From: "David Hearne" <ottercrk@sover.net>
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2001 13:31:13 -0500
Subject: xfc: She's My Heroine (1 of 15)
Source: xfc

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (1 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

CLASSIFICATION: MYTHOLOGY

RATING: R

SUMMARY: This story is told from the viewpoint of a woman who finds
herself entangled in a conspiracy, her choices, and her own desire
for release from the past.

TIMELINE: "She's My Heroine" is set between "The Beginning" and "Two
Fathers."

Send feedback to ottercrk@sover.net

Website is located at http://members.dencity.com/hearne

AUTHOR'S NOTE: There's not a whole lot of Mulder and Scully in this
story, but they're still important to the plot. However, there are a
lot of appearances by CSM. Rest your damned soul, smokey.

Uh, he is dead, right?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"SHE'S MY HEROINE" SOUNDTRACK (not available at any stores)

1. "Cell Therapy" by Goodie Mob
2. "Big Boss Man" by Jimmy Reed
3. "Powderfinger" by Neil Young and Crazy Horse
4. "Assassination Day" by Ghostface Killer
5. "Blues Everywhere" by Memphis Minnie
6. "The Shape I'm In" by The Band
7.  "People" by Action Pact
8. "Tears" by Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli
9.  "She's My Heroine" by Skunk Anansie
10.  "St. Mary" by Rancid
11. "Keep on the Sunny Side" by The Carter Family

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. "SPARE ME YOUR DAMN EUPHEMISMS."
2. "DON'T WORRY. YOU WILL."
3. "I WASN'T PLANNING TO KILL ANY FEDS."
4. "HE AND I ARE GONNA HAVE A LONG TALK ONE OF THESE DAYS."
5. "YOU'RE ENGLISH."
6. "'O, REASON NOT THE NEED.'"
7. "YET HERE YOU ARE."
8. "SO. ALIENS."
9. "SHOOTING YOU WOULD BE A PIECE OF CAKE, THOUGH."
10. "THIS SHOULDN'T SURPRISE ANYONE."
11. "TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER."
12. "YOU WON'T SEE ME AT ALL."
13. "IF THAT'S TRUE, THEN WHY LOVE ME?"
14. "LEARN TO BELIEVE A LOT OF THINGS."
15. "I'M MORE 'YOU' THAN YOU ARE."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ONE
"SPARE ME YOUR DAMN EUPHEMISMS"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

One of the first things Richie taught me was the necessity of
improvisation. "Plan, but don't try to get every single detail down,"
he would say. "Don't be afraid of the unexpected. You don't go into
this kind of work with fear in your heart."

In other words, learn how to turn lemons into lemonade. Or shit into
methane which can fuel a car for a quick getaway. I managed to
remember that lesson on the day I was supposed to kill Ernst
Prutzmann.

The contract had been arranged by his son Werner. Ernst was the leader
of a big crime syndicate with origins in what used to be East Germany.
As in Russia, the crime bosses were giving stability to those caught
in the lurch from communism to capitalism. Ernst had moved to the
U.S.A. in order to establish stronger connections with the criminals
in my country. He was reportedly branching out in the field of stolen
cars. Gotta love the New Economy.

Anyway, Werner hired me to kill his father. It was a typical move in
such families and it was not the first time I had helped a son
overthrow his father. I was to get my standard payment for such a
task -- one hundred thousand. Then, on the day I was to kill Ernst,
something went wrong. Or maybe something went right.

This was what happened...

My best asset as an assassin is my ability to be unnoticed. I'm
plain-looking. I can also be absolutely quiet when I want to be. Most
of my targets don't know I'm there until the bullets hit them. In my
plan to kill Ernst Prutzmann, I took advantage of that as I usually
did in other jobs.

The hit was going to happen in New York City, right outside of a
restaurant Ernst Prutzmann owned. Werner would make sure his father
would be there at a certain time and then leave for another
appointment. I would be waiting outside.

I wouldn't come to the restaurant armed. In fact, I would be wearing a
jogging suit tight enough for curious eyes to see I'm not armed. The
gun to be used was waiting for me in a garbage can outside the
restaurant. Look for the brown box on top, Werner told me. It'll be in
there.

It was there. And Ernst and his two bodyguards left the restaurant
just at the right time. So did Werner.

You see, Werner wanted to get shot, too. That's what he told me,
anyway. "They're going to suspect you had help," he had said. "And
I'll be their top suspect. Get me in the leg."

"You trust me to shoot that well?"

"I wouldn't hire you if I wasn't sure you were that good." He had
smiled. "Besides, don't you want to get paid?"

"It's gonna hurt."

Werner had just shrugged. "I've had worse."

Pretty ballsy, I had thought. I was still thinking it when I saw the
four men step on to the sidewalk. They turned right and headed for the
parking lot. I was standing behind them all, apparently taking a break
from jogging to do some stretching exercises against the corner of the
restaurant. The garbage can was two feet away. The moment the four men
got eight feet away, I was going to stride to the can, reach into the
box, and pull out the gun. Werner had wrapped the gun's barrel and
trigger in cloth. The weather was warm enough to make anyone wearing
gloves stand out. Having the cloth was necessary to prevent
fingerprinting, but it would make pulling the trigger more difficult.

However, I am a good shot. At this distance, I couldn't have missed.
After doing the necessary killing and wounding, I was going to run
across the street. A bicycle was planted in an alley there. I would
strip the cloth off, drop the gun, jump on the bike and pedal like
hell for a couple of blocks. Then I would find one more stash in a
public bathroom -- a backpack with a new change of clothes. After
changing, I would head to the airport and fly all the way back to
sweet home L.A. with a transferred payment divided up among my various
accounts.

That's the way it should have happened. It didn't. Here's why --

I'm about to grab the gun when I asked myself this question -- what if
Werner isn't ballsy? It was just a random thought. Or maybe some
instinct kicked in. Who knows? Thank God for small favors in any case.

I asked myself the question and I asked another question. Why now? Why
kill his father now? His dad was close to consolidating a major deal
here in the U.S. Without Ernst Prutzmann, the whole thing would likely
go south. So Werner had much to lose if his father died at that
moment.

I looked at Werner's back. He would have seemed pretty relaxed to
anybody who wasn't looking for signs of expectation.

I saw them and something else, too. I realized what he was up to. He
didn't want his father dead. He wanted his trust. And what better way
to do that than to stop a hit?

What were my choices? I could just walk away, of course. However, that
would mean I had something on Werner. He couldn't shoot my unarmed
self in the street there, but he would come after me. He could kill me
or I could kill him. The latter would not solve my problems as the
grieving father would probably throw the whole weight of his
organization after me. Killing everybody on the street might have been
a viable solution. However, I still would have to deal with other
members of the Prutzmann family. And I wouldn't get paid.

I had to change the game. I had to put Werner in a position where he
couldn't go after me.

I wasn't really thinking this way when I made my move. Instinct was
pushing me at that moment -- instinct and improvisation.

Werner was obviously keeping his ears open for any sound behind him.
Foreknowledge had given him an alertness the bodyguards didn't have.
When he spun around and reached for his gun, he must have expected me
to be surprised.

He was the one surprised, though. I had taken the gun out of the can,
but I was pointing it across the street. I fired towards the alley
where my bicycle awaited.

My shots sent the bodyguards into motion. They shoved Ernst to the
ground, whipped out their own guns, and pointed in my direction. I
prayed that they would be too confused by where I was shooting to take
a shot at me.

They were. When I turned and looked at their bewildered faces, I
pointed at the alley and yelled, "There! Over there!"

Werner just stood there with his gun out, not knowing what to do with
it. The bodyguards were kneeling on the sidewalk, equally confused.

Sounding very angry, I shouted, "Someone was pointing a gun at Mr.
Prutzmann, you dumb-asses! Go get him!"

The bodyguards looked at the alley. They could see no one else. They
were probably trying to figure out if anybody had really been there.
That's when I looked straight into Werner's eyes as if to say, "Your
call, you son-of-a-bitch."

He paused just a moment, then turned to the bodyguards and yelled,
"Go!"

The bodyguards took off, chasing after an invisible hitman. I bet you
that later on they would insist they had seen somebody. Suggestion is
a wonderful thing.

As they ran off, I ripped off the bandage around the gun and dropped
it in the can. No one had seen it. Then I ran up to Ernst and helped
him to his feet. "Let's get you inside," I said. The old German
nodded. His body was tense, but he looked unafraid. The geezer
probably had icewater in his veins. Nobody could scare him -- just get
him angry.

I was looking into his firm, cold eyes after we had taken shelter in
the restaurant. The manager of the restaurant was calming both his
staff and customers down. "It's okay, folks. Mr. Prutzmann, are you
all right?"

Ernst said something in German. It must have meant, "I'm fine" because
the manager just nodded. Then he looked at me suspiciously. "Who are
you?" he asked.

I pressed my gun in his hand. "I'll explain later. Get rid of this."

The manager looked at Ernst. The old man nodded. The manager left with
my gun, leaving me without weapons in the lion's den. Werner was
trying not to stare at me too hard.

"Let us talk in the back, young lady," Ernst said. "Come with us,
Werner." We all walked out of the main dining room. The customers were
casually returning to their meals. They were probably all connected to
one mob or another.

After we had found some privacy, that old man looked right at me and
asked my name.

"Alma Orozco."

"Why did you just fire a gun in front of my restaurant?"

"I was shooting at a man aiming at you," I explained, looking back at
him. "The very man your son hired me to protect you from."

Ernst turned to his son. With admirable smoothness, Werner said,
"That's true, father. I hired this woman."

"Why did you not tell me about this?"

Yeah, why, Werner? He was going to have to answer the question, not
me. However, he picked up on the logic of my story quickly. "I wanted
few as people as possible to know of her existence. She has been
trailing you for some time, watching over you in secret."

"That still doesn't explain..." Ernst suddenly looked as if he had
just realized something. I hope it was the wrong thing or both Werner
and I were dead.

When he spoke again, Ernst said, "Someone in my organization set up
the hit, didn't they?"

"That's what your son believes, sir," I said, then turned to Werner.
"Any ideas on who?"

"I'm still trying to find that out," he replied calmly before
addressing his father. "I knew of a plot against your life, but not
the plotters. Until then, only I could have known about Miss Orozco's
existence."

Nothing changed in the old man's face or body, but I could tell he was
thinking the story over.

Then he said, "I have one more question, Miss Orozco. Where did you
hide your gun?"

He indicated my tight jogging suit. I allowed myself to smile a little
and said, "Do you really want to know, Mister Prutzmann?"

The old man looked up and down my body. Not in an ogling way -- it was
almost scientific. Besides, like I said, I'm plain-looking.

Then he smiled a little and said, "I guess not."

He held out a hand. I shook it. "Danke schon," he said.

"You're welcome. Unfortunately, I won't be able to protect you
anymore. My secrecy was my main asset."

"I understand. We shall take care of the matter now. Right, Werner?"

"Of course, father." I wondered who would be the fall guy in the
organization to take the blame for the "assassination attempt."
Probably some enemy of Werner's.

"See to it that Miss Orozco is compensated for her work, won't you?"

Afterwards, I had a little talk with Werner. "You heard the man. Pay
up."

Werner took a breath, then said, "You'll be given your hundred
thousand."

"That's hundred-and-twenty-five."

Werner narrowed his eyes.

"I have a twenty-five-percent 'don't-fuck-with-me-ever-again' charge."

Werner sighed, then nodded. Of course, it wasn't too much of a problem
for him. He had gotten what he was aiming for -- his father's full
trust. And I had gotten a higher payment. Everybody was happy. Even
the cops who came to investigate the shooting were fine with the
situation. Nobody heard or saw anything, huh? Whatever. Have a nice
day.

So, as you can see, my plan was turned completely upside-down, but you
could still mark this up as a success. The only part which didn't
change was my quick flight out of New York. The moment the plane left
the ground, I got the shakes. I had been holding them in from the
moment I had figured out the set-up. Now I had them bad and I couldn't
stop. A very nice man sitting next to me asked if I was all right. I
told him I was okay. He didn't probe any deeper than that, but he
looked after me all the way to my connecting flight in Indiana. He
even offered to take me to the doctor. Real nice guy.

I was okay by the time I reached Los Angeles. As I said before, L.A.
was my sweet home. I was ready to just relax, watch television, fall
asleep.

I would do those things that night, but not before everything was
turned upside down again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Before I went to my apartment, I bought some groceries and picked up a
gun. I had a few guns scattered around in hiding places all over Los
Angeles. You never know when you need one. I took one out on that
night just for reassurance. Despite my agreement with Werner
Prutzmann, I just wanted to feel a little safer for the moment.

I wasn't sure what to feel when I heard music from my apartment. The
sound of one of history's worst guitarists was drifting through the
door. My stereo system doesn't have a lot of volume to it, but it was
loud enough to be heard before I reached the door.

I stood in the hallway, unsure of what to do. If somebody was waiting
to kill me in my apartment, he was sure going about it in a weird
way -- sort of like that stupid hitman John Travolta played in that
stupid movie. (Note to aspiring hitmen -- when waiting in your
intended victim's apartment, do not go to the bathroom. And do NOT
leave your gun lying on the kitchen counter.)

Was one of my friends in there? Farrah? Cornelius? No, they didn't
have keys and they knew better than to do something like this.

It was kind of a mystery, all right. There was only one way to solve
it.

I pushed open the door. Standing in my living room was a man listening
to my stereo. He had selected one of the albums from my vinyl
collection. The single was spinning on the player.

"Big boss man / Can't you hear me when I call..."

The man looked over his shoulder to reveal a grainy, drooping face. He
smiled at me and said, "I hope you don't mind."

"I do mind," I said. "Nothing personal, but I don't like strangers
messing around with my collection."

He nodded, then turned back to the record player. He lifted the needle
off the vinyl and switched off the player. "My apologies," he said. "I
was just impressed by it." His left hand indicated the shelves on
which my vinyl records were assembled.

"I was just looking through them and...well, I haven't heard Jimmy
Reed in awhile. You know, technically, he was not a good guitar
player."

"Well, he knew how to work with what he had," I observed as I stepped
into the apartment and closed the door behind me.

The stranger turned his whole body towards me. I could see his right
hand. It was holding a cigarette. "I admire any man who knows how to
use his resources," he said. "Of course, there comes a point where you
need more."

"Uh-huh. So when are you planning to get your butt out of my
apartment?"

"When we're done talking. And we'll be done only after I mention two
names. Huxford and Mulli..."

I dropped my bag of groceries. Luckily, nothing got broken. Unluckily
for the smoking man, I was now pointing a gun at him.

"...gan," he completed, then looked at the gun in annoyance. "There's
really nothing to be gained by shooting me, you know."

"I know," I sighed, then put the gun back under my coat. "That was
just a reflex. You shouldn't mention those two names lightly around
me."

The smoking man lifted his cigarette to his mouth, inhaled and blew
out a plume of smoke. Then he nodded and said, "Again, I apologize.
I'm afraid I take matters too lightly some times. Other times, I fear
I take them too seriously."

I bent down and reorganized my groceries.  I headed towards the
kitchen with one eye on the smoking man.   "Look, whatever you want to
talk about, just..."

"I want to hire you." The smoking man strolled into the kitchen with
one hand tucked in a pocket of his dark dress pants.

I put the bag on the counter and began taking out groceries. "What's
the job?"

"That hasn't been determined yet. It could be that I won't need you at
all. I suppose I want to hire you on a kind of freelance basis."

"I don't work like that."

"Oh, you can't turn me down, Miss Orozco."

"Why? Because you know a couple of names?"

"Because I'm with the government."

I said, "Huh," then opened the refrigerator to store away some
vegetables.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I've heard stories. I know your people like to recruit people like me
for the dirty jobs. That's been going on for a long time."

"That's true. This kind of recruitment goes all the way back to the
days of Giancana. And now I find myself looking in some of the same
areas for assistants. You see, some months ago, my co-workers in my
organization let me go..."

"You mean, they tried to kill you. Spare me your damn euphemisms."

The smoking man smiled. "Of course. Well, they tried to kill me. I had
to go underground. Then a certain matter arose which forced them to
turn to me for help. I'm back in the game again. Unfortunately, my
absence has left me uncertain about a lot of the players. I'm not sure
if I can rely on the obedience of those under me. That's why I'm
starting from scratch and building a new organization. I want you --
Alma Orozco -- to be among the first new employees."

"I understand that," I said. I started to put away cans of soup. "But
what's my incentive for joining you?"

"Well, the pay is good. And I can offer the best protection. Then
there's the matter of the two names I mentioned."

I closed a cupboard door and looked at the smoking man. He said,
"You're thinking -- what does he have? What bit of evidence has he
collected? I have to say there is no evidence, just as there was
nothing to connect you to the deaths of those two men years ago. You
did an excellent job of covering your tracks."

The smoking man took another drag off his cigarette. "However...this
has nothing to do with evidence. You still are a suspect in that case.
If some suitably convincing physical proof falls into the hands of the
police, then they won't think twice about convicting you."

He walked up to the sink. "Do you think your second go-around in
prison will be better..." He tossed his cigarette down the drain.
"...or worse?"

"Well," I said. "then I guess I'm in."

"I'm glad you're being reasonable about this. Now, as I said before, I
don't know if I'll ever need you. However, the time comes..."

"What if I'm involved in another job at the time?"

"'Job?' Now who's using euphemisms?"

"All right. What if I'm supposed to be killing somebody else at the
time?"

"Don't worry. We'll take care of any other problems you'll have." The
smoking man took out a pack of cigarettes. He slipped out a fresh one
and lit it up while heading towards the door. "If I do need you, one
of my subordinates will contact you."

I followed him to the door. "May I ask you one thing?"

He turned to me with one hand on the doorknob. "You may."

"What did you pick me?"

"Because I like you. I like anybody who enjoys Jimmy Reed."

Then he walked out. I closed the door and leaned against it. I was now
a government employee. There was no chance then to improvise my way
into a better situation.

That would come later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (2 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWO
"DON'T WORRY. YOU WILL."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I didn't dream of Rollins Bay Prison the night I was visited by the
smoking man. This was a little odd. You know how other people
frequently dream about being back in high school or college? For me,
my most recurring dreams are about Rollins Bay. They come in different
varieties. Sometimes, I can be trapped in a great crowd of prisoners.
Other times, I'm alone in a cell with the rest of the block not making
a sound. The dream can be set on my first day of my sentence or my
last day. Violence doesn't occur in these dreams as much as you would
think, but they usually have a claustrophobic feeling which promises
violence.

Huxford and Mulligan appear sometimes in my dreams. Whenever I see
them, I think, "This can't be right. They're dead. In fact, I'm not
supposed to be in prison, right?" That thought usually starts me on
waking up.

However, my dream that night was not about being in prison. It was
about being frozen. I was stuck in the block of ice. I didn't feel
cold, but I was numb all over. I couldn't move my body. I couldn't
even breathe. Nothing about the dream changed. I spent the whole dream
frozen. I could only see darkness around the ice.

I don't tend to think about my dreams, even the ones in prison.
However, I couldn't stop thinking about the cold paralysis of that
dream ice. I felt a need to talk to somebody, but not about the dream.

The day after I got recruited by the smoking man, I visited three
friends. The first was my next door neighbor Farrah Teague. It was
eight o'clock in the morning when I knocked on her door. I could tell
she was up because I heard her stereo. Unlike my old, cheap system
(old and cheap because I like it that way), Farrah had big, bad, loud
equipment to play her music. And she liked to play big, bad, loud
music. I tried not to complain about it. Not just because she was a
friend, but because I was used to hearing noises from her apartment.

On this morning, I could hear a British voice spitting out lyrics over
electric guitars. "Bitterness is all you'll find...tread on those you
leave behind..." It wasn't so loud that she couldn't hear my knocking.
A twenty-six-year-old woman answered the door with wet blonde curls
and a robe going down her tall body.

"Hi, Alma!"

"Morning, Farrah."

"You just get back?"

"Last night. I guess you weren't home at the time I arrived."

"Nah, I got in late. I was somewhere else with a client."

"I thought you brought them back here."

"Usually I do. But this guy was paying extra."

"I hope he didn't ask for anything...too weird."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

I know what you're thinking. For the record, Farrah wasn't a
prostitute. At least, not in the usual sense. She was a wrestler. She
wrestled men for money. Don't ask me why some men find that a turn-on.
It's a big old world, I guess. Usually she performed in her apartment
where she had set up a mattress surrounded by ropes. She even
videotaped some of her "matches." "Want to see one?" she once asked
me. "No fucking way," I had replied. She had just laughed.

"I guess you're finished with your out-of-town work," she observed.
"How did it go?"

"It went...fine."

She nodded.

"By the way, are you going to be free today?" I asked. "I am. Maybe we
could just...I don't know...stroll around the city."

"Sorry. I got classes today. Then I have a shift at the bakery and
then I've got another client tonight."

"Well, then you're too busy. I better let you go."

"Wait. Is there something you want to talk about?"

"Um...not really."

"Oh, come on, Alma..."

"Don't worry about it. I'll see you later."

She looked at me with doubtful eyes, but she wasn't the type to push
too hard. (Not on women, anyway.) "Okay," she said. "See you."

I walked away, admiring Farrah's work ethic. Here she was, studying
anthropology at school, holding a part-time job at a bakery, and
wrestling men at night. A busy, busy woman.

Was she aware of my occupation? I'll save that answer for later. For
the moment, there was only one person with whom I could really talk
about my current situation. Before I saw him, I met up with another
friend.

Cornelius didn't open his shop until ten o'clock. I spent about two
hours just wandering around Los Angeles. I've been to most of the
major cities in America. L.A. strikes me as being the most alive.
Maybe it's because of all the freeways. Maybe it's because of the warm
weather. Maybe it's because of all the people crossing paths on the
long, long streets. More than any other city I know, Los Angeles is
like a human being. It can be honest and phony, kind and mean, strong
and weak. Sometimes, you love it with all of your heart.

Other times, you want to shoot it right between the eyes.

The Planet of Lost Records opened at ten a.m. as usual. I could hear
'Rust Never Sleeps' over the speakers nailed to the wall. It was one
of Cornelius Gould's favorite albums. He was standing behind the
counter, unconsciously mouthing the lyrics "Look out, mama, there's a
white boat coming up the river..." as he examined his account books.
He heard my steps and looked up.

"Hey, Alma!"

"Hey, Cornelius. Got anything good for me?"

He grinned and motioned me closer to the counter. As I walked up to
him, he pulled out a vinyl record from beneath the counter. The cover
read "Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli -- Collected Singles."

"Nice," I said.

"I thought you would like it. Of course, I'm still offering a discount
to you..."

"No need. In fact, I'm going to splurge a bit today."

The Planet of Lost Records was the only place where I did spend money
recklessly. Both Cornelius and I had an obsession for vinyl records.
He sold some used CD's in the store, but he couldn't really smile at
anyone who bought them.

I liked Cornelius, even though he was soft. Or maybe because he was
soft. He grew up in the comfort of money. His parents weren't
super-rich, but they had more than enough to set up their son in his
dream job. At the age of twenty-seven, he was given one of the best
record stores in the Los Angeles where he worked as the sole employee.
He didn't even have to start from scratch as other businessmen did.
I'm not saying that he didn't work hard. However, he usually worked as
hard as he wanted to.

Cornelius was aware of his softness. He knew that there were people
with grime on their palms and blood under their fingernails. He could
see them passing by his store everyday. Other people who realize their
softness become mean and paranoid. That's because they feel guilty
about their easy ride through life and they're afraid their luck might
go sour. Cornelius didn't feel guilt. He just accepted his luck. "If
things line up for you," he once told me. "then you should feel
grateful, but not arrogant."

This was a nice attitude. Like I said, though, Cornelius was still
untouched by the world. Like I also said, I kind of enjoyed this. I
had met too many hard people in my life -- too many people who smelled
of all the shit they've done. They represented all the problems I had
to confront. With Cornelius, the biggest problem in the world were
those record companies who overcharged for compact discs.

We talked about that as I browsed for records. Music was almost the
only thing we talked about. I think it was the only Cornelius
discussed with anybody. After spending about a hour at the Planet, I
left with a bag full of records and went to see my third friend.

Richie Dayton lived in a small house with bars on the windows. After I
knocked on his front door, a voice called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me, you old fart. Open up."

I waited for him to open the door. That took a little time. Richie had
to walk on a cane. He was smiling as he opened the door.

We walked into the living room. "Have a seat," he requested. He sat
down in his usual chair where a book was always within reach. Other
old people spend their whole day watching television. Richie preferred
books. In fact, he preferred them over any kind of entertainment.
Everything else was too noisy -- too distracting.

After I sat down in the only other chair, he asked me about New York
City. I told him about the Prutzmanns. The further the story went, the
smaller his smile got. He was frowning by the time I was done. At
first, I thought he was mad at Werner Prutzmann.

"I should have heard about your plan before you tried it," he said. "I
could have told you it was a set-up. Why didn't you figure it out?"

"I did."

"Yeah, right when it was about to fucking go down. Come on, Alma! Who
the hell wants to get shot? I'll tell you who -- the crazy, the
stupid, and the suicidal. And you don't work with them anymore than
you work with those who are trying to fucking kill you!"

"Let us review a bit. For starters, I'm alive. Secondly, I managed to
get out of that situation pretty well. I even got a bigger fee."

"A trap is still a trap. And you walked into one with your eyes
closed. You're lucky to be alive."

"It had less to do with luck than the lessons given to me by a good
teacher."

"Don't try to sweet-talk me, young lady."

"I'm not sweet-talking. I'm just stating a fact."

Richie slowly made a new smile. "All right. I'll end the sermon. So
what now? Do you have a new job?"

"Sort of. I'm working for the government now."

Richie looked mildly surprised for a second, then he nodded. "I
figured they might get around to you sooner or later. What happened
exactly?"

"A man showed up at my apartment last night. He knew about Huxford and
Mulligan. He didn't have a job to do at the time, but he said that he
would notify me in case he did."

"Tell me -- did this guy smoke?"

Now I was the one surprised. "You know about him?"

"Vaguely. Which is about as much anybody knows."

"But how did you know it was him in my apartment?"

"I didn't. I was just wondering if it was him."

"Well, tell me what you do know."

"Just that he's been about everywhere. Every off-the-books operation
that has gone on, he's been involved in it somehow. There's probably
not a secret in the world he doesn't know. We're talking about a real
hard-core government spook."

"Have you met him?"

"Never. I've just heard about him from secondhand sources. I knew this
one guy back in the sixties. He was tight with the CIA then, but he
didn't care for none of them. He hated their ideas. You know, all that
'give-Castro-an-exploding-cigar' shit. He thought they were just a
bunch of college kids who read too much James Bond. But the smoking
man...when my friend mentioned him, he did it with respect."

I slumped in my chair. "I don't know, Richie. This is getting a little
too heavy for me."

"Heavy as opposed to what exactly?"

"Meaning I'm not ready to shoot Presidents yet."

Richie blinked. "We're getting carried away, don't you think?"

"Well, what can I expect from this guy? Did you ever do this kind of
work?"

"Me? No."

"Then why am I the one to get recruited?"

"Because you're better than I ever was. At least, when it comes to
basic skills. You could use work on your instincts..."

"So you've told me."

"...and I worry that you won't do what is necessary."

I learned forward. "What does that mean?"

"You know what it means."

Silence hung between us for a few moments. Then I said, "Everybody has
a line they won't cross."

"And more power to you if you can stay behind it. But, Alma..." Richie
let out a breath from his thin chest. "...I've got less than a year to
live. I only have one wish for these final days. I don't want to see
you die."

"I wasn't planning it."

"Promise, then. Tell me I'll die before you do."

I looked straight into Richie's eyes and said, "Don't worry. You
will."

The old man relaxed in his chair. "That...would make me very happy."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wouldn't hear from the smoking man for another few months. I did a
couple of assassinations in that time -- nothing worth talking about.
However, when I got the call, I was completely free of other
obligations.

I was listening to the Carter Family at the time. If my friends from
my old barrio had caught me listening to this scratchy hillbilly
stuff,. they would have looked at me as if I had grown two extra arms
and a third eye. Back then, I would have looked at such a person in
the same way. However, I didn't know those friends anymore. And I now
liked the Carter Family.

"Keep on the sunny side/ Always on the sunny side/ Keep on the sunny
side of life..."

My phone rang. After I said "Hello?" to the receiver, I heard a
familiar voice. I could almost smell the smoke on the other end.

"We need to set up a meeting."

I hesitated just a little bit, then replied, "Where?"

"Anywhere you want."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (3 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THREE
"I WASN'T PLANNING TO KILL ANY FEDS."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Who's that peeking in my window /  POW / Nobody now / Who's that
peeking in my window..."

I didn't go to Smokers Only that much. I didn't care for the way the
managers allowed the bar to fill beyond capacity or for the bass-heavy
music they played over the speakers or for the mixture of smoke
(tobacco and marijuana) which filled the air or for the dim lighting
or for just the general 'ambiance.' Nor did I like the constant
sizing-up and strutting among the customers. It was as if they were
determined to prove that life really was a Dr. Dre video. The women
had tight dresses and long hair extensions, both of which probably
hurt like hell. The men were always flashing their gold on their rings
or on their teeth as if to say, "Yo, I a playa. Yo, I be big-pimpin'.
You want some of this gangsta shit?"

Not really.

It wasn't uncommon for a fight to break out in the club. A knife or a
gun (like the one I was packing right then) would always find its way
in the place. Nobody tried to mess with me, though. Maybe they knew
what I did for a living. Or maybe no one noticed me. As I said before,
I can fade into the background.

However, everybody noticed the man who entered Smokers Only. He was
now the only white guy in a club full of Hispanics and
African-Americans. His handsome face had a boyish appearance. I had
this image of him ordering a glass of milk at the bar.

The boyishness ended at the eyes, though. It was why the patrons of
Smokers Only looked at him, then looked away. The message in his eyes
was "I have known hell. Would you like to know it, too?"

I wanted to see if the government boys could handle themselves on my
turf. This one seemed to be working fine.

He spotted me sitting at a table in the back. "Alma Orozco?" he said.

"Alex Krycek?"

"I guess it's 'yes' to both questions." He sat down in a chair across
from me. "You ready to go to Washington?"

"What would I be doing in Washington?"

"You'll be finding out who has been leaking private information to two
FBI agents. After finding the leak, you are to seal it up."

"More euphemisms."

Krycek shrugged. "All right. You're to kill whoever is leaking the
information."

"But first I have to find out who it is."

"That's correct."

"Finding out things...that's not my specialty."

"It's time you learned it. If you're working for us, then gathering
intelligence is a skill you must acquire."

"Can't you get the name by yourself?"

"In this case...no. Our leak knows its way around our surveillance.
And the FBI agents in question are also experienced with my
organization's techniques. We need to find a new way to get the
information. And a new person to perform the task."

"All right. Who are the FBI agents?"

Krycek unzipped his brown leather jacket. As he did that with his
right hand, I noticed that the left arm was stiff and heavy. He saw my
look, then knocked on the arm. I heard a hollow thunk.

"Russians took the old one," he explained in a dry voice.

"Mafia?"

"Nope. Just scared people." He pulled a folder out from his jacket and
pushed it across the table to me. I opened the files to read about
Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. I studied photos of their
good-looking faces. "My name on your selection, but I caught you
coming," a voice warned over the speakers.

"One perimeter of this mission must be established from the
beginning," Krycek said. "You are not to terminate these two agents."

"I wasn't planning to kill any feds."

"You can kill all the feds you want."

I looked up to his serious face.

"Just not these two, especially Mulder."

"Okay. They're off-limits."

"Killing the leak should be sufficient. Now, as for getting the
information, I have already designed a plan."

"So have I."

For the first time that night, Krycek looked surprised. "And what's
that?"

I explained the basic idea of the plan. "We'll have to fine-tune it,"
I said. "but..."

"It sounds good. In fact, it's better than what I had in mind. How did
you think of that so quickly?"

"I've read Chesterton."

Krycek was becoming more puzzled and he obviously didn't like it.
"Never mind," I told him. "I need to pass the security checks, but I
imagine you can handle that part easily."

"Yes."

"Then let's go to D.C."

"Before we go...I have one question to ask. Aren't you curious as to
what's being leaked?"

"Yes. But I knew I would get in trouble if I asked."

Krycek smiled. Those boyish features should have created an attractive
smile. Instead his smile was just unpleasant. "Keep thinking like
that, Miss Orozco, and you'll stay alive."

I would never find out if that statement was true.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Richie was teaching me to be an assassin, he advised me to read
G.K. Chesterton. "Chesterton could have been a good hitman. He knew
how people think."

One of Chesterton's stories is about a crime apparently committed by
an invisible man. The victim's house was surrounded by guards, but
none of them saw anybody enter or leave the house. What gets revealed
is that the murderer was socially invisible, not literally invisible.
The victim was killed by the mailman. When the guards were asked if
they saw anybody, they weren't thinking of somebody they had seen so
often that he had become "unseen" to their eyes.

I know of places where the mailman would damn well be frisked before
he went through the door. However, Chesterton's basic point is a
sturdy one. There are certain people we "don't see" because we don't
like to think about them or take them for granted.

One such person is the cleaning lady. On some level, I think people
like the idea of an "invisible" cleaning staff. It's a kind of magic
to them. Whoosh! The trash cans are empty!

The FBI is no exception. As those determined law enforcement officials
stroll through the hallways of their Washington headquarters, they
never think about who keeps those hallways clean. That's why they
never noticed the new cleaning lady.

It didn't take much trouble to get added to the janitorial staff. A
security check could have revealed that Candelaria Anselmo was
actually a woman suspected of being an assassin-for-hire. However, the
contacts of the smoking man got me through the process without a
scratch.

The biggest problem was the rest of the staff. I was being assigned to
shifts which could keep me out-of-sight from them. Sooner or later,
though, they would get curious about the new mujer in town. However, I
wasn't planning on staying long.

I spent my first couple of days studying Agents Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully. As I emptied cans and mopped floors, I watched out for any
signs of contact between them and the leak. Whenever they passed me
by, I took note of their habits and particular qualities.

One of the first things I observed about them was that they
were...well...sexy. I already knew they were good-looking, but
actually being in their presence surprised me.

There's a difference between being good-looking and sexy. Guys like,
say, Tommy Lee Jones or Nick Nolte can be sexy even they're not
conventionally good-looking. Sexiness is a certain quality. Mulder and
Scully had it in the way they walked, in the way they carried
themselves. Scully was on the short side, but she seemed taller than
most women. She wasn't arrogant. She was just...determined.

As for Mulder, the term I would use for him is...flexible. His
expression tended to deliberately deadpan, but there was a certain
uninhibited quality in the way he moved. It's hard to describe. You
just got the feeling that his long, athletic body was up to doing
*anything*.

Shit. Listen to me. Why am I telling you this? I guess I'm trying to
convey what kind of impression Mulder and Scully made on other people.
Where they walked, heads turned.

Then the same heads would start to giggle. Mulder and Scully may have
been sex objects, but they were also objects of ridicule. You see,
they worked in a division called The X-Files. Or they used to. They
had been reassigned to other positions. Two other agents worked in the
X-Files, but apparently with not the same fervor as Mulder and Scully.

Anyway, the X-Files were cases which involved "unexplained
phenomenon." Now there's another euphemism. When Mulder and Scully
investigated something, they did provide explanations. It's just that
nobody believed them. Did you find some person killed in a locked
room? A psychic did it, Mulder said. Were people disappearing in a
forest? A monster was taking them. Was there a sudden outbreak of
murders occurring for no reason? Mind control experiments were being
conducted.

And then there were the aliens.

Huh.

Maybe that's when I should have gotten really nervous. I had my doubts
at the time, but I pushed them aside. I had a job to do. Okay, Mulder
believes in aliens. So what? Let's just concentrate on the assignment.

I would eventually complete the first-half of that assignment. It
would be one of Mulder's other personality traits which gave me the
right clue.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I needed to search Mulder's desk. Unfortunately they tended to work
late. I had to get myself a shift close to midnight in order to do my
searching. I also had to make sure I was the only one in the office
area.

When I finally got the opportunity, I had another problem. Knowing
Mulder, the slightest disturbance in his desk's contents would ring
his warning bell. The only thing which had to be different in the
morning was the empty trash can. My inspection of the desk had to be
strictly on sight.

I stood before it. If I started opening drawers, Mulder would become
aware of my intrusion. However, I could explain it to him as a search
for a pen or a paperclip or some such thing.

I opened the drawers and looked inside. Looked, but did not touch. I
saw what I expected -- notepads, tacks, loose change, packets of
sunflower seeds, the general clutter of an office desk. I also found a
small collection of porn tapes. I smiled at this. I had already heard
about this particular addiction of Mulder's. It was another puzzling
thing about him. Why would a fine-looking guy like himself need to
wank away to "Captain Pussy?" However, this was another irrelevant
question.

Or was it? I looked at the tapes and thought, "It does seem
irrelevant. Maybe that's the whole point."

I pulled out a cellular phone and dialed a number. After the line rang
once, I then heard, "Krycek."

"Do you have any portable equipment which can find messages hidden on
a videotape?"

He paused, then said, "Not with me right now, but I can get some
easily. Why?"

"Bring the equipment to Mulder's office. Let's play out a hunch here."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, I went to the FBI building. Mulder and Scully were
not in the main office area. I found them talking near an elevator and
trying not to be heard. Mulder's angry voice still carried over to me.

"Somebody went through my desk last night! I know it!"

"Are you sure, Mulder?"

"Scully, you can't disturb a dust mote on it without me..."

"Excuse me...?" I said. Both agents turned to see what I hoped was a
suitably meek-looking Hispanic woman.

"May we help you?" Scully asked.

"My name is...Candelaria Anselmo. I work here...as a...cleaning lady.
May...I talk with you?" My voice was halting and I had thickened my
own accent.

"Of course," Scully said, already sympathetic. Mulder, however, still
looked a bit wary.

I hunched my shoulders and wrung my hands while looking anxiously
towards Mulder.

"Is there a problem?" Scully asked.

"I...was...was in your...desk last...night."

Mulder stared at me. "You were?"

"And I...I was looking for a...for a..." I mimed a struggle of finding
the right word. "...pen."

"So...you were the one who was looking through my desk."

I nodded.

"And you...uh..." Mulder swallowed. "...found my..."

"I saw...your tapes. I wanted...to watch them so I...took one home..."

Mulder was now looking embarrassed. Scully was giving him a weary
look.

Mulder's porn tapes had been reviewed last night, but not by a curious
cleaning lady. I had been outside the main office area, keeping a
look-out while Krycek had been sitting at Mulder's desk. He had used a
device which resembled a small VCR with a built-in television screen.
The blue light of the screen had flickered over his hard eyes. He had
gone through Mulder's porn tapes until he had found the right one. He
then put the tapes back in their places, but a cover story was needed.

Mulder was buying the story. "Uh, look..." he said.

"I'm very sorry," I mewled. "I brought it back. Please don't tell..."

"No, I won't..."

"I don't want to lose...my job..."

"You won't..."

I started to wail in Spanish, begging the forgiveness of Mulder and
the Virgin Mary. Mulder took me by the hand, assuring me that
everything was all right. Just don't it again, okay? He was obviously
feeling guilty over corrupting an innocent immigrant girl.

You know, those cultural stereotypes can be useful sometimes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mulder's porn tapes!" the smoking man laughed. "I never would have
thought of that!"

Krycek and I were conferring with him in a parked car. Krycek sat in
back. I sat up front with the smoking man.

"I knew it was a good idea to hire you, Miss Orozco. Wasn't it, Alex?"

"Yes," Krycek said, looking at my neck in a way I didn't like.

I said, "What I can't understand is how the leak slipped messages on
to the tapes to begin with."

"Those particular tapes were mail-ordered," Krycek explained. "The
leak must have intercepted them, put the information on the tapes, and
then slipped a note into the package on how to find the information."

"How could have the leak intercepted the tapes?"

"We do it all the time in our organization," the smoking man informed
me with a shrug.

"Do you?"

"Yes. We do." He tossed a cigarette over a lowered window and got a
fresh one from his pack. "It should be easy to track down whoever used
our intelligence-gathering section to intercept Mulder's mail. After
that, it will be time for you, Miss Orozco, to perform the second half
of your mission."

"All right."

The smoking man lit up his cigarette and said, "Alex...would you leave
us alone for a moment?"

Krycek gave me another one of those looks, then stepped outside to
wait in the dirty alley where the car was parked.

"Alex is jealous," the smoking man said. "Your first intelligence
mission went so smoothly."

"Could you explain to him that I'm not interested in replacing him?"

"Wouldn't do any good. His position is already too fragile for him to
overlook any possible challengers. He has crossed swords with me in
the past. Recently he sided with a rival of mine in the organization.
Now my rival is dead and Krycek has to work for me. Just thought you
would want to know that."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Anything else you want to know?"

"Such as?"

"Aren't you curious as to what exactly was on that tape?"

"I already went through this with Krycek. I may be curious, but I'm
not stupid."

The smoking man nodded. "The information on the tape is only a piece
of a puzzle. If you were to see the whole...well, best not to risk it.
I decide when it's time for you to learn my knowledge."

"What makes you think I want to learn it?"

"Because it's what everybody wants to know."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It didn't take Krycek long to track down the right person. Her name
was Doctor Toshiko Hayashida. She lived in San Francisco, which was
fairly convenient for me.

I left my cleaning job. The only ones who would really notice my
absence were the others on the janitorial staff, and I had been there
too briefly for them to care.

I flew back to Los Angeles. Tomorrow I was going to kill Doctor
Hayashida.

Things didn't go quite the way anyone planned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (4 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOUR
"HE AND I ARE GONNA HAVE A LONG TALK ONE OF THESE DAYS."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The 'organization' would arrange for Doctor Hayashida to leave work at
a certain time. I would be waiting at her house by then. Between
waking up in the morning and driving to San Francisco, I had a few
hours to spend by myself.

I don't do a lot during 'free time.' Sometimes I take walks around Los
Angeles or shop at the Planet. I might go out with Farrah. Or I could
just stay in my apartment to watch a little t.v. or read. Usually I
just play something out of my vinyl collection.

Why do I like vinyl records so much? Cornelius had a good way of
explaining our shared obsession.

"It isn't just the sound of vinyl that I prefer. I will admit compact
discs have a cleaner sound and that's gone a long way to preserving
old music. It would have been a better idea to improve vinyl itself,
but that's beside the point.

"What I enjoy most about vinyl is what it symbolizes. Back in its
heyday, music had more room to be just music. I don't want to
sugar-coat the past. Lord knows there has always been a lot of
corruption in the music industry. But back then, the music was the
real center. It wasn't about cross-marketing the music with some t.v.
show or movie or theme park or clothesline made by that goddamn
Hilfinger. Nowadays the music is almost superfluous. Again, I'm sure
we had some version of synergy back then, but not quite like this.

"And we didn't have music leaking out of our pores like we do now. We
didn't listen to it on Walkmans or pick it up off MTV or hear it in
malls. We didn't take it for granted. It wasn't just something we
bought because we were bored.

"That's one of the two reasons I only listen to vinyl. I want to get
in touch with something real."

All I can add to that is...ditto.

Unfortunately I couldn't enjoy music before I went to San Francisco.
Farrah apparently didn't have any classes today. Her stereo was
screaming against the wall and easily overwhelming my new
Reinhardt-Grappelli record. The sound of a gypsy guitarist's skilled
licks was squashed by a woman screeching, "Fingers going down, down/
She's my heroine..."

I could only take so much. I went up to the wall, thumped on it, and
yelled, "For chrissake, Farrah, turn it down!"

The music rumbled for a few more seconds before it was cut off. Then I
heard footsteps and a knocking on my door. I sighed, then opened the
door and prepared for a fight.

Farrah looked at me and said, "Do you want some tea?"

So now I was sitting on a couch in her apartment. As she brewed tea in
the kitchen, she said, "You've told me to turn it down before, but
never quite so forcefully."

"Yeah, well...you do play it loud. Doesn't anybody else complain?"

"They do. Unlike you, they've also complained about my...activities in
here."

"Has Scofield warned you about it?" Scofield was our landlord.

Farrah poked her head into the living room and gave me a smile. "How
do you think I got this apartment?"

I burst out laughing. Then I shuddered. My landlord was a gaunt, pale
man. The idea of him and Farrah on her mat...

Farrah returned to the tea kettle. "Let's get back to you. Is there
another reason why you got upset?"

"Should there be?"

"I'm just asking."

I didn't say anything. I just tapped my finger on my knee. Farrah
didn't say anything, either. She could wait longer than I could.

As I heard the sound of tea being poured, I said, "When do you know
something is right and when something is wrong?"

"That's a fairly broad question."

"I wouldn't mind a concise answer."

Farrah walked into the living room, carrying two cups of tea. She
handed one to me, then sat on the couch with her long, muscular legs
curled against her body. Those legs were what once got her on a high
school track team and made her ideal for her night job.

"Well," she said. "our notions of morality have traditionally been
proscribed in our classic stories. And I daresay they will continue to
be so, despite the trendy complaints about cultural illiteracy and
moral relativism."

"Duh?"

She smiled. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah. The Bible. The Iliad. All of that stuff."

"I am specifically thinking of the Bible. According to it, right is
what God says it is."

"And how do we know He's not jerking us around?"

"Because God speaks the truth."

"And...how do we know it's the truth?"

"By applying his lessons to our life and our world. 'Thou shalt not
steal' is a commandment desirable to be obeyed because it can make the
world more orderly and secure."

"And because God will fry the ass of anyone who doesn't comply."

"That's the idea."

"But what if it's all just made up? What if there's no God around to
look after things?"

Farrah sipped at her tea, then said, "Well...there are those who say
order and security are good enough reasons to obey the Ten
Commandments. So we don't necessarily need a God."

"As I recall, the first four Commandments are about worshipping God."

"They are. That's why some people reject the notion of man determining
morality without God. Man is an imperfect creature, they would say. He
cannot simply reason his way to goodness. We can't reject God, then
deify our own intellect."

"Yeah, but they arrive at that conclusion through their own intellect.
It all comes back down to how we see the world and how we work our way
through it."

"Maybe." Farrah paused, then said, "Let's talk about this in smaller
terms. I wrestle men for money. Is that wrong?"

"Ah...it's kind of weird..."

"And sick."

"The men are the ones who are sick. Not you."

"But I feed into that sickness. Of course, how 'sick' is it really? As
sexual stimulation goes, it's far safer for them than the encounter
with the average prostitute. Then, again, it raises some disturbing
issues about how some men equate sex with issues of domination. For
them, sex must be intermingled with confrontation and even physical
risk. Despite the safety protocols established, I can't help but
suspect they really just want to hurt a woman."

"Have any of them tried to hurt you?"

Farrah grinned. "They wouldn't dare."

I grinned back at her and we clinked our cups together.

"So you do have moral reservations about what you do," I observed.

"Absolutely."

"Then why do you do it?"

"To get me through college. To obtain a tax-free form of income. To
fully use the assets I have at my disposal. Of course, most women
wouldn't think of doing it. You, for example."

"That's pointless on my part. They wouldn't want to rassle me. I don't
have your looks or body. And I'm not strong enough to take it."

"I have the choice, though. Have I taken the wrong path?"

"I would say...you do what is necessary."

"And what is necessary for you?"

I looked straight at Farrah. If she was afraid, she didn't show it.
Her face was calm and expectant of my answer.

I could feel my tea cool as I struggled for an answer. "I had a
choice, too," I eventually said. "A long time ago. I can say to other
people, 'What would you have done if you had been in my position? How
would you have felt?' But I still had my choice. I made it and I can't
turn back now."

"So it all came down to that one choice?"

"Maybe."

"Are you disturbed by that? Or does that...free you from making any
other choices?"

I had to think over my reply again. Then I sighed. "Dammit, woman, I'm
asking you to fix my moral compass. Can't you do that one simple
thing?"

"I'm not God, Alma."

"Yeah, well...He and I are gonna have a long talk one of these days."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I don't know if the talk with Farrah made me feel better or worse.
However, when I drove to San Francisco, I felt sure of one thing -- I
would do what was necessary. And I would decide what was necessary in
the right moment. All that philosophical talk with Farrah was good,
but it all really comes down to the 'moment.' That's when your mind
and your heart and your soul and your gut and your crotch all come
together as one to tell you who you really are.

The big choice I had made years ago wasn't completed in a moment, but
it had been certainly decided that way. I had looked myself in the
mirror and seen somebody who wanted revenge at all costs. I had wanted
to create my own kind of justice.

Now it would be time to look myself in the mirror again.

It would be a simple hit. The security on Hayashida's house was no
problem, thanks to my own expertise and the neat-o tools given to me
by Krycek. The nearest house was over two hundred feet away. It seemed
as if people in this neighborhood kept to themselves.

The time was eight-thirty when I let myself into her house. I had been
given an estimate of fifteen to thirty minutes before Hayashida would
arrive. Upon her arrival, I was supposed to shoot her, leave the gun,
head back to my car parked a couple of blocks away, drive out of S.F.
and let the 'organization' handle the rest. They would make sure the
cops got nowhere near me.

I spent twenty minutes waiting for Hayashida. I could see very little
in the dark house except for the smooth curves of the furniture and
the vague outlines of a Cubist painting. I just waited in the living
room, trying to read the titles on a bookshelf. I resisted the
temptation to select a book and read it.

Then I heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by footsteps
heading to the door. I stood up from my position on the rug.

The door was unlocked, then closed. The living room was right next to
the front hall. An archway allowed me to see a light bulb flick on. I
heard footsteps going straight down the hall. I just had to turn
around the archway, stick out my gun and press it into a woman's
cheek.

Doctor Hayashida's hair was in the transition point between black and
gray. She wasn't wearing a lab coat. She should have been. It might
have covered up the pounds she had gathered up over the years.

Her initial reaction was shock. That would have been anybody's
reaction. However, her shock gave way to acceptance. She wasn't going
to plead or look for an escape which didn't exist. Her situation was
nothing more than the consequence of her own choice. Now I had to make
mine choice.

I was going to shoot. I didn't doubt that. What surprised both me and
Hayashida was what I said.

"Sorry."

She turned her face towards me. <Now,> I thought. <Now is the time.>

I didn't pull the trigger, though. I was still trying to figure out
why I said, "Sorry."

She couldn't have seen my face clearly. The light bulb spent most of
its illumination on the hall. However, whatever she saw added
something to her expression. She seemed...a little hopeful.

<Oh, great. Now you're gonna get the pleas and the offers of money and
all the other pathetic shit. Just shoot her in the head, you idiot,
and...>

"You have to take care of him," she said.

<Who? What's going on here? And why am I not doing my job?>

"There's a place you have to go. I will tell you where he is and then
you can kill me."

I stood there in the living room, pointing a gun at her head. She
stood in the hall, waiting for my answer.

Then I saw her eyes widen as I lowered the gun.

"Show me where he is yourself," I said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (5 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIVE
"YOU'RE ENGLISH."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We need to get out of here," I said. "Fast. The house is being
watched."

Hayashida nodded slowly. "There's probably no way of getting out
without being seen."

"So what do we do?"

"Come with me."

I followed her to a door. She opened it, then reached into a little
alcove. She pulled out a flashlight and aimed its beam downward to
expose a flight of stairs. "Close the door behind you," she said.

As I followed her carefully down the stairs, I was asking myself the
same question over and over again. <Why am I doing this?> I couldn't
find the answer to that, yet. I was hoping it would come to me later.

We reached the bottom of the stairs. The flashlight's beam passed over
the walls. I could see shelves full of canned food and bottled water.
I also spotted a couple of guns and a compost toilet.

"Looks like you were preparing yourself for something, Doctor."

She made no reply as she walked up to a shelf. She reached behind it
and pulled a switch. Then she said, "Help with this. It's a bit
heavy."

I walked up to her. I saw that she was pulling the shelf back. It was
bending on unseen hinges like a door. I reached around the edge and
pulled with her. She was right. It was heavy.

An alcove was now revealed. It was roughly six-by-seven feet in size.
"Jesus," I said. "Did this come with the house?"

"I had it built in. Now let's get inside."

We both stepped into the alcove and pulled the door behind us. Then
Hayashida pulled a string dangling from a light bulb. I could now see
the entire contents of the alcove -- a light bulb, a television set, a
vent, Doctor Hayashida, myself, and my gun.

Hayashida pulled a lever and closed a vent. "Uh, is that a good idea?"
I whispered.

"Don't worry. There should be enough air to last a hour. Then I'll
open the vent to let some more in. During that time, I would advise
you to be quiet. I don't want anyone to hear us. For now, we are
soundproof."

"Look, I understand the plan, but how long do we have to be here?"

"This is how we find out." Hayashida turned on the television. The
screen lit up into four boxes. They each gave a camera's view of
different locations in and around the house.

I shook my head. "You *are* prepared."

"This was all created for another crisis. Obviously, I wasn't prepared
for you. Now let's both be quiet now."

I agreed. The 'organization' was going to send in its men any second
now.

They came in through the front door. There were three of them, two
looking like Green Berets in business suits. The third was Alex
Krycek.

Hayashida and I watched them search the house. I wanted to ask an
obvious question as this point. "Uh, Doctor, this 'organization' keeps
a close eye on its members. Is it possible they know about your little
hideaway in the wall here?"

I didn't ask the question. I just stood behind Hayashida, trying to
resist claustrophobia as the gun handle warmed my palm.

Eventually the three men searched the basement. Hayashida pressed a
button on the television set to 'change channels.' It made just a
small little click, but I wanted to slap her hand and yell, "Don't
make so much fucking noise!"

A camera in the basement spied upon Krycek and the two Green Berets.
They slowly looked around them, their guns pointing where they looked.
I got this mental image of Krycek tapping his knuckles against the
wall.

I could understand the logic of Hayashida's plan. Going out the door
would have been risky. If we waited them out here, we guaranteed our
survival. However, if we had gone out the door, we *might* have been
killed. If we were found in that alcove, we *would* be killed.

But I would have no one to blame for that except myself, right?

Of course, I might have solved the problem by shooting Hayashida right
then. Hey, guys, here's your dead doctor. You really didn't think I
was going to double-cross you?

Hayashida's back was turned to me. I pointed the gun at her head.

Then I lowered it, second time that night. What the hell, I thought.
In for a penny...

I saw Krycek speak to the Green Berets. The soundproofing kept me from
hearing them through the wall, but they seemed to agree with him. I
did see one of the Berets mouth the word "cunt." I think he was
talking about me.

They went up the stairs and out the front door. Hayashida couldn't get
a view of outside to show where they parked their own transportation.
We waited a few minutes to make sure they were gone. This was tricky.
We had to wait long enough to give Krycek distance, but not long
enough for him to start thinking about the place where he didn't look.

I imagine we waited about six or seven minutes in that alcove. I spent
the time breathing slowly and studying Hayashida. I could see
conflicting emotions in her face. She wanted to live, but not for
survival's sake. In fact, there was a quality of resignation about
her.

<Suicidal.> I could hear Richie's stern advice in my ears. <Don't work
with the stupid, the crazy, and the suicidal.>

Well, Richie, right then, I was being all three.

Finally, I said, "It's time to go."

Hayashida nodded. She unlocked the secret door and we pushed it open.
I half-expected Krycek to jump out and say, "Surprise."

He didn't. We went up the stairs. I had a careful look out the
windows, just to see if anybody was still watching. It seemed all
clear. Time to see if it was.

Hayashida and I sprinted toward my car. Well, I sprinted. She kind of
lumbered forward, huffing and puffing as the fat bounced on her aged
body. <Move it, you overweight bitch>, I thought, but didn't say. As I
stated before, who made my current troubles anyway?

We reached the car without being spotted by a neighbor. I guess we
would have made quite a sight -- a couple of frantic women, one old,
fat and Japanese, the other young, Hispanic and armed.

I pulled my keys out of my jacket and tossed them to Hayashida. She
didn't catch them. They landed on the street, producing a random
selection of musical notes.

"Pick them up," I said. "You're driving."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Questions would come later. A half-hour passed on the road before
either of us said anything. I was too busy watching any car which came
near us. We went through some fairly busy streets until Hayashida
drove us into an area dominated by hills and plains marked only by an
occasional gas station. We were out of the main San Francisco area,
heading towards I-didn't-know-where.

It was Hayashida who spoke first. "Why are you doing this?"

I let out a breath, then replied, "Do you care?" I kept my eyes on the
mirrors.

"I'm wondering if this could be a trap."

"Uh, you should know that you were supposed to die back in that
house."

"I'm supposed to die in any case. What I'm wondering if you're also
trying to get...someone else."

I looked at her now. The doctor was staring at the road. "Who's
'someone else?'" I asked. "That 'him' you mentioned before?"

"Whatever danger I represent to the Project, he is something much,
much worse."

"Project?"

She glanced at me, then looked at the road. "You're new to the
Syndicate, aren't you?"

"Okay, wait. What's the..."

"It's the official name of the organization you work for."

"Syndicate, huh?"

"Yes."

"Well, what kind of name is that? How about 'The Shadow Council?' Or
'World Domination Group?' How about 'Conspiracies 'R Us?' Or..."

Hayashida gave me another look.

"Okay. The Syndicate. And, yes, I am new. So I don't know anything
about the 'Project.' All I know is that I was supposed to kill you and
now I'm fucked all up to my eyeballs because I didn't. So why don't
you explain it all to me."

"I can't."

"Your gratitude overwhelms me, Doctor."

"What I know is...too dangerous."

"In case you haven't noticed, guns and killers are a big part of my
life."

"I'm not talking about danger to your body. This knowledge is
dangerous to your mind. If you were to understand just what was at
stake, you would have to completely change your way of thinking. There
is no belief of yours so sacred that it could..."

"I get the idea, Doctor. What you're saying is that you'll tell me on
your own sweet time."

"Well...yes."

"What about Mulder and Scully? Are they ready for what you know?"

Hayashida guided the car around a curve, then said, "They already know
some of it. They've been conducting their own investigation in the
Syndicate for years. The information I had been giving them merely
confirmed some of their suspicions. It was not harmful to the Project,
but I was carefully leading Scully to a point where she could have
inflicted major damage."

"You mean, Mulder and Scully."

"No. I don't trust Mulder. I had to include him in the loop, just to
make sure Scully would get my information. I was hoping to gradually
phase him out, though."

"Why?"

I became aware of the engine's hum as it occupied the silence created
by Hayashida.

"Why not, Doctor?" I asked.

"Because he's on the list."

"What list?"

"The list of people chosen to survive should the worst happen. He
doesn't know about this, but the very presence of his name on the list
compromises him. If he should ever find out..."

She fell into silence again. Again, I prodded her into talking. "What
do you mean by 'the worst?' Does it have something to do with all that
stockpiling in your basement? What are you getting ready for? War?"

"Not war," she said. "Armageddon."

I decided to stop asking questions at this point. I allowed Hayashida
to drive the rest of the way in silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She took me to a forest. I don't think I had ever been to a forest
before then. When Hayashida made a turn off the road and trees began
to line up on either side of the car, I felt uncomfortable. It was as
if I was being fenced in.

Moonlight turned into a strobe as it passed through the raggedy
curtain of wood. Hayashida drove the car over a dirt path which kept
turning and twisting. Another half-mile went by before we reached the
final destination.

When she finally stopped and shut off the engine, I stepped out of the
car to face a cabin. No lights could be seen through the windows.
"Mind the broken step," Hayashida told me as she led me up a tiny
flight of steps to the porch. She opened the door.

The shrill squeak of the door's hinges made me clench my teeth.
Hayashida aimed her flashlight into the cabin. Over her shoulder, I
could only see dusty floors and curtains. Then the light picked out
the only visible piece of furniture -- a table with a lantern resting
on it. I followed Hayashida as she walked up to the table and picked
up a book of matches lying next to the lantern. The light she created
in the lantern made it easier to see in the cabin, but not by much.

"Well?" I said.

"The man we came to see is here."

"Where is he?"

"Closer than you think," a voice said.

I spun around. My gun was now aimed at a man's face.

He wasn't exactly what I would call 'good-looking.' His nose was too
hawk-like and his mouth had this pinched quality. He was in good
shape, though. I could see lean, muscular arms jutting from his
short-sleeved shirt. However, this man didn't seem the kind who would
do much physical activity. His skin appeared too soft for that.

I observed these details later. The first thing I noticed were his
eyes. Those brown peepers looked at me and my gun without blinking. I
have met other people who could look into the barrel of a gun and not
be afraid. This was different, though. He was smiling at me. He looked
at my gun and saw it as a silly thing. Whether or not I pulled the
trigger was a negligible issue.

"Hello, Alma," he said.

I didn't ask how he knew my name. Instead, the first thing I said to
him was, "You're English." And he was. He had one of those wonderful
accents English people have. I don't know why I felt the need to point
it out. I guess I was saying all kinds of strange things that night.

"Yes, I am English," he replied, still smiling. "Among other things."
He then turned to Hayashida. "I see they found out about you."

"About my leaks to Mulder and Scully. Not about you." Hayashida talked
to the Englishman as if I wasn't there. I lowered my gun, feeling dumb
for some reason.

"So what happens now?" the Englishman asked.

Hayashida reached into her pocket and took out a tiny plastic case.
"You go with her."

The Englishman nodded, then turned to me and held out a hand. "I'm
Bayard."

I didn't shake the hand. Instead, I looked at Hayashida. "What exactly
is going on?"

She opened the case and removed a pill. "Bayard is your
responsibility." She swallowed the pill. At the moment, I didn't think
much of it. I just thought, <Must be heart medicine. She's an old fat
lady, right?>

"What do you mean, my responsibility?" I snapped. "I'm not even sure
what I'm doing here."

Bayard said, "You're here because she asked you to come."

I looked at his smiling face and felt a strong urge to break it. I
told him, "I am not doing anything or taking responsibility for
anybody until someone explains to me what's going on."

"Bayard will have to do that," Hayashida said quietly.

"Why?"

The doctor fell to the ground. I stared at her body for a moment, then
quickly bent down. I saw her face and knew there was nothing I could
do. I knew a dying person when I saw one.

Bayard walked up to my side and looked down at Hayashida. She looked
up at him with distant eyes and said, "Good-bye, Bayard."

"Good-bye, Toshiko," he replied cheerfully. "And good journey."

I heard the last breath puff out of Hayashida's mouth.

"Well," Bayard said. "where to now?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: SHE'S MY HEROINE (6 of 15)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIX
"'O, REASON NOT THE NEED.'"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I decided to go home -- back to Los Angeles. It would be the first
place the Syndicate would look for me, but it was my territory. Once I
was there, I could force the game to follow my rules.

Ideally.

First, I had to dump my car and steal a new one. That turned out to be
pretty easy. I got back on the highway, then went searching for a
public area with the right number of cars. After going in and off the
ramps for awhile, I found a movie theater with plenty of cars parked
outside.

It had been awhile since I had done something like this. However, my
old skills and Krycek's neat-o tools disabled a 1997 Saturn's locks in
very little time. Bayard watched me with much eager curiosity as I
picked the locks. The same chipper expression had been on his face
ever since we had left the cabin. He seemed to regard the whole trip
as a wonderful new experience. He didn't say anything -- he just
looked out the window like a child on a Disneyland ride.

Just as I started to back the stolen Saturn out of the space, he said,
"The owner is here."

I heard an outraged voice and turned to see a man rushing towards us.
A shocked woman who was probably his wife stood in the background. I
had only taken this car because the movies were still running. I guess
they didn't like their movie and walked out.

I stepped on the gas to back up quickly, shifted to drive, stepped on
the gas again, and said bye-bye. I scratched up a couple of cars while
doing it, but I had just seen a woman commit suicide. After seeing
that, I cared for neither those dents or the screams of the man
receding in the distance. But I did care about...

"Damn."

"What's the matter?" Bayard asked. "We got away..."

"Just be quiet for a minute, okay?"

He was quiet until we reached the highway. Then he said, "Ah."

"What?"

"I see. You were counting on the owner not knowing his car was gone
until after the movie. That would give you a head-start. Now the
report of the theft might spread faster than we can reach Los
Angeles."

"Uh, yeah. I'm glad you figured that out."

"I didn't."

I spent a couple of minutes puzzling that over. When I came up with an
answer, I said, "Shit."

"Yes."

"Huh?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

"All right. From now on, you only respond to words I speak."

"If you insist." Bayard never stopped smiling. I wanted to push him
out of the car

"Okay. You can read minds, can't you?"

"That's right. I know this is rather unexpected..."

"After what's happened tonight, I can expect anything. So this is why
the Syndicate wants you."

"No. It isn't."

"Then what do they want with you?"

"Don't you remember what Toshiko said? The Syndicate doesn't know
about my existence. In fact, I'm not supposed to exist at all. If they
discover me, they would do all in their power to kill me. Well, the
smoking man would, anyway."

"Why is that?"

Bayard looked at me and said, "Toshiko kept certain information from
you. Not only will I respect her wishes, but she made the right
choice."

"Yeah, well...I noticed you are really choked up about her death."

"All in all, she made the right choice there. Besides, you could argue
that she deserved to die."

"Why...why is that?"

"She had overseen medical experiments for the Syndicate -- horrible
experiments. She bore a lasting guilt for that. In the end, she
handled her guilt the only way she could."

It took me a few moments to ask my next question. "Are you...a product
of these experiments?"

"I am."

That was all I needed to know for now. I had the basic problem of
survival to handle. I couldn't deal with all the facts and insinuated
facts swirling around the man at my side. To sum up, I didn't give a
fuck who he was supposed to be. I gave a fuck about what I had to do
with him.

However, there was one question I had to ask. I asked it after I had
driven for about thirty miles.

"Why are you asking me?" Bayard responded.

"Because you acted like you knew the answer earlier."

"Don't you know the answer yourself?"

"Maybe I just need to hear...ah, hell."

Red, white and blue lights had invaded the car. They danced over our
heads and ricocheted off the mirror.

"Hell," I repeated. "And damn. And shit. And fuck."

"What are you going to do?" Bayard asked.

"First, pull over. And then...well, it's time to improvise."

No, it wasn't. There was only one real option left. Up until then, I
had only killed criminals and mob figures and other assassins. I had
never killed a cop.

No, that wasn't quite true.

What I should say is that I had never killed a cop who had just been
doing his job. The way I saw it, there was a line between us. I did my
work on my side, and they did their work on their side. As long as we
didn't cross the line, things would remain okay.

<More power to you if you can stay behind it,> Richie was saying into
my ear. He was also reminding me of my promise. If I get arrested
here, the Syndicate will scoop me up.

I had asked Farrah if you could be sure about what was right and what
was wrong. As I pulled over to the roadside and the police officer
spoke through his megaphone, I tried to remember if she had said
anything useful.

"PLEASE GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON
THE ROOF," the police officer insisted.

I looked at Bayard. He did not look concerned. He had the appearance
of a man watching a t.v. show and looking forward to the resolution.

"GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE NOW."

"Let's go," I said.

I stepped out of the car, slow but not too slow. So did Bayard. I
turned around and placed my hands on the roof.

I looked to the police car. It was shining its lights into my face.
The police officer was stepping out of the car. I could vaguely see
his features. He looked young -- probably in his late twenties. He had
the hard cheekbones and direct gaze I associated with cops. I
suspected that he was fast on the draw. He was also expecting trouble
and I had the glare in my eyes.

He was the dead one. Because he had never killed anyone or even been
in a firefight. I could tell that sort of thing. He had the training,
but I had the experience. I was going to use it as soon as he took a
few steps closer.

Well, I was planning to do it. I was so focused on the police officer
that I wasn't watching Bayard. Nor was I expecting him to do what he
did next. Maybe I should have.

"There's no need for this, Leon." Bayard walked towards the police
officer, hands upraised and smiling, always smiling.

"Get back to the car, sir." Leon gripped his gun handle. His training
had turned on automatically, whatever his confusion about this
Englishman knowing his name. As for me, I was thinking, <Read my
goddamned mind *now*, you fucking limey. Back off...>

Instead, Bayard stepped right between me and Leon. "There's no need
for any of this," he said. "Anymore than people need to know about you
and Christine."

I could only see part of Leon's face, but the shock in his expression
could have been seen by a blind man. "But...what..." he stammered.

"Believe it or not, you'll be doing the right thing by letting us go
and then getting on the radio to correct your previous report about
spotting a stolen car."

"I'm....I'm not doing that." Leon tried to get the hardness back into
his voice.

"Leon..." Bayard lowered his hands.  "...I know you're scared. You
should listen to that fear."

"Or what? Are you...going to tell..."

"No, I'm not going to tell. But you know you've pulled over something
more than just a couple of car thieves, can't you?"

I can only guess what Leon saw in Bayard's eyes. Whatever it was, it
made him turn around. Bayard nodded, then walked back to my car and
got inside.

I stared at the trembling back of the police officer. I decided not to
wait to see if he was going to change his mind. Leon didn't move from
the spot as I sped the car up the highway.

"So, who's Christine?" I asked.

"Like I said," Bayard said. "that's between me and Leon."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

If you took everything maladjusted in the male sexual psyche and
poured it into a suit, you would get Donavon Stapleton. Even before I
knew what he did for a living, I disliked him. Something about his
pink, chubby face made me want to pop it like a pimple.

Stapleton ran Championship Bods, the kind of place referred to as a
"gentleman's club." As you can probably guess, that's another
euphemism. No strippers in this club, though. Foster specialized in
female wrestling (oil, mud, and creamed corn) and women boxing in
their bikinis.

I knew him through Farrah. He had been trying to recruit her to
Championship Bods for some times. "Why settle for less?" he would tell
her. "You could be making more money with me." Unlikely. While the pay
was technically higher with Donavon than for the private sessions
Farrah did, he took out a mighty big cut.

"You should work under better-controlled conditions," he would also
argue. "There's more of a chance of you getting hurt your way." Maybe,
but Stapleton had damaged his employees in other ways. I know of at
least one young woman in his hire who wound up getting an abortion.

Of course, what did you expect? People like Donavon Stapleton are
uniquely creepy. He had argued because there is no frontal nudity in
his club (except when the top half of a woman's suit "accidentally"
slips off) and no sexual intercourse between his employees and clients
(because he gets first crack), then his operation was relatively
upstanding compared to other places in Los Angeles.

This was his own ethical line in the sand. I came to pee on it.

I was feeling the first tinge of weariness when I stopped the car
outside of Championship Bods. A lot had happened tonight and I
suspected even more was on the way. <Toughen up,> I thought. <You made
your bed, now spread your legs for the man with you.>

That was an odd metaphor. I found myself looking at Bayard. He seemed
amused. Since he had looked amused from the moment I met him, it was
hard to tell if he had heard my thoughts.

He also looked amused at the inside of Championships Bods -- the
sloshing mud, the strobe lights, the inane techno music. And then
there were those cheers men make when they indulge in a group leer.
"YEAAHHH!!" "WHOOOO!" "FUCKIN' SWEET!" I heard this the moment I
opened the front door. It made me want to shoot somebody -- even more
that before.

The bouncer must have picked this up. He already knew about my
reputation, as did Stapleton. When I said, "I'm here to see your
boss," he just nodded and let me in. I led Bayard past that night's
entertainment to a back door.

The door led to a flight of stairs and the stairs led to Stapleton's
office. He was having a talk with some guy wearing a silk suit. I
didn't care who it was. Nor did I care when Stapleton looked up and
said, "This is a private discussion..."

He shut himself up when he saw me. "You're right," I said. "Between
you and me."

The other guy left the office quickly. After the door was closed, I
informed Stapleton, "You are going to do me a favor."

His pink face assumed a salesman's expression. He was ready to start
bargaining.

"You're going to let him stay here," I said, pointing at Bayard. The
Englishman nodded politely to Stapleton.

"I don't care where you put him and I don't think he does, either," I
added. "Just make sure he's out of sight."

"And what do I get in return for this favor?"

"I won't kill you."

"You'll...you'll what?"

"I won't kill you."

He looked bewildered. "You won't be killed," I said slowly. "By me.
You. Me. You not killed. Me no kill you."

"You couldn't do that," Stapleton sputtered.

"You want me to prove you wrong?" I reached under my coat.

"I know you!" Stapleton insisted, his voice rising. "You don't kill
people in cold blood!"

"Well, if I'm going to start a new trend, you would make a wonderful
start."

I start to slide my hand out of my coat. "Okay, okay!" Stapleton
screamed. "He can stay! Jesus!"

I lowered my hand, empty. "Fine."

Stapleton wiped a bead of sweat off his pink forehead. "What's his
problem anyway?"

"You don't get to know that. If you try to find out...I'll kill you.
If you tell anybody about him being here...I'll kill you. If you
bother him in any way..."

"Right, right. You'll kill me."

"No, I'll just shoot you in the knee." I walked up to Stapleton and
leaned forward until I was close to his pink face. "Don't think I
would hesitate about stomping a cockroach like you."

With that settled, Bayard and I stepped outside of the office. "Okay,"
I said. "I imagine this as good a hiding place as any."

"I agree. The Syndicate probably wouldn't think of looking here. So
what now?

"I need to square things with the Syndicate."

"Excuse me?" For the first time since I'd met him, Bayard's face
became solemn. "'Square things?'"

"Hopefully."

"You need more than hope, Alma. You just don't 'square things' with
these people."

"I'm not planning to fix things tonight. I'm just going to make them
ease back."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"Don't you know that already?"

"I'm not reading your mind. I haven't been doing that for some time."

"Oh." I paused, then said, "Well, you must have been reading it when
we got pulled over by Officer Leon."

"One did not have to be a mind-reader to know what you were going to
do."

I took a longer pause before saying, "I was planning to do it. I'm not
sure if I would have."

Bayard began to smile again. "Oh, you know, Alma. You know."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I went back to my apartment. I waited. While I waited, I listened to
Memphis Minnie. ("I've got blues in my room/I don't know right from
wrong...")  The sound of her music actually relaxed me. I was close to
falling asleep on the couch when I heard a knocking on the door.

"It's open," I said.

My visitor walked in. I kept my eyes closed, but I couldn't close my
nose to the smell of tobacco.

"You're actually here," he said. "We had your place under
surveillance, but we didn't actually think..."

"Well, if I'm here, then it must be for a reason, right?"

"Right now, Miss Orozco, I can't fathom your reasons in the
slightest." The smoking man actually sounded disappointed.

"'O, reason not the need.'"

"My main need is to contain this problem along you and Doctor
Hayashida."

"Well, you don't have to worry about the doctor. She's dead."

"You...killed her?"

"She killed herself. Her body is up in a cabin. I can give you
directions..."

"No, we...we can find it ourselves. However, this doesn't explain your
behavior or solve your dilemma."

"Your dilemma, too. I've got something you want."

The smoking man paused for a few seconds, then said, "What is that?"

"Well, it may or may not be bigger than a breadbox."

"Alma..."

I finally opened my eyes and looked at the gray man standing above me.
He tried to put on his best straight face, but I could see his anger
and sadness.

"I'm not sure what I have," I said. "But I've been told it's very
important to you."

The smoking man studied me, then said, "Doctor Hayashida was hiding
something from us."

I nodded.

"She passed it onto you."

I nodded again.

"And what's to stop us from taking it?"

"For one thing, you don't know where it is."

"Alma," the smoking man said quietly. "there are rooms in this world
where we take people like you. After you spend a day in one of them,
you will do anything to get out."

I sat up on my elbows. "Are these rooms any worse than Rollins Bay
Prison?"

The smoking man did another study of my face before replying. "Perhaps
not. There is still the matter of Huxford and Mulligan, though..."

"Sure. Turn me over to the police. I'm sure they would *love* to hear
what else I've been doing lately."

The smoking man grimaced and looked away from me. "You're trying to
brazen your way out of this situation. It won't work."

"Maybe not. But here's what it could do. Say you take me away and
start beating the shit out of me. I think you know by now that I get
real stubborn under pressure. The more stubborn I get, the more time
passes. The more time passes, the more likely my little secret could
get revealed to somebody else. If I'm in some cell getting walloped,
then I won't be around to guard my secret. You'll risk the very thing
you want to prevent -- exposure."

The smoking man turned back to me. "What you are saying is that
neither one of us really understands the territory we're on. So
neither one of us should do something stupid."

"Well, I already did something stupid."

"I agree."

"However, what I *am* saying is...don't rush me. Give me some
breathing room. Or you might end up making a big mess."

The smoking man reached into his pocket and got out a pack. He didn't
take out a cigarette. He just rolled the pack slowly in his hand.

He said, "I can see...the logic in what you're saying. However, my
colleagues may not see it. And I'll have a hard time keeping them
ignorant of this situation."

"Then tell them everything."

His eyes widened. "Don't be ridiculous. I've just been re-instated
into the Syndicate. Why would I risk..."

"Tell them if they had half your brains, then they would be doing the
same thing in your situation. Tell them I said that."

I leaned back on a cushion and crossed my hands behind my head. "You
also tell them that I'm interested in only one thing -- survival."

The smoking man smiled -- just a little bit, but the smile was there.
"Survival is the ultimate ideology."

"Whatever."

He finally pulled out a cigarette. "I'll relate what you've told me,"
he said as he flicked his lighter. Then he turned and headed for the
door.

He stopped at the doorway and turned to the stereo. "Memphis Minnie?"
he asked.

"Yep."

He looked straight at me and said, "I would really hate to lose you,
Alma."

He left my apartment, closing the door behind him.

I laid still on that couch. I looked at the ceiling, wondering if I
would ever go to sleep.

Yet I did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX