Free Midnight Haul by Max Allan Collins Page A

suicide?”
    “Uh, well. I didn’t know how
well
you knew her.”
    “I didn’t know her well, but I knew her. She was a wonderful person. It’s a tragic loss.”
    “Did she talk to you about me?”
    “Not really. She mentioned you. The girl was crazy about you, I’d judge. And I didn’t blame her.” She gave him an openly flirty look; her mouth was her daughter’s. “I’d seen your picture, after all.”
    “She showed it to you?”
    “No, it was on her desk.”
    “You
worked
with her?”
    “Yes. I’m in charge of the secretarial pool at the Kemco plant. You knew that, certainly?”
    “Uh. Certainly.”
    “Well, good night, Mr. Crane.”
    “Good night.”
    Just as the door was closing, the volume on the TV went up; he could hear the canned laughter.

Chapter Eleven
    The barrels were stacked four high, and everywhere. Toxic Tootsie Rolls, standing on end, more rows deep than Crane dared guess. In their midst was a sprawling warehouse, faded red brick with black windows, its loading-dock area clear, but otherwise surrounded by fifty-five-gallon barrels.
    And the barrels looked sick. Piled haphazardly, unlabelled, many of them pockmarked, stained by unknown fluids that had streaked them like dried blood. Some of the bottom barrels were so corroded that weeds grew in and out of them, God knew how.
    They’d taken the New Jersey Turnpike to Elizabeth, and Boone had guided the Datsun down this industrial waterfront stretch lined with storage tanks of gasoline and natural liquid gas that loomed like silver UFOs; the air hung with the smell of industry. At the end of this unshaded lane was Chemical Disposal Works, this Disneyland of waste drums they were now wandering around, like tourists, complete with camera.
    “I thought you said you’d already been here,” Crane said, uneasy that she was strolling around at two in the afternoon, and a sunny one at that, taking pictures of what had to be a criminal operation.
    “Sure,” Boone said. She was cheerful today, her long hair pulled back by a bright yellow headband, an incongruity next toher faded denim jacket and jeans and black-on-white NO NUKES sweatshirt. “But last time I was here they only had twenty thousand barrels. I’d say they’re up to thirty, now.”
    “I mean, this
is
illegal, right?”
    “I can take pictures here if I want. They don’t have any no trespassing sign up, that I can see. We didn’t climb a fence to get in.”
    “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about this.” He gestured to the barrels stacked on either side of the cinder drive they were walking along; the warehouse was up ahead, fifty yards.
    She shrugged. “I contacted the Solid Waste Administration about it.”
    “And?”
    “I was told this was a licensed facility.”
    “Jesus.”
    “I sent photos I took, and never heard anything. So I called back and was told Chemical Disposal Works had been ‘administratively required’ to clean up their site, within a ‘reasonable amount of time.’ ”
    “When was that?”
    “Three months ago.”
    They had reached the warehouse. No one seemed to be around. Boone took pictures of the loading-dock area; there were no trucks present, however, just a battered-looking tan station wagon, which indicated perhaps someone was around. Crane was getting nervous.
    “What’s in those things, anyway?” Crane asked.
    “The barrels? Who knows. Could be anything. Solvents. Plasticizers. Nitric acid. Cyanide. Pesticides. You know.”
    “That sounds… dangerous.”
    “You might say that. If they got certain compounds in ’em, exposure to the air could explode them.”
    “Explode.”
    “It’s happened before. Not here, but it’s happened.”
    “Does Kemco use this place?”
    “I don’t know. I just know I wanted you to see this place. It’s not the only one of its kind, you know.”
    “I’m convinced,” he said. “It’s a real eyesore. Can we leave?”
    “In a minute.”
    She was still at it with the