English had also done me one final solid. I tucked it away in case I needed it later.
I had all the proper credentials, all the necessary emails and verification. For the next twelve hours, this identity was golden. The two best hackers in the universe had even managed to get me a private interview, a whole thirty minutes. It wouldn’t take that long to find out everything I needed to know from the old monster, if he was chatty today.
The interview room I was led into by the old monster’s keepers—a cadre of guards, the warden, and a prison psychologist—looked like any other corporate conference room, except for the heavy steel door with the narrow sliver of a window made of steel mesh–reinforced glass.
“Mr. Blanke,” the psychologist said, frowning as she read my fake last name off my clip-on visitor badge. “Are you sure you want to be in here without at least some prison staff present? I’d be willing to stay if you would feel more comfortable. He can be a bit of an overpowering personality, even given his failing physical health.”
“I’ll be fine, Doctor,” I said. “I’m kinda used to big personalities, and please call me Melvin.”
She smiled, arched her eyebrow, and nodded. “Very well, good luck. He’ll be brought in shortly.” Everyone left. I saw a few guards waiting outside the door.
The room was quiet, except for the hum of the AC. A few minutes passed, and I spent the time breathing, slowing my pulse. While the old monster was no threat physically, he was still formidable in the realm of power. I had felt his madness, like a hot, angry wind as soon as I had entered the prison. I should have my defenses up and ready for him. The part of me that whispered I’d be more loose and ready for him if I had had that drink this morning told me I needed to know, to see how I fared bare-knuckle against him. Sober me told me I listened to that asshole way too much.
There was an electronic click and buzz, and the steel door swung open. Charles Manson entered the room. He had steel-gray hair, shaved up on the sides in a brush cut, and a gray goatee. He was hunched over, his hands close in cuffs, connected to a body chain and then leg restraints, a shuffling old hippie. He looked at me. A little smile played at his lips, and I felt his presence scrape and claw at the edges of my power, looking for cracks to seep in through. The swastika scar was there, above eyes as black and devoid of life as the death between stars.
I had heard he had been very sick, and I saw in him that he wasn’t much longer for this world. A horrible thought occurred to me then: would death be enough? Would death erase his stain from the world? Manson nodded and grunted at me as the guards sat him down and locked him to a chair opposite me at the conference table. “Who the hell are you?” he said. I had been interrogated enough times to know that I’d make him wait. Charlie decided not to play my game. “You’re witchy. I can feel it coming off of you like stink off a whore. Ain’t no agent man, though, no Eff-Bee-Eye, are you, witchy-man?”
“Cut the shit, Charlie,” one of the guards said under his breath. “Behave. Answer the nice man’s questions and don’t make us come back in here until he’s done. Got it?” Manson bobbed his head rapidly a few times, looked up with hooded eyes, and smiled at me. It was the famous Manson smile, the Manson eyes, and I have to admit, it had power to it. My stomach curled, and I felt his energy prying at the tiny crack in my armor his demeanor had created. The guard who had admonished Manson explained to me that they would be right outside if I needed anything. They departed without another word. There was a loud clank as the heavy door closed and locked, and I was alone with the self-proclaimed Devil. Having met them both, I have to say, Charlie was scarier.
“I could kill you right now,” he said. “Be across that table before anybody could do shit.”
“Take your shot,” I said. “I can drop your nasty, decrepit ass before you haul yourself over that table.” Manson glared at me and then broke into laughter.
“Shit, man, you’re all right,” Charlie said. “I kill you, I don’t get Pop-Tarts. I like Pop-Tarts more’n pussy these days. Why you here? What’s your handle?” I pointed to my name badge. Charlie squinted and then made a face. “Melvin Blanke? Shit, that’s the Bugs Bunny guy. What’s your real name, the one you call yourself in the dark? That’s the only one that matters.”
“Laytham Ballard,” I said. “Mel Blanke sounded like as good a name as any to deal with Looney Tunes Charlie.”
Manson leaned back, a smug expression crossing his weathered face. “Ballard, yeah. They said you might come visit, said I shouldn’t say shit to you. They think you’re dangerous.” Charlie gave me the once-over, nodded. “You are. You got it in the eyes all right, just like me.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Charlie? Who said not to tell me?” Manson seemed to be doing the calculus of betrayal in his head. I sweetened the pot by holding up a pack of American Spirits. He grinned. His teeth were small and yellow, like a rat’s. He reached out for the smokes, and I withdrew them. He became irritated. “Spill,” I said.
“Shit, why the hell not, man,” he said. “Not like they can dream up something to get me in here, as long as I got
