Death of a Blue Movie Star

SQUAD and leaned on the hood. Rune, slipping into eavesdropping range, heard:
    “What’ve we got?” a fat man in a brown suit asked Cowboy.
    “Plastic, looks like. A half ki.” He looked up from under salt-and-pepper brows. “I can’t figure it. No I.R.A. targets here. The bar was Greek.” He nodded. “And the Syndicate only blows things up after hours. Anyway,
their
M.O. is, if you want to scare folks, they miss protection payments, you use Tovex from a construction site or maybe a concussion grenade. Something that makes a big noise. But military plastic? Sitting right next to the gas line? I don’t get it.”
    “We got something here.” A patrolman came up and handed Cowboy a plastic envelope. Inside was a scorched piece of paper. “We’re going fishing for latents so if you could be careful, sir.”
    Cowboy nodded and read.
    Rune tried to get a glimpse of it. Saw careful handwriting. And dark stains. She wondered if they were blood.
    Cowboy glanced up. “Are you someone?”
    “My mother thinks so.” She tried a fast smile. He didn’t respond, studied her critically. Maybe trying to decide if she was a witness. Or the bomber. She decided not to be cute. “I just wondered what it said.”
    “You’re not supposed to be here.”
    “I’m a reporter. I’m just curious what happened.”
    Brown Suit offered, “Why don’t you be curious someplace else.”
    Which ticked her off and she was about to tell him that as a taxpayer—which she wasn’t—she paid his salary but just then Brown Suit finished reading the note and tapped Cowboy’s arm. “What’s this Sword?”
    Forgetting about Rune, Cowboy said, “Never heard of them but they want credit, they can have it till somebody better shows up.” Then he noticed something, stepped forward, away from the station wagon. Brown Suit was looking elsewhere and Rune glanced at the message on the burned paper.
    The first angel blew his trumpet, and there followed hail and fire, mixed with blood, which fell on the earth; and a third of the earth was burnt up
….
    —A Warning from the Sword of Jesus
     
    Cowboy returned a moment later. A young priest was behind him.
    “Here it is, Father.” Cowboy handed him the plastic envelope. The man touched his ear above his Roman collar as he read, nodding, his thin lips pressed together. Solemn, as if he were at a funeral. Which, Rune figured, he just about was.
    The priest said, “It’s from the
‘Revelation to John.’
Chapter eight, verse … seven, or six maybe. I’m not—”
    Cowboy asked, “What’s that about, ‘Revelation? Like getting inspiration?”
    The priest gave a polite, noncommittal laugh before he realized the cop wasn’t joking. “What it’s about is the end of the world. The Apocalypse.”
    Which is when Brown Suit noticed Rune, looking through the crook of Cowboy’s arm. “Hey, you, move along.”
    Cowboy turned, but didn’t say anything.
    “I’ve got a right to know what’s going on. I walked by there just a minute ago. I could’ve been killed.”
    “Yeah,” said Brown Suit. “But you weren’t. So count your blessings. Look, I’m getting tired of telling you to get out of here.”
    “Good. ’Cause I’m getting tired of hearing it.” Rune grinned.
    Cowboy reined in a smile.
    “Now.” Brown Suit stepped forward.
    “Okay, okay.” Rune walked away.
    But slowly—just to show they weren’t going to bully her
too
much. Her leisurely departure let her overhear something the young priest was saying to Cowboy and Brown Suit.
    “I hate to tell you this but if that note has to do with the bombing it’s not such good news.”
    “Why not?” Cowboy asked.
    “That verse? It’s about the
first
angel. In the whole passage there are seven angels all together.”
    “So?” asked Brown Suit.
    “I guess that means you’ve got six more to go until God wipes the slate clean.”

     
    In the office of L&R Productions, on Twenty-first Street, Rune took a beer from the fridge. It was an old Kenmore and one of her all-time favorite objects. On the door was a raised pattern like the grille of a 1950 Studebaker and it had a big silver handle that looked like it belonged on a submarine hatch.
    Looking at her reflection in a scabby mirror above the receptionist’s desk, she saw her muted black-and-green portrait, lit by the fluorescence of the office: a girl in a red miniskirt, printed with silhouettes of dinosaurs, and two sleeveless T-shirts, one white, one navy. Her auburn