The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Camden didn’t see them at first. He was already fumbling with his keys, whistling “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles and wondering if Susanna Hoffs was into UFOs, when the three men stepped out of the shadows by his 1988 Ford Escort.

  He didn’t recognize any of them at first, and the pleasant insulation of the alcohol from the Palm Branch Lounge made him slow to sense danger and even slower to react. Otherwise, he might very well have turned and immediately run back into the bar, irate bartender or no.

  “Jake! Jake, my man, mi bueno, amigo. Buenos noches.”

  A short man wearing a tank top below a Banlon jacket, black chinos rolled up to show off white Air Jordan basketball shoes, separated from the other, tall, thicker forms. Jake recognized the voice immediately, and cringed.

  “Oh!” he said. “Hey, Johnny. Hello! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you!”

  “Yeah? Is that right, Camden?” The man’s hair was dark black and gleamed with Brylcreme. Something splashed in the nearby canal. A passing truck roared by on Mangrove Avenue. Camden could smell the pungent odor of marijuana.

  They’d been out here, waiting for him for a while, and if they had anything civil to say to him, they would have come in and bought him a drink. “I didn’t get any message from my answering service, man.”

  Johnny Plentenos spoke with a pronounced Cuban accent and a sort of a Desi Arnaz-on-downers slur. Camden had heard him speak unblemished American English when it was necessary and he claimed he had a degree from some Havana university. When he used his Cuban accent that meant he was ensconced on a duty of his drug trafficking that he either found distasteful—or enjoyed very much.

  “Johnny, I’ll be straight with you. Like I said, it’s going to be another little while before I can get you your money. Have a little patience, okay?”

  The other two men stepped out into the light. They wore black t-shirts, the short sleeves bulged out by biceps the size of pregnant melons. They had boxers’ faces, broken noses, and small eyes which devoured Camden hungrily. One had long hair, the other had short, but otherwise they looked like clones from the same aboriginal vat.

  “Patience! I am a patient man, Jake. I been patient with you for what, two months now?”

  “Look, I got you some money last month and the month before. Hell, Johnny, I sold my IBM PC toward paying you off. Give me a chance, huh? I’m onto something big, and I’ll have your money in two weeks!”

  “Two weeks! I can’t wait two weeks, Jake. You don’t know? This ain’t no credit operation the Colombians run? Me, I’m a nice guy, but I don’t get them their money, Jake, they cut off my cajones and stuff them down my throat!”

  He snapped his fingers and the muscular boys stepped forward toward Camden, smiling.

  “Hey! Johnny, okay, okay! I’ll sell my car! I’ll get you the money tomorrow!”

  Johnny Plentenos grunted. He had a thin mustache above thick lips and he scratched this a moment as he regarded the car. “Sell this nice American car, huh?” He spat onto the gravel and dirt parking lot, pulled out a tire iron from the back of his belt and started to bash in the left back fender. The taillight exploded into a hundred pieces.

  “What are you doing?” Jake cried. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Plentenos turned back to Camden, his face a mask of anger. “Don’t give me thees bullshit, man! You don’t own this car, the bank does! You’re way behind on payments—no way you sell this car, man! They want to take it back as it is!” The dark man stepped forward. brandishing the crowbar under Jake’s nose. “I wonder, Jake. Is it worth fifteen grand to me to put your sorry ass underground? To no more hear your whiny, lying voice in my ear, huh?”

  A fine spray of spittle splattered over Jake’s forehead. That and the sheer force of Plentenos’s threat made him cringe back like an oyster doused with lemon juice. “Christ, Johnny, that wouldn’t be smart. You know I’m good for the money. Jesus, don’t kill me!”

  He backed away and was about to tum and run, when the two henchmen darted forward and caught him around his arms.

  “What you think, guys!” Johnny capered around to face his captive, his big white teeth shining through a grin. “You see Miquel and Paco—they’re my new boys. I get them from Miami, Jake. I’m spreading down to Orlando; maybe I go to Tampa, too, huh? I need some regular muscle, yes. I want to try my new boys out. And their specialty is killing people. Yes, Miquel? Yes, Paco? Or maybe you want Thanksgiving dinner early with this turkey. You grab his legs and make a wish, si?”

  The next thing Jake knew, the world went topsy-turvy. He was picked up, carried a distance—-and suddenly found himself being held upside down over the edge of canal. His head and hands pounded once against the wood siding, and he got a noseful of the creosote coating on the posts, the tar covering the wood.

  “Cut it out, Johnny! For God’s sake, man, your money’s coming in installments!” Camden wind-milled his arms trying to get a hold on a post, but the Latin goons, seeing his intention, were somehow able to hold him farther out over the water and mud and reeds. The quarters he’d swiped from the coffee corner at work began to fall out of his pockets, splattering the reflection of the half-moon in the stagnant water below.

  “So I see, Jake, so I see!” Plentenos’s accent was suddenly gone. He sounded like a normal Floridian businessman; cool, calm, and collected. “I just wish to present you with an ultimatum. You get me the rest of that money by Wednesday of next week, or you are in serious trouble. I just wanted to prove to you tonight that I have the power to do this.”

  “Yeah. That gives me a week. I’ll do it, Johnny, I swear. Just don’t hurt me.”

  Plentenos laughed. “Say, I hear there’s an alligator that hangs out around this bar, huh? What do you think, Miquel ... Is this good alligator bait?”

  “We must bloody him a bit, and then he make good bait, senor,” said one of the henchmen. dead-seriously.

  “Or cut him up, si?” said the other.

  They all laughed. One of the men lost his grip and Jake slipped down a foot before the other man caught hold with his other hand. Jake slammed against the wood, and got a snootful of the foul water and weeds smell from below.

  “Okay, fellows. Pull the worm up.”

  Jake was hauled up and beached unceremoniously on the gravel. He tried to get up but the two Latin hoods knocked him down. One put a large shoe on his chest so close to his chest Jake could smell shoe wax.

  Johnny Plentenos crouched down. “Now, Jake. Your ears clean?” Plentenos boxed Camden’s ears. Camden swallowed a yelp; they weren’t going to kill or maim him, it seemed, so he didn’t want to attract any undue attention that might change their minds. “I tell you again. Next Wednesday. I’ll be at my club, at three o’clock in the afternoon. I play golf on Wednesdays, when I can. I want it nice, yuppie briefcase. And I want you to walk into the Winston Springs Country Club bar and lounge at 3 P.M. I don’t see you, we come and get you. I don’t care where you are, Jake. We find you.

  Plentenos nodded to the man he’d called Miquel, and the foot got lifted off. Jake started getting up. relief flooding him. But suddenly, a hard toe came out of nowhere, connecting with his solar plexus. The air gushed from his mouth; a handful of stars and a clutch of blackness later, Jake found himself sprawled back on the ground, gasping and wheezing.

  Miquel and Paco closed in and delivered a couple more kicks at Jake’s chest and abdomen. Sharp tremors of pain rocked him and he tried to crawl away, but fell down, defeated. Suddenly, he found himself in a paroxysm of sickness. The Latin hoods jumped out of the way to avoid the gushing vomit.

  Plentenos, already walking away, chuckled. “We kick the shit out of you now, Jake. You don’t bring that money, we kill you. C’mon boys. We go wipe our shoes off, si?”

  The men stared down at Jake, looking reluctant to go just when they were starting to enjoy themselves. Jake tried to say something to encourage them to leave, but all that came out was another stinging gush of puke.

  B
reathing heavily, feeling as though he’d been burst at the seams, he watched as the bastards sauntered away past the streetlight, their metal-reinforced shoes clicking away like tap night at the Apollo.

  Jake got to his feet and tilted toward his car. He wanted to get out of here before those assholes changed their minds and came back. He paused at his car door for a breath, and then looked up at the night sky. Despite the streetlamp, the long stretch of canal wasn’t lit, and above the magnolia bushes a clear, cloudless swatch of sky glittered dimly with stars strong enough to pierce the moonglow.

  “Damn,” he sighed, wiping his mouth and staring up at the night. Jake had never had any particular interest in astronomy, although his studies in UFO-ology had necessitated learning something more than he’d gleaned from the SF novels and eighth-grade science classes of his youth. Still and all, he’d always been absolutely lousy with constellations; now, for instance, he couldn’t make out a fucking one, just when it seemed very important to do so.

  “Damn,” he said again, as the pain slowly ebbed from him, a cold, numb fear replacing it. “You little dicks up there ever think about coming down in your ships and picking up Jake Camden for an intergalactic tour ...” He coughed and spat. “Well, now’s the time to do it.”

  He found his keys and got into his car.

  Chapter 8

  Scarborough was in New York by the middle of the next day.

  It had been a little chilly the night before, so he chanced a dingy little motel near the Poconos for a few hours’ sleep. He’d tried Ed Myers’s private line again early in the morning, with no luck.

  He had three possible allies in New York City, all of whom he felt he could trust. His literary agent, his publicist, and his editor.

  The odds, he thought, were damn good at least one of them could help him find Diane, or at least give him a place to stay awhile until he could hook up with Ed Myers.

  At about ten-thirty, he turned off the Major Deegan in Yonkers. Yonkers was more or less one side of the trenches between the beautiful wooded towns and estates of Westchester County and the steel and concrete towers of Manhattan before he hit the No-Man’s Land of the Bronx. It was a curious combination of urban and suburban; tree-lined brownstone, villages and large estates in sections, burnt-out housing projects in others. Scarborough parked in an anonymous shopping center, found a public phone that worked, and called his agent.

  Ten-thirty was a good time to call people in the publishing industry. Editors and publishers tended to get in around ten A.M., but by eleven chances were good they had to go to a meeting or such; editors and publishers always had lots and lots of meetings, or so it seemed to Scarborough. When he started publishing books, half the time he called, they were in meetings, or a lunch, or had left the office early. He learned quickly that if he caught them at about ten-thirty, he could generally get a telephone audience.

  His agent, however, turned out to have inconveniently left for his vacation in the Caribbean.

  One down, two to go.

  His publicist, Abe Novak and speaking-engagement booking agent was in, though. Abe was reliable. Abe he could always get.

  “Everett.” The tone was dead-serious, not Abe’s usual “Glad to hear from you” greeting. “Where are you?”

  “Can’t say. I’m in trouble, Abe.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve had a couple of visits at my office, Everett. At my home. What the hell is going on?”

  “I guess you’ve seen the stories they’ve been doing.”

  “Yes.” And hanging on the wire between them was the publicist’s question: Did you do it, Scarborough? Did you kill those men? Huh? Are you a traitor? Did you do it?

  “I hope you don’t believe them!” said Scarborough. “The truth is I’ve been a dupe for a branch of the CIA for years! They’re trying to cover up something, Abe. And they’ve got Diane and her fiancé.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m calling for some help, Abe, but if you’re going to act like Frosty the Snowman, just forget it.”

  “I can’t give you any help. I have a business and, most important, a family to think of.”

  “Okay, okay, I know that. But Abe, when I crack this, when it blows over, don’t you think I’m destined for the biggest speaking tour of the decade! I mean, if you want to spell it out in dollars and cents, pal, I’m going to be worth my weight in diamonds!” It was a desperate thing to say, pushing money in front of Abe, and he felt slightly ashamed, but he didn’t know what else to say. “Look, Abe, anyway, I thought you were a friend.”

  “I thought I knew you a little better, Everett. Those men—they told me a few things I had no idea of. They were legitimate government men. Now who am I supposed to believe?”

  “I see. Okay, Abe, if that’s how you feel. I suppose I’d better get off. They’ve probably got your phone tapped, huh? Just in case.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thanks so very much!” He hung up.

  He had to steady himself. It was very hard to accept Abe’s rejection.

  But still, once he got hold of himself, he really couldn’t blame the guy. The big guns were against him. It took but a twist of information. a splatter of slander, and suddenly Dr. Everett Scarborough’s esteemed reputation was topsy-turvy. These Editors and Publishers, whatever-the-hell branch of the CIA they were, held the trump cards in this game. He could well imagine what they’d told Abraham Novak, and Abe was every bit the rationalist and government-sucking patsy that Scarborough had been. But now ... The memory of the past weeks crushed down on him, triggered by his publicist’s cold shoulder.

  A sudden wave of hopelessness passed through him. For a moment, he felt like just lying down on the sidewalk cement here, and giving up the ghost. He felt naked and vulnerable and alone. He had never felt so ghastly, so detached from the business of living. He felt like a rat in an existential laboratory—angst and paranoia spelled out in flesh and blood.

  Desperately, he wanted his wife. To touch her, to hold her ... but she was dead. Frantically, he wanted his daughter, Diane. To see her smile, to hear her laugh. As difficult as she was to get along with sometimes, he knew instinctively that she was the best part of him.

  He could feel his heart pumping frantically, and he realized he was breathing heavily. Too heavily. He was moments away from a classic panic attack.

  He gritted his teeth. He dug his fingernails into his palms until they felt like they were piercing the skin.

  Hang on, man, he told himself. You can’t have a nervous breakdown in Yonkers.

  A gust of breeze blew a Snicker’s wrapper up against the pants legs of his jeans. A young man walked by, a large slice of pizza folded in one hand, dripping grease on the ground. Scarborough could smell the bakery a couple of doors down, the rich bread scents, the cakes, and the pastries. In the midst of his shuddering agony, he had an abrupt and unaccountable urge for a slice of pecan pie. He grasped at this the way a drowning man grasps at a life preserver; he focused on the memory of fresh crust, the gooey richness of the filling, the

  crunch of nuts...

  “You okay, mister?”

  He looked up. An old woman in a grey wool coat with a scarf wrapped around her head was stopped on the sidewalk, staring at him. She carried a cart with a banged-up wheel, a few groceries tucked away in its bottom.

  “Yes. Yes, thank you,” said Scarborough, straightening up, his breathing fairly normally now. “Just a little spell. Uhmmm ... Asthma.”

  The woman’s rheumy old eyes looked at him for one moment, and suddenly Scarborough’s blood froze. Was that recognition in her eyes?

  “You’re that man on TV,” she said suddenly and enthusiastically. “’Billions and billions’! Cosmos! Yes, on Channel 13. I’m a member of Channel 13. I give them thirty dollars a year! Can I have your autograph, mister?”

  Sagan? She thought he was Carl Sagan? He must look really terrible now! From seemingly nowhere, his pride rose up, st
ung. He was about to whip out some nasty retort, when he caught himself. “Of course.”

  Quickly, he signed “Best, Carl Sagan” on her shopping bag.

  “Put down ‘Billions and billions,’ too,” said the old woman. “My Harry, he said that for weeks afterwards. Billions and billions. Poor Harry, he died two years ago.”

  Rapidly, Scarborough scratched out the phrase. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to make a phone call. Nice to meet you!”

  She trundled away, her axle squeaking. “Keep watching the skies!” she said. I~

  Scarborough did a double take, blinked, and then had to laugh. “That’s what got me here in the first place, ma’am,” he muttered. Sighing, he turned back to the phone and dug out his quarters. He knew the number for Quigley Publishing Company by heart, and he dialed it quickly.

  Operator ... assistant ... and then, he was put through to the

  executive editor.

  His editor.

  “This is Cindy Clinton.”

  “Cindy. Cindy, I’m glad you’re in. It’s Everett Scarborough. I really need to talk to you.”

  There was a silence, and Scarborough could imagine the shock registering on that pretty, professionally groomed face.

  “Ev, Ev! My goodness ... I’m so glad you called!”

  “I take it you’ve heard the news stories.”

  “And that trashy thing on A Current Affair. Yes! Where are you? Are you okay?” Real concern sounded in her voice, and a wave of relief flooded Scarborough. Yes, yes, he should have known. Cindy was still his friend. He and Cindy had something more than a professional relationship ... She could be trusted.

  He took a deep, grateful breath. “I’m fine, but I can’t talk long. We need to meet somewhere, Cindy. Tonight, in town.

  “Of course, Ev. Of course, but what’s going on?”

  “Plain and simple, Cindy, I’ve been the dupe of the government for over twenty years. Looks like I’m going to have to write another book. If I get out of this alive, that is.”

  “I don’t understand, Ev.”