CHURCHBURNER
HIGGINS
SYNOPSIS
Bomb-builder, John Ferro, responds to a “spiritual calling” that takes him from Indiana to San Francisco where Pro-Choice and Pro-Life protests have escalated to street riots. Ferro makes his way cross-country finding heroic confirmations in every vicious act he commits.
Linc Mackey and his wife Diane are in crisis, agonizing over her deformed second-trimester pregnancy. Diane visits a Planned Parenthood Clinic but is caught up in a violent protest. She survives a brutal beating, but spontaneously aborts her fetus and withdraws into silence.
Linc seeks revenge against the protestors. He contracts Ferro to bomb the church that instigated the protest. A senseless demonstration by Ferro puts Mackey on the wrong side of the law and in serious jeopardy of losing what remains of his family life, wife, and two young daughters.
Invigorated by his popularity in San Francisco’s underground, Ferro ventures too far into an emotionally overwhelming relationship. He loses his lone-wolf edge by pursuing Ducky, a sadistic girl who yearns only to possess the most dangerous of the bad boys, regardless of the cost.
As more churches are torched, Mackey panics, attempting to erase his complicity in the first bombing. Ferro becomes reckless, lost in his lust for Ducky. He seeks out the most extreme acts to impress her, but she has already become obsessed with Michael Breck the leader of The Tragic Skins a White supremacy group who sees Ferro as a threat to their power.
Ferro leaves evidence at a firebombing that implicates Mackey, and Linc is arrested. The Press portrays him as a homegrown terrorist, so Diane sets aside her depression and defends him with ferocity.
When a downtown mosque is firebombed, the underground dynamic changes radically. The Skins and Ferro suspect each other and, tormented by unrelenting police crackdowns, they plot to eliminate each other.
Ducky helps Breck entrap Ferro, but the plot backfires sending Breck into a coma and his Skins into disarray.
Brought to the brink of death in a burning church, Ferro achieves the enlightenment he hoped for at the outset of his journey. He is rescued and survives his wounds for several weeks in a Burn Ward.
Believing his last words will bring him apotheosis, he exonerates Mackey and confesses his guilt to a priest whose church he destroyed.
Linc and his family move to a new life in another state as more houses of worship are burned. They drive into the darkness with desperate hope that reason, and not reaction, will return to the world.
MASTER SCENE LIST
DEDICATION 5
INSPIRATIONS 6
Scene 1 - Prologue 7
Scene 2 - Fort Wayne 7
Scene 3 - Ferro's Apartment 9
Scene 4 - Joliet 12
Scene 5 - Trapper's Tat Shop 12
Scene 6 - Chicago 13
Scene 7 - The Diner 16
Scene 8 - Custer 24
Scene 9 - Linc's Journal 32
Scene 10 - The Mackey Home – Family videotape 33
Scene 11 - Couer d'Alene 35
Scene 12 - The Sonogram 45
Scene 13 - Saldana at Evangel Pulpit 46
Scene 12 - The Tragic Skins 51
Scene 15 – Kane’s Project 54
Scene 14 - Denise Toy 58
Scene 15 - The WAR Council 62
Scene 16 – Kane’s workshop 63
Scene 17 - The re-Bar 64
Scene 18 - The Corral 67
Scene 19 - The Project S.A.V.E. Children 70
Scene 22 - The Construction Site 80
Scene 23 - Dr. Moseley 82
Scene 24 - The Grief Management Network 84
Scene 25 - John Ferro and the Skins 86
Scene 26 – The Irish Bar 88
Scene 28 - Hall of Justice Parking Lot 91
Scene 29 - The Skinhead Party 92
Scene 30 - The Morning After 96
Scene 31 - At The Re-bar 98
Scene 32 - At the Burned Church 99
Scene 33 - The Congressman 100
Scene 34 – Lipp’s Bomb 104
Scene 35 – Ferro’s Date with Ducky 110
Scene 36 – At The Hot Tubs 113
Scene 37 - At the Cow Palace 114
Scene 38 - Matty Ruckert’s Videotape 115
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT STATEMENTS 116
Doctor Lowell Thuman 116
Joan Payton 116
The WAR Manifesto 117
News Show Shrink 118
Christain Woman 118
Net News Shrink 118
Dr. Moseley 118
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to new parents who fear that
their children will not be able to control their world.
They won't.
INSPIRATIONS
Fire may well have been the first enshrined divinity of pre-historic man. Fire has the property of not being diminished when halved, but increased. Fire is luminous, like the Sun and lightning, the only such thing on earth. Also, it is alive, in the warmth of the body it is life itself, which departs when the body goes cold.
- Joseph Campbell, Myths to Live By, 1972
To believe that God created Man in his own image is to say that rape, murder and mayhem are aspects of the Divine.
- Rev. Douglas Von Veldt, Exologia, 2008
When a person chooses to their view life in a strictly mytho-heroic context, someone is bound to get hurt.
- Dr. Elliot Moseley, Street Shrink, 2009
Scene 1 - Prologue
When David Curtis Stephenson laid the cornerstone of his Stephenson Building on July fourth, 1924, seventeen thousand Fort Wayne inhabitants and several hundred out-of-town "dignitaries" attended the gala, crowding the parade streets to watch the Perdue marching band lead a huge contingent of white-robed men and women waving American flags. It wasn't an official Klan function, but the building was meant to be a very visible property in the heretofore Invisible Empire. Stephenson controlled over one hundred fifty Klan magazines, dozens of bribed politicians, and an inestimable hoard of nightriders, sworn to preserve Christian America from immigrant impurity with the terror trinity of guns, fire and rope. To the assembled throng, David Curtis Stephenson was remarkably successful native son, proud of his father's land and true to his mother's ideal.
Scene 2 - Fort Wayne
The Fort Wayne police could only be sure of three pieces of information: a man wearing a United Parcel Service uniform left a package at the reception desk of the Fort Wayne Equal Employment and Opportunities Commission on the first floor of the Federal Building sometime between 12:35 and 1:00 p.m. on May eleventh 1993, Ms. Louise Kraft opened the package when she returned from her lunch break at approximately 1:15 p.m., and the resulting explosion and fire killed Ms. Kraft and an EEOC client instantly while burns and smoke inhalation eventually claimed four other employees. The building’s nine fire exit doors were found to have been epoxied shut; the panic latch lock cylinders jammed with toothpicks.
At a mass memorial service for the victims, the Mayor expressed his shock and sadness at the senselessness of the act, the Chief of Police pledged to bring the terrorist to justice and Bishop Eugene Mc Elroy urged the mourners to never forget the bitter fruit of hate and discrimination.
John Ferro stood at the rear of the congregation, leaning against a fluted pillar beside the church's nave-arched oak doors. He gazed into the whorled grain of the massive doors, followed their jamb curve up to a muted stained glass tracery above the portal, then on high to the vaulted belfry. For a moment he watched the bell rope swinging; a knotted pendulum, hanging, until his breath came in staggered stokes and his tongue heaved up against the roof of his mouth. Ferro fought a nauseating rise of vomit, tossed back his shoulder mane of jet hair and cupped his hands over his face. Tears gathered in the corners of his gold-shot green eyes. His long fingers raked down streaked cheeks, pulling his thin lips into a wretched frown that spoke of pain and shame and disgust. When a gray-haired black woman next to him touched his arm and offered a tissue, he shook her off whispering: "No, I need this." He wiped at his eyes with his fingertips and glanced around at the tears and pain and loss.
Families and friends of each victim were gathered in the pews nearest to the caskets, which spanned the length of the church's center aisle.
Toward the ceremony's end, the nine year-old daughter of Louise Kraft, Denee, was escorted to the podium by her limping grandmother.
She unfolded a sheet of blue-lined composition paper and read in a voice that belied her grief. "Dear families and friends. My mother, Louise Kraft, was my best friend. We used to make wall-plaques for our friends and neighbors out of cardboard and old jewelry and glue. This is the last one she made... it was for me."
The girl held up a rhinestone encrusted card with a hand-lettered poem glued to its center. A few people began to weep aloud as she read the words.
"First God made the earth and sky, then He made the birds on high, the oceans and lakes were next on his list, then a man and a woman who courted and kissed, and a million other miracles of beauty and grace, but none like the smile on my sweet daughter's face. Love, Mom."
Most of the people in the congregation were crying or fighting to hold back tears. John Ferro could only look to the ceiling, overcome by emotion.
Denee waited until the crying subsided.
"I don't know why someone wanted to kill my Mom. I thought about it a lot in the last few days, and all I could think was sometimes God takes people when he has something special for them to do. Like, maybe some girl in heaven who never had a best friend when she was alive. I guess I won't know `til I get to ask her. I miss you, Momma."
When Ferro looked back down to the girl, the tears that had pooled in his eyes poured down his cheeks and dripped from his chin to his shirt and tie. He sniffled and the woman next to his offered another tissue. He took it and blew his nose.
"Thanks." he said, turning to look at the woman.
"Do you know the family?" she whispered
"Only since the accident."
"It wasn't an accident." she corrected.
He looked deep into her eyes, then searched every detail of her face.
This one is scared, but she's got it pushed down under some bitter anger.
Puzzled by his reaction; she turned back to the podium as child stepped down and carried a bouquet of flowers to the first casket.
A moment later, the woman turned to look at Ferro, but he was gone.
The agency never reopened in the Federal Building, but was relocated to a nearby industrial park until a suitable space could be readied. A few weeks later, only one person other than the employees and the friends and families of the victims, ever thought about the senseless tragedy.
Scene 3 - Ferro's Apartment
Ferro sat at the worn Formica kitchen table that was the wrong size and shape for the space. When the transient hotel changed the room into an apartment, a tiny stove and sink was installed where the closet had been, creating a bedroom with no closet and a kitchen with no cabinets. The doorway was widened to allow a small table that straddled the two rooms, but the landlord decided that the tenant could live with the wrong-sized table or live without. The table was piled with clothes, money, food, handballs and a stack of papers and newspaper clippings.
He sipped a cup of coffee as he read the stories, then folded each one and slid it into a large manila envelope.
"Firebomb kills six at Employment Office", "Hate bomb sears anti-bias Agency", "Aryan Alliance claims EEOC fire", "Mayor meets with Minority Leaders."
"That's enough." he sighed as he sealed the envelope. On its front, he wrote, "J.F. Scrabo, Post Office Box 1XA5654, Fort Wayne, IN, set it aside and picked up clipping that read, "Operation S.A.V.E. denies connection to pipe bomb."
Ferro fished a piece of crumb cake from crushed box and read.
"A representative from the anti-abortion protest group, Project S.A.V.E., met with police and City officials this morning to deny allegations that they had claimed responsibility for the bombing of a County Family Planning Clinic, last Thursday. `Apparently, someone claiming to represent Project S.A.V.E. declared responsibility, but I assure you, no one affiliated with the Project was in any way connected to this heinous act. Project S.A.V.E. is dedicated to saving lives, not acts of terrorism.' said James Magyar, legal counsel for the Atlanta-based Anti-Abortion organization. The clinic suffered relatively minor damage when the bomb exploded at around two a.m."
Ferro stopped chewing for a moment, then muttered, "Imbeciles"; sending a spray of crumbs and spittle onto the paper.
He took a deep breath and blew it out hard and slow.
"It's too sad here. It's such a gray little life and so much..."
The word escaped him. Try as he might to dig it out and leave it -- here, on the table with the boxes and underwear and screwdrivers. Spit it out and never say it, hear it or think about it again. Pieces of what the word meant collided in his mind, some of the combinations feeling right but not forming a word, an emotion and judgment montage that must, somewhere form a word that someone else could understand. He understood it. And he was no different from everybody else when you got right down to it. Down to where it's us versus them, judged by our skill and bravery, cold and separate in our individuality, before we screw it up with rules and pride and deception and disappointments.
"...remorse." he said, and then again, listening to the sound of the word carefully, "Remorse."
The rest of the morning was spent at the Laundromat and loading everything he owned into his car, a gray `82 Chevette with magnetic door signs that read "Jiffy Electronic Repair." In `86, he and two other friends from NYU skipped graduation and drove non-stop to San Diego on cheap gas, coke, pot and Coors, so he figured he had already seen the southern route.
The unfolded map of the United States and Mexico trembled on top of the washer; sneakers unbalancing a load of jeans and sweats. He traced a pencil line, arcing above and below Route 94 out of Chicago northwest to the Badlands.
Crazy place to build an empire, what with the snow and snakes and shit.
The wobbling increased until his line started to look like a seismograph's sweep of a tembler so deep in the earth that only tinkled the knickknacks and worried the dog.
There gotta' be a coupla' payin' gigs in Montana or Idaho. Those boys like it big and fast. Gas money anyway, till I get a phone drop in San Francisco.
His jagged route through Minneapolis, Fargo and Miles city continued past Billings, Butte and Coeur d'Alene before dropping south on 395 to pick up Interstate 5 south through Portland, Eugene and into California itself.
Ferro stared at his reflection in the Laundromat window, pulling up his shirt.
You fat pig. No food until California. Water and vitamins. Fat and thirty... fuckin’ dirty.
When his clothes were dry and folded he left Fort Wayne and thirty-one tombstones forever.
Scene 4 - Joliet
It only took him two hours to run up Route 30 to Joliet. If he was tired of Fort Wayne, then he was definitely tired of Joliet, but leaving wouldn't feel right unless he took a last look and picked up some kind of reminder, so he stopped at a liquor store and bought a six pack of beer and a quart of bourbon before driving out to look at the facility. He'd never really looked at it from the outside, and there was a place to pull off the road that gave him a good look without drawing attention.
God knows, an open container could blow up into a parole search and a whole shitstorm of questions and excuses. What'd Jaqua used to say? "Only break one law at a time. Most people can handle that without screwin' up. Break two at a time and the little numbers catch up with you: expired registration, warrants, booze in the car, carrying a piece -- that's how they snag you."
He was clean except for the liquor. Sure, if you could figure out how to wire together some of the electronic parts in his toolbox like he did, he'd be breakin' two, what with clock fuses, proximity detonators and pressure sensors.
But most of the components were off-the-shelf appliance parts that had been re-worked to handle more precise tasks. Much more precise.
It'd take a Ph.D. or another device mechanic to even figure it all out.
Ferro slammed down half of the first beer and poured some of the bourbon into the can. The next swallow made him shiver and retch, but the following swallows went down easier and easier. He looked along the triple fenced perimeter and coils of razor wire that looped through no-man's land and a row of guard towers that marked its every turn around the main building.
What do I want to take with me?
He finished off the can and started another.
A diploma! That's a gag, a diploma.
He gulped most of the beer and poured in more bourbon.
School of hard knocks. Romeo in Joliet, Sport.
Scene 5 - Trapper's Tat Shop
The buzzing needle clicked on and off as Trapper did the clean-up work and details on Ferro's arm, alternately wiping the oozing blood and dipping the needle into a dimpled tray of inks. Trapper's gray beard and hair were braided into long dreadlocks with a black bead at the end of each.
Ferro sat immobile, staring off into the next few days, jaw set for trouble. Sure he was drunk, and the tattoo needle punched a hundred holes into his flesh every minute, but he thought about how soft the West Coast was and how he would bite off of a big piece of Frisco and spit it in their faces.
Idiots. Setting off a bomb at two a.m. Chickenshit cowards.
Trapper wiped blood and squinted at his creation.
"You wanna' take a look?"
Ferro sat up and craned his neck to see the tattoo. It was a guardhouse turret with a spotlight on top, surrounded by barbed wire. Below it read, "Joliet, Class of `89".
Slowly, his blood oozed out and hid the illustration.
"Whatta' you think?"
Ferro just nodded, put on his shirt and tossed five twenties on the table.
Trapper picked up the bills and grunted, "No tip?"
"I'll give you a tip." Ferro snickered, "make sure you got fresh batteries in your smoke alarm."
Trapper had seen and heard just about every drunken boast or taunt, so he walked to the front door and opened it.
"You have a nice life, okay hard guy?"
Ferro stopped on his way out to glare at him. Trapper pulled up the sleeve of his workshirt and held out his forearm; a dark blue jail house tattoo of an open bear trap, framed by the words, "Trapper -- Folsom 1965"
"I was doin' hard time when you still had the ring of the shitpot on your ass." he said, "Now get it the fuck out of here."
Ferro walked.
Scene 6 - Chicago
He drove toward Chicago, moving his shoulder up and down every so often to keep the blood from scabbin' to his shirt. The needle sting was replaced by a dull burning ache of an abrasion, so he took another gulp of bourbon and buried the bottle under the boxes and clothes in the back seat. The radio was talk and static.
One beer and half a bottle. Tired. Sleep in Chicago. Leave in the morning.
He opened the last beer and took and a long drink. A caller was haranguing the host of the radio talk-show.
"...seems like you're trying to say that even though millions of people get killed in a movie or on t.v. it has nothing to do with real life. I don't think so."
Ferro took another drink from the can and set it between his legs.
The Talker cut the caller short. "Listen, moron, I'll repeat myself for the tenth time this hour. The question was; ` would we be better off leaving the violence in our media, or censoring it all out.' Not `is it good or bad?,' not `do we have the right to watch it', not what this lame brain on the line thinks, `Duh, I guess the movie made him do it!' Jesus! You know, I got into this business with the full knowledge and understanding that a certain part of my audience wouldn't be able to find their ass with both hands. But, really! What I said was... `Rather than worrying about the small, almost infinitesimal number of copycat crimes that happen after some bean brain sees `Beavis and Butthead' or `Rambo' or `Julia Child' for that matter, shouldn't we recognize that a much larger segment of the same audience is experiencing cathartic release of their hostilities and hatred safely, without acting out what they saw on t.v. I mean, doesn't everybody feel good when the bad guy gets his butt kicked? But you don't go out and kick your boss's butt, do you? You don't throw a punch at the cop who stopped you for speeding. We watch it so we can experience those unacceptable taboos and not have to act them out. That's it, I'm not repeating it again."
The caller sounded like a heart-heavy father. "So then, are you saying that those kids in Colorado weren't... inspired... for want of a better word, by the scene in the movie where what's-his-name drops the dummy from the overpass? I mean, there are two people dead and half a dozen in the hospital. Are you gonna' tell them that was catharsis?"
Ferro took another drink and stared at his headlights on the road ahead, but he was listening to every word.
"Listen, some of the violence is imitative, all right? A cheap thrill for some brainless scumbag who probably had all the intent but none of the imagination."
Static obscured the odd consonants in the callers reply. "So, bottom line, eliminate the violence and these sicko's lose their "inspiration". Am I right? No example, no crime?"
Ferro drained the can and threw it out the window.
"Let me finish. We have no way of knowing how many people watch the same violence as a "safe release" of their hostilities. It could be millions every night, but we have no way of counting them `cause you can't keep a record of something that doesn't happen. Are you following me?
"I don't see where you're going with this." the fading voice whispered.
"The point is, if you stop all violence in the media, there might be less crime from the rare imitators, but what about the millions who need it to release their day-to-day rage.
"How do you know it's millions.
"Because you're the third caller tonight that I've wanted to kick in the ass. Get real. We all have as much stress and tension as we can handle. That's life!"
"So, how can we control the problem."
"What would happen if millions of `catharsis addicts' had to go `cold turkey' and had to find another way of releasing their anger because we've taken away their crime shows and soap operas and slasher flicks?
"The United States would probably be..."
"Gone in one year or less."
"What?"
"I would give the country somewhere between nine months and a year before our only concerns would be maintaining martial law and dealing with the health problems associated with disposing of thousands of corpses a day.
Ferro turned up the volume to hear the wrap up.
"Right now the accusation is: people are being influenced by what they view. I believe that it is just the opposite. T.V. is influenced by the way we act. The `Friday the Thirteenth/Jason' movies were inspired by real serial killer, `Hannibal Lechter' was based on Ed Gein, the murderer and cannibal, `Miami Vice' was a glorified version of DEA operations. It's obvious that all of these and thousands more are examples of the media responding to the tastes of the viewers."
"So we watch garbage because we really like it?"
"We watch it because it's not us, and we can safely view our fears and anxieties -- our nightmares -- at a distance, like the morbid fascination that makes us slow down and rubberneck at the scene of a car crash. Good night. We've gotta' go to a break for news, but we'll be right back."
Ferro clicked off the radio and straightened his back in the seat until he felt a pop between his shoulders. The beer had made him drowsy so he shook his head to clear his mind and drive.
Morbid fascination. That's beautiful.
Scene 7 - The Diner
Sonny's was an old Pullman Diner car with streamlined stainless steel sides and panoramic windows that made it look as though it had paused for a moment on some carefree cross-country run. Its interior was paneled dark oak and brass fixtures, with booths, tables, a lunch counter and a full bar that was the center of activity during lunch and dinner. It was open at 8:00 am, but it's location near the financial district meant that no one usually arrived until just before noon.
Reverend Louis Saldana sat at a window booth looking out at office workers making their way to another eight hours of repetition and clock watching.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
Long ago, before he built Evangel Church of the Revelation, he worked as a records clerk for a downtown insurance company. The job was deadly dull and, after several weeks of riding Caltrain to and from the city, he found himself spending the entire ride home in the bar car every night. At first he figured he could handle it; it was just a way of coping with the boredom and frustration at work. But one night he fought with his wife for nearly an hour over some trivial point in the household budget, finally shaking her by the arm until she cried out in pain. He released her and stood there, sobering to the fact that he was drunk and out of control, then fell to his knees, begging Jesus and Pamela to forgive him. The next day, he quit the clerk job and began his ministry; gathering a congregation and building a tabernacle.
Across the table sat Bob Kane, a lay deacon at Evangel. Kane was a boyish thirty-two with a cowlicked thatch of blond hair above his round face that made him look innocent and unassuming. He knew his appearance could be used to great advantage, so he cultivated a quiet, introspective demeanor that cloaked his [JS1] [JS2] rancorous personality.
Saldana had invited him to the meeting that morning, mentioning that there might be some special preparations needed at the church before the week of protests began. They had nothing to talk about while they waited, so Kane leafed though his frayed bible, underlining passages that he felt were significant and making notes in the margins.
Saldana saw three men in business suits get out of a sedan parked across the street and walk toward Sonny's. He recognized Frank Hillis immediately.
They were parked here fifteen minutes ago. They must have seen us when we arrived.
He checked his watch.
We were here on time; why did they make us wait?
The men walked in the front door and Hillis, a tall thin man in his forties, lead them to the booth.
"Good morning!" he boomed.
Saldana and Kane got to their feet and stood at attention; Hillis shook their hands as he spoke.
"Reverend Saldana, I'm Frank Hillis."
"I recognized you from television." Saldana responded.
"There has been a lot of that, praise God."
He turned to Kane.
"And you must be Bob. Great to meet you."
He shook Kane's hand and smiled.
"The Reverend told me you're a deacon and the church's handyman."
[JS3] [JS4] "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy work. Psalms, nineteen, one." Kane recited.
"Hallelujah, brother Bob, in His word we hear our call."
Hillis turned to introduce his colleagues.
"Gentlemen, this is Bill Travers, my press secretary and George Brimmer, my event coordinator."
Travers was an older, portly man with a pompadour of gray hair and a natural smile that fell into comfortable wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Brimmer, on the other hand, looked like a high school football coach, his once muscular frame now softened by too little exercise and lots of fast food. Kane and Brimmer eyed one another, each recognizing some shared low status similarity in the other. Hillis beckoned a waiter and took control of the meeting.
"Pot of coffee and some sweet rolls please?"
They sat down in the booth.
"Wonderful. May I call you Louis?"
Saldana nodded enthusiastically.
"Fine. We're very excited about bringing Project S.A.V.E. to San Francisco, Louis. We've found that by basing our group at a church in the suburbs we can get maximum media exposure with the least amount of counter-protests. Bill?"
Travers took off his glasses and wiped them with a table napkin.
"I'll need an office near the church, a Mac based word processor and printer, a fax, copier and at least five phone lines."
Saldana was taken back by the request, but Kane spoke up.
[JS5] [JS6] "No problem."
"In addition, I'll need a woman who's good on the phone, another that can type worth a damn, not some "two-finger Tessie", and a mother with baby that's, say year and a half, maybe two years old and cute. No criers."
"I can handle that." Saldana said.
"Good. Bob, I need forty, fifty picket signs; some on sticks, some just cardboard with these messages on them."
Travers handed Kane a sheet of instructions and continued.
"No two signs alike, mix and match the colors, recruit ten, maybe fifteen different people for variety of handwriting styles and for slogans, stick pretty much to the suggested list on the bottom of the handout there."
"That keeps everything looking spontaneous." Hillis added.
Saldana and Kane nodded in agreement, but Travers sensed a question coming.
"I know, `What if some folks bring their own signs?' right?"
Startled by his anticipation of their question, they laughed.
"Believe me, when you do this for a couple of years, you know everything about what people think. If people want to make their own signs, that's fine, but they must have them cleared by me before the event. George here will be looking for my initials on every sign. No initials, no sign. They leave it on the bus. Period. You'd be amazed at how the liberal press loves to run pictures of signs with misspelled words or just plain dumb slogans."
He turned to Brimmer.
"What was that one in Phoenix? `We love Feeduses' F-e-e-d-u-s-e-s."
[JS7] [JS8] Brimmer smirked, "Yeah, and `Aborted babies can't grow up to be President'."
Saldana and Kane stifled a laugh.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, considering the one we have now." Hillis added.
They laughed and Hillis waited to continue.
"George is the captain of our team when we hit the street. What he says is the law, partly because he studied the law and will keep us on the legal side of the line. I'm proud to say that since we started targeting the abortion mills, we haven't had one conviction. That's quite a record. George?"
Brimmer looked straight ahead, took a deep breath and exhaled like a old dog having its back scratched. He cracked his neck and spoke.
"Thanks Frank. The Project's lawyer, Ben Silva, does all the research on Federal statutes, State laws, local ordinances and current police policies that apply to every protest we plan. That means, what he tells me is do-able on each event is the furthest we can bend the rules without giving the Pro-Death people a legal reason to stop us. Here are the ground rules. No weapons, no knives, no sticks other than pickets, no brass knuckles or blackjacks, no mace, no illegal items of any kind, no drugs, no alcohol before or during..."
"George, are you talking about my congregation or the Hell's Angels?" Saldana asked.
Brimmer glared at him and ignored Kane's chortling.
"...no obscenities, no racial or sexual slurs, no touching the other side, no spitting, no throwing objects and no threatening. Is that clear?"
[JS9] [JS10] Saldana couldn't contain his amusement.
"George, we are Christians, not Barbarians. I'm sure that you understand we are non-violent, family people..."
Brimmer cut him short.
"Listen, Lou, I don't give a coon's ass about all that crap. You know your congregation from seeing them at services and church socials. I know about protest crowds, riots and mobs. An entirely different animal. I can handle a crowd, but a riot has no leader, and when it starts acting and moving on its own, it’s a mob; more like Satan than anything you've ever seen. So, thanks for trying to spare me my breath, but pay attention and learn something."
Saldana stiffened. "I'm not sure I like your tone."
"Then get over it. The safety of your people should be first and foremost thing on your mind. Not whether or not you like my `tone'"
Hillis broke in. "Louis, George was a policeman in Los Angeles during the riots, the Rodney King riots, he's very clear about how far people can go before they snap."
"Well, this isn't L.A. and my congregation is made up of regular people, not gang members."
Brimmer took out a newspaper clipping, unfolded it and dropped it on the table in front of Saldana. The photo showed an impossible mountain of heads and arms that grabbed Saldana's attention.
"Football game in Wisconsin, thirty thousand people in the stands, home team wins and the fans rush down to the field to tear down the goal post. There's a hundred `rent-a-cops' at the fence with orders to keep all fans off the field. As the crowd rushes, the cops try to hold them back and people get crushed and fall to the [JS11] [JS12] ground. Within seconds another wave goes down, then another and another, until there's a pile of them twenty deep and thousands behind them still pushing. You starting to get the picture?"
Saldana's mouth drops open as he makes sense of the photo.
"The people on the bottom of the pile have two or three thousand pounds pressing down on them and no way to get free. The teams run over to help but, there's no way, so they start waving to the people in the stands to move back, but the screaming is so loud that the fans in the back think that the team is just waving to them, so push harder to get down onto the field. Thirty-nine dead and over three hundred injured seriously. And that was just a football game; abortion is a much more emotional issue."
"Merciful lord." Saldana whispers.
Brimmer picks up the paper, folds it and puts it in his shirt pocket.
"Yes. Merciful Lord, and ground rules and co-ordination."
Brimmer hands Saldana a list of rules and tips.
"Make sure everyone who wants to be at the event reads and understands this list. It includes everything I said on the "no" list and some tips on what to wear so you don't get scraped up, and some of the code words we use to keep our people from getting into trouble."
Kane was getting excited, imagining the fury of confrontation.
"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.
Brimmer looked at him warily.
"What would you like to do?"
"Something special."
[JS13] [JS14] "Okay," Brimmer said, "You think up something special."
Saldana looked at Kane, but he was already lost in thought.
Hillis looked at his watch.
"Oh boy, we need to get back to the airport; our flight's in an hour and I'm sure we're gonna’ hit some traffic. Is there anything we missed?"
"The... uh, legal business." Saldana offered.
"Right, contracts, releases, waivers, copyright notification and tax nonsense for donations, fees and salaries. Silva will send you a packet for your lawyer to go through. FedEx it back before the event and everything else will go like clockwork."
The meeting was turning out to be much less than Saldana had expected. Hillis never asked about his congregation, they never talked about the clinic and a lot of prep work was going unrecognized. In, fact this seemed more like booking a show or performer than marching for the Word of Christ. Something about Travers' matter-of-fact recitation and Brimmer's crack-of-doom pessimism worried him. There was a sense of calculated criminality about what had originally been pitched as a heartfelt Christian concern. He couldn't, for the life of him, imagine anyone in his congregation with a knife or brass-knuckles.
Who have these people been working with?
Hillis dumfounded him.
"Louis, I know a lot of this seems... excessive, but remember, when Christ went into the Temple to cast out the money-changers, he carried a righteous indignation and a whip."
Hillis saw that this line of reasoning was not helping ease the situation, so [JS15] [JS16] he changed his tack and addressed Kane.
"Bob, you know that the Lord has charged us to go `above and beyond the call of duty' when it comes to saving precious lives, right?"
"I believe." Kane said.
"So, when we pick up the banner and ride into battle against those who labor in Satan's field, we have to remember; "Soldiers who wish to be a hero are practically zero, but those who wish to be civilians, Christ, they run into the millions."
Kane heard something in his words that spoke to him and him alone. Saldana thought better of voicing his concern and, after a quick good-bye, Hillis, Travers and Brimmer were out the door and off to the airport, leaving a table full of doubt and unanswered questions.
"It'll be fine." said Kane. "It'll just be fine."
Saldana stared out the window again and tried to remember what it was about his insurance company job that made him drink and hurt his wife, but the image of hundreds of people crushed in a pile filled his mind; screaming for help, dying while inches from help, begging the Lord for mercy, damning the person above, killing the person below, feeling the burn of empty lungs, hearing their bones crack, seeing the dimming light, falling back from the walla of the mob, yielding to the black felt sky of death without alternative, reeling into the cold dark void that we only glimpse when the way back is lost to us, past the
overwhelming pain, the insistent throb of hope, over the edge of existence and into the cradling arms of Jesus. We pray. If not that... what?
"It'll be fine." said Kane. "It'll be just fine."
[JS17] [JS18] As they drove back to the church, Saldana, for the first time in his life, felt as if he may have overstepped the limit of his control and ventured into the unknown. His pulse raced at the thought, but he kept calm and focused on Kane at the wheel, lost in news talk radio and traffic.
"Bob, are you okay with what they said?"
"I guess I don't have much choice." Kane replied. "It seems like they got their own way of doing things, and they've been doing it for years, so who am I to question what works? What about you?"
Saldana leaned his head back and bit his lip.
"I don't know. There's part of me that wants to make them see our way, but on the other hand, they're the ones making things happen all over the country. I just... I don't know, it seems a little staged, if you know what I mean. You know, the rules and tips and code words and such. Seems like it should be a lot more... spiritual than all that. I mean the Lord will lead us if our hearts are pure.
Kane saw his chance to establish a peer relationship with Saldana.
"All I know is that they do it all over the country and when you do it that much, you must have everything down to a science. I think there's a simple way to handle some problems and maybe it seems strange to us, but these guys are... the pro's from Dover."
Saldana was not convinced by his rationalization, in fact, Kane's complacency was more troubling than his original fear.
These men have the ability to control weak minds. Dear Lord, help my flock. Guide their steps and watch over their actions in the hands of these men. Thy will be done, but through thy grace and not by violence. We are honest [JS19] [JS20] Christians all, begging thy indulgence before facing the hand of Satan. Protect us from his fowl breath and keep us safe from his split hoof.
As he prayed, a car full of men swerved in front of them, a black arm thrust out of the window holding a gleaming revolver.
"Dear Jesus!" exclaimed Saldana.
"Bastard!" said Kane. "He was on my ass so I tapped the brakes."
Saldana saw a puff of smoke from the handgun, then heard the shot. For a moment, he wasn't sure if the bullet had hit the car, but looking again at the weapon, he could see that it probably went high above their roof.
"Bob, get off at the next exit." he said.
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
When the car in front of them took the next exit, Kane and Saldana looked at each other and nodded. They stayed on the freeway.
Scene 8 - Custer
An hour east of Billings, just before Custer, Ferro saw a red buffalo on top of a rusted-out pickup sunk deep in a field clogged with Stinging Nettle. At first only its beastly sulking silhouette, as he looked westward toward the late descending sun, until a southern bend in the highway spun him, the image and the sun out of alignment, showing the buffalo to be less than one inch thick; plywood, warped, peeling red porch paint and marked with the sign of the beast "5 miles".
An hour `til stretch out and pee. Shit, it's only two, but it looks like sunset.
A broken ceiling of thick gray storm clouds ran from just below the sun to the horizon, streaks of blurry virga turned the dark mountains of Yellowstone and Bighorn Canyon into soft skylines lit by slashes of sunlight laid between towering thunderheads. The remaining ambient light, as he continued under the first scattered clouds, brought up all the mud earth clay reds that turned the landscape into a russet sepia freeze frame from a Crow War nightmare. Something tiny popped at the base of his skull and a sickening heat/flush spread over the top of his head and around to his left eye, which trembled though a tic and shocked a breath out of him that smelled and tasted like iron.
There it is and... it's gone! Lost between breaths.
Ferro turned on the radio, looking for music to match his mood, but all he found was dreary Country Western, mortgage commercials and Jesus talk.
"... be good for Him. That's all we have to do." cried the evangelist, "Just be good for Him! What is there to not understand? That's all we have to do!"
"Fuck you." Ferro said as he turned it off.
He listened to the car noise and found a familiar pulsating drone that soothed him for a moment. The images of Christ and bankers and line dancing [JS21] [JS22] grew thin and his heartbeat slowed, breathing resumed as they blew into mottled patches of ghosts, poverty and sex, then resolved into a warm feeling of electrified spiritual freedom.
God-damn, that's it again... it's coming from the fucking car!
Hoping to savor this exotic state, he shut his eyes and breathed in deeply. Great bolts of excitement ran outward from his spine through his arms and legs and out through fingers and toes. He felt the warm blush to his bones.
Don't stop! Please!
He imagined pictured the same road scene ahead of him that he had seen when he shut his eyes, but it had moved a little to the right, so he turned the wheel gently to the left. In his mind's eye, the road appeared to be reversed; black line down white asphalt with a barbed wire fence to the right, maybe twenty feet off the shoulder.
There was no other sound than tires on the roadbed and gears spinning in oil and exhaust whistling though the pipes and his breath slowly draining out.
A blaring horn and screech of tires to the right of his car, made him open his eyes and instinctively veer to the left as a Wagoneer swerved into the wrong lane to miss him. His front left tire caught the gravel shoulder of the left side of the road and pulled the car from the highway. Ferro had been driving in the left lane, and the oncoming car that veered around him had spun off the right side of the road into its own dust cloud. The shock so unnerved him that he fought the wheel back up onto the pavement without ever hitting the brakes or slowing.
His transcendent afterglow was immediately replaced with an adrenaline rush that sent static crackling through his nerves. He took his foot off the gas and [JS23] [JS24] coasted in his lane until he saw a place to turn off the road.
The Chevette hit tire ruts in the turnout's gravel and fishtailed to a stop in next to a weather-beaten shack. The wood was rain shrunk, leaving huge gaps between the planks along the front face of the building. In oxidized red paint were the words "Custer Buffalo Trading Company" and a painting of a charging buffalo whose color peeled up in long strips revealing grain that had become ridges.
Ferro sat in the car until the dust settled and stared at the approaching storm.
I almost had it; almost remembered what it was. Fuck.
He opened the car door and stretched his legs out.
Just pee in the brush and get back on the road.
The gravel gave way under his boot heels and he trudged to the side of the shack where it leaned against some scrub.
Damn pea-gravel's like snow this deep. Too deep for a driveway or lot.
He dug into his fly, walking bowlegged out of sight from the road then leaned into the shack.he He heard a voice, weak and far-away at first, talking sing-song as if to a child. A man's voice, old and raspy, then a cough, then nothing.
He looked back over his shoulder to the car, but he could see no one.
"Your Momma raise you up to piss on a man's home?"
Ferro turned back to look at the man just as his water started. He fought to stop it, but only managed to wet the front of his pants and dance like a fool.
"Hell, if you're gonna' piss yourself, you might as well go ahead on the wall. Since you already started."
[JS25] [JS26] The man, gray, thin and wrinkled looked to be seventy or eighty with a rat's nest beard and long yellow/white hair. He watched Ferro for a few seconds then turned and walked back behind the building. A moment later a head-shy German Shepherd peeked around the corner and gave him a reproachful woof.
The old man spoke.
"You mind your own business who it is, hear me? Now, get back in that
box and be quiet."
Not another sound came from the back of the building, so when he finished, Ferro walked around to find the man sitting on a tattered recliner set right into the muddy soil. The rear wall of the house was missing, the roof sagged for want of support and inside, dusty shelves and showcases along the walls were empty and pulled apart.
The recliner was covered with a knobby fabric, caked with mud, grease and dog hair. The old man crouched in it as though he was watching a TV, but all that lay before him was a burned out pasture in a cyclone fence. Beyond that was only a thin ribbon of light just above the horizon where rolling clouds froze in sparks of lightning. His apparently saw something out there that was not visible to Ferro, something that can only be seen after years of looking.
"Son..." said the old one, "you got anything to drink?"
"Water."
"Shit, water comes up out of the ground."
The recliner creaked under the man's weight as he spoke.
"You see that trading post? This used to be the biggest buffalo exhibit in this part of the country. Ever heard of General Custer the buffalo?"
[JS27] [JS28] "No."
"I got him from a Crow named `Noname'. Traded him my Lincoln Continental and gave him a job for that bull. He lived out here in a tent and told me all the stories, he did. Taught me to see in the dark, talk to animals..."
He nodded to the dog. "Right, Smoke?"
The dog huddled in a wooden box marked "Bones".
"Taught me how to disappear, how to walk through walls..."
"How? How do you do that?"
Ferro waited for an explanation, but the old man only coughed and cleared his throat – twice – then waited.
"All right, I got something in the car."
The Shepherd crawled out of the box and loped hangdog toward the front of the building and the car.
"Your dog gonna' get it?"
"She could find it, but she wouldn't bring it back."
Ferro walked to the car, took a bottle from the back seat and followed the dog back to the recliner. The old man squinted at the bottle.
"That's the ticket. Let me see it here."
He took the bourbon, opened it and took a small sip, then rinsed it around his mouth and sucked in a great breath as he swallowed.
"Jesus! That'll get `er."
He looked at the square bottle.
"More `an half. A good number. That's a goodie." he said, then looked at Ferro.
[JS29] [JS30] "Why don't you get some of that shelf wood and start us a fire, here in the basket."
He nodded to the inside of the shack and pointed to a blackened shopping cart basket a few feet from his chair.
"You know how to make a fire?"
Ferro watched the man take a long drink of the bourbon before feeling for the lighter in his pocket. The wind picked up and shifted; the storm clouds began moving closer.
"Sure do," he said, "I sure do."
An hour later, the old man was drunk and Ferro was tired of his rambling --buffalo herd, trading company junk store, trinkets and bones, car ran off the highway and killed his bull, tourists stopped coming, started eating his breeder stock and lost the deed to the state for taxes. A big fire spilled out of the metal basket and popped and crackled huge sparks up into the night.
"This was the biggest roadside buffalo exhibit in the state." he said, "That first bull I called him `Custer' `cause when he looked around at all them Indians he was fucked. You get it? `I'm fucked" he says, like the General."
Ferro, looked into the roaring fire. "You tell me that story again and I'm gone." He turned to the man. "How do you walk through walls?"
"Hold on, now," the old-timer slurred, "Not so fast. You people watch too much TV and think that everything happens right away."
He took a big sniff of air and looked up to the clouds. "Rain."
The rain started and the wind whipped it into their faces,
[JS31] [JS32] Ferro stepped into the gutted building, leaving the old man in the rain.
"Hey, help me up!" cried the man, unable to rock up onto his feet. "Give me a hand with this chair and I'll tell you about walkin' through walls."
"I don't wanna' get wet."
"God-damn it! You piss on my house and burn up my wood and you won't even help me up."
Ferro watched the dog flinch at sound of the old man's voice.
Fuck you, Grandpa. You want to stay dry? I'll get you dry.
He walked out into the downpour, pulled the man up from the recliner and pushed him into the shack.
"You go inside, I'll get the chair." Ferro said, rolling the filthy seat end over end out of the mud, then dragging it into the center of the structure.
"Here. I'll pull the basket closer."
The old man collapsed into the filthy seat and tried to drain one more drop out of the bottle. Ferro hooked a piece of barbed wire around the edge of the fire basket and dragged it under the roofs overhang..
"You talk and I'll stack more wood you can reach for later."
"Good. I could do it myself, but you go ahead."
Ferro stomped down on a warped plank reducing it to long jagged sticks bristling with sharp splinters. The smell of dust and pine filled the damp air.
"The Indians `round here called him Old Man Coyote. He was slick, always got the drop on a guy and walked away whistling up at the sky."
Another shelf broke into pieces.
"When the white people brought guns and liquor, they tried to catch him; [JS33] [JS34]
left out bottles and shot up the brush, to no good end."
Ferro gathered up the kindling and put some of it into a box next to the chair, but piled most if it around the base of the chair. The man was too drunk to notice.
"So they sent a girl out, naked, to trick him."
Ferro pulled apart one of the wooden display cases and again put some in the box, but leaned the larger pieces against the armrests and chair back.
"Old Man Coyote saw that she was naked and followed her. When she stopped he stood in front of her. Her breath smelled like sweet whiskey; her body like Manzanita smoke, so he asked her to lay down with him."
The old man's crusted eyelids were squeezed tight. He wrinkled his nose and spit toward the fire. Ferro scraped paper and twigs across the floor with the side of his boot, bringing more tinder to the base of the recliner.
"The girl kissed him and the taste of her tongue made him dizzy. She said, `You come with me, I will be a wife to you and please you.' Old Man Coyote followed her back to the town, but before he could take her, white men locked him in a wooden building with his hands and feet tied to the wall."
Ferro pushed a long stick into the fire and stoked the embers. Each shake sent a burst of tiny sparks up into the smoke that collected under the rafters and poured out every hole in the roof. A few burning fragments fell on the old man's grimy jacket and smoldered as he continued.
"The girl realized what she did was wrong so she went to the Chief and told him what had happened. He called out his braves and they rode to the town to free Old Man Coyote, but the white men fought to keep them away.
[JS35] [JS36] When it looked like the Indians might win, some of the town's men went to the building, to kill the Coyote, but when they got there, he was nowhere to be found."
Seeing that some of the sparks were setting the tinder on fire, Ferro shook the basket harder and another shower of sparks on the old man's legs.
"Ow! Damn son, that's too hot, bank it down a bit."
Each push on the stick sent more embers into the air above the recliner.
"How did the Coyote escape?" Ferro asked, ignoring the man's protest.
"I said `Stop it' You're gettin' fire on me!'"
A flame licked up from the paper next to the chair and traveled along a piece of cardboard to a pile of splinters; another flame popped up on the cuff of the man's pants.
"God damn it, stop!" he yelled, swatting at the flame. Another spark settled in his hair.
"How did the Coyote escape?" Ferro asked insistently.
"Damn the Coyote! You're burnin' me! Stop!"
"How did he escape?"
"He was gone! My hair!" the man yelled as his greasy hair caught fire and crackled. "My God! Help!"
He tried to rock up out of the recliner, but Ferro shoved the burning stick in his chest and pushed him back down.
"How?"
The old man screamed in agony as the flames rose around the chair and filled his face with smoke.
"How did he escape?" Ferro yelled, driving the stick into the man's stomach, which sent the flames up his beard.
"...through the wall!" he screamed, twisting and pushing to get out of the burning chair, but the alcohol, smoke and firebrand fought him back into the flames.
"How did he do it?" Ferro snapped, then stabbed him with the stick for every word. "How... did... he... do... it!"
The howls of his torture formed into a sound that his burning mouth could only shape into a scream of words, cried with the terror of the dying.
"Girl trick... loved him!"
Flames reached up from the chair to the sagging shake roof, which burned with a fury. Ferro tossed burning sticks into the corners of the building where the wind streaming through plank gaps fanned them against the walls; spreading them like billowing sheets of flame.
The death rattle of the old man turned into a loud hiss as the struggle ceased and his arms and legs curled him into a crouch.
Ferro felt the skin on his face and hands searing. He took a final look at the man and walked back into the blazing structure.
Now you're fucking dry, you old fuck. You and the fucking Coyote."
The paint on the front wall of the building was bubbling and spitting off in little flecks of smoky flame as John Ferro kicked a hole though the burning planks and stepped through. The wind found the hole and wind blew sparks into his hair that they sizzled and died in the rain.
He walked to his car and turned to watch his work.
The head-shy Shepherd crouched low next to the Chevette door, eyes averted and downcast.
When the roof gave way and crashed down, the wind made short work of the walls. One by one they fell, splaying out under the pounding rain, leaving only [JS37] [JS38] one big bonfire that hissed and popped covered by fly ash and cinders.
Ferro waited until his clothing was soaked and cool again before opening the car door. The dog got up, then sat right back down again. Ferro stared at its hindquarters.
"Girl, are you in, or are you out?"
The trembling dog got up and raised a paw toward the door.
"Then get in or you stay here."
It skulked to the door, then low crawled across the floor to the passenger side.
"I never had a dog before, Girl." he said to the terrified animal as he got in and slipped behind the wheel. "You're my first."
He started the engine and spun the tires through the gravel and back up onto the highway.
[JS39] [JS40] Scene 9 - Linc's Journal
This book belongs to Lincoln Mackey 122 Trellis Drive, San Rafael, CA [email protected] – Reward if found.
Dr. Moseley promised me that keeping a journal would help pull everything back together. I can't say that I believe him, but maybe it will keep me from getting lost. When I’m lost, I clean the house. Ever since I was a kid, my Mom sick, my Dad away in Europe, I’d get cold, numb, lost in thought of how wrong everything was. As the oldest son, it was up to me to keep the house together and us kids in line.
So, I'd clean.
It was more than trying to be the "Man of the House". My brothers and sister never let me forget that twelve was not grown-up and I was not the boss.
And it was more than cleaning. It was restoring order and control after whirling over the line into the insanity children embrace when rules and limits cannot be enforced.
Cleaning was a detached, repetitive exercise that occupied my body while my mind jumped from problem to frustration to pain to escape; a protective trance. A routine routine…
It used to happen every few months, but now it's every day and I can't afford to waste that time, what with the kids and Diane.
I was a stand-up comic. I had a funny line for every situation. War, sex, dope, death; didya' ever notice? Comedy is catharsis is therapy and we all need release `cause we feel so powerless to cover the gameboard with hotels and lovers and things. Have a drink and smoke and laugh for tomorrow we die, right? Pure Ha-Ha au' Go-Go.
You see, it's a great racket. You set `em up to knock `em down. The uncontrollable, unpredictable, unreasoning world is out there, not in here, not in this comedy club, where we're safe. Where the real world is like a Fairy tale; "long ago and far away", safe, objective and explainable for ninety minutes, three comics, a couple of beers and eight dollars. And I was great at making them laugh every time.
Until last year. That’s when I lost control and my world cracked. The thin layer of familiarity and comfort over the chaos shattered and blew past my ears, exposing the harsh glare of reality, jolting me back to sensibility, knocking the giddy nonsense out of me. I broke.
I can't laugh anymore. I wish I could, but I went in soft and came out hard and chiseled. I lost my wife and my sense of humor. I mean, they're both still here, they're just not the same. And they never will be.
Dr. Moseley is the only other person who knows what really happened. I've told him so many times that I'm sure he sees what I see, knows what I know. And yet, he can still live the same as he did before it became so obvious that there is no struggle of good versus evil. Good versus good can create evil too.
Or, maybe he always saw the world the way it really is, and I just suffered a perception shock. Whatever. But it's a bitter pill very day.
[JS41] [JS42] Scene 10 - The Mackey Home – Family videotape
Linc finished up the breakfast dishes while mediating an argument between his two daughters in the living room.
"Jessie, let your sister sit on the couch with you if she wants, you're the big sister and you can let her do it."
"But she's messin' everything up!", screamed the four year old.
Linc tried an old ploy, "Maura, you listen to Jessie, she's your big sister, okay?"
"Dee-day" was the toddler's reply, apparently good enough for all three and, for a brief moment only the television's cartoon violence spilled into the room.
Linc closed his eyes and shook his head.
I bet the Living room looks like D-Day. The invasion of Normandy with Cheerios and Kool-Aid. Two "wreckoraters" approaching the post-breakfast sugar explosion. And there's gonna' be three.
Diane was at the OB.'s.
They had agreed that three years between kids was a bare minimum for sanity in the house, but when Diane told him the home pregnancy test was positive, they cried, hugged and drank a cherished bottle of Moet in the kitchen at nine o'clock in the morning.
Six months, Maura's sixteen months, baby born when she's just over two. Bedlam. Madness. Yay, Dad.
Diane poured the last of the champagne into the flutes.
"Here's to a boy. Lincoln Mackey junior!"
"Not junior."
"Then what? Senior? Let’s just say Lincoln Mackey the Second for now."
[JS43] [JS44] Linc looked at her excited eyes and felt a chill. "Just a healthy baby, boy or girl. That’s all."
Diane, drank the rest of her toast. "To happy Baby Mackey, whoever you are!"
A scream from the living room pulled Linc back from his memory and sent him running. Maura was face down on the floor, Jessie trying her best to act innocent.
"She wanted to get down but I'm too small help her."
"Then call me," he shouted, "call me and I'll help her."
Jessie pulled her security blanket over her head.
The door-opener in the garage below ground it's gears. Jessie jumped up.
"Mom's home."
Linc rinsed his hands and dried them on the dishtowel.
Everything's fine, just fine.
He wanted to believe it but the sound of Diane's footsteps up the staircase troubled him. Too slow. Too deliberate. Wrong.
His voice cracked as he called for her greeting, "Babe?"
When Diane reached the top of the stairs and faced him, Linc knew. Her tears and trembling said it all, so he embraced her and kissed her cheek.
The girls ran in, yelling and jumping, to hug Mom and chatter away. Diane listened to them and kept up a strong front, then sent them back to watch the cartoon.
She took a deep breath and relaxed, her sobs eased and Linc looked into her eyes.
[JS45] [JS46] "Babe? Talk to me."
She shook her head. "It's... not okay."
"How bad?"
"I have to go for a sonogram tomorrow, but Berman says it doesn't look good.?"
"What do we do?"
"After the sonogram, we'll go talk to Dr. Berman."
Linc nodded. Oh, Jesus, please let this be a mistake. "Sure, Babe. We'll be okay. I hope...
That night, Diane sat in her rocking chair, unable to sleep and Linc laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. At six a.m., he got up to make coffee. Diane joined him in the kitchen and they both yawned.
"No sleep." he says, "You?"
Diane shook her head, so he said, "I'll take care of everything. You go relax and I'll bring you some coffee."
"I feel like taking a hot bath."
"Great, after I drop the girls off, I'll bring you breakfast in bath. Deal ?"
"We're gonna' be okay, right?"
Linc thought for a second.
When we met, your eyes were this sad and I knew then I would always love you. "Yeah..." he croaked, then cleared his throat, "You bet we'll be okay."
"Mom?" Jessie called out from her bedroom.
"Right there, Hon..." Diane yelled, then hugged her husband.
"We'll all be okay."
[JS47] [JS48]
Scene 11 - Couer d'Alene
The Chevette started making a tapping sound west of Missoula on Ferro's fourth day out. He heard it immediately, for the long miles had been negotiated by focusing on the concert of mechanical sounds around him and falling in and out of his waking dream reveries. This metal on metal knocking produced a visceral ache in his gut, a premonition of mechanical failure, but even more, an ominous sense of spiritual jeopardy; something watching him, someone numbering his miles, counting his offenses, pulling at the fabric of his fate like claws raking red furrows in the pink flesh of reality. Nothing that would happen right away, but would, in retrospect, reveal his seemingly free choice decisions to be an orchestrated march to oblivion.
He pulled the map onto his lap and counted off thumb inches in miles.
Just under 150 miles to Couer d'Alene. If she doesn't give out in the next half hour, she'll make it, no sweat.
By slowing to fifty, the sound nearly disappeared, receding into the throbbing drone that soothed him, so he opened the console and dug under the maps and manuals until he found a piece of torn cardboard with "Ruckert - Couer d'Alene" and a phone number scrawled in marker pen. Ferro tossed the cardboard onto the dashboard and stared out at the western Rockies that stood between him and another graduate of Joliet who would surely appreciate the dark comedy of his tattoo.
Matty. Jesus, you were a crazy fuck if there ever was one: match-head bombs in the toilet, comb handle daggers, nutmeg trips and...
Ferro remembered Ruckert's boys: shaved, bruised, hard -- tattoos on their knuckles, lips and scalps -- "Last Resort Skins", "White makes Right", "American [JS49] [JS50] Front", "Aryan Patriots". A tiny fraction of the prison population, but anxious to hit, to bleed; each scar a battle ribbon, teeth expendable, fingers burled and crooked from frequent breaking. "Rather fight than Fuck" they said and they meant it.
If you ain't back in the joint, partner, I sure got some new toys you'll love to dick around with.
For the next two hours he snaked his way over the mountains, secure in the thought that he could count on making a connect with Matty or one of his partners, that way, even if the Chevette threw a rod, he'd be able to crash for a couple of days and pick up some pocket cash.
Outside Wallace, the ridge line fell away to reveal Lake Pena Orielle and Couer d'Alene half a mile below. Ferro shifted into neutral and coasted down as fast as the car could handle.
Hold your mud, baby, it's all downhill from here.
Forty minutes later, he stopped at a gas station and phoned ahead. The woman on the other end of the line said she never knew anybody named Ruckert, wrong number, but Ferro caught her before she could hang-up.
"Tell him Iron Man's in town with a bad rod and miles to go."
"Hold on." she said, covering the receiver with her hand.
Ferro checked his tattoo and, though it was scabbed over, it was still readable. A feeble cough and throat clearing came over the line.
"Hey, sport, what's your sorry ass doing here?"
"Just passing through, Matty. What's the word?"
"I got the bug, but it ain't serious yet. Where you headed?"
[JS51] [JS52] "Frisco. I'm due for a change of scenery. You interested in some toys?"
Ruckert choked again and Ferro heard the phone hit the floor as a thick, gurgling cough built into wracking gasp for air. The woman's voice screamed in the backround.
"Use the inhaler for Chrissakes! The nebulizer!"
A greasy gas station dog sniffed at the door of the Chevette, following the crack of the jamb up to the window, then stood up and looked in. Girl threw herself at the window with a vicious growl that startled the filthy mutt, sending it over backwards and into a sprint to the office. Ferro smiled.
"Atta' Girl, you tear him a new asshole."
Ruckert got back on the phone.
"Listen man, I gotta' do some medicine. Why don't you stop by and catch up? Have a beer an' a smoke... Hell, bang the old lady if you want to. God knows she could use it."
"Sounds good. I'm on 90 just outside of town."
"Go to Lemmon's Bar on Kingston. I'm right behind it in a blue mobile with a `63 Continental out front. I'll tell Maggie to let you in."
"Good, see you in while."
The coughing started again and he heard the receiver drop with a click.
If it ain't the needle, it's jail house sex. He wasn't kidding about his old lady. God damn bug.
There was an over-powering smell of sweat and rotten fruit in Ruckert's mobile home. Piles of clothing, food containers, magazines and motorcycle parts surrounded the couch where Matt and Maggie sat. Squat junk stalagmites, stacked [JS53] [JS54] wide on the floor, shrinking layer by layer as they rose, capped by a single coffee mug or a few cassette tapes or hairbrush. A maze of life pieces laid out in orderly rows conforming to some obvious, yet indecipherable storage system. Every surface in the living room was covered by a layer of linty soot, smudged grease or Formica rubbed down through its wood grain laminate to the gray plastic base by years of wear and friction.
They sat facing the television. Ferro had found a box of books to sit on without aid or advice and sucked on a joint while his hosts watched a game show. They were so absorbed in the action, rarely taking their eyes from the screen as they talked to him.
Ruckert looked bad, not more than 100 pounds, kind of pale blue-white and so congested that every breath sounded like he was wearing a scuba mouthpiece. Maggie was a big-breasted biker woman in her early thirties: flame red hair teased into a mane around cerulean almond eyes, set in heart-shaped face that didn't need the uneven make-up she had applied during the few minutes it took for Ferro to arrive - long legs; firm and strong with ample hips and wide shoulders pulled back by pride and demeanor. Everything about her conveyed a sense of barely-retrained sexual power.
Matty swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
"So what the fuck, John, you ever hear from DeCuitis? I think he got out last year... right? What is it, 93? Maybe it was two years ago. He always said he was gonna' blow that police station where the bulls beat him all to Hell. I figured he'd be on to you for the works."
Ferro passed the joint to Maggie, who looked him up and down.
[JS55] [JS56] "I saw him last year in Detroit. Fixed him up with a satchel and radio detonator that let him sit across the street in a car and watch the whole thing come down: seven dead cops, two or three bean counters and a bunch of dicks gone deaf by the explosion and the whole force scared shitless where it'd happen next. A real nice mess."
Maggie leaned back and looked over her cheeks at him, mixing her words with a stream of cigarette smoke.
"We heard about that. The news said it was a gas line leak."
Ferro looked into her eyes, then down at her breasts and thighs before he answered. Matty was fixed on the game show.
"Then I'm the gas company and DeCuitis is the meterman."
"What brings you west?"
"I just got a feeling that something big is gonna' happen in Frisco. Somethin' big."
Maggie looked at Matt, then turned to Ferro.
"Something exciting?"
"Maybe. Work, anyway."
She looked at Matty and remembered the last time she followed her passion into the unknown, seventeen, a runaway from Kansas Bible small-town boredom, meeting up with Davey and the Pagans that turned into a two year, hard-riding, nonstop party goof that only ended when he started beating her and chaining her to his bike everywhere they went. She had just about given up when Matty was released in `81, and threw in with the Pagans. He dogged Davey everyday about laying off Maggie, but the more he fought, the harder she had it. One night, at a [JS57] [JS58] roadhouse in Indianapolis, Davey burned her thigh with a cigar and Matty shot him dead with a snub-nosed revolver. Since that day she was devoted, heart and soul, to Matty. She fixed his junk, dressed his wounds and waited while he did his time. She knew her cared for her, looked out for her and kept her safe from the gang members that still wanted him and her dead for killing Davey.
Who happened to be Matty's brother.
A bell rang as someone hit the jackpot on the game show and Maggie realized that Ferro had been looking at her all the while.
Her eyes burned into his with years of lifeless waiting cascading over her complacent attitude, pushing her forcefully, irrevocably toward a cry that burned in her breast when she looked at his face -- "Take me, save me, use me."
"What is it you do?" she whispered.
"I'm an artist." he said.
"Like painting?"
"No. Like explosions and fire. A little more interesting."
She smiled at the thought of his casual relationship with destruction. Her soul yearned to go, run off with him, but she knew she was thirty four, standing by Matt, tame and broken to the low life, slow death. At seventeen she would have burned this young stud to the ground with more heat than he could have ever handled. But now... now she'd grown lazy; late bed mornings and TV afternoons, early dinners and no sex. Old, cold and forgotten, but for an occasional afternoon alone on the comforter, vibrator in hand and the memory of some young stiff's passion to take her over the top.
[JS59] [JS60] This boy was too late, and too much for her to handle right now.
The game show ended and Ruckert turned his attention to Ferro.
"You're lookin' fit. What've you got?"
Ferro smiled and reached into his pocket.
"Here's a little number I'm real proud of. Remember how we always thought it was the timer and receiver that cops used use to connect jobs?"
Matty nodded, eyes closed, eyebrows raised.
"Check it out," Ferro said, "Here's something that nobody even gets a chance to look at, `cause it's dusted in the explosion."
Maggie spread her legs and leaned closer to see what he was holding.
"This is a chemical det charge, sealed in a plastic tube that holds a low-freq. receiver. Everything in the tube absorbs the nitro, functions, then turns to accelerant during the explosion. They'd need an electron microscope to figure out what set it off."
Matty was a little lost in the description, but realized that no evidence was a perfect way to handle multiple bombings with no hard connection linking them to one source.
"That's beautiful, man, just... beautiful. You're way up there. I can trade you some plastique for a couple of them. Still got a few troopers who look to me for ordnance and..." His cough filled the cluttered mobile home with the sound of incipient death. "...and whatever. You up for it?"
"That's why I stopped by. That and a knockin' rod in my Chevette."
Matty spit out a bloody wad of mucous into a paper napkin and pointed to Maggie.
[JS61] [JS62] "Mag, get him some of that ninety-weight oil for his car and get me that wooden box out in the trunk of the Continental, would' ya?"
"Sure Babe, you need a squirt?"
She held the silver and plastic inhaler.
"Screw that shit. I'd rather cough it all up and be done with it."
Maggie stood and hiked her jeans up. Ferro noticed every crease and fold as she walked out to the carport. Ruckert looked him in the eye.
"She's a fine woman, Iron Man."
"I hope to shout."
"You wouldn't be outta' line if you gave her a roll. I know she wants it."
Ferro looked down at a pile of "Popular Mechanic" magazines.
"I wouldn't feel right, her being your woman and what."
"This is a whole different scene, with the bug and what have you. I won't even let her kiss me for fear that she'll get it too, but that lady's meant for ballin' and if it ain't you, it'll be some other guy. Shit, I'm just lookin' out for her."
"I already got a girl."
"I hear you partner, but do me a favor, would ya'?"
"Name it."
"You kiss `er good and let her know she's one fine piece of work, okay?"
"You got it, Matty."
Ferro looked down from Matt's eyes and noticed a grocery bag on the floor next to the couch full of red stained napkins. Ruckert saw his expression.
"Go on out there and help Maggie with that box of plastique."
Ferro stood up and worked his way through the piles to the door. An early [JS63] [JS64] news program came on the TV with a report of a letter bomb delivered to a synagogue in Spokane.
"That'd be Dwayne and the boys." Matty croaked, "I wish I was there."
Maggie was bending over, reaching into the trunk of the Continental when Ferro walked up behind her. She stopped, feeling his eyes on her body.
"Can you give me a hand?" she said.
He moved closer to her smelling her perfume and her sweat mixed with the pine breeze that streamed down from the mountains.
"What can I do?" he asked.
She waited too to answer, too long for him not to know what was coursing through her mind. For a moment he looked at her black tee shirt riding up; her spine a soft ridge of bumps that ran down her back into the dark, safe shelter of her jeans. She didn't answer, but shook her shoulders, letting the shirt climb until the undersides of her breasts were brushed by the cool evening air, raising goose flesh bumps around her hardening nipples.
"I can't do you." Ferro stated.
She turned around and sat on the bumper of the huge car, pulling her shirt down across her breasts with a sigh.
"I don't have it. I get checked every month."
"It's not that." he said, "You're Matty's woman and I don't take what's not mine."
"He said he doesn't care. He said that!"
"Makes no difference. While he's alive, I don't screw with his stuff."
[JS65] [JS66] Ferro looked at her pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and red-ringed mouth: open, teeth bared, pink tongue poised.
"When his time comes, you give him a decent funeral and wear black."
"Then?"
"You know where I'll be."
She stood up to him, her nipples pressed against his chest and closed her eyes. He found her mouth with his tongue and they pushed against each other fiercely, until she lay back against the fender of the car, spread her legs wide and pulled his hips hard against her.
He stopped and she knew he would go no further.
Her passion slowly dissolved back into a trembling tension.
"That's the box, on the spare, that's what Matty wants." she said.
Ferro reached into the trunk and hefted the box into his arms.
"I didn't say never," he said.
She felt a hot rush of blood shiver through her body.
"I'll remember that. I will."
She opened the door and he carried the box into the living room. Matt looked like he was asleep, but when they sat by him, he opened his eyes and smiled.
"I musta' fell out. How long were you two out there?" he asked with a sly grin. Maggie, ashamed of her desire looked at the floor.
"Just a minute, Matty. Just a minute."
Matty looked at Ferro and winked.
[JS67] [JS68] "Whatta' you think of my lady, Iron Man."
"She's quite a piece of work, partner. Quite a piece."
"You bet. None better. So, here I wrote down the number for Michael Breck in San Francisco. He's one mean mother. I spent a couple months in Quentin with him. This youngster is fulla' piss and vinegar. Got a posse called the Tragic Skins up in the Haight Asbury part of town. He talks a hell of a rap, strictly God and country... White God and White country, ya' know. You tell `im I sent you and said he can pay you the one he owes me."
"I appreciate it."
"That's okay. Now that box I got from a drunk Indian who worked out at the Army Reserve depot in Spokane. I don't know how in hell he came to have it, but that's about fifteen, twenty pounds of C-4, a nice all-purpose quick-blow. Look who I’m talking to. Mr. Plastique himself…"
Ferro opened the top flap and a strong plastic smell stung his nose, pumping his blood pressure up higher than when Maggie had made her move.
"When that was fresh," Matty continued, "you could drop it, stretch it, burn it or pound it with hammer and it wouldn't pop. Now that it's gettin' to be middle-aged, just lookin' at it wrong might be all it takes."
"I have a little experience with this, but only a little dab here and there."
Ruckert grinned a big toothy skeleton smile.
"Well that box there like to take out a city block in every direction with a crater right under your ass. Shit, one quarter pound is like a full-on grenade."
"I do appreciate that, and the oil." Ferro said.
"You put a quart of that in the crankcase and baby `er that thousand miles [JS69] [JS70] or so down to Frisco and she'll probably still have enough life in `er for scootin' around town."
"Thanks Matty. I guess I'll see you around."
Matty smiled and cocked his head to the side.
"Only if you're headed to hell, hombre, only if you're goin' down."
He started coughing again, so Maggie knelt on the couch to hold his head and spray the inhaler down his throat. As Ferro walked out to the car she stole a last glance at him, closed her eyes and prayed.
One more chance, dear God, just one more.
Girl was sitting up on the driver’s seat when he opened the door, so Ferro brought his face down to hers.
"You gonna' take a spell at the wheel?
She bowed her head and looked up at him pathetically.
"You afraid I'd take off without you?"
She turned and stepped down onto the floor on the passenger side, spun around twice and settled down; her brown eyes turned again to his.
"You don't have to worry, I told them I already have a girl."
The dog snorted and laid her head down on the floor.
[JS71] [JS72] Scene 12 - The Sonogram
The Richmond Medical Center was nearly deserted when the Mackey's arrived and checked in at the sonogram station. An officious Nurse's Aide in her sixties help them fill out the forms and explained the procedure.
"The technician will be using sound waves to record an image of the fetus for your doctor to evaluate. It's painless, quick and in no way will harm your baby."
Linc felt his wife stiffen. The Aide turned to Linc.
"For simplicity and convenience, the birth partner will stay here in the waiting room."
"No" Diane said emphatically, "He's coming with me."
"I'm sorry but, that is not allowed..."
"Bullshit," growled Diane, "Save that for people who're impressed by your hat. Now tell the technician if he can't work while my husband holds my hand, he can explain why to Dr. Berman and my lawyer. Am I making myself clear?"
The Aide was stung by her threat, but remained silent.
Diane picked up the station phone, pressed nine, then a number.
The old woman pressed down the receiver button.
"There's no need to call. I'm sure Dr. Berman has more important things to do."
She pointed down the hall to a door marked "Sonogram".
"You can go, but tell Marie that Dr. Berman said he could stay."
Diane and Linc walked to the room. She looked at him with determination.
"I am not in the mood to be `handled'."
Linc took a deep breath and exhaled hard. He knew that she meant business.
[JS73] [JS74] Marie, the technician, seemed warm and caring as she prepped Diane by smearing lubricant on her abdomen. Diane relaxed and looked into the woman's eyes, brown and sparkling.
"So, how many do you have now?"
Diane smiled. "Two. Girls, five and sixteen months."
"And Papa wants a boy?"
Her words took him by surprise. He looked to Diane and she stared back at him, unable to speak. Marie was too busy to notice anything but the silence.
"Oh well, just a healthy baby, si?"
Their silence was punctuated by the chatter of the image printer, typing out the heading and parameters for the first view.
"How far along are you, Mrs. Mackey?"
"We think about sixteen weeks."
"So, baby is very small, that's why I don't find him right away."
Diane squeezed Linc's hand and bit her lip.
"Now, there!" Marie said as she pressed the record button and moved to another view, "And there... there... and there."
The thermal paper rolled out of the printer, but they couldn't see the image and the video display screen changed so rapidly that only Marie knew what she was recording.
Marie's eyes narrowed as she studied the prints, each one over and over until Diane sat up.
"What? What is it?"
"I am not a doctor, I can't say..."
[JS75] [JS76] "Tell me! Don't make us wait."
Marie put her hand on Diane's forehead as you might a sick child's.
"It is not a good picture, but Dr. Berman will explain this to you. I'm sorry."
Diane felt the life run out of her body. Linc helped her dress and they left.
Marie stood in the doorway as they walked down the hall. Linc looked back.
"Thank you."
"Vaya con Dios" she whispered.
[JS77] [JS78] Scene 13 - Saldana at Evangel Pulpit
"I remember as a boy growing up in the Central Valley, hearing the tent Revivalists witnessing the word and exposing the hand of Satan in things we take for granted every day. That's how he operates. Slowly, over years, we get more and more accustomed to living side-by-side with sin.
"You know, in the early sixties, the Godless Communists used to say, `We will take America away from you without war; without guns; without lifting a finger.' That's how much they valued the power of the word. They knew that you didn't have to break someone's head if you know how to bend their ear. And where were these words being spoken? In the schools and universities; in the barrooms and the factories, but most effectively on the television and in the newspapers. The Liberal, secular humanist, New-Age, No God, No right or wrong, anti-Christian media. Run by... run by the same people who called for the crucifixion of Our Lord! Think about it!
"Don't you want to know why they fight to keep `The Catcher in the Rye', a filthy, foul-mouthed book that beckons us down to the gutter, why they fight to keep it n the schools? Don't you feel you have the right to say, `No, I don't want my child to learn about "Dracula" and satanic worship'. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, `Reverend Saldana, these books are only a small part of the problem. There's so much evil in the world today, how can these dusty old books be as dangerous as you say?' How many of you thought that just now?”
A few people raised their hands, looking around for other people who may have thought or felt the same or, who perhaps felt it was the right time to raise their hands and prove the Reverend right.
"Just as I thought, a good number of you are content to send your children to schools that promote homosexuality, attack our religious beliefs, teach explicit sex and unlock the imagination where Satan himself holds the most sway.
"We need to put the public schools on notice – tack it up on the wall in the teacher’s lounge. `We don't like the dirty language and sex in "The Color Purple," we won't stand for the Satanic message in "Beauty and the Beast," we demand that you stop using New Age Witchcraft meditation and sorcery to raise my child's self-esteem. Self-esteem without Jesus Christ is impossible, a blasphemy, and the ultimate act of defiance in the eyes of Our Lord.
"The women who put Ms. in front of their name - you know what I'm talking about - the women who seek to destroy the family, who advocate the
wholesale slaughter of unborn babies, who look for loveless sex in the arms of other women, who dress like whores and scream rape when the inevitable
happens, who worship the `goddess' and give children condoms and drugs, and practice yoga and witchcraft and... I could go on, but I'm getting sick to my stomach... these women, who can't have children of their own, help protect the abortion mills or teach at pre-schools and work at daycare centers where they inculcate - brainwash - our normal, Christian children into seeing the work of the devil as the natural state of affairs."
"Right now, if you told the JDL, the Jewish Defense League, that thousands of Jewish babies were being torn limb from limb everyday in this country, I can guarantee you they would send out a parade of lawyers that would drive the abortion industry out of business overnight.
"And the doctors – excuse me, Lord for calling these butchers "doctors" - at the abortion mills, these murderers who cry about the Holocaust, send thousands [JS79] [JS80] of children a week to their death! I'm not gonna' name names, but if it ends in a `Stein' or `Berg' or `Baum' you can rest assured that he's not killing babies for `medical' reasons... unless you think a Mercedes Benz or a Rolex watch are `medical' reasons!
"Let me tell you about a man and an organization that is making a difference in the war to save the innocent victims of the `Pro-choice' Holocaust. We prayed last night and the Holy Spirit moved me to invite him to the pulpit this morning. I think you'll find, as I did, that he has a battle plan and the courage to implement it now, at a time when the so-called `politically correct' -- read God-hating Liberals -- seem to have the upper hand. Please welcome a true Christian Warrior, Frank Hillis."
“Thank you Reverend Saldana. And thank you, dedicated Christian `Church Potatoes!'
“That's right, you heard right; Church Potatoes. The person who comes to church every Sunday to honor the Lord for a couple of hours, but spends four or five hours every other day with Ellen and Letterman and Oprah and The Simpsons. Twenty-five, thirty hours every week watching and listening to the garbage: the filth, the sex, the drunk and drugged chatter of these electronic demagogues or should I say, demi-gods, who tell us what is right and normal and just. Who tell our children that believing in Jesus Christ is a sign of stupidity. Who preach, I'll say it again if your hard of hearing, preach the secular humanist agenda of atheism, unnatural sex, abortion, Darwinism and New-Age mind control. If you think I'm exaggerating here, you better think again. We are not dealing with an occasional weirdo or `nutcake' liberal, this is the twisted hand of the Beast, reaching out of Hell and into your community.
"Let me read something to you, `July 17th, 1993, San Francisco Daily, Today the Northern California Lesbian and Gay Coalition held a mass wedding of homosexual couples on the steps of City Hall. More than thirty couples, some of them naked to the waist, were joined in ceremony by Cardinal Zinn, a popular celebrity character played by three hundred fifty gay comedian, Rick Monatt. After the vows were exchanged, some of the couples kissed while others simulated the sex act.' I wonder if that sickens you, the way it sickens me?"
He crumbled up the clipping in his fist and pounded the podium.
"Where are we headed? Can somebody, anybody, tell me were in the world do we think we are headed? `Cause it sure looks to me that we are headed to Hell on a fast train. Let me read something else to you. This time you tell me what it's talking about."
"Sutter Street Clinic. Gross profit, donations and grants for 1992 - $924,353.00, Net profit for1992 - $427,659.00. That's nearly a half a million dollars for Doctor Lowell Thuman, the butcher of Sutter street. How do you feel about that?"
They let Hillis hear what he knew they would.
"So, here's what I want you `Church Potatoes' to do. Next Friday morning, as soon as you wake up, get down on your knees next to the bed and beg the Lord for the chance to save one innocent child's life. You got that? This is a blessing from the Lord, you understand? Then, get dressed, have your cup of coffee, or whatever, and call your boss and tell him you won't be in until noon. If he asks why, just tell him that you need to go to the clinic, it's a matter of life and death. [JS81] [JS82] He might get scared, but you're tellin' him the truth, right?"
Laughter ripples through the congregation and subsides into excited mumbling.
"Are you with me so far?
They answer as one.
"Yes!"
"Good, `cause, come the Rapture, God's gonna' want to see your soul, not your personnel file!"
Again laughter spreads through the church.
"This one is for your spiritual resume, so forget your job and help me save. Save one child from certain death. Save one mother from committing murder. Save our country from the bloody hands of the Christ-hating deviants, the sodomy obsessed protesters, the `open-minded' career woman, the tree-hugging, crystal worshipping, zodiac casting, spirit channeling, New Age Witches and Sorcerers who use the blood of innocent children to work their foul magic."
"You all have accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord, haven't you?"
"Yes!" they respond.
"You all swore to renounce evil and sin to be pure for Him?"
"Yes!"
"Then you've already been through boot camp, Christian Soldiers; ladies and gentlemen. Your swearing in and pledge of loyalty are a matter of record and war is raging. The time of battle is at hand! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more! Or we will close up the wall with our Christian dead.
[JS83] [JS84] Are you with me?
"Yes!" the crowd roared.
"Friday morning, eight-thirty a.m., here at this church. We'll pray for victory and there'll be buses to take us there singing the glory of His Name..."
A war cry filled the church.
"...and you'll be home in time for Oprah."
Laughter and cheers erupted thoughout the room.
[JS85] [JS86] Scene 12 - The Tragic Skins
Wessel Ranch looked no different from any other weather-beaten property in West Marin; nothing to set it apart or draw attention to the white clapboard house, skeletal barn or collapsing chicken roost.
The few other surrounding ranches had gotten used to the noise and mischief that usually accompanied its string of string of short-term tenants: Deadheads, Angels, white trash and squatters.
But the current resident presented a new problem.
Nearly every weekend a caravan of cars would arrive, packed with young men and boys in denim and leather. There was always a bonfire at night and the laughter and screaming continued late into early hours.
One neighbor's 14 year-old daughter, excited by the music and mayhem, tried several times to get past the front gate. The sentry, a boy with a cudgel and handgun told her if she set foot on the grounds she was his property, required to do whatever he told her to. When she ran home in her panties, her father called the police. The next morning he found his yard dog hung from a shade tree in front of his house.
After that, no one ever called the cops.
"Let them kill each other,” people said, "We don't know anything."
Saturday morning, Michael Breck and his girl stayed late in bed. Hung over and sore from the night before, they drank beer and screwed until afternoon when the other "skins" arrived to party.
Michael was the founder and leader of the Tragic Skins, a White Men's Athletic Club, as he called it, blood-bound to stop the dilution of America's purity. [JS87] [JS88] Although they rarely went further than random beatings and vandalism, their aim was to support the National Alliance in preparing for the inevitable race war that would erupt in the cities.
He was three years old when he learned the meaning of the word "niggers", although his father said it was the second word he ever spoke.
Right after "kill".
Dad helped him bag his first buck when his was eight; the 30-06 too heavy to hold alone and the carcass too tough to gut with his scout knife.
Mom rolled her eyes and laughed when he jumped out of the pick-up bed, muddy, bloody and antlered with the huge severed rack held tight on top of his head. The headless deer lashed to the fender promised years of neighborhood terrorism, sanctioned by Dad, disregarded by Mom.
I'd rather he have a little blood in the face, then turn out a sissy-boy.
Two years later, he stole a carton of cigarettes and traded them to Donna Boyd, the twelve year-old down the block, for a strip show for him and his friends in her garage. She wore one of her mother's brassieres and a garter belt, so she could tease them and play with herself. A little plastic record player blared Redbone's Come and Get Your Love so loud that her mother finally came out to the garage and beat her unmercifully in front of the boys.
When Michael's father heard about it, he made his son describe every detail of the show, three, four times before he stood up and held the boys chin in his hand.
"Boy, " he said, "That girl ain't nothing but a slut like her Momma. And what does a slut get?"
[JS89] [JS90] Michael tried to remember the words his father wanted to hear; don't leave any out, don't add any others.
"A kick in the cunt, right Pop?"
"Close enough, son. Close enough."
And the incident was never mentioned again, because he said the right thing and his father valued that above all else.
At fourteen he started pumping iron and playing serious football; a little row of broken bones painted on the side of his helmet for every opponent he sent to the hospital: nine all told, one with a broken back.
When his family moved to Northern California, Michael became a first string varsity lineman at Cal State, Hayward, a Bay Area university surrounded by tract homes, fundamentalists and an emerging racist underclass looking for scapegoats, victims or just a target.
Early in his sophomore year he crashed an opposing teams victory party and cut the Black quarterback's ear off, earning him five years in San Quentin under the Federal Civil Rights Law. Overcrowding and good behavior sent him out the gate in sixteen months with a new list of friends and a big chip on his shoulder.
That was a year ago. By then his father was no more than a memory and a piece of raw marble in Arlington, the final payment of his veteran's benefit after three tours in `Nam.
So, when John Ferro called Michael Breck, he was listening for the exact words that would make him stay on the line, no more, no less or else he'd slam that receiver down so fast there wouldn't be time for why's and wherefore's.
[JS91] [JS92] "Matty Ruckert said you might need a mechanic. Said you owed him one and this is it." Ferro said.
Breck held the phone away from his head and felt the sharp pain of a shiv in his gut. All he could see was a dripping black face hissing, "You dead now, motherfuck; good and god-damned fucked for sure, you cracker son'bitch." He fell back on the tile floor of the shower room and felt the knife again in the gut, then once in the chest, and a long ripping gash across the neck.
"No way, you monkeyfuck nigger..." Breck grunted, punching up from the floor, but his attacker froze and fell on him, wide eyed and stiff; a thin line of blood and spit running from his mouth, turning into a full, foaming spew, his eyes crossed and rolled up into his skull.
Matty Ruckert was standing over the dying man, holding a long twisted dirk made from a melted hairbrush handle; dripping red, running through the shower spray into a rivulet that coursed along the floor to the drain. A ragged hole in the back of his neck oozed a clear, oily liquid.
"Matty, I owe you." Breck whispered.
"That's all right partner, it was my pleasure"
Breck dropped the phone and rubbed the thick welt of scar tissue at the base of his neck; a soaring burst of hate and vengeance fill his mind.
"Breck. Breck! Ferro yelled, far away and very small.
Michael took control of his eyes and looked at the phone a moment before putting it back to his ear.
"I'm here."
[JS93] [JS94] "What's the story?"
"Meet me at the re-Bar on Divisidero. You know where it is?"
Ferro dropped the phone onto the receiver.
Breck turned to the nude girl lying next to him in bed.
Cindy had been his girl for a year or so, and she bore the marks of his affection in bruises, scars and a broken jaw that never healed quite right, giving her a face a permanent menacing grimace.
"Matty's sent us a mechanic." he said.
She punched him in the face.
"You punch like a pussy." he said, rolling on top of her, pinching her nipples until she screamed. She kicked him in the groin and their laughter grew with every blow.
[JS95]
[JS96] Scene 15 – Kane’s Project
At noon, most of the customers at North Bay Building Supplies were contractors or "go-fers" picking up materials on their lunch hour, so Bob Kane fit right in: stained jeans, work shirt and his long greasy hair pulled back into a snarled ponytail and a tape measure clipped to his belt. While the other men talked about construction or placed orders, he figured out a list of what he needed as he searched the hardware shelves for spring loaded hinges and latch hooks.
"Can I help you?" a grandfatherly salesman inquired.
"Six one-inch pulleys, fifty feet of quarter inch nylon sash cord, two pounds of twelve penny galvanized finishing nails and I need some wood..."
"Whoa, why don't we go back to the register and I'll write all this up."
They headed to the long sales counter where other salesmen where busy with their customers. The old man took Bob's hinges and latches.
"Looks like you got quite a project started."
"Yeah."
"Let me guess. Cabinets?"
"Nah. It's something for kids."
The old-timer realized that this wouldn't be a chatty sale, so he thrust out his lower lip, nodded and set the hardware down on the counter.
"Right. Let's do the lumber order and the yard crew will get that started while we're pulling the rest of the materials."
Kane looked at the scrap of paper and spread his hands apart and did some quick calculating.
"I need three sheets of 3/4" exterior plywood and 45' of 1'x10' pine."
"Okay, and the hinges, latches, pulleys, sash cord and nails...anything else [JS97] [JS98] you need today?"
"Paint. Gimme' a gallon of flat black and a cheapie brush."
"Got it."
The salesman tapped the prices into the register.
"Uh, do you get the contractor discount?"
"I'm not a contractor, but this stuff is for a youth group. Can you give me a break for them?"
The old man thought for a moment and then whispered.
"I'll give you ten off, for the kids."
"For the kids." Kane said as he pulled out his checkbook.
He sat in his big Mercury station wagon listening to an old Rock song while the yard crew loaded the plywood and planks into the rear window. Reaching under the seat, he found his snub-nosed .38 and several of his daughter’s kindergarten art projects; one was a grassy field, a brown tree and a big yellow sun on white paper. He turned it over, took a pencil from his shirt pocket and sketched a side view of the Mercury wagon, writing below it: tree, grass, stones. He covered the gun with the paper when one of the loaders stopped at the window and to take a copy of his sales receipt.
"You're loaded." he said. "Have a good day."
"You too." Kane mumbled as he slid the .38 back under the seat.
The short drive to the Mission District was punctuated by several violent outbursts when slow drivers, oblivious pedestrians and political bumper stickers offended him. Unfamiliar with the neighborhood and unsure of the exact address [JS99] [JS100] of his destination, he drove slowly and erratically while other drivers cursed, finger outstretched to him.
Fucking foreigners! he thought, Go back to your stinking Banana Republics!
Across the street was an open basement garage with a hand-lettered sign above it reading, "Castilian Ironworks and Design", so he pulled into the driveway and shut the engine off. The wooden doors were opened wide to display several types of security bars for windows and doorways as well as metal lawn chairs and tables.
Kane took one of the finishing nails out of its box and stepped out onto the sidewalk. There was no way for the people passing by to stay on the blocked sidewalk, so some of them muttered curses or yelled at him, forced to walk around his car. He ignored them, finding a spot on the roof of the station wagon just behind the front seat. After making a small scratch in the paint on the drivers side, he walked around to the other, reached across the roof and pulled the nail from the scratch toward himself, digging a deep groove into the paint and metal.
In the shop, the welder finished joining two pieces of iron, tipped up his face shield and saw the car in his driveway. Kane wiped the nail on the leg of his jeans and stuck it in his mouth as he walked to the work bench.
"Hey Pepi, you hobble English?"
The welder tipped up his face shield took off his gloves. "Yeah, sure, you speak Spanish?"
"Hell no. I got a cuttin' job for you. Take you 10 minutes."
[JS101] [JS102] The man, pointing to a labor rate sign, "Twenty-five dollars minimum. Okay, Cabron?"
Kane looked at him and picked at his teeth with the nail.
"You keep the scrap?"
"Yeah, I keep scrap, puto."
"Done. There's a scratch on the roof of that car. Cut along the scratch and take off everything behind it."
"Cut the roof off?"
"Did I stutter?" Kane barked, "Yes, Si, hombre, cut the damn roof off. Just the roof and glass."
"Okay don Mierda, then what?"
"Then you get twenty-five dollars and the roof. We got a deal?"
The welder picked up the cutting torch and lit the flame.
"A deal, maricon, a deal."
Kane walked to a nearby supermarket while the car was being chopped and walked down the produce isle until reaching the bananas. He looked around for a clerk and called out, "Can I get a hand over here?"
The clerk was a gangly teen-ager with a disheveled head of blond hair that fell across his eyes in a great sagging pompadour.
"What's up?"
"You the grocery clerk?"
"No, but while he's at lunch I'm sorta' in charge."
"Great, can I get some of this?" Kane said, grabbing handful of bright green artificial grass the banana's were stacked on.
[JS103] [JS104] The teen eyed him suspiciously, "You a friend of Pete's?"
"Yeah. Pete’s a friend of mine. He said you might have a few pieces I could use at the Youth Center, you know, Art & Crafts and stuff."
The teen thought for a moment, then walked to the back room and returned with two large mats of the plastic grass, each as big as a beach towel.
"Will this get it?" he said, holding them up.
Kane did a quick calculation in his head.
"Uh, I'm not sure. Could I get one more just to be on the safe side?"
"No sweat."
He folded the two mats into an empty orange box and re-stacked the banana's so he could take another from the display.
"Please give Pete my best, when he gets back from lunch."
"Sure," said the teen, "What was your name again?"
"Donny," said Kane, as he carried the box out of the store, "Donny from the Youth Center."
As he watched Kane leave, he restacked the bananas.
"All-right Donny, good luck with the kids and have a nice day."
On his way back to the welding shop he passed by a second hand store and, after a quick glance inside, he entered and walked up to a woman in her sixties who was hanging up shirts behind the cash register.
"Excuse me," he said, "My name is Donny Haddigan and I work at the Youth Center, here in town, nice to meet you,"
He held out his hand and the woman smiled sweetly as she shook it.
"We ran into a problem, `cause we have so many little girls right now, we [JS105] [JS106] just are a little short of some uh... necessities."
The woman put aside her work and clasped her hands.
"I understand. How can we be of help."
"Well, there're six new ones and," he looks around the store, "I not even sure this is the right place."
"Donny, my name is Ruth, and we have three other stores in the city, so whatever you need, I'm pretty sure we're going to find."
"Ruth, you are wonderful. The kids will be thrilled."
Ruth grinned and followed him as he walked back to the toy section.
[JS107] [JS108] Scene 14 - Denise Toy
Denise Toy sat at the back of the control room while the techs produced the six o'clock news. She knew all the jobs and responsibilities, but it never ceased to amaze her how complicated and frenetic it all seemed: long racks of TV monitors and hundreds of switches and knobs that glowed in the darkened room casting a peculiar soft light, somewhere between a carnival midway and the flattering illumination of a Christmas tree.
"Cue camera one, close on talent, end tape roll-in in three two one, cut to camera one." the director said, dispassionately.
Watching the pieces come together flawlessly on the Program monitor, Denise remembered what the news director said the first time she marveled at the feat.
"If all six technicians mesh together just right, they can be nearly as efficient as one human being."
That was a typical example of Henry Walter's sarcastic wit.
We're all a lot less than the sum of our parts from Henry's point of view. I'm sure he's in his office right now watching to see my field report. Don't expect a slap on the back... that's not his style. If he doesn't like it, he'll make believe he didn't see it and that will be that.
She covered her mouth quickly and coughed.
"Air conditioning in here takes every bit of moisture out of the air."
Although she addressed no-one in particular, the production assistant left his chair at the end of the console and walked back to her.
"Ms. Toy, can I get you something to drink?"
"No, that's okay, William, I'm leaving in a minute anyway.
[JS109] [JS110] In the studio, the news anchor and co-anchor took turns describing upcoming segments before the commercial break.
The director watched the program monitor then glanced down at his script and turned to the tech on his left.
"Cue camera two for wide, super I.D. graphic and... roll tape one."
A woman making chicken gravy replaced the news anchors and the director turned around to look at Denise.
"Andy, your piece is up right after the break. Two minutes"
"Thanks, Don. I'm sure Henry is watching." she said flatly.
"Uncle Wally? He hasn't missed a show in eight years and I catch Hell if the anchor has spinach between his teeth. At least you field people get a couple of days a week in the sunlight."
He held up his pale hands.
"Look, `studio tan'." he said, then, to the crew, "Ninety seconds."
She smiled and shrugged.
If Walter doesn't like this piece I'll be planted at a desk tomorrow.
A pest control commercial filled the screen with an army of animated termites devouring all the furniture in a room, then the whole house itself.
The sound tech added his own version of the narration and the room filled with laughter. Denise looked into the dark corners of the control room.
No bug could live in here for long. It must be fifty degrees!
Her hands were cold, so she rubbed them together. William noticed and again got up. He walked to the wall-mounted thermostat, but it was covered by a locked Plexiglas security box.
[JS111] [JS112] "I can't turn down the a.c. The box is locked."
"Sixty seconds." Don said to the techs, then turned to William, "What's the temp?"
"Sixty four."
"Wally memo'd that the control room equipment liked sixty, but Jesus, my nose is numb. You cold too, Denise?"
She shivered and nodded. Don took a paper clip from the top of the script and tossed it to William.
"Use this to reach inside the vent hole on the box and nudge it up to seventy."
William unbent the clip and jiggled it through the opening.
"I don't know if this is going to work," he said.
"Worked for me, that's why it's not sixty. Thirty seconds."
Andrea turned her attention back to the program monitor to see the end of a public service announcement. A Black man was holding an apple and a book.
"Good nutrition is elementary. If `you are what you eat', why be junk when you can be healthy. Three square meals and the three `R's go hand in hand. It's as simple as A, B, C."
"Fifteen seconds, " Don yelled, and the crew turned their attention back to the console.
"Ten. Cue camera one, cue talent. Five, four, three... Cut to camera one, Cue tape two. "
The Co-anchor was an Black woman in her 30's.
"For nearly a year now, the residents in the Potrero Hill section of San [JS113] [JS114]
Francisco have been using video cameras to record the street violence and drug dealing that has changed their community into what has been called `The War Zone". Channel Three's field reporter, Denise Toy has the latest development in this battle for survival."
"Roll tape two." Don said.
Denise watched the tape she had shaped and polished for the last forty-eight hours. She knew every detail, every word, every flaw, although to the untrained eye the production would appear perfect. Her own face filled the screen.
"Potrero Hill, once a sunny community overlooking the bay and the downtown skyline. But since the 1989 earthquake, the damaged northern end of the 280 freeway, which runs through this area, has been closed, awaiting demolition. Add to this, the severe economic downturn that has crippled local industries and employers and there can only be one result; a neighborhood in dramatic transition."
Denise had to remember to breathe, but her next breath sounded more like a sigh of resignation. Although the techs watched the monitor silently, she knew that they were evaluating her job as an `on-camera' talent and as a roll-in producer.
On the screen, a late-night drug deal happened in front of a day-care center.
"Drugs, needles, weapons and money change hands at night..."
The night-time drug deal dissolved into the same shot of the day-care center in the morning, with dozens of children at play.
"...where children frolic the next morning."
For an instant, ghostlike pushers walked among the toddlers before vanishing. A murmur of appreciation swept through the control room. Don [JS115] [JS116]
agreed with one heartfelt word. "Nice."
The rest of the report went by in a blur to Denise. She knew the surveillance shots and amateur video clips would work fine on their own, but the drug dealer footage dissolving into children was the only part she thought might have gone `over the line'.
Nice! That's what pro's say to each other when it's right . Nice.
"Twenty seconds. " said Don, "Cue camera one..."
On the monitor Denise walked to a sand box in the front yard of the day-care center and picked up a bent hypodermic needle.
"This week alone there have been two needle sticks and three broken windows right here at the Center. What starts as a drug deal in Potrero Hill, turns out to be a bad deal for the neighborhood and its children. For Channel three News, I'm Denise Toy."
"Thanks Denise, " the co-anchor said, then turning to the anchor added "A frightening development and an eye-opening account of the situation."
"The dealers and the children... shocking. " said the anchor, shaking his head, "I'm sure we'll keep you informed as we follow the story this week. Thanks to Denise Toy for a hard-hitting report."
"In other local news... " the co-anchor began, but Don turned down the monitor's sound and said.
"Cue telephone in five, four, three... cut to telephone."
The telephone next to Denise rings. As she picks it up, Don says,
"Cut to Henry Walters."
"Control room" Denise announces.
[JS117] [JS118] "Denise? It's Henry. Would you come up to my office, please?"
"Sure. I'll be right up." she says and hangs up the phone.
Don and the techs look for her response.
"He said to come up to his office."
The crew reacts as if she were headed to the gallows.
"It didn't sound that bad." she counters, but each of the guys at the console mimes out a different torture.
"Don't worry," Don said reassuringly, "you're young, you'll heal."
She stood and crossed the room to the door. At the thermostat, she noticed that it was now set at eighty-five degrees. When she turned to mention it, William pressed his index finger against his lips and shook his head, surreptitiously.
Ah yes, the prankster.
When she turned and opened the door, there was a chorus of "well-done" and "nice piece" and "the kind" from the crew. It was over her shoulder, but it meant the world to her, so she nodded and said "thanks" on the way out the door.
Okay Henry, no more tests. I can do the job and I want it!
As she made her way through the building to his office, everyone she passed gave her praise and looks of respect. A tingling sense of destiny ran through her bones.
This is the day I start to make my dream come true.
Scene 15 - The WAR Council
Thirty-seven women sat in the classroom at 8:25 p.m. reading, talking or looking at the high school artwork taped to the muted green walls. The youngest was barely in her teens, and together they represented four generations, several economic strata, thirty-seven personal philosophies and at least three sexual preferences. But they were united in one idea; that women have complete autonomy over their own bodies.
It wasn't hard for them to remember what it felt like, sitting at gray steel and Formica student desks in undulating rows that faced the green board, to be sixteen and uncomfortable and bored. They waited for stragglers, repeating greetings echoed at every arrival, some heartfelt, some as empty as the raw sounds that made up the words, the whistling, humming, trilling grunts and cooing glissandos of recognition ritual that reinforce the organization, bind the group and remind each other of the strength that comes with sisterhood.
At the front of the room stood Yvonne Nelson, a short, slight woman who might have been called petite if not for her pale, pinched features that spoke of dissatisfaction and disappointment. She alternately checked her watch and looked to the back of the room where Joan Payton, the regional director of Women for Abortion Rights, spoke with a young woman busy with notebook and camera.
Payton, at 47, had the cultivated, dress-for-success managerial look; graying blond hair hardened into a non-sexual responsibility hat, blazer, white dress shirt and knotted power bow, too big to be mistaken for a man's tie, but small enough to keep her from looking like a Christmas puppy.
In fact, except for a few wrangler Lesbians in denim and flannel, every woman in the room looked restless and ill at ease.
[JS119] [JS120] Nelson checked her watch and spoke.
"All right, any one not here yet can be filled in after the meeting. Good evening. Tonight we have a full agenda of business regarding the Project SAVE activities rumored to be scheduled for next week."
A chorus of hisses went up from the women.
"That's right, our old friend Frank Hitler..."
The hisses turned into boos.
"I mean Hillis, Frank Hillis of Project SAVE has decided to crawl out from under his rock again to tell us what we can and cannot do with our bodies."
The booing subsided, replaced by occasional grunts of agreement. Joan Payton walked to the front of the room and stood at Yvonne's side.
[JS121] [JS122] Scene 16 – Kane’s workshop
Kane’s Skilsaw screamed through a piece of plywood and the noise vibrated though the house, finding sympathetic squeaks, rattles and groans in the walls, floors and ceiling.
"Bob! It's after mid-night!" Sue Kane yelled from the bedroom. Rather than getting out of bed and opening the door to her husband's garage workshop she sat up and banged on the wall with her fist.
"Bob! No more! It's too late."
She shook out her pillow and laid back, staring at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and letting go of her tension.
Five kids and Bob is too much. When he was younger and we only had three, at least when he was working, it was manageable. But since he's been out of work, the church business and the twins, I can't do it alone; up at two and six with the babies, midnight, one o'clock to bed. Too much.
Sue heard the bathroom exhaust fan turn on.
"Finally. I thought you said you were working on the station wagon?"
"I was, " he said from the bathroom, "Why?"
"Then why were you cutting wood all night?"
"It wasn't all night. I started late."
"What wood is on the car?"
"I don't want to talk about it!" he snapped.
"Well, I need it tomorrow for day-care."
"Use your sisters car. She never drives it."
" That's a Rabbit, Bob. I've got five kids."
"Three in front, three in back."
[JS123] [JS124]
"That's crazy. I need the wagon."
"The wagon is out of commission. Use your sisters car until I get another wagon or van. I need it for somethin' else."
"What?" she yelled, getting out of bed. "For what?"
Somewhere in the house a baby started crying, but Kane was indifferent.
"Special project."
"This is bullshit, Bob." Sue screamed, and walked to the garage door.
He stood in the doorway of the bathroom and waited for her to get to the workshop. The door opened and he heard the light switch click.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bob! What the hell did you do?"
He wiped the smudges of black paint on his hands with the towels and stared toward the garage.
"It's a special project."
Scene 17 - The re-Bar
When the new regulars at the Fireside Bar started including hard Skins and heat-ons from the avenues, the older, neighborhood crowd disappeared over the course of one weekend. Fist fights, slamming and harassment came so fast that the owner hired two ex-jocks to tend bar and tore out most of the interior to give the clientele less to break up and use as weapons when the music got loud and dancing turned violent. Tables were replaced by big cable spools, packing crates served as chairs and it was standing only at the bar, after a stool crashed through the front window.
As each change was made to accommodate the rough crowd, they found some new way of tearing the place apart, until the windows were bricked up, the interior was stripped down to the cinder block walls and the front entrance was replaced by a steel door with a peephole for the bouncer.
After a nasty, bottle-throwing fight broke out all the neon letters in the sign except "re" and "Bar", the owner renamed the re-Bar, left the sign the way it was and only sold beer in forty ounce plastic bottles.
The Skins formed a social club and the bar became "members only".
Ferro was standing outside when Breck rolled up on a flat black Triumph with Cindy on the buddy seat.
The men stared at each other, making neither sound nor gesture of acknowledgment as Breck leaned the bike against the brick window of the bar and gave the metal door a solid kick. When opened, Breck and his girlfriend walked inside, but Ferro was stopped at the door by a bouncer dressed in filthy bib overalls who must have weighed 400 pounds with a string of white beads around his grimy neck. The huge man frisked him, but all he could find was a worn Zippo [JS125] [JS126] lighter which he dropped into the pocket on the front of his overalls.
Ferro saw the word "Visegrip" tattooed across the goon's gnarled and grimy knuckles.
"Visegrip?," Ferro said, "I'll take my lighter back now."
The bouncer grabbed Ferro's neck and held him up against the wall.
Breck shouted, "Give him his lighter and let him go."
Visegrip released him and gave him the lighter. Ferro waited for him to step back before walking to the bar.
Breck pointed at the bouncer with his beer.
"You cross Visegrip and he'll how how he got his name."
The huge man pulled a small Visegrip pliers out of his overalls and waddled to the bar. Some of the regulars and the bartender started yelling for blood.
"It's not too late to say you're `sorry'" Cindy added.
As he got closer, Ferro took another look at Visegrip's necklace.
Christ, those are teeth.
"You want the lighter? Here."
Ferro pulled out the Zippo, snapped it open, struck a flame and snapped it shut in one fluid motion.
"This one's for you." he said, tossing it to the bouncer.
Visegrip caught it and dropped it in the chest pocket of his overalls.
Breck started to talk , but Ferro silenced him by holding up his index finger.
A thunder crack explosion blew Visegrip into the cinder block wall with a hollow thud that sounded like broken bones, cracked skull. He dropped to the floor and tried to get up several times before realizing he no longer had a sense of [JS127] [JS128] balance. The rest of the bar was stunned by the blast.
Then Ferro walked to bouncer, put his foot on the man's neck and spoke.
"You ever touch me again, there won't be enough of you left to feed my dog. You understand, pigfuck?
Visegrip tried his hardest to say yes, but a piece of shrapnel was pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Breck took a long swig of beer and belched.
"I can't let you push my people around."
"That's history. I told you Matty Ruckert sent me. Let's try it again and we'll just make like nothin' happened."
Breck waved to the bartender, who brought over a big plastic bottle of malt liquor set it on the bar.
"What about Visegrip?" Cindy said.
"Fuck him" said Ferro
"Okay, Ferro..."
"I like `Iron Man'."
His words brought silence that was only punctuated by the shallow gurgling gasps coming from Visegrip.
"Welcome, Iron Man."
Ferro took the bottle and drank nearly half of it in one long unbroken gulp, then set it back on the bar.
Two of the Skins helped Cindy get Visegrip to the hospital.
[JS129] [JS130] Scene 18 - The Corral
By seven a.m. every morning the Corral was full of animals; by eight, the jukebox would be running nonstop. Hard luck and bitters, Bloody Marys for the tenderfoot, Seagram's and beer for the seasoned wrangler. Grunting, smoking, coughing animals at the trough, the core of the herd, they gathered around the grimy wagon wheels, horseshoes and lariats..
Rusty's Corral was a run-down Western bar in the Tenderloin, a filthy part San Francisco's eroding heritage. So, Jimmy Beanblossom wore his boots and
western shirt everyday, although he was third generation downtown. Western was a style, an attitude and code of ethic he could believe in. And by nine, he was drunk enough to sit without shaking.
The bartender was Rusty, a slight man with a severe crewcut and earring. In fact, every bartender who ever worked at the Corral was Rusty. The name passed from owner to owner with the liquor license.
"Another ball, Jimbo?"
The front door swung open and Bo Riles and John Reed walked in. Bo, a muscular forty year old, whispered something in John's ear. The rail thin cowboy stared at Jimmy Beanblossom and snorted.
Rusty held up a bottle of rum and two tumblers.
"Howdy boys. Just in time for breakfast. Sunny side up or over easy?"
John smiled at Bo, who said, "Over easy with toast."
Rusty poured two on the rocks and a shot for himself and "toasted them".
"Here's to Bo and John. Another week on the wild frontier."
The men laughed at their private joke and instinctively, the other patrons lifted their glasses and drank. John dropped a quarter in the jukebox and a [JS131] [JS132] scratchy 45 of the Anniversary Waltz began. Bo and Rusty could barely contain their amusement.
Beanblossom sneered and pointed to his empty shot glass. Rusty poured.
"Rough one last night?"
"Ev'ynight" Jimmy lied. He was usually unconscious before dark.
"Hair o' the dog, pardner." Rusty filled over the pour line to the brim and picked up a crumpled dollar.
Beanblossom threw the shot back and shivered as the alcohol flowed down his throat.
"Gimme' a egg" he choked, "an' turn on the set."
The bartender walked to the other end of the bar, switched on the television and returned with two hard boiled eggs.
"One dee-luxe chicken dinner on the house"
His joke went unheard, the morning news and eggshells taking all of Beanblossom's attention.
He stared at a female reporter describing a sexual harassment lawsuit.
I bet she wouldn't act so damn smart, if she was naked.
He squinted, trying to imagine her nude and bit into the egg.
I know what'd straighten you out good, you whore.
Beanblossom was distracted by the song. "Rusty, that's too loud. I can't hear the news."
Rusty turned down the jukebox. "Okay, Jimbo." and then said to Bo, "I guess he hasn't heard the news."
John took Bo's arm and pulled him toward Beanblossom.
[JS133] [JS134] "Daddy? Can we play with the jackass?"
Bo's smile turned into a sneer. "Sure boy, let's be neighborly."
They took seats on either side of Beanblossom.
What's with these two? You'd think they were friggen' fairies.
"Hi Jimmy, mind if we join you?" John said.
"No."
He looked at Bo.
Why the hell does he hang around with this skinny jerk? Always trouble.
"I'm watching the news"
John crushed little pieces of eggshell under his fingertip.
"Oh, is there something newsy happening."
Beanblossom ignored him. "Rusty! I still can't hear the god-damn news!"
The bartender snapped, "For Christ's sake, if you can't hear it back there, move your ass up here."
"Move your ass?" Bo repeated.
"Fuck that! Turn it up!"
Rusty knew full well what was going on, so he closed his eyes and turned up the volume.
The News Anchor's voice boomed into the room.
"...third week of abortion clinic protests by Project SAVE, the Pro-Life activist group from San Jose. Police have tightened security at San Francisco's largest family planning center, the Sutter Street Clinic, advising that traffic in that area will be affected by barricades and a threatened counter-protest be the San Francisco Chapter of the Women's Coalition for Freedom and Equality. [JS135] [JS136] NewsHour's Denise Toy has the report."
"Fuckin' dyke." mumbled Beanblossom.
Bo and John looked at each other and smiled at his words.
On the television, Denise Toy stood in front of the Sutter Street Clinic.
"Ed, I'm standing in front of the clinic with Yvonne Nelson, co-director of the Women's Coalition for Freedom and Equality. Yvonne, after nineteen days of protest and blockades, how much more of this can the clinic take."
"Baby killer..." whispered Bo. John added, "Man hater."
Beanblossom looked at them, then back to the T.V.
Maybe these guys are okay after all. Maybe down deep they are.
"...we'll continue to make sure that the clinic stays open and every women who wishes to visit the clinic..."
"Murder a child." corrected John.
"...has the opportunity to exercise her legal right to choose..."
"To end a life." snarled Bo.
"...what is fundamentally a personal decision about her body."
The news continued but Beanblossom was feeling the effect of the alcohol and the comments. He stared into the mirror and saw himself between John and Bo.
"God-damn feminists are destroying the family." he said, as he stepped off the stool and staggered toward the bathroom. "A kick in the ass is what they need, a kick in the God-damned ass."
He pushed open the bathroom door and the fluorescent light made his face look cold blue and blotchy in the mirror above the sink. He stared at it, repulsed [JS137] [JS138] by the deathly sight and pissed in the sink.
"Bitches" he grunted.
If she was my wife, I'd slap the livin' shit out of `er.
When he got back to the bar, John and Bo had moved together and his glass was gone, so Jimmy Beanblossom walked through the swinging doors and squinted into the morning light.
[JS139] [JS140] Scene 19 - The Project S.A.V.E. Children
By seven-thirty a.m. there were over two hundred people and six school buses in the parking lot of the Evangel Church of Revelations. A ten year-old boy stood on the front fender of the lead bus and brushed back his blond hair.
"My name is Josh Chamberlain and I save babies!"
The crowd of people turned to face him, cheering and applauding.
"I'm from Columbus Ohio, but now me and my parents live in that Winnebago over there."
He points to the motor home.
"We are full-time Pro-life protesters and since January we helped save over a thousand babies in eleven?..."
He shoots a panicked look to the back of the crowd, where his mother is nodding her head vigorously.
"...eleven States at nearly thirty... abortion mills."
The applause continues as Josh squints in the early sunlight to see his mother again. She points at the people directly in front of the bus.
"Now... I have the honor of introducing the littlest soldier in our Lord's Army. Please say `Good morning!' to Kristi Nagler!"
Kristi's mother and father lift the seven year-old up onto the fender. She's wearing jeans, a baseball cap turned sideways on her head and a sweatshirt that reads: "Survivor of the Pro-Choice Holocaust". Josh gives her the bullhorn and sits on the hood of the bus as she turns to face the crowd.
"Good morning, Kristi!" They repeat in studied unison.
"It's a good morning to save babies!" she recites with the polish of a celebrity with a lot of experience in front of audiences.
[JS141] [JS142] A battle cry mixed with exclamations of "Praise the lord" and "Hallelujah!" builds and Kristi waits until it has almost subsided before beginning.
"When I was little, even littler than now, my Mom decided to have an abortion. Well, a long time after the Doctor told her that the baby was gone, I was born."
The crowd falls silent and Kristi looks nearly all of them in the eye before continuing.
"I guess the doctors aren't as smart as they think they are."
A great wave of relief and laughter spreads through the crowd, so she smiles and adds:
"I know they're not as smart as God, `cause I'm here today!"
Another wave of applause breaks, but she stops them cold.
"Not murdered, but mothered. Isn't that what every... every child deserves? A mother and not a murder?"
The murmur of prayers grows under their stunned silence.
"I've been saving babies since I was three. my mom took me with her to the protests on my birthday. That was four years ago; more than half my lifetime spent tryin' to save babies like me from murderers like..."
She stops to think and her mother whispers, "Doctor Lowell Thuman."
"... murderers like Doctor Joel Thuman." Kristi repeats carefully.
As the crowd gets restless, Frank Hillis stands upon the front bumper of the bus, takes the bullhorn and leads a prayer.
"Oh Lord, Thou who ordainest, thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword! Who in your divine wisdom saw fit that Kristi here should bear us your [JS143] [JS144] message of hope and eternal love. Grant us the strength to stop this murder of the innocents, this killing of your children, this carnage for cash, this annihilation... or let us lay down our lives trying.
Merciful father, may we carry your shield and sword, may we smite thy enemies, may we turn the sinful toward you, may we reign triumphant over the evil that plights your wondrous creation. Grant us victory, O Lord our God!'
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the source of Love, and Who is the ever faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."
"Amen" the people add.
"All right, here's the way we do this. We have eight buses that will hold forty people each, that's three hundred and twenty seats. Now, we count just about two hundred fifteen Christians right here. So, everybody make sure to sit next to a window, so when we drive by the clinics, they'll be thinkin' we got over three hundred Project Saviors."
Seeing the subterfuge the crowd sharing a giddy laugh.
"Now you're seein' the light." Hillis added, holding up a baseball cap with "SAVE" in big letters on the front and a handheld radio "Every bus has a squad leader with one of these caps on and one of these walkie-talkies.
He switches to the walkie-talkie and the Squad leaders hold their radios in the air. He voice is carried through all of them.
"Let's fill up the buses and I'll give you all the battle plan like this while we're on our way. How many of you are `first-timers', hold up your hands."
Almost half of the people raise their hand.
[JS145] [JS146] "Fine, now, you newbies, find a veteran and stick by them. It only takes one or two encounters to become a veteran, it all happens so fast, but the first time is a little hairy. Listen to the squad leader and don't do anything unless they say so. We don't need anybody getting arrested or assaulted. God made this country with a First Amendment for a reason. And today, by God we're gonna' use it!"
He looks around the crowd as they re-group.
"If everything goes right, we'll do what?"
The capped squad leaders yell out, "Stop abortions".
"I can't hear you people!"
The crowd roars, "Stop abortions!"
[JS147]
[JS148] Scene 20 – The Clinic Incident
When the TAC Squad arrived on their black and white off-road motorcycles, Holt stopped sipping his coffee and watched their roaring procession.
No matter how many times I see these guys, it still amazes me how illegal they look; leather jackets, black helmet visors, combat boots and saddle mounted batons. The S.F.P.D. Motorcycle gang.
The swarm passed Holt and the police staging area, in a single file, and continued on another block before turning back in front of the Sutter Street Clinic. The roaring of the bikes echoed from building to building along the street, creating the illusion of a hundred TAC troopers instead of the twenty were heading toward Holt.
Great, let the clinic know we have a presence here before SAVE arrives.
Renee Smook, the Nursing Supervisor, stood in front of the clinic's glass doors, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. The line of cycles zipped past, each rider sitting ramrod straight and staring straight ahead. Dr. Thuman stepped out the door to stand next to her and watch.
"Renee?"
"Doctor?"
"I hope these cowboys can protect Fort Apache from the Indians."
She was immediately struck by the inappropriateness of the doctor's comment. On one level it insulted her by reducing the situation to bigoted cliché, but much deeper, she was repulsed by Thuman's casual ambivalence about the agony a protest brings.
Renee knew that honesty was the only way to deal with him, so she pointed to wisps of blue exhaust smoke rising up from the street.
[JS149] [JS150] "Then those are either smoke signals..."
The doctor smiled.
"...or your career."
Thuman held his smile and thought for a moment.
"Come on," he said, opening the door and pointing inside. "I have something I want you to see."
They walked through the lobby and back to the elevator without saying a word. Renee made eye contact with another nurse and rolled her eyes.
Here comes a lecture.
When the elevator door slid open, she stepped inside.
"Hold on, " the doctor said, "this is going up."
"Where are we going?"
"Down." he said, "let's take the stairs."
He walked to the stairwell fire door and looked back at Renee, who was puzzled for an instant.
What's in the basement?
The elevator doors started to close, so she stepped out quickly and followed Thuman into the stairwell. He waited at the landing so they could descend together.
"Renee, I know you have a lot of emotion about the protest, but we'll all do better if we put it into perspective."
Oh shit, here we go. Dr. Treehugger and his New Age Crystal remedies: think positive, get a new vibe, peace, love and patchouli oil.
"Connie and I have decided that treating this harassment like it's the end of [JS151] [JS152] the world will make it even more difficult to deal with. We'd be creating our own Hell.
I'm sure you and your wife have lots of neat little mind games to play with.
He stopped at the metal door leading to the basement parking area.
"The bottom line is; if we put our emotions on hold while handling a problem, we get to move around the board instead of being a game piece. "
The acrid smell of damp cement at the bottom of the stairwell stung her nose.
"Where are we going?"
Thuman held the door open and waited for her to pass through first.
"To my car."
Renee could think of no reason why they would go to his car.
Clinic services begin at eight, five minutes from now, so we're not going to breakfast. I've already seen his fussed-over BMW, and heard its deafening sound system from the lobby, for God's sake. And I'm sure he knows I'm gay, so...
She stopped in front of his car and looked at him. He was looking at the hood of his car. She followed his gaze to the deep scratches gouged down through the gleaming black paint into the very metal. Slowly, she could make out a word.
"Butch?"
The doctor pointed to smaller scratches on the left front fender. They were barely recognizable as an "e" and an "r".
"Butcher?" she asked, incredulously.
"It gets better" he said, walking by a long deep scratch that ran from the front, across the door and back to the rear, where a large "Star of David" and the [JS153] [JS154] words "Doctor Death" covered the trunk. At the center of the star was a swastika. Renee felt a chill of fear shake her bones.
"Good God. I don't believe it."
Thuman turned the palms of his hands up, closed his eyes and shook his head. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
"Crazy thing is, I'm a Methodist."
At first, Renee didn't understand the connection, stunned by the realization of how vulnerable she felt. She remembered when she and her lover
found the word "Dykes" spray-painted on the side of their garage. The was no
end to the fear that someone was lurking around every door and corner. They painted over the black letters a half dozen times, but there was always a faint outline of the word on the wall and in her mind. She ran a finger along the scratch and tiny black chips stuck to the end of her finger; little jagged shards of what had once been smooth and unblemished.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize they knew where you live."
"The pickets and singing is one thing, but this..." he said, looking at the car.
"...was locked in my garage all night."
Back on the street, Holt preparing to brief four squads of Detail Officers. While the men talked among themselves, took a last smoke or scanned the sports page of a shared newspaper, he conferred with a young lieutenant in a patrol car.
"Central says six buses left Evangel around eight. Coming up 101, so they'll probably take South Van Ness exit and come up this way." Holt said, pointing to the street next to the Clinic.
[JS155] [JS156] The lieutenant nodded and turned his attention to three city buses as they rolled up and stopped just beyond the TAC motorcycles.
"Good. Here's the ride for anyone going downtown. You know about the 75, maybe 100 women headed this way from the Mission, peaceful so far, but who the fuck knows."
Holt listened, but seemed absorbed by another thought.
"What?" asked the lieutenant.
"What's the Department's position on this today."
"Same as yesterday."
"And what was that?"
"Use your own judgment" said the officer, "Call it and stick by it."
Holt wasn't happy with the answer.
Twenty-odd years on the job get judged in a snap if something hits the fan and there's no official policy. Privilege runs up the chain of command and shit runs down.
"Yes sir."
"You know how this shit works; keep `em off each others necks and if they get out of hand..." he points to the buses, "...send `em down to me and I'll sort `em out."
"Right."
Holt got out of the car and turned to the Detail Officers.
"Listen up! What we're lookin' for here is a nice, peaceful event; no blocking at the entrance or exits, no physical harassment from either side, no threats. TAC's here on standby, but they won't move unless we get in a bind. [JS157] [JS158] )
Remember, we're here to keep this circus orderly and safe. Correction. Safe and orderly. Got it?"
The officers agreed nonchalantly and checked their equipment in anticipation. When Holt looked back at the patrol car, the lieutenant was reading a paperback book.
As the school buses reached the South Van Ness exit of the freeway, the congregation started singing. First one bus, then another and another as they closed ranks in the traffic and caravaned through the city. Hillis stood in the front in the lead bus and lead the hymn.
Jimmy Beanblossom walked across Market street and on to Franklin, watching his reflection move across the store windows. Some of them made him seem short and pudgy, others looked tall and lanky, so he stopped and faced his image, tucking the chambray shirt into tight jeans; his spine straight and paunch sucked in.
Same size I wore in high school, God-damn it, same size.
More than a hundred women were approaching in the reflection, so Jimmy turned to watch them walk down the center of Franklin street toward Sutter. Some of them carried signs, some were dressed in work clothes and some of the younger ones yelled to people on the sidewalk who watched them pass.
[JS159] [JS160] Scene 21 - The Protest
As protesters started moving toward the clinic, slowly, half-step by half-step across the warm asphalt of the street, they held Bibles and signs and pamphlets and each other, steadily closing the distance between themselves and the row of WAR Council volunteers in orange safety vests. Hillis mixed instructions and prayers through the bullhorn, watching and directing to ensure the lines would meet head-on, that no flanking or containing action by the WAR troops would stalemate the congregation's advance. He was about to have his people go to all fours, the hardest way to stop them, when he heard a car horn blast directly behind him. He turn to see what it was and for a moment, unable to recognize the driver, waved him away.
"Turn around, go back!" he said.
Then they heard the music. Voices and trumpets, a muffled snare drum and subdued piano. The music grew louder and louder until it rang off all the windows along that street and the car began edging slowly toward the crowd.
"Let it through!" Hillis yelled, then remembered his bull horn, "Let him through!"
The prayers and yelling, even the bullhorn's bray, were lost in the blare of music from the big Mercury station wagon.
Every person on that street tried to make sense of its arrival and approach. Above the hood, two American flags flapped on poles bolted into the fenders. Flowers were visible, above the windshield, and the driver dressed in black held up a printed card inside that read "Funeral".
The wagon picked up speed until reaching the narrow space that separated the protesters from the clinic, where it slowed and stopped. A collective moan [JS161] [JS162]
went up from nearly half of the crowd as the car passed by. Some woman burst into tears, others recoiled in shock at the sight, one even fell to the ground as if punched in the gut.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Holt said, "Dear God."
He looked at the display as he averted his eyes and shook his head.
On the back of the huge car, where the roof been, there was now a grassy hill with flowers and a small tree onto which a crucified Jesus had been nailed. Rivulets of blood ran down the tree and out to six tiny black coffins; three on either side of the hill, partially buried in the plastic sod.
The sight was so gruesome and overpowering that some of the crowd became nauseous and a few of them vomited. The impassioned groans and protestations of the others increased until all of them had finally seen the full spectacle. The crude construction, carnival-like theatricality and implied message were more than some could stand and a volley of bottles and rocks flew against the front of the clinic, breaking windows and striking some volunteers.
Even Hillis was struck-dumb for a moment, panting the air, charged with mob electricity.
Kane opened the door and stepped out onto the street, lampblack sockets under his eyes, hollows in his cheeks, for all purposes, the specter of death itself.
He reached into the car and pulled out a wooden handle, tied to a piece of sashcord, which was knotted to six others that ran back under the plywood of the hill and, where each one of those cords met a pulley, it turned at an angle and continued out and up to the a latchhook on the side of each little coffin.
For an instant, he drank in the pain and horror in their faces and felt cries [JS163] [JS164] and pain. Then, he pulled the cord.
And six little doors on six tiny coffins popped open on their spring hinges and up out of each one, a babydoll's mangled, blood-soaked body sprang up on its own hinge device and bobbed back and forth, some missing arms, some heads crushed and melted, other's bodies torn and battered.
The gasp of disbelief and horror that ran through the crowd scared Holt to the center of his soul. He had never heard such a sound, God knows how you would ever come to hear it. But, he knew in the same instant that the people had passed from the crowd state to riot without stopping at mob. No one could lead either side now. All of the actions and responses were coming direct from the deepest, most primitive reaches of the limbic mind, the primal fight or flee spark the we carry out of the trees, into the grasslands, through the centuries to right here in the asphalt survival street battle.
He shot a look at his TAC squad as the pain-wracked tears and shouts of protests turned to threats and pure jungle hate.
I hate the idea of gettin' into it, but it's now or nothing.
He looked at the TAC commander, pointed to the station wagon and thrust his thumb back over his shoulder.
The Commander nodded and spoke to his men. One officer, got off his bike and hopped on the buddy seat of the first in line. They all roared up to the crowd, dismounted and waded in. The bikeless cop went straight for the door of the station wagon and looked for the key. When he spun around, some of the crowd started pushing the other cops onto the car, so he grabbed a hold of Kane and threw him to the ground.
[JS165] [JS166] "Where's the key? Where's the fuckin' key?"
Kane was being trampled, his face smashed against the road, so he was unable to respond loud enough for anyone to hear him.
"Pocket." he mumbled, "Pocket!"
The cop heard nothing, so he flailed across Kane's back.
"Give me the key!"
Kane, in an effort to stop the beating, reached into his back pocket for the key. But the cop had no idea what he was reaching for, so he broke several of Kane's finger with a devastation blow from the baton.
"POCKET!" he cried, "IN MY POCKET!"
The cop grabbed the top of the rear pocket and ripped it open. A key ring fell out. Before he could grab it the crowd surged again and he was knocked down, unable to get up. Through the confusion of legs he could see at least two other scuffles on the ground. He bull-dozed his way to the key ring and, as he managed to grab it, someone stepped down, full weight, on his hand. Pain seared through his body and the only thing more agonizing then having his hand crushed was trying to move it, out from under a thick black shoe. Somehow he managed to get his baton next to the leg and he struck the knee again and again until, finally, the foot stepped off his hand. He pulled his hand back just as the black shoe kicked him in the face, setting off an explosion of light and pain in his head. Blood ran down the back of his throat and he coughed out a spray of metallic tasting blood and saliva.
He fought his way back to the side of car and climbed back on his feet.
[JS167] [JS168] Once his head was above the brawl he could see that the would be no winners and lots of injuries. Women and men shrieked as the riot seemed to take on a vicious life of it's own, pulling people under the surface melee' and battering them senseless on the ground.
I've got to get this car out of here! he thought, and another wave of bodies pushed him against the black fender, its flags ripped off, poles broken away as weapons. He reached for the door handle and a jolt of pain ran up his arm. My hand is fucked! Use the other hand!.
Instinctively he felt for his pistol, but found the holster empty.
Shit! Move the car! He fa
The door was jammed, an injured boy leaned against it, a long deep bash across the top of his head oozed glistening red. The cop pushed him aside and forced the door open against the surging brawl, leaning in to the car and falling down against the seat. Only by kicking the door to keep it open could he bring his legs inside before pulling himself up behind the steering wheel. The station wagon was being rocked up and down; the people trying to turn it over.
He held the key ring in his bloody hand and looked for the ignition key. House key... House key... what the fuck?
The head of the ignition key dangled from the cross-shaped key ring, broken in half. The other half was broken off in the ignition lock.
Oh, shit... he thought as the car pitched up and down, faster and faster.
And then he heard the only sound that could stop the insane violence all around him. The only sound he had ever heard that slapped him into stone cold sober attention every time. He heard his gun. Once, twice, and then no more.
[JS169] [JS170] The screams and threats subside, some of the people ran down the street and though the busy intersection a half a block away, cars skidding to a stop, horns blaring.
But there were no more gunshots.
The last struggle he saw through the window of the station wagon was three of his fellow officers, battered and bloodied, cuffing a guy on the ground while another cop held up a pistol. His pistol.
[JS171] [JS172] Scene 22 - The Construction Site
They were still lifting steel at 101 Howard street when Linc arrived to shape a lob. He watched the tower crane raise a length of I-beam to the top, fifty stories above the street, then walked down the stairway to the boiler room.
"Tommy, what looks good in the daily double?" he yelled up to a welder working on a scaffold above him.
The man yelled back, "Stonegate and Daddy's Dilemma". then lifted his visor and added, "Linc! Where the fuck have you been?"
Linc just smiled as Tommy eased his stout body down the scaffold ladder.
"And since when did you need advice on the double?"
As it got closer to lunch the Fitters and their helpers arrived two by two. Linc greeted them and they all complained about the scarcity of new projects and continued lay-offs. When Bonner, the foreman, arrived, Linc sneaked him an inquisitive nod, but the big man just shook his head.
"Good to see you, Mackey, how's Diane... and the kids?"
"Better, you know, and the kids are a handful."
A gray-haired Fitter named Frankie put down his sandwich and looked at LInc.
"What's with Diane?"
The chatter stopped and Linc looked around the room . Some of the men looked down at the floor, others waited for his answer. Tommy spoke up.
"She got mugged by some scumbag."
"Jesus Christ" Frankie mumbled.
The men shouted disbelief and threats.
[JS173] [JS174] "They catch him?" said a brawny helper no more than twenty. "I'll kill the fuck."
Linc shook his head.
"They got `im, but he's got a lawyer and..."
"I'll kill the fuckin' lawyer," the man added, "both... fuckin' dead!"
Again the room erupted in cries of outrage until Bonner held his hand up.
"What Linc needs is work, not more shit." he turned to Frankie. "Anything breaking in town?"
The old Steamfitter put his hand on Linc's shoulder and looked him in the eyes.
"I'll make some calls. You come back later and I'll have somethin."
"Jeez, that'd be great."
Bonner walked to the door. "I'm going to the gin mill. Any of you want a beer?
The men spoke up.
"Just one!" the foreman as they followed him out the door.
Three hours later they left the bar and walked Linc to his car. They all shook his hand and promised to look out for new jobs, each one imaging himself in the same position. Bonner and the old-timer waited until the other men had left before they walked up to the car.
The old Fitter spoke up.
"I called Simmons at the hall and he said the Convention Center job is starting two shifts next month. He's got a spot for you."
Linc smiled and started the car.
[JS175] [JS176] "I appreciate that. I owe you."
"And here's some milk and bread" Bonner said, handing Linc a crumpled paper bag.
"Hey, thanks, but I can..."
"Shut up. The guys wanted to help out. You take care and stay in touch."
"Yeah, thanks. "
As he watched the men walked back to the job, Linc shut off the engine.
Am I okay to drive? Two beers and three shots since noon and it's past three. I feel okay.
He opened the bag and took out a stack of twenties and fifty's.
Jesus, there's gotta' be a thousand bucks here.
He counted thirteen hundred and fifty before he got to an envelope at the bottom of the stack. In it was five one hundred dollar bills and a slip of paper with the word "Ferro" and a phone number on it. Linc folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket, leaned back into the seat and tilted his head up until he was looking at the ceiling.
Diane was fixing dinner when Jessie and Maura started screaming in the living room.
"Hey, what's going on in there?"
The screaming continued and she dried her hands on the dish towel and turned to see what was happening.
Jimmy Beanblossom stepped into the kitchen.
"Seems that your girls are afraid of my snakes." he said, holding a rattler in [JS177] [JS178] each hand. "They already got theirs, but these are for you."
He tossed them toward her and Linc reached out to grab them, but a stinging pain in his knuckles woke him up. The car horn was blowing and there was blood on his knuckles. It was dark outside, so he looked at his watch.
Seven thirty. Christ, I've been asleep for four hours.
As he drove home, he kept re-living the terror of the nightmare.
I'll kill you, you redneck son of a bitch!
[JS179] [JS180] Scene 23 - Dr. Moseley
Mr. Mackey, I'm Elliot Moseley, thank you for taking the time to see me."
"You're the police psychologist?"
"Not really. Although I have worked with the District Attorney and various enforcement agencies, I'm actually part of the City's Health Department. Victim Counseling. I thought I might be of some assistance with your wife, Diane."
"Then why did you call me?"
"Well, two reasons, actually. First, the family of a crime victim usually have strong emotional feelings that sometimes need sorting out and expressing."
Linc stared vacantly at the space between himself and Moseley.
"Yeah?"
"And, although I have tried to contact your wife several times, I've not heard back from her."
"Maybe she doesn't want to talk about it."
"Fine. My experience is that emotional trauma victims are reluctant to deal with the memories at first, but as time passes they feel the need to put them into perspective, with regard to the rest of their lives... and their families."
"I understand."
"I just want her to know that when she's ready to talk about it, I'll be here to listen."
"What if she can't ever talk about it?"
"Then I'd try to help you and your children adjust to changes in your life."
"The kids are really confused. They know something has changed, but it's a little beyond them. My five year old..."
"Jessica?"
[JS181] [JS182] "Yeah. Jessie's started acting up in school; pushing, hitting, biting. Her teacher knows about the "accident" and she says that kids react even if they don't know what happened."
Moseley, hesitant to interrupt, waited a moment before speaking.
"Well, being out of work right now isn't helping the situation. I guess I've been a little pre-occupied by the bills and mortgage and... security."
"Financial or physical?"
"Both. And emotional security. Probably that more than the others."
"In what way?"
Linc looked at the doctor.
"What if she never opens up? What if this thing has beaten her down so far that she can't get up? What can I do? I feel helpless and angry".
"This is where I may be able to offer you some alternatives."
"Whatever it takes. Anything."
[JS183] [JS184] Scene 24 - The Grief Management Network
Diane was just starting to set the dining room table for tea when the people from the Grief Management Network arrived. She opened the front door to find a tall, powerful black man and a petite gray-haired woman. The man held out his hand.
"Mrs. Mackey, my name is Leon Chichester and this is Merle Zausmer."
Diane shook his huge hand and, for a moment, her hand felt tiny, like a child shaking hands with a much larger adult. She smiled and nodded to Merle who said, "We're from the Grief Management Network."
"Yes, I know," she said, "my husband said you would stop by. Please come in."
It was not until Leon stooped to enter the doorway that she realized he had been standing two steps below Merle. He was nearly seven feet tall.
"May I offer you some tea?"
Leon and smiled and nodded as Merle said, "Don't go to any trouble."
Diane looked into Merle's eyes.
Do my eyes look that sad?.
"It's no problem at all, everything is just about ready"
She looked back to Leon and saw his smiling face lined by pain and sorrow.
I guess I never noticed before, how the heart is reflected in the face.
"Shall we sit in the dining room?" Diane asked.
"That would be wonderful," said Merle.
"Very nice." Leon added.
As they walked to the table, Leon saw photos of Jessica and Maura on the fireplace mantle.
[JS185] [JS186] "Well, here are a couple of angels. Look like they're `bout two and five."
Diane walked back to Leon.
"Actually the baby is only sixteen months, but she's big."
"I'll say, " Leon continued, "tall and strong. Looks a lot like her Momma too."
Diane smiled at the compliment.
"Do you have kids, Leon?" .
The man's face set into the lines of laughter and sorrow around his eyes and mouth. "Oh yes, Mrs. Mackey, up in Heaven I do."
Diane was speechless, so Leon broke the silence.
"You know, a cup of tea sounds like just the thing right about now."
A tear rolled down Diane's cheek as Merle took her by the hand.
"Come on, Dear, I'll help you set it out."
The women walked into the kitchen together and Leon looked back at the photo. "Angels." he said.
What was left of the tea in their cups had grown cold by the time they moved from small talk and pleasantries to their own stories. Merle spoke first.
"After Nathan was diagnosed he gave up; he lost all hope and sat in bed all day. I said, `Nate, you're not crippled; walk with me; you'll feel better.' He'd say `What's the use? I'm dying. How can I enjoy when I know I'll be dead?' It killed me that he spent his last days feeling sorry for himself. It got so bad that he would get angry at me for not being in despair with him. This from a man who fought in the War and built a business from nothing. What happened? He was told he was going to die, so he died in his head and waited for his body to do the same. Six [JS187] [JS188] months of pity in bed. What a shame."
Diane and Leon listened silently as Merle reached the end of her story.
"He was so furious with me for not agreeing with him that, when he died, I said, `Nate, I love you and I'm going to miss you so much.' You know what he said? He said `"F" you!' Can you believe it? Thirty-three years of marriage and he dies saying "F" you? When he was a young man he wouldn't say that to anybody, and he says it to his wife?
Diane reached out and held the woman's hand.
"I miss him so much, that sometimes I think I'd take the pain all over again if I could just see that young Nathan in him for just one minute. Because that was Nathan."
Leon, full of compassion, watched Merle dry her eyes..
"I'm sorry, " she said, "It's okay when I think about it, but when I talk about it, I can't help the tears."
"Nothing wrong with tears, Merle, " Leon offered, "natures safety-valve, ain't that so?"
The old woman nodded and sniffed back her composure. Diane looked at Leon, who turned to face her.
"Diane, we're here for you today, so telling our own stories is just to open up connections and similarities we all share."
"You lost a child?" she asked.
Leon nodded and looked up to the ceiling.
"That's right. Gina was seven when her Mom died, so she grew up too fast, tryin' to show me that she could take care of us both. She went to a the corner [JS189] [JS190] market to buy corn and got shot by a drive-by. One minute she was my little lady and the next she was dead. I could hear the shot from my living room and I just yelled out her name. She died before I could get there."
A small tear fell from the corner of his eye as he looked back down at Diane. "We read about you in the papers, but it's important that you tell us. If you want to."
Diane bit her lip and nodded.
"We weren't sure, Linc and I, if we wanted another, but when I got pregnant, we made it all right and started to get excited. What if it's a boy? What if it's a girl? You know, how you just assume that everything is going to
work out okay. So, when I got the AFP test back, the doctor said I should get a sonogram to see what the problem was."
She starts to choke on her words.
"I knew in my heart that something was wrong. With me, with the baby. I felt helpless and wrong, but what could I do?"
Leon and Merle looked at her, nodding and listening intently.
"When Dr. Berman told us that the fetus was...
Diane can only cry.
[JS191] [JS192] Scene 25 - John Ferro and the Skins
Linc turned off Fell street at Masonic and drove into Haight-Asbury. He had no idea what Ferro looked like, so he drove slowly along Haight street, looking for a Skinhead among the tie-dyed Hippies, corpse-like Gothics in black, Deadheads with dirty feet, Flower punks in gauze and brocade, White Rasta's with blond dreadlocks heaped on their heads.
Shit, this place gets weirder every year.
At the corner of Cole street, a group of Skins in leather and chains stepped in front of his car. He screeched to a stop, inches from a young girl dressed in skin tight black leather pants and studded halter. Her ears, nose and lips were pierced with dozens of wire rings. She stuck out her tongue, lifted the halter, and thrust her left breast toward him, its nipple bisected by a safety pin with a metal skull dangling below.
Jesus...
The passenger door opened and a long-haired Hippie kid wearing sunglasses climbed in and sat down. He was carrying a mailbag and a pink bakery box tied with twine. Linc stared at him.
"Are you..."
"Drive"
Linc turned back to look at the girl, but she was gone. Two nasty looking Skins were standing on either side of his car, waving him on down the street, so he hit the gas. The passenger set the box on the seat next him and took a Bible out of the mailbag.
"Oak to Gough to Mission to Eighth." he said, turning the radio on and tuning to a Buzz Metal rock station.
[JS193] [JS194] "John Ferro?"
"Yeah"
"I didn't know what you looked like."
"Let's keep it that way."
"Sure, that's fine with me."
Linc realized that Ferro was wearing a wig and the sunglasses were too dark to see through.
I get it, no way to identify him if I get caught.
"Were those your friends back there?"
"Shut the fuck up and drive."
Linc remained silent until he got to eighth street.
"Now where?"
Ferro got out and placed the bakery box in a dumpster in front of a storefront church. He walked back to the car and got in.
"Drive"
Linc drove to the end of the block before Ferro spoke again..
"Stop. I believe you have some money for me."
"You're supposed to do something for me first."
"Wrong, this is do it yourself."
"You said you'd do it."
"Too much heat; I changed my mind. But, you're a smart guy and almost everything you need is in there." he pointed to the mailbag on the seat.
Linc took out the money, and before he could count it, Ferro snatched it out of his hand.
[JS195] [JS196] "All you add is guts."
Linc watched him get out and a station wagon pulled up along side the car. In it were the same Skins that had stopped him in the Haight. The pierced girl was now topless and a chain ran from one nipple to the other.
Ferro leaned in the window and tossed the Bible on to the seat.
"Don't forget your inspiration: `An eye for an eye.'"
The driver of the station wagon raced the engine and Ferro hopped in, tossing his wig and sunglasses onto the street behind him. They raced off, leaving a black strip of rubber, smoke and confusion.
Inspiration? He doesn't know about my "inspiration".
Linc picked up the Bible and opened the cover.
A deafening blast rocked the car as the front of the storefront church exploded and rained debris on the street. A fireball rose into the air above it.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
He watched several people stagger out of the church into the street, then looked down at the Bible. It was hollowed out and rigged with an electric garage door controller. By the time Linc realized the trouble he was in and started to drive away, sirens were approaching from two directions.
Christ, now, I've got my foot in it now.
[JS197] [JS198] Scene 26 – The Irish Bar
Linc and Moseley sit at a table in the back of a downtown Irish pub, with two pints between them. They nod a silent toast and drink. From the jukebox the strains of an Irish resistance ballad clash with the ordinary sunlight bursting through the cellophane "stained glass" coat of arms on the window. Outside the open door, a woman screams at a man pushing a shopping cart full of cardboard down the street.
Moseley turns to look through the bar at the woman, then turns back to his beer looking almost embarrassed. Linc takes another drink, swallows and clears his throat.
"Ten years ago, the City was safe and clean. Then, I guess because of the economy, the whole place went to Hell and the crazies came out of the woodwork. I mean, the City has always been the edge, but now it's... under siege?"
"Lincoln, every day there are fewer alternatives for the people juggling several severe problems. No half-way houses, no transient housing, no out-patient mental health programs... no safe middle-ground for those on the fringe... the edge if you will, of acceptable social behavior. So, the street becomes the arena of social treatment. The police, armed with laws and authority, replace the physician or therapist and the city slowly becomes a laboratory maze with many more shocks than pieces of cheese. When that happens, people lose the ability to function in what we consider "normal" society and create their own logic. And although it seems faulty to us, that logic actually works on the street."
"So there's no hope this will all pass?"
"There's always hope, but without treatment, I don't believe those disaffected individuals will not leave the behavior that they know works..."
"To get the cheese."
[JS199] [JS200] Moseley stared down at his beer and took a deep breath. "Tell me about Diane." Lincoln was taken aback but the shift from the street to his family.
"She's doing... better." Both men sat staring at the table, waiting for the momentum of the question and response to ease them into a psychologist/patient discussion.
"Doctor, I have to let this thing work itself out. It seems that the more I try to help it, the slower it happens. There's a part of Diane I just can't reach. She has walled up part of her personality and it gets thicker when I mention it. So I don't mention it. But it's there. And she knows it too."
Moseley looked into Linc's eyes with compassion and patience. The ballad on the jukebox ended and another began before Lincoln spoke again.
"How long does this go on?"
"Until she's ready to trust again."
"Me?" Linc asked incredulously.
Moseley took a long drink and wiped his mouth. "Not you," he said, "the world."
[JS201] [JS202] Scene 27 - Jack, Dar and Charles
Jack Neuman sat in a recliner looking out the window of his apartment. He was thin, nearly emaciated and his bony hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face with a bath towel. His hair was matted to his head, looking more like wet shreds of brown fur than the golden blond mane he had before starting the medication and chemotherapy.
"Jack? You okay?"
Jack turned to look up at Dar Tilson and Charles Rodrigues who were standing behind him. He nodded and a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him, so he took a deep breath and focused on the wall in front of him. Pictures of Dar and Jack in Acapulco, young and tanned, in Tahoe, hanging Christmas lights on their cabin, in the City with friends, carrying candles in a parade.
Were we ever that young?
"Jack?" Dar said again, softer and more concerned.
"Yes..." he said, pulling himself back from the sad memories of the parade.
"Yes, I'm okay."
But he wasn't okay. It was hard to eat, harder still to keep food in his stomach. "Maybe some chamomile."
Charles walked into the kitchen and Dar put his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack smiled and looked up at him.
"I don't want it to be like this."
Dar closed his eyes and said, "I know."
They had said these same words over and over in the past months and still the true meaning went unexpressed. I'm sorry our dreams can't come true; I'm sorry I'll keep living after you've gone.
[JS203]
[JS204] Scene 28 - Hall of Justice Parking Lot
Detective Rupert Holt sat in the unmarked Ford: his hands on the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. All he had to do was start the engine and he could drive away, leave the Hall of Justice parking lot, get lost in traffic and forget about his wife and daughter.
And he wanted to do that more than draw his next breath, but he was stuck. Stuck between a thought and his mounting fear.
Maybe she's just that age, the tears and looks and secrets. Right?
His head tilted down and he looked at his knuckles, scarred and white.
There's your answer, Pal -- you don't believe it.
A deep sigh let him shake his hands for a moment, but his neck was still stiff and aching. He grabbed the wheel again and forced his eyes shut.
What do I do? Ask her if she's pregnant, for Chrissakes? She's only fifteen.
One of the Meter Maids tapped on his window and Rupert, startled, turned to face the young woman.
"Hey, Alana"
"Rupe, you okay?"
"Yeah, sure, fine. `S nothing."
The woman smirked and nodded.
"Right, just sitting in the parking lot having a car crash."
He pulled his hands of the wheel as though nothing had happened.
"Wanna' talk about it, or play Mr. Macho Dick?"
He looked into her eyes and saw concern.
"Alana, you have a daughter, don't you?"
[JS205] [JS206] "Corrie, she'll be ten next month."
For an instant, Rupert remembered his daughter at ten.
Lynn the Fin we called her, sunburned, but always in the pool. Jeez, she was a water rat. That was just... five years ago? Oh, God.
Alana watched the emotions play across his face.
"What's the story? " she asked.
"I'm afraid my daughter Lynn might be pregnant. She's fifteen."
"Did you ask her?"
"No."
"Then why do you think she's pregnant?"
"Just, uh, different things. I hear her crying, but she denies it and Elaine's been having a lot of Mom/Daughter talks with her. They have a little private relationship that doesn't include me."
"So, why not ask her?"
"Because... I don't know what I'd do if she said yes."
"There's the problem."
He nodded for her to continue.
"You don't know what you might do and you're afraid."
That was it.
As Daddy, Rupert could handle just about anything, but Detective Holt lived in a world of laws and responsibility, of good and bad, right and wrong. He had guidelines and limits. But none of that could stop his girl from becoming a woman and he feared that the child-like love he shared with Lynn was changing.
"I don't want to lose her."
[JS207] [JS208] "So, talk to her. Let her know you're still with her, but give her room to grow."
He started the engine and looked at up at the Meter Maid.
"Your husband's a lucky guy."
Alana put on her helmet and shook her head.
"No he isn't. He left when Corrie was four -- and she still asks about him. He couldn't be there for her or me."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah. You take care."
"Okay. Thanks."
Rupert shifted into drive and pulled out into traffic.
Scene 29 - The Skinhead Party
Michael Breck walked to the center of the room and took Jimmy Beanblossom by the arm, leading him away, under protest, from a group of drunk skins. Jimmy was fairly drunk himself, so he staggered along peacefully, distracted only by the topless girls covered with tattoos and piercings. Breck pulled him into the kitchen, picked him up and sat him on the stove. A dozen skins started howling a war cry and sprayed cans of beer, slapping and punching each other until it looked like a brawl had started.
Breck shoved the crowd back from Beanblossom.
"Cool the fuck down, you dogs. I said `Be cool!'"
The furor subsided and Breck grabbed two large cans of beer from the cooler, opened them and handed one to Beanblossom.
"Skoal, motherfucker!"
Then he rammed his can into Beanblossom's and both can's started to spout foam. Breck put the can to his lips and squeezed it until it was empty. He belched and a spray of foam shot out of his mouth.e belched and a
"It's great to have a man, a white man, make the newspapers by doing what he knows is his God-given duty!"
The crowd sounded their war cry again.
"When the Jew doctors and Lesbo nurses split the blood money this week, they'll come up short `cause this trooper, " he points to Beanblossom, "this Christian, said fuck you!"
Again the beer spraying and screaming begins. Breck singles out one drunk skin and punches him in the face, knocking him to the floor. When the kid gets up he spits out blood and a tooth, which they all find to be hilarious. One of the [JS209] [JS210] crowd turns on the stove and flames sprout next to Beanblossom's hip, but he is too drunk to react quickly. As his shirt catches on fire, the beer sprayers dowse him.
"Listen up, you dogs, this guy is a lesson for all of us. Who are the real Israelites?"
"We are!" they yell.
"Who are the chosen people?"
"We are!"
And how do we rid the world of the Scourge? The Mud people? The scum?"
"With the gun and the knife and the fist and the boot!"
"That's right!"
They all power-salute Breck, who waits a moment, then salutes back.
"And what about our brother Christian trooper here?" he says.
Beanblossom is scared.
Brech cranes his neck with a wicked smile on his face "Where's the Iron Man?" The crowd hollers "Iron Man!"
John Ferro opens the back door of the house and steps into the kitchen, holding a large firecracker and a lit cigarette.
"What?"
Breck points to Beanblossom.
"Whatta' we give Beanbag here for stompin' that cunt?"
Ferro sneers, "A vasectomy?"
Half a dozen knives flick out of pockets and boots.
[JS211] [JS212] "Or the Rubber Ducky?"
The room falls silent as Breck stares into space.
"Get Ducky"
Three skins rush out the backdoor and a girl screams. When they come back in, they're carrying a squirming girl. She screams until they set her down in front of the stove. Beanblossom looks at her; thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing only black leather panties: big breasts, tattoos and scars on her stomach, chest and arms.
Breck grabs a silver ring in her nipple and pulls her close.
"Ducky, you be a nasty little girl and fuck our hero here. Right?"
Without hesitation she grabs Beanblossom's crotch and pulls him off the stove.
"Come on, Needledick, one more fuck today won't kill my pussy."
The skins howl as she pulls him to the bedroom.
Ferro lights the firecracker, tosses it into the crowd and walks out the back door. The skins try to push each other closer to the firework. It explodes and a cry of pain follows as Ducky pushes Beanblossom down onto a stained mattress on the broken bed. She straddles him and unbuttons his shirt, sliding upward until she is right over his throat. As she pulls the shirt off his arms he hears two loud clicks and a ratchet sound.
I'm hand-cuffed! Jesus Christ, I'm hand-cuffed!
Ducky spins on his chest and thrusts her bottom into his face.
What the hell is going on?
She leaps to the foot of the bed and ties his feet to the sides of the bed [JS213] [JS214] frame with stiff lengths of clothesline.
"Stop!" he yells, "I don't want this!"
She stands next to the bed, pulls off her panties and picks up a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol from the floor.
"Who the fuck cares what you want?"
Beanblossom watches her splash the alcohol all over his body, then into his face, his eyes burn and the room becomes a blur.
"Don't hurt me! Please!" he screams.
"Not much of an Aryan soldier now, are you?"
She takes a plastic cigarette lighter from a table next to the bed, straddles him again and strikes a flame. Beanblossom panics.
"For the love of God, don't burn me, please!"
Ducky slides back onto his penis.
"Hello... who's this little guy?"
She slides up and down, watching him being torn between pleasure and terror.
"I'm afraid." he says.
"Well then, you better show me some heat, `else I might have to..."
She brings the lighter to his face.
"Please! Don't!"
"Relax and enjoy it. This will be your piece of ass to remember."
"I don't wanna' to burn!"
Ducky stared at the yellow flame and smirked.
"Then I'd have to do something you'd never forget."
[JS215] [JS216] When Beanblossom's alcohol-blurred eyes finally cleared he saw that the girl was lost in ecstasy. On the wall next to the bed was a framed portrait of Adolph Hitler standing in front of an American flag. Another skin girl staggers into the room with a bottle of Seagrams Seven and pours it into his mouth. He gags and coughs but she keeps pouring.
"Ducky, let me do him." says the other girl.
"He's already done, " she says, still rocking, "I'm just doing me."
"Then let me do you." says the girl.
Ducky stops for a moment, "Okay, but no Lesbo stuff."
The girl licks her lips and straddles Beanblossom's face, laughing.
"Right, no Lesbo..."
She takes Ducky's nipple ring in her mouth and tugs like a dog biting at a leash.
"Ooh, shit!" Ducky says as a trickle of blood runs down her stomach. "You do that again and I'll beat your ass."
The girl looks up and smiles seductively.
"Promise?"
Beanblossom turns his head for a breath of air, vomits and passes out. Back in the kitchen, some of the skinheads are mixing blood into their beer.
Scene 30 - The Morning After
An instant after the clock-radio buzzer sounded Linc was wide awake. Frozen, numb and scared, but awake.
Seven, Diane will probably snooze-alarm until the baby wakes.
He realized that, except for his sneakers, he was still fully dressed. Carefully he slid out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, took off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the spray nozzle to the wall and turned on the water. It was cold enough to make him jump at first, but he stayed behind the shower curtain, moving gradually into the warming stream.
I'd rather be cold than have Diane ask me where I was all night.
The spray of water reminded him of the fire hoses at the church; firemen scrambling to control the flames; rivulets of sooty back flow off the charred roof.
Jesus, what the hell was that stuff anyway? It was supposed to blow out some windows, not burn the place to the ground. God, I could go to jail for the rest of my natural life for this.
He lathered up his hair and scrubbed hard with his fingertips, trying to get every particle of ash and guilt off his body. When he stuck his head under the water to rinse, he felt someone grab his arm, so he pulled back against the wall and slipped to the floor.
"What?"
Diane was standing at the partially opened curtain, looking concerned.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
It took Linc a few seconds to regain his composure; more than paranoia shock he was amazed to see Diane up and alert.
"Are you okay?" he returned.
[JS217] [JS218] "Yeah," she said, "I just wanted to ask you if you want pancakes for breakfast."
Now Linc was sure that something had changed. Diane was acting like herself.
Could it really change this quick? Maybe Moseley was right. when it's time, it just happens. I hope this is it.
Diane walked to the kitchen and he finished his shower.
When he got to the kitchen, coffee was brewing and Diane sitting at the counter reading the newspaper. He poured two cups and sat next to her.
"It's nice to see you up and around."
She stopped looking at the paper and looked into his eyes.
She's back, he thought, and as beautiful as ever.
Diane smiled and put her hand on his shoulder.
"I know it's been hard. On you and the littles. I'm sorry." she said.
"It's okay, it's... all right. We just missed `good old Mom'."
Diane smiled sadly and nodded.
"I think I have a handle on it now. I can accept what happened."
A tear rolled down her cheek and onto the table. Linc watched it fall and splash.
One church for a thousand tears? I don't think that's out of line.
"I'm okay," she sniffed, "Just a little weepy now and then.".
She closed the paper and set it aside. Linc sipped at his coffee and glanced at the folded paper and saw the word "church" in a headline. He stopped and set [JS219] [JS220] the cup down, staring at the word.
It couldn't be in this paper, it was after midnight and... did she read it?
He looked at his wife as she drank her coffee.
No, she would've said something. It couldn't be anyway.
"What were all those sirens last night?" she asked.
Linc snapped back and forth between acting dumb and telling the truth.
"Fire, I guess. Too many to be anything else."
"Let's turn on the news." Diane said and walked to the t.v.
Nobody knows anything... except Ferro and his hands are as dirty as mine.
The first thing on the television screen was a cartoon. The cat had just swallowed a whole bottle of Tabasco sauce and flames were shooting out of his ears. When Diane turned to the news, Linc opened the paper.
"Church leaders plan Moral Summit" read the headline.
Good, they could use it.
The local news show was up to the sports segment when Diane found it, so she lowered the sound, then returned to the counter and sat next to her husband.
"Can we take some time away together. Soon?"
"That's a great idea." he said, "The coast? Mendocino?"
"Oh, I don't care as long as it has good coffee, long walks, Margaritas and fog."
"Sounds like a deal."
Diane smiled and looked out the kitchen window at the rising sun.
"You know what I want more than anything?"
Linc didn't answer.
[JS221] [JS222] "You know what? Linc?" she said and turned to find keep staring at the television.
"Linc?"
She looked at the screen and saw a smoldering pile of rubble. The charred sign next to the ruins read, "Evangel Church of Revelations."
"Jesus" whispered Linc.
Diane turned up the sound and the announcers voice boomed into the room.
"...early this morning. Investigators at this time believe that it may have been a faulty gas meter, but because of the high visibility of Reverend Saldana and his congregation, the Marin County District Attorney says it will proceed with the investigation assuming it was arson. For channel six news... I'm Lloyd..."
Diane clicked off the news
Scene 31 - At The Re-bar
Ducky bit her lower lip and gave Ferro a look that a sober man would have recognized as pure lust.
"Kinda' " she purred, and left the bar with her girlfriends.
So he pissed away the next morning watching CNN. Every hour they featured an update on the arrest of two brothers in Connecticut who were suspected of sending letter-bombs to half a dozen University professors.
"Morons" he repeated every time the video tape of their arrest was run, "Fucking morons".
Scene 32 - At the Burned Church
After the news crew left, Reverend Saldana and Frank Hillis walked to Hillis' Wagoneer..
"What do you think, Frank?"
Hillis stopped and turned to take another long look at the blackened steel trusses, heat twisted into useless shapes; piles of charred brick debris and the blued brass pipes of the organ.
"Looks like a couple of million... maybe more."
Saldana smiled sardonically.
"Not quite. The whole church was only eight hundred thousand."
"I'm not talking about replacement, " Hillis said, pausing to look around for anyone who might overhear them, "a couple of million in publicity."
"Praise God."
"In fact, some of this needs to be kept for reminders."
He picked up a charred doorknob and lock and wrapped it in his handkerchief.
"Who's the Christian Congressman you know? Hearn?"
"Ahearn, " Saldana said, beginning to see the plan. "Robert Ahearn. And he's in town for the school board elections."
Hillis laughed and walked to his car holding the white bundle in the air.
"He might need a little reminder that Satan never sleeps."
The Reverend followed him to the car, feeling the delicious momentum of the plan.
"Good Lord, you have delivered me a Solomon," he thought, "Thy will be done, dear Jesus, thy will be done."
[JS223] [JS224]
Scene 33 - The Congressman
Saldana was still wearing the sooty shirt he wore while climbing through the rubble when he arrived at Congressman Ahearn's office. As he walked from the car, he pinched the soiled cloth and rubbed it between his fingers. Hillis strode ahead of him to open the door.
"Can you handle this? Or, do you want a little help?"
Saldana pressed his dirty fingertips to his forehead and left a small but distinct smudge. He waited for Frank to acknowledge the mark before entering the office.
"Anointed by tribulation, sullied by the hand of the Dark One. I guess you can take it from here."
"Frank, I'm just the opener. I still need a strong closer."
Hillis closed his eyes and whispered,
"God, You, who changed water to wine, You, who said, `Cast thy bread upon the water', You, who multiplied the loaves and fishes, hear now your humble servants request..."
He opened his eyes and smiled.
"Two million five, dear Lord, two million five."
Saldana heard the numbers and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Amen, brother, amen."
Hillis opened the door and they walked in.
The reception area was full of people waiting to speak to the Congressman; old folks, boy scouts, a mother with three toddlers and four men dressed in `Gay `90's ' costumes. Except for the restless children, they waited patiently and whispered among themselves out of respect for the Office.
[JS225] [JS226] Hillis watched the room for a moment, then whispered.
"Start coughing."
Saldana cleared his throat and began coughing. To his own surprise, it became easier and easier to continue the more he did it. Once Hillis saw that he had everyone's attention, he motioned to the receptionist and said loud enough for all to hear.
"This is Reverend Saldana of the Evangel Church..."
When people in the room realized that the coughing man was the one they had seen on television that morning, some offered their seat, others called out for water. The receptionist seemed harried, but she was so taken aback by the situation, that Hillis continued,
"He needs to speak to the Bob for a moment before he goes to the hospital for treatment."
The woman walked down a short hall to the Congressman's office, opened the door and leaned into the room.
Hillis took Saldana by the arm and confidently pulled him around the reception desk to the hallway..
The receptionist opened the door and pointed into the room.
"The Congressman will see you immediately, Reverend."
"Thank you, ma'am, thank you" Hillis mumbled, "could we have some water please?"
"Of course"
Congressman Ahearn was a heavyset fifty year-old with small eyes and big, gin-blossomed jowls. He looked up from the papers on his desk, nodded to [JS227] [JS228]
Saldana and then turned to a tall well-dressed black man standing beside him.
"This all looks fine, James, bundle it up and submit it on Thursday, for Friday publication. that way, they won't have more than a few hours to heck on the..."
"Right," the man said, "I got it. That's good, real good."
He gathered up the papers, carried them into the hall and closed the door behind him.
"Have a seat, Lou." the Congressman said.
"Thanks Bob." It took a moment for Saldana to stop coughing, then he continued, "Bob Ahearn, Frank Hillis. Frank, Bob."
Ahearn reached out and shook Hillis' hand.
"God-damn, Hillis, I see more of you on t.v. than any six people I know. I kind of like your style."
"Thanks, Bob. It's simply a matter of handle them before they handle you." Hillis stated, still holding Ahearn's hand. "It's something we all need more of. Isn't it?"
Ahearn drew back his hand and stared at the two men.
"What've you got?"
Hillis took the handkerchief bundle from his pocket and dropped the charred lockset onto the desktop. The Congressman took a closer look.
"Terrorism." announced Saldana, "Anti-Christian humanists and arson."
Ahearn looked up from the scorched metal and looked to Hillis.
"This is your ball, Frank. How do you want to play it?"
Hillis pulled back his handkerchief and wiped his hands while looking [JS229] [JS230]
around the room. He smiled at the picture of the President and held that smile while he glanced at the other official portraits.
"Congressman Ahearn, I won't mince words with you. I'm sure you are well aware of the ground swell of support for traditional Christian values in America today, so I'll get to the point. Nearly twenty percent of the men, women and children believe that the time of Tribulation is at hand and the Apocalypse will occur before the end of this century. Jesus will again walk the Earth! In fact, Nearly seventy-five percent of the people in this great country of ours believe in the Bible as the divine word of Jesus Christ. That's three out of four people!"
He takes a clean corner of the handkerchief and wipes the smudge from Saldana's forehead before continuing.
"So, I'm puzzled. Who are these `fourth persons', who are these lost souls? Secular humanists? Liberals? Free thinkers and witches?"
He sees a knowing smile on the face of the Congressman so he changes his tack.
"There seems to be this myth, this rumor that the United States is not a religious country, separation of church and state and all that other hogwash. Bunkum, blather, baloney! The part of the First Amendment that deals with religion merely says, `Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof'. I'm sorry, did I miss something in there? I don't hear anything about separation or division or the so-called `wall' between church and state. Patrick Henry said, `It can not be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religions, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ."
[JS231] [JS232] "So, where did the idea of separation come from? Well, not from the Founding Fathers, that for sure. Not from the hard-working life-blood of this country, the rock-solid Christians who built a mighty tribute to the glory of Jesus Christ, no. This insidious idea, born in the Sixties, nurtured in the Seventies, spread in the Eighties, and tearing this country apart with murder, drugs and aids in the Nineties... came from... the Godless socialist and communist atheists who have, of late, fallen back into Hell with their leaders. But before they fell, before God cast them into the eternal fire, they planted a seed. And they watered it with care. And they fertilized it with Darwinism and feminism and Gay Lib and the Drug Culture and Rock and Hustler and Madonna and...
He stares at the ceiling and slowly let's his focus fall to Ahearn's face.
"...just a few key Christian legislators who know better than to let evil flourish, but `needed the support of fringe constituency' or who are ashamed of
the abominable laws that they pass but let pass because they `were up for re-election' and `didn't want to upset the apple-cart' or turned their back rather than confront the real reasons that this country has been snatched out of our hands by the very people our Christian forebears tried to protect us from."
"Congressman, our country has been taken over by the enemy."
Ahearn lets this statement sink in several times before speaking.
"What can we do?"
"Fight fire with fire"
"You don't mean arson."
"I mean war."
The Congressman pushes himself back from his desk ,puts his hands [JS233] [JS234] together, interweaving his fingers and stretches his arms upwards, hands coming to rest, behind his head. Saldana looks at Hillis in confusion.
"You're a pretty bright man, Frank, but that conspiracy clap went out with Reagan. I'll agree that the Christian angle is strong... Jesus, I'd be selling cars if it wasn't. But if you think burning out your enemies is a viable solution, I'll tell you honestly, you're gonna' be sharing a cell with a guy named `Bubba' who wants to play house. You got me?"
"All I'm asking for is for you to uphold the Constitution as a Christian. We can't worship freely if terrorists burn down our church."
"What can I do?"
"Start by having the FBI investigate the firebombing of Evangel Church as an abrogation of our First Amendment rights. I'll handle the press and television."
Now Saldana's eyes widened in amazement.
I'm watching a genius inspired by the Holy Spirit!
Ahearn thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I think I might be able to do that."
Hillis held up two fingers.
"Second, we'll need a temporary facility while the Reverend is raising funds and suing the insurance company to rebuild a bigger church."
Ahearn picked up the telephone and pressed a button. Hillis held up one finger and tilted it to point at the Congressman.
"And third, you get ready to work in the Senate."
His words caused Ahearn to look off into space for an instant, then return to the phone.
[JS235] [JS236] "Get me Haddigan at the Cow Palace."
He held his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Saldana.
"Merry Christmas, Lou."
Hillis picked up the burned doorknob and handed it to the minister.
"And it's not even winter yet."
Scene 34 – Lipp’s Bomb
Just after noon, Lipp arrived at Ferro’s apartment carrying a cardboard box. Ferro looked at the kid standing in his doorway, ragged jeans and abraded leather cycle jacket hanging limp on his bony frame, six foot two from his jungle boots to the tiny blue sledgehammer tattooed on top of his freshly shaved head. Remarkably, Lipp's face was as smooth and unscarred as a baby's; a fringe of downy fuzz looking more like steam than hair around his jaw. But, when he smiled his loopy grin, the small yellow flattened nuggets that were his teeth said; nicotine, caffeine and years of [JS237] [JS238] jaw-grinding speed.
"You still up for today?" Lipp asked.
It took John a moment to remember that he had promised to show him how to make an impact pipe bomb.
"Iron Man," the sixteen year-old said, holding out a brass hash pipe, "let's do a bowl."
Ferro shook his head.
"Look, I don't wanna' sound like your old man..."
"You can't. He's dead." the kid chuckled.
"Then, I don't want to wind up like him. Not today, anyway."
Lipp nodded by bouncing his head, neck and shoulders.
"Right, I gotcha'." he said, putting the pipe back in his pocket. "Later, that's cool."
Ferro walked to the kitchen. "Come on."
The kid carried the box in and set it on the stove.
"Wrong, " Ferro said, moving the box to the tile countertop.
Lipp was taken aback, but quickly put the pieces together.
"Oh, yeah, heat and chemicals"
"Pilot light, " Ferro corrected, "open flame."
"Yow!"
They unloaded the box onto the counter and took a quick inventory; one pound of potassium chlorate, four ounces of sulfur, measuring spoons, threaded pipe nipples, end caps, a plastic bag of ball bearings and a wooden rolling pin.
"Good?"
[JS239] [JS240] "Good." Ferro said, spilling a handful of the potassium chlorate granules onto a wooden cutting board. "Use the rolling pin to crush that into a powder"
Lipp took of his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his work shirt. He held up the rolling pin and cackled, "Just like Momma's little helper."
His wise crack died into the silence of the room while Ferro washed out a small plastic deli container, carefully dried it with a bath towel and set it next to the cutting board.
"Twenty-eight level tablespoons, then we start the sulfur."
It took Lipp some time to grind and measure out the powder, so Ferro opened a beer and watched him work, but all the while his mind was on Ducky: her breasts, her mouth and her girlfriends.
Sex bomb. Impact explosive. Malt liquor. Fire.
Lipp poured some sulfur onto the board and Ferro grabbed his wrist.
"Fuck! What're you, nuts? When this stuff mixes, it's impact explosive. You jam sulfur into that board and you'll be pulling splinters out of your eyes. Think about what you're doing."
"Do you have another board?"
Ferro shook his head and turned the board over.
Christ, this is exactly how shit happens. Some moron thinkin' about pussy when he should be payin' attention. I gotta' keep an eye on this punk.
"Oh, right, I gotcha', " said the kid, "no prob, I'm cool."
"The fuck you are..." Ferro shot back, "do exactly what I tell you or get the fuck out. Understand?"
"Right, it's cool, it's cool..."
[JS241] [JS242]
"It's not cool; it's impact explosive, you dumbshit. It doesn't give you a second chance. One fuck-up and you're toast. Little pieces of bloody toast."
Lipp hung his head and looked down to the floor.
"Sorry..."
Ferro didn't say a word as he poured the sulfur onto the board.
"Four level tablespoons of sulfur powder... into the mix."
"Sorry." Lipp repeated.
"Fuck sorry. Pay attention."
When the sulfur was pulverized, the kid cautiously measured the yellow powder into the plastic container. Ferro snapped on the lid on and held it at arms length in his left hand with his right arm behind his back.
"I didn't know you were a lefty." Lipp murmured.
"I'm not. But I would be if this blew off my right hand."
The kid stared at the container with new respect.
"Lipp, screw one end cap on each of those pipe nipples. Hand tight is fine."
Ferro kept his eyes on the container as he rolled it slowly from side to side, mixing the powders gently, but thoroughly.
Why the fuck am I playing Mr. Wizard with this little shit?, he thought, but his answer came when he saw Lipp looking at him in awe.
Respect, motherfucker, re-fucking-spect.
They mixed the ball bearings and explosive into the pipes, tamped and capped them. When they laid the four bombs on the counter, they looked harmless. Ferro filled the box with crumpled sheets of newspaper and set each pipe deep into the wadding.
[JS243] [JS244] "Ready?" Ferro asked.
"For what?"
"Field test."
Lipp grinned and nodded, picked up the box gingerly and followed Ferro out of the apartment to the Chevette. A light rain was beginning to fall.
As Ferro turned onto Market street, Lipp's heart raced as he thought about throwing the pipebomb out the window at the street people they passed.
Yow! Target. Target. Target...
He ran his fingers along the rough metal seam on the side of one of the pipes, tearing a thin strip of flesh from the tip of his index finger. He pressed harder and cut it again and again until the blood slick turned sticky.
Target. Target...
Ferro turned on Second street and followed it down to Brannan, where he parked along the oval that circled South Park. Lipp looked around at the upscale restaurants, grubby winos and children in the park's tiny playground.
"Wicked cool."
"Take one and put it in your jacket." Ferro said, getting out of the car.
They walked to the corner of Second and Brannan and entered a run-down office building. Lipp followed Ferro to the elevator and they rode to the top floor, then climbed a steel stairway to the roof, stories above the surrounding buildings. Lipp was trembling by the time they reached the facade overlooking the park. He stared down at the winos, their shopping carts pulled into a circle as they shared a bottle. The rain started coming in huge warm droplets.
[JS245] [JS246] "Yeah! Hit `em and then walk back past the mess to the car. Genius."
"Stupid," Ferro said, "It's over here."
He walked to the opposite end of the roof and waited for the kid to follow.
"Wanna' make the news?" he said, pointing across the street to a Telephone Company switching station, about two hundred feet away.
"Whoa, cool!"
Lipp took the pipebomb out of his jacket and set his stance to throw.
Ferro pointed to the biggest microwave dish half-way up an antenna tower atop the building.
"You hit that big dish and half the city will be fucked for phones,"
"Yah!" the kid screamed and flung the pipe as hard as he could. They watched it spin, end-over-end toward the dish, only to fall short by a few yards.
"No!" Lipp groaned.
"Yes!" Ferro whispered and instinctively shielded his eyes.
The pipe's arc took it right to the base of the tower, where it struck one of the steel legs, just above the base stanchion and exploded with a deafening blast.
The concussion sent a shock wave back to Lipp that rattled his bones and sent him down behind the facade for protection. Ferro grabbed his leather epaulet and pulled him back up.
"Look!" he said.
The kid watched the tower whip back and forth before collapsing on the severed leg and falling toward Brannan street. The base tore loose from the roof and crashed down into the center of the building, adding enough momentum to the fall to shear off the top half of the tower and send it crashing into the traffic below.
[JS247] [JS248] Lipp stood frozen, watching the horror scene unfold: groaning metal, crashing concrete, screeching tires and screams of pain. Ferro started back to the stairway.
"Let's go."
The kid didn't move.
"Hey!" Ferro yelled, "Let's go!"
Lipp took a last look and walked to the stairway. They rode down the elevator in silence and walked back to the car. The park was empty now; everyone over on Brannan, helping the injured, directing traffic or just watching in shock.
Ferro started the car and turned onto Second so they could pass the wreckage at street level. Traffic inched along, so they took their time, enjoying the wailing pain and confusion. Ferro pointed to a crowd of people who were watching a bloodied man and woman trying to get their screaming child out from beneath the flattened roof of their car. No one made a move to help them.
"See that?" Ferro asked, pointing to the crowd.
Lipp was grinning.
"Negative fascination."
"Cool" said the kid.
The first report on the newstalk radio said that people in the South Park area were calling with reports of an earthquake, but within minutes, police reported a bomb and that most of the Financial District's phones were out.
Ferro drove to the Rebar, parked and turned off the engine. They listened to the radio.
"At first report, police are listing three dead and seventeen injured, five [JS249] [JS250] seriously, in what appears to be a senseless terrorist bombing of the Brannan street Pac Bell switching station. Investigators have cordoned off a two block radius, so if you're heading to the Bay Bridge, you must get on before the Second Street on-ramp because, for now, nothing can get through except police and emergency vehicles. Again, police reporting three dead and seventeen..."
Ferro turned off the radio and started the engine.
"You think you got it now?"
Lipp looked at him and nodded. "Iron Man, still wanna' do a bowl?"
"No. I got something to do. Gotta' go."
"Wait a minute," the kid said, pulling a pistol from his pocket and holding it out in the palm of his hand. "This is for you."
Ferro took the weapon and examined it. It was loaded. Lipp continued.
"It's an over and under 410 buckshot Derringer. Two cartridges, three triple naught buck pellets in each one. Fits right in your pocket."
"This stolen?"
"Nah, man, it's clean as a whistle; it was my father's. I think you should have it"
Ferro took the gun without looking at Lipp. "Thanks."
"Thank you, man." said Lipp, lifting the box of bombs carefully as he got out of the car.
Ferro put the gun in his pocket and drove off to the Franklin Galleria as thunder rolled in the clouds above and rivers of rain ran in the gutters.
Inside the mall, Ferro pushed back his hair, wringing out the water, and unzipped his leather jacket. His tee shirt was cold and wet, stuck to his skin and [JS251] [JS252] stained where the wet leather dye bled and ran in streaks. The thrill of the bombing had subsided into a nagging anxiety that someone had seen him on the roof of the office building.
5:45. It'll be all over the six o'clock news.
Scene 35 – Ferro’s Date with Ducky
Ferro walked toward the Franklin Galleria in the thunder shower; rain- soaked, water running down his face, never once reacting to the wind-blown sheets of stinging droplets or wiping at his eyes, fists pushed deep into the pockets of the leather jacket. One gripped the Derringer, the other fingered a crumpled scrap of brown paper with the words "Bunny Hutch, Franklin Mall - 5:30" scrawled on it.
He was pretty drunk when Ducky tossed it to him at the re-Bar last night and he had had a few drinks while driving to the mall.
"Pet Shop…" he said, smirking at what he imagined he would find.
Ferro walked past the shops and boutiques until he saw a cut-out plywood rabbit, six feet tall, dressed in top hat and waistcoat pointing further down the mall. A sign in it's other hand said "Bunny Hutch", so Ferro walked on. He walked right past Ducky, leaning against a wooden planter.
"Hey boy, wanna play doctor?" she teased.
It took him a moment to recognize her. He had never seen her in anything other than leather and boots, but there she was in a floral print cotton dress, stockings and heels, her make-up making her look more like an aerobics devotee than Skinhead rowdy. She sauntered over to him, put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers.
Her neck and breasts were perfumed with her sex scent and he twitched at the recognition. Her tongue pushed through his lips and licked the roof of his mouth in a motion so unexpected and lustful that he gasped in spite of himself. She ground her crotch into his and snarled like a wild animal. Ferro let go of himself and fought her tongue with his, pushing into her mouth, grabbing and squeezing her at ass. They let their excitement grow until it was painful to stop. Ducky pulled away.
"I gotta' get my paycheck." she said, "Wanna' come?".
For the first time in his life Ferro felt out of control, weak and confused. But most of all he was horny; as horny as he could ever have imagined being.
Sex drunk, he followed Ducky into the "Bunny Hutch" oblivious to the screams and crying until the smell of rotten fruit and shit snapped him out of his reverie.
Jesus, this is a day-care center. What the fuck does Ducky do here?
A three year-old girl ran up to Ducky and hugged her knees.
"Ducky," she said. "love-a-Ducky."
More kids joined her and a crowd of toddlers blocked Ducky's way to the office.
"Easy, guys, I'm not wearing my play clothes now, okay? I'm going out on a date tonight, that's why I'm wearing my pretty dress."
None of the children had any idea what she was talking about, but two by two they waddled over to Ferro.
"What's your name?" asked a little Asian boy.
"Santa Claus."
The kids laughed, but Ferro stared at them, wide-eyed. He had seen kids before, but never touched one or tried talking to them. He stood still, wishing that they would go away. They didn't.
"Where's your reindeer?" a Black four year-old asked.
"I left them at the North Pole."
"Then how did you get here?" the boy shot back.
Ferro ignored him; having run out of patience and cute answers. Ducky stepped returned fro the office with a fat gray-haired woman.
"Is this the lucky guy?" the woman asked, nodding to Ferro.
"Iron Man, er, John, this is Faith, she owns the `Hutch'."
[JS253] [JS254] "Hi." said Ferro.
"I married an iron man," said the woman, laughing "but now he's just rusty."
Ferro glared at Ducky who was helping a crying boy who had a splinter in his thumb. He watched her tweeze out the sliver with her long nails and flick it onto the floor.
"I'm double parked." he lied.
She ignored him until the boy was satisfied that all the splinter was out and a band-aid was applied to his approval, then she spoke.
"Faith, see you Monday."
"Bye, Honey, don't do anything I wouldn't do." she replied, stifling a laugh.
Ferro stepped carefully over the kids between him and the door and he waited outside until Ducky had said good-bye to each one.
"How can you stand it in there?" he asked as they walked out of the mall.
"I like kids."
He turned and looked at her, unable to put the memory of her putting the bad-aid on the boy's thumb out of his mind.
"Why?"
"Because they're honest about their feelings. Because they trust me to be fair. Because they let me into their circle. Because they're not fucked up yet."
"They smell." Ferro countered.
Again she put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to her neck and whispered in his ear.
"So do I."
[JS255] [JS256] Ferro's pulse raced as he breathed her warm breath mixed with the pungency of her flesh, feeling his body react with instinctive desire to savor her, revel in her, consume her.
"Let's go, I've got a whole night planned for you and me." she said, pulling him toward the exit by one of his belt loops.
"Wait, " he said, "I need to check something out first".
He led her back to an electronics store they had passed and they watched the opening of the six o'clock news. The lead story was the Pac Bell bombing.
"I've had a very busy day." Ferro said.
Ducky dug her hand into the front pocket of his jeans and squeezed him.
"Baby, the best is to come." she purred.
He felt a surge of trembling electric shock bolt from his knees to his heart and back. When he turned to look at her, her eyes were closed, head tilted back as she licked her blood-red lips. Ferro took her lower lip in his mouth and bit down.
"Um," she moaned, "now you're getting warm."
They left the Galleria and walked to the Chevette. The storm had passed and the breaking cloud layer let golden sunlight pour down in shafts onto the steaming asphalt. The humidity made Ducky's dress cling to her legs.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Ninth and Lincoln, the hot tub place, but stop at a liquor store first."
Ferro smiled and looked at her. She slid down the seat and pulled up her skirt to show that all she was wearing beneath was a garter belt to hold up her stockings. He inhaled deeply and felt the intoxication begin again.
This is pure porn!
Scene 36 – At The Hot Tubs
[JS257] [JS258] They walked down a hallway in the private part of the hot tub place, with New Age music chiming and tinkling an odd mix of Asian flute and African percussion in the air around them. Ducky carried thick terrycloth towels and the room key; Ferro handled two bottles of Korbel and a bag of ice. The room had a hot tub, sauna, shower and an oversized bed. She stripped off his clothes, tossed them out into the hallway and called an attendant on the intercom while she rubbed him.
"This is room eight, we left some wet clothes outside the door. Could you run then through the dryer."
"Of course, " the attendant said, "sorry you got caught in the rain."
Ducky switched the intercom to music and the flute and drums filled the room with dreamy sounds. She opened a bottle of champagne and took a long swig.
"You want some?" she said suggestively.
"Just a mouthful."
"Okay. Just a mouthful. "
She spread her legs, shook the bottle and sprayed it up her skirt, between her legs. Champagne foam ran down her stockings and puddled on the cement floor. He stared at the bubbles as the sharp odor of grapes filled the room.
"I better shower." Ducky said. "I’m all sticky.”
Ferro roared and pushed her back onto the bed, licking at her furiously.
Scene 37 - At the Cow Palace
"There seems to be this myth, this rumor that the United States is not a religious country, separation of church and state and all that other hogwash. Bunkum, blather, baloney! The part of the First Amendment that deals with religion merely says, `Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof'. I'm sorry, did I miss something in there? I don't hear anything about separation or division or the so-called `wall' between church and state. Patrick Henry said, `It can not be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religions, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ."
"So, where did the idea of separation come from? Well, not from the Founding Fathers, that for sure. Not from the hard-working life-blood of this country, the rock-solid Christians who built a mighty tribute to the glory of Jesus Christ, no. This insidious idea, born in the Sixties, nurtured in the Seventies, spread in the Eighties, and tearing this country apart with murder, drugs and aids in the Nineties... came from... the Godless socialist and communist atheists who have, of late, fallen back into Hell with their leaders. But before they fell, before God cast them into the eternal fire, they planted a seed. And they watered it with care. And they fertilized it with Darwinism and feminism and Gay Lib and the Drug Culture and Rock and Hustler and Madonna and...
He stares at the ceiling and slowly let's his focus fall to Ahearn's face.
"...just a few key Christian legislators who know better than to let evil flourish, but `needed the support of fringe constituency' or who are ashamed of the abominable laws that they pass but let pass because they `were up for re-election' and `didn't want to upset the apple-cart' or turned their back rather than confront [JS259] [JS260] FIREBOMB Scene 34
At the Cow Palace (cont'd)
the real reasons that this country has been snatched out of our hands by the very people our Christian forebears tried to protect us from."
[JS261] Scene 38 - Matty Ruckert’s Videotape
"I'm a white man and proud of it. There're damn few things in this world that give me as much pleasure as the fact that there've been no mud people in my family tree. Ruckers been pure since the beginning and anyone who says that a few non-Aryan's mixed in the family tree don't make you less is full of shit. I mean every word of what I say.
"My Daddy, god rest his soul, was brought up Klan. Hell, his daddy was a minister and Kleagle in Georgia, after the First World War, organized twenty, many twenty-five Klantons, you know, local chapters and the like.
"It's simply amazing how little people know about the real Klan, not the Hollywood bullshit, but the God-fearin' , church-going workin' folks who have tried and continued to this day to try to keep the criminals in Washington from giving away what white men, Christian white men, built in this country.
"This struggle is in four different areas: the political and legal arena, street-theater and protest matters, religious and philosophical concerns and finally the armed resistance cadre.
"You boys fall into that last category; armed resistance cadre. Meaning trained combat elite. Not grunts, but a nucleus to build a military force around. And, by God, you'll be ready to teach and lead because the warrior is in your blood, your genes, your heritage. We all have a Beserker inside us, just waitin' to go into a blood rage. That's the most fearsome man in battle, flushed with blood and fighting for God and Country against the dusty, dirty, mud-people, put here on earth as a challenge to the Aryan people to prove their racial superiority.
"Damn, my Daddy would preach in three different churches every Sunday. Back then there was forty-fifty thousand ministers who was also in the Klan. See [JS262] [JS263] FIREBOMB CHARACTERS
what I'm gettin' at? We're fightin' the same war. We're both on the right side, but the church is busy handling the religious and philosophic business, David Duke in way inside the government and every time we have a rally or parade we get all the press we need.
"So, you and your brothers are the hope for our future.
"`Cause if there's one thing all the branches agree on, it's that nothing short of full-scale combat will change the direction we're heading.
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT STATEMENTS
Doctor Lowell Thuman
I don't hold the whole movement responsible for the tragedy that occurred this afternoon. I'm sure that most of the people who protest really and truly believe in their heart that what they are doing is helping their cause. Unfortunately, the pain and suffering that results from these `Violent Encounters' only serves to make the Project S.A.V.E. members look like morons who have forgotten that abortion is legal and we are still, thank God, a country of laws first and foremost.
Let me tell you what it's like to be spit on as you walk into a clinic and then be hugged by a women for whom having a baby would have meant disaster. I feel like a murderer and a saint at the same time. There's no denying that the fetus will eventually become a baby. There's no denying that some women feel like they are condemning an unborn person to non-existence. But correspondingly, we have climbed up the evolutionary ladder by our unique ability to make abstract choices; by the extrapolation of our current position to an unseen future situation based on projected quantities, values and action.
Joan Payton
At virtually every recent Anti-Choice protest, we've noticed children being pushed to the front of the protest crowd. There's no question that the parents of these children are using them to break the law, which is a step beyond simple child abuse. Instructing children to block clinics, lay down in front of cars, to harass and terrorize women who wish to enter the facility is a pre-meditated, deliberate strategy. The parents are hoping that their children will be able to perform some of the acts that adults would be held criminally liable for. The only analogy that comes to mind is the drug dealer who enlists a child to make deliveries.
These children have been brainwashed and deliberately kept away from influences that might cause them to challenge their parent's narrow point of view.
It's not necessarily the abortion that traumatizes women, but rather the brutal environment created by groups like Project S.A.V.E. Please don't forget that S.A.V.E. stands for `stop abortion by violent encounters'.
These are people who claim to care so much for the fetal child and show none of that care for their own children. These people have no business being parents, much less telling another woman that she has to be one.
[JS264] The WAR Manifesto[JS265] ReverR
A young teen-ager a few weeks late with her period should not be subjected to the life-long abject adversity that faces every girl who makes a mistake. To her, it's a matter of life and death and her body is hers to manage.
Yet I constantly hear the Religious Right say that once she is pregnant, she is serving God's plan. God made me. God made medicine. God made all this. So who are they to say what God meant? Put five different Christians in a room and you'll get six different philosophies and seven fist fights.
These people say they love babies? Not any that I know of. These people love fetuses, because as soon as it's born, they turn their back on the mother and child. And a lot of prayer and sacrifice is no substitute for an education, a job, a roof over your head and bread on the table.
Christ, we're lucky that it takes nine months for a fetus to develop into a baby, because, by their thinking, every ovum and sperm are babies! They'd want 12 pregnancies a year. I mean it wasn't until the fourteen century, when Pope Clement decided that there weren't enough church members in the world, that the Christians even considered that abortion might be wrong.
News Show Shrink
"I don't know if we are able to gauge what impact, these experiences will have on the kids. The children I have spoken to seem to derive a sense of self-esteem and identity from being so closely affiliated with a movement that means so much to their parents."
Christain Woman
[JS266] [JS267]
After the third abortion is when I became a Christian and I began to seek for the truth and Jesus let the light shine on me.
72,000 arrests during Project S.A.V.E. protests, and not one conviction of any violent act. The operative word is "convictions'.
We're Christians. I we know that babies are dying we have to protest.
Net News Shrink
Parents have the right to instill their values, religion and politics in their children. This is what is commonly called "rearing" a child. There is a thin line between responsible parenting and exploiting the children. Quite often political rallies include children and we don't see that to be abusive. But violent confrontations are not comparable. Danger and violence are the only reasons that this is wrong. Education of child is ok, but when the child is in jeopardy or is being used to promote the agenda of the parent, it is irresponsible.
Dr. Moseley
(reflecting on his past position)
"Project S.A.V.E. by it's repeated harassment and interdiction tactics has only succeeded in projecting a more radical and unrealistic image of the Pro-Life cause. It alienates those who might be `on the fence' about the issue, the undecided, who are fed up with the intimidation tactics.
Simply, it is not working. The total number of abortions in America is not going down. If they save one baby and alienate nine pregnant mothers who are undecided about which way to turn, then Project S.A.V.E. has not helped the Pro-Life movement at all. In fact, Project S.A.V.E. might be the best publicity for the Pro-Choice people. CONSIDERATIONS
MLK analogy -- they were trying to go to school
30 million baby figure????
What if your fourteen year-old daughter was preg and her life was in danger because of preg..... What would you tell her?
"At that point it would have to be my daughters choice"
END
2/27/12
© 2024 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
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Bomb-builder, John Ferro, responds to a “spiritual calling” that takes him from Indiana to San Francisco where Pro-Choice and Pro-Life protests have escalated to street riots. Ferro makes his way cross-country finding heroic confirmations in every vicious act he commits.
Linc Mackey and his wife Diane are in crisis, agonizing over her deformed second-trimester pregnancy. Diane visits a Planned Parenthood Clinic but is caught up in a violent protest. She survives a brutal beating, but spontaneously aborts her fetus and withdraws into silence.
Linc seeks revenge against the protestors. He contracts Ferro to bomb the church that instigated the protest. A senseless demonstration by Ferro puts Mackey on the wrong side of the law and in serious jeopardy of losing what remains of his family life, wife, and two young daughters.
Invigorated by his popularity in San Francisco’s underground, Ferro ventures too far into an emotionally overwhelming relationship. He loses his lone-wolf edge by pursuing Ducky, a sadistic girl who yearns only to possess the most dangerous of the bad boys, regardless of the cost.
As more churches are torched, Mackey panics, attempting to erase his complicity in the first bombing. Ferro becomes reckless, lost in his lust for Ducky. He seeks out the most extreme acts to impress her, but she has already become obsessed with Michael Breck the leader of The Tragic Skins a White supremacy group who sees Ferro as a threat to their power.
Ferro leaves evidence at a firebombing that implicates Mackey, and Linc is arrested. The Press portrays him as a homegrown terrorist, so Diane sets aside her depression and defends him with ferocity.
When a downtown mosque is firebombed, the underground dynamic changes radically. The Skins and Ferro suspect each other and, tormented by unrelenting police crackdowns, they plot to eliminate each other.
Ducky helps Breck entrap Ferro, but the plot backfires sending Breck into a coma and his Skins into disarray.
Brought to the brink of death in a burning church, Ferro achieves the enlightenment he hoped for at the outset of his journey. He is rescued and survives his wounds for several weeks in a Burn Ward.
Believing his last words will bring him apotheosis, he exonerates Mackey and confesses his guilt to a priest whose church he destroyed.
Linc and his family move to a new life in another state as more houses of worship are burned. They drive into the darkness with desperate hope that reason, and not reaction, will return to the world.
MASTER SCENE LIST
DEDICATION 5
INSPIRATIONS 6
Scene 1 - Prologue 7
Scene 2 - Fort Wayne 7
Scene 3 - Ferro's Apartment 9
Scene 4 - Joliet 12
Scene 5 - Trapper's Tat Shop 12
Scene 6 - Chicago 13
Scene 7 - The Diner 16
Scene 8 - Custer 24
Scene 9 - Linc's Journal 32
Scene 10 - The Mackey Home – Family videotape 33
Scene 11 - Couer d'Alene 35
Scene 12 - The Sonogram 45
Scene 13 - Saldana at Evangel Pulpit 46
Scene 12 - The Tragic Skins 51
Scene 15 – Kane’s Project 54
Scene 14 - Denise Toy 58
Scene 15 - The WAR Council 62
Scene 16 – Kane’s workshop 63
Scene 17 - The re-Bar 64
Scene 18 - The Corral 67
Scene 19 - The Project S.A.V.E. Children 70
Scene 22 - The Construction Site 80
Scene 23 - Dr. Moseley 82
Scene 24 - The Grief Management Network 84
Scene 25 - John Ferro and the Skins 86
Scene 26 – The Irish Bar 88
Scene 28 - Hall of Justice Parking Lot 91
Scene 29 - The Skinhead Party 92
Scene 30 - The Morning After 96
Scene 31 - At The Re-bar 98
Scene 32 - At the Burned Church 99
Scene 33 - The Congressman 100
Scene 34 – Lipp’s Bomb 104
Scene 35 – Ferro’s Date with Ducky 110
Scene 36 – At The Hot Tubs 113
Scene 37 - At the Cow Palace 114
Scene 38 - Matty Ruckert’s Videotape 115
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT STATEMENTS 116
Doctor Lowell Thuman 116
Joan Payton 116
The WAR Manifesto 117
News Show Shrink 118
Christain Woman 118
Net News Shrink 118
Dr. Moseley 118
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to new parents who fear that
their children will not be able to control their world.
They won't.
INSPIRATIONS
Fire may well have been the first enshrined divinity of pre-historic man. Fire has the property of not being diminished when halved, but increased. Fire is luminous, like the Sun and lightning, the only such thing on earth. Also, it is alive, in the warmth of the body it is life itself, which departs when the body goes cold.
- Joseph Campbell, Myths to Live By, 1972
To believe that God created Man in his own image is to say that rape, murder and mayhem are aspects of the Divine.
- Rev. Douglas Von Veldt, Exologia, 2008
When a person chooses to their view life in a strictly mytho-heroic context, someone is bound to get hurt.
- Dr. Elliot Moseley, Street Shrink, 2009
Scene 1 - Prologue
When David Curtis Stephenson laid the cornerstone of his Stephenson Building on July fourth, 1924, seventeen thousand Fort Wayne inhabitants and several hundred out-of-town "dignitaries" attended the gala, crowding the parade streets to watch the Perdue marching band lead a huge contingent of white-robed men and women waving American flags. It wasn't an official Klan function, but the building was meant to be a very visible property in the heretofore Invisible Empire. Stephenson controlled over one hundred fifty Klan magazines, dozens of bribed politicians, and an inestimable hoard of nightriders, sworn to preserve Christian America from immigrant impurity with the terror trinity of guns, fire and rope. To the assembled throng, David Curtis Stephenson was remarkably successful native son, proud of his father's land and true to his mother's ideal.
Scene 2 - Fort Wayne
The Fort Wayne police could only be sure of three pieces of information: a man wearing a United Parcel Service uniform left a package at the reception desk of the Fort Wayne Equal Employment and Opportunities Commission on the first floor of the Federal Building sometime between 12:35 and 1:00 p.m. on May eleventh 1993, Ms. Louise Kraft opened the package when she returned from her lunch break at approximately 1:15 p.m., and the resulting explosion and fire killed Ms. Kraft and an EEOC client instantly while burns and smoke inhalation eventually claimed four other employees. The building’s nine fire exit doors were found to have been epoxied shut; the panic latch lock cylinders jammed with toothpicks.
At a mass memorial service for the victims, the Mayor expressed his shock and sadness at the senselessness of the act, the Chief of Police pledged to bring the terrorist to justice and Bishop Eugene Mc Elroy urged the mourners to never forget the bitter fruit of hate and discrimination.
John Ferro stood at the rear of the congregation, leaning against a fluted pillar beside the church's nave-arched oak doors. He gazed into the whorled grain of the massive doors, followed their jamb curve up to a muted stained glass tracery above the portal, then on high to the vaulted belfry. For a moment he watched the bell rope swinging; a knotted pendulum, hanging, until his breath came in staggered stokes and his tongue heaved up against the roof of his mouth. Ferro fought a nauseating rise of vomit, tossed back his shoulder mane of jet hair and cupped his hands over his face. Tears gathered in the corners of his gold-shot green eyes. His long fingers raked down streaked cheeks, pulling his thin lips into a wretched frown that spoke of pain and shame and disgust. When a gray-haired black woman next to him touched his arm and offered a tissue, he shook her off whispering: "No, I need this." He wiped at his eyes with his fingertips and glanced around at the tears and pain and loss.
Families and friends of each victim were gathered in the pews nearest to the caskets, which spanned the length of the church's center aisle.
Toward the ceremony's end, the nine year-old daughter of Louise Kraft, Denee, was escorted to the podium by her limping grandmother.
She unfolded a sheet of blue-lined composition paper and read in a voice that belied her grief. "Dear families and friends. My mother, Louise Kraft, was my best friend. We used to make wall-plaques for our friends and neighbors out of cardboard and old jewelry and glue. This is the last one she made... it was for me."
The girl held up a rhinestone encrusted card with a hand-lettered poem glued to its center. A few people began to weep aloud as she read the words.
"First God made the earth and sky, then He made the birds on high, the oceans and lakes were next on his list, then a man and a woman who courted and kissed, and a million other miracles of beauty and grace, but none like the smile on my sweet daughter's face. Love, Mom."
Most of the people in the congregation were crying or fighting to hold back tears. John Ferro could only look to the ceiling, overcome by emotion.
Denee waited until the crying subsided.
"I don't know why someone wanted to kill my Mom. I thought about it a lot in the last few days, and all I could think was sometimes God takes people when he has something special for them to do. Like, maybe some girl in heaven who never had a best friend when she was alive. I guess I won't know `til I get to ask her. I miss you, Momma."
When Ferro looked back down to the girl, the tears that had pooled in his eyes poured down his cheeks and dripped from his chin to his shirt and tie. He sniffled and the woman next to his offered another tissue. He took it and blew his nose.
"Thanks." he said, turning to look at the woman.
"Do you know the family?" she whispered
"Only since the accident."
"It wasn't an accident." she corrected.
He looked deep into her eyes, then searched every detail of her face.
This one is scared, but she's got it pushed down under some bitter anger.
Puzzled by his reaction; she turned back to the podium as child stepped down and carried a bouquet of flowers to the first casket.
A moment later, the woman turned to look at Ferro, but he was gone.
The agency never reopened in the Federal Building, but was relocated to a nearby industrial park until a suitable space could be readied. A few weeks later, only one person other than the employees and the friends and families of the victims, ever thought about the senseless tragedy.
Scene 3 - Ferro's Apartment
Ferro sat at the worn Formica kitchen table that was the wrong size and shape for the space. When the transient hotel changed the room into an apartment, a tiny stove and sink was installed where the closet had been, creating a bedroom with no closet and a kitchen with no cabinets. The doorway was widened to allow a small table that straddled the two rooms, but the landlord decided that the tenant could live with the wrong-sized table or live without. The table was piled with clothes, money, food, handballs and a stack of papers and newspaper clippings.
He sipped a cup of coffee as he read the stories, then folded each one and slid it into a large manila envelope.
"Firebomb kills six at Employment Office", "Hate bomb sears anti-bias Agency", "Aryan Alliance claims EEOC fire", "Mayor meets with Minority Leaders."
"That's enough." he sighed as he sealed the envelope. On its front, he wrote, "J.F. Scrabo, Post Office Box 1XA5654, Fort Wayne, IN, set it aside and picked up clipping that read, "Operation S.A.V.E. denies connection to pipe bomb."
Ferro fished a piece of crumb cake from crushed box and read.
"A representative from the anti-abortion protest group, Project S.A.V.E., met with police and City officials this morning to deny allegations that they had claimed responsibility for the bombing of a County Family Planning Clinic, last Thursday. `Apparently, someone claiming to represent Project S.A.V.E. declared responsibility, but I assure you, no one affiliated with the Project was in any way connected to this heinous act. Project S.A.V.E. is dedicated to saving lives, not acts of terrorism.' said James Magyar, legal counsel for the Atlanta-based Anti-Abortion organization. The clinic suffered relatively minor damage when the bomb exploded at around two a.m."
Ferro stopped chewing for a moment, then muttered, "Imbeciles"; sending a spray of crumbs and spittle onto the paper.
He took a deep breath and blew it out hard and slow.
"It's too sad here. It's such a gray little life and so much..."
The word escaped him. Try as he might to dig it out and leave it -- here, on the table with the boxes and underwear and screwdrivers. Spit it out and never say it, hear it or think about it again. Pieces of what the word meant collided in his mind, some of the combinations feeling right but not forming a word, an emotion and judgment montage that must, somewhere form a word that someone else could understand. He understood it. And he was no different from everybody else when you got right down to it. Down to where it's us versus them, judged by our skill and bravery, cold and separate in our individuality, before we screw it up with rules and pride and deception and disappointments.
"...remorse." he said, and then again, listening to the sound of the word carefully, "Remorse."
The rest of the morning was spent at the Laundromat and loading everything he owned into his car, a gray `82 Chevette with magnetic door signs that read "Jiffy Electronic Repair." In `86, he and two other friends from NYU skipped graduation and drove non-stop to San Diego on cheap gas, coke, pot and Coors, so he figured he had already seen the southern route.
The unfolded map of the United States and Mexico trembled on top of the washer; sneakers unbalancing a load of jeans and sweats. He traced a pencil line, arcing above and below Route 94 out of Chicago northwest to the Badlands.
Crazy place to build an empire, what with the snow and snakes and shit.
The wobbling increased until his line started to look like a seismograph's sweep of a tembler so deep in the earth that only tinkled the knickknacks and worried the dog.
There gotta' be a coupla' payin' gigs in Montana or Idaho. Those boys like it big and fast. Gas money anyway, till I get a phone drop in San Francisco.
His jagged route through Minneapolis, Fargo and Miles city continued past Billings, Butte and Coeur d'Alene before dropping south on 395 to pick up Interstate 5 south through Portland, Eugene and into California itself.
Ferro stared at his reflection in the Laundromat window, pulling up his shirt.
You fat pig. No food until California. Water and vitamins. Fat and thirty... fuckin’ dirty.
When his clothes were dry and folded he left Fort Wayne and thirty-one tombstones forever.
Scene 4 - Joliet
It only took him two hours to run up Route 30 to Joliet. If he was tired of Fort Wayne, then he was definitely tired of Joliet, but leaving wouldn't feel right unless he took a last look and picked up some kind of reminder, so he stopped at a liquor store and bought a six pack of beer and a quart of bourbon before driving out to look at the facility. He'd never really looked at it from the outside, and there was a place to pull off the road that gave him a good look without drawing attention.
God knows, an open container could blow up into a parole search and a whole shitstorm of questions and excuses. What'd Jaqua used to say? "Only break one law at a time. Most people can handle that without screwin' up. Break two at a time and the little numbers catch up with you: expired registration, warrants, booze in the car, carrying a piece -- that's how they snag you."
He was clean except for the liquor. Sure, if you could figure out how to wire together some of the electronic parts in his toolbox like he did, he'd be breakin' two, what with clock fuses, proximity detonators and pressure sensors.
But most of the components were off-the-shelf appliance parts that had been re-worked to handle more precise tasks. Much more precise.
It'd take a Ph.D. or another device mechanic to even figure it all out.
Ferro slammed down half of the first beer and poured some of the bourbon into the can. The next swallow made him shiver and retch, but the following swallows went down easier and easier. He looked along the triple fenced perimeter and coils of razor wire that looped through no-man's land and a row of guard towers that marked its every turn around the main building.
What do I want to take with me?
He finished off the can and started another.
A diploma! That's a gag, a diploma.
He gulped most of the beer and poured in more bourbon.
School of hard knocks. Romeo in Joliet, Sport.
Scene 5 - Trapper's Tat Shop
The buzzing needle clicked on and off as Trapper did the clean-up work and details on Ferro's arm, alternately wiping the oozing blood and dipping the needle into a dimpled tray of inks. Trapper's gray beard and hair were braided into long dreadlocks with a black bead at the end of each.
Ferro sat immobile, staring off into the next few days, jaw set for trouble. Sure he was drunk, and the tattoo needle punched a hundred holes into his flesh every minute, but he thought about how soft the West Coast was and how he would bite off of a big piece of Frisco and spit it in their faces.
Idiots. Setting off a bomb at two a.m. Chickenshit cowards.
Trapper wiped blood and squinted at his creation.
"You wanna' take a look?"
Ferro sat up and craned his neck to see the tattoo. It was a guardhouse turret with a spotlight on top, surrounded by barbed wire. Below it read, "Joliet, Class of `89".
Slowly, his blood oozed out and hid the illustration.
"Whatta' you think?"
Ferro just nodded, put on his shirt and tossed five twenties on the table.
Trapper picked up the bills and grunted, "No tip?"
"I'll give you a tip." Ferro snickered, "make sure you got fresh batteries in your smoke alarm."
Trapper had seen and heard just about every drunken boast or taunt, so he walked to the front door and opened it.
"You have a nice life, okay hard guy?"
Ferro stopped on his way out to glare at him. Trapper pulled up the sleeve of his workshirt and held out his forearm; a dark blue jail house tattoo of an open bear trap, framed by the words, "Trapper -- Folsom 1965"
"I was doin' hard time when you still had the ring of the shitpot on your ass." he said, "Now get it the fuck out of here."
Ferro walked.
Scene 6 - Chicago
He drove toward Chicago, moving his shoulder up and down every so often to keep the blood from scabbin' to his shirt. The needle sting was replaced by a dull burning ache of an abrasion, so he took another gulp of bourbon and buried the bottle under the boxes and clothes in the back seat. The radio was talk and static.
One beer and half a bottle. Tired. Sleep in Chicago. Leave in the morning.
He opened the last beer and took and a long drink. A caller was haranguing the host of the radio talk-show.
"...seems like you're trying to say that even though millions of people get killed in a movie or on t.v. it has nothing to do with real life. I don't think so."
Ferro took another drink from the can and set it between his legs.
The Talker cut the caller short. "Listen, moron, I'll repeat myself for the tenth time this hour. The question was; ` would we be better off leaving the violence in our media, or censoring it all out.' Not `is it good or bad?,' not `do we have the right to watch it', not what this lame brain on the line thinks, `Duh, I guess the movie made him do it!' Jesus! You know, I got into this business with the full knowledge and understanding that a certain part of my audience wouldn't be able to find their ass with both hands. But, really! What I said was... `Rather than worrying about the small, almost infinitesimal number of copycat crimes that happen after some bean brain sees `Beavis and Butthead' or `Rambo' or `Julia Child' for that matter, shouldn't we recognize that a much larger segment of the same audience is experiencing cathartic release of their hostilities and hatred safely, without acting out what they saw on t.v. I mean, doesn't everybody feel good when the bad guy gets his butt kicked? But you don't go out and kick your boss's butt, do you? You don't throw a punch at the cop who stopped you for speeding. We watch it so we can experience those unacceptable taboos and not have to act them out. That's it, I'm not repeating it again."
The caller sounded like a heart-heavy father. "So then, are you saying that those kids in Colorado weren't... inspired... for want of a better word, by the scene in the movie where what's-his-name drops the dummy from the overpass? I mean, there are two people dead and half a dozen in the hospital. Are you gonna' tell them that was catharsis?"
Ferro took another drink and stared at his headlights on the road ahead, but he was listening to every word.
"Listen, some of the violence is imitative, all right? A cheap thrill for some brainless scumbag who probably had all the intent but none of the imagination."
Static obscured the odd consonants in the callers reply. "So, bottom line, eliminate the violence and these sicko's lose their "inspiration". Am I right? No example, no crime?"
Ferro drained the can and threw it out the window.
"Let me finish. We have no way of knowing how many people watch the same violence as a "safe release" of their hostilities. It could be millions every night, but we have no way of counting them `cause you can't keep a record of something that doesn't happen. Are you following me?
"I don't see where you're going with this." the fading voice whispered.
"The point is, if you stop all violence in the media, there might be less crime from the rare imitators, but what about the millions who need it to release their day-to-day rage.
"How do you know it's millions.
"Because you're the third caller tonight that I've wanted to kick in the ass. Get real. We all have as much stress and tension as we can handle. That's life!"
"So, how can we control the problem."
"What would happen if millions of `catharsis addicts' had to go `cold turkey' and had to find another way of releasing their anger because we've taken away their crime shows and soap operas and slasher flicks?
"The United States would probably be..."
"Gone in one year or less."
"What?"
"I would give the country somewhere between nine months and a year before our only concerns would be maintaining martial law and dealing with the health problems associated with disposing of thousands of corpses a day.
Ferro turned up the volume to hear the wrap up.
"Right now the accusation is: people are being influenced by what they view. I believe that it is just the opposite. T.V. is influenced by the way we act. The `Friday the Thirteenth/Jason' movies were inspired by real serial killer, `Hannibal Lechter' was based on Ed Gein, the murderer and cannibal, `Miami Vice' was a glorified version of DEA operations. It's obvious that all of these and thousands more are examples of the media responding to the tastes of the viewers."
"So we watch garbage because we really like it?"
"We watch it because it's not us, and we can safely view our fears and anxieties -- our nightmares -- at a distance, like the morbid fascination that makes us slow down and rubberneck at the scene of a car crash. Good night. We've gotta' go to a break for news, but we'll be right back."
Ferro clicked off the radio and straightened his back in the seat until he felt a pop between his shoulders. The beer had made him drowsy so he shook his head to clear his mind and drive.
Morbid fascination. That's beautiful.
Scene 7 - The Diner
Sonny's was an old Pullman Diner car with streamlined stainless steel sides and panoramic windows that made it look as though it had paused for a moment on some carefree cross-country run. Its interior was paneled dark oak and brass fixtures, with booths, tables, a lunch counter and a full bar that was the center of activity during lunch and dinner. It was open at 8:00 am, but it's location near the financial district meant that no one usually arrived until just before noon.
Reverend Louis Saldana sat at a window booth looking out at office workers making their way to another eight hours of repetition and clock watching.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
Long ago, before he built Evangel Church of the Revelation, he worked as a records clerk for a downtown insurance company. The job was deadly dull and, after several weeks of riding Caltrain to and from the city, he found himself spending the entire ride home in the bar car every night. At first he figured he could handle it; it was just a way of coping with the boredom and frustration at work. But one night he fought with his wife for nearly an hour over some trivial point in the household budget, finally shaking her by the arm until she cried out in pain. He released her and stood there, sobering to the fact that he was drunk and out of control, then fell to his knees, begging Jesus and Pamela to forgive him. The next day, he quit the clerk job and began his ministry; gathering a congregation and building a tabernacle.
Across the table sat Bob Kane, a lay deacon at Evangel. Kane was a boyish thirty-two with a cowlicked thatch of blond hair above his round face that made him look innocent and unassuming. He knew his appearance could be used to great advantage, so he cultivated a quiet, introspective demeanor that cloaked his [JS1] [JS2] rancorous personality.
Saldana had invited him to the meeting that morning, mentioning that there might be some special preparations needed at the church before the week of protests began. They had nothing to talk about while they waited, so Kane leafed though his frayed bible, underlining passages that he felt were significant and making notes in the margins.
Saldana saw three men in business suits get out of a sedan parked across the street and walk toward Sonny's. He recognized Frank Hillis immediately.
They were parked here fifteen minutes ago. They must have seen us when we arrived.
He checked his watch.
We were here on time; why did they make us wait?
The men walked in the front door and Hillis, a tall thin man in his forties, lead them to the booth.
"Good morning!" he boomed.
Saldana and Kane got to their feet and stood at attention; Hillis shook their hands as he spoke.
"Reverend Saldana, I'm Frank Hillis."
"I recognized you from television." Saldana responded.
"There has been a lot of that, praise God."
He turned to Kane.
"And you must be Bob. Great to meet you."
He shook Kane's hand and smiled.
"The Reverend told me you're a deacon and the church's handyman."
[JS3] [JS4] "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy work. Psalms, nineteen, one." Kane recited.
"Hallelujah, brother Bob, in His word we hear our call."
Hillis turned to introduce his colleagues.
"Gentlemen, this is Bill Travers, my press secretary and George Brimmer, my event coordinator."
Travers was an older, portly man with a pompadour of gray hair and a natural smile that fell into comfortable wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Brimmer, on the other hand, looked like a high school football coach, his once muscular frame now softened by too little exercise and lots of fast food. Kane and Brimmer eyed one another, each recognizing some shared low status similarity in the other. Hillis beckoned a waiter and took control of the meeting.
"Pot of coffee and some sweet rolls please?"
They sat down in the booth.
"Wonderful. May I call you Louis?"
Saldana nodded enthusiastically.
"Fine. We're very excited about bringing Project S.A.V.E. to San Francisco, Louis. We've found that by basing our group at a church in the suburbs we can get maximum media exposure with the least amount of counter-protests. Bill?"
Travers took off his glasses and wiped them with a table napkin.
"I'll need an office near the church, a Mac based word processor and printer, a fax, copier and at least five phone lines."
Saldana was taken back by the request, but Kane spoke up.
[JS5] [JS6] "No problem."
"In addition, I'll need a woman who's good on the phone, another that can type worth a damn, not some "two-finger Tessie", and a mother with baby that's, say year and a half, maybe two years old and cute. No criers."
"I can handle that." Saldana said.
"Good. Bob, I need forty, fifty picket signs; some on sticks, some just cardboard with these messages on them."
Travers handed Kane a sheet of instructions and continued.
"No two signs alike, mix and match the colors, recruit ten, maybe fifteen different people for variety of handwriting styles and for slogans, stick pretty much to the suggested list on the bottom of the handout there."
"That keeps everything looking spontaneous." Hillis added.
Saldana and Kane nodded in agreement, but Travers sensed a question coming.
"I know, `What if some folks bring their own signs?' right?"
Startled by his anticipation of their question, they laughed.
"Believe me, when you do this for a couple of years, you know everything about what people think. If people want to make their own signs, that's fine, but they must have them cleared by me before the event. George here will be looking for my initials on every sign. No initials, no sign. They leave it on the bus. Period. You'd be amazed at how the liberal press loves to run pictures of signs with misspelled words or just plain dumb slogans."
He turned to Brimmer.
"What was that one in Phoenix? `We love Feeduses' F-e-e-d-u-s-e-s."
[JS7] [JS8] Brimmer smirked, "Yeah, and `Aborted babies can't grow up to be President'."
Saldana and Kane stifled a laugh.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, considering the one we have now." Hillis added.
They laughed and Hillis waited to continue.
"George is the captain of our team when we hit the street. What he says is the law, partly because he studied the law and will keep us on the legal side of the line. I'm proud to say that since we started targeting the abortion mills, we haven't had one conviction. That's quite a record. George?"
Brimmer looked straight ahead, took a deep breath and exhaled like a old dog having its back scratched. He cracked his neck and spoke.
"Thanks Frank. The Project's lawyer, Ben Silva, does all the research on Federal statutes, State laws, local ordinances and current police policies that apply to every protest we plan. That means, what he tells me is do-able on each event is the furthest we can bend the rules without giving the Pro-Death people a legal reason to stop us. Here are the ground rules. No weapons, no knives, no sticks other than pickets, no brass knuckles or blackjacks, no mace, no illegal items of any kind, no drugs, no alcohol before or during..."
"George, are you talking about my congregation or the Hell's Angels?" Saldana asked.
Brimmer glared at him and ignored Kane's chortling.
"...no obscenities, no racial or sexual slurs, no touching the other side, no spitting, no throwing objects and no threatening. Is that clear?"
[JS9] [JS10] Saldana couldn't contain his amusement.
"George, we are Christians, not Barbarians. I'm sure that you understand we are non-violent, family people..."
Brimmer cut him short.
"Listen, Lou, I don't give a coon's ass about all that crap. You know your congregation from seeing them at services and church socials. I know about protest crowds, riots and mobs. An entirely different animal. I can handle a crowd, but a riot has no leader, and when it starts acting and moving on its own, it’s a mob; more like Satan than anything you've ever seen. So, thanks for trying to spare me my breath, but pay attention and learn something."
Saldana stiffened. "I'm not sure I like your tone."
"Then get over it. The safety of your people should be first and foremost thing on your mind. Not whether or not you like my `tone'"
Hillis broke in. "Louis, George was a policeman in Los Angeles during the riots, the Rodney King riots, he's very clear about how far people can go before they snap."
"Well, this isn't L.A. and my congregation is made up of regular people, not gang members."
Brimmer took out a newspaper clipping, unfolded it and dropped it on the table in front of Saldana. The photo showed an impossible mountain of heads and arms that grabbed Saldana's attention.
"Football game in Wisconsin, thirty thousand people in the stands, home team wins and the fans rush down to the field to tear down the goal post. There's a hundred `rent-a-cops' at the fence with orders to keep all fans off the field. As the crowd rushes, the cops try to hold them back and people get crushed and fall to the [JS11] [JS12] ground. Within seconds another wave goes down, then another and another, until there's a pile of them twenty deep and thousands behind them still pushing. You starting to get the picture?"
Saldana's mouth drops open as he makes sense of the photo.
"The people on the bottom of the pile have two or three thousand pounds pressing down on them and no way to get free. The teams run over to help but, there's no way, so they start waving to the people in the stands to move back, but the screaming is so loud that the fans in the back think that the team is just waving to them, so push harder to get down onto the field. Thirty-nine dead and over three hundred injured seriously. And that was just a football game; abortion is a much more emotional issue."
"Merciful lord." Saldana whispers.
Brimmer picks up the paper, folds it and puts it in his shirt pocket.
"Yes. Merciful Lord, and ground rules and co-ordination."
Brimmer hands Saldana a list of rules and tips.
"Make sure everyone who wants to be at the event reads and understands this list. It includes everything I said on the "no" list and some tips on what to wear so you don't get scraped up, and some of the code words we use to keep our people from getting into trouble."
Kane was getting excited, imagining the fury of confrontation.
"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.
Brimmer looked at him warily.
"What would you like to do?"
"Something special."
[JS13] [JS14] "Okay," Brimmer said, "You think up something special."
Saldana looked at Kane, but he was already lost in thought.
Hillis looked at his watch.
"Oh boy, we need to get back to the airport; our flight's in an hour and I'm sure we're gonna’ hit some traffic. Is there anything we missed?"
"The... uh, legal business." Saldana offered.
"Right, contracts, releases, waivers, copyright notification and tax nonsense for donations, fees and salaries. Silva will send you a packet for your lawyer to go through. FedEx it back before the event and everything else will go like clockwork."
The meeting was turning out to be much less than Saldana had expected. Hillis never asked about his congregation, they never talked about the clinic and a lot of prep work was going unrecognized. In, fact this seemed more like booking a show or performer than marching for the Word of Christ. Something about Travers' matter-of-fact recitation and Brimmer's crack-of-doom pessimism worried him. There was a sense of calculated criminality about what had originally been pitched as a heartfelt Christian concern. He couldn't, for the life of him, imagine anyone in his congregation with a knife or brass-knuckles.
Who have these people been working with?
Hillis dumfounded him.
"Louis, I know a lot of this seems... excessive, but remember, when Christ went into the Temple to cast out the money-changers, he carried a righteous indignation and a whip."
Hillis saw that this line of reasoning was not helping ease the situation, so [JS15] [JS16] he changed his tack and addressed Kane.
"Bob, you know that the Lord has charged us to go `above and beyond the call of duty' when it comes to saving precious lives, right?"
"I believe." Kane said.
"So, when we pick up the banner and ride into battle against those who labor in Satan's field, we have to remember; "Soldiers who wish to be a hero are practically zero, but those who wish to be civilians, Christ, they run into the millions."
Kane heard something in his words that spoke to him and him alone. Saldana thought better of voicing his concern and, after a quick good-bye, Hillis, Travers and Brimmer were out the door and off to the airport, leaving a table full of doubt and unanswered questions.
"It'll be fine." said Kane. "It'll just be fine."
Saldana stared out the window again and tried to remember what it was about his insurance company job that made him drink and hurt his wife, but the image of hundreds of people crushed in a pile filled his mind; screaming for help, dying while inches from help, begging the Lord for mercy, damning the person above, killing the person below, feeling the burn of empty lungs, hearing their bones crack, seeing the dimming light, falling back from the walla of the mob, yielding to the black felt sky of death without alternative, reeling into the cold dark void that we only glimpse when the way back is lost to us, past the
overwhelming pain, the insistent throb of hope, over the edge of existence and into the cradling arms of Jesus. We pray. If not that... what?
"It'll be fine." said Kane. "It'll be just fine."
[JS17] [JS18] As they drove back to the church, Saldana, for the first time in his life, felt as if he may have overstepped the limit of his control and ventured into the unknown. His pulse raced at the thought, but he kept calm and focused on Kane at the wheel, lost in news talk radio and traffic.
"Bob, are you okay with what they said?"
"I guess I don't have much choice." Kane replied. "It seems like they got their own way of doing things, and they've been doing it for years, so who am I to question what works? What about you?"
Saldana leaned his head back and bit his lip.
"I don't know. There's part of me that wants to make them see our way, but on the other hand, they're the ones making things happen all over the country. I just... I don't know, it seems a little staged, if you know what I mean. You know, the rules and tips and code words and such. Seems like it should be a lot more... spiritual than all that. I mean the Lord will lead us if our hearts are pure.
Kane saw his chance to establish a peer relationship with Saldana.
"All I know is that they do it all over the country and when you do it that much, you must have everything down to a science. I think there's a simple way to handle some problems and maybe it seems strange to us, but these guys are... the pro's from Dover."
Saldana was not convinced by his rationalization, in fact, Kane's complacency was more troubling than his original fear.
These men have the ability to control weak minds. Dear Lord, help my flock. Guide their steps and watch over their actions in the hands of these men. Thy will be done, but through thy grace and not by violence. We are honest [JS19] [JS20] Christians all, begging thy indulgence before facing the hand of Satan. Protect us from his fowl breath and keep us safe from his split hoof.
As he prayed, a car full of men swerved in front of them, a black arm thrust out of the window holding a gleaming revolver.
"Dear Jesus!" exclaimed Saldana.
"Bastard!" said Kane. "He was on my ass so I tapped the brakes."
Saldana saw a puff of smoke from the handgun, then heard the shot. For a moment, he wasn't sure if the bullet had hit the car, but looking again at the weapon, he could see that it probably went high above their roof.
"Bob, get off at the next exit." he said.
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
When the car in front of them took the next exit, Kane and Saldana looked at each other and nodded. They stayed on the freeway.
Scene 8 - Custer
An hour east of Billings, just before Custer, Ferro saw a red buffalo on top of a rusted-out pickup sunk deep in a field clogged with Stinging Nettle. At first only its beastly sulking silhouette, as he looked westward toward the late descending sun, until a southern bend in the highway spun him, the image and the sun out of alignment, showing the buffalo to be less than one inch thick; plywood, warped, peeling red porch paint and marked with the sign of the beast "5 miles".
An hour `til stretch out and pee. Shit, it's only two, but it looks like sunset.
A broken ceiling of thick gray storm clouds ran from just below the sun to the horizon, streaks of blurry virga turned the dark mountains of Yellowstone and Bighorn Canyon into soft skylines lit by slashes of sunlight laid between towering thunderheads. The remaining ambient light, as he continued under the first scattered clouds, brought up all the mud earth clay reds that turned the landscape into a russet sepia freeze frame from a Crow War nightmare. Something tiny popped at the base of his skull and a sickening heat/flush spread over the top of his head and around to his left eye, which trembled though a tic and shocked a breath out of him that smelled and tasted like iron.
There it is and... it's gone! Lost between breaths.
Ferro turned on the radio, looking for music to match his mood, but all he found was dreary Country Western, mortgage commercials and Jesus talk.
"... be good for Him. That's all we have to do." cried the evangelist, "Just be good for Him! What is there to not understand? That's all we have to do!"
"Fuck you." Ferro said as he turned it off.
He listened to the car noise and found a familiar pulsating drone that soothed him for a moment. The images of Christ and bankers and line dancing [JS21] [JS22] grew thin and his heartbeat slowed, breathing resumed as they blew into mottled patches of ghosts, poverty and sex, then resolved into a warm feeling of electrified spiritual freedom.
God-damn, that's it again... it's coming from the fucking car!
Hoping to savor this exotic state, he shut his eyes and breathed in deeply. Great bolts of excitement ran outward from his spine through his arms and legs and out through fingers and toes. He felt the warm blush to his bones.
Don't stop! Please!
He imagined pictured the same road scene ahead of him that he had seen when he shut his eyes, but it had moved a little to the right, so he turned the wheel gently to the left. In his mind's eye, the road appeared to be reversed; black line down white asphalt with a barbed wire fence to the right, maybe twenty feet off the shoulder.
There was no other sound than tires on the roadbed and gears spinning in oil and exhaust whistling though the pipes and his breath slowly draining out.
A blaring horn and screech of tires to the right of his car, made him open his eyes and instinctively veer to the left as a Wagoneer swerved into the wrong lane to miss him. His front left tire caught the gravel shoulder of the left side of the road and pulled the car from the highway. Ferro had been driving in the left lane, and the oncoming car that veered around him had spun off the right side of the road into its own dust cloud. The shock so unnerved him that he fought the wheel back up onto the pavement without ever hitting the brakes or slowing.
His transcendent afterglow was immediately replaced with an adrenaline rush that sent static crackling through his nerves. He took his foot off the gas and [JS23] [JS24] coasted in his lane until he saw a place to turn off the road.
The Chevette hit tire ruts in the turnout's gravel and fishtailed to a stop in next to a weather-beaten shack. The wood was rain shrunk, leaving huge gaps between the planks along the front face of the building. In oxidized red paint were the words "Custer Buffalo Trading Company" and a painting of a charging buffalo whose color peeled up in long strips revealing grain that had become ridges.
Ferro sat in the car until the dust settled and stared at the approaching storm.
I almost had it; almost remembered what it was. Fuck.
He opened the car door and stretched his legs out.
Just pee in the brush and get back on the road.
The gravel gave way under his boot heels and he trudged to the side of the shack where it leaned against some scrub.
Damn pea-gravel's like snow this deep. Too deep for a driveway or lot.
He dug into his fly, walking bowlegged out of sight from the road then leaned into the shack.he He heard a voice, weak and far-away at first, talking sing-song as if to a child. A man's voice, old and raspy, then a cough, then nothing.
He looked back over his shoulder to the car, but he could see no one.
"Your Momma raise you up to piss on a man's home?"
Ferro turned back to look at the man just as his water started. He fought to stop it, but only managed to wet the front of his pants and dance like a fool.
"Hell, if you're gonna' piss yourself, you might as well go ahead on the wall. Since you already started."
[JS25] [JS26] The man, gray, thin and wrinkled looked to be seventy or eighty with a rat's nest beard and long yellow/white hair. He watched Ferro for a few seconds then turned and walked back behind the building. A moment later a head-shy German Shepherd peeked around the corner and gave him a reproachful woof.
The old man spoke.
"You mind your own business who it is, hear me? Now, get back in that
box and be quiet."
Not another sound came from the back of the building, so when he finished, Ferro walked around to find the man sitting on a tattered recliner set right into the muddy soil. The rear wall of the house was missing, the roof sagged for want of support and inside, dusty shelves and showcases along the walls were empty and pulled apart.
The recliner was covered with a knobby fabric, caked with mud, grease and dog hair. The old man crouched in it as though he was watching a TV, but all that lay before him was a burned out pasture in a cyclone fence. Beyond that was only a thin ribbon of light just above the horizon where rolling clouds froze in sparks of lightning. His apparently saw something out there that was not visible to Ferro, something that can only be seen after years of looking.
"Son..." said the old one, "you got anything to drink?"
"Water."
"Shit, water comes up out of the ground."
The recliner creaked under the man's weight as he spoke.
"You see that trading post? This used to be the biggest buffalo exhibit in this part of the country. Ever heard of General Custer the buffalo?"
[JS27] [JS28] "No."
"I got him from a Crow named `Noname'. Traded him my Lincoln Continental and gave him a job for that bull. He lived out here in a tent and told me all the stories, he did. Taught me to see in the dark, talk to animals..."
He nodded to the dog. "Right, Smoke?"
The dog huddled in a wooden box marked "Bones".
"Taught me how to disappear, how to walk through walls..."
"How? How do you do that?"
Ferro waited for an explanation, but the old man only coughed and cleared his throat – twice – then waited.
"All right, I got something in the car."
The Shepherd crawled out of the box and loped hangdog toward the front of the building and the car.
"Your dog gonna' get it?"
"She could find it, but she wouldn't bring it back."
Ferro walked to the car, took a bottle from the back seat and followed the dog back to the recliner. The old man squinted at the bottle.
"That's the ticket. Let me see it here."
He took the bourbon, opened it and took a small sip, then rinsed it around his mouth and sucked in a great breath as he swallowed.
"Jesus! That'll get `er."
He looked at the square bottle.
"More `an half. A good number. That's a goodie." he said, then looked at Ferro.
[JS29] [JS30] "Why don't you get some of that shelf wood and start us a fire, here in the basket."
He nodded to the inside of the shack and pointed to a blackened shopping cart basket a few feet from his chair.
"You know how to make a fire?"
Ferro watched the man take a long drink of the bourbon before feeling for the lighter in his pocket. The wind picked up and shifted; the storm clouds began moving closer.
"Sure do," he said, "I sure do."
An hour later, the old man was drunk and Ferro was tired of his rambling --buffalo herd, trading company junk store, trinkets and bones, car ran off the highway and killed his bull, tourists stopped coming, started eating his breeder stock and lost the deed to the state for taxes. A big fire spilled out of the metal basket and popped and crackled huge sparks up into the night.
"This was the biggest roadside buffalo exhibit in the state." he said, "That first bull I called him `Custer' `cause when he looked around at all them Indians he was fucked. You get it? `I'm fucked" he says, like the General."
Ferro, looked into the roaring fire. "You tell me that story again and I'm gone." He turned to the man. "How do you walk through walls?"
"Hold on, now," the old-timer slurred, "Not so fast. You people watch too much TV and think that everything happens right away."
He took a big sniff of air and looked up to the clouds. "Rain."
The rain started and the wind whipped it into their faces,
[JS31] [JS32] Ferro stepped into the gutted building, leaving the old man in the rain.
"Hey, help me up!" cried the man, unable to rock up onto his feet. "Give me a hand with this chair and I'll tell you about walkin' through walls."
"I don't wanna' get wet."
"God-damn it! You piss on my house and burn up my wood and you won't even help me up."
Ferro watched the dog flinch at sound of the old man's voice.
Fuck you, Grandpa. You want to stay dry? I'll get you dry.
He walked out into the downpour, pulled the man up from the recliner and pushed him into the shack.
"You go inside, I'll get the chair." Ferro said, rolling the filthy seat end over end out of the mud, then dragging it into the center of the structure.
"Here. I'll pull the basket closer."
The old man collapsed into the filthy seat and tried to drain one more drop out of the bottle. Ferro hooked a piece of barbed wire around the edge of the fire basket and dragged it under the roofs overhang..
"You talk and I'll stack more wood you can reach for later."
"Good. I could do it myself, but you go ahead."
Ferro stomped down on a warped plank reducing it to long jagged sticks bristling with sharp splinters. The smell of dust and pine filled the damp air.
"The Indians `round here called him Old Man Coyote. He was slick, always got the drop on a guy and walked away whistling up at the sky."
Another shelf broke into pieces.
"When the white people brought guns and liquor, they tried to catch him; [JS33] [JS34]
left out bottles and shot up the brush, to no good end."
Ferro gathered up the kindling and put some of it into a box next to the chair, but piled most if it around the base of the chair. The man was too drunk to notice.
"So they sent a girl out, naked, to trick him."
Ferro pulled apart one of the wooden display cases and again put some in the box, but leaned the larger pieces against the armrests and chair back.
"Old Man Coyote saw that she was naked and followed her. When she stopped he stood in front of her. Her breath smelled like sweet whiskey; her body like Manzanita smoke, so he asked her to lay down with him."
The old man's crusted eyelids were squeezed tight. He wrinkled his nose and spit toward the fire. Ferro scraped paper and twigs across the floor with the side of his boot, bringing more tinder to the base of the recliner.
"The girl kissed him and the taste of her tongue made him dizzy. She said, `You come with me, I will be a wife to you and please you.' Old Man Coyote followed her back to the town, but before he could take her, white men locked him in a wooden building with his hands and feet tied to the wall."
Ferro pushed a long stick into the fire and stoked the embers. Each shake sent a burst of tiny sparks up into the smoke that collected under the rafters and poured out every hole in the roof. A few burning fragments fell on the old man's grimy jacket and smoldered as he continued.
"The girl realized what she did was wrong so she went to the Chief and told him what had happened. He called out his braves and they rode to the town to free Old Man Coyote, but the white men fought to keep them away.
[JS35] [JS36] When it looked like the Indians might win, some of the town's men went to the building, to kill the Coyote, but when they got there, he was nowhere to be found."
Seeing that some of the sparks were setting the tinder on fire, Ferro shook the basket harder and another shower of sparks on the old man's legs.
"Ow! Damn son, that's too hot, bank it down a bit."
Each push on the stick sent more embers into the air above the recliner.
"How did the Coyote escape?" Ferro asked, ignoring the man's protest.
"I said `Stop it' You're gettin' fire on me!'"
A flame licked up from the paper next to the chair and traveled along a piece of cardboard to a pile of splinters; another flame popped up on the cuff of the man's pants.
"God damn it, stop!" he yelled, swatting at the flame. Another spark settled in his hair.
"How did the Coyote escape?" Ferro asked insistently.
"Damn the Coyote! You're burnin' me! Stop!"
"How did he escape?"
"He was gone! My hair!" the man yelled as his greasy hair caught fire and crackled. "My God! Help!"
He tried to rock up out of the recliner, but Ferro shoved the burning stick in his chest and pushed him back down.
"How?"
The old man screamed in agony as the flames rose around the chair and filled his face with smoke.
"How did he escape?" Ferro yelled, driving the stick into the man's stomach, which sent the flames up his beard.
"...through the wall!" he screamed, twisting and pushing to get out of the burning chair, but the alcohol, smoke and firebrand fought him back into the flames.
"How did he do it?" Ferro snapped, then stabbed him with the stick for every word. "How... did... he... do... it!"
The howls of his torture formed into a sound that his burning mouth could only shape into a scream of words, cried with the terror of the dying.
"Girl trick... loved him!"
Flames reached up from the chair to the sagging shake roof, which burned with a fury. Ferro tossed burning sticks into the corners of the building where the wind streaming through plank gaps fanned them against the walls; spreading them like billowing sheets of flame.
The death rattle of the old man turned into a loud hiss as the struggle ceased and his arms and legs curled him into a crouch.
Ferro felt the skin on his face and hands searing. He took a final look at the man and walked back into the blazing structure.
Now you're fucking dry, you old fuck. You and the fucking Coyote."
The paint on the front wall of the building was bubbling and spitting off in little flecks of smoky flame as John Ferro kicked a hole though the burning planks and stepped through. The wind found the hole and wind blew sparks into his hair that they sizzled and died in the rain.
He walked to his car and turned to watch his work.
The head-shy Shepherd crouched low next to the Chevette door, eyes averted and downcast.
When the roof gave way and crashed down, the wind made short work of the walls. One by one they fell, splaying out under the pounding rain, leaving only [JS37] [JS38] one big bonfire that hissed and popped covered by fly ash and cinders.
Ferro waited until his clothing was soaked and cool again before opening the car door. The dog got up, then sat right back down again. Ferro stared at its hindquarters.
"Girl, are you in, or are you out?"
The trembling dog got up and raised a paw toward the door.
"Then get in or you stay here."
It skulked to the door, then low crawled across the floor to the passenger side.
"I never had a dog before, Girl." he said to the terrified animal as he got in and slipped behind the wheel. "You're my first."
He started the engine and spun the tires through the gravel and back up onto the highway.
[JS39] [JS40] Scene 9 - Linc's Journal
This book belongs to Lincoln Mackey 122 Trellis Drive, San Rafael, CA [email protected] – Reward if found.
Dr. Moseley promised me that keeping a journal would help pull everything back together. I can't say that I believe him, but maybe it will keep me from getting lost. When I’m lost, I clean the house. Ever since I was a kid, my Mom sick, my Dad away in Europe, I’d get cold, numb, lost in thought of how wrong everything was. As the oldest son, it was up to me to keep the house together and us kids in line.
So, I'd clean.
It was more than trying to be the "Man of the House". My brothers and sister never let me forget that twelve was not grown-up and I was not the boss.
And it was more than cleaning. It was restoring order and control after whirling over the line into the insanity children embrace when rules and limits cannot be enforced.
Cleaning was a detached, repetitive exercise that occupied my body while my mind jumped from problem to frustration to pain to escape; a protective trance. A routine routine…
It used to happen every few months, but now it's every day and I can't afford to waste that time, what with the kids and Diane.
I was a stand-up comic. I had a funny line for every situation. War, sex, dope, death; didya' ever notice? Comedy is catharsis is therapy and we all need release `cause we feel so powerless to cover the gameboard with hotels and lovers and things. Have a drink and smoke and laugh for tomorrow we die, right? Pure Ha-Ha au' Go-Go.
You see, it's a great racket. You set `em up to knock `em down. The uncontrollable, unpredictable, unreasoning world is out there, not in here, not in this comedy club, where we're safe. Where the real world is like a Fairy tale; "long ago and far away", safe, objective and explainable for ninety minutes, three comics, a couple of beers and eight dollars. And I was great at making them laugh every time.
Until last year. That’s when I lost control and my world cracked. The thin layer of familiarity and comfort over the chaos shattered and blew past my ears, exposing the harsh glare of reality, jolting me back to sensibility, knocking the giddy nonsense out of me. I broke.
I can't laugh anymore. I wish I could, but I went in soft and came out hard and chiseled. I lost my wife and my sense of humor. I mean, they're both still here, they're just not the same. And they never will be.
Dr. Moseley is the only other person who knows what really happened. I've told him so many times that I'm sure he sees what I see, knows what I know. And yet, he can still live the same as he did before it became so obvious that there is no struggle of good versus evil. Good versus good can create evil too.
Or, maybe he always saw the world the way it really is, and I just suffered a perception shock. Whatever. But it's a bitter pill very day.
[JS41] [JS42] Scene 10 - The Mackey Home – Family videotape
Linc finished up the breakfast dishes while mediating an argument between his two daughters in the living room.
"Jessie, let your sister sit on the couch with you if she wants, you're the big sister and you can let her do it."
"But she's messin' everything up!", screamed the four year old.
Linc tried an old ploy, "Maura, you listen to Jessie, she's your big sister, okay?"
"Dee-day" was the toddler's reply, apparently good enough for all three and, for a brief moment only the television's cartoon violence spilled into the room.
Linc closed his eyes and shook his head.
I bet the Living room looks like D-Day. The invasion of Normandy with Cheerios and Kool-Aid. Two "wreckoraters" approaching the post-breakfast sugar explosion. And there's gonna' be three.
Diane was at the OB.'s.
They had agreed that three years between kids was a bare minimum for sanity in the house, but when Diane told him the home pregnancy test was positive, they cried, hugged and drank a cherished bottle of Moet in the kitchen at nine o'clock in the morning.
Six months, Maura's sixteen months, baby born when she's just over two. Bedlam. Madness. Yay, Dad.
Diane poured the last of the champagne into the flutes.
"Here's to a boy. Lincoln Mackey junior!"
"Not junior."
"Then what? Senior? Let’s just say Lincoln Mackey the Second for now."
[JS43] [JS44] Linc looked at her excited eyes and felt a chill. "Just a healthy baby, boy or girl. That’s all."
Diane, drank the rest of her toast. "To happy Baby Mackey, whoever you are!"
A scream from the living room pulled Linc back from his memory and sent him running. Maura was face down on the floor, Jessie trying her best to act innocent.
"She wanted to get down but I'm too small help her."
"Then call me," he shouted, "call me and I'll help her."
Jessie pulled her security blanket over her head.
The door-opener in the garage below ground it's gears. Jessie jumped up.
"Mom's home."
Linc rinsed his hands and dried them on the dishtowel.
Everything's fine, just fine.
He wanted to believe it but the sound of Diane's footsteps up the staircase troubled him. Too slow. Too deliberate. Wrong.
His voice cracked as he called for her greeting, "Babe?"
When Diane reached the top of the stairs and faced him, Linc knew. Her tears and trembling said it all, so he embraced her and kissed her cheek.
The girls ran in, yelling and jumping, to hug Mom and chatter away. Diane listened to them and kept up a strong front, then sent them back to watch the cartoon.
She took a deep breath and relaxed, her sobs eased and Linc looked into her eyes.
[JS45] [JS46] "Babe? Talk to me."
She shook her head. "It's... not okay."
"How bad?"
"I have to go for a sonogram tomorrow, but Berman says it doesn't look good.?"
"What do we do?"
"After the sonogram, we'll go talk to Dr. Berman."
Linc nodded. Oh, Jesus, please let this be a mistake. "Sure, Babe. We'll be okay. I hope...
That night, Diane sat in her rocking chair, unable to sleep and Linc laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. At six a.m., he got up to make coffee. Diane joined him in the kitchen and they both yawned.
"No sleep." he says, "You?"
Diane shook her head, so he said, "I'll take care of everything. You go relax and I'll bring you some coffee."
"I feel like taking a hot bath."
"Great, after I drop the girls off, I'll bring you breakfast in bath. Deal ?"
"We're gonna' be okay, right?"
Linc thought for a second.
When we met, your eyes were this sad and I knew then I would always love you. "Yeah..." he croaked, then cleared his throat, "You bet we'll be okay."
"Mom?" Jessie called out from her bedroom.
"Right there, Hon..." Diane yelled, then hugged her husband.
"We'll all be okay."
[JS47] [JS48]
Scene 11 - Couer d'Alene
The Chevette started making a tapping sound west of Missoula on Ferro's fourth day out. He heard it immediately, for the long miles had been negotiated by focusing on the concert of mechanical sounds around him and falling in and out of his waking dream reveries. This metal on metal knocking produced a visceral ache in his gut, a premonition of mechanical failure, but even more, an ominous sense of spiritual jeopardy; something watching him, someone numbering his miles, counting his offenses, pulling at the fabric of his fate like claws raking red furrows in the pink flesh of reality. Nothing that would happen right away, but would, in retrospect, reveal his seemingly free choice decisions to be an orchestrated march to oblivion.
He pulled the map onto his lap and counted off thumb inches in miles.
Just under 150 miles to Couer d'Alene. If she doesn't give out in the next half hour, she'll make it, no sweat.
By slowing to fifty, the sound nearly disappeared, receding into the throbbing drone that soothed him, so he opened the console and dug under the maps and manuals until he found a piece of torn cardboard with "Ruckert - Couer d'Alene" and a phone number scrawled in marker pen. Ferro tossed the cardboard onto the dashboard and stared out at the western Rockies that stood between him and another graduate of Joliet who would surely appreciate the dark comedy of his tattoo.
Matty. Jesus, you were a crazy fuck if there ever was one: match-head bombs in the toilet, comb handle daggers, nutmeg trips and...
Ferro remembered Ruckert's boys: shaved, bruised, hard -- tattoos on their knuckles, lips and scalps -- "Last Resort Skins", "White makes Right", "American [JS49] [JS50] Front", "Aryan Patriots". A tiny fraction of the prison population, but anxious to hit, to bleed; each scar a battle ribbon, teeth expendable, fingers burled and crooked from frequent breaking. "Rather fight than Fuck" they said and they meant it.
If you ain't back in the joint, partner, I sure got some new toys you'll love to dick around with.
For the next two hours he snaked his way over the mountains, secure in the thought that he could count on making a connect with Matty or one of his partners, that way, even if the Chevette threw a rod, he'd be able to crash for a couple of days and pick up some pocket cash.
Outside Wallace, the ridge line fell away to reveal Lake Pena Orielle and Couer d'Alene half a mile below. Ferro shifted into neutral and coasted down as fast as the car could handle.
Hold your mud, baby, it's all downhill from here.
Forty minutes later, he stopped at a gas station and phoned ahead. The woman on the other end of the line said she never knew anybody named Ruckert, wrong number, but Ferro caught her before she could hang-up.
"Tell him Iron Man's in town with a bad rod and miles to go."
"Hold on." she said, covering the receiver with her hand.
Ferro checked his tattoo and, though it was scabbed over, it was still readable. A feeble cough and throat clearing came over the line.
"Hey, sport, what's your sorry ass doing here?"
"Just passing through, Matty. What's the word?"
"I got the bug, but it ain't serious yet. Where you headed?"
[JS51] [JS52] "Frisco. I'm due for a change of scenery. You interested in some toys?"
Ruckert choked again and Ferro heard the phone hit the floor as a thick, gurgling cough built into wracking gasp for air. The woman's voice screamed in the backround.
"Use the inhaler for Chrissakes! The nebulizer!"
A greasy gas station dog sniffed at the door of the Chevette, following the crack of the jamb up to the window, then stood up and looked in. Girl threw herself at the window with a vicious growl that startled the filthy mutt, sending it over backwards and into a sprint to the office. Ferro smiled.
"Atta' Girl, you tear him a new asshole."
Ruckert got back on the phone.
"Listen man, I gotta' do some medicine. Why don't you stop by and catch up? Have a beer an' a smoke... Hell, bang the old lady if you want to. God knows she could use it."
"Sounds good. I'm on 90 just outside of town."
"Go to Lemmon's Bar on Kingston. I'm right behind it in a blue mobile with a `63 Continental out front. I'll tell Maggie to let you in."
"Good, see you in while."
The coughing started again and he heard the receiver drop with a click.
If it ain't the needle, it's jail house sex. He wasn't kidding about his old lady. God damn bug.
There was an over-powering smell of sweat and rotten fruit in Ruckert's mobile home. Piles of clothing, food containers, magazines and motorcycle parts surrounded the couch where Matt and Maggie sat. Squat junk stalagmites, stacked [JS53] [JS54] wide on the floor, shrinking layer by layer as they rose, capped by a single coffee mug or a few cassette tapes or hairbrush. A maze of life pieces laid out in orderly rows conforming to some obvious, yet indecipherable storage system. Every surface in the living room was covered by a layer of linty soot, smudged grease or Formica rubbed down through its wood grain laminate to the gray plastic base by years of wear and friction.
They sat facing the television. Ferro had found a box of books to sit on without aid or advice and sucked on a joint while his hosts watched a game show. They were so absorbed in the action, rarely taking their eyes from the screen as they talked to him.
Ruckert looked bad, not more than 100 pounds, kind of pale blue-white and so congested that every breath sounded like he was wearing a scuba mouthpiece. Maggie was a big-breasted biker woman in her early thirties: flame red hair teased into a mane around cerulean almond eyes, set in heart-shaped face that didn't need the uneven make-up she had applied during the few minutes it took for Ferro to arrive - long legs; firm and strong with ample hips and wide shoulders pulled back by pride and demeanor. Everything about her conveyed a sense of barely-retrained sexual power.
Matty swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
"So what the fuck, John, you ever hear from DeCuitis? I think he got out last year... right? What is it, 93? Maybe it was two years ago. He always said he was gonna' blow that police station where the bulls beat him all to Hell. I figured he'd be on to you for the works."
Ferro passed the joint to Maggie, who looked him up and down.
[JS55] [JS56] "I saw him last year in Detroit. Fixed him up with a satchel and radio detonator that let him sit across the street in a car and watch the whole thing come down: seven dead cops, two or three bean counters and a bunch of dicks gone deaf by the explosion and the whole force scared shitless where it'd happen next. A real nice mess."
Maggie leaned back and looked over her cheeks at him, mixing her words with a stream of cigarette smoke.
"We heard about that. The news said it was a gas line leak."
Ferro looked into her eyes, then down at her breasts and thighs before he answered. Matty was fixed on the game show.
"Then I'm the gas company and DeCuitis is the meterman."
"What brings you west?"
"I just got a feeling that something big is gonna' happen in Frisco. Somethin' big."
Maggie looked at Matt, then turned to Ferro.
"Something exciting?"
"Maybe. Work, anyway."
She looked at Matty and remembered the last time she followed her passion into the unknown, seventeen, a runaway from Kansas Bible small-town boredom, meeting up with Davey and the Pagans that turned into a two year, hard-riding, nonstop party goof that only ended when he started beating her and chaining her to his bike everywhere they went. She had just about given up when Matty was released in `81, and threw in with the Pagans. He dogged Davey everyday about laying off Maggie, but the more he fought, the harder she had it. One night, at a [JS57] [JS58] roadhouse in Indianapolis, Davey burned her thigh with a cigar and Matty shot him dead with a snub-nosed revolver. Since that day she was devoted, heart and soul, to Matty. She fixed his junk, dressed his wounds and waited while he did his time. She knew her cared for her, looked out for her and kept her safe from the gang members that still wanted him and her dead for killing Davey.
Who happened to be Matty's brother.
A bell rang as someone hit the jackpot on the game show and Maggie realized that Ferro had been looking at her all the while.
Her eyes burned into his with years of lifeless waiting cascading over her complacent attitude, pushing her forcefully, irrevocably toward a cry that burned in her breast when she looked at his face -- "Take me, save me, use me."
"What is it you do?" she whispered.
"I'm an artist." he said.
"Like painting?"
"No. Like explosions and fire. A little more interesting."
She smiled at the thought of his casual relationship with destruction. Her soul yearned to go, run off with him, but she knew she was thirty four, standing by Matt, tame and broken to the low life, slow death. At seventeen she would have burned this young stud to the ground with more heat than he could have ever handled. But now... now she'd grown lazy; late bed mornings and TV afternoons, early dinners and no sex. Old, cold and forgotten, but for an occasional afternoon alone on the comforter, vibrator in hand and the memory of some young stiff's passion to take her over the top.
[JS59] [JS60] This boy was too late, and too much for her to handle right now.
The game show ended and Ruckert turned his attention to Ferro.
"You're lookin' fit. What've you got?"
Ferro smiled and reached into his pocket.
"Here's a little number I'm real proud of. Remember how we always thought it was the timer and receiver that cops used use to connect jobs?"
Matty nodded, eyes closed, eyebrows raised.
"Check it out," Ferro said, "Here's something that nobody even gets a chance to look at, `cause it's dusted in the explosion."
Maggie spread her legs and leaned closer to see what he was holding.
"This is a chemical det charge, sealed in a plastic tube that holds a low-freq. receiver. Everything in the tube absorbs the nitro, functions, then turns to accelerant during the explosion. They'd need an electron microscope to figure out what set it off."
Matty was a little lost in the description, but realized that no evidence was a perfect way to handle multiple bombings with no hard connection linking them to one source.
"That's beautiful, man, just... beautiful. You're way up there. I can trade you some plastique for a couple of them. Still got a few troopers who look to me for ordnance and..." His cough filled the cluttered mobile home with the sound of incipient death. "...and whatever. You up for it?"
"That's why I stopped by. That and a knockin' rod in my Chevette."
Matty spit out a bloody wad of mucous into a paper napkin and pointed to Maggie.
[JS61] [JS62] "Mag, get him some of that ninety-weight oil for his car and get me that wooden box out in the trunk of the Continental, would' ya?"
"Sure Babe, you need a squirt?"
She held the silver and plastic inhaler.
"Screw that shit. I'd rather cough it all up and be done with it."
Maggie stood and hiked her jeans up. Ferro noticed every crease and fold as she walked out to the carport. Ruckert looked him in the eye.
"She's a fine woman, Iron Man."
"I hope to shout."
"You wouldn't be outta' line if you gave her a roll. I know she wants it."
Ferro looked down at a pile of "Popular Mechanic" magazines.
"I wouldn't feel right, her being your woman and what."
"This is a whole different scene, with the bug and what have you. I won't even let her kiss me for fear that she'll get it too, but that lady's meant for ballin' and if it ain't you, it'll be some other guy. Shit, I'm just lookin' out for her."
"I already got a girl."
"I hear you partner, but do me a favor, would ya'?"
"Name it."
"You kiss `er good and let her know she's one fine piece of work, okay?"
"You got it, Matty."
Ferro looked down from Matt's eyes and noticed a grocery bag on the floor next to the couch full of red stained napkins. Ruckert saw his expression.
"Go on out there and help Maggie with that box of plastique."
Ferro stood up and worked his way through the piles to the door. An early [JS63] [JS64] news program came on the TV with a report of a letter bomb delivered to a synagogue in Spokane.
"That'd be Dwayne and the boys." Matty croaked, "I wish I was there."
Maggie was bending over, reaching into the trunk of the Continental when Ferro walked up behind her. She stopped, feeling his eyes on her body.
"Can you give me a hand?" she said.
He moved closer to her smelling her perfume and her sweat mixed with the pine breeze that streamed down from the mountains.
"What can I do?" he asked.
She waited too to answer, too long for him not to know what was coursing through her mind. For a moment he looked at her black tee shirt riding up; her spine a soft ridge of bumps that ran down her back into the dark, safe shelter of her jeans. She didn't answer, but shook her shoulders, letting the shirt climb until the undersides of her breasts were brushed by the cool evening air, raising goose flesh bumps around her hardening nipples.
"I can't do you." Ferro stated.
She turned around and sat on the bumper of the huge car, pulling her shirt down across her breasts with a sigh.
"I don't have it. I get checked every month."
"It's not that." he said, "You're Matty's woman and I don't take what's not mine."
"He said he doesn't care. He said that!"
"Makes no difference. While he's alive, I don't screw with his stuff."
[JS65] [JS66] Ferro looked at her pale blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and red-ringed mouth: open, teeth bared, pink tongue poised.
"When his time comes, you give him a decent funeral and wear black."
"Then?"
"You know where I'll be."
She stood up to him, her nipples pressed against his chest and closed her eyes. He found her mouth with his tongue and they pushed against each other fiercely, until she lay back against the fender of the car, spread her legs wide and pulled his hips hard against her.
He stopped and she knew he would go no further.
Her passion slowly dissolved back into a trembling tension.
"That's the box, on the spare, that's what Matty wants." she said.
Ferro reached into the trunk and hefted the box into his arms.
"I didn't say never," he said.
She felt a hot rush of blood shiver through her body.
"I'll remember that. I will."
She opened the door and he carried the box into the living room. Matt looked like he was asleep, but when they sat by him, he opened his eyes and smiled.
"I musta' fell out. How long were you two out there?" he asked with a sly grin. Maggie, ashamed of her desire looked at the floor.
"Just a minute, Matty. Just a minute."
Matty looked at Ferro and winked.
[JS67] [JS68] "Whatta' you think of my lady, Iron Man."
"She's quite a piece of work, partner. Quite a piece."
"You bet. None better. So, here I wrote down the number for Michael Breck in San Francisco. He's one mean mother. I spent a couple months in Quentin with him. This youngster is fulla' piss and vinegar. Got a posse called the Tragic Skins up in the Haight Asbury part of town. He talks a hell of a rap, strictly God and country... White God and White country, ya' know. You tell `im I sent you and said he can pay you the one he owes me."
"I appreciate it."
"That's okay. Now that box I got from a drunk Indian who worked out at the Army Reserve depot in Spokane. I don't know how in hell he came to have it, but that's about fifteen, twenty pounds of C-4, a nice all-purpose quick-blow. Look who I’m talking to. Mr. Plastique himself…"
Ferro opened the top flap and a strong plastic smell stung his nose, pumping his blood pressure up higher than when Maggie had made her move.
"When that was fresh," Matty continued, "you could drop it, stretch it, burn it or pound it with hammer and it wouldn't pop. Now that it's gettin' to be middle-aged, just lookin' at it wrong might be all it takes."
"I have a little experience with this, but only a little dab here and there."
Ruckert grinned a big toothy skeleton smile.
"Well that box there like to take out a city block in every direction with a crater right under your ass. Shit, one quarter pound is like a full-on grenade."
"I do appreciate that, and the oil." Ferro said.
"You put a quart of that in the crankcase and baby `er that thousand miles [JS69] [JS70] or so down to Frisco and she'll probably still have enough life in `er for scootin' around town."
"Thanks Matty. I guess I'll see you around."
Matty smiled and cocked his head to the side.
"Only if you're headed to hell, hombre, only if you're goin' down."
He started coughing again, so Maggie knelt on the couch to hold his head and spray the inhaler down his throat. As Ferro walked out to the car she stole a last glance at him, closed her eyes and prayed.
One more chance, dear God, just one more.
Girl was sitting up on the driver’s seat when he opened the door, so Ferro brought his face down to hers.
"You gonna' take a spell at the wheel?
She bowed her head and looked up at him pathetically.
"You afraid I'd take off without you?"
She turned and stepped down onto the floor on the passenger side, spun around twice and settled down; her brown eyes turned again to his.
"You don't have to worry, I told them I already have a girl."
The dog snorted and laid her head down on the floor.
[JS71] [JS72] Scene 12 - The Sonogram
The Richmond Medical Center was nearly deserted when the Mackey's arrived and checked in at the sonogram station. An officious Nurse's Aide in her sixties help them fill out the forms and explained the procedure.
"The technician will be using sound waves to record an image of the fetus for your doctor to evaluate. It's painless, quick and in no way will harm your baby."
Linc felt his wife stiffen. The Aide turned to Linc.
"For simplicity and convenience, the birth partner will stay here in the waiting room."
"No" Diane said emphatically, "He's coming with me."
"I'm sorry but, that is not allowed..."
"Bullshit," growled Diane, "Save that for people who're impressed by your hat. Now tell the technician if he can't work while my husband holds my hand, he can explain why to Dr. Berman and my lawyer. Am I making myself clear?"
The Aide was stung by her threat, but remained silent.
Diane picked up the station phone, pressed nine, then a number.
The old woman pressed down the receiver button.
"There's no need to call. I'm sure Dr. Berman has more important things to do."
She pointed down the hall to a door marked "Sonogram".
"You can go, but tell Marie that Dr. Berman said he could stay."
Diane and Linc walked to the room. She looked at him with determination.
"I am not in the mood to be `handled'."
Linc took a deep breath and exhaled hard. He knew that she meant business.
[JS73] [JS74] Marie, the technician, seemed warm and caring as she prepped Diane by smearing lubricant on her abdomen. Diane relaxed and looked into the woman's eyes, brown and sparkling.
"So, how many do you have now?"
Diane smiled. "Two. Girls, five and sixteen months."
"And Papa wants a boy?"
Her words took him by surprise. He looked to Diane and she stared back at him, unable to speak. Marie was too busy to notice anything but the silence.
"Oh well, just a healthy baby, si?"
Their silence was punctuated by the chatter of the image printer, typing out the heading and parameters for the first view.
"How far along are you, Mrs. Mackey?"
"We think about sixteen weeks."
"So, baby is very small, that's why I don't find him right away."
Diane squeezed Linc's hand and bit her lip.
"Now, there!" Marie said as she pressed the record button and moved to another view, "And there... there... and there."
The thermal paper rolled out of the printer, but they couldn't see the image and the video display screen changed so rapidly that only Marie knew what she was recording.
Marie's eyes narrowed as she studied the prints, each one over and over until Diane sat up.
"What? What is it?"
"I am not a doctor, I can't say..."
[JS75] [JS76] "Tell me! Don't make us wait."
Marie put her hand on Diane's forehead as you might a sick child's.
"It is not a good picture, but Dr. Berman will explain this to you. I'm sorry."
Diane felt the life run out of her body. Linc helped her dress and they left.
Marie stood in the doorway as they walked down the hall. Linc looked back.
"Thank you."
"Vaya con Dios" she whispered.
[JS77] [JS78] Scene 13 - Saldana at Evangel Pulpit
"I remember as a boy growing up in the Central Valley, hearing the tent Revivalists witnessing the word and exposing the hand of Satan in things we take for granted every day. That's how he operates. Slowly, over years, we get more and more accustomed to living side-by-side with sin.
"You know, in the early sixties, the Godless Communists used to say, `We will take America away from you without war; without guns; without lifting a finger.' That's how much they valued the power of the word. They knew that you didn't have to break someone's head if you know how to bend their ear. And where were these words being spoken? In the schools and universities; in the barrooms and the factories, but most effectively on the television and in the newspapers. The Liberal, secular humanist, New-Age, No God, No right or wrong, anti-Christian media. Run by... run by the same people who called for the crucifixion of Our Lord! Think about it!
"Don't you want to know why they fight to keep `The Catcher in the Rye', a filthy, foul-mouthed book that beckons us down to the gutter, why they fight to keep it n the schools? Don't you feel you have the right to say, `No, I don't want my child to learn about "Dracula" and satanic worship'. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, `Reverend Saldana, these books are only a small part of the problem. There's so much evil in the world today, how can these dusty old books be as dangerous as you say?' How many of you thought that just now?”
A few people raised their hands, looking around for other people who may have thought or felt the same or, who perhaps felt it was the right time to raise their hands and prove the Reverend right.
"Just as I thought, a good number of you are content to send your children to schools that promote homosexuality, attack our religious beliefs, teach explicit sex and unlock the imagination where Satan himself holds the most sway.
"We need to put the public schools on notice – tack it up on the wall in the teacher’s lounge. `We don't like the dirty language and sex in "The Color Purple," we won't stand for the Satanic message in "Beauty and the Beast," we demand that you stop using New Age Witchcraft meditation and sorcery to raise my child's self-esteem. Self-esteem without Jesus Christ is impossible, a blasphemy, and the ultimate act of defiance in the eyes of Our Lord.
"The women who put Ms. in front of their name - you know what I'm talking about - the women who seek to destroy the family, who advocate the
wholesale slaughter of unborn babies, who look for loveless sex in the arms of other women, who dress like whores and scream rape when the inevitable
happens, who worship the `goddess' and give children condoms and drugs, and practice yoga and witchcraft and... I could go on, but I'm getting sick to my stomach... these women, who can't have children of their own, help protect the abortion mills or teach at pre-schools and work at daycare centers where they inculcate - brainwash - our normal, Christian children into seeing the work of the devil as the natural state of affairs."
"Right now, if you told the JDL, the Jewish Defense League, that thousands of Jewish babies were being torn limb from limb everyday in this country, I can guarantee you they would send out a parade of lawyers that would drive the abortion industry out of business overnight.
"And the doctors – excuse me, Lord for calling these butchers "doctors" - at the abortion mills, these murderers who cry about the Holocaust, send thousands [JS79] [JS80] of children a week to their death! I'm not gonna' name names, but if it ends in a `Stein' or `Berg' or `Baum' you can rest assured that he's not killing babies for `medical' reasons... unless you think a Mercedes Benz or a Rolex watch are `medical' reasons!
"Let me tell you about a man and an organization that is making a difference in the war to save the innocent victims of the `Pro-choice' Holocaust. We prayed last night and the Holy Spirit moved me to invite him to the pulpit this morning. I think you'll find, as I did, that he has a battle plan and the courage to implement it now, at a time when the so-called `politically correct' -- read God-hating Liberals -- seem to have the upper hand. Please welcome a true Christian Warrior, Frank Hillis."
“Thank you Reverend Saldana. And thank you, dedicated Christian `Church Potatoes!'
“That's right, you heard right; Church Potatoes. The person who comes to church every Sunday to honor the Lord for a couple of hours, but spends four or five hours every other day with Ellen and Letterman and Oprah and The Simpsons. Twenty-five, thirty hours every week watching and listening to the garbage: the filth, the sex, the drunk and drugged chatter of these electronic demagogues or should I say, demi-gods, who tell us what is right and normal and just. Who tell our children that believing in Jesus Christ is a sign of stupidity. Who preach, I'll say it again if your hard of hearing, preach the secular humanist agenda of atheism, unnatural sex, abortion, Darwinism and New-Age mind control. If you think I'm exaggerating here, you better think again. We are not dealing with an occasional weirdo or `nutcake' liberal, this is the twisted hand of the Beast, reaching out of Hell and into your community.
"Let me read something to you, `July 17th, 1993, San Francisco Daily, Today the Northern California Lesbian and Gay Coalition held a mass wedding of homosexual couples on the steps of City Hall. More than thirty couples, some of them naked to the waist, were joined in ceremony by Cardinal Zinn, a popular celebrity character played by three hundred fifty gay comedian, Rick Monatt. After the vows were exchanged, some of the couples kissed while others simulated the sex act.' I wonder if that sickens you, the way it sickens me?"
He crumbled up the clipping in his fist and pounded the podium.
"Where are we headed? Can somebody, anybody, tell me were in the world do we think we are headed? `Cause it sure looks to me that we are headed to Hell on a fast train. Let me read something else to you. This time you tell me what it's talking about."
"Sutter Street Clinic. Gross profit, donations and grants for 1992 - $924,353.00, Net profit for1992 - $427,659.00. That's nearly a half a million dollars for Doctor Lowell Thuman, the butcher of Sutter street. How do you feel about that?"
They let Hillis hear what he knew they would.
"So, here's what I want you `Church Potatoes' to do. Next Friday morning, as soon as you wake up, get down on your knees next to the bed and beg the Lord for the chance to save one innocent child's life. You got that? This is a blessing from the Lord, you understand? Then, get dressed, have your cup of coffee, or whatever, and call your boss and tell him you won't be in until noon. If he asks why, just tell him that you need to go to the clinic, it's a matter of life and death. [JS81] [JS82] He might get scared, but you're tellin' him the truth, right?"
Laughter ripples through the congregation and subsides into excited mumbling.
"Are you with me so far?
They answer as one.
"Yes!"
"Good, `cause, come the Rapture, God's gonna' want to see your soul, not your personnel file!"
Again laughter spreads through the church.
"This one is for your spiritual resume, so forget your job and help me save. Save one child from certain death. Save one mother from committing murder. Save our country from the bloody hands of the Christ-hating deviants, the sodomy obsessed protesters, the `open-minded' career woman, the tree-hugging, crystal worshipping, zodiac casting, spirit channeling, New Age Witches and Sorcerers who use the blood of innocent children to work their foul magic."
"You all have accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord, haven't you?"
"Yes!" they respond.
"You all swore to renounce evil and sin to be pure for Him?"
"Yes!"
"Then you've already been through boot camp, Christian Soldiers; ladies and gentlemen. Your swearing in and pledge of loyalty are a matter of record and war is raging. The time of battle is at hand! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more! Or we will close up the wall with our Christian dead.
[JS83] [JS84] Are you with me?
"Yes!" the crowd roared.
"Friday morning, eight-thirty a.m., here at this church. We'll pray for victory and there'll be buses to take us there singing the glory of His Name..."
A war cry filled the church.
"...and you'll be home in time for Oprah."
Laughter and cheers erupted thoughout the room.
[JS85] [JS86] Scene 12 - The Tragic Skins
Wessel Ranch looked no different from any other weather-beaten property in West Marin; nothing to set it apart or draw attention to the white clapboard house, skeletal barn or collapsing chicken roost.
The few other surrounding ranches had gotten used to the noise and mischief that usually accompanied its string of string of short-term tenants: Deadheads, Angels, white trash and squatters.
But the current resident presented a new problem.
Nearly every weekend a caravan of cars would arrive, packed with young men and boys in denim and leather. There was always a bonfire at night and the laughter and screaming continued late into early hours.
One neighbor's 14 year-old daughter, excited by the music and mayhem, tried several times to get past the front gate. The sentry, a boy with a cudgel and handgun told her if she set foot on the grounds she was his property, required to do whatever he told her to. When she ran home in her panties, her father called the police. The next morning he found his yard dog hung from a shade tree in front of his house.
After that, no one ever called the cops.
"Let them kill each other,” people said, "We don't know anything."
Saturday morning, Michael Breck and his girl stayed late in bed. Hung over and sore from the night before, they drank beer and screwed until afternoon when the other "skins" arrived to party.
Michael was the founder and leader of the Tragic Skins, a White Men's Athletic Club, as he called it, blood-bound to stop the dilution of America's purity. [JS87] [JS88] Although they rarely went further than random beatings and vandalism, their aim was to support the National Alliance in preparing for the inevitable race war that would erupt in the cities.
He was three years old when he learned the meaning of the word "niggers", although his father said it was the second word he ever spoke.
Right after "kill".
Dad helped him bag his first buck when his was eight; the 30-06 too heavy to hold alone and the carcass too tough to gut with his scout knife.
Mom rolled her eyes and laughed when he jumped out of the pick-up bed, muddy, bloody and antlered with the huge severed rack held tight on top of his head. The headless deer lashed to the fender promised years of neighborhood terrorism, sanctioned by Dad, disregarded by Mom.
I'd rather he have a little blood in the face, then turn out a sissy-boy.
Two years later, he stole a carton of cigarettes and traded them to Donna Boyd, the twelve year-old down the block, for a strip show for him and his friends in her garage. She wore one of her mother's brassieres and a garter belt, so she could tease them and play with herself. A little plastic record player blared Redbone's Come and Get Your Love so loud that her mother finally came out to the garage and beat her unmercifully in front of the boys.
When Michael's father heard about it, he made his son describe every detail of the show, three, four times before he stood up and held the boys chin in his hand.
"Boy, " he said, "That girl ain't nothing but a slut like her Momma. And what does a slut get?"
[JS89] [JS90] Michael tried to remember the words his father wanted to hear; don't leave any out, don't add any others.
"A kick in the cunt, right Pop?"
"Close enough, son. Close enough."
And the incident was never mentioned again, because he said the right thing and his father valued that above all else.
At fourteen he started pumping iron and playing serious football; a little row of broken bones painted on the side of his helmet for every opponent he sent to the hospital: nine all told, one with a broken back.
When his family moved to Northern California, Michael became a first string varsity lineman at Cal State, Hayward, a Bay Area university surrounded by tract homes, fundamentalists and an emerging racist underclass looking for scapegoats, victims or just a target.
Early in his sophomore year he crashed an opposing teams victory party and cut the Black quarterback's ear off, earning him five years in San Quentin under the Federal Civil Rights Law. Overcrowding and good behavior sent him out the gate in sixteen months with a new list of friends and a big chip on his shoulder.
That was a year ago. By then his father was no more than a memory and a piece of raw marble in Arlington, the final payment of his veteran's benefit after three tours in `Nam.
So, when John Ferro called Michael Breck, he was listening for the exact words that would make him stay on the line, no more, no less or else he'd slam that receiver down so fast there wouldn't be time for why's and wherefore's.
[JS91] [JS92] "Matty Ruckert said you might need a mechanic. Said you owed him one and this is it." Ferro said.
Breck held the phone away from his head and felt the sharp pain of a shiv in his gut. All he could see was a dripping black face hissing, "You dead now, motherfuck; good and god-damned fucked for sure, you cracker son'bitch." He fell back on the tile floor of the shower room and felt the knife again in the gut, then once in the chest, and a long ripping gash across the neck.
"No way, you monkeyfuck nigger..." Breck grunted, punching up from the floor, but his attacker froze and fell on him, wide eyed and stiff; a thin line of blood and spit running from his mouth, turning into a full, foaming spew, his eyes crossed and rolled up into his skull.
Matty Ruckert was standing over the dying man, holding a long twisted dirk made from a melted hairbrush handle; dripping red, running through the shower spray into a rivulet that coursed along the floor to the drain. A ragged hole in the back of his neck oozed a clear, oily liquid.
"Matty, I owe you." Breck whispered.
"That's all right partner, it was my pleasure"
Breck dropped the phone and rubbed the thick welt of scar tissue at the base of his neck; a soaring burst of hate and vengeance fill his mind.
"Breck. Breck! Ferro yelled, far away and very small.
Michael took control of his eyes and looked at the phone a moment before putting it back to his ear.
"I'm here."
[JS93] [JS94] "What's the story?"
"Meet me at the re-Bar on Divisidero. You know where it is?"
Ferro dropped the phone onto the receiver.
Breck turned to the nude girl lying next to him in bed.
Cindy had been his girl for a year or so, and she bore the marks of his affection in bruises, scars and a broken jaw that never healed quite right, giving her a face a permanent menacing grimace.
"Matty's sent us a mechanic." he said.
She punched him in the face.
"You punch like a pussy." he said, rolling on top of her, pinching her nipples until she screamed. She kicked him in the groin and their laughter grew with every blow.
[JS95]
[JS96] Scene 15 – Kane’s Project
At noon, most of the customers at North Bay Building Supplies were contractors or "go-fers" picking up materials on their lunch hour, so Bob Kane fit right in: stained jeans, work shirt and his long greasy hair pulled back into a snarled ponytail and a tape measure clipped to his belt. While the other men talked about construction or placed orders, he figured out a list of what he needed as he searched the hardware shelves for spring loaded hinges and latch hooks.
"Can I help you?" a grandfatherly salesman inquired.
"Six one-inch pulleys, fifty feet of quarter inch nylon sash cord, two pounds of twelve penny galvanized finishing nails and I need some wood..."
"Whoa, why don't we go back to the register and I'll write all this up."
They headed to the long sales counter where other salesmen where busy with their customers. The old man took Bob's hinges and latches.
"Looks like you got quite a project started."
"Yeah."
"Let me guess. Cabinets?"
"Nah. It's something for kids."
The old-timer realized that this wouldn't be a chatty sale, so he thrust out his lower lip, nodded and set the hardware down on the counter.
"Right. Let's do the lumber order and the yard crew will get that started while we're pulling the rest of the materials."
Kane looked at the scrap of paper and spread his hands apart and did some quick calculating.
"I need three sheets of 3/4" exterior plywood and 45' of 1'x10' pine."
"Okay, and the hinges, latches, pulleys, sash cord and nails...anything else [JS97] [JS98] you need today?"
"Paint. Gimme' a gallon of flat black and a cheapie brush."
"Got it."
The salesman tapped the prices into the register.
"Uh, do you get the contractor discount?"
"I'm not a contractor, but this stuff is for a youth group. Can you give me a break for them?"
The old man thought for a moment and then whispered.
"I'll give you ten off, for the kids."
"For the kids." Kane said as he pulled out his checkbook.
He sat in his big Mercury station wagon listening to an old Rock song while the yard crew loaded the plywood and planks into the rear window. Reaching under the seat, he found his snub-nosed .38 and several of his daughter’s kindergarten art projects; one was a grassy field, a brown tree and a big yellow sun on white paper. He turned it over, took a pencil from his shirt pocket and sketched a side view of the Mercury wagon, writing below it: tree, grass, stones. He covered the gun with the paper when one of the loaders stopped at the window and to take a copy of his sales receipt.
"You're loaded." he said. "Have a good day."
"You too." Kane mumbled as he slid the .38 back under the seat.
The short drive to the Mission District was punctuated by several violent outbursts when slow drivers, oblivious pedestrians and political bumper stickers offended him. Unfamiliar with the neighborhood and unsure of the exact address [JS99] [JS100] of his destination, he drove slowly and erratically while other drivers cursed, finger outstretched to him.
Fucking foreigners! he thought, Go back to your stinking Banana Republics!
Across the street was an open basement garage with a hand-lettered sign above it reading, "Castilian Ironworks and Design", so he pulled into the driveway and shut the engine off. The wooden doors were opened wide to display several types of security bars for windows and doorways as well as metal lawn chairs and tables.
Kane took one of the finishing nails out of its box and stepped out onto the sidewalk. There was no way for the people passing by to stay on the blocked sidewalk, so some of them muttered curses or yelled at him, forced to walk around his car. He ignored them, finding a spot on the roof of the station wagon just behind the front seat. After making a small scratch in the paint on the drivers side, he walked around to the other, reached across the roof and pulled the nail from the scratch toward himself, digging a deep groove into the paint and metal.
In the shop, the welder finished joining two pieces of iron, tipped up his face shield and saw the car in his driveway. Kane wiped the nail on the leg of his jeans and stuck it in his mouth as he walked to the work bench.
"Hey Pepi, you hobble English?"
The welder tipped up his face shield took off his gloves. "Yeah, sure, you speak Spanish?"
"Hell no. I got a cuttin' job for you. Take you 10 minutes."
[JS101] [JS102] The man, pointing to a labor rate sign, "Twenty-five dollars minimum. Okay, Cabron?"
Kane looked at him and picked at his teeth with the nail.
"You keep the scrap?"
"Yeah, I keep scrap, puto."
"Done. There's a scratch on the roof of that car. Cut along the scratch and take off everything behind it."
"Cut the roof off?"
"Did I stutter?" Kane barked, "Yes, Si, hombre, cut the damn roof off. Just the roof and glass."
"Okay don Mierda, then what?"
"Then you get twenty-five dollars and the roof. We got a deal?"
The welder picked up the cutting torch and lit the flame.
"A deal, maricon, a deal."
Kane walked to a nearby supermarket while the car was being chopped and walked down the produce isle until reaching the bananas. He looked around for a clerk and called out, "Can I get a hand over here?"
The clerk was a gangly teen-ager with a disheveled head of blond hair that fell across his eyes in a great sagging pompadour.
"What's up?"
"You the grocery clerk?"
"No, but while he's at lunch I'm sorta' in charge."
"Great, can I get some of this?" Kane said, grabbing handful of bright green artificial grass the banana's were stacked on.
[JS103] [JS104] The teen eyed him suspiciously, "You a friend of Pete's?"
"Yeah. Pete’s a friend of mine. He said you might have a few pieces I could use at the Youth Center, you know, Art & Crafts and stuff."
The teen thought for a moment, then walked to the back room and returned with two large mats of the plastic grass, each as big as a beach towel.
"Will this get it?" he said, holding them up.
Kane did a quick calculation in his head.
"Uh, I'm not sure. Could I get one more just to be on the safe side?"
"No sweat."
He folded the two mats into an empty orange box and re-stacked the banana's so he could take another from the display.
"Please give Pete my best, when he gets back from lunch."
"Sure," said the teen, "What was your name again?"
"Donny," said Kane, as he carried the box out of the store, "Donny from the Youth Center."
As he watched Kane leave, he restacked the bananas.
"All-right Donny, good luck with the kids and have a nice day."
On his way back to the welding shop he passed by a second hand store and, after a quick glance inside, he entered and walked up to a woman in her sixties who was hanging up shirts behind the cash register.
"Excuse me," he said, "My name is Donny Haddigan and I work at the Youth Center, here in town, nice to meet you,"
He held out his hand and the woman smiled sweetly as she shook it.
"We ran into a problem, `cause we have so many little girls right now, we [JS105] [JS106] just are a little short of some uh... necessities."
The woman put aside her work and clasped her hands.
"I understand. How can we be of help."
"Well, there're six new ones and," he looks around the store, "I not even sure this is the right place."
"Donny, my name is Ruth, and we have three other stores in the city, so whatever you need, I'm pretty sure we're going to find."
"Ruth, you are wonderful. The kids will be thrilled."
Ruth grinned and followed him as he walked back to the toy section.
[JS107] [JS108] Scene 14 - Denise Toy
Denise Toy sat at the back of the control room while the techs produced the six o'clock news. She knew all the jobs and responsibilities, but it never ceased to amaze her how complicated and frenetic it all seemed: long racks of TV monitors and hundreds of switches and knobs that glowed in the darkened room casting a peculiar soft light, somewhere between a carnival midway and the flattering illumination of a Christmas tree.
"Cue camera one, close on talent, end tape roll-in in three two one, cut to camera one." the director said, dispassionately.
Watching the pieces come together flawlessly on the Program monitor, Denise remembered what the news director said the first time she marveled at the feat.
"If all six technicians mesh together just right, they can be nearly as efficient as one human being."
That was a typical example of Henry Walter's sarcastic wit.
We're all a lot less than the sum of our parts from Henry's point of view. I'm sure he's in his office right now watching to see my field report. Don't expect a slap on the back... that's not his style. If he doesn't like it, he'll make believe he didn't see it and that will be that.
She covered her mouth quickly and coughed.
"Air conditioning in here takes every bit of moisture out of the air."
Although she addressed no-one in particular, the production assistant left his chair at the end of the console and walked back to her.
"Ms. Toy, can I get you something to drink?"
"No, that's okay, William, I'm leaving in a minute anyway.
[JS109] [JS110] In the studio, the news anchor and co-anchor took turns describing upcoming segments before the commercial break.
The director watched the program monitor then glanced down at his script and turned to the tech on his left.
"Cue camera two for wide, super I.D. graphic and... roll tape one."
A woman making chicken gravy replaced the news anchors and the director turned around to look at Denise.
"Andy, your piece is up right after the break. Two minutes"
"Thanks, Don. I'm sure Henry is watching." she said flatly.
"Uncle Wally? He hasn't missed a show in eight years and I catch Hell if the anchor has spinach between his teeth. At least you field people get a couple of days a week in the sunlight."
He held up his pale hands.
"Look, `studio tan'." he said, then, to the crew, "Ninety seconds."
She smiled and shrugged.
If Walter doesn't like this piece I'll be planted at a desk tomorrow.
A pest control commercial filled the screen with an army of animated termites devouring all the furniture in a room, then the whole house itself.
The sound tech added his own version of the narration and the room filled with laughter. Denise looked into the dark corners of the control room.
No bug could live in here for long. It must be fifty degrees!
Her hands were cold, so she rubbed them together. William noticed and again got up. He walked to the wall-mounted thermostat, but it was covered by a locked Plexiglas security box.
[JS111] [JS112] "I can't turn down the a.c. The box is locked."
"Sixty seconds." Don said to the techs, then turned to William, "What's the temp?"
"Sixty four."
"Wally memo'd that the control room equipment liked sixty, but Jesus, my nose is numb. You cold too, Denise?"
She shivered and nodded. Don took a paper clip from the top of the script and tossed it to William.
"Use this to reach inside the vent hole on the box and nudge it up to seventy."
William unbent the clip and jiggled it through the opening.
"I don't know if this is going to work," he said.
"Worked for me, that's why it's not sixty. Thirty seconds."
Andrea turned her attention back to the program monitor to see the end of a public service announcement. A Black man was holding an apple and a book.
"Good nutrition is elementary. If `you are what you eat', why be junk when you can be healthy. Three square meals and the three `R's go hand in hand. It's as simple as A, B, C."
"Fifteen seconds, " Don yelled, and the crew turned their attention back to the console.
"Ten. Cue camera one, cue talent. Five, four, three... Cut to camera one, Cue tape two. "
The Co-anchor was an Black woman in her 30's.
"For nearly a year now, the residents in the Potrero Hill section of San [JS113] [JS114]
Francisco have been using video cameras to record the street violence and drug dealing that has changed their community into what has been called `The War Zone". Channel Three's field reporter, Denise Toy has the latest development in this battle for survival."
"Roll tape two." Don said.
Denise watched the tape she had shaped and polished for the last forty-eight hours. She knew every detail, every word, every flaw, although to the untrained eye the production would appear perfect. Her own face filled the screen.
"Potrero Hill, once a sunny community overlooking the bay and the downtown skyline. But since the 1989 earthquake, the damaged northern end of the 280 freeway, which runs through this area, has been closed, awaiting demolition. Add to this, the severe economic downturn that has crippled local industries and employers and there can only be one result; a neighborhood in dramatic transition."
Denise had to remember to breathe, but her next breath sounded more like a sigh of resignation. Although the techs watched the monitor silently, she knew that they were evaluating her job as an `on-camera' talent and as a roll-in producer.
On the screen, a late-night drug deal happened in front of a day-care center.
"Drugs, needles, weapons and money change hands at night..."
The night-time drug deal dissolved into the same shot of the day-care center in the morning, with dozens of children at play.
"...where children frolic the next morning."
For an instant, ghostlike pushers walked among the toddlers before vanishing. A murmur of appreciation swept through the control room. Don [JS115] [JS116]
agreed with one heartfelt word. "Nice."
The rest of the report went by in a blur to Denise. She knew the surveillance shots and amateur video clips would work fine on their own, but the drug dealer footage dissolving into children was the only part she thought might have gone `over the line'.
Nice! That's what pro's say to each other when it's right . Nice.
"Twenty seconds. " said Don, "Cue camera one..."
On the monitor Denise walked to a sand box in the front yard of the day-care center and picked up a bent hypodermic needle.
"This week alone there have been two needle sticks and three broken windows right here at the Center. What starts as a drug deal in Potrero Hill, turns out to be a bad deal for the neighborhood and its children. For Channel three News, I'm Denise Toy."
"Thanks Denise, " the co-anchor said, then turning to the anchor added "A frightening development and an eye-opening account of the situation."
"The dealers and the children... shocking. " said the anchor, shaking his head, "I'm sure we'll keep you informed as we follow the story this week. Thanks to Denise Toy for a hard-hitting report."
"In other local news... " the co-anchor began, but Don turned down the monitor's sound and said.
"Cue telephone in five, four, three... cut to telephone."
The telephone next to Denise rings. As she picks it up, Don says,
"Cut to Henry Walters."
"Control room" Denise announces.
[JS117] [JS118] "Denise? It's Henry. Would you come up to my office, please?"
"Sure. I'll be right up." she says and hangs up the phone.
Don and the techs look for her response.
"He said to come up to his office."
The crew reacts as if she were headed to the gallows.
"It didn't sound that bad." she counters, but each of the guys at the console mimes out a different torture.
"Don't worry," Don said reassuringly, "you're young, you'll heal."
She stood and crossed the room to the door. At the thermostat, she noticed that it was now set at eighty-five degrees. When she turned to mention it, William pressed his index finger against his lips and shook his head, surreptitiously.
Ah yes, the prankster.
When she turned and opened the door, there was a chorus of "well-done" and "nice piece" and "the kind" from the crew. It was over her shoulder, but it meant the world to her, so she nodded and said "thanks" on the way out the door.
Okay Henry, no more tests. I can do the job and I want it!
As she made her way through the building to his office, everyone she passed gave her praise and looks of respect. A tingling sense of destiny ran through her bones.
This is the day I start to make my dream come true.
Scene 15 - The WAR Council
Thirty-seven women sat in the classroom at 8:25 p.m. reading, talking or looking at the high school artwork taped to the muted green walls. The youngest was barely in her teens, and together they represented four generations, several economic strata, thirty-seven personal philosophies and at least three sexual preferences. But they were united in one idea; that women have complete autonomy over their own bodies.
It wasn't hard for them to remember what it felt like, sitting at gray steel and Formica student desks in undulating rows that faced the green board, to be sixteen and uncomfortable and bored. They waited for stragglers, repeating greetings echoed at every arrival, some heartfelt, some as empty as the raw sounds that made up the words, the whistling, humming, trilling grunts and cooing glissandos of recognition ritual that reinforce the organization, bind the group and remind each other of the strength that comes with sisterhood.
At the front of the room stood Yvonne Nelson, a short, slight woman who might have been called petite if not for her pale, pinched features that spoke of dissatisfaction and disappointment. She alternately checked her watch and looked to the back of the room where Joan Payton, the regional director of Women for Abortion Rights, spoke with a young woman busy with notebook and camera.
Payton, at 47, had the cultivated, dress-for-success managerial look; graying blond hair hardened into a non-sexual responsibility hat, blazer, white dress shirt and knotted power bow, too big to be mistaken for a man's tie, but small enough to keep her from looking like a Christmas puppy.
In fact, except for a few wrangler Lesbians in denim and flannel, every woman in the room looked restless and ill at ease.
[JS119] [JS120] Nelson checked her watch and spoke.
"All right, any one not here yet can be filled in after the meeting. Good evening. Tonight we have a full agenda of business regarding the Project SAVE activities rumored to be scheduled for next week."
A chorus of hisses went up from the women.
"That's right, our old friend Frank Hitler..."
The hisses turned into boos.
"I mean Hillis, Frank Hillis of Project SAVE has decided to crawl out from under his rock again to tell us what we can and cannot do with our bodies."
The booing subsided, replaced by occasional grunts of agreement. Joan Payton walked to the front of the room and stood at Yvonne's side.
[JS121] [JS122] Scene 16 – Kane’s workshop
Kane’s Skilsaw screamed through a piece of plywood and the noise vibrated though the house, finding sympathetic squeaks, rattles and groans in the walls, floors and ceiling.
"Bob! It's after mid-night!" Sue Kane yelled from the bedroom. Rather than getting out of bed and opening the door to her husband's garage workshop she sat up and banged on the wall with her fist.
"Bob! No more! It's too late."
She shook out her pillow and laid back, staring at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and letting go of her tension.
Five kids and Bob is too much. When he was younger and we only had three, at least when he was working, it was manageable. But since he's been out of work, the church business and the twins, I can't do it alone; up at two and six with the babies, midnight, one o'clock to bed. Too much.
Sue heard the bathroom exhaust fan turn on.
"Finally. I thought you said you were working on the station wagon?"
"I was, " he said from the bathroom, "Why?"
"Then why were you cutting wood all night?"
"It wasn't all night. I started late."
"What wood is on the car?"
"I don't want to talk about it!" he snapped.
"Well, I need it tomorrow for day-care."
"Use your sisters car. She never drives it."
" That's a Rabbit, Bob. I've got five kids."
"Three in front, three in back."
[JS123] [JS124]
"That's crazy. I need the wagon."
"The wagon is out of commission. Use your sisters car until I get another wagon or van. I need it for somethin' else."
"What?" she yelled, getting out of bed. "For what?"
Somewhere in the house a baby started crying, but Kane was indifferent.
"Special project."
"This is bullshit, Bob." Sue screamed, and walked to the garage door.
He stood in the doorway of the bathroom and waited for her to get to the workshop. The door opened and he heard the light switch click.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bob! What the hell did you do?"
He wiped the smudges of black paint on his hands with the towels and stared toward the garage.
"It's a special project."
Scene 17 - The re-Bar
When the new regulars at the Fireside Bar started including hard Skins and heat-ons from the avenues, the older, neighborhood crowd disappeared over the course of one weekend. Fist fights, slamming and harassment came so fast that the owner hired two ex-jocks to tend bar and tore out most of the interior to give the clientele less to break up and use as weapons when the music got loud and dancing turned violent. Tables were replaced by big cable spools, packing crates served as chairs and it was standing only at the bar, after a stool crashed through the front window.
As each change was made to accommodate the rough crowd, they found some new way of tearing the place apart, until the windows were bricked up, the interior was stripped down to the cinder block walls and the front entrance was replaced by a steel door with a peephole for the bouncer.
After a nasty, bottle-throwing fight broke out all the neon letters in the sign except "re" and "Bar", the owner renamed the re-Bar, left the sign the way it was and only sold beer in forty ounce plastic bottles.
The Skins formed a social club and the bar became "members only".
Ferro was standing outside when Breck rolled up on a flat black Triumph with Cindy on the buddy seat.
The men stared at each other, making neither sound nor gesture of acknowledgment as Breck leaned the bike against the brick window of the bar and gave the metal door a solid kick. When opened, Breck and his girlfriend walked inside, but Ferro was stopped at the door by a bouncer dressed in filthy bib overalls who must have weighed 400 pounds with a string of white beads around his grimy neck. The huge man frisked him, but all he could find was a worn Zippo [JS125] [JS126] lighter which he dropped into the pocket on the front of his overalls.
Ferro saw the word "Visegrip" tattooed across the goon's gnarled and grimy knuckles.
"Visegrip?," Ferro said, "I'll take my lighter back now."
The bouncer grabbed Ferro's neck and held him up against the wall.
Breck shouted, "Give him his lighter and let him go."
Visegrip released him and gave him the lighter. Ferro waited for him to step back before walking to the bar.
Breck pointed at the bouncer with his beer.
"You cross Visegrip and he'll how how he got his name."
The huge man pulled a small Visegrip pliers out of his overalls and waddled to the bar. Some of the regulars and the bartender started yelling for blood.
"It's not too late to say you're `sorry'" Cindy added.
As he got closer, Ferro took another look at Visegrip's necklace.
Christ, those are teeth.
"You want the lighter? Here."
Ferro pulled out the Zippo, snapped it open, struck a flame and snapped it shut in one fluid motion.
"This one's for you." he said, tossing it to the bouncer.
Visegrip caught it and dropped it in the chest pocket of his overalls.
Breck started to talk , but Ferro silenced him by holding up his index finger.
A thunder crack explosion blew Visegrip into the cinder block wall with a hollow thud that sounded like broken bones, cracked skull. He dropped to the floor and tried to get up several times before realizing he no longer had a sense of [JS127] [JS128] balance. The rest of the bar was stunned by the blast.
Then Ferro walked to bouncer, put his foot on the man's neck and spoke.
"You ever touch me again, there won't be enough of you left to feed my dog. You understand, pigfuck?
Visegrip tried his hardest to say yes, but a piece of shrapnel was pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Breck took a long swig of beer and belched.
"I can't let you push my people around."
"That's history. I told you Matty Ruckert sent me. Let's try it again and we'll just make like nothin' happened."
Breck waved to the bartender, who brought over a big plastic bottle of malt liquor set it on the bar.
"What about Visegrip?" Cindy said.
"Fuck him" said Ferro
"Okay, Ferro..."
"I like `Iron Man'."
His words brought silence that was only punctuated by the shallow gurgling gasps coming from Visegrip.
"Welcome, Iron Man."
Ferro took the bottle and drank nearly half of it in one long unbroken gulp, then set it back on the bar.
Two of the Skins helped Cindy get Visegrip to the hospital.
[JS129] [JS130] Scene 18 - The Corral
By seven a.m. every morning the Corral was full of animals; by eight, the jukebox would be running nonstop. Hard luck and bitters, Bloody Marys for the tenderfoot, Seagram's and beer for the seasoned wrangler. Grunting, smoking, coughing animals at the trough, the core of the herd, they gathered around the grimy wagon wheels, horseshoes and lariats..
Rusty's Corral was a run-down Western bar in the Tenderloin, a filthy part San Francisco's eroding heritage. So, Jimmy Beanblossom wore his boots and
western shirt everyday, although he was third generation downtown. Western was a style, an attitude and code of ethic he could believe in. And by nine, he was drunk enough to sit without shaking.
The bartender was Rusty, a slight man with a severe crewcut and earring. In fact, every bartender who ever worked at the Corral was Rusty. The name passed from owner to owner with the liquor license.
"Another ball, Jimbo?"
The front door swung open and Bo Riles and John Reed walked in. Bo, a muscular forty year old, whispered something in John's ear. The rail thin cowboy stared at Jimmy Beanblossom and snorted.
Rusty held up a bottle of rum and two tumblers.
"Howdy boys. Just in time for breakfast. Sunny side up or over easy?"
John smiled at Bo, who said, "Over easy with toast."
Rusty poured two on the rocks and a shot for himself and "toasted them".
"Here's to Bo and John. Another week on the wild frontier."
The men laughed at their private joke and instinctively, the other patrons lifted their glasses and drank. John dropped a quarter in the jukebox and a [JS131] [JS132] scratchy 45 of the Anniversary Waltz began. Bo and Rusty could barely contain their amusement.
Beanblossom sneered and pointed to his empty shot glass. Rusty poured.
"Rough one last night?"
"Ev'ynight" Jimmy lied. He was usually unconscious before dark.
"Hair o' the dog, pardner." Rusty filled over the pour line to the brim and picked up a crumpled dollar.
Beanblossom threw the shot back and shivered as the alcohol flowed down his throat.
"Gimme' a egg" he choked, "an' turn on the set."
The bartender walked to the other end of the bar, switched on the television and returned with two hard boiled eggs.
"One dee-luxe chicken dinner on the house"
His joke went unheard, the morning news and eggshells taking all of Beanblossom's attention.
He stared at a female reporter describing a sexual harassment lawsuit.
I bet she wouldn't act so damn smart, if she was naked.
He squinted, trying to imagine her nude and bit into the egg.
I know what'd straighten you out good, you whore.
Beanblossom was distracted by the song. "Rusty, that's too loud. I can't hear the news."
Rusty turned down the jukebox. "Okay, Jimbo." and then said to Bo, "I guess he hasn't heard the news."
John took Bo's arm and pulled him toward Beanblossom.
[JS133] [JS134] "Daddy? Can we play with the jackass?"
Bo's smile turned into a sneer. "Sure boy, let's be neighborly."
They took seats on either side of Beanblossom.
What's with these two? You'd think they were friggen' fairies.
"Hi Jimmy, mind if we join you?" John said.
"No."
He looked at Bo.
Why the hell does he hang around with this skinny jerk? Always trouble.
"I'm watching the news"
John crushed little pieces of eggshell under his fingertip.
"Oh, is there something newsy happening."
Beanblossom ignored him. "Rusty! I still can't hear the god-damn news!"
The bartender snapped, "For Christ's sake, if you can't hear it back there, move your ass up here."
"Move your ass?" Bo repeated.
"Fuck that! Turn it up!"
Rusty knew full well what was going on, so he closed his eyes and turned up the volume.
The News Anchor's voice boomed into the room.
"...third week of abortion clinic protests by Project SAVE, the Pro-Life activist group from San Jose. Police have tightened security at San Francisco's largest family planning center, the Sutter Street Clinic, advising that traffic in that area will be affected by barricades and a threatened counter-protest be the San Francisco Chapter of the Women's Coalition for Freedom and Equality. [JS135] [JS136] NewsHour's Denise Toy has the report."
"Fuckin' dyke." mumbled Beanblossom.
Bo and John looked at each other and smiled at his words.
On the television, Denise Toy stood in front of the Sutter Street Clinic.
"Ed, I'm standing in front of the clinic with Yvonne Nelson, co-director of the Women's Coalition for Freedom and Equality. Yvonne, after nineteen days of protest and blockades, how much more of this can the clinic take."
"Baby killer..." whispered Bo. John added, "Man hater."
Beanblossom looked at them, then back to the T.V.
Maybe these guys are okay after all. Maybe down deep they are.
"...we'll continue to make sure that the clinic stays open and every women who wishes to visit the clinic..."
"Murder a child." corrected John.
"...has the opportunity to exercise her legal right to choose..."
"To end a life." snarled Bo.
"...what is fundamentally a personal decision about her body."
The news continued but Beanblossom was feeling the effect of the alcohol and the comments. He stared into the mirror and saw himself between John and Bo.
"God-damn feminists are destroying the family." he said, as he stepped off the stool and staggered toward the bathroom. "A kick in the ass is what they need, a kick in the God-damned ass."
He pushed open the bathroom door and the fluorescent light made his face look cold blue and blotchy in the mirror above the sink. He stared at it, repulsed [JS137] [JS138] by the deathly sight and pissed in the sink.
"Bitches" he grunted.
If she was my wife, I'd slap the livin' shit out of `er.
When he got back to the bar, John and Bo had moved together and his glass was gone, so Jimmy Beanblossom walked through the swinging doors and squinted into the morning light.
[JS139] [JS140] Scene 19 - The Project S.A.V.E. Children
By seven-thirty a.m. there were over two hundred people and six school buses in the parking lot of the Evangel Church of Revelations. A ten year-old boy stood on the front fender of the lead bus and brushed back his blond hair.
"My name is Josh Chamberlain and I save babies!"
The crowd of people turned to face him, cheering and applauding.
"I'm from Columbus Ohio, but now me and my parents live in that Winnebago over there."
He points to the motor home.
"We are full-time Pro-life protesters and since January we helped save over a thousand babies in eleven?..."
He shoots a panicked look to the back of the crowd, where his mother is nodding her head vigorously.
"...eleven States at nearly thirty... abortion mills."
The applause continues as Josh squints in the early sunlight to see his mother again. She points at the people directly in front of the bus.
"Now... I have the honor of introducing the littlest soldier in our Lord's Army. Please say `Good morning!' to Kristi Nagler!"
Kristi's mother and father lift the seven year-old up onto the fender. She's wearing jeans, a baseball cap turned sideways on her head and a sweatshirt that reads: "Survivor of the Pro-Choice Holocaust". Josh gives her the bullhorn and sits on the hood of the bus as she turns to face the crowd.
"Good morning, Kristi!" They repeat in studied unison.
"It's a good morning to save babies!" she recites with the polish of a celebrity with a lot of experience in front of audiences.
[JS141] [JS142] A battle cry mixed with exclamations of "Praise the lord" and "Hallelujah!" builds and Kristi waits until it has almost subsided before beginning.
"When I was little, even littler than now, my Mom decided to have an abortion. Well, a long time after the Doctor told her that the baby was gone, I was born."
The crowd falls silent and Kristi looks nearly all of them in the eye before continuing.
"I guess the doctors aren't as smart as they think they are."
A great wave of relief and laughter spreads through the crowd, so she smiles and adds:
"I know they're not as smart as God, `cause I'm here today!"
Another wave of applause breaks, but she stops them cold.
"Not murdered, but mothered. Isn't that what every... every child deserves? A mother and not a murder?"
The murmur of prayers grows under their stunned silence.
"I've been saving babies since I was three. my mom took me with her to the protests on my birthday. That was four years ago; more than half my lifetime spent tryin' to save babies like me from murderers like..."
She stops to think and her mother whispers, "Doctor Lowell Thuman."
"... murderers like Doctor Joel Thuman." Kristi repeats carefully.
As the crowd gets restless, Frank Hillis stands upon the front bumper of the bus, takes the bullhorn and leads a prayer.
"Oh Lord, Thou who ordainest, thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword! Who in your divine wisdom saw fit that Kristi here should bear us your [JS143] [JS144] message of hope and eternal love. Grant us the strength to stop this murder of the innocents, this killing of your children, this carnage for cash, this annihilation... or let us lay down our lives trying.
Merciful father, may we carry your shield and sword, may we smite thy enemies, may we turn the sinful toward you, may we reign triumphant over the evil that plights your wondrous creation. Grant us victory, O Lord our God!'
We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the source of Love, and Who is the ever faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."
"Amen" the people add.
"All right, here's the way we do this. We have eight buses that will hold forty people each, that's three hundred and twenty seats. Now, we count just about two hundred fifteen Christians right here. So, everybody make sure to sit next to a window, so when we drive by the clinics, they'll be thinkin' we got over three hundred Project Saviors."
Seeing the subterfuge the crowd sharing a giddy laugh.
"Now you're seein' the light." Hillis added, holding up a baseball cap with "SAVE" in big letters on the front and a handheld radio "Every bus has a squad leader with one of these caps on and one of these walkie-talkies.
He switches to the walkie-talkie and the Squad leaders hold their radios in the air. He voice is carried through all of them.
"Let's fill up the buses and I'll give you all the battle plan like this while we're on our way. How many of you are `first-timers', hold up your hands."
Almost half of the people raise their hand.
[JS145] [JS146] "Fine, now, you newbies, find a veteran and stick by them. It only takes one or two encounters to become a veteran, it all happens so fast, but the first time is a little hairy. Listen to the squad leader and don't do anything unless they say so. We don't need anybody getting arrested or assaulted. God made this country with a First Amendment for a reason. And today, by God we're gonna' use it!"
He looks around the crowd as they re-group.
"If everything goes right, we'll do what?"
The capped squad leaders yell out, "Stop abortions".
"I can't hear you people!"
The crowd roars, "Stop abortions!"
[JS147]
[JS148] Scene 20 – The Clinic Incident
When the TAC Squad arrived on their black and white off-road motorcycles, Holt stopped sipping his coffee and watched their roaring procession.
No matter how many times I see these guys, it still amazes me how illegal they look; leather jackets, black helmet visors, combat boots and saddle mounted batons. The S.F.P.D. Motorcycle gang.
The swarm passed Holt and the police staging area, in a single file, and continued on another block before turning back in front of the Sutter Street Clinic. The roaring of the bikes echoed from building to building along the street, creating the illusion of a hundred TAC troopers instead of the twenty were heading toward Holt.
Great, let the clinic know we have a presence here before SAVE arrives.
Renee Smook, the Nursing Supervisor, stood in front of the clinic's glass doors, shielding her eyes from the morning sun. The line of cycles zipped past, each rider sitting ramrod straight and staring straight ahead. Dr. Thuman stepped out the door to stand next to her and watch.
"Renee?"
"Doctor?"
"I hope these cowboys can protect Fort Apache from the Indians."
She was immediately struck by the inappropriateness of the doctor's comment. On one level it insulted her by reducing the situation to bigoted cliché, but much deeper, she was repulsed by Thuman's casual ambivalence about the agony a protest brings.
Renee knew that honesty was the only way to deal with him, so she pointed to wisps of blue exhaust smoke rising up from the street.
[JS149] [JS150] "Then those are either smoke signals..."
The doctor smiled.
"...or your career."
Thuman held his smile and thought for a moment.
"Come on," he said, opening the door and pointing inside. "I have something I want you to see."
They walked through the lobby and back to the elevator without saying a word. Renee made eye contact with another nurse and rolled her eyes.
Here comes a lecture.
When the elevator door slid open, she stepped inside.
"Hold on, " the doctor said, "this is going up."
"Where are we going?"
"Down." he said, "let's take the stairs."
He walked to the stairwell fire door and looked back at Renee, who was puzzled for an instant.
What's in the basement?
The elevator doors started to close, so she stepped out quickly and followed Thuman into the stairwell. He waited at the landing so they could descend together.
"Renee, I know you have a lot of emotion about the protest, but we'll all do better if we put it into perspective."
Oh shit, here we go. Dr. Treehugger and his New Age Crystal remedies: think positive, get a new vibe, peace, love and patchouli oil.
"Connie and I have decided that treating this harassment like it's the end of [JS151] [JS152] the world will make it even more difficult to deal with. We'd be creating our own Hell.
I'm sure you and your wife have lots of neat little mind games to play with.
He stopped at the metal door leading to the basement parking area.
"The bottom line is; if we put our emotions on hold while handling a problem, we get to move around the board instead of being a game piece. "
The acrid smell of damp cement at the bottom of the stairwell stung her nose.
"Where are we going?"
Thuman held the door open and waited for her to pass through first.
"To my car."
Renee could think of no reason why they would go to his car.
Clinic services begin at eight, five minutes from now, so we're not going to breakfast. I've already seen his fussed-over BMW, and heard its deafening sound system from the lobby, for God's sake. And I'm sure he knows I'm gay, so...
She stopped in front of his car and looked at him. He was looking at the hood of his car. She followed his gaze to the deep scratches gouged down through the gleaming black paint into the very metal. Slowly, she could make out a word.
"Butch?"
The doctor pointed to smaller scratches on the left front fender. They were barely recognizable as an "e" and an "r".
"Butcher?" she asked, incredulously.
"It gets better" he said, walking by a long deep scratch that ran from the front, across the door and back to the rear, where a large "Star of David" and the [JS153] [JS154] words "Doctor Death" covered the trunk. At the center of the star was a swastika. Renee felt a chill of fear shake her bones.
"Good God. I don't believe it."
Thuman turned the palms of his hands up, closed his eyes and shook his head. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
"Crazy thing is, I'm a Methodist."
At first, Renee didn't understand the connection, stunned by the realization of how vulnerable she felt. She remembered when she and her lover
found the word "Dykes" spray-painted on the side of their garage. The was no
end to the fear that someone was lurking around every door and corner. They painted over the black letters a half dozen times, but there was always a faint outline of the word on the wall and in her mind. She ran a finger along the scratch and tiny black chips stuck to the end of her finger; little jagged shards of what had once been smooth and unblemished.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize they knew where you live."
"The pickets and singing is one thing, but this..." he said, looking at the car.
"...was locked in my garage all night."
Back on the street, Holt preparing to brief four squads of Detail Officers. While the men talked among themselves, took a last smoke or scanned the sports page of a shared newspaper, he conferred with a young lieutenant in a patrol car.
"Central says six buses left Evangel around eight. Coming up 101, so they'll probably take South Van Ness exit and come up this way." Holt said, pointing to the street next to the Clinic.
[JS155] [JS156] The lieutenant nodded and turned his attention to three city buses as they rolled up and stopped just beyond the TAC motorcycles.
"Good. Here's the ride for anyone going downtown. You know about the 75, maybe 100 women headed this way from the Mission, peaceful so far, but who the fuck knows."
Holt listened, but seemed absorbed by another thought.
"What?" asked the lieutenant.
"What's the Department's position on this today."
"Same as yesterday."
"And what was that?"
"Use your own judgment" said the officer, "Call it and stick by it."
Holt wasn't happy with the answer.
Twenty-odd years on the job get judged in a snap if something hits the fan and there's no official policy. Privilege runs up the chain of command and shit runs down.
"Yes sir."
"You know how this shit works; keep `em off each others necks and if they get out of hand..." he points to the buses, "...send `em down to me and I'll sort `em out."
"Right."
Holt got out of the car and turned to the Detail Officers.
"Listen up! What we're lookin' for here is a nice, peaceful event; no blocking at the entrance or exits, no physical harassment from either side, no threats. TAC's here on standby, but they won't move unless we get in a bind. [JS157] [JS158] )
Remember, we're here to keep this circus orderly and safe. Correction. Safe and orderly. Got it?"
The officers agreed nonchalantly and checked their equipment in anticipation. When Holt looked back at the patrol car, the lieutenant was reading a paperback book.
As the school buses reached the South Van Ness exit of the freeway, the congregation started singing. First one bus, then another and another as they closed ranks in the traffic and caravaned through the city. Hillis stood in the front in the lead bus and lead the hymn.
Jimmy Beanblossom walked across Market street and on to Franklin, watching his reflection move across the store windows. Some of them made him seem short and pudgy, others looked tall and lanky, so he stopped and faced his image, tucking the chambray shirt into tight jeans; his spine straight and paunch sucked in.
Same size I wore in high school, God-damn it, same size.
More than a hundred women were approaching in the reflection, so Jimmy turned to watch them walk down the center of Franklin street toward Sutter. Some of them carried signs, some were dressed in work clothes and some of the younger ones yelled to people on the sidewalk who watched them pass.
[JS159] [JS160] Scene 21 - The Protest
As protesters started moving toward the clinic, slowly, half-step by half-step across the warm asphalt of the street, they held Bibles and signs and pamphlets and each other, steadily closing the distance between themselves and the row of WAR Council volunteers in orange safety vests. Hillis mixed instructions and prayers through the bullhorn, watching and directing to ensure the lines would meet head-on, that no flanking or containing action by the WAR troops would stalemate the congregation's advance. He was about to have his people go to all fours, the hardest way to stop them, when he heard a car horn blast directly behind him. He turn to see what it was and for a moment, unable to recognize the driver, waved him away.
"Turn around, go back!" he said.
Then they heard the music. Voices and trumpets, a muffled snare drum and subdued piano. The music grew louder and louder until it rang off all the windows along that street and the car began edging slowly toward the crowd.
"Let it through!" Hillis yelled, then remembered his bull horn, "Let him through!"
The prayers and yelling, even the bullhorn's bray, were lost in the blare of music from the big Mercury station wagon.
Every person on that street tried to make sense of its arrival and approach. Above the hood, two American flags flapped on poles bolted into the fenders. Flowers were visible, above the windshield, and the driver dressed in black held up a printed card inside that read "Funeral".
The wagon picked up speed until reaching the narrow space that separated the protesters from the clinic, where it slowed and stopped. A collective moan [JS161] [JS162]
went up from nearly half of the crowd as the car passed by. Some woman burst into tears, others recoiled in shock at the sight, one even fell to the ground as if punched in the gut.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Holt said, "Dear God."
He looked at the display as he averted his eyes and shook his head.
On the back of the huge car, where the roof been, there was now a grassy hill with flowers and a small tree onto which a crucified Jesus had been nailed. Rivulets of blood ran down the tree and out to six tiny black coffins; three on either side of the hill, partially buried in the plastic sod.
The sight was so gruesome and overpowering that some of the crowd became nauseous and a few of them vomited. The impassioned groans and protestations of the others increased until all of them had finally seen the full spectacle. The crude construction, carnival-like theatricality and implied message were more than some could stand and a volley of bottles and rocks flew against the front of the clinic, breaking windows and striking some volunteers.
Even Hillis was struck-dumb for a moment, panting the air, charged with mob electricity.
Kane opened the door and stepped out onto the street, lampblack sockets under his eyes, hollows in his cheeks, for all purposes, the specter of death itself.
He reached into the car and pulled out a wooden handle, tied to a piece of sashcord, which was knotted to six others that ran back under the plywood of the hill and, where each one of those cords met a pulley, it turned at an angle and continued out and up to the a latchhook on the side of each little coffin.
For an instant, he drank in the pain and horror in their faces and felt cries [JS163] [JS164] and pain. Then, he pulled the cord.
And six little doors on six tiny coffins popped open on their spring hinges and up out of each one, a babydoll's mangled, blood-soaked body sprang up on its own hinge device and bobbed back and forth, some missing arms, some heads crushed and melted, other's bodies torn and battered.
The gasp of disbelief and horror that ran through the crowd scared Holt to the center of his soul. He had never heard such a sound, God knows how you would ever come to hear it. But, he knew in the same instant that the people had passed from the crowd state to riot without stopping at mob. No one could lead either side now. All of the actions and responses were coming direct from the deepest, most primitive reaches of the limbic mind, the primal fight or flee spark the we carry out of the trees, into the grasslands, through the centuries to right here in the asphalt survival street battle.
He shot a look at his TAC squad as the pain-wracked tears and shouts of protests turned to threats and pure jungle hate.
I hate the idea of gettin' into it, but it's now or nothing.
He looked at the TAC commander, pointed to the station wagon and thrust his thumb back over his shoulder.
The Commander nodded and spoke to his men. One officer, got off his bike and hopped on the buddy seat of the first in line. They all roared up to the crowd, dismounted and waded in. The bikeless cop went straight for the door of the station wagon and looked for the key. When he spun around, some of the crowd started pushing the other cops onto the car, so he grabbed a hold of Kane and threw him to the ground.
[JS165] [JS166] "Where's the key? Where's the fuckin' key?"
Kane was being trampled, his face smashed against the road, so he was unable to respond loud enough for anyone to hear him.
"Pocket." he mumbled, "Pocket!"
The cop heard nothing, so he flailed across Kane's back.
"Give me the key!"
Kane, in an effort to stop the beating, reached into his back pocket for the key. But the cop had no idea what he was reaching for, so he broke several of Kane's finger with a devastation blow from the baton.
"POCKET!" he cried, "IN MY POCKET!"
The cop grabbed the top of the rear pocket and ripped it open. A key ring fell out. Before he could grab it the crowd surged again and he was knocked down, unable to get up. Through the confusion of legs he could see at least two other scuffles on the ground. He bull-dozed his way to the key ring and, as he managed to grab it, someone stepped down, full weight, on his hand. Pain seared through his body and the only thing more agonizing then having his hand crushed was trying to move it, out from under a thick black shoe. Somehow he managed to get his baton next to the leg and he struck the knee again and again until, finally, the foot stepped off his hand. He pulled his hand back just as the black shoe kicked him in the face, setting off an explosion of light and pain in his head. Blood ran down the back of his throat and he coughed out a spray of metallic tasting blood and saliva.
He fought his way back to the side of car and climbed back on his feet.
[JS167] [JS168] Once his head was above the brawl he could see that the would be no winners and lots of injuries. Women and men shrieked as the riot seemed to take on a vicious life of it's own, pulling people under the surface melee' and battering them senseless on the ground.
I've got to get this car out of here! he thought, and another wave of bodies pushed him against the black fender, its flags ripped off, poles broken away as weapons. He reached for the door handle and a jolt of pain ran up his arm. My hand is fucked! Use the other hand!.
Instinctively he felt for his pistol, but found the holster empty.
Shit! Move the car! He fa
The door was jammed, an injured boy leaned against it, a long deep bash across the top of his head oozed glistening red. The cop pushed him aside and forced the door open against the surging brawl, leaning in to the car and falling down against the seat. Only by kicking the door to keep it open could he bring his legs inside before pulling himself up behind the steering wheel. The station wagon was being rocked up and down; the people trying to turn it over.
He held the key ring in his bloody hand and looked for the ignition key. House key... House key... what the fuck?
The head of the ignition key dangled from the cross-shaped key ring, broken in half. The other half was broken off in the ignition lock.
Oh, shit... he thought as the car pitched up and down, faster and faster.
And then he heard the only sound that could stop the insane violence all around him. The only sound he had ever heard that slapped him into stone cold sober attention every time. He heard his gun. Once, twice, and then no more.
[JS169] [JS170] The screams and threats subside, some of the people ran down the street and though the busy intersection a half a block away, cars skidding to a stop, horns blaring.
But there were no more gunshots.
The last struggle he saw through the window of the station wagon was three of his fellow officers, battered and bloodied, cuffing a guy on the ground while another cop held up a pistol. His pistol.
[JS171] [JS172] Scene 22 - The Construction Site
They were still lifting steel at 101 Howard street when Linc arrived to shape a lob. He watched the tower crane raise a length of I-beam to the top, fifty stories above the street, then walked down the stairway to the boiler room.
"Tommy, what looks good in the daily double?" he yelled up to a welder working on a scaffold above him.
The man yelled back, "Stonegate and Daddy's Dilemma". then lifted his visor and added, "Linc! Where the fuck have you been?"
Linc just smiled as Tommy eased his stout body down the scaffold ladder.
"And since when did you need advice on the double?"
As it got closer to lunch the Fitters and their helpers arrived two by two. Linc greeted them and they all complained about the scarcity of new projects and continued lay-offs. When Bonner, the foreman, arrived, Linc sneaked him an inquisitive nod, but the big man just shook his head.
"Good to see you, Mackey, how's Diane... and the kids?"
"Better, you know, and the kids are a handful."
A gray-haired Fitter named Frankie put down his sandwich and looked at LInc.
"What's with Diane?"
The chatter stopped and Linc looked around the room . Some of the men looked down at the floor, others waited for his answer. Tommy spoke up.
"She got mugged by some scumbag."
"Jesus Christ" Frankie mumbled.
The men shouted disbelief and threats.
[JS173] [JS174] "They catch him?" said a brawny helper no more than twenty. "I'll kill the fuck."
Linc shook his head.
"They got `im, but he's got a lawyer and..."
"I'll kill the fuckin' lawyer," the man added, "both... fuckin' dead!"
Again the room erupted in cries of outrage until Bonner held his hand up.
"What Linc needs is work, not more shit." he turned to Frankie. "Anything breaking in town?"
The old Steamfitter put his hand on Linc's shoulder and looked him in the eyes.
"I'll make some calls. You come back later and I'll have somethin."
"Jeez, that'd be great."
Bonner walked to the door. "I'm going to the gin mill. Any of you want a beer?
The men spoke up.
"Just one!" the foreman as they followed him out the door.
Three hours later they left the bar and walked Linc to his car. They all shook his hand and promised to look out for new jobs, each one imaging himself in the same position. Bonner and the old-timer waited until the other men had left before they walked up to the car.
The old Fitter spoke up.
"I called Simmons at the hall and he said the Convention Center job is starting two shifts next month. He's got a spot for you."
Linc smiled and started the car.
[JS175] [JS176] "I appreciate that. I owe you."
"And here's some milk and bread" Bonner said, handing Linc a crumpled paper bag.
"Hey, thanks, but I can..."
"Shut up. The guys wanted to help out. You take care and stay in touch."
"Yeah, thanks. "
As he watched the men walked back to the job, Linc shut off the engine.
Am I okay to drive? Two beers and three shots since noon and it's past three. I feel okay.
He opened the bag and took out a stack of twenties and fifty's.
Jesus, there's gotta' be a thousand bucks here.
He counted thirteen hundred and fifty before he got to an envelope at the bottom of the stack. In it was five one hundred dollar bills and a slip of paper with the word "Ferro" and a phone number on it. Linc folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket, leaned back into the seat and tilted his head up until he was looking at the ceiling.
Diane was fixing dinner when Jessie and Maura started screaming in the living room.
"Hey, what's going on in there?"
The screaming continued and she dried her hands on the dish towel and turned to see what was happening.
Jimmy Beanblossom stepped into the kitchen.
"Seems that your girls are afraid of my snakes." he said, holding a rattler in [JS177] [JS178] each hand. "They already got theirs, but these are for you."
He tossed them toward her and Linc reached out to grab them, but a stinging pain in his knuckles woke him up. The car horn was blowing and there was blood on his knuckles. It was dark outside, so he looked at his watch.
Seven thirty. Christ, I've been asleep for four hours.
As he drove home, he kept re-living the terror of the nightmare.
I'll kill you, you redneck son of a bitch!
[JS179] [JS180] Scene 23 - Dr. Moseley
Mr. Mackey, I'm Elliot Moseley, thank you for taking the time to see me."
"You're the police psychologist?"
"Not really. Although I have worked with the District Attorney and various enforcement agencies, I'm actually part of the City's Health Department. Victim Counseling. I thought I might be of some assistance with your wife, Diane."
"Then why did you call me?"
"Well, two reasons, actually. First, the family of a crime victim usually have strong emotional feelings that sometimes need sorting out and expressing."
Linc stared vacantly at the space between himself and Moseley.
"Yeah?"
"And, although I have tried to contact your wife several times, I've not heard back from her."
"Maybe she doesn't want to talk about it."
"Fine. My experience is that emotional trauma victims are reluctant to deal with the memories at first, but as time passes they feel the need to put them into perspective, with regard to the rest of their lives... and their families."
"I understand."
"I just want her to know that when she's ready to talk about it, I'll be here to listen."
"What if she can't ever talk about it?"
"Then I'd try to help you and your children adjust to changes in your life."
"The kids are really confused. They know something has changed, but it's a little beyond them. My five year old..."
"Jessica?"
[JS181] [JS182] "Yeah. Jessie's started acting up in school; pushing, hitting, biting. Her teacher knows about the "accident" and she says that kids react even if they don't know what happened."
Moseley, hesitant to interrupt, waited a moment before speaking.
"Well, being out of work right now isn't helping the situation. I guess I've been a little pre-occupied by the bills and mortgage and... security."
"Financial or physical?"
"Both. And emotional security. Probably that more than the others."
"In what way?"
Linc looked at the doctor.
"What if she never opens up? What if this thing has beaten her down so far that she can't get up? What can I do? I feel helpless and angry".
"This is where I may be able to offer you some alternatives."
"Whatever it takes. Anything."
[JS183] [JS184] Scene 24 - The Grief Management Network
Diane was just starting to set the dining room table for tea when the people from the Grief Management Network arrived. She opened the front door to find a tall, powerful black man and a petite gray-haired woman. The man held out his hand.
"Mrs. Mackey, my name is Leon Chichester and this is Merle Zausmer."
Diane shook his huge hand and, for a moment, her hand felt tiny, like a child shaking hands with a much larger adult. She smiled and nodded to Merle who said, "We're from the Grief Management Network."
"Yes, I know," she said, "my husband said you would stop by. Please come in."
It was not until Leon stooped to enter the doorway that she realized he had been standing two steps below Merle. He was nearly seven feet tall.
"May I offer you some tea?"
Leon and smiled and nodded as Merle said, "Don't go to any trouble."
Diane looked into Merle's eyes.
Do my eyes look that sad?.
"It's no problem at all, everything is just about ready"
She looked back to Leon and saw his smiling face lined by pain and sorrow.
I guess I never noticed before, how the heart is reflected in the face.
"Shall we sit in the dining room?" Diane asked.
"That would be wonderful," said Merle.
"Very nice." Leon added.
As they walked to the table, Leon saw photos of Jessica and Maura on the fireplace mantle.
[JS185] [JS186] "Well, here are a couple of angels. Look like they're `bout two and five."
Diane walked back to Leon.
"Actually the baby is only sixteen months, but she's big."
"I'll say, " Leon continued, "tall and strong. Looks a lot like her Momma too."
Diane smiled at the compliment.
"Do you have kids, Leon?" .
The man's face set into the lines of laughter and sorrow around his eyes and mouth. "Oh yes, Mrs. Mackey, up in Heaven I do."
Diane was speechless, so Leon broke the silence.
"You know, a cup of tea sounds like just the thing right about now."
A tear rolled down Diane's cheek as Merle took her by the hand.
"Come on, Dear, I'll help you set it out."
The women walked into the kitchen together and Leon looked back at the photo. "Angels." he said.
What was left of the tea in their cups had grown cold by the time they moved from small talk and pleasantries to their own stories. Merle spoke first.
"After Nathan was diagnosed he gave up; he lost all hope and sat in bed all day. I said, `Nate, you're not crippled; walk with me; you'll feel better.' He'd say `What's the use? I'm dying. How can I enjoy when I know I'll be dead?' It killed me that he spent his last days feeling sorry for himself. It got so bad that he would get angry at me for not being in despair with him. This from a man who fought in the War and built a business from nothing. What happened? He was told he was going to die, so he died in his head and waited for his body to do the same. Six [JS187] [JS188] months of pity in bed. What a shame."
Diane and Leon listened silently as Merle reached the end of her story.
"He was so furious with me for not agreeing with him that, when he died, I said, `Nate, I love you and I'm going to miss you so much.' You know what he said? He said `"F" you!' Can you believe it? Thirty-three years of marriage and he dies saying "F" you? When he was a young man he wouldn't say that to anybody, and he says it to his wife?
Diane reached out and held the woman's hand.
"I miss him so much, that sometimes I think I'd take the pain all over again if I could just see that young Nathan in him for just one minute. Because that was Nathan."
Leon, full of compassion, watched Merle dry her eyes..
"I'm sorry, " she said, "It's okay when I think about it, but when I talk about it, I can't help the tears."
"Nothing wrong with tears, Merle, " Leon offered, "natures safety-valve, ain't that so?"
The old woman nodded and sniffed back her composure. Diane looked at Leon, who turned to face her.
"Diane, we're here for you today, so telling our own stories is just to open up connections and similarities we all share."
"You lost a child?" she asked.
Leon nodded and looked up to the ceiling.
"That's right. Gina was seven when her Mom died, so she grew up too fast, tryin' to show me that she could take care of us both. She went to a the corner [JS189] [JS190] market to buy corn and got shot by a drive-by. One minute she was my little lady and the next she was dead. I could hear the shot from my living room and I just yelled out her name. She died before I could get there."
A small tear fell from the corner of his eye as he looked back down at Diane. "We read about you in the papers, but it's important that you tell us. If you want to."
Diane bit her lip and nodded.
"We weren't sure, Linc and I, if we wanted another, but when I got pregnant, we made it all right and started to get excited. What if it's a boy? What if it's a girl? You know, how you just assume that everything is going to
work out okay. So, when I got the AFP test back, the doctor said I should get a sonogram to see what the problem was."
She starts to choke on her words.
"I knew in my heart that something was wrong. With me, with the baby. I felt helpless and wrong, but what could I do?"
Leon and Merle looked at her, nodding and listening intently.
"When Dr. Berman told us that the fetus was...
Diane can only cry.
[JS191] [JS192] Scene 25 - John Ferro and the Skins
Linc turned off Fell street at Masonic and drove into Haight-Asbury. He had no idea what Ferro looked like, so he drove slowly along Haight street, looking for a Skinhead among the tie-dyed Hippies, corpse-like Gothics in black, Deadheads with dirty feet, Flower punks in gauze and brocade, White Rasta's with blond dreadlocks heaped on their heads.
Shit, this place gets weirder every year.
At the corner of Cole street, a group of Skins in leather and chains stepped in front of his car. He screeched to a stop, inches from a young girl dressed in skin tight black leather pants and studded halter. Her ears, nose and lips were pierced with dozens of wire rings. She stuck out her tongue, lifted the halter, and thrust her left breast toward him, its nipple bisected by a safety pin with a metal skull dangling below.
Jesus...
The passenger door opened and a long-haired Hippie kid wearing sunglasses climbed in and sat down. He was carrying a mailbag and a pink bakery box tied with twine. Linc stared at him.
"Are you..."
"Drive"
Linc turned back to look at the girl, but she was gone. Two nasty looking Skins were standing on either side of his car, waving him on down the street, so he hit the gas. The passenger set the box on the seat next him and took a Bible out of the mailbag.
"Oak to Gough to Mission to Eighth." he said, turning the radio on and tuning to a Buzz Metal rock station.
[JS193] [JS194] "John Ferro?"
"Yeah"
"I didn't know what you looked like."
"Let's keep it that way."
"Sure, that's fine with me."
Linc realized that Ferro was wearing a wig and the sunglasses were too dark to see through.
I get it, no way to identify him if I get caught.
"Were those your friends back there?"
"Shut the fuck up and drive."
Linc remained silent until he got to eighth street.
"Now where?"
Ferro got out and placed the bakery box in a dumpster in front of a storefront church. He walked back to the car and got in.
"Drive"
Linc drove to the end of the block before Ferro spoke again..
"Stop. I believe you have some money for me."
"You're supposed to do something for me first."
"Wrong, this is do it yourself."
"You said you'd do it."
"Too much heat; I changed my mind. But, you're a smart guy and almost everything you need is in there." he pointed to the mailbag on the seat.
Linc took out the money, and before he could count it, Ferro snatched it out of his hand.
[JS195] [JS196] "All you add is guts."
Linc watched him get out and a station wagon pulled up along side the car. In it were the same Skins that had stopped him in the Haight. The pierced girl was now topless and a chain ran from one nipple to the other.
Ferro leaned in the window and tossed the Bible on to the seat.
"Don't forget your inspiration: `An eye for an eye.'"
The driver of the station wagon raced the engine and Ferro hopped in, tossing his wig and sunglasses onto the street behind him. They raced off, leaving a black strip of rubber, smoke and confusion.
Inspiration? He doesn't know about my "inspiration".
Linc picked up the Bible and opened the cover.
A deafening blast rocked the car as the front of the storefront church exploded and rained debris on the street. A fireball rose into the air above it.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
He watched several people stagger out of the church into the street, then looked down at the Bible. It was hollowed out and rigged with an electric garage door controller. By the time Linc realized the trouble he was in and started to drive away, sirens were approaching from two directions.
Christ, now, I've got my foot in it now.
[JS197] [JS198] Scene 26 – The Irish Bar
Linc and Moseley sit at a table in the back of a downtown Irish pub, with two pints between them. They nod a silent toast and drink. From the jukebox the strains of an Irish resistance ballad clash with the ordinary sunlight bursting through the cellophane "stained glass" coat of arms on the window. Outside the open door, a woman screams at a man pushing a shopping cart full of cardboard down the street.
Moseley turns to look through the bar at the woman, then turns back to his beer looking almost embarrassed. Linc takes another drink, swallows and clears his throat.
"Ten years ago, the City was safe and clean. Then, I guess because of the economy, the whole place went to Hell and the crazies came out of the woodwork. I mean, the City has always been the edge, but now it's... under siege?"
"Lincoln, every day there are fewer alternatives for the people juggling several severe problems. No half-way houses, no transient housing, no out-patient mental health programs... no safe middle-ground for those on the fringe... the edge if you will, of acceptable social behavior. So, the street becomes the arena of social treatment. The police, armed with laws and authority, replace the physician or therapist and the city slowly becomes a laboratory maze with many more shocks than pieces of cheese. When that happens, people lose the ability to function in what we consider "normal" society and create their own logic. And although it seems faulty to us, that logic actually works on the street."
"So there's no hope this will all pass?"
"There's always hope, but without treatment, I don't believe those disaffected individuals will not leave the behavior that they know works..."
"To get the cheese."
[JS199] [JS200] Moseley stared down at his beer and took a deep breath. "Tell me about Diane." Lincoln was taken aback but the shift from the street to his family.
"She's doing... better." Both men sat staring at the table, waiting for the momentum of the question and response to ease them into a psychologist/patient discussion.
"Doctor, I have to let this thing work itself out. It seems that the more I try to help it, the slower it happens. There's a part of Diane I just can't reach. She has walled up part of her personality and it gets thicker when I mention it. So I don't mention it. But it's there. And she knows it too."
Moseley looked into Linc's eyes with compassion and patience. The ballad on the jukebox ended and another began before Lincoln spoke again.
"How long does this go on?"
"Until she's ready to trust again."
"Me?" Linc asked incredulously.
Moseley took a long drink and wiped his mouth. "Not you," he said, "the world."
[JS201] [JS202] Scene 27 - Jack, Dar and Charles
Jack Neuman sat in a recliner looking out the window of his apartment. He was thin, nearly emaciated and his bony hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face with a bath towel. His hair was matted to his head, looking more like wet shreds of brown fur than the golden blond mane he had before starting the medication and chemotherapy.
"Jack? You okay?"
Jack turned to look up at Dar Tilson and Charles Rodrigues who were standing behind him. He nodded and a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him, so he took a deep breath and focused on the wall in front of him. Pictures of Dar and Jack in Acapulco, young and tanned, in Tahoe, hanging Christmas lights on their cabin, in the City with friends, carrying candles in a parade.
Were we ever that young?
"Jack?" Dar said again, softer and more concerned.
"Yes..." he said, pulling himself back from the sad memories of the parade.
"Yes, I'm okay."
But he wasn't okay. It was hard to eat, harder still to keep food in his stomach. "Maybe some chamomile."
Charles walked into the kitchen and Dar put his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack smiled and looked up at him.
"I don't want it to be like this."
Dar closed his eyes and said, "I know."
They had said these same words over and over in the past months and still the true meaning went unexpressed. I'm sorry our dreams can't come true; I'm sorry I'll keep living after you've gone.
[JS203]
[JS204] Scene 28 - Hall of Justice Parking Lot
Detective Rupert Holt sat in the unmarked Ford: his hands on the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. All he had to do was start the engine and he could drive away, leave the Hall of Justice parking lot, get lost in traffic and forget about his wife and daughter.
And he wanted to do that more than draw his next breath, but he was stuck. Stuck between a thought and his mounting fear.
Maybe she's just that age, the tears and looks and secrets. Right?
His head tilted down and he looked at his knuckles, scarred and white.
There's your answer, Pal -- you don't believe it.
A deep sigh let him shake his hands for a moment, but his neck was still stiff and aching. He grabbed the wheel again and forced his eyes shut.
What do I do? Ask her if she's pregnant, for Chrissakes? She's only fifteen.
One of the Meter Maids tapped on his window and Rupert, startled, turned to face the young woman.
"Hey, Alana"
"Rupe, you okay?"
"Yeah, sure, fine. `S nothing."
The woman smirked and nodded.
"Right, just sitting in the parking lot having a car crash."
He pulled his hands of the wheel as though nothing had happened.
"Wanna' talk about it, or play Mr. Macho Dick?"
He looked into her eyes and saw concern.
"Alana, you have a daughter, don't you?"
[JS205] [JS206] "Corrie, she'll be ten next month."
For an instant, Rupert remembered his daughter at ten.
Lynn the Fin we called her, sunburned, but always in the pool. Jeez, she was a water rat. That was just... five years ago? Oh, God.
Alana watched the emotions play across his face.
"What's the story? " she asked.
"I'm afraid my daughter Lynn might be pregnant. She's fifteen."
"Did you ask her?"
"No."
"Then why do you think she's pregnant?"
"Just, uh, different things. I hear her crying, but she denies it and Elaine's been having a lot of Mom/Daughter talks with her. They have a little private relationship that doesn't include me."
"So, why not ask her?"
"Because... I don't know what I'd do if she said yes."
"There's the problem."
He nodded for her to continue.
"You don't know what you might do and you're afraid."
That was it.
As Daddy, Rupert could handle just about anything, but Detective Holt lived in a world of laws and responsibility, of good and bad, right and wrong. He had guidelines and limits. But none of that could stop his girl from becoming a woman and he feared that the child-like love he shared with Lynn was changing.
"I don't want to lose her."
[JS207] [JS208] "So, talk to her. Let her know you're still with her, but give her room to grow."
He started the engine and looked at up at the Meter Maid.
"Your husband's a lucky guy."
Alana put on her helmet and shook her head.
"No he isn't. He left when Corrie was four -- and she still asks about him. He couldn't be there for her or me."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah. You take care."
"Okay. Thanks."
Rupert shifted into drive and pulled out into traffic.
Scene 29 - The Skinhead Party
Michael Breck walked to the center of the room and took Jimmy Beanblossom by the arm, leading him away, under protest, from a group of drunk skins. Jimmy was fairly drunk himself, so he staggered along peacefully, distracted only by the topless girls covered with tattoos and piercings. Breck pulled him into the kitchen, picked him up and sat him on the stove. A dozen skins started howling a war cry and sprayed cans of beer, slapping and punching each other until it looked like a brawl had started.
Breck shoved the crowd back from Beanblossom.
"Cool the fuck down, you dogs. I said `Be cool!'"
The furor subsided and Breck grabbed two large cans of beer from the cooler, opened them and handed one to Beanblossom.
"Skoal, motherfucker!"
Then he rammed his can into Beanblossom's and both can's started to spout foam. Breck put the can to his lips and squeezed it until it was empty. He belched and a spray of foam shot out of his mouth.e belched and a
"It's great to have a man, a white man, make the newspapers by doing what he knows is his God-given duty!"
The crowd sounded their war cry again.
"When the Jew doctors and Lesbo nurses split the blood money this week, they'll come up short `cause this trooper, " he points to Beanblossom, "this Christian, said fuck you!"
Again the beer spraying and screaming begins. Breck singles out one drunk skin and punches him in the face, knocking him to the floor. When the kid gets up he spits out blood and a tooth, which they all find to be hilarious. One of the [JS209] [JS210] crowd turns on the stove and flames sprout next to Beanblossom's hip, but he is too drunk to react quickly. As his shirt catches on fire, the beer sprayers dowse him.
"Listen up, you dogs, this guy is a lesson for all of us. Who are the real Israelites?"
"We are!" they yell.
"Who are the chosen people?"
"We are!"
And how do we rid the world of the Scourge? The Mud people? The scum?"
"With the gun and the knife and the fist and the boot!"
"That's right!"
They all power-salute Breck, who waits a moment, then salutes back.
"And what about our brother Christian trooper here?" he says.
Beanblossom is scared.
Brech cranes his neck with a wicked smile on his face "Where's the Iron Man?" The crowd hollers "Iron Man!"
John Ferro opens the back door of the house and steps into the kitchen, holding a large firecracker and a lit cigarette.
"What?"
Breck points to Beanblossom.
"Whatta' we give Beanbag here for stompin' that cunt?"
Ferro sneers, "A vasectomy?"
Half a dozen knives flick out of pockets and boots.
[JS211] [JS212] "Or the Rubber Ducky?"
The room falls silent as Breck stares into space.
"Get Ducky"
Three skins rush out the backdoor and a girl screams. When they come back in, they're carrying a squirming girl. She screams until they set her down in front of the stove. Beanblossom looks at her; thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing only black leather panties: big breasts, tattoos and scars on her stomach, chest and arms.
Breck grabs a silver ring in her nipple and pulls her close.
"Ducky, you be a nasty little girl and fuck our hero here. Right?"
Without hesitation she grabs Beanblossom's crotch and pulls him off the stove.
"Come on, Needledick, one more fuck today won't kill my pussy."
The skins howl as she pulls him to the bedroom.
Ferro lights the firecracker, tosses it into the crowd and walks out the back door. The skins try to push each other closer to the firework. It explodes and a cry of pain follows as Ducky pushes Beanblossom down onto a stained mattress on the broken bed. She straddles him and unbuttons his shirt, sliding upward until she is right over his throat. As she pulls the shirt off his arms he hears two loud clicks and a ratchet sound.
I'm hand-cuffed! Jesus Christ, I'm hand-cuffed!
Ducky spins on his chest and thrusts her bottom into his face.
What the hell is going on?
She leaps to the foot of the bed and ties his feet to the sides of the bed [JS213] [JS214] frame with stiff lengths of clothesline.
"Stop!" he yells, "I don't want this!"
She stands next to the bed, pulls off her panties and picks up a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol from the floor.
"Who the fuck cares what you want?"
Beanblossom watches her splash the alcohol all over his body, then into his face, his eyes burn and the room becomes a blur.
"Don't hurt me! Please!" he screams.
"Not much of an Aryan soldier now, are you?"
She takes a plastic cigarette lighter from a table next to the bed, straddles him again and strikes a flame. Beanblossom panics.
"For the love of God, don't burn me, please!"
Ducky slides back onto his penis.
"Hello... who's this little guy?"
She slides up and down, watching him being torn between pleasure and terror.
"I'm afraid." he says.
"Well then, you better show me some heat, `else I might have to..."
She brings the lighter to his face.
"Please! Don't!"
"Relax and enjoy it. This will be your piece of ass to remember."
"I don't wanna' to burn!"
Ducky stared at the yellow flame and smirked.
"Then I'd have to do something you'd never forget."
[JS215] [JS216] When Beanblossom's alcohol-blurred eyes finally cleared he saw that the girl was lost in ecstasy. On the wall next to the bed was a framed portrait of Adolph Hitler standing in front of an American flag. Another skin girl staggers into the room with a bottle of Seagrams Seven and pours it into his mouth. He gags and coughs but she keeps pouring.
"Ducky, let me do him." says the other girl.
"He's already done, " she says, still rocking, "I'm just doing me."
"Then let me do you." says the girl.
Ducky stops for a moment, "Okay, but no Lesbo stuff."
The girl licks her lips and straddles Beanblossom's face, laughing.
"Right, no Lesbo..."
She takes Ducky's nipple ring in her mouth and tugs like a dog biting at a leash.
"Ooh, shit!" Ducky says as a trickle of blood runs down her stomach. "You do that again and I'll beat your ass."
The girl looks up and smiles seductively.
"Promise?"
Beanblossom turns his head for a breath of air, vomits and passes out. Back in the kitchen, some of the skinheads are mixing blood into their beer.
Scene 30 - The Morning After
An instant after the clock-radio buzzer sounded Linc was wide awake. Frozen, numb and scared, but awake.
Seven, Diane will probably snooze-alarm until the baby wakes.
He realized that, except for his sneakers, he was still fully dressed. Carefully he slid out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom, took off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the spray nozzle to the wall and turned on the water. It was cold enough to make him jump at first, but he stayed behind the shower curtain, moving gradually into the warming stream.
I'd rather be cold than have Diane ask me where I was all night.
The spray of water reminded him of the fire hoses at the church; firemen scrambling to control the flames; rivulets of sooty back flow off the charred roof.
Jesus, what the hell was that stuff anyway? It was supposed to blow out some windows, not burn the place to the ground. God, I could go to jail for the rest of my natural life for this.
He lathered up his hair and scrubbed hard with his fingertips, trying to get every particle of ash and guilt off his body. When he stuck his head under the water to rinse, he felt someone grab his arm, so he pulled back against the wall and slipped to the floor.
"What?"
Diane was standing at the partially opened curtain, looking concerned.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
It took Linc a few seconds to regain his composure; more than paranoia shock he was amazed to see Diane up and alert.
"Are you okay?" he returned.
[JS217] [JS218] "Yeah," she said, "I just wanted to ask you if you want pancakes for breakfast."
Now Linc was sure that something had changed. Diane was acting like herself.
Could it really change this quick? Maybe Moseley was right. when it's time, it just happens. I hope this is it.
Diane walked to the kitchen and he finished his shower.
When he got to the kitchen, coffee was brewing and Diane sitting at the counter reading the newspaper. He poured two cups and sat next to her.
"It's nice to see you up and around."
She stopped looking at the paper and looked into his eyes.
She's back, he thought, and as beautiful as ever.
Diane smiled and put her hand on his shoulder.
"I know it's been hard. On you and the littles. I'm sorry." she said.
"It's okay, it's... all right. We just missed `good old Mom'."
Diane smiled sadly and nodded.
"I think I have a handle on it now. I can accept what happened."
A tear rolled down her cheek and onto the table. Linc watched it fall and splash.
One church for a thousand tears? I don't think that's out of line.
"I'm okay," she sniffed, "Just a little weepy now and then.".
She closed the paper and set it aside. Linc sipped at his coffee and glanced at the folded paper and saw the word "church" in a headline. He stopped and set [JS219] [JS220] the cup down, staring at the word.
It couldn't be in this paper, it was after midnight and... did she read it?
He looked at his wife as she drank her coffee.
No, she would've said something. It couldn't be anyway.
"What were all those sirens last night?" she asked.
Linc snapped back and forth between acting dumb and telling the truth.
"Fire, I guess. Too many to be anything else."
"Let's turn on the news." Diane said and walked to the t.v.
Nobody knows anything... except Ferro and his hands are as dirty as mine.
The first thing on the television screen was a cartoon. The cat had just swallowed a whole bottle of Tabasco sauce and flames were shooting out of his ears. When Diane turned to the news, Linc opened the paper.
"Church leaders plan Moral Summit" read the headline.
Good, they could use it.
The local news show was up to the sports segment when Diane found it, so she lowered the sound, then returned to the counter and sat next to her husband.
"Can we take some time away together. Soon?"
"That's a great idea." he said, "The coast? Mendocino?"
"Oh, I don't care as long as it has good coffee, long walks, Margaritas and fog."
"Sounds like a deal."
Diane smiled and looked out the kitchen window at the rising sun.
"You know what I want more than anything?"
Linc didn't answer.
[JS221] [JS222] "You know what? Linc?" she said and turned to find keep staring at the television.
"Linc?"
She looked at the screen and saw a smoldering pile of rubble. The charred sign next to the ruins read, "Evangel Church of Revelations."
"Jesus" whispered Linc.
Diane turned up the sound and the announcers voice boomed into the room.
"...early this morning. Investigators at this time believe that it may have been a faulty gas meter, but because of the high visibility of Reverend Saldana and his congregation, the Marin County District Attorney says it will proceed with the investigation assuming it was arson. For channel six news... I'm Lloyd..."
Diane clicked off the news
Scene 31 - At The Re-bar
Ducky bit her lower lip and gave Ferro a look that a sober man would have recognized as pure lust.
"Kinda' " she purred, and left the bar with her girlfriends.
So he pissed away the next morning watching CNN. Every hour they featured an update on the arrest of two brothers in Connecticut who were suspected of sending letter-bombs to half a dozen University professors.
"Morons" he repeated every time the video tape of their arrest was run, "Fucking morons".
Scene 32 - At the Burned Church
After the news crew left, Reverend Saldana and Frank Hillis walked to Hillis' Wagoneer..
"What do you think, Frank?"
Hillis stopped and turned to take another long look at the blackened steel trusses, heat twisted into useless shapes; piles of charred brick debris and the blued brass pipes of the organ.
"Looks like a couple of million... maybe more."
Saldana smiled sardonically.
"Not quite. The whole church was only eight hundred thousand."
"I'm not talking about replacement, " Hillis said, pausing to look around for anyone who might overhear them, "a couple of million in publicity."
"Praise God."
"In fact, some of this needs to be kept for reminders."
He picked up a charred doorknob and lock and wrapped it in his handkerchief.
"Who's the Christian Congressman you know? Hearn?"
"Ahearn, " Saldana said, beginning to see the plan. "Robert Ahearn. And he's in town for the school board elections."
Hillis laughed and walked to his car holding the white bundle in the air.
"He might need a little reminder that Satan never sleeps."
The Reverend followed him to the car, feeling the delicious momentum of the plan.
"Good Lord, you have delivered me a Solomon," he thought, "Thy will be done, dear Jesus, thy will be done."
[JS223] [JS224]
Scene 33 - The Congressman
Saldana was still wearing the sooty shirt he wore while climbing through the rubble when he arrived at Congressman Ahearn's office. As he walked from the car, he pinched the soiled cloth and rubbed it between his fingers. Hillis strode ahead of him to open the door.
"Can you handle this? Or, do you want a little help?"
Saldana pressed his dirty fingertips to his forehead and left a small but distinct smudge. He waited for Frank to acknowledge the mark before entering the office.
"Anointed by tribulation, sullied by the hand of the Dark One. I guess you can take it from here."
"Frank, I'm just the opener. I still need a strong closer."
Hillis closed his eyes and whispered,
"God, You, who changed water to wine, You, who said, `Cast thy bread upon the water', You, who multiplied the loaves and fishes, hear now your humble servants request..."
He opened his eyes and smiled.
"Two million five, dear Lord, two million five."
Saldana heard the numbers and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Amen, brother, amen."
Hillis opened the door and they walked in.
The reception area was full of people waiting to speak to the Congressman; old folks, boy scouts, a mother with three toddlers and four men dressed in `Gay `90's ' costumes. Except for the restless children, they waited patiently and whispered among themselves out of respect for the Office.
[JS225] [JS226] Hillis watched the room for a moment, then whispered.
"Start coughing."
Saldana cleared his throat and began coughing. To his own surprise, it became easier and easier to continue the more he did it. Once Hillis saw that he had everyone's attention, he motioned to the receptionist and said loud enough for all to hear.
"This is Reverend Saldana of the Evangel Church..."
When people in the room realized that the coughing man was the one they had seen on television that morning, some offered their seat, others called out for water. The receptionist seemed harried, but she was so taken aback by the situation, that Hillis continued,
"He needs to speak to the Bob for a moment before he goes to the hospital for treatment."
The woman walked down a short hall to the Congressman's office, opened the door and leaned into the room.
Hillis took Saldana by the arm and confidently pulled him around the reception desk to the hallway..
The receptionist opened the door and pointed into the room.
"The Congressman will see you immediately, Reverend."
"Thank you, ma'am, thank you" Hillis mumbled, "could we have some water please?"
"Of course"
Congressman Ahearn was a heavyset fifty year-old with small eyes and big, gin-blossomed jowls. He looked up from the papers on his desk, nodded to [JS227] [JS228]
Saldana and then turned to a tall well-dressed black man standing beside him.
"This all looks fine, James, bundle it up and submit it on Thursday, for Friday publication. that way, they won't have more than a few hours to heck on the..."
"Right," the man said, "I got it. That's good, real good."
He gathered up the papers, carried them into the hall and closed the door behind him.
"Have a seat, Lou." the Congressman said.
"Thanks Bob." It took a moment for Saldana to stop coughing, then he continued, "Bob Ahearn, Frank Hillis. Frank, Bob."
Ahearn reached out and shook Hillis' hand.
"God-damn, Hillis, I see more of you on t.v. than any six people I know. I kind of like your style."
"Thanks, Bob. It's simply a matter of handle them before they handle you." Hillis stated, still holding Ahearn's hand. "It's something we all need more of. Isn't it?"
Ahearn drew back his hand and stared at the two men.
"What've you got?"
Hillis took the handkerchief bundle from his pocket and dropped the charred lockset onto the desktop. The Congressman took a closer look.
"Terrorism." announced Saldana, "Anti-Christian humanists and arson."
Ahearn looked up from the scorched metal and looked to Hillis.
"This is your ball, Frank. How do you want to play it?"
Hillis pulled back his handkerchief and wiped his hands while looking [JS229] [JS230]
around the room. He smiled at the picture of the President and held that smile while he glanced at the other official portraits.
"Congressman Ahearn, I won't mince words with you. I'm sure you are well aware of the ground swell of support for traditional Christian values in America today, so I'll get to the point. Nearly twenty percent of the men, women and children believe that the time of Tribulation is at hand and the Apocalypse will occur before the end of this century. Jesus will again walk the Earth! In fact, Nearly seventy-five percent of the people in this great country of ours believe in the Bible as the divine word of Jesus Christ. That's three out of four people!"
He takes a clean corner of the handkerchief and wipes the smudge from Saldana's forehead before continuing.
"So, I'm puzzled. Who are these `fourth persons', who are these lost souls? Secular humanists? Liberals? Free thinkers and witches?"
He sees a knowing smile on the face of the Congressman so he changes his tack.
"There seems to be this myth, this rumor that the United States is not a religious country, separation of church and state and all that other hogwash. Bunkum, blather, baloney! The part of the First Amendment that deals with religion merely says, `Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof'. I'm sorry, did I miss something in there? I don't hear anything about separation or division or the so-called `wall' between church and state. Patrick Henry said, `It can not be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religions, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ."
[JS231] [JS232] "So, where did the idea of separation come from? Well, not from the Founding Fathers, that for sure. Not from the hard-working life-blood of this country, the rock-solid Christians who built a mighty tribute to the glory of Jesus Christ, no. This insidious idea, born in the Sixties, nurtured in the Seventies, spread in the Eighties, and tearing this country apart with murder, drugs and aids in the Nineties... came from... the Godless socialist and communist atheists who have, of late, fallen back into Hell with their leaders. But before they fell, before God cast them into the eternal fire, they planted a seed. And they watered it with care. And they fertilized it with Darwinism and feminism and Gay Lib and the Drug Culture and Rock and Hustler and Madonna and...
He stares at the ceiling and slowly let's his focus fall to Ahearn's face.
"...just a few key Christian legislators who know better than to let evil flourish, but `needed the support of fringe constituency' or who are ashamed of
the abominable laws that they pass but let pass because they `were up for re-election' and `didn't want to upset the apple-cart' or turned their back rather than confront the real reasons that this country has been snatched out of our hands by the very people our Christian forebears tried to protect us from."
"Congressman, our country has been taken over by the enemy."
Ahearn lets this statement sink in several times before speaking.
"What can we do?"
"Fight fire with fire"
"You don't mean arson."
"I mean war."
The Congressman pushes himself back from his desk ,puts his hands [JS233] [JS234] together, interweaving his fingers and stretches his arms upwards, hands coming to rest, behind his head. Saldana looks at Hillis in confusion.
"You're a pretty bright man, Frank, but that conspiracy clap went out with Reagan. I'll agree that the Christian angle is strong... Jesus, I'd be selling cars if it wasn't. But if you think burning out your enemies is a viable solution, I'll tell you honestly, you're gonna' be sharing a cell with a guy named `Bubba' who wants to play house. You got me?"
"All I'm asking for is for you to uphold the Constitution as a Christian. We can't worship freely if terrorists burn down our church."
"What can I do?"
"Start by having the FBI investigate the firebombing of Evangel Church as an abrogation of our First Amendment rights. I'll handle the press and television."
Now Saldana's eyes widened in amazement.
I'm watching a genius inspired by the Holy Spirit!
Ahearn thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I think I might be able to do that."
Hillis held up two fingers.
"Second, we'll need a temporary facility while the Reverend is raising funds and suing the insurance company to rebuild a bigger church."
Ahearn picked up the telephone and pressed a button. Hillis held up one finger and tilted it to point at the Congressman.
"And third, you get ready to work in the Senate."
His words caused Ahearn to look off into space for an instant, then return to the phone.
[JS235] [JS236] "Get me Haddigan at the Cow Palace."
He held his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Saldana.
"Merry Christmas, Lou."
Hillis picked up the burned doorknob and handed it to the minister.
"And it's not even winter yet."
Scene 34 – Lipp’s Bomb
Just after noon, Lipp arrived at Ferro’s apartment carrying a cardboard box. Ferro looked at the kid standing in his doorway, ragged jeans and abraded leather cycle jacket hanging limp on his bony frame, six foot two from his jungle boots to the tiny blue sledgehammer tattooed on top of his freshly shaved head. Remarkably, Lipp's face was as smooth and unscarred as a baby's; a fringe of downy fuzz looking more like steam than hair around his jaw. But, when he smiled his loopy grin, the small yellow flattened nuggets that were his teeth said; nicotine, caffeine and years of [JS237] [JS238] jaw-grinding speed.
"You still up for today?" Lipp asked.
It took John a moment to remember that he had promised to show him how to make an impact pipe bomb.
"Iron Man," the sixteen year-old said, holding out a brass hash pipe, "let's do a bowl."
Ferro shook his head.
"Look, I don't wanna' sound like your old man..."
"You can't. He's dead." the kid chuckled.
"Then, I don't want to wind up like him. Not today, anyway."
Lipp nodded by bouncing his head, neck and shoulders.
"Right, I gotcha'." he said, putting the pipe back in his pocket. "Later, that's cool."
Ferro walked to the kitchen. "Come on."
The kid carried the box in and set it on the stove.
"Wrong, " Ferro said, moving the box to the tile countertop.
Lipp was taken aback, but quickly put the pieces together.
"Oh, yeah, heat and chemicals"
"Pilot light, " Ferro corrected, "open flame."
"Yow!"
They unloaded the box onto the counter and took a quick inventory; one pound of potassium chlorate, four ounces of sulfur, measuring spoons, threaded pipe nipples, end caps, a plastic bag of ball bearings and a wooden rolling pin.
"Good?"
[JS239] [JS240] "Good." Ferro said, spilling a handful of the potassium chlorate granules onto a wooden cutting board. "Use the rolling pin to crush that into a powder"
Lipp took of his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his work shirt. He held up the rolling pin and cackled, "Just like Momma's little helper."
His wise crack died into the silence of the room while Ferro washed out a small plastic deli container, carefully dried it with a bath towel and set it next to the cutting board.
"Twenty-eight level tablespoons, then we start the sulfur."
It took Lipp some time to grind and measure out the powder, so Ferro opened a beer and watched him work, but all the while his mind was on Ducky: her breasts, her mouth and her girlfriends.
Sex bomb. Impact explosive. Malt liquor. Fire.
Lipp poured some sulfur onto the board and Ferro grabbed his wrist.
"Fuck! What're you, nuts? When this stuff mixes, it's impact explosive. You jam sulfur into that board and you'll be pulling splinters out of your eyes. Think about what you're doing."
"Do you have another board?"
Ferro shook his head and turned the board over.
Christ, this is exactly how shit happens. Some moron thinkin' about pussy when he should be payin' attention. I gotta' keep an eye on this punk.
"Oh, right, I gotcha', " said the kid, "no prob, I'm cool."
"The fuck you are..." Ferro shot back, "do exactly what I tell you or get the fuck out. Understand?"
"Right, it's cool, it's cool..."
[JS241] [JS242]
"It's not cool; it's impact explosive, you dumbshit. It doesn't give you a second chance. One fuck-up and you're toast. Little pieces of bloody toast."
Lipp hung his head and looked down to the floor.
"Sorry..."
Ferro didn't say a word as he poured the sulfur onto the board.
"Four level tablespoons of sulfur powder... into the mix."
"Sorry." Lipp repeated.
"Fuck sorry. Pay attention."
When the sulfur was pulverized, the kid cautiously measured the yellow powder into the plastic container. Ferro snapped on the lid on and held it at arms length in his left hand with his right arm behind his back.
"I didn't know you were a lefty." Lipp murmured.
"I'm not. But I would be if this blew off my right hand."
The kid stared at the container with new respect.
"Lipp, screw one end cap on each of those pipe nipples. Hand tight is fine."
Ferro kept his eyes on the container as he rolled it slowly from side to side, mixing the powders gently, but thoroughly.
Why the fuck am I playing Mr. Wizard with this little shit?, he thought, but his answer came when he saw Lipp looking at him in awe.
Respect, motherfucker, re-fucking-spect.
They mixed the ball bearings and explosive into the pipes, tamped and capped them. When they laid the four bombs on the counter, they looked harmless. Ferro filled the box with crumpled sheets of newspaper and set each pipe deep into the wadding.
[JS243] [JS244] "Ready?" Ferro asked.
"For what?"
"Field test."
Lipp grinned and nodded, picked up the box gingerly and followed Ferro out of the apartment to the Chevette. A light rain was beginning to fall.
As Ferro turned onto Market street, Lipp's heart raced as he thought about throwing the pipebomb out the window at the street people they passed.
Yow! Target. Target. Target...
He ran his fingers along the rough metal seam on the side of one of the pipes, tearing a thin strip of flesh from the tip of his index finger. He pressed harder and cut it again and again until the blood slick turned sticky.
Target. Target...
Ferro turned on Second street and followed it down to Brannan, where he parked along the oval that circled South Park. Lipp looked around at the upscale restaurants, grubby winos and children in the park's tiny playground.
"Wicked cool."
"Take one and put it in your jacket." Ferro said, getting out of the car.
They walked to the corner of Second and Brannan and entered a run-down office building. Lipp followed Ferro to the elevator and they rode to the top floor, then climbed a steel stairway to the roof, stories above the surrounding buildings. Lipp was trembling by the time they reached the facade overlooking the park. He stared down at the winos, their shopping carts pulled into a circle as they shared a bottle. The rain started coming in huge warm droplets.
[JS245] [JS246] "Yeah! Hit `em and then walk back past the mess to the car. Genius."
"Stupid," Ferro said, "It's over here."
He walked to the opposite end of the roof and waited for the kid to follow.
"Wanna' make the news?" he said, pointing across the street to a Telephone Company switching station, about two hundred feet away.
"Whoa, cool!"
Lipp took the pipebomb out of his jacket and set his stance to throw.
Ferro pointed to the biggest microwave dish half-way up an antenna tower atop the building.
"You hit that big dish and half the city will be fucked for phones,"
"Yah!" the kid screamed and flung the pipe as hard as he could. They watched it spin, end-over-end toward the dish, only to fall short by a few yards.
"No!" Lipp groaned.
"Yes!" Ferro whispered and instinctively shielded his eyes.
The pipe's arc took it right to the base of the tower, where it struck one of the steel legs, just above the base stanchion and exploded with a deafening blast.
The concussion sent a shock wave back to Lipp that rattled his bones and sent him down behind the facade for protection. Ferro grabbed his leather epaulet and pulled him back up.
"Look!" he said.
The kid watched the tower whip back and forth before collapsing on the severed leg and falling toward Brannan street. The base tore loose from the roof and crashed down into the center of the building, adding enough momentum to the fall to shear off the top half of the tower and send it crashing into the traffic below.
[JS247] [JS248] Lipp stood frozen, watching the horror scene unfold: groaning metal, crashing concrete, screeching tires and screams of pain. Ferro started back to the stairway.
"Let's go."
The kid didn't move.
"Hey!" Ferro yelled, "Let's go!"
Lipp took a last look and walked to the stairway. They rode down the elevator in silence and walked back to the car. The park was empty now; everyone over on Brannan, helping the injured, directing traffic or just watching in shock.
Ferro started the car and turned onto Second so they could pass the wreckage at street level. Traffic inched along, so they took their time, enjoying the wailing pain and confusion. Ferro pointed to a crowd of people who were watching a bloodied man and woman trying to get their screaming child out from beneath the flattened roof of their car. No one made a move to help them.
"See that?" Ferro asked, pointing to the crowd.
Lipp was grinning.
"Negative fascination."
"Cool" said the kid.
The first report on the newstalk radio said that people in the South Park area were calling with reports of an earthquake, but within minutes, police reported a bomb and that most of the Financial District's phones were out.
Ferro drove to the Rebar, parked and turned off the engine. They listened to the radio.
"At first report, police are listing three dead and seventeen injured, five [JS249] [JS250] seriously, in what appears to be a senseless terrorist bombing of the Brannan street Pac Bell switching station. Investigators have cordoned off a two block radius, so if you're heading to the Bay Bridge, you must get on before the Second Street on-ramp because, for now, nothing can get through except police and emergency vehicles. Again, police reporting three dead and seventeen..."
Ferro turned off the radio and started the engine.
"You think you got it now?"
Lipp looked at him and nodded. "Iron Man, still wanna' do a bowl?"
"No. I got something to do. Gotta' go."
"Wait a minute," the kid said, pulling a pistol from his pocket and holding it out in the palm of his hand. "This is for you."
Ferro took the weapon and examined it. It was loaded. Lipp continued.
"It's an over and under 410 buckshot Derringer. Two cartridges, three triple naught buck pellets in each one. Fits right in your pocket."
"This stolen?"
"Nah, man, it's clean as a whistle; it was my father's. I think you should have it"
Ferro took the gun without looking at Lipp. "Thanks."
"Thank you, man." said Lipp, lifting the box of bombs carefully as he got out of the car.
Ferro put the gun in his pocket and drove off to the Franklin Galleria as thunder rolled in the clouds above and rivers of rain ran in the gutters.
Inside the mall, Ferro pushed back his hair, wringing out the water, and unzipped his leather jacket. His tee shirt was cold and wet, stuck to his skin and [JS251] [JS252] stained where the wet leather dye bled and ran in streaks. The thrill of the bombing had subsided into a nagging anxiety that someone had seen him on the roof of the office building.
5:45. It'll be all over the six o'clock news.
Scene 35 – Ferro’s Date with Ducky
Ferro walked toward the Franklin Galleria in the thunder shower; rain- soaked, water running down his face, never once reacting to the wind-blown sheets of stinging droplets or wiping at his eyes, fists pushed deep into the pockets of the leather jacket. One gripped the Derringer, the other fingered a crumpled scrap of brown paper with the words "Bunny Hutch, Franklin Mall - 5:30" scrawled on it.
He was pretty drunk when Ducky tossed it to him at the re-Bar last night and he had had a few drinks while driving to the mall.
"Pet Shop…" he said, smirking at what he imagined he would find.
Ferro walked past the shops and boutiques until he saw a cut-out plywood rabbit, six feet tall, dressed in top hat and waistcoat pointing further down the mall. A sign in it's other hand said "Bunny Hutch", so Ferro walked on. He walked right past Ducky, leaning against a wooden planter.
"Hey boy, wanna play doctor?" she teased.
It took him a moment to recognize her. He had never seen her in anything other than leather and boots, but there she was in a floral print cotton dress, stockings and heels, her make-up making her look more like an aerobics devotee than Skinhead rowdy. She sauntered over to him, put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers.
Her neck and breasts were perfumed with her sex scent and he twitched at the recognition. Her tongue pushed through his lips and licked the roof of his mouth in a motion so unexpected and lustful that he gasped in spite of himself. She ground her crotch into his and snarled like a wild animal. Ferro let go of himself and fought her tongue with his, pushing into her mouth, grabbing and squeezing her at ass. They let their excitement grow until it was painful to stop. Ducky pulled away.
"I gotta' get my paycheck." she said, "Wanna' come?".
For the first time in his life Ferro felt out of control, weak and confused. But most of all he was horny; as horny as he could ever have imagined being.
Sex drunk, he followed Ducky into the "Bunny Hutch" oblivious to the screams and crying until the smell of rotten fruit and shit snapped him out of his reverie.
Jesus, this is a day-care center. What the fuck does Ducky do here?
A three year-old girl ran up to Ducky and hugged her knees.
"Ducky," she said. "love-a-Ducky."
More kids joined her and a crowd of toddlers blocked Ducky's way to the office.
"Easy, guys, I'm not wearing my play clothes now, okay? I'm going out on a date tonight, that's why I'm wearing my pretty dress."
None of the children had any idea what she was talking about, but two by two they waddled over to Ferro.
"What's your name?" asked a little Asian boy.
"Santa Claus."
The kids laughed, but Ferro stared at them, wide-eyed. He had seen kids before, but never touched one or tried talking to them. He stood still, wishing that they would go away. They didn't.
"Where's your reindeer?" a Black four year-old asked.
"I left them at the North Pole."
"Then how did you get here?" the boy shot back.
Ferro ignored him; having run out of patience and cute answers. Ducky stepped returned fro the office with a fat gray-haired woman.
"Is this the lucky guy?" the woman asked, nodding to Ferro.
"Iron Man, er, John, this is Faith, she owns the `Hutch'."
[JS253] [JS254] "Hi." said Ferro.
"I married an iron man," said the woman, laughing "but now he's just rusty."
Ferro glared at Ducky who was helping a crying boy who had a splinter in his thumb. He watched her tweeze out the sliver with her long nails and flick it onto the floor.
"I'm double parked." he lied.
She ignored him until the boy was satisfied that all the splinter was out and a band-aid was applied to his approval, then she spoke.
"Faith, see you Monday."
"Bye, Honey, don't do anything I wouldn't do." she replied, stifling a laugh.
Ferro stepped carefully over the kids between him and the door and he waited outside until Ducky had said good-bye to each one.
"How can you stand it in there?" he asked as they walked out of the mall.
"I like kids."
He turned and looked at her, unable to put the memory of her putting the bad-aid on the boy's thumb out of his mind.
"Why?"
"Because they're honest about their feelings. Because they trust me to be fair. Because they let me into their circle. Because they're not fucked up yet."
"They smell." Ferro countered.
Again she put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to her neck and whispered in his ear.
"So do I."
[JS255] [JS256] Ferro's pulse raced as he breathed her warm breath mixed with the pungency of her flesh, feeling his body react with instinctive desire to savor her, revel in her, consume her.
"Let's go, I've got a whole night planned for you and me." she said, pulling him toward the exit by one of his belt loops.
"Wait, " he said, "I need to check something out first".
He led her back to an electronics store they had passed and they watched the opening of the six o'clock news. The lead story was the Pac Bell bombing.
"I've had a very busy day." Ferro said.
Ducky dug her hand into the front pocket of his jeans and squeezed him.
"Baby, the best is to come." she purred.
He felt a surge of trembling electric shock bolt from his knees to his heart and back. When he turned to look at her, her eyes were closed, head tilted back as she licked her blood-red lips. Ferro took her lower lip in his mouth and bit down.
"Um," she moaned, "now you're getting warm."
They left the Galleria and walked to the Chevette. The storm had passed and the breaking cloud layer let golden sunlight pour down in shafts onto the steaming asphalt. The humidity made Ducky's dress cling to her legs.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Ninth and Lincoln, the hot tub place, but stop at a liquor store first."
Ferro smiled and looked at her. She slid down the seat and pulled up her skirt to show that all she was wearing beneath was a garter belt to hold up her stockings. He inhaled deeply and felt the intoxication begin again.
This is pure porn!
Scene 36 – At The Hot Tubs
[JS257] [JS258] They walked down a hallway in the private part of the hot tub place, with New Age music chiming and tinkling an odd mix of Asian flute and African percussion in the air around them. Ducky carried thick terrycloth towels and the room key; Ferro handled two bottles of Korbel and a bag of ice. The room had a hot tub, sauna, shower and an oversized bed. She stripped off his clothes, tossed them out into the hallway and called an attendant on the intercom while she rubbed him.
"This is room eight, we left some wet clothes outside the door. Could you run then through the dryer."
"Of course, " the attendant said, "sorry you got caught in the rain."
Ducky switched the intercom to music and the flute and drums filled the room with dreamy sounds. She opened a bottle of champagne and took a long swig.
"You want some?" she said suggestively.
"Just a mouthful."
"Okay. Just a mouthful. "
She spread her legs, shook the bottle and sprayed it up her skirt, between her legs. Champagne foam ran down her stockings and puddled on the cement floor. He stared at the bubbles as the sharp odor of grapes filled the room.
"I better shower." Ducky said. "I’m all sticky.”
Ferro roared and pushed her back onto the bed, licking at her furiously.
Scene 37 - At the Cow Palace
"There seems to be this myth, this rumor that the United States is not a religious country, separation of church and state and all that other hogwash. Bunkum, blather, baloney! The part of the First Amendment that deals with religion merely says, `Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of a religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof'. I'm sorry, did I miss something in there? I don't hear anything about separation or division or the so-called `wall' between church and state. Patrick Henry said, `It can not be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great nation was founded, not by religionists, but by Christians; not on religions, but on the gospel of Jesus Christ."
"So, where did the idea of separation come from? Well, not from the Founding Fathers, that for sure. Not from the hard-working life-blood of this country, the rock-solid Christians who built a mighty tribute to the glory of Jesus Christ, no. This insidious idea, born in the Sixties, nurtured in the Seventies, spread in the Eighties, and tearing this country apart with murder, drugs and aids in the Nineties... came from... the Godless socialist and communist atheists who have, of late, fallen back into Hell with their leaders. But before they fell, before God cast them into the eternal fire, they planted a seed. And they watered it with care. And they fertilized it with Darwinism and feminism and Gay Lib and the Drug Culture and Rock and Hustler and Madonna and...
He stares at the ceiling and slowly let's his focus fall to Ahearn's face.
"...just a few key Christian legislators who know better than to let evil flourish, but `needed the support of fringe constituency' or who are ashamed of the abominable laws that they pass but let pass because they `were up for re-election' and `didn't want to upset the apple-cart' or turned their back rather than confront [JS259] [JS260] FIREBOMB Scene 34
At the Cow Palace (cont'd)
the real reasons that this country has been snatched out of our hands by the very people our Christian forebears tried to protect us from."
[JS261] Scene 38 - Matty Ruckert’s Videotape
"I'm a white man and proud of it. There're damn few things in this world that give me as much pleasure as the fact that there've been no mud people in my family tree. Ruckers been pure since the beginning and anyone who says that a few non-Aryan's mixed in the family tree don't make you less is full of shit. I mean every word of what I say.
"My Daddy, god rest his soul, was brought up Klan. Hell, his daddy was a minister and Kleagle in Georgia, after the First World War, organized twenty, many twenty-five Klantons, you know, local chapters and the like.
"It's simply amazing how little people know about the real Klan, not the Hollywood bullshit, but the God-fearin' , church-going workin' folks who have tried and continued to this day to try to keep the criminals in Washington from giving away what white men, Christian white men, built in this country.
"This struggle is in four different areas: the political and legal arena, street-theater and protest matters, religious and philosophical concerns and finally the armed resistance cadre.
"You boys fall into that last category; armed resistance cadre. Meaning trained combat elite. Not grunts, but a nucleus to build a military force around. And, by God, you'll be ready to teach and lead because the warrior is in your blood, your genes, your heritage. We all have a Beserker inside us, just waitin' to go into a blood rage. That's the most fearsome man in battle, flushed with blood and fighting for God and Country against the dusty, dirty, mud-people, put here on earth as a challenge to the Aryan people to prove their racial superiority.
"Damn, my Daddy would preach in three different churches every Sunday. Back then there was forty-fifty thousand ministers who was also in the Klan. See [JS262] [JS263] FIREBOMB CHARACTERS
what I'm gettin' at? We're fightin' the same war. We're both on the right side, but the church is busy handling the religious and philosophic business, David Duke in way inside the government and every time we have a rally or parade we get all the press we need.
"So, you and your brothers are the hope for our future.
"`Cause if there's one thing all the branches agree on, it's that nothing short of full-scale combat will change the direction we're heading.
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT STATEMENTS
Doctor Lowell Thuman
I don't hold the whole movement responsible for the tragedy that occurred this afternoon. I'm sure that most of the people who protest really and truly believe in their heart that what they are doing is helping their cause. Unfortunately, the pain and suffering that results from these `Violent Encounters' only serves to make the Project S.A.V.E. members look like morons who have forgotten that abortion is legal and we are still, thank God, a country of laws first and foremost.
Let me tell you what it's like to be spit on as you walk into a clinic and then be hugged by a women for whom having a baby would have meant disaster. I feel like a murderer and a saint at the same time. There's no denying that the fetus will eventually become a baby. There's no denying that some women feel like they are condemning an unborn person to non-existence. But correspondingly, we have climbed up the evolutionary ladder by our unique ability to make abstract choices; by the extrapolation of our current position to an unseen future situation based on projected quantities, values and action.
Joan Payton
At virtually every recent Anti-Choice protest, we've noticed children being pushed to the front of the protest crowd. There's no question that the parents of these children are using them to break the law, which is a step beyond simple child abuse. Instructing children to block clinics, lay down in front of cars, to harass and terrorize women who wish to enter the facility is a pre-meditated, deliberate strategy. The parents are hoping that their children will be able to perform some of the acts that adults would be held criminally liable for. The only analogy that comes to mind is the drug dealer who enlists a child to make deliveries.
These children have been brainwashed and deliberately kept away from influences that might cause them to challenge their parent's narrow point of view.
It's not necessarily the abortion that traumatizes women, but rather the brutal environment created by groups like Project S.A.V.E. Please don't forget that S.A.V.E. stands for `stop abortion by violent encounters'.
These are people who claim to care so much for the fetal child and show none of that care for their own children. These people have no business being parents, much less telling another woman that she has to be one.
[JS264] The WAR Manifesto[JS265] ReverR
A young teen-ager a few weeks late with her period should not be subjected to the life-long abject adversity that faces every girl who makes a mistake. To her, it's a matter of life and death and her body is hers to manage.
Yet I constantly hear the Religious Right say that once she is pregnant, she is serving God's plan. God made me. God made medicine. God made all this. So who are they to say what God meant? Put five different Christians in a room and you'll get six different philosophies and seven fist fights.
These people say they love babies? Not any that I know of. These people love fetuses, because as soon as it's born, they turn their back on the mother and child. And a lot of prayer and sacrifice is no substitute for an education, a job, a roof over your head and bread on the table.
Christ, we're lucky that it takes nine months for a fetus to develop into a baby, because, by their thinking, every ovum and sperm are babies! They'd want 12 pregnancies a year. I mean it wasn't until the fourteen century, when Pope Clement decided that there weren't enough church members in the world, that the Christians even considered that abortion might be wrong.
News Show Shrink
"I don't know if we are able to gauge what impact, these experiences will have on the kids. The children I have spoken to seem to derive a sense of self-esteem and identity from being so closely affiliated with a movement that means so much to their parents."
Christain Woman
[JS266] [JS267]
After the third abortion is when I became a Christian and I began to seek for the truth and Jesus let the light shine on me.
72,000 arrests during Project S.A.V.E. protests, and not one conviction of any violent act. The operative word is "convictions'.
We're Christians. I we know that babies are dying we have to protest.
Net News Shrink
Parents have the right to instill their values, religion and politics in their children. This is what is commonly called "rearing" a child. There is a thin line between responsible parenting and exploiting the children. Quite often political rallies include children and we don't see that to be abusive. But violent confrontations are not comparable. Danger and violence are the only reasons that this is wrong. Education of child is ok, but when the child is in jeopardy or is being used to promote the agenda of the parent, it is irresponsible.
Dr. Moseley
(reflecting on his past position)
"Project S.A.V.E. by it's repeated harassment and interdiction tactics has only succeeded in projecting a more radical and unrealistic image of the Pro-Life cause. It alienates those who might be `on the fence' about the issue, the undecided, who are fed up with the intimidation tactics.
Simply, it is not working. The total number of abortions in America is not going down. If they save one baby and alienate nine pregnant mothers who are undecided about which way to turn, then Project S.A.V.E. has not helped the Pro-Life movement at all. In fact, Project S.A.V.E. might be the best publicity for the Pro-Choice people. CONSIDERATIONS
MLK analogy -- they were trying to go to school
30 million baby figure????
What if your fourteen year-old daughter was preg and her life was in danger because of preg..... What would you tell her?
"At that point it would have to be my daughters choice"
END
2/27/12
© 2024 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
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