Acid Rock

CHAPTER ONE

The day before his flailing body met the Denver sidewalk, accelerating at thirty-two feet per second per second, William Blake lost his temper at the Los Angeles headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It was not that his district supervisor had once again given him an assignment that might keep him away from home for weeks. It was not that Special Agent Blake had to cancel his family's vacation for the second year in a row. It was that the supervisor was so … so … well, supervisory.

«Damn it, what is Washington worried about?» asked Blake, referring to the place from whence all policy flowed. «I've successfully handled situations like this seven times. At this, I'm probably the best in the whole bureau.»

«That's why you're in charge,» said District Supervisor Watkins.

«Yeah. I'm in charge, but you're going over where we're going to keep her, who's going to be on duty with her at night, what's she going to eat, and who's going to prepare it.»

«I'm just going over the details with you. Two heads are better than one.»

«Not if the other one's yours.»

«I'll forget you said that, Blake.»

«I want you to remember it. I want you to put it in your report. I want you to put down that you're giving advice to the man Washington calls in on all protective custody situations. I want you to tell them that.»

Blake straightened his tie. He could feel the heat rising in his neck. Perhaps it was just the summer queasies getting to him, queasies he had hoped to cure with a two-week camping trip. Perhaps. But why was Washington making such a fuss over a simple protective custody? There was a girl, nineteen. The girl was the daughter of a wealthy commodities dealer. She hated her father and was going to testify about some hanky panky with a large Russian grain deal. So what? The biggest problem they faced was that she would change her mind, not that someone was going to kill her.

«Bill, I think you should know. This girl is the target of the largest open contract in history.» Watkins's voice was hushed.

«What?» asked Blake, his clear blue eyes widening, his brow wrinkling.

«She is the target of the largest open contract in history, we believe.»

«I thought you said that,» said Blake. «Open contract, you said.»

«The largest open …»

«I heard that. I heard that. I heard that.» Blake's smooth fortyish face showed sudden wrinkles as he gave way to laughter. «An open contract.» He shook his head and laughed some more. «Since J. Edgar, nothing has worked right. What's the matter with you? You should know better.»

«This one's for real, Bill.»

«Real, unreal, a thousand dollars, a hundred thousand dollars. It's an open contract. Give her a plane ticket, a new name and the date she's supposed to show up to testify and let me go on my vacation.»

«We have reason to believe this open contract is for one million dollars. One million dollars.»

«Why not ten million? Why not a hundred million?»

«Don't be facetious, Blake.»

«I'm not. An open contract is about as dangerous as a head cold. It's a myth invented by newspapermen. When have you ever heard of an open contract being filled? Who's going to fill it?»

«This one, I was told on highest authority, is for real and there are people trying to fill it right now.»

«Mr. Watkins, sir. The definition of an open contract is that anyone can make the hit and collect from the man offering the money. But there's a little flaw in that. No one is going to commit murder on the possibility that someone he has never met is going to keep a promise of payment for the murder. Killers don't go knocking people off unless they at least meet the person who wants the job done. I mean, what are they going to do if they don't get paid? Bring the victim back to life? An open contract, sir, to be specific-and hopefully final-does not exist.»

«I believe Willie Moretti in New Jersey was killed on an open contract.»

«No, sir. If you remember, it was a standing order from all five Mafia families in the New York City area. Now, Joe Valachi was an open contract. He outlived Genovese, who was supposed to have issued it, for $100,000, I believe. Genovese should have made it for a million. It wouldn't have mattered.»

Supervisor Watkins looked at Agent Blake and then back to the file in front of him. In that file was an order, and whether he felt the same way Blake did, did not matter. Blake was to be put in charge and given maximum staffing and other support. One Vickie Stoner, nineteen, female Caucasian, was to reach the Senate hearings on grain fraud, scheduled for two weeks away. And she was to reach them alive.

«Would you feel better, Blake, if I told you it was a closed contract?»

«Yes. Then I would know I am defending against a real opponent.»

«Then treat your charge that way.»

«In other words, make believe.»

«If that will enable you to do a more effective job, yes.»

«This could never happen under J. Edgar,» said Blake. «We're protecting someone who's supposed to be killed on credit.»

Supervisor Watkins ignored this remark. Later he ignored Blake's stated reason for wanting a fifth night man to be assigned. In addition to the ones outside the room, on the roof, in the stairwell and in the hotel lobby, this one was to be placed at the airport.

«Why the airport?» asked Watkins.

«To protect her against low-flying night fairies, sir,» said Blake, containing a smile.

«Four men,» said Watkins.

«Very good, sir,» said Blake.

Watkins also ignored the suggestion about food.

«And we'll make sure no diet soda is used.»

«Why is that?» asked the now-suspicious Watkins.

«Cyclamates, sir. It's been proven that if a person drinks fifty-five gallons of cyclamates an hour, that person might develop cancer.»

«We'll vary the restaurants, as per usual procedure,» said Watkins.

«Very good, sir,» said Blake.

Miss Stoner was now in L.A. headquarters, said Watkins. Would Blake like to see her now?

«I'd like to tell my son, daughter, and wife first that we're not going to Washington State Park. Then I'll take over, if it's all right with you.»

Watkins agreed; it would prove to be Blake's first mistake. He said he would be back in two hours and put the assignment out of his thoughts.

He drove to his small ranch house with the neat lawn and the bicycle sprawled in the driveway. He did not scold his son for the driveway obstruction. He called him into the den.

«I'd like to explain about the bicycle, Pop. I was out on the lawn with Jimmy Tolliver and the ice cream truck…»

«That's all right,» Blake told his son.

«Something wrong, Pop?»

«Yes, in a way. You know that camping trip we were going to take? Well, we'll have to postpone it this year.»

Blake was surprised to see his son just shrug.

«I'm sorry,» Blake said.

«That's okay, Pop. I really wasn't looking forward to all those bugs at night. Maybe we can go to Disneyland sometime, okay?»

«But we always go to Disneyland. We've been there twice this year already.»

«Yeah, but I like Disneyland.»

«I thought you had your heart set on Washington State Park.»

«That was you, Pop. I never wanted to go that much.»

Neither had his daughter, Blake found out, and this relieved some of the burden of telling his wife.

«What is it this time, Bill?» she said, setting the table and avoiding his eyes.

«I can't say. I'll be out of town for a while. Maybe two weeks.»

«I see,» she said coldly.

«I'm sorry.»

«You were sorry last year, you'll be sorry next year. I guess it's the way with the bureau, isn't it? To be sorry? We're having squash tonight. You like squash.»

«If I had a choice, you know I wouldn't disappoint you again.»

«Does it matter? Get washed up. We'll be eating in a minute.»

«I can't stay.»

Mrs. Blake scooped up one place setting and ran into the kitchen. Blake followed his wife. She was crying.

«Go. Just go,» she sobbed. «I know you have to go. So just go.»

«I love you,» he said.

«What difference does that make? Just get out of here.»

He tried to kiss her but she twisted her head away. She would remember, for the rest of her life, denying him that last kiss.

When Blake returned to headquarters, he realized his mistake. Two agents were in a side office talking,

«It's in there,» said one, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. «We've got a real winner this time.»

«How long has she been in there? Did she eat supper?»

«She says she doesn't have to eat. Eating is selfish.»

«You check on her?»

«An hour ago. She says she doesn't know why she should be kept in prison when she hasn't done anything wrong. If you ask me, I'd like to see even more space in the generation gap.»

«You should be with her,» said Blake, and entered the room without a backward glance. It was dark. Blake turned on the lights.

«Damn,» he said.

Flowing red hair cascaded over the arm of a chair. Two young white legs poked crazily over its back. The chest did not move. No apparent breathing. The loose tie-dyed tee shirt was motionless.

Blake rushed to the still form and put his ear to the heart. Was that a beat? Yes. Strong. Beating strongly.

«Let's ball,» said the faint voice and Blake felt the voice vibrations against his cheek. He stood up. Her crystal blue eyes had pupils the size of pinheads. The light pink lips formed a weak, silly grin.

«Let's ball,» she said.

«Miss Stoner, what did you take?»

«A trip to the mountain. I'm on the mountain. The mountain. Fuhhh-reaked out. Fuhhhreaked.»

«Did Miss Stoner have a pocketbook, bag, anything?» Blake called to the other agents.

«Yeah, Bill. Sort of a small pouch.»

«Search it and give me the drugs.»

Blake watched the girl try to focus her eyes.

«No drugs here,» said the other agent.

«I'm going to search her. Get in here,» said Blake, who wanted a witness and corroborating testimony should the girl later claim an improper advance was made against her.

Her blue jeans were faded and tight. Blake patted the pockets and felt a small vial.

As he reached for it, she said:

«Foreplay. Good. I like foreplay.»

The pills were like small yellow aspirin tablets.

«Mescaline?» asked Blake.

«No thanks, I'm already turned on,» said Vickie Stoner.

«She's all yours,» said the agent.

«She's ours,» corrected Blake. «I want two men with her at all times. At all times.» Blake checked his watch. They would miss the evening flight to Washington, D.C. He wasn't going to take her on a plane in this condition. Blake and the two agents sat with her during the night. Just before dawn, she began to cry, then she closed her eyes and went to sleep. When she awoke, she was ravenous. She wanted three superburgers, a double order of french fries, a cola and a milkshake.

They drove to a drive-in hamburger stand and when they left, she demanded they stop at a cigar store. She said she wanted a chocolate bar and just couldn't go on without one. Blake thought she was too long inside the store and started in after her, but he met her in the doorway. «Just something I had to do,» she explained, but would not tell him what it was. He noticed she did not have a chocolate bar in her hand.

As they neared the airport, she turned on the radio and kept moving the dial until what appeared to be static with a beat came from the speakers. The words bespoke a strong dissatisfaction with the world and a need for someone, which Blake assumed to be sexual.

Vickie Stoner nodded her head to the music and when the news came on, she shut her eyes.

The lead story was about last night's flight from Los Angeles to Washington. It had crashed over the Rockies. Witnesses reported what appeared to be an explosion in the tail assembly. One hundred persons were killed.

Blake signaled the car ahead to pull over. The one behind also pulled over.

Ten men in suits, ties, and shined cordovans gathered at the side of the road. They all wore snap-brim hats.

«All right. You, you, you and you,» said Blake. «Get into lounging clothes. I don't want to see any two men in standard dress. You and you, don't shave for a while. You and you, get the parts out of your hair. That crewcut we can't do anything with, so you keep your hat on.»

«What's up, Bill?»

«Our flight to Washington was bombed last night. I don't know if it has anything to do with us, but we were supposed to be on that plane when it blew up over the Rockies. We were told that Miss Stoner's life is in danger. I guess we should act accordingly. This is what we're going to do. We're not flying to Washington. We're going to assume there are real killers after Miss Stoner's life. That means an attack could come from anywhere. So we're going to be careful. We're driving to Denver, but not in three lookalike government pool cars. You and you, rent the jazziest car you can get. You and you, get a truck. You and you, get a heavy four-door car, maybe a Cadillac or Lincoln.»

«Rent?»

«Unless you own one.»

«We'll rent.»

«Okay. You, get back to Watkins. Tell him we're driving to Denver. We're going to get rooms in the hotel that faces the Rockies, so we don't have to worry about anyone sniping from a window across the street. We'll check in with Supervisor Watkins when we get there.»

«If we use rented cars, we won't have radio contact,» one agent noted.

«I'll sacrifice that for not being noticed,» Blake said.

«Sir, do you really think there is an open contract out on Miss Stoner's life? I mean, one that is being picked up?»

«I think we were lucky we didn't take that flight last night is what I think. I think we're going to stay lucky. There's a luncheonette with a parking lot just outside of Watts. Brubaw's. Everyone know where it is?»

There were some assents and a few nos. Blake paired the ones who knew with those who didn't and returned to his government car.

«Okeydokey,» said Blake, smiling.

«What does that mean?» asked Vickie Stoner. «Okeydokey?»

«It means we're in good shape, Miss Stoner.»

«Heavy, man,» said Vickie.

At the hotel in Denver, Blake organized his men in a diamond pattern that he found out, late in life, was also used by the Viet Cong when they camped. He had learned it from an old hand who said his father had learned it from a Texas ranger.

One man was posted on a street north of the hotel, another was posted south. Close to the room, east and west on the street directly below, were other men. That was the outer perimeter.

The rooms above and to the sides of Miss Stoner's were also rented by Blake's agents. And one man floated within the diamond, checking the points without being obvious.

Blake and two other agents shared the suite with Vickie Stoner, who appeared bored with television and wanted records of Maggot and the Dead Meat Lice.

«Someday, I'm gonna ball that Maggot,» said Vickie, pointing to an album cover of what appeared to Blake to be a derelict with blue paint under his eyes and three lamp chops hanging from the chest of his white satin jumpsuit. «He's the baddest,» Vickie said.

«That's negative?» asked Blake.

«That's positive,» said Vickie.

«Do you want to see something very baddest?» asked Blake.

Vickie smiled at his use of language. «Sure,» she said.

Blake did not bother to strap on his gun, because then, to eliminate any chance of drawing attention to himself, he would have had to put on his jacket, and they were only going out on the balcony.

He opened the glass doors and there it was, deep in the west, the sun setting behind the Rockies.

«Yeah, heavy,» said Vickie. «Heavy.»

«Those are the Rockies, the most beautiful mountains in the world, but also some of the most treacherous.»

«Like life, too, you know,» said Vickie. «If it's heavy, it can also be a bummer, know what I mean?»

«Yes,» said Blake. «It smells better over there, too. No air pollution.»

«Wait a few years, man, you won't be able to breathe there either.»

Blake smiled. «A bit pessimistic, aren't you?»

«What I see is what we got.»

«Is that why you're going to testify?»

«That, and other things. I don't think the pigs should have things their way all the time. My father's got enough money. It's not right to rip off wheat from this country and drive up the price of poor people's bread.»

«Am I a pig?» Blake asked.

Vickie giggled. «No. You're heavy. Straight as shit, but heavy, man. Like candy.»

«You're not baddest at all,» said Blake, and saw her giggle into her hands like young girls did back in Kansas City when he was going to high school and the big daring high was wine and good girls didn't do it unless they were married. It was a changing country, but how bad could it be, how bad could this counter-culture be, if a girl like Vickie was willing to testify against her father just because she thought something was wrong? Wasn't that what they had taught us?

«Don't they ever stop working?» asked Vickie, pointing to the roof and to the right.

Blake looked up. A painter's scaffold, its white slatted bottom coming toward them was descending from the roof. Blake could see shoes and bodies through the gaps between the slats, like black blobs against the darkening sky.

The platform lowered silently and that, more than the odd hour, told Blake they were definitely under attack. Scaffolds always squeaked, even when new. The pulleys would have to be muffled with packed grease to insure silence, and no painter, sand blaster, or steam sprayer would risk a slip just for quiet. Only a killer would.

«Vickie, go inside and tell one of the agents to bring me my shoulder holster, would you please?» said Blake in a very casual voice.

«You going to target shoot twelve stories down?»

«No. Just do as I say, will you, honey?»

«Okeydokey,» said Vickie, using her new word. The scaffold was descending just to the right of the balcony. If Blake had brought the radio gear he could have gotten the upstairs room to move on it first. But the radio gear and the government cars were back in Los Angeles. And that was the flaw in the diamond defense. The points weren't connected.

From behind Blake came a knock on the hotel suite door.

«Room service.»

«Don't answer it,» yelled Blake and with his shout, the scaffold came down quickly and he heard the door to the room open and Vickie scream. One agent was caught with a blast in the belly, but the other returned fire. In the room, the two side doors opened and there was more firing, and just above his head Blake saw a rifle poke down from the scaffold. He yanked and pulled a blond young man along with the rifle. With a snap of his elbow into the man's jaw, he knocked him into the bannister. The rifle disappeared over the railing. Three other men were coming down on the scaffold and Blake was weaponless. He grabbed one of the ropes, braced his feet against the railing, and pushed. One man fell; the remaining two were unable to fire.

Blake pushed again with his body, like a maniac working a playground swing. The scaffold swung far out from the side of the hotel wall. He felt a banging on his back, but he swung back to the wall again and pushed with his legs. Then the heavily greased pulley slipped and his end of the scaffold plunged down. He might have held on with his hands if he hadn't gotten a face and chest full of two sliding men. His hands popped free like two weak safety pins attached to a bail of hay.

Blake hit the Denver sidewalk accelerating, as would any other free-falling object, at thirty-two feet per second per second. The sidewalk remained stationary. They met. Blake felt a crack, and then nothing. He would never feel again.

The last man who fell from the scaffold hit his companion and his fall was cushioned just enough for him to live a day. Before he died of multiple injuries, he told FBI men about an open contract he was trying to fill. The whole gang were beach bums; they had thought that eight of them could pull it off. It was sort of a lark, but if it had worked, they would have been rich for life.

The killing had been a holocaust. Four agents dead. Eight assailants dead. Not in this century had that many people been killed in a federal shoot-out.

But there were indications that even worse might be around the corner. At the funerals of the young men, a single large wreath was delivered for each one. A bright gold envelope with silver lettering was attached. Each envelope had a tassel on it.

When the tassels were pulled, each envelope spilled forth $12,500 in twenty-dollar bills and a note made of letters cut from magazines and pasted on a sheet, almost like a kidnapper's ransom note.

The note read:

«For services almost rendered.»

Someone had been willing to pay $100,000 just for an unsuccessful try. The open contract was real.

The wreaths were confiscated as evidence. When the families of two of the dead men wanted to know why, they were told only that the wreaths might lead to the men who had hired the deceased. The funeral directors were warned about the dangers of disclosing the contents of the envelopes to anyone. Word was leaked to the press that the shoot-out was over a narcotics shipment. But the most emphasis was placed on keeping mum about the cash. There was trouble enough without helping to advertise an open contract.

During the shooting at the Denver hotel, Vickie Stoner had disappeared. She might still be alive somewhere. Supervisor Watkins confided to a special agent that he thought the situation was hopeless, that the girl was as good as dead. Later, when he tried to call the same special agent back to mention one other fact, he was told that no such agent existed.

«But you okayed him,» complained Watkins.

«We did not,» said the director's aide at headquarters.

In Washington, D. C., the man who had posed as a special agent finished writing his report, which he thought was for the National Security Agency. He had done many reports like it. On the two Kennedy assassinations, on the King killing and on many other, discreet deaths that had not made headlines. Officially, he was the authority on specific personnel functions, which translated into as which group was responsible. Each nation had a man like this.

His report concluded that the attempt on the life of Vickie Stoner had obviously been planned by someone with a lot of intelligence and very little experience--which ruled out any foreign power. It was his belief that the men who had attempted the assassination were also the planners of it. Certainly there was nothing in the attempt to suggest that it was beyond the capability of beach bums.

What was of special interest, his report stated, was that this was an open contract, something he had read about but had assumed did not exist, for reasons obvious to anyone familiar with the field. This open contract was real and payable, and the money in the funeral wreaths was proof.

It was inevitable that experienced professionals would now attempt to collect the sum, if Vickie Stoner was still alive-which was doubtful. Supervisor Watkins had stated the case accurately: «hopeless.» But it was of no concern to N.S.A., since no foreign power was involved.

So ended his summary, and the directors of the N.S.A. did not even bother to completely read it. «No foreign power» put it out of their jurisdiction. As a matter of fact, they had not even ordered the report. A secondary-level official had. He had sent a Xerox of it along to his superior, who he assumed was engaged in some kind of watchdog agency.

Twelve hours had passed between the time Supervisor Watkins had said «hopeless» and the time the Xerox copy of the report landed on a desk in Folcraft Sanitarium in Rye, New York.

At Folcraft the report was read thoroughly; it was there that the order for it had originated. A lemon-faced man scanned the words, jotted some semireadable notes to himself and then filed the copy in a round tube, which shredded it.

He leaned back in his chair and looked out through the one-way glass toward the Long Island Sound, dark now, waiting for the sun.

Hopeless? Maybe not. An interesting equation was at work here. If Miss Stoner were alive, then more competent assassins would go after her. And if they were stopped, then only more competent ones would come. An acceleration of excellence, leading to the very best wherever or whoever he or they might be.

Dr. Harold Smith looked out into the darkness. Wherever they might be. He knew where they were. He was going to send them a telegram. But Vickie Stoner would not worry. The best in the world would be on her side; she need only worry about the second best.

Dr. Smith dialed Western Union himself. His secretary had long since gone home. He gave the name of the person he wished the telegram sent to, and then the message:

«Aunt Mildred to visit tomorrow. She wants the green room.»