“I know that’s right. All’s fair in love and war, honey, you take care of yourself. You sings good.”
“And so do you. You just keep on, and your name will be in lights. Love you.” And off they went. I looked at Hilda, she looked back at me. Yeah. Right.
“I think we need Peaches on this job,” she said.
“What are you thinking?”
“We have to get underground on this, we break this story and they will break us. We have to get down and dirty. Peaches is a monster. With me?”
“Shit yeah. And this gal,” I pointed at Lizzie, “she’s as down and dirty as they get.” I looked over at the black woman, who looked a little lost. “You want to play this game? It might get ugly.”
“Fuck-a-buncha ugly. I got your ugly right here, motherfucker. Only thing I’m sorry about those two bastards being dead is I can’t fucking dance on their goddamn graves. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear. Let’s go find Peaches. We got work to do.”
>>>>>>>>>
We had to blast her out of bed, she was on the midnight to dawn shift, but once up, she took charge. “First of all, you have to tell Arbuthnot. If those two assholes are dead, then the shit’s hitting the fan right now. Second, I don’t know if you ought to handle this as the Express. I will have the news department handle this as a rumor, something like that. Assuming it’s true, which is fucking hard to believe. What a load of shit.”
“And third?” I asked, with a mouthful of doughnut.
“Third, we got to figure out some way to make a crapload of cash out of this shit.”
Hilda had a plan. “First thing we do is get the films developed on the QT. And I have an idea about that.”
“Shoot.”
“That blue movie house. Dollars to doughnuts, they make pornography too. That means they have a darkroom, and a professional one. In Hollywood, a lot of the cameramen have a sideline making blue movies. But Peaches is right. Call Arbuthnot. Now.”
“Yes, sir, mam.” I walked out to the Main Desk, the switchboard was right behind it. I asked the girl to connect me, then asked her to leave the room. She wanted to argue, but one frown from the boss, Peaches, made her flee. Wonder of wonders, himself answered the phone. “James. I just got a hot tip on a big story. It’s not verified, but word is that both Patton and John Hoover are dead. Yeah. Both. Some kind of a lover’s squabble.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not at all. I have what is supposed to be solid evidence, and I am going to verify that right now. This is insanely scandalous, that’s all I want to say right now. You worry about the politics, and I will worry about the scandal. Deal?”
“You are obviously up to something; I just hope it does not blow up in your face. Remember, he who sups with the devil must have a long spoon.”
“I hear you. I’ll be in touch.”
“That would be highly advisable.”
“I got a proverb too. Don’t teach your granny to suck eggs.” I just wished I felt as confident as I sounded.
Peaches called Frankie, we all loaded up in the Buick, Lizzie wanted to go, so, we went.
>>>>>>>>>
The blue movie theater was called the Rialto, and was still open for business. We convinced the ticket booth lady that we needed to talk to the manager, and regardless of stereotype, he was a dapper, thin guy, named Demetri Something-or-other. He took one look at the women around me, and decided to listen with both ears. “So you want one roll of film developed, prints made, right now? Is that the deal?”
“You got beans in your ears?” Peaches was a little on edge. Might be lack of sleep. Or not. “Straight up business deal. We’re in a hurry.”
“I’m not sure I want to get involved in anything shady. I’m just a businessman. My business might be a little unusual, but it’s all the same, supply and demand. I don’t need any trouble.”
“You got trouble. There is this fucking war on. You notice? You Canadian or what?”
“I’m actually from Harbin. A White Russian. You understand my caution.”
I stepped in. “Me and Peaches are just back from Dalny. We get it. However, there is no time to waste. Deal, or no deal?”
He made up his mind. “Follow me.” There was a side door off the lobby, a long hall, and a dark room off the office. “Any of you have darkroom experience?”
I just raised my hand and followed him in. He clicked on the red light, and set to work. He worked in silence until the first print was out of the fixer and he turned on the white light to check for flaws. “Fuck your mother!” He whispered. “Is that him?”
I had my automatic in my hand, and cocked the hammer back, just so he could hear it click. “And if it is?”
“Dead is dead. Fuck him. Where did you get this?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Dermo. As you wish.” He stored that print, turned off the white light and went back to work. Twelve prints later, the light went on again. He didn’t speak, but I could hear his mind racing in overdrive.
“I want the negatives, and I want another set of prints. Two more. You want to make some for yourself, that’s fine with me. Spread the wealth.”
“Spread the danger. Who is this dead faggot?”
“John E. Hoover. Head of the IB’s. The guy in black is his second in command.”
“Both dead. But the other guy is in charge now?” His hands were shaking, with whatever emotion, I didn’t ask.
“Yeah. Tolson.”
“We are so fucked.”
“You catch on quick.”
“You didn’t have that gun; I would kill you this instant and burn the negatives.”
“Yeah. I figured. Get to work.”
“As long as we understand each other.”
“Those women out there? They won’t die easy. They all been thought hell and back.”
“I understand. I will do as you say.”
“Business is business, but war is war.” He didn’t reply, just set to work. It only took another half hour. He copied the negatives, I could tell he had done that before. I paid him all the gold I had in my pocket, I didn’t even count it or say goodbye. He was still shaking, and the gears were still churning in his head.
We ran back to the shop, I had a suspicion that was verified when I saw the big Pierce Arrow at the curb. James as still inside, I just walked up, and handed him the second set of prints. “I think this is verification.”
He flipped through the eight by tens. He let out a low whistle between his teeth, but said only, “Bloody hell.”
“To say the least. So, what do you want to do with this pile of steaming crap?”
“What is your newspaper jargon? Splash it? We splash it. You have a source?”
“It was this playboy aviator. Z. Smith Reynolds. He did not forbid me to use his name, but it would be just as wise to not spill those particular beans.”
“What is your thinking?”
“If they know who to attack, they will attack Reynolds, distract from the actual deed.”
“Fair enough. You have the negatives?”
“Here. I think we had best get a set of these pictures to Dalny as fast as possible. Once they are there, whoever inherits the so-called government down in DC will not be able to stop this from going worldwide.”
“I agree. I have no idea what our Nipponese friends will think of all this, but they need to know. There is a courier service with special planes, these documents can be there in less than 24 hours. Let’s call that our deadline. Call it one in the morning, Wednesday. That will let you get an edition out Wednesday morning. I’ll buzz over and ruin Billy Chung’s evening for him, and be right back. You start writing.”
“I need to know more about these SS assholes.”
“I’ll make a call. Anything else?”
“A bomb shelter would be nice. A shit-storm is about to erupt. A fecal volcano.”
“Your command of the vernacular is awe-inspiring. Carry on.”
Off he went, I gathered the troops, and we set to work. “Lizzie, you want a ride back to Crazy House?”
“You got a tommy gun? I’ll stand guard, go back in the morning. This here shit going to get rough as a cob, you hear me?” I didn’t think she was right, nobody would come for us tonight, but never turn down a volunteer.
>>>>>>>
I was right, nothing happened, I wrote the story, not believing the words as I pounded them out. We monitored Radio Freedom, whatever they called it, nothing. According to them, all was right with the world. Arbuthnot was as good as his word, a motorcycle courier roared up within the hour with a thick file on the German SS, and a proper bunch of sadistic bastards they were. I just skimmed it, and stole the odd paragraph here and there. I lifted bios of Hoover, Patton and Clyde Tolson from Who’s Who, and noted that tomorrow was good old Clyde’s thirty-first birthday. Happy birthday, Clydey-poo, let’s see what we can do to make it memorable for you. Then lay it out, caption the pictures, get it all nice and pretty. I decided, fuck it, to use the Express banner-head, hew to the line and let the chips fall where they may.
Lizzie was drowsing in her chair, I got her to ride shotgun over to Chung’s, Hilda and Peaches held the fort until we got back, then Peaches took Lizzie off back to Crazy House. Hilda and I looked at each other for a long while, then went to our separate beds, guns by our sides.
I just lay there, not even thinking, just listening to my brain churn behind my eyes for an hour or so. My door creaked open, but before I could shake off my lethargy and grab my gun, Hilda said, “Don’t shoot, Miles, it’s me.”
“What do you…”
“I’m lonely. We have stirred up a hornet’s nest, and I need a little love.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Me too. Any rules?”
“We can worry about that kind of shit in the morning.”
>>>>>>>>
The staff showed up at seven, we were sleeping as if pole-axed, but dragged our butts out of bed, and spread the joy. We still had to get out our Battle of Everett and the Rebirth of the Express issue, so that was all hands on deck. We got a dummy layout done by noon, and I ran it over the Billy Chung’s in the Dodge. He greeted me personally, with something like awe in his eyes. “It’s a little bit nerve-wracking to be part of history,” was all he said, but words are useless things sometimes. We ran over the bombshell edition, we decided to run the Express Rebirth story edition first, get it out on the streets before dawn, then drop the bomb well before noon. And offer prayers to any and all deities, willing or otherwise.
And fuck them, they can’t take a joke.
Ran back to the shop, started working on an SS/SSS expose issue. Futile probably, but something to do while waiting for the hammer to fall. Peaches sent a heads-up to listen to Radio Home in Dalny, she had sent them a teletype with the gory details. She had not asked permission, and I assured her it was fine. We turned the dial just to get to hear Henry Mencken, “Unconfirmed but reliable sources in the United States said today, that Chief of Staff Generalissimo George Smith Patton, and Investigation Bureau Chief John E. Hoover are both deceased, apparently shot in a homosexual domestic scandal.” He audibly cleared his throat. Enough to give anybody a sore throat. “Exact details are still murky at this point, but it has been established that Patton and Hoover are both dead. There has been no comment from President Hoover or any other US Government body. Stay tuned for more details, as they become available.”
Suddenly it was all real. Hearing it from a somber-voiced announcer made it real in a way that even the photographs had not. Just my imagination, but I could just about hear heads snapping around, calculations being made all over the world. Speaking of which, what were our calculations?
Nature abhors a vacuum. Power vacuums attract power pirates. Anarchy never happens, there are always too many contenders fighting for the prize. Could Tolson get it all? A guy who liked to dress up in an SS uniform for sex? Fucking really? How sane was that? How about Ol’ Herbert Hoover. He had been a decent man, a Quaker, a mining engineer. In the early days of the Endless War he led relief efforts in Belgium. A flip through Who’s Who showed that Hoover had been a leader in the Efficiency Movement, which held that every institution could be improved by experts who could identify the problems and solve them. He had only been in office for eight months before the Crash hit, and wiped out any part of the economy that was not supporting the war.
He caught all the shit, and it made him bitter and ruthless, but was he ruthless enough to hold onto power, keep the Presidency from the wolves? Was he any part of a patriot? What does a puppet do when his strings get cut? I wished Frank Roosevelt was someplace I could talk to face to face.
Patton was a lone wolf; did he have followers? Disciples? All the decent generals were over in China, were there enough bastards in the upper ranks to run a coup? It always seemed to be colonels that led coups in other countries, was that in the cards here? God knows we had enough colonels to run a thousand coups. One thing was self-evident. A whole lot of shit was going to hit a whole lot of fans.
I started to type out all that bullshit, when the hour came around and Radio Home hit the news headlines. Mencken was back, his voice was under control now. “We have confirmation of the Patton-Hoover murders from an unexpected source. Radio station KZN, the radio arm of the Mormon-owned newspaper, Deseret News, a Salt Lake City newspaper also owned by the LDS Church. They report that a member of their church, employed by the Del Charro Hotel, in La Jolla California, claims to have seen the bodies of Generalissimo Patton and Director Hoover. The KZN report goes on to add that Patton discovered Hoover in flagrante delicto with his second in command, Clyde Tolson, and that Patton became enraged, and fired one shot, killing Hoover on the spot. Tolson, also armed, returned fire, killing Generalissimo Patton.”
“The unnamed hotel employee stated that Tolson fled the scene in a government limousine, and has not been seen since. The shooting took place, yesterday morning, a few hours before noon. And in other news…”
All the employees, including Chan and Eng were gathered around the radio, dumbstruck, you could just about hear the gears whirring in their heads. Greek was the first to speak. “The fucking Mormons sticking their oar in? They never do anything by accident. I guess they figure this will help them waddya-callit, secede from the States. This is fucked up.”
Charles added, “We need to monitor their station, see if they are going to push this story. They have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies all over the West. All over the world.”
“You know this for a fact? How?”
“I’m from the Bay Area, lots of Mos there, and Phil…” The scarred guy with one eye nodded. “He’s from Idaho.”
Phil agreed. “Yeah, my dad ran a paper up there. All over the rural West, there are lots of LDS folks. You learn to not cross those people, if you know what is good for you. The rank and file are fine, but the higherups think they have a Holy Mission to conquer the world, and they aim to do it, too.”
“By fair means or foul.” Charles agreed. “They think they can do no wrong, some of them still do polygamy, and the way they treat their kids is a crying shame. A rebellious child can get beaten to death, and nobody dares say a word.”
“Okay, you see the need, you do the job. I guess we need another radio set, at the very least. Take the rest of the day off, get another couple of sets out of petty cash, and be back here at midnight. Get some sleep. We are going to work our asses off. Dougherty, you hold the fort, you and Hilda and Violet. Answer the phones, prime the press for the Patton edition. The deadline is one tomorrow morning. And we have to get the Express Rebirth edition on the streets too, tonight.”
“And what are you going to do, boss man?” Hilda, of course.
“I’m going to take a cab up to Crazy House, get the Buick back, and get a few more heavies with guns. Lizzie was right, she just jumped the gun a little early. If there are anymore IB stooges up here, they are going to jump down our throats when this hits the s
treets. Those pictures are hard to argue with; they are going to piss bullets and shit bricks when they see them. You all be fucking careful, you hear?”
>>>>>>>
Just as I was going out, another cab pulled up, and Tommy the Cork crutched his way to the door. “What the fuck, Tommy?”
“I was bored shitless sitting in that damn hospital. Give me something to do. I’ll never get better laying on my ass. What’s going on in the world?”
“You will not fucking believe it. Hilda, you know Tommy? Bring him up to date, would you, please? I got to roll.”
Crazy House was crazier than ever, they were going to break the story right now, and Peaches was trying to do about five things at once, including posting guards on all the walls, including the wall overlooking the quarry. There was a cliff there, but she was taking no chances. The Rocket Clusters, fifty-five gallon drums full of skyrockets used as an anti-dive-bomber weapon were in place, more being rolled out of storage as I watched. “You expecting an air attack?”
“I’m expecting everything but the little green men from Mars. They are going to freak the fuck out. Our radio monitoring squads are getting cramps in their transcribing hands. Shit is coming down. And why aren’t you minding the store?”
“I came up to get the Buick, some extra muscle to guard the fort. Got any people to spare?”
“Take Lizzie, that damn woman is always spoiling for a fight, I’ll round up a few guys, and I have an old Marmon limo you can have too.”
“Thanks. Our special edition with the pictures is going to hit the street about two in the morning, Arbuthnot keeps moving the schedule up, so it might be sooner. I sent the gang to bed, it’s liable to be a long goddamn night.”
“You fucking got that right. Wait at the gate, I’ll send those people to you. Time to tend to your fucking knitting, Miles. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear.” And so, it was. She even sent a dozen Rocket Cluster drums, enough to fill up the back of the Dodge truck. I didn’t know what I was going to do with them in the middle of the city, but fuck it. We could always use them for celebration when we won. If.
Brown Bear Blues Page 4