Authors: Thomas Perry
5
Kepler read aloud, “‘UFO R
EPORTED IN
D
ESERT
. T
wo
residents of the community of Cottonwood Pass, California, have reported finding what they believe to be the site where a flying saucer made a crash landing. David Greeley, sixty-two, and his wife Emma, sixty, came upon a shallow crater with bits of burned metal wreckage in Fried Liver Wash, a remote area east of the San Bernardino Mountains, last Tuesday while on a rock-hunting expedition. In an interview Mr. Greeley predicted that an analysis of the wreckage would reveal that it was made of a metal not known on Earth. He further stated that a second spacecraft must have landed nearby to rescue survivors and salvage the critical components of the wrecked saucer, including its precious power source. “If only we’d been there on Saturday,” said Mr. Greeley, “we might have solved America’s energy problems forever. But it wasn’t meant to be.” Officers of the California Highway Patrol dispatched from Palm Springs to the site reported that it was the wreckage of an old pickup truck which had apparently been set afire by vandals.’”
“Vandals?” said Immelmann. “I guess so.” He stared out the car window.
“Where are we going, Chinese?” said Kepler. “You’re getting to be a pain in the ass, always driving us around to—” he read from the newspaper, “‘a remote area east of the San Bernardino Mountains’ or some damn place like it was a scavenger hunt.”
“Nothing remote today,” said Chinese Gordon. “Just over to East L.A. to see a guy.”
“Who?” said Immelmann quietly. “What kind of guy?”
“Well,” said Chinese Gordon, staring ahead as he turned off the freeway, “not a very nice guy, I guess, but a guy who can help us. His name is Jorge Grijalvas.”
“Whore-hay?” shouted Kepler. “Did you say whore-hay?”
“Approximately,” said Chinese Gordon.
Immelmann said slowly, “Chinese, this disturbs me. We already have the three of us, and no doubt you’ll tell Margaret. Each person we add is costing me an hour of sleep every night. This better be the last one, because this makes five.”
Chinese Gordon chuckled. “This is my greatest stroke of genius. Jorge Grijalvas isn’t in on our project at all. He’s going to be our ally. Jorge Grijalvas, for your information, is one of the biggest bastards in East L.A. He is a sort of underboss of the Mexican Mafia.”
“Shit,” said Kepler. “I hate that. There’s the Mexican Mafia, the Israeli Mafia, the Irish Mafia, the black Mafia. Why the hell can’t people call it something else? Leave the word ‘Mafia’ to the Italians. I can hardly stand to read the paper anymore. And what the hell do we need this guy for?”
“We don’t,” said Chinese Gordon. “At the moment we have no use for him at all. The man is a walking case of urban blight—no redeeming social value.”
Immelmann studied Chinese Gordon. “Go on.” They drove down a block of crumbling, empty buildings.
“I’m providing, as they say, for a Better Tomorrow. This guy can do a number of things for us, based on his rather slimy enterprises. One, he can launder huge amounts of money if we need it, because he is a dealer in brown heroin, the scourge of the poorest of the poor. Two, he can make us disappear whenever we want, if the price is right.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Kepler. “Will you look at this neighborhood? I wouldn’t walk a Doberman here—afraid somebody’d throw it to the ground and eat it.” A dark blue 1961 Chevrolet with an impossibly shiny metal-flake finish and chrome-spoke hubcaps pulled up beside them. It was built so low to the pavement that it threw sparks as it accelerated at the corner.
Kepler eyed a group of a dozen young men wearing bandannas on their foreheads who were lounging in front of a hardware store, then pulled his pant leg up to reveal the knurled handgrip of the .357 Magnum stuck in his boot. Immelmann smiled.
Chinese Gordon continued. “You see, there’s also the fact of history. You know there are already more people of Mexican descent in Los Angeles than there are Anglos? In five years most of southern California will be Spanish. By getting in touch now with Jorge Grijalvas we’re making the smartest move you can imagine, getting into a growth stock on the ground floor. The world is one big commodities exchange and we’re taking a plunge on Chicano futures.”
H
IS HAND HELD OUT IN FRONT OF HIM
, the Director stood up and bounced across the room to meet Porterfield. But the Director’s eyes were on the thick, flowered carpet at his feet. There had been speculation in the Company that Director William Blount used the flowers on his carpet as actors use marks on a stage to block out their movements. If that were true, thought Porterfield, this was a notable occasion. The Director advanced a dozen giant camellias to hold out his moist, pudgy hand before scuttling back behind his desk.
There was no greeting, only “Good. You’re here,” as though Blount were speaking to his feet.
“What’s the problem?” asked Porterfield.
The Director’s face took on a kind of dignity and repose when he was safely seated. “Probably nothing,” said Blount. “It’s a simple security problem if it’s handled tactfully and intelligently. We’ve been going over some of the standing items in Morrison’s inventory and discovered a certain lack of—discretion? imagination? I suppose that’s accurate.” The Director nodded to signify his agreement with himself.
Porterfield said, “The Donahue grants.”
“Yes,” said Blount. “Those projects should never have been carried on the books of the National Research Foundation to begin with. Have you read them yet?”
“No, sir,” said Porterfield.
“This man Donahue has a complicated mentality. He seems to have started out as a young man studying mass psychological reactions as historical phenomena. As his work became more theoretical it also became more speculative.”
“What sort of mass psychological reactions?” asked Porterfield.
“Social alienation of particular subgroups, in some of his milder research. In other instances it’s economic panics, political upheavals, mass hysteria—fear of earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, and so on. He attracted attention when he started working out systems for quantifying the forces at work in these phenomena. Once he had a way of working out equations for a particular area, he seems to have turned to the empiricist’s test, comparing his assessments with later events.”
Porterfield nodded. “He started predicting.”
“Precisely,” said the Director, his face still inclined toward the blotter on his desk, his eyes lifting in their sockets to fix on Porterfield. “He also learned to refine his equations when the quotients didn’t come to fruition in facts. Porterfield,” said the Director, “this man actually has a grid, a kind of flow chart that he calls ‘The Terror Index.’ He’s on record as receiving NRF grant money to perfect it by developing a blueprint for the destruction of Mexico.”
Porterfield smiled. “It’s easy enough to fix. The first step is to get him off the National Research Foundation’s books, and Morrison’s already done that. Welby told me on the telephone you had someone rewriting the reports, so that’s covered too. We can be sure there’s no future connection between him and the government. If you’d like, we can stop him from doing his research at all.”
The Director drummed his fingers on the desk without taking his eyes off Porterfield. “For heaven’s sake, Porterfield. So heavy handed. I don’t want to destroy the man.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to protect the Company.”
“Is that all?”
“I want to protect the Company,” repeated the Director.
Porterfield stood up. “And Donahue knows how to make the bogeyman come out in the daytime. He’s part of the Company. Has anything been done?”
“I’m sending a man now. He should be in Los Angeles tomorrow to begin the security survey.”
6
Chinese Gordon pulled the car over to the curb in front of an old white stucco apartment house with a high, narrow, wooden door. Wrought-iron grillwork covered the glass of the windows on the first floor. The flower boxes on the sills had potted azaleas sitting in them.
Kepler said, “If this is it, I’ll stay with the car. That building belongs in Hollywood. They probably stole it.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Chinese Gordon. “The car is safer here than in the parking lot at the Federal Building.”
“It’s your car,” said Immelmann.
At the steps they could see that the lintel over the door was once inscribed “The Mont St. Michel,” but the letters had been plastered over with clean white cement. Chinese Gordon rang the bell and there was a buzz to unlock the door. Kepler and Immelmann hung back to let Chinese Gordon enter first.
Inside was a tiny foyer decorated with pots and baskets, a pair of horns from a longhorn bull, and a few yellowing photographs of old
caballeros
with drooping moustaches. There was an open door with a brass plate engraved “Grijalvas Enterprises.”
The receptionist at the desk said, “May I help you?”
Chinese Gordon said, “Mr. Gordon to see Mr. Grijalvas. These gentlemen are my colleagues, Mr. Kepler and Mr. Immelmann.”
“Please be seated and I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s in a conference at the moment.” She walked around the corner and they could hear the sound of her spike heels for a distance of thirty or forty feet before a door opened.
Kepler stood up and paced around the room, looking at plaques, framed newspaper clippings, photographs. “Look at this,” he hissed, and the others joined him before a frame that held a laminated article from a magazine. The headline read, “
Los Quatros Gros Años
of Jorge Grijalvas: Janitor to Millionaire in Four Years.” Beside it were a certificate from the Chamber of Commerce “awarded to Jorge Grijalvas for his efforts in renovating low-income housing in the Los Angeles Barrio” and a black plastic sign that said “Member, Better Business Bureau.”
Immelmann said, “Chinese, we’re out of our depth.”
“Right,” said Kepler. “Not only owns real estate, but a man with ‘Four Fat—’”
“Quiet,” said Chinese Gordon. The receptionist’s heels could be heard approaching up the long hallway. The three men sat down on the long leather couch. She reappeared, still smiling, and directed them to the door at the end of the hall.
Inside, a short, stocky man with a smooth, almost luminous tan complexion smiled and held out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Gordon,” he said, and ushered them to chairs along the wall opposite his desk. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Chinese Gordon said, “Mr. Grijalvas, this is Mr. Immelmann, Mr. Kepler.” Out of the corner of his eye Chinese Gordon saw Kepler nod, and then he heard him say, “Just beer.”
Grijalvas pressed a button on his desk and snapped “
Cerveza
” into the intercom, then sat back and smiled, his hands folded on his stomach. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.
“We’re looking for a chance to make a small investment,” said Chinese Gordon. “We felt that you, with your business connections, would perhaps be interested in helping us in exchange for a percentage.”
“Perhaps,” said Grijalvas, staring above their heads.
The door opened and a young man entered carrying a tray of beer bottles and tall glass steins. “Oh, the beer. Excellent, Juan. Thank you very much.” Juan was thin at the waist but had the bulging arm muscles and thick neck of a weight lifter. As he turned his expressionless face toward them they could see a small blue tear tattooed below one eye, on his high cheekbone.
Grijalvas continued, “What sort of investment did you have in mind? Money for commercial property is extremely scarce at the moment—”
“Oh, no,” said Chinese Gordon. “It wasn’t real estate we were thinking of. We’re expecting an embarrassingly large inflow of capital in the near future and we’d like to try something more speculative. Although we have confidence in the long-term value of real estate, the turnover is so slow.”
“Well, then,” said Grijalvas, sipping his beer, “perhaps a partnership with someone who is willing to take on the risks of entrepreneurship.”
“That’s right,” said Kepler. “We’re in, we’re out, everybody does his part, and we all have a beer.” He poured the glass of beer down his throat without swallowing and grinned.
“What we were thinking of,” said Chinese Gordon, “was something like financing a venture in pharmaceuticals—imported pharmaceuticals.”
Grijalvas slammed down his stein like a gavel. “Good day,” he said.
“Huh?” said Kepler.
“Get out.”
“Wait,” said Chinese Gordon.
“No, gentlemen,” said Grijalvas. “It’s ridiculous. The entrapment you people stoop to is so crude it’s insulting. You come in here like you were born yesterday and try to get me to say something you can take to a grand jury. You don’t even have the sense to take the gun out of your boot. Do you realize who you’re dealing with? See that?” He pointed to an ornate western saddle with hammered silver studs that hung on a stand in the corner of the room. “I’ll be sitting on that to ride in the Rose Parade before you make lieutenant.”
Kepler whispered to Immelmann, “He’ll need three more for his Four Fat—”
Grijalvas was still speaking. “You want to bust somebody for drugs, go out to ULA. Here,” he shouted. “Take it with you.” He tossed a folded newspaper on Chinese Gordon’s lap.
Juan held the door open, so they stood up and went out. Kepler held onto his beer, which he finished as he walked down the hallway. When he set the stein on the receptionist’s desk she smiled at them in confusion.
At the car Chinese Gordon said to Immelmann, “You drive,” and sat in the back seat.
They drove in silence for a few minutes until Kepler said, “That was a hard way to get a free beer, Chinese.”
“Shut up and listen,” said Chinese Gordon. “‘Drug Research at ULA Campus,’” he read. “‘Spokesmen in the office of the president of the University of Los Angeles announced today that the controversial research on the effects of various controlled substances would continue in spite of resistance from alumni groups and even some members of the board of trustees. “The issue here is academic freedom,” said Dale Crollett, Assistant Vice-President for University Relations. “Professor Gottlieb and his colleagues have secured the grants, the necessary approvals and licenses, and it is the position of the University that there will be no internal interference with scientific research.” The controversy was touched off on Wednesday when the Drug Enforcement Administration turned over to the researchers one pound of the purest cocaine, which will be used in experiments to treat migraine headaches. Officials estimated the street value of the cocaine at over one million dollars when it was confiscated in a raid in East Los Angeles last July.’”
“Interesting,” said Immelmann, “but not meaningful.”
“Don’t you see?” yelled Chinese Gordon. “He was taking us up on it! We have a deal!”
Kepler turned to Immelmann. “This man’s optimism is getting on my nerves.” To Chinese Gordon he said, “Do you think he sent Tiny Tears in there just to bring us a couple of beers?”
“No,” said Chinese Gordon. “Actually, the tattoo just means he’s served time. Probably that’s where he got hooked on doing pull-ups. If he thought we were cops, would he even let us see an ex-convict in his office?”
“Probably,” said Immelmann.
“This is a terrific opportunity,” said Chinese Gordon. “If they confiscated the cocaine in East L.A., it probably belonged to Grijalvas. He’s given us a challenge. He wants to buy back what was taken from him, that’s all. If we get it, we have a deal—the start of a long and profitable relationship.”
“What do you think?” said Immelmann to Kepler.
Kepler opened another beer can. “I think,” he said, “that once upon a time there was a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam who got a bit off course and got shot down. As he climbed from the wreckage he said, ‘What a break! Now we know where the bastards were hiding.’”