I don't know, though. What would you have done? You're turning left to get gas, two lanes of traffic yield for you, you wave politely, and then...uh-huh: DOUCHE!!

And as your German sedan spins crazily in the road, alternately striking cars and telephone poles, you realize that you've already leapt out in some motor-level survival burst, as the car hisses and smokes just off of Scottsdale Road. You run up to the offending vehicle--a chrome-yellow 1965 convertible Mustang, the engine sitting on the fairy's knees--and the driver says: "Oh no. Lawrenth ith going to kill me."

What would you do?

I held off, even though I probably should have abused him, for his own good...but that is beside the point, and basically outside the crux of this tale, which I am finishing, for good or ill, in the next nine minutes.

The letter. Yes. I hated to have to be writing such a thing, but, again, it was for his own good:

May 12, 1987

Dear Marcus,

Strange happenings. Guess what?...your new phone number is unlisted. But you probably knew that.

Why, Marcus? What would lead you to spend all that cash on a new #, plus the cost of having it unpublished, when you're already broke, or even in debt. Why? What is your motivation? That's a mighty drastic change, and expensive, to boot.

Since I cannot talk to you personally, these questions must come via U.S. Postal Service. Yes, it is an ugly thing--not that I continue in vain to write to you, but that I must, just so you will examine these questions. Hopefully I'll get your new number from your folks, so I can talk to you about this deep-burrow. It's not heartening to see what used to be a great friend being fished for by the Tidy-Bowl Man.

And the worst part is, that you know the Options: retail menswear; Navy/Coast Guard/Air Force; or, sucking it up on the familial teat and competing the baccalaureate. Them's it: YOUR ONLY OPTIONS. I would suggest The Military, simply because I think you need it. Not for camaraderie, or for the GI Bill, but so that, when 5:00am comes, you can be awakened to a metal trumpet blast very close to your hammer/anvil/stirrups. And if you don't get out of bed, you won't have a bed...just a vermin-encrusted floor to shiver on in hideous shame.

I know it's not The Way to Go, but, for some, it's a great life. And I think it could be for you, too. Of course, there is a dark side. Maybe you would kick the C.O. in the nuts for directing Reveille too close to your eardrums, after some prolonged agoraphobic fit. Or maybe you'd flee to Ixtaca or Nome...no, forget Nome. Bad idea. There are psyops centers there, and you'd never see real daylight again.

Well, maybe it is all futile. Maybe you are A Casualty. Maybe all of our LSD discoveries did something to your synapses. Or, more likely, you saw things you wanted, but they left after 12 hours and could only be found again by dropping another hit.

I warned you about that.

But, hey...this is all random speculation, seeing as I haven't heard from you in something like six months. And I don't expect to...at least until you realize that the Big Kids often have to drive without headlights (and live to tell about it).

TBF
***

I drove over Zane Smith's Docwood Farms breeding ranch, and walked quietly, so as not to disturb the pitbulls, and placed The London Tape on his doorstep. Fuck it. At some point, I knew it would have to end. Why not now?

Then I drove to the apartment, surveying the crannies for anything I might have left behind, but the place was scoured. The only thing left was the phone, which I used one more time, before jerking it out of the wall, welshing on a huge bill that has probably ruined my credit rating with Rocky Mountain Bell...not that I'll ever be back to that scorched-earth. And if I do, it'll have to be for a large and compelling reason, full of money and prestige, and on somebody else's tab.

An unnamed secretary transferred the call through to Ted Humes, without asking my name. Like a good girl.

"Hello?"

"Ted, this is--"

"Todd, yeah, hell, I'd recognize that baritone anywhere. How the hell are you? Where have you been keeping yourself?"

As far away from this butt-stinking place as possible, I thought.

"You know this is my last day, don't you? I'm giving my resignation...but I guess you knew that. You had the best Intelligence around."

I didn't know, but I was afraid that letting on might dull my reputation, so I kept it zippered. "Well, Ted, I was wondering if I could get a letter of recommendation before you left..."

"Yeah... I have a press conference at 2:00. Can you come before then?"

"I'll be there at noon."

I wet down my hair, which was overdue for a cut, and debated shaving. I'd decided to grow a beard again, for the coast. But fuck these people and their Puritanical instincts. Driving down Central Avenue for the last time, I had a powerful sense of deja vu. The summer heat permeated my new BMW, with its faulty air-conditioning, and by the time I arrived to the Chamber of Commerce Building, I was soaked with sweat.

Sweet memories.

Then, a nervous perspiration drenched me to the bone. I was out of my element this time. Four months of working temporary bullshit jobs had raped my self-confidence. I got the shakes half-way up the elevator shaft, and by the time I reached the 10th floor, I was a wreck. Bad memories, bitter visions. But I entered RUCO's sweaty little environs with the courage of a man beaten so savagely before the Public that even his memory was a little scarred.

"My God." Jane Hyler had not been briefed on my appointment, and grilled me as to what I'd been up to lately. I made up some lie and walked straight into Ted's office, without the benefit of a ring-through.

He was wearing the same starch-white sear-sucker suit as he had on my first day at RUCO. He was sober and relaxed. It was over. The stress, confusion...treachery. Standing up, he took my hand. "Todd, man, how've you been?"

Fucked. Truly. You bastard, traitor, thin-skinned SOB. I loved the man, but he simply had no balls.

"Great, Ted. I'm going to USC," I said, forcing a quivering smile. "The Master's in Professional Writing."

"Going to write about RUCO, are you?" he grinned, not a note of concern in his voice.

"I've got some stories in my head."

"Good. Good, Todd. Hey, did I ever show you my books? I was quite a writer in my day...might even do something on this place, once it's over...the bastards...you were here."

I handed over to him a letter I'd typed moments earlier. Glancing through, he penned his signature, Theodore L. Humes, to the bottom, and that was all. ...but as I turned to leave, he called out into the hallway: "Todd, have you had lunch yet?"

His doomsake. A keen sense of timing had never been Ted's strong suit. Shit, even I would have ushered me out like a skunk, and made damned certain someone watched me get into the elevator and out of that goddamned building, before getting back to work...or whatever it is they do around there. I still don't know.

"No," I said. "Actually, I haven't."

Actually, I was shaking-hungry and about ready to fade into the matted, beige, government-issue carpeting.

"I've got about an hour before the press conference. Let's go talk."

Lunch was the usual: Clam chowder, a leafy-green spinach-salad with Roquefort dressing, and iced-tea. Memories. Only, this time Ted didn't pay...didn't even offer. It was over.

Jane Hyler told me she was lonely, having kicked out here live-in of seven years. I wanted to take her home for just one night, and...Bob Meyers talked about "insensitivity" in the Mainstream Media, while a new attorney sat bright-eyed and grateful, knowing he'd been rescued from a an $18,000-yearly divorce and petty-tort practice, by a kindly God and a desperate Ted Humes. No nervousness about any of them. It seemed that the damage had already been done. And once Secretary of State Rose Mofford took office, they would all be hitting pavement, their own beefed-up resumes in hand.

Dabbing some dressing from his lips, Ted leaned over and said, of a conspiratorial fashion, "Say, Todd. I'm planning a run for the Senate."

I stared at him, not sure what to make of it. With a pension from the CIA, a law degree from George Washington University, and ten years' service in Arizona government, pushing 70, I just didn't see the point. "State senate?" I said, finally.

And that is when he flashed the pearly whites. "Huh-uh. I'm taking on DeConcini."

"Well, fuck-in-A," I said, aloud. The old man had finally risen above the Spoils System. "Good for you, Ted," I said, shaking his hand.

He nodded, appreciatively, and the rest of the gang fawned about. "Say, Todd, do you know anything about my primary challenger, what is it, Keith DeGreen? I hear he's pretty well-financed, but he doesn't have much support in the trenches...maybe, the Young Republicans could help me out?"

I smiled absently, saying nothing. Vintage Ted. Too much aluminum chlorohydrate in the underarm deodorant. Too many Budweisers out of the can. Should have stuck with the bottles, Ted. It was like asking Caryl Chessman to take your daughter to the prom.

Then he said there were some papers that needed to be delivered to the media-pool--his formal resignation letter. And, bless his heart, he wanted me to be his running-boy again. I just couldn't say no.

Ted dropped me off in front of the Capitol building, while he made his final bye-byes to the last vestige of a Mecham administration, still clinging on for the messy clean-up, tucked safely away in some dingy converted storage area in the basement, the meat having long since spoiled.

Evan Mecham's top aide, former Congressman Sam Steiger, had been convicted on extortion charges, for intimidation of a public official, and assigned to something like two million hours of community service work with the Arizona Bar Association...which might not sound so bad to me and you, but most of us probably don't make it a public habit of calling attorneys "the running-sores on the body of American Society."

Mecham, himself, was impeached by the full House and Senate on every count, in a proceeding so obviously loaded that the ACLU was now offering The Guv its help, which he naturally refused. The final charges read: Concealing a Campaign Loan; Obstruction of Justice, in relation to Lee Watkins's death-threat on Donna Carlson, and Misappropriation of Public Monies. "The brutish, ideological juggernaut," as Arizona Republic editor Pat Murphy had coined it, had run aground under its own inept weight. But as repugnant as Mecham was to most of the state legislature, they could not, as a body, bring themselves to strip him of his civil rights, and thereby voted down the Dracula Clause, which would have prevented him from holding elected office ever again.

I stepped past the Capitol's aphid-encrusted rose garden and took note of the shock which registered on seven or nine faces, as I handed out Ted's resignation letter. The vultures had already been fed on the news, and were preparing for to descend on the leftovers, grooming themselves and picking at the nits... But what the fuck would Ted send me as messenger? What kind of sick prank was that? The last foetid note of a bygone war anthem? There had to be some meaning. Maybe we were up to something really vicious--a four-megaton delayed-action letter-bomb, or something just as cruel and pointless.

I chuckled, then left the building, as Ted gunned the engine of his new Mecham Pontiac. I debated saying anything. One more day, and I'd be out of this wretched environ, laying on a golden Santa Barbara beach, tugging at a couple bikinis.

"Ted, I want to ask you something."

Staring straight ahead, in lunch-hour traffic, he anticipated my question with ecstasy and doom.

"How many people do you have on your campaign?" I wondered.

He nodded. "I've just hired a manager. He's a lawyer from California. Nobody else yet. Why, Todd? What do you have in mind?"

"Well," I paused, still ruminating. "You need a jack-of-all-trades. And I'd love to help."

"Yeah...yeah, Todd, I need the help, but--"

"Nobody would have to know. I'll work for free...no title. Drum up a fierce character assassination on your primary challenger, then hunt DeConcini down like a peccary. I've done it for Conlan."

"Yeah, Todd," he nodded. "I know...you're one of the best."

"Whaddya say, Ted? How much do you have to lose? I mean, if you don't go straight for the 'nads, it's all over."

In his eyes, I saw the fried stare of a man destined to fall asunder with some roan-alcoholic, junior-propaganda minister knotted securely around his neck. "Alright, Todd," he said. "Just remember, I already have a manager."

The green light was actually a pale, piss-yellow, but I needed one more taste. One last drop of blood shed from a socialist incumbent. Needed it.

I got into my Black Book, laden with strong venom, and phoned Wayne Watson, the John Birch Society National Council leader. Time was too precious for to mince words. In twelve hours, I'd be a tactical superstar, or else puffing bomber joints on the coast of California, desperately trying to get the leaden weight of politics from out of my skull.

"Wayne," I said, "would you go out of your way to support Ted Humes against Dennis DeConcini?"

"Oh hell yes!" was his thunderous reply. "Is he running?"

"This is all between you and me, Wayne."

"It always is."

"Yeah," I sighed, my heart doing a little stutter-step. "He's in it. But he's in terrible financial shape. If we can drum up some of the big right-wing dollars, Ted can tear the other Republican a new one. Then we pray like hell and go after DeConcini in the general."

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Host a big Birch dinner. Bleed anyone with money. This is critical, Wayne."

"I know," he muttered. "DeConcini's been there too long."

Fifteen more phone calls yielded the same results. I had raised ten thousand dollars in pledges before the little hand even moved.

"Ted, this is Todd. I made a few calls, and it looks like you're in better shape than we thought."

Uneasy silence. "Who did you call?"

"Just some of the Birchers," I told him.

"Did you mention my name?"

I thought I heard a quavering in his voice.

"Only to the big boys. They had to know. I think I just drummed up ten grand for you."

"Listen, Todd," he said. "I told you I already had a campaign manager! Goddamnit, why did you have to make those calls?"

"Your manager doesn't know the kind of money I do. He'd never crack the support. Fuck, he's from California."

"Todd!!!" he was flat-out shrieking. "Goddamnit, I'm asking you--I'm begging you--for my sake, no more calls!!!"

"Ted, please listen--"

"The papers are going to get hold of it," he wailed, cutting me off. "It's bad enough that I let you know--now the Birch Society. Can't you see it, Todd? They're going to say the Birchers are pushing me--"

"Ted, the press already hates you. You know that. Fuck 'em. Do whatever you have to do."

"--those reptiles are going to hound me! Please, Todd, you embarrassed RUCO, please don't embarrass me. I'm begging you, Todd, no more calls, please!"

I disengaged. "I thought I was doing you a favor."

Ted paused for a second. "And I thank you, Todd. But I talked to my manager, and he told me DIRECTLY to keep the JBS out of it! You'll bring nothing but trouble dragging the John Birch Society into my campaign."

"Alright, Ted," I mumbled. "You won't hear from me again."