Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  Iniko thought for a long moment and then began. “Only part of it’s about me.” He pulled up his sleeve and then smiled as he remembered he no longer had the tattoo.

  “Had it removed, huh?”

  Paul’s eyebrows went up. “You knew?”

  “I guessed. Hell, man, out of all the Tenct brothers and sisters in there, you’re the only one who never shared anything about before the crash.”

  “And if doesn’t change anything?”

  “I’m still here.”

  Paul nodded and raised his eyebrows. “There’s just one other thing I didn’t tell anyone. Up until a little while ago, I was an agent with the FBI.”

  “Well, the way you always showed wearing a suit and tie, you were either a fed or a lawyer, and you’re way too nice to be a lawyer.” Luis grinned. “Don’t go hide your face in shame over it, Paul. We got all kinds of cops in the program; everything from guards at the mall to Interpol. They leave their badges outside the door, though.” Luis Arévalo paused for a moment, then frowned. “Back up a sec. You said up until a little while ago.”

  “Yes. I’m out.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was asked to turn in my ID and weapon earlier this evening.”

  Luis sipped at his coffee and nodded. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “You know the ‘Slag Like Me’ column?”

  “We’re burning down the damned city over it, aren’t we?”

  “I was part of the task force assigned to the investigation of Micky Cass’s disappearance. I ran into a bind; something where if I followed procedure I might have to break the anonymity of someone in the program. That’s part of it.”

  “And?”

  “From what Micky Cass wrote in his column and in some other pieces under different names, I thought I saw the program. The magic words.”

  “Easy does it? First things first? One goddamned day at a time?”

  Paul nodded. “I thought Cass might be in the program. That would provide a possible explanation for how he was abducted. Luis, he got a phone call right before he left his home. Micky Cass kept meticulous phone records, yet he kept no record of that last call before he left the house.”

  “A Twelfth-Step call, maybe?” said Luis.

  “That’s what I think. Another recovering addict calls for help. Because of anonymity he wouldn’t keep any record of a Twelfth-Step call, and he’d go if he could, wouldn’t he?”

  Luis shrugged. “If the caller was in the program, and if it was a Twelfth-Step call.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

  “I know it sounds flimsy. I’ve been looking into it, trying to find out for certain, but I couldn’t tell my superiors without breaking Cass’s anonymity.”

  “He’s dead, Paul. Even the program Nazis don’t worry about anonymity once someone’s dead.”

  “There was still my own anonymity to consider, too. Once the bureau found out that I was a recovering addict, that would be the end of my career. The bureau isn’t terribly enlightened about the disease.”

  “I’ll give you that much,” said Luis.

  Paul folded his arms across his chest and continued. “There were two other considerations, as well. First, if the task force had decided to investigate my suspicions, there would’ve been agents and police officers hanging from the rafters at every meeting.”

  “From what I hear, most of ’em could use a meeting.”

  Paul folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t you think it would’ve put a bit of a cramp in our claim that we’re under no surveillance at any time?”

  “I was just kidding. What was the second consideration?”

  “You know how Cass kept his sex, race, religion, and so on secret?”

  Luis nodded. “So his stuff wouldn’t be looked at as some group’s slant on racism.” He nodded again. “Yeah, I see it. The recovering junkie’s view of human-Tenct relations.”

  “Exactly. If he was in the program and it became public knowledge, everything he’s tried to do would become compromised.”

  “So, what can I do, Paul?”

  “You know a lot of those in the program in this area. Was there a Micky C.?”

  “I thought the feds pulled your ticket.”

  “That’s right. I’m just a private citizen trying to piece together an answer or two.”

  “Yeah, right.” Luis nodded, frowned, shook his head, and nodded again. “Man, you sure know how to put a strain on the Traditions. Okay, you’re not a cop, you’re in the program, and Micky Cass is dead. There was a Micky C. I’ve known him from meetings for years. In the last few months I ran into him a few times at meetings over in Westwood and Beverly Hills. Now, what do you expect to do with that information? Hang around meetings in the area and grill the addicts for anyone who might’ve had some contact with Mick?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Luis went to take another sip of his coffee but found his cup empty. He turned and headed back to the coffee urn. “Damn, son.” He poured himself another cup and came back to the sink and leaned against it, his face troubled. “Paul, I got a boy in that meeting out there tonight, his first time since he got out of rehab. My youngest son.”

  “Is his name Spence?”

  Luis nodded. “Yeah. That’s what he calls himself. Did you meet him?”

  “Yes. He looks scared.”

  “He’s scared, all right. He finally heard the angel feathers and decided to duck in out of the shitstorm for a bit and see what getting clean can do for his world plan. He bought his first shit in the school yard when he was eight and in a year was dealing in the same place to feed his dragon. He’s had another twelve years on the streets since then, and you don’t keep up those three-hundred-dollar-a-day payments bagging groceries. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paul, I think we might safely assume that he has some old issues with the law to get squared away—possibly any and everything from mugging and B&E to murder. Now, me, I’d like to see this boy keep coming back, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Luis nodded. “It’s more than him being my son. It’s the same with any of them out there, including the cops in the program. I’d rather have them trying to stay clean than killing to stay high. Besides, if they want out of the nightmare, they deserve the chance to recover and to square themselves with the people they’ve hurt.” He glanced up at Paul. “You want to guess at how long my boy will stick around if you start asking cop questions? Or even if he hears about you asking questions of other addicts here or anywhere else within a hundred miles by using the program or its meetings? Hell, buddy, you’d clear out the halls everywhere they hear about it. That’s one hell of a lot of death, destruction, and mayhem to cause just to chase down one lead that may turn out to be nothing. Anonymity’s bigger than you or me or Micky Cass, murder, or even that riot out there.”

  “It’s not like attorney-client confidentiality or other privileged information. It has no legal status.”

  Luis nodded. “True. Without it, though, millions of us are dead.”

  Paul Iniko rubbed his eyes and let his hand fall to his side. “So, if it was a bogus Twelfth-Step call that suckered him out, Luis, how do I turn up the perp? There’s still a killer out there. It was one of our brothers he tortured to death. It’s triggered the bloodiest riot in L.A.’s history, and I want him. He’s got a lot to answer for.”

  The retired highway patrolman lifted the hand not occupied with the coffee cup and scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, man, let me think. Jesus, you get into more shit.” He frowned and talked as the thoughts came together. “Mick had some time in the program, understand?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Time. I mean, he was here when I came in eleven years ago. The guy knew what was going on; the ropes; the drill. What I’m trying to say is that he knew better than to go on a Twelfth-Step call by himself. He would’ve gotten hold of another NA to go with him. Did he make a call himself
after the one he got?”

  “According to his wife, there was just the one call, then he left. He didn’t try to get in touch with anyone else . . .” Paul’s eyebrows went up. “But what if someone called him to ask him to assist on a Twelfth-Step call? Would he have gone?”

  Luis scowled as he nodded. “Like a hooked salmon.” He placed his coffee cup on the edge of the sink and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Son of a bitch!” He shook his head and looked at Paul. “Don’t even think about cruising the meetings to try and track down the perp.”

  “How else am I supposed to track him down?”

  “I don’t know. But, like I said, keeping the people in this program anonymous and free from surveillance is more important than who killed Micky Cass. If I have to dog your heels twenty-four hours a day and rat you out in front of every meeting you show up at, I’ll do it.”

  “What do you suggest? I’m looking for someone in the program, right?”

  The big man frowned, looked at a blank spot in space, and slowly began shaking his head. “No.” He shook his head again. “No. I don’t think so.” He pulled a hand from a pocket and pointed at Paul. “Look, in a fellowship made up out of addicts of all kinds, you’re going to run into an asshole or two. I’m not saying it’s impossible. It’s just not very likely. If you hang around the program long enough, you get better. Whoever pulled this stunt, using the program to kill someone, is one sick and sorry bastard. I don’t figure Mick would go out Twelve-Stepping with someone he hadn’t even met before unless there was something very unusual about the call.” He looked up at Paul. “Where’s his car?”

  “At home in his garage. He didn’t take it.”

  “Did his wife see him get into a cab or a car?”

  “No. She didn’t see anything. We checked all the cab records, and no one picked up a fare anywhere near his house that night.” Paul folded his arms across his chest. “So, what do I do?”

  Luis held out his hands to his sides, palms toward the ceiling. “So, I don’t know, man. I’m guessing you’re looking for someone who isn’t in the program but knows enough about it to know about Twelfth-Step calls. He also had to be able to get Mick’s unlisted number. Maybe the perp’s an early dropout; just hung around long enough to pick up a few telephone numbers and a bit of the routine. Maybe it’s a friend or relative of some blabbermouth in the program, or the perp might’ve gone to a few open meetings with a friend or relative to keep him company. Take your list of suspects and start shaking the tree for a druggie.”

  “You think the perp is an addict?”

  “Not necessarily, Paul. But, whoever it is, he’s had some kind of contact with the program or with someone who’s in the program. Nobody shows up in NA by accident or out of a desire to be sociable. Usually it’s someone in a dead heat with the nightmare. Find the chemical, buddy, and I’m betting you’ll be on the trail leading to the killer. You run across any addicts yet?”

  “Three of them. The father of one of the children Cass mentioned in his ‘Policeman’s Lot’ piece, Cass’s next-door neighbor, and the cop from the first column.”

  “The one called Davenport?”

  “Yes. Davenport’s alibi was a doctor and his lieutenant supplied the doctor’s name. He’s a psychiatrist who specializes in treating alcoholics by substituting an addiction to prescription drugs.”

  Luis shook his head. “Diagnosis—acute Valium deficiency. I take it this Davenport isn’t exactly familiar with the program.”

  “You’re right. His alibi isn’t exactly seamless, but dissolving someone in acid for getting a department reprimand would be a bit of an overreaction even for Davenport.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “Both of them are into alcohol, at least. Maybe other drugs, as well.”

  “Alibis?”

  “They both have excellent alibis and neither one has even a clue about recovery or the program—any program.” Paul held out his hands. “So?”

  “So, keep looking. Your junkie is out there, Paul, not in here. If he was in here, the city wouldn’t be in flames.”

  When he and Luis left the kitchen and returned to the meeting, Elaine G. was sharing her story. Good girl, sexually abused as a child, addicted to food, moved on to diet pills, and the entire range of over-the-counter and medically prescribed relaxants, tranquilizers, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. Her addiction had cost her a family, a home, several jobs, considerable physical and mental damage, and left her screaming out her guts locked up in a psycho ward where they introduced her to a whole new series of drugs with which she promptly fell in love. Then a sister of hers who was in NA dragged her to her first meeting putting her at the bottom of her long climb back to sanity. Throughout it all she had not done a single illegal drug. To thunderous applause, she picked up her two-year key tag that night.

  Annie O., a Tenctonese addicted to zabs, shared how her immigration joke name, Ann O’Nymity, had eventually led her through her nightmare to the doors of NA. The name designed to shame and degrade her had saved her life. Annie picked up her one-year tag that night. As she did so, Paul felt the one-year tag in his own pocket. It represented a million battles and just as many victories. Later, the young man named Spence picked up his white beginner’s welcome tag.

  As they stood and formed the traditional closing circle, their arms around each other’s waists and shoulders, one of the addicts read out the reminder of anonymity, followed by a moment of silence for the still-suffering addicts outside the halls of NA. While Bad John read “Just for Today,” Paul looked across the circle to see George Francisco serving as an extremely uncomfortable part of an otherwise serene group hug. As the addicts said the Serenity Prayer, George mouthed the words to Paul, “We have to talk.”

  C H A P T E R 2 2

  “YOU OKAY, MAN? Boffa, pirn vot niyim? Hey, debah, we gotta get moving!”

  An all-encompassing numbness, a mental syrup that stood between awareness and the raw edges of unbelievable pain. Not all of reality was menacing, however. There was light.

  Sunlight? Morning?

  Maybe it was some of that out-of-body near-death stuff they talk about on Oprah.

  He squinted his eyes open just a crack and looked. The light. It was a building on fire. Several buildings on fire. Green flames.

  Green. Green?

  Green is pain.

  And pain is pain whether or not it is felt. He remembered being taught that. He couldn’t remember who taught it to him. There was a line from a song, “It’s not easy being green . . .”

  “No goddamn shit,” he whispered, the effort sending pains through his eyes.

  Motion.

  Something was moving. He looked and saw wreaths of oily black smoke against the flames. The sky was blotted out, filled with a hairless head.

  A man.

  Tenct.

  Greenish face looking down at him.

  Tenct, chunky, scarred, bleeding that pinkish green blood. Flames going up; smoke coming down. The face began spinning.

  “Nya ve! Nya ve!”

  “I’m awake,” he heard himself say in response, although he wasn’t quite certain what it was that he had been commanded to do. The effort of talking brought on pain. Different pain. Pain that could be felt. His jaw hurt; his neck; the right side of his head; his back and legs, arms and wrists—everything.

  His head felt as though it had been crushed. Sharp pains from his sides and back. His organs felt as though they were on fire. The comforting dark, the anesthetic syrup of unconsciousness, remained just beyond his reach. He heard himself moan as he once more opened his eyes and watched again the spinning face.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Man, we got to move! The Dragons and the Jets caved in and the Blue’ll be here in a couple of minutes! The Shade can’t hold ’em. Without Danny and the Roc we’re nothin’! Man, we got to move!”

  There were footsteps and another voice. “Breaker, who’s that?”

&
nbsp; “Danny picked him up late last night. He was in the car when the Blue stopped it. The cops did a thump on him, Hooks.”

  The one called Hooks squatted down and looked into his face. Hooks’s face and spotted scalp were blackened with soot. In his hands he held a Micro Uzi 9mm. “Looks like a bit of hardball on him.”

  “Hardball, hell. Looks like the whole damned World Series took place on his face.”

  “Who is he?” asked Hooks as he stood upright. “I don’t know him.”

  He felt hands moving over his body. “Hey, he’s got a piece. Look at that. Nice one, too.” Breaker went back to the search.

  “Let me see.” There was a moment, then Hooks said, “A Beretta. What about some ID?”

  “Nothing. If he had a wallet, it’s gone.”

  “What’s that chain?”

  He felt something tap his chest. “Hey, Hooks. Look at this, man. It’s a press pass. He’s got a press pass.”

  “What station?”

  “Not TV. This guy’s with the papers. He’s from the Times, you know, like that Ellison Robb.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Cross. His name’s Matt Cross. I remember Danny saying something about this guy.”

  This guy.

  Matt Cross, he thought. This guy. My name’s Matt Cross. There was something right about it—something terribly wrong about it, too.

  Right; wrong.

  There was too much pain in his head to allow thought.

  Matt Cross.

  Who?

  Issues for another time.

  “Another nugah?” asked Hooks.

  “I don’t know, man. He sure looks debah to me. If he’s fehn, plastic man did one hell of a job on him.”

  “Get him up. We got to get off the street.”

  “No,” mumbled the one called Matt Cross. He felt them try and lift his arms. “No. Don’t. Please. I hurt. Hurt too much. Can’t move.”

  Hooks squatted down. He was clad in a ripped Shade jacket, the neon pink muted by the ashes of the Chay. “Matt? Hey, Matt Cross? Earth to Matt. Earth to Matt.”