Dream of a Falling Eagle

Chapter 11

We arrived back in New York at 4:45, were at the brownstone by 5:30. There was a long, black limousine with smoked windows parked at the curb. A bored-looking chauffeur in a uniform that was too tight for him leaned on the hood, smoking a cigarette. The occupant of the limousine, wearing a tan summer suit, two-tone brown cowboy boots, and his muskrat top was waiting for us in Francisco's office.

"It's about time you got here!" Taylor Mackintosh snapped, leaping off the chair he'd been sitting in as we entered. "My agent said there was a message that you wanted to see me right away! I'm not used to waiting on people, especially people I figure are looking to get some money from me!"

"Mr. Mackintosh," I said sweetly, "you can't imagine how happy I am to see you. Hang on just a couple of seconds and I'll be right with you."

As Garth leaned on the reception desk, I went to the back of the office and peered through the Venetian blinds at the scene in my office, which was already littered with pizza cartons, sandwich wrappers, and empty soda bottles. The air in there, I knew, would be foul. The source of all this putrescence, the best hacker in New York City or any place else, as far as I knew, was a three-hundred-pound, red-haired man in his mid-twenties who was sitting at my computer console smacking his lips and mumbling to himself as his stubby fingers fluttered over my keyboard. The ripped T-shirt he wore was thoroughly sweat-soaked and covered with food stains. Francisco, looking thoroughly dejected but resolute, sat next to the man, pad and ballpoint pen in his hands, dutifully recording the Slurper's mumblings. I tapped on the window. The Slurper just kept working away, but when Francisco looked up and saw me he beamed as if I was the Second Coming. He motioned toward the closed door of the office, as if asking permission to escape for a few moments to talk to me, but I smiled and shook my head. His smile vanished. I motioned for him to come over and close the blinds, then turned away from his plaintive, pitiful gaze as he did so.

"Now, Mr. Mackintosh," I continued in the same sweet tone as I turned to face the indignant-looking actor. "I don't believe you've met my brother. Garth Frederickson, this is the famous Taylor Mackintosh."

Garth grunted as he reached out and rested his hand on the telephone.

"Skip the formalities, Frederickson," Mackintosh said curtly, reaching inside his suit jacket. "How much money do you want to make this poetry bullshit go away? I assume that's why you wanted to see me."

"Actually, it isn't. Did you know I used to be in the circus?"

His hand stayed inside his jacket, and he scowled. "What?"

"I wanted you to come in so that I could show you how high I can jump. Check this out." I took three quick steps, leaped into the air high enough to snatch the toupee off his head, came back down and bowed a couple of times, holding out the ratty hairpiece for his inspection. "Pretty damn impressive, huh?"

Taylor Mackintosh's face turned the color of brick, his eyes went wide, and he put both hands on top of his bald head. "What are you doing?!"

"Here," Garth said, picking up the telephone receiver and holding it out toward the thoroughly astonished man. "You'd better call nine-one-one."

Mackintosh, still holding his hands on top of his head, bolted for the open doorway, but when he got there he found me blocking it. He came to a halt, spun around toward Garth. "Are you crazy?!"

"You shouldn't believe all those rumors floating around about us," Garth replied evenly.

"Why should I call nine-one-one?!"

"Because it looks to me like Mongo is getting ready to beat the shit out of you. You'll need emergency medical services, and then you'll want to press charges. I'll call the tabloids myself. I would recommend the headline, 'Dwarf Pulverizes Gingivitis Spokesman.' Sound all right to you?"

His eyes wild, Mackintosh tried to make a dash over, around, or through me. I smacked him on the right thigh, not hard enough to risk damaging old, brittle bones, but with sufficient force to give him a charley horse and assure his attention. He sat down hard on the floor, kneading his thigh and making whimpering sounds. If I hadn't had such a vivid image of Moby Dickens' mutilated body in my mind, I would have felt thoroughly ashamed of myself.

"Nine-one-one?" Garth intoned mildly, extending the telephone receiver out even further. "If you tell the police your life is in danger, they may get here before Mongo snaps your scrawny, red neck."

"What do you want?!" the old man wailed.

I stepped closer to him, until my face was only inches from his, and I could smell the garlic, fear, hate, and death on his breath. "Your problem resolved itself," I said, looking hard into his pale eyes. "Thomas Dickens is dead. He was murdered."

His mouth dropped open, the blood drained from his face, and he began to frantically crab-walk backward. I followed right alongside, keeping my face in his. I could tell by the expression on his face and the panicked look in his eyes that he was receiving the news for the first time. He stammered, "I didn't… I didn't have anything-"

"Also, some of your like-minded friends are planning to assassinate the president and vice president. You know anything about that?"

He came up hard against the opposite wall, hit his head. He cringed and tried to turn away, but I grabbed his chin and turned his face back toward me. "Answer me!" I spat at him.

Even with my hand cupping his chin, he managed to vigorously shake his head back and forth. "They talk," he whispered hoarsely. "But it's only talk."

I released his chin, stepped back. Garth came over, and together we lifted him up off the floor and into a chair, where he slumped dejectedly. I filled a cup of water from a jug in the corner of the office, brought it to him. "I'm sorry I had to hurt you, Mr. Mackintosh. But there are some serious problems we're dealing with here, and we need information quickly. There isn't time to be polite."

"Who makes this talk?" Garth asked quietly.

"Dozens of people," Mackintosh mumbled, not looking at us. "It's no secret that a lot of people hate this administration, and Bill Kranes would be president if something happened to those two pinkos in office now. You can't blame people for wanting what's right for the country."

I leaned close to him again, forcing him to look into my eyes. "Are you part of a conspiracy to assassinate the president and vice president of the United States, Mr. Mackintosh?"

"God, no!"

"Do you know anybody who is?"

"No. I told you it's all just talk. People get mad and they vent their feelings. They just want to get the Communists out of our government once and for all."

I glanced at Garth, who nodded to indicate he believed the old man was telling the truth.

"Whoever murdered Thomas Dickens is doing a lot more than just talk, Mr. Mackintosh. Who told you to come in here the other day and offer me money?"

He hesitated, and I again gripped his chin. "Paul Piggott," he mumbled, averting his gaze.

"And who is Paul Piggott? What's his relationship to you?"

"He's vice president of Guns for God and Jesus." Mackintosh paused, rubbed his aching right thigh with both hands, then continued, "He called and told me Bill Kranes was having a problem with some nigger claiming the Speaker had been copying his poems. That could be embarrassing if the charge was made public, and Paul said it sounded like a blackmail scheme since you were fronting for the nigger. He told me I should have a talk with you, offer you money, and see if I could pay you off. A couple of days later he called to tell me I should forget the whole thing, but by then I'd already come here to see you."

"Was this your own money you were supposed to use?"

He shook his head. "Guns for God and Jesus has a checking account."

"Gingivitis doesn't have a teacup to piss in. You've probably got less than two hundred members, and you're lucky to come up with money for postage to send out some nutty mailing every few months. Suddenly you've got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to pay off a blackmailer?"

"There was money put in the account for that purpose."

"Where does the money in this account come from?"

"I don't know," he said grumpily. "I'm not their accountant."

"Give me a check."

Now his mood brightened. He looked at me accusingly. "So you do want money!"

"No, I said I wanted a check. In fact, give me the whole checkbook."

He hesitated, and Garth pointed toward the telephone. Finally he withdrew a book of checks issued by a bank in Arizona. I took it from his hand, put it in my pocket, continued, "Why did Piggott pick you for this errand?"

"He never said. I'm the public relations spokesman for our organization, and I guess maybe Paul figured this was a public relations problem."

I glanced at Garth, who rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he said. "We're dealing with a bunch of imbeciles."

"What, is that supposed to be a news bulletin?"

Garth leaned over the chair Mackintosh was sitting in, put his mouth close to the other man's ear. "Where can we find this Paul Piggott? Give us an address and phone number."

The old man looked plaintively at his toupee, which I still held in my hand. I gave it to him, and he quickly mashed it on top of his head. It was off by about ninety degrees, but actually looked better than the way he normally wore it. "He doesn't have an address or phone number. He lives off the grid in Idaho."

"Off the grid?"

"He's in a survivalist compound, getting ready for the upcoming race war with the niggers and other mud people. They don't have electricity or telephones. When he wants to contact me, he goes into town."

"You use the word 'nigger' again, old man, and I'm going to wash out your mouth with soap. How does he get his mail?"

"A post office box in town." I asked, "Have you ever been to this compound?" He nodded.

Garth retrieved a pad and pencil from Francisco's desk and dropped them in Mackintosh's lap. "Draw us a map, old man. Make sure it's a good one."