“YOU ARE SURROUNDED BY POLICE.
“LAY FACE DOWN ON THE GROUND. SPREAD-EAGLED. HANDS & LEGS OUTSTRETCHED. YEAH. DO IT SLOW & EASY.
“GOOD.
“PALMS UP…
“OFFICERS WILL BE WITH YOU ANY MOMENT TO ASSIST YOU.”
[ 138 ]
“Judging from the commotion down the way, I should say we shall indeed receive visitors, & soon. Julie, you know what you are to do. Snuff, throw on this cheap-ass bathrobe of yours—” Mal tosses the flimsy garment to His accomplice. “—put it on over your undershorts & T-shirt to cover up those goddamn tattoos of yours. Use only the bathroom light. No lamps. No flashlights. Understand?”
Julie carries the suitcase they both share back to “their” room. The door closes behind them. George Brittain, the Maldoror, carrying His attaché case, crosses to the small writing table, pulls out the plastic chair facing the door, sits down, snaps open the case, & lays out several folders, marked “MARKET SURVEYS & QUARTERLY SALES REPORT,” a dog-eared copy of the Go Rin No Sho, an English translation, & a Webster’s Abridged. Visible inside the case, a silenced MAC 10 is strapped in place within its custom-fitted sling, along with spare clips. His attaché case, like an illusionist’s top hat, contains all these things, & more, because HE WILLS it…
He sets to work, calm & unflustered despite the urgency of the situation. Still wearing His micropore gloves, He lifts out a delicate-looking pair of very sharp, straight-bladed surgical scissors, a sheet of smooth paper bearing rows of His own likeness centered in neat little rectangles (the backgrounds of most in a variety of colors to render the closest match-up with originals, plus one group shot in black & white), a pair of tapered-tip tweezers, several plain wood toothpicks, a cellophane packet, & a small vial of acetone. He digs into His wallet, pulls the driver’s license belonging to Truman Gilmore.
“Helps when You own a commercial photocopy business, doesn’t it? Particularly since the advent of Color Xerox,” He chuckles to Himself. “Nor does it hurt to have invested One’s true income in a failing medical supply firm, & hardware store, etc.
“After all, the illicit import of drugs has always been a most lucrative enterprise, at least if managed judiciously…
“Oh, yes, & then that’s not to mention the contractor’s license I maintain under My… hmmm… Shall. We. Say. Christened. Name…?”
With a precision born of surgical training & the monomaniac focus of an existence lived out in justified paranoia, He snips away, excising & trimming one of the self-portraits as perfectly as if it had been done by a machine. He checks the fit over Truman’s picture, finds it passable, then lays it near to hand while He opens the vial of acetone. He lifts the picture with the tweezers, held in His left hand, while He dips the tip of a toothpick in, & spreads a thin film of solvent to just inside the outer edges of the paper. The rear surface has been specially treated with a plastic film, so that it bonds neatly to the driver’s license when He presses it carefully into place.
He then selects several rectangles of thin, clear plastic laminate, holds them up with the tweezers for comparison to the glossiness of the license, identifies the closest match, trims it, & fuses it into place over the picture.
He returns His implements & supplies to His attaché case, & removes a cigar, while the bogus photo dries a moment. As a further precaution, He flips the first of the four cylinders of both locks three times to the number “61” & back to “110,” activating the trip setting of the detonation device—60-40-cast RDX-TNT, a large charge, with the addition of a rather unique custom-blended incendiary. The case is His own custom creation. If the combination “1966” is hit, or if someone should attempt to bypass the lock & pry it open, then the cleanup crew can peel them off the walls or pavement. The explosive can also be triggered via the sub-micro sending unit hidden inside His pocket calculator—making a very effective antipersonnel bomb…
He peels the cellophane wrapper from the Te-Amo maduro, strikes a light, & begins to puff away, clouding the room with the reek of the dark Mexican cigar. Confident in His precautionary measures, Mal holds the doctored driver’s license up at arm’s length, marveling at His own handiwork. “Cheerio, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Truman P. Gilmore,” He quips.
[ 139 ]
“Exactly what in the Hell’s going on here, Hawkes?” questions Captain Lardass Lucas of Miami-Dade Homicide. “I’ve heard of Viet Nam flashbacks, but—”
“Well, you see, Cap, I always go around pickin’ gunfights with every gang of machine gun-totin’ slants I can find—kinda reminds me of The Seven Samurai, y’ know…?”
“Cut the wiseguy crap, Hawkes! I could book you & throw away the fucking key for this caper—so you’d better spill it & fast—”
“Okay. Okay. So I’m fuckin’ pissed. & I’m fuckin’ wired. & I don’t know whether my goddamn dog’s alive or fuckin’ dead. So excuse my lack of proper respect for your boys’ timely intervention here… I mean, SHIT! I just missed gettin’ myself fuckin’ blown to Perdition, so let me spell this out all nice & easy, okay—
“Elijah & I were tryin’ to sniff out the location of the goddamn Mermaid’s Inn, when these stiffs bushwhacked us for no fuckin’ reason that I can make head ’r tail out of…
“I dropped a couple of ’em. They shot my dog. I shot a couple more. They pinned me down back there behind those buzz-sawed crates. King Kong there attacked me from behind. He must’ve been awful slow or I was awful lucky—I nailed his fat ass with at least three, maybe four, shots. I blacked out. When I woke up, Elijah was gone & all but one of ’em that were still up when I went out were down. Squashed flatter’n freeway bugs, on a grille. Must’ve been some kinda’ hit & run vigilante that saved my butt.”
“Hawkes, I don’t buy that load of shit any more than I would a deed of sale to fuckin’ Disney World or the Orange Bowl. But go ahead. I need this shit. Make my fuckin’ day—what happened to that one—?” Lucas asks, pointing to the punk with the knife in his gut & all five fingers of his left hand missing.
“Well, it’s like this—I guess he must’ve been up on dust or something, actin’ real freaked out, y’ know? He started screamin’ weird Nip shit, & tried to drop me with that greasegun of his, but I grabbed King Kong’s Gatling Gun & blew his legs out from under him. But, SHIT! Cap, he just kept on comin’ like he couldn’t even feel it. He’d dropped his gun in the fracas, though, & pulled that friggin’ knife of his. I ran outta’ ammo, so I whipped out my good ol’ army survival knife & gave him a coupla’ decent slashes. Must’ve sent him over the edge, y’ know? Next thing I know he’s hackin’ off his own goddamn fingers joint by joint, & when I tried to intervene, he dropped down on his knees & did the hari kari bit…”
“Yeah, & I’m Dick Fuckin’ Tracy, too. & you’re Friggin’ Mike McGurk, huhhh? You think I buy this load of horseshit, you’re fucking insane. But for right now, just consider it lucky I picked up your description when the call on this mass murder shit came in, & I fucking insisted on handling this personally. Got ’em to hold off questioning until a copter could fly me out to the scene PDQ. Or you’d probably be headed for lockup on a possible set of Murder One charges. Got it, wiseguy? & count yourself lucky you had the rec from Carter. It just bought you some breathing space, capishe?
“I’m letting you walk for now. On your own recog. Okay. Just no more of this Lone Ranger/Dirty Harry shit. Okay? Don’t you dare FART without filing a flight plan with me—upwind or downwind I want to know which way th’ wind’s blowing. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Now let’s get you to the nearest hospital to take a look.”
[ 140 ]
The knock comes. Just as Mal predicted. Snuff switches on the bedside lamp, throws on his robe, & answers the door, rubbing his eyes just enough to project the proper role of rudely awakened sleeper.
Two uniformed police officers greet him. The pair look grim-faced & tired, irritable, their arches no doubt aching from past investigative hours standing
on unyielding concrete.
“Yeah?” Snuff grumbles, his own surliness a con-smart bluff of Mr. John Q. Umbrage, Ticked-off Citizen Un-extraordinaire…
“Sorry t’ bother you,” the tall, gaunt one with the hangdog hound face says, flipping out his wallet with the I.D. peephole prominently displayed. “Police officers.” The bags under his eyes seem as dark as the plastic framing the identifying photo. “There’s been a crime committed in this area. We’re going door t’ door. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious in the last few hours…?”
“I was asleep.” Snuff launches into his verbal retroflex with measured ease: “Sorry. Been a tough day. Long drive. Been out like a light. My brother-in-law & me… & my daughter—” he points over his shoulder to the far bed. “—we just drove in from Guthrie. Oh yeah, Oklahoma…” (He mentions the town listed on Truman’s driver’s license, praying to his own deity, Lord Satan, that neither of these cops is intimately acquainted with the area in question. What he doesn’t need is some flatfoot reminiscing about the good ol’ days back home in Bible thumpin’ country. Hell no, anything, but that…
“Your daughter—shouldn’t she be home goin’ t’ school?” The second cop asks. He’s a beet-faced mick with a gnarled, tough-guy face & full-blown rum-blossom nose. His nametag reads “O’MALLEY.” “She ain’t playin’ hooky is she now?”
“Look here, now, offcer. You raise yr kids as y’ see fit ‘n’ I’ll raise mine. My Sarah’s fifteen. She goes to her Bible school. ‘n’ that’s the only schoolin’ she needs at her age. I ain’t havin’ my daughter truckin’ with no homey-sexurals ‘n’ no drug-dealin’ rock ‘n’ roll Divil wahshippers. She’s gettin’ th Loh-uhd’s schoolin’ from her Sabbath lessons…”
The tall cop (“RICK CALDWELL”: his ID stated, but Snuff can only think of him as “DEPUTY DAWG”) stares down at his partner with a disgusted look that translates as: you HAD t’ ask, didn’t ya, as if we didn’t have enough grief with this goddamn assignment already without some religious nut spoutin’ his crazed philosophy of child-rearin’…?
Miss Julie lies on her side, nestled under the covers, facing away from the minor commotion, cradling her daddy’s silenced 9mm machine pistol, ready to blow their asses to Kingdom Come. If things get hinky, they will be done…
[ 141 ]
“Looks like you’ll live, Mr. Hawkes. The wounds were all superficial. You’ve lost some blood, of course, but just under a couple of pints. Thanks to your weight & physical condition, a transfusion wasn’t indicated. I gave you a shot of wide-spectrum antibiotic & a mild arteriolar dilator, as well as topical application of norepinephrine as a vasoconstrictor to keep that damaged tissue from further bleeding.
“Heh. Not exactly standard procedure, but Cptn. Lucas already warned me he doubts you’ll follow doctor’s orders & take it easy—something about a wounded dog, I believe…? Says he’s trying to contact the nearby veterinary hospitals while I treat you…” He realizes his last remark is upsetting his patient, & he quickly switches subjects: “Your system is stressed but you’ve got a constitution like a Bear. Heh, that’s a joke, Chicago Bears, your hometown team—right…? Ever play football pro…? You’ve got the build…well not these days, I mean you’re no glandular case or anything, but in your prime…?”
“Nope. Varsity. Kansas State. Class of ’64.” Frank tries to maintain his cool with this nosey young dumbfuck of an emergency-room medic, Wellsley. All he wants to do is get the Hell out of here & see Elijah; see if his canine companion is alive or dead.
“DR. WELLSLEY, EMERGENCY ROOM, STAT. DR. WELLSLEY, EMERGENCY ROOM, STAT. PATIENT WITH MULTIPLE SHOTGUN WOUNDS HEMORRHAGING.”
“Sorry. ‘d love to talk some more. You’re a regular Dirty Harry, aren’t you? Seven of ’em.…?” The man is nearly out the door already, stepping briskly, at a near-trot, the generic pale green fabric of his baggy pants legs & the back hem of his shirt flutter in the draft from the air purification system. He catches the door frame for a moment, looks back over his shoulder, & says, “Oh yeah, nearly forgot. Drink plenty of OJ, OK? Eat a steak or maybe a box of raisins…? It’ll do you a world ‘a good, okay?”
[ 142 ]
Again, Truman Gilmore is down & out in Demerol City, his existence a grave-black Bardo, his rnam-shes mindlocked in a Transitional State flickering somewhere between “Moment of Death” & the clear light of “Experiencing Reality”— But this time, his prison is not the trunk of a Delta Olds but the restroom of a cheap motel, where he is chained & padlocked to the water closet, the chain wrapped in towels to muffle any potential scraping should the sleeper wake & offer protestation of his bondage… But this time, the clear light of “Experiencing Reality” is the blue knowledge of the sapphire’s secret heart…
[ 143 ]
“I’m afraid, Mr. Hawkes, that you’re going to have to make a very difficult decision—” Dr. Weinberg says, “your dog, uhhmnn…” he checks the notes on his clipboard: “…yes…Elijah, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, what’s—”
“There’s no easy way to put this. In my opinion you have only two choices. You see, the right foreleg has been completely destroyed by the perforation wound of the bullet. The joint is multiply fractured, &, with the force it struck, well, when it exited, it took a good portion of the fragmented bone along with it.”
“Naw. Naw. Completely destroyed? I don’t buy this, man! You guys can fix anything these days! Splints? Bone graft?…something?” Frank’s voice trembles, at least a full octave higher than normal, & his facial muscles have suddenly begun to tic, & he can see Shaw’s flesh-stripped face staring at him from the shadows just beyond Weinberg’s shoulder. Grinning…
“No, Mr. Hawkes, the truth is, this is veterinary medicine, & although I fully appreciate the pain you’re suffering at your small friend’s injury— you must remember, he is a dog, &, well, we just don’t have all the same options we would with a human victim with similar injuries—”
“Look, you asshole, I don’t fuckin’ care how much the fuck it costs— got it?”
“Mr. Hawkes, I understand—”
“The FUCK you understand… you don’t understand a goddamn thing, do you…? That’s my goddamn best fuckin’ friend, there, not just some fuckin’ mutt!”
“I will have to ask you to refrain from the use of such…expletives…this is a veterinary hospital, & I will not allow such vulgar street talk. I simply won’t have it!
“Now, may we continue in a rational discussion…or—”
“Okay, Doc. Sorry. It’s just—”
“Believe me, I do understand… & you must understand that I can only present the facts, & I won’t sugarcoat them. The options are, as I said earlier, extremely limited: we either remove the leg—”
“Awwww, Christ, no, there—”
“Or we can euthanize him. Two options. &, for the good of your pet, I suggest you waste no time in making a firm decision…
“Of course, you’re always welcome to get another opinion. But, again, I cannot overemphasize the need for a timely decision. Your dog is no doubt suffering a great deal of pain, despite the local anaesthetic, & the treatment we’ve already given to him for the associated shock. He lost a good deal of blood, & if we’re going to try to save him, we can’t waste a moment in beginning with the surgery…
“It is a very difficult decision, I know, Mr. Hawkes, but the best interest of the animal must be paramount. We can give it a try, but I must forewarn you, we still may lose him. There can be no guarantees. There are simply too many variables, too many unknowns until we’ve completed the amputation & have allowed time for his condition to, hopefully, stabilize…
“After all, you don’t want to see him suffer, do you…?”
[ 144 ]
Sitting in his darkened lab, Professor Punk pours a shot of tequila, & downs the fiery liquor in a single gulp, chasing it with a slug of ginger ale. He feels only minor relief that Lucy has agreed to set her spooks on Brittain’s trail. Of course he is gr
atified that Slice spared his life, but he is more than a little puzzled. The last mind-link was different from all the others. He was aware of a third presence during that link, but he can’t make any real sense of it. Whomever or whatever it was, it had some control over Slice. Professor hasn’t told anyone of the last mind-fucking Slice gave him. Lucy’d be pissed if she knew, & he doesn’t want to become the target of her anger. Only a fool would want the most dangerous woman in the world on his ass. Professor trusts no one in Erebos. He knows the players too well for that.
The one man in the world he feels he can trust is out there somewhere, living His unique philosophy & exploring the darker regions of death. “Where are you, Brittain? Who are You now—? You shed Your role of Zodiac, I know… So, what fucking mask do You wear, now…?
“I think I know You by Your secret signatures, Your mark upon their merely mortal flesh…
“I’ve watched & waited so fucking carefully these many many years… But, like Hawkes, I always seem one step or more behind Your shadow… How the Hell can even Lucy’s trackers find You—?” he asks of the silent darkness.
Yeah, even Prof. Punk must occasionally wax eloquent…
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