The Concert
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Previously on The Concert:
In a bored tone the guard said, "Take the elevators to down to B-3. That's the backstage area for the music groups."
"Basement?" I asked. "You're telling me the backstage is in the fuckin' basement?"
"Yeah, lady, B1 is private VIP offices and board rooms, B2 is locker rooms for the Jets and Giants and visiting teams. And the concessions loading dock access. Singers and politicians get to go to three. Ladies toilets on B6, that other elevator there."
Chapter Nine ~ There's Always a Line
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Vince
Somehow I got stuck running the comm operations for the Meadowlands job. Sitting in the office in Trenton sucked and my ass was cramped bigtime. Maaaaybe it's better than being blown up?...Naw.
The regular Rangeman phone line buzzed on my desk and I picked it up said, "Rangeman, Vince speaking."
"Vincent, my man! Mike Stortag here, how's it going?"
It was the President's Press Secretary, the idiot known as Michael Stortag, on the line. He didn't wait for my non-response, just babbled on, "The President definitely wants to be there tonight. At the concert for, uh...? And anyway, he's already there in Jersey, might as well help out one of the little guys, am I right, am I right?"
Joe Juniak who was running for the Senate probably wouldn't be thrilled to be a little guy but I grunted agreeably. The man went on, "The President was in Edison today for photo op. Surely you saw?"
"Uh, no." Got real stuff to do...
"He has a film crew with him 24/ 7, filming everything. This morning he rode a Harley Hog, part of a Hell's Angels' charity drive. Those guys donate to little kids with cancer, did you know that? They're not just beer-bellied punks, am I right?"
"Uh huh."
"Then the President ate a late lunch at Big Dick's Subs in Edison. The place is a landmark, been there since 1963."
Just like Pino's. And Shorty's. Big deal. Grease stains and cockroaches.
"Then he's meeting with the restaurant owner and other little guys to discuss tax credits for small businesses. Maybe your boss will be interested. You gotta tell him about it."
Sure, the boss would love to save a buck, but I doubt that Ranger, with four East Coast offices of Rangeman, secondary set-ups in Las Vegas, LA and Chicago, the international RMPMC division, plus the big bucks private contracting, would qualify as a small business owner, lol. I said, "Uh huh."
"So...the big guy wants to time his entrance for the finale, you know, the encores? He'll get up on stage put in the good word for the New Jersey guy, what's his name, sing We Are the World with everyone, big group hug, smiles and waves, end of story...what? Hey, are you there?"
Not We Are the World! Please!
Actually he lost me at group hug. I was pretty sure Ranger didn't do group hugs and wouldn't want any part of that scenario...and end of story sounded awfully ominous under the circumstances. I was guessing Stortag didn't know about the bomb threat.
I said, "Sure. No problem. Get your man there at 23.00, we'll get him in and out right on cue."
"Good to work with professionals, uh...?" said Stortag.
"Vince, my name is Vince."
"Yeah."
"Uh, speaking of professionals I need to coordinate this with the Presidential Secret Service detail. Who's the head guy there on this?"
"What, my word isn't enough? I'm the White House PRESS Secretary."
"Uh huh. Name of? Number?'
"Oh okay..." He reeled off the name and number of the agent running the President's security set-up.
Thank god. He's a smart guy and we know him. I dialed the Secret Service agent in charge.
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Junior
"Ms Plum, Springsteen is coming on in like 30 seconds." I knew I was whining but even I heard of Bruce Springsteen. Not my taste in music, but...
"I haaave to GO, Junior. I've been peeing by myself since I was two, I can go to the ladies room by myself. You stay here."
I rolled my eyes. Yeah. Right. And did she just have to drink two huge, supersize regular Cokes? If the terrorist doesn't kill her, the sugar will do the job. I followed her into the packed elevator and down to the bathrooms on B-6. She jiggled like a three year old the whole time, too.
Twenty minutes later the Boss (Springsteen, not Ranger) was doing some sad-sack mournful thing—but loud, we could hear it when we finally got on the elevator again. Stephanie shrugged at me. "What? There was a line, there's always a line in the girls' bathroom."
"Why?"
Ms Plum—Stephanie—ignored my question and gave me a sweet version of her death glare and said, "While I was waiting, I was thinking and...Ranger's up to something. I can tell. Morelli could tell. He may be an ass but he's a smart detective. Spill. Or I'll get Ranger to send you to, uh...well, somewhere."
"You wouldn't."
"I would!"
Our standoff was interrupted by a stop on B-two and a heavyset little guy wearing Budweiser coveralls rolled in a metal hand truck piled high with three aluminum kegs for the concession stands. He clanked his way between us and laboriously turned himself and the standup dolly to face front. I could smell his sweat and wrinkled my nose involuntarily. I glanced at Steph who was pretending to rub her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.
She ignored the delivery guy and said, "What? Tell me!"
"Boss is just worried because there's been some talk of a ..." I mouthed the word over the man's head, I'm not so stupid I'd say bomb threat in public. Way to cause anarchy, right? Chaos, bigtime.
Stephanie's big blue eyes got huge then narrowed in annoyance. She said, "No way! Been there, done that! Sucks! "
I nodded. "Nothing like a bomb to give you a really bad hair day, hmmm, Ms Plum?" Ooops.
The Bud guy reached out and pressed the stop button and his hand jabbed something hard into my side. I felt the jolt of a Taser and as I went down, I heard Steph yelling my name. But I was thinking Helloooo, Somalia.
... ... ...
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The man pushed back his Bud cap and glared at Stephanie. "The kegs are filled with plastique—plastic explosives—and dynamite. You will do exactly as I tell you."
tbc