Joe Haldeman

by The Coming

  “On the phone? Norman.”

  “No, no. The suit who was in that chair and just now left without saying anything.” “He didn’t say who he was?”

  “That’s why I’m asking you, Hawking. He must have walked in while I was in the john.” She waved it away. “Probably some studio guy. You ready for this?” “I’m ready, yeah. You could use some makeup, though. You’re bright pink.” “Just let me get my breath.” She crossed the room and got a cup of ice water, then sat back down and tried to breathe normally. Breakin, blackmail.

  “You don’t look too good. Want me to get Marya and reschedule it?” “No, look … our house was broken into; there was a message from the police. But I talked to Norman and he says things are under control, whatever that means. A broken window, but I think the only breakable windows in the house are the stained glass ones in the living room and kitchen.” “Hope not,” Pepe said. “They’re beautiful.”

  “And irreplaceable, literally. They were by old man Charlie what’s-his-name, died a couple of years ago.” She massaged her temples. “I’ll be all right.”

  Pepe checked his watch. “Why don’t we go down early? Get a Coke from the machine.” “Marya says that’s a bad idea. You might burp.”

  “So they edit it out.”

  “It’s live, Pepe.” She got up. “I’ll risk it, though.” He ushered her through the door. “Burping on camera will make you seem more human.” “Oh, please.” They walked down the corridor to the converted lecture hall. Just outside it, Rory stopped at the machine, slid her credit card, and got them a Coke and a root beer.

  Marya was helping a cameraman arrange an improvised drape over a whiteboard, for a backdrop.

  They exchanged hellos.

  “Look,” Pepe said. “You don’t need me here. Why don’t I run over and see whether I can help Norm?” Rory hesitated. “Help him?” She looked disoriented. She was always a little nervous with the cameras, even with nothing else on her mind.

  “The broken window? You know, rain?”

  “Oh, sure.” She shook her head. ” Si, por favor.”

  Pepe

  On his way down the hall, Pepe called for a cab to meet him across the street at Burgerman’s.

  Before leaving the air conditioning, he buzzed Norm.

  It rang ten times before he answered. He was curiously hesitant; but said sure, he could use some help; come on over.

  There were two cabs waiting, illegally parked on the grass strip in front of the fast-food palace. He asked them and the second cab said it was his. He gave it the Bells’ address and settled back for the short ride.

  This was a complicated business. He knew what role Aurora was supposed to play in the Coming, but Norman was an unknown factor. On the other hand, there was a personal side to it. Norm and Rory were more than just his friends.

  Two years before, he had made a real error in judgment, and wound up deeply involved with an undergraduate who turned out to be an extremely competent and calculating bitch.

  He had considered himself sophisticated; well schooled in the nuances of American society, but she was more sophisticated, and had set him up and knocked him down.

  They’d had sex once, and she had pictures of it. Pictures of them doing something that was technically illegal in the state of Florida. And she just an innocent girl, ten years younger than him.

  All she wanted was a passing grade. But she hadn’t done any of the work.

  Just an innocent girl with a hidden camera, Rory and Norm pointed out, when he confessed to them over dinner at their place. And forget about the oral sex law; the house did a quick search and found that the law had never been enforced against heterosexuals except in connection with actual child abuse. This child was nineteen, going on forty.

  They got a copy of her transcript and made a few very discreet inquiries. It turned out that at least three of her high grades were gifts of love, with the help of a camera. One of the men, who had since left the university for a private firm, was eager to testify against her, before the dean, a jury, a firing squad, whatever.

  Rory did some administrative shuffling and made herself the girl’s advisor. Then she called her in for

  “counseling” and presented the evidence, and told her she could either take an F and leave the university, or go to jail for extortion. She left.

  That had not just saved his academic life. Even if the girl’s threats were empty, any kind of adverse publicity could have cost him his blue card. It would be hard to monitor the Coming from Cuba.

  As the cab turned onto Fourteenth Avenue, he saw another cab parked in front of the Bells’ house.

  A man in a suit, with a bandaged hand, got into it. The cab pulled away and Pepe’s U-turned to take its space.

  He verified his credit number and went up the walk. When he stepped into the atrium, Norm opened the door and said, ” Buenas.”

  “So who was the guy with the bandage?”

  “That’s a long story”—Norman let him in—”and a short one. The short one is that he’s the man who broke the window.”

  “The burglar? Why don’t the cops have him—you just let him go?”

  “The cops were here. Turns out you can settle out of court, on the spot. He offered twenty big ones, more than twice the replacement cost.”

  “Must be a lot of money in his line of work.”

  “Whatever that is. Let’s measure the thing.” Pepe followed Norm into the kitchen, where he rummaged through a couple of drawers and came up with a tape measure. The broken window was 80-by-160 centimeters.

  “I’ve got some one-by-two-meter pressboard,” he said. “It’s ugly, but it’ll do.”

  They went into Norm’s neat garage. The neatness made Pepe uneasy. His own garage, under the apartment, was a collection of random junk. There was actually room for a car in this one.

  Norm went to a rack that was mostly woodite and pressboard, but did have a few actual boards of fragrant pine. He tugged on a big sheet of pressboard. Pepe stepped over and helped him with it.

  The house chimed and said the privacy period was almost up. Norman asked for another thirty minutes. He worked silently for a few minutes, using the tape and a T square to measure out a rectangle on the pressboard. They carried the board over to the table saw.

  On the workbench next to it, an iron mallet and a splatter of blood. Norman saw Pepe staring at it.

  “That’s part of the story, the long story.”

  “You want to tell it?”

  “Not really, no.” They wiggled the board and the table saw’s guide until it was exact, the saw blade’s kerf on the waste side of the drawn line. They cut off an eighty-by-two hundred rectangle, and then cut that to size.

  “You don’t have to answer this,” Norman said suddenly, “but we were talking a couple of years ago, after Rory went to bed. Talking about sex, homosex.”

  “I sort of remember that. We’d had a bit to drink.”

  “A lot.” He stamped the board on the table twice; then went over the cut edges with a rag. “You’d done it, you said.”

  “Well, it’s not a big deal in my culture,” he said, trying to separate Cuba from the place where he actually grew up. “Older men think it’s scandalous, effeminate. But they probably did the same thing when they were boys.”

  “Boys,” Norman said, rubbing the board with the rag.

  “It’s just play,” Pepe said. “You nortes are still Puritans.”

  “Some.” Norman smiled into space. “Some of us are still boys.”

  “¿ Como?” Pepe said. “Still boys?”

  “I’ve been homosexual since before you were born. Rory accepts it.”

  Pieces falling into place. “And that’s what the man was here about?” He looked at the blood spatter and trail. “The man with the bandage.”

  “Blackmail. You can imagine how long I’d have my job if it came out.”

  “Rory, too,” Pepe said. “The way things are.”

  “Exactly.”
He put the board under his arm and Pepe followed him into the kitchen.

  “So the blood? The guy’s hand?”

  The board fit the space exactly. “Hold this in place?” Pepe held it while Norman went through drawers, and finally found a thick roll of white tape.

  “You know a guy named Willy Joe Capra?” He pulled out tape to match the top and tore it. It had an unexpected smell, raspberry.

  “No, never heard of him.” Not until this morning, from Sara.

  “You’re lucky. He’s our friendly local Mafia connection.”

  Pepe went all over cold. “Jesus, Norman. What did you do to his hand?”

  “Oh, that wasn’t Willy Joe. That was his bodyguard, or something.” He pulled out long strips for the vertical sides. “His name’s ‘Solo’; I guess that’s why they sent him after a musician.”

  “And what did you do to him?”

  “He did it to himself. I suggested he take a hammer and apply it to his gun hand.”

  ” Madre de Dios.” Pepe lowered himself to sit on the windowsill, a foot off the floor. “And where was his gun?”

  “The police took it from him.”

  “The police who were just here?”

  Norm nodded. “They have some sort of scanning device.”

  “I’ve seen it on the cube.”

  “They didn’t use it on me. When this fellow threatened physical violence, I pulled out my own gun.”

  “You carry a gun?”

  “Not under normal circumstances, Pepe; haven’t since the army. But I knew who I was dealing with.”

  “Let me get this straight. You pulled a gun and said, “Let’s go out to the workshop and smash your hand.’ “

  “No, that was his idea. He offered to take a hatchet and chop off a finger.”

  “But you, you decided to be nice to him?”

  “Well, he could have a new finger in a week. Actually, I think he wanted to use the hatchet on me.”

  “And lose all that blackmail money?”

  “I don’t think their brains work that way.” Norman went to the refrigerator. “I don’t understand them any better than you do. Want a Coke or something?”

  “Something stronger. Early as it is.”

  “Me, too. White plonk?” Norman pulled out a ball of white wine and squeezed them two tumblersful. “Look, we’d had a meeting. Willy Joe and some lawyer and this bodyguard. A lunch meeting. They told me what they knew, and it was correct.”

  “So how much did they want?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I got up and walked out.”

  Pepe kneaded his face. “You have a death wish, Norman?”

  “Sometimes I think I do. Or at least place a low value on survival. Con permiso.” He picked up the buzzing phone. ” Buenas— oh, it’s you.” He pushed a red “record” button on the side.

  “That’s not possible. We’re having company over for dinner tonight, and I—

  “I suppose you might.” He listened, shaking his head. “Just you and Capra. And we talk outside the house, on the sidewalk, not inside.” He pushed the “end” button and looked at the phone.

  “That was the bodyguard?”

  “No, the lawyer.” He drank half the glass of wine and replayed the conversation.

  Capra congratulated Norman on being cute (” que guapo“) and gave the phone to the lawyer. He said the rules were different now, Norman having upped the ante by using violence. They had one more thing to show him, and if they couldn’t do business then, they would reveal his secret in time for the evening news, and just be done with it.

  Come to Capra’s house, 211 SW Third Avenue, at five, prepared to make a million-dollar credit transfer. Otherwise, they’d come join him and his company for dinner, and make it a really interesting party.

  “Southwest Third. Wonderful neighborhood,” Pepe said.

  “If you’re in the market for dope or prostitutes,” Norman said. “I never have one without the other, myself.” He drank some wine. “Showdown, I guess.”

  “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

  He smiled. “An end to it, possibly. Don’t tell Rory anything. I’ll go ahead and fix dinner, and leave her a note.”

  “What, “Go ahead and enjoy dinner; I’ll be back after I shoot some blackmailers’?”

  “It won’t come to that. Don’t worry.”

  “You want me to come along with you?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll probably just give them the million.”

  And then they’ll just leave you alone, Pepe thought. “Of course I’ll keep your secret. But I think you’re making a mistake.” A mistake that could derail everything.

  “I have a few hours to think on it. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”

  Pepe had a few hours, too. He finished his glass of wine. “Well, I’ve got to run. Fill me in on it tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” he said. ” Mañana. Hasta. “

  ” Mañana.” Pepe left through the front door, trying not to hurry. Another piece had fallen into place, something in the back of his mind ever since Sara had mentioned Willy Joe Capra’s name.

  Norman

  Norman watched him leave. Fill you in on it if I’m still alive.

  Well, he could distract himself for a while preparing dinner. He hadn’t gone to Publix after lunch, as promised. What could he conjure up out of the pantry for a couple of cheeseless, eggless, milk-free vegetarians? He turned the house back on and asked for random Vivaldi, music for vegetarianism.

  He studied the orderly array of boxes, cans, and jars on the pantry shelves, and perhaps was inspired by the music: Italian bean pie—a layered terrine of bean purees; red, white, and green. When you sliced it, it looked like the Italian flag.

  Taking the three cans from the pantry, he asked the house for the recipe, and it appeared on the screen above the range. “Larger,” he said, not wanting to use his glasses.

  He peeled and sliced potatoes and put them on to simmer, and then worked on the three colors of beans, sautéing them variously with onions, garlic, and shallots, and then setting them aside to cool. By then the potatoes were done; he tossed them with herbs Provence, olive oil, and white wine from the grocery-store ball.

  He started to pour himself a glass, but then realized this might be the last wine he would taste in this world. He went to the top of the rack and pulled down a ‘22 St. Emilion, maybe a week’s salary in a bottle. He pulled the cork and poured a third of the bottle into their largest balloon glass, then carefully preserved the rest of the bottle with nitrogen and knocked the cork back in. The Slidells were pleasant, but they weren’t close enough or important enough for a ‘22 Bordeaux.

  Everything had to cool for a while, so he turned off the music and carried the wine into his studio. He tuned the cello and ran through the latest partita he’d been developing for The Coming, but he was too distracted to work on it. He turned on a new book of old European folk dances and sight-read his way through Spain and Portugal, sipping wine between pieces.

  The house reminded him when it was 1600. He carefully spooned the layers of the terrine into a loaf pan, then drained the wine and oil from the potatoes and tossed them with a grind of pepper, a sprinkle of vinegar, and a little more herbs Provence. He put it all in the refrigerator and left Rory a note saying he was out; if he was late for dinner, make their traditional lettuce-and-tomato salad, minus the goat cheese, God forbid we should exploit goats.

  He put on a jacket against the afternoon cool and locked up, went into the garage, slid the heavy gun into its holster, and pedaled away.

  Plenty of time. He dawdled at the park’s exercise trail, watching young and old run and jump and heave and stretch. He should get back into that. Maybe tomorrow, if there is one.

  He pedaled slowly along the mile-long green belt, and then picked up speed as the traffic alongside him slowed, grinding into downtown. Comtemplating a new life rule: “Never be late for a gunfight.”

  Noting that Willy Joe and the la
wyer would assume he was armed, so would be protected by armored clothing. Get close enough to shoot for the head. Get Willy Joe and then the lawyer, if you live long enough. Was this the wine speaking? Or just the war. Both, probably.

  But the gun still felt like a burden. Not a partner, as it had in the desert. You might just pay them off, and save the killing for later, if they came back for more. When. They would be sure of themselves, then, and more vulnerable.

  A few blocks from the house, a fire truck screamed by him, then an ambulance, and then another fire truck. There was a wisp of black smoke ahead of him, and then a column.

  He stopped at Fourth Avenue, a block from Capra’s house, which was now burning like a bonfire.

  He took from his bike bag the monocular he used for birds, to verify the address.

  Medics and police were moving a small knot of onlookers away, off the sidewalk, to make way for the ambulance gurney. Lying in front of the house, there was a man in a chair, evidently tied up, covered with firefighting foam. They finished cutting him loose, and he stood, shakily, and they eased him onto the gurney.

  It was Qabil. They rolled him toward the ambulance.

  No meeting tonight, no shoot-out. Norman reversed his bicycle on the sidewalk and sped home.

  He got there just minutes before Rory pulled up with her guests. He reluctantly turned off the cube—no news bulletin yet— and met them at the door.

  Lamar and Dove Slidell were both astronomers, out in New Mexico now, classmates and pals with Rory from graduate school. Evidently they’d already said all there was to be said about the Coming, and knew that Rory would just as soon talk about anything else. So it was mainly gossip about mutual friends, and job comparisons. The Slidells worked on a mountaintop where you could actually see the stars. In Gainesville, the night sky was bright gray soup.

  Norman tried to appear interested, and accepted the compliments for his cooking, and drank somewhat more wine than the others. Finally, his phone rang, and he excused himself to take the call in the kitchen.

  It wasn’t the blackmailers. It was Qabil.