"Can we prove it?"
"What's to prove? They're dead. The Captain's dead. BR is on top of the world. You're a yuppie dick facing ten to fifteen for a fucking publicity stunt. Who's going to believe you?" Gomez chuckled,
"You're the guy who told the world the President was dead."
"Thank you for reminding me. Just when I'd forgotten."
"Use your head, kid. These people who did this are still out there. And they're good. I know they screwed up your case, but they sure as shit didn't screw up with those three litigants. You go telling the FBI about this, two things are going to happen. First, they're going to laugh their asses off. Second,
you're
going to wake up dead from smoke inhalation."
"So where does that leave us?"
"I'm okay. You're neck-deep in shit."
"That's helpful."
"Okay," Gomez sniffed, "here's what I can give you. Name and an address. I know they were both wearing makeup when they snatched you, but you will recognize him. When he's not killing people, he acts."
"Axe?"
"He's an
actor.
I guess he can't be that good, or he wouldn't be killing people for a living. It's amateur stuff, light opera, that kind of crap."
"Peter Lorre," Nick said. "Yeah, him."
"I was kidnapped and tortured and nearly killed by a bad actor?"
"Bad actor, but a
good
killer. Before he did the three litigants he was—well, you probably don't need to know all that. But take my word for it, when you make your move, don't mess up."
"My
move? What is my move?"
Gomez sat back in his seat and picked at a piece of stuck catfish with a toothpick. "That's up to you, kid."
"But I'm just a yuppie dick. What am I supposed to do, challenge him to a debate on hit men on the
Donahue
show? 'Men who kill other men, and the ones who get away, next, on
Donahue'?"
"No." Gomez smiled enigmatically. "I'd expect you to be smarter than that." He slid a piece of paper across the table. There was a name and address printed on it.
"Can you memorize that?"
"Yeah."
"Then do it." Gomez took the slip of paper back, held it over the mason jar,-and set it on fire. The ash sizzled onto the ice. "This will come in useful. 'Team B.' "
"Team B? The Presidential Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board?" Gomez nodded. "Smart boy. I thought it sounded familiar. BR must have taken the name from that." "But what's Team B?"
"Team B," Gomez said, "is the code name for his little special operation squad. Here's something else that will be useful: 'TeamA.' "
"What's that?" "Use your head, kid."
"Will you
stop
calling me that? I'm not Lauren Bacall and you're not Humphrey Bogart."
"Team A, obviously, is BR."
Nick thought. "I still don't get what I'm supposed to do."
"Well, Nick, the way things are going for you, you'll figure out something. Necessity is the motherfucker of invention."
In the car on the mostly quiet drive to the airport, Nick said, "Why are you doing this?"
Gomez thought. "I could tell you I was doing it for the Captain. But since I like you, I'm not going to bullshit you. I like my job at the Academy. I believe in cigarettes. I think we're overpopulated. The planet could use a break, you know what I mean? I'm glad we're getting into the Asian markets in a big way. I spent a lot of time working in Asia, Nam, Laos, Cambodia, Indonesia, China, and let me tell you, I'm not losing sleep over the idea of thinning out
those
hordes. Their food's good, though. I always liked the food."
"You're in this for
population control?"
"Sure, but honestly? I like the hours, too. It's not too demanding. Most of what I do involves finding out stuff about people, and
that
I can do in my sleep. I like the hours, I like the pension plan, good medical, vacation. I like the whole package. But I do
not
like BR. And I like him even less now that he's got the chairmanship. And," he said, "I do not like this split-tail squeeze that he's just made executive vice president. Now I'm supposed to answer to her, and," he chuckled, "I have
never
answered to a woman before. So I'm anticipating problems, and at this stage of my life, I'm just looking to put in a few more years and take early retirement. And these two are complicating my plans."
Split-tail? "Were you in the navy?" Nick asked.
"Do you
want
to know?"
"No," Nick said.
28
I d
on't see why you can't say who told you about this," Polly said with an edge to her voice, owi
ng to the headline in the day's
Moon.
Naylor, Gun Lobbyist, Liquor Spokeswoman Belonged to Club Called "The Mod Squad": An Acronym for "Merchants of Death"
Three Spokesmen of the Yuppocalypse?
BY HEATHER HOLLOWAY
MOON
CORRESPONDENT
Her boss was not at all thrilled by this deplorable revelation; nor was Stockton Drum, Bobby Jay's boss, who had so far been a brick, even proud that his boy was now down and dirty in the Second Amendment trenches. About the only person who was pleased, though he would not admit it, was Bert, whose restaurant had now been put on the Scandal Tours itinerary, a popular Washington tourist bus whose other stops included the Watergate, the Tidal Basin, and the hotel where the FBI had caught Mayor Barry smoking crack.
"Because," Nick said, "I want to live. And the person who told me this made it clear that that would no longer be an option if I revealed his identity."
"This stuff is so strong it's melting my hook," Bobby Jay said, wiping off the thick coating of coffee grounds.
"Would you
please
stop doing that," said P
olly. A TV camera crew,
hot on the heels of the morning's Mod Squad story, had shown up at her Sober Drivers 2000, shouting blunt questions at her during the Q and A. All she could do was to cast aspersions on the
Moon
for being owned by a Korean who said he was the Messiah. It was generally what people did whenever the
Moon,
a pretty good newspaper, published something true that they didn't like.
The strong Serbian coffee was not improving Polly's nerves. She was drumming her fingernails on the table.
C-c-c-clink, c-c-c-click.
"Then why don't you tell us where Ms. World Class Tits got
this."
"I would guess," Nick said mournfully, "that she got that from Jeannette."
"Oh?" Polly said, flaring. "And how did Jeannette know about the Mod Squad?"
Nick sighed. "You're not going to like it." "My day
began
ruined, so you won't be spoiling it." "She got it from you." "What are you talking about?"
"You remember leaving a message on my machine congratulating me on the killer cheddar cheese the night I went on
Nightline?"
"Yes," Polly said suspiciously.
"Well, uh, you, uh mentioned, uh the Mod Squad, and . . ." "So I mentioned Mod Squad. People think that's a TV show in reruns."
"Yeah, but, uh . . ."
"Will you
stop
saying 'uh'? I've already maxed out my Prozac today, and I can't take any more.
Spit it out."
"Well, Jeannette was there in the apartment and we were, uh, she asked me what it meant and
..."
It was good that Polly was wearing her Jackie O sunglasses, because Nick didn't want to see what kind of looks she was giving him.
"First," she finally said, "you tell us that you were fucking this slut. And now you tell us that you were fucking
us
at the same time."
"I'm not happy about this," Nick said.
"You're
not happy about this?"
"I'm
really
unhappy about this."
"Oh, well then," Bobby Jay said, "in that
case, no problem." He
added, "Fornicator."
"Maybe I'll get religion after all this," Nick said. "The Christian Prison Fellowship has chapters in most of the better penitentiaries."
"Asshole," Polly said, leaving.
They watched her go. Bobby Jay said, "Nicely done, son. Before you arrived tonight, she told me she was going to liquidate her savings to help you with your legal expenses."
"Why would she do that?"
Bobby Jay shook his head. "Boy, you're dumber than a mud box." Bobby Jay left.
"I'll get the check," Nick said, to no one in particular.
At first he didn't recognize the extraordinarily awful taste in his mouth, nor did he have a clue as to where he was. Wherever it was, it had a spectacular view of Washington. He was on the Arlington side, this much he did know. The dawning fact that he was surrounded by identical tombstones, and many thousands of them, suggested that he was somewhere in Arlington National Cemetery. Then he was able to identify the revolting layer of scum on his tongue. Slivovitz. The residue of glass after glass after glass of it. Yes, it was coming back now: he had ended the evening singing Serbian fighting songs shoulder to shoulder with the waiters and kitchen staff. Somehow he had driven himself to Arlington Cemetery, and had gotten himself over the fence. His ripped trousers and the acute pain in his right kneecap implied that this had not been smartly done. But why Arlington?
That came back to him too. He had come here to kill himself.
He liked Arlington, sometimes came here on a nice day, just to stroll and check out who was who. There were over two hundred thousand people buried here, which was a lot of dead people, though it wasn't, it occurred to him uncomfortably, even half one year's smoking casualties. He remembered deciding not to kill himself at his apartment so his cleaning lady wouldn't have to find him. He remembered the speedometer hitting 110 mph and aiming for the concrete pillars of the overpass, but chickening out, just in time, when he remembered that the car had an airbag and he'd probably end up a quadraplegic for the rest of his life, and an ex
tremely bitter one at that.
At which point he looked up and saw
A
rlington national cemetery
. Why not? There was no rope in the trunk, so he decided to hang himself with the jumper cables. There they were, by his feet.
He picked them up. They felt kind of rubbery. He didn't relish hanging himself with the equivalent of a bungee cord. He saw himself bouncing up and down, his head banging against the branch.
He considered. The Metro stopped at Arlington. He could clamp the jumper cables to the third rail. Seven hundred fifty volts should do the trick nicely. That would give the headline-writing bastards material.
His watch showed 4:23
a.m
. The trains weren't running yet. He stood, wincing from the pain in his knee, and hobbled up the hill. He could see a flickering light not far off that turned out to be the eternal flame on President Kennedy's grave.
Who better to share his final moments with? One young victim to another, cut off in the prime of life. . . .
Whoa.
Hard to he to yourself in a cemetery.
Let's be honest, kid
—Gomez O'Neal seemed to be doing the voice-over for what was left of his conscience—
you're a washed-out, forty-year-old snake-oil vendor on the payroll, until recently, of people who sell death for a living. On the Karmicfood chain, you're somewhere between a sea slug and eel shit. You've fucked up two careers, one marriage, and two good friendships. Just think what you could have accomplished if you'd lived to a ripe old age.
So—a tragic career, happily cut short.
He stood at the fringe of the gravesite, apprehensive about being stopped by the park police.
Naylor Arrested with Jumper Cable at JFK Grave
Claims His Car Battery Went Dead Was Seeking "Inspiration" at Difficult Time
JUDGE ORDERS PSYCHIATRIC EXAMINATION
But there were no signs of police, so he walked closer to the flame, which glowed warmly in the predawn chill.
A rusde in the bushes. Move
ment. Oh God—did they let Dober
mans patrol on the loose?
Remains at JFK Gravesite Are Identified as Naylor's
For a man who wanted to die, he was awfully scared. He hobbled over to a bush opposite and crouched and hid.
A bum stumbled out of the bushes. Nick peered. He was layered with rags, and seemed enormous and hunched over, like an apparition out of a Grimm fairy tale. The bum coughed. A great, deep baritone volcano of a cough—one of our clients, for sure—and then spat in Nick's direction. It landed with a vile, liquidy
splat.
His pulmonary ablutions done, the bum reached into his pockets and after much rummaging produced a bent cigarette stub. He stuck it in his mouth and rummaged for a match. The search went on for quite a while; he seemed to have about a hundred pockets in all those layers.