“I really hope you have more than that for me to go on.”
“Well, sir, when I was searching for the correct blueprint, I had to look over each one carefully to ensure I had the right paperwork, so I think I can answer any questions you might have about the air system.”
The proprietor drummed his left fingertips on the desktop.
“Okay, Theodore, tell me about the air return vent for the main arena.”
As Theodore started his verbal presentation, his eyes rolled up toward the top of his head as if he could see the answers written on the underside of his skull. In less than five minutes, he had described the flow of air from the cooling coils, out through the various registers around the arena, the path of the conditioned air inside the building, and then the four air return ducts high up in the ceiling, each duct having a mesh grate to filter out foreign obstacles.
“I’m impressed,” commented the proprietor.
“Then this will be reflected on my annual evaluation?” asked Theodore.
Cletis Johnston leaned forward with the pistol in hand.
“That remains to be seen. We’re not finished yet tonight.”
Theodore felt a moment’s hesitation as he contemplated the possibility of a rapid departure, but soon concluded the distance to the front door of the inner sanctum was way too far for him to beat a safe retreat. He’d just have to tough it out.
“What did you have in mind, sir?”
“The balloons were mylar, Theodore.”
Theodore thought about mylar.
“Yes, sir. So?”
“Latex balloons usually lose their helium within twenty-four hours. Mylar is less permeable, thus it can hold its helium inflation for several days.”
Theodore scratched his bald dome.
“What’s that have to do with the memory card and the air-conditioning system?”
“Think, Theodore, think. The police search of all persons and property failed to turn up the secure digital card, so where could it have gone?”
“I don’t know.” Then Theodore thought of the helium balloons again. “Up?”
“Exactly,” exclaimed the proprietor. “I believe the thief’s collision with the clown was the moment he began to realize his chances of escape were rapidly deteriorating. That’s when the thief hit upon the idea of tying the memory card to one of the helium balloons. Using the balloon string, or some other sort of bonding device, he attached the card to the balloon and let it float up to the dome ceiling for recapture at a later time.”
“Where will we get a ladder tall enough to reach the dome?”
“We don’t, Theodore. By now, the building’s air return system will have sucked the mylar balloons close to one of the four mesh grates protecting the air-conditioning ducts from ingesting any floating objects.”
The bail bond agent frowned. “But how will we know which air duct the balloons are at?”
“Ah, Theodore, once more I’ve done all the real work, while your contribution to the firm’s success has been minimal. Therefore, tonight, you will proceed to crawl up into the metal catwalks below the dome ceiling until you find where the balloons have gathered.”
“How will I get them down?”
The proprietor slid the long-barreled pistol across the desk.
“With this high-powered pellet gun. You’ll just have to shoot down every balloon until you find the card.”
Theodore accepted the pellet pistol and stuck it in the pocket of his plaid sport jacket. He prepared to depart.
“One last item,” the proprietor’s voice carried softly across the room. “Don’t take too long; even now as we are having this little conversation, others may be conducting similar searches. And I don’t think you would enjoy any up close encounter with Herr Morden or his men. However, I am positive the return air ducts are where you will find the missing memory card. If you are successful in your endeavor, then we will continue your annual employee evaluation in the morning.”
On his way out the door, Theodore pursed his blubbery lips in deep thought. He started to wonder if maybe there was an easier way for him to advance his position in the corporate world, especially since the firm’s pet Thuggee — Theodore found it difficult to refer to him as the executive secretary — would be out of the country for the next few months. This gave him, Theodore, some running room. All he had to do now was come up with a plan to exploit Moklal’s absence.
But first there was the convention center to think about, the clandestine entry, followed by his fear of heights when he got way up on the dome catwalk, plus finding the right balloon and keeping a steady enough hand to shoot it down so he could recover the digital memory card. May as well shoot all the balloons. But if Herr Morden had also figured out where this same missing memory card had gone, then he, Theodore, would have to run a gauntlet of Herr Morden’s men in order to return safely home. More shooting.
Theodore sighed.
This bail bonding stuff was turning out to be a rather tricky business, to say nothing about dangerous, with scarce room for mistakes. Yep, when he had more time, he would definitely have to think more about his future in the firm, something along the lines of finding a better way up the ladder to success without all this violence. Maybe if he took some correspondence courses in business management from that university with the post office box number in Tijuana? At least it was a possibility. Some extra education on his résumé just might help his annual employee evaluations.
It was a long way to the convention center. Plenty of time to think.
Copyright 2006 R.T. Lawton
Mischief
by S. L. Franklin
He’d stolen a stud gun. Fill it with regular bullets and you have a Saturday Night Special.
R. J. CARR:
“So what actually is a stud gun?”
“You don’t know?”
“Nope.”
The total ignoramus in this exchange was myself and the expresser of incredulity a man named Terry Swenson. Time: 2:55 P.M., Friday, January 8, 1999. Location: Swenson Equipment Rental on Harlem Avenue in Chicago. Subject: recovery of the item under discussion, which had been rented on the previous Monday but never returned.
“Well,” Swenson said, “I’ll tell you straight off that it’s not what you might be thinking. We rent out contractors’ equipment, not any other kind.”
I nodded. To look at, Swenson was a lanky six-footer in his forties with an open face but a brusque manner. Across the office desk from him, I was busy being my usual half-wit deadpan self — six five, two-thirty, birthmarked, bespectacled, and pushing fifty-six that year.
“It’s a — you know, just a little pistol, maybe twenty-two calibers, but it fires nails.” He paused to reflect. “Into studs — two-by-fours — to attach to concrete, mainly. He took four boxes of loads too.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not compared to a lot of things — jackhammers. Generators. Anyway, it’s been a couple of years since I rented this one out, because even the little contractors have their own nail drivers now. The thing’s outmoded, except for maybe a guy remodeling on the cheap.”
“And this guy?”
“It’s like I told you — the kid was a gofer for one of my regular accounts, only he wasn’t. Not anymore.”
“Uh-huh. How much does one of these things cost to replace?”
Swenson made a gesture of indifference, then said, “I haven’t checked it out, and that’s not the point. The kid put up two hundred in cash bond against loss, so I’m covered there. I just don’t want to have to go to the cops — that’s what I’m worried about. But this is theft of a handgun, in a way. Fill it with regular bullets and it turns into a Saturday Night Special. Maybe not a good one, but—”