Time Bomb (55 page)

Latch snorted and said, “Smart baboon.”

I said, “Book research wasn’t enough for him. He tried to meet his rescuer, couldn’t get through to Crevolin, and went to the next-best source. Someone who’d also been a comrade of his parents. Another second cadre guy, but one who’d climbed. A public man.”

I turned to Latch. “What a bummer, Gordie. The timing, I mean. Here you are, having bought all that respectability. Sure, you’re only a sandwich sign for D.F.’s dreams. But sometimes you allow yourself to pretend it’s real and you’re the boss and that feels really good, doesn’t it? And sure, City Council is relatively penny-ante, but it’s a giant step forward for someone who committed sedition on national television. You’re moving up. The rhythm is there. Things are
finally
fitting
together,
and along comes this mixed-race mongrel
black Jewish kid
knocking on your headquarters door, using his parents’ names as passwords to get through the front office. Names you thought you’d never hear again. Coming face to face with you and asking questions about the bad old days. Wannsee Two. You try to put him off, play the old game you’ve learned so well and answer his questions without really answering them. But he’s persistent. Pushy. Full of the kind of youthful fire that just might be able to incinerate you. That’s how it always starts, isn’t it? Small fry nipping at the big fish. A night watchman got Nixon. So it’s time for a quick stall and an emergency meeting with D.F. D.F. instructs you to handle it in a time-honored manner: Lull the prey into complacency with phony friendship, feed him carefully measured bits of disinformation, then move in for the kill when the time’s right.

“So you play compassionate liberal for Ike, spin him a tale about Wannsee Two in which the story remains intact but the characters are altered. Making someone else the chief bad guy. It wasn’t exactly casting against type. Massengil had right-wing sensibilities; he’d been tooting his quasi-racist horn for some time. You probably made up some yarn about his having been a government agent. With your resources—your own printing press—it’s no problem furnishing Ike with some impressive-looking bogus documents. And the beauty of it was that it served a double purpose. Ocean Heights is part of your district. Getting Massengil out of a job he’s had a lock on for almost three decades will allow you to run for his seat. Still penny-ante compared to your ultimate goal, but state assemblymen have been known to go to Washington. How many councilmen have ever gotten out of City Hall? You’d had your sights on him for some time, planted Bramble on his staff—your inside track. So when Ike showed up asking questions, everything clicked. You took him into your confidence, swore him to secrecy, fed him lies—fed his revenge fantasies and tried to work him up to the point of violent retribution. You figured that wouldn’t be much of a challenge, because he was black—and blacks are inherently violent, aren’t they?”

Latch said, “Sounds like the turd has some capacity to learn.”

Ahlward didn’t even bother to fake interest.

When you ask questions, my mind wanders
.

I said, “First choice was for Ike to assassinate Massengil and get himself killed in the process. Second choice was for one of your junior SS boys to bump off Massengil,
frame
Ike for it, and kill him too. Same result, slightly less efficient. The only problem was, Ike resisted. Despite that kinky hair and all that melanin in his skin, he just wasn’t the violent type.”

“Fifty percent kike-blood,” said Ahlward. “Pro-grammed for cowardice.”

“Or maybe Gordie just screwed up. Pushed too hard and got Ike suspicious. Made him wonder why a city councilman was so eager to get involved in murder. In any event, he refused to go along and turned himself into a serious liability. So you lured him to that alley with the promise of something—probably some new information about his parents. From another source. A black source—what better place to do it than Watts. Must have been fun making the call, putting on the patois.”

“Yowza, massuh,” said Latch. “We sho’ good at talkin’ that nigra talk. Ceptin’ we po’ culluhds have such a bay-ad tahm luynin to
di-al
that phone.”

Turning to Ahlward for approval. The redheaded man’s smile was obligatory. He fingered the black gun’s barrel and yawned.

I said, “Ike walked into the ambush and one of your SS-kateers shotgunned him, injected him with a dope cocktail, and set it up as a drug burn. Because, after all, blacks are all dope fiends, right? Who’s going to get suspicious about a junkie getting snuffed in South Central? And, by golly, you succeeded again. It went down that way in the books. Now there was only Grandma to deal with. Despite Ike’s pledge not to talk, you figured he’d confided in her. You plucked her off the street and left her body where no one will ever find it. Just for the record, where was that?”

Blank stares from both of them.

I said, “Considering you’ve got all the cards, you guys are pretty stingy.”

Ahlward said, “Sounds like you’re running out of material.”

I said, “Perish the thought. There’s plenty more. After you dispose of Sophie, you break into her place and look for any evidence she might have left behind—notebooks, diaries. Doing the neighbor’s place, too, to make it look like a burglary. But why the stuff on the walls? The Kennedy message?”

Latch couldn’t resist answering that one. “Dessert. For the troopers who performed the mission. Reward for a job well done.”

“Even revolutionaries have to party,” I said. And caught movement from Milo. An eye-blink. Volitional?

Neither of them saw it, Milo’s back was to Latch. And Ahlward was preoccupied with his gun.

Another blink. Or had I just imagined it?

I kept talking. “With both Ike and Sophie Gruenberg gone, your immediate problems finally seemed over. But there was still the matter of Massengil. You’d already started thinking of him as a dead man. So it was
annoying
to have to change that mind-set. And if the deed was going to be done, the timing was important. He was well into his current term, had already been nominated for the next one. So it was to your advantage for him to be eliminated before the next election. Too late for the governor to appoint someone else. The seat would lie fallow for a few months, giving you time to build up political steam and enter yet another image-stage: great conciliator, mature statesman. Sure, the widow would get first dibs, and if she didn’t want the job, some hack or crony would move in. But you had plans to take care of that, per the lovely Ms. Bramble.”

Latch said, “I do believe Ocean Heights and I will reach our own rapprochement.”

I said, “Better do it soon, before Randy pulls the purse strings closed. Or were you intending to ask for alimony?”

Sudden panic in his eyes.

Ahlward’s eyebrows were hot-pink crescents of surprise.

I said, “Oops. Sorry. I thought you knew, D.F.”

Ahlward looked at Latch.

Latch said, “He’s full of shi—”

I said. “Little Bandy definitely wants out, D.F. She’s filed papers. Check for yourself—it’s public record.”

Ahlward swiveled slowly in his chair and stared at Latch.

Latch said, “It just went down, Bud. I was going to bring it up, had it on the agenda.”

“Oops again,” I said. “Not quite true, Gordie Pordie. She filed two weeks ago. Not the greatest thing to happen at a time like this, is it, D.F.? Vis-à-vis public relations. And money-wise.” To Latch: “What happened, Gordie? Did her political enthusiasm wane? Or is it just you she’s tired of? Guess all that discipline and bondage stuff wears thin after a—”

Latch said, “Shut your filthy mouth.”

Ahlward cleared his throat.

Latch said, “It’s not a problem, Bud. She can be taken care of. She’s on so much fucking Seconal, nobody’ll—”

Ahlward’s turn to say, “Shut up! You know, Gordon, it’s real pleasant hearing it this way.”

“C’mon, Bud, you can see what he’s—”

“And you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

Latch sank back down and played with one of his cuffs.

Milo winked. This time I was sure.

I said, “We’re talking thick coats of tarnish on your rising star, D.F. You might start thinking about a replacement.”

Ahlward raised the gun and sighted down it again. To my surprise I felt no fear, only weariness at his Little Dictator routine.

He said, “I’ve heard enough.”

Two winks from the couch. Milo’s big body remained motionless.

I said, “You mean you don’t want to hear the rest? The part you took charge of personally?”

He lowered the gun. “Go on.”

“Shortly after Ike and Grandma were taken care of, another unpleasant surprise came your way. Someone else Ike had confided in. So much for pledges of secrecy—guess Gordie wasn’t very convincing. A mentally dull shut-in who welcomed the cheer and conversation Ike brought with him when he delivered the groceries. Who appreci-ated the time he took to get to know her. And as he got to know her better, he lapsed into his favorite topic: politics. Not that she had more than a hazy idea of what he was talking about. Social justice, the evils of capitalism. But she was able to pick out the juicy parts. Conspiracies, murder. Wannsee Two. She sat there and listened. The perfect soundboard. Because Ike’s visits filled the emptiness in her life, she didn’t want them to stop.

“Then one day, they did stop. Forever. She found out he was dead. Murdered. People were saying he died buying dope, but she knew that was a lie became he didn’t take dope. He hated dope. She knew something was wrong—probably one of those conspiracies Ike had talked about. She withdrew further, confused. Just like when her mother died. But this time she came out of it angry. Wanting to understand why bad things happen to good people. To talk to someone who could explain it to her. Not her father—they never talk; he treats her like a servant. And she barely knows her brother. But she does recall a name Ike mentioned consulting. A former comrade of his parents who’s gotten famous—even been on TV. Someone Ike had suspicions about but didn’t share with Holly because he didn’t want to put
her
in jeopardy.

“Would someone like that talk to her? She was afraid. But she couldn’t forget Ike—his death. So she built up her courage and called the famous guy’s headquarters. One of the famous guy’s staff answers and hears her babbling about stuff no one’s supposed to know about, and knows this is a job for the High Command.”

I looked at Latch. “What’d you tell her?”

He smirked. “That she’d done the right thing by getting in touch with me. That I was investigating Ike’s death and she had to promise to keep everything secret until I got back to her.” He laughed. “She ate that up like cornflakes.”

I glanced at Ahlward. He’d put the gun down on the desk, had taken the knife out again, and was cleaning his nails.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” I said to Latch. “But D.F. here wasn’t too proud. He figured you’d fucked up. Decided to handle this one personally.” To the redheaded man: “You met with her—as Gordie’s assistant. Debriefed her to find out exactly what she knew, found out it was just enough to make her a threat, and realized she was custom-made for another try at Massengil, A
better
dupe than Ike, because she lacked the intellect to think critically. She was
ripe
to obey. So you went to work on her. Building rapport, gaining her confidence. Putting on the old paramilitary thing. Secret meetings in out-of-the-way places when her father was out of town. Night walks. You’d pick her up and drive her away. She had no job, no schedule, no one to miss her, no one else to confide in. You fed her secret codes, high intrigue—giving her a sense of purpose for the first time in her life. Resurrecting the old Massengil-as-Satan fantasy. Massengil as the vicious murderer of her friend. Feeding her rage, nursing it, bringing it to bloom. Making her sense of self-esteem contingent upon carrying out her mission. And she did eat it up. Snow White gobbling a poisoned apple. She was so eager to act, she told you she even had her own weapons—a closetful of guns. You got into her house when her father was away and took a look. Most of them were antiques, unusable. Except the Remington. But in her hands it might as well have been a flintlock.”

More winks from Milo.
Keep going, pal.

“You spelled out her assignment, went over it with her, putting her through dry runs, until you were sure she had it down. Her sister-in-law saw her holding the gun, weeks before, muttering about Wannsee Two, Which she thought was gibberish. As would anyone else hearing it. The worst that could happen was she’d freak out before the big day and start rambling on about conspiracies. Who’d believe her? As it turned out, she didn’t talk to anyone. Never saw anyone. And the big day drew near. You notified her with a coded call. Monday morning. Perfect time and place for a hit. Bramble had informed you of Massengil’s plans to use the school for a press conference. You knew exactly what time he’d show up, precisely where he’d be standing. But getting Holly out of the house was a problem. Her father was an early riser, so sneaking out early on Monday was out of the question. You had her do it Sunday night, while he was still asleep. Told her to take the Remington out of the closet and wrap it in something, close the door to her bedroom so he’d think she was still asleep, then sneak out really quietly, sure to close her bedroom door. Disengaging the alarm, resetting it, and slipping out of the house with the wrapped rifle. Though Ocean Heights is so deserted at night, she could have carried it out in the open.

“You picked her up a couple of blocks away, brought her a change of clothes, a paper cup for elimination. The two of you drove toward the school, parked a few blocks away, and walked over. Hand signals. High adventure—she must have loved it.”

Ahlward gave a disgusted look. “She was a pain to work with, took a long time to learn everything. Pure Mengele fodder, destined to live and die as shit. I gave her the gift of immortality, more than she could ever hope for.”

“Real act of kindness,” I said.

“Sometimes,” he said, stroking his gun, “it’s cruel to be kind.”