The Four Last Things

by Timothy Hallinan

“He'll see me whether he wants to or not.” She didn't look away, and neither did I. “He owes me a few. A six-pack, at least.”

  “He's in Listening,” she said. She was still staring straight into my eyes. “He won't be free until seven-fifteen, just before the Revealing.”

  “That's about an hour.”

  “As you say.” It was one of the most noncommittal responses I'd ever provoked. “Whom shall I say wants to see him?”

  “Whom? Simeon Grist.”

  She turned a pad of paper toward me. It said public church business at the top. “Could you please print that?” she said.

  “Hell,” I said, “I could probably even write it.”

  “We'd prefer printing.” She gave me a tiny public-relations smile. “For the sake of clarity.”

  “Ah, clarity,” I said, doing as I was told, “we worship at thy shrine.”

  Listener Simpson pushed a button at her right hand and the door behind her opened to admit a clear-eyed fifteen-year-old girl wearing tight black jeans, a blouse of Chinese-checker red, and a pair of seventy-dollar Reeboks. She surreptitiously shifted a wad of chewing gum to her cheek as she approached the table. Simpson scrawled something on the bottom of the page I'd printed my name on, glanced at her watch, and noted the time in the lower-right-hand corner. “This is for Mr. Miller,” she said. “He'll come out of Listening in 12A in forty-six minutes. He's to choose whether he wishes to come here or not.”

  “Yes, Listener,” the girl said around her gum. “Should I make a copy before I deliver it?”

  “Of course,” Listener Simpson said a little peevishly. “If it's not in the files it doesn't exist,” she added with the air of one repeating a well-worn dictum. The girl didn't look particularly grateful for the advice. She let out a world-weary sigh and left the room as though she were happy to be out of it, cracking her gum as the door closed behind her.

  “Kids,” Listener Simpson said to herself. Listener Dooley emitted a sympathetic snore.

  “You were probably like that once,” I said. “All energy and no direction.”

  She gave me a grave look and then shook her head. “I was worse,” she said. “I don't know why nobody killed me.”

  “Children seem to be important to the church. Kids as couriers, the little girl on the poster behind you.”

  “Children are important to every Church. Like them or not, they're the messengers to the future. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ Jesus was only one of the religious leaders who realized that children were essential.”

  “A high-priority demographic group.”

  She weighed it for a second. “A little bald, but accurate. It's probably better than sentimentalizing them.”

  “Tell me about the Church.”

  “I'm not qualified. I can only tell you a few things, and those are more what we're not than they are what we are. Does that make sense?”

  “It's not one of clarity's better moments, but I followed it.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, to start with, who are the people on the poster?”

  “Mary Claire and Angel Ellspeth. Angel is the Church's Speaker. Mary Claire is her mother.”

  “I know what a mother is. What's a Speaker?”

  “That's a little complicated, and it sounds like mumbo-jumbo unless you've heard a Revealing. We're encouraged not to answer that question, but to ask you to attend a Revealing instead. Like the one at seven-fifteen this evening.”

  “Is the Church Christian?”

  “Some of us are Christian. I am. Some of us are Jews, some of us are Buddhists, some don't believe in God at all. It's not important. The Church teaches us to address the Spirit in ourselves. Do you believe in God?”

  “No.”

  “You don't even have to think about it?”

  “I've already thought about it. Boy, have I thought about it.”

  “Don't you believe you have a spirit of some kind?”

  “It's not something I consider every morning right after I get up. I believe in right and wrong. I guess that must mean I think people are more than just ambulatory mixtures of chemicals. Who cares what happens to a chemical? Is it right to use zinc to make corrugated roofing and wrong to put it on your nose to keep from getting sunburned?”

  “Zinc's a metal,” she said, “but I understand your example. Moral principles don't make sense in a purely physical world.”

  “That's what I said.”

  “Of course it was.” Her smile was friendlier now, and her eyes seemed to be looking into mine rather than challenging me. She really was very pretty. I would have asked her what time she got off, but I had a feeling she didn't.

  “What's the Eternal Moment?” I asked instead.

  “Now,” she said in italics. “You already knew the answer to that.”

  “I guess I did. What's a Listener?”

  “That comes later. Don't look for a contradiction, there isn't one. You just don't understand Now.”

  “Take pity on a poor pilgrim.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “I'm listening to you now, aren't I?”

  Listener Dooley shifted on his hard wooden chair, mumbled something, and opened his eyes. He looked at me once, incuriously, and let his lids droop again. Nevertheless, I had a sense that Listener Simpson wasn't the only one whose ears were working.

  “I guess you are. Do you get paid for it?”

  “The laborer is worthy of his hire.”

  The door behind the Listeners opened and a dark, extremely handsome man came in. He had blue-black hair and plenty of it, startlingly pure blue eyes, and the kind of beard that actors and politicians shave twice a day. His deep tan was set off by a coral polo shirt, complete with an amphibian of some kind over the left nipple. He'd tucked the shirt meticulously into pleated blue slacks to show off the fact that he'd inherited Fred Astaire's waistline. I disliked him on sight.

  “Well,” he said, “so you're here to see Mr. Miller.” He smiled, revealing white, slightly pointed teeth. “I'm Dick Merryman.”

  Dick Merryman held out a hand and I shook it. It was warm and hard, with short curly black hairs on the backs of the fingers.

  “I'd say I'm Simeon Grist,” I said, “but you already know it.”

  He must have thought that was funny because he laughed. “Has Listener Simpson been helpful?”

  “She's been a delight. I was about to tell her my entire life story.”

  He laughed again and tossed a mean little glance at Listener Simpson, who blushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. “He's just kidding, Dr. Merryman,” she said.

  “Doctor?” I said. “What kind of doctor? Ph.D.? L.L.D.? Chiropractic?”

  “M.D.,” he said. “An internist, actually, Simeon. Why?”

  “ ‘Doctor’ is such a loose term, isn't it, Dick? The Germans call everybody ‘doctor,’ and Americans are only slightly more selective. So what's an internist doing at a gathering of the Church of the Eternal Moment?”

  “We're not Christian Scientists,” he said in an agreeable tone that sounded like it took a little work. “People get sick, you know.”

  “Then you're not a member of the Church?”

  “Of course I am. The Church has a lot of professional men—doctors, lawyers—and blue-collar workers, housewives, what-have-you. Everybody's welcome. Are you a friend of Mr. Miller's?”

  “I've known him a long time. I've done him some favors.”

  “Don't think we're security-happy,” Merryman said, reading my mind. “It's just that Mr. Miller is a celebrity, and we've learned to be careful with people who say they want to see one of our celebrities.”

  “One of your celebrities?”

  “We have many people whom the world thinks of as celebrities. There are eight or nine here right now.”

  “Eight? Or nine?”

  “Eight, actually,” he said, giving me the teeth again. What do you do, Simeon?”

  “Good question, Dick. You could
say I'm self-employed.” We smiled at one another.

  “And you say ‘doctor’ is a loose term.” He chuckled. I chuckled back at him. Then we both stopped chuckling and he waited for me to say something.

  When the silence had gotten awkward and Listener Simpson had cleared her throat twice, he rubbed his hands together. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Miller will be getting your message soon, and he'll probably come out to see you. Even if he doesn't, I hope you'll stay for the Revealing. You've come all this way, after all.”

  “All this way from where?” I hadn't told Listener Simpson where I'd come from.

  Merryman's smile broadened. “No one really lives in Big Sur, Simeon. Just take a seat. Have you brought anything to read?”

  “That's okay. I'll meditate on the present.”

  “You do that. Even without training, it can't do any harm. Listener Simpson, I think it's time for your next session.”

  Listener Simpson looked faintly fuddled. “Of course it is, Dr. Merryman. I was just, um, waiting to be relieved.”

  “Listener Dooley can handle it.”

  Listener Dooley snapped out of his coma and looked alert. “Sure I can, Dr. Merryman.” He had a whiskey voice to match his nose.

  “Nice to have met you, Simeon,” Merryman said. “See you at the Revealing.” He took Listener Simpson's elbow and guided her out of the room. He had the posture of a professional ballroom dancer, but his fingers cut into the flesh of her arm.

  “What an interesting guy,” I said to Listener Dooley as the door swung shut behind them. “I always think doctors should be unattractive.”

  “You do, huh? I think everybody should look like what they want to look like.”

  I calculated the odds against Listener Dooley having chosen his face and came up with the kind of number astronomers are always trying to explain to the rest of us. Conversation with Dooley held no mysteries that I cared to penetrate so I went to a chair and meditated on the present.

  Quite a lot of it had flowed seamlessly past when the door opened once again and Skippy Miller jiggled through it. He looked genuinely happy to see me, happier than anyone I'd run into in a long time.

  “Simeon, this is great, this is terrific,” he boomed in his actor's voice. He looked, as always, like his mother had dressed him in the dark. Skippy wasn't heavy or husky or any of the current euphemisms: Skippy was fat, with the dedicated fat man's fastidious touches—a scarf around the neck, trousers darker than his shirt, shirt loose to conceal the blossoms of flesh inside. Except that, on Skippy, the touches always went awry. The scarf around his neck was too tight, emphasizing the rolls of fat below his chin. The trousers had bulging safari-style pouches that made him look like a man with an extra set of hands in his pockets. But his face was genuinely open and obviously pleased.

  “It is? I mean, I'm happy to see you too, Skippy, but why is this such a crowd-pleaser?”

  “Well, because you're here. You have to give me credit, Simeon, I never preached to you, but that doesn't mean I'm not happy to see you here.”

  Listener Dooley was sitting straight up now, or as straight as his paunch would let him, taking it all in.

  “Skippy,” I said, “you're going a little fast for me. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  Listener Dooley looked vaguely affronted and then remembered that he wasn't supposed to be Listening.

  Skippy cast a guileless glance around the room. “There's nobody here,” he said.

  “Think again. How about the parking lot?”

  He gazed through the windows. “It's dark out there.”

  “Darkness is an illusion. If you could see through it, it'd be light.”

  “Simeon,” he said, his face falling, “you mean the only reason you're here is to see me?”

  “Well, I didn't fly four hundred miles to be told it's dark outside.”

  “Aw, hell,” he said. “I thought . . .”

  “Maybe later. I've been invited to the Revealing.”

  He lit up again. “You're going to go, aren't you?”

  I took his arm. “We'll see,” I said, steering him through the door. “Let's talk first.”

  In the parking lot, Skippy shivered as if he somehow lacked the fat man's natural insulation. “You really should come to the Revealing,” he said a trifle sulkily. “It'd be good for you.”

  “Skippy, the plane home doesn't leave until ten. Tell me what I want to know and I'll sit through a Maria Montez movie.”

  “You'll love it. Honestly, you've never seen anything like it. This little girl, except it's not her really, of course, but whoever it is, it's something.”

  “I'm sure it is.”

  “So you'll stay?”

  “First things first. Do you know anyone who calls himself Ambrose Harker?”

  “I think I might have known a Harker a long time ago. I don't think I've ever met anyone named Ambrose.”

  “Who was the Harker, then?”

  “Her name was Alice. Jesus, this is when I was in high school. A little pale girl with terrible skin. A physics brain, remember physics brains? I sat behind her in math so I could cheat off her tests.”

  “What about her brothers?” I knew I was getting nowhere, but the only way you learn the answer to a question is by asking it.

  “Alice Harker? If she'd had brothers they wouldn't have admitted it.”

  “So who have you talked to me about?”

  He rubbed his chin and then transferred his attention lower down, tugging at his loose shirt where the fat bulged through. “Nobody,” he said at last. “Why?”

  “Nobody came to you and asked for a recommendation?”

  “Simeon,” he said, “I haven't told anybody about what you did for me.” He finished with his shirt. “How could I, you know?”

  “Sensitive.”

  “Dynamite. Especially for a fat middle-aged actor who's earning a decent paycheck for the first time since he stopped selling real estate.”

  “So not a soul?”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Nobody at all.”

  “Okay. Do you know a guy in his late thirties, bony and unpleasant, with a flat-top? Got a tailor who should be a vivisectionist, makes a lot of spit noises when he talks?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  “Big Adam's apple? Blue eyes?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Insists on perfect understanding all the time?”

  Something flickered in Skippy's eyes. “Like how?” he said.

  “Like asking ‘Do you understand?’ after every declarative sentence. Like grilling waiters on whether they've got his order straight.”

  “No,” Skippy said shortly. He looked nervous. “Why?”

  “Somebody's jerking me around. Somebody who said you sent him.”

  “Simeon, I didn't send anybody.”

  “Somebody who maybe set somebody up to get killed.”

  Skippy's eyes widened. Then a peal of bells rang out, a secular angelus floating through the mists of Big Sur.

  “That's it,” he said. “Come with me?”

  “You don't know anything about it.”

  “Zip,” he said, “nothing. I'm sorry. Come on, I want a decent seat.”

  “For what?”

  “The Revealing.”

  Chapter 6

  “It's the best thing that's happened to me since my second divorce,” Skippy said earnestly as he steered us between buildings toward a large lighted structure. He was making an obvious effort to keep his fervor in check, but his hammy hand clutched my arm as if he were afraid I'd try to make a break for it.

  The paths were full of people, young, old, and in between, mostly white, mostly prosperous-looking, clearly eager to answer the summons of the bell. Ever the gentleman, Skippy stopped to allow an old lady in a walker to make a wobbly right from a tributary path onto the main drag. Listener Simpson was helping her, to the old lady's obvious irritation, and she flashed us a harried smile. Once they'd set off in front of us
, Skippy hit his pedestrian's overdrive and dragged me past them.

  “So why is it so great? Are your arteries any better? Is your blood pressure down?”

  “No and yes, in order. Even with all this blubber, my blood pressure is lower than it's ever been. And without medication, too,” he added triumphantly.

  This was a revelation. Back when I'd known him, Skippy's medicine cabinet had been bigger than my living room. “Your druggist must be furious,” I said.

  We were slowing now as the faithful converged into a couple of well-behaved lines in order to pass through the single open door. The light flooding through the door was brilliant. We'd walked a quarter of a mile, and despite the coolness of the night, Skippy's face was filmed with an enthusiast's sweat.

  “Calm down,” I said. “Bliss can kill. Orgasms claim many lives each year.”

  “That's another thing,” he said, heedless of all the ears around us. “I feel much less compelled to womanize.” One of Skippy's problems was that he didn't have a subconscious. Like a character in a Dostoyevsky novel, he said everything, and usually to the wrong person.

  We were toddling slowly along in the line now. Skippy's eyes shone and he licked his lips hungrily. I felt as if I were boarding an airplane for Akron or Duluth, someplace I'd never been and didn't want to go.

  “It's changed my life,” he said. “The Church has changed my life. And at my age, too.”

  He was so eager for me to ask him about it that I almost didn't have the heart not to. But I managed.

  “Look at me, Simeon,” he finally said. “Do I look like a success?”

  “Do you want me to say no? You're doing okay. Take away most successes' Piaget watches and they look like shoe salesmen. Dress a bum in Armani and spritz him with cologne, and he looks like the CEO of Gulf and Western.”

  “Yeah, yeah, turn it into a joke. But do I look like a Hollywood success?”

  “Somebody has to play people who look like you.”

  “That's what I did for years. Walked by in the background wearing a plaid shirt and carrying a bottle in a bag. Bumped into featured players in elevators. I had a three-year stretch where my longest line was ‘Oops.’ Now I'm a star. So what's the difference?”

  “I give.” I hate guessing.