“
Even the General Tso
’
s Broccoli left over from last night. I was
sa
y
in
that, man
...
”
next morning doc
threaded in to work among the usual B
1
2
habitués
, noted an interesting bruise on Petunias leg, and hauled on upstairs to start checking the list of cop auxiliaries he
’
d got from Fritz, a chore he was not looking forward to. He had run into these would-be heavies now and then, displaying an attitude typical of the overarmed, sporting paramilitary berets and camo fatigues and other Vietnam gear from surplus stores on Hawthorne Boulevard, and decorated with badges and ribbons, some even authentic though not strictly speaking earned. He could not recall one of them who
’
d ever looked at him kindly or even neutrally. These were neighborhood scolds licensed to carry weapons, and heaven help any male civilian with hair that ran much past Marine regulation length.
All these people had day jobs, of course. Doc called up pretending to be different kinds of salesman, or the DMV in Sacramento with a harm
less question, or sometimes just an old buddy who
’
d drifted out of touch,
and found the wives—all these guys were family men—in the mood to talk. And talk. A side effect of marriage, as Fritz had imparted to Doc when he was but newly out of the chute.
“
These broads are all
itchin
to
talk, because nobody in their home life wants to hear anything they have to say. Sit still for two seconds and they
’
ll be yakkin your ear off.
”
“
They don
’
t have sisters or other wives to talk to?
”
Doc wondered.
“
Sure, but generally that
’
s nothin we can use.
”
Doc waited till evening after everybody had had supper, settling, himself, for a quick Taco Bell burrito, a day
’
s worth of nutrition and still a bargain at sixty-nine cents. He
had on another shorthair wig, a
side-parted chestnut number picked up at a sale on Hollywood Boulevard, and a thrift-store suit that looked like a Three Stooges reject. When the traffic had tapered off some, he headed down to an address in
the Rossmoor-Cypress area, just over the county line.
He
’
d just gotten on the freeway when he heard the radio DJ saying,
“
Going out from Bambi, to all the Spotted Dickheads in KQAS Kick-Ass
Radio Land—here
’
s the lads with their latest single—
’
Long Trip Out.
’”
And after a Farfisa intro from Smedley full of transatlantic Floyd Cramer licks, here came Asymmetric Bob singing,
He
’
s been out there sold-ierin for a
Fascist state, so don
’
t ex-
Pect too much fun on the
Very first date, he
’
ll be
Missin the life, he
’
ll be
Missin the food, he
’
ll be
Goin around in this pe-culi-ar mood, wond
’
rin
How did he get back here in the World
With the freaked-out hippies and the
Dopesmokin girls, and it
’
s a
Long trip out, from the la Drang Valley,
[
Smedley singing along in harmony,
Somerset with a bottleneck guitar fill
]
It
’
s a sad bad ride, when you
’
re far away
From the good ol
’
boys you left behind in-country,
Where the only thing you want is
Just another day ...
Well it may sound to you like a custom exhaust,
But that ain
’
t what he
’
s hearin and he
’
s
Flashin back, lost in the
Middle of a night full of fire and fear, and he
Don
’
t even know who
He
’
s hangin with here, and that
Joint you been smokin that you thought would help
It
’
s just makin things worse,
you’re
even
Foolin yourself, cause it
’
s a
Long trip out, from the Mekong Delta ...
It
’
s a last lost chance, when you need a friend,
And
you’re
flyin on out of
Cam Ranh Bay at midnight,
And you won
’
t know how, to
Get back home again.
Plastic trikes in the yards, people out watering the flowers and
working on their cars, kids in the driveways shooting hoops, the
high-frequency squeal of a TV sweep circuit through a screen door as Doc
came up the path of the address he was looking for, to be followed by the
more worldly sound, as he reached the front steps, of
The Bugs Bunny/Road
Runner Hour.
According to Fritz, the sweep frequency was 15,750 cycles
per second, and the instant Doc turned thirty, which would be any min
ute now, he would no longer be able to hear it. So this routine of American
house approach had begun to hold for him a particular sadness.
Arthur Tweedle was a civilian machinist who worked a regular day
shift at the naval weapons station. On weekends, and sometimes week-nights, too, he put on a sort of fatigue uniform from D
’
Jack Frost, the
Manson family
’
s favorite surplus store in Santa Monica, and went off to
meetings of Vigilant California, along with his neighbor Prescott, an
other countersubversive hobbyist also on the list Fritz had run for Doc.
Art wore pale horn-rims beneath a high untroubled forehead, and there
was little to object to in the face he put on for company, except maybe
for a slightly paralyzed look, as if it was a gear he didn
’
t quite know how
to shift out of.
Doc was posing as a rep for Hairy Rope Home Security of Tarzana,
which did not, he hoped, exist. Aunt Reet had told him once long ago about the California homeowner
’
s belief that if you run a hairy rope all around your property line, no snakes will ever cross it.
“
Our system works on a similar principle,
”
Doc now explained to the Tweedles, Art and Cindi,
“
we set up a network of electric eyes hooked to speakers all
along your property line. Anydody breaking the beam will trigger a pat
tern of subsonic pulses—some will produce vomiting, some diarrhea, any of it
’
s enough to send any intruder back where he came from with a hefty dry-cleaning bill to deal with. Of course you and your family
can disable the system remotely whenever you need to get on or off your
property or mow the lawn or whatever.
”
“
Sounds kind of complicated,
”
said Art,
“
and besides, we
’
ve already
got a system right here with a proven track record, and you
’
re looking at him.
”
“
But say you had to go out of town—
”
“
Cindi,
”
squeezing his wife
’
s ass as she came back in with longneck
beer bottles on a tray,
“
is a better shot than me, and we
’
ll be breaking the
kids in on the .22s before you know it.
”
“
Time passes by so quickly,
”
Cindi said.
“
Sounds like you
’
re covered pretty good, but no harm I hope in drop
ping by like this, you
’
re on a list of local homeowners with a history of concern for property defense
..
. your service with the police reserves, for example....
”
“
We
’
re not technically L.A. residents, but I
’
m on what they call standby, car
’
s all dialed and ready to roll, I can get anyplace they need me in under an hour,
”
said Art.
“
Every time we talk with the LAPD, there
’
s somebody
’
s sure to men
tion you guys and say how they wish there were more of you. Only so many patrol cars and men in uniform, and it
’
s a dark ugly situation out there. They need all the help we can give them.
”
Which didn
’
t turn the tap on full force right away, but little by lit
tle with the Tweedles encouraging each other, as
The Beverly Hillbillies
rolled along toward
Green Acres
and t
he longnecks kept arriving, Art
began to bring out his collection of home defense equipment, which ran from dainty little ladies
’
pearl-handled .22s through .357 Magnums to Vietnam-surplus grenade launchers.
“
And that
’
s just single-shot,
”
said
Art.
“
The full-auto inventory
’
s back in the shop.
”
He led Doc through the
back door out into the prime-time evening and across the deep lot through
sounds from neighbors through windowscreens, TVs, and after-supper
clearing up and kids bickering, to an outbuilding in the shape of a midget
barn holding a variety of assault rifles and light machine guns, and Art
’
s
pride and joy, the terminally illegal Gleichschaltung Model 33 Automatic
Bazooka, which required a two-person team, one to aim the 75-mm launch tube itself and the other to drive the modified electric golf cart carrying the magazine, which held up to a hundred rounds.
“
Won
’
t be any darkies sneaking onto
this
watermelon patch anytime soon,
”
declared Art.
“
Quite a contraption,
”
Doc said.
“
Where would a guy get hold of something like this?
”
“
Oh, dealers,
”
Art demurely.
“
Swap meets, sensitivity-group sessions.
”
“
How about on the job? Would the Department allow you to pack one?
“
Maybe we
’
ll find out one day soon. Sure would
’ve
made a difference
in Watts.
”
“
Hasn
’
t been much of
that
type of action lately. How are they keeping
you fellas busy?
”
“
Weekend maneuvers, urban counterguerrilla training. Sometimes they
’
ll want an individual tended to but can
’
t commit the manpower. Not very exciting—stakeouts, maybe a rock through a window with a warning note. But
it’s
cash on the spot, enough to keep the Pizza Man happy anyhow.
”
As they were leaving Art
’
s workshop, Doc happened to spot a Nordic-themed ski mask hanging on a door hook. It looked strangely like the ones in the footage Farley Branch had taken of the assault on Chick Planet Massage.