WARNING WARNING WARNING
BLASTING AGENTS AND BOOSTERS MUST BE KEPT
SEPARATE!
THIS IS A FEDERAL REGULATION
CARELESSNESS WITH EXPLOSIVES WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
The rear wall was studded with spikes driven into the cinderblock. Hung on these were coils of wire and fat _ white cord. Det-cord, Steve assumed. Against the right and left walls, facing each other like bookends with no books between them, were two heavy wooden chests. The _ one marked DYNAMITE and BLASTING CAPS and USE EXTREME CAUTION was open, the lid up like the lid of a child’s toybox. The other, marked simply BLASTING AGENT in black letters against an orange background, was padlocked shut.
“That’s the ANFO,” Johnny said, pointing at the pad locked cabinet. “Acronym stands for ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.”
“How do you know that?” Mary asked.
“Picked it up somewhere,” he said absently. “Just picked it up somewhere.”
“Well, if you think I’m gonna blow the padlock off that one, you’re nuts,” Ralph said.
“You guys have any ideas that don’t involve shooting?”
“Not just this second,” Johnny said, but he didn’t sound very concerned.
Steve walked toward the dynamite chest.
“No dyno in there,” Johnny said, still sounding weirdly serene.
He was right about the dynamite, but the chest was far from empty. The body of a man in jeans and a George town Hoyas tee-shirt was crammed into it. He had been shot in the head. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve from below what might once have been blond hair. It was hard to tell.
Steeling himself against the smell, Steve leaned over and worked at the keyring hanging on the man’s belt.
“What is it?” Cynthia asked, starting toward him. A beetle came out of the corpse’s open mouth and trundled down his chin. Now Steve could hear a faint rustling. More insects under the dead guy. Or maybe one of his nice new friend’s beloved rattlers.
“Nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”
The keyring was stubborn. After several fruitless efforts to depress the clef-shaped clip holding it to the
belt-loop, Steve simply tore the whole thing off, loop and all. He closed the lid and crossed the room with the keyring. Johnny, he noticed, was standing about three paces inside the door, gazing raptly down at his motor-cycle helmet. “Alas, poor Urine,” he said. “I knew him well.”
“Johnny? You okay?”
“Fine.” Johnny tucked the motorcycle helmet under his arm and smiled winningly at Steve. . . but his eyes looked haunted.
Steve gave the keys to Ralph. “One of these, maybe?” It didn’t take long. The third key Ralph tried slid into the padlock on the chest marked BLASTING AGENT. A moment later the five of them were looking inside. The chest had been partitioned into three bins.
Those on the ends were empty. The one in the middle was half full of what looked like long cheesecloth bags. Littered among them were a few escapees: round pellets that looked to Steve like whitewashed birdshot. The bags had drawstring tops. He lifted one out. It looked like a bratwurst and he guessed it weighed about ten pounds. Written on the side in black were the letters ANFO. Below them, in red: CAUTION: FLAMMABLE, EXPLOSIVE.
“Okay,” Steve said, “but how are we going to set it off with no booster? You were right, boss-no dynamite, no blasting caps. Just a guy with a .30-.30 haircut. The demolitions foreman, I assume.”
Johnny looked at Steve, then at the others. “I wonder if the rest of you would step out ,with David for a moment. I’d like to speak to Steve alone.”
“Why?” Cynthia asked instantly.
“Because I need to,” Johnny said in an oddly gentle voice. “It’s a little unfinished business, that’s all. An apology. I don’t apologize well under any circumstances, but I’m not sure I could do it at all with an audience.”
Mary said, “I hardly think this is the time-”
The boss had been signalling him-signalling urgently-with his eyes. “It’s okay,” Steve said. “It’ll be quick.”
“And don’t go empty-handed,” Johnny said. “Each of you take a bag of this instant Fourth of July.”
“My understanding is that without something explosive to boost it, it’s more like Instant Campfire,”
Ralph said.
“I want to know what’s going on here,” Cynthia said. She sounded worried.
“Nothing,” Johnny told her, his voice soothing.
“Really.”
“The fuck there ain’t,” Cynthia said morosely, but she went with the others, each of them carrying a bag of ANFO.
Before Johnny could say anything, David slipped back inside. There were still traces of dried soap on his cheeks, and his lids were tinged purple. Steve had once dated a girl who’d worn eyeshadow that exact same color. On David it looked like shock instead of glamour.
“Is everything okay?” David asked. He glanced briefly at Steve, but it was Johnny he was talking to.
“Yes. Steve, give David a bag of ANFO.”
David stood a moment longer, holding the bag Steve handed him, looking down at it, lost in thought.
Abruptly he looked up at Johnny and said, “Turn out your pockets. All of them.”
“What-” Steve began.
Johnny shushed him, smiling oddly. It was the smile of someone who has bitten into something which tastes both bitter and compelling. “David knows what he’s doing.”
He unbuckled the chaps, turned out the pockets of his jeans underneath, handing Steve his goods-the famous wallet, his keys, the hammer which had been stuck in his belt-to hold as he did. He bowed forward so David could look into his shirt pocket. Then he unbuckled his pants and pushed them down.
Underneath be was wearing blue bikini briefs. His not inconsiderable gut hung over them. I-Ic looked to Steve like one of those rich older guys you saw strolling along the beach sometimes. You knew they were rich not just because they always wore Rolexes and Oakley sunglasses, but because they dared walk along in those tiny spandex ballhuggers in the first place. As if, once your income passed a certain figure, your gut became another asset.
The boss wasn’t wearing spandex, at least. Plain old Cotton.
He did a three-sixty, arms slightly raised, giving David ill the angles and bruises, then pulled up his jeans again.
The chaps followed. “Satisfied? I’ll take off my boots, if you’re not.”
“No,” David said, but be poked a hand into the pockets of the chaps before stepping back.
His face was troubled, but not exactly worried. “Go on and have your talk. But hurry it up.”
And he was gone, leaving Steve and Johnny alone.
The boss moved to the rear of the powder magazine, as far from the door as possible.
Steve followed. Now he could smell the corpse in the dynamite chest under the stronger fuel-oil aroma of the place, and he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.
“He wanted to make sure you didn’t have a few of those can tahs on you, didn’t he? Like Audrey.”
Johnny nodded. “He’s a wise child.”
“I guess he is.” Steve shuffled his feet, looked at them, then back up at the boss. “Look, you don’t need to apologize for buzzing off. The important thing is that you came back.
Why don’t we just-”
“I owe a lot of apologies,” Johnny said. He began taking his stuff back, rapidly returning the items to the pockets from which they had come. He took the hammer last, once more tucking it into the belt of his chaps. “It’s really amazing how much fuckery a person can get up to in the course of one lifetime. But you’re really the least of my worries in that respect, Steve, especially now. Just shut up and listen, all right?”
“All right.”
“And this really does have to be speedy. David already suspects I’m up to something; that’s another reason why he wanted me to turn out my pockets. There’ll come a moment-very soon now-when you’re going to have to grab David. When you do, make sure you get a good grip, because he’s going to fight like hell. And make sure you don’t let ~
“Why ?“
“Will your pal with the creative hairdo help if you ask her to?”
“Probably, but-”
“Steve, you have to trust me.
“Why should I?”
“Because I had a moment of revelation on the way up here. Except that’s way too stiff; I like David’s phrase better. He asked me if I got hit by a God-bomb. I told him no, but that was another lie. Do you suppose that’s why God picked me in the end? Because I’m an accomplished liar? That’s sort of funny, but also sort of awful, you know it?”
“What’s going to happen? Do you even know?”
“No, not completely.” Johnny picked up the .30-.06 in one hand and the black-visored helmet in the other. He looked back and forth between them, as if comparing their relative worth.
“I can’t do what you want,” Steve said flatly. “I don t trust you enough to do what you want.”