PANDORA DRIVER: READY FIRE AIM
Created by John Picha
INTRODUCTION
Can you imagine a time without computers, the Internet, or TV? Telephones were connected to walls by wires, and a “cell” was a place to put bad guys. The daily news was delivered by a paperboy, not a cable. Laptops were where children sat to tell Santa Christmas wishes. Magazines were presented on pulp, not iPads. Entertainment in the airwaves was received by vacuum tubes in a wooden radio, the centerpiece of the family room. And no one left home without a hat.
In October of 1942, men went to war as women replaced riveters in factories. Mary Marvel landed in Fawcett Comics, Screwtape wrote letters, and children began reading Little Golden Books. In the theaters, a fawn named Bambi lost his mother, Mrs Miviver explored class divisions, and Cagney became a Yankee Doodle Dandy. On the radio, Spike Jones lampooned Der Fuehrer's Face, Kay Kyser Praised the Lord to Pass Ammunition, and NBC debuted People are Funny.
In Europe, World War II escalated. The German army attempted to enslave the people of Stalingrad with advanced military might, but the partisan forces resisted the brutal military occupation with a fury that ebbed the Axis tide. Eventually, the war would cost the Soviets a 10th of their population.
In the US, over 5 million Americans enlisted or were drafted in 1942. Volunteers deemed 4F were left to resolve their guilt stateside, while deferments were offered to the sons of the connected or to men necessary in their civilian activity, like cops. They had a city to protect from its citizens…
CITADEL CITY, 9 OCTOBER 1942
3:23 AM
Officer Kirk of the Citadel Police force, feels adrenaline tugging at the leash of his better judgment. He holds his position against the interior wall and scans the other twenty officers lining the darkened, 6th floor hallway of the Winchester Arms apartments. He looks for the familiar face of any other beat cop like himself, who has been shanghaied into this hastily assembled detail, but the high collars of specially ordered urban-flak-vests, and the wide rims of civil defense helmets painted black, cloak the men’s identities in deep shadows. All badges and civilian uniforms are hidden beneath the additional combat equipment, and Officer Kirk wonders what kind of cops surround him. He knows that a group of policeman is called a squad, but this gathering feels more like an army.
Each man clutches a sleek, Reising Model 50 submachine gun, with a cyclic firing rate of 550 rounds per minute. Earlier this year, these proven man-stoppers had been requisitioned by the Coast Guard, then partially diverted to the Citadel police. Now, in the olive painted hallway, twenty well-oiled Reising barrels point at the sturdy walnut door on the left. According to the stakeout team, their target is behind it.
The target’s name is Niles Weiss, the broker, and he's been on-the-lam since 1934. About an hour ago, the police got a lucky tip and assembled an assault team from available men. Many of them want their names attached to this celebrity collar. None of them have any intension of letting him slip away again, regardless of the cost.
Anticipating the order to invade the premises, Officer Kirk digs the hobnails of his jackboots deep into the interlocking zigzag pattern of the carpeting. His eyes dart from silent figure to silent figure, not really knowing where the order to ‘go’ will come from. He tries to tamp down his excitement with controlled breathing as the pulse in his gloved finger throbs against the trigger-guard of his weapon. He thinks, “The quality that made Wyatt Earp an exceptional lawman wasn't his skill with a six shooter. He was uncommonly cool during a shootout. That, kept him alive and prevented him from looking like a fool.”
Kirk takes another calming breath and reminds himself, “Don’t think with your gun… Keep your mind one step ahead of the present.”
BA-SLAM
Suddenly, the walnut door collapses inward, and all bodies are in motion. Someone yells, “HE'S GOT A GUN!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The machine gun fire is deafening, as Officer Kirk is swept into the river of dark figures rushing toward the doorway. But something catches his attention, so he breaks from the ranks for a better look. Through the window at the end of the hallway, he can see a member of the stakeout team in a building across the street. He's revealed his position and is frantically signaling to the team in the hall.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Using his full arm, he violently points in the opposite direction of the assault. Kirk realizes, “They reported that the subject was in the room on the left, but their vantage point is the reverse of ours. When they said, the room on the left, they meant our right. Shit! We’re invading the wrong apartment!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Now, Kirk is alone in the hallway, and though he tries to warn the others of the error, his words are drowned out by machine gun fire and breaking glass. He turns to face the opposite door, then rushes it, throwing all his weight into it.
KA-SLAM
The wooden frame splinters as the heavy door pops open. Kirk stumbles into the room in time to see the subject disappear through a secret passage in the wall. As Kirk cautiously approaches the hidden hatch, he can hear the other peacekeepers yelling across the hall.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR FIRE!”
“It's not Weiss! It's just some colored guy!”
“Is he dead?”
“No, but we tagged him a few times!”
“What about his gun?”
“It was a slipper!”
“I guess, we should get him to a hospital?”
“Where the hell is Weiss?”
Kirk yells to them, “HE'S IN HERE!” He rips open the hidden panel. The cubbyhole is unoccupied, but it reveals a rough-hewn bridging tunnel, connecting to the long, brass garbage chute. Worrying he's about to get shot in the face, Kirk quick-peeks into the opening, then takes a second, longer look. He sees movement in the light at the end of the tunnel, five floors below him, in the street level garage.
The rest of the men stampede Kirk with weapons drawn. He throws his hands up, as he yells, “DON’T SHOOT!”
One of the larger men, grasping a smoking gun, demands, “Where is he, soldier?”
Kirk points and says, “I saw him go down there.”
He shoves Kirk out of the way to inspect the escape route. It reminds him of the large cowlings on a ship decks. Hoping to get the drop on the subject, he hops in, dangles his jackbooted feet into the tube for a moment before letting go. If he were only dressed in a traditional police uniform, he would have slid right down. Unfortunately, he gets stuck due to the extra gear he's packing. Looking like an angry Pooh Bear, he rages at the rest of the unit. “I'm stuck. Get me the Hell out of here!”
Laughter rolls through the group, as two sycophantic subordinates grab at his flailing arms to tug him from his confined fix.
Frustrated at the debacle, Kirk pushes his way through the rubberneckers, abandoning the unfolding chaos for the hallway, where the entire mess began to unravel. He bolts to the window at its end and opens it. The cool night air finds all the patches of his exposed skin, as he climbs out onto the fire escape. Corroded rust blisters on the aged metal stairs, rupture into crumbs under his boot heels.
As he rapidly descends level to stairs, level to stairs, he can't help but notice glaring safety violations along his route; metal fatigue, cracked welds, and decapitated anchor bolts. The vibrations from his descent increase to a wobble, nearly causing him to lose his footing. Stopping to steady himself, he realizes rust flakes are showering him from above. The other cops have exited the window and are following him down the rickety, metal cage.
Fearing it will collapse under their combined weight, Kirk opts to bypass the stairs altogether. He slings his Reising and climbs over the metal hand railing to a drainpipe that follows along side the fire escape. He slides down the pipe and building, hobnails shredding bricks as his momentum rapidly increases.
Nearing the ground, he releases the pipe, then strikes the cold sidewalk with a thud and tumble, rolling him in front of a set of red double-doors. From behind them, Kirk hears an unseen engine racing in the parking garage. It gets louder and louder as the sound barrels down in on his position. The doors vibrate.
VRROOOOMM KA-BASH
Kirk barely rises to his feet before diving away from the nightshade-blue juggernaut that explodes into view. Its heavy chrome bumper batters the doors off their hinges. High beams appear to levitate the doors up and over the sturdy body of a 1941 Buick Century Series 60 Touring Sedan.
SKREEEECH
Whitewalls scream as the car turns sharply onto the side street. From the fire escape above, police draw their weapons and fire wildly.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Kirk rolls to the wall for cover as the bullets rain down, chipping street bricks and sidewalk concrete.
SKREEEECH
The swift Buick swerves onto Hegira Avenue, escaping around the corner building. The gunfire from above ceases and Officer Kirk staggers to his feet as a fog of breath escapes from him.
Then, from out of the shadows, a large, second car emerges like something from a dream. It glides toward Officer Kirk with the confidence and grace of a shark across a dark, tranquil bay. The polished, black body reflects the city lights, slowly slithering over the streamlined form, like glowing quicksilver. As the mirrored driver-side window passes Officer Kirk, he’s jarred by his reflection, a faceless soldier occupying the streets of his city.
Unknown to Kirk, on the other side of the one-way glass, Pandora Driver gazes at him from the dark confines of her car-of-tomorrow. The vehicles night-vision glass peels away the shadows, revealing every detail of his dashing, black-Irish features. He has an aquiline nose, thick black brows, and 5 o’clock shadow that’s darkened passed midnight. She stares into his boyish eyes for a moment that lingers like a photograph in her mind. She thinks, “Call it curiosity or call it a decadent pleasure, but I love to spy on cops.”
Static crackles and whines as she adjusts a radio dial from the long dashboard of glowing lights. She thinks, “Tonight, I've tuned into the only radio show that broadcasts at this late hour. Thanks to the unique transceiver in my car, I’ve been eavesdropping on dispatches between Precinct 13 and its patrol cars. For the last half hour or so, I've monitored the progress of their top-secret operation at the Winchester Arms. I may not be the world’s greatest detective, but there are enough clues for me to piece together a story.
“From the excessive gunfire above, and the scene I just witnessed at the door garage, it's not to hard to figure out something went wrong. I know of the guy they are looking for, everyone does, and I got a good look at the driver, who nearly flattened that cop. It was Niles Weiss.
“I'm not sure if finding him after all those years is proof of police competence or incompetence, but there are skilled investigators on the force. That's the main reason I cop-watch, to learn from them. What are their methodologies? What do they look for? How do they operate? Over the past few years, I’ve discovered many unexpected things about them, and I want to know more.
“I may not be the world greatest detective, yet, but I am a unique problem solver with some special tools of my own.”
VROOOOOMMM
Kirk watches the mysterious, black car speed up and disappear around the corner of Hegira Ave in pursuit of the Buick Century 60.
Then, his trance is broken by an oafish blow from behind. The rest of the cops have caught up to him. Surprisingly, the fire-escape held the weight of the entire phalanx. He watches the stragglers round the last landing and stairs like a railway marble game, emptying to the sidewalk behind him.
A deep voice within the angry posse orders, “To the squad cars, men!”
Kirk starts running with the group, but he feels hampered by the restrictive gear. He stops and thinks, “Got to get rid of this goon-suit, so I can move again.”
He sheds the dreary layer of gear to reveal his proud police blues below. Shiny brass buttons adorn his wool four-pocket coat. A Sam Browne belt with shoulder strap totes a holster. The wide collar accentuates his broad shoulders. A polished gold badge with a raised star shimmers over his strong heart. Feeling freed, he stretches and tastes the cool night air of the city he’s sworn to protect.
“Time to stop playing army and get back to being a cop.”
CLANK
He drops the black CD helmet next to the discarded gear. Kirk bolts toting the Reising and a web belt packed with ammo. He thinks, “Best not leave these for some kid to find on the way to school in the morning.”
The beat cop quickly gains on the militarized mob, but he runs outside the pack. They all race around to the front of the building, where four black sedans wait at a long concrete planter, like horses tied at a water-trough. The 1937 Studebaker 4-door Dictators have been customized by order of the Mayor. Of course, the cost was rolled over to the taxpayers.
Each car has been fitted with 10 gauge steel armor throughout the body, guaranteed bulletproof up to 45 caliber. The windows are 1 inch thick and sport chrome gun ports. The multi-ply tires have inner-liners for puncture reduction. Sturdy chrome sirens are mounted to the front fender nacelles. And each of the front doors is adorned with flying gold shields that read, “CITADEL POLICE DEPT”. The phrase “To Protect and to Serve” hovers over the emblem like a halo.
As they arrive at their Dictators, it's quickly decided that two men will use one of the cars to deliver the wrongly wounded apartment-dweller to the hospital. While en route, they will decide what he did wrong to get himself shot.
The rest of the men, including Kirk, anxiously crack open the remaining Studebakers suicide doors and jump in. Since there are more passengers than seats, a few good men are relegated to riding on the running boards. Three drivers hit their starters. Beneath horizontal chrome toothed grilles and triangular hoods, 217 cubic inch inline 6 engines roar to life. In unison, the overloaded cars rock backwards into a one-point turn, then peel out down Hegira Avenue.
BRAKKA
A few eager shots are fired into the night sky, signaling the mechanical, metropolitan Calvary rides. Over the 2-way radios, a confident voice orders, “Follow that Buick!”
The cool night air sucks the warm sewer stench, perpetually brewing in the bowels of the city, up through gutter grates. The sparse traffic of the hour is spilt between night owls, ending their day, and early birds, beginning theirs. Loaded drunks spill empty bottles of booze from taxicabs then fumble to their front doors. Elsewhere, milkmen deliver fresh bottles to metal boxes outside the homes of children still dreaming in bed.
VROOOOOMMM
The Buick Special slices between the cusp of yesterday and tomorrow. The rushing wind beneath its undercarriage, rips settled moisture from street bricks into the air, leaving a trail of mist. Seconds later, the suspended vapor sprays the split windshield of the mysterious car in hot pursuit.
VROOOOOMMM
Inside, Pandora Driver straps herself in and prepares to ram the 4,000 lb getaway car. She scans the road ahead, looking for a vacant stretch of street. One arrives. She clenches her teeth as her gloved hands grapple the steering wheel. She stomps the accelerator of her weapon on wheels, and bears down on her quarry with the force of a freight train.
VROOOOOMMM
Suddenly, a passenger appears in the rear window of the Buick. It's a redheaded woman with frightened green eyes and a tight gag biting her mouth. Pandora realizes, “He's got a hostage!”
Seconds before impact, Pandora stomps the brakes with both feet, and swerves to abort collision.
SKREECH CLA-BANG
The hurtling car skids into a spin that's stopped by white walls and rims slapping against a high sidewalk curb. Sparks spit at the impact. Pandora struggles for, and regains control of her unwieldy vehicle, then continues her pursuit from two car lengths behind. She thinks, “Leave it to a monster to use a human shield as an insurance policy. Time to switch to plan B.”
She yanks a small lever out from under the dash. It causes something mechanical to happen beneath the floor pans. Then, she centers her car-of-tomorrow behind the Buick Special and thumbs a red trigger. A metal puck ejects from between her front wheels. It sparks a trail as it skips across the street bricks, before disappearing under the Buick with a clink. Pandora Driver reduces speed, letting her target breakaway. She thinks, “Now you can run, but you can't hide.”
She relaxes behind the wheel for a moment…then the Dictators arrive.
WEEEE-OOOOU
WEEEE-OOOOU
Three squad cars descend like gangbusters. Fender mounted sirens wail and flash, like red ray-guns, blasting the back of Pandora's car-of-tomorrow. Eager armed officers, hanging from doors, shoot around the moving obstacle at their target ahead of the pack, Weiss' Buick.
BRAKKA BRAKKA
A wobbled shot shatters the get-away-cars rear window, forcing the hostage to duck. Witnessing the close call, Pandora jerks her steering wheel to shield the Buick Century from the three squad cars. The 5-car pursuit procession weaves around horse carts, paper trucks, and L track supports.
Lobo, the square-jawed driver of squad car 13, activates a window-mounted spotlight and shines a bright white beam on Pandora's car. He notes, “It's got no plates”, before cueing up his PA system. He grabs a microphone from its dash mount. In a booming voice that echoes down the narrow street, he yells, “PULL OVER!”
In rebuttal, a woman's voice invades the interior of the police packed car, via 2-way radio. “Gentlemen, this is the big car in front of you. Niles Weiss is not alone in his…”
Immediately, Lobo switches from PA to transmitter and angrily interrupts, “THIS IS A PRIVATE POLICE CHANNEL! GET OFF IT, NOW!”
She responds, “Listen to me for a second. Weiss has…”
Lobo cuts her off again, “NO, YOU LISTEN ME, LADY! YOU'RE OBSTRUCTING JUSTICE!”
She tries to talk over him, “...tied up…” but is blocked by his domination of the airwaves. Spittle douses his mic as he rages, “GET OFF THE RADIO AND GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR WAY!”
“...no...”
“CARS 10 AND 21, OUR COMMUNICATIONS HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED.”
“…but…”
“SHE'S AN ACCOMPLICE. IT'S SOME KIND OF TRICK! IGNORE HER!”
“…I repeat…”
“RIG FOR SILENT RUNNING!”
“…to get hurt…”
“AND FOLLOW MY LEAD!”
“…asshole…”
All three cars switch go radio silent. Lobo addresses his passengers directly, “I don't have time for this! Blast that bitch off the road!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Studebaker running boards aren't the best shooting platforms during a high-speed chase, but that doesn't deter the clinging Reising wielders from firing wildly from the bouncing and swerving vehicles.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Sparks explode as a hail of hot bullets rain down on the car-of-tomorrow till clips are empty. To reload, the shooters stick their weapons through the open windows where their partners quickly swap spent clips for fresh ones.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Observing from the back seat of car 13, Kirk thinks, “I always wondered if the Lone Ranger used silver bullets, so he'd be more cautious how he spent them.”
He sets his unfired Reising on the floor, then removes a Colt 45 from his holster and thinks, “The other guys razz me about my wild-west weapon of choice, but I like its weight and think the long barrel is easier to aim. Plus, when using a revolver, you've got a limited number of bullets, so it forces you to carefully consider when to use them, and where you want to put them. Each bullet has to count, and I want to know where all mine end up. Bullets don't stop till they hit something.”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Hundreds of rounds are fired. Many spark as they bounce off the black cars heavy hide, while others vanish into the night.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The steed pulling Tom Haskell’s milk-cart rears as a wild bullet embeds into its leg joint. Later, it will be put down. Another round creates a glass spiderweb as it pops through a bedroom window, before stopping in a crib. A volley of lead shatters the block long display window of a five and dime, sending twinkling crumbs of glass tumbling into the street. Another splits the plank of a closed newsstand before entering the back of old Freddy Phillips as he leafs through a fresh Western Story pulp magazine. A streetlight globe explodes as a high shot passes through it.
Bullets riddle the quarter panels of Pandora Driver's car, in hopes of hitting a shrouded wheel. Through her rearview mirror, she watches the bloodthirsty keystone cops descend upon her. She does her best to protect the hostage in the Buick, from them, as they jockey to outflank her.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
The car-of-tomorrow is far faster than the three Studebaker Dictators. If this were a race, she'd leave them in the dust. Unfortunately, this contest is a matter of out maneuvering one another for the advantage, and she is out numbered 3 to 1. As she swerves left to block car 13, car 21 guns the engine for the open lane on the right. As she cuts back right to block car 21, cars 10 and 13 break left in tandem. There are too many for her to stay in front of them all.
Lobo yells to his crew, “HANG ON!” then turns his wheel, jabbing his fender into her rear.
KL-BLANG
He tries to force her to spin out of control and bump her off the road. Inside, Pandora feels his contact and growls, “Ok, that's it.”
She stomps the gas pedal. The throttle gulps more air, and the car-of-tomorrow rockets away. For a moment, it looks like she's going to pass the Buick, but then, she slams on the brakes. She thinks, “You want to play rough? Here I come.”
SKREEEECH
The heavy, black car-of-tomorrow spins sideways in the street, blocking both lanes. Inside the squad cars, three jackbooted heels jump on break pedals.
Inside the heavy black car, Pandora Driver stares into six headlights and braces herself. Behind another wheel, Lobo sees what’s coming but has to much momentum to stop...
SKREEEECH
Tires scream as five tons of Studebaker steel, slides synchronized over street bricks.
CRA-BA-BA-BASH
Cars 13 and 10 double T-bone the big, black car. Radiators burst. Headlights explode. Fenders compress. Chrome grills uncoil. And cops are launched from running boards and flung into the pile up.
CA-BA-BANG
The trailing car, 21, rear-ends its allies, bouncing them back into the black barricade like a deadly game of bumper cars. The Passengers bounce like loose bullets in ammo-boxes. Frames are bent. Batteries are cracked. More men tumble into the heavy metal and a litany of both mechanical and medical injuries are suffered.
For frozen moments in the aftermath, the only movement in the wreckage is the gentle hiss of steam escaping from cracked radiators. Surviving red lights continue to flash, as a sick sound of a siren loses pitch, fades, then dies.
Lobo's eyes flutter open and focus on a broken speedometer needle stuck at 43. His head arises from his steel steering wheel. His mouth feels different. He looks in the rearview mirror and pulls back his lacerated lips to discover his incisors are all gone. He coughs, spitting out a mouth full of teeth and blood.
Beside him the crimpled door is ajar, and he stumbles out clutching his Reising. Around him, those who can stand arise like the living dead. Bloody and bruised, they stagger to cover.
Through the steam, Lobo glares at the black car blocking his way and his anger reignites. He's never encountered such an egregious act of resistance before. He takes cover in the V between the open door and the windshield frame. He lets out a strained scream, “FIRE GOD DAMN IT! FIRE!”
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA
Like a battering-ram of angry, lead hornets, hundreds of bullets pummel the streamlined barricade. All fire is concentrated on the driver-side window, but the bulletproof-glass, forged by super-science, holds. On the other side, Pandora Driver feels the force of the rapid-fire taps on the rattling glass, inches away from her face. Through the shower of hot lead and sparks, she watches as ricochets bounce back and forth between the impacted, armored cars. She traces the line-of-fire back to the shooters. The strobe of muzzle flashes ignite angry scowls, waxing wroth beneath black helmets, but she can't hear their curses over the deafening hail. As her eyes travel from face to face, she thinks, “On my cop-watch outings, I've discovered there are two distinct breeds of policeman.
“The first one becomes drunk on the power and privileges a badge can offer, and exploits them for his own benefit. I call them Bulls, because they follow the scent of the brass ring pierced through nostrils. Bulls want to be insiders, to lord power, and perpetuate the corruption of the monsters who un-pen them.
“The second type wants to help people. I call them Knights, since they appear to follow a Code of Chivalry; to protect the weak and defenseless, to eschew unfairness, meanness and deceit, to speak the truth, and to fight for the welfare of all.
She watches a cop reload.
“One tramples over us, the other walks among us. One asks, ‘What do I get?’ The other asks, ‘What can I do?’ One sees citizens as obstacles, the other sees us as allies. Sometimes you can spot them easily…”
Her scan stops on a hatless cop who's not dressed like the others. She recognizes his face as the man standing by the parking garage, before the chase began. For the second time tonight, he unknowingly makes eye contact with her. He's crouched behind a door for cover, but he's not shooting. He doesn't even have a gun raised.
Pandora concludes, “…But you can never be too sure.”
An armored angry cop asks Officer Kirk, “WHY AREN’T YOU SHOOTING SOLDIER?!”
Kirk responds, “I don't even know what we are shooting at.”
Kirks heart pounds in sync with his comrades, and he studies the insane scene. Inside, he repeats the pledge he took at the police academy, not so long ago, “On my honor, I vow to protect the citizenry and property of the people of Citadel City. I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character or the public trust. Without exception, I will have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions.”
He never draws his gun, during the shootout.
Finally, the steady stream of police fire, subsides, then trickles, as magazines are depleted, one at a time until silence. The only sound on the street is the gently, purring engine inside the car-of-tomorrow.
Pandora throws her column shifter in reverse, peals back away from the bewildered heaps that rammed her, then turns away, down the street, abandoning the scene of the accident. Dumbfounded, the police realize there's not a scratch on the mysterious vehicle without plates, as it disappears into the shadows of the night.
THE KANKAKEE RIVER
4:37 AM
The changing leaves of autumn rustle in the woods along the river road, an hour south of the city. Dense trees arch across the overgrown path from both sides, connecting canopies to form a natural forest tunnel. It ends at a clearing with an isolated cabin. Candlelight flickers from foggy windows. The moon reveals a nightshade-blue, Buick Century 60 Touring Sedan, hidden behind the cabin.
During the summer months, the cabins along the riverbank become popular weekend getaways for city dwellers, looking to escape the heat and pressures of city life. Before the crash of 1929, these woods were a sportsman's paradise for anglers and hunters. However, since the crash, the river's been fished out, and all the game's been depleted by hungry families struggling to survive the Great Depression.
The tranquility of the locale is marred by the series of heavy thuds rattling the isolated cabin. For the moment, it’s become Niles Weiss’ hideout.
No matter his mood, Niles Weiss has the type of face that always looks like he’s smirking. His round head sports a bold hawk-nose and dark, side swept hair that looks slept in. He's dressed in blue anchor print pajamas, tweed sports jacket, and brown Oxford wingtips with no socks. Currently, he's wielding a sledgehammer and destroying the interior of an isolated cabin in the woods. He's a far cry from the life he once knew on Easy street.
Niles Weiss was lucky enough to be born into a world of wealth and privilege, and he enjoyed all the spoils of his station. With the ample allowance he'd been given all his life, he fed the ever-fattening stockmarket of the 1920s. To him, it was work. He studied stocks like a gambler poring over racing forms. He learned the tricks of trading, like healthily buying on margin. That way, every dollar he invested became ten instantly. When you have a million dollars to play with, a measly ten percent gain becomes a $100,000 profit. In the roaring 1920s, that seemed like all the money in the world, and he played and played. Weiss was a braggart and overtime he acquired more wealth than his father, who he let know in the most ostentatious ways. When the market was up, Weiss was the life of the party, but when it was down, he could be a real prick.
Then in October of 1929, his luck ran out, and he lost everything when the market crashed on Black Tuesday. All of his worldly possessions began draining into a black hole of debt. He begged his parents for financial support, but his father wished to teach the young man about frivolity, so he cut him off. He implied it was a life lesson, but in reality the elder's coffers were also dented by the crash. His father didn't feel it was prudent to share what was left with his son, and he ordered his wife to maintain that front. They kept news of Niles’ financial straits private, to avoid embarrassment from their peers.
Niles was confused by how some other well-to-do families were able to maintain their standard of living during the crisis. He wanted what they still had, so he devised a plan to get it.
To outsiders, Niles seemed to be thriving. He acquired a larger mansion and filled it with the finest furniture and artwork. He changed new cars weekly. Others took notice of what looked like post-crash success, but they didn't realize how far he was getting himself in debt, and that all his newly acquired possessions were rented. It was bait.
From the pangs within him, Niles knew that greed wasn't the prime sin of the wealthy, it was envy. So, he threw lavish parties to show the moneyed just how much he appeared to have. Guests received opulent favors, they dined on the most exquisite foods from elaborate buffets, and they were served the finest wine and spirits. Each treasure and trophy in Niles' palace had a compelling history. As a quartet played, he presented slides of his adventures in, what looked like, the most exotic locations around the globe.
He was the consummate mingler and handily spoke in the tongue of the rich. He could juggle complex figures in his head, and in stock related conversations, he exuded the confidence of an expert broker. He joked that he had to open his own brokerage firm since all the others had shut down.
All the while he talked, he was actually waiting for someone to ask him a key question, “How are you able to grow your earnings during this Great Depression?”
It rang like a bell, which made his mouth water. It signaled him to ease into a well rehearsed, soft-sales-pitch that leaked out of him like a casual conversation. He implied he had connections in Washington DC and that he'd actually been asked to help draft a recovery program, but he wasn't at liberty to divulge its name. He claimed it exploited a loophole allowing shrewd investors a window of opportunity to profit from the economic decline, if they knew where to look and when to move. He hinted that, from his connection, he had advanced knowledge of economic news, both good and bad, that he'd profited from both. He suggested that he was lucky enough to have special access to this inside track, and it continued to bear him fruit. At that point, his audience members' mouths were watering too. His internal script cued him ask with a wink, “By the way, have you seen my new car?”
The deal he presented sounded like a safe way for the wealthy to recover lost riches. The information came from a trusted source, from a good family. His possessions obviously proved he was telling the truth. Most importantly, he was one of their own.
Typically, Weiss excused himself at that moment to attend to nondescript matters, elsewhere. Later, the primed pigeons would find him, for a private chat about the possibility of joining his exclusive winner’s club, before it was too late. Of course, Weiss would hedge, play coy, and add caveats. Sometimes, he'd make them beg before taking their money. In the end, the victims felt like they'd made a deal with their new best friend. They sealed their deals and fates at the same time.
Some jumped in with two feet. Others tested him, but all the participant’s impressive dividend checks arrived on time, as promised.
While finalizing the details of each individual deal, he explained that his clients should keep this amazing system a secret, because if it became public knowledge, freeloaders would squeeze in and dilute the profitability, the first-comers deserved. However, inevitably, sheepish clients would call on behalf of their closest friends, inquiring if there was room for one more member? There always was. In order for his Ponzi scheme to work, Niles needed new cash to feed the dividends of the older accounts. He siphoned off the rest for himself.
His client list was a who's-who of the Citadel City elite. It included friends of his family, his father, councilmen, even the Mayor. Blinded by dollar signs, the participants hailed Niles as the financial genius, although he never invested a penny of their money. His cash-con ran for nearly five years. Eventually, the moneyed pools ran dry, and at the first hint of detection, Niles vanished.
As his powerful victims realized they'd been suckered and bled dry, they were FURIOUS! They orchestrated the greatest dragnet in the city's history. Nile's father and mother were forced to leave town, due to the scandal, but investigators and snoops kept an eye on them anyway.
The only other person of interest in the case was a voice on the telephone. Eventually, police were able to track it to a girl named Dolly. Though she'd had several meetings with the police, she knew little about Niles and nothing about his operation. She was merely an answering service, who Niles paid in cash. In turn, she gave police his appointment book, during her first tearful questioning. Unfortunately, it only contained contact information about the victims. There was nothing about accessories or possible hideouts. The investigators concluded that Dolly was an innocent girl, caught in Niles' web of deceit. So they kept her name out of the papers.
Since 1934, Niles enjoyed an extended holiday in Europe, until the war heated up and drove him back to the States. He drifted from coast to coast, until covertly returning to Citadel City eight years later.
Finally, two hours ago, a bored, stakeout team, monitoring a different subject, involved in unrelated crime, spotted Weiss inside the low rent, Winchester Arms apartment.
***
Niles spent the better half of the previous day demolishing the interior of the isolated cabin, in search of his missing treasure. To his dismay, the exhaustive hunt was fruitless. He needed help pinpointing its location, so with the help of chloroform he abducted the only possible guide, right in front of her apartment.
Now, his ginger-haired hostage is gagged and bound to a simple wooden chair in center of the pockmarked living room of the cabin. She’s dressed in a disheveled periwinkle day dress, with a notched collar and front-closing, princess seam bodice that pinches at her waist above a gathered skirt that looks it was slept in. Kayeser hose smooth her long, supple claves into stanch, brown, block-healed pumps with a leather bow. Beneath tousled red bangs, her big green eyes scan the mess surrounding her.
Before this moment, she had nothing but fond memories of this cabin. As a child, her family spent their summers swimming and boating along the river. As young woman, she enjoyed weekend trysts entangled in a warm lover’s embrace, on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire, far away from the prying eyes of the city. She called the cabin her secret-special-place, and Niles knew it.
Her bright green eyes follow Niles as he approaches her. He removes a fallen lock of hair from her face, loosens the gag from her swollen lips, and gives her a long gentle kiss. Her eyes remain open. She freezes at his touch. He pulls back and sighs, “Please, tell me where the money is.”
Dolly spits and screeches at him, “You think you can just breeze back into town, whenever you want? Take whatever you want? How dare you?!”
Niles tries to calm her, “Don't change the subject, doll. I know how much I paid you for answering the phone, and it was a lot. I know you skimmed some money from me, but I'm not mad, because I know that, deep down, you know the missing money is mine. I earned it, and I want it back.”
She shrieks, “I don't know what you're talking about! I never skimmed anything, and the rest of the money I earned from you is long gone! I spent it all years ago!”
He laughs, “On what? You live like a church mouse. Look at the way you dress.”
He fondles her clothing. “What is this, Sears and Roebuck, or did you make this from a Woolworths pattern? You still live in the same crummy apartment you had eight years ago. I checked it out. There’s nothing new inside.”
She pulls at the tight restraints and begins to cry, “I never wanted to be involved in any of this. I kept quiet, because I loved you, but you used me.”
Niles rolls his eyes. “Give me a break, doll. You didn't keep quiet out of love. It was for self-preservation. We're accomplices, and you know it... Look, I know you've got the cash stashed here, in your silly-secrete-place.”
She corrects him with an icy glare and tone, “It's my special-secret-place.”
He chuckles, “Yeah. Right. Whatever. I'll find it eventually, then I'll leave you to the bears or something worse lurking in these woods. But if you just tell me where the money is, we can pick up where we left off. We'll disappear together, travel the world and live happily ever after, like we should have in the first place. I’ve missed you, doll.”
She mocks him, “No, you really came back now, because you ran out of money, right?
He says nothing.
She continues, “I always warned you to put something away for a rainy day, but did you listen? No. You never listen to anything I say. Oh boy, was you're daddy right about you! You are dumber than a peasant who spits at a king!”
His blood boils as he growls back, “God damn it! What happened to the skim?!”
She continues, “I don't know anything about any missing money. Maybe you should ask your whore about it. Maybe, if you wouldn’t have spend so much on her, you'd have something left.”
Niles parries, “Not that again. How many times do I have to say, ‘I made a mistake?’ I'm sorry. Margot didn't mean anything to me. Besides, I ended that years ago? I don’t even know where she lives now.”
Her eyes water. “You ran away with her eight years and three months ago and left me holding the bag!”
“No. No. No. It wasn't like that, doll. I had to move quickly, and I left alone. The cops were on my tail. I had to skip-town and lay-low until the heat was off…”
She rolls her eyes, “Ok, whatever you say, Dillinger.”
“… And, I couldn’t come back to you, until it was safe. Doll, I haven't stopped thinking about you since they chased me out of town. You know you are the only woman I ever truly loved. We have passion. I can feel it right now. I've missed that feeling. I’ve missed you. Come on, Dolly. Tell me were the money is, so we can get the heck out of this mess.”
He moves in close to her, continuing in a disarming tone, “With all that cash, you know, we can start over and fresh, and live happily ever after, princess.”
He gently traces a line, from the pit of her neck into her décolletage, “You remember all fun we had, don't you?”
Her pulse races, but she looks away, “Maybe your whore can help you find your money.”
He grimaces stands up and growls, “So you're withholding my money to teach me a lesson? Is that it? This is punishment?”
She screams, “You finally figure that out?”
He hefts the sledgehammer again and swings, “Where the hell is it?!”
KA-THUD
The sledgehammer bites the bricks of the fireplace, and they chatter and collapse into a cloud of dust. No treasure. He returns to his systematic search pattern of holes in the floor and walls and swings again, “I need the money.”
THUD
He grunts, “I can't leave without it.”
THUD
The head of the sledge gets stuck in the wall. He rips at the broken planks of wood with his bare hands, “Where is it? OW! DAMN IT!”
He examines a long splinter embedded under the skin of his blistered hand. He carefully removes it, and uncorks a trickle of blood. He watches as the running, red trail twists around his palm and fingers, before dripping to the floor.
He cautiously unsticks the sledge from the wall, then returns to Dolly.
Niles drops the sledgehammer to the floor on its iron head. The handle stands erect at his side. Then, he kneels in front of Dolly, gently removing her brown, leather shoe. Her cherry-red pedicured toes inside the hosiery, looks like candy in a bag and compels him to kiss her toes, before returning her petite foot to the wooden floor. Returning to his feet, Niles fondles the handle of the sledge and says, “Tell me where he money is, or I will crush your foot with this.”
He touches her face as he bends in and kisses her. He gently adds, “Please, don't make me do this. You know, I love you.”
She gazes at him through teary eyes. “I never told anybody anything.”
Niles eyes water. “I need that money.”
He lifts the sledge with both hands and hefts it to a swinging position. He warns, “You better tell me. God damn it!”
He raises the sledge over his head. His eyes look to heaven as he begins to swing.
CREEEEEK
The noise of the front door swinging open startles him, interrupting his impending strike. He mumbles, “I know I closed that.”
He chokes up on his weapon of choice and creeps up to the door. He listens for the sound of an invader but hears nothing but the pulse in his ears. He cranes his head out the door.
Pffft
Something stings his cheek. His body goes stiff. The sledge falls, and he collapses onto it. Niles lays motionless across the threshold as the door creaks all the way open. Dolly looks on with eyes wide. “Niles?”
After a strained silence, she hears soft footsteps on the porch. A shadowy, alien head with large, bug-like eyes peeks through the doorway and stares at the hostage for a moment. Dolly never really believed that Niles would have hurt her, but she doesn't know what to expect from this new threat. As a girl, she'd heard many campfire tales of ghosts, monsters and maniacs roaming the woods along the river. Her bladder feels weak.
The shadowy figure steps into a moonbeam, revealing the form of a woman in a hood and goggles. She enters the cabin. With a strange gun drawn, she quickly slinks up to Dolly. In a whisper, the mysterious woman asks, “Is there anyone else here?”
Dolly hesitates, before shaking her head, no. Pandora Driver holsters her strange gun, removes a pocketknife from under her cowl, and cuts the ropes.
Dolly looks over Niles fallen body, gulps, and asks, “Is he dead?”
As Pandora saws the twine, she retorts, “Not yet.”
The ropes snap away. Now freed, Dolly stands and rubs her rope burned skin and asks, “How can I repay you?”
“Help me drag this monster to my car.”
Feeling like a prisoner of a second, but unknown captor, Dolly complies with the macabre request. As the unlikely pair drags Niles' body through the dirt, Dolly can tell he's only sleeping. They quickly arrive at a big, black car hidden by the woods and thicket. Dolly thinks. “It doesn't seem possible that she was able to park so close to the cabin, without us detecting it.”
As he got a better look at the vehicle, she realizes it’s the same car that trailed her as Niles escaped from the Winchester Arms. She blurts, “Wait a minute. You're the Driver, I read about in the paper? I thought you were a man.”
Pandora opens the passenger side door and stuffs Niles inside. She says, “Well, I'm not, but this is a guy, and he's heavy, so help me push.”
As Dolly does, she adds, “Back there in the city, I thought you gave up on me.”
Pandora gives Niles limp form a last push with her black boot, and says, “I'm relentless.”
Pandora marches toward the Buick Century. As Dolly trails close behind, she remembers some of her more incriminating exchanges during the argument with her estranged lover. She cautiously asks Pandora, “How much of that madman's ravings did you hear, before you…did, whatever it was, that you did to him?”
“I heard enough to know he was going to hurt you. That was all I needed to know.”
Dolly lets out a relieved and tearful, “Oh, Thank you.”
Reaching the Buick Century, Pandora Driver removes a small, silver flashlight from under her long, black cowl, then drops to her knees to examine the undercarriage. Dolly asks, “What are you doing?”
Pandora frees her magnetic puck clinging from the bottom of the gas tank, and shows it to Dolly. “I used this to track you here. Some Europeans used it to trap me once, but by the time I was done with them, they didn't need it anymore, so I kept it. I've learned a lot from my adversaries.”
Returning to her feet, Pandora asks, “Do you want to keep the Buick, or do you need a lift back to the city?”
Looking back to Niles' crumpled up in the car, Dolly asks, “What are you going to do with him?”
Walking back, Pandora says, “Take him someplace, where he'll be put away for a long time.”
Dolly asks, “If I go with you, will you turn me in too?”
Pandora climbs in behind the wheel of her car and presses the starter. She says, “You were never my target. I deal with monsters.”
Dolly looks unsure. Pandora smiles and waves her in, “Come on. You've been through a lot. Let's get you back home, so you can put this all behind you.”
Dolly complies.
CITADEL CITY, WEST SIDE
6:20 AM
It's hard to appreciate twilight on an overcast day. The early risers of Stoeger Blvd begin to appear on the narrow neighborhood street. Between the mirrored rows of shotgun houses, men in hats try to get the jump on rush hour as they navigate to bus and L stops. Bundled children are gently coaxed out doors for another school day. Women march to the local bakery for the first pick of fresh bread. And a sole police cruiser drops off a weary cop, who's pulled an all-nighter.
After a long night of story straightening, fact crafting, and paperwork with other cops, Officer Kirk, now reunited with his eight point, peaked cap, is relieved to be home. A big yawn escapes him, before turning to the portly driver beside him. He shakes his hand and says, “Thanks for the lift, Elmer.”
“Anytime, partner. We cops got to’ watch each other's back, right?” He punctuates the thought with a knowing wink. Kirk nods and exits the vehicle.
HONK-HONK
Elmer taps the horn as he pulls away. Kirk searches his pocket for house keys as he walks to his front door.
Behind him, a heavy, car door unlatches and swings open. Someone steps to the curb. A new car has taken the parking spot occupied only seconds ago. Kirk turns to see a Caucasian female, 5 foot 2 inches tall, approximately mid 20s. She's dressed in a gray, body-fitting outfit with black stripes that start at her equestrian style boots, that trace the supple curves of her body before disappearing beneath a black, bertha-style collar that's long enough to hide her breasts. Her facial features are obscured beneath dark goggles and a black hood. Though her gloved hands are empty, she is armed with a covered, leather holster at her waist. It's snapped closed.
Kirk recognizes the glossy, black vehicle, parked behind her, from last night. It looks different in the daylight, but still makes imposing presence. Actually, it feels more menacing now that it's parked right in front of Kirk's home. In a confident tone, Kirk asks, “So you're the mysterious driver that's been haunting our city? I assumed you were a guy.”
She responds, “I get that a lot. You can call me, Pandora.”
He asks, “Should I be worried about anything you're about to open?”
“No.”
His probing eyes follow the sweeping lines of the 20-foot car behind her. He remembers what it withstood last night and notes that it's undamaged. He asks, “What type of car is that?”
She responds, “Unstoppable.”
He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't, so he continues with his indirect interrogation. “Why did you help Weiss escape?”
She responds, “He had a hostage in the car.”
He's startled, “Was she hurt? Where is she?”
“She's fine. She's not ready to talk to the police, but I am.”
He responds, “Ok. What’s on your mind?
Pandora Driver explains, “Since the Japs attacked Hawaii, I've seen a disturbing trend in our city. The power elite have seized on the countries invasion fears, as opportunity to reshape the police into a private enforcement tool for their own use, and have been diverting military style weaponry to it.
“By militarizing the police, their job is redefined and a mindset changes. The focus shifts from keeping the peace, to waging a war, and who becomes their enemy? The population of the city. Neighborhoods become battlefields, and innocent citizens become nothing more than collateral damage or secondary concerns to a mission. Laws lose priority, and reason is overruled in the name of winning a nebulously defined urban war.
“The elites issuing the orders don't see this as a problem, because the barrels of their private army always point away from them. So far, they've used it against public protests and to hunt their enemies, like Weiss. Having this power is a way for them to consolidate their control over the rest of us. And there is a certain breed of cop that thrives under those conditions. They embrace the power, instead of doing what's right. Maybe as an insider, you don't see it?”
Kirk has been listening intently. He says politely, “I'm not blind to what's been happening. I realize our enforcement tools have been serving vested interests more and more, not to the law.”
Staring into her vacant goggles, he asks, “And you're wondering what type of cop I am? Is that it? I believe police aren't supposed to be separated from the public. We are the public. We should be acting on all of our behalf.”
She retorts, “Did you fire your weapon this evening?”
“Not once.”
“Why not?”
“I never had a legitimate target.”
She reaches back into the dark confines of her car, then clumsily drags Weiss' limp body out onto the sidewalk. She says, “Here is a reward for your good judgment.”
Kirk can see that he's breathing.
She offers, “This is me saying ‘thank you’, from all of the people you protect and serve in our city. I know what it means for the person who captures this high profile monster, and I want you to take credit for it. You can be an agent of positive change within the police force. You're smart, articulate, and handsome; use that to your advantage. Exploit all the glory that will be handed to you from the Weiss arrest to gain power.”
Kirk asks, “Why me?”
She sighs and confesses, “Unfortunately, my preferred solution, doesn't solve all problems. I can't make every bad cop disappear. There must be a cultural shift in the police force. My hope is that it begins with you.
“I believe you are a good man and a good cop. Please, prove that I'm right.”
BANG
Suddenly, the conversation is cut short as a bullet punches Pandora in the back. Her bulletproof costume saves her. She spins to see Elmer standing at the corner with his 45 drawn. He'd circled back because Kirk forgot a lunch pail in the cruiser. Recognizing her car from last night, and seeing the armed and dangerous driver confronting Kirk outside his home, Elmer took action. He assumes Pandora is Weiss' accomplice.
The women and children on the street stand frozen at the sound of the gunshot. Kirk yells, “ELMER, DON'T SHOOT!”
Pandora Driver buries her face in the bend of her arm and runs right at Elmer. He didn't expect her to remain standing after the first. He pulls the trigger again, harder and harder as she closes on him. It's the solution he's come to rely on.
BANG BANG BANG
Within seconds, she reaches him and forces his pistol down. It fires into the sidewalk, launching exploding chips of concrete.
BANG BANG BANG
A shot skins his shoe and toe, and he drops his gun. She serves him a spinning kick to his neck, causing him to black out. As he collapses, Pandora whips around to face Kirk again. He's showing her his empty hands as he says, “Apparently, you're not hurt. I'm sure that was just a big misunderstanding! I didn't see him coming either.”
She marches back to her car to make an abrupt exit. Kirk moves to intercept her and fast-talks to regain her attention. “Ah, wait a second…”
She spins to face him with teeth and fists clenched. He gently inquires, “Did you know the Lone Ranger had a creed?”
Below expressionless goggles, her angry, black lips part as she blurts back, “What?”
The handsome officer chuckles as he explains. “Yes, the Lone Ranger had a creed that he lived by. It began with, ‘To have a friend, one must be a friend first’.”
The simple idiom penetrates Pandora Driver's bulletproof custom, striking her most vulnerable spot, her heart. Emotions swell, catching her off guard, but being the consummate actress, she reveals no sign of his words effect. She calmly says, “Go on.”
Through a disarming, smile he obliges, “I guess, I want you to know that, you're not alone in your fight. Actually, you have more allies than you might think, right in this neighborhood, in fact.
He motions to the curious onlookers of the strange scene in front of Officer Kirks home. He adds, “I'm here to help…if you need it.”
Her goggles fog on the inside, but Kirk sees no sign of emotion. He shrugs and asks, “Is any of this getting through?”
She lunges at him like a panther, grabs his head and locks her black lips against his. The seductive taste of licorice invades his mouth, as the power and passion within her, warms his body. He doesn't resist. The moment ends as abruptly as it began. Kirk opens his eyes in time to see Pandora, running back to the mysterious car. He follows her pleasing rump as it disappears through the passenger-side door.
A chorus of young voices in harmony breaks the beat cop's trance. “You've got a girlfriend. You've got a girlfriend.”
He turns to see three, rosy cheeked boys dressed in trapper-hats and worn coats. They swing leather strapped schoolbooks as they perform a hip-wagging dance, accompanying their taunting tune. “Kirk's got a girlfriend. Kirk's got a girlfriend.”
He smiles and says, “Get to school.” He offers a pretend threat to kick them away. They flee giggling, but soon stop to investigate the fallen bodies on the sidewalk. One of them asks Kirk, “Did you shoot these guys?”
He says, “No, they're sleeping.”
Then, he points to the body of his fellow officer and adds, “See that guy there? He's a truant officer.”
The boys run away screaming.
Kirk waves away the shocked pockets of adult gawkers, startled by the unusual events. “It's ok folks. Everything is ok now. Move along. Move it along.”
They disperse.
On the street, Pandora Driver's streamlined car-of-tomorrow slinks around the abandoned squad car, before disappearing downtown. The concrete canyons of Citadel City are painted by the glow of morning sun, blasting through the clouds. The peacekeeper takes a breath of fresh morning air as he strolls to his fallen comrade. Elmer is awoken by a series of quick slaps. Then, Kirk leads his groggy comrade, up the porch to his shotgun house, so they can call for a paddy-wagon to collect Weiss. As the dazed officer's memory refocuses, he asks, “Say, who was that masked woman?”
Kirk responds, “I don't know,” but in his imagination he hears a cowboy's twang say, “Why that there was the Pandora Driver.”
***
The following morning, the headline of the Citadel Sentinel reads, “HERO COP CAPTURES WEISS SINGLE HANDED!”
EPILOGUE
Niles Weiss betrayed the capitalist covenant he was obliged to protect by birthright. After a speedy trial, he is sentenced to a 130 years in prison. The power elite of Citadel City finally got the scalp they'd sought for so many years and violently wave it as a warning to anyone considering crossing them in the future.
None of their stolen money is ever recovered.
***
As a witness at his trial, Dolly didn't quite tell the truth, but she revealed enough to make sure Niles was put away for good. After his sentencing, Dolly decides to take a ride into the country, back to the family cabin he ruined. Since then, the leaves have all fallen, and the drive isn't nearly as pretty. As she arrives at the isolated cabin, and spots the abandoned Buick Century 60 still parked behind it. She thinks, “Now that’s mine too.”
She exits the black, 1939 Plymouth Business Coupe she's borrowed from a friend. She is dressed in a long, tan, gabardine coat and saddle leather gloves. Her red hair is tucked smartly under a forest green Stetson, cuff brim, plaza hat. She removes a snubnosed 38 Detective Special from a brown clutch then creeps up to the opened cabin door to check for deranged hobos who might be squatting, or worse, in her secret-special-place.
Convinced she’s alone, she exits the cabin heading to a shed out back. She removes a spade, then counts paces to the edge of the clearing. She jumps on the spade with all her weight to split the frozen earth. Digging the hole is harder than Dolly anticipated, but she sticks with it, until the spade hits a buried coffee can. Kneeling down in the dirt, she clears the top if it with her freshly manicured hands. She removes it and two more. Prying open the lid of the last, she frees the fresh scent of coffee beans, and cash. A smile creeps over her dark red lips and she begins to laugh and imagine of the new life she will have with the money she's earned. She tells the empty woods, “Never underestimated the determination of a scorned woman.”
Pffft
Something stings her in the neck, and everything goes black.
When she wakes up the following morning, her stash is gone.
***
Those who suffered damages, during the police shooting spree on the night of Weiss' capture, got the runaround from various city agencies. Any associated lawsuits, experienced delay after delay. One-by-one each case was thrown out of court due to ill-fitting technicalities. Later, each victim received anonymous cash settlements, wrapped in plain brown packages, from a mysterious friend of the precariat.
THE END
***
John Picha was born on St. Patrick's Day 1968 in Joliet, Illinois. He was raised in Frankfort, a suburb of Chicago, but his mind always seemed to be elsewhere. The little Midwesterner was captivated by comic books, cartoons and animation, mythology and all things imagined. He made the world around him more exciting by pretending. A bicycle was a spacecraft, a bush became a dinosaur, and, of course, there was always a bath towel hidden away for a quick change into a super hero.
John is also the inventor of Thumbtraps for iPad and tablet gaming.
www.thumbtraps.com
If you’d like to learn more about John or to see his other work, you can visit him on the web.
www.takejohn.com
www.youtube.com/johnpicha
www.skyracos.com
If you'd like to read more adventures of Pandora Driver, simply do a search for her in your favorite eBookstore or visit her on the web.
www.pandoradriver.com