“You mean ‘common benefit,’” Malcolm said. “Clearly your box doesn’t work. Anyway, I’m not interested. Why should I let you guys in on my game?”
“Because we’ll be in on it anyway, with or without you. We’ve got the manpower and resources to drive you out of business.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve got Mongo.”
“Mongo?” The spokesman exchanged a puzzled look with his subordinates.
“The monster you must have passed on the way in.”
“Oh.” The scientologists all looked unhappy. “Well. Perhaps we’ll be going now. Too many engrams here, anyway. I think I’ll recommend that all clears stay away from you in case of engram infection. ‘Bye, now.” They trooped out, down the stairs, and through the front door, looking carefully to left and right as they went.
“My, what a polite bunch of handsome young men,” Marlene said. “So healthy and clean cut.”
Malcolm glared at her. “Think of them as threats to your income. And lock that damned front door.”
* * * * *
“Brothers and Sisters of the Saucer People!” Chirpy, chirpy. “Siblings to all wonderful beings everywhere in God’s huge and wonderful Universe! To what galactically enlightened being may I direct your call?”
“Jesus Harvey Christ! You know who I am by now, so just put me through to Harry.”
“This is Brother Harry, confidant of star creatures. Please be assured that beautiful beings are on their way in their saucer ships even now to take us all to a better, lovelier place.”
“God damn it, Harry.”
“Oh. Hello, Fancy.”
“Listen, are those two whatever you called them, translators, still on the job?”
“As far as I know. I revved them up and pointed them in the right direction and let them go.”
“I’ve changed my plans. Send out the recall code.”
“The what?”
“Jesus, what kind of primitive organization are you running? Call them back. Mission cancelled. No killing.”
“Hey, Fancy, girl, mellow out. Like, chill. I told you. Once you turn the key to the ON position with those guys, there’s no OFF. They keep going till the job is done or they’re dead.”
“Oh, shit.”
* * * * *
Piketon! That was it! Of course. How could they have forgotten? Thank you, Jesus!
* * * * *
On another Sunday morning, Mongo appeared in Malcolm’s study again. This time, Malcolm was sure the front door had been locked. Marlene was apparently in her office, unaware of the presence of the intruder. So Mongo, somehow, had let himself in.
“Well?” Mongo rumbled.
“Two hundred pages,” Malcolm said, sweating, babbling. “Okay, actually one hundred ninety eight. But I’m on schedule, see?”
“Mr. Flicker says that some of the your rivals are doing pretty well with seminars and radio shows. Says this book’s got to recapture your market share and you’ve got to get back on the seminar circuit soon as you’re done with the book. Also, the word I hear on the street is that some Jesus freak outfit has pointed a couple of hit men in your direction. Professionals. Mr. Flicker says that if you do the job on this book, then I can knock off their hit men. That’ll scare off any others. If you don’t do the job, we’ll just let the guys the freaks hired take care of you for us.” He looked Malcolm up and down. “Too bad. I was looking forward to doing that job myself. Cowards are always the most fun.”
“But, Mongo, I need protection now! If I get killed by hit men, then I won’t be able to finish the book, will I?”
“You’ll be dead either way, so why should you care?”
“I think we have a different approach to life, Mongo.”
Mongo shook his head. “Nah. It’s death we have a different approach to. Keep writing. I’ll be checking.”
“Two hundred pages!” Malcolm moaned to himself. “Oh, God!” For the truth was that he had been struggling to reach the one-hundred-and-fiftieth page when Mongo appeared. More than going slowly, the book had hardly been going at all during the last couple of days, and he had been despairing once again of finishing by the Mongo-imposed deadline. Now the despair overwhelmed him.
“I’ve got to have a break!” he screamed. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
He raced down the stairs and out the front door and into a shrieking blizzard and a temperature of three degrees below zero. In typical Piketon fashion, the seasons had changed almost overnight from high summer to deep winter. Malcolm leaped back into the house, shivering and blue.
Marlene appeared at the top of the stairs. “You idiot. You’ll freeze to death if you go outside dressed like that.”
“Supposed to be a painless death.” That made it seem attractive, a relatively easy way out, compared to the methods of death others seemed to be planning for him.
On the other hand, death in any form was still death. Malcolm didn’t know what Mongo had really meant by his cryptic remark, what the immense psycho’s approach to death was, but Malcolm did know that, in his own view, death was not a good thing.
He locked the front door. “I think I’ll watch television for a little while.”
Marlene narrowed her eyes. “How’s the book coming?” Her claws extended by half an inch.
“Just passed page two hundred. Right on schedule, see?”
Marlene grunted something and retreated to her office to divert more of Malcolm’s money to her Swiss account.
Malcolm went down to the basement level of the house, where he had had a huge room filled with very soft furniture built. It was also equipped with a wet bar, and an immense television screen covered one wall. He mixed himself a drink and flipped on a national cable news channel. They were carrying the Larry Lefkowitz story again, as they had been, it seemed, whenever he turned them on for the last couple of days.
“Oh, Christ,” Malcolm said. “He was just some local guy. It’s not really a national story, people. Even though he did have a goddamned bestseller. Fiction bestseller.” He swallowed his drink and went to the bar to mix another. “Novel. Bestselling novel.”
He felt depressed at the death of someone he had known who was younger than he was and pleased that someone who had had so much more success than he had had was dead and guilty that he didn’t feel sorry for Larry and Larry’s wife, whom Malcolm had never yet met and now probably never would, whatever she looked like. And however much she needs comforting, he thought, and felt really, horribly guilty for thinking such a thing.
The newsreader was a brainless and normally dull, droning, boring young woman, but she repeated the details of this story with an enthusiasm and shining-eyed delight that Malcolm found disturbing. Behind her, the screen displayed a small photo of the body hanging from a streetlight in downtown Piketon.
“In his suicide note,” the newsreader said, “the bestselling author spoke of his despair due to the negativity of his life and work. He wrote, ‘I am unable to love our leader the way a true American should. This troubles me. I’ve been laying awake at night worrying about it. I feel so guilty. Can’t get it out of my head. Got to put a stop to it. Farewell cruel world.’”
She paused for a moment and shook her head as though awed by Larry’s last moment of eloquence. Then she said, “The family has asked that instead of flowers, donations should be made to the local Republican Party organization of your choice.”
That lamppost certainly was a high one, Malcolm thought. Who could have imagined that Larry Lefkowitz would have had the strength to climb up that tall, slippery metal pole while carrying a rope, tie one end to the top just behind the light and the other end around his neck, and then jump off? Malcolm shivered at the image and took a large gulp of his drink. What a stupid thing for Lefkowitz to have done. Malcolm couldn’t understand it at all. Obviously the kid must have been upset. The grammar in his suicide note was proof enough of that. But what did he have to be upset about? He had success and a happy marriage to a supportive wife.
Unlike me, Malcolm thought, and he swallowed another large gulp.
The newsreader gave way to an interview with Joe Hoffman. At least this was something new. Malcolm hadn’t seen this before.
The voiceover said, “Earlier today, we recorded an interview with Piketon’s other famous, brilliant, excellent, topnotch, fascinating, bestselling science-fiction writer, Joe Hoffman, who was widely regarded as having been a mentor to Larry Lefkowitz and indeed to every other science-fiction writer of any importance in the city of Piketon.
“Mr. Hoffman, Larry Lefkowitz often called himself your protégé, and in particular he said that he would never have written American Lamppost if not for your encouragement and support and help with the actual writing of the book. You must feel his tragic suicide even more deeply than his millions of fans. It must feel as though your own writing has died, in some sense.”
Hoffman smiled nervously at the camera. “Well, you know, Mr. Lefkowitz gave me far too much credit when it came to Raise the Lantern, or whatever it was he called that book. I encouraged him to keep writing it because I could tell from the moment I met him that he was a deeply troubled young man, and I thought that actually finishing a novel, even if it never got published, would be good for him psychologically. I thought it might introduce some stability into his life. From what little I read of his manuscript while he was working on it, I wasn’t sure it would ever be published, and I certainly didn’t agree with the book’s political sentiments. Not at all. In fact, I disagreed with his politics vehemently. But anyway, as I said, I thought working on the book would be good for him.”
“So you didn’t work closely on it with him?”
“No! Oh, no. Not at all. I hardly ever saw the man. Once or twice a year, he would show up at a little writer’s workshop we have here in Piketon and show all of us the latest chapters. I think we all found his writing a bit... Oh, I don’t know. Obscure? Is that the word I want? Hard to follow. Except for the political attitudes, which we all found offensive, of course. Bordering on unpatriotic, even. I, especially, felt that way. But we all encouraged him, anyway. For the reasons I gave. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps we should have urged him to just give it all up and concentrate on his regular job.”
Good grief, Malcolm thought. Hoffman, were you really that jealous of the guy’s success? Or are you just pissed that you don’t have a protégé any more? Well, you had your chance to help my career, and you passed that one by, and now I don’t need you, you jerk.
Angrily, he hit the PREVIOUS button on the remote control. He didn’t remember what channel he had been watching before, but whatever it was, it was bound to be better than trying to endure Joe Hoffman.
It was COG-TV, the cable channel owned by Reverend Jimmy Earl, and Jimmy Earl himself was preaching at the moment.
Malcolm often watched religious cable channels. He thought they provided some of the most entertaining comedy being broadcast. Although Jimmy Earl was a bit less amusing on screen since Malcolm’s encounter with him in person.
The real problem with this variety of comedy, however, was that it didn’t stay amusing for very long. After a few minutes, Malcolm switched the channel to a local station. It was carrying Pastor Carol O’Hair’s weekly show, “Parables from the Pastor.”
That palled quickly, too. To amuse himself, Malcolm started pressing the PREVIOUS button and switching back and forth between Jimmy Earl and O’Hair. Only then did he realize how similar the two preachers’ messages were that morning. And that both were talking about him.
“This Lukas is a demonic spirit, and this Erskine is under his control,” Jimmy Earl said.
“Or possibly consciously in his employ,” O’Hair said.
“Maybe, just maybe, this here Lukas of Aldebaran,” roared Jimmy Earl with red face and bulging eyes, “is the Devil hisse’f!”
“And we must consider the possibility,” O’Hair speculated, “that Mr. Erskine, whether he is merely the dupe of the Evil One or an active and knowing disciple, is here to herald the coming of the Antichrist and the End of Days.”
“He must be killed!” Jimmy Earl bellowed. “I call upon all good, true Christians to off the scumball!”
“Those who are true followers of Christ,” mused O’Hair, “therefore have as their duty the shortening of Mr. Erskine’s time on Earth.”
Malcolm watched and listened with his mouth hanging open. He sat through both programs to the end. Then, moving like a zombie, he stood, went upstairs to the front door, took a warm coat from the closet, and stepped out into a brilliant world where the storm had passed and the sun, in a blue sky, shone on a sparkling layer of fresh snow.
Malcolm finished putting on his coat, buttoned it, plunged his hands deep in his pockets, and trudged away through the snow.
A firecracker went off in the distance, and something burned his cheek.
He brushed at the sting and saw blood on his hand.
Another firecracker, and this time snow erupted at his feet.
Malcolm’s brain froze in terror, but fortunately his feet started moving. He floundered back through the snow to his front door and made it to safety just as a third bullet shattered a brick in the wall beside the doorway.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ace Detective Lance looked offended. “You got no proof of his involvement, Mr. Erskine. Besides, he’s a pillar of the community.”
“But O’Hair said in a television sermon that I should be killed, and then someone tried to do it!”
“Could be coincidence. Besides, probably lots of people are saying you should be killed. Goes with being a celeb.”
Malcolm sank into one of his many expensive, overstuffed armchairs and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “And Reverend Jimmy Earl? He said the same thing on TV.”
“Outside our jurisdiction. Okay, look, Mr. Erskine. What we got here? We got a guy who’s famous. That’s you. Then we got person or persons unknown shooting three bullets at the famous guy. Famous guy ducks into house. Shooting over. We recover bullets, find no trace of person or persons. No big deal. Happens two, three times a week in this city. So I’ll write up the report, and then we’ll file it away, and then some day you’ll tell your grandkids about this interesting but minor thing that happened to you.”
“If he lives to have any grandkids.” That was Marlene’s contribution. She didn’t seem as upset by the shooting incident as Malcolm was.
Malcolm wondered suddenly what sort of life-insurance policy Erskine Enterprises had taken out on its founder and chief source of income. That was one of the details he had left entirely in Marlene’s hands when he hired her.
He remembered something else, though. “I heard there were a couple of hit men after me,” he told Ace Detective Lance. “Professionals. Maybe you should look into that angle.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“Sources.”
“Uh huh. Sources. Professional hit men. Right, Mr. Erskine. We’ll look into that angle right away.”
A uniformed flunky appeared. “Ace Detective Lance, sir?”
Lance turned away from Malcolm with obvious relief. Lance was thirty-one, on the fast track, and he had asked to be assigned to the Erskine shooting because cases involving celebrities usually resulted in useful publicity for him. This Erskine guy, though, was a whining, self-pitying putz who was much more concerned about his own skin than the ace detective’s career. “Yes, Officer Flunky?”
“There’s a couple of guys outside to see you. They’re from the Secret Service.”
Lance’s eyebrows rose considerably. “No kidding? You checked their IDs?”
Flunky nodded. “You bet, sir.”
This was more like it! National recognition for his ability, at last! Maybe he should go after Jimmy Earl. Lots of publicity there.
“Bring ’em in.”
But the two men who entered, it turned out, were there because of Malcolm and not because of Ace
Detective Lance, whom they treated as a nonentity. They brushed aside his fawning and boot licking and repeated offers to help them with their case.
“Yeah, yeah,” the taller one said. “Right on, Base Detective. Now, why don’t you and your men just leave and go write up your reports, or whatever, and we’ll take care of everything here.”
The shorter of the two turned his attention to Malcolm. “Sir, you have nothing more to worry about. The Secret Service is here.”
“‘Are here,’ Jerry,” the taller Secret Service man said over his shoulder while he watched the crestfallen ace detective of the Piketon Police Department shoo his men out of the house.
“No, Al,” the shorter one said, his voice calm but muscles bunching in his jaw, “‘is here.’ ‘Secret Service’ is a collective noun.”
“Not necessarily, Jerry.” Al turned from the door, and his expression gave the lie to the calmness in his voice. “You know, before World War One, they used to say, ‘the United States are’, but then, after the war, the usage changed to ‘the United States is.’ However, in Britain, I believe they still say, ‘Her Majesty’s government are.’ So you see, it depends on usage, and that can change. Also, I think Fowler explains that it has do with how you intend the noun — as a collective singular, or as a group of individuals acting in concert.”
“Bullshit, Al! I don’t give a shit about Fowler or Her Majesty or World War One! I’m telling you that modern usage is to treat all U.S. government agency names as collective nouns, which means they take the singular form of the verb!”
“You little asshole!”
By now, the two agents were standing practically nose-to-Adam’s-apple. Both faces were red, and veins stood out on both foreheads. Suddenly, a thought struck both simultaneously. They stepped apart and returned to their normal coloring.
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