Soft Targets

raid. We're all crowding into L.A. together, Charlie, and God protect us if this leaks to the wrong people.' He donned a horrendous prissy smile, spoke in a nasal sac­charine falsetto, 'What great big handsome nose-bobbed FCC Commissioner, initials M. E., is hiding out on the set with what terrorist-baiting NBN star? Are they just good friends, or is it one-on-one, fellas?' He dropped the sham and glowered, 'That's all you need, bubbe.'

'If that should happen, we'd split,' Charlie shrugged.

Althouse drew an imaginary line with his forefinger from throat to groin. 'You might get split, Charlie. That Fat'ah bunch is getting too close.' He stared into the gloom at nothing in particular. 'Too damn close,' he muttered.

Silently, Charlie scared up a pack of cards. He could think of no better answer.

THURSDAY, 8 JANUARY, 1981:

In the heyday of Paramount Studios it had been easier to locate watering troughs of the grips, gaffers, construction men and engineers who form an utterly indispensable lower eche­lon of the visual arts industry. Yet every shift of media brought shifting locations, and many a gaudy gin mill has passed through its own emi­nence to become musty and forgotten as techni­cians found work, and cheap bar whiskey, in other sections of Los Angeles.

It was Chaim Mardor, moving quietly among the devotees of arts and crafts, who first learned the site of one after-hours bar in current vogue with Industry people. There are many industries north of Wilshire Boulevard, but only one capital-I Industry.

Hakim's instructions to Leah Talith were explicit. 'Call me from each location before you make inquiries, Talith. I must know your sequence. These people may have their own security elements and you could arouse interest.'

She applied a fresh layer of scarlet to her mouth, cinched her belt to pull the blouse more tightly over her breasts. 'How well you put it, Hakim,' she said, studying the image in her compact mirror.

He swept his eyes over her body, impassive. 'How readily you pose as a prostitute,' he remarked.

'A New York prostitute, Hakim. Here I will pass as a secretary. You will see.'

He would not argue. 'Fat'ah is not interested in failure, Talith,' he said. 'Make certain your contact has access to the comedian's work.'

'It may take several evenings of my time.^'

'Then you shall spend it,' he said softly. 'Spill no blood, but bring Fat'ah what you can, however you can.'

She put away the compact, adjusted her feet to the new high-heeled sandals. Then, subdued: 'Pray that I do not have to charm another wom­an.'

'Fat'ah does not pray,' he said, still more softly. 'You will do what you must.'

'And repeat the details to you later?^'

'If you would arouse me,' he answered obliquely, 'learn where the comedian can be reached.'

She averted her face, nodding. Leah Talith sought the emotional tripwires of her leader in vain. She had no motive beyond the desire to cement Fat'ah together, which meant that she must please Hakim. Yet she knew his hostility against any prying into his own motives. Many of his actions seemed consistent with simple masochism, and she knew him to be jealous of her flesh. Yet he was able to cloister his desires with a dreadful efficiency. Classroom psychol­ogy, she reflected as she drove away from their Glendale site, was unequal to Hakim Arif.

The bar on Ventura Boulevard was nearly a waste of time. She invented an acquaintance with NBN to cloak her questions in innocence, and heard of a spa on San Fernando Road. Curs­ing the endless urban protraction of Los Angeles, she drove to the suburb of Pacoima, and resumed her inquiry. At last, just north of Burbank, she found in a quintet of listless drinkers two men whose varicolored badges had the NBN imprimatur. They were quiet, middle- aged folk who found less charm in the girl than in their highball glasses, and Talith fought against frus­tration. But the bartender, defending the honor of his turf, claimed the young lady was much too late for interesting conversation. Most weekdays during happy hours, he said morosely, the place was acrawl with NBN hardhats.

The young lady thanked him, nursed her ouzo while she listened to the quintet that steadily plastered itself into the booth. A carpenter from a cinema crew did his best to impress her. She was demure, cool, disinterested; he had nothing she needed.

She returned to Glendale long after midnight to find Hakim a sentry in the kitchenette. Somehow she knew that what she had overheard would trigger arousal in Hakim. 'The network has a backlot, a great fenced area, north of Burbank,' she told him. 'I believe the men were connected with the Charlie George show.'

An hour later she slid from their bed to take sentry duty, using her compact mirror as she daubed antiseptic on the marks left by Hakim's teeth on her shoulders and breasts. Perhaps, she told herself, psychology was a useless tool after all. She could intuit the onset of Hakim's savage needs, but despaired of discovering the mainspring that drove him. She wondered what Hakim would do if he learned that her nimble fingers gentled Chaim during the nights, as one might gentle a long-abused stallion. He would do nothing, perhaps. Anything, perhaps. It mat­tered little, so long as Chaim Mardor continued to function in the interests of Fat'ah. A less pa­tient man than Guerrero, modifying their vehic­les in their garage, might have found Chaim's help unacceptable.

Smiling to herself, she slipped to the bedside of Chaim, listening to the measured breathing. Presently, at her manual urging, his respiration quickened. She spoke to him then in their an­cient tongue, gently leading him as he slept. It never occurred to Talith that, in her role as suc­cubus, she had performed a displacement. To Chaim, Fat'ah was embodied, not in Hakim, but in Leah Talith herself.

The next morning, a few kilometers to the northwest, Gina Vercours introduced herself to Charlie George on the NBN backlot and indi­cated her strapping—and foolishly smirking—blond companion. 'And you know Simon Kenton here,' she said.

'Holy gawd,' Charlie gaped, staring hard. In his costume as Idi Amin's twitchy analyst, Charlie was a study in contrasts. He glanced from the big man's stylish sandals to the yellow hair two meters above. 'You're new!'

Everett hugged the comedian. 'Refinished,' he corrected. 'We were glad to see tight security at the backlot gate, by the way. Hey, I think they're ready for you.'

Charlie moved away toward the waiting crew; glanced back with an admiring headshake. He then proceeded to blow his lines so badly that his director suggested a break. 'My mind is well and truly blown,' Charlie admitted, taking his visitors by the arms. He guided them to a bench, out of the paths of technicians, and studied the face of Everett carefully. 'Even the eyes,' he said, bewildered. 'I've seen a few good nose jobs in my time but Jee-zus, I'm even wondering if you're really you.'

'Panoramic contact lenses,' Everett said. 'Would you believe they're as good as bifocals? The hard part, they told me, was dickering with my vocal chords. I'm supposed to fool a voice-printer, too.'

^'In-damn-credible. Excuse my staring. You look thinner, too; what'd they do to your cheeks?'

Gina began to laugh. 'Mostly kept food out of 'em,' she said, as Everett strained to look aloof. 'That was tougher than surgery, Mr. George. It still is.'

Charlie darted a keen glance at Everett. 'Something I keep trying to recall,' he said, 'about the meeting at my place. Somebody was sketching something.' He seemed expectant, uneasy.

Everett sucked at a tooth. 'No—except for D'Este, of course.^'

'Go on.'

Everett spread his hands, nonplussed, then suddenly burst into laughter. 'Charlie, you're testing me! You really aren't sure,' he accused. 'I feel more secure every minute,' the comedian replied. But the concern did not leave Charlie's face until Everett passed his exam. The come­dian apologized for his suspicions, to Everett's genuine delight. At the end of the ten-minute break they had banished their reserve and Gina was saying `Charlie' instead of 'Mr. George'.

The comedian's reaction underlined for Everett the success of the cosmeticians in Tuc­son. Incisions at jaw and scalp had brought other subtle changes in the planes of the rugged features, and Gina's companionship accounted for much of the startling weight loss. Dental work, bleach, and a new hair style completed the pro­cess, though nothing had been done to alter Everett's fingerprints.

The name was a conceit, one he had de­manded over the objections of David Engels. He had chosen the name of an obscure early Ken­tucky woodsman, from whom he could claim descent. He claimed it gave him a built- in background, but with his obligatory change in clothing style, knew it was a substitute approach to his mountain- man fantasy. Gina, he found, had been wrong: no self-image could stay wholly unchanged under such an implosive as­sault.