“Like you knew Kindell?”
“Better. We operated side by side with you. Next time we see you, we’re gonna break it off in you.”
“Vivid image.”
“Don’t get in the way of what we’re accomplishing here.”
“Your righteousness is a joke,” Tim said. “And if you think I’m gonna leave this city at the mercy of you or your brother, you’re even more deranged than I thought.”
Robert let out a sharp hiss of disgust.
Tim’s rage narrowed to a single point of calm, the eye of the hurricane. “I’m coming for you.” He raised his pistol and shot the telephone. It shifted and crumpled a bit. No sparks, no flying shrapnel-it was far less satisfying than he’d anticipated. He stood a few minutes in the quiet kitchen, waiting for his anger to burn itself out.
Clicking through the radio scanner’s settings confirmed his worst suspicions-the Stork had managed to get ahold not only of LAPD tactical frequencies but also those of the marshal duty-desk radio, which corresponded with all deputies in the field. The radio echo he’d heard over the telephone meant that the Masterson boys-wherever they were-were well apprised of in-progress law-enforcement movement throughout the city. He couldn’t know if Bear’s cell-phone frequency was also being monitored; for the time being he’d have to assume that any communication with the authorities would tip his hand.
Returning to the dining room, he finished glancing through some of the Stork’s oddly animated inventions before turning his focus to the copper cage. No keyboard vibrations going anywhere through that thing.
He leaned over and stared at the bizarre jumble of words on the computer screen.
“What the hell?” he murmured.
Letters scrolled across the screen as if they’d been typed: what the hell
Tim found the outpointed microphone atop the monitor and spoke into it. “You’re a speech-to-typing program.”
The screen responded again: you’re a speech to typing program
He scrolled up the screen. It had picked up the majority of his conversation with Robert in the kitchen, though only his own utterances.
I’m quaking in my still echoes he’s dead you have kindle
The speakerphone must not have been loud enough for the mike to pick up Robert’s responses.
He scanned up farther, taking in the Stork’s frantic remarks to him through the bedroom door, the computer hypothesizing about unclear words: please just go I’m sorry I tried two shoot you missed her rackety I can’t go with you and bereft I can’t
Scrolling all the way to the top, Tim discovered that the Stork had turned on the speech-recognition software to compose a letter.
Joseph Hardy
P.O. Box 4367
El Segundo, CA 90245
Dear Mister McArthur,
I do have an interest in your recent shipment of young adult original classics, particularly Tom Swift and His Megascope Space Prober, 1962, and Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker, 1964. I am only interested if they are near mint or better. The last book you shipped to me, The Radio Boys’ First Wireless, was badly yellowed hello hello Robert doughnut use this lie I tolled you the new foams are clear your second payment was off buy too hunter I counted it twine I’m out I doughnut car this has gotten crazy since mister rackety leek too the press I wow leaf my house you done need me for survey lands the money mint is clear at night good line of site done the kill on all side I’m not coming especially too night too much heat no surrey and even if Ida considerate it would cost you more than that hang on Jesus hang on mister rackety I’m glad you fund me since I could nut find you
The computer approximation of the Stork’s dialogue to Tim through the back door continued, winding up with stork stork stork what the hell you’re a speech to typing program.
Clearly the software had to be guided with additional audio commands to render sentences meaningfully; the Stork had ceased overseeing it when he’d gone into the kitchen to answer the landline. The farther he’d been from the mike, the less faithfully the program had transcribed his inadvertently recorded dialogue. His speech impediment probably hadn’t helped much either.
Tim picked up from hello hello Robert, trying to figure out the sentence breaks: doughnut use this lie I tolled you the new foams are clear-so far, so good.
The Stork had reached for a cell phone first when the phone had rung in his house. Remembering that he’d set it back down on the table, Tim searched and found it behind a stack of discarded keyboards. He scanned through the programmed names. Only two: “R” and “M.”
Pocketing the phone, Tim turned his attention back to the screen: your second payment was off buy too hunter I counted it twine I’m out I doughnut car this has gotten crazy since mister rackety leek too the press I wow leaf my house you done need me for survey lands
Tim got stuck at the money mint is clear at night
He pulled a pad over and jotted down variations.
Money man. Money print. Munitions.
And the following sentence-good line of site done the kill on all side-was no clearer.
Good line of sight to the kill from all sides?
He dropped the pen and thumped the notepad in frustration, his hand leaving a dirty imprint. He decided to move on.
The next few transcribed sentences were much easier to interpret:
I’m not coming especially too night too much heat no surrey and even if Ida considerate it would cost you more than that
Tim scratched his hairline with the end of the pen. Whatever the specifics, Robert and Mitchell were planning to kill Kindell tonight. Tim reflexively glanced at his watch: 11:13 P.M. The Mastersons had presumably called the Stork because they were ready to enact the next step in their plan; Tim didn’t have much time to intercept them.
The Stork’s reaction to the sound of Tim’s interruption followed next on the screen: hang on Jesus hang on
And then his first words to Tim: mister rackety I’m glad you fund me since I could nut find you
Tim returned to the first problem noun, “the money mint,” no doubt the key.
What would be clear at night? Did the Stork mean “clear” as in “safe,” or “clear” in the visual sense? Probably “safe,” since in the sentence before he was arguing that he wasn’t needed for surveillance. What would be clear at night? A place of business. A public place. An actual mint? A planned robbery didn’t seem to fit. Done the kill. Down the hill? Money man clearance?
Tim studied the reddish mark he’d left on the notepad-the smudge of his palm, four finger streaks barely visible. The stain should have been a brownish mix of dirt and grease from the tools, but the dust that had come off on his hand from the Stork’s boot had colored it almost auburn. money mint
Where had he seen dirt that shade? done the kill the money mint is clear at night
The slap of delayed recognition. The buzz of adrenaline. Tim bolted to his feet, forgetting the aching in his stomach. The chair rolled back lazily across the room and hit the wall.
Robert tilted his face back and shot a stream of cigarette smoke at the moon, two patches of dirt coloring his denim jacket at the elbows. money mint. Monument.
The monument is clear at night. Good line of sight down the hill on all sides.
I’ll tell you what would make a good memorial. One guilty and unconvicted fuck swinging from each branch. That’s what I’d like. That’s the kind of memorial we oughta build for those victims.
At tomorrow’s first light of day, downtown L.A. would have a grim silhouette greeting it over the skyline.
It’ll be a statement, even, to this hellhole of a city. A little tribute for all the other pukes out there to see. The first step of the next phase, our phase.