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Page 12.
Chapter 10.
 Louis Beering had been shadowing his next editorial hopeful, Robert Courtney of Modern Publishing, for days. Now, hovering in the sparse, early lunch time crowd in the American Business Building, Louis thought it was time to introduce himself.
Courtney was a tall man in his forties, athlete balding and gone softly beefy. Courtney projected a prosperous and self-assured image. He put his meal together on the assembly line, paid the cashier, and found a seat.
Louis patted the Luger in his pocket to reassure himself, and then poured a mug of black coffee. He paid the outrageous sum of fifty cents (THEIR money), and picked his way among sparsely populated tables.
Bob Courtney's mind was on golf. He buttered his roll with lusty and audible strokes, then bit into it. Immediately, he transported a spoonful of hot vegetable barley soup to his mouth. All the while he hoped that the links would be reasonably dry tomorrow at his country club outside the city. He laughed inwardly, knowing that he for some reason had the ability to play short putts in wet grass exceptionally well, and he planned to trounce the two insurance executives scheduled with him. As he played back from memory the round robin tournament schedule, a man entered his field of vision and said something. Bob's immediate reaction was to say, hey, the place is half empty, find another table.
But the man had hypnotic eyes, and was well-dressed oddly (tie too thin? collar too tall?). He carried only a cup of hot black coffee and said: "Mr. Courtney, may I introduce myself?"
Bob resented the intrusion. Yet, he was a businessman and always kept open that little door for unexpected opportunity.
"My name is Louis Matterhorn," the man said, sitting down unbidden, holding his coffee cup like a gun aimed at Bob. "Sorry to disturb your lunch. I am a literary agent, and I just happened to be in the building on business."
Something is fishy, Bob thought. Matterhorn, what kind of name was that? Being a big man, used to pushing himself around with other people when he had to, as he had years ago in high school and college football, Bob kept mechanically eating and enjoying his food. He tolerated the guy, but was ready to boot him out.
"Well you know how it is," Matterhorn gushed. "I represent a variety of authors, everything from big league athletes"(Bob's interest immediately perked up and he slowed his eating)"to, you know, those political figures with just that something extra or off the wall to say that makes for heavy sales. I hear your name bandied about quite a bit"(by whom? Bob wondered, feeling flattered, and resumed eating with gusto)"and so I thought I would take a minute to chat."
Bob finished his soup and began slicing away at the roast beef. He was beginning to feel full, and happy. Hey, what a massage to get on a Friday. This guy seemed okay. "All right, buddy, let's chat."
"I have a couple of great manuscripts in my briefcase. Is there a place we can speak confidentially?"
Bob laughed. "Why not right here? The walls aren't bugged."
"Bugged?" Matterhorn shook his head. "There are no termites in the walls?"
Bob stared.
Matterhorn grinned. "The termites wouldn't care."
Bob suggested: "Bwana makum heap big joke." Must be one of those intellectual New England agents. Bob always felt secretly insecure around those guys, but he smiled and pretended to be at ease. The thing of it was, this guy was acting like he had a big secret. Bob could smell big secrets from a mile away. What was it? An expose of corruption in pro football? Naw, no football from the looks of this guy. No matter; Bob was interested. He sloshed a forkful of beef and potato in gravy, then pitchforked it into his mouth. "You say you have something interesting? What is it? Corruption? Expose?"
Matterhorn looked opaque. A tough looking man, really, not exactly ugly now that Bob looked at him. Surprisingly young, thirtyish, once you got past the balding. Matterhorn said quietly: "You'll see."
Bob laughed. "Okay, buddy." He lifted a big arm and glanced at his watch. "Listen, I gotta get moving. Got a lot to do before I clear out today. Big golf tourney tomorrow early." He rose slurping his coffee. "Come on, Matterhorn, show me what you got."
Happily, Louis thought: "Got him now."
"Hey," Courtney said. "Where are you going?"
Louis turned and smiled slyly: "Just follow me. I hid my briefcase."
Courtney frowned. He looked about as though he were afraid. That's it, Louis thought, I know they keep an eye on them. They act so free, but they are being watched every minute.
Louis led the way. Out the glass doors. Onto the roof. The rain had let up, but a helicopter was just setting down not a hundred feet away, and the air was misted with peppery rain drops. Louis and Courtney walked sideways, holding their lapels. Their hair grew instantly wet, and Louis heard Courtney utter a colorful curse.
The clock tower was only steps away. Gravel crunched under their feet. Louis ran forward in the gale, reaching for the door handle. He glanced about; nobody was looking. He pulled open the heavy steel door. Courtney barreled past him.
Louis slammed the door.
"I didn't even bring a coat," Courtney fumed, shaking his arms and looking down at his damp suit.
"Sorry," Louis said.
"This better be good," Courtney said. He stepped forward to the hand railing overlooking the two-story clock works. His shoes rang on the steel grating. In the translucent clock face, Romanesque numbers sprawled backwards. The clock hands both pointed toward 12.
Louis handed over the manuscript wrapped in brown paper.
Courtney undid the paper with tearing motions, his face a mask of anticipation and greed. Courtney's facial expression, as the white paper shone on him, changed from greed to shock, then to anger. "You... I don't believe this..." He looked up, and a fierce look of recognition came over his face. "You sent another copy of this piece of trash to me at my house, registered mail."
Louis closed his hands around the Luger in his pocket. "You disappoint me, Mr. Courtney. I thought you would recognize an important social statement."
Courtney looked like someone who had just swallowed something spoiled. He waved the manuscript, which looked like a deck of cards in his big hand. "You had me come in here just to look at this..." He looked at the manuscript, then tossed it hard. It shot through the air, exploding into hundreds of pages that twirled down over the giant clock gears. Courtney started for the door, but Louis was quicker. Pulling out the gun, he interposed himself. "Stop right there, Mr. Courtney."
"Jesus," Courtney said, backing up. "Jesus Christ." He raised his hands defensively.
"Easy," Louis said waving the black gun. "I was hoping you would see the significance in my book. I see that you see nothing."
"Man," Courtney said, backing up all the way to the railing. "Take it easy, huh? What do you want? I'll do it. I swear."
Louis raised the gun. "No, Mr. Courtney. I'm disappointed. You are not the person I need."
Courtney's eyes grew wide. He groveled. "Please!"
"I am looking," Louis said, "for a partner. Someone who will bring my great message to the world."
"Okay!" Courtney shrilled. "I'll do it! It's just--"
"Just what?" Louis said, pausing.
Courtney licked his lips. "It's going to be hard. All that stuff was discredited years ago."
"What do you mean?"
"Where have you been?"
Louis smiled. "Traveling."
Courtney said: "Man, this Nazi stuff went out with Hitler, a half century ago. The world has moved way beyond that. Communism has just fallen apart, too."
Louis nodded. "Communism was shit. But look at what your world is without the strength and glory of nationalist socialism. I have walked your streets. I have seen the crime, the drugs, the subhuman elements...believe me, Mr. Courtney, your world could do a lot better."
"You talk like you were from another world."
"I am from another time. Don't keep looking over my shoulder at the door, Mr. Courtney. You won't make it, so don't try anything."
"Look," Courtney said, "I can put you in touch with some Nazis, okay? As it happens, the United States has one of the world's strongest neo-Nazi movements. I can give you money, phone numbers, names... Just let me go, please?" A roar shook the walls as the big helicopter was preparing to take off.
Louis smiled again. "I have all the money and all the phone numbers I need, Mr. Courtney. Thank you." The roar increased to earsplitting pitch. Louis pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The big man lurched with each impact, then toppled over the railing into the gear wheels. The minute hand and the hour hand began to tremble. The gear wheels made a grinding turn. The clock struck noon as Louis stuffed the gun into his pocket and let himself out.
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