by Peter David
The crowd went wild, for they had never heard a reply to this often-asked question quite like this one. They were thrilled by its novelty.
Someone shouted, "Aren't you just passing the buck?"
Arthur didn't even try to locate the individual but addressed the crowd, even those who may not have heard the question. "Is advocating a true trial for the people passing the buck? On the contrary, it's the perfect solution. No one will be able to feel that a proper sentence has not been meted out, for it will be the sentence of the people whose lives had been hurt the most by the criminal's actions." Raising a fist proudly, he unashamedly mixed up quotes as he declared, "Trial by jury of the people, by the people and for the people!"
Traffic didn't move for an hour.
Chaptre the Eighth
It was sometime later when the ferret-eyed, bearded man from the crowd entered the Eighth Avenue Health Club and made his way down to the racquetball courts.
He slid through empty seats mounted on tiers, moving down as close as he was allowed to the actual court. A large piece of Plexiglas separated him from the two men aggressively battling it out for final points on the court. One man was tall, lean, a sharp and accurate player. The other man was much shorter, heavyset, with a beer belly he liked to smack affectionately and refer to as his "old hanger-on." His legs were spindly and looked as if every sudden shift in direction might cause them to break like twigs. His thin blond hair was tied off in a sweat-soaked bandanna, and his LaCoste shirt was plastered to his chest. The first man was, by contrast, calm and self-possessed. His opponent was on the ropes, and he had barely broken a sweat.
The bearded spectator rolled his eyes as the heavyset man lunged at the ball and missed it by the width of several states. He thought to himself, as the two players shook hands, See if you can pick the likely candidate for mayor, and groaned silently.
The beer-bellied man turned and spotted him, "Moe!" he called cheerfully, waving a beefy hand. "Come to see your next mayor in action?"
Moe managed a grimace and a nod. "You bet, Bernie. You bet."
The exceptionally jovial (exceptionally, considering he'd just been slaughtered at racquetball) Bernard B. Bittberg dragged his opponent by the shoulder. "Moe, you gotta meet one of the top eleven players I ever met. This is Ronnie Cordoba. Ronnie, this is Moe Dredd, one of the top three P.R. hacks I ever met. Ronnie, Moe. Moe, Ronnie."
Moe reluctantly extended his hand and felt several fingers crack in Ronnie's grip. He grimaced again, and gingerly unwrapped the remnants of his hand. "Bernie, we have to talk."
"So we'll talk. We're talking."
"I think he means just the two of you," said Ron. "I'll be shuffling off to the locker room."
Bet he tosses a salute, thought Moe.
Ronnie smiled a perfect smile and tossed a salute before turning his broad back and trotting away, arms held perfectly for jogging.
"So what's to talk?" said Bernie. "Newspapers already start giving their endorsements for me?" He grinned broadly, displaying teeth dirty from cigar smoke. "I got it sewn up, even before the primaries. They know that. I know that. We all know that."
Moe said, "Bernie, sit down."
Bernie looked at him oddly and stroked the faint stubble on his cheeks. "Whaddaya mean, sit down?"
Moe sat and patted one of the solid wood fold-out chairs next to him. Bernard B. Bittberg sat down. He drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently.
"Bernie," said Moe slowly, "I agree with you that you have the Democratic nomination sewn up. With the incumbent mayor leaving politics to go into show business, it leaves a clear path for you. You've got your years of being City Council head. You've got your high-profile participations in well-covered charity stunts and your seat in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and all of that. You've got great TV presence, an aggressive stand that lots of New Yorkers find easy to handle-"
"Moe," said Bernie cannily, "you didn't want to talk to me to tell me all these wonderful things about me."
"This is true," said Moe, lowering his gaze. "What I'm saying is that you may have your work cut out for you after the primaries."
"After?" He eyed Moe suspiciously. "You trying to tell me you think the Republicans really have a prayer?"
"No."
His eyes widened and he whispered, "The Commies?"
"No. Not the Commies."
He sat back and spread his hands questioningly. "Well then, who... ?"
"There's an independent candidate-"
Bernard laughed hoarsely and shook his head. "You're kidding me, right? An independent candidate? Some schmuck who puts up his own soapbox and starts pontificating to the public? Bullshit! I do not for one minute-"
"Bernie," and Moe's tone as always was unpleasant, "you pay me quite handsomely for giving my advice, and I am telling you now," he waved a thin finger threateningly, "that if you do not listen to what I'm telling you, you will have thrown your money on me away."
Bernie leaned back in the chair. He stroked his chin some more and then said, "All right, Moe. So who is this wunder-kind you're so concerned about?"
Moe cleared his throat, covering a sigh of relief. He had finally gotten Bernie to listen to him.
That was three quarters of the battle right there. "His name is Arthur Penn," he said.
Bernie rolled the name around in his mouth and finally shook his head. "Never heard of him."
"Neither have I. Neither has anybody else. But you're going to. The man's totally unhinged."
"What?"
"He says strange things that, in a bizarre, roundabout way make some sort of sense. When he doesn't know an answer to a question, he says weird things like... like..."
"Like what?" asked Bernie. "Like, 'We have that topic under careful consideration and plan to address it in the near future.' "
"No. He just says he doesn't know."
"What?"
"That's right."
The blood drained from Bernie's face. "The man's a lunatic!"
"That's not all. I happened to be in a crowd over by TKTS today. He climbed up on a statue and started speech making. The crowd clustered to him like nothing I've ever seen. Bernie, it was frightening. They weren't just standing there. After less than a minute it was clear to me that they were actually listening. Hanging on his every word. Anyone who came within earshot of his voice was mesmerized instantly. I immediately started tossing a few random questions at him, kind of hoping to see how badly he would botch it. So instead he started giving these looney-tune answers, and the crowd ate it up."
"Loony-tune answers? What answers? What sort of questions?"
Moe told him, and Bernie's eyes widened so that they threatened to explode from his head.
"What is he, nutsl You didn't tell me he was totally unhinged."
"Actually, I'd-"
But Bernie wasn't listening now. He was pacing angrily back and forth, up and down the narrow stairway that led up the aisle between seats. "Allowing the people to pass sentence.
That's nuts! Sentences are passed in accordance with the laws of this state. Certain crimes demand certain sentences. The angered or bereaved victim can't begin to grasp the subtleties, the complexities of passing a-"
"Bernie," said Moe impatiently. "I know that. You know that. For all I know, even Arthur Penn knows that. But the people don't."
"But the people don't run the courts!"
"True enough. But they run the polling booths. And if they find this Penn's sideways view of the world attractive, they might say so come election day. New York is a city of nonconformed. Our television ratings never match. Our buildings don't vaguely resemble each other in style. New Yorkers are rude in situations where others are polite, and polite in situations where Mister Rogers would bite your head off. They might just buy and slice this crock of baloney."
Bernie had barely listened. He was too busy shaking his head, saying, "The laws dictate the punishment that should fit the crime. Can't he see that? It's impossible."
&n
bsp; "I'm telling you right now that if that little matter were brought to his attention, his immediate reaction would be, 'Well, let's change the law.' "
Bernie scratched his head. "So how do you figure we deal with this nutcase?"
"Frankly, I'm not dead sure yet. I think we can only take a wait-and-see attitude for now."
Moe interlaced his fingers and crossed his legs almost daintily. "I mean, we shouldn't start attacking his positions yet. All that will do is give him publicity. Hell, maybe that's what he's hoping for."
"Too bad," muttered Bernie. "I'd like to take this guy apart in public."
"You may yet get your chance, if he sticks around. Which, I have a sick feeling, he's going to do."
Bernie was struck by a thought. "Hey, Moe, about that thing with people deciding the sentence ... I mean, what if they got together and decided to bring back tar and feathering?"
"With the crime rate what it is?" Moe snorted. "You could start heating enough tar to fill every pothole in New York and it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the demand." His nose wrinkled slightly. "Go hit the showers, Bernie. With the sweat you worked up, you're starting to smell like New Jersey."
Chaptre the Ninth
Arthur grabbed up the telephone before the first ring had ended. "Hello, yes? Merlin!"
Merlin's voice was overwhelmed by traffic noises in the background. "Calm down, Arthur.
You're not getting a call from the messiah, after all."
"Merlin, where the devil have you been?" The excitement in his voice was unkingly, but he didn't care a bit. "I haven't seen you in over a week. I have so much to tell you! Where are you? What are you doing? What are you up to?"
"Arthur, please! I don't understand. What's been happening? I mean, you've just been out getting signatures, haven't you? What could be so exciting about that? It's-"
"Oh, no, Merlin! It's gone beyond that. Way beyond that."
Merlin sounded extremely wary. "What are you talking about?" he said slowly.
Arthur sat back in his throne. Surrounded by the walls of his castle, he felt power surging through his body and spirit. "I," he said proudly, "have been politicking."
"You've been what!"
"Making speeches. That sort of-"
"For pity's sake, Wart, who told you to do that?"
Arthur frowned. "I don't think I like the tone of your voice, Merlin."
"Tone of my-Arthur, what in the name of the gods have you been saying to the people? How did this start?''
"It began the first day I was out," said Arthur cheerily, as if relating the details of a thrilling game of cricket. "People were ignoring me, sol.. ."
He described the proceedings.
"Are you out of your mind?"
Feeling somewhat crestfallen, Arthur said, "No, I don't think so. But-"
"We were to rehearse everything you were going to be saying. Have you forgotten all of that?"
"No," said Arthur. "No, I haven't." And his voice took on an edge hard as steel as he said,
"But I think you're forgetting who is going to be the next mayor of this state."
"City, you great barbarian oaf! Not state! You-"
Arthur slammed the phone down.
He got up and walked out of the throne room as the phone started to ring again. It rang a dozen times, and he finally came back in. The hem of his purple velvet dressing gown swished around on the floor, stirring up dust, and he made a mental note to get the place swept. He let it ring another few times before he picked it up, but before he could get a word out Merlin said, sounding very small, "I'm sorry, Arthur."
Arthur hesitated, his eyes wide. His grip on the phone relaxed marginally. "Merlin," he said softly, "I think this is the first time you've ever apologized to me. About anything."
"I don't intend to make it a habit. And the only thing I'm apologizing for is the barbarian remark. Everything else stands. You're supposed to follow the script I've laid out."
"I'm not an actor, Merlin. I'm ... a politician."
"Same difference. Listen, I'll be seeing you in a day or so. And I've got a new member for our group. He's going to be our accountant."
"Goodman?"
"One of the best. Utterly dedicated."
"Where have you been for the past week or so?"
"Sobering him up and cleaning him off."
Arthur laughed. "What a sense of humor you have, Merlin. What did you do, pick him up off the street?"
"More or less."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Urn, Merlin-I'm going to assume you know what you're doing. What's the fellow's name anyway?**
"Vale. Percy Vale."
Arthur's mouth opened and closed for a moment. Then he said carefully, "Merlin, I have to ask you. Percy Vale..."
"Yes?"
"GwenDeVere..."
"Your point, Arthur?"
"Have you, well, noticed a pattern?"
"Pattern?" There was a lengthy pause, and Arthur wondered if Merlin was still on,the line before he heard the wizard say, "What pattern?"
"Those names sound like-"
"Bosh. What's in a name, Arthur? See you soon." The line was abruptly cut off.
Percy Vale bore little superficial resemblance to the man Merlin had found on the library a week ago. He was now dressed in a straight-arrow, three-piece, black pinstripe suit. There was no trace of liquor on his breath, although it had left a haunted look in his eyes. He was neatly groomed, his fingernails trimmed. His eyes were bloodshot, but Visine would take that away in time. A cup of black coffee sat in front of him.
"You promised me, Merlin."
Merlin sat across from him, the remains of his breakfast all around him. Percy had had toast.
Merlin had put away steak and eggs and was on his third cup of coffee. The waitress kept giving him looks every time she walked by. He ignored them; he was used to it.
"Yes, I know I promised you, Percy."
"You said that if I sobered up, you'd tell me who I am. You told me you'd explain why I got this emptiness in my gut and I always gotta fill it with booze."
Merlin sipped his coffee. "You were once a knight," he said so quietly that Percy had to strain his ears to hear him. "A knight of the Round Table."
Percy stared at him and then leaned back. "Bull-sheeet. No black man ever sat at no Round Table. You mean with King Arthur and them? No way."
"Oh, you were not black at the time," Merlin said with a dismissive wave. "You have to learn to look beyond the present. Yours is an eternal spirit, Percy. You have always existed. You always will. Sometimes you will be white, sometimes yellow, sometimes male and sometimes female. You are a symbol."
"What, you mean one of those big round things you clang?"
Merlin winced. "Symbol. Not cymbal. Symbol as in representing something. You are an incarnation, Percy. An incarnation of a human ideal."
"Man, that is the biggest crock of-"
"In this case that ideal is dedication to a goal. You are not aware of it, Percy, but in a time past you sought the Holy Grail."
"The what?"
Merlin pursed his lips. "In the time of Camelot there came a period of discontent. The knights became bored with the ideal of chivalry and civilization. Arthur had achieved a goal, namely the use of the power of knighthood for something other than hacking enemies into small bits of meat. Men were treating men like human beings, and women like chattel that needed protection, which was a damned sight better than the way both genders were being treated earlier."
Percy cocked his head to one side as Merlin took another sip of coffee. "But, as human beings are wont to do, the knights wound up needing a new goal to stave off the oppression of boredom. So I gave them one. They were to search for, find, and recover the Holy Grail.
The cup from which Jesus Christ drank at the Last Supper."
"Why?"
Merlin shrugged. "I don't know. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. It was either that or the Holy Plate. It hardly mattered what I came up with, as long
as it was something to keep what I laughingly refer to as the knights' 'minds' occupied."
"Are you saying there wasn't ever a Holy Grail?"
"No," said Merlin. "There might have been. And there might be flying saucers and the Loch Ness monster and honest used-car dealers and whatever other fantasies the human mind is capable of conjuring. What I'm saying is that I made up the Holy Grail. Certainly. I would have said anything to delay the splintering of the Round Table. Yet for all I know I actually hit upon something that existed. I couldn't say. Whatever I made up, however, you were the most dedicated in attempting to find h. For that is what you are-dedication personified."
"Yeah, yeah, so you said."
"So I said," agreed Merlin cheerfully. "And you have lived many lives, for you have always existed and always will. And no matter who you were or where you were, you have always been dedicated."
"Oh, yeah?" said Percy. "Then why," and he leaned forward intently, "why, if I'm so damned dedicated, am I a stinking drunk?"
"Because in this lifetime you were dedicated to your own self-destruction. And you were very good at it. If it hadn't been for me, you might have achieved it." Merlin frowned then. "And since you are the embodiment of the human spirit, I got you just in time. It would not have boded well at all for humanity if you'd allowed your liver to turn into a colander."
"Oh, yeah?" said Percy. "You don't know what made me the way I am."
"In fact I do. I have quite a few ways of searching out what I wish to know. It wasn't difficult.
Good accountant, you were. One of the best. Worked for a big firm and discovered irregularities-funds disappearing for which you could not account."
Percy turned away but Merlin continued, his voice oddly flat and even. "You discovered a higher up, a man you respected tremendously, had been jerking the company around. He fed you a sob story that wrenched your heart. Ever sympathetic to the human condition, you agreed to cover for him. And you did, until the auditors found it. But the higher up managed to pin the whole thing on you. Fired. Disgraced. No one would hire you. Your world in the toilet, you had no goal to achieve. So you sought escape in a bottle-"
