Zodiac (18 page)

“I want you to explain all this shit to me anyway,” Tom confessed.

“Okay, first of all, the bad thing about Agent Orange wasn't the Agent Orange. It was an impurity that got into it during the manufacturing process: dioxin. That's what you had, dioxin poisoning. But dioxin is just a shortened version of the full name. The full name is 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin. Also known as TCDD.”

“This doesn't mean shit to me, man.”

“Just hang on. TCDD belongs to a class of similar compounds that are known as polychlorinated dibenzodioxins.”

“And that's related to polychlorinated biphenyls?”

“More or less. In both cases you've got a bunch of chlorine atoms, which is why it's called polychlorinated, and an organic structure that they're carried around on. In one case it's a biphenyl, in the
other case a dibenzodioxin. You know what a benzene ring is? Ever take any chemistry?”

“No.”

I looked around for six similar objects I could arrange in a ring. Of course, they were right in front of me. “A benzene ring is a six-pack of carbon atoms. The six-pack is held together with this little plastic holder. That's like a benzene ring. It's stable. It's strong. The six-pack stays together. It takes some effort to pull one of the cans away. There's a couple different kinds: benzenes and phenyls. Both six-pack holders, but the phenyl has one less hydrogen atom.”

“Okay.”

I went and pulled another six-pack out of the fridge. “If you put two six-packs together, you have a twelve-pack. If the six-packs are phenyls, then it's called a biphenyl. If the six-packs are benzenes, it's a dibenzodioxin—because the connection between six-packs is made by using a couple of oxygen atoms. But it's basically similar to a biphenyl. So polychlorinated
biphenyl
and polychlorinated
dibenzodioxin
are structurally similar compounds.”

“So these six-pack things, they're the toxic part?”

“No. The toxic part is the chlorine. That's what gets you.”

“Well, shit, you should get chloracne from being in a swimming pool then, right? That's full of chlorine. Hell, drinking water's full of chlorine.”

“Yeah. That's why half of the people in GEE drink spring water. Because they've heard about chlorine and don't know shit about chemistry.”

Tom noticed the salt shaker on our table, laughed, and dumped a little salt out onto the table. “Shit, man! Sodium chloride, right? Isn't that in seawater? Hey, maybe that's why I got sick. It wasn't Agent Orange at all, man, it was the sodium chloride in that seawater.”

“Okay, you're asking me: why is chlorine so incredibly toxic in dioxin and not in table salt?”

“I guess that's what I'm asking.”

“Two reasons. First, what it's attached to. That biphenyl or dibenzodioxin structure—the twelve-pack—dissolves easily in fat. Once it gets into your body fat, it never leaves.”

“That's what they said about the Agent Orange, that it sits in your body forever.”

“Right. That's the first bad thing. The second bad thing is, the chlorine there is in covalent form, it's got the normal number of electrons, whereas the chlorine in salt is in ionic form. It's got an extra electron. The difference is that covalent chlorine is more reactive, it has these big electron clouds that can fuck up your chromosomes”. And it slips right through your cell membranes. Ionic chlorine doesn't—the cell membranes are made to stop it.”

“So the six-packs are like the vehicle, the gunboat, and the chlorines are like the soldiers with the machine guns who ride on it.”

“Yeah, and the electrons are their ammunition. They ride up and down the river—your bloodstream—and slip into your cells and shoot up your chromosomes. The difference between that and table salt is that table salt is
inorganic
, ionic chlorine—soldiers without a boat, with no ammunition—and this other stuff is
organic
, covalent chlorine—bad stuff.”

Tom sat back, raised his eyebrows. “Well then, if you think I'm going to go down there, forget it.”

“Look, that's fine, and I don't blame you, but let me just say that I'm as paranoid as anyone and I went down there. I'm pretty sure we can do this without getting contaminated.”

“I'll do other diving but I won't go to the bottom. I got enough of this shit in my body already.”

“Fair enough.”

I phoned Esmerelda. After this was over we'd have to give her an honorary membership in the group. If GEE was like the Starship Enterprise, then I was Scotty and she was Spock.

We had an extremely pleasant chat about her granddaughter's brand new pink dress, which had involved roughly a hundred manhours of shopping, and about the weather and the Sox. Standing in the library,
she spoke quietly, and I always found my own voice dwindling to a whisper during these conversations. It was like talking to an important Japanese warlord. You had to hem and haw and nibble around the edges for a few hours, just to be polite, before you got to the point.

“There's some kind of intern working there, a woman, working with
The Weekly?”

“Yes. She had a little trouble threading the microfilm machines but now she's doing just fine.”

“If someone ever invents a self-threading microfilm machine, half you guys are going to be out of a job. No offense to you.”

“How can I help you, S.T.?”

“If that woman comes up with anything really interesting, could you shoot me a copy?”

“About Mr. Pleshy?”

“You know it.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don't know. Something with photos in it. That always makes them nervous. Would you mind?”

“Certainly not. Is there anything else?”

“No. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Have fun, S.T.” That's how she always said goodbye to me. She must have some queer ideas about my job.

The next day we organized, and the day after that we did it. With another diver from the Boston office I swam around scooping muck into sample jars. We'd hand them off to Tom, who'd relay them up to the Zodiac, where Debbie was waiting. That way we wouldn't have to decompress every time we had a full load of samples. Debbie was our navigator, using landmarks on shore to judge our position and mark down roughly where each sample came from. We could plot the results later on. If the PCB concentration increased sharply in one direction, that would give us a clue as to where the source was. If we were really lucky, we'd be able to track it down, probably to a few barrels on the bottom.

The ultimate success would be to find some barrels with PCB still in them, and to get some photos. We couldn't salvage them ourselves, but the EPA probably could and, more important, they probably would. We could save the Harbor a lot of grief and we might find evidence that would lead us to the criminals.

I didn't want Debbie sitting out there alone on a Zodiac. We knew the Pöyzen Böyzen people had a boat, and they seemed to know a hell of a lot about who we were and where we hung out. So we looked through our donor list and found a couple of yacht owners, then convinced them that it really would be fun to spend a day bobbing around in the Harbor, showing the flag. We hoisted another Toxic Jolly Roger, persuaded Tanya's black-belt squeeze to join up, and ferried a few media people out from Castle Island Park. Rebecca came, as did the starving freelancer and the reporter from the
Globe
. So far it was background.

We started roughly where I'd taken my first sample and worked our way outwards, covering about half a square mile of the Harbor floor. We ended up with thirty-six peanut butter jars full of raw sewage, and some very sore muscles.

There's one advantage of hanging out with groovsters: they give good massage. A couple of hours of massage, beer, nitrous oxide, and Stooges after a day of diving—nothing could beat it.

The next day we began to run the samples and got semidisastrous results. Disastrous for me—we weren't reading any PCBs at all. This was unbelievable—there had to be contamination inside the machine—and the whole operation went on hold for two days while I took the gas chromatograph apart, piece by piece, cleaned each one, and put it back together. Pure joy.

Then I started to test the samples again. No one had stuck around for the two days of cleaning, so by this time I was working alone. No matter, I got exactly the same goddamn results. The level of PCBs in these samples was no different from those taken anywhere else in the Harbor.

As we headed south, in the direction of Spectacle Island, the concentration dropped rapidly—not what I'd expected—and to the
north of Spectacle we couldn't get any PCB readings at all. It was totally virgin.

The Granola James Bond, the Toxic Spiderman, had fucked up. I'd overreacted to some oily lobsters, seen a guy with excema and called it chloracne. Then I'd gotten a bad sample, or run it wrong, and rushed the gig.

It was hard to believe, but I had no choice. The only other possibility was that the culprits had somehow hoovered up the PCBs while I was shuffling papers. But that kind of a Cecil B. DeMille operation would have cost billions.

It happens. Seen from the laboratory, the universe looks a lot more complicated than it does in your neat mental blueprints. But this time it really burned my ass. Debbie could have helped, but I didn't give her a chance. To be lonely and pissed feels better. So after I'd gone through the burning embarrassment, the denial and the anger, I got down into some serious depression.

It was raining, cool for the season, and I wandered drunkenly until I hit an obstacle: a huge, overdressed throng in the marketplace. On a sunny weekend this wouldn't have been unusual, but today it was a little out of place. Then I saw the banners, the buttons, all the cheap, shimmering detritus of a political campaign, and heard The Groveler's voice ringing dingily out of some big speakers.

These were just the groundlings out here. Bostonians practice idolatry in their politics—Curley, Kennedy, O'Neill, now Pleshy. Inside were the bigshots, the power structure of so-called liberal Massachusetts politics. All the people who bleated about cleaning up the Harbor until they discovered that people like Pleshy were responsible for making it dirty.

This was too disgusting to witness, so I turned on my heel and headed across into Government Center. A couple of Secret Service types were watching me; one had stopped to buy a soft pretzel on the curb, and when I went past him we nodded at each other.

At a phone booth I called the Boss collect, and told him I had to get the fuck out of town, that I needed a vacation.

“You deserve it,” he said.

“GEE deserves it,” I said. “I'm so into my job that I'm fucking up.

Thank God Project Lobster was over with and I could say goodbye to skeptical lobstermen. They'd never let me forget this one. Busting into the middle of a ball game in Fenway to give them dire, unbelievable warnings, then showing up a week later and taking it all back; exactly the image I'd been fighting all along.

I remembered Hoa's busboy giving me that sneer, that duck-squeezer look, and decided to eat Chinese for a while.

“Where are you going on vacation?” the Boss asked.

“Shit, I don't know, just hang around town.”

“How about Buffalo?”

“Buffalo?”

“Why not?” he said, sounding terribly innocent.

“Let me tell you a story about Buffalo. Last time I drove through there was in the middle of a windstorm. Huge, record-setting windstorm. Sixty-miles-an-hour winds in broad daylight. It was clear, but there was so much dust in the air that the light turned all brown, you know? And you couldn't even stand outside because the wind was picking up goddamn rocks, little pebbles, and flinging them through the air like hailstones. And I got to this place on the way to the bridge, in between a couple of embankments with big petrochemical tanks on either side of the road. Your basic industrial Mordor. The embankments acted like a wind tunnel and they were picking up coal dust off a huge pile beside the highway and so I was driving downhill through this thick, black, sulfurous cloud, sticks and stones hailing down against my windshield, caught between a couple of semis carrying gasoline, and I said to myself, shit, I accidentally took the off-ramp to Hell.”

“The
Blowfish
got there ahead of schedule,” the Boss said, “and we've got an extra project that needs doing.”

“Forget it.”

“It involves plugging a dioxin pipeline.”

A good boss always knows how to dangle the right thing in front of your nose.

“And we'll pay your way. Debbie's going.”

That meant I could go on the train, in a sleeper coach, with Debbie in there too.

I cruised home to pack, only to discover a little display was waiting for me. Someone had grabbed a stray neighborhood cat who hung around our home sometimes—Scrounger—and had beaten his skull in, then wrapped an unbent coat hanger around its neck and strung it up in front of the door.

I cut Scrounger down, carried him around to the side and threw him into the garbage, burying the carcass under some other trash so my housemates would be spared the sight. Out back, I noticed some spots of blood on the ground, and followed them straight to the murder weapon: a fist-size hunk of concrete, smeared with blood.

The house had been broken into through the back, and trashed. Not a thorough trashing, but a decent effort nevertheless. The TV was kicked in, as was my computer screen. They'd even yanked up the bottom half of the computer, a separate box, and stomped on it a few times. A lot of food was strewn around the kitchen in the messiest way possible, and they'd poked a screwdriver into the tubes in the freezer and let all the freon evaporate.

And there was a black handprint on the door to my room, at about eye level.

Fake Mafia or real Mafia, I had no way of knowing. But I was damn tired and depressed; I just wanted out of town. My big scandal had turned into a bad joke. And now someone was getting violent. Game over, case closed.