MEN DIES ABOUT IT

A Novel

by Edward McInnis

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to

Lynda Connolly for her invaluable assistance in preparing this book.

Website, book conversion & publication by Kendrick

* * *

"Could be a spoonful of coffee could be a spoonful of tea. But one little spoon of your precious love is good enough for me.

"Could be a spoonful of water to save you from the desert sand. But one spoon of lead from my forty-five will save you from another man.

"Men lies about it Men cries about it Men dies about it."

Spoonful by Willie Dixon

CHAPTER 1

"Castille!" Margie Wong shouted into the phone. "Betty Boop is missing!" "I know," I said, receiver gripped between my shoulder and ear while my hands strummed flamenco chords on my gitbox. "She was last seen on screen in a Talkartoon in 1939." "Not that Betty Boop, you dope! My Betty Boop! Works for me? You always flirt with her? Betty Lum!" "Oh, that Betty Boop. Correction. She always flirts with me. Particulars, please." She babbled. I'd never heard her so shaken, rattled and roiled. "Excuse, Miss Margie," I interrupted in my Charlie Chan voice. "Please to slow down. Make haste only when withdrawing hand from mouth of tiger." "Maybe she's kidnapped!" "Kidnapped?" I asked. "Have you been inhaling synthehol again?" "I'm serious!" "What makes you think she's been kidnapped?" "She didn't come to work Friday or today," she said. "Maybe she's ill." "She would have called." "Maybe she took a mini-vacation with her family and forgot to tell you," I said. "Her husband..." "Mister Boop?" "Ha ha," she said. "He called here looking for her. In fact, he's here right now. Nobody has seen Betty all weekend." "Call the cops." "I did! I went with Mr. Lum to the police station. Filled out a missing persons report." "And?" I asked. "They told us about the thousands of adults who go missing every day for a dozen different reasons." "What are they going to do about it?" "Far as I can tell, nothing," she said. "Keep an eye out for her. Whatever that means. Now I see why you say cops are useless." "You actually agree with me about something," I said. "Which means you're buttering me up. To do...?" "You know." "But I want to hear you say it." "You're so childish," she said. "Someone down the hall's calling me. Have to hang up." "All right! Come here to talk with Mr. Lum. I want you to look for Betty. Satisfied?" "No," I said. "Why not?" "Because I don't look for missing persons," I said. "I find them."

CHAPTER 2

A grim black man in his 20's swaggered into my office, wearing cashmere coat, shaved head and an exaggerated air of indifference. Youngblood with roller coaster coked-up eyes. "You Castille?" he asked. "And exorbitantly glad of it," I said. "Have a seat." "I stand." "They also serve who stand and wait," I said. "How can I help you?" "Not me," he said. "Help Queen Cleopatra." "Queen Cleo...? Oh. Sister Flukie." "That her slave name. Now she Queen Cleopatra. Right righteous ruler of the Combat Zone." "I know," I said. "I christened her." "You?" "What does she want?" "Say fly a kite to Castille," he said. "What?" "Queen Cleo want a sit-down." "When?" I asked. "Tonight. Midnight." "The witching hour. Where?" "Hot Spot," he said. "The clitoris of Boston. Why?" "War coming." "Rather awkward on such short notice," I said. "Have to get my armor - you know, gauntlet, helmet and chain mail tunic - out of storage. But I'll be there. Brass fittings and all." "You best be there." "And your name?" "Laughing Death," he said. "You haven't even cracked a smile." "Cause you ain't dead. Yet."

CHAPTER 3

Walking from one end of Chinatown to the other in the scolding cold air of early December, I pondered. Sister Flukie had rejected my strenuous voice-straining advice to leave Boston on the first available plane, train, boat, wagon or any other means of conveyance she deemed fit. Instead, Sister Flukie - zombified slave-daughter of King Pimp, recently deceased lord and master of the Combat Zone - had transformed herself into Queen Cleopatra. The new maximum leader of the Zone. And, as I predicted, her rule would be challenged. And, as I knew full well, like Sysyphus - doomed to push a boulder up a hill only to see it fall to the bottom of the hill, over and over and over - I would be sucked back into the epic vortex of violence. Sigh. I said aloud in my Godfather voice: "Every time you get out, they pull you back in."

CHAPTER 4

At the Chinatown Service Center, Pinky Tran, receptionist, sat behind her desk. Head bowed, tissue in hand, she cried hard. Real hard. Three early-20's Chinese Vietnamese gangster types jeered and sneered in Cantonese at Pinky. Counselors and clients peeped around flimsy cubicle walls, not daring to get involved. But not wanting to miss the show. "Impudent rapscallions!" I said. The three stopped taunting Pinky. They turned to look at me. The same three jamokes I had booted out a month before for the same incivility. This time, I studied their scorn-savoring faces. Two looked away. One dead-eyed me. The leader. Though short, he gave the impression of being taller by his erect posture. He had shoulder-length black hair, jutting chin, smug arrogance engraved in his features. He studio-gangster stared at me. "I am Hung!" he announced. "I don't care if you're drawn and quartered," I said. "Told you before. Leave her alone." "She no good!" he burst out with surprising resentment, with seemingly genuine indignation. "Why not?" I asked. "She nigger-lover! No good! I learn from you!" "Me?" I asked, astonished. "You teach me! I learn! Very well!" No idea what he was talking about. "Out!" I commanded. "I leave," smirked Hung. "But someday..." "Someday your prince will come," I said. "But until then. Out!" Two shambled by me. The leader - the great and mighty Hung - walked boldly, eyes locked with mine. He actually curled his upper lip in contempt. Seen too many Grade-Z American action films. If he had a waxed mustache, he would have twirled it. Pinky still cried but quietly. "Same reason?" I asked. She nodded. Then looked up at me, teardrops still raining from sorrow-clouded eyes. "Castille, you think I should stop see Calvin?" "Why?" I asked. His name was actually 'Kelvin.' But no matter how many times he corrected her, she still pronounced it as 'Calvin.' "So much trouble because he black," she said. "Vietnamese and Chinese no like black people." "Do you and Kelvin like each other?" "Of course," she said. "Love each other?" "Think so." "I can't tell you what to do," I said. "But if you find someone in this Godforsaken grave-digging world to love? You're lucky." "I think so too. I am lucky to have Calvin. When I gamble, I always think luck better than skill." "Not exactly what I meant." "Margie wait for you," she said, drops drying, eyes rainbowing. "You go back her office now. Okay?"

CHAPTER 5

With Margie sat two Chinese males, adult and child. The boy hunched over a small table off to the side, frowning fiercely as he drew with pencil on paper. The man, seated in front of Margie's desk, wore a gray business suit. His black hair was fading to gray. Even his skin looked gray. Though his professional mask was inoffensive, modest, bland, his true expression was worried, weary, worn. "Castille," said Margie. "You remember Mr. Lum, Betty's husband. And Little Ming, Betty's son." "Sure," I said, shaking his hand. His grip felt limp, reluctant, weak. Shock? Fear? Guilt? "Hi, Ming!" I said to the boy. "Hi," he said softly, without looking up from his drawing. Ming took after his petite mother. Ten years old, he looked a sickly seven. I felt bad for him. If he didn't master the Dim Mak Death Touch soon, he'd be bullied during his whole adolescence. "Castille will get Betty back," said Margie confidently, as I sat down. I wish I was as lay-down-my-life certain of myself as she was of me. Wandering wife jobs were sometimes a bit of a sticky wicket. "Yes, of course," said Mr. Lum, without conviction. "I'm sure you've told the story several times," I said. "But if you can stand it one more time, I'd like to hear it from your own lips." Margie poured steaming tea into small white porcelain cups for the adults. "Yes, of course," repeated Mr. Lum, again without conviction. He was sure I couldn't help. But he would go through the motions if that's what society, propriety, Margie wanted. "When did you first realize Betty was missing?" "Almost right away," said Mr. Lum, tonelessly. "I work in the financial district. Betty works here. And Ming goes to Chinese School after regular school. We all get out around the same time. "Betty gets Ming. I walk over. We usually meet at Ming's school, a few blocks over. Then we walk to the parking garage on Beach Street and drive home to Randolph." "Simple enough," I said. "So what happened?" "Friday, when I got to the school, Betty wasn't there. I went inside and got Ming. He hadn't seen her. I asked the other parents, teachers, administrators. They hadn't seen her either." "What did you do then?" "We waited for a while," he said. "Then we walked here. Margie was still working..." "And I told him," interrupted Margie, "that Betty left at five p.m. as usual." "Did she seem different in any way?" I asked. "Different?" asked Margie. "Depressed? Overly happy? Excited? Anything out of the ordinary? Like she just learned she had leprosy? Or that she just won the lottery?" "She was her usual cheerful self," said Margie. "So between 5:00 p.m., when you saw her, Margie. And 5:15 or so, Mr. Lum?" "Yes." "And 5:15 p.m. when Betty usually arrived at the school," I said, "she vanished into wind-thin air." "Yes," said Mr. Lum, eyes hanging down. "Seemingly," said Margie, forehead furrowing. "And when you got home," I asked, "there was no sign of her having gone there?" "No," said Mr. Lum. "And there was no sign that any of her things were missing or disturbed?" "No," said Mr. Lum. He looked like he'd been run over by a steam roller. "How you holding up?" I asked. "Fine," said Mr. Lum, woodenly. "No, really," I said. "How do you feel?" "Like a bird without a branch to land on." Margie scooted out from behind her desk to pour him more tea and cluck soothingly. His features had collapsed into profound heart-pain. Talking about his wife's disappearance was distasteful, even shameful. Though it wasn't his fault, he somehow shouldn't have let it happen. A guy thing that transcended ethnic boundaries. The humiliating helplessness he felt at being unable to protect his family. How I felt when Diedre was killed. They both looked at me expectantly. "Well, Dick Tracy?" challenged Margie. "First, the bad news," I said. "Every year in the United States, ten million persons go missing." "Ten million!" exclaimed Margie. "Impossible!" "The good news," I said. "95% of them return home." "That still leaves half a million people unaccounted for," said Margie. "The bad news: to disappear is not a crime. Law enforcement seldom gets involved looking for missing adults." "They only look for children?" Margie asked. "Pretty much. The FBI has a special unit, but only for children believed to be abducted. Even then, the G and the mass media coverage - which can help - usually only get involved if it's a young white woman or girl. Especially if the family is rich." "Racist bastards," muttered Margie. "And classist," I said. "When was the last time you saw a missing Asian or, for that matter, a black person on TV and told to keep your eyes open for them?" "Still, half a million missing and unaccounted for." "The good news," I said. "Some people run away several times a year. And, even though it's the same person, it's recorded as several incidents of missing persons." "So the actual number is less than half a million," said Margie. "The bad news," I said. "If an adult missing person is located by the authorities - remember, it's not a crime - they must give their express consent for the authorities to tell their families where they are." "That's not right!" objected Margie. "Depends whether or not they want to be found." "Any more good news?" "Most adults return within the week. I'd expect the same for Betty. Mr. Lum, I'll look into it. But I'm sure Betty will come back soon. Most do." He didn't look too convinced. I stood up and went over to Little Ming. He hadn't looked up once though he had heard everything we said. I squatted so we were eye to eye. Except he never took his eyes off the paper, on which he kept drawing. "What are you drawing?" I asked. "Polar bear." "Like polar bears?" "Yeah," he said, still drawing. "How come?" "Because polar bears are the smartest bears. They're the Einstein of bears." "Wow," I said. "I didn't know that." "My mummy's gone," he said casually. "I know." "Do you know where she went?" "Not yet," I said. "Do you think she still loves me?" "Yes." "Then why did she go away?" he asked, still looking down, still drawing. "I don't know. But I hope she'll be back soon." "I hope so, too. I miss her. Know why polar bears are white?" "Why?" I asked. "To blend in with the snow," he said, his eyes filling with tears. "So nobody can see them and take them away."

CHAPTER 6

After Mr. Lum and son departed, Margie said: "Now tell me the real reason people disappear." "What I told you and Mr. Lum," I said, "are the real reasons." "But the ones that never return? What happens to them?" "Theories to consider: some are murdered and their bodies buried." "Gross," she said. "Beastly, to be sure," I said. "Some are kidnapped by human traffickers. Made into sex slaves. Sold overseas or here in the States." "Don't say that," she said. "What else?" "As I said earlier, some get sick of their lives and just up and walk out. They leave behind their wallets, money, credit cards, keys, even unfinished meals and cigarettes still lit in ashtrays." "Any more?" "People in witness protection or relocation programs," I said. "Victims of domestic abuse. Amnesia. Dementia. Severe depression. Anxiety. Drugs. Alcohol. Crime, especially rape. Victims too ashamed to go home. Then the lunatic fringe have their beliefs." "Such as?" Margie asked. "Sudden supernatural disappearance. Some claim to have seen it happen. Religious. The Rapture. Jesus Christ whisks some people up to heaven. Again, supposed witnesses. Some slide into an invisible dimension. Alien abductions. And my all-time favorite. Spontaneous combustion." "God help the human race," Margie said. "I had a wandering wife job," I said. "Hired by the husband. I found his wife. In a motel two towns away. Covered with bruises. She begged me not to tell her husband." "Did you?" "Of course not." "Did he pay you for your time?" she asked. "Of course not." "So now what?" "It's like this, my dear Margie," I said. "Either Betty disappeared of her own free will. Or she was disappeared against her will." "Brilliant deduction. But I can't imagine her just up and leaving her job, her family, her life." "You'd be surprised," I said. "Every year, thousands of people up and leave their lives. Of their own volition." "Why?" "Who knows?" I shrugged. "They're sick of their jobs, their families, their lives. Think things will be different - better - if they become different persons in a different place." "I doubt that happens." "I share your doubt. But obviously they don't. Most times their co-workers and families are completely dumbfounded." "If Betty's really missing, she was taken against her will," Margie declared. "But by whom? Hm? That's the question." "That's the Holy Grail of your quest." "So now I'm a knight of the round table," I said. "You'll always be my knight in shining armor." "Bless you, fair shrew," I sighed. "In other words, I'm working pro bono publicum." "For the good of the people," Margie enthused. "Sir Castille. High of mind. Great of heart. Noble of soul." "And small of bank account," I said. She laughed in such a way as to replenish her Margie-ness. I turned serious. "Margie, why does Betty sexualize everything?" "Like what?" "You like to say I flirt with her. Truth is, she flirts with me. And others." "It's innocent," she said. "But there's a persistent pattern." "Such as?" "At your tres chic soirees, she's always the life of the party," I said. "Flaunting her body. Dancing with men other than her husband. Who clearly doesn't like it. In fact, he always looks mortified." "Just the way she is," Margie dismissed my statement. "More. The time I helped them move from Chinatown to Randolph." "What about it?" "When I knocked on their door," I said, "she answered wearing pajamas." "Early in the morning." "But the whole rest of the day, she kept saying I had 'bagged her' in her pajamas. Like I was a big game hunter and she my quarry. Who I had 'bagged.'" Margie looked out the window, protected by thick black wrought iron bars. In the middle, the iron was curved. In the form of the characters for Double Happiness. A sure deterrent against burglars. "Forget about all that," she said. "Just find her." What was she not telling me? "Sometimes, on the street, she wolf-whistles at me. Loudly. I couldn't believe someone so small could generate so much volume. And not just me. I've seen her do it to other guys." "If a guy wolf-whistles, nobody thinks it's odd. But if a woman does it, she should be locked up. Is that what you're saying?" "Of course not and you know it," I said. "She whistles at men. So what?" "And finally, her strange, almost perverse identification with Betty Boop. The very high heels. The very short skirts. The short hair, stylish in the 1920's, right down to the spit curls. Gold bracelets. The big hoop earrings. Her eyes made up to look huge. Very adult and sexy. Yet she also conveys a sense of little girlishness." "What difference does it make?" Margie asked, exasperated. "Just find her." "The more I know about her, the more it will help me find her. What don't you want to tell me?" "Nothing. Find her." "How?" I asked. "You're the detective." "What I'm trying to do. Detect. How well do you know Mr. Lum?" "You suspect Mr. Lum? Impossible!" "My dear Margie," I said in my Sherlock Holmes voice. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." "You're so annoying when you use that voice." "Nevertheless, not only do I suspect Mr. Lum until his involvement is proven impossible. But, as you must know, in such cases, the husband is always the prime suspect." "Then investigate him," she said. "A splendid idea, my devoted inamorata. Sergeant Castille and his Howling Commandoes are officially on the case."

CHAPTER 7

"But where are the hoes of yesteryear?" I asked Sho Sho in what used to be The Tunnel stripjoint. Until Rat bullet-in-the-brain shuffled off this mortal coil and left the place to her. The roof had a gap, grand and gracious, politely inviting in sunlight for the first time in dim decades. Carpenters sawed and hammered, plumbers plumbed, electricians electrified. "Auctioned off all the Zone stripjoint crap," said Sho Sho, in a three-piece charcoal gray pantsuit instead of short skirt. "I'm going to be in the Theatre District. Cabaret. Singers, bands, dancing, different kinds of acts." "Auction?" "Professional auctioneer," she said. "Knew her stuff. Got me some real cash. Which I'll need to pay all these workers." "How did the auction work? I ask purely out of professional curiosity." "I flew kites to all the Zone owners and managers. They or their reps came two days ago. I was surprised at the turnout." "They actually bid against each other?" I asked. "For every item?" "The booths, bar stools, parquet wooden runway for the dancers, liquor, see-through mirrors, 1,000-watt spotlights, jukebox, champagne buckets." "The works," I marveled. "Souvenir. All that's left," she said, handing me a can labeled 'Shinola. Powdered dance floor wax. For all types of Dance Floors.'" "So the girls wouldn't slip on the runway," she added. "And hence the phrase, 'Doesn't know shit...'" "'...from Shinola.'" she finished. "And so the metamorphosis proceeds," I said. "Upward and onward," Sho Sho beamed. "Speak of metamorphosis, it's personal as well as professional." "Ace detective that I am, I noticed a slight alteration in your appearance. You're no longer the blue-eyed blonde- haired dream girl of American fantasy." "I wore blue-tinted contact lenses and dyed my hair. But from now on, I'm me. Brown eyes, brown hair. And I prefer to be addressed not as Sho Sho but by my given name." "Which is?" I asked. "Shoshana. Hebrew for 'rose.'" "A rose by any other name," I said, "would smell as sweet." "No. A rose is a rose is a rose," she said. "That's who I am. I'm sick of trying to pass as a shiksa. I embrace my roots." "Speaking of roots," I said. "Keeping the name The Tunnel?" "Crazy? Sounds like a bowling alley." "What then?" "The Open Gate," said Shoshana proudly. "Not bad, huh?" "Uncommonly keen." A young white woman came up to Sho Sho. I mean, Shoshana. "Coupla guys to see you." "Must be the roofers," said Shoshana. "Later, Castille." She walked away. The young woman smiled and smiled at me. She was pretty and bright-eyed but in some way seemed simple-minded. "I know you?" I asked. "Damn right you know me! Trixie!" "Trixie!" I exclaimed. Trixie was a trick-or-treat Tinkerbell without a Peter Pan; a goofy Gretel without a Hansel; a smoking snorting Snow White without a dwarf - not even Dopey. "Didn't recognize you. First time I've ever actually seen you with clothes on." "Shocking, ain't it?" she asked. "Nowadays, Heaven knows. Anything goes." "I kicked the religion addiction twice. And Shoshana nice enough give me another chance here. Gonna be awesome. No more stripping. Ain't Godly anyway. Gonna have legit dinner theatre." "Anybody else staying?" "Let's see." She twisted up her face like a corkscrew. "Lady Godiva, Vicky Paradise, Heather Divine leaving." "Why?" "Don't think they'll make any money. So putting themselves on the Stroll." "Frying pan to fire," I said. "Who's staying?" "Me, Regular Monique and Monique Called Sleek. Gone be cool." "Get out!" Shoshana yelled at the two roofers. One white. One black. They didn't leave but advanced on her. I walked over, stood next to Shoshana. "Prob?" I asked. The goons sized me up; as I did them. The white guy looked gonged to the gills, probably from ganja. No doubt just returned from a fact-finding tour to Jamaica. The black guy had ice cubes for eyes. And probably a heart as cold as Iceland's inland sea. "She late in her payment," the black guy said. "What payment?" I asked. "Combat Zone tax. Rat always pay on time." "Because Rat had a strip joint in the Zone," said Shoshana. "This will be a legitimate operation in the Theatre District." "Nuh uh," said the black guy. "This in Zone. Boundary Stuart Street." "Physically, yes," said Shoshana. "But, conceptually, I'm in the Theatre District. If you want to beg money outside on the street, next time bring your harmonica." "King Pimp is dead," I said. "Who you collecting for?" "Dijjy Doo," the black guy said. "New King of the Zone." "You heard the lady," I said. "She's not in the Zone." "Conceptually," sneered the white guy. "But physically? In the Zone." "Get outa my club, bloodsuckers!" shouted Shoshana. Everybody stopped what they were doing to watch. "You pay," said the black guy. "We leave." "I'm not paying," said Shoshana, folding her arms. "A broch tov dir! That's Yiddish for 'a curse on you!'" "Your choice, Jewball," the white guy said. "Gold or lead." "How dare you threaten me in my own place of business?" fired back Shoshana. "Boundary is Stuart Street," the white jamoke said. "You're in the Zone." "Physically, yes, I grant you," said Shoshana, tired of explaining. "But conceptually? No. That's why I sold off all the stuff. No more stripjoint. A cabaret. Hence, Theatre District." "I don't care if you're opening an aquarium or a planetarium," the jamoke said. "You're in the Zone. So. Give us our money or we give you a bullet." "Get outa here!" Shoshana yelled into the jamoke's face. "Or I'll call the police!" "Police?" the guy laughed with genuine delight. "Oh God! That's a good one!" I took one step forward. The jamoke abruptly stopped laughing. He sized me up anew. "You lookin' for trouble?" he asked. "Let me guess," I said. "Trouble is your middle name." "No," he said. "Rodney?" I asked, hopefully.

CHAPTER 8

"No," he said. "And you are?" "That's right," I said. "I am." "You are what?" he asked, puzzled. "Foe of louts. Exterminator of brutes." "Then you don't get a choice," he said. "For you? Lead." "You threaten with such charming frankness," I said. "But play time is over. Put on your learning helmets. See if you can absorb this. Get out and don't come back." "Back off, buddy," he said. "And if I don't?" I asked. "My trial," he said. "But your funeral." "Out," I said. He gave me the hard stare. I stared back. "I thought we could conduct our business polite-like," he said. "I'm the very periwinkle of politeness," I said. "So I'm asking you politely. And for the last time. Get out." "Whudda you?" he asked. "Tough guy?" "From time to time, I've dabbled in toughness," I said pleasantly. "Leave. Or else." "Or else what?" "You don't want to know. Just the thought of it makes even me shudder." "Maybe you're right," he said, turning away. Did he think I was still in kindergarten? Of course, it was a feint. He suddenly turned back and uncorked a hard straight right punch at my face. I sidestepped to the outside of his right arm. The momentum of his missed punch carried him forward. I could have evaded his punch to the inside of his right arm and socked him on the jaw. But I might have injured my hand and ruined my guitar playing for a week. Or two. My left hand gripped the back of his shirt collar. I bent low - as he started to pull back from his overthrown punch - and my right hand gripped his belt from behind. Using his now returning movement, I bent lower and pulled his body, face up, onto my shoulders. I had complete control. He was like a turtle on his back, six feet off the ground. "Put me down!" he yelled. The black guy moved toward me. "Sure!" I said. "You need a little more top spin in your life!" I threw the white guy off my shoulders, over my head, right into his partner. They fell in a heap. All the workers laughed; some applauded. Disentangling and standing, the red-faced white guy shouted: "You'll live to regret this!" "Strange," I said. "Most recipients of my humble lessons of motion say I'll die regretting it." "We'll be back!" the black guy shouted at Shoshana. "Remember! Gold or lead!" "Ain't getting it, shnorrers!" Shoshana shouted at their retreating backs. "Chamber of Commerce Welcome Wagon?" I asked her. "You heard him. Collecting Combat Zone tax for some creep Dijjy Doo. Rat used to pay Zone tax to King Pimp. Except I..." "I know," I interrupted. "You're not in the Zone." "I'm in the Theatre District," she said. Everyone still gawked at us. "Back to work!" "Shnorrer?" I asked. "Yiddish for sponger. Beggar. Parasite who thinks others owe him a living." "And where's Tappy?" I asked. "I let him go." "Why?" "No need for security now," said Sho Sho. "Why not?" "No more strip club. Going to be a legit operation." "You're still in the Zone," I said. "Conceptually, I'm in the Theatre District." "I don't think the Zonies are capable of appreciating the fine distinction. Conceptually." "I have nothing to do with the Zone," she said. "But the Zone has everything to do with you." "I'll be fine." "No, Sho Sho," I said. "You won't be fine." "Shoshana," she corrected me. "Shoshana. You can change your name and your hair color and the name and nature of this joint. But it won't change the greed of Zone gangsters or the violence of their goons." "I told you. Forget about it." "And when - not if - they come back?" I asked. "I can handle them. Theo will help." "Where is Theo?" "On a well-deserved vacation," she said. "Theo is a bartender. Not a bouncer." "I'm sick of arguing," she said. "Don't worry about it." I shrugged. "What we don't learn the easy way," I said. "We will learn the hard way."

CHAPTER 9

I followed Mr. Lum after work on the Expressway to the Randolph exit and to rustic bucolic Cherry Lane where he parked in his driveway. He, never thinking anybody would follow him, was oblivious to my car stopped three houses away. He and Little Ming trudged up the steps and into their house. Now what? Wait. One step at a time. Definitely eliminate Mr. Lum as a suspect. Then move on. Stake-outs were the most tedious part of the job. Wait and watch, watch and wait, until your eyes become watery and your brain squishy. But around 8 p.m., Lum emerged - Was he actually skulking? Was he literally peering into the darkness in every direction? - and stealthily sneaked into the garage. The game was afoot. What anti-wifely criminality was this mild-mannered Bluebeard perpetrating? What nefarious negation of his sacred nuptials was this nightcrawler committing? What15abominable atrocity, what infamous iniquity, what depraved degeneracy was he visiting upon poor innocent Betty Boop? O the loathesome creature's guilt was obvious. But one can sometimes leap to conclusions like an Olympic broad jumper. Especially in the P.I. biz where one continually sees the baser side of humanity. Mr. Lum emerged from the garage with two trash barrels, a handle in each hand. He put them on the sidewalk and, without a guilty glance, went back inside the house. Still. There I was. Perhaps a timely drop-in to search the premises for signs of skullduggery. I got out of my car, walked down the street and up the flagstone path and stone steps, and knocked on the door. "Mr. Castille!" Lum exclaimed in surprise, giving me a slantendicular look. "I come in?" "Of course." I entered directly into the living room. Beyond was a kitchen. To the right, a hallway leading to other rooms and, one presumed, upstairs. At the kitchen table sat Little Ming, drawing. He didn't even look up when I came in. We sat down. Mr. Lum leaned forward eagerly. "What brings you here?" he asked. "You have news of Betty?" "No," I said. "But it would be good to definitively eliminate you as a suspect." "You suspect me?" He nearly jumped out of his chair. "Not personally," I said. "But, professionally in such matters, it's best to follow protocol." "Yes. The husband is always a suspect," he said, nodding his head up and down. "So it's best to clear that up first." "Exactly. I'm glad you understand." "So what can I do?" "Nothing," I said. "Let me search the house and premises." "For evidence of foul play?" "Do you object?" I asked. "Not at all," he said. "How is the splendid little fellow taking it?" I asked, nodding toward Little Ming. "Not too well," said Mr. Lum sadly. "He constantly draws but says very little." "Pity," I said. "But to be expected. I'll make the search as short and simple as I can." "Go right ahead." I went right ahead. I searched downstairs, upstairs, cellar, garage - no visible instruments of torture - and the back yard. I used my trusty industrial-strength flashlight. More like a spotlight. No freshly dug grave in the backyard. I came back to the living room. "Well?" asked Mr. Lum. "No signs of foul play. I can report to Margie the Merciless that, to all appearances, you are as innocent as a newly laid egg under a full moon." "Good," said Mr. Lum. He seemed innocent enough. One last interrogation trick. I leaned forward confidentially and asked: "Is there anything you want to tell me?" "About what?" he frowned. "Anything you feel like getting off your chest?" I asked. "Not that I know of," he said, seemingly baffled by my questions. "Are you absolutely sure you don't want to tell me something about...Betty?" "I miss her terribly," he said. "I hope you find her. Is that what you mean?" Sometimes, if you gave a guilty person a space to step into, the guilt compelled them to take that step. But not Mr. Boop. I mean, Mr. Lum. "That's what I mean," I said, leaning back. Little Ming had hardly changed posture, hunched over the kitchen table. I walked over. He drew, using pencil and paper, with fierce concentration. "Hey, Ming," I said. "What are you doing?" "Drawing," he said, without looking up. "What are you drawing?" "A weird S." "A weird S," I said. "I've always wanted to see a weird S." He sat back so I could see. Yup. A weird S all right. "Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?" I asked. "How can I grow up without a mummy?"

CHAPTER 10

"Love what you've done with the place, Flukie," I said. Instantly, six guys - including my new pal, Laughing Death - surrounded me, pointing guns at my head. Midnight. Back room of the Hot Spot. No longer a Sahara oasis. Now it was an Egyptian palace. Luxuriant tapestries covered most of the walls. Purple, green, yellow, blue. Where the walls were uncovered, someone had painted 'ancient' Egyptian court personages distinguished by their sideways postures. A coffer stood on four legs; sides and top adorned with hieroglyphics. Around the room flickered flames in gold-plated lamps. Sister Flukie no longer sat on a throne but reclined on a low divan on the platform. Two young black women fanned her with ostrich feathers. Another painted her toenails sparkly gold. Gone was Flukie's trademark silvery sequined gown. Now she wore a short-sleeved low-cut ankle-length dress, cinched at the waist, with white stripes on the sides from the waist down. Her head and face were treats to behold. A necklace of gold and lapis lazuli. Heavy gold earrings like chandeliers. Her long straight black hair ended in multi-colored beads and golden tassels. Her face was heavily made up, especially her eyes. Thick indigo blue dye surrounded each eye and continued an inch toward her temples. Above each eye was a curved blue line. A dozen wide gold bangles on each forearm clacked every time she moved her hands. Additionally, on her right wrist was a gold bracelet in the form of a striking snake with mouth open and long fangs. At her slender waist, she wore a slim gold-handled dagger in a gold scabbard. On a small side-table stood a golden goblet to put to her sovereign lips. And one concession to modernity: a mound of cocaine and, to cut into thin lines to snort, a playing card, face down. The room was crowded with her posse, in faux-Egyptian garb. Probably purchased at Boston Costume Shop. Discount for volume. Instead of blasting pop music, some poor sap played 'ancient Egyptian music' on a weird stringed instrument. Behind her stood two muscleheads with Uzi machine pistols. They wore Godawful gaudy outfits. Headdresses like glued-on bubbles, brightly multi-colored garments and, next to their right eyes, painted indigo blue eyes. Perhaps to extend their peripheral vision. This scene was familiar. Where? What? A past-life regression to ancient Egypt? Surely, I was a pharaoh or a priest who knew the secrets of life and death and rebirth. Wait a minute. I realized Sister Flukie had modeled herself on Elizabeth Taylor in the 1963 4-hour film extravaganza Cleopatra. Probably best if I didn't mention it. The six jamokes dressed for an ancient Egyptian Halloween party still aimed their guns at me. "Sister Flukie dead," Sister Flukie said in a voice slurfled with drink and drugs. The new regime was off to a great start. "Reborn Queen Cleopatra." She picked up the coke-cutting playing card and turned it over for me to see. Queen of spades. "Punishment for using wrong name, death." "Must you be so melodramatic?" I asked, rolling my eyes. "But cause you help me, Ah decree you live." The six guys holstered their guns. "Next time?" she added. "You dead." "For this relief, much thanks," I said. "Your serene majestic pomposity." "You welcome," she said graciously. Was that Atomic Honeybee I saw in the crowd? "Watch this!" Cleo commanded. "Honey Jill!" A young black woman stepped out of the crowd. Her name and face were familiar. Yes. She was with Crazy F that night in No Regrets in the Theatre District. She must have been down and desperate to have to crawl to Flukie/Cleo. "Yes, Queen Cleopatra?" she asked, robot-like. "Down, girl, down!" Honey Jill instantly dropped to all fours. "Bark!" commanded Cleo. Honey Jill emitted a pitiful whimper. Everybody laughed. Honey Jill's face turned red. "Like a dog, dammit!" yelled Cleo. "You bitty bitch of a nigette! Like a junkyard dog see a burglar climb the fence!" Honey Jill let loose a loud harsh yowling howl. Like a dog repeatedly bashed on the snout with an iron shovel. My face turned red in sympathy. King Pimp had constantly humiliated Cleo - when she was Sister Flukie - by this exact treatment. "Be an elephant!" Cleo ordered, laughing. Honey Jill put her left shoulder under her chin and lifted her left arm like an elephant's trunk. She bellowed. In an apparently pachyderm-like manner. The whole gang laughed. "Funny, huh?" Cleo asked me. Was this a test like King Pimp used to administer? "Hilarious," I said grimly. "Then why ain'choo laughing?" "Why do you think?" I asked, controlling my angry heart. "Don't know," said Cleo. "Why Ah axe." "Not the time or place. Later." "No. Now." The bodyguards lifted their Uzis, aimed them at my chest. "Ah axe a final time," Cleo said. "Ain't this some funny shit, Castille?" "No." Her smile became a frown. "Whatchoo mean 'no'? Evvabody laugh when King Pimp do it to me." "Not everybody," I said. "I didn't laugh then. I'm not laughing now." "Ah queen now. Do what Ah want." "But do you really want to do it?" Cleo cast a contemptuous look down at Honey Jill, still on all fours. "Remember Tabu Ley?" I asked. "Say who?" "Tabu Ley Trudeau. Black woman from France who tried to get better health and safety for the working girls in the Zone?" "Now Ah 'member," said Cleo. "Strut killed her. And you killed Strut." "My associate. The point is..." "Ah see the point. Queen Cleo ain't no dummy." "No question. You have a brain," I said. "Do you have a heart?" "What that mean?" Cleo asked. The heads of her gang swiveled between her and me, like spectators at a ping pong match. Except her bodyguards. "You know," I said. "No. Ah don't. Tell me." "In front of everyone?" "Ah don't have no secrets from mah peoples," she said. "Best say something. Ah like you and you help me. But, Ah swear, you don't speak? Ah'll..." "You're acting just like that sadistic fool, King Pimp," I burst out. "You humiliate Honey Jill just like King humiliated you. You even talk like him. Refer to yourself in the third person. You're turning into the person you hated the most. "King Pimp." "He mah father!" Cleo burst out. "Don't be dissing Queen Cleo's pops! He weren't perfect. But don't mean you can speak ill mah father. He the King! That some kinda rude. Specially in front of everyone here." "You insisted I speak now," I said, furious. "Wish Tony still alive," she said. "Maybe I feed you to him. Tony always like white meat. Even suck the marrow outcha lily white bones." "Tony's dead because King Pimp's abuse and maltreatment killed him." "Enough!" commanded Cleo. "Castille, you is close to stepping over the line! You and yo mouf. Chopper! Razor!" The two bodyguards came to attention. "Such a flaunting extravagant queen," I said. "Think you're better'n me?" she scowled. Guns out again. "No guns!" shouted Cleo. They put their guns away. "No, I'm not better than you," I said. "Nor are you better than Honey Jill. So by all that's unholy, let her up." Cleo pursed her lips in thought. "Castille speak truth. You make me feel 'shamed. Now you sayin' Ah ain't no better'n King Pimp if I mistreat wimmins like King did." "Yes," I said. "Get up and get lost!" said Cleo harshly. Honey Jill quickly got to her feet. Before disappearing into the crowd, she cast me a brief glance of gratitude. "Happy?" asked Cleo. "Ecstatic," I said. "So. You called. I came." "One thing King Pimp always say, Castille. Say you got a old head." "And getting older by the hour. What?" "War be coming," she said. "And?" "Want you be mah consigliere." "I would have thought," I said, "that Maria the Prophet would be your consigliere. Your main advisor." "Maria funny," she said. "See her sometimes. Axe advice. She have the gift. Second sight. Cast light on the future. And yet..." "And yet," I finished for her. "She chooses to live in darkness under the streets. 'The mysteries of the city are many.'" "Why Ah want you," Cleo frowned. "What say?"

CHAPTER 11

While I mulled, two Uzis remained pointed at me. Deep thinker that I was, I realized a 'No' would result in the swift termination of my existence on earth. Painful though life on earth was, I wished to exist a while longer. Plus, I hoped Cleo wouldn't be as greedy, violent and oppressive as King Pimp. Or the new pretenders to the throne. "One condition," I said. "What?" she asked. "Rat, late owner of The Tunnel, paid Zone tax to King Pimp." "Ah know," she said. "Even though Ah'ma slave, keep eyes and ears open." "Highly hygienic, I'm sure," I said. "However, The Tunnel is being renovated into a Theatre District club. No stripping, etc. Owner is a friend. Shoshana." "So?" "So one kind favor I ask of you," I said. "See that your grave is swept clean?" she asked. "That's a future favor. For the present, I ask your royal graciosity to make what used to be The Tunnel stripjoint on Tremont exempt from your tax." "Why, zackly?" asked Cleo. "New owner trying to go legit," I said. "Thinks of her new place as Theatre District, not Zone. Changing name from The Tunnel to The Open Gate. Plus, as I said, she's a friend. My one condition to be your consigliere." "One condition?" "One," I said. "Queen Cleo decrees it so." "In that case, nothing would give me greater pleasure, your royal highness," I said. "You gots to teach me talk that hifalutin' way." "Certainly. Maybe I can get you a spot in Burke's Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage. By the by, with whom are we at war?" "With whom. Ah likes that," she said. "But get to bidness. Ah decrees a war council." Sigh. "Blackie Driscoll's hiding out in the Ould Country, number one on the FBI's Most Wanted List. Pipe Billy is in the federal slammer for decades to come," I said. "King Pimp and Crazy F are dead. War with who? The Salvation Army?" "War with whom," she corrected me. "Whom?" I asked in mock surprise. "See?" she said, laughing. "You ain't the onliest one know proper English." "Apparently not. War with whom? Hm?" "When King and Crazy die? Zone split three ways. Those loyal to King, loyal to Crazy, loyal to me." "All Gaul is divided into three parts," I said. "What that mean?" "Famous opening line from Julius Caesar's classic Commentaries on the Gallic Wars." "What Gallic?" she asked. "Adjective for Gaul. Now called France." "So he be saying France split in three." "Yes," I said. "You gots a lotta stuff floating inside your brain box." "Got to fill it with something." "Castille. Queen Cleo want you be her consigliere," said Cleo. "And mah teacher 'bout classic books and proper English. All that good shit. What that called?" "Tutor." "Tutor. And consigliere. How 'bout that?" "A dream come true," I said. "Things change fast. King's men and Crazy's men join together under Dijjy Doo." "Who?" "King's bodyguard, but turned traitor," she said. "Call theyselves the KGB." "Earlier," I said, "I had the pleasure of throwing two of them out of Shoshana's. "So only two factions." "Another gang tryna take control." "Who?" I asked. "Buncha white trash honkies. Come outa nowhere." "Name?" "88 Sons of Satan," she said. "Hear a them?" "No." "So now again, all Combat Zone divided into three parts." "Are there eighty-eight of them?" I asked. "Twenty, twenty-five." "Then why 88?" "You know," she said. "Double H." "Thass right," she said. "'Sides, some a these menfolk in the Zone don't like paying they tribute to a female." "Even a queen as regal as yourself?" I asked. "Believe it. Course, I'm not axing you be mah enforcer. Got these muscleheads for that. But Ah 'member. When you King's consigliere, you allus give good advice. And you good at nee-go-she-a-shuns." "My pleasure is to serve." "So Queen Cleopatra want you negotiate with Dijjy Doo," she said. "Negotiate what?" I asked. "A truce. Start shootin' up downtown, the G heavies really roll up on us. You taught us that." The G meant the government, city to federal. Usually federal. Like the FBI. Or DEA. Or IRS. Or the whole accursed alphabet soup of agencies. "What kind of truce?" I asked. "Dijjy admit Ah the rightful heir to the Zone throne. He make his money. But give me mah tribute. And don't be stickin' his nose in mah business." "What hidey-hole is Dijjy presently infesting?" "Two To Two," she said. "Back room." "No doubt a most sumptuous command post," I said. "Now on," announced Cleo. "War Council meet every night here at midnight. Those fools don't make peace? Then they dead."

CHAPTER 12

I left the Hot Spot's back room, Queen Cleopatra's throne room, if you please - though technically she deposited her royal person on the divan which replaced the throne - through the steel-reinforced door to the bar area. Cloud of smoke, reek of booze, rank stench of sinners' sweat. And that certain indefinable scent Eau de Zone. "Have a seat," said a young black woman drinking at the bar. So it was her I saw. Atomic Honeybee. What did she want? I sat next to her. She wore on a gold chain around her throat a solid gold miniature replica of an AK-47 assault rifle. Embedded in her silvery fingernails were sparkling chips of diamond. "'Member me?" she asked. "The Polo Tournament Of The Grand Mogul Of Palookistan, wasn't it?" "When I with Crazy F at the Hotel de Gink," she said, smiling sardonically. "Crazy F. Such a happy little blood-spiller, bless his besmutched heart. And you had the pleasure and privilege of frisking me," I said. "A familiarity I rarely permit." "Naw, dawg," she said. "Had pleasure of goosing you." "Maybe I should file a sexual harrassment suit against you," I said. "You do," she laughed, "and next suit you wear be made of pine." "Drinking brandy?" I asked. "In this joint?" "Believe it or not," she said, holding a large snifter in her palm with the stem of the glass between her fingers. "This is Very Special Five Star Cognac from France. King had a special stock. Yes. In this joint. Have some." "Gave up alcohol. For Lent." "Lent's over. It's Advent. Leading up to Christmas." "After Lent, I didn't give up giving up. One too many nights when I couldn't tell which was spinning. The pillow, the room or me. Damnable altogether," I said. The bartender materialized. Had a face only a blind mother could love. "Whuddle it be?" he asked. "Cup of yak's milk," I said. "A what?" "Cape Cod Sunrise," I said. "Shaken. Not stirred." "Okay, Bond," said the bartender. "James Bond." "Honest," I said to Honeybee. "Supposed to be shaken. Not stirred." "Hey, I believe you. What's in it?" "Cranberry juice and lime juice." "Like to live dangerously, huh?" she asked, swirling the brandy in her glass, warming it with her palm. "Used to," I said. "Now I want to live sensibly." "How's that working out?" "Not too good," I said. "I'm in this joint at one a.m., aren't I?" The bartender delivered my drink. "Hope you're not driving," he muttered. "Castille, I'm sorry about what happened between us that night in the Hotel de Gink," said Honeybee. "Shouldn't've given you such a hard time." "No need to apologize," I said. "I with Crazy F? Get a little crazy myself." "Indeed, how could it be otherwise?" "Glad you feel that way," she said. "Now that we're on the same side. Had some run-ins with Dijjy Doo." "And?" "And, let's say, they were not pleasant." "Would you go so far," I asked, "as to say these so-called run-ins were unpleasant?" "I would go so far," she said. "But we should be able to put Dijjy Doo out of business. Least, that's what I want to do. I feel a whole lot better with you on my side." She smothered me with a smile that could melt an ice cube in Vladivostok. She was a charmer; I was half-smitten. Even if she did - without authority or permission - goose me. Saucy wench. "Idea," she announced. "Spill yer guts, sister," I said in my 1950's movie tough-guy voice. "Dijjy doesn't know I'm with you and Cleo. I'll tell him I want to soldier for him. He knows I have mad fighting skills. Whatever info I get, I'll feed back to you. Just you. Not Cleo. Whattaya think?" "Spy?" "Want to use that term? Okay," she said. "Makes sense. As Sun Tzu says, 'An army without spies is like a person without ears or eyes.'" "Sun Zoo from Chinatown?" she asked. "Can we get him to join us?" "Too late." "Too bad," she said. "Won't Dijjy smell a rat?" I asked. "No offense." "None taken. I will be a rat. Disguised as an attack dog." "In that case, you'd better not be seen entering or leaving the Hot Spot," I said. "Dijjy's probably got people watching." "Good thinking. But how...?" "Once, I took French leave by the window into the alley," I said. "But King Pimp had steel plates bolted over them after Crazy F tossed in a hand grenade." "Remember that," she said. "Didn't kill King though." "His other, loyal, non-Dijjy bodyguard fell on the grenade. Absorbed the blast. Otherwise, we'd have all been killed." "Used to think King had nine lives," she said. "Like a cat." "He was smart. And lucky. But just one life. Like any ordinary long-tailed, pointed-muzzle Madagascan lemur." She laughed. "I like you, Castille. Sense of humor. 'Preciate that in a man." Two compliments in ten minutes? Only report to me, not Cleo? Setting me up for a fall? Double-cross? Ambush? "Leave here first," I said. "Not with me. If Dijjy finds out and asks you, say you were thinking of fighting on Cleo's side. But you decided to go with Dijjy." "Good idea!" she enthused. "Maybe I can feed him false information!" Getting grandiose? Double agent? Think she's Mata Hari? This began to smell worse. My olfactory sensibilities were increasingly offended. But maybe I was wrong. It did happen once in a great while. Certainly, to know Dijjy Doo's battle plan would be of immense value. "Better stick to intel gathering at first. Cleo wants a war council every night at midnight," I said to her. "Sure you want to do this? I foresee pitfalls and perils, snags and snares." "Told ya. Score to settle with Dijjy Doo. He prolly forget. But, at the right moment, I'll remind him." "Mind how you go," I said. "Dijjy's a rather temperamental chap." "I can handle myself," she said. "And him." "When shall we two meet again?" "11:00 p.m. Before Cleo's midnight meetings," she said. "Where?" "A back booth in No Regrets," I said. "Theatre District. Know it?" "Yup. Tomorrow night." I waited a while and then walked out. As I had noticed coming in, King Pimp's white stretch limo with a diamond in the back was parked half up on the sidewalk. I noticed the only change. License plate. No longer K PIMP. Now: QUEENC.

CHAPTER 13

The Two To Two was the flagship of Zone dives adrift in a sea of alcohol. Open from two p.m. to two a.m., shutdown time for booze in Boston. The Zone's biggest strip joint with the longest runway in the biggest room. A back entrance in Chinatown with a sign in Chinese. Also a side room with a small stage for, shall we say, specialty acts. The Two To Two threw the best one-two punch in the bareknuckle brawl of the Zone: Princess Cherokee and Chesty Talbot. Ice and fire. Yin and yang. Royalty and salt of the earth. Princess Cherokee was an o-thentic descendant of Native American tribal kings and queens. Imperially slim, dark-skinned, long straight plum-black hair, high aristocratic cheekbones, small shapely breasts, with a no-nonsense presence and head held princess-high. Chesty, on the other hand, hailed from Revere (Ree-vee-ah), a working-class city just north of Boston. Voluptuous, pale-skinned, short curly strawberry blond hair, a 'Hiya boys! How the hell are ya?' manner and a reputed 73" bustline. Freakin' watermelons. For a measly twenty dollars - mere peanuts - a pickle-brained sot could have his picture taken with his noggin firmly nestled in her softly succulent bosoms. Life-size photos of Princess and Chesty in various alluring stages of undress flanked the entrance to the Two To Two. Princess with her haughty gaze. And Chesty with her, well, chest. And to complete the sophisticated facade, above the entrance, blue neon tubes in the shape of a woman's legs opened and closed continually. When wide open in a V, a ruby red neon star blinked at the convergence of thighs, symbolizing her sugar-bowl. Class. Pure class. Turning the corner onto Washington, I was dismayed to see flagrantly illegally parked cars. Fancy, pricey, new cars. Should I call the cops? Nope. Drivers of said cars were the cops. Most Boston cops were honest, hard-working. But the owners of these cars were the rotten worm-eaten corps of the Boston Police apple. These flashiest of the Force weren't even accurately called bad cops. They were anti-cops. Fat fingers in every illicit pie: extortion, drug dealing, gun-running, prostitution, protection rackets. They drove mean mint-new eye-grabbing Cadillac Eldorados, Lincoln Town Cars, Corvette Sting-Rays. Other cops called them - exclusively white and male - the Cadillac Squad. Separate and higher-statused group than your run-of-the-mill corrupt police called, in general, cousin cops. Cousins cops were younger and more diverse. Black, white, Latino, male, female. The Cadillac Squad all displayed on their windshields the Boston Police Association special 'bull's-eye' sticker. Any meter maid who dared issue a ticket for illegal parking would be transferred to Alaska. Above the Arctic Circle. Instead of fighting crime, and arresting and testifying against criminals, the Cadillac Squad facilitated, even participated in, crimes. As well as protecting criminals. Your basic rogue cops. The Cadillac Squad played the Obituary Lottery. Unlike ordinary people who checked the real lottery number to see if they'd won, the Cadillac Squad listened to their cop radios for reports of possible murders of crims at home, especially dope dealers. If they heard one, they raced their tricked-out Batmobiles to the scene. If first, they ransacked the crims' homes for drugs, guns, jewelry, cash. Inside the Two To Two, the music hammered my eardrums. On the long runway, a dishy young white woman - the Two To Two had the pick of the curvy crop - shucked her husk. Tattooed in big black letters on her side from armpit to knee: GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. At the end of the right aisle, a harassment of plain-clothes cops recklessly splashed drinks, lurched against other patrons, laughed lewdly and uncontrollably, brazenly groped the bar girls. The Cadillac Squad. Who guards the guardians? Nobody. Who watches the watchers? Nobody. Who polices the police? Nobody. They stood between me and the back room. Sigh. I walked down the drunken aisle, stools and bar and runway to my left, booths against the wall to my right. The animals had taken over the zoo. The clowns were in charge of the circus. The lunatics now ran the asylum. When I got near, they squinted and peered at me, like I was a Cubist painting come to life. A cop radio on the counter squawked. "Working hard, I see," I said. "Know the old saying," winked one. "Do nothing but do it well." "Most succinct," I said. "Don't mind me. I'm just passing through." "Know who we are?" "Irregulars of the Eighteenth Bengal Lancers?" "Not quite," one said. "Just passing through to where?" "To see Dijjy Doo," I said. "Reliable informants place him in the back room of this palace of pleasure." "Carrying?" demanded a 50-something porcine detective, wearing crumpled porkpie hat and rumpled Popeye Doyle clothes. Below his swimmy eyes and swill-ruined sniffer, he smirked like the caveman who invented the wheel. The leader. "Nope," I said. "Assume the position," his voice bullwhipped. "Pat him down, Coffee Nerves." Coffee Nerves approached me. Shakey-faced, with cement-tight sneer and pinball eyes. He wore a most unfortunate ensemble of wide plaid tie so loud I almost had to cover my ears, with a blue and green striped white shirt and a hound's tooth checked suit coat that went out of style before I was born. Village idiot in Coptown. And it takes a village to raise an idiot. I spread my legs and leaned forward, hands on the bar counter. He expertly frisked me. "Clean," he pronounced. I stood upright again. "Women and children can be careless," said the leader. "But men can't." "The Godfather," I said. "Right? Part One. No. Part Two. No. Definitely Part One." "My favorite film," said the leader, his pasty white Irish face streaked with gin blossoms. "May I proceed, gentlemen-at-arms and guardians of the faith?" I asked. "Whattaya want with Dijjy Doo?" the leader asked. "To ask for a charitable donation," I said. "What charity?" "The Order Of The Abhorrent Abominations of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence." They all froze, frowned or fish-eyed me for a long second. Then the leader laughed. On cue, they all guffawed and chortled. "You're all right, kid," said the leader. "Thing is, gotta donate to our charity to pass through." "Which is?" "Police Widows and Orphans Fund." "Do good work, do you?" I asked. "The best." "How much?" "How much ya got?" he asked. "What's the usual donation?" I asked. "A C-note." I took out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to the leader. Put it on the expense account for Cleo. "Go ahead," said the leader. "But don't forget. We're right here." Dijjy Doo and the Cadillac Squad. Bridging the racial divide. Keep hope alive.

CHAPTER 14

Surrounded by sycophants, Dijjy sat on a ramshackle elevated seat - a pathetic imitation of King Pimp's throne - smoking a hugiferous cigar. Festooned with so many metal piercings, ear rings, finger rings, gold chains and necklaces that he looked like an ambulatory pawn shop. "Whatchoo want, Castille?" he asked, pupils of his eyes like black thumbtacks. "White man come in peace," I said. "May leave in pieces." The flunkies laughed. "I'm an envoy of Queen Cleopatra," I said. "That off-brand kitty litter? What she want?" "To take her rightful place as Queen of the Combat Zone." "Her rightful place on her back," he said. "Legs spread." They all laughed. "Dijjy, you silver-tongued devil," I said. "You've spoken more in the last thirty seconds than you did in months as King's bodyguard." He shrugged. "Different game," he said. "Different rules. Now I king." "And these are your subjects?" "These my crew. Like Pipe Billy had his Bloodbath Koffin Boppers? And Blackie Driscoll, his Wild Wild Wasties? I got me a gang too." "Who?" I asked. "The KGB. Dope, huh?" "Way dopey. KGB. Named after the Russian secret police? How patriotic." "Say, who?" he asked. "Naw, man. KGB. Kings of Guns and Bullets." "I would have guessed Kindergarten Girls and Boys." Dijjy Doo sighed, put his cigar in a big glass ashtray, leaned forward and dead-eyed me. "I know you think you funny. And I know King Pimp thought you funny. But me? I..." "Let me guess," I interrupted. "You don't think I'm funny." "Thass right. You a know-it-all too. I don't like know-it-alls. And I don't like dudes think they funny when they ain't. So I..." "Let me guess," I interrupted again. "So you don't like me. Am I right?" "You right, mother-raper," said Dijjy Doo, smoldering with anger. "But just so's we don't have no misunderstandings, lemme innaduce my chief enforcement officer." Officer, yet. "Castille. Meet French Jack. He'd love to give you a greeting beating. Just give him a reason." French Jack was a barrel-chested behemoth with soot-colored skin and red, almost scarlet, hair. Highly unusual combination. He lit a Gauloise cigarette with a kitchen match, all the time giving me the hard stare. Then he snapped the match in two. Was he actually French? "Comment-allez vous?" I asked. He roared ferociously with sadistic razor-strap fervor. I think it was a form of laughter among his kind. "You're a most amusing fellow, Mr. Castille," said French Jack, with perfect English enunciation. "Aren't I, though?" I said, surprised. "One-man amusement park." "Personally, I prefer the library," said French Jack. "That is, when I'm not snapping peoples' heads off their necks." The way he said it was almost as if he were referring to my neck. Gulp.

CHAPTER 15

"So, Castille. Axe again. Whatchoo want?" "It's like this, Dijjy," I said. "King Dijjy," he corrected me. "Good name for a cartoon character. Daffy Duck. Bugs Bunny. King Dijjy." "Play safe. Get yo' mouf right." "Okay, King Dijjy," I said. "Queen Cleopatra is the daughter of the late demented King Pimp. By divine right via direct descent from the previous overlord, Cleo is now - by every law of God and man, by every law of the jungle and of nations - the sovereign ruler of the Combat Zone. "Therefore, I ask - in her name - that any pretenders to the throne lay down their arms and render due homage to Queen Cleopatra." "Man, you talk some mighty mighty trash," said Dijjy. "French Jack. You understand what this sauce-brain splifter talkin' 'bout?" "Sadly, my lord, I do," said French Jack. "What?" "The poor wretch before you, charged with this thankless task, attempts to persuade us - you - that all the riches of the Combat Zone's divers activities should flow entirely into the coffers of the self-appointed self-anointed entity known as Queen Cleopatra." "What we think a that?" asked Dijjy. "There is no precedent for such an action. Not in civil law, criminal law, canon law or Combat Zone common law." "You a lawyer?" I asked French Jack. "Maybe in a previous lifetime? When you were human?" "In this life. Among other things," he said. "Because there is no precedent or rulings appertaining to the matter at hand, your argument is spurious and specious. It remains only to say that Cleopatra has no standing and her proposition no merit. In other words, in the territory known as the Combat Zone, suzerainty is up for grabs." "Suzy who?" asked Dijjy. "Suzerainty," said French Jack. "Meaning, power of rulership." "I knew that," said Dijjy. "Just checking on you." "Of course," said French Jack. "So," said Dijjy. "Mean I king?" "Means you have as much right as Cleo," said French Jack, "to rule the Zone." "There it be," Dijjy Doo beamed at me. "Then it's war," I said. "And damned be he or she who cries 'Hold! Too much!'" "'Damned' be right," said Dijjy. "I'll convey the message," I said. "Hey!" yelled French Jack. "What?" I asked. "How are you going to get out of here alive?" Instantly, twenty guns were pointed at me. "French Jack, you crack me up, man," cackled Dijjy Doo. "Castille, King Pimp always think you so funny. French Jack ten times more funnier. Like, how you gonna get outa here in one piece?" French Jack's smile flowed river-swift with a flash flood of sadism. Oh boy.

CHAPTER 16

"Ready to die?" asked French Jack. "Yeah!" I said. "I'm really looking forward to dying!" "Why?" frowned French Jack. "Because I'm gong to be reborn as a Buddha!" Dijjy Doo laughed. French Jack laughed. All the flunkies dutifully yukked it up. "And tell me, O great soothsayer," said French Jack. "What will I be reborn as?" "You?" I squinted; looked him up and down. "I predict you will be reborn as a bacterium in an elephant's anus." "I'll kill you myself!" French Jack shouted, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at me. But Dijjy Doo laughed heartily. All his camp followers did likewise. French Jack hesitated. I side-stepped into the silence. My heart beat wild and wayward, like it was triple-speed tapping out a futuristic frenzied Morse Code. "Dijjy, my fine brain-impaired friend," I said. "Kill me and Cleo will seek revenge. War." "Fine by me. War be what I want." "Actually, Cleo doesn't care about me. But she'll wonder what happened to me. She'll come with all her guns blazing to find out. War." "Fine by me," said Dijjy. "War be what I want." "Start a shooting war downtown? The G will crush us all like a steamroller." "Fine by me. War be..." "...What you want," I finished his sentence. "Thass right," he said. "Cause Dijjy Doo a mighty warrior. Be talked about for generations." So that was the way to Dijjy's shriveled heart. "Then shoot me," I said. "Kill me." "Okay by me. Gentlemens, fire at will." My guardian demon spun my roulette wheel. Break the bank: I live. The bank breaks me: I die. Not such bad odds. "However..." I said. Dijjy Doo raised his palm in the 'stop' position. Nobody pulled the trigger. "However, what?" Dijjy asked. "I imagine tales of the mighty exploits of Dijjy Doo echoing down the corridors of time." "'Corridors of time.' Like the sound a that." "The mighty, noble and brave deeds of the warrior Dijjy Doo," I said. "Damn, you talk some fine shit. Then what?" "Then, sadly, your shining reputation will have one huge filthy mark on it." "What that?" he asked, frowning, leaning forward. "That, in a moment of passion or pride, you forgot your kingly status. And ordered an unarmed man to be shot by twenty guns at once. People will call such an act cowardly." "Cowardly?" Dijjy shouted, standing up from his pathetic throne. "King Dijjy Doo never be a coward! Never!" "And yet..." I started, then stopped. "Go on," said Dijjy. "Get outa here. Go tell Cleo put on her iron bra and panties. War coming." "Dijjy," said French Jack. "Can't you see what he's doing? It's so obvious you'd have to be blind." "Blind?" yelled Dijjy, frothing at the mouth. "You call King Dijjy blind? Maybe I shoot you! Go on, Castille! Outa here!" I exited post-haste.

CHAPTER 17

Margie and I dined at Fellini's in the Italian North End. The owner was a Federico Fellini fanatic. The walls were covered with stills from Fellini's early black and white neo-realism phase: I Vitelloni, La Strada, the famous opening shot in La Dolce Vita of a huge statue of Christ being transported high above Rome by a helicopter; to his later technicolor galleries of grotesques, Fellini Satyricon and Fellini's Cassanova. Just as the Irish Mafia had boasted of keeping South Boston's streets free of drugs but were in fact themselves the main suppliers of drugs; so did the Italian Mafia boast of keeping its home turf of the North End drug free but actually specialized in turning North Enders, especially young people, into heroin zombies or cocaine vampires. "Any progress on investigating Mr. Lum?" Margie asked. "I searched his house top to bottom," I said. "On the sly?" "Certainly not. I told him that husbands are always the prime suspects in such cases. He understood. Told me to search the whole house. I did. No evidence. No signs of foul play. Plus, his manner betrayed no guilt or remorse." "Cross him off the list?" she asked. "For now." "Who's next on the list?" "What list?" I asked. "The list of suspects!" "Oh, that list," I said. "Nobody." "Great detective you turned out to be." "Thank you." "Now what?" Margie asked. "No other suspects? No ransom note? Give her a couple of days. I know Betty always seems cheerful. But you never know how a person really feels. I wouldn't be surprised if it all got to her at once. "Then she fled. I've seen it before. Husband and family distraught. Cops don't help. Then, after a week or so, the wife strolls into the house. Almost as if she's never left." We didn't speak for an unhurried but hollowed-out hundred seconds. "So. Time has passed," Margie said, between forkfuls of veal parmagian. "How do you feel about Rat?" "Rat?" I answered, my plate filled with shrimp, broccoli, ziti and garlic bread. "Highly delectable. Especially when broiled. With, of course, the preferred side dish of raw minced toad." "Funny. You know what I mean." "Oh. You mean Rat." "Yes," she said. "Hard to say." "Try." "I spent so many years with revenge fantasies," I said. "Then, to not only discover Diedre's killer. To not only see the killer kill himself because of my discovery. But for the killer to be my best friend is...incomprehensible. I'm still numb. It hasn't really sunk in." "Yet," said Margie. "Yes. Yet." "It will, darling, it will." After Diedre was murdered, I became emotionally dead. But when I met Margie, I was reborn. An invisible uncut umbilical cord connected our hearts. No matter how much we disagreed or even fought, that cord stayed intact. As it was intact now. No matter how much my emotions were snarled and gnarled by Rat's actions. The knot in my chest I had not the knowledge to untangle. Nor had I the right sword to cut it. "Tell me, my peach pit of pulchritude," I said. "When will you tell me why you cancelled our wedding and fled to El Salvador?" "Some day." "Some day soon?" "Some day," she said. "Hey! Guess what? Pinky won $500 playing mah jongg last night. Took us all out for dim sum today." "A winner." "Today," said Margie. "But, all told, she's easily lost over $10,000 gambling. The Chinese curse." "Drinking," I said. "The Irish curse."

CHAPTER 18

"Speaking of curses," she said, "I saw your caped crusader girlfriend today." "How cherishably petulant, Margie. One tires of your snide references to Phoenix. She's not a curse to me, but a blessing. And she's not in any way - any way - my girlfriend." "What is she then?" she challenged. "We've gone over this a dozen times," I said wearily. "Let me summarize previous explanations." "Please do," she said, folding her arms. "Phoenix, taught by her mother since childhood, is master of dozens of Chinese martial arts. I, taught by the Old Legionnaire since my early teens, know virtually all Japanese arts grouped under the umbrella term jiu-jitsu. "For example. Tai-jitsu: body art. Alki-jitsu: art of moving in harmony with the spirit of the attacker so that he defeats himself. Goshin-jitsu: art of..." "I'm impressed," she said. "But get on with it." "I'm not even close to naming all the jitsu's," I said. "In any case, the Old Legionnaire integrated into jiu-jitsu, Western fighting arts. Boxing. Wrestling. Fencing. Legion commando techniques. French savate. Plus survival and escape tricks, like the way Houdini overcame the gag reflex and held things like keys in his throat." "I know, I know," she said. "You and the Old Legionnaire went to Japan. You demonstrated your system before the Grandmaster. He recognized your system as a distinct style of jiu-jitsu." "Majeur Hakko-ryu Jiu-jitsu," I said. "The point?" she demanded impatiently. "The point, my dear Margie, is that Phoenix and I are like yin and yang. What I don't know, she does. What she doesn't know, I do. We're a pair of jokers wild who can beat nearly any full house of villains." "I don't like her," Margie said simply. "We've already established that fact a dozen times. She doesn't like you. Hence, I try to keep you separated. You know there's nothing romantic between us. So why does she bother you so?" "I hear things," she said. "What things?" I asked. "Just...things." "Oh. Things," I said. "One. Don't believe everything you hear. Two. Since her fiance Tony accidentally killed himself, she has no interest in relationship, intimacy, romance." "Just sex." "That's another matter." "Is it?" she asked. "She can live without sex," I said. "Except when she wants it." "Needs it. She's like Spock on Star Trek. Spock never even thinks about it. Can go for years without it. Then, suddenly, he's in pon farr, the incurable Vulcan fever of lust." "Except, for her, it's not years," Margie said. "What I hear, a lot briefer period. Lot briefer. Then she grabs the nearest guy and has at it." "Who are we to judge?" "I don't like it," she said. "Puritanical?" She gave me a look. "You know I'm not puritanical." "What then?" I asked, exasperated.

CHAPTER 19

"What if you're the nearest guy?" "So that's it," I said. "You're jealous of her with me." "No." "Surely you're not envious of me with her?" "Of course not," she said. "Then what the bloody hell is it?" I half-shouted. "There's something..." "Something what?" I half-pleaded. After all these years of snide remarks about Phoenix, Margie would never quite come out and say what bothered her so much. "Savage," she finally said. "Something savage about her." "You couldn't kill someone for a good reason?" "I don't know if I could," she said somberly. "But, if I could, it would be for a good reason. With Phoenix, it's like she doesn't need a good reason. Or any reason." So that was it. "She's not that savage," I said. "She is," Margie insisted. "You know she is. You've both killed people. I never have and - hope to God - never will." "You feel excluded." "No." "Then what?" I asked. "I'm afraid her savagery will rub off on you." So that was it. "It won't." "Some people think of you as a fighting machine," she said. "But I know you're not. I've seen your tender side. Why I love you." "As I love you." "I don't want you to lose that tender side because of Phoenix. I don't think I could love you then." "Margie," I said softly. "As long as I have you, I'll never lose that tender side. In fact, I only have it because of you." "Don't say that!" she said angrily, yet on the verge of tears. "You're your own man. I'm my own woman. We're together because we want to be." "Of course, I'm my own man," I said. "And I freely choose to love you. And only you. Cancelled wedding and all." "But," said Margie, "when I see Phoenix hiking through Chinatown with those stiletto heels - highest and sharpest I've ever seen - sometimes I think they're real stiletto knives." "They are," I said. "Custom made. For a pretty penny." "Figures. Has to show off. Draw attention to herself." "Appearances are oft deceiving," I said. "Her work is dangerous. She has to be prepared." "Like you," Margie said. "Except I can't wear stilettos." "Can't? Or won't?" she asked. "Because I'm sure you'd look bloody marvelous, darling." "Funny. But here's the serious part. Her stiletto heels have saved her life at least twice." "Don't be ridiculous." "She blinded a crazed assailant," I said. "Another time, she pinned an assailant's hands to the ground." "With her stiletto heels?" Margie asked, amazed. "Yup. So just remember. Personally, I love you. Professionally, Phoenix is my ally. And a damned good one. Forget the rest of it." She looked sea-and-star deep into my eyes. "Forgotten," she said. "Except for one thing." "What?" I asked. "You - and, if necessary, Phoenix - find Betty."

CHAPTER 20

That night at 11:05 p.m., I sat in a back booth of the dimly lit No Regrets, wondering if I was being set up by Atomic Honeybee. It wouldn't take much for one of Dijjy Doo's assassins to serpent-slither up behind me and slice my throat. In this poor lighting, in this din of revelers, how long would it take someone to realize they had a dead body on their hands? "Castille." "Atomic Honeybee. You came." "You doubted?" she asked, sliding into the booth. "I didn't know." "I say it? Then no possible probable shadow of a doubt whatsoever." "Glad to hear it. Shall I call you Atomic Honeybee?" I asked. "Or Honey? Or what?" "I prefer to be addressed as Bee." "Then Bee it be. What's buzzing?" "Dijjy Doo a freakshot," she said. "Tell me something I don't know." "He tight with a gang of corrupt white cops." "The Cadillac Squad," I said. "Rotten as a month old banana in a sauna. How'd they hook up?" "Don't know. But I find out." "Dijjy give you a hard time? Test you?" "Just said I wanted to soldier for him," she said. "He say okay. Didn't even ask about Cleo." "What did he say?" "He an egomaniac. Rant about taking over the Zone. Wipe out Cleo's organization." "Specifics?" I asked. "First, collect taxes and tribute from Zonies." "Cleo's doing that too." "Zonies get tired of double taxation," she said. "Without even half representation." "Say he have new ally. Some kinda skinhead gang. Neo-Nazis. All white. Forget the name. But what kinda ally can they be? Skinheads hate black people." "Stalin hated Hitler," I said. "Hitler hated Stalin. Didn't stop them from signing a non-aggression pact." "Which Hitler broke when he felt like it." "How did Dijjy worm his way into the Two To Two?" "Joint used to be owned by LCN," said Bee. "LCM? Larry, Curly and Moe?" "LCN. La Cosa Nostra." "This Thing Of Ours," I said. "Italian Mafia," she confirmed. "What happened?" "Apparently, the G was gunning to take down the LCN," she said. "LCN used the Two To Two to launder money. As well as make money. To avoid charges of tax evasion, they sold it to Dijjy." "And where - by the vacant orbs of Saint Odilia, patron of the blind - did a cheap gunsel like Dijjy Doo come up with the dough?" "As King Pimp's trusted bodyguard, Dijjy know where King keep some of his stashes. When King die, Dijjy take as much money as he can lay hands on." "How many soldiers Dijjy command?" I asked. "Counted twenty-seven. Don't know how many not there." "Organized? Or a motley rabble?" "Push come to shove?" she said. "No telling how many stand and fight, how many cut and run." "Anything else?" "Ain't that enough?" she asked. "I'll tell Cleo. Leave here first." She rose. "And Bee. Be careful." "Careful my middle name." "Atomic Careful Honeybee?" I said. "Sounds like a prudent radioactive insect cross-bred with an indie rock group."

CHAPTER 21

The boiling boisterous bell of midnight burst over Queen Cleopatra's room. "War council!" announced Cleo, wearing a new get-up resembling an Elizabeth Taylor 'ancient' Egyptian outfit from the movie Cleopatra. What next? A pyramid hat? "Evvabody out! 'Cept Laughing Death, Castille and me!" The posse dutifully filed out through the steel door and into the bar area of the Hot Spot to lynch their thirst. Cleo's two Uzi-armed bodyguards named, apparently, Chopper and Razor, stayed. With their severe muscled-up silence, they seemed like two oversized pieces of furniture. But after Dijjy's treasonous acts as King Pimp's bodyguard, I hoped Cleo kept a cool close eye on them. "Report," Cleo said to me. "I tried to negotiate a truce with Dijjy Doo," I said. "But he wants war. He's also hooked up with the Cadillac Squad." "Who they?" Cleo squinted. "Group of white cops. Completely corrupt. Dijjy also has a Goliath named French Jack. Looks like a circus strongman. But talks like a lawyer." "Anything else?" asked Cleo. "Atomic Honeybee has a personal grudge against Dijjy Doo. Wouldn't say what. But she volunteered to soldier for Dijjy and feed me info." "Why you? And not me?" Cleo asked with sharp suspicion. Were the whispering, laughing echoes of paranoia clamping the crown on her head ever tighter? Would it get worse? How much could she take? "If Dijjy's spies see Bee coming and going here, it will blow her cover. So she'll meet me at 11:00 p.m. in the Theatre District. And I'll tell you everything she tells me." "You best tell me evvathing she say." "But of course," I said. "What else she say?" demanded Cleo. "As you thought, Dijjy has a new ally. Skinhead neo-Nazi gang named 88 Sons of Satan." "Why 88?" "One surmises that because the eighth letter of the alphabet is H, 88 is short for Heil Hitler," I said. "HQ in the Little Combat Zone. But Bee doesn't know exactly where." "Aw'ight. Laughing Death report." "Dijjy's men shaking down Zonie hustlers for tax and tribute. Like us. But natives restless. Two different groups. Two sets of taxes. Say better get it down to one ruling group and one tax. Or maybe revolution." "Revolution," I mused. "The American Revolution started in Boston. French, Russian, Chinese and colonial revolutions followed. Finally, Combat Zone Revolution in Boston. Come full circle. Ironic, no?" "No," Queen Cleo stated emphatically. "They be no revolution inna Zone. We get ridda punk Dijjy Doo. Then all's well." "Working girls and hustlers tired a being shaken down twice," Laughing Death volunteered. "Whatchoo mean? Shaken down twice?" Cleo demanded, her bangles rattling except for her cobra bracelet. That remained forever open-mouthed, fangs extended, ready to strike and kill. "Dijjy Doo shaking down. Ah just imposing lawful Zone tax as 'stablished by King Pimp. "Okay. Laughing Death. Keep eyes and ears open in the Zone. Keep running tax collection. Castille. You meet with Bee and keep me informed." "I pledge my troth, my liege," I said. "Make sure she ain't a double agent. Don't give her any useful info she can give Dijjy Doo." "Certainly not. You must know by now I'm a stickler for the social niceties." "One more thing, Castille," she said. "You negotiate truce with 88 Sons of Satan." "Why me?" "Why you?" she asked, surprised. "Cause you good at negotiations. Plus, they white. You white." "I'm always discriminated against because of the color of my skin," I said. "Seems," said Cleo, amused. "Complaint? Bring it up with the EEO."

CHAPTER 22

Long day. Cold night. Driving up Dot Ave. at 2:00 a.m. Savin Hill section crammed with Vietnamese joints: restaurants, dry cleaners, grocery stores, gas stations, other businesses. Called by the local whites the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I turned left onto Savin Hill Ave., drove over the bridge above the Southeast Expressway and T tracks to my humble abode at 221-B. Soon, in my living room, I jerked jarring, jangling chords out of my ingrate guitar. I had lied to Margie. I knew exactly how I felt. In a fury of rage and sorrow, I put my pistol and three clips of bullets in my pockets. Outside, my breath smoked in the streetlight. I walked up Savin Hill Ave. to Savin Hill itself. I stopped, looked, listened. Nobody. Nothing. Just the sound of my breathing. Good thing no snowfall yet. The climb up the frozen ground and slippery rocks of the Hill could be treacherous this time of year. Especially at night. When I reached the grassy plateau on top, I again stood still. Houses on the other side of the Hill looked cozy, comfortable, warm, well-lighted. I stood in the open, comfortless, cold, dark-thoughted. My mind, my heart, my body all felt ready to burst. Ungovernable. Uncontainable. Uncontrollable. I shoved a cold clip into the freezing handle of my gun. My hot hazardous heart beat harder. Make sure no drinking teens around. Didn't want to hurt anyone by mistake. No, I wanted to hurt someone on purpose. I aimed at the metal-hungering ground and squeezed tight the trigger. Again and again and again. A mad minute. Rat! I'm shooting you! My comrade, my best man, my best friend! How could you kill Diedre? Traitor! Quisling! Judas! I hoped these bullets reach you down in hell! I emptied the clip, ejected it, snapped in a full one, fired round after round into the ravenous ground. Despite the cold, I poured sweat of remorse, anger, even guilt. Why guilt? I had done nothing wrong. And yet I felt guilty. For not protecting Diedre? But how could I? How could I know that my trusted best friend would kill my beloved wife? I could have trained her better. But I trained her as best I could. She, trusting him, was taken completely by surprise. Not my fault. And yet, and still, and always, I felt guilty. Even Margie's love couldn't dissolve the guilt. My heart was a horse pulling up an impossibly steep hill an impossibly heavy load. Of guilt. I emptied the clip, ejected it and shoved in the third one. I shot into the gobbling earth again and again and again. Guilt. My family died while I survived. My comrades died while I survived. My wife died while I survived. My best friend/betrayer died while I survived. Gut-wrenching, heart-harrowing, mind-tormenting guilt. After all the bullets were swallowed by the gluttonous ground, I pulled the trigger over and over and over. Click! Click! Click! My actions helped not at all. Guilt trumpeted in my ears the seared blaring of self-blame. Guilt trampled the grapes of regret into the sour wine of grief. Guilt tossed heaps of hurt and horror on my fallen forlorn face. My only sawn-off solace: Rat drank fire in hell while Diedre danced free in heaven. If there was a heaven. If there was a God. If there was justice in the next world. Because there was precious little in this world.

CHAPTER 23

The Combat Zone's younger sibling. The Little Combat Zone. The Little Zone. Eight concrete blocks from the Combat Zone in what the city was pleased to call Park Square. Was it spillover from the Zone? Monster-mutant invasion from outer space? Completely separate evolution? Devolution? I didn't know. In ye olde vasty scheme of things, I seldom had reason to go there. But what it lacked in size, the Little Zone made up for in moral turpitude. The set-up was strange. On the south side of Park Square reposed the ritzy old-time Palace Hotel. Not to be confused with the Palace, Margie-Speak for the State House. The entrance was unnerving. Doormen in crimson livery with gold piping. Bright red canopy. Green carpet on the sidewalk, leading to the entrance. Door knobs and other fixtures of gleaming brass. Taxis and limousines coming and going. Out of every pore of the proud, stately Palace, wafted the perfume of wealth. However, beyond the ornate fountain in the middle of the Square was the Little Zone. A string of stripjoints, clipjoints and gypjoints; but fewer than the Zone proper. The delirious dream of many a dopefiend: to connect and control both Zones and make a crystal crossroads fortune. Extra attractions included the Greyhound Bus Terminal, where pimps lurked to lure flesh-off-the-bus young women into sordid sex-slavery. Plus, a narrow street between and behind tall office buildings that fronted the parallel St. James Ave. and Boylston Street. The Skippy Stroll. Where young male prostitutes swarmed. Where older male homosexuals drove slowly. Where chickenhawks and chicken delights bantered, cut a deal and the newly minted couples drove off to parts unknown. Amidst the squalor: the seven-story Playboy Club. For Gentlemen Only. Which left me out. One side of the building was exposed brick. Next to it: a parking lot. Somehow, someone had got up the Playboy Club's exposed side a good thirty feet. In big block letters with black paint was written: LESBIANS UNITE. The flagship joint of the Little Zone was the Redneck Ranch. Had only ever gone inside two or three times. A real bucket of blood. But, ironically, the only venue for genuine country music in Boston. In Massachusetts. In New England. Sailors on shore leave from the Boston Navy Yard and soldiers with a pass from the South Boston Army Base somehow always found their way to the Redneck Ranch. Especially southerners. Fights between members of the two service branches were mandatory. Fights between northerners and southerners were legendary. Got to start somewhere. Bee knew only that the 88 Sons of Satan were HQ'd in a lair in the Little Zone. Didn't know which one. Redneck Ranch too raunchy for me this early in the day. Start with a small bar: The Wild Card. Walk into a small bar, every head turns to look. The rummy regulars. Few tables and chairs, bar and stools. Place festooned with gaudy Christmas lights. And a big Christmas tree. Bartender ankled over. "Whuddle it be?" "Virgin Mary," I said, to tie in with the Christmas spirit of the place. He served me up and I said: "Nice Christmas decorations." "What?" he asked, frowning in puzzlement. "Where?" "All this," I said, sweeping my arm to indicate the decorations. "What are you talkin' about?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "The Christmas lights," I said, like talking to a child. "The Christmas tree." "Oh. That stuff," he said. "Is Christmas near?" "Two weeks," I said. "A Christmas tree isn't a Christmas decoration?" "That junk has been there for years," he said. "So it's almost Christmas, huh? How about that?" Mother of mercy, pray for us sinners. "I'm looking for someone," I said, putting a twenty on the counter. His eyes suddenly greed-gleamed. Now he was getting into the holiday spirit. "Who?" he asked eagerly, as flowers of avarice flourished in his eyes. "The 88 Sons of Satan." His eyes weakened, dim and dark; his face wilted, blank and barren. "Never heard of it. Them. Whatever." "I know they're in one of these joints. Don't know which joint." "Not this joint," he said. "By so saying, you inadvertently acknowledge you know who they are. A short step," I pushed the twenty closer to him, "to telling me where they are." "No. Really. Never heard of 'em. Around here, huh? Imagine that." I took out another twenty. "Forty bucks," I said. "For the name of a joint I'll find sooner or later. Make it sooner. Earn yourself two Andrew Jacksons." "Never heard of them, either. I'm D and D. Deaf and dumb. Maybe you should oughta leave now." He looked toward the regulars. Monkey-fruit rumdums though they were, they all gave me the hairy eyeball. "Merry Christmas and may God bless us, every one!" I said in my Tiny Tim voice. I left. Learned one thing, though. The Sons of Satan struck fear into their neighbors.

CHAPTER 24

Might as well get it over with. The Redneck Ranch. Last time in there, I barely escaped with my life. Across the Square, three uniformed Boston cops - nicknamed the Palace Guard, not to be confused with the Cadillac Squad - shot the breeze with Palace Hotel doormen. Conspicuously, the cops stood with their broad blue backs to the Little Zone. Strange. In downtown Boston - the Athens of America, the Hub of the Universe, urbane, educated, moneyed - was the Redneck Ranch. Seedy, desperate, violent. Mostly soldiers and sailors from all over the United States. But also the few local country music aficionados. I pulled open the door. Before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I was sucker punched in the side of the head. Down and dizzy. Back on my feet, I asked the red-shirted muscle-maniac doorman/bouncer: "Get the number of the truck that just ran over me?" "Truck?" he squinted. "Take a seat." My dark-adjusted eyes saw a huge room. Booths against the walls. Tables and chairs in a ring around a packed dance floor. Strippers on either side of a stage flanked a woman crying a countrified croon. Backed by fiddle, banjo, guitar. All dressed in identical white Stetson hats, black string ties, white ruffled shirts, black slacks, black shoes and frozen grins. Arguments and fistfights constantly erupted. When they got out of hand - threatening cracked skulls - the red-shirted bouncers waded into the crowd to separate the combatants. I fought my way to the bar. "Whuddle it be?" the bartender asked. "Info." "Cost. What?" "88 Sons of Satan," I said. "Where's their HQ?" "One drink we don't mix here. Anything else?" "Who can I ask?" "Nobody," he said. "Advice? Don't even try." "Advice," I said. "Don't fill your mouth with too much food. And, for God's sake, don't masticate audibly." I sensed someone bee-lining at an angle through the crowd toward me. Peripherally: white male. Who? "Castille!" he said. "That you?" "Gooch," I acknowledged. Gary Gucci a.k.a. Gooch the Mooch. This cadging, sponging, bloodsucking, freeloading fungus; this damned deadbeat who lolled, loafed, lounged, loitered until he located a leech-worthy host organism; this parasite extraordinaire who always launched an improbable tale of woe which concluded with a heartfelt plea for money. "Ain't seen you around lately," he said. "Where ya been?" "Working my way across the Atlantic on a tramp steamer," I said. "Every boy's dream," said Gooch. "Wish I was with ya. Instead, gambling like a fool. And the dice haven't been nice." "Alas," I commiserated. "I lost everything! I owe the legbreakers!" "My heart brims with sorrow," I said. "I'm even afraid to go home. My shack-up's gonna crown me king with the royal rolling pin if I come home empty." "Even the gods weep," I said. "In short, I'm broke," he said. "See your way to lending me a few bucks?" "I've lost count," I said. "But you must owe me two hundred dollars by now." "I'll repay you, of course. With interest. No problem there," he assured me. In a manner so convincing I almost believed him. "How much do you need?" "Twenty is plenty," he said. I extracted a double sawbuck, put it on the counter. He grabbed it. I held it down with my hand. He quizzed me with a curious look. "All I ask in return," I said, "is an iota of info." "What?" he asked, voice soaked in suspicion. "I know the 88 Sons of Satan are..." "Sons of Satan!" he blurted. "Quiet. Want to get us both killed?" "No," he said, more quietly. "But what...?" "I know they're HQ'd around here. Where?" He gulped. Looked at the twenty. Looked at me. "Don't know," he said. "Now can I have the twenty?" "No." "I really don't know. Really!" "Really?" I said. "Why don't I believe you? Because I don't. Really." I took out another twenty. "Forty clams. Twenty is plenty? Then two twenties are more than plenty. Where?" "Please," he said. "You evil weevil," I said. "You Herman the Vermin. You mold. You rust. You pestilential wastrel. For once, earn your money. "Tell me!" Like Peter Lorre in Casablanca, he flopped his head, flipped his eyes right and left, then flapped his lips: "Didn't hear it from me. Walk up the street toward Copley Square. Between The Bloody Shame and The Loose Wolf is a chain link fence mostly overgrown with bushes. Open the gate and walk to a door. Hanging on the door by chains is a wooden hammer. "Not a regular hammer. Know it when you see it. Some writing on the door about the hammer. Don't know what. But that's where you say you want to go. Personally, wouldn't advise it. But that's it." "Better be," I said. He licked his dusty crusty lips, reached to take the money. I held it a few seconds, then let the two bills go. "Get lost, Gooch." "Getting lost," he said, disappearing into the thrashing crowd.

CHAPTER 25

The Sons of Satan HQ even smelled strange. Like the noxious odor given off by a poisonous plant on a distant science fiction planet. "What's Johnny cooking up in the basement?" I asked the white skinhead who accosted me. "Angel dust?" "Wanna go down?" he asked with a show-no-mercy sneer. "See for yourself?" "Upstairs here is weird enough." Gooch hadn't misled me. I found a half-hidden chain link fence; the gate was open. On the doorpost: a Nazi swastika. A perverse reverse menorah. Above the door: the twin lightning bolts of the Nazi Storm Troopers. Below the door: the welcome mat was the Israeli national flag with the Star of David. Filthy from these neo-Nazis wiping their boots. And a short-handled, thick, wooden mallet hanging upside down by chains. Written below it was: "HE WHO HOLDS THE HAMMER OF THOR HE SHALL HAVE THE POWER OF THOR" Thor. The Viking god of thunder. The most powerful of the Old Norse gods. Today, his one claim to fame was that Thursday was named after him. Inside: a half dozen circular wooden tables with chairs. On which lounged a dozen skinheads. Copiously drinking, loudly talking, raucously laughing. A trove of Nazi items and memorabilia for sale. Background music: mind-crushingly repetitive heavy metal. The music stopped. The skinheads went silent and stared at me with eyes of lizards, rattlesnakes, snapping turtles, vipers, Gila monsters, Komodo dragons, basilisks. Along with the Nazi garbage, they should have made and worn t-shirts that proclaimed: I GIVE FREE REIN TO MY REPTILIAN BRAIN The skinheads - individualistic, nonconformist - all looked exactly alike. Pale skin. Half-ruined faces. Shaved heads, blue jeans and white t-shirts. Brown leather bomber jackets crowded with imbecilic symbols of Nazism, white supremacy and race hatred. And their unique identifying feature: highly polished black Doc Marten steel-toed boots. White laces simply meant white power. Red laces meant that particular pair of boots had kicked a non-white to death. Or a white person who didn't loathe and despise people of color with every fiber of his being. This bunch all had red shoelaces. Gulp. "Who are you?" the leader demanded, eyes as dead-flat as a mortuary floor. White. Early twenties. Shaved head, lit ciggie dangling from bloodless lips. Face a battlefield. Right eye permanently half-closed from what must have been a massive close-quarters blow. Top half of right ear chewed off. Nose swollen and red like W.C. Fields. Stitches across his chin. The feel-nothing stare that denoted the most feared and fearsome creature on God's green and red earth: the berserker. A feral sub-species that had survived through thousands of generations of humans. The name came from early Norsemen who ravaged the coast of Europe. The name derived from bear and serkh, meaning coat, because they wore bearskins into battle. Their only joy was a violent rampage of rage and destruction. Of course, berserkers weren't only Norsemen. They survived in most ethnic groups. The Irish were no slouches when it came to spawning berserkers. I knew my share. One told me 'You could drop a metal safe on my head and I wouldn't feel a thing.' Of course, he'd feel it the next day. But, in a howling frenzied berserker rage, fueled by alcohol and xenophobia, berserkers were virtually unstoppable. "Who are you?" he demanded. "That's the big one, isn't it?" I said. "The big what?" "Question." "What question?" he asked, befuddled. "Who are you?" "Hey! I'm asking the questions here." "What question?" I questioned. "Who are you?" "Who, indeed?" I said airily. "According to Plato, I'm a featherless biped. To kinesiologists, I'm a fish with fingers. To newspaper reporters, I'm a potential article with skin wrapped around it." "What...the fuck...you talking about?" The dozen seated skinheads snapped to attention and stared German commando daggers at me. "Forget who you are," my skinhead interlocutor said. "Why are you here?" "Flying a kite to the leader of you ratzy-Nazis. Is the Uberhauptsturmfuhrer of the house in?" "He can't be disturbed." "I'm sure he's disturbed enough as it is," I said. "But a moment of his precious time." "Besides, we're not Nazis." "How ineffably incongruous." "Who's the kite from?" he asked. "Queen Cleopatra. Ruler of the Combat Zone." They all laughed. "That subhuman?" he asked. "What's she want?" "I want to deliver the message personally to your Fascist fugleman. Der local Fuhrer, as it were." "Ain't gonna happen." "What's your name?" I asked. "Silver Mick. Cause I won the Silver Mittens boxing as a kid. You?" "Castille. At your service." "Might's well tell me," said Silver Mick. "And you'll see that the message is delivered to your master blaster?" I asked. "What's a matter with you?" he burst out with genuine curiosity. "You're white! Why help the mud people?" "Mud people?" "People of color. Whatever they call themselves now. Mongrelized, bastardized races." "How refreshingly ignorant," I said. "Castille, can't you see they're tryna take over the world!" "How?" "By intermarriage with whites to dilute our pure Aryan blood," he said. "By getting positions of power. Judges, governors, senators." "Refrigerator repairmen?" "They already own Hollywood and spew out their filth. They own Wall Street and steal our money. They own the mass media and feed us lies. Wherever these sub-humans can get a toe-hold. "Give you some literature," Silver Mick continued earnestly. Now I was a potential convert. "Change your life. Read The Protocols of Zion? Mein Kampf? The Turner Diaries?" "Waiting for the movies." "Let me give you copies." "I'm engrossed in what I'm reading now," I said. "What?" "'The Adventures of Ai-Mor, The Invincible Futurian.'" "Never heard of it," Silver Mick said. "Sounds like more racist Zionist propaganda." "No. It's, like, really cool science fiction." "Ugh. Don't you see what they're doing? Filling your mind with junk." "Why?" I asked. "So you don't see what they're really doing." "Which is?" I asked. "The mud people - filthy degenerates - getting ready to rise up and overcome their natural leaders." "Who are?" "Us! White people!" he burst out. "Scientists now have proof that the brains of white people are bigger and smarter than the colored. Scientific proof! And what do we do in the United States?" "What, pray tell?" "Let 'em in!" he said indignantly. This was one sincere white supremacist. "By the millions! Soon? Full-blown race war! The ZOG wants it that way!" "Zog? Follows zig and zag?" "No, no, no!" He lamented. Silver Mick was almost in despair about my ignorance. "ZOG! Zionist Organized Government! The U.S. government, controlled by Israel!" "Of course," I soothed, as you would a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. "Excuse my ignorance. But why would the U.S. government want a full-blown race war?" I always enjoyed a stimulating give-and-take with well-read, knowledgeable cretins. "Why?" he shouted. "Why?" "That was my question," I reminded him. Now he was furious. Almost frothing at the mouth. Ranting incomprehensibly. Waving his right index finger two inches from my nose. "Take your finger out of my face," I said. He didn't. He kept ranting. "Take your finger out of my face," I repeated. "Please." He didn't. He kept ranting. I gripped his finger with my left hand and broke it. "Ow! Owwwwww! Whud you do that for?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "I asked you twice politely to stop waving your finger in my face." "Think it's broken," he said, brow darking like storm clouds. "ER ten blocks over," I said. "Get him!" Silver Mick yelled in a voice like an inflamed wound. "Crucify the Jew!" I was suddenly an honorary Jew. I ran out. Chased by a dozen anti-Semitic skinheads. From under the tables, they had grabbed baseball bats, tire irons, heavy chains. Even an ornate wooden table leg. What an honor. Being chased by a mobile, vocal exhibit from the Contemporary Museum of Disaffected Youth.

CHAPTER 26

I ran through the crowd, yelling: "Pregnant woman! Baby due! Coming through!" I looked over my shoulder. The throwback thunder-thugs gained on me. I looked across the Square. The cops still stood with their backs to us. The doormen watched but said nothing to the Palace Guard. I was on my own. Like Holmes - with his extensive and detailed knowledge of London - I prided myself on having an exact knowledge of the streets of Boston. Up ahead, to the left, was a narrow cut-through to Boylston Street. I'd lose them on the more crowded Boylston. Running full tilt, I turned left, sharp as you please. Oh no! Either the cut-through had never cut through and I had it wrong. Or the cut-through had been cut off. By a high wooden wall. Victorious voices behind me shouted: "Jew ran down the dead-end!" "We got him now!" A closed-off alley, empty except for a few steel barrels. What now? Old Legionnaire, where is thy voice? Thy spirit? Thy just-right advice? Not there? Then I would be beaten to death with chains, tire irons, baseball bats. Even a freaking table leg. In this scurvy, scruffy, squalid alley. By this swinish rabble, these dirty dregs, these scummy offscourings of society. O the ignominy. The obloquy. The infamy. But, as I faced the unscalable wall, a voice did speak in my mind. Not the Old Legionnaire. Rather - in her flexible English - Phoenix's mother Wei-Mei a.k.a. Amy Chan. I had asked her about Monkey Kung-Fu. She dismissed it with a faultfinding frown and a forget-about-it hand movement. 'But,' she said, 'one good motion. Never forget. May save life. In jungle or forest, monkey caught on the ground. Chased by...predator? Yeah. Predator. Monkey suddenly stop, turn and snarl at predator. 'Predator so surprised, it not move. Monkey quick run up nearest tree. No get eaten. That day, anyway.' This all lightninged through my grasp-at-straws mind in a split-atom second. I turned to face the charging gang. Viciously snarling, I bared my teeth like a mad maniac monkey. And - just as in Wei-Mei's example - they were so surprised that they stopped stock still. But where was an opening to escape through? Only one. I jumped up, left foot on a barrel; stepped up, so my right foot stood on the left shoulder of the first lunatic. I ran along the shoulders of the gang members. Who were so stunned, they hardly moved. I jumped off the last shoulder to the ground. They came out of their trances. "Whud he just do?" "How'd he do that?" "Never mind! Don't let 'im get away!" I zoomed around the corner. Woman with a baby carriage. I leaped over it. I ran the length of the Playboy Club and turned left into the parking lot. I tried the back door of a car and it opened. The lunatics hadn't rounded the corner yet. I got in and lay flat on the back seat. Auto Zen. I willed myself to be as one with the car. Car-ma. "Don't let the Jewboy get away!" "Kill that nigger-lover!" "We'll get that faggot!" After a minute, I looked up. The last members of the gang turned the far corner to the left up Boylston. A middle-aged businesswoman opened the front door and got in behind the wheel. She saw me. "Please don't hurt me!" she screamed. "Here! Take all my money!" "I don't want your money," I said. "Oh God! No!" she screeched. "Please don't rape me!" "I'm not going to rape you," I said. "Anything but that!" she shrieked. "You're going to abduct me and beat and torture me to death! Aren't you?" "No." "Then what the hell you doing in my car?" she demanded. "Just passing through," I said, opening the back door to leave. "Because the dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on."

CHAPTER 27

On Liberty Tree Mall - small brick plaza at the confluence of Washington, Boylston and Essex Streets with a bronze bas relief replica of the Liberty Tree - two jamokes handed a grim beatdown to a black girl. Too bad Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty - who rallied at the Liberty Tree on this very spot as a precursor to the American Revolution - couldn't see the results of their exhortation to liberation. 'First Amendment Smut Shop.' 'Liberty Porno Books.' Across Washington, the Pilgrim Theatre showing feelthy movies 24 hours a day. And the complete and utter freedom to beat a woman half-way to hell. One jamoke held her arms behind her back; the other piston-punched her in the belly. She struggled but couldn't break free. Each exhalation was a breath closer to death. Drippy drizzle fell. Still not cold enough for snow. But winter, wild and wicked, was on its annual collision course with Boston. A proposition of prostitutes watched silently. A few had umbrellas open. As I came closer, I boiled with anger. The Zone had run-on-the-rims ruined more women than the Rolling Stones; more than The House Of The Rising Sun; more than the moon-mad medieval Christian destruction of 'witches.' Walking by the watching women, I snatched an open umbrella. "Hey, Frank the Spank! Gimme that!" "In five minutes," I said, walking. I closed the umbrella. "Don't hit my face, clowny!" the woman getting the beatdown pleaded. "My face my fortune!" Naturally, the white guy immediately punched her in the face. Bright red blood flash flooded out her mouth, a shocking contrast to the grim gray evening. "My teethies!" she protested. "Tole ya. Don't hit my face, ya dumb cracker freaky!" "What diff?" shrugged the white guy, winding up for a real power punch to her face. "All you coons look alike, anyway. Monkey girl." His black partner said nothing. Closer. The woman was Ya Ya. With her trademarked perfectly coiffed Afro 'do. And my, my. The two brave and bold buccaneers working her over were Dijjy Doo's salt and pepper duo. I had thrown out of Shoshana's. Holding the umbrella by its top, I stopped the guy's next punch by hooking the crook of the handle around his wrist. Over his shoulder, he pitched me a fastball look. "All God's children got to be free," I said. "Let her go." "Hear a fly buzzing?" asked the black guy. "Too cold for flies," said the white guy, freeing his wrist from the crook of the umbrella. "Hey! Look who it is! Who are you, anyway? Protector of Pickaninny Paradise?" "I am Ai-Mor, the Invincible Futurian," I said. "Fruitcake. Whattaya want?" "I have been forced to deviate from my invaluable time-traveling mission to take the census of the galaxy in the year 3000. In order to immobilize two supervillians of the Non-Men: Lord Earthworm and Earl of Leeches." "Who?" "You," I said. The black guy slackened his grip as he eyeballed me for possible payback. Ya Ya broke loose and ran over to the other watching women. All black. "Darktown Strutters' Ball," the white guy sneered. "Don't you have enough sense to come in out of the rain?" I asked. "Don't you?" he countered. "No," I said. "Then we make a good couple," he said, whipping out a blade. "My knife and your throat."

CHAPTER 28

The blood-wanting weapon was one of many adaptations of the classic American Bowie knife: almost a foot in total length; thick metal thumb guard; steel blade sharpened only on the bottom edge but coming to a wicked point; good for stabbing and gutting. He faced me in the formally trained knife fighter's guard position. His advanced right foot pointed at me. In his advanced right hand - cutting edge of the blade faced down - he aimed the point at my eyes. He would fake toward my face, but thrust the knife into my torso, dig it in as deep as possible and then rip down, cutting through muscle, tendon, artery, vein. Keeping out of range of the knife, I addressed the assembled humans of the female persuasion: "Ladies! What's going on here?" "These two be Dijjy Doo's men!" said one. "Say we spozed to pay 'em tax to do our thing inna Zone!" "Fuck!" said Ya Ya. "We done already pay Queeny Cleopatra tax. Like we do for her daddy, King Pimp. We don't mind. Gotta pay to play. Way it always be. "But this gangster wanna-be Dijjy Doo? He trazy. He say we gots to pay him. Then he send these two assholes to pop shit and collect tax. Axe you. What right they got?" "Kill that noise, you cramped nigger hoes!" shouted the black guy. Who I realized was angling to get behind me. So I couldn't see his attack from behind while I fought off the knife attack from the front. The white guy thrust the knife at my face. I backed off, using the umbrella - metal tip forward - like a sword to ward off his blood-craving blade. "Eat steel!" the white jamoke yelled as he quickly lunged at my guts. "I do have a slight iron deficiency," I acknowledged, again keeping him at bay with my sword/umbrella. Where was the black jamoke? I turned to see him creeping up behind me. When he saw that I saw him, he stopped. The women shouted encouragement. "Jack 'em up!" "Fuck up these funk-ups!" "You go, white bro!" "Beat those black and whites black-and-blue!" Pedestrians, even on this cold, wet, miserable night stopped and - safe distance away - ogled. Where were the 'Serve and Protect' cops when you needed them? Of course, if it was the Cadillac Squad, they'd just stand by and take bets on the winner. "Give you one chance to leave without getting hurt," I said to the jamokes. "But just one. Rush now because this free offer will soon expire." "You the only one gonna expire!" said the white jamoke. He stepped forward, transferring his weight from left to right foot. I reached down, put the crook of the umbrella handle behind his right Achilles tendon and yanked it toward me. His foot slid forward, aided and abetted by the wet pavement. He slipped and fell. Like stepping on a banana peel in the cartoons. The women laughed. The black jamoke came at me from my right side. I whipped the umbrella, leading with the metal tip, toward his face. He backed up. Meanwhile, the white guy tried to tiptoe away. "Hey, highboy!" I said. From behind, I used the crook to pressure his throat from his front. He stumbled backward toward me, off balance. I pulled hard, bent from the waist, gripped him around his waist with my free hand and threw him over my fulcrum hip. He screamed a baby-being-beaten screech in midair, thinking he'd bust his brainbox against the concrete. But I maintained the umbrella crook's hold on his throat and neck. At the last second, I held his head up so he wouldn't fracture his skull. Evidence, according to Phoenix, of a lamentable character defect on my part. Though I had told her many times that I staunchly adhered to Gene Autrey's Cowboy Code. In this case, I refer to rule number one: 'A cowboy never takes unfair advantage - even of an enemy.' I put the crook into the white guy's belt and pulled him to his feet. He held the knife loosely at his side. If he came at me, I could hold him off with the umbrella. "Had enough, highboy?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. From behind, the black guy grabbed my arms. The white guy raised the knife above his head, aimed at my face and ferociously struck down like Norman Bates stabbing the girl in the shower in Psycho. At the last possible nano-second, I jerked my head to the left. He didn't have time to stop the knife. Behind me: the arms holding me let go and I heard a ghastly, choking sound. I darted away. The white guy stared in horror at what he'd done. Instead of impaling my head on his knife, he had plunged the knife into his partner's mouth. Where it was stuck. The black guy stumbled, reeled, choked, howled, threw up blood. You know. The usual. "For realy!" exulted Ya Ya. "One way to go," I said. "Jesus Christ!" shouted the white jamoke. "How...? I mean... I mean, what should I do?" "ER!" I said. "Four blocks over!" "Hospital?" he asked, dazed. "What else? Convenience store?" I said. "Of course, the hospital, you halfwit!" The black guy bounced around, hilt of the knife protuding from his mouth. "Come here!" I ordered. He did. I pulled the knife free. It had lodged in the back of his throat. The blood geysered out of his mouth. He tried to speak but he was incomprehensible. The white guy froze in horror. I dropped the knife down a sewer. "Call an ambulamce?" asked Ya Ya. "Good idea," I said. I grabbed the pay phone, dialed 911 and directed the ambulance to Liberty Tree Plaza. No, I wouldn't give my name. After hanging up, I returned the umbrella to its owner and said "Follow me." The women followed me into the maze of alleys and by-ways. We stopped. "Big bomb a thanks, home slice," said Ya Ya to me. The other women murmured gratitude. "That vicious clown Dijjy Doo want us pay Zone tax twice?" Said one of the women. "No way." "Hoeing be a hard dollar," said Ya Ya. "Plus, they want? We gots to polish the apple en buff the banana for the creepy cops. Still, Zone used to was not bad place. Now Dijjy Doo send these two out-the-gutter neverwuzzes to beat more tax out we hides?" "Why pay at all?" I asked. "Say which?" Ya Ya asked, as if it were a wholly outlandish notion. "Remember Tabu Ley Trudeau?" "'Course," said Ya Ya. "Try organize union of we working girls. See what happen to her." "But she had the right idea," I said. "In numbers, there's strength. Start a union; maybe pay no tax at all." "Never won't work," Ya Ya said. "Us girls disorganizable. Lookit. Us don't mind pay tax to be free to do us work. Like with King Pimp. And Queeny Cleo. But us ain't unionable." "I tried," I said. "Who you?" Ya Ya asked indignantly. "Sergent Save-A-Hoe? Get it through yo' lockdown skull. Peoples tryna save me my whole trashcan life. But I ain't save-able. Fo sho, right now you is my knight in shiny armor. But my macky whale the tar outa me? Where you then?" "Got it," I said and walked away when I heard sirens nearby. "Castille, yo!" yelled Ya Ya. "Dijjy Doo ain't be too upbeaty, he hear way you do his two cotton-picking dipsticks." "Don't feel too upbeat myself," I said. "Best keep lamps lit," said Ya Ya, "back yo' head."

CHAPTER 29

"Listen close and listen hard, Castille," said Atomic Honeybee later at our nightly rendezvous at No Regrets. "Close and hard, Bee," I said. "With you, so far." She gave me a look. "You so funny," she said. "I wanna have your baby." "You jest." "Thass right. I jest. So shut up and listen." "Shut up and listen," I said. "Got it." "Dijjy Doo send his posse of morons, KGB, to launch sneak attack on the Hot Spot. Come in front door, guns blazing, get in the back room, assassinate Queen Cleo. Then Dijjy Doo king of the Combat Zone." "Wily devils," I said. "Dijjy leading the charge?" "No. Stay at Two To Two. Say, he man the command post. Axe me? He goose bumpy." "When does the deal go down?" "Tomorrow night," she said. "Ten o'clock." "What about the Nazis?" "88 Sons of Satan promise not to interfere or help Cleo in any way." "They hope to swoop in," I said. "Pick up the pieces of Dijjy and Cleo's posses after they decimate each other. Become new Zone rulers without mussing their hair." "What hair? But thank you. Thass what I tell Dijjy. But he say no. He say he got a pact with the 88 Sons. He say he sure they gonna honor it." "Why would they?" I asked. "They're sociopathic neo-Nazi skinhead scum." "Zackly what I tell Dijjy. But won't listen to me. Evvabody else 'fraid to contradick him. By the way, you beat on two of Dijjy's men earlier? Salt and pepper combo collecting taxes from hoes on the stroll? Liberty Tree Plaza?" "'Twas I." "Second time, right?" she asked. "Salt and pepper name Max Ray and Big Up. Big Up in ICU. Max Ray say you stab Big Up in the throat." "I didn't stab him!" I said. "The white jamoke did!" "Now why he wanna go and do his partner like that?" "I dodged," I said. "Don't matter no how," she said. "Max Ray say you done it. He wanna assassinate you same time as Cleo. Also, Dijjy Doo say he so sick of you interfering, also want you dead. So. Word to the wise." "I'll keep it in mind. Ten o'clock tomorrow night. How many soldiers? What kind of firepower? What strategy?" "Twenty soldiers," she said. "Mostly menfolk. Some wimmins." "Guns?" I asked. "Handguns. But also two or three submachine guns. Say, gonna blast the Hot Spot back to the Stone Age. Kill anyone tries to stop 'em. And kill Cleo. And you." "You're in Dijjy's inner circle?" "Him and French Jack and me and couple others hold the war councils," she said. "If we take precautions at the Hot Spot tomorrow night," I said. "Won't Dijjy know someone betrayed him?" She shrugged. "Spoze so," she said. "And if the finger of suspicion points at you?" "Then I dead." "Not a good career move," I said. "Dijjy won't know. He so stupid, he think Fucking a town in China." "Still. Bee. I worry about you." "Aw, ain't that sweet?" she said. "Castille worry about li'l ole Bee. But Bee know how to sting. Best worry about yourself. Dijjy catch you alive? Prolly torture you to death." "Cogent insight, I'm sure," I said. "What about Dijjy's strategy?" "Strategy? What you mean?" "Diversions, evasions, fake-outs." "Dijjy into shoot, shoot, kill, kill," she said. "That his strategy. French Jack come up with some ideas. But Dijjy say no." "Bee, listen to me. KGB come into the Hot Spot tomorrow at ten? They walk into a trap I'll set. Dijjy will know somebody told us. Maybe you should stop going to the Two To Two. Stay with us at the Hot Spot." "Believe I told you," she said, chest heaving like a bellows, eyes as hard and gray as steel beams, nostrils flared, teeth bared. "Dijjy Doo done me wrong. I do whatever it take to bring him down." "Whatever it takes?" I asked, impressed by her sudden vehemence. "Whatever it take. "Dijjy think he cool? Cucumber cool? Ice cube cool? Antarctic cool? He cool, all right. A cool fool. "Think his dope off the chain? Ain't. Think his hands dipped in jewels? Ain't. Think he a high roller? He a cluck-head. Think his wimmins diamonds? They zirconium. "Fact, make that nineteen soldiers coming to Hot Spot." "Why?" I asked. "I spozed to be one. But I'ma circle back to the Two To Two. Come in the Chinatown entrance. Dijjy gone get ghosted? Then he gone get ghosted by a li'l ole bee-sting. "Smell me?" "I get the whiff," I said. One wondered. What had Dijjy Doo done to Atomic Honeybee?

CHAPTER 30

Midnight. Queen Cleo and Laughing Death and me. Plus the two ever-present silent Uzi-toting bodyguards flanking Cleo up on her divan. Room still looked like an ancient royal Egyptian mock-up on the back lot of a Hollywood studio. Cleo still had an Elizabeth Taylor-as-Cleopatra look. Surprised she didn't have a bathtub with paper ships to re-enact the Battle of Actium. "Report," said Cleo to me. "I'm afraid it's war, the red animal," I said. "War, the blood-swollen god." "Damn, that good," said Cleo. "You just make that up? Offa top a your head?" "No. Stephen Crane. The Red Badge Of Courage." "Movie?" "Book. You know. Rectangular object filled with pieces of paper with little black markings." "You mah tutor," Cleo said. "But time and place. Now you mah consigliere. Report and advise." "Just spoke with Atomic Honeybee," I said. "She's a member of Dijjy Doo's war council. Says his crew is going to attack us here. In the Hot Spot." "Believe her?" asked Laughing Death, frowning. "Yes," I said. "Why?" he asked. Why, indeed? "I just do," I said. "She completely changes when she talks about Dijjy Doo. He done her wrong. She wants revenge." "Nothin' wrong with revenge," said Laughing Death. "But how I know she serious? I didn't speak to her. Maybe she feed you booshit. To snake us." "I trust her," I said. "I don't," Laughing Death said. We both looked up at Cleo to cast the deciding vote. She reflected. Then she announced: "Ah trust her. Plus, if Castille trust her, good enough for me." "What?" yelled Laughing Death, scandalized. "You trust this pink spud instead of a brothah! Now a niggah with a trigger finger he done heard everything!" "You new," said Cleo. "Don't know how many times Castille help us." "Awww," complained Laughing Death. "No awww," Cleo said sharply. "Castille. What else Bee say?" "Bee said Dijjy Doo is going to launch an all-out frontal assault on the Hot Spot. Nineteen or twenty soldiers. Two or three submachine guns." "When?" "Tomorrow night," I said. "At ten." "Just come blasting in?" asked Cleo. "What Bee said. Shoot the joint up. Get into the back room here. Kill you. And me." "What about me?" demanded Laughing Death. "If they have a spare bullet," I said, "I'm sure they'll be glad to cap you too." "That better," said Laughing Death, mollified. "What about 88 Sons of Satan?" asked Cleo. "Best part," I said. "They're not going to help Dijjy. Or hurt us. Stay neutral." "Dijjy fall for that?" asked Cleo. "So says Bee. Says Dijjy and 88 Sons sign a peace treaty." "Huh!" said Cleo. "Only peace those ofay honkies - no offense, Castille - honor is pick up the pieces after the war." "My thoughts precisely," I said. "Me too!" quickly said Laughing Death, so as not to be the odd man out. "They attack tomorrow," said Cleo. "We be ready for 'em." "Gunfight at O.K. Corral," cackled Laughing Death. "Fight to the finish. See who last man standing. We get many weapons as possible and attack these bunch a losers! Wipe 'em off the face of the earth! Go hard or go home!" "'L.D.," said Cleo, "you sound like Crazy F." "So?" challenged Laughing Death. "So," said Cleo, "Crazy F dead. Cause Crazy F be like, you know, crazy." "You say I crazy?" "Easy," I cautioned. "We're all on the same side." "Hope so," said Laughing Death. "Don't mean to dis you, L.D.," said Cleo diplomatically. "But we gots to come up with a better plan than straight-out attack. Castille?" "I had in mind something a little more subtle," I said. "Awww," complained Laughing Death. Cleo silenced him with a glare; then arrowed me an inquiring look. "As Sun Tzu says," I said. "'The essence of warfare is strategy. The essence of strategy is deception.'" "Sun Zoo?" asked Laughing Death. "Own that restaurant on Beach Street?" "Shut up and listen," said Cleo. "What you talking about?" complained Laughing Death. "Fake-out," I said. "Kill as few people as possible and..." "Few?" erupted Laughing Death. "I say kill many as possible! Do or die; kill or cry!" "And bring the G down on us?" I asked. "The G?" said Laughing Death. "I the G. I the O.G. Original Gangster. I a ghetto star!" "Now is you is or is you isn't crazy?" demanded Cleo. Great. Cleo had lapsed into King Pimp-speak. Not a good sign. "Who you call crazy?" yelled Laughing Death. "You," said Cleo. "Less'n you shut your trap. Hear Castille out. Then tell us your plan. We don't need the police howling at us. Castille?" They looked at me.

CHAPTER 31

"Submitted for your approval," I said. "According to Bee, nineteen or twenty of Dijjy's soldiers burst through the front door of the Hot Spot at 10 p.m." "So you said," said Cleo impatiently. "Just setting the scene." "Set," said Cleo. "Proceed." "After nine or ten are inside, the bouncer slams the door shut and locks it." "Why?" asked Laughing Death. "We cut their force in half," I said. "Half inside. Half outside. Now they're confused. What's going on? They don't know. "Leave open the door to the back room. Entice those attackers inside to move faster in anticipation. But I'll have a nearly invisible wire stretched across the aisle about a foot above the floor." "So they fall flat on they faces!" Cleo enthused. "At least, the first few. And maybe more, depending on how fast they're running." "But they come in guns blazing?" Cleo asked. "Submachine guns?" "We move all the patrons to the far side of the bar," I said. "No stripper on stage. Waitresses, bartenders prepped beforehand. Tell them all when the shooting jumps off around ten p.m., get down. And stay down till one of us says it's okay to get up." "What if someone leave?" Asked Laughing Death. "Go tell Dijjy Doo?" "Nobody leaves after we tell them what's going down," I said. "What time that?" "Around 9:30. "Most of Dijjy's soldiers should be confused and on the floor. They start tripping over each other. We're stationed behind the counter. With guns. We stand up and tell them to let go of their guns and get up. Unarmed." "What if someone shoot at us?" asked Laughing Death. "Self defense," I said. "Shoot back." "Aw'ight!" shouted Laughing Death. "And what about the other soldiers?" asked Cleo. "Outside?" "They should be confused by the door being closed and locked," I said. "They might start shooting everything that move," Cleo said. "Innocent civilians." "Anybody on LaGrange Street at 10 p.m. isn't an innocent," I said. "But I take your point." "Don't want the police involved," Cleo said. "They likely take Dijjy's side." "True," I said. "Aw, fuck it," contributed Laughing Death. "Kill 'em all. Sort 'em out later." "We drop a net on them," I said. "From the roof." "Net?" laughed Laughing Death. "Where you get a net?" "Waterfront," I said. "Then what?" "Surround them with guns. Tell them drop theirs. They're so tangled up in the net, they can't shoot straight, anyway." "Hmmm," mulled Cleopatra on her divan. Finally she pronounced her verdict. "Not bad." "Now we got 'em," said Laughing Death. "What we do with 'em? If'n we ain't gone kill 'em." Cleo looked at me. "Haven't figured that part out yet," I admitted. "Kill too many and the G will be all over us. Let them go, they just return to Dijjy Doo and regroup for another, smarter assault." "Wish Maria the Prophet here," said Cleo. "Talked with her lately?" I asked. "No," said Cleo, troubled. "See her once. She say, the mysteries of the city are many. Then she disappear. Haven't seen her since." "Then we take their guns, tell them they won't be so lucky next time and let them go." "Whatchoo talk about?" demanded Laughing Death. "I take my knife and cut my initials in they foreheads." "Tell them to forget about Dijjy Doo if they want to live in Boston," I said. "Where Bee be?" asked Cleo. "Actually, she might solve all our problems." "How?" "Dijjy Doo staying back at the Two To Two," I said. "Command post." "Coward," said Laughing Death. "The scoundrel will no doubt be in a palsy of terror," I said. "What Bee do?" Cleo asked impatiently. "Bee is gong to circle back to the Two To Two. Come in the Chinatown entrance," I said. "Avoid the Cadillac Squad. Says she has a score to settle with Dijjy." "You believe her?" Cleo asked sharply. "Yes." "So if Dijjy dead, and we put fear of God in his posse, maybe they disappear. Leave us alone," said Cleo. "Those the lyrics," I said. "Let's hope we get the tune right."

CHAPTER 32

9:55 p.m. the following neon night at the Hot Spot. Everything in position; everybody in place. Around the room, I rapid-fired a last minute volley of heavy eye-shot. The preventive detention of patrons clustered on the far side. They goggled at me as if I were the New Year's Ball about to plummet in Times Square. No clamorous commotion of beat-driven dance music. No solicitude of bar-girls. No divestiture of strippers. No mix of bartenders. No articulation of babbling elbow-benders. A nudie bar denuded. Could have heard a pinhead drop. Head bouncer - number one fan of the Cymantics - behind front door. When nine or ten adrenaline-amped attackers have rushed in, he'll wham-slam the door shut and lock it tight. The door to Queen Cleo's Egyptian Room stood wide open to entice the attackers to move more eagerly, less attentively. Cleo was guarded by her two Uzi-toting bodyguards. But I didn't expect anyone to make it that far. In place was the trip wire, tricky and treacherous, virtually invisible. On the roof, Moonbat had a huge net of thick rope ready to drop on the attackers locked out. In cars, ducking down, were Cleo's armed men. Behind the counter nearest the front door were Laughing Death and myself. He cradled a submachine gun, like a proud father with his first-born. I had my tried and true-blue Beretta. All set. Whole room quiet. The seconds ticked down. And I was on my last racked rock-bottom nerve. What if things went wrong? What if they're massacred? What if we're massacred? What if we're all massacred as surely the 88 Sons of Satan desire? I had snipers stationed on the roofs of adjacent buildings. For general purposes. And also if a contingent of 88 Sons suddenly showed up. And, finally, what was I doing here? Suddenly, everyone, everything was both stunningly vivid yet weirdly surrealistic. How did I end up in the Combat Zone wars? I started out to rescue a missing person. A girl. Kidnapped. In the Zone. I did rescue her. I re-united her with her mother. They moved far from the Zone. And yet. I was still here. Why? In a minute, everyone would be shooting. Thinking kill, kill, kill. But I never meant for anyone to be killed. Yet the whole operation was my plan. What in God's name was I thinking? I told our people if we did it right, they'd be no need to kill anyone. Shoot to wound, I told them, not to kill. But though their heads nodded, their trigger fingers itched. I'd seen it too many times not to know. I wanted to walk out right then and never come back. Too late. The door burst open.

CHAPTER 33

Laughing Death and I ducked behind the counter. Unseen by the attackers. Their automatic and semi-automatic gunfire filled the voracious void with a ferocious fusillade. When I heard the front door slam shut and lock, I also heard the first attackers curse as they fell over the trip wire and hit the floor. Laughing Death and I stood up, aiming our weapons. Nine guys in various stages of tumbling onto their fallen comrades. Laughing Death and I jumped up on top of the counter. One of the attackers, in the act of falling, twisted his body toward us. He shot and missed. "I'll kill him," Laughing Death said, aiming his submachine gun and laughing maniacally like the triumphant villain in a 1940's Cantonese Kung Fu movie. "No!" I said. "Wound!" "Awww," he complained. But he shot the guy in the leg. Another falling attacker turned to aim at us. A bullet from my Baretta burst through his wrist: his gun flew from his hand. The last attacker in was the only one still on his feet. From behind, the head bouncer slugged him several times in the right kidney. Then he kicked him behind the knee. As the guy went down, the bouncer grabbed the gun out of his hand. The attackers lay on the floor, tangled up, confused. "Fling your guns over the counter!" I ordered, as Laughing Death, the bouncer and I trained our guns on them. I recognized the first man as French Jack. Bewildered, he was ensnared with the second guy lying on his legs. "French Jack!" I yelled. "Tell them to fling their weapons over this counter or die!" "Wait a minute!" he stalled. "Laughing Death," I said, "if you would be so kind." Laughing Death unleashed an automatic stream of bullets inches above their heads. In doing so, he laughed like a buffoon on nitrous oxide. Like a humanoid hyena at a harlequinade. Like the court jester before the throne of King Hilarius. Like St. Vitus, patron saint of comedians. Like a natural born fool. Laughing Death looked at me, eyes expectant, mouth full of mirth. "Hence the name," I said drily. "Catch on quick," he said, amused. I turned back to Dijjy's men lying on the floor. "Give the order, French Jack!" I said. "Or we ventilate all of you. Right here. Right now." "I itching to be the ventilator," said Lauging Death with such anticipatory merriment that French Jack had no choice but to give the order. "Everybody! Do as he says! Throw weapons over the counter!" With differing measures of reluctance, they all threw their guns by our legs over the counter. They hit the floor where the bartenders usually worked. Queen Cleo, bodyguarded, came out of the back room wearing a wild faux-Egyptian ensemble. We had everything in hand here on the inside. Now the question was, how was everything on the outside? "Open the door!" I yelled to the bouncer. I tensed, ready to shoot. I felt Laughing Death tense beside me. Outside: nine guys all tangled up in a huge fishnet. Moonbat and a half dozen of Cleo's men with guns surrounded them. I sighed in relief. Cleo looked elated. "Your plan," she said to me, "worked to perfection. King Pimp right. You got a old head on young shoulders." Beside me, I felt Laughing Death tense up again. "Couldn't have done it without the help of Laughing Death," I said. "You do good work, L.D.," she sunbeamed at him. I felt him relax. "Ice 'em now, right?" asked Laughing Death, in the flush of victory's forehead. The guys on the floor threatened, protested, complained, even apologized. "What you think, Castille?" Cleo asked. I pursed my lips in contemplation before issuing a judgment. I pointed out the simple practical result of killing them all: "Lot of corpses to get rid of." "Naw," said Laughing Death. "Get three, four cars. Throw bodies in trunks. Drop 'em in river or harbor." "We could do that," I said. "Or..." "Or what?" French Jack asked. "Or you and your men could promise to leave Dijjy Doo," I said, "leave Boston and never cast your shifty shadows on our fair streets again." He and his men talked it over. Decided quick. "We will abide by your generous offer," said French Jack. "We solemnly promise to leave Dijjy Doo and leave Boston. Never bother you again. Yes, a very effective outcome of an admittedly brief negotiation." "Aw, hail, no!" said Laughing Death. "Let these snakes go, they slither back to Dijjy Doo! Regroup and attack us again!" Practical concerns like disposal of corpses aside, I was sick of killing. Yes, sometimes it had to be done in self defense. But to kill twenty unarmed people didn't sit so well in my gut. Not to mention the wide-eyed witnesses on the other side of the room. "I have your word?" I asked French Jack. "My solemn word," he said. Laughing Death was beside himself. "Whatchoo doing?" he yelled at me. "We got 'em right where we want 'em! Get rid of 'em! Now!" "Queen Cleopatra?" I asked. I had earlier informed her that Bee was going to circle back to the Two To Two and dispatch Dijjy. So even if all or some of these jamokes went back on their word and returned to the Two To Two, hopefully Dijjy would have shuffled on to the next world's mortal coil. Leaving these jamokes leader-less. Knowing the timbre of their timorous type, they'd disperse to the wandering winds. I figured Cleo was thinking the same. "Let 'em go," she decreed. "Aw, hail!" Laughing Death looked like he was going to melt in a furnace of frustration. "On your feet!" I ordered the jamokes. They slowly untangled and stood; we kept our guns on them. "Outside!" I yelled. "Let them out of the net!" When they were all free, I again asked French Jack: "Solemn word?" "Solemn word," he said, solemnly. "Then go gentle into that good night," I said. I looked at a thrown-down thwarted Laughing Death, smiled and said: "Dylan Thomas. More or less."

CHAPTER 34

The next morning, the good people of Boston awoke to a strange sight. At least, to those on or near Boston Common. Or at least, to those who bothered to look up. Or at least, to those like me watching the morning news. Drifting slowly high in the sky was an unidentified object hanging from a sizeable helium balloon. A dutiful citizen had alerted the authorities. The Common was marked off at its perimeters by bright yellow crime scene tape. Although nobody seemed to actually know if a crime had been committed. Inside the tape, on the Common, milled police and firefighters. Their plan, according to the TV reporter live at the scene, was for a police marksman to shoot the balloon. Balloon deflated, the unidentified object would fall. And be caught by firefighters in a safety net. Sensible approach. The plan worked. And what was the unidentified object? A cop, first to identify the object, shouted in disgust: "Jesus Christ! It's a head! A fucking human head!" Before the cops closed ranks around the firefighters holding the net - to cut off the sight lines - the TV camera zoomed in for a close-up of the head. I saw the face. Oh no. Bloodily severed at the neck, the head had belonged to Atomic Honeybee.

CHAPTER 35

Within fifteen minutes, I was dressed and on the subway. No double-dealing doubt in my mind. Dijjy Doo had killed Atomic Honeybee, decapitated her and - insult to injury - floated her head over Boston Common for the whole world to see. Forget what I said about not wanting to kill. I wanted to kill - yes, and maybe behead - Dijjy Doo so bad that I could taste it. Tasted like metal; an old penny, maybe. I was so filled with fury that everyone and everything inside the train looked to me two-dimensional and red. A vivid, scarlet red. I felt so infuriated that I had to restrain myself from literally hopping up and down in a passion of rage. I got off the train at Downtown Crossing, took the stairs two at a time and emerged on Washington Street. Then I realized: I was in such a rush, I had left my gun at home. I would have to get my second gun at my office. Then to the Two To Two to kill Dijjy Doo. The joint wouldn't be open to the public yet. But the doors would be unlocked for delivery people and employees. Dijjy Doo, here I come with my one-man wrecking crew. And I'm coming for you.

CHAPTER 36

Bopping down Washington Street from Downtown Crossing to my office. An alarm-squealing black-and-white police sedan screeched up next to me and abruptly stopped. What fascistic intrusion into my life was this? A uniformed officer - white, male, obvious product of generations of inbreeding - jumped out of the passenger side and barked: "Castille, right? Get in back!" I said in my fruity, upper-crusty British accent: "Terribly sorry, old chap. Afraid you've made a bit of an error. I happen to be Sir Norman Conquest. At your service, naturally. Hands across the ocean and all that." The cop frowned, ducked and looked into the car at his partner - black, male, amused. "Sure this is him?" My pulse rate doubled. Should I run? Get lost in the crowd? Disappear into the labyrinth of alleys and by-ways I knew so well? But what did the cops want me for? I hadn't committed any actionable offenses. Lately. "That's him," said the black cop. "Get in!" ordered the white cop. "Surely a case of mistaken identity," I continued in my Norman Conquest voice. "Hate to have to contact the Embassy. Could be a spot of bother for your superiors." The usual murmuring crowd formed around us and watched. Another fascinating tidbit of urban mania to tell the spouse and kiddies at the dinner table. One of the perks of working downtown. The white cop's eyes darted around at the crowd. I could almost see his brain collapsing in on itself. From human neo-cortex to mammalian limbic system to the brain stem a.k.a. R-complex. R stands for reptile. I expected a long, thin, forked tongue to flicker out of his mouth. Ontogeny capitulates to phylogeny. "Get. In," he said with gritted teeth. "Demned inconvenient, old top," I said. "The thing of it is I'm scheduled for a flight to London. I shall be rowing crew at the Royal Regatta at Henley-on-the-Thames. In fact, rowing in the most prestigious event at the Regatta. The Grand Challenge Cup For Men's Eight. "Surely you've heard of it. Hm? Wot? Quite so." More people gathered and gawked. The cop's nostrils flared, his face turned pale, he started to sweat. A city crowd could get out of hand quick. Real quick. So would he? Yes, he would. He pulled his service revolver out of its belt holster and pointed it at my chest. "Turn around! Hands behind your back!" "Ladies and gentlemen, I beseech you," I addressed the crowd. "I was minding my own business when..." "He's a wanted felon!" announced the cop. A few people booed. Whether at me or the cop, I wasn't sure. I saw the lunatic look in his eyes. I turned around. In an instant, my wrists were handcuffed behind my back. He opened the back door of the sedan, pushed me in, got in the front passenger seat and we sped off. "Said you was a slippery customer," chuckled the black cop, driving. "Said who?" I demanded, filled with frustration. "And what am I charged with?" "Spittin' in the subway," said the white cop, still upset. "Since when is that a felony?" I asked. "Since now," said the black cop. Both cops laughed. I got a bad feeling. "I say, fellows," I said, looking out the window. "Police headquarters is in the other direction." "Got ourselves a regular Kit Carson," said the black cop. Again, they laughed. "Oh no," I said. "Yup," confirmed the white cop. "Not there," I protested. "Hear the crazies in Little Hell have turned into cannibals," said the black cop as casually as reciting last night's ball game score. "Dinner bell be ringing soon." "I think it's just a film they're shooting there," I said. "Attack of the Crazed Cannibal Mutants." "Be some shooting," said the black cop in his relaxed way. If my hands weren't steel-bitten behind my back, I'd have clapped my sweat-beaded forehead in realization. "You guys are cousin cops," I accused. "Naw, man," said the black cop. "We just twistin' yo' head. Fuckin' whichoo." "Cousin cops," I repeated. "On the payroll of whom? Hm?" "Shut up!" yelled the white cop, who seemed to sweat worse than me. "Got to be," I said. "Dijjy Doo. Right?" "Right," said the black cop. "Now shut up! Or I'll shut you up!" the white cop said, turning around in the front seat and aiming his gun at me. My ribs juggled my heart. My tongue turned to smoke. We sped along. The buildings became more and more decrepit. Uninhabited. Uninhabitable. Cars, fewer and farther between. Soon we were the only vehicle on the road. The road to Little Hell.

CHAPTER 37

The road to hell may be paved with good intentions. But the road into Little Hell was paved with desperate destitute dirt-eating dementoids; melted-down locked-out played-through prosties; hope-to-die hard road freaks; ragbag tomato can vagrants; down-and-outers only perspiration pennies away from the poorhouse; deuce-of-clubs devil-heads drinking rotgut angel foam; jonesing junkies down on the killing floor; scrawny stunted starveling urchins; crawling heart-wrenchingly deformed beggars. "We in Boston or the Black Hole of Calcutta?" I asked. "We in the Black Hole of Boston, man," said the black cop. Dilapidated buildings that had once been a housing project. Now they looked like they'd been hit by a giant meteor from outer space. Or like an outpost of civilization that barbarians had overpowered, vanquished, crushed; of those not killed, the panic-stricken able-bodied fled; leaving behind the maimed and mutilated, the worn and weak. Collapsed walls, smashed wood and shattered cinder blocks. Burst pipes, broken bricks and bombed-out craters full of filthy liquids. Steel girders splayed randomly like pieces of a giant erector set strewn by a petulant monster-child. Random mounds of grit and gravel, sand and shingles, detritus and debris. Abandoned steam shovels, bulldozers, dump trucks, steamrollers, concrete mixers half-buried in rubble. On a damaged wall was painted in black: YANQUI GO HOME "We in Boston or Juarez, Mexico?" I asked. "We in Juarez, U.S.A.," said the black cop. Little Hell was an open wound, a running sore, a malignant cancer no city hall doctor dared to treat. A plague spot, a pest hole, a vile poison no epidemiologist dared to examine. A scummy rot, a vicious smut, a lurid obscenity no judge dared to ban. "Ever been to Little Hell, Castille?" asked the black cop, conversationally. "Once," I said. "Why?" he asked. "Vacation." "Vacation?" demanded the white cop. "In Little Hell?" "He's kidding us," said the black cop. "Funny," said the white cop. "What's the real reason you came into Little Hell?" "For the waters," I said. "Waters? What waters? No waters in Little Hell." "I was misinformed," I said. "The hell's he talking about?" asked the white cop. "Humphrey Bogart," laughed the black cop. "Casablanca." "Know your movies," I said. "Try to keep up," said the black cop. Screams, curses, howls. Louder. Still louder. "Getting close," said the black cop, a blade of excitement in his voice. The white cop leaned forward. Adrenaline junkies. "God a'mighty Jesus!" exclaimed the white cop. "Wouldja look at that!" Up ahead, on top of metal poles stuck in the ground, perched heads. Human heads. With faces contorted in their final agony. My whole body bristled. "Watch out!" I yelled. From the right, lurched a tattered man. He swung a sledge hammer at the white cop's window. Hearing the urgency in my voice, the black cop accelerated. So the hammer didn't hit the front window but the back window where I sat. But I had slid all the way to the left and turned my face away. I was showered with shards of shattered glass but not badly cut. "All right back there?" the black cop asked, with seemingly genuine concern, straining to see me in the rear-view mirror. "Just ducky," I said. "Considering." The white cop was inflamed. "That filthy mucker coulda killed me!" "Woulda," said the black cop. "Except Castille yelled." "The hell?" asked the white cop. "We got an agreement with the crazies. They don't bother the cops. We don't bother them." "Going out on a limb here," I said. "But I'll guess that crazy went crazy because he's, you know, crazy." "Let's get him!" urged the white cop. "Why not?" shrugged the black cop. "One less John Doe with rat-bite fever." The black cop spun the car around. The crazy with the sledge hammer faced us. The car accelerated toward him. The crazy raised the hammer over his head. As if that could defend him against this hurtling two-ton missile of glass and steel and molded plastic. "You're going to kill him," I said. "That's the general idea," the black cop said genially. Hammer raised, the guy loomed in front of us for a second. Boom! He disappeared. I looked out the back window. He was flat on the ground. Not moving. "Whee-yeah!" whooped the white cop. "Got ourselves a crazy!" "That crazy real crazy," said the black cop, troubled. "All crazies crazy," said the white cop. "But not so crazy they don't know enough not to bother the police." "True," pondered the white cop. "Trouble up ahead," I said. "Best turn on the sireen and the light," said the black cop. "Let 'em know the police here." The siren wailed like a marauding beast of prey. On the roof, presumably, the bubble light alternately flashed blue and red. Up ahead was the makeshift fort as well as the jury-rigged barricade I'd smashed through on my last 'vacation' here. When I saved Phoenix. Speaking of whom, I'd be ever so grateful if she were following us. Planning to save me. I looked back. Nothing. Nobody. Just the corpse of the sledge hammer crazy. I looked front. On top of the huge barricade, a hundred crazies whooped war cries as they - wild-eyed and wanton - watched us approach.

CHAPTER 38

"I don't get it," said the black cop. "We let these germs alone. In return, they hear the sireen and see the lights flashing, they let us through." "Conduct a lot of official police business in Little Hell?" I asked. "Told you before," said the white cop, pale and sweating. "Shut up!" Ahead on the left, the parking lot of an old supermarket was a makeshift fort. The walls of the fort were shopping carriages tied together with rope and wire. Next to the fort, the pocked rutted road was blocked by a barricade, built up bigger and stronger than the time I had crashed through. The barricade was a helter-skelter tumble-jumble dishevelment of urban refuse: abandoned cars, deflated tires, broken furniture, scavenged metal, piles of smashed wood, rotting pallets, lead pipes, chain link fencing and God knew what else. The crazies were an anarchy of filthy fiends, brandishing altered supermarket utensils as weapons. Some looked like they'd slipped on the ladder of evolution from the human rung to something lower. I envisioned the whole United States, the whole world one big city, a mega-metropolis, where the rich hid behind walls of stone and guns of bodyguards, police and army. And the poor scrabbled and fought for every gulp of tainted water, every scrap of rancid food, every diseased blanket. I shook off the dystopian daydream and braced for Babylonian battle. "The animals!" yelled the white cop. "Why don't they let us through?" "Something's changed," said the black cop. "What now?" asked the white cop. "Around or over," I said. "Think we can fly, Castille? We can't. So shut the fuck up!" "Then through," said the black cop quietly. "Unlock my cuffs," I said. "Give me a fighting chance." "No," said the white cop. "We're in this together now." "No." "I'm aiming at the weakest spot," said the black cop. "Hold on." I curled up on the seat in the fetal - not, I hoped, the fatal - position. CRASH! "Didn't get through," said the black cop. "We're trapped." A malevolent maniac reached in the smashed back window. He couldn't reach my drawn-up legs. So he started to climb in. I pounded him in the face with my steel-toed size 12's. He growled, yowled, howled, retreated. I looked up. Crazies swarmed like hop-head hornets. The cop car was caught in the rubbishy junkheap barricade, tires spinning in the mud. "I can do it!" said the black cop. "Hold 'em off!" The white cop rolled down his window and started shooting, randomly. "Don't spray and pray!" I yelled at him. "Take careful aim!" "Shut up!" he yelled over his shoulder. But he slowed down and got off better shots. I felt helpless. I was helpless. Handcuffed and surrounded by a hundred kill-crazy humanoids. The black cop rocked the car slowly back and forth allowing the tires to build momentum and traction. Native Bostonians used the same technique when caught in a winter ice rut. A lead pipe smashed through the black cop's window. He pulled his head back at the last second, whipped out his gun and shot the fiend in the face. Now they jumped on the roof. Dents appeared in the car's ceiling. They would overwhelm the car with us in it. We would become part of the barricade. Suddenly, our wheels caught traction. The black cop forced the car through the remaining part of the barricade. Free at last. I looked back. The crazies jumped in a frenzy, rolled on the filthy ground, pulled their hair out in anguish. Yes, something had definitely changed. But on we drove.

CHAPTER 39

Deeper and deeper into Little Hell. No idea what was back here. But I knew it wasn't good. The road no longer pretended to be a road. It was a rutted, pitted track. Ruined Roman viaduct. Camelback Cut-off. Khyber Pass. Clouds of septic dust swirled. Vomity smoke drifted from what smelled like car tires burning. Fingers of a befouled fog of chemical waste choked us. We couldn't even roll up the windows. Smashed. We gasped and coughed in the toxic dust. We passed shanty towns of the malnourished begging for food. What I first took for children were adults. Shocking. They stood undeveloped, stunted; twitching from sniffing glue or paint thinner or smoking marijuana since they were eight or nine. The crazy eyes. The crazy smile. We kept driving. Then, unimaginably, the road ahead was paved. No more crazies or glue-sniffers; no more dust or chemical fog. "Be building condos here," I said. "Call it Little Heaven." The black cop chuckled. Came to a crossroads and a plywood sign with crude letters in black paint: SMACK HOUSE -----> <----- CRACK HOUSE "Heroin or hit the pipe?" asked the black cop. "Neither," I said. He shrugged and went right. Another crossroads. WHORE HOUSE -----> <----- HIDE OUTS "Hoes or hidey-holes?" he asked. "Neither," I said. He shrugged and went left. Unbelievably, we finally came to an abandoned basketball court, weeds jumping up through cracks in the concrete, surrounded by woods. Rusted red metal hoops, no nets. The car stopped. "Last stop!" shouted the black cop, turning off the engine. "Everybody out!" "We still in Little Hell?" I asked. "Ever hear of the back of the beyond? This is beyond the back of the beyond of Little Hell. Dead zone. Nobody see nothing. "No man's land. Land of no return. Won't nobody look here for your rotting stinking corpse. They be landin' men on Mars before landin' 'em here." "So you two fine upstanding police officers," I said, "sworn to serve and protect the good people of this city, are maggots working for Dijjy Doo." "Pay to play," the black cop shrugged. "'Sides, we good people. Gotta serve and protect ourselves too." "How uplifting." "Let's do it before the sun goes down," said the white cop, shivering. "I thought," I said, "the crazies left you cops alone." "Cain't never be too careful with the crazies," said the black cop. "And night time ain't the right time to be testing theories." "Let's do this," said the white cop. "Get outa here, collect our pay, go home, eat supper, get laid, hit the rack." "Perfect day," I said. The black cop laughed. "Almost hate to kill you, Castille. You don't beg or whine or plead. Unlike most. You got a pair. Plus, you kinda funny." "Whattaya talking about?" the white cop demanded. "He's a job. Get it done. I got three clips to empty into him." The black cop frowned. "'Scuse us, Castille. Me and my partner gotta confer." "What now?" the white cop asked, exasperated. They walked off, huddled, talked low, shot glances at me. The cuffs bit into my wrists. What to do? Phoenix, are you nearby? If so, now is the time. Shoot these corrupt minions of the law. Phoenix? You out there? No answer. They came back from their conference. "My partner and I have a little disagreement," said the black cop. "Share," I said. "Maybe I can help." "Maybe. My partner? He a little trigger-happy. Want to air-condition you with about fifty bullets. Me? I more of a precision guy. Efficient. I say two in your dome and you dead. "Why waste bullets?" "A dilemma," I agreed. "Your neck in the noose," he said. "Which you prefer?" "Two in the dome. Get it over with." "Okay. Two in the dome." "Wait a minute!" said white cop. "When did the perp get a vote?" "We need a tie-breaker," black cop said reasonably. "I don't like it," said white cop. "Don't have to like it," said black cop. "Just do it." "Fine," said white cop in a snit. "You do it." "Let's do this up right," said black cop. "Castille. Last cigarette?" "Quit. Bad for my health." "Blindfold?" "Scared of the dark." "Last words?" "I fought the law and the law won." Black cop laughed. "Conference," he announced, walking away. "Now what?" demanded white cop. "I said conference." They huddled and returned. "Here's the deal," black cop said. "I the senior partner. Really don't want to kill you." "Happy coincidence," I said. "I really don't want to be killed. Two to one." "Oh no," said white cop. "He don't wanna kill you. I'll kill you in a burst of bullets. Go out in a blaze of glory. Sound good, huh?" "No," I said. "But," said black cop, regaining control of the conversation. "On the other hand, can't let you live. Then our necks in the noose." "But on the third hand..." I started. "Ain't no third hand," said white cop. "So," said black cop. "We don't kill you." "That's a relief," I said. "We take off, leave you here and the crazies kill you." "The crazies?" I said. "They'll eat me alive. Just kill me." "Okay," said white cop. "No," said black cop. "I'm tired a killing people. Sometimes, I get nightmares. See the faces I killed." "You getting soft," said white cop. "And old." "Maybe I am. But let someone else kill him." "Whatev," said white cop, disgusted. "Let's get outa here. Place gives me the willies." "Good luck, Castille," said black cop. "Wait! Give me a chance!" "What?" black cop asked. "Take off these handcuffs." "Don't make no never mind whether you cuffed or not," said white cop. "Crazies sniff you out." "In that case," I said. "Might as well uncuff me." "No," said white cop. "Aw, what the hell," said black cop. "Turn around." He unkeyed the handcuffs. Thank you, God. Free hands. "I'm telling Dijjy," said white cop. "You do and I get back my taste for killing," said black cop. "All right. He ain't gonna make it outa here in one piece anyway." "Good luck, Castille," said black cop. They got into the car and drove off. Now what do I do? God help me get out of Little Hell. God help me. God... Oh no.

CHAPTER 40

Twilight zone of the living dead. Half-dozen crazies emerged from the trees - weasel-weapons clenched in furious fists - and came toward me. My heart vaulted so high in my throat, I was afraid to open my mouth in case my heart catapulted out. Should I run? Run where? Into more crazies? They approached slowly. The crazy eyes. The crazy smiles. Had they really turned into cannibals? My nerves did a tightrope act, barely balanced on the high wire. The whining wind turned colder, crueller. My shoulders convulsed with flat-out fear. I readied myself. The first to reach me was a monster clutching a six-foot lead pipe. "Hear the voices?" he asked, his own voice gruff as gravel, his eyes like moonless nights. "Sure," I said, eager to please. "Who you down with?" What to say? "I'm up with people." "I'm fed up with people," he said, swinging the lead pipe at my head. I ducked. He missed. I roundhouse kicked him in his exposed chest. Christ! Even with my steel-toed shoes, it felt like kicking a Roman centurion's solid brass breast plate. In my head, I heard the Old Legionnaire: What you get for kicking high! Always kick low! The crazy and I weren't so different. We both heard voices. I stomped the crazy's right knee from the side. Snap! Down he went. Wouldn't be getting up any time soon. The other five closed on me. I whirled in circles and figure eights, staying low, moving from the hips, gliding on the outside edges of my feet. Ironically, multiple attackers were often easier to subdue than an individual. Because they tended to get in each other's way. Plus, you could use them against each other. Which is just what I planned to do. A crazy thrust a steak knife at my midsection. I dodged to the outside, gripped his wrist and - continuing his momentum - caused him to stab a crazy who had been about to grab me from behind. He fell, bleeding. The first crazy, bewildered, pulled his knife back. But I held my grip on his wrist and stepped with him. Again using his own momentum, I angled his arm to the outside. Off-balance, I flipped him onto his back, still controlling his knife hand. As the Old Legionnaire used to say: Your opponent is going home but you are there to greet him. I dropped my knee on the twisted back of his hand - breaking his wrist - and I took his knife. Knife in hand, I faced the other three. Two attacked. One stupidly threw a right kick at my head. With all his weight planted on his left leg, I ducked under his right leg. Into his sneaker I plunged the knife. Blood spurted from his left foot. He pealed in pain, a bell suddenly cracked, and collapsed. Before I could stand, the other crazy grabbed me from behind by my shoulders. Instead of resisting, I bent forward - still squatting - and threw him over my head. He landed badly, head against concrete. 1-2-3-4-5 lying on the ground moaning and groaning. Wasn't there another crazy? Indeed, there was. He had picked up the lead pipe and now thrust it at me. I backed off, dodging thrusts. Then, when he thought he had me, I rushed him. In his split twitched second of spatter-brained confusion, I gripped the lead pipe. He grunted and pulled to wrench it free. As always, I went with the flow of motion. I accelerated and angled the pipe up and against his throat. He automatically backed away. As his left leg stepped back, his right leg was straightened. My left shod foot kicked into his right kneecap, causing him to fall backwards to the ground. Crudely - not the time or place for subtlety - I put the desperate weight of my chest, shoulders and arms on the lead pipe against his throat. He struggled. But being on top gave me the advantage. Slowly, I crushed his windpipe. Heart pounding, lungs gasping, I crawled away from his corpse. Exhausted, I thought: this is just the beginning. How am I going to escape Little Hell?

CHAPTER 41

A tanker truck off-loading chemical waste. Illegal. Normally, I'd make a citizen's arrest. "Hey, guys!" I yelled, approaching. They pulled pistols out of their waistbands and pointed them at me. "Stay back!" they commanded. I was confused by their attitude. "I got trapped back here and I just need a ride out." "One more step and I plug you between the eyes, you crazy." So that was it. "I'm no crazy," I said. "I..." "Save it! Heard you crazies turned into cannibals," he said to me. Then to his partner: "We should be getting double occupational hazard pay." "I'm not a crazy!" I shouted. He shot in the dirt near my feet. "Get away!" he yelled. "Or the next shot is in your gut!" That would be a feat: crawling gutshot out of Little Hell. "Go on, ya fucking cannibal crazy!" What could I do? I sprinted back to the safety of the trees where I watched. They dumped acrid-smelling, sickly-looking liquid into a bubbling ditch. When - if - I got out of here alive, I'd write a no-nonsense letter of complaint to my local congressperson and make no mistake about it. They finished and drove away. I ventured out of the woods. Quiet. Too quiet. I walked in the general direction of the lone road out of Little Hell. How I'd get by the barricade, I didn't know. How I'd handle encounters with random crazies, I didn't know. How many solar systems in the galaxy, I didn't know. Apparently, a lot I didn't know. So I walked softly without a big stick, eyes and ears and nose alert, sixth sense strict and vigilant as the day before a saint's feast. Good God! A twenty-foot dead python - Burmese, by the look of him - filled with puncture wounds. And - job finished - a pitchfork pinning him to the ground. Would crazies return to roast and eat it? Would they roast and eat me? I was getting hungry. Should I roast and eat the python? It is said by connoisseurs of wild game that python meat is absurdly delectable. But best not to linger. Besides, I had no matches to start a fire. I trudged on. Without a gun. Sun falling, failing. Wind bolder, colder. I turned up the collar of my leather jacket. Wheezing from wind-driven dust and grit and poison. I saw a parked car with two people sitting in the front seat. In a car, my chances of getting out alive soared. The windows were rolled down. From ten feet away, I vomited from the stench of rotting corpse. Holding handkerchief over nose and mouth, I approached. Two guys sitting perfectly composed. Or, should I say, perfectly decomposed. Hideous, disgusting, putrefying cadavers. Who they were, what they were doing in Little Hell, I had no idea. Nor was I disposed to find out by searching them for ID. Keys weren't in the ignition. Should I push or pull the corpses out? Then try to get the car going? First things first. I opened the hood to see if I could hot-wire the car. No battery! The crazies must have liberated it. To generate energy. The crazies were crazy but they weren't stupid. I trudged on. Dust. Choke. Cold. Freeze. Dusk. Hard to see. Fear. Then I saw them. Everywhere. Hundreds of crazies. Closing a circle on me. No way out. They came closer - bound and determined - but eerily silent. O the hum and haw, the harsh harrowing, the sad still silence of suffering humanity. They swarmed and grabbed me, lifted and carried me. Struggle was useless. From the deeps of Little Hell, they raised a harsh, infernal hurrah - a howl of defiance - to the high heavens. They took me to the same broke-down building where I had rescued Phoenix. Derelict church with desecrated altar. Only thing not fractured or ruptured was the huge stained glass window above the altar. In rich, vibrant colors, it depicted the Biblical miracle of Christ walking on water to the astonishment of the apostles. That's what I needed. A miracle.

CHAPTER 42

With thick rope, they tied my hands behind me. We were in the entry or lobby of the church. As a Catholic lad, I'd been forced to learn the formal names of all the parts of church architecture. But now my blooming buzzing brain couldn't recall a single name. Suffice to say, I was at the opposite end from the profaned, polluted altar. The gang of crazies howled, mad-dog staring at me with wild wasteland eyes. Were they also licking their chops? Those around me backed up as a tall crazy with a ridiculous headdress came toward me. The headdress was a Dada construction of bent metal kitchen utensils, front panels of cardboard cereal boxes and feather dusters. He stopped. Two of us in the circle. The gang quieted. His bulging eyes stared at me like a piece of Pop Art. Tiny black holes inside bigger brown circles on a pair of ping pong balls. "Spicka da Inglish?" I asked in my usual polite manner. He sneered. "Today you die." From his belt, he pulled a big sharpened screwdriver. "Can't it wait?" I asked. "Tomorrow I have a dentist's appointment." "You think funny?" "Not a belly laugh," I said. "But a trifle amusing." My eyes gunned desperate darting glances. Looking for the path of least resistance to make a down-and-dirty last ditch run for freedom. But the crazies were densely packed. Immobilized hands didn't help. My head pounded like an iron hammer knocking in railroad ties. "Not funny," said Captain Crazy. "Now what?" I asked. "Roast and eat me?" A squalid smile spread, revealing his rotted teeth. The crazies all laughed raucously. I hadn't lost my ability to work a crowd. He raised the screwdriver above his head, advanced on me and said: "Now you die." I prepared myself to go down fighting. Dodge the heart-aimed screwdriver. Kick him in an exposed part of his body. Kick as many kneecaps of crazies out of joint as possible. Sudden sound of cracking, crashing, smashing glass. We all looked toward the altar. High above, the nose of a motorcycle had broken through the stained glass window. The whole cycle emerged, causing the entire stained glass window to break into shards that showered the altar. The rider's head and face were protected from the jagged fragments of glass by a green helmet with black plastic face mask. "What the...?" "How the...?" "Who the...?" The crazies and I watched, mystified. The bike soared majestically a hundred feet above the altar. A two-wheeled steel and plastic hybrid of human and machine. Like a creature out of Greek mythology. Like a vision which St. John the Divine forgot to include in his hallucinogenic Book of Revelation. The cycle soared toward us. The crazies started a frightened din. Even Captain Crazy had halted, screwdriver raised, to watch open-mouthed. We stared in awe as the motorcycle descended toward...us. The crazies shrank away, widening the circle in which Captain Crazy and I stood. The bike landed in the main aisle, bumped up and down twice and skidded to a halt in front of us. My stomach flip-flop-flipped; my heart pumped like a pneumatic drill; my mind short-circuited. The rider leaped off and flung away the helmet. "Phoenix!" I shouted. "Fancy meeting you here, tragic dragon," she said, "the yellow woman's burden." On both hands, she wore strange weapons. Semi-circles of bright, sharp steel curving above each set of knuckles. Captain Crazy turned to stab her with the screwdriver. Too late. With a dozen quick slashes of both hands, Phoenix cut his face and throat to ribbons. As she dispatched him, I leaped up and over my tied wrists - like jumping rope - so that my hands were now in front of me. "Cut me loose!" I yelled. With one slice of her weapon, she cut the ropes. My hands were free. Without their leader, the crazies alternately held back and pushed forward. Phoenix - banshee-shrieking like the Angel of Death late for work - leaped at the crazies. She whirled with both hands in a blur of motion. Blood everywhere. She severed hands that dared to punch or grab, slashed legs that dared to kick or push, split open throats and faces that dared to get too close. Crazies screamed. Crazies that attacked me, I kicked their ankles or knees, dropping them to the floor. I didn't want to punch. You know. The guitar. After a minute, half the crazies lay on the floor of the church. Moaning, groaning, streams of blood spewing out of their wounds. Or clutching their dislocated kneecaps or broken ankles. The other half ran out the door. "Let's go!" yelled Phoenix.

CHAPTER 43

She leaped on the motorcycle. I leaped on behind her and held onto her waist. Her abdomen was hard ridges of muscle. We roared through the open door. Outside, great gangs of crazies milled in the moonlight. Phoenix steered toward the only road out of Little Hell. Any crazy crazy enough to try to stop us was cut by Phoenix in the face or throat. What kind of weapon? Phoenix collected only one thing. Only one physical thing, that is. She collected unusual life experiences, trips to strange and exotic locales, interesting sexual encounters. But just one physical thing: weapons. As we sped, I yelled against the wind: "What are on your hands?" For answer, she held her left hand up for me to inspect. She controlled the bike with her right hand. By the light of the silvery moon, I had never seen anything like it. The weapon was held in place by a thin wooden shaft running along the base of the fingers on the inside of the hand. Held in place by a wooden ring that circled the base of the index finger. It was further held in place by curving around the little finger. Attached to the wood at this point was a wickedly sharp curved blade - a couple of inches above the knuckles - ending above the index finger. A mini-scimitar. I realized the true beauty was - because the weapon anchored itself - she could also open her hands to grip. "Where?" I yelled. "Indonesia," she yelled back. One more obstacle to get out of Little Hell. The barricade. With another hundred crazies screaming for our slated blood, our full-flavored flesh, our sea-begotten souls. We roared forward, our way lit by the fickle, capricious moon. "How?" Phoenix shouted back to me. "Through or over!" I shouted against the wind. "Can't go through on a bike!" she yelled. "Then over!" "Fly?" "Yes, please!" I yelled. She swerved hard left. I almost fell off. A crash or fall and our craniums would be cracked like egg shells and our brains scrambled, for the crazies' midnight snack. Phoenix saw it. A little hill with something like a ramp. She headed straight toward it. As we sped up the ramp, she accelerated. At the top of the hill, we flew into space. Exhilarating. Terrifying. We soared over the barricade. Below, crazies shook their fists at us, threw shovels and eggbeaters toward us. We started to descend. Not so exhilarating. Even more terrifying. "Hold on!" shouted Phoenix. We hit the ground. The bike wobbled left and right, left and right. I prepared to fall. I'd try to keep my skull and spine from smashing into the ground. I glued myself to Phoenix's back and tried to become one with her motion as she leaned right and left, right and left to steady the bike. We hit some obstacle in the road - a rock? - and the back wheel came up, throwing us forward. In mid-air, we separated. The Old Legionnaire had made me safely fall face first 10,000 times. Not just on the mat but in the back parking lot on concrete. Phoenix's mother had done the same with her. But I'd never landed face first going forty miles per hour. At least, it wasn't concrete. Just pitted ground with crazies ready to pounce. I hit the ground with my forearms and hands - fingers spread wide - and the steel toes of my shoes. I had turned my face as far as possible to the left. The idea was to keep the head, especially the face, and body from hitting by absorbing the impact with arms and shoes. But the crash landing was too much. The side of my head smashed into the ground. Concrete? Sure concussion. If not fractured skull. As it was, I only felt dazed. I rose shakily. Phoenix and I staggered toward each other. "All right?" I asked. "Never better," she said, also dazed. "Which way is up?" "Question is: which way is out?" Behind, crazies rampaged toward us. Ahead, semi-crazies or perhaps pre-crazies raged and raved toward us. We came out of our fog. We ran to the motorcycle, righted it, jumped on. Phoenix tried to kick start it but the motor wouldn't turn over. The shouts and threats of both gangs boomed and banged louder and closer. Phoenix tried to kick start it again. But again it didn't start. My shoulders convulsed. I felt the hot breath of crazies on the back of my neck. Another instant and I'd jump off the bike to face them and fight. Phoenix tried to kick start it again. This time, the motor turned over. A claw-like hand grabbed my right shoulder. I smashed down on it with a left hammer fist. The claw let go. The bike moved forward. The gang in front kept coming. Phoenix gunned the engine to let them know we weren't going to stop. Get out of the way or get run down. But if the lunatics didn't open a path, hitting them might cause the bike to fall again. We pushed through the gang as they parted. But one brute grabbed Phoenix by the throat. Before I could chop it loose with an outside knife hand, Phoenix slashed it with her bladed weapon. It cut right through the wrist, severing hand from arm. Unbelievably, the cut hand still clutched Phoenix's throat. Grisly as it was, I pulled the severed hand loose and chucked it in the face of another moonstruck fool trying to stop us. We roared through the rest of them and finally out of Little Hell. We didn't slow down. I yelled to Phoenix: "Didn't know you owned a motorcycle!" "Didn't!" she yelled. "Do now!"

CHAPTER 44

Well away from Little Hell, we stopped for a breather. "Now what?" asked Phoenix, combing down her hair with her fingers. Where her special weapons had disappeared to, I didn't know. "Man, I'm on a high! A wicked rush! Don't want to come down so soon!" "You bloody degenerate adrenaline junkie." "Like you aren't." "Not like you," I said. "Why don't you snort coke or pop bennies? Like a normal person." "Normal?" said Phoenix, like she'd never heard the word before. "First I have to finish what I started out to do this morning," I said. "Before being so rudely and crudely interrupted." "What?" she asked. "Kill Dijjy Doo." "Who?" "Leader of a faction in the Combat Zone wars," I said. "Why?" "See the news today? The human head over Boston Common?" "Yeah," said Phoenix. "Friend of mine. Dijjy Doo killed her." "Where?" "The Two To Two," I said. "Let's go," she said, getting back on the motorcycle. "First, my office. Get a gun." "Why bother?" she asked. "I have two on me. Take one." "Rather use my own." "Why?" "Sentimental reasons," I said. "I always suspected you were a sentimental fool." "Scratch a cynic and find a disillusioned romantic." "Ain't that the truth?" she said. "You, too?" "Me? Nah. I'm a cynic all the way through.

CHAPTER 45

At my office, I reached under my desk and tore off the duct tape holding my other Beretta in place. Phoenix pondered the chess game in progress. While she was usually a study of motion, right now she was the picture of stillness. Dressed all in black which matched her fine glossy shoulder-length coal-black hair. All black except for her golden skin and piercing green eyes. Once seen, she was hard to forget. Some Chinese called her The Black Widow Spider. After her fiance Tony Wong accidentally killed himself, many had shortened her monicker to The Black Widow. I had known her and worked closely with her for years. Yet how well did I really know her? "Interesting game, chess," she said. "As I recall, the queen is more powerful than the king." "True," I said. "But the king is more valuable. Lose the king, lose the game." "Yet the queen can checkmate the king. But the king can't even get close to the queen, let alone checkmate her." "True," I said. "But when the game is over, all the chess pieces - including king and queen - go into the same box." We elevated down to the first floor. From his hole-in-the-wall coffee-cigarette-candy concession, wall-eyed Mike shouted: "Hey, Castille! Want coffee? Cigarettes? Chewing gum? Mmm. Very good! Chewing gum!!" "Don't drink coffee," I said. "Don't smoke. Don't chew." "Then you want candy bars? Dee-liss-eus candy bars? Numbah one candy bars!" My weak spot. As he knew. But I applied the old will power. As I pulled open the heavy glass door, Mike laughed like an out-of-tune banjo. "Who's that specimen?" asked Phoenix, out on the sidewalk. "Boat person," I said. "Just trying to not get sick with that American disease known as lack of money." We abandoned the motorcycle where the cops would easily find it and return it to its owner. So we walked down Essex and up Washington to the Two To Two. My rage against Dijjy Doo rose like mercury in a thermometer on a wicked hot day. Despite the fact that it was cold and blustery. "What's the plan?" Phoenix asked as we navigated the crowded sidewalk. "Gimme de ball; get out de way." "That's it?" asked Phoenix. "Worse. Cousin cops hang there. They're like his Praetorian Guard." "You do realize that if you kill Dijjy Doo," she said. "You'll be arrested on the spot by the cousin cops." "Worse than that. The Cadillac Squad. The elite of the rotten little bounders." "Great." "If you want to bail," I said. "Do it now." "And miss all the ripping good excitement?" Phoenix said in her Magna Carter voice. "Not bloody likely!" "Fetch my riding crop," I said in my Norman Conquest voice. "Tally ho!"

CHAPTER 46

Turning the corner from Harrison Ave. Extension onto Essex, we ran into Keiko. Half-Japanese, half-Caucasian. But looked all Japanese. "Konnichi-wa!" I hailed her, showing off my multilingual skills. "Bako yaro, Castille!" Keiko answered. "How many times I tell you? Konnichi-wa means hello only in daytime. After sundown? Komban-wa!" "Okay, okay. Komban-wa," I said. "Where you going? Stroll's the other way. Friday night. Men get paid. Can't wait to spend their money on beautiful you." "Punching out early tonight," she said, glancing at Phoenix who stood off to the side and looked the other way. As in Asia, so in the States. The Japanese and Chinese didn't like each other. "And I'm calling in sick tomorrow." "Why?" "Omae aho ya de! Think! The date." "What date? Oh. I forgot," I said. "Tomorrow's December 7th. Pearl Harbor Day. Not good, huh?" "When I started turning tricks last year? Know how many times I'm attacked or cheated on or around December 7th because I'm Japanese? Plenty! Not this year. Be inside all weekend." "You deserve a break," I said. "But not my arm or neck!" said Keiko. "This weekend, no honorable peckers entering my hairy barrier! No foot-lick demons! Or any other freak pervo beasts! Anyway, my vagina needs the time off." With another sidelong glance at Phoenix, she stomped off toward her apartment in the South End. I looked at Phoenix who shrugged and twisted her mouth. "Let's go," I said. "The game's still afoot." When my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the Two To Two, I saw neither Princess Cheyenne nor Chesty Morgan on stage. The sorrow and pity of it all. Instead, a new concept in striptease. Identical triplets named April, May and June. The Striplets. Down at the end of the right aisle, the Cadillac Squad whooped it up. I wasn't sure if I wanted the salt and pepper team who abandoned me in Little Hell to be there or not. Hate to have to shoot them and not get to Dijjy Doo. Some of the drunken slobbish patrons on bar stools or in booths stared at Phoenix, thinking she would be onstage soon. She either ignored them or stared back until they looked away. When we reached the cops, they quieted down and gave us the reliably whimsical cop look. "Just passing through," I said cheerily. "To see Dijjy Doo." They didn't speak for a few long seconds until the leader from last time said: "A boy and his dog." They laughed like the drunken imbeciles they were. Phoenix walked up to the leader. They quieted down again and fidgeted, hands near guns. Phoenix suddenly barked and howled like a rabid dog in the leader's face. He was so stunned, he just stood there. If any of the other cousin cops tried anything on Phoenix from behind, I'd break one bone or another in his body. I was so filled with savage rancor at Bee's murder, I didn't care if I got arrested. Savage. The word Margie had used. She was afraid I would become more savage from alliance with Phoenix. But I had dragged Phoenix along on this little caper. No, this was my own savagery. Phoenix stopped barking. The leader looked at her in wonderment. "No offense," I managed to smile. "No trouble. Just passing through." As Phoenix and I walked through them, the cops slowly parted. My heart pounded like a drill breaking through concrete. Back room - Dijjy Doo's headquarters, command post, base of operations - empty. No wonder the cousin cops didn't pat us down. We went back to them. "Where's Dijjy Doo?" I asked. "Who?" "Dijjy Doo." "Never heard of him," said the leader. They all laughed uproariously. Maybe, just maybe Bee did kill Dijjy Doo. And then French Jack or one of the other KGB posse went back to the Two To Two, got the drop on Bee and killed her. Or, worse, Bee didn't kill Dijjy Doo. He killed her. Beheaded her. Launched her head into space. And now he was hiding out somewhere, plotting his next move, with or without French Jack et al. "Remember," said Phoenix, as if divining my thoughts. "At the end of the game, all the pieces go into the same box."

CHAPTER 47

After the spots of unpleasantness in Little Hell and the Two To Two, I was exhausted. Went home and slept the sleep of the righteous for several hours. Then got up and came to the midnight meeting of the war council. Cleo and me and Laughing Death. "Castille, what happen to Atomic Honeybee?" Queen Cleopatra demanded from her divan in the back room of the Hot Spot. She wore yet another faux-ancient Egyptian get-up. "Did you watch the news?" I asked. "Course Ah watch the news," she said. "Just cause Ah want you be mah tutor don't mean Ah ignorant." "If you watched the news," I snapped, "you know what happened." Sleeping during the day made me peevish, piqued, easily provoked. "Don't be giving Queen Cleo sass," Cleo snapped back. "You know what Queen Cleo mean," said Laughing Death. "What happen when cameras not running?" "Bee infiltrated Dijjy Doo's war council," I said. "She told me about the attack on the Hot Spot. Forewarned is forearmed. How we won so easily." "Know that," Queen Cleo responded in an exaggerated sing-song voice. "And you know she wasn't going to take part in the attack. She was going to circle back to the Two To Two and kill Dijjy Doo. She had a grudge against him." "What?" asked Laughing Death quickly. "Didn't tell me," I said. "But you saw the TV news. Either she killed Dijjy Doo and someone killed her. Or she didn't kill Dijjy Doo and he killed her. Either way, she's dead." "And where's that traitor Dijjy Doo?" Cleo asked. "Don't know," I said. "Floating face down in the harbor. Or alive and in headlong flight from Boston. Or still here, whereabouts unknown, and plotting more mischief against us." "Problem," said Cleo. "I know," I said. "Another problem," she said. "That I don't know," I said. "Then Ah pull your coat," said Cleo. "Headman of the 88 Sons of Satan fly me a kite." "Saying?" "He want a sitdown to discuss the situation." "The situation being," I said, "that Dijjy Doo and we didn't destroy each other as the Nazis hoped. So the 88 Sons can't just walk in and take over the Zone." "Prolly," said Cleo. "But he use all these weird words. Though that the gist." "The gist?" I said, feigning surprise. "Pretty good." "Ah learning," said Cleo, relaxing and laughing. "Anyway..." said Laughing Death, sternly. "Anyway," said Cleo. "Ah appoint you, Castille, to negotiate with the Nazi headman." "An honor, I'm sure," I said. "Looks like the Nazis are the leaders. And the 88 Sons are skinheads taking orders from the Nazis. But they are two different groups. What are your parameters?" "Parameters?" laughed Cleo. "Pretty good." "I'm learning," I said. "Parameters be they can stay in Little Zone. Do what they want. But no way they put even a little toe in mah territory. Least not till the devil go blind." "Why don't you talk to him?" I asked. "Cause you the man with the words," she said. "The headman's not insulted that you're sending a mere underling?" I asked. "Namely, my humble self." "That one a mah parameters," said Cleo. "Queens don't negotiate." "When?" I asked. "Tomorrow. Saturday. The 7th," she said. "Noon. At their HQ." "Noon?" I said. "Perhaps he'll serve a good old Nazi luncheon. Finger sandwiches etc." "Gross," said Cleo. "By the by," I said, "what's the Nazi headman's name?" "Reichsmarshall Black Red," said Cleo, rolling her eyes. "Got a beat," I said, snapping my fingers. "Can dance to it." "Don't be doing no Twist or disco," Cleo said. "Don't think Nazis be digging on that." "Laughing Death," I said, "what's your take on all this?" "Use fancy words on him or whatev," he said. "But don't work? We hit 'em with every man, woman and weapon we got."

CHAPTER 48

How amusing. At the half-hidden gate to the HQ of the 88 Sons of Satan in the Little Combat Zone, stood a sentry. On her wrists, she wore wide black leather bands with pointed inch-long silver spikes. A black leather vest over a t-shirt with a picture of a guy with a shaved head, long goatee and that Aleister Crowley Master of the Universe/gutter glitter junky expression. Her ripped jeans and, yes, Doc Marten boots with white laces completed her late autumn ensemble. Her head was as bald and pale as a soft-boiled egg. Trying to look tough. She looked as tough as a soft-boiled egg. When I walked up to her, she squinted and frowned. "Excuse me, miss," I said. "But could you tell me the time?" "Check out this guy!" she said to an invisible third party. "Can't afford a watch? Okay, pal. It's twelve-o-fucking-clock." "Thank you so much, I'm sure." "Now get lost." "I hear an accent," I said. "But can't place it." "I've traveled all around the world," she said proudly. "Germany, Austria, Argentina. The great state of Alabama, y'all." "Is that where you grew up?" "No. I grew up in the not-so-great state of Misery." "Misery?" I asked. "You probably know it as Missouri." "Why did you leave?" "You don't want to know," she said. "But, like I said, I've traveled all around." "I also travel," I said. "My name is Ai-Mor, the Invincible Futurian. I time travel." "Time travel?" "I'm from the future," I said modestly. "The future?" "Perhaps I do not express myself so well in the language of your people?" "Language of my people?" she said. "You repeat everything I say. Do I not express myself correctly? Or do your ears experience a malfunction?" "My ears?" "Again you repeat what I say," I said. "Let me just check your ears." "Hey, pal, nobody touches my...Ouch!" I gripped her right ear and twisted. Hard. It was insanely painful when the nuns did it to me as a child. Apparently, its painfulness continued into adulthood. "Leggo a me!" she yelled. "Soon," I said. "Now please be so good as to escort me to the Door of Thor." By escort, I meant that she would be my human shield. So the ratzy-Nazis wouldn't open fire on one of their own. Or would they? I twist-eared her toward the door. "You're crazy!" she said. "Possibly. But I like my craziness," I said, switching to my Rafael Sabitini voice. "There is a thrill in it unknown to such sanity as yours." We reached the door with the Hammer of Thor. She started to step on the welcome mat flag of Israel, soiled from many Sons of Satan boot-wipes. "Don't walk on the flag," I instructed. "I'll do whatever I...Oowww!" I gave her ear another quarter-turn twist. She stepped over the flag as did I. "Is the door locked?" I asked. "No," she said. "And who in hell are you, anyway?" "I already told you. Naziism not so good for the little gray cells, eh?" I released her ear. "Back to your guard post, Fraulein." She didn't move. "I'll get in trouble," she pleaded. "I'm expected," I said, knocking. The door opened. Great. Silver Mick. The original skinhead clown whose index finger I had broken. Bandaged and splinted. In his other hand, he held a Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol. "Impeccable taste in handheld firearms," I said. "The handgun of choice, if memory serves, used by James Bond." He merely smiled a meta-sadistic smile. Now what?

CHAPTER 49

He ushered me in with an exaggerated bow. The metal music screeched to a stop. The same creeps and cretins sat at the same tables wearing the same clothes. When they recognized me, they jumped up. "Sorry, lads," I said. "I'm here on a safe conduct agreement with your Reichsmarshall." My escort reluctantly nodded his head in agreement. The lads moaned and groaned in drop-down disappointment but sat. "So," said my splint-fingered escort. "You must be Castille." "Must I?" I asked. "Why, I suppose I must." "If you weren't here on a safe conduct and I wasn't so honorable..." he didn't finish the sentence but pointed his Luger at my face. "I know it's corny," I said. "But I can't resist. Take me to your leader." My skinhead escort led me up a set of stairs to the second floor. Distinctly different from the first floor. Plush maroon carpeting. Shiny new wood-paneled walls. Greek and Roman statuettes on small tables. Into a luxuriant room. Wagner playing softly. On the walls: a Nazi flag. Big portrait of Hitler. Three big maps with colored push pins: the world, United States, Boston. Behind a mahogany desk, the presumed leader: a WASPy looking guy wearing crisp khakis and ironed button-down long-sleeved dress shirt but no tie. Short neat haircut. Flanking him stood two guys who looked and dressed exactly like him. They could be successful young stockbrokers on State Street on Casual Friday. Although today was Saturday. December 7th. Pearl Harbor Day. To the side stood another guy, a pillar of muscle who probably popped steroids for breakfast, lunch and dinner. "Ah, Mr. Castille, no doubt," Fearless Leader said, coming out from behind his desk to warmly shake my hand. He wore a black and red Nazi armband on his right sleeve. "Reichsmarshall Black Red. A pseudonym, of course." "C'est la guerre," I said. "Precisely. The war. Please. Sit down. Something to drink?" "No thanks." This guy wasn't like the Nazis in the movies. New era, new improved Nazis. At least in appearance. My escort disappeared. I glanced at the pillar of muscle. His eyes full of the poetry of mayhem; his hands full of the algebra of torture. "Ah, my bodyguard," said Black Red. "We call him The Fondler. Again, necessary because of the war." "The darn war," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Most unfortunate," said Black Red. "Toujours la guerre. Always the war." "You speak French," I said. "What about German?" "I've been taking lessons in the language of the Fatherland. Not so different from English." "They both belong to the same family of languages," I said. "Exactly," Black Red pounded his fist on the desk. "Just as we belong to the same family." "We?" I asked. "The great nations of Germany, Britain and the United States." "Where the beer and the canteloupe play," I said. "Ha ha. But I'm serious," he said. "If only the people of the world would recognize race as the sole criterion of greatness and take their places accordingly, we would have a thousand years of peace!" "Let me guess," I said. "You Nazis would be at the top of the status totem pole." "Not Nazis. Aryans. Pure-blooded Aryans. Whose blood is not mixed with that of lesser peoples. Let alone, God forbid, subhumans." "The Jews," I clarified. "Exactly. At this moment, you probably don't even realize the Jewification of Boston is proceeding rapidly." "That would account for the many red push pins in the map of Boston." "Very perceptive," he said. "Because the Jews are always Bolsheviks. Or, as you call them, Communists. Do you know Lew the Jew?" "Stuart Street," I said. "He's Jewish." "I gathered." "Old-fashioned pawn broker," he said. "Got the three golden balls hanging over the front door. The whole bit. Seems harmless. But he's part of the Jewification of Boston. See? That's what we're fighting." "Quite the challenge," I said. "You guys are going to take on 85-year-old Lew by yourselves? I'm impressed." "Not exactly what I meant." "What did you mean?" I asked. "Exactly?"

CHAPTER 50

"I meant only to give an example of the fiendish subtlety of the enemy," Black Red said. "Who would think an old pawnbroker is in the vanguard of Jewry? Yet he is." "So when you said America," I said, "you weren't including all Americans." "Of course not. Only pure-blooded Aryans. Like yourself. Excluded are Jews, Asians, Indians, Hispanics, Slavs, Gypsies, homosexuals, cripples, criminals, the homeless, the chronically ill, unemployed and miscellaneous deviants of any sort." "Cuts down considerably on the number of Americans you hope to recruit," I said. "Not a matter of quantity," he said earnestly. "But of quality. If the Americans and British had joined Germany in World War Two, there'd be no Soviet Union, no Cold War. "Hitler, to his eternal credit, tried over and over to get your countries to see this simple truth. But they refused to see. Or were incapable. I pray you now wake up before it's too late." "So why do you want to negotiate with Queen Cleopatra, a black woman with a mostly black crew?" He sniffed. "Sometimes, one must deal with such people to advance the cause." "Which is?" I asked. "The party needs money," he said. "The Combat Zone provides a steady stream of cash. Normally, we are against prostitution, fraud, theft. But, in the short term, we must deal with reality. In the long term, of course, such vermin will be exterminated." "Some of my best friends are prostitutes, con artists and thieves," I said. "And black. And Asian. And, come to think of it, vermin."" "Are you a Christian, Mr. Castille?" he asked. "Raised Catholic," I replied. "Have you ever wondered," he asked, "about the similarity of the words 'Nazareth' and 'Nazi'?" "No." "Do so now. You see they have the same root. Naz." "Coincidence," I said. "No!" he pounded his fists on the desk. "There was no such place as Nazareth. It's symbolic of Naziism. Jesus Christ was born into Naziism." "So you're a Christian," I concluded. "No! Whether you know it or not, you're a Nazi!" "It's all clear now," I said. "I should join you lunatics." He glowered at me. "Mr. Castille, you strike me as a distinct representative of the unwholesome Aryan type. A type, I am forced to say, which, when we accede to power, must be eradicated for the good of humanity." "When," I said. "But in the meantime, what do you want?" "Control of the Combat Zone," he said. "No." "The self-described Queen can continue to run it, but she receives 10%," he said. "No." "I'm a fair man," he said. "15%." "No." "What do you want?" he asked, exasperated. "For you Nazi scum to leave Boston," I said. He jumped up from his chair. The two lieutenants scowled. Peripherally, I saw the Fondler approaching. "At the Nuremberg Trials," I said, "the Nazi officers - those who hadn't fled into anonymity or killed themselves due to cowardice - said they couldn't be charged with crimes against humanity for their attempt to destroy the Jewish race. Why? Because the Jews weren't human." "That's the truth," he said. "The truth," I said, "is that you Nazi scum are subhuman." I turned to look at the Fondler. His face was a giant wad of masticated gum. "Who chewed you up and spit you out?" I asked. "Maybe I'll use the heel of my palm to drive your nose bone up into your brain," he said. "See how your face looks." "Ignorant as well as vicious," I said. "There is no nose bone." "What do you mean?" he asked. "They always do it in the movies." "You've seen too many Grade Z Kung-Fu films," I said. "Ever seen a human skull? Or even a picture of one?" "Course." "What's there where the nose bone should be?" I asked. "A hole," he admitted. "No bone." "So what keeps your nose in place?" he asked. "Cartilage," I said. "Then how 'bout I break your nose cartilage?" "Been broken by better men than you," I said. He started to wind up for an attack but was stopped by Black Red. "Let him go," he said tonelessly. "Another Aryan fool." "And as for you," I said to the leader. "With all due respect, you freakin' brainless Nazi twit, stay out of the Combat Zone." "I'm coming with an army," he said, dropping all pretense of courtesy and staring at me hatefully. "You won't even see us until our boots are on your faces. Blitzkreig!" "Lightning warfare?" I laughed. "With that bunch of layabout Hitler Youths downstairs?" "They're only a few of many," Black Red said. "For we are legion. We will never let the filthy mud people rise up and overcome the natural leaders. I feel sorry for you. WOTAN will prevail. The Will Of The Aryan Nation." "Like cockroaches, you may survive," I said, leaving. "But you'll never prevail."

CHAPTER 51

I swished through swirls of brittle brown leaves on Essex Street. Vaguely wondered where the leaves came from. As far as I knew, no trees in Chinatown. Maybe it was cunningly disguised litter. Approaching me in his blue cop uniform was Jesse James Liu alias Jimmy Liu. Only Chinese cop in Boston. Police HQ wanted the crime and violence in Chinatown to stay there. The gangs and bad guys in Chinatown wanted to make their illegal money without interference. For both parties, Jimmy was the perfect police officer. "Castille." "Jimmy." Usually neutral or grim, he was actually grinning. Maybe he'd dipped into the Christmas eggnog early. "Know what today is the anniversary of?" asked Jimmy. "The sneak attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese," I said. "Caused the United States to enter World War Two. 'A day which will live in infamy.'" "Right. So. These two guys are drinking in a bar. One's Chinese. The other's Jewish." "Are you actually telling a joke?" "Don't interrupt," he said. "So outa nowhere, the Jewish guy just hauls off and punches the Chinese guy. And the Chinese guy says 'What'd you do that for?'" "This isn't racist, is it?" I asked. "No, no. Just, you know, racial. Don't interrupt." "Continue." "The Jewish guy says 'That's for Pearl Harbor,' Jimmy said. "The Chinese guy says 'That was the Japanese!' "The Jewish guy says 'Chinese. Japanese. What's the difference?' They keep drinking. Suddenly, the Chinese guy hauls off and punches the Jewish guy. He says 'What'd you do that for?' The Chinese guy says 'That's for the Titanic.' "The Jewish guys says 'The Jews had nothing to do with the sinking of the Titanic!' The Chinese guy says 'Ginsberg. Iceberg. What's the difference?'" I dutifully chuckled. In general, better to laugh at cops' jokes than not. No matter how unfunny. "Keep it up, Jimmy," I said. "And you'll be doing stand-up at next summer's August Moon Festival." "Better than being a Chinese cop in Chinatown." "Hard to please everyone?" "Hard to please anyone," he lamented. "Anyway, I suppose you're Christian. So Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." "Actually, I converted to Hinduism," I said. "So Merry Krishna and a Hare New Year." And so off to endure the slings and arrows of Margie the Merciless.

CHAPTER 52

"Where's Betty?" demanded Margie twenty minutes later. "Don't know," I said, selecting tasty tidbits from the dim sum tray at Golden Pagoda restaurant. "You said she'd return home in a few days." "I said she might return home in a week." "It's been eight days since she disappeared!" Margie half-shouted. "A week or so, I believe I said," I said. "Castille, what's wrong with you? What happened to your motto: 'I don't seek; I find.' Stolen, I might add, from Picasso." "The amateur borrows," I said. "The professional steals." "What kind of professional are you? You've done nothing for five days since I told you she's missing." She was right. I'd become so caught up in the Combat Zone wars, I'd forgotten about Betty Boop. What was wrong with me? "For starters," I defended myself. "Not a single clue or lead. I still think she'll return on her own." "Do I have to hire another detective?" "Hire?" "You know what I mean," she fumed. "No, I don't. I'm working for free. If hiring is an option, I'll have to charge my usual fee." "I can't afford your usual fee." "Quite so," I said, "jewel-like Juliet to my reflecting Romeo." "So find her!" "Not to change the subject, but..." I started. "Why do people say they're not going to change the subject when in fact that's exactly what they're going to do?" "Don't change the subject," I said. "Any trouble today?" "Because it's Pearl Harbor Day?" "Yes." "Luckily, it's on a Saturday this year. I don't have to stand on the subway platform and endure the usual insults." "Last year was bad, as I recall." "No shit, Sherlock Junior. The first thing was someone yelled out 'Seems to be a Nip in the air!' I actually thought he meant the air was turning colder with winter coming on. I'd forgotten that Nip was a derogatory term for Japanese." "Then what?" I asked, never tiring of this story. "I realized that on the packed platform waiting for the train, everyone had pulled back. Leaving me in a circle." "Then the insults came thick and fast." "I'll say," said Margie. "'Dirty Jap!' and 'Go back home!' and 'You're not wanted here!'" "And you said?" This was my favorite part. "I was trembling with fear. And anger. But I said to them, 'First of all, I'm not even Japanese. I'm Chinese. Second of all, China fought with the United States in World War Two against the Japanese.' "But every December 7th, sure as shit, people start looking at me funny. Guys in three-piece suits and business women all dressed up. Think they'd know better. Fucking ignorant racist assholes!" "Any incidents today?" I asked. "No. But it's Saturday. And still early," she said, looking at her watch. "2:20. I have to get back to the restaurant soon to prep for the supper crowd. "So. Nice try. But back to the original subject. Where's Betty?" "I don't know what to tell you, Margie. She literally disappeared without a trace. What can I do?" "You're the eye that never sleeps," she said. "I don't know what other cases you're working on. And I don't want to know. But I get the feeling they're more exciting than finding Betty." "Remember what I said. People walk out of their lives like walking through a door," I said. "She may be living on the North Shore under the name Olive Oyl." "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Maybe she's always had two families. Two husbands. Two children. It happens." Margie rolled her eyes heavenward as if to say 'O ye Gods! What did I ever do to deserve this?' "Gotta go," she said, standing up and shouldering her huge pocketbook. "Find Betty."

CHAPTER 53

The next day, Sunday, I stayed home, absent-mindedly playing the guitar and brooding. Margie was right. She bitched; I brooded. Every great once in a while, I couldn't even bring myself to go out. These spells usually lasted only a day or so. Monday morning, a funny thing happened on the way to the office. I didn't park in the 24/7 garage on Essex Street in C'town. Full. But rather the garage in the Leather District. I wore my gun all the time now, Baretta in the belt holster under my leather jacket. I sprinted across the Surface Artery to the Chinatown Gate, dodging between cars. The Surface Artery was a wide concrete roadway that used to be part of Chinatown: apartments, restaurants, shops. The Fortress, in its urbane wisdom, had seized the area by eminent domain and demolished that part of Chinatown. The city laid down the Surface Artery to be a link between the Southeast Expressway and the Central Artery to facilitate north-south vehicular traffic. Did they ask Chinatown residents for input? No. Did they care what Chinatown residents thought? No. Why? Because most Chinatown residents were immigrants and refugees who couldn't vote. At two bus stops waited jostles of your poor, your tired, your huddled masses yearning to breathe fumes. Plus a worry of workers scurrying to their downtown jobs. Gunshots. Screams. I turned. Two skinheads ran with semi-auto handguns toward me, shooting wildly. Weather: sky leaden with a certainty of bullets. First thought: return fire. But with all the people confused and frightened, I wouldn't take the chance of wounding or killing a civilian. Apparently, the screwball skinheads weren't constrained by such fastidious fussiness. I fled. In shape, working out at the gym, not drinking or smoking, I would simply outpace them. I didn't want to go into a building for fear these pinhead skinheads would follow and shoot everyone in their perilous path. The Surface Artery crossed Kneeland and became the Chinatown exit from the Expressway. Cars came down, but at 30 and 20 and 10 miles per hour. I glanced back; the skinhead gunmen still pursued. I zig-zagged across Kneeland through traffic and continued onto the off ramp. Drivers gave me funny looks. Not funny as in ha-ha, but funny as in peculiar. At the top, I looked back. The jamokes would surely have given up. No. They too ran up onto the off ramp. Now what? Couldn't stand around and wait to be shot. Didn't want to shoot which would force them to shoot. Kill an innocent driver or two. Only one decent thing to do. I raced onto the Expressway itself against the rush hour traffic going 60 and 70 and 80 miles per hour. Disbelieving drivers beeped their horns half to death; some leaned out their windows and shouted at me various exhortations: "Watch out!" "Tryna get yourself killed?" And the ever popular: "Get off the road, you fucking moron!" I ran in the breakdown lane. Nobody was supposed to drive there. Reserved for cars that, you know, break down. I looked over my shoulder. The bloody jamokes had followed me onto the Expressway! A horn blasted and I turned to look forward. A freakin' lunatic was illegally driving in the breakdown lane at 80 miles per hour. Headed straight for me. Traffic too heavy for him to change lanes. Sudden death. Sure death. My whole body electrified by supercharged adrenaline. I dodged to my left out of the way of the illegal driver. But not so far as to be in the way of the cars in the next lane. Also going 80. Some drivers swerved; others punished their horns. I ran in between the two lanes, fighting the stranglehold of panic. I looked back. Skinheads still pursued. Trying to draw a bead on me. And, apparently following the lead of the first car, the breakdown lane was now filled with cars going 80. I ran. One misstep and certain death. But if I stopped and turned to shoot it out - one against two - also certain death. Not to mention hitting a driver and causing a multi-car pile-up with who knows how many dead. It was hard to keep my balance as I moved forward against the tail wind of all these cars passing me on both sides. If I wasn't careful, I'd be blown off my feet and pulled under the wheels of a speeding car. The skinheads followed. But they also were preoccupied in not getting run over. A point in my favor. But how was I going to get off the Expressway other than on a stretcher? Not a point in my favor. The Old Legionnaire never faced 80 mph cars in the deserts of North Africa or the jungles of Southeast Asia or the back streets of Marseilles and Paris. Still. There must be some axiom or principle that would apply, at least in the abstract. But what? Grip and hold onto the roof of a car that zoomed by? Obviously impossible. Even for me. Keep walking forward? Eventually, I'd be hit and break a couple hundred bones. Only one thing to do. Somehow get across the breakdown lane, now filled with whizzing cars, climb and hop the chain link fence, slide down the steep grassy hill to Hudson Street in Chinatown and get lost. My heart was a maniac on steroids. I looked back. The skinheads just tried not to get hit. I waited. I waited. It was like playing the old Frogger video game, except the stakes were my life. An opening! I darted across. "HOOOOOONNNKKK!!" I stepped back. Christ, I was almost run over. The speed of the cars was deceptive. I pushed my heart down my throat back into my chest. I waited. I waited. An opening! I darted across. I made it! I climbed to the top of the chain link fence. Oh no. I hadn't noticed the fence was crowned with barbed wire. Now what? I looked back at the jamokes. They saw what I was doing. So they also tried to cross the breakdown lane to the fence. These hardcore headbangers wouldn't quit. I took off my leather jacket and draped it across the barbed wire. Then I carefully climbed over the fence, leg by leg, over the leather. On the other side, I untangled my jacket and dropped it to the top of the hillside. I climbed down, grabbed my jacket and slid down the hill to Hudson Street. I looked back: the skinheads were still, shall we say, stuck in traffic. A tidal wave of relief washed over the beach of my mind. I cut over and down Harrison to the Textile Building. I went to my fourth floor office, heart pounding. They didn't know where my office was. Or did they?

CHAPTER 54

Oh no. Later that day, a block away, skimming toward me, like a flat stone across the surface of a pond, was Shirley Ujest. Zone's one and only comedian/stripper. I hoped she'd found a gig because she blamed me - unfairly, of course - for losing her last one. Maybe I could duck into this darkling doorway. "Castille!" she yelled. "Hey! Castille!" Too late. We walked toward each other. Out of nowhere, three skinheads hit her like catapulted projectiles. Down she went to the cement floor. Pedestrians immediately opened an informal arena and walked around them. Or stopped to watch the fun and games. The skinheads - ID'd by their uniforms, from pale shaved craniums down to highly polished black Doc Marten boots with red laces - kicked Shirley when she was down. Should be the motto of these craven cowards. Kick 'Em When They're Down. A boot party. Shirley curled into the fetal position as they kicked her. They didn't see me coming. Two stood side by side. I barreled into them, knocking them over like bowling pins. As the other turned to look, I roundhouse kicked behind his knees which caused them to buckle. I continued in a circle so that my other, fully extended leg also hit him behind his now-weakened knees. This motion swept him off balance onto his back. I took Shirley's hand and pulled her to her feet. "Hurt?" I asked. "Am I hurt?" she bellowed. "Of course, I'm hurt!" The three skinheads, back on their feet, faced us. I put Shirley behind me. "Why do you do this?" I asked quietly. "Oi. She's a mud person. Deserves to die for the good of humanity. She's a fuckin' Jew!" "And a Lesbian!" said Shirley, from behind me. That agitated them. "Are you guys with the 88 Sons of Satan?" I asked. "The 88...?" said the leader, a black swastika tattooed on his bald head. Could let his hair grow out if he needed to get a real job some fine future day. No flies on the skinheads. "Never heard of 'em. We're Peckerwoods. See?" He pulled up his sleeve to show on his forearm a tattoo of a stylized bird's head with sharp beak and teeth. "We say and do what we want. When we want." Bing! The cartoon light bulb went on above my head. They fidgeted, unsure of attacking me. "Oi. You're worse," the leader said to me. "A white person defendin' a subhuman Jew Lesbian! Oughta be 'shamed of yerself. We should stomp you to death and then her." "Some other day," I said. "Now slither away like good little reptiles." "Reptiles? Call us reptiles?" "Normally, you're called animals. But that's an insult to our quadruped associates. Obviously, you're not human. You don't employ reason or conscience. You're not mammalian. Mammals have emotions." "We have emotions!" the leader yelled. "Rage!" "Rage," I said. "Not really an emotion. Just an automatic reaction. Like a snake who bites you when you step on it. Hence, you're reptiles." "Call us reptiles? I'll show you!" He wildly lashed his fist at me which I easily avoided. "Thus you prove my point," I said. They glared at me. I stood secure in the ready posture. The leader's curdled white milk face slowly turned red as cranberry sauce at a New England Christmas dinner. Maybe our little Socratic dialogue had wended its way up his spine from his vestigial tail to his budding neo-cortex. "Let's roll!" he said, abruptly. The other two twitched at this twisted turn of events. Like a disappointed child, one asked with eyebrow-elevating astonishment: "We gonna leave these two be? A Jew and a race traitor?" "Forget about 'em!" the leader said and stomped away. His confused confederates had no choice but to follow. I waited till they were a goodly distance away before turning to Shirley. I gently flung my arm around her shaking shoulders; we sat on stone steps. "You all right?" I asked. "My hero," said Shirley. "You saved me, boychik." "Whatever can you do to repay me?" "What can I do?" "You still owe me a job after losing my last gig." "Haven't found any work?" I asked. "No. What are you going to do about it?" "Say the magic words." "Speak," she said. "Abra Cadaver." "Hey, that's kinda sorta funny. Can I use that in my act? Maybe I should workshop it beforehand." "First things first," I said. "Are you hurt?" "Nah. They only got in a few kicks before you showed up." "What about internally?" I asked. "What about it?" "You may have internal injuries." "Internal, shminternal," she said. "I need a gig, Mr. Smarty Pants Big Shot. What are you gonna do about it?" Hm. Shoshana was lining up talent for the opening of her nightclub. One wondered. At least, Shirley could audition. Let Shoshana - also Jewish but not Lesbian, last I knew - reject her. Not me. Maybe that would satisfy Shirley's morbid craving for the limelight and thus, one hoped, stop pestering me.

CHAPTER 55

"Shirley," I said. "You may be in luck." "All ears, Mister Tough Guy." "Friend is opening a nightclub. Like a cabaret. You can do your comedy shtick for her. No stripping." "A blessing on your head, boychik!" she said. "Up to the owner," I cautioned. "Only an audition." "In my eyes, you've grown from a boychik to a mentsch. A real man. A man with morality, with conscience, with..." "Let's go," I said. "I'll introduce you." "Not tomorrow or next week?" "Now." We started to walk. She groaned, winced, bent over and grabbed her right side. "What is it?" I asked. "Eh! Kreplech! Nothing!" "Stop. Let me feel you." I faced her and put my hands on her sides. "Feel me up if you want." I touched a sore spot. "Oy vay!" she said, grimacing. "Afraid of that," I said. "What is it, Bones?" she asked. "Think your right floating ribs are broken. From the recent boot party at which you were the guest of honor." "I have ribs that float?" "They're called that," I said. "Your ribs attach to your spine in the back, and your sternum or other ribs in the front. But the bottom two ribs attach to nothing in front. Floating free. With nothing to anchor them, they're easily broken." "Those meshugeh skinhead bastards!" she screamed. "So hi ho, hi ho. Off to the ER we go," I said. "No, no! Please! I'll go to the hospital after you introduce me to the nightclub owner!" "I'll introduce you to the nightclub owner after you go to the hospital. ER only four blocks away." "What if they keep me overnight?" she asked. "Then you need to stay overnight. And I'll introduce you tomorrow. Move!" "I heard there's not much you can do with broken ribs," she said. "True. You can't set them." "Folg mich a gang?" "English for this goy," I said. "If there's nothing they can do, why bother going?" "Because you may have other injuries only a doctor can diagnose and treat." "But..." she started. "Move!" I commanded. "Now!" "A curse on your head!" she said. But she moved. I brought her to the emergency room of Boston Hospital. Pandemonium of babbling, gabbling, moaning, groaning, wails of woe and spirit-sinking sighs, floods of tears from overflowing eyes. A long wait. Too long. After extracting a solemn promise that she would wait and be seen by a doctor, I left her there. The light bulb that had gone on after Shirley's boot party still glowed. Those skinheads had given me an idea. A way to defeat the 88 Sons of Satan. But I needed confirmation. Which gave me another idea.

CHAPTER 56

What was that sound? A cat mewling? A baby crying? Bopping to the midnight war council at the Hot Spot, I heard the strange pitiable sound. I stopped. Coming from a long dimly-lit alley between the gay bar and the trans-everything bar. Places I seldom had reason to visit. Once I went into the trans-bar during daylight and waited the requisite two or three seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. They never adjusted. The joint was moonless midnight dark. I barely saw creatures moving fluidly, like fish at the bottom of the ocean. Now I took a few steps into the alley and said: "Hello?" No response. "Anybody in here?" No response. "Aunt Sally?" No response. Yet I unmistakably felt that a living creature hid in that alley. I walked in deeper, alert to an ankle-choking ambush. At alley's end, under a dim light bulb, trembled a rank pile of rags. I sixth-sensed another creature. But what kind of creature? With my foot, I stirred some of the rags. Instantly, something in the pile moved. I backed off. In the city? You never know. Could be a rabid demonoid lunatic flesh-eating blood-drinking zombie escaped from some sordid experiment deep in the gruesome bowels of Grove University. Or it could be a one-eyed three-legged alley cat. "Come out," I commanded. The pile of rags shifted and a creature emerged. Human. Female. Black. "Ya Ya!" I said. "What are you doing here? Hiding? What...? Oh!" Her prized perfectly coiffed Afro 'do had been madman mutilated. "Let's take a look," I said. "No," she said, turning away and covering her head with her hands. "Gone to hell. Now crawlin' back, eatin' dirt." "Let me see," I said. I held her jaws with both hands and examined her hair. Her Afro, her pride and joy, had been sculpted in a particular form. A swastika. "Who?" I asked. She cried softly. "Clockin' ill skinheads. Git me on the Stroll. Throw me inna van they be rollin'. Jack me up with they shitkickers. Almost kilt me. Take me they place in Park Square. Y'know? Little Combat Zone?" "The 88 Sons of Satan," I said grimly. "What they call theyselves. They be buggin'. Hold me down 'n' cut this cramped thing outa my hair. My 'fro beautiful. Weren't it?" "Yes," I said. "Then what happened?" "Stuff me inna van again 'n' drive me back to the Stroll. Whud I do to you, I ast. Say won't even freaky off with me cuz I a mud person, not fully human. "Tell me git outa Boston. See me 'round the way? They git me again. Next time? Be worser. Much worser." "Vicious freaks," I said. "How 'bout me?" she burst out. "I'ma one look a freaky!" "They say anything else?" "Say show my own self to Queeny Cleopatra. Tell her this happen all her girls. So check outa Boston. Now what I do? Cain't work look like this." "Let's go to my office," I said. "Only a couple of blocks." We walked. "Ya Ya," I said. "What's your real name?" "Ya Ya," she said. "That's your street name. What's your square handle?" "Believe or not. Ya Ya." "Your parents put Ya Ya on your birth certificate?" I asked. "What parents?" she asked. "What birth certificut?" "No parents?" I asked. "No birth certificate?" "Run 'way at twelve to Zone from Murder-pan." "Mattapan?" "Never knowed my daddy. Mammy a head-dead lush. All day, sit on her giant ass 'n' booze up 'n' eat junk food 'n' give all ears to radio. Name me after her most favoritest song." "What?" I asked. "Ya Ya!" she said. "Ya Ya?" I asked. Then it flashed. I sang the first line. "'Sittin' here La La, waiting for my Ya Ya.' Lee Dorsey." "That it," she confirmed. I had a key to the Textile Building but I rang the bell. Better to alert Ben Do, night watchman, to my presence. Otherwise, he might shoot me in the earlobe. He opened the door. "My mentor!" he greeted me. "At ease, soldier," I said. "We're going up to my office. Then leaving. This is Ya Ya." "Great honor," he said, blinking at her swastika hair. "Charming young lady." In my office, I dug out my winter black woolen watch cap. "Put this on." She put it on her head and looked in a small mirror. "Don't know which worse," she laughed. "Tomorrow, shave off all your hair," I said. "Be bald?" she protested. "Like them muvverfucking skinheads?" "Get a wig." "Good idea," she agreed. "Now what?" "Now," I said, "we go to the Hot Spot and show Queen Cleopatra what happened in her kingdom. Or, rather, queendom."

CHAPTER 57

We beat the bricks down Essex and turned left onto Washington. Ten minutes before midnight on a Monday and the area was still a human hive humming with honey-seekers. Ya Ya walked close to me, my watch cap pulled down to her ears. "Hat itch," said Ya Ya. "Nothing for nothing," I said. Under the bright lights of the marquee of the Pilgrim Theatre, Ya Ya shrank against me. "Oh Goddam no!" she said. "What?" I asked. "That there van. Same one." A beige van moved down Washington. When next to us, the side panel door slid open. Two skinheads leaped out. "Get back, Ya Ya!" I said. "Stay in the light!" She retreated to the well-lit theatre entrance. The jamokes definitely wanted her. But they saw they would have to go through me first. "Good evening, Nazi schweinhunds," I said. "Wearing your stylish uniforms. Must be on an important mission." They wore black highly-polished Doc Marten boots with red laces. Blue jeans. Luftwaffe-style leather bomber jackets plastered with World War Two insignia: SS lightning bolts, the German war eagle, the Storm Troopers death-head, combat unit patches. On shaved heads, necks, even faces and hands, tattoos: 88, Blitzkreig, Bruderschaft. "We just want the girl," one said. "Miss Brunhilda Schwanken-Fluegell?" I asked. "Haven't seen her." "The mud whore," he gestured with his chin to Ya Ya. "Not getting her," I said. "Outa the way," the other one said. "No," I said. I had once taken a correspondence course which promised I'd be able to Amuse and Amaze Family, Win Friends and Influence People. What better time to try it? "Achtung! You vill turn around, you vill get in your van and you vill drive away! You vill do it! You vill do it now! And you vill enchoy it!" They laughed. "You a Jew?" "That's right," I said. "So I'm going to dazzle you with Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art." "Krav Maga!" the two jamokes laughed. One spit on the sidewalk. "That's what I think of your Krav Maga!" "How articulate," I said. Skinhead #1 threw a long straight right punch at my face. I ducked. Missing his target, his inertia carried him forward. I duckstepped to his side, reached up between his legs from behind with my left hand and gripped his belt buckle. Pulling up with the inside of my left forearm against his groin, the pain element forced him up on his toes. My right hand gripped and twisted his abdomen. The Claw. Made famous by Killer Kowalski, who I had seen perform it many times in 'professional' wrestling at Boston Garden. The combined effect - supporting him with both forearms - was to lift him up waist high parallel to the sidewalk. I sensed skinhead #2 coming up behind me. So I whirled, building momentum and threw skinhead #1 head first into advancing skinhead #2. "Go back to Hitler Hallucination, or whatever fantasy amusement park you live in," I said. "You're not needed or wanted in the real world." I turned to find Ya Ya. She crouched, cringing, near the ticket booth. Men still bought their tickets to the porno movie; some slunk in, others strutted. "Ya Ya, let's..." I started. "Behine you!" she shouted, her face a fright mask. I whirled. Of course. The driver. Skinhead #3. Silver Mick. Whose index finger I had broken. Without bandage or splint. Holding two monstrous axes, like a Siberian mountain man. "Finger's coming along nicely, I see," I said. "Finger's fine, Castille," he said. "Unlike, in about two minutes, your head. But gimme the prostitute and I'll let you walk away." "What do you want her for?" I asked. "Ship her back to Africa. Where she came from." "Ya Ya!" I yelled over my shoulder. "Where were you born?" "Dis here place," she said. "Boston." "And your mother?" "Dis here place," she said. "Boston." "Appears," I said, "where she came from is right here. Boston. Where did you come from?" "Me? I come from..." Silver Mick stopped. "Wait a minute. Not talking about me." "We are now," I said. "And it sounds like you come from someplace else. So why don't you go back to where you come from?" "What do you care?" he asked. "She's only a prostitute." "Didn't Hitler rant against the evils of prostitution in Mein Kampf?" I asked. "So you have read Mein Kampf," he said. "Skimmed." "Yes, our dear Fuhrer railed against the evils of prostitution. But he wasn't content with that. He studied and uncovered the underlying reasons for this social blight. Late marriages, lack of proper physical education in the schools, drunkenness and the debased popular culture selling wanton sex." "Then why do you want to take over the Zone?" I asked. "We will use this sick society's vices to hasten the degenerate culture's destruction," he said. "Not to mention the money," I said. "The money gained will be used to fight against an even worse form of prostitution - the moral plague of so-called civilization: a more deeply rooted, widespread and pernicious prostitution of the peoples' souls." "All very retro-chic, I'm sure," I said. "And we all know who is ultimately responsible for the degeneracy of the people." "The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo?" I suggested. "What? No. The Jews." "Still and always the Jews, eh?" "The Jewification of the West is almost complete," he said. "Now we must fight with all the weapons at our command. You're Aryan. I invite you to join our sacred cause." "No, thanks," I said. "You're a typical product of contemporary culture," he said in a fury. "You can only dance to the primitive jungle rhythms of the mud people conspiracy to debase popular culture. The beat, as you once put it, of Mein Kampf is more humane, more wholesome. It's the beat of the old folk and peasant dances of Europe. More, it is the pulse of the human heart. "Not these villians! These scum! These subhumans!" "Easy, big fella," I said. "Give yourself a heart attack." "So these depraved sub-human so-called Afro-Americans can stand upright," he fumed. "So what? Think that makes them equal to real human beings like us? It doesn't!" I glanced at my watch. 12:30 a.m. "Could you move it along?" I asked. "I'm already late for a midnight double bill. Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter. Followed by its sequel Billy the Kid Meets Dracula. Classics of the genre, as I'm sure you know."

CHAPTER 58

Silver Mick lifted the axe in his right hand. Having lifted it high above his head, I knew it had only one direction to go. Down. So I was ready to dodge to the outside. He swung; I dodged. The axe smashed the concrete sidewalk. Most of his weight was now on his right leg. I stepped to his right side, swept my right heel back against his right calf. At the same time, I chopped against his throat with my right inside knife hand. Now completely off-balance, I threw him on his back. Without science or art, his head hit the concrete. Hard. I dropped my right knee onto his abdomen, knocking the air out of him and forcing his head to come up and forward. Already dazed by a possible skull fracture, I resisted - for the sake of guitar playing - punching his lights out. Instead, I lifted my bent right arm, and pounded straight down into his face with the point of my elbow. Blood exploded out of his nose and he fell back, unconscious, again hitting the back of his head. The other jamokes approached from the sides. I took the axes out of Silver Mick's hands. I swung them, one in each hand, out to both sides. The two jamokes jumped back. "Ooooh," said Silver Mick, waking up. I still had my right knee in his abdomen and his two axes in my hands. He glanced at the axes. Few things are more demoralizing than having your weapons taken away and used against you. "Get off me!" he bellowed, trying to throw me off by heaving his torso. I put the sharp edges of the axes against the left and right carotid arteries of his neck. "The equivalent of a shaving nick and you'll be dead in seconds," I said softly. Finally, he showed the proper emotion. Fear. "Now listen to me," I said. "You Fascist maggot, you botched abortion, you wretched reptile masquerading as a human. Tell Black Red to stay in the Little Zone and play Nazi soldier boy all he wants. "You or any other Sons of Satan show up here again," I said, "I'll personally break your backs, one vertebra at a time. From your scrawny Nazi necks to your invisible lizard tails." He stared wide-eyed at me. "If you understand, say 'yes.' Or, if you prefer, jawohl." "Yes! Yes! Yes! Now get off me!" I stood up, holding the axes, and backed away. He slowly stood, helped by the other jamokes. "Give me my axes," he said. "Spoils of war," I said. "Belong to me. Now get in the van like good little Nazis, leave and never come back." "But..." I lifted the axes over my head in striking position. "Okay, okay," he said, "We'll go." The other jamokes didn't speak. All three got into the van and drove down Washington Street. The crowd that had collected gaped at me. "Show's over!" I shouted cheerfully. "Disperse to your homes and places of business!" I turned. Ya Ya stood there, black watch cap down to her eyebrows, smiling and smiling. "Wisht you always with me when I be working," she said. I slid the axes down a dark alley. Should have given them to Phoenix for her collection. But walking around downtown with medieval double axes tended to be frowned upon by citizenry and constabulary alike. "Let's go," I said. "Your place?" She snuggled against me. "We do the dirty deedy 'n' make the sheeties swing and sing." "Queen Cleo's place," I said. "The Hot Spot." "No." She pulled away. "Please. Don't make me. My trap be ragged. 'N' I gots a funky swastika on my nappy head." "Why we got to go there."

CHAPTER 59

"What happen yo' head, Ya Ya?" demanded Queen Cleo from her divan on the platform. Ya Ya sobbed. "She was kidnapped by the Sons Of Satan," I said. "They cut this swastika into her hair." "Damn, girl, that some funky shit right there," said Cleo. "Sons a Satan asking for it now." "Ya Ya," interposed Laughing Death. "How's your trap tonight?" Ya Ya reddened with rage. "My trap?" she screamed. "Nazi muvvafuckers destroy my hair, my look, my image? Nazis carve a swastika on my own head? 'N' you gots the nerve to axe 'bout my trap? What's the dealy? "Course my trap be ragged. Think I pick up many johns with a freaking swastika on my head?" "What's a matter whichoo?" Queen Cleo scolded Laughing Death. "Where your manners? Plus, like she say, how she gone pull tricks look like a freak inna Nazi sideshow?" This last characterization of herself sent Ya Ya into a Niagara of tears. "Sorry," mumbled Laughing Death. "You best be sorry," Cleo snapped. "A woman's hair be her halo. Now her halo mutilated by these Nazi animals? Shee-it!" "They're not animals," I said. "They're reptiles." "You right, Castille," said Cleo. "Least, animals got emotion. But these pure junk scrubs? They snakes. They lizards. They serpents. "Get our hardhead crew together. We roll and bust 'em up!" "Aw'ight!" seconded Laughing Death. "When?" I asked. "Now?" "Course now!" shouted Cleo. "When else?" "Cleo, with all due respect," I said. "We have to think this through. Have a plan. Use strategy." "Ain't got the heart for it, Castille?" asked Laughing Death. "Then go home and hide. We style on these fools." I ignored him. "Cleo," I said, "I'm your consigliere, right?" "You is." "Then my advice is to cool down, think the whole thing through, then take the best course of action." "Castille, you may be lame but I ain't!" said Laughing Death. "Castille right," said Cleo, calming down. "Awww," said Laughing Death, turning away. Ya Ya still sobbed. "Ya Ya," said Cleo, "you go home, girl." "I told her to shave her head," I said. "And wear a decent wig till her hair grows back." "Good idea," said Cleo. "Forget about your trap tonight. Keep whatev you got. Take few days off on stipend. You a good worker." "Thank you," said Ya Ya, drying her eyes. "Moonbat," Cleo said to one of her minions. "You make sure Ya Ya get home all right." "Sure," he said. "Night time my time." "Now," said Cleo. "We think and we plan our strategy." Laughing Death screwed up his face in an exaggerated expression of 'thinking.' Cleo sucked in her cheeks and stared into space. How did I get into these jams? And why did I always have to be the one to get us out? "I've already been thinking," I said. Cleo and Laughing Death gladly stopped thinking and looked at me eagerly. "What?" asked Cleo, like I was the first messenger with the latest Hollywood scandal. "As we've had occasion to mention in the past," I said. "Know the mind of the enemy and we'll probably win the war." "Spy?" asked Cleo. "Yes," I said. "But not a human spy like in Sun Tzu's day." "What then?" asked Laughing Death. "Electronic spy," I said. "Surveillance device. Planted in Nazi headquarters. So we can hear everything they say. Their situation, their strategy, their plan. In short, a bug." "Where we get a bug?" "I have to do everything around here?" I asked. "Seems," said Cleo, amused. "All right," I said. "I know a guy who knows a guy."

CHAPTER 60

"Might I ask a possibly impertinent question?" I inquired of the young, whiter-shade-of-pale-skinned, pumpernickel-brown-haired Russian female bartender at the Nevsky Prospekt. "Why not?" she shrugged. "Everyone else does." "Seen Bosko tonight?" "Never heard of him," she said. "Wuddle it be?" "Ginger ale on the rocks," I said. "Easy on the ginger. Easy on the rocks." "How about a glass of air?" she laughed. Nevsky Prospekt was where Bosko Struminkowski performed many of his stupendous, legendary and prodigious drinking feats. On an old dead-end alley that ran down from Boylston near Tremont. The three or four nightclubs at the bottom of Boylston Alley - forever changing hands and names - retained an old-fashioned feel. Nevsky Prospekt was the current watering hole for Russian immigrants. Despite the bubbly Russian pop music and frenzied movement on the dance floor, the joint had a sullen, melancholy feel. Nevsky Prospekt was the main street in St. Petersburg - much more Westernized than Moscow - and center of shopping and high life and the arts. Other than that, all I knew of Russia was what the Old Legionnaire had said. That, of the many nationalities in the French Foreign Legion, the Russians were the most quarrelsome, the most obnoxious, the most likely to be full-of-fight truculent and loud-and-proud drunk. But, then again, he had from boyhood hated Russians, brutal occupiers of his homeland, Latvia. I read a card on the counter: Monday: Russian stand-up comedy. Tuesday: Russian open-mike. Wednesday: Russian karaoke. Thursday: Russian singles night. Friday: Russian dance contest. Just your average ethnic gathering place for nostalgic newcomers in the huge, lonely, diverse carnival called the United States. One thing not on the card, however: Nevsky Prospekt was the main hang-out for Boston's small band of Russian Thieves-In-Law. Otherwise known as the Russian Mafia. It was tiny, almost microscopic, compared to the thriving contingent in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Odessa by the Sea. Considered HQ for the national Russian Mafia. But Boston was learning. And growing. The waitress plunked a glass of ginger ale in front of me. I paid plus a generous tip. Very generous. "Zanks!" she said, surprised. "Ah..." "Castille," I said. "You?" "Puppet," she said, reaching over the counter to shake hands. "Because they really pull your strings?" I asked. "No 'zey,'" she said. "Zat's my name." "Your parents named you 'Puppet'?" I asked, intrigued as always by the never-ending quest to understand human nature in its various, indeed myriad, forms. "My mother's name was Marion," she explained. "She named me after herself. Marion. Because zere are two of us wiz same name, I am called Marion Junior, then Little Marion, then Marionette. Which means Puppet." "A deliciously convoluted etymology," I said. "Isn't it?" she laughed. "Who you look for?" "Bosko Struminkowski." "Just description. No last names." "Bosko," I said. "Drinks like a man dying of thirst." "Zey all do." "Face like an old tombstone. Graveyard eyes." "Zey all have," she said. "What kind tattoo?" "Barbed wire just above his eyebrows and all the way around his head." "Ah! Zat Bosko." "How many Bosko's do you know?" I asked. "Six." "Six? Are you joking?" "Wish I am," she said. "About four of zem I can do wizout. But, Bosko you look for? He is in zah Bronze Horseman Room. No, wait. Tonight he is in zah Church On Spilled Blood Room."

CHAPTER 61

Into the sizeable but dimly lit room. Bare concrete floor. No windows. Tables and chairs with drunken men shouting in loud heavy Russian. On a small stage, a white woman pole danced. I looked around for Bosko. He claimed to have served fifteen years of a life sentence in the Gulag Archipelago, the Soviet network of forced labor camps for political prisoners, dissidents, freedom fighters. And then courageously escaped against impossible odds. He claimed. I went over to the circular wooden table, where Bosko - bald as a lightbulb - sat with two morose companions. All had ankle-length black overcoats carefully draped over nearby chairs. All had snap-brimmed fedoras resting on the table. For some reason, they wanted to look like American movie gangsters of the 1930's. Each had a fifth half-filled with vodka, and a glass. Each looked drunk. Russian-drunk. Each looked mean. Russian-mean. "Bosko," I said. Bosko had only been in the States for five years, he still had an accent like Boris Badenov and yet - like the James Garner character in The Great Escape - he was the guy who could get you anything. He looked up at me, heavy eyebrows lowering like storm clouds, then raised with sunny recognition. "Castille! What you do here? Never mind. Sit down. Friends, meet Castille. Castille, meet Yuri and Vladimir." "Vodka Dons," I acknowledged. They frowned. "Castille," said Bosko. "Do not use zat term wiz us." "As you wish." They went back to their close scrutiny of the dancer. "What you zink of her?" Bosko asked me. "A most rompworthy denizen of the demi-monde." "As I hear Americans say," said Bosko. "She got my rollies dancing a jig." "Bosko, old campaigner," I said. "I need..." "You relax first," he said. "Enjoy wiz us. Have glass of Stoli." Stolichniya Vodka. "I quit." "Quit wodka?" All three stared at me in astonishment. "Liquor altogether," I said. They stared pop-eyed, openmmouthed, aghast, agape and agog. "Eez not possible," said Bosko. "Is," I said. "So I..." "No, first you have glass of Stoli. Here. Have caviar-topped blini and wash it down wiz wodka. I make zah toast." He poured four glasses of vodka. "To lovely ladies wiz hair on legs and under arms!" The three drained their glasses; I didn't touch mine. Before they could say anything, I questioned: "Why 'Church On Spilled Blood'? Shouldn't it be 'Church Of Spilled Blood'?" "Americans so stupid ignorant. Zink only America count in world. Church built on place where Czar Alexander Second assassinated in 1881." "Clears that up," I said. "Now to business." "Yuri, Vlad," Bosko said, with an evil glint in his eye. "Castille, adwanced master of some martial art. What again?" "Jiu-jitsu," I said. "And I'm not a master." Yuri pounded his glass on the table, like he was hammering a nail. "Jiu-jitsu? Japanese? I hate Japanese! All good Russians - Communeest or not - hate Japanese!" "And I'm sure you have a good reason," I said. "However..." "Jiu-jitsu child's play compared to sambo! The great Russian martial art!" "That may be," I said. "But..." "Hey, Rasputin!" Bosko bellowed. Rasputin? "Rasputin sambo champion of all Russia!" Bosko boasted. "Called Rasputin because almost impossible to be killed!" As I recalled, on one fine night in 1916, the original Rasputin was knifed such that his guts hung out, was poisoned, shot, strangled, shot three more times including once in the forehead, clubbed viciously until he no longer moved. They thought they'd finally killed him. He was tied up, wrapped in a carpet and thrown into the river. In the freezing water, he came back to life and broke free of his binding and the carpet. But he finally drowned. The present-day Rasputin yelled: "What?" His face was a monstrous visage out of Eisenstein's 1936 film Ivan The Terrible. Bosko - my dear, dear friend - shouted: "Zis guy say jiu-jitsu better zan sambo! Say he beat you any day of week!" "What?" Rasputin thundered, standing bolt upright and rolling up his sleeves. Tattooed on his right forearm was a pirate with knife clenched between his teeth. On the side of the blade were Russian words. "I show him!"

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Rasputin, a bearded battering ram, rushed toward me, blazoning a raucous battle cry. Those in the way quickly moved their tables and chairs out of his path. Sambo specialized in groundwork, that is, grappling. For that, Rasputin's body type was perfect. The short thickly-muscled fire hydrant build. If he got me on the floor, I didn't stand a chance. He'd lock my arm and, for fun, break it. Or leg. Or arms. Or legs. Or all four limbs. In any case, vastly unpleasant to contemplate. His long, scraggly, unkempt beard, matted hair, piercing eyes and enraged expression made him look like photos of the original Rasputin. Mystic, faith healer, charlatan, libertine. He had exercised a profound and pernicious influence on the Romanovs - last czar and family - all killed by the Communists in 1917. Even Bosko, Yuri and Vlad backed away. Leaving me to endure the wrath of Rasputin the Mad Monk. "So! You zink jiu-jitsu beat sambo?" he demanded. "Did I say that?" I said, stalling, glancing around for allies. Weapons. Someone. Something. Nothing. "You master jiu-jitsu?" "I'm not a master," I said. "But a humble student." "Black belt?" "Well, yes," I conceded. "But in our system, black belt means you're an advanced beginner. And, of course, I have the utmost respect for sambo. So you see..." He leaped at me, arms wide, fingers splayed. I pivoted away in a half-circle, barely avoiding his claws. I mean, hands. Gnarled knuckles, scars, tattoos, inch-long filthy fingernails. The drinkers ooh'ed and ah'ed. Streams of Russian which sounded like encouragement for Rasputin. Home field advantage. He turned to face me. Should I employ the Old Legionnaire's #1 Rule Of Self-Defense? Run! But I needed info from my old pal Bosko, may he someday rot in hell for this dirty trick. Besides, one of the Russkies would probably trip me. Then Rasputin would go all Mad Monk on me. Rasputin approached warily and again lunged forward to grab me. I forward-rolled under his left arm and came up standing behind him. "Boo!" yelled the Coliseum crowd. That was one American word they'd learned quick enough. I realized this was a no-win situation. If I beat him, I'd have to hurt him. We could hardly conduct business with a bleeding Rasputin on the floor next to us. On the other hand, if he beat me, I could hardly conduct business if I had from one to four broken limbs. Again, he moved slowly toward me, arms outstretched. Again, the crowd shouted encouragement in Russian. Even the dancer leaned against the pole, chewed gum and watched. Thankful for the break. You're welcome. For the third time, Rasputin lunged at me. Originality not his strong suit. But this time, his arms wide-out position worked. As I tried to get out of range, his right hand grabbed my right wrist. He dug his dagger fingernails into my soft flesh. The crowd cheered. As he started to pull me in with his immense strength, I reacted with my strong suit. My right shod foot kicked straight up toward his gonads. As he instinctively pulled his hips back, my right leg switched directions and my foot rocketed toward his head. Automatically, his right hand let go of my wrist. He raised it to block my kick. I brought my foot down and quickly backed off. From behind, someone pushed me - Hey! No fair! - toward the rushing Rasputin. He wrapped his arms around my waist in a rib-breaking bear hug and tried to throw me to the floor. The crowd went wild. I didn't want to hurt him. But neither did I want to get hurt. Only way to free myself was to deface him with my hands. Thumb-gouge his eyes out like eggs with a spoon. Rip out his cheeks with my thumbnails. Deafen him with cupped hands clapped over his ears. Grip his uncombed, uncouth, untamed beard that narrowed to a point, jerk it to the side, breaking his neck. While I debated, he lifted me high and turned me on my side to throw me down onto the concrete floor. Hard.

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Suddenly, while maintaining his death grip around my waist, he put me back on my feet. The crowd booed. I heard a low, steady, soothing stream of Russian. He let me go. I backstepped out of range. Someone spoke into Rasputin's ear. The bartender. Puppet. The more she spoke, the sadder he looked. Finally, he started bawling and allowed Puppet to lead him away. What the...? The stage performer resumed dancing, the patrons sat back down to their shouted conversations and drinks. Bosko and his two drinking buddies already sat at our table and looked at me. I sat down. "What the hell was that all about?" I asked Bosko, whose evil glint was replaced with a calculating squint. "Nuzzing," he replied casually. "Just a leetle fun." "Fun for you," I said. "I saw the look in that lunatic's eyes. Up close. He wanted to kill me." "Maybe," said Bosko, thoughtfully. "But Puppet always stop him." "What in God's name did she say to him?" "Personal. She know him in zah old country. No problem. So. Business you have to conduct wiz me?" I put the incident aside in my mind to mull later. "With you," I emphasized. "Yuri and Vlad my blood brothers from the Gulag," said Bosko. "Can speak in front of zem. What you want?" "A bug," I said. "For electronic eavesdropping." "What kind bug?" "Small but good reception. With some kind of sticky substance. So I can apply it fast on wood or metal." "What range?" he asked. "Two miles at most. But through a lot of walls." "Such a device eez not awailable to public. Only CIA and FBI. But I know to get." He seemed to get lost in his mental catalogue of bugs and bug purveyors. No doubt the universe of electronic insects was vast. He seemed to look off into space. Then I realized he was gaping at the stage dancer. "Hey!" I stamped the table with the flat of my hand. "Can you stop looking at her for a couple of seconds?" "Sorry," said Bosko. "I vuz like hypnotized." "Can do or not?" "Can do," said Bosko. "I like zat American expression," said Yuri, drinking vodka like it was water. Which, to many Russians, it was. In fact, the word 'vodka' was a version of the word 'water.' "How much?" I asked. "Hundred fifty," he said. "Fifty," I said. "Hundred," he said. Which was about what I planned to pay for the info. Castille, Master Bargaineer. He again stared at the dancer. "Hey!" I again stamped the table with the flat of my hand. "Can you stop ogling Olga for a few seconds. At least, make sure I'm giving you a century and not a simoleon." "Yes, yes. Wiz zis hundred, maybe I have chance wiz her later." "Good luck. But back to business. Who? Where? When?" "Arnie Cohen. A Jew. Like me," said Bosko. "Except I am proud to be Jew. Arnie? He not proud. You Americans. Don't appreciate freedom of speech, freedom of religion. Zay call him Superjew." "Where and when?" I asked. "Know Mattapan Square?" he asked. "My dear fellow," I said in my Sherlock Holmes voice. "It is a peculiarity of mine to know every square inch of Boston." "First house on Milton side of Mattapan Square. Can't miss. New panel van say Cohen Cleaners. New Cadillac. New Harley-Davidson. Go in afternoon. Never morning. Zen he work." "What does he clean?" I asked. "Floors. Rugs. Homes. Businesses. Need real job to show your American IRS. Not like Russia, where we just bribe everyone. Zat is much simpler." "Harley. He rides?" "Satan's Apostles Motorcycle Club," he said. "Know zem?" "One-percenters," I said. "Should I wear a gun?" "Nyet," said Bosko, pocketing the hundred dollar bill and swiveling his gaze back to the dancer. "Just tell zat Bosko send you." "That's why I should wear a gun." "By zah way, Arnie hate being Jew. Yet he loves to be called Superjew. I never understand American sense of humor." "Neither do I," I said, getting up to leave.

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As soon as I exited the Church On Spilled Blood Room, I relaxed. This larger, outer area was quieter with a reduced feeling of imminent violence. Puppet lasered eye contact with me, smiled and I walked to her section of the bar. I could hardly leave without saying goodbye after what she did for me. I sat; she already had a ginger ale waiting. "Good memory," I said. "You must be a good bartender." "I am good at lots of zings," she said, eyes effervescent as sparkling champagne. As much as I hated to attribute ulterior motives to someone who had just saved - if not my life, then me a whole lot of grief - I almost physically felt the vibrations emanating from her that she wanted to marry an American citizen. ASAP. Maybe she was on a work or a tourist or a student visa which was due to expire. Maybe she was an illegal. Maybe the Immigration gang was closing in on her. And she'd love nothing better than - when they knock on her door - to shove a marriage license or citizenship naturalization card in their collective face. Citizen Puppet. "How much for the ginger ale?" I asked. "On zah house," she sweetly smiled. "Thanks for getting me out of an unholy mess in there with Rasputin." "Glad to help you." She was adeptly setting up a human dynamic between us in which I really owed her. Which I did. But how? Offer of money would insult her. Invitation to dinner would just postpone the inevitable. Namely, that I was a one-woman man and not available to be married, even to save her from deportation. Stalling, I asked: "What did you say to that Rasputin character to calm him down?" "Nuzzing much." "Must have been something," I said. "One or the other or both of us were going to get hurt. Until you intervened." "Rasputin is Jewish. As are Bosko and most of the men in the Church Of Spilled Blood Room." "So?" "So during one of zah Soviets' crackdowns on Jews," she said, "my parents took him into our home and saved him, as you put it, from an unholy mess." "You're not Jewish?" "No. But when Rasputin gets drunk and picks a fight, I remind him of my parents' saving him. And of how he vowed he would stop drinking and get a good job." "Doesn't seemed to have worked out so well," I said. "No, not work out," she said. "But just the memory make him remember how good my parents are to him. Zen I remind him of the wheat fields of the steppes and the Hermitage Museum and all the wonders of Russia. He become even more sentimental and lose all desire to fight." "How can I repay you?" I asked. "No need," she said. She was either the nicest person I'd met in a long time. Or she was playing her cards perfectly. "Can I offer you some money?" I asked. "No," she frowned severely. I knew it was an insult but I had to ask. "Maybe...but no." "Maybe what?" I prompted. "Maybe you take me out for dinner sometime." "Dinner?" I asked. "In fact," she bubbled, "we go to real Russian restaurant in Allston and I order real Russian meal for us! How does it sound?" She beamed. Sigh. Best to nip this in the bud. "Puppet," I said, "I should tell you that I'm engaged to be married." At the word 'engaged,' she flinched as if slapped. "You in love?" "Yes." "I should know," she said. "Man like you. Already taken." "Any other way to say thanks?" Her face hardened. "Zis not my only job," she said. "Have other job. More difficult. More dangerous." "Doing what?" I asked. "Better you not know," she said. "Oh, one of those jobs." "I must take care of whole family. Muzzer, fahzzer will never learn English. Never work. My bruzzer is...feeble in zah head. Also cannot work. Only I." "Sorry to hear that," I said. "You sorry? I sorry. You Americans zink money solve everything. Now I learn American ways. I do need money. How much you give me?" "Fifty?" "One hundred," she said bitterly. "'Russia! O Russia!'" I said. "'Whither are you speeding?'" "Gogol. Zink you impress me?" "I was hoping." I gave her a C-note. "Zis impress me," she said. Leaving, I looked at my watch. 12:30 a.m. Too late to go to Queen Cleo's nightly war council. I hoped to have a lot to tell them the next night. Namely, about my meeting with the no doubt fabulous Superjew.

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Next day. Late afternoon. Standing in the living room of Arnie Cohen a.k.a. Superjew, I studied the paraphernalia on his mantel. World War Two German Army helmet. Red banner emblazoned with black letters: BLITZKREIG. The German Iron Cross - highest military decoration awarded by Hitler in World War Two - attached to a ribbon of striped black, white and red. These and similar items, like the German War Eagle, grouped around the centerpiece: A heavy-looking metal blood-red Nazi kill-the-Jews swastika outlined in midnight kill-everyone black. His wife Deborah had invited me to wait. "Arnie should be back soon," she informed me, radiating an eerie, almost supernatural calm. "He's just walking the dog." Looking out the front window, I saw this character charging down the sidewalk. He held a German Shepherd's back legs, pushing and guiding the dog like a wobbly wheelbarrow. Other pedestrians jumped out of the way. He walked the damaged dog up the front steps and the front door burst open. He wheeled the dog right into the living room. Quite unlike anything I'd ever seen. When the dog saw me, he barked loud and stacatto as a sideshow spieler enticing passers-by to pay and enter. "Stop, Rex, stop!" Arnie put the dog's paralyzed back legs down on the rug. Yet the dog still itched to tear me to pieces, barking crazily, growling wildly, bearing his fang-like teeth and dragging himself inch by inch towards me. "Who the hell are you?" Arnie demanded. Arnie stood two or three inches over six feet, thin as a rail, dressed all in black - except for his colors - and sporting a huge black Jewish Afro haircut. His colors were a blue denim sleeveless vest. Worn over a waist-length black leather jacket. On the left side of the vest was the diamond-shaped "1%er" patch. His club was in the one percent of motorcycle clubs who were proud OMG's, Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs. Also a swastika patch and a nickname patch: "SUPERJEW." "Castille," I said, extending my hand which he ignored. Then I added, "Private investigator." He reached out and vigorously shook my proferred hand. "A P.I.? Are you really? Huh? Huh?" "Though I blush to admit it: yes," I said, pulling out my ID card. When he scrutinized it, I thought he was going to jump for jealous joy. Too bad everyone I met didn't have the same reaction. The usual response was a wrinkling of the nose and an edging toward the nearest exit. "Do you carry a piece?" he asked eagerly. "Do you? You must. Whattaya carry?" "I'm not armed," I said. His features fell. "At the moment," I added. He regained his beatific countenance. All this time Rex had been crawling toward me like a wounded but starving alligator. "Stop, Rex, stop!" Arnie yelled. Rex stopped, put his head down and promptly fell asleep. "Well, I need an attack dog, don't I?" Arnie said indignantly, answering an unasked question. "With no back legs?" "This is Rex, my old attack dog. My new dog Kaiser is out back. I have to take him with me. Sometimes, I work early in the morning in Roxbury. What can I do? "The fucking niggers wiped out my business three times. Everything happens to me. I had to keep moving up Blue Hill Ave. Longest street in the world. Runs from Africa to Israel." I semi-smiled to acknowledge the old Boston saying. "Mr. Cohen..." I started. "Call me Arnie," he said, face as fierce and feral as a ravenous wolf's. "Arnie, sit down." He turned and walked to the sofa. On the back of his vest smirked a depraved-looking red-faced devil with horns and a malicious Don't-Wrap-Yourself-I'll-Eat-You-Here leer. Above curved a patch that spelled out the club name SATAN'S APOSTLES. The bottom panel, also curved, demarcated the club's territory: BOSTON. Something seemed amiss. I looked more closely; APOSTLES was misspelled APOSLES. Arnie sat, leaning forward, rigid yet restless, ready to pounce. "Satan's Apostles?" I asked. "We're bad news, Castille, bad news." "'Apostles' is misspelled." "On purpose," he said. "Why?" "To show the world we don't give a fuck about the world. If society wants to spell apostle with a 't', then we'll spell it without a 't'. We believe in complete freedom. We do what we want when we want." "How endearingly idiosyncratic," I said. "No tattoos?" "Deborah won't let me get one," he said, bottom lip drooping like a little boy deprived of his favorite candy. "It's against the fucking Jewish religion. When you die, you can't get into Jewish heaven or something. She even keeps kosher. "I love Deborah but she's so Jewishy she sometimes gets on my fucking nerves. Except for my wife and kids, I hate the fucking Jews. So my parents met in a concentration camp. Whudda they want? A fucking medal? I should get a medal for listening to the same old stories a hundred times. "But are you really a P.I.? Work on cases and everything? Working a case now?" "That's right," I said. "And I need your help." From the back of the house sounded a commotion. Arnie yelled: "Adam! Noah! Joshua! Knock it off or I'll cripple you!" "I'm sorry you had to see me get mad," Arnie said. "Fucking kids. Drive my wife crazy. So what do you want?" "I want..." "Wait a minute, Castille. I gotta call the Big B store in Hyde Park before the manager leaves. He's a nigger. Hee hee." He dialed the number. While it rang, he looked me up and down: "Sure you're a real P.I.?" What did I have to do? Show him my 8" X 10" glossy of the Maltese Falcon autographed 'To Castille. Best wishes. Malty.' Arnie yelled into the phone: "Evan! You black bastard! Go ahead. Call me a filthy kike if you want. I don't mind. P.I. named Castille here. His people starting trouble in Ireland. I guess it's true what they say. To each his own. "Listen. Do you want me to clean your floors tomorrow night? What? Kidding me? Going to a Bruins game at the Garden? Fucking niggers can't understand hockey! "All right, you spearchucker. One day I'll come to your store with my three boys. Yeah. It'll be nice. They'll destroy the whole store in an hour. Hee hee." He hung up. "Sorry, Castille. I had to call before he left. So whattaya want?" "I'm a friend of Bosko," I said. "Which one?" I put my left index fingertip an inch above my eyebrows and traced it all the way around my head. "That Bosko? Fucking Commie Jew bastard. I should get up a big motorcycle gang and go to Russia and stomp those Rooskies into the ground." "How would you get there?" I asked, curious. "By ship. No, I get seasick. That's how I got out of the Navy during the war. By plane. No. I get airsick. I don't know but we'd get there somehow." "We? The Satan's Apostles? Aposles without a 't'?" "We hate Jews and we hate niggers," said Arnie. "Except for me and Bobby. They call me Superjew. They call Bobby Supernig. Other than us, we hate Jews and we hate niggers. We'd wipe out the Commies easy." "I've come on Bosko's recommendation for a specific item," I said. "What kinda gun you have?" "Beretta nine." "I have three pieces," he said. "Well, I have to, don't I? I work in tough places. I mean, okay, I got the bike, the house, the car, the van, the wife, the kids. So I can't take chances. "It's not just the niggers. We're feuding with the Hell's Angels. Usually they stay on the North Shore but they've been seen riding around here. So I have to be careful. What can I do? Everything happens to me. Okay, let's go."

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We walked down the hallway and through the kitchen. Arnie's wife prepared supper. She smiled placidly. She must have been the eye of the storm, and Arnie and the boys the hurricane. Only way she could survive. Out into the back yard. A German Shepherd with four good legs barked viciously at me. "Down, Kaiser, down!" shouted Arnie. The dog put his head down, then lay his body down. The three boys fought, howling and screaming and snarling. They looked about eight, nine and twelve. With the faces of wolves not yet domesticated into dogs. "Adam! Noah! Joshua! Keep it down! Or I'll tear out your tongues!" They kept fighting, screeching at the decibel level of a jet plane taking off. No wonder their mother parked her brain at the corner of Valium and Seconal. "I gotta put my bike away for the winter. Shoulda already," Arnie said. "Better take the Caddy." We got in his car. He zoomed out of the driveway with barely a glance at oncoming cars. "Where we going?" I asked. "Where I keep the stuff," he said. "You have money, right? Strictly cash and carry." "I'd have it no other way." His mouth motored on as we drove south through Milton on Blue Hill Avenue also known along that stretch as Route 138. "I went out riding that real cold day? Good thing Deborah told me to wear a sweater. Or I would have got the sniffles. "I know a guy third degree black belt in karate. Member of the club stepped up to him and put him down with one punch. Then we stomped him. Well, we had to, didn't we? For the honor of the club. Hee hee." "The honor," I repeated. "My stomach's killing me. I think I have an ulcer. Deborah thinks my underwear may be too tight. Who do you think would win in a fight? Cheetah or a leopard?" "No idea." "I'm the treasurer of the club," he said, speeding like a maniac. "Well, I have to, don't I? Some of the fucking members aren't too bright. They're my brothers, don't get me wrong, but just not too smart." "How do you mean?" I asked. "It's about time for some of them to commit a crime. So they can spend the winter in jail." "Three hots and a cot," I said. "They call jail their winter vacation. But I got a bike, a car, a van, the wife and kids. I can't go to jail. Have to take care of my family. What can I do? Some of the guys' whole families are in jail." "You joke." "I shit you not!" he said. "But other guys ride their bikes for years without driver's licenses. They get stopped for DUI; they're back riding illegally in a couple of days. "One member broke into a home, stole all this stuff but he left his wallet behind. I visited him in prison at Walpole. Bad news, that place, bad news. I told him, 'You fucking idiot. Let's face it, you're not a good thief.'" I laughed. "Here's the fucking winner. Some of the members made counterfeit twenty dollar bills. With a portrait of George fucking Washington! Got away with it too. For a while. Just used them with teenagers - they don't give a fuck - in convenience stores and places like that. But they finally got popped." "Where are they now?" I asked. "Serving twenty years at Leavenworth." "Federal." "Not the country club like Danbury in Connecticut," he said. "Leavenworth's a gladiator school," I said. "The fucking boobs," he said. "I told 'em. But they didn't listen. Who do you think would win in a fight? An elk or a moose? Keep your eyes open for Hell's Angels. They shouldn't be around here. "Look at that fucking nickel-chasing cabby speeding! Fucking jerk! I should get his fucking plate number! I hate those fucking nickel-chasers! "I'm sorry you had to hear me get mad, Castille. Who do you think would win in a fight? A hippopotamus or a rhinoceros? "I used to keep the guns and stuff in my garage. But Deborah said the boys shouldn't be around submachine guns and grenades. So I had to move everything." "Where to?" I asked. "In a shed in my parents' back yard. Hee hee." "What if they look in the shed?" "Don't worry; they won't. I put my own padlocks on. Plus I told them never to try to get in the shed. What cop or Fed would think all these illegal firearms and everything else are in the back yard of an old fucking Jewish couple in the suburbs? Hee hee." "Don't you love your parents, Arnie?" I asked. "Course I love 'em. They're my parents, aren't they? But I hate 'em too. Sheep. Like the rest of the Jews." "What could they do against the Nazis?" "Stopped bleating. I woulda joined the Resistance and killed plenty of Nazis before they got me," he said. "Here it is." We pulled into the driveway of an unassuming two-story house. Somehow the house seemed meek, so as not to draw attention to itself; maintained just well enough, so as not to give offense. Maybe I was influenced by Superjew's opinion of his parents. We walked down a flagstone path by the side of the house to an old shed. Arnie unlocked all the locks and we went in. Locked cabinets all around the room; in the center, a table and two chairs. The bare necessities. He opened a cabinet filled with submachine guns. Automatic prison time just for possession. "AK-47," said Arnie, lifting one out. "Bad news, AK-47, bad news. Here." He tossed it; I caught it. It hefted just right. But that's not what I wanted. "No guns," I said. "You fucking boob. What the hell do you want?" "A bug." He put the AK-47 back, locked it away, went to another cabinet, unlocked it to reveal an array of electronic devices. "Got every kinda listening device: concealable, disguised, digital surveillance, lithium, telephone. Audio surveillance devices that can hear and even record people talking. Complete with receivers, amplifiers, recorders." He handed me a black object big as a bread box. "You plant it where you want," he said. "The wireless transmitter sends the audio to your receiver." "Smaller," I said. "What specs?" he asked. "No bigger than a pack of playing cards. But can hear what's being said two miles away. Through plenty of walls." "CIA spyware. They don't make bugs that good for the general public. Federal crime. Bad news, the Feds, bad news. But..." "But?" I prompted. "But I have a source in the CIA. They're making 'em. Top secret. I have a few." He handed me a small, compact black box with pimples. "Two miles?" I asked. "Yup." "Through walls?" "Yup," he said. "Want it or not?" "How much?" "Five C's." "I was thinking 3 C's," I said. He sighed. "Everything happens to me," he lamented. "Okay, you fucking boob. Four C's." I whipped out my wallet and handed him four hundred- dollar bills. He made a show of holding them up to the light and scrutinizing them. "Not counterfeit, are they?" "No," I said. "Only kidding," he said, all lupine smiles with four hundred dollars in his pocket. "One other thing," I said. "I need to stick it to the bottom of a desk. So it will stay in place for a few days." "Here," he handed me a bottle of green gunk. "On the house. Just add water. You've got a good two hours while it's sticky before it solidifies." "How can I ever thank you?" "Sometimes you must need help on a case. I know my way around. Can handle myself. True, my stomach hurts. But I'll get new underwear. Maybe I can work with you. Huh? Huh? Come on. Here's my card. Whattaya say?" "I'll keep you in mind," I said. "If I ever need your specialized skills."

CHAPTER 67

"Castille," said Queen Cleo, reclining on her divan, wearing an even more ridiculous 'ancient Egyptian' get-up and the same thick blue lines around her eyes. "You miss last night's war council. You my consigliere. Cain't be missing war council! You trippin'?" "Absolutely not, your serene highness, ruler of all the Combat Zone. I dare to presume, with your permission, of course, to have the pleasure of insinuating myself into the royal presence. I was forced to miss because of this." I held open my palm, revealing a round black metal microphone. "What that?" asked Laughing Death. "Eyeball of a giant insect?" "Not an eye," I said. "An ear." "If you ragging on me," said Cleo, "then you in for a jolt." "Certainly not," I said. "This is an advanced technological device that will allow us to listen to the 88 Sons of Satans' every word." "How?" she asked. "Plant it in their office. We can hear from here, record and play back." "Ain't that some kinda funk-heavy juke," marveled Cleo. "I am gratified that her duly anointed Ladyship is pleased," I said. "One question, genius," said Laughing Death. "What?" I asked. "O master of ignorance." "How's this little ole earwig get into the big ole mouth of the 88 Sons?" Cleo looked at me expectantly. I looked around. Laughing Death looked away. Bodyguards Chopper and Razor, machine pistols always ready, stood and starkly stared. "I got to do everything around here?" I asked. "Seems," said Cleo, amused. "In which case," I said, "I must bring up the no doubt sore matter of payment." "Say which?" asked Laughing Death. "Cleo, you promised me a quarter of the profits from the Zone. As your consigliere. Not to mention my expenses." "Expenses?" she asked. "Itemized," I said. "To the penny." She sighed. "Draw up a bill for your expenses. Submit." "I'm running on empty," I said. "Give me my promised share of profits. And a thousand for expenses." "Don't you trust us?" asked Laughing Death. "No." "Too bad Alvie not here," said Queen Cleo. "Our money man. Our number guy." "I remember him," I said. "Little old white guy. With green eyeshade. Like in the movies. King made fun of him because he was Jewish." "He so damn trustworthy," said Cleo. "What happened to him?" "He piss King Pimp off. Someway somehow," she said. "Don't remember now. Anyway, King feed his old carcass to Tony the Tiger. Ever since, cain't find someone good as him." "Let me help," I said. "You know, I'm sure, your profits for last month. Divide by four. Give that amount to me. Simple. In fact, I'm not charging anything for being your tutor." "You ain't done much tootin,'" yawned Cleo. "We do it tomorrow." "Art thou inordinately fatigued, my royal sovereign?" I asked. "That mean tired? Then yes." "I'd still like to get paid tonight," I insisted. "You hear Queen Cleo?" threatened Laughing Death. "She tired." "And, poor thing, she has only two Rolls Royces to rub together. Meanwhile, I need money for duct tape, rope and jam." Cleo snorted a laugh. "Aw'ight, consigliere. Wait here." She arose from her divan and descended the platform. Her heavy gold earrings in movement caught the light, illuminating the beads and tassels at the ends of her straightened hair. The gold bangles on her forearms clacked. The gold bracelet coiled around her right wrist in the form of a snake - mouth wide open with fangs waiting to strike - remained deadly silent. I realized it was a cobra. A sinuous chill slithered down my spine. She unlocked a door and went into a room I'd never been in. The royal treasury, one presumed. That left Laughing Death and me in awkward silence. I smiled as, you know, one does. After ten minutes, Cleo came back with a business envelope. I opened it. Of course, I had no way of knowing if it was one quarter of the profits. Plus a thousand. But it was sizeable enough to keep me afloat. "It'll do," I said to Cleo, back on her divan. "You need to fly a kite to Black Red for a sitdown with me. Tomorrow afternoon would be optimum." "You the consigliere," said Cleo. "Make sure I have a safe conduct. I think some of these lunatics actually don't like me." "Hard to believe," said Cleo. "Now good night." "Good night, my queen," I said. "I'll see you in my dreams." Walking out, I muttered: "Nightmares, more like it." How did I get sucked in yet again? I reasoned that someone would run the Zone and that Sister Flukie a.k.a. Queen Cleopatra was the best...the best what? Let's say she was the least sadistic, least money-mad, least likely to hurt people for no reason. Especially compared to Nazis, skinheads and Dijjy Doo. When these sleep-wrecking Combat Zone wars were over, I would abandon the Zone to its predestined cup of poison, to its unfaithful falling wheel of fortune, to its weird destiny of doom. Yet - sorry to say but true to tell - I was sort of, kind of an adrenaline junkie. I felt more alive when in danger. Phoenix felt the same although Margie didn't. It was one of the things that Margie couldn't share with Phoenix and me. Our savagery.

CHAPTER 68

The Palace Guard of cousin cops still shot the breeze with the Palace Hotel doormen. They still stood with their beefy backs to the Little Combat Zone on the other side of Park Square. I wondered if they'd even bother to look if a building blew up. I reached the Sons of Satan gate. The same young woman stood guard. "Sentry! Still at your post? Exemplary!" "You!" she exclaimed. "Me," I said. "I hope your overlords told you I'm here on a safe conduct. Yes?" "Don't touch my ears!" she said, covering them with palms. "Escort me to the door." "Sure, sure," she said. "Just don't twist my ears." "Wouldn't dream of it," I said. "And a little child shall lead me." She walked down the cement path with me behind her to the doorway. My human shield stepped carefully over the Israeli national flag being used as a doormat. As did I. She rapped sharply on the door in what I guessed was a code. Brilliant chaps, these skinheads. As the door creaked open, I said to the woman: "Fly, winged sentry! Back to your post!" That was all the encouragement she needed. "And look who's here to greet me!" I said, as the door opened. "Silver Mick, anti-Bolshevik! Finger's fully healed, I trust." "Don't push me, Castille," Silver Mick said, opening the door wide to let me enter. The gang of skinheads lounging at tables, drinking, all came to attention and gave me the heart-of-stone stare. Like I was the unwanted FNG. Fucking New Guy. "Don't trouble yourselves, lads!" I said. "At ease!" "Castille, for two cents," said Silver Mick, brandishing his pistol, "I'd shoot off your face." "Except," I said, "I'm here on a safe conduct from Black Red himself. Please be so good as to bring me to him." "Find him yourself. Up the stairs." I marched up the steps, feeling the bug in my pocket. Only hoped they didn't search me. Why I didn't bring my gun. "Ah, Mr. Castille. Come in." "Ah, Reichmarshall Black Red. The very corkscrew of your courtesy knows no bounds. I interrupt your valuable time while you no doubt decide the fate of empires." His two assistants and the Fondler, the brutish bodyguard, stood silently. "Think nothing of it. Of course, you've met my lieutenants," he said, sitting behind his desk and indicating a chair in front of the desk for me. Be demned difficult to stick the bug somewhere with the flunkies scrutinizing me every second. The window behind Black Red looked out on trees across Boylston Street in the Public Gardens. Some with, most without leaves. "Launched an attack on Lew the Jew yet?" I asked. Black Red laughed jovially. "Of course not," he said. "I was only joking." "Sounded serious to me," I said. "Speaking of eliminating deviants, what about that gang of layabouts downstairs?" "They are..." he hesitated, "...useful." "For the rough stuff, eh?" "Enough about us. What brings you here? Cleo's message sounded urgent." The two flunkies never took their eyes off me. Not to mention the Fondler, eyes full of the beauty of maiming, hands full of the biophysics of torment. How and where to plant the bug? "Queen Cleo's been thinking it over," I said. "She'll let you into the Zone and its rackets. 50-50 split." "I told her. She gets 20%." "But it's patently unfair. Cleo and her father built up the Zone. Twenty percent isn't enough." "All's fair in love and war," he said. "And this isn't love," I said. "Exactly," he said. "But I'm prepared to go as high as 25%. No more." "Not enough," I said. "You have my offer!" he snapped. "My final offer!" Didn't like the 'final' part. They'd throw me out soon. Not much time. Plant the bug. But how? They never took their ugly heavy eyeballs off me. "Look!" I said, pointing out the window. "In that tree!" They all automatically turned their heads to look out the window at the Gardens. I plucked the bug out of my pocket and stuck it on the underside of Black Red's desk with Superjew's green gunk. They turned their glowering gazes back to me. "What?" asked Black Red, frowning. "You missed it. Too bad. A red-toed capped thrush. Vary rare this late in the season." "We're not here to discuss ornithology," Black Red said coldly. "But a red-capped thrush! Here! Almost winter!" I enthused. "Indeed a rare sight vouchsafed to few. Pity you missed it before he flitted away." "Didn't figure you for a bird watcher," Black Red said. "I'm a man of many facets. So. 50-50?" "Absolutely not. You and Cleo can't be serious. So get out! Tell her we'll come and take what we want." "When?" I asked innocently. "When you least expect it," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me. Honestly, Castille. If you weren't here on a safe conduct and I wasn't such an honorable man, I'd throw you to the wolves downstairs. So get out while the getting's good." "Certainly," I said. "Making your acquaintance, Reichmarshal Black Red, has been the highlight of a particularly brilliant social season." "Leave!" he commanded, pointing at the door. I went. I only hoped the bug worked.

CHAPTER 69

"You know their voices?" asked Cleo. "I know the voices of Black Red, local Nazi Fuhrer, and Silver Mick, leader of the skinheads." "They the head honchos? All we need to know." The bug's reception was excellent. I made a mental note to buy a magnum of champagne for Superjew. After hours of listening to Black Red and his lieutenants enthusiastically talk about taking over Boston, they finally got specific. "This is the plan," Black Red said. "Operation Intermission. We send the skinheads to ruin the Intermission Lounge. Beat up the patrons, the workers, the owners. Wreck the stools, the booths, the stage. "Make it so nobody wants to go there for fear of being beat up. Or worse." "Guns?" asked a lieutenant. "Bouncers might have them." "Point," said Black Red. "We don't want all the skinheads arrested. They might implicate us." At that, the Nazis laughed their special evil Nazi-laugh. My light-bulb idea when Shirley Ujest was attacked seemed true. Nazis were tightly-wound, schedule-bound robots with a plan of conquest. The skinheads might wear Nazi tattoos. Not because they were Nazis but because it represented white supremacy. Skinheads were a loose agglomeration of violence-prone young men and a few women. Their grand goal in life was to beat up people they didn't like and drink beer. Nazis and skinheads: two agendas. How to pry them apart and turn them against each other? "Word will spread," said Black Red's voice, "to other clubs. Zone will be dead in a week. Without income, Cleo will either pack up and leave or we'll go over there and throw them out." "We?" asked the lieutenant. "Let the skinheads do the dirty work," said Black Red's voice. "They're the lowest form of Aryan specimens. Few of them killed or wounded? No big loss. But we - the future leaders of a new world - must be unscathed." "But what about guns?" "We'll let Silver Mick and two others carry handguns," said Black Red's voice. "Don't want a big shoot-out." "When?" "Tonight. That den of degradation will be full of intoxicated revelers on a Thursday night," said Black Red's voice. "Tell Silver Mick to come upstairs." Voice yelled: "Silver Mick! Come up!" Sound of footsteps getting closer. "Achtung," said Silver Mick, jokingly. "What's shaking?" I imagined Black Red cringing at this blatant familiarity. "A mission." "Cool!" said Silver Mick. "Who do we hurt?" "Intermission Lounge in the Zone. Bust it up. Beat people. No shooting except in self-defense." "When?" "Tonight at 10 o'clock," said Black Red. "I'll go down and tell the boys," said Silver Mick. "They've been getting restless." Sounds of footsteps fading. "The fool will do anything I tell him," boasted Black Red. "Of course, after we take over, they'll have to be exterminated. But until then, they are serviceable morons. Easily manipulated. Unable to think for themselves. And they love violence."

CHAPTER 70

"We know when, where they attack," said Cleo. "Tonight. Intermission. So now what, Castille?" "My old friend, Sun Tzu, always used to say to me, 'Castille, good buddy: "Mysterious shadows after dark cleave to ancient buildings like moss on tombstones."'" "Say which?" demanded Laughing Death. "Sorry," I said. "That was my other old friend, Charlie Chan. No. Shooting the breeze with Sun Tzu, having a few drinks, I'd say 'Sunny, tell me. What's the secret to winning?' "He'd look around to make sure nobody overheard. Then he'd say, 'Castille, good buddy. This is the secret. 'Know yourself and know your enemy and you will win every battle.'" "Like the sound a that," said Laughing Death. "Not finished yet," I said. "Sunny boy would add 'Figure out the enemy's plan of attack and then figure out which strategy to use to defeat him.'" "There it be," said Cleo. "Now. What our strategy?" "I say," said Laughing Death, "we get us selves some AK-47's and rub out the whole snake pit of 'em." "Subtle," frowned Cleo. "A massacree. Have every level of the G crash down on us. Castille, you the consigliere. What say?" "We know when. We know where. We know who. We know why. We know everything about the enemy. But do we know ourselves?" "Long as I queen," said Cleo, "we do." "Then we're almost assured of victory," I said. "Though one can never be certain." "What the exact strategy?" asked Cleo, ignoring my qualifier. "Know the owner of the Intermission Lounge?" I asked. "'Course I know him," said Cleo. "Knowed him since I a itty bitty nigette." "Fly him a fast kite," I said. "Tell him you and me coming for a sitdown this afternoon. Top priority." "What about me?" yelled Laughing Death. "Need someone to hold down the fort here," I said. "You're in complete charge." "Like the sound of that," said Laughing Death, tugging on non-existent lapels.

CHAPTER 71

Intermission Lounge. 9:45 p.m. I made a last minute check to be sure everybody was in place and knew their roles. Civilians hadn't been allowed inside. The bar stools were occupied by Cleo's best fighters. If we didn't stop Silver Mick right away, they'd leap into hand-to-hand combat. The booths were occupied by more of Cleo's men. Their job was to back up the first wave of defenders. Onstage, Honey Jill danced as the music pumped and the mirrored disco ball on the ceiling whirled. When she saw me, she lost her fake smile and air-mailed me a genuine smile. Just inside the blacked-out glass door, the Intermission's regular bouncer was to let the skinheads push him aside and enter. If necessary, he could attack from behind. I stood in the back of the Lounge, Beretta in my belt holster, in the shadows where I could see all. At precisely 10:00 p.m., led by Silver Mick, about twenty shouting, yelling, whooping, swearing skinheads roared into the Intermission. They grabbed at 'patrons' to beat them up. Surprised when the 'patrons' fought back. Silver Mick realized that something was wrong and pulled his gun. I shot the whirling disco ball which fell to the floor, smashing and crashing, sending hundreds of silver glass shards flying in every direction. Everybody stopped fighting to shield their eyes. Including Silver Mick. When he opened his eyes, I stood in front of him. My Baretta pointed at his forehead. "Castille?" he asked, baffled. "The fuck you doing here?" "Question is," I said, "what are you doing here?" "Just getting a drink," he said. "Hands up, skinheads!" I yelled. Slowly, they all put their hands up. I took Silver Mick's Walther PPK pistol. "Disappointing," I said. "Would have thought you carried a Luger." "A Luger?" he came to life. "Why?" "You're a true blue member of the American Nazi Party, aren't you?" "Nazi Party?" Silver Mick was outraged. "Never!" "Black Red said you may dress differently," I said. "But you're still Nazis." "Naturally, we honor Hitler," he said. "But we're not Nazis. I told Black Red specifically we'd never join the Party. We're independent. Do what we want. We're free!" "I guess Black Red was speaking loosely," I said casually. "Loose lips cause loose teeth," he said angrily. "I want you to hear something," I said. "Do I have a choice?" he asked, looking down the barrel of my Beretta. "Sure," I said. "Life or death." We went to the manager's office where Cleo waited for us. "What's this mud person doing here?" asked Silver Mick. "Tryna restrain her own self from shooting out your teef," said Cleo, producing a LadySmith 5-shot revolver. "So shut up and listen." I turned on the tape. "Sounds like Black Red!" said Silver Mick. "Acute sense of hearing," I said. "But how....?" he started to ask. "I planted a bug in his office," I answered. "Black ops?" he asked, impressed. "Sh..." I said. "Listen." Silver Mick heard Black Red denigrate Silver Mick and the skinheads, consign them to lowest-of-the-low Aryan status and casually mention he didn't really care if some skinheads get killed in the attack on the Intermission. Oh yes. And how they were brainless and how Black Red could get Silver Mick to do anything he wanted. Oh yes. And how, come the Nazi takeover - of Boston? of America? - skinheads would be 'exterminated.' Silver Mick breathed like a locomotive chugging uphill, face red as flame, angry as an angel with his wings unfairly clipped by God. I took a beer out of the refrigerator, uncapped it and handed it to him. He drank it off in one gulp. "Now you know what Black Red and his ratsy-Nazis really think of you," I said. "What are you going to do about it?" "You'll let us leave?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "In that case, we'll go back to Black Red and we'll take care of those mother-beating pansy Nazi cunts!" "And then?" I asked. "And then," he said, "we'll probably have to leave town." "Do that and no more trouble between us," I said. "Agreed?" "Agreed. Time to get out of Boston anyway," said Silver Mick. "Keep an eye on the news."

CHAPTER 72

At the Service Center - Margie had called me to come over; vital urgency in her vivid voice - the same three Vietnamese Chinese jamokes had Pinky crying. Again. "Out," I commanded. Again. The leader - young Hung, as I recalled - dead-eyed me. His two slouching companions looked at me and away. "No!" said Hung. He pulled out a revolver. "Whoa, baby!" I said. "You shut up now!" he said, aiming the gun at the middle of my chest. Center mass. The gun looked to be one of Colt's 'snakes': Cobra, Python, Anaconda. "Perhaps an afternoon snifter of ruby port would settle your nerves," I said in my most soothing manner. "I kill you!" said Hung, his Cantonese-Vietnamese accent becoming more pronounced. "Then I kill her!" He pointed the gun at Pinky, who tried to shrink into the wall behind her; he turned the gun back at me. "Why?" I asked quietly. Face contorted and furious, body rigid and trembling, words weighted with a wounded vengeance. "She nigger-lover! Bad!" he burst out passionately. "Must be killed!" "And me?" "You!" he said. "You teach me!" "What in the name of Raymund Nonnatus - patron saint of the falsely accused - are you babbling about? I teach you what?" "To hate blacks!" "I dare say, old fellow," I said. "You have the wrong man. I...Whoa!" He thumbed back the hammer on the revolver. I knew - knew - he would pull the end-of-time-trigger. I was dead. He started to pull. Margie appeared and yelled "No!" Hung glanced at her. In that swollen slowed-down second: what to do? Too far away to jump him. He'd shoot me anyway as I moved toward him. In an ozone-smoking lightning flash, the Old Legionnaire's voice in my mind instructed: 'Turn!' I knew exactly what he meant. I turned to my left 90 degrees. By showing him my right side rather than my front, I halved the size of the target. Me. Plus, I increased the distance from bullet to heart. Plus, being left-handed, I protected my dominant arm. I flexed my right bicep as hard as I could. He pulled the trigger. The gun fired. The bullet hit me. Hurt bitterly, like a hound's bite. But it is a truth universally acknowledged that a bullet in the bicep is greatly to be preferred over a bullet in the heart. In Hung's shattered split-second confusion, I lion-leaped. My left hand pushed his gun toward his outside. Normally, I'd push it to his inside, staying to his outside. There I'd be less likely to be shot. Plus, he'd be easier to control. But, in this situation, if he shot again, he might hit Pinky or Margie. Pushing his gun to the outside rendered a shot harmless by hitting a wall. Good thing. Because he did fire one more time. Into a wall. Inside his defenses, my left hand ripped the gun out of his right hand. Then my right foot stomped on his left instep and I left-kneed him in the baubles. And, as his head automatically came forward and down, I right-kneed him in the face. A goodly geyser of blood gushed. I threw the gun in Margie's direction. I gripped Hung's left wrist with my left hand, wrapped his left arm across his throat and behind his head and backed him up against a wall. Extra precaution: I planted my left foot on his left foot, trapping it. Then circled my left knee in and against his left knee, pressuring it, hyperextending it. This not only protected my baubles from his knees. But almost any movement on his part would result in a dislocated knee. "Castille!" Margie yelled, putting Hung's gun in a drawer of Pinky's desk. "You're bleeding all over the carpet!" "Buy you a new one," I said. "Not what I mean! You! You're profusely bleeding." "Flesh wound. Be fine after a Blue Ruin." Oh no!" she said. "You're not using this as an excuse to start drinking alcohol again!" "Then I'll bleed out. On your precious carpet." "No, you won't!" she looked at Pinky. "Pinky, for God's sake! You haven't called 911 yet?" "Oh! I no do yet." "Do it!" said Margie. "Now!" Hung was spitting mad. "You! You American! You white American! You teach me!" "Teach you what?" I continued to be mystified. "Back in my country! During war! White soldiers say black soldiers very bad!" "First, not me," I said. "Second, so what?" "So? So! I can't. Can't tell." I pressured his knee with mine. "Tell!" I commanded. "My mother!" he sobbed. "She must do many...things to survive! Many...bad things!" "I know," I said. Now I felt sad-story sorry for him. "Prostitution." "Whore!" he yelled, tears exploding out of his eyes and racing down his face. "Gang of black soldiers rape my mother! I am son! Can't you see? In my face? Color of skin? Half Asian, half black! But no father! Can never know my father! If I know him, I kill him!" So that was it. The bullet in my bicep hurt like a book banned and burned in Hitler's Berlin. The other two jamokes had disappeared in a cloud of heel dust. Outside, sirens screamed louder, closer. In a minute, a merge of cops and EMT's swarmed in. Margie gave the cops the gun, identified herself as esteemed director of the agency and explained the situation. They cuffed Hung and pushed him out the door, bawling. The EMTs patched up my arm. "No exit wound," said one EMT tersely. "Bullet still inside. Your arm stopped it from penetrating your chest. Could have hit your heart." "Lucky," said the other EMT. "And today Friday the 13th, no less." "Not luck," I said, silently blessing the Old Legionnaire. They waited for further explanation but I said nothing. "Doctor will fish it out," said the first EMT. "Let's go." "I can walk," I said. Quite heroic, I thought, given the circumstances. "Regs," he said. They lay me down on a gurney. "Margie," I said, lying down. "One kind favor I ask of you." "Anything, Castille," she said, holding my good hand with both of hers, looking fervently at me, tears filling her eyes. "If I don't make it, tell my girlfriend I love her very much." She dropped my hand and ordered the EMTs: "Get him out of my sight!"

CHAPTER 73

After the doctor extracted the bullet from my right arm, punctured me with antibiotics and bandaged me, I discharged myself from Boston Hospital. Against doctors' orders. But the urgency in Margie's voice had meant one thing. The game was afoot. In her office, she asked: "What are you doing out of the hospital?" "My job. Why did you call me?" "Last night, I left work late. I saw Mr. Lum!" "And?" I asked. "And he was sneaking into a Chinatown gambling den." "Which one?" "On Beach Street," she said. "With the glass-front door. Remember that time I pointed it out?" Margie had taken me on a guided tour of Chinatown's gambling dens. Freak the gambling dens, I had told her. Where are the opium dens? "I do indeed remember. One of the memorable moments of my celebrated Chinatown career," I said. "But why do you say 'sneaking'?" "Because his manner was furtive." "Furtive in the sense of stealthy?" I asked. "Yes." "So? It's not illegal to be furtive. It's not illegal to enter illegal gambling dens. At least, in Chinatown." The cops had once raided Chinatown gambling places on Chinese Lunar New Year. They arrested everybody, including some big shots. The next day, practically all of Chinatown and their white supporters turned out in front of police HQ to protest. Protest what? That the police had shown cultural insensitivity and racial bias by raiding the joints on Chinese New Year's. An outrage. An affront. And, most important, a public relations disaster for the cops. The portly police commissioner practically had to get down on his rickety knees and bang his heavy head against the sidewalk, apologizing to the Chinese community. The newspapers and TV loved it. Actually, the mayor, ensconced in the Fortress, had ordered the raid. But he made the commish take the fall. Since then, the cops had left the gambling operations in Chinatown untouched. "You haven't made any progress in finding Betty, have you?" demanded Margie. "No," I said, feeling guilty about getting caught up in the Combat Zone wars and neglecting Betty. "I take it she hasn't returned home." "No," said Margie. "And I've got a bad feeling." "About Lum? What time did you see him?" "I looked at my watch. 8:15 p.m." "You don't think his gambling is a temporary relief from worry about Betty?" I asked. "No." "You think his gambling has something to do with Betty's disappearance?" "I've got a bad feeling," she reiterated. "So I followed him to the gambling place." "And?" "And looking through the glass door, I saw several stairs leading to a landing. Then the stairs took a sharp left turn. Couldn't see anything beyond the stairs." "Nothing else?" I asked. "Just a giant standing on the landing." "Bouncer. Sentry. Did you go in?" "I tried the doorknob," said Margie. "It didn't turn. Knew it wouldn't. But had to try. Strictly for Chinese men. Chinese women and non-Chinese not welcome." "I say we appeal it all the way to the Supreme Court." "I say get hold of Mr. Lum and find out what's going on." "Because you have a bad feeling," I said. "Don't you trust my intuition?" she asked. "Miss Margie, a fish trusts the water," I said in my Charlie Chan voice. "Yet it is in the water that the fish is cooked." "Racist. But funny." "Why me and not you?" "The giant lunatic at the gambling place gave me the fly-or-die look," said Margie. "Surely uncalled for," I said. "And surely," she said, "if it comes to it, you can handle him better than me." "Sure about that?"

CHAPTER 74

Next day being Saturday - not a workday - Lum might start gambling early. But how early? I didn't want to spend the whole day waiting for him. Then again, he might not come at all. I decided on noon. First, I gazed through the glass door of the gambling den. As Margie had said, a humanoid gigantasaurus on the landing glared up at me. Looked like a Samoan Sumo wrestler. Instead of gym clothes, he should have worn a blanket-sized loin cloth. I rattled the knob; the door didn't open. The huge hulking man-mountain only pressed a button to open the door for the right people. He scowled and threw his bloated head to one side, indicating 'Get the fuck outa here, white ghost!' I didn't budge. He slowly dragged his index finger under his gigantical jaw from ear to ear, in the shape of a scimitar. The universal 'cut-your-throat' gesture. I crossed Beach Street, sat in a Chinese coffee shop and waited. At 1:30, Lum trudged up Beach, head down. I left the coffee shop and crossed the street. So engrossing was his study of the sidewalk that he didn't notice me. "Step on a crack," I said. "Break your mother's back." "Mister Castille!" he looked up, flustered. "What are you...I mean, why...I mean..." "Allow me to be the first to finish the question. What are you doing here?" "Me? I'm just, uh, you know..." "I know what?" I asked. "Ha ha. I didn't mean..." "What did you mean?" "I just meant..." he faltered. "Allow me to be the first to answer a question. You're here to gamble." "Gamble? Of course not." "You practically had your hand on the knob of the door," I said, "leading downstairs to one of Chinatown's finest gambling emporiums." "That's true but..." "This is getting tiresome. But what?" "But it's not what you think," he said. "Mind reader, too. What do I think?" "Ha ha. I didn't mean..." "What did you mean?" I asked. "Haven't I asked this question three times now? Tell me the simple truth. Because three strikes and you're out. And I do mean out." The Sumo wrestler guardian lumbered up the stairs and flung open the door. He and Lum exchanged a few words in Cantonese. The giant turned to me. "Go! You bother customer!" "Finally!" I said to Lum. "We've established you're a customer. Which is to say, you've come to gamble." "Just this once. To take my mind off..." "You were here last night." "That's true but..." Lum started. Mega-maxi-man intervened. "Leave customer alone! No say again! Go!" "Sir, I suspect you have an excessive amount of growth hormone produced by the anterior lobe of your pituitary gland," I said. "Call my secretary in the morning to make an appointment." The bully-boy rage-roared and charged me, arms extended as if to apply a bonecrunching bear hug. I dropped to all fours and he tripped over me. I jumped to my feet as the giant slowly rose. "Oh no, now you've made him mad," said Lum, wincing. "Once I saw him take on six guys making a disturbance. He disabled them all." "Excellent!" I said. "So now we've established you're more or less a regular here." "I didn't mean... Mr. Castille, really, you should leave. Before it's too late." "It's never too late to tell the whole truth, and..." But it was too late for me to finish my sentence. The giant advanced on me. This time, more warily. He obviously had no science, no philosophy, no art. For his whole oblivious obese life, he had relied on big-bellied size and bruising brute strength. All I had to worry about was a huge aggressive biped packed with muscle and hard fat. That certain sadistic sneer on his slubbery lips. That certain bone-breaking look in his blood-bubbling eyes. Who was coming to get me. That's all. Gulp. People flowed around us, some gunning glances. The gorilla goon stood in a low stance, knees deeply bent. Maybe he was a Sumo wrestler. I ran toward him. This startled him. I guess there was something to monkey kung-fu. My left foot stepped up on his right thigh. I converted my forward motion upward. Before he could respond, my right foot stepped up onto his left shoulder. I brought my flexed left knee up into his jaw. Missed the knockout button but he wobbled. I planted my left foot on his right shoulder. Now people gathered to gawk at this sideshow. I stood shakily upright backwards on this behemoth's shoulders. I swung my left shod foot out and returned its heel against the back of his neck. Must have hit the pressure point. He collapsed like a bombed building. At the right instant I stepped off his shoulders onto the sidewalk, like it was part of the act. "Move along, folks!" I said cheerily. "Show's over!" "You," I said to Lum, gripping his wrist. "Come with me." But...what about him?" Lum asked. "He'll wake up soon. We don't want to be here when he does. Nor do we want to be here when another goon comes up to check on him." Stone-like, Lum stood in a trance. "Come on!" I said, shaking him. I pulled him through the crowd, which parted for us like the Red Sea for Moses. We disappeared around the corner to narrow Oxford Street and into a small coffee shop. I sat so I could see out the window. "You realize," Lum said, "I can't go back there." "Pity." "Now what am I going to do?" Lum asked, head crash-diving into his hands. "Where's Little Ming?" I asked. "Home." "By himself?" "Babysitter," he said. "Neighbor." "How often do you come back to Chinatown to gamble?" "Three or four times a week." "Usually win?" I asked. "Well, I..." "No, of course not. Usually lose." "Well, I..." he started. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, moms and dads, guys and gals. The question you've all been waiting for. Where's Betty?" "How would I...?" "Where's Betty?" I asked again. "Honestly, it..." "Three strikes and you're out. Where's Betty?" He hung his head. "Skydragon has her," he said.

CHAPTER 75

"I feel so ashamed," said Lum. "Be ashamed on your own time. Who is Skydragon and why does he have Betty?" "Skydragon is a man of power who owns gambling places and brothels. Not that I would know of such things personally." "Of course not." "But it's common knowledge," he said. "I don't know it." "Among Chinese." "Where does Skydragon roost?" I asked. "He owns the Tahitian Garden." "That restaurant with the ludicrous front? 'Polynesian' cuisine? Carved wooden dragons? That crackerjack palace?" "Yes," he said. "And so we come to our last question. What do you mean? Skydragon has her?" "He's holding her...hostage." "Hostage for what?" I asked. "Tell me the whole story. Don't make me drag it out of you." "You're right. I gamble often. Gai Pow Poker. I usually lose. I owe the gambling house - which is to say, Skydragon - $50,000." "Fifty grand, you ludomaniac?" He nodded his head yes, sadly. "And you're trying to raise fifty G's by continuing to gamble?" I asked. "Yes," he said, shame-faced. "Man overboard. Why didn't you tell Margie this when she called the cops?" "Because after that, all our lives - me, Betty, even Little Ming - would be worthless." "What's Skydragon like?" I asked. "Aggressive. Domineering. A dragon among dragons. As I said, owns gambling places and brothels." "Tell me more about these so-called brothels." "Someone owes him money and doesn't pay?" he said. "He kidnaps their wife. If the debt is not paid by a certain point, he makes the wife work in a brothel." "And Betty?" "Not yet. But I'm sure Skydragon can hardly wait. You know how she acts. So provocative." "Makes you angry?" I asked. "Yes." "But you can't stop her." "No," he said. "Let's go," I said. "Go where?" "To the cops. Tell them what you told me." "I can't!" he said. "They said if I went to the cops, they'd kill Betty!" "Where are the Bonnies and Clydes of yesteryear? Criminals these days have no imagination, no panache, no je ne sais qua." "No," he said, uncertain what I meant. "So where are they keeping her already?" I asked. "I don't know." I decided I believed him. "I'll get her back," he pleaded. "I feel lucky tonight. If I can win fifty thousand, I'll get her back. I know, to you, I probably sound stupid." "You'd have to rally to sound stupid. Don't you know the house always wins? What happens when you owe $100,000? They'll take Little Ming and make him work in the salt mines." "Don't say that!" he said and burst into tears. I put my arm around his shuddering shoulders. "All right, all right," I soothed. "Pull yourself together. Forget gambling for one day. Go home to your son." "Okay," he said and, as I walked away, asked: "Where are you going?" "To find your wife."

CHAPTER 76

First, I was going to find Margie at Jacob's Ladder in Brookline. Jacob's Ladder was an old-fashioned Jewish delicatessen owned and operated through four generations of the Horowitz family. Margie was taking an hour off from running her family's restaurant - also in Brookline - to meet and eat with me in this fine old establishment where we sometimes met for a stolen hour. Few called it Jacob's Ladder. Most called it Izzy's, after the current owner and proprietor Israel Horowitz. Some even called it Dizzy Izzy's. I entered the deli, overwhelmed with the smell of meats and cheeses and home-made Matzo balls and cabbage soup; crowded with people talking loudly in a dozen languages, including Russian, German, Hebrew and Yiddish. And yes. I felt a little dizzy. "Castille!" called Margie, who had already commandeered a tiny table for us. I threaded my way through the densely packed tables and sat. "Why so late?" she asked. "Never mind. I've already ordered for both of us. Pastrami on rye, right?" "Right," I said. "And you're getting the Reuben sandwich. Right?" A voice boomed: "Thirty-four!" "That's us," said Margie, thrusting a ticket stamped with 34 into my hand. "Go." I slalomed to the crowded counter. More scents. Pickled tongue. Chopped liver. Smoked fish. Sour pickles. Pumpernickel bread. Behind the butcher-smocked counter man were displayed ancient framed photos of earlier Horowitzes with long-dead celebrities. Also, a glass case of cheesecake. Down, boys, down! I said to my sugar-fiending taste buds. "Reuben sandwich and pastrami on rye, right?" he asked. "And two slices of cheesecake," I said. "Again with the cheesecake?" "You remember me?" "I should forget a yingatsh like you already? Ess gezunterhait! Eat in good health! And," he winked, "fatten up that skin-and-bones wife of yours." "She's not my wife." "Oy!" "Yet," I winked back. At the table, Margie said: "I don't want cheesecake." "Pity. Guess I'll have to eat both." "You sugaraholic." "Better than the other thing," I said, as we ate. The unspoken word. Alcohol. Alcohol and sugar must be chemically similar. Because once I gave up - O the grievous shame! - demon rum, I became a sweets addict. "Tell me about Skydragon," I said. "Who?" she asked, startled. "You heard me." She put her hand over mine. "Castille," she said, looking into my eyes. "Stay away from Skydragon." "I thought you said the Wong family runs Chinatown," I said. "I said the Wong family thinks they run Chinatown," said Margie. "You said more than that." "I know," she sighed. "It's all so Chinesey. You Americans are so naive." "You're American," I reminded her. "Chinese American." "We're naive concerning what?" "Not naive," she struggled. "Just unaware of the subtleties and intricacies of Chinatown culture. Even you, after all these years. It's exhausting to explain." "Try." "The Wongs run Chinatown. Officially. They're the recognized leadership. They attend meetings with the city and state. They procure government funding which - after stealing half - they distribute to non-profit organizations." "Like yours," I said. "Yes. But we also write proposals to get funding on our own." "And the half the Wongs steal?" "They invest in for-profit enterprises and rake in the dough," she said. "Like what?" "Supermarkets, apartment buildings. But that's typical Chinese custom." "Why should I stay away from Skydragon?" I asked. "He's pure evil." "Now, Margie," I said patiently. "We've gone over this many times. There's only one pure evil person in the universe. Victor von Doom. A.K.A. Doctor Doom. It was he, you'll recall, who used his mind-control power broadcast through the Psycho-prism to take over the whole world. And then he... " "Spare me," Margie muttered, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, why have you never mentioned Skydragon?" I asked. "You know Chinatown is part of my territory." "The great white private eye. With his own personal stomping grounds. I never told you because I knew you'd find out sooner or later. And I wanted it to be later. Besides, it's a Chinese thing." "I'm not Chinese?" "Not yet, darling," she laughed. "But you're getting there. Still. For me. Stay away from Skydragon." "I can't." "Why not?" "He has Betty Lum," I said. "What?" "Afraid so." "How?" she asked.

CHAPTER 77

"Your fine upstanding model citizen Mr. Lum," I said, "is a degenerate gambler." "No! Can't be!" "Can be. Is," I said. "Owes Skydragon fifty thousand." "Dollars?" "No. Pebbles. Of course, dollars." "Wait till I get my hands on him," said Margie. "The aforementioned Skydragon is holding Betty. As a marker." "Meaning?" "Meaning," I said, "he lets Betty go when Lum pays his gambling debt." "How's he going to get fifty thousand dollars?" "Saved the best till last. He plans to win it by...gambling." "That's foolish!" Margie said. "Imbecilic," I said. "These damned Chinese and their gambling," Margie muttered, more to herself than me. "A disgrace and a disease. Like the Irish and their drinking." "Don't have to tell me." "Of course, You've gone so long without alcohol. I'm proud of you." "Golly gee, Miss Margie," I drawled. "Ya shore make a feller blush." "So Lum gambles at that joint on Beach? With the locked glass door? Where I saw him going in?" "Yup." "Did he say what game he plays?" she asked. "Everyone has their favorite. They always return to it." "Pai Gow Poker." "Pai Gow Poker!" Margie exploded. Other diners glanced at us. "Not good?" I asked. "Pai Gow Poker is a combination of Chinese Pai Gow and American poker. Almost impossible to win." "All gambling games are almost impossible to win," I said. "The odds are always on the side of the house. Why they stay in business." "Chinese know that. They're not stupid. And still they gamble. Even my father sneaks off to gamble his money away." "Speaking of whom," I said. "How is the old codger doing?" "I'd appreciate it if you didn't refer to my father as 'the old codger.'" "Certainly. How is your esteemed and honorable paternal unit faring?" "Not so good," said Margie, frowning and chewing the inside of her bottom lip. "What's wrong with him?" "Don't know. Naturally, he won't see a medical doctor. Just acupuncturists, herbalists and other Chinese quacks." "So he'll be shutting down the restaurant on Christmas?" I asked. "You and I can have a normal holiday." "I say yes," shrugged Margie. "He says no." "Who's going to decide?" "My father's health. Or lack thereof." "Then his fate is in the hands of sovereign time and stray chance," I said solemnly. "Speak of time. How long to get Betty away from Skydragon?" "Don't know," I said. "Tell me more about Betty." "She's a good worker," said Margie. "Gets along with the other employees. The clients like her." "Family? Besides husband and son." "She's an only child," Margie said. "Like Little Ming. Mother's dead. Father's in the hospital." "Why?" "Advanced diabetes." "How advanced?" I asked. "Very. No legs. Blind. Six hours of dialysis a day. Touch and go." "Sad. Has anyone told him of his daughter's disappearance?" "Doctors didn't think it a good idea," she said. "So. How long?" "Hard to say. Have to get the lay of the land." "Get your girlfriend to help," Margie said. "Phoenix? I thought you hated her." "I do. But I know she'll cover your back." "I don't even know if she's in town," I said. "Find out."

CHAPTER 78

Margie drove back to her family's restaurant. I drove back to my office in Chinatown. But Margie was right. As in most things Chinatown, my first move would be to consult Phoenix Chan. Was she even in town? She never answered her phone. And seldom returned calls. So I would walk to Tai Tung Village, a complex of medium-rise buildings, where she lived. And where her mother taught wu shu. I walked to Chinatown Crossing. Blade Runner crowds surged through in all four directions. On one corner, Canto-pop music blasted from a boombox. Two young guys sold audiocassettes of the hottest (in both senses) music from Hong Kong. On the second corner, next to the International Ladies Garment Workers Union building, a car was parked with layers of Oriental rugs covering the hood. An Iranian leaned against the car, arms folded, pestering pedestrians in pidgin English to take a look at his splendid exotic descendants of flying carpets from the Arabian Nights. On the third corner - under a portrait of a noble and stoic Indian chief - sat, back to the wall and legs stretched out, an old Indian-from-America, noble and stoic, with his right arm upturned, palm held out for hours on end. Like an Indian-from-India fakir performing a superhuman feat of physical endurance and self-control. The Indian portrait was in the window of the Shawmut Bank. This portrait was the logo of the Shawmut, which was the original Indian name of Boston. The real Indian, panhandling, was content with a few coins dropped into his hand. On the fourth corner, a few dozen skinny Chinese men squatted against the wall of the biggest of a half-dozen coffee shops in Chinatown Crossing. The late shift. Earlier, hundreds of men had crowded into vans and station wagons to be driven to restaurants all over New England to do dirty drudgy sweaty slave work for slave wages. Now, the remaining squatters drank coffee from cardboard cups, chain-smoked and regularly hawked and spit on the sidewalk like it was a solemn religious obligation. Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown, I said to myself in my Jack Nicholson voice. I crossed Kneeland to the residential section of C'town and walked several blocks. I started up Harrison to turn the corner of a Tai Tung building. But when I heard belligerent voices, I stopped. Lay on the concrete and carefully peeped around the corner. Phoenix. Surrounded by a half-dozen white guys. Unsavory sorts. Each pointed a gun at her. Great. Who had she pissed off now? Of course, if I rescued her, I'd close the lead she had in rescues of each other. If. How? A half-dozen guys with guns. I couldn't possibly neutralize or immobilize them all, even with the elegant element of surprise. I had no idea. So I let my mind go blank. In my case, not so hard to do. Don't grab wildly for a solution. Let it come to me. Pretend I was a cop? Arrest them all? Somehow, I didn't think that would cut it. My brief glimpse of these hairy barbarians convinced me they wouldn't mind smoking a cop. What then? A voice - presumably that of the leader, the alpha dog - barked: "Get down on your knees!" "You get down on your knees!" Phoenix barked back. Dog eat dog. "And while you're down there," Phoenix added, "suck my dick. Try not to leave any lipstick marks." "What? What did you say?" the leader asked, more in shock than anger. "Deaf as well as dumb," said Phoenix. "Poor kid." "Repeat what you just said!" "Poor kid," repeated Phoenix. "Not that! You know what I mean!" "Tiresome," said Phoenix in a bored voice. "Anyone here able to conduct an intelligent conversation?" Yes, Phoenix would die with her boots on. But, one hoped, not today. A saying of the Old Legionnaire bubbled up. Sometimes, when all is lost, all you can do is laugh. He told me that once in Sidi-bel-Abbis in North Africa, he was cornered by a dozen blood-craving Arabs who hated the French Foreign Legion. They had sizable knives drawn to cut him into small pieces. He didn't know why. But he suddenly screeched with demented laughter. Unbelievably, his would-be assassins pulled back. Maybe they were superstitious and thought him a demon. In any case, they fled this laughing maniac. He quickly and quietly made his way back to Legion headquarters. Worth a try. I let loose lunatic laughter. Screeching, demonic laughter. Howls from the bowels of hell. The Devil's own infernal glee. A supernatural monster-fiend's bloodcurdling cry. A banshee's wail of mirth anticipating death and destruction. I heard Phoenix - always cat-quick on the uptake - confidently threaten her attackers. "That's the spirit of my ancestor. Vicious giant phoenix who will swoop down and tear you limb from limb with razor sharp talons." "Don't know what that is," said one guy. "But don't want to stick around and find out." "Oh, but do," said Phoenix. "Me, either," said the leader. Clatter of shoes on concrete. "Knock it off, Castille!" yelled Phoenix. "They're gone." I came around the corner. "Laughing Kung Fu?" she asked. "Chortle-Jitsu," I said. "Why didn't you return my phone calls?" "Think I sit around all day waiting for you to call?" Phoenix rebutted. "Yes." "I don't." "Busy?" I asked. "Between jobs." "Such as?" "Execution of a gangland kingpin. Slaughter of a child pornography ring," she said. "Assassination of a South American dictator. The usual." "You and the Ladies of Liqueur?" "Eating you up inside, isn't it?" "That I've never actually met or even seen just one of the seven Ladies? With the exception of your exalted self?" I asked. "What gives you that idea?" "You're jealous of them, you tragic dragon. When it comes time to play, you want me all to yourself." "What vapid absurdity!" "Then why did you call me?" she asked. "A job for the Ladies." "You can't afford us." "Drat," I said. "One sometimes is tempted to wonder if they actually exist." "They exist. The mere thought of them causes many a nightmare, asleep and awake." "Then I'll have to settle for just you." "How disappointed you must feel," she said. "To do what?" "Know Skydragon?" I asked. "Everyone in C'town knows Skydragon. Except, I take it, you." "First for everything. He's kidnapped a counselor from Margie's Chinatown Service Agency." "So?" she asked, unimpressed. "So I'm going to get her back." "Still the boy scout, huh?" "'Always be prepared,'" I quoted the Boy Scout motto. "Page 54. Boy Scout Handbook." "Prepared for what?" "'Why, for any old thing,'" I quoted Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts. "Whatever happened to that fat flaky fuck in the Zone?" "King Pimp." "Just waiting for the light to turn green to kill him," she said. "Someone saved you the trouble." "No trouble. A pleasure. But who?" "Sister Flukie," I said. "Who?" "King's incognito daughter slash slave." "Family that kills together, chills together," she said. "Ancient Chinese wisdom." "Now Sister Flukie is Queen Cleopatra. Took King Pimp's place as numero uno in the Zone." "How exciting," she yawned. "So I take it you want my help in rescuing this counselor from Skydragon." "In a nutshell." "So we work for Margie now?" "No, of course not," I said, not wanting to increase the friction between the two of them. Like rubbing two sticks together. Sooner or later it will turn into fire. Heaven help the shnook caught in the middle. Me. "We work for the counselor's distraught husband," I said. I quickly changed the subject before we got to the tricky topic of payment. "By the by," I said. "Any trouble last Saturday?" Like Margie, Phoenix had been harassed on Pearl Harbor Days past. "The 7th?" she asked. "I was downtown and a bunch of white guys surrounded me and started jeering. The leader called me a 'slanty-eyed bitch' and 'yellow peril.'" "What did you do?" I asked. "I walked up to the leader until we were nose to nose. Looked into each other's eyes. He saw that I would kill him where he stood." "Then?" "He preferred not to expire and they fled," she said. "Fear of a yellow planet. But nice try. How much for the job?" "Rounded off?" I said. "Approximately nothing." "Pro bono publicum?" she asked, sighing. "Why not? The phoenix and the dragon. Together again. How can I resist?" Her green eyes gleamed like smuggled emeralds.

CHAPTER 79

"Let's go to Skydragon's restaurant for dinner," I said. "Get the lay of the land." "You crazy?" asked Phoenix. "Chinese don't eat at the Tahitian Garden. Whatever it's called. Only ignorant low fahn; tourists and white suburbanites." Why not?" "Because they serve hardly any authentic Chinese food." "What then?" I asked. "Fake Chinese food for ignorant low fahn like you." "How about a new rule? Use of the word 'ignorant' only once per conversation. So what do they serve?" "Oh God," she said. "Egg rolls. Chicken fingers. Pork strips. Beef teriyaki." "That sounds Japanese." "It's not Chinese." "All right already," I said. "I'll go by myself. I thought you said we were together again." "Not the point. Skydragon knows a Chinese person wouldn't eat there. It would set off an alarm bell in his head." "So what should I know about him?" "Placid exterior. Plays the role of community benefactor. Gives money to Chinatown non-profits," she said. "But behind that facade, he's ruthless, violent, determined." "Does he appear in the restaurant? Or always stay behind the scenes?" "He sometimes strolls around the tables, like Lao-Tzu himself, condescending to smile at the white ghost diners while cursing them in Cantonese. He doesn't like gwai lo." "He speak English?" I asked. "Perfectly, but often pretends he doesn't. The waiters are all goons and thugs who do the dirty work of collecting 'tea money' from his gambling places and bordellos." "Firepower?" "Some," she said. "But seldom needs it. People are afraid of him." "What's he look like?" "Hard to describe. But you can't miss him. Arrogant air, haughty manner, hands clasped behind his back, always wears an ankle length sky blue silk robe." "In short," I said in my Norman Conquest upper-class English voice. "The fellow is an offensive bounder and an utter cad." "Quite so, dear boy," she replied in her Magna Carter voice. "A scoundrel of the first water."

CHAPTER 80

Walking down Tyler to the Tahitian Garden, I ran into Carol Chin with a five-year-old Chinese boy. "Castille! I started a club!" she exclaimed. "Guess the name!" "Don't know," I said. "The I-Hate-Boys Club! Guess what our motto is." "Don't know," I said. "Girls go to college to get knowledge. "Boys go to Jupiter to get stupider." The boy yelled in apparent agreement: "Yeah!" "See?" asked Carol, giggling. "Most amusing," I said. "But you and I being seen together isn't such a good idea." Carol shifted into her John Wayne voice. "Knew it was just a matter of time, buck, till you l'arned I was too much woman for you." "There's that," I laughed. "But I was thinking more of the danger to you being seen talking to me." "Don't get too big for your britches, pilgrim," she said, hitching up her belt. "'Sides, I can handle myself." "Of course you can," I said. "But someone might get the wrong idea. Which is to say, the right idea. That you're my, ah, confidential informant in Chinatown." "You mean a spy," said Carol. "Call a spade a spade. Don't worry your pretty head. Been dealing with two-legged varmints my whole life." "You're only ten!" I said. "Don't make no never-mind," said Carol, spitting into the gutter. "You can handle the load or you can't. I can. Speaking of which, any jobs for me?" "Not at the moment," I said. "Who's this kid, anyway?" "Aw, I'm baby-sitting him. Make a few bucks." "What do you know about Skydragon?" "Enough to stay away from that shimmy lizard," she said. "Opinion pretty much unanimous on that one. What else?" "They're still a-coming." "Who?" I asked. "How many times I got to knock this into your thick noggin?" "What?" "The Seven Golden Vampires," she said. "Seven Golden Vampires. Finally rings a bell. Title of a kung fu/horror film out of Hong Kong. Right?" "Named themselves after that movie." "Why?" I asked. "Cause they're kung fu experts as well as scary as the dickens." "Let me know when they arrive." "You'll know," she said. "Gotta go," I said, walking. "What's your goldurn hurry, ya dang sodbuster?" "Time for lunch." "Never figgered you for a clock watcher," she said.

CHAPTER 81

As Phoenix had said, every table in the Tahitian Garden was occupied by white tourists and suburbanites. A little taste of gen-u-wine Tahiti here in Boston. I ordered several entrees. But didn't eat a thing. The waiters in chocolate-brown jackets and pants hurled at me glances like lances. Finally, I asked one to put everything in a doggie bag. He did so reluctantly and gave me my bill. I walked to the cashier, a comely young Cantonese woman with eyes like stun guns. She rang it up. "Fifty-six dollar," she informed me. "I'm not paying," I said, wearing my Sunday-go-to- meeting smile. "What you say?" she asked harshly, turning her head sideways. Probably thought she misunderstood. So she aimed her better ear at me. "I'm not paying," I repeated. "Fifty-six dollar!" she said angrily. I thought she would pout and stamp her feet. "I. Am. Not. Paying," I enunciated slowly and precisely. "Aye-yuh!" she exclaimed, nodding to the waiters. Two grabbed me, one on either side. I allowed myself to be frog-marched beyond the cashier through a beaded doorway. Beaded, no less. How perfectly Oriental. Next thing, I'm in the inner sanctum. Big room. Everywhere: Cantonese women. I spotted Betty Lum. She saw me, started to smile. Then looked away in fear and shame and Booplessness. Coincidence that Margie left work late and saw Lum go into the gambling joint. Maybe Pinky was right. Sometimes, it was better to be lucky than skilled. In front of me, sitting on - oh no, not another one - a throne. Or at least, an oversized chair. A smug scoundrel in a skyblue robe down to his ankles. Rimless glasses. Bushy eyebrows. Pseudo-scholarly expression. Hair dyed so black it looked purple. "You must be Skydragon," I said. "And you must be a fool. Why do you not pay?" "I didn't eat any of the food." "But you ordered the food," he pointed out. "But I didn't eat any. So why should I pay?" Impasse. He leisurely studied me. I studied the room, memorizing locations of doors and windows. Visualizing where they would be outside the building. "Know why I'm called Skydragon?" he asked in a schoolmaster's voice. "No," I said. "Because I was born in the hour of the dragon in the year of the dragon." "Yippie for you, Puff." He smiled indulgently, as if I were a child. "Obviously," he said, "you have no idea what that means." "Obviously," I said, voice springing leaks of sarcasm. "I will enlighten you," he said. "The dragon is the greatest of the Four Auspicious Animals. Chinese emperors are descended from dragons. "Especially the founder of the magnificent Han Dynasty. Which built the Great Wall Of China. The only man-made object on earth which can be seen from outer space." "Weren't the Han the same jokers who burned to the ground the Imperial Library?" I asked. "One of the greatest libraries in the ancient world." "That is true," he said. "But..." "But because you're a big shot dragon, you have all these women bound for prostitution unless certain gambling debts are paid?" "Certainly not," he said, producing a fan from within his voluminous robe. I wondered what else he might have hidden there. "Looks like you've kidnapped them," I said. "Obviously, you have no idea that it's a crime. In fact, a federal offense." A little trickle of sweat at his temple. He fanned his face more furiously. "These women are my attendants," he said. "What do they attend to?" "My needs." "I'll bet," I said. "I'll prove it," he said. He yelled an order in Cantonese. Apparently, it was to Betty as two waiter-goons escorted her to us. Had he picked her at random? Or did he know we knew each other? Of course, we pretended we didn't. Skydragon gave her the Mandrake the Magician mesmerizing gaze. She almost looked hypnotized. "Are you being held here against your will?" he asked. "No," Betty said, looking at the floor. "You may go," Skydragon dismissed Betty, who scurried back to her place. It was almost unbearable to see high-spirited fun-loving Betty Boop broken down to a lifeless automaton. "Satisfied?" asked Skydragon, with a fey fluttering movement of his hands. "Sure. Nice chat," I said. "Gotta go." "But there is the little matter of your bill," he said. "True, it is so small as to be negligible. But if I don't properly dispose of little matters, how will I be ready to dispose of a big matter when the time comes?" "I'm not paying," I said, curious to see what he would do. "As you wish." He shouted more orders in Cantonese. Two waiter-goons approached me. "Then we will have to take it from you." They took off their brown jackets and rolled their white sleeves up to the elbows. "What are they going to do?" I asked, laughing. "Turn me upside down and shake me until money comes out of my pockets?" "Precisely," said Skydragon. The goons came at me from my left and right. Apparently, they actually were going to grab me, turn me upside down and shake me. Must be where the word 'shakedown' comes from. I looked at Betty. She made brief eye contact and then looked away. Each goon grabbed a sleeve of my leather jacket at the elbow. I simply stepped forward and out of my jacket. When I turned to face them, they each held an empty sleeve of an empty jacket. They looked confused. "Shake him upside-down!" Skydragon shouted. They dropped my jacket and came at me again. With Skydragon's admonition to get hold of me, I knew they wouldn't punch or kick. Just come closer to get a grip on me. Or my clothes: long-sleeved green shirt and blue jeans. Why make it hard on the poor dolts? I extended my arms toward them. They took the bait. They grabbed my wrists. But a split-second before they solidified their grips, my fingers rolled and twisted their wrists. I now had control of them. I continued to turn my hands and twist their wrists until they were both hyperextended. Instead of pulling forward for arm bars - both wrists and elbows hyperextended - I twisted their arms behind their backs. Applying extra pressure, their elbows bent, so now their wrists and shoulders were hyperextended. Off-balance, they were powerless. A little more pressure and their wrists and shoulders would fracture. "Shall I break their arms?" I asked Skydragon. He hesitated. Then: "No." I let go of their wrists. One stepped away, rubbing his wrist. The other one kicked me in the groin with his right foot. But, before he made contact, I stepped to the outside of his leg and I deflected inward his right foot with my left palm. This put him off-balance. I stepped behind him, gripped his shoulders, fingertips in pressure points and pulled him backward. I continued walking in a circle, ending where I began. He rolled down and back on the floor. Unhurt. But chagrined. What the Old Legionnaire called the Ancient Motion. Why? Despite my endless requests, he never told me. "I'm impressed," said Skydragon. "Which style do you practice?" "Majeur Hakko-ryu Jiu-jitsu," I said, picking up my jacket. "Japanese?" he asked in disbelief and distaste. "Yup. Gotta go. Oh, by the way," I said, taking out three twenties and dropping them on the floor. "Keep the change."

CHAPTER 82

"You again!" accused the hostess of the Tahitian Garden the next day. "You no can eat here!" "Why not?" I asked. "You cause trouble!" she screeched. "Go now! Okaaaay? Go! Bye bye! You go now! Okaaaay? Bye bye!" The hostess squalled so lung-splittingly loud that the diners - all white - stopped eating to gawk at us. A waiter-goon approached me. Diners were cement-stuck in their seats intently anticipating the entertainment portion of the evening's activities. The goon threw a roundhouse right to my head. I ducked. He threw a straight left. I dodged. He threw a right hook at my floating ribs. I sucked in my gut. He straight-kicked at my belly. I shrugged aside. He stopped, hands on knees, breathing hard. "Can I help you with something?" I asked. "Aye-yuh!" exclaimed the hostess. She cannonaded a salvo of Cantonese. Waiter-goons surrounded me. "Howdy, boys," I said. "Here for the hoedown?" They grabbed my arms from behind as one in front punched me in the mouth, which filled with blood. My tongue slid across my teeth. None missing or even loose. God is good. The guy wound up to punch me again. I spat my mouthful of blood into his eyes. "Aargh!" he shouted, bending his head, inspecting his eyes with his fingertips as he backed away. Skydragon emerged through the doorway with the beaded curtain. Wearing his sky-blue ankle-length robe. Did he wear the same robe every day? Or did he have one for each day of the week? Hands clasped behind his back. Calm, bemused expression. The very embodiment of Confucian values. He propelled his eyes around the room, filled with gaping white diners. "I say go away bye-bye," said the indignant hostess. "He no go." Skydragon smiled ever so slightly. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Castille?" "Nay," I said. "I know not seems." "Your immortal Shakespeare," he said. "Know your Brit Lit," I said. "Among many other things, I am a polylinguist." "Yes, I heard you were flatulent in five languages." "Six," he corrected me. "My mistake, I'm sure," I said. "The time has come to talk of many things," he said. "Like cabbages and kings?" "Ye-es," he said, uncertain. He wasn't completely up on Brit Lit. Imagine knowing Shakespeare but not Alice in Wonderland. "I ain't here to talk!" I shouted. "I here to cakewalk!" And so saying, I commenced to high-step like a blind mule. Diedre had been an expert in early 20th century American vernacular dance and taught me the cakewalk with its wild, strutting moves. Skydragon barked an order in Cantonese. The gang of waiter-goons closed on me. "Wait!" I yelled. They stopped. "What?" asked the headwaiter. "You're waiters. You're suppose to wait." "Castille," said Skydragon, "you'd drive the patience of a saint." "Which," I said, "you ain't." He barked in Cantonese and the scrum of waiter-goons pushed and shoved me through the no doubt magical beaded curtain. Behind me, I heard Skydragon reassure the diners: "Please accept apologies, good people. A slight disturbance. Over now. Please return to your meals." I didn't know if any diners got up and left, because by then I was in the back room lair of Skydragon. The goon squad left me alone but surrounded. Two dozen Cantonese women - sitting at tables, engaged in various activities like playing mah jongg, drinking tea, talking, knitting - looked up. I saw Betty whose eyebrows rose and whose mouth smiled until Skydragon entered. Then she dropped her eyes. Skydragon arranged himself and his robe on his pathetic rickety throne. Next to him stood a six-foot-tall eight-foot-long five-panelled folding screen opened to reveal a brush painting of a landscape. Mountain, river, trees, rocks, much empty space. I looked closely and saw, crossing a bridge over the river, a tiny solitary human being. "You searched him thoroughly?" Skydragon asked. "No weapon?" "None," said the headwaiter. "Then the rest of you go out front and continue to wait on the customers. Try not to lose any. Give them free food, if necessary. Headwaiter, stay here." I covertly sized up the headwaiter. Bulge at his waist. Handgun. "Now, Castille," said Skydragon. "Tell me what will keep you out of my restaurant before you drive away all the paying customers." "I want you to let all these women walk out of here with me." Skydragon laughed. "Why would I do that?" he asked. "Because when I leave," I said, "I'll contact the FBI." "If you leave." I ignored his remark and continued: "They'll arrest you for kidnapping and human trafficking." Skydragon burst into laughter. "So you too think these women are being held against their will?" "That's what I think," I said. "They're not," he said seriously. "They're insurance." "For what?" "The gambling debts of their fathers or brothers or husbands. When they pay their debts, their loved ones are returned. Unharmed. Untouched. Now do you understand?" "I believe you," I said. "But thousands wouldn't. Besides, keeping a person against her will is still kidnapping. A serious offense." "You would presume to interfere in my legitimate business operations?" asked Skydragon. "Running a gambling den for money is also illegal," I said. "Not remotely legit. And, after a certain period, if the debts are not repaid, these poor women are forced into prostitution. Right?" "Castille," he frowned, "you become more of a genuine nuisance with each passing minute." "I'm well known for that," I said. "So your choice. Let them go free or face a prison term." "No, your choice," he said. "Get out and don't say anything or face a coffin lid dropping on your corpse." Peripherally, I saw headwaiter take the handgun out of his waistband. Five or six shot small-caliber revolver. I might be able to take him out, even absorbing a bullet or two. I might... Still. "That cuts it!" I said. "I'm also reporting you to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Castilles!" "In our brief acquaintanceship, I've grown fond of you," laughed Skydragon before turning serious. "But I take it you're not going to heed my warning of yesterday. Pity. Headwaiter, take him away to an appropriate place to meet his mortal fate." "You!" headwaiter said, pointing his gun at me. "Let's go!" "The back way," said Skydragon. "Don't want to give our diners indigestion." "No, that's fair," I said. "Heads you win. Tails I lose. The way you do at your gambling hells." "Take your time killing him," said Skydragon angrily, standing up. Now he stood next to the six-foot-tall fold-out panels of the landscape painting. "Stop!" commanded a voice. Everyone froze.

CHAPTER 83

Phoenix emerged from the shadows. She came bearing arms. To wit: in each hand, a fully automatic Uzi machine pistol with a twenty-round box magazine. Earlier, she and I had scouted the back of the building based on my prodigious memory of the inside. We had found a weak-willed window Phoenix could jimmy and enter. Once inside, she unlocked the back door. Headwaiter looked at her two Uzis and then down at his pea shooter. "How dare you?" shouted Skydragon. "How dare I?" said Phoenix. "This is how I dare." She pointed the fearsome firearms toward Skydragon and blasted away with both. Skydragon stood stock still. When Phoenix stopped, there was a hole in the fold-out landscape painting the shape and just a little larger than Skydragon. "You wretched bamboo sprout!" shouted Skydragon. "You have ruined a very valuable Chinese brush painting! Apologize!" "Old Italian proverb," said Phoenix. "Woman with Uzi no have to say scusi." Skydragon, rooted to the spot, stared at Phoenix. I looked at headwaiter. He handed his gun to me, butt first. "You two," I said. "Kneel down. Now lean back until the backs of your heads touch your heels." "My knees are killing me," said Skydragon, as he assumed the position. "Considering what you were going to do to me," I said, "I think you use the word 'killing' rather loosely." "I have arthritis of the knees. Please. Let me up." "Your legs will go numb soon. Then you won't feel any pain. Of course, you won't be able to move, either." "Please, I..." he started. "Heads I win. Tails you lose. Remember? Your idea of a fair fight. Now shut up." All this time, the women, including Betty Boop, just stared. I addressed them: "You're all free to go! Now! You can leave! But you'll have to be careful of this porcupine and his wiggle of weasels! You may have to move away from Boston!" They didn't budge. "Phoenix," I said. "If you would be so kind." Still holding the Uzis, she spoke forcefully in Cantonese, pointing toward the back exit. Slowly, then quickly, the women got up and moved in the direction of Phoenix's pointing Uzi. Betty moved with the group. She realized she shouldn't let Skydragon see that she knew me. "Skydragon, I leave you with the four good things," I said. "Good night, good bye, good grief and good riddance." "We'll meet again," promised Skydragon in a voice bitter and wounding as barbed wire. Phoenix and I disappeared into the shadows with the women. Behind us, Skydragon and headwaiter screamed for help. Now Betty came to Phoenix and me. "Castille, I..." she started. "Later," I said. "Let's get somewhere safe first." We came out a back door into an alley. Phoenix again addressed the women in Cantonese. They ran rabbity away. Phoenix, Betty and I ran too.

CHAPTER 84

Betty burst into burning tears, melted into my arms and held on hot and tight. Phoenix looked out my office window. "You're safe now, Betty," I said gently, leading her to the client's chair. "Sit down." I had to peel her off me. She wept and wailed her pain-drops of woe. Until she was bled dry of tears. "Thank you, Castille, and..." she glanced at Phoenix. "Phoenix," I said. "Thank you, Phoenix," said Betty. "Sure," said Phoenix, continuing to scrutinize the street. Was Phoenix looking for Skydragon's men? Was she embarrassed or just plain repulsed by overt displays of emotion? Did she feel let down by the team: a Cantonese woman losing her composure? "Was it bad?" I asked Betty. "Or do you not want to talk about it?" "Not...so bad," she said, avoiding my eyes. "Mostly, we had nothing to do but play cards, tell stories, read books. One woman was teaching me how to knit. Where's my husband and Little Ming?" "I took the precaution of telling them to stay with family in New York Chinatown. I advise you to do the same for a while." "When?" she asked. "Now," I said. "Phoenix or I will drive you." "First I must visit my father." "I wouldn't advise it," I said. "He's dying of diabetes," said Betty. "I must see him before he dies. It's my sacred duty as a daughter." I glanced at Phoenix who shrugged noncommittally. "Where is he?" I asked. "Boston Hospital," she said. "Only a few blocks away." "Not a good idea," I said. "Skydragon's crew could be scouring the streets looking for the women, including you, even as we speak." "I must see him before I go away," Betty insisted. "It is very important in Chinese culture." She turned to Phoenix for confirmation. Again, Phoenix shrugged, this time twisting her lips. "It's not safe to be on the streets, Betty," I said. "Please," she almost whimpered. "My father has no legs, he's blind, he has dialysis every day for six hours. He'll die soon. I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't see him before he dies." I made eye contact with Phoenix. She seemed determined to make this hard for me by offering no advice. Betty looked at me with glistening, pleading eyes. "All right," I said. Betty jumped up. "As much as possible, we'll cut through snickelways." "Snickelways?" asked Phoenix. "Alleys, by-ways and such-like side streets," I said. The other offices on my floor were dark. We descended via elevator to the ground floor. At the bottom, down the hallway, in his Vietnamese accent, Benjamin Franklin Do cried: "Who goes there? Friend or foe?" I yelled out, "Castille!" "Come ahead!" said Ben. Ben worked around the clock - three eight-hour jobs in 24 hours - including counselor at Margie's Service Center. He shone his industrial-strength flashlight on us. "My mentor," said Ben, blinking like an inquisitive owl at Betty, his fellow counselor at the Service Center. Neither spoke to the other. "You are on a job, yes?" "Yes." "Perhaps you want me to accompany you." Ben spoke good English but it took him a while to get the words out. Reminded me of the taffy pull machine I watched as a kid at Nantasket Beach. Between his speech and his shortened leg twisted in toward the other leg, some thought he was always drunk. "No, old campaigner," I said. "You must stay and guard the building at all costs." "Yes, my mentor," he said. I thought he was going to salute. "Wait a second," I said, looking out the thick glass door. Then I opened the door and stepped out. I stood still and listened. I heard the city's slashed sigh of sorrow; its liquor-fueled dope-driven laugh of desperate glee. I came back in. "Betty, stick close to me. If I say 'drop,' don't think. Just drop to the ground. If I jump inside a doorway, you jump with me. Be my shadow. Got it?" "Got it," she said eagerly. "Phoenix," I said. "Ready?" "I'll die ready." "I'm sure you will. Just not tonight, okay?" "You never know," she said. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends," I said. "After I'm paid," said Phoenix, "it's once more unto the beach, dear friends. Rio. Waikiki. Ipanema. Haven't decided yet." "You're not getting paid," I said. "Remember? Pro bono?" "What a way to not earn a living," Phoenix said with disgust. "Let's go," I said. The three of us went out into the epic city of sorrowful night.

CHAPTER 85

"Slowly," I said as we walked up Harrison Avenue Extension which became Harrison Avenue. Didn't see anybody suspicious. At least, not vicious suspicious. Hospital building only 2 1/2 blocks away. Luckily, we didn't have to go on Tyler Street, location of Tahitian Garden. Phoenix casually said to me: "I'm thinking of becoming a Lesbian." "I can see that," I said. "Where do you see yourself in five years?" "Retired on a remote island of tropical paradise in the South Seas. With a harem to attend to my every desire." "Harem of women?" I asked. "If I decide to become a Lesbian." "And if not?" "Men, of course," she said. "I can see that," I said. We moved from shadow to shadow. When we crossed Essex Street, Betty gripped my hand like a child. I didn't know if she'd been brutalized, traumatized or simply demoralized. She said nothing. Crossing streets put us most at risk, under the harsh street lights, no shadows or doorways to duck into. Phoenix had locked the two Uzis in my office safe. If the cops nabbed her with those, she could be spending the next five years at Framingham Women's Prison. No tropical paradise. We had to make it through the intersection of Harrison and Beach. Chinatown Crossing. After dark: magnet for maggots. Out of a shadow a man stepped up to us. Phoenix almost plucked his eyeball out of his head before I shouted "No!" Her thumb stopped an inch short of his visual orb. "Who the fuck is this?" demanded Phoenix, angry I had stopped her motion. "Jimmy the Hat," I said quickly. "Damn, girl!" said Jimmy. "You was fixin' y'know to take out my eyeball?" "Maybe next time," said Phoenix, looking in every direction. "Let's go." "Wait a blue Boston minute," said Jimmy in his trademark yellow t-shirt and black blazer, under which was a cornucopia of items in sewn-on pockets sometimes needed by late-night vampires, werewolves and zombies. "Maybe I got y'know an item or two y'all be needing." Despite the cold night air, prostitutes walked up and down the sidewalks in their uniforms or variations thereof: high heels, short skirts and low-cut tops. "Bitches and y'know snitches out here tonight," said Jimmy. "Speaking of, see you y'know got y'self coupla fine looking Oriental bitches. Puttin' 'em on the y'know stroll?" Before I could reply, Phoenix shot out her right hand like living lightning and gripped Jimmy's throat. His mouth being his only weapon, he tried to talk. Sounded like a metal can being crushed in a compactor. Phoenix looked into his terrified eyes and said: "We aren't Oriental, you sideshow freak. We're Asian. Got it?" He nodded up and down. "And we sure as hell aren't bitches, you busted burnout. We're women. Got it?" He nodded up and down. When she let go of his throat, he coughed and hacked. "We gotta move, Phoenix!" I said. "First, I want to hear him say it." "Say what?" I asked. "You know," she said to Jimmy. "Say it or I'll rip out your vocal cords." "Sure, y'know, you...you...you..." "Stop stuttering!" commanded Phoenix. "Come on!" I said urgently. "No time for semantics!" "Say it," she reiterated to Jimmy. "You two be y'know two fine Asian women. Okay?" He cringed like she was going to attack him again. "Move," she said, turning abruptly, dismissing him completely. As we approached the traffic lights at Kneeland Street, five guys appeared from the shadows. Wearing chocolate-brown waiter uniforms. Betty shrank against me. Phoenix leaped toward them, like a leopard pouncing on a gazelle. "Go!" she shouted at us. "No!" I yelled back. "Go!" she shouted again. "My fault we lost time!" "This is one of them!" One waiter-goon yelled, referring to Betty. "Get her!" As he moved toward Betty, Phoenix intercepted him with a stiff-fingered hand-spear thrust to his throat. He reeled away, choking and coughing, hands ineffectually grabbing at his throat. The others moved in. "Behind me," I said to Betty. She scurried behind me. One bruiser of a loser came straight at me. Seemingly, no philosophy, art or science. Or was it a fake-out? No fake-out. He threw a straight punch at my face. How disappointing. No creativity; no originality. I parried his punch upward with my right forearm as I dropped to my left knee. I hated to do it. But I needed to protect my hands for playing the guitar. I wouldn't punch hard bone. In fact, I didn't like to punch at all. With my opened left hand, I slapped up hard into his soft groin, gripped and pulled him toward me. He howled in agony. At the same time, my right palm heel struck up against his solar plexus. The combined push and pull quickly put him on his back. He started to get up so I stepped on his wide open groin. He groaned piteously. I moved to help Phoenix who kept the rest of the goons at bay. She looked at me as fiercely as a falcon swooping down on its inevitable prey. "Go!" she ordered. "Now!" Reluctantly, I gripped Betty's hand and ran across the intersection. I didn't look back.

CHAPTER 86

We rushed into Boston Hospital, me supporting Betty. I hoped I didn't have to check her in. She needed to get far away for a while. "Tam Yan?" Betty asked the receptionist. "Patient?" "Room 712," she replied. "But visiting hours were over hours ago." "We're not visiting," I smiled. "Only stopping by." "Hey! You can't!" We ascended on an elevator. Betty looked like she was going to pass out. Body slumping; face pale, almost gray. "Going to make it?" I asked. "I have to," she said weakly. A thought occurred. "Do you have any physical injuries?" "Not really," she said. "Sure? We are in a hospital. You can be checked over." "No," she said, watching the floor numbers climb. At 7, we got out. That hospital smell everyone dreads. 708. 710. 712. Inside: a two-bed room. Only the near bed was occupied. A mound of man under a white sheet lying on his back, obviously legless, eyes closed. A white-coated, white-stockinged, white-shoed nurse attended. "Oh my God!" said Betty. "Is he dead?" "No, no, no," soothed the nurse. "Only sleeping. Just had dialysis for six hours. Poor man. His daughter?" "Yes," said Betty. "Not suppose to be here this late," the nurse frowned. "Special case," I said. "Permission from the chairman of the board." "Oh well, I'm going on break," said the nurse. "Then I'll be back to save more lives." I smiled to acknowledge the witticism. "Son-in-law?" she asked me. "Family friend," I said. "Maybe you should step out," the nurse whispered. "Give them some alone time." I smiled at Betty, winked and said "Boop-oop-a-doop." She smiled weakly; she looked so small and most unBoopish. "Boop-oop-a-doop," she said, barely audible. In the corridor, I dropped onto a hard molded-plastic jaundice-yellow chair. Poor Betty. Everything she'd been through. And she still wanted to see her father before he died. Chinese filial piety. Exhausted. Keep one eye open for the gendarmes. I dozed off. Abruptly, I woke to ghastly pain-shrieks. For a second, I was disoriented. Then I snapped into awareness. Horrible screams. From inside Betty's father's room. I saw uniformed hospital workers running down the corridor toward me. I ran into room 712 so fast my feet hardly touched the floor. My God. Betty, in a frenzy of rage, her face twisted and feral, struck again and again and again her father with a knitting needle. Over and over, grunting loudly, she machine-like stabbed him. Her father raised his arms to ward off the strikes but, being blind, couldn't effectively block Betty's hands. She obsessively stabbed him in the face and throat. Blood spattered from dozens of punctures. "Betty!" I yelled. She didn't hear me. She was in a world of her own, dark and primitive, deadly and patricidal. Berserker. I moved on her. Savage and wild-eyed, she turned and stabbed at me. "Get away!" she shouted. I backed out of range of the deadly point of the foot-long, pale blue knitting needle. Where had she hidden it on her person? The public address system erupted: "Code blue! Room 712! Code Blue! 712!" Betty raised her bloody hand to puncture her father again. I moved snap-fast and gripped her wrist. "Let me go!" she screamed. She had the proverbial strength of a person in the clutches of a severe compulsion. But I held her arms. The room flooded with white, blue, green uniforms. Doctors rushed to the bedside and tried to stop the bleeding. Betty's father moaned and groaned pitiably. "Drop the needle!" I yelled. "No!" Betty yelled back. For the first time, I thought of the legal ramifications. I hated to hurt her but I slammed my knee up into her wrist. Her hand automatically opened and the bloody needle hit the floor. I kicked it under the bed. I tried to push Betty through the crowd. A blue-uniformed Boston Police officer appeared in the doorway. He frowned, trying to understand. "Her!" yelled the original nurse, pointing at Betty. "She did it!" Everyone cleared a path to us which the cop followed. "You're coming with me!" he said, grabbing Betty who had gone limp. "I'm going with her!" I said. Another cop appeared. "Cuff her!" The first cop said to the second. "Cuff 'em both!"

CHAPTER 87

Despite the cold weather, Chinatown streets were, as always, crammed and jammed. Many white people buying Chinese gewgaws, knickknacks and bric-a-brac for Christmas presents. Boston's ancient nemesis would fall on us soon. Deep drifts of car-covering snow. But when? Any day. "Where do you want to eat?" Margie asked. "The Hofbrauhauskeller," I said. "The what? Where's that?" "Munich," I said. "Munich, Germany?" "Of course. Where did you think Munich was? Ecuador?" "Will you settle for the Golden Butterfly?" she asked. "Mysterious creatures, butterflies," I mused. "According to the ancient Greeks, they represent the human soul. Yes, I deem it acceptable." Soon we were ensconsed in a booth in a crowded dining room. Waiters and waitresses in black and white outfits glided with trays of food held upright on their fingertips. On the walls: painted butterflies of gold fixed in mid-flutter. After death, would Margie's and my soul find each other? Margie intently perused the menu. Without looking up, she said: "What are you in the mood for?" "Depravity," I said. "Later, darling, later." "You always say that," I pouted. "What do you want to eat?" "Wild boar's intestines gorged with blood." "What?" she asked. She put down her menu and looked at me. "No?" I asked. "Then surely we must dine on fried goat's liver wrapped in iris blossoms. Said by connoisseurs of bovid ruminants with hollow horns to be almost unthinkably toothsome." The waitress approached. "Chicken lo mein," Margie said. "The Castille Special," I said. "Excuse, please?" "Shrimp and tofu and all the vegetables in the house on a bed of rice." "Yes, of course." Two previous devious nights before, the cops had handcuffed both Betty and me. But the hospital personnel all said that I had restrained Betty from further attacking her father. So they let me go. When I told Margie about Betty and her father, Margie had listened in silence with an expression of immense sadness. Now, Margie bored holes into my eyes with hers. "What?" I asked. "You deserve to know," she said. "Know what?" "Remember you asked me why Betty sexualizes everything?" "You evaded the question," I said. "Because Betty had asked me not to say anything. But now, under the circumstances, since she'll be charged with aggravated assault of her own father..." "Tell me," I said, "O gyroscopic compass of my life." Margie sighed.

CHAPTER 88

"Betty sexualizes everything because, growing up, her father constantly sexually abused her." "Oh no," I said. "If she wanted to go out to play, first she had to 'go down cellar' with her father. If she wanted a toy, she had to 'go down cellar' with her father. Sometimes, before she could eat supper, she had to 'go down cellar' with him. Some of the things he made her do were quite...horrific." "The poor kid," I said. "She grew up believing that every relationship with a man had to be, as you put it, sexualized." "Now her behavior makes sense," I said. "I told you she was an only child." "Yes." "She actually had a brother," she said. "Couple of years older." "What did he do? Escape?" "In a way. When he was eighteen, he hanged himself. From shame." "People are sick," I said. "The father sexually abused the brother, same as Betty. If he wanted to go out and play, first he had to 'go down cellar' with his father. If he wanted a baseball glove, he had to 'go down cellar' with his father. "Guess where Betty's brother hanged himself." "Down the cellar," I said. "Right." "And the mother?" I asked. "Betty says her mother knew. But did nothing to try to stop it. You know these Chinese." "Americans aren't so different," I said. I glanced around at the smiling faces. How many were just wearing masks? Masks that came off when they went home? Then how did they act with the near, dear but weak ones? Many a solid citizen fit the old adage 'street angel, home devil.' The waitress brought our food. "Suddenly," I said, "I'm not so hungry." "I knew I had to tell you, darling. But I didn't know when. Or how. It just came out of me when it came out. Sorry." "Glad you told me," I said. "Though Betty's still in jail." "Not any more," said Margie, picking at her food. "What do you mean?" "I bailed her out today." "You did?" I asked, surprised. "Where'd you get the money?" "Savings." "How much?" "Aggravated assault. So bail was set at $100,000," Margie said. "I put up 10% and the bail bondsman covered the rest. I had to put up my condo for collateral." "Where's Betty now?" I asked. "My place." "How's her spirits?" I asked. "Pretty low," Margie said. "Not too Boopalonian?" "Not too." "What if she skips the country?" I asked. "To where?" "To Hong Kong! Where she was born and grew up!" "The judge took her passport," she said. "Still. People in her situation have been known to skip. You could lose everything." "I trust her," Margie shrugged. Suddenly, I was ravenous and ate. Contagious because Margie wolfed down her food. While we ate, we didn't speak. Afterward, Margie said: "Since you were at the hospital, the prosecution will call you as a witness." "I'll have to be designated a hostile witness or whatever Perry Mason called it," I said. "Because I'm going to defend Betty any way I can." "Just tell the truth," she said. "Or you'll be up on perjury charges." "What a mess," I said. "Her father should have been convicted and sentenced years ago. And Betty should be given a medal." "I don't know if your girlfriend will have to testify." "Phoenix? Those kidnapped women couldn't have been freed without Phoenix. So stop putting her down." "I didn't put her down," she said. "You called her my girlfriend. You know she's not." "So what should I call her." "Her name!" I half-shouted. "Phoenix!" "No need to raise your voice." "Let's go," I said, signalling the waitress. The waitress delivered our check and two fortune cookies. "I got it," Margie said, reaching across the table. You don't have any money left," I said, snatching the check. "If you insist," she said. Margie opened her cookie and read the fortune: "'Shady business does not make for a sunny life.' How true. What's yours say?" I opened the cookie, took out the piece of paper and read: "'Too late to dig well for water after house is on fire.' How true."

CHAPTER 89

Through my office window, I watched light delicate snowflakes fall. The enemy's first foray, inaugural incursion, initial feeling-out of the terrain. A small air attack that presaged future saturation bombing. Four flights below, on Chauncey Street, innocent and unprepared civilians were a-slipping and a-sliding. Cars skidding and colliding. Drivers shouting and swearing. It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. When I turned around, Phoenix sat comfortably in my client's chair. I hadn't heard her come in. "Silent as a dream," I said. "Still playing chess?" she frowned, looking at the game in progress. "Apparently." "Pump up your I.Q. a few more points and I'll try - try - to teach you Chinese chess. Makes your chess look like checkers." "I'm sure," I said. "But to what do I owe the honor?" "Skydragon." "Up to his old tricks already?" "His goons are chasing down the women he'd kidnapped," she said. "And their husbands. Most of whom owe him gambling debts. Even their kids. Where's the Service Center counselor we rescued?" "Husband and child in New York Chinatown," I said. "Counselor's out on bail." "In Boston?" "Don't worry. She's well-hidden." "At least she's safe," she said, pacing around the office. "What's biting you?" I asked. "Skydragon's going to continue his low-down evil ways. People hurt. Families disrupted." "And?" I asked. "And I don't like it. He's a cancer on Chinatown. I want to beat him hollow. In fact, I want to eliminate him. If necessary, Mr. Bond, with extreme prejudice." "You want me, you need me, you love me," I sang. "The phoenix and the dragon," she said. "What chance has he got?" "No bookie in the country would give odds on it." "In?" she asked. "In," I said. "Here's the plan, man." Hours later, at the height of dinner hour, I sauntered into the Tahitian Garden. The same cashier as the two previous times. "Don't you ever get a day off?" I asked. "Skydragon's quite the slave driver, eh?" "Aye-yuh!" she exclaimed. "You again? No stay! Go! Go away! Maybe, you don't go, you get hurt!" "I doubt that," I said casually. "I'll just stroll around. Get a table myself." She yelled in Cantonese. The waiters all gave me the hairy eyeball. Most unsettling. Then they charged me in unscientific, unphilosophical, inartistic ways. Disappointing. As they came within my range, I spun them off into each other. Or wristlocked their punches and downed them with the pain element. One fellow ran toward me and leaped high - one leg straight, the other with bent knee - aimed at my face. Muay Thai a.k.a. Thai boxing. "Bravo!" I saluted him. "Ten points for imagination!" As he neared my face, he straightened the bent leg and bent the straight leg, intending to smash my jaw or face. I simply dodged his pumping knee. "But sad to say," I said. "You fought the law of gravity, and the law won." As he flew by me, I reached out and gripped one of his ankles. This threw him off-balance. Trajectory altered, he was unable to land solidly on his feet. Rather, he landed on his side. I distinctly heard his hip bone crack when it hit the floor. Poor fellow was unable to get up. Just as well. I was thinking of having him pilloried on Boston Common and then snipping off the tips of his ears. They kept coming at me. But it was like Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour. I almost pitied Skydragon for relying on such a hapless bunch. Finally, Skydragon himself, in his floor-length sky-blue robe, emerged. He spoke sharply in Cantonese and the waiters stopped. Needless to say, the few diners had fled. "Skydragon," I said. "I'm seized with admiration at seeing your fine facial physiognomy again." "Mr. Castille," he said. "You and I must talk." "Must we?" I asked. "Please be so good as to follow me." I followed him into his 'throne' room where we had talked the previous evening. Several recaptured women stood with heads bowed. One cried softly. "I don't know if you're a citizen or not," I said. "But it doesn't matter. Because kidnapping is a serious crime. If they don't deport you, you'll end up in a state prison. Where crazed whites and blacks will beat you up and rape you several times a day. "Won't that be fun?" "Do not speak foolishness, Mr. Castille," he replied. "As I demonstrated last time, these women are here willingly. No, the real problem here is...you." "Me? Problem? Absurd!" "The best course of action," he said, pulling a revolver out of his robe, "is to eliminate the problem at its source. "Goodbye, Mr. Castille. I hope you go to your ludicrous Christian heaven. With its angels and clouds and harps playing." "Perhaps," I said, "I have a guardian angel." Phoenix strolled in from the front, doing tricks with a yo-yo. Making it sleep, walking the dog, cat's cradle. She looked as relaxed and unconcerned as if she were on the Charles River Esplanade on a sunny summer day. Skydragon, frowning in confusion but still holding his gun on me, let loose an angry tirade of Cantonese. Phoenix, unperturbed, said nothing. "Get out now!" he yelled to Phoenix. "Or I kill you too." Phoenix kept doing tricks. "There's always one I have trouble with," said Phoenix. "I forget what it's called." She sent the yo-yo, which I now saw was metal, straight at Skydragon. The projectile hit him square in the forehead. He looked dazed. I grabbed the gun out of his hand. "Look!" Phoenix said proudly, after reeling the yo-yo in. "How long I can make it sleep!" At its fullest projection, she threw the yo-yo so that the string wrapped several times around Skydragon's throat. He gasped for breath. She pulled the string tighter; Skydragon was a goner. Phoenix made it a point of pride, no, of honor to never use the same weapon twice. And she had discovered some ingenious weapons other than different types of guns. The blow pipe, the crossbow, the throwing chain. When she'd used every weapon on earth, she'd use Martian machine guns or Neptune knives. But...a yo-yo? Phoenix spoke in Cantonese to the women. They glanced at Skydragon, then at me. I nodded. Convinced, they fled through the shadows to the back door and freedom. "This is the deal," said Phoenix quietly, pulling the string still tighter around Skydragon's throat. "The one and only deal. You have one week from this minute to get out of Boston and never come back. "No more restaurant. No more kidnappings. No more gambling dens. This is the end. I trust you get my meaning. Keep it up, Skydragon, and you'll be a dung beetle." "If I were you," I said, "I'd take her advice. You should see her when she really gets mad." "I give you one week," continued Phoenix. "So you can get your affairs in order and sell this crackerjack palace to some sucker." "Justice tempered with mercy," I said to Skydragon. "You don't get that kind of deal every day. No sir." "If, after one week, you're not gone," said Phoenix, "I'll pump forty or fifty bullets into you. Then I'll put your corpse where your relatives will never find it." "Ooh," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Very bad. No decent burial in the family plot in the Chinese cemetery. You'll be a hungry ghost for eternity." "Agreed?" asked Phoenix. "Yes or no?" He said nothing. "Yes or no?" shouted Phoenix. "I think the string's too tight for him to speak," I said. "His face is azure-blue. No. Wait. Turning navy blue." "Then just nod your head," said Phoenix. "Up and down means yes. Side to side means no." "Commence nodding," I encouraged him. He nodded his head up and down. "Excellent!" I said. "That's the deal then," said Phoenix. "We agree you'll be gone in one week or less." "If you aren't gone by then, may God have mercy on your soul," I said. "If, by any remote chance, you have one."

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"Castille, this is Sandy, Margie's sister," said the voice on the phone. "Our father has taken a turn for the worse." "What is it?" "The doctors say a cerebral hemorrhage," she said. "He's in the ICU. In a coma." "Where's Margie?" I asked. "Keeping a bedside vigil. She hasn't left his room since last night. She slept next to his bed in one of those hard metal folding chairs. Her back must be killing her. She asked me to call you." Margie had a love-hate relationship with her father. So many levels. Born-There vs. Born-Here. Protective father vs. independent daughter. Chinese religion vs. Christianity. Get an advanced professional degree vs. doing what she wanted in life. Marry Chinese vs. wed a white ghost. But, at bottom, the bond of familial love was stronger. Margie would be heart-hurting. My eyes felt heavy as marbles. "Which hospital?" I asked. "Here. City." "Be right over."

CHAPTER 91

Christmas day. Margie's father had died two days after Sandy called me. Burst brain aneurysm. Margie never left her father's side. No Chinese funeral homes in Boston. So her father had been waked Chinese-style by Fogelstein-Gabrilowitz Funeral Home in Kenmore Square. Yes, a Jewish funeral home that specialized in Chinese funerals. Add an Irish hearse driver and you had the trifecta. Later, Margie bitterly complained: "That funeral home has made so much money off the Chinese!" At the wake, Margie was the embodiment of gracious composure to the dozens, if not hundreds, of visitors. When we were alone, Margie wept uncontrollably and unashamedly, sometimes for hours. Her frank expression of heartfelt sorrow was so full, so real, that she didn't seem weak but strong. I admired her even more than I had. I stayed near her for as long as I could bear the evil eye of her mother, aunts and uncles. The gwai-lo - me - was bad luck. I'd retreat every so often and then return. Margie's parents' religion was the usual Chinese melange of Confucianism, Taoism, Buddhism, Ancestor Worship and Submission to Fate. Margie, however, was Catholic. Her late aunt - for reasons Margie still didn't understand - had become her godmother and brought her up in the Church. Margie and her mother argued out every point of the memorial services. Catholic versus Chinese. Margie's father was laid out in an open casket surrounded by flowers. Sticks of incense stuck in sand inside an urn burned. I had come in, signed the guestbook and took one of many small packages of rolled-up white paper. Inside: a nickel and a wrapped butterscotch candy. Dozens, maybe a hundred, people there, mostly Chinese. Margie sat in the front row on the right by herself. Dressed all in black: shoes, long dress, head covering. She held a white handkerchief. Strangely, the whole rest of her family sat on the left side. I sat next to her and squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Everyone who approached her, she thanked for coming. She cried unashamedably but quietly for the four hours I stayed with her. I glanced to the left. All of Margie's family, except Sandy, glared at me. Her mother wailed loudly. Had I committed a faux pas? Or was it because I was white? I thought if it was the former, Margie would tell me. Mourners walked down the central aisle to the casket and most bowed three times. Some bowed profoundly from the waist; others perfunctorily from the neck. Then they went to Margie's family to pay their respects and finally to Margie. Next to the casket was a photo of Mr. Wong. Of course, in life, he had loathed and despised me with every fiber of his being. But, in death, I forgave him. Also in front of the casket was a whole cooked chicken on a platter. With head intact. For the spirit of the departed to eat on his journey to...who knew where? Also a clear glass bottle of rice wine. In case his departed spirit got thirsty. A number of other items, Margie later told me, were burned to accompany the deceased into the other world. In addition to the chicken, there were smaller dishes of food. Steamed rice. Apples, oranges and other fruit. Play money, also know as 'spirit' money was burned - and apparently traveled via the smoke - to give the deceased cold cash for the afterlife. Even there, in the otherworld, you needed the necessary for the odd bribe, the once-in-a-while palm oil to polish the old apple and the occasional handsome ransom. The wealthy, Margie said, even burned real money. To show off. White had always been the traditional color of death in Chinese culture. Mourners even wore white hoods to cover their black hair. But times had changed. Many, like Margie, wore black; others, white; still others, different colors, especially dark blue. The only color not seen was red, symbol of happiness, harmony and high spirits. Margie's family, including Sandy, wore all white. Was that why they sat apart from Margie? Who turned and - completely composed but with silent tears coursing down her face - said to me: "Funeral's tomorrow. I'm sorry. But I'd rather you didn't attend." "Why not?" "Family thing. Chinese thing. A lot of things," she said. "My aunt thinks my father died because I'm seeing a gwai-lo." "Me." "Yes. So..." "I understand," I said. "Thanks for coming. You should probably leave." Later, Margie told me about the funeral procession from Fogelstein-Gabrilowitz to the Chinese Burial Grounds of Mount Hope Cemetery. She said at the rear of the cemetery was a Potter's Field, or Paupers' Graveyard. In unmarked graves were buried the indigent and homeless in coffins of corrugated cardboard which disintegrated in two or three days. Margie made sure her father's casket was made of brass. "The Chinese section was in terrible condition," she said. "The tombstones were broken or eroded or knocked over. I got a solid marble tombstone for my father." "Why the poor condition?" "Who knows?" she shrugged. "Lack of proper care by the cemetery people or the family of the deceased, vandalism, the wild New England weather. Sad." "I'm sure." "Especially because Chinese believe deterioration of a family member's gravesite is disrespectful, even dishonorable. And that the way an ancestor's gravesite is treated by his descendants forecasts how the descendants' lives will turn out." "So what are you going to do about it?" I asked, already knowing the answer. "Start a project to repair or replace the crumbling tombstones. Try to identify those whose names can no longer be read. The Chinese Burial Grounds has the graves of over a thousand five hundred people, including the original sojourners from China who eventually settled in Boston. "I'll do it." "I know you will," I said. Margie had just come from visiting Betty Boop at Framingham State Prison for Women. Even in her grief, Margie made time for others. Three days after the attack, Betty's father died from his many Betty-inflicted wounds. Therefore - now a capital case - Margie had driven Betty to the nearest cop shop where she turned herself in. The charge was changed from assault to murder. Her arraignment would be after the New Year. "How's Betty holding up?" I asked. "As well as can be expected," Margie said. "Is that good or bad?" "Not so good," she said. "But not so bad." "What are you? A Zen master? How's she doing?" "How do you think she's doing?" "I don't know," I said. "That's why I'm asking." "She misses her husband and Little Ming. She's filled with sadness and anger over what she did. And yet, she's glad she did it. "She's the only Chinese woman in lock-up and being so petite, she's picked on and bullied by white and black inmates. So, under the circumstances, she's holding up. But no, it's not very pleasant." Life is strange. Betty violently killed her father. Margie violently mourned her father. A plastic three-foot green Christmas tree stood on my stereo. With all the drama and turmoil of the last couple of weeks, we'd agreed not to buy each other Christmas presents. Now I regretted not having a gift for her. Margie crawled onto my lap and curled into the fetal position. Then she did something I hadn't seen her do in a long time. She put her left thumb in her mouth and sucked it. Her right index finger twirled a long lock of her hair over and over obsessively. She had regressed to a pre-verbal state. Which, given the circumstances, was probably a good thing. She fell asleep. She stopped twirling her hair but continued to suck her thumb. I had built a fire in the fireplace on the other side of the living room. Outside, it snowed softly. Yes, the snow was general all over Boston. First Christmas day off for Margie in years. With the death of her father, the family couldn't bear to open the restaurant on Christmas, the second most profitable day of the year. I smiled to recall the Christmas day morning headlines. The murder of four self-styled Nazis at their HQ in Park Square. Police said both the motive and the assailants were unknown. I made my only Christmas prayer: that Silver Mick kept his promise that he and his skinheads leave Boston. Oh, and one more prayer. That Skydragon stay out of Boston. Phoenix's threat had prompted him to leave town so fast that he didn't have time to sell his property. The restaurant was plastered with FOR SALE signs. And, oh, just one more. I was sure I was allowed three. It was right there in black and white in The Bible or The Arabian Nights. My third prayer was that Dijjy Doo's gang remain dispersed or on the road. And that Dijjy remain in his cloister, almshouse or grave, whatever or wherever it was. In Margie's sleep, she mumbled snatches of words and phrases which I couldn't understand. At one point, she became agitated and her whole body shook. Nightmare? I continued to hold her. Margie still slept in my lap, still sucked her thumb. I lost all track of time. Outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, the fire continued to burn. Margie remained in the timeless realm of dreams. I felt content - no brooding on the past, no worry about the future - just the eternal present.

CHAPTER 92

Margie woke up, sat up. "Life is sad," she said. "Bulletin from the front," I said. "I had that dream again." "Your pocketbook?" Margie had had a recurrent dream for years, even before I knew her, in which she found herself in public places and, when it was time to pay, her pocketbook had disappeared. For example, she was getting on a bus to make an important meeting just in time. Suddenly, her pocketbook was gone and she couldn't pay the fare. In these dreams, she felt a terrible mixture of anxiety and humiliation. "What was it this time?" I asked. "I invited someone very important - I didn't know who, just that he was very important - to eat at a fancy expensive restaurant. When it was time to pay with my credit card, my pocketbook was gone. "What do you think it means?" "You're the psych expert," I said. "Jesus, I'm just asking your opinion. As a layman." "First," I said, "let's analyze your use of the word 'layman.' 'Lay' and 'man.'" "Forget it," she said, laughing. "You're useless. By the way, what are we doing on New Year's Eve?" "Since your restaurant will be closed, I won't be forced to watch the TV Marathon of The Three Stooges. All Curlies. We're going to the grand opening of The Open Gate." "Not in the Combat Zone?" Margie suspicioned. "I refuse to go into the Zone." "How unspeakably fanciful," I said. "No, the Theatre District. Friend owns it. Also an aquaintance, Shirley Ujest, will be on the bill. Said to be admirably comical." She turned toward me. "Castille," said Margie, in that rare and special intonation she used only in situations of great moment. I turned to face her. We looked deep into each other's eyes. For the first time in a long time, I felt mei hao wei yi, the Unforgettable Moment. Only now it wasn't joy but sorrow. "What is it?" I asked. "I have to tell you something," said Margie. "Go ahead," I said. "I know a couple whose son - straight A's, good kid - had just got his driver's license. He was driving. Girlfriend next to him. And..." "Let me guess," I said. "He was drinking and..." "Let me finish," Margie said. "For some reason - just driving from one Expressway exit to the next - he speeded up to a hundred mile an hour. Taking the exit, the car flipped over and over. They weren't wearing seat belts. The son and his girlfriend both died." "Alcohol?" "Autopsy showed no drink, no drugs," said Margie. "Maybe he was trying to impress his girlfriend. We'll never know. To make matters worse, his parents live next to her parents. Their son killed their neighbors' daughter." "That is sad," I said. "His parents were devastated. Every day after the burial, they went to his grave site in the cemetery. They threw themselves on their son's grave and cried their eyes out." "God," I said. "Of course, they lost their jobs. After a year, they had gone through their savings. The husband got a job. Still. He'll never be the same." "And the wife?" "Every day," said Margie. "At the grave site. Crying." "What a world," I said.

CHAPTER 93

"I know another couple," Margie continued, like the voice of doom. "Wendy, their only child, was a nice person. Wonderful daughter. I was her godmother. Had a great job as an X-ray tech. Ran marathons. Was engaged to be married." "How old?" I asked. "Twenty-six. Only problem. She was a heavy-duty heroin addict. Nobody knew except her best friend. Wendy drowned in a lake. Parents were shocked when the autopsy showed drug addiction. Parents doubly shocked at the funeral. Her best friend said Wendy had 'demons.' Her parents and fiance were baffled. "What demons?" "Ever find out?" I asked. "Her parents never did find out what her demons were." "I think it was Kafka," I said, "who said the symptoms of the disease are simply the characteristics of the person." "Story's not over," said Margie. "The coroner had ruled the drowning an accidental death. That is, until they found Wendy's suicide note. She had OD'ed on purpose." "No. How did her parents take that?" "Her mother's hair turned snow white overnight. She lost her mind. She's in the back ward of a skid-row nursing home somewhere with the other vegetables." "And her father?" I asked. "Tied a concrete block to his foot. Jumped into the lake where his daughter had drowned. Someone saw him; called 911. Cops and EMT's rescued him. But he'd had a stroke. Paralyzed on one side of his body. And half of his face droops, useless. "He managed to scrawl: 'I want to die.'" "I can't take much more," I said, almost feeling like I wanted to die. "Almost there," she said. "Where?" "You'll see," said Margie grimly. "I'll make it short. My sister Sandy has hundreds of these stories. Another young adult lost his battle with the bottle. Tortured soul. Found him in the dead of winter in his car. Engine off. Empty fifth of vodka on the seat. "In his refrigerator, all he had was a bottle of ketchup, a stick of butter and a half-dozen fifths of vodka." "His parents?" "Mother so distraught, couldn't go to the funeral. Family has money. So the mother's not in a Medicaid nursing home, but McLean's Mental Hospital. After over a year she still refuses visitors." "McLean's," I said. "Where members of the Mad Poets of Boston were certified insane. Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath. Margie, you're giving me the creeps." "Son, age eighteen," she continued, ignoring me. "Went canoeing off the coast of Maine by himself. Never returned. Mother deals with it by believing a Japanese trawler picked him up and he suffers amnesia. When he recovers his memory, he'll return." "How long ago?" I asked. "Ten years. Meanwhile, mother let herself go completely. House is like a landfill. Filthy, even putrid. She doesn't seem to notice." "Please, Margie, I beg of you. Stop." "One more," she said. "I stay in touch with a woman I went to school with. Carol. She moved to Arizona. She says out there everyone has a gun. At parties, or Fourth of July, or just for the hell of it, they sometimes shoot their guns up in the air." "Watching westerns as a kid," I said, "I used to wonder what happened to the bullets. What goes up must come down. But nobody ever seemed to get hurt. I finally decided the bullets must disintegrate before they come down." "They don't disintegrate," said Margie. "They do come back down. People do get hurt. Carol was at a cookout. A guy shot his gun up in the air. The bullet came down and penetrated the skull of his nine-year-old daughter." "She die?" "Instantly." "The father?" I asked. "Horrified, he shot himself in the head." "He die?" "Instantly," she said. "Margie, I beg of you. By all that's holy. Stop these tales of woe. It's Christmas, for Christ's sake. I suppose technically that's a redundancy. But please, stop it. I've got it." "You've got it?" she asked. "Good. Then you'll get it." "Get what?" "Why I called off our wedding."

CHAPTER 94

"What?" I asked, confused. She'd thrown me completely off balance. "What do these horror stories have to do with us getting married?" I asked. "All the relevant literature - not to mention the anecdotal evidence like the tragic examples I've just told you - says that the worst suffering a person can undergo is to be the parent of a child who dies." "But what...?" I asked. "Let me finish. It's not easy for me." "Go ahead." "Your parents died when you were young. A tragedy," she said. "But not so very bad as the child dying before the parents." "True, but..." "Shut up. Please." "Shutting up," I said. "In fact, you lost your entire family. Parents and sisters. In the war you lost comrades. Then your wife. Then your best friend. Frankly, I don't know how you keep going." "I try not to think about it." "But you brood about it," she said. "I know you. You're a brooder." "True." She took a deep breath and held my hand. "I believe I know you well enough to know this. That deep down inside, you do love me. You do want to marry me. But more deeply - even though you're willing to go through with it - you fear having a child." "No!" I said, taking my hand from hers. "A child," she continued, "who might die in this awful world - in any number of awful ways - while we still live. "That would hurt me. Terribly. But I believe you couldn't bear it. You would go insane. Or kill yourself." "No!" I shouted. "Yes," she said calmly. "Go insane or kill yourself. Quickly or slowly. I don't know how you'd do it. Shoot yourself and die instantly. Or drink yourself to death over the course of a year. But you would do it. "I believed then and I believe now that to lose a child would be literally unbearable for you. We talked about having children. We want to have children. But I know in your heart of hearts, losing yet another person close to you - especially a child - would kill you." I had found and re-united many family members. Yet I had also found family members - especially children - who were dead. Either literally dead - murder, suicide, accident - or worse, children, including adult children, who lived physically but who had died emotionally. Through humiliation, degradation, free-falling into the lower depths of alcoholism, drug addiction, horrific crime, unforgivable sin, evil inhuman actions. They were sometimes more dead than those toe-tagged in the morgue. The worm of fear, as I brooded, blew up into a dragon - fire-breathing, monstrous, murderous - of terror. I had never recovered. I never would recover. Completely. But time moved forward and so did I. The alternative was hideous: non-life lived in non-light with no love and no worthwhile work. I loved Margie. I worked to reunite families. "What are you thinking?" she asked. Words came out of my mouth: "Grandfather dies. Father dies. Son dies." "What's that mean?" she asked. "The emperor asked the monk the prescription for a happy life. This was the monk's answer. The emperor was infuriated. Before beheading him, he gave the monk a chance to explain his answer." "I get it," said Margie. "The monk meant that that was the natural order of life." "And for a child to die before its parents was most unnatural," I said. "And deeply painful. Maybe unbearable. I get it. Do you get it?" "I get it," I said. "I just don't know if it applies to me." "You're exempt?" "No. I mean, would it definitely be literally unbearable for me?" "I believe it would," she said. "Honey chile, I'd rather have you unmarried and alive. Than married and dead. Or insane." "So you called off our wedding at the last minute for my sake?" "Believe it or not. As you will. But yes." "And it's taken you this long to tell me?" I asked. "I don't know why I couldn't tell you at the time. I didn't fully know why myself. But after time passed, I know this is the reason." "I don't know what to say," I said. "Beyond what I've already said, neither do I." "But I love you." "As I do you," she said. "So we - you and I - carry on," I said. "We carry on."

CHAPTER 95

"Hear something?" I asked. "In the house?" Margie responded. "No. You?" "I think so. Let me take a look." "It's nothing. House settling. This is an old building. Stay." "Be right back," I said. I walked through every room. Nothing. Came back to the living room. "I guess it was..." I started. Margie was held upright from behind by a figure with his left hand shutting her mouth and a knife in his right hand at her throat. "...nothing," I finished. "Dijjy Doo. How do you do?" "Jess fine," he said. "S'up, my white bro?" The crazy smile. The crazy eyes. "I must say I'm disappointed in you," I said, an icepick of fear piercing my heart. "Why?" "Holding a woman with a knife to her throat." "So?" he asked. "Trite. Hackneyed. Cliched. Seen it a thousand times on TV and in the movies. Couldn't come up with something more original?" "Think you funny," he snarled. "Not so funny now, is it?" I looked at Margie. Her usual sunny face had turned gray with lunar dread. Dijjy let go of her mouth and gripped her around the waist. Margie, like a drowning swimmer, gulped in heaps of air. But the knife remained at her throat. The knife looked like a hefty Buck Master. Blood- starved stainless steel blade - 6 or 7 inches long - coming to a Bowie-style clip point. What really sent chills in relays up and down my spine was that the unseen edge of the blade against Margie's throat was probably serrated with rear-facing teeth. All the better to cut you, my dear. Think: man-eating shark. Think: Jaws. "This is between you and me," I said. "Let her go." "I'll kill her," Dijjy growled. I snatched up an iron poker from a rack in front of the fireplace. "Then I'll kill you," I said. "But she still be dead," he said. His lunatic logic was impeccable. "What do you want?" I asked. "Revenge." "Revenge is a dish best served cold," I said. "Some like it hot," said Dijjy Doo. The image flashed of the ugly scar on Diedre's throat. Because she had survived her attacker's slashing. Dijjy wouldn't botch the job. The idea of both Margie and Diedre with ugly red raw scars on their throats, alive or dead, almost made me vomit. My gun was in my bedroom. Dijjy would never let me leave the living room. Of course, if he killed Margie, I would take his knife away. Then slowly beat him to death with the iron poker. But he was right. Margie would still be dead. I started to panic. What to do? What to do? Margie looked at me with fear, hope, love, anticipation, but also the sad acknowledgement that this psycho had us both under his control. "I have some money," I said. "So do I," said Margie. "Don't want money," said Dijjy. "Told you what I want." "Then let go of her," I said. "And come get your revenge on me." "Nice try. Been watching you. Better than killing you - much better - would be killing her and letting you live. Be sweet revenge." Sullen sweat broke out at my hairline and under my arms. All this time, Dijjy must have been tailing me. He knew if he hurt Margie, I'd kill him. And it didn't bother him. That's what bothered me. What leverage - physical, psychological - did I have? None. "Let's get it over with then," I said. Dijjy looked shocked. So did Margie. "Not gone make a deal?" he asked. "Negotiate? Persuade?" "No," I said. "Beg? Threaten?" "Would it do any good?" I asked. "Nah. But might be fun," he said. "Come on. Try 'n' talk me out of it." "No." "Then beg for her life." Margie watched my eyes for a signal. But what could she do? Only somehow get her hand between the death-delivering blade and her tender throat. Then, maybe, her throat wouldn't be slashed. Just her fingers. Sliced off. And then her throat. Unless I was on Dijjy by then. Two long steps? Three? And then what? Aim the poker at his eye to blind him? His automatic reaction would kick in and his head would dodge the poker. And Margie would be dead. Margie and I had joked that someday we'd be one of those couples who finished each other's sentences. What sentence - innocuous enough not to provoke Dijjy - could I start aloud that she would finish in her mind? Plenty, probably. But what sentence would save her life?

CHAPTER 96

The Old Legionnaire's voice came unbidden into the creases of my cranium: Up and down. Up and down? What did that mean? Wait. Once, he'd shown me an escape - the best possible escape - from a knife at one's throat. Difficult. Dangerous. But how to communicate to Margie? The escape was more efficiently accomplished if a diversion was provided. I could do that by insulting Dijjy Doo or otherwise engaging his attention. Only a split-second was required. The escape was to - all in one motion - grip with your left hand the wrist of the right hand holding the knife and pull down toward the floor. At the same time, your right palm pushed up toward the ceiling the elbow of the hand holding the knife. Also, at same time, twist one's body back and away. The Old Legionnaire did it such that he ended up gripping the opponent's wrist and elbow from behind in an armlock. The combined effect was to upend the arm holding the knife and pull the knife down and away from the throat. Might get cut in the chest. But better than the throat. If Margie could do that much, I'd pounce on Dijjy with my iron poker. But how to communicate this motion to Margie? "If you kill an unarmed woman," I said to Dijjy, "your name will live only in ignominy. Your very name will be a byword of reproach, disgrace, dishonor." "Nice try, sucker," said Dijjy. "Work once on me. Not twice. Shoulda kill you when I had the chance." "You most foully murdered Atomic Honeybee." "A spy," he said. "Then desecrated her body," I said, "by floating her head above the Common for all to see." "She told you our plan of attack!" Dijjy said angrily. "And you - knew it was you; the others don't have the brains - cause me to lose my gang." "So sad. Your delusion of Combat Zone takeover ruined." "So sad," he said. "Yo' skinny-ass li'l girlfriend dead with a big smile on her throat." "Don't," I said. "Most funkiest freshest fun I had in months. Watch you squirm." Margie's eyes never left mine. Was she trying to get on the same wavelength of intuition so I could tell her what to do? Or was she simply staring at me with terror and shock? Any words I could say out loud that would convey the necessary action? "Time you two lame lovebirds say bye-bye," said Dijjy. Had I shown Margie this motion of Taking Off Hands? I must have. Did she remember? She wasn't as motivated as Diedre. Because she hadn't been viciously attacked like Diedre. I was desperate. Take a chance. She must remember. My guardian demon spun my roulette wheel. I break the bank: Margie lives. The bank breaks me: Margie dies. Not such good odds. "Dijjy, you ghoulish misanthrope," I said, while making the up and down motions with my left and right hands. "Meaning what?" asked Dijjy. Margie gripped the wrist of his knife hand and pulled down, pushed up with the flat of her right hand on his elbow and twisted backward out of his grip and away from him. "I'll gut you!" he yelled. He turned toward her with the knife. In a second, I was on him. I restrained myself from bashing his head in. Instead, I smashed the poker down on his right wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. "Owww!!" Then, with both hands, I put the poker from behind him lengthwise over his head and down against his throat. I pulled back against his windpipe, choking him. I forced him down to his knees and jabbed my left knee into his spine, immobilizing him. "Margie!" I yelled. She was in shatter-shock. "Quick! Call 911!" Dijjy grabbed viciously at the poker to pull it away from his throat. He had that strange wild strength born of do-or-die desperation. "Lemme go!" Dijjy choked out. "Never bother you again." "Shut up, bacterium!" I said. "Or I'll beat you to death with this poker!" "You be serving life in prison," he said hoarsely. "And you'll still be dead," I said. He shut up. "Margie!" I yelled again. "Call 911! Before I choke him to death! 911! Now!" "Right," she said, snapping out of it. As Dijjy struggled, she called. "Intruder in the house! 221-B Savin Hill Ave., Dorchester!" she said. "He's a known murderer! Hurry!" Later, after the police came and hauled Dijjy Doo away, Margie and I sat on the sofa. We were both still shaken up. "When you made that motion," she said, "I remembered you demonstrating it. I could tell by your eyes that it was our only chance." "And you performed the motion most admirably." She turned and put her hand on my shoulder and the other on my leg. "Want another demonstration of Taking Off Hands?" I asked. "No," she said. "I'm going to demonstrate my techniques of Putting On Hands." And she did.

"Men lies about it Men cries about it Men dies about it."

Spoonful by Willie Dixon