He nodded his agreement. “More than you’d figure if you only watched TV. Sure, there are people who can’t stand the Avengers. But that don’t change anything. Nobody is gonna talk to you.” He glanced at my face. “Look, the neighborhood has a siege mentality. People living there are deep into Ireland and see themselves, their community, their way of life under attack.”
“The Brits live pretty far away.”
“Don’t be smart, I’m trying to tell you something.”
“Sorry, I just don’t need another close-mouthed group on my dance card,” I said thinking of Reb Yonah.
Phil ignored my remark in his rush to bring me down. “People living there see gentrification as a fancy word for stealing their houses, welfare a way to steal money out of their pockets. Worse, money the fucking government gives to spades.”
“Blacks.”
“Wait ‘til you hear what they call ‘em.”
“Come on Phil. Aren’t you a little rough? So they’re white working poor. You’re white, you work, and you still talk to me.”
“I ain’t as poor as I look.”
“That’s good to hear. Now I know where to come for a loan.”
“You got as much chance of getting money from me as information out of them.” He grabbed the coffeepot, walked across the restaurant, and let himself in behind the counter.
I chewed on his discouragement, but couldn’t digest the vehemence. I ambled over to join him at the counter. “So who should I speak to over there?”
Phil kept his back to me and shook his head.
“You’re not gonna leave me hung,” I argued. “You must know someone. You always know someone.”
He turned toward me with a rueful smile. “Tell you the truth, Matt, I prefer to keep quiet this time.”
I raised my hands. “I don’t get it, Phil. Hell, you don’t care what happens to the Avengers. All I need is a name, somewhere to start. I’ve got a job to do.”
He pulled a tall, rickety, wooden chair over to our corner and sat down. “‘Neither rain nor snow nor sleet.’ Is that the way it is? Well, why don’t you tell Roth to shove his damn job?”
I stared at him.
He started to talk then shook his head and sat back in his chair, eyes glued to the coffeepot on the counter.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What did the good old boys tell you?”
He shook his head and tried to meet my eyes, but shooting isn’t the same as scoring. “Nobody told me anything,” he muttered. “Something stinks with this situation. You might become part of the shit that gets swept away.”
It was almost time to let him off my hook. Almost. “Maybe so, Phil. Let’s hope the sweepers are looking for bigger turds. I’m doing background checks, that’s all. Now come on, give me a name.”
He stood up, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re a fucking mule.”
I faked a move to my wallet. “Okay, no is no. How much?” I asked. Something odd was happening, but Phil had helped me too many times in the past for me to be angry with him now. Hey, the man cooked “great traif.”
“I don’t charge for renting space. The coffee was on the house.” He smiled. “So was the meat.”
I grinned back. Maybe someday I’d learn what the problem was, but it wasn’t going to be today. Today, I’d ferret for myself.
“You want a name? How about Washington Clifford.”
My easygoing attitude came crashing down as his whisper broke into my thoughts. “You’re shitting me.” I took a deep breath and a couple of seconds to collect myself.
Washington Clifford was a heavy-duty Special Forces’ cop. The Special Force lived between the cracks of my town’s legitimate law enforcement. Every city had a similar unit. Every city denied it, and every city lied. I first met ours working on a different case for Simon. Clifford’ssadistic, slab-of-beef partner played drums on my body while Clifford watched. Despite his partner’s hands and feet, it was Washington Clifford’s impassively cruel face that frightened me. For good reason. And Phil knew it.
“You’re just kidding, right?” I finally said. “Trying to worry me?”
He stared at me. “You wanted to know what I heard? Now you know.”
“Tell me more,” I said, hoping there wasn’t any.
“I already told you enough.” Phil shook his head. “You aren’t gonna quit, are you?”
“I can’t walk out on Simon. The case is important to him.”
Phil shrugged then added, “Hell, I knew nothing was going to stop you.” He leaned over the counter. “Drop into Buzz’s Tavern on Cathedral. If you tell him I sent you he might put you in touch with some of the fucking Avengers. The assholes enjoy the attention. Just don’t go telling anyone you work for Roth.”
I started to ask him more about Clifford but he shook his head. “Go away, I told you everything I’m going to.” He waited until I had the door open before adding, “Matt, watch your back.”
I filled the car with smoke as my headache and sick stomach returned. Only now the queasiness wasn’t due to last night’s overindulgence. I dug through the ashtray, frustrated by my inability to find a roach. I shook the ashes off my hand and lit another cigarette. A couple of rapid inhales left me calm enough to think. It was one thing for Simon to be jumpy about the case; his reputation within his newfound community was up for grabs. It was, however, difficult to dismiss Phil’s warnings.
I leaned back onto the headrest and closed my eyes. The nicotine had softened Clifford’s features in my mind, but I’d need something stronger than Newports to remove the threat from the tough, pleasureless grin that seemed perpetually carved in his Black, granite face.
I opened my eyes in time to watch ashes fall onto my lap. Clifford’s look meant exactly what it said and the possibility I’d see it again, up close and personal, worried me. I stuffed the dead butt into the overcrowded ashtray and lit another. Calmer didn’t mean calm.
I leaned forward, started the car, and considered the alternatives. I could sleepwalk through the case. Like the kid who dumps leaflets in the sewer instead of delivering them. Only I was a long haul from kidland. I could take Phil’s advice, drive to Simon’s, and give back the job. But I didn’t want to do that either. And it wasn’t just loyalty. If I did let him down, friendship or no, I’d spend a lot more time around the buildings. Or worse.
I aimed the car toward the general vicinity of Cathedral. Since I wasn’t going home and wasn’t quitting, I might as well visit Buzz’s bar.
A wide and open boulevard littered with garbage, Cathedral Avenue looked like yesterday’s unrefrigerated Chinese takeout. It took a couple of passes before I located the dark tavern near the corner of Cathedral and Fifth. The “B” was missing from its darkened neon and the place appeared closed. Actually, the whole area looked as if it still hadn’t recovered from a party the night before. Very few cars rushed down either side, the only pedestrians two old bottle hunters rolling overloaded shopping carts. We weren’t talking the lush life here.
I continued driving slowly appearing, I hoped, lost but actually looking for Washington Clifford or his men. Two blocks away I spotted police. It wasn’t a Lew Archer; two Blues in a parked patrol car make for an easy see.
So easy I knew they weren’t Clifford’s. Washington Clifford and his people were shadow men. I drove for another block but couldn’t make anyone else, though my neck hairs were saluting. I looked around for another couple of minutes, still saw no one, and finally assigned my feeling to the encounter with the girl in front of my house. Still, I searched for a place to park away from the bar and out of sight of the cops.
I aimed toward a commercial lot but was rewarded for my diligence with a metered space. Unwilling to thumb my nose at the ladies in uniform, I left my always handy windshield note claiming mechanical malfunction, then circumvented the Blues on my way back to the tavern. If they were going to get another look at me, they’d have to get out of their cars. Something I doubted since it was cold outside.<
br />
Despite the broken sign and gloomy entrance, Buzz’s heavy, age-streaked oak door opened just fine. Though it took a moment for the silence to extend through the smoke-filled room, by the time my eyes adjusted to the gray light the few scattered customers had garroted their conversations. Lowered heads and hooded eyes snuck peeks as I walked to the large oval bar. I kept my breathing shallow as a defense against the smell of beer, perspiration, and ammonia floor cleaner. The tavern was almost as inviting as the cold, trash-strewn street.
I sat down, stared at the cigarette-scorched, sweat-darkened Formica, and listened to the conversations resume. I’d almost set a fire in the ashtray before the tall skinny bartender nodded. Unfortunately, acknowledgment was different from response, so I sat smoking another cigarette until he left his conversation at the far turn of the large circle.
“Double Daniel’s. I had trouble finding your place,” I said hoping he was Buzz. “The sign out front is pretty small and your ‘B’ is missing.”
“I don’t see no reason to make the electric company rich. Anyone who comes here has been in before,” he answered. “Ain’t gonna find any Jack in those,” he added pointing his thumb back over his shoulder toward a tier of Jack Daniel’s bottles on the shelf behind the bar.
“Just give me the best you’ve got.” I grinned and added, “I was raised in a ginmill so thanks for the professional courtesy.”
He grunted, walked away, and returned with my double. “We don’t get many strangers in here and you don’t sound lost,” he said leaning over the Formica. “And you don’t look like one of those glitz reporters,” he added.
I’d short-sheeted my brain and had rushed in without a damn cover story. Mr. Spontaneity had no choice but to use the bone that was thrown. And use it carefully, since I didn’t imagine the bartender was alone in his opinion of the press. “Well, I am a writer, but I don’t run with the pack. I’m not hot for clusterfucks. Everyone hoping they ain’t holding their nose when someone important farts.” I shook my head. “You getting a lot of them in here?”
Before the bartender answered, an old man with a shock of white-blond hair spoke up. He sat a couple of stools downwind, hunching over an empty shot glass and a pint of Guinness. “A few of ‘em wandered in right after the shootings but I haven’t seen no one since. You work for the newspaper?” he asked.
“No way, Pop,” I said. “Can’t wrap fish in what I do. I’m a slick paper free-lance. National magazines. You run with the dailies you won’t get anyone’s name straight. When I do a story I do it right.”
The full head of Warhol white turned toward me bringing a pockmarked face. “You’re telling the truth there, goddamnit. The papers always got something screwed up. The television is friggin’ lucky if they get the right name.”
I nodded my agreement. “What’s the matter with you, old-timer? You’ve lived long enough to know better than to read.”
“Some habits are tough to break, sonny.” He grinned and ducked his head back into the Stout.
I tilted my shot glass toward the bartender and nodded toward the old guy.
“What are you doing here?” asked the bartender after he served the old man his drink.
“I’m looking for Buzz,” I said quietly, making certain I couldn’t be overheard.
“You found him,” he answered, matching my tone.
“Phil from Charley’s told me to look you up. I want to do a story on the Avengers. From their perspective. I was hoping you could get me an intro,” I pitched. “I don’t think the Avengers will get a fair shake with the regular media. I want an angle that’s different from the beat reporters. I’m less interested in the shootings than I am in what the Avengers are really about.”
I backed off the sell, ordered a Sam Adams, another Guinness for the old man, and told Buzz to buy something for himself. Before he left to fill the order, he spent a long moment looking me over then asked, “Where did you say you got my name?”
“From Phil. The guy who owns Charley’s. He said you might help.”
Buzz grunted his reply and walked away. Before returning he served a Budweiser to the man he’d been talking to when I’d arrived. When Buzz finally made it back with my drink, the guy tagged along as a chaser. He wore copper color wide-wale cords, a pale blue workshirt and an old, dungaree jacket. He looked in his thirties, medium build, and when he spoke I saw two gold incisors.
“Buzz says you’re with the press,” he said sitting down next to me.
“Not the regular media. I free-lance for national magazines.”
“Which magazines?” the sandy-haired man demanded.
“Depends. First I get the story, then I pick the glossy I think will bite.” I tried to remember the magazine where I’d seen the picture of the guerrilla fighter holding a human thigh bone, but Fang didn’t push. Just as well; any magazine that ran Benetton ads wasn’t going to help.
“These magazines pay you?”
I caught a glimpse of the old man lifting his head out of the Guinness. “Fuck, yes, they pay me. Damn good too,” I said, emphatically. Matt Jacob—the Norman Mailer of a new generation. Then I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the glass shelving; better make that Hunter Thompson.
Fang slid off the stool and pointed to a booth at the back of the room. I shrugged, grabbed my beer and cigarettes, and followed. Before I wedged into my side, I motioned for another round. My companion waited silently but grimaced gold when I lit up.
“You don’t smoke?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“We need to stay healthy.”
“We?”
He stared hard as he leaned forward. “People who care about this country.”
“You’re not talking President’s Council on Physical Fitness, are you?”
A glare of disgust followed his look of confusion. “You were joking,” he finally guessed.
“It’s my way, sorry.”
“Well, this is fucking serious business. There’s not much time left to read the funnies. You know what I’m saying?”
“If you mean that the country has gone to hell-in-a-handbasket, sure, sure I know what you’re saying.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I chipped at the bonhomie. “So you quit smoking because the country sucks. But what’s that got to do with me?”
“This country don’t suck, Mister, the people who control it suck.”
“You’re talking about…?” I asked with a friendly look.
He tilted his head to the side as if listening to a voice in his ear. Maybe he was. The voice in my ear was cursing for not having brought something to help me look like a fucking writer.
“Well, basically it’s the Wall Street Jews.” He stopped, unsure of what came next. Finally he shook his head and said, “Look. Here’s the deal. I know people who want to get their story out but they’ve been burned so much they don’t like talking to reporters.”
“I’m a writer, not a reporter. Anyway, I read some stuff about Kelly. Where did it come from?” I asked.
He waved his hand. “No, no, I don’t mean that. We can talk to anyone we want about Sean.”
He leaned forward, dug his eyes into my face, and bared his gold. “Sean Kelly was a fucking patriot. He was a fucking genius. He understood exactly how the shit here goes down. This goddamn bearded Horn offed a true American hero. They did him just like they did Jesus. The Horns, the fucking liberals’ with their horn-rimmed blinders on, they find a way to kill everyone who can make a difference. Sean was someone who understood things and wasn’t afraid to stand up for them. You know what I mean?”
He kept his eyes on my face while I nodded my agreement. I knew exactly what Fang meant. Kelly was a manly man. A rabid, down-home, shit-kicking, beer-guzzling bigot of a man. “What’s your name?” I asked fighting off the resurgence of my headache.
“Joe. What’s yours?”
“Matt.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
&
nbsp; I tried to force the action. “I understand what you’re talking about, might even agree with some of it, but I still don’t know why I’m talking to you. Me and the old guy were just getting acquainted.”
“Fuck Pops.” Joe narrowed his eyes and smirked. “You’re talking to me because I can get you what you’re looking for and the old man can’t.”
“What’s that?”
“I told you, access to the top of the Avengers.”
Time to pull down my skirt, play a little hard to get. “What do you take me for?” I demanded. “I’m supposed to believe you’re holding the hot ticket?”
He frowned, then looked sly. “Buzz said you might be all right. I don’t make those decisions, but I can get you to the guy who does, okay?” Joe looked proud of himself. “I can get you to someone who can tell you about the White Avengers. You can get plenty about Kelly, plus the important stuff. The shit we believe in.”
“It must be my lucky day.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about? Who are those other people? If you’re connected to the Avengers, why don’t you talk to me?”
He sat back on his bench. “You’re pretty suspicious for someone who wants something.” A sudden look of annoyance crossed his face. “I told you it ain’t up to me to do the talking, especially now. But the Avengers want to educate the public. Let them know how the Horns control the fucking muds and run the government.”
“Muds?”
He shook his head with exasperation. “Darkies, spics, yellows, you name it. You’re a fucking reporter and you don’t even know who the mud is! This is why we got to get the information out. The way the fucking country is going we don’t have a lot of time.” Joe’s voice reeked with arrogance, topping an undercurrent of desperation. I’d found another true believer and needed a moment to dig out from his rabid prejudice.
“Writer, not reporter.”
“Big fucking difference,” he replied. “Anyway, we’re on the lookout to see if any of you assholes will give us a fair shake.”
“You really know how to grab a guy’s sympathy, don’t you?” I was sick of his vibes and tired of being labeled an asshole.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 60
