City Havoc

by Jack Adler

  The midday traffic driving down to Long Beach wasn’t too bad. Martha Roberts was a widow who lived alone in a neat, one-level brick house with a well-tended front lawn. She had sounded younger on the phone than she looked. Her computer profile showed that she had two grown children and worked as a librarian. She was warm and friendly and served tea. She wore a sky blue pantsuit, which looked very nice, and I wondered if she had dressed especially for my visit. Unfortunately, she was of little help. She hadn’t even heard of the bank robbery that morning until I brought it up.

  “That’s terrible,” she said.

  “Do you think she did it willingly?” I asked.

  Martha pushed her short brown hair back off her forehead. “She was just a sweet girl. I just can’t see her doing something like that, but then . . . what happened to Ashley . . . he was very pleasant, too. I just don’t know.”

  “Did Ashley ever talk about politics?”

  Smoothing her hair back again, she finally said with an apologetic air, “Not that I can recall. He talked mostly about the museums we visited and their collections. He was very knowledgeable.”

  I nodded.

  “After all, it was a museum tour,” Martha pointed out unnecessarily.

  “Did you know about her and Ashley?”

  Martha’s eyes lit up but then quickly died down again. “I think we all did. But they were very discreet. I don’t think anyone really paid much attention.”

  “Did Holly show any particular political interest? What kind of questions did she ask?”

  “Goodness,” Martha said, shaking her head. “I can’t recall her ever asking anything political.”

  Seeing me stymied, Martha added, “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. And you drove all the way down here . . . ”

  “It isn’t that far, and you’ve been very helpful,” I said, half lying.

  “Well, the only thing I can add is my feeling,” Martha said tentatively.

  “Feelings are good,” I said. “Tell me, please.”

  “I just find it very hard to believe Holly did all these terrible things. She was the youngest woman in our group, single and attractive. And Ashley, though much older, was very intelligent and good-looking. It wouldn’t be that strange if they . . . saw something in each other, would it?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “But then why would she shoot him?”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” I said.

  She should have realized that she wouldn’t be able to send her parents a real clear-cut message that she was all right. How naïve of her.

  “She’s not sincere,” Rona immediately declared when she reluctantly agreed to do the tape Bender wanted. While they might be bluffing about killing her parents, how could she take that chance? If she refused to make the tape they wanted and her father or mother were murdered, she would never forgive herself.

  “Holly, are you sincere?” Bender asked as if he expected an honest answer.

  Bastard! Holly fought to control her emotions. “BB,” she forced herself to use his nickname, “I’m not here by choice, and I love my parents.”

  Bender nodded. “Concisely put. But I think we’re making progress.”

  Rona snickered. Where was Luke? Holly wondered. Out on some nefarious errand?

  “Now Holly, I’m going to give you a statement to read. It isn’t anything very terrible, and I want you to read it like you believe it. Can you manage that?”

  As long as I don’t have to shoot someone, Holly told herself. She would draw the line there. Feeling heavy, as if her mind were weighed down by a massive anchor, Holly nodded.

  Bender drew a paper from his pocket, handed it to Holly and turned on the tape recorder.

  Valerie was even more attractive than I remembered. Tall and willowy, she had lustrous blond hair that reached her shoulders. The southern Californian sun had been kind to her oval face, giving it just a hint of a tan. Her blue eyes sparkled, and not even a loose-fitting navy blue blouse could conceal her ample bust. I recalled that she had legs the guys in the newsroom rated among the best in Manhattan—not that any of them were experts. They were well concealed in her form-fitting slacks.

  We had cocktails at a restaurant on Ventura Boulevard near her place. Judging from the number of young couples and yuppie types engaged in chatter at the tables and booths, it seemed to be a trendy place. I explained what had brought me to Los Angeles, and Val—I immediately went back to the shortened version of her name—listened intently. “So you’ve become a detective,” she said; her words stayed perched on her full lips. She wore light red lipstick and no earrings. A silver chain with an Indian design hung from her neck.

  “Not exactly. It’s a composite job: some PR, some writing and a lot of problem solving.”

  “Troubleshooting?” she ventured.

  I nodded. “That’s what I’m married to these days.” I wanted to let Val know I was still single without being too obvious about it, and I wasn’t so sure I had succeeded. She gave me a quick glance. I didn’t see a wedding ring on her finger.

  “You have an interesting job.”

  “It has its moments.” And this was one, I thought.

  “Running around the world, solving problems. A strange marriage.”

  “But look at the dowry,” I shot back with a quick grin, drawing a smile of appreciation from her.

  “So you don’t have to be licensed or carry a gun or any of that good stuff?”

  “I don’t even have my own TV show.”

  “Pity,” Val said.

  “Well, there is some compensation,” I ventured. “I get to have cocktails with beautiful women like you.”

  “Really?” Val said, not at all flattered. “I have drinks with handsome men all the time, and I don’t have to leave L.A.”

  She was getting the better of me in badinage, but I was still enjoying it. Then we got down to more serious matters again. “Val, I need help. I figure you have good contacts since you’re freelancing.”

  “I’m not sure what I could do,” she said uncertainly.

  “You’re familiar with the situation.”

  “Only with what I read in the papers and see on TV.”

  “Know anyone in the police department?”

  “Maybe.”

  "Val, there’s no need to be cagy. I don’t think Holly Baxter is guilty of murdering anyone, and she was coerced into participating in the bank robbery. This Patty Hearst linkage is a smoke screen. I think there’s a great story here for a freelancer.”

  “The police seem to have a contrary opinion.”

  “They’re wrong, but I need proof.”

  Val considered my assertion for a moment. “Are we talking exclusive?” she asked, her interest ignited to some extent. “On anything that you and I come up with?”

  “Absolutely,”

  She paused a moment. “What makes you think the police are wrong?”

  “Val, it’s just my gut instinct. At the moment.”

  “Not much to go on,” she noted. “Let me think about it. Can you call me tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure. But I need help as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t we all,” she said unmercifully. Before I could respond, she added, “Look, Derry, there’s one other thing we need to clear up if we’re going to work together so that there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “This is strictly a business relationship. No more, no less.”

  Val focused her lovely eyes on me. I could see she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but, of course, she had. It was difficult not to show my unhappiness at her preemptive approach. It wasn’t that she was wrong, I had to admit to myself. “Fair enough,” I managed to say. “I wasn’t aware I had indicated otherwise.”

  “Come on, Derry. We’re not kids. You’re going back to New York soon, and I don’t want to be a mark of your scorecard.”

  “My so-called scorecard has been greatly exaggerated.”

  “Be that a
s it may . . . ” Val said with the glimmer of a smile. “But are we on the same page on this subject?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied.

  Four

  TUESDAY

  Bender had identified the elder of the barrio and where he lived, and Luke found it easy to get into his apartment early in the morning when it was pitch dark outside. Fortunately, no one had seen him enter or even approach the house as far as he knew. He was dressed in black, which he hoped didn’t offend any gang’s color identity. But he had a pistol just in case. To his relief there were no guys—home boys, weren’t they called?—driving by; nor was there any sign of a police patrol car.

  Luke quietly placed his black satchel in front of the elder’s door. No light was protruding from under it, and he couldn’t hear any noise. He had excuses ready for his presence in case anyone should open a door or appear on the stairs, though he doubted he’d be believed. Ironically, they’d think he was a burglar instead of Santa Claus. He knew the satchel was filled with money taken from the bank. But Bender said they’d kept a substantial amount for operational expenses; he had shown him the note that lay on top of the bills.

  This is a gift from the Help America Patriots to the Hispanic community. We trust that you will distribute this money to the needy and/or use it for some worthwhile addition to your community, such as a day care center. Later today this action will be cited without any specific reference to you (so you may deny receiving any money should you be asked) as part of a manifesto to the mayor and people of Los Angeles.

  But we ask that you contact the mayor and all the elected representatives of the city government to quickly enact all of our measures. If rapid action is not taken, we will be forced to take more drastic action.

  ****

  Getting into the radio station before seven o’clock in the morning wasn’t difficult. Bender had made an early morning appointment to see the sales manager; he claimed he was the ad director for a dog food company, a potential advertiser. The fact that KZAB was an all-music station didn’t matter. Bender’s hair was dyed black, and he had started growing a mustache. He carried an attaché case. Rona also carried a briefcase and was sporting a blond wig. She was dressed in a light brown power suit and a white ruffled blouse with a high collar. Both wore dark sunglasses. Nobody could tell they weren’t a pair of business executives as they signed in as visitors in the lobby.

  Inside the sales manager’s office, they shook hands with the middle-aged, portly man. When he turned to grab a brochure, Rona reached out suddenly and applied a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to the man’s face. She held the cloth firmly over the man’s mouth until he collapsed. She and Bender eased the man into his chair with his head on the desk as if he were taking a nap. Quickly, they went into the recording room, ignoring the Do Not Enter While Broadcasting sign. A surprised disc jockey began to get up but sat down again upon seeing Bender’s pistol.

  “Lie down on the floor!” Rona ordered. The disc jockey obeyed as fear drained his face of color. Rona slapped duct tape over his mouth.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Bender said as he sat behind the microphone and lowered the volume of a jazz number. “We’re just going to make a public service announcement.” He glanced at the prone disc jockey sarcastically and asked, “You do PSAs, don’t you?”

  Rona stood guard while Bender slipped a disc into a CD player tucked away amidst a clutch of electronic ganglia. Bender’s voice filled the room as he sat back in the disc jockey’s chair. He nodded as he listened intently, satisfied both with the content and his diction.

  This is the Help America Patriots speaking. We want to let your audience know what’s going on in the great city of Los Angeles. Earlier this morning we gave a gift to the Hispanic community of Los Angeles based on the withdrawal we made yesterday from one of the city’s banks. Let it be known to Mayor Waldon and all the good citizens of Los Angeles that we are hereby giving an ultimatum to the city to immediately announce the following:

  That five percent of the city’s budget for next year will be dedicated exclusively to the renovation and repair of the streets and other infrastructure of all the Hispanic, African American and other ethnic areas.

  That a new review board will be assembled solely of representatives from each ethnic group to advise the city on what is needed for their areas and oversee improvements made as promptly as possible.

  The deadline for announcing these measures is twenty-four hours, no later than 10:00 A.M. tomorrow morning. No delay will be tolerated. For every day that the city of Los Angeles and its elected representatives refuse to accede to these legitimate demands, there will be an event. Make no mistake: this is a wake-up call to Los Angeles and America from the Help American Patriots.

  There was a short pause, and then the tape continued.

  And now a message from our newest member, Holly Baxter: Hello, everyone. Hello, Dad and Mom. This is Holly. Yes, it’s me. I’m still in Los Angeles and working to alert the public to what’s wrong with this great country of ours. Don’t believe what you read and see in media. I’m here of my own free will. The military-industrial complex, the oligarchs—sorry, Dad—and the power trust that controls our economic and political system need to know that we HAPs are determined to do our utmost to correct the cancers that poison our country. Have faith. I love you, Mom and Dad. God bless America!

  Bender withdrew the tape, bent down and whispered to the disc jockey,

  “There, was that so bad? Nice working with you.”

  ****

  News of the radio broadcast by the HAP led the television news. The comparison with Patty Hearst almost seemed automatic now, and I was getting tired of seeing Holly’s face on the screen. I scribbled some notes and then called Wolcott in New York while still in my hotel room. Perhaps this broadcast, as specious as it sounded, might help placate Baxter a bit, though I doubted it. Learning that his daughter had apparently acknowledged her willing involvement with a terrorist organization wouldn’t exactly be welcome news.

  “Baxter is going to hire a private detective in L.A.,” Wolcott said. “He has no faith in us.”

  “Wolcott, I think she’s being coerced.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “I’ll find out more this afternoon, but it seems they’re convinced she murdered Wells and is with this group. Her radio broadcast wasn’t much of a disclaimer.”

  Wolcott sighed. I could hear and commiserate with his despondency even from across the country. “What about the ultimatum? Any response from the city? The mayor?”

  “None yet, but this just happened this morning.”

  “And they gave out the bank money?”

  “Some of it, I believe. It wasn’t clear from the TV news. Playing Robin Hood.”

  “It would seem so,” Wolcott said. “Well, get back to me about the police. Call me at home if anything important breaks. Otherwise, tomorrow.”

  As soon as I hung up with Wolcott, I phoned Val.

  “I hope I didn’t call too early,” I said, trying not to wonder if she was alone or not. Her personal ultimatum still rankled me.

  “No,” she said, sounding quite alert. It turned out she already knew of the day’s developments, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. She was an early riser, like I was.

  “And the verdict is?” I waited for her to answer almost as if she were a jury reading its judgment rather than a bright, beautiful blond who had a questionable image of me.

  “Derry, we have a deal.”

  “Great!”

  Val was silent and less enthused than I was. “I have an appointment with the police this afternoon,” I said to refer to our work immediately. “I’ll be in the office for part of the morning; then I may go to UCLA and maybe USC, time and traffic permitting.”

  “Sounds like a busy day,” she said. She showed no special interest in joining me, and I didn’t invite her. She didn’t volunteer her plans for our new joint task, either.

  “Any chance of com
paring notes later? Tramerica will buy you dinner.” I carefully cited Tramerica to enhance our business relationship. But Val didn’t bite.

  “Tell Tramerica I have a tentative appointment. If my plans change, I’ll call. I have the numbers for your office number and hotel room. Are you using a cell phone?”

  “No, I hate gadgets. I’m a latter-day Luddite.”

  “And you still have a job?”

  “This week,” I joked back. The impression that Val thought she had my number bothered me, but I didn’t have time to cry over rejection. I had a busy day before me and an anxious Wolcott to report to, and admidst it all I felt a certain elation that was Val was working with me—even if it was on her terms.

  Holly walked into the kitchen of the house feeling confused. Had she done the right thing in cooperating? Would she ever be able to prove duress? How could she risk finding out if her captors were bluffing about her parents? At least they now knew she was alive.

  Only Luke was in the small kitchen. He was a hulking presence, but at least he looked at her with sympathetic and even deferential eyes. Bender and Rona were doubtless off getting into some terrible mischief. What would be the next horrible act? What would they try to force her to do next?

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Luke said. “It’s hot. I just made it.” For a big man, his voice was low and soft.

  “Yes, thanks.” She gave him a grateful look as he placed a cup of steaming coffee on the small Formica table. He brought over a carton of milk and some sugar cubes, probably taken from a restaurant. They obviously didn’t have time to stock up on condiments, something she should keep in mind if she ever got loose. Suddenly, she thought of writing or inscribing a message on the carton of milk. Did they go through the garbage, too? But even if she got the carton past them, her message would never be seen because the carton would just get compacted at some garbage dump. If her effort was discovered by Bender, what more could they do to her? Obviously she was of some value to them, but would they kill her anyway?