He laughed. “No one bothered. All these years.”
I said, “You mentioned the Feds’ running dogs. Any suspects?”
“Sure,” he said. “There were these weird trapper types skulking around in the forest. Mountain men- long hair, beards, homemade buckskins, eating grubs and whatever. Living off the land, like Redford in Jeremiah Johnson. We kind of did a mutual ignoring thing with them, but later, when I had time to think, I started to wonder. Because using them would have been a perfect government setup. We were naïve- we trusted anyone who looked counterculture. Crew-cut types sneaking around would have gotten us immediately paranoid, but those hairy fuckers we ignored. They’d been there before we got there, didn’t seem to have any real interest in us. Also, we respected the way they were doing their own thing. Thought of them as hippies with guns and Bowie knives. Macho freaks. We were jazzed by the whole live-off-the-land bit- that’s what we were aiming for. So it would have been easy for one of them to sneak in, plant the bombs, and sneak out. They were probably G-men or agents provocateurs- probably pushing paper in Toledo today. Which is punishment enough, right?”
The bitterness in his voice put the lie to his last statement.
I said, “Did you discuss any of these suspicions with Sophie Gruenberg the time you dropped by?”
“Didn’t have to. Moment she closed the door she sat me down and started lecturing to me about how the explosion had been a government plot; Norm and Melba and the others were martyrs. No tears- she was very tough. Just anger. This hot rage that made it seem as if she was vibrating.” He smiled. “She was a tough old lady. I could see her running a guillotine back in Bastille days.”
“Where’d she send Ike to be raised?”
“What makes you think she sent him anywhere?”
“He’d just moved to L.A. a few months before his death, told people he’d been living back east. That makes sense. Someone as suspicious as Sophie might be nervous keeping the son of martyrs around in plain view.”
“I don’t know the details,” he said. “When I asked about him, she said she’d sent him away to relatives. Said government people had come snooping around pretty soon after the blast, asking questions of the neighbors. She called them goddam cossacks. Said if they found out she had him with her, they’d kidnap him or something, claim she was unfit and take him away. She said he needed to be in a safe place for a while. I took that to mean temporary, she was planning to bring him back, but I guess she could have kept him away the whole time.”
“Any idea where these relatives lived?”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I kind of assumed it was Philadelphia because Norm was born there- the family used to live there.”
“You only dropped in on her once?”
“That’s it. She was part of what I’d put behind me. So was Malcolm Isaac. That’s why I didn’t see him- it wasn’t just apathy. What would have been the point?”
His tension had lifted him out of his chair, and his skin had turned waxy. His eyes kept moving, up and down, side to side, back at the cartoon characters. Everywhere but at me.
I said, “I understand.”
“Do you? To understand you’ve got to know what it’s like to be a hunted animal- mainlining adrenaline, looking over your shoulder, hearing things, seeing things. Peeing your pants, afraid to move, afraid not to move. Convinced every tree is a storm trooper, not knowing what’s real and what’s not, when that bullet’s gonna come flying by, or the blade or the time bomb turning you into instant smog. By the time I dropped in on her, I’d finally managed to pull myself out of that insanity. Working at my page gig, renting a little bachelor apartment, going to the supermarket, the laundromat, the filling station. Eating Swanson TV dinners and hot dogs- no more macrobiotics, I was ready for some nitrite-cramming, like a real American. Doing regular-person stuff, so happy and grateful to be alive. I mean, I couldn’t believe they weren’t coming after me- couldn’t believe they were letting me live and work and eat hot dogs and do my thing and no one was trying to blow me up.
He tugged at his cheeks, created a sad mask. “It took me a long time to get there. To realize no one cared about any of it anymore. The war was over; Nixon had gone down; Eldridge was marketing codpiece-pants; Jerry and Abby were doing Wall Street, the talk-show circuit; Leary was asshole buddy with G. Gordon Liddy. Fascists were wearing long hair and beards, hippies going for crew-cuts. Boundaries blurring, all the old myths dead. Live and let live- bygones were bygones. It was my turn to live. I worked at living. Malcolm Isaac’s call came at a bad time. I’d just gotten engaged to be married, was planning to go away with my lady. Real vacation, bring a little romance into my life- better late than never, right? We’ve since broken up, but at the time it looked liked forever, rice and flowers. I had my tickets in my hand when he called. Out the door. Last thing I wanted to deal with was the past- what would have been the point?”
“No point,” I said.
“Gotta keep moving forward,” he said. “No point in looking back. Right?”
“Right.”
But a plain truth filled the space between us- unseen but corrosive.
No one had cared because he’d been second cadre all the way. Too unimportant to kill.
31
I pulled out of the network lot. This time someone followed me.
At first I wasn’t sure, wondered if the time spent immersed in Crevolin’s fugitive memories had made me paranoid.
The first hint of suspicion came at Olympic and La Cienega, just east of Beverly Hills, as I squinted into a platinum sunset glare that ate through my shades. A tan car two lengths behind me changed lanes the moment my eyes hit the mirror for the twentieth time.
I slowed. The tan car slowed. I looked back, trying to make out the driver, saw only a vague outline. Two outlines.
I slowed some more, received an angry honk for my efforts. I picked up speed. The tan car held back, stretching the distance between us. We cruised that way for a while, then hit a red light at La Peer. When things got moving again, I eased into the fast lane and put on as much speed as the crush would allow. The tan car continued to hold back, retreated into vehicular anonymity. By Doheny Drive, I couldn’t see it anymore.
So much for high intrigue.
I tried to relax but kept drifting back to exploding warehouses. My imagination gorged itself on conspiracy theories until my head started to hurt. Then I noticed it again. Center lane, two lengths behind…
I managed to get into the center lane. The tan car moved out of it, into the fast lane, coming up on my left. Wanting a better view?
Making sure not to move my head, I snuck a peek in the mirror. Still there.
Traffic in the right lane was dragging a bit now. I squeezed into it, settled into the slower pace. Hoping for a view of my own. The vehicles that had been in back of me whizzed by. I kept an eye to the left, waiting for the tan car to pass. Nothing.
Rearview peek: gone.
Another light at Beverly. Behind me, again. Two lengths.
It took until Roxbury for me to get back into the fast lane. The tan car stayed with me, all the way to Century City.
The sun was nearly down. Headlights came on. The tan car became a pair of yellow spots, indistinguishable from hundreds of others.
The loss of visibility made me feel violated, though I knew I was also less easy to spot. Anger took the place of fear. Felt a whole lot better than fear.
Practice-what-you-preach time, Doc.
Best-defense-is-a-good-offense time, Doc.
Just before Overland, I made a sudden move into the center lane, then the right, drove a block and made a quick turn onto a side street, just past a Ralph’s market. Speeding a hundred yards, I doused my lights, pulled over to the side, and waited, the engine still running.