Winter Moon. By: Dean R. Koontz

Sometimes it seemed to him that the barbarians to which Arkadian

referred were the new fascists, from both ends of the political

spectrum this time, hating not just Jews but anyone with a stake in

social order and civility. Their vandalism was a slow-motion

Kristallnacht, conducted over years instead of hours.

“It’s worse on the next window,” Arkadian said, leading them around the

corner to the north side of the station.

That wall of the office featured another large sheet of glass, on

which, in addition to gang symbols, etched block letters proclaimed

Armenian SHITHEAD.

Even the sight of the racial slur couldn’t rekindle Hassam Arkadian’s

anger.

He stared sad-eyed at the offensive words and said, “I’ve always tried

to treat people well. I’m not perfect, not without sin. Who is? But

I’ve done my best to be a good man, fair, honest–and now this.”

“Won’t make you feel any better,” Luther said, “but if it was up to me,

the law would let us take the creeps who do this and stencil that

second word right above their eyes. Shithead. Etch it into their skin

with acid just like they did to your glass. Make em walk around like

that for a couple of years and see how their attitude improves before

maybe we give them some plastic surgery.”

“You think you can find who did it?” Arkadian asked, though he surely

knew the answer.

Luther shook his head, and Jack said, “Not a chance. We’ll file a

report, of course, but there’s no manpower to work on small crime like

this. Best thing you can do is install roll-down metal shutters the

same day you replace the windows, so they’re covered at night.”

“Otherwise, you’ll be putting in new glass every week,” Luther said,

“and pretty soon your insurance company will drop you.”

“They already dropped my vandalism coverage after one claim,” Hassam

Arkadian said. “About the only thing they’ll cover me for now is

earthquake, flood, and fire. Not even fire if it happens in a riot.”

They stood in silence, staring at the window, brooding about their

powerlessness.

A cool March wind sprang up. In the nearby planter, the queen palms

rustled, and soft creaking noises arose from where the stems of the big

fronds joined the trunks.

“Well,” Jack said at last, “it could be worse, Mr. Arkadian. I mean,

at least you’re in a pretty good part of the city here on the West

Side.”

“Yeah, and doesn’t it break your heart,” Arkadian said, “this is a good

neighborhood.”

Jack didn’t even want to think about that.

Luther started to speak but was interrupted by a loud crash and a shout

of anger from the front of the station. As the three of them hurried

around the corner, a violent gust of wind made the plate-glass windows

thrum.

Fifty feet away, the man in the Armani suit kicked the vending machine

again.

A foaming can of Pepsi lay behind him, contents spreading across the

blacktop.

“Poison,” he shouted at the machine, “poison, damn it, damn you, damn

you, poison!”

Arkadian rushed toward the customer. “Sir, please, I’m sorry, if the

machine gave you the wrong selection–” “Hey, wait right there,” Luther

said, speaking as much to the station owner as to the infuriated

stranger.

In front of the office door, Jack caught up with Arkadian, put a hand

on his shoulder, stopped him, and said, “Better let us handle this.”

“Damn poison,” the customer said furiously, and he made a fist as if he

wanted to punch the vending machine.

“It’s just the machine,” Arkadian told Jack and Luther. “They keep

saying it’s fixed, but it keeps giving you Pepsi when you push Orange

Crush.”

As bad as things were in the City of Angels these days, Jack found it

difficult to believe that Arkadian was accustomed to seeing people fly

off the handle every time an unwanted can of Pepsi dropped into the

dispensing tray.

The customer turned away from the machine and from them, as if he might

walk off and leave his Lexus. He seemed to be shaking with anger, but

it was mostly the blustery wind shivering the loosely fitted suit.

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