33 – Desperately seeking Buckingham

  

 

Mike stopped in front of the stucco house. He recognized it instantly even after two years. The hippies behind the hedge gave it away, sprawled out on the grass as if at Woodstock, the smell of their pot wafting across the sidewalk-- strong enough to stone a straight a half a block away. Lovemaking went on, too, squirming bodies thrusting to the limit of sleeping bags and tarpaulins. He shook his head and stepped around their humping forms and across the narrow path to the driveway, where a line had formed along the side of the house.

 "Hey!" one of the slumped figures here howled as Mike advanced towards the screen door near the rear of the house. "Where do you think you're going?"

 The protocol of waiting, Mike thought and grinned. Nothing changed. People still depended upon Free Press welfare to survive. What had it been during his time here? Six cents a paper? Sell enough and a man could buy a joint or burger. Often only one or the other.

 "I'm not here for newspapers," Mike explained, pushing Marie ahead of him in through the door.

 The air choked him. Pot smoke, incense, patchouli, newsprint and ink, swirling together into that unmistakable scent of the past.

 Home. Safety. Friends.

 Chris had talked of clans and blood. His was here. Sweated into him at a time when he still believed he could beat the system. Tinny Santana music rasped out naked two-inch speakers hung in the corners. A low counter divided the room in half long ways with bundles of newspaper stacked on the inner side. Free Press Bob looked up from counting newspapers, his bearded face like that of Christ's, stained near the nose and mouth with pot resin.

 "I told you people one at a time," he snapped.

 "The same old routine, eh, Bob?" Mike said.

 The man frowned, pushed twenty-five papers into a waiting girl's hands, then rose, studying Mike closely. "You!" he said in a hiss as his dilated eyes narrowed.

 "Me," Mike laughed.

 "Damn you, close that door and lock it," the man barked, grabbing up a pack of Lucky Strikes from the counter. But he flipped out a pre-rolled joint and light it, sucking deeply on the smoke.

 "I should have known," he said after a long while, smoke exhaled with the words.

 "Why? What have you heard?" Mike asked suspiciously.

 "Heard? Nothing. But things have gone wrong-- and it makes some odd sense for you to appear in the midst of it. How the fuck are you, anyway?"

 "I've been better," Mike said, motioning for Marie to sit. The office had no furniture, but a few bundles of old issues had obviously been used as chairs. Mike remained standing as Bob waited. It would come. Mike felt it coming. Like vomit. The whole tale regurgitating in him, needing to be told again. To sympathetic ears. The Free Press man more family than the old man had been.

 Just where Free Press Bob came from, no one knew. Rumors said he'd been a Learyite early on in the movement, disillusioned by the direction of its followers. There was an air of faith to him that everyone sensed, a religiousness that haunted people at first meeting, though vanished after a time. But for those like Mike who knew him well and long, the feeling never totally vanished. It returned in hours of need.

 Like now.

 And yet, Mike resisted it-- feeling the vibes wrong for any kind of confession, feeling the envelop of evil around the place pressing in. Another time. Maybe another place. He could talk more freely.

 "I want to take an ad out in your newspaper," Mike said finally, watching something in the man's brown eyes close, leaving a residue of disappointment behind.

 The man slapped a note pad down on the counter. "What kind of ad?" he asked coldly.

 "I need to find somebody."

 Free Press Bob's eyes gave him away, a sudden surge of alarm which he quickly stifled. "Shoot," he said, pen poised.

 "You write it," Mike said. "I'm not good at words. I need to find a man name Buckingham."

 The pen popped out from between Bob's fingers. "What the fuck to do you want with him?" he asked.

 "You know him?"

 "I know of him. Rumors of him are everywhere. But I'm not sure he exists."

 "If he does, then I want to meet him."

 "And do what, Mike?" the newspaper man asked. "I thought you said you've changed. He's bad news."

 "In what way?"

 "He kills people, and they don't always have to be in his way."

 "That's all?"

 "What more do you want?"

 "Details," Mike said, pacing towards the door-- a subtle breeze creeping through its cracks relieving a bit of the room's stuffiness. A loose front page of the current issue flapped at his feet. "Rumors aren't very reliable. Look what they've said about me over the years."

 "They call you a hero," Free Press Bob said.

 "And I'm not!" Mike growled, turning upon the newspaper man enraged. "And if they can be wrong about me, maybe they're wrong about Buckingham."

 "Maybe," Free Press Bob said with a doubtful note. "What exactly did you need him for?"

 "To get me out of the country."

 "What makes you think he can?"

 "He's connected. He's been competing with Denver's drug routes for years, if you can believe any part of the rumors. From overseas. I've got friends in India where I can hide out until things cool down here."

 "That could take years."

 "Maybe. But things'll never cool down if I stay here where every hotshot cop can spot me."

 "You mean Demetre?"

 "I mean anybody."

 "Buckingham'll want something," the newspaper man pointed out. "Can you afford it?"

 "That depends upon what he wants," Mike said. "And God knows I might not honor an agreement once I'm overseas."

 "I wouldn't double-cross him, Mike. He sounds the type who'll find you no matter where you go."

 "I'll worry about that when the time comes. Just write the ad."

 

 Hip Cities main menu

email to Al Sullivan