“No favor, Jack,” Donner said. “I’ve been working here in Washington as public relations counselor to Ted Hennering these three years, anyway till he was killed…”
“Bully for you, Donner,” Barron grumbled. Figures that this putz with all his S.J.C. bullshit would end up as flack for a lox like Hennering! Now with Hennering dead, I’m supposed to get him another job—at four a.m.? Jesus—
“I just got woke up myself,” Donner said, “by Ted’s widow Madge. She’s all shook, Jack, been scared out of her head since Ted was killed. Came over to my place, woke me up, said she had to talk to you right away, and I think you’d better listen, after the hell you just gave Benedict Howards. Mrs. Hennering?”
Donner’s face was replaced by what once must’ve been an old-fashioned “handsome matron” in her fifties, thick gray hair in semidisarray, prim little lips trembling, and wild frantic eyes staring up from the vidphone screen. What’s going on? Barron thought, coming full awake. Madge Hennering?
“Mr. Barron…” Madge Hennering said in a voice that seemed accustomed to be being snotty-patrician-calm but was now edged with shrill frenzy. “Thank God! Thank God! I didn’t know where to turn, what to do, who to go to, who I could possibly trust after they…after Ted…And then I saw your program, the things you said about Benedict Howards, and I knew you were one man I could trust, one man who couldn’t be involved with that murdering…You’ll believe me, won’t you, Mr. Barron? You’ve got to believe me, you’ve got to tell the country how my husband died…”
“Take it easy, Mrs. Hennering,” Barron said soothingly, slipping half-mechanically into Bug Jack Barron cool vidphone-circuit consciousness. “I know how you must feel, that terrible accident, but try to—”
“Accident!” Madge Hennering screamed, loud enough even at minimum vidphone audio to make Sara stir in his lap. “It was no accident. My husband was murdered. I’m sure he was murdered. There must’ve been a bomb on his plane. Benedict Howards had him killed.”
“What?” Barron grunted. She’s gibbering, he thought. Hennering was Bennie’s stooge all the way; nobody lost more when he died than Howards. This poor old bat’s gone round the bend, I gotta be a shrink too, at four in the a.m.?
“Don’t you think that’s a matter for the police?” he said. “Assuming, of course, that it’s true.” Get the hell off my aching back, lady!
“But I can’t go to the police,” she said. “There’s no evidence. Howards planned it that way. There’s nothing left of Ted or his plane…nothing…” She began to sob, then with an effort Barron could not help admiring, set her jaw, said, icy-calm: “I’m sorry. It’s just that I was the only witness, and I’ve got no evidence to back it up, and I just don’t know what to do.”
“Look,” Barron said wearily, “I realize it’s bad taste to talk politics at a time like this, but I guess I have to. Howards had no reason in the world to kill your husband, Mrs. Hennering. Your husband was a co-sponsor of the Foundation’s Freezer Bill, and it was an open secret that Howards was backing him for President. To be blunt, your husband was Howards’ stoo—er, ally. Howards had nothing to gain by killing him and everything to lose. Surely you know that.”
“I’m no fool, Mr. Barron. But the day before Ted died he had a long phone conversation with Benedict Howards. I only heard part of it, but they argued and called each other terrible things, terrible things. Ted told Howards he was through with him, would have no part of the Foundation anymore, said Howards was a filthy monster. I’ve never seen Ted so furious.
“He told Howards that he was going to publicly withdraw his support from the Freezer Utility Bill, make a statement to the press about something awful he had found out the Foundation was doing. And Howards said, ‘No one backs out on Benedict Howards, Hennering. Cross me, and I’ll squash you like a bug.’ Those were his exact words. And then Ted said something terribly obscene, and hung up. When I asked Ted what it was all about, he got mad at me, but he really seemed terribly frightened—and I’d never seen my husband really scared before. Ted refused to tell me anything, said it was too dangerous for me to know, he didn’t…didn’t want my life to be in danger. And then he flew back home to talk with the Governor, but…but he never got there. Howards had him killed—I know he had him killed.”
Crazy paranoid bullshit! Barron thought. Bet your ass Hennering was involved in forty-seven slimy deals with the Foundation, went from State Senator to Congressman to Senator on Bennie’s bread, anybody with brains enough to read the funny papers knows that. Real touching lady, old college try to make your husband a dead hero instead of Bennie’s late stooge, Democrat front-man for Foundation muscle. Deathbed repentance yet, and just before he’s conveniently blown to kingdom come. Ted Hennering, Noble Martyr. Yeah, sure, after a hundred million people saw him two weeks ago gibbering like…like…
Jesus H. Christ! Was that why Hennering was so uptight? Shit, it does figure! Hennering was killed on Thursday night, which means he could’ve had it out with Howards either on Wednesday or Thursday, like she says, would’ve known whatever was supposed to have turned him off the Foundation when he was on Bug Jack Barron. Would sure explain why he was so out of it…
“You do believe me, don’t you Mr. Barron?” Madge Hennering said. “Everyone in Washington says you’re an enemy of Benedict Howards. You’ll want to use this against him, you’ll want to put me on your program and help me tell the country how my husband died, won’t you? And not just to save Ted’s reputation. Mr. Barron, I was married to Ted for twenty-one years. I really knew him, I know he wasn’t a great man, and I know he did cooperate with Howards, but he wasn’t a bad man or a coward. He found out something about the Foundation for Human Immortality that infuriated him, sickened him, something so terrible he feared for his life, and for mine, just because he knew it.
“I don’t know much about politics, but murdering a United States Senator is something that even a man like Benedict Howards wouldn’t risk doing unless…unless he felt he couldn’t afford not to. I don’t know what this is all about, but something terrible has to be going on for Howards to resort to political assassination. A lunatic with a gun is one thing, but this…this is something out of European history books…the Borgias…Ted, oh, Ted!” and she began to shake, sob convulsively, convincing Barron that at least the woman wasn’t trying to put him on.
But cold-blooded political assassination, he thought, that’s gotta be pure paranoia. So maybe Hennering did find out something rank enough to turn him off the Foundation (but what the fuck could be rank enough to make a phony like Hennering get enough religion to throw away Howards’ backing for the Presidential nomination?), maybe he did have a fight with Howards, and maybe Bennie did threaten him (how many times has Howards given me that squash-you-like-a-bug schtick?). But blowing up airplanes, the whole Borgia bit…pure coincidence, is all. This hysterical chick adds up one and one and gets three, is all.
Donner replaced Madge Hennering on the vidphone screen. “Well, Jack,” he said, “what’re you going to do? Should I have her call in Wednesday? This is big, scary—”
“Yeah, it’s scary all right,” Barron said. “What scares me is the thought of the lawsuit Howards could slap on everyone in sight if that woman gets on the air and accuses him of murder without a scrap of evidence. You’re supposed to be a lawyer? Don’t even know libel when it’s screaming in your face! Not only could Howards sue, but the F.C.C. would have me off the air quicker than you could say ‘yellow journalism.’ Forget it Donner, I may be crazy, but I’m not out of my mind.”
“But, Jack—”
“And don’t call me Jack!” Barron snapped loudly. “In fact, don’t bother to call me at all.” And he broke the connection as Sara’s eyes finally blinked half open.
“Uh…whazzat…?” she grunted.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” said Barron. “Just a crank call, is all. Just a couple screwballs.”
Yeah, he thought, just a pair of nuts. Bennie may be a little flakey, bu
t he’s not about to go around killing people; he’s got too much to lose, his precious immortal life in the electric chair…
Nevertheless, his back against the bedstead began to itch faintly.
12
Jeez man, what’s the matter with you, Jack Barron thought as they rolled the final commercial. Real stinkeroo tonight. So acid’s legal under Strip City S.J.C. jurisdiction, but maybe illegal under Greg Morris’ California State Law, so Morris has his Attorney General demand access to the Strip City Narcotics Licensing Bureau records, to make Woody Kaplan look like either a criminal or a stoolie, and the mayor of Freakoutsville says “nyet.” Big fucking deal. Should’ve suggested the state-fuzz bust into the Strip City offices, grab the records on a state writ, then the hippy cops could bust ’em for breaking and entering under local law, and the state cops bust the local fuzz for interfering with state police, and you’d have all the cops in the County of Los Angeles arresting each other on street corners, good for laughs, at least. Which is about all the last 45 minutes could’ve been good for.
But I even blew that, just can’t keep my mind on that kind of crap, not with the real action that’s going on. Madge Hennering run over by a truck! Hit-and-run by a Hertz rental with the plates removed, impossible to trace, try to tell yourself that wasn’t a pro job! Try to kid yourself you don’t know who bought the hit, Barron…Man, oh, man, would I like to get Bennie on the line now and hit him with that! Yeah, and what would he hit me with, a safe falling off the Empire State Building, or a lawsuit and the F.C.C. and the kitchen sink…?
’Course it all could be coincidence, or the Hennering clan could have other enemies she didn’t talk about. Yeah, sure, and the Mars Expedition’s gonna find out Mars is made of red cheese. What the hell am I mixed up in anyway?
Snap out of it man, you’ve got a show to run, gotta try and pull something out of tonight’s fiasco. And the promptboard says “60 Seconds.”
“Hey Vince,” Barron said over the intercom circuit, “we got any real kook calls come into the monkey block tonight?”
Gelardi’s face was sour and worried behind the control-booth glass (Vince smells the egg we’re laying too), but he grinned wanly as he said, “You kidding? This is still Bug Jack Barron, just barely maybe, but we still got every freako in the country calling in.” And the promptboard flashed “30 Seconds.”
“Okay,” Barron said, “give me the screwiest call you got, don’t even tell me what it is. My head’s just not on straight tonight, and I want something’ll really blow my mind, get some action going. But no politics, for chrissakes, I want a real Little Old Lady from Pasadena type, good, clean, All-American kook.”
“Have I got a kook for you,” Gelardi said in a thick Yiddish accent as the promptboard flashed “On the Air.”
Looks like he meant it, Barron thought as the monitor screen split down the middle; on the lefthand side the gray on gray image of a wasted Negro face, uncombed semi-happy hair, black on black jaw-stubble shadow, over a fancy fifty-dollar gold-filigree-collared sportjac half unbuttoned revealing a torn old T-shirt, semifocused watery eyes staring across the monitor at his living-color image in an obviously advanced state of alcoholic stupefaction.
“This is Bug Jack Barron, and you’re on the air,” Barron began, coming alive with old-fashioned freak-show anticipation, remembering that Los Angeles Birch-grill Peeping-Tom dock-and-hotseat show where the whole thing started when he turned around the third degree light and rubber hose on old Joe Swyne—and, Joe, baby, wherever you are, this looks like one that would’ve been right down your twisted little alley.
“Name’s Henry George Franklin,” a rheumy basso said, and behind his head the screen showed vague slat-shack outlines beyond the rococo shape of the most gigantic pseudo-Arabic TV-stereo console the world had ever seen. “Y’can call me Frank, ol’ Jack Barron, jus’ call me Frank.”
“Okay, Frank,” said Barron, “and you can just call me Jack. And now that we’re on a first-name basis, let’s hear what’s bugging you.” Come on, come on, freak out already, got about twelve minutes to turn tonight’s turkey into instant Salvador Dali. And Vince, anticipating, split the screen in a crazy jagged diagonal, with Henry George Franklin above Barron like a custard pie about to be thrown.
“Well, y’see, ol’ Jack, it’s just like this,” Henry George Franklin began, waving a horny finger in front of his wet lips, “yeah, just about zactly like this. Fella like ol’ Frank down here in Mississippi, sharecropping little ol’ cotton farm, he’s got t’have him a woman, right? I mean, poor or no poor, mouth to feed or not, woman she comes in mighty handy, fixing supper and breakfast and givin’ him a little pleasure inbetween. I mean, you can afford her or not, don’t matter, no matter how poor you are, woman she hauls her own freight.”
“Apparently you meet a better class of chick than I do,” Barron said dryly. “Maybe I oughta drop down and look around. But I hope you haven’t called just to discuss your love life. Interesting as I’m sure it must be, we can both get in big trouble if it gets too interesting.”
“Ain’t had no love life—’cept a night in Evers every week or so for seven years, ol’ Jack,” Franklin said. “Not since the old lady kicked off sticking me with a daughter. Thas what I mean, see? Don’t seem like a fair trade, do it, woman for a daughter? Daughter eats almost as much as a woman, but it’s like keeping one of them there parakeets, just eats and jabbers and don’t do nothin’. Means y’can’t even afford another woman, not regular like. So it just makes good sense, you stuck with a useless mouth to feed, somebody makes a real nice offer, sensible man’s gotta take it and sell her.”
“Huh?” grunted Barron. “I think one of us has had one too many. Sounded like you were saying something about selling your daughter.”
“Well, sure. Ain’t that what I called you about in the first place, ol’ Jack…?” Franklin said fuzzily. “Didn’t I tell y’all? Maybe I didn’t. Thas what’s bugging me, I mean me being a rich man now I kinda miss the little critter, now that I can afford her. I want y’all to help me get her back. Seems to me that buying someone’s daughter, that might just not be legal. Thing to do is maybe find her and make the police get her back. Ain’t had no doings with the police before…not from that side of things, if you know what I mean. Thought ol’ Jack Barron was the man to get to help me.”
“You…ah…sold your daughter?” Barron asked as the promptboard flashed “8 Minutes,” and Vince inverted the diagonally-split screen showing wry, cynical Jack Barron now uppermost. Boy, this cat’s loaded! Even money he never had a daughter. But what’s the schtick, why did Vince feed me this lush?
“Hey don’t look at me that way!” Henry George Franklin said indignantly. “Not like I sold her to some pimp or something. That fancy-looking shade fella, he said they were gonna take real good care of her, feed her nothing but the best, dress her nice and fancy, and give her a college education. Seemed like I would just be a bad papa I didn’t let her have all them shade-type advantages—and besides, that shade fella he gave me fifty big ones in United States money.”
Could be he’s on the level? Barron wondered. One of those illegal adoption rackets? But don’t they usually go after infants? Not seven-year-olds, not seven-year-old Negroes. What he say, five hundred dollars? Going price on a nice W.A.S.P. baby on the black market can’t be much more than that, how can any adoption ring make a profit paying five hundred bucks for some seven-year-old Negro—and what was that about a college education?
“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,” Barron said. “Still I—”
“Five hundred?” Franklin yelled. “Hey, what kind of man you think I am—sell my own flesh and blood for five hundred dollars? I said fifty big ones, ol’ Jack. Fifty thousand dollars.”
“You’re…you’re trying to tell us that someone bought your daughter for fifty thousand dollars?” Barron said archly as the promptboard flashed “5 minutes.” “Nothing personal, Mr. Franklin, but why would anyone want your daughter, or
anyone else’s for that matter, bad enough to shell out fifty thousand dollars?”
“Why you askin’ me?” Franklin said. “You the big, smart, expensive shade, ol’ Jack, you tell me. How should I know why some fancy shade’s crazy enough to hand me $50,000 in hundred-dollar bills, whole satchelful of money, for my worthless daughter? You gotta understand I was dirt-poor at the time. I never saw so much money in my whole life, never expect to again. Sure, I figured the shade was crazy, but that money was the real thing, and when a crazy man hands you a satchelful of money, who’s gonna stop and say, ‘Hey, you actin’ crazy, man, giving me all this nice money?’ You just gotta hope he stays crazy long enough to give you the money and forget your address.”
Something (too loaded to make up a story like that, too defensive, got past the whole monkey block, dig that sportjac he’s wearing, and that crazy jukebox of a TV-stereo must’ve cost at least a thousand dollars) told Barron that Henry George Franklin, raving though he was, wasn’t lying. Some lunatic bought this cat’s daughter for a satchelful of money, whether it came to exactly fifty thou or not, and this load of garbage was far gone enough at the time to take it. Some Tennessee Williams screwball-millionaire-colonel type cracker’s running around in his Confederate-Gray longjohns…who knows, maybe he just never conceded the 13th Amendment and bought this jerk’s daughter and sold her to some adoption ring at a big loss just so he could tell himself he was keeping the darkie slave trade alive? And this Franklin cat is so rank, now he’s trying to double-cross the Mad Cunnel and keep the bread too! Real American Gothic; poor old Joe would cream in his pants over this one, just his bag.
“This cat you say bought your daughter,” Barron said as Vince gave Franklin three-quarters screen, “what was he like?”
“Like…? Why, he was just this fancy-dressed shade with a satchelful of money, and anyway, y’know all shades look alike…No, wait a minute, ol’ Jack, y’know even though he was dressed real rich-like, I kinda got the feeling he was some kind of what-you-call-it, like one of them English butlers…?”
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