’ll drive it like a trucker.”
“An if’n it don’t?”
“We’ll have to get out and push.” Its motor whining, the old truck bounced down the alley, lights out, and lurched to a stop in front of the garage door.
Inside, Smitty turned to the apologetic Cap’n and snapped his fingers, then motioned with his hands like he was driving a truck. Their ride had arrived. Cap’n hoisted the cursing Ritter up on his feet. “We’s got to get out of this building ‘fore she blows. Smitty, get your tail over here. Grab this here suitcase and open the door.”
Smitty shuffled quickly around the men to retrieve the suitcase while Cap’n bent to the grim task of removing Mike’s body from the trunk. Effortlessly, he lifted it and lay it gently down on the wool blanket. After wrapping both ends in on top of the stiff corpse, he flung the load onto his shoulder. Ritter was first to the door. Still hunched over nursing his hand, he scanned the alley and waited for Smitty to lift the overhead door.
By now a cloud of fumes had collected inside the structure. The strong smell of boiling oil and gas grew more noxious with each passing moment. Gasoline steadily dripped from the car’s pierced fuel line, forming an evergrowing puddle. From beneath the car tires, it spread ever closer to the flickering candle.
Cap’n approached the door with his grisly load. All at once he reeled around, sending the blanket billowing open. Just inches from the end of his nose, Ritter found himself staring into the ghastly face of the fallen agent. Again, the Englishman’s blood started to boil. “Smitty,” urged Cap’n. “Don’t forget the phone. Said it’s in the glove box.” Smitty retraced his steps to the car, now a ticking time bomb.
Meanwhile, outside the door Greg climbed from the pickup and pressed his face up to the window to see what was holding up the three firebugs. From down the alley, Sound had stepped into the faint light, his hands held high in the air, rambling on about “not having a clue to what the officer was referring to.” Then the figure of the security guard loomed from the shadows, his gun trained on Sound’s chest. Seeing what was happening, Greg motioned Ritter and Cap’n back away from the window.
“I thought I heard someone back here,” the guard stated matter-of-factly as he forced his captive over next to the driver’s window. “Looks like I caught you bums stealin’Eddie’s truck.” He tugged a flashlight from his hip and aimed its beam directly into Mitch’s face. Mitch raised his hand to cover his eyes.
“Steal, my hide,” Nurse hollered from one seat over, like she was deaf. “Can’t steal somethin’ you been borrowed. ‘Sides, this ol’ truck’s worse ‘an a dog can’t scratch.”
The guard sized up the man behind the wheel, demanding, “And who are you?”
Nurse tore into the guy. “You ever been sued for pointin’ a gun?” she growled. “See, this here’s Eddie’s grandson from back east where them rich folk live. Came to Vegas to see his dyin’ grand-daddy, and now you’s pointin’‘at big ugly piece at ‘im. His daddy owns th’biggest law firm in Boston,” she rattled on, lying between her teeth. “Can’t say for sure, but my bet is when he hears ‘bout you he’ll be filin’ criminal charges too!”
While all heck was heating up outside, inside the garage it had become hot in the literal sense. Cap’n, Ritter and Smitty flattened up against the front door, primed for escape. Mike’s body and the suitcase lay on the floor near the bay door. “Looks to me like that twenty minutes is about up,” Cap’n rumbled. “Bad timin’ and your rotten temper’s gonna get Nurse killed if we don’t get out a’ the trenches and go hand-to-hand combat.” With that, he catapulted Ritter out into the street.
“Shut up, you old bag,” barked the guard. “This guy’s probably the one Mr. Domenico’s been lookin’ for. You had him out here the whole time, hidin’ in the alley? Look at him. Still greasy from his monkey business in the elevator shaft. If I got the right guy, I just earned myself forty grand.”
Greg, slouched in the bed of the truck, joined in, trying to persuade the guard he was in the wrong. “Before you fly off and do somethin’ you’ll be sorry for, officer,” he drawled, “you better consider what she’s sayin’. He was just workin’on this old truck, that’s all, so we can go see his grandpa. I seen what happens to someone like you that points his weapon without probable cause. You’re a civilian just like we are, hired by Three Queens to keep the peace. The only difference is you got a permit to carry a gun and we don’t. Same thing happened to me last year workin’ at the Palace. I got carried away with my weapon–lost my job, then lost my wife and family from the civil suit filed by some drugged-up attorney. Now look at me– homeless, just like my friends here.”
The guard wavered, then slid his gun back in his holster and inched away from the truck, projecting his beam from Greg to Mitch, and back to Greg. No one here was being aggressive or acting flighty. “Forty grand? Not worth it,” he said as he reached for his radio. But I’m gettin’ some help down here.”
The thunder of army boots slapping the pavement and the rustle of Cap’n’s coat echoed through the alley. Rattled, the guard fumbled with his gun, flashlight, and radio. Before he could fully spin around, Cap’n had raised him off the ground in a suffocating bear hug. As from a ruptured balloon, a torrent of air rushed from the guard’s lungs. Sound reached out and caught the falling gun; the flashlight and radio clattered to the asphalt.
“‘At’s enough, Cap’n,” Nurse called out, grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling herself over to the window. The guard, his lungs unable to take in a breath, kicked helplessly. “Cap’n,” she again cried, “‘at’s ‘bout enough!” Seeing that Cap’n wasn’t responding to her pleas, she pushed at Mitch. “Open this door!” she shrieked. Mitch scrambled to get out of her way.
Sound tugged in vain at the big man’s green flak jacket. “You’re going to kill him!” he screamed. “Let go . . . let go.”
Nurse’s feet hit the ground. “Laurence Elroy Jackson, your mama’s gonna whip your backside with grandpa’s cane, ‘less you put ‘at boy down. Now you let go, you hear!”
The big black man’s face softened and his arms relaxed. The guard slumped to the ground, a wet rag on a washboard, unconscious from lack of air. “Sorry, Lou,” he whimpered, blinking at the collapsed guard, “you shouldn’t ought t’ve pointed your gun at my dog.”
Nurse took a handful of his coat. “Cap’n, this ain’t Lou, and you ain’t sixteen no more. Ya’ done good–we just don’t want ‘im dead, is all. Now, hurry up. Put ‘im in the back a’ th’ truck. It’ll be better if he ain’t here when th’ garage goes.”
The Alley Team tore into action, clambering to toss all the tools, the suitcase and the bodies–which now numbered two–into the truck. Just as the bottom of the garage door hit the concrete, Ritter began to squeal, “It’s gonna blow any second!”
Greg leaped into the driver’s seat and forced the starter to the floor. The truck convulsed, then stalled. “We’ve got to push!” he shouted. Just then the inside of the garage lit up from the glow of sparks meeting compressed fumes and boiling gas.
Cap’n bounded from the back of the truck and ordered everyone to stay inside. Heaving his enormous shoulder against its rusty back fender, he began to push. With a little speed, the truck’s engine popped and gunned to life. Cap’n jumped onto the back of the careening truck as it shot down the alley.
Three blocks from Carson’s Auto Body, the A-team gazed back at the billowing ball of fire and smoke that heaved into the old downtown sky. Through the frenetic black morning, Las Vegas’s unremitting casino lights shimmered on.