by Mick Farren
Mansard would soon have to go out onto the roof and check on how things were coming. The DL-70s were straight out of their packing grease and completely untested. If one of them had been damaged in transit, he would be totally screwed. Jimmy Gadd was working feverishly to get them ready for a trial run. Mansard was putting off going up there, however. It was not just that he did not want to hear the bad news, if any. Charlie Mansard, even though his life was dedicated to producing huge images in vast areas of empty space, had no particular love of heights. He could no more ride a lighting truss with the riggers' total lack of concern than he could fly in the air. He would ride the truss if he had to, but he would always be nervously looking down.
Rita was hurrying across the floor of the Garden, heading in his direction. She looked unusually agitated. "We just got a call. Proverb's on his way over."
"Damn. What the hell does he want to do that for? There's nothing for him to see yet. They should have told him that."
"Maybe he gets nervous, just like you."
"Why should he? He's got God on his side. All I've got is Jimmy."
"Which would you rather have?"
Mansard grinned despite himself. "You've got a point there."
Mansard's first impulse was to rush around and yell at people, to try to get something ready for the client. He knew that was ridiculous. Proverb was a professional: he knew that there were still two days to go and there was no way that Mansard would be ready to stage an effects run-through for at least eighteen hours. If he wanted to walk around and nod and watch the men putting up the scaffolds, that was up to him. It was nothing more than a waste of time.
"What the hell does he want to come bothering me for? Can't he stand in front of a mirror and rehearse his lines? I've got quite enough to do without conducting guided tours."
Rita shrugged. "You know what clients are like. They want to feel they're on top of things."
Aden Proverb arrived with a small army at his back and the air of an occupying general. For someone who was so famous for his stage presence, he was of surprisingly small stature. He compensated for his lack of height by extreme flamboyance of dress. He was wearing a double-breasted white suit and a purple silk shirt; a black fur coat was thrown over his shoulders. The gold crucifix that bounced against his chest must have weighed close to a pound. The stitching on his white, high-heeled cowboy boots was also gold. As with so many of those who capitalized on their charisma, the first clue to Aden Proverb's power was in his eyes. At rest, they were heavy-lidded and languid, almost lazy, but when he focused on something they came alive, knowing ami penetrating, going right to the soul. He was flanked by his two huge bodyguards. According to the media, they went everywhere with him and even slept in the room next to his. On his right was Rashid Murjeen. The huge black man, who had been a heavyweight contender back in the old days, was quite probably the only Muslim in the employ of an American evangelist. Proverb had come in for a good deal of criticism on account of Rashid, but he had consistently ignored it. On his left was Joe Don Cutler, who had played for the '96 Steelers. He was the all-around cowboy. His black country singer's suit was decorated with white beadwork, and his Stetson had the feathers of an entire parakeet mounted on its front. It was very clear from the way the two of them carried themselves that anyone who interfered with Proverb could expect to be torn limb from limb. In addition to the two bodyguards, there was a six-man squad of private security guards in brown quasipolice uniforms, three aides in business suits, and a young, very well-developed blonde who was wearing a coat that matched Proverb's.
Proverb walked straight up to Mansard with his hand extended. He grasped Charlie's and shook it warmly. His energetic bonhomie came directly from his car salesman roots.
"Charlie, it's good to see you. How are you? How are things going?"
Mansard arranged his face into his best meeting-the-client smile. "I'm very well, Reverend Proverb, and everything seems to be coming together perfectly. So far, we're ahead of schedule."
"Alien. How many times do I have to tell you, Charlie? It's Alien. I can't be doing with my best men calling me Reverend Proverb. Makes me feel that I'm a hundred years old." He glanced at the two bodyguards. "Ain't that the truth, boys? No formalities around this family."
Rashid said nothing, but Joe Don grinned. "No standing on ceremony around us, boss."
The blonde giggled. Rashid gave her a hard look. Mansard had had previous experience with Proverb's lack of formality. Everything stayed relentlessly downhome just as long as it was recognized that Arlen Proverb was the absolute dictator of the universe.
Proverb had changed quite a bit since Mansard had last seen him. Where his hair had previously been a nondescript brown, it was now dyed blue black, and the bow-wave pompadour was far more lavish than he remembered it. Proverb was also sporting thick triangular sideburns. The hair was one thing – the added length and the dye job could be attributed to a simple case of advanced show business. The sideburns were something else again. When one was as much in the spotlight as Proverb was, nothing could be dismissed as coincidental. The sideburns were too much of a symbol. They had to be perceived as an indication that Proverb really was moving closer to the Elvi – and if Arlen Proverb was moving closer to the Elvi, he was also further distancing himself from the Faithful establishment. Even though he claimed to be above it all, Mansard kept a fairly close watch on the political fluctuations of his clients.
Proverb was looking up at the giant scaffolds. "So, Charlie, where do we stand at the moment?"
"Well, Arlen, as you can see, most of the basic framework is in place. Pretty soon we'll start putting in the optical equipment. Once they're in place, we'll be ready for a visual run-through. If your sound men are ready in time, we could sync the audio."
Proverb nodded. "I'll goose them up some. Make sure they're ready when you are."
Mansard had to give Proverb credit for being well aware of the basics of the technology that went into his show. That was unusual among preachers. Most cultivated a smiling ignorance, as if pretending that they were living in some Old Testament world where special effects came straight from God.
"How are things going with the big final set piece?"
Mansard had expected that question. He maintained his air of calm confidence. "My best men are up on the roof rigging the gear, and the weather forecast looks good."
"You don't foresee any problems?"
Mansard shook his head. "Not at this point." He was not about to voice his fears about the DL-70s.
Proverb nodded again, then looked around as if he were hesitating to say something. "There is one thing I'd like to talk to you about."
He put an arm around Mansard's shoulders and led him out of earshot of the entourage.
"Now, I know, what with you being an artist and all, you ain't going to like what I want to ask, but I need a big favor."
Mansard had a suspicion of what was coming. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to juice the wave pushers."
"The script only called for undertow hypnotics."
"I've decided to go for broke."
Mansard sadly shook his head. "I really don't think you need to do that."
"I've got my reasons."
"Usually when a client wants me to juice the hypnotics, he's either got cold feet or he's no damn good, or both. I know that isn't the case with you. We've got an effects menu that'll knock their socks off. Most of them are spongy before they even come to the show from staring into a Jesus Wave all afternoon."
The hand on Mansard's shoulder tightened.
"You know me, Charlie. I trust your effects. Praise the Lord, Charlie, I'm counting on your effects. I have my own special reasons for wanting all the juice I can get. You'll have to trust me on that."
The eyes had come on, and Mansard knew that Proverb was determined to get what he wanted. What the hell was the man up to? He made a small gesture of capitulation. Proverb was God's own salesman.
&nb
sp; "What levels do you want the pushers raised to?"
"Give me five with an override to eight."
Mansard let out a low whistle. "Are you sure about that?"
Proverb nodded. He looked almost grim. "I'm positive, and I want the override through to my sleeve control. I want to be able to zap the crowd if and when I need to."
The spangles on the sleeves of Proverb's costumes concealed a highly sophisticated electronic control system that he could play like a master. Mansard still was not happy.
"You want to go easy on the straight eight. You could start them flipping."
"If that's what it takes."
Mansard was surprised. He had never seen Proverb reveal that kind of ruthlessness. Clearly something was going down. Maybe he would rather not know about it.
He gave a small shrug. "It's your insurance coverage."
Proverb fixed him with the eyes again. "You're a good man, Charlie, but let me do the worrying."
There was more ritual handshaking and backslapping, and then Alien Proverb swept out again. Charlie Mansard watched him go. This was shaping up to be no ordinary show.
Carlisle
"You really think he might be a target?" Carlisle asked.
"He's getting so much publicity that we have to seriously consider the possibility," Parnell replied.
"We don't have enough troubles?"
"Not as many as we'd have if a big-name preacher was shot dead live on stage at the Garden."
"Or blown up."
"Exactly."
"We could try to get him to cancel the show."
"Proverb's got too much swagger for that. He'd go on regardless. He'd probably go on even if the LPs issued a public warning."
Harry Carlisle had a leg cocked over the corner of Captain Parnell's desk. He was leaning forward peering at the large, hard-copy floorplan of Madison Square Garden. Both men had mugs of coffee in their hands. Parnell had his own coffee maker. It made real coffee that was infinitely superior to the bitter, dark-tan liquid that came out of the vending machines. Harry tapped the plan with his index finger.
"We can't give him absolute protection in a place this size."
"That's right."
"So what do we do?"
"All we can do is play the odds. Before the show, we do the place from top to bottom with sniffers. We beef up the weapons and explosives searches on the entrances. We run spotter scopes on the crowd and push the images through a hostile motion filter. We position snipers around the stage and have plainclothes squads in high saturation around the most likely vantage points from where a sniper might operate. After that we pray." He glanced up at Carlisle with a half smile. "Of course, you don't pray, do you?"
"Not if I can help it."
"You're going to wind up in a camp one of these days."
"Probably."
"You think you can stay out of trouble until after this Proverb spectacular is over?"
"I'll try. What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to take charge of the plainclothes squads on the floor."
"How many men do I get?"
"As many as I can spare. Hopefully something around a hundred."
"How much help can we count on from the deacons?"
Parnell shook his head. "I really don't know. They're acting ambivalent. There's a fairly powerful faction that'd be quite happy to see Proverb knocked off. They believe he's a dangerous maverick who borders on heresy."
"So even if they show up, we can't really trust them."
"That's how we have to approach the situation."
Carlisle scowled. "Just great. What about Proverb's own security people?"
"They can deal with the stage and backstage area. That's what they do best. Those two big bodyguards, the Muslim and the cowboy, they can have the honor of shielding their boss with their bodies if anyone opens fire. They can have that all to themselves."
"Can I pick my own men?"
"Sure, as long as you leave me all the sharpshooters."
Carlisle put down his coffee cup and pushed himself away from the desk. "I guess I'll go and get started."
"There'll be a detailed briefing after tomorrow's roll call. I suggest you go over to the Garden and familiarize yourself with the place. Proverb's people are already in there setting up."
"I've worked the Garden before. I know it pretty well."
Carlisle moved to the door. He hesitated before letting himself out. "Can I ask you something?"
"You usually do."
"How does the NYPD feel about Aden Proverb?"
Parnell looked him straight in the eye. "Having a public figure killed in our jurisdiction can't do the department any good at all. Is that what you wanted to know?"
Carlisle nodded. Then he turned and left.
Winters
The theological advisory officer's steel-rimmed glasses were just sufficiently tinted to make it impossible to see his eyes. He could not have been past his early thirties, but his sandy blond hair was already thinning. Hie harsh white lights over the lecture room rostrum were reflected from his bald crown.
"Ostensibly we will be providing security backup to the NYPD, but in reality, we have a much more important mission at the Alien Proverb service at Madison Square Garden."
The TAO carefully placed the flat palm of his hand on the lectern in front of him. It was the ultimately controlled version of slamming down his fist.
"Heresy, gentlemen. We will be there to detect heresy."
He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.
"Shall we think about heresy, gentlemen? Heresy is the worst of crimes, worse even than rape, murder, or terrorism. These others, although they are in themselves sufficiently heinous to warrant the putting to death of the perpetrator, are crimes against person and property and as such are the legitimate province of the secular police. Heresy, on the other hand, is a crime against the Lord our God, and without the Lord, our civilization would fail, and we would be back in the Satanic darkness that we only so recently struggled out of."
There was nodding among the keener of the junior deacons, led off by Rogers and a couple of others. Winters joined in just a little late. The TAO went on.
"We are the defenders of the faith, gentlemen, and the heretic is the greatest enemy of that faith. The heretic is a contagion that must be rooted out wherever it lurks. I repeat, wherever it lurks."
He put particular emphasis on the word 'wherever'.
"We will be at the Proverb service to observe. As of this moment, there is no investigation and no crime. No complaint has been laid, and there are no suspects, but as you all well know, the agents of Satan can reveal themselves anywhere and at any time. We must be constantly on our guard, watching for heretics both among the audience and on the stage."
Although it had not been stated, the message was clean Proverb was wider surveillance. There had been rumors about Aden Proverb's lack of favor in Washington for some time. There ted always been a gulf between him and the Faithful establishment, but recently it had grown visibly wider. It appeared that Proverb was doing everything to maximize the schism. He was appealing more and more to the wild and wooliest of nonconformists and even attracting out-and-out unbelievers. Proverb was still far too powerful to be directly accused, but the oblique instructions were clear. They were to start quietly collecting evidence. It was the first stage to laying a case.
Junior Deacon Milton raised his hand. "What if we detect overt heresy at the service? Do we attempt to make arrests?"
"You do nothing. No matter what the provocation."
The TAO half smiled. On the scarce occasions that he showed an emotion, his face became almost skull-like, with the tinted glasses providing the empty, shadow-filled sockets. It was as if his skin had been stretched too tight by the constant contempt in which he held an imperfect world.
"This is an occasion when the virtue of patience will have to be cultivated."
Winters raised his hand. "Intelligence reports indicate
that a large number of the Presley people will be present at the service."
The TAO was no longer smiling. "I have seen the intelligence reports."
"Could this not have the potential of becoming a mass demonstration of heretical behavior?"
"You have touched on a less than well defined area, Junior Deacon… what was your name?"
"Winters, sir." Winters always dreaded what might happen when a superior asked him his name.
The TAO nodded. "Our first problem, Winters, is that there has never been a definite consensus regarding the exact nature of the Elvi. It has never been finally decided whether they are legally heretical or simply an extreme form of nonconformist sect akin to the snake handlers. The confusion is compounded by the fact that attitudes to this kind of extremism differ sharply from region to region. Here in the somewhat better educated North, we seek a certain orthodoxy and tend to be a little appalled by " – his face took on a brief expression of mild distaste – "the idea of worship via reptile. In the South and West, however, they have a much greater traditional tolerance of the bizarre. I have my own opinions about what should be done to the whole pack of them, but these are personal, and I would have no place expressing them here. Until we have specific instructions, we also do nothing about the Elvi."
"Under no circumstances?"
"Under no circumstances whatsoever, Winters. I don't care if they are crawling on the floor and publicly fornicating. We do nothing except remind ourselves that our day will come and we will have everything."
The skull-like half smile came again.
Kline
She drank coffee and tried to pull herself together. She felt awful. If this was what fame was, it might well kill her. She rummaged through her handbag, looking for the piece of paper from the night before, the blue paper that the cocaine had come in. From the moment that she had seen the Lefthand Path symbol on the inside of the packet, fear had tinged her drunken haze. Now it was morning, and all that remained was the hangover and the fear. The apartment looked even more cramped and dingy than it usually did, and the sunlight seemed to be struggling to cut through the smoggy air. Indeed, the whole of life seemed to be a depressing struggle. It was bad enough having a couple of drunken lesbian strangers offer her a drug that could get her five years, but to see the symbol of her secret and highly illegal organization on the inside of the packet had brought her close to hysteria. Fortunately Longstreet had simply assumed that she was drunk and incoherent. He had, in fact, seemed quite amused by her situation. In the cold gray of the morning, she wondered if he thought he was corrupting her.
