Lawyers, Guns and Money

Friday Afternoon, 5 August 1977

GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

The battered pickup truck with Massachusetts plates had two tires on the sidewalk in front of the row of brownstones on Jane Street, blatantly ignoring the graffitied alternate side of the street parking signs indicating Friday was the day for Jane Street in Greenwich Village to be car free. A parking ticket was under one of the wipers. Kane pulled it off and stuck it in his pocket. Crime might be rampant in New York, but violating alternate parking was sacrosanct because eventually on some Friday, a street sweeper might actually come through and do what it was designed to.

One day, but not this day or any recent day given the amount of debris lining the curbs and sewer grates. The Sanitation Department, like the rest of the city, was still trying to catch up to the detritus of the Blackout. Kane imagined his father was logging plenty of overtime.

Trees grew on both sides of the cobblestone street, branches arcing over and meeting, giving welcome shade when the sun was out. Kane opened the gate to the steps leading to a small alcove in front of his basement apartment in the three-story brownstone.

The door was open, the matchstick he stuck in the doorjamb as a tell, on the small table inside.

"Making yourself at home?" Kane called out as he entered.

Master Sergeant Lewis Merrick reclined on the old couch, jungle boots propped on the coffee table, the bomb from the previous evening next to him and the detonating device in his lap. He wore OD green jungle fatigues, a faded and crumpled green beret stuffed in the cargo pocket. There was no insignia or patches on his uniform. An HK-94 submachinegun was on the couch next to his right hand.

"Want some coffee?" Kane asked.

Merrick indicated a mug. "Already made some."

"Why sterile?" Kane asked, referring to the lack of insignia or patches on the fatigues.

"We're supposed to wear Class-A's if we're in uniform off post and I only do that for payday inspection."

"You can wear civvies," Kane suggested as he sat in the drooping chair on the other side of the coffee table.

"You called a Prairie Fire." Merrick referred to the code word the team used for emergency exfiltration in Vietnam. "I came ready for whatever. Besides, lots of hippies wear old army stuff."

"I appreciate it." Kane didn't add that the grizzled master sergeant would never be mistaken for a hippy. Six-four, solidly built, his thinning red hair had a tint of gray. His face was lined with the stress of having gone to war at seventeen in Korea and then multiple tours in Vietnam

Merrick held up the C-4. "Military grade."

"You told me a guy in Third Battalion was nailed selling some in Boston," Kane said, referring to Merrick's unit, 10th Special Forces Group headquartered at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. "Could that be from the lot?"

Merrick tossed the explosives aside on the couch. "Possible."

"Who did he sell to?"

Merrick shrugged. "I'll ask around."

"You pick up anything about M-16s being stolen? Two hundred and forty?"

Merrick shook his head. "Nope. If I was going to steal some, I'd hit a National Guard armory. And there's a good chance whoever is in charge would want to cover it up for a while. Losing weapons is a career ender. Why? Did you find them?"

"I saw them. They're no longer functional. Tell me about the detonator?"

Merrick displayed the device. "Not bad. Radio controlled is interesting. Gives more operational flexibility than setting a timer. But it also requires the person initiating to be within FM range which means line of sight. And there's the off chance someone else transmits on the same freq before you're ready. That would cause an oops. That's why it wasn't hooked up before emplacement. You caught whoever made it just before they did that."