by Jack Womack
"A big old black car pulled up 'round midnight and I waved. The car stopped. I walked over to it, stood there by the side. The lights inside came on. The window rolled down. Inside there it seemed the most lavish thing. Two big old boys sat next to Him, pointin' guns at me, just in case, I figured. It was Him, in there. He was a glory to behold. He wore dark glasses and a dark cape covered His raiment. In His hand He held a long silver flashlight. His hair was black as a raven's wing and swept back. He turned and looked at me and then he spoke. "
He paused, waiting to see if we remembered our cue. "What'd he say?" half of us asked, loudly.
"Gettin' wet, aren't you? That's what He asked me. I said yeah. He smiled and there was a glorious look to His face. There was a big bag of cheeseburgers on the floor of the car and I was hungry and I almost asked Him for one but I didn't. He asked me my name and I told Him. He nodded and reached out His hand and took mine. As I held it for that moment I felt the electricity go right through me and all the power of God. I saw He had a gun pointed at me, too. Even God can't be too careful, you know. He said don't do anything I wouldn't do, brother-"
"And I haven't," Throttler interrrupted, appearing overly gleeful. The Old Man stared at him for a moment.
"And I haven't," he went on. "They all said goodnight and rolled up the window and drove in. Gates shut and I just stood there in the rain. It was obvious He was filled with the glory of the Lord--
I'd paid closer attention to the Old Man this time, attempting to discern signs of impending madness. He sounded no more irrational than he ever had.
"-though if I didn't know better, I'd of sworn He was stoned."
Avalon rolled over onto her back, and closed her eyes as if to sleep. Her sweater pulled up in front.
"Then I left. I like to think I followed His wishes as He asked me to. You know, had Jesus been real, and if he'd been in the same situation as E, he'd have done it all the same way."
And vice versa, I supposed, picturing E in that jumpsuit, crucified.
"Where's the cake?" the Old Man suddenly asked, as if returning from an unexpected trip.
"It's ready?" Throttler asked, looking up.
"Better be," said the Old Man, pressing a button. As he lay back, his lalas dived for him. Again the panel descended, bearing away dishes and half-eaten dinners. One of the guests nearly tumbled in, chasing the last crumbs on his plate. Dinner ended when the Old Man finished. When the panel rose once more it bore a six-foot-high cake of memorable form: a combination of Graceland and the Tower of Babel might be the most accurate description. Ten candles rounded the dais on which it sat.
The Old Man rubbed his hand over Throttler's hair, as if trying to wipe something off. "He's a good li'l feller."
"Wish it, son," said Mister Dryden, smiling again.
Throttler blew out the candles one at a time, so as not to strain himself.
"What'd you wish for?"
"A copter," he said, eyeing the cake. "This tried and passed?"
"You don't eat the cake, boy," laughed the Old Man, "You eat what's in it."
The top of the cake popped open; a lala leapt up. She was fifteen or so, and naked. The effect didn't come off as intended. Halfway through the opening her hips stuck; she struggled helplessly as all silently watched. When at last she pulled herself free it was with such effort that she lost her balance, sliding down the side of the cake head first. She rolled against Mister Dryden, getting frosting on his trousers and shoes. He jumped up and kicked her in the stomach, then drew back to kick her again.
"Stop it," yelled the Old Man.
His foot landed again; she doubled up, holding her sides.
"You dumb fuck, stop it!" screamed the Old Man again, rising suddenly and taking hold of his son's arms. "She's Throttler's present, not yours."
There was a dull throb at the back of my neck. I excused myself and left the room. I could have blinded myself to anything, were I to see it often enough.
In odd moments I'd gathered the material I needed to complete the morning's project, and so I knew I could spend time late this evening assembling and rigging the timer as I wished, once I was in my room in the main house. I went to the garage to see how Jimmy was coming with his adjustments. He was attaching a new headlight onto the left fender as I walked in.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"Not so bad, man. How goes inside?"
"They're playing with Throttler's present."
"Yes, man. Saw her when she come through. Nice bungo- bessy,sure. "
I heard wild laughter, and a steady chant of approval, and her screams.
"Sound like he took his free grind ticket, man."
"I suppose."
"Now he bust the double figures, he be bullyrige like his father, to raas."
"Or worse," I said, trying not to hear the sounds within. "You having any trouble there?"
"None I can't fix," he said, "Unlike some."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Boy Dryden, man, and I mean his father, too. Walk blind like they do and one day they walk one step too far. "
"Could be-" I said, trying to spot his stance, seeing if this was but a lure to lead me out.
"Boy Dryden especially," said Jimmy. "Knows he spin too fast now. Don't want Papa to pull out his bag of tricks."
"Tricks?"
"You know, man. What he keeps so tight. His snake in the rock. Shark in the water."
"I'd keep still for the moment, Jimmy-" I said, hoping to draw a response.
"I be no penny catcher like they gather, man. I be here to drink milk, not to count cow. I and I will come forward soon, irie? Big tree gonna fall hard one day. "
"May be."
"He rax up plenty great, man. Boy Dryden be scared over. If I be that man I be scared too. There be much confusion before Babylon falls, the Lion say. Much fullness brimstone from Jah on high. Much fullness for him."
Throttler walked out, slipping on a tee that said Surrender Dorothy across the front. I heard stirrings and soft conversation from within, as if from a dream; they prepared for the evening events. The Misters Dryden first emerged, shotguns loaded. I think little of guns, usually; an amateur's tool. Guns have been outlawed for so long that they would seem obsolete but for the fact that the Army-amateurs all-finds such use for so many. Owners, of course, may own guns; for protection, and for sport.
"Let's roll, O'Malley,' said Mister Dryden.
Biff and Scooter led the group; I walked behind the Drydens. There were fourteen players. The women never participated, nor did the children, not even Throttler.
"Good shootin' weather," said the Old Man.
"Get much this week?" asked Carlisle.
"I honestly don't know," he said. "Haven't looked yet. Hope so.''
It was a leisurely stroll, some three-quarters of a mile, to the playing fields, through shady groves of evergreens, fresh and sharpscented as a Christmas-tree lot, past a small pond edged with cattails, by a red gazebo tucked in a bosky glade, through a stand of weeping willows. The wind blew gently and the songs of birds serenaded us as we trod along.
"You see the latest Gallup?" one of them said. "The president's got 91 percent preference. "
The Gallup in question enlisted the opinions of twenty-three people, including both Drydens.
"Way ahead of whatsisname. This election's safe."
They always were.
We reached the range, a long meadow between two wood lots. Fifteen guards were positioned at the far end, near some shrubbery; I knew that a haw-haw ran behind them. Each guard wore a gray Sherlock hat; each shouldered a long knobby club. The quarry lurked in the bushes nearby. The Old Man walked over to the gamekeeper, who wore a bright red cap so as to avoid falling prey in moments of excitement.
"What came in, Titus?"
"Had trouble with the shipment, sir," said Titus, nodding toward a white semi parked on the field's edge. "Packed sardine-tight. Smothered, every one."
"Shit," said the Old Man. "Roun
d up some replacements?"
"Yup. Fresh vanload. Plus the one sent down."
"Sounds good. Everything set?"
"Yup. " Titus clicked on the tape in the box he carried and, following Mister Dryden's request, "All Shook Up" began playing.
"Spread out, everbody," yelled the Old Man. "When I give the high sign, move forward at a steady clip." The players aligned themselves at the head of the meadow.
"Ought to play sometime, O'Malley," said Turnbull.
"You know that boy," laughed the Old Man. "He ain't much for sports." He raised his arm over his head, shouting: "Yeee- hah!"
The band trotted across the meadow. The guards thwacked at the brush with their clubs. Figures leapt up, peering about, running like hellbats, hoping only that they might be overlooked. There was so much chance of that as of the president being Republican.
"Asked 'em if they wanted to come to the country," Titus said tome. "They did."
Twenty-six trophies danced through the dark. All were naked: black, some of them, and some Asiatic; the rest Latino. Before she went down I saw the lala who had rumpled Mister Dryden's suit.
"Yeee-Hah!"
They preferred children; there was less to clean up afterward.
Before I turned in, not long before midnight, I set the alarm and prepped my material. The study was on the first floor, near the foot of the central stairs. Mister Dryden assured me I'd have no trouble getting in.
Had the alarm not sounded at five, rousing me from my depths, the dream I suffered just before waking would have been lost in sleep's successive hours. I dreamed I walked along the seashore. In the distance, near tide's reach and breaker's grasp, I saw something struggling. Running down, arriving in a trice, I found Avalon, lying naked on her back, her arms and legs buried in the sand. She looked at me, silently pleading for help; she couldn't get out. I pulled her free. She took my hand, led me up the beach, far from the ocean. She lay down, drawing me toward her, pushing my head between her legs, and shoving my face against her quim. I kissed. She grew, or I shrank; at once all around was dark and wet. Unable to pull my head out, I struggled, but only worked myself in further; she grasped my legs and quickly pushed me in. It seemed a marvelous way to drown. Suddenly I saw her from above as she lay on the sand, her teeth ashine as if set to bite. She stood, walked to the water, swam past the waves, dived and disappeared. I awoke, sweating and shaking, wanting her all the more.
I dressed and gathered my toys. The house was dark as I crept through the hall, gliding silently down the stairs. I pressed my fingers to the study door, and it opened. No bell rang, no light flashed; I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. There was vague illumination within the room, coming from the fish tank built into the far wall. Steel shutters covered the room's two windows; no predawn light filtered past. In seconds my eyes adjusted. There was much to see. Hanging on either side of the fireplace were the Old Man's honorary degrees, his business awards, his civic trophies, and governmental citations. Near the mantel, on the right, was Mister Dryden's first award, given the year he was graduated: the certificate announced him as one of the Jaycee's Ten Most Outstanding American Young Men. Over the fireplace hung the Old Man's portrait, done when he was Mister Dryden's age; but for the color of his hair, he looked the same now. Framed photographs lined the mantelpiece, showing the Old Man with, among others, the present Czara of Russia and the last ten American presidents, five of whom had been assassinated, one after only two months in office.
On the wall opposite was his forty-eight-inch TVC monitor. Between the windows were rows and rows of tattered record albums, preserved still. Across from his desk were three black file cabinets, always locked. His desk was perfect for the need at hand: the top was wood, neither too thick or too thin; high enough in the central part that the user's knees would not brush against it, low enough so that nothing attached underneath could necessarily be seen. The blast's force would go outward and upward, toward the seated-toward the Old Man.
Placing it was pie-easy. I stuck up the plasticine-enough to take that half of the room, to be sure-set the timer for one P.M., when Mister Dryden told me the Old Man would be in there alone, pressed in the wires and it was done. The timer would survive the blast; on its surface I'd scratched the insignia of Nou veaux Maroon, the Haitian group-Barney, Biff, and Scooter were all former Maroons, led into the Dryden web with the standard bait. As house guards, Mister Dryden suspected they'd be perfect scapes.
Before I left the study-it hadn't taken five minutes-I looked at those file cabinets. They, too, were made to survive; whatever they held would rest fast so well. Afterward, I thought, I could at last discover what the Old Man hid there, and how by it he traced his dancer's steps. I had inklings, knew that on the day the markets crashed the Old Man was in Washington with the president. Hours later, attempting to escape, the president was pulled from his copter and lynched. Whatever they'd discussed, only the Old Man knew. I had learned from Mister Dryden that in those cabinets were papers he'd secured while all was fluxed; papers he'd never since let stray far from reach. There'd be time aplenty to overlook those, I thought, and so I let them be. Pulling the door tight, I stepped into the hall, heard the lock click shut behind me.
Dawn neared now; morningshade lightened the hall at the apex of the stairs. As I passed Avalon's room I noticed that the door was open; I looked in. She lay on her bed, on her stomach, her legs covered by the sheet, her buttocks rising high. For a moment I felt stricken; I'd seen her naked limitless times, but knowing that soon she'd be with me, and coming upon her so unexpectedly, set my heart to bursting. I neared the bed after entering her room; I knelt beside, vizzing her lying there, hearing her breathe, watching her shift gently as she dreamed. Her choppers sat in a glass by the bed, fixed and grinning. Slowly, more carefully than if I were attempting to defuse a blaster, I reached out my hand; my fingers shook as they approached the small of her back and the deep valley below. But I could not touch her, not yet; not as she slept, so absolutely unaware and so seemingly helpless. It would have seemed too akin to rape; I lifted my hand, knowing that at this time the next morning, in Leningrad, I could safely place myself against her. Standing, I stepped away, slipping once more through her door, silently returning to my room.
Resetting the clock's alarm for ten-standard rising hour at the estate-I went back to sleep, dreaming no more. When ten came I rearose and headed downstairs to breakfast. As I came into the dining room I saw that Avalon, the Old Man, and Mister Dryden were already there.
"Thought you'd need rest," Mister Dryden muttered to me as I placed myself beside him. I smiled. Breakfast was always an intimate affair; including the tasters, and Stella, and the four house guards, there were only eleven of us.
The Old Man was looking over various maps and graphs, spilling jelly on them as he ate his eggs and toast.
"Check this out now," he said, flipping a drawing with attached printout over to Mister Dryden. "You'll have a new city apartment in a place like this."
Mister Dryden picked up the sketch, stared at it for a few moments. It showed a U-shaped, six-story apartment building, with a garden court guarded by two stone lions, tails erect. The stained glass windows along the ground floor nicely offset the bright yellow brick.
"Where I am suits," said Mister Dryden.
"Won't when water starts pourin' through the windows."
"On Fifth I'm thirty floors above. At the Towers-"
"Look at that place, will you? Architect says it's exactly like it was in 1928."
"Including satellite dish?" asked Mister Dryden; it was red with white trim.
"If there'd been dishes in 1928 I'm sure they'da been just like that. "
"Easy entrance frontways," said Mister Dryden. "Risks inhere to city life, but-"
"Between the hollyhocks and the zinnias," said the Old Man, gesturing toward the garden's flowerbeds, "the mines."
"Tell the gardener."
"Apartments like this'll be built and rebuilt all
up and down the Concourse," said the Old Man. I suspected that Mister Dryden's might be the only one equipped with rocket launchers. "The new Fifth Avenue. Streetcars'll run down the center median. Buses along the side. IA lane down the middle, as always. Stores'll rent out south of 161st. Bloomies, Saks-Mart. Only the best."
"What's a streetcar?" asked Stella; her purple eyeshadow matched the bandanna she wore tied round her waist like a chain for the smashing.
"It's like a-" The Old Man paused, his descriptive powers for the moment lost. "They used to have 'em in San Francisco. Before the quake." Stella, obviously unenlightened, let it drop.
"Pass the bacon," said Avalon, stretching out her arm to receive.
"Choose other," said Mister Dryden, who kept clear of fried food.
"Pass the fucking bacon," Avalon said; I did.
"You had to blow up Lope yesterday?" the Old Man asked, with that wonderful shift in direction that kept dinner conversation so unpredictable here. Mister Dryden seemed uninterested; his coffee broke in waves within his cup as he held it.
"Our help was unforthcoming," he said. "He prepped to Mar- ielize. Tragic but essential."
"Marielize what? Atlantic City? What'd he have to say about it?"
"They shove four Boardwalk casinos now. Fronted clear, no trails to or fro. They put the knee in another four."
"Now how do they do that?"
"Standard. Blasts, kneecaps, kidsteals, wifekills. Two weeks ago they rambled the night manager at Caesar's and stumped him handsaw style."
"They're uncivilized, all right," said the Old Man. "That's why we signed the truce with the bastards. They're too fuckin' wired to deal with. What'd Lope propose to do that you disagreed with?"
"To fund them steady. To steal baby and bath."
"So?" said the Old Man. "Let 'em."
"We need our hand there."
"Boardwalk's underwater at high tide now."
"Prop, Dad. The Green's all prop. Dark and black. Property doesn't negate."
