“Hardy, due to the desertion of your buddy, you has got to assume temporary command of the Forage and Begging Squad, with the rank becoming permanent upon successful completion of the campaign.”
“Mister Simon, if I may be so bold as to ask, what campaign? What’s going on, what does General Spencer have in mind?”
“You are aware, ain’t you, Hardy, that tomorrow is Easter.”
This non-survival-related fact has slipped Ardy’s mind, but he now admits this much is true.
“Well, the General figures that the annual Easter parade offers a great chance to more or less thrust our dirty arses into the public’s snoot. Basically, we intends to infiltrate the parade, kidnap the Mayor and assorted dignitaries, and hold them for ransom until our demands is met.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Masterful, ain’t it, Hardy? You gotta hand it to the General when it comes to thinking big. Now, here’s what you and your men gotta do.…”
Ardy listens with only half an ear. His brain is racing with feverish plans on how to escape. Not one of them looks halfway feasible.
That night Ardy does not sleep a wink. To comfort himself, he reads by the light of a guttering candle any squibs in his jacket Digests that happen to deal with the afterlife.
In the morning he is dully frantic. All around, preparations are underway for the hijacking of the Mayor and his entourage. Bums are arming themselves with homemade knives, clubs and slingshots and forming up into ranks. Ardy’s men come up to him for advice, and he brushes them off with nonsense. What, oh what, is he going to do!
General Spencer appears, clad in grandiose fustian.
“All right, men, assemble in ranks outside. Don’t skulk, the time for hiding is over. It doesn’t matter if people discover our headquarters now, for by this time tomorrow, we’ll be ensconced at the Waldorf!”
A ragged cheer rises up and echoes off the damp walls and ceiling.
“Yay,” says Ardy feebly, only because Mister Simon looks daggers at him.
Outside the bums assemble as instructed.
The day is the quintessence of Spring, fragrant breezes, reborn sun, moist air. Ardy begins to sweat beneath his winter armor of Digests, and considers discarding them. However, before he can begin unknotting the complex string web that keeps his coat intact, orders come down to begin marching.
South march the ranked street-people, filling one whole lane of Lexington. The few citizens who are up and about stop to stare. Holding their heads high for the first time in their lives, the bums look straight ahead and continue marching, General Spencer at their forefront. Ardy is forced to admit that he has never seen his scurvy compatriots exhibit such pride before. This admission does not stop him from casting about for a chance to break away.
Soon the dozens of bums—well over a hundred— are out on Fifth. Crowds are gathering for the official parade. They now mistake the bums for the first contingent of same, and begin applauding. Taken aback, the bums smile shyly and nod with as much aplomb as they can summon.
“All right, soldiers, that’s enough grandstanding, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, fall out into your positions.”
The bums break ranks and disperse among the concealing crowd, who, still assuming this is all part of the festivities, obligingly make way. In a minute, the ambush is laid.
Now follows an hour or two of debilitating waiting. Ardy is soaked with sweat. Nervously he picks at the knots of his outfit, but cannot summon enough presence of mind to undo them. Mister Simon watches him alertly during this interval, giving him no chance to cut and run.
Sounds drift up from the south. The parade is approaching. Ardy telepathically feels his fellow bums stir like wheat under wind. This is it.…
The first marchers come abreast of the ambush. As expected, the Mayor is not in the vanguard, being further back. The bums tense.…
From nowhere comes the sound of a helicopter, its blades stuttering. Ardy looks up. A giant Huey like those used in the Spice Island invasion is hovering directly above the bums. In its open door, Ardy sees a white man and a black man. Amplified commands blast out.
“SURRENDER, HUMPTY-FALL! THIS IS AGENT JOHNSON, OF THE UNITED STATES IMMIGRATION SERVICE, AND MY PARTNER, AGENT JOHNSON.”
“NO —”
The second agents disclaimer is cut off by a slingshot-propelled rock bouncing off his forehead. He is knocked backwards into the copter.
“ALL RIGHT, THAT DID IT! YOU’VE HAD YOUR CHANCE! PILOT, LAY DOWN THE TEAR GAS!”
Clouds of white gas begin to billow from the craft. Utter confusion ensues. The innocent bystanders are screaming, the parade is stopped in a congested clot on Fifth, bums are rushing about, General Spencer is shaking his fist at the sky, policemen have materialized, and Ardy is immobilized with fear.
A hand tugs his sleeve.
It is Mister Simon.
“Let’s blow, kid, this is gettin’ too rough.”
Ardy, his eyes streaming, needs no further invitation.
Bulling their way to the fringes of the chaos, the two begin running north.
“Where are we going?” asks Ardy.
“Don’t know, kid, but any place is better than here.”
“HALT!”
“Christ, the chopper’s after us!”
“UNDER THE LATEST SUPREME COURT DECISION, FLIGHT FROM CONSTITUTIONALLY ADMINISTERED APPREHENSION IS TANTAMOUNT TO ADMISSION OF GUILT!”
Bullets from a door-mounted automatic weapon stitch the sidewalk.
“Kid, my leg, they got me! No, keep going, run!”
“Farewell, Mister Simon!”
Ardy runs.
Zigging and zagging, he attempts to frustrate the chopper. It clings to him as if glued. At least they have stopped firing, for Ardy is among innocent citizens.
Panting, Ardy keeps going.
Block after block he gallops, down the artificial canyons, the copter on his tail. He dashes in buildings and out their far side, he hides beneath awnings, he looks frantically about for a subway entrance but spots none.
Nothing can shake the Johnsons, who seem out for unholy revenge. Periodically, amplified speech crackles out above him, but the blood is pounding so thickly in Ardy’s ears that he cannot distinguish the words.
For forty blocks or more, Ardy runs through the wilderness of the city, as if pursued by demons. At last he can run no more. He looks up, absolutely winded, to see where he is.
His mad marathon has brought him almost to the East River, somewhere in lower Harlem. He is separated from the water’s edge by a busy freeway. The chopper is hovering low over him now, doubtlessly anticipating the arrival of backup forces on foot. There seems no place to go.
Ardy’s frantic eye falls on a narrow foot-ramp. The ramp leads up. At its top, it becomes a pedestrian walkway over the freeway, over a channel of the East River, touching down on Ward’s Island, where, Ardy irrationally recalls, there is cloistered a mental hospital.
Why did they bother to isolate it from the rest of this madhouse? he thinks.
Because there is no place else to go, Ardy mounts the ramp.
The helicopter tracks him.
Midway over the bridge, high above the choppy waters, Ardy halts.
Police are now approaching from both ends.
“MISTER DIGEST, GIVE UP. WE KNOW YOUR WHOLE STORY, THANKS TO OUR INVESTIGATIVE SKILLS, AND TO CLOSE INTERROGATION OF SISTER HEGEL, WHO GAVE YOU A SPLENDID CHARACTER REFERENCE. WE KNOW YOU WERE A HELPLESS DUPE ALL ALONG, AND WE ARE PREPARED TO DROP ALL CHARGES AGAINST YOU SAVE ONE. MISTER DIGEST, YOU ARE IN THIS COUNTRY ILLEGALLY, AND MUST BE DEPORTED. YOU ARE A BLOT ON OUR ESCUTCHEON. GIVE UP NOW, AND WE’LL GO EASY ON YOU.”
Give up and be deported ? All that he has endured for naught? Never! He’d rather die!
Ardy clambers up on the railing and gets his feet precariously beneath him, clutching a light stanchion for support. He looks down.
The cold water beckons.
“MISTER DIG
EST, WE CANNOT ALLOW THIS.…”
Ardy gets ready to jump. He favors the copter with one last look.
Agent Johnson has a marksman’s rifle pointed at him, Preternaturally sharp, Ardy’s ears detect the sliding of the bolt.…
Ardy jumps.
He feels the single bullet impact his chest.
He is falling, falling, falling.…
With a resounding PLOP! he hits liquid and makes a geyser.
But does not sink.
For fifteen seconds, Ardy lies flat on his back. He feels no need to breathe. The entire world is nothing but a sky that is tinted lime-green. So this is heaven.… Funny, the Digest said nothing about green light.… How peaceful.…
Hands reach down through the green medium, grab Ardy and pull him up into normality.
It is an angel who looks just like MiSter Enrico! How curious … Father Jim’s inscrutable God again …
Ardy smiles blissfully.
“So you are dead, too, Mister Enrico.…”
Mister Enrico appears altogether too enraged for any celestial cherub.
“What the fuck you doin’, man? You’re crashin’ my party, spoiling my whole day, man! Jesus, I shoulda known if anyone coulda found me here, it’d be you, man, you crazy fucking innocent idiot, man!”
“Mister Enrico, I did not believe such language would be permitted in Heaven.…”
“Heaven, man, always with this heaven, what the fuck you talkin’ about? Look around you, man!”
Ardy does so.
He is standing in a deep wading pool of green Jello, surrounded by a crowd that includes Mister Enrico and two near-naked ladies charmingly covered with goosebumps. One of these women, amazingly, is Miss Chichi, formerly of the pink pussy in Boston. A radio is playing loud salsa music suitable for a Latino orgy.
Expanding his horizons, Ardy notes further that the tub of Jello containing him is on a boat. Behind Ardy slowly recedes the pedestrian bridge, where policemen cluster at the rail, conferring in shouts with the Johnsons who hover above, no doubt extremely frustrated at Ardy’s abrupt leavetaking.
No, wherever Ardy is, it is definitely not heaven.
“This is my boat for today, man! I rented it from The Circle Line, man, mucho dinero, gonna cruise around Manhattan with a few friends and enjoy a little Jello-wrestling. Then you fall outa the sky, man, like some sick dirtbird, and spray all our fucking Jello into the air! Bummer, man!”
“But, but, Mister Enrico, I was shot! I should be dead!”
“Lemme look, you fuckin’ idiot.…”
Mister Enrico vents his fury on Ardy’s coat, ripping it apart. Magazines tumble out. Mister Enrico picks one up.
“Look, look, you culo, you’re so fuckin’ lucky I can’t stand it!”
Ardy takes the magazine, which must have been part of the innermost layer of padding. A spent slug is wedged with its tip right in NEWS FROM THE WORLD OF MEDICINE.
Ardy looks toward Pleasantville. “Thank you, whomever you are. Thank you, Editor in the Sky.”
Meanwhile a decision has evidently been reached on the bridge, for the chopper is speeding toward their craft.
“Well, sorry to intrude, Mister Enrico, but it was nice to speak with you once more before I leave this country for good. Think well of me.”
Just then the music stops.
“Flash!” says a breathless newscaster. “Election results from the Spice Island referendum are now in. They have accepted statehood! The US gains its first new state in over forty years! More details at five.…”
Ardy looks wonderingly at Mister Enrico. Can it be? He’s now truly a … citizen?
The proud citizen smiles, hesitatingly at first, then wider and wider.
“I believe I bade you adieu too soon,” says Ardy.
Mister Enrico shakes his head, then smiles too.
“Lucky,” he says. “Just fuckin’ lucky, man.”
“And pure of heart too, Mister E. It’s as the Sisters always told me.”
“Yeah, man?”
“What goes around, comes around.”
“Word!”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Paul Di Filippo
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-2680-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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Joe's Liver Page 23
