The Sweeper

THE BARGAIN BIN PROJECT

by Lew Stowe

I watched as the caravan of big trucks moved slowly up Spiggot Street and into the heart of the territory. The trailers being pulled were loaded with yellow heavy equipment: cranes with booms that could reach up twenty stories to smash wrecking balls against walls, bulldozers with massive blades, various smaller stuff. It all screamed one thing: demolition. Someone had spent serious money and gone to a lot of trouble to get that equipment here, and what they planned to do with it had to be big.

Not much happens in the territory without my knowledge, but I hadn't had any warning about this. It sure didn't look good. The lead truck stopped in front of a crumbling tenement and everyone positioned themselves for unloading. A big, muscular man jumped out and started shouting orders.

I headed for Martin Berman's office.

“I'm as surprised as you are, Sweep,” he said. “Heavy equipment? I don't know anything about it.”

That made it even more ominous. Martin was an ex-defense attorney who now did free legal work for people who couldn't afford it, and he made a point of staying abreast of every move city hall made. If he didn't know what was happening, and the city was really behind this, it meant someone had taken unusual measures to keep it quiet.

“Guess you'd better make some calls,” I said.

He nodded and picked up the telephone. He was on about ten minutes. When he hung up, his expression was non-committal, but his bald head was glistening, which meant he had started to sweat. Which meant the news wasn't good.

“Urban renewal on the cheap,” he said. “The bastards have sold out to the Bargain Bin, which is going to place one of their megastores right in the middle of what we know as the territory. The Bin handles the demolition. In return, the city provides the real estate, which means here --the territory. Look out the window and most of what you see is going to be history.”

“How can they do that?” I asked. “That's all private property. Maybe the owners don't maintain it very well, but how do you justify demolishing all those buildings?”

Martin shrugged. “They can do whatever they figure they can get away with.”

“Explain to me how that's going to work.”

“The city needs two things for this deal to succeed: speed and minimum adverse publicity. First one guarantees the other. The Bargain Bin is a big, powerful company that doesn't mind throwing its weight around. When they make an offer, they demand an immediate answer. So the city has to respond--and no way can the current administration say no, especially with the mayor up for reelection next year. So the Bin starts knocking down buildings, probably empty ones for starters. Then on to the others, giving out 24-hour notices of eviction. Meanwhile, the city is ramming eminent domain proceedings through the courts, so any protests are shuffled around and largely ignored. Owners with any real clout might get a minimal financial offer, take it or leave it. But by then, most of the buildings will be gone anyway, so values are whatever the city says they were. And the publicity campaign is spewing out a lot of hype about how a filthy, high-crime area is being replaced with a glorious new retailing cathedral that provides everything at lower prices.” Martin spread his hands. “Sure, a lot of it's illegal, but who's going to complain? Middle-class voters elsewhere in the city will love it.”

“And a lot of very poor people will have been displaced and won't have anywhere to go.”

“Yep.”

“Those buildings can't come down. We have to stop them.”

“Won't be easy, especially since demolition starts tomorrow morning. There's a public hearing this afternoon. It's public, but looks like they're counting on the only attendees being people they've invited.”

“Guess we'd better invite ourselves,” I said.

* * *

And we did. I had Abe Rubenstein with me. He serves as my spokesman at times when I prefer to act mentally challenged or remain anonymous. Martin was sitting on the other side of the room. Strategically, it wasn't a good idea for us to be seen together in public. I had also made sure that a couple of reporters from the local newspaper were present. They hadn't been invited, either.

At the long table in front were local dignitaries: the mayor, police commissioner, several city councilmen. But the place of honor was for Nesbitt Belson, CEO of the Bargain Bin. He was tall and slim, dressed in an expensive navy blue suit, with lots of reddish hair and eyes that darted around like a lunatic squirrel. I studied him carefully, this man who intended to raise a new megastore from the rubble of the territory, where I live.

Over my dead body. It simply wasn't going to happen.

The hearing started with a presentation that highlighted the area to be replaced and all the wonderful benefits the city would gain. A big map clearly showed the specific area of demolition. Mrs. Harris's apartment building would have to go, along with the Pritch Circle Soup Kitchen and their homeless shelter next door. Even Martin Berman's office. There was a lot of talk about new jobs and economic benefits. The term urban resurrection was thrown out at least once. The well-dressed people in the audience--pillars of the community and/or political contributors, I guessed--all smiled and nodded. Then Belson got up with a pitch for the Bargain Bin. He was an impressive speaker. His emphasis was on the great things his company was doing for the city at no cost , and the low prices the new store would provide for those struggling to make ends meet.

Almost brought tears to my eyes.

When Belson sat down to considerable applause, Abe stood up. Abe looks like the mild-mannered Jewish grandfather he is and speaks in a soft, non-threatening tone. He gave his name and said: “Mr. Belson, can you tell us how many people will be displaced by the tearing down of all these buildings?”

There was dead silence.

“I don't know,” Belson said. “I'm not sure we have those figures available.”

“I do,” Abe said. “The total is slightly over a thousand. That's from the last census two years ago. What provisions have you made to accommodate these people elsewhere? Where will they live?”

Belson gave an impatient little shrug. “I have no idea. I'm sure the city must have the answer to that.”

One of the mayor's aides broke in. She was an attractive brunette with a elaborately brisk manner. “Mr. Rubenstein, I assure you these people will be taken care of. The city will provide affordable housing for whoever needs it.”

“I see,” Abe said. “And where, exactly, is this affordable housing?”

“We are still discussing that. I don't have a specific place to give you.”

“I'm sure you don't. Because it doesn't exist. And because that's an expensive project in itself. Are you aware that even the cheapest housing for over a thousand people would cost millions? And if started today, would take at least two years to complete? That's based on a project Springfield --only twenty miles away--finished just last year for less than five hundred people. Which also means that we have just identified our first major cost of the Bargain Bin project. Not exactly free after all, is it? Would you agree, Mr. Belson?”

Belson just shook his head.

Abe continued: “Is it true, Mr. Belson, that your deal with the city calls for total tax dispensation for ten years?”

“Yes,” Belson said. “But it's well worth it.”

“Do you know how much annual tax revenue the city now gets from the area to be demolished? I'll tell you: over three million dollars. That means your megastore will cost the city about thirty million dollars in lost revenue over the next ten years. Another major cost of the Bargain Bin project.”

Belson stared at him. There seemed to be a sudden epidemic of throat-clearing.

“Okay,” Abe said. “Now we've established that a thousand people will be rendered homeless by the Bargain Bin project--”

“They won't be homeless!” said the mayor's aide. “We have many other facilities in the city that can accommodate them until suitable housing can be erected.”

“Like homeless shelters?”

“Yes!”

“Do you know how many homeless shelters are in the city?”

“Ten or fifteen . . . I think.”

“No,” Abe said. “We have four. And they are currently crammed to overflowing. I checked with each this morning. Even worse, we shortly will have only three , because the Bargain Bin project will eliminate the Pritch Circle Homeless Shelter. That shelter accommodates two hundred fifty, so I guess we can add that number to the thousand.”

Dead silence again.

The police commissioner stood up. A tough-looking, imposing man, he was known for heavy sarcasm that he wielded like a club.

“Mr. Rubenstein," he said, "are you the Abraham Rubenstein who used to work for Jack Nogle, now in prison?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And what did you do for Mr. Nogle?”

“I administered his loans.”

“A loan shark, in other words.”

“You could call it that.”

The commissioner turned his head slowly around the room, an incredulous grin on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have here a loan shark who is lecturing us on--”

“Irrelevant,” I said loudly, standing up beside Abe. “We are here to discuss the feasibility of the Bargain Bin project, not Mr. Rubenstein's job history. Unless we also want to get into other job histories. Such as the commissioner's previous employment in Philadelphia , where, as a street cop some years back, he was disciplined several times for shaking down pimps.”

There was a railing in front of us. I opened the gate and stepped out. Not really what I wanted to do. I prefer to remain in the background, but it was time to jump in. There was a collective gasp as everyone got a good look at me. I'm small and grungy, and since my face was burned in a fire years ago, I'm, by my own admission, nightmare ugly. I wear a dirty, beige vest that really is bulletproof, and I carry a canvas trash bag on my right shoulder that holds a two-foot length of iron pipe, a .22 automatic with silencer, and a few other items. Most consider my appearance to be . . .unusual.

I walked up to the commissioner, put my hands on the table and leaned toward him. He didn't care for me being that close.

“We all have background items we don't want exposed.” I said. “Don't we, commissioner?”

The commissioner sputtered a bit. “Now, look here--”

“Sit down,” I said. I reached out, but he didn't want me touching him, so he sat.

“Now,” I said, “back to the Bargain Bin.”

The mayor spoke: “First, who are you?”

“My name is Sweeper.”

“Is that your first name or last name?”

“My only name.”

“What do you do, Mr., uh, Sweeper?”

“I sweep the streets in the area that you have earmarked for demolition. And, no, I don't work for the city. Call me an independent contractor.”

“Uh-huh,” the mayor said, smirking a little. “And what wisdom do you have for us today?”

“Well,” I said, “your deal with the Bargain Bin is a terrible one for the city. We've already seen that the costs are huge financially. But they are even larger in terms of human suffering. Over a thousand people will be homeless until you bureaucrats get around to constructing housing--which probably will be never . We all know there's no budget for it. The senior citizen housing project has been bouncing around for three years, and you haven't even decided on a location yet! Yes, the area to be demolished is high-crime, but where else in the state can these poor souls afford to live? You've used it for a long time as a dumping ground for all the undesirables. They have no other place to go. They belong there. It has to stay.”

I walked back to the table and stared into the face of Nesbitt Belson. When I want to, I can make my left eyeball bulge out from the socket as though it's trying to leave my head. A truly frightful sight, and Belson was shrinking in his seat.

“Mr. Belson,” I said, “Listen carefully. Your deal with the city is hereby declared null and void. It will never happen. You have my word on that. Not one building will be demolished. I repeat: not one. Take your heavy equipment and get the hell out.”

Dead silence once again.

“This hearing is closed,” I said, then turned and walked toward the exit.

Bedlam erupted. There was a lot of shouting, and I thought I heard the commissioner calling to someone. It must have been to the two cops at the door, because they made a motion as if to stop me. But I glared at them, and they moved aside, so I didn't have to pull out my piece of pipe and break some hands. I got down to the first floor as quickly as possible. I didn't want to give anyone a chance to arrest me on some trumped-up charge and hold me until all the buildings were history.

My dog, Snarl, was waiting on the sidewalk. “Go!” I yelled at him, and he took off at a run. We were some five miles from the territory, but the streetwise little mongrel wouldn't have any trouble getting home. I turned at the corner of the building, located the manhole I had noted on the way in, lifted the cover and climbed in.

I was as good as home myself.

* * *

At 5:00 , I took a delivery from Jason Northwaite. Not his real name, but nobody knows what the real name is. He's as paranoid as they come, and he makes a living as special supplier to various conspiracy and survivalist groups around the state. He opened the back of his truck and showed me two cases of gray one-gallon jugs.

“It's called whump juice,” Jason said, “What it is, is gasoline with a few additives and a couple of special catalysts to bring the flashpoint down to practically nothing. All you have to do is get it into the fuel tank. One quart per machine. Just make sure there are no fires within fifty feet while you're doing it, and don't make any sparks. Much safer using a hand pump with a long hose. Easier, too. I can let you have a couple of those, if you like.”

“Okay.”

“Now don't be expecting any kind of big explosion. This is more like a deep whump ! Happens as soon as they switch on ignition. Can't see anything from the outside. But inside, the fuel system has been destroyed, and no way you can tell what's wrong without opening things up. Fixing it is hard as hell. Using it on cranes and dozers? No problem. Them babies ain't gonna move an inch.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“What else can I get you?”

“That's it, Jason. Anything else, I'll be in touch.”

* * *

Late in the day, Snarl and I took a tour of the machines lined up along Spiggot Street . I stopped by one of the cranes, where the big guy I had seen in the morning was looking over some maps. Obviously the boss, he was dark, with a hook nose, and I could see why everyone called him Chief. A hulking German Shepherd sat next to him. The shepherd let out a low, rumbling growl when he saw Snarl, and the man looked up. He sort of sneered.

“Well, you must be the little freak everyone is talking about,” Chief said in a raspy voice. “I heard about your performance today. Nice. Get the equipment out of town, huh? Yeah, soon as we finish what we came to do.”

“Never happen,” I said.

“Huh? Why, you ugly little piece of crap, I've been in this business a long time, and I always finish the job. Always. Whatever it takes.”

Chief wasn't hard to figure out. A tough, mean guy used to bossing around other tough, mean guys, and getting his way through force of personality and threat of violence.

“No such thing as always,” I said. “I guess you'll find that out tomorrow.”

“You're pissing me off, freak. And that dog of yours is about the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Next to you, anyway. He must be purebred, huh?”

“As pure as he needs to be.”

“Maybe I'll turn my dog loose on him and let him have some fun.”

I looked down at Snarl. Snarl just sat there. The shepherd was about five times larger and kept growling and showing his teeth, which were much whiter than Snarl's yellow-stained chompers. Shep probably ate better food.

I shrugged. “The little fella doesn't seem too worried. You think maybe he's stupid as well as ugly?"

Chief gave me a nasty smile and said: “Let me lay it out for you, asshole. Tomorrow morning we're getting started here. If I find you're doing anything to keep our work from proceeding, anything . . . well, we're coming after both you and that thing you call a dog. When I'm done, about all you'll be good for is fertilizer."

“Hey, something to look forward to,” I said.

***

By 2:30 A.M. , the two guards Chief had posted to watch the equipment were getting a little bleary-eyed. Then a couple of fights broke out on the street. Shots were fired. The guards came out with shotguns and conferred with each other. They paced back and forth nervously, keeping an eye on the small group of people milling around and yelling and threatening each other with all kinds of ferocious mayhem.

Which gave us--Killroy, Weasel and me--plenty of time in the shadows to silently feed whump juice to the two big cranes and all four of the bulldozers. Since Killroy and Weasel were among those who would be displaced by the Bargain Bin project, using them to help sabotage it seemed both fitting and ironic.

At 5:00 A.M. , the site was a beehive of preparation. Chief was all over the place, barking orders, making sure nothing was left to chance. He was good at it. The crane operators climbed up into their yellow cabs. We waited. One crane went whump! almost immediately. The other seemed to start for a couple of seconds before we heard the second whump! and it died, too.

Music to our ears, but we restrained ourselves. I thought it prudent not to add to Chief's irritation after he realized the cranes weren't going anywhere. He stomped around, yelling, cursing, kicking things, but finally got some men busy checking out the machines. They checked a long time. Still, nothing moved. By early afternoon, Chief had flown in two special mechanics who dug into the engines and found what was wrong. But they didn't have the replacement parts, and it was questionable whether repairs could be completed onsite anyway. The parts were ordered, but wouldn't arrive until the following morning.

I picked up a newspaper and was pleased to read the headline: HIDDEN COSTS OF BARGAIN BIN PROJECT. So much for the city getting by without adverse publicity.

Abe Rubenstein called. Following yesterday's hearing, he had spoken with the president of the Senior Citizen Coalition and pointed out there was a good chance the budget money for senior housing would be diverted to the Bargain Bin homeless. The information wasn't well-received. By 8:00 A.M. , a crowd of placard-carrying seniors was at city hall loudly protesting the BB project. The mayor must have really enjoyed that.

I talked to Martin Berman.

“Interesting developments, Sweep,” he said. “Money mysteriously appeared in various bank accounts about a month ago. Substantial. The mayor and at least three councilmen. I've already discussed it with the attorney general. There definitely is going to be an investigation. And remember Andy Stark, the councilman who was found shot to death in his office? Seems he was part of the group negotiating with the Bargain Bin.

But he was opposed to the deal and threatened to expose it. So Andy's death will get thrown into the mix as well.”

“Good,” I said. “Things are going well here, too. Looks like massive equipment failure. Poor maintenance, I'd guess.”

“Why don't you give them a few tips?”

“Already have. Right into the fuel tank.”

That night, just to be safe, we refreshed the whump juice in the two cranes. Turned out we really didn't have to, because the parts never arrived. Seems the delivery truck got held up temporarily on the edge of the territory by some kind of barricade. The driver had to get out and explain his mission, and when he was able to continue most of the parts had disappeared. I don't expect those parts will ever be found. Strange stuff happens in unsafe, high-crime places like the territory.

In the meantime, Chief got creative and arranged for another crane to be hauled in. However, the truck pulling it was delayed by yet another barricade, and when allowed to move on, the crane had received special servicing. At the demolition site, it was unloaded and moved into place. The BB folks had a lot of hope riding on it. That all vanished when the crane just whumped and died like the first two.

Poor Chief. I thought he was going to go into convulsions. A man that angry isn't a pretty sight. He kept looking around--for me, I think.

It was now about 2:30 in the afternoon. A lot of people from the territory had lined the streets and were hanging out of windows watching the proceedings. Even Nesbitt Belson was there, trying to talk to Chief, although Chief didn't seem too coherent. I figured it was a good time to bring things to a head, so Snarl and I walked over.

I waved to them from about ten feet. “Problems?” I said. “Can I help?”

Chief let out a string of curses. What he said about me was really rude. Good thing I'm not sensitive. His German Shepherd wanted to join in and started growling.

“What did you do to this equipment?” Chief said. His voice was low and trembled a bit and somehow sounded more menacing than when he was shouting. He definitely was a man on the edge, ready to snap. “ What did you do to it? ”

“Me? How come I get blamed for everything? Am I the only person around here who knows what whump juice is good for?”

“ Whump juice? ” Chief said, then launched another group of colorful phrases. He was obviously familiar with whump juice. I knew he was a savvy guy. He started rolling up his sleeves. “Okay, freak, I warned you yesterday what would happen. You and that ugly little dog got three seconds to take off. That's all. Then I'm coming after you.”

“Is old Shep coming, too?” I asked.

“You've already wasted two seconds. You got one left.”

“Consider it wasted,” I said.

“ Get him, boy! ” Chief said, and the shepherd's ears came up. He flashed his white teeth and took off after Snarl.

Snarl just sat there as Shep bore down on him.

Sad to watch. I really don't like people or animals getting hurt. But sometimes making mistakes is the only way either can learn. The shepherd took a large bound intended to land him squarely on Snarl. All Snarl did was move aside at just the right moment. Shep hit the ground and tumbled head over heels. Snarl was waiting when Shep came to rest.

Snarl is very quick and a veteran of many street fights with animals far more dangerous than old Shep. Snarl reached in with his oversized pit bull head and steel jaws and snapped the dog's right front leg.

Shep howled, then turned over on his back and began to whimper. A big cheer went up from the crowd. No question whose side they were on.

I looked at Chief. “The same thing can happen to you,” I said. “I can break your leg, or your arm, or your neck. Right in front of all these people. But I don't have to. I don't want to. Your choice.”

Chief was too far gone. A ferocious mix of adrenaline and testosterone and frustration was roaring through his veins. He pulled something out of his pocket and fitted it over his right hand. Brass knuckles. Man, it had been a long time since I'd seen some of those. He was dreaming if he thought he was going to get close enough to hit me with them.

This fracas didn't last much longer than the dog fight. As Chief reached me, he cut loose with a big roundhouse right. I just whipped out my piece of pipe and gave the brass knucks a good rap as they came around. Not hard enough to break his hand, but hard enough for him to feel like it was broken. As Chief jerked his arm back, I punched the pipe into his solar plexus. That effectively finished it. I brought the pipe across the back of his knees, and he hit the ground, flopping like a big fish.

What happened next was beautiful. It wasn't planned, but it was absolutely perfect. I knew there were photographers present and wanted them to catch Chief and his dog on the ground together. So I signaled Snarl to drag Shep over next to Chief. He did.

Then he lifted his leg and peed all over Shep and the bottom of Chief's pants.

The crowd went berserk.

I could already read the headline in tomorrow's newspaper: RESIDENTS EXPRESS OPINION OF BARGAIN BIN PROJECT, with Snarl's picture just below it. The little mongrel had achieved immortality.

But that wasn't the end. Nesbitt Belson came over, walking sort of sideways, as though he wasn't sure he should approach at this particular moment. His eyes were jumping around even more than usual.

“Okay,” he said. “You win, Sweeper.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“I'm serious. You get everything you want. How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do you want to let this project get underway? A million? Two million? Name your price.”

I rolled my eyes. Some people just never understand.

“Do you see a For Sale sign hanging somewhere on my body?” I said. “I don't want your filthy money. All I want is for you to get out of town and never come back.”

“No money? What the hell motivates you, Sweeper? C'mon. There must be something you want really bad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Justice.” I swept my hand around in a circle. “For all these people, who never seem to get much of it. And whether they deserve it or not.”

Belson snorted. “They're animals! They'd kill either of us for a quarter.”

“Yeah, some would. Nobody ever said they were loveable. Some out there are so bad, they make Chief look like Aunt Jemima. Doesn't matter. Yeah, they're the dregs of society. But this is their home. This is where they live. You don't get to take it away just so your company can add another couple hundred million to the bottom line. No justice in that.”

“Look, we need to get this project started. Just tell me what that will take.”

I looked into his face. “The Bargain Bin project is over , Belson. It's dead. Accept it. But I do have a choice for you. Want to hear it?”

He didn't answer.

“Take your clothes off and walk buck-naked to your limousine up the street.”

Belson's eyes got really big. Panic skittered across his face.

“You can't make me do that!” he said. “I'll--” He stopped when he realized how utterly helpless he was. Even his bodyguard was nowhere to be seen.

“I can't?” I said. “This is a lawless area. We're animals here, remember? No policemen. You think I can't make you do anything I want?”

“What's the other part of the choice?”

“Tell everyone the project is dead, which it is. Tell them you're leaving town. Say whatever else you want--just make it clear that it's all over. I have a bullhorn you can use.”

“How can I just cancel it?” Belson said. “Do you know how much money we've spent here already?”

“Millions in bribes alone.”

“That can't be proved.”

“Maybe not. But I know some people who are going to try. That, along with determining what you had to do with Andy Stark's murder. You're going to have your hands full the next year just trying to save your rotten ass. Okay, what's the choice?”

“I can come back with a lot of men. I can get the National Guard out here if I have to.”

“But you won't. You'd need thousands of troops--and how much chance do you have of that? A lot of people would die. And, in the end, you still wouldn't get your miserable store. I've already told you that. Plus, you come back, I guarantee you'll do the naked walk. Maybe you and your whole board of directors all together.”

He stared at me for a while.

“Give me the bullhorn,” he said finally. You're a tough SOB, Sweeper. We really underestimated you.”

“Story of my life,” I said. “Oh, here's something to remember me by.” I handed him one of my Angel of Justice cards. These show an angel holding the scales of justice.

Belson looked at it, frowning. “ Justice for All ,” he read aloud. “Nice thought.”

“Yes, it is,” I said.

He raised the bullhorn, walked forward a few feet and began: “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Nesbitt Belson of the Bargain Bin stores. I have an important announcement. It is with great regret that I . . .”

Sickening, but it got the job done. And that was the end. The equipment started moving out that same day and was completely gone by the next morning.

* * *

This one came very close. I rate it a nine and a half out of a possible ten. Except for Andy Stark, nobody was killed. Nesbitt Belson and some of our city officials are going to get at least some uncomfortable time in court, maybe even jail terms. And the Bargain Bin has a defeat that will be hard to live down.

I may never see a perfect ten. But that doesn't mean I won't keep trying.