Metzger's Dog Read Online Free PDF

“Chinese, this disturbs me. We already have the three of us, and no doubt you’ll tell Margaret. Each person we add is costing me an hour of sleep every night. This better be the last one, because this makes five.”
    Chinese Gordon chuckled. “This is my greatest stroke of genius. Jorge Grijalvas isn’t in on our project at all. He’s going to be our ally. Jorge Grijalvas, for your information, is one of the biggest bastards in East L.A. He is a sort of underboss of the Mexican Mafia.”
    “Shit,” said Kepler. “I hate that. There’s the Mexican Mafia, the Israeli Mafia, the Irish Mafia, the black Mafia. Why the hell can’t people call it something else? Leave the word ‘Mafia’ to the Italians. I can hardly stand to read the paper anymore. And what the hell do we need this guy for?”
    “We don’t,” said Chinese Gordon. “At the moment we have no use for him at all. The man is a walking case of urban blight—no redeeming social value.”
    Immelmann studied Chinese Gordon. “Go on.” They drove down a block of crumbling, empty buildings.
    “I’m providing, as they say, for a Better Tomorrow. This guy can do a number of things for us, based on his rather slimy enterprises. One, he can launder huge amounts of money if we need it, because he is a dealer in brown heroin, the scourge of the poorest of the poor. Two, he can make us disappear whenever we want, if the price is right.”
    “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Kepler. “Will you look at this neighborhood? I wouldn’t walk a Doberman here—afraid somebody’d throw it to the ground and eat it.” A dark blue 1961 Chevrolet with an impossibly shiny metal-flake finish and chrome-spoke hubcaps pulled up beside them. It was built so low to the pavement that it threw sparks as it accelerated at the corner.
    Kepler eyed a group of a dozen young men wearing bandannas on their foreheads who were lounging in front of a hardware store, then pulled his pant leg up to reveal the knurled handgrip of the .357 Magnum stuck in his boot. Immelmann smiled.
    Chinese Gordon continued. “You see, there’s also the fact of history. You know there are already more people of Mexican descent in Los Angeles than there are Anglos? In five years most of southern California will be Spanish. By getting in touch now with Jorge Grijalvas we’re making the smartest move you can imagine, getting into a growth stock on the ground floor. The world is one big commodities exchange and we’re taking a plunge on Chicano futures.”
             
    H IS HAND HELD OUT IN FRONT OF HIM , the Director stood up and bounced across the room to meet Porterfield. But the Director’s eyes were on the thick, flowered carpet at his feet. There had been speculation in the Company that Director William Blount used the flowers on his carpet as actors use marks on a stage to block out their movements. If that were true, thought Porterfield, this was a notable occasion. The Director advanced a dozen giant camellias to hold out his moist, pudgy hand before scuttling back behind his desk.
    There was no greeting, only “Good. You’re here,” as though Blount were speaking to his feet.
    “What’s the problem?” asked Porterfield.
    The Director’s face took on a kind of dignity and repose when he was safely seated. “Probably nothing,” said Blount. “It’s a simple security problem if it’s handled tactfully and intelligently. We’ve been going over some of the standing items in Morrison’s inventory and discovered a certain lack of—discretion? imagination? I suppose that’s accurate.” The Director nodded to signify his agreement with himself.
    Porterfield said, “The Donahue grants.”
    “Yes,” said Blount. “Those projects should never have been carried on the books of the National Research Foundation to begin with. Have you read them yet?”
    “No, sir,” said Porterfield.
    “This man Donahue has a complicated mentality. He seems to have started out as a