“Yes, yes! Come in!” cried the cosmonaut hospitably, but Tommy Pedigrue shook his head.
“I hate to break up the party,” he said, “but I’d like to see the two of you for a moment. I have an offer that I think might interest you.”
Tuesday, December 8th. 5:30 PM.
The earth’s north pole is not fixed; it shifts irregularly, usually within a small area. Sometimes the area is not small. About thirteen thousand years ago, in what is called the “Gothenburg excursion”, it made a large-angle shift. At about the same time, the world’s sea levels dropped significantly. At about the same time, the Nile flooded. At about the same time, the North American glaciers, which had been retreating, began to advance again. At about the same time, the Neanderthalers became extinct. A link between these events and the Gothenburg excursion of the magnetic field has been suggested, but not established.
In the computer files of the L.A.P.D., the F.B.I., and about sixteen other law-enforcement agencies around the West Coast he was listed as Melvin “Buster” Boyma, with a regrettable number of arrests and very few convictions. Boyma was an extraordinarily short man, not quite five feet tall. When he was young he was almost round, and the bulges were all muscle. The other hoodlums called him “Buster” because his bear-hug had broken at least three opponents’ spines. On the grounds of his condominium no one called him Buster. They didn’t call him Mel-vin, either; he was Mr. Boyma whenever any of the contractors had to talk to him, which they preferred to do seldom. He picked his way carefully around the raw red mud that one day would be plantings of lawn and shrubs, studying the steel skeleton that rose six stories into the sky, and sniffed the Chirstmas wreaths that hung around the sales office to make sure they were real. In spite of the heat, he was wearing a pearl gray jogging suit and pearl gray boots, custom made to fit his bulging calves. He lifted one boot and studied it fastidiously. “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head, “you got six straight days of Santa Ana and everything in California burning up, and what do I get here?”
The sub-contractor said apologetically, “You always get some mud when you pour concrete, Mr. Boyma. There’s always some spillage.”
“Yeah,” said Boyma. “You got spillage, and you got leakage, and what you mostly got is slippage. What kind of fairy tale you going to tell me today?”
The prime contractor coughed. “We haven’t made up any of the slippage,” he admitted.
“No? And maybe you slipped back a little more?”
“Well, there’s the holidays coming up, Mr. Boyma, and it’s hard to get full crews every day—”
“I want a date!” Boyma roared.
The prime contractor said hastily, “February first. You can start moving people in February first, I promise.”
“February first. When we started selling, you know what we promised? We promised they could spend Christmas in their own home. You know how many units we sold last week? We sold one. And we got three cancellations. That means for the week we got two less sold than we started out with. Where’s Fennerman?”
“He’s waiting for you in the car, Mr. Boyma,” said one of the two young men who followed him wherever he went. He turned and picked his way delicately through the turned wet soil, pausing to glance out toward the Pacific. You couldn’t see much from here, of course. Even less after the other buildings went in, which would not be until these first ones were fully sold. But from the penthouse apartment, complete with private elevator and private entrance to the private underground garage, you would see the Pacific, right over the buildings that would come in later. That was the one Boyma had reserved for himself—at least for the next couple of years, until he was ready to retire to that great mobster’s heaven in Palm Springs, where you didn’t have to worry about those unpleasant statistics of street crime and violence that were turning Los Angeles into another Detroit.
Melvin Boyma had come up the hard way, starting with a union local, expanding into women and drugs. As soon as he had a stake he put it into the growth industry of the time, which was porno films. Then the stake became really big and he didn’t have to bother with that sort of thing any j more. He was in investments. Some of the investments involved bookmaking. Some were called “shylocking” by the L.A.P.D. But his accountants had convinced him that, with the money market going crazy, it was almost as profitable to put his capital into legitimate business. Semi-legit, anyway. He still kept a turf of his own in downtown L.A., but it had been a long time since he had taken care of any of that business in person. As an elder statesman of the underworld he didn’t need to.
Of course, as an elder statesman of the underworld he was exposed to a certain amount of police harassment from time to time, like this grand jury indictment. But that did not weigh very heavily on him. That was what you paid lawyers for, and Boyma paid his very well.
The last few steps to the car were uphill, and Boyma was puffing as he squeezed into the car where his lawyer was sitting. “Cigarette,” he said, and the lawyer held out a pack. The jogging suit had no pockets, because that was the way jogging suits were made, but Boyma never found that an inconvenience. He retained other people to be his pockets, not only for money and cigarettes but for whatever else one might have a sudden need for. “How come these people can get out of their contracts, Fennerman?” he demanded.
“State law, Mr. Boyma. Non-performance on our part.”
Boyma grunted and leaned back against the cushions, unzipping his jacket. The tailored jogging suit fit him well, but not kindly. At best he looked like a well-designed pearl gray beachball, and when he sat down the barrel of fat that had once been muscle rearranged itself in ways no tailor could deal with. “You talk about non-performance,” he said, “those turkeys I got working for me got a patent on it. Can I sue?”
“You can certainly sue, Mr. Boyma, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s very doubtful that you can recover damages unless you can show negligence on their part; that’s state law, too.” He cleared his throat. “What I wanted to talk to you about is the grand jury indictment. The D.A.‘s moving for speedy trial.”
“So? So stall it, Fennerman!”
The lawyer raised his eyes to heaven. “Sometimes I think you expect miracles from me.”
Boyma didn’t answer. It was, after all, true. Money could buy all kinds of miracles; it was what you acquired money for.
Wednesday, December 9th. 7:00AM.
There is a valley in Iceland with shallow bluffs on either side. It is where two tectonic plates come together. The bluff on the west is the farthest extension of the North American plate, the bluff on the east, of the Eurasian. Iceland sits atop the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the sea floor is spreading. The island is slowly being torn apart.
Danny Deere’s telephone room was the assembly line of his real-estate operation. It held eight steel desks, each of them surrounded on three sides by acoustic tile partitions.
All eight members of the phone squad lived with one eye over their shoulders, watching for Danny’s inspection tours. Sometimes there was only one a day, sometimes six or seven. They never knew when he would materialize behind them, reaching over to thumb through the stacks of cards, calls made on one side, calls waiting on the other.
Today was a good day for the phone squad, because Danny was in a hurry. He walked quickly down one row and up the other, and spot-checked only one phone solicitor, the newest, hired because he spoke fluent Arabic. Unfortunately the son of a bitch didn’t know anything about real estate. “Piss poor,” Danny snarled, throwing the cards back on the desk. “I think I made a mistake with you, Mahmoud.”
The man glowered sulkily at him out of eyes that, Danny was offended to see, had been enhanced with shadow. “These prices are so high, Mr. Deere!”
“No, they’re not. They’re investments for the future, and don’t you fucking forget it. Whatever they pay, it’ll be worth more in sixty days!” Or would be, anyway, unless Danny’s plans worked out. But that had nothing to do with Mahmoud or the other so
ldiers of the phone squad. When it was time for the signals to change Danny would change them. He said severely, “You got a great list there, all sheiks and all. Fat and dumb, right off the plane; they don’t know shit about values unless you tell them. You got one more week, Mahmoud. Keep an eye on him,” he barked to the woman whose desk was at the end of the line and was nominally in charge of the others. Not that anyone was ever in charge of anything in Danny Deere Enterprises but Danny.
He left her to do the rest of the reaming out. That was what he paid for her, and besides he was running late. Not late late, because the appointment was one he intended to be late for in the first place, but late enough so that it was time to pay his other call first.
Deere House was a two-story frame building on Sunset Boulevard. To the right of the dividing stairwell was the storefront labeled Danny Deere Estate Agent, with its desks for the licensed brokers who worked for him, its walls of estate photographs and development plans. To the left was another storefront. This one was marked Danny Deere Travel—Please Go Away. Next to it was the smallest office, the one that held his shopping newspaper and what was left of his unsuccessful attempt at a public relations firm and talent agency.
The best things about the building were not visible on the outside. One of them was the offices on the floor above, where Danny did things that he did not want to do in public. The other was the private staircase on the outside, so he could get from any part of the building to any other without passing go. It meant going out of the air-conditioning, but the heat wasn’t as bad as the last week, the Santa Ana was dying down, the weather report promised something in the Pacific bringing a change. All the same, Danny was glad to scuttle down the steps and into the blast of cold air in the newspaper office, where his secretary Anna-Livia was waiting for him. “I’m just writing it up, Danny,” she said quickly, looking up from her typewriter. “I already interviewed them, and they’re waiting outside your office.”
“What ‘them’? Dennis Siroca I was expecting, not some ‘them’.”
“He brought a black fellow named Saunders Robinson. He didn’t say why, Danny. You want to hear what I got from them? There’s more than two hundred people in the movement. They’re going to open the new ashram next week.”
“Say two thousand, and make sure you get the address of the what-do-you-call-it up big.” He left by the front door, mostly so the people in the other offices would see him pass by the wide windows and know he was on the prowl.
Deere House had a book value of three-quarters of a million dollars, but didn’t look it. It didn’t reflect the magnitude of Danny Deere Enterprises, either. The real-estate firm alone had done sixty-two million dollars in business the previous year, for a gross commission of four million plus, a big chunk of that Danny’s own. None of the other companies threw off that kind of profit. But they all paid their way, took little time or thought away from Danny’s own personal schedule, and had occasional fringe benefits. When an airline or a hotel decided to compliment its travel agents with a free week in Moorea or Kenya, Danny and one of his girls was glad to accept. It gave him a feeling of pleasure to pass from the simple front door, up the winding but well carpeted steps, and into the little hall that led to his private office.
Two-twenty-five, and they had been waiting since two. Danny poured himself a drink and signaled Joel de Lawrence to bring them in. He didn’t waste time with hellos. “Who’s he?” he barked, staring at the young black man with Dennis Siroca. He let him stand there with his hand offered while Dennis explained that Robinson was an old buddy who had been through five or six street groups, and after all Danny had told him to hire an assistant.
“No. I told you to find one. I do the hiring. Tell me why I ought to hire you, Robinson.”
The black man had a fluid poise that allowed him to draw his hand back without looking rejected. “Because I got background old Dennis don’t, Mr. Deere,” he said easily. “I been through black, I been through Hare Krishna, I been through Watts community drives.”
“You been through jail, too?”
Robinson didn’t even shrug. He simply said, “Yes, I been through jail, too. “
“You owe any time?”
Robinson smiled gently. “If I did, would I tell you?”
“No,” Danny said, “you wouldn’t, but I’d find out. And then I’d burn your ass.” He circled his desk and sat down. “See what the gentlemen’ll drink,” he ordered Joel de Lawrence, hovering in the door, and picked up his clipboard of notes. He didn’t like Saunders Robinson. He felt strongly that the black man was likely to be treacherous, probably lazy, sure to fuck up if not watched every minute, and generally a troublemaker. There wasn’t any bigotry in Danny’s opinion. He didn’t like most other people either, for the same reasons. Robinson, however, might work out. There was something about his eyes that made him stand out—soft, large, unwinking as they gazed at him. If Robinson had been a woman, or gay, Danny would have understood an invitation, but there was nothing sexual about it. He debated asking the black man what he had been in for, but discarded the thought; there was no point in it, and anyway, he could find out for himself. The first thing was to deliver his little set speech, and he got it over with fast:
“You probably got some questions, so I’ll answer them first. One, why am I interested in your crappy little bunch? Because I’m worried about this Jupiter stuff. Two, why don’t I go through official channels? Because those assholes can’t make up their minds; one says it’s going to happen, the other says it’s a load of crap. Three, what can I do for you? I can put money in, and then I can show you how to get more. Any questions?”
Dennis Siroca opened his mild eyes wide and said, “I got no questions, Mr. Deere. ” Robinson didn’t stir. Satisfied, Danny went on.
“So here’s what you’re going to do,” he said. “You got to get your shit together. One thing. Jupiter. Nothing else. All that ERA and natural food stuff has to go. You just diffuse your impact.”
“Well, Mr. Deere, some of our people feel that the preservatives in commercial food—”
“Kid,” said Danny, “shut up.” He waited for an argument, but Dennis only smiled sadly. “You stick to one thing, catastrophe. Scare them. That’s all. No boycott the lettuce growers or down with the C.I.A. or save the whale, understand? Now, to get that across you got to have a slogan. Here it is.” He paused for effect, and then chanted: “Let the world know—it’s over!”
“Let the world know it’s over?”
“Oh, Jesus, that’s the words, but you don’t get the music. ‘Let the world know—it’s over.’ Get the rhythm. Dumpty-dum-dum, dee dah-dah.”
Dennis repeated, “Dumpty-dum-dum—”
“Kid,” Danny said dangerously, “when I say something you take it serious. Say it right.”
“Let the world know…it’s OHver.”
“That’s it. And that’s all of it. No other words at all, not about anything. No one, two, three, four, we don’t want your fucking war, no spur of the moment improvisations, no politics, no religion. Nothing but let the world know it’s over. You just keep chanting that until it takes hold, and don’t worry, it will. Next thing. You guys look like shit. You need some kind of special outfit, or way to look. I been thinking of shaving your heads—”
“Hey, no, man!”
“—but the Hare Krishnas have got that already. They’ve got a really good act, the yellow robes, the little dance step, the war paint on their faces. You can learn a lot from them.”
Saunders Robinson said softly, “The guys might go for robes. Something silk or satin, maybe? With a bright red lining?”
“Oh, God, you know what silk robes would cost? I was thinking more something like paper bags over your heads, like the Iranian students used to.”
The chauffeur stirred in the corner of the room. “Danny? Blacken their faces.”
Danny glared, but de Lawrence persisted, “Blacken their faces. Danny. It’s what the Indians used to do when they just ga
ve up on the world. When things were so bad there wasn’t any way out. And there’s plenty of minstel-show makeup around.”
Danny sank back, drumming his fingers on the desk top. At last he said, “Yeah, that could work. Find out what the makeup costs, how often you have to replace it, all that. All right. Next thing.” He consulted his notes. “Right. When you’re standing there on the street, don’t just stand there. You want to do a little step, like the Hare Krishnas. I got one worked out. Let me show you.”
He hopped up and moved before the desk, changing. “Let the world know—” step to the right, crossover, hands pressed together and pointing to the left—“it’s over.” Step back, crossover, hands pointed down. “Let the world know—” same step to the right—“it’s over!” And back to the center. “Do it,” he said, perching on the edge of the desk to watch. They both caught it quickly, but Danny rehearsed them like a director with a chorus line until he was satisfied.
“All right,” he said at last. “Now, I want you people to be seen. Move around. I want everybody to see you. I want you in the Century City mall, and I want you along the Strip, and I want you in front of the hotels so the tourists can get a look, and in the Farmer’s Market, and out at the Bowl and Dodger stadium whenever anything’s happening there, and I want you along the freeways in drive time.”
“The cops‘ll chase us, Mr. Deere,” Dennis objected.
“Let them chase you. You don’t have to stay any one place very long, and you don’t have to have too many people. Four or five’s plenty. Two will do. Make sure nobody goes out until you know what they’re going to do, though, and make sure they do it the way I showed you. I think the best way is single file, and keep on walking. Joel? Pick up the glasses, will you?”
Dennis and Saunders Robinson started to get to their feet again, but Danny detained them. “There’s a couple more things,” he said. “Don’t get discouraged if nothing happens for a while. I figure two weeks just to get you seen all over, so everybody’s used to having you around. Then we start the push. I’ll put up the front money, but we got to raise the real scratch from other sources, not me. Am I bothering you?”
Syzygy Page 10
