New Dark Ages

by Warren Kinsella

  “Not you, Mike,” I said. “Earl Turner. And Danny. I fucking hate them.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Click. Ring, ring.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, man. Thanks for calling.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “How can I help?”

  Laugh. “This situation cannot be helped.”

  “I’ve been thinking. I’m really wondering if this is the right move.”

  “It is. I have no fucking doubt in my mind.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.” Pause. “I’m done, anyway.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Danny O’Heran’s eyes widened. His heart started to race.

  It was early morning. He was clutching a copy of the Union Leader, the newspaper published statewide in New Hampshire. On one of the inside pages, in a column marked “Police Blotter,” there was a brief story headlined “Dover Police Seek Info on Murder Victim.”

  The story read:

  DOVER — Police are seeking information to assist them in identifying a man found dead off Highway 4, north of Durham, NH.

  The man was described by police as being of medium height, somewhat overweight, with wavy dark hair. Police say that the man’s wallet contained identification belonging to “Ezra Faber,” but they believe that is a false name. Police are appealing for anyone with information about this man to come forward.

  A police source, who did not wish to be identified, stated that the man was bound and had been shot “execution style.” A leaflet was found stuffed into his pants pocket, the police source said, from the Otto, NC, Church of the Creative.

  Danny blinked, then blinked again. He looked up and around the parking lot at the Earl Turner campaign office in Dover, on Main Street. Turner was still inside, beaming as he posed for photos with staff, volunteers, and local luminaries. The plan for the day was to do meet-and-greet type events across New Hampshire, Maine, rural Massachusetts, and southern Vermont. At the moment, therefore, nobody was paying any attention to Turner’s personal assistant, who was sitting in the campaign Jeep, freaking out.

  Danny wanted to make a call, that call, but didn’t. Instead, he jumped out of the Jeep and slid a dime in the pay phone located at the far side of the parking lot. The phone rang a couple of times before Danny’s mother picked up. “Hello, Mom?” Danny said. “Is everything okay? Is everyone there okay?”

  He listened to his mother’s questions. She was telling him that everything and everyone was fine, but now she was worried about Danny. She asked him what was going on.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s okay, Mom.” He paused, unsure, then coughed a couple times. “I may be going away for a bit. Some campaign stuff. But everything is fine?”

  His mother wasn’t reassured, but Danny O’Heran said he had to go collect Turner. He told her he’d call her later. And that he loved her, which he knew was something he didn’t say often enough. His guts felt aflame. His hands were shaking.

  Danny looked in the direction of the campaign headquarters, where Turner was smiling away, cheerfully signing autographs and posing for pictures with his fans.

  He was winning. And now, Danny knew, almost nothing stood between Earl Turner and the nomination.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER 42

  Theresa Laverty slammed down the receiver and swore. Pete Schenk, sitting at his battered little desk in the Fifth Precinct, watched her. She’d been in a pretty bad way since Tommy was killed, and she looked like she hadn’t slept at all. Her always-fashionable outfits looked like they needed a dry cleaning.

  “More Secret Service questions?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. “A different group of law enforcement idiots, this time.”

  “Who?”

  “The FBI field office in Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” she said. “The entire bureau is on the lookout for anything and everything to do with the Church of the Creator in the wake of Albany and Tommy. As you know. But these guys in Portsmouth didn’t bother to tell anyone about finding something that is very significant.”

  “What?”

  “Some grifter using the fake name of Ezra Faber was found killed, execution-style, off a highway in rural New Hampshire a couple of days ago,” Laverty said. “Bound, gagged, shot twice in the back of the head. They found a COTC leaflet stuffed in his pocket, one about Jews being the enemies of mankind. It was left behind like it was a calling card. Just like all of the punk rock victims.”

  “Well, if his name is something like Ezra Faber, I’m assuming he’s Jewish. And I’m assuming that’s the main reason why some COTC nut killed him,” Schenk said. “Or am I missing something?”

  “No,” Laverty said. “That would make sense, except for one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I impressed on the field office the need to dig deeper. So a couple of agents finally went back to this guy’s hotel room after the local P.D. had cleared out,” she said. “There was nothing unusual, with the exception of a bunch of copies of Earl Turner’s public campaign schedules, and an address book, and what was in it.”

  “So, he was an Earl Turner fan,” Schenk said. “So what? Everyone else is these days. Anything important in the address book?”

  “Yes,” Laverty said. “It had the unlisted home address and numbers of Danny O’Heran and his family. He’s the kid who used to be part of that punk rock gang in Portland. And he’s now Earl Turner’s main personal assistant. And that is significant.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Where the fuck did X go? I kept thinking all the way home. Did he screw around on Patti with that Nagamo chick? Why does he have to be so fucking mysterious all the time?

  All good questions. All unlikely ever to be answered. This was X, after all, and if you’re the kind of person who’s unenthusiastic about big information gaps in your daily routine, I would recommend against becoming one of X’s close friends.

  But there he stood, at my mom’s door, the day after we got back.

  When we got back to Portland, I spent a bit of time with my mom, and I saw my dad at his apartment out near the naval base at Kittery. Sister Betty had called to tell them I’d been in the hospital, but she didn’t tell them what for. I told them it was because I got a bad case of the flu. I could tell my dad didn’t believe a word of it. He didn’t grill me about it, though.

  Patti had told me X was back in Portland, too. I decided not to ask her if they were still the Portland Punk Rock Super Couple, but I certainly wondered if they were. She didn’t sound like a happy unit and quickly signed off, saying she was going to be spending some time with her family in Boston until the next leg of the tour.

  So, I was doing laundry — when you go on tour, you have a small mountain of it — when the bell rang. And there X stood, holding a guitar. And not just any guitar. It was Jimmy Cleary’s guitar. I could see it had been all fixed up, too: new pickups, new machine heads, new strings, all buffed and shined.

  We just looked at each other, neither of us saying a word for the longest time.

  “So,” I finally said. “Is that Jimmy’s?”

  “It is. I got it fixed up.” He held it out. “He’d want you to have it. He’d be proud of you. I am, too.”

  For that, I got a bit emotional, and I grabbed the guitar and one-arm hugged him. Being X, he naturally stood there stiff as a board. “I missed you, brother,” I said, pulling back to look at him. “I thought you were gone for good. Or that you were done with me for good.”

  He arched one eyebrow and almost grinned. “Well, I admit I was getting a bit fed up with some of the drama,” he said, his head down. Then he looked right at me: “But you’re my best friend. You’re my brother. And I’ll never give up on you.”

  That made me want to cry again, but I didn’t. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Can I come in?” he asked. “There’s some
thing I need to talk to you about. It’s important.”

  “Of course, man,” I said, ushering him in. “My mom’s out, so we can use the living room.”

  I sat on the couch, Jimmy’s guitar across my lap, and waited. X sat on my dad’s old La-Z-Boy. He actually looked a bit anxious, which wasn’t something I’d seen very often. X got up and started pacing around. His brows were furrowed.

  Eventually, he sat back down and started to tell me the story. The one call to London, months ago, the two things no one knew, the three dead punk kids. All of it. It was a life-changing story, you might say. It was, he said, “the new dark ages.”

  At the end, I yelled, I shouted, I pleaded with him. I begged him. I tried to talk him out of it, of course, but it was way too late.

  So, in the end, I went along with it. He’s X, and he’s my best friend, after all.

  CHAPTER 44

  Theresa Laverty and Pete Schenk sat in the cramped waiting area at the Earl Turner campaign office in Portland. The place was busy. There were a half-­dozen receptionists answering the constantly ringing phones and receiving deliveries. Dozens of people wearing volunteer badges ran in and out. It had the feel of a campaign that was well financed and well ­organized. It had the feel of a campaign that was ­winning.

  Laverty’s return to Portland had been easy to ­arrange. She had the mandate to travel wherever the Church of the Creator made its presence known. Pete Schenk, however, was wholly outside his ­jurisdiction. His request to his bosses for permission to ­accompany Laverty should have been denied. But after the ­killing of Tom Edwards at the Albany rally and ­Tommy’s death afterward, permission had been quickly ­granted.

  Laverty and Schenk had called ahead to meet with Danny O’Heran and were told he was unavailable. They called again and were told he was out with the candidate. The third time, after being put on hold for ten minutes, they decided to pay Danny a visit in ­person.

  So there they stood, clearly unimpressed. After speaking worriedly to someone on the phone, the receptionist had told them that Danny O’Heran was unavailable. She looked scared. A couple of the other receptionists were watching them nervously.

  Laverty was in no mood for further delay. “I’m a special agent with the FBI,” she said loudly. “My colleague here is from the NYPD, and he’s investigating multiple murders. If you do not bring Danny O’Heran out now, we will be coming back with a warrant.”

  Schenk piped in, smiling: “And the press will probably find out we’re here, and they’ll want to know why the police are executing a warrant at the campaign headquarters of Earl Turner.”

  The receptionist was wide-eyed as she picked up the phone. She spoke to someone briefly, then hung up. “Mr. Hailey is coming out to speak to you. He is the most senior person here at the moment.”

  A man arrived a minute later, looking like a balding praying mantis and extending a hand that resembled a tobacco-stained spider. “Miss Laverty, Mr. Schenk,” he said. “I’m Derwin Hailey, a senior advisor to Mr. Turner. The candidate is out of the office at the moment, and Danny O’Heran is with him. They should be back soon, however. Would you like to wait? Can I get you a coffee or a water?”

  “No, thank you,” Laverty said icily. “When will they be back?”

  “Very soon,” Hailey said, all fake smiles and solicitude. He lowered his voice. “May I ask if Danny is in some sort of trouble?” He sounded hopeful.

  Laverty glared at him. “Danny O’Heran is in no trouble. We do need to speak to him, however.”

  “I see,” Hailey said. “Is there anything I could assist you with?”

  “Not unless you know something about the Church of the Creator,” Schenk said, then immediately regretted it. Laverty gave him a hard look.

  Derwin Hailey’s phony smile dropped for a moment, then quickly returned. “I’m not familiar with it,” he said.

  Laverty knew he was lying and glared at him. “Given that one of its members killed a protestor at your rally in Albany a few days ago, Mr. Hailey, I rather doubt that,” she said. She paused for dramatic effect, but it wasn’t necessary. Derwin Hailey looked as if he had stopped breathing. “You know it is an offence to lie to a federal agent, don’t you?” she added.

  Hailey gulped, his Adam’s apple moving like a snake. “Yes, yes,” he said, plainly terrified. “Of course, yes, I should have remembered that the shooter was involved in that church. Of course.”

  “So, let’s try again,” Laverty said, now actually glad that Schenk had said what he said. “Are you familiar with the Church of the Creator?”

  “Not beyond what I have read in the papers,” Hailey stammered. “I’m not familiar with that organization.”

  All of the receptionists were watching the unfolding drama now. Some of the volunteers had stepped out to watch, too.

  “What about Bernhardt Klassen?” Laverty demanded. “Have you ever heard of him, Mr. Hailey?”

  Before Hailey could answer, there was a sudden commotion at the doors behind them.

  Earl Turner and Danny O’Heran had returned.

  CHAPTER 45

  Gary’s. Home.

  Gary’s was the grimy, gritty bar that was the center of the Portland punk scene. Where it all started.

  It was opening time on a Thursday, so few people were in the bar. The Hot Nasties, the Punk Rock Virgins, and the rest of the X Gang had decided to convene a summit of sorts: Earl Turner was planning a rally at the State Theatre, a few blocks away, and some of us wanted to do something about that. X and I suggested holding a show to protest Turner and possibly a march on the State Theatre with as many punks as we could assemble.

  Bembe Smith shook his head and tapped the top of one of Gary’s tiny round tables. “This is a very, very bad idea,” he said. “It is a crazy idea. When this Earl Turner held his last rally, in Albany, two people were shot to death! Please don’t do this.”

  Sister Betty was sitting beside Bembe and nodding a bit. “Maybe Bembe is right. Maybe this is a bad idea, Kurt.”

  I crossed my arms and shook my head. “There are two reasons why we need to do this. One is general, and one is specific.”

  Eddie was standing behind Betty. He frowned. “Specific? What?”

  I held up two fingers. “One, this racist piece of shit is from Portland, and we need to show everyone that not everyone from Portland is a minority-hating, woman-hating, Jew-hating, everyone-hating motherfucker,” I said.

  “And two … Danny.” I looked around the table at all of the Nasties, Virgins, Mike, and X. “Danny was one of us, and now he is working for that racist prick.” I spat out his name. “Danny! Lots of people think that we’re okay with that, or that we don’t care. We need to show them that we’re not okay with it, and that we do care. We need to say we condemn what Danny is doing.”

  Patti looked at me. “Those are actually good reasons, Mr. Kurt.”

  Nobody said anything as they thought about what I’d said. Sam Shiller, resident worrier, spoke first. “Guys, I don’t know,” he said. “This feels like we’re just looking for trouble. I agree with Bembe. If we do just a show here, fine. But the minute we step outside, and go near that bastard’s rally, someone is going to get hurt. And nobody’ll be upset if it’s one of us.”

  “I agree with Sam,” Betty said, reluctantly. “Enough people have been hurt — or worse. Can’t we just stay here and avoid looking for a fight, for once?”

  Bembe again started tapping the orange terry cloth cover on the table. “Guys, this is Gary’s, on Brown Street,” he said, then indicated another spot on the table, a couple inches away. “And this is where the Earl Turner rally is taking place, at the State Theatre on Congress Street. That theater is going to be surrounded by an army of police and Secret Service, especially after what happened in Albany. You are never going to get near it!”

  Sister Betty nodded. “And if we do, it’ll end in a huge stupid fight, and I’m sick of all the violence.”

  Eddie spoke up, sounding uncharacter
istically political. “I like the idea of showing everyone that Portland isn’t all racist. I want to do it.”

  “We still have a few days until the tour starts again in Boston, right?” Luke said. “I wouldn’t mind doing a free show for Nasties fans in Portland. And I think it’s a good idea to show them that what Danny did was wrong. I’m in.”

  Mike, who’d been silent up till then, was wearing his FUCK THE WORLD T-shirt and an indifferent expression. “Bembe and me will make sure everyone is safe when they’re at Gary’s. And if they go to that bastard’s rally?” He shrugged. “Everyone is allowed to exercise their constitutional rights, right?”

  Eddie, Luke, and I laughed at Mike’s invocation of the U.S. Constitution. We all then looked at X.

  He spoke quietly, so we had to lean in to hear. “Portland is our town. It isn’t Earl Turner’s,” he said. He paused and looked straight at Bembe. “And I agree with Bembe — the police are useless. But Danny O’Heran is a fucking traitor. And we need to make sure everyone knows that.”

  There was silence for a moment, because almost every­one was surprised — not because X favored the gig and a protest, but because he had spoken so harshly about Danny.

  I wasn’t surprised.

  I watched X and Bembe exchange a look, and kind of wondered who knew what. After a bit of that, I spoke, clapping my hands. “All right then! We do the free show. And afterward, if anyone wants to head over to the State Theatre with us to protest, they can … and then Bembe can bail us all out of jail or collect our remains at the morgue.”

  Bembe shook his head. “You guys are crazy.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Derwin Hailey, having briefly been a bottom-feeding personal injury attorney before he became a bottom-feeding pollster, insisted on sitting in on the meeting with Laverty, Schenk, and Danny. Like most people in politics, Hailey liked to pretend that he was Someone Important, even though he really wasn’t.