Laugh Lines

by Ben Bova

  “Me neither,” she said, snuggling closer.

  Malzone sighed. “But we’ll probably both be out of a job in another few days, the way the trial’s going.”

  “This was just the first day,” Scarlet said. “Our side didn’t even get a chance to speak, yet.”

  “You mean management’s side.”

  Propping herself on one elbow, Scarlet replied, “You’re on management’s side, aren’t you?”

  “Kinda.” Malzone shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

  “What do you mean?”

  His lean, long face contorting into a miserable frown, Malzone admitted, “I know how Woody and the rest of the sales staff feel. Hell, I was one of them for a lot of years before I got kicked upstairs to sales manager . . . .”

  Scarlet’s expression softened. “You feel sorry for them.”

  “I feel sorry for all of us. I don’t see this as one side versus the other side. I don’t think of us as management versus labor. This is a family fight. It’s damned unhappy when members of the same family have to fight. In public, yet.”

  She plopped back on the mattress and looked at their reflection in the ceiling mirror. Ralph was a coiled bundle of muscle and nervous energy; it excited her to look at his naked body. And she was glad that she kept herself ruthlessly to her diet and exercises; she wanted to keep on looking good to him.

  “Maybe there’s a way to get both sides together,” Ralph was saying, “so we can stop this fighting and be all one happy family again.”

  Scarlet shook her head. “I don’t see how.”

  “I do,” he muttered, so low that she barely heard him.

  Without taking her eyes off the ceiling mirror, she asked, “How?”

  “We give up on Cyberbooks.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the only way. We tell Carl to pack up and leave.”

  “But you can’t do that to him! And P.T. would never—”

  “I know P.T. won’t back down, so it’s all a pipe dream. And I know Carl’s a good guy, a friend, somebody I like a lot.” Malzone hesitated a moment, then went on, “But the only way to save Bunker Books is to drop the Cyberbooks project. If we don’t, the company’s going to be torn apart and go down the tubes.”

  She turned toward him again, her heart suddenly beating faster. “Ralph, I have a confession to make to you.”

  “Another one? You sure you’re not a closet Catholic?”

  “Be serious!”

  “Okay.”

  “I was planted at Bunker Books by my boss at Webb Press. I was supposed to be a spy. My assignment was to steal Cyberbooks away from Bunker.”

  Malzone’s face brightened. “Great idea! Let’s give it to them! Let them tear themselves apart!”

  Scarlet stared at him. “Do you think . . . I mean . . .”

  Ralph slid a wiry arm around Scarlet’s trim bare waist. “Let’s do it! And afterward, let’s figure out how to get Cyberbooks to Webb Press.”

  Alba Blanca Bunker was in bed also, but for more than an hour she had nothing to say except moans and howls of passion. The voice-activated computer that ran the bedroom’s holographic decor system had run its gamut from deep under the sea to the exhilarating peaks of the Himalayas, from a silent windswept desert in the moonlight to the steaming raucous orchid-drenched depths of the Amazonian jungle.

  Ever since his body-restructuring operations, Pandro had been a half-wild animal: a passionate, powerful animal who would sweep Alba up in his strong arms the minute she arrived home from the office and carry her off to bed, like some youthful Tarzan overwhelming a startled but unresisting Jane.

  Over the months since his operation, Alba had expected his ardor to cool. It did not. It was as if Pandro were trying to make up for all the years he had allowed business to get in the way of their lovemaking; as if he had stored all this passion inside himself and now, with his newly youthful and energetic body, was sharing his pent-up carnal fury with her.

  Now they lay entwined together, tangled in a silk sheet that was thoroughly ripped, soaked with the sweaty musky aura of erotic sexual love. The room’s decor had shifted to a warm moonlit meadow. Alba could hear trees rustling in the soft wind, smell fresh-cut grass. Fireflies flickered across the ceiling.

  As if struggling up from a deep, deep sleep, P.T. asked in the darkness, “How did things go today?”

  “Oh—all right, I suppose. It’s only the first day of the trial.” She hadn’t the heart to tell him her worst fears.

  But he sensed them. “All right, you suppose? That doesn’t sound too good.”

  “It wasn’t so bad.”

  Bunker looked into his wife’s face. Even in the flickering shadows he could see how troubled she was.

  “Maybe I should go to the court with you tomorrow,” he muttered.

  Her heart fluttered. He’s willing to leave the house, in spite of his fear of people and crowds, just for me. He’s willing to face the world, for me!

  Struggling to hold her emotions in check, Alba said, “That’s not necessary, darling.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s all right.”

  “Are you sure?” he repeated.

  All day long in that dreadful courtroom Alba had maintained her self-control. She had not cried or screamed when Woody’s lawyer accused her of being a heartless money-mad despoiler of the poor. She had not taken after him with one of her spike-heeled shoes, as she had wanted to. She had remained cool and reserved, and had not said a word.

  But now, after the evening’s wild lovemaking, all her defenses were down. She broke into uncontrollable, inconsolable sobs.

  “Oh, Pandro,” she wept, “we’re going to lose everything. Everything!”

  The Writer was astonished at how easy it had been to acquire enough armaments to equal the firepower of a Vietnam War infantry platoon. He had been asweat with nervous fear when he walked into the gun shop. He had nothing bolstering him except the memory of an ancient video of an old Arnold Schwarzenegger flick.

  The gun shop owner had been wary at first; a shabby-looking customer coming in just before closing time, dressed in a threadbare gray topcoat and baggy old slacks. But the Writer smiled and explained that he was doing research for a new novel about terrorists, and needed to know the correct names and attributes of the kinds of guns terrorists would use. Within fifteen minutes the owner had locked his front door and pulled down the curtain that said CLOSED. He picked out an array of Uzi, Baretta, Colt, and laser-aimed Sterling guns. With the smile of a man who really cares about his merchandise, the shop owner proceeded to explain the virtues and faults of each weapon.

  “And they all use the same ammunition?” the Writer asked naively.

  “Oh no! The Baretta takes nine-millimeter . . .” Before long the owner was showing how each gun is loaded.

  It was simple, then, for the Writer to pick up the massive Colt automatic and point it at the owner’s head.

  “Stick ‘em up,” he said with a slightly crazy grin.

  The owner laughed.

  The Writer cocked the automatic and repeated, minus the grin, “Stick ‘em up.”

  He walked out of the gun shop burdened by nearly thirty pounds of hardware. He actually clanked as he hurried down the street. The owner lay behind his counter, bound and gagged with electrician’s tape that the Writer had bought earlier from a nearby hardware store with his last five dollars.

  “I can’t believe it,” Carl said with a shake of his head.

  He and Lori were strolling slowly around Washington Square, still numb with the shock of the first day of the trial. They had gone to a tiny restaurant in the Village for dinner, but neither of them had much of an appetite. They left the food on the table, paid the distraught waiter, and now they walked aimlessly toward the big marble arch at the head of the square.

  The November evening was nippy. Carl wore an old tennis sweater under his inevitable tweed jacket; Lori had a black imitation leather midcalf co
at over her dress. A chilly breeze drove brittle leaves rattling across the grass and walkways. Only a few diehard musicians and panhandlers sat on the park benches in the gathering darkness, under the watchful optics of squat blue police robots.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Carl repeated. “That lawyer made Cyberbooks sound like something Ebenezer Scrooge would invent just to throw people out of work and make them starve.”

  “And the judge let him get away with it,” Lori said.

  “This isn’t a trial. It’s an inquisition.”

  With a deep sigh, Lori asked, “What will you do if the Bunkers lose? If the judge actually issues an injunction against Cyberbooks?”

  Carl shrugged. “Go find another publishing house, I guess, and sell the idea to them.”

  “But don’t you understand? If the judge issues an injunction against Cyberbooks, it will be a precedent that covers the whole industry!”

  Carl looked at her, puzzled.

  “If Bunker is enjoined from developing Cyberbooks,” Lori explained, “it sets a legal precedent for the entire publishing industry.”

  “That doesn’t mean . . .”

  “If any other publishing house decided to develop Cyberbooks with you, what’s to stop their sales force—or their editorial department, or anybody else—from doing just what Woody’s doing? And they’ll have the legal precedent of the Bunker case.”

  Carl stopped in his tracks, his face awful.

  Lori felt just as bad. “No other publishing house will go anywhere near Cyberbooks if we lose this case.”

  “Cyberbooks will be dead,” he muttered.

  “That’s right. And I’ll never get to publish Mobile, USA.”

  “Huh? What’s that?”

  “The novel I told you about.”

  “Oh, that great work of literature.” Carl’s tone was not sarcastic, merely unbelieving, defeated.

  “I’ll have to spend the rest of my life working on idiot books and dancing nights to make ends meet.”

  “You could leave Bunker Books.”

  “It would be just the same at another publishing house.”

  “You could leave the publishing business altogether,” Carl said.

  “And go where? Do what?”

  Before he realized what he was saying, Carl answered, “Come back to Boston. I’ll take care of you.”

  And before she knew what she was saying, Lori snapped, “On an assistant professor’s salary?”

  “But I’ll have Cyber—” His words choked off in midsentence.

  Lori fought back tears. “No, Carl, you won’t have Cyberbooks. You’ll be back to teaching undergraduate software design and I’ll be belly dancing on Ninth Avenue and we’ll never see each other again.”

  His face became grim. He pulled himself to his full height and squared his shoulders. “Then we damned well had better win this trial,” he said firmly.

  “How?” Lori begged. “Even the judge is against us.”

  “I don’t know how,” said Carl. “But we’ve just got to, that’s all.”

  PW Forecasts

  The Terror from Beyond Hell

  Sheldon Stoker.

  Bunker Books

  $37.50. ISBN 9-666-8822-5

  Sheldon Stoker’s readers are legion, and they will not be disappointed in this latest gory terror by the Master. Terror, devil worship, hideous murders and dismemberments, and—the Stoker trademark—an endangered little child, fill the pages of this page-turner. The plot makes no sense, and the characters are as wooden as usual (except for the child), but Stoker’s faithful readers will pop this novel to the top of the best-seller charts the instant it hits the stores. (January 15. Author tour. Major advertising/promotion campaign. First printing of 250,000 copies.)

  Passion in the Pacific

  Capt. Ron Clanker. USN (Ret.)

  Bunker Books.

  $24.95. ISBN 6-646-1924-0

  A better-than-average first novel by the last living survivor of the epic Battle of Midway (World War II). Tells the tale of a bittersweet romance in the midst of stirring naval action, with the convincing authenticity of a sensitive man capable of great wartime deeds. The characters are alive, and the human drama matches and even surpasses the derring-do of battle. (January 15. No author tour. No advertising/promotion campaign. First printing of 3,500 copies.)

  Twenty-Three

  As a bullet seeks its target, dozens of men and women from all parts of greater New York converged on the single oak-panelled courtroom in which the Bunker vs. Bunker drama was to be played out.

  Lori Tashkajian, foreseeing a lifetime of dreary editorial offices and smoky Greek nightclubs ahead of her, rode the Third Avenue bus to the courthouse.

  Carl Lewis, after a sleepless night trying to think of some way to turn the tide that was so obviously flowing against Cyberbooks, decided that he could use the exercise and so walked the forty blocks to the courthouse, through the crisp November sunshine.

  Scarlet Dean and Ralph Malzone took a taxi together, each of them wrapped in their own gloomy thoughts.

  The Writer rode the crowded subway downtown, his heavily laden topcoat clanking loudly every time the train swayed.

  P. Curtis Hawks, glowing with his new title of CEO, directed his chauffeur to whisk down the FDR Drive for a firsthand look at the trial that was going to break Bunker Books. Even though his limousine was soon snarled in the usual morning traffic jam (which often lasted until the late afternoon traffic jam overtook it), Hawks smiled happily to himself at the thought of Bunker going down the drain.

  P.T. Bunker, Jr., rode with his mother in her white limo the few blocks that separated their Lower East Side mansion from the courthouse. Junior hummed a pop tune to himself, grinning, as he contemplated how the computer in his room at home was busily buying up every spare share of Tarantula stock it could find.

  Alba Bunker did not notice her son’s self-satisfied delight. She dreaded another day in court and longed to be in the powerful arms of her oversexed husband.

  Dozens of curious and idle people with nothing better to do headed for the courtroom, after learning from their TV and newspapers of the fireworks the cowboy attorney had lit off the day before.

  Lt. Jack Moriarty had the most difficult course. Upon awakening from the sedatives administered to him the previous evening, he realized with the absolute certainty of the true hunch-player that the Retiree Murderer was going to be in that courtroom. Half an hour with his laptop computer convinced him that P.T. Bunker, Jr., was grabbing Tarantula stock like a drunken sailor reaching for booze, and the murderer was going to strike again that very morning.

  Knowing it was hopeless to try to gain release from the hospital through normal channels (which meant waiting for Dr. Kildaire, who had just signed out at the end of his midnight-to-eight shift), Moriarty slowly, carefully detached the sensors monitoring his body functions and, clutching the array of them in his hands so that they would not set off their shrill alarms, he tiptoed to the bed next to his and attached them to the sleeping hemorrhoid case there. The spindly wires stretched almost to the breaking point, but the alarms did not go off.

  With barely a satisfied nod, Moriarty raced to the closet and pulled on his clothes. Years of shadowing suspects had taught him how to seem invisible even in plain daylight, so he slithered his way out of the ward, along the corridor, down the elevator, and out the hospital’s front entrance in a matter of minutes.

  Using his pocket two-way he summoned a patrol car to take him to the courthouse. When the dispatcher asked what authority he had to request the transportation, Moriarty replied quite honestly, “It’s a matter of life and death, fuckhead!”

  Justice Hanson Hapgood Fish allowed his clerk to help him into his voluminous black robes, then dismissed the young man for his morning pretrial meditation. He sank onto his deep leather desk chair and closed his eyes. The vision of all the lovely women in his courtroom immediately sprang to his mind. Mrs. Bunker, looking so vulnerable and hurt in vir
ginal white. The one in red: stunning. The dark-haired one with the great boobs. This was going to be an enjoyable trial. Justice Fish determined that he would drag it out as long as possible.

  Let the goddamnable lawyers talk all they want to, he said to himself. Let them jabber away for weeks. I’ll give them all the latitude they want. They’ll love it! After all, they bill their clients by the minute. The longer the trial, the more money they squeeze out of their clients. And the longer I can sit up there and gaze at those three beauties. He smiled benignly: a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. Too bad they’re all on the losing side of this case.

  One other person was thinking about the Bunker trial, even though he was not heading toward the courtroom.

  P.T. Bunker sat alone in his half-unfinished mansion, at the old pine desk he had used since childhood, reviewing the videotape of the previous day’s session in court. Thanks to freedom of information laws and instant electronic communications, it was possible for any informed citizen to witness any open trial.

  He wore an old Rambo XXV T-shirt, from an ancient promotional drive to tie in the novelization with the movie. It was spattered with bloody bullet holes, and showed a crude cartoon of the elderly Rambo shooting up a horde of Haitian zombies from his wheelchair. Below the shirt Bunker was clad only in snug bikini briefs, his legs and feet bare. He no longer needed padding to look impressive.

  His handsome face grimaced as he watched the plaintiff’s attorney attacking Bunker Book’s management—himself! his wife!—in his relentless western invective.

  A low animal growl issued from P.T. Bunker’s lips as he watched the videotape. After nearly an hour, he glanced once at the Mickey Mouse clock on his desk top, then rose and headed for his clothes closet.

  Carl Lewis arrived in the courtroom precisely at one minute before ten. Half a dozen other people were filing in through the double doors and finding seats on the hard wooden pews. Carl saw Lori up in the front row, talking earnestly with Scarlet Dean and Ralph Malzone. As he started toward them, a scruffy man of indeterminate age, wearing a long shapeless gray topcoat and a day’s growth of beard, accidentally bumped against him. Carl felt something hard and metallic beneath the man’s coat, heard a muffled clank.