The Straight Man - Roger L Simon

by Roger L. Simon

  "Yassa, boss. Yassa, massa!" said Otis. He did a shuffle, still staring back at his brother as he followed Reggie out. I flipped to the next photo. "That's the security gate. Three-quarters of a mile of chain link fence that rings the property. You'll note the barbed wire at the top and the

  high-voltage connectors."

  "Noted."

  I went on to the next one, a closer angle of the compound itself, several eager young people walking purposefully between the buildings as if they were on a crucial mission.

  "Those are some of the workers, all very idealistic, all believing they're helping to save the world. Several we talked to came down from the Rajneeshpuram after the Oregon courts closed it down." The following photo was a night shot of five men in paramilitary outfits running across a field behind the headquarters building. Each one carried what looked like a 308-caliber Steyr gun. "Their security force," I said. "They don't come outside in the daytime."

  "How'd you get that?"

  "Ask her." I nodded to Chantal.

  "A Sun Pac Twenty-two flash with an infrared head," she said. "Works on any camera if you're inside fifty feet."

  I flipped to a closer shot of one of them, my friend the New Yorker, crouched in the darkness instructing the others in hand-to-hand combat. "This is their leader. Considering the burn scars on his back, my guess is he was Special Forces in Vietnam or Laos. Maybe someplace else, but whatever it is, he knows his business." I continued to the next photograph: a long-lens shot of a black Saab Turbo with opaque windows. A man and two women were getting out, crossing to a side entrance.

  "Sandollar!" said King.

  I nodded.

  "And look at that—Mike Ptak's bitch. Who's the other one?"

  "His wife, Kim. A Korean."

  "What're they into? Trios?"

  "No. I just think they're into money."

  "Fuckin' Ptak."

  "Fuckin' Ptak wanted to stop it. It's his wife that didn't want to. That's my guess, anyway. He's the one who got tossed off the Picasso. Not her."

  "Anyone else in on it with them?"

  I hesitated. "I'm not sure at the moment. I hope not."

  "What do you mean you hope not?"

  "Look, are you in on this or not? Your brother's being hung out to dry for some white asshole's rock 'n' roll dream, and millions of dollars are being stolen out of the mouths of African babies."

  "Where do they keep this money?"

  "We don't know," said Chantal. "I went in yesterday afternoon, pretending to be a volunteer. You don't get much farther than the front desk."

  "But you're sure it's there?"

  "Nothing's sure," I said. "But I don't know what all the security's about if it's not."

  21

  "Fifty thousand if you prove him innocent?"

  "I wouldn't do this for nothing."

  "It's not enough. You should've gotten more for that. But anyway, I'm glad to hear it. I was beginning to think you were a fucking liberal idiot."

  "Not me, King. I'm a monarchist."

  "What?"

  "M-o-n—"

  "Don't condescend to me, boy. I don't bring my notebook into situations like this."

  It was the next night and we were headed north on Highway 63 in a rented Ford Bronco—Chantal, King, Omar, and I, plus two more of King's entourage: one, a fat mulatto with a clublike right arm, who was known as Lancaster; the other, a dapper, handsome man in a cableknit sweater with a faint African accent and a briar pipe who was called Drill. We were all armed but only with the intention of self-defense. This was to be surgery—quick, deft, and out—not a protective reaction strike.

  The road wound up into the mountains, past the little blue-flower signs that denoted a scenic road and the offers of VIEW LOTS—FOR SALE BY OWNER and the truck farms and the isolated stretches of housing tracts that seemed to pop out of nowhere, banding together like pioneers against Indians who had been gone for centuries. The night was overcast and Omar switched on the windshield wipers to stop us from misting over. The road itself was still damp, the weather of the last day never having really left, but come and gone in short fronts.

  We hit the intersection for 150 and I told Omar not to turn for Ojai, but to drive straight toward Meiners Oaks. After another couple of miles, we reached a stone bridge where a dry riverbed slipped under the highway and became a rock basin. Just beyond was the dirt road that cut through the notch toward Cosmic Aid.

  We took it and bounced along the potholes for a few hundred yards before the road started to go up at a steep grade, closing in about every fifty feet with large ceanothus branches brushing against the windshield. A pair of coyotes ran along in front of us and disappeared down a ravine. We rounded a corner, skidding toward the edge of a sharp curve, our headlights beaming out in the darkness, and then slid to our right, coming out on the other side overlooking the canyon. The Cosmic Aid Foundation was visible below us, the few building lights that were still on dwarfed by the large arcs that illuminated the complex.

  "Turn 'em off," I said, and Omar extinguished our headlights.

  We began our descent, moving slowly back and forth along the switchbacks, inching forward on the narrow road until we had rounded another corner and were out of sight of the Foundation again. Once more Omar put on the high beams. "Sonofabitch," said King. "We're city boys." It had started to rain again, pelting down on the windshield in large glops somewhere between hail and sleet. "We don't have no business out here at two in the morning."

  "Would you rather be at an after-hours club?"

  There were murmurs of approval from King's pals.

  "Over there," said Chantal, pointing out a fork where an even narrower road fell off to the left with the suddenness of a ski run.

  "We better get what we came for, Wine."

  The Bronco jounced down the smaller road until the brush got so thick we couldn't go any further without a tractor in front of us.

  "We thought we'd camp here," said Chantal. "The fence is only about a hundred yards off down that trail."

  The rain was starting to come down really heavy now as Omar backed up a few feet and set the emergency brake.

  "What're we supposed to do? Sleep in the mud?" said King.

  "We'll have to try to sleep in the car," I said. "Then go out just before dawn, as planned."

  "We won't be able to see anything in this weather." "And if we try to go out now, we'd be lucky to make it to the fork. This whole road probably washes out in about an hour."

  "Great for getting aid to Ethiopia."

  We slept about three hours in the Bronco, or tried to, Chantal with her head against my shoulder and me with my knee wedged under the steering column and my feet tucked under the gas pedal just beneath the heel of Omar's size thirteen boot. King was in the back with Lancaster and Drill, their broad shoulders pressed together, desperately trying for some rest like overnight passengers in the crowded waiting room of some awful Third World train station.

  By three-thirty I gave up and opened my eyes. The rain had tapered off to a dull drizzle. When I turned around, I saw King staring at me, wide awake. I wondered if he could sleep in the country. For many years I couldn't. And he was a businessman, not used to this sort of field work, although I was sure many years ago he had to prove himself with his fists and no doubt with blades as well in the old neighborhood before achieving his vaunted executive status. Drill too was awake, humming some strange indecipherable melody to himself, when the beam of a high-powered flashlight danced through the interior of the car.

  "You all right in there?" came a voice from behind us. We turned to see a man in his thirties in a Gore-Tex parka and a cowboy hat approaching with a woman about the same age in heavy rain gear right out of the Eddie Bauer catalog. They tramped down toward us, coming up along the right side of the Bronco.

  "Are you stuck?" said the woman.

  "It's okay," I said. "We just took a wrong turn and then the rains came."

  "Yeah, we had a lot of problems ourse
lves," said the man. "But we're almost home—the Cosmic Aid headquarters. It's less than a mile up the road. We'll send the tow truck for you."

  "That won't be necessary," I said.

  "You sure?" The man looked inside our car, puzzled, staring right at the burlap sacks where our weapons were stowed. "Funny a vehicle like this would get stuck."

  "It's not stuck. We're just resting."

  "We are on ze way from San Diego to San Francisco," said Chantal in a thick French accent. "On ze scenic highway when we got lost. We had to stop and do a relax."

  "Tourists, huh?" said the man, who was wearing a button that said REMEMBER THE RHAGWAN. "Well, it's a beautiful route. Don't miss Big Sur. And the Seventeen-Mile Drive. And eat at Nepenthe's. Henry Miller used to hang out there."

  "Ah, Henri Meel-air. Zank you. Zank you," said Chantal, laying it on thick.

  "Je vous en prie, " said the man in horrible French. "And holler if you've got any problems." He started off with the woman, who was still looking back at us with a puzzled expression. "Our foundation would be glad to do anything we can. We're a helping institution." They disappeared into the darkness.

  "Fuck," said King, glancing over at Drill, who didn't say a word.

  None of us could sleep for the next hour.

  By five-twenty the first gray hint of predawn light was permeating the valley. We got out of the car and buckled on our weapons, steadying ourselves in the mud and heading down the trail through a morning ground fog so thick it made the night seem clear. The sound of barking coyotes mixed with the intermittent buzz of the fencewire generator as we marched, Chantal and I up front and Omar in the rear with an Uzi. We reached the fence quickly and the rest of us lay back while Drill attached a volt-ohm meter to three points along the post. Then he isolated a piece of cable and, with extraordinary dexterity, sliced through two layers of plastic sheath with a buck knife and separated the neutral wire from the hot wire. There was a brief spark along the fence top and then everything went dead. Omar and Lancaster jumped forward with crimpers and Drill showed them exactly where he wanted the links cut.

  In five minutes we were through the fence and running along the perimeter through the courtyard and around the side of the central building. The arc lights were still on, creating an eerie gray-yellow sheen on the concrete block. We came around to the side door and Drill took out a wire cutter, slicing through the wire glass in four deft cuts of the wheel and then pushing through so softly with the tapper, the pane fell to the floor with a quiet, easy thump. Where had he learned that? I wondered. Housebreaking in the Bronx was reaching new levels of professionalism.

  Five-forty-seven. We proceeded past some dormitory rooms along a corridor leading to the administrative offices that were at the end, separated by a pair of swinging doors. We continued through them slowly. No one was about. We walked inside, checking the empty desks, personal computers, bulletin boards. A large Mercator projection showed the "outreach" of Cosmic Aid, double red arrows for special attention pointing at Thailand, Guatemala, Ethiopia, and the Sudan. There was a list of something called Funding Affiliates and some framed letters from various foreign politicians and dignitaries. The hack room had autographed photos of rock and movie stars, most of them posed with Sandollar, and a set of Milanese-type black leather furniture with a sign pointing to it saying DON'T WORRY—IT'S DONATED.

  A fire door led out to another corridor, which had the words SUPPLY AREA-HOLDING & TRANSIT painted directly on the wall with an arrow. We started along it, going through another fire door which took us out onto a steel catwalk overlooking a large, hangarlike internal loading bay. But even before we started across it, an alarm began wailing and the lights switched on.

  "Shit," I said. "Separate!"

  I grabbed Chantal and ran along the catwalk as King and Drill headed down a spiral stairway. Omar and Lancaster started back in the direction we had come, but there was an immediate burst of machine gunfire and they staggered back gasping in our direction, hit in the chest and side. Just as suddenly three of the paramilitaries appeared at the bottom, racing across the concrete floor toward King and Drill, firing at them. I grabbed Chantal, pulling her down on the steel catwalk, when Drill, with the grace of an antelope, leaped from the spiral stairs onto the canvas roof of a military-style transport truck and, without losing his footing for a second, started firing at them with a .45, hitting two immediately and driving the third back where he came from. He then jumped down to the concrete, grabbed a machine gun from one of the wounded paramilitaries, and joined me in a cross-fire aimed at the catwalk door, hitting the first two who came through. He then ran up the spiral stairway again, gestured for me to follow him, and the two of us ran down the corridor, pursuing the remaining paramilitaries, including their leader, into a cul-de-sac. While Drill slammed him in the gut with the barrel of the machine gun, I grabbed his AK-47 and rammed his head into a wall, sending him crumpling to the floor. I then turned to Drill, who had already disarmed the last of the paramilitaries and was cooly flicking the shells out of his pistol cartridge. Where had this man come from? Inside of thirty seconds, almost single-handedly and without killing anybody, he had immobilized a small army of vicious counterterrorist thugs right out of the back pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine. I had the feeling that if I hadn't been there, it might've taken him as much as a minute.

  "Nice work," I said. "I must admit, King King has a talent for picking his allies."

  "A talent? I am sorry," he said in a liltingly formal accent. "Until yesterday I do not know Mr. King."

  I stared at him, puzzled, when I noticed the New Yorker, pulling himself up on a steel railing behind him while reaching into his right combat boot. He spun around, pointing a Beretta directly at Drill's back. Before I could raise my weapon, a shot rang out. The New Yorker went flying backward, his head snapping and his arms flailing and jerking in the air while his gun skittered across the floor.

  I turned to see Chantal frozen behind us with her knees slightly bent and her legs spread apart. Her left hand was unable to stop her right from trembling as she clenched her teeth and grasped her wrist, still training her new Smith & Wesson Detective Special Model 36 on the bloody New Yorker. Her face registered a combination of fear, shock, and nausea as he groaned on the floor.

  I walked over. "You didn't have a choice."

  She nodded.

  "Now you know how it feels."

  "Yes. Now I do." She looked down at her hand, staring at the gun as if it were an alien creature like a sea slug.

  "And now you had better find that money," said King King, coming up behind me. "And the proof to free my brother." He stared at me coldly. Outside I could hear people banging on the fire door.

  I looked down the spiral stairs toward the area where the last of the paramilitaries had come from. I could see a couple of shipping crates, another pickup truck, and a door with the words MEDICAL SUPPLIES—RESTRICTED AREA printed on it in large highway yellow letters against an olive field. "Down there," I said. King gave me another cold stare before we left Omar and Lancaster behind, and King, Drill, Chantal, and I descended onto the concrete floor again. I glanced through the flap of the transport truck—it was empty—and signaled for them to follow me to the door. I expected it to be locked, but it was open and we slipped through carefully, walking down into a dimly lit corridor that looked as if it had been tunneled like a mine shaft straight into the side of the hill. The sound of our footsteps bounced off the concrete floor, ricocheting off the narrow walls, and I hoped we were right when we counted only six paramilitaries. But it seemed useless to turn back now. Down at the end of the corridor I could see another door which had to be the answer to something. We drew closer to it, an eerie organ arrangement of "Imagine," Sandollar's theme, filtering through like background music at a funeral parlor. Suddenly the door swung open and a huge klieg light switched on, glaring straight out and blinding us.

  "Well, well, Wine, up early, aren't we? I've been waiting for you. Ever since
you visited that scared little redneck in Glendale. Of course, I didn't know you were bringing your own militia."

  "Well, Eddy, our intelligence told us you weren't exactly a one-armed bandit yourself. And the way that unemployed contra of yours chased me around New York . . ." I took a step forward.

  "Don't go any further," he said sharply. "Any of you. Unless you believe in reincarnation!"

  "Hit the deck!" I yelled as I fired straight into the light, diving forward onto the hard concrete with Chantal, King, and Drill like a trio of linebackers. A round of machine gunfire flew over our heads, smashing against the door behind us, but the corridor went dark. Then another light appeared.

  It was a high-powered Tekna flashlight in the hands of Drill. He was aiming it straight in the face of Sandollar, who stood in the doorway with his wife, Kim, a few feet behind him. Through the door I caught a glimpse of what looked like a staggering amount of cash stacked against a block wall.

  "Very heroic but absolutely useless," said Sandollar.

  "This entire bunker is wired with explosives." He held a small remote control box the size of a cigarette pack up to the light beam. "Before I part with one penny, I'd be delighted to take us all up."

  "l imagine you would, Eddy. But then what would happen to Neutron City?"

  "Yeah, I'd hate to see that go. But so what? Another rock dream bites the dust. It wouldn't be my first."

  "Twenty-five million along with it?" I slowly stood up and took another tentative step forward.

  "Charity money," said Eddy dismissively. "Everybody got their rocks off on it already anyway. Got to feel great and generous. Got to go out and rape and pillage like any true child of the eighties without feeling guilty for one minute. Now, isn't that a service'? Who else is providing that?"

  "I don't know, Eddy. Not a lot of people, I don't think. Maybe some evangelists like your father-in-law . . ."