“Wouldn’t play too well with the good folks of Ocean Heights, would it?”
“Hence the seminar cover,” I said. “And extra payoffs to Dobbs for being discreet—like referrals after the earthquake. And the tapes. How much you want to bet Massengil’s office paid for them? For a minor investment Massengil’s buying the chance to come out of this whole thing smelling fragrant. He and Dobbs had no way of knowing I’d get there first—after Dobbs had already started talking to the press. The scandal potential is there. At the very least Massengil would look like a damn fool.”
She shook her head. “Same old story. You’d think I’d get used to it. I hope all of this hasn’t soured you too much.”
I realized that talking about it had leeched the anger out of my system. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Anyway, I’m here to work. How many kids showed up?”
“A few more than yesterday, but not nearly enough. A lot of the parents couldn’t be reached by phone during working hours. Carla and I will try again tonight.”
I noticed how tired she looked and said, “Nice to see you haven’t been soured.”
She examined a cuticle. “One does what one can.”
I said, “I see the school guard is gone.”
“Must mean we’re safe, huh?”
“You don’t feel safe?”
“Actually, I do. I truly believe Massengil brought things to a head. The worst is over.”
The look on her face didn’t jibe with her words. I said, “What is it, then?”
She opened a drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to me.
Inside were three sheets of paper, one blue-ruled and torn from a spiral notebook, the others cheap white stationery, unmarked. The message on one of the white sheets had been typewritten on an old manual; the other was handwritten in very dark penciled block letters. The blue-ruled sheet was covered with bird-scratch red-ballpoint cursive.
Different hands, the same message:
SPICK LOVER!!! FUCK YOU MONGREL RACEMIXER BICHES!!!
YOUR DAY OF RECKON IS SOON. REPENT OR BURN WITH ALL NIGGER TYPES IN DAMN NIGGER HELL . . .
ILLEAGALS GO BACK TO BEANERLAND. NO MORE STEALING JOBS FROM AMERICAN WORKING PEOPLE. . .WHITE PEOPLES LIBERATION FRONT.
She said, “I used to get this kind of swill regularly, but it had stopped. Guess it brings back memories of how rough things were in the beginning.”
“Have you told the police?”
She nodded. “I called that detective from the terrorist squad—Frisk. He had me read all of it to him over the phone, said he’d send someone over to pick up the letters. But he didn’t sound too hurried—kind of bored, actually. Didn’t care that I’d gotten my fingerprints all over it or that Carla had thrown out the envelopes. I asked him about putting the guard back on duty, just for a while. The guy was no great shakes but better than nothing, right? Frisk said the guard had been supplied by the school district and it was out of his bailiwick, but that it really didn’t seem to be anything to worry about—the perpetrator had acted alone. I asked him what about copycats, and he said that was highly unlikely.”
“Did you tell him about the crossbearer?”
“Old Elijah? That’s how I think of him—crazy prophet, down from the hills. I mentioned it, but Frisk said there was nothing he could do unless the turkey actually broke a law or unless I went to court and got a restraining order. Incidentally, he showed up again this morning—Elijah. Shouting through the fence about hell and perdition. I went out to him and told him he’d done good work here—everyone had heard the word. Then I asked if I could read his Bible with him. He jumped on that, turned to something from Jeremiah, death and destruction of the Holy Temple. You should have seen the two of us, reciting out on the sidewalk. After we finished I told him he should check out Hollywood Boulevard—lots of needy spirits aching for salvation over there. He called me a woman of valor,
“Hence the seminar cover,” I said. “And extra payoffs to Dobbs for being discreet—like referrals after the earthquake. And the tapes. How much you want to bet Massengil’s office paid for them? For a minor investment Massengil’s buying the chance to come out of this whole thing smelling fragrant. He and Dobbs had no way of knowing I’d get there first—after Dobbs had already started talking to the press. The scandal potential is there. At the very least Massengil would look like a damn fool.”
She shook her head. “Same old story. You’d think I’d get used to it. I hope all of this hasn’t soured you too much.”
I realized that talking about it had leeched the anger out of my system. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Anyway, I’m here to work. How many kids showed up?”
“A few more than yesterday, but not nearly enough. A lot of the parents couldn’t be reached by phone during working hours. Carla and I will try again tonight.”
I noticed how tired she looked and said, “Nice to see you haven’t been soured.”
She examined a cuticle. “One does what one can.”
I said, “I see the school guard is gone.”
“Must mean we’re safe, huh?”
“You don’t feel safe?”
“Actually, I do. I truly believe Massengil brought things to a head. The worst is over.”
The look on her face didn’t jibe with her words. I said, “What is it, then?”
She opened a drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it to me.
Inside were three sheets of paper, one blue-ruled and torn from a spiral notebook, the others cheap white stationery, unmarked. The message on one of the white sheets had been typewritten on an old manual; the other was handwritten in very dark penciled block letters. The blue-ruled sheet was covered with bird-scratch red-ballpoint cursive.
Different hands, the same message:
SPICK LOVER!!! FUCK YOU MONGREL RACEMIXER BICHES!!!
YOUR DAY OF RECKON IS SOON. REPENT OR BURN WITH ALL NIGGER TYPES IN DAMN NIGGER HELL . . .
ILLEAGALS GO BACK TO BEANERLAND. NO MORE STEALING JOBS FROM AMERICAN WORKING PEOPLE. . .WHITE PEOPLES LIBERATION FRONT.
She said, “I used to get this kind of swill regularly, but it had stopped. Guess it brings back memories of how rough things were in the beginning.”
“Have you told the police?”
She nodded. “I called that detective from the terrorist squad—Frisk. He had me read all of it to him over the phone, said he’d send someone over to pick up the letters. But he didn’t sound too hurried—kind of bored, actually. Didn’t care that I’d gotten my fingerprints all over it or that Carla had thrown out the envelopes. I asked him about putting the guard back on duty, just for a while. The guy was no great shakes but better than nothing, right? Frisk said the guard had been supplied by the school district and it was out of his bailiwick, but that it really didn’t seem to be anything to worry about—the perpetrator had acted alone. I asked him what about copycats, and he said that was highly unlikely.”
“Did you tell him about the crossbearer?”
“Old Elijah? That’s how I think of him—crazy prophet, down from the hills. I mentioned it, but Frisk said there was nothing he could do unless the turkey actually broke a law or unless I went to court and got a restraining order. Incidentally, he showed up again this morning—Elijah. Shouting through the fence about hell and perdition. I went out to him and told him he’d done good work here—everyone had heard the word. Then I asked if I could read his Bible with him. He jumped on that, turned to something from Jeremiah, death and destruction of the Holy Temple. You should have seen the two of us, reciting out on the sidewalk. After we finished I told him he should check out Hollywood Boulevard—lots of needy spirits aching for salvation over there. He called me a woman of valor,
Similar Books
