The anchorman cut in. “Thank you, Lieutenant Simmons. Here in the studio we have with us Dr. Vernon Atherton of the Center for the Study of Terrorism.”
Dr. Atherton didn’t look so hot either. He was unshaven and carried more bags under his eyes than a porter at a rest home. A slight tic in his left cheek said he had little energy left in reserve.
The anchorman began. “Dr. Atherton, we know you have been consulting with the state department. Can you tell us what the situation is?”
“All I can tell you is my opinion of the situation. The state department is still formulating its response to the terrorists. First, the most effective response to the threats of this group can only be implemented on the basis of accurate intelligence. We need to know who this group is and what they actually want. Hopefully, their so-called decrees will clarify this. We do know that they are a new group. They have not claimed responsibility for any prior terrorist actions. Obviously, they are extremely dangerous. The indiscriminate savagery of their bomb attack, which seemed to have been merely an ‘attention-getter,’ places them at the very apex of the violence continuum. Beyond that, anything I might say would be speculative and I am loath to provide their action with any further publicity.”
“I appreciate that, Dr. Atherton, but these people won’t go away just because we don’t talk about them, and perhaps some things you might share with us could help reduce the almost palpable anxiety everyone feels.”
Dr. Atherton’s tic began to accelerate. “All right. However, let me emphasize that this is entirely speculative. It seems to me that certain kinds of terrorist groups can be ruled out. The scope of their domain, as reflected in their title, Standing Committee on World Justice, points away from a religious or nationalist group. These almost always proclaim their identity with great pride in their titles and communications. The language of the communiqué, the caricature of our constitution, points to the possibility that these terrorists are Americans, perhaps a resurrected faction of the Weather Underground or some other radical, disaffected youths, punishing us for what they see as our country’s wrongs. The other likely composition of the group would be terrorists for hire in the service of another government. America has been relatively free from terrorism at home because our retaliation to any terrorism openly sponsored by a foreign government would be devastating. A foreign government could be covertly sponsoring this group. It is usually nihilist or anarchist groups that hire out this way. The religious fanatics or nationalist terrorists wouldn’t do that because it would taint their motives. Purity, of course, is essential to them.”
“What do you foresee as the state department position, Dr. Atherton?”
“They’re going to have to tread a thin line, providing enough security to protect the people without destroying the openness of our society. The brutal reality is that freedom and security are inversely related. Too much or too little of either one could spark disturbances unseen in America for at least fifteen years. Of course, speedy apprehension of these terrorists would be the best solution.”
“Is there any connection between this group and the freeway bombing in Los Angeles?”
“Not that I am aware of at this time. Believe me, these are not the last groups we will hear from. A new age has arrived in America. How dark an age it is remains to be seen—”
I turned off the set. Someone had decided to give us a history lesson. No taxation without representation. That was how we were born. Well, we had representation now and they had levied a tax in blood on all our heads.
Twenty minutes later I pulled into the lot at Clyde’s, parked and trotted up the steps to the entrance. The hostess smiled. “One?”
“Yes. I’m just going to have a drink.”
She pointed to the bar to her left and turned back to greet the next people coming in. I scanned the room and didn’t see Samantha. A guy slid off the stool in the far corner, so I headed for it. I asked the bartender for an Irish, neat. As he put the drink in front of me, I saw her walking up the stairs. She squeezed between two men at the bar and picked up the drink she had left there. She hadn’t seen me yet. I tried to imagine her as a woman I didn’t know. This exercise never fails to yield a desire that hurts. The men clustered around her tried to imagine her as a woman they did know. I watched her reserved half smiles and nearly attentive gaze, one part of her searching for me. I looked at her large green eyes. There were the beginnings of some laugh lines at the corners. No one takes a flawless beauty seriously. We seem to need those tiny failures of muscle tone to find character in a woman’s face. I plead guilty to that bias. A hand through her hair betrayed a few gray hairs resolutely undyed. Her glass was empty. I signalled to the bartender and said, “Send a Virginia Gentleman and water to the woman over there.” He was everything I wanted in a mixologist: prompt.
I watched as he slid the drink towards her. She looked up, startled. He bent forward and nodded towards me. She picked up her glass. I raised mine and mouthed, “Cheers.” She excused herself from the men around her. They stared at me for an instant. Eat your hearts out, guys. I was surprised that my adolescent rage and envy was still there. The eternal outsider looking at the in crowd. They were slick, poised and polished, cut from a pattern I’d never fit. That’s okay. Quasimodo gets the homecoming queen anyway. Do we ever grow up or just older? It wasn’t just nice that Samantha was beautiful. She had to be. How else does the hunchback turn the tables? I thought I’d keep this truth to myself. Maybe I’d outgrow it yet.
Samantha came up next to me and put her arm through mine. “Howdy, stranger. Thanks for the drink.”
“Shucks, ma’am, my pleasure. Would you care to share a bite to eat?”
“Actually, stranger, I had something a little more intimate in mind.” She leaned herself against me and liquified my spine.
“Easy. Let’s eat and talk first. It’s been a couple of busy days.”
“Okay.”
I caught the hostess’s eye and signalled two for dinner. She nodded and we followed her through the main dining room to a table near the palms that grew in the center.
We sat and took the proffered menus. The hostess left and was replaced by a busboy with glasses of water. After a couple of minutes scanning the menu we were ready to order. A waiter appeared simultaneously with our resolve and took the good news to the kitchen.
Samantha leaned forward and rested her chin on her folded hands. I took a sip of my water. She licked her lips.
“You can’t be serious, can you?”
“Nope.” She was smiling as she shook her head.
“Post-rewrite mania, is that the diagnosis?”
“Afraid so.” Samantha straightened up and folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll try to do better. It’s just that I’ve got this burden off me. I feel free, I want to play and I want you as a playmate.”
“Sorry I’m not feeling playful right now. The fact is that after we eat I’m going to have to go back to work.”
“No. Really? Why didn’t you tell me when you called me on the phone?”
“Because I wanted to see you. I know how you get after a book is done. I didn’t want you to go off and play by yourself if I wasn’t free.” A long pull on my drink didn’t quench a thing. “I’ve missed you, that’s all.”
Samantha pursed her lips and nodded her head. “I’ve missed you too. That’s part of why I’m so up. My work is behind me and I want to be with you, to enjoy you. I guess we’re just on different shifts. What do you have to do?”
“I want to go see Arnie and then I have to go downtown to follow up a lead on this case I’ve got.”
“Does it have to be tonight?” Samantha managed to ask that without whining.
“The people I’m looking for only come out after dark. The sooner I do this the better.”
The waiter reappeared with our dinners and conversation ceased until he’d set out all the dishes and left. Between bites Samantha asked me about Arnie.
“I don’t know what’s going
on with him. The next day we had practice at the dojo. He damn near killed me trying to teach me some stupid ass lesson in strategy that I can’t even remember now. I’ve cooled down enough now to go see him and try to sort out what happened. I think the wall got to him. I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to come along?”
“No, thanks. This is just between him and me. After I get a reading on him I’ll let you know if he’s up to talking to you.”
“Okay.”
We finished our meals and I settled up with the house. Out in the parking lot I asked Samantha where her car was.
“Over on the station’s lot. You don’t have to drop me off. This place is well lit and there’s lots of people around.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And besides I want you to get your work done so we can play.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked more wistfully than I wanted to.
“Bet on it.”
We kissed and I watched her stride off into the darkness, whistling a tune that I couldn’t quite place.
Chapter 12
In the car I had doubts about dropping in on Arnie. I decided to tell him that I’d come by because the Rev had some work for him, and let it go from there. The house was dark as I approached it, but Arnies’s car was in the driveway. That wasn’t unusual. He often meditated in the dark. I knocked on the door. No answer. I took out one of my cards, wrote the information about the Rev on the back and stuck it in the door frame. As I turned to go I thought I heard something. The television. Now, that was odd. I knocked again, louder. No answer. Time to go around to the back door and take a look.
In the light from the television screen I saw Arnie’s outline, sprawled in a lawn chair with crushed beer cans piled around him. The door was unlocked. Three strikes and you’re out of character. I stepped into the living room.
“Yo, Arnie. How ya’ doin’. Thought I’d drop by.”
He lifted his head up off his chest. In the dim light you could see the shiny crosshatch of scars on his face and scalp. “Well, if it isn’t ray friend.” He took another swig of beer. “You and your bright fucking ideas. Let’s go down to the wall. Pay our respects.” Another swig. “I went back to the wall last night. I couldn’t stay away. I just kept staring at all them names. After a while I could swear I heard ’em calling me, asking me why I was over there. It ain’t fair. We shoulda all come back. Better men than me died over there.” He stopped and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Shit, man, we were beautiful. We could do it all. You name it. We had heart, let me tell you. We did every damn thing they asked us to. We never backed up. They just never let us win. Do you understand that?” He hiccupped. “All those fuckers had was patience and endurance. So what did we do? We tried to wear them out. Jesus Christ, where were they gonna go? They lived there. Grandpa fought the French in the same valleys. They cut our fuckin’ hearts out there. They bled us dry.” Arnie’s hands were fists he rammed against his knees like pistons to keep his eyes closed. Sorrow leaked around them. “Get outta here, while you still can. Fuck you all.” He sprang up from the chair and slung it away from him. I took the hint and left.
In the car I tried to figure out how to help Arnie but I got nowhere with it. I kept seeing him walking to that wall, late at night. Looking at all the names. Looking for his own name. Hearing his buddies call out, maybe he’d even see their hands reaching for him. Maybe the wall began to look like a door. I’d heard of guys pulling out a .45 caliber ticket home, putting it up against their head, leaning back against the cool granite wall, feeling the hands of the dead welcoming them, saying “Wait up guys, I’m coming” and then sliding down that doorway, their brains flecking the names of friends gone too far, gone too soon. It seems to me that the names of every Vietnam vet who kills himself ought to go on that wall. They may not have died “in country” but the country was still in them.
Chapter 13
Thirty minutes later I stepped out onto the Fourteenth Street corridor. If the city council wanted to be civic minded they’d give the corridor to the developers and have them build a four star brothel at one end. Lust, like rage, is ineradicable. You don’t “clean up” combat zones, you relocate them. Seventy-five years ago a nationwide epidemic of righteousness closed all the houses of ill repute and dumped the girls out on the streets. The net result was the creation of a new urban predator: the pimp.
The corridor was warming up. The movie houses and bookstores had all plugged in their blinking neon grins. You can tell the players and their games by how they use their eyes. The hookers are trolling for the big trick. Their eyes brighten when a car slows down and then dim with sullen anger as it passes. Those just passing through look straight ahead or at their shoes. The voyeurs’ eyes dart left and right, up and down but never meet another’s. Look but don’t touch. The “doers’” eyes scan, then lock on and track like fear-seeking missiles. Once on target they follow the mark, cut it from the herd and do him or her in an alley, hallway or parking lot.
Connections here are brief and precise. Girls and boys get into cars, out of cars, up doorways, down stairs, into alleys, on their knees, off their backs trying to make their quotas. Every now and then a pimpmobile would cruise by. The man checking on his employees. Pulling over to let one out and another one in. I hadn’t seen a glitzed-up Eldorado yet. I’d seen damn few white pimps at all. I wandered through this scene looking for a long-haired Oriental girl named Fancy, a gorilla pimp named Eldorado Jack and a cop known as Hoss the Boss.
Eventually, I found Horace “Hoss the Boss” Wisinski. He was lounging against a car, chatting up a couple of pros. His leather sap gloves were in his belt, pinned there by his belly, and his hat was on backwards like a U-boat commander’s. A chili dog with a full load of onions sank down his throat with all hands lost. I walked up to the Hoss. He put his hand on his chest, made an O with his mouth and let out a belch that would register on the radar over at National.
“Nice, Hoss. A class act.”
He checked for any stragglers waiting to escape. Satisfied that he had purged himself, he leaned back against the car and turned to address me. His breath was a defoliant.
I waved at the invisible assailant. “What is this, ADW: breath?” I said.
He chuckled. “Keeps the streets clean. Nobody gets in my face. Want some?” He fished out a big wad of waxed paper from his pants pocket, unwrapped it and showed me a huge clove of garlic.
“I’ll pass.”
“Brenda roasts ’em and keeps ’em in olive oil for me. Hell of a girl.” Brenda was his wife.
“I see you got a stripe back, Hoss.”
“Yeah, they give ’em to me with Velcro now. Makes it easier to take ’em back. But you ain’t here to do a documentary on my career. What brings you to this sewer?” As he asked that he lifted himself off the car and started his patrol.
“I’m looked for an Oriental hooker. Calls herself Fancy. Short, long—”
“Hair down to her butt. Real name Francine Ky, DOB 7-14-67. Three priors, no fixed address. Her pimp is Eldorado Jack.”
“When did you get the microchip installed, Horace?”
“Just good police work, Hags. Got my own mug books. Read ’em every day. Pays to do your homework. Ounce of prevention and all that shit.”
“Have you seen Ms. Ky recently?”
“Nope. Her pimp’ll show up pretty soon. She’ll check in. You find Jack, you’l find her. This business or pleasure? I hear she’s got a mixmaster for an ass.”
“Strictly business. Tell me about Eldorado Jack.”
“Ardis Parmenter, a.k.a. Eldorado Jack, a.k.a. who cares. Certifiable. Crazy about Asian chicks. A gorilla pimp, has them all terrorized. Lots of assault charges but they never get pressed. Brass ’nads, very macho boy. High profile in this town for a white pimp. Loves his little red wagon more than life itself. You want his priors and all that shit?”
“No. Where does he hang out?”
“He
parks out front of that shitkicker bar, The Do-Si-Do, and holds court there.”
“Thanks, Hoss.”
“One thing, Hags.”
“Yeah?” I turned back.
“You cross that boy and you better bury him. He’s crazy and he’ll keep coming back like crabs on a working girl. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Horace. Hang loose, my man.” As I waved to him I saw his eyes flick across the street. A silver gray Mercedes with Maryland tags was cruising slowly up the street. A hooker was running up the street, looking back over her shoulder. The Mercedes stopped and two guys jumped out of the car, grabbed the girl by the arms and stuffed her into the car. Inside they started punching the hell out of her.
Horace began to pull on his gloves. “See you around, Hags. Duty calls.” Horace flipped his hat around to the front and headed across the street. I watched his odd pigeon-toed gait, the arm and leg on each side moving together.
Horace ripped open the car door and started tossing bodies out. First the two guys, then the hooker. He rapped one guy with his nightstick, then grabbed the other two by their throats, pulled them up close to his face and bellowed, “Shut the fuck up, alla ya. You, outta the car, now.” A third guy came out of the car. I walked across the street to see how this would turn out.
“Up against the wall, assholes, spread ’em and keep your mouths shut.” That done, he quickly patted the four of them down. None of the boys looked old enough to vote. “What’s going on here?” Horace asked.
One of the boys stepped away from the wall. “This, this …” he sputtered “woman, took our money and didn’t do, uh, deliver, what we’d, uh … bought. We were just trying to get our money back.”
Horace turned to the girl. “Officer, I don’t know what they are talking about, honestly.” she said.
The kid tried to take a swipe at her. “You whore. You took a hundred dollars of ours and you only did.…”
A Tax in Blood Page 6
