SILENT GUNS (12 page)

“
My name is Lisa
Mallory.”

“
Anthony Trent.”

“
Married?”

“
Was.”

“
I’m a ‘was’ too, but, it’s not
what you think.”

“
There you go, reading my mind
again,” Trent said.

“
Sorry!” She pouted.

“
Have you been practicing your
parking?”

“
Sorry about bumping your
car.”

“
I guess that makes us old
friends. How about dinner?”

“
That’s too good of an offer to
turn down!”

“
Let’s get away from here. I know
a great place.”

Trent watched her creamy white neck and shoulders as
she rose. Charlie was at first nonplused, but when Lisa’s hand
passed under Trent’s arm, he grinned, the all-knowing male.

The Scarlet Tree was a quaint, out of the way bistro
in north Seattle on Roosevelt off 65th. The place wasn’t fancy, but
it was a favorite of the locals, a shoes-off kind of a place where
the crowd didn’t put on airs and the food was great. Trent pictured
Myrna sitting across the table: it did not stir unpleasant
memories, but, that fire had been banked. Trent asked for a bottle
of Chianti and ordered without looking at the menu. They shared hot
bread and toasted with Chianti. The spaghetti arrived steaming hot
and smothered with meat sauce. Lisa spun her fork expertly.

“
It always tastes better when
someone else cooks it.”

“
When you smiled there, for a
moment I thought you were Myrna, my ex-wife.” The disclosure was
unintended; it just came out. Lisa ignored it but turned quiet and
thoughtful, almost reticent. “Why did you want to meet me?” Trent
asked, eyeing her curiously. “It wasn’t accidental, was
it?”

“
No,” her cheeks flushed, as if
acutely ashamed.

“
I’m on pins and needles,” he
said, his laugh was thin, “and terribly flattered. It must be
because I’m so virile.”

She laughed. “Then, you don’t think badly of me?”
She glanced at him liltingly. Lisa softened, but he sensed a
barrier.

“
Let me guess. You’re a
policewoman and you’re going to arrest me for some heinous crime I
didn’t commit?”

She shook her head and smiled. “No, but I will hear
your confession, if you like.” She reached across, touching his
hand. Trent felt nonplussed. He felt the flow of a strange
attraction. Shelving discretion, he blurted impetuously, “May I see
you again?”

She met his gaze calmly as she brushed a strand of
hair from her forehead. Her eyes fell silent, then flicked up again
for just a second. “I would like that,” she replied, a slight
quiver in her lower lip. It was a physical embrace, although
neither had moved.

By the time he dropped Lisa off at Haury’s, she had
his mind in a complete whirl. The excitement was like a drug. She
squeezed his hand, tenderly, as they crossed the street to the
Corvette. He opened the car door: she looked both vulnerable and
desirable. Their eyes locked and held.

“
Thanks for a lovely evening,” she
purred.

She kissed him on the cheek, threw her beautiful
legs aside and slipped into the driver’s seat. Lisa started the
engine and sped away. The yellow Corvette disappeared in the
distance. Trent felt the years roll back. He touched his face: a
memento of an evening most pleasant. How did she know I would be at
Haury’s? Why did she want to meet me? Who was she, really? To know
would have spoiled the evening. The yellow Corvette with the black
hardtop was showing up too many times. Lisa Mallory, in some way,
was a threat. Lisa Mallory spelled ‘trouble’.

* * *

Trent felt the biting cold salt air lace his face as
he stood out in the open on the upper deck of the Bremerton ferry.
As the ferry plowed on steadily westward, he braced himself and
clutched his fur-lined collar tight about his neck. The city of
Bremerton and the Yard soon appeared in the distance, an
inseparable pair. The bow propeller thrashed easing the ferry into
her slip. Navy Patrol Boat #41, a number painstakingly painted on
her gray hull, lay idling next to the ferry terminal. Disembarking,
he and Madden were carried forward by a crowd of tourists heading
for the Navy Base gate. They waited for a Marine guard to check
their ID’s and place a phone call. Madden reminisced of the fast
gearing up of the war years, 1941-45, when the Yard hit its stride.
Now things were very different: no yard birds in sight, civilian
workers, welders, ship-fitters, electricians, keepers of the
Reserve Fleet, were off. Except for crews working the
Missouri
, these were unhurried times.

“
The Yard used to be jumping
‘round-the-clock and no weekends off,” Madden said. “I passed
through here in ‘44 when the
Washington
steamed in with her
bow stove in clear back from keel to within ten feet of the main
deck. He crew rigged her anchor chains to hold on the whole bow.
She had collided with the
Indiana
. In less than 30 days they
had on a whole new front end. The Yard Commandant had told his men:
The
Washington
is in, and the
Washington
is out.”
Madden laughed, “And that’s exactly what they did; but there was a
war on then. There was no slacking.”

Looking coldly at Madden, Trent said, “And, the
Captain of the
Indiana
was court-martialed for ‘dereliction
of duty and needlessly hazarding his ship’. He was found guilty,”
he stated bitterly. “Captain Steele, relieved of command, was never
promoted, and never again served at sea. He accepted his fate; I do
not.”

Innocently cornered, Madden felt relieved when a
small Navy bus drove up. They joined other contractors in a low,
gray building standing about drinking coffee and waiting. Chief
Yeoman Newby and Radarman 1/C Sean Barclay introduced themselves.
Moments later, as if on cue, they snapped to attention as an
officer entered. A hush fell over the room.

“
My name is Ward Conover:
Commander Ward Conover, to you,” he said. His hair was cropped
short and the color of black coal; the eyebrows were thick and
bushy and matted over his nose. He wore a hard expression that
oozed sternness: he could be characterized a chief bosun in the
Merchant Marine. In a gravelly, husky voice, he proclaimed, “I am
in charge of the
Missouri
. My job is a tough one, thirty
days to get her ready to tow. And, she will depart on time.
Understood. If you have any doubts, feel free to back out now. If
you have any other questions…?”

“
What kind of shape is she
in?”

Conover frowned as he cleared his throat.

“
After this briefing, you will be
taken on a tour. You can see for yourselves. The
Missouri
has been mothballed, sealed up below decks. Dry air is constantly
piped into all possible spaces using the ship’s fire mains.
Relative humidity has been kept at 30 percent. The
Missouri
is well preserved internally. Her equipment is in excellent
shape.”

‘“
When can we start?”

“
Contracts will be signed Tuesday
and you will be notified of assigned work areas. This job must be
done quickly.”

“
How extensive is the
work?”

“
Everything below decks is to be
opened up Dehumidification and preservation systems stripped out to
remain here at the Yard. Once inside, you will find the ship’s gear
stowed everywhere, valves, fittings, every gismo and doodad left
aboard. Each was tagged for a future activation team. And, if it’s
tagged, don’t touch it. If there are no further
questions…”

Hands rose. “Question?” Impressed with his
performance, Conover turned back to Newby. “Chief Yeoman Newby and
Radarman Barclay will cover additional details.” Conover turned
away and strode off.

“
Is he always like that?” Madden
asked Newby.

“
No, only when he’s in a good
mood. He’s been here three weeks and already he’s got everyone
pissed off.”

“
The bus is waiting,
gentlemen.”

The bus was painted Navy gray and had bars on the
windows. The ride was short; one could steer blind for the
Missouri
, the largest ship in the Yard. Trent let his eyes
move slowly from the outward sheer of the bows towering over them,
the formidable 16-inch gun turrets, up the tall superstructure and
aft along sweep of the steel main deck. He was saddened, as she
appeared resigned to remain on the land.

The group gathered at the foot of the gangway. The
rain had stopped, but the wind moaned freely across the open
pier.

“
She’s in a lot better shape than
many active duty ships,” said Barclay. He led the way on board,
stepping down onto the main deck. Barclay practiced tour guide as
contractors poked and probed the ship’s spaces. “We’ll go up to the
eighth level bridge.” The group dutifully followed. Barclay’s hands
tapped solid metal, “The conning tower is encased with 17.5-inch
thick, solid steel walls. During combat, the ship’s Captain and
supporting communications specialists locate here. The armor below
is 16-inches thick. Those periscopes are used to see out during
battle.”

“
After you receive your work
assignments,” Chief Yeoman Newby announced looking straight at
Trent, “I will clear you on board as quickly as possible. Some of
you will also require waterside access clearance. Hands went
up.

Trent whispered to Madden, “Make sure Newby gets us
cleared to the shell deck and powder magazine. It will help if we
can operate the shell hoist, but I expect to load manually.” Madden
offered, “Manually? Those High Explosive 16-inch shells weigh over
2000 pounds; even the powder bags come in just under 110 pounds.”
Trent ignored him, “Once the turret ring is broken loose, it can be
rotated manually. The guns can be manually elevated and fired. The
number two turret appears easier to secure. Yes, the number two
turret will do nicely,” Trent mulled with satisfaction.

* * *

The note read, “You haven’t called. Why?”

Ed held it up to his nose. “Ah! The aroma of
perfume.”

“
Just my mother wanting me to
call.”

“
Your mother dropped it off,” Ed,
the doorman, winked, waving the note. Trent would call Lisa. He
concluded her business was with Graves, and he had to stall her.
Trent recalled his investigator’s report: “…is watched carefully by
NARDO and may possess damaging evidence regarding criminal
activity…”

Taking the elevator to his apartment, he picked up
the phone and dialed. “Please leave a message after the tone…beep!”
He spoke then hung up. The number was not the same as Lisa had left
with the Holiday Fur Shoppe. He had just stripped down and stepped
into the shower when the wall phone rang. It was Lisa.

Trent picked her up on the corner of Second and
Madison. He let the clutch in and sent the Mustang bouncing up a
steep grade. She laughed as she pressed her hat to her head.
Driving north on the I-5 freeway, they exited to Ravenna. Lisa
said, “The Scarlet Tree is getting to be our hangout.” He pulled in
and parked. Lisa held her hat and handbag and threw her legs out
the car door. And, let her skirt climb her thighs. The way her
skirt accentuated the perfect shape of her body stirred an old
yearning.

Inside, they were seated at a small table for two.
Lisa propped her hands under her chin, her favorite pose, and
returned his gaze. A gold and green pendent accentuated the white
skin of her neck. Her blouse left little to the imagination,
accented by small freckles at the ‘V’. The deep red of her blouse
set off her natural colors. And those green eyes…

“
I’m getting to love this place. I
can see why it brought back memories of Myrna…Oh! I’m sorry,” Lisa
said. She reached out and touched his hand.

“
Don’t be. I’m over
it.”

She soon knew his story. Trent was grateful to have
someone to talk to other than Madden. She was not aware of his Navy
career, and he did not mention resigning. Before Lisa could draw
him out further, dinner arrived.

“
I’m sorry, here I am doing all
the talking,” Trent said.

“
Fighting is a hateful thing.”
Lisa seemed distressed.

“
Now that you’ve heard my life’s
history. What about yours? What business are you in?”

“
Collections and so forth,” she
replied, vaguely.

Trent felt sick, of himself, of the situation, but
he needed to know. “Who do you work for?”

She hesitated, evidently not expecting the
conversation to turn so quickly in her direction. Her voice was
relaxed, but her choice of words was careful.

“
I need to contact someone you
know.”

Each time they met, Lisa controlled the moment, set
the pace; and that, Trent realized, bolstered her confidence.
Uncomfortable with being fooled or toyed with, he had little choice
but accede until her motives became clear.

“
Who? Hank Graves.”

“
Maxie Hirsch.” Trent quickly
looked down, studying the green surface of his remaining martini
olive.

“
Why?” Trent looked up.

“
He has something someone
wants.”

“
Who’s looking?”

“
I can’t divulge my client’s
name.”

“
Then, what do they want from
him?”

“
Money!”

Trent recoiled and said nothing, remembering: “...Is
suspected of having conspired etc. to rig machines to produce large
payoffs.”