Chapter LXXIII

The William Stonehurst Foundation for American Ideas occupied a dull, single-story nineties building off Clarks Pond Parkway in South Portland. The premises had formerly been occupied by a debt collection agency that went bankrupt, however that was accomplished, and the ghostly silhouettes of the company name remained visible on the exterior, along with the words RACISTS OUT and a swastika, both of which had been imperfectly whitewashed over. Weeds grew through the cracks in the cement parking lot and a large animal, or possibly a regular-sized human being, had taken a dump in one of the spaces.

"So this is where the white folk are mustering to take their country back?" said Louis. "I got to say, I'm trembling."

"We're still working out the kinks," I said. "Sometimes you have to start small."

Three vehicles sat in front of the building, one of them Bobby Ocean's black Hummer, which I'd seen around town. It was a recent purchase, acquired used, and among the last of the originals to roll off the line in 2010. Only blockheads drove Humvees, but Bobby still contrived to give them a bad image. I parked as far from it as possible, because the persistence of the William Stonehurst Foundation for American Ideas was proof that benightedness was contagious.

Lately, Bobby had been in the news for promoting assorted prepper, secessionist, and exit arguments, including the use of cryptocurrencies and decentralized autonomous organizations to found independent communities; and advocating that Maine, like Wyoming, should permit DAOs to incorporate as private companies as a step toward achieving that end. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure what a DAO was, even after Louis tried to explain it to me. I ended up with a vague notion of blockchains, tokens, digital interactions, and an absence of central leadership, which sounded like a good way to go about one's business without too much government interference. Whatever the reality, if Bobby Ocean was for it, I was against.

A faded NO MASKS sign was stuck to the inside of the glass double doors. Inside, a young woman typed furiously at a keyboard behind an overlarge security desk that probably dated from the previous tenants. The lobby appeared to have been given a fresh coat of paint, but it served only to make the furnishings look more worn, while the carpet could have done with being rolled up and burned. The wall behind the desk was dominated by a framed photograph of the titular William Stonehurst, aka Billy Ocean, beside a Betsy Ross flag.

"You know," I said to Louis, "your presence here might be regarded as unnecessarily provocative."

"Inflammatory, even," said Louis.

"Especially since you once set his late son's truck on fire."

"It was an act of public service. You want me to hang back?"

"Hell, no," I said. "It was just an observation. This isn't a social call."

The doors weren't locked, so the secretary couldn't do much to prevent us from entering. It was possible that she wasn't a true believer and was happy to have a job, even one as lousy as this one, but she knew enough about the operation to recognize that the foundation rarely entertained visitors from the Black community, not unless they were dropping off a UPS package. She didn't look any more enthused by the sight of Angel, who was proudly racially indeterminate, thus enabling him to cause anxiety to a broader range of ethnic groups.

"Can I help you?" inquired the secretary.

"You know that replacement theory shit your boss peddles?" replied Louis. "Meet the replacement."

"We're here to speak to Bobby," I said, wondering if it might not have been a better idea to leave Louis outside after all.

"Do you have an appointment with Mr. Stonehurst?"

"No, but we're old acquaintances. He'll be happy to see us."

She wasn't convinced, and I couldn't blame her. It was hard to conceive of anyone who might be happy to see the three of us together, or even individually.

"I'm afraid he's in a meeting."

"Well, tell him to take off his hood and douse the cross with water," I said. "Company's here."

Her hand slipped under the edge of the desk. Ten seconds ticked by before an inner door opened and a man stepped through. He was dressed in light blue pants, a matching shirt, and heavy black boots. The uniform was too tight, and he walked like the boots might be too tight as well, but then there was a lot of flesh to fill the available spaces.

"Shit," he said. "At least the day can't get any fucking worse."

"How you doing, Whit?" I said. "You a storm trooper now?"

Whitten Vickery had probably barely emerged from the womb before the obstetrician offered him twenty bucks to watch the door. He was a well-known presence around the bars of the Old Port on weekends, or on game nights when spirits might be set to run high. He also picked up a few hours at strip joints, on loading bays, and at Halloween hayrides, where he dressed up as a chain-saw-wielding maniac, helped by the fact that he had his own chain saw and didn't require a lot in the way of makeup. That said, he wasn't a bad fellow. He just didn't have a great deal going on in the conscience or intelligence departments, although he was smart enough to grasp that, whatever Bobby Ocean was paying him to prevent any further graffiti incidents or hold off the Antifa hordes that might be preparing to besiege the building, it wasn't enough to compensate for facing down me, and it certainly wasn't enough to justify facing me down and the two men at my side.

"Work is hard to come by," said Whit. "You know how it is."

"Tell me about it," I said. "I'm standing in the lobby of this dump, so I may have to dip my shoes in Lysol when I'm done. When did you start?"

"This morning. I got a call."

It wasn't hard to piece together the sequence of events. After last night's incident at the Murder Capital, Antoine Pinette had informed Bobby Ocean that he was overdue a visit from me, and Antoine and his people would be sitting this one out as payback for the activation of Leo's arsonist tendencies. I was only surprised that Bobby hadn't located a rock under which to hide, but instead decided to brazen it out, albeit with hired muscle to protect him.

"They want to see Mr. Stonehurst," said the secretary to Whit. "I told them he was in a meeting."

Vickery sighed. He looked like a man who'd discovered half a worm in his apple, and just figured out where the other half might be.

"I don't suppose," he said, "that you'd consider leaving without causing a ruckus?"

"If we did, we'd have to come back another time," I said, "so it would only be postponing the inevitable. I'd also have to disinfect a second pair of shoes."

"Damn," said Vickery. "This was cash in hand, too."

"You allergic to seafood?"

"No. Why?"

"I hear the Alfieros over at the Harbor Fish Market are looking for someone who isn't afraid of heavy lifting. They're good people, as straight as they come. You do right by them, and they'll do right by you."

"Can I tell them you sent me?"

"Sure."

"I'll get my coat. Then you can go straight in."

He disappeared through the inner door.

"Wait a minute—" said the secretary.

"You ought to quit, as well," I said. "You stay here long enough, and you'll end up giving evidence at a trial. You can do better."

"Unless you're a racist," said Louis.

"There is that," I said. "If you're a racist, this is your dream job, and who are we to deprive a woman of her dream?"

Whit Vickery reappeared carrying a navy peacoat and a Tupperware containing a sandwich, an apple, and a hard-boiled egg.

"Where's his office?" I asked.

He jerked a thumb behind him.

"Through there, first door on the right."

"Is there another way out?"

"From the office? Only a window. Otherwise, there's the way you came in and a fire door at the back. You'll see it at the end of the hallway."

The secretary moved to pick up the phone, but Angel was ahead of her and lifted it beyond reach.

"This isn't right," she told Vickery. "You're not supposed to walk away at the first sign of trouble. What kind of security guard are you anyway?"

"The kind who knows when he's beat," said Whit. "It's your call, honey, but if I were you, I wouldn't be hanging around to see what happens next. If it helps, I don't think they're going to hurt him."

He waited in vain for confirmation.

"Much," he added.

"I don't believe this," said the secretary. She stood to grab her coat and bag. "And I am allergic to seafood, so there's no point in my trying the fucking fish market."

She came from behind the desk to join Vickery.

"Go for a walk," I told her. "Think about your future. When you return, we'll be gone."

She found a pack of cigarettes in her bag and fumbled one into her mouth.

"I didn't like it here anyway. He keeps patting my ass and asking me to have dinner with him."

"Bobby does love a buffet," I said, "but someone may have to cut off his hands to curb his other appetites. If you like, I'll offer him your immediate notice, and he'll pony up what you're owed in cash so you don't have to come back and beg. We can drop it off later."

She lit her cigarette.

"Yeah, good luck with that."

"Oh, we can be very convincing," said Louis.

She regarded him for a moment before returning to her bag.

"Let me write down my address."