"Yowza, massuh," said Latch. "We sho' good at talkin' that nigra talk. Ceptin' we po' culluhds have such a bay-ad tahm luynin to di-al that phone."

Turning to Ahlward for approval. The redheaded man's smile was obligatory. He fingered the black gun's barrel and yawned.

I said, "Ike walked into the ambush and one of your SS-kateers shotgunned him, injected him with a dope cocktail, and set it up as a drug burn. Because, after all, blacks are all dope fiends, right? Who's going to get suspicious about a junkie getting snuffed in South Central? And, by golly, you succeeded again. It went down that way in the books. Now there was only Grandma to deal with. Despite Ike's pledge not to talk, you figured he'd confided in her. You plucked her off the street and left her body where no one will ever find it. Just for the record, where was that?"

Blank stares from both of them.

I said, "Considering you've got all the cards, you guys are pretty stingy."

Ahlward said, "Sounds like you're running out of material."

I said, "Perish the thought. There's plenty more. After you dispose of Sophie, you break into her place and look for any evidence she might have left behind-notebooks, diaries. Doing the neighbor's place, too, to make it look like a burglary. But why the stuff on the walls? The Kennedy message?"

Latch couldn't resist answering that one. "Dessert. For the troopers who performed the mission. Reward for a job well done."

"Even revolutionaries have to party," I said. And caught movement from Milo. An eye-blink. Volitional?

Neither of them saw it, Milo's back was to Latch. And Ahlward was preoccupied with his gun.

Another blink. Or had I just imagined it?

I kept talking. "With both Ike and Sophie Gruenberg gone, your immediate problems finally seemed over. But there was still the matter of Massengil. You'd already started thinking of him as a dead man. So it was annoying to have to change that mind-set. And if the deed was going to be done, the timing was important. He was well into his current term, had already been nominated for the next one. So it was to your advantage for him to be eliminated before the next election. Too late for the governor to appoint someone else. The seat would lie fallow for a few months, giving you time to build up political steam and enter yet another image-stage: great conciliator, mature statesman. Sure, the widow would get first dibs, and if she didn't want the job, some hack or crony would move in. But you had plans to take care of that, per the lovely Ms. Bramble."

Latch said, "I do believe Ocean Heights and I will reach our own rapprochement."

I said, "Better do it soon, before Randy pulls the purse strings closed. Or were you intending to ask for alimony?"

Sudden panic in his eyes.

Ahlward's eyebrows were hot-pink crescents of surprise.

I said, "Oops. Sorry. I thought you knew, D.F."

Ahlward looked at Latch.

Latch said, "He's full of shi-"

I said. "Little Bandy definitely wants out, D.F. She's filed papers. Check for yourself-it's public record."

Ahlward swiveled slowly in his chair and stared at Latch.

Latch said, "It just went down, Bud. I was going to bring it up, had it on the agenda."

"Oops again," I said. "Not quite true, Gordie Pordie. She filed two weeks ago. Not the greatest thing to happen at a time like this, is it, D.F.? Vis-a-vis public relations. And money-wise." To Latch: "What happened, Gordie? Did her political enthusiasm wane? Or is it just you she's tired of? Guess all that discipline and bondage stuff wears thin after a-"

Latch said, "Shut your filthy mouth."

Ahlward cleared his throat.

Latch said, "It's not a problem, Bud. She can be taken care of. She's on so much fucking Seconal, nobody'll-"

Ahlward's turn to say, "Shut up! You know, Gordon, it's real pleasant hearing it this way."

"C'mon, Bud, you can see what he's-"

"And you're giving him exactly what he wants."

Latch sank back down and played with one of his cuffs.

Milo winked. This time I was sure.

I said, "We're talking thick coats of tarnish on your rising star, D.F. You might start thinking about a replacement."

Ahlward raised the gun and sighted down it again. To my surprise I felt no fear, only weariness at his Little Dictator routine.

He said, "I've heard enough."

Two winks from the couch. Milo's big body remained motionless.

I said, "You mean you don't want to hear the rest? The part you took charge of personally?"

He lowered the gun. "Go on."

"Shortly after Ike and Grandma were taken care of, another unpleasant surprise came your way. Someone else Ike had confided in. So much for pledges of secrecy-guess Gordie wasn't very convincing. A mentally dull shut-in who welcomed the cheer and conversation Ike brought with him when he delivered the groceries. Who appreci-ated the time he took to get to know her. And as he got to know her better, he lapsed into his favorite topic: politics. Not that she had more than a hazy idea of what he was talking about. Social justice, the evils of capitalism. But she was able to pick out the juicy parts. Conspiracies, murder. Wannsee Two. She sat there and listened. The perfect soundboard. Because Ike's visits filled the emptiness in her life, she didn't want them to stop.

"Then one day, they did stop. Forever. She found out he was dead. Murdered. People were saying he died buying dope, but she knew that was a lie became he didn't take dope. He hated dope. She knew something was wrong-probably one of those conspiracies Ike had talked about. She withdrew further, confused. Just like when her mother died. But this time she came out of it angry. Wanting to understand why bad things happen to good people. To talk to someone who could explain it to her. Not her father-they never talk; he treats her like a servant. And she barely knows her brother. But she does recall a name Ike mentioned consulting. A former comrade of his parents who's gotten famous-even been on TV. Someone Ike had suspicions about but didn't share with Holly because he didn't want to put her in jeopardy.

"Would someone like that talk to her? She was afraid. But she couldn't forget Ike-his death. So she built up her courage and called the famous guy's headquarters. One of the famous guy's staff answers and hears her babbling about stuff no one's supposed to know about, and knows this is a job for the High Command."

I looked at Latch. "What'd you tell her?"

He smirked. "That she'd done the right thing by getting in touch with me. That I was investigating Ike's death and she had to promise to keep everything secret until I got back to her." He laughed. "She ate that up like cornflakes."

I glanced at Ahlward. He'd put the gun down on the desk, had taken the knife out again, and was cleaning his nails.

"Proud of yourself, huh?" I said to Latch. "But D.F. here wasn't too proud. He figured you'd fucked up. Decided to handle this one personally." To the redheaded man: "You met with her-as Gordie's assistant. Debriefed her to find out exactly what she knew, found out it was just enough to make her a threat, and realized she was custom-made for another try at Massengil, A better dupe than Ike, because she lacked the intellect to think critically. She was ripe to obey. So you went to work on her. Building rapport, gaining her confidence. Putting on the old paramilitary thing. Secret meetings in out-of-the-way places when her father was out of town. Night walks. You'd pick her up and drive her away. She had no job, no schedule, no one to miss her, no one else to confide in. You fed her secret codes, high intrigue-giving her a sense of purpose for the first time in her life. Resurrecting the old Massengil-as-Satan fantasy. Massengil as the vicious murderer of her friend. Feeding her rage, nursing it, bringing it to bloom. Making her sense of self-esteem contingent upon carrying out her mission. And she did eat it up. Snow White gobbling a poisoned apple. She was so eager to act, she told you she even had her own weapons-a closetful of guns. You got into her house when her father was away and took a look. Most of them were antiques, unusable. Except the Remington. But in her hands it might as well have been a flintlock."

More winks from Milo. Keep going, pal.

"You spelled out her assignment, went over it with her, putting her through dry runs, until you were sure she had it down. Her sister-in-law saw her holding the gun, weeks before, muttering about Wannsee Two, Which she thought was gibberish. As would anyone else hearing it. The worst that could happen was she'd freak out before the big day and start rambling on about conspiracies. Who'd believe her? As it turned out, she didn't talk to anyone. Never saw anyone. And the big day drew near. You notified her with a coded call. Monday morning. Perfect time and place for a hit. Bramble had informed you of Massengil's plans to use the school for a press conference. You knew exactly what time he'd show up, precisely where he'd be standing. But getting Holly out of the house was a problem. Her father was an early riser, so sneaking out early on Monday was out of the question. You had her do it Sunday night, while he was still asleep. Told her to take the Remington out of the closet and wrap it in something, close the door to her bedroom so he'd think she was still asleep, then sneak out really quietly, sure to close her bedroom door. Disengaging the alarm, resetting it, and slipping out of the house with the wrapped rifle. Though Ocean Heights is so deserted at night, she could have carried it out in the open.

"You picked her up a couple of blocks away, brought her a change of clothes, a paper cup for elimination. The two of you drove toward the school, parked a few blocks away, and walked over. Hand signals. High adventure-she must have loved it."

Ahlward gave a disgusted look. "She was a pain to work with, took a long time to learn everything. Pure Mengele fodder, destined to live and die as shit. I gave her the gift of immortality, more than she could ever hope for."

"Real act of kindness," I said.

"Sometimes," he said, stroking his gun, "it's cruel to be kind."

I said, "You popped the lock on the storage shed and camped out for the night. She with her rifle, you with your pistol. Waiting. Stalking. Just like Bear Lodge. Telling her to go to sleep-you'd take first watch and wake her when her turn came. Letting her sleep until sunrise and then letting her know there'd been a change in plans: You were going to do all the shooting, just to make certain everything went smoothly. Not to worry, she'd still be a hero. Your assistant. Maybe she accepted that. Or maybe she put up a fuss-wanting personal revenge. You thought you had her convinced. But when the time actually came to shoot-when Massengil and Gordie and the kids poured out on the yard, she pulled a fast one on you. Grabbed the rifle. Second cadre wasn't good enough for her."

I gave Latch a smile, turned back to Ahlward before I see his reaction.

"Her shot went wild. Of course. The recoil knocked her down and she dropped the rifle. You got hold of it, had to think fast, consider your options. The optimal choice would have been taking aim, squeezing off a good one at Massengil, and then doing her. But looking out the window you could see the moment of opportunity had been lost-panic, everyone screaming, running for cover, no clear shot. Not that you'd have minded a few dead kids, but that would have complicated matters. Vis-a-vis P.R. So you took your pistol and shot Holly in the face-kept shooting her. Eight times. Shot three rounds from the Remington-all of it together sounded like war to those out on the yard. Then you walked back to the yard carrying your smoking gun, ready to play savior. No one had seen you actually enter the storage shed, but the panic took care of that: No one remembered anything but their own fear. And the press hadn't arrived yet, with their cameras and their recorders. Besides, if anyone asked, Gordie and the troops could always be counted on to step forward as eyewitnesses to your heroic dash to the shed. Quick reflexes and calm under fire, D.F. Job well done."

Wink from the couch.

I said to Ahlward: "It must have been nice being the star for a change. Getting the credit you deserved instead of standing in his shadow-such a puny shadow at that. But after all your planning, you still hadn't managed to get rid of Massengil. The guy was turning out to be a goddammed Rasputin. Another assassination attempt soon after would look funny, raise all sorts of questions. Your instinct was to wait, let him live out another term, bide your time. But Gordie didn't like that. He pushed you. And now you know why: He knew he'd be losing his hope chest soon. Fortunately for him, the productive Ms. Bramble had gleaned another bit of inside info on Massengil: kinky sex with Cheri Nuveen on a regular basis, Dobbs looking on. Bramble even knew when the next appointment was. Given that, the rest was easy. A simple hit, Dobbs as dessert, no apparent connection to the schoolyard. First day, Gordie comforts the widow and plays Mr. Compassion. Next day, you leak the hooker stuff to the press and knock off the widow as a viable candidate. Along with any of Massengil's cronies: guilt by association. The voters would have to wonder if they'd attended any of Massengil's parties. Leaving guess who."

I leaned forward. "It's fine as far as it goes, D.F., but what do you really think it's going to accomplish? Let's say he gets elected. Even manages not to screw up for a term or two and goes on to Washington. There's no substance to him. Nothing to build an empire on. It would be like constructing a palace over a sump hole."

Latch swore.

Ahlward smiled. "You think he's the only one? I've got placements all over." He used the knife as a pointer. "Serious talent. Each of them young, photogenic. Courageously liberal. Until the time comes."

"Wannsee Three."

"And Four and Five and Six." Anger and impatience in the amber eyes; the knife stabbed air. "Whatever it takes to get the job done. Like you said, I'm a patient man. Long-term planner. Willing to wait until the time's right and the cleansing blood flows. Washing away all the anthro-pretenders and putting together a new age that's genetically honest and beautifully cruel."

"How poetic."

"Who else knows what you know?" he said.

"How about the police for starts? I sent them tapes."

He smiled and shook his head. "Bullshit. You believed our FBI scam. If you'd been in contact with the police they'd have called in the Feds, and the Feds would have interviewed you already. We've been watching you, know who you've met with. Try again, turd."

I said, "You're assuming greater efficiency on the part of the authorities than they deserve. Bureaucratic wheels turn slowly. The cops know. I was waiting for the FBI. That's why I opened the door for Blanchard and Crisp. And I didn't buy the scam. They had to sucker-punch me to get me here."

"I said Try again."

"That's it, D.F. Just the cops. There's no way you're going to pull this off."

"Negative thinking," he said. "Time for a little preliminary scrub."

He stood, holding the gun in one hand, the knife in the other. Running his eyes over Milo, he said, "Despicable. How can you live with yourselves, the things you do?"

He rotated the knife, "Here's the way it's going to go down, You and him doing filthy stuff-your filthy friendship. Things get out of hand. You beat him up badly. Trash him to death, then start feeling so guilty that you write a little note and blow your own faggot brains out."

I said, "Shame to dirty up your warehouse. Randy might not like that when it comes time to give it back to her. Not to mention the health hazard from faggot blood."

He smiled. "Not to worry, turd. We've got a nice little place all set up for you. Cock-sucky motel over in Pacoima."

"Another of her real-estate tidbits?"

He said, "C'mon, time for a butt-hole party. Up you go."

I remained seated.

The gun waved. The pink eyebrows climbed.

"I said Move it," he said.

Wink wink wink.

I ignored him.

All at once the blunt face was transformed into something livid and howling: "I said Get the fuck up!"

I stood. Very slowly.

Latch rose, brushed off his trousers, and smiled at me. "Thought you might want to know we've also got something planned for Little Miss Principal. The snotty cunt-does she know you swing both ways? That you've been infecting her?"

I said, "She doesn't know anything."

I could tell from the way his face creased in a Kewpie-doll smile that I'd allowed my terror to show.

"Hey," he said, "you were balling her, which means pillow talk. She's a liability and it's all your fault. She'll be having a wild time tonight." He clicked his tongue. "Really wild. Shocking example of the burgeoning rise in crime on the West Side. Perfect timing for my campaign. I'll be showing up at the crime scene, pledging my troth to law and order. That's the way we work, you fucking piece of shit. Nothing ever goes to waste. Not even the squeal. And boy, will she squeal."

He giggled. I strained against my bonds.

"A wild time," he said. "We're sending someone to do her who really enjoys that kind of thing. Knows how to bring out the best in a woman. Try to get that image out of your mind. The look on her face when it actually happens and she realizes what's going on. The sounds she'll make.

Wink wink wink from the couch.

I said, "Bring out the best in a woman, huh? Then it sure wouldn't be a job for you. When's the last time Randy saw anything stiffer than her own upper lip?"

The Kewpie doll turned malignant. He began coming at me, arms up, boxer-style.

Aldward said, "Not now," in a jaded tone.

Latch didn't seem to hear, kept coming.

Wink.

I backed away, danced on fear-laden legs. My turn to leer. "Sure, Gordie. Nothing like a fair fight. But who's going to protect you when D.F. finally realizes that without Randy's big bucks you're not very useful? Just a wimpy little piece of limp-dicked shit. Second cadre all the way?"

Latch said, "Give me the knife, D.F. I've had enough."

Ahlward raised the blade, holding it out of reach. "Don't be an idiot. It has to be done the right way."

Latch backed off.

I said, "Roll over, Gordon. Say bow-wow, Gordon."

Stuck out my tongue and dog-panted.

Latch charged me, swinging.