“Yeah. I get it. So, males are fucking stupid, they will forget everything once they get a whiff of pussy. I admit it. Cookie was the first woman I ever slept with even two nights in a row. She’s beautiful. I was a chump. So, what?”
“So, Miles, when do you plan to grow up, and partner with a grown-up woman?”
“Such as you?”
“Yeah. Me.” She looked tough as nails right then, face wreathed in smoke.
“I feel all giddy and girlish. Can I think about this? My brain is a little tender right now. I don’t want to jump from the frying pan into the fire, no offense.”
“I’m not offended. I’m a plenty hot fire, you better make a note of that. You go to bed, sleep on it, and tomorrow, we will have to hit the ground running, one way or another. Peaches told me that Frankie told her, that you said you loved her, but wanted a real woman. One with a cunt.”
“Yeah. I said that.”
“Well, I got one. But, although I would fuck you to get what I want, I will not, repeat not, be fucked over by you or anybody else, ever again. We can just work together, or we can live together, or both, or neither, but I demand honesty, one way or the other. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yeah. I remember you talking about your adventures down in Hollywood. I read you loud and clear. You are probably worth it, but by the same token, you are worth some serious cogitation. See you in the morning, Hilda. Good night.” I didn’t kiss her good night.
>>>>>>>
I fell out like a hammered veal, and knew nothing until Hilda pounded on my door at seven. “Miles, time to roll.”
“Yeah, sure. Can I tell you I hate you?”
“As long as you do it with your pants on, sure.” I dressed, shot down a couple cups of joe and headed for the parking lot. The Front Desk guy had a sheaf of messages for me, mostly from the Mysterious Mister Arbuthnot. They included an envelope full of official papers and a set of keys for our new building. Fast work. I remembered we had a flivver, our hundred-dollar wonder from White Rock. It was patiently waiting in the parking lot, so I cranked her up, we loaded all the crap we bought yesterday, and putted on back to Carolina Street, unloaded, and while she stayed to sort stuff into piles, I went looking for more trouble. That Phillipe, the contractor who had helped us on Kelly Street answered his phone, his wife or somebody did, I left a message for him to show up with a painting crew, while I shopped for camera equipment, and went to Canada Bell, to get the ball rolling on that front.
I swung by the Chronicle, and had them edit the employment ad to include our phone number and address, and they had a stack of responses already. Looked like I was right, a whole lot of American newspaper people had been exiled for not being enthusiastic enough in support of the Hoovers. That was a good start on a day’s work, I found a sign painter and went on back to the shop.
Not much to do, but sweep up and make lists, I went upstairs and picked out a room, the water and the electricity was on, but the gas wasn’t, add it to the list. We needed a bomb shelter too, I decided to hire a contractor to make us a sandbag bunker out in the back lot, as far from any building as we could get it. Bomb shelters are not much good if buildings fall on them.
I needed a bed, someplace to keep my clothes, and, oh yeah, some clothes. No shower either, find a plumber. In the meantime, improvise a desk and start writing. I bashed out the story of my little adventure in Everett Washington, and listened to Crazy Radio.
The big news hadn’t happened yet, the US and the Empire of Nippon were not at war, yet. That was about all anybody could say for sure, and what happened out in the middle of the Pacific was nobody’s business. There was a state of war between Pacifica and the USA, but, again, it was on the QT. The rest of the story was consolidation. The Mississippi Thrust was stalled, the Anglo-Germans had made their point, were busily consolidating what had been Canada, and was now the separate Reich Provinces of Quebec, Nova Scotia, Ontario, and so on. Newfoundland was one giant naval base, no more said.
The Estados Unidos de América Central, EUAC Constitutional Convention was still wrangling away in Bogota, and there was a similar Convention scheduled in Vancouver in a week or so. That was an obvious target for air strikes, so it was pretty hush hush. The very fact that they made a public announcement showed a lot of courage, in my book. Even a big dumb lug like me could figure that those Japanese freighters were shuttling troops and tanks over here as fast as their little engines could chug. No more troop convoys were coming through here, so it was also a safe bet that Bellingham was a major port for the build-up. I wondered if the Baikal Republic was sending troops too, and if the Mongols liked the New World. On second thought, they had to stay and guard the Trans-Siberian Line, but that would free up lots of Exiles to come home.
There was a new government in Seattle Freestate, and the port was being reopened. I wonder if Admiral Epstein was sending a couple of Salvage Teams over here to clean up that mess. I wonder about a lot of shit I can’t prove. I needed a hook to hang a story on, but nothing was coming to mind.
The radio saved me. “We interrupt this program of live music to bring you this breaking news flash. Dateline; Salt Lake City. In an unexpected development, the State of Utah has declared its independence from the United States of America, and has created the Independent nation of Deseret, effective immediately. That has been no reaction from the Federal Government in Washington, DC. Stay tuned to CKYZ Radio for further developments. This is Ed Murrow, returning you to your regularly scheduled live music broadcast.”
Well. One part of me wanted to jump up and down, yelling “I got a headline!” and one part wanted to run away and hide and think for a long time, and the part of me that is worth a shit got up and found the atlas in a box of unpacked books, and started flipping pages. One thing jumped out at me. There were only four or five good routes across the Western United States, and three of them went through Salt Lake City. San Francisco, Las Vegas, and Portland would be damn hard to reach if the Mormons got a case of the ass. I knew there were Mormons all through that area, and I knew it was more fucking desert, tank paradise. If Pacifica put a strong force in Spokane, Washington, and threatened Portland, the whole West Coast could be cut off from a weakened Federal Government. And if there was no US Navy Pacific Fleet, San Diego and Los Angeles would fall like ripe plums to EAUC forces coming up from Mexico. More fucking desert. Patton must be shitting his pants now. The names told the story. San Diego. Los Angeles. Los Vegas. New Mexico. San Francisco. All Spanish, all ripped off from Mexico. Lots of Hispanics out there, and their loyalty was not going to be for the man who had slaughtered thousands, tens of thousands, in Mexico City. I wondered where my boy Lupo was right this minute. Dollars to dog nuts he wasn’t in Dalny.
I couldn’t imagine that the Mormons had much in the way of armor or artillery, but even riflemen could make life miserable for anybody trying to cross that desert. No water, no fuel, dead summer coming soon, and a thousand miles from Denver to San Francisco? Oh, festering crap-sticks. Lupo had told me one time that “completamente jodido” meant completely fucked in Spanish. Yeah. That. My poor ex-country. Hodges had not wanted to start a Civil War, but something much worse was boiling up all over the whole country.
I knew that the older and wiser heads would not want to say this shit right out loud, they would need a stooge to take the heat for this shit, and the sucker looked like it was going to be me. How much I do love it.
Shut up and write it down.
>>>>>>>>>
I was vaguely conscious of Hilda talking to people in the background, but if it was important, she would let me know. I kept letting my mind wander into some very ugly places. We had worn out “how bad could it get” in 1920 or so, and it had just gotten worse and worse since then. And now, it was down to two empires clashing with the remnants of the United States in the middle. Untied Snakes, more like it. The Reich was all of Europe, the northern two-thirds of Africa, the Middle East down to Persia, Eastern Canada, and allied with South
and Central America. The Empire of the Rising Sun was China, the Indies, most of India, South Africa, and the alleged nation of Pacifica, of which I was a portion. And hurrah for me.
But the deal was, there were only a few places the two great empires could clash. South Africa was safe, at least for a while. North-south, roads were non-existent, and the INN was invulnerable at sea. Blocking the Suez meant that they could hold the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean indefinitely. Overland attacks from Turkey to Persia would have to go through the Khurds or somebody even worse, and the Germans had already found out that attacking the Trans-Siberian Railroad or the Baikal Republic was a losing proposition.
The Japanese could not get to Europe, so that left the States for the End Days Battleground. And here we were. Right on the dime. I was beginning to feel like a target. Two things could happen, both bad; the Reich could come down the Mississippi, and split the States in half, or the Hoovers could give up and join the Reich, and then the country would be the biggest battleground in history. The Western Front had been six hundred miles long, maybe, and the distance from Duluth to New Orleans was almost twice that, as the vulture flew.
And who knew what the Colombians would do? My head hurt. I needed a cup of coffee. I really needed a bottle of vodka and a blow job, but I gave up on the one, and the other was headed for China. I could find a whore, but something told me that Hilda would not like that shit, and I needed her, on whatever basis. Suck it up, fat boy, the job is the most important thing you do. Get to work.
And you need to figure out where you are going to sleep tonight, too. Fuck it, take a survival break. There were three men and a woman out in the office, and I saw Phillipe’s truck pull in at the curb, a couple guys with brooms and cans of paint got out and headed for the door. I decided to let the Staff pick out the colors. “Hilda, I have to go find me a bed, and all I own are the clothes I am standing in. Who are these people? They want to work?”
“Your Mister Arbuthnot sent them over. Well, this guy came from our ad in the paper. Says he’s a photographer.” One guy stepped forward, a red-headed kid. He did have a camera bag over his shoulder, looked healthy if not prosperous.
“Hi. Mister Kapusta? My name is Olsen, George Olson. I used to shoot freelance for the LA Times and even had a few pics in Variety. I have the clippings.” He waved a red photo album at me. I took it, and flipped a few pages. Not bad. A few car wrecks, a few glamor shots, a few landscapes…
“Okay, George, looks good. You have a place to live?”
“The Y. It’s not bad. Fun people.” That made me take another look at young George. Sure. Yeah, got it. No problem.
“Fine. Deal. Tomorrow at seven, we will find you something to do.”
“Thanks. Can’t ask for more than that.”
Off he went. “Who’s next?” The woman stepped up to face me. “O’Brian. Copy editor. Seattle Daily Times. Twenty years on the job.” Terse, clipped, a wounded woman, yet another wounded woman. A spinster type, pushing fifty. Not an obvious rape case, no brand on her forehead.
“What did you do?”
She got me. “The Blethens, the family that owns the Times, built a new building. They wanted everything new and up to date. I’m not.”
“I know the feeling. You got a place to stay?”
She looked askance at that, but only said, “My daughter in law. Her husband was sent to China. He never came back.”
She didn’t say, “my son.” Lots of pain. I didn’t pursue that trail. “Fine. You can come in tomorrow at seven too. I don’t know how much copy we will have, but we will put you on the clock, you can set up a work area, get your supplies, whatever you need.” She turned to go, I asked, “O’Brian? You got a first name?”
“Mary.” And she was gone. The last two were more interesting. A couple of Oriental-looking guys, not quite scruffy, but getting there. Dressed like dock-wallopers, one branded with a “U”, the other, older one, not. “Okay, who are you and what do you do?”
“I’m Chan, he’s Eng.” The older guy said. I knew that was a lie right off, but I didn’t say anything. “We do anything you want. At a price.”
“Define anything.”
“It means what it means. Anything. We can guard the place, run errands, talk to people, get then to… Cooperate.”
I thought this was a protection racket. “And if I tell you to fuck off?”
“We go away. What else?”
The younger guy put his hand on the older guy’s shoulder. “Let me explain. Chan’s first language is not English. He is kind of old school. We are from Frisco. Chinatown, obviously enough. The IB ran us out about half a year ago, we took a car, and tried to get here. They caught us in Portland, the locals, they branded me, left me for dead. Chan faded back into the woods, then came back and rescued me. We were not connected to any tong kind of a deal. Just working guys. He ran a noodle factory, made fortune cookies. I went to college, working on my Masters. I was going to be a teacher. I’m literate, at least.”
“So, is he your father?”
“He’s related, but not that close. My uncle, let’s say. I can type, file, proofread, all that good stuff. In three languages.”
“That’s a plus. What three?”
“English, Mandarin, and Japanese.”
“Hired. You need a place to stay?”
“Maybe. Not right tonight. We’re good.”
“Your uncle? Can he cook?” I saw Chan’s eyes light up at that.
He smiled, said “You bet. American, Chinese, all the same.”
“Good deal. Here’s fifty, go buy what you need to feed us, starting with breakfast tomorrow.” And off they went with springs in their steps. Cash money can do that.
“Hilda, hold the fort. I’m off to a furniture store. You want me to get you a bed, or if you want to stay up at Crazy House, I’ll buy you a car.”
“Shit. Put some pressure on me, why don’t you?” She thought for a minute, no longer. “Why don’t you get one of those fold-out couches. Put it down here, I’ll sleep on that. Deal?”
“You want it, you got it. When the phone guy gets here, you decide where you want them. One upstairs, for sure.”
“Gotcha.”
>>>>>>>
Spending other people’s money is never a chore. But, talking about buying another car gave me an idea. The flivver was unreliable at best, and I’m not happy having to crank cars. You can get a broken arm if you don’t pay attention. So, I took the Ford, that stands for Found On Road Dead, you know, and drove it to the nearest car lot, traded it in on a pretty battered Dodge Brothers pickup truck, and drove off in glory. I took the furniture store by storm, spent a lot of cash, and had it all delivered. When I got back to the Express, the phones were in, the sign painter was priming boards, and Arbuthnot’s reinforcements were on hand. Five guys, I didn’t even try to sort them out, just set them to humping furniture. I could tell they were all vets, and all had been wounded, and that was all they had in common. We took a break after a while, got their names, Phil, Buster, Charles, and two Pats. “Well, fuck, call me Greek, so people won’t think I’m a fucking Paddy, like this Mick here.” The slap he gave his buddy proved that they were old friends. He only had two fingers on that hand, but take what you can, get right?
Charles said, “They put up a poster in the Veteran’s Hospital, and we are the ones that can still get around. We can’t fight any more, I got a bum leg, Phil, well you can see…” Phil had one eye, and one ear, he had been scalped by some random chunk of iron someplace. “Better getting a job of work, than sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves, right?”
“So, any of you lugs have any newspaper experience?”
“I ran a paper in college. Stanford. Three years,” said Charles.
Phil agreed. “Yeah, my dad ran a paper in Boise, Idaho. I was supposed to take over before I got drafted. After this happened,” he ran his hand over his savaged head, “It didn’t seem to matter much. Maybe I drank too much.” I had been there, but my
wounds didn’t show on the outside. Gas and shell-shock.
We all swapped tales, Greek and Pat were Canadians, and Buster was a Limey. “Royal Navy, but I was on Shore Duty in Vanc here. I copped a bit of damage from a zepp bomb. I lost enough intestines to string a bass fiddle, have to watch my diet pretty closely.”
“Yeah, and the poor SOB can’t even drink, any more.” Greek ribbed him. Got to know who your buddies are, right?
“I worked as an Information Officer, but I was just a Warrant Writer.”
“That’s a rank?”
“That’s what they told me. Anyway, fuck them. After what they did to the Irish, I’m at liberty.”
“You don’t sound like a Mick to me,” I said.”
“My mother was. Her whole family was wiped out. Nine brothers and sisters, and she the only one left. In Liverpool. Then she died, and fuck them.”
“I hear you. Sorry. I guess we all can tell similar tales.” Mutters and growls. “So you guys want to stay here? We will need racks and wardrobes or trunks, or something.”
“We have to all go back every day or so, and we share a doss up near Hospital. One of the Hospitals, I should say.” Charles explained. “They are building more all the time. But we get by. A little cash is a good thing to have, and a job to do is better. Work makes the man.”
“Okay by me. We have room if you want to stay here. Work starts at seven tomorrow morning. We have to make this shit up as we go, pull a paper out of our hemorrhoided butts, but that’s the biz. Game?”
“We’ll be here.” Charles the college boy was obviously the leader, so lead away, Charlie.
>>>>>>>>>>
The furniture van showed up soon after, that killed the rest of the day, then we discovered that we forgot bedding and clothes for me. “You want to run back to Crazy House and fall out there? Is there any place to get sheets and blankets this late?”
“I’m not sure, Miles. Maybe one of the big department stores downtown is open until nine.” Fine. Vroom. We found one, and shopped the way the Vandals shopped in Rome, then headed back to the shop. “You want to eat something?” She asked.
Brown Bear Blues Page 2