by Frank Lauria
Orient nodded. "Perhaps I do."
The girl wasn’t conventionally pretty, but when she smiled, her small, sensitive face radiated a deep sense of joy. She studied him for a moment. "Perhaps you do at that," she said finally. "I’m Sun Girl."
"Sun Girl?" Orient repeated.
"That’s my name," the girl laughed, delighted at Orient’s confusion.
Orient thought it over. "My name is Owen," he said.
"That’s weird." Sun Girl leaned back on the grass.
"Hello, Owen," Julian said gravely.
They fell silent, listening to the music as it built in volume and force. Most of the young people on the grassy area gathered around the musicians, until they were packed into a tight semicircle around them, swaying and moving with the escalating rhythms. Julian had gotten to his feet and was jumping about in imitation of the twenty or so couples who were dancing to the insistent sounds. Sun Girl began to clap her hands in time to the loud, throbbing beat.
Orient saw that some of the neighborhood athletes had joined the garish crowd. Most of them, however, were still standing behind the wire fences of the recreation areas, watching the revelers impassively. A few—very few—were moving to the music.
The old people on the benches were gone.
Someone passed by and dropped a cellophane-wrapped sandwich and a few apples into his lap. Orient looked up. A dozen boys and girls dressed in overalls and carrying shopping bags were circulating through the crowd distributing food. He looked questioningly at Sun Girl.
"Pig People," she shouted over the noise. "They always show up when something groovy is happening. Like magic." Orient munched his sandwich, too amazed to answer. He felt like a visitor to a curious new country. The air became pungent with the smell of burning leaves, and the driving music was nudging more and more people up to dance. The crowd was moving and laughing ecstatically.
Orient caught a glimpse of the cowboy. The man was smiling broadly, snapping his fingers and swinging his long red hair from side to side. Orient stood up to get a better look and suddenly noticed that the athletes who had been standing in the play area were in full-scale exodus from the park; scrambling up fences, dropping to the sidewalks on the other side and running down the street like a small army of well-trained guerrillas.
A moment later the music and noise was split by the sounds of sirens, whistles, and tires screeching against asphalt, as the park was surrounded by wailing squadrons of police cars and trucks. Helmeted police leaped out of the cars and covered the exits.
The music stopped. For a long time everything was still except for the dying whine of the sirens. No one moved. The rotating emergency lights on the cars flashed in the lowering darkness like electronic heartbeats.
A policeman with a bullhorn awkwardly mounted the roof of a squad car. His voice came to Orient as a disembodied echoing rasp. "This is an illegal assembly. Please move out of the center area NOW!"
No one moved. "Everyone will MOVE OUT of the park NOW!" the voice repeated without emotion for all of its emphasis.
Orient felt the tension in the crowd stretching tight. He began to perspire as a stifling blanket of claustrophobia wrapped itself around him.
The crowd began inching forward. For an instant it seemed to be heading straight for him. Then the tension snapped, unleashing a rush of fury that literally staggered him with the force of its rage.
Everyone was yelling and shoving. The young people shrieked obscenities and incomprehensible phrases of hate, partially drowning out the repetition of orders from the bullhorn. The police advanced quickly, shouting directions to each other as they moved.
Everything was a jerky m61ange of movement. He was whirled around in stumbling circles, his arms and legs twitching like a puppet dangling in a high wind. The young people converged and pressed forward. Orient was pulled along with them, trapped in the surging crush.
"Off the PIGS!... Motherin’ Pigs... MOTHERS!"
"Get 12 working... Unit 12 over THERE... DAMMIT, MOVE!"
"RAMSHACKLE THOSE PIGS... Gimme somethin’—gimme SOMETHIN’!"
Girls and boys began ripping concrete chunks from the sidewalks and hurling them at the police; bending and rifting frantically as they clawed at the ground for some weapon. Bottles made heavy arcs in the air, shattering at the feet of the police. A policeman went down and was quickly surrounded by three others who shielded him with their bodies as they helped him back toward the squad cars. The rest of the police split into groups of four or five and began charging toward the crowd. A series of flat POPS exploded dully and clouds of dank, stinging gas erupted from the ground near Orient, searing his eyes and sending him reeling backward.
He was stunned by a sudden blow against the side of his face. He tried to move forward but he couldn’t. He was on the ground, his face pressed against the dirt. He realized that he hadn’t been hit but had fallen down. His leg was lying on top of something soft and writhing and wailing to get loose. He rolled over. Julian was lying next to him.
Tears had cut brown furrows through the dirt caking the boy’s face and he’d lost his hat, but now that Orient’s leg was no longer pinning his body he was quite calm. He crawled up to Orient’s chest and looked into his face. When he saw that Orient’s eyes were open, he leaned over, "Let’s get out of here," he whispered.
Orient sat up, pulling Julian close to him. He saw two policemen chasing a boy who had an American flag draped around himself. The boy stopped short, spun around and changed direction. One policeman staggered off balance but managed to grab an edge of the banner. The boy jumped away, shedding the flag and leaving the policeman holding an empty piece of cloth. But then the other policeman rushed up to the boy from behind and swung his nightstick against his neck, knocking him down. He dug his fingers into the boy’s long hair and began dragging him toward the exit. Two girls leaped on the policeman’s back. He continued to drag the boy by the hair, jabbing his free elbow back into the body of one of the girls who was pulling on his arm.
The other policeman, the flag still clutched in his hand, whacked the girl’s bare legs methodically with his club, each blow raising long red welts on her shins and thighs. Three more policemen ran up to help and carried the still struggling young people away.
As the area cleared, Orient saw a small building about twenty yards in front of him. He got to his feet and went toward it, moving in a half-crouch, holding Julian against his chest with both arms. The boy started kicking.
"Mommy. Wait for Mommy," Julian cried out. He pointed back to the area they had just left.
Orient turned and saw Sun Girl peering through the dust and fumes, squinting through inflamed, tearing eyes. Her hands were stretched out in front of her as she moved haltingly through the melee. She was half blind and yelling hysterically for Julian, her voice raw as she called his name again and again.
Still crouching, Orient went back and tugged at her arm. She pulled away. "I want my boy—my boy—DON’T TOUCH ME," she screamed, her face contorted with desperation.
"He’s here," Orient yelled, pulling her toward him.
"I’m okay, Mommy," Julian called out.
Orient grabbed Sun Girl’s hand and began moving toward the building. A whirling crowd of people moved across the grass threatening to cut them off from shelter. Sun Girl fell heavily toward the ground as Orient began to run. He let go of her hand and sprinted the last few yards to the building. He deposited the protesting boy against the wall and ran back to the grass. Then he pushed his way through the scuffling throng, pulled Sun Girl to her feet and guided her to the side of the building where Julian was waiting.
Sun Girl held Julian close as the boy gently touched his mother’s eyes with his tiny fingers. "Are you all right, Mommy?" he asked over and over.
Orient saw a door. He pushed against it and it opened. He came back and led Sun Girl and Julian inside, closing the door behind them.
Silence.
Orient blinked hard, trying to focus through the stin
ging blur of his sight.
They were in a public lavatory.
Sun Girl sighed and sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the wall. Julian sat next to her and put his head in her lap. He tried to rub his eyes, but she held his hands firmly. "If you rub it, it gets worse," she said softly.
Julian nodded and closed his eyes.
Sun Girl looked at Orient, screwing up her face as she tried to see clearly. "It’s you," she said, "the one with the funny name."
"That’s right." Orient looked around for the washbasin. He washed his hands, then put his head under the faucet and let the water run over his eyes. "Come over here," he said to Sun Girl, "and bring Julian.”
Sun Girl tore a strip from the sleeve of her blouse and held it under the water. She took the wet cloth and carefully washed Julian’s face. Orient started to speak but a familiar tug at the base of his brain interrupted him. The gentle probe of telepathic communication.
The picture formed.
A confusing streak of movement. Orient felt a quick snap of anxiety. The picture faded, then formed again. A policeman. The picture drained away. Orient looked at the door. Someone was trying to contact him.
Automatically he went receptive and felt another alien pang of anxiety. It was someone nearby. He headed for the door. "Policeman, policeman," Julian was saying. "Help! Help!"
CHAPTER 3
When Orient opened the door, he was assailed by the screams and stinging fumes. Using all his concentration, he emptied his mind and went receptive, reaching out for the strange sense of anxiety, using the presence to guide himself through the tumult.
As he crossed the grass, a policeman charged toward him, his gas mask and upraised club giving him the unearthly look of a giant insect waving some deadly antenna. Orient dodged and began to run.
The policeman sprinted after him but was bowled over by the body of a girl who fell kicking directly under his feet.
Orient looked around wildly. His nose was starting to run and his eyes were overflowing with burning tears. He blinked hard as his mind tried to hold firm to the fluctuating anxiety signal. He felt close to the source of the call.
Then he saw the cowboy. The potential. He was lying face down next to a tree. Nearby two policemen were trying to subdue a girl who was shrieking curses and a boy whose face was streaming blood.
Orient ran to the other side of the tree and, keeping his body low, pulled the cowboy next to him against the trunk, unnoticed by the policemen who were still struggling with the couple.
Orient made a fast check for broken bones. There were none. The cowboy must have involuntarily called out when he was injured. A series of short metallic explosions unloosed fresh billows of gas over the field.
Orient grabbed the cowboy under the shoulders and began dragging him toward the building. Halfway there his path was blocked by a trio of youths who were heaving stones at a group of police. The police charged them, heading straight for Orient. He dropped to the ground, protecting the unconscious cowboy with his own body.
Something heavy cracked against Orient’s wrist, numbing his arm to the shoulder. A foot came down on his kidneys, sending an excruciating jolt of pain through his midsection. A surge of nausea came up bitter in his throat and his knees jackknifed against his chest as he tightened his body against another kick.
It never came.
Orient opened his eyes and saw that the police had converged on the rock throwers and were driving them back toward the exit. He slowly got to his feet, the pain in his lower back preventing him from straightening up completely. He looked down at the cowboy. The man’s eyelids fluttered. He was conscious.
"Get up," Orient yelled, pulling the cowboy to a sitting position. The cowboy shook his head and tried to see through the hair hanging in front of his face. He brushed the hair away from his red, swollen eyes, revealing a shallow gash on his forehead. When he saw Orient, he tried to grin.
"Well, goddamn," he drawled. "You again, huh?"
"Come on." Orient helped the cowboy to his feet and headed for the building, his body still bent from the pain in his side.
When they reached the lavatory, Orient dropped to the floor and lay very still until the agonizing knot binding his back and stomach diminished to an uncomfortable throb. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand, sending a fresh shock of hurt through his bruised wrist.
"That’s gonna hurt for a while, man," the cowboy said from the washbasin. "You better stick it under this cool water here."
As Orient painfully and slowly got to his feet, Sun Girl came over to help him.
"Well, well, well, you meet the damndest citizens in ladies’ johns these days," the cowboy chuckled. "Sun Girl, what are you doing in here with trash like my buddy and me?"
"Only trash around here is some loudmouth dude," Sun Girl smiled. Then she saw the gash on his forehead and the smile faded.
The sound of loud voices pulled everyone’s eyes to the door. The voices rose and there were the shuffling sounds of a struggle outside.
The cowboy went to the door but Sun Girl’s voice stopped his hand on the knob. "Not yet, Julian’s here."
The cowboy looked over and saw the little boy, asleep next to the wall, wrapped in his mother’s green suede jacket. He took his hand off the knob. The sounds faded.
"You’d better let me take a look at that cut on your forehead," Orient said. The cowboy ambled over to the basin, and stood impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot as Orient washed away the coagulated blood matted with hair and dirt from his forehead.
When the wound was clean, Orient examined it closely, checking for signs of a fracture.
"You got a real touch there, man," the cowboy congratulated.
"You should have been a sawbones or somethin’."
"I am a doctor," Orient muttered, "and you should probably get your skull x-rayed for a possibly hairline fracture."
"Ain’t no billy club hard enough to crack this bean," the cowboy snorted. He extended his hand. "I’m Joker, Doc," he said, "and this female here is..."
"I’ve already introduced myself, thanks," Sun Girl snapped.
Joker released Orient’s hand and lifted his arms in surrender. "Damned if I don’t apologize to you, ma’am," he said with exaggerated courtesy. He winked at Orient. "Women’s Lib, you understan’, Doc." Then his blue eyes narrowed. "Now you wouldn’t be some kind of nark or something, would you, Doc?" he said, his voice light and bantering. "You been doggin’ my trail all day now."
"A what?"
"You know man, a cop’s stool." Joker leaned casually against the wall but Orient could sense the cowboy tensing with suspicion. Then he remembered.
"My bag," Orient said.
"Right, man." Joker touched his forehead gingerly and winced. "What’s your bag is all I’m asking."
Orient turned to Sun Girl. "I left my suitcase out there."
"Anything important?"
"Some clothes, but mainly my passport and other identification."
Orient looked at the door.
"Now, now." Jolter moved to the wall and sat down next to Julian, "Like Sun Girl says, it’s no time yet to go out there after anything." He reached into his pocket. "Since you ain’t no nark, why don’t you just help me get rid of this evidence here?" His fingers came out of his pocket holding three thin cigarettes.
"Well, that makes sense." Sun Girl sat down against the wall on the other side of Julian. Orient hesitated, then sat down cross-legged on the floor facing them. Joker passed him one of the cigarettes, gave another to Sun Girl and put the third between his tips. He looked through his pockets for a match, the cigarette in his mouth jerking up and down as he continued to talk. "This stuff will get you into trouble around here. And by the way, Doc, I wanna thank you for pullin’ me out of there. Wouldn’t do for the man to bust me for disturbin’ the peace and incitin’ to riot or somethin’ and find me holding this reefer." He struck a match. "Uh, uh, Doe," he muttered, lighting his cigarette, then holdin
g the flame out to Orient, "I’m truly beholden."
Sun Girl blew out the match Joker held in front of her. "Not three on a match," she said firmly. Wearily Joker lit another match. "Sun Girl, you just got a head full of notions," he said, shaking his head as he watched her light her cigarette. Orient took a deep drag, letting the smoke linger in his lungs and ease the tightness in his chest. It had been a long time. Since before Project Judy.
The smoke tasted good in his throat and he felt warm and easy, like taking a hot shower after being caught in the rain. He looked up and saw Joker staring at him.
"Hey, Doc," Joker said quietly, "you look like you’ve smoked that stuff before."
Orient nodded. His mind was slipping into a receptive state and he could feel the serious probing under Joker’s words.
"Well, who’d you score from?" Joker smiled. "I can’t know every head in this town, but I sure know most every connection."
"Score?" Orient asked. He looked at Sun Girl.
She was staring at him curiously. "He means where did you get it," she said, "and Joker, you’re being a drag. Owen helped us out, remember?"
Joker started to laugh out loud, remembered their position, and clapped a big hand over his mouth. He looked sheepishly at the door.
"You got to pardon me, Doc," he stage-whispered, "Just professional curiosity, you understand."
Orient smiled. "A friend of mine used to bring me a supply every month."
Joker nodded wisely. "Was he giving you a good price?" He turned to Sun Girl. "Just talkin’ a little straight business now, that okay with everybody?"
"Business," Sun Girl pouted. She leaned her head back against the wall. "He didn’t charge me anything." Orient stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. "He knew it was for religious reasons."
Joker gestured at Orient. "Now that’s the biggest bushel of crap or the most interesting thing I heard today." Something occurred to Orient. "Tell me," he said, looking up, "do you two know each other?"
Sun Girl smiled. "Joker knows every available female on the eastern seaboard." Her features were plain, but the extraordinary alertness of her large soft eyes and the expressiveness of her small face made her something more than beautiful.
