Time Bomb

28

Linda had phoned and left a message at ten: Just called to say hi. Be up until eleven thirty.

It was close to one, and though I wanted to talk to her, I decided to do it in the morning.

I was wound up. Sensory overload. Not ready to tackle the kind of stuff Ike Novato had chosen to read about. TV would be reruns of movies that shouldn’t have been produced in the first place, and hucksters pitching cellulite cures and eternal salvation. I did a half hour on the skiing machine, showered, then hobbled into bed and fell asleep.

I woke up thinking about the kids at Hale and called Linda at seven-thirty. She had already heard about Massengil’s murder on the early morning newscast. The newscaster hadn’t mentioned anything about a woman being involved. I told her about Sheryl Jackson.

“My God, what’s happening, Alex?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Could there be some connection with the sniping?”

“The way things are going, we may never find out.” I recounted how Frisk had kicked Milo off the case.

“Another politician,” I said. “This must be our year for them.”

She said, “Year of the Rat. What should I do about the kids, Alex? In terms of Massengil?”

“The main thing to look out for is their attributing Massengil’s death to something they did- or something they thought. Children- and the younger they are, the truer this is- sometimes equate thinking with doing. They have to be aware of Massengil’s attitude toward them: They may have seen him on TV or heard their parents discussing what a bad person he was. If they wished him harm, or even death, they may get it in their heads that those wishes are what killed him.”

“Step on a crack, break Mama’s back.”

“Exactly. Also, over the next few days the media will probably turn Massengil into some kind of hero. He’s not going to seem like a bad guy anymore. That could be confusing.”

“A hero?” she said. “Even with the hooker?”

“The fact that they haven’t yet gone public with the hooker may mean they intend to keep that part of it under wraps. Frisk trades in secrets. He’d make a deal like that if it was in his best interests.”

She paused, then said, “Okay. So I should make sure to disconnect their thoughts about Massengil from what happened to him.”

“And from the sniping.”

“Should I do it as an assembly or have the teachers handle it class by class?”

“Class by class to accommodate the different developmental levels. I can come over right now, if you’d like.”

“No,” she said. “Thanks anyway. But I’d like to try this myself. In the long run, I’m the one who’ll have to deal with it.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“But,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you after school.”

“How about seven? Your place?”

“How about.”

I made very strong coffee and squeezed grapefruit for juice- no doubt Mahlon Burden had a gadget that did it faster and cleaner- and, so fortified, turned on the eight o’clock news.

I tuned in midway through a film-clip retrospective of Massengil’s career. Terms like “aggressive campaigner” and “veteran lawmaker” predominated. Sheryl Jackson remained unnamed. Dr. Lance Dobbs was described as a “prominent psychologist, management consultant, and adviser to the assemblyman.” The Lesser Corpse. For all the public knew, he and Massengil had been playing poker.

The police were offering no theories as to the identity of the assassin(s) but were investigating “several leads.” That from the police chief himself. A reporter’s question about the sniping at Hale prompted a quick “At this time we see no connection, but as I said, gentlemen, all aspects of this tragedy are being looked into.” Frisk stood in back of the chief, projecting the faithful-servant solemnity of a Vice Presidential candidate.

Cut to Massengil’s tearful widow, a stout grandmotherly woman with wounded eyes under a bubble of white hair, sitting on a velvet divan being comforted by two of the assemblyman’s four grown sons. The other two were flying in from Colorado and Florida. On the wall behind the divan were framed pictures. The camera closed in on one of them: Massengil throwing a grandchild up in the air. The baby looked terrified and delighted at the same time. Massengil’s smile was ferocious. I turned off the set.

Postponing my next history lesson, I did chores and paperwork for a couple of hours, netted leaves out of the pond, and showered. But by eleven I was at the dining room table, facing Ike’s books. Turning pages, searching for more marginal notes- to what end?

At the very least you’ll have your consciousness raised, pal.

A week ago I would have claimed a sterling consciousness, in no need of raising. I was no stranger to suffering- I’d spent half my life as a receptacle for the misery of others. Walking the terminal wards, dispensing words, nods, empathic looks, strategic silences- the meager kindnesses endowed by my training. Ending too many bleak nights mired in the unanswerable why is life so cruel ruminations that come with that territory. The kind of questions with which you stop torturing yourself only when you realize there are no answers.

But the horror of these books was different, the cruelty so… calculated. Institutionalized and efficient.

Homicide in service of the state.

Psychopathy elevated to patriotic duty.

Children shoved into boxcars under the approving eyes of soldiers not much older than children themselves. Assembly-line tattooing.

The processing of humans as ore.

I’d intended to skim, but found myself reading. Found the time slipping away, until it was noon, then past.

At two-thirty, I began a book on the Eichmann trial. A chapter toward the end presented trial documents proving a deliberate plan to exterminate the Jews. Nazi records chronicling a conference at German Interpol Headquarters in Berlin, convened by one Reinhard Heydrich on January 20, 1942, in accordance with a letter from Hermann Goering charging Heydrich with arranging a final solution. A secret conference attended by learned men: Dr. Meyer. Dr. Leibrandt. Dr. Nenmann. Dr. Freisler…

The plan had been well thought-out, making use of data already collected by the previous mass murder operations of Aktion squads. Detailed statistics on the demographics of eleven million Jews.

The first stage would be mass evacuation under the guise of Arbeitseinsatz- the “labor effort.” Those evacuees not liquidated by “natural causes” would be “treated suitably.” The whole thing had the arrogant detachment of an academic conference, the participants conducting scholarly, high-minded discussions of optimal killing techniques…

A secret conference, revealed to posterity only because Herr Eichmann, compulsive clerk that he was, had taken copious notes.

A conference held in the Berlin district known as Wannsee.

Wannsee.

Wanna see.

Wanna see? Wanna see too? Two?

My breath grew short and the ache in my jaw reminded me I’d been clenching my teeth.

I returned my gaze to the book. The pages before me were well thumbed, foxed to fuzz at the corners.

In the right margin the words had been penciled, in the neat, measured printing I’d come to know as Ike Novato’s:

“Wannsee II? Possible?”

Several inches below that: “Crevolin again? Maybe.”

Then a phone number with a 931 prefix.

The Fairfax district.

Wannsee II.

Crevolin. It sounded like a hair-replacement tonic. Or something made from petrochemicals.

Some kind of code? Or maybe a name.

I dialed the Fairfax number. A receptionist recited the call letters of one of the TV networks. Surprise slowed my response and before I could answer she repeated the triad of consonants and said, “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to speak with Mr. Crevolin.” Fifty percent chance of getting the gender right.

She said, “One moment.”

Click.

“Terry Crevolin’s office.”

“Mr. Crevolin, please.”

“He’s out of the office.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Who is this, please?”

Not knowing how to answer that, I said, “A friend. I’ll call back later,” and hung up.

I dialed the Holocaust Center and asked for Judy Baumgartner. She came to the phone sounding cheerful.

“Yes, Alex, what can I do for you?”

“Milo asked me to look through Ike Novato’s books. I just came across something Ike wrote in one of the margins and thought you might be able to explain it to me.”

“What is it?”

“Wannsee Two. He wrote it in the margin of a chapter on the original Wannsee conference.”

“Wannsee Two,” she said, pronouncing it Vahn-say. “He never mentioned that to me. Strange that he should even know about that.”

“Whys that?”

“Wannsee Two’s pretty esoteric. Just a rumor, really, that circulated years ago- back in the seventies. Supposedly, there was a secret meeting between elements of the radical right and those of the radical left- white leftists who’d broken with the black militants and turned heavily racist. The alleged goal was to set up a national socialist confederation- plant the roots of a neo-Nazi party in this country.”

“Sounds like the Bund, reborn.”

“More like the Hitler-Stalin pact,” she said. “The extremes crushing the middle. We checked it out, never found any evidence it had happened. The prevailing wisdom is that it’s apocryphal- one of those urban folk myths, like alligators in the sewer system. But chances are this particular myth got a little special help. The rumor began circulating just around the time of Cointelpro- the counterintelligence program the Nixon administration set up to sabotage radical movements.”

“Where was this conference supposed to have taken place?”

“I’ve heard different versions, ranging from Germany to right here in the U.S. I’ve even heard claims that it took place on a military base- the confederation was supposed to have lots of members in the armed forces and in various police forces around the country. How’s that for something to feed your paranoia?” Pause. “Wannsee Two. This is the first I’ve heard of it in a very long time. I wonder how Ike knew about it.”

“His landlady was an old radical with an interest in the Holocaust,” I said. “The two of them used to talk politics. She may have told him about Wannsee Two and he may have decided to research it.”

“Well, given that, I can see why he’d pursue it. Blacks were a prime target of Wannsee Two. The way the story goes, one of the intentions of the confederation was to foment hatred between the minorities, Pit the blacks against the Jews- have the blacks kill the Jews, which would be easy because the Jews were passive wimps, ready to march into the ovens again. Once the blacks had served their purpose, they would be annihilated. Also a snap, because they were so gullible and stupid. And of course, when the cowardly Hispanics and Asians saw what was going on, they’d leave the country of their own accord- go back where they came from- and the borders of White America would be hermetically sealed.”

“Sounds pretty nuts.”

“So did Hitler, at the beginning. That’s why we investigated the Wannsee Two thing as thoroughly as we’ve ever investigated anything. But we never came up with anything to support it.”

I said, “There was something else in the margin. Crevolin. And a phone number. I called it and got the office of someone named Terry Crevolin, at one of the TV networks.”

“I know Terry!” she said. “He works in development- screening scripts. He worked with us last year on our war-criminal special-The Hidden. We won an Emmy.”

“I remember. Did Ike know him?”

“Not as far as I know, but I’m starting to see there were lots of things I didn’t know about Ike.”

“Could they have met at the Center?”

“No. Terry was just here a couple of times, for meetings. And that was last year, months before Ike showed up. Though I suppose there could have been a chance meeting if Terry dropped in without my knowing it. What exactly did Ike write in that book?”

“Wannsee Two?-the two in roman numerals- followed by the word Possible? Then Crevolin again? Maybe. And Crevolin’s number. It could mean he tried to talk to Crevolin once- about Wannsee Two- hadn’t been able to reach him, and was thinking of trying it again. Any idea why?”

“The only thing that comes to mind is that Terry used to be involved with the New Left- even wrote a book about it. I recall his mentioning that. He seemed kind of embarrassed and proud at the same time. I guess Ike could have seen him as a source, though how Ike would know that, I have no idea.”

“A source on the New Left?”

“Maybe. Certainly not on the Holocaust. Terry wasn’t especially knowledgeable about that until we educated him. You’ve really got my curiosity piqued. If you find out anything useful, please let me know.”

I called the network again and got patched through to Crevolin’s office. He was still out. This time I left my name and said it was about Ike Novato. Then I phoned Milo at the West L.A. station, planning to play Show and Tell. He wasn’t in either. I called his home number, got Rick’s recorded voice on a machine, and recited what I’d learned about Wannsee II. Saying it out loud made me realize it wasn’t much: a dead boy’s exploration of an urban myth.

I searched through the rest of Ike’s books, found no more marginal notes or Wannsee references, and repacked them. It was close to six by the third time I called the network. This time no one answered.

Crevolin again?

Instead of implying Ike had been unsuccessful in reaching the network man, it might mean they’d talked and Crevolin hadn’t given him what he wanted.

But why had Ike believed Crevolin would he helpful?

A New Left veteran. And author.

Perhaps Ike had gotten hold of Crevolin’s book and found something interesting.

I looked at my watch. An hour until I was supposed to pick up Linda.

I called a bookstore in Westwood Village. The clerk checked Books in Print and told me no book by anyone named Crevolin was current and the store had no record of ever having stocked it.

“Any idea where I might get hold of it?”

“What’s it about?”

“The New Left, the sixties.”

“Vagabond Books has a big sixties section.”

I knew Vagabond- Westwood Boulevard just above Olympic. Right on the way to Linda’s. A warm, cluttered place with the dusty, easy-browsing feel of a campus-area bookstore, the kind of place L.A. campuses rarely have. I’d bought a few Chandler and MacDonald and Leonard first editions there, some art and psych and poetry books. I looked up the number, called, waited ten rings and was about to hang up when a man answered:

“Vagabond.”

I told him what I was looking for.

“Yup, we have it.”

“Great. I’ll come by right now and pick it up.”

“Sorry, we’re closed.”

“What time do you open tomorrow?”

“Eleven.”

“Okay. See you at eleven.”

“It’s pretty important to you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You a writer?”

“Researcher.”

“Tell you what: come around through the back, I’ll give it to you for ten bucks.”

I thanked him, did a quick change, and left, picking up Westwood Boulevard at Wilshire and taking it south. I reached the back entrance to the bookstore by 6:25. The door was bolted. After a couple of hard raps, I heard the bolt slide back. A tall lean man in his thirties, with a boyishly handsome face framed by long wavy hair parted in the middle, stood holding a grimy-looking paperback book in one hand. The book’s cover was gray and unmarked. The man wore sneakers and cords and a Harvard sweat shirt. A tenor sax hung from a string around his neck.

He gave a warm smile and said, “I looked for a cleaner one, but this was all we had.”

I said, “No problem. I appreciate your doing this.”

He handed me the book. “Happy research.”

I held out a ten.

“Make it five,” he said, reaching into his pocket and giving me change. “I recognize you now. You’re a good customer, and it’s a ratty copy. Besides, it’s not exactly one of our fast-movers.”

“Bad writing?”

He laughed and fingered some buttons on the sax. “That doesn’t start to describe it. It’s self-published dreck. Downright turgid would be flattery. Also, the guy sold out.”

I opened the book. The title was Lies, by T. Crevolin. I turned a page, looked at the name of the publisher. “Rev Press?”

“As in o-lution. Pretty clever, huh?”

He raised the sax to his lips, expelled a few blue notes and bent them.

I thanked him again.

He continued to play, blowing harder, raised his eyebrows, and closed the door.

I tossed the book into the trunk of the Seville and drove to Linda’s.

We went to a place in the Los Feliz district that I’d gotten to know during my days at Western Pediatric. Small, Italian, deli case in front, tables in back. Ripe with Romano cheese and garlic sausage, olive loaf and prosciutto, a beautiful brine smell wafting up from open vats of olives.

I ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico that cost more than our dinners combined. Each of us finished a glass before the food came.

I asked how the children were handling Massengil’s murder.

She said, “Pretty well, actually. Most of them didn’t seem to have that clear a picture of who he was. It seems like a pretty remote experience for them. I dealt with the cause and effect thing. Thanks for getting me on the right track.”

She filled my glass, then hers. “Catch the six o’clock news?”

“No.”

“You were right about Massengil- they’re turning him into a saint. And Latch’s best friend.”

“Latch?”

“Oh, yeah, center stage. Delivering a eulogy in Council chambers. Going on about how he and Sam had enjoyed their differences but through it all there’d been a mutual respect, an appreciation for the process of give-and-take, whatever. Then condolences to the widow, a formal proposal to make it a day of official mourning for the beloved leader. The whole thing sounded like a campaign speech.”

“Beloved leader,” I said.

“Everyone loves him now. Even the guy Massengil punched out- DiMarco- had nice things to say.”

“Nothing like death to enhance the old public image.”

“If his corpse were up for reelection, he’d probably win.”

I raised my glass. “What a concept. Suicide as a campaign tactic. The possibilities are fascinating- like adding the post of Official Exhumer to the cabinet.”

Both of us laughed. She said, “Lord, this is grisly. But I’m sorry, I just can’t start liking him because he’s dead. I remember how he used us. And what he liked to do with that call girl. Ugh.”

I said, “Any mention of Dobbs through all of this?”

“Respected psychologist, consultant, et cetera.”

“No mention of his working at the school?”

She nodded. “That was the respected psychologist part. They made it sound as if he’d been treating the kids all along- so much for an informed press. There were also a few questions about a possible connection to the sniping, but Frisk brushed them off with doubletalk: every contingency being investigated, top secret, et cetera, et cetera. Not that any cops’ve been down to talk to us.”

She licked her lips. “Then Latch goes out in front of City Hall, rolls up his sleeves, and lowers the flag to half-mast himself, looking real solemn. Twenty years ago he was probably burning it.”

“People have short memories,” I said. “He proved that by getting elected. He’s gotten his foothold; now he’s angling for respectability. The Great Conciliator. Combine that with the DeJon concert and the fact that it was his man who saved the day, and he’ll probably go down as the hero in this whole thing.”

She shook her head. “All the stuff they don’t teach you in civics class. When you get down to it, they’re all the same, aren’t they? One big power trip, no matter what they claim they stand for.”

No matter what wing…

She said, “What is it, Alex?”

“What’s what?”

“All of a sudden you got this look on your face as if the wine was bad.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said.

“You didn’t look fine.”

Her voice was soft but insistent. I felt pressure around my fingers; she’d taken my hand, was squeezing it.

I said, “Okay. Beady for more weirdness?” I told her about Ike Novato’s research. Wannsee II. The New Confederation.

She said, “Crazies on both ends putting their heads together. What a lovely thought.”

“The expert at the Holocaust Center doubts it actually took place. And if anyone would know, she would.”

“That’s good,” she said, “because that is too weird.”

We both drank wine.

I said, “How’s Matt the car basher working out?”

“No troubles so far. I’ve got him doing scut stuff, wanted to show him who was boss right at the outset. He’s really a meek little kid in an overgrown body. Pretty docile, no social skills. A real follower.”

“Sounds like Holly.”

“Sure does,” she said. “Wonder how many of them like that are out there.”

She let go of my hand. Touched her wineglass but didn’t raise it to her lips. Silence enveloped us. I heard other couples talking. Laughing.

“Move your chair,” she said. “Sit next to me. I want to feel you right next to me.”

I did. The table was narrow and our shoulders touched. She rested her fingers on my knee. I put my arm around her and drew her closer. Her body was taut, resistant. A tremulous, high-frequency hum seemed to course through it.

She said, “Let’s get out of here. Just be by ourselves.”

I threw money on the table, was up in a flash.

As far as I could tell, no one followed us home.