by Frank Rich
"Nope."
"You guarding it for someone?"
I shook my head.
"Then what's it to you?"
I shrugged and smiled. He gave me the finger, grabbed the keys and jangled them at me defiantly. I backed into the alley and crouched behind a garbage can.
The door slammed, and after a lot of unhealthy growling the Caddy coughed to life. I counted to three, then pulled my pistol. I came out from behind the can to reclaim my car when it disintegrated before my eyes with the distinct bang-boom of a powerful explosive igniting the fuel tank. A torrid shock wave blew me back into the alley, and I ended up on my butt with singed hair and ringing ears. The recent trip to the fuel station made for a spectacular blue fireball, and pieces of my car rained down. Life was full of explosions lately.
I stared into the flames for a moment, saying goodbye to another friend, a commodity I was rapidly running short of. I could only hope I'd take my own final bow in such an exciting manner.
I noticed the pimp standing in the doorway of the Spoon, a wry smile on his face. I walked to the Caddy and fired once into what remained of the hood. I looked back at the pimp. "Symbolic," I said. He nodded and went back inside.
Now I had to get away while I could, and follow up on my deep, dark hunch. I changed cabs twice to make sure I wasn't being followed, then got out at a phone booth three blocks from Tanya's. I called SPF central and asked for the warrant collection office.
"Assistant Inspector Degas speaking, how can I help you?" a voice said.
"Hello. This is private enforcer Paul Gosman. I'd like to confirm the disposition of a contract." There was a pause.
"Go ahead, Gosman."
"I'd like to check out one Jacob Strait, ID number 233044325."
I could hear keys clicking on the other end, then Degas said, his voice shockingly cooperative, "Jacob Wolfgang Strait, 165 Rood Ave., Apartment 451. Business address, 9803 Hayward, Suite 303. Wanted for extensive political crimes, he pays an A-1 for execution with a double-bonus modifier."
I whistled to myself. With a double A-l, it was no big wonder Paul had tried his luck. I tried not to feel too conceited about my high rating.
"He's considered armed and dangerous," Degas finished.
"You mean he was. They're having a cookout in front of the Silver Spoon Cafe on Hayward, and Strait's the main course. I'm calling to take credit for the kill. I'll be down for my reward later. Gosman out." I hung up.
I lugged the bags to Tanya's, feeling as if I had a big red bull's-eye taped to my butt. With that kind of bounty on my head, I'd overnight become a gold mine for every gun-totting junky in town. So this is how it feels, I thought. Under the big gun.
I knocked on the door using the proper sequence.
"What's the code word?" a voice asked.
I thought hard. Was all the alcohol deranging my memory? "I don't remember any code word."
"That's right," Tanya said, and opened the door to let me in. She wore a gray-and-black pantsuit with the .32 stuck in the waistband. She chewed gum and dangled a cigarette from her lips like a 1920s gun moll. "What happened to you?" she asked. "You smell like fire."
"The imperialists blew up my car. Five innocent beers perished in the flames. Two of my friends sold out to the enemy, and there's a SPF goon squad hunting me like a pack of rabid bloodhounds."
"We're not winning, are we?"
"We haven't even had possession of the ball yet. How's Britt?"
"She's sleeping," Tanya said, jerking a thumb back to the bed.
"Did you two talk any?"
"Not a lot. She's really scared about something. After you left, she got real jittery."
"Did she?" The idea warmed me.
Tanya nodded, then fixed me with a speculative eye. "Are you scared, Jake?"
"Not as long my nightlight stays on and the closet door is closed."
She giggled. "Afraid of the bogeyman?"
I thought about the A-l reward with double modifier. "I am now."
She looked over her shoulder. "You going to wake her up?"
I looked at the form in the bed. She lay in a tight fetal position, the blankets pulled up to her chin.
"Not for a while. She needs rest, and I have to get things straight in my head. I have to figure out the questions before I can start looking for answers."
"What is she going to tell you?"
"I don't know." I looked at Tanya. "But I got a feeling it isn't going to be good."
24
Tanya and I sat at the kitchen table drinking beer, waiting for soy beef sandwiches to defrost in the microwave. She'd done a fine job of stocking up. The cupboards were full of food, and a case of beer lurked in the belly of the fridge.
"How'd you know I liked beer?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Just guessed. You just seem like the type."
"With this Tarzanesque physique?"
"Not by your body — I knew by the way you act. You're… working class."
"You mean proletariat hero."
"I guess. What's going to happen, Jake?"
I took a long drink and leaned back in my chair. "I'm not sure. Apparently the Party is going to lay a bad scene on the City. Maybe a martial-law clampdown like they tried four years ago. Move troops in and try to take back the no-go areas."
"But they failed."
I nodded. "They failed because they weren't organized enough. The SPF are more cops than soldiers. The independent militias united and fought them to a standstill in the outer boroughs. Maybe the Party plans to try harder this time."
"That's what Britt is fighting? The Party taking the City back?"
"I think so," I said, recalling the flier. "She's trying to unite the different groups to resist whatever is coming. Like Joan of Arc."
"Wasn't Joan of Arc crazy?"
"Some say."
Tanya stood up. "Do you want another beer?"
"Yes." I checked my watch. It was three minutes to six. "Do you have a TV?"
"A propaganda box? Yeah, but I never watch it."
"Where's it at?"
She walked to the closet next to the front door and brought out an ancient black-and-white portable.
"Have you paid your viewing fee for the month?" I asked.
She gave me a funny look and shook her head.
"Oh, well." I sighed. "We'll just have to risk it." I took the set and put it on the kitchen counter. I plugged it in and turned it on. The antenna was a moonlighting coat hanger, so the reception was fuzzy.
"Why do you want to watch TV?" Tanya asked.
"I want to see what's on the news." After fooling with the antenna for a moment, I sat down and opened my beer.
A commercial for Fungum was on. Bouncy, smiling models demonstrated just how much fun chewing gum could be. Johnny Humungo himself came on at the end and said, "When things get tough, just have a stick and forget about it." He popped a stick in his mouth and acted as if he was forgetting about it.
"Rough and tough Johnny Humungo is pushing Fungum now?" I asked.
Tanya nodded. "You don't watch TV much, do you?"
"Not lately." The local Party news came on with a flurry of martial music and a shot of a fluttering World Party flag. The fatherly anchorman started the program with the inner-city riot advisory so businessmen and workers tuning in on their car sets could avoid those nasty traffic snarl ups. The lead news story ran footage of valiant SPF troops rooting out nests of anarchists in the hills of Spain, followed by a report of new soy-processing plants nearing completion in the World Party republics of China and Brazil. The stories rolled on, and by the look of things the future of the Party never looked brighter.
It wasn't until the last five minutes of the program that the anchorman mentioned offhand that a number of right-wing extremists had visited raids upon a number of left-wing extremists in the City. He spoke in such a way that said it happened at least twice a week and he finished up with a calculated grin that suggested good, respectable citizens might enjoy
a little laugh at the idea of bad people murdering each other. The whole report lasted about ten seconds, then the buxom blonde came on with the summary of tomorrow's weather. I turned the set off.
"I'm surprised they mentioned it at all," Britt said, her voice surprising me.
"They had to," I said, turning to find she'd sneaked up behind us. Her eyes were still full of sleep but she looked better than before. "The raids were pretty blatant. If they didn't say anything, people would get suspicious."
"You're right." It sounded as if agreeing with me caused her physical pain. I was ecstatic; I'd finally won a point. I pulled out a chair and she sat down. I offered some of my beer, and she took a sip.
"I suppose you want some answers," she said.
I nodded.
"Where shall I start?"
"Let's go all the way back to the beginning. Why did you take the three hundred grand from your parents?"
"To fund the counterrevolution against the fascist-establishment coalition's genocidal assault on the proletariat masses."
"That probably looks great on a pamphlet, but why don't you tell me in English even I can understand."
"We needed the money to get the people organized against my father's plan."
"What plan is that?"
"To kill all the poor people in the City."
I stared at her. "The poor people? What's he got against them?"
"That they're poor. A group of City directors got the idea that depopulating nonproductive and restive sections of the City would solve most of the Party's problems."
"Depopulating? How?"
"'Accidental' chemical leaks and mass food poisoning to start. After it became obvious what they were up to, they'd go right into air strikes and nerve gas."
I leaned back in my chair and squinted at her. "You're crazy. They'd never do that."
"Ha! Why wouldn't they?"
"It's immoral. They wouldn't get away with it."
"Who's going to stop them? It's already happening in Beijing, London and Rio! Listen, Strait, the Party is teetering on the edge — it's rotting from within and losing ground every day. The popular revolution is coming, and the entrenched elitists on the Hill aren't about to turn over their wealth and power to people like you. They're going to do what they have to to survive, and if that means wiping out a few hundred thousand citizens, they'll do it. Check your history, they've been doing purges since the beginning of man."
"Jesus."
"Welcome to the real world, Strait."
"I don't think I like the real world."
"Well, that's just tough, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Your father told you all this?"
"Not directly. They held their meetings at my father's house. He didn't try to hide anything from me. I guess he thought I could be trusted."
"You have that quality about you," I said. "How many directors support this plan?"
"An influential minority. Housing, welfare, transportation, resources. They'll sway the rest or act without them. They're fanatics."
"What about the director of the SPF?"
"No. They were upset with him because he wouldn't play. He's an old man, and they think he's senile. But there were representatives from the SPF at the meetings, and from all the other directorates for that matter. Plus skinheads and officials from reclamation."
"Reclamation?" I asked. "I thought they were neutral, like the Red Cross."
"They are. They just wanted to know about it so they could get enough equipment ready for the cleanup."
"They are so damn thoughtful and efficient," I said. "What about the skinheads?"
"They're the muscle for the first phase of the plan. They can't directly use spif troops in the early stages because the people would catch on and revolt. Over the past month the SPF supporters of the plan managed to unite most of the City skinhead clans under a single leader."
"Is his name Harry?"
"That's him." She made a face. "After the meetings he would try to pick me up."
I slammed the table with my fist. "That's it. Next time I see him, he's dead."
She looked at me as if I might not be up to my boast. "Have you met Harry?"
"We had a little run-in."
Britt wouldn't ask, so Tanya did. "Who won?"
I smiled and winked.
"A lot of the local skins have disappeared the last couple of weeks," Tanya said.
"They're being taught urban warfare by SPF instructors," Britt explained. "They've turned Travis prison into a huge training complex. That's what the skins get out of the deal — training, weapons and the promise of future power, in exchange for their attacking and paralyzing the groups that would organize and lead the counterattack." She gave me a mean look. "They used you, too."
"I was tricked."
"Yeah. When Crawley came up for one of my mother's poetry parties, I told him about my father's plan and he said we'd have to act fast. I accessed one of my father's accounts, transferred the sum of it to a new account in Crawley's name, then escaped to spread the word. It was hard, since most people had heard it all before."
"You got some people to believe."
"There's always those who'll believe anything monstrous about the Party. Crawley had a lot of influence in the subculture." Her eyes dropped to the table. "Poor Rolland."
"I was tricked," I said again. I was starting to feel like a heavy. "I'm not a bad man. I've just been tragically misrepresented by the facts."
"All your life, I'll bet. When you killed Crawley and drained his account, it set us back weeks. We needed the money for guns, and without Crawley's influence it was harder to bring people over. City people find it hard to believe snobby little girls from the Hill."
I choked on my shame and nodded. "So the first roundups were today."
"Today is just the beginning." She seemed to be talking to herself. "It's finally starting."
I finished my beer and tried to look at the big picture. "The World Party doesn't care about this? Can't they stop the City Party?"
Britt rolled her eyes maliciously. "Don't tell me you believe that 'brotherhood of the masses' bullshit. They know the times, and they'll turn a blind eye if not condone it. Wise up."
I was getting wiser by the minute. We sat in silence for a moment, each of us wrestling private demons. My view of the world had become a couple of shades darker, and everything had taken a more sinister cast.
Tanya got up and brought back three beers and a plate of toasted soy beef sandwiches.
I concentrated on the food and quickly inhaled two sandwiches and was starting in on the third when Tanya dug a pack of gum from her pocket and put a stick in her mouth.
"What's that?" Britt demanded.
"Fungum," Tanya said. "It helps me relax. Want a stick?"
Britt made a face at the offered pack. "It's loaded with tranquilizers. The Party distributes it to the poor people to keep them in their place. Have a stick and forget you're oppressed and should be out in the streets rioting. It's the same reason they legalized downers and pot."
"Sorry," Tanya said, and took the gum out of her mouth.
Britt stood up and stretched. Fatigue still hung from her features. "Anything else you want to know, Strait?"
"You've told me too much already. You get some more sleep and I'll figure something out. Thanks for sharing."
Britt went back to bed, and Tanya and I sat in the kitchen and watched TV. Johnny Humungo was ripping apart a rebel camp with his bare hands, chasing terrified actors around like a bear after rabbits. Someone must have hidden his pack of Fungum.
"Do you believe her?" Tanya asked.
"I think I do," I said. I took a chug from my can. The beer tasted good. Too good.
Tanya sipped her beer like a lady and stared at the refrigerator. "I guess it was going to happen sooner or later."
"Doesn't have to happen," I said. "I could stop it." Johnny Humungo flipped over an armored personnel carrier with one hand.
She slid me a sideway
s look. "What can you do?"
"I can kill people."
"You gonna kill the whole City Party?"
"I'll get on the Hill and fix 'em."
"How are you going to get on the Hill?"
"I'll blast my way through the gate. Then I'll systematically root out the ringleaders and do the savage bastards in. Easy." I snapped my fingers like Johnny Humungo.
She giggled. "How are you even going to get there? I thought they blew up your car."
"I'll take a cab."
She giggled again, then finished up with a skeptical look. "I don't think you'd make it."
"Don't be so sure. I used to be in the Airborne Rangers. Wanna see me do a hundred push-ups?"
She squinted at me. "I thought all the rangers were wiped out in Texas somewhere."
"Houston."
"Yeah."
"I got lucky."
We drank our beer in silence. I finished mine and got another out of the fridge.
"What are we going to do?" Tanya asked, verbalizing my thoughts. The honest truth was that I hadn't the slightest idea what our next move would be.
"I have a good plan but I still have to work out the details," I lied. "I'll have to sleep on it."
Tanya nodded. "Are you going to sleep on the bed with her?"
"No," I said.
"Are you going to sleep on the floor with me?"
"No."
"Because she might not like it?"
"She wouldn't care if I slept with a polar bear."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that."
"Well, none of that has anything to do with it. Sleeping alone helps my concentration. It keeps me vigorous and full of vim."
Another silence muscled in.
"Are you going to drink all the beer?" Tanya asked quietly.
I gave the little mind reader a surprised look. "Of course not. What made you ask that?"
"Because when you mentioned Houston you looked like you might."
"Well," I said, finishing off my can, "I'll have you know that was my last drink of the evening. Now I'm going straight into the gentle arms of sweet slumber. I'll just curl up in that comfy-looking armchair over there and be out before you can say Jack Sprat."
"Jack Sprat?"
"A wise guy," I said, and kissed her good-night.