The Violet Crow (11 page)

Finally Littlejohn capitulated. “OK, Alison. There's a journalist I know. I'll call her and see what I can do. Alison, please, you've got to trust me.”

Alison stopped trying to beat him, though she still eyed him warily. She gathered up the careless pile of clothing from the bed and flounced toward the door, slamming it with every ounce of melodrama she possessed.

Chapter 21

After Alison left, Littlejohn was surprised to notice that he kept thinking about the Sixers celebrating after the last time Philly won the NBA championship—back in '83.
Une belle souvenir
. Four straight against the Lakers. Julius Erving, Maurice Cheeks, Moses Malone, and Andrew Toney shaking bottles of cheap champagne and pouring the foam all over each other. That was the year he got tenure. A good time. One of his favorite memories. That, and taking over the Dean's office when he was an undergraduate at Columbia.
Those were the days, my friend
.

The memory gave him a hankering for real champagne. First he needed a shower: Six minutes under the hot water revived him. He dried himself, then padded into the kitchen, wearing a freshly laundered royal blue satin robe. Littlejohn always kept a bottle of Bollinger on ice and he opened it with flair. A practiced twist, a barely audible pop, nothing wasted. He sipped as he walked around his apartment.

Feeling clean and rejuvenated, Littlejohn got a jolt when he looked at his bed—the tangle of soiled sheets. This wouldn't do. He stripped the bed and plunged the sheets in the laundry hamper. Then he reconsidered and moved them to the trash.

Years of experience had taught him not to worry. But Alison did seem a bit worked up when she left. Was she a troublemaker? Probably. But so what? Plainly what had happened between them had been consensual. And after all, he was the professor of deviant behavior, what should people expect?

By now he'd nearly finished the bottle of Bollinger and was feeling quite “numinous.” He put on some jazz, early Ornette Coleman and late Eric Dolphy, and, deeply contented, fell asleep.

Next morning, Littlejohn wasn't feeling nearly as chipper. He had a raging hangover and nothing seemed right. Littlejohn dropped his robe to the floor and waddled toward the bathroom. The combination of a hot shower and strong coffee should've done the trick. But it didn't.

They met in a coffee shop in Nathalie Porthous' neighborhood, just off Rittenhouse Square. An oasis, between the bustle of Center City and the intellectual frenzy on campus. Nathalie was already seated with Paul Conway, the litigation expert in the law school. He'd forged his reputation in the '60s and was still regarded as a keen wit and a feared legal opponent.

When Littlejohn entered, Nathalie held the floor. He could tell right away she was in good form. She had already launched into one of her famous rants about the sad state of intellectual life on campus. “Have you noticed how things have changed since we were students? We had a real sense of commitment, but also a sense of playfulness. Openness to discovery has been replaced with a kind of grim rectitude. I feel like students are putting notches in their belt for their different countercultural accomplishments: Be the first to OD on the latest designer drug. Get arrested at a protest. Smuggle Cuban cigars back from Paris. If I hear one more kid say they wish they had more black friends, or gay friends, I swear I'm gonna puke.”

“I've noticed the same thing,” said Conway. “But it's more like collecting
merit badges
. Give blood and live in a shantytown. Throw a brick through a store window. See the right bands in person—for the boys; sleep with the band members—for the girls …”

Littlejohn saw his opening and interrupted him. “I can never figure out the attraction of musicians when these women have the option of sleeping with their professors, which makes a lot more sense.”

“You mean like that little grade grubber I saw in your office yesterday?” asked Porthous. She knew Conway and Littlejohn liked to test her sensibilities, and she relished the opportunity to respond in kind. “You should have seen the serious expression on Nate's face yesterday. I knew she was getting him excited.”

Conway laughed. “Undergraduate pussy. It's our one professional perk.”

Porthous glared. It never took Conway long to find her limit. “I've made my life's work studying how stupid and immature men can be.” She looked right at Conway and shook her head in disgust. “Yet you guys always find a way to plumb new depths. You never grow up, do you?”

Conway was not about to be cowed so easily. He high-fived Littlejohn, laughing, “Nate Littlejohn: the Professor of Perversity.”

Littlejohn high-fived the lawyer in return. “And Paul Conway? He's the Counsel of the Corrupt.”

“The Dean of Depravity!”

“The Advocate of the Devil himself! But wait, we're forgetting about Nathalie.” Both men stood and bowed in her direction.

“Our gracious queen …”

“Whom we honor and obey …”

“The ultimate arbiter …”

“Of the destiny of our tribe:
homo academicus
…”

“Femina aeterna cacademicus, materfamilias nostras. We grovel at your feet.”

“Virilis perditoris maximama …”

“Enough!” shouted Porthous, playing along with the gag by raising both hands in a regal gesture. “I accept your obeisance and I command you to shut the fuck up.”

When they all finally stopped laughing, she continued. “I was serious about what I was saying before. These students today, it's like I don't trust them. Sure, they say all the right stuff. But somehow the right spirit isn't there. I feel like, after all our hard work, they'll graduate and then just go out and get high-paying jobs and turn into their parents.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Littlejohn. “You know Alison, the student who came to see me, the one Nathalie called a tramp? Like you, I had her pegged as a grade grubber at first. But, after talking to her for a while, I think she may be doing something interesting.”

“You really did get your ashes hauled, didn't you?” Porthous scoffed.

“What's so
interesting
about her?” Conway pretended to pout. “And why didn't you introduce me to her right away?”

Littlejohn ignored him. “Alison came to me because she really went over the top on her assignment for Deviant Behavior. She said she sneaked onto the grounds of a corporation over in Jersey that she was targeting for a deviant exercise. She wanted to destroy the greenhouses or let the lab animals go free.”

“An eco-feminist,” the lawyer commented. “That's good. They'll do or say anything.”

“You're a bad boy, Conway!” Porthous laughed.

“Paul. Nathalie. This is serious. She said she had information about something going on over there that could get the company in trouble and, possibly, could be used to derail the biotech industry.”

“A modest accomplishment,” commented Porthous. “You know undergraduates. They always think the whole world's going to change, just because they show up on the scene. Just the other day, this kid comes up to me and says, ‘My paper on the Minoan Phallosocracy is going to revolutionize gender theory in the ancient world.' I said to her, ‘Did you ever try to get a grant all the time knowing all the men on the board are thinking I wouldn't give this black bitch a dime—unless of course I get to fuck her?' I said, ‘Until you've had that experience, don't talk to me about revolutionizing anything. You got to pay your dues, sister.'”

“Way to go, Nathalie. Did you make her cry?”

“No.” Porthous seemed surprised. “She thanked me. The women in my classes are tough.”

“Nate, did she tell you exactly what she had on this corporation?” Conway asked.

“She said that they were killing people and it was up to her to stop them.”

“Jesus. Do you think she meant it literally? I mean, of course corporations are rotten; that's a given. But I really doubt …”

—“I know. I know. But she said ‘murder.' She said she was involved somehow. I assumed she meant she had witnessed something, because she said she feared reprisals.”

“Doesn't make sense,” said Conway. “Corporations do brutal stuff all the time—but murder on their own property? That doesn't fit the profile. I think she's just looking for attention. You don't think she'd be capable …?”

—“Of violence? Alison? I don't think so.”

“Really? You said she went there to destroy greenhouses. That's not exactly non-violent.”

Littlejohn recalled Alison's attempts to bludgeon him and had to admit Conway could be right. But Conway's legal mind had already moved on to another possibility: “OK, let's give her the benefit of the doubt. She witnessed a murder. And she comes to you. Why you? Why not the police? Did you ask yourself that?”

“As a matter of fact, I asked her that, point blank.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she's a revolutionary and she'd be damned if she would go to the police.”

Conway and Porthous exchanged a knowing look, which they didn't bother to hide from Littlejohn.

“OK. Our little Rosa Luxemburg's got no stomach for the authorities. But why you? What does she expect you to do?”

“Use my contacts. Leak a story to the press. Talk to … people like you. Organize something. I don't know. We didn't get that deeply into specifics.”

“But you did get that deeply into her pants, didn't you, Nate?” This was from Porthous, who clearly thought it was hilarious. Conway did too.

“What's wrong, Nate?” Porthous continued. “You feel guilty? Don't. I'm sure it was consensual.”

“My guess is she planned it,” Conway said.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Nate. Most of the kids in your course put soapsuds in the library fountain or parade around campus in drag. Harmless stuff. You warn them not to get carried away on the assignment sheet and most of them listen to you. Alison's a bit different, I think you're right about that. She's way more creative.”

Littlejohn cradled his head in his hands as Conway continued speaking. “Think of the coup, if she not only screws the professor, literally, but also figuratively, by getting you to plant a bogus story in the paper.”

“You really think …?”

“It's the simplest explanation,” said Porthous. “Everything fits.”

“But I've already got a call in to a reporter.”

“Just don't say anything about Alison or that biotech.”

Littlejohn nodded thoughtfully. “I think you're right. People love to hear war stories about good old Doggin' 'n' Dissin' 401. It never fails to get the Mommies and Daddies riled up when they find out what they were getting for their money—4,500 bucks per class works out to $300 an hour—just to teach their kids to be litterbugs, shoplifters and generally perverse. The last time they ran this story, the paper received hate mail for weeks. Circulation soared. That was five or six years ago. The reporter will eat it up.”

“Perfect,” said Conway. “Sound kosher to you, Nathalie?” Both Littlejohn and Conway looked at their colleague expectantly. Nathalie Porthous definitely knew how to play her role. “All I have to say is, she better get an A-plus. She's making you guys jump around like trained monkeys and anyone who can do that deserves top marks.”

“That went well,” commented Littlejohn as he and Conway walked back to campus together.

“Yeah, Nathalie's smart and she has a great sense of humor.”

“I owe you guys. Without you …”

—“Never mind, Nate. That's what friends are for. And, besides, I'm planning on sending you a bill.”

Back in his office Littlejohn checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours before his meeting with P.C. Cromwell. He found he was still thinking about Alison. Hard to believe she had taken him in like that. She really seemed sincere. The way she spoke, the way she hit him and the tears. Planting a story in the
Pest
was a good idea, but it might not be enough. What if she did something crazy, like actually going to the biotech to concoct some phony evidence or something? If the security there didn't realize it was a prank, she could get hurt. Littlejohn woke up his laptop and quickly found the information he needed. The phone rang only once before he heard a woman answer, “
Nyew Gaw
den Biosciences. Can I help you?”

Chapter 22

DEVIANCE: A LEARNING EXPERIENCE

by P.C. Cromwell

PHILADELPHIA—It's after midnight. Cary Walters carefully approaches the Vagelos Laboratory on the campus here at Penn. He and two companions are dressed entirely in black. Walters uses a passkey he has appropriated from one of his professors. Once inside, he leads the group to the area where laboratory animals wait in cages for their turn to play their part in the steady march of scientific progress.

Walters and his cadre stealthily open the cages and transfer a dozen or so healthy white rats to the confines of a gunnysack …

Out of patience with the setup, Bruno scanned ahead to the meat of the article. Apparently the college kids waited until the next day and then dumped the live rats from the window of their dorm room onto the heads of passersby. They did this to fulfill a requirement for their course in Deviant Behavior.

Peaches was trying to spin it as a protest against animal testing, but the kids were quite emphatic.

“This is no protest,” Walters affirms. “It's simply deviant. We need to learn to feel what social outcasts feel. It's about learning to empathize.”

According to Peaches, other students fulfilled the course requirement by cross-dressing, abusing strangers with vulgar language and gestures, going to morning classes drunk, and refusing to pay their library fines. “Professor Nate Littlejohn is viewed as a sort of minor deity on campus,” the article enthused,