I shrugged. “I don’t really care what they think they’re after. If they care at all about justice, then they can be useful to the cause.”
“But you can’t even talk to ’em!” Glottis pointed out.
I sighed. “Yeah. I know. I don’t know what to do about that.”
“Then maybe you should forget about ’em,” Glottis said. “Maybe Miss Ofrenda would work out better.”
“Olivia?” I asked in surprise. “What do you know about her?” I didn’t think I’d ever mentioned her name to Glottis.
“I’ve met her,” he answered. “Max heard about the Bone Wagon from someone,” he explained. “Every Monday morning I go racing ’round the kitty track. There are a few other demons in town with fast cars and we keep Max’s employees entertained. The winners get paid extra.”
“So how long has this been going on?” I asked.
“About a month,” he answered. “That’s where I’ve met Miss Ofrenda. At the track. She’s a nice lady. I think she’d be good for the LSA.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. I had been thinking she might be useful for other reasons, such as a fixer for that little idea slowly growing in my mind, and I’d been looking for an opportunity to feel her out. “Do you think you could arrange to introduce me?” It didn’t seem likely that I could have the discussion I wanted at her club.
“Sure,” he said, “if you can be at the track at nine any Monday morning.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “How do I manage that and hold down my job? We still don’t have anyone to close. I can’t get away.”
“Well, when you get someone to close, maybe you can take a Monday off sometime.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”
That evening I went to the Blue Casket and decided to make my presence felt by the whole gang of ‘commies’. I figured I’d have better luck with all three together in a public place. Less chance of a big scene. Or, if nothing else, I’d let Alexi know his reaction earlier wasn’t going to deter me. The three had a table to themselves near the stage. I went straight over to them and said, loud enough to be heard over the music at least two tables away, “Buenos Noches, comrades!”
Alexi gave me a poisonous glare while Slisko snarled “Oh, fade out!” and turned his back on me.
Not a great start.
Gunnar looked a little embarrassed for his two friends. “Hey, Manny, no offense,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it, “but we don’t have time for Establishment types like yourself.”
I thought that was pretty funny. “What makes you guys think I’m so Establishment?”
Slisko turned toward me only long enough to snap “You smell like bacon and oppression, man!”
“¿Qué?” I asked. I thought I remembered the old Beat slang pretty well, but even so, sometimes Slisko didn’t make an ounce of sense. I took an empty chair from the next table and sat down.
Alexi didn’t like that at all. “Beat it, dinner jacket!” he snapped, banging his fist on the table.
“It’s more impressive when you do that with a shoe,” I said, “and what’s with the ‘dinner jacket’ shit? Does this look like a tuxedo to you?” I asked, tugging at the lapels of my cheap sport jacket.
Slisko shared a sneering look with Alexi and said, “I hear the driver of a station wagon, the owner of a pasta maker,” Alexi started chuckling softly, “the hollowed-out husk of a cat who remembers to button down his collar, but forgets his brother in the street.”
“Sorry, Manny,” Gunnar said without Slisko’s rancor. “There’s no room for the bourgeois in our revolution.” He stood up and said to the others, “I’m gonna get a foamer.” He started threading his way through the tables.
“Not a bad idea,” I said and stood to follow him.
“We don’t care why you’re going,” Slisko spat after me, “just go, man, go!”
I ignored him and trailed after Gunnar. When he reached the bar he got the attention of the tall, slightly stooped bartender (who, despite the darkness of the club, always wore sunglasses) and ordered a beer. I ordered the same.
After taking a long pull from his glass Gunnar glared at me without any real malice and asked, “Just what are you after, cube?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked, curious to know just what would seem obvious to him.
“Alexi told us how you buttonholed him this morning,” he said. He shook his head and added, “Talk about four bars past obvious! Why not just flash a buzzer?”
“So you think I want to rap on you to the heat.” I let out a heavy sigh and gave a sad little shake of my head. “Is that your own brilliant idea or did Alexi think of it for you?”
Gunnar bristled. “Listen, Clyde,” he thumped me, but lightly, in the chest with one hand, “I listen to Alexi, but I do my own thinking.”
“That’s close!” I scoffed. “I’ve listened to you cats long enough to know that Alexi does all the real thinking. OK, sure,” I conceded before Gunnar could interrupt, “you have a few ideas of your own. But when Alexi lays down the law…”
He didn’t let me finish. “Alexi knows the dialectic like no one. Get it?” He took an almost defiant pull from his glass.
“Yeah, I get it,” I said in a hard tone. “I get that the dialectic is a process, not dogma,” Gunnar projected a frown, “that it’s a give and take among ideas, among tactics, all tending toward one goaclass="underline" justice.”
“Justice for who?” Gunnar asked with a bitter laugh.
“Everyone,” I said. A slight frown seemed to appear over Gunnar’s rigid features. “Well,” I sighed, “maybe you don’t have the revolutionary instinct Salvador is looking for.” Gunnar looked both angry and puzzled. Before he could make any reply I took my beer and went in search of an empty table. Olivia, sitting at the end of the bar with a man looking out of place in a sharp suit, gave me a curious stare as I stomped past.
Lola
The next morning Alexi arrived as usual. He was pretty sullen and kept strictly to business. As I was taking delivery I was distracted by a tapping at a window. I looked over, but only saw a pigeon on the sill outside. I checked over what Alexi had brought to make sure nothing was missing. When I glanced at the window again the pigeon was still out there. It seemed to be looking straight at me. I signed for the stuff and Alexi went on his way. I went outside and the pigeon kept on staring at me, body and head moving as needed to track my movements. Crazy.
I slowly reached out and the bird held it’s ground. It let me pick it up. There was a little tube attached to one leg. I took the pigeon inside and pulled the tiny slip of paper from the tube:
Manuel, it is indeed a great day for the revolution! Say hola to little Manny, the first enlisted messenger to serve the LSA! Please feed him some bread crumbs and send him back quickly, so we may know that our maiden flight was a success.
“Well, how about that?” I said. “Hola, little Manny.” I tore a corner off of Alexi’s invoice and wrote a short note: ‘Congrats, Sal. Manny did his job beautifully.’ I put it into the tube, fed the bird, carried him outside and released him. I watched him fly in the direction of El Marrow until he was out of sight.
When he was gone, I turned to go back into the automat but stopped when I saw a woman standing a few yards away also looking after the pigeon. Her back was to me, but she seemed familiar. In fact, I was convinced I knew who she was.