Chapter 4
He looked at the iBook and took a deep breath. He never really scripted out the Rance Broadback adventures. He would just take an idea he’d seen in the headlines, some glimpse from a dream, or a situation he observed out on the street, and start typing. This time his mind was clouded by the whole “making good choices” dilemma he’d been thinking about for the past few hours. And now, the good choice was to crawl into that space in his brain where Rance Broadback lived and find out what our favorite Super Spy was doing this fine fall day. He opened his word processor and spun around in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a minute. He thought of the mystery package that had been delivered by messenger to Mr. Martin, the concern on the old mans face that was visible from Andy’s second floor window. And then there was the shear intensity that was evident when he left the shop. “What was in that box?” Andy asked out loud.
His mind jumped from there to a NewsWorld story he read while waiting for some Chinese take-out the previous week about marijuana eradication in the United States. Specifically, how the out-of-the-way state of Kentucky was second only to California in the sheer volume of Mary Jane that was confiscated each year. The article postulated that, as an income crop, the illegal marijuana industry in the Appalachian mountain region of Kentucky was a mega-million dollar business and the eradication efforts, while significant, hardly made a dent in the alleged profit from distribution. “Hmmm.” An idea began to percolate in Andy’s mind as he spun around and studied the ceiling.
He tapped out a Google search on his keyboard and opened the top article referencing marijuana in Kentucky. The author gave a thorough history of the rise and fall of the largest illegal marijuana cultivation and distribution network in the country, the Cornbread Mafia, a loosely knit group of farmers and business people in Central Kentucky who, in the timeless beauty of the Appalachian mountains, quietly commanded a billion dollar enterprise until they were broken up and arrested in a multi-state sting operation. Andy sat and read while his mind concocted a mission scenario for his super-spy alter ego, Rance Broadback.
He opened a new document in his word processor and looked for a moment at his ten fingers that had risen from the keyboard and straightened to attention. “Are we up for this, boys?” Andy asked his hands. He rubbed his fingertips together and felt the smooth surface of his nails. “Once we start there’s no turning back, you realize.” The fingers seemed ready. It was his state of mind that held the wild card in the venture. He wasn’t sure his own brain could work through the daily battle of a fifty thousand-word adventure. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and popped them in his mouth, sucking the salt from their surface and holing them up in his cheek like a squirrel. “What the hay, it’s what I do, right?” he mumbled, wiped his hands on his pants and cracked his knuckles.
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Appalachian Malady - 1
“Nine - three, service.” Rance glanced back then spanked a low, hard serve from left to right that was picked up at the last second by his lunging opponent who was just able to get his racquet on the little blue ball before its second bounce. Sending it softly back to the front of the court with a grunt, the ball gently struck the front wall and bounced into the lap of the waiting Broadback, who had already positioned himself for the kill shot.
“You gave me that one!” he smiled after placing the shot a fraction of an inch from the floor, causing the ball to roll back to the helpless defender.
“It’s that damn serve to the corner. You lefties are a bane on society, you realize that?”
“It comes right to your forehand. Made to order! You’re just getting old!”
“Just serve the damn ball, tough guy, I’ve got your number.” Jim Tate laughed and returned to position as Rance moved to the opposite side of the servers box.
“Here, I’ll serve to your backhand.”
“Oh, that should help,” Tate said with a slight edge.
Rance stood two feet away from the right hand wall and bounced the racquetball twice before catching it and glancing back at his best friend, “Ten serving three.” He banged an ace to Tate’s backhand that the diving player missed by two feet.
“Okay funny guy,” Tate said, waving his racquet right to left, “Scoot over - back to the other side.”
“What?” Broadback said, chuckling.
“At least I have a chance if you serve to my forehand, c’mon.”
Broadback won both sets but his competitive friend made it interesting after the break, leading the first game till Rance’s last serve, and making a strong comeback in the second game, nearly forcing a third set.
“Okay, so, 15-8, 15-4 first set. And 15-11, 15-13 second set?” Jim said as the men surrendered the court to a mixed foursome.
“Another set and you would have had me.”
“Another set and I would have needed a saline drip.”
The men grabbed their towels and water bottles from the bench outside the court and hit the showers. The cop checked his cell phone for messages before showering. The PI held no such allegiance. Tate was still on the phone when Broadback returned from the showers, mopping his head, wearing gym shorts and flip-flops. He started getting dressed as Jim finished the call.
“All right Ron, Yeah. I’ll see you in twenty-five... Thanks.” Tate clicked the Razor shut and looked up at Broadback, “So much for the quiet morning,” he said, and grabbed a towel, running to the shower without another word.
Broadback had a couple of to-go coffee’s from the lobby Juice Bar ready when Jim emerged from the locker room four minutes later, his dark brown hair combed wet, his tie draped around his open collar. “Thanks, Bud,” he said, taking a coffee and a cautious sip, nodding towards the door. Rance walked him to his unmarked, but obvious, Ford 500 as his friend filled in a few blanks.
“It’s Senator Hagin. DOA. I guess he was a no-show for staff briefing so an assistant went to his apartment. Found him on the living room floor, .38 to the head. Weapon in his hand.”
“Suicide?”
“No sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle. DIC Kramer thought he’d bring me over just to look at the place before CSI starts picking fuzz.”
“Kramer’s good people.”
“Yeah. Not afraid of fresh eyes.”
“What’s he thinking?”
“Doesn’t know. Hagin’s a pretty hot item right now on the Hill. Punching his own ticket doesn’t make sense. Kramer is trying to get his head around it.”
“So he calls the drug cop?”
“Hagin’s that marijuana legalization guy, you know? It’s his soapbox. Maybe there’s a drug angle.”
“Detective Jim Tate to the rescue.”
“Yeah, whatever. You gonna be at the condo?”
“Unless I can find another victim,” Broadback said, spinning his racquet and raising it with a smile.
“I may stop by later. This one doesn’t feel right somehow.” Tate pulled out of the lot, window down, crisp fall air nipping at his wet head, holding the cup up near his lips for constant sips, driving with his left hand. He raised the cup slightly in Rance’s direction as he accelerated past his friend who had reached his vehicle, a Buell XB12 Ulysses, that he road until the last colorful leaf had fallen from the majestic trees that lined the Georgetown campus.
“Dead Senator. You can have that one, Detective Tate. No thanks.” Rance thought to himself as he stowed his racquet and slung on his backpack. He tossed the empty cup into a garbage can and pulled on his black, full-faced helmet. Straddling the bike, he brought the motor to life as he zipped up his windbreaker and pulled down the smoked face shield. “No thanks,” he said out loud, pulling away from the University Club on the controlled fury of the Buell.
The place Rance Broadback called home was an old warehouse in the Adams Morgan district of Washington D.C., a few blocks from the main campus of Georgetown University. He hadn’t planned on living inside the Beltway, but since work kept bringing him back to the area it didn’t make
sense to live anywhere else. He was something of a loner, had a few good friends, most of them work associates like Jim Tate. 100% of his business came through trusted friends, mostly well placed government types of the highest order. Men like Rance Broadback remained valuable to the extent that they remained anonymous; at least that was the perspective of those among his equally anonymous employers. Rance parked the XB12 in the garage of the modern, 8-unit townhouse that he built across the road from the dilapidated warehouse where he actually lived. The town homes served as both an investment and an extra layer of cover for his insulated life.
After a few very lucrative jobs in the 90’s, Rance bought the warehouse and the property on all four sides. Three remained undeveloped and bordered by old chain link fence, but the fourth, across 8th Avenue on the east side of the warehouse, was developed into the town home project by an architect that Rance knew, curiously, from his first D.C. investigation, the inaugural reception for the former president, just after his election for a second term. Rance noted the rough hands of John Sanchez when they were introduced and, after finding out he was an architect that had done some remodeling work for the Clinton’s both in Arkansas and again here in D.C., knew that Sanchez was a hands-on builder. Broadback liked that, and the two hit it off. Both suspect of government, both freelancers, Rance brought John out to the lot one afternoon to hear about the plan, at least part of it.
Sanchez proved a trusted friend and so when Rance introduced Phase Two, John just smiled and nodded. He designed and built the project almost completely by himself. Rance’s own unit was built directly over the top of an abandoned tunnel that had been erected in the 1940’s as a pathway of evacuation for congress in the event of emergency. The tunnels closer to the capital building itself had been filled in and re-purposed years ago, but this far out there were still a few short sections that remained, mostly in undeveloped or discarded areas like this one. There was almost no one still alive that remembered the tunnels and the top-secret paper trail was equally sparse. Rance wandered into the information quite innocently while researching another case, actually thought of working the tunnel system into one of his mission plans, but then discovered that there were only a few small segments left in tact.
His idea was pretty simple. Connect the warehouse and the townhouse via the tunnel segment by cutting discreet vertical shafts at each end. In a project that would take six months, the tunnel extensions on either side of the project were sealed off, the shafts were dug, stairs and lights were installed along with a state of the art security system that would automatically lock down if breached.
Ultimately, the town homes went on sale, Rance bought the first one and the others sold out within the week, mostly to Georgetown staff and faculty who liked the idea of a short commute. In fact, the only non-collegiate in the building, besides Broadback, was John Sanchez who received a heavily upgraded unit as his compensation for the project. Sanchez wasn’t completely sure what his reclusive friend did for a living, but he knew it was dangerous and playing a small role helped his life make sense. Sanchez was tough, smart and construction hardened and Rance pulled him in to help whenever a mission needed an extra set of quality hands.
Broadback pulled the XB into the garage and parked next to his rarely used F-150. He shut the overhead door and walked up the inside steps to the living area. He briefly walked through, changed the timer on a few lights, the television and stereo, roughed up the bed linens a bit and then locked up and headed back down to the garage where he opened the false wall under the stairs, closed it after himself, disarmed the security system, and descended into the shaft via the circular, iron staircase that was fabricated in place by Sanchez. In three minutes he ascended an identical staircase, which led to a locked hatch that made it feel like he was disembarking a submarine. Opening the hatch, Rance climbed in to an empty closet, and, sliding aside a 12’x12’ bookcase unit filled with half empty paint cans, he entered the cavernous, first floor of the warehouse. Sliding the false wall shut, he walked across to the stairwell, which led to his living quarters and office loft.
His address was the townhouse. Friends and appointments came to the townhouse. Top-secret callers who needed his unique services came to the townhouse. No one knew about the warehouse quarters except Sanchez and Tate who held the secret close to the breast. Both Sanchez and Tate had had his life saved, on more than one occasion, by their highly trained friend and had learned, independent of one another, that it was much safer to be on the same side as Rance Broadback.
At the top of the open staircase, Rance enjoyed a modest living area that was set up in one large room with an adjoining restroom. The living space was nicely equipped with a kitchen, bedroom suite, open sitting area overlooking the reflective glass of the security windows, and a small office area with an internet signal that randomly sourced from different wireless signals in the D.C. area, as did his cell phone. The place wasn’t completely Invisible, but it was about as close as you could get and still find a good cup of coffee. He called it ‘hiding in plain sight.’ He fired up his iBook and retrieved email. There was one message.
Thursday, 0800:
Ran. Need you. Let’s meet tonight. Spin.
He took a moment to enjoy the visual, “How come she gets a code name?” he smiled to himself.