When The Bough Breaks

15

I called Milo at the station and gave him a full report of my interview with Raquel Ochoa and the Casa de los Ninos connection, including the information given to me by Olivia.

"I'm impressed," he said. "You missed your calling."

"So what do you think? Shouldn't this McCaffrey be looked into?"

"What a minute, friend. The man takes care of four hundred kids and one of them is killed in an accident. That's not evidence of major mayhem."

"But that kid happened to be a student of Elena Gutierrez. Which means she probably discussed him with Handler. Not long after his death Bruno began volunteering at the place. A coincidence?"

"Probably not. But you don't understand the way things work around here. I am in the toilet with this case. So far those bank records are showing nothing — everything in both their accounts looks kosher. I've got more work to do on it, but singlehanded it takes time. Every day the captain looks me up and down with that no progress, Sturgis? stare. I feel like a kid who hasn't done his homework. I expect him to pull me off the case any day and stick me on some garbage detail."

"If things are so screwed up I'd expect you to jump for joy at the prospect of a new lead."

"That's right. A lead. Not conjecture or a string of flimsy associations."

"They don't look that damned flimsy to me."

"Look at it this way — I start snooping around about McCaffrey, who's got connections from Downtown all the way to Malibu. He places a few strategic phone calls — no one can accuse him of obstructing justice because I've got no legitimate reason to be investigating him — and I'm yanked off the case faster than you can spit."

"All right," I conceded, "but what about the Mexican thing? The guy was down there for years. Then all of a sudden he leaves, surfaces in L.A. and becomes a hotshot."

"Upward mobility is no felony, and sometimes a cigar is a cigar, Dr. Freud."

"Shit. I can't stand it when you get overly cute."

"Alex, please. My life is far from rosy. I don't need crap from you on top of it all."

I seemed to be developing a talent for alienating those close to me. I had yet to call Robin, to find out where last night's dreams had led her.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm over-involved."

He didn't argue.

"You've done good work. Been a big help. Sometimes things don't fall into place just because you do a good job."

"So what are you going to do? Drop it?"

"No. I'll look into McCaffrey's background — quietly. Especially the Mexican bit. I'm going to continue sifting through Handler and Bruno's financial records and I'll add Gutierrez's to that. I'm even going to call the Malibu Sheriff Station and get copies of the accident report on that kid. What did you say his name was?"

"Nemeth."

"Fine. That should be easy enough."

"Is there anything else you want from me?"

"What? Oh. No, nothing. You've done a great job, Alex. I want you to know I really mean that. I'll take it from here. Why don't you take it easy for a while?"

"Okay," I said without enthusiasm. "But keep me posted."

"I will," he promised. "Bye."

The voice on the other end was female and very professional. It greeted me with the sing-song lilt of a detergent jingle, an isn't-life-wonderful buoyancy that bordered on the obscene.

"Good morning! La Casa!"

"Good morning. I'd like to speak to someone about becoming a member of the Gentleman's Brigade."

"Just one moment, sir!"

In twenty seconds a male voice came on the line.

"Tim Kruger. Can I help you?"

"I'd like to talk about joining the Gentleman's Brigade."

"Yes, sir. And what corporation do you represent?"

"None. I'm inquiring as an individual."

"Oh. I see." The voice lost a touch of its friendliness. Disruption of routine did that to some people — threw them off, made them wary. "And your name, please."

"Dr. Alexander Delaware."

It must have been the title that did it because he shifted gears again, immediately.

"Good morning, Doctor. How are you today?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Terrific. And what kind of doctor are you, if I might ask."

You might.

"Child psychologist. Retired."

"Excellent. We don't get many mental health professionals volunteering. I'm an M.F.C.C. myself, in charge of screening and counseling at La Casa."

"I'd imagine most of them would consider it too much like work," I said. "Being away from the field for a while, the idea of working with children again appeals to me."

"Wonderful. And what led you to La Casa?"

"Your reputation. I've heard you do good work. And you're well organized."

"Well, thank you, Doctor. We do try to do well by our kids!"

"I'm sure you do."

"We give group tours for prospective Gentlemen. The next one is scheduled a week from this Friday."

"Let me check my calendar." I left the phone, looked out the window, did a half-dozen knee bends, and came back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kruger. That's a bad day for me. When's the next one?"

"Three weeks later."

"That's such a long way off. I was hoping to get going sooner." I tried to sound wistful and just a little impatient.

"Hmm. Well, Doctor, if you don't mind something a bit more impromptu than the group orientation, I can give you a personalized tour. There'll be no way to assemble the video show in time, but as a psychologist you know a lot of that stuff, anyway."

"That sounds just fine."

"In fact, if you're free this afternoon, I could arrange it for then. Reverend Gus is here today — he likes to meet all potential Gentlemen — and that's not always the case, what with his travel schedule. He's taping Merv Griffin this week, then flying to New York for an 'A.M. America.'"

He imparted the news of McCaffrey's television activities with the solemnity of a crusader unveiling the Holy Grail.

"Today would be perfect."

"Excellent. Around three?"

"Three it is."

"Do you know where we are?"

"Not exactly. In Malibu?"

"In Malibu Canyon." He gave me directions, then added: "While you're there you can fill out our screening questionnaires. It would be a formality in a case such as yours, Doctor, but we do have to go through the motions. Though I don't imagine psychological tests would be very valid for screening a psychologist, would they?"

"I don't imagine so. We write 'em, we can subvert 'em."

He laughed, straining to be collegial.

"Any other questions?"

"I don't think so."

"Terrific. I'll see you at three."

Malibu is as much an image as it is a place. The image is beamed into the living rooms of America on TV, splashed across the movie screen, etched into the grooves of LPs and emblazoned on the covers of trashy paperbacks. The image is one of endless stretches of sand; oiled, naked brown bodies; volleyball on the beach; sun-bleached hair; making love under a blanket with coital cadence timed to match the in-and out-of the tide; million-dollar shacks that teeter on pilings sunken into terra that isn't a firma and, in fact, does the hula after a hard rain; Corvettes, seaweed and cocaine.

All of that is valid. But limited.

There's another Malibu, a Malibu that encompasses the canyons and dirt roads that struggle through the Santa Monica mountain range. This Malibu has no ocean. What little water it does possess comes in the form of streams that trickle through shaded gullies and disappear when the temperature rises. There are some houses in this Malibu, situated near the main canyon road, but there remain miles of wilderness. There are still mountain lions roaming the more remote regions of this Malibu, and packs of coyotes that prowl at night, making off with a chicken, a possum, a fat toad. There are shady groves where the tree frogs breed so abundantly that you step into them thinking your foot is resting on soft, gray earth. Until it moves. There are lots of snakes — kings, garters and rattlers — in this Malibu. And secluded ranches where people live under the illusion that the latter half of the twentieth century never occurred. Bridle trails punctuated by steaming mounds of horse droppings. Goats. Tarantulas.

There are also lots of rumors surrounding the second, beachless Malibu. Of ritual murders carried out by Satanic cults. Of bodies that will never — can never be found. Of people lost while hiking and never heard from again. Horror stories, but perhaps just as valid as Beach Blanket Bingo.

I turned off Pacific Coast Highway, up Rambla Pacifica, and traversed the boundary from one Malibu to the other. The Seville climbed the steep grade with ease. I had Django Reinhardt on the tape deck and the music of the Gypsy was in synch with the emptiness that unfolded before my windshield — the serpentine ribbon of highway, assaulted by the relentless Pacific sun one moment and shaded by giant eucalyptus the next. A dehydrated ravine to one side, a sheer drop into space on the other. A road that urged the weary traveler to keep going, that offered promises it could never keep.

I had slept fitfully the night before, thinking of Robin and myself, seeing the faces of children — Melody Quinn, the countless patients I had treated over the last ten years, the remains of a boy named Nemeth, who had died just a few miles up this same road. What had been his last vision, I wondered, what impulse had crossed a crucial synapse at the last possible moment before a giant machine-monster roared down on him from nowhere… And what had led him to walk this lonesome stretch of road in the dead of night?

Now, fatigue, nursed by the monotony of the journey, was tracing a slow but inexorable passage along my spine, so that I had to fight to remain alert. I turned the music louder and opened all the windows in the car. The air smelled clean, but tinged with the odor of something burning — a distant bridge?

So occupied was I in the struggle for clarity of consciousness that I almost missed the sign the county had erected announcing the exit for La Casa de los Ninos in two miles.

The turnoff itself was easy to miss, only a few hundred yards past a hairpin bend in the road. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass in opposite directions, and heavily shadowed by trees. It rose a half-mile at an unrelenting incline, steep enough to discourage any but the most purposeful foot traveler. Clearly the site had never been meant to attract the walk-in trade. Perfect for a labor camp, work farm, detention center, or any nexus of activity not meant for the prying eyes of strangers.

The access road ended at a twelve-foot high-barrier of chain link. Four-foot-high letters spelled out La Casa de los Ninos in polished aluminum. A hand-painted sign of two huge hands holding four children — white, black, brown and yellow — rose to the right. A guardhouse was ten feet on the other side of the fence. The uniformed man inside took note of me, then spoke to me through a squawk box attached to the gate.

"Can I help you?" The voice came out steely and mechanical, like human utterance pureed into bytes, fed into a computer and regurgitated.

"Dr. Delaware. Here for a three o'clock appointment with Mr. Kruger."

The gate slid open.

The Seville was allowed a brief roll until it was stopped by an orange and white striped mechanical arm.

"Good afternoon, Doctor."

The guard was young, mustachioed, solemn. His uniform was dark gray, matching his stare. The sudden smile didn't fool me. He was looking me over.

"You'll be meeting Tim at the administration building. That's straight up this way and take the road to the left. You can park in the visitors' lot."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Doctor."

He pushed a button and the striped arm rose in salute.

The administration building looked like it had once served a similar purpose during the days of Japanese internment. It had the low-slung, angry look of military architecture, but there was no doubt that the paint job — a mural of a baby blue sky filled with cotton candy clouds — was a contemporary creation.

The front office was paneled in cheap imitation oak and occupied by a grandmotherly type in a colorless cotton smock.

I announced myself and received a grandmotherly smile for my efforts.

"Tim will be right with you. Won't you please sit down and make yourself comfortable."

There was little of interest to look at. The prints on the walls looked as if they'd been purloined from a motel. There was a window but it afforded a view of the parking lot. In the distance was a thick growth of forest — eucalyptus, cypress, and cedar — but from where I sat only the bottoms of the trees were visible, an uninterrupted stretch of gray-brown. I tried to busy myself with a two-year-old copy of California Highways.

It wasn't much of a wait.

A minute after I'd sat down the door opened and a young man came out.

"Dr. Delaware?"

I stood.

"Tim Kruger." We shook hands.

He was short, mid-to-late twenties, and built like a wrestler, all hard and knobby and endowed with just that extra bit of muscle in all the strategic places. He had a face that was well-formed, but overly stolid, like a Ken doll that hadn't been allowed to bake sufficiently. Strong chin, small ears, prominent straight nose of a shape that foreshadowed bulbous ness in middle age, an outdoorsman's tan, yellowish-brown eyes under heavy brows, a low forehead almost totally hidden by a thick wave of sandy hair. He wore wheat colored slacks, a light blue short-sleeved shirt and a blue-and-brown tie. Clipped to the corner of his collar was a badge that said T. Kruger, M.A., M.E.C.C., Director, Counseling.

"I was expecting someone quite a bit older, Doctor. You told me you were retired."

"I am. I believe in taking it early, when I can enjoy it."

He laughed heartily.

"There's something to be said for that. I trust you had no trouble finding us?"

"No. Your directions were excellent."

"Great. We can begin the tour, if you'd like. Reverend Gus is on the grounds somewhere. He should be back to meet you by four."

He held the door for me.

We crossed the parking lot and stepped onto a walkway of crushed gravel.

"La Casa," he began, "is situated on twenty-seven acres. If we stop right here, we can get a pretty good view of the entire layout."

We were at the top of a rise, looking down on buildings, a playground, spiraling trails, a curtain of mountains in the background.

"Out of those twenty-seven, only five are actually fully developed. The rest is wide-open space, which we believe is great for the kids, many of whom come from the inner city." I could make out the shapes of children, walking in groups, playing ball, sitting alone on the grass. "To the north" — he pointed to an expanse of open fields — "is what we call the Meadow. It's mostly alfalfa and weeds right now, but there are plans to begin a vegetable garden this summer. To the south is the Grove." He indicated the forest I'd seen from the office. "It's protected timberland, perfect for nature hikes. There's a surprising abundance of wildlife out here. I'm from the Northwest, myself, and before I got here I used to think the wildest life in L.A. was all on the Sunset Strip."

I smiled.

"Those buildings over there are the dorms."

He swiveled around and pointed to a group of ten large quonset huts. Like the administration building, they'd been gone at with the freewheeling paint brush, the corrugated iron sides festooned with rainbow-hued patterns, the effect bizarrely optimistic.

He turned again and I let my gaze follow his arm.

"That's our Olympic-sized pool. Donated by Majestic Oil." The pool shimmered green, a hole in the earth filled with lime jello. A solitary swimmer sliced through the water, cutting a foamy pathway. "And over there are the infirmary and the school."

I noticed a grouping of cinder-block buildings at the far end of the campus where the perimeter of the central hub met the edge of the "Grove." He didn't say what they were.

"Let's take a look at the dorms."

I followed him down the hill, taking in the idyllic panorama. The grounds were well-tended, the place bustling with activity but seemingly well-organized.

Kruger walked with long, muscular strides, chin to the wind, rattling off facts and figures, describing the philosophy of the institution as one that combined "structure and the reassurance of routine with a creative environment that encourages healthy development." He was resolutely positive — about La Casa, his job, the Reverend Gus, and the children. The sole exception was a grave lament about the difficulties of coordinating "optimal care" with running the financial affairs of the institution on a day-to-day basis. Even this was followed, however, by a statement stressing his understanding of economic realities in the eighties and a few upbeat paeans to the free-enterprise system.

He was well-trained.

The interior of the bright pink quonset hut was cold, flat white over a dark plank floor. The dorm was empty and our footsteps echoed. There was a metallic smell in the air. The children's beds were iron double bunks arranged, barracks style, perpendicular to the walls, accompanied by foot lockers and bracket shelves bolted to the metal siding. There was an attempt at decoration — some of the children had hung up pictures of comic book super heroes athletes, Sesame Street characters — but the absence of family pictures or other evidence of recent, intimate human connection was striking.

I counted sleeping space for fifty children.

"How do you keep that many kids organized?"

"It's a challenge," he admitted, "but we've been pretty successful. We use volunteer counselors from UCLA, Northridge, and other colleges. They get intro psych credit, we get free help. We'd love a full-time professional staff but it's fiscally impossible. We've got it staffed two counselors to a dorm, and we train them to use behavior mod — I hope you're not opposed to that."

"Not if it's used properly."

"Oh, very definitely. I couldn't agree with you more. We minimize heavy aversives, use token economies, lots of positive reinforcement. It requires supervision — that's where I come in."

"You seem to have a good handle on things."

"I try." He gave an aw, shucks grin. "I wanted to go for a doctorate but I didn't have the bucks."

"Where were you studying?"

"U. of Oregon. I got an MA there — in counseling ed. Before that, a BA in psych from Jedson College."

"I thought everyone at Jedson was rich." The small college outside of Seattle had a reputation as a haven for the offspring of the wealthy.

"That's almost true," he grinned. "The place was a country club. I got in on an athletic scholarship. Track and baseball. In my junior year I tore a ligament and suddenly I was persona non grata." His eyes darkened momentarily, smoldering with the memory of almost-buried injustice. "Anyway, I like what I'm doing — plenty of responsibility and decision making.

There was a rustling sound at the far end of the room. We both turned toward it and saw movement beneath the blankets on one of the lower bunks.

"Is that you, Rodney?"

Kruger walked to the bunk and tapped a wriggling lump. A boy sat up, holding the covers up to his chin. He was chubby, black and looked around twelve, but his exact age was impossible to gauge, for his face bore the telltale stigmata of Down's syndrome: elongated cranium, flattened features, deep-set eyes spaced close together, sloping brow, low-set ears, protruding tongue. And an expression of bafflement so typical of the retarded.

"Hello, Rodney." Kruger spoke softly. "What's the matter?"

I had followed him and the boy looked at me questioningly.

"It's all right, Rodney. He's a friend. Now tell me what's the matter."

"Rodney sick." The words were slurred.

"What kind of sickness?"

"Tummy hurt."

"Hmm. We'll have to have the doctor look at you when he makes his visit."

"No!" the boy screamed. "No docka!"

"Now, Rodney!" Kruger was patient. "If you're sick you're going to have to get a checkup."

"No docka!"

"All right, Rodney, all right." Kruger spoke soothingly. He reached out and touched the boy softly on the top of the head. Rodney went hysterical. His eyes popped out and his chin trembled. He cried out and lurched backward so quickly that he hit the rear of his head on the metal bedpost. He yanked the covers over his face, uttering an unintelligible wail of protest.

Kruger turned to me and sighed. He waited until the boy calmed down and then spoke to him again.

"We'll discuss the doctor later, Rodney. Now where are you supposed to be? Where's your group right now?"

"Snack."

"Aren't you hungry?"

The boy shook his head.

"Tummy hurts."

"Well you can't just lie here by yourself. Either come to the infirmary and we'll call someone to have a look at you or get up and join your group for snack."

"No docka."

"Okay. No doctor. Now get up."

The boy crawled out of bed, away from us. I could see now that he was older than I'd thought. Sixteen at least, with the beginning of beard growth dotting his chin. He stared at me, eyes wide in fright.

"This is a friend, Rodney. Mr. Delaware."

"Hello, Rodney." I held out my hand. He looked at it and shook his head.

"Be friendly, Rodney. That's how we earn our goodie points, remember?"

A shake of the head.

"Come on, Rodney, shake hands."

But the retarded boy was resolute. When Kruger took a step forward he retreated, holding his hands in front of his face.

It went on that way for several moments, a flat out contest of wills. Finally Kruger gave in. "Okay, Rodney," he said softly, "we'll forget social skills for today because you're ill. Now run along and join your group."

The boy backed away from us, circling the bed in a wide arc. Still shaking his head and holding his arms in front of him like a punchy fighter, he moved away. When he was close to the door he turned, bolted and half-ran, half-waddled out, disappearing into the sun's glare.

Kruger turned to me and smiled weakly.

"He's one of our more difficult ones. Seventeen and functioning like a three-year-old."

"He seems to be really afraid of doctors."

"He's afraid of lots of things. Like most Down's kids he's had plenty of medical problems — cardiac, infections, dental complications. Add that to the distorted thinking going on in that little head and it builds up. Have you had much experience with mrs?"

"Some."

"I've worked with hundreds of them and I can't remember one who didn't have serious emotional problems. You know, the public thinks they're just like any other kids, but slower. It ain't so."

A trace of irritation had crept into his voice. I put it down to the humiliation of losing at psychic poker to the retarded boy.

"Rodney's come a long way," he said. "When he first got here he wasn't even toilet-trained. After thirteen foster homes." He shook his head. "It's really pathetic. Some of the people the county gives kids to aren't fit to raise dogs, let alone children."

He looked ready to launch into a speech, but stopped and slipped his smile back on quickly. "Many of the kids we get are low-probability adoption cases — mrs defective, mixed race, in and out of foster homes, or thrown on the trash heap by their families. When they come here they have no conception of socially appropriate behavior, hygiene, or basic day-today living skills. Quite often we're starting from ground zero. But we're pleased at our progress. One of the students is publishing a study on our results."

"That's a great way to collect data."

"Yes. And quite frankly, it helps us raise money, which is often the bottom line, Doctor, when you want to keep a great place like La Casa going. Come on." He took my arm. "Let's see the rest of the grounds."

We headed toward the pool.

"From what I hear," I said, "Reverend McCaffrey is an excellent fundraiser."

Kruger gave me a sidelong glance, evaluating the intent of my words.

"He is. He's a marvelous person and it comes across. And it takes most of his time. But it's still difficult. You know, he ran another children's home in Mexico, but he had to close it down. There was no government support and the attitude of the private sector there was let the peasants starve."

We were poolside now. The water reflected the forest, green-black dappled with streaks of emerald. There was a strong odor of chlorine mixed with sweat. The lone swimmer was still in the water doing laps — using a butterfly stroke with a lot of muscle behind it.

"Hey, Jimbo!" Kruger called.

The swimmer reached the far end, raised his head out of the water and saw the counselor's wave. He glided effortlessly toward us and pulled himself waist high out of the water. He was in his early forties, bearded and sinewy. His sun-baked body was covered with wet, matted hair.

"Hey, Tim."

"Dr. Delaware, this is Jim Halstead, our head coach. Jim, Dr. Alexander Delaware."

"Actually your only coach." Halstead spoke in a deep voice that emerged from his abdomen. "I'd shake your hand, but mine's kinda clammy."

"That's fine." I smiled.

"Dr. Delaware's a child psychologist, Jim. He's touring La Casa as a prospective Gentleman."

"Great to meet you, Doc, and I hope you join us. It's beautiful out here, isn't it?" He extended a long, brown arm to the Malibu sky.

"Gorgeous."

"Jim used to work in the inner city," said Kruger. "At Manual Arts High. Then he got smart."

Halstead laughed.

"It took me too long. I'm an easy-going guy but when an ape with a knife threatened me after I asked him to do pushups, that was it."

"I'm sure you don't get that here," I said.

"No way," he rumbled. "The little guys are great."

"Which reminds me, Jim," interrupted Kruger, "I've got to talk to you about working out a program for Rodney Broussard. Something to build up his confidence."

"You bet."

"Check you later, Jim."

"Right on. Come back again, Doc."

The hirsute body entered the water, a sleek torpedo, and swam otter like along the bottom of the pool.

We took a quarter-mile walk around the periphery of the institution. Kruger showed me the infirmary, a spotlessly white, smallish room with an examining table and a cot, sparkling of chrome and reeking of antiseptic. It was empty.

"We have a half-time R.N. who works mornings. For obvious reasons we can't afford a doctor."

I wondered why Majestic Oil or some other benefactor couldn't donate a part-time physician's salary.

"But we're lucky to have a roster of volunteer docs, some of the finest in the community, who rotate through."

As we walked, groups of youngsters and counselors passed us. Kruger waved, the counselors returned the greeting. More often than not the children were unresponsive. As Olivia had predicted and Kruger had confirmed, most had obvious physical or mental handicaps. Boys seemed to outnumber girls by about three to one and the majority of the kids were black or Hispanic.

Kruger ushered me into the cafeteria, which was high-ceilinged, stucco-walled and meticulously clean. Unspeaking Mexican women waited impassively behind a glass partition, serving tongs in hand. The food was typical institutional fare — stew, creative use of ground meat, Jello, overcooked vegetables in thick sauce.

We sat down at a picnic-type table and Kruger went behind the food counter to a back room. He emerged with a tray of Danish pastries and coffee. The baked goods looked high-quality. I hadn't seen anything like them behind the glass.

Across the room a group of children sat at a table eating and drinking under the watchful eyes of two student counselors. Actually, attempting to eat was more accurate. Even from a distance I could see that they suffered from cerebral palsy, some of them spastically rigid, others jerking in involuntary movements of head and limb, and had to struggle to get the food from table to mouth. The counselors watched and sometimes offered verbal encouragement. But they didn't help physically and lots of custard and Jello was ending up on the floor.

Kruger bit with gusto into a chocolate Danish. I took a cinnamon roll and played with it. He poured us coffee and asked me if I had any questions.

"No. Everything looks very impressive."

"Great. Then let me tell you about the Gentleman's Brigade."

He gave me a canned history of the volunteer group, stressing the wisdom of the Reverend Gus in enlisting the participation of local corporations.

"The Gentlemen are mature, successful individuals. They represent the only chance most of these kids have of being exposed to a stable male role model. They're accomplished, the cream of our society and as such give the children a rare glimpse of success. It teaches them that it's indeed possible to be successful. They spend time with the kids here, at La Casa, and take them off-campus — to sporting events, movies, plays, Disneyland. And to their homes for family dinners. It gives the children access to a lifestyle they've never known. And it's fulfilling for the men, as well. We ask for a six-month commitment and sixty percent sign up for second and third hitches."

"Can't it be frustrating, for the kids," I asked, "to get a taste of the good life that's so far out of their grasp?"

He was ready for that one.

"Good question, Doctor. But we don't emphasize anything being out of our kids' reach. We want them to feel that the only thing limiting them is their own lack of motivation. That they must take responsibility for themselves. That they can reach the sky — that's the name of a book written for children by Reverend Gus. Touch the Sky. It's got cartoons, games, coloring pages. It teaches them a positive message."

It was Norman Vincent Peale spiced up with humanistic psychological jargon. I looked over and saw the palsied children battling with their food. No amount of exposure to the members of the privileged class was going to bring them membership in the Yacht Club, an invitation to the Blue Ribbon Upper Crust Debutante Ball of San Marino, or a Mercedes in the garage.

There were limits to the power of positive thinking.

But Kruger had his script and he stuck to it. He was damned good, I had to admit, had read all the right journals and could quote statistics like a Rand Corporation whiz kid. It was the kind of spiel designed to get you reaching for your wallet.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asked after finishing a second pastry. I hadn't touched my first.

"No thanks."

"Let's head back, then. It's almost four."

We passed through the rest of the place quickly. There was a chicken coop where two dozen hens pecked at the bars like Skinnerian pigeons, a goat at the end of a long leash eating trash, hamsters treading endlessly on plastic wheels and a basset hound who bayed half-heartedly at the darkening sky. The schoolroom had once been a barracks, the gym a World War II storage depot, I was informed. Both had been remodeled artfully and creatively on a budget, by someone with a good feel for camouflage. I complimented the designer.

"That's the work of Reverend Gus. His mark is on every square inch of this place. A remarkable man."

As we headed toward McCaffrey's office I saw, once again, the cinder-block buildings at the edge of the forest. From up close I could see there were four structures, roofed in concrete, windowless, and half submerged in the earth, like bunkers, with tunnel-like ramps sloping down to iron doors. Kruger showed no indication of explaining what they were, so I asked him.

He looked over his shoulder.

"Storage," he said casually. "Come on. Let's get back."

We'd come full circle, back to the cumulus covered administration building. Kruger escorted me in, shook my hand, told me he hoped to hear from me again and that he'd be dropping off the screening materials while I talked to the Reverend. Then he handed me over to the good graces of Grandma, the receptionist, who tore herself away from her Olivetti and bade me sweetly to wait just a few moments for The Great Man.

I picked up a copy of Fortune and worked hard at building an interest in a feature on the future of microprocessors in the tool-and-die industry, but the words blurred and turned into gelatinous gray blobs. Futurespeak did that to me.

I'd barely had a chance to uncross my legs when the door opened. They were big on punctuality here. I'd started to feel like a hunk of raw material — what kind didn't really matter — being whisked along on an assembly line trough, melted, molded, tinkered with, tightened, and inspected.

"Reverend Gus will see you now," said Grandma.

The time had come, I supposed, for the final polishing.