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50

In June, Ngunda Aran will tour the Inland Northwest, with engagements in several second and third echelon cities: Billings and Missoula in Montana, Spokane and Richland in Washington, Boise in Idaho. In a rather thinly populated region, cities of 50,000 to 300,000 are much more important than they would be in populous regions.
 

Originally Calgary, Alberta, was to be included. The Canadian government, however, refused entrance to Millennium speakers on grounds that their appearance might cause public disturbances. This in spite of Millennium centers operating legally in five Canadian cities. And whatever you might think of Millennium and its guru, they are the opposite of inflammatory. Last autumn's tour of eastern Canada—Winnipeg, Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal and Halifax—resulted in nothing more disturbing than sign-bearing pickets and a scuffle or two. In a country whose national sport is ice hockey, and whose history and politics are commendably democratic, this ruling is hard to fathom—even given Canada's religious history, which is somewhat rockier than our own.
 

I recently spent six months living in the Dove Cote, accompanying Dove Tours, and visiting Millennium field centers, expecting to find evidence of dishonesty and cynicism. I was allowed to interview almost anyone I wanted to. I habitually look at the world with skeptical, investigative eyes, and I keep track of what my peers learn and say about Millennium and Ngunda. And I have yet to come across anything convincingly discreditable about either of them—anything more dignified than rumors.
 

That doesn't mean there isn't anything, but it makes me wonder about the government in Ottawa. It also helps me better appreciate the government of Florence Elaine Metzger.

American Scene Magazine
"Millennium, the Dove, and Ottawa,"
Duke Cochran

 

Lute Koskela had sold the aging pickup he'd been driving, along with the camper shell in which he'd bedded down so often in his recent ramblings. He'd traded with an old acquaintance for a seven-year-old Chevy sedan and $1,000, the whole transaction as legal as his fictitous identity allowed.

A thousand dollars went a long way in the Hard Times.

He too had seen the Ngunda tour schedule, and chosen where he'd make his next attempt. He had an unmarried aunt in Spokane, Washington—a divorcee, actually—from whom he hoped to get room and board at a reasonable cost. She'd disapproved of his youthful escapades and the company he'd kept, but that had been years earlier, and she'd taken in boarders since the '90s. Computer time rented in Omaha had shown her address unchanged. He knew it as an old barn of a 10-room house in a long-declining neighborhood.

It was nearing noon when he pulled up in front. The yard was as shaggy as he remembered it, with the same old locust trees more decrepit than ever with dieback, dropping branches on the yard. The lawn was thin and weedy, occasionally mowed but otherwise uncared for. Though now, with the early spring warmth that followed winter's snows and rains, it looked halfway decent to his uncritical eyes.

He got out of the car and slammed its door—the locks didn't work—strode up the frost-heaved front walk to the porch, pressed the doorbell and heard it ring. A minute later his aunt opened it and paused, staring.

"Luther! What the hell are you doing here? I'd thought you were in jail somewhere, like those two crazy uncles of yours."

He grinned. "Aunt Sing, you sure know how to hurt a guy. I've never been in jail in my life. Well, maybe a couple times on charges, but those were misunderstandings. They let me out without even a trial." He spread his hands on his chest. "Innocent as a baby."

She snorted. "You've gotten by a lot more on luck than innocence, Luther Koskela. And you still haven't told me what you're doing here. Not selling Bibles I don't suppose."

He laughed. "I might, if I could make a living at it. I'm looking for a place to board, and a job. I figured you might be able to provide the first; I've got cash for the first month." He patted his hip pocket. "I'm a reformed man," he added. "Disconnected from old friends that might tempt me to get in trouble. Even quit the mercenary profession. Lost my taste for that kind of thing." He laughed. "A guy could get his ass shot off."

She eyed him suspiciously. "I don't suppose Carl and Axel's going to Leavenworth had anything to do with it."

"Actually it did. With my reputation and their conviction, I wouldn't blame the feds if they had me under suspicion. That's why I changed my name. To Karlson, with a K. Same initials."

She nodded, suspicions verified. "Well, get your butt in off the porch." Stepping aside, she let him pass. "Nobody here just now but you and me, so you can talk. How in hell do you expect to get a job with a false name? You'll need a Social Security number, which'll go into that big government computer, and if anything's strange about it, the FBI'll be coming around to talk to you."

Koskela shook his head. "There are ways."

She fixed him with a hard eye. "There are ways to get your butt in a sling, too." She eased off then. "My rate is $60 a month for a room, and $150 for meals—breakfast and supper. I put makings out for you to pack your own lunch. And there's a $40 security deposit. Pay at the start of the month. I refund half if you leave before the tenth; no refund if you leave later. You get a room to yourself, with a cable connection for TV. No women visitors allowed. No loud TV or radio, no ruckuses. Otherwise out you go. My roomers don't need hassles. Just a decent orderly place to live."

"Sounds like just what I want, Aunt Sing. Believe me, things I've seen, all I want is to live down the past. And if I hadn't changed already, what happened to Carl and Axel would have done it for me. You know, Axel wasn't ever much for trouble, but crippled like he was, he depended on Carl." Lute shook his head, not entirely insincere. "Carl was the troublemaker, and even he wasn't bad at heart. Just had some screwy ideas."

Signe Johnson grunted. "How do you figure to get a job these days? An honest job."

"I hoped you could help me. I'd take anything, seasonal or whatever. Something where there's turnover, and job openings come up, like roofing, cutting scrap, working on hazardous waste cleanup . . . But what I'd like best is security work. With the papers I've got, I'm eligible."

Her expression had gone beyond skeptical, to scowling.

"I'm not asking you to find me work," he went on. "Only give me a recommendation if I need one. You know: 'Seems like a cleancut young man. Quiet, pays his rent on time . . .' "

She nodded curtly. "I'll go that far, but that's all. Let's see your money. You're family, so I'll skip the security deposit."

Taking out his wallet, he slid out several bills. Signe examined them front and back, nodded again and put them in an apron pocket. Taking a book of receipts from a drawer, she filled one out and gave it to him. "I hope to hell you're telling me the truth, Luther. I really do. I dearly loved your mom. She was my favorite cousin and best friend. Goddamn cigarettes! And you were a cute little boy. That's what got you so damned spoiled. I even liked your dad. His getting shot to death should have taught you something." She sighed. "Don't disappoint me, Luther."

He reached and took her hand, genuinely touched by her words. "Sing, I surely don't plan to. I really do want to keep straight. And I guarantee not to get mixed up with bad company. That's for sure. For me, they're like booze to an alcoholic."

She'd looked away as if not wanting to risk seeing insincerity in his eyes. Now she gestured. "If you want coffee, there's some in the urn from breakfast. You eat yet today?"

"A hamburger in Lewiston."

"How'll pan-scrambled eggs do? You can toast your own bread." She gestured at the large breadbox. "Margarine's in the fridge."

They ate together, neither saying much. Afterward he spent a few minutes with the telephone directory, printing out some addresses. After that he left. He didn't even look at the want ads.

* * *

Lute had withheld his real plans. He knew just where he wanted to work, and his optimism was not unreasonable. The documents he'd had made identified him as Martin Luther Karlson. He was stuck with Luther; Signe would never have used a calling name different than his own. He added Martin for the religious impression. The pro had made the documents to match his personal resources—people in positions to enter false but official records into the Web. He took pride in his work. It had cost Lute more than he liked to think about.

Among other things, there was an army discharge stating he'd been an MP. He'd found and downloaded a copy of the military police handbook, and crammed it to prepare himself for possible quizzing. Now he drove to Seafirst Stadium, home of the AAA Spokane Indians.

He'd been right. The season may have been only six home games old, but as scarce as jobs were, there'd already been no-shows and alcohol-related discharges among the employees. Thirty minutes after arriving at the stadium office, "Martin Luther Karlson" was hired as game security. After the game, he'd work as a swamper, cleaning up the stadium. It wasn't full time—the team was on the road half the time—but there could be other events, and if an opening developed, he'd be considered for full-time security.

He wasn't surprised at how nicely things had come together. He was used to that. The failed Colorado and Boston missions were aberrations.

 

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