He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that Darryl’s legs were no longer sticking out. His feet, shoes and all, were now entirely within the thing.
He turned at a sound behind him and saw Drexler strolling in from the stairway.
“I came to check on our friend,” he said, smiling as he approached, “but I see you’ve beaten me to it.”
Hank pointed at the Orsa. He hated that his hand shook, but he couldn’t help it. This was . . . he didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be good.
“Look at that! It’s sucked him further inside.”
Drexler stopped and stared. He looked surprised for an instant, then composed.
“Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it. If the Orsa is going to cure his whole body, it must have access to his whole body. Don’t be concerned. Just a normal part of the process.”
“I thought you said this had never been done before.”
“Yes, I did say that, but there are writings on the subject. Have no fear: Our friend is being cured.”
As Hank turned away and resumed staring at the Orsa and the man trapped within, he wondered how much of that was bullshit.
“Our friend? Don’t pretend you ever liked him. You made it pretty clear he got on your nerves.”
Drexler stopped at Hank’s side. “That is true, I suppose. But now I harbor only good feelings about him.”
“Yeah? And what do you think Darryl’s feeling?”
“I have no idea. Since he appears unconscious, I would assume he feels nothing.”
Hank continued to stare at Darryl’s still form. He hoped that was the case. He felt somehow responsible for the guy being in there. If he came out cured of AIDS, then good. He could be annoying at times, and had got himself infected in a really stupid way, but he didn’t deserve AIDS.
He recalled a strange remark Drexler had made yesterday while they’d been staring at the dots and lines. He glanced at him.
“Yesterday you mentioned a word I’d never heard before—fin-something—in connection with Darryl. What were you talking about?”
Drexler looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
That wouldn’t be hard, since he barely remembered it, but Drexler’s discomfort piqued his interest. He had a feeling the man never would have mentioned it if not for a snootful of absinthe.
“No can do. You said it about one of my Kickers, so I need to know what it means.”
“It’s nothing. Just an ancient word for the healing process our friend is going through.”
“Bullshit. You said it was some sort of contingency plan.”
Drexler looked even more uncomfortable. “I said nothing of the sort. I must have said the Order has contingency plans to aid the One, and you misinterpreted.”
He was lying. Hank resisted the urge to take a poke at him, knock him down, dirty up his white suit, maybe work him over with his own fancy cane. Instead he replayed that scene from yesterday . . . they were standing closer to the Orsa, checking out the dots and lines . . . talking about Opus Omega . . . and Drexler had mentioned . . .
“Fhinntmanchca,” Hank said as it came back to him. “That was what you said.”
Drexler looked pale now. “Excuse me. I’ve used up today’s allotment of idle chatter.”
He turned and strode away.
Fhinntmanchca, Hank thought. He needed to find out what that meant, but hadn’t a clue as to where to look. He’d try to Google it, but he didn’t even know how to spell it.
He stared at the Orsa. What did it mean? It had something to do with Darryl. But what?
He had an uncomfortable feeling he’d be finding out soon enough.
5
It called itself the Andaz West Hollywood now, but in the old days it had been the infamous Riot Hyatt.
Jack had programmed the hotel’s address into his rental car’s GPS, but when he pulled into the rear parking lot an hour later, he realized he hadn’t needed it—except for the final hundred yards on Sunset Boulevard, he’d stayed on the same street, La Cienega, all the way from the airport.
The room was nothing much—a view of the traffic on Sunset, the House of Blues across the street, and the towers of downtown rising through the smog in the basin. But the hotel was special. He’d chosen the Riot Hyatt for its place in rock history, figuring as long as he had to make this trip, he might as well make it interesting.
Little Richard used to live here. Timmy O’Brien, one of Julio’s regulars, had told him he’d been out here on a business trip during his heyday in advertising and had seen him getting into a limo in the parking lot. Timmy had had the presence of mind to call out, “Hey, how’s it going, Mister Penniman?” which so pleased Little Richard he rewarded him with a pearly grin, a handshake, a pre-signed photo, and a couple of Seventh Day Adventist brochures. Timmy kept the photo, dumped the brochures.
The Hyatt gained the “riot” from all the rowdy rock bands that used to stay here when they passed through on tour. The Who and the Stones—those impetuous boys—threw TVs out windows. A member of Led Zep supposedly drove a motorcycle along one of the hallways.
Staying here had seemed like a cool idea last night when he’d been looking for a hotel, but now that he was here . . .
Meh.
So what? Big deal. Who cared?
He’d noticed that reaction more and more lately. Vicky and Gia aside, nothing outside the Conflict seemed to excite or interest him much. Maybe because he no longer felt that his life was his own, that he was being manipulated by forces beyond his control.
Wasn’t that the way a paranoid schiz would think?
But he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t imagining all this. He’d seen and experienced things with no conventional rationale, understandable only as manifestations of the Conflict.
He wasn’t a free, independent individual, he was a backup plan. He’d been in the crosshairs since his conception—yesterday’s revelation of the Lady’s presence in his hometown as Mrs. Clevenger clinched that.
So who cared about the antics of a bunch of drugged-up, self-indulgent cases of arrested development, whose major accomplishment was turning up the volume to eleven?
Jack stared out the window at the art deco façade of the Argyle Hotel across the street. Cool looking place. Should have booked there.
He shook his head. This wasn’t like him. He used to enjoy life, used to put on his own personal film festivals built around a theme or an actor or director. When was the last time he’d done that?
On the subject of films, Kevin had gleaned from e-mails that Goren managed a film revival theater at night and worked at a hardware store during the day. The question was which revival house and which hardware store? The hardware made sense, given his construction background, but the revival house seemed out of left field. Unless he was a closet film buff.
What bothered Jack was that he had any job at all. If he was on the run and in hiding, the last thing he’d want to do was collect a check under his own Social Security number. He’d want another name, and that meant a new identity. Not easily come by in the post–9/11 world, but not impossible. You needed certain contacts, though . . . something a guy who’d spent the first half century of his life in construction was unlikely to have.
Unless he’d found someone who’d pay him off the books. Two someones: a hardware someone and a film revival someone. The film revival route seemed the way to go. Yes, this was L.A., but he figured that even here, hardware stores had to far outnumber film revival houses.
But where to start?
Well, this was a hotel and hotels hired guys to know stuff or be able to look up stuff.
The concierge was a short Hispanic guy who reminded Jack a little of Julio, but only a little. Julio was Puerto Rican, this guy had a lot of Olmec in the family woodpile. His name tag said HECTOR.
Right off the bat Hector knew of three revival theaters in greater L.A., and the computer spat out three more. Jack took the list and checked out the addresses. H
e had no idea where any of these places were, but his car’s GPS would find them.
But not yet. Goren’s e-mails had mentioned the theater as a night job. The sun was still high, leaving Jack hours to kill. And besides, he had to make a stop before looking for anybody. He showed Hector an address on Hollywood Boulevard.
“That’s in the Hollywood and Highland Center,” he said without having to look it up. “A big mall next to the Chinese.”
“Chinatown?”
His smile was indulgent. “No, sir. Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“You can’t miss it.” He pointed and gave directions.
“How far?”
“A couple of miles.”
Was that all? Hell, he’d walk it. And as a bonus he’d get to see Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
Might as well be a tourist for the afternoon. Might never be back.
He remembered seeing Hollywood Boulevard on the revival list and took another look. Sure enough . . .
“Where’s this Egyptian Theater?”
“Keep walking past the Highland Center,” Hector said. “Cross Highland and you can’t miss it. It’s even older than the Chinese. The first Hollywood premiere was held at the Egyptian in 1922.”
“Yeah? What film?”
“Robin Hood with Douglas Fairbanks.”
Cool. Jack knew it well. He had a thing for silents. He’d be checking the place out even if it wasn’t on the list.
He stepped out of the lobby onto Sunset and took a left. He passed some interesting looking eateries and watering holes interspersed among Starbucks and McDonald’s. He came upon the Chateau Marmont, which did indeed look like a chateau. He strolled up the short, steep driveway. The lobby was small and elegant and the AC welcome after the heat of the street. He was tempted to ask if he could rent the bungalow where Belushi bought it but passed.
The environs became a little rundown as he continued east. Where was the glamour of Sunset Boulevard? Where was Erich von Stroheim driving Gloria Swanson’s limo? Where was the Whiskey a Go-Go? Maybe he was headed in the wrong direction for that sort of thing. He found Hollywood Boulevard and soon stood before Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
The famous red columns and huge circular forecourt were even more impressive than he’d expected. The place delivered on its reputation. He hung out for a while, checking out the footprints and handprints of the film industry’s icons—from Jack Benny to John Woo, Cantinflas to Clint Eastwood. He grinned when he found Gene Autry’s along with Champion’s hoof-prints.
For half an hour he took a vacation from reality and enjoyed himself. Then he moved on to the mall.
Abe’s instructions had been to find the Mailbox Centre at this address.
No problem there, but he didn’t go in right away. He hung out to see if anyone was watching the store. Overly cautious, maybe, but he had no schedule. Ten minutes of observation satisfied him.
He checked the combination Abe had given him: R10—L22—R13. He went to box 367, entered those numbers, and the door popped open. Inside he found a padded envelope. He slipped it out, closed the door, spun the combo dial, and headed back to the street.
A neat way to transfer merchandise: Abe’s contact rents the mailbox; when he needs to make a delivery, he opens the door, adjusts the combination to a prearranged number, then sticks the package in with the junk mail already present. The buyer opens the box, removes his purchase, and takes off. Completely anonymous.
If Abe’s contact was true to his word, the envelope should contain a Glock 27 loaded with .40-caliber Speer Gold Dot JHPs. The weight felt about right, but he’d have to wait before he knew for sure.
He continued east on Hollywood Boulevard, crossing Highland, until he came to a dramatic sandstone block façade. A side sign said “Egyptian” but “American Cinematheque” arched over the entrance in wrought iron. He strolled along the lines of stately palms, passing pharaoh heads and other Egyptian bric-a-brac. The sign over the inner entrance said “Grauman’s Egyptian.” Grauman again. Taste aside, you had to admit the guy had style.
Hokey as it was, Jack loved the place. Other than an exotic setting, what did ancient Egypt have to do with movies? But who cared? The place had a genuine wow factor. Back then they knew how to do these places up right. Better than the shoeboxes that passed for theaters today.
Gia’s recurring comment came back to him: You were born in the wrong generation. You don’t like anything modern.
Not quite. He hefted the package in his hand. He loved modern weaponry.
The Egyptian looked too legit to be paying off the books, but Jack had walked too far not to give it a shot. He asked to speak to the manager and soon found himself in the company of a slender man in his forties.
“Is Ernie working here tonight?”
Jack didn’t expect Goren to be using his surname, but he might have kept his first.
The manager frowned. “Ernie? We have no Ernie working here.”
“Older guy, sixtyish, gray hair. He’s the night manager.”
His head shake was emphatic. “No one like that working here, certainly not as night manager.”
Well, it had been worth a try, and he’d eliminated a stop from his list.
He had a bad thought as he headed back to the street. This was Goren’s daughter’s first night in from the east. Wouldn’t he want to spend it with her? Even if Jack found the right theater, he might not find Goren.
Swell.
6
Back in his room, he opened the package and found exactly what he’d ordered. He checked the chamber—empty. He’d leave it that way for now. Checked the magazine—maxed at ten rounds. The Glock 27 was a pocket carry, smaller than his 19, with a smaller magazine. But he figured the extra stopping power of the .40-caliber hollowpoints would compensate should things come to that. He hoped not. He’d do whatever he could to keep this a safe, quiet, peaceful trip.
He slipped it into his right front pocket and stood before the mirror. Even with his loose-fitting jeans, the pistol left a bulge. He untucked his T-shirt. There. Hidden.
No Mae West wisecracks tonight.
He checked his watch: just after four. Not quite Miller time in L.A. but hours past it in New York.
But first, a couple of calls. After all, it was already seven back there and he didn’t know when he’d have another chance tonight.
He checked in with Gia and gave her a rundown of all the pulse-pounding excitement so far. Then he called Weezy, and sensed the dismay in her tone when he told her about the problem at the airport.
“You lost them?”
“We knew all along that was a good possibility. I’m going to start making the rounds of the revival theaters in a little while. Meantime, how are things going with the Compendium?”
“Jack, it’s just incredible.” He could hear her spirits lifting. “Literally incredible. There’s so much here, and it’s all so . . . so . . .”
“Incredible?”
“Yes! I’m having a hard time believing what I’m reading, and an even harder time wrapping my mind around it.”
“How are you managing with the changing pages?”
”It doesn’t seem to matter. I can somehow remember the pages I’ve read and my brain puts them in sequence no matter what order I see them.”
Remembering his months of frustration trying to make sense of the book, he said, “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, I seethe with envy. Any helpful flashes of insight yet?”
“Not yet. Maybe never.”
His stomach dropped. “Don’t say that.”
“Jack, there’s so much.”
“Keep at it. Got to be something.”
He rang off and headed for the elevators. He figured the House of Blues ought to be as good a place as any to grab a couple of brews and a decent steak.
7
“What do you wish me to do?” Kris Szeto said.
Er
nst Drexler watched the man fidget and drum his fingers on the table between them.
“I want you to complete your assignment.”
Szeto glanced away, as if afraid to speak his mind.
“Go ahead,” Ernst said. “Spit it out. I want to hear your thoughts. I want an honest assessment. Don’t worry about telling me what I don’t want to hear. I’ve already had a bellyful of that: You saw her go in, you saw the explosion, you didn’t see her come out so you thought she was dead and you left. But there’s no report of her body in the wreckage. Yes, quite a bellyful.”
“Very well. I wish to say that perhaps assignment has been completed.”
“Oh, really?” Ernst felt a spike of anger but suppressed it. “Five of our enforcers dead and their target still at large . . . how can you possibly spin that into even a subatomic particle of success? Even string theory won’t help you there.”
Szeto shrugged. “The purpose was to get her off line. That is exactly where she is now. She has no house and her computer is slag. She is on run and too terrified to go back online.”
“Terrified? Of what? Us? No one we send against her comes back. We try to blow her up and she survives. We should be terrified of her.”
“Is not her. Is that Jack fellow Harris tell us about. Woman did not steal gun from Max. It was this Jack.”
“An assumption on your part. You told me Harris said he was just an old friend.”
“An old friend with gun.” Szeto straightened in his chair. “whatever the case, the end was to neutralize her. I believe such end has been achieved.”
“The end was to permanently remove this thorn from our side. You cannot guarantee that she’ll stay neutralized. She has proven herself resourceful and dangerous. I sense a core of tenacity within that woman. I have no doubt she will be back. Do you?”
“We have not stopped looking for her. I will be circulating photo to our brothers in the Order and—”
“Where did you get a photo?”
“Hospital took one when she was Jane Doe. They were going to give to police departments.”
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