Taking Liberty (2 page)
-
99
-
100
-
101
-
102
-
103
-
104
-
105
-
106
-
107
-
108
-
109
-
110
-
111
-
112
-
113
-
114
-
115
-
116
-
117
-
118
-
119
-
120
-
121
-
122
-
123
-
124
-
125
-
Epilogue
Taking Liberty
“Could you give your life to save someone else?”
___________________________
At this time of day, the sun-kissed sidewalk outside the world-famous Chinese theatre on Hollywood Boulevard was packed with pedestrians. Sightseers snapping iconic scenes on their cells and talent-spotting their favorite movie stars embedded in the legendary Walk of Fame. The mood was light, buoyed by the Christmassy decorations and a tangible buzz of expectancy. When it came to the absolutely must-see sights of Hollywood, this hub of old theatres, highbrow retail stores and trendy restaurants was the center of the universe on every tourist’s star map. Everyone uploading images to their Facebook accounts, too busy to notice the nondescript white van as it made a left onto Orange Drive and slid against the curb.
Brake lights glowed brightly in the shade of the Roosevelt Hotel.
As far as rentals went, it was pretty unspectacular. No decals. Smoked-glass windows. Newish, but not this year’s model. Clean, if you failed to notice the small streaks of ochre mud rubbed into the rims. It looked like one of the guest transports used by the hotel. Camouflaged by its ordinariness.
Perfect.
The engine died before the brake lights blinked out.
There were three men in the van, invisible to passersby. Two in the front and one in the back. The older of the trio, in the passenger seat, had one of those solemn faces that wouldn’t look out of place on a totem pole. A military-style buzz cut forming a dark fuzz against russet-colored skin. Eyes hidden behind a pair of fashionable sunglasses – department store designer, not catwalk. He was agitated, nervous; had bitten away most of his fingernails on the ride over. Would have burned his way through a full pack of smokes had he not given up the habit back in rehab. He was the man in charge, and kept it that way with clipped commands and an unspoken threat of violence should anyone cross his path.
“You sure you know what to do?” he asked the younger of the trio, who was teetering on the edge of the backseat like a boy on a trip to see Santa.
The kid made a face. He had a softer aspect. A clod of unruly blond hair curling against an over-cooked Californian tan. One of those high-metabolism kids who can eat a horse and half a stable and still not put on an ounce of weight. He was excited, eager to press on with today’s performance. Would have called CNN and NBC and handed them an exclusive had he thought of it earlier.
“Piece of cake,” he beamed through pearly teeth. “I’m gonna make you guys proud and make that cop wish he’d never been born.”
“No improvising.”
“No problem.” They’d been over this a million times. He had it down pat. Not like it was rocket science or anything. He tapped the driver on his shoulder, “Hey, don’t forget our wager, man. If I make the primetime news, you owe me beers and a hot date.”
The third man, the driver, kept his brooding gaze on the dashboard clock. He danced to a different tune. One of those cool, self-assured types who didn’t need to argue a point to know he was right.
The passenger, the ringleader, shared none of the kid’s enthusiasm. “Don’t deviate from the plan,” he warned. “You only get one shot at this. Make it count. Hit the target.”
“Dude, relax; you’ll give yourself an ulcer.” The kid slid open the side door and leapt out. A cavalcade of city noise invaded the van. He went to the rear of the vehicle. Pulled open the backdoor.
The cargo space was mostly empty. No rows of seats. No visitor brochures crammed into the pockets. Just a duffel bag and a pair of rectangular parcels covered in Christmassy wrapping paper. The parcels were identical, measuring three-feet-by-four, connected along one of the shorter edges by two fabric straps. The kid reached in and opened the duffel bag. Inside was a red velvety suit with a fake paunch, a matching cloth hat with a white beard attached, and a pair of big black work boots.
“Man, I’m gonna look the part in this getup.”
He pulled the costume on over his tee-shirt and jeans. Left his board shoes in the back of the van and laced up the boots. Then he hefted the panels against the bumper.
The ringleader joined him at the back of the van. He was bigger than the kid. Toned muscles that spoke of a tireless dedication. Maybe an obsession. “I’ll be videoing from the corner. Remember what we discussed. Don’t mess up.”
The kid slammed the door and hoisted the parcels under his arm. “Yeah, man, I know, I got it – streaming my dazzling good looks live to YouTube for all the world to see. Make sure you get my good side and give me top billing.”
“Just don’t forget why we’re doing this.”
The kid’s lips curled into a smile. “Revenge.” He spoke the word with reverence – as if the sound of it would summon something supernatural.
“Restitution,” the ringleader corrected.
“It’s all semantics, man.” The kid began to walk uphill toward Hollywood Boulevard. “Bail me if I get arrested,” he laughed over his shoulder. “I mean it, dude. My life’s in your hands.”
“Stick with the plan,” the driver called after him. “Do this right and you’ll be famous.”
The boulevard was teeming with visitors going starry-eyed at the movie magic. If any of them noticed him, none gave him a second glance; there were dozens of similar-looking guys coming and going hereabouts: runners, gofers, kids on breaks from the Hard Rock.
Nothing to snag the attention.
Not yet.
The kid drew a deep breath, waited for a break in the traffic, then skipped across the road. He found a free spot on the busy sidewalk near the red-liveried Madam Tussauds building, and paused to pull the hat over his head. The fluffy white beard was itchy. But he looked the part, didn’t he?
Across the street, the ringleader was waiting for his performance to commence. He waved at him. He didn’t wave back.
The kid turned his attention to the parcels leaning against his leg. Each was about the thickness of a portrait canvas. No string. No postage stamps. No forwarding address. Had the passersby paid him any interest whatsoever, they may have been mistaken in thinking he worked for the Post Office – when in fact he wasn’t even a delivery man, not in any conventional sense.
The wrapping had snowmen on it. Nothing flashy or extraordinary.
Not yet.
He wedged fingers between the parcels and levered them apart, dipped his head between the pair of fabric straps and stood straight.
The sandwich board was a perfect fit.
Still no fireworks.
Not yet.
He started striding east along the star-spattered sidewalk, in the direction of the famous theater. Ripping the giftwrap away as he went. Visitors grouched and complained as he barged them aside, some with aggrieved expressions and some out loud. One or two didn’t even see him coming and were bowled aside for their ignorance. At last, he was beginning to garner some attention. Heads turning toward the source of the commotion.
But no sparks flying.
Not yet.
A dozen yards later, he was outside the legendary Chinese Theatre – where he stopped and took his position facing the street. By now, most of the immediate sightseers crowding the sidewalk were looking his way. Cell phones poised in anticipation. The previously unnoticed kid in the Santa suit had something in mind. Maybe something worth recording and tweeting to their friends unlucky enough not to be in Hollywood the week before Christmas. Some of the crowd started snapping pictures. One or two jeered. More faces turned his way, both sides of the street.
But none of their eyes were lit up.
Not yet.
With the last of the wrappings discarded, the kid reached for the pull cord concealed behind the forward-facing panel, and yanked it, hard. The nylon string was attached to a trigger mechanism, which was connected to an ignition source, set to activate the stage-show pyrotechnics built into the edges of the boards.
There was a rolling, fizzing noise, like the sound of rushing surf on a moonlit night.
Something popped.
Several of the nearest onlookers shied from the sudden sound, then almost fell over themselves as streams of fiery stars began to spew forth, showering the sidewalk with white-hot splinters.
Someone cheered.
Smart phones were being held aloft all over the place. Even the traffic on the street started to slow as their occupants gaped at the dazzling display. Every eye in a block radius transfixed.
But he wasn’t done.
Not yet.
As the initial flurry of activity began to subside, the kid reached for a second concealed pull cord and yanked it, hard. This nylon string was attached to another trigger mechanism, which was connected to a second ignition source, set to activate several rows of firecrackers built into the faces of the boards.
This was it. The world was about to see what revenge – or
restitution
– really meant.
Something popped.
Instinctively, the nearest onlookers drew back – but not because the firecrackers had startled them, but because the entire sandwich board had erupted in bright orange flame.
Some people started running.
Some people started filming.
Some people started screaming.
But none screamed louder or with more genuine terror than the blond kid with the sandwich board, who was suddenly engulfed in an eight-foot geyser of seething fire.