Chapter 8
Burning Daylight
For a moment, utter shock gripped Black Cat Jackson. Then the woman leaped across the room and socked Gravel Voice on the nose with her balled fist. Even Monk winced at the great crack the blow made, and Gravel Voice dropped to the floor.
He swore and held both hands to his bleeding nose.
"Shut up!" screamed Black Cat, and she kicked Gravel Voice sharply on a shin. He yawped and grabbed his leg with one bloody hand.
"You men are complete idiots!" the woman shouted. "That blast will bring the law here willy-nilly. None of us can stay here now."
She leveled her gaze at the one named Smalley, who still sat holding a magazine at the table. "And YOU - you and your blasted bomb - ANYBODY could have set that off, not just Savage! What if it was some kid playing? Or a cop checking out an abandoned car? Do you know what happens to people who kill a cop in this town?" The woman uttered an exasperated growl - just the sound of it made Ham's throat hurt.
"It's no wonder the Blind Man sent me with you. You're all idiots!" Black Cat cried.
Smalley made a face like Cupid, if Cupid were a social degenerate. "Smalley's no idiot," he claimed. "Smalley's just evil!" He laughed raucously and slapped the tabletop.
Ham rolled his eyes and thought, At least Monk doesn't refer to himself in the third person.
Black Cat looked like she could fight a farm full of gators and still have enough of a mad on to whip every man in the room. Red streaks colored her cheeks and her knuckles turned bone white with the pressure in her knotted fists. Monk noticed the woman trembling a bit - not with fright, but as she restrained herself from tearing into the fools surrounding her.
Black Cat moved quickly. She bent over Gravel Voice, dipped her hand into his jacket pocket and plucked out a revolver, which she brandished liberally about the room.
"Cattle are smarter than you morons," she said, finally. "If anyone else makes any smart remarks, just make sure you want 'em to be the last words you ever say," she warned, then she pulled back the hammer on the gun, "because I guarantee you won't ever say anything else."
The place got very quiet. No one moved. Even Gravel Voice hushed his pained breathing.
The revolver was small, just a .22 caliber, but it was clear Black Cat Jackson knew how to handle a sidearm. And a pistol in the control of a knowledgeable handler - no matter how small the gun - was a deadly matter.
"All right," the woman said. She carefully let the hammer back down with her thumb. "Gather your belongings, pack up any food. We're going to Barlowe's place."
Gravel Voice jerked up his head. "Barlowe's place?" He got a sneaking look on his face. "You know where it is?"
"Sure," Black Cat said with a smirk. "Don't you?"
Gravel Voice didn't answer, but commenced to gingerly touching his nose.
Black Cat looked around at the others. "Hurry up," she ordered. "You're burning daylight."
"What about these two mugs?" Smalley asked, pointing to Monk and Ham.
"Bring 'em," the woman answered. Then: "Here's your pea shooter."
She tossed the revolver back to Gravel Voice. Monk and Ham could hardly believe their eyes, and expected the gangster to spare no time in getting even with Black Cat now that he was armed. Surprisingly, he simply tucked the gun back into his pocket. And the tall, deadly beauty turned her back on Gravel Voice and peered out the front door as if she had given a weapon to her best friend instead of to a person she'd just smacked and then threatened with that same pistol.
The hairy chemist turned to his partner. His expression clearly asked, What the hell is going on here?
Gravel Voice made his prisoners sit, their backs against the wall. He stood over them, one hand in the pocket that swaddled his gun. The gang clattered around, packing up their few necessities. Gravel Voice called out an occasional command, telling Smalley or another of the men to retrieve some portion of his belongings.
Still at the door, Black Cat asked Gravel Voice, "Was Dimples on lookout?"
"Yeah."
"Here he comes."
Then entered a sixth member of the gang that Black Cat Jackson apparently led. He was short and wiry, but his face seemed to swell like a balloon because of his round cheeks, which were marked by deep dimples. Hence his moniker.
Dimples puffed with excitement. "Si-reens are coming," he announced.
Black Cat grabbed his near elbow. "Did you see the car blow?"
"Naw. Heard it though. Damn loud, Smalley, you tryin' to kill ever'body in the damn borough?"
Smalley cackled from the other room.
Black Cat jerked his attention back to her. "What made the bomb go off?"
"Didn't see that either," Dimples replied. "Only folks I saw in the street was a mangy dog, a skinny cat, and a raggedy old drunk."
The woman stared fiercely at the lookout a moment. "Any sign of the drunk?"
Dimples shook his head. "Mighta been him blew up the car. Mighta been looking for a place to sleep."
Black Cat opened the front door onto the porch. The faintest whine of the siren was apparent.
"Let's go," she ordered. She gestured at Monk and Ham. "Those two in my car with Dimples."
"I'll go too," Gravel Voiced volunteered.
"Fine," she replied. "The rest of you in the other car. Follow me to Barlowe's place."
The crew hustled into the cars. Gravel Voice and Smalley prodded the two prisoners from behind with sharp jabbing motions of their handguns.
The engines turned over and the cars took off. They passed the blackened and smoking wreckage of the car Monk and Ham's car. Both prisoners craned as well they could against their bindings to view the mess.
Monk made noises. Even though the chemist's words were muffled by a gag, Ham could tell that his swearing was particularly caustic.
Monk, he thought, was always good with acid.
Renny Renwick, winding up his late lunch, finished off a cup of black coffee and winced. An entire pot's worth of bitterness seemed concentrated in the mug's last drop. Ah, well, he'd rarely considered himself a fine cook. Camp coffee was about the pinnacle of his culinary skills. At least with this just-finished cup of joe he didn't have to filter the grounds from the liquid with his teeth.
The big-fisted engineer looked down at the crumb-scattered blueprints spread across his desk, then stood and stretched his large frame, trying to wring out the twist of anxiety that had kept him on edge all day. He wanted to be with Doc, tracking down the ship-melting mystery. Renny had risen early in the hope of catching the bronze man still half-asleep and easily convinced of allowing the engineer to go along to New York. But he had found Doc already awake and alert and working through his daily exercise regimen. Doc said, "No."
Renny left his office and made his way over to the dry dock where his current project was in progress. He was overseeing construction of a ship that could best be described as a floating dry dock. When completed, this craft and others like it would strip valuable travel time from ships heading into port for repairs. The floating dry dock would be stationed at various Naval bases near or within a theatre of war or areas where maneuvers were being conducted. The floating dry dock would meet a craft at sea and its crew would go to work repairing the battle-damaged ship.
The project was massive, and various sections were being constructed separately in separate dry docks to be assembled later. Renny felt some pride for his part in the project. Looking at the work crews clambering over the unfinished monster now, he shook his head in wonder at the enormity of the deal.
Still, his desire to be involved with some adventure and working side-by-side with Doc tickled at his consciousness.
The big engineer calmly survey his immediate world. The day was bright, the air filled with the roar and buzz of the continually passing planes and the clash and yelling of the constant yelling. This was a place for hard, sweaty work. No exotic adventure would come calling here.
"Colonel Renwick! Colonel Renwick!" Renny turned to see Lt. Stephen Sherman calling his name and rushing toward him.
The young officer scooted to a stop beside the engineer.
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Admiral Ryan sent me to find you, sir," Lt. Sherman said. "The ship-melting thing - it's come to Norfolk!"
Written By:
Duane Spurlock
based on notes by:
Kenneth Robeson
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