Distraction.
What would be the best way to steal a million dollars from security guards and armed police? First, make sure there weren’t as many armed police. Harris had been frustrated that his staff had been pulled from the investigation to perform close-order protection on the hanging judge. He’d also complained about half the cops working the parade being diverted as well. Bottom line: Fewer armed police covering the million-dollar giveaway.
Next thing. Misdirection. What could they do that was big enough to draw all the attention away from the money truck? McNulty had smelled marzipan but thought plastic explosive and a carnival float. Far-fetched? Possibly, but as some famous detective once said, if you eliminate the impossible then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
A shiver ran down McNulty’s spine. The thing now was what to do about it? The police wouldn’t listen and there was nobody else to tell. He looked at the smoke coming out of the frontier cabin. Or was it? He raised the binoculars again and wondered if the Cloverleaf Boys knew they were about to get shit on from a great height.
FORTY-TWO
McNulty left the car with the hood up and the warning triangle behind it and walked back down the on ramp until he was low enough to climb over the barrier. He dropped into the scrubland bordering the Charles River and kept one of the concrete supports between him and the junkyard. The river snaked in and out of the underpass and all the way to Boston. Like half the roads in America, it seemed to go on forever. Foliage in the river basin was thicker than around the junkyard. Seeds and sticky buds clung to his trouser legs. His shoes sank into the soft earth.
When he reached the nearest buttress he flattened himself against the concrete and threw a quick glance around the corner. The junkyard was still and quiet. Smoke from the chimney was the only thing moving. The rat had disappeared. The thrum of traffic sounded dull and distant overhead. After a final check he came around the side of a concrete support and made his way to the next. Still moving quietly. Still watching for movement. Still listening for a warning shout.
What he heard was music.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing and checked both from where he was standing. The tractors on shredded tires were to his right. The carnival floats were on his left. He listened to the music coming from the cabin and thought he recognized the tune, but it was so muffled all he could hear was the bass. He checked the cabin and the workshop. Nobody came out to challenge him. After one last glance around, he moved left toward the carnival floats.
The dinosaur was huge up close, even without its head. The spaceship looked less impressive, more like a crash-landing than an interstellar traveler. The space in between them was broad and long and about the same size as the other two floats. It was obvious that the junkyard had a pecking order, the rusting hulks organized by vehicle type. Regular cars were on the other side. McNulty wasn’t interested in the regular cars.
The drag marks were wide apart and deep, probably the main wheels but with flat tires. The depth indicated weight and the width bulk. Decaying relics only began to weigh less when they’d rotted down to the chassis. Whatever had been here hadn’t rotted down to its chassis, so it was perfectly feasible it could have been restored and brought up to standard for the parade.
That was all there was to look at here. He turned to the cabin. It was time to put up or shut up. He’d delayed it long enough. As he crossed the turnaround the music became clearer, a familiar thudding beat with the main theme playing over the bass. It had been a long time since he’d heard the soundtrack to Escape From New York. He went up the porch steps using the edges to prevent them from creaking and looked through the window. The table was set for dinner. A music system played in the corner. Four men moved around the room.
The steps creaked behind him and McNulty spun around. Billy Bob stood on the porch blocking the stairs. McNulty nodded toward the music. “Escape From New York.” He put a hand over one eye. “Maybe I should have worn an eye patch.”
Whatever they were cooking, it smelled good when McNulty stepped into the room. Billy Bob came in behind him and closed the door. The other four men stood around the table and turned toward the door. The thumping bass of Escape From New York faded out and after a brief pause the next track started, another bass-heavy John Carpenter theme from Assault on Precinct Thirteen. McNulty tapped his foot in time with the beat.
“John Carpenter.” He nodded his approval. “Wrote some classics, but I prefer Jerry Goldsmith.”
The tall skinny guy who’d done all the talking last time went over to the sound system and turned it down. The bass was still there but now it was just a pulse in the background. “You know your movie scores.”
McNulty walked over to the table, turned a chair to face the men and sat down. “I work in the movies.” He leaned back and crossed his legs to show he was relaxed. It was just a show because he didn’t feel relaxed. “And let me tell you, no matter how much shit gets churned out, everybody working in the movies loves the movies. They don’t make shit on purpose.”
He nodded toward the sound system. “Carpenter and Goldsmith didn’t churn out shit.”
The skinny guy pulled up a chair and
