The Rabbit Factory

by Marshall Karp

  “Ike Rose told me Barber was a great plot writer. At first I thought he might say, Cut the crap, I wrote that cop scam into a movie back in the fifties.”

  “He didn’t say anything, because he’s scared,” Terry said. “Did you feel how clammy his hand was? Guilt sweat.”

  “Sweaty palms don’t hold up in court. We need smoking guns. Do you think they bought the whole ‘Lamaar-has-turned-to-shit’ routine?”

  “You were fantastic,” he said. “That business about the abortion clinic. And then the bit about your son Hugo. That was great.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” I said. “Do you think they bought it?”

  “It’s always a crapshoot when you try to gain some scumbag’s confidence by telling him you believe in the same things he believes in. I hate it when I’ve got a rapist in the box, and I’m trashing the victim, saying, ‘I know her type. I bet she was asking for it.’ I got three daughters. It makes me feel dirty.”

  “You still didn’t answer the question. This whole True Believer theory was your idea. You said the only way we’re going to pry anything out of these guys is to enter their world. Make them think we believe what they believe in. So we tried it. At the risk of repeating myself, do you think they bought it?”

  “Lebrecht is the leader. He’s a real True Believer. Did you hear his little tribute to Lamaar? I think he felt comfortable saying those things in front of us. We made more of a connection than if we tried to strong-arm him.”

  It sounded like the answer to my question was a definite maybe. I figured that was as much as he’d commit. “What about the other two guys?” I said.

  “I think Kennedy does whatever Lebrecht tells him. And Barber, he got tangled up in all of this and wishes he hadn’t.”

  “In that case, he and I have a genuine connection. I feel the same way. This case sucks.”

  “It’s been sucking for a while now,” Terry said. “Turn on KFWB. They probably know more than we do.”

  They did. They reported on a fire in a movie theatre in New York, where a Lamaar film was playing. “Several people were taken to St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital where they were treated for smoke inhalation,” the reporter said. “Fortunately, there were very few patrons inside the theatre.” Then he dropped his voice for dramatic effect. “But twenty-four hours later and it would have been packed with kids for a Saturday matinee.

  “In related news a bomb went off earlier this morning at a New York City radio station owned by Lamaar. And in a third incident, also in the New York area, a woman in Macy’s department store found a dead rabbit in a pile of Lamaar character sweatshirts. Having seen the Lamaar threats on TV, she immediately made the connection and reported it to the police. The store has been evacuated while bomb-sniffing dogs do a thorough search.”

  Terry turned off the radio. “Dead fucking rabbits,” he said. “What’s next?”

  CHAPTER 85

  Declan Brady killed his first person when he was fifteen years old. He put a rusty ice pick against Bobby Bodine’s temple and whacked it in with the palm of his hand. The dumb fuck never woke up from his drunken stupor.

  Declan didn’t even know the man he murdered. All he knew was that Bobby was Megan Bodine’s uncle, and the bastard had been raping her since she was eleven. Megan didn’t have any money to pay Declan, but he assured her that the most beautiful redheaded girl in all of Ireland could find other ways to reward him for his services.

  Five years later he killed again. This time it was for money. Two thousand pounds. After that the jobs started to come in pretty regular, and his price worked its way up. The pay was good and the hours were even better. It gave Declan the time he wanted to practice his guitar, box at the gym, and hang with the guys. He was pushing thirty now. He had thick, dark hair and a sharp, lean face like Sean Penn, only without the scowl.

  He had met the three old men over a year ago. That slimy little ferret-faced cab driver Liam Flaherty had brought them to the back booth of The Pig and Whistle and introduced them as businessmen from America. No names were exchanged. The three of them squeezed into the booth, and Liam brought a chair over for himself.

  “If this works out,” Declan said to Liam before he could even sit down, “you’ll get your cut. If you put your scurvy Mick arse in that chair, your widow will get it.”

  “The boy’s got a wicked sense of humor,” Liam said to the old men. “I’ll be waiting in the taxi.”

  Declan sipped from his pint as Liam backed out the door. He sized up the three men in front of him. “You sound like a Yank,” he said to Kennedy, “but you got Erin Go Bragh all over yer mug. Where you from?”

  Kennedy looked at him with a straight face. “Lithuania.”

  “The Pope’s plums, you are,” Declan said, laughing. “If you won’t tell me, then it’s probably out of shame. I’m guessing Cork. It’s pretty, but there’s fucking goats everywhere. Goats and bad pubs. Last beer I had in Cork, I swear to Christ the barman pissed in the jar and gave it to me.”

  “And you being from Belfast, I’ll bet you drank it,” Kennedy said. “My mother came from Tralee. County Kerry. Much nicer than Cork.”

  “It’s still in the fucking South. And where you from?” he said to Barber.

  “Texas.”

  “You vote for that crazy Texan George W. Bush?”

  “Every smart American voted for Bush,” Barber said.

  “And you, sir?” Declan said to Lebrecht.

  “I’m one of those dumb Americans who voted for John Kerry,” Lebrecht said. “But I’m originally from Chicago, so I voted for him six times.”

  They drank, talked, and danced the dance. The three men followed Declan’s lead. His rule was that he had to get to know someone before he went into business with them. About forty minutes into the harmless banter, Declan popped the question. “And what business are you three gents in?”

  Chicago did the talking. “We’re looking for someone who will do anything for money.”

  “Define money,” Declan said.

  “One million dollars, American.”

  Declan felt the blood rush to his head. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “Look no further,” he said.

  The man smiled. “Would you like me to define what I mean by anything?”

  “Not necessary,” Declan said. “I’ll do it.” Shit, for a million American he’d kill his mother and fuck her dead body up the ass.

  Declan didn’t hear from the old men again till two months ago. And now he was in Dallas ready to earn the biggest payday of his bloody young career.

  He’d been to America twice before. Both times to visit family in Brooklyn. This was his first time in Texas. He’d been here six days, staying in a different motel every night.

  It seemed like an easy enough job. Except he didn’t relish killing innocent people. He’d rather kill scumbags like Bobby Bodine, but the payoff was too big to let this one slip through his fingers.

  He was driving south on I-45 when he saw the Burger King ahead. He signaled, slowed down, and pulled the silver Ford Taurus into the parking lot. He’d been here three times before. Easy in, easy out, right on the highway.

  It was 11 a.m. The breakfast crowd was long gone and the lunch business hadn’t picked up yet. There were about a dozen vehicles in the lot, half of them pickups. He passed up the spaces in front and parked behind the building. He got out of the Taurus, left the doors unlocked and strapped on the backpack. He pulled the peak of his Texas Rangers baseball cap down over his sunglasses.

  He walked over to the side window and looked in. Mostly men. No kids. That’s why he had decided to do it now. The kids would all be in school.

  He stepped around to the front. There was a large color poster on the window. Win a Free Trip to Familyland.

  He opened the glass door and went inside. There were two guys in cowboy hats, a couple of Mexicans in paint-spattered overalls, a fat man in a cheap suit arguing with someone on his cell phone, two women in their sixties we
aring tennis whites, and a smattering of others who were either looking up at the menus on the wall or looking down at their food.

  Declan went directly into the men’s room and locked the door. The sanitary inspection sign on the wall was initialed in the 11 a.m. spot. Nobody would be back to clean up or empty the trash until noon. He removed the backpack and deposited it in the wastebasket. Then he covered it with paper towels. He took a leak, washed up, went to the counter, and ordered a Whopper with cheese, large fries, and a chocolate shake. To go.

  He was back in the parking lot when the minivan pulled in.

  Damn! The driver was a pretty, ivory-skinned lass with long red hair. She could have passed for Megan Bodine’s sister. She pulled into a space and Declan heard the clamor of kids ready to swoop into the Burger King for a meal that he knew they would never get to finish. He looked at his watch. Four minutes.

  He walked calmly over to the van, just as the beautiful young mother stepped out. She had two gorgeous daughters in the back seat. One was about seven. The other was about nine months younger. Irish twins.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” he said. “An old fellow in there just had a seizure. Fell down and split his head open. They already called 9-1-1, but there’s blood and vomit all over the floor. Not very pleasant for the little ones.”

  She opened the back door. “Stay in the car, girls.” She closed the door and turned back to Declan. “Thank you. We’ll go to McDonald’s. We actually like it better, but the kids insisted on coming here. They’re trying to win a free trip to Familyland. I’ll just go in, ask for some game cards, and leave.”

  Declan reached into his bag and pulled out a red, blue, and silver scratch-off card. “Here. Give them mine.”

  “Thanks, but two kids, one card? I’ll never hear the end of it. I better run in and try to get another one.”

  “Don’t go,” Declan said, forcefully enough to make her back up a step. He softened his tone. “It’s not a pretty sight in there for them or for you. Hold this.” He handed her his bag of food and ran back into the restaurant. What the fuck am I doing? Am I out of my fucking mind? Three minutes.

  There was no line at the counter. “Give me another one of those contest tickets,” he said. He didn’t know the rules about how many tickets you could get, but Declan had a face people didn’t argue with.

  He ran back to the parking lot. The rear window of the van was open and the two girls were anxiously waiting for their game cards. He handed the second one to the mother. Her eyes were green and her smile was radiant. And the girls were the spitting image of their Ma. Declan was glad he went back.

  “I’m Bonnie Dolan,” she said. “This is Colleen and this is Kelly. Normally, they’d be in school, but we had parent-teacher conferences today.” She handed each girl a card. “What do you say, girls?”

  “Thank you,” the older one said. She began scratching the card.

  “I’m Kelly Dolan,” the younger one said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Liam Flaherty,” Declan said. “I hope you win the contest.”

  Kelly sat back down and began working on her card. Two minutes.

  “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Dolan,” Declan said, opening her driver’s side door. “We better skedaddle before the ambulance gets here.”

  She didn’t budge. “You sound like you’re from the old sod,” she said. “My family is from Ireland. Whereabouts do you live?”

  Jesus, this broad can’t fucking shut up. “Brooklyn, New York. Moved there twenty years ago, but I just can’t seem to get rid of the brogue.”

  “Well, don’t ever lose it. It’s charming. I told the girls that the kitchen is closed, but believe me, they only care about winning that free trip. I know they can’t win. But even if they did, this is one family that’s not going to Familyland. Have you heard what’s going on? People were murdered, and terrorists have threatened to kill anybody who has anything to do with Lamaar.”

  Then why enter their fucking contest, you dumb bitch? Declan never asked or cared why the target had to be a Burger King, but last night, when the news about Lamaar broke, he had figured it out. “Terrible what this world is coming to,” he said. “I hear a siren, so let’s clear a path for the ambulance.” Sixty seconds.

  “I hope your lunch didn’t get cold,” she said, handing him his bag back. She climbed into the van and Declan shut the door. “You’re a genuine Irish gentleman, Mr. Flaherty. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He smiled and waved at the girls until she pulled out. Then he raced for the Taurus. Thirty seconds.

  As he started the car he saw the Mexican painters get into their truck. This is your lucky day, amigos. Declan felt good that they got out in time. He felt even better that the guy yelling into the cell phone was still in there. He laughed as he pulled out of the driveway onto I-45. I’d have killed that fat fuck for free.

  CHAPTER 86

  The flyers that were dropped over Familyland said We’ve killed twelve so far. But the killers wanted to make sure the world knew who, when, where, and how. So they released the specifics to the media. Now the newscasters seemed to revel in repeating all the gory details.

  “This is like reliving all the shit we’ve been through in the past two weeks,” Terry said, as we listened to the radio on the drive back to L.A.

  I didn’t need KFWB to tell me that people were scared, but they told me anyhow. The threat itself was terrifying, but the radio station bombing, the theatre fire, and the dead rabbit at Macy’s had spooked people even more.

  Reporters interviewed moms and dads on the street, and the response was universal: I’m not taking any chances. My kid isn’t going near anything that has anything to do with the Lamaar Company. This was the anthrax scare and the D.C. sniper to the tenth power.

  Ike Rose’s press conference was scheduled for noon. We got to The Beverly Wilshire Hotel at 11:45, found Garet Church, and did a quick debriefing.

  “A judge authorized the taps,” Church said. “I’m also going to put tails on the three of them. It’ll burn up eighteen agents a day, but it’s worth the manpower. I like how you set up Barber. When should we bring him in?”

  “Let’s see how the other two react first,” Terry said. “I once pulled this bit on a bunch of drug pushers. Gave three of them my card and said ‘Catch you later, Armando’ to the fourth. They shot Armando before I got back to the office. Instead of a drug bust we put the rest of them away on a murder rap. You gotta love happy endings.”

  “We heard about the incidents in New York,” I said. “Any leads?”

  “A few sketchy descriptions. Our guys in New York are looking at the security tapes from Macy’s. But we may have something worse than a dead rabbit. I got a report from NYPD that a teenage girl was pushed in front of a subway and killed. She was wearing a leather jacket with Lamaar characters painted on the back. Nothing positive that tells us it’s connected, but if it is, she’s the first to die since they went public with the threat.”

  “Death to Lamaar and all those who associate with them,” Terry said. “You bet your ass it’s connected.”

  Garet looked at his watch. “It’s 11:55, gentlemen. Time for Meet The Press.”

  CHAPTER 87

  The Grand Ballroom of The Beverly Wilshire Hotel was crammed with photographers with cameras pressed to their faces, reporters with laptops perched on their laps, and security people with guns strapped to their hips.

  Church, Terry, and I found a spot in a corner at the front of the room, where we could watch the speaker and the audience at the same time.

  The microphones had all been lowered to Ike Rose’s limited height, and, at precisely noon, the head of the most beleaguered company on the planet stepped up to the podium, looking poised, self-possessed, and downright unflappable.

  “I have a brief statement, and then I’ll take questions,” he said. “Lamaar Studios, Familyland, Rambunctious Rabbit, and all the other Lamaar characters are American institutions that symbolize our
values and way of life. Someone is determined to destroy those values by attacking our employees, our customers, and our business partners. I don’t know why this animosity is directed toward us, but I have spoken with the Director of the FBI, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the President, and they have assured me that protecting and defending this great American institution is a national priority. Questions.”

  Dozens of reporters jumped out of their seats, all yelling at once. “Debbie,” Ike said, pointing at a lady in the third row.

  Thank you, Mr. Rose. Debra Alonzo, L.A. Times. What precautions are being taken to protect those who are at risk?

  “We are in the process of shutting down all our public facilities. As you can imagine this is a major undertaking. We have hotels filled to capacity, cruise ships at sea, and other venues that can’t be evacuated as quickly as Familyland. We’re also increasing security at all facilities that are vital to our day-to-day operations. In an effort to further safeguard the public, I called the heads of the major theatre chains. All Lamaar and Freeze Frame films will be pulled from distribution immediately. We will issue security updates on a regular basis. Next question.”

  Trish Conrad, Fox News. Ronnie Lucas was killed on April 20, which is ten days ago. Did Lamaar know then that there was a plot to kill its employees?

  If the question made Ike uncomfortable he didn’t show it. “When Ronnie was killed, LAPD suspected there could be a connection between his murder and the death of Eddie Elkins, which took place three days earlier, but at that time there was no concrete evidence that any other Lamaar employees were at risk.”

  Byron Barclay, CNN. When Elkins was killed he was wearing a Rambunctious Rabbit costume. Why was a high-profile murder like that kept from the press?

  “Mr. Elkins was an ordinary citizen, not a high-profile celebrity. His murder was thought to be personally motivated and not related to the costume he wore. We didn’t keep it from the press. At the time it was just another tragic L.A. homicide that didn’t make the headlines.”