Malcolm tilted his head back so that he could at least give the appearance of staring down his nose at Mongo. “Sequel! Don’t be silly, fellow. One book like that is more than the world needs. I’m thinking of quitting the whole idiocy and going back to being just a writer. A real writer, I mean. A writer of real books. Tell Jimmy I’ll be in touch with him soon about winding up our relationship.”
Mongo snickered so softly that Malcolm wasn’t sure he had really heard anything.
“Oh, say,” Mongo said, “I don’t think you want to tell Mr. Flicker anything like that. I think you want to tell him when your best-selling sequel will be finished and ready to send to your publisher.”
It was one of Mongo’s greatest talents that he could communicate the idea of a deadly threat without having to put it into words. He had succeeded in communicating it to Malcolm, but Malcolm foolishly decided that he must have misunderstood the man.
“There won’t be a sequel,” Malcolm said. “Didn’t you understand? And I’m dropping this seminar business entirely. I’ve made enough money to satisfy myself.”
“But not enough to satisfy Mr. Flicker. He told me to tell you that if you don’t come up with that sequel very soon, before someone produces a book that beats yours out, he’ll have to find a substitute for you. He’ll have to hire someone to write the sequel.”
Malcolm thought about that. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea! I could get on with my real life, and someone else could do all the stupid writing stuff, and I’d still be getting lots of royalties out of it. Yes, I like that!”
Mongo shook his head fractionally, less a movement from side to side than a quiver. “Mr. Flicker doesn’t operate that way. When he replaces people, that means he doesn’t need them any longer. Mr. Flicker doesn’t approve of dead wood.”
Suddenly, Jimmy Flicker’s voice came back to Malcolm: “Great bunch of people, now that I had the dead wood murdered. Cheaper’n laying them off.”
Malcolm found he barely had enough breath to ask, “What’s your job at MegaFlicker?”
“Director of Cosmic Outplacement.” Mongo squeezed his hands into fists casually, then relaxed them again. The crackling of his knuckles filled the room.
“Six months,” Malcom croaked. He leaned against a nearby chair — a newly purchased expensive antique — for support.
“What about six months?”
“To write a book. Five months.”
“Takes you that long?” Mongo’s eyebrows moved microscopically closer together in what might have been the ghost of the suggestion of a frown. “Mr. Flicker won’t be happy with that.”
“Four months.”
The frown became almost visible. “Mr. Flicker’s afraid someone else will beat you to the punch way before that.”
“Three months, then. Christ Almighty, man, what am I supposed to say?”
“Say ‘one month.’”
Malcolm groaned. “One month,” he whispered.
“Good. I’ll see if I can get Mr. Flicker to go along with that.”
“You’ll let me know his answer, won’t you?”
Mongo looked Malcolm up and down carefully, as if measuring him for some purposes of his own which Malcolm would be much better off knowing nothing about. “One way or another.” He vanished.
Malcolm closed the front door, locked it carefully, and then went all over the house, checking that every door and window was properly bolted. He had the feeling that it didn’t matter — that Mongo could walk through the wall if he wanted to. Not by any supernatural means, either.
Mongo! he thought. What a name! An absurd name. Is he supposed to be from the planet Mongo, like the guy in Flash Gordon?
No, said a nasty little voice, from the twin planets Fear and Agony.
Marlene Malevolent! Malcolm needs you yet again!
* * * * *
“Uh, hi, Marlene?”
“Ho, ho, ho! Do I sound like her?” Rich, deep, expensive chuckle. Fred Seicht, of course. Had the bastard moved in already, with his designer suits, his designer voice, and his designer dick?
In my bed! Malcolm thought.
Your ex-bed, his nastier self reminded him.
“I mean, could I speak to Marlene, please?” Please! Why in God’s name am I saying please? Put down my ex-phone and let me speak to my ex-wife, you shithead!
“And whom shall I say is calling?”
Malcolm ground his teeth and brought himself under control with considerable effort. “Your predecessor, you prick!” he screamed into the receiver. Not just a prick, but a grammatical ignoramus. Knowing that, however, did not make Malcolm feel any better.
“Oh. Okay.” Seicht held the receiver away from his mouth and called out, “Sweetheart! It’s the teeny weenie!”
Malcolm heard Marlene giggle in the background and he almost hung up. But the moment passed and Marlene’s voice came purring over the line. “Hi, there, Tiny Tim. What’s up? I already know what’s up over here. Giggle, snort, stop that, wait a minute, oh, Fred, not now!”
Could Mongo be any worse than this? Could physical agony resulting in death really be any more awful than the mental torture Marlene was so adept at subjecting him to? After very little thought, Malcolm decided that at the hands of Mongo it probably could, and so he pressed on with his prepared speech.
“I’ve been thinking, Marlene. I’ve been thinking about your idea of my hiring you as my business manager. I think you could do a really fine job for me. Hell —” conspiratorial laugh “— I know you could, so —”
Marlene interrupted. “Stop trying so hard, Malcolm. You’re in some kind of shit, and you’re turning to me. Am I right?”
“Well, um...” He sighed. “Well, in a manner of speaking, you’re kind of right.”
How did she do that? How did she gloat across the telephone line without saying a word or making a sound? What talents this woman had! Even now, after all those years of marriage and divorce and continuing attempts at mutual destruction, he was still learning things about her.
“It’ll cost you, sweetie-pie lover-guy,” said Madame Malefica.
“Oh, of course. Well, sure, Marlene. I was planning to offer you a good deal. High five figures, benefits to be negotiated.”
Marlene chuckled — Seicht’s obnoxious chuckle transposed from bass to treble clef. “Let’s start talking six, plus a percentage of the gross.”
“Christ, Marlene!”
Her voice turned to honey and rose petals. “And I’ll throw in my special tongue technique as part of the deal.”
Malcolm was feeling so emasculated at the moment that that offer was less inducement than it would once have been.
Before Malcolm could say anything, Fred Seicht’s voice boomed out in the background. “Hey, wait a minute, now! Just what the hell’re you talking about to that twit?”
Marlene, her voice so cold it made Malcolm fear he might get frostbite even over the telephone, said, “Shut up, Fred. Go home. I’ll call you when I need you again.”
Spouting lines that belonged in bad novels — “You’ll call me? When you need me? Hey, babe, I made you and I can break you!” — Seicht left the house, or so Malcolm deduced from the sound of a slamming door.
“Now then, Malcolm, my dear.” It was honey and rose petals again. “Shall I come over there and we can talk terms?”
Oh, my fellow cosmic ray, it is among us a well known truth-statement that an executive of the genuine nova-born class does not hesitate or excessively chew over conflicting options when required to make a decision. Rather he grasps the mightier of the horns of any dilemma and simply dismisses the other. Only thus may the bull of discord be vanquished and contention among subordinates be avoided. Or so Malcolm was told by Lukas of Aldebaran, the star-dwelling Merskeenian, as reported on Page 342 of Business Secrets from the Stars.
Well, there is some truth to that crap after all, Malcolm thought, making a snap decision with a gusto that would have delighted any onlooking Merskeenian executive
, if there had been one looking on. If, for that matter, the Merskeenians had ever existed.
“Tell ya what, babe,” he said grandly, “you draw up a contract and bring it over, and I’ll probably just sign it with very few changes. How’s that sound?” For not only was his need for someone to handle all his business while he tried to grind out a sequel to Business Secrets from the Stars that would be acceptable to Jimmy Flicker a desperate one, but also, as he had just realized, employing Marlene and keeping her busy and beholden to him was the perfect way to keep her apart from Fred Seicht.
“Why, Malcolm, how sweet! How about, um, ten tomorrow morning?”
Honey and roses, roses and honey. Malcolm smiled, feeling better than he had since the looming up of Mongo.
Or was that really not honey, but molasses? Certainly there was about Marlene more than a faint hint of sulfur.
* * * * *
In the meantime, two old men read through the very small telephone directory in Pawnee, Oklahoma. There was not a single listing for a man named Malcolm. They looked at each other in something approaching discouragement. Each one thought the other one looked awful, exhausted, close to being translated by Mother Nature. Since both were heavily armed and had killed dozens of men, many of them named Malcolm, neither chose to mention how bad the other looked. Instead, they crossed Pawnee off their list of towns and cities beginning with P and trudged back to their car.
* * * * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Oh, what wonders Marlene worked during her first days on the job! It was enough to make Malcolm wonder why he had ever felt unhappy during their marriage. Suddenly he could remember only the happy times together — the first week of marriage — and the special tongue technique, which had actually improved during their time apart. He wasn’t quite as emasculated as he had thought.
If it had not been for the swift approach of the deadline he had negotiated with Mongo, Malcolm would have been happy.
As he sat staring at his blank computer screen trying to squeeze from his equally blank brain more words of Merskeenian wisdom, Marlene was efficiently juggling calls, appointments, bills, letters, appeals for advice or blessings, bookkeeping, and his sexual needs. These were the very details which had been overwhelming him before, although now they seemed insignificant in comparison with Mongo.
Mongo dominated his thoughts, driving out whatever creativity of the Business Secrets from the Stars sort Malcolm might otherwise have had left.
“Look, dear,” Marlene came into his study to say brightly. “Our net worth is up another zillion dollars.”
At another time, Malcolm might have reacted to that word “our.” This time, he kept staring at his blank screen and muttered, “Mongo.”
Marlene came in to say, again brightly, “I’ve got your seminars fully booked through the next year, beloved darling. We’ll clear at least five googol dollars from the marks.”
“Mongo.”
Marlene again, brightly again, although perhaps with a growing hint of impatience. “Very good news, oh heartthrob beyond compare. I express-mailed a copy of Business Secrets from the Stars to George Lucas, and one of his people just called to say that he read it, loved it, intends to use all of your cosmic principles from now on in running his businesses, and he’s instructed his lawyers to keep their hands off you because you are clearly a major manifestation in this time and place of the light side of the Force, or something along those lines.”
For a moment, Malcolm’s mood lightened. “Gee, that is good news!” Then his face sagged and his gloom returned and he sighed and said, “Mongo.”
“God damn it, you spineless wimp!” Marlene shouted.
Malcolm tore his eyes from the screen and looked at her, framed in the doorway of his study. The Marlene of sweetness and light, honey and roses who had been living with him for the last few days had vanished, replaced by the Marlene who had been so much more familiar to him for so many years.
“That’s you!” she shrieked. “Sit on your ass and let the world push you around, and then whine about your problems. Get moving on it!”
Malcolm shrank back in his chair and whispered, “Mong— Marlene.”
“Use your situation! Use your problems. Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do? Make a book out of the danger you’re in!” She spun about and marched away, down the hall to her own office.
Slowly Malcolm straightened. Hmm, he said to himself. She has a point. Stars, stars... Defense of the Stars, Freedom among the Stars...Naah. No zing. Wait! Stick with the tried and true! Business Dangers from the Stars! Yes!
His fingers scurried about the keyboard and words poured across the screen.
Down the hall, in her sumptuous office, Marlene straightened from her work and concentrated. Her predator’s ears quivered, acquired the signal, locked in. Malcolm was typing.
She nodded in satisfaction and retracted her claws. The boy was good for a few more bucks. She wouldn’t have to tear his throat out yet.
* * * * *
Heed me now, oh my interstellar beloveds, fellow spawn of the incomparable throbbing heart of a cousin star. When your unmatched efforts and clear moral superiority to the masses and strict adherence to the principles explained in my first channeled book have been rewarded with power, riches, and exalted position, it will happen that the slime, the curs, the worms, the excrement beneath you will look at up your eminence and be consumed with jealousy, and they will try to destroy you and pull you down to their own nauseating level. They might, for example, send large men to inflict pain upon you. Or perhaps the threat will take the form of succubi who will try to drain you of your cosmic life-force by the use of exotic pleasure techniques. Learn, then, how I, Lukas of Aldebaran, and my fellow corporate heroes Paulus and Henricus dealt with such dangers in the long-ago time that is yet coincident with your own time through the vibrational interface of the etheric planes.
But first let me remind you of the deeds of M’Lersk, who rescued your very own ancestors from the dread Marlingas. Oh, what a hero was he! And oh, what unutterably evil creatures were they!
* * * * *
Oh, yeah, Malcolm told himself. Mammon House’ll love it. The marks will eat it up. Flicker will call off Mongo. Everything’s going to be okay again!
Oh, silly Malcolm.
* * * * *
After one week, Malcolm had one hundred adequate pages done. When inspiration ran dry, he was able to recycle short stories he had written years earlier but never sold, changing the good guys into Merskeenians and the bad guys into Marlingas or rival businessmen. All he had to do was keep up that rate of production, and he would have the life-saving book done by the end of the month Mongo had allowed him. Which meant he had to avoid any interruptions.
Marlene was fending off all such interruptions, whether telephonic or in person, with her usual competence. Not only did this help Malcolm by giving him the time he needed to write Business Dangers from the Stars, but it also kept her far too busy to spend any time with Fred Seicht, as Malcolm was sure she had been planning to do. Just call me Malcolm the Arch Manipulator, he told himself. He rather liked the sound of that.
However, after one week, Mongo loomed in to see if Malcolm was producing as promised, and not even Marlene could keep Mongo out.
It was Sunday morning, and Malcolm was sitting before his computer, happily producing nonsense, when chills began running up and down his spine and his hair stood at attention.
“Mongo!” he said. He turned around, and there was Mongo, reading over his shoulder and nodding.
“Pretty good,” Mongo said in his quiet basso. “How many pages?”
“A — a hundred. And fifty. Hundred fifty.”
Mongo nodded again. “One hundred pages. Keep it up.”
If I can ever get it up again, Malcolm thought.
Mongo turned to Marlene. “I know the way out, ma’am. Next time, don’t try to stop me.” He left.
Marlene and Malcolm listened intently, holding th
eir breaths. They heard a faint creak from the stairway, then a slight click as the front door closed. Then they both breathed again.
For the first time, Malcolm noticed that Marlene was massaging her left shoulder with her right hand.
Alarmed, Malcolm said, “Christ, did he hurt you?”
“Only slightly. If he wanted to, I bet he could really hurt a girl.”
And now for the first time Malcolm noticed that she was breathing faster than normal, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were wide and bright.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, “what next? You mean that for all those years, you never told me that you like to have men hurt you?”
Marlene looked at him in scorn. “Not you, for God’s sake. Get back to the book.”
“Pervert.”
“Wimp.”
Malcolm was trying to come up with something that would hurt, when a large number of clean-cut young men with short haircuts and wearing expensive suits trooped in. Obviously, Mongo had shut the front door but not locked it.
“Christ Almighty!” Malcolm shrieked. “What is this, a fucking convention? I’ve got work to do!”
The young men looked at Malcolm condescendingly. “Lots of engrams here,” one of them said, and the others nodded.
“I have here,” the one who had spoken said, bringing from behind his back a small metal box with a light bulb set into its top, “our newest engram-o-meter, which we have specifically designed to help detect the malign presence of Marlingas. The Marlingas who threatened the ancient star-kings who are the ancestors of all of us are still around, as you obviously know. They have evolved to outwardly resemble human beings. By alerting the world to their presence, you, Malcolm Erskine, have done us all a service. The Church of Scientology acknowledges that service and wishes to incorporate your revelation into its own work. You need only modify your seminars and writings to reflect the wisdom revealed by the Founder, and we will be able to absorb you and your organization smoothly and to our mutual benefit.” His backup team nodded in unison.
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