Read Online The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright - Free Book Online
Authors: R.F. Bright
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day. Farmers. Marauders. Grandmas and babies. I seen some shit. Brother.”
Otis could tell that MacIan understood. He stared down at the floor, and mumbled, “I-have-seen-some-shit! Brotherman. And this, this right here,” he pointed to Arthur Gager’s body . . . “this is trouble.”
* * *
A hundred harsh winters had failed to diminish the stark beauty of the Bedford Barracks’ space-age lobby, where MacIan stopped to examine a row of black and white portraits of former Barracks Commanders. Black and white made them less real, but more human. He pushed through the glass doors and into the reception area, which was still fitted with all the original, highly simplified furniture. Cassandra, the barracks’ middle-aged Office Manager, pointed a halting finger at him. “You talk to that nice preacher’s wife, Gina, up there in Lily?”
“No,” he said, apologetically.
She waved it off then aimed her palms at the squad room’s cubicle farm. “You’re down there, in the corner with a window. Take any dorm room you want. Downstairs. They’re all available. Just like you? I guess?”
MacIan joined her pretense. “And you? I hope.”
“Ahhh,” said Cassandra. “If only I were thirty years younger.”
MacIan gave her a silly, one-eyed once-over. Her hair was dyed a fiery red and she had extraordinarily penetrating eyes, which she credited to being part Akwesasne Mohawk. “Or I thirty years older,” he offered.
She flicked a wrist at him. “I already got that deal, but who knows? I could trade up, if he ran off with the upstairs maid.” They both laughed, which sealed the deal on their relationship for Cassandra. “Someday you’re gonna be thirty years older and you should hope to have someone like me around to wipe your ass.”
MacIan started off toward his corner. “Live in hope . . .”
“. . . die in despair, sweetheart.”
MacIan walked through the eerily silent squad room, wondering how things worked here. He and three much older Troopers were the only police for approximately six percent of the entire state. Luckily, there were few people living in these inhospitable mountains. In areas like this, the Peregrine made all the difference. It was not the number of bad guys that made policing difficult here, it was the distances. And crime had become somewhat scarce, at least the kind of crime people wouldn’t put up with.
The three older Troopers observed MacIan as he went to his cubicle, distancing themselves with lukewarm nods.
With only four Troopers to occupy the enormous squad room, everyone got a corner office marked out by eye-level dividers the same grey-blue as the old Trooper uniforms. MacIan entered his cubicle, pulling off his topcoat and tossing it across a chair. It blended into the decor.
He tossed the dead man’s wallet onto his desk, plopped down, and prodded its various pockets and hiding places. He took the driver’s license out of its see-through sleeve and inspected it. “Arthur Gager,” he mused, fanning out several credit cards like a poker hand. “Arthur Gager, Arthur Gager, Arthur Gager. Must be Arthur Gager.”
The dead man’s name was the only thing on these. Those who could afford driver’s licenses and credit cards were often the focus of kidnappers. Privacy laws prevented anyone from disclosing the addresses of the — protected class. Arthur was obviously one of them. MacIan picked up the desk phone and pressed the first button.
Cassandra’s voice came back, crackling clear. “You’ve got to stop calling me here.”
“I have this guy’s credit cards. Can I find out where he lives?”
“You can’t,” she said, “but ya never know about these things. What’s the name?”
MacIan gave her what he had and they hung up. He picked up the wallet again. It was obviously expensive. Fairly new. Made of indestructible rip-stop nylon, trimmed in genuine alligator, polished to a deep, oxblood-red, and hand-worked tightly enough to take some wear and
Otis could tell that MacIan understood. He stared down at the floor, and mumbled, “I-have-seen-some-shit! Brotherman. And this, this right here,” he pointed to Arthur Gager’s body . . . “this is trouble.”
* * *
A hundred harsh winters had failed to diminish the stark beauty of the Bedford Barracks’ space-age lobby, where MacIan stopped to examine a row of black and white portraits of former Barracks Commanders. Black and white made them less real, but more human. He pushed through the glass doors and into the reception area, which was still fitted with all the original, highly simplified furniture. Cassandra, the barracks’ middle-aged Office Manager, pointed a halting finger at him. “You talk to that nice preacher’s wife, Gina, up there in Lily?”
“No,” he said, apologetically.
She waved it off then aimed her palms at the squad room’s cubicle farm. “You’re down there, in the corner with a window. Take any dorm room you want. Downstairs. They’re all available. Just like you? I guess?”
MacIan joined her pretense. “And you? I hope.”
“Ahhh,” said Cassandra. “If only I were thirty years younger.”
MacIan gave her a silly, one-eyed once-over. Her hair was dyed a fiery red and she had extraordinarily penetrating eyes, which she credited to being part Akwesasne Mohawk. “Or I thirty years older,” he offered.
She flicked a wrist at him. “I already got that deal, but who knows? I could trade up, if he ran off with the upstairs maid.” They both laughed, which sealed the deal on their relationship for Cassandra. “Someday you’re gonna be thirty years older and you should hope to have someone like me around to wipe your ass.”
MacIan started off toward his corner. “Live in hope . . .”
“. . . die in despair, sweetheart.”
MacIan walked through the eerily silent squad room, wondering how things worked here. He and three much older Troopers were the only police for approximately six percent of the entire state. Luckily, there were few people living in these inhospitable mountains. In areas like this, the Peregrine made all the difference. It was not the number of bad guys that made policing difficult here, it was the distances. And crime had become somewhat scarce, at least the kind of crime people wouldn’t put up with.
The three older Troopers observed MacIan as he went to his cubicle, distancing themselves with lukewarm nods.
With only four Troopers to occupy the enormous squad room, everyone got a corner office marked out by eye-level dividers the same grey-blue as the old Trooper uniforms. MacIan entered his cubicle, pulling off his topcoat and tossing it across a chair. It blended into the decor.
He tossed the dead man’s wallet onto his desk, plopped down, and prodded its various pockets and hiding places. He took the driver’s license out of its see-through sleeve and inspected it. “Arthur Gager,” he mused, fanning out several credit cards like a poker hand. “Arthur Gager, Arthur Gager, Arthur Gager. Must be Arthur Gager.”
The dead man’s name was the only thing on these. Those who could afford driver’s licenses and credit cards were often the focus of kidnappers. Privacy laws prevented anyone from disclosing the addresses of the — protected class. Arthur was obviously one of them. MacIan picked up the desk phone and pressed the first button.
Cassandra’s voice came back, crackling clear. “You’ve got to stop calling me here.”
“I have this guy’s credit cards. Can I find out where he lives?”
“You can’t,” she said, “but ya never know about these things. What’s the name?”
MacIan gave her what he had and they hung up. He picked up the wallet again. It was obviously expensive. Fairly new. Made of indestructible rip-stop nylon, trimmed in genuine alligator, polished to a deep, oxblood-red, and hand-worked tightly enough to take some wear and
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