"Omaha is a technological thriller sure to please"
--- W.M. Buhle, Midwest Book Review
- Omaha
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- Kevin O'Kane
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- Smashwords Edition
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- Copyright 2010 Kevin O'Kane
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kc.okane@gmail.com
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- http://www.omahadave.com
This is a work of fiction. The events, characters and settings are imaginary and are not intended to represent actual places, events or persons. Any similarity is wholly coincidental.
Enter,
my noble guest, and you shall find,
If not a costly welcome, yet
a kind:
For I myself, like you, have been distress'd,
Till
Heav'n afforded me this place of rest;
Like you, an alien in a
land unknown,
I learn to pity woes so like my own.
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- 1. Monday January 8
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Time: 2 PM
Arms tense and hands clenched nervously onto the steering wheel, Mike rushes to his rented farmhouse several miles north of Des Moines. On a sunless, cold, gray January afternoon, his car rattles and bounces its way west on a nameless gravel county farm road. The outside temperature is -7F, the wind chill is -20F. The car's heater chatters vainly.
Mike's beat-up old hardtop heaves and sways over the uneven loose stone surface, passing endless snow patched fields. It thumps across an unguarded railroad grade crossing, a loose old ramp of worn wood bridging shiny rails on which endless trains cart corn, soy, coal, and freight to ports south.
A colorless cluster of silos a few miles north fades dimly in the gathering haze. In the dismal churning sky aloft, flocks of crows scavenge for the last remains of summer. Gusting winds stir dry corn husks into furious small cyclones.
Slowing, he turns onto a stony driveway but quickly halts at the sight of what's down the long path ahead. After several moments of panic and indecision, he takes his foot off the brake and the car creeps slowly forward to the sound of rock crushing beneath its turning tires.
He slows to a crunching halt in a small farmyard. In the leaden winter light, engine idling, he looks numbly at the smoldering remains before him.
Of the old farmhouse, only the chimney and a few pipes remain upright. The rest is a smoking, fallen ruin of charred timbers. Discarded before what was once the entrance are three red gasoline cans.
Anxiously looking to see if anyone's hiding in the small grove of trees, he pulls on his heavy gloves, and stretches his knit stocking cap low over his ears. The rusty hinge creaks as he opens the door and cautiously gets out.
Nervously, he walks up to the blackened remains to see if there is anything salvageable. He hears only the sound of wind and the distant, cawing crows.
The floors have collapsed into the cellar. Burned pieces of furniture, the stove, refrigerator and other debris are scattered across the basement. Around the yard, in the driveway, the bushes, everywhere, he sees his papers and files blowing about. He realizes that the place was ransacked first, then torched.
In frustration, but with a note of despair, he says "Shit," and kicks at small a rock. It sails upwards then arcs downward into the cellar, landing with a metallic thud on the old stove below.
Returning to the car, he leans against its warm hood and surveys the remains. Pulling off one of his gloves, he reaches through his coat into a pocket and extracts a cigarette. Feeling through his pants for his lighter, he slides it out, hunches over, back to the wind, and lights the cigarette. He takes a deep drag then flicks the tiny ash to the wind.
But, in the corner of his eye, something moves. He turns quickly. In the distance to the west, far down the road, a rising, spiraling plume of dust is moving his way.
Ambush! They were at the west end of the road. They saw my own trail of dust. They were waiting there behind the trees, out of sight of any farms, the way I normally come home!
Mike tosses the cigarette, jumps in the car, shoves the transmission into forward and floors the gas pedal. The rear tires spin on the loose stone and the car fish tails into a quick 180-degree about face. It lurches back down the driveway. Swerving onto the county road, he races to escape.
Picking up speed, he kicks up his own dust cloud. He wants to get to the blacktop a few miles east and the safety of the small farm town beyond. The crows screech and scatter skyward from the fields as his car clatters by.
A bullet pings his bumper, then several more. Some hit the trunk. He ducks when the rear window bursts into a great starry pattern of cracked glass. They're gaining.
His spinning tires on the crushed rock liberate a growing plume of wind borne stone dust that hides him from the pursuing SUV. But, when the road turns and weaves around small hills, the cloud parts and both prey and predator get to glimpse one another clearly.
The SUV is now about a quarter mile behind and closing. He struggles to open the gap but he's going as fast as he can on this bumpy road without losing control. Their SUV is better suited for this terrain.
From behind, they shoot blindly into his spiraling screen of rock powder. Few find their target but the sound of each round grows closer.
Ahead, hidden by a small hill, the grade crossing comes into view. However, to his left, a southbound freight rumbles his way at 80 miles per hour. Both he and a hundred cars of freight, preceded by three soot belching diesel locomotives, are seconds from the crossing.
Panicked, Mike whispers to himself, "This is it."
The silence of the winter wasteland shatters as all three engines' air horns shriek in a thunderous, dissonant, warning chorus. Seeing the inevitable collision, the engineers quickly shunt the air brakes and flip the emergency overrides to the electric traction motors.
Eight hundred axles scream metal against metal while the giant diesels rev to full power. The electric motors rumble menacingly into reverse. Knowing that it will take the better part of a mile to bring this juggernaut to a halt, the frightened engineers brace for the unavoidable impact.
Mike flattens the accelerator pedal to the floor. The old V8 engine throbs up to redline, the transmission slams down out of overdrive into high, wheels spin, and his car unsteadily lurches forward.
His crushed stone dust plume belches.
Mike's car rumbles up, onto, and airborne over the wood planks just as the first screeching, trumpeting locomotive slices through the crossing.
His car slams back to earth. It jolts up and down and heaves left to right. Mike hits the brakes, fighting to regain control. Finally, it steadies. He made it.
His pursuers had gained to within fifty yards, but, as a result, became fully engulfed by the dust cloud. Greedily focused only on closure with Mike's car, they scarcely hear nor heed the warning horns.
Suddenly, the dust, cut from its source, becomes transparent. They see the rushing leading edge of the second engine and its vivid, speed blurred, red and yellow logo.
The driver screams and slams on the brakes. The SUV tumbles out of control and begins to roll. The four yelling guys inside are thrown around like sacks.
The SUV careens into the second engine just ahead of the diesel's rear carriage. It is swiftly sucked beneath, sliced and shredded. The derailing engine disconnects from the one ahead. The third engine quickly jumps the track along with the first of many cars of heavily loaded rolling stock.
The second and third engines flip on their sides and skid sideways across the tracks. Thousands of gallons of diesel fuel spill. The freight cars tumble and zigzag off the rails, dumping tons of dried corn in great heaps onto the mangled remains of the engines and the SUV.
The gasoline from the SUV's ruptured gas tank ignites. The diesel soaked corn ripples into a tide of flame. Black smoke and flames billow skyward as one car after another continues to pile corn, coal, chemicals and fuel upon the pyre of flaming railway wreckage.
About a mile beyond, Mike slows to a stop, gets out and looks behind him. His hands tremble and his heart races as he lights a cigarette and stares at the growing, wind driven inferno building in the distance. Slowly he regains his composure, tosses the cigarette and resumes his journey east. Fire engines and police cars race past him on their way to the wreck.
A few miles later, he joins the paved road. From there he turns onto an intersecting highway south, then east again and, finally, up onto the I35 South on-ramp. Soon it merges with I80 West for the beltway circuit around Des Moines.
Still shaking, he pulls out his cell phone and taps the dialer for Jessica. Each time it rings, he becomes more afraid that they got her too.
Finally, she answers saying, "Okay, are you at the house yet?"
"No, I'm on the I35/I80 beltway."
"Huh?"
"When I got to the house, it was burned down."
"Burned down? What the hell happened?"
"They torched it. And they were waiting to ambush me."
"Uh-oh!"
"Yeah and they chased me half way across the county."
"So how come they didn't catch you?"
"Seems a train got in their way. It'll be on the news."
"What? You mean the grade crossing?"
"Yep."
"And they didn't make it through?"
"Nope."
"You wrecked a train, didn't you?"
"Nope, they wrecked a train. I had nothing to do with it. They should'na been driving so fast. I'll tell you more later."
"Are you okay?"
"Yep, I'm okay, just a bit shaken up."
"What did you see at the house?"
"Oh, the place was a mess. My papers were tossing all over the place, the floors had collapsed and there were three empty gas cans outside the front door."
"Crap! So I guess we're in trouble?"
"Yep, a whole boat load of trouble."
"Where are you now, Mikey?"
"Getting the freaking hell out of Des Moines. I'm just past Urbandale."
"Okay, now calm, down and slowly, tell me, exactly, where are you going?"
"Duh? Down there to get you."
"Hey, this is my first real big computer conference. How about you just let'em chase you around Des Moines for a couple of days until my geek fest is over?"
"Whaaaat? Are you nuts? I got bullet holes in the back window. Damn it, this is serious. What part of shot dead don't you understand?"
"All right, already. You're not dead yet. Don't stroke out. I'm just kidding. Calm down and stop hyperventilating."
"This is as calm as I'm gonna get."
"Good. Hold that thought. Because, while you were out train spotting, I got on my laptop and you're right, Jack's on to us, or, more specifically you. I don't think he ever paid any attention to me. Sexist pig, his mistake."
"What'd ya find out?"
"I hacked his email account, as usual. He's put the word out that he's looking for you and willing to pay well. No specifics, just that he wants you, dead or alive, preferably dead."
"That's about how I figured it given my little railway incident."
"So, exactly where are you now?"
"I'll be coming up to the I35/I80 split in a couple of minutes. I'll be in Columbia in about five hours then we'll go hide out in the Ozarks."
"Nope, not gonna happen. You are definitely not coming here. First, there's a blizzard on its way and, second, if Jack gets hold of your cell phone records, he'll see who and where you called. Then Jack will send some guys over here from St. Louis, and, well you know the rest. And third, no, honey, I'm really not ready for the Ozarks. I'd rather take my chances in a shoot out with Jack."
"That can be arranged."
"What about that friend of yours out in Omaha that I looked up for you on the Internet? How about going out there? You think he might be able to put us up until we can make a real plan?"
"Yeah, David? That might work. I haven't seen him in a while but, yeah, he'll help us find a place to hide out for a while. Anyway, the further from St. Louis the better, I guess."
"You got it. Okay, then, when you get to the split, you head to Omaha and I'll meet you there."
"So how are you gonna get there if I don't come get you?"
"Don't worry, I'll get to Omaha myself and meet you there. Just keep going. I'll see you there tomorrow."
"No, I'm coming to get you."
"No, idiot, if they trace this call, I don't want to be sitting here five hours waiting for someone to come after me too. I want you to go to Omaha. Now. Is that clear?"
"Yeah, but..."
"I'll clear out'a here as soon as I can and meet you there tomorrow night. You be at that club he owns and I'll meet you there."
"All right, that's the only address I have for him. You have it, right?"
"Ahh, I was the one who found it for you, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, right."
"Geez, Mikey, let's put the panic attack on hold. I'll see you tomorrow night at that club. But I'll be there late."
"Why late?"
"I'm in Columbia freaking Missouri. How many travel options do you think there are down here? Anyway, I'm not gonna take any chances. And, by the way, power down your cell phone so it can't be tracked. Jack may have a few friends or clients working for one of the carriers and it's not difficult to locate a phone's signal and trace it to a cell tower. Oh, yeah, and don't be drunk when I get there."
"If I can't use my cell phone, how can I call you?"
"You won't and neither will Jack. I'm powering down as soon as I hang up. And don't use the Internet."
"You sure you can do this?"
"Oh really, give me a break. Geez! The question is, can you get there in a blizzard in that shit can of a car of yours?"
"There's nothing wrong with my car that a little body putty wouldn't fix."
"A boat load of body putty."
"All right, whatever. Then I'll see you at Mo Rún in Omaha tomorrow night?"
"Eh-yep, that's the plan. Now hang up, turn the phone off and head west Mikey. I'll see you in Omaha. And Mikey?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
"You too."
He powers down the cell phone as ordered and parks it on the seat next to him. Damn, she can be a nuisance. Too damned independent for a woman. At the highway split, as instructed, he veers right onto the ramp to I80 West. Taping out a cigarette with one hand, he puts it in his mouth, punches the lighter and flips on the radio. Next stop Omaha.
Mike's bullet pocked car thumps west on the segmented concrete road slabs past scattered truck stops, farms, silos, grim towns, endless fence posts and barren winter fields upon which prowl great flocks of black birds. The sky is dark ahead. Fast moving clouds churn above and the wind continues to build from the southeast. The radio station in Des Moines says there'll be two feet of snow by morning with gale winds along with severe blowing and drifting. Temperatures will drop well below zero. A monster blizzard is building in the Rockies and will soon prey upon the plains.
Buffeted by the growing cross winds, his car veers unpredictably from one side of the lane to the other. He passes long processions of forty ton 18-wheelers and triple bottomed trailer rigs weaving like flags in the growing storm. The gusts are now over forty miles an hour. Just west of Adair, Mike figures it's about another 60 miles to go. The snow will start soon. If he's lucky, he'll just make Omaha before the roads close.
As he motors slowly through Council Bluffs in the gray and wasting light of dying day, snow begins to accumulate on the road. Giant IA DOT sand trucks with ten-foot plow blades are out in conga lines making a freak show of yellow strobe lights flaring in the horizontal blur of wind driven flakes. His car jerks as it tracks its way west through the icy ruts out of Iowa and into Nebraska.
Crossing the deserted Missouri I480 bridge into Omaha, high above the frigid river below, he struggles to keep the car in lane now that he is fully exposed to the unobstructed fury of the gale. Finally, making it across the bridge onto the elevated interstate, he drives through central Omaha. Scarce window lights on the tall buildings confess that their occupants have fled for the day. A few miles west and south of downtown, he exits the interstate down onto a deserted street in a semi-industrial neighborhood. A few blocks from the off ramp, he pulls into the nearly empty parking lot of a faded motel.
After checking in, he dashes across the road to a convenience store. Returning a few minutes later, he shakes the snow from his coat and settles in for a stale, plastic wrapped sandwich, fries and a plastic cup of cheap wine drawn from a screw top bottle of limited vintage. Retrieving a carton of cigarettes from his gym bag, he extracts a pack. After slapping the top several times on his palm to compress the loose tobacco, he opens it, and taps out the sprout of a new cigarette. Lighting it, he inhales deeply, leans back and chugs another gulp of the wine.
Surrounded by the litter from his bad convenience store supper, he broods over his predicament. He sits still in the dimly lit small room. The only sounds are those of the whistling wind and some metal sign in the parking lot flapping and squeaking in the gusts. Staring at the stippled ceiling above, he wonders what's next. If his former friend in St. Louis finds him, not much.
A few cigarettes and the better part of the wine bottle later, he clicks on the TV and flips between a motley collection of local stations before settling on one. He stares numbly at aging, career-end readers bantering cheerfully about the weather between seed and feed commercials.
The storm sprawls anonymously across a thousand miles of towns, cities, farms, cattle, prairie, and people. Final totals will be measured in feet followed by massive drifting and then an Arctic blast of frigid air. Temperatures will fall to -25F with wind chills to -60F. These are forecast to settle in for the next week or more. Mike winces as he turns to eat the last of the soggy cold greasy French fries from the oily paper packet.
As a TV commercial drones on, he decides that, despite the entreaties, and many fine examples shown for his edification, in the final analysis, no, he doesn't want any hybrid seed corn this year.
A quick flip to the local weather feed shows the radar with white in all directions. For now, at least, maybe he's safe, hidden by the storm.
Time: 8 PM
He checks his watch. It's eight. Clicking off the TV, he moans and thinks to himself that the time has come to get on with it. He pulls out the street map of Omaha which he bought at a gas station over in Iowa and checks the location of the motel against the address written on a stained small piece of paper he carried in his wallet. The place he's looking for should be about two blocks away, more or less.
Looking out the window he decides that there is no way he can take the car, not in this storm, it'll be buried in a drift. He figures he's got to walk it. It's not really that far, but, in this weather, it won't be nice. Reluctantly, he begins the ritual of winter robing, pulling on his jacket, scarf, stocking cap, hood and gloves.
Finally, drapped like a mummy, he steps stiffly out into the parking lot where his face is quickly slapped by a forty mile an hour sub-zero horizontal gale of snow. The flakes hit him like blown sand. Staggering, he stretches the scarf further up over his face leaving just a slit for his eyes between the scarf and the pulled tight stocking cap. Thus girded, driven by relentless fate, he starts hiking the two tortuous blocks up the street.
Trudging up the middle of the deserted, snow swept road, he bends into the gale like some anonymous lumbering animal on the prairie. The wind and snow lash down in turbulent waves. Bathed in the orange light of sodium vapor street lamps, his eyes see only barely a blur through the tightly wrapped scarf. After a block and a half, he finally looks up into the face of the wind.
There it is, he thinks to himself. Through the dense blowing snow and a swaying, lone nearby street lamp, he sees a huge hulking brick building half a block away. A great green neon sign blinks brightly through the near whiteout blizzard blur, Mo Rún.
What the hell does that mean?
Infra red sensors and imaging devices automatically begin to track his movement.
Approaching closer, he sees that, whatever it means, it's big. "Holy shit," he mutters under his breath, "Look at the size of it, what the hell is this, a warehouse?" He crunches onward through the ruts of snow, his goal now only a few dozen yards ahead.
Nearing the building, he looks through a small fogged window near the doors and sees the place is mobbed. To himself he wonders, "How many people in Omaha go clubbing in a blizzard? Why are they out on a night like this?"
Now, at the entrance, he pauses and gapes. Before him are massive doors, each maybe fifteen feet high and ten feet wide, old warehouse doors, made of heavy cedar beams and hinged on massive brass fittings.
Curious, he kicks off the top layer of snow and discovers that the wide steps are marble with inlaid brass, the logo of the original owner, he supposes. "On brazen steps the marble threshold rose, And brazen plates the cedar beams enclose," he recites, the flickering memory of some long forgotten English Lit class.
Cut and hinged in one of the ancient huge doors is a portal of more normal size. He pulls on it hard against the battering wind and stumbles in. At once, from all sides, he's jeered, "Shut the freaking door."
Clouds of snow explode about him. Fugitive flakes land and quickly vanish on the bare hot skin of a wave of sweating, dancing couples a few feet beyond. The bouncer asks for ID. He hands it to him. The bouncer swipes it through a reader and then gestures him in.
Mike whacks the caked snow from his coat and stocking cap which he rolls up and pushes in a pocket. He takes his coat and hangs it in a side room with hundreds of others pretty much like it. Combing back his long hair, he shakes the ice from it, kicks the slush from his shoes and whacks at the cakes of snow stuck to his pants. Thus preened, he ventures into the main room.
He looks around and sees lights everywhere, pin spots, lasers, scanners, and moving yokes, all dancing in sync to the roaring music that throbs from all sides in surges. The rhythms pound the head and the lyrics conjure a dream state. The air glitters with swirling, colored, floating flakes suspended in a world of sound and light. He stands stunned. He has passed into another world, in the full glory of its passion while the world outside, the real one of snow, wind, fire, and bullets, fades, if only briefly.
Dressed more like a vagrant than someone out for a night of clubbing, he mixes, unmarked, among the busy throng, borne by the tide, and passes unseen along until, full in the center of the floor, he looks about in awe.
Above him the open atrium rises four or five stories. The interior is the size of a football field. The walls are rough red brick. All around, in the scant light above, he sees balconies.
Everything is wood, brick and wrought iron. The place is windowless except for the few near the entrance and dark reflecting skylights high in the exposed, massive wooden rafters above where fairy lights are set in starry constellations.
On the main level, is a vast, sunken central dance floor. Above this is the open atrium to the beamed roof aloft. All around the dance floor is a fifteen-foot ceilinged area above which are the balconied floors above. Thick, cast iron pillars are arrayed every ten feet to support the parapets above.
Centered on the west side of the building, beneath the floors above, is the main entrance and the bouncer's podium. To its south is the large coat room, partitioned from the rest of the club. At the far south end of the building is a lounge area of tables, chairs, and couches.
Along the east outside wall, opposite the main entrance, is a long polished wooden bar with a massive brass footrest below and fronted by about fifty stools. Above and behind are rows of glass shelves against the polished red brick, laden with multi-colored liqueur bottles and crystal glasses. Several bartenders serve the happy throng.
A broad, high, wooden stage platform extends across the better part the north end of the building enveloped in heavy dark, draped, velvet curtains. Above, one of the floors is missing, the area is easily thirty feet high. Mics, amps, cables, floor speakers and music stands are scattered all about.
Mike whispers, “Now purple hangings clothe the palace walls, And sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls.”
At the south end of the polished bar, furthest from the stage, rises a pulpit-like semi-circular array of flickering flat computer screens and keyboards behind which stands a tall, long haired, geeky guy in a black T-shirt emblazoned in white with the logo AYBABTU. The console array faces northwest, diagonally across the expanse of the club. To the right of the console is the bar, to its left is the lounge area. From this perch, the guy in the black T-shirt has a ruling view of the entire scene.
Suspended by many steel cables from the rafters high above and centered over the dance floor is a crisscross array of black painted steel beams. From these hang eight massive black speakers and a huge array of electrical equipment, spotlights, lasers and yokes of all sorts.
Dangling from unseen cords, huge disco mirror balls spin. They glitter and flash in the multicolored pin spots from the central lighting array. Attached to the balconies all around are even more, endless racks of lights and lasers.
Then sudden cheering rises from the crowd, as lasers flicker brightly through the dark. Blasting cords of music engulf the hall. Air guns flash in bright bursts of light and smoke, shooting glitter into the vault above.
Aloft in air unseen, and mixed with night this airy, weightless mist of Mylar flakes, flashes in the wildly splaying lasers. The sound builds and the crowd begins to dance. Visions in the night, he thinks to himself. Thin and aerial shapes, light as a dream.
Retreating to the bar, he finds a stool at the far end, near the computer pulpit, and orders a scotch and soda. As he does a curious canary lands on the bar, tilts its head and eyes him suspiciously. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small cellophane wrapped bag of soup crackers, opens it, and spills a few before the tiny bird. The bird gives off a happy song of approval and hops forward. Snatching one of the tiny crackers, it flies away. But quickly, three other little birds alight, chirp a greeting and pluck the remaining pieces. They likewise fly away. Looking up, he sees them disappear into their airy kingdom aloft and wishes he could do the same.
Swiveling around and facing towards the dance floor, he leans back to survey the scene before him. Fully three hundred people are in attendance, he guesses, and it's still relatively early. The crowd mingles in groups, laughing and shouting. The lounge area is mobbed, as is the area around the bar and the great central dance floor beyond. The recorded music from the speakers high above floods the room in the rich cords of an old rock and roll ballad. The great stage is being set by roadies for a band who are yet to appear.
After a few moments, he leans to one side and asks the guy on the stool next to him, "Say, do you know if this is David Shea's place?"
The guy turns, looks a bit quizzical and with a sweeping gesture across the room replies, "Ahhh, yeah dude, this is Shea David's. Really something, ain't it?"
"You mean Chez David's?"
"Whatever."
A bartender places a basket of pretzels on the bar between Mike and the guy he's talking to then nods to the geeky guy at the computer console. A hidden wireless mic activates.
"Anyway, it's quite a show. How long has it been here?"
"Oh, a couple of years, I guess. It's pretty much the most popular place in the city now. David's a legend. Thus, I take it you must be new here?"
"Yeah, just blew into town. Nice blizzard."
"Well, makes you concentrate on indoor activities. Where you from?"
"Most recently, Des Moines. If this is the David Shea I think it is, I need to speak with him. My name's Mike, Mike McAneas."
"I'm Steve Smith, glad to meet you."
"Say, how do you pronounce the name of the place, Mo Rún?"
"Moas in Joe and Rúnas in swoon, emphasis on the Rún.Almost like maroon an Ohsound at the beginning."
"What's it mean?"
"Not a frigging clue. Ask David."
"You have any idea where I can find David? Do ya'know where he lives or when he's here?"
"Oh, yeah, he lives here, man. Way up there," as he points towards to the dimly visible rafters several stories above.
"What'ya mean?"
"There are penthouse apartments up there, man! David and some of the people who work here live up there."
"Where?"
"See, up there, around the sides, you can see the balconies. Never been all the way up there myself but I know that on the top floor there are apartments opening out onto the balcony. If you look, you can see the same on the lower floors but there are no apartments there, just offices, or so the story goes."
"How do you get up there?"
The geeky bartender in the black T-shirt eyes Mike suspiciously and begins typing on his keyboard. Quickly an invisible infrared targeting laser and then several unseen cameras focus on Mike.
"Oh, see that door over there, down at the south end of the wall beyond the main entrance? There's a freight elevator behind it. You go up that way."
Mike shouts over the sound system, "Here, let me buy you a drink and tell me more."
The guy at the console scans Mike's fingerprint taken from a used glass and begins processing it against a database along with the data from Mike's driver's license captured by the bouncer at the door. After a few minutes he text messages the results through the club's encrypted wireless network to others around the dance floor and to David, who's sitting at the main control console in a massive computer room on a floor above. David scrutinizes the images being captured by the security cams.
Mike plies Steve for information for the better part of an hour and three double gins and tonic until suddenly he hears a great roar behind him. He turns to see an explosion of pyrotechnics and Mylar glitter shoot from air guns. Over at the far side of the club, people are jumping up and down, cheering and waving. The sound system plays a brassy fanfare as Mike asks his new and somewhat drunk acquaintance, "What's going on?"
"That's probably David," Steve shouts, "He usually makes an appearance around now to introduce the bands."
A huge gong sounds and a cloud of theatrical smoke billows twenty feet into the air. First to emerge from the cloud are three women in their early twenties who sprinkle the path with multi-colored Mylar petals as David, bowing theatrically from one side to the other, follows. The crowd screams.
David, dressed in a black shirt and jeans, has short reddish blond hair, thin, on the tall side, about six foot three. While the flower girls toss their last petals in his direction, with sweeping bows, they withdraw behind the dark velvet curtains.
David faces the applauding crowd as shrill whistles pierce the smoky air. He holds a wireless microphone to his mouth and says, "Okay people, we got a little snow storm outside so we need to make our own little storm inside. We've got a great group here tonight, all the way from Kansas City and if it doesn't stop snowing, they may be here until April so I hope you like'em. I want you to welcome for their first trip to Omaha and their first Nebraska blizzard, the incomparable Prairie Mayhem!"
The crowd screams their approval in return. David waves his arm low as the members of the band jog on stage taking bows. They plug in their instruments to the stage amps and spend a minute tuning up. Then the lead singer takes the microphone and says, "Hello Omaha! Hello cold, snowy Omaha! Are you ready for some hot Rock & Roll?"
The crowd cheers, claps and whistles its assent. David trots off the stage. The building shudders as the first guitar cords burst forth from the speakers both on the stage and suspended from girders above. The lasers, keyed to the sound system, splay thousands of colored pencil thin beams in the vault above creating a luminous canopy of light. After more belches of pyrotechnics and several more Mylar confetti blasts, the evening's entertainment commences.
David makes his way over towards the bar shaking hands and saying hello to some of the regulars. At the other end, Mike takes leave of his seriously drunk new friend who's clutching the bar for balance and looking like a deer staring down a Peterbilt. He threads his way through the crowd.
David and Mike went to a private college near Chicago. David was from east Tennessee and had one of those curious, Elizabethan southern drawls. He was pre-med. Mike grew up in eastern Iowa, near Dubuque. David is a bit taller than Mike. David had long hair then, the same pale white complexion characteristic of his tribe, and thin. Not much has changed except the length of the hair, Mike summarizes. They met during freshman orientation and were good friends the next four years. Mike lost touch with David after they both left college. The last Mike could remember was that David was in medical school in St. Louis while he looked for a job as a reporter.
As David spots Mike, he does an abrupt but insincere double-take, thrusting his arms to each side and shouting, "Hey Mikey? Mike McAneas? Is that really you?"
They converge and shake hands as David continues, "I can't believe it! How the hell are you man? What'ya you up too? How did you get here? How did you find me?"
"Hey, David! It's been a while. I see you've lost your fear of crowds," replies Mike smiling.
"Well, sort'a, still get a bit nervous every time I introduce a band," says David. "Come on down to the end where it's a bit quieter, I think the band's trying to shake the snow off the roof. They may succeed."
They head towards the south end of the bar, back near the computer pulpit. David says to Mike, "You still drink scotch?"
"But of course."
David turns to the geeky bartender in the black t-shirt and says, "Hey Todd, how about glass of scotch over here, the good stuff." Then turning back to Mike he says, "So, dude, what'ya been up to? What brings you to the Riviera of the Midwest?"
"Ahh, I came here for the surf boarding?"
"More like snow boarding, if you can find a hill."
"Yeah, well, maybe it was snow boarding. There are some gnarly drifts out there."
"Yeah, totally tubular, and the frostbite is free."
Todd, the guy in the black T-shirt, brings the drink and places it on a white napkin and says, "Here ya'go," then returns to his computer terminals.
David steels a quick look at Todd and raises his eyebrows momentarily then pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps it so about three pop up and offers them to Mike saying, "Still smoking?"
"Ahh, right again. Old habits die hard," as he pulls one out, puts it in his mouth and begins to feel around his pockets for his lighter. Retrieving it, he flicks it open and lights both.
"So, again, what brings you to Snow-maha? People don't often make surprise visits during blizzards."
Mike puts the lighter back in his pocket and says, "Omaha? I came to Omaha for my health."
"What do you mean health? We're in the middle of a freaking blizzard on the prairie. No one comes to Omaha for their health, at least not in January. What's the real story?" he says frowning a bit.
"Well, I'm kind'a in a little bit of trouble and sort'a hiding from some people who would prefer to see me little on the dead side of the ledger. That kind of health."
"Ohh?" says David with a new level of interest.
"Yeah. So, I figured I needed to disappear for a while and this might be the best place to disappear to. Geez, who the hell would look for anyone in Oma-haha, for Christ's sake?"
"Well, you found me here. So, tell me, have you finally discovered your true calling in life and run off with a mob boss' daughter or something?"
"Ahh, no, not exactly. He doesn't have a daughter but he does have one hell of a bad temper."
"Oh?" says David raising his eyebrows. Todd does too.
"Yeah. Oh." says Mike, sheepishly.
"I got a feeling we need to talk, right?"
"That's probably a good plan," says Mike.
"Come'on, let's go upstairs, it's a bit quieter and there's a few hundred fewer people hanging around," says David as he takes his drink from the bar, turns and says to Todd, "We'll be upstairs."
Todd frowns and says, "Okay, are you sure?"
"Yeah, it's okay. Better get ready for some sleepovers. I don't think any of these people are even gonna go through the motions of trying to make it home tonight."
Todd nods and says, "Way ahead of you. We've already got the cots and blankets out of storage. They're stacked up out back and I'm thawing out stuff for breakfast."
Mike follows as David leads him around the side of the club and over to the far corner door to the freight elevator. Pushing the heavy door open, they enter a large enclosed room. As the heavy steel fire door closes behind them, Mike hears the discrete clicks of bolts automatically sliding into place.
On one side is an old wood-floored freight elevator the size of a bedroom. In its open cage, a single naked bulb hangs from its roof and swings slowly in the draft from above. The exposed walls are old pocked, rough red brick. On the other side is a sliding metal door to an outside loading dock. It hangs on wheels set in a greased track above and slotted to a metal rail below.
The poorly insulated room is cold. The rising and falling wind outside rattles the heavy steel loading dock door. The squalls wail dissonantly through cracks between the steel door and the brick wall and combine with the muffled rumbles, thuds, and distant filtered notes of the band on the stage outside. Above the elevator cage, the shaft extends into darkness.
"Right this way, if you please," says David jerking up the old worn wooden gate. As they step onto the elevator, the floor bounces slightly at their newly added weight. The gate drops behind them with a thud. Mike's eyes flicker about apprehensively. "Don't worry, it's safe," says David as he punches the top button on a worn old brass control panel.
Solenoids clatter followed by the piercing whine of a large electric motor spinning up. The clutch engages, the floor lurches, the cage rattles and they're jolted upwards. Shadowed bricks and steel beams pass quickly in the dim light of the cage's single bulb until the motor quits and unseen metal brakes wrest the elevator to an abrupt halt. Mike staggers a bit in the sudden braking. David pulls the gate open and they exit onto an apex of balconies. Behind them, the gate drops with a bang. They walk over to the balcony and survey the dance floor far below.
"What was that about sleepovers?"
"Oh, the blizzard. They can get here but most of them won't be able to go home. This happens a couple of times a year. I think they look forward to it. That's why the place is so crowded. It's the big sleepover at Mo Rún. They know we bring out the cots and blankets and give'em breakfast in the morning. It's how they spend the big snow storms. Sometimes, I think I'm running a freaking homeless shelter."
"Ahh, taking care of the neighborhood drunks?"
"Neighborhood? Some of them drive half way across Nebraska when they hear there's a blizzard coming."
The freight elevator is in the southwest corner of the building. On the fifth and top floor where it stopped, two long dark corridors lead off at right angles. A four-foot high brick walled balcony runs around the entire floor and overlooks the central dance floor far below. Above them are the wood rafters and the fairy lights. Along the corridors, are a few dark solid doors. The floor and walls are polished brick. Dim spotlights recessed into the ceiling every 10 feet or so shine soft yellow circles on the red brick floor.
Mike looks down upon the dancing throng. The music at this height resounds in the echoes of the cavernous vault below. In the dancing colored lights, the floating metallic plastic petals swarm in unseen drafts of air. As the band thunders out an old ballad, the crowd sways to the rhythms of the music. He's momentarily spellbound by the scene of light and motion beneath.
"Over here, to the right, there's my apartment," interrupts David.
They walk about halfway down the corridor to the east until they come to an otherwise unmarked, solid, unlocked door which he pushes open and gestures for Mike to enter.
The door quietly closes behind them. Mike stands at one end of an enormous dimly lit apartment, eerily quiet, given the ruckus below. It's a loft with a floor of polished stone and walls of uneven, old, red brick. Aged polished wood beams above conceal low wattage indirect lighting aimed upwards onto the ancient dark wooden angled roof above. The trussed rafters are two feet thick fastened together with hundred year old decorative wrought iron bars and braced with two-inch thick steel rods joined in heavy steel turnbuckles.
To his left is a raised kitchen area with all stainless steel appliances and cabinets. A long burnished marble counter at one end juts out perpendicularly from the far wall. Along it are set high wooden chairs with low backs.
To his right is a dark sitting area with three long low white leather and chrome couches arranged in a U-shape facing the southern wall. In the center of the couches, is a great dark, polished inlaid wooden table. Incandescent pools of pale light descend from opaque dark shades upon the tops of crystal columned lamps with silver bases sitting in the centers of dark parquet wooden end tables. Upon the tables are ashtrays and bowels of heavy glittering cut crystal.
Against the southern brick wall is a great flat HDTV fully eight feet wide and four and a half high. Below the screen sits a long, low, glassed doored cabinet full of electronic equipment where many red, yellow, blue and green LEDs strobe silently to unseen signals. The silent screen displays several windows with scrolling news feeds and others with maps and some with security cam shots of the club below.
Further down to the west, the room is dark. A ten foot stretch of wall is covered from floor to ceiling with dark drapes. In front of these is a concert sized polished black grand piano lit by one tiny pin spot attached to a rafter above. Beyond the living room, a hallway recedes into darkness.
David flips a hidden switch. To the low hum of an unseen motor, the drapes begin to part revealing a panoramic window across half the far end of the wall. From the roof, floodlights shine on the street below. In the gathering storm, billows of snow swirl in tiny cyclones as the wind rolls off the roof above. A few lights are faintly visible from the nearby interstate, mainly the yellow strobe lights of the highway crews making futile efforts to keep the drifts at bay.
Pulling a bottle of expensive scotch from a cabinet near the door and handing it to Mike, David says, "Here, go make yourself comfortable while I get some ice and soda."
Mike walks over and sits on the couch facing east towards the kitchen where David fetches a bucket from a cabinet. He fills it with ice cubes from the freezer half of the big stainless steel refrigerator. Opening the other side, he grabs a couple of bottles of soda water. Returning to the living room area he arranges these on the large central table then grabs a couple of ashtrays from the end tables and places them on the table too.
Mike looks up and says, "Glasses?"
"Oh, yeah, I usually just drink right from the bottle. I guess you want to do it the formal way, right?"
"Clean glasses, please?"
"Geez, we're getting picky in our old age."
David returns and tosses him a hundred dollar Irish cut crystal chalice which Mike bobbles a few times before getting a firm grip. "Will that do?" He sprawls on the couch to Mike's left, facing the big screen.
"Very nicely, thank you. I'm suitably impressed. You can pass the bottle now."
David scoops some ice for himself, pours the scotch then pushes the bucket, scotch and the soda water across the table. He opens his soda water and mixes it with the scotch.
"Thanks. And how's the cigarette supply?"
David opens a drawer and extracts a pack and tosses the pack to Mike saying, "By the way, you hungry or anything?"
"Yeah, I could do with some food, I've been on the road most of the day. Not a lot of dining options beyond some really bad convenience store crap."
"What'ya want? We got twenty different kinds of pizza downstairs."
"Pizza it is. Just no anchovies."
David pulls out his cell phone, punches in a couple of digits and says, "Hey Todd, can you send up a couple a pizzas? Yeah, everything except anchovies. It seems refugee boy here hasn't eaten today. Thanks." and flips the phone shut. "It'll be here in a few minutes."
Taking an ashtray from the table and putting it next to him on the couch, he leans back, puts feet up on the central table and lights a cigarette, and, head back, inhales deeply. Then, in an exhaled billow of smoke, asks, "So, what the hell's up? Who wants you dead?"
"Well, at the moment, one person in particular. The main drug lord for this part of the country. Seems he doesn't like me anymore."
"Anymore? He used to like you?" says David, his eyes open saucer wide.
"Yeah, I was his best boy."
"Then you do drugs?" says David as he glances quickly at a small green LED under a tiny lens just above the big screen.
"No, I spy on drug dealers and expose them. I'm a reporter now."
"Geez, you had us, er, me worried there."
"Yeah, well it worries me too. I've been working undercover for a news network."
"And I suppose this makes the drug people unhappy?"
"Very unhappy. I got a bullet pocked car down the street to prove it."
"Nice. Bet it'll be a bitch to explain to the insurance company."
"It's not insured."
"So, this explains you're snowy trek to Omaha?"
"Yep. So it does. How the hell did you end up here? Didn't you go off to med school?"
"Yeah, for a while but right now I and the rest of the crew are more interested in your story right now."
"The rest of the crew?"
"Yeah, you've been watched from the minute you got within 100 feet of here. When we swiped your ID, you weren't in our database. Then you started asking questions. That triggered some interest. Now they have a few questions of their own."
"Questions? You mean that Smith guy at the bar?"
"Yeah, he works for me. He tipped off Todd, the guy in the black t-shirt who immediately put a mic and a camera on you. By now, he and the others have probably collected and sequenced your DNA not to mention captured every shred of online data you've ever generated."
"Who? What others?"
"My colleagues. The nosy ones who are watching and listening to every word we're saying right now," says David as he points to the green LED over the screen. "That's a camera and it's on."
"So you knew I was here before you came on stage?"
"Yep. I was watching you from the control room downstairs."
"So why the big what a surprise ?"
"They didn't know who you were and I didn't know why you were here. We don't get a lot of social calls in a blizzard."
"Okay. Now I'm the one who's a little worried."
"Don't be. Todd just texted me a message saying you check out okay," says David as he slips his cell phone back in his pocket.
"I don't understand?"
"You will."
A moment later there's a knock at the door, David shouts, "Come on in, it's open."
Todd, the geek in the black t-shirt, comes in with two pizzas trays and a couple of napkins and some knives and forks and says, "Here ya'go. Thought I'd bring it up myself." He places them in the middle of the coffee table.
"So, curious are we?" say David sarcastically.
"Who me? Just being social," answers Todd.
"Or got tired of watching on the web cam."
"That too."
David says, "Go get yourself a drink and sit down. Like I have a choice, right?"
"No, you don't, actually. I see you're using Mary's glasses?"
"Yeah, don't break'em or she'll kill me."
Mike gets up and shakes hands with Todd saying, "My name's Mike McAneas, I'm an old friend of David's, so to speak."
"Nice to meet you. I feel like we've already met. Actually, in fact, I already do know you. We scanned your driver's license at the door and I've already done a cross check on you with the Iowa DMV, downloaded your college transcript, and hacked your email account. Nice GREs, by the way, you should'a gone to grad school. Oh, one more thing, they over charged you at that motel down the street."
"How'd you know about the motel?" says Mike.
"The motel? I hacked your credit card records and your bank account too, for that matter. Still working on that DNA sample we collected off your drink glass but we did get a good set of fingerprints."
"Geez, I see what you mean about being watched."
"Right," says David. "But we do take security around here pretty seriously."
Sitting down and pulling a slice of pizza, Mike says, "Who's Mary?"
Todd says, "Mary is David's bundle of joy and master of discipline."
"Keep it up and I'll tell her what you said."
"Ha!" says Todd as he flops back onto the couch opposite Mike and adjacent to David. "So? Okay, I'm ready, start talking. What were you saying about drug lords?"
Just as Mike begins to speak, the door swings open and in walks Mary Murphy, one of the waitresses Mike remembers seeing earlier.
Mary is about 27. She's in a dark purple microfiber pants suit with a wing-collar jacket, side slits, turned-up cuffs, shoulder pads and princess seams. Under the jacket she wears an open collar black silk blouse with an elaborate embroidered Chinese dragon design in threads of bright red, blue, and yellow. Around her neck and wrists hang several heavy gold chains. From her ears dangle clusters of thin gold strands bearing tiny diamonds. On her hands are several rings with glittering stones of many colors.
"That's Mary," whispers Todd. "Don't piss her off."
"Quiet you. I already heard that master of discipline . You're on thin ice," she commands as she strides into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, surveys the contents, then reaches up and pulls down a $100 bottle of merlot. Grabbing a crystal wine glass and a bottle opener, she saunters into the living room area.
She says, "Don't mind me boys. The reception was bad. Todd, let's replace some batteries, okay? I could barely make out what you people were saying," as she tosses successively the bottle and opener to David. He snatches them from mid air, nearly dropping his cigarette. She sits on the couch next to him. He dutifully opens the bottle and fills the glass which she casually offers then lights her cigarette.
In a slight brogue she announces, "I'm Mary Murphy as you no doubt know."
"Happy to meet you," replies Mike as he leans over and shakes her hand.
"Okay, the formalities are over, you can start talking now. I'm ready," she says taking a generous sip of the wine and then swings the glass back towards David for a topping-off.
"Don't mind her, she'll lose interest in a minute and go chat-up some shopping channel," says David.
Mary gives him a withering gaze as he propitiates her with another topping off.
"And you, hush-up if you know what's good for you," she pronounces imperiously.
"Actually, maybe I should put this on a pod cast. Where the hell is Lance?" says David.
"He's working out the security for the pajama party downstairs," says Mary.
"Well, he'll just have to watch the replay. All right already. Begin," says David
"Am I being recorded?"
"Yes."
"You people really do worry me."
"And rightly so, now start."
"After college, I got admitted to a few graduate journalism programs but didn't have the money to go. Then my parents died. In the space of about two months, that was it. I was really on my own. My parents didn't have much, just an old, beat-up car."
"Sorry, man, I didn't know."
"No problem, it's not your fault. Anyway, I applied for some jobs as a reporter but with newspaper circulation dropping like a rock, there weren't any to be had. So, I moved just outside Des Moines and got a job at a gas station and convenience store. Not really my dream position but it paid the rent on an old farmhouse that I called home. I thought I might be able to write freelance or something. I sent out a lot of manuscripts. Got a lot of rejection letters back. There I was, 26, and going nowhere until one weekend I got the idea of going down to Des Moines and blowing my savings, about thirty dollars, on some bars. My big night in the big city. Living out in the sticks doesn't present much in the way of social opportunities. So, into Des Moines go I in my old car for a night of serious bar hoping, up to a thirty dollar limit."
Mike lights another cigarette and then continues, "But that was where my problems began, more or less. You see, there was this news crew in town from one of the cable news networks, ANN, to cover the run up to the Iowa Caucuses. I got to talking with one of their producers, a guy named Jim Monroe. He remembered a piece I'd sent them earlier in the year. He said he liked it a lot but they couldn't buy it due to budget limits. Then he said he had something, though, if I wanted it, but was potentially dangerous. I said that pumping gas in a small town in Iowa is dangerous too, to your career. He laughed and then told me what he was up to."
"It seems they wanted to do an undercover investigative report on drug dealing nationwide and, in particular, in St. Louis, a king pin in the Midwest drug trade, smuggling, distribution, the whole thing. They especially wanted a segment on methamphetamine production and traffic in the U.S., with a concentration on the meth labs in rural America. They wanted angles on the corrupting effect it was having and the impact of smuggled Mexican crystal meth after the crack down on OTC pseudophed and the overall distribution system from the top down to the street dealer. Meth certainly had been a problem in Iowa. He said he wanted me to try to infiltrate the St. Louis based organization since I looked the small town Iowa guy part, street-wise, that is. I wasn't sure I appreciated that part. Anyway, I agreed and met him again secretly for the next week as he filled me in on what they had so far."
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