| The Long Wait Jack Albert The afternoon traffic crawled onto the three outbound lanes of the Nixon Memorial Bridge. Fred Zale, an unlit White Owl cigar hanging from his lip, was driving a brown Dodge van down the center lane, and mumbling to himself: "I don't like to drive in this area, it gives me the willies. But a job is a job." Out of nowhere, the guy in the rusty-colored Honda up ahead, decided to slam on his brakes and bring his vehicle to a panic stop. Fred floored his brake pedal, stopping the car just inches from the little import in a squeal of rubber. His violent body reaction sent the White Owl flying. His brake started acting up, and felt under his foot like fresh-made dough. Again and again, he applied his right foot in hopes of clearing any air bubble in the line, but in vain. A red "BRAKE" sign lit the dashboard. "Oh please," he said, "don't do that now." With his sleeve, he swabbed large drops of sweat from his brow. He maneuvered the van, that suddenly felt as heavy as a steam roller, and brought it to a stop in the breakdown lane. In front of him, two traffic cops were busy examining the scene of an accident. The burned-out shell of a Toyota Corolla was being loaded on a flat-bed truck. Even the windows of the wreck were smashed, as if by a violent explosion. The cigar he lost in the excitement now rested, mangled, on the passenger seat. He fumbled in his breast pocket for a replacement, but found none. He grabbed his old cigar from the seat, and started it with a red and chrome lighter. He then hopped outside the van, and looked underneath for signs of damage. A dark circular oil puddle was starting to cover several square feet of road. Behind the right front wheel, oil was slowly seeping from the brake line. Checking under the hood, he noticed there was no oil left in the main brake cylinder. He reached inside the van for a portable cellular telephone, and called the Motor Club. His employer, Moore Technology, carried a corporate account with them. On the other end, a woman's voice said: "You may not know this, Sir, but you are in a very bad area. I am going to send you a tow truck as quickly as possible, within the next sixty minutes or so. Thank you for calling the Motor Club." "A sixty-minute wait on a sunny day like this? What do you do during the winter snows? Wait for the arrival of spring?" "I am sorry, Sir, but we've had a lot of calls today. Have a nice day." Click. Earlier that afternoon, he had been called to his boss' office. Her name was Tawny Sparks, she was thirty-two, and had long white legs and shoulder-length black hair. He avoided looking up the black leather miniskirt she liked to hike. Having recently ended an unsuccessful Army career, he was not eager to be known here too as a trouble maker. Besides, he needed the paycheck. "A big customer wants us to deliver a load of videotaped films, by tonight, to his warehouse on Stage Street. We're very busy right now, and all my other drivers are out making deliveries." Fred approvingly nodded as she continued: "I told the client that I was temporarily unable to provide protection for the cargo, but he kept insisting. I can understand if you refuse to make the delivery under such conditions. But this is a very important customer, and we want to keep in his good graces." Propping herself up on her wingback chair, she whispered: "Accept, and you will do me a favor I am not about to forget." That was a couple of hours ago. Now he was stuck in a van with no brakes, on a long bridge filled with traffic, while an unhappy Tawny was saying: "Seven-thirty. Remember, we got to make this delivery by seven-thirty, or the customer walks." He had another serious problem: "The equipment guys seem to have forgotten to give me the cellular battery charger. The one battery I have is only three-quarters full." At six-thirty, he decided to check back with the Motor Club. "I am sorry, Sir," the woman told him, "but we seem to have experienced a problem with your first call. We have a new computer system and frankly, it is a complete mess around here. Let me request a status check, and call you right back." A cold wind was starting to blow. He stepped outside, and opened the back door of the van. Boxes marked "TDK Super Video Tape, Made in Japan" were stacked three high along the walls. He found what he was looking for next to the tapes, a blue metallic tool-box sitting on a greasy cotton blanket. A blanket could come in handy on a cold night. On a bed of English and metric sockets, socket wrenches, triangular metal files, saw blades and rusted spark plugs, rested the L-shape of an eighteen-inch tire-wrench. He wrapped the blanket around it, and brought the package back into the cabin. He hid it under his seat. The operator at the Motor Club called back at seven. "Sir, since you have been waiting patiently for hours in this really bad area, I am authorizing you to get help from any tow truck that may be out there. Just send us the bill for payment." He thanked her, and admitted grudgingly to himself: "It's not her fault; the woman is doing her best." The temperature in the van felt like it was near freezing. He started up the engine, to get some heat on his stiff limbs, and charge the car battery. "Easy for her to say: get help from any tow truck," he said. He decided to call his friend Bud, manager of the Newt Street Service Station, who answered in a scratchy voice: "Sure thing, Fred. I'll be drivin' the red tow truck. Dunno how long this' gonna take, but I'll see ya in a bit." His mind took him back to the Army, and to Sergeant Fress. To chores mopping the floor, to mountains of potato peels, and midnight-to-sunrise guard duties. "One night, I decided I'd had it up to here," he remembered. Wearing black civvies and hiding in the bushes, his face concealed by a black ski mask, he waited patiently. At two in the morning, a drunken Fress showed up, all alone. "Fress was in no condition to recognize me," he recalled. "I beat the stuffing out of him." But soon enough, Fred learned that charges were being brought up against him. Insubordination, they called it. The list of grievances included a case of failing to find proper lodging for a group of incoming recruits, and causing them to spend a couple of muddy nights, camped out in the rain. This almost got him killed by the angry recruits. In the end, it was his word against the sergeant's. And in this man's Army, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the result. "I left my Army days behind, like a bad case of rash," he said, punctuating the statement with a spit of cigar residue. Now it was dark on the bridge. Through the twin rear windows, he saw a beat-up full-size Chevy, slowly lumbering its way into the breakdown lane. One hundred feet away, the Chevy stopped. The driver, a powerfully built fellow, came out. The front passenger, a much smaller individual, extracted himself next. From the back of the vehicle, another man stepped out. He had a full head of frizzy hair that shimmered strangely in the pale light. The short passenger, a frisky customer, carefully buttoned a down jacket that was checkered with red and blue patches. Then all three came around to the front of the car. They appeared to be involved in an animated discussion. At one point, they all seemed to notice the Dodge van, and slowly moved in its direction. At the sight, Fred felt his neck muscles constricting. Leaving Frizzy behind, the big visitor proceeded to where Fred was perched, and gestured at him to roll down his window. Close up, the man appeared even larger, with his hair loosely tied at the back, and sideburns that made him look like a pirate. Through the sleeveless jacket appeared a two-inch lion, tattooed on his right shoulder. Fred carefully cracked his left window open. "Hiya, bro'. Say, what a bummer," the guy said. "Like, we just blew a front tire, dig? I was just wondering, do you have a tire-wrench I could borrow?" Through the rear-view mirror, Fred saw Shorty laboriously straining to reach the back window, and pass the contents of the van under the scrutiny of a large flash-light. "Hey," he exclaimed, "what is your buddy doing out there?" "Oh, pay him no mind, man. He's just trying to locate a tire-wrench. Do you have one I could borrow?" "No, I don't." He hoped that Leo did not detect the fear in his voice. Leo's ugly smirk seemed like a permanent fixture on his face, and made it hard to guess, whether or not he believed him. But the man insisted: "Aren't you gonna check your tool-box?" "There's no need. I just checked the equipment back at the garage, and noticed that the mechanic forgot to return the tire-tool I loaned him last week." "Tough luck. Have you already called for help?" "Yes, it should be coming at any moment." "Well, I've gotta boogie right now. See ya." "Right." Both men returned to the Chevy, and started a lively discussion with Frizzy. From the van, Fred placed a hurried call to Tawny. "The guards are not back yet," she answered. "I am still working the problem, Fred." As she hung up, he noticed that a lot of the brashness was gone from her voice. "Uh-oh," he said. "Could it be that Tawny is starting to feel responsible for sending out valuable merchandise without any protection? Bet that in her eye, I am not very trustworthy either. What if I took the loot and disappeared?" He was interrupted by a call from Bud. Out there, traffic was fierce. "For godssakes, Bud, please hurry up. Things getting spooky around here." The phone battery was down to its last drops of juice. The three men emerged from the Chevy, and slowly proceeded in his direction. Fred felt the stress in his neck muscles as he whispered: "Outnumbered three to one." Nervously, he tugged at the tire-wrench under his seat. Three faces with the same ugly smirk got nearer. In the middle, Leo was swinging a large machete. To his right walked Shorty, armed with a long iron pipe; to his left, marched Frizzy carrying an aluminum baseball bat. On the highway, the wild motor traffic was still rushing by. "What if I just stepped into the midst of these cars and gestured for help?" Fred deliberated. "My chances of being killed are even greater in traffic than in a confrontation with these criminals." On a one-by-three-feet piece of cardboard, he hastily scribbled "H-E-L-P" in large letters, turned the van's emergency lights on, and gestured with the message out of the open window. The traffic still ambled blindly by. The ambient light was too low for most motorists to see his message, and no one stopped. As they got nearer, the faces of the three thugs seemed to exhibit a strange and almost sexual satisfaction. He heard a big pop. Shorty forcefully attacked the rear-door handle which yielded under the pressure. Coming from the right side of the van were Leo and Frizzy, unseen from the road traffic. Frizzy used his metal baseball bat to shatter the window. The smashed pane still managed to hold on for a while, even though a shower of glass shards scattered everywhere. Another thud, and the bat made a six-inch opening in the window, through which Leo's hand worked the handle, and opened the door. It all took but a few seconds. Fred was still in the driver's seat, not moving. Leo entered the van, and emphatically deposited his machete on the passenger's seat. His face still bearing a smirk, he extended his right hand, saying: "Peace, brother?" Instinctively, Fred gave him his hand, and Leo grabbed on to it. The next few seconds, Fred felt a powerful jab connecting with his right cheek-bone, and illuminating his vision with a shower of stars. This was followed by the sharp pain of an elbow impacting his rib cage, and forcing his body to lean forward. A powerful upper-cut met his head midway, and sent it reeling backward. The last he remembered was the powerful thud, and the wet throbbing pain in the back of his skull as it hit the driver's window. Then Leo's distorted far away voice said: "This'll keep you at peace for a while... for a while ..." The deep pulsating pain awakened him. He felt a salty wetness, and the taste of blood. He was still seated at the same place in the van. He heard an excited voice shouting from the back of the van: "Hey guys! Get a load of this: I recognize the large letter M on these tapes. A guy around the corner from me sells them for two bucks a piece! I tell you guys, this stuff is illegal! These tapes are hot!" The door next to him had come ajar during the fight, so he exited the van, carrying the tire-wrench and the blanket. In spite of the pain, he slowly managed to reach the front of the vehicle, proceed to the right side of the road, and disappear into the tall grass. There, he almost passed out again. The cold wind pinched him back to reality. A decision had to be made. He returned to the road and slowly reached the back of the Chevy. From this position, he could observe his van. The back door was broken ajar. The visitors seemed to be in some hurry to retrieve the loot out of the immobilized vehicle. He pulled on the rear license plate of the Chevy, uncovered the gas cap, and unscrewed it. In the dark, he felt the throat of the gas tank, as well as the little metal obstruction required by law to keep gasoline fumes inside. The flat end of his wrench quickly popped the small piece of metal. He tore a long one-inch wide strip off the cotton blanket. Using the wrench, he worked it as deep as he could into the gas tank. A small length of the cloth was left hanging out of the opening. He tore another piece of the blanket, and attached it to the first one. In less than two minutes, he had tied enough lengths end-to-end to reach the cement edge of the bridge. The first to approach was Shorty, laden with part of the cardboard boxes. Behind, the other two were busy loading up more tapes. Fred hid on a small ledge behind the concrete wall. A strong odor of gasoline told him that the rudimentary wick was soaked and ready. His red and chrome lighter was in his hand. Very carefully, he gave it a flick, and lit the long jerry-rigged wick. A quick flame snaked its way to the back of the passenger car, just as he managed to hurl his aching body over the ledge. First, he felt the frigid night air rushing past his ears. Next, the landscape above him was illuminated by a powerful flash, accompanied by a booming explosion, and a rising fireball, all coming from the Chevy that had become a giant Molotov cocktail. His body entered the water of the Archer Daniel with a big splash, and the cold current took his breath away, as he sank beneath the gurgling surface. It took a few minutes for him to come to the surface. On the bridge, the burning remains of the Chevy were going up in a large cloud of smoke. A police helicopter swept the scene with its powerful searchlight, while in the distance, police cruisers rushed in, blinking their blue lights. Copyright 2000 by Jack Albert. No part of this short story may be reproduced except for the purposes of a quote. All rights revert back to the author. The End
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