The Concert
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previously on The Concert: Joe explained in as little detail as he possibly could. I said, "I'm sure Ranger can get you in, provide a cover story."
"Yeah, the big man. He could get us in to see the friggin' President, probably, right?" Joe was sarcastic.
From behind him Ranger said, "Do you really want to meet the president? I can't see how he'd add anything to this op. And logistically his presence would be a nightmare."
Joe jumped a little. "It was a figure of speech, Manoso."
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Th Chapter Ten: Out of The Loop
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Morelli
I leaned against the lobby wall with a full viewof half a dozen concession stands and tried hard to control my notoriously nasty Italian temper. But, man, was I ever pissed off. I wasn't out of the loop on this job, there was no fucking loop here at all. The "joint task force" operation was a friggin' fishing expedition, not even surveillance or a fact-finding case. Tonight's event was not a rock concert, it was a political rally, full of mostly white middleclass solid citizens ranging in age from yuppie to baby boomer. The average age here tonight was probably at least forty-five.
What the hell am I here for? I wondered. I could be home watching baseball and drinking a beer.Sure, the ATF-DEA-TPD Joint Task Force looks good on my work record but this really sucks. ATF, aka Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, my hairy white Italian ass! No beer was being served, so no chance of underage sales to minors. And it was a smoke free venue, so no illegal tobacco sales either. And I was fairly certain that the only illegal firearms here tonight belonged to Ranger's goons. As for the DEA, there was no inkling of any crystal meth sales set-up. The stadium just opened tonight, it was brand new. How could the mechanicals of a meth distribution structure even be in place? And other drugs? Ha! Maybe Sally Sweet took a toke or two tonight but everyone else here seemed depressingly sober and law abiding.
I repressed the urge to kick the new concrete wall and surveyed the excited, happy crowd. And I caught a glimpse of Ranger himself, standing in the shadows, looking alert and predatory. How my Cupcake could prefer him over me was a mystery. Okay, I admit he's mysterious and I suppose not bad-looking, but I'm the Italian Stallion, fer chrissakes.
My eyes inadvertently locked with Ranger's dark fathomless stare at just that point in my jumbled mental tirade. And his mouth curved up into a derisive almost-smile, as if he read my mind. Creepy.
"Joseph!" Chalk on blackboard voice, calling my name.
I turned. "Helen. Frank. Good to see you both."
See what I mean about the audience? This was Steph's parents here. Frank Plum gave a cool nod, while Mrs. Plum gushed, "Oh Joseph, we miss you so much at our Friday dinner table!"
"Well—"
"Helen, please. Don't put Morelli on the spot. You know Stephanie dumped him months ago," intervened Frank.
"Oooh. Well. Whatever was she thinking?"
"Helen, we should go sit down. The Boss's set will be starting soon."
"Well, I'm not such a Springsteen fan, Frank. You know, Joseph, we mostly came to support Joe Juniak, he's my mother's second cousin's brother-in-law's uncle, so he's family. Is that why you're here?"
"Ah, well, I..."
We were distracted by a small flurry of activity near the elevators. We all turned to look and there was Ranger headed our way with a slightly built man who had very big ears and wore an ill-fitting blue suit, white shirt, red tie. The rest of the group seemed composed mainly of large shaven-headed white men with black suits and earbuds. And Ranger.
He caught my eye and said, "Morelli,"
Helen suddenly gasped and said, "Oh, my."
Yes. It was. It really was the President of the United States, up close and in person and in the company of Ranger Manoso.
Ranger and the President stopped in front of us and Ranger, oddly formal, said, "Sir, these are the parents of a friend of mine: Helen and Frank Plum." Handshakes all around. "And this is Detective Joseph Morelli of the Trenton Police Department."
I too shook the President's hand. He said, "Carlos especially wanted me to meet you, Detective Morelli. He tells me you do excellent work."
"Uh. Thank you, Mr. President." Carlos?
"Are you all enjoying the show tonight?"
We nodded wordlessly. The President went on, "I'm glad I had the chance to attend too. I feel it's important to be supportive of the little people in politics."
Helen Plum said, "Little people? Like the Pit Boss on Animal Planet? You know, he rescues pit bulls and he's, well, small. I love that show! But Joe Juniak is as tall as you are! Probably taller."
"Well, no, I mean the rank and file—the average man, the so called "little guy" of the political arena. At a grassroots level."
"Not much grass roots here in Jersey, Mr. President, " growled Mr. Plum.
One of the presidential entourage people—not a man-in-black—grasped the President's elbow and drew him aside before he dug himself in hopelessly too deep. I noticed Ranger looking resolutely deadpan and wondered if he'd crack up laughing in another second or two.
But no. Too bad.
The lackey told the President, "Sir, soon you'll have to be ready to go on for your speech. We should go." Another flurry of handshakes, a guy-hug for Ranger, and then our nation's leader was hustled away. We watched him leave, Ranger standing next to me in silence.
"Well, boys, that was a thrill. Who knew his ears were...well. Come on, Frank, you're going to miss your Boss, if we don't hurry!" The Plums hurried off, Frank turning for an instant to give Ranger a quick speculative stare.
Ranger gave a faint nod in return then turned to me and shrugged a little. He said, "What? You said you wanted to me to introduce you to the President, didn't you?"
He made a little gesture, like, voila`.
Finally I said, "The President calls you Carlos. Carlos!"
"And?"
"He hugged you!"
"And?"
"I, uh—nothing."
Ranger waited a moment but I had no words. He silently faded into the darkness.
... ... ...
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Ranger
Well, that was, ah, different, I thought as I again took up a position next to Tank, monitoring the terrorist's empty seat, the stage entrances and the performers' holding pen or green room where the Secret Service had stashed the President.
Tank said, "How'd it go?"
"I'm not sure," I answered. "Morelli seemed...unhappy. Or confused. Like maybe he doesn't want an invitation to the White House golf outing next month."
"Huh. No loss, Rangeman."
"Yeah. Maybe it was just me—" My thought was interrupted by the vibration of my personal cell phone in my right pocket. I had on me—besides my weapons—my cell phone, a pager (General XXX), an encrypted sat phone (CIA/ FBI),a comm unit and a Secret Service curly wire earbud and operations connection. Sometimes I need four ears. And a big black pocketbook like Steph carries.
I grinned, then I flicked on my phone and said, "Yo."
"Dude."
"Anthony. What's up?"
"Not much, man. You?"
"I'm taking down a terrorist, bro. Remember?"
"Right now?"
"Soon."
"So—you got a minute?"
I sighed. "Yeah. What?"
"I got this, like phone call, man. They want me to be on Top Shot."*
?
"You know, reality? TV?"
"How did they acquire your name?"
"Some of the guys who compete are ex-spec ops, my name is known. Sort of. In certain circles."
"But."
"It would be so—awesome."
"Are you out of your freakin' mind? It's a TV show!"
"But they do such cool things! They don't just shoot, they throw knives! They use slingshots, they do trick shots...I can do all that, man, you know I can. I'm really good at it."
"Yes, but."
"What?"
"What if you win?"
"Of course I'd win, man, geez. The winner gets 100 grand! Wow."
"What the fuck do you want a hundred thousand dollars for, anyway? Use it to pay for sex wax for your surfboard? Buy—bubble gum? A deposit on another Ferrari?"
"Well, it's just the idea, dude. It would be fun. And I could, uh, give it to charity?"
sigh
"No. It'd make the other guys look bad when they want to keep the prize money."
"I could give it to them? To the other guys, the losers. They'd get, uh, 5 grand apiece?"
"No. And what if one of the challenges involved hand-to-hand combat? And you—ooops—accidentally killed someone?"
"I hardly ever kill anyone by accident, my man. It's a job."
Riiiight.
"And, most important: The main issue is that your fucking face would be all over TV, bro."
"Not really, it's like The History Channel. Who watches that?"
"You do."
"And you?"
"I have no time for TV, and right now I have a crazed Pakistani terrorist who's due here to meet the President at any moment. I'm a fucking social secretary tonight."
"Bummer. But, like you've seen it, right? Once in a while?"
"Look, I gotta go."
"What should I tell them?"
"Anthony, you're, what? 26 years old? You're all grown up, you decide."
"Huh."
"Okay? You can do that? Make a rational decision, kid? And, please, for my peace of mind—silence whoever gave out your name and number."
"Like, silence them?"
"No! Just ensure their discretion."
"Okay...Ranger?"
"Hmmm?"
"They didn't ask you?"
"No."
"Bummer."
... ... ... ...
My cell rings again before I can stow it away. Simultaneously our comm units buzz. My eyes meet Tank's and we both click on the devices and listen.
My vision goes grey and I almost pass out. Only Tank's grasp on my bicep holds me upright. I force myself to focus—just seconds have passed, the lines on all our units are still open and broadcasting desperately.
Tank and I take off running.
tbc
a/n Top Shot is a reality show on the History Channel ? Discovery Channel?. It involves 20 various people, who for different reasons, are considered excellent marksmen, in their fields of expertise. Each week they learn new (usually silly) weapons and then compete, till everyone is eliminated. Some of the contestants are ex-military or military reservists, plus police officers and hobbyists.