

# DAWN OF BETRAYAL

by Max Grant

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Copyright 2012 Max Grant

Smashwords Edition

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America is like a healthy body and its resistance is threefold: its patriotism, its morality, and its spiritual life. If we can undermine these three areas, America will collapse from within. - Joseph Stalin

# Table of Contents

Dawn of Betrayal

Coming Soon in 2012: Decade of Betrayal

About the Author

# Dawn of Betrayal

# April 1948

It was a little past mid-morning when I stepped off the overnight coach into the blinding glare of downtown Tampa. I sidled over to the driver as he finished unloading and handing off the baggage. He looked like he was pondering where he would go to find some badly needed daytime sleep. I slipped him a fin for getting me all the way here from Dallas in one piece, the sprung seat cushions being none of his doing. He nodded and pocketed the bill, cast me a weary smile, and croaked, "Thanks, bub" before shuffling off to check in with the dispatch office.

I grabbed my bag from the curb and elbowed my way into the stage depot for a look-see. What a sight for sore eyes. Like worthless clinkers collecting at the bottom of a coal bin, they all ended up somewhere in the Sunshine State: gutless punks, two-bit grifters, shifty-eyed fugitives, grinning con men, raving commie loons, and every other brand of tramp, thug, creep, and moron. And at the bottom of the heap, the pimps, the fairies, the drag queens, hollow-eyed junkies and hopped-up snowbirds, assorted kinksters, and all the other refuse tossed back from Hell. As in every town these days, serving this crew would be the usual penny-ante shysters, loan sharks, union goons, crooked cops, bar wenches, burlesque queens, and whores: human slag, the seemingly unavoidable waste products of the industry of life.

Then there were the locals, running the gamut from 300-pound, slit-eyed, pig-faced cretins to dried-up, toothless, simian bone bags. An old Negro ambled noiselessly through the place, avoiding eye contact. There were people here of every hue and stripe that'd left their shacks in the country for the rootless existence of the slums and shantytowns in these burgeoning new Florida cities.

But who knew? Maybe every last one of these carcasses held the soul of a saint, all good folk taking a rest between random acts of generosity and charity. Right. Half of them looked like they'd slit your throat for a nickel when no one was looking. Maybe I'd been alive too long; weary from the trail that had led me to this place. I'd been less than happy with the general state of humanity since I'd stumbled onto this case more than half a year past.

But I wasn't interested in the normal brand of low-life. I was on the trail of the lowest of them all, the traitor, the Quisling, the low-down dirty gutter rat that would sell out his countrymen for the cheap pay-off from a bloody tyrant. And when I found them, they were going to answer to the people for their crimes before swinging from a rope, or maybe strangling in the gas house, depending on which jurisdiction got the privilege.

* * *

I was slowly picking my way through the depot when I spotted her. Facing the far wall, her sidelong glance caught mine and held it as I moved through the waiting hall to the row of telephone booths near the entrance. She looked fresh off the banana boat, but her eyes revealed the worldliness of someone who had done plenty and seen more.

Her name was Veronica Elena Cruz, I'd been told. She was a petite girl, luxuriously constructed nonetheless. She was wearing a tight summer dress in tropical pattern, simply cut, that set off an abundance of nicely complected fawn-colored skin. Briefly she turned to face me fully, and she was stunning. Her face had perfectly proportioned fine features, very slightly bronzed from the sun, and sporting only a touch of rouge. Her generous mouth carried an easy smile, and her dark eyes were sparkling with life and good humor. She had half her shimmering black hair piled on top of her head, the other half hanging appealingly about her shoulders.

Her eyes swept me again as she turned to rise and head in the direction I had come. I gave her an imperceptible nod and passed through the double glass doors without a backward glance. The glare given off from the street hit me right between the eyes. As I turned toward the sidewalk I nearly ran into a nattily attired bum wobbling outside the doorway. He gave me the eager eye and I fished out two bits and passed them over to help fund his bottle cap collection.

I headed on up Marion, crossing at the signal to the opposite corner. Cooling my heels at the window of an old book store, it was only a couple of minutes before I saw Miss Cruz bustle out of the depot and head east along Madison.

Following along leisurely on the other side of the street I caught her eye as she turned into the Five & Dime one block up. A quick glance through the plate glass showed the back of her at the far stool of the lunch counter. I wandered over in that direction and took a lingering gander at the posted specials before taking up the stool between her and a pair of portly matrons on a shopping break.

Nodding to the pair to my right, I grabbed a menu from the rack and buried my face in it for a few seconds before deciding that I was too hungry to waste it on the hash they were slinging in this place. A coffee would hold me over until I could find a proper chophouse and a square meal.

Turning to Miss Cruz I flashed her my best wolf's leer just as the waitress sauntered over to break it up. Miss Cruz placed her order for the American cheese sandwich and a pop, and I asked for a cup of joe. We tossed around some introductory banter for the benefit of the audience while awaiting the refreshments.

The service was swift. Veronica munched on her sandwich for a few minutes while the ladies next to me paid their bill and filed on out of there. Talking to her plate she said, "Raymond, I called Mack before I left the depot and told him you'd arrived. He said everything was OK at the ranch. And your secretary, Yuki, is holding tight at your office."

"There's a meet scheduled for tomorrow evening in Ybor City." She slid a small card across the counter in front of me. It was blank except for a street address. "The party I expect you're interested in is a tallish grey-haired gent."

Veronica, a field agent with the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, filled me in on what she knew about this bunch and their meeting location. She'd suggested I should be on the lookout for a distinguished looking specimen that had surfaced a few weeks ago and seemed to be of some importance. His name and location had not been identified, but the Ybor City address was well known. The trash from that place had been thoroughly rifled, and there was a membership list. Moreover, the fellow was known to travel with some fancy type, a driver or houseboy or worse.

* * *

Out on the street I hailed a passing cab and asked for delivery to the nearest U-drive outfit. The cabbie motored uptown and deposited me near the train station in front of an unremarkable business establishment called Sunshine Rent-a-Car. The office was a small affair, mostly plate glass along the front, set back on the lot and raised up a few steps from grade. I cast an eye over the merchandise and climbed through the glass double doors, having in mind one of the newer jobs with a full-size trunk, a Dodge Custom coupe that appeared to fit the bill. I took a few minutes to check its road worthiness. The clerk signed me up for a week's rental and I went away from there.

The Seminole Lodge was conveniently located two blocks over, but I kept motoring in the direction of the downtown area and killed the early part of the afternoon there. I checked into my room before dinnertime and inquired at the desk for a nearby chophouse. The clerk squeaked out some directions and I wandered over a couple of blocks and dined at the Beef 'n' Bone on 8th Street where I gobbled down a Porterhouse, chasing it with a Caesar salad and a fat slice of Key lime pie. Feeling substantially better, I walked back to the hotel, fetched the heap out of the garage, and pointed it toward Ybor City.

Once there I cruised up 21st Street, turned left on Palm, and made a quick pass by the address Veronica had supplied. It was an older two-story structure, covered in aging white clapboard, with a sign over the double doors inscribing something about International and Ladies and Garment Workers. The long-winded moniker conjured up a distinctly unpleasant image of a garlic-chewing, slack-jawed old fishwife with one eye on a missed stitch and the other on the clock.

Tossing that image from my mind I continued on to the plaza and nosed into a parking slot. It was still early so I took a late afternoon stroll through the plaza and along some of the side streets. I spent an hour touring the old Fuera Cigar Factory, still going strong on the second swing shift.

The sun was getting low in the sky when I decided to take a closer look at the address. I pulled up 20th Street and took the alley that passed behind the building. If I had the right place there was a single exit door out the back, but no windows. The building was set a short distance in from the alley to leave some space for the trashcans. Veronica'd told me that her crew tossed the trash on a regular basis so I kept on riding and got out of there.

A couple of blocks west appeared an establishment called the Tropicana. Thirsty, I pulled into the curb and dropped in for a snort. The frosty rum concoctions the barkeep was working on looked mildly tempting, but I stayed with the tried and true: bourbon whiskey on ice. I put down a couple of those and ordered a plate of fried bananas to get me through the rest of the evening. Back at the hotel I made a few calls west and turned in early.

The chamber girl had made her third appearance the next morning before I coaxed myself out of the sack. Then, not thinking of anything better to do, I drove on down to Larson Fish Camp off the Yacht Basin in Old Tampa Bay. There I rented some fishing gear and a rowboat, and spent the next few hours wandering about the shoreline off of Ballast Point. By noon all I was catching was a sunburn, so I packed it in an hour later and headed downtown for some chow. The Cattlemen's Club offered a thick-cut prime rib, and I lingered over a second dinner salad and dessert while the afternoon played out.

Back in Ybor City that evening I parked down the street from the union hall and meandered up the sidewalk until I found a bookstore nearly opposite that was open late. Wandering in I browsed around for a while and eventually picked up a thick tome on Florida bay fishing. Book in hand, I staked out a spot at the end of the counter in front of the window. It wasn't too long before the proprietor was casting me the eyeball and acting a little testy. I slapped a fin down on the counter and kept reading.

Shortly after sundown the double doors opened and the first of the evening's participants arrived. A little later a long, low, black Caddy sedan pulled up in front and dropped the tall grey-haired specimen at the door. I got a gander of the driver as he pulled away. He was a rat-faced mug with unkempt black greasy hair. He looked a little nervous as he glanced in the rear-view and hunched over the wheel.

I plopped down another buck and some coin for the book and walked out. A bright neon sign at the end of the block advertised liquor so I padded over there and grabbed a pint of Indian Hill. I had no idea how long this meet was going to take and I'd missed an opportunity to pin a tail on the slick weasel. Back to the U-rent car I cruised the block a few times until some elderly matron freed up a spot opposite the bookstore. I read until it was to dark to see, then tossed down a few gulps while keeping an eye on the rear-view for the Caddy.

* * *

The meet didn't break up until after eleven. The old gent was the first one out, and the Caddy showed out of nowhere to scoop him up. I tailed them all the way through Tampa, around the Bay and across St. Petersburg. I was starting to hope they weren't heading for Sarasota or points beyond as I'd already used up better than half a tank of gas. But they soon turned west on Pasadena Avenue and wheeled toward South Pas and the Gulf.

The traffic had thinned out by the time we came up on the Corey Causeway connecting Long Key to the peninsula. I dropped back a little and turned into the parking lot of the roadhouse on the island side of the bridge, waiting half a minute before crossing the lot and heading southbound on Gulf Boulevard.

The Caddy's tail lights veered left in the distance, and a short time later I followed them onto Passe-a-Grille Way, the bayside thoroughfare that paralleled Gulf Boulevard along the lower length of the barrier island. To the west the fabled Don Cesar on the gulf shore was lit up in pink with construction lights. Just that morning I'd read a feature in the local fish wrap describing how it was being converted back to a luxury hotel from its recent service as a veteran's hospital.

The driver was just closing the garage door on the Caddy when I cruised by at a brisk clip. I took a long look at the residence and continued on a short distance to the end of the island. There was a little hole-in-the-wall down there that looked open for business, so I swung the flivver around and parked against the seawall. A sign painted over the open door read: The Pelican's Roost. It shared a small clapboard building with a tiny shop called Land's End Bait and Tackle.

Looking out over the bay, the water maintained a polished obsidian surface in the calm night. Mirror perfect, its surface reflected lights from the residences lining the peninsula shore. I stood on the seawall for a moment gazing out over the tranquil scene. This was a pretty peaceful place, between hurricanes. Spring had already sprung in this corner of the world and the sidewalk in front of the bar was littered with purple jacaranda blossoms. A white cactus flower the size of a dinner plate stared at me from an impossibly scrawny spiked branch poking out of an earthen pot.

Entering the Roost I paused for a moment to take in the ambience and the clientele. The barkeep was occupied with some locals up at the far end. I staked out a seat at the end of the bar near the door. After a minute he sauntered on over and took my order. He returned with a bourbon on the rocks and set it down along with a tall glass of ice water. Pausing a moment, he pulled a rag from his back pocket and started wiping down the bar beside me. I decided to try him out.

"I've been over to St. Pete all day and thought I'd just head out to Treasure Island and catch the sunset from the beach."

"Yup," he said. "It's the same every night. Spectacular. Especially after a good thunder boomer's moved through."

"It is that. And down here this beach looks like snow in the moonlight. It seemed like a swell night to check out the coast route. There sure are a lot of fine houses along this street."

"Yeah, most of the big homes down this end were built by old ship captains, robber barons, and whatever. They were built to last and they've lasted through plenty here. Back in the '35 hurricane this whole island was underwater. Read where St. Pete had the lowest barometric pressure ever recorded in the Western Hemisphere. Most everything washed away. But not those big houses. They'll be there 'til the Second Coming."

"I noticed a tall distinguished-looking gent standing outside a few blocks up. Maybe he's one of the old sea captains."

"If it's who I'm thinking of, he's got the big red brick place with the wrap-around porch and the uneven gables up top."

"Yeah, that's the place. It's a real eye catcher."

"I don't think that bird's one of the old boys. He's a strange one, a newcomer, been here less than a year. No one seems to know what his story is. And far as I know he's got no one else up there except for a manservant and a chauffer. The old man don't seem to mix, but the chauffer dropped by here a couple of times. He didn't give the ladies no notice, but he seemed to have his eye on a couple of the fellows. That didn't sit too well. We gave him the cold shoulder and he ain't been back. "

Interesting. I jawboned with the young fellow for a few more moments before he wandered down the bar to check on his regulars. A couple of drinks later I paid up and got out of there. I drifted slowly up the street and gave the old place a good once over, barely catching sight of the street number in shadow beside the front door. The house was as dark as a tomb and looked abandoned. I wondered if they still had the blackout curtains up that had been so popular in coastal communities during the war.

Up to the north end of the island I found a snazzy looking motor court called The Gulf Breeze. It was still fairly early and the desk clerk looked like an alert type so I asked him for directions to the county building over in St. Pete. He got me what I wanted. I found my room and cracked the outside door to let in the breeze. The gentle surf sounds lulled me straight to sleep.

* * *

The floor-to-ceiling drapes I'd left wide open so as to awake at dawn. The beach beckoned and I took a leisurely walk, then recalled the Penguin Diner down the boulevard near the causeway and breakfasted there.

A short time later I found the county building in downtown St. Pete where it was supposed to be. The county was just opening for business when I cruised on by so I stashed the rental in a garage down the next block. As I had hoped, there was a stationary store on my route back to the building. I wandered in looking for a cheap clipboard and a pad of paper.

The gal at the cash looked like she'd had a rough night, but she was cheerful nonetheless. She steered me toward a shelf that featured an assortment of shallow aluminum boxes, each with a clip on the outside. She showed me how one used the surface of the contraption for a clipboard while keeping ones product clean and dry inside. She pointed out the dual set of pen holders and the neat pocket, attached to the inside of the lid, designed expressly to hold a batch of my professional calling cards. I was wondering if the thing had been manufactured from war bird scrap.

Overall, she gave a good pitch about the enormous practicality of all this over a simple dime-store clipboard. I had to admire her capabilities for the job and was grateful I wasn't in the market that day for an automobile. What the hell, it was Moe's money anyway.

Her smile brightened considerably when I reached for my wallet and pulled out the long green. She rang up my change, all the while telling me what a wise choice I had made. In parting, she wished me much success over the many years I would now share with my new tool of the trade.

That girl put to shame every used car huckster I'd ever met.

With my new shiny item in hand I beat it on over to the county building. Passing through the heavy brass doors, I looked left, then right, but the Assessor's Office was directly in front of me down to the end of the hall.

The counter clerk was waiting for me when I got down there. He was an older specimen, medium-height, balding and pudgy. Decked out in what could pass for collegiate attire he had the vague jaunty air of a professor. I gave him the address of the old ship captain's abode and told him I was looking for some property and ownership information.

He left me dangling for a few minutes while he went and fetched a long leather-bound volume. From the index he located the proper map page and we agreed on which was the property in question. Then he snatched a smaller book from under the counter and looked up the parcel number indicated on the map.

There was a single page in the thick tome that corresponded to all that was known to the county about the dwelling on Passe-a-Grille Way. The old boy turned the book around and stabbed at an entry with a cigarette-yellowed forefinger. The owner of record was listed as the American People's Fund.

Now that was interesting. The name sounded nice and innocent, like any other false-flag organization for some or another group of traitor moles fronting for the international communist conspiracy.

I asked if I might find out the name of the individual who signed the latest property tax payment. The clerk looked a little uncomfortable as he told me that those records were not public. I pulled out my billfold and snapped out a whole half a sawbuck, folded it twice, shoved it in my fist, and slid it across the counter to the other side. His hand moved up to meet mine and the bill disappeared.

He scribbled a note to himself and moved off into a back room. I hadn't failed to notice the shapely young redhead sitting in a secretarial nook at the far corner of the room. When she met my eye, I motioned her on over and asked if she might be kind enough to provide me a mimeographed copy of the book entry that interested me. She looked over what she could see of me, snapped her gum, and told me that there was nothing at that particular moment she'd rather do.

While she was off using the mimeograph machine, I scoped the counter and spotted a display of business cards for the office staff. I ankled over there and picked out the card of one Horace Wiedemeyer, Inspector, Assessments Branch. I pocketed a short fistful of them just as the redhead came back into view.

She slapped the mimeographed page down on the counter and asked if there was anything else she could help me with. Not wanting to let her off too easily I asked her for directions to the Recorder's Office. She batted her lashes and told me with a straight face that I could find it where it's always been, one floor up. Now was there anything else? I asked her if she knew of a quality lunch spot that served up some good old-fashioned down-home cooking we'd both find enjoyable.

But this fish wasn't biting either. She padded on back to her desk with a coy backwards glance and a 'try-again-big-boy' bounce to her hips.

Carrying just that thought, right up until she found her desk and the scenery reverted to boredom, I grabbed the sheet from the counter and carefully inserted it into my shiny new aluminum box. The frail and I made eyes at each other for the next few minutes until the old clerk returned from the back. He fished a torn piece of paper from his pants pocket and slid it across the counter under his fingers. I palmed it and thanked him for his time. Tipping my hat to Red I headed on out to the lobby.

There was no staircase nearby but I'd spied a pair of elevators in the hall. I stepped up and mashed the button. The door to my right opened instantly but no attendant appeared. I poked my head in there and saw it was one of those new self-service types. I decided to go look for the stairs.

Up on the second floor, I joined a short queue at the counter of the Recorder's Office. The assessor's information gave me something to look at while I cooled my heels in line. I pulled out the slip of paper I'd bought from the downstairs clerk and found it gave the name of the check's signatory, the amount and the date last fall when it was drawn.

It was the same name the barkeep had given me the night before: Thornton Cain. A quick study of the mimeograph showed that the main improvements on the island half-acre were a two-story dwelling and a garage. The house was listed with five bedrooms, three baths, an attic, and a partial basement, the latter somewhat unusual for a barrier island, I thought. The three-car garage featured a one-room, one-bath apartment on a second floor.

There were already two clerks at the counter helping the people that had been standing in front of me. A young one at her desk glanced up and caught my eye. She looked back to her desk top briefly, but soon got up and ambled on over.

Parking her cleavage on the counter, she gave me the once over and asked, "Can I help you, Sir?"

'Undoubtedly,' I thought to myself as I handed her the slip.

"Good morning Ma'am. I'm looking for some information on the last few times this property changed hands."

She led me around behind the counter and into a room filled with musty old leather-bound volumes. She showed me how to find the deed numbers and work from book to book in order to follow the string of transactions.

According to the latest deed, the current owner had acquired the property in February 1940 from the American League for Peace & Democracy. That name rang a bell. I believe my secretary Yuki had told me it was one of the original front organizations that, like so many others, had gone to ground shortly after Operation Barbarossa put an end to the Hitler-Stalin Pact. This particular front had purchased the house from a family estate in 1936.

I walked away from there thinking that this Passe-a-Grille spread was pretty much the perfect layout for a safe house. The location was well out of the way. The record trail was a bit transparent, but maybe these birds just weren't all that bright. Maybe some heavy-handed foreigners lacking the subtleties of finer subversion had set it all up.

* * *

It was about half past the lunch hour when I parked down the street from the big brick house. I slipped two of the pilfered business cards in my front pocket, slid a couple more into the slot in the aluminum widget, and stashed the remainder in the glove box. I assembled the rest of my assessor-come-a-calling kit and ankled on up to the front door.

Having rapped twice I was beginning to wonder if anybody was going to answer when the door suddenly snapped open a crack. I stared at an older oriental face that was peering back at me. I informed him I was in the neighborhood updating the municipal tax assessment and presented my card. He gave it a quick glance of incomprehension. I told him I wished to speak to the owner or, in his absence, the owner's representative. He was handing the card back when I gestured for him to take it with him. The door closed smartly in my face and his footsteps padded faintly away.

Several minutes later he reappeared and ushered me into the foyer. The ground floor was spacious and had high ceilings supported with giant timbers. The massive walls of the hall and adjacent great room were luxuriously paneled in a polished dark wood.

In a subdued voice the little man introduced me to a Mr. Nicola, Frank Nicola, the driver I'd seen the evening before. The new fellow was not tall, but he had the taut body of a skinny guy that worked out. He instructed me to call him Frank and offered me a limp, perspiring paw. I shook what there was of it and the experience left me feeling queasy. I was pretty sure this was the nance that the barkeep had spoken of the night before. Frankie inquired again as to the nature of my business.

"Pinellas County is in the process of updating the property assessments in the better neighborhoods. We're looking for additions, interior upgrades, and improvements of that sort."

He looked puzzled.

"The city fathers apparently aren't getting quite the amount of tax revenue they feel they're entitled to," I continued, "so they sent us inspectors out to shake down the gentry. A brief tour of the domicile shouldn't take but a few minutes, if I might impose on your time. Are you the owner?"

The swish was just opening his mouth to speak when a deep voice boomed at me from behind and slightly above. "I'm the owner."

I swung around and there was the old party with a look on his pan like a bird of prey pondering an especially troublesome rodent meal. I backed off a step to where I could see them both and said, "Good afternoon, Sir. As you may have heard, it's time to update the municipal assessment. I'm Horace Wiedemeyer, Inspections Branch of the Pinellas County Assessor's office. "

His eyes returned to the card in his hand. This type in no way looked to be light in the loafers, although he could pass for a jaded libertine that wasn't above beating up on and domineering acquiescent fairy boys. He studied the card intently for another moment and jammed it into a pocket before squeezing out what he probably considered would pass for a polite smile.

"Arthur Lind," he lied. "Mr. Nicola here will be most pleased to escort you about."

I told the fruit I'd like to start with the garage. He minced on out the door in front of me, not making an especially big production of it but disgusting me nonetheless.

Up to the end of the driveway he swung open the carriage doors and I found myself looking at the late-model Cadillac brougham from the evening before. Next to it was an old Lagonda coupe, in a subdued gun-metal blue color, which looked to be in pristine condition. It made me wonder who the old party was thieving from to afford a collection like this. I scribbled down a few notes of some pretended import and backed on out the door.

Frankie took me around to a side case of stairs that led half way up to a landing and around the back to a rear door. From there we proceeded into one large room. I had the suspicion it might be his as it looked like something a tacky dame had put together. It also reeked of some vile pansy aftershave.

My eyes were pasted to the ceiling as I walked around the room pretending to inspect the interior construction materials. In peripheral vision I could see that there was a large bed centered on the far wall between two dormer windows overlooking the street. Under each dormer window was a night stand topped with two electric candles. A walk-in closet took up the whole north wall. A narrow bathroom was built into the south wall. There were no cooking facilities and no other amenities. A record changer sat on a table in the corner.

The whole set-up fairly screamed 'love nest,' but if the room had secrets to tell it wasn't whispering any to me today. I fiddled with my new aluminum box for a few seconds, slammed the lid, and rolled on out the door. The skunk locked up behind me and escorted me down the stairs. I led him on a walk around the building, scribbled some more notes, and we went across to the back door of the house.

Frankie asked me to wait in the kitchen for a minute. He needed to attend to some small matter and would have the houseman come along in a moment to take me through the place. As he disappeared out a swinging door I began wandering about the kitchen and eventually stuck my nose in the pantry.

The houseman slipped in a moment later. He sidled up to me and spoke in a hoarse whisper, "Emilio at your service, Sir."

I offered him my paw and was surprised at the firmness of the little man's grip. There was a glint in his eye that spoke more of the warrior than the manservant. I surmised he might be a Filipino veteran of the last war.

"I'm from the Pinellas County Assessor," I told him. " Thank you for taking the time to show me around." I followed him through the central hallway and up a wide half spiral of steps.

Up on the second floor I got a good look at four of the five bedrooms. The master bedroom quite evidently belonged to the old gent. It occupied most of the front half of the upper level. It featured a four poster bed, a pair of dressers along one wall, and a giant armoire, all constructed of dark, well-polished wood, expensive in appearance. The room had a decidedly masculine and aristocratic air, and I could picture an old sea captain at his writing table in front of the window.

There was a connecting door to a bathroom that also connected to a somewhat smaller bedroom at the front of the place. This room was sparsely furnished, but also appeared to be occupied as there were two open armoires full of clothes.

The two bedrooms he showed me at the rear of the house were nearly identical and looked like they were set up for guests. Back in the hall Emilio asked me to wait, stuck his head in a closet, and came out with a stout stick fitted with a large steel hook.

He had the semblance of a grin on his face as he raised the thing up and approached me with it. I was just opening my mouth to squawk when he jabbed it toward the ceiling and deftly hooked onto a recessed eyebolt. The outlines of a folding staircase were barely visible until he yanked on the stick and pulled the thing down.

He unfolded the stairs and backed away gesturing me to do what I would. I didn't like the look that he was having difficulty concealing so I climbed half way up the affair, stuck my head in, looked around, and got back down.

"Nothing new up there," I chirped.

He bowed slightly and put the staircase back together. The Filipino took me back down the stairs and showed me some rooms that led off from the main hall. The spacious great room was at the front, on the north side of the house, and a large dining room was behind it. A smaller sitting room was located at the front on the south side, and behind it a large combination library and study. This room interested me the most. I wandered through to take a good look at the window.

When I turned, the Filipino had disappeared, and old man Cain was standing in the doorway.

"Have you been able to get all the information you require?"

He had a slightly bemused look on his face, whereas before he had been downright sour. I wasn't sure I liked this one any better.

"Oh yes," I replied. "I was just wondering about the shelving system in here. It is quite elaborate and there was no mention of it in the previous assessment. I was wondering if it was new."

He laughed and said, "No. It's been here longer than I have. It's actually a fairly old design."

I covered up with, "I've yet to see one like it."

He smiled again and gestured me to the door. I took note of the large filing cabinet recessed in the wall behind the desk. I surmised that the dark, humorless portrait painting on the wall beside it might conceal a safe. The double-framed window had looked like a tough nut to crack.

Cain ushered me out and led me down the hall. Abruptly he came to a stop and turned, saying "You'll be wanting to see the basement as well, will you not?"

I pondered that a second and, feeling it better to keep up the charade, looked down at the clipboard and said, "That's right. There is a basement here."

He gestured to a low heavy door behind me. As I turned to grab the knob, a sharp voice behind me barked: "Wiedemeyer!"

I hadn't turned to respond before I heard a faint squeak and felt a rush of air. The billy caught me on the skull just as I'd set my feet to jump. My vision blurred, but I noticed that Nicola had returned and was standing at Cain's shoulder. I staggered forward a step, picturing that tough little Filipino with a baseball bat in both hands. The billy lashed out again and I went down like a punch-drunk welterweight with a glass jaw.

The last thing I saw was my rental car contract clutched in the driver's grip. Darkness swallowed me whole.

* * *

I awoke to find myself bouncing off the floor boards. It wasn't the first time. A flash of panic came over me, but a wild glance showed me no evidence of enemy troops. No nurses either. Just a blinding white pain. I must be all right. I made a rapid effort to collect my wits, but just as quickly handed them right back.

Some time later I stirred again, and the pain this time seemed at least bearable. I raised my head and rolled over to lay its good side on my arm. When my breathing slowed I opened my eyes again and took a look around. I was in a small ramshackle room, lying on a rough plank floor beside a cheap metal cot, trussed up like a dinner turkey. And it looked like I was going to have more than enough time to try and figure out how I had got here.

# June 1947

To face it square on, the fledgling enterprise known as Raymond James—Private Investigations hadn't had any real need for a secretary and probably still didn't. Since I'd first hung out my shingle a year ago or thereabouts the phone hadn't hardly stopped not ringing. For that reason I got out and about most of the time. Truth be told, I seldom got farther than the Blue Saloon at the end of the block. The young investigatory enterprise was facing some serious questions as to whether it would remain a viable concern.

The Highland Building came with some semblance of an answering service, a tall, somewhat disheveled, horsy-looking girl behind a small PBX tucked away in the back corner of the lobby behind the elevators. She was supposedly taking my messages, but I hadn't heard from her in a coon's age.

Earlier this year, she'd passed on a few messages from some desperate mutts looking for a divorce op, and I had dutifully called each of them back to wish them luck. I did catch one interesting call toward the end of February, interesting enough that I was still living off the rapidly dwindling proceeds.

The call had been from Max Gold, head honcho over at Millennium. Seems he'd had some rather delicate merchandize separated from him. John Law was out of the question. He was so embarrassed he would settle for no less than the biggest unknown in town. It turned out to be more of a salvage operation than a case, but I suspect that's how Moe got to hear of me.

That's Moe Silverstein over at Magnum Studios, my present client. I doubt that Moe had heard much of the story, but it was pleasing that Max had read me well enough to trust I wasn't going to turn around and blackmail him.

* * *

Since separating from the Marine Corps in December of last year I had been staying at the YMCA downtown. It was only in March that I took a pair of rooms at the Kensington Arms, a development of four small but well-kept studio bungalows located mid-block on the north side of La Presa Drive in the Hollywood Hills.

Mine fronted on the street, east of the central walk. From the living room it commanded an equally good view of the street out front and the lights of the city below. An elderly couple occupied the bungalow across the walk, but they kept out of sight most of the time and I had not yet met them. The landlady kept the bungalow behind theirs. She'd once told me the old party was a retired Federal Marshal from Chicago and his wife a former gun moll that he'd straightened out.

This day I'd decided to leave my roost early and spend some time at the office. Nothing had come up by early afternoon and I was developing a thirst. I'd just picked up my hat to leave for the day when the outer door opened and she walked in. She paused inside the doorway and regarded the room with a mildly disapproving look.

From just within the inner door, I barked "Can I help you, m'am?" She jumped about a half of foot in the air and quickly regained her composure.

Grinning, she said, "Well I was hoping it would be the other way around. It looks like you could use a secretary around here."

I snorted out a weak chuckle and said, "I suppose it does."

She looked like a teenager. She also looked like a hundred other diminutive Japanese beauties I'd seen the last couple of years working shore patrol in western Kyushu.

When I'd re-upped with the Navy in Okinawa, they'd sent me to a small maritime port called Sasebo, not too far from the ruins of Nagasaki. As part of the occupation, our job was to assist with the repatriation of Japanese refugees from China passing through the Hario return center. Located in the Saikai Straights near the hamlet of Hario, the installation was in sight of the three massive concrete transmission towers that had launched the coded command for the attack on Pearl Harbor almost seven years prior.

It was at the return center that I met Miss Sachiko Hashima. She showed up daily to peruse the afternoon arrivals, always leaving disappointed at afternoon's end. During my second week of duty we'd struck up a conversation and she'd accepted an invitation to dinner. A headstrong girl, she'd insisted on taking me to a bento box named _Tsubuki_ , located north of the straights in a little junction called Haiki. It soon turned into an evening ritual with us, and I lived for a few weeks on a limited menu of _yaki-tori_ , _yaki-soba_ , and assorted sea critters.

The girl told me she'd spent a couple years at Pasadena College before the war. Her English was nearly flawless, but very nicely accented. She said she'd stayed with some relatives living in East LA. From then on she'd show up mid-day to look over the returnees and wait for me to get off duty.

She told me she lived in Yamate-cho, a small section of town in the hills overlooking Sasebo Harbor. Her parents had disappeared somewhere in the Pacific. She was down to Hario looking for her aunt and uncle, and the rest of their family that had been living in Manchuria, lately Manchukuo, since 1936.

One day she'd brought me her "pillow book," a less-than-subtly illustrated accessory of the single female that I had heard rumors about from some of the men. I took the hint and moved out of the barracks, renting a room in a small _ryokan_ on the road to Hario. In the course of one of our nocturnal conversations she brought up the subject or her cousin, Miss Tomoe Suzuki, young daughter of the relatives she'd stayed with in East LA.

Several months later in the spring of 1946 Sachiko was rewarded one morning with the sight of her folk's family debarking from an old ferry boat at the return center. Her eyes were shimmering with tears of relief as she glanced up at me while passing to the exits.

It was a whole other week before I saw her again. She came down to tell me that she'd moved up to their hometown of Arita to live with the family, and would not be back in Hario again.

* * *

I ushered the young lady into my office and gestured to the chair in front of the desk.

"I've been getting along well enough on my own," I lied, "but do tell me about yourself."

She said, "My name is Miss Suzuki. My cousin, Miss Hashima, wrote me a letter and suggested that if I ran into you around town you would likely need some help. I just finished secretarial school this month."

I stared at her for a long minute with some amusement. Finally I said, "Tomoe Suzuki, the son your father never had."

Her eyes bugged out and her face did all kinds of strange things. She flushed beet red and looked down in her lap, laughing softly.

"So... It was like that with you and Sachiko."

"She didn't tell you?"

"No, she still thinks I'm some kind of baby girl, the bobby soxer she knew when she was out here for school."

Sachiko had told me all about her American cousin. It seems the venerable Mr. Suzuki, a new immigrant to the States, had failed in his attempts to produce a son to bless with the name of his revered grandfather, Tomoyuki. So when his only daughter came, he named her Tomoe and from the age of five he had taken to secretly calling her Yuki, a name which just they shared. Yuki had always been annoyed at the difficulty her classmates experienced pronouncing her proper name and she quickly found that the catchy nickname gained her popularity and fame in middle school.

"So, Miss Suzuki, how is Sachiko doing these days?"

"She is staying at the home of my aunt and uncle in Arita. She hasn't told me but I have heard rumors that she is dating an Army man with the occupation. She has written me many times about James-san, saying she was grateful for the help you gave her in finding her family."

I chuckled at that one and let it drift by.

"Miss Suzuki, I haven't totally gone through my earnings from the last case. I'd be pleased to take you on for as long as the money lasts. What would you have in mind?"

"Well you won't be needing all that empty space in the reception room."

"It's all yours." I reached into the side drawer and pulled out my spare key. "Your key to the suite. Please make yourself at home."

Yuki placed a few phone calls and had her office set up by mid-afternoon. I kept one cabinet of confidential files in my office, and moved the other two out beside her desk in the reception room. She had her desk placed off-center near the middle of the room on the side where the guest phone was attached to the wall.

From her desk she commanded a view of the hall door, while maintaining a defensive position in front of the connecting door to my office. The couch and chairs were moved to the opposite wall. By mid-afternoon my new secretary was all settled in. And I was wondering what could possibly happen next.

* * *

In fact it all started the following afternoon. Outside the window, the June gloom had settled in all the way up to the Hollywood Hills and the basin below was still socked in with fog.

Yuki was sitting at her desk working her fingernails with an emery board when Sally from Magnum Studios dropped by to see if I still had my shingle hung out. She told me that Mr. Silverstein would like to have me drop by about some problem one of his stars was having. It seems that Magnum's recent film sensation, Vivian Lane, had been approached by some local Reds and she wanted them off her back.

I told her I'd look Moe up first thing in the morning.

* * *

I showed up at the Magnum lot bright and early the next morning, hoping there was enough of a job in this to justify taking on a secretary. Sally ushered me right in to see Moe and he laid it out pretty much as Sally had described. He handed me a short stack of some of the initial correspondence Miss Lane had received, along with a second stack of unopened mail.

Moe Silverstein had a reputation for being the last of the good guys in Hollywood. Certainly he was the last of the original moguls. He lived for the art of the film and the people involved in the production. He tended to look at them all as equal participants: the writers, the editors, the director and everyone else in front of or behind the cameras. He didn't play favorites and he had high expectations for everyone involved.

Moe believed that Magnum's fortunes were tied to the reputations of the participants and he brooked no foolishness. Magnum was famous for having continued with the tradition of the great epics and was currently the lead Hollywood producer of family fare. The studio had largely avoided scandal because Magnum's contracts contained some of the tightest morals clauses in the business. Moe would back his people up 110 percent on anything related to the product, but at the first hint of scandal he'd invoke the clauses and toss the miscreant out on his ear. He had enough clout with the news hawks to make sure that anything that developed later wouldn't be associated with an ex-Magnum property.

Moe was also a rock-ribbed patriot. Unlike many of his tribe, he was deeply appreciative of the freedom and protection that had been afforded him in living and working in America.

The morals clauses covered several variants of deviancy and any like activity that could give Magnum a black eye to the movie-going public. Moe generally had been enforcing his rules with the help of the Pinkertons. However, he'd pretty much pulled me in as the unofficial house dick after Max Gold had given me the favorable mention.

Mostly I was called me in when Moe got wind of a situation he couldn't handle with a simple trip to the woodshed. He'd have me run it down and head it off before it developed into something ugly. In which case nobody was usually the wiser of it and I walked off with a few C-notes for my landlords to share.

Typically, he would have Sally stop by with his instructions, and I'd post her a bill on completion. If he'd sent her to my office to arrange a meeting with me in person, he must have had something pretty serious on his mind. This particular request came as somewhat of a surprise as the subversive angle was something new for me.

Moe had always been careful about who he hired. He must have had a pretty good idea who most of the Party members and fellow travelers were in the business. I remember him telling me once he disliked Reds for a couple of reasons, one being that they offended his political sensibilities but the primary reason being that he didn't trust them as people.

He'd said that from a business standpoint they were too caught up in their little gripes and fantasies to be productive in the workplace. And they were enthralled by the idea of white-collar unions, which Moe detested. Their fanatical personalities made them unyielding, intolerant and shrill.

I remembered him telling me, "These are the kind of people that become concentration camp guards. I don't want them around my studio. If I catch anyone here on the lot proselytizing my people about subversion, they're out on their can. As far as I'm concerned they're pimps for immoral purposes, only they're peddling bad ideas instead of jaded sex."

I remember asking him one time how the lavender set fit into the morals clauses. He said, "Like most anyone else, I got no beef with them if they got enough sense to hide it. If they hide it from me and most everyone else, they're fine. Otherwise, they're out before they can cause any public damage. Like adultery, playing with minors, and whatever other deviancy, it's hard work to keep stuff like that under wraps."

So Magnum was generally immune to unfavorable appearances in the scandal sheets. The racier properties made homes elsewhere and, in fact, some of the studios thrived on the titillating publicity.

* * *

We jawboned for a few minutes more before Moe heaved his bulk back from the desk and offered a parting handshake. I scrambled out of there and made the office before noon.

Yuki was still in so I escorted her to lunch downtown at one of her favored eateries. With no pressing business back at the shop, we lingered there for a couple of extra hours and got to know each other a little better.

Then I filled her in on the new assignment, such as it was.

Yuki said, "Ray, I know someone that can help us get a quick lead on this one."

"And who do you know that maybe knows Reds?"

"Monica, maybe. For sure that friend of hers I used to know back in high school."

Yuki had told me the previous day about her best friend Monica Reyes. The two had grown up next door to each other in the old neighborhood. Monica and her brother Jaime had helped the Suzuki family by caretaking their residence and Mr. Suzuki's nursery business during the time the family was interned in the Manzanar camp. Yuki was eternally grateful for the favor. It had helped to alleviate for her family the painful readjustment that most of the returned detainees had faced upon their release in late 1944.

Jaime was the older brother. I'd been told he'd kept a watchful eye over the girls throughout their high school career. Yuki, Monica, and friends had attended the all-girls Catholic high school in Brooklyn Heights, and Yuki had just made her high school graduation before being bundled off to Manzanar.

She told me that Jaime had enjoyed the rough and tumble of the local public school, but he'd successfully avoided the neighborhood gangs and the Zoot suit craze of a few years back. He was a big help to his mother and many of the neighbors, and was generally well loved and respected by all.

Now Yuki was filling me in on some more of the story. She told me that Monica's dad, Pablo, had been murdered back before the war in some kind of union fracas. He'd been killed along with the father of a younger local girl named Lupe Fontanez. Although well known to the Reyes family, Lupe had been but a vague acquaintance of Yuki's in high school. Between the age difference and the war separation they hadn't ever run around in the same circles since.

These days Monica was content to help out with the family's grocery and take in every new film that she could fit into her busy social schedule. Lupe, on the other hand, had studied hard and gravitated into a librarian's position. It seems she had taken her father's death pretty hard, and it was generally known that she was single minded in her determination to track down and expose her father's killers.

Lupe had worked her way up to the reference desk at the Central Branch downtown, and she apparently spent most of her free time on what approximated a domestic version of military counterintelligence.

"Monica told me that Lupe is a red-diaper baby: raised in a CPUSA household, her father a dockworker and her mom a public school teacher. She believes her father was killed for wanting to leave the Party. She suspects that Gus Shafter and his harbor gang did it. She thinks they were aware Carlos - that's her dad - was going to talk. She said Gus is more than just a big wig in his union, he's high up in the CPUSA and heads some loyalty committee on the regional level.

"How about I spend a little time with her over at the library and see what turns up?"

Yuki's interest was welcome and I was grateful for her ideas. I could count the hours I'd spent in a library on one hand, and this looked to be a job where some background would be helpful.

* * *

Yuki didn't show up the next day, having told me I could find her at the library downtown. I'd developed a few ideas of my own from some vague squawk I'd heard in the past about Hollywood's flirtations in the '30s with Stalin's bloody crew. Old Country Joe, as he was affectionately known to his admirers, had lost a bit of his luster over the signing of the Nazi-Soviet Nonaggression Pact, and commie chic had taken a quick fade.

Nevertheless, the die-hards had worked tirelessly, if behind the scenes, on the dictator's behalf to keep the US out of the European war. But all that had changed when the single-nutted Little Corporal made his most insane and ultimately fatal error, opening a second front against the Russian bear by launching Operation Barbarossa late in the summer of 1941.

Then the Hollywood twits had re-emerged from hiding to host their rallies and benefits in support of the besieged Reds and their bloody butcher.

I rang up Esther, Max Gold's executive assistant over at Millenium. She was a tad cool over the telephone, no doubt in her realization we shared intimate knowledge of the same distasteful secrets Max had had to confide in order to brief me for that February job.

Well, all that had been over for me for a long time now, and I wasn't too surprised to have heard little since from that direction. I asked her how I could get in touch with Bert Gantry. He was a regular screenwriter for Millenium that was known around town as a decorated veteran and a straight joe. She read off a telephone number and I held her on the line as I jotted it down.

Esther remained silent, and I was expecting the disconnect when a barely audible sigh came over the wire. "Mr. James. I've been meaning to thank you for taking care of Max this winter. It was a big load off his mind and he has really been getting back into the projects around here in a positive way. Everyone on the lot is happier now, although I doubt anyone else here knows it's to your credit. Call me again if we can return the favor. Take good care now, Mr. James."

Replacing the hand set, I palmed my lower jaw back to where it belonged. Well, what a surprise: the old battleaxe had some heart after all. I opened the bottom drawer and poured myself a couple of fingers from the office bottle, leaned back, and enjoyed the heat in my gullet as I pondered that one some more.

Finally, upending the glass, I snapped back to attention and dialed the new number on my blotter. A perky feminine voice answered off the first ring and patched me right through to Mr. Gantry.

"Bert Gantry? This is Raymond James over at James Private Investigations."

"That's real nice. What can I do you for?" the cynical voice growled.

"I've been doing some research for the studios lately, and your name came up as someone who might be of possible assistance."

"And just exactly how might that be?"

"Well I don't know at this moment, but it's not a subject I'd like to bandy about over an unsecure commo line. Can I get you lunch?"

"You say you've been working with the studios. Anyone around here?"

"Yeah, Esther has a line on some of it."

"Then let met get back to you and we'll see which way's up."

I gave him my number and he rang off. The pigeons roosting outside my window held my attention for a little while. Then I put my feet up, unfolded the morning edition and stared at it for a few minutes more.

The set jangled at the edge of the desk and I picked up and held silent.

"James?"

"Speaking."

"This is Bert. Esther says you're OK." He chuckled over some private thought. "Is the Coconut Grove too rich for your blood? I'll meet you in the lobby of the Ambassador at 11:30. Look for the crew cut and Aloha shirt."

I glanced at my wrist piece and found it was already pushing eleven, grabbed my hat and got downstairs. Figuring to hop the Red Car downtown I remembered belatedly that my line had been the latest to be dismantled just this spring. Now what was the sense in that?

I crossed over to the new bus stop and sweated a good ten minutes before one of the shiny new conveyances rolled up to the stop in a sooty cloud of exhaust. The smell triggered an instant memory of the damned landing craft we'd floated in on too many times, and the adrenaline started coursing through my blood stream.

Great.

I stepped up and took the first available seat, sharing a bench with a blue-haired old doll that had evidently spent the better part of the morning shopping up this way. Downtown, I transferred to the Wilshire line and made it out to the Ambassador with a few minutes to spare. I chose a long, low overstuffed davenport near the elevator banks and sat down to consider just what it was that I wanted from Bert.

The flashy crew cut sauntered through the lobby doors and stopped, casting a glance left, then right, before zeroing in on me. I tossed him a nod and rose as he ankled leisurely across the lobby.

He was a tall one, broad of shoulder, and a little too filled in to call lanky. He was sporting tight khaki shorts and a pair of Chamorros beneath the flaming volcanoes, swaying palms, and dancing hula girls. And it wasn't exactly a crew cut. It was more of an overgrown but immaculately cut flat top in battleship gray. Add an arresting cable and you could have landed a Corsair on it. Underneath it, his face was taut, tanned, and unlined, with just a hint of stubble along the jaw.

He didn't look like one who holed up in an office behind a typewriter. He bore a no-nonsense expression that wasn't the least bit quizzical as he approached.

"Raymond James," I said as I offered my hand.

He wrapped a calloused paw around it and put on a slow crush. I gave a little back, best as I could, and he grinned, "Call me Bert." A few seconds more and he disengaged the death grip. We moved the party out the double doors and around the front to the restaurant.

Bert was evidently a fixture here as we were most efficiently and solemnly ushered to a large table for two overlooking some tropical water scene out in the courtyard.

Waiting on drinks, I broke the ice by mentioning I'd heard he was a veteran of the recent action. He demurred, so I filled him in on a bit of my recent past. He unstiffened to the point of letting me know he was ex-Army.

"Dogface, huh? We tripped over a few of those getting back off the islands." He looked distinctly unamused, and then cracked a new grin, although it had an aspect of the death's head leer about it.

"We didn't run into too many jarheads over in my theater. No mud puddles to play in." Lame, but passable, and he loosened up a little 'til the waiter came back with the drinks.

It turned out he'd been career Army since the mid '20s, specializing in the long-distance placement of hot steel on target. He'd been seconded to the OSS at the outbreak of hostilities and subsequently oversaw various enterprises around the globe. His final assignment had been as a creative consultant for war-time propaganda films, and he'd transitioned from there into his current employ at Millenium.

Dispensing with the food orders, Bert got right down to business. "So, Esther says you're a known quantity, but she apparently didn't feel inclined to enlighten me as to just why that might be the case in Millenium's particular circumstance."

I ruminated on that for just a moment before coming back with what I hoped was a suitable reply. "As I mentioned, I do a little work from time to time for several of the studios, often related to personnel matters. Lately it's turned to the subject of on-lot recruitment by the American Communist Party. I've learned a fair bit about who's talking to who at the studios, but I'm trying to get a line on the source of this activity off of the lots."

He sat back and pondered that for a minute, never once taking his eyes off me or betraying a thought on that impassive map of his.

Finally, he leaned forward and said, barely audibly, his lips hardly parted at all, "I've been doing some thinking along those lines myself. It's definitely going on, down on the lots, although it's pretty hush-hush and no one has ever thought to get me in on it one way or the other.

"I don't like it either, never did, but I know why they're there. They have a few cheerleaders in the script-writing and production end of things, although most of their red meat is still in the trades and the unions. The question I have is just who and how many of those of any consequence have actually been recruited into the Party, are under discipline, and are working per instructions from ol' Joe."

Taken back a bit, I hadn't before quite thought about the subject from his perspective: the propaganda potential of influencing the creative product coming out of the major studios. I had been thinking more in terms of espionage, sabotage, and the baser dirty tricks usually associated with the commies. Bert sounded like someone I could work with on this.

The waiter dropped the New York Strip platters and, as he left, Bert said, "Give me another name, someone who can vouch that you have a legitimate interest in this subject. I don't want to waste my time."

"Call Moe Silverstein over at Magnum. Tell his girl Sally I want you to speak with him."

That seemed to work for him so we got busy with the chow and left the follow-on for another time.

* * *

It was a little after three when Yuki strode purposefully into my office and plopped into the overstuffed chair with a sigh and a wry little pout.

"What's on your mind, little girl?"

"I didn't have much luck finding anything concrete on the studios or their unions down at the Central Library. But I chatted up Monica's friend Lupe some more. She's now the senior reference librarian.

"She told me that folks associated with the communists have been caught stealing books over the past several years. In fact they pretty well succeeded in emptying the place of anti-communist publications dating back to the 1930s before the library got wise to what they were up to. Still they can't keep those books on the shelf.

"Anyways, she did have this clipping from last year that she had retrieved and kept under wraps in her 'special' collection. It's from the Chicago Herald. She agreed to mimeograph it for me after I told her what we were interested in."

She pulled the clipping from her handbag and handed it across the desk. "I'm afraid it has nothing much to tell us about the bunch we're looking for."

I spread the yellowing newsprint carefully across the blotter, noting last year's date and the byline of Gavin Hughes. The headline read:

CONGRESSIONAL COMMITTEE DOCUMENTS RED PLOTS

WASHINGTON, March 30—In today's report to Congress the house un-American activities committee claims to have compiled irrefutable proof that the Communist Party of the United States operates under direct orders originating within the USSR. According to the committee, the central purposes of this Kremlin-controlled domestic organization are to reduce military effectiveness, commit sabotage in time of war, and undertake related actions tasked to the overthrow of the Constitutional Republic.

Committee Chairman J. Parnell Thomas of New Jersey was quoted as charging: '...the communist party in this country is a fifth-column pawn of Moscow.'

The article went on to detail ways in which the CPUSA had taken control of or brought under its influence various labor unions, schools and universities, newspapers and even some local governments. The committee's report identified specific ties between American citizens under CPUSA discipline, remnants of the Communist International, and the primary Soviet intelligence agencies.

'Well, well..." I thought. This bit of news came as no particular surprise to me, as I had been somewhat disinterestedly following the buzz on this issue for a year or so now. Similar pronouncements had come out of FBI Chief J. Edgar Hoover.

But the mention of unions had tickled a stray nerve, and I all of a sudden wondered might these film studio clowns have a little more up their sleeve than the recruitment angle I was working.

* * *

Bert got back to me a few days later. Seems he'd been busy, busy trying to figure out who at Millenium had had the touch put on them by the Party but had declined to take the bait. He hadn't got far.

He said Moe had told him I was working to help him get the Red recruiters off of Magnum's lot. Bert told me he'd decided to toss his hand in doing the same at Millenium, but it hadn't been an easy nut to crack.

He said he was on it and would get back to me.

# July 1947

After moping around the office one fine morning, Yuki wandered into the office and found her place again in the over-stuffed chair.

"I don't know, Ray. People are getting kind of cold. They don't seem the same anymore. Some of them seem to have lost that 'We're all in it together' attitude you saw during the Depression and during the war, although I missed some of that. After the war, we were all together, proud of our achievements and what we had been able to do for the rest of the world.

"But now you see these whiners cropping up. This city seems to be getting fractured. I hear some people in the old neighborhood bitching about the way things are, like they're owed a living or something.

"I really don't get it. What makes them think they're any different from anyone else?

"I mean look at my people. They aren't kicking up a storm about everything they lost from the internment. Sure they're not happy about it, but most of them understand well enough why it happened. It pretty much had to happen.

"And it might have been just as well and good for our own safety. I don't think all our friendly neighbors would have felt the same if we had been visible the whole time that carnage was going on over in the Pacific. I'm glad to be back, but I don't much like the way things seem to be headed these days."

"Buck up, kid," I told her. "Those are just the noisemakers. We know some good folk. They're all around, but mostly laying low, working for a living. These others got no self-respect. They just want someone to notice 'em."

* * *

Later that week Bert called back to say he'd finally cracked open a few nuts. The recruitment appeared to come right out of the craft guilds, and he'd marked a big boy in the set transport department. The mug was fairly well known as a rabble rouser amongst the tradesmen, but it seemed as though it was some of the slicker types that were approaching the front office and the talent. In any event, Burt had taken it upon himself to put a tail on the boy and by mid-week he believed he had hit pay dirt.

Seems the guy lived alone and returned most nights to his apartment in the Silver Lake district. Last night he'd popped right back out before Bert had even set up a stake-out, and Bert had followed him all the way down to the docks at San Pedro.

"Good thing I'd gassed up the heap that morning! It was a hell of a long ride. The boy finally pulled into a lot off Harbor Boulevard and waltzed right in the front door of the Longshoreman's Hall.

"He came out ten minutes later hefting a big box of what looked like print, and hot-footed it back up to home. Well, I eased up a little on the way back, but sure enough when I got up there he had a steady line of guys, and one or two manly-looking dames, floating in and out of that place all night. Each left with a handful of whatever was being passed out. I never got a look at the material, and I didn't recognize any of those birds as being from our lot.

"I don't know who the slick types are dealing with, but my guess is that some union is behind this. Seems I recall hearing once of the Comintern floating its own seafaring union. I'd be surprised if it was that obvious, but there you have it."

This was worthy sleuthing and it had produced results that seemed to coincide nicely with what Yuki had come up with, although I wasn't much sure how.

"You know Bert, I think you just opened this up for me. I'll see what I can scrape up down there at the harbor. Do you want in?"

"Naw, I think I'll pass for the time being. I'm a little more interested in the screenplay manipulation angle to this and I want to work on that some more. But let's stay in touch."

I thanked him for his efforts and rang off.

Noodling this over for a while the thought occurred to me that a union was a rather formidable target to approach. And given the solidarity and infamous thuggery of its more stalwart adherents, let alone the paranoia one might expect among subversive moles, getting to the bottom of this business was likely to involve a fairly delicate strategy.

But I never did figure that one out, opting instead for the direct approach; a quick tactical strike to the heart of the matter, assuming my conclusions had any validity whatsoever.

Over the next few evenings I burned up the phone lines with Manny, grilling him about the San Pedro unions. Manuel Ortiz was an old service pal that worked out of Homicide in the Harbor Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. He'd grown up in the harbor town and he knew the docks well.

Manny told me the PD generally steered clear of that lot since they'd calmed down somewhat over the past few years. According to him there had been a lot of striking, thieving, monkey-wrenching, and general havoc during the early days of the war when the unions were under instructions to sabotage the Allied war effort on behalf of the Hitler-Stalin pact.

But all that changed with the Nazi invasion of the USSR and the subsequent Comintern directive to reverse course and support the Allied cause. With all parties in ideological harmony, the docks had never seen such peace. Nowadays it was assumed there was plenty of the usual smuggling, hijacking, and what not going on and perhaps some of the PD was in on it, the others content to look the other way.

Being in Homicide, this was not really Manny's beat.

"I do know that there is one major son of a bitch down there that seems to run the place, and he's got a reputation for being a real hard case, running gangs, probably setting up scores, who knows what else, but nothing good you can be sure. Like I said, it's quietened down there a good bit since the war. The dickhead's name is Gus Shafter."

After mulling this lead all afternoon I decided that the thing to do was to lay everything out on the venerable Mr. Shafter, with the expectation that my requirements in the matter would be relayed to the responsible party. The unfortunate aspect was, if this nonsense with Miss Lane didn't stop, I still wouldn't know if I had missed the mark with Shafter or was simply being shined on.

* * *

I picked a hot morning in mid- month to motor on down to the harbor. As a precaution, I left word with Yuki I'd be meeting with officials of the Dockworker's Brotherhood, the largest of the longshoremen's unions, but I was less than specific about what I had planned to do there. Probably because I didn't really have a plan.

I tried out a few on the way down there, but nothing came together and I was thoroughly overheated and fresh out of ideas by the time I broke over the rise at the north end of the harbor city. It was a few degrees cooler down by the waterfront as I eased into a row of reserved parking slots off the south end of the building housing the Dockworker's local. I pulled into a space near the entrance. The convertible top was down, and my ride looked pretty spiffy next to the newer, but utilitarian, iron holding down the rest of the lot.

Like a man with a purpose I strode on in the front door and straight down the main hall hoping to find the executive suite. I was right. It took up the whole back wall of the building, facing the waterfront. I pushed through the pebbled glass door and stopped to adjust my jacket. Two goons sitting against the far wall made as if to rise, but I ignored them and proceeded to the large desk manned by the ugliest human female I'd ever seen.

Big Bertha, or was it Bruno, was so enormous she looked as if she was molded to the back of the desk. She glanced up with a pair of beady, yellowed porcine eyes and grunted "Yeah?"

It was a strangely high-pitched, simpering voice, but it took nothing away from the prison-guard-from-Hell look pasted across her ugly mug. That face could scare the fleas off a junkyard dog. The rest of her would intimidate a full-grown gorilla. I'd seen illustrations of dinosaurs that looked better than this one. If she could be any less appealing I didn't see how. It occurred to me that the perks of a commie warlord mightn't be all that great.

I slapped my card down on her desk and informed her I needed to speak at once with Mr. Shafter on a matter of the utmost urgency. Probably the wrong approach, but in any case she wasn't buying it. She just sat there and glared.

"Now, ma'am. This cannot wait until after lunch."

Besides I wanted to get back out of there while I still had the chance to hold an appetite for the noon hour. I was starting to fear this horrific image of retrograde femininity was going to be burned onto my retinas for the next month and I was praying she wouldn't open her nasty yap again. But she did.

The beast picked up my card, waved it in the air, and said, "Ollie. Take this on in to the man and see if he's got a few minutes for this shamus."

I turned around to get a good look-see at the two clowns for the first time. The big one's eyeballs did a double take upon hearing of my profession, so I assumed this was the gentleman known as Ollie.

The other fellow retained his air of ignorant bliss. A little scrawnier than he had first appeared, he was a weasel-faced little cuss with a greased-back ducktail. He kept his eyes averted and assumed a posture of calculated indifference. Still, the mutt looked like he'd been born guilty.

Ollie rose slowly, stretched, yawned and gave me the poker face as he passed by, snatched up the card, and rapped on the inner office door. He was gone a good five minutes, a frightfully long time to be left in Bertha's presence. I moved over and took a load off in Ollie's spot. The weasel avoided eye contact for about another minute and then jumped up suddenly and exited through the double doors.

"Lenny!" the sow shouted after him.

He evidently ignored her as the door slammed shut and stayed that way. I studied the soles of my shoes for a short while longer.

Presently, poker-faced Ollie backed out of the executive office, gently closing the door, and ambled over to commune with the beast. He dropped my card on the desk and gave a minute shake of his head before moving over my way.

He crowded over me and tried to stare me out of his seat, whereupon the lard-assed secretary squeaked up, "I regret, Mr. James, that Mr. Shafter cannot be disturbed at this time. Would you care to schedule an appointment?"

I regarded her silently for a few moments.

"Out of my chair, dick!" Ollie bellowed.

I paused long enough to get him jumpy, then hefted myself up, stepped around the thug without looking at him, and sauntered over in the general direction of the heifer. Pausing until Ollie had settled his fanny down, I broke for the office door, turning the knob and blasting it open with a swift kick of my Size 10. Bertha squealed, Ollie bolted up, but I was through the door and had slammed it behind me before either could do a thing about it.

Ollie burst in a half second later, but I had already reached the head man's desk and barked, "I regret, Sir, that this matter cannot be put off another moment. It must be resolved today, here and now."

The chief's face moved from a look of displeasure to one of mild astonishment. He held up a hand to slow the oncoming goon.

"You are President Shafter of this union, is that not correct?" I continued.

He regarded me mildly and said "That's right. Gus Shafter, President of the Dockworker's Brotherhood."

"Master of all cargoes!" he shouted, getting red in the face, "and ruler of the ocean waves!! Just who the hell are you?!!" he screamed. He was standing now.

A quick glance told me Ollie was brought up short in awe at the boss's tantrum, and it sounded like Fats was trying to struggle free of her desk for a better look. This guy had all the hallmarks of a real self-important son-of-a-bitch all right, the kind that could self-destruct mighty nicely.

I spat right back at him, "As you had ample time to learn, I'm Raymond James. I represent the agent and lawyer of one Vivian Lane, actress of the silver screen."

That shut him up and put a quizzical look on his contorted mug. Before he could gather his wits, I reached into my coat pocket and slapped down a short pile of unopened mail on his blotter.

He rifled through them quickly and said, "So why the hell are you here badgering me with this?" He sat back down and scowled.

"So you know what these are!" I chuckled. "You haven't even given them a proper examination!"

He quite obviously didn't like the way this was going. I thought I'd better end it quickly.

"This has to stop, and stop now. Miss Vivian Lane is not of any political persuasion and she has no interest in pursuing an affiliation with the parties you represent. Her attorney has instructed me to inform you that your organization must cease and desist immediately any further contacts with Miss Lane.

"You may have her confused with another party of the same name. Whatever, we want this fixed today. Do you understand?"

Old Gus shot me a look of pure hatred and barked, "I understand this. I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" He knew all right. He was too excitable to hold a poker face like good old Ollie.

He popped up again and screamed, "Get the hell out of my office, or your knee caps are mine! Now!"

I held my ground a short second, then spun on my heels and strode past Ollie to the open door. I stopped, turned, raised my arm and pointed at him.

"You're the boss here. You get this stopped and you won't be hearing from us again."

"I'm gonna kill you!!" he screamed.

Ollie stayed rooted to the floor, but I hot-footed it on out of there right past the awestruck pig and down the hall.

Now it would be a waiting game to see if this artless charade had actually worked, the heat came off of Miss Lane, and I got paid.

* * *

Too early for lunch, I hopped over to Manny's shop and caught him in the corral typing up a report. He looked relieved for an excuse to get out of there and sprung for a vending box meal in the PD cantina. I spent the afternoon there shooting the breeze with him about the events of the morning and what had led up to it. He regaled me with some gory accounts of his more recent cases.

A little later he suggested knocking off early and going over to the house. He was busy nights and weekends souping up another flathead V8, this time for an old jalopy he had stowed in the back yard.

It turned out to be a '33 Chevy three-window coupe. It was a real looker, or would have been if it hadn't been raised next to the sea. According to Manny, the body work was next. The coupe was getting a mild chop and some lead around the custom tail lamps. I was wondering how he was going to get that Ford plant to work in it, but he seemed to have confidence in his plan.

He'd certainly done wonders goosing an extra few dozen horses out of my old bucket. I was driving the first-year model Mercury, a '39 convertible, burgundy in color with a sand colored cloth top; the flathead V-8 with overdrive under the hood. I'd spent most of my separation pay on it last year at a Navy lot down near Long Beach harbor.

With Manny's help, it really scooted now, having triple carbs, custom manifolds, and outsized pipes with cut-outs. It rumbled like a cave full of demons at idle, and screamed like the Devil himself going flat-out on the straight-aways. Still it managed to look like some Pasadena matron's Sunday ride.

The day was cooling off right nicely when Veda drove up in the couple's new Buick roadster. Veda was a green-eyed, ivory-skinned, Irish lass that Manny had lassoed a couple of months after getting back to town.

She gave us a honk, and bustled some groceries into the house. Before long, the sweet smells of _chile verde_ and refried beans wafted into the garage and we washed up and joined her for dinner.

* * *

Just past dusk I made my farewell and headed north out of the harbor town. I was thinking about the rather unsatisfactory conversation I'd had with the boss of the longshoremen, hoping it would suffice to justify my collecting the badly needed fee from Magnum.

I'd made it halfway up Figueroa into the big city when I noticed the headlights holding steady in the rear view mirror. I gave it a few minutes, then slowed and took a leisurely right and drove a couple blocks east before turning left up Broadway.

The lights stayed with me, but seemed to close the gap as we traveled north on the brightly lit boulevard. I took another slow turn at the light and headed east on Slauson toward the Florence District.

I crossed Main Street on a yellow and speeded up. The car behind ran the red but was falling behind as I accelerated for another block and skidded right onto the next residential street. I picked the second driveway and swung in, killed the lights, and drew to a quick stop near the front of the house.

A long, dark sedan careened around the corner and sped on down the street. I had slammed out of the driveway and was pointing north again when its red brake lights reflected brightly from my mirrors. I made the corner in a couple of seconds and was back on Slauson before I turned on the headlamps again.

I beat it the two blocks to San Pedro and took a quick left, crossing east along 54th to Central. With no further evidence of a tail, I resumed my pace north into downtown.

Amateurs, I thought, or at least not particularly dedicated, as there had not appeared to be a second car involved in the shadow. To be on the safe side, I made a few loops in the area near City Hall before taking Temple northwest into Hollywood.

Monday was two-for-a-dollar night at the Orbit Room, so I stopped in and tipped a few before heading back to the Arms. I circled my roost once and, reasonably content it was not under observation, parked right out front and retired to my rooms for a quiet evening.

* * *

The call came through early the next morning as I was filling Yuki in on the harbor meet. She took the call at my desk and listened for an unseemly interval before chirping, "With whom am I speaking please?"

She frowned. Covering the mouthpiece she whispered, "He won't give me his name and I can't make out what he wants, but I don't think he likes you none too much."

I grabbed the phone and grunted my name.

"This is Zev Ulinovsky. I represent the dock workers. It's come to my attention that you..." I listened politely while he said his piece.

He took a quick breath, and to forestall another threatening monologue, I barked "Quick, guess how many fingers I'm holding up! I'll give you a hint. It's more than none and less than two. Bye."

Wide-eyed, Yuki said, "Uh, I know it wasn't a bill collector..."

"No it was that jackass shyster that represents the union mugs. Manny gave me some advice about dealing with them. Don't speak to 'em and, if you can help it, don't listen to 'em. Use sign language. I assumed he needed some visual assistance over the phone."

That afternoon I got on the horn to Sally. She told me Moe was across town trying to pull a fast one on his biggest rival mogul, so we chuckled over that for a few moments. I gave her the short version, leaving out the vital details but conveying the general idea that success had been achieved and Vivian shouldn't be experiencing any more unwelcome advances from the disloyal opposition. I hoped I was right. I suggested we give it a week to see how things worked out, and we left it at that.

And that was the last I heard from the bully boys and their mouthpiece all that summer. Moe's check arrived, the rents got paid, and Yuki and I each drew a cut. I didn't give the matter of Vivian Lane any further thought for quite some time.

# August 1947

As the ensuing weeks had been generally uneventful, I'd started to worry whether I was going to be able to keep Yuki on. She had wiggled her way into my life in her own surprising little ways.

I'd become reacquainted with the cuisine of Japan through several lunches and a few dinners at some of her favorite LA and South Bay haunts. She'd even had the boss over to dinner once, with the folks, in their homey little hacienda in Brooklyn Heights.

I met her best friend Monica on several occasions when the two were getting together for a night at the theater and they'd invited me along to share the evening's entertainment. I in turn had had them both out for a late-season Dodgers game. I'd grown fond of having her around and I was of no mind to let her go now.

So I spent a few days on the wire and drummed up an assortment of minor duties with Lemme over at RKO, hoping it would be enough to pay the ransom on the office and keep Yuki in movies and rice.

* * *

It had been a slow week thus far and I was using it to catch up on some sleep. A good bit of Lemme's work involved after-hours surveillance, so I had taken to catching a brief siesta after lunch. I had my feet up and my head back, dreaming about something that had me smiling, when Yuki poked her head in.

"You sleeping again?"

"I was."

"Look here, Boss." She plopped a newspaper down on the desk.

"It looks like the USSR isn't content with only Eastern Europe. It just took itself another satellite. It says here the US proposed the re-unification of Korea, but the idea was flatly rejected by the USSR. They intend on keeping North Korea."

I picked it up and perused a paragraph or two. "Then that's it for them, poor devils."

"Anyway, Lupe was in a rare mood today. I spent all morning at the library. She opened up a few more of her special files for me, and we had a long lunch. She gave me some information on a couple more of the local players, people outside the Hollywood-union nexus. "

"Oh, yeah? Like who?"

"Well, one of the stranger of the bunch was some old biddy down in Laguna Beach. I forget her name. Maeve something or other. Her contribution apparently runs toward organizing the removal of certain unapproved literature from the libraries. Maybe she has an incinerator at home.

"The second was a little more interesting and closer to home. A Ruthena Ginzberg. She's supposed to be a looker."

"Is that so?"

"I thought that might get your full attention. Lupe seems to have a special bead on her for reasons she wouldn't share.

"Ruthena's a curriculum advisor in the local school system, specializing in textbook selection for kindergarten through senior grades. She's also single and minorly connected with the arts. Lupe suspects she is connected with the Party in an official capacity.

"She's to attend a gallery opening over at the County Museum of Art tomorrow night. Here's her photograph from the society page."

"Hmmm..." I ruminated as I studied the photo. "I guess we should really follow up on this."

"Somehow I knew that was going to be the plan. I'm busy. You can do without me on this one?"

"Sure."

I took off early and hustled my best suit over to the Clean'n'Fold on Vine.

* * *

The next afternoon I loafed around the house and made a late appearance at the gallery on Melrose. I got in on the tail end of the self-congratulatory blather, just in time for the hors-d'oeuvres and cocktails. The theme of the show was immediately evident. It consisted of a host of down-home American landmarks and icons rendered in the decades-old and extremely tiresome style of Soviet realism.

Actually, a number of the pieces resembled an advertisement I'd seen for last year's Los Angeles County Fair. Strictly commie chic. Very cute. But dull as the finish on Manny's backyard rust bucket. I knew there was a reason I'd managed to miss all such prior events.

The women here were for the most part a bunch of old gas bags with raspy voices, dropped breasts, and stentorian thighs. Most looked liked escapees from the reducing salon.

The old bat that was throwing this abomination was a middle-aged matron dressed up like a 17-year old on her second date. A real sight for sore eyes, she had the word 'skag' written all across her face. Long stringy black hair, blotchy olive skin, haggard cheeks, hooked beak, and eyes that looked like they hadn't seen sleep in a week of Sundays.

More's the pity; the rest of the package wasn't all bad. She was slim with modest curves in just the right places, delicate little well-manicured feet, and long narrow fingers. She was the kind of woman that looked a whole lot better walking out than walking in.

They say you get the face you deserve at age 40. She'd evidently led a less-than-exemplary life.

Miss Ruthena Ginzberg, on the other hand, wasn't hard to spot in this crowd. In fact, if I hadn't already had some idea what she looked like, following the eyes of the men in attendance would have led me right to her. To put it mildly, she was a knockout. A tall well-shaped brunette with pale perfect skin and penetrating gray eyes, it surprised me she hadn't followed an entertainment career. It was difficult to picture this stunning creature shut up in a school district administration office.

Fully fed, my moment approached and I moved up beside her.

"Miss Ginzberg?"

She turned abruptly and looked me directly in the eyes.

"Yes?"

I held her gaze and smiled. Her lovely mouth tightened gradually, showing a couple of lines that I hadn't expected to see there.

"I'm Raymond James. I've heard tell you're with the school system."

She didn't look overly impressed.

"That's right. Ruthena Ginzberg."

She offered a narrow, well-manicured paw and I folded it into mine.

"And what line of work are you in Mr. James?"

"I'm a free-lancer with some of the larger studios."

Her look of mild disinterest did not change.

"And what would you do for them?"

"Personnel matters mostly. I assist with the hiring and firing." This got her attention. A new glint of interest appeared in her eyes. Her mouth softened and her lips formed what might pass for a smile. She truly was a lovely young woman, in a severe kind of way. Out of my league I decided, but worth a play.

"So what do you do for the school district?"

"As little as possible and still get paid," she laughed. "And what may I ask brought you out here tonight?"

"Oh, I enjoy getting out some weeknights, and the smaller gallery showings are usually a good place to mingle and keep up with what's new."

"My sentiments exactly."

"Plus, I don't like to cook much and I get tired of eating out alone. The snacks at these wing dings are usually worth the trip, even if the art isn't. I guess I don't have much of a life these days."

"Oh. Has something changed?" she enquired.

"Well, I'm just a short time back from the war in the Pacific. The peace actually. I was with the Japanese occupation through last year."

"Army?"

"No. Marines."

"Well, did you find this showing to be interesting?"

Truthfully, between her and the surprisingly good hors-d'oeuvres, yes. But the Soviets could keep their lousy art.

"I find this stuff to be a little more akin to poster drawing than art." She didn't appear to like that, but turned her head and let it pass. A look of faint amusement passed over her face, and I figured she had me marked for a rube.

"Let's get out of here," I suggested.

"Sure, isn't the Starlite Lounge right around the corner?"

Walking out with her was going to get me noticed, something I didn't necessarily want with this crowd.

"I need to say goodbye to someone. Why don't you grab your wrap and I'll meet you out front in a second."

She sauntered off to the cloakroom. I hustled over to the table and stuffed down a few more of the choicer morsels before making my way inconspicuously to the foyer. She was standing there waiting in a black sable wrap that perfectly offset her ivory face and neck. I retrieved my overcoat and snap-brimmed hat. She clasped my offered arm and we swung out of there.

* * *

Settled into a booth in an unlit corner of the Starlite, we got our drinks ordered and she started the ball rolling.

"So do you want to tell me more?"

"There isn't much of a story really. I was born and raised on a truck farm in the shadow of the Shenandoah Mountains back east in Virginia.

" I was a year out of high school when the Japs hit Pearl Harbor and two days later I was at the Marine Corps recruiting station down to Roanoke. And I ended up here."

She had a few questions about my time in the Pacific, and we kicked that subject around for a while until she asked, "What kept you from going back home?"

"I don't know. After leaving it just didn't seem like the place to be anymore. Maybe it'll be a good place to go back to some day."

"Then how did you end up in Los Angeles?"

"Well, I worked a security detail in my last year in the Corps and before I mustered out in San Diego I'd given some thought to joining a force somewhere out here. LA seemed like a big market for a beginner."

"Did you find the job?"

"That's just it. There was a lot of competition from all directions. Anyways I was a little tired of being told what to do so I thought I'd try striking out on my own and give that a shot."

"How's it been working out?"

"Well, mostly it's for hunger. But I have to admit it gets interesting at times. And there seems to be a fair potential for business in this town if I can just expand my contacts.

"Like law enforcement in general, it should have a bright future. People seem never to run out of ways of scamming and victimizing each other. My own existence has been kind of tranquil, not counting the island hopping. I guess these days I just have to find my excitement vicariously in the drama of others."

She wasn't talking about herself and appeared in no mood to run out of questions. The conversation finally got round to the war and we were talking about how it ended.

"Yeah, the devastation we wrought on that place was incredible." I told her. "We firebombed to rubble every major urban area in the country except Kyoto. The atom bombs were a fairly paltry contribution to the overall carnage. But they apparently gave the desired shock effect. There was more than one old boy out there in _Nishi Kyushu_ told me what a deliverance those two events were. More than a few believed the A-bombs saved the country from utter destruction by bringing a quick end to a war that had been dragging on way too long.

"The way I look at it, if they couldn't accept the concept of defeat or surrender then we had no reason to show any restraint. And that's pretty much the way it played out up to that point.

"We seemed to encounter a lot more relief than resentment during the occupation. The civilian population around us had been eating poorly for years and it sure showed on 'em. But they're a hard working race and they bounced back pretty quickly. They had that shipyard there in Sasebo back in operation by the time I left, and I'm sure it's been growing ever since.

"There's an awful lot of unexploded ordnance over there. I'd hate to be the guy on the backhoe."

"Did you encounter any Soviets over there during the occupation?" she queried.

"No. I can't say as we did. The Boss did a good job of keeping them out of Japan. From what I've heard they've hunkered down there on the north end of the Korean peninsula and we're not having much luck convincing them to leave. Lucky for Japan I guess that they didn't have to suffer that. Those poor Koreans just seem to have no luck at all: first the Japanese, now Russians."

"Sure, but what do you think about their contribution to the war effort?"

"Who? The Soviets? Never saw any evidence of 'em out there in the Pacific, but from what I heard they threw a lot of men at it over there in Europe. I guess their peace pact with the Nazis didn't get them very far," I chuckled. "So, what do you think?"

"I've always been a great admirer of their revolution. They've made great strides since they got rid of the monarchy and replaced that old feudal society with their new system of equality."

"Uh-huh," I said. Equally poor and terrified from what I'd heard. It sounded like little Ruthie had grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth.

"So what's your story?" I inquired.

"Well like a good quarter of America, I was born and raised in Brooklyn. I finished high school there and put in a couple of years at Barnard. But I missed the city and transferred back, taking up a degree in general arts at City University of New York. After that I decided to specialize in Educational Psychology. I took a couple more degrees, finishing up with my Doctorate at Cornell, and that's what got me out here. It's my first job. I've been at it a few years now, slowly moving up the ladder."

She added, "Have you been to New York?"

"No. Can't say as I have. Closest I ever got was a couple of fast rides to the Jersey beaches."

"Cape May?"

"No, landing practice at who knows where."

"Oh. Well, getting back to the USSR, I think there's a lot we could learn from them," she opined.

'Like what, fratricide and starvation?' I thought. "I can't say that I really know anything about them at all."

"It's remarkable what they've been able to accomplish, given all the obstacles they've faced: the ignorance, the reaction, foreign interference. Of course the war set them back tremendously."

"Didn't I hear something back when I was in school about a Great Terror, you know, trials and purges and labor camps?"

"Well, you didn't read about it in the _New York Times_ ," she laughed.

"Likely not," I agreed.

"Yes, those were some unfortunate times, but apparently necessary for the growth of the revolution. They certainly wouldn't have cleaned house without a good reason.

"I'm hoping we can adopt the better parts of their system. The New Deal was a good start, but I think we need to expand on it for the common good. I've been hoping our two nations would be getting closer together, but that just doesn't seem to be happening, what with all the reactionaries operating in Washington these days."

This banter wasn't getting me anywhere, but it seemed like a necessary preliminary if I was maybe going to learn anything from this girl.

"I imagine there's a lot to learn from history. People always seem to be forgetting it," I ventured.

"Exactly," she said. "People throughout the ages have made numerous attempts to achieve a just society."

I was having a hard time making up my mind if she actually believed this stuff, or if she was just parroting the standard lines the Party handed off to dopes. I decided it was time to try something to get her trust.

"So, yeah. Everybody wants that. Equality. No rich, no poor, everyone contributing, everyone making a living. Working together. One for all and all for one."

"That's right!" she yelped. "I'm surprised you would see it that way."

"Well, it's an ideal. Difficult to achieve in this imperfect world we live in. But maybe something worth striving for."

"I couldn't agree more! Well, what do you propose be done?"

"Right now I suggest we think about paying the tab and getting out of here. This is on me."

Begging off with some baloney about an early morning stake-out, I folded her into a taxi home.

I gave Ruthena a rest for a couple of days and called her back on the following Monday. She seemed willing to play the game and I was curious where it might lead.

We went out a few more times and batted the subject around some more, mostly over dinner. It was becoming apparent that she was giving me the recruiter's soft touch, so I played the dummy and let her think she was getting me on the hook.

* * *

One evening Ruthena told me, "There's something about you. _Je ne sais quoi_. There's more to you than meets the eye."

" _Mais certainment. Et toi aussi_."

"Oh, you speak the language of love?"

"Sure do, just not in French."

Before long we had graduated to the occasional dinner at her place followed with a few too many drinks and a tumble in the sack. She wasn't the sweet and demure little consort I'd grown accustomed to in Japan, and I was having a difficult time catching her rhythm. Despite the drunkenness, she made love with an intensity that bordered on desperation. Her little needs and demands were varied and constant, but all in all she was a good sport and gave as good as she got. I was starting to like this fine animal just a little more than I had intended.

So I should have known better when on a particular Saturday night I decided to turn the tables on our usual pillow talk. I made a play at drinking entirely more than usual, and launched into neat little speech about loyalty, the flag, God and country and all. I got in some good words about individual freedom, the importance of family, and the benefits of free enterprise. And maybe as to how we didn't need any heavy-handed government types telling us how to live.

It didn't take long before she started to sour.

"You must have just been the good little boy, huh?"

"I suppose you could say that." I grinned and dug her in the ribs. "And you must have been a naughty girl."

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was. But that's not the point I'm making.

"You seem to have arrested your development before that point where one adopts critical thinking, the ability to look beyond the established wisdom at unconventional truths."

"Such as?"

"Well, that the common good trumps the individual, the family clans, the church, the capitalists, and all their organizations. We need government to exercise a firm grip and keep people on track to a better future. Without the state, everything devolves into all kinds of anti-social behavior and there can be no progress."

I wiped the smart-assed grin off my face and stared intently into her eyes. "And I believe that state power is innately evil, that it is wielded by inveterate sinners, if you will, and that it necessitates rock-solid protections for our people, like our Constitution, that limits the reach of the government. You know, the Bill of Rights and all that. Our government works because it is subordinate to the rights of individuals, families, private organizations, and the states."

"So," she responded. "You have been giving these things some thought. Noble thoughts, but you're naïve I'm afraid. You see the current textbooks are misleading on these points. School children are now taught the notion that the Constitution empowers the state, quite a significant departure from the Founding Father's intent. But they weren't enlightened socialists, so it is our duty to correct their flaws."

"Still, you haven't been able to alter the Constitution," I countered.

"True, but the beauty of it is that we don't need to. Our power stems from the people we've placed and the masses that trust them, not some outdated founding document. We are placing more and more judges who recognize the Constitution as the fluid blueprint for governance it should be. These individuals recognize that the Constitution requires reinterpretation as the times progress. Setting new precedents is what it's all about now. You know, progress."

Now her cards were coming onto the table face up.

"Many good folks out there have been publishing warnings about these kinds of thing, what you might call the Red menace," I argued.

She let out a short haughty laugh. "And you'd be hard pressed to find them if you were to go out seeking them. These outstanding literary works seem to have flown off the library shelves into the hands of private collectors."

Ah, so she wanted to bring up the handiwork of that aged troll Maeve and her ilk. I almost called her on it, but had no desire at the time to totally tip my hand. Better that I stayed true to her image of me as an unrepentant patriotic dullard with some hope for conversion.

It didn't take long for the conversation to degenerate into an alcoholic haze. She'd been pounding them back pretty hard all evening. Possibly it was her way of coping with her apparent inability to turn down another roll in the hay. I was starting to feel the booze pretty hard myself when, in mid-sentence, her head dropped onto my shoulder and she passed out.

She awoke as I carried her off to bed and the love-making was a little off key this time.

* * *

As it developed, I hadn't need worry about giving up the game that night. She called me late on a Sunday evening and asked me over for a nightcap. After the initial meet we hadn't seen each other much on weeknights so I was perplexed and more than a little wary as I knocked on her door.

She was already well in her cups when she greeted me at the door.

"How nice of you to come over to see me. It's me you want to see. Right?" she wheedled.

I had an idea of what was coming. I glided on over to the sofa and plopped into what I hoped looked like a carefree position. She strode over and stood her ground above me.

"I got wind as to how maybe you didn't just stumble onto me while appreciating new art at the gallery opening."

I allowed as to how that was actually quite true. I had heard good things about her from friends and was intrigued enough to try to find a way to make her acquaintance.

She wasn't having it.

"I also heard as to how you went down to San Pedro on a Red hunt. So it seems as if your interest in me is professional. Am I right?"

I mumbled something about how maybe it started that way, but I had really fallen for her in a big way and forgotten all about that other stuff.

This turn of events was rather sudden, and it was starting to look final. I wasn't happy. The whole escapade was only just starting to pay off and I wanted to keep her in play.

We knocked it back and forth a few more times. She called me a 'duplicitous bastard,' a 'cheap masher,' and a few other choice names I'd heard before. She had a big run of righteous indignation going and she wasn't about to let go of it.

Sensing defeat finally I got up to go, but she couldn't leave it at that. She walked on over and grabbed me by the lapels, glared at me as the color rose in her cheeks, and slapped me. I just stood there looking at her, wondering if she cared to do it again.

She looked kind of shocked and buried her face in her hands, then threw her arms around me and held on until I returned the embrace. We stayed like that for a long time.

Finally she drew her head back and cracked a drawn dismal smile. She stared in my eyes and planted a long one on me. It was a good outcome. But the bedroom antics that ensued felt a little forced. She just wasn't quite able to muster the enthusiasm she needed to get where she wanted to be. I seemed to be observing the events from outside myself and felt detached.

We freshened the drinks and kept at it for the longest time. I'd had only a few hours of sleep when she woke me in the night and we had another go of it. Sadly, it felt like the last time.

The late summer sun was hot on my face when I awoke with a start that Monday morning. A quick glance at the bedside table showed I'd overslept by a good hour.

She appeared at the doorway dressed and said "I've got a meeting, I'm going out. Don't bother tossing the place. I don't keep anything here. I'm only dumb about men. Drop the key through the slot on your way out."

Well, that was that. At least I'd finally learned something from good old Ruthena. If she had a line into the action going down between the docks and the Hollywood set, it was a safe bet that the dockworkers were versant in developments in the education system.

And they probably both knew what was up with the libraries as well, if Lupe was to be believed. There was apparently quite the active web of deceit working its ill will here in the Southland. And a set-up like that can be cracked from any number of openings using any number of routines. There was a lot to think about here.

I called Ruthie a few more times in the ensuing weeks, and she kept up her end of the telephone banter. But we never did manage to arrange to see each other again that fall.

# September 1947

Things were slow as usual the next week, and I was sitting around one morning shooting the breeze again with Yuki.

"Did you know your cousin talks funny?"

"Yeah. She said the same thing about you."

"You never did tell me how you managed to get sprung from that camp ahead of everyone else."

"No. And I never will. Let's just say the man was a pig, but he was offering something I was willing to get down in the mud to get. I got some protection too, so I was able to get done what I wanted, which was to prepare my folks for a soft landing when they got out. It worked out. We're all fine now."

"Well, I'm sorry I dredged that up. Forgive me?"

"Always, Ray."

"Oh, it's Ray now?"

"Yeah, Ray. It is. Besides, I want to do more. I want to help Lupe. I want to help you. I may have been trained to poke at a typewriter, but I can handle more."

"Military intelligence, huh?"

"More."

"OK, whaddaya got in mind?"

"Partners. Not in the business. Just in the cases. I want in on 'em. I'll keep up the office, no worries there. But I want on the cases. I've a feeling there'll be plenty more, and I want to see these maniacs go down. Besides, the closer I stick to you, the safer I'll feel."

* * *

With nothing much new in the way of real casework I asked Yuki to keep up with her research on the studio Reds. She briefed me again on a late-week afternoon.

"Whaddaya got this time, Yuki?"

"Background mostly. Ancient history. Here's a good one for you. United Toilers of America, a legal front group for the Communist Party of America when they were underground."

"Toilers, huh. What'd they do? Come home from work and throw pity parties sitting around whining about how tough life is. Jesus. I'm glad I had none of those slack bastards behind me at Tarawa. Pardon my French."

"Ha! That one gotcha, didn't it? Well, there's more. There was a United Communist Party active then too. Apparently there were always two commie outfits back in the early '20s, both slaves to Moscow, but they specialized in fighting amongst themselves. At least til' their Comintern bosses made them lay off. I think she said that was in '22. Moscow ordered those whiny Toilers to disband, and them and all the other loose ends were herded into the CPUSA."

"No surprise those mugs can't stay unified, given their lovely personality traits. I guess in Russia they just thin the herd until everyone's of the same mind. Say, where're you getting' this stuff from anyway?"

"Always from Lupe. She's learned a lot about this stuff, as I've told you, and she's been sharing more with me since I relayed to her how we stopped the attempted recruitment of Miss Lane.

"To hear her tell it, the Russian Bolsheviks have been thinning their ranks since Day One. Still are, no doubt. I guess here we just have to put up with an incredible amount of stupid noise 'cause the silly buggers can't get away with killing each other on our soil."

"Yet," I intoned.

A new little light glinted in her eye. "You got a plan, boss?"

"Sounds like these geniuses don't operate too well without a strong-arm leader. So..."

"A little frame is in order?"

"That should do it. Get one to knock off the other. Set 'em both up. Get 'em in trouble with the mob. Whatever. That'll set the clowns back to what they do best, navel gazing and squabbling' amongst themselves. What do ya think?"

"Good luck. Hey, it sounds like something Manny would go in for, though."

"You're suggesting I need a consultant? You're right. Manny's an idea man if ever there was one. Say, did Lupe ever have anything specific to tell you about what kind of dreg hitches up with these outfits?"

"Oh, the usual borderline types: the angry, stupid, pathetic, incompetent; petty criminals; the mentally ill; mama's boys. You name it. They take all types. My understanding is the leadership prefers these kinds 'cause they are easily manipulated, intimidated, slapped around, kept in line. Unions are their happy hunting grounds. Lunkheads and gorillas. People with experience shafting their family and friends. Universities too. Lots of phonies, frauds and deadbeats to be found there."

"Wait a minute. Some of my best buddies are in the union. They knew which side they were on in the war."

"I'm sure most of them still do. A lot of them are patriots and give these socialist loudmouths and criminal types a wide berth. Really, it's the leadership for the most part. Many of them flat out are Soviet moles. The rank and file, whether they're in or out, have little idea exactly what's going on.

"I'm sure there is a fairly large loser contingent as well. Little punks that could never stand on their own two feet."

"Sounds like what got tossed back from the Recruiting Center."

"Rejects about sums it up I guess. Guys that were mistreated by their mama. Or maybe guys that slept with their mama."

"Jesus, Yuki!"

"Hey boss! It happens."

I suppose she had a point there. It wasn't something I'd ever dwelled on before though. "What about the women?"

"From what Lupe says, they're a little less obvious. Bitter, probably. Been banged around once too often by somebody somewhere. Vicious too, no doubt. I've seen plenty of that. Probably just an assortment of deep and fundamental character flaws. They'd be harder to spot in a crowd."

"Well, it sounds like most of them are sufficiently lacking in ambition to appear in any of the mug books downtown. Bet the government has a good take on the leadership, though. Manny might have a line into something like that. Maybe I should also talk to this Lupe."

"I don't think so, boss. She's got a bad thing going about men. Maybe her wires are crossed or something. Just let me handle it."

"All right, but you be careful of her then."

"Naw, it's nothing like that. She's really a nice kid. But she's as serious as a crypt. She's got some story to tell that I haven't heard yet, a pretty nasty one no doubt. I suspect there're more reasons than her father's demise that she's this interested in those creeps. I'll get it out of her maybe, sometime, but I'm not going to push, at least as long as she's giving us the help."

"Up for dinner? Let's see what Manny's doing."

We rang over and Manny asked us join the family for dinner, so we motored on down to San Pedro in the evening rush. Veda put out a lovely spread of chicken and cheese enchiladas, with all the trimmings, and we lingered a long time over the food.

This was Yuki and Veda's first time meeting so they retired to the kitchen to talk over girl things. Veda had evidently taken a liking to the youngster and I hoped that the two would find a lot to gain from each other's company.

Manny and I lounged back in the family room and spent the evening discussing tactics and methods, operational security, and contingency plans. By the time we all called it a night, it was evident that Manny and I were on the same page and back in action again.

* * *

In the office the next morning Yuki continued relaying her thoughts from the week's research. "Their ultimate goal, of course, is to overthrow the government and establish a strong-arm dictatorship," she summarized.

"Not much chance of that happening here in the land of plenty, especially not after we just fought a war to keep most of the civilized world free from overbearing despots."

"You're forgetting that the Soviets easily grabbed half of Europe, had it handed to them more or less, and all of China and half its neighbors are in play right now."

"So how is this little gang of home-grown misfits going to overthrow this great land?"

"Lupe seems to know how they operate and she has given it a lot of thought. She's spent a lot of time speculating on the outcome. I guess she has been so close to it all her life that it frightens her.

"Anyway, she said that they recognize their limitations with recruitment, but follow a divide-and-conquer strategy. They want to destroy our unity by dividing the country by race, by social status, any way they can. Set women against men, young against old, Jews against Christians, whatever works. She called them 'identity groups.' We call it bigotry.

"The commies believe they can achieve their goals by appealing to the baser instincts of man while at the same time having them believe that they possess higher ideals. The focus on men's inate evil is the main reason they deny God and forcibly disbanded all worship behind the Iron Curtain. Like those labor union guys, they don't want any competition."

"It sounds like some kind of big mind game."

"Well it does all hinge on what Goebbels called the 'Big Lie.' Lupe agrees that at bottom it's psychological, a pathology. She thinks both the leaders and the followers are angry, maladjusted whole or partial misfits projecting their self-hatred onto their country and community.

"The head shrinkers call if transference, or projection, or something like that. The sick party mistakes his hatred for certain people, or himself, for some overrated slight on the part of an enemy. I don't know. It's a little complicated."

"Makes some sense," I reflected. "Just another in a long list of character flaws, I reckon. If these people were normal we'd never hear about 'em."

"In any event, these kinds offer no appeal to healthy, self-adjusted people, particularly those of us who are self-reliant, so they make us the target of all the focused hate from the "victim" groups. The leadership wants to use their recruits, as well as people outside the organization, 'fellow travelers' if you will, what Lenin referred to as 'useful idiots,' to destabilize the country to the point of breakdown. Or to where it has lost the will to defend itself."

"Think a gaggle of whining losers are gonna take us down?" I scoffed.

"No, but it could take another Civil War to put these subversives out of their misery. Scratch a leftist and you'll find a thug or a traitor waiting to get out."

"Well, Yuki, I'll just have to start checking under my bed for Lupe's demons."

"Go ahead and laugh, big guy. You make a hell of a lot bigger target than me."

"Maybe so, but I doubt they're much different than any other crime boss out there recruiting fresh meat for his racket. They go for the dummies and crybabies, and walk around people like you and me."

"That may be true. They'll get some of us, but they won't get the ones that matter. Truly they haven't got a prayer against this country. The only sad part is they are ruining a lot of lives, and will ruin even more. The weak gravitate to them like bugs to a light. But their little cockroach army won't be much of a threat to us free people. Besides, we're all armed and know what to do about it."

"What?! Are you packing these days?"

"Always have. It's a Vest Pocket revolver, .32 S&W short, nickel plate with a pearl handle."

I missed stifling a snort.

"I know," she sniffed. "A poodle-shooter, but it carries real well. I don't need Lupe to tell me there are a lot of sickos ranging around out there picking off strays. I've only had to pull it once so far.

"I sure missed it while I was camping. Monica kept it warm for me."

"Well, well, well. So where do you stash that thing?"

"Wouldn't you like to know!"

"Good on you, little girl. Keep your secrets."

This was an interesting development I hadn't ruminated on before. My little secretary was rodded up.

"So would you use that thing?" I asked her.

"Sure. If I had to."

"How would you use it?"

"What do you mean?"

"How would you take down an attacker?"

"I don't know," she said. I never really gave that much thought. In the heart?"

"Close. The preferred method is three shots: two to the chest and one to the head. In other words, two to the center mass and one between the eyes."

"That sounds like it would work. What's the theory behind it?"

"Well you shoot for center mass to guarantee success in even hitting the target. The point there is to slow down the attack.

"And the point of the head shot?"

"To cancel any further bad intentions."

"Ha! Cancel sounds like the right word."

"If you shoot straight, that's supposed to be the best way. And if you miss the head, just empty the gun into center mass and chances are the perp will forget whatever he had in his overtaxed mind anyway. It should have the same net effect, maybe just not as quick. And if you really hate the son of a bitch, gut shoot him and laugh as you walk away."

I was wondering how proficient she might be with the little revolver. If she was any decent I might just have to get her a proper carry weapon for those special occasions in a girl's life.

I carried an old hog's leg myself, when I carried at all. It was a .357 S&W with a 6-inch barrel, bustled up in a quick-draw shoulder rig under my left arm. I kept my service .45 in the desk and another at home.

"Got a permit for that thing?"

"Nope. I didn't expect a Jap could get one right after the war. Besides, I'm not inclined to consider government permission to arm to be any kind of reasonable request."

"Yeah, I hear you there. I got a few rods on permit that I use for the business, but they don't know about any of my personal stuff."

"Oh, yeah. Like what?"

"I brought a few things back from the war. I picked a nice Nambu pistol off a Jap officer. I picked up a couple more Type 94s just lying around but since sold them. I got my Tommy over here a couple of weeks before I thought I was coming back. Made up some story about losing it. But I ended up transferring to the occupation so Manny kept it for me. Some nice .22 revolvers.

"I'll slide some permitted iron for you to keep in your desk. It wouldn't do to have an unlicensed pistol show up on anything related to this agency. But by all means feel free to carry one for your own use."

"So what's the selection?"

"I've got two Colt Police Positives in .38 that are good for everyday carry. You can keep one of those in your desk. Also got a pair of matched 1911s, but I don't think you want to be handling a hand cannon like that. They're a pair of GI issue automatics. And that's it for licensed iron."

"I'll take the two .38s. I'll keep one here and one at home."

"Good plan. I know where I can get a specially made carry bag that'll look like a regular purse. So can I take you and your zip gun out to dinner? How's about that _yaki-niku_ you've been talking at me about? I could eat half a Holstein 'bout now."

"You're on, Boss. I'll take the other half! Maybe you can drop me off at the El Capitan when we're down to the bones. Or maybe we'll have time to tip one at the Bamboo Room after chow. I have a date with Monica for the 8:30 show. We're seeing Marsha Hunt in _Carnegie Hall_."

# October 1947

Yuki and I took a day off and spent it at a dry lake in the high desert out beyond the wind-blown hamlet of Little Rock. I'd fabricated a shooting bench and some targets out of some old lumber laying around in Manny's back yard. We worked our way through a few fins worth of ammo in a variety of firearms until she was squeezing them off the military way, and without flinching. It was also a good place to teach her the finer points of driving the Merc.

The workload stayed light and the only news on the work front was some information Yuki had picked up at the library. Lupe had learned through her network that just this month the communist parties of Europe and the USSR and established the Communist Information Bureau (Cominform) as a means of purging opposition and seizing absolute power in the European satellites. The Cominform Manifesto had demanded unified opposition to domestic socialist parties as well as several policies of the US and its allies. The new orthodoxy was used to justify the immediate arrest or elimination of all remaining non-party members of the various governments. The communist parties of the satellites and their secret police organs had achieved in days what had taken months and a civil war in the USSR.

Perusing the paper one afternoon Yuki said, "Hey, Boss, look here. It says this guy, Richard Krebs, just got US citizenship."

"Wasn't he the defector who wrote Out of the Night under the pen name Jan Valtin? I read that."

"Yeah, that's him. I read his story too when it came out in '41. He was a red-diaper baby, German-born, ended up working for the Soviets organizing sleeper cells in the maritime unions. He got in trouble with them and ended up spying in Nazi Germany. The Nazis caught him and he got away, but they kept his wife and kid. He got in trouble with the GRU again and escaped to the US when they tried to kidnap him for a one-way ride home. The Soviets got their revenge by getting the CPUSA to publicize his story in the Daily Worker and the Nazis got wind of it and murdered his wife."

"What a story," I sighed. "A die-hard communist agitator betrayed by his Soviet bosses as well as their American tools and fools. Guess he had enough of them and he's on our side now."

"Bet that's happened more than once."

"Walter Krivitsky comes to mind," I remembered. "Only they croaked him real quick."

"Yeah, Lupe has a file on the NKVD's SMERSH assassination squad. They murdered Krivitsky in his DC hotel room but it was covered up as a suicide. Another one murdered by SMERSH was Juliet Poyntz. As far as the authorities know she simply vanished, but Lupe says she was strangled and buried in the woods near FDR's estate outside New York City.

"And Whittaker Chambers also," I recalled.

"Yes. His story is that he was a faithful Commie spy until the Soviets demanded he abort his first-born and he refused. And now he is a respected journalist."

* * *

Yuki and I spent the better part of the ensuing weeks getting enough firearms practice in to the point where I was confident she could take care of herself. She learned the preferred method of taking down an assailant. I taught her to accurately point and shoot double-ought buck and deer slugs from a 20-gauge coach gun held at the waist; also to point and shoot the slow slugs from her smoky .32 revolver from various hand holds and positions.

Not long after I got the bright idea to get us a membership in the Calabasas Rod and Gun Club up in the hills of the west Valley. Through the Civilian Marksmanship Program out of Veterans Hall, Yuki was quickly able to qualify for a surplus M-1 carbine.

She even wangled an invite out of the armory to go down and handpick one for herself. I figured someone must have liked how she sounded over the phone.

She was good with the rifle so over the course of the month I picked her up a slightly more accurate old Swedish Mauser carbine, in 7 millimeter. For practice, she preferred the accuracy of the ancient Mauser, and I used a surplus Garand in 30.06 that I'd picked up from the armory.

Manny had found us a pair of folding stocks used on the old Paratrooper carbines, and we retrofitted our M-1s and kept one each for defensive use at home.

* * *

At the conclusion of one day's shoot she turned to me and said, "I hadn't really thought about it before."

"What's that?"

"How important it is to keep and bear arms. Where I come from there is no history of private ownership of firearms. Hell, they wouldn't let us common Japanese people use a wheeled cart until the Meiji restoration."

"Yeah, from what I heard from Sachiko, the entire history of that place was pretty much a bloodbath for any party who got crosswise with the top man and his samurai, whichever one it happened to be at the time. There's a good reason we're enjoying the domestic peace and prosperity of the longest continuous democracy in the history of the world."

"Good point. Those Samurai guys didn't need firearms anyway to do their job. They managed to get done whatever they needed to with blades. You know the main function of the _obi_ on the woman's _kimono_ was to conceal a dagger? There was always a slim chance she could get a drop on her tormenter and cancel him out before he got around to doing it to her. Mostly though they just died on their knees with their heads meekly bowed. Not a great place to be a woman. They even used crucifixion on women back in the old days. "

"Yeah, we've got our own marauders here and now. But at least you got a fighting chance; that is if you have the tools and the skills. And there isn't an enemy crazy enough to attack us on our own turf, what with every second cat and his offspring armed to the teeth."

"And skilled and practiced and ready."

"That too."

"Now that I remember, Monica's brother Jaime was in the rifle club in high school. When I was a little girl I'd often see him walking to school Wednesdays with his rifle slung over his shoulder. He cleaned that thing for an hour every Wednesday after school and kept it spotless, and I recall her telling me he'd acquired a number of surplus rifles after the war."

"Yeah, and their culture has no history of respect for individual rights either. But it doesn't take long to pick up on freedom once you're here, does it?"

"Not at all. Let's go to the movies tonight and see an old shoot-'em-up. I want to review again how not to do this."

I laughed. "You mean how wheel guns only need to be reloaded after every thirty rounds. And a single-action takes only seconds to reload. "

"Yeah, that's the scene. And where you can shoot a man half way across town with a stubby six-gun and plug an Indian on the next ridge with a short-barreled lever-action."

"And stand out there in the middle of the street like a totem pole and never get scratched. The only thing that kept us alive out in the Pacific was concealment. As much as possible you just did not break cover before the other guy did."

"The Hollywood way is definitely more entertaining. Let's go."

I rolled up on Yuki's place that evening just as she appeared from the doorway of her building. She looked stunning wrapped in the tight emerald sheath that I'd given her last week after the real estate tycoon paid off on an extortion case.

# November 1947

Moe rang me up early in the month to let me know he had called a meeting with Max, Lemme, and some other studio executives to develop some accord about ridding their lots of known Communists. They had already agreed in principal to implement a new policy of self-regulation to keep known Communists out, but they were also looking to fire those already present.

Moe's team was heading up the effort and had established contact with the DA's office for assistance with identifying suspect affiliations. He told me that the DA had worked closely with the Grand Jury put together in the summer of 1940 to investigate Communist infiltration of the film industry. Moe told me that the principal target at that time had been the Hollywood Branch of the Independent Citizens Committee of the Arts, Sciences & Professions (HICCASP). Only this year it had changed its name to the Progressive Citizens of America (PCA) and it was still in the DA's radar.

Moe told me that the DA was currently very heavily involved with the California Legislature's Un-American Activities Committee which was actively investigating a broad range of associations of CPUSA members and fellow travelers. They were also working with the US Congress' House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) which in September had opened investigations of film industry penetration by the Reds. The DA had supplied several of the 41 friendly witnesses that implicated Reds in the industry and that action alerted the studio heads to the problem. A former president of the Screen Writers Guild, a known CPUSA member, had appeared before the HUAC at the end of last month. That event caught Moe's attention and prompted this Meet of the Moguls to try and get ahead of the problem.

"Ray, I'd like to have Yuki sit in on the meetings as part of my team. She has a host of knowledge to share, and I'd like her to keep you fully informed of any new information and developments."

"That'll be fine with us, Moe. I'll make arrangements with Sally today."

"And Sally will be ready with a hefty retainer for Yuki's time, both here with the team and as she sees fit to continue her research."

Yuki was enthusiastic about the assignment and made an afternoon appointment with Sally to get details of the upcoming studio conference scheduled for the following week.

* * *

Yuki spent the entire day of the meet over at Magnum, calling at five to say they still hadn't finished and we'd talk tomorrow. She showed bright and early the next morning looking somewhat fatigued and distracted.

"Well, Boss. That turned into a hell of an event there yesterday. Those guys were all over the place. In the end they decided on a list of organizations whose membership they'd fire outright if they identified them on their lots. They also came up with a loyalty pledge for new hires and will do background checks on them to probe their political history and affiliations. Violating loyalty oaths or concealing background information will be grounds for termination.

"They went a little further than their own employees, though. They also came up with a list of independent talent, you know writers, directors and the like, that will be blackballed by all the studios. So far they got a nice even list of 10."

"Anyone we know," I joked.

"Not likely," she replied. "For all I know they might be among those that are facing contempt of Congress charges this month for refusing to cooperate. The studios seem to share Moe's main concern, which is to keep un-American types from influencing the product. They felt that this necessitated control over more than just employees to include others doing business with the studios. They agreed they'd all been snookered in the past to putting out propaganda for the benefit of the Soviet Union. And this solely as a result of specific individuals abusing their positions of trust. They want to ensure it doesn't happen again, so they want these saboteurs gone.

"The Chiefs are hoping that with help from the DA it won't be too hard to locate their termites. The background they obtained on the 10 was useful. One of them was a Communist Party member in the 1930s and joined the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League before the Molotov-Von Ribbentrop Pact changed their direction. After that went south he joined the Hollywood Writers Mobilization Against the War. Their goal had changed from opposing the Nazis to preventing the US from assisting Britain and France against the Nazi-Communist alliance. Not nice people at all."

"Anything else interesting from the DA?"

"Lots. By way of background they brought up the fact that most of the original US Communists from the late 1920s and early 1930s were not American citizens. Rather they were Slovaks, Poles, Sicilians, Germans, Jews, and other Europeans, people who had already been steeped in conspiracy and paranoia for most of their lives. The American Communist Party gained support primarily through the growth of labor unions and the proliferation of New Deal agencies.

"They were very successful in penetrating the Roosevelt Administration and all of the New Deal agencies set up during the Depression. You probably recall that Texas Congressman Martin Dies established the HUAC in 1938 expressly to investigate the Red penetration of government and labor in the 1940s, and their sabotage of the war effort.

"Richard Krebs, the ex-Comintern enforcer who wrote Out of the Night as Jan Valtin, testified in front of HUAC in 1941 that commies in the maritime unions were successfully compromising lend-lease aid shipments to Great Britain. War-time strikes at the Allis Chalmers turbine plant in Milwaukee and the Vultee aircraft plant here in LA got the Office of Naval Intelligence involved. FDR had to use Army troops to bust the strike at North American Aviation. Of course all that nonsense ended when Hitler broke the pact and the commie peaceniks turned into war hawks for Uncle Joe.

"One of the WPA programs HUAC particularly focused on was the Federal Theater and Writer' Projects. Since, they have focused on searching out moles in government and right now they are looking at Hollywood.

"Anyway, getting back to the profile, nowadays the average Communist is an American citizen, usually affiliated with the unions, the government, or with targeted institutions: journalism, education, churches, and the like. Communist networks usually consist of a mix of paid government officials, union activists, and student leaders at the top. Also certain specialists, depending on the missions of individual cells operating within the network."

I thought of Ruthie with her nose wedged in the public school curriculum.

"Even yet many of the old guard continue to work actively, covertly or openly, in full support of the Russian military propaganda machine and the Soviet terror state. Despite having knowledge of the recent history of their own people, they are still abetting the enslavement of millions worldwide.

"The FBI profiled the leadership types and determined some common traits. Perhaps the most common are audacity and a taste for mystery. They delight in putting one over on the dupes: the fellow travelers and useful idiots both inside and outside the network. They are typically very strong personalities and they're effective at enforcing discipline.

"While they tend to have a healthy respect for their American opposition, they view mere liberals as contemptible weaklings. The ACP's membership declined greatly in 1939 when the liberals abandoned the party after Stalin's treaty with the Nazis. The pact was a fortunate turn of events that enabled hundreds, if not to see the light, to at least escape Party discipline without retribution.

"That Shafter character is a good example of the leadership type. Moe got a detailed run-down on him from the DA. Seems he was big in the American Peace Mobilization formed in 1940 by the ACP and Young Communist League to support the USSR during the pact. They and the other front groups were funded straight from Moscow through the American People's Fund. Both were riddled with Soviet agents, including the founder and operator of the Fund. HUAC labeled them the most seditious of the Communist-led fifth column groups uncovered to date.

"More recently Shafter has become prominent in the American Council of the Institute of Pacific Relations, another Fund-funded communist front that answers directly to the Soviet Politburo. His wife Millie is involved with the China Aid Council, ostensibly a charity for war orphans, but actually a fund-raising subsidiary of the American League for Peace and Democracy, yet another front group."

"Jesus, he sounds like an octopus," I remarked. "Maybe that should be their symbol. They got their tentacles everywhere. How does someone keep up the energy level to sustain this kind of treason?"

"A high energy level fits the profile too. It sustains fanaticism and dedication. While the goofs below them may be servants to an idea, the leaders are strictly motivated by dreams of conquest and power. Would this describe Shafter?"

"Oh, yeah. Without a doubt."

"You see Moe isn't just content to see these types simply dismissed from the lot. He made it clear he'd like them taken out of the game, permanently hobbled or worse. The dupes he simply wants gone."

# December 1947

As a result of the recent work with Magnum, coupled with Moe's generous retainer there was enough jingle in the bank now to last us an easy half a year. It looked like Christmas was going to be good this year. I wrote a check for two months rent, set aside enough for Yuki's salary for the next several months, and drew a few hundred to get me through the holidays.

On impulse, I pulled out an extra three hundred to take shopping. I had absolutely no one to go shopping for except Yuki. I gave it some thought and then hit on the answer.

She was a special girl and she had come of age. I really needed some help with this one so I called Sally over at Magnum.

"Hi Sally, it's Ray. I could use a little advice. I'm looking to get a Christmas present for Yuki." I filled her in on it.

She said, "I could send you all over town for that, but let me check around. I think I can find you just what you want, at wholesale."

I was a little taken aback by that, but I thanked her and she said she'd get back to me in the morning.

Yuki took the call in the morning and patched her in. I greeted her and asked her to hang on a second. I got up and poked my head around the corner to see if Yuki was listening, but she was busy with her emery board. Back on the wire, Sally said, "Ray, can you meet me at noon today down at Jos. Banks?"

"No problem, where is it?"

"Down on Broadway and 4th."

I told her I'd be there at noon.

I hung up and Yuki popped in.

"Does Sally have a new case for us?"

"Naw, she just called to wish us a Merry Christmas from Moe and the gang." "Oh, how thoughtful. They're really such fine people."

I killed another hour looking at Lupe's most recent file and finally got up and grabbed my hat.

I told Yuki on the way out, "I gotta meet a man about a horse. I'll be back a little later."

She shot me a surprised look of disapproval and muttered, "I didn't know that about you, Ray."

I almost laughed in her face, but managed to get out of there first.

Down to Broadway I lucked into a parking slot on the street. Sally was talking to the owner when I made the salon. I walked up and Sally introduced us.

The lady's name was Ruby. She was a grandmotherly looking woman. She looked like she knew her business. She led us into a back room and snapped her fingers.

A young girl that could have passed for her daughter popped out of the archway of a dressing room wearing a gorgeous silver fox jacket. A Size 2, it looked just right on the petite girl. I didn't even dare to ask how much this was going to set me back. I just hoped I had enough in the bank to cover it.

The owner said, "I do believe this should do nicely."

I said, "Oh yes, I couldn't have chosen better myself."

Sally must have noticed I had broken out in a sweat while the lady was taking the coat away. She pulled me aside and said, "It's not as expensive as it looks, Ray. We got the deep Magnum discount on it. It even comes with a life-time of free storage in the vault upstairs."

At the counter I was presented with a bill for $250 which I quickly paid in cash. The lady informed me that the jacket was registered with the establishment and that we should feel free to seek any assistance we might need over the lifetime of the garment.

I walked out to the street with Sally. She gave me kind of a funny smile and said, "Ray, I hope she likes it. Merry Christmas to both of you!"

I drove straight uptown to the Arms, hid the package in my room, and beat it back to the office.

This was my first Christmas back in the states and it looked like it might be a bleak affair. Yuki and Manny were both making preparations with their families. I had no inclination to return to Virginia because I didn't feel sufficiently established in my business to take the time off. So I scribbled out a long note to my folks and shipped it off along with a souvenir crate of San Fernando Valley oranges.

Christmas fell on a Saturday that year, and on the last day of work I asked Yuki if I could deliver my present that Christmas Eve.

She said, "Why don't you come around Christmas day to my parent's house. I'll be attending mass with them tonight and staying over. We usually get together there and exchange presents over with the Reyes before afternoon dinner. Jaime and Monica will have their friends there. I'll be so very happy to have you with me."

I hadn't expected this. "Sure, I'd be glad to come along."

So I dropped by Manny's later in the evening and watched him and Veda and the kids finish preparations. After they put the little ones to bed, I stuck around there for one drink and took a powder.

On the way back through town I stopped at the Blue Saloon and spent what was left of Christmas Eve with Lucy and the regulars.

* * *

Christmas day at the Reyes house proved to be a joyous and festive occasion. We started out sitting around the tree while the children opened their presents, collected their booty, and waddled off to play. We adults were next. I gave Yuki a silk scarf I'd found down in Little Tokyo the week before. It was snow white with an austere looking bamboo print on it.

Yuki's mother had gotten her father a set of new sushi-carving tools. He presented her with an exquisite, tall, thin-necked ceramic vase that featured a winter scene consisting of an abundance of mountains covered with hundreds of tiny conifers. Yuki gave me a carved, personalized desk set with a fountain pen and ink holder.

Jaime brought a local girl about Yuki's age he called Tita. Monica was with a neighborhood boy named Hector. It was my first time meeting her mom, Luz, the owner of the corner grocery. She spent much of her time in the kitchen with her neighborhood friends preparing the feast to follow. The dinner was impressive on several levels and I had never experienced anything like it.

Once the afternoon wound down, I asked Yuki if I could give her a lift back to her place. She accepted so we made our good-byes and found the car. I asked if she would like to stop by my place for a nightcap on the way home. Her eyes lifted and she looked straight ahead. She'd never been to my place before, but she agreed and we rolled on toward Hollywood.

A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Arms. I got her door and guided her over to my rooms, made a fake production of checking the place out for bad guys, and let her in.

I turned on every light I could find.

She hadn't moved from the doorway so I asked her to pull up a chair. I excused myself and walked into the kitchen to mix her a Highball and pour myself a Bourbon Rocks. When I returned she had taken a seat on one side of the couch and sat there demurely with a quizzical look on her face.

I handed over her drink and told her, "It's been a good year for me Yuki. You've been a big part of it. You really helped me get this business off the ground. I got a Christmas present especially for you but I didn't think it was appropriate to drag over to the Reyes' place."

I walked over to the closet and pulled out the garment bag.

She stood up, taking the bag, and pulled down the zipper and slipped the jacket out. Her eyes bugged out and she gaggled, "Ray, it's too much! I can't possibly accept something so... so wonderful, so expensive."

"You earned it," I told her. "Besides it's too late to give it back. It's got your name embroidered in it."

She exposed the lining and saw Tomoe Suzuki lettered in _Kanji_ characters in silver thread.

I took the jacket from her hands and held it out for her. She shrugged into it and turned around. Her eyes were moist.

"It's so wonderful. It makes me feel like a woman."

"You are a woman, a beautiful woman. And one I'm most happy to know." She came into my arms and gave me a big squeeze, then backed away real quick. I reached over and fetched her drink. We toasted each other and tossed off the drinks. I helped her get the fox back into its sack, and grabbed my jacket.

"Well, I hope I'll have lots of occasions to see it on you."

"I'll see to that," she replied

She looked radiant as I dropped her off at her rooms at the Carondelet Manor.

# February 1948

As business remained slow in the New Year I took on a client I would have heretofore shined on. I'd just finished sticking my nose into his domestic squabble and closed his case in less than 24 hours. The client had been a well-to-do executive over at Angeles Investments. Things had worked out in his favor.

He had managed to get enough evidence on his cheating better half to drop her cold and leave her penniless. I caught him at the height of his exuberance, and he was extremely generous with the check. I rushed to deposit it at the bank and stopped by the Blue Saloon for a little private celebration. Not much had happened since and it was already late February.

So today I was sitting around the office waiting for the phone to jangle and leafing through some old files. I'd just got the thought to knock off for the day when I heard the outer door open.

My ears perked up when I heard a feminine voice that was somewhat familiar to me. A moment later Yuki appeared at my desk red-faced and excited. With some apparent difficulty she said, "Miss Lane is here to see you. The Miss Lane."

"Well, what do you know? Show her in."

Yuki scuttled on out of there and Miss Lane appeared at the door. Taken as a package she was stunning, a tall leggy brunette with character and intelligence written large across her face. With some difficulty I palmed my lower jaw back into place.

I walked around the desk and offered her my paw. She gave it a brisk shake and I asked her if she would care to sit down. She took the chair in front of the desk. Back in my seat I rummaged in behind the office bottle and found an unopened fifth of cognac. I pulled it out and slapped in on the desk, but she declined.

She said, "I really haven't much time. But I've never met you or had a chance to thank you for everything you did for me last summer. Moe mentioned you the other day and I asked him where I could look you up. He gave me this address."

I told her it was always a great pleasure to help out Moe and the studio and I was glad that her problem had been taken care of as well. I asked her, "Do you mind if I call in my secretary for a moment? She's a big fan of the movies and I know her little ears are burning out there."

Miss Lane laughed and said, "Why, no, by all means."

I got up again and stuck my head out the door and said, "Yuki, I need you in here." She entered with tentative steps and I motioned her to pull up a chair. She looked only slightly more composed than the last time I saw her.

"Yuki, I'd like you to meet Miss Lane. Miss Lane, this is my secretary Miss Suzuki." They shook hands and looked at each other for a second. Then Yuki let her have it, peppering her with questions. And then they were talking of things about which I had no clue. Being as I myself had no idea what to say to Magnum's most alluring star, I was perfectly content to sit back and watch.

Miss Lane parried the questions with ease and she seemed generally enthralled with Yuki. It was mutual. After about a half an hour I decided I might come to Miss Lane's rescue, before this turned into a real hen party. I rose from behind the desk and said, "Perhaps we've taken enough of your time, Miss Lane."

"On the contrary, it's wonderful to meet someone as charming as your Miss Suzuki. In fact I have no pressing engagements this evening. I would be delighted if the two of you could join me for dinner."

Yuki's mouth popped open and she looked like a teenager begging to stay out an extra hour. I grinned and said, "We'd be delighted, that is if Miss Suzuki isn't otherwise occupied."

She shot me a glare and said, "That would be so very nice."

Vivian said, "Fine, let's meet at Chez Louis at eight o'clock. Just ask the headwaiter for my table."

As she rose to leave, I reached back into my desk and pulled out one of my cards. I handed it to her, saying "Please, keep one of these handy and don't hesitate to contact me if there is any emergency we can help you with."

She tucked it into her clutch. Yuki escorted her through the outer office. I heard the door close and Yuki came bouncing in.

"Otherwise occupied? When am I ever otherwise occupied?"

"Aw honey, I thought maybe you had a movie date tonight."

"Like ducks. Can you pick me up at the Carondelet about seven-thirty?"

"Sure, doll. But you better take off now. I got to go get spruced up myself. Wait a second Yuki."

I walked over to the window and looked down to the street. There was a stretch limousine double-parked right outside the door of the building. A few seconds later Miss Lane appeared. The chauffer let her into the back of the vehicle and they zoomed away.

I noticed then that a car across the street left the curb. I could have sworn that the driver looked up at me as he swung a U-turn into traffic, but then he was gone. I mulled that for a moment and then, turning to Yuki, said, "So what are we gonna wear?"

"I know what I'm wearing, but you better wear that fine dinner jacket you got for that opening you took Monica and I to last fall."

"That's what I was thinking. What about you?"

"I've got a few things you've never seen. How about if I make it a surprise?"

"That'll be just fine."

Yuki bounced across the room and jumped in my arms. "Thank you, Ray."

"Don't thank me. Thank her. She's the generous one."

She tightened her hold and said, "You know what I mean."

She planted a quick kiss on me and tore out of there. I stayed at the window and watched her hurry on down to the bus stop at the corner. It was a pleasure to see my little star-struck secretary so happy. This was going to be a great night for her.

The feeling was contagious so I put away my files and locked up and got out of there. Arnie was reading one of his dime-store detective novels in the elevator when the doors opened. "Who done it this time, Arnie?" I asked.

"This one's got me baffled," he admitted. "I think it's going to turn out to be the old guy in the wheelchair. I already figured out he ain't lame."

I looked at the cover and there was a sinister mug holding an oversized rod in one fist and tearing the clothes off a frail with the other. I couldn't figure out what that had to do with an old imposter in a wheel chair, but contented myself with the thought that the cover seemed to apply itself well to any of the pulp fiction novels.

Arnie set me down at the lobby. I walked across, noticing that the tobacco stand was already closed.

My sweet little secretary was standing at the curb in her silver fox jacket when I showed up just before 7:30.

* * *

Next morning a call came in from Jim Brand at LAPD Central Bureau. He reported that they'd found one of Magnum's starlets left for dead up by the Observatory. There was no ID on her, but my card had been found secreted in a compartment of her purse and she'd been identified by one of the nurses down at County. Would I please come in to explain?

Recalling the shadow that had taken off after Vivian's limousine yesterday, it seemed on the face of it that the San Pedro bunch or someone had been staking her out. Maybe they assumed she had told me something the afternoon before.

I put in my time at the PD and got over to Moe's office before lunch. Moe was lathered up into a righteous fury.

"Ray, as of today you're on permanent retainer to Magnum Studios. Take what it needs. Do what it takes. Get the job done. I want to hear about these bastards swinging in the wind. As many of them as you can corral. We got the green room up there at the Q for a reason. Nail 'em to the cross!"

He sat back abruptly, fished a hanky from inside his vest, and passed it over his reddened face and eyes. After he'd wound down a little he said, "Ask Sally to cut you a check for what you need on the way out."

"You got it, Moe. I'll be across town for the next little while. Will you be needing regular reports?"

"Not at all. When you've got some good news to share, give me a ring and we'll meet at the Club over a cigar. I'm looking forward to it."

We both stood up and our eyes locked. He looked determined. I was equally determined not to disappoint him.

"I'm looking forward to it too, Moe. Take good care of Vivian. Call my girl Yuki if you need to get in touch with me."

He walked me to the door where Sally was waiting for me, blank check in hand. I gave her a number. She inked it on and handed it up to me with an impertinent grin.

"Go get 'em, Raymond. Moe's mighty soft on Vivian, and we're all missing her around here. He thinks you're the one that's going to get these thugs off our backs for good."

"He's right, Sally. I'll give it my best."

If she only knew.

* * *

The anonymous phone call came in later that afternoon. Yuki patched it over.

"You better back off, shamus, or we'll put the screws to you. Or maybe to that slant cooze you've been making time with." He had me chuckling in astonishment when the connection broke.

Yuki tossed her head in a second later wearing a big scowl. "Did that SOB on the line just threaten me?"

I said, "He couldn't have. I don't know any 'slant cooze.' I don't know anyone even fits the general description."

Her face brightened. "OK, boss," she said.

"You still carrying that pop gun around?" I asked her.

"Sure thing, and I got the .38 in my desk with the carry bag."

In a way, I was glad she'd heard. I hadn't wanted to tell her about the other threats that had come my way, figuring they'd try to jump me before they ever got around to taking it out on her. I was getting a little worried now and was starting to wonder if she had given this a little thought before joining up.

There weren't many men that would go after a woman for simply having a job, but these weren't men. They were cowards, and from what I'd grown to understand their ideology was incompatible with a fundamental respect for human life or the protection of innocents.

Even Mafioso and street criminals had a code of ethics that precluded this kind of crap. They might not step far out of their way to protect women and children, but most criminals were still human beings with some kind of character.

Reds, on the other hand, had already acquired an international reputation for being equal-opportunity killers. These particular goons had the mentality of the union thug: they didn't care whose head they bashed in or who they trampled under foot as long as it was directed by or met the approval of the leadership.

My dad had always told me, 'Listen when people talk to you. They're trying to tell you who they are.' I had a good idea which creep had uttered the threats over the phone, and I intended to see him dead for it.

"What about the lawyer?" Yuki mused. "You got to know that he's covering them."

"No, I think we can leave the lip out of this. He'll get his some day. There'll come a day when they have no more use for him, and he knows too much about them to be allowed to retire."

I gave it a few more minutes and sidled over to the window. I spotted the mutt right away. He was across the street, half a block up, leaning against the bus stop with a newspaper unfolded in front of him, holding down the sidewalk. A tall specimen with enormous shoulders, his arm muscles strained inside an ill-fitting jacket. He was trying hard to maintain a casual pose but still looked out of place.

I couldn't be sure which one of us he was after. I thought I'd let him stew out there for a while.

* * *

Just before quitting time I sauntered into the outer office and approached Yuki. "I've got a hankering for some Chinese tonight. Are you free this evening?"

"Sure am, Boss. Chinese sounds great!"

I wandered back into the office for my jacket and took another peek. The meatball hadn't budged. I strapped on the shoulder harness and fitted in the S&W.

We closed up the office at five, took the lift down to One, strolled on out through the lobby, and hit the street together. I dallied at the curb for a moment to make sure we'd been spotted then stepped into the street to hail a cab. The shadow got into motion and rapidly moved down to the end of the block.

It wasn't a minute before a cab showed. The tail was hastily jaywalking to our side of the street. I took my time folding Yuki into the back seat, then stood there patting my pockets like an idiot while the boy found his ride. I slid in beside Yuki.

"Chinatown, driver. Take your time."

Yuki said, "This sure was a last minute surprise."

"Yeah, I guess I worked up a hunger over this business. Something made me think of Peking duck. I thought it was time we gave ourselves a treat."

"Great idea. But next time Boss, give a girl a little time to get fixed up."

"I never noticed where you needed any fixing up."

The color rose in her cheeks. She turned and planted a wet one on my cheek. I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

"Let's take a walk tonight."

The cab turned onto Hill and I signaled the cabbie to pull over. We got out, crossed the street and sauntered down the block past some Chinese markets. I glanced back and caught sight of the shadow paying off his cab. He walked on the opposite side of the street.

Young Chow's Dim Sum Emporium was across the intersection on the corner. I pointed it out to Yuki and asked her how that would work. She gave me a nod and we walked on over to the menu posted at the doorway. I patted down my pockets and made some motions like I needed to go buy some smokes.

"You go on in and rustle us up a couple of drinks and pick out an appetizer. I'll be right there."

Yuki tossed me a funny look and walked on in. I moved over to the plate glass window and saw the tail hurrying across the intersection. I made a few inane gestures like I was communicating with someone inside the restaurant then made a beeline around the corner and up the block. As I expected, there was an alley behind Young Chow's and I ducked in and made for the kitchen door.

A second later the muscle was coming up the alley with a purposeful stride. Another second and he was passing by me. I lashed out with my right leg and collapsed his left with a devastating kick to the knee. There was a wrenching tearing sound, followed by a sharp snap as he leaned my way. The pug bellowed with rage and reached out for me. The murder in his eyes changed to a look of astonishment as he started flailing to keep his balance.

The big pile of meat teetered for a moment, and then keeled over in my direction. I brought my right knee up abruptly and crashed it into his temple.

He bolted upright and nearly regained his balance. I delivered a roundhouse kick to his groin that almost lifted him off his feet. He doubled over again. Shifting legs, I delivered my best 80-yard punt straight into his face. His nose exploded in a shower of blood as he jerked upright again.

I couldn't believe this goblin was still standing. Speed and unrestrained mayhem usually trumped unsuspecting muscle every time. I dropped low and swept my leg in a wide arc, taking him off of his feet at both ankles. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, his head bouncing off the pavement with a sickening crack.

By this time two old Chinese cooks had made it out the door beside me and were standing there grinning and nodding their approval. The big guy was out cold and I wasn't sure I hadn't killed him, not that I really cared. I gave him a quick frisk and lifted his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. The folding money I extracted and handed over to the Chinamen. I pocketed his union card and tossed the wallet back on his chest.

The cooks followed me back into the kitchen, giggling and fondling their cash. I made my way back to the dining room and joined up with Yuki at the booth.

"I took the liberty of ordering for us," she said.

"Good thing. I'm so starved I could eat a horse, or whatever it is that's served here."

* * *

Yuki didn't appear the next day, but she was already at her desk when I got in to the office Friday morning. Before I'd even got my coat off, she said, "Ray, I think I stumbled on something at the library yesterday. Lupe had all her files with her yesterday. She finally opened up to me. I spent all day there going over them with her. I think I can put some of this together."

Yuki fixed us some coffee and pulled out her notes. "Lupe's dad was a seaman, crew on the Dona Maria, a coastal tanker run by General Petroleum out of Los Angeles Harbor. Her dad and Mr. Reyes were active in the maritime union and had been since they were young.

"In searching for her father's killers, Lupe has been focusing on maritime subversion. The head of the marine section of the Comintern in San Pedro was reputed to be this Ukrainian named Malkovich. But he disappeared during the war and it's not too clear who replaced him.

"Her dad was also involved with the Seaman's Club. The Comintern had a section set up to try to infiltrate and destroy this club and replace it with something they created, the International Club. Her father, though a socialist, was dead set against this and worked hard to prevent the subversion of his club. She has never been able to find out who was heading up that effort. The problem I had with this information was that Monica's father had no known connection with the club. The club really had nothing to do with the union.

"There was a brief mention in her stuff of the Profintern, sort of a Red International of Labor Unions. Apparently this was a Comintern apparatus set up to infiltrate and destroy non-communist unions. From what I could tell the girl's dads were big traditionalists and were heavily invested in the union as it was, so I imagine they were resistant to this push. I think they were killed at the behest of this apparat. But she also has no information as to who was heading up the Profintern at the time, or even today."

I told her, "Yeah that makes sense to me. I bet that silly witch Ginzberg has some juicy files on the subject."

She said, "No doubt. But her workplace is secured like a fortress. I could never get to those files. "

"Well, I think you're on the right track. It all comes back to the unions. Those unionists are touchy bastards and they're well covered by lawyers. My guess is some of them are real patriotic. We could ask Manny to goose some of those officials down at the harbor. He might be able to come up with a good contact. Sounds like the only way."

* * *

Sally called late that afternoon to say that Miss Lane had recovered to the point where she could have visitors. I asked Yuki to go down there and check on her. She reported back to me around mid-morning.

"Oh, Ray! They shot her in the face! She was so beautiful..."

"If she pulls through, she'll be beautiful again. Moe will see to that. We know who these clowns are now. I'm going to bust this gang wide open."

"They're absolute demons to go after Miss Lane," Yuki moaned. "She never wanted anything to do with them, never even knew who they were."

"Really," I agreed. They're just murdering sociopaths that would sooner eliminate their conscience than fight it. Remember your psychology. These guys are basically sadists. They wrap themselves in a mantra of idealism to justify any kind of barbarity undertaken to achieve their ends."

"You're on to something there, Boss. Lupe calls them "humanitarians with guillotines,' I guess because their infantile idealism compels them to mass murder."

"Yeah, our founding fathers would have hunted these people down and hung them."

"So will my people."

"What? Japan?"

"Sure, Japan. And Germany too. These slobs like to prey on weakness and who's weaker now than the defeated countries. But both are homogeneous societies where people have a sense of duty and a strong work ethic. Leeches and deadbeats get no sympathy and are accorded no special rights by my people. They are easy to isolate and marginalize. The Soviets have been trying to subvert Japan since the end of the war. I don't want my country having anything to do with Stalin and his merry band of thugs. Fortunately MacArthur came up with a brilliant Japanese solution to the problem.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"He recognized that the underworld, the _Yakuza_ , were the only intact organization left for the Occupation to deal with. He cut deals with the _Yakuza_ to, among other things, assist with the distribution of relief supplies. And he suggested to the _Yakuza_ bosses that the Communists and unions were looking to step in on the action. As a result Japanese commies are routinely beaten senseless or fed to the fish. Even Sachiko told me she'd heard from some friends that the Soviets had infiltrated the big shipyard being rebuilt in Sasebo. They were agitating some major trouble until the Fukuoka gangs cleaned house all over _Nishi Kyushu_. "I don't see why that can't be done here," she pouted.

"True, but it's what we're doing, isn't it?"

"Are we?"

"Oh yes we are. One by one, or in pairs or cells, Moe's hired us to do our part to help take them out of the game. Dead or crippled, it doesn't really matter. It's the best we can do with the enemy already entrenched everywhere. Moe isn't paying us to take prisoners."

* * *

I got hold of Manny down at precinct just before noon.

"OK, Manny. I want to pick up one of these union boys and sweat him. I want to pick the turd that's the least committed. I think I know which one I want. He didn't look like a slogan-tosser, and he seemed a little too cynical to be a true believer, maybe also a tad too independent to toe the party line."

"When do you want to get him?'

"Tonight."

"Do you know where we can pick him up?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good. I know just the place to get this done. I get off at five. Be at my place at six."

* * *

Manny and I were on the sidewalk in front of the union hall by six-thirty and didn't have long to wait. We trailed him up the block toward City Hall. At the alley we got up behind him and I took him down. He bawled out like a branded calf, so Manny gave him a smart rap on the skull with his sap. That shut the punk up. Manny kicked him under a bush and tried to look nonchalant. I retrieved the Merc and we tossed him in the trunk.

I could hear Lenny flopping about as Manny hot-footed my heap up O'Farrell Street away from the waterfront. The chase car picked us up as we crossed Pacific. It was a long five-window coupe of pre-war vintage, but I could hear the souped-up plant as it drew up rapidly on our rear.

"They've marked us, Manny," I croaked as I turned into the approaching headlamps.

The signal was green at the Gaffey Street intersection, and Manny swung left in front of a citizen entering from the west. The citizen skidded into the intersection behind us, tires shrieking and smoking, and the big coupe lost a second getting around it. Under the lights at the intersection I thought I was eyeballing at least two gomers in the front seat of the tail car.

Manny tore south down Gaffey asking "Whadda we got?"

"A good driver and what looks like one torpedo riding shotgun. I couldn't see any more."

"And the rig?"

"Looks to be a hopped-up Nash or LaSalle, pre-war, probably a straight 8."

"Heavy car, huh?" Manny turned and grinned, and suddenly backed off on the gas.

"What gives?"

"I got an idea how to fix their wagon, maybe permanently. Hang on, keep your eyes open, and tell me what you're seeing."

Checking the mirror, he skidded right onto 25th and took off west out of San Pedro. The tail car was still with us as we entered the county on Palos Verdes Drive. Manny scooted along through wisps of fog along the bluffs overlooking the Pacific, and I started wondering what exactly, if anything, he had in mind.

Manny gave some more ground as we approached Portuguese Bend. Before I could sound the alarm, the coupe swung out to overtake us. A pair of rapid shots rang out as the Merc's side window exploded. Manny goosed the pedal and jumped ahead, accelerating wildly into the gloom. The coupe swung in behind again and roared up close on our tail. Flame shot from the passenger's side, but the slug didn't connect. It was lonely out here and I was starting to seriously question Manny's plan.

My stomach plunged when I turned face forward and goggled the low white wooden barricade set dead in our path. Manny let out a whoop and jerked the wheel to the left, sending the heavy Merc across the oncoming lane and into the gravel before setting it straight and back into the right lane.

The lights following us abruptly disappeared and Manny coasted to a halt in the misty darkness, softly chuckling.

"What the hell was that?"

"You'll see."

He backed the crate across the road and returned east, approaching a smaller barricade set up in the westbound lane. Steam was rising from a dark hole behind the barrier.

"I noticed this last week when we followed some juvies up here. The thought came to me on Gaffey because we'd picked up on them there. They tried to do this to us, but their ride was a little low and Riley seen it coming. "

He pulled up alongside and I saw the wreck of the long coupe, its tail end sticking up at a sharp angle from the sizable excavation. Two spider webs frosted the windshield on either side of the center post, and a sleeved arm hung from the open driver's window.

"A great place to lose these clowns, ya think?"

"Works for me. Shame about that sweet automobile, though. Let's leave those two for the Good Samaritan."

Manny chortled some more and ran on down the road a piece to a little turnout. We turned the car around and headed back west along the coastal route. Nothing had stirred as we passed by the wreck again, but a little less steam was coming up from the ruined front end.

I saw the sign for Point Vicente Park up ahead. "Let's work on him here."

"Naw. This is way too close to home for me. And no roadside parks; they're watched. Besides I'm starved. Let's get the hell out of here and get some chow. I know the perfect place to sweat this weasel, but it's a good ways out of town. Out near your gun club, in fact. I'm gonna pull over here shortly and put him in a bag so we can take our time over dinner."

Manny bypassed the park and the lighthouse, taking a right beyond the point onto Hawthorne Boulevard. About a mile up the hill he stopped and backed into a dirt drive that curved around behind the local airpark. 'Zemperelli Field' the sign said.

I grabbed the electric torch from the glove box and got out. Manny had the trunk open and was chuckling some more. Lenny was groaning and rolling back and forth on the floor of the trunk. Manny pulled the short sap from his belt and tapped him again behind the ear. Lenny went limp, but was still breathing heavily. I worked his arms behind his back as Manny pawed around for the rope. I stood back and watched Manny hogtie the weasel until he looked like a chrysalis. Next he pulled out a roll of tape and wrapped it around Lenny's head, covering the mouth. Satisfied that the punk wasn't going to expire for lack of air, he shoved the package further into the trunk and slammed the lid.

"You hungry?" Manny asked.

"Not yet. I've had the adrenalin flowing ever since we snatched this jerk, and I think the let down is going to hurt my appetite."

"That's all right. We got a ways to go. You want to eat good. This might take all night."

We found civilization again over the hill in Torrance. Manny turned at the Coast Highway and drove north through the beach communities of Redondo and Hermosa. We picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and headed north toward the International Airport.

Manny kept going all the way through West Los Angeles and the night air turned crisp as we rose through the pass. A sparse few lights twinkled below us as we snaked down the mountain into Encino, but the broad expanse of the valley before us was as dark as a mine. The air was clear though, and the lights of Burbank and Toluca Lake were visible far to the east.

Manny picked up Ventura Boulevard westbound. As we passed through the orange groves at Tarzana I was grateful I'd fueled up on the way over to get him. Manny followed the _El Camino Real_ out of the Valley and down the long grade toward the county line. About the time I started wondering if we'd be dining with the hoi-polloi in Santa Barbara, Manny abruptly turned south at Brents Junction and rolled into the gravel lot at the Canyon Diner.

Pulling in beside the place he said, "I could eat a horse, but I'll settle for steak long as you're paying."

"Yeah, well you've given me better than an hour to work up an appetite, so I hope you're in no particular hurry."

"I'm not really looking forward to this anyway. Let's get us a few drinks and take our time. We got all night."

I debarked and glided absently around back of the car and tapped on the trunk. No answer. We sidled into the diner and picked a corner booth overlooking the lot. The dinner hour was long passed, and the booths near ours were vacant. A dapper specimen and what looked to be his young daughter were holding down the corner booth at the far end of the joint. An elderly party was seated by himself near the middle of the counter, hunched over a turkey dinner plate.

The waitress was standing hipshot against the serving window, casting us an eyeball and snapping her gum. After some befuddled deliberations, she cast off the wall and sauntered around the end of the counter, grabbed a pair of menus, and slapped them down on our table.

Manny flashed her the big brown eyes and tossed her a line. "You look familiar. We met yet?"

"Not in this life, big boy."

"Too bad. What's your name?"

"Ellie."

"Ellie, I could swear I'd seen you on the lot down at Premier Studios. We're on our way to a late night shoot up in Ventura. Maybe we can work you in. Whaddaya say?"

"Easy there, hoss. I got someplace to be tonight. Every night. After here."

"Suit yourself. What's good out of the kitchen?"

"Tonight it'd be the fried fish. Y'all take your time with the menu, and I'll be right over there when you holler."

"Sho 'nuff, Ellie." Manny picked up a menu and buried his face in it to keep from laughing, but Ellie had already shoved off.

"I hope we're not too close to the scene of the crime," I gabbled.

"Oh, we're close enough. But there ain't no one gonna be following up on a complaint that don't get filed. If ol' Lenny gets picked up by the Sherriff's, he'll keep his trap shut. His only concern will be in getting clear of this state, and but fast."

"Maybe, but spreading it thick around here doesn't seem too smart. We don't look like Hollywood."

"You don't look like Hollywood. You look like a cop. Me, I look like Hollywood. Anybody asks, I'm talent. You work in the back office reading scripts or something."

"OK, let's eat. To hell with the fish. I'm having a mess o' ribs. Something that's gonna stick to me. Lenny might not look so pleasant later on."

"I'll get the Porterhouse, good buddy, and a double shot of Jack. You'll get the tab."

"Now I know why you've been laughing all night. I thought you were maybe turning into a goof."

I was on my third Beam when Ellie brought the check and told us she was locking up. She was a little late. According to the clock on the wall, it was already half past the posted closing time.

She'd been busying herself behind the counter for the last little while, looking like she was trying to make her mind up about something. I was hoping it wasn't Manny's bogus offer.

"Blow" I told him.

He tossed off his drink, shoved off, and shot Ellie a leer as he pushed on out the door. I took a last pull on the Beam and sauntered over to where Ellie waited behind the cash. "My job is to keep him out of trouble. Thanks for the assist." I slapped down a sawbuck.

"He looks like a handful. And y'all're welcome." She eyeballed the bill and held her ground, so I turned and walked.

"Come back anytime. When you're alone."

I turned and tipped my hat. "Sure, kid." I gave her my best 'forget-about-it' look and slid on out the door.

The lot was empty. I stood there wondering what was going to happen next when I heard the growl of the flathead V8 from around side of the building. The Merc pulled up in front and the door popped open. I got in and slammed the door, and Manny spun some gravel in the lot as he swung round and got on the road north toward the highway.

"He was kicking when I got out here, so I went around out back and had a little talk with him. He's beginning to understand the new rules."

Manny turned into the filling station, closed at this hour, and rolled around back with the nose poking out to where we could watch the diner. The cook had left a half hour ago, and it wasn't a couple minutes later when the lights went out and an old jalopy wheezed out onto the road and north to the highway. We watched her head west down the highway.

The junction was now deader than Pharoah's tomb, and twice as dark. Manny gunned it out of there heading south down Malibu Canyon toward the coast. I rolled my head back and gave up trying to figure what was up.

Down at the bottom of a long grade we turned left before a narrow bridge on to a beat up strip of macadam. Manny reported that Piuma Road led up the lee side of the last big ridge of mountains before the coast, and from the top there were at least two or three different routes to follow down into Malibu.

The road followed a seemingly endless series of broad switchbacks up the side of the mountain. Near the top of the ridge Manny pulled into a wide turnout flanked by a low-stone wall. The view out the passenger's side window was spectacular. A nearly full moon had risen just above the horizon, and it was casting brilliant reflections across the uncharacteristically calm Pacific waters for as far as the eye could see. The stars were entirely obscured by the distant city lights.

Manny pulled ahead, turned the wheel, and backed the car up to the wall and set the hand brake. I got out and walked over to the wall. There was nothing beyond it, and that nothing extended downward for at least a thousand feet to some steep, rocky slopes near the canyon floor. Little wavelets in Malibu Creek shimmered where the water exited the canyon.

This was a good night for wet work, as long as we were quiet about it. A good shout from up here would carry all the way to the houses that dotted the shoreline along the coast highway far below. I looked to the south. Beyond the lights of Santa Monica and the beach communities, the Palos Verdes Peninsula from whence we'd come was obscured by a light fog.

Manny unlatched and raised the trunk lid, and there was Lenny squirming like a landed fish. This time he sported a burlap bag loosely tied around his head. At Manny's direction, we heaved the weasel from the trunk and sat him down propped against the wall. He was shaking like an enraged Chihuahua.

Manny took a 10-foot length of thick hemp rope and tied a bowline around the punk's chest and under both of his arms. He secured the loose end to the rear bumper of the Merc, leaving about 8 feet of slack coiled on the gravel. Manny then walked to the far end of the rock wall and rummaged around for a few seconds, returning with a stout length of steel pipe that was forked on one end. He bent over the wall and jammed the straight end of the pipe into a penetration situated about one foot down from the top.

I watched as he unbound Lenny's lower body leaving only his feet tightly tied together. His torso remained trussed and his hands stayed bound behind his back. Manny got down close and plucked the bag from Lenny's head. Lenny was already wide eyed, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he got around to scoping me.

"Hi Lenny. We need to talk."

Lenny garbled something that was entirely obscured by the tape over his mouth. His eyes bugged out again when Manny reached into the trunk and pulled out a large pair of bolt cutters and a hangman's noose fabricated of thin steel cable. He placed both on the pavement next to the coils of rope.

Manny said, "Lenny, it's good to meet ya. You and my pal here need to talk. I'm just gonna listen. We're all alone up here, but we don't want any excitement. None at all. He asks the questions. You give the answers. And when the sun comes up tomorrow, you're still alive. You can scream, but if you do, something awful's going to happen: pain, then more pain, then lots of pain, and then death. Get it?"

Lenny was eyeballing the hanging wire and he looked like he was going to be sick.

"Now I'm gonna pull the tape and you're gonna keep your mouth shut until you're asked to pipe up. Understood?"

Lenny nodded rapidly and started to moan.

Manny pulled the black handkerchief out of his left pants pocket. He bent over, shoved his knee roughly in Lenny's chest, and secured the blindfold. We grabbed him by the arms and stood him up facing the car. Manny slapped the trunk shut.

"Listen good, stupid. We're going to get what we came here to get, one way or the other, and we could care less how you end up. If you help us, you get a second chance at life. If you don't we'll hurt you and leave you for your pals to finish off. What do you think they're going to do to you once they know you've talked to us. My guess is that they will torture you until you've spilled your guts, and then kill you. We're not like that Lenny. We're here to help you. Now you help us and your troubles are over."

Manny ripped the tape off Lenny's mouth and started to turn him toward the wall. I said, "Wait a minute amigo. He been rifled yet?"

"I don't guess we've had the opportunity up 'til now. That was my next move."

I removed the wallet from the rear seat pocket of his trousers and set it on the trunk. I jammed my hands into his shirt pocket and both his front and rear pants pockets. All empty. I took off his shoes and checked them thoroughly. Nothing there. I looked through his wallet and found nothing more than a license to drive, his union card, a picture of some sorry-looking dame, and a wad of small bills.

Manny was running his hands over the clothes and feeling the seams. He tipped up Lenny's shirt collar and felt from one end to the other. He dropped the collar and paused, then reached over and raised the left corner again. He rubbed the seams between his fingers and said, "This feels kind of rough, and it's thicker than the other side." Lenny started to whimper.

I walked around and started pulling the threads off the end of his collar. A small piece of cloth fell out and I just managed to catch it. I held it up to the moonlight and it appeared formatted like a teletype, only the writing was entirely illegible. In fact it was gibberish.

The item was a tiny, thin flimsy of silk. I handed it to Manny.

He studied it closely for a minute and said, "I know what this is. We were told to be on the look out for these in cases involving subversives. I was checking him for this kind of thing, given his associations. It's a message, in code, printed on silk for easy concealment. We were told that Comintern spies use these for carrying instructions to the CPUSA and its domestic front organizations."

Lenny froze solid at that.

Bingo! Now things were starting to get interesting. But I failed to see how this was connected with the attempted murder of Vivian Lane. Manny sat the punk back down against the wall and I began to ask him the questions we came here to have answered.

"Tonight's subject is Vivian Lane, Lenny. We want to know who called the hit on her, who did it, and why."

"That's Murder One. I ain't ratting out no one," he whined.

Manny slugged him hard in the face.

"No way, man. I ain't afraid of you guys." But, he was sounding a little less cocky.

"Okay, Lenny, have it your way. We're going to take this to an entirely new level just so you can save us all some time."

Manny fitted the noose over Lenny's head and attached a long thin cord to the back of the blindfold. He strung the cord through the bottom of the burlap bag and placed the bag once more over the punk's head. He tied the cord and the wire from the noose at the bumper, again leaving plenty of slack for both.

We hoisted him up onto the wall. He hadn't yet seen what was on the other side. Or more to the point, what wasn't.

"Remember young man. If you scream we're going to hang you by your scrawny little neck with this piano wire. How'd you like to be swinging from a noose with your hands tied behind your back?"

"You ready Lenny? We got a bit of a surprise for you. But no squawking, got it? Take a deep breath."

I raised him up and heaved him over the wall as Manny threaded the rope over the fork in the pipe.

Lenny came to an abrupt halt only about four feet below us and I could hear some squelched exclamation from beneath the bag.

"Shut up!" Manny growled as we both took a seat on the wall.

Lenny's swaying carcass slowly came to rest facing away from us and at that moment Manny yanked on the small cord and popped the bag and blindfold off his head. The moonlight reflected harshly off of Lenny's greased ducktail, and I could just see the sides of his bugged-out eyes.

Lenny stifled a scream and started squirming for all he was worth.

Manny said, "Like the view, Lenny? Don't worry about the rope. It's plenty tight. Worry about the knots, maggot. Particularly the one up here on the bumper I've got the bolt cutters on. Feel the slack on that noose? That's all that's going to catch you if I let go this rope. Keep that in mind as you answer the questions."

I started again. "Were you there?"

"No!"

"Then you got nothing to worry about except this 1,500 foot drop, after the wire's snapped. Looking forward to taking that dive with a broken neck, man?

"Let's try again. Who did it?"

"Oh man, oh man, oh man. I can't talk about it. I won't!" he gabbled.

Manny took up the slack on the wire noose, gave it a smart tug and said, "Keep your voice down or I'll choke it shut." He tugged it again, harder.

"All right, all right. It was Gus. Gus Shafter. The union boss. It was his idea. He sent Joey Boyle and some other smart boy, Ollie Tragg.

"Why'd it happen?

"Some fool dame down at the union office put her name back on the list, the A-list as it turns out. Miss Lane got something in the mail she wasn't supposed to see."

"What was it?"

"It was a notice for an upcoming meeting, but it was only supposed to go out to card-carrying members. CPUSA only. No dopes."

"A meeting about what?"

"The usual stuff Gus is involved with."

"Spill it Lenny."

"You know. Operational security, weapons acquisition, updates on various local projects, coordination with larger programs, progress on Comintern directives."

"So why did Vivian have to get whacked?"

"When Gus found out about the letter that went out, he pinned a tail on her. Ollie followed her to your office. They thought she went there to show you the letter. Ollie called it in to Gus. Gus ordered the hit. Ollie met up with Boyle and they hit her after she showed up back at her place.

"Gus called a hit on you and your secretary too. They were planning to do it later that evening, but when they tossed Miss Lane's place for the letter, they found it unopened with a bunch of other mail on the hall table. She'd already been shot, so they wrapped her in a carpet and took her up to the hills and dumped her."

"Very good Lenny," I whispered. "You're doing fine."

"Yeah, it was a big screw up. Too late for her, but they called the hit off for you."

"Nice of 'em. I'll be sure to thank Gus next time I see him."

Manny was just sitting there shaking his head with a murderous look pasted on his mug.

"OK, Lenny, the Comintern memo. What the hell's it about?"

"Aw man, they're gonna kill me for sure if I talk to you about that."

"Stow it Lenny. You're dead already unless you get us to help you. We're not gonna help you if you don't help us."

"It won't do no good man," he pleaded. "I tell you about this, they'll track me down to the ends of the earth. You can't help me."

"Maybe you're right Lenny. In that case you got two choices: die tonight or die tomorrow. Whaddaya want it to be? Look Lenny, either we cut that rope and ride out of here tonight, or we set you up with a second chance: no commies, no blackmail. Choose now."

The punk was bawling like a jilted schoolgirl. Finally he got it together.

"All right boys, it's this way. Those are instructions I'm carrying for Gus. They're relating to a project somewhere in New Mexico Gus has been running for the Soviets. Industrial stuff, stealing secrets, I'm not exactly sure what kind."

"Can you read this Lenny?"

"Yeah, I can read some of it, but I never wanted to. Never did yet, and still don't want to."

"But you will, won't you Lenny? So what's the scoop in New Mexico?"

"Gus's running this gang out there, some local band of hillbillies called the Clantons. Don't know nothing more about them. Just know they've got a line on some business out there that's doing things the Soviets are interested in."

Manny gave me the nod and we hauled Lenny up and over and sat him back down against the wall. I shoved the scrap of silk into his hand and shone the torch on it.

"OK, so what's this flimsy got to say?"

"The New Mexico business is being done for the Industrial Reports Section of the GRU through Shafter's secret apparat. I don't know exactly what they're looking at, but usually they steal an example and ship it to the Soviets for reverse engineering. There isn't a very large organization in New Mexico, just some small specialized cells from what I can gather. I believe Shafter is using those petty grifters, the Clantons, again. They're basically simple thieves and smugglers. Their job is to steal the merchandise and get it to the port and on a ship to the USSR. According to this message, the freighter is named the Aurora something or other, and she sails on the 27th of next month bound for Murmansk via Rotterdam."

"What merchandise?"

"I don't know. This doesn't say. Something classified, no doubt. But I heard the name Reismuller once in connection with New Mexico. I believe they are supposed to lift it off some putz named Reismuller."

"And who were you taking this to?"

"Seaman name of Vornetz. He comes and goes; probably a courier for the Comintern. I was on the way to the International Club to trade shirts with him. From the looks of this message, it's intended to relay the delivery schedule to Moscow."

"All right, Lenny. You done good tonight. Now are you gonna take advantage of this opportunity we're giving you to back out of this racket, or are you committed to the worker's paradise?"

"Hell no, man! I mean yes! Yes!! I'm out. I'm out for good now. You guys promised! Jesus! Get me out of here!!"

"Relax Lenny." I told him. "Being as you had nothing to do with what went down with Miss Vivian, we don't have to kill you right now. Fact is, we're feeling extra generous tonight. So we're not even going to beat the living shit out of you."

"Aw, the hell with that," Manny complained. "Can't we just toss him back and leave him hanging here? We don't know he's telling the truth. Someone'll find him."

"Maybe you're right." I considered. "So Lenny, how is it anyway that you missed out on the Lane hit? And how did you know so much about it?"

"I tell ya. I'm just a gofer. They don't trust me with the big stuff. I'm not even a Party man. Not even a shop foreman. I didn't hear about it 'til Ollie come back and ran his big mouth. He thought it was funny the dame never saw the letter. Had to tell everybody. It made me sick. I liked her stuff. Liked it plenty. I ain't no Commie. I just got a little too involved in the union, and the side money was good. I didn't know they were going to start whacking movie stars!"

Manny rolled his eyes and said, "Shit, can't we at least cripple this bum."

"Naw, no need for that. I think he's got a story to tell. I'll take care of him. Don't worry. If Lenny jumps sideways, I'll put the squeal on him to that dirty shyster Ulinovsky and tie him to a tree somewhere they can find him fast. You do so much as a head-fake Lenny, I'm feeding you to those sharks."

Still, I wanted to dig a little deeper. I edged my Size 10 in his ribs for effect.

"What's the real deal with you anyway? What made you decide to associate with these schmucks."

"It's not because I believe a damn word they say," he whined. "I know what their game is: lying, cheating, stealing, manipulating, and killing. They're the biggest bunch of happy hypocrites on God's green earth. But ol' Shafter's got the goods on me, and I've had to play along to stay out of jail. That's one reason I use the long nose. I figured anything I could learn might be of use later. You grabbed the right pigeon."

"So Lenny, would you like to see Shafter dead."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, good. Wherever you end up, keep your eye on the newspapers. I'll make you this promise. Shafter's dead already. He just doesn't know it yet. Oh, and just out of curiosity, who is this other Vivian Lane anyway?"

"She's some artist type and society hostess lives somewhere in Beverly Hills. She's harmless; just throws a few upscale parties now and again to get the big guys together. She's on the A-list 'cause she knows everybody."

I rolled my eyes and Manny shook his head in disgust. He reached over and pulled the steel pipe out of its hole, walked on down to the end of the wall and stashed it. Lenny went back into the trunk and we motored out of there. We took the first grade down to Malibu and the Coast Highway back to the harbor.

As I dropped Manny off, he laughed, "Sometime I'll have to show you the other places we use. One's way to hell and gone out in the middle of the desert in San Bernardino County."

* * *

Donovan Hardy is an Assistant DA out of the downtown office. It was fairly well known that he kept several safe houses for different types of stooges. He was still heavily involved with the state's Un-American Activities Committee and knew Yuki from that business with the studios last November. Hardy also had known Manny for a while now and I had to be very careful to keep Manny's name out of this.

"Hello, Donovan? James here. Yeah, Raymond James. Apologies for calling so late. I got this punk with me. He's been browbeat by the local Communists. He wants to talk. He doesn't want to testify. I thought you might like to pick his brains, maybe toss him to the Feds. He's clean. There's nothing on him, but he's gonna need help. You want?"

Hardy sounded cautious. "Where'd he come from?"

"I'm working a case for Magnum. You remember that starlet that almost got whacked the other night? Well, this clown popped up. I got what I wanted from him, but there's a whole lot more. He's in with the dockworker's union and some Soviet-controlled scum in their leadership I believe you're familiar with. I think he's got a lot to tell you about what's going on down there in San Pedro."

"Is that so? I've heard we got some related smuggling, thieving and subversion problems with those characters down there at the harbor. I've been curious myself if they might have a connection with the propaganda problems we're following up here in Hollywood."

"I've been doing a lot of looking on my own lately, with Yuki's help, and I think you got more of the same problems in other places: libraries, schools, probably right there in City Hall. Someday we're going to have to sit down and share our dirt."

"Can do. I'll take him, by the way. I'll be downtown after 9:00 tomorrow. Use the back door."

"OK, I'll drop him off in the morning."

Donovan would take care of Lenny and keep him off the streets until he found some Fed that was interested in talking to him.

* * *

Back from Donovan's I grabbed the desk phone and pulled on the dial. "Manny, were there any auto accidents in your neck of the woods last night?"

"Matter of fact there was. A pair of jokers ate it up on the Peninsula. Missed a construction barricade in the fog, it looks like."

"Any ID on 'em?"

"We haven't got a make yet on the youngster that was driving. He's pretty beat up, but he'll make it. The passenger was one Joey "the Mick" Boyle, a union enforcer with the dockworkers. Today, he's toasting marshmallows in Hell."

"One down. Two to go."

"Yeah. You got that right. Where's Lenny?"

"The DA's got him. I don't think we'll be hearing from him again. I heard he's moving east."

"What's next?"

"I got a call in to Moe. I'll call you when I find out."

"Later, Ray. My love to Yuki."

# March 1948

Monday, the 1st of the month, was uneventful and I spent most of the morning with my feet up perusing the weekend papers. The leg men had learned that Vivian was alive, but had few other details to report. I spent the rest of the day figuring on how to best put to the use the information we'd sweated from Lenny. Then I started laying some plans.

"Yuki, you busy tonight?"

"No, I've seen all the movies that are out there right now."

"Let's go have dinner then. What'll it be?"

"Guess."

"OK, Little Tokyo it is. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll pick you up out front."

"No, it looks nice out there this evening. I'll walk over to the garage with you."

Ten minutes later we found the Merc in its usual space on the second floor next to the ramp. I opened her door and got her seated, walked around to the other side and got in.

I was fumbling for the key when she remarked, "Ray, the car smells funny. I smell fuel, don't you?"

I jammed the key in the ignition and absently replied, "Not really, this old flivver always smells like gas. Tires and oil, too."

She insisted, "No, Ray. Wait a minute. This isn't right. Please go look and see if you've got a gas leak."

"Sure, honey."

She had a point. It did smell bad. I eased my hand away from the starter button, got out, and bent down next to the motor in a push-up position to keep my knees off the ground. I didn't see any gasoline on the floor, but the odor was fairly pronounced down here at floor level. When I got up and lifted the hood I saw it right away. There was a gallon glass jug half full of gas jammed between the motor and the firewall on the driver's side.

I walked over to the window, bent in, and said, "Hey, Yuki. Come take a look at this."

She climbed out and walked around to the side of the open hood and said, "What?"

"Come around here."

She came around front and saw it. "That's not supposed to be there. What's that sticking out of the bottle?"

I told her, "It's one of the spark plugs. The plug farthest from the distributor has a nice long wire. Some wise guy set this up."

"You push the starter and the spark ignites the bottle of gasoline."

"You got it. It's an old partisan's trick. The Resistance used it quite a bit in Europe."

I disassembled the apparatus, carried the jug around back of the car, and poured the gas in the tank. I fetched my tool box out of the boot and had the spark plug back in place in no time.

Clambering back in I gave Yuki a crooked grin, and said, "It should start now."

She was sitting close to me in the middle of the seat, trembling, and looking straight out the window at nothing. I put my arm around her and pulled her close. She buried her face in my neck and then the dam burst. I let her get it all out of her and then held her away. She looked scared.

I told her, "Hey, honey. They were bound to try something good. You can lay low while I'm gone. You shouldn't have any trouble."

"I'm not afraid of them," she wailed. "They would have killed you. You would have pushed that starter and that would have been the end of us. I couldn't bear that Ray. If I hadn't come with you I'd still be standing back there at the curb watching the fire trucks come by. I don't want to leave you now, Ray. I'm part of this case too. I want to go with you. I want to be with you."

"Well, honey, you'd be a lot safer back here holing up with your family for a while."

"Ray, I can be of some help to you. Let me come. Please bring me along."

"OK, sweetie. I wasn't looking forward to being away from you anyway. There's nothing I need you to do back here. Well, at least let me take you by your folk's place for the night. I'll pick you up tomorrow and then we'll hit your place on the way out of town."

"Oh, thank you, Ray. That's a great idea. I feel a whole lot better knowing you're not leaving me behind."

"Let's go get some of that _yaki-soba_ on the way over."

I fired up the old bomb and we rolled downtown. I hadn't told her about the three sticks of dynamite I'd found taped to the chassis beneath the bottle. Now they were wrapped in a gym towel and stuffed in a corner of the concealed compartment beneath the trunk. Manny had installed the hidey-hole to cache the Thompson, extra magazines, and ammo. I thought I may as well leave the TNT there and see if I didn't some day get a chance to repay the favor.

This time I got a parking spot on the street right in front of the _Heya_ _Midori_. After the ancient proprietress Miyaki came out of the kitchen to greet us and had taken our orders, I slipped into the back to give Manny a call. I relayed the evening's events and the change of plans as regarded Yuki. He told me he was working on a few ideas of his own and he'd fill me in on it after I got to Albuquerque.

Yuki and I enjoyed a long pleasant dinner. One of Miyaki's daughters, Akiko, dropped by with her husband and newborn in tow. We jawboned with them for a time before calling it a night.

* * *

I made it over to Yuki's parents' place bright and early the next morning. Before I could talk myself out of it I got shanghaied into partaking of what passes for breakfast over there: clams and whatever in boiled rice gruel.

Yuki must have spilled some of the story because her dad was looking kind of agitated. "Raymond, would you take her away with you now? I don't want her to stay here with the bad men around. Stay away plenty long time. Take care of my girl."

I assured him I would do just that. But I was wondering if he was also thinking that it was just as likely to be the other way around. If he knew that she had saved my bacon last night, he wasn't gloating about it.

We visited with her mom in the _tatami_ room for a few minutes and took our leave. Over to the Carondelet Manor she took less than ten minutes to stuff a small suitcase. I'd shoved a few extra shirts and things in an overnight bag. My standard bag of tricks and bug-out bag I kept in the back of the trunk. I helped her stow her stuff, put down the cloth top, and we were off before mid-morning.

We caught Route 66 downtown and it was already hot by the time we crossed the county line at Pomona. The road through lower San Bernardino County was lined with an interminable succession of auto courts, petrol stands, greasy spoons, night traps, and sleazy dives. Most appeared dormant and sealed tight against the late morning sun.

Glass and tin surfaces blazed glints of piercing light while stucco weathered and colors faded under a layer of road dust. Shade was in short supply. Nonetheless Yuki remained fresh in her colorful summer dress and cat's-eye shades over ruby lips, her headscarf and ponytail fluttering in the slipstream.

We made a brief stop in Upland at Dale's Drive-In Liquor & Ammo. The young clerk was just opening the store and it took him a minute to get to the service window.

"Nice Merc, fella. What can I get you good folks today?"

"A fifth of Indian Hill and a box each of .38 and .357 semi-wad cutters. And a couple of cartons of .45 ball." I turned to Yuki, "You want something?"

"A fifth of scotch, please. Do you have any Sandy Macdonald?"

"Coming right up." He handed over the supplies with my change and we got back in the eastbound lane.

The air freshened and cooled somewhat as we motored on up into the pass. The old heap lagged on the Cajon grade and steam was escaping from the seams of the hood by the time we crested the rise and rolled onto the high desert. There the engine settled down nicely and we made good time all the way to Barstow.

A mile or so beyond the turn-off to Vegas we came up on the Old Wagon Wheel and stopped for lunch. I put away a mess of ribs and Yuki nibbled on a hamburger. We got out of there in good time and managed to make it between filling stations as we traveled the big empty desert to Needles.

Presently, we crossed the Colorado River and passed the large sign welcoming us to Arizona. The sign featured several neat groupings of bullet holes: a refreshing sign of civilization. The change of venue got me thinking about my old friend Johnny Eagle. I hadn't spoken to Yuki about him before so I gave her the story as we cruised on toward the Colorado Plateau.

Johnny Eagle was a Navajo code talker I'd run into in Okinawa after the surrender. We were mustering out around the same time and had a little over a month to kill. We spent most of it drinking and carousing and chasing every _kimono_ in Nara. We'd even made plans to hook up back in the States. Neither one of us had any idea what we would do in the peacetime economy so we figured we'd go on a tear for a while until settling on a plan.

But I ended up taking a hitch with the Navy on occupation duty in mainland Japan and, from what I'd heard, Johnny went back to the reservation. I hadn't talked to him since, but remembered he once told me he used a mail drop in Tuba City on the reservation.

The air had chilled some as we rolled into Kingman in late afternoon. I stopped to put back the convertible top and we continued on. Johnny had told me so much about northern Arizona I felt that I had already lived there. I thought of Johnny again when we passed through the reservation at Peach Springs. Johnny had always been a big one for chasing _kimono_. And the local girls had gone for Johnny in a big way. He must have reminded them of some giant primeval Oriental beast with his red-tinged burnished skin, deeply chiseled features, and coal black eyes.

He wore his crew cut a little on the long side and it was as stiff as a brush. He was couple of inches taller than me, and ramrod straight. He treated the ladies well, which was something they weren't necessarily used to. He was great to go out with because there were always plenty of leftovers to pick from. He'd told me about some lovely from the Supai reservation that he'd known back before the war. Said he'd spent many a time up there by the Colorado. I was looking forward to getting a letter off to him from Albuquerque and finding out whether we'd be riding together again.

The sun was coming down and Yuki fished around in the glove box for the flask. It was still half full of corn liquor from the trunk bottle so we passed it back and forth 'til it was dry.

We made the tiny wayside of Seligman just as the sun dropped over the horizon. I passed up the Teepee Cabins and the Wild West Hotel in favor of the more stoutly constructed Hualapai House at the far end of town. We were favored with a pair of adjoining rooms off the main highway toward the back. Taking only a few minutes to unload our kit we strolled up the block to The Silver Dollar.

The change of scenery seemed to have done Yuki some good. She settled on the fried fish special. I warned her that fresh fish wasn't the most likely item to be found this far inland, then pulled a small bottle of _teriyaki_ sauce out of my pocket and set it on the table.

She looked at it and smiled. "The London broil looks like it has possibilities."

I laughed and shoved the bottle back in my pocket. Fortunately, they offered a side of rice pilaf, so we ordered the London broils, hers well done and mine rare.

After the waitress had brought us the plates, the sauce came back out. Yuki cut her meat into little pieces, dabbed it in the sauce, and promptly cleaned off her plate. "That was great. I hope you brought some more of that sauce, Ray."

"Oh yeah, there's a half a case of that in the trunk along with some soy sauce and _wasabe_ , although your opportunities for a decent _sashimi_ are just about nil out here in the Southwest."

She said, "That's fine with me. I'll take what I can get. I like it out here in the wide open spaces. I feel like we left all the creeps and the losers far behind. I'm full and I'm happy, and I want to dance."

Night had closed in by the time we got out of there, and the main street of town was fairly dark. I'd noticed a saloon nearby on the way into town. We were strolling down the street back toward the motor court when Yuki tugged on my sleeve and stopped. She had her neck craned back and her eyes were moist. The night air had turned cold and her breath showed as she panted beside me.

"I haven't seen stars like this since I was in Manzanar. Look how bright it is over that way. I forgot what the Milky Way looked like, living in town. From here, it's like looking down Fifth Avenue in New York. It's what I always imagined the gateway to Heaven would look like."

I told her, "This is what the sky looks like on a frosty winter night where I grew up in Virginia. There always seemed to be more stars out when the snow was frozen on the ground. It's too hazy in the summer to see anything like this."

She squeezed up close to me and slid her arm underneath my jacket. I looked down into the starlight reflecting in her eyes and thought that this looked like my kind of Heaven. I shook the thought off and looked away. She was my loyal sidekick, not my new bride. I put it in gear and we walked arm in arm past the rooms and down the block to the saloon.

We found a table up against the far wall near the dance floor. A hillbilly orchestra was set up in the corner and going to town. Within a few minutes I had picked up on a couple of hostile looks cast our way. Yuki gave no appearance of having noticed. She'd seen worse no doubt. Her exuberant mood seemed to have subsided and we sat out the line dances, knocked back a few drinks, and yakked about some of the folks around us.

It wasn't long before the band slowed the pace down. I elbowed us onto the crowded dance floor and we held onto each other until most everyone else had drifted off. All in all, it was a wonderful night and we were enjoying immensely the drinks, the fine food, and the cowboy hospitality.

I'd been trying to pace myself, but the atmosphere was festive and the immediate company was beyond wonderful. Yuki pulled a tiny _sake_ cup out of her clutch and started tossing off shots from the double sitting in front of her. After taking her time over a couple of Sidecars, she ordered a Jack straight up. I'd noticed a few more patently hostile stares, but I'd looked them down and they hadn't looked back.

Yuki pulled out another sake cup and passed it over, saying, "Try one of these. I double dog dare ya."

I looked at her for a moment and said, "OK, honey. But I get to pick my own poison." I filled it with some bourbon from my glass.

Yuki was shaping up to be a real man's gal, quite possibly a great one at that. It was easy to tell she was her father's daughter. She certainly wasn't the demure young lady that Sachiko had been. Yuki had grown up in a far less polite culture. Nevertheless, she carried herself with the same air of feminine self-confidence and she had the same qualities of inner strength. Like Sachiko she was calmly rational, caring, thoughtful, and competent. Even with the load she'd put on tonight she'd managed to keep a quiet dignity underneath her bubbling exuberance. She looked like she'd mature into another of the women typical of her race, one with a heart big as Texas yet tough as nails, with both qualities kept well hidden only to be brought forth on the proper occasions.

Time spent with a woman of this caliber had definitely been missing from my recent past. She was going to make some lucky young fellow a wonderful bride.

* * *

Next morning I woke up to the sound of frantic knocking at the door. I had an idea who it might be. "Gimme a minute," I croaked.

She let up on the door, and the pounding in my head resumed to a dull throb. I slipped on my clothes from the day before and padded on over to the door. As I turned the knob, the door burst open with a gust of frigid air and swirling snowflakes. Yuki was just outside, jumping up and down in her peddle pushers and cashmere sweater, wearing a look of consummate glee.

"What's on your mind?" I growled.

"Looks like we're snowed in, Boss. Are you decent?"

"Am I ever?"

"Well, I'm coming in anyway."

She slid on past me and took a seat at the tiny table by the window and said, "Good morning, Boss. What are we going to do now?"

"Well, we'll give it a few minutes, then pack up and get on out of here."

She peeked out through the curtains at a solid sheet of white. "I don't know, Ray. You haven't got the tires for this kind of travel, do you?"

"No, but from what I've been told you can take your chances out here in Big Sky Country. It'll either get much better or much worse. Now if you'll go back and collect your things, we can kill some time over breakfast and think on it."

We had the heap cleaned off and were out of there ten minutes later. Approaching the diner at the edge of town, the snow suddenly stopped and the sun popped out. I pulled in and crunched across the gravel lot. Alighting, we both looked back at the receding wall of snow.

We took our time over a hangover breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and bacon done right. There were still a few inches of snow in the parking lot when we paid up and got out of there, but the sun had melted most of the snow off the macadam on the main drag.

The highway out of town was reasonably clear as well. Yuki was staring off to the northwest at some meandering snow squalls as they moved on over a distant ridge. I was eyeballing another one coming up from the southeast, but it looked like we'd be long gone before it reached the highway. It was a desolate drive over to Flagstaff. The snow got deeper as we moved into the pines, but the road stayed clear.

Yuki said, "I haven't seen snow since that last church retreat we had up in the mountains at Fawnskin. It was right after Christmas the year the war started."

She reminded me of a weekend I'd spent fishing up at Big Bear late last spring. The ride up the Rim of the World Highway had been breathtaking. On the last day I'd had an invite to lunch at the Scout camp chow hall. It had been evident from the rustic wall hangings from years gone by that the Japanese contingent from Los Angeles County had not attended since 1941. Like I'd heard how the yearbooks from high schools all over rural California were suddenly devoid of certain ethnics' photographs starting in 1942.

Those were unfortunate times but, unlike many overseas, Yuki and I and most of the interned folks had survived them. I recalled that the patriotic sons of internees had populated some of the most valorous units of the European theatre.

A couple of hours later we descended toward the barren waste of the Painted Desert and left the snow behind. I wasn't in the mood for pushing it that day so we dawdled a bit at the side of the road and took the obligatory tour of the Meteor Crater. We made Winslow a little before dinner time and turned into the first motor court off the highway.

I suggested an early dinner and a long snooze as we hadn't made much distance that day. We were both dogging it a little bit, but it had been a few too many hours since our late breakfast. Yuki suggested we try the fare at the little cantina next to the auto court. We were both good and hungry, and ordered up a variety of enchiladas, tamales and rellenos. It was an ice-cold, full-bodied pale ale that came from the house tank so we lingered over a couple of extra _cervezas_ before turning in.

* * *

The sunrise caught me full face the next morning and I awoke refreshed and ready to move. I knocked on Yuki's door and she was up and packed, so we turned out into a blazing sun on the road out of Winslow. The morning air was brisk and she moved over on the seat and snuggled up against me for warmth.

Around LA I hadn't noticed, but the car heater sure took a long time to kick in on these cold mornings in the high desert. I wasn't complaining. I eased my arm around her shoulders and drew her in a little closer.

She said, "I had the nicest dreams last night. I woke up really early, a few times, but went straight back to sleep and they kept coming."

"Anything I ought to know about?" I chuckled.

"Not today," she replied.

I turned and kissed the top of her head and she cuddled up even tighter. A while later the car had warmed up and she reached over and eased off the blower knob. She moved over to the door and started getting animated about a whole lot of nothing outside the window. She had me stop a few times when she thought she'd spotted some petrified wood, and we ended up with a few sorry looking chunks rattling around on the floor board behind the seats.

On toward the border we started to pass a few roadside trading posts. We stopped and made a couple of pity purchases at a few of the more desolate looking establishments. Yuki toyed with her new earrings as we cruised by the rest of the garish tourist traps at the state line.

We were in Johnny's country. This didn't look to be the best part of it, but I guess there had to be more money in hocking Mexican blankets and turquoise trinkets to road-weary motorists than in herding sheep farther up on the reservation. At least the weather had warmed up nicely.

The commerce died off immediately across the New Mexico border. But another ten miles or so down the road we passed a couple of scrawny young girls sitting on a blanket under a make-shift sunshade, all by themselves, out in the middle of absolute nowhere.

Immediately, I could feel Yuki's eyes on me. Without looking at her, I pulled over to the side of the road, checked the mirror, and pulled the U-turn. The girls were standing there waiting for us as if they knew we were coming back for them. I slowed and crossed over onto the shoulder. This time Yuki waited for me to help her with her door, and the girls had resumed their seat at the edge of the blanket with their paltry wares spread out in front of them.

Yuki got down on her knees in front of the blanket as I was scoping the utter barrenness of our surroundings. I heard a tiny gasp escape her. As I looked down she was pointing at an exquisitely carved silver bracelet inlaid with some finely shaped turquoise stones. I noticed that the entire collection on the blanket, what there was of it, was a whole other category of goods from what we'd seen before the border. The knowing smiles on the girls' faces were somewhat shocking for young ladies of their tender age. Either they didn't speak English, or they didn't care too.

I took it that Yuki wasn't up for bartering. She pulled a sawbuck out of her purse and forked it over. The girl started counting out whatever change they had in mind, but Yuki refused it and, with another knowing smile, the older girl put the change away.

I was starting to wonder who these girls belonged to and how long they planned on staying out here by themselves. I couldn't see where they had any food or water with them. Then I caught sight of an unusual string tie in the shape of a horse head, also in silver with a similar type of turquoise inlay. It seemed a match to the bracelet, and sitting next to it was a similarly constructed hatpin in the shape of a feather.

I bent down and waggled the two items with my finger and looked the younger one in the eye. She smiled demurely and looked down. I fumbled with my wallet and drew out a measly couple of fins, laying them down on the blanket. I picked up the two items and dropped them in my pocket.

Now the girls were both smiling hard, looking straight to the horizon, but still as if they had some secret going between them. I assumed they were pegging this girl's guy for a bit of a cheapskate. I consulted my wallet again, fished out half a sawbuck, and placed it down on the short pile. Their eyes met, and they looked supremely satisfied.

I had bought Yuki a straw cowboy hat in the kid's section back at Crazy Horse's Trading Post and she looked delicious in her sleeveless denim blouse, skin-tight jeans, and strapless pumps. I took the feather pin out of my pocket and fastened it to Yuki's hat, and the girls seemed to approve.

There hadn't been a word said the whole time we were there, and it would have seemed a little strange if I hadn't already done it so many times in Japan. A lot of good could be accomplished with a smile, a slight bow, a wave, or a nod.

Yuki was fiddling with her bracelet as we got back on the road. I looked over at her and realized how good it made me feel to be squiring her around these past few days. This trip was going to end tonight in Albuquerque and thoughts of what lay ahead started to sink in.

We made town well after sunset and it was dark by the time we passed through the city center and found the Aztec Motel on the east side.

The clerk recommended the steak house back up the pike a few blocks, so we got over there quick and took our time over a pair of thick T-bones. It seemed Yuki had developed a taste for the bourbon so we pulled on a couple of those and talked over our plans for the next day.

* * *

It had occurred to me we'd better start off by checking in with the Bernalillo County Sheriff. The sunrise over the Sandia Mountains to the east was stunning as we left our rooms in the morning. We rolled straight over to the county building after a quick breakfast at the El Rey.

Sheriff Stan Mortenson was a grizzled old soul, tall and lean and burnt to a crisp by wind and sun. Ensconced behind a beat-up wooden desk and absorbed with a file in his hands, he was leaned back in his chair with his legs extended across a pulled-out drawer as we appeared at his office door. With a sweep of his arm he indicated a pair of stiff wood chairs in front of his desk and we sat.

I didn't have much of an idea what to tell him, but I laid out my credentials and told him I was on retainer to Magnum Studios. I told him I was following up some connection to some creeps that were bothering one of his stars. If the sheriff was mildly intrigued, he didn't show it.

"Got a name," he asked.

"Yeah, Clanton," I replied.

The old boy eased back in his chair and cast me the fisheye.

"Which one?"

"I don't know. The dumb one. How many are there?"

"From what I can tell, they're the bottom of the barrel from a clan of Arkies that moved on out here during the war. A whole family of petty grifters, as far as I know.

"Pa, Galen Clanton, is a scrawny old buzzard, and the boys, Earl and Floyd, are a pair of lamebrains. Elnora—they call her Ma—is the mean one, and the brains of the outfit. They got a daughter who just flat out got born into the wrong family, probably the wrong county. They operate out of a dump east of here in the canyon.

"That's about all I know of 'em. They're making a living somehow. They seem to be connected up with the university some ways. At least the daughter is enrolled there. She must have a room downtown. I haven't looked at them too closely. Haven't had any complaints. If you pick the daughter up there on campus, you should be able to get a line on them."

The sheriff tilted his head and shot me a level gaze.

"Is there anything going on with them that I should know about?" he asked.

"Nothing special," I told him.

"Right" he grunted.

I said we'd be back to him if we developed some useful information and he left it at that. I had a call to make.

* * *

"Mack."

"Man, is that you?

" That's right. Raymond James. Your old cellmate from the transport."

It had been a good while. I'd last spoke with Mack on my arrival in Los Angeles and after exchanging a few letters we'd neglected to keep in touch. We spent a few minutes catching up and then I got down to business.

"Listen I thought I could use your help on something I'm working on. I remember you telling me your foster daughter was interested in a career with the Feds. She might have a good idea as to where we can take this. What was her name again?

"Veronica Elena. I call her Elena."

"Oh yeah."

"Whadda ya got?" he asked.

"Well, we got word out of Los Angeles of a shipment of classified military goods, stolen stuff, being managed by the Comintern. We tracked it out here to Albuquerque. We've got the location and approximate timing of the shipment. I wanted to bring the federal boys in."

"What exactly they got their hands on anyway?"

"I'm pretty sure its aeronautical equipment, maybe rocket motors. There're R&D facilities all over this area and I believe the one we're interested in is somewhere south of the city."

"That sounds darn serious. Rocket and jet engine technology is top secret."

"Well, yeah. They wouldn't be wasting their time with auto parts."

"Elena told me that the Feds have been giving these boys a pass ever since the war." He informed me. "I don't think you're gonna get much interest out of them. Army intelligence could be a different deal. Let me think on it and get back to you."

I told him where I could be reached and rang off. Mack called back the next evening.

"Elena and I talked it over and we figured it might be better if we took care of this ourselves. She didn't believe there was any way the Feds were going to mobilize in time to intercept this shipment. They're better at locking the barn once the horse has got out.

"If there was a way we could get our hands on it, I've got a plan cooked up to get the stuff back where it belongs."

"That sounds a little tricky."

"Well, we've got that end figured out too. Think you can get it up here?"

"Yeah. As it happens I'm gonna try to get Johnny Eagle out here with me. Maybe we can hijack that load."

Mack said, "I think that's exactly what you're gonna do. Make sure the load gets away clean without raising anyone's suspicions."

"OK. Sounds like we got us a plan. We'll get hold of that truck and get it on up to your place."

"Yep, give us a call from Dallas and we'll steer you here."

Mack Holman had started out as a squad leader, and ended up being our commanding officer by the time we'd island-hopped over to Okinawa. He told me if I'd had a mind for ranching to come out to Dallas when I got stateside and look him up at the Diamond Bar Ranch. After getting involved with starting the agency I hadn't given him much thought. For this caper there was no one I'd rather have assist with strategy and planning.

Veronica Elena had been raised on the ranch. Way Mack told it her father Umberto was a Mexican _vaquero_ and long-time ranch hand who met an untimely end in a fluke stampede. Her mother had passed long before in the old country, so Mack and his better half Mame had raised the young girl as their own.

She'd honored in the local high school and attended U of Texas before being approached by the FBI and starting her career in the Dallas field office.

* * *

Yuki had spent the better part of the week trying to make contact with the Clanton daughter at the university. She came back to the Aztec one evening beaming with an unmistakable look of success.

"I finally ran into her at the Student Union. I used the old dodge where I asked her if we didn't sometimes ride the same bus in the mornings to school. She told me, 'Maybe, because I live in Old Town and take the bus to school everyday.' So I told her 'That's where I've maybe seen you before."

"Did she ask who you were?"

"Yes she did. I told her I'm an exchange student from Tokyo in a science program and was checking some possible additional classes.

This afternoon I staked out her last class and ran to catch her bus just as it was leaving. We rode together and she got off at Rio Grande Boulevard. I stayed on to the next stop, crossed the street and came back here."

With Yuki's success it looked like we were good to follow her home from school the next afternoon.

* * *

As it turned out the girl was late arriving the next day and it was well after five when she showed at the bus stop carrying several shopping bags. We tailed her up Romero to an ancient rooming house on South Plaza.

The weathered adobe structure was a low, long one-story stucco and wood-beam affair with several entry doors, each under a tired dusty stoop. The girl had entered the third door from the intersection.

Yuki and I doubled back and walked Old Town Road over to San Felipe, then up to the small commons known as _La Placita._ From across the street we could see that an alley extended in from the street along the length of the old boarding house.

Yuki and I strolled through the plaza and sat awhile outside the old church, waiting for the sun to go down. Once dusk had settled in, we re-crossed the plaza and entered the alley running alongside the boarding rooms.

There were some abandoned milk crates down toward the far end, so we fetched two and poked about finding the right dust-clogged window. The fourth from the street it was and we quietly set the crates and climbed up on either side of the glass.

There they were: The Clantons. It was hard to tell if they came from redneck or hillbilly stock. Ma and Pa both looked to be about one genetic step above some poorly-imagined mutant swamp critter from a B-movie. Pa didn't look all too terribly bad from a distance. He was a tall, barrel-chested mutt with beefy thighs and long muscular arms. But the effect was ruined up close, because from the neck up he resembled nothing other than a pig-faced moron.

The two boys looked like they'd fallen out of a tree. Next to Pa, they were downright scrawny. They appeared as if they made up for their diminutive stature with an overabundance of meanness and stupidity.

The larger of the two boys was splayed out on the sofa with a moronic smile that looked to be permanently affixed to his map. He didn't look to have a lick of sense. The shorter one was thin, but well built, and his face bore the mean aspect of the perennially abused.

The daughter, on the other hand, was attractive with a disconcerting suggestion of normality. This was mildly disturbing given her parentage.

And then there was Ma Clanton, in the flesh. She was a hefty wench, tall and bony, with wide shoulders. She looked like she should have two hooves and a mustache. The light was a little dim for me to gain a true appreciation of her ugliness, but what I could see made it strictly for the after-dinner hour. Suffice it to say she had the romantic appeal of a slaughtered buffalo.

This pair had one thing in common. Neither of them should be breeding. Unfortunately, however, they'd spawned.

Pa and the two boys appeared to be thoroughly whipped. Each word Ma spat out brought a flinch from one or the other. The old man seemed distracted to the point of not knowing or caring.

From outside the window, the scene remained quiet until the girl got up and left the room. Ma sat up and turned to the boys.

"We gotta find something to do with Lamar," she growled.

"Yeah, why'd you kill him anyway?" the smaller boy asked.

"That damn fool was running his fat mouth around town. It was Bucky's Ma told me about him. Said Lamar told Bucky some wild story that we was makin' the big bucks now as foreign agents. Bucky and his Ma are OK. They weren't buying it.

"But anyways I told her that Lamar was fixing to join the Army. Now the stupid little bastard is cooling off in the root cellar out at the ranch and we gotta figure a way to get rid of him. He's the last of their line anyway."

"Isn't he your middle brother's son?" asked Pa from his barkalounger.

Ma turned. "Yeah, that boy was too stupid to live too. He married some half-breed from up Oklahoma way and when the dumb slut took off with one of his drinking buddies, he drove his car into a bridge. I suppose that ol' squaw might have passed another litter, but I guarantee you there cain't be another pair like Lamar and his dumb daddy."

The moron heaved himself up to the edge of the sofa. "Hey ma, I knew an Injun once from up to Gallup way that told me about a great place to stash a corpse."

Ma snapped her head back. "Now just what were you talking to him about that for?"

"No reason. We were just shooting the bull one day about people he'd like to see dead. And I told him it must be real easy to get rid of 'em out here in the desert.

"He'd said, 'No, it's not that easy at all. The animals get at 'em and the next thing you know you got evidence spread over half a square mile in plain sight.' He said you need to find someplace to put 'em where the critters can't get to 'em."

"Well that makes sense. What else did he tell you? This is the first time I've had to plant one of my own kinfolk for being a dumbass."

"He told me the best place was a big ol' rock rubble pile. Says you move some rocks, plant the body, and put the rocks back over it. Use rocks big enough that the animals can't move em. 'Cause it ain't buried it'll dry out like a piece of deer jerky. He says it's real hard to identify what's left after a year or so. And the chances of it being stumbled on are near to none.

"He told me he had his eye on this spot out in central Arizona. One of his Yavapai buddies had mentioned it to him. A big old pile of rocks out at the end of nowhere in a place called Verde Ranch, north of Prescott. Now what he said was out there was the ruins of an old Santa Fe bunkhouse the railroad boys used back last century when they were blasting track through the mesa. He said it was a real bitch to get to, but no one ever goes there. And there's enough rubble there to hide a whole wedding party.

"Anyways, I was interested enough to get him to draw me a little map."

"Is it here?"

"Yeah."

"Well, go get it. I want this done right."

Pa said, "Bertie, we got to put off the shipment 'til this gets taken care of."

Ma turned again. "I know, Henry. I agree with you. Go ahead and send the Indian away for a week. Tell him to come back next week. We'll get the boys here to get this done quick."

"Here's the map Ma. By the way, how'd you get 'im?"

"Ha! It was easy. I told him he'd come into some money his daddy had left him we' found and would he get on down to the ranch. Said some of it was in cash and some in bearer certificates. I was a little worried later I might have overplayed my hand. But with him bein' so stupid it never did occur to him that the chances of me ever handing over some cash to him were less than none.

"The boy showed up, pantin' like an ol' coonhound with a big ol' dumb grin on his face. I sat him down in front of a big ol' piece of pecan pie and took him down with that big marble roller your daddy done got for me two Christmases ago. Thank you Pa!"

"Speak nothin' of it. I done forgot all about that thing. Never seen you use it before."

"Yeah, I used it all right. I beat that punk 'til he stopped breathing and tossed his blabbin' carcass down the cellar stairs. He never saw it coming."

Pa said, "I always thought that boy was a loose cannon."

"So what if we end up can't find the place?" the young moron barked.

"Then go find yourself another pile of rocks," Ma spat. "Just make sure this gets done right. I don't want to hear about that sorry son-of-a-bitch ever again. Now let's go over this one more time."

"Well, the way the Indian told it, you take 66 all the way past Winslow through to Flagstaff. Then you take the Oak Canyon Road south to Clarkville. There's some mining camp up in the hills called Jerome. Take the road through there and on over the Mingus Mountain down into Prescott. Then you take the road north out of town to this one-horse stage stop called Chino and go a few miles further north up to another stage stop called Paulden. He said there's a post office up there on the right beyond the meadows. About a mile up is the Verde Ranch. You take the road east and in less than a half-mile you come to the abandoned Pea Vine Railroad track. He said the rubble pile was about a hundred yards south on the east side of the rail cut right across from the cliff they blasted out to make way for the tracks."

Ma said, "I don't know. That sounds pretty close to civilization to me."

"The Indian said there was nothing up there but this no-account post office and some scattered ranches. Quite a few head of longhorn roaming around, but no people. He said the beauty of it is you can get in and out easy without getting lost or getting stuck, and you got plenty of privacy to get the job done on account of the cliff hiding things."

"Well, OK. I guess that sounds just fine. Awful damn far though."

Pa said, "That might be a good thing. If they ever do find his ass, they'll never know who he was or where he come from."

"I'm not so sure about that. I know for a fact that dumbass been fingerprinted a dozen times. But never mind that. Here's what I want you boys to do."

"Get on back to the ranch tonight and get you some sleep. Before sunup, get him wrapped up and into the trunk. Use that old shine car, that hopped-up Ford coupe Pappy left us. And fill up all of the tanks tonight so's you're ready to go.

"Pack your lunch and skedaddle at the crack of dawn. I don't want you stopping anywhere until Lamar gets planted. Keep at it and you should be able to get there before the sun goes down and get a good look at the place. As soon as it gets dark you get about your business."

"OK, but we need some money Ma."

"Yeah, what for?"

"When we get done with business we're gonna git back over the mountain and we need us some money for hospitality. The ol' Injun told me there's some mighty fine looking ladies over there in Jerome and we might just not be getting' back here none t0o quick.'

"Well, that sounds all right. Take your time. If anyone comes around asking for you we'll tell 'em the boys went on up to Santa Fe to raise a little hell. Now git!"

I backed away from the window and motioned Yuki down the alley toward the plaza.

"We gotta find that ranch, and this looks like our best chance."

"What about the sheriff?"

"Not yet. Way too early. I want that shipment to move before any pot gets stirred around here.

"You and I heard the confession and witnessed the conspiracy. One of those boys is going to crack. My bet's on Earle. He just doesn't look like he's up for wet work.

"Wet work?"

"Yeah, what Ma did to her own kin and what they'll be doing tomorrow. Let's assume they do with Lamar what they said they would. We'll get the sheriff on it later. Those fools are taking that body across state lines. As least some of 'em are going to hang for it."

"Here those two come now!" she whispered.

We moved out from the alley and walked to mid-block. The boys crossed the street and hopped into an old Ford Vicky of pre-war vintage. We hustled to our ride parked on the east side of the Plaza and picked them up as they headed south on San Felipe. The boys turned at Central and we followed them east out of town.

Dropping into a broad canyon, they turned off the highway and headed north through the tiny settlement of Tijeras. I pulled over at the Conoco station, gave them a few more seconds lead, and pulled out again.

When we came up over the rise they were lost to sight, but I saw some taillights up on the mesa to our right. We came to a little dirt road with a couple of mailboxes. I figured this was far enough. Yuki scribbled a number off one of the mailboxes and we turned around and headed back to town.

"Well that seems to have bought us some time" I mumbled. "Let's go see what Reismuller is up to and get Johnny out here. I want you out of town and back to LA before this shipment moves."

* * *

Yuki was able to get a line on Reismuller at the university's admin office. She told them she had had the fellow as a professor before and was trying to look him up and pay him a visit. It turned out to be a good guess.

She learned that Karl Reismuller was still affiliated with the university as a guest lecturer, having taught there part-time in the past. They directed her to his business, Advanced Propulsion Systems, located south of Albuquerque in an out-of-the-way little whistle stop called Carrizozo.

We got down there the next morning shortly after business hours. On the way down I went over with Yuki what we were looking for.

The address we had matched a nondescript building of apparent recent construction located on the main drag west of town. It had the appearance of a war-time structure, the kind hastily thrown together by the lowest bidder. It sat back from the road behind a small sun-baked parking lot. A fenced yard was along the south side.

There was a single decrepit old heap baking in a corner of the parking lot, but no other signs of occupancy. I rolled in and parked on the opposite side of the crate, despairing of it actually belonging to one Karl Reismuller, university professor and business owner.

We climbed a low wooden staircase and entered through the double doors into an unlit foyer. Yuki stiff-armed an inner door and preceded me down the central hallway. We passed a couple of rooms that appeared vacant, and a few closed and unmarked doors. Finally she paused at an open door and held up her hand to caution me back.

I watched her rap on the doorsill and call out, "Dr. Reismuller?"

A deep voice from somewhere inside the room boomed, "That's right. Come on in and take off your clothes. I'll be right with you."

Yuki took half a step back, and I could see the color rising from her neck. But she shook it off and charged on into the room.

I could hear him rumble out a long soft chuckle. It must have been an old gag.

He said, "My apologies, Miss, I thought you were one of the students. Dr. Wilhelm Reismuller at your service."

"That's better," she laughed. "I'm Mei-Ling Tan. Dr. Chan of CalTech is an old friend of the family and he suggested I see you. I guess he didn't tell me quite enough about you."

The professor chuckled again, and she continued, "I'm currently undertaking my graduate work in electronic control systems and he indicated you might be willing to share some details of your research. My goal is to prepare for a career in the development of avionics and controls for motors and propulsions systems."

There was a long pause, followed by "Dr. Chan, eh? How is the old boy?"

"He's doing quite well, I understand. My father and he still get out for the occasional golf game."

"Yes, yes, well come on in and have a seat. Let me clear some space here."

I took the opportunity to pussyfoot on by the door and cast a quick glance inside. Reismuller was a large man, tall and beefy, with forearms like lean Virginia hams. His head was a wild frazzle of red hair and beard, and he sported a pair of thick, round-lensed tortoiseshell glasses.

As I passed, he was busy moving books from a chair at the corner of his desk to one of several piles on the floor. He did not look up and took no apparent notice of my movements. I cooled my heels at the end of the hall for a couple of minutes and sauntered on back to the door.

I heard Yuki saying, "...is all very interesting. I wonder if I might have a look at your laboratory?"

"Certainly, Miss."

I heard the good doctor kick his chair back and I high-tailed it back down the hall to the lavatory. The two of them walked the other way and through a heavy door at the end. After several seconds of silence, I popped out of the loo and hoofed it through the double doors and out into the sunshine.

It was a good half hour and several smokes later when she emerged from the building. I turned my back and strode off to the corner while she made a beeline for the car. She climbed in and sat stock still for a spell, her hands gripping the top of the wheel. Finally she mashed the starter and swung the heap around to pick me up.

Yuki stayed silent as we cruised on down the main drag and caught the highway north. After a few miles she started shaking her head and muttering "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"That bad, huh? What did you find out?

"He is definitely a brilliant scientist, and very capable with his hands, but he is totally lacking in common sense. That place has no security at all. And he has no inventory controls in place either."

"Why would he need that? What's he keeping in there?"

"Oh, just a bunch of rocket motors. Solid fuel-propelled missile engines. Lots of them. Small, large and in-between. He has those things stashed on the floor, under benches, up on shelves, and in every other nook and cranny in the place.

"There's also a ton of solid rocket propellant in there, along with a terrible chemical stench and a bunch of different colored barrels, none bearing any obvious markings. Several of the motors were obviously charged. He told me he tests them out in the desert east of here.

"As far as I could tell they were all prototypes. No two looked identical and he has no pilot production set up. Just a well-equipped machine shop and a lot of metal stock crammed in an impossibly crowded space. And lots of chemicals. I hope his landlord has iron-clad fire insurance, because that whole set up is an accident waiting to happen.

"And the worst of it is that he told me the Pentagon sends military reps around at least every other week to get updated on his work and remove the occasional prototype. They apparently have no quarrel with his arrangement.

"He assured me it was all very top secret, but it was all right for me to look and ask questions because, after all, this was going to be my future field! The guy's cracked!"

"Well, what did he have for security?"

"Not much. There's a man door in the back with a lock and dead-bolt on it. That looks all right, but of course it was open. There's also a roll-up door back there right next to it, and it is broken and bashed in. The lock is broke and the metal is torn. One corner of the bottom was bent in, like someone had pushed their way in."

"No alarm I take it. Did you get a gander at the back yard?"

"Yeah, I made a play for some fresh air, and walked on out the back door. There's a fairly large pad out there and a bone yard of old equipment around the fence line. There's a bunch more barrels out there too. I don't know what they are exactly, components for the fuel maybe, but there are more than a few different kinds and I didn't see where he's taking any pains to keep them safe and secured.

"It's got the same fence around it, but there's a big old hole pulled out of the corner of it. You'd think someone would have figured out the place looks broken into! Hell, somebody could just back up to that hole in the fence and load up."

"That must be what they've been doing. Sounds like they could take pretty much whatever they want out of that place.

"I asked him how he keeps track of the merchandise and he just said, 'The government boys keep handing me new specs, I keep building them, and the government boys keep coming around and taking them away. Don't know when it's going to end. Gotta make hay while the sun shines.'"

"Jesus."

"Yeah, Mary and Joseph too."

"I'm wondering how he's keeping the paperwork, you know, those specs he's talking about."

"Well, I can guess. There were a bunch of thin folders stamped "Secret" tossed on some of those piles in the far corner behind the desk, and more of the same in and amongst the other piles of books. I saw you pussyfoot on by there. You got a look at his set up."

"Yeah, but the jig's up now."

"Are you taking this to the Feds up in Albuquerque?"

"No. I've got a different idea. I'd like to play this one out. But Mack'll know someone we can notify in a few days, ex-military intelligence most likely, and he'll know which cages to rattle to get this place secured from now on. I just don't want to be part of the picture once we've finished here."

* * *

We took our time getting back to town and grabbed some lunch at an authentic looking _cantina_ on the southern outskirts of the city. The day was crisp and clear, so we meandered off to the west and spent the afternoon hiking among the petroglyphs on the far mesa. After a few hours of quiet walking and appreciation of the stark scenery, I'd pretty much formulated my plan.

Back at the motel I told Yuki, "I need you to hop some transport back to LA and do one more thing for me."

I pulled out a sheet of my personal stationary and scratched out a note, addressed it to General Delivery, Tuba City, Arizona. In it I asked Johnny when he got the letter to call my secretary in LA and she'd get him together with me by telephone.

I could see it coming, so I held up my hand and said, "No arguments. I need you to get me in touch with Johnny Eagle. Wait for him to contact you and then tell him to get down here as fast as he can.

"It could get a little rough from here on in, and I want you safely tucked away back home. If my plan is any good, we should be out from under this by the end of the month."

Had I known!

* * *

That afternoon I put Yuki on the overnight train back to Los Angeles, a Santa Fe express via Flagstaff, and tucked her into a spacious private compartment in the sleeper coach. I hunted down the porter and spoke with him about ensuring her privacy was undisturbed, and left him a bottle of _teriyaki_ sauce with instructions that it find its way to her table in the dining car.

The train was rolling when I made the closest door and hopped off to the depot platform. She looked radiant, but more than a little worried, as she waved to me, framed in the large window of the private compartment. I felt a pang inside as I knew I'd be missing her in the days and weeks to come.

Since we'd met there hadn't been more than a few days we'd not seen or spoke with each other. And things seemed to have progressed to a new level these past few days where I was starting to think of her less as a secretary and more as a partner, in the business and in my life. Moreover, we had formed an effective team over the weeks since the attempt on Vivian's life.

But the trail from here on in called for risky action and, no doubt, some extralegal activity that I did not want her involved with. I would be in good hands partnered with Johnny and Mack, and I wanted Yuki home safe and secure 'til this particular business was wrapped up.

* * *

Next morning I rose late and headed up to Tijeras to keep an eye out for the Clanton boys. Not really expecting them for another day I pulled up into the picnic area off the main highway and got out one of my old textbooks, by Raymond Chandler. Nothing stirred in the next couple of hours so I rolled to the local café. The lunch crowd had left and I staked out a table at the window.

I was just putting away the last of the coconut cream pie when the Arkie boys thundered through town in a heavy black Ford. Way it rumbled and squatted heavy on the chassis it had to be the shine car. They must have driven all night. Apparently the whoring hadn't been all that profitable in the mountain mining camp after all.

'Them boys're probably too ugly to get it even paid for,' I thought.

That noisy car gave me an idea I might be able to scope out the ranch. I paid up and got out of there.

About a block up was the local hardware store. I walked in and spotted the hardware I was looking for in a long rack along the far wall. The countertop in front of it was plastered with photographs of elk, deer, mountain lion, a variety of game fish, and smiling locals. The quarry didn't look as pleased.

I took my time perusing the merchandise on the rack before settling on a short, sleek lever-action in .357; a tad big of a round for varmintin,' but close enough for the pose. And I always kept a couple cartons of feed in the glove box with my S&W.

"This good for varmints?" I queried.

"Oh, yeah, but you might do better with a longer barreled .22."

"I don't know. I like the feel of this thing. If it don't do what I want, I'll just throw rocks at 'em."

He chuckled at that one, got the piece down from the wall, and rang up the sale. I added on a decent leather travel case for it and got out of there for less than 30 fins.

Back on the road and on up over the next rise I came to the two mailboxes and spied the dirt track sloping up the alluvial fan toward a narrow canyon in the mesa. I drove on a ways further and around the bend was another dirt road that appeared to angle up towards the mesa. I pulled over and shoved a few cartridges into the carbine before taking the rig up the slope to the mesa.

Up over the rim, the road forked in three different directions and followed a track that meandered through some minor badlands to a rim overlooking a small box canyon in the mesa. The black Ford was parked next to the Vicky alongside an old weathered shack at the center of the biggest assortment of scrap I'd yet laid eyes on during this journey through the Southwest.

Desert junkyards have their own special ambience: varying hues of rusting metal and fading paint, pitted chrome, and shattered glass. But this collection was awesome both in size and riotous variety. The canyon was well on its way to achieving legendary status as a desert junk pile. It looked like the Clantons had sacked entire villages back wherever it was they came from and hauled it all out here to fry in the desert.

I got my mind back on the job at hand and backed the flivver away from the rim. Grabbing the rifle I walked through the scrub until I found a rock outcropping that afforded a good view of the ranch. I was wondering why they hadn't just buried Lamar in this mess.

The place looked quiet. Possibly the boys were racked out from their long trip.

Aside from the Vicky there were a few other cars around that looked like they might be operable, so I couldn't be sure the boys were there alone. What struck me the most was that there didn't appear to be a building on the entire property worth more than a C-note, certainly none big enough to drive a truck into. Also, there was no place to turn a truck around in that mess and no suggestion the place ever saw much more than light traffic.

Looking back on the canyon road, it appeared to be a bit rough for a haul vehicle anyways. It figured they must have someplace else they were using for moving the merchandise.

I walked to the car and drove it back to the edge of the mesa, following the left fork until I felt reasonably sure I was out of earshot of the box canyon. I hadn't been hunting since I was a kid back on the truck farm in Virginia, not counting the slaughter in the Pacific. And even that had consisted mostly of potting crows perched on the corn and plinking rats flushed out of woodpiles.

I'd had enough of hunting men to last me a lifetime. Nowadays I preferred the crafty plan and well-sprung trap, and reading about the aftermath in the local fish wrap, to getting down and actually doing the manual labor myself.

A few fat grouse were browsing over by the other road and I thought I'd scare me up a few of those. By the time the sun was setting on the Sangre de Cristo range, I'd bagged an even half dozen of the heftier birds, letting the smaller ones pass. I bled them one by one from the neck and strung them on a short piece of cord.

Getting a little hungry and not wanting to put in any more appearances at the local establishments, I headed toward the highway back to town. Down at the junction I spotted a couple of kids walking their bicycles over the big road and mounting up to continue south.

I goosed the Merc through the intersection and headed them off a ways down the road. When they pulled up I got out of the car and asked them if the local grouse was good eating. They both looked pretty enthusiastic about the subject, so I opened the trunk and pulled out a burlap sack and extracted the string of birds. The little girl went into a long exposition about just what her mother would do with something like that, and the boy was talking about how many dishes she could make out of those birds.

I dropped the stringer back in the sack and handed it to the girl saying, "I haven't anyone in these parts to cook me up some grouse properly, so you take these home to your momma and get them done up right."

"Gee, thanks mister..." the boy said, his eyes dropping to the plate. "Mr. California."

I winced. I told them, "You all enjoy that now. I got to get back where I came from."

As they pedaled away I got to thinking maybe I was making too big of a splash in this maroon convertible and I'd best be getting me an agency car. I was starting to miss Yuki already, so I stayed away from our previous haunts and grabbed a bite at a rundown roadside _taqueria_.

I staked out the boarding rooms the next couple of nights, but Ma and Pa were getting in late and going straight to bed.

* * *

Yuki called me on Wednesday morning and told me she'd heard from Johnny. She'd given him the what's up and he was going to show.

She said, "He'll be on the 1:30 bus tomorrow, the Geronimo Lines, from Gallup. I miss you Ray. What am I supposed to be doing out here by myself anyway?"

"Just keep watching the phone. If it rings, tell 'em I'm out on an assignment and I'll be back in a few weeks. I should have this wrapped up by the end of the month, so see if you can line us up something else to do around then."

"OK, Ray. Be careful out there. There ain't an ounce of pity in that old woman."

I said, "Well at least if you don't hear from me you'll know where I am."

"What? Where's that?"

"A rock pile in Paulden."

"Ray!!"

"OK baby. I got my six covered. You just watch out for your pretty self. I hope you're not staying at the apartment."

"No, I'm staying with the folks and I'm only coming into the office for a few hours a day at odd times."

"Are you carrying?"

"Sure. A shorty Colt .45 automatic Jaime lent me."

"That's a girl. You're catching on."

Next morning the phone woke me up at 0600. I was dreaming in a language I had never heard before when the phone rang again. We'd had our own Navajo code-talking unit on Truk and several of the other islands. It was Johnny.

"So James, you're a private star now, huh?"

"That's right Johnny, only this time it looks like I'm fighting the next war. What have you been doing?"

"Doing what I do best: watching sheep grow."

"You got time to do some more work for Uncle Sam?"

Reckon so, what do you have in mind?"

"Need a truck driver, and someone to help me lasso the truck. If you can get away now, head on down to Albuquerque and I'll fill you in."

"I reckon the sheep won't miss me too much."

I caught up with Johnny as he stepped off the afternoon bus at the stage depot on the corner of 2nd and Marquette. He had a small cloth-covered traveling bag in his hand. We wondered down the block to a _cantina_ at the corner, settled into a booth, and ordered up a mess of green chile pork and tortillas.

"I'm sorry if I got you away at an inconvenient time."

"Not at all, amigo. It's good to see one of the old faces again. I was getting restless, anyway."

"I know what you mean."

" You know, when I got back the medicine man gave me grief for using our sacred language to help kill people, like anything we did to the Japs was a sin or something and I had done a really bad thing. Said I'd be punished by the ancestors after I passed.

"I called him out as an unholy fake and a disgrace, and I told the ignorant bastard to stick his self-righteous babble where the sun don't shine. I don't think anyone up there ever done that before. Wouldn't have done it myself if I'd never been anywhere either.

"Seems like there wasn't no one wanted to talk to me lately. I just been hanging back on the ranch with my cousin Ernie."

"Sorry to hear that happened."

"S'OK. I don't think that old bastard fought for anything in his life. Just spent his days scaring old ladies and children.

"Place ain't the same any more anyway. I was away too long. There isn't anything holding me there. I think I'm gone for good.

"You didn't meet Ernie, but he was in my unit at the beginning. Got sent back a little early, shot up. He's doing fine now, and he likes the old place. He knew better than me to go talk to the medicine man, and he's got himself a nice comfortable wife and a passel of kids. They'll get on just fine without me."

"Sounds like Ernie's too smart to join that pity party."

"He is. But those other guys are a bunch of old squaws. What the hell, they're losers anyway.

"Yep, more the losers of this world stick to their reservation, or plantation, or whatever old demon that's holding them back, the more room there is for us free guys to roam. Isn't that right? I ain't going back."

* * *

Johnny had arrived just in time. Our surveillance of the flat that Saturday evening established that the Indian had finally showed up.

I beat it over to the downtown parking garage near the rental agency and stashed my heap. I put some long green down as a deposit and slipped the attendant a sawbuck to keep on top of things.

My reservation was waiting at the agency: a long, grey Buick Roadmaster two-door coupe with overdrive. I signed for the car and went out and gave it a cursory mechanical check. It had an oversized power plant that looked like it would hold up good. I drove back to the Aztec, met up with Johnny, and settled the motel bill.

I didn't know what time they'd be moving out so we picked up a mess of fried chicken on the way to the warehouse.

Midnight came. There had been no movement from the warehouse, but the Clanton bus was still parked outside. We took two-hour shifts staring at the darkness. The sun wasn't even up before I caught a rib full of elbow.

"We're on," Johnny said.

The warehouse was totally dark, but the roll-up door was raised. A long, low tractor pulled out of the warehouse hauling a short box trailer and turned north up Alvarez. It looked to be a heavy-duty Federal model, the kind with the sleeper-cab they'd been turning out since '38. I didn't catch the markings on the tractor. It could have been a leased job.

We waited until the roll-up door went back down. Johnny fired up the crate and waited another minute before proceeding slowly in the direction taken by the truck.

When we cleared the warehouse, Johnny lead-footed it and we caught up with the truck a block from the highway. We pulled over and watched him take Highway 66 eastbound. Johnny gave it half a minute, then raced to the corner and moved in about a mile behind.

""I'll take the first shift," he said. "You get some more sleep."

"OK, I'll take over later and we'll hit him when it looks good."

It was around high noon when the big rig pulled into a chicken joint this side of Amarillo. Johnny drove on a few more miles to a downtown hamburger stand and swung around back. He ankled into the joint and came back a few minutes later with some grilled meat and hot chocolates.

It wasn't half an hour later before the truck came nosing through town. I'd already spotted Johnny behind the wheel. I tossed a bag of trash in the direction of an open barrel and slid out onto the main drag. We picked the Federal up again on the east side of town and rode on into the noonday glare.

A few hours later the driver pulled over again outside of Wichita Falls. This time he chose a diner and truck stop with a large truck lot out back. The Indian took his time finding a quiet corner to park the truck and went inside. I swung around the diner to the far side of the auto park.

We sat a good hour before we saw him walking out to the truck. Johnny and I moved quickly to the back of the lot behind the truck, and we were waiting by the driver's door when he walked around the front of the cab.

Johnny put the clamp on his shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him into the driver's door before he had a clue what was happening to him. He was just starting to let out a squawk when Johnny got the Bowie knife to his throat.

Johnny said, "You're working for us now, so just take it easy and this will all work out fine."

I slipped the chrome bracelets on him. We shoved him on over behind the cab and had ourselves a little powwow.

I asked him "Do you know who you're working for?"

"No," he grunted.

"Do you know what you're hauling?"

"Didn't see it. Didn't ask."

"Do you know that you're not supposed to know these things?"

"Yeah, I kinda figured that."

"So this is an illegal shipment?"

"I wouldn't bet it isn't. I've hauled stuff for the Clantons before. Never knew what it was."

"Where's it going?"

"Miami."

"Where'd their other stuff go?"

"Miami."

"How was it the Clantons picked you for this ride?"

"I know their cousin, Lamar Jenkins, out of Gallup. He put me together with them a couple of years ago."

"Were you supposed to drive this load to Miami, unload at the docks, and drive the rig back to Albuquerque?"

"Yeah, that about sums it up."

"Well, we're taking over the load. Do you want to know why?"

"Wouldn't hurt none to know, I reckon. I ain't gonna fight you for it."

"That crate you're carrying contains top secret military components that the Russians have been trying to get their hands on. The Clantons are on hire to Soviet spies, and this shipment is destined for the USSR. Only we're gonna give it back to Uncle Sam."

"Hey!" he squeaked. "I don't want any part of treason. I never even saw the load."

Johnny piped in. "Zuni, right? What's your handle anyway?"

"Zeke."

I told him, "Don't worry Zeke, we're gonna help you out. You'll get the truck back. You can return it and go back to the reservation or wherever. But you're gonna have to stick by us until we get this job finished. Any problems with that?"

"Hell no! I got nothing but time. I'm with you, man. Anything I can do to help. I'm not on their side."

"Okay, Zeke. You mind your manners. We got enough evidence on you to get you into Leavenworth for 20 years. When the shipment is secured, you'll get that back too."

Johnny kept Zeke cooling his heels in the flivver while I walked over and flipped a coin into the phone box.

"Mack, it's James. We're good to go. We got the load, and one Indian driver on ice. Where do you want us to park 'em?"

"Not here at the ranch. We'll take it up to Norton's straight away. There's an all-night hash house named Ruby's in Denison. Make that your next pit stop and I'll meet you there."

Johnny took over the truck, and I followed him out to the highway. It was dark by the time we made Fort Worth. We continued east through Dallas where Johnny picked up Route 75 north to Denison. Near midnight Johnny found the bright neon sign for the diner and we pulled around back.

Settled into a both Mack turned to Zeke and asked, "Have you ever done any ranching, boy?"

"Plenty, sir," Zeke replied. "Mostly sheep and goats."

Mack said, "Well I reckon you can give us a hand 'til these boys are done. You're working on the side of the Lord now, son. Is that a problem for you?"

"No sir, it's high time and I hope to stay there. Commie traitors I don't need. I thought I was hauling some bootleg cigarettes, hot car parts, or something like that. I couldn't figure out why I was supposed to end up at a port."

"Well now you know son. There is more of this stuff going on than any of us know, but we aim to put a big dent in it right here and now."

Mack heaved his bulk from the bench. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

We reached Norton's shop an hour after midnight and parked the rig in back. Mack took the three of us to the ranch for the night while Norton and his help off-loaded the goods. Mid-morning we were all gathered back in the tiny disheveled office at Norton's place.

"So what do our little rocket parts look like now?" Mack inquired.

Norton let out a guffaw. "Used a bunch of old No. 12 cans to simulate the booster motor casings."

"And the fuel?"

"Secret recipe passed down from Uncle Nathan. He used it to raise the stumps on all this land hereabouts. Ran through a lot of it, hear to tell. Let's just say that glycerin mixed with chicken crap and some specially processed grain makes up a mighty powerful explosive. Couple of little mercury switches tucked away in the wood underside of the crate lid, and... Voila! Instant commie surprise."

"That gonna do much damage?

"Oh, what's in these here crates'll take down a small building. If'n it's a warehouse, probably blow out the walls and drop the roof on 'em. No way to disguise the fakery with what's left of it, but the Reds'll have no problem passin' it off as a 'work accident' of some sort. Lyin' comes natural to 'em, anyway. And I hear they're plenty used to failure.

"By the way, there was a lot more than rocket motors in those crates."

"Like what?" Mack prompted.

"Like precision bearings, motor nozzles, avionics, possibly inertial guidance systems. A lot of stuff."

"So what are we doing with the real stuff?" I asked.

"I've already thought on that," Mack confided, "and here's what I suggest. The merchandise stays here with Norton at least until Johnny confirms the crates are on the ship and the ship has sailed. According to your schedule that'll be the 27th of this month.

"Johnny will roll out in two days to make port on Friday. I've got folks I'm already talking to and I'll make sure it gets in the right hands.

"Ray, Veronica wants to meet with you in Tampa as soon as you can get there. Her office has a line on a crew she thinks is party to this business, but their hands are tied as they haven't so far come across any evidence of illegal activity. I convinced her you could likely bust something loose for them.

"You can leave your heap at the ranch and I'll take you down to the airport tomorrow."

"Naw, I'd rather take the overnight bus. Let's get down to Dallas now. Johnny can head up to Tampa on Sunday and we can roll back here together with the truck."

Well, anyway, that had been the plan.

# April 1948

The room was small, dimly lit with sunlight and stiflingly hot, with a single bed, two barred windows, and a wooden door. I rolled over to the base of the door and tapped it with my feet. It didn't feel very substantial. Within a few minutes I'd kicked through the lower panel. I turned myself around and wiggled head first out the hole into the blinding sunshine.

Waves were lapping the rocky shoreline about ten feet from where I lay. Some other old wooden buildings were off to my right behind a broken-down wooden pier.

I spent the better part of a half an hour scoping my surroundings and watching a surprising amount of regular ship activity in the near distance. Eventually, I rolled over in the direction of the other buildings, looking for something sharp and keeping an eye out for snakes.

Judging from the dew on the grass and the angle of the sun, it looked to be about mid-morning. I goggled what looked like a trash pile behind the closest building and rolled on over in that direction. I lay there next to an assortment of rusty cans and old bottles trying to think what good this collection of junk was going to do, given that I was handcuffed as well as bound by the arms and legs.

Then the idea came to me. I spotted a good-sized pane of broken glass under one of the structures. I wiggled on over and caught the pane firmly between the feet, adjusted my position, and started rolling for the pier. Rolling out onto the rotting deck I was careful to stay clear of the edges and the end. I was in no hurry to learn a new way to swim, and I figured if I was lucky enough to float it would be face down.

The better part of the pane of glass was still clamped between my feet when I bumped up onto a cleat near the end of the dock. I'd seen a number of smaller craft scurrying in and out of the bay, some accompanying the freighters and tankers.

After trying with little success to aim the glass away from the dock and use it as a signal mirror, without losing it in the process, I was looking for a better way to control it. Finally, I let go of the glass on the deck in a spot where it was half-way propped on old piece of rope. I got myself turned around and got a hold of the glass in my teeth.

Four times over the next hour I was able to flash an SOS in the direction of a ship passing not too far from the horizon. My jaw finally gave it up, and the glass slipped out of my mouth. I abruptly laid back to catch it on my chest, but it rolled off and lay flat on the deck. Unable to retrieve it, I rolled over on my side and opted for some late morning shut-eye.

When I next opened my eyes a small watercraft with US Coast Guard markings was pulling up to the pier. The boat was tied up to the cleat and two armed men debarked.

"Good to see you, boys." I grinned up at them.

The older one looked down, nudged the glass away from my body with a toe and gave a knowing smile.

"Not bad. What's your story?"

"I'm hungry," I croaked, "and I have no idea where I am or how I got here."

He reached down and pulled out my wallet, flipped it open.

"A gumshoe," he snorted. "A long way from home."

I had to agree with that. "That's right. I was working a case that took me to the home of a prominent party on St. Pete Beach. I guess I wasn't welcome."

"You working with any law down here?"

"Not yet, but that'll be my next stop. What is this place?"

"This here is Mullet Key, an island in the mouth of Tampa Bay. We're at the old Army coastal defense site. Ft. DeSoto's down there at the bottom. Used to be an old bombing and gunnery range back in '42, but it was excessed just last year and is kind of in limbo right now; may end up reverting back to Pinellas County."

The big one sat me up and the little guy cut my ropes with what looked like a Boy Scout folder. Then he walked over and rummaged around in the boat for a while. He came back with a pair of bolt cutters and with some effort chopped loose the cuffs.

I spent most of the rest of the day on harbor patrol, grilling in the front of the scow while the boys prowled the nooks and crannies of the outer bay. It was getting toward sundown when they beached me at the Coast Guard station in the Port of St. Petersburg.

John Law was waiting for me there and I rode downtown with a couple of poker-faced bulls.

The Chief was another tall and grizzled old boy. He wasn't particularly generous with his words. My wallet was spread out in front of him and I waited while he finished rifling through it.

Finally he sat back and gave me the stare for a good minute.

"Who's pot did you piss in, son?"

I looked him in the eye and said, "An old party over on St. Pete Beach. Involved in espionage for the Soviets, near as I can tell. I believe he's CPUSA."

"You got any proof for that?"

"Not directly. I was in the process of trying to find some when I ended up out on that island."

Refreshed in my memory, I gave him the crib-note version of the story.

When I came up for air he tilted his head back, narrowed his eyes and asked, "What service?"

"The Corps, sir."

"Me too. Belleau Woods. Semper Fi. My name's Walters."

"Raymond James, private."

"Well, I've got a news flash for you bright boy. We're quite aware of your old party, Thornton Cain. He and that grafter Wiedemeyer are acquaintances, associates quite possibly. You might say that they're fellow travelers."

I felt about as sharp as a bowling ball.

"Sumbitches are everywhere," was the best I could come up with.

"Not exactly. But they're out there and they're enough of 'em to keep a lot of us busy."

"Now there's someone here wants to see you."

He pressed a buzzer on the side of his desk and sat back, crossing his arms, with a satisfied smirk on his pan.

I was trying to shake off my confusion as to whom else may have known I was even found when the private door to the office popped open framing Yuki in all her petite loveliness. I jumped to my feet as she streaked across the floor and leaped into my arms. I held her close for what seemed several minutes, feeling the silent tears coursing down my neck. Finally, she drew back and attempted a smile, then resumed the stranglehold on my waist.

After some clumsy sparring and dodging, I managed to wrestle her into my lap in the chair. I gave her my hanky and she snuffled into it, mumbling words in a low breath that I couldn't understand. I patted her back and said, "Well, Chief, this is a wonderful surprise, but how...?"

He held his hand up and interrupted, "Miss Suzuki has been here working with us for about a week now, and we called her back in this morning right after the Coast Guard called in. You see, we've been looking for you since the day your rental was recovered over on the beach. It had been tagged for a few days, then reported abandoned to Sunrise, which promptly filed a complaint against you with our jurisdiction, since that's where the car was recovered.

"Your Indian friend had dropped into the Tampa PD last week after he failed to locate you, and he filed a missing persons that we picked up on the wire. He had your secretary's phone number, so we enquired with her as to the nature of your business out here. She told us to check with the FBI, but she'd made this office the next morning before we got 'round to doing it."

Yuki piped up, "When they told me you were missing, I locked up shop and hopped a cab to the International airport and caught the Transglobal overnighter to Miami, then the Seminole Line's morning flight to Tampa."

"Anyway, Ms. Cruz gave us the details concerning that fellow you were interested in at the Ybor City meet, and it wasn't difficult for us to ID him through the Tampa PD as Thornton Cain. They've been keeping an eye on that bunch independent of the feds, working with the local Military Police to keep them away from McDill and the other area military installations.

"They gave us his location, and we caught up with you through the owner of the Gulf Breeze. That led us to the County Assessor's here in town where a certain well-put-together redhead seemed to recall you rather well."

Yuki pouted at that and dug her heels into the floor, averting her eyes in the direction of the window.

The Chief continued, "I already knew about Wiedemeyer's doubtful loyalties, and kind of guessed at that point you might have got cross-wise with the old boy Cain. So we mounted a raid on his place and tossed it real good. But nothing came of it until you turned up today. We still don't have much to pin on him except your word."

"And I bet he's had plenty of opportunity to sanitize that house since the raid."

"No doubt. Unfortunately we had no grounds to hold any of them, and the entry and search was kind of shaky as it was.

"The Feds wanted no part of it, but agreed to follow up on any fallout from the raid. There turned out to be quite a bit of that. We didn't want to tip our hand regarding possible knowledge of your disappearance, so we made up some bull puckey about a simultaneous nationwide raid on known CPUSA safe houses.

"That got a rise out of Cain, and the FBI has been monitoring their movements and communications ever since. I have no idea what they've come up with, but I've no doubt it's been plenty.

"From what Yuki's told us, you've single handedly opened up a Soviet spy ring stretching from the Pacific to the Atlantic. The Feds here've been looking a long time for a direct link between Soviet espionage and the local CPUSA membership. This bird Cain is it."

* * *

Well, that was fine news and all but there was still some unfinished personal business to attend to. According to Veronica, the boys were holding one of their usual meetings in two night's time.

The next day I spent some time on the phone with Mack and let him know I'd be in touch when we were ready to return to Dallas. He assured me that the rocket motor parts had been secured by the government and new security measures for defense contractor operations were being implemented and sternly enforced. No mention had been made of what actually had been shipped off in those crates.

I picked up an agency car downtown and Yuki and I spent some time shopping and sightseeing. Veronica invited us to dinner in the evening.

"We hadn't suspected Cain of involvement with espionage," Veronica explained.

"We knew his crew was trying to organize something called the 'Association of Employees of Americans' here in the cigar factories. Apparently they weren't aware that most of these Cubanos are Americans, have been here for generations, and own the businesses and employ the workers.

"It took no effort at all to keep the foreign organizers out, and the few locals they recruited were blackballed and forced to leave town. They really can be quite stupid, those Russians.

"Unfortunately, and as you well know, the threat lies in their influence over other stupid people. It's not just these foolish ladies in the garment worker's unions. You can see evidence of the same down at the harbor where too many of the so-called men have way more muscle than brains. I just can't look at any of these Russian boot-lickers as men. It's depressing to see them marching in formation and chanting their slogans like a bunch of mindless Red ants."

* * *

On the afternoon of the meet we rode out to the beach, caught an early supper at the Penguin Diner, and set up a stake a few doors down from the house on Passe-a-Grille Way. Sure enough the sun was just setting on the water when the big Caddy slid out of the driveway and up the pike. When they were out of sight I made a U-turn and rolled on down to park against the sea wall just up from the Pelican's Roost. We gave it another hour until the darkness settled in.

Yuki produced a rod, one of the Colt Police Positives she'd carried from Los Angeles, and I fished the electric torch from the dash.

Shoving the Colt in my jacket pocket I asked her, "Are you packing anything?"

"My Vest Pocket; the .32 S&W. It's good enough for close-in work."

"How's the State of Florida feel about that iron?"

"Who cares?"

We took a stroll up the bay side of the street and wandered on by the house. The place was entirely dark, but I had a feeling the Filipino was lurking around somewhere. We crossed the street and legged on back, taking the direct approach up the driveway to the stairs behind the garage. Yuki secreted herself beneath the base of the stairs while I crept up to the landing.

The door didn't have much of a lock on it. I got out my flexible steel tool and worked it until the latch sprung. The door inched open and I peered into total darkness. Recalling the bedroom was on the far side, I tiptoed on over. A quick flash of the torch showed the layout. The mutt didn't have a desk or a shelf of books.

Choosing the bed stand, I retrieved the folded map and two business cards from my breast pocket and slid them in under everything to the back of the drawer. And to seal the deal I took an old Bible from my jacket pocket and slipped it under the mattress. I figured if the big guy had any suspicions about the set-up, this little touch should remove all doubt. I eased the door shut behind me and ensured it was locked. At the base of the stairs I peeked around, but Yuki wasn't around.

"Ray. I'm here," came a whisper from the darkness.

She walked over from the yard and I pulled her in under the stairs. "Did you see anything?"

"Not a peep. But I didn't get close to the house. I just walked the length of the yard to see if there was any way in from the back. I don't think so. There're a lot of windows on the far side of the house if you want to take a look."

"Not on this mission," I told her. "We better git while we can."

We scurried around the building and walked on out of the driveway like we owned the place, turned south, and continued on down the sidewalk toward the Roost.

As we walked Yuki asked, "So, Ray, what did we just do back there?"

"You remember that navigation map of lower Tampa Bay I picked up at the shop today?

"Yeah."

"Well I circled that Key they had me on, based on what the Coast Guard boys told me, and put an X at the dock where they found me. Tore the top half off and threw it away, folded it up nice and tight - pocket-sized - and stuck it in the drawer along with a couple of cards from one of the boys in Veronica's shop."

"And that old Bible?"

"I slipped that well-worn Bible under the mattress. What I'm hoping is if we can get Cain suspicious of the driver he'll toss the joint, find that stuff, and figure the boy's been talking with the FBI. I was hoping that Bible might seal the deal."

"How's that?"

"Well, just finding it there would reinforce in Cain's mind that the driver's ideologically unreliable. It'll provide a motive for betrayal. My goal is to get those two at each other's throats."

We entered the Roost. Apart from an old party holding up the bar, there wasn't a cat in the place. I settled Yuki into a quiet table at the dark end of the room and walked over to the bar. The barkeep gave me a long look and wandered over.

"Haven't seen you for the last little while. You're back, huh?"

"That's right. I liked it so much down here last month I though I'd bring the little woman for a visit."

He cast an eye in her direction and didn't look impressed.

"What'll it be?"

"Bourbon on the rocks, Coon Hollow if you got it, and your best scotch for the lady."

The drinks arrived with a large plate of peel and eat shrimp. Yuki looked delighted.

The barkeep said, "Happy hour was kind of slow this evening."

He winked and turned with a big grin, apparently entertaining his own private thoughts.

"So Ray, what's next?"

"I'm going to have to give this some careful thought. Hey, I already got another idea."

* * *

Next morning I got on the horn to Chief Walters early.

"Chief, I could use your help with one loose end I'm trying to work on. Can you go back in and grab that Filipino houseboy. Let him know that the driver put the finger on him as an illegal alien or something, but don't keep him over night. Hold him for a while, but make like there's some big screw-up and you got no choice but to release him. I'd like him to take that word back to Cain."

"I like that idea. There's no point to get the FBI involved in this. I'll have the houseboy picked up before noon, only I'm going to hold him here and see if I can't get Cain and company to come clear him and take him home. We can toss the place while they're gone. Come on in here about eleven."

Yuki and I were cooling our heels in Walters' office when the word came down just before noon. Emilio had been arrested and placed in a holding cell upstairs.

Walters placed a call to the telephone company and obtained the number of the big house in Passe-a-Grille. He wrote in on the blotter and shoved the telephone instrument across the desk to me.

Cain picked up on the third ring.

"Hey, this is Wiedemeyer. Word is the cops have rousted your houseboy. They got him downtown and they're sweating him. You sure that party boy of yours isn't ratting you all out?"

"Better get to the bottom of this. Oh-oh! Gotta run." I broke the connection.

The Chief laughed. "That ought to start something. I'll call Cain after lunch and suggest he get down here to retrieve his boy. You get over there now and make sure as to who leaves the house. If they both leave my boys will keep 'em busy all afternoon."

"Good, but if it works out that way do me a favor and keep them here until evening. I'd like to do some close surveillance when they get back to the house."

* * *

We grabbed a couple of burgers in South Pasadena and were parked back south of the big house before the end of the lunch hour. Presently I asked Yuki to walk north along the seawall past the house; keeping an eye out for the occupants of the big Caddy should it leave.

Ten minutes later it shot out the driveway and barreled up the street. Yuki emerged from a thicket and walked on down to the car.

"There were two of them, and the greasy guy was driving. I didn't see the passenger too well, but he was tall."

That was enough for me. We barreled out of the car and walked up to the drive. I picked the lock on the door at the rear of the house and we went to work on the library.

The files were secreted in a locked compartment of the credenza behind the desk. I also opened up all the drawers in the desk.

The Chief and his cameraman arrived in short order and began photographing any records that appeared useful.

"What about the safe?" I asked.

"We'll get that later. Maybe save it for the FBI. What I'm looking at here will be enough to hold them and ensure an indictment."

We covered our tracks and sealed up the house by mid-afternoon. Yuki and I grabbed some conch fritters from a stand off Gulf Boulevard and sat on the beach until sunset.

* * *

Back to our parking spot across from the Roost, the last dark purples in the west sky were fading to darkness when the Caddy heaved into the drive. After Frankie had stowed the Jew canoe and locked the garage we walked up the sidewalk past the front of the house. A tall hedge kept the north side of the house in deep shadow. We snuck up through some bushes on the corner of the structure and secreted ourselves beneath the large bay window looking into the parlor. A large divan and two armchairs were arrayed along the east wall, to our left, facing a fireplace.

Cain was pacing the lush oriental carpet set in the center of the room. Emilio occupied a chair near the far wall. Frankie was seated on the couch. He looked to be sweating and his eyes darted back and forth between the two others. Emilio looked more confused than angry, but he was shouting garbled accusations in the direction of the nance.

Frankie jumped up, waving his arms, and pleaded with Cain to listen. Cain took a step toward him and without a word shoved him back on the sofa. He crossed the room and pulled opened the drawer of a small octagonal table. The old Bible was in Cain's hand when he returned. Standing over the cowering chauffeur he shook it in his face and slammed it to the floor. Emilio shut up and stared. Frankie reared back on the cushions with a panicked clueless look on his map.

Cain sat down close in to the boy and looped a long arm over his shoulder. Shivering with rage, he yanked a dull black .45 from under the davenport and jammed it in Frankie's right eye. Frankie screamed like a woman. Holding the fag in an iron grip by the back of the neck he tilted the gun up slightly and pulled the trigger.

Frankie's skull exploded at the temples in a shower of tissue and bone fragments. The force of the shot threw the rest of his head back against the wall behind the couch, dislocating Cain's cradling arm at the shoulder. However, the gat had started to disintegrate before the bullet even left the barrel. The superheated shrapnel flew in all directions, shearing off most of Frankie's face even before his brains exploded. Jagged shards of gun metal tore through Cain's gun hand and peppered his face and upper torso.

Pulled forward into the gore by his ruined shoulder, Cain reared back in dismay. He clawed at his face with his pulped hand in a vain attempt to clear his vision. Shock set on in a blinding rush, and he blacked out and slid to the floor.

Yuki and I looked at each other in awe. "Mother Mary," she choked out as she turned away and sat down.

"C'mon," I gasped.

I snatched her up and we hot-footed it out to the street. The lights were on in the next house beyond the hedge and I heaved up there and leaned on the bell. The door cracked an inch and an eyeball peered out at me.

"Shots fired," I croaked. "Next door. Please call it in."

The door swung open to reveal a blue-haired matron in her nightdress and robe. Around the corner an old party in a smoking jacket and pajamas was holding down a large cushion chair in the great room. She motioned me to a telephone stand in the hall.

I dialed the St. Petersburg police and gave a brief report to the dispatcher, requesting an ambulance be sent post-haste. The matron stood with us on the porch and waited until a prowl car and ambulance arrived. We thanked her and moved off to linger at the seawall across from the big house.

"I wasn't expecting that," Yuki said.

"I was, sort of. But nothing that spectacular."

"What happened to that pistol?"

"Same thing as if you jammed it in the side of a pumpkin and pulled the trigger. Cain must have had more experience ordering hits than carrying them out. It probably never occurred to him that there's more than a bullet comes out of the barrel.

"The gases," Yuki remembered.

"Exactly, if the expanding gases behind the projectile are obstructed they'll act on the barrel like an explosive. If Cain survived that they'll still never get all the pieces out of him."

A few seconds later the old boy was walked out on a gurney to the ambulance and raced away. The county meat wagon pulled up a minute later and swallowed Cain's girlfriend.

Yuki and I took a leisurely drive up the coast road through Treasure Island and ended up in a cozy seaside motel at Madeira Beach. We sat on the beach and held each in the warm night breeze 'til we were nodding off from nervous exhaustion. I slept the rest of the dead that night.

The morning flight from Tampa got into New Orleans mid-afternoon and we flew into Dallas after the dinner hour. Mack and Veronica were on the tarmac to greet us as we descended from the airliner and we caught up over a leisurely meal before heading to the ranch. In no particular rush to return to the office Yuki and I spent the week with Johnny relaxing at Mack's ranch.

May 1948

One evening when we were sitting around the fireplace after dinner, Yuki told us, "Hey, I forgot to tell you about Shafter. I'd heard on the news that he was on trial for murder, but left for Florida before I could get any details. I'll bet Manny knows something."

"Give him a call," Mack prompted. "It's still early out there and I'd like to hear about this."

I dialed Manny's number at the precinct and he was in.

"Hey Manny, how ya been?"

"Ray! About time you showed. What happened to you?"

"I've been burying Reds in Florida. How about you?

"Doin' the same, but I'm on the company phone. Give me a number and I'll call you back from down the street."

Good to his word, Manny called back a few minutes later.

"I got good news," Manny said, but you first. I gave him the condensed version of the bust on Passe-a-Grille.

"So what do we have on Shafter?" I asked. "Yuki told me about a trial. I was wondering what happened?"

"I happened, Ray. I got three birds with one stone. It only took one phone call and about six hours to get two slabs of cold commie meat and one lifer."

"So how'd you do it Manny?"

"It went down like this. I called that hothead Shafter on a Saturday evening at his home. Made like I was a dick with the Pasadena major crimes unit.

"His daughter's kind of a wild one. I picked a Saturday night because she was going to be out till all hours, and Ollie carouses late too. So I called Shafter at nine and told him we picked up his daughter in the hills, all busted up and half dead. Her face was cut up, she was blind, and she had multiple fractures on both arms. She came around before going into surgery and indicated all she remembered was she'd been raped and beaten. I told him she was at Pasadena Memorial, out of surgery, but sequestered for the night. She would not be allowed visitors until the morning and I suggested he come out then.

"He asked if we had a line on who did it. I told him maybe he could help on that score. She mentioned an Ollie, no last name, said it wasn't the first time he'd raped her, but as far as putting the hurt on her he'd never done more than slap her around a bit in the past. When I asked him for an address or some way to get a line on his whereabouts he told me he'd never heard of the guy. Said he'd come out to the hospital in the morning.

"I knew he was shining me on so I got a couple of boys over at Harbor Division to put a tail on Ollie that night and keep an eye on his crib. Made up something about a smuggling operation coming down. Told them to let it unfold until Ollie showed up, then nab him after the meet was over. From what I heard, they watched some union enforcer named Paolo set up in the bushes for the hit but had no real idea what he was up to. Ollie shows up at one, and the two of them Harbor Division boys witnessed the kill.

"The friggin' wop just stood up and took him out point blank with a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun. Just popped up out of the bush and gave it to him in the face. Ollie was such a mess if they hadn't of been tailing him all night it would have taken all the next day just to identify him. Well, they snatched Paolo immediately and took him downtown. It was such a big deal no one thought to question how the boys just happened to be there when the hit went down.

"They sweated Paolo and he told them that Shafter had set up the hit. He had no idea why Ollie was fingered. Hadn't been told. So they sent some more boys to go pick Shafter up. Seems his daughter was just coming in around three, drunk as a skunk, about the same time they were hauling him away. He started screaming about a frame and never stopped, but no one ever did find any evidence of that. Since the boys hadn't told him why they were rousting him, all his screaming and complaining did was prove he knew up front about the kill.

"The boys downtown figured all his bitchin' was just a gutsy bluff on his part to throw up some smoke and mirrors and obscure his motive for the hit, which didn't interest them anyway. Paolo copped a plea and got life. He testified against Shafter, and that boy's already been convicted and sentenced to burn. He's got a date with the undertaker in June.

"Sweet as pie," I said. "I'm sure Lupe will enjoy reading the news."

* * *

The middle of May found us back to Hollywood and back to work. Or at least holding down the office waiting for the next client to show. We'd been loosely monitoring the late afternoon news roundup on the radio with two purposes in mind. First to see if any of our recent exploits had made the national news, and second to see if any related developments offered avenues for pursuit.

It was during one of these broadcasts that we heard a report vaguely speculating on the whereabouts of the Soviet Minister of Defense, who hadn't been seen publicly since early May. The speculation tied into reports of an unconfirmed explosion back around then that was believed to have leveled a dockside warehouse in the city of Ulanov, just south of the arctic port of Archangel.

Yuki showed up the next morning clutching the previous evening's edition.

"Look what I found tucked away on page 7."

It was a single paragraph under the headline: 'Mystery Surrounds USSR Defense Minister.' The print account didn't supply any more information than the broadcast version but did speculate on a tie-in with the warehouse explosion.

It seemed like a good time to drop by Magnum and brief Moe on the outlines of the operation. After getting with Sally I was in to see the big guy before lunch.

Moe listened intently to the events leading up to our hijacking of the rocket motors. After giving him a complete picture of what went down, from New Mexico to Florida, I tossed the paper, folded to the circled article, on Moe's desk.

Moe perused the item for a few seconds and threw back his head and laughed. "I guess the nosy Parker couldn't just wait for a report. He had to be there to open the package himself."

"Yeah, my guess is that the package was escorted past the usual customs officials straight to its destination. Hopefully they'd put together quite an audience for the occasion, but I guess we'll never know!"

"I'll bet it wiped the smug grin off someone's face!" Moe roared. When the chuckling died down, he slapped his arms back on the desk and cast me a serious look.

"Ray, I'd love to do it again. What's next?"

"I don't know, but I've got wind of a few new angles. How's Vivian doing these days?"

"She's made a full recovery. The sawbones didn't think it was possible, but she's a real fighter and she knows what she wants. I know she's exceedingly grateful for what you've done, as are we all."

"I'm glad to hear it. She's had her share of trouble. So what do you have in mind?"

"What could you do with a 12-month retainer?"

"Well," I considered. "You've got a pretty good handle on this studio. Are you interested in looking at some of the other lots? What about the schools and libraries?"

"Of course, but what more could we do?"

"Well, we could look there and further afield, try to make the connections and expose the major actors, chip away at the command structure."

"That's more what I had in mind."

"We could develop evidence to hand over to the Feds or the DA."

"I don't think so, Ray. The way I see it, going that route is as likely to reinforce their immunity as it is to get them in trouble. The Feds can't find their ass with both hands. They're still fighting last year's battles. They haven't really caught on to this Red threat. Besides that, anything we toss up to them will get squelched by some mole in Washington."

"I hear you. We could work with some local boys if we find some we can trust. But I'm worried there too. You know, what with union dues and unlimited funds from the Comintern, this crew has the jack to buy just about as much graft and corruption as they need.

"You know, they're not a lot unlike the Mob in organization and operations. The sad part is the Feds should be all over this, having cut their teeth on it in Chicago and all. But under the circumstances, given what seems to be a pattern of general complacency about this threat, I'm thinking that any direct interest by law enforcement in your activities is more likely an indication that we are not among friends. No, I'm afraid we'll have to come up with something a little more original."

"Well," I replied, "I guess the most effective thing I can do at the moment is to grow the network that developed on this case. Get our people on the look-out for some cracks we can open up. Put our heads together and find ways to monkey wrench their action. Sort of like: subversion meets subversion."

"That sounds like a plan: a defensive conspiracy against the global conspiracy. Keep it local initially, but by all means take it as far as you see fit."

Moe leaned back with a contented smile on his face.

He put a smile on mine when he added, "I'll have Sally run a check over in the morning. We'll see how far it takes you. I have no interest in micro-managing this thing. I just want to know that Magnum is getting some bang for the buck. Call Sally whenever you want a meeting and we'll go uptown for some breakfast."

I rose to leave, and we shook on the deal. He had the old gleam back in his eye as he crushed my fist.

"Give 'em hell, boy! Hit 'em where it hurts!"

* * *

The next day found Yuki and I sitting around the office and reminiscing. She had been cleaning up her desk before heading out to an early dinner and a movie with Monica. I had cracked the office bottle of Jim. After a time she wandered into the office and pulled up a chair.

"You know, Ray, I've come to view it like Lupe has. She told me socialism is like narcotics. It ruins the lives of the young, the stupid, and the naïve. They try to disguise it under a lot of different names. But if you're not talking about individual liberty, family values, and free enterprise, then it's all the same thing.

"A lot of people fought and died to create and maintain our way of life. These sorts enjoy their freedom, but they're still subversives. As far as I'm concerned they all carry a death warrant issued in the name of freedom. To the extent they just run their mouth, they're exercising their constitutional right to free speech. When they take action against the good ol' USA, they execute the warrant and it can be carried out by any citizen, at will, to defend our freedom. That's the way I look at it."

"The do-gooders, they do some good, they do some harm. They're called useful idiots 'cause they usually don't know what they're doing," I replied. "'The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,' I've heard said."

"In the case of the Communists it might better be stated that the road to Hell is paved with evil intent masked as the greatest and most glorious of intentions."

"And those mealy-mouthed dunces are a royal pain in the ass to boot."

"Indeed. And whether they know it or not, most of them have a control, usually a dedicated party member. It's these people that have chosen the path of all-out treason. They know exactly what they're doing. And they know how to manipulate a sea of idiots to do their bidding and serve their master."

"You don't have much use for them, do you Yuki?"

"No, I never have. I've seen it first hand. The Reyes family is wonderful. Monica's old man should have been smarter than to get in bed with those clowns, but he had the victim mentality and he'd swallowed a few of the Big Lies early on. If he'd read his history books he might have at least known that they turn on their own. Especially when they're thwarted in their ambitions against us."

"Sounds like it's more than that."

"It is. We Japanese value our freedom, our property and our livelihood. Especially after what happened a few years ago. Since I was a child I learned to dare to be free. And to never ever quit. We don't need to hear from people who think they know it better than us, that want to tell us what to do and how to live. Except for those awful circumstances, we've enjoyed our liberty. The flip side of that coin is tyranny. There's always some fool that thinks he can buy our respect by offering some hand-out. Or they can make a big name for themselves, or buy a few more votes.

"It brings to mind a book I'd like to find for you. It's called Vespers in Vienna. You might be able to relate to it. It's about a British soldier after the war working a misplaced persons bureau helping Soviets repatriate their citizens from the British Zone. It doesn't take him too long to figure out that a lot of those folks have long memories and prefer staying in devastated Austria to returning to the USSR."

"I remember when the Three Powers at Yalta came out with their statement: 'we look with confidence to the day when all the peoples of the world may live free lives untouched by tyranny and according to their varying desires and their own consciences.' Guess that hasn't work out to well for the Russians and Eastern Europeans, has it?"

"No indeed. According to Lupe, our appeasement to Stalin at Yalta killed thousands. While our troops and the British were forcibly repatriating Eastern Europeans at the behest of Uncle Joe, those same unfortunates were finding any method possible to commit suicide before crossing over the borders. I'm wondering if that evil wasn't the blackest stain in American history. You sure don't hear much about it these days."

Yuki got up to leave.

"So Ray, will we be working for Moe again soon?"

"Funny you should ask. He gave me an advance on another year's work and told me to use it how I saw fit, including taking a long vacation if that was what I wanted. Here's the check."

I reached in my pocket and handed it over to her. Her eyes bugged out.

"Nice, huh? He said to relax for a while and he'll see what he can come up with. But we should keep our eyes open too, so I'll be asking you to keep digging around with Monica and Lupe. You know I was out there with Moe yesterday. I gave him a full briefing on the New Mexico-Florida deals. Being as the Feds gave us no real help, I saw no need to keep it on the hush from him. He was real excited to find out what his money bought. He got whatever he knows about Shafter's fate from the newspaper.

"In fact, he's invited the whole gang to a get together next month at his place in the Palisades. Travel tickets were sent out to Mack and kin, Johnny too, and you and me and Manny are invited."

"Monica and Lupe, too?"

"Nix on that. He wants to keep this gathering to only those of us that are in the loop operationally. It's sort of a celebration of our last adventure. Also Vivian Lane is fully recovered and back in production in a starring role. I forget the name of the project. And he wanted us to spend the rest of the month banging heads with Mack and Manny and Veronica Elena and Norton to see if we can come up with some new ideas."

Suddenly I remembered one loose end I had forgotten to take care of. I pulled the telephone instrument over and asked the girl downstairs for Albuquerque. I poured out a stiff drink and had tossed half of it back before the call rang through.

I picked up the handset and said, "Bernalillo County Sheriff's office, please."

The call connected and Mortenson picked up.

"Sheriff Mortenson. Raymond James here."

"How you doin' son? It's been a while. Now, what was it again we were... That's right. The Clantons. The FBI's been all over this town."

"Is that so?" I answered. "Do you think they're doing any good?"

"I think they done stepped on their dick. They had the Clantons in custody on an espionage charge, but some out-of-town money got them out on bail the same day and they've been walking around since like their bulletproof. I can't see where the Feds have been following up on it too hard, neither, but there does seem to have been a major security lockdown on the local defense industries."

"Well, that's a good thing. Too bad about the Clantons though. I was pretty sure they were up to their eyeballs in the Soviet spy business, and I expect they aren't the only ones. Say, have you heard from Lamar lately?" I asked.

"You know... his mama's been in here lately bothering me about him. What do you know about it?"

"You might want to call the Yavapai County sheriff over there in Prescott. Ask him what he can find up there at the old Santa Fe bunkhouse out on the Verde Ranch."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a corpse or two. Maybe more."

"And where did you hear about this?"

"Smoke signals. Word's out on the reservation that Ma Clanton had a beef with Lamar. If you turn up a body, chances are you can roll one of those two boys. Word is Ma did the killing; the boys did the burying. By the way, what's the price for first degree murder out your way?"

"You get to choose. Firing squad or the noose."

"Well, let me know which they choose, will you?"

"Yeah, thanks for the tip."

"What I heard investigating that place might clear up more than a few unsolved murders."

"Okay. I'll give ol' Josh over there to Prescott a call and see what he comes up with. I might want to follow up with you on the source of your information. How can I get in touch with you?"

I gave Sheriff Mortenson Yuki's name and the office number and signed off.

Well that should just about wrap things up. Lamar would be fresh enough to identify. One of those boys would crack and, at a minimum, Ma and one of the boys would be facing Murder One. And maybe the Feds would actually find something to pin on Pa.

"By the way, Boss. There's another loose end you forgot to tie up. But I took care of it."

"Oh, yeah? What was that?"

"You remember the Clanton girl?"

"Yeah, what about her?"

"Well I figured that girl's world might be about to come crashing in. She might be needing a new home."

"That's good thinking."

"So I talked it over with Mack and Elena. Elena rode out there and got in touch with her while her folks were in stir and gave her the rundown on her folks' activities. Mack set it up so she could take a powder and finish up her semester at Southern Methodist. He offered her to summer at the ranch and I understand that she accepted.

"I'm not sure, but she seemed bright enough in addition to being a straight shooter. Maybe later it could be that we can use another researcher around here."

"Well that's real nice. And you're right. I shouldn't have forgotten about her."

* * *

Before we'd parted ways with Chief Walters in St. Petersburg I'd asked him to let me know if Cain made it to trial. He called to say that Cain's trial for first-degree murder was scheduled for the first week of June and he'd call again with a better estimate of when it would go to the jury.

# June 1948

Chief Walters called at the end of the week to tell me that Cain's trial had gone to the jury.

"The prosecutor had an air-tight case. I doubt the jury will be long with it. He'll be sentenced immediately after conviction. You might want to head out now.

"By the way, with what we dropped in their lap the FBI came up with a lot of dirt on that boy and his cohorts. Seems his real name is Yuri Noborovsky. He's a Russian sleeper, trained by the GRU and inserted here in the 1920s under that Cain name he's been using. He was a bit overt for a sleeper, though. Turns out he spent most of his career out your way working for the Comintern down at the harbor."

This was unexpected news.

"Things maybe had gotten a little hot for him there and he came out here to continue coordinating industrial and military espionage through the Comintern. The Feds found out that he's been thick with the maritime unions here in Florida, operating out of the Tampa shops as it would be less conspicuous than Miami.

"Lately, though, he'd branched out to infiltration of the garment workers through their union. There was some evidence he was putting together a new network targeting the public schools. Apparently he'd done such a good job with the smuggling cells that they were working autonomously out of Miami with minimal oversight. The FBI has made several arrests and is investigating shipments made since the war."

"This bird sounds like someone I met recently. We'll be there tomorrow night," I promised.

"I'll have one of the boys meet your plane and drive you to the city garage. There'll be a car there you can use for a few days. He'll give you my address and you all can come out for Sunday brunch. I'll get you caught up in the afternoon."

Yuki and I were at the International Airport early Saturday morning and took the first Transglobal flight to Miami. We arrived in Tampa around dark and were met by Officer Mercer. He'd had a colleague bring the city car by earlier and Yuki and I settled into the Seminole Lodge.

By Sunday evening I'd put it all together. We spent Monday morning sequestered in the Chief's office awaiting news from the jury. After two and a half hours of deliberation the word came down that the jury had brought in a verdict of guilty. Chief Walters made a few phone calls.

Presently he said, "Ray, sentencing is scheduled for early afternoon. I'll make sure you're there when they bring him out."

True to his word the Chief had us around back of the courthouse when they led the prisoner away from sentencing. I had Yuki secreted away among the press hounds. They'd already heard that the death sentence had been handed down and the small mob was stoked into an anticipatory frenzy. Chief Walters and I were positioned inside the small foyer when he turned in from the hall, shackled and cuffed, in prison transport garb. He passed, head bowed, in the firm grip of his minders.

Noborovsky," I shouted. His head whipped around. "Pablo Fontanez sends his regards."

He stared, unfocused, for a second. Recognition clicked. His eyes bored into mine. Then he dropped his gaze and was led away.

It was an open and shut case. He was going down for Murder One. And in Florida that's an automatic date with Old Sparky. There was always an outside chance the Russkies would try to bail him out with some kind of hostage swap and the Feds would fall for it, but this was a state rap. Florida had him dead to rights. He wasn't going to get sprung by any fellow travelers in the US State Department.

With Yuki's assistance I spoke by telephone with Lupe the following day.

"We've identified the man responsible for the killing of your father. He's an underground Russian GRU agent named Yuri Noborovsky that worked out of San Pedro before coming out here to Tampa. Yesterday he was convicted of murder in Florida and sentenced to death for another killing. He's scheduled to be executed upstate in June.

"He issued the order for your father's murder, and we're pretty sure that the people who carried out the murders have either died or been incarcerated on other charges. We did learn that Shafter, whom you rightly suspected of planning the hit, was acting on orders from the Profintern. Noborovsky was his Profintern control at the time. We haven't identified whether the orders originated overseas, but it is a safe bet they came from Moscow.

"Of course the chain of guilt goes all the way to the top. Your father's death was ordered to satisfy policies developed by the Comintern at Stalin's behest. If the Party works true to form, anyone in Russia involved with this will be tortured or murdered at some point and you might find some measure of justice. Or the son of a bitch dies in his sleep, and you can join some 50 million odd other people that got robbed."

It occurred to me that no doubt the old survivor Joe Stalin possessed the luck of the Devil and would survive to die in his sleep some day.

* * *

Yuki and I were at the International Airport the next Friday afternoon when Mack, Veronica Elena, and Norton descended from the plane. They were all in jovial spirits and we caught up on the lounge for a couple of hours before wheeling over to Moe's hooch high on the bluffs in the Palisades.

Moe answered the door himself and showed us in, settling everyone comfortably in his California room before calling for drinks. His touch was evident in the furnishings and décor. The room was a high-ceilinged expanse with a massive quartz stone fireplace set centrally in a darker stone wall occupying the north face. Several high-quality mounts of large game fish hung in various action poses from the stone. On the opposite side an enormous wall of plate glass offered a stunning view of the Pacific. French doors at either end opened onto a redwood balcony that stretched the length of the house. The lighting was muted and set into both the side walls and ceiling. Inch-thick plush carpeting of an eggshell white hue covered the floor from wall to wall.

After enjoying the view from the deck and making the appropriate comments, we occupied a foursome of matched divans arrayed this time of year on either side of the fireplace facing the center of the room and the sea. The evening was still young and the drapes remained fully open. The ever-present Southern California sunshine was glinting off the waves in Santa Monica Bay and creating undulating patterns on the stone behind us. The mounted fish glistened and shimmered in the light. The fireplace quartz tossed off colors like giant diamonds.

After the drinks were secured Moe took a long swallow and opened the discussion.

"So Ray, what was the final score?" he asked.

"The way I figure it, we got two big commie fish that are gonna hang or asphyxiate or fry for Murder One, three inept killers from San Pedro feeding the worms, and one union thug doing life for murder. And the murder of one of his own, no less.

"Don't forget," Mack interjected. "We also put that Clanton mob out of business. At least three of 'em are up on first-degree murder charges. I make that ten."

"And the driver," Manny chuckled. "Oh, yeah, and one minor miscreant singing to the Feds."

"That's right," I chimed in. "Ol' Lenny wasn't so bad. Maybe he'd like us to check in on him some time!"

Manny howled with laugher, and we all got a chuckle out of that.

"Not a bad haul," Mack summed up.

I decided it was time to kick this ball a little further down the field. I caught Moe's eye and gave him the nod.

"So Yuki," Moe intoned. "I hear you've been spending a lot of time with Lupe going over what's behind all of this. Would you care to tell us where you think it is going?"

"Well, I wish I had good news to follow this up with. But personally, guys, I have no question in my mind that this will continue to be a never-ending struggle between decent Americans and our foreign and domestic enemies working in tandem. In fact we can expect it to get worse, much worse. People just have no idea how dangerous ignorance and tolerance of this treachery really is.

"I mean look at where the Red fifth columns have been successful in infiltrating thus far: the trade unions, the public schools, the churches, the libraries, Hollywood. These vile people, who by any reasonable measure should be hung for treason, will someday occupy our corridors of power. There is no question in my mind that they will escape justice and eventually come to power.

"It'll follow the same pattern as through all human history. Good versus evil, in never-ending conflict, with one dominating the other as weaknesses develop and are exploited. As Lupe theorizes, where free enterprise, property ownership, and family are encouraged peace and freedom thrive. But when men are compelled by totalitarian authority there is only poverty, terror and suffering for all but the oppressors. These Communists are highly motivated elitists. They wish to dominate our lives and enrich themselves off our productivity, and eventually I believe they will."

"It's obvious to me that even today these sorry sons-of-bitches are plotting to destroy our way of life any way they can," Norton growled. "Sorry to interrupt."

"How do you think this is going to play out, Yuki?" Sally prompted.

"Well, I can pretty much tell you what all this is leading up to. It's a recurring pattern with the Communists because they operate like any other despotic aristocracy. In a nutshell, our good ol' US of A government will one day be placed in the hands of a 'Cult of Personality' of the Stalin type, based around some obscure mutt that will be groomed to lead the 'revolution.' He won't amount to much more than a mouthpiece for a very tight gang of criminals intent on consolidating absolute wealth and power, individuals lacking conscience and character. An immoral bunch, like in Russia, whose only satisfaction is theft and domination."

"So the actual power will be held by some shadowy cabal of like-minded informal advisors vested with concealed powers?" Veronica enquired. "Is that what you're saying?"

"To some extent. His politburo will work using autonomous and purposely ill-defined powers. But the entire administration will actually be in service to the ideological zealots and money men that pull their strings from the shadows.

"The front man will be little more than some slick weasel that can talk a good line when they stick a speech in front of him. He will be touted as an intellectual of unparalleled genius, but will prove to be mediocre beyond belief. An overeducated fool with no practical intelligence whatever. They'll sell him as an intellectual but ensure that his school records or any other descriptive background never see the light of day.

"He will be chosen and receive his initial financing from foreign enemies, probably the USSR, but he will be nurtured in his ascent to power by domestic enemies. He'll try to sell Americans on the idea that we should adopt socialism to make us more like other countries. But he will in fact implement Leninist policies of chaos and economic upheaval to gut the middle class and precipitate a fairly abrupt communist revolution.

"He will prove to be a disastrous leader for our country. He will side with America's enemies and oppose her friends. Where people rise up against tyranny he will deny them moral or practical support. Where people succeed in throwing off a tyrant he will support the despot. He will be fully supported in this by American educators and journalists, inexplicably, for they too, as we saw in Germany this decade, will in future side with tyranny.

"Their immediate goal will be to tear down the country, through its economy and institutions, in service to their foreign and domestic enemy sponsors. Some day the domestic enemy will be so numerous in Congress and the courts that it will be impossible to stop it from happening.

"This cabal will eventually have the numbers to be able to legally loot the treasury and steal the wealth of the middle class. They'll steal every taxpayer dollar not nailed down and impoverish the middle-class through devaluation of their assets and theft of their savings. They'll engineer a stranglehold on credit availability, energy production, and other economic driving forces. They'll create a climate of economic uncertainty to thwart what would usually be a rebound, and use taxes and bureaucratic obstacles to prevent a recovery. The money losses alone will amount to high treason."

"They will find enough Congressmen to whore their votes in exchange for taxpayer dollars, the only difference for the taxpayer being that when he buys a whore he usually gets something for his money. But in this case the people's wealth will be used to fund their children's slavery."

"The Senate? You're talking about the same class of cretins that belched and farted while Rome burned," grumbled Mack.

"You could put it that way," Yuki giggled. "But those old boys were amateurs compared to what we'll see coming. As recent history has shown there is no kind of absolute corruption like Commie corruption. These guys will also have appointed all the judges they need to thoroughly subvert the Constitution."

"And these turncoat bastards will all have taken an oath to uphold the Constitution," Moe groused.

"Violating their oaths means nothing to this kind. You know we have people like this in government today, appeasing the Russians and selling out the Eastern Europeans. Now they're trying to help the Reds take over China. They are both un-American and anti-American.

"I like to think of these types as bottom-feeders, really, lying around semi-dormant, like spores, until some problem comes along that offers the opportunity to be exploited as a crisis. When they finally seize power they'll be in a position to create crises. Then they can mobilize all manner of fools that buy into their line of drivel. Think of them as shepherds for the vast herds of Lenin's 'useful idiots.'

"Ray, you've seen how these guys operate. Perhaps their most effective method to date is to co-opt some worthwhile endeavor and carry it to extremes. For example, they supported labor reforms and then co-opted the efforts of decent workers by subverting unions and turning them into criminal power bases. There will be many future opportunities to subvert worthwhile causes and they can bank on human stupidity to increase their power and control. Churches will become unrecognizable.

"You know they also remind me of the Ellsworth Toohey character from that cool novel that came out during the war. Remember? He was the journalist with the single-minded agenda to smear talented people and promote the mediocrity of socialism. He was a good example of the kind of decadent collectivist pseudo-intellectual whose actual abilities are limited to destructive pursuits like arson and slander, and whose greatest pleasure is to watch things burn and people enslaved."

"How do people get like this?" Veronica wondered.

"Fundamentally, they suffer from personality disorders too numerous to easily understand. Lupe has been studying up on this. If there is any one common condition that seems to afflict the domestic enemy it is envy. Perhaps this is symptomatic of arrested development—they behave like children. Beyond that it seems to be whatever else an evil or demented mind can conceive.

"Take for example your average urban pseudo-intellectual that takes pride in living a Spartan existence, forgoing some worthwhile job in favor of more 'worthy' intellectual or artistic pursuits. That person could actually work hard, be productive in society, and enjoy some of the fruits of his labor, like a home, a nice car, and a family. However, his envy is not to acquire these for himself, but to deny them to you. He could have these things, but he'd rather you didn't. So their goal is to control you, tax your income away, regulate your freedom, or, better still, to destroy everything desirable in this life."

"People like that don't get very far in my territory," Mack chuckled.

"We on the other hand would wish them every liberty to pursue the life they choose, as long as they are not damaging others. That is the difference between us and domestic enemy, and that is why we are good and they are evil.

"Some of these personality issues result from actual mental illnesses. As has always been the case, movement leaders usually succumb to delusions of grandeur. Like Stalin, a failed priest, that probably still believes he will unify the world under the USSR. They may rule as untouchable tyrants, but they are still very sick people and doomed, ultimately, to fail.

"I'm certain that the mole selected to take down America will suffer from some similar condition, maybe a narcissistic personality disorder. Like Stalin, he will be as thin-skilled of well-earned criticism as a Disney princess and absolutely tone-deaf to the real needs and desires of his people."

"One could only hope for their failure," Moe retorted. "So what do you think they want, ultimately?

"I imagine initially to hijack our birthright to think and say what we believe. You know, the Bill of Rights. First the 2nd Amendment, then the 1st. Try to steal our love for liberty. Ultimately, I guess it's to create the same kind of slave state same as they made behind the Iron Curtain.

"I believe their primary operational goal will be long-term impoverishment of the country with outrageous and unsustainable debt coupled with crippling taxation and debasement of the currency, thus setting the stage for a quick power grab disguised as a number of supposed solutions. These so-called solutions will involve wresting control of financial markets and government takeover of large sectors of the private economy, the way the German fascists did. And these efforts will be overseen and implemented by the same criminals that engineered the crises. Also, like the Nazis did, they will enforce their edicts using a corps of uneducated, easily manipulated thugs.

"What might be more surprising is that the press, both newspapers and radio programs, will be thoroughly corrupted to function as a fifth column, in collusion with the power grab. So will the universities and education at all levels, as will business interests that might be in position to benefit. In cooperation with each other, and under the direction of the Red leadership, the so-called journalists and educators will attempt to control access to useful information through suppression, distortion and fabrication. Even selected churches will be infiltrated, and of course all of the government agencies, Congress, and the courts.

"The corrupted newspapers and radio stations will operate in lock-step with the government, having perfected techniques of omission, suppression, distortion and fabrication, to advance government propaganda while obfuscating and confounding the patriotic opposition. Another trick is to slant all of the headlines, because a lot of folks only scan the headlines. It's one of the most effective ways to corrupt a message. Josef Goebbels was their professor and role model.

"The schools are probably going to get hit the hardest since they are already under government control. American universities will end up ideologically pure, like something from Heidelberg in 1938. The professors and administrators alike will be card-carrying members or fellow travelers, and they will brook no dissent from the Red orthodoxy. The lunacy will eventually extend to engineering and the sciences and, before you know it, the higher education system will be so degraded that our best corporations will be forced to look outside our own country for talent.

"Eventually, the young will only know the propaganda and depression instilled in them by their teachers. They will know mostly everything wrong with American and hold close a hatred for their own country. Excepting those with exceptionally effective parents, the young will have little understanding of the wonderful people and their sacrifices and successes that gave us our priceless freedom and rich life.

"I don't know. I've heard the Russians accused of historical revisionism..." Moe interjected.

"Trust me. This will happen here. The charismatic leader himself will be a result of the brainwashing. Perhaps he will be a Red-diaper baby, born from and raised by died-in-the-wool Communists to parrot the Party line. In any case he will be carefully groomed by both foreign enemies and domestic traitors to further their aims.

"Jesus, Yuki! Where did you get all this?" asked Mack in some dismay.

"I've had a lot of time now to think about it. I've tried hard to project forward impressions Lupe gave me about the leadership of this crowd, what they want, and the methods they use.

"But more than that I paid attention in school and read between the lines. I knew when the teachers were being dishonest—they were more transparent than they thought—and I learned where to go to get the real story. "It's really not that hard. Most of the time it simply came back to the words of the Founding Fathers; they as much as predicted this outcome. They knew that government was intrinsically evil, people often weak and susceptible to tyranny, and freedom as elusive as mist throughout human history.

"Their wisdom is unparalleled and reading them at the right times made my teacher's occasional forays into Red propaganda sound illiterate. If more citizens took their education into their own hands they wouldn't be so easily fooled by these pathetic tools."

"In future parents will teach their children the American values that will be banished in the public schools. They'll find ways to inoculate their children from the subversive propaganda of their teachers, and the kids will come home from school and laugh with their families about the ridiculous freedom-hating foolishness they were subjected to that day. Resisting the bumbling fools will become top family entertainment, until the day of reckoning comes."

"Also, the entire profession of American journalism will lose credibility and self-immolate as a consequence of their devotion to the establishment. The foreign press will look on with amusement and fill in the blanks because they will have retained some professionalism and have no particular dog in this hunt. Americans will be able to look to foreign news sources to get truthful coverage of what the tyrants are up to, although they might have to wait a few days to get it. Americans will find other means of learning and communicating the truth. The country will become divided between moral degenerates and self-styled underlings slopping up government-programmed drivel from the so-called unbiased media and free men who will seek elsewhere for the truth.

"One might wonder how this minority of creeps succeeds in thwarting the dreams of an entire society, but the truth will be, as it is now, that they are very effective at making noise and are masters at manipulation.

"And they will have lots of deputies. These moles will foster the kind of America that grows a large underclass of non-productive bums and parasites. As the Founding Fathers foresaw, these turds will learn to vote themselves all kinds of benefits at the expense of their betters.

"The establishment will start this by finding ways to divide us as a society. You all know how this country is a Melting Pot of peoples from every part of the world that assimilated around the privilege of living as free Americans. Well the communists will find a way to cleave apart this Melting Pot. They'll come up with lots of devious little ways to carve us up and set us one against another. They'll divide us by race, by culture, by religion into little tribes, calling it 'multi-culturalism' or some other meaningless but catchy absurdity.

"What are you talking about?" Manny asked. "Bums, homos, gimps, rubbies?

"Yeah, them. And colored folks. And other people of foreign heritage. Asians. Mexicans. Mostly good folks, but also bad folks. Habitual criminals and n'er do wells. Lazy bastards. Men with no spine. Ugly women. Women who hate men. Not that any of us has anything much in common, apart from being Americans, but just pretty much any group they can organize to kick up a beef, consider themselves victims, and enjoy a good pity party. For lots of people self-pity is its own reward. Many others in these groups will have too much pride to participate, but eventually they will be viewed as turncoats and be ostracized .

"Another from their bag of tricks involves speech and thought control. You may have heard about the Frankfort school that was influential in Germany around the 1920s or 1930s. They came up with a concept they called 'political correctness,' sort of a tool to transform speech and thought to conform to what's acceptable to the establishment. For example certain acceptable thoughts and speech will be mandatory, and others will be banned. The press will know which thoughts to promote for public consumption and which to banish. People who use banned speech will be ostracized or persecuted.

"The trick is to create a body of false precepts and get people to accept them as truth. The goal is to create confusion, normalize irrational thoughts and behaviors, enforce conformity, and silence dissent. This has been well thought out already and is in practice behind the Iron Curtain. It will be popularized in our society someday."

"How stupid is that?" Norton spat with disgust.

"Well, most of the stupidity underlying this concept is only there for purposes of conditioning people to police their own thoughts and speech. In our case, the principle use of this weapon will be to attack the ideals on which the country was founded and that have made it thrive, to ridicule and sanction those ideals until they vanish.

"But getting back to your question: 'How stupid?' Try this. What if some simple descriptive language we all use today, for example 'colored people' were changed to something different like, say, 'people of color.' And what if use of the latter phrase was a code word for acceptance in polite society while use of the former could get you fired from your job?"

Yuki paused while Norton stared in disbelief.

"Yeah, just that stupid," she summarized.

"Hogwash! Mack grunted. "That will never happen in this country."

"Maybe they believed that in Eastern Europe too toward the end of the war. At least until the Russians were in their back yards and the writing was on the wall. Now they are told what to think and say and they live their lives under continuous threat of torture or murder for any deviation.

"Think of it as two parallel universes: ours and theirs. Here we have freedom of thought and speech, not to mention economic freedom and prosperity. Behind the Iron Curtain they have only repression and economic slavery, enforced by terror. Two entirely different worlds and the only thing they have in common is they both exist on this earth. Well, the Communists can effect 'change' in this country by layering their universe on ours bit by bit until ours is eliminated.

"Lupe told me that Antonio Gramsci, the Italian communist, developed this strategy. He convinced Stalin to be patient and work it like this. He knew that the USSR could never conquer the West militarily, but it could win over time by subverting the culture, the economy, and all institutions.

"The plan was to demoralize the country over the period of a couple of generations, say 25 to 30 years, then destabilize it through a series of economic or social shocks. Demoralization might be summed up as the killing off of common sense and the embrace of debasement. For example, promoting deviancy, sexualizing children, that sort of thing. After a couple of years of destabilization, with demoralization more or less complete, the communist elite will seize power and begin the final stage, normalization. It is during this stage that the legions of useful idiots are put up against a wall and executed. Why? Because they know too much and their usefulness has passed.

"Levrenti Beria also thought along these lines. Lupe told me about an address he made to a group of American Marxist psychology students at Lenin University. He told them the USSR intended use of 'psychopolitics' to promote cultural chaos, distrust, phony science, and economic mayhem, and engender distrust in Western societies. They would do this using various professional organizations, medical and legal associations, the legislatures, the courts, the judges, and the Constitution itself. Beria was also a big mover in the Great Terror, where the founding revolutionaries were eliminated during the USSR's normalization.

"Gramsci believed that the only means necessary to subvert the West were a dedicated fifth column, easy enough to arrange in a free society, and a legion of 'useful idiots,' unfortunately found everywhere. They thrive on the ignorant. Most people don't know that the Constitution was created to limit government and protect individual liberty. You'd think they would have picked up a clue in the last war, but...

"Yeah, you'd think," I mused. "The way I remember it taught back in the schoolhouse the states had simply formed a compact under the Constitution that established a common government for special purposes only. The Constitution, as a contract between the states, delegated this entity certain defined powers, reserving all others to the states.

'Thomas Jefferson foresaw the likelihood of abuse of power which could be constitutionally remedied by the people through their choice of representation. But where Federal powers were assumed that were not delegated by the Constitution then the states had a right to nullify such actions within its boundaries that were deemed unconstitutional. As parties to the contract between states a state is obligated only to the compact and not to any party outside the contract. The Congress and Supreme Court were created by the Constitution and neither is a party to the contract."

"And that is, ultimately, how the States are supposed to protect Americans from an over-reaching federal bureaucracy. But you've never heard any mention of this in recent memory, have you?"

"Our domestic enemies are very aware of Gramsci's strategy and serve Stalin's purposes today. Already the network of fifth columns is widely established, and they have organized a huge vanguard of their idiot legionnaires. After all this trickery is pushed on us for a while our dear leaders will reward the 'right-thinking' boot-lickers with taxpayer-funded freebies, and punish resisters with character assassination and denial of livelihood.

"This will work probably well in our part of the country and in the big cities. In your state, Mack, it likely won't. Texas was a Republic once; maybe it will be again before the dust settles. California was a Republic too, but it is far too thoroughly infiltrated and is already ripe for division and attack.

"You just watch. One day common sense will be thoroughly discredited and will not exist far beyond the individual and the family. Based on the Cult of Personality, or some vacuous, meaningless campaign slogans like 'Hope' and 'Change,' millions of Americans will vote away not only their rights and freedoms, but their livelihoods and high standards of living. It will be an awesome insanity to behold. It will result in rationing, poverty, bankruptcy, and near complete erosion of all our fundamental civil rights. Under no circumstances will the Red bastards let up until they have consolidated total power and squelched any meaningful opposition.

"Lupe told me a lot about these old New York commies running around now. There were these law professors at City University calling themselves the National Emergency Conference for Democratic Rights, later renamed the National Federation for Constitutional Liberties. Just last month the House Un-American Activities Committee branded them a subversive group.

"You just watch, they'll branch out, morph into a few new slick-sounding organizations, and go nationwide. They aren't going away. They'll recruit a network of freedom-hating lawyers and hand-picked corrupt judges and implement outright their agenda of fascism through litigation. When they find people living free outside the commie agenda they'll destroy them in the courts. They'll find a hundred ways to shred the Constitution and enforce unequal protection under the law. "

"Unfortunately from what you are saying it sounds like America's finest hours might be behind us," Johnny opined.

"In a sense, yes. At least for a while. I'm convinced that this is going to play all the way out. The domestic enemy is too dedicated. They organize well and they will obtain backing from our foreign enemies. I mean where else in the history of the world have you heard of a country having hundreds of thousands of its citizens actively working on behalf of a hostile foreign power, a terror state no less, betraying their fellow countrymen at every turn. It may have started innocently enough in the 1930s, but it has consolidated now into a monolithic fifth column and it's only going to get worse. Our losses may build for a matter of several decades before the Reds take over. Then they will commit their destruction in as short a time as possible.

"Still, I believe the concept of America is so great and the love of freedom so compelling that truly magnificent events will occur in our future history. If not the next generation, our grandchildren or their grandchildren, will restore the Republic someday. Our best hope is that the traitors among us play out their hand before the indoctrination is complete and memories of freedom are extinguished. Fortunately for us, they are impaired and impatient, and they will likely overplay their hand. So I expect that America's finest hours still lay ahead. America will again pose the greatest world threat to those who would enslave innocents. In any case we have to believe that."

"What do you think are the chances they will succeed in actually taking this country behind the Iron Curtain?" Veronica asked.

"My guess is none. I believe they will be wholly unsuccessful, and violently so," Yuki chuckled. "Remember these individuals are deeply flawed, steeped in delusion and incompetence. Americans are not serfs and peasants, and we don't have a history of servility like the Europeans. We don't ride the rails in cattle cars. The domestic enemy will soon enough find themselves outmatched and outclassed.

"Once the repression becomes too severe to deny, Americans will slowly awake to the reality of lost freedom and prosperity delivered by the cult leader and his acolytes. When they awake it will be like the reaction to Pearl Harbor all over again. Admiral Yamamoto knew how _that_ was going to end from Day One because he recognized there was a rifle behind every blade of grass in America. Any Commie punks think they're going to succeed in taking over this country are only going to learn the same thing the hard way.

"I agree," I said. "If Americans actually believed this crap, we'd still be curtsying to the King of England. We're not a nation of cowards. Not by a long chance. We celebrated 150 years of freedom in 1926. Americans will tolerate a lot of garbage in the name of free speech, but if they compromise our government or seize some power, try civilian disarmament or some other power grab, they'll find themselves swinging from lampposts. Exterminating commies will become a national sport. They know it. They'll settle for remaining trouble makers."

"Seems to me Americans, of all people, will figure out that Communism doesn't work because people like to own things," Mack interjected.

"Yes," Yuki continued. "And they'll also come to know it as just another form of slavery in which the slave is provided work, housing, food, education, medical care and retirement—but at the price of freedom. They'll figure it out when they miss what they used to have or, in the case of the young, when their folks tell them what they could have had when the country was free.

"The newly informed will turn on the government in a major way. As to the chosen leader, they will learn how such an unqualified individual made his rise to power and eventually understand both how and why all details of his early life and associations were so carefully and thoroughly concealed. They will figure out that while the leader may have at first appeared simply green from inexperience, he was in fact Red inside and out from the start."

"Like a hothouse tomato," I chuckled.

"The internal enemy will use ridicule to isolate good Americans, but their words will be simple projection revealing their own deceit and corruption. The leader and his clique may be ridiculous fools, but the Americans that oppose him most definitely will not be. Their weakness and dishonesty will out them, and they cannot survive the ridicule of exposure.

"These inglorious traitors may well ensure that America someday has a government that can make the trains run on time. But when the tyranny is firmly established and beyond denial decent citizens will rise up and take out these 'scoundrels, varmints and polecats.' After all half or more of the men in this country have taken oaths to defend our Constitution against enemies foreign and domestic. Maybe we will live long enough to see Thomas Jefferson proud of his countrymen again. Certainly our children or grandchildren will see the 'Refounding,' or human freedom and dignity will be lost to another Dark Age."

"Yes. Let's not forget the oath takers," Mack suggested. "Our countrymen in law enforcement and the military will never forget the oaths they made to the Constitution. Like us, they wish for the American Revolution to continue. They will be aware a long time before the average dummy just what is up and they, more than anyone, will know when it's time to feed the hogs."

"That's very true," Yuki continued. "Also consider that the America of the future will include many foreigners who lived through this before and fled tyranny in Communist Europe and other hellholes. They'll start to wonder what the difference is between where they came from and what the US is becoming.

"Like the canary in the coal mine they will be first to raise the alarm when the time to fight is near. They will understand well that their soft-bred countrymen have no experience with the defeat of oppression, the fear of arbitrary arrest and death. In the fight against this menace they will counsel that no quarter, no mercy, be given, because they know from experience that none can be expected from the tyrants.

"After all, things ended badly for Hitler and Mussolini, but Germany and Italy are both on the mend."

"In any case, liberty has been at the top of our agenda for a good long while now. I just can't see a return to the Dark Ages, or the USA becoming a satellite of the USSR, what with so many folks remembering the good life they had before. More likely this putz will devolve into little more than a cult leader for the die-hard brainwashed among his original supporters. The rest of the flock will grow up or get wise and desert him, and the core of traitor moles will be left exposed. Generally, cockroaches scatter when a light is shined on them. If not, wasn't it Thomas Jefferson who suggested that 'from time to time the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants.'"

"Just as long as it's bags of their blood and only drops of ours," I concluded. " _Sic semper tyrannis_ , as we say in Virginia."

"It's patently apparent from the past few wars that America is the only country capable of protecting freedom, and the world has had a taste of freedom for too long now to allow it to be extinguished forever. It may come to pass that our traitors must be hunted down and eliminated like the vermin they are. In that case retribution will be total and the threat will be banished for a long time to come, although we're not likely to live to see it in our time."

"So," I continued. "It sounds like the best way to counter this threat will be from outside of the corrupted institutions. Maybe operate kind of like the Underground Railroad of 80 years ago. People can find trusted sources of information, raise and teach their children right, organize with other Americans in their churches and communities..."

"One can hope. And we can continue the work we are all doing to take them down cell by cell," Yuki interrupted. "Veronica in law enforcement, Moe and Sally in the arts, Ray and I in more private pursuits..."

"And Norton in unconventional tactics and weapons," Mack chuckled.

"Hell yeah!" Norton whooped.

"Keep at it, Norton." I encouraged. "There's always room in the history books for one more patriot."

"There'll be many more than one," Moe piped up, looking thoughtful. "Maybe ol' Admiral Yamamoto said it best."

"Yeah?" Norton snorted. "How's that?"

Before I could answer Yuki smiled and spoke softly "Behind every blade of grass."

Mack laughed, "Ain't it the truth!"

* * *

For a moment everyone settled back, lost in their own private thoughts and warmed with a well-earned sense of satisfaction. It had been a good start.

Moe glanced at the wall clock and said, "I believe the news in coming on about now."

Sally arose, strode across the room and snapped on the radio set. After a momentarily crackle of static, the voice of a newscaster boomed across the room:

...six o'clock, Friday, this 25th day of June 1948. At the top of the news the situation in Berlin appears to be deteriorating rapidly.

As reported yesterday, the Soviets have cut off all land and water access to Berlin from the non-Soviet zones, including all supply by rail and barge. We can now report that the Soviets as of this day are blocking food supplies to the civilian population in the non-Soviet sectors of Berlin. Moreover, electricity has been cut off as the generating plants are located in the Soviet zone and are under Soviet control.

It is well known that since April the American Army Air Corps has been re-supplying their military garrisons by air. Our sources in the State Department suggest this airlift will soon be expanded to supply food and fuel to the civilian population of the Western Sector.

More details are expected at eleven.

In other news, President Truman today signed the Displaced Persons Act, authorizing the resettlement of more than 200,000 European refugees in the United States.

And in sports, Joe Louis has defeated Jersey Joe Walcott to retain the heavyweight championship...

So. The cat was finally out of the bag. The coiled snake had struck out and at last revealed its treacherous purposes to an unseeing world.

So much the better. The right folks had always been paying attention. Another percentage would sit up and take notice. The majority would never understand the meaning of the event and pass it from memory once the headlines changed.

I sat back and grinned with no small satisfaction at the fate of our own little motley crew of traitors. But what of the rest? Everyone knew they were out there, yet they were being given the blind eye. Except for a few honest Feds and local boys straining at the leash to go after them, no one in authority cared. The gung-ho boys were being held back and muzzled by the wise ones, the bought politicians and their flacks who didn't want to know and wanted less to see.

But I had caught a bare glimpse, like a fleeting shadow, of the network of Marxist termites that had penetrated our land and burrowed deep into its venerable institutions. I had learned of just a small part of the deceit they were perpetrating to infect our nation, divide and corrupt it, and ultimately serve it up to their global tyranny.

And I knew what I had to do. I was going to keep on tracking, crack another opening, get on the trail of a few more, and bring them down. Moe was right. Yuki understood. It was simply something that had to be done.

# # #

# COMING SOON IN 2013

If you enjoyed **DAWN OF BETRAYAL** then don't miss Max Grant's exciting continuation of the Raymond James series...

### DECADE OF BETRAYAL

It's 1948, and this time it's personal.

Ray and Yuki find themselves in pursuit of SMERSH assassins on a trail that reveals one of World War II's best-kept secrets. Lend-Lease was much more than what we were led to believe, and in fact continues into the post-war years. Vivid proof shocks the world as the USSR explodes its first atomic weapon.

Teaming with a young sergeant of the Army Signal Corps, the pair benefits from leaked transcripts of an ultra-secret operation to decipher coded Soviet message traffic. Armed with foreknowledge made available to few others, Ray and Yuki unmask the clandestine activities of a whole new cabal of deep-cover moles, garden-variety traitors, and their fellow travelers.

Meantime, crafty Joe Stalin's plot to derail Communist Chinese relations with the West culminates in war on the Korean peninsula. As our nation's forces brave human wave assaults from the Red horde, Yuki foresees a horrific outcome that is deeply troublesome to contemplate. Could our nation's finest hold the line and win the peace, only to be stabbed in the back some years later as a conspiracy of communist sympathizers in Congress assist the Soviet-backed regime to an unearned victory?

And now a special preview from this thrilling new story...

* * *

### DECADE OF BETRAYAL

July 1948

The pounding in my head refused to let up. I rolled over and buried myself in the covers, but it didn't help. I'd only just fallen asleep and I preferred to stay that way, but the demons in my skull had other ideas.

Presently I lifted my head and cast a baleful eye at the bedside stand. The radium dial on my timepiece glowed a quarter past one. It was Thursday. No, it was Friday now. And the pounding wasn't any longer in my head. It was booming through the bedroom door, echoing from the walls. The racket was evidently emanating from the next room and was getting louder and more insistent by the second.

Finally I got it. This was the first time I'd experienced someone trying to cave in my front door in the middle of the night.

Muttering curses I hauled myself out of the bed, grabbed my robe off the back of the door, and shrugged it on as I strode unsteadily toward the entry. Still not entirely conscious I forgot caution and yanked on the door handle.

My first thought flew to this uncharacteristic carelessness and I nearly slammed the door shut again. But what I saw out there shocked me rigid. I couldn't have been more surprised by a talking giraffe and the rest of his circus.

It was Ruthena Ginzberg, in the flesh and looking thoroughly spooked, but still as gorgeous as I remembered her. It had been a long time, but she was moving fast now.

She slapped the door aside and slammed into my body, throwing her arms around my neck. I had just enough presence of mind to grab her around the waist and lift her off her feet as I stepped back to gain purchase against the unexpected onslaught.

She was wound tighter than a muscle-bound python, vibrating intensely between shuddering sobs, her arms tightening around me as if a greater strength were even possible. Various of my bones felt like they'd had enough of the old neighborhood and were trying to relocate.

Reeling with perplexity I tried to remember the last time we had seen each other or spoken. I had met Ruthena the previous year after stumbling onto the agency's first big case. That's Raymond James—Private Investigations, my one-man shop taking on all sorts of Hollywood madness and mayhem out of the Highland Building on Vine.

More accurately I had approached Ruthena with the intent of penetrating her scene, the netherworld of the international Communist conspiracy. We had carried on a more-or-less torrid affair for a reasonably brief period. We'd parted after each had gotten some of what we each had wanted, in addition to a whole lot of what we had both wanted. We hadn't since had any occasion to communicate.

* * *

For several minutes we stood locked together just inside the threshold. Finally her grip subsided and she gained a modicum of control over her spasming lungs and thudding heart. I hadn't experienced anything like this since combat. I gripped her upper arms and slowly eased her away. Wordlessly she slid by me and into the shadowed room.

Now my heart was pounding and the excessive adrenaline was in full circulation. Warily, I poked my head out the door for a quick look and hopefully some explanation. But no clues were apparent in the moon-washed courtyard of the Kensington Arms where I occupied one of the street-side low-rise dwellings.

The lights had come on in the cottage across the walkway facing mine. A dim shadow loomed where the curtains in the large window were slightly parted.

I cast a look to the street, but all was silent and perfectly still. The street and walkways were saturated in brilliance, the crystalline aggregate in the concrete glinting like jewels in a royal hoard. The lush vegetation surrounding the dwellings reflected a dazzling multitude of luminous grays sharply contrasting with the obsidian shadows.

I looked to my right and the two rear cottages were dark. The young lady occupying the unit behind mine was of indeterminate means and would not be expected home for another hour or two. The lights snapped off across the way as I eased the door shut behind me.

Moonlight illuminated the front of the room where I joined Ruthena on the sofa. She pulled in close and gathered both my hands in hers.

"Ray, I need help!" she gasped. "It was insanely horrible. Just an hour or so ago I woke up with a pistol stuck in my face and this scraggly ghost of a mug behind it. I about died. I couldn't see anything else. It was terrifying. I couldn't even move. It felt like my heart was trying to jump out of my chest. I could hardly breathe. He didn't say a word. Just stared at me over the barrel. The moonlight was in my eyes and I couldn't see anything else at all. I must have looked a fright."

She shuddered and held me tighter, then continued.

"So all of a sudden he lets out a big sigh and moves away. He backed up to my make-up table and sat. He kept his head down and held the gun between his legs near the floor. I didn't dare move. Neither of us moved or said a word for the longest time. Finally he looks over at me and says, 'Miss, I can't do it.'

"I couldn't even answer him I was so scared. He kept looking at me and I calmed down a bit. He appeared kind of small and ordinary, and he seemed really sad."

She took a deep breath and paused for a moment.

"To make a long story short, he told me he was sent to kill me, but he'd changed is mind. He said he doesn't want to kill anymore and he wants out. And he asked for my help!

"I thought about calling the police but I was afraid to spook him. I thought it better to get out of there so I told him I knew someone who could help get him to safety."

"Did he say anything else?" I asked.

"Not much. But he says he works for SMERSH."

"What the hell is SMERSH?"

"Basically it's the assassination branch of the Soviet MGB" she explained. "I've heard of them but that's about it. From what I understand they mostly hunt down and kill renegade Soviets and the occasional noisy Western anti-communist. He made it plain someone in Moscow wants me out of the way."

"I wonder if he's even still there," she added.

"Forgive my density, but you're saying that a Soviet government hit man sent out to kill you is right now sitting in your apartment? And he's waiting for you to come back and help him defect?"

"Something like that, if he was being truthful."

"Well, that's a lot to expect from a hired gun," I mused.

"Forgive my bluntness," I continued, "but why come to me?"

"I'd been thinking of you from the second I understood what was happening, wishing you were there, so naturally I came straight here.

"I know you're not one of us. I don't know who else to turn to. I'm in over my head. I need to get out too. I need help, Ray, from you. Everyone else I know is with them."

"You made the right choice, Ruthie. I'll deal with this guy, if he wants to talk." You better stay clear, though, in case he changes his mind."

"I told him it wouldn't be me coming back there tonight."

* * *

Ruthena lived in the Fairfax district. I had mixed feelings for this little fallen angel. Last year she'd given me the impression that her soul had been cored out at birth. She was a Red-diaper baby and had swallowed the commie line hook and sinker. Several times I'd wanted to slap her silly and shake the Devil from her bones, but in the end I wasn't really interested enough to much care.

I felt differently as I entered the flat with her key and confronted her uninvited visitor. Now occupying her sofa, the little man looked up at me and nodded slowly as if recalling Ruthie's departing words.

"What can you do for me?" he asked.

"First I need some assurances." I told him.

"Such as?"

"Such as you'll not communicate with anyone else about the ordered hit on Miss Ginzberg, or the outcome. Keep to other subjects, whatever you like, but this thing tonight never happened. You found me. You came to me."

"All right," he spoke, with some relief. "Now what can you do for me?"

"I know a local DA, a Los Angeles City District Attorney," I responded. "He has a safe house. He'll keep you out of circulation until he can get you in touch with the right people. They can make your current identity and your immediate problems disappear."

"OK. I will see this man."

I sat back and thought about this strange fellow for a moment. He waited patiently without speaking.

"Two shots up close in the brainpan is a bit obvious isn't it?" I asked him. "Aren't you guys a little more subtle? You know - accidents that aren't accidents? That sort of thing."

"You've seen her. You know she's a looker. That's what they told me, and they were right.

" This was set up to be a sex crime," he continued. "I was instructed to rape her, batter her corpse, and set a scene. Drop a few clues to make it look like a sex-crazed Negro had busted in and taken her for the long ride.

"You know how the Party thinks. Why just make a hit a simple hit if you can add a few months of racial strife in the mix. And you think that's not subtle?"

"Hoo, boy," I exclaimed. "That does sound like something right out of the Party playbook. You don't talk like someone straight out of Europe?"

"Why should I? I was born in Belgium, but I've lived in Chicago since the age of three. My father was a big cheese in the Comintern, but was recalled to the USSR during the purges and we never saw him again. It was my mother that convinced me to follow in his footsteps, but I got involved in the Party underground after Stalin folded the Comintern.

"Lately I've come to realize what a stupid, sick and evil game this all is. Rooted in the paranoid delusions of yet another undereducated, ruthless and cunning strongman with visions of a global empire. When I looked upon Miss Ginzburg's lovely face this night, even before she awoke. I knew that the precise time had come for me to give it up."

# About the Author

A child of the Cold War, Max Grant departed eastern Canada at an early age for an all-American upbringing in Vermont and points south. His first exposure to geopolitical realities occurred at age 9 when the town fathers, in response to the ongoing Cuban Missile Crisis, passed out red-filtered flashlights for use by children trick-or-treating on Halloween.

Max became an avid reader of World War II and Korean War accounts during his school years in upstate New York, where he learned to duck and cover to survive nuclear attack. At age 14, on a family vacation to England, he came face to face for the first time with real live Communists, a group of Chinese diplomats in identical Mao suits out for an afternoon stroll.

Ever curious about the land of his origin, Max returned to Canada's Maritime Provinces to pursue his undergraduate studies, majoring in the environmental sciences. Intrigued by his new cultural experiences Max pursued graduate studies, in French, under the guidance of a cadre of Quebec separatists.

Based in Washington DC, his consulting career saw Max travel for work to 49 of the 50 US states. Max has spent the past six years in the long shadow of the DMZ enjoying the wonderful people, culture and economic miracle that are the Republic of Korea.

