“But I can’t manufacture something that isn’t there,” Wintergreen whined. “Barron was never a member of any organization on the old Attorney General’s list even though plenty of his friends were. There’s nothing to link him to anything more damaging than technically-illegal demonstrations, and these days that kind of thing makes a man a hero, not a criminal. He isn’t even a member of the S.J.C. anymore, hasn’t been since a year after he got his TV show. He makes large amounts of money, spends it freely, but keeps out of debt. He sleeps with large numbers of unattached women, engages in no illegal perversions, and takes no illegal drugs. There’s nothing in any of it we can use against him, and in that sense, which I trust is the sense you’re interested in, sir, he’s totally clean.” Wintergreen picked up the folder again, began bending down the edges.
“Stop playing with that damned thing!” Howards snapped. (Goddamn cretin, whole country’s full of cretins who can’t find their asses without a roadmap.) “So we can’t blackmail Barron,” he said, and saw Wintergreen wince at plain truth-word blackmail. Imagine him living forever, clerk forever, rabbity coward forever. Immortality’s for men with the balls to grab it, fight for it, fight from dry windy Panhandle to circles of power circles of forever, toss the rest to the fading black circle garbage disposal, only what they deserve—like damn fool coward Hennering.
“So some men can’t be blackmailed,” Howards said. “But every man can be bought, once you know his price. So we buy Jack Barron.”
“But you’ve already offered him the biggest possible bribe, a place in a Freezer,” Wintergreen said, “and he hasn’t taken it.”
“He hasn’t turned it down either,” said Howards. “I know men, which means I got a nose for their prices. That’s why I’m where I am today. Way I know your price down to the dollar—more money than you can spend, and a place in the Freezers when you croak, and you’re mine simply because I know the price you set on yourself and I can afford to meet it fully. Barron’s no different from you or anybody else; he wants that Freeze Contract, you can make book on that. He wants it just enough to let me use him on his terms. With that coin, I can buy his services just until he thinks he can double-cross me and get away with it. And once those contracts are signed, he will be able to get away with it. And a man like Barron, he won’t play ball till I do sign. You don’t screw around with a man like that; you’ve got to own him down to the soles of his shoes. And a free Freeze just won’t buy that. For that fee, he’ll play ball so long as I answer all his questions and he likes the answers.
“But that’s not the way Benedict Howards does business. It’s easier to buy a Jack Barron than to destroy him, good business too. What I need from you is something that will let me meet the rest of the price he sets on himself. There’s got to be something the man’s hungry for, and can’t get for himself.”
“Well…there’s his ex-wife,” Wintergreen said hesitantly. “But there’s no way we can deliver her.”
“Ex-wife?” Howards hissed. (You dumb puffed-up three-score-and-ten errand-boy bastard, sitting right in front of you all the time, egomaniac like Barron’s got to have some woman means something more to him than a good lay. What they call it, mindfucker, yeah, hippie Bolshevik mindfucker’s got to have some woman’s mind to play with, means she’s got to be able to screw around with his.)
“Well what about his ex-wife, idiot? What’s her name? Why’d they break up, if Barron still wants her? This is what I was looking for from the beginning, man! Do I have to do all the thinking around here?”
“I’m afraid it’s hopeless, Mr. Howards,” Wintergreen answered, again toying with the folder. Howards started to bark, then thought—what the hell, forget it, take the long view, patience, patience, easy when you got all the time in creation.
“Her name’s Sara Westerfeld. She lives right here in New York, in the Village. Does kinesthop interior effects. Barron met her when he was still a student at Berkeley. They lived together for a couple of years before they were married, and were divorced about two years after he got the show. I anticipated this coming up, Mr. Howards, and had her investigated. It’s all bad, sir. She holds a membership card in the Social Justice Coalition, and she’s a loud supporter of the Public Freezer League, and you know how that kind feels about us. And from what we’ve been able to learn, she seems to hate Barron as much as she hates us. Seems to have something to do with his being a television star; she actually moved out on him only six months after he got the show.”
“Sounds like the last of the red-hot hippies,” Howards said. Dammit, he thought, figures Barron would have the hots for a Foundation-hating artsy-fartsy, hair-halfway-down-her-ass Berkeley Bolshevik loser-bitch! But she hates him, good, means he can’t get her himself, buy her, you’ve bought Jack Barron. Question is how you buy screwball kook Sara Westerfeld…?
“And who’s she sleeping with?” Howards asked on sudden, shrewd impulse.
“An easier question to answer,” Wintergreen said primly, “would be who isn’t she sleeping with. She seems to have gone to bed with every social misfit in the Village at one time or another—and without too many repeat performances. Obviously a nymphomaniac.”
Click! Howards felt pieces of the pattern come together in his mind: Jack Barron screwing everyone in creation, ex-wife doing likewise but they were together a long time not likely they both go for one-night stands for no reason, no one does nothing for no reason. Probably both for the same reason. Barron’s got the itch for her, can’t scratch, is why he tries so hard, so she…
“Wintergreen,” he said, “it’s obvious that you don’t know a damn thing about women. She’s obviously still got an itch for Barron whether she hates his guts or not, and that’s why she’s working overtime trying to scratch it because she can’t scratch it without Barron—and she wants no part of him. And that’s the easiest kind of woman to buy, because she’s half bought already. Half loves Barron, half hates him. Give her an extra reason to go back to him and she’ll do it in a minute, because she wants an excuse to crawl back into bed with Barron. It means she wants to be bought, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
Howards smiled because best part is once I get her into bed with Barron I’ve bought her all the way because then the worst thing in the world for Miss Sara Westerfeld is for Barron to find out I’ve bought her, she’s a whore, my whore, she’ll do as she’s told, buy her, and you’ve bought Jack Barron.
“I want Sara Westerfeld in this office within five hours,” Howards said. “And I don’t care how you do it. Grab her, if you have to. Don’t worry. She won’t open her mouth, and won’t be pressing any charges after I get through with her.”
“But, Mr. Howards, a woman like that, how can you…?”
“You let me worry about that. Obviously this is a girl with worms where her brains should be, and that kind you can always buy in the bargain basement. Get to it, man—and stop playing with that goddamned folder!”
Christ, I’m tired, Benedict Howards thought. Tired of having to do it all myself tired of dumb-ass politicians with qualms of conscience like Hennering tired of fighting from cold empty plains to oilfields stocks Houston, Los Angeles, New York, Washington circles of power, fighting doctors’ heads nodding nurses’ needles plastic tube up nose down throat life leaking away in plastic bottles, fighting fading black circle with money-fear power of life against death, fighting, fighting all the way alone idiots all the way incompetent phony sycophants useless fumbling fools lunatics stupidity lies all on the side of death, side of the fading black circle of nothingness closing in, smaller, smaller…
Won’t get Benedict Howards! Push you back, open you up, got you now, damn you! Palacci, Bruce, doctors, endocrinologists, surgeons, internists, Foundation flunkies, all against you, all owned by Benedict Howards, say I’ve got you this time, it works, endocrine balance stabilized Homeostatic Endocrine Balance, young, strong, healthy—feel it when I get up eat piss touch woman hot strong quick like in Dallas Los Angeles oilfield day
s, all night long, and hungry and strong in the morning, forever, Mr. Howards, anabolism balances katabolism, Mr. Howards, immortality, Mr. Howards.
Fight, fight, fight, and now I’ve got it all. Got money-power, life-versus-death power, Senators (damn Hennering!), Governors, President…? (Goddamn bastard Hennering!), Mr. Howards, got forever, Mr. Howards.
And nobody takes forever away from Benedict Howards!
Not Teddy Hennering not Teddy the Pretender not nigger bastard Bolshevik Greene not smart-ass organ-grinder-monkey Jack Barron…Buy ’em, kill ’em, own ’em all, men on the side of death, till only two kinds of men left: Foundation men and dead men, wormfood men, Mr. Howards.
One last fight to keep forever safe forever mine forever. Pass Utility Bill, find new flunky (son of a bitch Hennering), make him President, control it all, control Congress, White House, Freezers, power of life against death, immortality-power, all power against fading black circle, hold it back, push it back, open it up forever…
Then rest, rest ten thousand years of smooth cool women in air-cooled arenas of power, young, quick, strong, ten million years, rest spoils of battle forever, my women, my power my country my forever…
Smart-ass Bolshevik con-artist Jack Barron thinks he can stand against me, con me, milk me, play power-games, threat-games, death-games with Benedict Howards no one plays games with Benedict Howards. Out of his league, squash him like a bug, buy him, own him, use him to pass Utility Bill despite coward Hennering. Own Barron own private pipeline to hundred million loser-slobs own them own fears minds votes bodies Congress White House country, safe when they find out safe, forever, safe…
Last piece in pattern of power, Jack Barron, that’s all you are, smart-ass. Just last little piece to fit into pattern of Foundation life against death Senators, Governors, President, safety-power, little gear in big forever machine, little tin gear, Barron.
Stomp me, I stomp you, eh, Barron? Clean Jack Barron, nosy question-man bastard, Jack Barron. Think Foundation-power money-power life-against-death-power can’t touch you? No one says no to Benedict Howards. I got the handle on you, Barron, find the handle on everyone, sooner or later.
Sara Westerfeld. Howards savored the name, tasted the syllables with his tongue. Dumb loser kook whore, but she’s got you by the balls, hasn’t she Barron? Think you’re strong, Barron, strong enough to play games with Benedict Howards…
Howards smiled, leaned back in his chair, waited, waited for Sara Westerfeld, Sara Westerfeld, the handle on Jack Barron. No man’s strong who’s weak for someone weak, he knew. Chain of command: Benedict Howards to Sara Westerfeld to Jack Barron to hundred million dumb slobs to Senators, Congressmen, President…
And all the links were already in place except the first one, the easiest one—Sara Westerfeld. Sara Westerfeld—bargain-basement stuff. Hates the Foundation, eh? Member of Public Freezer league…?
“Yeah,” Howards breathed aloud. That was it, that had to be it! Public freezer kooks want Federal Freezer Program so they (deadbeat-loser-slobs) can have place in a Freezer. Offer kook free Freeze, and she’ll sell out faster than you can buy. Price-tag on Sara Westerfeld: Jack Barron and Forever. And one’s her excuse to go get the other!
Barron’s in my pocket, good as bought, Howards thought. Sara Westerfeld, price of Jack Barron——lucky Sara Westerfeld!
Curiosity, fear, fascination, and contempt were a knot in her stomach…lightheadedness sense of vision bursting out of her head instead of coming in, stoned-electric-scalp-tingling, as Sara Westerfeld stepped out of the car, stood before the evil white dying-place-blankness of the main Freezer of the Long Island Freezer Complex.
Temple, she thought, it’s like an Aztec-Egyptian temple, with priests sacrificing to gods of ugliness and praying for alliances with snake-headed idols to ward off the god with no face, and all the time worshipping him with their fear. No-faced death-god, like a big white building without windows; and inside mummies in cold cold swaddling, sleeping in liquid helium amnion, waiting to be reborn.
She shivered as the balding man touched her elbow silently, priestlike, shivered as if she could feel the liquid helium space-cold sympathetic magic of the Foundation itself in his touch, the decayed-lizard death-touch of Benedict Howards, waiting for her, there in his bone-white windowless lair…Why? Why?
She followed the man who had come to her apartment with his all-too-polite invitation—politeness of dictators of Los Angeles cops Berkeley cops sinister Peter Lorre-secret-police politeness with paddy wagons riot cops cells guns booted feet waiting behind the crocodile smile—across a wide, green, somehow-plastic-seeming lawn, thinking it can’t happen here, we’ve got rights, writ of habeas corpus…
Sara shuddered. A corpus abducted into the Freezer could not be freed by all the court writs since the beginning of time. Not until the Foundation found a way to unfreeze bodies…
Get hold of yourself! No one’s going to Freeze you, just a little talk, the slimy creature said. With Benedict Howards. A little talk between an ant and an elephant. I’m afraid, she admitted, I don’t know of what, but oh, oh, I’m afraid. Power, that’s what he’d say, the arena, where it’s really at, nitty-gritty marketplace of power, baby.
That’s what he’d say, the cop-out bastard. Two of a kind, Jack and Howards. Jack’d know what to say, what not to say in fifteen different ways to tie that slimy lizard in knots. Just Jack’s bag.
Jack…
Across the lawn, down a path by the side of the Freezer, and into a smaller, windowed, outbuilding; cold, blue pastel halls with plush red carpeting, walnut doors, smells of secretaries, coffee, soft clickings of muted typewriters, human voices—an office building, no operating theaters, gurgling pumps bottled-blood chemical smells of Freezer building feel of layer on layer of Frozen dead waiting bodies bulging cold graveyard (colder than any graveyard) weight into the air of the corridor. Just an office building, lousy-décor office building, Texan industrially-designed tastelessness of Benedict Howards’ office building.
But it made her more afraid. Faceless building like windowless faceless Freezer faceless death-god Howards faceless polite message faceless polite messenger facelessness of Jack’s damned real word, power-world where people are faceless images to each other pawns on chessboard faceless game of life and death.
Never my world, she thought. Like overdose bummer-style reality, bad acid freakout, A-head world, all sharp cutting edges paranoia. Feel like soft-flesh creature in metal forest world of knives, cocks like steel pistons.
Jack…Jack, you son of a bitch, why aren’t you here with me? Jack’d give you yours, Benedict Howards! Warm loving courage to light up the world, gauntlets thrown in faces of cops Berkeley cops Los Angeles cops Alabama cops rednecks’ fists judges, me and my man against all comers balling in open airy spaces feel of his body beside me in bed on one elbow on the phone with Luke setting the world straight our friends listening faces shining to the voice of hope in my bed making it all seem possible. A man is all, Benedict Howards, not perambulating lizard-creature, sweet cylinder of flesh, stronger, more enduring than oiled steel piston.
Oh, Jack, where did you lose it where is it where are you I need you now my knight in soft-flesh armor arms around my waist, facing down, shaming, howling mob with only your voice for a sword, our love for armor…
She shuddered as the bald man opened a door, led her through a deserted outer office—half-cup of coffee still on empty secretary’s desk, as if witness suddenly cleared away from scene of ghastly lizard-human flesh-steel assignation. And she remembered how alone, how totally alone, how separated in time and space she was from her one and only knight in rusty armor——all that was left of the Jack that was was the pain of the memory.
And she remembered his last words to her, sad, lorn words, with not even the warmth of anger: “The time of the Children’s Crusade is over, baby. Find yourself a nice idealistic boy with a nice big dick, and maybe you’ll be happy. You can’t cut it with my world, you can’t cut it
with me. I’ve got my piece of the action, and I don’t go back to being a loser even for you, Sara.” And he hadn’t even kissed her good-bye.
The chill of the memory forged a kind of steel within her. Holding the memory of the Jack that had been to her for warmth, and the image of the Jack that was for anger. She stepped into the inner office as the bald man stepped aside, holding the door for her, said: “Mr. Howards, this is Sara Westerfeld.”
And closed the door behind her.
The man behind the ultra-stark, bare, teakwood desk (not his desk, she thought, he doesn’t use this office often, desk hasn’t been lived on) looked more like someone’s rich Uncle Bill—pink, square-dressed, loosely-pudgy in old-time-’70s maroon suit and ascot—than Benedict Howards, swimming sharklike in currents of death-madness-power.
He motioned her to an expensive, badly-designed, uncomfortable teak-and-horsehide chair in front of the desk with a soft heavy hand, said: “Miss Westerfeld, I’m Benedict Howards.” And looked at her with eyes like black holes feral rodent eyes kinesthop eyes shiny shifting flashes of power-fear eyes junkie-intensity eyes that said here there be tigers.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, sinking on to the chair which she suddenly realized was purposely uncomfortable, cunningly designed to uptight asses, hotseat-interrogation chair, focus of paranoid A-head pattern of power.
Howards smiled a crocodile smile of false-uncle geniality, snapping pink face into a basilisk dead-flesh pattern around his shrewd mad eyes, said: “What I want from you, Miss Westerfeld, is nothing beside what I’m prepared to offer.”
“There’s nothing I could ever want from you,” she said, “and I can’t imagine what you could want from me. Unless (could it be as silly-safe as that?) you’d like some kinesthop pieces for this office. Maybe designs for the whole building? I’ve done office buildings before, and this place could certainly use—”
Bug Jack Barron Page 7
