We sat in silence for awhile. Below, in the music store, someone was trying out a saxophone. Finally, Chandler spoke.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?”
“How’s that?”
“I got into this business because I felt that public discourse in this country had degenerated into grunts and monosyllables on the one hand, and into obfuscatory bafflegab on the other: television and politics, you understand. Talk radio seemed an ideal arena for an open and rational exchange of ideas.” He massaged the back of his neck. “For my trouble, I get several loads of buckshot in my living room. So much for rational discourse.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe the one listener who knows what acrocephalic means took offense. By the way, what does it mean?”
Chandler laughed. “It means pinhead.” He stood and walked to the window. “How do you plan to proceed? I won’t tell you that this hasn’t shaken me up.”
“Well, for starters, can you get your family to another location?”
“Done. Doris left this morning with the baby for her sister’s place in Providence.”
“Okay. From now on, you go nowhere without me. We’ll check you into one of the motels on the strip. Use an assumed name and pay by cash. All right so far?”
“Yes, but I can’t live like that forever.”
“Let’s not worry about forever right now. Day at a time, as they say.”
I drove Chandler home so he could gather some clothes and essentials. Next stop was a hideous aquamarine Quonset hut called the Jolly Fisherman on Route 28. Chandler registered as Henry Mencken, threw his briefcase on the bed in disgust, and reminded me to pick him up by noon.
The desk sergeant let me into Carl Olivera’s office.
“Good morning, lieutenant.” Olivera folded his large square hands and looked up at me without expression.
“Stubblefield. To what do I owe my enormous good fortune?”
“Archie Chandler,” I said, taking the chair that had not been proffered. Olivera appraised me with flat black eyes.
“What about Chandler?”
“He stopped by this morning, asked for some protection.”
“So you’re going to hold Chandler’s hand. Why do I need to know this?”
“Come on, lieutenant. How many malignant duck hunters do I have to look out for?”
Olivera leaned back and sighed. “Probably one.”
“Chandler figures he heard ten, twelve shots.”
Olivera nodded. “I expect that a dozen is exactly right. Are you familiar with Street Sweepers?” I said I wasn’t. “They’re semiautomatic shotguns, hold a dozen shells in a rotary magazine. If you’re in a hurry, you can let off all twelve in about three seconds. Ain’t technology grand?”
“Twelve shells.”
“Yeah. Let’s see, there are about twenty-seven pellets per shell. That’s what — over three hundred pellets. Chandler’s lucky he wasn’t walking around in his living room. The guy really hosed the place down.”
“So you’re figuring one guy?”
“Probably. We got one witness, says she saw a guy on a big fancy motorcycle tearing down the street right after the shooting. She didn’t see anybody else.”
“Fancy?”
“She’s sixty-eight years old and doesn’t know from motorcycles. However, after some succinct and penetrating questions from one of our well-trained, attentive officers, it turns out what she meant by fancy was that the front fork was extended way out. A long, shiny chrome fork. That’s what I got, except of course for this pile of work on the desk here.”
I took the hint. “Thanks, lieutenant.”
“You hear anything, you get in touch, Stubblefield.” It wasn’t a request.
At eleven forty-five I drove by the orange dory in front of the Jolly Fisherman, between the huge rusting anchors, past the mural of the cavorting bluefish, and around to Chandler’s room. He cannoned out the door before the car had stopped.
“I’m going crazy in there. They’ve actually painted the room aquamarine. I hate aquamarine! A man cannot formulate lucid, cogent arguments in an aquamarine room filled with blond furniture and fake Picassos. And the damn sink drips.”
Fortunately, it’s only a five minute drive to the station. I dropped Chandler off and told him I’d see him at six. The rest of the afternoon was spent on paperwork and trying to ignore the trumpet lesson that Emil conducts each week for some poor soul who sounds as if he is blowing into the wrong end of the instrument.
A little before six I unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and hauled out my Sig 9 mm semi-automatic. Fifteen rounds in the clip, one more in the spout. A second clip went into my coat pocket. I’d read somewhere that the average firefight consumes two point five bullets per gun, so I was overloaded. But Olivera could be wrong. There might be more than just one guy with a Street Sweeper. And I tend to be conservative where my health is concerned. Forty-three doesn’t look so bad when you consider some of the alternatives.
Windle was all atwitter with excitement. He led me into a small cubicle crammed with electronic equipment. Chandler followed us in, lit a cigarette, and turned the “No Smoking” sign to the wall. “Let’s hear it, Alfred.”
Windle flipped on a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I heard Chandler’s voice say, “Hello, you’re on VOC.”
A high-pitched nasal voice said, “You lousy pinko. Did you get my message last night?” Some heavy breathing and traffic noise in the background. “No more warnings, you commie bastard. Get off the air, now, or I’ll cancel your show. Permanent.” That was all.
“Naturally, we are equipped with a seven-second delay, so none of it went out over the air,” said Windle.
“Why does he call you a commie?” I asked.
Chandler shrugged. “I guess because I’ve expressed admiration for Gorbachev, and because I’ve heralded the impending reductions in both troops and arms as a return to sanity. To accuse me of being a fellow traveler or a quisling because of that is ludicrous.”
“This guy apparently thinks it’s all a ruse to soften us up so the Rooskies can drop the hammer on us.” Chandler rolled his eyes at that.
“This guy’s a couple of quarts low,” he said.
“Which makes him dangerous,” said Windle. “Very dangerous.”
The weekend was quiet. Chandler wasn’t on the air, but we took meals together both days, out of town and at a different place each time. With an expense account I could avoid the ptomaine towers I usually frequent and indulge myself for a change. Chandler was grateful for the trips. He was planning a show, he said, on how parts of Cape Cod had been turned into a cross between Disneyland and Newark, with special emphasis on the motel industry. It was his intention, he went on, to tear some people’s heads off — discursively, of course.
Monday broke clear and sunny. I delivered Chandler to the station, had lunch at the Windlass, and waded back through “Jingle Bell Rock” to my office thinking that someday I’d find a place to eat that didn’t have a nautical name. Two bikers sat smoking on their machines in front of my building. They probably weren’t any bigger than Gino Marchetti. One of them called, “You Stubblefield?”
“That’s right.” They were dressed in full colors, with “Berserkers M C” emblazoned across the back of their denim vests.
“Soto wants to see you.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “Just said to tell you that he had some buzz you might be interested in.” I nodded. “Follow us.” They kicked down on the starters and I climbed into my car wondering what the president of the Berserkers wanted with a private cop.