Heaven, INC: Chapter 47: THE WORLD'S SMARTEST MAN AND THE TURD IN MEN'S STALL #2

No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.
—ARISTOTLE

SUPER-SAV-A-LOT-AND-MORE MART,
EL CAJON, CALIFORNIA
12:40 P.M. PDT

USUALLY, IN BILLY JOE’S strictly objective opinion, his was incontrovertibly the world’s most powerful mind and while certainly a lofty proclamation of self worth, in Billy Joe’s defense, he did have 7th-grade IQ testing at Mount Olive Junior High to back him up. You see, it all started when a note pulled him out of class right in the middle of the movie where Jiminy Cricket teaches how pros shoot pool using math and geometry. Those being Billy Joe’s favorite subjects, he wasn’t happy being summoned to an empty classroom where he sat at a card-table while a lady with cat-eye glasses read a bunch of ridiculously easy questions involving math, vocabulary and puzzle-solving, especially when Tester Lady started getting antsy about halfway through the test battery, getting this googly-eyed expression kinda like people got when Billy Joe farted.

Then, bang, soon as he answered the last question, off she went to see Principal Hotchkiss.

Albert Einstein’s IQ has been estimated at 215 and Newton’s at 200. At Mount Olive Junior High, Billy Joe tested 419. The most interesting thing in Billy Joe’s opinion? He could’ve done better if he hadn’t been distracted by missing Jiminy Cricket and Tester Lady’s hellacious squirming. Not that it really mattered, though, because Billy Joe’s test results still kicked up one hell of a ruckus in the teacher’s lounge at Mount Olive Junior High that’s talked about by the old-timers to this very day.

Overnight, the teachers and Principal Hotchkiss, even other kids, started to notice Billy Joe as something other than the strange obese kid with the taped-up glasses, extraordinarily large feet and the prodigious amount of ass-sweat produced during gym-class. Suddenly, just like that, Billy Joe was a celebrity, the town’s favored son and a boy to put Mount Olive on the map.

Billy Joe gained forty pounds in the month leading up to the Government coming to certify his test score. In those days, Billy Joe’d walk into Sweety’s and get a malted, a banana-split and two root-beer floats on the way to school. Stop into the A&P and pick up Hershey Bars, a couple Oh, Henry’s, and maybe three or four comic books. On the way home, he’d go to the putt-putt and get a half-dozen chili dogs and a bunch of root-beers and by the third week, he’d mastered holing-in-one the windmill and the rocket and was bearing down hard on Blackbeard’s Pirate Ship. Best thing about the whole thing? Nobody wanted to charge Billy Joe on account of what he meant to Mount Olive as a financial institution.

Now, as the story goes, at the time American scientists were searching for so-called Meta-Minds, a plan for the nation’s best pubescent minds to be identified and placed in a project called RAMA and accreditation of Billy Joe’s score by the Government would be a big deal in Mount Olive’s ongoing P.R. battle against Goldsboro. So the day comes when the RAMA people arrive to find Mount Olive’s Main Street strung with a banner reading WELCOME TO MOUNT OLIVE, HOME OF THE WORLDS SMARTEST BOY; SMARTEST BOY was squashed down where someone ran out of banner, but it was still readable. And the PTA organized a picnic at the park with Principal Hotchkiss grilling the burgers and the local VFW chapter made the ice-cream as kids with hall passes and bicycles zipped around town with updates of Billy Joe’s score with acquisition of this information affected by Mr. Mason s electronics class, which had contrived to build a tiny camera and radio receiver into a world globe sitting behind the Government man’s shoulder. While results were being reported, on the stage, the Hog Bottom Howlers got tuned up and ready to bust into Dixie, with Chester Bangs on the fiddle, just as soon as Mount Olive s favorite son was proved of his brilliance. Course, nobody knew Uncle Cyrus had his own entirely different plan.

See, it was while Uncle Cyrus and Billy Joe’s daddy, Joe Don Jimmy Jack, drank Black
Label in Cyrus’ old Studebaker that the scheme was hatched, the details unfolding as Billy Joe sat in the backseat doodling algorithmic equations on his peachy folder, right by the track guy’s head, and it was with the aid of three more Black Labels that Uncle Cyrus sold Joe Don Jimmy Jack on the scheme in its entirety and it took another visit to All-Nighter Liquor & Guns to explain it.

It was stage one of Uncle Cyrus’s plan swinging into action the day of the RAMA testing with the effect such that each time a child arrived at the park with Billy Joe’s score, the picnic committee would move a little slower and Chester Bangs drank a little faster so that by the time the last kid arrived, it was all Mr. Hotchkiss could do to finish cooking up the burgers and Chester Bangs from hitting somebody. Oh, and Billy Joe’s score? 139, and everybody knows 139 ain’t even a garden variety genius. The Government people, they blamed it on small towns, quality control and the symptoms of mass delusion, Chester Bangs blamed it on Government lying because they were Yankees and couldn’t admit the world’s smartest boy hailed from south of the Mason-Dixon. In fact, Chester got so heated up over it, he punched ol’ Jess Davies right in the nose. The irony, of course, was that Uncle Cyrus made Billy Joe throw the test, arguing it was best Billy Joe’s Very Powerful Mind be kept hidden on account of what unscrupulous things strangers might do to Billy Joe. Better, in Uncle Cyrus’s opinion, the family did it to him. Now, after watching Exley head off in the direction of Home Furnishings and Lily Jackson, Billy Joe sighed, wondering what his life would be like had he never thrown the RAMA test.

Oh well, now was not the time to wonder— Head ‘B’ would begin experiencing cellular breakdown in approximately one hour if not transferred to fresh amniotic fluid and the pimento-loaf cell-structure thoroughly flushed. Clearly, the turd in the Men’s stall could wait. The Igloo 96 vacuum-sealed genetic-replication tank and Head clone ‘B’could not.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 46: MICK AND THE SLOW-MOTION TAIL

SWEETWATER ROAD,
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF HIGHWAY 54
12:39 P.M. PDT

MICK FOLLOWED THE ROLLS ROYCE from as far back as possible, but it wasn’t like he’d ever been trained on tailing a car without being seen, his experience was in being tailed. So, ‘as far back as possible’ soon become impossible when he fell behind an old woman tooling along in an ancient Oldsmobile Cutlass that took up the whole road and, because of oncoming traffic, couldn’t be maneuvered around.

“For godsake, if you would just get over three frigging feet I could pass!”

Then, when Mick finally did pass, he drove like a crazy-man for about a mile before, whap, he hit more traffic and finally flipped on the radio.

“— down here on Sweetwater Road, Jeanie, where a crime-scene investigation’s in progress.

Traffic’s wayyyy backed up so if your listeners are thinking about using Sweetwater Road, a word to the wise: turn around.”

Just one of those days, you know?

Mick hit a preset and got Bobby Falcône crap. Hit another and another and got the same Bobby-and-the-Boy Scout bullshit before finding Led Zeppelin on 109.9. Mick listening to Ramble On and thinking if he’d turned the radio on a minute before, maybe he coulda hung a U-turn. Now, he was stuck against oncoming traffic on the two-lane road that made it impossible to do anything but sit and stew.

What a fucking day.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 45: ESCAPE ROUTES

INTERSTATE 8 EAST,
MISSION VALLEY/HOTEL CIRCLE
12:37 PM PDT

AFTER ESCAPING THE SUBURBANS, Sergei became preoccupied with learning the new vehicle’s controls while scanning the AM radio in search of some government warning about Russian fugitives. Or perhaps a claim of two bank-robbers or murderers used as a propaganda pretense. Surely something about two Russians who just so happened to be carrying the most important state secret since the atom bomb. Actually, it was little bit disappointing, that they should be so ignored. And why? For silly American celebrity.

Incredibly, every bandwidth was crowded with smallest minutia on the American singer, Bobby

Falcône and, listening to the radio, to Mona it seemed as if sex, celebrity and the specter of homosexuality wrapped in one single package had finally and completely overwhelmed the country’s decadent media machine. Of course, Mona suspected it was all a CIA plot, since rumors of Bobby Falcône’s deviancy had floated through the intelligence community for years, but still you never knew.


FOR MOST OF THE RIDE, Mona’s own thoughts were consumed by getting back to Boris and Lydia. And to Russia and Chelnikov with the serum, because failing Chelnikov now would be a most terrible thing. So terrible, in fact, that for one whole cigarette, Mona indulged herself in recollecting the fate of Fyodor Grobikov and his family, letting the panic take her amid the notion that her luck was shot and the net descending fast and that all was lost. Then that was that. A few minutes jitters while the Belomor was consumed, then Mona put her confidence back in order, once more firmly convicted of her own abilities and training. As Lizzy Peters said, Visualize Achievement, Maximize Potential.

Mona was still VAMPing when Sergei took the freeway off-ramp.

Sergei saying, “Do you see this sub-panel of switches here? Rocket launcher. Check.
Flamethrower. Check. Submarine-mode and cloaking device effect. Check check.” Sergei looked at Mona with a big smile. “Ah, jump jets. They put in the jump jets.”

“One billion rubles for this?” Mona shrugged. “What a waste of money.”

“Waste of money?” Sergei tapped the car’s dashboard radar-oscilloscope. “This tells us if helicopters are in the vicinity and this—” tapping another scope “— alerts us to anyone with an anti-cloaking device.” He grinned. “I cloaked that van that nearly ran us over. Right now, the world sees us a nondescript carpet cleaner’s van.” Sergei tapped the steering wheel. “This vehicle is the most amazing thing ever made.”

Mona frowned. “Yes, that may be. But at least they could have put in leather seats. What are these, velour?” Mona shifted in the uncomfortably sporty seat, her posterior sore from last night’s fall. “Are you sure the disguises will work? They are certain to be watching the airport.”

Sergei surveyed the surrounding cars. “This traffic is clearly a CIA plot to slow our movement. And on a holiday weekend? Truly an oppressive government.” Then said, “We are fine unless they have an anti-cloak. If they do, we will just shoot our way out. Trust me,” he said, smiling dangerously and tapping the wheel. “Besides, we have the car.”

Shrugging, Mona tossed the Belomor out the window. “I prefer something more like home,” she said, and from the bag, withdrew the Makarov to rack the slide. It wasn’t her beautiful K6-B, but at least it was Russian.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 44: DEAD COLONELS IN MARKET PARK, DEAD SPIES IN LEMON GROVE

126 CANTON DRIVE,
LEMON GROVE
12:33 PM PDT

AFTER PUTTING JIM CABRAL temporarily in charge at Base Camp card table— according to Cabral, Rose had yet to leave Mobile Command— Pope rode with Decker over to Lemon Grove. Al came along, talking all the way.


AL WORE HIS ‘EARNEST’ LOOK: “I swear to you, Gideon, that is Black Molo back there in the closet.”

Pope frowned. “Molo is supposed to be hiding in South America somewhere. Peru, last I heard. Or maybe Chile.”

“Yeah, well now the Colonel’s hiding in a closet in Market Park. Guess that’s globalism for you.”

Decker looked over at Pope. “Who is this guy, Molo? And why’s he so important.”

“Major-Colonel Molo Balcotez, also known as the Butcher of San Gabriel. Molo was head of North Guyana’s security forces, the Black Guard, during the country’s civil war in the 90s. Molo earned his nickname when he finally located the rebel’s home base.in a small, border town known for its sympathies for the Guyanese National Front.”

“With all do respect, puh-leeze," Al said with a sneer. "Those Marxist pieces of shit committed way more atrocities than the Black Guard, I mean, need I remind you of the GNF’s habit of cutting people’s hearts out? That’s just to go with all the routine café’ bombs, ministry blow-ups and mass shootings the GNF pulls on day to day basis, so if you ask me . . . ”

Which no on was . . .

“ . . . I’d say those people got a lesson about sympathizers. That’s all I am saying.”

Decker looked to Pope. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, one of San Gabriel’s citizens notified the rebels, who escaped Molo’s men. Molo decided to make a point by executing 332 men, women and children. By himself.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah," Al said, "and he reloaded the gun 16 times while drinking mint juleps and listening to Bolero, we’ve all heard the story, but the fact of the matter is, the stadium bomb killed more, if you want to go purely on the numbers. You got 562 vs. 332, you tell me who’s the bad guy here? Okay, so Molo used a Luger instead of a bomb and shot them at close range in the forehead, even the babies . . .”

See? Just like that, you get sick of Al’s voice.

Now try it for almost 20 years.

You know you’d need a vacation, too.



THE BODY HAD BEEN DISCOVERED floating face-down in a backyard swimming pool; fished out, it now lay waterlogged on a gurney preparatory to being loaded in the back of a van.

A cop spotted Decker and came over, a water-drenched wallet in a latex-gloved hand.

“We found this on the body, sir. Texas ID says the guy’s name is Leonard Finch, out of Plano. Inside the wallet was a soggy business card casting Finch as a consultant for a company called Jones-Richards Exports, out of Dallas. Also contained within the wallet was a key card for the La Jolla Imperial Hotel and 4000 cash.”

Mr. Finch wore a dark suit and an empty Sam Brown holster-rig.

“We found this gun in the pool, too. Doesn’t fit his holster and it’s been recently fired. You can smell smoke, even after being in the water. Makarov.”

It was a sleek black pistol equipped with silencer.

Al said, “Can I see that?” Examining the pistol, he grunted in astonishment. “Well I’ll be. Makarov K6-B.” Handing the gun to Pope, he said, “The big boys have come to play.”

“Meaning?” Pope said.

“Well, back in the day, the K6B was made exclusively for top Soviet intelligence operatives and the GRU in particular. Light, powerful and it takes a beating. A very nice piece.”

Pope looked over at ‘Finch’, laying there on the Gurney, waterlogged and disheveled. The right pant leg was up, revealing a holdout pistol, a Colt .380 from which Pope ejected the magazine to find Teflon-coated slugs.”

“Cop killers,” Decker said. ”

There was a second magazine in Finch’s ankle holster, this one containing rounds Al claimed were explosive, like tiny grenades. Very hi-tech, Al claimed, James Bond super spy. Pope took him at his word, not because he believed James Bond was out there, but because he wasn’t gonna fire the gun to find out.

Decker said, “All right, we got some guy dead by what appears to be strangulation, judging from the bruises on the neck. What the hell’s going on?”

Al shook his head. “Dead South American colonel, missing Frenchman, some guy with a Russian spy pistol, a Russian bar owner, Greeks and a jogger, to go along with one dead American homeless. There’s gotta be a joke in there somewhere. Or add in some Turks and you’ve got world war three. Hey,” he grinned, “you gotta postpone a fishing trip, it might as well be interesting."

Pope looked to Finch and back to Decker. “Hey, lemme see that hotel key card.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 43: MAYBE JIMMY WASN'T SO CRAZY AFTER ALL

Not even five enforcement agencies can save their own.
Never mind the people
Tonite it's raining on the Angels of the City
Did anyone prophesize these people?
—Red Angel Dragnet,
THE CLASH

HIGHWAY 94 EAST,
GOLDEN HILL
12:32 PM PDT

BACK IN THE VAN, Jimmy’s phone beeped to indicate three voice messages. Checking the call record, he saw EVAN, NIGEL and TRAITOR.

It was the third call, Emond Winkle’s, that Jimmy returned first.


“ . . . Feds want us to think the kid was car jacked, but Stan Marcus says it’s something more than just a car jacking. He says all this shit going down stinks like another government jam job cover-up connected to whoever it was almost run over the Jones girl and after maybe running over the jogger, Jane Sorenson.” Elmond saying, “There’s some sneaky shit going down and the Feds’re involved. You feel me?”

“Feel you.” Jimmy thought about what Elmond was saying . . .

Dude, it would mean you really weren’t crazy, you were screwed.

. . . that somebody had tossed the biscuit, maybe in the evidence chain, maybe lied about the kid being ‘unreachably deep in Tibet’ . . .

“They recover the kid’s car yet?”

“No. Or the kid for that matter,” Elmond said. He was calling from just southeast Los Madres taco shop, said his partner was up getting tacos, Carmella Garcia, Tony Ruiz’s kid sister. Elmond saying then, “Brother, this is some exceptionally weird-ass, small-town bullshit even by San Diego standards.”

“Brother,” Jimmy said, shaking, “we’re just beginning to get into the shit.” Then told the story about the dead guy in 420.

Elmond saying, “What the fuck? Who is he, who is this guy?”

“No clue, other than I found some weird ass foreign uniform in the closet. Black one, kinda like the Nazi stormtroopers wore, but without all the Nazi, Death’s-head-regalia bullshit.”

Jimmy explained the blood and broken chair and the bare foot prints and how the crime
scene matched Mij Poopikov’s wounds.

“Yeah, that’s good, because we got description of the car-jacked matches Mij Poopikov. You find a crime scene proves he was here, that’s real good.”

“Not for Mij. Somewhere, somebody caught him, killed him and then tried destroying his body in Beeler Canyon. But I don’t think it was Bivo’s boys. Someone else killed, Mij. And it was in Ducroix’s car that Mij picked up the fiber.” Jimmy considered the situation. “We were told the State Department verified Christian Ducroix was in Tibet the entire time, so he wasn’t a suspect. But was he? And what the fuck was he doing deep in the hood last night?”

“Feds claim he was just passing through.”

Jimmy shifted in the van’s seat, trying to get comfortable with the spring sticking out. “You believe that?”

Elmond chuckled on the other end of the line. “Come on, brother, you know Market Park’s on the way to nowhere a rich kid wants to go unless it’s to score drugs— everybody knows there ain’t a better place to score than the Park. Y’ask me, that kid was down to score a baggy on his way home from the big party. Had a chick in the car with him, probably thought he’d get some powder.”

“Who was the chick?”

“Feds say it was his date, some model chick named Heidi Swenson. You know those models love their blow to keep them skinny. He probably needed an eightball to get her to put out.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Jimmy thought if the kid really did want blow, he’d have connections that didn’t require going ghetto. “Or maybe something we haven’t thought of yet.”


BEFORE OWEN COULD START ASKING QUESTIONS, Jimmy retrieved his voicemail, trying to concentrate on the music world and his future with the past threatening to devour him from behind . . .

“Hey, Jimmy, it’s Evan. Hey, the merch is ready, man: T-shirts, tank-tops, panties, stickers, buttons and every other possible manner of music mercantilism has been assembled and loaded into Odie’s van, so we’re good . . . Uh, listen, uh, about last night . . . Listen, Jimmy, I just kind of lost my head when Vic pushed me under the ladder, you know, I wasn’t ready to confront that yet, I’ve been over the edge, fucking Tom Collins, all that bullshit and fucking lies, man, I can’t take it any more . . . Fucking economy’s all fucked up and he’s helping his buddies steal our money . . . Fuck it, never mind . . . Look, I’ll pick up my Paxil prescription before the show . . . ”

Click.

Evan was a helluva bassist and easily the most neurotic person Jimmy knew. And that was saying something.

The second voicemail was Nigel, the man shaping the band’s sound, realizing qualities and possibilities within the songs you’d never know existed; being a consummate shakedown artist, he was extracting money for fees they also never knew existed.

“Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, you have got to hear this . . . I am telling you, lad, there are hits here, genuine #1 hits, and Fantasy of the Damned, Jimmy, it will be huge, huge . . . It’s just I’m gonna need the second half of the money if you’re gonna get to play for Wild Bill Donovan. Just business you know, gotta pay the bills . . .

The money, while not a fortune had, given the state of the Ebay community and economy at large, proven remarkably hard to come by, unless Jimmy tapped into ‘the money’. God, was he remiss to hit ‘the money’. It was for emergencies and could send him straight back to jail in the wrong circumstance and it was certainly a gamble, but sometimes, sometimes you gotta take risks if you’re ever gonna win.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 42: THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE BACK OF THE VAN

Now there’s a look in your eyes,
Like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
—Crazy Diamond,
PINK FLOYD

CROW'S NEST REAR PARKING LOT,
NORTH PARK
12:31 PM. P.D.T.

FUCKING COPS, MAN.

Fella leaves his van for twenty goddamn minutes, shoots a couple games of pool, and he comes back to what? To a cop’s fat ass hanging out the back of his van, that’s what. Some nosey SOB poking around in back like he’s got nothing better to do in the whole damn world than cause trouble for Big Ed Walker. When he shoulda been out patrolling the highways for asshole sons-of-bitches driving like maniacs. Catching real criminals.

So Big Ed killed the guy.

Well, what would you have done, smarty-pants? Say, Yessir, those’re my bodies, thank you very much for making sure nobody stole ‘em and now I’ll just be on my way, got things to do and people to see? Shit. Case nobody told you, the world don’t work like that. Least not nowadays, anyway.

See, so what Big Ed did was, he used his cat-like reflexes to catch the guy unawares, talking on his walkie-talkie . . .

“ . . . six, no make that five bodies in a white cargo van, license plate 3—”

. . . when Big Ed slammed the butt of his pistol down on the back of the guy's head and followed up with a maybe another half-dozen whacks. Then shoved the nosey SOB into the back with the others and slammed closed the door. Ed glancing around then, making sure nobody else needed killing and saw nobody, just him and the cop-car in the back lot.

Ed stood there a moment, sniffling back meth snot and considering the situation.

Hmmm . . . That SOB talking to the walkie-talkie, sure as shit, that ain’t good . . . Remember what they taught at the 'Academy' . . . Radios is always faster than cars.

Just like that, Big Ed was in the van and backing out, dodging the cop-car parked almost right behind him and out onto University. Thinking maybe he oughtta go back and take the cop car.

Ah, screw that noise . . . Cops get one look at you and your good looks, no mustache, they’d know you ain’t one a them.

Big Ed was moving at a good clip now— not fast enough to necessarily attract attention, you understand, but pretty damn fast. Then made a couple of turns, getting into some back streets and losing himself so he could come up with some kind of bold initiative, something so goddamn trick-dicky no cop’d ever figure out where he was. Least not til he killed that arrogant, Harrison Ford, FBI fuck.

❖

BIG ED GOT LOST, really really lost.

Streets back there were so confusing and convoluted, he passed the same liquor store three times before he took it as another sign from God and bopped inside to get himself a pint of Jack. Then headed down some street called Boundary, down to the bottom of the hill, and parked in a field overlooking a freeway, could be I-15, maybe 805, Ed wasn’t real sure; not that it mattered, understand, because he could hear the cops’ sirens wailing way off in the distance and he knew the bastards was stirred up like a regular hornet’s nest and best he pause a moment down here instead of out there with the cops.

This is kinda pretty . . . Be a nice place to live Raise a family, kids playing in the sprinklers n’ shit . . . A fine woman with dinner on the table when you come home from work. Big Ed snorted a line of pick-me-up off the dash and slugged down some Jack.
Yep, that’s what ya’ll need to do . . . Get all this shit behind you and get a move on with life . . . Make a success outta yourself.

Resolved then— at least for this speed-fueled moment— to get his shit together, Big Ed jumped out of the van to replace the original license plate; Ed immensely pleased with himself for thinking ahead yesterday, before the killing started, when he took the front plate off another van and put it on the back of his. Sure, cops’d probably still be looking for a van, but not his, not Van #3. Hell no, they’d be looking for Van #1, for those two musician guys, the arrogant fuckers thought they was so much better than Big Ed Walker.

Fucking fucks.

Ed walked around the van, trying to figure out why the cop’d checked him out in the first place, probably on account no front plate— then stopped. Coming out the back of the van and running down the bumper was a sluice of juice that Big Ed, maybe on account of the super-bright sunlight and meth-dilated pupils, maybe on account of the booze, whatever, for some damn reason Big Ed just hadn’t noticed.

Damn, boy, that’s one hell of a lotta blood.

Ed glanced around at the houses, but it didn’t look like anybody was watching. Cautiously, then, he opened the rear-door and squinted into the van’s dimness.

It was hard to see who the particular bleeder was since they’d all been big bleeders at some point, and the passengers were so damn disorganized, one laying on another, arms here and legs there, the piled-up dead fucks, that making heads or tails of ‘em was—

“Help me . . . Please, help me.”

Damn! That voice near had Big Ed jumping out of his skin, it was so unnatural, a whispery voice that freaked the Edster out.

“Please, you must help me.”

“Like hell I do, you spooky dying fuck. Ya scared the hell out me.”

“Please . . . Please, I am dying.”

It was a man’s voice, with some kind of accent, maybe like he was Russian or something, Ed wasn’t too sure.

“Please . . . Please, I am a wealthy man . . . I will pay you whatever you wish . . . Just please help me . . . I beg of you.”

Hmmm. Ed couldn’t be certain, but it seemed like it was one of the bodies toward the middle, either the apartment guy or maybe the pushy hitchhiker. Glancing around, checking on the houses, see if there were any nosey eyes watching him—

“Please, the pain is terrible.”

— and figured, no sirree bob, now was not the time or the place to be moving bodies around to find out exactly who the squawker was. So, being ever practical, Ed quickly grabbed a handful of towels and wiped down the bumper—

“Please, God, help me, please, I will give you anything.”

— then used the towels to build sort of what you might call a ‘blood-dam’, keeping all the juices trapped up inside. Then, slamming shut the doors, Ed was back in the van and getting the hell gone.

And when the selfish jerk started begging again, like it was all about him— Mr. Me Me Me— Ed was forced to turn up the radio and sing along as George Jones noted some woman thought he still cared.

Heaven, INC:Chapter 42: INSIDE DOPE AND A SLICE TO GO

Knowledge is of two kinds.
know a subject ourselves,
or we know where we can find the information upon it.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON

GOTHAM PIZZA,
28TH AND A STREET
12:06 PM PDT

JIMMY WATCHED PIZZA GEORGE toss the dough ball in the air, spinning and catching it expertly as the ball quickly evolved into a perfect circle.

Gotham Pizza’s one of those legendary, off-the-beaten-track kind of places where people-in-the-know come for a slice of pepperoni or a Philly-cheese steak done to absolute perfection. It was also the place Jimmy went to when looking for information. Gotham delivered across half the county and Pizza George picked up straight dope all along the way. “Course I heard about it,” George said in his gravelly voice. “You think I’m losing my touch here or what?” He shrugged.

“Got it with a 10:30 order for two torpedoes, no onions, and a liter of Mountain Dew.”

George ladled sauce onto the pizza skin; he loved the drama of his information telling, making you wait like you waited for his pizza. He was popping one pizza in the oven and taking out another when a man in an expensive suit walked in.

George looked up from cutting the pizza. “You got some kinda perfect timing, Arthur.” While Arthur was paying for his pepperoni and olive, he whispered something to George. Nodding, George said, “Appreciate the tip.” Checking on a pizza while watching through the window as Arthur and his pepperoni-and-sausage got into a Mercedes, he said, “Put what can on The Lady Is A Queen in the 7th. It’s a lock.”

“A lock?”

“Certifiable.” He smiled. “Look, Jimmy, fact of the matter is, I really ain’t keen about talking to you about this. Last time you went after Ducroix, you ended up in the joint. You think I wanna see one a my best friends back in jail?”

Jimmy said nothing.

Without bothering to step outside, George fired up a Lucky Strike. “All right, here’s what I heard: Mij Poopikov got worked over pretty good at Norcestor and Imperial by some of Bivo Papacostas’ boys. Somehow, but about three in the morning, he somehow escaped wherever they were holding him—”

Apartment 420.

“— he came busting out of the Norcestor Arms, Building 1, naked and bleeding and running for his life with a couple of Bivo’s Greeks not far behind. So, he runs out to the intersection at the same moment a Mustang’s sitting at the light. Mij busts the driver’s side window, hauls this guy out of his car and takes off, leaving this guy scared shitless in the hood at three in the morning.”

“Christian Ducroix, Dominic Ducroix’s son.”

George exhaled smoke through his nose. “You telling the story? Or am I?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“Good. Now, Mij, he takes off in the Mustang as somebody in a Mercedes picks up the Greeks and takes off after him. Then all of em get followed by a motorcycle and a Hummer.” Butting out his smoke, George said, “Let me get this cheese-steak order.”

George exchanged pleasantries with a Navy master-chief in crisp whites, all the while knocking out a baker’s dozen in cheese-steaks and sausage parms, plus a half-dozen orders of pasta; Gotham was popular with the 32nd Street Naval Station, so it was no surprise a guy with a South Philly accent would find it.

“Yeah,” the navy chief said, “we got something weird going on at the base. I was working security when some guys from the FBI came in, wanting to see medical records from the ‘60s. Then, right after they left, some guys from DNS show up, flashing papers that got them into a secured area even the FBI couldn’t go.” The master-chief shook his head. “I don’t know, but those guys from DNS just rub me wrong, you know?” Paying his bill, he smiled and said, “See you tomorrow, George,” and carried three shopping bags of East Coast style to a waiting truck displaying US GOVERNMENT tags.

George turned to Jimmy. “Where was I?”

“Motorcycle and the Hummer.”

“Right. So this bike comes speeding up Norcestor with the Hummer in pursuit. As the bike takes the corner, someone in the car fires a couple rounds at the bike. Now, according to the news, there was some kind of sporadic gunfire reported in Lemon Grove last night, supposed to be gang-bangers in some kinda turf war but, you know,” George said, “how reliable’s the fucking Media nowadays? I mean the fucking Media— Hey, Mike, how ya doin’? Two antipastas? Comin’ right up.”

Mike Kopinski was an ex-city councilman with extensive business connections bordering on corruption. He was also a man who’d run for mayor, and run well, until his marriage blew up amid a messy scandal over allegations he’d cheated with his campaign manager’s wife. Now he was involved in the Atwater marina, a multibillion dollar entertainment/hotel project along the Chula Vista coast that some were calling a boondoggle and Mike Kopinski called ‘vitally necessary to San Diego’s tourism industry’.

But Mike didn’t mention the marina, instead asking about the weekend’s games.

“You like the Steelers or the Jets?”

“I’m taking the Steelers and the under.”

Scooping up the antipastas, Mike said, “Chargers got a shot this weekend?”

George chuckled. “C’mon, you kidding me? You gotta go back to ancient Thebes to find another city chokes in the big one like San Diego.” Watching Mike get into his car, George turned to Jimmy. “So what happened to Christian Ducroix?”

“Last thing anybody saw was him high tailing it down St. Angela.”

“And do the Feds and cops know all this?”

George shrugged. “How should I know? But it ain’t like those people’re down there are rushing to talk to johnny law.”

“But they talk to you.”

George grinned. “When’re you gonna understand you learn more from people with good food than you ever can by flashing a badge?”

Jimmy considered this before shrugging. “You got anything else, Detective Emeril?”

“I got one more thing.” Pizza George put a heavy, bloodshot gaze on Jimmy. “So how’d you know
Ducroix would be at Norcestor & Imperial last night? Who told you?”

Jimmy frowned. “Who told me? What the fuck, who told me? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What the fuck am I talking about? What the fuck, Jimmy, have I not been waiting for you to come rolling in, fearing it? Why else you think I made your foo foo pizza? No one else eats it.”

“Bullshit, my pizza’s not foo foo, and what the fuck are you talking about?”

Over at a table, Owen was manhandling a sausage parm while listening vigilantly.”

George put a hard poker stare on Jimmy, three to the river. “C’mon, Bro. Come on. I look like I’m just off the Subway? Please, save it for the rubes, I don’t wanna hear it.”

Hear what? What the . . .

“What the fuck are you talking about, George?”

“What the fuck? I am fucking talking about you grabbing fucking Du-” George’s voice dropped to conspiratorial, New Jersey whisper. “Look, James, we are friends, okay? And you know I’ve been in some pretty sketchy situations, right?”

Jimmy felt the hair on his neck standing up.

“What the fuck are you saying, George?”

“What I am saying,” George said, “the two-torpedoes-at-10: 30 guy saw Ducroix get into a white carpet cleaning van with a license plate beginning ‘TBV’ . . .”

They all craned to look out the window at Van #1's front plate: G8X3CBO.

George shrugged. “Sorry about freaking you out, Jimmy.”

“That’s it,” Owen said, “that’s it. George, sausage parm or no parm, scaring the shit out people is uncool. . . Dude, we’ve got a show to play tonight.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 41: MICK GOES HOUSE SHOPPING

Men of genius are admired, men of wealth envied,
men of power are feared,
But only men of character are trusted.
—ALFRED ADLER

INTERSTATE 5 SOUTH,
NATIONAL CITY
12:05 PM PDT

THE THING WAS, Mick had no idea what the hell Heidi was up to. None. Since when did strippers read books on redesigning humans? The closest Tonya ever came to the science of redesigning humans was her slavish devotion to breast augmentation in the never-ending boob-battle with the Sri Lankan Bitch, a fight that had lead Mick to consider the possibility of one day being driven into boob-job bankruptcy.

So much for Mick’s one-time breast obsession.

The point was that while Heidi wasn’t acting like a traditional stripper, she was Mick’s only link to the photos and it was necessary— if he wanted to keep breathing— that he find the pics.

Taking Highway 54, Mick headed east.

❖

DEL REY CANYON was located on a high plateau and at moments driving up, Mick caught glimpses of a spectacular view of San Miguel mountain. But he hadn’t expected a gated-community, Rancho del Sol Estates, and when he pulled up to the security-hut and the guard came out with a clipboard asking him who he was there to see, Mick had to think fast.

“126 Del Rey Canyon Drive,” he said, remembering one of the addresses he’d seen on the SAN DIEGO COUNTY COMPARABLES web-page. “Wanna take a look at this house before it sells.”

The security guard consulted his clipboard. “Mr. Albright’s selling? Well, I’ll be. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

Mick smiled. “Went on the market today. My agent called me an hour ago, said I should get up here pronto.” He leaned out his window, glancing behind the Range Rover. “She was behind me. Must’ve took a wrong turn.” Looking back at the guard, Mick shook his head. “Sure hope I don’t lose out on this place because my agent went left when she shoulda gone right. If you know what I mean.”

The guard smiled. “I got a wife, you don’t need to remind me about women getting lost.” He paused a moment, taking in Mick’s Range Rover “Sir, if I might ask, what do you do for a living?”
“Sports agent. Football, mostly.”

“Anybody I know?”

“LaDanian Tomlinson?”

The guard’s eyes got big. “You’re LT’s agent?”

Mick nodded and said, “Marty Goldstein,” with no idea who LaDanian Tomlinson’s agent really was.

Of course, with the right attitude, you can pull off just about anything.

Shrugging, the guard said, “Well, I guess it’s all right if you go on in. Drive around, you’ll see for yourself why, for pure luxury, people prefer Rancho del Sol Estates to anything in San Diego county.”

TELL YOU WHAT? That security guard had a point.

When Mick thought of the most expensive properties in San Diego, he’d always thought Fairbanks Ranch or maybe Rancho Santa Fe, famous for people like Bill Gates and even the Sultan of Brunei. One time, Bivo’d got this wild hair about buying a place up there, got some real-estate agent to drive him around— Bivo delighted it was the agent burning gasoline and not him— then freaked out when the agent told him homes in the area go for ten-million plus, Bivo cursing and generally misbehaving. You know, Bivo being Bivo. And then, when the agent tried making a joke to diffuse the tension, Bivo took it personally. Two weeks later, the agent gets in an accident involving his RainBird yard sprinkler that lands him in a hospital with a lifelong aversion to lawn irrigation equipment and again, it was just Bivo being Bivo.

Now, driving Del Rey Canyon Drive, Mick thought any agent foolish enough to show Bivo properties in Rancho Del Sol Estates would be well advised to avoid all lawn irrigation systems forever. See, the homes along Del Rey Canyon Drive aren’t homes so much as they’re mansions, each well off the road and on several acres of property. You’ve got your sweeping Spanish-style villas and your southern plantations, the all-brick Georgians and the modern compounds, and there was at least one small castle, complete with two towers and a high wall straight out of an English postcard.

Turned out, the castle was 166 Del Rey Canyon Drive.

DRIVING PAST THE CASTLE, Mick could just make out a white Rolls-Royce parked far up the drive, the car visible through a massive wrought-iron gate. He turned the RangeRover around and parked in front of Mr. Albright’s place at 126 Del Rey Canyon, an English Tudor far too old-school for Mick’s taste, plus the fact it had at least eight fireplaces, judging by the chimneys, and Mick’d always been a central-heat kind of guy.

There was a gardener on a riding-mower trimming the grass out front of the castle wall and by that alone, Mick knew the owner was loaded. Nowadays, who can afford a white gardener?

Mick thought about Heidi.

You up here working an Anna-Nicole Smith? Cozy up to the millionaire and wait ‘til he dies?

Mick thought it wasn’t so far-fetched. Heidi was a hell of a lot better looking than Anna-Nicole and orders of magnitude smarter. And Mick knew first-hand she was a consummate player, the kind of woman always thinks two moves ahead.

But if you were working that, you wouldn’t have checked out of the house . . . So where’d you go?

The wrought-iron gate opened and a moment later, the white Rolls emerged, rolled down the driveway and turned right, headed back towards the front gate.

Without even thinking about it, Mick settled in behind, maybe following, maybe just leaving Rancho del Sol Estates, he didn’t know, he’d find out later.

At the front gate, when the security guard said, “My that was fast,” Mick thought of Bivo. “You think I’m gonna pay that kinda money for South County? You crazy? I’d rather live with Turks!”

The security guard got a perplexed look and Mick passed without another word.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 40: DARK HISTORY, SECRET PAST

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
While the secret sits in the middle and knows.
—ROBERT FROST

NORCESTOR & IMPERIAL,
MARKET PARK
12:03 PM PDT

Pope’s cell buzzed and it was Linda Garcia calling about a party. Last night’s big wig Summer Masquerade up at Lord Bletchly’s estate, to be precise.

“You know, we were told it was just a big VIP fund-raising party. What we weren’t told was who attended the fund-raiser and what it was for.”

After the incident with Decker, Pope found himself sufficiently curious. “Start with the ‘What’.”

“All right. The fund-raiser was for the Strategic Population Research Council. I’d never heard of it, but it’s been around for years and is somehow connected to Oakmont Laboratories.”

Linda explained. Oakmont was founded in the 1920s as one of the earliest institutes for serious genetic studies and backed by some of the wealthiest families in America, not to mention the US Department of Agriculture and endorsed by Theodore Roosevelt. The eugenicists’ methodology of applying ‘negative engineering’ to the human race. Essentially, rather than building up the race by making people better, the human race would be ‘purified’ by subtraction of the weakest elements. Basically, the eugenicists sought to eliminate the unfit from the human population first by separation from the general population and then by separating this group from one another along gender lines, so they couldn’t mate. And finally by forced sterilization— in California alone, she explained, tens of thousands were sterilized by legal authority in the 20's and 30's.

“Eugenics,” Pope said, “has been debunked as pure junk science.”

“But junk science with serious financial support and powerful players. Chief, they were trying to develop the human race by selective breeding. Like the Nazis.”

“C’mon, Linda, the Nazis. That’s over the top.”

“Sir,” Linda said, “not as much as you might think.”

She explained that while in prison, Adolf Hitler closely followed the American project at Oakmont Bay, citing it as a key influence in Mein Kampf. In fact, she said, Hitler later lauded Oakmont Bay’s work as instrumental to the Nazis beginning their own eugenics project— what they called racial hygiene— a national program based at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Anthropology in Berlin. Later, after Hitler’s ascendence, American eugenics researchers worked closely with their Nazi counterparts, first as senior partner and eventually— as the Nazis delved ever deeper into their sinister experiments— taking the role of a zealously enthusiastic junior. Then Linda made an observation.

“All this eugenics research, including significant German research, was funded by the wealthy aristocratic families, what's often referred to as the Eastern Establishment, and many of the old names are on a list of donors to the Strategic Population Research Council.”

Linda explained that when it became politically and morally unfeasible to continue financial assistance for Nazi racial-hygiene research, American eugenicists secretly collaborated with their Nazi counterparts, even once America entered the war, striving together to create a race of Aryan supermen.

“The ultimate plan,” Linda explained, “was to breed for enhanced intelligence, strength, athletic prowess, endurance, even the ability to survive in the harsh environment of a post-nuclear world. They realized it would require generations to realize their goal, but then the Nazis believed the Third Reich would last a thousand years.”

Pope tried wrapping his brain around all this. “Linda, you’re not trying to tell me Oakmont Bay’s still working on building an Aryan superman, are you? And that the people at Lord Alistair’s cocktail party are subsidizing it?”

“Well, not necessarily. But some of the same names appearing on donor-lists to SPRC are on lists donating to Oakmont Bay and the Nazis in the ‘30s.”

“What does the council do?”

“Well, according to the website, the organization’s has a strongly Malthusian bent, concerned with issues of poverty and overpopulation. They’re also one New America Project’s biggest sponsors.”

New America was a radical abortion-rights outfit advocating lump-sum payments to any woman willing to undergo voluntary and irreversible sterilization. Pope didn’t know much, other than their spokesman appeared like an asshole on TV.

“How does this relate to Ducroix?”

“Ducroix worked at Oakmont. And his previous posting before that was the same lab that burned down. Well, I found an old report from thirty years ago about ex-Nazi scientists working in a South American lab. The reports have been redacted, but what I can tell, it could be same lab Ducroix worked in at approximately the same time.”

Pope was getting a sense of Linda’s angst. “So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know, sir, just I think something weird’s going on. Something’s not right.”

Hanging up, Pope felt a tap on shoulder. “You need to see this. Found a foreign military uniform in the closet.” Al grinned. “You’re always making fun of my military history obsession, but today it’s paying off.”

Pope frowned. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I recognize it.” Al grinned even more broadly. “Christian Ducroix was infected in South Guyana. And the uniform’s North Guyana, colonel’s rank. Which led me to realize who the stiff is.”

Pope looked to the body in the Adidas running suit. “You know who that is?”

Al nodded. “It’s Molo Balcotez.”

“Wait . . . You’re saying that’s Black Molo?”

Before Al could answer, Decker was coming up the hall, saying, “Yo, just found a body in a backyard swimming pool just down the road in Lemon Grove, some dude in a suit doesn’t sound like he belongs. Jesus, and I thought it might be an easy day. It is Friday, you know.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 39: FUCKING COPS

I’ve never had problems with drugs.
I’ve had problems with police.
—KEITH RICHARDS

UNIVERSITY AVENUE,
NORTH PARK
12:02 P.M. PDT

TURNED OUT BIG ED WALKER didn’t get that lotion right away. Turned out, he first had to kill a man. Not that it was Big Ed’s fault, you understand, or even the speed’s. It was just people always wanted to pester Ed, to ruin a man’s good time. Especially cops, always sticking their noses into other people’s business.

Fucking cops.

See, what happened, see, Ed was just minding his own business, tooling around in ChemSteem Van#3 looking for a WalGreens when, out of the blue, he rolls right on by the Crow’s Nest.

The Crow’s Nest was a red-neck bar in a beaner part of town that Big Ed was known to frequent prior to getting sent away. And seeing the Nest . . . Hell’s bells, son, God’s saying, “Get your ass in there for a cool one’s,” is what He’s sayin’ . . . Ed decided he’d best not ignore the Lord’s will and, just like that, whipped the van into a wicked U-turn— after flipping off some asshole in a fucking Cadillac when the prick tried getting all aggressive on Ed, like he owned the whole goddamn road, and then nearly getting run over by some sunglass-wearing punks in a Suburban— just like that, Ed whipped the van into a U-turn and rolled into the Nest’s parking lot and around the back. Snorted one last ragged blast of meth off the dash and checked himself in the rear-view mirror . . . Damn, boy, you are one handsome SOB . . . before sauntering up to the front door whistling a Hank Williams, Jr. ditty like he was king of the whole damn world . . .

FUCKING PLACE had changed, man. And, to Big Ed’s considered opinion, it wasn’t change to the better, neither. Hunh-unh, no way.

See, first of all, whereas about every time Ed’d ever walked into the Nest, every damn time it was either Willie or Merle or Johnny Cash on the juke, singing about important things like cowboys, prison, bitchy women or whiskey. Today, Ed walks into the Nest and Kid fucking Rock’s singing about being Cocky.

Shit. Like Kid Rock had half the right and a quarter the balls to be anywhere near as cocky as Big Ed Walker.

Fucking pussy.

Second of all, Ed didn’t see nobody looked like they was selling crank and there weren’t but two skanks in the bar, couple older broads nursing draught beers down by the pickled eggs. Least they had eggs. That, and the pool table looked to be getting some action.

Big Ed sauntered over to the bar— Ed liked the way people watched him, the men afraid and the women hungry— and he clambered up on a bar-stool. Flipping a twenty on the bar, he said, “Beer and a shot of Jack, a buck in quarters for the table and you keep the rest, lil’ darlin’.”

Big Ed surveyed the bar as cocky Kid Rock gave way to ol’ Neil Young singing about Alabama. That got Ed to thinking about Arlene Pritcher, down Short Hollow Way. Not in Alabama, in California. Behind the Von’s supermarket in the Santee Mall.

Ed had Arlene on his mind when that bartender— a tough sexy biker-babe type who reminded Ed of Arlene— when she came back with a Bud and his shot. Dumping the quarters on the bar, she smiled and said, “Sure you don’t want more than a buck’s worth?”

This new Arlene had truly enormous breasts, in fact the largest Ed had ever seen, but she also had a smart mouth, which could go good or bad. For now, Ed smiled, because by that moment, the speed had really begun massaging his brainstem. “Arlene, darling,” he said, “since I seen you, my luck has changed for better. And so’s your’s.”

Climbing down off the chair— the thing was extraordinarily tall— climbing down, Ed felt Arlene watching him with aching need, and the skanks by the pickled eggs jar, too, all watching Ed saunter over to the pool table and the two guys in polo shirts said PARADISE WATER. Heh. Soon as Arlene saw Ed working the felt, winning some money, she’d be sure to show proper respect.


ED WATCHED the skinny fuck cut a ball into the side pocket and set himself up a pretty good leave on his last solid. Sank that one and looked at his buddy and laughed before banging the 8-ball as Ed laid more quarters on the table.

“You boys look good. Maybe you wanna play for a beer, nothing too serious, just something to make it interesting.”

The skinny guy studied Ed a moment before glancing at his partner, a rich pussy wearing his

Texas cap on backwards. “Sure, buddy. Rack em.”


IN THE FIRST GAME, Big Ed still had four balls on the table when Pussy No. 1 sank the 8. Cocky about it, too, like he was so much better than Ed. Feeling the rage building, the pump pump pump of sped up blood, Ed said, “Lemme get another buck’s worth, see if I can’t win one. Kinda beer you fellas like?”

In unison: “Coors Light.”

Fucking pussies.

Arlene gave Ed some shit when he asked for the quarters and the two pussy beers, but Ed just smiled and stared at those big beautiful tits. Before delivering the beers— slick as you please— Ed snuck some Visine into each bottle, drip drip drip, and walking back, handed them over, saying, “Here’s quarters for one more, but first I gotta hit the head.”

In one of the bathroom stalls, Ed did a line of speed and took a whiz. After washing up, he yanked the toilet-paper rolls from both stalls and shoved them down the toilets. The hand-towels went in the bottom of the trash-can and Ed out the bathroom door.

Racking, Ed said, “Hell, I ain’t in your league, but how about another quickie for beers?”

Pussy No.1 sipped his beer watching Ed like Ed was a bug and he was the scientist, like he was so much fucking better than, before responding: “We play for money, dude.”

He was an insolent fuck Ed was tempted to shoot right there on the spot.

But instead, Ed just shrugged. “Gee, I dunno. Hundred bucks?”

Pussy No. 1 did that bug-study thing of Ed again, glanced at his buddy and exchanged a look . . .
I see you, thinking there’s two of you and one of me and you’re so much better’n me.
. . . before looking back at Ed. “Sure, dude. But show me the money first.”

Ed gave Pussy No. 2 a hundred-dollar bill, who laid it atop the light that hung above the pool-table along with Pussy No. 1's five 20s. Pussy No. 1 broke the rack, got nothing, and it was Ed’s turn.

Ed was choosing a new stick when Alice Cooper came on the juke singing No More Mister Nice Guy, and humming along, he took his time, chalking his stick, chalking his hands, walking around the table, eyeballing various shots . . .

“Hey,” Pussy No. 1 said, “hurry up so we can finish before you die of old age.”
And looking a little uncomfortable saying it, too, like maybe he wasn’t feeling so well.

Ed smiled. “No problem,” he said, and sank three stripes before missing a tough bank. The moment he finished, Pussy No. 1 was up and shooting, sinking two solids before missing the third something awful and glancing over at Pussy No. 2.

Beads of sweat had formed on Pussy No. 2’s forehead, and Pussy No. 1 seemed a might bit peckish. “C’mon man, go.”

Ed paused dramatically in his selection of a pool-cue. “Excuse me, but ain’t no one ever told you it ain’t polite to hurry a man shooting pool? ‘Specially when it’s for money.” Ed stared at Pussy No. 1 a moment before he went back to selecting his cue. “In fact,” he said, carefully chalking the new cue, “it is downright feckless.” Ed blew off excess chalk dust. Then, smiling, he lined up a shot and . . . bam . . . nailed it on a sweet cut. He got on a run, then, when he was right there, it ended when he barely missed sinking the Eightball.

Fucking Eightball.

Immediately, Pussy No. 1 was hunched over his ball, kind of fidgety while sinking two solids. In the middle of the whole thing, Pussy No. 2 bolted to the bathroom. It rattled No 1, but he still managed to sink two more to leave nothing but the 8 and a shot your basic one-armed blind man could make . . .

Pussy No. 1 chalked up— grinning now, in anticipation of a hundred bucks of Big Ed’s money— and stood over the shot. Drew his stick back . . . hesitated . . . and then stroked the ball with a loud grunt. Even as the cue-ball was glancing off the 8 and headed for the side-pocket and a scratch, Pussy No. 1 was running for the bathroom.

With a bar stool, Ed fetched the money from atop the pool-table light, before going over to listen at the bathroom door:

“Dude! Dude, then get me a paper towel, now, please!”

“I told you, man, there are no paper-towels. None!”

“Dude, I got shit running down my leg . . . I think that little prick put something in our beers! When I get outta here, I'm gonna kill him!”

Ed smiled. It was a big smile spread across his face like the Grinch stealing Christmas he carried to the door whistling along to the juke— Dale Watson singing about Whiskey or God— as he sauntered past Arlene and out the Crow’s Nest’s front door, into the bright sunshiny day, thinking maybe he’d maybe treat himself to a bite to eat . . .

Course, Big Ed wasn’t expecting to find a nosey cop standing there with the van door wide open and eyeballing Ed’s ‘passengers’, because Ed was goddamn certain he’d locked the goddamned door.

Goddamn fucking cops.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 38: OF HUNTED RUSSIANS AND BLACK BREAD

Nothing lulls and inebriates like money.
When you have a lot,
The world seems a better place than it is.
—ANTON CHEKHOV

EL CAJON BOULEVARD,
NORTH PARK
12:01 P.M. PDT

SERGEI DROVE BACK STREETS, consulting periodically a map on the heads-up display and saying cryptically, “I do not trust the highway.”

Mona said nothing, content to smoke in silence and let Sergei handle it, clutching her bag and its precious contents and, more than anything, anxious for everything to be over. She wanted to be home again with Boris and Lydia, to enjoy the sharp cold of a Russian winter and the taste of fresh black bread, the sight of the Moscow River’s dark water and the sound of Tchaikovsky on a warm summer evening, even the stench of Moscow’s filthy air, all of it made Mona feel homesick and terribly Russian. The missing cross did not help matters.

How could you lose the Cross of the Romanokova? You are a stupid woman!

Mona inhaled deeply on the Belomor, letting her thoughts drift from the nagging anxiety to the money that would soon be hers.

The bulk of the money Chelnikov paid would provide for Boris’ new image and identity as a scion of Russian wealth and breeding and vanish her son’s recent past as a descendant of common workers. Boris would be reborn to the baronic line of Romanokova before Lenin and the Bolsheviks came and took it all away. At the academy, he would receive a top-quality education while making contacts with the sons and daughters of Russia’s new nobility and with these contacts, education and Mona’s newfound wealth, would climb back up the ladder from which the Romanokova had been so cruelly pushed.

Much of the remaining money would go toward Lydia. While in Europe or the States, 56 years would not be considered terribly old, Mona’s mother had lived under the harsh conditions of Soviet rule— not the pampered life of the nomenklatura, but the brutal life of a worker, a life spent standing on line for hours in the bitter cold only to find, upon reaching the counter, there was nothing left save a misshapen loaf of stale black bread. The life of a diabetic in a country where insulin disappeared from state-hospital shelves to reappear on the black market is not easy, nor any life lived outside the soft embrace of the Party, and Mona was determined her mother live well.

As for herself, Mona planned to pursue the research she so dearly loved and to erase her own dark past with a shining future. Who knew? Perhaps ahead lay the Nobel prize. Hopefully, Chelnikov would ask her to lead his team at KosmoGen as they brought the treatment to market.

And perhaps a villa like the one Papa took us to on the Black Sea . . . And tennis lessons for Boris . . . Yes, that is the perfect addition to a cultured man, a fine tennis game . . . And Boris would be a natural player, just like Papa—

“I believe,” Sergei announced abruptly, glancing at the rear-view mirror, “that we are being followed.”

Mona’s first thought was of Mick, but glancing in the side view, she saw it was a black Chevy Suburban, rather than Mick’s Range Rover. “I thought we were cloaked." When Sergei simply shrugged, she said, "Are you certain?”

Sergei studied the rearview. “I am certain.”

Mona frowned. They were in an older part of the city, moving past small shops set back from broad sidewalks, the traffic of automobiles fairly congested. “FBI?”

“No, is not FBI,” Sergei said, stopping at a red light. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and back at the road before saying without much apparent concern: “Whoever they are, they keep their distance like they are waiting for something.”

“For what?”

Sergei shrugged. “Perhaps reinforcements. It is always more difficult to capture than kill.”

When the light changed, Sergei hit the accelerator and took a hard right onto a street called Ohio, ran two stop signs and made onto University Avenue, weaving now in and out of traffic past fast-food businesses and small shops.

“Whoever he is,” Sergei said, checking the mirror, “he is an excellent dri—”

“Lookout!”

Without warning, a large van U-turned in the middle of the street and Sergei, deftly whipping the wheel, narrowly avoided a collision, as the scruffy and unwashed driver flipped them the middle-finger. Shaking his fist in return, Sergei accelerated before turning right onto a street called Utah.

Sergei studying the rear-view mirror, saying, “If I had time, I would stop to teach you some manners . . . Ah, there they are, the kulaks.”

In the side-mirror, Mona saw the Suburban reappear. When she looked up, she saw another Suburban, identical to the first, bearing down on them like a torpedo.

“Sergei!”

Sergei’s eyes widened at the second Suburban. “Ha, the bastards hunt in packs!” Cutting the wheel, he narrowly avoided the Suburban, and as it passed, Mona saw a passenger point a silenced pistol. Suddenly, the bulletproofed glass in Sergei’s window cracked without shattering. Putting a hand to his head, Sergei pulled it away bloody, looking over at Mona and smiling, his expression that of a wolf on the taiga. “Ha. Explosive shells. Very nice.”

Sergei toed the accelerator. Immediately, Mona felt herself slammed back into the seat, while in the side-mirror, she saw the second Suburban u-turning to fall in behind the first. When a third Suburban appeared on their left, Mona thought about the missing cross.

“Can you lose them?”

“Ha! Does a crook live in the Kremlin?” Sergei said with a comfortingly wolfish grin. With a twist of the car’s lighter, dense smoke suddenly poured from the back of the Hummer. With a flip of the rear-defroster, machine-gun ports opened beneath the headlights. And by the time the hidden superchargers had kicked in, launching the Cadillac down Howard Street in a great pall of smoke, there were no more Suburbans to be seen.

“We must find a place to hide until I can tinker with the cloaking device to change the frequency,” Sergei observed. “I think I know just the place.”

Heaven, INC: ACT II: Chapter 37: VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR

ACT II
IF you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

—Merchant of Venice,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

WOODCREST APARTMENTS,
SOUTH MARKET PARK
12:00 P.M. PDT

THE TELEVISION FOR MONITORING the apartments’ security cameras was a black-and-white 13-inch Zenith probably manufactured when Reagan was president and though the picture wasn’t great, it was good enough for Carmella and Elmond’s purpose.

On the screen was Norcestor, a wide, steep street. It was night, but given a combination of streetlights, the apartment’s own floodlights and the fact, as the maintenance man explained, “high-speed videotape picks up things better in the dark, so we can even watch the kids around here when they’ve busted out the floods and think they’re getting away with something the eye won’t see,” given all that, the picture was surprisingly bright. Now, on the screen, they watch what happened last night at, according to the tape, 2:51 A.M.. Down the street a bit and on the other side, a city transit bus stops. Pulling away, it reveals a figure trudging up the hill that, growing closer, resolves into Miss Fellatia D. Jones, plastic shopping back in hand and head down, a tired woman returning home late. Pausing, she looks down the street and then up, before stepping off the curb. She’s not walking quickly and has reached only the halfway mark when she is picked up by lights growing quickly in brightness. Miss Jones begins to jog and then run as the car appears onscreen, a dark Hummer that barely weaves to miss as she jumps out of the way and lands awkwardly on her knee. The vehicle, speed undiminished, hurtles along and into the night.

Miss Jones was writhing on the ground and holding her knee as Carmella said, “Rewind it and run it at quarter-speed.”

Again they watch Miss Jones crossing the street as she’s lit by the car’s headlights. As the vehicle weaves, a face appears in the passengers’ window, a white man with white hair—

“Stop it,” Elmond said.

On the monitor, the white man glanced at Miss Jones, but then immediately seemed to say something as his hand rose to point straight ahead.

Elmond said. “What kind of license plate is that?”

The maintenance man hit a button on the remote and the picture enlarged. “Look like government plates to me.”

Carmella wrote down the numbers, guessing at a couple due to the film’s grainy quality. “Back it up a couple minutes, would you?”

A half dozen or so cars whisked by in that time period, but it was the one at 11:51 caught Carmella’s eye. The car’s color was impossible to tell in the black-and-white film, but not the make. “What model Mustang was Ducroix driving again?”

“‘65. Just like that one.”

Carmella said, “Back up the picture a tiny bit so we can make out the passenger.”

The picture edged back frame by frame until they could just make out a face. Then the maintenance man zoomed in.

Elmond said, “Who’s she?”

Studying the face and the dark hair, Carmella shook her head. “I don’t know, but she looks foreign somehow. Maybe European?” Carmella looked to the maintenance man. “Sir? We’re gonna need to take this tape.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 36: HEAD CLONE 'B'

Casey Jones you better watch your speed.
Trouble ahead, trouble behind,
and you know that notion just crossed my mind
—Casey Jones
GRATEFUL DEAD

SUPER-SAV-A-LOT-AND-MORE MART,
EL CAJON, CALIFORNIA
11:59 A.M. PDT/HEAD-CLONE ‘B’

“Delmer,” SENIOR ASSISTANT EXLEY SAID, “there’s a turd needs your attention in the Men’s and— good god, what have you done with that ice-chest?”

You might not know it, but that was one zinger of a question.

You see, the truth was that Billy Joe Schade, impersonating an idiot-savant janitor under the alias Delmer D. Pomes, was in the sporting goods aisle of the El Cajon Super-Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart completing a hermetically-sealed, fusion-powered genetic-replication tank from an Igloo 96 party-cooler and some plumber’s glue for the purpose of transporting a nearly-functioning clone of Billy Joe’s head— Head ‘B’— that he’d grown from a stem-cell-injected pimento bologna loaf purloined from the Super-Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart meat department and that, upon full maturation, Head-B would be grafted to Billy Joe’s shoulder and central nervous system in a position to observe and react to threats from a rearward position . . .

But you can’t just tell somebody that, especially not a person like Senior Assistant Manager Howard Exley, an adulterous, narcissist focused on climbing the Sav-A-Lot-And-More Mart management hierarchy to a cushy desk job in Pine Rock while diddling every last warm-blooded female in his employ.

Exley’s bulbous, pore-cratered nose floated over Billy Joe’s shoulder, the man stinking of cigarettes, ambition and cheap cologne.

“Delmer, you have ruined a perfectly good Igloo 96 Mark III Party-Cooler—”

Actually, a Mark IV, but you think Exley’d know that?

“— by glueing whatever that is to the lid—”

Two modified head-gaskets for a big-block Cleveland 351 found in Automotive, but since females never worked there, Exley hadn’t set foot in Auto since orientation.

“— and then cutting a hole in the top, you moron, you’ve ruined this ice-chest. You’ve gone and sawed a hole in the lid, you nitwit.”

Nitwit? It’s not a hole, moron, anybody can see it’s a time-stasis-lock . . . Not only does it keep things cold, you ignorant corporate suck up, it protects the contents from contamination if someone reaches in for a cool one, and not only that, idiot, but if you read Science America instead of Boob Bonanza you, cretin, might even know that it also slows the space-time continuum in addition to keeping that beer cold.

Of course, in Billy Joe’s case, the contents was not a cold beer but a quasi-sentient pimento-loaf. Again, though, Billy Joe realized it unwise to confess the truth or even sufficiently explain the mechanics of meta-biological constructs grown from lunch meat or Igloo-96-based time displacement units so that Billy Joe was again forced to simply to blink slowly and say with exaggerated difficulty, “I’m sorry Mister Exley. I was just trying to make the company money. Ain’t that what you say? Everyday everbody needs to think up ways to make money for the company? That if we got moneymaking schemes to bring them to you. I was just trying to help is all.”

Right now, Billy Joe Schade’s problem was that, if unassailably the smartest man in the world, he d still let that smarmy little assistant manager Exley sneak up on him like some kind of Viet Cong using the Debbie Cake display for cover. Billy Joe hadn’t even heard him until Exley knocked over the box of snacks, which made him think he might need to inject some stem-cells into his ears, bump up his hearing a little bit. Or maybe over-augment Head B’s hearing . . .

“Mmm-hmmm. Just like that.” Smugly, Exley nodded at the open can beside Billy Joe’s foot.

“Did you find the gasket sealer just like that, too?”

A good point. Especially given the fact Billy Joe had pink gasket-sealant on his hands; he’d been in a hurry and thought Exley was busy with Wanda Enright over in Children’s Wear.

“Delmer . . . why are you putting that gasket on the ice-chest?”

Billy Joe feigned considering the question. Then, in his slowest Delmer D. Pomes voice, said, “I wanted to make it stay colder, Mister Exley. If no one opens it, the ice won’t melt. I thought the company would like it. You always say to think about what’s best for the company.”

“You re saying you did this for the good of the store? As an invention?”

Billy Joe nodded solemnly.

Exley ran a finger across his bulbous, pore-cratered nose. “Delmer, if it worked, who would you tell first?”

“You, Mr. Exley. Is that wrong?”

“No, no it s not wrong at all. Loyalty is good.” Exley crouched down a little closer, checking over his shoulder; his nose wrinkled a little. So did Billy Joe’s; Exley smelled of the cheap, swap-meet cologne he kept in his desk. “Did you hear Mr. Givens say anything more about the . . . er . . . situation we spoke of? About—” Exley pantomimed a basketball attached to his stomach “—you know . . .”

“About Wanda being preg—”

“Shhhh,” Exley said, frantically waving, “you don’t need to yell it.” He glanced around, but the only person in the aisle was an older woman looking at the Igloo 32, a nice big cooler with a tray for keeping vegetables out of the melted water. Shining his intense little weasel eyes on Billy Joe, Exley said, “Now . . . did Givens call Corporate when you were working in his office?”
Billy Joe nodded.

Exley frowned. “He did? What did he say?”

“That he had some suspicions about you and Wanda but he thought it might be a false alarm. That he was gonna watch you for a while just to make sure.”

“He said that, did he? Hmmm.” Exley smiled, showing his porcelain-capped teeth, then cocked his head as Lily Jackson called his name over the store PA, requesting Exley’s attention in Home Furnishings; Lily Jackson was Exley’s squeeze on the store’s west side. Wanda Enright, two-months pregnant in Children’s Wear, was strictly east side.

“I need to handle this,” Exley said, rising. “Now take that ice-chest into back-stock and go swamp out the Men’s— Mr. Givens says there’s a huge turd overflowed onto the floor in Stall Two been sitting there for over an hour and the last thing the Store needs is for someone to slip on a turd and break their neck. He also wanted me to remind you that there’s been a wad of gum in the urinal now for two days and waaay too many pubic hairs. Shaking his head, Exley said, “If you want to move up in the company, Delmer, if you want to work here more than two days a week, You’re gonna need to be more vigilant to things like that."

Billy blinking slowly and adopting the dopey, burned-out look he’d perfected in Daytona Beach.

Glancing around to ensure they were relatively alone, Exley said, “Not schemes, Delmer. Plans. Opportunities.” He eyed the Igloo with puzzled distaste. “What exactly have you made for the company, Delmer?”

Billy Joe grinned dopily. “A beer cooler that keeps beer cold for two days on only four ‘D’ batteries.”

“Four D’s?” Exley got that look he always got when Billy Joe presented him with a new invention he could show to Corporate while claiming as his own. It reminded Billy Joe of a rat eying a chunk of unclaimed cheese. “How long, on four D’s?”

“24 hours. And with six, I can even make it deep-freeze.”

Exley showed his porcelain teeth. “Ah, ha hah, my little idiot savant, yes . . . Well . . .” Exley paused to ensure the coast was clear, before saying, “Listen, Delmer, why don’t you bring it by my office after Johnson goes home. I want a demonstration.” He leaned in and winked. “How about we keep this between ourselves until I can get with Old Man Greeley, no sense bothering him with the corporate people here, right?” Exley studied Billy Joe like a man measures a child. “You understand what I am saying, don’t you, Delmer?”

“Oh, yessir. Secret, secret, always keep it secret.”

Blink blink.

Hey . . . No one here but us morons . . . Nope, just a big dopey moron here, nothing to worry about except working out the genetic chaining sequence for the protoplasmic transition chamber . . .

Well, that and the turd in the Men’s.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 35: CALLING CENTRAL CASTING

APARTMENT OF FELLATIA D. JONES,
1665 NORCESTOR AVENUE
11:44 P.M. PDT

“I don’t normally talk to no police,” Miss Jones said, “but when this motherfucker almost run me over, I said bitch, you gonna get got. Pardon my language.” She glanced past Carmella and said, “Nuh-unh, don’tchoo even think about bringing that dead thing in my house, little man.”

Little Man was a boy of maybe three with big brown eyes. Standing at the front door, he raised the dead thing for all to see, and smiled. “Rribbitt. Rribbitt rribbit.”

“Go on now,” Miss Jones said, “you get that thing outta my house,” and waited until Little Man exited with the frog. A moment later a small dark hand appeared around the doorjamb dangling the frog and a voice said, “Rribbitt rribbit,” before both hand and frog disappeared to the sound of giggles.

Carmella smiled. “Your little boy?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“He’s a cute one. How old is he?”

“Four. And he take after his daddy. I just hope it just the look and not that he grow up treatin’ his women like his daddy do.” She gave Elmond a long, stern look before looking at Carmella and saying, “This one, though, he don’t look to have them cheaters’ eyes, if you know what I mean about them.”

Carmella smiled. “Sister, who doesn’t.” Her eyes swept the cramped apartment. It smelled somewhat musty, but was neatly picked up and featured pictures of Jesus on the walls. The building was clearly Section 8 housing and the neighborhood known to be raided from time to time for drugs and other things, and certainly not the kind of place Carmella would want to raise Tony, but then she wasn’t Miss Jones.

Better remember to count your blessings, Carmella Garcia, she thought. There but the for the grace of God go you.

Carmella said, “Miss Jones, you say you were hit by a car last night. What time did it happen?”

“It was at 11:54, or maybe 11:55 or 6.”

Elmond said, “You seem pretty precise about the time."

Miss Jones said, “Yeah, I am. I work at the Taco Shack up Norcestor and Imperial, got off at 11:30 and caught the 603 at 11:51. Drops me off at about 11:52, 11:53 and it’s a two-and-a-half minute walk to here. I’m down the street, here—” she pointed south “—crossing at the sidewalk, when that speeding motherfucker come barreling up the hill. Nearly run me over, and if I didn’t jump out the way, he woulda surely killed.” She rubbed a knee. “Nearly broke my leg when I landed. Good thing. Taco Shack don’t give no insurance. And with the budget cuts, the MediCal take too long.” She rubbed her knee again, wincing. “Hoping it heals up without too much trouble, you know? And all because of that white motherfucker in a Hummer.” She looked between Carmella and Elmond. Rubbing her hip know, she said, “That white motherfucker didn’t even stop to see if I was okay. Fact, he just sped up and kept on going.”

Miss Jones’ expression was equal parts contempt and amazement.

Elmond said, “Did you get a look at the driver?”

Miss Jones shook her head. “I saw the passenger. A older guy, with white hair. Look kind of uh, uh, distinguished, you know, like he was English or something. Wore this, uh, light-colored suit, an eye patch and a pinky ring— a big one, gold, with a big ruby on it.”

Elmond said, “You saw all that as you were jumping out of the way?”

Miss Jones shrugged a little, then giving her head that quintessential black woman dressing down a man move, “What can I say, I like pretty things. You can’t look around my apartment and see that? Besides, you nearly get run over, see your life flashing before your eyes, you notice some strange shit.” She added, “And I bet he’s the one run over that jogger down on Sweetwater. S’why I called you, after I saw it on the TV. Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with the po-po, but seeing that jogger got kilt coulda been me . . .” She shrugged. “I got a little one to take care of.”

Carmella glanced over at Elmond, and he gave her a look as Carmella took a turn at incredulity, thinking of bogus victim claims that occasionally pop up . . . An eye patch? Really? . . . and saying, “Miss Jones, are you absolutely sure what you’re telling us is as you describe it. That we should be looking for an guy with an eyepatch going around town running people over in a black Hummer?”

Miss Jones nodded resolutely.

Carmella said, “What was the license plate number then?”

Miss Jones shook her head.. “No idea. I didn’t see anything but stars after they hit me. Before, everything, after, nothing. And I know what you’re thinking, I wanna sue somebody, get some money, and I’m exaggerating. But I’m telling you, I ain’t making none of this up. It happened. The rich motherfucker in a eyepatch run me over and didn’t even stop to see if I was still alive. News said they don’t know what time that woman got hit last night, but I thought, damn, that’s just down the street, maybe they hit her and that’s why they’s in such a hurry they nearly hit me too, they was trying to get away.” Miss Jones suddenly looked to the front door where there was what appeared to be a small lobster dangling from a smaller hand. “I said no more dead things in the house . . . and that means crawdads too, little man.” She sighed a little wearily, looking to Carmella. “Boys go down, play in the creek, they bring all kinda things back. These apartment boys, they wild, getting into things, breaking apartment property. Maintenance out there right now, working on something.”

THEY QUESTIONED MISS JONES a little more, got a few more things, then thanked her and said goodbye. Walking up the stairs, she’d noticed a maintenance-man up on a ladder working on something under the eaves, maybe a floodlight. Turned out the maintenance man working on not a floodlight, but on a camera attached to it and pointed towards the apartment’s courtyard.

Apparently finished, the man descended the ladder.

“Hold up a moment, El,” Carmella said as the maintenance man reached the bottom. “What happened to the camera?”

The man, an older man in a Boston Red Sox capped, turned and appeared to size up Carmella and Elmond. Saying in Upper New Englander, “Pardon my Greek, but who the fuck are you?”

He was suitably mollified after seeing their badges and reason for being here, saying, explaining,

“Neighborhood punks hit it with a rock or something and threw it all off. They’ve got me out here every week, fixing something and it’s running me broke, what with the mortgage I got. Fucking ghetto kids . . .” Red Sox looked like could say more, but bit his tongue.

“Broken thrown-off,” Elmond said, “or threw off the direction?”

“Direction,” the man said, wiping his hands with a rag. “Normally, we keep it trained on the property, monitoring for drugs and stuff, but the last couple days it was staring off at the street until I fixed it. Why, you think it recorded the Hummer?” He smiled, “If so, you’re in luck. The tape holds a month at a time and I planned on erasing it after I fixed the camera.”

Carmella smiled. “How about you let us take a look first?” Red Sox nodded, smiling. “Anything to help, Detective. Follow me.” Leading off, he said, “You know, my brother is a cop up in Worcester, Mass, works property crime, and he says with this recession, even the thieves can’t fence the stuff they pinch cause everyone’s pinching pennies . . .”

So what Is HEAVEN, INC. about?

A conspiracy is nothing but a secret agreement
of a number of men for the pursuance of
policies which they dare not admit in public.
—MARK TWAIN

You know the one where James Bond goes speeding by the café and its startled patrons, pursued by bad guys on machine-gun-mounted motorcycles, in fact, they run right through the café and give all the regular peeps a fright? Well this ain’t it. Instead, my novel, Heaven, Inc., is concerned with the café patrons themselves, the nameless men and women thrust center stage as their lives are invaded and upended by spies running around doing crazy spy stuff, and the great rollicking mess that follows.

Heaven, Inc. is about an aging, would-be rockstar chasing his last shot at fame and redemption after seven years in prison; an FBI agent sick of ‘saving the world’ yet called upon once more to find a missing scientist infected with the Doomsday Virus; a mobster suffering career burnout and the indignities of a karaoke-obsessed crime boss and a wife striving for the world’s biggest boobs; a glamorous, international spy trying to steal the most important State secret since the atom bomb while posing as an exotic dancer; a homicide detective assigned to finding and arresting a hit-and-run driver with connections to the world’s most powerful people while tending to her emotionally troubled son; and a demented carpet cleaner driving around in a van loaded with dead bodies, two bottles of Jack and a fat bag of tweak. The last is the proverbial fly-in-the-ointment, setting off a chain reaction that hurls all of them into the midst of a clandestine, decades-old plot to create a master-race of genetic supermen, and the hunt for the infected scientist who has gone missing somewhere in the blighted barrios of San Diego.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 34: APARTMENT 420

APARTMENT 420,
NORCESTOR ARMS EAST
11:36 P.M. PDT

“The apartment’s rented to a Rosalita A. Gonzalez, but,” Captain Decker said, “as you can see, there’s not a single hint of a feminine touch here, let alone anything to indicate the place is even regularly inhabited, except for poker games. So far we haven’t been able to do much backtracking on that since, other than her phony Social Security number and a fake drivers’ license, we’ve got nothing on Rosalita Gonzalez or the stiff.”

The stiff wore a black Adidas running suit, new Nikes and bruises and rope-burns around his neck consistent with death-by-strangulation.

Pope said, “What’s the time of death?”

“About two a.m. Rudy Juarez also verified the footprints in the other room are a match to Mij Poopikov’s.” When Pope frowned, Decker said, “Poopikov was a local nightclub owner— DreamCircus, down in OB. A small fish. But at about 3:00 a.m. this morning, his body was discovered on a Beeler Canyon avocado farm having taken one in the back of the head and in the process of being dissolved with Muriatic acid. Witness said they left in such a hurry, he only got a description of one of the cars, a black Hummer, but not the plate number. Old guy, says he’s got bad eyes.”

Pope considered this. “Poopikov have enemies?”

“Like Napoleon at Waterloo and running debts all over town.”

“That’s an unhealthy lifestyle. Who’d he owe?”

“Well, for one, word is he was into the Russians pretty deep. Victor Lebvedev’s people.”

This caught Pope’s attention. “Lebvedev? This confirmed?”

Decker said, “Not a hundred percent, but it looks legit from what we’ve learned so far.”

Pope wasn’t sure how and wouldn’t say it out loud, but he had a distinct sense Decker had someone inside Lebvedev’s outfit. If it was the case, he’d try to respect Deck’s ‘sources’.

Decker continuing then, “Of course, since Lebvedev denies having anything to do with Mij Poopikov’s murder, and his lawyers’re throwing up a ton of flack, so who can we know for sure?”
Dead pan about it, like cops often are.

Pope went back into the other room.

Herein were a card table, three flimsy chairs and a floor strewn a couple decks of cards and an overturned ashtray, with butts everywhere. Over by the black-out-foiled window: the remnants of a fourth flimsy chair, this one broken, lengths of rope and a floor littered by blood spatters and cigarette ashes, all stamped into the outlines of hard-soled shoes and running shoes Pope thought might match the stiff’s in the closet. A technician was snapping stills as several more were dusting for prints.

Pope said, “Dave, I know you’ve got a theory. So let’s hear it.”

Decker’s eyes studied Gideon’s as though he were making a decision. “All right,” he finally said, “but you tell me: speculation starts with that chair. You see what we see?”

Pope studied the broken chair by the window and the footprints. “At some point, Poopikov broke free and used that rope to strangle Juan Doe before fleeing the apartment barefoot ahead of the hard soled guys. Poopikov is the one hijacked Ducroix. Nice. Well, since you’ve got Poopikov’s body— and a call woulda been nice, Dave— is there hard evidence to back all this up?”

“There is. Rudy found broken safety glass found in Poopikov’s right hand he’s ID̀ed as Ford Motor Company smoked glass, 1966. So then, we’ve got a problem.” A scowl passed across Decker’s face. “You remember how a certain cop got sent away in a case involving a carpet fiber?”

Pope exchanged a glance with Al. “I remember.”

Decker scowled. “Well we found a carpet fiber on Poopikov matching one found on Evie Chambers. And we’ve got Ducroix’s car getting car jacked by Poopikov. Meaning Poopikov got that fiber from Ducroix’s car. Meaning Ducroix really did kill the Chambers girl.” Decker’s scowl deepened. “And that means a good cop went to jail on the dirty.”

The vein in Al’s forehead pulsed as he got overloud in the ratty apartment, jumping to conclusions.

“Oh, now hold on a moment, whoa. Don’t go blaming the FBI. It’s a well-known fact the guy was strung out on heroin when he nearly killed Ducroix. Though it’s no surprise,” Al observed,

“Francisco being a musician slamming dope and all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that one, cooking spoon on the way to rock and roll fame, on MTV. And spoons are always reliable witnesses.”

Al had a way of going right for someone’s jugular piss-off point without any thought whatsoever, like an elephant right into a field of mines. And this was a moment when Pope honestly thought Al might have pushed it too far. You could in Decker’s body detect tension— and remember, after starring at Grambling, Decker’d played two seasons at linebacker for the Bears and still retained much of the physique— there was a moment Pope thought Decker might punch Al out . . .

Before Decker finally said, “Well, I wasn’t blaming the FBI, but if you wanna lay a finger . . . Fact of the matter is, at this point, I don’t know what’s happened. But I can tell you this: we’re getting to the bottom of this and if the FBI’s trying to federalize this whole clusterfuck to cover something up, there’s gonna be problems. And you can make book on that.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 33: WHAT'S AN OUT OF WORK SPY SUPPOSED TO DO?

And the spies came out of the water,
But you're feeling so bad 'coz you know.
And the spies hide out in every corner.
But you can't touch them no,'coz they're all spies.
—Spies,
COLDPLAY

116½ CEDAR STREET,
GOLDEN HILL
11:32 A.M. PDT

FROM THE KITCHEN, Sergei was saying, “ . . . and it is the same thing on CloakandDagger: there are only a handful of contracts in the entire industry, and the only positions open are for Senior Food-Tasters.”

Mona searched the bedcovers again, hoping there, somewhere among the folds, she would find the cross. This was the third such attempt, along with searching under the bed and behind, under and within the night stand, and hope was beginning to fade. Crossing to the dresser, she said, “You did apply for the position, yes?”

“Well, I attached a resume for a driving job for a South American assassination. But the food-taster, I think I shall pass. With my new workout, tasting a lot of food would be counterproductive. You understand.”

Mona understood that FoodTasters, though among the highest paid, were still considered no-talent, chimney-sweeps of the modern, post-conflict intelligence world. Plus, the fact you could die eating poisoned pie rather than hot lead lessened the glamour and prestige. Still, a job was a job.

Sergei continued from the kitchen: “Vienna, Berlin, Tokyo, London, even the Americans say there are no openings. The only people still hiring are the South Americans, and even those bloodthirsty savages are cutting back on their killing. What kind of world is this when even an international spy cannot find proper employment? It is the end, I tell you. Hmmm. Russian cigarettes, caviar, salted pickles. Who bought these?”

“I suppose Anka bought them. They are in her refrigerator.” Mona swept her gaze across the bedroom again, hoping she would suddenly see it, that she was simply overlooking it, that it was right there in plain sight and realizing the cross was not here.

You fat Greek son-of-a-whore, you stole it . . . You stole the Cross of the Romanakovas . . . Oh, you will pay for this . . . I swear, if you have stolen it, you shall pay.

From the kitchen, Sergei exclaimed, “Look at this. Black Sea caviar, two-thousand dollars an ounce. I tell you, Anka would not spend that much money on caviar— she is the cheapest person I know.”

Hands on hips, glaring at the room, Mona said, “Her son is still back in Belarus, and you know how hard it is to get the money back there. Every helping hand wants a piece of his share— None of that is important; what is important is the Cross.”

Sergei’s head popped around the corner, as he said around a bite of pickle, “We have in our possession the most important secret since the hydrogen bomb— fuck the Cross.”

Mona fixed Sergei’s pickle-eating face with a glare. “Fuck the Cross? The Cross of the Romanokova has been in my family for over 300 years. Fuck you, Sergei Andreivich Zukov. I will not leave the heritage of my ancestors in some shitty American cottage like a piece of worthless rubbish.” She checked the rumpled sheets and again came up empty. “Besides, you should not be eating Anka’s pickles. You are leaving evidence.”

“Pa. Is the Americans.” Sergei stood by uselessly munching his pickle. “Besides, I am hungry.” Then said, “You did say no one knows we are here.”

“Do not worry. No one knows even that there is a Russian living here— Anka pays the owner cash and tells him she is Swedish. Being American, he cannot tell a Swede from a Siberian.” Lighting a Belomor, Mona inhaled deeply before checking under the pillows.

“You are a trained scientist descended of Russian nobility, yet you worry about Czarist crosses and smoke workers’ cigarettes? I confess that you are a complete mystery to me.”

Mona savored the way the smoke of the black tobacco burned her throat. “The Cross of the Romanokova is the last tie I have to my family’s tradition and it is a talisman of good fortune.” Regarding the Belomor, she said, “And I smoke these because it reminds me of what my family was forced to become when the Bolsheviks came. Besides,” Mona said, drawing another puff, “for some reason the worst habits prove most difficult to break.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 32: ANGRY BIVO

LAS MADRES DES LOCOS
MARKET PARK,
11:29 A.M. PDT

MICK HATED BIVO’S PHONE PARANOIA because Mick was the one who always got the shaft.

See, while Bivo got to use a new cell-phone from pool side or maybe from his spiffy, state-of-the-art, karaoke training-center, Mick had to find a payphone that wasn’t loaded up with poor people diseases. Today, at least, the phone out front Crazy Mama’s was such Mick could use it without even exiting the car, which was good on account of the neighborhood had a lot of ethnic-types you can’t trust one second of the day with your money, your car or your health.

Mick pulled up beside the phone and after thoroughly cleaning the receiver with antiseptic wipes he kept in the glove-box for just this reason, he dialed Bivo, listening to the phone ring and wondering which Bivo would answer the phone.

And got Angry Bivo.

“A carpet cleaner thinks he can fuck with Bivo Papacostas? A fucking carpet cleaner? I will kill that fucking carpet cleaner fucking dead and shit in his fucking motherfucking skull, do you hear me? Dead!” A pause. Then: “Who is this?”

You see? This was the sort of crazy, irresponsible bullshit Mick had dealt with ever since Bivo began his descent into the twin horrors of karaoke and cocaine. The least Bivo could do before threatening someone with death was find out who was calling. Seriously.

“It’s me,” Mick said, “it’s me.” There was something on the receiver, a booger, a piece of skin, something missed with the antiseptic wipe. Holding the phone way, he said,“So you’re still pissed at Jimmy?”

“You know what that carpet cleaner fuck did?”

It was almost certainly a booger. Holding the phone still farther, Mick said, “What did Jimmy do?”

“He spray Rony, and Dmitri with the acid, Bivo’s people, like you can do anything to Bivo Papacostas, Bivo don’t care, he just a malakas. That carpet cleaner fuck needs to learn what happens you fuck with Bivo Papacostas.”

Mick decided it was time to divert Bivo before Angry Bivo mutated into Homicidal Maniac Bivo and the order was given that would result in something else for Mick to clean up or kill. Plus, Jimmy was a friend and Mick didn’t want to see him dead. “Beev, let’s get back to Mij Poopikov. If we didn’t kill him, then who did? Viktor wouldn’t want to, so who?”

Angry Bivo gave way to Suspicious Bivo.

“Ah, I been thinking about that. I think is Viktor’s doing. The Russians, they are extra sneaky.”

“Okay, but why would Viktor want to kill Mij when Victor was planning to use Mij’s tape?”

“Hmmm. Micky, you don’t understand how the Russian mind works. Sometimes I think you forget your father and I fought against the Communists. That’s when we saw how sneaky is the Russians, like a game of chess. Victor knows I can be champion of all the American Popstar, even Universal Popstar. He wants to take away Bivo’s chance at greatness by disqualifying Bivo for life.”

Using a wipe, Mick brushed the errant booger away. “Yeah, but Beev, if he drops dime about Lester Gilfinkle, it could be prison for life.”

At this, a real world sentence, Bivo was unimpressed.

“Prison? So? I could do the karaoke in prison. You see Johnny Cash in the San Quentin. Prison made Johnny Cash a international star.”

“Bivo, he was never actually in prison, he just did a show there.”

This, you see, ever since Bivo had caught the karaoke bug, was the sort of mindless bullshit that had slowly eaten away at the operation, culminating in Gilfinkle’s senseless murder and starting a chain of incidents that had the cops sniffing around for one more chance. That, coupled with the cocaine, had put Mick near the edge; toss in Tonya’s boob obsession and Mick was right there.

Mick decided to defuse the situation before Bivo could give the order for another killing. “Beev, I know Jimmy, and acid isn’t his style. You sure it wasn’t pepper-spray?”

“‘You sure it wasn’t pepper spray?’” Bivo’s voice mocked. “You taking this malakas’ side now? Over family?”

Speaking now of Rony and Dmitri, two Greek, country bumpkin idiots who couldn’t speak a word of English.

“That’s family? They’re 4th cousins I never even met until last week.”

“So? Is blood, Micky, and now Rony, he is blind maybe for life and Dmitri says things still a little blurry.”

“From acid?”

“Maybe battery acid, the pool acid, I don’t know, someone shoot you in the eye, acid is acid. Why you defend this malakas? Because you played in a band together? Pffft.”

Fifteen years ago, Mick played bass with Jimmy in the Red Jackets. Cover songs exclusively, but boy they’d had some times.

“Look, I’m only saying, Jimmy’s known for using his fists, not acid— man’s got a first punch that’s like pure dynamite.” Mick watched a low-rider stop in front of the taco shop and four vatos pile out as Bivo said, “I am tired of this. You get the tape?”

“I got it.” Mick pulled the tape from the envelope and slipped it in portable VCR wired into the truck to hit play . . .

Soon as the video started, Mick knew he had problems . . .

Jesus.

. . . soon as the screen came up with movie credits in Russian on what looked to be a low-budget, Russian crime flick . . .

Son-of-a-bitch, she fucking played you like a punk . . .

“ . . . and bring them when I see you. You have people coming, yes? For tonight?”
Mick frowned, pausing in his fast-forwarding. “Coming to what?”

“You forget? How can you forget? Is the American PopStar western sub-regional finals at the Tickled Trout. And this time, no wheelchair fakers and no stupid judges, just the great Bivo Papacostas on his first step to international stardom. You bring people to cheer me when you bring the tape. Is important. No excuses.”

That might prove to be a problem. With Bivo’s cocaine-fueled karaoke mania, it could be a huge problem. For Mick. He hung up thinking about the sound of the bathroom window squeaking open and about how he’d fallen for a charade.

She played you, Sport . . . All she wanted was for you to leave and she knew you wouldn’t leave until you got the tape . . . Probably never gave one shit about that tape, whether she knows where it is or not . . . She just wanted you out of there and this was the fastest way.

Mick thought about the pistol sitting on the night stand, the tricky little foreign number, and ended up wondering who Heidi was waiting for.