We enjoyed a moment of golden silence. Boone said, “Not much for us to do, then, is there?”
Kelvin shrugged. “There doesn't have to be. In this case, the governmental machinery might actually work.”
Boone and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Kelvin,” Boone said, “they can't even handle sewage treatment.”
“Couple of days ago I called the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta,” Kelvin said. “This was after Dolmacher had told me everything. I got through to one of their investigators. He'd heard all about this epidemic of chloracne in Boston. The local hospitals had already noticed it, especially City Hospital. So I explained the whole thing to them, about the genetically engineered bug.”
I'm an asshole, I do it for a living, so this shouldn't surprise anyone: in a way, I resented Kelvin for this. He knew everything before I did. And he'd made the right phone call. I never thought of calling the Centers for Disease Control. He'd probably saved a lot of people. The real reason was probably this: I wouldn't have the chance to make the Big Revelation, to call the press and inform them, to be the ecoprophet.
“Every doctor on the Bay knows about it now. They've been treating it with activated charcoal - in gastric lavage and enemas - and with trimethoprim. And they just put out an alert late last night, not to eat any fish from the Harbor. That's what inspired those headlines.”
“Doctors can't put out that kind of alert.”
“Right. You see, all the state authorities are aware of the problem now. They're dealing with it. I already called them and told them about this oxygenation idea. I have the impression they're working on it.”
Zodiac
31
BOONE AND I SAT DOWN to wait for our laundry to run through the dryer. Charlotte went out to get some coffee and when she came back into the room, found us out cold. We woke up about four hours later. Boone felt spry as a puppy and I felt like someone had stuffed a rancid lemon into my mouth and flogged me with a hawser.
Kelvin gave us a ride down into Allston. When we walked into the Pearl, Hoa stared at me for a minute but he didn't say anything. I guess a Vietnamese refugee has seen it all. He recognized Boone, too, as the gentleman who'd brought in the message yesterday. Bart had received it, and he'd left a response: meet me at the Arsenal some day after work.
It was after work now. I borrowed Hoa's phone and called over there and asked for the long-haired guy covered with tire dust. The bartender knew exactly who I was talking about. “He just left,” he said. “He was here with his girl and they took off. I think they're going to a concert. They were all decked out in leather.” That didn't tell me much; they always looked that way.
We hadn't done any serious newspaper reading in a couple of days and, as Kelvin had pointed out, we were way behind on our current events. So I went down the street to a vending machine. I was feeling impatient so I made myself get up and jog, and about halfway there decided I wasn't sick, just stiff and tired. The trip to the emergency room hadn't been a waste of time.
When I went through my pockets looking for change, I found seventy or eighty bucks in cash. Kelvin and Charlotte had made a donation to the domestic terrorism fund. But there weren't any quarters, so I jogged another block to a convenience store and bought my paper there.
They had a TV going behind the counter, showing the seven o'clock news, and that was my first chance to see Boone's performance on TV. I couldn't hear the soundtrack, but when they flashed Boone's picture up over the anchorwoman's shoulder, they had him labeled as “Winchester.” So nobody had recognized him. That was probably good, though I didn't really know if it mattered. They spent a while on Boone and Pleshy, then moved onward to Dolmacher, showing a police cordon around his house, and a closet shot of Bathtub Man being hauled out in a sack.
Then it was Dolmacher's picture, stolen from a frame of the videotape, above the anchorwoman's shoulder. Why don't anchor people ever turn around and look at this parade of mugs behind them? I insisted that the Babylonian behind the counter turn up the sound.
“...found a large number of photographs and documents on Dolmacher's person which police and FBI agents are currently studying. While no official statement has been made, sources say that the information may be an attempt by Dolmacher to explain his reason for the bizarre assault.”
The rest of the broadcast was about chloracne, and I didn't bother to watch. I brought a Globe and a Herald back to Boone, who had set us up with some beers. He took the Herald, I took the Globe, and while we were scanning the columns and pouring back those frosty brews, I told him about the newscast and what Dolmacher had been up to.
Boone was delighted. “You keep shitting on this guy, S.T., but he's smarter than you give him credit for.”
“Shit, no. He got the whole idea from me. From you and me. I tell you, Boone, he's been following my career. If you want to get something covered in the media, do the loudest, most media-genie thing you can and then you've got your platform.”
“Pretty strange way of doing it. Shooting an ex-V.P.”
“Pretty strange, hell. That's Dolmacher's way of doing it. He doesn't even own a Zodiac.”
“So maybe the guy's not crazy.”
“Let's put it this way. He's not irrational. I'll lay you odds he never spends a day in jail.”
“Maybe all the vital information is in there. The secret of how to kill the bug.”
“You really think so?” God, what a thought. “You think Dolmacher's that cool?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“But Kelvin is.”
“Kelvin is. Kelvin can handle the bug. We've got to handle Pleshy. We've got to handle his ass. People need to know about this crime.”
“What's your plan?”
“Spectacle Island. Tonight. I'll lay you odds there are still some PCBs down under that barge. And plenty of bugs, too.”
“All we have to do is hire a zeppelin to lift the barge off the evidence,” Boone said.
“Just have to cut through the bottom of the barge. Or something. Have to go look at it first. Hell, it's not going anywhere. We can take our time. Shit, I wonder what Laughlin was doing there.”
“You never saw Laughlin on Spectacle Island, did you?”
“No, but he had this brand new boat. And he was carrying a gun around in it. And he knew about the Poyzen Boyzen-barge-Spectacle Island connection. I'll bet you anything Laughlin's been going out there regularly.”
“Why? He can't move the barge either.”
“Basco put him in charge of Biotronics for one reason: to destroy the evidence under that barge. And he's nothing if not effective. Ever hear of hands-on leadership? I think Laughlin must have read some books on the subject. So maybe he has a way of getting through the bottom of the barge, getting access to the shit down there.”
We went through several beers before we thought about ordering food. I'd eaten enough at the Pearl to earn this privilege, and Hoa seemed to enjoy playing bartender for a change. As much as he enjoyed anything, that is. He is always cheerful but I was never sure if he was happy. Of course, happy is a concept for fat Americans. Immigrants don't seem to care about happy very much. Healthy, wealthy and wise, yes, but happiness alone is something their children worry about, maybe. Now, the surly, toxic busboy, he was unhappy and wanted to do something about it. He didn't seem to be around tonight.
When we finally ordered some food, I asked Hoa about him. “Where's the busboy?”
He didn't understand. Since he was obsessed with my bicycle, I tried a different tack. “The one who rides the scooter?”
Hoa got serious for once, lost that fake pixie smile, and bent forward just a hair. “Very sick.”
“Had a rash on his body and so on,” Boone suggested, rubbing his hand around on his chest.
“We took him to the hospital and now they giving him medicine for it.”
“Good, Hoa, they know exactly how to make it better.” Which probably sounded k
ind of patronizing. But the Vietnamese got a little weird about their medicine sometimes, tried to cure themselves by putting containers of boiling hot water on their backs and so on. Which might work with evil spirits but not with the particular type of possession that bus boy had.
“What, did he collapse at work, or something?” Boone said.
Hoa didn't understand.
“You said, you took him to the hospital.”
“My wife took him. That boy is Tim. Our son.”
At which point Boone and I both felt like assholes, apologized and said all the things one says, wishing Tim well and so on. Hoa was unruffled. “He going to get better soon, then I bring him back here and work him nice and hard.”
We hung out there, leafing through papers and planning our reentry into impolite society. Things had to be done in the right order. We had to get drunk, I had to get in touch with Debbie, we had to tie up some loose ends on this whole PCB business and then we could make some noise.
Comics were entertainment and so what I had was the Entertainment section of the paper. They had a little advance-press article about a heavy-metal group that was playing a concert down at the Garden tonight: Poyzen Boyzen. Unfortunately for Boone and me it was sold out. No Satanic rock for us tonight, but Bart and Amy were certainly in that number.
Boone was sitting there, going through the fine-print pages. “Hey,” he said, “remember the Basco Explorer?” “Never had the pleasure. But I know about it.” “Big old freighter of theirs,” he said, wistfully. “They use it for ocean dumping, you know.” “Yeah, I know.”
“Once we were harassing it out off the Grand Banks, and it dropped a big old drum full of black shit right into my Zode. A direct hit - snapped my keel. That was back before everything kind of turned sour.”
“Back in your salad days. Boone, what is the reason for this misty-eyed crap about the Basco Explorer?”
He showed me the back page of the Business section, the one with the bankruptcy notices and exchange rates. They run a column back there listing what ships are in port now, what's coming in and going out. The Basco Explorer was going to be arriving in Everett tonight, coming in from the Basco plant in Jersey and probably going to their main Everett plant.
“That's pretty routine,” I said. “It's almost like the Eastern Shuttle. It's always transferring crap back and forth.”
“You don't think this might have anything to do with the bug?”
“Unless it's full of trimethoprim, no. I mean, what good would it do them to have the ship there? Use it for Pleshy's escape vessel?”
He shrugged. “I just thought it was an interesting coincidence.”
Hoa brought our food, and we hovered, moaning with delight and breathing through our noses. Once Hoa saw the way we were chowing on this stuff, he turned away and didn't show up again until we were picking through the steamed rice.
“You talking about Basco?” he said.
“Yeah, Hoa, you familiar with them?”
“This is the company that poison Harbor?”
“We think so. Hell, we know so.”
Hoa took the unheard-of liberty of pulling up a chair. He looked around the room kind of melodramatically. It would be melodramatic for an American, anyway. Hoa had spent six years in a reeducation camp in Vietnam and had led three escape attempts. This wasn't melodramatic for him.
“What you going to do?” he said.
“Go to the Harbor; get evidence against Laughlin. I mean Pleshy. Pleshy and the, uh, man who works for him.”
“You think Basco - Pleshy - going to be punished? He should go to jail for long time, man!”
It was a little odd to hear this from Hoa. Hoa was a right-winger and I couldn't blame him. He had no respect at all for antiwar types. He thought the U.S. should have stayed in his country.
I was remembering an old black-and-white photo of Pleshy, in Vietnam, back when he was the world's leading exponent of chemical warfare, before the Sovs and the Iraqis took over the business. In my patronizing way, I hadn't imagined that Hoa was much into politics, or that he'd be aware of who the hell Alvin Pleshy was. That idea was dispelled by the way he pronounced Pleshy's name, the look in his eyes when he asked.
“What's your problem with Pleshy? He was on your side.”
If it hadn't been his own restaurant, he would have spat on the floor. “Gutless,” he said. “Didn't know how to fight. Thought he could win war with chemicals. All it did was make him rich. He make those chemicals in his own company, you know.”
“Yeah. Well, we think it's pretty likely that Pleshy will get in a lot of trouble for this.”
“You have to make him pay!” Hoa said.
It reminded me of Hoa's brother, a couple of months ago, when he'd gotten upset about people who came into the Pearl and wasted food. Serene and cheery on the surface, but when they got pissed about something, they really got pissed. They let you know about it. They had long memories.
“We think we can trace this bad stuff through the sewers, back to a plant that's owned by Basco,” I said, “and the guy who shot at Pleshy today also has evidence. I would say that Pleshy's in deep shit.” But I didn't believe it for a minute. The man was a vampire. Only the light of a minicam could hurt him. Boone had winged him earlier today.
Tonight we had to drive a stake through his chest, or he'd recover. He'd appoint Laughlin his interior secretary, and use Laughlin's magic bug to bring more covalent chlorine into all of our bodies.
“I can help in any way, you will tell me,” Hoa ordered. “This meal is for free. On the house.”
“That's okay, Hoa, I've actually got cash tonight.”
“No. Free.” And he got up and went away, soundlessly as always, without displacing any air. For some reason it came into my head to wonder how many people Hoa had killed.
“Some of these immigrants were actually big honchos in South Vietnam, you know,” Boone said. “I wonder if he knew Pleshy personally?”
“I don't think Pleshy's that hateful in person,” I said. “To really dislike the man you have to be standing under an Agent Orange drop.”
“That's right,” Boone mused. “He's kind of a wimp in person.”
“What did he say to you, anyway? I never got a chance to hear your conversation. I was too scared of Dolmacher.”
“Well, he came right out and challenged me. He said, there's no bacteria like you describe. Go ahead and test the Harbor. Try me.”
“So what do you conclude from that?”
“I conclude he was kept in the dark by his underlings. Like Reagan back during the contra thing. He didn't know what was going on.”
“How charitable you are.”
“Otherwise, why would he say something like that?”
I didn't figure Bart would be using his van while he was watching the concert, so we took a cab out to Boston Garden and cruised the local parking areas until we found it. I slid underneath and got his spare key. We got in and did some nitrous. Then we drove out to Debbie's place in Cambridge, a nice rent-controlled complex between Harvard and MIT. She wasn't there, so I left a note in her mailbox telling her we were going out on the water, and if she wanted to get together she should go out to Castle Island Park and build a fire or something and we'd circle back and pick her up.
We cut across Cambridge to the GEE office, where they hadn't bothered to change the locks. We loaded up on any kind of equipment that might come in handy - scuba gear, sampling jars, giant magnets, strobe lights, distress flares, radios - and threw it into the van and cruised back to the Garden. We got there just as the doors were opening up to spill a plume of black-clad Poyzen Boyzen fans onto the streets of the North End. Dustheads galore.
Bart's old space had been taken so we just cruised around and made a nuisance of ourselves until he showed up.
“Hey, S.T., thanks for pistol-whipping me.”
“I'm sorry about that, Bart, but-”
“You met my girlfriend, Amy?”
“Yeah, we'
ve met.”
“Hi, S.T.,” Amy said, popping her gum explosively. Heavy metal, drugs and sexual passion had dissolved her brain to a certain point where she no longer distinguished between dead and living persons.
“Hop in,” I said.
Boone introduced himself. They didn't take much notice of him. Amy wanted to know where we were all going.
“We're going to Spectacle Island,” I said. By “we” I meant me and Boone and just possibly Bart, but Bart and Amy took it the other way.
“Alright!” he said. “That is going to be brutal tonight.”
“That's what I was afraid of,” I said. “A lot of Poyzen Boyzen fans out there?”
“Tonight they are, man. It's going to be an all night party. I know someone who's got a boat.” “Christopher Laughlin?” “Yeah, how'd you know?” “It's okay. We have our own boat.”
Zodiac
32
“ALRIGHT, MAN. A motley crew,” Bart observed as we made our way across the piers to the GEE slip.
He had a point. There weren't deck shoes or yachting cap among us. We had walkie-talkies and Liquid Skin instead of Brie and baguettes. If there were any loose cops in the Boston area we'd be arrested on the spot. Fortunately they were all out in the streets training fire hoses on Poyzen Boyzen fans.
Amy found the trip down the ladder to the Zode extremely exciting. Bart had to help her down, using some holds he'd picked up as a high school wrestler in Oklahoma. Meanwhile, Boone and I were down there operating on the ten-horse. Wes had taken out the plugs. We didn't know what kind of plugs it took so we'd bought about twelve boxes of different types. Also we didn't know how to gap them. New plugs have to be gapped.
“It doesn't matter anyway because we don't have a gauge,” Boone pointed out. But I was already one-upping him by whipping a set of leaf gauges out of my wallet.
“No wonder your fucking wallet's an inch thick,” Boone said. We guessed thirty-five thousandths on the plug gap and bent the electrodes accordingly.
Zodiac: The Eco-Thriller Page 26
