The Giant Smugglers (7 page)

“Hmph, huh, hmph, yeah!”

“Knock it off, Jamie.” Fitzgibbons sighed as his son threw a haymaker uppercut at no one.

“I'm not hitting anybody!”

“You're scaring JoAnne,” Fitzgibbons said.

“He's fine, he's fine!” JoAnne insisted with a nervous laugh. She pulled a white Accelerton windbreaker from under her desk. “Jamie! I got you this for the fair tonight.”

Jamie held the jacket at arm's length as if it was pink.

“Jamie?” prodded Fitzgibbons.

“Thanks,” Jamie grumbled. “It's really cool.”

Fitzgibbons reached into his wallet and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. “I'm not a complete tyrant. Play a few of those strongman games and win something.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Right, Dad. Refuse to lose. Got it.”

“I love the fair!” JoAnne confided to Fitzgibbons as she slipped on a matching windbreaker. “It's my favorite time of year!”

“JoAnne is your boss tonight, you understand?” said Fitzgibbons. “You do what she says.”

“Sure,” Jamie returned in a monotone.

“Then I'll see you back here in the morning at nine o'clock sharp.”

“Are you kidding?”

“If you wanted to sleep in this weekend, you shouldn't have acted like an idiot.”

With a grunt, Jamie headed out with JoAnne to the parking lot. Fitzgibbons felt one headache begin to subside, at least for a few hours.

“Dr. Fitzgibbons?”

The scientist turned to find Ravi Pradeep, a young agricultural researcher, waving a manila folder.

“Got your soil sample analysis,” Pradeep said. “Really weird stuff. Full of fecal matter, which your nose already told you. There's a high concentration of water and a lot of indigestible fiber, oats specifically. But the water content isn't consistent with animal waste. It's way too high. My guess is someone is dumping illegal sewage—and a lot of it. We should report this.”

“Hold off on that,” said Fitzgibbons as Pradeep handed over the report and returned to his lab. The findings confirmed Fitzgibbons's theory: Someone had been dumping waste by the silo. But was it giant waste?

He checked his watch. It looked to be a long night, and Barton worked better when he was fed. Fitzgibbons sent his partner a text asking what he wanted for takeout, and headed for the parking lot.

A ten-minute ride through town later, his silver BMW pulled into O'Finley's Pub and Grill on Highway 14. Fitzgibbons parked on the far side of the lot to avoid getting the door of his luxury car dinged by one of the trucks up front. He made his way toward the entrance and the smell of fryer grease. Then he heard a familiar growl. There was Powder in a silver pickup, trying to work her angry snout through a partially opened window in the cab.

Fitzgibbons ignored her snarls and walked into O'Finley's, where he was greeted by lime-green walls and sideways glances from regulars sitting at a horseshoe-shaped orange bar. The beer signs were the only thing Irish about the place.

Brandi, a young woman with Chinese symbols on both biceps, greeted him from behind the bar. “What can I getcha?”

“Picking up an order for Fitzgibbons.”

“Sure thing, hon. It'll just be five minutes, okay?”

One of the regulars, Gruber, stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into a Cherry Master gambling machine. He wiped his cheek on the shoulder of his fluorescent T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. “Hey, Hank, know my idea of a balanced diet?” he asked.

Hank Pulvermacher didn't even look away from the evening news on one of the bar's TVs. “A burger in each hand.”

Gruber cackled. He made eye contact with Fitzgibbons and cocked his head over at Hank. “That guy knows the dang punch line to every joke ever made! Go on, try him!”

Fitzgibbons raised an amused eyebrow and acknowledged Hank.

The old man lifted his bottle in return. “I've been getting acquainted with the whole Fitzgibbons family this week.”

“How do you mean?”

“Powder and I met your boy this afternoon. He got into it with one of the local kids. Had to break it up—your boy outweighed the little guy by a good thirty pounds, and I was afraid he was going to end up in the hospital.”

Fitzgibbons rubbed his forehead. “Thanks for breaking it up, Hank. I think Jamie's having some trouble adjusting to his new school. New town. You know how it is.”

Hank nodded and sipped his beer.

“Can he stop by to see you? Apologize?”

“Not necessary.”

“His mother and I are trying to make him take responsibility for this kind of behavior. If you just let me know where he could…”

“Hank's right over there by the old warehouse,” Gruber called over the
ding ding ding
s of the Cherry Master. “Just down the block. You can't miss it.”

Hank shifted on his bar stool and shot Gruber a look.

Fitzgibbons remembered passing by the strange old place, empty and huge. “The Frank Lloyd Wright building?”

“That's the one,” Brandi said, returning from the kitchen with a large brown bag, already stained with grease from Barton's double order of onion rings. “Here you go!”

Fitzgibbons threw some bills on the bar. “Well, thanks again for stepping in, Hank.”

The old man tipped his glass. The scientist grabbed his bag of food and headed back outside as Gruber resumed his punch-line quiz: “Here's one for you, Hank! What's brown and sticky?”

“A stick.”

Fitzgibbons smiled at the irony of the punch line as he walked out the door. Powder barked at him again as he passed by Hank's truck. He ignored her once more, focusing on the dozen fifty-pound bags of feed in the truck bed. The labels read
Oats
.

Oats, just what Pradeep discovered in the soil sample.

Fitzgibbons glanced around the lot to see if anyone was watching him. Then he slid his car keys from his pocket and poked a small hole in one of the feed bags. Powder barked, but trapped in the truck cab, the furious dog was powerless to stop him.

“That's a good girl,” said Fitzgibbons. “Bark your heart out.”

He sped back through town and stopped in front of the warehouse. The abandoned building, at least forty feet tall, jumped out at him like never before. He pulled out his phone and activated the WiVi application. But the device couldn't produce a single view of what might be concealed inside: The concrete was too thick for the signal to penetrate. Even so, Fitzgibbons concluded that the AD German Warehouse would be a pretty good place to hide a giant—right in plain sight.

And Hank Pulvermacher lived nearby. Hank Pulvermacher, who happened to work at the quarry next to the silo where they'd found the piece of thumbnail. Hank Pulvermacher, who was carrying around a truck full of feed that might just be identical to what was found in the fecal-tainted soil samples.

Fitzgibbons tried the front door, then the one in the alley. The windows were sealed as well. Naturally, the place was locked up tight, but they could watch it better than a hawk. Fitzgibbons punched a name on his phone.

“Barton? I'm on my way back. Listen, I want you to retask a satellite to 300 Church Street. Yes, that's in town. I don't care what it costs. I want to see who comes and goes from here twenty-four seven.”

 

9

Hoping to find a tool to help him break into the warehouse, Charlie lifted the door to Mrs. Lundstrom's garage. Tim may have had a box of crap, but she had a whole garageful. It looked like she'd collected every magazine since 1984. There were boxes on top of boxes, some labeled, some not. Two riding lawn mowers dripped oil in the corner, and neither had tires. The garage's crown jewel? A creepy male mannequin wearing nothing but sunglasses.

Frustrated, he raised the walkie to his lips. “Dude, I can't see a toolbox in here, much less a crowbar. I have no idea how to get that board off the window.”

“Sucks.”

“Sure does, dude. Let me…”

“Hey, C-B, what up?”

Charlie didn't even have to turn his head: The unmistakable voice belonged to his mom's boyfriend, DJ Donovan, leaning out the window of his pride and joy, a jet-black Hummer H2. He could afford it—the man was heir to Donovan Dairies, the largest independent cheese manufacturer in the entire state. He was vice president of Logistics, which involved massive trucks, heavy-duty suspensions, and “the fine art of efficiently moving things around.” Everyone in town could see DJ liked Charlie's mom,
really
liked her. Charlie wasn't sure how much his mom liked DJ. It was okay by Charlie, who thought the guy was just too much. He also had a habit of showing up at just the wrong time.

DJ parked the Hummer and jumped out, wearing his “Hey, big guy” grin and the autographed NASCAR jacket he won in some charity auction. “Who you talkin' to on the old squawk box?”

“Dude, I gotta run. Talk to you later,” said Charlie into the walkie.

“Later,” the giant's voice screeched through the speaker.

Charlie snapped off the walkie and shut the garage door.

“Boy, have I got a surprise for you, C-monster.”

“Really,” Charlie said, sidestepping DJ and making for the apartment staircase.

“Aw, man, it's the best. Unbelievable, really. But I can't tell you until tomorrow!”

“No problem,” sighed Charlie.

“So don't even ask tonight when we're at the fair,” DJ said, practically begging Charlie to continue the discussion as he followed the boy up the stairs. When he wouldn't take the bait, DJ changed the subject. “I'm sure excited to meet your brother!”

Charlie grimaced as he pushed his way into the apartment. Even if he could figure out a way into the warehouse, he'd have to burn up most of the night at the fair, just to see dopey Tim. He headed for his room, DJ on his tail. Charlie took one look at the boxes of clothes still on his floor and grimaced again.

DJ looked behind him to make sure the coast was clear. “Looks like you could use a break from unpacking boxes. What do you say—a
Total Turbo
race before your mom gets home?”

It beat unpacking boxes. Besides, Charlie wanted to try the heel-toe maneuver that Adele had shown him. “Sure, okay.” DJ wasn't bad at
Turbo
, not for a grown-up anyway, so it would be good practice. The man plopped on the bed and grabbed a controller while Charlie powered up and chose a track with plenty of winding road. How hard could the maneuver be?

Plenty, as it turned out. The first time he tried it, his foot slipped off the brake. His Lamborghini came out of the turn and crashed into a mountain, allowing DJ's Corvette Stingray to take a huge lead.

“Come on, C-Saw, you going to let an old man take you?” DJ had never beat Charlie before, and the boy wasn't ready to lose now.

But every time he tried the heel-toe, he either braked too hard with his heel or gave it too much gas with his toes. He was just about ready to give up when he caught a turn just right. Engine winding out, the Lamborghini ripped out of the tight corner onto a straight stretch. It whizzed past DJ's car just before the two cars crossed the finish line.

“Whoa! What did you just do?” yelled DJ as Charlie whooped in victory.

The kitchen door opened. The two quickly turned off the TV and hid the controllers. When Rita Lawson poked her head in the door, both Charlie and DJ were arranging T-shirts in the top dresser drawer.

“Now that's what I like to see!” She patted her hair, freshly done for the big day. “Let me change my clothes, and then we'll go see your brother!”

Charlie moaned and collapsed on his bed.

“Don't even think about playing sick,” said Rita. “You're going to the fair to see your brother, and that's it.”

Rita went to her room, and DJ left to load rhubarb crisp into the back of the Hummer.

The boy turned the volume way down on the walkie and clicked it on. “Dude, I don't have much time. I'm sorry, but I got to go see my brother.” Charlie was beyond bummed—he was being robbed of a chance to hang out with a giant. And he genuinely felt bad for the big guy, stuck in that empty room with nothing to do. Instead he had to go to the fair to see that delinquent, Tim.

Then again, maybe his brother's dirtbag ways could be put to good use. Before he'd split to join the carnival, he'd broken into the high school library and had a going-away party with about fifty of his best friends. He was an idiot, but if anybody would know how to break into a warehouse, it would be Tim.

“Sucks!”

Charlie's voice picked up. “But here's the upside: I think he'll know how to get in! I'll talk to you when I get back.”

“Charlie! Tim's waiting for us!”

He hustled outside to the backseat of DJ's Hummer. He'd been dreading the fair, but maybe it was the answer to his problems. All he had to do was get Tim alone and pick his brain. DJ helped Rita into the passenger seat, ran around the car, and hopped behind the wheel. He started the noisy engine, and soon the raucous vehicle was turning heads as it rumbled through town.

“Ever tell you about the time the snowplow got stuck out on County Q?” DJ yelled into the backseat.

Charlie nodded. He knew the story well.

“They had to call in the H2 to get that darned thing out! When the chips are down, you play the biggest card you got!”

DJ recounted all of the truck's adventures as they made their way to the fair. Luckily, the ride wasn't long, and soon the heroic H2 pulled into the patchy grass of the fair parking lot. DJ jumped out and ran around to help Charlie's mom to the ground.

Charlie hopped out after her. He kicked up dirt in little clouds as he followed Rita and DJ through the sea of pickup trucks. The setting sun cast a gauzy haze over the whitewashed buildings that ringed the fairgrounds, reminding the boy how much he'd loved the fair when he was little. The merry-go-round and Century Wheel flashed brilliant primary colors. Howling rock guitars tangled with thrill-ride screams as the Bullet circled and twisted through its orbit. A shrieking bungee jumper plunged through the sky. A small blimp puttered past overhead, advertising
Duffy Slade's Bar and Grill
on a digital screen.