Dream of a Falling Eagle

job.'

Garth nodded. 'It could also be a woman, someone using 'Jefferson Kelly' as a pseudonym. Kranes is a big shot and that's a big district to service. Even so, how many people can he have working there, with access to office mail? It shouldn't be that hard to dig him-or her-out. He's probably wearing a T-shirt with 'I Am a Poet' written on it.'

'One of us can pop down there and have a chat with Mr. Kelly after we finish the report.'

Garth shook his head. 'It won't wait. Unfinished business is a distraction we don't need.'

'Unfinished business. You're joking, right?'

'No,' Garth replied evenly, fixing me with his steady gaze. 'I thought I'd explained to you-in detail-the metaphysics of this thing. Taking care of Mr. Dickens' problem is ultimately more important than trying to cure America of the CIA. In the end, all we're probably going to get from the CIA investigation is a lot of grief, frustration, booing, and hissing. But with this, we help Moby Dickens get his soul back. Think about it.'

'I am thinking about it. It'll wait two and a half weeks.'

'No. It won't.'

'Squirrelly, Garth. Very squirrelly.'

My brother didn't smile. Finally I rolled my eyes, slapped my forehead, and continued. 'Jesus! I'll send Francisco.'

'No good. One of us has to go. Somebody has to read this Kelly the riot act, and Francisco's not the one to do that.'

'Reading people the riot act is your department. If you think it's so important to do this now, then you go. Metaphysically speaking, that seems the right course of action.'

Garth again shook his head. 'Still no good. Kranes is a big bag of pus; every time he opens his mouth, something poisonous pops out. I might run into him there. If I lay eyes on the fat, hypocritical, demagogue fascist son of a bitch, I might tear his head off.'

'Congress is in special session, which means Kranes is almost certainly in Washington. And if he's not there, he's off someplace with his forces of darkness planning for their party's convention. You won't run into him.'

'Well, I have to assume that anybody working for him is also a bag of pus. I don't trust myself. This requires a deft hand, Mongo. It's best that you go.'

'Garth, stop jerking me around! I went to see Fournier, so it's your turn to go on the fucking metaphysical road. Considering the way you chug along on that computer, we'll waste a whole day if I go.'

'The report will get done on time.' Garth paused, leaned back in my chair, and smiled slyly. 'We'll flip a coin.'

'I always lose coin tosses with you.'

'Maybe this time it will be different.'

It wasn't.

Chapter 6

I'd brought my laptop computer along with me in order to get some work done on my early-morning flight to Huntsville, but instead I found myself reading through more of the collected works of Thomas Dickens that I'd brought with me. The more of his poetry I read, the more I understood Moby Dickens' desire for anonymity. All of the poems were beautifully crafted, capturing the essence of feeling in the sparest of words. All were perceptive, some startlingly so. Some were funny, others achingly sad. In a sense, all of his poems were about prisons-but not those of concrete and steel. Dickens' subject was the many different kinds of prisons we construct for ourselves and share with our cobuilders, those that are built for us and which we are thrown into, and, finally, those we inhabit alone. Moby Dickens' prison now was his body-ugly, tattooed, and menacing-and his greatest fear was that readers who saw him would never again be able to look beyond the shadows and bars of his flesh to see the pure fire of the artist within; the imagined echoes of steel clanging on steel would drown out the gentle and beautiful songs he sang. It made me sad to think about it. Reading the man's poems, often seeing an image of the poet's face superimposed on the pages, I even stopped thinking about the CIA, its voodoo hit squad, and the mutilation and death they left in their wake.

It was all enough to make me start taking some of my mysteriously bent brother's points more seriously. I even considered the possibility that maybe he wasn't being as obsessive and nutty about the plagiarism business as I'd first thought. I might even tell him that when I got back, although I doubted it.

I took a cab from the airport into town, to the three-story, glass-faced building which housed William P. Kranes's congressional district offices. I didn't know how much space in the building Kranes used, but I strongly suspected it might be all of it. Lots of staff, phone-answerers, clerical workers, home-based political operatives, political cronies and friends of political cronies. If Jefferson Kelly was a pseudonym, and its user was serious about not wanting his or her real identity known, rooting that person out could turn out to be one slow horse of a job, and I was determined to be back in New York that night. If I couldn't find Jefferson Kelly by the end of office hours, Garth was just going to have to sit on his metaphysics for two and a half weeks, or come down here himself.

I needn't have worried.

The secretary commanding the large, brightly lighted reception area was a buxom woman with the reddest hair I'd ever seen, and crimson lipstick to match. Her flawless skin was like alabaster, and her eyes really were the color of robins' eggs. The sight of her was almost enough to make me reconsider a lot of my antisouthern prejudices and start humming 'Dixie.' On a beige plastic panel directly behind her was a very large poster on which a poem entitled 'Prison Walls' was written in flowing, hand-lettered calligraphy. It was almost an exact copy of Moby Dickens' 'Razor Wire,' which I'd read on the plane. This one was signed by Jefferson Kelly.

'Oh, you're so cute,' the redhead giggled as I approached her desk.

Ah. A remark that in New York would have elicited from me an acidic, withering retort here, down in the land of cotton, squeezed from me a goofy smile and a gooey, 'Why, thank you, ma'am.'

'How can I help you, Mister. .?'

'Dickens. Thomas Dickens.' I pointed to the poster behind her. 'I'm a big fan of Jefferson Kelly. I see you are too. I'm always searching in the poetry journals for his work. I'm even seriously considering starting a fan club. Good poets are an endangered species, along with people who can appreciate their work.'

The woman grinned, revealing a set of teeth as even, white, and shining as an ivory highway to heaven. She turned around in her chair to admire the poster, then turned back to me and leaned forward on her desk. Her smile had turned conspiratorial, and she whispered, 'Do you know who Jefferson Kelly really is?'

'Jefferson Kelly isn't Jefferson Kelly?'

'It's Speaker Kranes!' she gushed, then opened her eyes wide, covered her mouth with her hand and quickly looked around, acting as if she had just given away some state secret.

I put my hands on my hips, cocked my head to one side, and clucked my tongue. 'No!'

'Yes!' she said, lowering her voice to about the level of a stage whisper. 'Isn't he wonderful? He's so talented! But he's also very modest. He won't use his real name because he's afraid editors would only publish his poetry because of who he is. Also, I think he's kind of embarrassed by all his talent. Only a few people know-his family, friends, and a few people in town. And now you know; you were so enthusiastic, I just couldn't stop myself from sharing that with you.'

'Well, I'll be doggoned,' I said, shaking my head in awe and wonder. 'Boy, I'd sure like to meet the man. As a matter of fact, Jefferson Kelly-Speaker Kranes, that is-is the reason I stopped in. I don't remember where I heard it, but somebody told me Jefferson Kelly worked for Speaker Kranes, here in his district office. I'm in town on business, so I thought I'd pop in to tell him how much I enjoy his work, and maybe get to shake his hand. Now it looks as if it will have to wait until I get to Washington.'

'Actually, the Speaker is in town for a couple of days. He's in his office now, but I'm afraid he doesn't have time to see you, even for a minute or two. His appointment schedule is just jam-packed from morning to night, and he's already an hour behind.'

'So near to the great man and yet so far. What a crushing disappointment.'