Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  “Increasing the problems? He’s increasing the problems? Don’t you mean calling a racist a racist? Jesus, George, what’s the Tenct equivalent of an Uncle Tom or a Tio Taco? Don’t make waves, don’t confront racism, just grin and bear it and maybe someday it’ll all just go away.”

  “You don’t clear up muddy water by stirring it, Matt.”

  “Welcome to Fantasyland, George! What about those slaghunts, buddy? They drive on by and just blow someone out of his socks because he’s a Newcomer. How’s that for muddy water? What about that little boy who was gunned down on Third? What about that woman who died at Grace emergency yesterday because she was Tenct and the physician on duty decided that the Hippocratic oath didn’t cover her? Think maybe those puddles need a little stirring? What about that, George?”

  “Ubi Dugi.”

  “What?”

  “Ubi Dugi,” George repeated. “The Tenct equivalent of an Uncle Tom—Ubi Dugi.”

  “Aaargh!” Sikes bellowed and pounded his fist on the steering wheel.

  “That is not an argument!” George countered.

  “Then maybe this is an argument!” Sikes punched the roof of the car and bellowed more loudly. When he was finished, he grabbed the steering wheel and glared at the jammed traffic.

  Punching the roof thought Matt as he felt the ache in his knuckles. Punching the roof is stupid. He hadn’t connected with the center of a panel. Instead he had hit a welded seam bent on right angles. The cheap upholstery covering the interior of the roof was nothing but one thin layer of cloth. He glanced at his knuckles and saw that they all had been scraped white. The skin had not been broken, but they hurt like root canal with a hangover.

  Stupid. Hitting things to express anger at a person. Not as stupid as hitting the person, perhaps, but stupid all the same. But what else do you do with anger—rage? The pressure of maddening frustration that left no option save exploding at something. As a child he had taken to punching walls, trees, and dirt as an alternative to punching an abusive alcoholic father or a judgmental mother flying through life on pounds of prescription drugs.

  At that Adult Children of Alcoholics meeting he had attended there had been a man called Benny. Benny had said something about praying for a hero when he was a child. Someone who would swoop in, punish those who had made him suffer, and then take him away. Matt Sikes had never prayed for a hero. He had never prayed for anything. He had always figured that a god who could allow the horror of his life to happen would not make a very reliable repairman. Not exactly Maytag.

  There had been television and movies, however. Heroes who came onto the scene and did what needed to be done, laid waste to houses, buildings, cities, entire planets, to make wrong right. Red tape, custom, manners, the opinions of others, the law, rules and regulations, thoughts of personal safety, none of these could bound a Ripley, or the second Terminator, Connagher, Quigley . . .

  He grimaced as a phrase from an old song drifted through the tangle of his mind, “someone to watch over me.” Maybe that’s what Ellison Robb was: the Anonymous Avenger, a nameless masked knight in newsprint seeking out evildoers and kicking ass big time. There was plenty of ass out there that needed kicking, too.

  Matt glanced at his partner. A big piece of that ass was in the passenger seat. If the victims of abuse defend and shield the abusers, what hope can a little child have? What chance does anyone have? “George?”

  “What?”

  “Let me try this just one more time. You can’t argue with the fact that Ellison Robb is saying some things that need to be said.”

  George shrugged and turned his head to look out the window. “There are ways and there are ways.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Francisco faced his partner. “You don’t use a cannon to kill flies.”

  “If dead flies is what you’re after, George, a cannon will do one hell of a job!”

  George Francisco growled out a strangled bellow and pounded on the dashboard with his fists. “Look at what this Robb has driven me to!”

  “At least we’re communicating on the same level, George!”

  Francisco strained against his seat belt as he turned toward his partner. “Is now when you call me slag, Matt? It’s right on your tongue! I can see it!”

  Matt heard a scream from outside the car and faced forward in time to see that he was headed directly toward two children, a man in a suit, and a bag lady crossing the street with the light. He jumped on the brake, stalled the unit, and felt his head slam into the backrest as the car following them slammed into the unit’s rear bumper. Matt roared and punched the steering wheel.

  C H A P T E R 2

  AFTER REACHING HOMICIDE, the division rather than the criminal condition, Matt and George maintained a mutual smoldering silence as they stormed to their desks. Sergeant Dobbs, seated at his desk, barked into his telephone, “Look, Kelly, I don’t give a damn what you do with the old roofing, downspouts and rain gutters! Just get all that junk off my lawn! I want it done today, understand?” He listened for a moment, pulled the handset away from his head and stared into it as though the machine had lied to him. Again he shouted into the handset, “Kelly? You heard anything I’ve said? I’m a police officer, you understand? Maybe your business license is something that needs a little review—Hello? Hello?” He glowered and slammed down the handset. “Stupid lazy ignorant son of a bitch.” Dobbs glanced up at Sikes and Francisco, caught one look at their faces, and leaned back in his chair. “I see our float for national brotherhood week is going to be late this year.”

  Francisco glared at him. “Stick it up your ass, Dobbs,” said George, causing Dobbs’s jaw to drop to his chest. The most even-tempered, least profane person on Earth had just told him to stick it up his ass. It was equivalent to Mr. Rogers grabbing his crotch and growling “Eat me!”

  When Dobbs recovered sufficiently, he pointed toward Captain Grazer’s office. “The man wants you both about twenty minutes ago.”

  George glanced at his watch and raised his gaze to glare at Matt. “I told you that shortcut of yours would make us late.”

  “How was I supposed to know that truck was blocking the alley?”

  “One lane wide? In the middle of how many stores and markets? At morning rush hour? How many humans does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  Sikes turned on his heel and stormed toward Captain Grazer’s office. Dobbs looked up at George and asked, “How many?”

  “What?”

  “How many humans does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  “Six billion and one.” He shrugged and allowed a touch of embarrassment to lower his voice. “You know, one to hold the bulb and six billion to twist the planet.” George grimaced. “Tenctonese humor, don’tcha know.”

  Dobbs pointed toward Grazer’s office. “Watch your back in there, George. I don’t know what’s going on, but the cap’s got a fed with him.” He pointed toward his wrist and made a jagged motion with his finger. “Your old Overseer buddy?”

  Francisco frowned, turned, and followed Sikes. By the time George finally entered the captain’s office, he took up a position on the opposite side of the room from Sikes. Grazer, struggling through his fourth day without a cigar, was a lump of glower behind his desk. In a chair facing him was a slender human man in his late fifties, financially fashionable in muted charcoal stripes, wine-colored tie and vest. The suit, the tie, and the vest were wrinkled, and the man had a thin brush of white whiskers on his face. Sitting next to him was a face that George Francisco recognized from the Maanka Dak affair the year before. It was Paul Iniko, the Overseer who had become an agent for the FBI.

  “You worked with Agent Iniko before,” Grazer stated. Nodding toward the man in the rumpled suit, the captain said, “This is Martin Fell, editor in chief of the Times.” The captain glanced at Sikes and returned his gaze to George. “Do you two know about this columnist Ellison Robb?”

  “Who doesn’t?” George answered, his tone qu
ite acid.

  “Some of us better than others,” added Sikes, his tone equally caustic.

  “You two want to knock it off,” snapped Grazer.

  Martin Fell shook his head and held his hand up, the palm facing Grazer. “My own office is the same way, captain. In fact, I would venture to guess that every office within fifty miles of here is the same way. Ellison Robb was something of a social catalyst.”

  “A shitstorm at a white sale,” muttered George.

  “Was?” Matt asked Fell, ignoring his partner’s comment. “You said he was something of a whatever. What’s this about? What’s happened?”

  Fell nodded, his expression grave. “Perhaps my verb tense is premature, but he’s missed his last two delivery drops.”

  “Delivery drops?”

  “We had a prearranged series of different locations where I could go unobserved to pick up his copy and leave messages during those periods when he wouldn’t or couldn’t come into his office. We haven’t seen him for almost two weeks and he’s missed his last two drops, yesterday’s and today’s. Perhaps I’m only projecting, but he told me that if he missed a drop, it’s only because he’s either dead, critically wounded, or under restraint.”

  Grazer dropped an expired piece of chewing gum into his wastebasket and said, “Possible kidnapping.” He nodded toward Iniko. “That’s why the fed.”

  “If he missed his drop yesterday,” said Matt, “how come you waited until he missed another before you came to us?”

  Fell raised his hands and then dropped them to his lap. “I needed to be sure. Mick walks in constant drama. He’s given, if you prefer, to casting things in the most theatrical way possible.”

  George spoke first, “and you had to be certain this wasn’t some kind of stunt Cass pulled to get a rise out of everybody.”

  “There were other reasons for my reluctance, as well.” Fell seemed to stare into space for a moment, then continued. “I was concerned after he missed the first drop, but after the second was missed my concern moved to panic.”

  George thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned his back against a filing cabinet. “Forgive me, Mr. Fell, but couldn’t this be just another little piece of sensationalism designed to get Cass a bit of publicity?”

  Martin Fell’s face flushed bright red. “The person we’re talking about, officer, is the same person who once called Yassir Arafat a schmuck to his face. He doesn’t need to stage a kidnapping to create interest.”

  “Micky Cass?” asked George, his eyebrow arched. “Do you mean that Ellison Robb is that Micky Cass?”

  “Yes. You’ve read some of Mick’s work?”

  George nodded, folded his arms and held out a hand as though the revelation of Micky Cass’s name explained everything. Cocking his head to one side, George said, “If something has happened, I’m not surprised. Something was bound to. The thing you mentioned just underscores my point. I mean the man went out of his way to anger as many persons per word as possible. The anger was mostly justified, and it was frequently entertaining, but having Cass write about racism is like sending in Rambo to conduct crisis control.”

  Paul Iniko studied George Francisco’s face for a beat and then said, “Nevertheless, he or she is entitled to the same legal protection as any other citizen.”

  “He or she?” George repeated. Facing Fell he stated, “Micky Cass is male.”

  The editor in chief of the Times held up his hands in an eloquent shrug. “Probably. Possibly. I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure?” demanded Grazer. “Didn’t you hire him?”

  Martin Fell lowered his hands to his lap and chuckled sadly as he shook his head. “I hired him and I don’t know. Not for certain. He’s probably male . . . maybe.” He shook his head in frustration. “I know how this sounds, but the only other thing I know is that Ellison Robb is novelist Micky Cass. I don’t know Micky Cass’s sex.” His shoulders issued an additional tiny shrug. “I guess I don’t know his name, either. Micky Cass is a pseudonym, too. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “Or she,” said George as he folded his arms across his chest. “I know he’s had this bit in his column about refusing to identify himself, but I’ve read a number of his books. He’s obviously . . .” George shook his head. “The stories were very strong.”

  “What do you mean ‘strong,’ George?” asked Sikes, his eyebrows upraised.

  George frowned as he recalled the image of a square-cut jaw, a gleaming white grin coming out of a dark face. “There were pictures on the dust jackets of his books. I’ve seen pictures of Micky Cass. He’s a man. He looks like a man, writes like a man.” Francisco looked at Matt and then faced Martin Fell.

  “I cannot believe I just said that.” He took a deep breath and let it escape slowly from his lungs as he sorted his thoughts. “Mr. Fell, how long have you known him—her—Cass?”

  “Almost fifteen years.”

  “You know this person for fifteen years and you don’t know the person’s sex?”

  Fell nodded, sadness creeping into his eyes. “I didn’t know a great deal of unimportant detail about Mick.”

  “Sex isn’t exactly unimportant,” said Matt.

  “It is at my house,” muttered Grazer to no one in particular. Noticing that everyone was looking at him, his face flushed and he said, “Go on.”

  Fell shrugged and looked thoughtful. “As far as Micky was concerned, one’s sex was only important to a physician or to someone with whom he was sexually involved. He wasn’t sexually involved with me, and I’m no doctor. As for everyone else, it’s none of their business, as far as Mick was concerned. Sex, sexual identity or preference, race, name, religion, favorite sport, hobbies, politics—nobody’s business.”

  Grazer shook his head. “I can’t believe you knew him for all those years and didn’t know his sex.”

  “Not for lack of trying, captain. Mick once told me if I needed to make an issue of it, the friendship would end. Hence, if I valued his friendship more than the satisfaction of my curiosity, I’d best get onto some other subject.”

  “I don’t get it. There must be a million forms he had to fill out that asked his sex and so on.”

  “You’re right, captain. I have his social security number and some other forms that list race or sex. Where he had to fill these things out, for sex he’d enter ‘NA’ for not available, or he’d simply answer ‘yes.’ For race he’d either enter ‘human’ or IL.’ ”

  “IL?” asked George.

  “Intelligent life,” said Matt quietly.

  Fell looked at Sikes and nodded. “Yes. Intelligent life.” He nodded again. “That’s right. Mick mentioned that in the cards and letters piece.” He faced Grazer. “What’s really amusing about that IL thing was the response of the paper wizards who would process Mick’s forms. Every time they ran across that IL, all they saw was the I and proceeded on the assumption that Micky Cass was a Native American, an Indian. He might be, too. God, I would’ve hated to have been the census taker on his block.”

  “What about that?” asked Iniko.

  “You mean the census?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forget it. Before coming here I scraped together every scrap of information I could get on Mick, including checking with the Census Bureau. There is no record of Micky Cass under any name that I know appearing in any census in U.S. history. None of their business.”

  “You have a home address on Cass?” asked Matt.

  “He has a place in Coldwater Canyon. And before you ask, the property is not in Mick’s name.”

  “In one of the columns I read,” said Matt, “the one set in Chayville, Ellison Robb told someone, the sister of the gang leader, that he was married. Was Cass married?”

  “Yes. He’s married.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows and held out his hands. “Okay, are we talking a man or a woman?”

  “A woman,” said Fell. “Tian Apehna.”

  “She has a Tenctonese n
ame,” stated George.

  “She’s Tenctonese.”

  “Funny how that worked out,” cracked Sikes. Matt held out his hands. “Let’s get back to her being a woman. If Micky Cass is married to a woman, by a process of elimination doesn’t that make him a man?”

  Everyone found somewhere else to look while the silence in the office stretched into eternity and Matt Sikes’s face acquired a rosy hue. “So what are we talking here? Lesbian? Gay?”

  “All kinds of irrelevant detail,” said Fell, looking up at Matt. “What I do know about Mick was that he swung his honesty like a war club, and that his mortal enemies were stupidity, injustice, and cruelty.”

  “So why do you call him he?” asked Grazer. “You use the male pronoun.”

  “So did Mick. It didn’t offend him.”

  “Probably because he’s a man,” muttered George.

  “You’re still talking in the past tense, Mr. Fell,” said Matt.

  Martin Fell’s face flushed again. “Look, detective, I’m the one who came in here to report this.” His frown deepened. “I suppose I’m taking Mick at his word. He’s missed two drops in a row and something’s happened.”

  Matt shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “About the irrelevant details you mentioned, Mr. Fell—sex, race, religion, and so on. A lot of people around the world kill and die over those irrelevant details every day. If we don’t know those things, we might never find out why this Micky Cass was either nabbed or killed. If we don’t know why, we’re never going to find out who, and we don’t even know his real name or even if he is a he.”

  “I think there are already plenty of suspects to keep you occupied,” said Grazer. “I’m guessing there are only about ten people in the state that ‘Slag Like Me’ didn’t offend, and they’re all doing solitary out at China Lake Federal Pen.” He nodded toward the editor of the Times. “Now, Mr. Fell here has agreed to turn over all of Ellison Robb’s notes, correspondence, hate mail, schedules, office and home phone logs, and so on. Until we know for certain that it’s a kidnapping, the FBI is leaving it in LAPD hands, although every bureau resource will be made available, including more agents on an unofficial basis should we ask for them. Right now, I’m organizing the task force on this case. It’ll become a federal task force once the bureau makes its investigation official.”