by Ron Goulart
Angelica stood still near the center of the clear floor. “It took me a long time to write that letter to you, you know.”
“I figured. It’s a fairly long letter, several sentences.” Angelica said, “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t make decisions for you. After hearing Geer light into you that night though, I decided I didn’t want to be the reason for your screwing up your career.”
“I don’t consider being an invisible man a career.”
“Well, call it your present occupation then. Whatever. I have the feeling you’re not ready to quit. Are you?” Conger had stopped wandering. After a few seconds, he said, “I don’t know.” The girl was standing near him now. “Listen, Jake, there’s something else I wanted to talk about,” she said. “Something besides the fact I’ve missed you, and something besides the fact I was upset when you went stalking out of the briefing today.”
“Would you describe that as stalking?”
“What then?”
“Striding confidently, or strolling with determination …”
“Or traipsing nonchalantly.” She smiled.
Conger, smiling, too, put his hands on her shoulders.
“Wait.” Angelica backed away from his touch. “I have more to tell you.”
“About what,” he asked, “Sandman?”
“Yes, it’s business,” she replied. “When this case is closed I have some leave time coming. I want to spend it with you.”
“So tell me about Sandman.”
“You know about the assassination of State Senator McSherry, don’t you?”
“Canguru told me. And I know where Sandman’s bodysnatchers are going to be sometime between midnight and sunup.”
“Then you already know where their drop down in Level Four is.”
“No,” said Conger. “What we know is the underground entrance near Olvera Street where the truck hauling McSherry is supposed to enter. I’m going to pick them up at that point.”
“Well, I’ve found out the truck will deliver Senator McSherry’s remains to the storeroom behind a combination restaurant and horse parlor called Hal The Bookie’s down on Level Four,” said the dark girl agent. “From there, somehow, the body will get taken even further down. To one of the uncharted bootleg levels Inspector Knerr was telling us about this morning.”
“What does Linn Learmann think about all this?”
“I don’t have to report in to him,” said Angelica. “The National Security Office isn’t as paternalistic as you people.”
“I thought we were all practicing patience and putting our faith in Linn’s stakeout.”
“Screw patience. Do you want to work with me on locating Sandman’s Lab?”
“Sure.”
Angelica bit her thumb knuckle. “Okay, to be on the safe side you may as well go ahead with your plan. You tag the truck when it heads underground. I’ll go straight to Hal The Bookie’s and wait there.” She glanced sideways at the entertainment unit. “Did that clock in his backside turn off when you threw the switch?”
“No, it’s autonomous.”
“Then we don’t have to leave here for two hours.” She faced him, smiling again.
CHAPTER 22
The robot Mexican fell over and said, “Merde!”
Canguru dropped to his knees. A flung taco skimmed his curly hair, dripping chopped olives and imitation onion flakes. “They certainly have their riots at odd hours in your country.”
“This looks to be a protest march not a riot,” said Conger. He and the little spy were standing in an alley off Olvera Street.
Out on the synthetic Mexican Street two hundred young people were tramping up and down, waving tri-op signs, playing canned political messages.
“There’s Father William Francis Nolan,” pointed out Canguru.
“Where?”
“Oops, he fell off their shoulders and that cyborg cop with the tractor-tread is rolling over him.”
Canguru winced in sympathy. “They call him the Guerrilla Priest of . . .”
“Does he have anything to do with Sandman?”
“No, but …”
“Then I don’t want to clutter my mind with him.”
“Bring back the real chicanos!” shouted Father Nolan, once the policeman’s boot rolled off his neck.
“Shut down the detention camps!”
“Get rid of mechanical Mexicans!”
Conger scanned the short street. “The truck’s going to have a tough time getting in there.”
“The riot can’t go on forever,” said Canguru.
Leaning against a pseudoadobe wall, Conger asked, “Why did Yerkzes put away all the Mexicans?”
“He feared an invasion of California South from Mexico as I understand it,” said Canguru. “First he took away all their radios, TVs and home entertainment units, to keep them from communicating with any potential invaders from south of the border. That didn’t seem sufficient to him after awhile, so he built camps in Death Valley. It’s rumored he owns 60% of the detention camp contracting company.”
“There’s Rowland Gull in a bucket,” said Conger, looking up.
A municipal hopper, painted a bright blue and gold, was humming down out of the midnight sky. In a swaying canvas bucket beneath it rode Mad Governor Yerkzes’ press secretary. “Boys and girls,” the pale young man said through a blue and gold bullhorn. “Boys and girls, I’d appreciate your attention. My name is Rowland Gull. I work for Governor Yerkzes.”
“Boo, boo!”
“Screw you!”
“Shut down the detention camps!”
“Boys and girls, the governor has asked me to read a brief statement pertaining to the Mexican-American situation,” continued Gull, swinging in a gentle arc. “Here it is. ‘My fellow Californians, good afternoon …’ Well, let’s amend that. ‘My fellow Californians, good evening. This is your governor speaking to you from the bottom of my heart. Let me first assure you that no one will be reprimanded over this little incident, nor will you be punished in any way. After all, does not the great …’”
“Put this on,” Conger told Canguru. He’d taken two lightweight gasmasks out of the kit strapped to his side. As the little blond spy strapped his on, Conger pulled him back into the alley with him. “Those two cops over by the Open-All-Night Cantina are breaking out canisters of stungas.”
“Your floating friend is going to have to amend his statement again.”
Gas mortars commenced chuffing out on Olvera Street Canguru yawned, scratched his curly head. “Almost 2AM,” he said.
They were at the mouth of the alley again. All the young protestors, plus Father Nolan, had been carted away in police landwagons over an hour ago. The allnight cantinas were functioning again, all the robot sidewalk Mexicans were upright, playing guitars and vending souvenirs. There were not too many tourists availing themselves of the street.
“There comes another truck now,” said Conger.
Squinting, Canguru said, “It’s them, senhor. A maroon landtruck with Gibson’s Hobby House freshly lettered on the side.”
Conger applied his invisibility lotion. “Okay, I’ll grab on when they slow to drive into the warehouse over there.”
“My sources assure me there’s a concealed rampway which leads underground in that warehouse. I’ll wait here a bit, then get myself down to Level Four by another … what’s the matter?”
“There.” Conger was perspiring across his forehead. He turned, more slowly, invisible. “Ever since Big Mac and Ting gave me those truth shots I’ve been having trouble with the transitions from visible to invisible and back.”
“After we catch Sandman you ought to take some time off and have a complete physical,” suggested the little spy. “Although most doctors don’t know how to conduct a really first rate …”
Conger left the alley. Three fat teenage boys burst out of a tacoteria, licking chile gravy off their pudgy fingers. Conger pivoted to avoid colliding with them.
Moving fast, and unseen, he caught
up with the grape-colored novelty truck as it rolled into the whitewashed brick warehouse at the far end of Olvera Street.
A loading step hung beneath the back doors of the truck. Conger jumped, landed on that. He held on to the door handles.
The landtruck drove slowly across the nearly empty warehouse. After the street doors slid shut a section of the wall rose up and out of the way.
The truck and Conger shot ahead into darkness, headed underground.
CHAPTER 23
The tile walls of the tunnel were sweating, spotted with dingy brown beads of water. Now that the truck was nearing Level Four there was hardly any traffic on the underground road system. More graffiti appeared on the walls, several ambitious homemade murals. Under one glowcolor wall decoration, an allegorical painting of the history of California, a tattered old man with a bloody face was sleeping. He was huddled right on the rutted road. Further down there were some remnants of pedestrian catwalks and on these more ragged people sprawled, some sleeping, some drinking from plastic wine pouches, a few attempting to make love.
This far below Greater Los Angeles the lighting system was falling apart. For whole stretches of the tunnel roads the overhead light strips hung down in dark tangles from the ceilings. A few of the twisted dusty strips throbbed, giving off a thin speckled light. As the landtruck Conger was holding onto bounced around the curving roads its headlamps splashed light on the dark tunnel walls. The people crouching here were younger, most of them awake. They sat and watched the truck go by, the sudden illumination not even causing them to blink.
At last there was light all around. The truck carrying State Senator McSherry’s body emerged onto the streets of Level Four.
The truck bounced even more on the potholed streets. All the low buildings glowed and flashed. There was an enormous loud mix of music all around. Every kind of popular music there had been for the last two centuries was being played. It roared out of the wide open doorways, came blasting from floating speakers over the clubs and bistros.
The novelty truck, with Conger on behind, went ten blocks straight through the underground city, then swung off to the right. The air on this new street was hot and muggy. There were mostly whorehouses along here, real and android. Reconditioned Robot Hookers/Only $5 Per 15
Minutes! Live Former Convent Girls/Reasonable Prices!, Cyborgs/Satisfaction Guaranteed! Conger noticed more tourists on the street. The derelicts slumped in the gutters were better dressed.
The truck rolled on. The bordellos thinned, giving way to betting parlors, a scatter of indoor dog and pony race tracks.
At the next corner stood Hal The Bookie’s. Eat & Bet! Booths For Ladies! The land truck passed the place, turned into an alley leading to a tinroof storeroom behind it.
Big Mac was waiting for the truck. He sat on a carton of canned waffleburgers, a new laser pistol in his right hand. He guided the truck in to a stop with his empty left hand. “You took long enough, craphead,” he said when the truck’s engine turned off.
“We had to wait until a riot was over, Mac. Some kids had a riot,” explained Jerry Ting as he jumped from the cab. “Isn’t that right, Vic.”
Inside the cab a low voice said, “It certainly …”
“No more gabble, buttwipe,” said the black AEF agent. “Let’s get the corpse into the car so I can drive it on to the descent point.”
“Another reason we took a little extra time,” said Ting. “Vic got squeamish about picking up the guy’s body and sticking it into the plyosack.”
“I voted for the guy in two elections,” said Vic, still up in the truck. “It’s like I know him.”
Conger dropped silently to the floor of the storeroom.
“Get your fanny down here, peckerwood,” ordered Big Mac.
“Everything else went smoothly.” Ting came to the rear of the truck, climbed up and opened the doors. “Not one of the cops or NSO agents watching the Forest Lawn #3 All-Faith Drive-In Fly-In Mortuary tumbled to our being there. Those mind-dimming vapors of Sandman’s really work well.”
Vic, a large redheaded man of thirty, reluctantly followed Ting up into the truck. “It’s very beautiful out there, that mortuary and cemetery,” he said. “They got a water fountain which plays both the national and state anthem and a replica of the Last Supper made completely out of …”
“You’ll be on view there, crumbum, if you don’t get going.” Big Mac waved his laser pistol.
“I told you he’d fall on the floor if you didn’t pack those rugs tight around him, Vic.”
“Gee, Jerry, you guys are always chewing me out. What difference does it make? A little plop onto the floor from a tabletop isn’t going to do him all that much harm. He’s already dead.”
Conger explored the storeroom. Near the wide doorway they’d entered sat a compact black landcar. This would be the vehicle Big Mac was going to use to take the body of McSherry the final distance to Sandman.
Stacked high round the buff color walls were cases of canned sandwiches and party snacks. Near the door which led to the betting club stood a dozen broken down betting machines.
He heard a faint creak in the shadows near the machines. Angelica was there, ducked behind a low wall of cartons. Conger made a silencing motion, knowing she could see him, and went back toward the rear of the truck.
“He’s what you’d call portly.” Vic came backwards out of the truck, holding the feet end of the sacked body of the state senator. “Oh, gee!” The big redheaded man’s foot slipped on the loading step. He fell to the floor, letting go of McSherry.
Ting came bicycling out of the truck. He still clutched the other end of the body. When it dropped he came dropping with it.
Big Mac took time to cuff Vic with his left hand. “Clutchbutt,” he said.
He bent to gather up the body. “Get away, I’ll tote the mothering thing myself.”
Conger walked over to stand near the car.
Halfway there Big Mac stopped, blinked, threw the body of McSherry aside. “You again!” He aimed his gun.
“Why it’s the invisible man,” said Ting.
Conger ran, diving behind a row of cartons. He’d lost control of the invisibility trick again.
Big Mac’s pistol sizzled and five feet above Conger’s head a carton of teabiscuits jumped and began to burn. “Come on out and surrender yourself, asswipe.”
“Okay, Big Mac, that’s enough shooting,” said Angelica.
Conger couldn’t see her from where he was.
“We got all kinds of mothering spies tonight.”
“Put the gun down on the floor,” ordered Angelica. “You too, Jerry, or . . . oh.”
Big Mac’s blaster crackled again. “You got to watch where you’re stepping, honey, lest you trip.” After a few seconds Ting said, “Why’d you go and do that, Mac? She’s dead.”
CHAPTER 24
“These motherjumps are all over,” remarked Big Mac. “Let’s get going.”
The engine in the car hummed on.
The doors to the street opened.
Ting and Vic ran across the storeroom floor, hefting the body of State Senator McSherry.
The car went away.
Conger heard it all from behind the wall of boxes. He stood in shadows, hunched, swallowing hard.
“Deus!” said Canguru’s voice. “Sinto muito.”
Taking in air through his open mouth, Conger stepped out into the open. He stopped three feet short of Angelica. He didn’t kneel, didn’t try to touch her.
The slender dark girl lay, all knees and elbows, on her back. There was a dark hole, small, the size of a dime, just above her left breast.
Conger realized he was shivering, stopped himself. “Do you know where they’re going from here?”
“No, senhor,” said the little blond spy. “I had assumed there was some entry way to Sandman’s lair concealed here at … ha!” He bent. Beside the dead Angelica on the floor were her gun and a palm-size square black metal box. “A cartrace monitor. She
must have planted a tracebug on the car they took off in. I know she was here in this room long before Big Mac returned.” He held the small box out to Conger.
Conger hesitated, then took it. It gave off faintly the smell of the scent the dark girl had used. Swallowing again, he said, “Stay here, Canguru. Watch her, don’t let anybody move her. I’ll be back.”
The little spy said, “You’re sure you can continue?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” answered Conger. “Look at me now. Can you see me?”
“ Sim, yes.”
Fists clenched, Conger concentrated on becoming invisible once again, “Now?”
“I still see you, although you seem a little less substantial.”
“And now?”
“Muito bem,” Canguru told him. “You are completely invisible. I can not even see the cartrace monitor in your hand.”
“I should have been able to stay invisible before,” said Conger. “Damn it.” He looked once more at the dead girl, then left the place.
The clicking monitor box led Conger, invisible, to the outskirts of Level Four. The flare of lights, the slamming music was all dim and far behind him. Here there were unfinished buildings, twisting passways of raw earth, dusty mounds of unused grey construction blocks. The ceilings high above were incomplete, consisting partly of unfinished wood beams. The support pillars were unpainted, rusted over in jagged crusty orange streaks. Gobs of black puffy mildew grew on the walls of the blank buildings.
Lean dogs prowled, sniffing at the ruined men who slept on the incomplete stretches of sidewalk. On the last corner of the last chunk of pavement two men crouched, sharing a pouch of sweet white wine, laughing together. The one who laughed the loudest had no nose.
Conger passed by them, following the trail of Big Mac’s car.
