Oath of Fealty Page 9

  The guards had found him leaning against the fence, looking outward, with tears running down his calm face. He had felt the stubby fingers on his arm, had followed the pull. The guard had spoken in reassuring tones; he had not heard the words. They led him into an elevator. Dawn, like a falling stone. Out. To this room, where he waited. The door opened.

  He did not bather to look up. But people were talking.

  "I don't know, Tony. I don't know what's going to happen now. But I swear they looked like they were going to blow up the hydrogen lines."

  "I was there. I came dawn to see the equipment they carried. It's not in here? Oh. Who's he?" Voices grew clearer as heads looked into the roam.

  "Him? Oh, he's a leaper we pulled off your high board."

  "Jeez, Patterson, we've got worse problems than him! They've got Mr. Sanders doped to the eyes. Mr. Rand, what do we do if the Angelino cops come for him?"

  "Nothing. Pres killed two saboteurs and captured a third. That third one was lucky. Pres had every right to kill him too. Los Angeles isn't going to do a thing to him."

  "Yes, sir-but the kids weren't carrying dynamite, dammit! It was just a box of sand. How will that look to a Grand Jury?"

  He looked up to see "Tony" shrug and say, "Blake, those three did their damndest to convince us they were ready to wreck Todos Santos. I'd say they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Think of it as evolution in action."

  A bark of laughter, and a sober voice: "It won't stop there, Tony. God, I'm glad I'm not Bonner."

  Answering laughter. "So is everyone else tonight."

  They closed the door. They had forgotten him again. He resented it. He resented their laughter; it mocked his coming death.

  They remembered him an hour later. The stubby-fingered guard led him back to the elevator and took him down and put him in a subway car and said things he didn't bother to hear. He had already made his decision.

  Thomas Lunan zapped the electronic gizmo and drove the Jaguar into its garage. He wrestled two bags of groceries out and set them down, then busied himself with locks; an enormous metal bar across the steel garage door, then the police lock and two deadbolts to let himself out the smaller door for humans. Once outside with his packages he had to set them down and lock up.

  His apartment was three blocks away, and he had to carry the groceries. The streets were well lighted, though, and busily traveled; it was one reason he'd selected that garage.

  The apartment building had been a house before it became old and run-down; dilapidated wouldn't have been too strong a word. The hall carpet was threadbare, and the walls hadn't been painted in years. There were only two apartments in the ancient house.

  He climbed one flight to his own and unlocked it. The locks were not new and didn't appear particularly good, although in fact they were recommended by a firm of security consultants he'd interviewed.

  Inside, everything was different. His apartment was tastefully furnished, and everything was bright and clean. His stereo and TV were expensive and new. Some of the paintings on the wall were originals.

  But from the outside you'd never know there was anything worth stealing; which was the idea. Lunan was rather proud of the method he'd hit on. He wanted to live near the beach, and couldn't afford the expensive beach communities; therefore it had to be Venice with its old houses built in the 1920s. But Venice was a high-crime area, so how could he enjoy his expensive possessions without being ripped off? Obviously he had to live in a way that kept anyone from knowing he had anything worth stealing.

  The car was the toughest part; if he parked the Jag near the building someone was bound to get the idea that its owner had good loot. They'd follow him home and rip him off. Lunan lived alone, and his job kept him away for week-long intervals; that was bad enough, but worse would be for a street gang to come when he was home. Which was why he was careful going from his car to his apartment, and so far it had worked perfectly.

  He turned on the news, but paid little attention to it, keeping an ear tuned to alert him to anything unusual. Unusual for him meant a lead on a hot story.

  Lunan was in trouble. Not, he told himself, big trouble, but trouble just the same. He hadn't had a big story in months, and the station director was breathing down his neck.

  If he didn't find something pretty quick, they'd assign him something; and he'd worked too long and hard for his high status as a roving investigator to go back on assignment. Worse, the associate producer who handled assignments didn't like him, and neither did most of his reporter colleagues. They'd give him dull crap. Not all dull crap, of course; he was too good for that. But any dull crap was too much.

  The trouble was, he hadn't had an idea in a long time. And he lived on ideas. Lunan didn't do stories the way others did: didn't chase ambulances, or go to fires, or hang around the police station. He didn't do what the others would call news at all. His specialty was in-depth interviews, digging out big human-interest stories that explained the world.

  So what to do now? He estimated that he had about two weeks before they called him in and put him back in the pool. Not very long. How in hell was he to find something big in two weeks?

  He decided to fall back on a technique that had worked for him in the past: go fishing. Wander out, people-watch, talk with anyone he could find, and let matters develop. It sounded haphazard, and it was; but luck had been with him in the past. He'd gotten two Pulitzer nominations that way.

  So where to go? He put on a classic, the Beatles, and relaxed with a glass of Chivas Regal, and after a while he remembered that he hadn't visited the Santa Monica Mall in quite a while. Why not? Maybe something good would come of it.

  The leaper left the subway at the Flower Street

  exit in central Los Angeles. There were buildings here; not high by Todos Santos standards, but high enough. The men who had mocked him in Todos Santos would read of his death, and they would be sorry.

  But would they know?

  It was important. He was carrying no identification and no suicide note. He had only the money the Todos Santos guard had thrust into his pocket. He had decided to die anonymously. Now that was not enough. He must leave something. He stood between the empty track and the walls scrawled with obscene messages and gang symbols, while half-thoughts formed in his mind.

  He searched his packets for a Magic Marker until he found it. He stood before the wall, not caring if anyone was watching, and presently inspiration came. He printed in large letters, over a message that had almost been washed away:

  THINK OF IT AS EVOLUTION IN ACTION

  Now, that was good. It was not too proud. It was the statement of a man who had done one last service to the human race, by ridding it of a chronic loser. He would scrawl it on the parapet, or wherever, just before he jumped. And this man, Tony, would recognize it for his own words.

  He turned and walked briskly toward the exit stairway.

  Big Jim Planchet poured himself another bourbon and settled back into his study chair. He thought that his visitor was finally getting to the point. George Harris had spent a lot of time talking about nothing, and it was late; time for Planchet to rejoin his other guests an the patio.

  "You know I go to jail every week," Harris said.

  Councilman Planchet frowned. "I guess I'd heard about it."

  In fact, he knew almost as much as Harris did; he'd had to check it out, because he wanted to be sure that having Harris on his campaign finance committee wouldn't cause him trouble with his Los Angeles constituents.

  George Harris had falsified his income tax returns, been caught, and convicted of tax fraud. At his trial he'd said he'd done it in protest against Washington policies that he refused to continue paying for. That may not have helped him get the judge's sympathy; in addition to his fines, Harris had to spend four dozen weekends in the county jail. They let him out on Sunday nights so he could conduct his business, but every Saturday morning he had to go back.

  Not many knew where Harris went on weeke
nds, and most of those who did felt sorry for him. Doesn't everybody cut his tax return as close as possible? There were same who thought Harris deserved a medal. So there wasn't any problem about remaining friends with George, which was just as well, since Planchet had known him for years.

  "I need help," Harris said.

  Big Jim Planchet frowned. "Look, George, that was a federal court. If your lawyers can't get you out, I sure can't-"

  "I know that," Harris said impatiently. "Most people think I got off easy. I guess I did, compared to what it would be like if they kept me inside all week. But Jim, I can't stand much more of it."

  This was going to be embarrassing. Planchet could tell. Harris, tough old George Harris, was about to break down and cry. And that wouldn't do at all. They weren't that good friends. Harris would regret it later, and - "Look, George, I know it's not pleasant, but-"

  "Not pleasant? Jim, it's sheer hell! No human dignity at all. The jailers are sadists. Every week it's the same speech from one of the fat slobs. 'I'm real easy to get along with. Real easy. But you give me trouble and I'll make you regret it. Just remember that. Them rules you see pasted on the wall got nothing to do with what really goes on in here. Remember that and we'll get along fine.' Every week he says that.

  "And he means every word of it. They enjoy their work, Jim. They like waking us up at four-thirty in the morning. They like herding us to the showers in lockstep. They like rousting us into a holding tank and keeping forty men crowded into a cell meant for six. I come in every Saturday at eight in the morning. I have to be there at eight. They don't even let me in until nine, but God help me if I'm not there at eight to sit out front for an hour. Then jammed into a holding cell for processing. Every damn week. They know I'm coming, so what's all this processing? But I don't dare ask, and you wouldn't either."

  "Yeah, well-"

  "And that's not the half of it." Harris had broken the barrier of reluctance to talk. Now the words rushed out in a flood. "Breakfast at five, and it's not edible. Soggy bread. Eggs cooked in fish oil. At five A.M.! On Sunday. They say breakfast has to be early, because most of the inmates have court appearances and need to be ready by eight. Maybe that's so, but on Sunday? And for lunch there's the same damned bread, and greasy meat, sausage wrapped in rubber with rubber potatoes. They are. They bounce when you drop one."

  "Jail isn't supposed to be fun, George."

  "I know that! But do they have to take away every last shred of dignity? Are they 'reforming' me? How? I'm not a criminal."

  "No. The judge thought you were something more dangerous. A rebel."

  "Damn it, Hitler was treated better when they jailed him after the Munich Putsch."

  Sure, and if they'd treated him worse, maybe he wouldn't have tried it again, Planchet thought. Make it easy on tax evaders, and there'd be a tax rebellion all over the country, and what would happen to the poor then? George was protesting nuclear power plants, but the same logic could be used to protest welfare-and welfare was a lot less popular than power plants. He really didn't have a lot of sympathy for George Harris. On the other hand, there were those campaign donations, and Harris seemed to have influence with some heavy people in real estate. A good man to be friends with.

  "And the people they put me in with! Jim, one weekend I had a cell by myself. The toilet didn't work, it had overflowed all over the floor, but that was the best weekend I had yet. The animals they throw me in with-"

  "I guess that could get pretty bad," Planchet said. "What do you want me to do? The jail's county, not city. I don't have any control over it. That's the sheriff's department."

  "But can't you do something?"

  "We try. Every now and then a judge declares that jail 'cruel and inhuman' and there's a big brouhaha about 'reforms,' but it never amounts to anything."

  "Yeah, but what can I do? I'm at the end of my rope, Jim."

  "I suppose," Planchet said. He lifted a microphone from a desk drawer. "Emil, see if you can get Mr. George Harris-spelled like it sounds-set up for VIP treatment at county jail. He's on one of those weekend detention work furlough programs. Reports on Saturday morning and gets out Sunday night. At least try to get him a better class of cell mate. County owes us a couple, call in one of our favors." He put the microphone back in the desk. "There. My assistant will get on it in the morning."

  Harris looked genuinely relieved.

  "Can't promise," Planchet warned. "But I think things will change for the better. A little better, anyway."

  "Thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot." He drained his glass. "Oh. About your fund raiser. I think I can get some of the guys at the Athletic Club to buy tables. It'd be easier, though, if you'd show up once in a while." He looked accusingly at Planchet's middle, which was beginning to hang over the Councilman's belt. "If you'd been that out of shape, you wouldn't even have made the team at USC."

  "Suppose you're right," Planchet said. That had been a long time ago, when Jim Planchet was a star running back. That hadn't hurt his political career, either.

  George patted his own flat stomach. "You ought to keep in shape, Jim. Work out sometimes."

  "Weekends in the pokey don't seem to have hurt you that way," Planchet said.

  "Hell they don't. The only way to exercise is regularly. Every damned day. And can you see me doing exercises in a cell with a screaming queen? But leave out how flabby you're getting, you ought to get to the club to meet the boys. Play a little poker once in a while. You'd be surprised how many friends you can make losing a couple of hundred bucks."

  Planchet nodded. "Good advice. Now when do I do it? I don't even have time to see my own son."

  "What's the problem?"

  Planchet shrugged. "Todos Santos, mostly. Lot of businesses in my district losing customers to that termite hill. Not much I can do, but they sure want me to try."

  Harris nodded in sympathy. "Yeah. They bring in their own construction people too. Buy everything from their favorites. For a while I thought I had a deal lined up selling them some electrical supplies, but they found somebody inside their shop to take care of it for them. Your constituents have a legitimate complaint. Todos Santos is exempt from most of the regulations that drive our businesses under."

  "Sure. But that was the only way they'd build the place," Planchet said.

  Fifteen years ago, Los Angeles had been glad to get Todos Santos. Terrorists had tried to start riots by starting fires in one of the ghetto areas. It had worked fine. They threw so many firebombs that they started a firestorm and burned down square miles of city, leaving a hideous, angry scar, a lot of people homeless, and unemployment soaring. When the consortium that owned Todos Santos offered to rebuild and create a hundred thousand jobs, and solve the fresh-water problem in the bargain, Congress and the state legislature and everybody else had fallen all over themselves to give the money people the incentives they demanded.

  Probably a mistake, Planchet thought. But it looked like a good idea at the time.

  "You ever have to talk money with Todos Santos?" Harris asked.

  "Not too often." Planchet got up and put his glass on the bar.

  Harris continued to talk as he followed Planchet to the party. "Be glad you never did. They've got a female shark you'd have to do business with. Beautiful woman, but cold as that iceberg they have out in the harbor. Hard as nails."

  When the waiter brought the check, Barbara Churchward took it before the young man across the table from her could protest. His look of dismay was interesting, and idly she wondered if he were worried about the deal he was trying to swing, or if he simply couldn't accept the idea of a woman paying for dinner.

  It never hurt to be nice, she thought. "It's all right, Ted," she said. "We own half of this place. I get a good discount."

  Not that it mattered a lot. Mr. Binghamton was in for a disappointment. Possibly several, if she'd correctly read his intentions for the rest of the evening. Not that it would be particularly unpleasant to let him show her his earnings report or wha
tever he was likely to use to induce her to his guest suite on Level 96. He was handsome, he was intelligent, he was personable … but she never mixed business with pleasure, as he was about to find out.

  And for that matter, she wasn't going to do any business with him tomorrow either. It had looked like a good deal, if a trifle complicated. She'd recently acquired a company that had an excellent outside sales force; in fact, the salesmen were better than the production staff. If she had a good home product line to add to their wares they could handle it fine.

  And Mr. Ted Binghamton represented an undercapitalized company that made excellent low-cost vacuum cleaners that her sales force could peddle door to door with very little retraining. The only problem was the "iceberg."