Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14

by George C. Chesbro

  Time does fly when you're having fun, and our time was just about up. Our report was due by the end of the month, in three weeks, so we were essentially done with our investigating. Now we had to collate the data we had compiled and shape it into usable form, then rev up the word processor and actually write the report. The document would be lengthy and, we hoped, a real attention-grabber. It was going to be a lot of work, and we had already waited too long to begin this final phase, but with luck, no distractions, and gallons of caffeine, we thought we could deliver the report before the deadline, which we had been pointedly told was a firm one.

  Which was why I was down in my office on the first floor of our brownstone on West Fifty-sixth Street at five in the morning, calling up notes and numerical data on the computer and working on a first draft. Garth was still asleep up in his apartment on the third floor of the brownstone. My biggest distraction and the love of my life, Dr. Harper Rhys-Whitney, was away searching for new species of poisonous snakes in the Amazon Basin, and Garth's wife, the folksinger Mary Tree, was on a concert tour of Europe to promote her latest album. That left us free to eat junk food, sleep, and work until the job was finished. By then, Harper would be back. We planned to close up the shop for a month or two, and give my secretary, Francisco, a well-deserved paid vacation. Garth would join his wife on tour in Europe, and Harper and I would fly off to some as yet unspecified location that I hoped would be relatively snake-free. After wandering through CIA Ops insanity for well nigh six months, Garth and I needed a long rest, and a little loving to go along with it wasn't going to hurt at all.

  At seven I turned on CNN to catch the early morning news, and I found the lead story very disturbing. A Supreme Court justice, Richard Weiner, had been killed in an automobile accident the night before while returning from a bar association dinner at which he had given a speech. Weiner was one of only two justices on the high court who could be described as a stalwart liberal on a court of constantly shifting alignments otherwise comprising three ultra-conservatives and four middle-of-the-roaders whose opinions, at best, were unpredictable on any given issue. From my point of view, Weiner's death was a severe blow to a country where liberal voices, especially those of people in power, were in increasingly dwindling supply. The balance, if it could be called that, of the Supreme Court was now seriously at risk. The sitting president, a moderate who occasionally suffered spasms of liberal thought and action, was fighting like hell to stay in the Oval Office, but not many people thought he could be reelected, and not a few thought his party might even dump him at their convention to be held in New York toward the end of the month. The country was burning with a kind of right-wing fever, and it was hard to find anybody, on the ubiquitous right-wing talk shows or on the stump, who seemed to think that the federal government was good for anything but building more bombers and prisons and providing care and feeding for big business and right-wing politicians. This president, of course, had plenty of time to select a nominee to fill Richard Weiner's seat, but serving up a name-any name- would be a futile gesture. The ultra-conservatives would block any nomination and bide their time until they could get their own man or woman in the presidency, and their own brand of Supreme Court justice, one virtually guaranteed to overturn, or vote to overturn, Roe v. Wade at the first opportunity. The president could nominate Thomas Jefferson, and it wouldn't make any difference; the ultra-right wing smelled blood in the water, and they wanted Genghis Khan. The news of Weiner's death was so depressing that I turned off the television.

  At 8:45, Francisco, whom I hadn't even heard come in, knocked at the door, opened it, and stuck his head into my office. The Hispanic, who had worked for me now for almost a decade, was slightly built and not much taller than I was, and with his new "look"- slicked-back hair and pencil-thin mustache-he resembled a pared-down version of Rudolph Valentino. "Excuse me, sir. There's someone here who'd like to speak to you."

  "Who?"

  Francisco must have seen the look of annoyance on my face, or heard it in my voice, because he winced slightly. "He says his name is Thomas Dickens."

  "Francisco, I hope to hell you didn't give anybody an appointment."

  "No, sir. He doesn't have an appointment. I think he's on his way to work."

  "What does he want?"

  "I don't know, sir. He said Lou Skalin recommended that he talk to you."

  "Tell him I can't do anything for him until the beginning of October, at the earliest. If his business can wait until then, give him an appointment. Otherwise, give him the names of some of our colleagues."

  "Yes, sir," Francisco replied, and started to close the door.

  "Hold it," I said curtly, slapping my desk in exasperation and leaning back in my chair. Lou Skalin was head of the Fortune Society, a New York-based self-help organization of ex-convicts. Garth and I occasionally did pro bono work for them, and, in return, Skalin had often been an invaluable source of information on any number of matters. I liked the man, and I didn't want to offend him, even by proxy. "Send Mr. Dickens in."

  "Yes, sir."

  I rose from my chair and started around my desk, then almost tripped over my feet in surprise when Thomas Dickens suddenly appeared in the doorway, blocking out the sun. The man was enormous, at least six feet five or six, and upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds, all bulging muscle. His nose appeared to have been broken so many times that it was now a puffy lump of cartilage and bent bone sitting like a ball of dough in the center of his face, which was covered with crude, purplish jailhouse tattoos. He was very big and very black. Except for his eyes, dark pools that glittered with intelligence and seemed sensitive and kind, he had to be the meanest-looking, ugliest man I'd ever seen, and I'd seen more than my share of brutish types. He was wearing the summer uniform of the New York Sanitation Department. Both arms, which bulged out of his short-sleeved shirt, were also covered with old jailhouse tattoos, black on black, wiggling lines of ink carved into his flesh with the point of a shank. He was a truly awesome presence, a kind of moving mountain of graffiti advertising strength and power. In one huge ham of a hand, his left, he carried a black metal lunch pail, and under his right arm was a misshapen, scarred Ralph Lauren leather portfolio that I was pretty certain had been plucked from some pile of trash. He set down the lunch pail, then abruptly walked the rest of the way into my office and extended his hand in a quick, nervous gesture.

  "I'm Thomas Dickens, Dr. Frederickson," the man said in a deep, rumbling voice that seemed laced with just a hint of anxiety. "But you can call me Moby. Everybody does. It's a kid's nickname that stuck. I used to be fat as a whale before I went to the joint and got into seriously pumping iron."

  I tentatively thrust my hand up into his, and was pleased when he released it with the bones intact. "Moby Dickens. That's, uh. . right."

  "I really appreciate your agreeing to see me," he said quickly, anxiously glancing back over his shoulder as if he was expecting someone to sneak up on him. "It took me a while to work up the courage to come in. I didn't want to call, because I don't speak as well as I write. I'm not good on the phone. I also know I don't make a good first impression-my appearance, I mean. I'm scary-looking, and it puts people off, so I figured I'd just take a chance and drop in on my way to work. Lou told me you're not scared of anything."

  "He was talking about my brother."

  "Nah. He was talking about you. Anyway, thanks again."

  "Well, you haven't scared me yet, Mr. Dickens," I said, toting up my first lie of the day and discounting my first, visceral reaction when I'd seen him filling up my doorway.

  "Moby."

  "Moby." I pointed to a chair over by my desk that I hoped was strong enough to support him. "Come on over and sit down."

  "Thank you, sir," he said, going over to the chair and sitting down, cradling his leather portfolio in both arms. The wood creaked, but the chair held together.

  I went back behind my desk and sat down in my swivel chair, resisting the impulse to glance at the da
ta that still flickered, impatiently awaiting my attention, on my computer monitor. "What can I do for you, Moby?"

  "Somebody's been stealing my poetry."

  "Somebody's been. . stealing. . your poetry."

  "Here," he said, reaching into his leather portfolio and pulling out a magazine. "I'll show you. Page twenty-three."

  He handed over the magazine, which was something called The New England Journal of Poetry, and dated two years before. I opened it to page twenty-three and saw a poem there entitled "Fountain-head," by Thomas Dickens:

  I had escaped that hell riding

  The backs of my demons,

  Smoothing the way with paving

  Stone words plucked from

  The storm, cemented together

  With my tears that otherwise

  Would have dropped to waste,

  Soaking the ground,

  Miring my tongue.

  Fear whispers from a far place

  Deeper still than the

  Cacophonous, rain-swept

  Arena of our hatred,

  A quiet hole where there

  Is no wind and even our

  Screams are drowned In the silent sea.

  "Very nice," I said, glancing up into the scarred, mashed, and tattooed face of the man sitting across from me.

  "Thank you."

  I looked to my right as Garth, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and carrying the fistful of papers he had taken up to his apartment the night before, entered the office. He stopped when he saw us. "Sorry," he said, taking a pencil from between his teeth. "I didn't know you had anybody in here with you."

  "What's up?"

  "I need to call up the names of all those shell corporations, and Francisco's using his terminal to do something else for me. It'll wait. I'll come back when you're finished."

  "It's all right," I said, getting up and coming around from behind the desk. "This won't take much longer, and we can move over to the couch. Garth Frederickson, this is Moby Dickens. Somebody has been stealing Mr. Dickens' poetry."

  I thought Garth might be as amused as I was by the name, or show some sign of interest in the situation, but my brother was either being polite or was totally distracted by his paper pursuit of the CIA's dummy companies, because he displayed no reaction at all. He sat down behind my desk, brushed a few stray strands of his shoulder-length, wheat-colored hair away from his eyes, then began a brutal attack on my keyboard using the index finger of each hand.

  I motioned Moby Dickens over to the small couch set up along the wall of the office, to the left of my desk, and he went over and sat down on it. He filled most of the couch, so I pulled up the single chair and sat down in front of him. He once again reached into the cracked leather folds of his portfolio and pulled out another magazine. This one was called The Raging River Review, and was printed on much cheaper paper than the first journal he had shown me, with the pages stapled together. It was dated six months before. He opened the magazine to a page, handed it to me. There was a poem entitled "Fright," by Jefferson Kelly:

  Speaks softly From a distant place Even deeper than the Cacophonous, rain-swept Arena of our hatred; A still hole where there Is no breeze and even our Screams are drowned Out by the Din of silence.

  "It's yours," I said, handing him back the magazine.

  Moby Dickens nodded, then plucked out a half dozen other magazines and offered them to me. "There are a lot more-"

  "I get the idea," I said, holding up my hand. "This Jefferson Kelly reads a poem of yours in some literary journal, then alters it slightly and submits it as his own work to some other magazine. It's plagiarism."

  "Yes."

  "And you want some kind of compensation."

  The ex-convict with the tattooed face and doughboy nose replaced the magazines in his portfolio, then studied me with his bright, expressive dark eyes. He seemed surprised. "No, sir," he said at last. "It's not about money. I just want him to stop."

  "Aha."

  "A number of editors have been publishing my work for a few years, and so they're familiar with my name and work. It was one of them who noticed a plagiarized poem in one of the other journals, and she first brought it to my attention by sending me a copy. Then I went through the literature and found that this Kelly has plagiarized at least a dozen of my poems. There could be more-there are hundreds of literary and so-called 'little' magazines, some of which are just run off on mimeograph machines in somebody's basement, and it's impossible to check all of them. I can prove all the poems are mine, because mine were always published first. He may copy other people's poems as well, and then submit them as his own work. I don't know. I just want him to stop copying mine. My editors should be cooperative. I was hoping you could find out who this Jefferson Kelly is and where he lives, and you could go talk to him."

  "Why wouldn't these editors who know your work and realize it's been plagiarized cooperate with you? One of them might be able to give you a return address for this Kelly, maybe even a phone number.

  You could talk to him yourself." I paused, smiled. "Moby, trust me on this: Kelly finding you on his doorstep would be much more of an incentive for him to do the right thing than finding me. The sight of you will positively fire his imagination. I guarantee he'll stop copying your poems."

  I thought it a perfectly sensible suggestion, and I even thought Moby Dickens might be amused by my dry wit. But he didn't smile. Shadows moved in his eyes, and he looked away. "I don't want to do that," he said softly.

  "Uh, why not? He's been ripping off your work to pass himself off as a poet. You have every right to confront him. That's what you want me to do, and I'm telling you that you'd be a far more effective spokesman for your cause. One mild glower should do the trick. Even half a glance."

  "I don't like to glower. I don't want to use my body to defend my poetry."

  "What's the difference between using your body and hiring mine, aside from the fact that you'll save money? I hope it won't come as a shock to you to be told that your body is a lot more persuasive-looking than mine."

  Not only did I fail to get an affirmation of my sound logic and prudent fiscal advice, I still couldn't get even a smile out of the man. "You don't understand," he said in the same soft tone, lowering his head. When he raised it again, I was thoroughly startled to see that his eyes were misted with tears.

  "Moby," I said quickly, "I wasn't making fun of your physical appearance. I was just stating a fact. And I didn't mean to be insensitive. If that's how it sounded, I apologize."

  He took a deep breath, shook his head, and said, "I killed a man in a bar fight down in Mississippi when I was seventeen years old. It was self-defense, but I got fifteen to twenty anyway. But the truth is that being sent to prison saved my life; the way I was heading, I'd have been dead by the time I was twenty. Being put in prison was a gift, because it was there that I found my gift. My muse came to me in prison. I discovered that I could take everyday words, change them around and polish them and make them into something beautiful. I discovered I had a beautiful soul, and it was made out of poems. Dr. Frederickson, before prison I thought I had to be a badass motherfucker because I looked like a badass motherfucker-fat, ugly, and mean. But that wasn't true. Through my poems, 1 could look at my soul and see it all naked, pure, and. . true. My poetry is all I ever want my editors and readers to see. I've never spoken to an editor on the phone, and I've turned down dozens of invitations to lunch, and even to visit colleges and speak to students. I know what I look like. I don't want anyone to see that, or to know that Thomas Dickens is an ex-convict garbageman in New York City. I'm not ashamed of who I am, or my job-I make a decent living. But it would be a distraction from what I've created if anyone were to find out more about me. Maybe that will change in time, but that's how I feel now. I'm afraid I couldn't write anymore if people found out about me. I especially don't want this thief, Jefferson Kelly, to know anything about me personally. That's why I need somebody to do this thing for me."

 
; "Moby," I said, suppressing a sigh, "how much money are we talking about here? I mean, how much have you earned from your poetry?"

  He stared at me for some time in silence, as if confused by the question. "I don't know," he said at last. "A few dollars, probably less than a hundred. Most of the magazines pay in copies or subscriptions."

  "Let me be blunt with you, Moby. All of the money you've earned from your poetry over the years probably wouldn't pay for an hour of my time. I don't think-"

  "I can pay!" he snapped, his voice suddenly booming in the small office. Now his eyes glinted with anger. "I told you this wasn't about money!"

  I cleared my throat, stood up. "I didn't mean to offend you, Moby. I can see that you're upset about this, and under other circumstances I wouldn't hesitate to take on the assignment. But the fact of the matter is that Garth and I are up to our eyeballs in work right now, and I just don't have the time to take on anything else. We haven't accepted new cases for months now. My secretary will give you the names of some other-"

  "Excuse me!" Garth said sharply.

  I turned around in my chair, and was somewhat surprised to find my brother standing up behind my desk. His hands were on his hips, and he was glaring at me. "Garth?"

  "I want to talk to you, Brother."

  "Sure, Garth," I replied, puzzled by my brother's interruption and demeanor. "Just give me a couple of minutes to get Mr. Dickens squared away."

  "Right now," Garth said curtly, walking briskly to the door and motioning with his hand for me to follow him. He looked at Moby Dickens, and his manner changed abruptly. He smiled easily, and his tone was positively sweet as he continued, "Just stay where you are, Mr. Dickens. The good doctor will be back in his office in a couple of minutes."