exerpts from the novel
The Electronic Windmill
By Pete McKinley
Chapter XIII
Larry Carver lived across the park in a fairly new section of the city where land costs dictated that homes should still abut each other. He found his place in a wall of white houses all looking alike and parked in the slanted opening of the curb leading to the basement garage. Cole got out, pulled the seat forward and helped Debbie from the rear. Her hand clenched his tight and strained. Cicero followed and stood beside the car with hands in hip pockets hunching and shivering against the cool night air. Larry led them up half a level, hurriedly unlocked the door and reached in to switch on the lights, motioning them to enter. When he came in he closed the door, pressed the lock and attached the chain.
Cicero checked the oblong room that seemingly made up the whole of the house. Satisfied, he unzipped his pants and reached down the left inseam searching for scat and spike. Larry waved toward the far end of the room where the total wall surface, with the exception of the door on the right, was one painting, Leaving Cole, the three of them went through the door and closed it too.
Cole looked around to see if anything new had been added since his last visit. The carpet, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture and the fireplace in back of him were almost exactly the same beige color. Only the texture of the various items made them distinguishable. Three pictures dominated the room; two on the long wall to the left were large but small compared to the painting covering the end wall. There was only the reflected light from the illuminated pictures and Cole moved in front of the first to marvel again at the color and detail. He glanced at the almost illegible signature in the corner knowing it was “Laurie.” Laurie, Larry’s twin sister, had been dead more than two years and since the cold misty day of the semi-private funeral Larry had never mentioned her name. The extent of Larry’s loss and loneliness could only be guessed at.
There was a small typewritten card announcing the trilogy of pictures as: “Our Relatives” by Laurie Carver. Under the first painting was another card; Cole read it again: “Our Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandparents”. The picture itself was set in a small clearing in a jungle at dusk. There were two people squatting beside a fire. A huge carnivore of the cat family lay dead before them and the ancestral grandmother was handing a bloody red heart, just hacked, with a dripping stone knife, from the breast of the beast, to the ancestral grandfather. She was holding it out with both hands, still clutching the red tool. The bestowal as well as the sharp-toothed laughter showed her approval. The male ancestor was accepting in somber dignity the hacked heart of victory as his due. The subtleties of expression, the features lighted by the flickering fire, the resemblance to Larry and Laurie were there but the impelling subtlety was the faces stamped with the crude and cruel conditions of their primal existence. He backed off to get a last perspective and then moved slowly over to the next painting.
For maybe the twentieth time he read the typewritten card beneath it: “Our Nephew - Larry II”. Larry II was sitting on the back steps of the house where he still lived; a five-year-old boy holding an alley cat on his lap. A machine pistol and a sling shot lay on the step below. His dark intelligent eyes were level and there was just a hint of impatience, of wanting to break the pose; the need to move, to be active; perhaps to burst into laughter for no reason at all other than that he felt good. The untouched innocence of five-years-old stared straight at Cole.
He moved on to the largest picture and glanced at the title card: “Our Nephew and Friends.” Cole backed off to see it all. Five people were in the scene; two women and two men of various shades of human color crouched inside a cage that apparently had been constructed from wire mesh and reinforced steel protruding from the smashed concrete of a destroyed city. One of the women was straining to hold open an iron-barred make-shift gate, reaching out from inside the cage and ready to slam it closed as soon as the fifth human gained the enclosure. This last figure was a man running and carrying a dead cat, probably twice as big as the one Larry II held on his lap. Behind him were at least two hundred cats of the same size or slightly larger. They were all the variations in colors that has ever been seen in a cat and they were weird and terrifyingly wild. Some were rabid; white froth flecked from open jaws and yellow pus exuded between needle-sharp fangs. It was a questionable race; whether the runner would reach the make-shift gate in time. He was taking a quick backward look at the closest gaping-jawed cat and there was a half-grin on his face. He was bent low to hurtle through the opening before it closed. (Cole was reminded of Larry being hit by two defenders five yards from the goal line.) It appeared that the cats would be on him, but maybe he could fight them off long enough to just get through. The race would be close but that wasn’t the real doubt. The runner’s death or life, and the death or life of those in the cage really depended upon the girl holding the gate. If she slammed it too soon the cats would rip and tear the flesh from the runner’s bones, too late, and a horde of ravenous felines would get through and gorge on those inside also. The caged people, all except the girl at the gate, were enjoying the race and ignoring their own peril.
Just as Cole was deciding for the hundredth time what would probably occur if the painting came alive and started to move, Larry came through the door with a couple bottles of beer and two glasses on a tray.
“Let’s sit by the fireplace, I’ll start it up,” he said, making his way to the other end of the room and placing the tray on a low beige table in front of a low beige lounge. Cole took a last look at the ruins of some future crumbled city, at the people in the rusted iron cage, at the pursued hunter with his life-sustaining kill and at the death horde of multi-colored cats and turned away.
“Whoosh, man, like whoosh. Crazy pad, Larry baby,” Cicero bubbled.
“Groovy colors on the wall - groovy,” Debbie said dreamily. “But give me mountains with white, white snow.”
“While you’re smellin’ the snow, I’m reachin’ up and sniffin’ me some stardust and keepin’ right on goin’ higher and higher,” Cicero said.
“How about circling around and coming in for a landing over here,” Larry suggested. “What would you two like to drink?”
“Coke for me, man. Debbie’ll have Squirt - anythin’ with lemon or lime.”
Cicero dropped on the couch stretching his stick-like legs towards the new fire. Debbie wandered aimlessly over, touching the rocks of the fireplace. Cole leaned forward from one end of the long lounge and poured his beer and Larry, returning with the soft drinks, said, “It’s a cool night but we’re cozying it up.”
“Have a juice, baby,” Cicero called to Debbie. “She gotta get back to the big street,” he explained. “We need the bread for when we livin’ low insteada high like right now.”
“Relax, Cicero,” Larry said, “We got bread for you.”
“Front and center, Debbie,” Cicero demanded. “We got action right here.” Debbie turned from the fireplace looking first at Larry and then Cole, waiting.
“Come on and sit down, Debbie,” Larry said. “We’re just talking. Your conversation is worth money.” Debbie glanced quickly at Cicero and he nodded.
“I’m goin’ to talk about Jollo,” Cicero said, staring directly at Debbie. “You don’t know nothin’, you don’t hear nothin’, you don’t say nothin’. Sit down.” He clasped his hands in back of his head, leaned on the couch stretching out his thin feet even closer to the fire and opening his mouth as if to speak, closed his eyes and didn’t say anything.
They waited for a minute or two and finally Larry asked in a low voice, “Where’s Jollo getting this high grade stuff if it isn’t coming down from the top? And how do you know he still isn’t on the same chain gang?”
Cicero stirred but didn’t open his eyes. “No more, man. Jollo is the top hook. Everythin’ hangs from him now - he the source and he got nothin’ but thoroughbreds hustlin’ for him.”
“I thought no one could operate outside,” Larry insisted.
“Jollo don’t need to be inside no more,” Cicero stirred again slightly. “When you connected with jolly Jollo, you connected with the top.”
“Right, Cicero, but the stuff’s got to come from someplace. Where does he get it?”
“It fly in from tamale-land - tha’s all I know ... an’ it pure horse. He makin’ up with his own cuttin’ and packin’.”
“How long has he been on his own?” Larry asked.
“Long time...months....maybe a year, I don’ know.”
“What makes you think he flies it in?”
“That’s the word and I got faith.”
“I thought you were ready for a kick in the head,” Larry said. “You change your mind?”
“Yeah, I did. I don’t want to turn off when I’m high or when I’m low only in the diddle middle. Will you and this cat he’p us sometime when we in the diddle middle?” he asked, suddenly sitting up and looking from Larry to Cole.
“We’ll help,” Cole said. “You’ve got to let us know when, though. We’ll keep asking.” He paused for a minute and then looked at Debbie who was slumped staring into the fire. No one said anything and finally he turned back to Cicero. “I think you’ve helped us but I want to check something out tonight.”
Cicero surprisingly came completely awake, stood up and reached for Debbie, pulling her to her feet.
“Take us to the swingin’ scene, Larry. We gotta get back on the track.”
“Have you got what you want?” Larry asked Cole.
“Maybe, I don’t know. Let’s take the kids back and then run down to the wharf if you haven’t got anything better to do.”
“Right,” Larry agreed. “Nothing better to do.”
They circled through the park and back to the buzzin’ street where they had picked up Cicero and Debbie. Cole got out, pulling the seat forward again, and as they came clambering from the back he handed Cicero two fifties.
“This bread will buy bread you know,” and then deciding his comment was worthless, “Thanks, we’ll see you around....give us a call, like soon.”
“Right, man, than’s for the bread.”
“Where to?” Larry asked when Cole got in the front seat.
“Take Bush to Powell to Ellis, cut across Market and we’ll go Fourth to Mission Rock and into China Basin Street.”
Larry drove and Cole thought about Cicero’s ramblings. Larry didn’t ask what he knew and Cole didn’t volunteer anything. Coming into China Basin Street Cole said, “Turn right here.” The unloading of the Crescent Moon was still under way. They drove on past and then Cole asked Larry to swing around and come back again. As they approached the second time, Cole said, “Pull over by the small building where the gate guard’s stationed.” He got out of the car and walked over slowly looking at the ship mostly. When the watchman saw Cole approaching he stepped out into the cool night air.
“Is that the Crescent Moon?” Cole asked before the guard could challenge him.
“It is. Are you looking for someone?” the guard asked suspiciously.
“I know some of the crew. I was just wondering if anyone was aboard.”
“Are you from the company?” the guard wanted to know.
“No I’m not, but I’ve sailed on the Crescent Moon. I thought if anyone was around I might know, I’d say hello.”
“The people on her now are the unloading crew. I think the ship’s crew are all ashore. Mr. Crowder sometimes stays aboard to get her ready for the passengers but they won’t be leaving until Monday so he probably won’t show up until tomorrow evening sometime.”
“Is it still Saturday night?” Cole asked in surprise.
The guard got out his watch. “It’s about twenty-five minutes to go until Sunday morning.” As Cole started to leave the guard asked, “Who will I say was here?”
Cole stopped and looking back, hesitated slightly. “Conrad,” he said. “Joe Conrad.” He went back to the car and got in, and as they pulled away he saw the guard making an entry in his record book.
“What do we do now?” Larry asked.
“There’s about an acre of ground right across the street from the ship. If you look back you can see it’s got a board fence around it. This evening when I drove by, all I could see inside it was a couple of small stacks of lumber. I’d like to take a closer look at it.”
“When? Tonight?”
“Yeah, right now - but I need a light. I better go back and get my car.”
Driving slowly down China Basin Street, Larry looked at him for a long moment. “There’s a flashlight in that glove compartment,” he pointed, “and I haven’t got anything else to do, or any better sense,” he said. “But we can’t park across the street from the ship. Maybe I can come in from Illinois or Michigan.” He kept on driving at a slow pace and at the end of the street doubled back into Illinois, squared into Eldorado and turned left into Michigan and then, stopping the car where he thought would be opposite the ship, started to get out.
“No, you wait here,” Cole said. “I just want to confirm what I already suspect.”
“Anybody catches me here they’re not going to wait to confirm anything. I’ll just wind up in the stout-house,” Larry protested.
“Don’t worry about it” Cole commiserated as he faded into the shadows. “I’ll be right back.” Moving cautiously beside a white building he came to the end of it and the reflected light gave out. He stopped, closed his eyes for a minute to adjust them to the blackness beyond and looked off to where the Crescent Moon should be tied up. He saw a faint glow against the low fog. Then he began to make out the dark outline of what he was sure was the top of the wooden fence enclosing the storage area that fronted on China Basin. Starting toward it confidently he stepped into a hole and his left leg dropped into water above his knee. Flinging his arms out instinctively he caught the edge of the other side of whatever he had fallen into and hung there for a moment. As his eyes adjusted further to the darkness it was apparent that he had fallen into a four-foot-wide ditch. He let the other leg slide in and, pushing with his hands in the damp grass, pulled himself out, felt his clinging wet pants, and took off toward the dark silhouette of the fence a little more cautiously. As he came close, he stretched out his hands and finally touched moist boards. With his fingers, he found a crack and put his eye to it. It was just as black on the other side, so he moved to his right and almost at once came to a corner. Turning, he started pacing off the distance to the other corner. It was sixty-four yard-length steps before he found it. Making a ninety-degree turn this time, he continued his measured tread towards China Basin Street. When he came to that end of the fence which was almost on the street, he wasn’t sure whether he had taken sixty or seventy steps but finally decided it was seventy. In either case, the enclosed space was approximately an acre - plenty big enough. He reached up and barely got his fingers over the edge of the boards. It must be seven-and-a-half or eight feet high, he thought, but couldn’t remember how high he could reach either. Feeling along the top he touched a metal bracket screwed into the board extending upward. He jumped and waved his hand above it and felt a sharp tearing pain in his palm. One of the barbs in the wire-strung brackets had caught it and ripped it open. “Damn!” Clasping his hands together, the palms felt warm and sticky. He got out a handkerchief, balled it up, and squeezed down hard and then started at a half trot back the way he had come, trailing his good hand along the fence. When he came to the corner he felt his hand leave the fence but before he could slow down there was a bright flash of light and his head was rocked back. Reaching out instinctively, he contacted arms groping for him. Going into a clinch he hissed, “Larry?” but there was no answer and whoever it was didn’t have Larry’s bulk, but Christ, he was strong and quick.
Cole pinched one of the arms against his side as his left hand grasped a wrist, and then he felt cold metal. He broke the clinch and grabbed with both hands to keep the cold metal from pointing toward his body. Sweat came quickly and fear-goaded strength soared as he tried to break or jerk the arm from its socket. It was a static strain and again he felt steel pressing down toward the top of his head. He disengaged his right hand and chopped short for the belly, not wanting to miss. There was a high sigh of escaping air and this time he aimed at the sound. His knuckles splatted against a twisting jaw and sharp teeth just as metal crashed against his forehead and spurting blood rolled into his eyes. With all his strength he struck now at a gurgling noise, aiming lower, and felt his fist drive under a chin and into a neck and then a body was falling backwards and he was jerked forward on top of it. The left wrist was painfully stretched and seemed to be caught up in the cold metal. Pushing away from the inert form, Cole still couldn’t get untangled and then he saw a light swinging across the field, lost it momentarily about where the ditch was and then saw it come on again sweeping over the ground until it found them and he heard Larry’s voice.
“What the hell happened? Are you O.K.? Who is he... Christ!... is that your blood or his?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s mine. My head hurts.”
Larry bent over and played the light on Cole’s head. “It’s not very deep but it’s bleeding like hell,” he said, taking out a handkerchief. “Here, hold this on it.”
Cole reached for the handkerchief and another arm came up with his.
“Look out!” Larry yelled and Cole feinted off with his right hand, but when there was no more action Larry examined the arm that had moved. “How did you get him cuffed?” he wanted to know.
Wiping blood from his eyes, Cole looked at the handcuffs in disbelief. “Where the hell did those come from? I thought he had a gun.”
“I wonder who he could be,” Larry said with some concern as he turned the torch on the quiet face.
“It’s the steward, Lew.”
“Who?”
“The steward from the ship. I figured there was something wrong about him but I really didn’t pick him as a part of this operation.” He looked the still form over carefully. “Maybe you’d better dim that light and we’ll try to get him back to the car.”
“Here, you hold the light,” Larry said, “and I’ll carry him.”
“You can’t carry him. I’m handcuffed to him.” And then he paused and looked again. “I wonder what the hell he’s doing handcuffing me.”
“What do you mean, handcuffing you? I thought you cuffed him.”
Cole shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll figure it out later.”
He got off his knees, pulled Lew up and slung him on his shoulder as easy as an oversized duffle bag. Larry lighted the way and this time both avoided falling in the ditch. When they got to the car Cole worked Lew’s dead weight into the middle of the seat and squeezed in beside him. Larry got behind the wheel and pushed Lew’s lolling head off his shoulder.
“Are you sure he’s still breathing?” he asked Cole with real concern.
“Yeah, he’s O.K. - his pulse is strong.”
“Now where would you like to go?” Larry asked in a business-like voice.
“Let’s go to my place, I’ll call Thad Bocana. Maybe he can get something out of this guy.”
“Who the hell is Thad Bocana?”
“He’s an acquaintance of mine with the FBI who read my book on investigative procedures.”
Larry raced down the Embarcadero rather than across the city.
“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” Cole said. “You’ll get us into trouble.”
Larry took his foot off the gas, pushed Lew’s head from his shoulder again, checked the handcuffed wrists and then Cole’s blood-streaked face.
“You mean we’re not in trouble... now?” he asked incredulously.
Twenty minutes later Larry eased into the parking space reserved for C. Rain Apt. 3, got out, closed the door softly and went around to the passenger side to help drape Lew over Cole’s shoulder. Then he fished the keys from Cole’s pocket and opened the apartment door. As they went in Lew straightened suddenly and heaved himself head first towards the floor. Larry caught him before Cole was twisted completely around, carried him to the couch and dropped him. This jerked Cole off his feet and put him on top of Lew, who started to struggle again.
“Take it easy. Where are the keys for those things?” Larry demanded.
Cole got off Lew and sat down beside him. “Hi, Lew - nice running into you again.” It was hard for Larry to believe they could both look so bad and still be able to function. Lew started to talk:
“I didn’t know you were there by the fence. I was just curious as to why you were nosing around the Crescent Moon.”
Cole interrupted, “Have you got a key for these things? Don’t tell me you lost it.”
Lew searched around in the waistband of his pants and finally came up with a key. It took him some time before he succeeded in snapping both links open, and Larry didn’t offer to help.
“What’s your story, Lew?”
“What’s yours?” Lew asked.
Cole ignored the question. “I concluded a long time ago you weren’t a steward but I’ll admit I didn’t figure you for part of the law. Where do you fit?”
“I’m not interested in talking to you, Mr. Rain,” Lew said stiffly. I’ll call a cab and get the hell out of here,” and he started for the phone.
“Wait a minute, Lew. I was going to call Thad Bocana and invite him over for a drink. You don’t happen to know Bocana, do you?”
Lew stopped, looked at Cole and then at Larry trying to grasp a complex combination and turned slowly back to Cole. “What do you know about Bocana?”
“Nothing, really, he’s just an acquaintance of mine. He read a book I wrote.”
“What would that be?”
“A book on investigative procedures for law enforcement officers.”
A look of surprise touched Lew’s face. “Oh, you’re that Rain,” he said frowning. “I’ve got to pay more attention to who writes those things.” He thought for a moment longer, placing his hand gently on his jaw. “I never knew a guy who wrote books could hit like that though. It seems it was all a mistake,” and he manipulated his head gingerly to see if it would still turn.
“Some mistake,” Cole grunted as he dabbed at the still seeping scalp wound.
Lew fumbled out a folded piece of leather and tossed it on the table. “I’m with the Narcotics Bureau,” he said shortly.
“I thought you’d given up on the Crescent Moon,” Cole said in mild surprise.
“We gave up a couple of times, but things kept happening. If you and your friend can explain what you were doing there I’m ready to forget the Crescent Moon for the last time.”
“This is Larry Carver,” Cole said, “a friend and business associate of mine.”
“I’m Hal Bronte. Lew’s just one of the names I use from time to time.” He paused for a minute squinting at Cole. “How did you happen to be out there tonight?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you but it had nothing to do with me or my friend smuggling dope from the ship. Sorry I can’t tell you more.” Then he asked, “You’re convonced the Crescent Moon is clean now, is that right?”
“That’s right,” Lew said, “and I’m turning my report in that way.”
“Would you hold that report for a day? I’m too damned tired and sore to think clearly right now. I’ds like to take a hot shower, put a couple of band-aids on my head, get some sleep, and then think about a few things.”
“What is there to think about?”
“I’ve got some angles to mull over. We might even bring Bocana in on it tomorrow.”
“My report wouldn’t go in until Monday anyway,” Bronte said as he got up from the couch wearily. “I’m a little sore myself, maybe the sleep would help.”
Larry, who had been quietly listening, shook his head negatively to himself but didn’t voice all his thoughts. “I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go,” he said. “But are you sure you shouldn’t have a doctor look you over first?”
“No, I’m all right,” Bronte said shortly with a sort of sigh. “All I need is a couple of aspirins and some sleep.”
Cole went as far as the door when the two left the apartment and shook hands with Bronte a little formally. He watched them go down the steps and move toward the car before he called to Larry, “If you stop by Borgia’s tell Giuseppe I’ll see him tomorrow.” Then he closed the door quietly, hesitating before attaching the latch. Finally he snicked it in and walked slowly to the couch, flopping on it to think for a minute before going to sleep.
