Marshall left Betty’s and called Meritsville Mayor John Carliss to tell him he’d seen the scourge of D.C.. “Sherman’s all we’ve heard, the son-of-a-bitch. Enjoys his work. Ought to be there by ten tonight.”
“Roger that,” Carliss said. Like Marshall, he was middle-aged, but a retired Marine who wasn’t as resigned as the town’s customer friendly recruiter. Neither were the Emergency Volunteers. He called Police Chief Solcross Jones. “Get ready.”
Like a phantom hearse, Sherman’s black Caddy ominously rolled down Meritsville’s deserted Main Street, and came to stop outside the police station at 10:30 p.m. A man in a blue uniform was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
“Surprised to see you here, Chief Jones,” he said. “I thought you small town folks were in bed by nine o’clock.”
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“Oh, that’s right. I ran into your recruiter. Well, here’s my I.D. and here’s my warrant for the town’s records.”
“City Hall’ll be open at eight tomorrow.”
“Right. I’m here to tell you I won’t be doing my inventory by sight. Using the latest in drone technology now. Aerial photography that can read density . . . in case people are tempted to hide assets with trees . . .”
“Why would they want to do that?”
“For the same reason the town fathers pad their population totals with the names of dead people. Sentimental attachment, maybe?” He handed Jones a copy of the letter Carliss had sent the EPA asking for special consideration for the memorial, and the agency’s refusal. “Every small town has a square with some statue or another. EPA policy is no exceptions.”
Jones recognized the City’s letterhead. “How you figure to blow up Ol’ Lee, Mr. Sherman? It’s going to take a mighty big load of dynamite.”
Sherman smiled. “There’re a whole lot of people in D.C. who’ll be glad to get rid of this racist eyesore, believe it. We got bombs that’ll take out an entire city block and everything that’s under it.”