It took another three weeks for the professor to tweak the technology needed to perfect the invisibility suits. He took each of the group’s measurements and after embedding the metamaterial with the required computerized video components, he carefully cut the material and sewed it into a regular suit that would comfortably fit over their jump suits. It had to be functional and could not impede or interfere with their work. After all, Lucky and his friends would now become astronauts of sorts and mobility was crucial. Lindstrom turned seamstress almost, using extensive amounts of commercial Velcro and zippers. Part of the suit started at the feet, covering them entirely, and worked all the way up to a few inches above the knees. That half was secured to the upper part of the suit by a non-metal zipper that went completely around the knee area. It had a metamaterial flap meant to hide the zipper sewn into it. The upper part of the metamaterial, covering the thigh and hip areas, was secured with Velcro. The suits were a translucent, shiny gray, easily designed to allow access to weapons. Special gloves worked exactly as regular work gloves, affording dexterity and still maintaining invisibility. The brilliant mad scientist had done it. The suits were complete.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucky and Mickey and their friends had grown up in a neighborhood where, in order to travel from one block to another, it might mean having to fight your way all the way back home. It was here they learned how to band together, how there was strength in numbers. There really weren’t too many places to hang out as young kids, especially when the weather turned cold. There were pool halls for the older guys and bars for the yet older ones, but nowhere for the kids caught in between. Mr. Cassidy, the boys’ junior high school gym teacher, solved the winter problem. He offered his gym and his mentorship. He took many of the boys off the streets and into a warm environment. He taught them discipline. He also taught them how to box and the basics of gymnastics. Cassidy got them into shape and made it seem like fun. This remained their winter hangout until the boys aged and they too joined the ranks of pool hall groupies and eventually, neighborhood bars and restaurants. One such bar was a mainstay of their youth and had remained so to this day.
As Lucky and friends grew into manhood, they would meet at the P&M, a neighborhood bar before a date and would return there after the date. The P&M bar was
the
place for the guys, seven days a week, all year long, unless one of them had something else going on. The Corona, Queens street corner place was a regular stopover for the locals getting off work; a community hangout where everyone knew each other and strangers immediately stood out.
One day, while Lucky and Mickey were still in Australia, a group of “non” regulars entered and remained all day until closing. They returned the following day, and the day after, and every day after that. The men would sit at a corner table and nurse one beer over the course of two hours at a time. It seemed that the men were out of place. The local boys knew they were not cops, that much was certain, and they also knew that they weren’t from the “neighborhood.” So the local boys talked among themselves and decided to carry on normally, never tipping off the intruders as to their growing suspicions. The men sported close-cropped hair, much akin to the crew top, popular among American military men. Most all of them were muscular, it was hard not to notice, and they made no attempt to hide their tattooed wrists. One by one, the local guys took turns sneaking peeks at the tattoos, and bit-by-bit, they concluded that the marks represented Russian Special Forces.
And so it went. Each day for weeks, the big, tattooed, strangers entered the bar, sat quietly in the corner, and slowly sipped their vodka and beers. Occasionally, one left briefly and returned. Apparently, what they didn’t realize was how protective the bar’s patrons were of one other, as they were throughout the entire community. Many an evening one of the guys escorted a woman home late at night and because they watched out for each other, the crime rate was lower in this neighborhood than many of the others. Each night, the strangers remained until closing time. Each night, quiet observation was turning into anger toward these guys. The intruders were getting on the locals’ nerves. There was a sense of violation, an invasion of territory, and the boys . . . didn’t like it.
One evening, the front door of the bar opened and a gust of wind blew napkins off of some of the tables, like a scene from a movie. Nicky and Dukie walked inside and were greeted with slaps on the backs and rounds of drinks from the local gang. Nicky and Dukie had been away for a while and they were missed. The strangers’ expressions suddenly changed; their eyes seemed more attentive and this did not go unnoticed by the other patrons. The bartender, Willy, put his hand under the bar and reached for the billy club that he kept there. Once he had a firm grip on it, he stooped down a bit behind the bar and slipped it behind his back, under his belt, making sure to cover it with his shirt. The whole room knew that something was about to happen. They could feel it. It was in the air. One by one, the strangers got up from the table and walked out the door, acting as though they were leaving. But instead of driving away, the men opened up their trunks and began unloading items, weapons it appeared, and quickly worked to pass them out as the bar’s customers watched from the large window facing the street.
Jimmy Lamb, one of Lucky’s friends, was there. He was the one who was responsible for introducing Lucky to the professor. He had asked Lucky for help in protecting the man and his scientific secrets. Jimmy unholstered his gun and rushed to a position beside the front door. He shouted out, “The first one comin’ through that door gets his brains blown out.” At that moment, the front door flew open and the first stranger walked in. Jimmy wasted no time. He shot him in the chest and before he could shoot again, the stranger staggered out the door and stumbled down the steps and landed on the concrete sidewalk.
“Too bad,” Jimmy shouted to the others outside. “You come lookin’ for trouble in this neighborhood, you sure as hell are gonna find it.”
The Russians raised their guns and they too took positions on both sides of the door, only outside. Like crazy cowboys, they started shooting blindly through the windows and the door. Everyone in the bar took cover and many managed to find their way out the back exit by crawling in their stomachs to safety. The shots kept coming, round after round, but a fuselage of shots from inside the bar met theirs.
Georgie the Greek, as he was affectionately known in the neighborhood, was in his car. As usual, he had tipped the bottle a little too much and was fully reclined in his seat, sleeping off his intoxication. The sound of gunshots all around startled him awake. Only partially coherent, he cautiously peered out of the car window. Georgie was surprised to see two strangers bent down low beside his car with guns aimed and firing toward the bar. They seemed pinned down, trapped by the gunfire, with nowhere to go. Slowly, Georgie crawled out of the seat onto the floorboard, reached underneath the seat, and found his hidden partition. He reached inside of it and pulled out the Uzi pistol. He grabbed three thirty-round clips, slammed one into the receiver, pulled back the slide, and chambered a round. He waited patiently. When the strangers made a run to the car in front of his, he opened the door and fired at them point blank, killing both. Georgie nodded toward the guys inside the bar, got back into his car, and calmly drove away. Not a soul inside the bar was harmed and before the police arrived, each of the locals had disappeared, one by one, until the bar was eerily vacant, with just the bartender Willy and the acrid smell of gunpowder and fired weapons. When the police questioned Willy, he told them that it appeared to be nothing more than two rival mobs and he didn’t recognize any of them.
“If you ask me,” he said, “my guess is you’ll find that they were Russians probably fighting over turf.”
Willy was concerned about the establishment, about its liquor license. He motioned the Lieutenant over to the bar.
“What happened here, Lieutenant O’Day, really has nothing to do with the bar. It all happened outside with nothing to do with us in here and if you could make sure that not much is made of this whole incident, if you can just make this go away, I am fairly sure that it is safe to say that you will not have to worry about your retirement, ever . . . again. I can guarantee you that the owner of the bar would be most appreciative.”
The police officer stood quietly for a moment. The bar owners all knew the local police. Each cop had his beat and O’Day was a familiar face in these parts.
“I’m stepping outside,” the officer replied. “I want to see exactly who these guys are and if you’re right and if they are Russian, I’ll be back to talk to you about what you just said.”
As O’Day turned to walk away, Willy advised him to check the tattoos on their wrists. The Lieutenant stepped out the door and Willy watched through the window as Lieutenant O’Day spoke to his fellow officers, motioning and pointing his right hand to his left wrist, then pointing to one of the dead men on the floor. The officer walked over to one of the dead men lying on the sidewalk, picked up his wrist, turned it over, and studied it for moment. He let go of it and walked over to another man that was lying close by and picked up his wrist as well, repeating the exercise. O’Day walked back to the other officers, talked a little longer, nodded, and headed back into the bar where he approached Willy, nodded, and smiled. Willy, with complete understanding, grabbed two whiskey glasses, set them on the bar, and poured a shot of Crown Royal into each. Willy raised his glass, O’Day followed, and the two glasses met with a celebratory clink.
“To us,” said Willy as they downed their drinks almost simultaneously.
“You were right,” O’Day said. “The dead men are Russian. Special Forces. The report will say that this shooting was a dispute over territory, Russian mob, and happened outside on the sidewalks. There’ll be no mention of the knife we found. I’m keeping my end of the bargain. Just let me know how you intend to keep yours.”
“Will do, officer,” Willy answered. “When the boss man gets back into town, I’m sure he’ll make sure a thick brown bag gets to you.”
“Happen to know when?” O’Day asked.
Willy thought for a second and said, “Hold on a minute.” He picked up his cell phone and made a call. Lucky answered on the second ring. Willy explained everything that had happened. Lucky told him to tell the officer that he would be returning within the week.“But, wait a minute,” he said. “Put him on the phone.”
Willy handed the phone to the Lieutenant, who listened for a couple of brief moments. A smile spread across his face and, soon thereafter, he ended the call.
“Everything all right?” Willy asked.
“Very all right. Will be even better after I get your call,” the officer replied.
“Fair enough,” Willy replied.
The next afternoon, Doc Lamb, the highly respected local neighborhood captain of sorts, father of Jimmy Lamb, walked into the bar. He approached Willy and asked if Dukie and Nicky Bell were in the back. Willy told him that Dukie was here as he pointed to the back room, but he added, not Nicky.
As soon as Doc spotted Dukie talking with some other local guys, he motioned to him with a shake of his head and a wave of his arm, signaling him to follow him into the room in the back, an area reserved for weddings and special events. The two men headed to a table at the far end of the room for privacy. Not that the Doc didn’t trust these guys, but he did not think it wise for them to hear what he was about to divulge to Dukie. Before Doc said a word, Dukie put his finger to his lips, walked into the next room, dropped a quarter into the jukebox, and walked back to the back room.
Dukie said, “No sense taking any chances. Who knows if this place is bugged?” There was little chance of that because Willy had the place swept every week, but Dukie was right, why take a chance. The loud music blared over their conversation.
“I was on the phone all morning,” Doc said, “calling every contact I have that might tell me what the Russians were up to and, to be honest with you, I wasn’t having much luck. I have a lot of favors owed me, but I didn’t get one phone call back until,” he said with emphasis, “about a half hour ago.”
Dukie didn’t say a word and allowed him to continue.
“I was told by someone who prefers to remain anonymous that the Russians were attempting to kidnap you and Nicky – wanted to use you two as bait to get to Lucky and the professor.”
“Dukie,” Doc went on. “Don’t think for a minute that these people have given up. They’re not going to stop until they get the two of you, so you have to be on your guard and, if you want my advice, get out of town until this blows over. I was told emphatically by my contact that if the Russian goons failed in getting you guys, then I am their plan B. That’s right. If they can’t get you two, they’re comin’ for me. They know that Lucky won’t allow anything to happen to the three of us. In all my years as a politician and as a leader in our community, I have never feared being kidnapped. Lucky needs to know what’s going on.”
Dukie took out his cell phone and called Nicky. Sternly and emphatically, he told him to make his way over to the bar immediately. He told him that he would be waiting for him in the banquet room.
Doc went on to tell Dukie, “The Russian backup team arrived last night. There are four of them. They were sending more, but after last night’s disaster, they’re tryin’ to keep a low profile. That’s all I know, except they won’t hit the bar again. The Russians were surprised by the firepower. They’ll try to do it quietly next time.”
Doc and Dukie talked a while longer. Ten minutes later, Nicky sauntered into the back room and joined the two men. Nicky was carrying an automatic and the CIA I.D. that Lucky had given him courtesy of his friend Johnny Long, the head of the eastern division of the CIA. The I.D. allowed him to carry his gun in New York City. It had been given to all the boys as a reward of sorts when they had all worked together with Lucky to capture the terrorists who were smuggling three suitcase nukes into the country. It was Nicky’s and Dukie’s efforts that contributed to the success of that little adventure.