Torpedo Juice полностью

“No, they truly are fucking evil. But a necessary evil. We’re capitalists, after all, which means we benefit from man’s worst instincts, as opposed to Communists, who suffer from man’s best instincts. Who’s really to blame? The media! Those self-righteous hacks with their liberal bias. Kudos to you, Fox News! You tell us what the ‘media elite’ refuses to: that we need to get all wadded up and distracted over gay marriage so we don’t notice the next massive transfer of wealth scheme. No wonder the rest of the world hates us. Half of America hates the other half. The country’s tearing itself down the middle, and these latter-day pimps of yahooism are swinging sledgehammers at the wedge….”

In the next room, deputies Gus and Walter dismissed their class of juvenile delinquents. They were on their way down the hall when a raised voice caught their attention. They stopped and looked in a doorway.

“So now you don’t know what to believe,” said Serge, “and that’s exactly what you should believe. To borrow from Fire-sign Theater, Everything You Know Is Wrong. Because the biggest danger is the people who believe Everything They Know Is Right. That’s the key to personal growth: Identify your firmest, most self-comforting beliefs, then beat the living shit out of them and see if they’re still standing. The key to stagnation? Worry about other people’s beliefs. There’s an invisible war of self-interest between the ends of the spectrum, and we’re foot soldiers caught in the crossfire. That’s why I’m a moderate, from the extremist wing. Because the middle is where the good people are. It’s where hope is. And it’s where the truth lies. But what is this truth? For starters, it’s don’t listen to someone whose only credentials are that he’s standing at the front of a room. And that’s the truth.”

Serge trotted out the door past the deputies.

Gus looked at Walter. “There’s something not right here.”

22

Saturday, 5:30P. M.

DEPUTY WALTER ST. CLOUD arrived at the sheriff’s substation for the evening shift.

Gus was already at his desk reading paperwork that Sergeant Englewood had just handed over from the day side.

Walter put a fresh filter in the coffee machine.

Englewood snapped a briefcase shut. He was thinking about mashed potatoes. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“’Night, Sarge.”

Walter came over to Gus’s desk while the coffee perked. “What are you reading?”

“The reports both of us are supposed to read.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Gus continued reading. “What is it?”

“The stories really don’t bother you?”

“I don’t pay ’em any mind.”

“Good.” Walter rolled up a chair and sat down. “Because I just heard this great new one I wanted to ask you about.”

Gus closed his eyes for an extended blink.

“A waitress told it at the Key Deer Café. I was having pie at the counter, and she was talking to these other people, but everyone was listening. It was the time you didn’t know about one of the department’s surprise urine tests, but your wife did because she was doing the major. So the night before she got you to let her draw on your penis. You couldn’t see what she was doing because of the angle. And she draws this goofy Mr. Bill face. You know: ‘Mr. Sluggo’s going to be mean to me!’ The next morning you hear about the test and try to scrub it off, but she used one of those indelible Sharpies that lasts for like a week. There was no hiding it from the monitor who has to witness you give the sample. And he blabs to everybody!”

“What’s your question?”

“Well, there wasn’t really a question. I just wanted someone to tell it to.”

Gus went back to reading.

“I think it’s my favorite one so far.”

Gus looked up at his partner.

“You know what I mean,” said Walter. “Actually it’s quite terrible. I’m going to be back over there at my desk.”

It was quiet again in the substation. The fax started.

Gus got up and grabbed the bulletin.

“What is it?” asked Walter.

“Remember that APB the other day on a brown Plymouth Duster? They just linked it to a charred body found in the Everglades. A witness also spotted it at Dade Corners. Ohio plates but no number.”

“Heading this way?”

Gus taped the new bulletin to the wall next to his desk. “That’s how it’s looking.”

SEVENTEEN MILES DOWN U.S. 1, two combat boots walked through a wrecked-car graveyard on Stock Island. “U Pull-It Auto Parts.” The boots stopped behind an ’81 Fiero. Hands in leather gloves twisted a screwdriver, removing a Delaware license. The plate went inside a shirt. The boots walked back out the barbed-wire gate to the side of the road and a brown Plymouth Duster.

One hour later

FOUR PEOPLE CONDUCTED predate rituals at four different locations in the lower Keys.