ORD’S MEAT PROCESSING & Frozen Food Locker Plant faced the tracks off Colorado Street. The crumbling brick building had long served as an icon to the homeless. Melburn Ford had run the plant since the ‘50s, when his father passed the family business down. Every winter, after Mr. Ford filed notice on the delinquent locker rentals, he’d systematically–one each day–emptied the contents of the various lockers onto the docks near the dumpster.
On any given winter day, if they arrived in the wee hours of the morning, those veteran vagrants who were aware of the arctic buffet could sort through various cuts of meats, frozen vegetables, ice cream, prepared pasta dishes, and every other imaginable frozen food. Some had suffered slight freezer burn, other items were fuzzy with frost, and others were simply unmarked and unidentifiable. Yet most was edible.
The county health department had unsuccessfully sued old-man Ford for distributing such food products without proper government inspections. But in his methodical, old-fashioned manner, Mr. Ford had simply reputed all charges by claiming the food needed to be partially thawed in order to avoid freezing to the walls of the dumpster and becoming too difficult to extract. He was not responsible to post guards at his trash receptacle any more than the next business. At one time the health department had posted their own people at the dumpster to chase away the unwanteds. This lasted for only a short time, however, largely due to the fact that old-man Ford simply stopped dumping at regular intervals and left a small garbage can either upright or turned down on the dock, thus inviting his friends to come–or not–the following morning. The health department was none the wiser to the clever scheme.
Nurse pointed out to Mitch where to park at the back of the dilapidated storage building. Once more she craned her neck to check the bed of the truck to assure the Three Queens guard was still soundly cuffed, tied and blindfolded. No longer unconscious, his flinching jaw communicated a clear combination of outrage and foreboding.
The truck pulled behind the building. No one spoke. Sound took hold of the guard’s one arm, Mitch the other, and they hauled him from the truck and led him to the front door of the locker entrance. After waiting several moments, Smitty raced around the building, rattled the door, then dropped his pick set to the knob, freeing the brass bolt. The cold, stale air from the monstrous freezer system blew across their faces when the old wooden door swung inward.
When the gag was removed, the guard immediately blurted out, “Wh–where’re we going?”
“Shh,” Mitch hushed. “We’re not going to hurt you; we just need to lock you up for a few hours. The owner will be in by morning and let you out.” He guided him through the dark office to a dimly lit and very long hallway. Metal lockers lined each side.
“You can’t do this,” the guard insisted. “This is kidnapping.”
Mitch peered down at the name-tag on the guard’s pocket. “Earl, we’re not the bad guys–and you shouldn’t have pulled your gun on us. The guy that’s going down is your boss, Mr. Domenico.” That said, Mitch pulled the guard’s hands up and uncoupled one of his arms from the handcuffs. Then he dropped the cuff through the metal handle to a locker and latched his wrist again.
In the meantime, Cap’n–Mike’s blanket-covered body slung over his shoulder–had, with Smitty’s help, entered through the basement door at the back of the building. Nurse had been busy opening and closing each of the storage lockers in the basement.
“This one here ought’a do it,” she announced, peering up at the locker’s number: 418. She waved Greg over to help unload the freezer’s contents onto the floor.
Five minutes passed. At last, fingers numb from the cold, Greg set down the last of the wrapped packages of meat and looked on as Cap’n lugged Mike’s body to the back of the freezer. There he arranged his load, bending the Federal agent’s stiffened elbows and knees into a fetal position.
Nurse lowered her head. “We promise, friend, ya’ won’t be here long. Soon as we can put blame on the man responsible for yer murder, we can bury ya’ proper like. Flowers, tears, a preacher t’ say pretty words an read from th’ good book. . . . We’ll make sure it’s done right.”
“Amen,” Cap’n whispered over the rhythmic hum of the refrigeration units. “And like my mama used to say, rest in peace with them angels above.”
Nurse pointed to the mound of packaged meat and gestured to Cap’n and Greg to begin stacking it tightly around the body, and soon the corpse was completely obscured by the screen of steaks and rump roasts.
“Now, with a little luck, whoever keeps this here meat in number 418 won’t be havin’no fancy southern barbeques. If’n they does, I’m ‘fraid our friend’s gonna crash the party.” She tucked her hands under her armpits and shivered. “Burr, this here cold ain’t good for an old woman’s rheumatism.”
Outside the larger freezer upstairs, Mitch lay the guard’s flashlight and gun on the front desk. The radio he clipped to his own belt. Pulling a heavy winter coat off a coat rack near the cooler entrance, he returned to where the guard was tied up. “The place opens at eight, Earl,” he said, bundling the coat around the man’s shoulders and lifting the hood over his ears. “That’s less than four hours. If you start to get cold, keep moving.”
Earl studied his captor. “Why’s Vinnie got a price on you?” Mitch didn’t answer. “You’re the one he’s after, aren’t you?”
Mitch took hold of the strings that hung down from the front of the hood and drew it down tight over Earl’s bald head. “Sorry if my friend hurt you. Now remember, keep moving.” The guard nodded. Mitch shut the locker door and walked past Sound, who waited to secure the front door.
“You’re a real nice guy,” Sound whispered. “The man was going to turn us all over to Mr. Vinnie.”
“He’s a pawn. Doesn’t know much of anything. Probably has to work nights and weekends just to feed his family. I’ll bet he doesn’t have any clue Three Queens is being demolished.”
“You’re probably right.” The thin man yawned. “All I want is a soft bed, silk pj’s and a down pillow like the old days.” His voice faded off as he crawled back into the bed of the truck and lay his head on the splintered wooden slats.
Ritter, meanwhile, was perched on the front bumper, still coddling his broken hand. Mitch leaned against the fender and listened.
“I ain’t never seen the big ox lose his bloody temper ‘fore,” Ritter carped bitterly. “Didn’t realize I been playing wit a bloomin’ stick a’ dynamite all these months.”
Mitch responded simply with an “uh-uh” and a nod.
“I ought to know better than to play wit’ fire by now, too. Gives me a high on adrenalin that takes a week to come down from. It’s like a smack a’ glass.”
Mitch looked on without a hint of what the brooding man was talking about.
The Englishman rattled on. “Not that I been usin’ or nothin’. Been clean since ‘96. I been talkin’ right big since ‘fore I skipped England in ‘72. And here me is, right sod, an’ nothin’ but a 47-year-old addict livin’ on the bloody streets a’ Vegas. Time I changed all that. ‘Bout t’ hit me the lotto, an’ maybe settle an old score wit me kid brother.”
Nurse, Greg and Cap’n surfaced from the basement and gathered around Mitch. “So what’s next?” asked Greg.
Nurse shrugged her stooped shoulders. “Don’t rightly know. Got any ideas?”
Greg’s eyebrows raised a whole half inch. “You don’t know?”
“Been doin’ pretty good by the seat a’ our pants, ain’t we?”
“We have, but we’ve got to put a plan together if we want to win instead of just get away. We need to know where we’re going.”
“Well, Mister smarty-pants, ya’ think ya’ know so much, tell us what we ought’a do.”
Mitch leaned away from the fender, stretching his sore back. “I think we all need a good night’s sleep before we decide anything. I’ve got twentygrand under the seat of the truck. It won’t hurt to spend a couple hundred on a hotel room or two, get a hot shower, a good night’s sleep. . . .”
Smitty nodded ‘no’ to the idea of a shower and ‘yes’ to a good night’s sleep. Sound lifted his head from the truck bed. “Did you say hotel? I’m in.”
Nurse shook her head. “No reason t’ get soft just ‘cause we’s got money now.”
Greg begged to differ. “I think we should sack out for a day. We need time to plan, anyway. Plus, if we’re going to carry out our mission, we need to renew our strength.”
Cap’n looked over at Nurse, then scanned the little band of vagrants. “I agree with Nurse,” he said. “We don’t need no hotel. We can stay at my place under 15.” Smitty nodded in agreement.
Nurse did a quick tally. “So ‘at makes three ‘at wants t’ go t’ a hotel, an three ‘at don’t. Ritter, what about you?”
“Don’t make no mind t’me. You bloody well better drop me at County so I can get me hand mended.”
Sound again piped up, as if the matter were finally settled. “Well, then, the three of us can go get a room at the T-bird; a friend of mine works the night shift. And the rest of you can go spend the night under that noisy bridge.”
Nurse dismissed the idea outright. “No!” she spat, wagging her head. “We best stay together. It’ll take ever’ one a’ us t’ keep an eye on the other. No sayin’ what kind a’ friends Mr. Vinnie’s got.”
Greg nodded reluctantly. “I agree with that.”
“Looks t’ me like it’s up to you,” Nurse drawled, getting up in the Englishman’s face. “Yes or no?” Ritter seemed lost in thought. “Ritter, yes or no?” she repeated.
“Yes–the hotel. But first drop me at County. I’ll find you after they finish wit’ me broken hand.”
Eddie’s truck rumbled from behind Ford’s locker, wheezing and rattling up the road. Cap’n, Ritter, Sound and Smitty sat low in the back, while Nurse again perched herself between Mitch at the wheel and Greg in the passenger seat.
“Can’t be wanderin’ the streets like we been doin’, ya’ know,” Nurse said.
Greg eyed his street-wise mentor. “How do you mean?”
“Mean like some kind a’crazy family. Soon as ‘at guard gets loose, he’s gonna squeal like an old stuck sow. Won’t be much time ‘fore Mr. Vinnie knows all about who we is.”
“You’re right. I’ve been thinking the same thing. And I might have a plan.”
“You got somethin’ you’s holdin’ back, now’d be a good time t’ spill yer guts.”
“Not yet. I learned a long time ago not to make a proposal unless I had the resources to follow through. I’m still not sure it’d even work.”
“Have it your way.”
The truck cab fell silent, except for the sound of the old rag tires clawing at the road and the grinding of metal between each gear. Mitch stayed off the main roads, instead opting for the sleepy neighborhood streets. County Hospital was halfway across town and well out of the route to the T-bird Hotel.
Four blocks from the hospital, Ritter knocked on the back window and hollered, “Set me down on the corner, mate. I’ll find the rest of me way on foot.”
Mitch pulled over to the curb near a corner streetlight. Ritter hopped down and cast a final, silent glance at Cap’n.
“I didn’t mean t’ hurt your hand, you ornery old redcoat,” Cap’n said, a tinge of warmth in his voice.
Ritter shrugged. “You’re alright, pet. Weren’t your fault. I should’a never swung on you. It just gets me so bloody excited to be ‘round a good fire. ‘Sides I ain’t been me-self lately. Pert near wet me own knickers every time.” Ritter slapped the fender and stepped away from the vehicle. “Be seein’ you,” he called out.
Mitch pressed the starter to the floor and clattered away down the street. As Ritter set off in the direction of the hospital, he looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah, be seein’you real soon,” he muttered under his breath.
Waving, Sound called out over the roar of the truck, “We’ll be at the Tbird–sleeping on real beds with clean sheets, a tub to soak in . . .” His voice faded away. Ritter looked on. Already he was feeling bloody guilty for what he was about to do.