by Jack Adler
When the bomb exploded, the car was full of passengers. Glass shattered as limbs were torn from bodies and screams reverberated throughout the train. Blood and body parts littered the sticky car floor. The car broke loose from the rest of the train and was quickly battered by the cars behind it. People in these other cars, especially the first one, were badly shaken up by the collision. Riders forced open the car doors, which were partially jammed, and raced to the stairways. Several people were trampled in the melee on the station platform, and more were hurt on the clogged stairs as people tried to rush out to the street.
The words “Breaking News” suddenly flashed on the television screen with a warning that some of the footage was very graphic, just as Bender had anticipated. It was so gratifying to have an alert media disseminate news so quickly. He, Rona and Luke sat in their living room, their attention riveted on the screen. Holly, as usual, preferred her own company.
“At least thirty people are reported dead from a bomb explosion on the subway line from North Hollywood to downtown, according to police. Many more were injured, some critically. The injured have been taken to Providence St. Joseph Hospital in Burbank and other hospitals handling burn victims. Some passengers were evacuated and had to use cat-walks in semidarkness. Service has been suspended. The Department of Homeland Security and the LAPD are investigating the matter,” a newscaster explained. “The mysterious HAP organization took credit for the bomb and made this statement:
‘Fair warning was given,’ they said in a statement. ‘We regret any loss of life, but city officials must come to terms with our legitimate demands. We will continue to dramatize our cause and stage other attacks until the city of Los Angeles agrees to our reasonable demands. But time is running out. Citizens of Los Angeles, insist that your city—our city—agree to our terms!’
“Mayor Waldon issued this response: ‘We will not submit to this cowardly attack, and those responsible will be brought to justice.”
More details later. We return to scheduled programming now.”
“Not bad,” Bender said, congratulating himself. “Cogent, precise and demanding action, if I do say so myself.”
“You always do,” Rona said, drawing a chuckle from Luke. Even Luke could see how egotistical BB could be.
To her surprise, BB took her barb with grace. “My dear, I deserved your sally.
In our small circle, I’m all too prone to compliment myself. But I do think the message will strike home.”
“Let’s see if it works,” Rona said with an impassive expression on her face.
“Now it’s time for our second message of the day,” Bender said to Rona in a dismissive tone. He turned to Luke. “Let’s go, Luke.”
****
Luke drove to the area in Pacific Palisades where a scene for a pilot for a new television show, Spies Among Us, was being shot. “I read about this shooting in the Hollywood Reporter,” Bender said as they parked a good distance from the film location, which was marked by yellow barricades. One police car was off to the side. Several large trailers were parked along a grassy knoll. “You have to read the trade papers to know what’s going on in Tinseltown.”
“There are a lot of people here,” Luke said. “And it’s daylight.”
“It’s better to see the panic in everyone’s eyes, and they don’t have to act,” Bender said, grinning at his own crack.
They got out of the car, opened the trunk and took out a M93 grenade launcher. “Set it for thirty yards,” Bender ordered.
The grenade sailed into the heart of the set. Panic broke loose as actors and technicians were tossed into the air, causing bloody limbs to fall from the sky like tiny meteors.
Screams resounded through the wide-open grassy area. In the distance the tranquil waves of the Pacific Ocean lolled onto peaceful beaches.
“Good shot!” Bender said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Back at their house, Bender turned on the television again:
Breaking news. This just in: a grenade killed several actors at a film location in Pacific Palisades this afternoon. Details are still unclear. The Help America Patriots, who committed an atrocity on the subway this morning, took credit for this outrage, too. This statement was phoned in to the Los Angeles Times: “Film production will suffer in Los Angeles until quick action is taken by the city. Again, we regret the loss of life, and our sympathy goes out to the families and loved ones of the victims, who died due to the stubborn and cruel reluctance of the city to take remedial action on the city’s multiple failures.”
Mayor Waldon has made no response, but the chief of police said, “We’re still investigating this incident as well as that of the subway massacre this morning. But be assured the noose is tightening around this evil group, and they will be caught.”
Rona shut the television off. “They can’t shoot every movie and TV show elsewhere, so this was a good move,” she said with approval. “A real blow to the economy.”
“And I don’t feel any noose at all,” Bender said with a satisfied smile.
Bagels with no lox but plenty of cream cheese were the highlights of Val’s breakfast spread. "I thought you might be missing New York," she said, teasing me as we had an early brunch at her spacious studio apartment. One wall was virtually covered from the floor to the ceiling with books, while another wall had some Klee prints framing a twenty-seven-inch television console. Magazines covered a small coffee table. The tiny kitchen opened into an alcove where we sat at a small table. A multicolored screen shielded a bed set against one wall. A computer sat on top of a desk with a printer resting on an adjoining table. Light streamed into the apartment from large windows fronting on the rear area, where there was a small pool for the tenants.
Val looked bright and radiant in a forest green pantsuit, which showed her trim figure well. She had heard the news about the subway bomb.
"Things are sure getting worse,” Val said. “They’re killing people now.”
“They’re making the police look impotent, but I don’t think the mayor will give in,” I said.
“We’ll see. The pressure on him is building. What else is new?”
“Media calls,” I reported with not much of a mysterious smile.
Before coming to Val's place, I had stopped off at the office and found a message from Channel Twelve requesting an interview. My fame, such as it was, was spreading. After getting grudging approval from Wolcott, I set up a visit to their studio for a taped interview the following morning.
"You've becoming a media personality," Val said as if she were proud of me. I wasn't. It was a gamble. To a certain extent, I was keeping Holly in the news.
"Not really," I said, smiling, as I appreciated her comment. I offered to help Val wash the dishes, but she declined. She quickly cleaned up while I read an editorial in the Los Angeles Times that criticized the police for failure to find the HAP and Holly Baxter and voiced dire concerns about the possibility of another bloody shoot-out, such as the one that took place with the Symbionese Liberation Army. But the editorial was on the fence as to whether poor Holly had been converted to the cause or was being used. Given that the police were convinced that Holly had been turned, I supposed that was a small victory.
Val said she had gotten the names of half a dozen ex-police officers who were considered to be of strong political persuasion. The only problem was they all were on the far right. Blacks and Jews were not their favorite people. Four of them still had a Los Angeles address, which could have been old. Two were believed to have relocated to Idaho, which wasn’t a huge surprise since parts of the state had achieved a certain notoriety for having various sub-rosa and even semi-fascist groups with well-armed camps in the woods.
"How did you get this information?" I couldn't resist asking, though I didn’t really expect Val to reveal her source. I couldn't imagine Detective Ruiz was so obliging, but then again, I wasn't as attractive as Val.
She made a mock surprised face and smiled. "By lawful means."
>
"Well, I'm glad we established that. It's still worth seeing what we can find out about these guys."
Val handed me the phone. Equal partners.
Sean Connelley, my first call, told me quite bluntly to "fuck off." Our quickly hatched stratagem was to pretend we were conducting a survey on police views of new political organizations. Connelley sounded drunk, which may have been the reason he was no longer on the force. We had no idea about his current politics, if they had changed or worsened in any direction, but at least we knew where to reach him. Taking turns, we struck out on two of the ex-cops, as they were no longer at the numbers we had. We learned from the woman who answered the phone that one of them worked as a security guard for a hotel. But he refused to speak with us when we called him at work, and he seemed royally pissed that we had called him there. I didn't blame him, but we were in a rush.
"Can we get phone directories for the Idaho boondocks?" I asked, frustrated. We had certainly struck out on this attempt, which was no fault of Val’s. But Wolcott was certain to be disappointed and even more determined to order me back to New York.
"Sure," Val said. She had a warm, sincere smile; she knew I was under pressure and was sympathetic. But that didn't incur any brotherly feelings on my part; I had to resist a sudden urge to lean over and kiss her. I hid my desire as best as I could, but I sensed Val noticed my impulse.
Suddenly, the tension was interrupted by a ringing phone. Val answered.
"Oh, hi. Yes, yes, very much." She signaled to me that the call was important while grabbing notepaper and a pen. "At 8:00 P.M. today" she said. "Yes, I remember how to get there. Thanks. See you then."
Val looked at me with a triumphant expression.
"That was Professor Cabral. We're going to visit him at his home at 8:00 P.M."
“Great!”
“What’s more,” Val added, moving to her celing-high bookcase, “I have his book here somewhere. Here it is,” she said, pulling a hardcover book out and dusting off the place where it had been.
She handed me the book. “You can borrow it if you want. It’s interesting.”
I opened the book and saw the author had signed it. “To Valerie, a bright and challenging interviewer.”
“You made a good impression,” I said.
“I tried, but let it be noted I bought the book.”
“So noted, and thanks. I’ll try to go over the book before we see the professor, but there isn’t much time. This is a busy day. But I’ll bring it with me later. Should I pick you up at seven? Will that give us enough time to get to his house with you as the navigator?”
“Fine,” she said. “I’m a skillful navigator, especially since I’ve been there before.”
But how many times? I wondered, feeling foolish, but at least I was quiet about my nascent jealousy.
"The bastards!" roared Mayor Waldon at a special strategy meeting at city hall.
"The cocksuckers made sure the media got it in time for the 6:00 P.M. news," said Merch, the public affairs officer. He sat back in his chair and looked around the small conference room. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and he wore no tie.
"And in plenty of time for the morning paper," agreed Walt Tapper, who was serving as special liaison to the police task force in order for the mayor to have immediate access to any developments.
"Anything new from your quarter?" Mayor Waldon asked. His manner indicated that he didn't expect any great news.
"No," Tapper said. He saw no reason to try and ameliorate the lack of progress. Bad news was bad news; no news was no news. He was a realist, and he knew Waldon was, too.
"The police aren’t getting anywhere, and these terrorists are trying to paralyze the city." Waldon shook his head as if the crisis had reached a critical point.
"And doing a damn good job of it," Merch said, drawing a look of unhappiness but not disagreement from the mayor. "They know how to play the media."
"Well, we're not going to give in," Waldon said, his eyes flashing. His face turned a faint shade of crimson while his wrinkled brow looked like a ladder going up to his scalp. He struck a defiant pose but then sat down with a weary gesture as if suddenly deflated.
"Do we still want to make no additional response at all to the ultimatum?" asked Merch.
"No more response is a response," Tapper noted.
"Absolutely," Waldon confirmed. "We're not going to be their puppets. If we start responding, they'll just ask for more, and we'll look weak."
"Which won't do much for your upcoming reelection campaign," said Merch.
"That's not my reason," Waldon said, glancing sourly at his own lieutenant. "I have a responsibility to protect the city. But I can’t deny the political implications, and I’m sure no one else will, either."
"Actually," Tapper threw in, "you'd better start juggling your schedule. They may target you, especially if you ignore them. They're obviously trying to make a statement."
"A vast urban statement," amended Merch.
"I'm not going to run scared," Waldon said, bristling. "That would send out the worst possible message."
"If they shoot you, that would send the wrong message, too,” Tapper warned.
Mayor Waldon considered that a moment and smiled as if he were spotting a positive sliver of light penetrating their gloom. "But if I survive, the shooting should help my reelection.” He paused a moment to see the reaction, but no one seemed shocked. They all took him seriously, which was also a statement of sorts. “A little gallows humor, gentlemen," he explained.
I had been interviewed before in print and on air, both television and radio. So I was not afraid of any disasters, like if they planed to bombard me with difficult questions or hound me for responses. Several Tramerica executives had even taken special courses on how to handle interviews, which wasn’t necessary in my case, as I had been on the other side of the fence framing questions and doing the hounding.
Gail Wooten, the hefty young lady who had tracked me down at the LAPD press conference, ushered me into a small but immaculate conference room. After a couple of pleasantries, she peppered me with prepared questions she had on a legal-sized yellow pad. I wondered if she had passed my name on to a friend at Channel Twelve, but I really didn’t care.
Maybe the two media outlets had the same owner, which would have hardly been a surprise, given the vertical trend in media ownership.
“Do you think Holly Baxter is guilty?” she asked, wasting no time in getting to the meaty stuff; I admired her for it.
“No.”
“Why?” she immediately followed up. Her dark eyes glistened with intensity, and I had to wonder how I looked while interviewing people. More relaxed, but just as intent, I hoped.
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I explained. “There’s no prior evidence against her of any statements or leanings toward this sort of group, or any political group for that matter. She wasn’t political.”
“But the police are operating on a different theory, aren’t they?”
“Seems that way.” I knew I had to be careful. Wolcott had been quite explicit on that subject. But I needed to raise a few hackles; I hoped to make the HAP squirm, not the good gendarmes.
“She was at the bank, and she did make a radio statement.”
I smiled in recognition of these undeniable facts. But facts could be deceptive. They didn’t always tell the whole story, or the correct story. “What is obvious isn’t always right,” I maintained. “Sometimes it’s just a little too obvious.”
She took quick notes. I hoped she could decipher her handwriting better than I could read mine. Several interview notes I had taken over the years had defied later unscrambling; however, I hated tape recorders because I couldn’t write a story off a tape, so the notes had to be transcribed, meaning an extra step.
Gail paused to give me a searching stare. “Is Tramerica conducting its own investigation?”
What did she think I was doing in Los Angeles? I wondered, trying not to show
any surprise or unhappiness over her question.
“Naturally, we’re concerned and doing everything we can to learn what happened and to assist the police.”
The last clause merited a doubtful glimmer of a smile, but Gail said nothing, recognizing a public relations-like response. I was primarily wearing my public relations hat now; it didn’t always clearly merge with my other investigatory responsibilities, which I much preferred.
“Have you found any link between your tour guide and the HAP group?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Do you believe such an organization really exists?”
I paused and then said, “If not, someone’s going to a lot of trouble, and the ultimatum obviously indicates a political purpose.”
“What do you think they’re after? Is it just the demands in their ultimatum?“
“That isn’t clear at the moment,” I said. I suspected this might be the case, but I didn’t want to go too far. Wolcott would have a stroke. He was responsible for my actions. If I screwed up, it damaged him, probably more than me, given DeCosta’s demanding personality. Other than causing fear in the city and heartbreak for the Baxter family, I had to admit I wasn’t at all sure what the HAP’s real objective was.
“Do you think the city should meet their terms?”
I smiled as if she really didn’t think I would respond to that loaded question. Our eyes met for a moment, and she shrugged. I’m sure she felt it was worth a try, just as I probably would have.
And so it went. I answered most of her questions, but then she quickly excused herself because she wanted to get the article into the next day’s edition. I was anxious to get going, too: the clock was ticking toward the end of my reprieve.
“The interview went well,” I told Wolcott over the phone as soon as I got back to the office before five o’clock. Stacy was out making calls, and Corinne was kind enough to bring me coffee before I could ask for it. It ws nice to have such an efficient secretary. “Not only that, but I now have a TV interview tomorrow morning.”