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What if you were haunted by strange and terrible dreams in the night? But what if they were not dreams, but preludes of the truth? What if you met the woman of your dreams in a nightmare? What if you learned that you were doomed to a terrible destiny, and that there was nothing that you could do to escape it? This is the fate that befalls Jack Thornton, a former Marine lieutenant who served with the famed “Walking Dead” in Vietnam and who is now a lawyer in San Francisco. His quiet, ordered life begins to unravel, however, when his nightmares begin to shape his waking hours. The grim images that haunt Jack’s sleep are not of Vietnam, but of things and beings not of this earth. Foremost among them is an adversary older than time and evil beyond imagining: the Yarvaak Golu, The-God-Who-Waits. Jack comes to realize that he is something far more than human. He is a Hero, an undying servant of the Absolute, doomed to an endless cycle of violent death and rebirth. Jack Thornton finally accepts not only what he is, but that his very soul and our world are in more than merely mortal danger. Jack’s journey of discovery leads him down a dangerous and uncharted path to a deadly meeting with his eternal enemy, Heinrich Kuhl; who, like Jack, is also more than merely human. Kuhl is a Servant of Death: a willing pawn of far greater and vastly more malevolent entities than himself. But Jack Thornton will find friends as well as enemies. He will meet the hauntingly beautiful Aiyanna, whom he encounters in a terrifying dream; and Brighid, the fiery red-haired goddess who loved him in a far-off time and place where he bore a storied name. He will also meet Sean Plunkett, once a feared IRA gunman and soldier of fortune, and now his guide on the Way of the Hero. This then, is the beginning of Jack Thornton’s tale, the first book of The Omniverse Chronicles.

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Published by Outskirts Press, 2018-08-28 10:31:01

Omniverse by William Grace

What if you were haunted by strange and terrible dreams in the night? But what if they were not dreams, but preludes of the truth? What if you met the woman of your dreams in a nightmare? What if you learned that you were doomed to a terrible destiny, and that there was nothing that you could do to escape it? This is the fate that befalls Jack Thornton, a former Marine lieutenant who served with the famed “Walking Dead” in Vietnam and who is now a lawyer in San Francisco. His quiet, ordered life begins to unravel, however, when his nightmares begin to shape his waking hours. The grim images that haunt Jack’s sleep are not of Vietnam, but of things and beings not of this earth. Foremost among them is an adversary older than time and evil beyond imagining: the Yarvaak Golu, The-God-Who-Waits. Jack comes to realize that he is something far more than human. He is a Hero, an undying servant of the Absolute, doomed to an endless cycle of violent death and rebirth. Jack Thornton finally accepts not only what he is, but that his very soul and our world are in more than merely mortal danger. Jack’s journey of discovery leads him down a dangerous and uncharted path to a deadly meeting with his eternal enemy, Heinrich Kuhl; who, like Jack, is also more than merely human. Kuhl is a Servant of Death: a willing pawn of far greater and vastly more malevolent entities than himself. But Jack Thornton will find friends as well as enemies. He will meet the hauntingly beautiful Aiyanna, whom he encounters in a terrifying dream; and Brighid, the fiery red-haired goddess who loved him in a far-off time and place where he bore a storied name. He will also meet Sean Plunkett, once a feared IRA gunman and soldier of fortune, and now his guide on the Way of the Hero. This then, is the beginning of Jack Thornton’s tale, the first book of The Omniverse Chronicles.

TM

Omniverse
Book I of the Omniverse Chronicles
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2018 William Grace
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This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of

Corporal Frank J. Grace, Jr., USMC, Ret.
1947 – 2009

2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division
WIA, January 10, 1967, Quang Tri Province, Republic ofVietnam

And

Lance Corporal MichaelW. Hanks, USMC
1982 – 2004

3rd Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division
KIA, November 17, 2004, Fallujah, Al Anbar Province, Iraq

Semper Fidelis

***

The author is greatly indebted to his good friend, Mr. R.E. Allen,
whose encouragement and support made this book possible. Thanks,
Ron.

Special thanks also to Robert E. Kelley, MCPO, USN, Ret., and
to Dr. Michael R. Horsman, Ph.D., D.M.Sc., whose comments and
suggestions made this a far better book than it would have been had
the author been left to his own devices.



The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most
intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens into that primeval
cosmic night that was soul long before there was a conscious
ego and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could
ever reach.

—Carl Gustav Jung

Maybe the wildest dreams are but the needful preludes of the
truth.

—Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Universe is not only stranger than we imagine; it is
stranger than we can imagine.

—J.B.S. Haldane

Honor the gods and Buddhas, but do rely on them.
—Miyamoto Musashi

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches
toward Bethlehem to be born?

—W. B. Yeats



Prologue

A vastness to shatter Einstein’s mind . . .
The Sublime, The Absolute, The Eternal looked down upon a
cyclopean chessboard that stretched beyond the farthest reaches
of time and space; beyond even Its own transcendent Self. Brahma
smiled, and a billion radiant galaxies blazed into vibrant life.
The Adversary, The Antagonist, The Arch Foe gazed down at the
same board in its own fashion. Shiva-Kali smiled as well, and a billion
warm and living worlds flickered and died, with only short-lived
screams that echoed through the Cosmos to mark their passing.
The Absolute gazed down at the countless chessmen that stood in
serried ranks on Its side of the board, all awaiting Its call to dance their
steps in the intricate and infinite pavane that was Chaturanga,the Great
Game; kings, suzerains, marshals, chancellors, constables, queens,
countesses, courtesans, bishops, Boyars, Bursegs, beggars, bezants,
knights, cataphracts, rooks, Ronin, elephants, viziers, reivers, slinks,
succubi, mages, chirrugeons, gorgons, knaves, proctors, harlequins,
margraves, mystics, serjeants, inquisitors, sumners, dragomans,
guides, pawns, proles, fays, minstrels, wardens, eremites, berdaches,
bowmen, chimeras, gryphons, Stentors, fools, Amazons, Saracens,
Lombards, Devis, Merids, revenants, sicarii, Titans, Typhons, Wyrms
both great and small, and host upon host upon host, and multitude
upon multitude of yet more and more pieces in their endless array, an
immense kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and sizes that strained the
very fabric of the Universes that strove to contain them.
And there were other, less corporeal game pieces which would be
in play on the board but have no place on it.
Glittering motes that were galaxies drifted past the Absolute’s

SiS

fourfold brow as It pondered Its opening move.At last, smiles wreathed
all four of the Sublime’s faces, and Brahma advanced a Paladin.A most
unwilling Paladin, but one that had served It well countless times
before.

And would again and again through endless cycles of death and
rebirth until the last syllable of Time Itself was but a faint and fading
echo . . .

Shiva-Kali frowned at Its opponent’s bold and unexpected move.
Its bloodshot eyes grew wide and Its light years-long tongue dripped
oceans of blood. All four of Shiva-Kali’s blue-black hands knotted into
fists, and It hissed like the Serpent hatched from the Cosmic Egg at the
instantWhen All Began.

The Paladin stood upon the Board, armed cap-a-pie in gleaming
plate, and gazed around him. He waited, and what he waited for was
not long in coming.

Shiva-Kali placed Its own champion, a Ritter, on the board with
a vast night-black hand. It wore pitted armor blacker than hate, and
it glared at the Paladin with burning eyes. For a moment, a blood-
red caul wreathed its shaven pate, while its ancient enemy’s head was
crowned with blue-white flame. Paladin and Ritter raised the hilts of
their swords to their lips in a brief salute. They lowered their blades
and waited: their wary eyes locked on each other.

Another Cycle of Chaturanga, the Great Game, had begun; and, as
always, countless worlds were the hazard.

S ii S

Part One



Chapter One

Night, San Francisco, autumn, 1973 . . .

ACalliope was playing—and a leering clown with a butcher knife
was stalking him.
The man caught in the harsh glare of the spotlight inched across the center
ring. He could neither walk nor run—nor could he defend himself. His hands
and feet were trussed with coil upon coil of coarse rope, and he had lost all
feeling in them.

A tiny red car roared into the tent and raced around the center ring three
times before skidding to a stop in a cloud of sawdust. A dozen more costumed
and painted clowns spilled out of the doors and windows; all bone-white faces,
bulbous red noses, gaping blood-red mouths, and mad, staring eyes. Some were
midgets, clad like the others in baggy pants, frayed shirts, garishly patterned
suspenders, polka-dotted bow ties, shrunken checked coats, battered top hats,
dented derbies, flowered bonnets, striped stockings, and yard-long, high-top
brogans.They waved and blew kisses to the cheering crowd.The clowns tumbled
and whirled in the blinding beam of the spotlights while the calliope roared out
a welcome.Then they turned, fell to their knees, and kowtowed to Bozo.

The star clown hung his painted head shyly.The white greasepaint and the
wild orange wings of his hair glowed in the burning gaze of the floodlights. He
lifted his head and smiled with his huge red slash of a mouth. Bozo reached
into his billowing polka dot trousers and pulled out an antique brass car horn.
He squeezed the bulb and twirled as he honked it at the delighted audience.

The bound man in the sawdust watched numbly as the clowns capered
and grinned and blew kisses to him. Some waggled mocking fingers and jeered,
while others held their sides and shook with silent laughter. Some licked their
glistening lips and rubbed their stomachs.

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WILLIAM GRACE

Bozo suddenly loomed over his helpless prey. He tipped an imaginary
hat and smirked. His crazed eyes glittered, and his shark’s teeth gleamed
behind the crimson smear of his lips. He patted the doomed man’s head,
and then clapped his hands with glee. Bozo turned and strutted around
the center of the ring on his huge feet, saluting the cheering crowd with
his glittering blade like a victorious gladiator on the blood-soaked sands
of the Coliseum.

The spectators stamped and clapped and howled. “Blood! Blood! Blood!
Meat! Meat! Meat!” They roared. The calliope thundered in time with the
chant, and then launched into Lady of Spain.

Bozo pointed a finger at his helpless victim, looked up at the audience,
and then clutched a white-gloved hand to his breast.The crowd squealed and
squirmed and shivered with delight.

“Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!”The crowd shrieked.The man sprawled in the reeking
sawdust shuddered at the wet gleam of their cannibal teeth.

Bozo smiled and then waved to the other clowns. Gloved hands vanished
into too-small coats and loose trousers and drew out skinning knives, hatchets,
bone saws,meat cleavers,scalpels,and straight razors.They tumbled and pranced
and skipped and strutted toward their naked quarry.The man looked up and
saw a laughing Bozo raise his blade high over his head. He screamed as the
glittering point plunged toward his face, and the other clowns swarmed over
him—a crazed tide of hungry eyes and glittering steel.

The thundering of the calliope and the baying of the mob drowned out
their screaming victim.

7

Jack Thornton bit his tongue and his mouth filled with blood. He
screamed again, and the terrible sound wrenched him out of nightmare
and into shuddering awareness.

He shot bolt upright in his bed; shook and gasped as he clawed away
the sweaty sheets. His ears were filled with the pounding of his racing
heart. Jack groaned, and his shoulders sagged as he stared numbly into

S2S

OMNIVERSE

the dark silence of his bedroom. He sat for long minutes and trembled
with the horror that still clawed at his reeling brain.

Oh my God,not again! Not another nightmare! I can’t take this shit night
after night!

Angry sounds shattered the stillness. His head snapped up and
terror flared again. Jack forced himself to listen. The sounds came
again—louder this time. A faint, snarling voice and a dull, vengeful
pounding rose from the dark floor.Thornton sighed in relief. Nothing
had slithered out of the nightmare to claim him. It was only his
downstairs neighbor, Vogel, the fat pink Austrian, complaining about
the scream that had torn him from righteous slumber.

Jack waited in the dark until the guttural snarls faded away. Below
him, the grumbling Austrian finally allowed himself to be coaxed back
to bed by his equally pink and even fatter wife.

Thornton switched on a lamp, swung his legs over the side of the
bed and carefully got to his feet. He took a deep breath, squared his
shoulders, and stumbled to the bathroom, favoring a left knee stippled
and scarred by shrapnel half a world away and a lifetime ago.

Jack groped for the light switch and the fluorescent tube over the
sink flickered and blinked into glowing life. He tried to ignore the
death’s head in the mirror as he spun the cold water tap and waited for
the sink to fill. Jack plunged his head into the icy water.The shock of
it made him gasp, but it washed away the last foul dregs ofThe Dream.
Fully awake, he studied the gaunt, pale face in the mirror. His thin
lips twisted as he surveyed the watery blood that streaked his crooked
white teeth.

Christ! I look like death warmed over!
Thornton bent and scooped cold water from the sink with his
callused hands. He rubbed it over the hard planes of his face, washing
away the last of the greasy fear sweat that The Dreams brought with
them. He took a towel from the rack and rubbed his lean face and his
short black hair dry. Jack draped the towel around his corded neck,

S3S

WILLIAM GRACE

and then pulled on a frayed and faded blue bathrobe marked with the
caduceus of the U.S. Navy’s medical department. He knotted the belt
and looked back into the glass.

Better, but that’s not saying a whole hell of a lot . . .
Jack’s dark blue eyes were still sunken and red, but at least the skin
of his face was no longer the chalk white of bleached bone.Two spots
of color burned on his high cheekbones. Thornton lifted a scarred
right hand to his eyes, but quickly dropped it when he saw it tremble.
He gazed again at the ashen mask in the mirror and shook his head.
Thornton dragged himself into the kitchen to get a badly needed
drink. He found a jelly glass and filled it with Jack Daniel’s. Jack
carried it into his living room and collapsed on the Navajo blanket that
covered his Salvation Army couch. He pulled a Marlboro from a half-
empty pack on the wooden cable reel that did duty as a coffee table,
and then lit it with a battered Zippo lighter adorned with a Marine
Corps emblem.
Jack smoked and drank for a while, letting the whiskey calm him.
He crushed out his cigarette and sat, rolling his empty glass between
his palms. Finally, he forced himself to confront The Dreams and the
stark terror they spawned. Thornton slipped into a state of numb,
whiskey-induced reflection, and tried to make sense of the horror that
his nights had become.
He knew that he was neither weak nor fearful. If he had been
either, he would not have survived seventeen months in Vietnam—
the place that the Chinese with their seven thousand years of Wisdom
called “The Land of the People of the Black Heart.”
Thornton had met North Vietnamese regulars and Viet Cong
guerillas in battle and had destroyed them. He knew how to fight
armed men—but he did not know how to fight The Dreams.
Maybe it’s time to get some help? Forget it! I can’t afford a real psychiatrist,
and I’m sure as hell not going to go see some alcoholicV.A. shrink!
Jack hauled himself to his feet and ventured into the kitchen for

S4S

OMNIVERSE

more whiskey. He returned to the couch, put his feet up on the cable
spool, and then tried to remember when The Dreams first came to
savage his sleep.

In the beginning, he had given little thought to them. Everyone—
including Jack Thornton—had nightmares, and no one ever died of a
bad dream. “It don’t mean nothin’,” as his men had so often said in the
language of the Walking Dead: what did not kill you did not signify,
what did not kill you only made you stronger.

But now The Dreams came almost every night. Tonight, they had
torn screams out of him once again. Thornton drank more whiskey
and wondered if he was finally going crazy; “dinky dau,” as the doomed
young Marines in his platoon had styled madness.

Maybe there is something to this Post Traumatic Stress thing after all . . .
There’s got to be a reason for this Twilight Zone bullshit . . . But what is it?

No answer came from the silent room. He gulped the rest of his
whiskey and shook like a wet dog as it blazed a flaming path down to
his stomach.Thornton pulled another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

I knew a couple of guys who cracked. One of them was a captain who made
it back to TheWorld in one piece. But then one day he went out to his garage
with a .45 and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue . . . He sat in his shiny new
Porsche 911 and drank until the bottle was empty . . . And then he put the
barrel of the .45 in his mouth and pulled the trigger . . .

Is that where I’m headed too? A bottle of whiskey with a .45 caliber chaser?
We saw the same god-awful things, and they were enough to send him over the
edge . . . But maybe there was something else that drove him to it . . . Like the
same kind of crazy Dreams I’m having maybe?

I saw other things inVietnam as well—weird things that made me wonder
if I was losing it even then ...I remember wondering if the war hadn’t—hadn’t
somehow torn a gaping hole in the fabric of the universe . . . Like that one
morning ...It’s a good thing Gunny Carson was there and saw him too ...And
that particular thought calls for another drink—a lot of other drinks!

Jack up-ended his glass and stood up. He swayed, and then

S5S

WILLIAM GRACE

cautiously retraced his steps to the kitchen. He topped up his glass
with more of Mister Jack Daniel’s sovereign remedy for the pain of
being human, and then limped back to the couch and flopped on the
Navajo blanket. He thought about having another cigarette but could
not remember where he had left the pack.

Thornton leaned back and took a long drink. His face was
pleasantly numb and his belly filled with warmth. He grinned foolishly
and wondered why Mister Daniel’s birthday wasn’t a national holiday.

There is not, to the best of my knowledge and belief, any Easter Bunny. Old
Santa is just a Fig Newton of somebody’s cozy littleVictorian imagination.You
can wear out the carpet praying to the Big Maybe—and all you get is The Big
Silence—and that’s if you’re lucky!What was it thatTim Hardin said? ‘Maybe
there is no devil—maybe it’s just God when he’s drunk.’

Thornton decided that that sentiment called for another drink.
But old Jack delivers! He’s always good for what ails you! Thornton
solemnly studied the whiskey in his glass and frowned.
I am drinking way,way too much these days ...Or perhaps I’m not drinking
enough?
Jack shrugged and started to raise the glass to his lips but stopped—
even Jack Daniels could not help him escape the bitter truth. The
Dreams were fucking up his life. He remembered the last marriage-
killing fight with Caroline.
He saw her again, all angry blue eyes and flying blonde hair. Pretty
face twisted and ugly with rage, flinging words like knives:
I can’t deal with your negative shit anymore, Jack! I hate my life with you!
Your fucking screaming is going to make me as crazy as you are if I don’t get out
of here! I should have walked out on you when you came back fromVietnam—
when you couldn’t sleep without a gun under your pillow—a fucking gun, for
Christ’s sake!
You’re sick, Jack! Sick! But you won’t get help!You just pull that macho
shit on me and tell me not to worry! Well, I did worry—but not anymore!
I’m sick and fucking tired of your Goddamned nightmares! I’m leaving, Jack!

S6S

OMNIVERSE

Today! Right now! I’m moving back to Daddy’s place! And don’t ever call me,
you sick bastard, because I never want to hear your fucking voice again!

Caroline had finally run out of breath and words. Jack had cocked
an eyebrow at her as she stood flushed and panting.

Well . . . So much for ‘till Death us do part.’ Good bye, Caroline, and don’t
forget to shut the door on your way out.

Caroline’s bright blonde mane swirled as she spun on her long
legs and stormed out of the apartment. She had slammed the door
behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. Thornton had sat in
the echoing silence for a moment.Then he had gotten up and walked
to the window just in time to see a smiling Caroline dash to a double-
parked silver Mercedes. He heard her laugh as she leaned through the
window to kiss the driver.

The man behind the wheel was not her father.
The papers came a week later. Thornton signed them without
bothering to read a single word.
Nor was his ex-wife the only woman who had run from him
because of The Dreams. Jack remembered a long-legged brunette
named Julie. She had jumped out of his bed when a nightmare took
him. He had opened his eyes to find the sheets soaked with sweat and
his terrified bedmate snatching up her scattered clothes. She had fled
naked from his apartment with a muttered Jesus! and her clothing
clutched in her arms.
Thornton raised his glass and threw back his whiskey.
I do believe that I need another drink!
Jack carefully topped up his glass again, and then tottered to the
couch. He drank, shook his head, drank again, and slopped whiskey on
his robe. He was numb all over, and his head whirled like the merry-
go-round out at the Zoo.
He who makes a beast of himself loses the pain of being a man,or something
like that!
Thornton set his half-empty glass on the cable reel with the

S7S

WILLIAM GRACE

exaggerated care of the profoundly drunk, then leaned back on the
couch and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, held it, and then
let it out very slowly. Soon his breathing grew deep and regular as
alcoholic serenity gave way to fitful sleep.

He dreamed again.

7

Jack woke in the pearly light of dawn. He opened his gritty eyes,
winced, and then screwed them shut and shuddered.

A fading wisp of dream stuff shimmered behind his eyelids. For a
fleeting moment—for the span of a single heartbeat, he saw—

Eyes . . .
Huge purple eyes: eyes of haunting alien beauty, eyes brimming
with warmth and wonder and yearning and compassion—eyes that
seemed to look into the very marrow of his soul. His eyelids snapped
up, and the mesmerizing vision vanished like a broken promise.
Thornton closed his eyes and sat still for a moment, hoping the
image would somehow return. But it did not, no more than his lost
innocence ever would. He wearily rubbed the back of his neck, and then
clasped his callused hands in his lap. He sighed and shook his aching head.
“Was that real?” he whispered.Then he shook his head and snarled,
“No! It was just another Goddamn dream! It had to be! Nobody has eyes
like that! Last night it was the psycho circus and now it’s purple eyes—
purple! What the hell’s next? Pink elephants?” He groaned and buried
his face in his hands.
“I have got to get my shit together!” Thornton announced to the
silent room. He stood up—and immediately regretted it. His head
threatened to split open, and his stomach churned. He did not want to
think what his breath smelled like.
Jack’s stomach heaved and a rush of acid burned his throat. He
clapped a hand over his mouth, lurched to the bathroom, and got his
pounding head over the toilet just in time.

S8S

OMNIVERSE

Aspirin and cold water helped Jack Thornton deal with his first
hangover in many years. He sat at his kitchen table and drank black
coffee in the growing light, remembering happy, boozy liberties spent
in Okinawan bars with other hard charging young lieutenants from the
9th Marines. In those days he could drink and chase women all night
and still beat the bush all the next day. It had been a good time to be
young and carefree and far from home.

But that life had ended in March of 1965, when his battalion
landed at Da Nang, Republic of Viet Fucking Nam. Now, eight years
later, most of the men who had gone into that terrible place with him
were either dead or maimed, and the first battalion of the 9th Marines
was known as “theWalking Dead.”The name was a grim tribute to the
many, many bloody battles that it had fought and the terrible casualties
that it had suffered.

Thornton poured himself more coffee and turned on the radio. A
cloying voice rolled out of the speaker, pleading with a woman to “tie
a yellow ribbon ‘round the old oak tree.”Thornton grimaced and spun
the dial. He froze when he heard the soulful, brassy voices of Martha
and theVandellas:

Nowhere to run to, baby,
Nowhere to hide!
Got nowhere to run to, baby,
Nowhere to hide!

Hanoi Hannah, Vietnam’s Tokyo Rose, had played that same song
to taunt the men of his battalion. It brought back too many bitter
memories for Jack. He twisted the dial until he found a station playing
StevieWonder’s Superstition.

Much better!
Thornton drank coffee until the DJ cut to a mournful redneck
ballad called The Night the LightsWent out in Georgia. He decided to pass

S9S

WILLIAM GRACE

on the hillbilly lament and get the paper instead. Jack put his cup down
and strode to the front door, trying to ignore the breathy singer and
her plaint of Southern injustice.

He unlocked his front door and stepped out into the hallway. It was
empty, as it always was at this hour of the morning. Thornton seldom
saw his neighbors, and when he did, they ignored each other.Thornton
picked up the paper and stepped back into his bachelor apartment.

Jack skimmed the front page of The Chronicle as he walked back
to the kitchen. As usual, there was nothing in the paper but misery,
blood, death, scandal, and corruption. Judge John Sirica was still
holding Nixon’s feet to the fire. Israel and the Arabs were getting
ready for another of their endless wars. The new and democratically
elected president of Chile had committed suicide with the aid of his
loyal army. Oil prices were skyrocketing, and the stock market was
dropping faster than a runaway elevator. A serial killer who called
himself “Zodiac” was murdering people and taunting the police . . .
Just another day in this grim year of Our Lord 1973.

Thornton tossed everything but the green tinted sports section
into the trash. He could not even spend a few cheerful minutes with
Herb Caen, The Chronicle’s high priest of three-dot journalism—his
signature separation of items in his column by rows of asterisks. Sadly,
Caen’s column did not appear on Saturdays.

Jack glanced at his watch, finished his coffee, and rinsed his cup
in the sink. He was halfway to the bathroom when the phone rang.
With a muttered damn! he paused to turn the radio down, cutting off
somebody named Dr. John in mid-growl.

“Thornton,” he answered.
“Jack?” The teasing voice in his ear belonged to a clerk in the law
office whereThornton worked—and not just any clerk.Thornton had
a sudden vision of shining blue-black hair and long, slim legs.
“Hi Karen, how are you this morning?” Thornton squared his
shoulders and ran his hand over his own close-cropped black hair.

S 10 S

OMNIVERSE

“I don’t know if anyone let you in on the big secret, Mister
Thornton, but the Tai-Pan, our beloved Mister Traub himself, is going
to come by the office this morning, to see who’s here and who isn’t—”

“‘Giving back to the office,’” Thornton sighed as he reached for
his cigarettes. “Thanks Karen, I didn’t get the word. I appreciate the
heads up.”

“I snuck into his office and peeked at his calendar.The Tai-Pan has
a ten o’clock tee time.”

Thornton grinned. Tai-Pan was the Chinese term for the head
pimp in a whorehouse.Traub had never caught on. He thought Tai-Pan
meant “Supreme Leader,” an honorific for a demigod cast in the heroic
mold of James Clavell’s larger-than-life Dirk Struan.

“That’s our Artie, always taking time to spread a little sunshine
among the troops before he goes to launch his savage assault on Old
Man Par.”

Karen Fong giggled. It sounded like the tinkling of bells to Jack’s
lonely ears.

Jack looked at his watch, “It’s ten to eight. I’ll be there in forty-five
minutes.Thanks again, Karen. I owe you big time.”

“You better believe it, Mis-terThornton. Dinner, my choice—your
treat! Oops! Gotta run! Later!” She hung up.

His smile soured into a frown as Jack hung up the phone. He
inhaled half of his Marlboro, coughed, and crushed it out in the ashtray.

Leave it to Artie Traub to pull a stunt like this! That man could fuck up a
wet dream! No training for me this morning—again! I’ll have to call Sensei
Winston and make my apologies . . .

Jack reminded himself again why he had taken the position at
Traub, Lumpkin, andWeems: money. He still had to repay the student
loans that he had been forced to take out when his G.I. Bill benefits
could not be stretched to cover his law school tuition.

Thornton consideredTraub while he trudged to the bathroom and
ran the shower: a squat, beefy, balding, cigar chewing NewYorker with

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a vile temper who hinted at Mob connections and who enjoyed shitting
on his employees.A proctologist’s dream—a perfect asshole—but the
very same asshole who would be conducting his salary review in a
week’s time.

Jack needed a raise—badly. Ergo, he could not give Traub any
excuse not to give him one. So, he would go to the office on this
pleasant Saturday morning instead of to the Dojo.

Even the peacetime Marine Corps would be better than this! I could learn
to put up with troop and stomp, and mess nights, and the rest of that Officer
and a Gentleman crap. I could, if I busted my ass . . . Maybe . . .

Thornton frowned as he stepped into the shower. He would not
bet the farm on getting a pay raise from Messrs. Traub, Lumpkin
and Weems. The three partners bought themselves new Cadillacs
or Jaguars every year and lived in places like Belvedere and Kent
Woodlands. Mister Senior Partner Traub also had a young and very
expensive blonde wife to maintain in the lavish style to which she had
quickly become accustomed.

Nothing’s too good for our fearless leader and his blushing bride!
Associate attorney Jack Thornton was not one of Artie Traub’s
favorite young lawyers. He had fallen from favor—such as it was—last
Christmas. He had been laughing withTraub’s young wife at the office
party, and Artie had erupted in a jealous rage.
I am not—I say again—not in the mood for your bullshit today,Artie—
not after last night! Best you walk soft around me today, you little toad!
Twenty-five minutes later, showered, shaved and dressed, Jack
rummaged through his dresser drawer for a tie tack. He swept aside
half a dozen small leather cases that he never opened. Each bore the
image of the medal that it held on its lid. One was a gold-framed
purple heart suspended from a somber ribbon studded with gold stars.
Another was a plain bronze cross that hung from a strip of dark blue
cloth with a white stripe down the center. Another was Vietnamese, a
more ornate cross on a green and red ribbon. He found what he was

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looking for and closed the drawer. He smiled for a moment at the
picture of his niece and nephew on the dresser.

God, I miss them! They’re growing up so fast! I’d see more of them if my
sister and I could spend five minutes in the same room without ripping into
each other!

Thornton knotted his tie and shrugged into his blue blazer. He
locked the door to his apartment, walked a block to the bus stop, and
then smoked a cigarette while he waited. He scowled at the arrogant
spike of the newly-erected Transamerica Pyramid towering over the
San Francisco skyline.

Building that god-awful thing in this city is like parking a dump truck in
a Ferrari dealership!

Thirty minutes later, the elevator doors hissed open, and he walked
into the offices of Traub, Lumpkin andWeems, Attorneys at Law, LLP.

“This ain’t hell, but you can sure see it from here,” Thornton
muttered. Cathy the receptionist—blond and wholesome as a
cheerleader—was not at her desk, so Thornton had to forego his
usual flirtation with her. He poured himself a cup of the firm’s muddy
coffee, and then walked to his cramped office, nodding and smiling at
his co-workers. Jack hung up his jacket and lit another cigarette. He
sat down and began sorting through the pile of paper in his in-basket.

“Good morning, Mister Thornton. How are we today?”
Jack looked up from his littered desk to see a smiling Karen Fong
step lightly into his office. She wore a tan business suit and a yellow
silk scarf with a butterfly pattern draped around her slender neck.
“We are fine, Miss Fong. How are you?” His white teeth flashed
as he smiled back at her. “And how are we getting along at Hastings
College of the Law?”
The beautiful Chinese girl lifted one slender hand from the stack
of files she carried and swept a wayward strand of raven hair behind a
slim shoulder. Thornton glimpsed a delicate ear before the gleaming
curtain of her hair swung forward again.

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“I am well today, Mister Thornton, but I am also dreadfully bored,”
she sighed. “I am finding the Law incredibly tedious and an awful waste
of my talents!” She sniffed. “Perhaps I shall submit to the wishes of my
honorable parents and enter into an arranged marriage with a nice
Chinese boy—a dentist perhaps.” She smiled, revealing small white
teeth and dimples at the corners of her full lips.

Thornton nodded gravely. “Heaven smiles upon the obedient
child, Miss Fong. I am sure that you will be far happier as a dutiful
and submissive wife than as a harried member of the legal profession.”
He held up a finger. “Did not Confucius himself say,‘Silence gives the
proper grace to women?’”

Karen grinned triumphantly and shook her head, setting
gleaming blue-black hair into graceful motion. “Sorry, Mister
Thornton!Wrong!Wrong! Wrong! Confucius did not say that! It was
Sophocles!”

Thornton leaned back in his chair and spread his hands in defeat.
“‘The Superior Man is distressed by his want of ability.’”

Karen Fong beamed. “Score one for you, Mister Thornton. The
Sage did say that.”

“Confucius? What the fuck is this Confucius bullshit? What the
fuck you two doin’ in theah?”

Thornton closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Shit.Traub.
He opened his eyes and looked at the suddenly stone-faced
young Chinese woman. “Thank you, Miss Fong.We will continue this
discussion at another time.That will be all for the moment.”
“You’re welcome, MisterThornton,” She whispered as she lowered
her eyes.
He nodded. Karen Fong turned and bowed her head at the squat
figure that stood scowling in the doorway.“MisterTraub,” she murmured,
and then hurried out ofThornton’s office, two patches of scarlet flaming
on her high cheekbones.

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ArtieTraub stared after her for a long moment, licked his rubbery
lips, and then stalked into Thornton’s office like a pit bull. He had a
cigar wedged in his mouth and carried a 9-iron in one meaty hand.

Thornton slowly rose to his feet, “Mister Traub.”
“I said, what the fuck were you two doin’ in heah?”
“Just having a word with Miss Fong . . . sir”
The firm’s senior partner aimed the ragged wet stub of his Cohiba
Robusto cigar at Jack with his free hand. “You ain’t heah to shoot the
shit with the fuckin’ clerks,Thornton!You’re heah to fuckin’ work!You
wanna talk to that chink cooze, you do it on your own fuckin’ time—
not mine! You unner-stand what it is I’m sayin’ heah?” He aimed the
cigar in his paw at Thornton like a pistol. A ropy vein pulsed on the
side of his head as he glared at the younger man with his cold shark’s
eyes.
Jack Thornton, pale and grimly silent, met his pop-eyed stare.
He saw that Traub was dressed for the golf course: plaid shirt, red
cashmere sweater with club logo, and yellow pants—even a golf club.
He looks like Quasimodo wrapped up in a Spanish flag!
None of Traub’s clothes could disguise the lumpen bulk of his
thickset body. Coarse black hair covered the backs of his stubby-
fingered hands and sprouted from the collar of his shirt. It was cool in
the office, but Traub’s balding head was pebbled with sweat. The few
lank black hairs that he had left on his head and his bushy sideburns
had an oily sheen.
Traub returned his well-chewed Robusto to the corner of his
mouth and clamped its ragged end between his large yellow teeth.
He leaned his 9-iron against Thornton’s desk, took an engraved gold
lighter from his pants pocket, and puffed his cigar back to glowing life.
He scowled at the taller, leaner, younger man through a thick cloud of
gray smoke.
Jack’s lean face was a cold mask as he waited for the bane of his
existence to speak.

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I wonder what the clients would say if they ever saw the real Artie Traub?
He’s not the gentleman they think he is!

A diamond ring sparkled on Traub’s finger as he raised the cigar
in his right hand and pointed the gnawed end at Thornton. “Ya know,
Thornton, I got a real problem wit’ your attitude.” Bits of wet tobacco
flew from his lips as he spoke.

Thornton cocked an eyebrow. “My attitude, Mister Traub? How
so?”

Traub turned his head and spat a shard of tobacco on the carpet.
“Shit like what was just goin’ on in heah—bullshittin’ with that chink
twat when ya shoulda been workin’ your files.You’re always doin’ shit
like that—fuckin’ off.This office gives you a job, pays you a salary, an’
in return we gotta right to get some work outta you.” Traub savored
the spark of anger in Jack’s eyes. He looked at the younger man with
an Al Capone smirk on his chubby face.

I got you right where I fuckin’ want you, pretty boy!You think I don’t know
that you been fuckin’ around with my wife?You’re gonna pay, asshole! Big time!

A muscle jumped in Jack’s cheek. He slowly folded his arms and
glared at Traub. “‘Always fucking off?’Take a look at my billing sheets
if you think I’m always fucking off.”

Traub shook his head and waved his damp cigar. “Yeah, you are,
Thornton—and don’t you fuckin’ inta-rup me!”Traub rolled on. “This
heah is a law office. It ain’t like your fuckin’ Marine Corps, where ya
got paid for just sittin’ on your ass all day. Heah ya gotta turn out the
product, Mister big shot war hero!”

Thornton suddenly realized that he was being shafted—big time.
He slowly shook his head.

Real clever, Artie—real, real clever! I’ve got to hand it to you.You have
Karen call me and tell me to get my young butt down to the orifice.Then you
send her in here to play Madame Butterfly—knowing that I’ll fall for it.Then
you just happen by.You waddle in and catch us socializing—for which you
are now reaming me a new asshole—me and me alone. After which you will

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head out for a leisurely eighteen holes. I can see you sitting in the clubhouse,
Artie—big glass of Scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other—bragging to
your golfing buddies how you kicked the war hero’s ass! Sorry,but that isn’t the
way that this is going to play out!

Fuck it!
Thornton leaned forward and rested his scarred knuckles on his
desk.
“‘Sitting on my ass? War hero?’”Thornton growled. “Bullshit!”
Traub’s eyebrows shot up. “‘The fuck’d you say to me?”
“I said,‘bullshit!’”Thornton jabbed an angry finger at Traub. “That
war hero crap is way out of line coming from you, Artie. An Army
Reserve office pogue who spent a real tough six months in 1951
hiding behind a typewriter at Fort Dix—shitting his pants every time
somebody said the word ‘Korea!’” Scorn dripped from his words like
acid. “So why don’t you just forget the war hero crap and get back to
whatever point you were trying to make about my attitude.”Thornton
crossed his arms again and fixed Traub with an icy stare.
Please take a swing at me, Artie! Please, just one! Pretty please, you fat
maggot!
Traub’s fat face went crimson. His jaw dropped as he gaped at
Thornton. “You don’t fuckin’ talk ta me like that,Thornton! I’m your
fuckin’ boss!” he howled.
Thornton sneered and shook his head. He stood very still, but
let his arms drop to his sides as Traub ranted on, spraying spit and
tobacco crumbs—blind to the dangerous light in the younger man’s
cold blue eyes.Thornton suddenly slammed the desktop with the flat
of his hand.The whip crack of sound shocked Traub into silence.
“Knock off the bullshit, Artie, right now!” Thornton snapped in
his best officer’s voice. He swept around his desk and stood directly in
front of the short flabby man, almost touching him, getting right in his
face like an irate Drill Instructor.
Traub stumbled back a step and gaped atThornton. He opened his

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mouth, but no words came out.Thornton’s hard blue eyes bored into
his own.

“Mister Traub, sir,” a small, strained voice from the doorway
interrupted the standoff.

“Yeah, Karen, what the fuck is it?”Traub did not dare take his eyes
off Thornton.

“You, you’ve got a call, sir.Your wife—she says it’s very important.”
“Yeah?Tell her I’ll be right theah, sweetheart.‘Soon’s I get through
with Mister Thornton heah,” he growled as he retreated to the door.
Thornton watched with grim amusement asTraub puffed himself back
up; once again the senior partner, the Tai-Pan. Artie’s cigar had gone
out again.
He stared atThornton, his puffy eyes bright with hate. “I wouldn’t
be countin’ on gettin’ no raise I was you, Thornton. In fact, I’d be
thinkin’ real hard about lookin’ for a new job I was you.You gotta real
shitty fuckin’ attitude, an’ I don’t need that aroun’ heah.”
Jack grinned. “Then you’ll be happy to know that my resume is
current, Artie.”
“It’s Mister Traub to you,Thornton!”
Thornton just looked at him. Traub held his gaze for a moment,
then turned and swaggered out of Thornton’s office, his head high,
but his shoulders tight.The rolls of fat on the back of his neck burned
crimson.Thornton let him get almost to the doorway.
“Artie!”
Traub jumped. He turned and glowered at Thornton.
“Don’t forget your 9-iron,”Thornton said as he held out the club
to him.Traub snatched it out of his hand and stormed out of the office.
Jack leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms and smiled,
savoring the angry sound of Traub’s retreating steps. He sighed and
shook his head. Traub would not fire him—not with the amount of
work that the office had. But he could most definitely forget about
a raise. Jack shrugged. It was clearly time to be sending his resume

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to other firms. He knew that he could not take much more of Artie
Traub.

Thornton tried to get back to work but could not. An unhappy
thought drove everything else from his mind: Karen Fong—Traub’s
partner in crime.Thornton sighed and shook his head.

Sweetheart? Artie called her sweetheart? Give me a break! It’s a good thing
I already puked this morning, or else there’d be a Technicolor puddle on my
desk!

“Fuck it! It don’t mean nothin’!” He told himself, and then sat
down and went back to work.

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