Stephen White - Warning Signs

I asked, "Has he been out to visit you lately? Your boy?" I was careful to mimic the language she'd used to describe her grandson.

"What's it to you? And who the hell are you, anyway?" Her tone lightened suddenly as she said, "The chickens are fine, by the way, thanks for asking."

"My name is Alan Gregory, and I'm-"

"Well, whoop-dee-do." She turned to Lucy. "You his new girlfriend, missy? He knock you up? Is that why you've come out here? He's got a thing with the girls. And they certainly have a thing with him. But knocking up a cop? Did he? He didn't. Hell's another."

Hell's another? Hell's a mother? I wasn't sure what Ella had said or what on earth it was supposed to mean.

"No, I'm, um, not pregnant."

Ella stopped. She had to crane her neck to look up at Lucy. "Dearest God, you're tall. You're taller than he is. That'd be awkward in my book. But you're not… you and he, you're not…?"

"No, we're not."

"That's for the best, I suppose. But you haven't told me why you are here, have you?"

While Lucy sputtered to find a way to reply, I said, "It's about the explosives, Mrs. Ramp."

"Oh, that," Ella replied in a dismissive voice as she shuffled back toward the house. "I thought he was in trouble or something."

E lla busied herselffixing coffee and I agreed to accept a cup even though I would've preferred a glass of water. Lucy, who despised coffee, took one, too. On the way from the front door to the kitchen, I'd tried to spot a collection of framed family photographs, hoping to see a photo of Ella's grandson. But the living room was spare in its decor and the only photographs in sight were of pets. Mostly horses, but also a dog. A huge dog. I thought it was a mastiff, but I wasn't sure.

Ella's kitchen was as spotless as her truck. The pristine room could have been lifted out of the house in one chunk and installed-intact-in some granite edifice as a museum exhibit about life in 1962. Maybe part of a Dwight-and-Mamie-Eisenhower-at-home exhibit at the Smithsonian. The old refrigerator was a Norge and it hummed at a volume that screamed for someone to clean its coils.

The only modern appliance in the kitchen was a little white color television. Ella had it tuned to one of the Denver stations. She turned the sound down all the way before she served the coffee.

Ella said, "Milk? Sugar? I don't use 'em, but I can find 'em if you want 'em."

"No, thank you," I said.

Lucy added, "Black is fine."

"He came by the explosives legal, by the way. They were Herbert's. I told the boy he could experiment with them the way Herbert taught him. The neighbors don't mind; they're used to it by now. It's been going on for at least a quarter century. You know you're getting old when you hear yourself talking in quarter centuries."

I hesitated a moment to see if Lucy was planning to take the lead. She wasn't. I raised the cup to my lips and tried to sound nonchalant as I replied, "The explosives were Herbert's?"

"Who did you say you were? Are you like her lawyer or something?"

"No, I'm Alan Gregory, Dr. Alan Gregory. I'm a psychologist in Boulder."

"Well, what the hell are you doing out here?"

"The explosives," I said. "We came to talk with you about the explosives."

She harrumphed. "You ever been to Las Vegas?" asked Ella.

Lucy said she had driven through, but never stopped. I added, "I've been there a few times."

"Well, I'm proud to say that my Herbert blew up half that damn town. Maybe more than half."

"He did? He blew up half the town?" I didn't have a clue what she was talking about, but was eager to keep her talking about it.

"You know the company called Demolition Specialists? Doesn't matter whether you do or you don't. They're some of the boys who blow up those big buildings all over the place. You always see 'em on the national news, usually on Sunday. They blow most of the big buildings on Sunday on account of there aren't so many people around. People are drawn to explosions for some reason. Like bugs to light, I think. What they do is they implode the buildings actually, so that they fall in on themselves.

"Herbert was a demolition engineer. He worked for Demolition Specialists for most of our marriage. He traveled the world blowing up buildings. Blew up stuff in Japan and Saudi Arabia. Toward the end he was on the team that did all those big demos in Las Vegas. The old casinos? You see those monsters come down on the news? I flew out with him and watched the Sands Hotel come down. That was some week we had, let me tell you. Fireworks, buffets, slot machines, girls dancing around wearin' nothing over their tits. I joked that they'd all lost their shirts gamblin'. Herbert liked that part best, I think, the girls. That was a weekend." Ella smiled at the memory.

It was easy to smile right back at her. "So that's what Herbert did for a living? He blew up buildings? And he took down those old casinos in Vegas?"

"Not just him. He was a team player. You might not think it, but it takes a mess of people to bring down a skyscraper. Takes weeks to get one ready to come down. He was gone half the time. Herbert."

"And he's dead now, Ella?"

"With the Lord." She touched her heart.

"I'm sorry. And the explosives that your grandson uses for his experiments? They belonged to Herbert?" I asked.

"Yes, they did. In between jobs, Herbert did research. His thing was shaped charges. He was always playing around with shaped charges and the best way to cut metal. That was his specialty: cutting metal with shaped charges. Kept material here for his research. Mostly dynamite, I think. But some other things, too. I never paid much attention. We got a shed he had built special. It's more like a vault than a shed, to tell the truth. Herbert had a thing about security of his explosives. Wrong hands, you know?"

I wouldn't have known a shaped charge if I was sitting on one, and now I found myself yearning to have Sam Purdy beside me. Lucy sounded like she was better informed than I when she said, "I always wondered who did the shaped-charge research. That's remarkable about Herbert. And he taught your grandson what he knew?"

"A lot of it, he sure did. Always thought that the boy might follow in his footsteps. Herbert would've loved to have lived long enough to make the boy an apprentice in the company. Can't go to college to learn to do what Herbert knew about bringing down buildings. Herbert always said as long as there are bad architects and worse builders, there'll be a need for people like him. Can I get you all some more coffee?"

I shook my head and pretended to take another sip of coffee. Lucy said, "Do you know how I can reach him? Your grandson? I have some questions for him."

Ella Ramp set her cup on its saucer and stared at her. "You said you're a cop. Now's about the time where you should be getting around to telling me why you want him."

"The truth is, I need to talk with him about the explosives."

Ella stretched her neck from side to side. It appeared that the act caused considerable pain. Midway through the stretch, Ella said, "I'm getting old, I know that. As far as I'm concerned, it's premature, but so be it. Life is what life is. Mine? I live by myself a hundred miles from life as most city people know it. I know more about chickens and horses and dogs than I do about people. I'm stooped over and I'm gray and when I dare myself to look in a mirror I usually conclude that I'm butt ugly. But I'm not particularly stupid. Now stop repeating yourself and tell me what the hell you want with my grandson. What about the damn explosives?"

I took a moment to try to decide how to play this. As a psychologist, I actually adored moments like these. Some of my most memorable conversations with Sam Purdy had been discussions about how to play situations just like this one with Ella.