“Time to get in the shower with me.”
Ignoring him, she reached over to the night table and picked up her wristwatch. “Oh, Peter, we don’t have time to fool around!”
“What? Why?”
“It’s already ten o’clock,” said Marion, sliding from the bed and pulling on the robe which lay in a pile on the floor on her side of the bed. “You’re supposed to meet Larry at eleven at the control-room trailer.”
“Is it that late?”
“Would I kid you? C’mon, we’ve got to put a serious move on—even if we do have a ’copter waiting!”
Reluctantly, Peter sat up, eased himself from the bed. Before his feet touched the carpet, Marion had slipped into the bathroom.
Larry. Larry Melmanik.
The name suggested a short, fat, oleaginous character, the kind of guy who favored ban-rol trousers and sport jackets by Purina. A man who smoked stubby cigars or pastel cigarettes from Nat Sherman’s. The truth was far different. At age thirty-five, Larry Melmanik looked like he should be working for IBM or any good Washington, D.C. law firm on K Street. Short, well-barbered sandy hair, sincere puppydog eyes, and a propensity for traditional tweeds and navy blazers gave Peter’s booking agent an overall appearance not out of place in the pages of GQ.
Melmanik’s credentials were equally impressive. In a short time he’d hooked up with some of the hottest news acts in the entertainment industry. Some called him lucky; others, percipient. Whatever the source of his success, Melmanik had gained the respect of just about everyone powerful or influential. If you were his client, he could get you work just about anywhere. Of course, Peter didn’t need someone to hawk his wares; he needed someone to organize and plan and winnow the thousands of requests that ranged from speaking engagements, interviews, photo sessions, videos, television and movie offers, all the way down to bubblegum cards.
Which gets me here, Peter thought as he absently ran his fingers through his hair. Mountain Rock Ninety-Nine, the biggest music-aid concert of the decade, was getting ready to launch west of Colorado Springs on a middle-aged hippie’s ranch. In a media-event coup that Larry Melmanik claimed would double the expected 200,000 attendance, Peter was going to make an appearance to open the festivities.
Peter smiled at the thought of standing before such a huge crowd. Nothing he’d done so far had approached those numbers—except in his nightmares. It would be a great experience.
Marion emerged from the bathroom. “Gotta go back to my room and shower. See you in a half hour.”
“You could do that here,” he said.
“I have to fix my hair and get into some clothes. I’ll be faster if I do it alone.” She smiled knowingly as she opened the door and made a quick exit.
He silently agreed with her as he entered the shower. While the hot stream invigorated him, he thought about the man who owned the ranch west of “The Springs,” Tim Vernon, who had agreed to let the Mountain Rock organizers stage their festival on his property. “He was at Woodstock,” Larry had said half-snidely. “He’s trying to relive his past.”
The old man probably wasn’t doing a bad job of it. American culture seemed to undergo cyclic reflections of fashion, economics, and political philosophy. After the super-materialistic eighties, the limits of natural and industrial resources began to become more evident in the early nineties. Several market crashes and border wars later, the younger generation was ready for a change. The first indications of change were, as usual, in the arts. Music, literature, and theater grew increasingly iconoclastic and more movement-oriented. And, as with many art movements through history, they became aligned, either by choice or by accident, with political or economic postures somewhat left of center. Terms like radical and subversive gained usage in the media and the cultural turmoil gradually fomented into something more than a fad. Young people gave it form even if it had little function. For some of the student generation the new awareness, the new consciousness, became a lark, something to have some fun with. For others it became a cause celebre, a way of life, even a meaning for life.
The time was right. Things had remained static for too long. The culture had acquired a staleness; a stagnant cloud hung over its head. This, coupled with the coming millennium and its concomitant mysticism, provided all the elements for a new Age of Aquarius. The recent availability of vaccines against virulent sexual diseases had enabled people to loosen their collars again. You didn’t need to be a Toynbee scholar to see that many Americans were trying very hard to reinvent the sixties.
But just as the sixties had been an imperfect reincarnation of the twenties, so were the nineties something similar to, but different from the sixties. Technology had something to do with it. So had changing world economics and politics, plus some very real environmental problems like the hole in the ozone layer and the vanishing rain forest in South America. There were enough new elements to keep history from completely repeating itself.
So, instead of hippies, the media concerned itself with the antics of the “rads,” who, while they wore their hair long and favored the nonaddictive perception-enhancing drugs of the turn-of-the-century pharmaceutical labs, had inexorably gained an identity, a look, a fairly coherent ethical system.
And that’s who he would be addressing from the monster platform in the middle of the Colorado grazing lands—the offspring and grandchildren of the beatniks and the hippies, those who carried on the American legacy of healthy skepticism and an eye toward change. For the first time, Peter thought, he wouldn’t be dealing with the needs and values of the just-plain-folks from middle-America. He considered it a challenge, a necessary test in his level of acceptance and popularity.
He stepped from the shower feeling renewed. Dressing quickly, he joined Marion, who waited outside the Clarion in the chopper.
“Peter, they’re going to love you out there!” said Larry Melmanik. As was his custom, he was dressed in a blue blazer, blue oxford shirt but no tie, and a pair of casual khaki slacks.
“I hope so,” Peter said. Despite months of public appearances Peter felt a little nervous at the thought of facing such a large crowd. But the doubts passed quickly. He would control them.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Father,” said Tim Vernon. He looked about sixty, his bearded face weathered like old wood by southwestern sun. “You’re going to do just fine.”
“Sure,” said Sammy Eisenglass, who was one of Mountain Rock’s organizers and promoters. “You’re gonna knock ’em out, man. Ain’t no doubt we got twice as many people out here because of you.”
Sammy, a flashy dresser from Los Angeles, had become a fairly famous person because of all the spectacular events he had “created” during the last decade.
In fact, that’s what his business card said:
SAMUEL EISENGLASS
CREATOR
Rock concerts and championship fights were his specialties, but he had also been successful with religious convocations and self-improvement seminars. And Sammy was no dummy when it came to making a name for himself. Never one to remain in the background, he always arranged to introduce each new event. His trademark, when before the lights and cameras, was to have a beautiful bimbette on each arm and a pair of outrageous mirror-sunglasses over his sparrow’s eyes.
He had a reputation for being a merciless businessman who had left many enemies in his wake along the way to outrageous success. But that description fit more than one Hollywood operator whose edges were more than a little sharp.
Funny thing was, Peter thought, he actually liked Sammy. He didn’t exactly admire the man, but he understood Eisenglass’s motivations. Though he couldn’t justify Sammy’s methods and his obvious lack of compassion, he accepted the need for predatory types in any cross-section of society. There was, after all, an ecological niche for sharks in the ocean, thought Peter, a niche that had remained stable for millions of years. He was certain there’d always been Sammy Eisenglasses around; and probably always would be.
Tim V
ernon clearly felt uncomfortable in Sammy’s presence, and the atmosphere in the control-room trailer was of strained cordiality at best. Tim Vernon tolerated Sammy only because of the Event Creator’s unending promises to donate all the profits from Mountain Rock to the millions of displaced refugees from the latest of Central America’s endless civil wars and the millions of victims in South Africa’s strife.
Peter knew Sammy Eisenglass wasn’t interested in displaced refugees. Dispassion oozed from his every pore like dirty sweat. But what did that matter when a mover and a shaker of his magnitude ultimately contributed to a greater good—and provided Peter with his biggest exposure yet?
The thought lingered in his mind, and for a moment, Peter wondered why it was so important to him that he gain wider and wider exposure and familiarity in the public’s eye. This unspoken goal had begun to permeate all his actions, all his plans. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to examine his motivations more closely.
But not right now.
The trailer door opened; Marion entered, wearing jeans and a journalist’s field-vest over her baggy white blouse. Her hair was tied back with a multicolored scarf and she was already picking up a healthy glow from the wind and sun of Colorado’s glorious Indian summer. Everyone turned to watch as she edged past the banks of consoles and technicians.
“It’s time to get started,” she said. “The crowd’s beginning to chant.”
“I’d better get out there,” said Tim Vernon.
“Me too!” cried Sammy. Heading for the exit, Sammy paused to look over the shoulder of a video-tech whose monitor revealed a copter-shot of the crowd. Like a roiling, colorful sea, hundreds of thousands of people rippled and surged. Their attention was vaguely focused upon a huge, templelike stage. Black towers of speakers, which rose up like ancient monuments to enclose the stage, were in turn flanked by matrices of Diamond-Vision flat monitors, each one the size of a movie-theater screen. The flat monitors formed checkerboard collages, each one capturing a different aspect of the stage, the crowd, the ranchland, a constantly changing mat of video art. The copter-shot rolled and circled and expanded as the airship lifted higher. The crowd kept growing, like an amoeba enlarging by accretion.
“Hey, what’d I tell you?!” yelled Sammy as he pointed to the tech’s screen. “If we don’t get half a million, I quit this business and become a rabbi!”
Several of Sammy’s attendant toadies laughed a little too loudly. Tim Vernon nodded politely. Everyone else just tried their best to smile.
“So many people,” said Marion. “What are you doing about food and water?”
“My wells and irrigation system can handle it,” said Vernon. “Plus plenty of porta-pots. And most people knew enough to bring their own food. Most of these kids’re pretty experienced concertgoers, you know…”
“I hope so,” said Marion. “You might break all the records with this one.”
“That’s what we’re counting on, pretty lady,” said Sammy.
“Okay,” said Vernon. “We’d better get up to the stage. I’ll kick things off, then introduce Sammy. Then comes Father Peter’s opening benediction, okay?”
Everyone nodded and began filing out of the trailer. Peter had the urge to take Marion’s hand, but knew they needed to be very careful in front of others. No one should ever suspect there was anything between them. Strange, but though he had no proof, Peter suspected Dan Ellington knew they were physically involved. When he thought about the feeling, it reminded him of his proximity sense. Maybe, in addition to the strengthening of his other talents, he was becoming something of a psychic too?
The entourage moved toward the rear entrance to the stage. Chanting from the enormous crowd rolled across the grazing land like thunder. The earth itself seemed to resonate from the sound like after-tremors from a quake. The entire backstage area, including parking spaces for the fleet of trailers and buses and other vehicles that belonged to the performing groups, had been cordoned off with temporary chain-link fencing and supplied with a private security force. Sammy Eisenglass was a seasoned producer and left no organizing stone unturned. Standing at the back entrance to the enormous staging area were Fred Bevins and two steroid mountains in security uniforms and dark glasses.
“Been waiting for you, Father,” said Bevins, looking like he was withholding a natural urge to salute his boss.
“We’re ready,” said Peter. Bodyguards and heavy security—what a life. Peter hadn’t made up his mind about Fred Bevins. The man exhibited a gregarious, almost sycophantic manner, but it just didn’t ring true. How had that crapola worked on Daniel Ellington? Peter felt there was something subtly wrong about Bevins. Was his growing sixth sense speaking to him, or was this just a clash of personalities? Peter made a mental note to check out Fred Bevins…when he had some free time.
It wasn’t until he began climbing the long flight of steps to the stage that Peter pondered what he would say to the massive audience. He always relied on being extemporaneous, and it always worked. Even back at Saint Sebastian’s, when he would speak to the congregation after reading the Gospel, he never knew what words would tumble from his mouth.
Saint Sebastian’s.
He hadn’t thought of his little Brooklyn parish church in so long. Seemed like lifetimes ago, even though it was barely more than a year. He couldn’t help but wonder what Father Sobieski must be thinking. Was the old man going around telling everyone he knew Peter Carenza way back when?
Peter smiled at the thought. Yes, that sounded like Sobieski.
He stood in the wings, watching Sammy sling an arm around the waist of each member of a matched set of long-legged young women wearing little strips of silk that did a bad job of covering their own matched sets. Tim Vernon strode onto the stage alone and went through his humble, I’m-just-a-simple-man-with-simple-wants routine. The crowd ate it up and cheered him on like the Hitler-worshipers in those old black-and-white newsreels. In the wings on the opposite side of the stage, Lingus, the concert’s opening act, stirred and smoked nervously. Six guys in purposely offensive costumes trying to look bored but probably freaked out of their skulls to be a part of this whole gig.
Vernon segued real folksy-like into Sammy Eisenglass, whose appearance at such mega-events had become almost self-parody. When he and his trademark bimbettes pranced onstage, the unending plateau of people erupted into “mega-applause.” They hooted and jeered and laughed and clapped. They loved him because he was simply too easy to despise. Peter wondered if Sammy understood that elementary truth…or if it even mattered. He was only in front of them for a few minutes, but he made the most of it, strutting and mugging like an old vaudevillian, squeezing his girls’ asses and letting them slink all over him on cue.
It was a pretty hideous display of human debasement when you got right down to it, and it definitely qualified as the most bizarre and utterly tasteless introduction to an appearance by Father Peter. Peter wondered if Daniel was watching, back in St. Louis. And what about those praying mantises back in Rome? He smiled at the image of that fat pig Lareggia watching a rock concert.
The crowd noise gradually subsided from the last piece of Eisenglass shtick. Stepping into the silence, Sammy said: “And nowwwwww…we’re going to jump-start this thing with a little benediction from one of the hottest attractions in the country! By special arrangement with God! We brought you! All the way from St. Louis, Missouri! Father Peterrrrr!”
The vast sea of faces erupted into spontaneous cheering. Peter detected a different tonal quality to the sound, a different message being sent. Absent was the slight derisive inflection. The roaring voice of the crowd spoke only of approval and total acceptance. Peter drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began walking toward stage center. Sammy and his fleshy bookends swung back from the mike stand, all smiles.
Peter nodded to them politely, then, turning to the crowd, dismissed them as if they’d never been there. He smiled, lifted his hands with his palms upturned, and waited for the applau
se to subside. The audience was so big that its size lost the power to intimidate. He smiled at them and could feel their warmth radiating outward, touching him. Finally, the ranchland was quiet again. The only sound was a soft breeze, rolling down from the Sangre de Cristos and whistling through towering loudspeaker arrays.
“Thank you for such a warm welcome,” he said, speaking slowly, so that his voice did not echo and roll over each preceding word. “I know I don’t look much like a priest these days…” Peter gestured at his cotton chambray shirt and casual jeans. “But maybe that’s because I’m not much of a priest anymore.”
The entire crowd seemed to gasp at once, as though it didn’t know what he meant, or didn’t want to believe such a thing.
“You see, I used to spend most of my time locked away in a church or a rectory or a sacristy—cut off from the people. Sure, the sanctuary was a good place for people to come and get the help they needed. But it wasn’t enough. If God gave me a special gift, an ability to reach out to people, to really talk to them when they need it most, then I think God also intended that I leave the sanctuary and go out where the people are—where you are.”
He paused at what seemed like an appropriate moment, and the crowd cheered again. Now that they understood, they approved. He knew it would be like that.
And once he had them, the rest was easy. The size of his audience didn’t matter at all. They were so receptive that he knew unconsciously that he would not need to speak for very long. It would not take long to perform his special magic upon them.
He spoke foremost of love and its power. He spoke of the many stratified levels of the spirit and the soul, and how they survived because of that special power. Everything started with a healthy love of self, he said, because if we cannot love ourselves, we can surely have no excess love for others.
He spoke of unity, and how the only path to survival in the coming new millennium would be through a concerted effort—all of humankind working toward the same goals, wanting the same things. It was a simple, efficient message. No frills, no rococo borders or decorations. This crowd wore its souls on its shirtsleeves; they didn’t need any sugar-coating or theatrics.
The Blood of the Lamb Page 27
