Keep turning the crank, May. Maybe you’ll crank out an answer. Hit the right line-up and the past and future will fall out the bottom like a Vegas jackpot and you’ll be PlayDate of the Month for History Channel.

There was something soothing in the clockwork reliability of the wheels turning within wheels, the little gears meshing solidly as they rolled each little Maya glyph in place to generate new combinations of human attempts to depict the silent sheets of time. She’d dialed up her birthday (12 Bakun, 18 Katun, 6 Tun, 3 Winal, 16 Kin, I Cib Tzolkin, 4Mol Haab ), the day she got her doctorate (), the day she lost her virginity(). And kept spinning it all the way forward, to where the glyphs stopped and the last three signified the winter solstice of 2012. 0.0.0.0.0. Otherwise known as 5 Imix, 4 Kankin, Lords of the Night #0 Triple lemon. Locally noted as December 21, 2012 AD. 20/12/2012 does have a little more ring to it than 9/11/2001, huh?

She turned away from the huge calculator, its gearwheels stretching past the floor and ceiling of the museum hall. And wasn’t that a lot of the problem, right there? It was in a museum! Not exactly breaking news. It had been on TV, in U.S.A. today (writhing in glee at the cool graphics to go with the over-simplified factoids), the tabloids. A jillion psychics and psychos, mediums and medianauts, astrologers and asshologers, were all over it. There were seminars and conventions like Star Trek. She been trying to come up with a “Trekkie” type name for Mayan Calendar groupies.

She walked over to the displays of Mayan buildings, highly accurate and spotless white models under the glass floor, stared down at Palenque and Chichen and Uxmal like an astronaut god. They always reminded her of the little white buildings on the “Game Of Life” board. Probably built with Lego then customized, she thought. Wonder if there’s a Mayan Set out with snap-on blue warriors and feathered serpents.

But she had to admit, Burkhardt had been right. You take what’s laying on the table and build on it, he’d told her, add the next layer. Forstemann had cracked open the hieroglyphics with the Dresden Codex two hundred years ago. And that lay on the table until Thompson, Lips, Deckert and L’huillier had added layers of interpretation on top of that, then that lay on the table until Vickie Bricker came along and figured out the whole calendar system. The remarkable interlocking wheels of days that had suggested the cogwheel analogy she’d just been playing with, though the Mayans hadn’t made any of those sidereal gearboxes. Wheels weren’t their long suit: math and stargazing were. It was the stuff of public imagination, but nobody remembered Bricker now, did they? They talked about Arguelles and McKenna and the other New Age nutrolls.

Burkhardt had pushed her towards the next layer: beyond the Great Cycle. “The Day After Doomsday” was his idea of a killer book. And with her meticulous scholarship and–as the old letch was always quick to toss in–her looks, she’d be a media star as well as an academic hero. The Sagan of archeology, the Lord Carnarvon of MesoAmerica. The Laura Croft of real life. But not if she couldn’t figure out a way to turn this thing up to Eleven.

If she could just get past what she termed “materials failure”. The realworld proof was not co-operating. She turned expectantly as Luis came up behind her. She was sure he’d struck out again. However much he desperately wanted to get on base. The museum staff had gone ballistic when she requested dismounting the Jade Codex so she could examine the back of it. But Luis had been ecstatic to help: convincing the stuffy old political appointed staff at the Museum of Mayan Culture to honor her impressive credentials, doing the physical job and paperwork himself. To end up with nothing.

When she’d first come down to Chetumal Luis had been highly apologetic that most of the relics in the state trophy museum were replicas, especially the big impressive stones. She’d soothed his embarrassment on that issue with her genuine opinion that it was better that way. The reproductions were excellent, sufficient for study, perfect castings taken from molecular polymer molds. People could see the evidence, feel the impact of their past: when they were glorious lords of existence, not marginalized aborigines. Better this way, she said, than looting the original stones and hauling them in like captives. Leave them where they belonged, not kidnapped like the Elgin Marbles.

Luis, a fresh-scrubbed INAH rookie aided by political activities while studying in Mexico City and a powerful uncle with PRI connections, was extremely happy to hear such an opinion. He fit in well with the current National History Institute concept of creating cashflow Disneylands rather than boring digs. And he’d been extremely excited when she showed up talking about the obverse of the Jade Codex.

It was improper to call it a Codex, of course: it was more like a tablet. A pocket calendar, if you like. A slab of very dark jade the size of a legal pad and a half inch thick, it was intricately carved in a medium that had held the detail better than the limestone steles and friezes. Obsessively copied, lovingly displayed. And now revealed as inadequate. Maybe.

She’d shown him the citations to make him believe the probability that there was more on the back of the jade tablet, and that it was highly significant. “Just having an obverse is really unique,” she had told him. “It’s like the U.S. Great Seal.”

“What the escudo of the United States?”

“Yes. The only national seal with an back side. You must have known that. It’s famous.”

“Oh, wait, the pyramid and eye.”

“Exactly.” Find me an archeologist who hasn’t been blown away by that image, and spent a career denying it, she’d thought. “The occult side of the official story.”

“So the Estados Unidos has a Dark Side.” He asked with playful innocence. Like most Latin Americans with college education he pretty much assumed it was all dark.

“Not dark: just out back,” she had chuckled. Then struck a movie pose and wickedly croaked out, “Come over to the Back Side, Luke.”

Her backside was something Luis was dying to come over, but the other side of the ersatz jade slab had come up smooth and empty; mounting studs cast right into it.

But now he stood there grinning, ready to play his trump. It had been like pulling hen’s teeth to get it and she’d know that. There was some deep departmental embarrassment about the Jade Codex. But he’d gotten the lead. He held up a printout in front of her, but couldn’t wait for her to read it. He said, “At Cobá.”

Her gratitude was marvelous to behold. Licking his mental lips, Luis offered to drive her up to the Cobá site himself. She was just so damned hot. Quite beyond the firm curves on the delicate bone structure, the graceful fluting of her face and throat and calves, she was “China”. The Yucatan borrows a lot from Cuba, including music and food, and one bit of slang was the term China or chinita to describe the highest and most erotic style of female. And if there was ever a girl who was chinisima, it was the lovely archeologist, Doctor MeiMei Chiang.

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Denny Mercer sized up the Worthy Oriental Gentleman who’d moved stealthily into his office. If the tattoos peeking out at the cuffs and throat of the bespoke Nathan Road suit, the two missing fingers, and the Dragon Lady slinking in behind him hadn’t been a clue to this being a major Triad warrior, the outline of the oh-so-concealed hatchet under his burly arm would have been the big tip-off. Denny looked up at him coolly, if not actually coolie, and spoke around the crumpled unfiltered Camel, “I suppose you’re the longest dong in the Hong Kong tong?”

Narrowing his already narrowed eyes, the sinister Celestial nodded with understated menace and pushed his calling card across the desk. Of course his real calling card would be one of the shirikin stars in the glove leather sheath up his sleeve. Denny got ready to bust a move.

Meanwhile, in real time: Denny slouched in his chair concealing the still-smoldering roach of the spliff he’d just obliterated, staring through glazed pupils at the slightly-built, middle-aged Chinese guy in work clothes and his dumpy, shuffling wife. It’s not like he really owes you any explanations, but it’s a boring job and Denny is prone towards a rich fantasy life. It’s why he become a Confidential Investigator in the first place and doing the computer skip-tracing and photo peeps that Seattle offers to freelance snoops hadn’t slaked that impulse toward the melodramatic, so he trips out a lot. The weed doesn’t help.

He picked up the card. Roosevelt Chiang, Landscape Consultant. He eyed Chiang and his wife, who immediately dropped her eyes and shrank a few inches. “Let me guess,” he said slowly. “You want me to find something or somebody?”

Both nodded, Chiang keeping modest eye contact. “My daughter.”

“I do that,” Denny said wearily. “But I gotta tell you a few things up front.”

The two Chinese stood motionless and expressionless, staring. Denny motioned towards the two rather banged up wooden straight chairs in front of his dilapidated desk. He had shopped carefully for beatup furniture he felt reflected a proper P.I. office. The hatrack had been the hardest to find. “Please, take a seat,” he said in his professional tones. “Can I offer you coffee? Water?” Lapsong Souchon tea in a paper-thin porcelain cup, perhaps?

The couple shook heads in unison, but sat and continued to regard him blankly. Fresh off the sampan, was Denny’s offhand estimation. “Number one: I can give you three addresses right now. A donut shop on Capital Hill, a coffee shop–slash crackhouse–in the U. District and this weird sort of tea and mp3/anime joint behind Uwajimaya in the I.D. You cruise those places every night for a week and I bet you spot your kid.”

Not a peep or blink out of PapaSan and MamaSan.

“Two: if I take the file, first thing I’m going to do is turn you inside-out for any child abuse reports. If you see what I’m carefully not implying here. Sorry to put that out in front of your wife.”

“She not speak English.”

Oh, not as eloquently as you? There’s a surprise. “So are you new in town?” Town, in the sense of The Occident.

“No. Twenty five year here. Just not talk much to…”

Roundeye demons. “I understand. What I meant, though, where’d you come up with my name? It’s not like I run bilingual ads in the International Observer. Turns out the characters for my name are some smutty pun.”

“Oh, same almost everybody. Chinese very fun language.”

A raff a minute, all light. “So, were you referred?”

“No need. I already know you, great master. You smart, figure things out.”

Whoa, great master. Cooooool. “Uh, sorry, but are you kidding me a little there?”

“Not joke. You same Dennis Mercer, best Guest Guesser.”

That one ground Denny’s wheels to a halt. Yes, he was an avid player of the Post Intelligencer’s football prognostication contest. And he’d exceled, having played it every year since the Seahawks cranked up with Largent and Zorn and Smilin’ Jack. He did well calling the college games, but was murder on the pros, especially AFC. In fact. betting on the NFL in the Frigate Tavern made him more money each year than his P.I. business. He’d been in the Top Five fourteen times and had won three of the grand prize trips to Superbowls, more than any other guesser in King County. Well, actually tied for first with some guy named…WHOA!

He snatched the card up and looked at again. Omigod. He regarded the inscrutable client and said, “There’s an R. Chiang here in town, you know. He’s the top guesser, drives me nuts.”

“Not top,” Chiang replied modestly, even bowing slightly. “Your humble student.”

“Holy Cannoli! Amazing!” Denny slammed his chair down and ran around the desk with his hand sticking out, then changed his mind and gave the same deep bow that he’d gotten from the pair when they came in. “Man, this is great. Hey, how do you do that, anyway?”

“Game very interesting. I study.”

“I hope to shout, you study. But how can you barely speak English… due respect… and manage to read the Raiders upsetting the Chargers last month?”

“Charger linebackers very low morale following arrest. Opportunity for new tight end. Need prove himself fast or back to selling cars. He play for same college as JaMarcus for two years.”

“But he wasn’t supposed to suit up for that game.”

“He clear waiver very fast. Dolphins need salary cap. Groundskeepers at McAfee Stadium know things, tell me.”

Gawd, the lawnmower spy network, no less. “But how’d you get the Giants over the Patriots? Nobody saw that coming.”

“You saw coming.”

“Yeah, but I… and hey, you were three points closer calling the score. Come on, how’d you do it?”

“Have brack belt in guess-fu from Monastery in Chou Wei mountain province.”

Denny rocked back, his butt hitting the desk, and stared.

Chiang gave a sliver smile and said, “Now I make joke. We from Taiwan. Fortune smile on me one day, on you some other day.”

Denny laughed. “Look we should get together sometime, talk…”

“Yes, very nice, you come to my house. But my daughter. Hard concentrate with baby girl lost.”

“Well don’t you worry about that, Mr. Chiang. I’m on it like white on lice.”

“Good. Tell me how much, I give check now. Fortune smiling on you now, find my girl.”

“You bet. She’s as good as found Mr. Chiang.”

“Friends call Rosie. My wife, Emily.”

“An honor to meet you both.” Denny moved behind the desk and poised at his keyboard. “Your daughter’s name?”

“May Flower Chiang. But everyone call her MeiMei.”

Imagine that, Denny thought as he typed in the name. “Age?”

“Twenty five.”

Baby girl. Okay. “When did you last see her?”

“Three weeks she not call. She always call twice a week when she out of country.”

Out of country. Aw shit. He looked up and said, “We might have to discuss some prepayment of expenses.”

Chiang nodded. “I understand. Last call from Mexico. State of Quintana Roo. Place Che Tu Mal.”

Wherever the hell that was. They must have planes that go there. “Why is she in Mexico?”

“She study Mayan pyramids. She expert. Doctor.” His wife understood that word for sure, started nodding and beaming.

“She investigate something there,” Chiang went on with continued pride. “Twenty twelve.”

“Twenty twelve? Oh, wait, that crap. Really? Do you know anything about it?”

Chiang gave a minimalist shrug. “Superbowl Forty Six. Indianapolis. Year of Dragon.”

“Indianapolis in February. Ridiculous. Anyway, let’s get through the information here and I’ll book a flight. Your girl is as good as found, Mr. Chiang. I guarantee it.”

“Life has no guarantee. Nothing but guess. You good guesser.”

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Monsoon leaned over the monitor shaking his head like a bulldog confronting a marzipan bone. His whole dejected posture mimed the word, “Why?????” What he said out loud was a variation, “He must be out of his ever-loving mind.”

Rodney, his AV guy was careful not to touch any controls and piss the network guy off again, but pointed to the monitor, drew a nod, watched deft fingers on the sliders remove the offending dazzle from the host microphone. Giving a commiserating glance at Monsoon he said, “Could have been way worse. He actually wanted to film live from the real Oval Office.”

“Why am I not surprised.” Monsoon muttered. “Aghast, but hardly surprised.”

“It’s not easy working for a guy who thinks being out of the envelope is a winning virtue in itself.” He caught a glare from Monsoon and hastened to say, “Hey, I’m telling you, right? We have envelopes for a purpose.”

“So you built him a fake Oval Office set.” Monsoon eyed the set with obvious loathing. There was an arch of lights over head, but the camera showed only a reproduction of the Presidential office, complete with a mockup of the desk with authentic seal, the national colors behind the chair, even the window with a fake outside view. Except there was a couch next to the desk. For guests and his second banana. Disgusting.

“Which was a pain in the butt to do here in the studio, considering there must be a dozen copies and replicas of the Oval around town. Not to mention back sets at Warner Brothers and such. We could have picked up the old West Wing flats for peanuts, I’ll bet.”

“They’d have made you take Martin Sheen in the deal.”

“Careful, you’re talking about a rainmaker and contributor.”

Monsoon snorted. “I heard they’re going to start that series back up with Will Smith playing the President.”

Rodney smiled, “That must be why he changed his name to Akbar.”

“Okaaaay, readddddy…” the network guy said into his headset mike. “And… cue.”

“Here it goes,” Rodney said, excitement of an historic moment replacing his cynical pose.”

“Fucking bloody wonderful,” Monsoon groaned, “The Presidency’s finest hour.”

The theme music blasted out, instantly igniting feverish applause in the studio audience. Live studio audience, Monsoon winced. Great idea. We should charge extra for assassins. I thought Stevie Wonder wrote the theme, he was thinking. This sounds like the Pointer Sisters meet K-Mart ad. But then an announcer’s voice rode over the whole works:

“And now… Give it up for…”

He didn’t really say ‘give it up’, did he, Monsoon grumped silently.

“The hardest-running Chief of State in show biz today…”

Oh. My. GAWD! Monsoon thought. Or perhaps screamed unheard.

“Numero Uno… THE man… Heeeeere’s Barack!“

The music jounced into a very jazzy version of “Hail To The Chief” before coming down under the wild applause. And the President of the United States stepped into a spotlight, holding a microphone, and smiled while waiting relative calm to begin his monologue in the first ever television show hosted by a President. The audience was going out of their minds. The network people were floating on their own brand of weird event adrenaline. Barack Obama was smiling serenely and giving a sort of crypto-black-power salute. Monsoon was about to be sick.

“Thank you, thank you, America,” the President said. And the applause rose another notch.

“Thanks so much, for so much,” he went on after a pause. “This is really humbling.”

Oh sure it is, Monsoon thought darkly. But The Man was a step ahead of him once again.

“And humbling me isn’t that easy,” Obama said to a blitzkrieg of laughter. He turned and pointed into the darkness to the right of the set, where Stevie Wonder sat a piano in front of a cheap boombox on a stool. “Now lemme have one for my band leader… Stevie Wonder!”

Stevie reached to turn a knob on the ghetto blaster and the theme faded out. He beamed in his sunglasses, tinkling a few notes of the “Hail to the Chief” variation.

“That’s “Hail to the Chief, right, Stevie? Not “Inhale to the Chief?”

The applause drowned out Monsoon, who stared chanting, “No, no, no, oh sweet Jesus freakin’ Christ almighty, no.”

Stevie smiled wider and leaned to his mike, “It’s all good, Barry. All good.”

“I was going to sing the National Anthem,” Obama went on. “But as soon as I said, ‘Oh, say, can you see?” Stevie took a break. What was it your said, Stevie?”

“I said, ‘If I could see, I’d know you cheap suckahs didn’t really hire me a band, wouldn’t I?”

“Pretty hard to pull the wool over Stevie’s eyes,” Obama went on. “Those budget cuts have to start somewhere.”

He squinted out into the house, shading his eyes. “Great crowd tonight. Not a single vacant seat.”

He gave a beat, then said. “And too bad, because Rod Blagojevich could use the money.”

Monsoon staggered back from the console and collapsed into a metal folding chair, shaking his head in horror. He had to get this guy re-elected in less than three years. The horror, he thought, Oh, the horror.”

On stage, though, the Prez had them in the palm of his hand. “It’s nice being in the presidential ‘honeymoon’ period, so far.”

On the couch, Joe Biden, who had slipped in quietly to take the Ed McMahon spot, piped up.

“Is it like a real honeymoon, Barry?”

“Not really. They don’t screw you until the honeymoon’s over.”

There was an intake of breath in the audience, then a slam of laughter. The Prez gave it the perfect timing pause, then said. “And you don’t suck until later.”

“Maybe we just call it a ‘transitional period’,” Biden said from the couch.

“Exactly. I’m still getting on top of it. Like for one thing, the term White House is going to be pretty passé as soon as I can get any non-union painters to return my calls.”

There was a brief shock on that one, too, but shorter. They’re figuring out he’s not your parent’s prexy, Monsoon thought.

Obama moved around the spot like a pro. “Oh, they’re giving me a new Cadillac, by the way.” He gave a veiled look and said, “No stereotypes around here.”

This time there was no pause, just laughter.

“The good news is, it’s bulletproof, bomb proof, completely invulnerable. A creampuff, one-owner car.”

The waited out his beat, expectantly. He said, “The bad new is, the previous owner was Tupac Shakur.”

Monsoon watched in fascinated repulsion as the monologue ensued.

–”Looks like I have to get some Foreign Affairs experience. Hope Michelle doesn’t find about it. She told me I may be the Black Kennedy, but only up to a point.”

–”Seems there are all these nuclear weapons out there in the wrong hands: Iran, Korea, Pakistan. Well, I think I’ve proved I can get nukes out of the hands of insane dictators. Three months ago the Republicans had The Bomb.”

“Good luck getting bombs away from Bill Ayers,” Biden quipped and the POTUS cringed playfully, bombarded with laughter.

–”We’ve got some good guests for you tonight, folks. And it wasn’t easy. We tried to have Hillary and John Edwards, but they got in a big fight over who had to prettiest hair. Then we lined up Evangelical pastor Ted Haggard, but he said he couldn’t make it. But a dozen teenaged hustlers in Colorado said he can make it, but only if you chew gum and talk dirty.”

–”But seriously people, we’re proud to welcome a very special guest tonight: Camelot Carpetbagger Caroline Kennedy!”

Monsoon lurched out of the chair and dashed into the wings, scattering Democrat hotshots and television techs as he plowed for the door, fresh air, and a really stiff drink.

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The Monsoon swizzled his watery drink in time with the oomp and pah of the game but chubby blonde’s aftermarket boobs, idling wondering if it was a sign of decline that he found cheesy strip clubs relaxing these days, rather than stimulating. Probably. Among so many others. The jackals of The Hill were probably snuffling in the darkness, the Beltway Buzzards circling too high to yet be seen. He tipped a unilateral toast to hungry predators everywhere, siphoned up a moderate snort, and held out a folded bill, trolling for a receptive G-string.

“If I can tell from here that’s only a one, she sure as hell can,” Jerome Weistler scoffed. “Think she can’t smell a Reno banknote from down the block?” He nodded acceptance of Munson’s lightly flipped finger. He also found this misnomered “Gentleman’s Club” relaxing. And one relaxing thing about it, it was unlikely that anybody of any importance would see him with Munson in a hole like this. Even if there was enough light. And if they did, they’d think twice about mentioning it.

Monsoon was on his wave length, as so frequently. “How come the Senators can reach across the aisle, but if guys like us, the real power, even shake hands it’s godawful corruption?”

“Forget the aisle. I’m good when they don’t reach across the bathroom stall.”

It seemed ironic and contra-instinctual and all that, but it also stood to reason: Jerry and Monsoon were the only two guys in Washington, if not the world, who really knew what the other one did and thought. Each saw his opponent as his only real peer in a world of peerlessly moronic muggers and shysters and shitforbrains. Monsoon had once suggested that they just switch jobs. Both resign on the condition that the GOP National pick up Monsoon and the Committee to ReElect hired Jerry. His Republican counterpart had laughed, then furrowed his brow. “But wouldn’t there be issues of trust?” Which had cracked them both up so bad the Atlantic City tarts they were tag-teaming had been afraid they’d have to figure out how to flee the scene of a double coronary.

They’d been friends since Sixty Eight when Jerry canvassed for Bobby and Monsoon was an under-assistant junior intern flackster for what he now called SpiroDicky. Back when they actually could switch jerseys between games. By now, of course, they were too powerful to have much say over their lives. But they could sure monkeypuppet other lives around.

Monsoon shifted his florid bulk and eyed the scrawny Weinstein. Who gazed back unflustered through his scuffed horn rims that seemed constructed to announce: What, you never saw a skinny Jewish geek from NYU before? And who wasn’t overly empathizing with Monsoon’s bitching about running Obama’s re-election campaign. They guy had all the incumbent advantages and did nothing but whine. Like now.

“The guy played on a state champ hoops team. Played in college fr crissakes. But did I get to use that in the campaign? Nooooooo. Running against Palin who’s playing up her state championship for MukTuk High every time she turns around.”

“Yeah, it’s so unfair for white females to have a basketball advantage over black males.”

“Natural order of things, there’d have been hours on ESPN comparing their roundball careers,” Monsoon ranted. “The campaign could have been about basketball. But I couldn’t touch it.”

”Well, run Palin again next time and maybe we can have a Network Sports Celebrity Half Court Shootout.”

”You’re on. But I’m just saying. What if McCain had a black grandfather but you couldn’t bring it up?”

“I’d have leaked and pretended we didn’t want the press to go with it. But we’re Republicans. Think we hire people of uncertain racial extraction?”

Monsoon jiggled his slushy drink and gave Jerry the aggressively bland smile that let him know he was about to pop one of those no-man’s-land things that came up now and then among the other nut-cutting, log-spiking and barn-razing. Didn’t bother with a question mark, “Aphra Alisander.”

Jerry smiled coyly, delighted to be caught out. “You’re already on to those credit cards?”

“We’ve been waiting for one to light up, and that went off like a twenty dollar slot machine yesterday.”

“But there’s something you don’t know?” Monsoon secretly loved it when Jerry was snotty/smug like that.

“Oh, you know… what, why, who. We already got the where and when. Or won’t she be alone in that Cancun suite? Is Aphra short for Aphrodite?”

“Well, I’d say so. But that’s just because I know what she looks like.”

“If she looks like her mama I’d say you’re right.”

“Oh, you remember Debra Alisander? Good trivia points.”

“Even Debra Fathiya would be trivia these days, but I remember who she was. Talked like Huey Newton and looked like Cleopatra Jones.”

“Well, standing by her daughter she’d look like a boy.”

“Whoa. So what hold has she got you guys’ nuts?”

“You tell me. Betcha can’t figure it out in thirty days.”

“You’re on. Hundred bucks?”

“Covered. Who’ll hold the money?” Both their eyes turned to the blonde stripper, who had sniffed out the wagered C-note and was indicating total approval.

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