Part 29 (1/2)

Someone else is in the Zenith House o ffices.

Someone else on a Sat.u.r.day morning.

Iron-Guts has a pretty good idea who the someone else must be. ”Tick-tick,” he whispers, his lips barely moving. ”Designated spic.” In his doze, Hecksler has slid down a bit in Porter's chair. Now he

slides even farther, wanting to make absolutely sure that the top of his head won't show if the D.S. should wander a few yards farther down the hall. It's okay for ”Carlos” to see the mess in here as long as he doesn't see the man in here.

Silent as a sigh, Hecksler eases his hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out another of his Army-Navy store purchases: a bone-handled hunting knife with a seven-inch tungsten blade.

There is the faintest click as the General unfolds the blade and locks it into position. He holds it against his chest, the tip nearly touching the undershelf of his stringently shaved chin, and waits for whatever comes next.

Central Park Skies fair, winds light, temperature 60 F.

10:50 A.M.

Bill Gelb is so excited about his planned excursion to Paramus that he hardly slept at all last night, and still he feels energized this Sat.u.r.day morning, totally jazzed. He couldn't stay in the G.o.ddam apartment, just couldn't. The question was, where to go? Ordinarily he'd think movie, Bill loves the movies, but he couldn't sit still in one today. And then, in the shower, the answer came.

On a Sat.u.r.day morning in Central Park, especially on a pretty spring morning like this one, there'll be a veritable Olympic games going on, everything from skateboarding and pick-up softball to chess and checkers.

There will also be a c.r.a.p game going on at the edge of the Sheep Meadow; of this Bill is almost sure. It may have been closed down, but he can't imagine why the cops would bust such an innocuous game: low stakes, young white guys pretending to be cool dudes rolling the bones. Seven come eleven, baby needs a new pair of Adidas sneakers. A bottle or two of cheap wine will make the rounds, allowing the players to feel totally raffish, not to say decadent, shooting c.r.a.ps and drinking Night Train at eleven o'clock in the morning.

Bill has played in this game maybe half a dozen times over the last two years, always in warm weather. He likes to gamble, but shooting c.r.a.ps in Central Park when the temperature is below forty? No way. But today WINS radio says the mercury may shoot all the way up to an unseasonable seventy degrees, and besides...what better way to see if the force is still with him?

Which is why-as Riddley's train approaches Manhattan, as Sandra and her niece continue their whirlwind tour of Cony Island's early-season amus.e.m.e.nts, as Carlos Detweiller begins inspecting ”p.o.o.p-s.h.i.+t” Kenton's files, and General Hecksler sits slouched in Herb Porter's office chair, knife gleaming in the sunlight-we find Bill Gelb down on his knees in a circle of yelling, laughing white guys who are happy to fade his heat. Lucky son of a b.i.t.c.h got in the game, bet two guys to c.r.a.p out (and won), then took the dice himself. Since then he's rolled five straight sevens. Now he's promising them a sixth, and further promising them it'll be sixty-one. Dude is crazy, so of course they're happy to fade him. And Bill is happy, as well. As happy as he's ever been in his life, it seems to him. He showed up here on the Meadow with just fifteen dollars in his pocket, deliberately leaving the rest of his cash at home; he's already tripled that. And this, by G.o.d, is just the warmup! Tonight, in Paramus, he will sit down to the main course.

”G.o.d bless that crazy houseplant,” he murmurs, and rolls the dice onto the painted hopscotch grid that serves as the pit. They bounce, they roll, they tumble- -and the Sat.u.r.day morning yuppie c.r.a.p-artists groan in mingled disbelief, despair, and amazement.

It's six and one.

Bill s.n.a.t.c.hes up the wad of currency lying on the HOME slot of the hopscotch grid, smacks it, and holds it up to the bright blue sky, laughing.

”You want to pa.s.s the dice, Mr. Lucky?” one of the other players asks.

”When I'm on a roll like this?” Bill Gelb leans forward and s.n.a.t.c.hes the dice. ”No f.u.c.kin way.” The bones feel warm in his hand. Someone hands him a bottle of Boone's Farm and he takes a hit. ”No f.u.c.kin way am I pa.s.sing,” he repeats. ”Gents, I'm going to roll these bones until the spots fall off.”

11:05 A.M.

The kadath has infiltrated Kenton's office right through the cracks at the edges of the door, growing exuberantly up the walls, but Carlos barely notices. The ivy is nothing to him, one way or the other. Not now. It might have been fun to sit back and watch it work if not for Tina Barfield, but the b.i.t.c.h stole his owl's beak and time has grown short. Let Zenith take care of the rest if it wants to; Kenton is his.

”You mocker,” he says again. ”You thief.”

As in Herb's o ffice, there are pictures on the walls of Kenton with various authors. Carlos cares nothing for the authors (they look like w.a.n.kers to him, too), but he looks fixedly at the repet.i.tions of Kenton himself, memorizing the lean face with its shock of too-long black hair. What does he think he is? Carlos asks himself indignantly. A d.a.m.ned old rock star? A Beatle? A Rolling Stone? The name of a rock and roll group Kenton could belong to occurs to him: Johnny and the p.o.o.p-s.h.i.+ts.

As always, Carlos is startled by his own wit. He is serious so much of the time that he's always shocked at what a good sense of humor he has. Now he barks laughter.

Still chuckling, he tries Kenton's desk drawers, but, unlike Herb's, they are locked. There is an IN/OUT box on top of the desk, but, also unlike Herb's, it is almost completely empty. The one sheet of paper has several lines jotted on it that Carlos doesn't understand in the slightest: