“Think you could?”
“I’ve always wondered which one of us was better. Anyway,” he gestured at the Vice President, and a look of displeasure passed over his face, “I’m supposed to protect him with my life. I guess.”
“We’re not going to hurt him,” Weng said. “Just take him back home. Helicopters outside. Small jet nearby.”
“I get to ride in a helicopter?” the Vice President said excitedly. “I like helicopters.”
The adults tried to ignore him.
Annoyed, the Vice President reached out and touched one of the many sharp metal weapons dangling from the belt around the nearest ninja’s middle.
“Ow!” He stuck the bleeding tip of his finger in his mouth.
“Careful, kid,” Weng said. “You’ll need all your fingers to wave at the adoring crowds.” Weng turned back to Zip with raised eyebrows. “This is normal?”
“All the time,” Zip said. “All the darned time. You have no idea.”
“And you’re going to defend him with your life?”
“Oh, heck. Get the little sucker out of my sight.”
“Sucker?”
Zip looked at the floor. “You know I don’t use bad language, Weng.”
Weng laughed and reached up to pat Zip on the shoulder. “A fixed point in a changing universe. Okay, boys, let’s move out.”
Zip followed them from the house and watched the fleet of helicopters rise into the sky and zoom silently away over the hills, carrying Junior back home.
Finally, he turned back to the house. He threw back his shoulders and drew a deep breath. Time to tell Fancy that he had been overpowered and that Junior had been rescued. This was the scary part.
* * * * *
Outwardly, Fancy took Junior’s rescue far better than Zip had feared she would. She understood both Zip’s limitations and his value to her. Perhaps she had given him too large a responsibility.
Perhaps she should hedge her bets.
At about the time Malcolm and Jimmy Flicker were being served their coffee, Fancy made a telephone call to a run-down location elsewhere in Southern California.
Few calls came in to the twenty-four-hour line these days, but it was manned around the clock, anyway, in smiling hopefulness. The chipper chippy doing receptionist duty on the second shift answered brightly, “Thank you for calling Brothers and Sisters of Jesus! How may we help you grow closer to Him Whom we all love and Who loves us daily, hourly, minutely, not to mention minutely, no matter what we do or how we behave or whether or not we forget Him, for His love —”
“Can it and put me through to Brother Harry.”
Dampened, the chippy said, “I’ll see if he’s still in, ma’am. It is late in the day, and Brother Harry’s usually left by now. Who shall I say is calling?”
The caller told her. The chippy passed it on. Brother Harry came on the line quickly, smiling widely with his voice.
“Fancy, babe! Hey, it’s been a long time!”
His voice was mellow yellow. His persona was from a more honestly psychedelic time.
“At least your little girlfriend calls me ‘ma’am.’ You could learn from that.”
“Fellow sibling of Jesus, Fancy, not girlfriend. We don’t have any of that girlfriend and boyfriend shit here. We’re all just brothers and sisters, both to each other and to Him Who —”
“Jesus H. Christ, will you stow it!” his caller shrieked at him, displaying again that neat turn for outdated slang which made her calls such a burden to all her old friends. “Harry, just listen to me. You know about this man Malcolm Erskine, don’t you?”
Harry repeated the name a time or two. “Nope. Don’t believe I’ve ever met the gentleman.”
“Business Secrets from the Stars.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. That bastard.” Mellow yellow had become sour lemon. “Yeah, we know all about him. The times, they are achangin’. Turn, turn. To everything there is a season. It’s all just dust ablowin’ in the wind. Just more proof of the same thing, darlin’.”
“Oh, spare me the pop music philosophizing. I haven’t given up on being on top, and neither should you. So you’re going to have to do something about Malcolm Erskine.”
“‘Do something,’ huh? Meaning?”
“Whack. Off. Terminate with extreme prejudice. Fit with cement overshoes. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. You mean ‘do away with.’ We gave up that kind of shit around 1970, Fancy. The guys I used to use all retired to somewhere in South America. Well, except for two I know. I’m kinda reluctant to use them. Anyway, why’re you so eager to see me do something to this cat?”
“Because he’s been using Gone and me in his publicity, that’s why! And it’s got to stop.”
“Oh, yeah, the consultant-to-ex-presidents stuff. Well, well. And now you want me to take care of your problem for you. Well, Fancy, you know what I always used to say back in the old days: What’s in it for me?”
There was a long hesitation. Finally, Fancy said, “You might get to be the first official White House mystic guru during the administration of the first woman president.”
For quite a while, Brother Harry held the telephone without speaking, his mouth hanging open. Finally he said, “Wow! You always did think big, didn’t you?”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Well, see, I told you that I’m not sure about the couple of translators I still have contact with.”
“Translators? What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m talking about hit men!”
“Translators to a higher plane, sister in Jesus. They’re very religious guys. That’s how they describe their profession.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Exactly. Anyway, problem with these two guys is, they’re old. They’re really dedicated professionals, and they really believe in their work and in Jesus, but they move pretty slowly nowadays, and they kinda have trouble remembering who the target is supposed to be, and once you get them started, it’s sometimes kinda hard to stop them, if you should happen to change your mind.”
Fancy thought for a while. Finally she said, “Old isn’t bad. Rev ‘em up.”
“If you’re sure you want this.”
“I’m sure. Is it a deal?”
* * * * *
Malcolm, too, was thinking big at that very moment, inflamed by Jimmy Flicker’s casual multiplication of millions. Malcolm and Harry said, “It’s a deal,” at the same instant.
* * * * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bend as the reed, star child. As the willow! Appear to yield, to give, in order that you may ultimately conquer. Your victory will be all the sweeter, and your enemy’s back all the more exposed.
— Lukas of Aldebaran
It was the afternoon of the Sunday on which Business Secrets from the Stars reached Number Five on the New York Times bestseller list. Malcolm had just hung up after agreeing to be interviewed on a local talk radio show when the telephone rang again. Johnny Carson already? Malcolm asked himself. Hope it doesn’t conflict with the local show I just agreed to be on. If it did, the local boys would be out of luck.
“Hello!” he said, his voice forceful, masculine, intelligent, deep, and resonant (good for electronic reproduction), and yet at the same time witty, charming, and seductive — in short, the type of voice any famous television talk show host in his right mind would invite back repeatedly.
“Malcolm? Is that you?” It was a voice of honey and roses, musical tones that induced fantasies of love and delight, of scented gardens and cool, moonlit nights, romance and passion, Paradise on Earth, old Hollywood musicals.
“Uh, who is this?”
“It’s me. Marlene.”
Marlene! The bitch! The malignant melanoma in the form of a woman!
Instantly, Malcolm’s voice became thin, weak, high-pitched, scarcely audible. “What is it?”
“I just wanted to congratulate you, Malcolm. You finally did it, didn’t you?”
Did what? Malcolm
wondered. Made love to a beautiful young woman with olive skin and shoulder-length black hair and adoring almond-shaped eyes who would love him and cherish him and stay with him? “What’re you talking about?”
“Your book, of course. Business Secrets from the Stars. I just saw that it’s on the bestseller lists. Of course, I’m not surprised. I always knew you’d make it. You’ve got such drive and determination and talent.”
Malcolm stood frozen in place, his mouth hanging open. He must be trapped in a science-fiction plot, an alternate history, a parallel universe in which Marlene Erskine nee Harridan was a sweet, loving woman, a firm supporter of her husband, and a believer in his talents and his future. But that didn’t really happen outside the books he read and wrote.
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, “I guess I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said your name was Marlene, and I assumed you were my ex-wife.”
“I did say my name was Marlene, and I am your ex-wife. Malcolm, are you all right? You don’t sound well. Perhaps I ought to come over and fix you supper. I bet you’re not eating right.”
Malcolm had been standing. Now he sat down. This conversation was more than he had strength for at the moment. Perhaps he was imagining the voice on the telephone. After all, wasn’t this every wronged man’s dream, the one in which the woman who has done the wronging comes crawling back begging for forgiveness and sex?
All this just because of one best-selling book and the resulting promise of riches and fame? So that’s really all it takes, Malcolm thought in wonder.
His voice began to reassume some degree of baritone timbre. “Actually, ex-darling, I’ve been eating very well. Lots of money for fancy meals, after all.”
“Y-e-s-s. I suppose that’s true. And how well have you been sleeping?”
Malcolm boomed out a rich, hearty laugh, an outburst of life and vitality from a man of immense potency, virility, and sexual success. “Well, Marlene, the truth is that the little darlings won’t allow me much time for sleep. Chuckle, chuckle.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire! The truth, Marlene? The truth is that I sleep like a baby — I keep waking up crying for a breast. But Marlene would, he hoped, believe what he had said, and he could imagine her twisting on the hook of her jealousy.
Instead of twisting, she said, “That’s great, Malcolm. I’m really glad for you. I guess you don’t even miss my special tongue technique now.”
Malcolm smothered a groan. Marlene’s special tongue technique! Even if his lovely little darlings had been real, they probably wouldn’t have been able to match her astonishing skill in certain areas.
Oh, that mouth! Oh, that tongue! His penis stiffened and his spine wilted.
“Malcolm? You there?”
“Uh, yeah, mostly.”
“You know, I’ve missed practicing my special technique on you. You were always so appreciative. Not like — Anyway, I guess you don’t even think about me any more.”
Malcolm licked his lips and swallowed spit and pride. “Say, Marlene, I don’t suppose you’d like to have dinner together, would you? It’d be good to see you again. Talk about things, and so on. We could go somewhere nice.”
“Oh, Malcolm, I’d love that! I really think we should still be friends. Come on over and pick me up. I’ll be ready.”
Belatedly, Malcolm remembered that it had always been the sound of triumph in her voice when she had won a point against him that he had hated the most.
* * * * *
Morning’s light brought momentary confusion. On the one hand, the light was streaming in through the wide windows that led to the balcony of Malcolm’s downtown condominium. On the other hand, the delectable little body sleeping in a catlike ball beside him was surely Marlene.
Oh, yes, that’s right, he thought, remembering. It was indeed Marlene, and she was indeed here with him, and she had indeed treated him to quite an extended session of her special tongue technique during the night. Rather like old times. In fact, rather better than old times.
Malcolm smiled smugly and stretched and felt like a hell of a guy. Dinner the previous evening at the Ile de France had been extravagantly expensive, thanks to Marlene ordering a very expensive wine and the most expensive appetizer and entree and dessert and after-dinner cordial on the menu, but he was Malcolm Moneybags now, he could afford it, and it had certainly been worth the cost. Yes, indeed.
He slid over against Marlene’s smooth, slender, firm back and put his arm over her and began to fondle her breasts.
Marlene awoke with a smile and a murmured “Mmm!” She turned toward him, flung her arms around his neck, burrowed her face into his neck, and whispered, “What you need now is a business manager. Someone to handle all your money for you.”
M&M together again at last — Marlene Harridan and Malcolm Patsy.
Malcolm stiffened, but not the part of him that Marlene had depended upon to argue on her behalf. Then he relaxed and said, quite calmly and with great self-control, “I plan to be my own business manager, but I might need a bookkeeper on a part-time basis some time in the future. I could probably manage a few bucks an hour for a competent human calculator.”
Marlene leaped out of bed. She stood barefooted on the luxurious rug Malcolm had bought only two days before and glared down at him, her face growing redder by the second. Finally she shrieked, “You cheap bastard! Fuck you!”
“You already did, my ex-dear. And so skillfully, too.”
“Shithead!”
Marlene had never been very original in her choice of pejoratives, but the vigor she put into their utterance had always been unexceptionable.
“Does this mean our date is over?” Malcolm asked.
Marlene growled, “Fuckface,” and stalked over to the chair where she had piled her clothing the day before. She dressed with her back to Malcolm, regaining self-control as she did so. “Call me a cab,” she said.
Malcolm actually almost said to her, “All right, you’re a cab,” but he found the self-discipline not to.
He used the telephone on the small table beside the bed, and then he lay in bed watching Marlene finish dressing and apply a new coat of makeup.
She had always hated the very idea of dressing and making herself up in the morning without showering first. No doubt she was too angry with him now to use his shower and would go home and use his ex-shower instead. She brushed her hair quickly and vigorously and completed the transformation from tongue-technique expert to maddeningly fetching but simultaneously repellent yuppie. “How do I look?” she asked, smug and in control again.
“Like a gorgeous, sexy woman —”
Marlene glowed at him.
“— who’s overdressed and over made up.”
Marlene glared at him. “Asshole.”
She stamped over to the bedroom door. “I’ll wait for the cab downstairs in the lobby. Don’t bother getting up to show me out.”
As she slammed the front door theatrically shut behind her, Malcolm asked himself if he had actually, finally won one against Mistress Malefica. It seemed that he had. It seemed, also, that he had had to divorce her to do so.
Curious how adept she was at assuming the appropriate persona — sweet or sexy or dependent or strong or whatever combination seemed most likely to get her what she wanted. After his rejection of her business-manager suggestion, though, she had, along with her clothes and makeup, put on her true aspect — Marlene the Malevolent. He could easily imagine her as the evil adversary in a superhero comic book.
Dressed in a skin-tight costume decorated with lightning bolts — and very dangerously desirable she looks in it, too — Writerman’s most dangerous foe, Marlene the Malevolent, menaces the stunningly, exotically beautiful young woman with shoulder-length black hair and olive skin who is the guest star of this month’s issue.
But wait! Who’s that knocking politely at the beautiful young woman’s front door?
Why, it’s Writerman, Malcolm the Magnificent! Strange seed of even stranger parents,
he has come to Earth to fight for truth, justice, and an improvement in grammatical usage. “Begone, foul creature!” he cries. “This innocent young lovely is under my protection now!”
“A curse on you and all your efforts! May true literary success elude you forever!” Marlene the Malevolent shrieks, knowing just where the sensitive nerve endings are. Spinning about (thus allowing Writerman a last view and a rogue memory of the firmness of her athletic little backside), she leaps through the conveniently open window and flaps away into the night, having become a bat.
“Oh, Malcolm, my hero!” sobs the exotic young beauty.
In the last panel, we see them clinching, panting with eagerness, leaving to our overheated imaginations what will happen in the subsequent panels, the ones no one will draw for us.
Now that Malcolm thought about it, Marlene’s special tongue technique wasn’t all that wonderful, really. He must have magnified it in his imagination through some strange effect of sexual deprivation. Surely his exotically beautiful dream girl with the olive skin and the shoulder-length black hair and the almond-shaped eyes would be able to do a far better job of it.
* * * * *
In the meantime, two old men were wandering around Portland, Oregon prayerfully whacking men named Malcolm. They knew the name of the city began with a P.
* * * * *
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Business Secrets from the Stars Page 16