Mark Costello - Big If

The captain said, “There’s nothing down there but the river, junky cars and old refrigerators. Sometimes in the warmer months you’ll get hobos living in the cars.”

The captain was an oldster, many times a granddad from the looks of him, and he made the homeless sound almost picturesque. Elias went over the traffic plan again, making sure the captain had all the arrows in his head, no flow going this way, no flow going that way.

The Army trucks appeared and Tashmo led a group of soldiers to the river woods. Another group of soldiers took the bomb dogs up the street. The dogs ran, ass-waggling, snouts to the pavement, sniffing the tires and the tailpipes of the trucks they had arrived in, finding no explosives, moving on to the parked cars, sniffing trunks and tires, the mailboxes, the trash bags on the sidewalk, the hydrants on the grass. One dog paused and took a leak.

Cop cars started showing up, parking on the shoulder around the Army trucks. The captain went up the street to seal the intersections, leaving a young sergeant to liaise.

Tashmo came back from the woods. “Hobo check is negative,” he said.

Elias called Gretchen at the coffee shop, reporting the all clear.

Tashmo was standing with the young sergeant, looking at the map spread on the hood. The sergeant came from the motorcycle unit. He wore a leather jacket, blue jodhpurs, and white helmet, chin cup unsnapped and dangling.

“Where’s the nearest trauma center?” Tashmo asked. “Show me on the map here, Sarge.”

The sergeant pointed to the map.

“What would be the quickest route, trafficwise?”

The sergeant traced a route.

“Where’s the nearest place the gunship could put down?”

The sergeant pointed. “That’s a little city park. Not too many trees.”

“Where’s the nearest halfway decent breakfast place?”

“Right up here,” the sergeant said.

“What is that, McDonald’s? ’Cause I’m sick of McDonald’s. Eli loves McDonald’s, but I’m sick of it.”

“It’s a diner,” said the sergeant.

“Is it any good?”

“They say it’s pretty good.”

“The coffee or the food? Because some diners with bad food have excellent coffee. The coffee fools you into ordering the food.”

“They just say it’s generally good.”

“Do they do a breakfast sandwich? Hey Eli, want a breakfast sandwich? Never mind, I’m sure he does.”

“I assume they do,” the sergeant said. “We could call them when they’re open and find out.”

“When they’re open?”

“I don’t think they open until later.”

“How about a halfway decent breakfast place that’s open ?” Tashmo said. “What do you think, this is some kind of academic inquiry? I’m hungry , Sergeant.”

The sergeant pointed to the map.

Tashmo said, “What’s that?”

“McDonald’s, but they do the Egg McMuffin.”

“Fuck it, never mind. I’ll just get some coffee.”

“Should I wait here then?”

“Why, do they deliver?”

The sergeant left to get the coffee. The sniper vans unloaded, the bomb dogs finished with their sweep. A campaign van parked on a side street. Several aides piled out, Fundeberg’s young minions. They started an inspection tour, making sure the street was typical and scenic.

Tashmo was sitting in the front seat of the Taurus. He watched the campaign workers frantically chalk hopscotch squares on the sidewalk as Elias scanned the housefronts through binoculars. The snipers on the rise were scanning the same housefronts. The gunship overhead covered the backyards and the river woods. Tashmo, rooting through the glove compartment, came out with an orange. He bit the skin to get a start and peeled it with his thumbnail.

“Eli.”

“What?”

“Who had this car before us?”

“I think the comm techs brought it down from the Moose Lodge. Why?”

“No reason.” Tashmo finished peeling. “Want some orange?”

“No, I’m good,” Elias said.

Up the road, two cops blocked a driveway with their car and argued with a man in painter’s pants who was sitting in the cab of a large luxury pickup.

The captain hailed Elias on the comm. “I’m with this painter guy down here,” the captain said. “He wants to know why he can’t leave his driveway.”

Elias said, “Explain the situation.”

Tashmo said, “And tell the guy, nice truck. That rig goes for thirty Gs, Eli. I priced it when I got my little Jap.”

Tashmo ate the orange like an apple, in big bites, sucking juice and spitting seeds as he chewed.

“Hey Eli.”

“What?” said Elias, still scanning the housefronts.

“How long you been married?”

Sean Elias smiled. “Seven blissful years.”

“Out of how many total?”

“Nine,” Elias said. “I’ve been very blessed.”

“You ever cheat?”

“On my wife?”

“No, your taxes, dopey. Of course your fucking wife.”

“I don’t cheat on either, Tashmo, actually.”

“Ever come perilously close?”

“Well, it’s hard to say — it’s so subjective nowadays. How do you depreciate a timeshare on a sailboat? I took a guess, but maybe I was cheating without knowing it.”

“How about your wife?”

“We file jointly.”

“Ever come close to cheating on her?”

“Never,” said Elias.

“Why the hell not?”

“Well,” Elias said, “I have my faith. Also, I stay sober at office parties. What’s on your mind there, Tash? Something wrong with Shirl?”

“I’m just asking,” Tashmo said. “I have this buddy, see? He cheated on his wife a long time ago. He cheated with this one woman in particular, the wife of his best friend.”

“This anyone I know?”

“No — it’s just a guy from my Bible study class.”

“You’re doing Bible study, Tash? Good for you.”

“Yeah, thanks — anyway, now the husband’s dead and the lady’s saying that her son with the husband is actually my buddy’s son and has been all along. It could be pretty messy, if it all comes out.”

“Sounds like it’s already messy,” said Elias, looking up the street. “It’s nearly J-hour — where’s the goldang motorcade?”

The motorcade had left the inn thirteen minutes lateand lost more time along the way. The roadblocks coming north were less than textbook, two intersections not locked down, two others locked down partially, and for at least a quarter mile there they were actually in traffic , surrounded by non-decoys, by true ordinary cars, part of the world’s commute, which Gretchen didn’t like one bit. She hailed Tashmo on the comm and gave him a good reaming for fucking up the roadblocks. This wasn’t fair. She knew it; Tashmo knew it too. While the intersections coming north were on the master traffic plan, this aspect of the jog had been farmed out to the locals. If anybody was to blame, it was the traffic captain or maybe Sean Elias, who, as deputy lead agent, was the ranking man on scene. It wasn’t a big deal, though it created more delay, and even if it was, it wasn’t Tashmo’s fault, but Gretchen let him have it anyway. She was thinking about Felker, still looking for a lesson (or at least a question), and she was mad at Tashmo. She wanted him to suffer for the role he’d played, betraying Felker in the good old Reagan days, fathering the son who wasn’t Felker’s. Few things made Gretchen madder than men who tried to slide through life. Thoughts of Jasper Felker had led her back to Tevon, and to Carlton Imbry, Tevon’s father in L.A., another slick-ass law-enforcement Casanova, a black Tashmo almost. She gave Tashmo a tongue-lashing for the two blown roadblocks. Tashmo, to his credit, took it like a man, not finking on Elias or the captain.