The Night Eye (3)

Kezatz’s visits to this part of town were more political now that he was chief of police. Some of the local tycoons were politically active and some weren’t, but their confidence in the police, or lack of it, could make or break a chief. He was the first chief to rise up through the ranks of the Chitoki police department and probably the first one that wasn’t crooked since the founders built a little stone jail on the bluff overlooking the Kawatani.

“It’s a bit nippy, Untenshaw. You want to come in with me.”

“No thanks, Chief, I’ll be alright.” Untenshaw was a young cop who served as Kezatz’s driver. He loathed being separated from the car, as if someone would take his seat if he left it empty.

“Greetings, Chief.” David Taseker opened the door before Kezatz could touch the buzzer. “I saw you pull up. Adam let us know you were coming.”

“I thought this place was closed for the day.”

“The work day is over on the production side. Things are a little loser on the research side,” answered David. He grinned like a kid who was getting away with something. He looked like a kid, in Kezatz’s eyes, even with the stubble that was coming in after a long day away from the razor.

“Don’t stay too late, David.” A young woman entered the foyer. She was already in her coat and had her hat on her head. The coat cinched with a belt around a high waist that accentuated her figure. “Adam will be saying, ‘Your extra hours are money in my pocket.’ His pockets are full enough.”

Kezatz searched his memory. His success as a detective was built in part on his excellent recall of faces and names. “Good evening, Ms. Kiri. It’s late. My driver can take you home.”

The Night Eye (2)

He was falling too fast to risk landing on the shore. He might survive the fall if he could hit the water and miss the black rocks. It all looked black from his vantage. The water was rising under him quickly and he sucked in a deep breath.

The tide was high. It was a mixed blessing. A high tide covered the some of the rocks, but a falling tide could sweep Adam into the sea.

He didn’t waste time calculating, but swam with all the energy he could muster. On the dark beach, Adam forced his shivering hands to explore his pockets. I must write down all I can remember. He found a leather-bound notebook, it pages sopping, a dull stub of pencil, and a heavy pair of eyeglasses. “Thank God,” he sighed.

2

THE VISIT TO MEDAMA LABS

Bernard Kezatz could enjoy the good fortune of others, especially a friend. He could still remember many dinners with the Medamas where they bragged on little Adam and his good marks in school.

Little Adam was Dr. Medama now. His plant, modestly called a lab, sat by a rail spur lined with dingier manufactories and warehouses. Kezatz had been out here a lot in his days as a beat cop and detective. Theft from the factories had been common during the war, when resources were scarce. Now things were more prosperous, and Medama was part of the reason. He scratched together a little money of his own and a lot of investor to buy a maker of telegraph and telephone equipment that was nearly done in by wartime shortages. He made production more efficient and put in a line of high-end optics that turned things around.

The Night Eye (1)

THE NIGHT EYE

1

ESCAPE AT THE KAWATANI BRIDGE

Adam Medama woke with a start in unnatural darkness. He was flooded with pain from the throbbing lump on his head to the burning stripe on his thigh. He reeked of smoke and the memory of flames drove him to push and kick against constraints until he was suddenly free under stars and a cold wind.

He had been loosely wrapped in a tarp. He was surrounded by rumbling slats, the bed of a truck. A cautious glance into the passenger compartment revealed two hulking silhoettes and the lights of the Kawatani Bridge ahead.

Adam pushed his aching brain to figure out what was happening. He once served on a commission to evaluate plans to harness the Kawatani River for power. He remember the grim joking of his father’s coworkers at the police department who called the bridge Lover’s Leap and the Bridge to Nowhere because—No.

He returned to the tarp a searched the edges with hurried fingers. Chords ringed the edge at intervals and at each corner. He quickly arranged them, pushing cold fingers to tie knots, before rolling himself back into the tarp.

The truck slowed to a stop. The driver and his companion worked quickly, not even stopping to shut their doors. There wouldn’t be much traffic on the bridge at this time of night, especially with what Adam knew must be happening elsewhere.

They worked with wordless coordination. Adam forced himself to be limp in their grasp. He was briefly very heavy in their arms, followed quickly by a instant of weightlessness. Now.

Thrusting out with every limb, he unfurled the tarp. The chords pulled him back painfully and burned against his wrists and hands. He forced himself to keep his grip and draw his elbows down. The tarp was too small to make an adequate parachute, but Adam trusted himself to the wind. Tides and rock made the mouth of the Kawatani River treacherous, but the wind that roared down the valley gave it its nasty reputation.

Action Packed (End)

Greasy Hair turned to us.  “You fellas should go get an up close look.  That boy won’t be botherin’ none of our women again.”

 Lenny said to me, “Let’s get out of here.”

 We drove in silence.  I’m not sure how long we were on the road before I noticed something tapping on my heel.  It was a gift from the Jimmies, a quarter-full bottle of bourbon.

 “Give that to me,” said Lenny.  He removed the cap and wiped the mouth with his sleeve.  He tipped back the bottle and swallowed a single gulp.  “To Moon.”

 “To Moon,” I answered.  I took the proffered bottle and a more generous swig than Lenny had allowed himself.  I stretched my arm out and poured the rest on the road’s dusty shoulder.  The brief stream of liquor broke into a thousand golden droplets.  I flicked the bottle away and it flashed in the sun before it disappeared in the tall grass.  “May we all rest in peace.”

Action Packed (18)

The sheriff sped by and hastily entered the little jailhouse.  A few seconds later, a deputy hurried to join him.  In spite of his speed, the dust of whatever country road he’d been patrolling covered his bumper.

 A contingent from the park marched across the square toward the jail.  A larger portion broke off to follow them with less apparent purpose, but boiling with energy.  The leaders went straight to the door and nearly walked into it when it resisted opening.  A few men were dispatched to bring a bench across from the little green patch in front of the courthouse.

 Lenny jumped.  I caught on a second later; nearly fell over sliding out of the booth.  We both threw money down on the table and ran to the door.  We stopped on the sidewalk, frozen with indecision.  Even under the striped awning, the air was so humid and warm I was dripping.

 I wish I could say there was a hero in my story.  There was no Atticus Finch to make a reasoned appeal to higher character.  No one spoke up at all and angry shouts prevailed.  There was no marshal with jangling spurs and six-guns to quell the unruly.  The sheriff and his deputies were locked in the closet of their own jail.  There were not singing cowboys to gallop into town and save the day.

 The crowd outside the jail parted and men began to pour out through the door.  They were greeted with cheers.  They led Moon out with his hands cuffed behind his back.  They already had a rope around his neck and pulled at it like a leash when he struggled.  Someone kicked Moon’s feet out from under him and he fell on the asphalt.  More hands took the rope as they dragged him across the street.  The onlookers at the park raised a cheer.  When they dragged Moon into the park, someone had already climbed into the oak to help pass the rope over one of its thick branches. 

 The hanging was not a quick execution.  They hoisted Moon up with the rope already around his neck until his feet dangled about the level of the heads of the crowd.  He kicked and twisted, but each time he flung out a foot, it moved with less speed, it sought the ground with less hope and desperation.  We watched until his body quit swinging.

 The crowd dissolved slowly.  Groups of three or four men would break off and drift away.

 Greasy Hair passed us again, this time with a couple of friends.  He told them, “S’about time we put some n****rs in their place.”

 “I think that boy shit his pants.”

 “They’ll all shit themselves when we put them down.”

Regarding Sex Robots

From the desk of Edward Bradford

Dear Readers of Whole Grain Serial:

If Mr. Bradford’s mention of a bainshunfu-bot in “Leviathon” in any way inspired or contributed to the creation of an actual sex robot, he would like to express his regrets.  He believes that it is regrettable that fornication is a sin and terrible that pornographers have done so much to multiply fornication while draining it of pleasures.  He dislikes that inventors are getting into the game.

Mr. Bradford would like to assure the nerds of the world that the worst sex he ever had (i.e. with a real, live, actual woman) was vastly better than the best of any substitute for sex he has experienced.  It was so much better it is more a matter of contrast than comparison.  He is confident that your experience will be the same.

Put in the effort of persuading a woman to do it with you, even if you must resort to the legitimate relationship of marriage and pass on fornication, and invest you intellect in something fruitful.  Even if you don’t make mankind better, you will be better off increasing human pleasure rather than decreasing it.

Sincerely,

Angelica Rioles, Secretary to Mr. Edward Bradford.

Action Packed (17)

The waitress returned to the kitchen.  I could hear girlish giggles.  Young faces occasionally peered out from the opening between that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

 Normally I’d be glad to flirt with fans.  That day I looked out the window and watched dusty men pass by, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in huddles of five or six.  A couple of old trucks passed with high sides of wooden slat, like one might have hauled swine to the market, but these were full of ragged men who clasped their hats on their heads with sun-darkened hands.

 Another waitress brought out our food.  She wore a similar outfit with the addition of a thin gold band around her left ring finger.  She was pretty, but older than the girl was, and clearly not impressed with us.  Maybe she was the girl’s mother.  She came back and topped off our coffee cups, then lingered with a look of disgust on her face.  She wasn’t looking at me.

 “What’s going on over there?” Lenny asked.

 I turned toward the park and saw scores of men gathering in the shade of the oaks.  I didn’t look like a town picnic.

 “I don’t know,” answered the waitress.  “I haven’t seen such a tattered bunch since I was a little girl.”

 A loud knock on the window made us all jump.  A skinny man with greasy hair and a dirty shirt waved at the waitress.  She waved him away.

 “You know him?” I asked.

 “Yes.  If he’s in town, it’s for trouble.”

 We watch him jauntily stumble toward the park.  He stepped into the street without looking, though there was little danger of something hitting him.  I doubt Lenora ever bustled, but even on its quietest days you’d see housewives gathering their little needs, kids at play and industrious men taking care of their little businesses at the courthouse or the title company or on their way to the feed shop.  We didn’t see these people, just men like the one who left a sweaty handprint on the diner window, on foot and hanging from the sides of trucks and even a couple of horse-drawn wagons with peeling paint.

Lenny dug into his sandwich, but I kept my eye turned out on the town square and the dark cloud of men forming under the broad oaks.  A few men stood head and shoulders above the crowd having claimed buckets and boxes as makeshift daises.  They stood out because of their skinny ties and sports coats, too.  I couldn’t hear these gesticulating figures over the drone of the diner’s fans, but I could hear high-pitched yelps and a few wild howls.

Action Packed (16)

“Mostly. What does that have to do with anything?”

 “I’m just thinking like a prosecutor.  My son is sixteen and went to the dance.  He caught you’re song just as he was leaving.  He was singing it when he thought I couldn’t hear him.  He imagines he’ll be the next Elvis Presley.  Why aren’t you off to your next show?”

 Lenny answered, “We were going to take a few days off.  When we saw you’re deputy bringing in Moon, we thought we should talk to you, just in case.”

 “I’ll tell you something.  Those kids are always stirring up trouble among themselves and a few other gangs.  They’re in fights all the time and never report it.  They have no use for us cops.  Anyway, I brought Moon in mostly to keep him safe while I checked things out.  You’ve made it a lot easier for me to let him go.”

 I felt relief wash over me.  My imagination cast forward to the warm, salty water of the Gulf of Mexico.

 “I’m going to type up some statements,” said May, “which you’ll sign.  Then I’m going to have a chat with the prosecutor.  Can you stay in town for the afternoon, in case he wants to talk to you?”

 “Yes,” we answered in unison.

 “Good.  He may not want to bother, but it will make things easier if you can wait a while.  I can spend a day cooling tempers and scowling at troublemakers.  Once the dust has settled, I’ll let Moon go.”  The sheriff typed the statements himself.  He took over Deputy Pete’s desk and typed with all his fingers.  He didn’t even look at his hands.  He quickly loaded and unloaded the sandwiches of paper, carbons and onionskins from the roll.  “Sign here.  Pete, call over to the courthouse.  Tell Jim I’m coming over.”

 Lenny and I crossed the street to the Lenora Corner Restaurant.  It was situated on the town square so the whole town seemed to be within view from its large plate-glass windows.  The Greek-revival courthouse, block sheriff’s office, the sprawling city park with its long-armed oaks, allegedly grown from acorns brought from Mount Vernon, the little city hall and a string of shops all fit in the panorama framed by of the windows.  Both sides of the building were shaded by white and green striped awnings.  The place was silent except for the drone of fans and the jingle of a bell on the door.

 “Can I help you?”  A girl of about 16 years came to our booth by the window and put two glasses of ice water on the table.  She wore a powder blue skirt and blouse and wore her hair pinned back in little bun.  She looked flushed for the heat.

 Lenny ordered coffee, a pulled pork sandwich, slaw and fried potatoes.  “You want anything?”  I shook my head.

Action Packed (15)

“Leonard Jones.”

 “John Kalogeropoulos.”  That is my real name.  You can see why I used a stage name.  I though of using Johnny Kay at first, but some suggested that sounded like Danny Kay, which was not the image I was going for.

May raised an eyebrow when he heard my name.  “What do you know about Johnson’s whereabouts last night?”

Lenny took the lead.  “We know he was working at The Hideaway last night.  After they closed, we gave him a ride home.”

“Why were you there long enough after they closed to do that?”

“We’re musicians.  We were on the bill.  We were just finishing up when he was.”

“Did anything else happen?”  May looked at us and we looked at him for a few seconds.  “Johnson has been accused of lewd behavior toward a young lady and beating up her suitor.”

I saw fire flash in Lenny’s eyes.  He said, “There were some kids there who were harassing Moon—Johnson.  That’s why we gave him a lift.  We didn’t want any trouble.  Besides, does Johnson look like he’s been in a fight?”

“No.  When I got the report, the accuser didn’t look like he had been in fight either except for a little scrape on his hand.  My kid gets scraped up worse playing baseball.  But under his shirt, he was bruised up something fierce.  Someone worked him over.  Someone who know what he was doing.”

I felt like I was about to go back on the stage.  The eggs, biscuit and gravy started unpleasantly experimenting with ways to escape my stomach.  I told myself, “The show is already started.  It’s time to rock, man.”

Lenny continued.  “We can assure you that Johnson didn’t lay a hand on anyone.  We drove him away.  If one of those kids got themselves beat up, it was by someone else.”

“So do you promote promiscuity and adultery?”

“What?”  I asked.

“Did you sing a song called ‘Jailbait’ at The Hideaway last night?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

“And you’re musicians.  You play rock and roll music.”

Action Packed (14)

“Yes.”  I answered.

 She shook her head.  “It might have been better if you let him get beat up.”

 “He might have been killed by those kids.”

 “He might be killed now.”

 Lenny interrupted, “Did they say why he was arrested?”

 “On suspicion of assault and battery and—and more.  He may be a fool sometimes, but not that kind of fool.”

 I was stung by her tone.  “I’m sorry we caused you trouble.”

 “The world is full of trouble.”  She carried her vegetables into the little clapboard house as if she had said goodbye.

 We drove back to Lenora.  The sheriff’s office and jail was in a little building on the courthouse square.  A star-shaped sign by the door bore the name of the sheriff, Phillips Henry May.

 The office was one room, with a third of it separated from the rest by a banister.  In the larger part sat a desk with a telephone, a radio and a deputy.  A few filing cabinets, a map of the county and a ceiling fan completed the furnishings on that side of the room.  Behind the rails was the sheriff’s private office with a desk, a telephone, a bookshelf and Phillips Henry May himself.  On the back wall were two doors; one was steel, with a barred window of reinforced glass.

 The deputy was on the phone, but Sheriff May greeted us.  He was a little shorter than me, but very broad shoulder.  His hair was blond, cut short, and hardly showed the gray.  His teeth gleamed in his tan face.  “How can I help you?”

 “We understand you’ve arrested a man called Moon,” answered Lenny.

 “We have Montgomery Andrew Johnson in custody.  How does that concern you?”

 “We may know something about his whereabouts last night.”

 This elicited an audible snort from the deputy, who was hanging up the phone.  I didn’t turn, but tried to meet May’s unwavering, blue gaze.  He said, “Come in and have a seat.  Pete, bring over a couple of chairs.”

 When we were situated around the desk, Sheriff May continued.  “What are your names?”