Don Pendleton - Civil War II (7 page)

Waring sighed heavily and returned once again to the sheet of data. Presently he said, "Well it still looks like a lot of computed yuck to me."

"Cross-relate, Chuck," Winston urged. "The picture is downright scarey. Most of the Toms are fractos, many of them could easily pass for white if you don't look at them too closely. And look at their flow. God, they're clustering in an entirely new trend of their own, moving in on all the vital spots of the nation. State capitals, major economic centers, mothballed military installations, the whole shmear."

"How'd you get this stuff?"

"AMS demographics. I've been wondering for several months now over the towns' inability to keep up with the demand for Toms."

"Some hot stuff," Waring said disgustedly. "You track me down here to talk about labor problems?"

A cold feeling was traveling slowly up Winston's backbone. He told his boss, "Demographics is only a part of it. Department of Army has been suspiciously busy for several years also. Those guys are planning an uprising—I'll stake my job on it—and the government

niggers are backing them up. Listen, I saw Bogan and Abe Williams together this morning. And, of all places, in a back room of Oakland Town Hall."

Waring emitted a dry cackle. He reached for the bourbon, poured a hefty slug into his glass, squirted in some seltzer, and said, "You don't drink, do you."

Winston shook his head. "But I might learn to."

"At your age, Winston, it's hopeless. You have to get an early start if you want to practice this art with total dedication.

"Aren't you going to discuss this situation with me, Chuck?" Winston asked stiffly.

"Nothing to discuss. You can't wait 'til middle-age to start drinking and expect to get anything out of it"

"You know what I'm talking about. Now Chuck, I'm disturbed as hell over this data. Let's—"

"Then go be disturbed someplace else," Waring growled. "This isn't the place for it. I can tell you where you went wrong, Winston."

"For God's sake, Chuck, this is—"

"Shut up! I was just looking at your dossier the other day. There's a lot of dangerous stuff in there, Michael my boy. A lot of it. How come you're not in prison?"

Winston sighed and retrieved the print-out. "Well, I'd better go find somebody sober to talk this over with."

"You talk to nobody!" Waring rasped. He finished the drink, wiped Ms lips on the back of his hand, and hunched his shoulders into an aggressive posturing. "Every word you say, you hang your ass a little Mgher. Now I'm not going to answer for your sophomoric flag waving.
No sir.
You talk to nobody but
me.
Understand?"

"Chuck, there are something like fifty thousand Toms in tMs country who are almost certainly organized into some wild 6ort of espionage ring—God, maybe even trained assassins and saboteurs. There are tons upon uncountable tons of war munitions and heavy weapons of every description being stockpiled about the country in either direct control of black army forces or minimally protected by skeleton crews of wMte state-guardsmen."

Waring poured himself another drink. "Do tell. Who gives a shit?"

"The Toms are into everything. I talked to one awhile ago who is an
aide
to the Chairman of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, such as it is. And two of them were tailing me all over Washington today."

Waring chuckled. "And they may be servicing the President's niece. You gotta learn to mind your own business in this city, Mike. That's something you still have to learn."

"Oh, hell," Winston commented miserably. "You haven't the merest grasp of what I'm telling you, do you?"

"Watch it, sonny. Just watch it. This is the
head
nigger- 1 tender who's doing all the talking. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget that. Baby sitters to a bunch of damn town niggers. God damn! Lot of useless effort if I ever heard it!"

"Don't drink any more, Chuck. Let's go get some air. j The air in here is enough to—we simply
have
to talk about this."

"I'll tell you where you went wrong, Winston. You're too ambitious. You think too much. You're always pushing, making waves, always running around waving a flag over somebody's head. You fucking-near got your ass hung back there at UC. It's in the dossier. Hell, it's all in there. Did you know the Attorney General backtracked you through five generations?" Waring laughed raucously. "You didn't know it! They thought sure as hell they'd bought themselves a fracto for the country's top cop. Scared the abundant society right out of them. You never knew that, huh?"

"I'll be going," Winston said. He scraped back his chair, but did not quite get out of it.

Waring lunged across the table and captured him with a heavy hand, roaring, "YouH go when I tell you to!" He gazed about to see if anyone was noticing the ruckus, then showed Winston a crafty smile. "You think you're bucking for my job, don't you? Even got my personal secretary making googy eyes at you. You wanta be head nigger-tender, don't you? Listen, sonny boy, forget it. Arlington would never have it. Never. It satisfies his weird sense of justice to let you sweat your ass off over nigger problems, but he'll never see you in a bureau chief's spot. Never."

"I don't want your job, Chuck," Winston, wearily replied.

"Then why're you running around making waves all the time, huh? A youth center for Detroit Heights! A new hospital for Cleveland! Housing developments for this place and that, town roads, higher relief credits, better work offers! Where do you come off with all this dream
stuff,
boy? You know the old man hasn't bought a thing for a nigger in all the years he's been here! And now look at you! A
conspiracy,
for God's sake, an
uprising."

The bureau chief threw back his head and howled. "Those dumb shits can't hardly keep themselves
alive
even. And you sitting here all wild eyed and calling
me
drunk. You're the guy that's drunk, Winston. Drunk with
ambitionl
You're the drunkest bastard I ever knew, Winston, and you ain't even smelled the cork. You wanta know why they ran your ass outta the Justice Department?"

"Not particularly," Winston replied, gritting his teeth in a growing rage.

Waring underwent a sudden change of mood. Tears sprang to his eyes. He released his subordinate and gently patted his shoulder. "Mike, don't listen to this shit. Don't listen to it. You're right, and I'm drunk. I got no right raving at you like this. Listen, little buddy. You and me. Right? We got the stinkingest job in government today."

Winston was beginning to see a new glimmer of hope. He said, "Chuck, let's get out of here. The air's bad and the whiskey is worse. Let's go find—"

"Well now, wait a minute, Mike, wait a minute. Let me tell you this." Waring stopped talking, his attention diverted by the approach of a woman. She looked about thirty, medium height, rather pretty in an overtly suggestive manner. The hair was blonde, she wore a nice smile and one of the new knit fabrics styled into a peek-a-boo shrug-dress, so called because the entire thing was of wide mesh and fell away with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Hi, honey," Waring said thickly. "You looking for me?"

"I was just wondering," she said in a high-pitched voice.

"What were you wondering, honey?" Waring asked, winking at Winston.

"Well ... if the boys were enjoying each other's company. I mean, if you're satisfied with each other or if you'd like some feminine presence."

"Oh we like feminine presence," Waring assured her. "Don't we, Mike?"

Winston grunted and looked around for a way out.

The woman stood with one hand on the back of an empty chair, her eyes moving uncertainly from Waring to Winston.

"Which one of us you like the most, honey?" Waring asked, winking once again at his companion.

"Well... I already reserved a cube upstairs. Anything wrong with all three of us going up?"

Waring reached across the table to slap Winston on the shoulder. "Hey, that sounds like just the ticket for a couple of old nigger-tenders, huh Mike?"

"I guess not," Winston said. "I have a lot to do, Chuck. We
both
do."

"Hell, it don't take no credits, sonny. It's a social club, you know, just for the convenience of us Washington I slaves. He laughed boisterously. "Seriously now. Don't you want to make friends with this little lady?"

Winston looked at the woman and felt miserable for her. He smiled uncertainly and mouthed the words to her, "He is drunk."

She returned the smile and told him, "That's okay. I, uh, I don't
have
to come here, you know. I mean, there are other places to go. But he's right. It is nice to make new friends. Isn't it?"

"Two at a time?" Winston asked quietly.

"It could be interesting," she replied. "I mean, three doesn't
have
to be a crowd. If you know what I mean."

"By God that sounds great, just great," Waring declared loudly. "What d'ya say, Michael son? You want to share a

bed with your boss?" He broke up completely. pounding

the table with a hammy fist, and choking over laughter.

Winston was already halfway to the door, and
nobody
heard his angered, rasping reply but the automated maitre'd

CHAPTER 8

Winston, stood in agony before the door to the office of the Chief, Federal Police Bureau. He'd rather talk to almost any man in Washington, but ... to hell with personalities. So the guy had knifed him once and he would undoubtedly do so again if a similar profit-motive should arise. So maybe the guy had grown a little. Winston squared his shoulders and pushed on into the reception room.

It hadn't changed much. Same pictures on the walls, same mottled carpeting. New girl, though, and a beaut. He presented his identification and stated his business.

She examined him from beneath partly-lowered lashes and eyes that told him she'd heard of him, oh yes, I've heard of
you,
Mike Winston. "The Chief cannot be disturbed right now, Commissioner," she told him. "H you'd like to have a seat, I'll see if I can get you in shortly."

Get him
in?
Winston was not
that
far down the Washington totem. He told her, "You announce me right now, young lady, and let Fairchild make that decision."

She wasn't to be bullied. The pretty lips hardened and she told him, "The Chief cannot be disturbed at this moment, Commissioner."

Winston said, "The hell he can't." He vaulted the railing and pushed into the FBI Chief's inner sanctum with a grimly struggling secretary hanging on one arm.

A handsomely graying man with surprised eyes n>v hastily from his desk and turned off a tape deck. He Nr/eil up the situation in a single glance, waved the girl out of tho office, and walked toward Winston with outstretched hand. "Damn, it's good to see you again, Mike," he said amiably. "How long has it been ... three years? Four?"

"About halfway between the two," Winston replied, smiling tightly. "This isn't a personal call, Tom. I have urgent business."

Fairchild waved him to a chair and stepped over to a sideboard bar. "Name your poison," he suggested.

Winston said, "Uncle Tom."

The police chief chuckled, somewhat nervously and said, "No, I meant liquid poison. Oh hell I forgot, you don't. Or have you started?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting closer to it every day. No, nothing for me Tom, thanks."

The Chief swirled some liquids into a glass and took it to his desk to perch there on the corner and inspect his onetime friend with a measuring gaze. "You haven't changed much," he decided. "Bit of silver at the ears, there." He laughed. "I guess it's catching up to all of us, eh. The years, I mean."

Winston nodded. "Maybe more so than we realize. That's what I want to talk about. I guess old cops never die, nor even fade away. I've stumbled onto something, Tom. My boss is in the cups again, and it's like talking to the roaring surf. I'd like to get your opinion."

Fairchild grinned and replied, "If it's cop business, I'm
all
ears. You know that."

'Try the eyes," Winston replied. He leaned forward and thrust the cross-check summary into the policeman's hand. "I won't talk. You draw your own conclusions."

Fairchild studied the paper for several minutes, pausing occasionally to sip at his drink, sloshing the liquid now and then, clinking the ice against the side of the glass. As he read, his face hardened. lines of amiability vanished. The brows began forming peaks above the eyes and the eyes themselves became murky, almost seeming to change color and to recede somewhat into the head. Winston knew the look and knew it well. Once he had even thought it a sign of the whirring cogs of an acutely tuned police mind. He had learned, though, that it was a sign of other mental activities as well.

Without looking at his visitor, Fairchild pushed a button on his desk. A door opened and a pretty young woman came in. Her glance took in Winston and flashed quickly to Fairchild. He handed her Winston's paper and told her, "Get me a copy of that, doll."