Origin of the Brunists (60 page)

“What happened, Mrs. Cravens?” Romano asked. Kept his great big gun out, very edgy, finger on the goddamn trigger.

“Well, these guys—” Vince began, getting to his feet, but Romano waved his pistol at him menacingly.

“These here men come in drunk, just bustin' in, got in a awful fight,” said Wanda dully. “They was another one, but he run off.”

“Musta been that body we passed,” Willie remarked.

“Yeah,” said Dee.

“What'd they come for?” drawled Willie.

Romano grinned sarcastically and pointed with his gun down at Johnson, just beginning to stir: Johnson's prick was lolling limp outside his fly.

Wanda began to cry. “I don't know even who they are!” She wept. Davey started in, too. So he had a voice okay. “Maybe they come in here by mistake. I don't know why they picked on me!”

“Hey, wait—!” protested Vince, then thought better of it, cut himself off.

“Do you wanna file any charges?” asked Romano.

“No,” she said, sniffling pathetically. “Please, officer, jist git 'em out!”

Johnson came around just then, sat up painfully, stared head-on into Romano's pistol barrel. “Man alive!” he exclaimed. “I'd say that one takes the prize!” Vince couldn't help grinning. Johnson got to his feet, noticed he was still open, turned his back to Wanda to zip up. “Now, how many times I told ye, Wanda, when I'm takin' a nap, not to—” He caught his bloody reflection in the mirror, stepped closer in alarm. “Jesus, men! It ain't
me!”
he cried.

“Come on, quit the clowning!” said Romano officiously. “We're all going down to the station. You can clean up there.” He paused for effect. “Over the next six months or so.”

“Dee baby, you been watchin' too much TV,” said Johnson. The five of them filed out of the room, old Willie leading, Romano lingering fifth. “Come on, Romano,” complained Johnson in a nasal nag, “ifn we cain't have none, you cain't neither.”

“You bastard!”
hissed Romano, and kicked Johnson hard in the butt. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Cravens. We'll take care of these guys. For good.”

They washed up at the station. It all began to register there what had happened, what the consequences were. Several people had seen him as they drove to the station—right down the middle of Main Street, for Christ sake—though they might not have been able to recognize him. Had his eyes ducked coming in, didn't know if he was being watched out front or not. Goddamn Romano pushing them in ahead with his pistol out for the whole fucking world to see. But, hell, what did all that matter? Six months! And Jesus, what could he even say! Caught, man. In the act. Pants down. It would be in the newspapers. And mixed up with the Brunist mess besides. Oh God! And Ted and his family, Etta, Angie! How the hell had he ever—? Had to get out,
had
to, even if he had to screw Johnson and Lucci to do it. He was nearly crying.

Johnson nudged him, washing up. “Got fifteen bucks or so?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Reached for his billfold to look.

“No, don't grab for it now,” cautioned Johnson. “Jist have it ready, and play along with ol' Chester.” The guy's face was a mess and a tooth was broken, but he could still grin.

They went out front again to get booked. Luckily, nobody was lounging around in the station like they usually were. “Say, Willie, ol' man, while we're signin' ourselves into this fine hotel here, would ye be so kind as to run out and git ol' Chester a pack a smokes?” He handed Willie five bucks. “Gonna be a long night. And buy some for yourself.” Willie looked questioningly at Romano, and Romano nodded him out. “Well, now, where do we sign this here petition?” asked Johnson, examining the book. “Well, I'll be damned! Here's all my old very best friends. Hell, I'd be downright honored to join this fine company.”

“Stop wising off and get it over with!” snapped Romano.

“Listen, you know, Dee baby, they ain't nothin' really that cunt kin pin us on. Ever sonuvabitch in this town has been humpin' her since ol' Lee got hisself killt. Ain't that the truth, boys?”

“Jesus, yes!” affirmed Georgie. “She asked us all over. Last big bang before the end of the world, she thinks.”

“Yeah, that's right,” said Vince. “She's one of those Brunist nuts, Dee, one of those folks who's been causing this town, our community here, so much trouble.” Perspiring, felt rotten about screwing her like that, but she'd screwed him first, hadn't she?

“Well, now, that's all very interesting,” said Romano. “Now, sign your names here, and I'll get your new home away from home all ready for you.”

“Hey, ya know, boys,” said Johnson, picking up the pen and licking the point, “old Dee here's got his eye on a very fine huntin' dog. Ain't that so, Dee?” Romano grumbled again, squinted his eye warily toward Johnson. “Very purty spaniel type, useter be ol' Eddie Wilson's mutt, poor ol' Eddie, ya know.”

“Oh yeah!” said Vince, getting the picture now. “Very fine dog. I'd like to have it, but I cain't afford it.” Christ, he even found himself imitating Johnson's cornball cadences. Still felt pretty funny, though he thought his head was clearing some.

“How much does old Widow Wilson want for it?” asked Lucci, joining in.

“Forty,” mumbled Romano, his eye on the door.

“Ya know,” said Johnson, “all of us guys is so fond of our ol' buddy here, our good ol' swell ol' asshole buddy Dee, whaddaya say we all make him a little present a that there dog, whaddaya say?”

“Well, I been wanting to make a present to good old Dee for a long time now,” said Vince. “This sure does look like a fine opportunity.”

“Don't it though!” said Johnson. The three of them turned on Romano.

He hesitated, glanced at the door. “Well, I guess she is one a them troublemakers,” he muttered and took the book back. They dropped the bills in front of him and walked out, hands in pockets.

Outside, the light blinded them. Heart jumped, because his first thought was the mine blowing up. Then he saw all the cameras, guys rushing up. Questions. Pops of light. He brushed by them, but came up against Tiger Miller. “What's up, Bonali?” he asked.

Vince could tell the sonuvabitch already knew plenty. “Nothing,” he said and set his jaw, ready to lay into the bastard if he had to. Felt Johnson and Lucci backing him up. “Just having a little talk with the boys here about the Brunists.” Some of the cameras, he saw, were movie jobs. He wondered what brought them.

“What kind of talk?” Miller stood his ground. “Listen, Vince, you'd better cool it. You've got big ambitions here, but don't forget you can screw yourself by going too far, getting into some legal trouble, and if I ever hear about—”

“Oh yeah Jesus!” cried Johnson, his cackling laugh cutting Miller off. “Don't do nothin' as might git ye in
trouble
, Vince!”

Lucci joined the bastard in the yak-yakking.
“One more time for the ol' mayor!”
he cried.

“Don't sweat it, Miller!” growled Vince, and shoved by him. Shit. Felt like the number-one all-star ass of all time. And it was bound to get worse. All those cameras. And he knew better than to think Johnson could keep his fat mouth shut.

Four
A.M
. Staggered from the bed. Reached the bathroom door and up it came. Tracked through it in bare feet to the stool and got rid of the rest. Down to the bile. Sat on the side of the tub, head in hands. Sick. Not just in the gut. Sick in the heart, too. Fucked it up. End of the world. It was all over.

Miller listened to Hilda roar and groan, smelled her dark reek, watched his Saturday night edition, that of the eighteenth of April,
flap-flap-flap
out of her. The back shop force, faces streaked with oily black ink, looked beat, but pleased with themselves. They'd made it through the week, shy two men who had quit under Cavanaugh's pressure, stayed right on schedule, got $50 bonuses for it. Twice already tonight—God's vindictive ways—the old press had broken down, but it looked now like she'd make it through the rest of the run.

Miller tucked his hand into the parade of copies slapping out, pulled out a damp one.
WE
SHALL
GATHER
AT
THE
MOUNT
OF
REDEMPTION!
Two-line banner, bigger than anything since the war. Official portrait of the whole group, now minus Colin Meredith, spanned the middle columns under the banner. Not his photo, of course. In an odd reversal of roles, he had come more and more this week to depend on the East Condon newsmen, having been cut off on all sides by his own people. The photo showed fifteen tunicked grownups, eight infants similarly dressed. He'd thought the group would have grown by now, but the Common Sensers had apparently locked them out. Widow Wilson had spoken of converts, but they hadn't shown their faces.

But they might. Certainly he'd got a lot of letters from all over the country expressing interest in and sympathy with the Brunist movement. Tonight's paper was full of these letters. A minister in Mississippi who said he'd chartered a bus for the West Condon pilgrimage. A movie actress who wrote from California that Bruno had appeared to her in her dreams, promising her salvation. A blind man in an old folks' home in New Hampshire who claimed that, hearing about Bruno on television, he had suddenly had a glimpse of light and seemed headed for a cure. That wasn't the only miracle. An invalid in Arizona had risen from his bed and begun to walk, and, if his letter could be believed, was presently hitchhiking his way across the country to West Condon. A woman in Chicago, committing suicide, had left a note behind, confirming, through her own sources, Bruno's prophecy, and explaining that she couldn't bear to face the horror that would be her sinner's lot.

The inside pages—there were now virtually no ads—were filled with a picture story of the Brunists. He was in a couple of the pictures himself. Nothing so fancy as some of the big spreads he'd helped work up for a couple of the national picture magazines, but pretty good at that. He'd filled in with a rerun of the texts of Ben Wosznik's songs, the essentials of Eleanor Norton's system, Bruno's prophecies, or “words.” These latter, now six in number, had been codified as: Hark ye to the White Bird; I am the One to Come; Coming of Light, Sunday Week; The tomb is its message; A circle of evenings; and Gather on the Mount of Redemption. He had letters he had beguiled out of several eminent churchmen, an article on the lusty response of the mass media to the event, and blunt verbatim reports of conversations he'd overheard in Mick's, the coffeeshop, in barbershops and on the street. Miller had also taken a last-minute interest in that vast segment of the holy milieu who were simply not involved, had interviewed the high school track coach, a drummer in a nearby roadhouse, a bartender in Waterton, his own mentally subnormal janitor Jerry. An old woman in her nineties told him she used to expect the end of the world all the time, but it was like all of a sudden it had slipped up on her. She'd always been a decent Godfearing woman, to be sure, but now did all this mean she had to go out on that hill and sing songs and all? How big a hill was it? Could they get all the people they were going to save up on that one hill? Would there be room for her even if she went
out
there? And what if it wasn't the end of the world at all, why, she'd probably catch her death! And surely there would be photographers and, yes, television, because she'd noticed that all her favorites this week from Captain Kangaroo to What's My Line? had got bumped by this thing. So what should she wear? She had nothing new. No, no, it was better to stay home and watch it on television, that was
almost
like being there, wasn't it? Or maybe if she broke her leg and couldn't get there, what if she did that? It'd be all the same, didn't he think so? Yes, that was a splendid idea! Watch it on television, get a slip from the doctor explaining it would be unwise for her to spend the night out in the air, call a taxi to be at her house about twenty minutes before, you see, and if things seemed to be going on, why then, trot on out….

As for the Brunists, they now gave interviews freely to anyone but him, held open house daily, posed for photos, appeared gladly on radio and television. Last night, Ben Wosznik had given a touching account of his conversion, had sung a few songs he had composed, had spoken simply but convincingly of each of his fellow Brunists, and had even managed to turn so grotesque an object as that scabby black hand—still one of their altar relics and getting them a lot of mileage in the East Condon newspapers—into a moving symbol of the persecution that besets the holy. As for Marcella, Miller, staring again at his front-page group photo, hardly recognized her. Ralph Himebaugh and Eleanor Norton were holding her up, and her head lolled foolishly on Himebaugh's shoulder. Her hair hung down haglike past her ears, past her face, now a dull matte white. Those eyes that had so captivated him now stared vapidly out past the camera, too large for this face, all their bright glitter gone. The others in the photo were pale and solemn, posed stiffly as in old daguerrotypes, heads high, hands folded, chins up … “such a one caught up, even to the third heaven …”

He realized that his own mind had also been, subtly, geared for an end tomorrow: Monday had been and still was an unreality. Projects always did that. They set up something that looked hard and real, something to aim at, but they always concealed then the thick tangle of endless ambiguities that were the one true thing of this world. For Miller, there was nothing worse than the end of a project: cold sweats, nausea, couldn't eat—like shaking a habit. Even knowing that though, he could never resist launching new ones. The reason was: it was that or nothing, and nothing was not good at all. There was, of course, the alternative of the lifetime project instead of all these short ones, but he feared a greater despair, the midproject collapse. He could only make himself believe in a game a short time, and he preferred to take a lot of short hard falls than one long sickening and endless drop. Did Happy Bottom guess this? Did she see that Monday must come? It didn't matter; forget it. He tossed the paper in a trash barrel and went home, there to crawl in a white hole with a great white mole, split white thighs and sleep a white sleep.