Otherwise Evilicious

By Steven S. Schneiderman

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462892280

Steven S. Schneiderman

Steven is an associate professor at the Institute of Engineering at Murray State University. He specializes in environmental engineering and regulatory affairs. Steven has nearly forty years of professional engineering experience. His literary endeavors were limited to compositions for friends, including songs, newsletters, greeting cards, and children’s stories. Apostlyptic is the fifth Louie Leppedimay mystery.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

On Thursday the price of a gallon of regular was merely exorbitant; Friday +$0.35; Sunday additional +$0.15; there were no earth shattering traumas that weekend. The stock market had rallied all week even though the dollar tanked against Euros and Yen. Congressional shenanigans oozed toward passing some kind of energy something as though to snatch final public crumbs form voting citizenry; lapping insurers, unions, energy corporations exempted; greased politicians gleeful. A casual observer might, maybe wonder why in a ‘free market’ all gas stations simultaneously adjust prices to exactly the same numbers. It’d be a conundrum until the obvious: same truck delivers at every station. Despite whatever comedy oil companies provide in commercials, gas at supposedly competing stations is gas; one territorial spigot for all.

This time, this one time a caring crescendo; cement truck careened out of control; jumped a curb and trashed mini-mart pumps. There was no fire but six of twelve pumps were disabled. An old coot driving a ‘56 Chevy pick-’em-up bought a dollars’ worth at eleven local stations; took him all afternoon Saturday. He left behind a steel dowel, maybe 2 inches long super-glued into the hose nose he’d just minimally drained. At another location some teenagers left nails hammered through delivery lines. There were enough standing around so carnage wroughters couldn’t be ID-ed from surveillance. Local cops half-heartedly pursued the villains; heated demands for cruel justice semi-followed up upon. Cops, they hovering millimeters above minimum wage, get gouged, too. Natch, grass roots solitarianisms are gnats swatted laughingly by corporate indifference. But someone else also glanced askance.

First informational: where are they going to collect? Second, when will that happen? Third: what creativity need be applied to ensure they all get what they have coming? Fourth: methodology for slipping away unknown and unnoticed.

The Oilman’s Club occupies floors 31 and 32 within a glass-cast edifice, downtown Houston. 31st includes executive/staff offices, communications, centralized supply and clean-up space amid special security and services and a ridiculously sumptuous bar, dining and conference room. Just to get on the elevator requires acquiescence from face knowledgeable guards in the lobby. To access 31 and 32 requires code entry from a numbered panel followed by clearance from security central. Corporation executive VP is a minimum requirement. Kitchen is staffed 24/7; always a chef who can grill steaks and servers a la oil baron expectations. Curiously, elegant menu items are not prepared on-site. Three neighborhood four star bistros email opportunities to club management. The options are edited into an elegant daily card. If one of the Barons or their flirts opts for Black Tagliatelle (fresh seafood stew) or duck breast Magrete the appropriate restaurant sends up a to go order. At Oilman’s kitchen the feast is re-plated. Every diner swoons over the bread and cheese that automatically appear at occupied tables. Thus psychologically minimizing lag-time between order and eat. Cheese hacked from a wheel of Wisconsin cheddar; the bread delivered by 11A every day from an obscure bakery at Brookside Village. It’s baked from European recipes and ingredients, imported flour and yeast. Tastes great warm from the oven and Oilman’s, due to research and construction from one of the represented Incs., keeps it fresh in an argon humidifier. Argon is inert and heavier than air. It’s a way better short term non-oxidative preserver than nitrogen. The corporation has an argon refrigerator at its engineering office. It’s sealed and well insulated; purged of air via expanding argon (-321 oF; doesn’t take much to purge and re-cool once the goods are extracted and the door closed). The unit needs no electricity. Often at cold soda breaks the techies muse about commercialization. Gleeful Oilman’s minions share bread, cheese and fine wine; plenty of that on-site, when the leftover hour strikes; usually 1A. Floor 32nd comprises two dilly-dalliance apartments; invitation only.

Four times a year Oilman’s is secured for special utilization. Twelve are on the roster though mostly a full team never plays. But everyone showed in November; limos chocked underground; personal and governmental security personnel soiling each other’s Gucci’s. The drill: booze & BS, feast, determine the economic fate of the free world, a few for the road, flee in order of prominence; didn’t go that way in November, though.

After the June meeting Mike Rucker was told not nearly enough security or sufficient sumptuousity comforted the elite. Something had to be done to further ease their strife. It wouldn’t do for twelve to lord the grassy plains from Tobacco Road. One hundred twenty days were allotted. ‘Couldn’t, didn’t, won’t’ were not applicable.

Mr. Rucker, engineering VP waiting for a seat at THE feast, cast a global net. Eventually Armbrister Interiors: remodelers to the stars; résumé de la gaudy; hell, an oil sheik vouched; entertained Mike; got him fed; got him laid; got the job. Beginning mid-July bar and bistro were gutted. The removed table to twelve was donated to a local historical society. Oak to teak; rainforest protection be damned; copper lining applied to shield from external snooping; two layers, too; industrial insulation in between; new carpeting, now practice puttable, installed. The carpet was remarkably heavy for two inches thickness. Mike Rucker was assured the principals could putt and chip wearing their spikes. In the bar a thousand square feet were contoured; raised six inches. Three cups sporting mini-flags were installed.

Armbrister subbed some work via the in-law net. Credential impeccability not necessary as the job came in on time. Pricey, the rug; samples fondled by Armbrister management but none were left behind by the sub; none at Armbrister; no shards or remnants at Oilman’s. The job looked and felt de la: Mike Rucker honed his short game every day three weeks leading up to the autumnal.

Supervision of the work was also subbed; three levels down to a chemE who spent most of his time at corporate central control. He looked in weekly because that was the only time he presently could stand by elevator doors opening on 31. He relied on on-site secretarial and minimum wage securital for heads-up. He approved renovations; a few minor change orders like computerized variable air valves for ventilation; didn’t amount to ten percent without asking. Greedy Gus’s are always looking upward; seeking the path of least resistance to the next consumption clique.

Near the moment of truth two of the usual caterers arranged appetizers; stocked the bar. No barman or since the twelve were male and would have preferred chesty bar-maidenship was allowed. No recording devices; the room was sniped by federal experts the morning of. The two chefs and their sous-chefs, and ten-ish servers stood by. This meal would originate on-site.

Three hours beforehand, federal agents secured the building. One of the twelve recently retired from public service. All were trailed by armed to the teeth private security. The underground garage was cordoned; limos began arriving. Eventually, all twelve some individually, some paired up, were launched in the private elevator from the docking area to 31. One finished dallying on 32; lumbered down the spiral staircase. The most junior member closed and locked cathedral doors. He walked by the service door; opened, told security when to bring in the meal. He locked that door and joined the group. They drank. They gabbed. They tingled; should have died but sometimes assassination connectivity goes awry. Screaming and railing; one lion, he of four-inch boot heels and inner lifts so as to project 5-11 on 5-4 gingerly tap-toed to the portal. It was flung open; horde-ish escapism. Shane Richardson, former federal employee screamed into the foyer; sucker punched Mike Rucker who had joined the rescue rush.

You’re scum! Hear that, Rucker! Scu-u-u-u-u-m! You let some low-lives threaten me! Me! You hear me you scum!

Mike Rucker took umbrage. He rose, bloodied, to exact manly retribution but was gorilla restrained; large caliber muzzle nuzzled in his ear.

Easy there, bud.

Shane Richardson stormed out swearing oaths along the way. He rudely cast aside employees already standing aside; stiff-armed Caitlin Dunnagan, 98-pound waitress who had inquisitively emerged from the kitchen.

Timmons! Timmons! You’re service in-charge. How come you haven’t gunned down this crud?

Junior detailees trailed Shane Richardson. Ernest Timmons stayed behind; loosened his grip from Mike Rucker’s shoulder.

How come I couldn’t swing back at that asshole?

Sorry, Mr. Rucker; that asshole is federally protected.

Yeah, right; I hope you fail miserably at your job.

Quiet! Even saying that’s an offense. But I can unofficially say it’s the worst lowest rung job. I’m the only senior player. I’m just a click from pensionism but I have to train this detail. Mr. Rucker you’re fortunate I collared you. One of the plebes would have shot.

Me!?

Mr. Rucker, they’re young and dumb but they don’t miss. Oh, and we, meaning some fed shyster, will want to talk to you further.

I’ll be easy to find Mr. er, Timmons, right? After this look for me at the company loading facility in Honduras.

Only one captain fell out; apoplectically overcome from due-dalliance.

1

Wonder Where with All

Stopping, standing still requires focus. Stopping time requires lunacy of non-focus; inured from chaotic din it’s a wonderment of idle-iality. Louie Leppedimay doesn’t drive much; doesn’t see too well. He couldn’t dispute the umpire’s calls from the first row; never been there anyway; no chance from the cheaps. But sometimes, post Rudy’s and before shifting into first finder of lost dogs, he stands on the corner at Lunt and Sheridan Road. The stop and go lights along Sheridan are set to be green for over three minutes; one on every corner along the way. They all change simultaneously; 20 seconds, no more for the side streets. Louie stands on the corner embracing amusement. As long as the light doesn’t change, neither does he; neither does the world.

Pursuant to side street greenery sometimes he crosses, sometimes not. Pedestrians are evaporative to drivers vying to make as many lights on Sheridan as time and traffic allow; none from Lunt would risk yielding to a walker and thus miss their microcosm window of melee joining. Louie eyes side street Parnelli’s; cigarette billowing frustration, cell phone gabbing, coffee dribbling are common diversions. Epithetic cursing occurs when right-on-red isn’t available due to thoroughfare mayhem. Everyone has some place important to be.

Louie retired from Universal Crudification, Inc.; since three months of locating lost pets and nudging the constabulary toward collaring midemeanorism. The October highlight shooing away some kids that harassed a phony religion; they left uncomplimentary notes in the mailbox on Keeney Street in Evanston questioning how managers of God rated a multi-million dollar crib; supplicants slummed wherever. Louie wondered as well but staked out; admonished the last mailperson upon notable delivery. No cops; the problem went away. Louie charged the lordians a hundred an hour; said he scared truants off; no couldn’t recognize anyone.

Seeking cheap thrills he proposed driving the missus to the airport. She was westward; visiting in-laws at Denver. The offer was snubbed; fearless forecast that likely they’d both die due to Louie’s glacial melt reflexivity or a plane would be missed from road-kill body-identification work delay. Relieved, Louie took the bus into the city. He didn’t darken Rudy’s; didn’t opt for an office nap. He just wandered down the way; ambled past old brownstones on sidewalks with six feet frozen grass buffers fronting bumper to bumper parking. He liked Lunt and Sheridan; watched the madness for forty-five minutes; sensed upcoming bladder urgency so he abandoned his spot for one at Clark. Louie snagged aboard the downtown bus. The driver, a veteran campaigner, glanced askance. No load of breakfasts today, gramps.

Louie alit a block from Grover Guthaus Memorial Library; walked over and let himself in through the loading dock. He navigated hardwood corridors arriving post men’s at the Assistant Director’s Office now a kitchenette cum coffee klatch; scored a cup in his Saluki mug. Tablet and pencil in hand Louie began composing a ditty for the next Liar’s Libations. Start and stop; crumple and pitch. Louie worked over refrainage until he imagined Kim Thompson might be able to pound out a melody on Murrey Schneed’s ancient upright. One yellow sheet flitted onto coffee drops; soaked through but not obliterating doleful scribbling. Louie observed the moistening opus; reached for it twice but withdrew his paw. He refilled and retrieved a convenient copy of the Gazette wondering whether oblivious day-dreaming through life was good, bad or ugly. Headline alerted Louie to Houston carnage. He read 1500 words of woe intently; the SIU mug chillingly neglected.

I wonder . . .

Nancy Moyer emerged from the Director’s chamber. She looked backward; closed the intervening door; applied hug and rub.

Good morning, Louie. It’s been a while; couple of months. I assumed you couldn’t stay away; eventually drawn back by my dazzle. But here you are nosing the news. Anguished over oil baron assaultage?

Hi, Nancy; 150% dazzling from my gape, No ice, no gold; you’re not making much progress with the intended?

You always seem to say it right. Brad and I are holding; circling hawks; each looking for an opening. I’m happy you remembered. But why do you care about industrial captains? Constabulary jurisdictions will root out the evilists; probably rounding up the usual suspects now.

Nancy, I’m thinking that’d be maybe 250 million locals and 3 billion internationally. Those jokers aren’t universally loved.

Well, Richardson makes it federal. You can sashay by UCrud and join the hunt except I recall Lawrence pulling your spy ticket. Hold ‘er up there, sport; I known that shit eating grin. You’ve figured something already.

Maybe, but my thought is obvious. UCrudians shouldn’t need any help. And, there’s this philosophical complexity; I’m not sure I’d rat if I knew. Maybe a great public service potentially rendered; missed opportunity, though. I wonder why?

Hard to argue that point. What’s this?

Nancy Moyer peeled the yellow page from the table.

Louie, this crap seems way divergent from your normal inanities. Diluting Old Style with teardrops would be bad form.

Oh, it’s just an oddity, tin-pan cornpone; inference so tiny, so cloudy. It’s feeling more than actuality; but frettible anyway.

Give.

The wife left for in-law door darkening this morning. She refused a ride to the airport. Didn’t say when she’d return. I left first for the bus. Over my shoulder she just said: ‘see ya, sport’.

That’s curious, Louie. You’re generally likable scum; friends and lovers don’t desert someone who obviously needs a lot of help to put one foot in front of the other. By the way do you want defendable reasoning for increased visitation by here?

Sure, but Amy’s figured us out.

Louie, there’s been no figuring for what, two months? But I wonder whether Brad has too. We’ll see but that’s not my indulging focus. I see by your pitiable morose verses which if warbled at the Dugout will result in lightening your wallet. I’m writing a story; off moments offset. I just started but how about helping me edit as I go along?

I dunno; might upset my delicate sensibilities if there’s gruesome hacking; body parts flying. And descriptive romance might up my blood pressure.

But you’d remarkably soldier through that.

Have to support the common good.

Okay, fine; look over this beginning.

1—Allusionary

Pamela Smith; normal handle for an extraordinary lady; Ms Smith is concert master of the city orchestra. Fiddle player, one of a kind, who strokes it right or left handed. Not with two fiddles either. Strings are reversed depending upon which way a violin’s caressed. Pam can play her Strad either way which adds up to bowing forward righty, upside down and backward lefty. No other earthly creature is preferably hand/eye blessed. Challenge Ms Smith in any saloon game; pool, darts, shuffleboard, video whatever; you’ll buy.

Pam Smith is demanded for all manner of concerts and musical shenanigans. She commands five figures for forty-five minutes awing festival multitudes; six for TV extravaganzas. Pam shows up at hospital children wards, the B’nai B’rith walk against bigotry and plays for the joy. Once at the Stadium, retro rockers we’re trying to entice another generation. Pam and another one-dater paid to go. She wasn’t spot-lighted or recognized. But the staff knew her well; let her back stage; lent her a fiddle from storage. Band musicians gasped; invited on stage Ms Smith entertained the mass with one-liners: now you’ll all have to have a sense of humor because I’m going to fiddle energetically and forgot to wear a bra. Oops, I hoped my date would learn that through Braille later. She tuned the fiddle; brought down the house. Art appreciators paid $30 for eight to 10. They got until 1A, no extra charge.

At formal concerts Ms Smith will sometimes flip back and forth as the symphony, concerto, whatever progresses. Her sound stays pure throughout. Only the players appreciate conductor apoplexy. Naturally, with growing renown reporters ask why, when and does the flipperoo apply with all music? Ms Smith always responds, no clue, whenever the mood hits; Turkey-in-the-Straw, Franz Liszt; makes no difference.

The orchestra waltzed through Europe; reeled through the southeast; even tangoed at Havana as political normalcy hip-checked away fifty years of idiocy. Ms Smith dazzled whatever troops overcame dust storms and camel spiders at semi-secure Middle-eastern bivouacs; unofficial carnage cessation during the three-base tour; art appreciation one-upping religious bigotry and greed.

Later, after tours and touts; post tumultuousness, Pam Smith retreats to a Wilmette condo; 3rd Street; walk to the Purple line; solitude; no churning chump; just an indifferent tabby. She strums a banjo or twelve-string guitar for cheap thrills; Washington Square haunts the neighbors; perfectly picked; melodic shivering. Pam’s flat is up one flight; one of four 2500 ft² former apartments. Plenty of room for a roomy; several looked over the possibilities. But they’re always run off; overwhelmed by intensive vibration imbalance; men uncomfortable immediately; girls unwilling to suffer looming comparison. Diametric glamour and quiescence are debilitating. Magazine covers and high-dollar Adrianna Papell mask enervating melancholy.

Curious business; Pam Smith Indian on the floor in her great room; surrounded by posters; concerted elegant glory; heads of state grinning and embracing. She’s mimicking Carlos Santana, one, maybe two light-years clearer; tears streaming until no outward vision applies; notes pure, singular and distant.

2

Soda Jerking

At Discount Groceries on Hamburger Rd., Wilmington, Delaware an unobtrusive little guy was shopping in canned goods. Baseball cap, Mets, shades and wispy black hair protruding. He was maybe five-seven stretched out. He carefully eye-balled veggie options as other low-end-of-life shoppers shuffled around his inert carriage. Finally bargain beets, corn, diced tomatoes, and peas transferred from the shelves; total of eight cans. Bread, milk and additional commodities were added throughout the store. Hamburger, cheapest available and one lamb chop from the too old bin tumbled into the cart. No pork products were considered.

The gent checked out at do-it-yourself; shoved cash into the collection maw. At 7:30A he was the only self-checker-outer so no one noticed the surgical gloves. A white plain-as-mud van was parked at the end of the lot. Good transferred, the buggy was insincerely abandoned. The van chugged away. The drill repeated at two other low-end groceries one on Hares Corner Rd. and one on Market St. and at Peggy’s Market occupying a fashionable corner in Montchanin. Peggy provided cans of high-end veggies and better surveillance. By then it was 9A. Even though the little shopper used self-check, the attendant noticed surgical gloves. He didn’t accost the customer; just lamented the curiosity on break at 11.

Phyllis, are we still doing moto-cross tonight?

Sorry, Jack; I have to study for a history exam. You want to know anything about Juan Peron saving the lives of multitudinal Nazi scum?

Not up there with my thirst for knowledge about the NASCAR cup.

Hard to blame anyone for not wanting to know how loathsome Argentine dictators were; maybe still are. I met an exchange student from down there at the U. Said she received her entire primary and secondary education in German.

Phyl, when are you going to let that ancient history go?

It’s part of the class, Jack. But you know history repeats.

Not them, not that lot of evil; no one’s dumb enough to fall for that jingoistic crap in this century.

Ever hear about the Tea Party?

Wow, I hadn’t made that connection. You have a point. You know there was a little man at self-check, maybe 9, 9:30 who was wearing plastic gloves.

That’s odd. Do you think he’s wanted dead or alive?

I dunno; maybe he’s afraid of germs.

Maybe; do you think we should tell Mr. Claiborne? He’s bound to be on surveillance tape.

Nah, what free-world threat stems from groceries? So tonight’s out? You’re gonna miss Edgy Edgar’s back flip motorcycle leap through the ring of fire.

3

Eye-bawling

Louie Leppedimay escaped from knowledge central; walked down the way to State Plaza. He repelled to sub-2; found Jim Peters at custodial management. The Gazette draped his desk.

Hello, Louie, have a cup; good and chewy. You still snooping for Miss America Investigations?

Poured and plunked Louie elbowed toward the headlines.

Doesn’t describe applied evil technology.

Nope, but it’s pretty obvious. I’m mean only the barons and none of the minions; nice try; clean, slick, precise.

Indignantly applied electricity?

Or localized sonic boom; you gonna help the feds figure who?

Don’t know, Jim. I can’t help wondering what went wrong with the wipe-out plan. I’m supposed to shy away from the gun-toters. I guess I’m by you for critical criminal potentiality. Cops won’t ever say how.

Your UCrud buds will know everything. Hell, that gorgeous blond, Joyce knows you’re here now if she’s watching surveillance.

Phone ringing.

Hello, hell yes; you want to talk to him. Okay, then; goodbye. Louie, you’re a popular guy. Your smiling mug’s requested.

Yeah, but I don’t want to dive in naked. They can pant for a few. So how would you fry the brethren?

Louie, electricity’s like water. It needs something to flow through; needs to be confined to the area of application; needs enough bite to be terminal and not enough warning to allow for escaping.

Anything you can think of that covers those bases.

Yeah, like I said, it’s like water and it likes water a lot. So you soak the floor; need a flood or deluge to make sure the intended are moistened. Then just make a connection. Water everywhere assures electrical flow; one amp assures demise. Stand barefoot in a puddle and stick your finger in a socket; do the trick.

But they all must’ve been Armanied; patent leather Buster Browns.

Louie, remember the fun we had with the nitrogen laden overhead sprinkler system last year?

Yeah, got that refugee criminal gassed but good.

Well, extrapolate to actual water delivered; phony fire alarm; good enough to fool the system; torrential downpour; everyone soaked in seconds. Then just plug them in; voila, fricasseed former grease-ian forbearers.

Someone might still flee?

It’s hard to imagine but to account for complete carnage; you could incapacitate them then apply amperage.

They must have been drinking; something in the rye?

Louie you gotta get your mind outta shot ‘n beer; have to be top shelf hooch but it’s still hard to imagine everyone simultaneously drinking from the same bottle. Drinking makes sense, though; macho men the lot; tea-totalers be damned.

But it didn’t work. What went wrong?

Louie drained, sort of chewed, cup remnants; made for the door.

Good luck, Shamus; whoever done it won’t like you if they find out you’re on their trail. You’re a swattable fly.

Thanks, Jim. But I’m intellectual property. Don’t know that I’ll play but even then it should be a home game.

4

Heavy Massive

At Houston, at Petroleum Towers top floor offices Shane Richardson was loudly belittling his executive gofer and a steno that had the misfortune of arriving early. His fed shootists, other than the team leader, waited in the anteroom.

Dammit. Wilson, dammit that was an inside job. Rucker was in charge. He’s gotta be hung.

Mr. Richardson everything that can be done is being done. FBI and even our unofficial sources have been alerted.

That’s not enough. I want to know how that could have happened. I want to know who has the guts to challenge me. Rucker knows. Has he been water-boarded?

Mr. Rucker has been interviewed. He was just general oversight. Armbrister, Inc. executives have also been deposed. We’ve about narrowed the search to the carpeting subcontractor.

Are they in custody?

Disappeared.

Well, don’t sit there on your fattening ass. Go find them; round them up; shoot to kill. No one; no one; let me repeat so it penetrates; no one fools with me and lives to tell. You, what’s your name, Timmons? Is the service going to stand by while someone threatens me? Dammit, I’m more important to the welfare of the country today than I ever was in office.

We’re investigating, sir. I’m sure with collective input from all our sources, the criminals will be run down.

Yeah, well you let them get too close the first time. You oughta be relieved; fired. Have you rounded up the other members? I think one of ’em is a spy; one of my eleven esteemed colleagues tried to wax my ass.

And themselves as well; and there are only ten left. Mr. Smythson died. You can request another detail anytime, sir.

Well I just might call you in, Timmons; have you tossed. It’d put a nice hole in your pension. You’d have it coming, too. Have you sent one of your boys after Danish, Timmons?

Not on our task list, sir.

What do you mean, not? You do what I say, period. Where the hell is Mike Rucker now? I want to talk to him personally.

Mr. Rucker is back at Bermont.

Well, get him up here; chop chop.

Sorry, sir, you cannot impede an official investigation.

Timmons, what are you new? I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, to whomever I want.

Sir, you sucker-punched him in the face.

So if he gets too close, just shoot. The country will be glad to be rid of that scum. So when’ll he be here?

Not happening, sir.

Dammit, do I have to do this job myself?

Shane Richardson dismissed his minion and the steno; faced up with Ernest Timmons.

Look here, Timmons; no crap; this deed needs doing. I’ll get Rucker up here on some pretext. I’ll fake concern or maybe compassion. When he gets close, he’ll be leery, see. I’ll feign another punch. He’ll react and you plug ’em.

I’d advise you to stand clear, sir; let jurisdictional agencies do their jobs.

No one advises me, Timmons.

Ernest Timmons walked out of Shane Richardson’s office; cornered the on-duty hall agent.

John, you babysit Fatass. I have to file this week’s summary.

He might try the back door flee again. Mr. America-first pedaling that German ragtop.

Caruthers downstairs?

Yeah, he put a homer on that Beemer. Shit, Fatass looks like a pale pimento stuffed into a metallic blue olive. Think he’ll try to slip out’ visit that cutie at Rosenberg?

Yeah, maybe; just keep tabs.

Chief, I know we’re sworn and all but this duty sucks.

You never know, John. Maybe he’ll drive into the path of a semi or Amtrak. Where’d that steno go? Have her bring her notes by my office.

Right on it; nice dreaming, chief; that’s why you’re in charge.

5

Lightly Stepping

Louie Leppedimay eyed the elevator door. Only two out of twenty descended toward maintenance. When the door opened Nick Kaup and Jeff Judy grinned from the box.

Hello, Mr. Medalist of the year. We’re your private brigade.

They rose directly to 27: Universal Crudification, Inc. central control. Frontal fairy tales Ebb and Floe guided the boys past a cart laden with Maxim’s pecan rolls and coffee. Louie diverted; arm-filled and ambled into Keith Andresen’s office cathedral. Lynn Stevens, ops director; Kim Thompson, investigations manager; Joyce Pomeraning, data manager and Smith, suspicious character, were already entrenched. Keith Andresen opened the bidding.

Now that we’re all assembled welcome my friends. Welcome back Louie, you old reprobate. We’ve netted you again and we’ll encourage you to help.

Help with what?

Louie, you must have read about the vicious attempt on the life of one our most revered former public official.

Yeah, him and his cut-throat mob; but he’s still upright so why do we care?

Smith intervened.

Louie, they beat the Service; just good luck the oil guys are alive; all but one, anyway. The Service can’t be beat, period. It’s a religious encyclical in our business.

So, do you know mayhem specifics?

Not yet; should have details by this afternoon.

Suspects?

No one and everyone; the conference room was remodeled over the summer; had to have been some off-spec applied engineering.

Lynn Stevens intervened.

It would make a nice statement and good promos for terrorists.

Don’t they like to send one of theirs down with the ship?

Mostly, but if sacrificial idiots weren’t handy, one of the managers acting intrepidly seems cogent. They’d want carnage now and crowing later.

Louie got up, got rolled; spilled some coffee on Keith Andresen’s oaken slab.

You know from the list?

What list, Louie?

The secret list of Richardson’s energy committee members; remember they began their administration with a secret conclave that developed an energy policy. Never would admit who was there to make it. Of course, everyone suspected oil baronage, coal kings and the like. And their policy was easily summed as burn, drill, dig and scrape. I think every man at Houston was on that committee. I think someone or group of concerned citizenry knows the names. Don’t you think one or two; maybe all three CEO’s responsible for the Gulf disaster was attending? I think others, like coal and gas barons will experience serious accidental conditions. They might burn; I mean before they burn in hell. I think it is payback time.

Silent faces around the table.

Dammit, Louie, that’s way way inside information; top secret files.

Then your list of potential desperados won’t be long.

Does anyone else have an alternative to pop’s portent?

There are plenty of disgruntled employees; thousands in the corporate structures of affected companies; have to be some near the top that feel or felt done wrong.

Might be a palace coup; sub-bosses scheming to move up.

Foreigners who’ll tout destructive capability; the no one’s safe from the wrath of God crowd.

Druggies getting even; they ignore collateral damage.

You know if Louie’s right about Gulf CEO’s, then everyone in the free world is suspect.

Louie, your office is as you left it. I’ve had a word with Lawrence. As long as you confine yourself to this building, you’re sanctioned to help. Talk to Lynn or Kim about anything you think might be of interest. You can even ask Ms Moyer for background help if you don’t explain reasoning.

Like she wouldn’t figure it out in two seconds.

Okay, but impress upon her the urgency and secrecy.

Louie Leppidimay emerged from State Plaza into piercing November needles. Gusts channeled through high-rise canyons plummeted wind-chill. Enough layers for most are way insufficient for delicate dispositions. Louie once wore flannels at El Paso in June. By the wildest stroke of no-tell motel luck so did Joyce Pomeraning affecting Louie’s shivering equanimity; Joyce way more memorable than Arctic November.

Louie shuffled to Clark; huddled on the corner until the northbound bus sucked him aboard. He alit by the county building and his office. Post scoring a cup at Rudy’s Louie crossed the plaza; acknowledged Newton Building ground floor ground force. He rode up to eleven; accosted LLInvestigations where a new maid-of-the-month seemed amused by his shuffling entrance.

You Louie, right?

Yeah, you’re?

Evelyn Green.

Another suburb, I ought to be able to remember.

I was told you own name escapes you often.

Okay, fine; any calls?

Yeah.

The wife from Denver?

No, a lady, let’s see, Carolyn Clark from Evanston. It’s about a lost pet. Here’s the number.

Louie plunked by his desk; dialed up the north side. Carolyn Clark lived in an old neighborhood west of Ridge on Leonard Place. She’d been widowed twenty years or so; kids long gone. The ancient four bedroom maintenance and taxes, both exorbitant, were covered by annuity funding. Among other useless data collected because Louie didn’t want to rudely shut her up included occasional room rental to Northwestern students, volunteer pizza chefism at the Spot, neighborhood watch warden and crossing guard at Ridge and Simpson protecting C. Nation elementary kids. Finally, Louie wasn’t positive there wasn’t more; he might have