Tag Archives: Vigilante

Act Three, Scene I, Part 2

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Even with the correct code the reinforced storm door at the back of the old candy store adjacent to the Battery Works resisted Wayne’s efforts at first. Snow drifting up across the back step swirled in the wind. Once opened he hurried back to the dark shape against the brick wall and bundled it over his shoulder. The old woman was still conscious, but without knowing how long she had been in the snow drift he couldn’t tell how much danger she was in. He laid her out on the cot in what had once been old Rick’s bedroom office and storage area. Most everything had been emptied out, either after the first rash of break-ins or when repossessed by the distributors. What remained were an assortment of odds and ends, party supplies, and the dust that accompanied their life on the shelves. As well, a metal frame kiosk, it’s plastic gewgaws hanging from the hooks displaying soap bubble pipes, kazoos, ball and jacks, joy buzzers, itch powder, skunk oil, whistles, and yo-yos.

He found the light switch and flicked it. The room stayed dark. He retrieved a flashlight from a sleeve pocket of his leathers and shined the light at her face. Laverne Early moved her head away instinctively and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m cold.” True, the back room of the candy store was meat locker frosty but not the windblown minus chill of outside. He felt her bare hands. Icy. He slapped the backs, massaging them to get the blood circulating, and then set about removing her boots. The sock were wet and cold, the feet shriveled almost blue. He turned his head as she muttered, “Cat.” Eyes closed, she flinched in a kind of delirium and then seemed to gag before coughing and expelling a less than fragrant breath.

“Miz Early, can you hear me? Are you alright?” He felt hopeless for a moment when she didn’t reply. “Can you open your eyes and look at me? Look at the flashlight?”

Her eyes opened with a snap. At the same exact time the ceiling light burst bright with restored power. He was just as startled as the old woman was, but she was the one who screamed. He realized then that he had not removed his helmet. The cat lady’s fright turned to anger when he did. “What have you done with my Cat?” She tried to sit up and fell back struggling to remain seated. “You! Stay away from my daughter! Where is she?”

Wayne sat back on his haunches and contemplated the old woman, her disheveled appearance, head wrapped with a scarf in a ragged winter hat, the smears and stains of living in the same clothing for months, unwashed, stale, acrid. “What happened? Where is your daughter?”

Now her face contorted in pain and tears ran down the wizened cheeks. “Where you took her, you rotten bastard!” She bared her teeth. “You’re all the same. You just want one thing. Leave her alone.” And she tried sitting up again, successfully. “I gotta get out of here. Go find her.”

“Where, Miz Early, where are you going to look? I’ll help you.”

The old woman stared at him, puzzled. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“My name is Wayne Bruce. You’re in the back of old Rick’s candy store. I found you in the snow against the back wall of the battery factory. You could have died if I hadn’t found you. We have to get you some place warm.”

She shook her head violently, “No! Gotta find Cat, my daughter. Gotta go.”

“Where, Laverne, where are you going to go?”

“There,” she said, pointing toward the curtained doorway into the candy store.

“The store?” But at the shake of her head he understood that she meant somewhere beyond the store and he knew where. Penn Quinn’s Tavern.

He stood abruptly and flicked the light off at the faint sound coming from the front of the store. Maybe it was just the wind rattling the eaves of the old building. He let his eyes adjust to the dark, taking a deep breath and concentrating. It wasn’t the wind. Someone or something was at the front door. He stepped into the empty store and crouched low before the bare glass candy display, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

A shaft of gray light fell across the floor and with it a swirl of wind and snow as the door opened briefly to admit a shadowy hooded figure.

Wayne turned the flashlight at it and it held up an arm to block the light in its eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Ripley lowered his arm as Wayne directed the beam away. “I could ask you the same question.”

Wayne gestured him to follow him into the back room. He switched on the light and pointed to the old woman. “I found her in a snow bank behind the store. We have to get her some place warm, maybe a hospital. She could have frostbite. And she sounds delirious. Something about her daughter missing.”

Ripley knelt before the cat lady, held one of her hands in his and looked into her sorrowful eyes. “Laverne, it’s me, Bion, are you alright? What’s this about Cat? Where is she?”

Laverne shook her shoulders and sobbed. “I don’t know. They took her?”

“Who took her?” Wayne insisted.

Laverne stared at him with thinly veiled disdain.

Ripley stood up. “First things first. We gotta see if you are all right. So let’s get something warm into you.” He rummaged in a stack of boxes and held up an electric kettle. He grinned. “You’d think I’d packed this place up myself.” He filled the kettle from the sink in the next room and then set it on the little table by the cot and the electrical outlet. “Now I know there’s some tea and maybe some soup packages in one of the boxes.”

“You never answered my question, Bion. What were you doing here?”

Ripley held up a box of tea bags. “I thought so!” And then pointed it in the direction of door. “I got a page. It’s automatic. A trouble alarm from the Battery Works. I figured that it was the storm. Knocked the power out and thought I’d come and check it out. I live just a couple blocks over. And it is kind of my job. I saw the light in the candy store. Which brings me to my question of why are you here?”

“Wait a minute, you got a page?”

“Yeah, that’s the way it’s set up. If the power goes out at the plant or there’s some kind of electrical hiccup, the phone system sends out a page to the designated duty person and plant supervisor which most of the time is me. Don’t tell me that you got a page, too, and you came to check it out?”

“What does your readout say?”

“It’s just the phone number of the Battery Works.”

Wayne retrieved his pager from his jacket pocket and showed the display to Ripley. “Is this the number?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The kettle whistled shrilly. But Wayne paid no notice. The number on his pager, his murdered father’s number, was the same as the one Ripley had received on his pager. How was that possible? Unless. . . .

Bion poured the hot water over the teabag in the cup he handed her. “Ok, Laverne, tell me what’s going on.” He sat on the cot next to her. “Where’s your daughter?”

The old woman blinked at the warmth in her hands. “We had to leave the shelter because them boys come in and started trouble. You know, J-van and them. They followed us and said they would buy us something to eat and drink at Quinn’s. Cat didn’t want to, but they took us in anyway, and it was warm and it was a while since I’d eaten. And then, I don’t know, I had a couple of drinks. They kept asking her questions. They were just pestering her because she’s a girl. And they are boys, stupid men.” She looked up at Wayne when she said that.

Ripley read his look and place a hand on her arm. “Ok, then what happened? Did Cat leave?”

“I don’t know, I must have fallen asleep. It was so nice and warm in there.” She looked up startled at a sudden realization. “I had to find Cat! They said she left. I have to find Cat. I didn’t believe them. She wouldn’t leave without me.”

Wayne nodded to Bion, he was thinking the same thing. Cat might still be at Penn Quinn’s Tavern, held against her will.

“They tricked me!” the old woman blurted, sobbing.

Wayne picked up his helmet. “She might still be there.”

Ripley shook his head. “They might be packing. And if Penn Quinn is involved in this, you know he’s got a gun.” He stood up. “I found this stuffed in the gate when I came to work last Friday.” He unfolded the square of paper he pulled from his coat pocket. “Thought you might want to see it.”

It was a handbill with a notice requesting information regarding the vigilante and offering a reward. It was made to look like an official flyer that might be distributed by the police. A framed shadowy figure stood out at the center below the bold letters demanding “Have You Seen This Man?” The contact number was for an entity he wasn’t familiar with, The East Central Merchants Association. A five hundred dollar reward was offered.

“Who are the East Central Merchants Association? And why are they so concerned about the vigilante? Isn’t he some kind of crimefighter?”

“Bion shook his head. “Word is that it’s a front for Joe Kerr and his band of crooks. Quinn is one of them. And the thugs at the appliance store that got busted for fencing stolen goods. All of them rotten apples. And like Kerr, dangerous.”

Wayne smiled at the handbill and folded it to put in his pocket. “I’ll keep this in case I run into him. If it is a him. Right now I’m going to find Cat.”

“All I’m saying is be careful.”

Lavern Early, revived by the hot tea, glared at Wayne. “Stay away from my daughter!”

Ripley turned to the old woman. “Now hush, Laverne. We’re trying to help you. No need to talk like that.”

Wayne strode to the corner after donning his helmet and examined the wire frame kiosk with the assortment of toys. He lifted a couple packages of yoyos from their hooks. At Ripley’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Never know, they might come in handy.”

In disbelief, Bion shook his head. “Yo-yos?” he questioned the shadowy figure of Wayne Bruce exiting the candy store.

Laverne Early leaned forward holding the steaming cup to her lips and followed Ripley’s gaze. “Who does he think he is?”

Act Two, Scene 2, pt.1

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Harold had called an emergency board meeting, It almost turned into an intervention with Wayne as the focus. Present were his mother, Trish, and Dr. Linus Pall. Two other members of the board were out of reach and two others were connected via conference call. Harold had returned from DC and the news was not positive. The contract was officially under review. He assured them that it was just a technicality but Wallace Bruce’s sudden death had sent up flags and because the agency was itself under congressional review, they were going to proceed according to the letter of the law and order a full audit of Bruce Enterprise. An outside accounting firm would have to be engaged and it would be costly. “The PR office will be on the alert for any adverse publicity that could affect the company’s place in the standings and putting a positive spin on anything that might reflect badly on the brand.

“Wall had been pushing hard on expansion and acquisitions and took some risks. But he fought hard to be in the running with fierce competition from companies with offshore manufacturing in Indonesia. He was very proud that he could stamp American Made on our products.”

Harold went on to explain that negotiations were ongoing so no need to panic although Wallace’s death could not have come at a more critical time. And that, more than ever, the company’s future depended on research and development represented by the work being done at Bruce Advanced Technical Solutions.

Eyes rested briefly on Wayne. He set his jaw and met their gazes. He had been briefed on most of what Harold was saying when his uncle had returned from DC. The mention of BATS replayed a conversation he’d had with the lab supervisor regarding the sample taken from the carpeting in the penthouse where old dad had died. The high concentration of acetate was still unexplainable and inconclusive.

It had occurred to Wayne during the repeated viewings of the footage of the elevator to the penthouse and his father entering it alone the night of his death, that if there was any foul play it would have occurred in that box. But how? Unless the elevator was the killer.

He steeled a glare at Dr. Pall. He may have been the last one to see his father alive if what Charlotte had said was true. His attempts to meet with the good doctor face to face had been canceled or rescheduled as if he were being avoided. He was sure it had to do with his breaking off the engagement with Charlotte. Pall had been outraged by it.

“I’ve put on retainer a security consultant, Smith Brothers Security, to investigate the circumstances surrounding the designation of the old battery works as a toxic site and look for signs of impropriety. Any hint of culpability must be minimized to zero. If you understand what I mean. That we are taking the initiative on this matter will be further evidence that there was no attempt or intent to defraud the Toxic Cleanup Fund.” Harold paused to look at the notes in front of him.

“They were represented to me as an entirely reputable and reliable investment in the specialty toxic cleanup business.” Linus Pall adjusted the water glass in front of him to line up with the top right corner of the blank notepad in front of him at a forty-five degree angle. “I tendered my resignation as soon as I learned of the allegations. I’m on a number of boards, charitable organizations as well, and for the most part I’m just another hand at the table.” He smiled as if to himself secretly. “I’m in the business of business. That’s what I do. I’m a physician, and attorney, and I’m also the director of a world renowned rehabilitation clinic catering to an exclusive international clientele. Membership on various boards allows me access to potential clients that we can best serve.”

Pall lifted his gaze from his hands folded in front of him and addressed Wayne. “I was your father’s physician so you can imagine my shock at his heart attack. I knew him to be in good health for a man of his age although he did disregard my advice on his eating and drinking habits, not enough of the former and too much of the latter. And as his personal attorney I was his close confidant and advisor. I am positive that Wallace Bruce had no foreknowledge that there might be anything improper about the toxic site designation at the abandoned battery factory. He was in fact appalled by the report of toxic chemicals after all this time. He was diligent about ensuring a safe environment for his workers and abiding by the disposal regulations. He did admit that some contamination could have occurred and might have been missed when they closed the old plant down. ‘There’s no clean way to make a battery’ I’ve no doubt you’ve heard him say many times before. Yet he believed that the future was in portable energy, that it would power the technology of the future. He was nostalgic about the old battery factory even as it became a liability. Again, being an astute businessman, he resigned himself to having the cleanup done, razing the old brickworks, and selling the land to developers to recoup the cost.

“Walace is the reason Bruce Enterprise exists today. It is his legacy and that is what is at stake, as is the fate of the company. We must move on and not waste any more time or resources on the trivial matter of the Battery Works. It may have been his humble beginnings but it is dwarfed by the stellar accomplishments of his later years. He was a force of nature, but his wind has died down.” Pall wet his lips with the water in the glass and returned it to the exact same spot.

“Fortunately Harold is at the helm now. This has always been a family enterprise. Your mother understands the need for a united front if the BE brand is to have a future and continue as an innovator in portable energy devices. You have an opportunity to contribute by presenting yourself as a corporate leader, a responsible businessman following in your father’s footsteps, not a mountain climbing sky diving martial arts playboy with nothing better to do than dabble in philanthropy with a valuable piece of property in a misguided attempt to appease his guilt. Going through with the marriage to Charlotte Taste would have been more of a level headed decision for a captain of industry and an indication that you voted for the future of Bruce Enterprise. Yet you insist on wallowing in the past. Tell me what will this memorial do other than inflate your ego. What good will your defiance of common sense do? Forget this obsession and get your life back on track! Otherwise, it is madness!”

“And why does it have to be in the most crime infested part of the city?” Trish added. “Drive by shootings, muggings, drug dealing. I can’t imagine a more unsavory location. And the police still haven’t caught that vigilante terrorizing innocent people.”

Wayne had heard his mother’s complaint before. And his argument was that the kind of crime that was committed in East Central was due to poverty. And he’d wanted to add that it was the kind of crime that occurred in corporate boardrooms that was responsible for that poverty and was rarely if ever prosecuted.

Celia Grove, one of the longest serving board members and someone he had grown up knowing as Aunt Celia, chimed in. “You speak of legacy, Linus, and your focus is strictly business, but Wallace Bruce’s legacy also includes charitable work, philanthropy, the repaying the service and work of his employees. That legacy of giving back to the community makes him an honorable man. And what Wayne proposes honors his father and does it by bringing jobs back to the depressed area. And I might add that as his father’s heir he has the latitude to pursue that aspect of the corporation’s mission.”

Dr. Pall fidgeted, staring at the black box in the center of the table from which the voice emanated. “We already know that, Celia!” Linus and Celia were rivals, hardly friends, perhaps because it was believed that at one time Celia had been old dad’s paramour and that both she and Linus could claim exclusive rights to a certain intimacy with the deceased.

Trish spoke up. She disliked Celia for obvious reasons as well as what she deemed was the woman’s holier than thou attitude. “Celia has a point. Wallace particularly enjoyed that aspect of his wealth. He reveled in the ritual of giving his money away not so much for the good that it might do but because it made him feel god-like, that his generosity could affect so many people and that they would see him as a benefactor in their lives, name their children after him. It solidified his moral ground. He was on his way to being a bronze statue of himself, anyway. That said, I agree with Linus. The renovations at the old battery factory is a distraction. Wayne, dear, you must understand that our focus must be solely on weathering this awful audit.”

“That brings up another issue,” Celia interrupted from the box at the center of the conference table. “We just did a full audit not more than two years ago, I believe. Couldn’t we just amend that audit, bring it up to date?”

There was a pause as Harold took a deep breath and rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it would get it done quicker,” Celia added, “and it wouldn’t be as costly.”

Harold nodded his head impatiently as if she could see him. As he was about to answer, the low whistle of snoring was audible as the remaining board member indicated his presence.

“Celia, yes, we’ve already said that. I don’t know why you brought it up again when we had already discussed it earlier and I explained to you why what you suggested will not satisfy the review committee.” Harold signaled to his secretary who was hovering outside the glass door to the conference room. She opened the door partway to announce, “The Smith Brothers are here.”

Wayne had known the Smith Brothers, Trey and Mark, when they attended the same elite prep school. Back then they were known to everyone as “Rosy” and “Goldy.” Trey’s ruddy complexion resulted in that moniker. Mark’s almost platinum locks named him. Wayne had run into them socially a few times since their school days. Trey, William Smith III, was still ruddy complected but had lost the baby fat and had acquired the broad shoulders of an athlete. Mark sported a buzz cut, gone was the disco look of an earlier time. That they had matured might have been an overstatement. They had certainly settled into adulthood, hardened by a cynicism that comes from dealing with others they considered inferior to them. The schools they attended had made clear the dividing line between them and the others. And Smith Brothers had made it a business in keeping the others at a distance from those like them who could afford their security services.

Smith Brothers Security had been founded by their father, a former police detective with ambition, and his brother, a well-known defense attorney. In that way Wayne and the Smith Brothers were alike—they both toiled in their fathers’ figurative vineyard. Otherwise, he  had nothing in common with them.

After they had been introduced to the board and pleasantries exchanged, Harold had adjourned the meeting. He was confident that Wayne would brief the brothers on the details of the matter. Trish and Linus left deep in conversation, with Linus offering a parting shot, “Keep in mind what I said, Wayne.”

There was an espresso bar in the anteroom of the executive office which the executive secretary had served them in the inner sanctum. The brothers and Wayne sipped from their demitasses, Wayne seated in the large leather armchair usually occupied by his father and opposite the glass topped low table where Trey sat in the adequate leather couch. Mark leaned against the edge of the large desk commanding easily a quarter of the space.

Trey set his demitasse on the table and made a show of taking in the grandeur of the large windowed office. “Nice digs, Way. Is this where you hang out?” “Way” was a nickname he had acquired in prep school where it was usually paired with “out” or “no.” And as a privileged class no one used the word “work.” In their world one created a presence, like the gods of myth, by hanging out and making things happen.

“No, this is the old man’s. I have an office at the BATS Lab. And I’m renovating the old office at the Battery Works so I can hang out there while I supervise the conversion of the property into a showplace for my antique car collection.”

Mark had wandered over to the wide windows overlooking the surrounding high-rises and rooftops of the downtown business district. “Nice view,” he remarked, mostly to himself. Then turning to them, “Hard to believe you’d trade this in for that rundown ghetto around the old factory.”

“Was that when you discovered the toxic waste problem? What led to your suspicion that the report was falsified?” Trey asked after glaring at his brother for being so undiplomatic.

Wayne considered his answer. He didn’t trust the Smith Brothers. He wondered how much Harold had told them. He understood that they were merely window dressing, a cover designed to give the impression that the company was being proactive. He was certain nothing would come of it.

“Two things. One was that I was surprised that there was any toxic material at the site. My father prided himself on a clean operation. One of the reasons he shut down manufacturing at the old plant was that he could no longer guarantee that the safety guidelines were met. The other reason is that the old battery works has an historical value in the growth of this city and the neighborhood it supported.”

“Ah, nostalgia,” Trey nodded, “Nice when you can afford it.”

Mark had wandered over to stand in front of the wide set of bookshelves and their leather bound volumes, nodding in appreciation. “Your old man had good taste in literature. This is quite an investment in intellectual capital. All the great minds gathered in one place. Right at your fingertips.” He turned and smiled at Wayne and his brother. “And it looks like he invested in a state of the art surveillance system as well.”

To Wayne’s surprise Mark ran a hand along one edge of the bookshelves until he found what he wanted. With a faint hum a panel of books slid forward and dropped down to reveal electronics, a flat narrow box with a tiny green light glimmering in one corner.

“There’s a camera there,” Mark said pointing to a spot in the ceiling overlooking the desk. “I’ll bet I can find a mic in the desk. And probably one in the light fixture where you’re sitting. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a camera too.” He laughed. “Your old man had this place bugged!”

Next Time: What The Discs Reveal

Act One, Scene 2

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

headlines S2The funeral was huge and, not surprisingly, resembled a business convention. The social occasion of old Bruce’s death itself required accommodations for those who had come to pay their respects. Politicians, local dignitaries from various denominations, prominent financiers and corporate honchos crowded the large assembly hall. Harold Bruce had made the arrangements with the exclusive Green Cove Country Club for the post interment reception which was beginning to have the air of a celebration on the verge of a cocktail party. Moderate words of tribute were spoken, tearfully, by Trish, his mother, huskily, by Harold, his uncle. Respectful, ardent words by others who had known and worked for and with him, a saint, a devoted father. When it came his turn, as the younger generation should have the final word, he had been as gracious as a psychopath, echoing their praise with a chorus of his own to the gathering of family, friends, and business associates, yet all the while considering that among them was his father’s murderer.

He had stepped away from the reception hall to a wide windowed alcove overlooking the golf course, uncomfortable with the glad handing and the humorous reminiscences of the old and well off, the condolence ballet that seemed so artificial and rehearsed. In the reflection of the glass he imagined the old man in his beige polo shirt standing beside his red roofed golf cart taking a practice swing before teeing off.

God, how he hated that game, a ludicrous spectacle of status played by amateur athletes that doubled as a de facto boardroom for corporate deal makers and politicians. What did the golfers have to gain from Wally Bruce’s death?

He felt anger with himself first of all. And then everyone else. He wanted to confront them. Accuse them.

Old Dad was a centerpiece in the local business community. They could point to him as their good guy, the peak of integrity even though most of them were out and out crooks and fraudsters. The Bruce name on committees and charitable organizations gave them a shiny legitimacy that signaled trust. Although most of that was Trish’s doing, the non-profits, and political committees to free or stop things. And then there was Trish. And Harold, six years younger and same age as mother. Old Dad’s opinion of his brother, “He’s a real fun guy, he’ll grow on you.” And he did, like a cancerous tumor. As vice president of Bruce Enterprises, he steps into the old man’s shoes before they’re even cold. And into the widow’s bed? Is it not what it seems? Now in hindsight, had there always been something between Trish and Harold, signs of undue affection, of favoritism, She was not known as the “Queen” for nothing. Her wish, her whimsy, was her command. She accepted the deference she thought she deserved, watchful for any indication of disaffection or reticence from her liege. He was her husband, father of her only son, although she seemed to treat that almost as an afterthought, and perhaps that was why the Bruce offices, the old Battery Works, held such nostalgic fascination. It had been his nursery. The difficulty of his birth had ruined her, caused her no end of physical ailment, and was an oft repeated litany that mercifully diminished after being installed in various boarding schools in the States and abroad. Now she shamelessly paraded with her brother-in-law, pretender to the throne, the head of the Bruce empire. He, unlike old Dad, would indulge her every whim.

He watched them appear behind him as reflections in the panoramic window

“There you are!” It was always like to Trish to state the obvious.

Harold maintained a grim bulldog visage, his ledge of eyebrow in a frown. The square cut glass in his right fist like an appendage, he leaned a shoulder in. “That was a very eloquent tribute to Wall.”

His father disliked being called Wall but since it was only his brother who dared called him that, he bore it with long suffering tolerance.

Trish put a ring spangled hand on his arm. “It was a powerful eulogy. Your father would be proud.”

He felt himself blush at the insincerity of it all. Maybe even on the verge of tears for the falsehoods he endured. He felt anger with himself first of all. And then everyone else. He wanted to confront them. Accuse them.

“Thank you. There was so much more I could have said. There is so much left unsaid. And to pass away like that. In his prime, some would say. There is so much we, I, don’t know about his last day, his last hours. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Wayne, he was not a well man, but he hid it from all of us. He had his pride, but as his wife I can say it was pride. He thought he was some kind of super human. Unfortunately he had the heart of a mere mortal. The negotiations were taking their toll on him.”

“But the circumstances. . . .”

“I know, I know, we’ve been through all this before.” Trish put on her practiced long-suffering face and sighed. “The doorman at the Legacy Tower saw him at around 11 that evening. He saw your father get into the penthouse elevator. Alone. He was the only one with a key. The trouble alarm sounded because the door to the elevator wouldn’t close after it arrived at the penthouse.”

“I think he panicked,” Harold offered.

“Father?”

“No, the doorman. He wasn’t the regular on that shift, but Ronald, who normally manned those hours had called in sick earlier that evening and so this other man who was actually a trainee didn’t know the procedure.”

“Which was?” Wayne had heard the official oft repeated version and they were all remarkably the same which should have allayed suspicion, but still he doubted and his doubt required reassurances.

“Why are we replaying the morbid details? We’ve been over them a thousand times,” Trish exaggerated.

Harold continued as if recounting someone else’s mistakes would give him satisfaction. “So he called the fire department.”

“Shouldn’t he have?” Wayne knew that here was where the details became rather vague.

“He should have called the night manager who has the key to the service elevator that would open to the penthouse. That was the protocol.”

legacy towers“But wasn’t it an emergency?”

Harold offered a placating gesture. “He didn’t know that. It could have been merely a mechanical problem. He did call up to the penthouse. And when no one answered he called the fire department.”

“So the police tagged along as well. And that only complicated matters,” Trish added with a tone of disgust.

“The commotion roused the night manager and they were able to get to the penthouse where they found. . . .”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear this. It is so undignified. Why couldn’t he have died in bed, alone or not, befitting a man of his stature!” Trish was on the verge of real tears not so much at the death of her husband but at the indignity of it all.

Harold shrugged and set his jaw with resolve to finish the story. “Wall had fallen, must have happened just as the door to the elevator opened, and wedged in the doorframe, triggered the alarm. The police should never had been called, Trish is right, it was a medical emergency. But because he was who he was, the cops at the scene called downtown, and downtown sent a detective, and because they sent a detective, they had to alert the medical examiner. . . .”

“They were going to take him to the morgue! Fortunately our lawyer, Dr. Linus Pall, and your father’s physician, put a stop to that.” Trish became clearly agitated.

“But the cause of death, it seems rather vague.”

“Death is vague, darling boy. It was his heart, your father had a bad heart. You’ll have to accept that.”

“He had a good heart, Mother. That I can guarantee. And I am my father’s son.”

“I hope you’re not going to make trouble now, are you, Wayne? Do something silly like call for an autopsy?” Harold squared his shoulders and became very grim along the jaw line where pink tinged the skin under his five o’clock shadow.

Wayne waited out the silence before giving a smile and a shrug. “No, of course not. Life goes on, open for business. I have my life, he had his. I have a new project I’m pursuing.”

“Oh mountain climbing again, Mount Everest, was it?”

“K2, Mother.”

“That as well. Black belting in some tournament or other? Sky diving? Jumping off bridges on a rubber band. I can never keep track.”

“No, actually, it’s something I’m quite excited about. It is local. I had been thinking about doing it before Dad died. We had talked about it briefly several times and he seemed in agreement.” Wayne inclined his head to each of them. “I will be renovating the old battery works and restoring it as a local landmark named in memory of Dad and at the same time preserving some of the history of that area.”

Harold arched his eyebrows in a show of interest. “You’re suggesting a gentrification project?”

“That’s a horribly depressed side of the city, dear. I heard the city council wants to bulldoze the entire area. That old foundry is in a high crime district. I read in the paper just this morning that yesterday or maybe the day before, three citizens were assaulted by a crazy masked man! There are daylight robberies!”

“My project would address the poverty in that area by hiring local labor and artisans to do the restoration work and maintenance thereby giving them a stake in their community.”

“Oh, dear, you’re starting to sound like a communist.”

Harold cleared his throat. “A good idea, my boy, but I’m afraid that will be impossible. We are in the middle of negotiating with a toxic cleanup fund contractor to comply with the federal. . . .”

“I’ve read the suit, and our inhouse analysis. I’m having my lab at Bruce Advanced Technical Systems review the soil samples from the Environmental Impact Report. I can bring the cost in lower than the big contractors by hiring locally. . . .”

“It’s a losing proposition,” Harold insisted, shaking his head and glaring fiercely, a family trait. “You’re crazy if you think you’ll get any decent returns, even after the entire issue of liability. . . .”

“Yes, listen to Harold, dear boy, how will you ever recoup your returns on your investment. What bank. . . ?”

Harold cleared his throat. “The funding for the new Defense Department contract is in the pipeline and everything is on track?”

“Once the toxic issue is settled, the old factory site will be turned into a historical park in memory of Dad’s civic contributions to the culture of the city.”

“A park? Those old brick relics? And for free. Harold is right, you are mad.”

“There’ll be a museum.”

“Of old batteries?”

“There would an historical display, of course, but primarily it will house my world renowned collection of classic cars.”

“Of course,” Harold nodded appreciatively, “they were part of the big auto show in Vagas a few years back.”

“Another one of your hobbies. When are you going to settle down, get married. Lotte has been asking after you.”

Wayne ignored his mother addressing Harold instead “Collectors and car enthusiasts the world over will flock to the museum just to be photographed alongside a favorite classic by a professional staff. For a fee, of course.”

Harold had shifted his eyes to the side making a calculation. “That’s a rather large parcel of land for a museum. What are you going to do with the rest of it? Parking lot?

“For some of it I’m sure. We’ll have to accommodate visitors. And much of it can be landscaped as a park. The old brick sheds will house the museum with certain alterations and additions. Perhaps an art gallery and a community center. I’m having one of our architects prepare a feasibility study and I’ll be taking over the old administration building as a satellite office of Bruce Advanced Technical Systems. That way I can keep an eye on the reconstruction of the old battery works while managing the research firm.”

Harold cleared his throat. “The funding for the new Defense Department contract is in the pipeline and everything is on track?”

“Red Ball.”

Trish sighed. “He would always say that when a plan of his was top priority. That, ‘going great guns” whatever that supposed to mean.” She smiled at her son. “Spoken like a true captain of industry!” She was turning away as she made the proclamation. The conversation had become boring and not a little impertinent.

Harold followed, a muttered “We have to talk” as he strode away.

Wayne returned his gaze to the wide window panorama and the fading day rendering the glass all the more opaque. Another shadow loomed behind him and was reflected in the glass. He turned, smiling, extending his hand.

“Ray Tso! It has been a long while! How many years?”

Ray returned the smile and the handshake. “I had to come and pay my respects. Your old man was one of those unique adults you knew you could trust.”

“Thanks, Ray, that’s good of you to say. And how about you? More kids? Still working for the District Attorney?”

“No and yes.”

“I’m glad you came. I have a favor to ask of you. I have to see the medical report of when they brought my father in.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Wayne. Why? Is something suspicious about his death? I would have heard.”

“No, no, just curiosity, and grief, I suppose. It feels so unresolved. I had talked to him on the phone not more than a week ago.”

“You’re not going to ask for an autopsy are you?”

Wayne gave a wan smile. “No, but you are the second person who’s mentioned it.”

Ray nodded in understanding. “Let me put you in touch with the detective who handled the case. His name is Gordon James. He might be able to help you.”

“Ok, put in a good word for me.”

“No problem,” Ray answered scribbling on the back of his business card and handing it to Wayne. “You know, when I walked up behind you I could see your reflection in the window and you looked just like your old dad.”

redroof gc“Crazy,” Wayne smiled, tucking the card into his inside jacket pocket, and glanced back at the tee box now in darkness and imagined the red canvas roof of the golf cart dropping down behind the mound and heading for the fairway. A silent vow welled up and tightened his jaw. Justice. Justice for old Dad. If it’s the last thing.

He accompanied Ray Tso back to the reception hall and stopped to view the thinning crowd of attendees from the top of the steps leading down. The black clad and somber gathered in clusters exchanging reminiscences and business cards, nodding gravely over their cocktails.

Off to one side where a shrouded grand piano sat unattended by the large floor to ceiling doors leading out to the terrace, Charlotte and her brother, Lawrence Taste, heirs to the vast Taste fortune, and Doctor Linus Pall appeared to be having a purposeful conversation. Charlotte, tall, willowy, blonde, a perfect example of privilege and beauty that even her subdued yet stylish mourning outfit could not suppress. Her long blond hair piled atop her head beneath a black lace doily, she was listening intently to something Linus Pall was saying. She must have sensed his gaze as she turned her head toward him and gave a weak smile. She lay a slender hand on Pall’s arm and said something to her brother before leaving them and walking his way. Larry Taste frowned at her departure and followed it with a scowl directed at Wayne. There was no love lost between them. Like Charlotte, her brother was a carefully sculpted specimen of the handsome aristocrat with a full crop of disheveled sun bleached hair breaching the collar of his casually tailored dark suit, fashionable sideburns and a moustache over a mouth of perfect teeth.

Charlotte had the same perfect teeth as she greeted him with a slight smile and a sad downturn to her beautiful blue eyes.

“Wayne, I’m so sorry,” she started but he shook his head. It was an emotional moment for both of them, her eyes welling up with tears and he trying to tamp down the sorrow and anger rising in his chest.

She instead threw her arms around him and sobbed into his lapel. As she caught her breath she pulled her head back and stared into his eyes. “I, I think I understand,” she said as if the words were strangling her, “You’re right, of course, to postpone the engagement. It’s not a good time. You have so much to deal with now.”

She was repeating back the message he had left on her answering machine almost word for word. It made him doubt the sincerity of her words.

“I thought the occasion should be put on hold considering the circumstances. Business has imposed impossible demands with Dad’s passing and I have to step in more actively now. The company is vulnerable to corporate raiders and ripe for a hostile takeover. Bruce Enterprises has to be prepared for that. I knew you’d understand.”

Larry Taste had followed his sister and wasn’t as contrite. “I ought to punch you in the face, Bruce! What kind of ill-mannered asshole calls off an engagement on the telephone? She’s lucky to be rid of you!” Taste had aggressively placed his face directly in Wayne’s line of sight to make his point.

A great calmness overcame him and deflected the rage with disarming acquiescence. “You’re right, she is lucky to be rid of me. I am cursed by an insane constancy that demands a balance be restored, wrongs righted, justice meted. It will not allow me to rest and it would not be reasonable to inflict my dark obsession on someone I love ”

Charlotte tugged on her brother’s arm, eyes agog at Wayne’s admission. “Larry, no!”

“You’re a psycho!” Larry spat.

“I am mad.”

End, Scene 2, Cue Scene 3