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XIV: Meeting with Madison



Many a philosophy which men regard as beneficial holds violence to be the very definition of evil. We, however, dare inquire of the proponents of this idea, who is advantaged by it? The good? Their moral entreaties are vain whimperings to men of ill will. It is evil which gains, by discovering its victims disarmed and bound for slaughter by their very beliefs.

If civilization is to endure, we must come to see violence in a neutral light, examining only the circumstances of its wielding. Initiated, particularly for collective purposes, it is the sum and total of all misfortune ever visited by men upon man. In response to such initiation, may we not judge it proper and good? If we cannot, then we need not look ahead to some ultimate triumph of evil; it has already occurred.

—Albert Gallatin

Principles of Liberty





A detective learns to tolerate looking at dead bodies in the hope of finding out who made them that way. I’ve tried to specialize in the freshly deceased, or those kept wholesome in the city meatlocker—never been much good with spoiled corpses.

One of the high spots of my career—in fact, the bust that got me a detective’s shield—was something I privately call the Barfbag Burglary. I was working graveyards—funny how they name these things—helping stake out an amazing second-story man. He could open any lock in twenty seconds; his time inside averaged less than three minutes. The guy was really good, and we all grudgingly admired him. But he had a nasty habit of emptying the victim’s refrigerator on every job—his signature, as it were, and it saved buying groceries.

This particular evening we had four places under surveillance, all showing carefully arranged signs of vacancy—newspapers, milk bottles, lights on in the bathroom. By luck he hit mine; inside as quickly as usual, he stayed an unprecedented ten minutes. I waited, figuring to nab him on his way out.

When the burglar finally emerged, he lugged five or six sacks to his car and, just as I was about to collar him, went back for more! He returned, again and again. I couldn’t take the suspense: the next time, my partner and I were crouching behind his rear bumper. I put on the cuffs and read him his rights. “Strictly off the record,” I asked, “how come so many trips? You’re usually more efficient.”

He sat in the back of my car, irritated with himself, but genuinely pleased we knew his work. “It was the damned refrigerator. They got a walk-in, full of plastic garbage bags. I wanted to clean it out, to needle you guys. Only thing, it must’ve broken down a week ago! Everything high as a—but I had my gimmick, dig? I could always dump the garbage on my way home.”

I was holding my nose when we undid the twist-ties on the big green trash bags. They never determined exactly how many people it had been—three heads, seven hands, five feet, six elbow joints. In Denver’s miserable summer inversion, that freezer had become a sweatbox. All that remained, really, was soup and bones. I didn’t ask for the recipe.

We never found the murderers. I tried regarding it not so much as losing a supper as gaining a promotion. Somehow my stomach didn’t see it that way. For a week or so it wouldn’t hold anything but tea and toast. The burglar pulled down three to five, then got a job with a famous lock manufacturer. Last I heard he was a vice president.

That’s what I was thinking about as I watched Deejay dig: what we’d find at the bottom. I’m even game for mummies and dried-up Indian relics, but something unembalmed that’s been down there a week with things nibbling on it? Pass the smelling salts, Mother.

I stood on the grass beside Ooloorie’s whatsitmobile. Clarissa and Lucy were on the way. We’d need a doctor—possibly for me—and Lucy, of course, wouldn’t be left out. Ed was digging like a sandhog, taking his fair share of the faraway porpoise’s backseat shoveling. I was grateful there wasn’t room enough for me down there.

It wasn’t really so bad. I peeked through my fingers. From what the worms had left, we figured he’d been chopped off just below the knees. Oolorie, counting on her flippers, informed us that Bealls’s entire building was now a pile of secondhand cinder blocks. At any rate, we hadn’t destroyed the planet or invited it to be blown up by Strategic Air Command. I still had a place to go home to.

I was pretty proud of myself—managed to look that corpse directly in what was left of its eyes, and then hold out all the way to the bathroom in Deejay’s lab. Ed was next in line. Toughness is a funny sort of thing. Clarissa didn’t turn a hair. I wonder where they recruit doctors?





“WELL, FRIEND DETECTIVE,” I asked over hot tea and toast, fresh from a Bunsen burner, “we’ve saved my world. What’s next on the agenda?”

Ed groaned. “Just look at these blisters! And you, standing up where it was dry and clean, giving directions!”

“That was Ooloorie. Anyway, if you’d paid attention, you wouldn’t have had to dig that second hole.”

“Third,” Ed corrected, “and I don’t care—I’m going home to bed!” Clarissa put down her cup, examined Ed’s hands again. I felt a little twinge, but what the hell? Who was I, a middle-aged, overweight, balding newcomer, to be staking claims? I watched her apply some kind of salve to Ed’s wounds.

“C’mon, Eddie! The night is young, and you promised me a steak!” Lucy wandered around the lab, prying into apparatus with utter disregard for her own safety or anyone else’s.

“I know, Lucy, and I’ll deliver, too—right through the heart! But in the morning, when I can swing a mallet with more enthusiasm.”

“I’ve just been called an old bat!” Lucy mused. “But I still want that steak—who’s for grabbing some calories?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, surprising myself. “Clarissa?”

“No thanks, Win, I had a heavy case load today. I think I’ll ask Ed for a lift home.”

Twinge. “Well, how about you, Deejay? I owe you. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“All right. Ooloorie? I’ll say good-bye, now …” The Telecom was silent. “Shh!” Deejay whispered. She giggled and we tiptoed out of the laboratory, Deejay, Lucy, and I for a late dinner, Ed and Clarissa for … who knows? It was the first time I’d been out of the house, out of their way, since I’d gotten here.





THE WHISKEY JAR wasn’t as entertaining as Mr. Meep’s, simply a pleasant, unassuming place that, like all restaurants in this twenty-four hour society, offered you breakfast, lunch, or dinner at any time of the day. We ordered from the electronic menu.

“Great Albert’s Ghost, Winnie, it’s good to see you up and doing! Think of it: fresh outa sickbed, in as foreign a country as they come, and already you’re out with a pair of good-lookin’ women!” She winked at Deejay.

“Win, now that you know your world’s still in one piece, will you be going back? If we can get another Broach running, I mean.

I thought about it. “Not until we’ve straightened this mess out. We’ve got to find whoever’s trying to kill me, and I hate to think of this beautiful place plastered with nuclear weapons. After that? I have a career back home, and nothing much to do here except get in the way and mooch off my friends.”

Lucy wiggled her eyebrows. “Nothin’?”

I looked at Deejay, thought of Clarissa, and sighed quietly. “Well, we need to find out more about these Federalists. How about it, Lucy, are they as dangerous as you all seem to think?”

“Dangerouser! No one with all his marbles’d listen to ’em, but they seem to find enough power-greedy dummies each generation to cause the rest of us a lot of trouble.”

“If we find them, what can we do about it?”

“Depends on what they’re up to. Gonna be hard, ‘less we catch ’em settin’ fuses. It’s a free world: you can’t shoot people for havin’ stupid ideas. Otherwise we’d all go to the wall, one time or another!”

I considered some stupid ideas I’d had about Clarissa. “Well,” I answered glumly, “how do we find this Madison character, put an ad in the paper?”

Deejay looked up from her steak. “That wouldn’t be John Jay Madison?”

“Dunno, honey,” Lucy replied. “All we know is he’s the brains behind Hamiltonianism here in Laporte. You know a Madison?”

“Not really, but there’s one giving weekly lectures in the History and Moral Philosophy Department. My engineers were talking about it—something about the War in Europe from the Prussian point of view.”

“Lucy, if this isn’t our pigeon, what’re the chances he’ll know the guy we want? I mean, Prussians, Hamiltonians—don’t they sort of go together?”

“Not necessarily, Winnie. My late husband was a Russky, but he wasn’t any Czarist!”

“Sure, I’m sorry. Deejay, how do we find this John James Madison, quick?”

“John Jay Madison. (Certainly sounds like a Federalist, doesn’t he?) The lectures will be listed on the campus information channel. Or you could call the H & MP Department.”

“We will! Look, Deejay, if this pans out, we’ll owe you a lot more than another steak. Is there anything I could do for you? Anything at all?”

She looked thoughtful. “No, I—wait a minute, yes. Three things, I believe.”

“Three wishes it is! Name them!”

“All right, if you have any coins or other distinctive artifacts from your side, and can spare them, I’d like something for analysis—and,” she admitted, “as a sort of trophy of the thing’s having worked, know what I mean?”

“Sure. I’ve got coins, cartridges, a paperback book I’m not too fond of. Anything you want.”

“Thank you, Win. Second, well, my father was killed at Diamond Head. You have to promise to keep me posted—let me in on it if things get rough.”

“You’ve got it, kid. What else?”

“I—uh,” she hesitated, looking shy. “You might ask Dr. Olson who programs her hair. It’s really very nice, you know.”

“I know.”

Lucy gave me an odd look.

We dropped Deejay off and went home. “You’re lookin’ kinda peaked, boy.” Lucy coaxed her ancient Thorneycroft into the garage. “Maybe overdoin’ it your first day out. Go home and get some shut-eye, hear?”

Yeah.





THURSDAY, JULY 16, 1987


People like John Jay Madison disturb me, people who take all my instincts and training and flush them down the toilet with a warm smile and a firm handshake. It was impossible to hate this man who’d probably almost killed Ed and Captain Forsyth and caused two deaths on his own side—three, if you count the guy who hanged himself. Nor was I overlooking the machine-gun bullets or the fact that somebody had tried to knife me in my sleep. Madison had a lot of blood on his charming, well-manicured hands. That he didn’t have more wasn’t for lack of trying.

But I had to keep reminding myself, over and over.

We’d debated that morning what to do next. I was afraid Ed would want to be roundabout; he expected the same from me. It took an hour and a half to discover we both favored direct confrontation. The History and Moral Philosophy Department provided us with an address and Telecom number.

“Would you believe this?” I was sitting, a ’com pad propped up on my lap. “Look what I found in the Grand Combined Directory. We needn’t have bothered with the university at all!”



ALEXANDER HAMILTON SOCIETY





J. J. Madison, Chrmn.

89 Tucker Cr GRAy 7-2345



“Well I’ll be slaved!” he said around his sixth piece of toast. “Lucy would have a hernia if she saw that!”

“No, she’d say, ‘It’s a free world, sonny!’”

“Let’s find out. I had in mind to ask her along, anyway. We may need a witness.”

So it happened that we glided up to the front gate of a mansion that made even Ed’s place look seedy, a Georgian monstrosity with a dozen sequoia-size columns and twice that number of marble steps leading to the door. We were greeted by a huge uniformed servant with close-cropped steel-gray hair and the accent of a comic psychiatrist. “Herr Madizon vill meed you in d’Ogtagon Hroom. Bleaze vollow me.”

We were marched through a layout—dark elaborate woodwork, highly figured carpeting, Tiffany lamps—that’d stump a behaviorist’s rat, into a sort of office parlor, and invited to “zit.” Ve zat.

The room was dominated by an ancient walnut desk the size of a limousine, and, on the wall behind, a four-foot bronze plaque: The Eye-in-the-Pyramid. I’d never really noticed before what a creepy emblem it is; I was about to compare it with a dollar bill, see whether they’d doctored it any, when the door opened. The butler stood at attention—I found myself rising reflexively—and announced, “Herr Doktor Chon Chay Madizon!”

Madison breezily shook hands all around, then relaxed behind his desk. “That’ll be all, Kleingunther.” Kleingunther clicked his heels, bumped his forehead on his belt buckle, and, giving us a last suspicious once-over, left, shutting the door. “You’ll have to overlook Hermann.” Madison reached across the desk for a cigar box. “It’s embarrassing sometimes. Cigar?”

I accepted gratefully, but waited until he lit his own, perhaps overdoing caution a bit. I had scars enough to warrant it—would have, anyway, if it weren’t for Clarissa. He settled in his chair, taking a long drag. I did the same and looked him over.

He was a big man, at six-two or -three, probably dressing down in the neighborhood of 275, none of it soft. Like Hermann Kleingunther, he had a well-scrubbed, close-cropped, salt-and-pepper look. He wore loose-fitting black trousers, a bright yellow blouse, and a short, waist-length jacket allowing easy access to the age-darkened cross-draw holster at his belt—a .354 Bolo Mauser, a hard-hitting no frills piece of ordnance dating from the War in Europe. A cruel seam running from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth told me pistols weren’t the only weapon he favored. Despite the dueling scar, he looked like some kid’s favorite seagoing uncle. Dangerous men seldom look dangerous.

“Now,” he said, “what can I do for you? You were a bit vague over the Telecom, I’m afraid.”

Ed started for us. “We’re more interested in discussing what you’ve already done. Two of your people were killed attacking my house night before last, and another killed himself yesterday morning.”

Madison looked exasperated. “Well, Mr. Bear, I could insist that you explain what you mean by two of my people—members of the Alexander Hamilton Society? I’d like to satisfy you that these men had nothing official to do with this organization or with me. We’re simply an institution for the discussion and debate of political philosophy.”

“First time in history that Hamiltonians limited themselves to discussion and debate!”

“My dear Judge Kropotkin. You’re remembering, perhaps, our brief tenure in the Kingdom of Hawaii—brought to an untimely end by the Antarctican unpleasantness? Or the savagery with which our proposed reforms were met on the Moon, afterward?” He looked at her more closely. “Or, if I’m not being indiscreet, perhaps even the Prussian War? Your Honor, all of that was long ago, and your concerns now are unjustified on several counts.”

“Such as?”

“I flatter myself I am an intelligent man. I take pains to associate with intelligent men. Would intelligent men fail to learn from their experiences? Even if all you imply is true, shouldn’t we have learned something from direct military confrontation?”

Lucy emitted a genuine harumph.

“But even that concedes more than is just. Your Honor, at various times in history, demagogues have required scapegoats. Unfortunately, we Hamiltonians have been handy on such occasions. It’s easy to condemn unworldly philosophers who have no ready means of reply. Since the Whiskey Rebellion, my fellows have been among the most unpopular in the world. What could we possibly say that would make people listen? How could we counter accusations graven in conventionally accepted history? Our views on economics and politics severely oppose the popular wisdom. Tell me, is that proof that we are wrong? To the contrary, it’s usually the other way around, isn’t it?”

“Very clever,” Ed said.

“And also very true. We believe that the good of society—in fact, the good of the individual—rests with recognizing and imposing an obligation to the state. We take what measures we can to transmit our views, hence this educational organization, my guest lectures at the university. But it goes very slowly: prejudice has such inertia.”

He rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, and paced, almost talking to himself, his eyes intent on some other place, some other time. “Inevitably, your investigations will reveal that my real name isn’t John Jay Madison. I was born Manfred, Landgraf von Richthofen. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it? It was, at one time, a name and family of some influence in Prussia, and of not inconsiderable wealth. The War changed that, of course. So, with perhaps a false start or two, I came to America to repair my fortunes.”

He spread his arms. “As you can see, I have, to a certain extent, accomplished that. I changed my name because John Jay and James Madison were, in my view, men of merit, of historical importance to both my homeland and this organization—certainly very American, something I was determined to become—and rather easier to pronounce.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help grinning back.

He stood at the opposite end of the room under an enormous portrait I recognized from ten-dollar Federal Reserve notes. The grim visage stared across toward the mystical symbol over Madison’s desk. “I should have adopted his name, had I dared. I assure you it is held in the esteem it deserves, elsewhere in the System—still, I must be able to buy groceries without arousing counterproductive passions.”

He went back to the desk. “Though you may disagree with what I believe, nevertheless I insist on being allowed to believe it, unmolested.” He made a sudden move toward his off side where the Mauser hung—I almost went for my gun. Eyeing me with some amusement, he continued the motion and pressed a small button on the desk. “Come, let me show you around. I’d like to assure you we have nothing to hide.”

“Jawohl, mein Herr!” a tinny voice said.

“Hermann, will you join us in the Washington Room?”

We followed through convoluted hallways into a larger, chair-filled chamber where Kleingunther stood rigidly at attention near a lectern flanked by flagpoles—the first I’d seen in the Confederacy. The flags, furled and covered, guarded a portrait on the front of the lectern: George Washington, wearing a canvas apron and holding drafting tools.

“Our lecture hall,” Madison said proprietarily. “Here we teach Hamiltonian philosophy and hold ceremonies traditional to our organization.”

“Looks like a Masonic lodge,” I said. Madison started to whirl, checked, then turned slowly.

“You are astute. It is true, we derive certain rituals from that ancient and honorable order. But where have you heard of it? It’s not a common thing to know about.”

“My brother, here,” Ed interrupted, “isn’t a common man. You might say he’s an entire world of esoteric information.”

“I believe I understand.” Madison smiled. “An excellent credential for a detective. Would you care to see where our directors meet?” In the smaller, more lavishly furnished place, Madison demonstrated a rear-projection device on the wall communicating with the Washington Room. “Sometimes it does indeed seem true,” he mused, “that a picture is worth thousands of words.”

We toured the entire mansion, at least I think we did. It was a rambling, complicated structure; we could have missed sections the size of Lucy’s house and never have known it. Lounges, conservatories, greenhouse. Everywhere we went, Madison preceded, a fountain of householder’s pride. Kleingunther followed in ominous silence.

The Federalist chief was quite unabashed at mementos of “early Hamiltonian history” scattered here and there “to remind us of our impetuosity”: Prussian armor and edged weapons; Hawaiian spears and shields; similar tokens from Uganda; gas masks and rifles from the War in Europe. In a sort of chapel, spread like a Bible in a helium-filled glass altar, lay the Constitution of the United States. “We, the People, in order to form a more perfect Union …”

There wasn’t any Bill of Rights.

In the basement hobby shop where, according to Madison, members pursued electronics, sculpture, modelmaking, there was even a little one-station press for reloading ammunition, not too different from the one a Denver gunsmith used to whip up my .41 Magnum. Madison was showing Lucy a spaceship in a bottle, and didn’t notice when I swiped a cartridge from the littered bench. Then, with a chill, I remembered Kleingunther, turned, and saw with relief that he was raptly following Madison’s lecture.

We didn’t quite get the full tour. Several times we passed closed doors. “A private room. Some members stay with us for longer or shorter periods. I cannot violate their privacy. It doesn’t look very candid, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped.” One such room was just off the cellar hobby area. The door was ajar, latched with a common hook and eye, and closed against a heavy power cable originating at the fuse box. The room beyond was dark; I thought I saw pilot lights burning dimly through the gap.

“So you see,” Madison said over brandy in his office, “these are facilities for education and recreation—our little planetarium, our gymnasium and steam room. But no Conspiracy Room. You would have seen it!”

“Depends,” Lucy said, looking around her, “on what a ‘conspiracy room’ looks like. Glad we saw the wine cellar, anyway. Prost!”

In due course we were shuffled onto the front porch with wholesome assurances of full cooperation and an open invitation to return for social or educational purposes. “Something tells me,” Madison winked at me, “that you might be right at home with many of our ideas on running a country, right at home … Oberst?”

“Leutnant,” I replied, “but on pretty indefinite leave.”

As we drove away, I fished out the empty case I’d swiped. It was far smaller than any I’d seen here—that’s what had caught my eye:



W-W .380 AUTO





A dull throb in my left shoulder: W-W stands for Winchester-Western, and the only Winchester of note in this world is a cathedral..380 Automatic is equally unknown, but it’s everyday fodder for the Ingram Model 11 submachine gun.