The Fracas Factor (18 page)

Max was on the curb in front of his apartment house when Jerry and another Minuteman drove up in a hovercar. The two were in the front seat, and Jerry was driving. Max climbed into the back. His billy club was in his belt under his jacket.

Jerry grinned at him and said, “Max Mainz, meet Art Prager. Art’s one of the best in this kinda work. Art, Max is our latest recruit. Category Military, so don’t let his size throw you off. He’s been in the fracases.”

“Glad to meetcha,” Art said. He was a very rugged-looking character and Max disliked him on sight.

Max said, “Hi, Art,” and then to Jerry, nonchalantly, “What’s the romp tonight?”

“Oh, nothin’ important. There’s this here doc belongs to some subversive outfit. Call themselves the Sons of Liberty or something like that. Bunch of kikes and atheists, that sort of shit. He’s some bigshot in the outfit, so we’ve been checking him out and me and Art, here, have got his habits down pat. He walks his dog in the park every night at about nine. Last walk of the day for the pooch.”

“Dog?” Max said. “They can be trouble. You know, I shot a dog once, three times with a forty-five and it kept coming till it was down on its belly crawling. It was one of these here Dobermans.” Max was lying, but he’d seen a historical war telly show once with a Doberman in it. He was taking a desperate chance of throwing them off.

Jerry laughed. “This here’s a miniature Poodle and he looks maybe twelve years old. If he sunk his teeth into you, they’d most likely drop out.”

“You afraid of dogs?” Art said contemptuously.

Max had to reestablish himself. He said, hotly, “You’re damned right I’m afraid of dogs like Dobermans and German Police. They’re tough and if you ever been up against one of them you know it. But Poodles is another thing.”

“Okay,” Jerry said, obviously the leader of the assignment. “We got it all staked out. He always goes by a real quiet place, giving the little pooch a chance to piss. We hit him there.”

“What’da we do?” Max said, trying to keep any apprehension from his voice.

“What’dya think we do, for Zen’s sake? We work him over a little and let him know he better keep out of criticising the government and associating with kikes and foreigners, or he’ll really get it the next time around. Hell, he’ll probably shit in his pants. He’s an old duffer. Maybe fifty-five or something. Here we are.”

Jerry had entered the park. Max didn’t even recognize what park it was; there were parks all over Greater Washington. Jerry came to a halt in the cover of a group of trees.

Max said, still not knowing what it was possible for him to do, “Okay.” Maybe he could come through with something to ease the old guy’s troubles when it came to taking a beating from these goons. One thing was sure. Max wasn’t going to hit the victim. He might fake doing it, if possible, but he wouldn’t hit him.

Jerry led the way down a path of shale and rock to a silent glade lit softly by the moonlight There was a tall stand of dark trees to the far side with underbrush behind them. Jerry again led the way, and they stood in the shadows. The branches of the trees were twisting against each other in the freshening winds. Max shivered.

They remained in silence for about five minutes and then Jerry said, “Here he comes. Good old Doc Mitfield, the funker.”

A middle-aged man had entered the small glade. Max couldn’t make him out too well in the dim light. He was carrying a leash in his hand, but the dog who frisked about his feet was free of its leash.

“Okay, boys,” Jerry said and stepped out, followed by Art. Max unhappily brought up the rear.

Doctor Lawrence Mitfield looked up at their approach, frowning. He began to say something, but Jerry and Art brought forth their billies quickly and Jerry slammed the older man across the belly, driving the wind from him and caving him forward. Art stepped in and brought his club down brutally on the doctor’s head, The dog started to bark in a frenzy, but Jerry kicked him, tossing the tiny animal a full ten yards off. The two Minutemen began to beat the fallen doctor unmercifully.

“Hey, you’ll kill him,” Max said urgently. “He’s already unconscious.”

“Good idea,” Art snarled. And before Max could believe what he was witnessing, the other had snatched out a snub-nosed revolver from a hip pocket, lowered it, and deliberately shot their victim behind the ear.

For a moment, Jerry, as well as Max, was stupified.

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Jerry said. “The cops…”

But it was then that two spotlights, from different directions, zeroed-in on them. A voice yelled, “Put ’em up, you funkers! You’re covered!”

By mere chance, the three ran in differing directions. Art, his gun still in hand, tried to shoot at the spotlights as he went, and a barrage of fire reached out for him.

He went down with a scream. Jerry was dashing for the path by which they had entered the glade, probably trying to make it back to the car. Whether or not he made it, Max didn’t know. He himself instinctively headed for the hedges and dove into them. All about were heaps of fallen branches and scattered stacks of underbrush left by the park’s clean-up crew. He zigzagged through them and, by so doing, unknowingly threw off the aim of the police behind. He continued to hear shots and the zing of bullets through the air above him.

He emerged into a shadowed meadow, but already he was panting and could hear sounds of pursuit. Art was possibly dead and Jerry was either shot or captured by now. The police could devote full attention to him.

He came upon a thick tangle of hawthorn hedges and forced his way through them and into another glade beyond. He still didn’t have the vaguest idea of where he was. So far as he knew, he had never been in this park before, and it seemed to be fairly large. He slowed down to a walk. He could no longer hear them behind him, but if they flushed him again he’d need all of his breath. He couldn’t expend the balance of his strength running madly without direction. He might even be running in a circle.

He stopped, listened, and could hear the sounds of traffic and made his way in that direction. He emerged at the edge of the park and looked up and down nervously. He crossed the boulevard and then headed down a side street.

He had to think fast, and well. This was a murder romp. And he had no way of knowing if Art was dead. He might only have copped one or two small ones. And Jerry? Jerry had been heading back for the car. They probably had nabbed him alive. Furthermore, Max had no illusions about either of the two keeping mum if they were captured. They would almost certainly implicate him.

And that meant that he couldn’t go home to his own mini-apartment, and couldn’t use his Universal Credit Card for transportation or anything else. The moment his identification number was revealed, the computers would be alerted for him. Any attempt to use the credit card would give them the chance to get a cross on him and zero-in.

There was just one place he could go, and he agonized about that. He didn’t want to subject Joe Mauser to the risk. But the only place that held any security at all for him was Joe’s apartment. And Max still had his key to it.

He emerged onto a wide boulevard and at last realized what part of town he was in. Joe’s apartment was miles away; he’d have to walk. Happily, because it was still early enough in the evening, there were quite a few pedestrians on the sidewalks. He wouldn’t be conspicuous.

When Joe Mauser entered his apartment the following morning, he found a bedraggled Max Mainz stretched out on the living room sofa. The room he had formerly occupied was still available, but Max hadn’t made it any farther than the sofa.

Joe, scowling, shook the little man. Max opened his eyes, groggily.

“Oh, hi, Joe,” he said, struggling erect and wiping his mouth with his right hand. “What time is it? You heard the morning news?”

“No,” Joe said. “What news? Wait a minute. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“We don’t have time for no coffee.”

Joe Mauser sat down across from him and took him in. “No? What do we have time for?”

“A screwed-up mess,” Max said. “I’m on the run. Joe, I’ve got a murder romp hanging over me.”

Joe eyed him. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Max told him all. All about his going to the Nathan. Hale Society headquarters. His meeting with Jerry. His meeting with Balt Haer. His being made a member of one of the special squads. Then the following day and his being sent on his first so-called assignment. Then the details of the assignment, the murder of Mitfield, and his escape through the park.

Joe stared at him for long moments. He said, finally, “It was a set-up.”

“How do you mean?” Max said.

“It was a trap. Those cops, or Bureau of Investigation, or Category Security men, or whoever they were, were staked out, waiting for you.”

Max shook his head, and said negatively, “They didn’t make no effort to stop shooting that Doc Mitfield or whatever his name was.”

“They didn’t give a damn for him, Max.” Joe said. “They wanted you.”

“Me? What good am I?”

“With a murder romp charge hanging over you, probably quite a bit. Maybe your Art wasn’t in on it. Maybe he was. But he was probably considered expendable. He was probably ordered to use that shooter. From what you say, not even Jerry knew he was going to do it. Art was probably a Low-Lower from what you say. It was probably set up so that you were to take the murder romp charge. Then the evidence would come out that you were connected to me. And then the evidence would come out that I was connected with the organization Nadine and I belong to. That would get both me and the organization. I smell Balt Haer’s finger in the stew. When you were talking with him did he give any indication he knew you were with me?”

“No, and I don’t think he had any such idea, Joe. He was real friendly.”

Joe worked it over some more. He said finally, “While you were there, at their headquarters, before or after you saw Haer, did you run into anybody who might have been able to connect you to me?”

Max shook his head. “No. They was all these here Minutemen. Real cloddies. All Lower-Lowers and…” He paused.

“And what?”

“Come to think of it, Joe. I saw Freddy Soligen there.”

“Freddy Soligen!”

“Yeah, you know, the telly reporter.”

Joe Mauser’s face fell. “Yes, I remember Freddy. Under what circumstances did you see him? And did he see you?”

“I don’t think so. I was kind of drenched. They pass out free drinks at these here Minutemen parties. Damn good drinks. I saw him come out of the hall where you go for the elevator up to the Baron’s office.”

“Holy Jumping Zen,” Joe groaned. “I’ve screwed it up. Come on, Max, we’ve got some things to repair.”

“Joe, I’m out like a light. I been walking and running all night. Why can’t I go to bed?”

“Because, most likely, I need you. Come on.” Joe Mauser went over to a drawer, opened it, brought forth his shoulder rig and his.44 Smith & Wesson, and checked the load. He took off his jacket, donned the rig, flicked the gun into it, put back on his jacket, fished a box of cartridges out, dumped them into a side pocket and turned back to Max, who was now struggling to stand up straight.

Joe headed for the transport terminal of his apartment, and Max sleepily stumbled after him. They went through the procedure of taking a capsule to the apartment of Freddy Soligen and emerged in due time in his quarters. Freddy stood there, his face in extreme distress, flanked by Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Warren.

Warren looked at Max Mainz coldly, but said to Joe, “Hello, Mauser, it’s been a long time.”

Joe said, “It has at that, Paul. May I call you Paul, Colonel? I’m an Upper myself these days—and in my time you ruined my best uniform by bleeding on it.”

Warren flushed. “Certainly.”

Joe said, “This is Max Mainz, my former batman, now my valued friend and assistant. I think that you both know him.”

Soligen and Warren nodded to that.

Joe said to Paul Warren, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

And Warren drew himself up and said, “It would seem that Freddy has come upon the names of the top officers of a subversive organization. I am a member of the Nathan Hale Society.”

“I see. And did you get them?”

“Not quite yet,” Warren said. “It would seem that the bounces in caste we promised Freddy in return for this information will have to be produced before he delivers.”

Joe Mauser looked at Freddy Soligen.

And Freddy said, “See here. This is gonna have to wait. I can’t stay away from the telly.”

That really surprised Joe Mauser. “You can’t stay away from the telly. I thought you hated it.”

Freddy hurried back to the set at the far side of the room. “I do,” he said. “But it’s the fracas between Stonewall Cogswell and Bitter Dave Langenscheidt up on the Little Big Horn Military Reservation. The Marshal’s front has, collapsed.” He sunk down and stared at the screen.

Paul Warren, long a member of Cogswell’s staff, took over. He said to Joe, whom he knew to be as knowledgeable as himself, “By the way it looks, the Marshal—the Brigadier General, now—must have copped a hit early in the fracas. It’s the only way I can explain what’s happening.” The screen was depicting field artillery shelling a rather large knoll.

Warren went on. “The Marshal has been all cut up. What remains of his regiment is on that knoll. Bitter Dave Langenscheidt is shelling it flat.”

“Why in the hell doesn’t Cogswell capitulate? He’s obviously had it,” Joe said.

Paul Warren looked at him strangely. “I suspect that he’s tried to. But Bitter Dave isn’t having any. He’s going to finish the Marshal this time, no matter what. I suspect that he isn’t honoring a white flag.”

Joe stared at him in disbelief. “Any pro mercenary honors a white flag, Colonel.”

And Warren said back, “They’ve fought four times; five, counting this fracas, and the Marshal won four of them. This time Bitter Dave has him.”

“But there must be at least one or two telly pillboxes in the vicinity. They would record a white flag, and popular opinion would land hard on Bitter Dave. He’d have to accept the surrender.”

“Evidently,” Warren said, “the one telly pillbox that could be brought to bear is on the knoll. And it’s been knocked out. I suspect it took a direct hit.”