Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

A beautifully decorated float followed twenty yards behind with blue paper stars and red, white and blue stripes. The sign along both sides read, SUPPORTING OUR FIRST RESPONDERS. Bagpipes sounded farther along the parade route as men in kilts and funny hats marched in step. A huge inflatable firefighter in the shape of Mr. Potato Head came around the far corner, controlled on ropes by the ground crew who had to wrestle him to the ground whenever they approached the town’s overhead power lines.

The parade slowly snaked out of the marshalling area and onto the route. All eyes were on the floats, the marching bands, and the gaily colored outfits. All except for one person, who was trying to see a single float amid the forest of painted metal and bunting.

The production runner missed the beginning of the parade so he had to play catch-up. The eighteen-year-old, who had aspirations of Hollywood, caught up with the school marching band and the Stars and Stripes float outside The Chateau Restaurant on School Street, then worked his way back along the parade, around the corner into Church Street and all the way to the marshalling area. He was the only person going the wrong way along the parade route.

He was almost tempted by the sizzling burgers out front of the First Parish Church but managed to resist and very nearly succumbed to syrup and waffles on the corner of School and Church. But he managed to stand firm; you don’t make it all the way to Hollywood by shirking your responsibilities. A group of really old men wearing yellow shirts and red fezzes waved from the SHRINERS’ trailer, which was stocked with huge plastic camels. The sign along the side, painted on individual camel shapes, read, “Camel Herders Support Children’s Hospitals.” The runner smiled and shook his head. No doubt about it, he’d have to move to L.A.

He crossed Main Street behind City Hall and scanned the carnival floats all the way to the entrance of the marshalling area. There was another marching band playing something with more swing and melody and a float dressed as a red and silver fire truck, using shiny tinsel flowers. There were lots of flags and helium balloons and election banners. There was lots of music and laughter, but there was no sign of Mickey Mouse.

The runner scoured the remaining floats in the marshalling area parking lot. There was no smiley face with big black ears. The only thing out of the ordinary was one group taking a wrong turn out of the gate, heading around the back of Waltham Common. The banner read, Veterans of Foreign Wars, Waltham, Massachusetts. The old soldiers of the VFW.

The VFW marched straight and stayed in line. The honor guard up front consisted of three men carrying the flags of The American Legion, the VFW, and the ever-present Stars and Stripes. They marched proud and erect but a little slow and stoop-shouldered. The rank behind them had M1 carbines across their shoulders, and two carried Thompson submachine guns. The man at the end shouldered an unsheathed sabre with a tassel at the handle.

A World War II army jeep brought up the rear. It had dents and holes blasted along one side from having seen action overseas but had otherwise been lovingly restored to its original combat green with unit markings and transfers. A small painting of Donald Duck dressed as a G.I. adorned the passenger footplate and a sandwich board angled across the top of the hood showed a sketch of two G.I.s with the note, “WILLIE AND JOE ON BOARD.” Miniature Stars and Stripes stuck out of every hole and crevice. They fluttered in the breeze, making eerie flapping noises.

The men weren’t smiling. This wasn’t their usual Fourth of July Parade. They marched with hard eyes and steely determination, ready to go back into action after fifty years.

The runner phoned the production office and promised to make another search of the parade route. Larry Unger’s tone down the line left him under no illusions about his prospects of reaching Hollywood.

The sun was high and bright, burning out of a pure blue summer sky. The trees along School Street and into the bend of Columbus Avenue were a brilliant green. Between the blue and the green was a spectrum of glaring colors so bright they hurt his eyes in the sun. The runner ran, avoiding the congested sidewalk and using the road instead. He was short of breath, not because of the exertion but out of sheer panic. He knew what was at stake. He knew lives were in danger. And all because he’d fallen at the first hurdle—finding the carnival float.

Up ahead a pink and purple octopus the size of the Mr. Potato Head firefighter hung in the air like an escaped balloon. The wranglers kept it in position and prepared to drag it down under the overhead cables. The runner slowed down to catch his breath. He was developing a stitch in his side. He doubled over and thought he was going to be sick. Somebody in the crowd handed him a bottle of water. He nodded his thanks and straightened up to take a drink.

The runner stood upright.

The octopus was pulled down toward the ground, revealing Mickey Mouse turning the corner onto Columbus Avenue.

The runner dropped the bottle and took out his phone.

FORTY-NINE

“Because we’re going to steal it first.”

“Rob the armored truck? Are you fucking insane?”

Larry’s office, an hour earlier. Before the hastily arranged production meeting but after McNulty had explained about Mickey Mouse. McNulty nodded yes to the robbery but was borderline about admitting insanity. Sometimes, when all other options are off the table, the craziest move is the only sensible one to make. Given the narrow window of opportunity, his being persona non grata with the police, and the refusal to cancel the money drop, it was the only thing McNulty could come up with. The bad guys couldn’t