Time Bomb

34

I pushed through my fear of him. Concentrated on the tacky ribbons. The costumes, the banner, the paramilitary bullshit.

D.F.

Play to his ego.

I said, “Well, one thing I’ve figured out is your previous identity. Dayton Auhagen. Darryl Ahlward. Which one’s real?”

“When you ask questions,” he said, “my mind wanders.”

“Okay, let’s go back to fashion, then. Your taste in clothes a few years ago: buckskins. Long hair, a beard too. Perfect image for roaming the wilderness. For surviving in places like the forests of southern Idaho. Surrounding Bear Lodge. You trapped, hunted, lived off the land. Using all those survivalist skills you figured would come in handy when the brown stuff hit the Armageddon fan. Nifty stuff, self-reliance. Where’d you learn it from?”

Latch said, “It’s in the blood,” like a child reciting a lesson.

Ahlward flashed him another sharp look. But it lacked energy.

He liked the attention. All those years of charade. Executive assistant. Waiting to be center stage.

I said. “In the blood, huh? That mean you’re a second-generation storm trooper? Got roots in the Fatherland, D.F.?”

I expected him to brush that off, but he gave a slow measured headshake. “I’m all-American. More American than you or that soft, sorry piece of shit over there could ever conceive.”

“All-American,” I said. “Ah. Was your father in the Bund itself, or one of the splinter groups?”

The amber eyes opened a bit. “You know about the Bund?”

“Just what I’ve read.”

“In the establishment press?”

I nodded.

“Then you don’t know shit. The Bund was the most effective citizens’ lobby this country’s ever known. The only patriots with the foresight to warn against getting involved in the kike-war. So instead of heeding the warning and rewarding them for their foresight, Rosenvelt hunted them down like criminal scum. So he’d be free to send our boys over to Europe to die for the kikes and the commie-maggots and the pope-fuckers and faggot-scum like you.”

Latch said, “Major blunder. Sociologically as well as politically. World War Kike was the first step toward mass mongrelization. Opened the sluices for all the Asian and Semitic sewage Europe had no use for.”

I ignored him, concentrated on Ahlward. “Like I said, D.F., all I know about the Bund is what I’ve read. Which no doubt is biased. But you can see the establishment’s point- a war going on, the public being told day after day who the enemy is. Swastikas and sieg heils in Madison Square Garden wouldn’t go over great.”

Ahlward gave a petulant, impatient look and slapped the desk hard. “That’s because the establishment was too stupid to know who the real enemy was. Mass stupidity fed by the Zionist-occupier media. Mass weakness due to drugs and toxins developed in secret labs by the Zionist-infiltrated Rosenvelt army. The Zionist-occupier doles out drugs and toxins like candy- that’s why they all become doctors, to poison the goyim. That’s what kosher food’s really about- the little U they put on cans. You know what goyim means in serpent-tongue? Sheep. We’re fucking sheep to them. To be shorn and slaughtered. You know what the U stands for? Some Yid-word that means poison. They use toxins and tranquilizers that their bodies can tolerate because they’re constructed of toxic cells. But we can’t and it gradually weakens us. Physiological hypnosis- it’s been scientifically proven. Been that way for centuries in every society the Zionist-occupier infiltrates. Gradual mass passivity, decadence, then inevitable destruction. Every liberation movement has to overcome it by wielding the cleansing spear.”

It reminded me of stuff I’d heard during internship. On the back wards of state hospitals. He reeled it off in the flat tones of a high school thespian.

I said, “Cleansing spear,” and looked at the banner behind him.

Latch said, “The spear of Woden. The ultimate cleansing machine.”

Once again I ignored him and asked Ahlward: “What about Crisp and Blanchard and the rest of them? They second-generation Bundists too?”

His eyes narrowed. “Something like that.”

“No skinheads for you, huh, D.F.?”

Latch laughed and said, “Punks. Rank-amateur clowns. We prize discipline.”

I said, “So, am I right about the mountain-man bit, D.F.?”

Ahlward sat back in the swivel chair and put his hands behind his head.

“Okay,” I said. “So you’re living off the land and hiding from the government. Just like some of your former enemies on the left. Your movement’s in trouble. So is the left. Cointelpro, Nixon, J. Edgar. Divide and conquer and it’s working. It gets you thinking. By squaring off against the left, you’re giving the establishment exactly what it wants. Some people on the left realize it too. And you all come to realize that when you stop to think about it, the radical right and the radical left have lots in common. You both believe society has to be torn down in order to totally restructure it. That democracy is weak and inefficient, controlled by the international bankers and running-dog press-by the talking class. A new populism is called for- empowering the working man. And the main issue that used to separate you- race- is no longer that big of a stumbling block. Because there are white leftists enraged at the uppity blacks who’d tried to kick them out of their own movement. White leftists getting in touch with their own racism.”

“A beacon of wisdom,” said Latch, “shining through the shit pile.”

I said, “I don’t know who thought of it first, D.F., but somehow you communicated and a new concept was conceived. Wannsee Two. Pressing inward from the outermost edges in order to squeeze the center and crush it to death. Which is how you got together with old Gordie here.”

A quick look at Latch, then back to Ahlward. “Though to tell the truth, D.F., I really can’t see the appeal. You’re clearly a man of action. He’s nothing more than a hot-air purveyor living off his wife’s money.”

Latch swore and waited for Ahlward to defend him. When the redheaded man didn’t speak, I went on.

“He’s the proverbial empty barrel making lots and lots of noise. A lap dog- the ultimate example of the talking class. Do you really think he’ll be able to cut it when the time comes?”

Latch jumped to his feet. The impact jostled Milo; his body rolled to the edge of the sofa, then rolled back. His mouth gaped. As I searched the battered face for signs of consciousness, I felt another wasp-sting on my cheek. A new layer of pain veneering a three-year-old jaw injury. Memories of wires and putty… My head shot back. Another layer.

Latch was standing over me, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth: a lap dog gone rabid. He raised his arm to hit me again.

And starring as the punching bag in tonight’s school pageant is little Alex Delaware…

He struck out, and the rattling in my head reverberated like acid rock pumped through a cheap amplifier.

After the knife, petty annoyance.

I looked up at him and said, “Temper, temper, Gordie.”

He ground his teeth and drew back his fist. Just before impact, I feinted to one side. His hand grazed me. He was caught off balance and stumbled.

Ahlward looked disgusted. He said, “Sit down, Gordon.”

Latch righted himself, stood there panting, his hands bunched. High color in the freckled cheeks. The welfare glasses askew.

My head hurt, but not that badly. My arms were numb. Gazelle-anesthesia, or loss of circulation?

I said, “Why don’t you sit down and toot your harmonica, Gordie?”

He balled his hand, started to retract it. Ahlward’s voice froze it mid-motion like a blast of liquid nitrogen.

“Later, Gordon.”

Latch looked back and forth between the two of us. Spat in my face and returned to the couch. But no more casual leg-cross. He sat on the edge, hands on knees, huffing with rage.

A gob of his saliva had landed on my cheek. I lowered my head, wiped it as well as I could on my shoulder.

I said, “How impolitic, Councilman.”

Latch said, “He’s mine, Bud. When the time comes.”

I said, “I’m touched, Councilman.”

Ahlward turned to me and said, “That all you have to say, turd?”

“Oh, no. There’s plenty more. Back to Wannsee Two. The meeting no one believes ever took place. But it did. Somewhere rural and secluded- away from the untermensch-infested cities where the police and the Feds had control. Maybe somewhere like southern Idaho? The ranch that Miranda inherited from her father? How many people were involved?”

Ahlward’s eyelids drooped. He touched his gun.

I said, “A redux of the Hitler-Stalin buddy bit. You even came up with a new insignia that said it all: red for the left, the spear for the right, a circle signifying the union.”

I turned to Latch: “If the folks on Telegraph Avenue only knew.”

He said, “You’re an idiot. It started up in Berkeley. Back in the days when I was still brainwashed and toxified. I did hypnotic things without knowing why I was doing them. Taking African history, Native American studies, all sorts of contrived, useless bullshit the Jew-profs shoved down my throat. But even then I was starting to see through it. It wasn’t working for me. I went searching for my own source material. Learned facts no one had the guts to come out and say in class. Like the fact that there wasn’t a single written language in Africa before the white man came. No real music except for stupid chants a retardate could master. No fine cuisine, no literature, no fine arts. We’re talking an ape culture- malaria, promiscuity, dung-eating, Mau Mau cannibals. They’re nothing but a bunch of dung-eating baboons, brought to America by the Zionist-occupier in order to pick Zionist cotton. Trained by the Zionists to wear human clothes and mouth human words and masquerade as human peers. I’d dealt with them; I knew how impossible it was to get through to them using logic. All of a sudden it made sense. You can’t use logic with an ape.”

“Apes with rhythm? Like DeJon?”

He laughed. “That was fun. The irony. He and his fucking gorillas. Monkeys riding in limousines. Thinking they’re even a half-step above the dung heap. He actually thanked me for giving him the opportunity to serve.”

“You have a taste for irony, don’t you, Gordie?” I said. “Making speeches at the Holocaust Center after the building was defaced. Serving on their Board. Knowing all the time that it was D.F.’s storm troopers who did the defacing.”

He laughed harder. “They’re so gullible, all of them- the inferior classes. Poor self-esteem on a bio-ethnic level. It’s coded genetically- on a cellular level they know they’re inferior. Which is why, when the white man asserts himself properly, there’s no competition. No resistance. They march straight into the ovens, shimmy right up to the lynching tree. All you have to do is pretend to like them.”

Ahlward nodded in assent but I thought I spotted a hint of annoyance. Deprived, once again, of the limelight.

I shifted my attention back to him. “Wannsee Two went better than you’d imagined. You drew up a plan. But there were obstacles. People who stood in the way- who’d fight you to the death if they found out. People with charisma and drive and no compunctions about working outside of the system themselves. Norm and Melba Green, Skitch Dupree, the Rodriguezes, Grossman, Lockerby, and Bruckner. Time for some more damage control, and here Gordie came in handy again. Your inside track to the first cadre. Privy to their plan- New Walden. Black and white farming side by side, inviting the Indians back. Everything you despised. Gordie and Randy lured them up to Bear Lodge with tales of clean air and pure water and free rent. Randy’s inheritance.” I looked around the room. “Guess she likes warehouses. Didn’t know they were such a good investment.”

A flicker of impatience crossed Ahlward’s eyes.

I said, “The Walden folks traveled up to Bear Lodge with stars in their eyes. And you were waiting for them. Dayton Auhagen, macho hippie. Communer with nature. The kind of stranger who could skulk around without arousing their suspicions. You watched them. Surveilled them. Getting a fix on their habits, their routine. Same way you’d track any prey. Getting into that warehouse when they were gone and hiding explosive charges among all that combustible produce.”

Ahlward was smiling. Remembering.

I said, “Only some of the group was settled in Bear Lodge. The others were farther north, negotiating for lumber. But that other group was strictly second cadre. Without their leaders they were likely to cut and run. And if they did prove threatening sometime in the future, you could always pick them off at your pleasure- small game. So you fixed a date before the second cadre was scheduled to arrive, got into the warehouse again, poisoned their dinner meat. Returned to the forest, waited until they were all inside, incapacitated, pressed a button, and boom. The FBI dovetailed beautifully into your plans by jumping on the bomb-factory explanation and feeding it to the press. No doubt you helped them along with an anonymous tip.”

Smug smile on the blunt face. Nostalgia had never looked so ugly.

I said, “That was a good touch. No one mourned a bunch of urban terrorists blowing themselves up with their own nitro. Only one minor glitch: one of the second cadre people- Terry Crevolin- arrived early. A vegetarian, to boot. He didn’t eat the meat, was spared, and escaped the blast. But once again, no big threat. He had personal problems- drugs, a weak will- likely to sap his political energies. And his hatred and distrust of the establishment led him to believe the explosion was government-sponsored. To this day he doesn’t believe in Wannsee Two. So it was a nifty plan, D.F. As far as it went. But my question for you is, why bother? Why go to all that trouble for the first cadre when there were other radical leaders just as charismatic?”

Latch said, “They were scum. Fucking snobs.”

Spoiled-brat rage.

Not-invited-to-the-party rage.

I knew then that the idea of the blast had originated with him. That for him it had been personal, not political.

All those lives lost- the horror- because they’d been smarter than he was. Shut him out.

His idea.

More of an idea man than I’d thought. Their relationship was complex. Made the one between Dobbs and Massengil look wholesome…

Ahlward was sitting up straighter. I decided to keep the insight to myself.

“After Bear Lodge,” I said, “time to move forward. Pick a front man, sanitize him, and get him into public office- no matter how humble an office. You’re a patient man, D.F., know your history. All those years it took the first Führer to progress from a jail cell to the Reichstag.” I sat forward. “The only thing is the first Führer was his own front man. He didn’t need a dummy on his lap.”

Latch said, “Fuck you, you piece of shit.”

I thought I saw Ahlward smile. “Times have changed,” he said. “This is the media age. Image is everything.”

I said, “Thought the Zionists controlled the media.”

“They do,” said Ahlward.

“More irony, huh?”

He yawned.

I said, “Okay, granted, got to consider images. But is he the best you can do, image-wise?”

Furious mutters from the sofa. A hint of movement that Ahlward stilled with a sharp look.

As if to compensate, he said, “He’s doing just fine.” Mechanically. His gaze floated around the room. Not much of an attention span. I wondered how many classes he’d flunked in school.

I said, “Gordie and Miranda retreat to the ranch for a few years, confess their Vietnam sins, reemerge as environmental activists. Meanwhile the ranch is also used for meetings. Other conferences. Recruiting the sons and daughters of your dad’s old buddies. Just like the summer camps the Bund used to run. You also get a little publishing business going- all those boxes outside. Printed Material. Probably hate stuff shipped at discount rate courtesy of Uncle Sam, right?”

Another smug smile.

“Aren’t you worried someone’s going to trace it back to one of Miranda’s dummy corporations?”

He shook his head, still smug. “We write it here, print it somewhere else, then bring it back here, then truck it to other places. No way to trace. Layers of cover.”

I said, “And the other boxes: Machinery. What is that? Hardware for the revolution?”

Latch said, “Guns and butter.”

Ahlward coughed. Latch shut up.

The redheaded man played with his gun some more.

I said, “You picked L.A. for Gordie’s renaissance because Miranda had connections here- show biz, the whole radical chic thing. Love-the-Earth rhetoric went over big with that crowd, so Gordie became Mr. Environment. Scrubbing pelicans while dreaming of cleansing the world. And got elected. So far, so good. The fact that Crevolin had also settled in L.A. was a bit of an annoyance, but all those years of silence meant he didn’t suspect a damn thing. What was a shock was learning that someone else had escaped Bear Lodge and resurfaced in L.A. Norman and Melba Green’s son. The FBI had declared him dead-assumed him dead, rather than proving it with a body. Because you assured them two little kids had been part of the group. Now here he was, seventeen years later. Returning to live with Norman’s mother. His grandmother. A suspicious, unapologetic Old Leftist who had no trouble believing a new Holocaust was just around the corner. No trouble suspecting her son and daughter-in-law had been murdered. Though, like Crevolin, she thought the government had been behind it. She fired up her grandson with Nazi history and conspiracy theories. He started doing his own research. He was a smart kid and took to it.”

Latch snorted and said, “Smart baboon.”

I said, “Book research wasn’t enough for him. He tried to meet his rescuer, couldn’t get through to Crevolin, and went to the next-best source. Someone who’d also been a comrade of his parents. Another second cadre guy, but one who’d climbed. A public man.”

I turned to Latch. “What a bummer, Gordie. The timing, I mean. Here you are, having bought all that respectability. Sure, you’re only a sandwich sign for D.F.’s dreams. But sometimes you allow yourself to pretend it’s real and you’re the boss and that feels really good, doesn’t it? And sure, City Council is relatively penny-ante, but it’s a giant step forward for someone who committed sedition on national television. You’re moving up. The rhythm is there. Things are finally fitting together, and along comes this mixed-race mongrel black Jewish kid knocking on your headquarters door, using his parents’ names as passwords to get through the front office. Names you thought you’d never hear again. Coming face to face with you and asking questions about the bad old days. Wannsee Two. You try to put him off, play the old game you’ve learned so well and answer his questions without really answering them. But he’s persistent. Pushy. Full of the kind of youthful fire that just might be able to incinerate you. That’s how it always starts, isn’t it? Small fry nipping at the big fish. A night watchman got Nixon. So it’s time for a quick stall and an emergency meeting with D.F. D.F. instructs you to handle it in a time-honored manner: Lull the prey into complacency with phony friendship, feed him carefully measured bits of disinformation, then move in for the kill when the time’s right.

“So you play compassionate liberal for Ike, spin him a tale about Wannsee Two in which the story remains intact but the characters are altered. Making someone else the chief bad guy. It wasn’t exactly casting against type. Massengil had right-wing sensibilities; he’d been tooting his quasi-racist horn for some time. You probably made up some yarn about his having been a government agent. With your resources- your own printing press- it’s no problem furnishing Ike with some impressive-looking bogus documents. And the beauty of it was that it served a double purpose. Ocean Heights is part of your district. Getting Massengil out of a job he’s had a lock on for almost three decades will allow you to run for his seat. Still penny-ante compared to your ultimate goal, but state assemblymen have been known to go to Washington. How many councilmen have ever gotten out of City Hall? You’d had your sights on him for some time, planted Bramble on his staff- your inside track. So when Ike showed up asking questions, everything clicked. You took him into your confidence, swore him to secrecy, fed him lies- fed his revenge fantasies and tried to work him up to the point of violent retribution. You figured that wouldn’t be much of a challenge, because he was black- and blacks are inherently violent, aren’t they?”

Latch said, “Sounds like the turd has some capacity to learn.”

Ahlward didn’t even bother to fake interest.

When you ask questions, my mind wanders.

I said, “First choice was for Ike to assassinate Massengil and get himself killed in the process. Second choice was for one of your junior SS boys to bump off Massengil, frame Ike for it, and kill him too. Same result, slightly less efficient. The only problem was, Ike resisted. Despite that kinky hair and all that melanin in his skin, he just wasn’t the violent type.”

“Fifty percent kike-blood,” said Ahlward. “Programmed for cowardice.”

“Or maybe Gordie just screwed up. Pushed too hard and got Ike suspicious. Made him wonder why a city councilman was so eager to get involved in murder. In any event, he refused to go along and turned himself into a serious liability. So you lured him to that alley with the promise of something- probably some new information about his parents. From another source. A black source- what better place to do it than Watts. Must have been fun making the call, putting on the patois.”

“Yowza, massuh,” said Latch. “We sho’ good at talkin’ that nigra talk. Ceptin’ we po’ culluhds have such a bay-ad tahm luynin to di-al that phone.”

Turning to Ahlward for approval. The redheaded man’s smile was obligatory. He fingered the black gun’s barrel and yawned.

I said, “Ike walked into the ambush and one of your SS-kateers shotgunned him, injected him with a dope cocktail, and set it up as a drug burn. Because, after all, blacks are all dope fiends, right? Who’s going to get suspicious about a junkie getting snuffed in South Central? And, by golly, you succeeded again. It went down that way in the books. Now there was only Grandma to deal with. Despite Ike’s pledge not to talk, you figured he’d confided in her. You plucked her off the street and left her body where no one will ever find it. Just for the record, where was that?”

Blank stares from both of them.

I said, “Considering you’ve got all the cards, you guys are pretty stingy.”

Ahlward said, “Sounds like you’re running out of material.”

I said, “Perish the thought. There’s plenty more. After you dispose of Sophie, you break into her place and look for any evidence she might have left behind- notebooks, diaries. Doing the neighbor’s place, too, to make it look like a burglary. But why the stuff on the walls? The Kennedy message?”

Latch couldn’t resist answering that one. “Dessert. For the troopers who performed the mission. Reward for a job well done.”

“Even revolutionaries have to party,” I said. And caught movement from Milo. An eye-blink. Volitional?

Neither of them saw it, Milo’s back was to Latch. And Ahlward was preoccupied with his gun.

Another blink. Or had I just imagined it?

I kept talking. “With both Ike and Sophie Gruenberg gone, your immediate problems finally seemed over. But there was still the matter of Massengil. You’d already started thinking of him as a dead man. So it was annoying to have to change that mind-set. And if the deed was going to be done, the timing was important. He was well into his current term, had already been nominated for the next one. So it was to your advantage for him to be eliminated before the next election. Too late for the governor to appoint someone else. The seat would lie fallow for a few months, giving you time to build up political steam and enter yet another image-stage: great conciliator, mature statesman. Sure, the widow would get first dibs, and if she didn’t want the job, some hack or crony would move in. But you had plans to take care of that, per the lovely Ms. Bramble.”

Latch said, “I do believe Ocean Heights and I will reach our own rapprochement.”

I said, “Better do it soon, before Randy pulls the purse strings closed. Or were you intending to ask for alimony?”

Sudden panic in his eyes.

Ahlward’s eyebrows were hot-pink crescents of surprise.

I said, “Oops. Sorry. I thought you knew, D.F.”

Ahlward looked at Latch.

Latch said, “He’s full of shi-”

I said. “Little Bandy definitely wants out, D.F. She’s filed papers. Check for yourself- it’s public record.”

Ahlward swiveled slowly in his chair and stared at Latch.

Latch said, “It just went down, Bud. I was going to bring it up, had it on the agenda.”

“Oops again,” I said. “Not quite true, Gordie Pordie. She filed two weeks ago. Not the greatest thing to happen at a time like this, is it, D.F.? Vis-à-vis public relations. And money-wise.” To Latch: “What happened, Gordie? Did her political enthusiasm wane? Or is it just you she’s tired of? Guess all that discipline and bondage stuff wears thin after a-”

Latch said, “Shut your filthy mouth.”

Ahlward cleared his throat.

Latch said, “It’s not a problem, Bud. She can be taken care of. She’s on so much fucking Seconal, nobody’ll-”

Ahlward’s turn to say, “Shut up! You know, Gordon, it’s real pleasant hearing it this way.”

“C’mon, Bud, you can see what he’s-”

“And you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

Latch sank back down and played with one of his cuffs.

Milo winked. This time I was sure.

I said, “We’re talking thick coats of tarnish on your rising star, D.F. You might start thinking about a replacement.”

Ahlward raised the gun and sighted down it again. To my surprise I felt no fear, only weariness at his Little Dictator routine.

He said, “I’ve heard enough.”

Two winks from the couch. Milo’s big body remained motionless.

I said, “You mean you don’t want to hear the rest? The part you took charge of personally?”

He lowered the gun. “Go on.”

“Shortly after Ike and Grandma were taken care of, another unpleasant surprise came your way. Someone else Ike had confided in. So much for pledges of secrecy- guess Gordie wasn’t very convincing. A mentally dull shut-in who welcomed the cheer and conversation Ike brought with him when he delivered the groceries. Who appreciated the time he took to get to know her. And as he got to know her better, he lapsed into his favorite topic: politics. Not that she had more than a hazy idea of what he was talking about. Social justice, the evils of capitalism. But she was able to pick out the juicy parts. Conspiracies, murder. Wannsee Two. She sat there and listened. The perfect soundboard. Because Ike’s visits filled the emptiness in her life, she didn’t want them to stop.

“Then one day, they did stop. Forever. She found out he was dead. Murdered. People were saying he died buying dope, but she knew that was a lie became he didn’t take dope. He hated dope. She knew something was wrong- probably one of those conspiracies Ike had talked about. She withdrew further, confused. Just like when her mother died. But this time she came out of it angry. Wanting to understand why bad things happen to good people. To talk to someone who could explain it to her. Not her father- they never talk; he treats her like a servant. And she barely knows her brother. But she does recall a name Ike mentioned consulting. A former comrade of his parents who’s gotten famous- even been on TV. Someone Ike had suspicions about but didn’t share with Holly because he didn’t want to put her in jeopardy.

“Would someone like that talk to her? She was afraid. But she couldn’t forget Ike- his death. So she built up her courage and called the famous guy’s headquarters. One of the famous guy’s staff answers and hears her babbling about stuff no one’s supposed to know about, and knows this is a job for the High Command.”

I looked at Latch. “What’d you tell her?”

He smirked. “That she’d done the right thing by getting in touch with me. That I was investigating Ike’s death and she had to promise to keep everything secret until I got back to her.” He laughed. “She ate that up like cornflakes.”

I glanced at Ahlward. He’d put the gun down on the desk, had taken the knife out again, and was cleaning his nails.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” I said to Latch. “But D.F. here wasn’t too proud. He figured you’d fucked up. Decided to handle this one personally.” To the redheaded man: “You met with her- as Gordie’s assistant. Debriefed her to find out exactly what she knew, found out it was just enough to make her a threat, and realized she was custom-made for another try at Massengil, A better dupe than Ike, because she lacked the intellect to think critically. She was ripe to obey. So you went to work on her. Building rapport, gaining her confidence. Putting on the old paramilitary thing. Secret meetings in out-of-the-way places when her father was out of town. Night walks. You’d pick her up and drive her away. She had no job, no schedule, no one to miss her, no one else to confide in. You fed her secret codes, high intrigue- giving her a sense of purpose for the first time in her life. Resurrecting the old Massengil-as-Satan fantasy. Massengil as the vicious murderer of her friend. Feeding her rage, nursing it, bringing it to bloom. Making her sense of self-esteem contingent upon carrying out her mission. And she did eat it up. Snow White gobbling a poisoned apple. She was so eager to act, she told you she even had her own weapons- a closetful of guns. You got into her house when her father was away and took a look. Most of them were antiques, unusable. Except the Remington. But in her hands it might as well have been a flintlock.”

More winks from Milo. Keep going, pal.

“You spelled out her assignment, went over it with her, putting her through dry runs, until you were sure she had it down. Her sister-in-law saw her holding the gun, weeks before, muttering about Wannsee Two, Which she thought was gibberish. As would anyone else hearing it. The worst that could happen was she’d freak out before the big day and start rambling on about conspiracies. Who’d believe her? As it turned out, she didn’t talk to anyone. Never saw anyone. And the big day drew near. You notified her with a coded call. Monday morning. Perfect time and place for a hit. Bramble had informed you of Massengil’s plans to use the school for a press conference. You knew exactly what time he’d show up, precisely where he’d be standing. But getting Holly out of the house was a problem. Her father was an early riser, so sneaking out early on Monday was out of the question. You had her do it Sunday night, while he was still asleep. Told her to take the Remington out of the closet and wrap it in something, close the door to her bedroom so he’d think she was still asleep, then sneak out really quietly, sure to close her bedroom door. Disengaging the alarm, resetting it, and slipping out of the house with the wrapped rifle. Though Ocean Heights is so deserted at night, she could have carried it out in the open.

“You picked her up a couple of blocks away, brought her a change of clothes, a paper cup for elimination. The two of you drove toward the school, parked a few blocks away, and walked over. Hand signals. High adventure- she must have loved it.”

Ahlward gave a disgusted look. “She was a pain to work with, took a long time to learn everything. Pure Mengele fodder, destined to live and die as shit. I gave her the gift of immortality, more than she could ever hope for.”

“Real act of kindness,” I said.

“Sometimes,” he said, stroking his gun, “it’s cruel to be kind.”

I said, “You popped the lock on the storage shed and camped out for the night. She with her rifle, you with your pistol. Waiting. Stalking. Just like Bear Lodge. Telling her to go to sleep- you’d take first watch and wake her when her turn came. Letting her sleep until sunrise and then letting her know there’d been a change in plans: You were going to do all the shooting, just to make certain everything went smoothly. Not to worry, she’d still be a hero. Your assistant. Maybe she accepted that. Or maybe she put up a fuss- wanting personal revenge. You thought you had her convinced. But when the time actually came to shoot- when Massengil and Gordie and the kids poured out on the yard, she pulled a fast one on you. Grabbed the rifle. Second cadre wasn’t good enough for her.”

I gave Latch a smile, turned back to Ahlward before I see his reaction.

“Her shot went wild. Of course. The recoil knocked her down and she dropped the rifle. You got hold of it, had to think fast, consider your options. The optimal choice would have been taking aim, squeezing off a good one at Massengil, and then doing her. But looking out the window you could see the moment of opportunity had been lost- panic, everyone screaming, running for cover, no clear shot. Not that you’d have minded a few dead kids, but that would have complicated matters. Vis-à-vis P.R. So you took your pistol and shot Holly in the face- kept shooting her. Eight times. Shot three rounds from the Remington- all of it together sounded like war to those out on the yard. Then you walked back to the yard carrying your smoking gun, ready to play savior. No one had seen you actually enter the storage shed, but the panic took care of that: No one remembered anything but their own fear. And the press hadn’t arrived yet, with their cameras and their recorders. Besides, if anyone asked, Gordie and the troops could always be counted on to step forward as eyewitnesses to your heroic dash to the shed. Quick reflexes and calm under fire, D.F. Job well done.”

Wink from the couch.

I said to Ahlward: “It must have been nice being the star for a change. Getting the credit you deserved instead of standing in his shadow- such a puny shadow at that. But after all your planning, you still hadn’t managed to get rid of Massengil. The guy was turning out to be a goddammed Rasputin. Another assassination attempt soon after would look funny, raise all sorts of questions. Your instinct was to wait, let him live out another term, bide your time. But Gordie didn’t like that. He pushed you. And now you know why: He knew he’d be losing his hope chest soon. Fortunately for him, the productive Ms. Bramble had gleaned another bit of inside info on Massengil: kinky sex with Cheri Nuveen on a regular basis, Dobbs looking on. Bramble even knew when the next appointment was. Given that, the rest was easy. A simple hit, Dobbs as dessert, no apparent connection to the schoolyard. First day, Gordie comforts the widow and plays Mr. Compassion. Next day, you leak the hooker stuff to the press and knock off the widow as a viable candidate. Along with any of Massengil’s cronies: guilt by association. The voters would have to wonder if they’d attended any of Massengil’s parties. Leaving guess who.”

I leaned forward. “It’s fine as far as it goes, D.F., but what do you really think it’s going to accomplish? Let’s say he gets elected. Even manages not to screw up for a term or two and goes on to Washington. There’s no substance to him. Nothing to build an empire on. It would be like constructing a palace over a sump hole.”

Latch swore.

Ahlward smiled. “You think he’s the only one? I’ve got placements all over.” He used the knife as a pointer. “Serious talent. Each of them young, photogenic. Courageously liberal. Until the time comes.”

“Wannsee Three.”

“And Four and Five and Six.” Anger and impatience in the amber eyes; the knife stabbed air. “Whatever it takes to get the job done. Like you said, I’m a patient man. Long-term planner. Willing to wait until the time’s right and the cleansing blood flows. Washing away all the anthro-pretenders and putting together a new age that’s genetically honest and beautifully cruel.”

“How poetic.”

“Who else knows what you know?” he said.

“How about the police for starts? I sent them tapes.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Bullshit. You believed our FBI scam. If you’d been in contact with the police they’d have called in the Feds, and the Feds would have interviewed you already. We’ve been watching you, know who you’ve met with. Try again, turd.”

I said, “You’re assuming greater efficiency on the part of the authorities than they deserve. Bureaucratic wheels turn slowly. The cops know. I was waiting for the FBI. That’s why I opened the door for Blanchard and Crisp. And I didn’t buy the scam. They had to sucker-punch me to get me here.”

“I said Try again.”

“That’s it, D.F. Just the cops. There’s no way you’re going to pull this off.”

“Negative thinking,” he said. “Time for a little preliminary scrub.”

He stood, holding the gun in one hand, the knife in the other. Running his eyes over Milo, he said, “Despicable. How can you live with yourselves, the things you do?”

He rotated the knife, “Here’s the way it’s going to go down, You and him doing filthy stuff- your filthy friendship. Things get out of hand. You beat him up badly. Trash him to death, then start feeling so guilty that you write a little note and blow your own faggot brains out.”

I said, “Shame to dirty up your warehouse. Randy might not like that when it comes time to give it back to her. Not to mention the health hazard from faggot blood.”

He smiled. “Not to worry, turd. We’ve got a nice little place all set up for you. Cock-sucky motel over in Pacoima.”

“Another of her real-estate tidbits?”

He said, “C’mon, time for a butt-hole party. Up you go.”

I remained seated.

The gun waved. The pink eyebrows climbed.

“I said Move it,” he said.

Wink wink wink.

I ignored him.

All at once the blunt face was transformed into something livid and howling:

“I said Get the fuck up!”

I stood. Very slowly.

Latch rose, brushed off his trousers, and smiled at me. “Thought you might want to know we’ve also got something planned for Little Miss Principal. The snotty cunt- does she know you swing both ways? That you’ve been infecting her?”

I said, “She doesn’t know anything.”

I could tell from the way his face creased in a Kewpie-doll smile that I’d allowed my terror to show.

“Hey,” he said, “you were balling her, which means pillow talk. She’s a liability and it’s all your fault. She’ll be having a wild time tonight.” He clicked his tongue. “Really wild. Shocking example of the burgeoning rise in crime on the West Side. Perfect timing for my campaign. I’ll be showing up at the crime scene, pledging my troth to law and order. That’s the way we work, you fucking piece of shit. Nothing ever goes to waste. Not even the squeal. And boy, will she squeal.”

He giggled. I strained against my bonds.

“A wild time,” he said. “We’re sending someone to do her who really enjoys that kind of thing. Knows how to bring out the best in a woman. Try to get that image out of your mind. The look on her face when it actually happens and she realizes what’s going on. The sounds she’ll make.

Wink wink wink from the couch.

I said, “Bring out the best in a woman, huh? Then it sure wouldn’t be a job for you. When’s the last time Randy saw anything stiffer than her own upper lip?”

The Kewpie doll turned malignant. He began coming at me, arms up, boxer-style.

Aldward said, “Not now,” in a jaded tone.

Latch didn’t seem to hear, kept coming.

Wink.

I backed away, danced on fear-laden legs. My turn to leer. “Sure, Gordie. Nothing like a fair fight. But who’s going to protect you when D.F. finally realizes that without Randy’s big bucks you’re not very useful? Just a wimpy little piece of limp-dicked shit. Second cadre all the way?”

Latch said, “Give me the knife, D.F. I’ve had enough.”

Ahlward raised the blade, holding it out of reach. “Don’t be an idiot. It has to be done the right way.”

Latch backed off.

I said, “Roll over, Gordon. Say bow-wow, Gordon.”

Stuck out my tongue and dog-panted.

Latch charged me, swinging.

I moved to meet him, faked a shoulder butt, faded back suddenly just short of impact and caught him off guard. Again. He grunted in anger, regained his balance, and charged again.

Ahlward put the gun down, reached out, and restrained him with one hand. The other held on to the knife.

Gun on the desk. But no free hands.

I kept talking, bouncing on my feet. “Play dead, Gordon. Eat your kibble, Gordon. Don’t wet the rug, Gordon.”

Ahlward screamed at me: “You shut the fuck up!”

Latch shook off Ahlward’s hand and lunged again.

At the same time a pale bulk rose from the couch, a polar bear coming out of hibernation. Taking hold of Latch’s shoulders, shoving him forward.

Latch fell heavily. Toward Ahlward. On Ahlward. His weight causing the red-haired man to stumble backwards, onto the desk, a look of surprise on the blunt features.

Latch was on top of him, thrashing wildly. Ahlward tried to shove him off, cursing and twisting to get free. Trying to get to the gun.

Latch remained sprawled on top of him.

Screaming.

The two of them wrestling.

Then Ahlward’s face was speckled with blood.

Showered with it.

Latch screamed. A terrible sound; more than just frustration.

Blood kept spurting, Ahlward thrashing away from it, spitting it.

Something shiny and sharp emerged from the soft freckled flesh on the back of Latch’s neck. Worked its way through like a burrowing grub.

Silver, sharp-nosed grub. The knife point, ruby and silver.

Latch gurgled and tore at his throat.

The knife kept nosing its way out.

Ahlward gave a hard, two-handed shove. Latch came loose. Inertia threw Ahlward backwards, off the desk top, onto the swivel chair, stricken by astonishment.

Milo moved unsteadily toward the gun. Reached out for it, touched the butt, missed. The weapon skidded across the wooden surface and sailed away, landing somewhere on the floor.

Ahlward dove for it.

I felt a hand on my wrist, yanking. Freeing my hands. “C’mon!”

Milo limped toward the door. I followed him, dazed. Watching Latch sink to the floor, the knife still embedded in his neck. Hands grabbing the handle, gurgling, trying to yank it free.

Salivating blood.

His eyes rolled back…

“C’mongoddammitalex!”

Yanking me.

The two of us out the black door, slamming it.

Into the hall. Four black-shirts, smiling, as if savoring the tail end of a joke. They saw us and the smiles hung in mid-air.

Milo howled at them and kept coming. The smiles vanished and they looked terrified. Naughty kids, unprepared for reality. One, a dark-haired fat boy with an old man’s jowls, wore a bolstered pistol and reached for it. I used my shoulder and hit him hard. Ran past the sound of pain-screams and cracking bone.

Running through a cardboard alley.

Warning shouts. The crackle of gunfire.

We took the first turn available, meeting up with two more Gestaposcouts- girls. They could have been sorority sisters discussing pledge night. One put a hand to her mouth. We hurtled past, bowled them over, heard girl-squeals.

Fuck chivalry.

More gunshots.

Louder.

I looked back as I ran, saw Ahlward, pumping his legs, screaming orders that no one was heeding. Calling for his troops, but the troops were frozen, unprepared for reality.

A cold rush of wind as something tore into a carton inches from my head.

Another turnoff, just a few yards away. We ran for it. Above all the noise I could hear Milo gasping, saw him put a hand to his chest.

More gunshots.

Then a louder sound.

Earthquake loud, rumbling up from the cement floor. Rattling the floor as if it were paper.

Cartons tumbled in our path like giant, tantrum-stricken building blocks. Someone screamed.

More screams. Panic. The way the schoolyard must have sounded.

Another rumble. Even stronger, bouncing us like toys, knocking us to the floor.

More boxes toppled. Cartons shot up in the air, tossed by an unseen juggler, and landed with dull, sickening thumps.

Milo tripped, was down. I helped him to his feet. He looked deathly, but resumed running.

No sign of Ahlward, a jumble of cardboard behind us, shielding us.

We made the turn. Black-shirts scattering. The auto-shop smell of seared metal…

Another roar.

The hiss of disintegrating plaster.

We climbed over boxes, ran around them. Milo stopped, hand on chest, legs bowed, head down.

I called his name.

He said, “… fine…” He swallowed air, did it again, nodded dully, and began moving again.

Another explosion. The building shivered like a wet puppy. More cartons crashed down around us, a Vesuvius of PRINTED MATERIALS.

We swerved, dodged, managed to make our way through the rubble. Another turn. Past the forklift…

Metal clatter, more hiss. More thunder. Screams of agony.

The hiss grew louder. Joined by an unmistakable odor.

Burning paper. A sudden, burgeoning heat.

Demolition music. Tongues of orange licking the ground just a few feet away.

Filthy, inky smoke oozed from between the boxes, rising to the top of the warehouse, darkening it.

The heat intensified. Through it another cold rush.

Thunk. Shredded cardboard.

Ahlward emerging from the smoke, howling soundlessly, ignoring the smoke that churned behind him, mindless with hate.

He aimed again.

There was a clearing in the cardboard wall. I ran toward it, realized Milo wasn’t with me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him. Hand to chest.

A wall of smoke had risen between him and Ahlward. Shots came through it.

Milo looking from side to side, disoriented. I went back for him, grabbed his hand. Felt the resistance of his weight on my wrist, straining the sinews…

I pulled hard. He managed to get going again. I saw the sliding metal door of the loading dock just a few yards up. Shredded like foil and blackened around the edges.

Metal fragments scattered on the ground. Glinty treasure on a bed of masonry dust.

And something else.

A black-shirt. Prone. Blond crew cut. Pale, broad face. White eyes. Husky body stretched out, limp.

Two pieces of body. The trunk separated from the legs. Bifurcated by sliding-door shrapnel.

Closer to the door, another corpse, half buried in metal and offal. A charred head above hamburger. Four others, barely discernible, moist spots in the ash pile.

My gorge rose. I began to choke.

Chemical fumes.

The warehouse was a furnace, flames reaching to the ceiling, smoke thickening as it rolled toward us, a greasy tornado.

A black form emerged from the charcoal mass.

Ahlward, sooty and singed, jerking his head from side to side as if shaking off leeches.

Sighting us. Screaming. Lifting his big black gun.

I went for the largest hole in the shredded door, pulled Milo through it, slipping on the blood-slick floor, feeling the crunch of metal and bone beneath my shoes.

Outside. Fresh air. Gasoline-stink air.

The two of us lurched along the loading dock.

Fumes and flames poured out of the warehouse, out of shattered windows, the ravaged metal door. Shooting out of the gaping holes that had been blown in the wall.

Milo’s breathing was raw and labored. I pulled him down the stairs, into the parking lot.

An incoherent scream rose at our backs.

Ahlward out on the dock, highlighted by the burning building. Looking very small. Aiming. A true believer.

Gunfire.

A frog-song ratatat.

Didn’t know a pistol could make a sound like that.

Another burst. From our backs.

Trapped?

Frogs sang again.

I looked over my shoulder, saw Ahlward jerk and fall, saw the pistol go flying into the inferno.

The flames rolled out of the warehouse and ate him.

Dessert.

Then a voice, out of the darkness:

“You and your detective friend are safe, Dr. Delaware. I’ve saved you.”