55 – No news is good news?

 

 

It was late. The Freep crowd had shrunk to a ragged line of freaks outside the Free Press office and sleeping forms behind the hedge. Even the love-making had ceased. Pot and incense smoke filled the air. A religious silence dominated the participants, reminding Lance of the perimeter fire bases west of Hue after a long gun fight.

 Their own little party seemed to violate the sanctimony of the ritual, raising up paranoid gazes as the five pushed up the drive from the street. They had walked down from the Boulevard. The van looked too suspicious, sagging heavily with the apartment load of furniture. The cops had seen it pull away from the scene, and no doubt, fit it in with other reports-- like the shooting in Venice, or the cop-killing on Vermont.

 "Safer to walk," Mike said. "No use attracting more attention to ourselves than necessary."

 And yet, even walking, they seemed too obvious, a little army of ragged hippies out of touch with the current street paranoia which made travelling in large groups dangerous. Bobo resisted the march, holding back at the last minute as they came into the driveway, his puffy face contorted.

 "This is crazy!" he said. "What the hell did we come here for?"

 "News," Dan said.

 "Right," Bobo growled. "Like he's going to give us anything straight."

 They stopped half way to the door, shielded partly by the hedge on one side and a dying, transplanted tree in the front yard of the neighbor. Mike looked nervous, too, staring back at the street as if expecting something to rush up at them. He glanced suspiciously at Bobo.

 "What are you telling us?" he asked.

 "There's talk about Free Press Bob. About him making a deal with the pigs."

 "And I told you before it's a lie!" Dan said, making a grab for Bobo's throat, stopped by Mike.

 "Let him talk. What kind of deal?"

 Bobo shrugged. "I don't have any inside track on the man."

 "Ah for Christ's sake!" Dan growled. "Next he'll be saying Free Press Bob is Buckingham."

 "And he could be!" Bobo said. "He's situated perfect for it."

 "I'm not going to listen to any more of this!" Dan said. "Deal making with the cops to being Buckingham! Next you'll say he's Charlie Manson! Come on. It's dangerous standing here."

 Dan marched up the driveway to the door. The others followed, though Mike's frown had deepened and his attention seemed less dedicated behind them as to the door and windows of the house. Dan tapped softly on the glass, the rat-tat-tat muffled by the stacks of papers inside. Lance smelled pot fumes under the door. Or had it become ingrained in the fabric of the place, saturating the old wood the way salt did near the sea?

 A stoned set of eyes appeared in the opening, careful scared eyes which looked them up and down before undoing the chain.

 "In, quick," Free Press Bob said. He yanked them in by the hand like a man saving children from drowning, shutting the door tight behind, locking each lock with deliberation.

 Inside, a dim bulb glowed from the corner, providing little more illumination than a night light, barely denting the shadows of the room. Details of the paper man's face eluded them, but his voice sounded fearful and concerned.

 "You people are in trouble," he said, stepping back over the barrier to his usual position, as if it somehow separated him from their deeds.

 "What do you mean?" Mike asked sharply, keeping near the door with his ear bent to it, his eyes catching the light like a cat's.

 "The fuzz is what I mean," the paper man said. "They've had me up a half dozen times tonight looking for you."

 "For who?" Mike said, head turning, his face of panic fully defined even in the dim light.

 "All of you. By name," the paper man said. "As if they'd read it off a list of the city's most wanted."

 "Our real names?" Dan asked.

 "Even Mike's and Bobo's. They kept mumbling something about murder. But no one said exactly who you were suppose to have done in or why."

 "Damn!" Mike howled. "The fuck head promised me!"

 "Who?"

 "Demetre," Mike said, spitting out the name as if it was poison. "He's the only one who knows I'm in town."

 "Maybe the bloodshed got a little too much for him," Free Press Bob said. "They seem to be finding bodies everywhere. Even here in Hollywood."

 Bobo stiffened, his face growing pale in the dim light, his gaze squinting at the newspaper man. Something sparkled in his eyes, alarm, maybe, or paranoia.

 "Here?" Bobo said. "Where exactly? And when?"

 "From what the cops told me, they found someone butchered less than an hour ago over at the Selma Hotel."

 "NO!" Bobo howled.

 "What's the matter with you?" Dan said, grabbing the man as he made a dive for the door.

 "That's where I stashed the dope," Bobo said.

 "You what...?"

 "With an old friend," Bobo said, half coherently, like someone lost in a fog. "A black dude. He runs the place. I knew things would be safe with him."

 "That much dope isn't safe with anybody," Mike said.

 "With him it was," Bobo said, defensively. "He hated the stuff and wouldn't have taken it except he owed me a favor."

 "Oh?" Dan said suspiciously. "What kind of favor?"

 "I saved his life in DaNang."

 "Well," Free Press Bob said. "It seems you set him up for a pretty heavy thing. They say the man who killed him, cut him up bad. And the cops seemed to have connected you three to it."

 "As if they were reading from a list?" Mike repeated from Free Press Bob's earlier remark. "A set up?"

 "What do you mean?" Dan asked.

 "I mean someone's trying to get us busted like they've been doing everybody else on the street, passing along tips to the cops, making it look as if Bobo or someone else was responsible."

 Dan pondered it for a moment, then nodded. "It would fit the pattern. And if it's who we think, then Buckingham has his dope back and doesn't need us for anything any more."

 "Maybe," Mike said, then looked sharply up at Free Press Bob. "You sent messengers around for the son of a bitch. How many invitations did he issue for the Venice pier."

 "One for each of the lot of you," the newspaper man said. "And some for a few who'd already been busted."

 "My God!" Bobo moaned. "It sounds like this character planned a dope dealer's convention."

 Mike frowned. The shattered face came back from the pier, the eyes hot with fear. Had he been a puppet-- one sent out into the fog like bait, repeating the Demetre's litany of admiration in order to make them all target? But how many could a lone gun man in the fog kill before being killed? Or had confusion been desired, a hope that each would think the other started and begin mass warfare with Mike killing Billy or Billy killing Dan or stray bullets from all killing each other in an insane panic?

 If it was a convention, it was one in which we were supposed to die," Mike said at last, not sure of all the details, but knowing something had gone wrong with it-- no Bobo. No Billy. Dan and Mike on the same side. And that talking puppet indian spewing secrets. "This thing with the Selma must be something he thought up on the spur of the moment."

  "It's too loose," Dan said. "No one could expect you to get caught by something as obvious as this."

 "Maybe not," Mike admitted. "Maybe Buckingham just wants to drive me out of town. I'm hot enough. I wouldn't want my name circulated."

 But Free Press Bob shook his head. "I don't think so. Not if the rumors are right."

 "What do you mean?"

 "Talk is Buckingham wants you dead and won't settle for anything less. I think this is just a bit of psychological warfare, something to throw you off guard, or pressure you into making mistakes. I think he counts on your panicking."

 "Maybe," Mike said thoughtfully. "And he's got a point. But I think we've been dancing around the issue for too long. If he wants us, then we should give ourselves up to him."

 "What?" Dan and Bobo exploded at the same time.

 "Set a trap for him," Mike clarified.

 "A trap?" Bobo asked. "Don't you think this dude'll know it's a trap?"

 "Of course, he'll know. But he'll come. I'm beginning to get a sense of his game. It isn't just a matter of destroying me. Buckingham has something to prove. Maybe he needs to feel better or more important than I am. And part of that would involve being able to get around any trap I could set. It's the pattern."

 "Then break the pattern," Dan said. "Run."

 "And have him pursue me to some other city, or catch up with me when I least expect? No, I'm afraid we're going to have to play this game out right here in L.A."

 "All right," Dan grumbled. "So how do we play it out with no dope to offer him?"

 "Who said we had no dope?"

 Again, Mike drew startled expressions from Dan and Bobo. Free Press Bob contemplated Mike over the tips of his fingers, but did not seem unduly alarmed.

 "I seem to recall there was an early payment made to Bobo back in Denver," Mike said, looking sharply at Bobo.

 "Oh no!" Bobo said, backing up to the door. "You're not getting your hands on that. Not for some crazy do-or-dare with that monster. Bad enough he got the Albuquerque shipment and killed my friend in the process. I'm not going to lose everything on this roll of the dice."

  "You don't have a choice," Dan said, moving towards the man. Bobo glancing around for escape, finding nothing but grim faces. "It isn't your dope," Dan went on. "And now I know you still have it."

 "I don't," Bobo said. "I converted it into cash the minute I hit town."

 "Bullshit!"

 "Even that wouldn't be bad," Mike said. "We could offer to buy Buckingham's shipment back."

 "No," Bobo said. "Absolutely not."

 "You work it out, Dan," Mike said, sagging a little. He looked and felt weary again, the way he had before settling on the farm, before his partner brought the cops in on his dream of settling down. Perhaps there was truth in Demetre's talk. Perhaps he could find a niche and settle again, letting the long arm of justice sweep on past. Maybe he could think in terms of a new job like he'd tried in Detroit without the ghostly visions of his child stirring up the old anger. "I'm going to take Marie and Lance and find a place to dump the shit from the van. We might need to travel fast."

 Mike looked to Free Press Bob. "You think you could find a way to reach Buckingham again?"

 The newspaper man shrugged. "I don't think its a matter of me reaching him. He's got his ear to the ground. I wouldn't be surprised if he already knew."

 "Send out word anyway. Set up the meeting for tonight. Late. Make it midnight. He seems to like that time for some reason."

 "Where?"

 Mike pondered for a moment, then looked at Lance. "Where does Dale live?"

 "Dale?" Dan laughed. "What's he got to do with any of this?"

 "I was thinking of stashing Lance's furniture there. I don't want to travel much in daylight if I can help it."

 "He lives over on the south end of Echo Lake," Free Press Bob said.

 "Perfect!" Mike said. "Tell Buckingham to meet us in the park."

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