April Smith - Judas Horse

Donnato looks at Rooney’s recent cases. His latest assignment was to turn sand into gold. ( If I could do that, I wouldn’t be in this rat hole, I can hear Rooney say.) The target was a ring of thieves in Brazil, with ties to U.S. organized crime, that was selling counterfeit nuggets. The Bureau’s undercovers would pose as manufacturers of counterfeit gold. Rooney’s mandate was to make fake nuggets as good as the thieves’.

Under pressure, Rooney was working the graveyard shift. On a scarred desk in the faceless JR Trading Company, in the midst of the displaced Hispanic nation, he set out rows of shiny rocks, ranging in quality from the real stuff to the Brazilian counterfeits. He knew they were melting authentic gold and mixing it with water and sand — but how much of each? His notes say he sectioned a Brazilian nugget and examined the slices under the microscope at fifty times normal magnification.

Skimming the phone log attached to the lab records, Donnato sees that a call came in on Rooney’s private line that morning at 5:48 a.m.

From an area code in Oregon.

Rooney had probably been counting gold globules when he decided to take a break and work on one of his subversive little projects that turned up later — a digitalized photo of himself shaking hands with President Bill Clinton. It was another phony, but at least it was his phony, which is why, when the phone rang, he was in a bad mood about being interrupted and answered with annoyance, which he would immediately regret.

All calls to the off-site are recorded in the archives. You just have to lean on the right person.

“City morgue, George Romero speaking.” “Hey there, champ.”

It was the voice of Dick Stone.

Rooney reacted with silence. Stone: “Is this phone secure?” “Not entirely.” Rooney was testy. “But it’s six in the morning. Nobody’s here. Just me and the skeletons in the closet. It’s been a while. Where are you?” “I’m a farmer. Do you believe that?”

Rooney chuckled. “The number-one cash crop in California?” “Nothing illegal, my friend. I grow filbert trees. I’m an arborist.” “Sounds fancy. Making a living?”

“Occasionally. But that’s beside the point.”

“Not for those of us in perpetual slavery.”

“How is Ruby doing?”

“It’s nice of you to think of Mom.”

“How could I forget the Ambrose Dairy and your mom at the window making soft-serve cones? Dipped in chocolate? Oh my Lord.” Mrs. Ruby Berwick had been a jolly fixture at the famous drive-thru Ambrose Dairy, one of those iconic Los Angeles landmarks with a twelve-foot milk bottle perched on top, where you could get icy bottles of cream and homemade cottage cheese without leaving the car.

“How many times was I over at your mom’s apartment, eating Polish, playing with the pugs?” “You haven’t heard the news. Mom passed on not too long ago.” “I’m really sorry to hear that, pal.”

“I miss her every day. She never hurt a soul.” “What was it?”

“Cancer of the esophagus. Skip it if you can. My brain-dead supervisor keeps saying shit like, ‘It’s for the best.’ People are ignorant. Makes you want to put your fist through a wall.” There was inaudible scratching and scuffling. Rooney’s voice emerged: “…The Bureau’s going through changes, but they’re still after your ass.” “How do you know?” asked Stone.

“Saw your name on some lists.”

“What kind of lists?”

“I don’t play politics; you know that. That’s me, flying below the radar. But you still have supporters in this organization, myself foremost among them, who have always felt you got one raw deal. They trashed your reputation, went around saying you’d gone over — based on what?” He was getting worked up. “They never had proof; they were using you as a scapegoat for their dumb-ass mistakes. Justice was not served by the Justice Department.” “Don’t stress. The intelligence you have provided over the years about my former friends has been very useful.” “That’s something.

Stone, upbeat: “Still have the pugs?”

Rooney might have glanced at the photo poster above the ID machine.

“Brand-new litter. Three girls and a boy. Mom would get a kick out of ’em. They were her ‘grand-dogs.’” Both men were breathing audibly into the phone, cautious, psyching each other out.

“Is that a rooster I hear up on the old farm? Cancel that,” Rooney said quickly. “Don’t say what you don’t need to say.” “I am feeling a little paranoid these days. Got a sixth sense about the Bureau.” “They’re heeeeere!” Rooney could be unbelievably juvenile.

“Up close and personal,” Stone agreed. “Can you do me a favor and check it out?” “Anytime I can say fuck you to management, I am there.” “See what they’ve got going in the Northwest. There’s something else. Soon I’ll be digging up the turquoise. It’s time to move on. You’re entitled to your share.” Rooney choked up. “You got out, but still, after all these years, you remembered?” “You trusted me, so I’m keeping my word. Some things are simple. What are your plans?” “Plans?” Rooney’s voice deflated. “I have nobody left. What would I do?” “Anything you want, buddy.”

Uncertain: “I guess I’d have to take the dogs.” “You could buy a whole kennel.”

“I wish Mom were here.”

“She would want you to be happy.”

“How do we do this?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

There are no records of them talking again. Once they started using the satellite phone, Rooney would take it to the park. It was probably there that he blew the whistle.

“This is a waste of time. I don’t need to be here.” “How are you feeling? What’s your mood?” “Right now? I’m buzzed, thinking of a million things, like how long we are going to be sitting in this motel. When my partner is coming to get me. How long I can hide out in Portland. How to keep all the balls in the air.” “You’re good at it? Keeping balls in the air?” “Have I dropped any lately that you know about?” “The FBI doesn’t tell me the details of their cases.” “That would be messy.”

“I’m a psychiatrist; I’m hired as an independent contractor. My concern here is only about you — your mental health, how you’re handling the pressures and demands they put you under.” “This is a standard evaluation, right? Like they do for all our undercovers?” “Tell me what’s been going on.”

“I’ve been in deep cover, in an extreme situation, for about three months. I’m living on a Podunk farm with a bunch of violent anarchists who could pop at any minute.” “Stressful?”

“Kind of.”

“How do you handle the stress?”

“By having chest pains, what do you think?” “When was that?”

“About a week ago. I was watching TV.”

“No unusual exertion? No change in medication? Just watching TV?” “Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” “Would this TV watching be normal for someone working undercover?” “Umm. Yes and no. Depends.”

“Do you like TV?”

“Yeah, I love it. I’m addicted to stupid, mind-numbing crap.” “I’m wondering if you use it as a way to deal with stress.” “I don’t watch the shows. I only watch the news.” “You watch the news.”

“There’s really only one story I’m interested in.” “Which is what?”

“It’s a local story. There’s a guy named Herbert Laumann, from the Bureau of Land Management, who was killed recently.” “Yes, he was gunned down in his driveway by some animal rights fanatics. I’m afraid there are a lot of them up here.” “You saw it?”