Heaven, INC: Chapter 14: THE WAY AL SEES IT

NORCESTOR & IMPERIAL,
MARKET PARK
8:39 AM PDT

WHILE POPE TRIED CONCENTRATING on the street map and the Deputy Chief Inspector continued his texting, Al analyzed the gathering crowd, filtered through his own particular way of looking at the world..

“Jesus, wouldja look at em all? Look at em! Coming outta the woodwork like it’s some kinda biiig show. Bet none of em’s got a job, either, less you call crime a vocation and none of em spics speaks a speck of English either, content to jibber jabber in Spanish . . .”

“Al—”

“ . . . same people you see on the TV marching for unemployment insurance and social security and citizenship. Like it’s a hand-out . . .”

“Al—”

“ . . . all, I might add, while flying their goddamned Mexican flags. In fact— I bet I start checking IDs, I find three-quarters of these assholes’re illegal.”

Pope looked up from the map. “Al, we are not here to arrest illegal aliens. We are here to find Christian Ducroix and possibly avert a catastrophe. Now quick dicking around and start helping.”

“Oh, so my philosophy is dicking around, now?” Al glared at the growing crowd of brown people, and Pope had to admit Norcestor and Imperial did have an ‘international’ feel, with the radios blaring and the odd low-rider’s horn tooting La Cucaraca.

“Look,” Pope said calmly, “if you stopped complaining for a minute, we might find this kid and his bag a little quicker a get onto our trip. Have you thought about that?”

Al’s expression turned treacly. “You’re not . . . heh . . . you’re not telling me you actually believe in this Apocalypse horseshit, do you? You do. My god, you do. Puhleeze, Gideon, it’s clearly all a lie, beginning to end, propped up by the Powers That Be. For all we know, ol Tom Collins got another girl pregnant.”

“I’d keep my mouth shut,” Pope said. “You aren’t retired yet. Keep talking like that, you could lose your pension.”

Though that was highly unlikely at the moment, given the Deputy Inspector was locked into a particularly intense bout of texting, so much a lock of perfect hair had fallen across his face and tie a smidge askew. This served as panic for the masters of the universe.

Pope returned his attention to the map. Beyond the Norcestor Arms lay 96th Avenue and beyond 96th, more neighboring streets comprised of low-income housing and empty warehouses . . .

“Look at this place,” Al growled. “The butthole of America. Terrorists’d be doing us a favor to car-bomb it— oh, don’t give me that wounded Liberal look. These people breed crime and that’s a fact.”

Pope shook and focused on the map, tracing Imperial Avenue all while up to here with Al’s unending negativity and cynicism. Also, the simple fact Al was more pissed off by the virus than scared by it was pissing Gideon off.

If Margie hadn’t answered the phone . . .

On Imperial Avenue, where it bleeds down into Lemon Grove, were reports of automatic gunfire around three in the morning. Two witness reported seeing a Mustang matching Christian Ducroix’s at Broadway reportedly being pursued through the red light by a silver Mercedes Benz. All three witnesses claimed the Benz did not have license plates; DNS had detailed Charlie Chu and a team of a dozen agents out of L.A. to run down every silver, late-model Benz in town and four counties, and God knew how many that might be, but then DNS was running the operation against their budget and, apparently, money was no object in DNS.

Deputy Inspector Rose’s voice heightened in urgency.

“Fine, alright, I’ve got it, I can have a check to your office by close of business today . . . I promise . . . Now get me 30,000 more in Moo and 40K in the October pork-bellies and December corn . . . No, all of it . . . Buy it all . . . ”

Al glanced from the map to the Deputy Inspector and back. “I read every one of them DNS whiz kids comes from one of the investment banks or the hedge funds. FBI recruits cops, lawyers, accountants, these guys go for Wall Street wise-guys.”

It did make you wonder just who a guy like Rose owed his allegiance: his country? Or his checking account.

“Gideon, as far as all this, let me explain something to you: whether or not this is actually a legitimate crisis or just another mysterious government ass-grabbing mission, it has now been—” consulting his wrist-watch “—eight hours and 14 minutes since the kid was seen in the area. Now, coupled with the fact the crime-scene’s been run over by about a thousand illegal aliens that you won’t let me arrest and none of whom claims to have seen one lousy thing, well I don’t see what Deputy Inspector Text Message or anybody else expects us to find in the way of additional physical evidence to a garden-variety car jacking . . . Remember the prince’s missing cat?”

“I don’t need reminding about the cat.”

“Good, because if you remember, housekeeping found the goddamn cat in the drawer. We gotta scramble tactical teams all over the Gaslamp looking for a missing Siamese because some Muzz prince can’t bother searching his own dresser-drawers.”

“Drop the cat.”

“Fine. I just brought up the cat because, if I recall, you were taking your grand kids to Disney Land until the cat went miss—”

Pope’s gaze was unrelenting.

“Fine. Consider the cat dropped. Jeez.”

Pope frowned, casting a glance over at Rose—

“What do you mean, I’m out of margin? I just spoke to you and said I’d have a check . . . What do you mean, I don’t have the funds? Of course I have the funds. I’m rich.”

— before saying, “How about this, Al, so we can stop arguing and start working: whatever is really going on, whether it be a missing scientist infected with a doomsday virus or just another missing belt, let’s try to wrap it up so we can get on with our vacation? Just pretend it’s worth doing so we can get it done.”

Al was sullen; sometimes, when he got like this, it reminded Pope of James, when he was five and Pope took away his choo choo and gave the boo hoo face. It was times like this Pope wondered exactly how Al passed the psychology exam to get in, police or FBI.

“Well, I just state up front, that if you want my opinion—”

Which Pope did not.

“—our fishing trip’s been postponed for a glorified government goat-fucking expedition and the entire thing was invented by the Department of Lies— I’m serious. In fact, I bet Ducroix Senior ain’t even been kidnaped. God knows what he’s actually done that requires this kind of bullshit cover-up, but that’s where I’m at. Fact of the matter is, I think our time’d be better served busting and bar-coding illegal aliens than searching for some punkass preppy who got jacked while out trolling for dope.”

“Back up. Bar-coding illegals?”

Al adopted his matter-of-fact look. “Yeah. You scan a little bar-code in ultraviolet ink right behind the ear, part of a modified catch-and-release program. First time we catch ‘em trespassing, we bar-code ‘em and send ‘em home.”

“I’m afraid to ask about the second time.”

“Hey,” Al said with a shrug, “they got a bar-code, second time they get a firing squad. Oh come on now, don’t give me that wounded Liberal look— if I warn I’m gonna shoot trespassers, how’s it my bad you get caught trespassing and I shoot you? That’s like sticking your finger in a light-socket and blaming the electric company for the shock. It isn’t like in the middle of the night we suddenly moved America to a place that used to be Mexico so some innocent Mexican steps on it like it’s a hidden landmine.”

Pope shook his head in appalled amazement. “You get this stuff from that radio program? Norm Campbell?”

“100,000 watts of truth and vision. Yesterday, he said—”

At that moment, his cell rang, mercifully saving Pope from out what Norm Campbell thought.
Jim Cabral saying, “Chief, a woman on the second floor reports a mid-20s white male knocked on her door about three in the morning asking could use her phone.”

“She ID the pic?”

“Through the peep-hole because, according to Mrs. De La Clemente, only a crazy person would open their door after dark. When whoever it was asked to use her phone and then which building he was in, both times she declined to respond. Mrs. De la Clemente had the impression Ducroix was a crazy homeless kid.”

Pope thought about the black&white of Christian Ducroix, the rich preppy kid in his Brooks Brother blazer. “What made her think that?”

Cabral said, “Just said he looked really unhealthy and disheveled, even wild-eyed.”
Pope peered up at the dilapidated ruins of the Norcestor Arms’ third building marked near the top with a faded numeral three. “She say which way he ran?”

“Says he ran deeper into the building. Said he seemed lost.”

Hanging up the phone, Pope was suddenly aware of Rose’s attention.

“Someone had contact with Ducroix?”

“Through a closed peep hole. No viral exposure.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed in concentration, before he turned to walk away, off and furiously texting again.

Pope had the distinct impression Rose was somehow disappointed.