3

I HAD GOMEZ DROP ME OFF in Harvard Square so I could eat birdseed and tofu with a reporter from The Weekly. Ditched my cigar. Then I went in to this blond-wood extravaganza, just off the square, allowed the manager to show me her nostrils, and finally picked out Rebecca sitting back in the corner.

"How's the Granola James Bond?"

I nearly unleashed my Toxic Spiderman rap but then remembered that some people actually admired me, Rebecca among them, and it was through admiration and James Bond legends that we got things like free cars and anonymous toxic tips. So I let it drop. Rebecca had picked the sunniest comer of the room and the light was making her green eyes glow like traffic lights and her perfume volatilize off the skin. She and I had been in the sack a few times. The fact that we weren't going to be there in the near future made her a hundred thousand time-oops-more than twice as beautiful. To distract myself, I growled something about beer to a waiter and sat down.

"We have-" the waiter said, and drew a tremendously deep breath.

"Genesee Cream Ale."

"Don't have that, sir."

"Beck's." Because I figured Rebecca was paying.

"The specialty is sparkling water with a twist," Rebecca said.

"I need something to wash the Everett out of my mouth."

"Been out on your Zode?"

"Zodiac to you," I said. "And no, I haven't."

We always began our conversations with this smart-assed crap. Rebecca was a political reporter and spent her life talking to mushmouths and blarney slingers. Talking to someone who would say "fuck" into a tape recorder was like benzedrine to her. There was also an underlying theme of flirtation-"Hey, remember?" "Yeah, I remember." "It was all right, wasn't it?" "Sure was."

"How's Project Lobster?"

"Wow, you prepared for this interview. It's fine. How's the paper?"

"The usual. Civil war, insurrection, financial crisis. But everyone reads the movie reviews."

"Instead of your stuff?"

"Depends on what I'm digging up."

"And what's that?"

She smiled, leaned forward and observed me with cunning eyes. "Pleshy's running," she said.

"Which Fleshy? Running from what?"

"The big Fleshy."

"The Groveler?"

"He's running for president."

"Shit. End of lunch. Now I'm not hungry."

"I knew you'd be delighted."

"What about fiasco? Doesn't he have to put all that crap into a blind trust?"

"It's done. That's how I know he's running. I have this friend at the bank."

The Fleshy family ran Basco-they'd founded the company-and that made them the number one polluters of Boston Harbor. The poisoners of Vietnam. The avant-garde of the toxic waste movement. For years I'd been trying to tell them how deep in shit they were, sometimes pouring hydraulic cement into their pipes to drive the point home.

This year, the Pleshy-in-charge was Alvin, a.k.a. the Groveler, an important member of the team of management experts and foreign policy geniuses that brought us victory in Vietnam.

Rebecca showed me samples of his flacks' work: "Many environmentalists have overreacted to the presence of these compounds..." not chemicals, not toxic waste, but compounds "... but what exactly is a part per million?" This was followed by a graphic showing an eyedropper-ful of "compounds" going into a railway tank car of pure water.

"Yeah. They're using the PATEOTS measuring system on you. A drop in a tank car. Sounds pretty minor. But you can twist it the other way: a football field has an area of, what, forty-five thousand square feet. A banana peel has an area of maybe a tenth of a square foot. So the area of the banana peel thrown on the football field is only a couple of parts per million. But if your field-goal kicker steps on the peel just as time is expiring, and you're two points down ..."

"PATEOTS?"

"Haven't I told you about that?"

"Explain."

"Stands for Period At The End Of This Sentence. Remember, back in high school the hygiene pamphlets would say, 'a city the size of Dallas could get stoned on a drop of LSD no larger than the period at the end of this sentence.' A lot easier to visualize than, say, micrograms."

"What does that have to do with football?"

"I'm in the business of trying to explain technical things to Joe Six-pack, right? Joe may have the NFL rulebook memorized but he doesn't understand PCBs and he doesn't know a microgram from cunnilingus. So a microgram is about equal to one PATEOTS. A part per million is a drop in a railway tank car-that's what the chemical companies always say, to make it sound less dangerous. If all the baby seals killed last year were laid end to end, they would span a hundred football fields. The tears shed by the mommy seals would fill a tank car. The volume of raw sewage going into the Harbor could fill a football stadium every week."

"Dan Smirnoff says you're working together now."

Some beer found its way into my sinuses. I had to give it to Rebecca: she knew her shit.

Smirnoff was the whole reason for this conversation. All this crap about Fleshy and tank cars was just to get me loosened up. And when I went into my PATEOTS rap, she knew I was ready to be goosed in the 'nads. How many times had I given her my patented PATEOTS rap? Two or three at least. I like a good story. I like to tell it many times. By now she knew: talk to S.T. about eyedroppers and tank cars and he'll fly off the handle. Once I got flying on any toxic theme, she could slip in one tough question while my guard was down, watch my hairy and highly expressive face for a reaction, and glimpse the truth. Or find a basis for all her darkest suspicions.

"Smirnoff's one of these people I have to have contact with. Like a prison guard has to have contact with a certain number of child molesters."

"You'd put him in that category?"

"No, he's not crafty enough. He's just pissed off and very full of himself."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah, but I have a reason to be arrogant. He doesn't."

"Patti Bowen at NEST says..."

"Don't tell me. Smirnoff went to her and said, 'Hey, I'm putting a group together, a direct-action group, more hardhitting than GEE, and Sangamon Taylor is working with me."

"That's what Patti Bowen said."

"Yeah, well Smirnoff got ahold of me the other day-you understand, I just hung up on the bastard, because I don't want the FBI to even imagine him and me on the same line-so he tracked me down in the food co-op when I was cutting fish. And he said, 'Patti Bowen and me are working together on a hard-hitting direct-action group, nudge nudge wink wink.' So I waved my boning knife at him and said, 'Listen, pusswad, you are toxic, and if you ever call me, ever call GEE, ever come within ten feet of me again, I'll take this and gut you like a tuna.' Haven't heard from him since."

"Is that your position? That he's a terrorist?"

"Yeah."

Rebecca started writing that down, so I added slowly and distinctly, "And we're not."

"So he's the same as Hank Boone, in your opinion."

I had to squirm. "Morally, yes. But no one's really like Boone."

Boone had this thing about whaling ships. He liked to sink them. He was a founder of GEE and hero of the Soviet invasion, but he'd been kicked out seven years ago. Off the coast of South Africa he had filled a Zodiac full of C-4, lit the fuse, pointed it at a pirate whaler, and jumped off at the last minute. The whaler went to the bottom and he went to hide out in some weepy European social democracy. But he kept dropping out of sight and whaling ships kept digging craters on the floors of the seven seas.

"Boone's effective. Smirnoff is just pathetic."