SILENT GUNS (8 page)

“
That won’t buy me a cup of
coffee.”

“
Got a job?”

“
Nope. Not much around for an
ex-gunner. And, if I had a job, I wouldn’t hang around a dump like
this.” Harper raised his voice just loud enough for the bartender
to overhear. The bartender looked over, shrugged, and turned back
to pouring drinks. Harper smirked as he stamped out his cigarette.
The bartender set down two drinks. Harper swept his off the
table.

“
Bring a bottle. I’ll open it
myself,” Harper belched. “Charge it to my friend here with all the
questions. Gotta watch this guy, he skims the booze, adds water and
sticks you for full tariff.” The bartender returned. Harper grabbed
the bottle, cracked it open, slopped whiskey into a glass and
downed two in quick succession. “Now, that’s the real stuff. On
this I could get drunk.” He laughed as he pulled at another
cigarette. His hands quivered as he held the match. The flare
revealed a taut face, a goatee and a pair of bloodshot eyes. As
Harper realized Trent was staring at him, he blew out the flame. “I
served as gunner’s mate on the cruisers
Manchester
, the
Baltimore
and ended my career on the
Missouri
. I
should say the Navy ended my career. I’ve been picking up odd jobs
ever since.”

“
Madden explained why you’re
here.”

“
Madden told you?”

“
Everything.”

“
I’m safe as long as I stay here
in Canada.” He frowned with sudden severity. “If it’s guns, I’m
your man.”

“
You’ll have to come back to the
States.”

“
How long?”

“
Two months.”

“
Too risky.”

“
I’ll get you across the
border.”

“
How much?”

“
Five-million.”

“
Five-million,” Harper eyed him
coolly. He leaned back against the wall, and then closed his eyes
tightly.

“
It’s a dangerous job. You have to
be in top shape…And sober. Or, it’s no deal.”

Harper wiped his face with his sleeve then reached
for the bottle. Trent swept it to the floor. Aghast, Harper watched
the bottle shatter, amber fluid pool, then drain into crevices in
the dry, wooden floor.

“
Damn your hide,” Harper rose from
his chair. Trent didn’t move a muscle, and then calmly lifted his
drink to his lips. “Cheers,” Trent said, raising the glass. He held
eye contact as he fingered his pocket. He drew out a brown, sealed
packet and tossed it on the table. “That should see you through
until I come for you. Brush up on how to fire a
16-incher.”

Harper covered the packet with his hand.

“
You’ll find cash and written
instructions inside. Follow them to the letter.” Harper licked his
lips as he looked down mournfully at the shattered
bottle.

Trent passed him a pen and paper, “Write down where
I can contact you.” He tossed bills on the table, got up and
left.

“
From what we learned, your Harper
had a bad attitude,” Simons offered with a tight grin. “There must
have been plenty of old gunners on the beach?”

“
How many have fired a 16-incher?
Try one hand. Had Harper settled to rock bottom, too deep to
resurface? Would the chance at five million bring him back? I could
only guess. He did prove to be a loner, an odd-man out where I
needed teamwork. My sixth sense left me wary; but Madden was sold
on him. Did Harper deserve a second chance? Was he worth the
effort? In hindsight – no.”

“
I am surprised he didn’t take
your cash and run,” Simons gloated.

“
You mean drown himself in
booze.”

“
Most likely.”

“
But, he didn’t.”

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 6

A steady, cool breeze that blew in off Puget Sound
made the day feel spring-like. Behind the wheel of his ‘65 red
Mustang, Trent bypassed the press of traffic by avoiding arterials,
using shortcuts and ducking down one-way streets. With a squeal of
brakes, he pulled into the passenger pickup area at the main
entrance to the Olympic Hotel. He shut off the engine, checked his
watch and waited, his mind buzzing at the speed of events. A yellow
Corvette with a black hardtop pulled up alongside. The driver tried
to back into the space behind him – she didn’t make it. Again, she
tried and failed. The doorman watched. Trent watched. Everybody
standing around turned to watch. She seemed confused behind the
wheel. Trent stared in his rearview mirror, a pleasant way to kill
time, he thought, yet fearing for his cherished red Mustang. The
doorman, in an attempted rescue, jogged over, but too late: she
jolted the Mustang. A yellow Corvette door swung open and out
stepped a tall, slender, woman outfitted in an eye-catching emerald
green outfit. Her blonde hair was drawn straight back and gathered
in a knot. She bent over as Trent rolled down his car window.

“
Sorry I bumped you,” she
said

“
That’s O.K., you can bump me
anytime.”

“
It’s new. I’ve only had it a
week. I’m afraid to park it.”

“
No harm done,” Trent stared at
her.

“
Do you think it’s alright to
leave it there?”

“
It’s not my hotel,” a limp
response he quickly regretted. Her laugh was vivacious. “Well, I’d
better be on my way,” she walked towards the hotel entrance, but
stopped before a small boutique shop, the Holiday Fur Shoppe. Her
outfit was clingy with folds appearing where motion captured the
material. In one graceful, unexpected turn, her female wiles
energized, she caught his eye, waved, and then entered the Shoppe.
A young woman seated at a desk near the window raised her head.
Their conversation turned lively, then agitated.

“
How long have you been sitting
here?” Newby asked.

“
Just got here,” Newby opened the
door and got in. Trent caught a glimpse of the blonde waving. Trent
was sure it was a missed opportunity, but it made little difference
as he had more pressing matters. He started up the
engine.

“
A friend of yours?” Newby
asked.

“
No.”

“
You mean, not yet,” Newby
grinned.

“
Never saw her before and probably
won’t again.”

“
Never, say never,” Newby, added
with a chuckle as they sped away. “Have you read this morning’s
Seattle Post-Intelligencer yet?

“
Only had time for the headlines
and ball scores.”

“
Then, you haven’t read the second
section.”

Missouri to sail to Long Beach.
“That’s the
lead; the article is buried here on page six.”
The Navy
announced this morning a two-year, $450 million dollar
modernization program for the battleship Missouri, now moored at
the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. The ship will be towed December 1st
to Long Beach where she will undergo installation of Tomahawk and
Harpoon missiles – some with nuclear warheads – replacing 14 of her
20 five-inch guns. Gatling guns will replace the nearly 150
anti-aircraft guns she carried during World War II, and her
electronics will be modernized with technology developed since
1953, when she last served on active duty. The Navy said, one thing
won’t change: the Missouri’s battery of nine 16-inch guns will
stay.

“
The article says she is to be
towed.” Newby hummed a gleeful tune.

“
Manna from heaven,” Trent burst
out in a big grin. “That doesn’t give the Yard much time. Labor Day
is next Monday. Any plans yet?”

“
I’ll know Tuesday: orders should
hit my in-basket right after the holiday. The schedule will be
tight. The Yard is undermanned. I expect the Admiral will order the
work out on contract.”

“
We’ll bid the job, Newby. The
turrets need to be made seaworthy.”

‘
There’s more,” Newby clipped his
words.

“
Rear-Admiral Merle F. Zahn,
announced his retirement as Commander, Puget Sound Naval Shipyard,
effective the end of August. Rear-Admiral Brian D. Burns, who will
return from duty in the Philippines, has been named his
replacement. Cmdr. Ward E. Conover, lately commanding the destroyer
Boardman, is named Officer-in-charge of the Missouri’s
readiness.”

Trent jammed his foot down hard. The Mustang
lurched. Tires squealed. His grip on the wheel tightened until his
knuckles threatened to crack his skin. The speedometer whipped high
on the dial. Buildings flashed by. Streets soon turned into
freeways. The Mustang roared on. It wasn’t until they hit the
downside of the Cascade Mountains that Trent eased off. Newby
shifted in his seat.

“
Jesus! Man. You still got it in
for Burns.”

“
He lied.”

“
And the others?” Newby
exclaimed.

“
They conspired. They set me up,
all of them.”

“
They’re not all to
blame.”

“
How the hell do you know? You
weren’t there!” Trent grunted in black bad temper.

“
Yeomen Loomis and Nicholson
were.” Trent opened his mouth then clamped it shut it. “We yeomen
stick together, like you officers,” jabbed Newby. “When they
brought the
Missouri
in, we partied. We drank too much. They
spilled it out that they did the paperwork charging you. Bitched
that Kindler treated them like furniture. Loomis was saying how
Denton and Farr couldn’t see charging you; but Kindler insisted.
They figured Kindler wanted Proust protected. Then, Kindler called
Burns into his office, and nobody knows for sure what happened,
only Burns got moved up to Commander right after the trial. They
never liked Burns. They said he was slime.”

Trent hesitated, and then nodded gravely.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 7

That afternoon, Trent patrolled the Point. Seen from
the ground, it looked different, not quite as he remembered it. He
walked north until he could go no further. The name South Passage
Point conjured up an image of quaint charm, in truth; it was a far
cry from that. The Point was a finger of land that jutted out into
the Lake Washington Ship Canal. It fell under the shadow of the I-5
Bridge where its southern tower tromped down like a giant’s foot
before leaping across the Canal. A red mid-channel buoy marked #16,
tugged and pummeled by the swift, outbound rush of water, marked
safe depth for boaters. Two hundred feet overhead, rubber tires
strummed on serrated iron gratings. Beneath the bridge, abandoned,
decrepit structures dotted the Point casting off the sweet odor of
dank decay. To the west stood old wooden docks, some long crumbled
away, their pilings sticking up like broken teeth. Along the
northern shore, across the canal, warehouses, repair yards and
working boats jostled each other for elbowroom. The Point was a
good location, Trent thought, as he enjoyed a panoramic view of the
ship Canal, the Highway 99 bridge and Lake Union.

Sidestepping puddles left by a recent rain, he
headed back to Waters Street. Madden waited in front of warehouse
Number 506, a one story, shabby, brick building backed out to the
water’s edge to a sturdy wooden dock. He measured the warehouse as
sixty feet square, one side of the ground floor windows were
bricked up and painted over the same off-white as the rest of the
building. Above these were red- painted gutters and a flat, hot
tarred roof, a decorative parapet ringed the building. Shattered
glass from punched-out windows lay everywhere defying thick,
imbedded wire mesh. Steel pry bar gouges left on two, large
metal-sheeted doors gave mute testimony to repelled invaders. A
metal-shaded light hung askance to illuminate the doors. A second
light doused a smaller door in faint light that was barred and
padlocked. Graffiti defaced ‘For Rent’ signs draped the front of
the building.

A vintage Cadillac turned sharply off Eastlake and
sped down the street to come to an abrupt halt in front of Number
506. A short man, his face beet-red, round and fat appeared from
behind the wheel. His dark eyebrows splayed sideways to overhang
small, distrustful eyes. Meyer Ellsberg was the Eastwing Investment
Company.

“
Ellsberg?”

“
Right!”

“
I’m Trent, this is Peter
Madden.”

Ellsberg nodded. He placed one key in the padlock,
freed the iron bar and, with a second key, and opened the door.
They entered the warehouse to a gush of stagnant, musty air.
Ellsberg flicked on a light switch.

“
I own the building next door,
too, you know, depreciation and taxes,” he remarked, fumbling the
keys back into his vest pocket. He shrugged his shoulders as he
peered through shaded lenses.

“
Is the street always this quiet?”
Trent asked.

“
The buildings are empty except
for the paint factory across the street.” Madden’s nose twinged at
the mention.

“
Anybody else moving in?” asked
Madden, glancing about, taking full measure of the details of the
building.

“
Not that I know of,” Ellsberg
said, pointing to massive overhead roof trusses. “Those beams were
built to last. They don’t build them like that anymore.” Block and
tackle gear swayed easily to Madden’s touch. A wooden workbench
spanned one entire wall; a large vise was bolted at its center.
Fluorescent lamps, rigged over the workbench, marched along its
entire length. A cold-water tap dripped into a grease-stained sink.
Off to the right, a toilet door tilted awkwardly off its lower
hinge, the upper hinge lay useless on the deck. A cracked and often
patched toilet tank leaked badly.