Alien Nation #5 - Slag Like Me

by Barry B. Longyear

  “And,” said Duke, “once we have perpetual motion, we’ll be able to tell you how it works.”

  What a bunch of bullshit, he thought. What a goddamned fraud.

  Investigation, hell.

  He opened his eyes and looked through the window.

  Look at all that smoke, he thought. It’s not just me. Everybody thinks it’s bullshit. They’re burning down the city just to say it’s bullshit.

  Not important, anyway.

  Micky Cass is dead, dead, dead.

  A shame, really. Cass could write after a fashion. The fashion’s in your face, purposefully offensive, but never dull. When Cass was murdered, a light was put out making the universe a little darker. It had been a bright light. It hurt the eyes, burned the skin, blistered the mind. Even those who hated Cass and everything for which he stood suspected that it had been a necessary light.

  “What a bitch,” Duke muttered.

  It was indeed a bitch. There were many things about Cass that he admired. There were the things for which Cass fought, how he fought for them, his passion, his hatred. Duke shared many of the same sentiments.

  Duke shook his head as an old pain streaked through his soul. God, he regretted taking Micky Cass to court over the stupid color of his stupid house. What a friend Micky would’ve made. Sharp mind, vicious sense of humor, the guts to act out on his revenges. What a loss.

  Duke shook his head slowly as he realized that he missed the nightly light show; the sight of that huge neon eyeball flashing at him out of the night. In a perverse way, it had been a compliment. That someone of Cass’s literary stature would spend the time, money, and effort, not to mention changing the look of his house, just to piss off Duke Jessup. That was a compliment.

  A dim memory made its way through the haze.

  A moment.

  There had been another moment. It had been not long after Cass had painted the eyeball on his roof and had installed the strobe lights. Duke allowed the feelings to wash over him.

  Anger.

  Rage.

  It seemed like a hundred years ago. He had stormed down the slope and shouted at Cass over the white-painted brick wall that surrounded his property. When Duke finished ranting, Cass frowned for a moment. The way Duke remembered it, Micky Cass even looked as though he felt a shade guilty.

  In any event, the writer took out a notepad and wrote something down. He then tore out the page, reached across the wall, and handed it to Jessup. The slip contained Cass’s name and his unlisted telephone number.

  Cass had said, “Jessup, despite the overwhelming evidence, and no matter how hard you try to convince me, I cannot believe you’re an absolute asshole. You might be in trouble with a chemical.”

  “Don’t be insulting!” Duke had growled.

  Micky Cass had shrugged. “If you don’t have a problem with booze or some other drug, then you are in really big trouble because that means you are an asshole and there’s nothing anyone can do about that. If you do have a chemical problem, though, that we can do something about. Take a look at it. If there ever comes a time when you run out of answers and want to do something about it, give me a call. I know a few people and we can sort it out.” Then he went back in his house. Those were the last words Cass had ever said to Duke.

  At the time he had passed off the offer as a presumptuous invasion of his private life. However, the fact was right there, staring Jessup in the face. “He wanted to help me. He tried to help me.”

  Duke looked down at the amber liquid in the bottle perched on his belly. Oh, yes, there was a chemical in his life and it had him by the short hairs. But there wasn’t any point in trying to help Duke Jessup. He was way beyond anything like help.

  But what Cass had done had been a nice gesture. An exceptionally nice gesture, considering everything that had transpired between them. It had been such a nice thing to do, Duke couldn’t allow himself to trust it.

  He frowned as he tried to remember what he had done with the slip of paper Micky had given him. The day Cass had given it to him had been a confusing day. Of course, every day was a confusing day. Arguments, fights, a world of problems simply too baffling to comprehend, much less solve.

  That day Micky Cass and his eyeball had been one turd on the heap too many. Duke had been almost blind with rage as he stormed down through his garden. Micky Cass, his nut brown tan and his Foster Grants, that eternal smirk on his face. Duke hated smirkers. They were dishonest put-down artists attempting to build self-esteem upon the rubble of other persons’ feelings, hopes, and dreams.

  But Micky Cass had wanted to help.

  Dead. The police, the FBI, no one had a clue who had killed Cass. Maybe the gang members down in the Chay. Maybe some nut group like the Ahvin Rivak. Maybe even the FBI itself. Maybe the cops did it, or the man in the moon.

  Absentmindedly Duke slapped at his chest and thighs in an idle gesture attempting to check his pockets for the note. Hell, it had been months ago.

  He paused, frowned, and sat up as he remembered what he had done with the note. He had thrown it on the ground. A chill went up his spine and made his skin tingle. He sent the thought away several times, physically shaking his head to deny it legitimacy. Each time, however, it came back.

  “Oh, God,” he said. There was a two and another two. He took them apart and put them together a hundred times, and each time the result was a gargantuan four towering above the horizon.

  “I know who killed him,” whispered Duke. “Micky Cass I know who killed him.”

  The smell in his nose caused him to remove the cigar from his mouth and look at it. The coal burned softly in the dark. He sniffed again, and the smell was not tobacco. There was a flicker of yellow against the ceiling. Shadows of smoke cutting the light from outside. He struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the window. Below, in the patio against the house, a fire was burning. The whole base of the wall was burning. “What in the . . .”

  He turned, went to his desk, and picked up the telephone. Fear made its way through his haze as he realized he couldn’t get a dial tone. Dropping the phone, he rushed back to the window and was startled back as a rush of flames roared by his face.

  He clamped the cigar between his teeth and opened the hall door. The window wall facing Cass’s house was a sheet of flame, the double-glazed glass cracking from the heat. Duke ran to the other end of the hall and stepped into his wife’s immaculately appointed vestibule, all of that pure white now reflecting red and orange from the flames at all the windows.

  “Why should the looters have all the fun,” he muttered as he dropped his cheroot in the center of that chaste floor covering and ground it out with his foot. He turned, went to the stairs to the lower level, and stepped back as he saw flames burst in through the glass doors below. A blast of heat like the breath of Hell came up the stairs. He turned and looked through the flames that were shattering the glass at the front window. Two very familiar persons were running toward the turnoff.

  “Looters, hell!” he shouted.

  Suddenly all things made sense. One more small fire on the edge of a holocaust would hardly be noticed. The fire department was already overwhelmed. The grass had been dampened by the rain, so there was no threat of the hills themselves going up. It was just one house. The fire fighters were trying to put out entire city blocks. By the time they could find time for Duke’s house, there’d be nothing left but the chimney, some cold ashes, and Duke Jessup’s fillings. It made absolutely perfect sense.

  No route of escape was left. The pair who had set the fire knew the house probably better than Duke knew it. They wouldn’t have left any way out. They’d know, too, how Mrs. Jessup had refused to have anything in the house as crude, red, and garish as a fire extinguisher.

  Jessup looked at the stairs going up. There wouldn’t be any jumping from an upstairs window. The murderers knew him very well, knew Duke’s morbid fear of heights. He backed away from the stairs until his back was against the outside wall. As his hands touch
ed the plastered surface, they jerked back from the heat. He turned and saw the white paint blister from the surface. A crack appeared at the top of the wall, allowing a single tongue of flame to lick at the ceiling.

  The smoke coming up the stairs became thick and dark, forcing Duke to his hands and knees. It was hot. So hot. He tried to moisten his lips as another wave of heat washed over him. Sparks rained out of the smoke, igniting the rug.

  Lois has been had, he thought. She paid for fireproof and got squat. It was too hot to keep his eyes open, too hot to breathe. He didn’t feel it as he fell over and landed on his side, praying only to be unconscious before the flames reached him.

  C H A P T E R 2 6

  THERE WAS A large dog named Spike. Spike was taking Sylvester’s head and was smacking it with an anvil.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Sylvester knew a secret. He knew he really wasn’t a puddy-tat. Deep inside, beneath the teeth, claws, and fur, beyond the thufferin’ thuccotash, he knew he was really Tweety Bird.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Spike really shouldn’t be hitting him because it was always Spike and Tweety against the puddy-tat. “Hell,” said Tweety. “I guess I never looked at it through the puddy-tat’s eyes.”

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  “Jesus Christ, Spike! Let up!”

  “What was that?”

  Headache.

  The universe throbbing.

  The roar of an ancient four-cylinder engine.

  Matt opened his eyes and noticed that his head was banging against something. He pulled his head away from it and saw that it was a piece of glass. A window. Homes were passing by. A pooch peeing on a palm tree.

  He turned his head and saw a young Tenctonese girl driving him somewhere. Li Sinritu. Her minivan. Coldwater Canyon. She glanced at him for a moment, then returned her gaze to the road. “Are you all right, cop? I couldn’t hear what you said.”

  “It’s nothing. A dream.”

  “It sounded scary. Are you sure I shouldn’t take you back to the hospital?”

  Matt grimaced and nodded his head gently. “It was scary. Have you ever been a canary inside a cat being beat over the head by a bulldog swinging an anvil?”

  “My nightmares are more about being trapped in close dark places.”

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Matt.

  “No. I hate being confined in small places.”

  “Isn’t that what you and the Ahvin Rivak want to go back to? Flying among the stars packed into a sardine can with no windows? Kid, the slaves were jammed on that ship ankle to jowl.”

  “Don’t you lecture me on the ship, fehn. I was there; you weren’t.”

  “On the ship? What do you remember? Just how old were you, Li . . . ?” At the sound of her name leaving his mouth, Matt felt himself blush once more. He turned away and rubbed his eyes.

  “What’s the matter, cop? I thought you wanted to fight.”

  “At this point I couldn’t arm wrestle the Pillsbury doughboy.”

  “Then what is it? It was something about my name, right?”

  Matt held a palm to his forehead and said, “Look, it was nothing about your name. It is the name Lee, though. I did a stupid thing, made myself the wrong kind of blind.”

  “I do that all the time. Mistakes are just mistakes.”

  Matt let a bitter laugh escape his lips. “Yeah. But in my case the mistake might have let a couple of killers escape. It might even get a few more people killed.”

  “Sikes!”

  “What?”

  “Look up there, Sikes! Past that hill on the left. A fire. I’m not riding into any damned riot.”

  “There’s no rioting going on in the canyon.” He leaned forward and felt a chill as he recognized the area. “Quick! As soon as you get around that hill, take the next left.”

  As the van wheeled around the hill, Li Sinritu made the turn, bringing Cass’s house into full view. Above it on the hillside, Duke Jessup’s house was surrounded by flame, the stench of gasoline heavy in the air. “Look!” commanded Matt as he pointed at the car parked next to Cass’s house. “That’s my partner’s car. Pull up next to it and run in. Tell George to call in the fire. Leave me the keys! I’m taking the van up to see if I can get Jessup out of there!”

  “How do you know anyone’s in there?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, Li. That fire’s got no point unless it kills Jessup! Debate’s over! Get going!”

  Up at the turn off, Matt saw a familiar pickup truck making smoke as it raced away from the Jessup house. “Go on!” shouted Matt.

  Li pulled up in front of Micky Cass’s house, put the van in park, and ran into the house. Matt moaned as he slid over, put the van in gear, and squealed the tires as he turned left past Cass’s house and climbed it up toward the Jessup place. The pickup truck raced away in the opposite direction. Electric green mud flaps, One Day Perot bumper sticker, and all. Take that Perot sticker off and the sticker below would be the number one slogan of every Twelve-Step program from AA to ZA: One Day at a Time. The truck even had a load of scrap metal in it.

  It was either let Jessup fry or go after the Lee brothers. “Hell, I couldn’t do anything even if I could catch ’em.”

  The downhill side of Jessup’s house was a sheet of flames, as was the east side. As he pulled the van around the turn and came abreast of the front, Matt saw that there was no way in or out of the burning building.

  Perhaps it was already too late.

  Maybe not.

  Even though he knew he wasn’t thinking very clearly, Matt knew there was only one way to find out for sure if Jessup was still alive. He stood on the brakes, backed up across the street and into the driveway of the house facing Jessup’s. As a wave of light-headedness passed, he said out loud, “I wouldn’t be doing this except that if Jessup dies in there, it’ll be my fault.” He nodded once and remarked to himself, “Just so we’re clear on that.”

  He put the van in low gear, floored the accelerator, and aimed the van at the huge picture window beyond the flames. The wall of yellowish orange heat came closer and closer, the front wheels struck the curb and bounced up. As the front of the van struck the wall and plunged through it, Matt’s head was thrown forward, his head striking the steering wheel. He lifted his head as the world spun, and noted that he had stopped in a hot dark place of pearl gray before his eyes closed and he took the boat to La La Land, saying “I thought everyone had airbags in their cars.”

  . . . a baton came down on his wrist, a foot stepped on his head, grinding his face into the surface of the street. A hard blow stuck his left kidney and the tears came to his eyes as, for just an instant, he looked beneath the car to see four cops on the other side bringing their batons down repeatedly on the writhing shape of Danny Mikubeh . . .

  . . . a grotesque ballet . . . As the Tenct suspect struggled to his feet and tried to defend himself, five officers, one Tenct male, one human male, and three human females, swung their batons with regulation strokes, attempting to beat the suspect into submission.

  One of the officers fell, and all of them turned and drew their weapons as a hail of gunfire came from the shadows . . .

  “Are you okay? Hey! Are you okay? Wake up!”

  Smoke, gasoline, and the smell of whiskey. Matt struggled his eyes open and saw a grotesque mask staring back at him. A puffy face surrounded by scorched straggly hair, eyebrows singed off, two soot black tracks on the face’s upper lip led into its nose.

  “Jessup?”

  “Yes. I’m Duke Jessup. You saved my life, friend.”

  “Saved your life?”

  “Man, if you hadn’t run that truck through the wall, I’d be a two-hundred-pound Pop Tart. Who are you?”

  Matt pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around Jessup at the fire. They were on the lawn across the street from the remains of the Jessup residence. Matt could see the marks his heels had made when Jessup dragged him from the fire. A whu
mp sound from inside the fire followed by a belching black cloud spelled the end of the van’s gas tank. A gray car blocked off his view. As it squealed to a stop, George, Paul, and Li Sinritu leapt out, leaving the doors open.

  “Mr. Jessup,” said Matt, “Thanks for dragging me out of there. I guess I really messed up the carpet. I hear your wife is quite a decorator.”

  Jessup chuckled and sat on the grass. “Don’t worry about it. The rug already had a burn in it.” He held out his hand to Matt and they were both coughing, laughing, and shaking hands as the trio stopped next to them.

  “Matt, are you all right?” asked George.

  Paul pointed west. “Did you see who it was?”

  “What about my van?” asked Li.

  Matt blinked and looked at George. “I’ll live.”

  Duke Jessup said, “It was Jimmy and Harry Lee. My gardeners.”

  George pointed down the hill. “The walls and shrubs around Cass’s house are soaked with gasoline. Matt, you must have interrupted them before they could touch it off.”

  “What was it?” Paul asked Jessup. “You wanted gardenias and they wanted nasturtiums?”

  Duke shook his head and looked up at the former FBI agent. “I don’t know. Actually, maybe I do know. I think I can connect them to Micky Cass. I know how they got his unlisted number. Jimmy Lee knew that Micky was in NA.”

  “How?”

  Jessup looked down with a troubled gaze. “Because I told him.”

  “Okay.”

  “On top of that, a couple of years ago Harry and Jimmy both went to a few meetings. Harry was ordered to go to some meetings after his drunk-driving episode.” Duke looked down at his hands. They were black, the backs of his hands blistered and bleeding. “Jimmy and Harry must have lured Micky out of the house by telling him I was asking for help. Micky said something to me about my problem months ago.”

  George frowned. “After all the grief between you two, he’d come if you asked for help?”

  Duke nodded. “I think so.” He looked up at Paul and asked, “I’m certain of it.”