by Kim Newman
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For support, advice, inspiration, etc.
Tom Tunney for lots of technical help on planes and Newcastle; David Pringle for publishing the stories in Interzone and on one occasion giving us half the magazine; to Brian Smedley for letting us pick his brain on all sorts of collapse-of-communism issues, and for taking us on a dream holiday to the Czech Republic; Alex Dunn for being there a lot of the time when we were talking about these stories; Meg Davis for moral support; Monique Brocklesby for cooking and hoovering (but not ironing); Martina Drnkova for demonstrating that absinthe and cricket are not mutually exclusive; Paul J. McAuley for snickering; Harlan Ellison for letting himself appear; Sergei Paradjanov for heroism and style; Maura McHugh for being there; Cindy Moul for make-up; Pat Cadigan, for leaving Kansas; Mark V. Ziesing for not caring how many Americans have heard of The Likely Lads. We also owe a small debt to Vaclav Havel, whom history will judge one of the greatest figures of the 20th century, for giving us the idea in the first place.
For characters we've sampled and re-mixed
Eddie Albert, Robert Aldrich, Robert Altman, Raymond Allen, Sir Kingsley Amis, Gerry Anderson, Sylvia Anderson, Edwin Apps, Dan Aykroyd, Peter Barnes, James Warner Bellah, John Belushi, Robert Bloch, Humphrey Bogart, John Boulting, Malcolm Bradbury, David Bradley, Bernard Bresslaw, Norman Brooks, Anthony Buckeridge, James Cagney, Michael Caine, Ian Carmichael, John Carradine, Sir Charles Chaplin, Ronald Chesney, Julie Christie, Brian Clemens, Dick Clement, James Coburn, Francis Ford Coppola, John Russell Coryell, Nicholas Courtney, Tom Courtenay, Michael Crawford, David Croft, Richmal Crompton, Windsor Davies, R.F. Delderfield, Pauline Devaney, E.L. Doctorow, Michael Dobbs, Sergio Donati, Michael Douglas, Harry Driver, Paul Eddington, Lee Ermey, WC. Fields, Albert Finney, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ian Fleming, Henry Fonda, Peter Fonda, John Ford, Bill Fraser, Willis Goldbeck, Julie Goodyear, Maxim Gorki, Andy Griffith, Walon Green, Davis Grubb, Alan Hackney, Mervyn Haisman, Willis Hall, Earl Hamner Jr, Thomas Harris, Gustav Hasford, Joseph Heller, Marc Hellinger, Michael Herr, Patricia Highsmith, Nat Hiken, Barry Hines, Mike Hodges, Anthony Hope, Dennis Hopper, Norman Hudis, John Huston, David Jacobs, Anthony Jay, Joseph Kesselring, Stephen King, Walter Koenig, Dorothy M. Johnson, Ian La Frenais, John Landis, Charles Laughton, Henry Lincoln, Sergio Leone, Ira Levin, Sinclair Lewis, Ted Lewis, Ken Loach, Jonathan Lynn, David McCallum, Patrick MacNee, Herman Mankiewicz, Derek Marlowe, W Somerset Maugham, John Milius, Robert Mitchum, David Morrell, Jack Palance, Boris Pasternak, Sam Peckinpah, Jimmy Perry, James Poe, Roman Polanski, Melville Davisson Post, Vince Powell, Frederic Raphael, Ian Richardson, Diana Rigg, Tim Robbins, Gene Roddenberry, Peter Rogers, Sam Rolfe, John Schlesinger, Charles G. Schultz, Ronald Searle, Antony Sher, Alan Sillitoe, Phil Silvers, Jack Smethurst, Ormond G. Smith, Terry Southern, John Steinbeck, James Stewart, Oliver Stone, Booth Tarkington, Gerald Thomas, Richard Thomas, Jim Thompson, David Thomson, Leo Tolstoi, Robert Towne, B. Traven, S.S. Van Dyne, Luciano Vincenzoini, Rudolph Walker, Raoul Walsh, Tony Warren, Keith Waterhouse, Colin Welland, Orson Welles, William Wharton, Geoffrey Williams, Ronald Wolfe.
To Monique — EB To Maura — KN
'What a country! Afraid of
Debs and proud of Dempsey!
It's too silly."
George Bernard Shaw
IN THE AIR
fc
1989
The PPC had offered to send an official car to the hotel, but he decided he'd rather walk. He would learn more from a stroll among the bustle of ordinary America than a cruise in a Detroit Streetmaster with a Party Suit.
Getting It Together might be in progress, but there were still long, impatient queues outside the grocery stores. Straight Talking might be the buzzword, but there were still only Party papers— Newsweek, Workboy, MAD —on the newsstands. It was chilly, and everyone was hurrying, thin overcoat collars turned up against the windblast. This was a busy city, with no time to lose. Very different from the London Lowe had left two days ago. There, it had been Autumn; here, Fall had fallen, and it was Winter. He was breathing dirty ice-chips. He had been coughing off and on since the plane touched down at Hillquit Field. In the industrial USSA, you could always taste the air. There was already a light dandruff of snow, soon the glaciation level would sweep across Lake Michigan and the city would be like Reykjavik or Petrograd, carpeted with filthy slush. All Americans were equal, but those here with bearskin hats and gloves had a bitterly resented edge.
He came off Michigan Avenue, into Alphonse Capone Plaza. Soon, unless he misjudged First Secretary Vonnegut, to be renamed Something Else Plaza. He looked up at the triumphal statue, and wondered how long it would last. Apart from anything else, it was monumentally ugly. No larger than the Hindenburg Zeppelin, the bronze depicted a slimmer-than-the-newsreels Al on a rearing steed, riding down Robber Barons like Buffalo Bill pursuing Apaches. The bloated, top-hatted figures
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Back in the USSA
crawling away from the horse's hooves were grotesque caricature Vanderbilts, Rockefellers and Fords, weighed down by moneybags and jewellery. Over the last few years, the equestrian Al had taken a few dents but, ironically, the nearby stone statue of another former mayor, an obscurity named Daley, had been much more extensively vandalised. That must say something about the relative values of Chicagoans.
Chicago—not New York or Los Angeles or any other phoney, workshy, seaboard city—had been the seat of the Second American Revolution. And they never let you forget it. No matter what might be happening on Capitol Hill or the White House, this was the heart and guts of the USSA. The Windy City, he had been told endlessly, was where federal troops opened fire on Father O'Shaughnessy and his hunger marchers in the abortive uprising of 1905. Where Eugene V. Debs took control of the Union stockyard in 1912, as a prelude to launching the Revolution. In DeMille's famous 1926 film, the blood of the martyred strikers had mingled with that of the slaughtered cattle as the army stepped in, providing a single image that summed up the struggle to free the country from the Robber Barons. Actually, the fighting had been in the streets outside, not on the killing floor, but Americans always preferred a dramatic fiction to the dreary truth. Even now, official history accepted that Capone had got his scar in a knife-fight with William Randolph Hearst, though everyone knew he had really gashed his cheek on a garbage can lid falling over in a Brooklyn alley.
Even with the New Deal, slogans seemed to count more than policies. Researching a piece for The Sun on the etymology of what they were already calling Vonnegutspeak, he had discovered the First Secretary's team of advisors spent more time coming up with the catch phrases—Straight Talking, then Getting It Together—than in formulating the precise policies. He wondered if things could really change. Despite Vonnegut's efforts, the United Socialist States of America was as much under the shadow of Capone now as it had been under the Robber Barons in the '20s. After a yoke has been lifted, you have to get the ache out of your shoulders, rid yourself of the habit of being oppressed.
And if there were die-hard Caponists anywhere, this was the city for them. Back in '21, Chicago had been the power-base behind Mayor Al's bid for the highest office in the USSA. Now, with fifty-year-old crimes and massacres being raked over daily, Capone was constantly being labelled a monster, a mass murderer, a thief, a lecher, a pederast.
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
The Capone statue looked across the Plaza towards the Lexington Hotel, where Chairman Al once made his headquarters. Now, it was a national treasure and every fifteen minutes uniformed guides showed people around. Back in the '70s, they had opened a sealed room and found the leftovers of long-forgotten lights of the Party who had fallen out with Capone during one of the earliest purges. To the
left of the Lexington was the Tomb of the Unknown Worker. A white marble temple, all pillars and steps and ecstatic muses, the Tomb was modelled on the National Monument in Rome and looked like a giant wedding cake left overnight in the rain. Atmospheric pollution had tarnished it, greying and blacking every niche and crevice. Opposite that was the People's Place of Culture, Lowe's nominal hosts for this trip. The PPC should have made him feel at home, since it was a replica of the Albert Hall. Actually, encountering it was as disorienting as, say, stumbling across London Bridge in the Arizona desert. And as if the statue and the buildings weren't enough, the Plaza was criss-crossed by the "El", giving the impression that the city had been invaded by giant locusts from a '50s Russian sci-fi film.
As he entered the People's Palace, Lowe imagined how it had all started. In the Oval Office, Aimee Semple McPherson, the Chairman's mistress-helpmeet, brings Scarface Al his morning mail. Included are a couple of postcards from Secretary of State Louis B. Mayer on his European travels. The First Comrade likes what he sees and calls in Secretary of the Interior Jimmy Hoffa. "Hey Jimmy, dat's whut I calls two real classy buildings. Get 'em built for me, in Chicago, by the Lexington, near dat statue of me lookin' like Napoleon on Trigger. Only build 'em bigger than dese, huh? We don't want no one sayin' we'se small guys. CapisceV
The receptionist—a uniformed teenage girl with a pony tail—on the fifth floor smiled at him, asked him to wait, and returned her attention to a monochrome television perched near the ceiling. Connie Chung was on the border, watching the Texican wall come down. The return of the Lone Star State to the Union was front page news, and in the restaurant last night, Lowe had felt the excitement when the band played "The Eyes of Texas Are Upon Us" in honour of the reunification. Connie was saying that freedom of passage across the border would actually mean fewer Americans trying to sneak into Mexico to take advantage of higher wages. Lowe wasn't sure. The Mexican-American War of 1917 had never really been resolved, and he had noticed how deeply anti-Mex feeling still ran throughout the USSA. The partition of Texas, when the Tsars and Kaisers
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Back in the USSA
and Kings of the Old World had tried to stifle the Revolution at birth by supplying Presidente Villa with arms and advisors, was still a national open wound.
The people he was due to meet were only five minutes late. Hunt Thompson—a tall, thin, straight-looking man of about 50—emerged from the interior office, clip-board and itinerary under his arm. He wore the unofficial Party uniform, a suit that shone at all the leading edges. He gripped Lowe's hand a little too hard, a little too long. A Junior Secretary at the Ministry of Culture, Comrade Hunt was definitely not an undercover FBI man. He sweated too much for that.
"Comrade Lowe," the official began, "this is, uh..."
Lowe didn't need to be told. This was the man he had crossed an ocean and spent ten hours queuing at three airports to see.
"Charles Hardin Holley?"
Holley was skinny as a nurse's pay-packet and had thinning grey curly hair. He wore bottle-bottom spectacles, a loud checked suit a size too large and one of those Texican bootlace ties that all surly kids hanging around drugstores were wearing at the moment. But Holley had a huge, toothy grin that was a mixture of openness and conspiratorial leer. He was a slightly disreputable uncle who drops in unannounced to cadge money and cause mischief.
"Charlie," Holley said, "call me Charlie."
When Comrade Hunt produced a purse and asked them how they wanted their coffee, Holley arched an eyebrow towards the door. Lowe picked up the signal at once. Charlie wanted out of the PPC. Lowe could go along with that. He always preferred interviewing in the wild to visiting time at the zoo.
"Ah, wait here," Comrade Hunt said, as he headed into the communal cafeteria to get two cartons of California coffee.
Lowe stepped towards the lift. Holley shook his head.
"Never use an elevator unless a senior Party official is visiting the building, Mr. Lowe."
Holley smiled and blew a goodbye kiss to the receptionist. "Tell Hunt we went thataway," he said before she could protest, pointing up. "The limey wanted to see the view of Lake Michigan from the Director's office window."
He pushed the door, and held it opened for Lowe. The two men swiftly descended the stairs. Lowe, who smoked two packs of Strands a day, felt the strain in his chest, while the long-legged Holley, fifteen
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
years older, jogged like one of the militia teenagers who skateboarded in Mother Jones Park.
They hit the streets, and Lowe took the time to cough some wind back into his lungs.
"You want to talk about music, right?," Holley said as they assumed a brisk pace along backstreets the sweepers hadn't visited for years.
"Yes, sure," he said. "There's a lot of interest in you in Europe."
They turned a corner. In minutes, they were away from the official Chicago, and back at the turn of the century. Sidewalk stalls, ready to shut up at the first gleam of a cop's shield, were open, selling chocolate, fruit and other expensive items.
A pretty, middle-aged woman who ran a clothing stall was looking Lowe up and down, with undisguised desire.
"Don't get excited," said Holley, "she's after your trousers."
Last night, in the hotel corridor, a young man had offered Lowe a large dollar sum for his fairly ordinary Burton's jacket. The mark of forbidden luxury here was an authentic London pinstripe suit. The flashiest of the street traders, who was offering Japanese videos and Russian gramophones, signalled his black market wealth by proudly wearing a Dunn & Co. bowler hat, and a carnation in the lapel of his Burberry raincoat.
"Where are we going?"
"A place I know. If you're interested in music, you've got to hear it in an authentic setting. You won't discover nothing chewing the fat up there with tightass Thompson offering 'advice' and 'cultural reference points' all the time."
"Won't Comrade Hunt be upset when he finds out we're bunking off?"
"Bunking off?" Holley grinned. "Oh, you mean playing hookey? Naaawww! Thompson's having a great time. So we take a little Mexican leave? What's he going to do about it? Rat on me to the Federal Bureau of Ideology? It's supposed to be a free country these days. Rave on, Mr. Lowe."
Lowe nodded, wondering which of the street traders was the informer.
"Here's the place," Holley said.
It was Texas John's Bar and Grill, a greasy, nicotine-stained diner down a back alley. A sign announced that the establishment was proud to sell near beer and took foodstamps. There were generous reductions for men and women in uniform.
B
Back in the USSA
There was a fat man in a worn topcoat huddled over a stove heater behind the counter, and a solitary diner with his nose in Workboy, otherwise the place was empty. On the wall there was a movie poster; Stallone and Chuck Norris defending the Alamo.
Holley waved at the fat man, and walked to the end of the room. He rapped his knuckles three times on the wall. A framed photo of President Vonnegut slid to one side, and a pair of eyes appeared. A concealed door opened, and Holley stepped into a smoke-smelly room. Lowe should have guessed that disreputable Uncle Charlie would be taking him to a speakeasy.
The room was large and simple, furnished with a random array of tables and chairs. Along one side ran a bar with a catholic and cosmopolitan array of beers and liquors. In a corner, a rock and roll band were tuning up. Customers of varying ages waved at Holley. A tall youth with a bootlace tie and a velvet-collared jacket slapped him on the back and asked whether he would be playing later.
"Sure," he said, "just as soon as I've finished talking with my buddy. This is Lowe, he's an English newspaperman."
The youth stuck out his hand, and Lowe shook.
"Comrade," the youth said. "Welcome to the real America."
Holley steered him to a quiet corner. A waiter brought a bottle of Matthews Southern Comfort and Lowe reached for his wallet. Holley waved hi
s currency away.
"Let me pay, buddy. I'm flavour of the month, the government likes me all of a sudden, the government pays people it likes. The way I see it, I got to make the most of it, because it might not last."
Lowe took a drink, and felt it cosy up to his ulcers. He had a Fleet Street Stomach.
"Is this the interview then?" Holley asked.
"I suppose so."
"So what's the question? All the Europeans have questions? I'm big in France, you know. If I could get my foreign earnings, I'd be rich."
The lead guitarist of the group played a few chords, out of tune, grinning over at the dissenter and Holley laughed.
"Don't let Peggy Sue hear you do that to her song," he shouted. "That was my first real song, you know," he explained.
Lowe slipped some more liquor into his throat. "So, Charlie," he began, "why...?"
"Good question," Holley grinned. "A bit broad, but a good question."
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I suppose I do. You mean, why did I let myself in for a life of heartbreak and persecution?"
"If you like."
"You never think it'll be that bad, but then...well, like the man said, a socialist's gotta do what a socialist's gotta do..."
"You started when you were a teenager. Back in the '50s..."
Holley took a drink himself, and leaned back. His smile-lines turned into wrinkles, but he still looked like a gangling kid.
"Yeah, the '50s. Production drives, show trials, root beer and crinolines. I suppose when you get to my age, you tend to have a kind of misty picture of your young days, like with that fog around the frame you get in flashbacks in the movies. I always have to pull myself up and remember they were real hard times. Kids today don't know what it was like. Really, they don't..."
Lowe tried to remember his own experience of the '50s, but couldn't. There wasn't much to his memory before Telstar and Yeager's first spaceflight in the X-15. In Britain, that had been the fag-end of the Churchill Regime.
"It went sour before I was born, and my mama never let me forget. We were from Texas. We've been refugees all our lives. My grand-daddy stayed in Lubbock and got put up against a wall by Zapata. That gave me something against Chairman Al even before everyone else came out and said he was a sidewinder. When Capone muscled his way towards power off the back of the big labour unions, the first thing he did was cut Texas loose and make a deal with Villa."
