Kelvin gave us a ride down into Allston. When we walked into the Pearl, Hoa stared at me for a minute but he didn't say anything. I guess a Vietnamese refugee has seen it all. He recognized Boone, too, as the gentleman who'd brought in the message yesterday. Bart had received it, and he'd left a response: meet me at the Arsenal some day after work.
It was after work now. I borrowed Hoa's phone and called over there and asked for the long-haired guy covered with tire dust. The bartender knew exactly who I was talking about. “He just left,” he said. “He was here with his girl and they took off. I think they're going to a concert. They were all decked out in leather.” That didn't tell me much; they always looked that way.
We hadn't done any serious newspaper reading in a couple of days and, as Kelvin had pointed out, we were way behind on our current events. So I went down the street to a vending machine. I was feeling impatient so I made myself get up and jog, and about halfway there decided I wasn't sick, just stiff and tired. The trip to the emergency room hadn't been a waste of time.
When I went through my pockets looking for change, I found seventy or eighty bucks in cash. Kelvin and Charlotte had made a donation to the domestic terrorism fund. But there weren't any quarters, so I jogged another block to a convenience store and bought my paper there.
They had a TV going behind the counter, showing the seven o'clock news, and that was my first chance to see Boone's performance on TV. I couldn't hear the soundtrack, but when they flashed Boone's picture up over the anchorwoman's shoulder, they had him labeled as “Winchester.” So nobody had recognized him. That was probably good, though I didn't really know if it mattered. They spent a while on Boone and Pleshy, then moved onward to Dolmacher, showing a police cordon around his house, and a closet shot of Bathtub Man being hauled out in a sack.
Then it was Dolmacher's picture, stolen from a frame of the videotape, above the anchorwoman's shoulder. Why don't anchor people ever turn around and look at this parade of mugs behind them? I insisted that the Babylonian behind the counter turn up the sound.
“...found a large number of photographs and documents on Dolmacher's person which police and FBI agents are currently studying. While no official statement has been made, sources say that the information may be an attempt by Dolmacher to explain his reason for the bizarre assault.”
The rest of the broadcast was about chloracne, and I didn't bother to watch. I brought a Globe and a Herald back to Boone, who had set us up with some beers. He took the Herald, I took the Globe, and while we were scanning the columns and pouring back those frosty brews, I told him about the newscast and what Dolmacher had been up to.
Boone was delighted. “You keep shitting on this guy, S.T., but he's smarter than you give him credit for.”
“Shit, no. He got the whole idea from me. From you and me. I tell you, Boone, he's been following my career. If you want to get something covered in the media, do the loudest, most media-genie thing you can and then you've got your platform.”
“Pretty strange way of doing it. Shooting an ex-V.P.”
“Pretty strange, hell. That's Dolmacher's way of doing it. He doesn't even own a Zodiac.”
“So maybe the guy's not crazy.”
“Let's put it this way. He's not irrational. I'll lay you odds he never spends a day in jail.”
“Maybe all the vital information is in there. The secret of how to kill the bug.”
“You really think so?” God, what a thought. “You think Dolmacher's that cool?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“But Kelvin is.”
“Kelvin is. Kelvin can handle the bug. We've got to handle Pleshy. We've got to handle his ass. People need to know about this crime.”
“What's your plan?”
“Spectacle Island. Tonight. I'll lay you odds there are still some PCBs down under that barge. And plenty of bugs, too.”
“All we have to do is hire a zeppelin to lift the barge off the evidence,” Boone said.
“Just have to cut through the bottom of the barge. Or something. Have to go look at it first. Hell, it's not going anywhere. We can take our time. Shit, I wonder what Laughlin was doing there.”
“You never saw Laughlin on Spectacle Island, did you?”
“No, but he had this brand new boat. And he was carrying a gun around in it. And he knew about the Poyzen Boyzen-barge-Spectacle Island connection. I'll bet you anything Laughlin's been going out there regularly.”
“Why? He can't move the barge either.”
“Basco put him in charge of Biotronics for one reason: to destroy the evidence under that barge. And he's nothing if not effective. Ever hear of hands-on leadership? I think Laughlin must have read some books on the subject. So maybe he has a way of getting through the bottom of the barge, getting access to the shit down there.”
We went through several beers before we thought about ordering food. I'd eaten enough at the Pearl to earn this privilege, and Hoa seemed to enjoy playing bartender for a change. As much as he enjoyed anything, that is. He is always cheerful but I was never sure if he was happy. Of course, happy is a concept for fat Americans. Immigrants don't seem to care about happy very much. Healthy, wealthy and wise, yes, but happiness alone is something their children worry about, maybe. Now, the surly, toxic busboy, he was unhappy and wanted to do something about it. He didn't seem to be around tonight.
When we finally ordered some food, I asked Hoa about him. “Where's the busboy?”
He didn't understand. Since he was obsessed with my bicycle, I tried a different tack. “The one who rides the scooter?”
Hoa got serious for once, lost that fake pixie smile, and bent forward just a hair. “Very sick.”
“Had a rash on his body and so on,” Boone suggested, rubbing his hand around on his chest.
“We took him to the hospital and now they giving him medicine for it.”