“You might want to tone down the paranoia a bit.”
I shrugged. “It’s not paranoia when that,” I gestured to my living room and the unconscious would-be assassin, “happens.”
The door was crushed, just about. It was still on the hinges, but it would only close in the loosest sense of the term. This wasn’t something to call the landlord about, either. I closed it and, after a minute, dragged my couch over to barricade it. There was something odd about the wound in my door. I looked closer: where the flail had hit, I saw the same gray dust that I saw at the impact sites at Union Station. I went to the break in the doorjamb, the hole in my floor, and the chunk out of my wall. All coated with that dust.
Mina said, “That’s weird.”
“What?”
She pointed. On the inside of Raul’s trench coat, the right side, there was a thick gray crust. It looked a little like cement, but once I got closer, I could see it was smoother, pitted, and faintly glowing. It was right where the rock would have rested when he was hiding it in the coat.
I went to the fridge. The gray dust had settled. I took the weapon out and brought it back into the living room.
Mina and I stood in front of Raul, staring at him. His weapon of choice was sitting in front of him, nice and cool from the fridge.
Mina murmured, “So that’s it?”
“Hmm?” She was gazing at the weapon—more specifically, at the Chain. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
She touched it. “I thought I’d feel something.”
“What, like girl power?”
“Sort of. I mean, this artifact has real importance. It martyred a saint, and not just a Christian one. Joan feels more like ours than theirs.” She thought about it. “Who bolts it to a rock?”
“We should wake him up and ask him,” I said.
“Do you have smelling salts or something?”
I held a bath towel soaked in old salamander water under his nose. That got him stirring. He looked up at us, blinking. There was something there this time: the “No” had been turned on where just the “Vacancy” had been before.
I put a finger to my lips. He nodded. I ripped the tape off his face. “Sorry about that,” I said.
He said, “What’s going on?”
Mina tugged on my shirt. I leaned in close and smelled my bath soap on her face. I don’t think I ever really appreciated Irish Spring until that moment. A whisper: “How much does someone like this know?”
“You’re thinking he’s lying.”
She shrugged. “I would in his situation.”
I tried not to attach too much significance to that.
“You’re tied to a chair because you tried to hit me with that.” I pointed at the rock.
“What? No. No, I never did that,” Raul protested.
I spun the chair, first to the hole by the back hall, then to the smashed aquarium, then to the floor, then to the hole in the kitchen door. “You did that. That. That. And that.”
“Oh,” he said. “If you say so.” Weird resignation in his voice; I didn’t like it at all.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘If I say so’?”
“I don’t remember doing any of that.”
I held up the rock and chain. “You remember this?”
“Yeah. That was in my house. I think… I think I brought it home.”
“You think you brought it home. You’ve tried to kill me with it. Twice.”
“If you say so.”
“Stop saying that.” I straightened up and walked a few steps away. I wanted to pace. I thought about it. “What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up in this chair?”
His eyes unfocused. “The girl. The girl. The girl.”
Eric Caldwell was many things, but he was definitely not a girl.
“Hey.” Nothing. “Hey!” I snapped my fingers in his face. “This girl, did she have red hair?”
Mina smacked me. “I’m right here.”
“There are other redheads in the world.” This was technically true, but we both knew I wasn’t talking about them. I tried to sweeten the pot: “Paul Tallutto is surrounded by redheads.”
Raul shook his head. “No. She was… blonde, I think. I think.”
“Did she happen to be four hundred pounds?”
“No. Thin. Very thin.”
Mina and I shared a significant look. Eventually I was going to have to deal with those ascetorexics.
“We should take him home,” Mina said.
Now I was the one whispering at her. “Are you out of your mind? He’s tried to kill me twice!”
“What, you’re going to leave him taped to a chair?”
“Well… no.”
“You’re going to kill him?”
“No.”
“That leaves letting him go.” She had a point. I really hated that. She went on: “We let him go and wait ’til this skinny bitch shows up at his place and we grab her. Or we grab your friend Eric and he leads us to her. Either way, we get deeper than we were.”
I wanted to punch a hole in her plan, but I couldn’t think of one. I thought about chalking that up to almost losing my salamanders, but even I couldn’t sink to that level of self-deception.
“I guess we’re letting him go.”
She didn’t gloat, but I did catch her beaming. “I need to get changed.”
“I don’t know, I think that look kind of works for you. Sort of modern frump.”
The look she gave me could have stripped paint off a car.
I told her, “Change in the bathroom. I have to get some things out of the bedroom.”
She did, and I opened up the closet and started stuffing small bills into a backpack. With no door and my address now possibly public knowledge in the information underground, I needed to get as much cash as I could out of there. One backpack and two duffel bags later and I didn’t even have half of it. I even stuck to the tens and twenties. Oh, well. I was going to make some burglar very happy.
Mina came out of the bathroom, once again poured into her fashion-show dress. She looked vulnerable in it now, with her makeup scrubbed away and her hair beginning to fall naturally. I thought about what she had said about Eric Caldwell, and it applied: she had been wearing it as a costume, but now, this was for real. I handed her two of the bags. “Carry these, would you?”
“Uh… okay.”
I picked up the rock and chain and shoved it into the backpack. A murder weapon and a pile of cash: all I needed was some cooked books and I had the mother of all RICO cases. I looked down at Raul. “You planning to kill us when I let you go?”
He was about to respond. “Oh, never mind,” I said. “Who answers that question honestly if the answer’s yes?”
I took the kitchen knife that an hour ago I was thinking about shoving in his heart and cut him loose instead. An all-purpose tool if ever there was one.
“What now?” he said. He didn’t rub his wrists or flex his ankles like a normal person would have.
“Now we take you home.”
“Oh. I live at 12—”
“I know where you live.” I paused. “Do you have a roommate? Seven feet tall, glowing red eyes?”
The look he gave me was priceless. “No.”
“Oh, good.”
I moved the couch and the door drifted open. Mina asked, “What’s in the bags?”
“Money. Lots of money.” Then: “Raul. You first.” Raul obeyed, shuffling in front of us. It was different from his zombie walk. That helped me trust him, at least to the point of not expecting him to murder me right this second. Considering how our relationship had started, that was a pretty big step.
There were lights on in other apartments. My neighbors weren’t staring, exactly, but I could see movement behind some of the curtains. Freaky three-way interrupted? Probably strange for them, since I was chiefly known for not being known. Of course, that probably put me on the radar for being most likely to be convicted of serial murder.
We got to the
car, and Mina went to the passenger side. I handed her the keys. “You’re driving. I’m in the back, watching Raul.”
Raul was quiet as a mouse. Subdued. “How’s your head?” Mina asked softly.
He said, “Hurts a little.”
“Put some ice on it when you get home,” she said.
“Okay.” It sounded like the acquiescence to a hypnotic command. There were definitely more damaging commands out there.
On the stereo: “Hitch a Ride.”
Mina turned it off. “Not while I’m driving.”
We drove into Hollywood. We were coming up on sunrise. My arms started feeling heavy. Sleep was going to be a precious commodity. Sleeping in the car with Mina wasn’t going to be possible. I wished I drove a gas-guzzler with a backseat like Godzilla’s sofa.
Mina found Diaz’s house without any trouble. Diaz, high-pitched and dreamy: “Okay, this is me. It was nice meeting you.” He sounded like we were dropping him off after a nice movie and some late-night nachos at the local diner.
Mina double-parked. “We’ll make sure you get in.”
Diaz got out of the car and shuffled up to the house. I saw him produce the key.
She muttered, “You think that thing is still in there?”
“God, I hope not.”
“What if it is?”
Diaz was poking at the door like a stubborn prom date. The key wasn’t working. A light came on in the house. The door opened.
And Diaz stood in the doorway. The guy could have been a twin, except he was clean-cut, wearing pajamas and a robe. For a second, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing until Mina said, “Holy crap.”
“Yeah.”
Alpha-Diaz tried to force his way in, but Beta-Diaz stopped him. I saw other shapes now, behind Beta-Diaz. A wife. Kids. I had been in that house only a couple hours ago. I would have remembered them. I got out of the car. The Diazes were fighting.
Beta-Diaz said, “Honey, call the police!”
I heard sirens. Too close. Before they called, even. I got back in the car.
“We need to go. Now.”
Mina eased into the gas, passing the cops as they converged on “our” Diaz.
“What just happened?” she said.
“Lone nuts have doubles.”
“Then they aren’t exactly ‘lone,’ are they?”
“Try telling that to the Warren Commission.”
-ELEVEN-
There’s a sucker born every minute.
P.T. Barnum said that. He was talking about the world of the 19th century, and considering some of the stuff they believed, he wasn’t far off. If he lived a century and a half later and knew what I did, he would have said the same thing. He just would have meant something entirely different.
Danny Casolaro was going to write a book about a conspiracy he uncovered about some shady deal between some computer programmers, an Indian tribe, and (of course) the CIA. Then he was found in a bathtub with his wrists nearly hacked through, which was officially ruled a suicide. The title of this book was The Octopus. That’s because conspiracies are like octopi. They sit in the darkness. They’ve got a central mass that holds a brain that’s never felt endorphins. From there, tentacles reach into every nook and cranny, grabbing whatever they can. And how does it hold on?
Suckers.
Suckers like me.
Mina and I were parked at Santa Monica beach. Sunrise would be in an hour or so. I felt like I was about half a minute from passing out. Mina was dozing in the front seat; I was leaning against the car, trying to let the before-dawn chill keep me awake, but the white noise of the surf was doing the exact opposite. I probably should have had some coffee or something. I couldn’t quite force myself to hit a 7-Eleven on the way, mostly because a 7-Eleven at four in the morning is one of the saddest places on earth, edging out “Thai child brothel” for the third spot on the most-horrible list.
I had to make a phone call, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Mina rubbed her eyes, coming out of her doze. Glassy, bleary, she was having a hell of a time staying awake. “So Raul Diaz is, what, a clone?”
“Probably.”
“That can’t be too common.”
“You’d be surprised. This town is swarming with clones. It’s kept under wraps for the most part.”
“But the technology is rare, right? I mean, if people knew that human cloning was going on all over the place, wouldn’t they freak out?”
“It’s not that rare. The Clone Wolves can do it. So can the Little Green Men, the Goys from Brazil, and the Knights of Malta. The Nazis were pretty far along, which means Odessa and the CIA have some inkling of how to do it.”
“That’s troubling.”
“Yeah. I need to make a call, okay? I have to meet someone.”
“Dangerous?”
“Not really.”
“Do you need me up for this?” she asked.
“In fact, it might be safer if you were passed out.”
She got out of the car. “That’s good news.” She opened up the back and swept as much of the junk as she could onto the floor. “I didn’t think they even made these anymore,” she said, waving one of the Styrofoam McDonald’s containers at me.
“They don’t.”
“There’s a whole long reason for this, isn’t there? And if I ask, you’re either going to do one of those one-liners where I’m not sure you’re joking and I feel dumb, or you’re going to launch into a long lecture that makes me a little sorry I asked.”
“Wow. Fatigue makes you mean.”
“Honest.”
“And mean.”
She shrugged. “I was up early today.” She tried to stretch out back there and was probably wishing that I drove something a little bigger.
Actually, when I started, I thought of getting something flashy and vintage, cruising around in a real piece of Detroit steel. But then I started meeting more and more people who were okay with killing, and I thought a lower profile might work better. It’s hard to second-guess something that’s caused little to no trouble in over half a decade. It wasn’t like I knew that, at some point, a plus-sized model and possible author of my assassination was going to need to get some shut-eye back there. I mean, if I’d known that, maybe the decision would have been a tougher one. The salesman never pitches you on how many assassins can sleep in the backseat.
I went into the trunk and sifted through the phones until I found the one I wanted. I put the battery back in, and dialed the only number in the phone.
“Yeah?” The voice was hollow and quiet.
“Is this Frank’s Place?”
“3rd and Pacific. Parking garage.”
She hung up.
I got back in the car and drove. It wasn’t too far, which made me think they knew where I was. I pulled over, took the battery out of the phone, and got back to driving.
The parking garage was automated. It had the kind of fluorescent lighting that suggested suicide, or at the very least a David Fincher movie. It was clean, as these things went, and very nearly empty. I picked a space near the top where the cars were thickest.
Mina let out a little snore. It was funny, a woman like that snoring.
Now I was waiting, trying to keep my eyes open. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. A black Lexus slid into the space next to me. I got out. It was my handler, and she looked like I had gotten her out of bed. She’d made an attempt to corral her hair into a ponytail, but that wasn’t working out, and at night, she couldn’t wear the government-issued shades, so I could see the dark rings under her eyes. She had a little scar on the right side of her lip that gave her a cockeyed look. She had an earpiece in and a pistol in a shoulder holster.
We both got out of the car. “Dave,” she said to me. It was her version of hello.
My handler worked for the Hermetic Secret Service, and I worked for her as a street-level informant. A snitch, rat, a stool pigeon—pick your favorite unflattering term. The HSS traces its history
to 1865, right after Lincoln’s assassination. Their original purpose was to ensure that the president was never killed again.
They don’t have the best track record.
Around the ’50s, they ended up getting absorbed into the Office of Naval Intelligence. In all the catastrophic Men-in-Black conspiracies, people lump the HSS under the heading of “good guys.” It’s not entirely true, but they are better than most. They have yet to assassinate anyone else’s presidents, which is the gold standard for assholes in intelligence.
I said, “How are you?”
“Who’s sleeping beauty?” she said.
“A friend of mine. She took about six Ambien, so she’s out like a light.”
Stonefaced: “What did you want?”
“According to Tom Noguchi, bullets don’t go in circles.”
She didn’t appreciate the joke, but really, who likes RFK jokes? “You’re saying there’s a chance for another Ambassador Hotel?”
“Yeah. Someone is trafficking in Sirhans.”
“Fucking Cubans,” she said. Up until that moment, I’d always thought she was Cuban.
“Not Cubans, but this guy might be a Fair Play for Cuba guy. At least back in the day.”
“Where did you find this?”
“Grapevine, mostly. Old stuff you told me to look out for. There’s been mention of a girl, but this time she’s white. Blonde. That’s all I have. Except for this.” I produced Jonah Bailey’s phone. “I followed a tip…”
“Tip?”
“That’s all I’m going to say about my contacts. I got a picture of someone.” I showed her the picture of the old guy from the gay bar. “He looks like a skinny version of Statler.”
She frowned.
I tried to clarify. “The Muppet. Statler and Waldorf? Come on, you remember, the heckler guys on The Muppet Show.”
“I don’t watch TV.” There was literally no way to say that sentence and not sound smug.
“Yeah, okay. So who is he?”
She looked at the phone and I thought a flash of recognition went across her face. I could have been imagining it. She said, “No idea. But if this tip is good and we can find your Statham…”
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