Heaven, INC: Chapter 69: RISE OF THE ELVI

It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.
-SIR EDMUND HILLARY

SUPER-SAVE-A-LOT-&-MORE-MART,
EL CAJON,
3:59 PM

WHILE THE TURD LOAFED two hundred feet above in men’s stall two, down in the laboratory, Billy Joe and the brains that comprised his neural network computer continued their joint monitoring of global communications, especially the furious bursts emanating from the National Security Agency, the FBI and the White House. But that’s not all.

Simultaneously, and more importantly, Billy and the Brains continued the worldwide colonization of every computer on the planet into a cybernetic storm of knowledge, both known and eavesdropped, a super silicone and pimento loaf computing system that enslaved nearly 99.9% percent of the computing— save the Macs with PhotoShop, V. 2.51 patch— while, not content wasting any valuable processing power, crunching some of the final numbers for the space-time work for their impending trip to Mars. To top it all off, all of this world domination occurred amid incessant squawks about clean-ups on Aisle 9 and requests for assistance in Automotive and ‘someone to the Men’s’, etcetera, etcetera, while more importantly, in the Igloo 32 in the corner, over by the cold fusion reactor, Head Clone B continued its hyper-rapid development into a full-operational head able to control events to a rearward position. Frankly, of all the things Billy was up to, more than eavesdropping on the most important conversations in the world, overt cyber world domination and turd in the Men’s, the integration of Head Clone B to Billy’s central nervous system could prove problematic. And with no time for training, he’d need to hope for a smooth thought-wave download. And it was certainly dicey, to make the head operational today, of all days, what with the Jupiter launch now just hours away, provided no one prematurely climbed up on the Super-Save-A-Lot-And-More Mart’s roof and rooted around in the air conditioning vents and discovered the Jupiter craft . , .

But we’ll get to that later. Besides, it’s perfectly understandable that there may be those reading about cloned brains and neural network computers and about functioning human heads grown from pimento-loafs and stem-cells and interplanetary space-craft who scoff at the notion that Billy Joe could be so far advanced in his research while the rest of the world was still back at Dolly The Sheep and the ethical and religious implications of cloning a living human being.

To which Billy Joe would say cloning schmoning.

Hell, way before Dolly the Sheep, Billy Joe had unraveled the mysteries of creating an identical match to a living organism. That’s so 1990's.

Of course, in Billy Joe’s case, he started small, with tropical fish, working his way up the genetic ladder from little neon tetras to tinfoil barbs and clear up to the cichlids, and it wasn’t until he’d successfully created over seven hundred Oscars from a single scale of the original, his beloved Captain Charlie, that he moved up to mammals. Just as quickly, Billy Joe progressed from hamsters to cats and on up to dogs, which had been a tremendous success, what with Billy Joe winning a string of victories at dog shows all over the country and then selling the little fellas to people who wanted a shot at big-time, dog-show celebrity, until he was finally drummed out on account of claims of illegal breeding and that he ran a dog factory. Ha. If the dog-show dufuses had ever discovered the truth about Tinker the toy poodle and his 322 identical-clone brothers, well, you can bet things would have turned out a lot differently and certainly not for the better.

Shortly thereafter, Billy Joe turned his considerable brain power— he was at the time, of course, working alone, as the brains had not yet been developed— to the awesome challenge of cloning a living human being. It was with the Elvis Experiment that Billy Joe’s cloning efforts reached, arguably, the pinnacle of development.


AS WITH ALL GREAT ENDEAVORS, the Elvis Experiment was a labor of love, the result of merging business with pleasure.

See, ever since Billy Joe was a boy, he’d been a huge Elvis fan, in fact, he had every Elvis recording ever made, even a couple cast-offs from the old Sun Studio days, along with enough Elvis memorabilia— from lunch-pails to heating-pads— to found a museum. Huge fan of the King, Billy Joe was. In fact, despite being an extraordinary recluse, for one year Billy Joe served as president of the local chapter of the Elvis-Fans-Who-Believe-In-Alien-Abduction fan club, until he had a falling out with his treasurer, who claimed Elvis was now in fact serving as Emperor of Mars; when no amount of logic could persuade the man differently, not even Billy Joe pointing out the King’s well-known aversion to dry climates, Billy Joe resigned his Presidency, which came as a great blow to his mother. It was Billy Joe’s mother, Jo Jo, who’d kindled within the young Billy Joe the profound respect and admiration for the King that to this day he carried proudly in his heart. As well, it was to his mother he owed thanks for a chance to complete the Elvis Experiment: namely, the lock of Elvis’s hair safeguarded for so many years in a silver locket she wore over her heart. Upon his mother’s death— he’d waited til then, never building up Mom’s, hopes in case he ended up cloning one of the maintenance men— Billy Joe felt it appropriate as an honor to both she and the King to embark on the making of an Elvis clone.

Or, as in this case, actually three Elvises. Or, to use the proper English form of plurality, the Elvi.


IT WASN’T NECESSARILY THAT HARD, the cloning of the Elvi: Billy Joe built gestation tanks in a back-room at the old strip-club he owned for a time, the Kiss N Tails, and with some tinkering to genetic clock-speed, was able to get them from a few cells to full-grown men in less than six-months. Unfortunately, security back then was always a problem and his girls, the dancers, looked upon Billy Joe as a kindly uncle and would often pop down into his work-shop between dances for a smoke and a little heart to heart; a couple times, he’d been coming out of the Elvi Chamber when one of his girls had appeared— Billy Joe, as with many brilliant people, inventors in particular, was notoriously absent-indeed and occasionally left the door to the club unlocked— and the dancer would ask what he was doing ‘back there’. Or the time one, Jesse, had found the Elvi suits and wondered what he was up to. No amount of fibbing would convince her that the white jump-suit was his, as women have a keen sense of fashion and knew white just wasn’t Billy’s color, regardless the fact it was maybe fifteen sizes too small.

Finally, the Elvi were mature, physically at least. But, think about it, what good is a fully mature Elvis if he hasn’t got anything in his head? And, since this was a clone of the King himself— noted singer, dancer, actor and all-around entertainer— the brain power wasn’t up to par, nothing like the Brains, George, Ringo, John, Paul, Jimi and Bonham. No worries. One of Billy Joe’s line of inquiry was recording and translation of brain-waves for subsequent archival to hard-drive— Billy was able at this point to record his thoughts as easily as taping a party-mix of really good tunes— it occurred to him he could reverse the flow of brain-wave data. The first down-loads were simple, consisting of all the music the King had ever made, plus his many films and interviews, all the way back to the Ed Sullivan Show, but still, that simply wasn’t enough. While the King was not the world’s foremost thinker, Billy Joe did not want his Elvi to be shallow morons educated in nothing more than unsophisticated cinematic fare such as Jailhouse Rock.

Then Billy Joe hit upon an idea. Why not make the Elvi proficient in things that either interested Billy Joe— the learned Elvis acting as an assistant to Billy Joe— or in things Billy Joe had no time for. Thus, the Elvi became experts in cooking, board games and both tropical and saltwater fish, as Billy Joe was thinking about branching out beyond just freshwater aquariums. Each Elvis was an expert in just one of the knowledge disciplines. Cooking Elvis, who Billy Joe named Chef Boyardee, could cook anything, from exotic Indian dishes to standard American fare like Maryland crab cakes, and he was an absolute whiz with Mediterranean soups. The second Elvis, Milton, was a master of games, from lowly card-games like Uno to Battleship and on up to chess, which he occasionally gave Billy Joe a real run at; Jenga, though, was all Milton, as Billy Joe’s trembly hands were no match for Milton’s freshly-minted nervous system when it came to stacking little wooden blocks. The third Elvis in the Elvi Triad was Jacques. Jacques’s attention to detail in handling the fish, the obvious love he felt for them, coupled with his keen insight into undergravel filtration systems earned him a special place in Billy’s heart the other two Elvi never reached.

The four of them lived together for a time in the basement of Kiss’N’Tail, Billy Joe and the Elvi— and how the Elvi longed to meet with the Billy’s girls, which was of course an impossibility—until the stuff with Vince went down in ‘94 and the four of them were forced to flee, taking up residence in a cabin in the woods by Palomar mountain, a place enabling Billy Joe close access to the observatory, where on occasion he’d sneak in to do research on some suspicious activity in the Crab Nebula. In time, though, it was time for the Elvi to strike out on their own; it was simply no life for them, cooped up in a cabin with nothing to occupy them save tropical fish, Star Fleet Battles and Mediterranean soups. That year, Billy Joe set out to release the Elvi out into the wild.

After careful thought, Billy resolved to set the Elvi free in small towns served by large and thriving Elvis fan clubs, where they would be welcomed. They were shy and timid creatures, the Elvi, and it would be important for them to feel loved. Hence, in the autumn, Chef was released outside Goat’s Fork, Montana. It wasn’t a happy sight, poor Chef looking so alone and scared as he stood in the snow with his little knapsack on his back, the wind ruffling his dark hair, but Billy knew he’d be able to find a job at the local diner. In fact, a year later, he visited Chef, who’d become the star of the town, an Elvis lookalike who’d made Mediterranean soups the favorite of many a Montanan. It was much the same with Milton, released in Geneva, Wisconsin, home of the people who invented Dungeons and Dragons, and with Jacques, released into the wild in the Florida Keys, where he shortly landed a job on a boat responsible for the seeding of sea-bass back into the ocean.

And now, finally, after all this time, after all the interceding years, Billy Joe had issued the commands calling the Elvi home. Or rather, to the rendezvous point planted so long ago in their minds. Chef would arrive first, being closest, but Milton and Jacques wouldn’t be far behind, moving west at the speed of Greyhound. Shortly thereafter, Billy and the Brains, Chef, Milton and Jacques, along with HeadClone B, would begin a trip of much longer duration. But that was in future.

Now, while a turd loafed two-hundred feet above on the floor of Men’s Stall Two, Billy and the Brains continued their preparations . . .

Heaven, INC: Chapter 68: ROLL TAPE

All diplomacy is a continuation of war by other means.
—ZHOU ENLAI

POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
14th & BROADWAY
3:41 PM PDT

CARMELLA WATCHED RAYMOND CHO work the Woodcrest Apartments’ video, rewinding the tape this way and that and manipulating the image, comparing it to footage taken from the County Medical Examiner office’s lobby camera.

“Yeah, sure looks like the same the guy,” Raymond said. “Whoa. If we’re right, and this guy really was at both Norcestor and Imperial and the ME’s joint . . . Whoa.”

The implications of this, it was hard for Carmella to wrap her mind around—

Boomp, the door to MultiMedia swung open and Carmella nearly jumped out of her chair when Captain Decker strode in with a sour expression on his dark face. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing up here? We got brass coming down hard on all the shit going down with a missing cop on our hands and you’re in here goofing off with Cho.”

Carmella frowned. “What missing cop?”

That seemed to piss Decker off even more. “Bobby Riggs. Found his patrol in a parking lot behind a bar on El Cajon Boulevard, the Crow’s Nest, but the man has vanished. We’ve got not a single witness to whatever went down back there, with the exception of a suspicious person’s report: on some little druggie type apparently put something in a couple guys’ drinks and then stole their money.”

The Crow’s Nest was a little neighborhood dive bar down on El Cajon Boulevard, shot-and-a-beer, Friday-night-karaoke kind of joint, you know the type, with a parking lot behind it with a view blocked entirely from the street. In fact, really, the perfect place you’d want to perform an act of foul play if you were so inclined.

Captain Decker’s eyes went to the computer screen and the Woodcrest Apartments’ surveillance video. On the screen, still-footage had stopped with the mystery man yelling at the driver. “Who’s that?”

“That car hit a pedestrian down on South Norcestor one minute before Christian Ducroix was car jacked by Mij Andropov and minutes after the jogger was run down on Sweetwater. Hey, Raymond, show the captain the other car.”

Raymond rewound the footage until a vintage Mustang rolled on the screen. In the corner of the screen, the time showed 11:58.

Carmella said, “Christian Ducroix and some woman, it looks like. But you see, here, how she’s struggling? Look . . . Right there . . . See? Looks like she takes a swing.”

Decker said, “Let me see that again,” and watched the tape roll by. “So Mij Andropov escapesd from the apartment where we found a dead body on an anonymous tip—”

That would have been Elmond, calling from a pay-phone in the parking lot of the Super Lotus King Buffet.

“— an ex-South Guyanan colonel named Black Molo who may, or may not be, related to the dead-secret-agent-in-a-suit-type found in a backyard swimming pool out in Lemon Grove, said body later stolen by some guy in a suit and three goons.”

Before Carmella could ask a pertinent question, Raymond Cho, the department’s biggest geek, said, “Captain, what do you mean when you say, Secret agent? Secret agent how? Secret agent like James Bond secret?”

Now Captain Decker was really annoyed. “I don’t know how secret, Cho. He wore a suit, had a gun packing explosive bullets, a poison pen and money in various currencies hidden in hollowed out heels.” Decker fixed an eye on Carmella. “How’s your jogger?”

“Dead as of an hour ago, so it’s at least vehicular manslaughter if not outright murder and we now have a suspect. Raymond, show the Captain the side-by-sides.”

The Captain gave Carmella a look before turning to the screen.

The screen split in two, showing Woodcrest Apartments on the left and the Medical Examiner’s lobby on the right.

Captain Decker studied the screen. “Same guy?”

Carmella nodded. “Sure looks like it. I think after watching this video, it’s quite possible either the Mustang or Hummer is the one who hit the Sorensom woman. Hey, Raymond, show him the plate.”

Raymond cued up the sequence where the license plate was most legible, slowing the digital tape down to 1/24 speed and watching the car frame-by-frame. You could just make out the last three numbers: ‘323' and ‘LOMAT’, as in diplomatic plates.

Studying the screen, Captain Decker ran a hand across his dark, smooth-shaven scalp. “We got a country on that?”

Carmella said, “Winkle’s on it,” then watched Elmond come through the door. “And it looks like we might have some news.”

Elmond saying, “Yeah, we got some news: we can narrow our potential hit-and-run down to Christian Ducroix or a diplomat from France, Mexico, Britain, Germany, Russia or Japan. Anybody wanna play international Risk?”

Captain Decker shook his head. “Tell you what: way folks are right now, all keyed-up and crazy about the economy and all that trade war talk, last thing we need is for any of those countries’ diplomats to be the ones pulled a hit-and-run kill on an American citizen. Be some serious diplomatic implications from that.”

Carmella said, “All do respect, Captain, there’s a man out there about to bury his wife. What do you want us to do about it?”

Decker fixed her with an even stare. “You’ve got a person of interest in a hit-and-run fatality, that silver-haired cat and whoever was driving. I advise you locate them and bring em in ASAP for questioning and take a look at that car. Gotta be some kind of evidence if they did do it.”

Elmond said, “And if they claim diplomatic immunity?”

“That’s D.C.’s call, not ours. You just worry about tracking this guy and his driver down and bringing them in. How you two do that, I leave up to your own discretion.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 67: HEEEERE'S BIVO!

Ambition is a Dream with a V-8 engine.

- ELVIS PRESLEY

OCEAN STREET,
CORONADO
3:36 PM PDT

BIVO PAPACOSTAS ADMIRED HIMSELF in the tailor’s mirror, adjusting the gold Elvis shades and the white cape, made a couple classic Elvis gestures, then looked at Pope’s reflection in the mirror.

“Special Agent Mister Pope, I am sorry, but I grow weary of these questions. All day long, since my first coffee, I tell people that I know nothing about Mij Andropov being killed, I was at the club, playing the dominoes with my cousins. There were people there, they see us, they got the alibi.” He smiled. “Those ones—” nodding toward Sergeant Neil Finnerty and another detective “— ask the same questions. I tell them, you police, maybe you ask each other silly questions and leave Bivo Papacostas alone.”

Across the room, Detective Sergeant Finnerty chewed on a toothpick and glowered. Beside him hulked a detective named Buttkowski, a cop built like a condominium on steroids. Ten minutes later — and out of earshot — Al dubbed them Belligerent and The Beast.

“Agent Pope, my client is right,” Bivo’s attorney— Lawrence Ashmead III, Esq., on the business card— stated. “So, unless you plan on arresting him, I advise that both you and San Diego PD cease this fruitless harassment— as you can see, Mr. Papacostas is preparing for a very important engagement.”

Pope said, “Big karaoke night?”

Bivo brightened. “The American PopStar western sub-regional finals at the Tickled Trout.” Then, adopting an Elvis Presley power-lunge while holding an imaginary microphone, he said, “Thank you very much.” A passable Elvis-impersonation followed by a slap on the head of the tailor crouched at his feet. “No, I tell you, no, the crotch, is still too tight!”

“Sorry, Mr. Papacostas.” The tailor was visibly frustrated, “But you did say you wanted a noticeable bulge.”

“Of course.” Bivo smiled at Pope. “Is for the lady judges.” Then sternly informed the harried tailor, “My balls hang to the left and that is clearly cut for a right hang. You fix the hang, you give me comfort and the bulge. And for that, you get a nice tip.”

The tailor looked like he just wanted to get out of Dodge, maybe wash his hands. “If you’ll remove your pants, Mr. Papacostas . . .”

Bivo removed his white bell-bottoms and handed them to the tailor, standing now in red bikini briefs and a white cape. Nestled amid his chest hairs was a Greek Orthodox cross. “Special Agent Mister Pope,” he said, “like my attorney say, I have important business to attend to. What else you want me to do? I already ordered flowers for Mij.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pope caught the expression on Al’s face — a curious blend of bemusement and hostility— and on Detectives Finnerty’s and Buttkowski’s— just open hostility there— before saying, “Mr Papacostas . . . Why don’t we talk in private.”

Bivo stared at Pope a moment, with an expression like he was adding up numbers . . . “Tell me, Special Agent Mister Pope, have you ever had Spanokopita? No? Then you are in for a treat: Priscilla, she make it just this morning and I swear to you, is the very best Spanokopita in all of San Diego . . .”


“National security?” FINNERY HAD SAID when Pope took him aside to request privacy during Bivo’s interview. “That’s the card you’re playing, National security? With all the shit going on up there at Norcestor & Imperial, you’re playing national fucking security. Hell, if Francisco weren’t such a scumbag, I’d figure you guys really were playing cover-up on Ducroix and his kid for the game-bang they pulled on that Chambers’ broad.” Finnerty stuck a thick, nicotine-stained finger in Pope’s face. “Well let me tell you something you right now: if America’s security in any way depends on that homicidal ass-monkey in there, then we are even worse off than I thought— fucking guy’d sell this country out for a chance at that American PopStar bullshit. He’d kill his mother to win it.”

To which Al said unhelpfully, “How’d you like to be the judge that votes the miscreant off national TV?”

“That happens,” Finnerty replied, “50/50 the judge wakes up with a horse head in his bed.”

“And,” Detective Buttkowski added, “if the judge cracks a joke while he’s booting Bivo off the show, that judge is gonna wake up with his head in the bed.”

Finnerty glared at the over-sized detective, before saying, “Point is, Special Agent Mister Pope—” smirking “— Bivo Papacostas is a homicidal maniac and if you Feds’re playing games that let him off for killing scumbags like Mij, that homeless fuck or anybody else— games like hijacking that body outta the morgue— then that death is on you my friend.”


OUT BY THE POOL, Pope and Al sat on one side of the table, Bivo and his attorney on the other, inside the house, Detective Sergeant Finnerty and his hulking sidekick stood at the kitchen window, glaring, and even through a quarter-inch of tempered glass, Pope could feel the detective’s malevolent gaze.

Bibo gestured at an object on the plate that looked to Pope like a tart.

“Is Spanokopita, Special Agent Mister Pope. A Greek specialty filled with spinach and other wonderful things.”

“Mr. Papacostas, I’m not here for dinner or coffee. I’m here for information that helps us regarding Christian Ducroix’s situation that is a matter of the gravest national security.”
“Yes,” Bivo reasoned, “but everybody got to eat. Try it. I swear you will love it.”

Instead, Pope said, “Mr. Papacostas, shortly before three in the morning, men employed by you were seen pursuing Mij Andropov on foot outside the Norcestor Arms. We have witnesses to this. Two hours later, later, Andropov was found dead in an avocado grove showing signs of torture consistent with evidence found at the apartment of Molo Balcotez.”

Bivo’s lawyer leaned in to whisper in his ear.

Bivo saying, then, “I was playing dominoes at the Olympic with Mick Smithidopolous, Nicki Nikkidallous a salesman from the liquor company, Bob, I don’t know his last name, you have to ask Mick. You can call, ask them if we there all night. Besides, why would I want to kill Mij? He runs a nice karaoke.”

Al leaned forward. “Hey, Elvis? Man’s talking to you nicely, you don’t insult him with your bullshit. Keep it up, I’ll haul your ass down to Gitmo tonight, where we can talk in a cage while this American PopStar thingy goes on without you.”

Bivo’s expression was unreadable behind gold Elvis shades.

Clearing his throat, Bivo’s attorney said, “Agent Pope, I will not allow my client to be exposed to the kind of hostility being displayed by Agent Fitzgerald. This discussion is effectively over.”

Pope glanced at Al—

The vein on Al’s forehead pulsed like the heart of a thick blue worm.

— and back at Bivo’s attorney. “Mr. Greenstein, as stated earlier, it’s imperative that we locate Dr. Ducroix as quickly as possible. At the moment, this subsumes any crimes Mr. Papacostas or those at him employ may have committed. In return for effecting this, I’ve been authorized—”

Ordered.

“—to grant your client total immunity from prosecution for the events of last night on ground of national security.”

To offer a get out of jail free card for this little thug.

The little thug’s attorney studied Pope a long moment. “Not saying that this is in any way germaine to the discussion, but Agent Pope, murder is not a federal crime. Hypothetically speaking, how can you immunize my client against that on the local level?”

Pope pulled from his briefcase the document AD Burns had given him. “That,” he said, “is a writ from Attorney General Bell stating that if your client comes clean now for what happened last night, he’s permanently immunized across all levels of American justice and will never be charged in any court in this country.”

Greenstein studied the document. “This is a form letter. Fill in the blanks?”

Pope exchanged glances with Al, before saying, “The offer includes Mr. Papacostas’ associates, but is only valid today only— after that, I turn San Diego PD loose.”

Greenstein leaned in to whisper in Bivo’s ear— Pope thought this was perhaps the absolute lowest point of his life, giving a man like Bivo Papacostas a complete pass for, potentially, murder— before Bivo whispered something back.

Greenstein looked to Pope. “My client wants it to cover events related to last night but which happened prior.”

“No, no sandbagging.”

After a moment’s consideration, Greenstein nodded at Bivo.

Bivo saying then, “First of all, who killed Mij, I don’t know. Last time we see Mij alive, he driving away in an old Mustang, fighting with some woman. That’s when the other car started firing, the Cadillac. They the ones shot the homeless.”

“You were there?”

“No,” Bivo said, “this I am told by my men. They got the immunity, too, yes?”

Pope nodded.

“You see, when Rony and Dmitri go outside to make the call, say how things going, that’s when Mij head-butted Molo, that stupid wetback, and knock him out. Before Molo wakes up, Mij untie the ropes and gets out of the apartment, sneak down the stairs.”

Al said, “You trying to tell me Mij Andropov went down four flights of stairs in the Norcestor Arms wearing just his underwear?”

“He took Molo’s axe. Very sharp.”

Al grunted. “Yeah, I suppose an axe could get you out of even the Norcestor Arms.”

Pope said, “What happened then, Mr. Papacostas?”

“Spiro find Mij missing, they chase after him, but by the time they get to the street, Mij already has the Mustang and he is driving away. That’s when the Cadillac and the Hummer come by. Cadillac shoots at the Hummer, Rony say they try and shoot the tires, but they miss and hit the homeless.”

“Was there someone else in the car?”

Bivo nodded. “Yes, the woman. They say Mij driving away, she fighting him. They said the man Mij pull out of the car, he a boy, wearing some funny costume.” Bivo made a look. “That one, very foolish, very young. Only a dummy would go into the Norcestor any time, let alone to do so at night. I can tell you,” Bivo said, “someone like that could never work for me. You sure you
don’t want any spanokopita? I assure you, is very good.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 66: BIG ED AT THE YACHT CLUB

He who marches out of line hears another drum.
— One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
KEN KESEY

SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB,
HARBOR ISLAND DRIVE
3:01 PM PDT

USING THE ENTRY-CODE Dr. Smarty Pants gave him— after tying the guy up and sticking a gag in his mouth— Big Ed Walker drove into the yacht club’s parking lot. But he hadn’t gone down even one lane looking for a parking space before his well-honed spidey-sense started going off, telling Ed danger was nearby and, lickety-split, he was backing the van into a parking space between a Mercedes Benz and a Mustang. Sure as shit, wasn’t more than a minute later a goddamn police car went rolling by carrying two women cops Ed could tell right off was dykes. Big Ed thought shit was going bad and even went so far as to pull the 9mm from his pants . . . but then, without even pausing, the dykes kept on going. Ed watched them prowl around the lot, checking shit out but never bothering to hoist their fat asses out of the car, and five minutes later they were rolling out the front gate and off down the road.

But still, Big Ed’s spidey-sense kept on squawking.

Ed sat a spell, pondering on the situation and wondering if it really was his spidey-sense squawking or just all the speed in his system plus the fact he hadn’t slept in three days and had consumed four bottles of Mr. Jack Daniels’ and a case of beer with nothing much to eat except some cheese doodles . . . then thought, fuck no, he was Big Ed Walker and made of tougher stuff than any man.

On the way over to the boat-yard, Big Ed had listened to AM radio— buncha blabbermouth, know-it-alls spouting goddamn opinions like they was so much better than everybody else— and that’s how he caught the news-report about a police officer who’d called in about finding bodies in a van before he himself disappeared. No mention of a carpet-cleaning van, though police were looking for a man described as 5'2 to 5'5 with greasy hair who’d been seen at the Crow’s Nest shortly before the officer disappeared. Big Ed tried remembering if he’d seen such a fellow in the bar, but couldn’t recall any really small men in there, greasy hair or not.

Ed also caught a report about police suspecting foul-play after a Normal Heights’ man disappeared and blood was found in the apartment. That would be the smart-alecky homo who complained about Ed bumping his lamp and who now resided in a dumpster behind Herbertito’s Taco Shop #3 along with the Krispy Kreme cop. Something Ed found interesting was the reporter saying police thought Smart-Alecky Homo’s disappearance might be revenge over a huge swindle the guy pulled on some casino Indians. Again, no mention of a carpet-cleaning van, but Big Ed knew his luck wouldn’t hold much longer: any moment, they’d realize the last thing these people did was get their carpets cleaned by ChemSteem Carpet Cleaning & Upholstery Specialists. And when they did, the fat would really hit the greasy.

The other thing Big Ed caught on the radio was how the FBI and police was still looking for a missing doctor believed to have been kidnaped. When the woman started describing Dr. Smarty Pants, going on about how famous he was, this super hot-shot scientist guy, it made Big Ed kinda proud to think the whole world was looking for a guy who was bleeding to death in the back of Ed’s van. More than anything, really, it made Ed feel like a proud papa.

Finally, though, Big Ed decided he’d worried enough about his goddamn spidey-sense because, what the hell, there wasn’t nothing his cat-like, speed-enhanced, ninja reflexes couldn’t handle. So, after checking on Dr. Smarty Pants, Ed got out of the van— making sure he gave the Mercedes Benz a quality door-ding— and grabbing his clipboard to get that official look, set off in search of Dr. Smarty Pants’ boat.

Smarty Pants had told Ed his boat was called the Maltese Queen and docked at slip J-37. When Big Ed asked what the fuck was a ‘slip’ and Dr. Smarty Pants explained it was the space where a boat was parked, Big Ed said, “So then why not just call it a fucking parking space instead of making shit up?” Smarty Pants clearly wasn’t that smart because he didn’t answer.

The gate nearest the van was marked SLIPS D-F. Beyond it was a walkway that led down to the slips and all kinds of really cool boats, big power-boats and yachts, plus the sail-boats to which Ed felt more partial. Admiring the boats, Ed passed SLIPS D-F and was walking in the direction of SLIPS J-L when his spidey-sense started squawking again.

Super casual-like, Ed knelt to tie a sneaker, glancing around, see if anybody was watching, but nothing in the parking lot out of the ordinary caught his eye. He tied the other sneaker and let his gaze drift over the boats, but he couldn’t see nothing out there neither. So, grabbing his clipboard, he continued toward SLIPS J-L whistling a Merle Haggard tune.

It was almost dark now, the sky gone to reds and purples and looking about as pretty to Ed’s eye as this world could ever be, and he paused to take in the last of the sun . . . and a little flicker of movement caught his eye. Without turning his head, Ed’s gaze went to a building marked SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB, a wooden two-story with big windows overlooking the boats, and through the windows Ed could see people in the restaurant. Ed relaxed, realizing that’s all he’d seen, some rich jerk-off eating his lobster or something—
This time, Ed saw the movement clearly, a head silhouetted against the sky, someone on the roof of the building . . .

Just like that and slick as you please, Ed was consulting his clipboard again . . . spinning around a couple times like he was lost, doing the ‘complete dipshit’ bit . . . then pretended to check out the clip-board again while, beneath the bill of his ChemSteem ball-cap, he snatched a glance up at that roof. Hmmm. Whoever was up there was watching him with a pair of binoculars. Who they were, Ed had no idea, but he knew it couldn’t be good, not with a van-load of bodies and Dr. Smarty Pants back there.

So, Ed spun around again, putting his hands on his hips. “Motherfucker,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the parking lot. Peering around, then in the direction of another marina. He looked at the SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB sign, giving it a quality, Fred Flintstone double take. ““Motherfucker cocksucker son-of-a-bitch shit,” he said then hurled the clipboard— not far, mind you, but far enough— before stalking around a bit. Finally, fetching the clipboard, Big Ed huffed off in the direction of the van, cursing while taking obvious looks at a distant marina.

That and worry about all that damn blood and hoping none of it was leaking out now.

Fucking blood.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 65: MONA & CHRISTIAN

Face to face, each classic case,
we shadow box and double cross.
— Smooth Operator,
SADE

LA MIRAGE APARTMENTS,
MISSION VALLEY
3:05 PM PDT

MONA FOUND HERSELF, despite all the stress, succumbing to the siren song of sleep and Sade when Sergei made her to jump.

Sergei climbing into the car, saying, “Do you think that Pluto knows it is a small planet. I mean, it is so far out there, maybe it looks at the other planets and says, “Ha ha, look at how much smaller you are than me. Ha ha. And you, with your big fancy rings. I am so much bigger than you. I mean, how is Pluto supposed to know it is so small and far away?”

Mona nodded, annoyed with Sergei’s interruption. “What is the matter? Your penis failed again?”

Thumbing the ignition, Sergei said, “No, it did not fail again. I told you, I get the blue pill, no problem. Sergei is back.”

“Yes. But Every time you have a bad experience, you suddenly become philosophical to the point of waxing anthropomorphously about Pluto.”

Sergei had a frown on his big dumb Kulak face. “Anthro-what? I do not know this word. I do know that I am often philosophical and that this has nothing to do with Peter the Great.”

The fact men even named their penises Mona found to be very odd. The fact Sergei would name his after, arguably, Russia’s greatest czar was preposterous. Mona should know. Sergei had a habit of drinking too much vodka and dropping his trousers. Let us just say, this was not great publicity for Sergei’s peter.

Whatever, Mona was quite frankly tired of talking about Sergei’s penis and sex life. And Mona could have pointed out that love did not normally involve six partners. But what was the point of arguing? Sergei was Sergei. Besides, Mona was worried about Christian. The last time they spoke was an hour after midnight, after he had emerged from his meeting with Lord Bletchly. Mona had stopped in the ladies room while Christian fetched the car from the valets. When she got into the car, he was gone.

Now, Mona was torn between the irrational of trying to find him and the original plan of leaving America and returning to Russia with Christian. But then Dominic had come along and ruined everything.


OF COURSE, THE RELATIONSHIP was preposterous right from the start.

Christian was nearly still a boy, certainly not that much older than Boris, and Mona was very much of the traditional mind that her man be a man, older and wiser, not naive young bear cub. But there was something about Christian, something that struck a chord, some link in her cold, Russian heart, that connected. Of course, Christian’s love of all things Russian and Tolstoy in particular had something to do with it.

They met in the Russian history section of the San Diego State library and it involved a book.

Not Tolstoy, but Chekov, and in particular, a book of his plays. It was a moment of serendipity, two people worlds apart reaching for the same book at precisely the same moment, two kindred spirits meeting across space-time over a book of stories. Or at least, Mona had come to see it that way.

Not that, that first day, she would just relinquish claim to Chekov simply because of some piece of cosmic fate. As far as Mona had been concerned that very first moment, Chekov was Russian and hence belonged in Russian hands.

To Christian’s credit, he’d been something of a good sport about it. To his greater credit, he proposed a wonderful solution.

“Let’s play a game of chess. Isn’t that the great Russian game? Beat me at a game, and the book is yours. And if I win, you agree to have dinner with me.”

Mona had said, “I had the book first.”

“No, it was clearly a tie. Besides, in America, ownership is 9/10ths of the law.”

Mona’s thought that day: What an awful, greedy country.

HE WASN’T GREAT— Boris would have won three out of every four games— and while he lost all five games to Mona— the first match began after coffee and a croissant and ended before dinner, which they took at a Mexican restaurant named Ponces, in a neighborhood called ‘Kensington’. Afterwards, they shot pool at the Ken Club and caught some great bands. Mona beat Chris three games to two, but the third left her with a sneaking suspicion he had let her win. This was something Mona would normally never accept, but the manner in which he played it somehow . . . worked. Later, after a lot of Tolstoy and Chekov and a little too much tequila, they kissed in the parking lot. It was a short kiss, but it was a kiss full of passion, passion that bloomed out of the drab life of a lonely, covert agent like a fire blooming amid a cold Russian winter. . .

Things were great, those three months, between Mona and Christian. Some surely would find it funny, an older woman and a younger man in those few times It’s funny, but somehow, despite their age differences, and a Russian and an American, an undercover intelligence officer in love with the son of her kidnaping target, they were truly small things. Mona was in by no way a mystical type, in fact, she hoved to physics as the way to describe everything in the universe, and but here, with Christian, she felt an almost divine gravity, a sub-atomic bonding of souls— again, not a word Mona was normally comfortable with— that felt organically natural.

Sure, he was ten years younger, and people looked at them and whispered, ‘Cougar’, under their breath. But then they’d never shared that kiss after a night of Tolstoy, Chekov and a little too much tequila.

Pity for the them.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 64: BIVO PAPACOSTAS

I don't think there are any Russians and there ain't no Yanks.
Just corporate criminals, playin' with tanks.
Ya ya ya ya, ya ya ya.
— The Walls Came Down,
THE CALL

MOBILE COMMAND H.Q.,
NORCESTOR AND IMPERIAL
2:52 PM PDT

BURNS LOOKED UP FROM HIS NOTES and said, “Agent Pope, glad you could join us,” in pure Bureau sarcasm. Then looked to Deputy Chief Inspector Mills . . .

Or was it Chief Deputy Mills?

. . . and said, “If you could continue.”

Mills pressed a button on the remote. The picture was one of a horribly deformed and twisted body, the skin partially melted. “This is the man PD found dead last night and who we believe was tortured in the apartment. Mij Andropov, owner of the Kiss-N-Tails nightclub, found deceased at about two in the morning in an avocado grove in Beeler Canyon. The melting effect is due to muriatic acid, applied post-mortem the police believes was to erase the body’s identity. The job went uncompleted, though, when the UNSUBs were caught by the owner of the property and fled.” Another picture appeared on the screen, this time a big man with a fat cigar in his mouth and a boisterous grin. “Mij Andropov, pictured here pre-acid.”

Mills punched up a new image, this time of a big man getting into a Range Rover.

“You no doubt are familiar with this man, Agent Pope?”

“Mick Smithidopolous, a capo in the Hellenos crime family.”

“Indeed. And, we believe he is working with the Russian intelligence team, possibly in conjunction with the Russian mobster, Viktor Ledbedev.”

Al snorted under his breath, “That’ll be the day.”

Mills put his gaze on Al. “Excuse me?” Burns was also keenly watching, with an expression that could not be healthy for Al’s pension.

“What Agent Fitzgerald is saying,” Pope said, “is there is an amazing and well-documented enmity between the local Russian and Greek crime syndicates. The latest intel indicates a growing turf war between the two, with a rising body count. Smithidopolous being the nephew of the local syndicate boss—”

“Think he’s a cousin,” Al offered.

“— it’s pretty unlikely he’s working with the Russian syndicate or these operatives. “

Mills stared at Pope. “That’s your opinion. Unfortunately, it’s wrong— minutes ago, we discovered Smithidopolous’ fingerprints were found at the house in Golden Hill the Russians were using as a safehouse. Judging from the number, he’s been there quite a bit, probably the entire planning process for the kidnaping.”

Pope said, “With all due respect to the Deputy Chief Inspector—"

"Chief Deputy Inspector. Mr. Carr is Deputy Chief."

"Sir," Pope continued, "this was a car jacking. Not basic, because you had this guy Andropov stealing the car after running for his life, but that’s what it is.”

That didn’t seem to sit well with the Chief Deputy at all.

“Agent Pope, I’m sure, that to the untrained eye — ”

Who’s eye is calling who's untrained?

“— it could certainly look that way, but from a counter-intelligence, this is an elaborate effort to make the kidnaping look like a car jacking via a plan years in the making. We believe this man at the center of the entire operation.

On the screen appeared a dark-featured man in a white suit with a microphone in hand and a smile on his face appeared on the screen. He was pointing a ringed finger at a crowd.

Think Dean Martin. Without any of the cool.

Al said, “Bivo Papacostas? The Karaoke Crime King? That’s who you think is the center of this whole operation?” Al laughed. “Clearly, you’re not from around here. But, in the man’s defense, he does have a nice voice. Not that I necessarily liked it, mind you, I’m just saying on surveillance tape, he wasn’t too bad.”

Burns didn’t like any of this. “Gentlemen, need I remind you, the Bureau is working to support DNS. Antagonism is not supportive.”

“Sir,” Pope said, “fact of the matter is, it just doesn’t make sense. In fact, Andropov’s murder isn’t even Bivo’s M.O— his M.O.’s disappearing bodies.”

To which Al countered, “He left one in the open. Lester Gilfinkle, the crippled American Popstar guy? Two years ago, Lester Gilfinkle beat out Papacostas on the way to the American Popstar finals in Las Vegas, where Gilfinkle later came in fifth. Word is, at some point, Papacostas became possessed of the opinion he’d been cheated and that Gilfinkle could really walk and was only using the wheelchair as a sympathy prop.”

Burn got a quizzical look. “I think I remember that. The show said he was crippled in childhood.”

“Apparently,” Pope said, “Papacostas thought the photos were faked.”

Al said, “Gilfinkle’s death was made to look like an accident and the American Popstar people were only too happy to help the story along, apparently satisfied that the chair-lift simply short-circuited and repeatedly crushed Gilfinkle to death. Either way, as you can imagine, it sent a message to the local karaoke community.”

Burns looked incredulous. “Papacostas put a hit on a crippled karaoke singer?”

Al nodded. “S’what some people think, though no formal chargers were ever brought.”
Pope said, “PD and the DA’s office have an aching desire to put Papacostas, and Bivo knows this. He won’t just dump a body where it can be found, not even a burned up one. He’d bury it or sink it in the ocean without a trace. ”

“And that,” Chief Deputy Inspector Mills said, “is simply your opinion.” He paused, before adding, “I think I’d like you and Agent Fitzgerald to speak with Papacostas. See where he figures in all of this, what his role is with Christian Ducroix’s disappearance.” Adjusting his glasses, Mills said, “I have better than a hunch this Papacostas character maybe key to this entire operation. Yes, indeed. Why don’t the two of you run down to this place in—” consulting a document “— Coronado, that’s near here, yes? Go get him. In fact, you can leave immediately.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 63: UNCLE MARTIN

I assess the power of a will by how much
resistance, pain and torture it endures
and knows how to turn to its advantage.
—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

COUSIN FRANKIE’S TRAILER,
SLEEPYTIME MANOR PARK ESTATES,
2:51 PM PDT

A HAND STRUCK JIMMY’S CHEEK and a voice said, “Come on. Wake up.”

Opening his eyes, Jimmy squinted at a figure looming over him in the dim light of cousin Frankie’s trailer.

“How’s your head? Hurt?”

Jimmy tried rubbing the back of his head and discovered his hands were tied. “No worse than a tequila-and-champagne hangover. What’d you hit me with?”

The man was dapper in a seersucker suit, and Jimmy thought he looked like Uncle Martin in the old black-and-white My Favorite Martian— Uncle Martin nodded at a large fishing reel on the tiny dinette table. “It was either that or one of your lead casting weights, but I figured a weight would crack your head open like an egg and then what good would you be?”

Jimmy shrugged, wondering if he might throw up. “My ex-wife asked the same thing shortly before running off with a dry-cleaning mogul.”

Uncle Martin smiled. “And your response?”

“Same thing I ask you: what do you want?”

“Well,” the man said, shaking out a cigarette, “I want to find Dominic Ducroix.”

Jimmy tried to be emphatic from a supine, tied-up position. “I’d appreciate you following the rules,” and nodded at a sign over the trailer door: THANKS FOR NOT SMOKING.

Uncle Martin frowned. “I’ve seen pictures of you smoking, my good man.” His nose wrinkled a little. “Place reeks of fish anyway, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is my Frankie is allergic to tobacco, not fish. Little respect, hunh?” Jimmy flexed, testing his bonds and finding them solid.

Uncle Martin, noticing, smiled and said, “Don’t bother,” before flashing a pistol he’d held hidden in his lap. “Besides, I tied you up myself.” Lighting his unfiltered cigarette, he said through smoke, ““Look, I can understand a guy feeling like he wants to get revenge, given the circumstances. In fact, I could see myself doing the same thing, in your shoes. But it’s times like these you need to unburden your soul. Where is Dr. Ducroix?”

“How would I know? I was busy last night.”

“Please, don’t make me go the extra mile. What did you do with him?”

“What makes you think I did something to him in the first place?”

Uncle Martin chuckled a little. “We know you work at a carpet cleaning company and a carpet cleaning van was seen at Norcestor and Imperial at the time of Dr. Ducroix’s disappearance.”

“What time this all go down?”

“About three in the morning.”

“Sorry, wasn’t me, I was busy at the time.”

“Predisposed at three am?” Uncle Martin shook his head. “Really, you’re going to just lay there and deny you had anything to do with Dr. Ducroix’s disappearance?”

First of all, it’s annoying when a complete stranger comes in and starts accusing you of lying. But to have them make little comments after duct-taping you to a bed, that’s just lame.

“I was in a studio cutting vocal tracks til three. Sorry, wrong guy.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Uncle Martin said, “you’re a musician. Now I remember. You play guitar and sing.”

Jimmy frowned. “Do I know you?”

The man smiled sardonically. “We’ve never met.”

Jimmy stared at the guy, so matter-of-fact about everything. “Who do you work for, man?”

The smile broadened amid cigarette smoke. “I work for extremely powerful people involved in a great battle that has played out behind the scenes with other equally powerful people for centuries. Dr. Ducroix’s research is a critical component of that battle. And who possesses this secret has the potential to rule the world for eternity.”
“Don’t tell me: Ducroix’s developing the One Ring.”
“Lord of the Rings reference?” Uncle Martin smiled. “You're smarter than you look. But this is bigger.”
“What is it, a cure to cancer or cold fusion or something?”
Uncle Martin looked pretty smug saying, "Bigger. And you, my friend, are caught in the middle of it.” He seemed to size Jimmy up before taking a peak in the trailer's little mini-fridge, using a hanky to do so, which wasn't exactly genius, since there was a chance a good forensics, like Rudy Juarez, could pull trace DNA out of it. Then shaking his head at the contents, four cans of Bud and some semi-dessicated oranges Jimmy's mother had given him three months ago and he didn't have the heart to throw out. Looking to Jimmy then and saying, “Your Miss Chambers’ murder was covered up to allow Ducroix to continue this work. Essentially, in a form of life calculus, with Ducroix’s work being the more valuable than your girlfriend’s life. All else was judged secondary.”

Jimmy said nothing, all ears to details of the crime that had consumed his past life.

“When it was learned the police had identified Dr. Ducroix as a suspect in your fiancee’s death, a meeting was called by the directors and vote tallied devoting assets to ensuring a case could not be brought against Dr. Ducroix. Notably, the DNA evidence was intercepted and suppressed.”

Jimmy felt something move inside him. Something hot and strong. Something black.“You mean Ducroix’s blood was replaced by Awalt’s.”

“I do.”

“So not only did Evie’s murderer go free, it was pinned on an innocent man.”

“I assure you, this was by no means a unanimous decision, because there are some who abhor such interventions as a matter of cause, but in the end, pragmatism and the majority ruled: justice for a murdered singer and freedom of a simple waiter were deemed expendable in the furtherance of Ducroix’s truly astonishing research.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

“I had no hand in the operation, if that is what you are suggesting. It’s not the sort of thing we do.”

Jimmy could’ve asked what it was Uncle Martin did, but at the moment, he didn’t really care.

“So why’re you telling me this? What’s in it for you?”

“I can tell you who conducted the cover-up. I can tell you who saw Ducroix walk free while Mr. Awalt languishes behind bars.”

“Hey, I want the man who killed Evie. You think I care about this other guy?”

Uncle Martin smiled. “I think you very much do. There’s a strong need for justice in you. It’s obvious in your music.”

“It’s obvious in my . . . Just who the hell are you, man?”

“I told you, I work for a very powerful organization working behind the scenes for centuries.”

“What are you, elves?”

Uncle Martin’s expression soured. “Your jokes are getting us nowhere. I have told you Ducroix did indeed kill your fiancee and that I will tell you who it was that covered it all up: if you tell me where Ducroix is. Your van was seen last night just after three on La Raza and again today, following your incursion inside the apartment of Rufo Clemente, an accomplice of Bivo Papacostas’s; by the way, those two gentlemen you messed with seemed none the happier afterwards. I’d watch out for them, should our negotiations work out here and you are released.”

“Great, glad you’re looking out for me. Maybe you could untape me here. No? Whatever, the point is, bro, I don’t know where your boy Ducroix is. Try asking the tweaker, Fred or Ed or something like that. The one who didn’t return the van last night. Or maybe it’s some other van entirely, I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

Uncle Martin studied Jimmy’s face. “This other tweaker?”

“Little guy about 5'2. Scraggly. Call up Roscoe Jenkins at ChemSteem, he’s probably got some info on this guy.”

Uncle Martin still studying Jimmy’s face. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? Even if he’s dead, I need to verify Dr. Ducroix’s status and or whereabouts. It’s vital I know for sure.”
“Look, I can prove it— I recorded vocal tracks last night at and the tracks’ll have a time-stamp proving I’m telling the truth. Check it out, the place is fifteen minutes away. Tell my producer, Nigel, you know me and need to check on the Fantasy of the Damned tracks before he gets his money— oh, yeah, we owe him recording money to get the master out of hock for tonight’s show for Wild Bill Donovan. It’s kinda complicated.”

Uncle Martin studied Jimmy a long moment before checking his watch. “You do know you’re asking a lot. Frankly, for my sake, I hope you’re lying.”

“So you can go back to smacking me with the pistol until I tell you where Ducroix is and you kill me?”

Uncle Martin shrugged. “It would be easier,” he said, and paused like he was considering something. “Don’t suppose you have any more rope do you?”

“You bet . . . bottom drawer right there by the stove.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 62: WHERE ARE THEY?

When the going gets weird,
the weird turn pro.
— HUNTER S. THOMPSON

POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
12th & BROADWAY
2:50 PM PDT

ON THE ELEVATOR RIDE UP, Carmella didn’t like Elmond’s expression. Elmond talking to the patrolman— apparently, one El played softball with— that he’d sent over to Lahaina’s to find Jimmy Francisco’s bandmates, Owen McClain and Brody Cannon. Carmella knew their names from Tony, who’d always talked of them, in fact Jimmy’s whole band, with a profound sense of musician’s respect.

Now, Owen and Brody were nowhere to be found.

“What do you mean, they’re nowhere to be found? You found the carpet van, right? Unh-hunh . . . Right . . . So then where are they? Unh-hunh . . . Who were these — what does that mean, government looking guys? That’s the description? Government-looking guys?” Elmond shaking his head, “Okay . . . Yeah, I agree, the chicks there are pretty hot . . . Unh-hunh . . . No shit? No shit . . . No shit! Yeah, who wouldn’t be distracted, seeing that? Unh-hunh . . . Alright, well, if you wouldn’t mind taking a roll through the neighborhood . . . Thanks, Billy. Call me if you find something . . . Yeah, for the big game. See ya, bro.”

Elmond looked at Carmella while dialing up another call. “You are not gonna believe this shit going on with these two guys . . . Yo, Jimmy, it’s El, gimme a call, bro, I got some news about your boys that’s not necessarily good, but it’s also not necessarily bad. Hit me up, Yo.”

Carmella read Elmond’s expression as he killed the call. Not good.

Elmond said, “Well, the sitch is, patrol says Owen and Brody came in together, knew some people— Brody Cannon’s some kind of local skate legend as I understand it, plus there’s the band— and were hanging out when three guys in suits come in and order beers they don’t drink while watching Jimmy’s friends. Not long passes before they come up flashing DNS credentials and cuffs. Jimmy’s boys wanted no part of it.”

Carmella nodded. “They could miss the show.”

Elmond gave Carmella a look, like not getting the importance of The Show she’d learned growing up with Tony, it was just something a good musician could never do, miss a show.

Elmond said, “So it sounds like things got pretty crazy, because this Brody cat somehow manages to get half the girls on the deck to take off their tops, seriously, no shit. This happens, the place bursts into absolute alcohol-fueled pandemonium—”

Carmella’d been to Lahaina’s. Once. Drunken beach brats were not her scene, but she could imagine just how rowdy it could get on a Friday afternoon the middle of summer.

“— it’s pure chaos long enough for the two of them to get away while the suits are still working their way through a sea of drunken, boob-crazed idiots— oh, and one of the suits did pause to threaten to come back and arrest all of them. I don’t know,” Elmond said, “maybe boobstruction of justice or something.”

The elevator doors opened onto the Forensics floor as Carmella said, “So Owen and Brody got away?”

“At this point, we don’t know. Last thing people saw was the suits getting back in the car and heading down an alley, so there’s reason to hope.”

Carmella thought about this, about a crowded deck at Lahaina’s on a Friday, a bunch of kids in bathing suits and buzzes and three squares in suits, thought about places you’d run to get away and wondered how much back-up the suits had and why they’d pussy-footed around in the first place instead of going right in with the cuffs. But she still had a bigger question.

“What reason did DNS give for trying to take them?”

“Said they wanted them for questioning. Which is why I wanna talk to Jimmy, see what’s going on and if Owen called him. And it’s odd Jimmy’s not answering, he’s generally good about that.” Elmond shaking his head, saying, “Weird day, hunh?”

“Yup,” Carmella said, knocking on a door marked MULTI-MEDIA. Of course, any time she had to deal with Raymond Cho was weird on its own.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 61: OPTIONS

Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice.
It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.
— WILLIAM JENNINGS BRYAN

PARKING LOT
LOTUS KING SUPER BUFFETT,
2:54 PM PDT

MICK HAD TRIED CALLING the first five numbers on Bivo’s disposable cell-phone list from a payphone out front of a liquor store, but nobody picked up. He drove until he found another payphone outside the SparkleClean Laundromat and— following a vigorous disinfecting of whatever alien-goo-like substance coated the phone— took the risk of calling Bivo’s house and again, no one picked up. Mick didn’t leave a message on the answering machine because Bivo had no answering machine due to his recorded-conversation paranoia. Probably Bivo was doing his laps or was in the karaoke studio practicing for the Tickled Trout, but someone else should be picking up.

To put it mildly, Mick wasn’t digging his options: Kill some unknown guy or forget about it and have that bastard Gilchrist give the tape to Viktor.

On top of that, Mick’s prostate had started acting up so bad, he’d pissed three times in 20 minutes, and finding any toilet in the ‘Hood, let alone one not absolutely splashed in toxic bodily fluids, was not easy.

And, on top of that, Tonya had called three times about a brewing family emergency of epic proportions following her discovery of the Sri Lankan finally crossing the boob-world’s ‘sound’ barrier.

“100's, Micky, that bitch has 100 triple-M’s! And me with just my little triple-66's! How can her doctors do 100 M’s’s and mine won’t do measly little 80 T’s? I mean, can you imagine them, Micky, can you just imagine?”

Actually, Mick didn’t want to. Christ, the ramifications of breasts that size simply boggled the mind. Honestly, how do you transport a woman with boobs that big? Surely not in a standard-sized SUV.

But what Tonya said on the next call— which he took while desperately trying to pee at a filthy urinal at the Lotus King Super Buffett— what she said next plain freaked Mick out: “Oh, Micky, baby, you won’t believe this, ooo, I’m so excited! I just talked to that doctor in Vancouver, the one I showed you profiled in Modern Breasts? Well, he’s developed an experimental technique he says will give me 120 T’s! Isn’t that great? Oh, Micky, I’ll finally have the biggest, most beautiful breasts in the whole world! I’ll finally be famous!”

And Mick would need a larger vehicle than his RangeRover to haul Tonya and her new boobs around, something along the lines of a stretch-limousine. Or maybe a tractor-trailer.

Then the third call, which Mick took sitting in his truck parked out front of the Lotus King while staring off into space: “Micky baby, sugar pumpkin, I just spoke to the director for the film and told him about the procedure I’m getting and he said I have the role and no butt-sex! Isn’t that great, Micky? The big-screen debut of the biggest boobs in the world! But listen, baby, the doctor needs the hundred-thousand—

A hundred grand for boobs? Jesus Christ!

— up front and the procedure’s Friday, so borrow it from your Uncle Bivo and tell him we’ll pay him back as soon as the endorsements come in, ‘kay?”

THE MAN THAT MICK was supposed to kill lived in Dallas.

“You will go to Lindbergh Field,”Gilchrist had said, “where a private jet awaits you— oh, and you needn’t bother packing a bag as you shall be back for late supper. Once aboard, you will be given the address and a key to enter the residence, along with a pass-code to disable his alarm system. You will also be given an unregistered hand-gun— is a Glock suitable?”

Gilchrist had this way of talking, no matter what he said, Mick wanted to punch him. Blah blah blah, pow. Blah blah blah, ka boom.

“I kill him,” Mick said. “That’s it. Nothing else.”

“Actually, no. You will find a safe located in the back of a rather large freezer to which you will be given the combination. You will take with you the entire contents of the safe. After you have killed the man and secured the safe’s contents, you will arrange for the residence to look as though the man were killed in a botched robbery.”

Mick frowned. “It ain’t easy tossing a house after you whack somebody and not have it look staged. That’s a thing cops tend to notice.”

“We have someone in the local constabulary to handle that.”

“You mean the cops?”

“Indeed. Now, after you have completed your instructions, you will meet your contact at a prearranged location and there exchange the safe’s contents for the tape of Mr. Papacostas along with 100,000 dollars as payment. Questions?”

Hmmm . . . That’s boob money . . . Hmmm.

“So, would you send the tape out on the plane with me?”

“It will be taken care of.”

“Unh-hunh. So how can I trust you?”

“Mr. Smithidopolous, you need the tape. It seems you have little choice but to trust me.”

Seriously . . . Right in the kisser. . . Send this English prick straight to the moon.

Mick instead said, “Who’s the guy and what’d he do to you?”

“Yes . . . Consider it in your own best interests to know as little as possible outside what is necessary for the completion of your assignment. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you show me these tape of Bivo so I know you really have it.”

WELL, IT WASN’T GOOD. Maybe not from where the crowd was standing, but the angle of the camera, it was pretty obvious Bivo was pulling a Milli Vanilli. Now, sitting here in the Lotus King Super Buffett parking lot, Mick contemplated should he jump on the freeway and head to Lindbergh? Or just forget about it, about the killing and his karaoke crime king uncle, and call the Feds— offer himself up to Witness Protection, see how Tonya’s 66-inch rack played in a place like Goat’s Fork, Montana. Mick tried imagining Tonya getting a job in a road-side diner instead of stripping, but the image of her refilling customers’ coffee cups, maneuvering the coffee-pot around those massive breasts like a T-Rex with the little arms, it just didn’t work. And if she up-sized, she probably wouldn’t be able to get close enough to take an order without shouting.

Fact was, Mick realized that, much as he might complain, he was a big-city boy and addicted to The Life. So he returned to the filthy Lotus King bathroom and, using duct-tape, taped a hold-out pistol to the small of his back, where it would hopefully remain hidden beneath his jacket. Sure, it’d be uncomfortable on a flight all the way out to Dallas, but at least, when things got weird, he’d be armed.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 60: THE SUMMER MASQUERADE

After all, what is a lie? Tis but the truth in a masquerade.
—ALEXANDER POPE

EASTBOUND I-8,
AT TEXAS STREET
2:02 PM PDT

THE MASQUERADE, Mona’s mind could not escape the shadows and mirrors of Lord Bletchly’s Summer Masquerade, the spectacle of it all, the decadent extravagance and over indulgent pageantry, like something from a fairy tale that turned sinister in the telling.

It began with Christian’s oddly cryptic and disturbing call yesterday morning, one in which, with the exception of enquiring as to Mona’s well-being, was simply one of giving her instructions to meet him last night at Lord Bletchly’s party. In the background, Mona had heard a woman announcing gate information in an American accent. What airport he was in, Christian did not say.

What he did say was that Mona should meet him at an address she wrote on a notepad and that she should plan on meeting at ten in the main ballroom. It being a masked ball, Christian explained what he would be wearing and that Mona should wear the Cross of the Romanakovas so to more quickly identify her. And, most of all, to bring her passport and money for a sudden international trip.

It was at that moment he said, “Sorry to cut it short, baby, but I gotta runnnn,”and just like that, he was gone and the call terminated, entire duration no more than 30 seconds. Mona had less than five minutes to ponder the call’s ramifications before another call came through identified as UNKNOWN on her phone— fortunately, it was the stealth-encrypted phone— because when Mona opened the line without a ‘Hello’, on the other end, there was only silence save the airport woman’s voice over the loudspeaker. Then a burst of German before the drone of dial tone. That was last night, at about four.

A quick call got her an appointment at the Cherry Bomb, and in short order, she got a mani-pedi, a beautiful cut and coif and a color job by Leslie that turned her brassy blonde bimbo into a sophisticated brunette, in the manner of Tolstoy, such that Mona could stand before the mirror, pleased to see the Swedish stripper replaced by a proper lady descended of Russian nobility . . .

Beside Mona, Sergei stirred from his driving.

“Bah. How can the world be so bad, they do not even have work for spies? This is an outrage, I tell you, for the government to make so many good people redundant. What kind of stupid kulaks are running this world, that we have no money? You know, Assassins’ bureau has had only six jobs this entire year.” Shaking his head, Sergei said, “ And that is an exaggeration, since the Belgian took three tries to kill, which means they have actually only contracted four jobs. I can tell you, in the old days, such idleness and incompetence were not tolerated.” Sergei shrugged, shaking his head. “This is what happens when you let the trans-national corporations hire your best killers.” Sergei looked over. “What? Why do you look at me that way? I am not saying that I necessarily approve of Department K, only that it speaks to the greater economic situation as a whole.”

Mona shook out a Belomor. “At least you have work. Not everybody does. Certainly not back home.”

Sergei made a hand gesture to swipe the comment away. “Bah, have I not paid my dues? Surely you do not think working for a cretin like Viktor Ledbedev is a treat. In this horrible country?”

Mona had to laugh. “Oh, please, Sergei. You have six girlfriends and a beautiful car. In Moscow , you were a bartender at a shitty bar.”

“I hardly think the Red Sonya is a shitty bar.”

“Every time I went in there, I was bombarded by fruit-flies. It was like the Luftwaffe in ‘41.”

“You know, Mona Alexovna Romanokova, you are a great exaggerator. Is what women do, exaggerate.” Sergei waved a hand, the dismissive gesture of a Russian male that always made Mona furious. “Besides, I was working part-time while looking for intelligence work.”

“And you found it. Yet you constantly complain that working for Viktor Ledbedev is beneath you. It is not like it is a difficult job.”

“Ha. You think infiltrating the vory v zakone, the premiere crime syndicate in the world, is easy. You just call up, they give you a job. Maybe send in a resume?”

Mona laughed. “Yes. Because that is exactly what happened, except Chelnikov made the call for you.” Mona shook her head. “Do you seriously think you could have gotten a job with vory v zakone on your own? Please.”

Sergei scowled. “You scoff? I am a highly trained covert operative.”

Lighting the Belomor, Mona said, “You are a pilot, a good one, pretending to be a mobster. Three weeks training at the institute and watching the same shitty Russian mafia movies that Anka watches. And they are dreadful.”

Sergei looked flabbergasted. “What do you mean, dreadful? They are not dreadful. Those movies represent a vibrant New Russian cinema.” He shrugged, taking in the city around them, the crush of cars. “Regardless, that role is behind me. Soon, this will all be over. I simply need to make one stop.”

Mona paused mid-draw on the Belomor. “What stop?”

Sergei signaled to take the Mission Gorge exit. “I must bid someone farewell.”

Mona glared at Sergei, and the stupid Cossack grinned back sheepishly. “Sylvia?”

“Candy. I saw Sylvia on the way to your place. One last swansong before flying” Reaching into his jacket, he handed Mona a pair of panties. “A token of her affections.”

Mona slapped the panties aside. “Get that filth away from me, you man whore.” She frowned. “They know about us. The longer we take to leave, the greater the chance we will be discovered.”

Sergei’s infuriatingly cocksure grin was the answer. “Not with the cloaking unit. Under the over pass back there? We changed from a blue Volvo to a blue mini-van when no one was looking. Is that not great? See, I can change us into any car we want, change color, engine sound—”

Not paying attention to the road, Sergei nearly hit a motorcycle attempting to change lanes.

“Stupid motorcycles,” he said.

Mona let the black tobacco smoke seep from her lungs. “We are not out of the country yet, Sergei Andreivich, nor have we delivered the contents of the bag and you are fucking around like it is a summer frolic [insert color: Russian summer event].”

Sergei looked over at the motorcycle rider, still screaming back at them and giving them the angry, frantic gesture Americans for some reason called ‘the bird’. While it in no way resembled a bird, it did make a point.

Sergei adopted a disgusted look. “Bah, Americans. They are the rudest people in the world. Worse than Germans. Even worse than the French.”

“No one is worse than the French. Besides, you nearly ran him over.”

“It was not even close,” Sergei said. “Besides, was by accident. I did not try to hit him, because if I had, he would now be dead. But you see? The hostility. The rage. These Americans, they are so emotional, like small children. I tell you, learning a little Russian patience and perspective would go a long way to curbing the violent nature of this country.”

Mona shook her head. “And yet, only moments ago, you were lamenting a dearth of good Russian killing operations. Such irony.”

Sergei tilted his head philosophically. “Well, you would be surprised how many people deserve to be killed. I saw a report once, was staggering.” Sergei grew wistful. “Now, with cutbacks, many of them will never be liquidated.”

Mona decided to tune Sergei out by turning her thoughts back to Lord Bletchly’s Summer Masquerade.

MONA HAD TAKEN a half-dozen cabs around town with nothing but cash and a passport, as per Christian’s instructions to spare no expense getting ‘dolled up’— Chris’ term, not Mona’s.

She said, ‘Should I not pack’, but Christian said no and little else. Clearly, he was afraid someone was listening in on the phone conversation and didn’t want to go into any but the briefest details. Following their brief conversation, Mona was left to wonder what Chris might have discovered on his South American expedition and when he’d got back to America . . .

After getting a pair of Jimmy Chus at her favorite Downtown boutique, and a cab to Hans’ shop, Christian’s favorite tailor, Mona emerged from the dressing room in the gown Christian had chosen, one beautifully rendered in sequins and silk and just after nine, clad thusly, Mona called a to whisk her off to the masquerade.

IT WAS SHORTLY BEFORE TEN when the cab passed through Del Sol Estates’ front gate, and the traffic was stupendous. Mona felt out of place in a hired cab stuck in a line of limousines, Bentley’s and Rolls-Royces, but what was one to do? At least the footman opening her door took Mona seriously. After checking her name off the list, Mona had slipped within to mingle with the glitterati where no one would know she came in a cab. The masks served their purpose of mysterious anonymity.

Mona had floated about the party, marveling at the luminaries, the people she’d occasionally seen on the televisions, captains of international business and political kingpins, a mansion of people drunk with power and money.

Drifting room to room, she searched for Christian, for a dashing young man in a red vest and a particular mask and though many was the man who made eye contact, none were Christian’s patient grey eyes . . .

Heaven, INC: Chapter 59: THE ENGLISH GUY

The whole strength of England lies in the fact that
the enormous majority of the English people are snobs.
—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

COMMUNITY RECREATION PARK,
PARADISE HILLS
1:55 PM PDT

THE ENGLISH GUY informed Mick his name was Gilchrist and that he was head of Lord Alistair Bletchly’s security detail like it was a big frigging deal and Mick should be impressed.

So when Mick said, “Yeah? Who the fuck’s Lord Alistair Bletchly?” the guy got all Euro-trash, a prissy guy without a sense of humor.

“Please,” the English guy said loftily, “let us not waste time. We both know you were following Lord Bletchley.”

“Following my ass. I was out for a drive.”

Mick didn’t give a fuck. What the hell was this old fart in an English accent gonna do, gun or no gun? Nothing, that’s what. Wasn’t like this was Mick’s first rodeo.

The guy saying then, “The sooner you drop the pretense and silly games, the sooner we can all get on with our lives. Now . . . who hired you to follow Lord Bletchly. The Russians? The Germans? The Japanese? Tell me who it was.”

This fucking guy was really starting to piss Mick off.

“Excuse me? I work for me. No Russians, no Krauts and no fucking zips, either.” Mick sighed; speaking of Russians, he had to piss like a Russian racehorse while this daffy old fart wanted to have an international tea party in the back of his limo . . . Frigging English, man . . . Mick saying, “I told you, I’m following this stripper’s got something belongs to me. I track her down to your boss’s party last night, I don’t know, I’m just following the only thing I got. I see the Rolls come out, I figure I’ll follow it a ways, see if maybe she’s in the car and if not, I’m on my way. Then you come jumping out with your guns and your attitudes like you’re cops, which you aren’t or you’d’ve flashed badge, or the mob, which you aren’t or I’d be dead. So there you go, as far as I’m concerned, we’re all caught up and it’s time I start walking back to my car.”

Gilchrist raised his pistol. “Sit back, Mr. Smithidopolous, and relax— we have not finished talking. When we are done, my men will give you a lift back.”

“S’alright,” Mick said, “I can use the walk.” This time, Mick got a pistol in the ribs. “Nice piece— they make that in men’s?”

Mick thought it was pretty funny, but Gilly was unamused. “They make them in Italy and equip them with hollow-points that blow out the back of a man’s skull. Now tell me about the woman.”

Mick considered making a grab for the gun, because the guy was really starting to piss him off and it was a small caliber Mick figured he could take, then thought, What the hell? “C’mon, Gilly, you must know her, she had your boss’s address.”

Gilchrist smiled wanly. “Who is she?”

“Just some dancer’s got something belongs to my boss or might know where I can find it.”
When one of Gilchrist’s men tapped on the window, he said, “Please wait in the car.”

“And if I don’t?”

Gilchrist smiled pleasantly. “One of my men will be shortly wiping your brains from the window.”

“Sure, tough guy.” Mick nodded in the direction of a basketball court and the kids playing hoops. “Silencer or not, they might notice. And I know watching American movies, you might get some strange ideas, but blowing a man’s head off is still a fairly serious crime.”

Again the smile Mick was finding increasingly annoying. “I carry diplomatic papers,. You do realize the implications, yes?”

“Let me guess: you kill me and the cops can’t touch you?” Mick shrugged. “Well lemme tell you something, sport: I’m married to a nymphomaniac who’s bankrupting me one boob-job at a time. I’ve got a boss who’s a homicidal, karaoke-obsessed maniac. And I’ve got a swollen prostate makes me wanna piss 24/7. And you’re threatening to shoot me? Ha ha. Be my guest. In fact, you can even use my gun.”

Gilchrist’s silent uncertainty was priceless and he said nothing until his man tapped on the window again. “Wait here,” he said, climbing out to stand talking with his man.

The way the man gestured at Mick, it got him thinking it might be time to vamoose. Before he could make up his mind, Gilchrist climbed back in and again leveled his pistol at Mick; for the first time, Mick noticed the ring on the man’s finger, heavy and set with a black stone within which floated a golden pyramid. “This woman,” Gilchrist said, “who is she?”

“I told you, some dancer. A Swedish chick named Heidi. Or maybe German. Not entirely sure, now.”

Gilchrist’s gaze lay heavily on Mick, like he was analyzing a new bug. “Tell me, Mr. Smithidopolous, how do you describe your line of work?”

“Businessman. I own a restaurant night-club, the Olympic Palace, down in the Gaslamp, live music on the weekends, nice happy-hour crowd. Why, you need a job?”

“Thank you, but I have a job.”

“As Lordy B’s geriatric bodyguard?”

“I trade in information, Mr. Smithidopolous. And I have just learned you are not being entirely truthful when you say your job-description is a simple night-club owner.”

“What can I say,” Mick said, “you got me. We do catering on the side. You should try our souvlaki— best in the city.”

“You are a captain in the Greek mafia and run a crew for Bivo Papacostas, head of the Hellenos crime family in San Diego. He is also your uncle.”

“More of an older cousin, really. On my mother’s side.”

“You and your cousin are affiliated with the Cyprus Syndicate, a world-wide organization involved in both criminal and non-criminal enterprises and headed by Stelios Constantine, the man Interpol has dubbed the Minister of Death.”

Mick shrugged. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“I suspect your Heidi is actually Mona Alexovna Romanokova, code-name Tatiana-7, an ex-colonel in the Russian army.”

That one caught Mick a little by surprise. “Wait a minute. The stripper Heidi?”

“We believe she planned to gain access to Dr. Ducroix’s research via romance by possibly compromising him through extortion and black-mail. This failed, and Russian intelligence operatives attempted to kidnap Dr. Ducroix and smuggle him to Russia last night.”

“The stripper Heidi my wife calls super bitch? Wow.” Mick shook his head, recalling the Redesigning Humans book in Heidi— or Mona’s— bedroom.

Boy, talk about misjudging a book by its cover.

Mick said, “If you guys knew all this, how come you didn’t stop her?”

“Unfortunately, while we knew elements of the Russian’s plot before last night, we didn’t find out about Romanokova until a short time ago, when a Russian agent broke under enhanced interrogation. We thought we were safe in that your own government had surveillance on Dr. Ducroix. Unfortunately, they ran into some trouble last night that compromised surveillance at a critical juncture.”

“Hard to get good help, ain’t it?” Mick watched a tall black kid weave the court through traffic before laying the ball into the hoop just as smooth as you please. “And you’re telling me this because . . .”

“Because you are about to help me. I assure you, this will solve your problem with Mr. Papacostas.”

“Yeah? And how’s that?”

“Because I have the tape you are looking for.”

That caught Mick by surprise, too. To which he replied, “I call bullshit.”

Gilchrist smiled a cold English smile. “I must say, that is terrible lip-syncing. Like watching a poorly dubbed Japanese monster film.”

Without having seen the tape, Mick thought it might be an accurate description. Of course, he wasn’t gonna admit it to this pompous asshole. “Hey, pal, the fact of the matter is, Beev— Mr. Papacostas— is a great singer. Just so happens on that particular night, the auditions, he had a bad case of bronchitis. So he made due. So what? Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean your dreams get rained on. You know, Beev— Mr. Papacostas— could win American Popstar.”

“Oh come no, surely you don’t believe that.”

Mick shrugged. “Not really, but you never know. You ever seen the drips on that show? Look, he needs a shot and I need him to get his shot—” though it had occurred to Mick on more than one occasion, Bivo getting a shot and losing could give Mick even more people to kill “— so that’s why that tape can’t fall into the wrong hands.” Mick frowned. “How the fuck did you get it?”

“I have my sources, Mr. Smithidopolous. Of course, I will need a favor.”

Of course. In Mick’s line of work, people always needed a favor. The fact Gilchrist was a snaky, oily English prick and thoroughly unwholesome in a sophisticated, yet seedy, kind of way made it that much harder. Still, what was Mick to do?

“What can I say? I’m a captive audience.”

“Indeed.” Gilchrist smiled. “Mr. Smithidopolous, you are going to kill a man tonight.”

Mick laughed . . . Ha ha, I am going to kill you, you pompous English fuck . . . and said, “You’re the one with the fancy gun. You kill him. I got an important karaoke function to attend.”

“Yes, well, my organization can in no way be connected to his killing.” Gilchrist smiled his arrogant English smile, seriously, you had to see this, a total fucking prick, and said, “The man lives in Dallas, in an area called Highland Park. You will board a private jet at Lindbergh Field . . .”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 58: BEACH BUMS

The most absurd and reckless aspirations
have sometimes led to extraordinary success.
— MARQUIS DE VAUVENARGUES

SUNSET CLIFFS PIER,
OCEAN BEACH
1:54 PM PDT/BEACH BUMS

LOOK AT ‘EM. Buncha goddamn hippies ain’t worth a shit, traipsing about the boardwalk with their hippy beads and their hippy guitars and their dirty hippy feet, begging for handouts and singing Kumbaya and shit, like the whole world owed them something.

Fucking losers.

Big Ed sat in the van— backed into a parking space up against a wall so nobody could open the back door or see the blood that kept running out of the van no matter how many times Ed seemed to wipe it down—

Fucking blood.

— Ed sat there sipping Jack Daniels and ruminating on his luck, all these close calls like God was out to get him and Ed thinking, shit, maybe he needed a shock to the system, get his luck back in order. Which is partly how come he decided— against all sane and rational reason— to park the van right here in this lot not more than thirty yards from a little police sub-station— couple pussy-ass beach cops in shorts and gay-ass helmets sitting on mountain-bikes out front— Ed parking in a risky place like that on account it was part of his life-long philosophy that sometimes you gotta double down at the most unlikeliest times if you want to come out on top.

Ed scratched at his arm and got another handful of skin; whatever was happening to him, he knew it was more than just a sunburn on account he was losing big pieces of skin even in places ain’t never see the sun and that aloe vera he’d picked up at that drug-store wasn’t working for shit. Plus, Ed had a touch of the fever and the glands on his neck was getting swole up some and he had a little bit of a headache that he thought might be from a bit too much of the old speederino, Ed didn’t know, but the aspirin sure as hell wasn’t helping none . . .

Shit. Least the horn-honker fucker had shut up. Course, not until he’d run his mouth some more and Ed was forced to pull over and really smack him. Ed’d considered killing the guy right there, but the fact he claimed to be some super important doctor could get Ed a million bucks, well, Ed got to wondering whether the guy was blowing smoke out his ass or if maybe, just maybe, he really was telling the truth. And shoot, at this point, with 6 dead and one dying in the back of his van, what did Big Ed really have to lose? Go for broke, baby. Even though Ed had never heard of this Ducroix fella, like them other famous doctors, like Dr. Phil and Dr. Ruth.

You know, real doctors.

Course, that was a while ago. Now, Dr. Smarty Pants was back there snoozing— or maybe he was dead, Ed wasn’t really sure, not that it mattered any, cause the guy was probably just a big ol bragging liar anyway— Dr. Smarty Pants was snoozing while Ed watched the hippies with their guitars slung around their necks and the cops in there little helmets on their pussy little bicycles, Big Ed sat there pondering a change of luck and whether to believe this guy and thinking, hell, if he did get a million bucks, if he really did, well then, shit, a man could do all kinds of things. Like buy himself a big ol’ Ford F-150 and raise her up, get a kick-ass stereo system, some skinny chicks, a boat and a fat bag of tweak, yeah, cowboy. Show up at Mom’s house and show Jarhead John what a big man his son had become—

No thanks to you, you fucking fuck.

— then kick the old man’s ass once and for all, oh hell yeah, wasn’t such a bad plan at all if Ed could just get out of this parking lot without those faggotty ass bicycle cops seeing him and the blood running out the back of the van, right, just easy as she goes, ain’t nobody paying no attention to the Edster just a-minding his own business, alrighty, here we go . . .

Heaven, INC: Chapter 57: UNCLE CYRUS' PLAN

SUPER-SAV-A-LOT-AND-MORE-MART,
EL CAJON
1:50 P.M. PDT/UNCLE CYRUS’ PLAN

BILLY JOE, UNCLE CYRUS AND JOE DON JIMMY JACK worked the southern state fair circuit west to Shreveport and south to Gainesville.

Usually, Billy Joe was billed simply as the world’s smartest kid, as in STUMP THE WORLD SMARTEST KID AND WIN! Memory games or races to add up columns of numbers were staples, but the real money was on the multiple chess games, especially when they got suckers who thought they could pull a scam by ganging up on young Billy Joe. In fact, once, a college fraternity took him on and Billy Joe check-mated 22 Sigma Chi’s all at once; that night, Joe Don Jimmy Jack and Uncle Cyrus drank Johnny Walker Red and played games with two strange women Billy Joe could hear giggling through the motel’s bathroom door.

Through all this, Billy Joe wouldn’t see his mama for months at a time, only talking to her now and again when Joe Don Jimmy Jack went to the Western Union to wire money for the farm.

And Billy Joe hated it. Hated the fairs, hated Uncle Cyrus and hated his daddy a little, too. Billy Joe wanted to go back and watch Jiminy Cricket explain geometry with a guy shooting pool and eat mama’s chicken and biscuits. Uncle Cyrus, though, he didn’t want to hear about any of this crybaby sissying and Joe Don Jimmy Jack backed him up, taking turns enforcing their rules.

The money, the state fairs and the beatings lasted three years, until Billy Joe was fifteen and just too big to be beaten anymore.


THE WORLD S TALLEST MAN in history is Robert Wadlow, 8'11". The world’s heaviest man was a woman named Carol Yager, 1600 pounds, or nearly a ton. While neither the tallest or the heaviest man, Billy Joe was big, 6'6 and 330-pounds, the night he finally gave his strongly considered response to Uncle Cyrus and leaving him pretty well stove-in when he went the following morning to join the Marines at the tender age of 15; no one questioned Billy Joe’s lie about his age because, quite frankly, no one could believe someone under 17 could be that damn big. In 1972, he went to Vietnam in Marine Recon where he topped out at 6'8" and could bench-press 600 pounds. People think of someone like that in Vietnam, they think of an elephant rumbling through the jungle, but Billy Joe moved more quietly than half the guys in the unit. His one real weakness as a member of Marine Recon 5th Detachment was that, due to his ass-sweat, he could attract enough flies to alert every VC unit for miles. This, though, had nothing to do with December 1972, when Bravo of the 5th was sent to escort out of the bush a lost ARVN platoon only to be ambushed three clicks outside Cambodia. All were killed except Billy Joe, Sergeant Dent and an ARVN named Tho. That day wasn’t about Billy Joe’s stench, but about the CIA’s stench, about the stink of treachery, CIA spook-shit, crooked Nixonites and the military-industrial complex.

And Billy Joe never forgot.

It took Billy Joe six months to recover from his wounds, spending the time playing cards and checkers with Dent in the VA hospital. Following his recovery and discharge, Billy Joe rotated back to the States and got himself admitted to N.C. State on the GI Bill. Straight A’s in science and math got him a fellowship at MIT. Pot and crazy thinking got him kicked out.

All through the 70's, Billy Joe grooved on great weed, good speed and the Grateful Dead.

Throughout the 70's, Billy Joe remained comfortably convinced nobody on the planet could match him in sheer human computing power.

Then came the 1980's and the incident with Hawking, when he released his much ballyhooed Superstrings theory and Billy Joe wondered if he might be slipping some, since it went directly against his own theory of Harmonic Particles. It forced him to spend an entire weekend checking and rechecking Superstrings equations against Harmonic Particle’s, Billy Joe tapping away at the calculator while subsisting on nothing but a case of old raisins, a box of CheeseNips and some Cactus-Coolers, but in the end he’d proven his mental superiority over Hawking, though he felt no compulsion to run out and get published and say, ‘Look at me, Look at me, See how smart I am’, inviting a lot of strangers and government people to snoop into his business. Hell no, the only reason Billy spent that weekend debunking modern physics theory and the traditionally ascribed value of Pi in the first place was on account Billy Joe wasn’t gonna let that little wheel-chair-bound, talk-box squawking gimp get up on him ever again.

That time at Cambridge was enough.

Other than that, though, the 80s sucked, especially the music. New Wave was pure crap, and the hair-bands, Jesus, you didn’t want to get the man started.

Now the 90's, they were great, because Billy Joe discovered his two loves: neural network computers and the human genome.

By 95, he’d built a neural-network computer from old ham radio parts, processing chips taken from various Radio Shack computers and a dozen clones of his own brain. The brains lived in fish-tanks of specially designed synthetic amniotic fluid and together had more sheer computing power than all the main-frames on the planet combined. It was with this home-made neural-network computer he disassembled and reassembled the human genome like it was his old M-60 while the rest of world took another decade.

Still, working alone without validation, Billy Joe was infrequently subject to doubts about being the World’s Smartest Man, little fears that crept up on him late at night or after a particularly large bong hit, paranoid fears that made him think he might be only the world’s second or third smartest man, something foreboding like that. Fortunately, things would happen to redeem belief in his Most Powerful Mind. Like the time he beat Kasparov in their super-secret on-line chess war of 1995 using the massive four-board set up and the two kings. Boy, that Kasparov sure hated to lose, even more than when Billy Joe called him Kasper The Friendly Toast. Hell, only reason Kasper got over the loss at all was on account Billy Joe agreed to coach him between matches against IBM’s Deep Blue computer unbeknownst to the world. Also unbeknownst to the world, and Kasparov, too was the fact Billy Joe’d hacked into Deep Blue and rigged the whole damn match. At one point, he’d even been kicking Kasparov’s ass through Deep Blue, the day Kasper got pissed off and threw a water glass at that New York Times reporter. Ah. The good ol days.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 56: INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS

SOUTHBOUND, INTERSTATE 5,
CLAIRMONT
1:49 P.M. PDT

“Look at these cars. Would you look at all these cars? Every year, it’s more traffic. Bet, in ten years, they close Camp Pendleton and we have one supercity from here to Frisco and 50 million people lollygagging in their goddamn cars.” Al banged on the steering wheel. “C’mon, you lollygaggers, let’s go!”

Pope’s cell rang and DECKER appeared on the display.

Decker saying, “You wanna tell me what you people are up to?”

Pope frowned. “What’s going on, Dave?”

“What’s going on, is, shortly after you left, DNS guys came by demanding Finch’s body. We said it was going up to the morgue. That was all they wanted to hear and they left.”

“Who demanded it?”

“Some guy named DeFonzio and another deputy inspector. 25 years old, straight out of Harvard and sporting serious attitude.”

“I’ve met a few of them, I know the type.” The bay was to their right, beautiful and blue, little boats and jetskis peppering the water, people out having a good time, enjoying their lives. Some were probably even retired. “Then what?”

Decker saying, “They showed up at the morgue same time the EMT van gets there, flashing credentials. When the EMT tech says he’s gotta check the body in, they follow him up. Then, without waiting for any interagency clearance, they take Finch’s body, hell, they even shoved the morgue tech in a drawer alongside Wilferd Wilcox when he tried to stop them. We’ve got them on camera loading the body into the back of their Cadillac like Finch is a set of golf clubs. Watching it, it’s like watching the mob go to work— Hold on a sec, Gideon, I’ve got another call. . . . Call you back.”

Before Pope could put his phone away, Gil Streets was calling.

“I imagine you’ve heard what happened down at the morgue?” be

“I heard it from a homicide Captain just now. How’d you hear?”

“From Burns. He says DNS feared the body could become infectious. They didn’t have time for proper protocol, so things got a little mixed up.”

Pope described the events as Decker had related them.

“You think,” Gil said, “this morgue tech might be exaggerating a litle?”

“Maybe. But all we have to go on is DNS’s word. And frankly, I’m not convinced DNS is the
more reliable party. Gil, if they were so worried about infection, why did they stuff the body into the back of their car?”

“You’re sure of this?”

“The homicide captain says it’s all on tape.”

“Hmm. Well we were told it was a van.”

“So they’re even lying about the mode of transportation? You’d think with all the money they spend, they could have at least afforded a phony van.” Pope frowned. “So what’d we find out about Finch?”

“Well, you’re not gonna like this, but it appears the dead guy found in that pool’s been dead two years.”

Pope frowned. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Leonard M. Finch of Plano, Texas died in a car crash, New Year’s Eve two years ago. So whoever this guy is, he was using bogus ID.”

Shaking his head, Pope said, “Sons of bitches. They just wanted the body so it couldn’t be identified. Gotta make you wonder just who he is.”


THEY CAME UPON A WRECKER hitched to a battered SUV and people tended by paramedics. Beyond the SUV lay an even more battered station wagon. Here were not paramedics but a fire team applying the jaws of life.

Pope said, “Wonder if anybody died.”

To which Al replied, “I sure the hell hope so. Means one less asshole in the world.”

Pope looked over at Al. “That’s really awful, you know that? Even by your callous standards.”

Al shrugged. “Hey, I’m just saying that if a car flipped over like that one there, it’s gotta be tailgating, which means it was their fault. Sorry, but they brought it on themselves.”

Taking in the ruined cars, Pope said, “It looks like they’re paying a price to me.”

“Maybe,” Al said, waving a hand dismissively. “But I tell ya what: if I’m king, there’s a law where, you get in an accident based on something stupid— for instance, you’re jawing on a cell-phone and rear-end somebody— I calculate the number of lost man-hours for people caught in traffic and that’s your sentence. Plus an exorbitant fine. That’d teach people to pay attention.”

A CHP officer waved them around the overturned minivan; on the road, Pope glimpsed a doll with her toes in the puddle of blood that ran from the overturned station wagon. Atop the wagon, a fire-captain was directing the Jaws of Life. Pope could’ve said something, but with Al, he just let it go; to argue with Al about the philosophical value of life versus efficiency and economics was an argument he’d never win.