I was talking to one of the girls in the Steno room when Greg found me.
"The Boss is looking for you, Sean. He's not in a good mood."
So when was he ever in a good mood? I took my time going back to the office. I wasn't in a great mood, either. Greg had interrupted me just when I was getting somewhere with Kelly.
Old Dan sat behind his desk looking as grumpy and grouchy as ever. "What's up, Boss?"
Without looking up, Dan slapped a handcuff on my right arm. Nothing unusual about that. Whenever someone's goofing off when they should be in messenger room, the Boss has a tendency to attach them to the furniture. That's his way of saying, "Stay put until I need you."
This turned out to be completely different. Dan handed me the briefcase that was connected to the other end of the chain. "Wilson is in Philadelphia. He forgot these documents and needs them yesterday."
I stared at the briefcase. "If they're urgent, why don't you send them by wire?"
Dan growled. "If I could send them by wire, I wouldn't be talking to you!" He sat back and regained his composure before continuing. "This is very sensitive material. It absolutely cannot leak out. And it's too easy to tap into faxes and e-mail. The only safe way is to send someone with copies in person."
Jackpot! A nice flight down. A nice flight back. Free snack and complimentary drink. This was as good as having the day off. "Fine by me, Boss. So I am flying from La Guardia or JFK?"
"Neither. You're not flying. You're driving."
My vision of a cozy shuttle collapsed into a puff of smoke. I was shocked and a little confused. "If Wilson needs this ASAP, wouldn't it be faster and safer to fly? Why drive?"
Dan picked up his pen and pointed to the briefcase. "Because the airlines frown upon passengers carrying explosives."
I dropped the briefcase on the desk and backed away. When the chain pulled taut, the briefcase jumped after me, but Dan caught it. "Be careful with it. You don't want it to go off."
No kidding.
"If it's opened without being deactivated, the bomb goes off automatically. If someone tampers with the locks or bangs it around, it'll set off the timer. After that, you'll only have a minute before detonation to reset the timer."
The drive from New York to Philly takes about two hours. With a heavy foot and light traffic, maybe 90 minutes. Looking at the handcuff on my arm, I realized that at a constant speed of Mach 2, I could be there in about four and a half minutes.
I started comtemplating the meaning of life and appreciating all the little things it has to offer. Such as the little key to the bomb on my wrist.
Slowly and carefully, I started out the door.
"One last thing. If not defused in four hours, it'll go off automatically. So no stopping. No fooling around."
Floor tiles were sucked into the air in my wake when I ran out of there.
The highway was pretty empty -- just a few trucks, escorts, and other assorted people who make their living on the Jersey Turnpike. Crossing them could be very dangerous, but most truckers don't look to start fights. Most, but certainly not all.
There is an unproven theory that for certain pig-headed individuals, intelligence and common sense are indirectly proportional to the number of wheels they are currently using. For instance, a guy may be humble on a motorcycle, but put him in control of a big rig and he becomes a reckless bully. The old "Power Corrupts" syndrome.
That's what came over my "old pal" Joe Carletti. It resulted in the destruction of his rig. The Jersey State Police concluded it was an "accident". Frankly, I doubt that police believed Carletti when he told them his truck was demolished by a compact. But that's another story.
Getting to Philly quickly meant passing everybody on the road driving too slow and hoping nobody was paranoid or pig-headed. Since a single car is not usually perceived as a threat to a big rig or convoy, courrier courtesy got me through without any problems most of the way.
Less than 20 miles from the Pennsylvania border, I came across a small convoy made up of a 10-wheeler center, two sedans rear, and a pickup in the front. To them, I could be a threat -- sizing them up, testing their defenses, and radioing an ambush up ahead.
Hanging back meant only 20 more minutes to Philly, but my strong desire to deliver these papers prodded me forward. Never before had I taken such pride in my work. But then, never before was I a walking time-bomb. I picked up the radio. "Do you guys mind if I pass in the left lane?"
"No problem," came the response. "But keep your guns aimed straight ahead. Try anything stupid and you're scrap metal. Fair enough?"
"Sounds fair to me." It did since I had no intention of doing anything stupid. I justed wanted to get by without incident.
When I pulled alongside the truck, I read the logo, "The Art of Trucking." Underneath was the name Arthur DiVincenzo and a couple of toll-free numbers. I remembered going to high school with a guy by that name. I hadn't really known him, but I could recall everyone calling him "Vince" -- he hated "Arthur." Since curiousity can kill the courrier, I decided not to bother them with inane questions like "Didn't I go to school with you back in Brooklyn?" -- especially since we were 100 miles into Jersey. Chances were I didn't know the guy.
I passed without a problem and was speeding away. Suddenly, the car rocked from the impact of a shell exploding off the back of my car, causing it to swerve slightly. I spun the steering wheel to straighten out. The briefcase danced in the air, mimicking the movement of my arm. Somehow, I had provoked them.
A glance in the rear-view revealed another rocket being launched from the pickup. Another impact rocked the car. Losing control at that speed could be deadly. I listened for a buzzing from the briefcase -- that could also be deadly.
I had no choice except to run away as fast as I could, no questions asked. But an impulse grabbed the radio and asked anyway. "Why are you shooting? What did I do?"
The shelling stopped as the speaker answered, "What did you do?" I sat up like I had been shot in the spine. There was a chill in my armor, and the hair on the back on my neck stood stiffly. I knew that voice.
"I'm disappointed, Sean, old buddy. Surely, you couldn't have forgotten so soon."
Carletti! I jumped on the "gas" pedal, wishing the car actually had a gas engine. Another rocket came my way. My rear armor was peeling thin. So were my nerves.
"It's payback time!"
Carletti accelerated to match my speed, leaving the rest of the convoy in the distance. It was just me and him. My only rear weapon was a mine dropper, but he was far enough away to dodge them. The shelling stopped as he tried to close the gap between us.
"This is what's left of me, O'Hara. Thanks to you, I'm, guarding a rig instead of driving one. You took away my life. You owe me, O'Hara. You owe me!"
He'd gone nuts -- less rational than ever. He didn't seem to notice or care that he wasn't "guarding a rig" at the moment. He had only one thing on his mind.
Another rocket punched my car. The concussion was too much too handle. The highway started to spin about me; the trees ran in circles in around me. When I managed to pull out of it, my head was buzzing and Carletti was only 30 yards away. He was gaining speed and ready to ram.
I dropped a load of napalm just before Carletti hit me. Between the collision and the explosion, my car flipped and rolled. The briefcase rebounded off my skull, knocking me out for a couple of seconds. When I came to my senses, the world was upside-down and my wheels were spinning furiously in the air above me.
A buzzing sound like an old alarm clock rung in my ears. The bomb! The timer must have gone off. I grabbed the briefcase and frantically searched for the reset switch. I was choking on smoke before I realized that the sound was coming from the smoke detector. The briefcase was fine, but the car was smoldering.
The door gave way with a shove, and I fell out of the car onto the pavement. A few blasts from the portable fire extinguisher stopped the engine from smoking.
Carletti's pickup lay on its side on the other side of the highway. It was engulfed in napalm flames. The rocket launcher must have been insulated or else it would have blown by now. There was no sign of Carletti. I could only surmise that he was still inside the pickup -- a thought I could have almost relished had the circumstances been a little different.
The convoy was approaching in the distance. I limped over to the burning wreck, lugging the extinguisher. I figured that if I was trying to save Carletti's life when his friends arrived, maybe they wouldn't kill me right away.
After a quick, silent prayer -- Lord, don't let it blow up in my face. Amen. -- I started dousing the flames. The foam covered the launcher, keeping it cool for the moment.
Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment -- not to mention the fire -- I failed to take notice of three things. First, while I was busy trying to save his hide, Carletti wasn't even in the car. Second, while my attention was turned to the rocket launcher, Carletti managed to circle around behind me. Third, it never dawned on me that someone would interrupt my good deed by bashing a gun butt into the back of my skull.
As the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished. I was knocked off my feet, face down in the asphalt. Carletti stood over me. He had a fresh cut on the left side of his face and burns on the right. His eyes were fixed on me. He wanted blood.
"You did it again," he muttered. "You did it to me again." His machine pistol was aimed at my head, and he was ready to fire. That's when the briefcase caught his eye. "Handcuffs? Must be something pretty good."
He jerked his hand and fired. I threw my arms over my head for protection. When I looked up, the only thing attached to my wrist was three inches of chain. The briefcase was in Carletti's hand.
"This looks pretty important. Maybe worth enough to buy a new rig. That should even things out, I think."
His voice echoed in my head, along with the ringing in my ears from the gunfire. At the same time, I heard a strange, humming sound.
Tires screeched as Art's truck and its escorts came to a halt a few yards away.
The humming became a rattling.
Art and the other drivers got out and started over. Carletti turned his head for only a second, but that was long enough for me to act.
"Get down!" I jumped up and knocked Carletti flat. The rocket launcher's rattling grew extremely loud. The shells were unstable. A second later, the pickup exploded into a fireball and shrapnel fell all over the road. A piece hit me in the leg. I was struggling to stand on it when a muzzle forcibly entered my mouth.
Carletti was not very grateful.
"Hold it, Joe!" Art ordered. He had an Uzi aimed at Carletti's head. Carletti was in shock.
"Vince, what are you doing?" He was shaking.
"First of all, you're fired."
"You can't fire me. We're buddies."
"Wrong!" Art's eyes bulged and veins were popping out of his neck and temples. "I hired you because we're buddies. I spotted you the dough for the pickup because we were buddies. I'm firing you because you're an idiot!" Steamed vented from his ears.
"Vince, do you know who this is?"
"Yeah, the guy who just saved your life. The one you were going to thank by plugging him. That gives a guy a bad rep. That also gives his employer a bad rep, and I don't need that. Now shut up and get in the truck before I tie you to the grill."
His jaw hanging open, Carletti didn't utter a sound as he shlepped to the truck. Art kicked the biefcase to me as I finally got to my feet.
"I'll radio for a tow. I'd offer you a ride, but I don't want to incite Joe."
"Thanks." I stumbled over to the car and gave it a kick out of frustration. I hurt my foot.
The car's hood ornament was lying in the gravel next to the car. A lot of guys back in school kept them from their kills. Carletti had the biggest collection. Several of them were mine--he had done it to me again. Just looking at it was an infuriating reminder.
"Hey, Carletti!" I scooped up the ornament and lobbed it to him.
"Grenade!" He dropped, rolled, and fired. My armor stopped most of the damage. Then everything went black and I fell back over the car.
A beautiful pair of green eyes were staring down at me when I woke up. They belonged to Annie Grant, the loveliest administrative secretary Philadelphia had even seen. I stared backed for several minutes before I realized I was in the hospital.
"Finally awake, hmmm?" She smiled at me. "They'll be happy to hear that back at the office."
My head was throbbing. I raised my hands to rub my head and noticed the handcuff had been removed. "The bag--?"
"Shhh." She put her index finger over my lips. "A guy named DiVincenzo brought it in after dropping you off here. He caught the guy that shot you."
Art's trucking business must have really mattered to him that he could turn in a buddy. Must have been a tough decision, but it would have been bad for business if he hadn't. Stuff like that comes out eventually -- usual as soon as one of the drivers has had one beer too many.
"It must have been pretty rough for you out there."
"Yeah," I answered through her finger. "Rough. I was thinking about going into an easier, quieter line of work. I have a friend who makes explosives."
She pressed harder with her finger to shut me up. I gave her finger a few little love bites and she moved it.
"You know there are other positions available at the firm. There are a couple of openings right here in Philly."
"Like what? I can afford to go to law school for about an hour and a half, and I'd go nuts in the file room. I think that leaves secreterial work. No offense."
"None taken. It's understandable your not wanting to work with all the girls all day long. For heaven's sake, you'd be working directly under me." She laughed and shook her head. "We coulnd't have that now, could we?"
"Hmmm...." The idea was beginning to show promise.
"I wonder who they'll get to replace you on courrier detail. Not too many people are willing to drive interstate with only a four-wheeler to protect them."
"Not on what the firm pays." I tried closing my eyes to see if the pain would go away -- it didn't. "Wait a minute!"
Annie was startled by my outburst but was interested.
"I know someone who's crazy enough and needs a job." I looked directly into Anne's puzzled eyes. "Besides, I owe him."