pale.
It was worth seeing.
Suddenly (almost miraculously, thought Adam wryly), all was well. Anything the bishop or his office could do for them would be done without question. Why, he’d be
Right. Great. They all shook hands and left.
As much fun as Cat had been having, he hadn’t been neglecting his job, which was to fret over Jack Crow. Everybody had his own relationship with their leader and each relationship was close but none as close as Cat’s and everyone knew it. Cat found it strange that he received such attention, that his feelings of… well, approval, he guessed, should be so important. But they were.
For now.
Because one day, Cherry Cat was very sure, someone would stop by from the Home Office, some field man in charge of Karma, and inform him that there had been a dreadful mistake. We’re very sorry, Mr. Catlin, the man would say, but you’re not supposed to be here. By some clerical error, your soul was classified under Hero when it should have been under Intelligentsia. Let’s face it, Mr. Catlin, you are hardly the crusader type, now are you? You should have been a film critic.
It was bound to happen, thought Cat. But until that time, until they caught him, he was going to stick. Because he couldn’t imagine any other way that a fellow like him, a smartass and a determined coward, could hope to bang around these giants. So he would stay until they dragged him away. Just to be there. Just to see it.
He only hoped the Home Office wouldn’t prosecute.
But in the meantime he watched Jack Crow and he’d noticed an odd look on his leader’s face all night. He hadn’t joined in with their game of Piss Off the Bishop, hadn’t even seemed to notice it much. Something was going on, Cat knew. And it was something that he ought to be able to…
Of course! Mexico! That story he told about that funny smuggler guy. What was his name? Fre… No. Felix. Like Felix the Cat. Hmm. So.
Hmm, again. When do you suppose he’s going to get around to telling us? Maybe he could use a feed.
At the moment there was no decent opportunity. Jack had directed the limo to Greenville Avenue, the American model, from New York to Chicago to L.A.’s Marina del Rey, of the Singles’ Strip. For six straight miles, ninety percent of the real estate was devoted to night life. Everyplace was a bar or a restaurant with a bar and all served steak and lobster and silly drinks with sillier names designed to sound obscene when drunkenly pronounced and all were filled with nubile young ladies, a terrifying percentage of which had received herpes from dirty toilet seats.
Cat moved through this place like International Harvester in the fall. Women loved his blond looks, his sly smile, his five-foot-eight build. Even the tall ones and that was okay because some of them were worth the climb.
But the bar Jack was taking them to was a lot different. For one thing, the name (the Antwar Saloon). For another, the clientele. This was a bar bar. No foo-foo drinks with little umbrellas for them. This was a place for men, mostly, where they could come and talk and do serious drinking without showering after the office. They didn’t seem particularly anxious to get new customers, or even happy about the arrival of six cash-carrying strangers. The waitress who took their order after they had filled up a corner booth seemed friendly enough, and she did her job quickly and well, but Cat could tell she didn’t care if they returned or not or lived or died. It was a nice place anyway. Somehow.
Cat glanced again at Jack, saw him surveying the room with that look strong on his features, and decided it was time for the feed.
“So,” he began cheerily, “whatever happened to that Felix guy?”
“Yes,” echoed Davette, who seemed genuinely interested. “I’d like to hear.”
“So would I,” said Adam, now without his collar once more. “Did you ever see him again?”
Jack eyed CM briefly, surprise and dawning gratitude on his face. He smiled and nodded to the question. “Yep. Twice more.”
Annabelle’s smile was a knowing one. “What happened?”
“Well, to answer that, I’ve first got to talk about Mr. Peanut.”
Carl frowned. “What’s Carter got to do with it? He wasn’t president then.”
“No,” Jack agreed slowly. “But the damage was done. Who else told the world a bunch of unshaven purportedly religious punks could mob-storm an American embassy and capture and torture the diplomatic personnel for four hundred and forty-four days and get away with it?”
Carl frowned again. “So what’s the point?”
Jack sipped and grinned. “That is the point. The whole world knew we lacked the one thing absolutely required to stop outlaws: the resolve to get the dirty job done. Without that, they knew if they pushed us hard enough and long enough, we’d back off.
“So they decided to murder DEA agents. One, anyway, so there would be a chance for Congress to whoop and holler and then do nothing and the agents themselves would see they had no backup after the second killing and quit. Not quit their jobs. Just quit doing them. And why shouldn’t they? Why be targets for people who didn’t care anymore about them than to say they did?”
“So what stopped it?” Adam wanted to know.
Jack’s face was hard. “It wasn’t stopped.”
Adam stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Read the papers much, kid?”
Jack snorted, smiled. “Don’t blame you. Anyway, they’ve killed five DEA men since 1983.”
“And they tried to kill you?” prompted Davette.
“Kidnapped me first.” Jack drained his glass and signaled the waitress for another round. “Which was stupid. Felix tried to warn me. He got word to me two days before but I had John Wayne fever or something and wouldn’t get out like I should.”
“How,” asked Cat slowly, “did Felix know?”
“They were his gang. Those partners he was so worried about, trying to prove they could make it in the raw-brown-heroin business.”
Third Interlude: Audition
They trussed me up good. Four of ’em. They took me right out of my motel room in the early morning during my shower.
Stupid, stupid, stupid on my part. Just stupid!
But not bad on theirs. They were fast and rough and scared and they had me down and wrapped up tight and then they pounded on me to show they meant it and then we left. At least they gave me my trousers.
Two hours later we’re out in some abandoned mobile home way out in the sticks and I’m tied to a chair at the legs and armrests and shoved up against this rickety old kitchen table like they’re going to feed me and then they sit down and shoot some more speed into their arms.
It was plenty scary. All four were Americans, all four young. All four wired to the gills. The dope didn’t even seem to affect them, so God knows how long they’d been awake and psyching up to do this. Two or three days at least. Maybe a week.
I was dead meat.
There was a fifth guy there. Hispanic, but I knew damn well he wasn’t a Mexican. He was cold sober and cold-eyed and dressed the way he thought American gangsters were supposed to dress. He chewed a toothpick and played with the gold on his wrists and fingers and around his neck. He was the one they were trying to impress. They kept offering him speed. He shook his head and smiled. Then he looked at me with a sly sneer of personal triumph. He suggested they keep the gag in my mouth. They did.
The moment came. They all exchanged nervous looks and then looked at the Hispanic and be looked at them as if to say, “Well?”
