Bad Scene

PROLOGUE  

THE AMAZON RAIN FOREST

NOVEMBER 11, 1978

It is time for the first volunteer, Brother Adem shouted to the 243 gathered along the cliff.

He sat on the broad shoulders of one of his followers, facing the crowd. His words, marked by a prominent Afrikaans accent, reverberated through the bullhorn he held to his lips. In the distance, the tip of the volcano glowed in the night sky, the reason for the church’s long trek. Their ultimate destination.

Time for the first volunteer.

In the darkness broken by the full moon, his followers’ eyes sparkled as they connected with his.

Almost as one, they answered: "Ja, Adem."

Brother Adem nodded with satisfaction. Haven, his personal guard, shifted beneath him. The big man’s motorcycle jacket fit like a saddle.

Adem studied the dirty, hopeful faces. He wore his floppy hat over his long unwashed hair, along with the same filthy striped bell-bottoms he’d worn for weeks, traveling on the ship to South America with his children, hiking for days from the coast. His prison crucifix tattoo in the middle of his forehead, just slightly off-center, pointed at a long arched nose. His light green sunglasses hid pinpoint pupils.

Who will be the first to reach perfection, children?

Me, Adem!

There. A feminine hand shot up.

The volunteer was a pretty young American woman, her red hair long and wild. Her face was grubby but strikingly pale, hauntingly beautiful. Light eyes shone with faith. Her vulnerability stirred him. Adem had been with many of the females and couldn’t recall if he had sampled her yet and wondered why he didn’t remember her. She wore a thin, rumpled dress and her shapely breasts hung free underneath. His loins responded.

He would know her better before she reached perfection. She would not be a volunteer just yet.

He moved the bullhorn away from his chapped lips, spoke to Haven quietly. The auburn-haired woman of approximately twenty years? Her name?

Haven jostled underneath him, the smell of his unwashed body ripe and fragrant.

Pamela Hayes, Haven said. She joined us in San Francisco.

And her perfect name?

Fenna.

Adem raised the bullhorn. Why do you wish to be the first, Fenna?

Perfection, Adem. I want perfection.

Perfection in death. Adem nodded slowly, making a show of it, for he already had a volunteer selected, one of the extras brought along to ensure that the perfect number of 242—eleven times twenty-two—survived the journey. He had started with 245. Two were already gone. That left one more before the day of surrender, and it would not be Fenna. He would savor her first. He lifted the bullhorn and spoke. And you shall reach perfection, my child. But today is not your day. He looked at the rest of the crowd in a theatrical sweep. Who has today selected, children? This eleventh day of the month, a sacred day.

Two more hands. Good.

Adem’s knees shifted Haven around like a horse as he gestured at the night sky over Tungurahua—the Throat of Fire—across the canyon. The cobalt blue space prickled with early stars, pulsing in the halo of light from the volcano.

Eleven days from now we will make our first ascent. Molten rock from the bowels of Mother Earth will cleanse us. Tomorrow we march to our sanctuary to prepare.

The 243 answered: "Ja, Adem."

She knows. That mankind has ruined her domain. And she knows we understand. For we have come all this way. Many miles, children. And we are stronger as we reach perfection. She knows. But she needs a token of our understanding.

Ja, Adem.

Torches were being lit here and there, and their flames cast dancing light across his unwashed flock.

For only in death is there a new life.

Ja, Adem.

And we do not fear death.

Nee, Adem.

And for this moon, this rare moon, and her throat of fire, we thank her.

Ja, Adem.

So who will be the first? Adem scanned the faces. He found the glassy eyes and bulbous cheeks he was searching for. An unfortunate-looking young man, ugly, with mental deficiencies. Godfried was his perfect name. The last extra brought along to ensure 242.

You, he said, pointing. Godfried. I feel your perfection rising.

Godfried’s face dropped with surprise. Me, Adem?

Yes, you. You will be the first.

A moment of hesitation. I will?

Yes. You.

Godfried flinched. I am not sure I am ready, Adem.

Yes, child, you are.

But … I’m frightened.

Now this was not good.

"For only in death is there a new life, Adem repeated. And we do not fear death."

Godfried blinked quickly, unsure.

Bring him here, Adem said, jostling on Haven’s shoulders. Bring my child here.

Two of the male members grabbed Godfried, one arm apiece.

The crowd parted and they pulled him forward.

He stood before Adem, looking up, his eyes flickering.

He was an awkward shape, with an underdeveloped torso and short, heavy legs.

Tungurahua flashed behind them.

See? Adem said. Mother Earth understands your fear. And tells you this is normal. But that you will transcend.

It wouldn’t do to throw him over. Not so early. The others would only think twice.

Adem narrowed his eyes at Godfried, the two men holding him.

Do you want assistance, Godfried?

Godfried eyed Adem, doubtful.

Adem raised his bullhorn, spoke to the 242. Give your brother the encouragement he needs to reach perfection, children!

The 242 shouted as one. "Perfeksie!"

Godfried stood upright, full of uncertain pride as he shook with nerves.

Go, child.

Tears streamed down the young man’s protruding cheeks.

"Perfeksie! Adem said. Now, brother."

"Ja, Adem," Godfried whispered. He reared back and took off in a sprint, heading for the cliff.

And then he was gone.

His scream echoed through the canyon.

Unfortunate, Adem thought.

There was a collective silence by the 242. They had not witnessed perfection before. Then another cheer. Then the wind rushing through the trees.

Adem kneed Haven, turned to his children.

We are renewed.

Ja, Adem.

We will rest here for the night before we head to Verligting. Our sanctuary. To prepare for the day. The twenty-second. Another sacred day, a multiple of eleven.

The crowd dispersed into smaller groups.

Adem dismounted. Turned to Haven, big, bearded, and wild.

The redheaded one? Fenna? Pamela? Bring her to my tent.

Haven gave a shrewd smile. Yes, Adem.

CHAPTER ONE  

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

EARLIER THAT WEEK

You left a message, Lucky? Colleen asked, squeezing in at the bar where space was at a premium. San Franciscans took their drinking seriously, especially after ten a.m.

Maybe it was about her runaway daughter. Luck was the last one to see Pam.

Colleen had found Lucky in Spec’s on Columbus, amidst the North Beach literati, standing next to an exotic dancer in a turquoise satin robe taking a break from the clandestine strip club upstairs. The jukebox thumped with Miss You and Colleen figured the end of the world was nigh if the Rolling Stones were pushing disco. Lucky wore his scruffy blue down jacket on top of his Chronicle newspaper apron, and was bent over a fresh vodka screwdriver, preparing to take the first sip without spilling any precious nectar. Stage Two Parkinson’s made that a challenge, but Lucky was up to the task.

Heaped next to his cocktail was a pile of nickels, dimes, and quarters that would have filled a large collection plate. Part of the morning’s take selling papers.

He took a sip, stood upright, lifting the drink in his palsied hands. It vibrated.

So I did. So I did. Lucky was in his forties, most likely, although his lifestyle made him look older, and his disease even more so. His shock of gray hair was still thick but ragged. He brandished an infectious grin offset by a missing front tooth before he sucked booze through a red straw. He hadn’t shaved in some time, possibly hadn’t bathed since then, either. But like a shaggy old dog that slept in the yard, it was no big deal; Lucky was good company. He set his drink down gingerly, most of it already gone. He dug into the front pocket of his apron, rattling change. Would a pretty lady like a drink?

Not right now, Colleen said, putting her hand on his arm. And you make sure you leave enough coin for a room tonight.

Sure, sure, he said. His thoughts seemed to wander as he bobbed to the music, his head loose on his neck.

You left a message with my answering service, Luck? Colleen asked again.

So I did, he said, looking for the bartender, a young man in a white thermal shirt and tight jeans. So I did.

Allow me, she said, getting her money clip out of her new black leather car coat, recently purchased at Macy’s on Union Square after a client had finally paid off his bill. A shotgun blast had taken her treasured bomber jacket. But the new coat was classier and went well with her faded wide bell-bottoms.

Not too much OJ, Colleen. It gives me indigestion.

Buying a drink for Lucky felt like giving a kid a family-size bag of candy. She ordered a screwdriver and quietly instructed the bartender to make it weak. He nodded.

Soon, Lucky was positioned over another cocktail, Colleen lighting a Virginia Slim and brushing her chestnut-colored feather-cut back while he drank off the top and got upright again. Lucky smacked his lips, bopping to disco Stones.

Luck? she said, tapping ash. Did you have some news? She didn’t want to ask about Pamela directly and put suggestions into his mind.

Did you get your hair cut? Lucky said. You look like one of Charlie’s Angels.

Patience was one thing Colleen had learned during her nine years in prison. I did, Luck. And flattery will get you everywhere. But the reason for your phone call will make me truly happy. Lucky had spotted Pamela two months ago, hanging out with members of Moon Ranch near his flop hotel. Since then, Pam had gone missing. Again. Colleen was ecstatic that Pamela had finally split with the cult, and would give just about anything to reconnect. But Pamela continued to shun her.

Pamela was the reason Colleen came to California last year. Pamela had taken off shortly before Colleen’s release from Denver Women’s Correctional Facility.

Pamela had never forgiven her for killing her father.

Lucky? she said.

Oh, right, Lucky said, setting his drink down sloppily. Shuggy.

And who might that be?

Shuggy Johnston, he said. Room next to mine. The biker den.

The Thunderbird?

Lucky slurped his screwdriver and gave a shaky nod.

Colleen knew all about the Thunderbird, a seedy residence hotel in the Tenderloin. She’d had the dubious privilege of renting a room there when she needed a verifiable address to satisfy parole.

This Shuggy’s a biker, I take it? she said.

Room 312. Biker den.

Why is it a ‘den’?

He’s always talking about a ‘den.’ Rides a chopper with a swastika eyeball painted on the tank. His friends ride too. They come to see him. Yes they do. To buy.

Shuggy deals?

Isn’t that what they do?

Is that what you wanted to tell me, Luck? That this Shuggy’s a dope dealer? With Lucky, one had to be sure what he was getting at.

Shook his head no. I was trying to sleep. Toilet paper in my ears. Newspapers don’t sell themselves, you know. He thumbed his own chest. I work for a living.

I know you do, Luck, and you are to be commended for it. So, it’s sounding like this Shuggy Johnston had some questionable visitors? Who woke you up?

Came up to the third floor, they did—the biker den. Heard them talking. Yes. Saw them too. Through the crack in the door.

You need to be careful, Luck.

He frowned. I know. I know. They already caught me once.

Not good. And?

He gave her a solemn look before his eyes darted to a 1940s wartime poster on the wall with a ship going down: Loose Lips Sink Ships.

Ah, she said quietly. It’s confidential.

He tapped the side of his nose.

She tapped hers, too, then signaled the barman to let him know they were leaving and to settle up. The barman scooped up Lucky’s pile of change, converted it to bills, which Lucky stuffed haphazardly into his jeans. Let’s go outside, Colleen said. You need to get out of here anyway. She tipped the barman, patted the bar to let him know she appreciated him looking after Lucky. They left, not a moment too soon. Stayin’ Alive had just come on the jukebox.

Outside, in the alley leading up to Specs, the gray morning that was often San Francisco cast a pale glow over their heads.

So, what’s this all about already, Luck? Colleen asked.

You’re a cop, right, Colleen?

Not in the slightest. But I know a couple of good ones.

Lucky’s unsteady neck shook as he looked this way and that, then back at Colleen. He put his hands into the pocket of his apron, rattled the change that was left.

Somebody’s gonna shoot the mayor, he said.

Colleen experienced a mild jolt. But Lucky was full of stories.

You sure about that, Lucky?

He nodded, a rickety headshake.

Why?

Because he likes the gays.

The mayor likes a lot of people.

Yeah, but this particular guy has a beef with him.

"What particular guy?"

A government guy who doesn’t like the gays either.

At City Hall? On Van Ness?

Another conspiratorial nod.

Does he have a name, Luck? This shooter? You can tell me.

Lucky scrutinized her. The bikers scare me. If they catch me again, I’m toasted.

They scare me too. And if I pass your information along, your name will never come up.

He gave her a squint. Solid?

"Solid. I am the owner and proprietor of Hayes Confidential, Luck. Confidentiality is so important that I put it right there in the name, see?"

He nodded.

Then he said, Jordan Kray.

That knocked her a little further to one side. Jordan Kray was a city district supervisor and a former cop.

Are you absolutely sure about that, Luck?

Sure as shinola.

And you heard this outside the biker den, she said. Where you were listening at the door?

Through the walls. And the crack. They’re loud, Shuggy and his dudes. They went to some Nazi Klucker meeting.

Klucker?

Ku Klucker Klan.

Neo-Nazi bikers. Nothing new. How many in this biker den?

He held up three fingers.

And you’re absolutely sure they were discussing how Supervisor you-know-who is going to shoot the mayor?

Because ‘he loves those fags,’ they said.

The current mayor was on record for supporting gay rights. And, despite being the People’s Republic of San Francisco where everything progressive was eagerly received with open arms, there were still plenty of good old-fashioned bigots lurking.

When is this shooting supposed to take place? she asked.

Lucky shrugged.

Have you told anybody else about this?

Shook his head.

Good. Then let’s just keep it between you and me.

"No problemo."

And do me another favor, Luck, and stay somewhere else for a while. No Thunderbird. I don’t like you being so close to Shuggy and his Nazi Klucker pals.

Where am I supposed to stay?

"The Hugo, Sixth and Mission. Or the Falcon, one block away. They’re closer to the Chronicle anyway. Less of a trip for you in the a.m."

Yeah, but those places don’t always have a room for me.

She got out her clip, peeled off a couple of twenties. She got one of her business cards out, jotted her personal phone number on the back, futzed with the broken zipper on the top pocket of Lucky’s down jacket, tucked her business card in with the money folded around it. Zipped it up as best she could, which was halfway. With what you have here, you can rent a room for the better part of a week. Do it today and make me happy. In fact, do it right now. Before you even go back to work.

He looked down in the direction of his pocket. How am I going to pay you back that much money?

She gave his cheek an affectionate pinch. With all the good info you give me, mister. You are my eyes and ears on the street.

Aww. He looked down, blushing.

Her voice croaked slightly before she spoke. Lucky, you haven’t heard or seen anything new about Pamela, have you?

Your little girl.

She’s nineteen now. But yes, I suppose you could still say that. You saw her a couple of months back, with some Moon Ranchers. Remember?

So I did. Near the Thunderbird.

And if you ever hear anything about her again, or the people from Moon Ranch, you’re going to let me know again, right away, correct?

I’m your eyes and ears.

She smiled. Straightened his collar.

What about the mayor thing? he asked.

I’m going to talk to someone, she said. "You, however, are not. Loose lips, remember?" She made a zipper motion over her mouth.

Lucky made the same zipper motion.

Good man, she said. No more biker den for you. Hugo. Sixth and Mission. If they give you any guff, you tell them to call me and I will set them straight.

Hugo, he said. Six and Mission. Hugo. Six and Mission. He turned around and marched off down Columbus, mumbling the words to himself.

She watched him, swinging his arms like a big kid, his apron flapping over his baggy jeans, his down jacket puffing out his skinny torso, talking to himself. He looked so vulnerable. He was vulnerable.

The mayor story might be drunken biker BS. But she’d check it out. Because the world was going to hell.

CHAPTER TWO  

The Thunderbird was a three-story flop hotel on O’Farrell in the heart of the Tenderloin, one of the city’s non-touristy areas. Built of brick and stone shortly after the 1906 quake in what had once been the ritzy part of town, not much had transpired since in the way of upgrades. A non-functioning neon sign in the shape of a stylized thunderbird, black with dirt, hung over the doorway, where a couple of residents sat on the steps with a boom box thumping Earth, Wind & Fire. A window was boarded up. Another had a sign advertising rooms available, by the day, week, month. Section 8 accepted.

Little parking was to be had. O’Farrell was one-way so Colleen circled the block, parked near the Mitchell Brothers Theater, where the marquee proudly proclaimed the club to be the home of the country’s first lap dance. Locking up the red Torino, she headed down to the Thunderbird. A working girl in gold hot pants with platforms to match her shiny blond wig was hunkered down outside the corner store, smoking a cigarette to keep warm. It didn’t appear to be helping. In her skimpy black tank top, her skin bore a blueish tint.

Colleen did not recognize the stoop dwellers from her time at the Thunderbird. But residents came and went. One grizzled young guy wore a long sleeved Mad Dog T-shirt. His friend was a heavyset Latino in a pink hair net and sunglasses. Both seemed to lack facial expressions. The music pulsated.

How’re the rooms? she asked.

Like shit, Mad Dog said.

Hey, you guys wouldn’t happen to know if Shuggy Johnston is home, would you?

Hair Net examined her. Out. Why?

Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say ‘hi.’

A stare. Plus one from his friend.

Did she look like a narc? Maybe she was bathing too often. But Shuggy Johnston did indeed live there. She could always ask the manager, Lawrence, from her residence period, but then she would be giving the game away. Low key was king.

She thanked them, strolled back up O’Farrell, stopping at a payphone near the Mitchell Brothers, where she called SFPD’s anonymous tip line, said there was a rumor that Jordan Kray was going to shoot the mayor. The woman manning the hotline seemed barely interested but made note of it.

Colleen hung up, dissatisfied with SFPD’s response. This called out for a little more due diligence.

It was late evening when the motorcycles came roaring down O’Farrell towards the Thunderbird. Colleen was dozing at the wheel of the Torino, parked across from the liquor store. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as the bikers curbed their rides. She readied her Canon SLR from under the Chronicle on the passenger seat.

Two choppers had raked front ends and the other was a big black Harley motor trike, like something a kid might find under the tree. A big kid in this case. Not that big actually, a fireplug in leathers with a sprig of frizzy hair. He climbed off, stepping down, having to reach. A Confederate flag was painted on the trunk door on the back of his trike. If he was over five foot tall, she’d have been surprised.

Using the newspaper as a partial shield, she snapped a photo.

The other two were more typical biker specimens, one a tall beanpole with sunglasses on at night and a sweep of black hair that he flipped to one side as he climbed off a beige Harley Police Special. He stood, hunched over like Nosferatu in black leather.

She snapped a photo.

The last guy rode a matte black Frankenstein bike of no determinate year or style. He was late thirties—early forties, built like a football player who had stopped exercising but was still plenty intimidating. He wore a faded sleeveless denim jacket over a motorcycle jacket so old the leather was worn down to dirty white skin in places. Long greasy dark hair was held in place, more or less, by a black paisley bandanna. Through the telephoto lens she saw his face was hard and gray, like cement, pocked with ancient acne scars. He’d been good-looking at one time, but that had been a long time ago. The years had