Origin of the Brunists (58 page)

Announcer:
“Mrs. Norton, do you have any idea who these powers, uh, these powers of darkness might be?”

Mrs. Norton:
“Yes!” She paused, fingering a little medallion on her breast that flicked light back at the lens like a secret code. Vince started right up in his chair, felt a cold sweat in the small of his back. She was looking right at him.
“All
of you!” she said.

Feeling shaky, he called Ted, and Ted told him to relax, the entire story was being released, that he himself was taking all the responsibility, and that he would be by to see him the next morning. Final meeting of the Common Sense Committee tomorrow night. That calmed Vince down—Jesus! Ted was a great guy!—but he was still pretty restless. He paced the room, trapped by the Brunists: newspaper headlines black as death, their goddamn faces on television, and—blam!—Angie threw open her door again, and there they were:

Ted's message the next day, the sixteenth, was to cool it. But Vince was feeling so goddamn high, he knew it wouldn't be easy. He had splurged on a bottle of whiskey, good stuff, in anticipation of Ted's visit, but Ted had turned it down. Too early in the day, he said. Vince, who had already poured his own to make the offering of it more natural, felt a little awkward himself with a glass of whiskey in his hand at ten in the goddamn morning, but he lied that he usually took a bracer in the mornings. He hoped he hadn't made some kind of mistake. Jesus! the thing hit him like seven hundred blazing bicarbonates!

Ted showed him their release on the Meredith boy. The boy had come to them, it claimed, in fear of reprisals from members of the Brunist group, whose fanaticism he had come to abhor, and had asked for protection. He had wept gratefully when Reverend Edwards, approached on the matter, had generously welcomed the boy to his own home. But, evidently distraught by the experiences of the preceding weeks and fearing that attempts might be made against his life, he had cut his wrists with a razor, although not seriously. He was now being cared for in a hospital distant from West Condon, the name of which was not being divulged for the present for the boy's own protection. Hah! “That should keep them quiet!” Vince said.

“Well,” said Ted, “it's mainly the truth, after all.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, remembering the hotbox. Swallowed down the whiskey belches. Wondered whether to suffer the stuff gradually, or just throw it down. “And so tonight at the meeting, you want me to ask everybody to stay at home.”

“Right. Not much hope they will, but we can try.” Ted paused, grinned. “I don't want to give you stagefright or anything, Rockduster, but I should warn you that the meeting is being covered by radio, news chains, and television across the country.”

That put Vince at the verge of a bowel movement, but outwardly he remained calm. He even shrugged. And he was pleased that Ted still remembered his first CSC speech.

“You know, Vince, I'd like to make the meeting so goddamned straightforward, so goddamned plain and sensible, that it will bore those cheap corrupt headline-hunters to death, and they'll pack up and get out of here.”

Vince laughed, toned it: little too harsh maybe. Didn't know why he felt so goddamn nervous today, sensation that something was—he looked out at the big red Lincoln: it was the connection. Today they broke the connection. “I wish we could've stopped it, Ted.”

“So do I, Vince. But I don't see what more we could have done. We've at least contained it, and even cut them down one. I frankly doubt that that little handful of people can do us much harm, no matter how hard Tiger Miller strains. Now, our main worry is just to keep everybody calmed down, away from that hill, minimize the effect Sunday, and then try to get over it. Of course, things could get worse. If they do, I'll give you a call.”

“I'll stay by the phone, Ted. Isn't there anything else we can do meanwhile?”

“I don't know what. I tried to cajole Whimple into arresting Bruno on grounds of suspected insanity, but he didn't have the nerve.”

Vince glanced up, found Ted's cool eyes fixed on him. He lowered his gaze, took a slow drink of whiskey. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “He should've done it.” Then he added: “I sure as hell would've.”

“Speaking of Whimple, Vince,” Ted continued, “I wonder if you'd do us the favor of asking for a vote of thanks for him tonight at the meeting, for him and Father Baglione and Reverend Edwards.”

“Sure.” Fixed his jaw in a kind of mockery.

“Oh hell, I know, Vince, they're not the ones who have put out on this job, but that's the game we play.” There was a pause. It was now or never. Vince gazed thoughtfully into his whiskey glass. “You might be interested in knowing, though, that they're setting up a Mayor's Special Commission on Industrial Planning. I've nominated you for a spot on it.”

Vince nodded, stroked his chin, looked up at Ted. “Thanks,” he said. “I'd like that.”

Ted shrugged. “Nothing to thank me for, Vince. You're the right man for the job, that's all. Probably be about eight of us. Not too much in the way of rewards, twenty or so a month probably, but it might lead to some good things.” Ted stood.

“Well,” said Vince standing, extending his hand, “see you tonight at the adjournment.”

“Let's call it a recess,” Ted said with a smile.

“It was really great, Vince, you were really great!” Etta kept repeating it, over and over, all the way home from the meeting, from all those cameras, all that noise, all those assurances, all the way home and into their bedroom, where now she stood at the mirror in her slip, putting clips and curlers in her hair. Large satisfied smile on her face. “Everybody couldn't stop complimenting me afterwards.”

Vince tossed his pants over a chair, sat on the edge of the bed in his shorts. “Well, chicken, you ain't got the best yet, I been saving it.”

“Really? You mean there's something more?” She looked inquisitively at him through the mirror as she reached under her slip, pulled down her huge balloonlike drawers. She carried them over to the closet where her nightshirt hung on a clothes hook.

“It is my pleasure to announce that they have just set up this here mayor's special group for planning industry, and just by chance it turns out, ahem, that the old man's gonna be on it.”

“What!”
She wheeled around, face alive with a big plump happiness. “Oh, Vince, that's
swell!”
First real burst of enthusiasm he'd seen her register since he could remember.

Vince felt great, heroic in fact, but he nodded with an affected disinterest, inspected his toes. “Even gonna bring in a few coins each month. Ted'll be coming by next week, after this Bruno sideshow is closed down, to talk about it.” While he was talking, she turned her broad back to him, started to hoist the slip up over her big pink body. Vince tiptoed over behind her, reached suddenly around and hugged onto both breasts.

“Vince! Help! I can't see!
Vince!”

“Sshh!
You'll have Angie thinking I'm committing murder instead of just friendly rape!” She giggled girlishly, twisted her three hundred pounds around, tried to work her arms free of the entangling slip, but it was wrapped around her head, caught in the curlers. There was always something wonderfully oily about her body. Vince clutched onto the far breast with one hand, slid the still-whole one down over the mountainous range of her smooth bulbous abdomen, felt the groin flesh start and tremble. A man really had to stretch. “And, baby,” he whispered, releasing her breast to shove his shorts down, “we're just seven short months away from city elections….”

Vince was up on the ladder again Friday morning, feeling like a kind of king up there, when Burt Robbins and the shoeman Maury Castle came by. “Hey, Vince, got a minute?” Something phony in their smiles.

“Hell,” Vince laughed carelessly, “this is the fifth goddamn time I've painted this same patch!” But he crawled down.

“Vince, goddamn! Good to see you!” Castle grabbed his hand and nearly tore it off. “Listen, buddy, we got a great great project!”

“Yeah?” Kept grinning, but he didn't like the looks of it.

“If you're game,” Robbins added. The needle.

“Listen, Vince,” said Castle, leaning forward like he was about to let go a secret, but his voice was just as loud as ever. “We got a hilarious idea—we thought we might bring the end of the world tonight. A little early.”

“How's that?”

“A few of us is planning to pay a call tonight on old Ralphie—”

“You mean—?”

“Himebaugh,” said Robbins. “The guy who tried to bloody your nose with a filing cabinet.”

Vince grinned. “So?” He felt himself getting sucked deeper and deeper.

“So we thought we'd visit Ralphie tonight—in-cog-nito, as they say,” explained Castle, “and inform him we're the Second Coming. You get the picture?”

“Yeah, I think so—”

“Well, how's it grab you?”

Vince rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, reached in his shirt pocket for a cigar. Didn't grab him at all, not at all, but he supposed he'd have to go along. “But he'll probably be over at Bruno's house—”

“We checked that out,” Robbins said. “They've got a long weekend coming up and apparently decided to spend this night at home, getting a good rest and winding up their private affairs.”

Vince tried to look amused. “I dunno, Ted said—”

“Whatsamatter?” Castle asked. “You Ted's baby?”

Vince smarted. “No, shit, but—”

“Anyway, keep it quiet,” said Robbins, “but Ted's in on this. You know how he feels about Himebaugh.” Robbins' eyes were nothing but slits. Vince thought about the mayor and how he hadn't had the nerve.

“Well, come on, Vince!” Castle shouted. When that man opened his mouth it really whammed out of there. “You game, goddamn it, or ain't you?”

“Hell, I'm always game. Who else—?”

“Bring anybody you want. We already talked to Cheese Johnson and Georgie Lucci, and they're coming. Anybody else you like.”

Cheese. Known the bastard for years and never knew anybody called him Cheese. Maybe one of these guys thought it up. “Okay. Where do we go?”

“Over to my place first,” said Castle. “We'll oil up the machinery before. I'm at 701 Elm, first white house on the corner of Elm and Seventh. Seven sharp.”

“Okay,” said Vince, working up a grin around the cigar. Get a free drink or two out of it anyhow.

“Oh, and Vince, bring an old sheet.”

sang old Cheese Johnson at the top of his goddamn funny nasal voice.

bellowed old Vince and old Sal Ferrero and good old Georgie Lucci.

“Hey, you guys, can it! You'll have us all in the clink!” hissed old Burt, but he was laughing, old Maury was laughing, everybody was laughing to beat hell.

“Ifn Jesus loved
you
, you wouldn' talk thetaway!” slurred old Cheese. Vince giggled.

They stopped and staggered out of the car.

“This the place?” hollered Georgie. “Looks all dark.”

“Ssst!”
That was old Burt the goddamn spoilsport. “Pipe down! We're still a block away. We'll walk the rest. Now look, you crazy bastards, calm down or you'll spoil the gag!”

“Oh, Jesus
Christ
, boys!” moaned old Cheese, falling all over himself.
“Don't
spoil the
gag!
Oh,
Jesus!”

Arms over each other's shoulders, they careened down the street. “Hey, wait!” That goddamn Robbins again.

“Maury, old buddy, call that fucking deacon off our ass, for God's sake!”

Robbins laughed. “Shit, Vince, all I want is for you to get your goddamn sheets on. It's no party without them.”

They paused for that business. Felt all stuffy inside. Vince thought he'd gag. Couldn't find the damn eyeholes. Then two fingers nearly put his eyes out. “Got it now, Vince, old buddy?” That goddamn Castle had a voice carry to Singapore.

“Now, listen,” said Robbins. “Don't forget the point is this: you guys are spirits from the other world, see, and—”

“Oh earthling Ralphus!”
cried old Cheese Johnson, staggering around in hilarious circles.
“We are spirits—”

“Hold it! hold it! You got it, but we're not there yet. Now remember: you've come to pick Ralphie up and escort him to the spaceship.”

“Spayshit,” said Sal Ferrero solemnly. Castle guffawed. Sal got quieter and funnier the drunker he got.

“Tell him, above all, he's not to wear any earth clothes, nothing, just a sheet, see, and then—”

“Sheetsie,” said Sal.

Robbins and Castle were laughing themselves sick. Old Burt could hardly talk. He was a lot nicer guy tonight. Maybe it just took awhile to get to know him. “And then you lead him right down to Main Street, and when you get him to city hall, you—”

“Shittyall,” said Sal.

“Jesus Christ!” howled the sheet that had old Georgie in it. “Sal, you're a goddamn riot!”

“Riot!” affirmed Sal, and everybody broke up again.

Robbins hissed. “It's right there, next house! Now remember: when you get him in front of city hall, you—”