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.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 55: FADE TO BLACK

And I lay traps for the Troubadours,
Who get killed before they reach Bombay.
- Sympathy For The Devil,
ROLLING STONES

EASTBOUND HIGHWAY 94
AT LEMON AVENUE,
1:48 P.M. PDT

JIMMY HAD THE GTO’S speedometer pegged at 80 mph and an eye turned to the rearview when Owen called.

Owen saying, “Yo, dude, I just picked up Brody, right? Well, I think somebody’s following us.”

Jimmy frowned. “The Greeks?”

“Nope. They look like secret agent guys— got the mirrored sunglasses and everything. Dude, Jimmy, maybe they think we’ve got Ducroix in the van.” There was another voice before Owen said, “Brody wants to know if I’m just being paranoid?”

“Uh, well, unfortunately, maybe not.”

“What do you mean, maybe not— ah, dude, one of them’s talking on a walkie-talkie now. Jeez, Jimmy, dude, I’m a musician, I’m a carpet cleaner, but I am not a secret agent super spy. And Brody’s just doing this for beer money, so these guys need to lay off.” Brody said something in the background and Owen said, “Brody says we should pull over and talk to them.”

Jimmy considered this a moment. What if it were different Greeks? Or, who knew, maybe Viktor’s people? “Don’t do that— we don’t know who these guys are and with the show tonight, the last thing we need’s you two locked up. Or worse.”

“Or worse? Worse than what? Jimmy, what’re they gonna do?”

“Where are you now?”

“North PB. Just coming up on Law Street.”

“All right, look, get someplace with a lot of people because I think if they were cops or even government, they’d’ve already pulled you over. That means a crowded place should protect you long enough for me to get somebody out there.”

“Okay, any suggestions where we should we go?”

“How about Lahaina’s?”

“On a Friday afternoon?” Owen paused. “You know, you’re right, it’d be pretty hard to pull us outta there. You can hardly move to get a beer, let alone snatch somebody.”

Taking the Lake Jennings exit, Jimmy said, “Tell you what. Soon as you get there, give me a call. In the meantime, I’m gonna call Elmond Winkle and let him know the score. Maybe he can send a patrol car to pick you up.”

Elmond picked up the call on the first ring. Entering the Sleepy Time Trailer Park Estates,

Jimmy explained Owen’s situation.

Elmond saying, “All right, let me make a couple calls.”

Hanging up, Jimmy wheeled into a parking space, and warily swept his gaze across the carport . . . Coast looks clear . . . and got out to cautiously approach the trailer— peering under it without getting too close, just enough to spot anything horny and elderly moving around under there— and satisfied all was good, Jimmy unlocked the door. He in the doorway to and heard nothing to indicate the presence of either Doris, government men or angry Greeks.

Jimmy entering the trailer and was again overwhelmed by the smell of fish. Ignoring it, he locked the door behind him, tossed the keys on the tiny dining table and headed for the back of the trailer where he kept the guns.

Jimmy had only taken a couple steps before he caught a blow from behind and everything faded to black.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 54: UNKNOWN USER

This persistence as private firms continued because it ensured

the maximum of anonymity and secrecy to persons

of tremendous public power who dreaded public knowledge

of their activities as an evil almost as great as inflation.
—CARROLL QUIGLEY

IMPERIAL HOTEL,
LA JOLLA
1:19 P.M. PDT

POPE SAID: “Wait . . . Back it up . . . Stop right there.”

The hotel’s chief of security tapped on his keyboard, freezing the frame. Isolated on the screen’s edge was a man in a black jacket and shirt entering the hotel lobby empty-handed.

“That’s him,” Al said. “Look at the way the cagey bastard slinks along like he knows there’s a camera on him.”

In a corner of the screen, the time showed 12:58 P.M..

Pope said, “Okay. Advance the film, say, five minutes.”

Images flashed across the screen of people coming and going at high-speed— families, businessmen, an attractive blonde for whom Al suggested the security guard rewind the tape a moment. The man reappeared at 1:11, this time with a briefcase in hand, and they got a better glimpse of his profile, a strong chin and the silver hair.

Watching the mysterious man exit the hotel, Pope said, “What about a parking lot shot, you have cameras out there, right?”

The security guard nodded, tapping more keys. “The way cars get stolen in San Diego, you better believe it.”

On the lobby door camera, they saw the silver-haired man briskly stride past the valet stand and continue toward the back of the parking lot. A camera at the back of the lot caught him weaving through cars until he reached the back row and climbed into a black Lincoln Continental that immediately pulled away, moving at good speed. Pope tried making out the license plate, but the angle was poor.

The security guard thought the same. “But he’s gotta cross in front of one of the other cameras to get out the guest exit. When he does, we’ll capture the plate and— look at that, he’s exiting the employees’ gate. That’s really weird.”

“Why?” Al asked. “Doesn’t the gate open automatically?”

“Not without a keycard.”

“Is there a camera directly over the gate?”

“No need, since it’s controlled by the key-cards and those’re registered every time one’s used. Hold on, let me see who’s card it was.” The guard moved to another computer, again tapping keys. “Okay, the card belongs to . . . Wow. Never seen that before.”

On the screen?

USER UNKNOWN.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Al said.

“Do us a favor,” Pope said. “Get a capture on his plates. We’ll see what the lab can do to enhance it.” Pope looked at phone manifest and a call made from the room two days ago at 8:39 p.m..

“I’m gonna see who answers.”

WHEN POPE DIALED THE NUMBER, he listened to it ring and ring without ever being answered.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 53: BORN UNDER A BAD SIGN

No one knows what it's like to be the bad man
To be the sad man behind blue eyes.
No one knows what it's like to be hated
To be fated to telling only lies.
— Behind Blue Eyes,
THE WHO

SWEETWATER ROAD,
BONITA
1:28 P.M. PDT

ZEPPELIN GAVE WAY to the Who and the Who to Ozzy Osbourne, but the traffic gave way to no one and nothing and Mick found himself in one of those awful inching affairs where road is bought car-length by tortured car-length. Sitting there, hearing the radio without listening, Mick reflected on the situation of the missing karaoke tape and his options. Seriously, what’re the chances of the original tape ever turning up?

Mick got an answer when the DJ followed Zeppelin with Clapton singing about being Born Under A Bad Sign.

If the tape shows up in Mona’s house, at George’s or under Bivo’s pillow from the flipping tape fairy, anywhere, and it fucks up Bivo’s shot at American Popstar, he’s liable to have you whacked, nephew or not . . . Crap, you need to find the goddamn tape.

MICK SAW FLASHERS, ROAD-FLARES and police cruisers gathered along the shoulder of the road. A cop was directing cars. Going by, he tried catching a glimpse of a body but saw nothing but cops and detectives roaming the tall grass.

But then, out of nowhere, maybe ten or twelve cars ahead, suddenly saw a white Rolls being waved on by the cop directing traffic, the Rolls still visible when Mick was waved ahead by the cop, and he jumped on the gas a little, getting close enough to see any turns but not close enough to be seen—

Just like that, brother, lay back and play the Invisible Man.

— as the Rolls turned north onto Eton and Mick ran a couple just-turned red-lights keeping up—

What the hell? Wait a minute, wait . . . The Norcestor Arms is just up ahead.

— before the Rolls turned right on Division, went a block and turned onto Valencia—

What the . . . Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . Something ain’t right.

The Rolls slowed and pulled over the side of the road and Mick cruised on by, trying his best to look nonchalant as he got this weird, tingly feeling crawling up the back of his head.

That’s when a black Lincoln Continental came hurtling around the corner in a wicked swerve and lurched back on line before heading at Mick like a torpedo . . . then suddenly swerved to block the road as Mick hit the brakes. Immediately, the Lincoln’s doors flew open and men jumped out, pointing UZIs and shouting as Mick threw the transmission into reverse. But he knew it was too late when another Lincoln swerved and came to a sliding halt and more men in suits piled out, government-looking fucktards pointing little machine-guns over open doors and shouting.

Shaking his head, Mick killed the engine, calling out, “Okay, I’m coming out, you assholes, and I got my hands in the air . . . Nobody shoot, I’m coming out . . .”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 52: THE TROUBLE WITH ROSCOE

CHEM-STEAM CORPORATE OFFICE,
KEARNY MESA
1:01 P.M. PDT

WHILE ROSCOE didn’t come at them with the ball-peen hammer, there were some tense moments; with Roscoe’s unstable personality, there were always tense moments, especially when he’d just got off the phone with his nagging wife or his even more nagging boss, Karl. This afternoon? A nag-fest doubleheader that had Roscoe’s face glowing red as he stormed around the office screaming and throwing things and hammering holes in the wall and the whole time Owen subtly tracking his movements with a squirt-bottle full of extra-strong Deep-Kleen solution. In the end, Jimmy finally agreed to sign over most of his next paycheck, which Roscoe duly noted in his little black book of blackmail.

Roscoe saying then, “And don’t try double-crossing me, Music Man, or I’ll call my cousin and send you back to Butt-Fuck Land where you belong.”

For fun, Owen gave the squirt-bottle a little squeeze. When Roscoe screamed in dramatic agony, Owen apologized and said it was an accident and signed over half his own paycheck. Only then did Roscoe grin wickedly and say, “You frigging chump, that was all an act, I’m immune to that stuff, like a spider to its venom. I can drink pure DK with a little carpet-protectant chaser the way you drink lemonade.” He laughed. “And just so you know? I coulda taken your whole check, if I was so inclined, you frigging putz.”

Roscoe was still laughing when Owen gave the squirt-bottle a full pump and DeepKleen streamed out, catching Roscoe full in the face and sending him bellowing to the ground like a wounded hippo. Thus were Roscoe’s claims of absolute DeepKleen immunity, like so much he said, proven to be pure bullshit and exaggeration.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, you little fucker,” Roscoe bellowed. “And Jimmy, start packing your bags, cause I’m calling Calvin and getting you shipped back to the hole! My eyes! My goddamn eyes!”

After leading Roscoe to the sink— subsequent to taking the ball-peen hammer from him— Jimmy and Owen got out in a hurry, Jimmy saying, “Let’s bounce before he gets the DK rinsed out of his eyes and comes at us with the shag extractor.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter : THE HOTEL ROOM

What a drag it is getting old.
—19th Nervous Breakdown,
THE ROLLING STONES

IMPERIAL HOTEL,
LA JOLLA
12:59 P.M. PDT

CREDENTIALS AT THE FRONT DESK got them the room number— registered under the name Arthur D. Kline, of Omaha, checked in a week ago and paid cash— and Finch’s pass-key opened Mr. Kline’s room despite the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.

The king-sized bed looked rumpled but unslept-in and on the night stand was a water glass that smelled of alcohol. On the room’s desk were an empty bottle of Stolichnaya, along with a magazine that featured female escorts. One was circled, a brunette entitled From Russia With Love. In one of the desk drawers, beneath a Gideon Bible, Pope found a little mirror sporting the tale-tail signs of cocaine use.

At the bottom of the wastebasket, Al found a crushed-out cigarette Pope didn’t recognize. Al did.
“Belomor,” he said. “Heavy-duty smokes for the proletariat. I tried them once, working LEGAT at the embassy in Moscow, before I quit.”

“How was it?”

“Like smoking mustard gas. Compared to a Belomor, Lucky Strikes go down like pure oxygen.”

Between the mattress and the box springs, Pope found a locked briefcase, and in the closet, a single dark suit hanging in the closet. Pope checked the pockets for the briefcase key without luck, though he did find a grease-spotted receipt from a McDonalds in El Cajon dated two nights past at 7:36 P.M.. On the back was written Salted Pickles, Caviar, Vodka, Cigarettes (Belomors), then below, Flowers?

Pope slipped the note into an evidence baggy and the baggy into his pocket as Al said, “Hey, you thirsty? I’m gonna grab a soda from the drink machine.”

“Nestea if they’ve got it.”

Soon as Al was gone, Pope went in the bathroom and locked the door, fishing the hemorrhoid ointment from his pocket and thinking how right Mick Jagger lamenting about getting old. He was still ignominiously treating his hindquarters, when he heard the room door open and close, heralding Al’s return with the drinks. Rushing to finish his onerous task and wash up, Pope exited the bathroom to find the room empty.

Pope was just noticing the briefcase was gone from the bed when the door opened and Al walked in, drinks in hand, saying, “Machine on this floor was outta order and the one up on the 5th was outta Nestea, so I got you a Dr. Pepper.” Then said, “The hell’s wrong with you?”

Rushing past Al, Pope peered into an empty hallway. “You see anybody with a black briefcase on your way up?”

Following with the drinks, Al said, “There was an older guy in a black jacket and turtleneck getting on the elevator when I got off. Come to think of it, I think he did have a black briefcase.”

Why is it when you needed an elevator in a hurry, they always take forever?

“C’mon,” Pope said, “let’s take the stairs.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 51: PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER

And, after, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the Truth in masquerade.
— LORD BYRON

EAST BROADWAY,
DOWNTOWN
12:41 P.M. PDT

“Damn right I think something’s going on,” Carmella said. “I don’t know what it is yet, exactly, but it’s there. And somehow, it feels big.”

Outside, walking around the streets, people just going about their day, oblivious to what was going on all around them. People of all shapes and colors and all of them shambling trance-like through their lives like lambs led down to slaughter.

And Carmella thought to herself, Goddamn, sister, you gotta clear your head of this negativism.

Then thought, Like hell I will . . . These people LIE.

She said then, “They’re sneaky, Elmond, that’s what I’m saying. They’re sneaky and they lie.”

“All right,” Elmond said, like he was sizing her up . . . Got about a two minutes til we’re there. Until then, talk all you want. After that, though, we’re done. So talk to me, Carm. What is it you think’s going on?”

Carmella took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts . . .

“Okay, what I think happened is, Christian Ducroix left that party at Lord Bletchly’s. First off, was the woman in the car when he left” And if so, who is she?” Carmella shook her head, watching a business woman in power-suit and running shoes tackling a quick urban hike on her lunch-hour, something Carmella never seemed to have time for, not working the dead body beat and raising a kid. Who had time for such luxuries? “Funny, isn’t it, word coming down Lord Bletchly is completely off limits to police on grounds of diplomatic immunity? We’ve got multiple what can now be classified as homicides, we can’t even ask questions over there.”

Elmond nodded, eyes still on the road, but said nothing.

Carmella said, “Alright, so, figure Christian Ducroix drives up Sweetwater Road a mile east of where Jane Sorenson was struck while jogging. The cars are, what, two minutes apart? What if the Suburban was following Christian and got behind?”

Elmond glanced over at Carmella and back at the road. “You know that’s pure speculation. We don’t have evidence that’s the case.”

Carmella shrugged. “Yet. But I bet it’s out there. We just have to find it.”

Elmond studying her now, serious, before looking back to the road and saying in his be cool mode, I’m just letting you talk mode, “All right. So you can go on— we still got another minute or two.”

Carmella had been waiting for this, and was curious to hear Elmond’s response to her hypothesis.”

“I think the driver, who we are told matches Christian Ducroix’s description, may have been kidnapping her, maybe even to kill. Which would make him a murderer. Now what we have is, the State Department swearing the kid was in Tibet the day Evie Chambers was murdered, when maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Jimmy Francisco really did have it right it was Ducroix who killed Evie, he just had the wrong Ducroix.”

Elmond glanced over at Carmella and back at the road. Glanced over again and said, “So you think we can pull a decent image off that videotape? It looked pretty bad. I don’t even think your little pet can get it to look good.”

Carmella agreed, it was bad. But she also knew Raymond Cho was brilliant and dedicated. And, to top it off, had it very very bad for Carmella. She didn’t know if it was the puppy dog eyes, or the geeky romantic awkwardness, but she usually found it sufficient to give Raymond a hug and a pat on the back, and he would work like a dog, dusk til dawn, to please her.

Deciding it was of exceptional importance, Carmella reached in her purse, to touch up her lipstick a little.

Pulling into the parking stall, Elmond was shaking his head as she applied a little red. “You know, you’re awful to that boy. He’s ridiculous. And the things you get him do for you.”

Dabbing a little perfume on each wrist, “I never ask, Only suggest. It is always Raymond offers.”
“More like begs.”

Carmella smiled. “You’d be surprised at how easily a man can be made to beg.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 50: FUCKING VIC

The music business is a shallow money trench,
a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps
Run free and where good men die like dogs.
There is also a negative side.
—HUNTER S. THOMPSON

NORTHBOUND HIGHWAY 163,
NEAR MIRAMAR
12:44 P.M. PDT

ON THEIR LEFT, the Miramar airbase was sliding by as Owen said, “Dude, Roscoe’s totally blowing up my phone. He’s probably sending out a ChemSteem search party right now. Or a hit squad.— Wait, I forgot. That’s the Greeks’ job.”

In the side-mirror, Jimmy saw a Porsche five feet off the bumper and when he gave the brakes a little tap, watched the clown lock em up before jumping on the horn and shooting Jimmy the bird. Jimmy smiled as the guy sped by.

“Jimmy, you do realize we’ve still got the La Jolla eleven o’clock, and a six-area in North PB—”

Owen glancing at his watch “—at pretty much right now.”

“I need you to drop me at my car.”

“At the office.”

“Right.”

“Roscoe’s lair.”

“Right.”

“Evil Roscoe, who in his last voice-mail threatened to get you sent back to prison? That’s where we’re headed?”

Jimmy took Miramar Way. “Got shit I’ve gotta do and I need my car.”

“Really? Well how about our To-Do list, remember? Get Signed By Famous Rock Producer. Make Millions. Quit Carpet Cleaning. That’s what it was last night, when we were finishing up the demo. I could, incidentally, add Stay Alive to the list, considering the mind-set of your Greek buddies after the DK hose down, but I won’t even go there.” Owen sighed. “Look, I know all this shit with Ducroix and Evie is messing up your head, I dig that, I really do— but the fucking show is tonight, man. Wild Bill Donovan of Empire Records? You, me, Paulo and Evan? Finally get our chance?”

“You left out Vic.”

“I was trying to leave fucking Vic out of it, since he keeps threatening to quit anyway. Look, so he pawned your guitar—”

“For an eight-ball of coke.”

“— pissed in my beer—”

“Which you were lucky I warned you about.”

“— and screwed Evan’s girlfriend.”

“Gave her crabs, Chlamydia and venereal warts in one fell swoop.”

Owen shrugged a little. “Girl’s lucky she didn’t get that drug-resistant gonorrhea he gave Candy Carter. Last time I saw Candy, she was in a wheel-chair, man, that’s how bad Vic’s gonorrhea was— doctor says she might walk with a limp the rest of her life.”

Jimmy considered Vic’s crippling clap. “Evan’s researching to get Vic’s dick registered as a public health hazard.”

“Look,” Owen said, “I know Vic’s the world’s biggest prick, but after tonight, we’re gonna be rock stars and we’ll figure something out, even if it means kicking him out of the band for someone else. Shit, it’s always been about the songs, right, not the egos or the attitudes. So don’t go blowing it on revenge now, okay? Because if Roscoe fires you, Coolie could send you back to prison. And if he does, then the band’s really done, dude, and could end up cleaning berber for the rest of my life. Dude, I can’t take any more berber. Cannot be done. Besides,” Owen said, “how can Ducroix be the one who killed Evie when Awalt’s already in prison for her murder?”

“I told you, because Awalt didn’t do it. We matched Ducroix’s DNA to Evie.”

“That’s not what the FBI crime lab said.”

“But it’s what PD and Rudy Juarez said. I told you, either the FBI or somebody else got tainted if not altered results. And the sample was misplaced and hasn’t been found.”

“Yeah,” Owen said, “I remember your lawyer telling all this to the jury and the judge nearly throwing him in jail for contempt. Jimmy,” Owen said, “a jury convicted Awalt, I mean, like, he was Evie’s old roommate and totally jealous of you guys. Isn’t that right?”

A right on Kennamar and ChemSteem suddenly loomed.

Dominic, where are you, you murderous prick? What kinda evil crap are you pulling and who’s it on? Cause I know you weren’t kidnaped, I can feel it . . . And if I’m right and I find you, I can kill you and let people think you really were kidnaped. How’s that for justice? How would that work for you, asshole?

“Jimmy? Jimmy, man, I can see it’s all happening again. The obsession, the intensity. Seriously, you’re starting to freak me out all over.”

Jimmy glanced over. “I’m not obsessing.”

“Oh, yeah you are dude. You’re even scratching at your arms again.”

Jimmy looked down. Sure enough, long scratches ran up and down his forearms.

“Man, you gotta let the cops do their job and let us do ours, okay? Let’s just knock out the rest of these jobs and get to the show. Besides, you don’t even know where Ducroix is. If the whole world can’t find him, how can you?”

Wheeling the van into the parking lot, Jimmy said nothing.

“All right,” Owen said. “Whatever. I know how you get when you make up your mind. I’ll call Brody, see if he can help for beer money.” Owen sighed. “Just, hurry, all right? Sound check’s at eight.” He stroked his beard a moment, eyeballing the ChemSteem corporate offices across the parking lot. “I guess I better mix up another batch of DeepKleen, for the Greeks. And in case we need to subdue Roscoe, too. Here, let me climb past you . . . ”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 49: BIG ED WALKER'S 'HELP THE HOMELESS' CAMPAIGN

Lola looked at me and said, ooo, you look so weird.
She said, man, there’s really something wrong with you,
One day you’re gonna self-destruct.
—Destroyer,
THE KINKS

AN ALLEY SOMEWHERE IN
GOLDEN HILL
12:43 P.M. PDT

“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA . . . I can’t hear you . . . La la la . . . I’m not listening!”

Fucking guy. Complain, complain, complain, it’s all he did, like a big baby, whining so much it made Big Ed’s meth-swollen head hurt.

The dying fuck whining, “Help me,” and, “Get these bodies off me, I can hardly breathe,” and “Please, I need a doctor.” And, the absolute best: “I’m dyyyying.”

Whaah. Like he was the only one with problems.

Big Ed was parked in an alley, puzzling through his situation and not liking it one bit, nosirree bob—

“Please . . . I beg of you . . . It hurrrts.”

— because, even with the plates switched, if the cop had got the word out before Big Ed bopped him, well then it didn’t matter van #2, van #3, van number what the fuck ever, they’d be pulling over carpet-cleaning vans—

“I can make you a rich man if you help me.”

—any white van, for that matter probably police pulling vans over and checking ‘em out, the nosey goddamn bastards.

Christ, you kill one lousy cop, the rest of the pussies freak out. Like killing a cop was soooo much worse than killing regular folks, something cops did every damn day.

In the alley was a dumpster and at the dumpster was an old woman poking around, beside her a shopping cart full of the crap homeless people thinks got value: shoes they don’t wear, a lamp won’t never light and a lotta other useless homeless-people crap. The old woman was jabbing a stick in the dumpster. She’d pull out the stick and study something stuck to the end, then sometimes pluck off whatever it was off and shove it in her mouth

Frankly, Big Ed felt the situation was totally disgusting and, despite the gravity of his situation . . .

“Please, I will give you anything for a sip of water.”

. . . something that clearly needed to be dealt with. So right there, Ed decided he’d seen more than enough of that homeless woman picking through the dumpster and eating what she found, so Ed climbed out of the van—glancing around, making sure no nosey cops were watching— and walked up behind the woman. On account of Big Ed’s ninja-like silence, she was none the wiser and still digging for something to eat when Ed got up close enough to smell her stinking almost worse than Ed’s passengers.

Ed glanced around, making sure no one saw what he was about to do, before reaching into his pocket—

Bamp, just like that, the crafty old bat spun around, taking measure of what was in Ed’s hand and pointing her stick at him. On the stick was stuck a pizza crust and to the crust stuck an olive.
Frowning in disgust, Ed said, “Here, take that, you old bat,” and handed her 96 bucks. “Lay off the dumpster dining and go get yourself some decent chow and a place to stay the night. And a damn shower, y’ol stink bag!”

The old woman’s eyes flicked between Ed and the money— wary eyes that reminded Ed of that time his dad caught a neighbor’s puppy and teased it, offering the starving puppy food and then slapping it, over and over again, torturing it until little Ed cried and Jarhead John called him a pussy— the woman watched Ed that way before snatching the money in a quick grab.

A smile bloomed on Ed’s face as this strange feeling took hold of him, a feeling that had nothing to do with meth—normal people would recognize it as happiness— that made Big Ed feel pretty good as he watched the old woman slowly back away.

Slowly, that is, until her eyes shifted to the van. Spinning, she suddenly began a shambling run down the alley.

“Hey, y’old bat, you left your shopping cart!”

Ed turned and . . . Shit! . . . there, visible through the van’s front window, was that dying gimp bastard with his head sticking out from between the rubber curtains and his face covered in blood. Soon as he saw Ed looking at him, the gimp’s eyes widened in fear, too, as the fuck suddenly reached for the horn—

Bonk-bonk!

— and made a terrible racket that echoed up the alley as Ed ran to the van—

Bonk-bonk-bonnnk!

— and, upon opening the door, hit the bloody fucker with a punch that sent him straight through the curtain and into the back of the van.

Then, lickety-split, Ed was in the driver’s seat and pulling away, saying, “Why, you selfish damn bastard, y’oughtta be ashamed of yourself! I’m out there helping a fellow human-being, you’re in here causing trouble and only thinking about yourself!”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 48: BEFORE CARMELLA BECAME A SINGLE MOTHER OF ONE

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in Heaven
where the love of our Lost Ones shines down upon us
to let us know they are happy.
— ESKIMO PROVERB

A STREET,
GOLDEN HILL
12:42 P.M. PDT

CARMELLA HUNG UP THE CELL. “So I guess the vic’s husband went nuts when the doctor gave him the news she died in surgery. Tore the waiting room up pretty good, even smashed a plate-glass window with his hand— according to Mendez, glass nearly severed it and now he’s in surgery and will be lucky if he regains usage.”

Elmond said, “One day you go to bed, married and fully functioning. Next day, you wake up widowed and short a hand. What a world.”

What a world indeed. And, crazy as it seemed, breaking a window and nearly cutting off your hand, when Ted was shot, Carmella could have seen putting her hand through a window. Anything to drown out that pain, that heartache so intense she couldn’t breathe, seeing Ted laid out on the bank’s cold, marble floor.

The thing of it is, it’s the suddenness that gets you, the abrupt and total change.


CARMELLA MET TED on a blind double-date, and her first impression of him was that of a typical cop asshole, and something she vowed never to be, and so when Sherry broke it off after a few dates to see a pilot from Southwest Airlines, Carmella figured good riddance. Then what happens, but Ted showing up at Perry’s Coffee Shop, down on Pacific Highway, where she’d waitressed nights while studying for a Criminal Justice degree at State. Initially, first dozen nights he showed up, Carmella was content filling Ted’s coffee cup, but soon found herself growing steadily more interested. Ted's stories of homicide cases were, frankly, fascinating, and his passion for his work transformed him to Carmella, as the patina of Ted’s asshole-ness fell away, replaced by a tenderness Carmella discovered hidden under a lot of tough cop bravado.

They were married in an outdoor ceremony on the beach, nothing fancy but very special. Tony’s band played the reception, Jimmy Francisco on guitar. It seemed like such a long time ago.

Oh, and it certainly wasn’t a typical marriage, of course, nothing conventional. Sure, they bought a house in suburbs— in this case, a four-bedroom in Tierra Santa— and had a kid— Kevin, born in the spring of their third year together.

Ten years passed so fast . . . In the blink of an eye, they're gone.

Yes, the marriage was never conventional, because how can it be, two cops married, one homicide, one vice? But damn, was that marriage overbrimming with love, the kind of thing, you see two people around each other, so happy, you think to yourself, "I want some of that."

And it was a testament to their marriage, to the faith within it, that Carmella worked vice for four years, with occasional sting operations where she played prostitutes— easily the worst thing in Carmella’s life, but she wasn’t gonna look weak doing a job; the only saving grace was when Jimmy Francisco had been forced to play a male prostitute at a plastics convention, something we’ll save for another time. Point of the matter is, while Carmella kept it together and did her job, Ted held it together on the homefront, even when assholes like Jerry DiGraggario would bring it up when Carmella wasn’t around, the digs and the sly innuendos, amid the bullshit cop talk.

Ted would laugh at them, saying, “They’re just bitter because you’re mine, Carm. But mostly, they’re jealous that you’re the best shot in the department.”

Winding down through the hills overlooking San Diego’s harbor, Carmella was struck by the irony of it all.

Prior to meeting Ted, Carmella had never shot a gun in her life. Herm, her father, had been an ex-combat medic in Vietnam. His intimate experience with gunshot wounds and graphic description of their horrors had instilled a profound aversion in Carmella to guns, something she worried about leading up to academy. Luckily, their first date, believe it or not, was a trip to the local shooting range. Carmella remembered being nervous that day, but trusting in Ted as he handed her first a pistol and then a rifle and she rattled off at targets shaped like Islamastani terrorist . . .

Look, it’s not like Carmella hit every target with every bullet the first day . . . but she came close.

Somehow, someway, shooting just made sense in Carmella’s head and within six months, she was competing in tournaments in places like Fontana, Carson City and Reno. The woman was good, and it wasn’t long until everyone in the department knows it. You get male cop egos involved, the inherent male power in a police department, they had to put up with a lot. Most commonly, comments about ‘who wears the gun in the family’ and what not. Carmella, being Carmella, had of course brought it up on occasion, most notably a certain police picnic that ended up with Jerry DiGraggario getting a face full of bean-dip and Ted falling over the keg in laughter.

Yeah, Carmella missed Ted something fierce and it made her think about the Sorensons. About a woman, dying alone in a meadow, and a husband clenched in grief.

God, sometimes . . . What a world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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