45 - Coyote speaks?

  

Mike stumbled through the crowd, disbelieving Demetre's entire tale. The circus atmosphere made it easier to disbelieve. Nothing in Hollywood was real. Not even the underlying electric fear which seemed to grip the faces around him, paranoid exchanged glances between hippies, bikers and drug people as Jesus Freaks and tourists went on blindly between.

 Cops, their eyes said. Everywhere fucking cops.

 Mike saw them, too, stuffed into cars on the corners, huddled into deep-set doorways. Waiting and watching, and occasionally, yanking some poor fool off his feet, to the hassle and indignity of search and bust.

 It all seemed arbitrary. As if ill-luck chose its victims. And those lucky enough to miss its lottery, hurried on, afraid of the next selection a block or two later. Too many were going down. Already the ranks had thinned.

 And in Mike the echoes of Demetre's illogical talk. Of heroes and villains. Of a demented fan waiting in yet deeper shadows for a chance to kill Jesse James.

 Or was Mike now Black Bart?

 Old legends seemed to run together in his head. Even the ones his grandfather spoke over his cradle, of the evil god Coyote who played games with people's fate.

 Was Buckingham Coyote? Was all this one of his insane dances?

 But how could Demetre have gotten so deluded? Or was it a head trip, something to shake Mike off Buckingham's trail? Buckingham was a legend, too, and the combined power of two such legends might well scare the law establishment into some elaborate fibs.

 But it hadn't seemed like a lie. And the whole time, Demetre's gaze had probed Mike, and his guesses had come close about the shooting up in Griffith's park.

 Were you there? Who killed the cops, Michael? Why?

 Those cops seemed primary to Demetre. He was part of their club and couldn't let it go with no. In other circumstances, the man might even have tried busting Mike for it. God knew he could make a charge stick. But Mike was Mike, and the Tucson court room floated in the back of the black cop's head like a ghost. Another bad rap wouldn't ease his conscience.

 Mike tried to plead ignorance, saying he wasn't anywhere near Griffith's park. The cop accused him of lying.

 Your footprints were all over, the cop said. Up on the soft ground above the road.

 My prints? How can you tell?

 But the man had known. The man had taken prints from other places, had traced Mike back the whole route to the Nebraska farm.

 No secrets between us, Michael.

 But the man's motivations puzzled Mike. Why hold back the fury of the LAPD for the likes of him. Take him in. Grill him. At some point in the conversation, whether in the hills or down at the station, Mike would have given up Billy's name. An easy out. But one which would lead yet to other scenarios.

 Someone had shot a cop from the hill. Mike? Maybe Chris.

 And for some reason Mike wanted to keep Chris' name out of this, as if he owed her that much despite his rage.

 I don't know anything, Demetre! he'd yelled.

 The cop let it go, saying Mike was in over his head. Buckingham a fan? Was the cop fucking crazy?

 No. Demetre wanted Buckingham. And Demetre was willing to deal with Satan to get him. For the first time even, Mike felt the odd sensation of being a tool. Demetre and others needed Mike to get Buckingham, and the system was willing to over look his participation in a cop killing to do so.

 Was Buckingham up on that hill with you?

 "I told you, I haven't met him yet," Mike said. "Tonight, midnight."

 Where?

 "None of your business."

 Michael!

 "I told you no. I meant no. This is between me and him."

 Even if it kills you?

 "You're the only one saying he wants me dead, man. And if that's what this Buckingham wanted, he could have done it a long time ago."

 Why do you say that?

 "Because it's true. He's a ghost. Even you said he's been floating around us without our knowing."

 It was this which had stopped the conversation. Demetre didn't have all the answers, any more than Mike did. But the whole notion of a mad-fan struck Mike as pure fantasy. Demetre slipping over the edge into the abyss where all old cops go.

 But Mike hated being used. The system. The Machine. Whatever the hippies called society these days. He wasn't part of it, and wouldn't lead it to anyone.

 Not even Buckingham.

 So as he danced through the crowd, he looked back. Was anyone following now? How did he go about losing them? He had to be careful...

 "Yo!"

 A hand grabbed Mike and yanked him into the deep set doorway of a vacant store. Billy Night Rider's face poking into his. Sweating and panicked. The eyes bulging under the mussed blond hair. Dark, paranoid eyes.

 "What the hell you doing walking around the street like that?" Billy barked. "Haven't you heard what's going on?"

 "Cool off, Billy," Mike said, detaching the man's clawing fingers from his arm. "I'm not hip to the news. If you want to tell me, that's fine. But leave off the flesh, okay?"

 "With the cops, man. You know..."

 "Oh that," Mike said, turning away from Billy to view the street. He studied the passing faces. Had one looked in?

 "What do you mean oh that? This is serious, man. The cops are everywhere."

 "You worry too much," Mike said. "No one saw anything up there."

 "That's what you say," the biker growled. His wide shoulders shuddered under his cut off denim jacket, as if cold. "But we don't know nothing for sure. Someone in one of those houses might have looked out."

 "I know for sure," Mike snapped. He didn't want to have to explain about Demetre, and the grilling.

 Yet something in his voice seemed to settle the Biker, the grim face twisting slightly to study Mike, more chimpanzee than human with the same puzzled expression.

 "If you know so much, then maybe you can tell me something about Bobo," Billy asked.

 "Bobo?" Mike snorted. "Are you still on that kick. If you're scared, get out of town. Forget trying to be the biggest bad dude in L.A."

 "That ain't it any more," Billy said. "Things are different now. Rougher. People are getting yanked off the street."

 "Because of that narc article in Freep?"

 "And the killing. Sooner or later the pigs are going to get lucky and pick me up or you, or one of the others-- and they'll squeeze the truth out. And we'll all fry."

 "And what's this got to do with Bobo, besides your suspicion he arranged for the article?"

 "He's helping them, man."

 "Him? Help the fuzz? You're crazy. The cops get hold of him, they'll keep him."

 "Maybe they got him already. Maybe he's dealing to save his own hide."

 True or not, the idea struck Mike in the wrong place and at the wrong time. He didn't need to hear such things to get his own head started. Paranoia was contagious. Paranoia spread like wild fire. And there was a flame already setting alight inside him.

 "Bullshit! You and Dan ought to join up. You both seem to have the same skewed ideas. Except Dan thinks he's using the cops."

 "Maybe he is."

 "The cops don't get used like that. Not down in the ditches. They're not that stupid. Nor does Bobo want to make that many enemies out here on the street."

 "He'd do it if he thought there'd be no one left to bother him," Billy said. "If he could eliminate everybody that was anybody he'd have his own little empire and then no one could get at him."

 He wants the whole thing for himself, Michael, Demetre had said. He wants the biggest drug empire this side of the country.

 Bobo as Buckingham? That was bullshit, too.

 And yet, slow coldness came over Mike. The pattern alarmed him. What if it wasn't just L.A. Bobo had interests in. Gil in Phoenix had made noises about Bobo's being there. And Rumors of Bobo had circulated along the line from Denver. What if Bobo was Buckingham?

 The photos of the murdered drug dealers flipped through Mike's head one after the other, like one of those old time card movies, each face blending with the next till they all looked like his own.

 The elimination of competition made more sense than Demetre's fairy tale. Billy's fright proved the effect of Bobo's campaign on those not busted or killed. Many of the second string players down here worked cheap and for anybody. Their loyalty was to power and to the man they feared most.

 The meeting with Bobo hinted of danger for Dan and Lance, and might be a bit more deadly than either expected.

 "As a matter of fact, Billy. I do know where Bobo is-- or at least where he's supposed to be in a few hours."

 Billy's jaw shifted, his narrow eyes squinting at Mike with something akin to murder in them. "Oh yeah? You tell me about it and I'll take care of the problem."

 Mike smiled. "I'm sure you will, Billy," he said, remembering the cops on the hill. "Over at the East end of the Boulevard. Bobo's supposed to meet Dan there at ten."

 Billy grinned, his slash of a mouth revealing a half dozen knobby and yellow teeth. "That's all I needed to know, Pal," he said, patting Mike shoulder. Then, he slipped out of the door and into the flow of the crowd, looking as he had on the hill-- like a killer on the scent of a prey.

                ***********

 "You what?" Dan exploded, his mouth and eyes bulging with rage. "What the hell did you do that for?"

 "To save your life, fool," Mike said calmly, leaning against the wall near the door-- the vibration of someone's music working up it from down below. Slow dance music from a few decades earlier. Sad music dancing in the back of his head in the place of a chant.

 No Coyote in him. No messages from the dead.

 Only pictures of those dead men staring up from Demetre's briefcase. Dan's could be one of them.

 "But I want Bobo in one piece," Dan moaned and paced the room, the light from the kitchen casting the room into a deep and stark shadow. "At least until he can tell me where my goddamn money is."

 "What do you need the money for? You have a whole shipment. You can sell that and make back most of the money..."

 "It's the principle of the thing," Dan grumbled. "That son of a bitch has to pay for screwing me."

 "And killing him's not enough?"

 "Not if Billy does it, no."

 Mike sighed, patting his pocket for a piece of chocolate, finding a bit wrapped in crinkled foil. Old chocolate. From the road. It tasted stale, but he sucked on it and eyed Lance, who sat near the beaded curtain with back against the wall and head down into his arms.

 "Talk to him, Lance," Mike said. "Tell him what a fool he's being."

 Lance looked up. Red-eyed. A little stoned. Not acid. Speed maybe from the way his hands shook. He shrugged. "We're all fools coming back here," he said.

 Mike snorted and glared, then grabbed Dan. "Listen idiot. I saw the photographs. I know what this man can do if he's really Buckingham. It's not pretty."

 Dan squinted at him from under the floppy hat, his eyes red as well. "What do you get out of this?"

 "What do you mean?"

 "I mean if Bobo is Buckingham, it seems you're screwing yourself by sending Billy in."

 Mike turned towards the balcony door and pushed back its covering. Outside, the floor lights illuminated the unscathed side of the van, the almost red, white and blue colors emphasized like a dayglow poster.

 "I'm just finding out the truth," Mike said. "We have to know if Bobo and Buckingham are the same. And the only way we'll find out is if we catch one."

 "Which is what I'm trying to do!" Dan howled.

 "But Billy's better at it. And expendable. If this whole thing is a trap, I'd rather him set it off. I need you."

 "Geeze thanks," Dan barked. "So what are we supposed to do, sit here and wait for it all to happen."

 "Of course not. You'll keep the rendezvous as planned. But you'll stay on the side lines and watch the thing unfold. You might get something out of it."

 "Yeah," Dan mumbled. "But not what I want. All right. Come on, Lance. We have a show to watch."

 "Hey, Dan," Mike said, grabbing the man's arm. "Take this." He shoved the pistol from earlier into his hands. "You may need it and I have another."

 Dan nodded and shoved the gun into his belt.

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