The Alchemist

WHEN THEY WENT back over it all, in writing the final reports, it was readily apparent that Jamie MacKenzie had been the key, although the whys and wherefores still didn't make much sense.

Given his well-documented IQ and brilliant scholastic achievements, it was difficult to believe that an intelligent youth like MacKenzie could have so badly underestimated the cold indifference and the inherent violence of his chosen profession. Yet, in retrospect, it was all too clear that MacKenzie had simply not understood either the mind-boggling magnitude nor the inevitable consequences of his foolish error.

Somehow, Jamie MacKenzie had convinced himself that it was all just a gloriously fun and lucrative game; the irony, of course' being that while his part-time vocation was occasionally fun, and certainly lucrative, it was definitely not a game.

Thus, when the telephone in Voyager Hall dormitory room 245 at the University of California, San Diego, rang twice, it was a distracted and indifferent --- rather than a cautiously alert --- MacKenzie who looked up from his calculations and reached across his desk.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jamie, how's it going?"

MacKenzie immediately recognized the slurred voice of Bobby Lockwood. Alcohol this time; most likely Moosehead beer, he nodded. As Jamie MacKenzie and every other resident on Voyager Hall knew all too well, Bobby Lockwood had inherited more than just brilliant blue eyes, curly black hair, an independent spirit, and some hard-earned money from his late, Alaskan-born father ... and it wasn't a dedication to his studies. Bobby Lockwood's academic interests were strictly limited to researching the many and varied effects of chemicals on the human mind and body. Ethyl alcohol happened to be one of his favorites.

"Pressure time," MacKenzie responded good-naturedly. "Finals coming up next week. Thinking seriously about hitting a couple of books, or maybe going down to the Center to hustle up some tail. Can't make up my mind."

"That'll be the day." Lockwood laughed. "Hey listen, buddy. I think I've got somethin' nice going with a foxy little chick I just met. Planning on taking her out on a little ski trip this weekend, you know. Trouble is, I can't find any decent snow. Figured I could count on my high-livin' buddy for some help."

MacKenzie did a few quick mental calculations.

"Might be able to do something for you," he hedged. "I'm pretty well booked this month, but I just might be able to squeeze you in for a double. Gonna cost a little extra, though. Quality powder's going at a premium these days."

"Ain't that the truth," Lockwood grunted. "Double'll do us just fine, my man. Just fine. So what’s it gonna run me, us being compadres and all that shit?"

"Ordinarily, this time of year, no reservation, I'd have to be getting two bills, minimum," MacKenzie said. "But seeing's how it's you, I'll make it one-fifty even. Fair enough?"

"Knew I could count on you, my man." Lockwood sighed happily. "Come tomorrow evening, that little lady's gonna be feelin' mighty grateful."

"That right?" MacKenzie chuckled, amused because the curly-haired, blue-eyed Lockwood had a reputation of needing very little help in scoring with the local coeds. "You sure she knows you come with the package?"

"Scratching outside my door right now," Lockwood laughed. "So how're we gonna work it? Same as usual?"

"Box two-four-five," MacKenzie nodded. "Same old routine."

"Payment's on the way right now, buddy. Hey, listen, thanks again. And don't stay up too late hittin' them ... books. "

MacKenzie smiled, hung up the phone, and then checked his watch. Eight forty-five on a Friday evening. Plenty of time to scan a couple of calculus chapters down at the Student Center while he did a little trolling-see what he could find to play with over the weekend-before he made his evening pick-up.

Grinning in pure, unabashed contentment, Jamie MacKenzie grabbed up the thick, rarely opened calculus textbook, reached for his blue-and-gold windbreaker, and headed for the door.

* * *

Given all the benefits of his current lifestyle, there really wasn't much point in trying to encourage Jamie MacKenzie to put more effort into his college education; or, at least, not into his formal college education . . . although a lot of people had certainly tried. People such as his faculty adviser, three of his professors, and several of his freshman classmates; not to mention a few of his very close friends, who really should have known better.

But then, the fact that these people made any effort at all on behalf of Jamie MacKenzie's education was ironic in itself … since every one of them, on a day-to-day basis, deliberately provided Jamie MacKenzie with the one incentive that allowed him to remain totally indifferent to such trivial events as semester finals.

That incentive, of course, was money. Or, to be more exact, a great deal of money.

In fact, every time one of these high-minded individuals purchased a grain-bindle of white crystalline powder from Jamie MacKenzie --- who was reputed to be the most dependable cocaine dealer on the ocean-edge campus of the University of California at San Diego --- they simply reinforced his overall impression that life was a piece of cake that had been baked, sliced and hand-delivered to his door.

As such, at the age of eighteen, Jamie MacKenzie had just about everything he wanted out of life: a steady and sufficient influx of money and dependably high-quality dope; a campus filled with readily accessible young women; a closet filled with expensively stylish clothes; a brand-new English sports car, paid for in cash; and even a reasonably satisfying amount of notoriety and respect, given the inherent necessity of maintaining an extremely low business profile in the course of his daily activities.

Understandably, all of this would have been difficult enough for any eighteen-year-old mind to fully absorb; but the part that really blew Jamie MacKenzie's mind was the fact that he didn't have to work hard at all to maintain his free-wheeling lifestyle. If anything, it was almost too easy. Just a simple weekly routine of pickups, and sales, and money drops. Absolute child's-play for a highly intelligent hustler like MacKenzie.

The routine started off every Sunday morning when MacKenzie opened a locked cash box concealed beneath the lower drawer of an extremely heavy oak dresser in his dorm room, and removed twenty-five hundred dollars (or, on occasion, double or triple that amount) in small bills. After sealing the money in a small envelope, he would lie back on his bed with some easy reading material --- preferably a high-class skin magazine --- while he waited for a phone call.

At 9:30 A.M., plus or minus five minutes, the phone in his single-resident dorm room would ring. The caller would give the address of a public telephone booth somewhere on campus and an arrival time --- usually ten to fifteen minutes after the call, depending upon the walking distance involved.

At the designated phone booth, MacKenzie would receive another call, this time directing him to the drop point, typically a towel dispenser in a public rest room somewhere on or near the campus. There, he would use one of his small universal keys to open the dispenser, slide the envelope somewhere near the top within the stack of towels, and then return directly to the University.

In accordance with specific orders, Jamie MacKenzie did not, ever, loiter around the drop area to try to identify the bag man --- who, he assumed, would be arriving soon thereafter. Being a very practical individual, MacKenzie correctly judged that such curiosity would be extremely hazardous, and possibly fatal. No problem, because MacKenzie wasn't especially curious about his "connection" anyway.

So far, a piece of cake.

The subsequent pickup phase of the routine occurred every Tuesday evening following a drop. At 6:45 P.M., after a predictably bland cafeteria meal, Jamie MacKenzie would walk back to his dormitory mailbox, just as he did every other weekday, dial in the four-digit code, and collect his mail. On Tuesday, or occasionally Wednesday, this would include one, or two, or occasionally three ounces of 40% cocaine. Each ounce would be hermetically sealed in several thin, heavy-duty plastic packets distributed within an assortment of mailer envelopes.

Having received his weekly supplies, MacKenzie would very quickly and cautiously walk back to his room; whereupon he would immediately double-lock the door, shut the window, and draw the curtain . . . and wait.

At 7:00 P. M., at the start of the dormitory's strictly enforced three-hour study period, Jamie MacKenzie would open the concealed compartment in his dresser, remove a digitized pan balance, a five-pound jar of lactose, a large mortar and pestle, a box of thick, glossy paper squares, and a small metal spatula, arranging these items neatly on a cleared portion of his desk. Then he would sit down at the desk and spend the rest of the evening cutting and packaging cocaine.

Apart from the minimal dexterity needed to operate the pan balance and to fold paper bindles, cutting dope at the gram dealer level wasn't the least bit difficult. As a direct result of some careful planning at the pound and ounce distribution levels, the numbers were extremely simple.

The ounces of 40% cocaine that Jamie MacKenzie received each week weighed approximately 28.3 grams. It was MacKenzie's responsibility to weigh out and thoroughly mix from each ounce exactly 25.0 grams of 40% cocaine with exactly 25.0 grams of powdery white lactose; thereby producing 50.0 grams of 20% cocaine, which he would carefully fold into fifty precisely weighed one-gram bindles.

As one of two authorized gram dealers on the University campus, MacKenzie was expected to sell at least fifty of the $60 gram-bindles each week, realizing a weekly gross of $3000 on the ounce. Twenty-five hundred went to his connection-via the drop point-every Sunday morning. Five hundred dollars and the remaining 3.3 grams of 40% cocaine represented MacKenzie’s share of the profits on each ounce, which was more than enough money and dope to keep a voung man like Jamie MacKenzie in women, clothes and cars for his entire undergraduate career. Just so long as he didn't get careless, greedy or stupid.

But then, in all fairness, Jamie MacKenzie really wasn't the careless type. He religiously followed the prime directives taught to every one of the General's ounce-and-gram dealers: Sell only to those people you know and trust implicitly, preferably on a scheduled X-grams-per-week basis. Never sell to anyone who has just recently been busted. Never admit or even suggest to anyone you haven't checked out that you sell dope. And never ever sell to an absolute stranger. In effect, you were supposed to know your customer before you risked your ass.

And, likewise, Jamie MacKenzie wasn't all that greedy. With rare exceptions --- as in the case of Bobby Lockwood's emergency request, which had forced the young gram dealer to dip into his private stock --- MacKenzie seldom boosted the price on his bindles when the market started running low. Certainly he had no desire, as yet, to move up to the ounce-and-pound distribution levels, figuring he had plenty of time for heavyweight dealing later on in life. For the moment, Jamie MacKenzie was perfectly content to make do with his moderately handsome looks, and his gradually expanding reputation. Supplemented, of course, by his continuing allotments of dope and money.

No, Jamie MacKenzie was not acting carelessly when he went down to mailbox 245 at ten-thirty that evening to collect his daily assortment of envelopes, one of which contained one hundred and fifty dollars in ten dollar bills. Nor was he being excessively greedy when he dropped a sealed envelope containing two folded paper bindles into the drop slot of Bobby Lockwood's mailbox approximately thirty seconds later.

He was simply making an unforgivably stupid mistake.

* * *

At 9:15 the following Saturday morning, Bobby Lockwood stopped by his dorm mailbox and picked up the sealed letter from MacKenzie containing the two folded paper bindles. He made a quick detour into a nearby bathroom stall, spending enough time behind the locked door to confirm the presence of white crystalline powder in each bindle. Then he hurried out to the back Parking lot, got in his car, drove off-campus to the Highway 5 junction, and then headed south toward San Diego.

Contrary to the story he'd fed MacKenzie, Lockwood had no intention of using the two grams of cocaine to properly seduce an imaginary young lady on an equally fictitious ski trip. While the idea might have been appealing to Lockwood, it definitely wasn't an appropriate use for valuable evidence in a highly sensitive investigation. A polite way of saying that Bobby Lockwood wasn't about to blow the proceeds of a successfully concluded undercover buy on a casual piece of ass.

And then, too, the buy-operation wasn't quite finished yet. Lockwood still had to get the powder analyzed, to find out exactly what he had purchased for one hundred and fifty of Jimmy Pilgrim's highly accountable dollars. And for that, Lockwood had to deliver the bindles to someone who knew a lot more about chemistry than he did --- to a professional chemist like Simon Drobeck.

Twenty-five minutes later, Drobeck met Lockwood at the back door to his well-isolated laboratory and took the envelope out of his hand.

"It’s about time you brought me something interesting," Drobeck grumbled as he waddled back to his workbench, slit open the envelope, carefully unfolded the bindles, and reached for two glassine weighing papers. "I'm getting tired of doing all the routine shit."

Typical Drobeck, Lockwood thought as he watched the elderly chemist manipulate a fancy electronic balance. Sullen, withdrawn, and sarcastic. Must be what happens when you spend your entire life playing with test tubes, not even knowing you're getting old and senile. Lockwood shuddered. In spite of the stipulation in his father's will that he obtain a degree in biology or chemistry before inheriting the balance of the Alaskan-based estate, Lockwood couldn't imagine a life spent inside a confining laboratory. Especially in a laboratory like Drobeck's.

"This should turn out to be a lot more interesting if we're guessing right," Lockwood said, visibly distracted, his eyes flickering nervously around the room at the numerous cages, aquariums and plastic garbage cans sharing bench and floor space with a wide assortment of chromed instruments, sinks and gas tanks. He could feel the muscles in his stomach tense up. The palms of his hands were beginning to sweat noticeably.

Goddamn senile old fart, Lockwood thought, uneasily aware of his involuntary reactions to the contents of the distinctly odorous laboratory.

Lockwood didn't like being in Drobeck's lab; mostly because he couldn't stand to be around Drobeck and his obscene personal research projects. In fact, if Lockwood had had any say in the matter, which he hadn't, Jamie MacKenzie's dope would have been delivered to Simon Drobeck by U.S. Mail, or parcel post, or by fucking camels, for all he cared. Just so long as he didn't have to do it.

But he did.

Jimmy Pilgrim had made it very clear that there was a time factor tied to the MacKenzie buy. He wanted the results back this afternoon; which meant that Bobby Lockwood was going to have to stay in the same room with Drobeck and his goddamned slimy zoo until the fat, bald and wrinkled scientist came up with a couple of answers.

"Have a seat," Drobeck muttered as he made some notations on a sheet of paper, motioning Lockwood toward a chair on the opposite side of his lab bench. "Got a name on this one?"

'Yeah, thanks," Lockwood nodded, moving around Drobeck to reach for the back of the chair. "MacKenzie. M-a-c-K-e-n-zi-e. First name Jamie, spelled with a --- SHIT!" Lockwood screamed, jerking his hand back as his fingers came into contact with cold, smooth and scaly skin.

"Spelled with a what?" Drobeck asked, his thin lips curling slightly into what might have been a smile. It was hard to tell with Drobeck. He hadn't even bothered to flinch when Lockwood screamed.

"You goddamned asshole," Lockwood whispered furiously as he backed away from the lab bench, moving around behind Drobeck cautiously so that he could see what he had touched; this time from a much safer distance.

It was big. Lockwood couldn't tell how big. He didn't even want to think about how big. It was wrapped around the chair seat in about five loops. The head was about the size of Lockwood's hand, attached to a neck about the diameter of his wrist. One of the middle loops looked about as thick as his thigh. It appeared to be asleep; not that Lockwood had any intention of getting close enough again to find out.

"She won't bother you," Drobeck said, his attention back on the analysis of the powder in the first bindle. He had already mixed a small portion of the powder into a vial of solvent, and was in the process of injecting the mixture into one of his multi-dialed instruments.

"Yeah, you gonna guarantee that?" Lockwood glared, trying to bring his breathing under control. He continued to back away from Drobeck's bench, to put some distance between himself and the huge lethargic snake. . . and backed right into a large, covered metal trashcan that immediately erupted into a chorus of hissing and scuffling noises that spread from cage to cage across the lab.

Lockwood jerked away from the trashcan as though he'd been bitten, then stood there --- immobilized --- in the middle of the floor, his arms and legs trembling, his eyes and nostrils widened, and his fists clenched impotently as he searched desperately for the point of maximum distance from every one of the cages and metal cans.

Drobeck seemed to think about Lockwood's question for a few moments, his back still turned to the enraged and nearly panicked dope buyer.

"No," he said, turning around slowly and staring directly at Lockwood's paled face, "come to think of it, I wouldn't. Perhaps you'd care to wait in the other room?" Drobeck suggested, motioning with his bead toward the door at the far end of the lab. The one with the sign reading "DANGER, HOT REPTILES! ENTER WITH CAUTION!"

Lockwood didn't even bother to look. He'd heard all about the other room. There was no fucking way in the world he was going in there. "I'm fine," he growled, his youthful face twisted with anger and fear. "You just let me know when you're finished."

Twenty-five unreasonably long minutes later, Drobeck finally turned away from his instruments and faced Lockwood.

"The weights are very consistent," be said. "One-point-zero-two and zero-point-nine-nine. Legitimate one-gram bindles. Both contain cocaine hydrochloride, of course ... as I'm sure you expected. The relevant numbers are fifteen-point-nine and sixteen-point-zero."

"Sixteen percent coke," Lockwood translated. "Just like the first ones. You could testify to that?"

Simon Drobeck looked up at Lockwood, and for the first time displayed an expression of what might actually have been amusement. "Yes," he said, his thin lips spreading out into a perfect replica of a smile as he nodded his bald, wrinkled head, "as a matter of fact, I suppose that I could."

* * *

In compliance with the guidelines directing all maintenance personnel not to disturb the resident students during study hours, the schedule for changing burned-out light bulbs and making other minor repairs at the residence halls on the University of California, San Diego campus, was strictly limited to the hours between one and four P.M. on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

This schedule happened to be very convenient for one of the graduate students in the Philosophy Department, who needed a part-time jobs to make monthly payments on a new 1000cc Honda motorcycle that his otherwise supportive parents knew nothing about. Coincidentally, it also fit quite nicely with the plans of several other people who had far more substantial financial interest in the U.C.S.D. dormitories.

At precisely 1:10 on the Thursday afternoon following Jamie MacKenzie's two-gram sale to Bobby Lockwood, a muscular young man with wildly curly blond hair, pale blue eyes, white overalls and a baseball cap used a stolen master key to enter the rear basement door of Voyager Hall. He was carrying a wooden ladder and a cardboard box labeled "BULBS," and had a hefty tool kit strapped to his waist.

The full-time philosophy major and part-time maintenance assistant who was supposed to be changing light bulbs in Voyager Hall that afternoon didn't know that his key had been stolen; nor did he know that he was already ten minutes late for work. In fact, he didn't know much of anything, because he was still face down, unconscious and snoring on his disheveled apartment bed --- the victim of an aggressively friendly young woman named Skylight, whom he had met at the Pub yesterday evening, and too much alcohol; a great deal of strenuous sexual activity; and a professionally dispensed dose of chloral hydrate, after the vodka and sex had sufficiently weakened the budding philosopher's basic sense of caution.

From 1:10 to 1:45 P.M., the frizzy blond young man who answered to the name of Roy Schultzheimer diligently replaced light bulbs and made other minor repairs on the first floor of Voyager Hall. With the exception of a couple of mildly interested coeds, the few students who happened to be in the dorm hall paid no attention to the white-overalled figure. They all had far more important concerns, such as due dates on unfinished term papers and final exams that started the next day.

At 1:46 P.M., Schultzheimer was standing on his ladder in the main hallway, examining a perfectly functional overhead light, when he observed Jamie MacKenzie exit the elevator and go out the door in the direction of the main campus --- presumably enroute to his two o'clock Western Civilization lecture. Schultzheimer then made a quick trip out to his car for a heavily taped box labeled "PARTS, and then returned to his ladder and waited for the last of the disorganized and late-for-class residents to come running down the stairs.

At 2:07 P.M., the box-burdened Schultzheimer took the elevator up to the second floor, walked down the hallway to 245, knocked on the door, waited approximately five seconds, and then used the stolen master key once again.

Then, after taking a few moments to put on a pair of heavy work gloves, secure the door, and close the curtains, Schultzheimer quickly went to work. Starting with the bookcase, he removed selected volumes and replaced them with books from the "BULBS" box.

A crumpled receipt went into the top drawer of the single desk.

Several other items in the room were added, removed or replaced.

At 2:14 P.M., Schultzheimer moved the second, heavily taped cardboard box labeled "PARTS" over to the floor next to the solid oak dresser, and then went to work with considerably more caution, his pale, cold eyes glittering with amusement as he carried out Jimmy Pilgrim's precise instructions.

Thirty minutes later, Roy Schultzheimer cautiously stepped out into the hallway again, closed and locked the door to room 245, took the elevator to the basement, placed the ladder, boxes and tool kit into the back of his van, and drove away.

There were still several room numbers remaining on the requested-repairs list for Voyager Hall, but they would have to wait until a much wiser and chastened philosopher returned to work the following Tuesday.

* * *

At 6:15 on that same Thursday evening, a mildly aroused Jamie MacKenzie reluctantly decided to excuse himself from the company of two seemingly fun-loving coeds in the Resident Dining Hall.

MacKenzie hated to leave the two young women --- who bad spent the entire dinner hour making casual suggestions about a friendly menage a trois in his dorm room later that evening. But, unfortunately, their comments had reminded Jamie that he had a job to do. A job that necessarily took priority over a pair of horny young women.

That was the one major problem with the dope business, MacKenzie told himself once again. Never enough time to really enjoy all the built-in fringe benefits --- which happened to include a hell of a lot of friendly young coeds who normally wouldn't have given an eighteen-year-old freshman like MacKenzie more than a casual glance in the hallway. And also included, to MacKenzie's continuing amazement, a considerable number of juniors, seniors, and graduate students, not to mention a couple of dependably grateful faculty members.

In fact, MacKenzie suddenly remembered, he had promised to meet two of those friendly female-type grad students "after work" this evening. He tried to remember their names. Kaaren, he nodded with a sudden smile. Couldn't forget Kaaren . . . an absolute knockout who looked a hell of a lot more like a Penthouse Pet than a Visual Arts major.

Yeah, MacKenzie definitely remembered Kaaren; but he couldn't recall the name of her less attractive but still interesting friend. The computer nut. Sharon? No. Susan? Or was it ... yeah, Sandy, he nodded, that was it. Kaaren and Sandy. Somehow, he was going to have to work those two into his very tight schedule, no doubt about it. Especially Kaaren. Maybe even this weekend, he shrugged. Never knew how these things were going to work out.

Distracted by the necessity of watching his immediate surroundings very carefully (a rip-off was always a possibility during the pick-up phase, even in the relatively benign University environment) MacKenzie never saw the girls, or their long-lensed camera. Thus Kaaren Mueller was able to take a total of twelve low-light photographs in rapid succession, the last four straight through the large open window of the Student Center, as MacKenzie looked around casually once more and then quickly removed a handful of varying-sized envelopes from his mailbox.

* * *

Five minutes later, Jamie MacKenzie had securely double-bolted and isolated himself in his room, changed into a comfortable pair of cut-off shorts, and was clearing away some work space on his desk when his telephone rang.

"Hello?" he answered, mildly annoyed at being disturbed during his "study hour".

"MacKenzie?"

"Yeah, that's right." He didn't recognize the cold, emotionless voice.

"You haven’t been very smart."

"Hub? What’re you talking about? Who the hell is this?" MacKenzie demanded, reacting nervously to the chilling voice in spite of himself.

"Pilgrim," the soulless voice rasped.

Jamie MacKenzie made a whimpering sound deep in his throat.

"Does seven hundred and eighty dollars mean anything to you? Jimmy Pilgrim growled.

"No," MacKenzie whispered weakly, which wasn't true at all. Seven hundred and eighty dollars very definitely meant something to him. He had spent many pleasurable hours calculating and recalculating that specific figure during the past few weeks. He realized that he was starting to feel very sick to his stomach, as though he was going to vomit.

"Seven hundred and eighty dollars, Mr. MacKenzie. Do I have to explain it to you?" If possible the faceless voice had become even more icy and dispassionate --- like a call from the dead.

"It’s not what you think," MacKenzie whispered pleadingly. "I didn't … I mean, I-I can pay it back," he tried.

"We've already taken care of that."

"What ... ?" Realization finally crystallized in MacKenzie's numbed mind. "Oh shit, no," he whimpered, dropping the phone down on the desk top and rushing across the room. He knelt down in front of his oak dresser and fumbled with the concealed release-mechanism.

Jamie MacKenzie had less than a half-second to absorb the fact that the cash box, and the pan balance, and several other familiar items were no longer on the bottom of the hidden cabinet and that something else was --- an empty cloth sack with a tie string? --- when his eyes registered a movement in the back of the cabinet ....

"HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"

MacKenzie screamed and threw himself backward --- an instinctive reaction to the inconceivably loud reptilian sounds that erupted from the dresser. In that horrible frozen moment, MacKenzie's eyes bulged and his mouth stretched wide open in terror as a triangular light-brown head with dark, reddish-brown rings and widely extended fangs lunged with blinding speed out of the concealed cabinet, the blurred head missing his outstretched bare foot by a fraction of an inch.

As MacKenzie desperately twisted away from the savagely hissing creature, scrambling for the relative safety of his bed, his second panic-stricken scream was drowned out by a shrill clanging as the fire alarm in the outer hallway cut loose.

Before MacKenzie could react-other than by voiding his bladder, which he did unknowingly, every light in the dorm hall went out, throwing MacKenzie's room into utter, terrifying blackness.

"NO! NO! NO!"

Jamie MacKenzie had never known such fear in his life. He couldn't even comprehend such fear. All he could do was scream. He was still screaming and clawing his way across his bed, the rational portion of his mind paralyzed by the knowledge that the hideous creature was down on the floor somewhere in the blackened room, when he slammed face-first into the solid cinder-block wall.

Stunned by the impact against the rough brick, bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose, and partially deafened by the loud clanging, a now-whimpering Jamie MacKenzie could only cower down on the unsteady mattress in his urine-soaked pants, his back and shoulders pressed tightly against the unyielding block wall, his hands and arms trembling uncontrollably as he tried to focus his mind ---

The door? No. MacKenzie shook his bloodied head, wincing at the pain. The door was double-bolted. It would take too long to find and unlatch the two locks in the dark. Too many fumbling panic-stricken seconds. Besides, he knew he couldn't stay on the floor that long … not in this god-awful terrifying darkness … not knowing where, or when ---

MacKenzie shook his head again, unwilling to even imagine such a horror as he felt his limbs grow numb, heard the horribly cold voice of Jimmy Pilgrim echo through his ravaged mind, tried to think ---

The window?

Then, above the eardrum-pounding of the fire alarm, the fiercely aggressive snake started to hiss again, somewhere close. To his right?

MacKenzie twisted frantically to his left, crashing into his lamp and nightstand as he tumbled off the bed and onto the floor of the now unbelievably small and confining room.

At the instant his hands came into contact with the tiled floor, Jamie MacKenzie's survival instincts finally came into play. He hesitated one second to brace himself up against the wall, orienting himself. Then he lunged in the direction of the door, taking one leap, then a second ---

--- his bare right foot coming down solidly on the cold rubbery, writhing midsection of the snake!

MacKenzie began to scream hysterically even before he felt the piercing pain of the long, needle-sharp fangs when the snake struck --- its wide reptilian mouth clamping tightly onto his bare foot.

Functioning solely on reflex action, because he was no longer capable of rational thought, Jamie MacKenzie grabbed at the twisting coils, pulling frantically at the thrashing reptile until he finally ripped it loose and away from his burning foot, and then lunged toward the door.

He was still fumbling desperately at the first dead-bolt when be heard the horrible high-pitched hissing again --- at his back --- and then felt the sudden sharp pain once again as the curved fangs stabbed deep into his lower right leg.

Something in MacKenzie's head snapped. Forgetting the unyielding door lock, he turned and bolted for the window. Driven mindlessly by the creature clamped tightly onto his leg --- pumping in venom with every contraction of its jaw muscles --- Jamie McKenzie burst through the curtained window glass and began to fall …

Mercifully oblivious to any further pain long before he struck the hard cement walkway, landing less than a dozen yards from a pair of stunned and horrified young women who were working themselves into position to get the critical thirteenth photograph of the youthful gram-dealer cutting his dope.

* * *

In an Oceanside apartment several miles north of the University of California, San Diego campus, a man who had long used carefully directed fear and violence as tools --- to work himself progressively higher in the Organization that Jamie MacKenzie had so foolishly underestimated --- did something completely out of character.

For a brief moment, he actually smiled.

And in doing so, he nearly startled the living shit out of the ruthless black man who had been the cutting edge of Jimmy Pilgrim’s rapid climb into the Organization's corporate management; because as far as Lafayette Beaumont Raynee knew, Jimmy Pilgrim never smiled.

Not ever.

Predictably, the smile quickly faded away --- much like a mirage --- as Pilgrim replaced the phone on its receiver, nodding in apparent satisfaction as his long-time street partner pressed the STOP button on a cassette tape recorder that was hardwired to the telephone.

"Excellent," Pilgrim said, his eyes seemingly unfocused. "What did you use?"

"Russell's Viper," Raynee replied casually as he rewound the cassette tape. 'One a' Drobeck's play-toys. Man said it's gotta be the meanest snake he ever seen. Once it starts attackin', ain't nothin' gonna stop it. Said it hisses like, a banshee, an' Ali guess we can't argue that none, neither." Raynee shook his head, chuckling quietly as he patted the top of the tape recorder.

"I assume the attack will be fatal?" Pilgrim asked, shifting his mind back to the problem. He'd been distracted by the pleasure of listening to MacKenzie's screams.

"Gonna know pretty soon." Raynee shrugged. "What old man Drobeck said, them Russell's Viper's be jes' 'bout as deadly as them mean-ass king cobras, 'cept the poison's more slow-acting-he-mah-toxin, or some such shit," the black drug-dealer, pimp and street-killer added, dredging the word up out of his memory. "Bite's gonna screw a man's blood all up. What Ah'm told, ain't much he can do 'bout it neither, 'less'n maybe he cuts off his leg or arm real quick-like."

"So ---?"

"Figurin' he probably got bit, and he ain't already died goin' out that window ---" Raynee shrugged again. "Ain't likely they're gonna get him the right antidote-shit in time."

"Do we have everything we need out of his room?" Pilgrim demanded with icy indifference. He had already begun to lose interest in Jamie MacKenzie.

"Cash box, notes and cuttin' tools in mah safe." Raynee nodded, pulling the cassette out of the recorder and handing it to Pilgrim. "'Less'n somebody starts looking for powder residue, ain't nothing in that room gonna put MacKenzie down as a user or dealer, Even had Roy-boy put a few snake books in his bookshelf, couple a' burlap bags and a hook under his bed. Made it look like ol' Jamie MacKenzie's jes' some reptile freak what got a little careless." Raynee grinned. "'sides, ain't likely none a' his customers gonna be too anxious t' give the po-lice any help. Know what Ah mean?"

"Excellent." Pilgrim nodded, slowly turning the small, rectangular cassette over and over with his thick, manicured fingers. "Do we know when he started?"

Looks like 'bout six weeks ago. Cuttin' one a' them forty percent ounces down to sixteen, 'stead of twenty, every week; that works out t' be 'bout an extra thirteen gram-bindles," Raynee replied. "Seven-eighty a week. Roy found an envelope in the cash box. Little over forty-five hundred in small bills. Numbers work out right."

Pilgrim's eyes never shifted from their cold, malevolent expression. He handed the cassette back to Raynee. "See to it that everyone listens to this. I don't want any more misunderstandings. Especially not now."

"Ah'Il see to it, personal," Raynee nodded, pocketing the cassette. "'Course we ain't 'xactly keepin' up with the big boss man, is we?"

"How's that?" Pilgrim growled.

"Hear tell Locotta caught one a' his people playin' games with the numbers last week."

"Oh?" Pilgrim whispered, his eyebrows rising with suddenly renewed interest.

"Yep. Accordin' t' mah sources, he had Tassio chain the dude by the neck t' 'bout five hundred pounds a' concrete block. Strapped a scuba tank on the man's back an' put him down in 'bout thirty feet a' water off Catalina Island. Hear tell the dude had himself 'bout a' hour t' think over all his troubles 'fore he ran outta air." Raynee smiled widely. "Might hafta 'member that one. "

"Nice. Real nice," Pilgrim grunted, his dark eyes glistening with malicious appreciation ... and hidden amusement. He didn't bother to tell Raynee that a nineteen-year-old enforcer had demonstrated that innovative use of underwater breathing gear to a clearly impressed Jake Locotta and Joe Tassio many years ago. The enforcer's name was Jimmy Pilgrim.

"‘Course, thing like that could make a man get down-right suspicious 'bout the rest a' his employees," Raynee added. "Could be that's why we got Lester sniffin' round down here, wantin' t' talk t' people like Theiss."

Jimmy Pilgrim's glaring eyes snapped up. "Did he ---?"

"Not yet." Raynee shook his head. "Theiss got his ass outta town real quick-like, soon's he heard Lester was lookin' for him. Said he can stay gone a couple more days, but ---"

"I'll take care of Lester," Pilgrim growled. "Anything else?"

"Any objections, we lay out a little bonus to that Lockwood boy?" Raynee asked. "Ah'm figurin' maybe five grand. Boy did a good job, pickin' up on MacKenzie like that. Thinkin' Ah might even move him up a peg or two. Try him out on distribution over the summer."

"Fine," Pilgrim grunted indifferently.

Raynee took out a small gold-embossed notebook and wrote in the word "Lock" and the figure '5. "'Gonna need a decision On our next order to Locotta," he said, looking up from the notebook. "Figure we can move close t' six hundred pounds come March. Gonna run us right close t' twenty-one-point-six mill, wholesale. We okay on that?"

Pilgrim nodded, his eyes still dead cold. "I'll arrange for the transfer."

"Sure do hate to see all that bread goin' Locotta's way." Lafayette Beaumont Raynee shook his head sadly as he replaced the notebook in his suit pocket. "Money like that can't help but tempt a man sometimes. Know what Ah mean?"

This time Raynee saw something flicker behind the glacial expression on Pilgrim's face. Something faintly resembling amusement, possibly even cheerful anticipation.

"Yes," Pilgrim whispered roughly, actually smiling again now, "I know exactly what you mean."

* * *

"--- which, of course, begs the obvious question about our alchemist's sex life."

Dr. David Isaac paused for effect, grinning mischievously as he looked out over the podium at the faces of the professors, instructors, students and assorted University of California alumni who had crowded into the five-hundred-seat auditorium of the San Diego campus to enjoy his end-of-the-term symposium on the origins of chemistry. From the oldest emeritus to the youngest undergraduate, they all sat in respectful, attentive silence, clearly enthralled by the topic and the speaker.

"Instead of laboring to satisfy their patrons by trying to convert base metals into gold," Isaac went on, "is it not more likely that the ancient alchemists --- our predecessors --- were actually diverting much of their time and energy toward a far more compelling goal? That is, the enhancement of their own sexual potency?"

A quiet murmur rose from the audience.

"We are frequently reminded, in the Physica et Mystica of Zosimos," Isaac continued, holding up a well-thumbed copy of the ancient text, "that the early chemists were driven to produce unlimited amounts of pure gold --- an understandable endeavor, certainly. Yet, as we have seen here tonight, there is ample evidence to suggest that they were also fascinated --- and perhaps even preoccupied --- with the occult and other more, ah, esoteric aspects of alchemy."

Isaac paused again, savoring the heady sensation of being in complete control of the bushed and attentive scientists.

"So, you see," the youthful, clean-shaven professor leaned out over the podium, his eyes gleaming wickedly, "I simply cannot resist offering three quite reasonable --- if somewhat amusing --- hypotheses.

"One," he held up a single finger, "that the alchemists were much more interested in trying to produce sexual stimulants than gold.

"Two," a second finger, "that these evasive stimulants were intended for the exclusive use of the male aristocratia, that is the members of royalty, and of course ---" He smiled. "--- the alchemists themselves."

Isaac allowed himself a final two-second pause.

"And three, that one of the most vocal advocates for this, uh, critical research seems to have been a very outspoken --- and possibly self-serving --- woman named Maria. Thank you."

A roar of laughter intermixed with a thunderous applause echoed through the auditorium, continuing for almost two minutes before the moderator stood up, signaling for silence.

"Thank you, Dr. Isaac, for a most enjoyable, and --- if I may say so --- most stimulating presentation. If you don't mind, I believe we have time for a few questions from the audience."

"Certainly." Isaac looked out over the auditorium again and motioned at a familiar face. "Allen?"

"David," Dr. Allen Bacon rose up from his seat, "on several occasions this evening, you alluded to the possibility that our little 'Maria the Jewess' might be of Asian origin, rather than Syrian or Egyptian. Do you have any new evidence to support this blasphemous contention?"

"Only a few obscure references in the original Greek texts credited to her fellow alchemist, Democritus, a scholar who was, of course, well known for his irrepressibly, uh, 'romantic' nature." Isaac smiled. "Actually, I doubt that we will ever be able to separate fact from fantasy in what remains of his writing. There are simply too many indications of jealousy --- both professional and personal --- between these two fascinating individuals. And, of course," he added wistfully, "we have only Democritus' side of the story."

Isaac paused to shake his head sadly.

"Thus, regrettably," he went on, "Maria remains an elusive woman of intrigue and uncertain origin. Although I must admit, the idea of a mysterious oriental woman introducing the water-bath retort to early chemistry certainly does reinforce the exotic nature of our historical legacy. Being an incurable romantic myself and a longtime admirer of Maria's, I'm always willing to entertain the possibility."

"Thank you, David," Dr. Bacon grinned happily, "but I still prefer to think of Maria as my little Jewish princess." He sat back down amid the appreciative laughter.

"That is the advantage of worshiping legendary figures, Allen, " Isaac said, nodding his head and smiling. "We can always mold them to fit our own fantasies." Isaac looked up and motioned to an unfamiliar face. "A question, sir?"

"Yes, Dr. Isaac." A tall, dark-complexioned man, neatly dressed in a gray three-piece suit, with a carefully trimmed black beard and dark horn-rimmed glasses, stood up in the back row. "Earlier you suggested that the future of pharmaceutical drugs may be in the production of analog compounds. Would you mind expounding on that theory for a few moments?" The tall, bearded man sat back down.

"Not at all," Isaac shrugged. "I'm simply of the opinion that our current stocks of pharmaceutical drugs --- aspirin, Valium, Percodan, what have you --- will be replaced in the not-so-distant future by analogs: that is, compounds which are very similar to the parent drugs-structurally-but not quite identical.

"For example," Isaac elaborated as he noted the confused expressions in his audience, "let's take sodium acetylsalicylate --- a simple twenty-one-atom molecule that we all know much better as aspirin." He started in to explain the analog theory, and then hesitated.

"Do you all really want to sit here and listen to a lecture on chemistry?" Isaac asked skeptically. "I can always answer this gentleman's question after . . ."

A sea of shaking heads and several murmured words of encouragement caused Isaac to shrug agreeably. "All right," he smiled, "but don't say I didn't warn you. Now then, where was I?"

"Headache remedies, David," Dr. Allen Bacon called out helpfully.

"Oh yes," Isaac nodded. "As you may know, we now suspect that only a small part of the aspirin molecule --- the part which fits snugly into special receptor sites within our central nervous system --- actually triggers its miraculous analgesic effect. So, to make a useful analog of aspirin, we would want to retain the essential, pain-killing part of the molecule, while trying to alter other structural parts which may be producing the less-desirable effects.

"For example, a useful analog of aspirin might be one that soothes minor pain, but doesn't irritate the stomach lining. The trick, of course, is to determine which parts of the molecule we must save --- to retain the desired pharmacological effects --- and which parts we can safely alter in the hope that we'll come up with something better."

Isaac waited until he observed nods of understanding from several of the non-chemists in the group, and went on.

"So, now, let us assume that we're going to make a test series of ten analogs for aspirin; and, furthermore, that we'll prepare these analogs by removing a specific atom from the aspirin molecule, and substituting ten different atoms or atom groups. We mix ten sets of ingredients, pot-boil away merrily, and then end up with ten different compounds, the molecules of which all look pretty much like aspirin. Correct?

"Certainly," Isaac nodded, answering his own question. "Ten batches of aspirin-like molecules, each of which is structurally very similar to aspirin. But the question is: Do any of these analog compounds act like aspirin? And if so," he added meaningfully, "do they also possess more desirable side effects? Or side effects which are even more dangerous?"

Isaac paused, hesitant for a moment, and then continued.

"One might think that the development of useful drug analogs would simply be a matter of extensive 'pot-boiling' --- that is, just churning out batches of likely analogs and finding out which ones work. Unfortunately, it’s not quite that easy.

"As we all know, there are hundreds --- if not thousands --- of possible analog structures for any one compound; many of which are difficult to synthesize. So, to be efficient, we need to be able to predict useful analogs on some logical basis-ideally by computer modeling, as we are doing in my lab right now. But then, of course, we rapidly discover that even slight alterations in the molecular structure can result in pharmacological effects that are absolutely unpredictable.

"Thus," Isaac added with a sad shake of his head, "I would have to warn any future analog-research chemists in the audience that such projects are horribly time-consuming, outrageously expensive, invariably prone to recurring failure, and otherwise highly frustrating. Fortunately, I suppose, there are many of us who --- like Maria --- continue to cherish that tiny spark of hope . . . for one reason or another."

The auditorium erupted in a burst of quiet, knowing laughter.

"But that's the part I don't understand," the tall man interrupted as the chuckling died down. "Surely there must be a huge market for some of these useful analogs; certainly enough to justify the expense of producing and testing these thousands of analog compounds."

"With all due respect, sir," Isaac said, smiling, "I can only assume that you have never had to deal with the government agencies that regulate drug testing. Let me assure you that the paperwork involved in trying to comply with the hundreds of often-conflicting rules and regulations governing this type of research is mind-boggling, to say the least, not to mention prohibitively expensive."

There were murmurings of agreement throughout the auditorium.

"But even setting aside the regulatory problems, it just isn't that easy," Isaac emphasized. "You must still face the critical problem that has plagued research chemists for generations: the unavoidable fact that, in order to fully understand the action of any analog on a human brain, you must eventually test that analog out on human guinea pigs."

"I'll volunteer!" a voice among the undergraduates standing in the back of the auditorium yelled out. There was immediate laughter and some scattered applause.

"A very noble offer," Isaac grinned. "However, perhaps I should warn you about a young man in Los Angeles who made exactly that kind of mistake, a few months ago, when he apparently consumed a drug analog produced by an … uh … underground chemist. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon your point of view, the only organs stimulated by this particular analog were the young man's kidneys. Unknowingly, I think we can safely assume, the chemist had synthesized a very potent forty-eight-hour diuretic."

The audience chuckled appreciatively.

"Two days later," Isaac continued, "an extremely dehydrated and disgruntled young man checked out of a hospital and immediately turned himself in to the police, subsequently, I'm told, providing them with the name and address of the chemist . . . and, I assume, teaching them both a very lasting lesson."

"Boy, he must have been really pissed-off, to call the cops," a youthful voice in the front stage-whispered, causing another roar from the academicians who were clearly enjoying a welcome respite from their intellectual labors.

"Yes, thank you, I imagine he was," Isaac responded good-naturedly after the laughter had died down again. Then his voice turned sober.

"But the story could have ended quite differently. As I have indicated, the very real problem with testing drug analogs is that you cannot predict with absolute certainty which receptor sites in the brain will accept a particular analog structure.

"And that is dangerous," Isaac emphasized. "Instead of acting as a diuretic or as a hallucinogen --- as was presumably intended --- the compound that the unsuspecting young man ingested could have just as easily functioned as a rapid carcinogen, or possibly even as a central nervous system poison. Or, perhaps, with much better luck, it might not have functioned at all --- a chemical version of Russian roulette, if you will."

Isaac looked down at his watch and discovered he had far surpassed the time allotted for his lecture.

"If there are no further questions, then I thank you all for being a most gracious and attentive audience." He stepped off the podium to a standing ovation that echoed throughout the auditorium.

* * *

As a select group of senior professors and other aggressive underlings gravitated toward the floor surrounding the lecture podium in order to spend a few more enjoyable minutes with the ever-congenial Isaac, the less-imposing or more restive members of the audience gradually worked their way up the aisles and out into the cool night air.

"I think I see why you enjoy his lectures, the diminutive, dark-eyed coed said, smiling contentedly as she and Bobby Lockwood walked slowly in the darkness, hand in hand, following the long, winding asphalt pathway that led to the distant student dormitories. "I didn't understand much of what he said, but he was fun to listen to anyway."

"Yeah, he's really something, isn't he." Lockwood nodded absentmindedly, and then impulsively turned his head down to give the affectionate girl a slow, gentle kiss before returning to his quiet musing.

"Uhmmm, you know, maybe if you studied more …" the warm-eyed girl suggested as she tightened her hand around Lockwood's sweatshirt-covered upper arm, leaning her head in against his shoulder as they walked.

"Why? You think I could become a chemistry professor?" Lockwood asked in amused disbelief, the absurdity of the girl's suggestion momentarily jarring him out of his morose state.

"Well --- you do like chemicals," the girl grinned. "Besides," she added, her voice turning half serious, "we might be needing a good chemist around here now that Jamie MacKenzie's out of business. You hear about what happened to him the other night?"

"Huh --- ah, yeah, I did," Lockwood nodded, his voice a raspy whisper.

"Really bizarre, huh? I mean, I bought from the dude all year, and I didn't even know he liked snakes," the girl said, shaking her head. "Sure hope he makes it."

"Yeah, me too," Lockwood nodded.

"You know him?"

"Used to score some crystal off him every now and then." Lockwood shrugged. "Seemed like a nice guy ---"

"Hey, which reminds me --- remember, you said ---"

"Oh yeah --- hey, don't worry, I've got plenty of good blow up in my room." Lockwood winked halfheartedly.

"Uhmm, you sure it's good stuff? I mean, you're not planning on giving me some of those analogs like that professor was talking about --- trying to get me horny?"

"In your case, it'd be a waste of good dope." Lockwood laughed. "Probably oughta give you something to slow you down."

"Oh, I don't know," the girl grinned, "wouldn't you like to?"

"Wouldn't I like to what?" Lockwood asked, his spirits starting to pick up now that he was no longer thinking about Jamie MacKenzie.

"You know, be a guinea pig. Try out all the new dope these chemist guys make."

"Yeah, I guess it does sound kinda interesting," Lockwood admitted as he guided the girl toward his nearby dorm hall. "But I don't know. Like Isaac said, that kinda shit could be real dangerous if you don't know what you're taking. Me, I get myself in enough trouble with booze and coke. Not sure I'd want to get involved with anything any more dangerous."

That include me?" the girl asked impishly.

"Oh yeah," Lockwood nodded, grinning openly now. "Well, I don't know, I guess a guys gotta live a little dangerously every now and then, doesn't he?"

* * *

Later that same evening a man who took a certain amount of pleasure in living and working at the edge of danger finally decided that he'd put in enough time on the Pilgrim evaluation for one day.

Having spent the past two days and nights carefully probing the undercurrents of rumor and intrigue within Jimmy Pilgrim’s four-county territory that comprised the southernmost portion of Jake Locotta's underworld empire, Lester was almost convinced that he'd found something. It wasn't anything concrete. Nothing he could take back to Locotta that would cause Jimmy Pilgrim to spend a few agonizing hours dangling at the end of a meat hook. But there was something going on, nonetheless. The signs were all there. Lester the headhunter could almost smell it.

Tomorrow, he told himself as he walked across the border into Tijuana, slid into a waiting taxi and gave the driver specific directions, leaving his three bodyguards to fend for themselves. Tomorrow, he'd track down an investment broker named Michael Thomas Theiss. Then he'd find out what the hell Jimmy Pilgrim was doing with all his excess money.

But tonight he was going to enjoy himself ... even to the point of adding a little extra touch of danger to his illicit amusement.

Normally, on a covert evaluation like this, Lester wouldn't have even gone to the john without having at least one of his highly trained bodyguards standing at the door. But this was different. From Lester's point of view, Tijuana was like the Free Parking space on a Monopoly board --- a safe haven from the normal hazards of life --- simply because nobody had enough balls to screw around in federale territory, where a man's rights specifically did not include a speedy trial or a phone call to his lawyer. Not even Jimmy Pilgrim.

A man could spend a very long time in a federate jail --- years, in fact, if you really pissed them off --- before he ever saw a telephone, Lester reminded himself reassuringly, confident that he was perfectly safe down here. Pilgrim and Rainbow were unquestionably vicious, and exceedingly dangerous to cross, but they weren't stupid.

Which was just as well, Lester shrugged, because he knew his bodyguards didn't care much for his kind of entertainment. Apparently cold-blooded violence was one thing, but violence with sexually sadistic overtones was something else entirely. Not that it really mattered, as far as Lester was concerned. He didn't really mind that his men thought he was a pervert, as long as they did their job. In fact, in all honesty, he kind of liked the idea.

Yes, Theiss was going to be the key, Lester told himself as the taxi driver made several tire-screeching turns that took them progressively deeper into the darkened heart of the notorious border town. Theiss, and a couple of the pound-dealers. Lester nodded to himself. Then maybe Locotta would let him go to work on that nigger Rainbow.

The idea of being allowed to use his special talents on the lean, muscular body of Lafayette Beaumont Raynee was highly appealing to the sadistic and bigoted Lester. So much so that he actually remained sitting in the back of the cab for a few moments, lost in his pleasant thoughts, after the driver had pulled to a sudden stop in front of a darkened alley and began gesturing impatiently for his money.

Suddenly remembering the pleasurable purpose of his journey, Lester quickly paid the cabbie, glanced down at his watch, scrambled out of the rundown vehicle, and then began to walk very quickly down the alley. He was late, and he knew that Angelo wouldn't wait to start …

The hand that came out of the darkness caught Lester at the base of the throat, sending him staggering back into the adobe brick wall.

"Good evening, Lester," the cold voice whispered in the darkness.

Leaning weakly back against the rough brick wall and trying not to vomit as he clutched at his damaged throat with both hands, Lester the headhunter slowly brought his watering eyes up to blink and stare helplessly at the dark shadow-figure. Not that the darkness mattered. Lester knew that voice.

"Jesus Christ, Jimmy," He rasped through his painfully bruised throat, "I wasn't --- "

"Of course you were, Lester," Jimmy Pilgrim whispered savagely. "That's your job. And you're very good at it, aren't you? You even enjoy it."

"But-but, the federales ---!"

This time it was a foot that struck out of the darkness. It caught Lester square in his exposed crotch, causing the helpless headhunter to gurgle a high-pitched scream as he fell forward into Jimmy Pilgrim's strong, waiting hands.

"It's all right, Lester," Pilgrim whispered soothingly as his hands tightened around the man's pulsing neck, "you can talk to the federales all you want --- later on."

When Lester regained consciousness, his flaccid body having finally neutralized the swarm of barbiturate molecules that Jimmy Pilgrim had thoughtfully injected into his bloodstream, he immediately became aware of four horribly numbing facts:

First, that he had somehow become wedged into the driver’s seat of some kind of police car that was tilted forward into a ditch.

Second, that the interior of the vehicle seemed to be filled with the pungent aroma of Mexican whiskey.

Third, that there was a heavy revolver lying on his lap, and some sort of police hat on his head --- both of which, he quickly discovered, almost certainly belonged to the man in the back of the vehicle (that is to say, the senior federale officer who was lying quietly on the back seat with the back of his head caved in and his pants pulled down around his knees).

And finally, that most of the men who surrounded the car, staring in through the windows in wide-eyed disbelief, seemed to be wearing the same uniform as the man in the back seat of the crashed patrol unit. Not one of them looked as though they'd be terribly interested in listening to Lester's frantic explanations.

The situation was bad enough (unbelievably bad, from Lester's point of view), but it was only as his desperately screaming mind sought to end the agony --- before it really began --- that Lester the headhunter really understood the sadistic nature of Jimmy Pilgrim … and the fate that the underworld dope boss bad so carefully and maliciously arranged.

Swiftly bringing the barrel of the revolver up to the side of his head with trembling fingers --- an act that truly defined the wretched hopelessness of his situation --- Lester closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger, first once, and then five more times in frantic succession as the hammer fell loudly on the empty chambers.

The federale officers who now surrounded the crashed police vehicle with drawn guns could have ended Lester's torment at that moment; but, to his horror, anguish and despair, they didn't. Instead, they simply laughed among themselves --- a cold, heartless kind of laughter that had very little to do with humor --- as they dragged the whimpering headhunter out of the patrol car.

These police officers had other (and certainly more effective) ways of dealing with a cop-killer in their country.