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Authors: Buck Sanders
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all-night bakery, and a porno palace across the state line that was just shutting down for
the night.
He reconsidered the notations that he had assumed to be code phrases. A strange name was scribbled in the margin: Elos Califas.
He made the connection, mentally, and dialed the first number again. This time the ring was answered instantly, and Slayton
found himself speaking cross-country.
“Yeah?”
“This is Rutledge in Washington,” Slayton said quickly.
“So what? You guys are okay for this month.”
“We got us a little emergency.”
“I’m listening.” The voice was straight Anglo; it could be anyone speaking.
“We have to change the shipping schedule, maybe even the routes. Couple of people have died; things are hotting up. The guy
covering for us can’t pull his usual strings.”
“What guy is that?” The voice was immediately wary.
“You know who I mean; look, I don’t have any time to screw around!”
It was too late. Slayton was speaking to a dead line full of long-distance hiss.
He pinched his eyes together in the dark. “Shit, shit, shit.” He slammed the receiver into the rack only to pick it right
back up again, this time punching in the complicated dialing routine that would attach him to the priority line at the Treasury
Department.
“Slayton here. I need addresses, locations, and information relating to the following phone numbers. This is top-top-security.
And I need it yesterday.”
“How did you know to call Los Angeles?” Winship asked.
“Chicano slang—
Elos
is East Los Angeles;
Califas
is just as obvious if you know the key. Slap California area codes onto those phone numbers in the book, and they all make
sense. I doubt the addresses will do us much good—they’ve been alerted by my phony call.”
“What if they haven’t? What if they just thought it was a crank call?”
“Extremely unlikely. I used the name Rutledge; I mentioned Washington. They probably called back to verify immediately. And
our man in the townhouse, or whoever he works for, has probably clued them already that the investigation is alive and well.
But I’m hoping the locations will provide some further lead.”
“It’s the only direct connection you have to Los Angeles, at any rate. That’s supposed to be the source of Starshine.”
“Yes, sir. I only wish I had known about the attache and his relationship to our own Senator Franklin Reed. I’d be willing
to bet that if I’d identified myself as either him or Reed, I wouldn’t have gotten hung up on. Damn it.” Slayton was piqued
at having blown a ripe lead. If he had waited to find out who owned the townhouse, he might not have tipped off the men in
California.
On the other hand, if Reed or someone like him were involved, they’d be alerted already.
He dropped the ledger on Winship’s desk. “I suppose we can also consider this useless as of right now, too. Certainly the
numbers are different now, if nothing else.” The discipline with which he had observed the operation run in Washington had
to be at least as good on the other side of the country. The Starshine people were doing better than the CIA; Slayton had
to give them that.
“Accomplish what you can in L.A.,” Winship said. “From the look of things, I’m going to have my hands full running interference
for the Starshine investigation itself.”
“You can handle senators, Ham, even rabid ones. You’ve done it before. And think of what we gain.”
No one needed to be reminded; governmental corruption was a sore point with both men. Winship thought that their mutual dedication—though
it issued from distinctly different consciousnesses—was probably the only thing they both had truly in common. It reinforced
the basic contradictory tenet of their stormy but successful relationship: Ben Slayton was a renegade, but he was right.
8
Lucius Bonnard had emphatically
not
gone Hollywood.
Slayton, however, was not about to let a
the night.
He reconsidered the notations that he had assumed to be code phrases. A strange name was scribbled in the margin: Elos Califas.
He made the connection, mentally, and dialed the first number again. This time the ring was answered instantly, and Slayton
found himself speaking cross-country.
“Yeah?”
“This is Rutledge in Washington,” Slayton said quickly.
“So what? You guys are okay for this month.”
“We got us a little emergency.”
“I’m listening.” The voice was straight Anglo; it could be anyone speaking.
“We have to change the shipping schedule, maybe even the routes. Couple of people have died; things are hotting up. The guy
covering for us can’t pull his usual strings.”
“What guy is that?” The voice was immediately wary.
“You know who I mean; look, I don’t have any time to screw around!”
It was too late. Slayton was speaking to a dead line full of long-distance hiss.
He pinched his eyes together in the dark. “Shit, shit, shit.” He slammed the receiver into the rack only to pick it right
back up again, this time punching in the complicated dialing routine that would attach him to the priority line at the Treasury
Department.
“Slayton here. I need addresses, locations, and information relating to the following phone numbers. This is top-top-security.
And I need it yesterday.”
“How did you know to call Los Angeles?” Winship asked.
“Chicano slang—
Elos
is East Los Angeles;
Califas
is just as obvious if you know the key. Slap California area codes onto those phone numbers in the book, and they all make
sense. I doubt the addresses will do us much good—they’ve been alerted by my phony call.”
“What if they haven’t? What if they just thought it was a crank call?”
“Extremely unlikely. I used the name Rutledge; I mentioned Washington. They probably called back to verify immediately. And
our man in the townhouse, or whoever he works for, has probably clued them already that the investigation is alive and well.
But I’m hoping the locations will provide some further lead.”
“It’s the only direct connection you have to Los Angeles, at any rate. That’s supposed to be the source of Starshine.”
“Yes, sir. I only wish I had known about the attache and his relationship to our own Senator Franklin Reed. I’d be willing
to bet that if I’d identified myself as either him or Reed, I wouldn’t have gotten hung up on. Damn it.” Slayton was piqued
at having blown a ripe lead. If he had waited to find out who owned the townhouse, he might not have tipped off the men in
California.
On the other hand, if Reed or someone like him were involved, they’d be alerted already.
He dropped the ledger on Winship’s desk. “I suppose we can also consider this useless as of right now, too. Certainly the
numbers are different now, if nothing else.” The discipline with which he had observed the operation run in Washington had
to be at least as good on the other side of the country. The Starshine people were doing better than the CIA; Slayton had
to give them that.
“Accomplish what you can in L.A.,” Winship said. “From the look of things, I’m going to have my hands full running interference
for the Starshine investigation itself.”
“You can handle senators, Ham, even rabid ones. You’ve done it before. And think of what we gain.”
No one needed to be reminded; governmental corruption was a sore point with both men. Winship thought that their mutual dedication—though
it issued from distinctly different consciousnesses—was probably the only thing they both had truly in common. It reinforced
the basic contradictory tenet of their stormy but successful relationship: Ben Slayton was a renegade, but he was right.
8
Lucius Bonnard had emphatically
not
gone Hollywood.
Slayton, however, was not about to let a
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