"Testy, aren't we? I hear that comes from not getting enough sleep."
"Damn it, Lucy, what about Sate?"
"I went right to the top. I went over to see your friend, Doctor Freeze at the Culture Center."
"Good man," I confirmed, "piss poor poker player, but other than that, a good man."
"He couldn't keep his hands off me," Lucy bragged. To hear Lucy tell it, every man who ever laid eyes on her wanted to take her to bed. "But I finally convinced him that I was there on business, and he settled down."
While Lucy was meandering through the fantasy world of her preamble, I fished the voice recorder out of the survival kit and attached the input cord to the telephone with a simple clamp. If it was a typical Lucy fact-finding mission, the data would start pouring in and there would be no way I could keep up with her.
"Ready?"
I grunted.
"According to your friend, Doctor Freeze, there was a Tarpann warlord by the name of Korbac, circa year one thousand. It seems our boy Korbac started eating his Wheaties at a very early age and decided to build himself an empire. The only problem was that he had some neighbors called Tobors, who didn't share his dream and controlled the lands north and east of him.
"Also, according to Freeze, Korbac was not only super aggressive, he was also super smart. He knew he couldn't defeat the Tobors without some help, and we're talking serious help, because the enemy outnumbered Korbac's troops four to one.
"Freeze's version is that this hunk called Korbac went up on a nearby mountain to meditate and pray the night before he launched his campaign. There, so the story goes, he ran into this strange-looking little monk who went by the name — wanta take a wild guess? That's right, Sate.
"Freeze paints him like your prototypical apocryphal monksack cloth robes, long stringy beard, thong-wrapped feet, the whole nine yards. Supposedly, Sate told Korbac to study his own weakness and he will know his enemy.
"Korbac plunges into a fit of confession and confides that his biggest fear is that he will be outwitted in battle because he has heard that the Tobors are brilliant war strategists. Sate then calmly informs him that the only way Korbac can overcome this disadvantage is through the process of fortification, and that through this process he will be brilliant in battle. Pretty heady stuff, huh?"
"So what's this fortification bit?"
"This part will knock your socks off," Lucy continued. "Sate tells our boy Korbac that he will be assured of victory if he, now get this, slays the truly wisest man he knows and consumes his brains after a twelve-hour fast. How's that for gross?"
"You're kidding."
"Uh-uh, not one single word is changed, boss baby. I think your friend Freeze really digs this stuff. He s even got etchings of Sate, Korbac and some of the troops, and you ought to see them — real stomach flippers."
"So what happened?"
"Honest to God, it gets worse. It turns out Korbac thinks his father is the wisest of all, so he sends out one of his warriors to trek back to the ranch and do the old boy in. The soldier returns just before dawn on the day of the battle with the old man's head — and you can guess the rest."
"And of course our boy Korbac was victorious."
"Resounding victory, routed the Tobors. By nightfall the battlefield was littered with literally thousands of Tobors dead and wounded. During the course of the victory celebration, Korbac confides to his generals how he achieved his great victory. The idea spreads like wildfire, and the Korbac generals figure if it's good enough for their leader, it's good enough for them. The bottom line is Korbac and his staff have this big feast with the wounded and dead Tobors as the main course."
"Can you be a little less flippant about all of this?" I groaned. "My stomach just did a one-eighty on me."
"Don't tell me you buy all of this hogwash?" Lucy chided.
"You'd have a little different perspective on all of this if you were here," I scolded.
"Well, there's more," Lucy continued. "Korbac is proud as a peacock. He tromps back up the hill to share the news with his friend Sate. This time, Sate's mood is a little different. Sate lays it on him that he, Korbac, will have to continue to fortify himself or he will die, and if he dies, he will have to submit to the ordeal of atonement."
"And the atonement is?" I felt like I was playing Lucy's straight man.
"Don't know, because the last we heard about Korbac, he was still tromping through the countryside doing his gastronomic thing, trying to avoid atonement."
"That's it? No big ending?"
"Not really. Your buddy Freeze says there are two theories about what eventually happened to Korbac. One is that he flew into a rage, killed Sate and fled with a handful of his troops into the mountains. The other theory has it that the locals, fearing for their lives, banded together and mounted a military campaign that chased the old boy into the swamps and caves of Polan."
"That's it?"
"I'm afraid so. It's a good thing Freeze was plugged into all of this, because I haven't been able to come up with anything through our normal channels."
"Did you try Cosmo?"
"Didn't think this was his kind of thing."
"It isn't, but I'd still give him a crack at it. Besides, it'll brighten his day. He likes to talk to pretty girls."
Lucy giggled. She loved it. "Okay, I'll give him a call. I'll be back in touch with you if he has anything to add."
As usual, there were no good-byes, just a click followed by an irritating buzz. I hung up.
B.C., who had heard nothing more than my limited input during the course of the call, unplugged the monitor, rewound the tape and played it back. At appropriate times she made the appropriate faces of revulsion and disgust.
When the tape was finished, she laid back across the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "Know something?" she mused. "I've about decided to give up my dreams of a doctorate in this field and go on to something a little more tasteful, like bullfighting or prostitution."
"It ain't exactly the stuff Disney films are made of," I agreed.
Brenda's voice fluttered, and I could tell that the combination of the late night, the stress and being rousted out by Madden had taken its toll. When her eyes finally drifted shut, I picked up my windbreaker and the survival kit and slipped out the door. Two and two don't always make four, but the sum of my knowledge about that thing peacefully reposing on the butcher slab at Palmer s market added up to a whole lot more than I knew when I had gotten up this morning.
The Z coughed to life and I aimed it toward Chambers Bay.
If you've never had the experience of arriving at the scene of a bad accident 30 seconds after it had happened, you're never quite sure how you'll handle it. Do you rattle? Are you the kind who panics? Some people come unwrapped. Some respond appropriately — cool, calm, measured, efficient. Unfortunately, I don't fit in either category. My best reactions are gut reactions. Sometimes that's good; sometimes it isn't.
Reflecting on it, the fog probably saved me because I had slowed down more than normal for the corner and had dropped into second gear when it happened.
I was sure of two things. It sounded like the initial volley at Gettysburg, and it was too damn close.
Instinctively, I ducked.
The Z veered sharply to the right, crashing into the eight-inch-high elevated sidewalk and slamming my face up against the steering wheel.
There was a typical, if brief, E.G. Wages response to the mishap — a string of unbridled profanity punctuated by frequent checks to see if the old proboscis was splattered all over my face. I'll admit to being a little paranoid about the aforementioned beak simply because it has been battered out of shape so many times over the past half century.
The other reflexes were still working, though. I unsnapped my harness, thrust my shoulder into the door and tumbled out onto the damp asphalt surface of the street. Three more shots shattered the stillness, and I started clawing my way toward the curb. In the murky twilight up ahead of me, I could see Madden's four-by-four sitting at a right angle to the street and steaming; one tire was flat. Jake was hovering off to one side, the long-barreled .38 clutched in his ham-sized fist. At this distance I couldn't tell much else about the situation.