Fred Tribuzzo's Blog: American Blackout: Book Two

CHAPTER ONE: AJAX

Mike talked excitedly about tomorrow’s run, the “prizes,” easy pickins from a small town upriver. Big Phil hushed him, saying the boss needed to see him right away, and Mike stopped talking like he had plowed into a concrete wall. Both men knew that Big Phil, a seasoned captain, answered to Ajax for everything. Mike had never sat across from Ajax.

The boss arrived and left only during the night hours. Minutes ago, inside his tent, without a candle or a lantern, with only the distant light from another slaver’s campfire, Big Phil couldn’t tell where Ajax’s body ended and the darkness began. His eyes played tricks. He saw things in the tent he didn’t like and ignored them, concentrating on Ajax’s voice, which was soothing and gentle. When the flap of the tent opened and a guard came in, he thought he saw a hatchet on the table.

Big Phil joked that maybe Mike was getting a promotion. When Mike started to spit out his defense about never touching the kid, Big Phil simply put out his hand and Mike handed him the rope that was tied to a leather belt around the teen’s waist.

Rising, Mike stumbled and then stared at the teen. The fire’s light showed a desperate man wanting to change places with the shivering teenager destined for slavery. Big Phil looked at the youth, too, thinking he would never do this to his own kids even though they hated him and had gone to live with their mom as soon as Phil and his wife were separated.

Mike aimed for the tent and disappeared inside.

The first scream sounded like a movie scream, scary but rehearsed. Big Phil knew that Hollywood hired people to scream and laugh. Maybe Mike was so rattled that when Ajax pointed at the chair, he imagined he saw a claw instead of a hand. There were those rumors, along with disfigurement.

The next scream was different. He had heard this scream when men were set upon by dogs and they made a futile attempt to fight and shield their balls and face. To be bit and eaten was a bad way to go. But there were no dogs in the tent. Ajax wasn’t fond of them.

The tied kid shook violently and Big Phil tugged on the rope, signaling the boy to settle down, that he was safe. Phil had been practicing his nonverbal commands for months and liked that he could control his catch without cursing or beatings. The most he ever had to do was administer a slap across the face. As a crane operator and foreman in his old life, before the world went dark, he had gotten a lot communicated with just a look. Positive transfer of skills came to mind, and he smiled.

The screams rose to autopilot intensity, a condition that always bothered Big Phil the most. These screams were uncontrollable and somehow separate from the man and wouldn’t stop until death. Then a strange thing happened, at least that’s what Big Phil thought. Timed with a long screech, Mike’s body hit the side of the tent before it ricocheted off the opposite wall a fraction of a second later, cartoon-like. It happened so fast that Mike could not have run, and Ajax could not have flung the man around so easily.

Then Phil understood and breathed a sigh of relief. Large pieces of Mike were being tossed about the tent.

The next two books of the American Blackout series are due to be released later in September:

Slaves Beneath the Stars, Book Two

Gangster Town, Book Three  

I’m currently working on books four and five–Devil’s Doorway and Heaven by Morning, respectively.

To sign up for my newsletter, please go to my website.

fredtribuzzo.com

1

First Kill

“Emily Cricket Hastings!” Sister Marie shouted in lieu of God Almighty as the bullets whistled by and the porpoising ’67 sky blue Barracuda left the road at high speed.

Cricket made a hard right turn and sped the Plymouth convertible through a sunny field of tall grass, aiming for the woods alongside a white farmhouse.

“Stay down,” Cricket yelled, her long, dark hair a war flag, leading the battle.

Inside the forest she slid to a stop behind a row of oaks lining a large meadow and flew out of the car.

“Uncle Tommy!—” Her uncle quickly passed her the Remington, keeping one hand on Diesel, the family’s seven-year-old black Lab lying on the floor.

A bullet snapped off a low branch that landed in front of the Barracuda. “Sister—get down!” Sister Marie peered over the door frame with her short-barrel binoculars before dropping to the seat.

In jeans, pink T-shirt and motorcycle boots, Cricket zeroed in the .270 Remington by resting her left elbow on the hood and looping her arm through and around the sling for steadiness. The powerful scope delivered the shooter to the other side of the dinner table even though he stood roughly 200 yards away next to a large dead tree. Rifle lowered, he tilted his head toward the woods, listening. Cricket drew a breath, remembering her dad’s wisdom: calm hands, clear heart, clean kill.

She paused, spotting a hunched-over figure close by, directing the shooter. Through shadow and foliage and summer haze, the leader was massive, energetic, disciplined. Change of plans: she drew a bead on the leader and fired. Her nearly six-foot slender frame absorbed the recoil energy well as the man’s arms shot over his head like a sports fan starting the wave. He fell backwards and the woods swallowed him.

Sixty-three-year-old Sister Marie Boulding gasped and began praying.

A few moments of deep quiet clicked by. The shooter had disappeared—run off, taken cover?

He suddenly emerged bare-chested in front of the dead tree, waving a red shirt, gun at his side. Cricket took aim and fired, and the man danced backwards and collapsed.

“He was surrendering!” Sister Marie covered her mouth, letting the binoculars dangle from her neck strap.

“Savages don’t surrender, Sister. They buy time. Next you’ll be reminding me to love my enemy?”

“Always,” Sister Marie said quietly, her hands still pressed to her lips, eyeing the field.

“Actually, in his current state I happen to love him very much.”

Sweat dampened the ends of Sister Marie’s curly, gray-streaked hair and most of the front of her short-sleeve blouse. Her voice cracked. “This is not your best moment, Cricket. But I thank you for protecting us.”

“Sister, they were trying to kill us. More than a half dozen shots by my count. I’m feeling a moment of supreme efficiency. Right and wrong. Good and evil. All dialed in. That has to be something God would appreciate.”

Cricket circled the car for damage. “Damn, lost a front headlight. I’ll replace it at the Ledges.” She found a small hole in the rear chrome fender and no other damage. The tires looked good. Her dad had borrowed the big tires from their SUV, giving the Barracuda a serious rubber footprint and off-road capabilities.

The Hastings’ Plymouth Barracuda was the family’s only car to survive a powerful solar storm and an EMP attack two months earlier. First came a geomagnetic storm, wiping out the power grid across the U.S. Next, the Iranians exploded a nuclear device high above Kansas a week later, creating an electromagnetic pulse that pulverized the digital age from singing birthday cards to commercial jets. Aircraft had fallen from the sky. The one-two punch had reduced most of North America to the 18th century.

Great Uncle Tommy smiled. “Cricket, you would have been fair company on Omaha Beach.” He was dressed in his Army veteran’s windbreaker and World War II cap. He looked comfortable in the summer heat. “You took care of a couple of troublemakers in short order. Yep, that’s mighty fine marksmanship.” He petted Diesel who, still on the floor, rested his head on the seat.

Cricket was swapping out her four-round magazine for a full one when her dad flew overhead in his canary-yellow J-3 Piper Cub. Diesel scrambled to his feet for a better look and stepped all over Uncle Tommy, who yelled and then laughed.

Sister Marie helped Uncle Tommy coax the large Lab to settle down and Cricket joined in, running her hand along the dog’s well-muscled shoulder and back. Diesel barked at the familiar plane and its pilot. He was always excited to see Paul Hastings, but a sharper bark followed by a low whine said he was still jealous of the strange contraption that seemed to like his master almost as much as he did.

Cricket watched her dad circle the pasture just above the trees, waving from the open-door cockpit, finishing with a thumbs-up as he flew over the two dead men below. She beamed skyward and knew her handsome father was smiling back.

The world was crumbling fast, yet Paul Hastings had maintained his authority as chief of police of Woodburn, Ohio, checking in on neighbors who still kept to their homes and fighting the criminals, the desperate and the hungry, who believed law and order had vanished. Recently, he had called for a survival summit at a well-known state park called the Ledges with winter only months away and news of yet another attack on a large food distribution center.

“That man in the field is moving,” Sister Marie cried out, binoculars still raised. “He’s alive!”

Cricket peered through the scope. “You’re right, Sister.” The man’s arm was extended, as if expecting someone above to lend a hand.

“Good Lord, you’re not going to shoot him again?” Sister Marie said.

“Not at the moment.” She passed the rifle to her uncle.

“We need to help him.”

“And get ambushed?”

Cricket pointed and Uncle Tommy handed her the 12-gauge pistol-grip shotgun to accompany the Glock 9-millimeter strapped to her hip. Sister Marie shook her head at the flat black sawed-off shotgun.

“Added protection,” Cricket stated. “And if he’s still alive when we get there, I expect answers.”

“And help the man.”

“Sure, very carefully.” She turned to her great uncle. “Fire a round if you see something we can’t and I’ll sprint back. Diesel, you got the front. Give Uncle Tommy some room.” She tapped the front seat and the Lab took his place.

Uncle Tommy patted the .38 revolver on his hip and gave a short salute.

The sun-yellow Cub circled overhead and took its place in the finch family, gracefully turning and climbing in the blue sky with peaceful fat clouds well above its flight path. When father and daughter again made eye contact, Cricket held the shotgun over her head to signal a brief delay before continuing.

To Sister Marie, she said, “Let’s keep to the edge of the woods until we’re opposite the shooter. Less time in the open, the better. Dad will keep scouting for us.”

Sister grabbed a canteen from the floor and cloth napkins from the glove compartment that hid another holstered automatic.

Cricket walked ahead of Sister Marie, who glassed the surroundings with her bird-watching binoculars every few steps. Both watched for trouble from either man, or worse, from deeper inside the forest. Cricket would have liked her father at her side and knew the field offered a good landing spot for the slow-moving J-3 Cub. But she needed him airborne. If she had to, she was to wave both hands over her head and he’d land.

Several feet from the dead tree, Cricket came upon a young black man, near her age. Although the man’s rifle lay out of reach, she expected him to be hiding another weapon. Closer, she saw that both hands were bloody and empty. Cricket had shot plenty of deer and had shot the man the same way, aiming for the heart. Sister knelt next to him and spoke, and the man didn’t respond. He had one leg bent awkwardly out to the right and was breathing roughly. She had nailed at least one lung and missed the heart. He was drowning in his own blood.

The man didn’t take a sip from Sister’s canteen, so she used the water to gently wash his face and hands.

Cricket saw his “boss” a few feet inside the first row of trees behind a ragged group of bushes and slowly approached him. Her own success in bringing down the attackers no longer brightened her. Acid burned her throat.

Fitful sprays of blood across leaves and a small bush said that he had flailed along the ground before ending in a large ball, his back arched, forehead against the ground, frozen eternally, searching in the shadows for something he never had in this life. Beneath him the ground was wet with more blood.

Walking back into the sun, she stared straight ahead as Sister Marie held the dying man’s hand and prayed. cried through a Hail Mary and was answered by a sharp rise in the chorus of insects. The man’s struggle was finally over.

The J-3 Cub came winging in a few feet above the grass, aiming for the two women before starting a climbing right turn to the north. It was time to go. They again skirted the woods, arms around each other.

“I didn’t expect them to suffer,” Cricket said.

A full head shorter than Cricket, Sister Marie supported the beautiful twenty-two-year-old, who trembled like she was freezing. Before reaching the road, Cricket stumbled away from Sister, caught the low branch of a tree to steady herself, and threw up. Looking down at her own mess, she said, “I was defending us, Sister, you know that.”

“I know. But we suffer when we kill. Even if it’s justified.”

“Didn’t do it out of hate. But I’d do it again. They’re not going to slaughter us.”

“Emily Cricket Hastings,” Sister announced lawyer-like, bringing her case to a higher power. She placed a hand on Cricket’s damp neck and handed her the last few napkins. She looked up through the trees: “Tough, stubborn, short-tempered, and so darn real” began her opening statement. Sister leaned close: “I love you, Cricket. I’m always praying for you.”

“You prayed for Mom and that didn’t work out so well. Or maybe just lousy timing on God’s part—taking her away when I was only a kid.”

Sister Marie had been her mom’s college nursing instructor and, later, a close friend, enjoying years of friendship that continued now with Cricket and her dad. Sister Marie had been visiting the weekend of the geomagnetic storm and had never made it back to the motherhouse in Cleveland.

“Prayer doesn’t make everyone healthy again or ensure we’ll live to be ancient, wise, and beautiful,” Sister said. “We pray for strength, for understanding when life is at its bleakest. I pray for you to have strength. And your father. I prayed with your mom so she would have the courage to face what was coming.”

No more was said. The two women walked slowly. A cardinal flew past and a hawk cried above the meadow.

Rounding the farmhouse, Cricket was startled by two people leaning over the side of the Barracuda, talking and laughing with Uncle Tommy. Diesel was out of the car recording every possible smell for future use. She tightened her grip on the shotgun and made sure the safety was off.

Twentysomethings: a woman in a white sundress, blonde, bob cut, and skin so white that direct sunlight would have damaged her instantly, and a young man of medium height, slender, with long black hair that fell across his forehead, reaching his eyes.

He doesn’t need to see anyway. He has her.

“What a sweet old man you’ve kidnapped,” the young girl squealed. “All for me!”

Cricket said, “The Germans thought he was real sweet too when he and a bunch of GIs stormed Omaha Beach and started grinding the bastards back to their beer gardens on the Rhine.”

Sister Marie looked heavenward for guidance and Uncle Tommy kept smiling, saying, “You would have made a damn good reporter back in the day, Cricket—writing all about what those boys accomplished.”

“You were one of those boys, Uncle Tommy.”

The woman clapped at the history lesson or maybe all the fun everyone seemed to be having. Her friend grinned at the ground, not looking anyone in the eye.

“And your names?” Sister Marie politely asked.

“Dick and Jane!” The young woman exploded in sheets of laughter. “And you’re Cricket,” she said in utter amazement, dropping the funny-bone moment like she had been introduced to a celebrity. “Wow, you’re cute. No makeup. Mavi jeans, boots. Any Native American blood?”

“Nope, just American mutt,” Cricket said, and the woman put her bare arm against Cricket’s, still giggling.

“Love the color, olive, and so smooth.” Jane passed two fingers down Cricket’s forearm. “Gotta love your hands, too—blue nail polish. Most tall chicks don’t have beautiful hands—out of proportion, too masculine.”

Cricket noticed a tattoo of a small red sun, its rays pointing downward, on the inside of Jane’s forearm. She searched the woman’s eyes, dark brown, like hers, a startling contrast to her snow-white blonde hair and delicate skin. The pupils were dilated. Out to devour. Feeding frenzy came to mind.

“So, Dick and Jane, where are you headed?”

“With you, of course,” Jane said. “Uncle Tommy invited us to the big party.”

“Before the invitation?”

“See the world!”

“That’s why I joined the Army,” Uncle Tommy added. “You see, Cricket, the good things in life never change. These two young people have adventure written all over them.”

“You do know our world is a bit messed up right now.” Cricket eyed the strangers and pulled the car keys from her jeans pocket, relieved she hadn’t left them in the ignition. The sound of keys made Dick raise his head. Jane simply stared. A chill pinged off Cricket’s warm skin.

The Cub buzzed them.

“We need to get moving,” Sister Marie said. “Tom Hastings reads the Declaration of Independence every Fourth of July at the Ledges State Park.”

“He could have read it in his armchair,” Dick finally spoke up, looking again at the ground.

“I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Sister Marie, with the Sisters of Saint Augustine.” She opened the car door. “Many of us look forward to Tom’s reading of that wonderful document.” She extended her hand and both newcomers pumped it lightly. Cricket didn’t offer hers.

“Maybe Uncle Tommy could find some new reading material,” Jane chirped.

The old veteran removed his cap like he was taking a solemn oath. “I’ve thought about that … but the Declaration is a beaut. Now, young lady, I have considered referencing a few lines from other great men—Lincoln, Madison, Washington. And, of course, more from Jefferson.”

Jane frowned.

10

Christmas Singer

Gabe Wheeler ran up to Sam with a gift bag.

“Sam, all of us here at Crestwood appreciate you as a neighbor and admire your flying career. Jokes and all.” Gabe handed him the bag with a bottle of wine in it. “Here’s something special.” He faced the audience. “Maybe we should all take a break, have some refreshments and talk with Sam one-on-one; look closely at these wonderful pictures covering so many years. Also, remember everyone, please stick around, in a few minutes we have a lovely young lady who’s going to sing for us. When she finishes she promises to surprise us with another one of her talents.”

“What the hell, Gabe, you’re shutting me down?”

Almost everyone stood up and shuffled back toward the dessert table decorated in garland. A few paper turkeys left over from Thanksgiving were spread out along the back of the table.

“Sam, not everyone finds this kind of thing interesting,” Gabe quietly insisted. “I don’t know what’s worse: being duped with a clever pilot joke or some awful war story that would only upset everyone.”

More people rose from their seats and Sam’s moment was over. He placed a large hand on Gabe’s bony shoulder, saying, “I love ya, Gabe, but I’d like to wring your scrawny neck. I prepared for weeks. That joke, as you called it, was to break the ice. I had a real career for fifty years. Experiences I wanted to share. I was gonna stay until Monday, give one last hand to you jokers, but you’re on your own. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Sam glanced at the young woman adjusting the microphone, testing the volume.

“Sam, that’s fine, we can handle it. But hey, no hard feelings, I know what you accomplished, and more importantly, you know. This is for the better. You were getting hostile with Marge; getting ready to launch into stories that just scare people. We don’t need old-time nightmares, plenty of fresh ones around here every day.”

“What’s her name?” Marge Holloway scolded her husband loud enough for Sam to hear. Ray’s loud reply ran over the girl’s opening lines of her first song.

Earlier Sam had watched the young woman in the silver turtleneck and long black dress pause in front of his photo board leaning against the wall. Now, he focused on the bright-smiling girl, seated with a guitar. Someone dimmed the overhead lights and the garland and wreath glistened from the colored bulbs strung across the front of the room.

Sam’s anger and disappointment faded with each passing song. In between tunes she talked but Sam couldn’t make out all the words but there was a big warm voice coming from that fine little body of hers.

Her face wasn’t lost on Sam, either—creamy white skin, dark hair to her shoulders. She smiled often as she sang, eyes cast down until a crescendo in the music. Lifting her head, her voice filling the room, the singer’s eyes flashed, a silent explosion and Sam remembered another young woman, a stranger, sitting across from him on an airport shuttle bus one spring evening. The girl’s smile was candid and innocent, her eyes brilliant and fearless. He was accustomed to a slew of looks from women, most related to appetite, desires, high and low. But in this moment, Beauty herself was awake, gazing at the world.

A dozen songs and forty minutes later the young woman finished and the lights came up. The man next to him said, “That’s it?”

“I heard someone say that she’s going to draw us,” his wife answered.

“What?” Sam replied, the couple ignoring him. “Why doesn’t she keep singing? Her voice was warming these old bones.”

9

Clear Night, New Moon

Sam looked around the room, noticed a few weak smiles from the seniors, but mostly felt a collective resistance at being trapped a few minutes longer. He thought of all the eager faces over the years that loved it when he launched into some flying story, seemingly off the cuff, grabbing the listeners’ attention, speaking with authority. Sometimes it was young pilots eager to ride along with Sam, or a good friend. Often it was a woman dazzled by Sam’s travels.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Sam announced and the remaining chatter died quickly. A few seniors leaned forward. “Well, actually,” he paused, enjoying the silence, the attention. “Actually, it was a clear night with a new moon. I was out of Burke Lakefront airport headed back to Skyline Field. Lots of stars. But without the moon it was coal black except for city lights and the cars moving along the freeway.

“I was in Cessna’s little trainer, a two-seater, a fine airplane that taught a lot of pilots to fly over the years. And it was summer. Had it been winter with snow on the ground it would’ve been a better deal. You’ll see in a moment.”

A voice broke in.

“Snow would reflect the light and you’d see a lot better if you had to make an emergency landing,” a man stated confidently from the second row. Sam had forgotten the fella’s name but knew him as someone prompt and smart about his recycling.

“Damn,” Sam replied, “I thought this was my story.”

The man just smiled, pleased with himself.

“Try not to kill my punch line,” Sam added.

“Punch lines are for jokes,” Marge Holloway said loudly, and a few in the room snickered.

“Well, if I can get this old crowd laughing that’d be something,” Sam said. “I might be able to call the night a success.” When no one made a smart-ass reply he continued.

“I was fifteen minutes from landing when the rpm rolled back smoothly and my quiet night flight just got a lot quieter. The oil pressure and temp gauges looked good, and the carburetor heat was in. Usually you get roughness with carb ice, a warning to get the carb heat on. But I had no warning. Everything else looked fine. I played with the mixture control and tried restarting but no luck. I couldn’t watch my airspeed drop off forever, so I lowered the nose and nailed my best glide speed. Now I know I had to stay away from the lights of houses and busy roads. I looked for the darkest area, the least inhabited area, but that didn’t give me a very warm fuzzy either.”

Sam had everyone’s attention. Even Marge Holloway seemed interested for the moment.

“Now I had started at three thousand feet, but actually I was only about two thousand feet above the ground. You see, the altimeter reads from sea level and our terrain around here averages about a thousand feet above the sea. Later on I figured out that I could have glided roughly fifteen miles in any direction. But I already had picked out the best area for my landing, not a light from a home or a business. I made my decision. I gave one call to Cleveland approach, giving my distance from the Akron VOR and kept coming down, lowering the flaps, keeping my speed stable. If I could bring it in as slow as possible—that’s how flaps help—there’d be less damage to me and the plane.”

Marge Holloway remained quiet and turned her nose up, patient but arrogant. Her husband shook his head as though trying to rattle disparate bits of information into working order. Sam plowed ahead.

“When the altimeter read fifteen hundred feet, I was approximately five hundred feet from making contact with whatever was beneath my wings. I lowered the flaps to full and made a few corrections on the trim wheel. Now, don’t think I hadn’t tried everything from all my experience, all my years of flying. I even prayed and shouted a few times to see if I could frighten the engine back to life—but nothing, just a windmilling prop and the air rushing by. So at one hundred feet above the ground I turned on the landing light.”

Here Sam stopped and eyed the audience for skeptics.

The seconds passed.

“Oh, come on,” Marge complained. “What the hell happened?”

Sam enjoyed making someone laugh. He also liked pausing before a punch line. But he didn’t expect much enjoyment from the crowd and took a deep breath, zeroed in on Marge and finished.

“I didn’t like what I saw so I turned the light off.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marge said angrily. “We’ve been sitting here listening to a joke.” Another moan issued from the seniors and few lashed out in anger, telling him to “get lost.”

“What did he see?” Ray Holloway asked, looking to his wife for an explanation. “Did he crash?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Marge replied. “You’re too stupid.”

Her comments inspired others to grumble loudly. Some started to stand and leer at the desserts. The same man from the second row, who had enlightened everyone, cut through the noise.

“Where’s the P-47 Thunderbolt?” The man grinned, pointing at the pictures. “You’ve got all these planes on the board, but no Thunderbolt.”

“That’s because there was no P-47,” Sam said, enjoying the commotion over his ‘story.’

“Sure there was. You flew it in the war. I can’t believe you’d leave it out. Then you bought and sold one after the war. What was it like to fly?”

Sam’s enthusiasm vanished.

“You’re a real know-it-all.”

The man smiled even bigger. “A million years ago your brother Nick told me about the P-47. He promised me a ride. He said you’d take me up.”

“What, you were gonna sit on my lap?” Sam shot back and a few seniors laughed. “The thing only had one seat.”

“He told me you were an ace—five kills—Silver Star—”

“It was war,” Sam said loudly, and everyone grew quiet waiting to hear more. “A lot of men beat that score.”

After a short pause his voice weakened as his heart pounded.

“A lot of good men didn’t come home.” Sam looked about the room for an understanding smile or nod. Finding only looks of impatience or confusion, he finally rested his eyes on a young woman at the back of the hall wiping the neck of her guitar.

“Those are hard stories to tell,” he finished with, facing the picture board, no longer trying to project his voice or worried about the back row hearing him.

8

Christmas Party

Crestwood’s club house was full and everyone seated as Sam began talking of his boyhood love for flying. A few gossiped until hushed by a neighbor.

“Is that your wife?” Marge Holloway blurted, pointing at the top left corner of the photo board.

“That’s just a good-lookin’ woman who happened to be walking by,” Sam said, avoiding any further discussion by turning to the photo and examining it himself. It was Ruth standing alongside a twin-engine Cessna in front of an open hangar.

“I can’t see her very well.” Marge squinted, leaning forward in her seat. “You should blow it up so everyone could see it better. Maybe you should use a computer?”

“How the hell’s a computer gonna help?” her husband asked.

“They use computers for everything,” Marge retaliated. She cast a bleary eye on Sam and again she pointed. “Is that your boy, Bobby? I can see him better.”

Sam wasn’t five minutes into his presentation when the Holloways derailed him. Payback from the morning’s recycling fight? The other residents and guests, nearly fifty gathered, stared straight ahead or squirmed in their seats, anxious to get to the Christmas dessert table.

“Yes, Marge that’s Bobby. But for now how about everyone just listen,” he said, nailing the Holloways with a dark stare. He brushed the side of his head with his hand and glanced at the floor, a soothing gesture.

“When I’m done you can take a closer look,” he said matter-of-fact, having had dealt with rude pilots, flaky customers and bad weather forever. An old lady in the front row wasn’t going to distract him. He walked behind the easel and nimbly slid it forward a few inches with the grace of a man much younger helping a woman into her seat.

Sam liked the picture of Ruth with the Cessna 310 that Marge had spied. Both leggy and fast, he thought to himself. And with his wife gone now for nearly three years he felt comfortable showing off the regal pair. A few in the audience knew he had flown the P-47 Thunderbolt in the Pacific theatre but none of them took notice of the missing war bird.

“Maybe show a movie next time,” Mrs. Holloway said. “Did you ever fly jets?”

“His son flew jets,” her husband informed. “Not everyone can fly jets. It takes a special person.”

“Like hell it does,” Sam boomed and the arguing couple stopped, mouths open. A few in the audience muttered their disbelief.

“You see this plane.” He slapped the picture of Ruth and the Cessna with a thick middle finger. “I flew this twin by myself and did everything—navigated, worked the radios, operated six controls for the engines—throttles, mixtures, props. You’re right, my son flew jets and I’m proud of him. But instead of six controls he had two and he shared the workload with another pilot. He never had to land on small strips with half the runway lights out and a foot of snow. He never fumbled with a sandwich and a cold cup of coffee because he always had some flight attendant serving him hot food.”

“I was just voicing my opinion–”

“Well, damnit, Marge, wait till I’m done,” Sam charged, done with finessing his responses. “This is my last talk about this stuff. So sit still and listen.”

Gabe, standing off to the side, shot Sam a dirty look. Sam returned it and continued.

“I didn’t interrupt your husband when he talked about his career at Thanksgiving. You two are worse than the kids I visit at school.” Scattered chuckles arose and quickly died. “A few of them at least try to sit still and listen.”

Marge croaked loudly, “It’s a free country. I’ll ask my questions.”

“Yes, you’re right, it is a free country,” he countered, finding a new foothold. “But that doesn’t give us the right to ignore our responsibilities.” He stood tall and his voice boomed a second time—“We recycled in the War. We did our part.”

A collective moan escaped the seniors.

“And it helped to put this country on the fast track utilizing every bit of scrap metal and rubber to build new ships and planes. Freedom comes with a price and we paid that price. All of us should be proud of that. But we’ve lost our guts.” He approached the Holloways.

“Marge I know you weren’t a complainer during the war. You were just out of high school and yet you helped out in the hospitals around Cleveland, volunteered, even with a fulltime job at Higbees. No mouthing off, you were there for your family, for the war effort—”

Ray Holloway growled something and Marge told him to be quiet. Memory softened her face. She looked down and Gabe walked over and put a hand on her shoulder. The quiet in the room deepened until she knocked Gabe’s hand away and glared at Sam.

“I’m not stupid, Sam,” she said. “That was a long time ago. It was an important time—many of us did things that really mattered. I know that. But that’s not our time any more. Now we just hang on for dear life—pills, hospitals, friends dying; the money never goes far enough and our kids want what’s left. See, you’re making me sad. I didn’t come here to be sad. Why do you always screw up a perfectly good moment? What the hell is wrong with you?” She fully recovered her pinched, old woman’s face and her husband shook his fist against the ‘spoiler’ standing in front of them. Sam figured Ray was already working out the steps, devising his own special dance for Sam.

Gabe started to say something when Sam broke in.

“I get it” Sam said, head bowed, hands on his hips, a general hearing field reports from a ragtag company of old geezers. “You’re right in a lot of ways, Marge.” The resignation in his voice didn’t dampen the fire in his belly. Unafraid, he returned nervous looks, belligerent stares with moist eyes and a loud sigh.

“Well, I got the perfect flying story before we all run over to the refreshment table and push our sugar levels off the charts.”

7

P-47

Late afternoon, weak sunlight unable to dissolve the shadows, Sam switched on a floor lamp and studied the two dozen aircraft pinned to a peg board leaning against the back of the couch. He checked his watch—two hours before his presentation and plenty of time to practice, get dressed, and load the car.

Several times he cleared his throat and began, not really satisfied with any opening. Arms wide, he announced to the quiet living room—“I know where it all ends, but how to begin?” He studied the red and white Taylorcraft, near the center of the board, the beating heart of flying, the plane his wife had liked best.

Sam may have forgotten their first ride together if it wasn’t for Gracie retelling it to their children and friends over the years. “We were right above the tree tops–so beautiful. And you know how your father can talk. Well, he talked the whole time we flew, pointing out lakes, people’s houses, roads, even our church where we were married.”

His heart sank thinking of his wife. “Gracie, you know I just need a good opening. God, I could talk forever after that.” She would have sat quietly listening to him. She adored him.

He walked to the center of the room and eyed each plane, now a ghost, and to Sam ghosts were mooches, always wanting something else, never satisfied, and surely never grateful. A man that could live several hundred years would be rid of his ghosts by his hundredth birthday, Sam thought. Mistakes made, lessons learned, and the ghosts of one’s past would evaporate, like morning fog before the rising sun.

Since he couldn’t triple his lifespan, he’d at least have something new. Survivor of a recent heart attack and bypass surgery, he wanted a New Year’s resolution that delivered results, like car sales and making enough money to have a ball and send a bunch of cash to his grandkids for school and their first house. He heard of folks making huge bonfires and burning up the old stuff at the end of the year bringing the New Year in fresh. Tonight he planned to wrap things up and send his old life up into smoke.

Five decades of flying covered the peg board and at seventy-eight years old he was getting it out of his system for the last time. When he returned from Florida in mid-January, he’d conduct his own private bonfire. But he wouldn’t burn the picture of the P-47 Thunderbolt, the most hardheaded ghost in his life. That photo would always hang on the wall across from his bed, even if he was blessed to live to the wise old age of 300. Got to keep one old mooch around. Keep me honest.

“I wanted to fly since I was a boy.” He addressed the chair his wife often sat in. “From my backyard I’d chase a low flying plane until it disappeared behind the trees. I felt like Columbus. I wanted to explore … sail across the skies; discover places.” He paced, looking at the carpet, hands in his pockets.

“A plane moves from point A to point B. It has a mission. In the war I learned all about missions.” He stopped. How to talk about the adventure of flying, especially in World War Two, when a plane he had flown and loved would be responsible for his brother’s death one day? Shame burned his face. He looked at the black and white photo pinned to the board. Maybe skip the war? Few would complain.

He pointed to the peg board. “After the war, aviation held a ton of opportunity for anyone interested. I ran with it–fifty years in aviation, good years, profitable years—exciting to handle a variety of aircraft—” Sam looked down, saying quietly, “And I told my brother the same thing.”

Sam had bought and sold aircraft forever and, now, in recent months, one particular sale had returned to haunt him. A plane might be only a machine, but the Thunderbolt was tied to youthful ambition and the summer night of his brother’s death.

Some forty years ago Sam had needed money to purchase the fighter and warily let his brother get the money through a loan shark. He comforted himself knowing he had a solid buyer until the customer walked and they were unable to pay on time.

A meeting was arranged with the lender and Nick. On a warm July afternoon, Nick had come to Skyline to see the P-47 Thunderbolt. The plane was a force of nature; imprinted with the genes of a tank, and even beautiful at the end of the day, something carved from solid rock. Nick stuck around through sunset and watched Sam trouble-shoot a small trainer. Both men gabbed about their parents, girls, and making money, while Nick, continued to glance at the P-47 parked in the grass, just beyond the hangar’s lights, continuing to ask his brother to teach him to fly so he could one day pilot the fighter.

Caesar, a buddy of Nick’s, had set up the late-night meeting and had given him directions to a house in Cleveland. A few hours later, a fatally-wounded Nick Messina turned down a street on Cleveland’s West side and coasted to a stop outside Ruth’s home. Sam still blamed himself and hated Caesar.

* * *

Sam took the black and white photo of the P-47 off the board and set it on the dining room table. “Well folks, there are some airplanes I definitely don’t want to talk about. Some stories stay private, close to an old man’s heart.”

From here it would be easy. The sixties and seventies were filled with flights to hundreds of airports big and small and getting to know, if only briefly, many people, even a few famous ones like Jimmy Stewart in Kansas City and John Wayne in Los Angeles. Sam spent the years crisscrossing the country, buying, selling, and delivering an assortment of single and multi-engine ships, all piston-powered. Sam never got into the corporate jet market.

The silent TV made him think of his grandkids. These days it usually lit up when the kids were over, otherwise it was off. They loved TV, but flying was another matter. Sam addressed the room.

“Young people don’t care for flying like they used to. It’s ordinary, boring, and mostly a pain in the ass, especially when they have to travel with their parents. Look at all the new things—computers, plasma TV’s, internet, cell phones. In the meantime, small airports are closing all over the country and the ones remaining have tall fences for security. Today, small airports look like factories or worse, prisons with fences, barbed wire, no trespassing signs, armed security. People are more scared nowadays at what the other guy might do. At one time a kid could walk right up close to the runway, watch the planes come and go. Now they got movies and videos games they walk right up to. They climb into other ‘worlds’ instead of the cockpit of an airplane. Where is the next generation of pilots going to come from? The military doesn’t produce many pilots either, anymore.”

To Sam, general aviation for the average person was dying off and never would be the same. He sat down in his armchair and thought to pick up the phone and cancel his talk. Gabe, who worried Sam would scare the seniors with war stories, would be pleased, especially after the morning’s pissing contest.

Sam laughed at his situation, opening his arms to the imaginary crowd. “You know what we can leave today’s young people? Recycling. Why it’s the best thing we could be doing for future generations. Now I wanted to do my little part, but I got fired today. Can you believe that? Hey, raise your hands if you think Sam Messina should continue as Recycling Czar. That’s it, get ‘em up—who’s on my side?”

Sam glanced outside and saw the neighbor’s lighted evergreen shaking in the wind, no longer a Christmas tree, but a spastic, gleeful thing lurching wildly in the dusk. It reminded him of Ray Holloway dancing around his living room, dancing on his boss’ grave. But Sam had nothing to dance about. His enemy was still breathing air, walking upright, a thorn in everyone’s side, especially Ruth’s. Caesar from the old neighborhood was still a part of their lives.

A few minutes later Sam rose from his chair and went to work packing for Florida. He’d run the checklist soon, closing down the house, loading the Lincoln, perhaps never to return.

6

Great Legs

Sam, punched in Ruth’s number.

“Has ‘Scrooge’ been around?” he asked.

“Ran into him at the grocery store last night. I was hoping he found someone else to annoy.”

“I should just fly down.

“Sam, don’t worry about me. I’ve handled him every year. Drive your car down.”

“I want him to see my mug when he opens the door.”

“Just get here safely.”

“Things have changed. I plan to leave a few days early; probably Monday after the recycling’s picked up … if that works with your schedule.

“Sure. What happened?”

“They fired me, Ruth. The board says I’m pushing people around too much. Maybe I’ll leave this weekend—or tonight, pack the car and just head out. I don’t mind driving in the dark—”

“Sam you got your presentation. You’ve been working on it for weeks.”

“My heart’s not in it.”

“Finish it, Sam. You need to stick close to earth, selling cars instead of planes, hanging out with this old broad in Florida.”

“That’s that psyche part of you—reading my mind again.”

“You mean psychic, Sam. I’m not that either, just an old practicing Catholic who got lucky with great legs and good skin.”

“I might never come back to Ohio you keep talking about legs and skin.”

“Of course you’ll go back. You’ve got your boys, your grandkids—”

“Maybe I should just split it down the middle—six months in Palm Beach; six up here?”

“A lot of people do.”

After talking with Sam, Ruth went back and checked the oven timer on her cookies. For ten years since her husband passed, Caesar Vincenzo had rung her doorbell within weeks of Christmas, standing in his dark suit, gift in hand, unlike last night’s visit at Publix with a warning, not a gift. Years ago, she’d take the present reluctantly, close the door, and immediately tossed it in the trash. Now she just opened the door, said a few choice words, and slammed it in his face. Sometimes he tried to hand her an envelope, saying he had gotten her tickets to a holiday play or movie. One year Sam opened the door and Caesar did an about face and left with the gift.

With Caesar on her mind baking had become drudgery. Only her love for her grandchildren and their love for cookies pulled her through it.

The fridge displayed the kids’ drawings held by magnets, the most recent, a Christmas tree with an enormous angel atop it. Hung next to it was a grinning pumpkin with black, diamond-shaped eyes. A few days ago she had started putting Christmas out. Sitting on the window sill was an ancient cloth elf with a sharp smile, and alongside the toaster a cookie-jar Santa who bellowed ‘Merry Christmas’ when you tilted back his head.

She had always felt peaceful in her house, especially while cooking in the bright kitchen with her family seated around the small island, gossiping, teasing the kids, everyone seduced by the aroma of chopped garlic and a pot of bubbling red sauce on the stove, full of meatballs and sausage.

She was still admiring the crayon angel when the wind suddenly pawed her kitchen window and she shivered. Outside, the morning sky darkened with the prospect of rain. She decided to leave as soon as the cookies were done.

Grabbing the hot pads after the timer dinged, she opened the oven door and winced at the blast of hot dry air. Closing it, she said aloud, “Dear Mary, forgive me for not saying the rosary this morning. That’s why I’m so full of dread. You have my word I’ll pray to you tonight. Dear Mother of God, give me strength.”

5

The Witch

A fine mist dampened Ruth’s face as she handled a large head of broccoli looking for defects. Unable to find any brown spots, she leaned into the mist. The stinging coldness surprised her and she jumped back and hit a standalone basket of lemons, knocking a few onto the floor. No one else was around and she bent over slowly, hand on the cart, and picked them up, saying a Hail Mary that her back wouldn’t be sore tomorrow morning getting out of bed. She slid her hand down the side of her face. Her skin felt cleansed.

“I could always use some help,” she said quietly to herself. “Maybe Publix should include facials in their produce section.” Actually, at sixty-five, her face might not launch ships anymore, but it did make men of all ages stop, leer and admire, like the one Ruth saw standing near the oranges.

She set the head of broccoli in the cart, knowing that even if she had a few extra pounds around the middle, her legs had remained shapely. Without hose, she wore a skirt cut slightly above the knee and her thin sweater hid bare arms which she thought were getting fat.

When she returned the man’s stare he immediately looked away. “Men,” she mused, “shy and lustful.” Defiantly, she drove her cart right toward the gawker, who was ready to run.

“John,” she beamed, finally recognizing the poor man who lived a few doors down from her daughter Maria.

John Scalish was shorter than she, in his early eighties, and except for the bald dome his face was remarkably smooth. He had recently lost his wife and she felt bad toying with him, even if he did have unholy thoughts with his spouse only months in the ground.

“It’s funny who you run into at night,” he said sheepishly.

“Eleven o’clock is pretty late for us seniors,” Ruth replied. “We should be home getting our beauty sleep.”

“You always look beautiful, Ruth. You could be shopping at three in the morning and you’d still look beautiful.”

“But who would see me at that time, other than weirdoes and thieves?” She saw him start to wither and she rushed a second time to protect him from female assault. “That’s nice of you to say, John.”

Her face reddened, thinking of the many times that she had humiliated another kind and quiet man: Saint Joseph. Often, after a long bout of bad weather, or family tragedy, she had plunged his statue head first into a vase full of water. After the death of her husband, she stopped taking out her frustrations on the Patron of a Peaceful Death, worried that she might lose all peace while still among the living.

Mr. Scalish cleared his throat. “Your hair, it’s different.”

“I had it cut short, kept the curl.” Her thick wavy hair streaked with gray was cut above the ears. Her every feature spoke elegance: cheekbones, slender nose, light-filled brown eyes. Cassano was her maiden name, and her parents were from the seafaring town of Bari on Italy’s southeastern coast.

She added, “Maria said you stopped by last week. You need to get out, be around people, especially children.”

He smiled. “That’s good advice. Your daughter said the same thing, and she also told me that you’re someone I could talk to.”

Maria believed her mother’s powers were that of a therapist, seeing her as perceptive and insightful; not a fortune teller or phony psychic, but a true healer of the spirit. She had even encouraged her to get serious, get a psychology degree, and go legit with her own practice. Ruth had attended college for two years but found its secular outlook harmful.

Staring at his groceries, Mr. Scalish started a sentence and then stopped. Ruth waited, quiet, attentive.

“Maybe,” he said, “maybe I could come by your place and explain better, explain what I’m after.” He brought his hands into prayer, fingers pressed to his lips. “No, No, excuse me, I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound right.”

“John, you miss your wife.”

“Of course. But for heaven’s sake, I’m not being clear.”

“Yes, you are,” Ruth insisted. “You want to hear from your wife again.”

This stopped his apologies. Sadness made his shoulders slump and he looked down and scratched his temple thoughtfully. Ruth knew that even his attraction to her was on the backburner. He missed the ordinary time with his wife.

“Mornings were always our best time,” he admitted. “The phone hardly ever rang till later and, we had an agreement—no TV before nine. We were up at six; we’d have breakfast, maybe look at the paper, but it was nice and peaceful. And then we’d talk some—about our kids, the grandkids, going to the doctor. But it all came easy and then we were quiet again. Sometimes on the couch we’d both fall asleep, and that was nice too.”

“You want to hear her voice again. You believe I can help.”

“Yes,” he said, once again looking at his groceries. “That would be wonderful.”

“John, I get feelings, moods—ideas about people. But I don’t hear voices. Even if I did, you wouldn’t. I can’t broadcast them into the room, like turning on a radio.”

“But if you tried, and you heard my Josie say something, then you’d tell me. I just want to know that she’s all right. You see, I can’t protect her anymore, put my arms around her, make her settle down if something’s bothering her. ”

Ruth waited for the right words. No need to push, or feel panicked, the words always came.

“Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to get up early, like you and your wife did for years, ignore the phone, the TV, and take your nap on the couch. Think of your wife, even if it makes you sad. In your mind ask her questions. Don’t talk out loud. Keep your mind clear and maybe Josie’s voice will bubble up. Don’t force anything, and don’t feel bad if nothing happens at first. Something will. Do that for the next few months. And when you feel like it, come over and we’ll visit, have coffee. I like company.”

Ruth knew the outcome would be bittersweet. His diligence and love would bring Josie briefly to life, and her voice would ring true. A man like John Scalish would cherish that experience for the rest of his days.

A smile grew on his face. “Bless you, Ruth.”

“Oh, shit, don’t bless me. Bless Mary and all the saints.” She laughed yet knew that sadness weighed on everything in life. As Mr. Scalish pushed his cart toward the bread section, she thought of her own wounds: the loss of her husband Carl, her current, problem-filled affair with Sam, and of course, Nick Messina, who had entered her life for just minutes.

Making her way to the seafood counter, next to the wine aisle, Ruth found an empty display case and no one working there. She waved at a college-age kid who ran over, eager to be of service, disappearing into the back room for several filets of mahi-mahi.

When he returned Ruth stood on her toes to inspect the fish and watched him wrap it. He had just handed her the package when she glimpsed a dark figure standing at the end of the coffee aisle. It was Caesar: clean-shaven, wearing a dark-blue pinstripe suit. Hands in his pockets, he moved toward Ruth and she was tempted to ask the young worker to get the manager.

“I was hoping for a smile.” Caesar stopped in front of her cart. Underneath his full head of hair, dyed black, were bushy eyebrows, mostly gray, and fierce, but tired eyes.

“You need someone to put you out of your misery,” Ruth said, trying to muster the strength to deal with the aging hitman.

“All men deserve God’s mercy.”

“Then talk to God. You’ll get no comfort here.” She maneuvered her cart around him, looking straight ahead, her stomach tightening, acid attacking her throat.

“God’s not talking, but you’ll need to.”

“No way.” She passed him quickly.

“Luzzatto’s cleaning house,” he said calmly.

Several feet away she stopped the cart.

“House cleaning’s a big job,” he added. “We need to talk.”

“Get lost.”

She turned her head slightly, not making eye contact.

“Ruth, keep your calendar open. I’ll call soon.”

Grabbing a bottle of wine off the shelf, Caesar headed to checkout, while Ruth finished her shopping with a tangle of feelings that threatened to level her.

4

Another Chance

The hit had been arranged months ago through Phil Germano, Caesar’s contact. Phil met Caesar planeside and together they entered the small general aviation terminal at the West Palm Beach airport. Slightly hunched over, Phil led.

“I’ve got an office upstairs. Let’s go,” he said, pointing a crooked finger at an open door.

Phil had a large formless nose, narrow face and playful eyes. He enjoyed bragging about what he knew, especially with a long-standing employee like Caesar. Hershey had stolen from several of Frank Luzzatto’s operations during the eighties. A Florida boss, originally from Cleveland, Luzzatto withheld his revenge due to a decade-long battle with the IRS that utilized Hershey’s skills. All that changed when Luzzatto’s grandson graduated in 1990 from Harvard at the top of his class and would introduce his grandfather to plenty of new talent. As 2000 neared, Luzzatto was ready to act. Not only the theft, but Hershey’s knowledge of his operations could eventually hurt his grandson’s chance for elected office. Besides, Frank liked to occasionally clean house.

Closing the door, Phil handed Caesar a manila envelope.

“You have a nice deal comin’ up.” Phil pointed at the single chair in front of the desk and walked around to the boss’s side and sat down.

“DiPaulo’s right here in town. Sunday looks good. After church he drops off the wife and tells her he’s going to the cemetery to visit the parents and runs off to the girlfriend’s. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

“I did my preliminary work a few weeks ago,” adding to himself, DiPaulo’s a real fool, leaves a trail of crumbs a mile wide wherever he goes.

Phil pointed to the envelope. “Everything else is in there. This should be it for a while. Besides, I don’t want to overload you in case the boss wants Ruth Peyton wacked as well.”

Phil smiled and Caesar just stared, expressionless. “Hey, I’m just busting your balls. She’s not down for house-cleaning. C’mon,” Phil said, opening his arms wide, a moment of truth. “I’m only teasing. Everyone knows you had the hots for that witch. The best thing you ever did was stay away from that voodoo snatch. Hey, no firsthand experience here, but the boss says she’s on fire down there.” He raised his hand, ready for his oath. “That’s just what I heard.” Phil made a lopsided shrug. “I guess she helped him out with some personal matters, read his fortune, made him another million and probably knows a shit-load of stuff on the guy. Geez, Caesar, you look worried, believe me, just kidding. She’s not on the list.” He chuckled deeply, a lower register used for great moments of wisdom. “Me, I’d never let that witch get anywhere near my joint.”

Caesar hadn’t known about Luzzatto’s affair with Ruth and for several minutes his anger against his lifelong boss stormed below the surface. But he had lost control only once in his career and would never again permit that explosion of hatred.

Caesar sat hunched over and shrugged, nodded his head and even smiled a few times. He decided his next hit would be his last. And just as swiftly, another plan surfaced. If Ruth had been privy to Luzzatto’s business she might be led to believe that she was a target, like Hershey and DiPaulo, for “house cleaning.” Caesar decided to go after her. It felt right, like the perfect hit. All he had to do was point to the writing on the wall, to the obvious. He would bring Ruth terrible knowledge, but also her chance to be saved.