Leonard realized that this moment was the first time he’d admitted to himself that Val was almost certainly running with a flashgang.
Sighing again, he lifted the phone to punch Nick Bottom’s number.
Val stomped in smelling of gasoline and something sharper, more astringent—gunpowder? Cordite?
The boy didn’t even look at his grandfather but went straight to his room. Deathcult Rock started blasting through the locked door.
Leonard marched angrily to that door and raised his fist to bang on it. Then he paused. What was he going to say to the boy that hadn’t been said? What ultimatum was he going to give that he hadn’t already given?
Leonard went back to his study and sat in the weak cone of light from the single desk lamp.
Tomorrow he’d go see Emilio. In the meantime, he could only hope that Val and his buddies would be caught in the act for some small crime they were committing. That way, if it were a first offense and since Val was a juvenile, the LAPD would implant a tracker in Val, and Leonard wouldn’t have to pay for it or the tracker software.
Leonard was ashamed of what he was thinking and wishing for. But he still wished it.
THURSDAY
After Val left for school in the morning, Leonard went to find Emilio. He carried his life’s savings in cash in a canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
Leonard rode his bicycle southeast from Echo Park past the Dodger Stadium Detention Center and under the Pasadena Freeway to where Sunset became Cesar Chavez Avenue. As the neighborhoods deteriorated, Leonard was certain that someone would rob him for the bicycle and end up with the more than a million new dollars in his messenger bag. The older Professor George Leonard Fox got, the more he was certain that the only real god was Bitch Irony.
No one robbed him during his cycling east.
By midmorning he was at the old Union Station, a landmark he loved—Leonard and his daughter Dara had once spent a weekend just watching old movies, most of them set in the 1930s to the 1950s, with major scenes shot in Union Station—and then south under the abandoned stretch of the 101. It was a hot day for September and Leonard was sweating through his white shirt by the time he reached his first roadblock where Santa Fe Avenue ran into East 4th Street.
East 4th was barricaded. On both sides of the street hung the large green-white-red tricolors of Nuevo Mexico. Unlike the former United States of Mexico flag designed in 1968, the eagle in the center of these flags was not wrestling with a snake and was facing forward. It wore a crown. Emilio had once explained that this flag was based on the 1821 flag of the First Mexican Empire, but the new eagle was so stylized that it reminded Leonard more of the FDR-era National Recovery Act eagle or—more ominously—of the stylized Nazi eagle.
He didn’t have time now to study the flags. Men armed with automatic weapons came out from behind the permanent barricades.
“¿Qué quieres, viejo?”
Professor George Leonard Fox didn’t appreciate the “old man” but he presented the card Emilio had given him and answered in a voice he managed to keep from quavering, “Exijo que me lleven a la casa de Gabriel Fernández y Figueroa.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have used the verb “demand,” but it was too late now. One of the spanics started to laugh but his comrade holding the small card showed it to him and the laughter died.
“¿Por qué quieres ver a Don Fernández y Figueroa, gringo viejo?”
Leonard was tired of the smirks and insults. “Just take me there,” he said in English. “Don Fernández y Figueroa is expecting me.”
Five of the armed men conferred rapidly. Then the one with the card gestured Leonard toward a black Volkswagen G-wagen parked behind a barricade. “Come.”
EMILIO LIVED IN A huge old home just east of Evergreen Cemetery.
Actually, Leonard realized as his escort led him through layers of roadblocks and sentries, it was far more an armed compound than a home. Military vehicles with the crowned-eagle Nuevo Mexico flag painted on the sides filled the streets for blocks around. Across the street, the wall and fence surrounding the huge Evergreen Cemetery had been knocked down and Leonard could see scores more wheeled and tracked vehicles parked on the faded grass. In front of Emilio’s address, rows of large, black SUVs filled the street at roadblock angles. The compound’s walls were topped with embedded broken glass and multiple rolls of razor wire.
His guide was stopped half a dozen times inside the compound’s walls and in the house itself and each time the card was presented. Twice Leonard was frisked—aggressively, embarrassingly, thoroughly. It would have been absurdly easy for them to appropriate his bag of money, but other than a quick search through the rubber-banded stacks of bills, no one paid attention to his paltry life’s savings.
On all sides of the tiled foyer hallway clustered groups of men in various rooms. They were smoking, arguing, bent over maps, gesturing. Everyone seemed to be talking on cell phones even as they argued and gestured. His escort led him up two flights of stairs and down a broad hallway. Two men in civilian clothes but carrying automatic weapons stood guard outside the open doorway of a library. Again the card was presented by his guide. Leonard was frisked a third and final time and they opened the door wider and allowed him to enter. Again the searchers looked at his messenger bag full of bank notes and said nothing.
The room was impressive. Bookcases filled with leather-bound old tomes rose twelve feet on three sides of the library. The fourth wall was windows and through it Leonard could see and hear black helicopters landing in a paved area of several acres within the walls of the compound. Emilio Gabriel Fernández y Figueroa was sitting behind a broad desk. Opposite him was a bald man in his early fifties and Leonard could see at once that the two men were related. Both stood as he approached.
“Leonard,” said his Saturday-morning Echo Park chess partner of the past four years.
“Don Fernández y Figueroa,” said Leonard, bowing slightly in respect.
“No, no,” said the older man. “Emilio. I am Emilio. Allow me to introduce my son Eduardo. Eduardo, this is my chess and conversation partner of whom I have spoken with such respect, Professor Emeritus Dr. George Leonard Fox.”
Eduardo bowed his bald head. His voice was very soft. “Es un verdadero placer conocerlo, señor.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Leonard.
Saying to Emilio, “I will see to the dispositions, Father,” Eduardo bowed toward Leonard again and left the room, shutting the tall door behind him.
Leonard felt his heart pounding. All these years he’d known that Emilio’s sons and grandsons must be important in the reconquista movement in California and Los Angeles, but now he realized that it was Emilio who was in charge. Why had this important—and dangerous—man wasted so many slow Saturday mornings with a retired classics/English lit professor?
Leonard had never noticed bodyguards in Echo Park on those mornings, but now he realized that they must have been there.
“You have decided to leave Los Angeles, my friend?” said Emilio, waving Leonard to the empty chair and taking his own seat behind the broad, empty desk. Outside the window, more helicopters were landing and taking off.
“Yes.”
“Bueno,” said Emilio. “It is a good time for such a move.” The older man hesitated a second, cleared his throat, and continued. “In two days—early Saturday morning, before dawn—the state of California will attempt to assassinate me here. They will use a Great White predator drone and will destroy this entire compound, hoping to kill me, my family, and everyone here.”
“Good God…”
“Sí,” said Emilio. “God is good. He allowed us to gain this valuable intelligence. My family and I shall not be here when the missiles strike. The forces of the reconquista are ready to respond. Within a week, all of the City of Angels will be under new leadership.”
Leonard had no idea what to say to this so he set the heavy messenger bag on the desk.
“One million three hu
ndred thousand in new dollars,” he said in a strangely strangled voice. “My entire life’s savings. I kept only a small bit for expenses during the trip.”
Emilio did not look in the bag. He nodded courteously. “It is less than the usual price for two people being transported from here to Denver… you still wish to go to Denver, my friend?”
“Yes.”
“It is less than the usual price, but the convoy leader owes me a favor,” continued Emilio. The old man smiled, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Also, our reconquista men and vehicles are providing security for this convoy. The convoy leader would not wish to alienate us over a few dollars one way or the other.”
“When does the convoy leave?” asked Leonard. He felt hollow, almost buoyant, as if he’d downed several strong drinks. This dialogue belonged in a movie, not in Professor George Leonard Fox’s life.
“Midnight Friday,” said Emilio. “Mere hours before the scheduled attack on my home. There will be twenty-three eighteen-wheelers in this convoy, some private vehicles, and, of course, our security vehicles. You and your grandson will ride in one of the large trucks. In the extended cab, of course.”
“Where do I go to find the convoy?” Leonard’s worry was that the rendezvous point would be too deep in East Los Angeles for Val and him to get there on bicycle or foot. Or at least get there alive.
“The old railyards off North Mission Road, just above where the One-oh-One runs into the Ten,” said Emilio. “You can get there easily by taking West Sunset past North Alameda to North Mission Road. There should be no roadblocks or checkpoints until you get to the railyards themselves. I have a letter of transit drafted and signed for you.”
Letter of transit, thought Leonard. He’d never heard that phrase outside of the movie Casablanca. Now Don Emilio Gabriel Fernández y Figueroa was reaching into his desk and drawing out and handing to him such a document. Emilio’s bold signature took up most of the width of the page.
The two men stood and Leonard used both his hands to shake Emilio’s liver-spotted, heavily veined, but still powerful hand. “Thank you, my good friend,” said Leonard. He was terrified and exhilarated and close to weeping.
Emilio called to him before he got to the door. “Your grandson… he will go with you?”
“He’ll go,” Leonard said grimly.
“Good. I doubt if we shall see each other again… at least in this life. Go with God, my dear friend.”
“And you,” said Leonard. “Good luck, Emilio.”
Outside in the hallway, his former guide and Emilio’s son Eduardo were waiting with three armed men.
VAL CAME HOME EARLY that evening, in time for dinner. As they ate their microwaved meal, Leonard told his grandson of the plan to leave at midnight of the next day. He did not phrase it as an option for the boy.
“I’m told the convoy will take about ten days to get to Denver,” finished Leonard. “You’ll see your father in a week and a half.”
Val looked at him calmly, almost appraisingly. Whatever objection he was going to raise, Leonard had the answer. If necessary, he would take Eduardo Emilio Fernández y Figueroa up on his offer to have two reconquista fighters come to Leonard’s home and carry Val to the midnight rendezvous point.
But surprisingly—amazingly—Val said, “Midnight Friday? A convoy to Denver? That’s a great idea, Leonard. What do we take with us?”
“Just what we can get in two small duffel bags,” replied his astonished grandfather. “And that includes our own food for the trip.”
“Great,” said Val. “I’ll go pack the few clothes I want to take. And a couple of books, I guess. Nothing else.”
Leonard still couldn’t believe it was going to be this simple. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” he said. “And we can’t let anyone know we’re leaving, Val. Someone might try to stop us.”
“Yeah,” said the sixteen-year-old, his eyes slightly unfocused as if he were thinking about something else. “But no, I’ll go to school. I need to clean a few things out of my locker. But I’ll be home by nine tomorrow.”
“No later than nine!” said Leonard. He was afraid of what the boy might be doing with his friends on that final evening.
“No later than nine, Grandpa. I promise.”
Leonard could only blink. When was the last time that Val had called him Grandpa? He couldn’t recall.
FRIDAY
Leonard spent the day sick with worry. The two duffels, packed full of food bars, canteens, fresh fruit, and a few clothes and books, sat near the kitchen door as if to mock the old man.
He’d started to phone Nick Bottom to tell him that they were coming and then put it off. He’d wait until they were actually on the road.
I don’t believe this was his actual thought. He’d believe it when they crossed the California line into Nevada.
Val came home a few minutes after eight o’clock. The boy’s clothes were filthy with mud and there was blood on his forehead and shirt. His eyes were wide.
“Leonard, give me your phone!”
“What? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Give me your fucking phone!”
Leonard handed the phone to the crazed boy, wondering whom he was going to call and with what news. But Val smashed the phone under the heel of his heavy boot—once, twice, as many times as it took for the components to spill out. The boy grabbed the chip and ran out the door.
Leonard was too surprised to chase after him.
Val was back in three minutes. “I tossed it onto the back of a truck headed west,” he panted.
“Val, sit down. You’re bleeding.”
The boy shook his head. “Not my blood, Grandpa. Turn on the TV.”
The Los Angeles News Channel was in the middle of a special bulletin.
“… of a terrorist attack at the rededication of the Disney Center for the Performing Arts earlier this evening. Shots were fired at Advisor Daichi Omura, but the Advisor was not injured. We repeat, Advisor Omura was not injured during the terrorist attack, although two of his bodyguards were killed along with at least five of the terrorists. We have video now of…”
Leonard could no longer hear the announcer’s words. Or, rather, he could no longer make sense of them.
There on the screen were the dead faces of several of the terrorists. They were all boys. Their faces were blood-streaked, their dead eyes open and staring. The camera paused on the last dead face.
It was the face of young William Coyne.
Leonard turned in horror toward his grandson. “What have you done?”
Val had both duffels and was shoving one against his grandfather’s chest. “We gotta go, Leonard. Now.”
“No, we have to call the authorities… straighten this out…”
Val shook him with a strength that Leonard never would have imagined in the boy. “There’s nothing to straighten out, old man. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. Do you understand? We have to go!”
“The rendezvous at the railyard’s not until midnight…,” mumbled Leonard. His extremities were tingling and he felt dizzy. He realized that he was in shock.
“It doesn’t matter,” gasped Val as he splashed water from the kitchen sink onto his face, wiping the blood away with the small towel hanging on the washing machine. “We’ll hide there until it’s time. But we have to go… now!”
“The lights…,” said Leonard as Val dragged him out the back door.
Val said nothing as he tugged his grandfather to the bicycles and the old man and the boy began pedaling madly down the unlit alley.
1.07
Six Flags Over the Jews—Monday, Sept. 13
THERE WAS A MAN crucified above the iron gates of the Denver Country Club but it didn’t slow Nick down in his Monday-morning commute up Speer Boulevard to Six Flags Over the Jews. The phone news had no identity on the crucified man and there was no announcement yet on the reason for his crucifixion. Traffic moved briskly and Nick had to flog the gelding to keep up, getting o
nly the briefest glimpse to his left of various emergency vehicles around the entrance and cops on ladders. The once -expensive and -exclusive country club hadn’t been a country club for some years now and the golf course and tennis courts were covered with several hundred windowless blue tents of the sort the UN liked to bring in to Third World countries after tsunamis or plague. No one that Nick knew was aware of the purpose for these tents here at the club—or, for that matter, which country or corporation owned the country club these days—and no one seemed to care, including Nick.
He’d used all the flashback Sato had given him and slept all Sunday afternoon and Sunday night. This sort of full-systems crash happened often with heavy flashback users; the drug’s effect seemed like sleep, down to the rapid eye movements, but it wasn’t sleep. At least not the kind of deep sleep the human brain required. So once every couple of weeks, flashback users crashed and slept for twenty-four hours or more.
Except for a headache that felt like the world’s worst hangover, Nick had to admit that he felt more refreshed.
The problem was that nothing around him—not Speer Boulevard with its overhanging trees, not the thrumming traffic in the two peasant lanes or the skateboard-low humming hydrogen-car traffic in the VIP lane, not the hundreds of makeshift shacks along the trickling course of Cherry Creek sunken between the bikepaths fifteen feet below the level of the street—seemed real. This had been the case for at least five years now but it seemed worse this month. The flashback hours with Dara were real; this nonsense interlude with Sato or improvising bad lines with the bit players in this poorly written, poorly lit, poorly acted play was certainly not real.
But what was confusing Nick Bottom now was his multiple use of flashback. He’d used it to review the interview with Danny Oz almost six years ago. He’d used it, as he had every day for the past five and a half years, to spend time with his dead wife.