A wide and open boulevard littered with garbage, Cathedral Avenue looked like yesterday’s unrefrigerated Chinese takeout. It took a couple of passes before I located the dark tavern near the corner of Cathedral and Fifth. The “B” was missing from its darkened neon and the place appeared closed. Actually, the whole area looked as if it still hadn’t recovered from a party the night before. Very few cars rushed down either side, the only pedestrians two old bottle hunters rolling overloaded shopping carts. We weren’t talking the lush life here.

I continued driving slowly appearing, I hoped, lost but actually looking for Washington Clifford or his men. Two blocks away I spotted police. It wasn’t a Lew Archer; two Blues in a parked patrol car make for an easy see.

So easy I knew they weren’t Clifford’s. Washington Clifford and his people were shadow men. I drove for another block but couldn’t make anyone else, though my neck hairs were saluting. I looked around for another couple of minutes, still saw no one, and finally assigned my feeling to the encounter with the girl in front of my house. Still, I searched for a place to park away from the bar and out of sight of the cops.

I aimed toward a commercial lot but was rewarded for my diligence with a metered space. Unwilling to thumb my nose at the ladies in uniform, I left my always handy windshield note claiming mechanical malfunction, then circumvented the Blues on my way back to the tavern. If they were going to get another look at me, they’d have to get out of their cars. Something I doubted since it was cold outside.

Despite the broken sign and gloomy entrance, Buzz’s heavy, age-streaked oak door opened just fine. Though it took a moment for the silence to extend through the smoke-filled room, by the time my eyes adjusted to the gray light the few scattered customers had garroted their conversations. Lowered heads and hooded eyes snuck peeks as I walked to the large oval bar. I kept my breathing shallow as a defense against the smell of beer, perspiration, and ammonia floor cleaner. The tavern was almost as inviting as the cold, trash-strewn street.

I sat down, stared at the cigarette-scorched, sweat-darkened Formica, and listened to the conversations resume. I’d almost set a fire in the ashtray before the tall skinny bartender nodded. Unfortunately, acknowledgment was different from response, so I sat smoking another cigarette until he left his conversation at the far turn of the large circle.

“Double Daniel’s. I had trouble finding your place,” I said hoping he was Buzz. “The sign out front is pretty small and your ‘B’ is missing.”

“I don’t see no reason to make the electric company rich. Anyone who comes here has been in before,” he answered. “Ain’t gonna find any Jack in those,” he added pointing his thumb back over his shoulder toward a tier of Jack Daniel’s bottles on the shelf behind the bar.

“Just give me the best you’ve got.” I grinned and added, “I was raised in a ginmill so thanks for the professional courtesy.”

He grunted, walked away, and returned with my double. “We don’t get many strangers in here and you don’t sound lost,” he said leaning over the Formica. “And you don’t look like one of those glitz reporters,” he added.

I’d short-sheeted my brain and had rushed in without a damn cover story. Mr. Spontaneity had no choice but to use the bone that was thrown. And use it carefully, since I didn’t imagine the bartender was alone in his opinion of the press. “Well, I am a writer, but I don’t run with the pack. I’m not hot for clusterfucks. Everyone hoping they ain’t holding their nose when someone important farts.” I shook my head. “You getting a lot of them in here?”

Before the bartender answered, an old man with a shock of white-blond hair spoke up. He sat a couple of stools downwind, hunching over an empty shot glass and a pint of Guinness. “A few of ‘em wandered in right after the shootings but I haven’t seen no one since. You work for the newspaper?” he asked.

“No way, Pop,” I said. “Can’t wrap fish in what I do. I’m a slick paper free-lance. National magazines. You run with the dailies you won’t get anyone’s name straight. When I do a story I do it right.”

The full head of Warhol white turned toward me bringing a pockmarked face. “You’re telling the truth there, goddamnit. The papers always got something screwed up. The television is friggin’ lucky if they get the right name.”

I nodded my agreement. “What’s the matter with you, old-timer? You’ve lived long enough to know better than to read.”

“Some habits are tough to break, sonny.” He grinned and ducked his head back into the Stout.

I tilted my shot glass toward the bartender and nodded toward the old guy.

“What are you doing here?” asked the bartender after he served the old man his drink.

“I’m looking for Buzz,” I said quietly, making certain I couldn’t be overheard.

“You found him,” he answered, matching my tone.

“Phil from Charley’s told me to look you up. I want to do a story on the Avengers. From their perspective. I was hoping you could get me an intro,” I pitched. “I don’t think the Avengers will get a fair shake with the regular media. I want an angle that’s different from the beat reporters. I’m less interested in the shootings than I am in what the Avengers are really about.”

I backed off the sell, ordered a Sam Adams, another Guinness for the old man, and told Buzz to buy something for himself. Before he left to fill the order, he spent a long moment looking me over then asked, “Where did you say you got my name?”

“From Phil. The guy who owns Charley’s. He said you might help.”

Buzz grunted his reply and walked away. Before returning he served a Budweiser to the man he’d been talking to when I’d arrived. When Buzz finally made it back with my drink, the guy tagged along as a chaser. He wore copper color wide-wale cords, a pale blue workshirt and an old, dungaree jacket. He looked in his thirties, medium build, and when he spoke I saw two gold incisors.

“Buzz says you’re with the press,” he said sitting down next to me.

“Not the regular media. I free-lance for national magazines.”

“Which magazines?” the sandy-haired man demanded.

“Depends. First I get the story, then I pick the glossy I think will bite.” I tried to remember the magazine where I’d seen the picture of the guerrilla fighter holding a human thigh bone, but Fang didn’t push. Just as well; any magazine that ran Benetton ads wasn’t going to help.

“These magazines pay you?”

I caught a glimpse of the old man lifting his head out of the Guinness. “Fuck, yes, they pay me. Damn good too,” I said, emphatically. Matt Jacob—the Norman Mailer of a new generation. Then I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the glass shelving; better make that Hunter Thompson.

Fang slid off the stool and pointed to a booth at the back of the room. I shrugged, grabbed my beer and cigarettes, and followed. Before I wedged into my side, I motioned for another round. My companion waited silently but grimaced gold when I lit up.

“You don’t smoke?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“We need to stay healthy.”

“We?”

He stared hard as he leaned forward. “People who care about this country.”

“You’re not talking President’s Council on Physical Fitness, are you?”

A glare of disgust followed his look of confusion. “You were joking,” he finally guessed.

“It’s my way, sorry.”

“Well, this is fucking serious business. There’s not much time left to read the funnies. You know what I’m saying?”

“If you mean that the country has gone to hell-in-a-handbasket, sure, sure I know what you’re saying.”

He nodded grimly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I chipped at the bonhomie. “So you quit smoking because the country sucks. But what’s that got to do with me?”

“This country don’t suck, Mister, the people who control it suck.”

“You’re talking about…?” I asked with a friendly look.

He tilted his head to the side as if listening to a voice in his ear. Maybe he was. The voice in my ear was cursing for not having brought something to help me look like a fucking writer.

“Well, basically it’s the Wall Street Jews.” He stopped, unsure of what came next. Finally he shook his head and said, “Look. Here’s the deal. I know people who want to get their story out but they’ve been burned so much they don’t like talking to reporters.”

“I’m a writer, not a reporter. Anyway, I read some stuff about Kelly. Where did it come from?” I asked.

He waved his hand. “No, no, I don’t mean that. We can talk to anyone we want about Sean.”

He leaned forward, dug his eyes into my face, and bared his gold. “Sean Kelly was a fucking patriot. He was a fucking genius. He understood exactly how the shit here goes down. This goddamn bearded Horn offed a true American hero. They did him just like they did Jesus. The Horns, the fucking liberals’ with their horn-rimmed blinders on, they find a way to kill everyone who can make a difference. Sean was someone who understood things and wasn’t afraid to stand up for them. You know what I mean?”

He kept his eyes on my face while I nodded my agreement. I knew exactly what Fang meant. Kelly was a manly man. A rabid, down-home, shit-kicking, beer-guzzling bigot of a man. “What’s your name?” I asked fighting off the resurgence of my headache.

“Joe. What’s yours?”

“Matt.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

I tried to force the action. “I understand what you’re talking about, might even agree with some of it, but I still don’t know why I’m talking to you. Me and the old guy were just getting acquainted.”

“Fuck Pops.” Joe narrowed his eyes and smirked. “You’re talking to me because I can get you what you’re looking for and the old man can’t.”

“What’s that?”

“I told you, access to the top of the Avengers.”

Time to pull down my skirt, play a little hard to get. “What do you take me for?” I demanded. “I’m supposed to believe you’re holding the hot ticket?”

He frowned, then looked sly. “Buzz said you might be all right. I don’t make those decisions, but I can get you to the guy who does, okay?” Joe looked proud of himself. “I can get you to someone who can tell you about the White Avengers. You can get plenty about Kelly, plus the important stuff. The shit we believe in.”

“It must be my lucky day.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about? Who are those other people? If you’re connected to the Avengers, why don’t you talk to me?”

He sat back on his bench. “You’re pretty suspicious for someone who wants something.” A sudden look of annoyance crossed his face. “I told you it ain’t up to me to do the talking, especially now. But the Avengers want to educate the public. Let them know how the Horns control the fucking muds and run the government.”

“Muds?”

He shook his head with exasperation. “Darkies, spics, yellows, you name it. You’re a fucking reporter and you don’t even know who the mud is! This is why we got to get the information out. The way the fucking country is going we don’t have a lot of time.” Joe’s voice reeked with arrogance, topping an undercurrent of desperation. I’d found another true believer and needed a moment to dig out from his rabid prejudice.

“Writer, not reporter.”

“Big fucking difference,” he replied. “Anyway, we’re on the lookout to see if any of you assholes will give us a fair shake.”

“You really know how to grab a guy’s sympathy, don’t you?” I was sick of his vibes and tired of being labeled an asshole.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

It was time to close or walk so I mentally held my nose. “I mean you don’t get fair treatment, do you? That’s the one thing I got to give.”

He snorted. “No shit, we don’t get fair. Everything’s slanted. Always making us out to be nuts. Only we ain’t crazy. Ain’t even close. Shit, we might be the only sane ones left.

“I’m telling you, I can put you next to the man who will make sense out of everything.” He paused to look around. “The folks here,” he waved his arm, “not just inside the bar, but the whole neighborhood, they know we’re not crazy. Even them that don’t agree.”

“It’d piss me off too,” I prompted. “Selling newspapers by calling you ‘sickos.’”

“That’s why we got to be careful.”

I shrugged. “Me too.”

“How much do you get for an article if you sell it?” Joe asked in a sudden jump.

“Somewhere between five and seven big ones,” I made up.

He whistled appreciatively and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, wait here for a couple minutes while I get them. If they like you, we might have a proposition.”

“Thanks, but I find my own women.”

He started to answer but caught on. “Oh, another joke,” he said.

I nodded.

“Well, wait here, anyway.”

“Why not,” I agreed, pushing away my growing revulsion and sudden apprehension.