"So Gulf War Syndrome might never have come back in our troops if we hadn't shipped it to Iraq first, back in the eighties," he said.
She nodded, and there was a knock at the door. When Stacy opened it, Wendell was standing in the corridor, looking tired and even more rumpled than usual.
"What happened?" Stacy asked. "You're two hours late."
"I've been at the Santa Monica Police Department," he growled as he entered the apartment and flopped into Max's old club chair. "Four guys with HEPA masks and guns broke into the autopsy room and stole the body."
"You're kidding!" Stacy said.
"Whoever they were, they know Mike died of Prion disease. They stole the body to keep that fact from getting out."
Stacy's mind was racing. "Maybe they were from the Devil's Workshop ... ?" she said.
"God help us," Wendell Kinney sighed. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, never mentioning Dr. Welsh's autopsy knife that he had stolen.
Chapter 22
THE BLACK ATTACK
It was almost one A. M., Monday morning.
Cris drove his father's new Lincoln Continental slowly. He made deliberate stops at all intersections. He made sure he used his blinker. He knew that he had enough unprocessed alcohol in his blood to "pin the needle," and he didn't want to get busted for DUI.
He was back on the Nickel (Fifth Street), driving past remembered alleys. The old thirties buildings of downtown L. A. loomed incongruously, leaning against the new glass skyline like shabby relatives at a posh wedding. Old crates and boxes were pushed up against chipped brick; annex dwellings of the homeless. Deep in narrow alleyways trash-can fires burned like hunger.
The Midnight Mission was on Fifth, a block south of Wilshire. Cris found a parking space across the street from the Salvation Army church. He fiddled with the Lincoln's expensive alarm until it chirped at him, then moved across the street and disappeared inside the "sally," where two years before he had spent many nights on a hard cot, curled around a hangover or a bad dream.
"Clancy around?" he asked an old man, who looked up from a broom. They had never seen each other before, but traded the instant recognition of men who had once found the bottom and been content to rest there.
"Upstairs in the cafeteria," he said, and as Cris headed off, added, "Hey, we're full up, and we got a sign-up sheet now."
Cris didn't answer as he climbed the wood stairs of the Spanish-style building to the second floor. All of the non-load-bearing walls on the second floor had been removed, to make room for a dining hall that was filled with wooden tables and metal chairs. Cris's polished loafers clacked against the tile floor. As he moved into the room, he heard Clancy in the back arguing about something. Cris headed in that direction, pushing through freshly painted double doors.
Clancy had his back to Cris. He was sixty, but still had the quick movements of a "promising boy."
Clancy Black was a legend on skid row. As a young man, they called him "the Black Attack," a middleweight who tended to cut too easily. He'd been matched badly by unscrupulous promoters, who used him like disposable goods. Still, he had the heart of a lion, and finally fought Art Aragon for the middleweight title in the sixties, but Clancy was a bleeder and got decisioned. When his career was over, he had nothing left but memories and a bottle. He became a "client" of the mission, puking up blood from esophageal hemorrhages with the rest of the heavy drinkers out in the alley behind the sally. It was back then that Clancy Black got his miracle. In a drunken stupor, he had a vision: "It was the Lord Jesus come to me at my lowest, fillin' me with his glory," Clancy had proclaimed in a reverent whisper. From that moment on, he had dedicated himself to a higher calling, a higher power. It stopped him from drinking, filled him with the Holy Ghost, saved his life, and gave him a future. God now walked inside Clancy, as surely as the demons who trailed behind the rest of the Fifth Street alcoholics. As Clancy put it, he had gone from a "helpless client" to "God's compliant," from "what's-it-to-ya" to "hallelujah." He found Jesus in the nick of time, just before he puked his life out with his last bottle of 49.
Now Clancy ran the Midnight Mission. He was the only one that had ever been able to get Cris to stop drinking. Clancy got him on the wagon for thirty days before he lost it, three years ago, and took off in shame to ride the rails.
"We can still use them fuckers," Clancy said to a cook, both of them looking at the date on a can of corned beef. "I think you're wrong, Danny, it don't say December, least it don't now." Clancy rubbed the date off with his thumb, and handed the can back. "Git alia them from this batch outta storage, and put 'em in with tomorra's stew. Sure beats eating outta Dumpsters, where rats been pissing." His bald black head was shining in the heat and stark neon light of the kitchen. Now he turned and looked directly at Cris, and his punched-out, slightly lopsided face broke into a smile. "And speaking a' rats," he said, "you musta rolled a banker to get them loafers."
Clancy didn't miss much.
"How ya doin', Clance?" Cris said, feeling slightly awkward, as well as light-headed and ashamed. It always started that way with Clancy. You wanted so bad to please him, to be straight for him. Lucky knew what he looked like, knew that Clancy could see the invisible residue of his addiction leaking out of his sweat glands, turning his skin to a boozer's blush.
"Reckless Reggie and Alabama Jack told me you was off seeing the great USA from under a boxcar."
"I need to talk to you, Clance," Cris said, suddenly wringing his hands uncontrollably in front of him.
"Let's get some joe; this ear-bang still has the best fucking coffee on the Nickel."
They poured two cups and moved into the empty dining hall. It was now after two, and the mission was strangely quiet. Lights out, Cris remembered, started at ten. Clancy sat across from Cris, and waited. Clancy was good at letting you get at it your own way.
"I gotta get straight," Cris finally said.
"Yep, no doubt about that," he answered.
"How?" Cris sort of croaked it out. "I keep telling myself I'm through, but I keep cheating."
"Like I told ya before, you gotta get yourself a higher power, you gotta find your miracle."
"Since Kennidi died, I can't go to God. I used to, but now... I just..." He stopped and lowered his head. "I know it works for you, Clancy. Me, I got doubts, y'know. I got things I can't reconcile."
"You thinkin' what kinda asshole God would take my little girl, torture her like that?" he said.
Cris didn't move or say anything, but Clancy read the agreement in his eyes.
"Yep. Well, sometimes it's like that. Hallelujah won't always do ya," Clancy grinned.
Cris couldn't help himself, he smiled back. "I think the people who gave me and Kennidi this problem are in Fort Detrick, Maryland, at a secret facility called the Devil's Workshop. They're also at a CIA-influenced company called Merck Laboratories. Maybe we shipped bio-weapons to Iraq. Maybe we made Gulf War Syndrome. It was tested here first in the 1980s."
Clancy looked at him, and finally nodded. "So?"
"I want to stop them, Clancy. I want to get them for Kennidi and for Laura and for me. It's the first thing in my stupid life I think I really care about. The first thing I give a shit about."
"Then do it."
"I can't. I can't make myself stop drinking. I try, and then I get the shakes and feel the D. T. S comin', and I just break all the promises."
"I seen guys in here every day for five years, trying to find the answer. They listen to the ear-bangs, look for Jesus to be their higher power, but they can't do it, and ya know why? 'Cause they're compulsive. Mosta my clients could use up a lifetime supply a' anything in three days. For you and them, there's no such thing as moderation." Cris nodded, and Clancy continued, "So, when a man can't find his higher power, he just keeps plowin' a furrow out there on the Nickel. One day somebody else comes in here wearing his shoes, and they tell me my guy's gone 'n' died in his cardboard box, with nobody to say his prayers to, and I be here knowin' it's
'cause he never found his miracle. Ya gotta have a higher power, Lucky. People like us, obsessive compulsives, we can't do it ourselves."
"Why?" Cris said. "Why can't I do it myself?"
"Anybody can stop for a while. Shit, I seen guys quit for a week, so their wives will stop yellin' at 'em, but that ain't no permanent thing. What you got, Cris, is a cravin', and a cravin' is a physical allergy, coupled with a mental obsession. That's a tough combination, so ya gotta have a higher power, something above ya to hang on to, to pull ya through when your resolve crumbles."
"But not God. I'd feel like a hypocrite praying. I've got to find my way back to Him when I'm ready. When I'm not..."
"So pissed off," Clancy finished.
Cris didn't answer.
"If ya can't fall on yer knees to God, then get down on yer knees to vengeance. You want these guys who made the chemicals? Then go get 'em. Make vengeance your higher power. Shit, man, anything works if it means enough to ya. Money, hatred, love, even pussy." He grinned at Cris. "Ya just gotta want it bad, you gotta serve somethin' bigger than yourself."
Cris looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"I've known guys, took 'em five years of praying, to get thirty days of sobriety." He reached out and put a hand on Cris's arm, "You gotta take this second-to-second. You're walkin' on a floor that may not hold ya, and each day of sobriety is just a day, and nothin' more."
"How do I beat the D. T. S?" Cris asked. "I can't get past them."
"You gotta go through 'em, son. You gotta buckle yerself in and just do it. There ain't no drugs for that. You got your body all fucked up. Comin' off just ain't no fun. Then you stay clean by seeking vengeance for your daughter's death. That's your higher power."
"Will you sit with me?" Cris asked. "Keep me from falling?"
"It's why I come to work, man. It's how I serve my higher power."
So Lucky went upstairs, got in Clancy's unmade bed, and wondered how long it would take the bugs to find his eyes.
Chapter 23
THE HIGHER POWER
The bugs came the next morning while he was eating breakfast. It was ten o'clock, and he was poking at some eggs, looking at the dining room full of listless and tattered men. Their faces were the faded plastic masks of empty souls. A few that he had shared bottles with in years past nodded at him and then moved on, not happy to see him, not sad he had returned. They shuffled past to find good spots out on the sidewalk, where they would warm their thin blood in the sun, like desert reptiles.
When he saw the first big hairy bug, it materialized like a movie special effect right on his hand. He dropped the fork he was stirring his runny eggs with and shook his hand hard. But the huge, furry spider clung to him, drawing blood. He watched the blood ooze as he screamed in terror.
Two men from the kitchen held him down while others ran to get Clancy. They took him to the D. T. ward, which was just a concrete-block room in the basement of the mission. More than one howling drunk had fought his demons in that cold, tight enclosure.
Cris writhed and jerked with insane madness as the beasts crawled on him. They went straight for his eyes. Others clung to the slick painted walls; they hung upside down on the ceiling over his head and waited for their turn. He screamed until he was hoarse.
It was afternoon before he began to find a few stretches of sanity. Clancy sat with him, leaving only to piss. He held his hand, whispering encouragement. He held the metal bucket while Cris vomited, until all he could heave up was long, drooling lines of transparent yellow bile.
Cris finally went to sleep at two A. M., and woke up a few hours later. He opened his eyes and lay still, sure he was still being invaded by insects and spiders. His skin was crawling, but he saw none of the furry eight-legged demons. He tried to stand; he was extremely weak. He desperately needed a drink. He needed to get in the Lincoln and go home to Pasadena. He couldn't stop thinking about the bar in his father's house, the rows of bottles with their colorful labels: vodka, Scotch, bourbon, rum. The memory of that parade of spirits made his dry mouth water. He licked his lips, and tried to open the door of the D. T. room. It was locked. In a second, he heard a key in the lock and the door swung wide. An old sandy-haired man with a concave chest was standing there.
"How y'doin', brother?"
"Gotta go," Cris said, trying to push past him.
"Clancy wants t'talk to ya."
"Gotta go," Cris said, and moved around him.
The man hurried off, up the hallway.
Cris climbed the stairs and found the front door of the mission, more or less by instinct. He started down the steps, moving slowly, holding the metal banister for support. He could see the Lincoln across the street, and set his sights on getting there.
"Lucky!"
Cris turned and saw Clancy standing on the steps above him in the door of the mission. He had obviously just gotten out of bed, and wore only a pair of shorts with no shirt, shoes, or socks.
"Where you going?"
"Gotta go," Cris said.
"You're through the D. T. S, boy. You're out. Now you wanna go get a drink. That's what they all do. Don't be like them. Clean up. Look up! Grab fer yer higher power. You can do it!"
Cris was so weak his legs were shaking. He had to hold the metal railing to stand. "Gotta go, Clancy," he said softly. "Gotta go home."
"You ain't goin' nowhere," he said, " 'less you go through me."
The Black Attack was sixty and weighed only 135, but he still had the heavy shoulders and trim waist of a fighter. He now moved quickly on bare feet, down to face Cris.
"Don't make me wreck ya, Lucky. Don't make me do it. Come on back inside."
Cris licked his lips.
"The men who made that Gulf War shit are laughing at you, Cris. They're in their big houses, laughing. 'We got ol' Lucky Cunningham 'cause he can't serve his power. We gonna piss on him, an' we gonna go piss on his dead baby.' "
Cris looked at Clancy with pleading eyes, then he started across the street, toward the car. Clancy moved with the lightning speed he'd used in the ring, got around in front of Cris, and stopped him, pushing him hard in the chest, back toward the mission. The two of them faced each other in the middle of the empty mist-wet street.
"I can't do it, Clancy. I can't."
"They sayin' Cris Cunningham don't got it. They sayin' we can all go piss on that little girl's grave."
Now Cris swung at Clancy, who ducked easily under the blow and then popped Cris once on the breastbone with a short, chopping left hand. Cris bent over and started wheezing. Clancy grabbed him by the shirt and straightened him up.
"Yep. Cris Cunningham, he never gave a shit about nothin' but hisself. Everything is always about Cris, poor Cris. Cris gonna go feel sorry fer hisself, drown hisself in a buncha booze. His little baby girl? He don't give a shit about her. We can jus' give her the sickness, fill her up with tumors an' the like ... any damn thing we want. Don't mean shit, 'cause Cris Cunningham only worries about hisself. He ain't gonna serve nothin'. He ain't got no higher power."
Now Cris was sobbing. He was crying in the street, and as Clancy put an arm around him, Clancy's own heart was breaking. "I can't, I can't," Cris wailed.
"Wanna bet?" Clancy said, and he led his friend back inside the mission.
Twelve hours later, at six o'clock that night, Cris was showered and dressed. His face was shaved, and his clothes had been washed and ironed. Clancy took him across to the Lincoln and stood with him in the gathering darkness. Cris had been at the mission less than twenty-four hours. He was shaky, but sober.
"I want you to tell me who the man is who killed your little girl," Clancy said.
"There's a guy named Admiral Zoll. I read some articles. He runs the program at Fort Detrick. Headed the Pentagon Special Project that did the tests in Huntsville Prison back in the eighties."
"What's he look like?"
"I don't know. I've never seen him."
"Tell me anyway. Look inside and make
up a picture."
"He's.. . He's big."
"Big guy. Yep, he'd have t'be," Clancy nodded. "What else?"
"He's got black hair and real black, mean eyes."
"Yeah, that's the one. That's the guy. Black eyes, mean eyes, like the devil's. Yeah, you got him now."
"And ... he doesn't give a shit about anything, about people."
"Fuckin' guy never did, Cris. Never gave one hoot in hell."
"And he, and ..." Cris stopped and looked down. "Everybody in the Gulf said I was a hero. Shit, Clance, I was just trying to stay alive. I woulda run from that Republican Guard unit, but I didn't know where the fuck I was, which way to go."
"We don't give a shit about you, Cris. Not anymore. We're here servin' vengeance. Admiral Zoll... tell me more."
"He doesn't care that his bio-weapon killed my little girl, that he ruined my life."
"Fuck you. I don't care about you. This ain't about you. Get that through yer head. I don't wanna hear about how you got fucked. Stop cryin' about poor Cris Cunningham. Vengeance's gotta be aimed, son, gotta be pointed out, not in. It's a higher power. You gotta serve it, it can't serve you."
"He ... killed her, and he doesn't care. He doesn't, because all he cares about is money and power."
"And who's gonna get this rotten son-of-a-bitch?"
"I am," Cris said softly, but it lacked conviction.
"Go serve yer vengeance, Cris. Hold it out in fronta you. But the first time you take a sip outta that bottle, this guy is gonna know. First time you take a sip, this motherfucker's won. Vengeance is your power, but this motherfucker's got rearview mirrors. He can see ya back here. He's gonna know if you fuck up, so you ain't gonna drink. You're gonna go get this godless prick."
Cris nodded. Then Clancy slipped forty bucks in his hand, "There's some money and my phone number. Don't go home, son. Don't go to yer Daddy's house. I don't know why, but a lotta your bad feelin's is there. When you're there, you look inside, you start feelin' sorry for yerself. You drink. You gotta look to your higher power, nothin' else."
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