From: d.moran8@genie.geis.com Date: Mon, 9 Jan 95 04:18:00 UTC Subject: Terminal Freedom limited ed. Just a brief note to everyone; my sister and I are about to offer a signed, limited first edition of a novel we wrote together called "Terminal Freedom." I'll be sending the first three chapters to the list in subsequent messages. Anyone who's interested in reserving a copy, send me e-mail (or you can drop a note here in the topic.) The limited edition will not exceed 500 copies; firm pricing has not been set yet but won't exceed $35. You can reserve a copy and then change your mind later, and it won't stress me out; I'm just trying to decide right now whether to order a print run of 250 copies or 500 for the first run. The book will be hardbound, on good paper; this is small press but it will not be amateur press. I expect to sell out the 500 copies, btw. Of course, I could be wrong about that; I haven't done one of these before. But given the volume of mail I get asking me how and where people can get copies of my books, I think the chances are good. TERMINAL FREEDOM by Daniel Keys Moran and Jodi Moran CHAPTER ONE: I Love L.A. A MILLION AND ONE ANGELS watch over the city. The flutter of their wings causes a breeze to shiver through the heights of the palm trees. The City of Angels, the jewel of the Pacific Rim, a diamond burning in the Ring of Fire, the brightest and the best of all the cities in the world. It is in fact the most beautiful place on Earth. Randy Newman said it best: "Everybody's very happy, cause the sun it shines all the time." The buildings rise up haphazardly, half-burned in riots and arson attacks, damaged in floods and earthquakes. Murals depicting flowers and space ships and Jesus dying on the Cross cover the cracks in the walls. There are no murals of angels. The angels are everywhere. On Watseka they'll offer you blessings and vegetarian food, and around the corner on Robertson they'll steal your running shoes, but you won't mind because your stomach's full, and the sidewalk's always warm in the city of Angels. Be careful crossing the streets; the glitter of shattered glass reflects back up off the black pavement like art. People tip refrigerators into the cement-lined Los Angeles river, and the river likes it. When you're a river and you've been completely walled in, you get your joys where you can. The river rushes toward the ocean, pouring into the Pacific and mixing with the sewage in Santa Monica Bay. There are carousel horses on the pier, spinning for eternity, and signs on the beach saying "Don't Go In The Water." And we don't go in the water, and not because we're afraid of the sharks, oh no. (And at the Biltmore Hotel in downtown Los Angeles we can order the Santa Monica Bay Chowder; only we don't do that either.) In either direction, going south to Venice or north to Malibu, brave locals get in the water and surf. They stand on their boards, and scream at God until he knocks them over, and in the heavens, God laughs, because he knows the filth in Santa Monica Bay has filtered south to Venice, and north to Malibu. God's not the vindictive type, but he figures that if you piss in the water you surf in, that's your cancer. But get out of the ocean on a good gang day, and the Crips and Bloods and Thirty-Second Streeters and all the other miscellaneous little gangs whose names don't make it onto television will mow you down with their shiny guns. The gangsters wear shorts that come down to their knees and socks that come up to their knees. They wear tank tops that let their shoulders burn and then they go home and tell people they've been to the beach. They don't mention the murders. Police helicopters, with news choppers trailing them, beat their way across the sky, spotlights burning down into the city, searching for felons in stolen cars. In Monte Carlos and Cadillacs, Buick Regals and Crown Victorias. They steal foreign cars for the parts. They steal American cars for the cars. They lower them and lacquer them. Look down into an inch of stolen lacquer and you'll see your soul. Of course it will be distorted by the flecks of gold, deep in the paint, but it will be your soul, nonetheless. Looks good, doesn't it? NOT LONG AFTER SUNSET, in the heavens above the city, the angels shift, creating a path, allowing a shimmering needle of light to descend from the sky and into the city they watch over. The million and first angel, Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels, watches the man arrive, and smiles. THE NEEDLE OF LIGHT crashes in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, and everybody looks. They all know it's a promotional gimmick, but they look anyway. It's not interesting, it's not new, but it's better than nothing. The doors open and a man steps out of the glowing structure, wearing a black jumpsuit with gold epaulets on his shoulders, and shimmering silver ribbons across his chest. He looks like a spaceman and he's holding his breath. He knows he can breath the air, but he's afraid. Christ, there are millions, billions of humans breathing it right that minute. But that was where the fear came in. How could they all be breathing the same air at the same time? He exhales with a gap, and sucks in the carbon-monoxide laden air, and goes into a fit of coughing. He had been told, by people who had breathed this air before, that it would be sweet. He's been lied to, which you'd think he'd be used to by now-- An RTD bus drives by him, inching its way past the obstruction in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, belching black smoke. The driver flips the man off without really looking at him. The man doesn't notice; he's choking to death, while the needle of light behind him is getting brighter and very hot. Zooming down the street, following the trail of black smoke emitted by the bus, are two boys with skateboards. One of them is a white boy, with long blond hair and a fierce tan, and the other is a black boy with dreadlocks that reach his butt. They reach the man, hunched over on his knees in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard. They slow, hesitating, watching the man pityingly. That had been a good bit of bus smoke he'd sucked in. The man straightens slowly and staggers away from the glowing needle. Rivulets of molten metal drip from the needle, onto the road, and sizzle. The boys ignore the self-destructing promotional gimmick; they've seen better. They follow the staggering man and skate around him, circling him once, twice, a third time. The man spins with them, dizzily, trying to keep them both in his sight at the same time, marveling. He's never seen anything that looks like the boy with the dreadlocks . . . or for that matter, anything that looks much like the fearsomely tanned blond boy. Finally, the boy with dreadlocks says, "Good looking suit." The blond frowns. "Looks hot, though." THE MAN LOOKS at his stolen clothing in the reflection of a store-front window. His shirt is a wild Hawaiian print, blue and red and green and yellow and orange, with just a touch of gold, hanging open to expose a radiation-darkened chest. There are parrots and palm trees on his shirt, but he doesn't know the words for either of them. He knows that one's a bird, and the other's some kind of weed, and he knows he likes them. His pants are dark blue and baggy and reach barely past his knees, and his rope sandals, woven from hemp with all the life smoked out of it, are the perfect final touch. He wiggles his toes. The kid on the skateboard had been right--he been hot. Now he's cool. Five years later. . . . ~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER TWO: Terminal Sue "IT'S EIGHTY-FIVE DOLLARS an hour. You pay a thousand twenty as a retainer, twelve hours, before I begin work. When the retainer is used, you pay me another retainer. You don't argue with me. Ever. You don't whine if I tell you something you don't like. I'm in charge. Not you. You pay the bills and you don't argue. Is that clear?" Terminal Sue watched him as she spoke. He seemed to be taking it well. When she finished, she paused and waited for him to say yes. He said, "Yes." "Good. Give me your problem and your name and the thousand twenty, in reverse order." From the window of her office, Terminal Sue had watched the man get out of his car. Terminal Sue had known, just from the way the guy looked around the parking lot, shifty-eyed and nervous, that he was coming to see her. He looked like a wannabe rock and roll star: three earrings in each ear, blond haired and blue- eyed, with a thin body that owed more to cocaine than to Nautilus. He wore blue jeans, snakeskin boots, and a leather bomber jacket that might have seen service in World War II. His hair was tied back into a long pony tail by a blue bandanna. Terminal Sue smiled. Crip colors. Some Blood was going to shoot his ass and he wouldn't even know why. She wondered where he was from. No native Angeleno would have made that particular mistake. He had jumped when he slammed the door of his Mazda Miata, startled by the sound he'd created. Now, sitting across the desk from Terminal Sue, looking anywhere but into Terminal Sue's cold black eyes, he seemed uncertain how to begin. She didn't especially care how he began, as long as he had the thousand and twenty dollars. She already knew what his problem was; she could see it in his weaselly eyes and his too-tight pants. A woman. Only he was going to call her a chick. "My name is Carlo. Carlo van Zandt. And there's this chick--" Terminal Sue smiled. "A thousand and twenty dollars. Up front. I know I said that." "Just to hear what I have to ?" "If I don't like what you say," Terminal Sue said, "I'll give some of it back." "How much?" "Nine hundred and thirty-five dollars. Unless you piss me off, in which case I'll charge you for another hour." Carlo stared at her. "I don't have that much cash. Do you take checks?" "No. Visa, MasterCard, and American Express." Carlo pulled a wallet from the inner pocket of his bomber jacket, and handed her a Visa card. She ran it through the terminal on her desk, watching him silently. Straight black hair fell like water past her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, leaving her eyes in shadowed hollows. She looked like something out of some Native American version of the Old Testament, humorless and severe and bloodthirsty. She was a six foot tall, pure-blooded Navajo who knew nothing about being an Indian and everything about being a private investigator. In a city with over four thousand licensed detectives, Terminal Sue was, as she frequently told her clients, the . The small gray box on her desk spit out a scrap of paper. Terminal Sue ripped it out of the terminal and handed it to the man across from her. "Sign at the bottom." Carlo van Zandt hesitated for an instant. "If you don't take my case, how do I get my nine hundred and thirty-five dollars back?" Terminal Sue said, "Trust me. All relationships are based on trust." She'd read that once. Carlo signed. Terminal Sue smiled at him again. She always smiled when people gave her money. It was good business. "Now tell me about your chick." "I'm being followed," Carlo blurted. "By some blond-haired chick." "Wear looser pants," Terminal Sue suggested. "It's been going on for almost a month now. At first I thought she was just, you know, like a fan. But--" "You're a singer?" "A musician," Carlo corrected. "I do more than sing." "Uh huh." "The first time I noticed this chick, I was doing a gig at this club, The Rock. She followed me home that night, but I had someone with me already. So I didn't stop and give her directions." Terminal Sue said, "Right." "But she was keeping up pretty good anyway. I wasn't trying to lose her or anything, I figured if she made it all the way back to my place I'd invite her in." "What would your date have thought about that?" Carlo stared at her blankly. "What?" Terminal Sue said, "Right." "I live on Sunset. A couple of miles east of the beach. She followed me all the way to my house, but then when I stopped, she kept going." Carlo shrugged. "And I was like, cool. I already had one chick, I didn't need another one. But then a few days later I saw her again when I went to get groceries. And I was like, cool. Because I didn't have anybody with me, and I figured, why not. You know?" Terminal Sue said, "If we could start this story closer to the end it would help." Carlo looked hurt. "Okay. So yesterday, somebody searched my house. And I could tell, cause like, my stuff was moved. And then last night the blond chick followed me home again, from a gig over in Venice, and I stopped the car down on PCH at a light and got out to talk to her, cause I was starting to get pissed off about it all, and she tried to run me down." Carlo looked earnestly at Terminal Sue. "I think maybe we have like, a fatal attraction thing going on here." Terminal Sue had been listening to the way he talked. She said, "Are you from the Valley?" "I'm from Topeka." "Topeka? Topeka, Kansas? Like Dorothy?" "Dorothy wasn't from Topeka." "I never met anybody from Kansas before. Although I knew people lived there," Terminal Sue added. "My family lives there," said Carlo. "But not Dorothy." "I have a cousin named Dorothy." "Does she have a dog named Toto?" Carlo looked at Terminal Sue uncertainly. "Is that a joke?" Terminal Sue stared at him. "I don't have a sense of humor. If you remember that we'll get along better." "Oh." Carlo was silent for a moment. "No. She doesn't have a dog named Toto." "So you don't know who this blond woman is?" "No." "You've never seen her except when she was following you?" "I don't think so. But you know--blond chicks all kinda look alike. I think maybe she was in the audience that first night, when I played The Rock." "I understand the problem," Terminal Sue said. Carlo looked relieved. "What would you like me to about it?" "Make her stop following me." "Do you want me to find out she's following you?" "Do I have to pay extra for that?" "No." Carlo thought about it. "Yeah," he decided. "I'd like to know why she's following me. But even more important--" "Yes?" "I'd like to know why she tried to run me over." "Of course." Terminal Sue nodded. "Perfectly natural under the circumstances." "It won't cost extra?" "All part of the service." Terminal Sue picked up the charge slip, handed Carlo the yellow copy and tucked the white away in a drawer. "The clock started when you walked in here. I suggest you leave now." A flash of panic crossed Carlo's face. "Why?" Terminal Sue said, "She can't follow you while you're sitting in my office. Can she?" "I guess not." Carlo rose and headed reluctantly toward the door. "A piece of advice," Terminal Sue said. Carlo turned back in the doorway. "Take the bandanna off." AS THE DOOR SWUNG SHUT behind Carlo, Terminal Sue walked into the back room and got her Nikon off the shelf. With no particular hurry, she jacked a new roll of film into the chamber, took off the medium distance lens and put on the telephoto lens. She walked back out into the main office, to the window overlooking the parking lot. She snapped two photos of Carlo as he was getting into the Miata, a third photo of the Miata itself, with its license plate clearly visible. The Miata pulled much too quickly out of the lot, onto Sunset, bouncing over the speed bumps. Terminal Sue waited, standing patiently with the camera still up to her eye. A gray Mercedes Benz pulled out of a parking space ten down from the spot where Carlo had been parked. She started the auto advance and tracked the car as it pulled out of the parking lot, and into traffic on Sunset. She got half a dozen good shots of a middle-aged blond guy in the Mercedes. CHAPTER THREE: Bogie Freedom BEHIND THE BAR at The Rock hung a large placard, professionally printed. It said: Scrawled across the bottom in pencil were the words: Below this, in red ink, were the words: The fifty foot bar dominated the room, with a small raised platform serving as a stage in the corner. Carlo looked at the tall bartender who stood, wiping glasses, behind the bar that the sign had been taped to. The bartender, Walkin' Talkin' Dave Bradden, smiled when Carlo came in, as if he were pleased to see him. Carlo didn't smile back. He wasn't fooled. Walkin' Talkin' Dave was an indiscriminate smiler who was pleased to see practically anyone. "Where's Bogie?" Dave shrugged. "Around." "Around where? I need to talk to him." Dave returned his attention to his glasses. His smile became a grin. "Try in back." IT WAS WEDNESDAY, and Bogie was in the back room pretending to be a detective. He didn't pretend to be a detective very often; he wasn't very good at it. He'd had a few cases, but he'd also had a tendency to hate his clients and sympathize with the people he was supposed to be investigating. His clients had an unfortunate tendency to hate Bogie back, and forget to pay him. Sitting across from his client, Bogie thought it was a good thing he pretended to be an Entertainment Director at night. It paid regularly. "You know," he said to the client who sat across from him, and who he was already beginning to hate, "I only do this because it gives me an excuse to hang around the bar all day and drink whiskey and play video games. I probably won't be of much help to you." Carlo van Zandt stared at Bogie resentfully. He had never liked Bogie; Bogie pulled off with what appeared to be a complete lack of thought the style that Carlo had aspired to all his life, and managed only rarely. Bogie had a black fedora pulled low over his forehead, and a pony tail longer and blonder than Carlo's could ever hope to be. He wore a black suede and leather vest, black leather pants, black motorcycle boots, and a bright purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Carlo had never seen him without his cheap black Dirty Harry sunglasses. "But Bogie," Carlo whined, "Tom Rochester told me you'd be able to help me." The fact that Carlo knew Tom made Bogie hate Carlo that much more. Tom Rochester had been the client in an unfortunately successful case, and he'd been telling people about Bogie ever since. Bogie was ready to kill him. Bogie checked his watch. "Look," he said, "it's 3:42. You've got until exactly 3:55 to tell me what the problem is. That gives me five minutes to tell you I can't help you. And you do realize that in only five minutes I won't be able to let you down easily?" He spared Carlo a concerned glance. "This isn't going to be pleasant. Are you sure you want to go through with it?" Carlo was a half-bright white-trash rock and roll singer, and Bogie knew they were easily confused; Carlo said, "What?" Bogie sighed. "All right. It's 3:43. Say what you came to say. But it's all your fault. No one told you to come in this close to four o'clock." "Some chick's following me," Carlo blurted. "Why?" Bogie asked. "I don't . She's just after me." Bogie leaned back in his chair, and said soothingly, in the voice he used when he pretended to be a minister, "Tell me about it. Tell me the whole sordid story." "You remember last time I played here, when--" "When your drummer threw up on his drums during a song and kept trying to play? And the vomit was flying everywhere? Yeah, I remember." Carlo winced. "That time. Anyway, I was leaving that night, and this blond chick in a blue Volvo tried to follow me home. Except I think she did follow me home." "Did you invite her in?" "No." "I'd have invited her in," Bogie told him. "Then you'd know who she was and why she was following you. And you wouldn't need me." Carlo looked at Bogie sullenly, wanting to tell him that he need him, that he already had some Indian chick looking into this for him. But Carlo suspected that maybe he really did need Bogie. He and Bogie came from the same world. They spoke the same language. Bogie, Carlo knew, would never ask him if his cousin Dorothy had a dog named Toto. And if he did it would be a joke, and they could laugh about it together. Carlo took a deep breath, and recapped the entire sequence of events for Bogie. "And then last night, when I was leaving UnClean Joe's, down in Venice Beach, she followed me again. And when I stopped the car up on PCH, at the California Incline, she tried to run me over." "," Bogie said, "That's ." He paused. "Well, I guess it's not illegal if you stop afterwards. Only if you run over them and then run away. Did you call the police?" Walkin' Talkin' Dave came into the back room and took Bogie's glass of whiskey. "3:58 and counting, Bogie." Bogie turned back to Carlo. "I'm sorry, but you've taken up some of my minutes, and now my refusal's not only going to be harsh, it's going to be abrupt. No." "But--" Carlo said. " no." "Can't we talk about this?" Carlo asked. "3:59," Walkin' Talkin' Dave called out. Bogie sighed. "You're going to have to come back and let me turn you down tomorrow, Carlo. I'm out of time." Bogie stood up and turned away. "But Bogie, I your help." Bogie stood in the doorway leading to the bar. "I'm sorry, Carlo, but I'm done being a detective for the day. I'm being the Entertainment Director now." He looked at Carlo pityingly. "I wasn't really planning on being a detective tomorrow, but if you come back early we can talk about this some more, and I'll let you down gently, okay?" He turned his back on Carlo and went out into the bar. He thought maybe if he pretended the other man wasn't there he'd go away quietly. He slid onto a barstool. Walkin' Talkin' Dave Bradden filled a glass almost to the rim with white rum, and then added a splash of pineapple juice, and topped it with a cherry, a slice of orange, and a small pink umbrella. "What's Carlo want?" Bogie shook his head. "I don't know. We didn't get that far. He'll tell me tomorrow, and after I turn him down, if you still want to know, you can ask me. And then I'll tell you. Okay?" Walkin' Talkin' Dave smiled at Bogie, showing a row of impressively even white teeth. "Sure thing, Bogie." Bogie smiled back, because unlike Carlo, he believed that all of the smiles Dave aimed at him were intended for him. Bogie took a sip of the rum with a splash of pineapple juice. Entertainment Directors drank rum with a splash of pineapple juice. With little umbrellas in them. Detectives drank whiskey, straight. "I've got to get out of the detective business," he confided to Walkin' Talkin' Dave. "I hate all my clients, and I don't like the whiskey much better." Carlo settled himself onto the stool beside Bogie. "I'll pay you in advance." Bogie looked straight ahead, so he wouldn't have to look at Carlo. It didn't work; Carlo stared back at him from the mirror behind the bar. "I'm being the Entertainment Director, man. If you want a gig, say so. Otherwise buzz off." "Okay. I want a gig." "I'm booked," Bogie snapped. "You check out the blond chick and I'll play Sunday night. I've got a following, Bogie. I'll bring people in." Carlo leaned close to Bogie and said slyly, "Blue Hair'll like that." "Leave Blue Hair out of this!" said Bogie sharply. "I'm the Entertainment Director, and what I say goes. Don't forget that." "Hey, Dave," said Carlo, "seen Blue Hair?" "She was in earlier. She'll be back." Carlo said, "I'll wait. Give me a Bud." Walkin' Talkin' Dave placed a Long-Necked Budweiser on the bar in front of Carlo, and walked away. An uncomfortable silence descended. Bogie, as the Entertainment Director, and Walkin' Talkin' Dave, as the Bar Manager, supposedly ran The Rock. But everybody knew that in reality, Blue Hair, the extremely old woman who owned the club, had them both crushed under her heel. Bogie said, "Every Sunday night until January." Carlo could not contain his outrage at the suggestion. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind? I'm an . I've got a deal." Bogie snorted. "Fine. Get run over." "Look, I , man. That's too long. But I'll work--" Carlo paused, thinking. "Two months of Sundays, okay? Through August." "Four months," Bogie said. "Through Halloween. you pay me in advance." "How much?" "How much do you have?" Carlo searched his pockets, came out with a crumpled wad of bills. He straightened them out on the bartop, counting. "Eighteen, twenty, twenty . . . four. Twenty-four dollars." He looked at Bogie sharply. "Am I getting for these Sunday nights?" "Of course not." "Then why do I have to pay you? This is an even trade, right?" "As the Entertainment Director," said Bogie evenly, "you and I have concluded a business arrangement whereby you perform in my club, gaining exposure for yourself, and entertaining my customers. We both benefit. It is a mutually profitable arrangement. Is this clear?" "Well, yes, but--" Bogie could feel himself warming to the subject. "As a Professional Detective, you are further retaining my services to determine the motives of the woman who has been following you, and who attempted to run you over on Pacific Coast Highway after your gig at UnClean Joe's last night. Is it reasonable, I ask you, that I perform this service for you without charging?" "Well--" Carlo said. "I think that's my twenty-four dollars," said Bogie. He looked to Walkin' Talkin' Dave. "What do you think, Dave?" Walkin' Talkin' Dave nodded. "I think that's your twenty-four dollars, too." Bogie stared at Carlo with his sunglasses. "Any questions? Like, for example, When do you start on Sundays? Nine o'clock. Any further questions?" "Yeah," Carlo said. "When do you start detecting?" "Right now." Bogie took a sip of his rum and pineapple juice. "So get the hell out. I can't do it with you watching." Carlo sighed, standing up; the Indian chick had said the same thing. Clearly he was among professionals. His Bud sat, untouched, in front of him, dripping sweat down the label and onto the pristine surface of the bar. He looked at Bogie anxiously. "You're serious. You're really going to look into this for me?" Bogie Freedom said, "Yes." Carlo backed toward the door. "I can you? You're not like the others?" "Of course not," said Bogie soothingly. "Oh, and Carlo?" Carlo looked at Bogie hopefully. "Yeah?" "Lose the bandanna, man." ~~~~~~~~~~ "Terminal Freedom" is copyright 1994 by Daniel Keys Moran and Jodi Moran. All rights reserved.