by Mick Farren
Wanda-Jean still hadn't been able to summon up the courage to confront Priest with her displeasure. Instead she fumed inside, and went on drinking the harsh red wine that he had insisted on ordering. The cabaret, if one could call it that, started. The trio vacated the tiny stage, and were replaced by a wild-haired poet who bellowed unintelligible, and frequently obscene, blank verse across the smoke-filled room.
After the poet, a skinny kid with a guitar sat on a stool and, accompanying himself, did an unsuccessful job of reviving the kind of protest music that was popular around the time of the Asian war, a period that even Wanda-Jean's mother was too young to remember.
When the kid finally was through, the trio came back accompanied by a young and not very attractive girl with stringy black hair and makeup like a corpse. She sang one almost inaudible song, then slipped out of her kimono-style robe and, stark naked, proceeded to go through a series of listless but supposedly symbolic gyrations.
Bobby Priest applauded loudly after each act. Wanda-Jean, by the time the dancer came, was slumped, elbows on the table, her chin resting on her fists. For the first time all evening, Priest deigned to notice.
"What's the matter? Don't you like it?"
Wanda-Jean scowled. "This half-assed amateur talent show, what's there to like?"
Priest shrugged. "I can't get enough of it."
The statement had been delivered as though it was an absolute truth. It was enough to make Wanda-Jean sit up straight in her chair.
"You're kidding?"
"Why should I kid?"
Wanda-Jean had looked around the room with almost slack-jawed amazement. "You like… this?"
"Sure."
"Jesus Christ, why?"
"I'll tell you…"
He hesitated as two women pushed past the table. One was young, in a not very fashionable, but timelessly clinging, red dress with slits up to her hips. She treated Priest to a long liquid stare and puffed sexually on a thin black cigar. The other was at the end of an emaciated, almost cadaverous middle age. Her dress was a vastly expensive couture house creation. A mink stole was thrown around her mottled shoulders. The older woman made a small impatient gesture and they both moved on. None of the regular bearded and work-clothed clientele paid them any attention. Bobby Priest was the single exception. He winked at Wanda-Jean.
"How about those two?"
"How about them?"
"Five gets you ten they're a couple of dykes into S and M. I figure the old one wants to get the young one home and whip her crazy."
Wanda-Jean couldn't help picturing the scene, but she was determined not to be impressed. "So? They looked pretty out of place here."
"You think so?"
"Didn't they?"
"Looked to me like they fitted perfectly."
Wanda-Jean had shaken her head at that point. "I don't understand. I don't understand any of this."
"I expect you figured I was going to take you to some classy downtown joint and we'd wind up in tomorrow's gossip columns, right?"
Wanda-Jean was a little taken aback. "Yes… something like that."
"Well, let me tell you something, sister. Let me explain something. You want to know why I come to a dump like this?"
Wanda-Jean nodded. "I'll tell you. This is one of the few places in this whole fucking city where I can go without having people point and stare and elbow each other to get close to me. I need that. I need somewhere where I can be me, where I don't have to be Bobby Priest."
For the very first time Wanda-Jean noticed that, close up, there was something a little mad about Bobby Priest's eyes. The eyes seemed to bore into her.
"You don't understand what I'm talking about, do you?"
Wanda-Jean did her best to look sympathetic. She had decided it was the best way to deal with him. "Sure I understand."
"Bullshit you do. You're just starting on this. I've been on it forever. I've seen a thousand of you come and go. You all run around, getting your kicks out of being somebody for the first time."
"What's wrong with that?"
"There's nothing wrong with it, except I've been somebody so goddamn long I've had it."
Wanda-Jean wasn't sure she could handle this. She wondered what Priest was on. "You don't mean that. You wouldn't go on doing the show if you didn't like it."
"So I don't even get a night off now and then?" He waved his arm around the room. "You see these weirdos here? They don't know from shit about me or you or game shows or feelies, and they care even less. That's what I call a night off."
"I'm sure you need it…"
"But not on your time. You wanted to go to some joint where everyone would recognize us. Right?"
"I didn't say that."
"But it's true."
"I don't want to fight with you." Wanda-Jean was actually scared. It all seemed to be going wrong on her. She couldn't afford to get on the wrong side of Bobby Priest.
"Yeah, well…"
To her surprise Priest suddenly slumped. His shoulders sagged. He looked older and much less energetic than before. "I expect you want to go."
It was too fast for Wanda-Jean. "I…"
"We'll go back to your hotel."
The totally flat statement was much too fast. Wanda-Jean had expected to wind up in bed with Priest, but she had expected at least some sort of token persuasion. She let out a confused laugh. "Sure, yeah, okay, let's go."
Back at the hotel it had become even stranger. Priest had lapsed into silence again on the ride home. Wanda-Jean had half expected to be taken to the hotel bar for a drink. Instead she was steered straight into the lift and up to her, or rather the network's, suite. The silence continued as they rode up in the lift and went through the living room into the bedroom. The moment they were in the bedroom, Bobby Priest had started taking off his clothes. There hadn't been a word. Something rebelled inside her. There was a limit to everything, even for Bobby Priest. She planted her hands squarely on her hips.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Priest turned and looked at her. His face registered surprise. "I was taking my clothes off. What else?"
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why?"
"What I said, why? You going to take a bath or something?"
"I imagined we were going to fuck."
Wanda-Jean became really angry. "That's what you imagined, did you?"
"Well…"
"No sweet talk, no build up, nothing. Just strip off and get to it?"
"What do you want, champagne and flowers?"
"Why the hell not?"
"It all comes to the same thing in the end. Why bother with a whole lot of phony bullshit?"
"Phony or not, at least I get to keep some pride. I get to be more than just something for you to jerk off in. Even hookers get paid."
Priest sneered. "So how much do you want?"
"You bastard!"
"Yeah? Why so worked up, sweetie? Don't make me laugh with all this crap about pride. You lost all your pride when you went in for the show. All you got left is greed. You'd do anything to stay on the show, and as far as you're concerned, I am the show. You screwed everyone you thought might do you the slightest bit of good, so why waltz around?"
He had started to move toward her.
"You might as well just get down. I'm only one more."
He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back on the bed. Wanda-Jean was way past resisting. She fell back limply. Priest started tearing at her clothes. A part of her wanted to fight him off, to kick and scratch and hurt him, but the rest of her just couldn't raise the energy.
There has been a certain relief in the fact that it was all over in a flash. Priest came almost as soon as he had started. Wanda-Jean wondered if maybe he got his real kick beforehand. Was he a degradation freak? He lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling in silence. Wanda-Jean gathered up what was left of her clothes and her dignity and and retreated into the bathroom. She felt as though being sick might be
an appropriate gesture, but even that seemed a bit futile. Instead, she took a shower and cleaned her teeth. When she returned to the bedroom, Priest was asleep. She slipped into bed. Fortunately, it was so large that there was room for an appreciable space between them.
RALPH HAD DECIDED NOT TO GO HOME.
It had been a tense, unhappy day at the vault.
There were rumors all over the building, rumors that had even penetrated as deep as the underground dreamworld over which he and Sam presided. There were changes coming. That seemed to be the only point of agreement in the numerous conflicting stories. There was some major reorganization being planned. What exactly that meant was far from clear. Everyone claimed to know the inside scoop. Everyone had the details, but when taken as a whole, all the gossip really added up to was a mass of contradiction and confusion. Some said that there was going to be massive cutbacks and thousands would be thrown out of work. Others whispered that there was going to be equally massive expansion, and that with thousands of new jobs and increased bonuses, happy days were really here. Many responded to that with mutterings of "Don't hold your breath." The worst doomsayers claimed that there was something radically wrong with the entire system, and that the government was going to close down the whole IE operation. Those last claims, however, were made very quietly. To talk about anything like that within the walls of CM and in the places that CM employees gathered was viewed as a clear case of sedition, and although it wasn't actual grounds for dismissal, grounds could be easily found. Needless to say, Ralph feared for his job. Although he cursed it, Ralph's job was everything to him. It was all that stood between him and being absolutely lost in the twilight as just another wino. Sam probably feared, too, but on this particular day, he appeared too doped up even to approach his anxieties.
Ralph had actually started out going for the RT in the usual way, driven by the force of habit. He made it as far as Reagan Plaza when something inside him revolted. He couldn't face the ride; he couldn't face sitting on the slowly emptying train, watching the doors, waiting for some mob of sociopath weirdies to come storming aboard and make him a victim. Without really thinking about it, he stood up as the monorail pulled into Reagan and left the train along with the late shoppers and the executives on their way to the heliport and their comfortable apartments in the security towers that surrounded the plaza. As he came out of the station and walked through the lavish Reagan atrium, he had no real idea where he intended to go, but that soon fell into place. Beyond the Reagan development there was a small enclave of traditional streets with shops and old-style Irish bars. They were not unlike the streets he had known when he was a boy, streets that were reasonably well policed and safe to stroll down without having an obvious reason for being there.
The first bar he came to was an executive hangout, recognizable by its polished brass and hanging plants. He gave the place, ironically called Ralph's, the go by and continued to walk. The next bar he came to, the Saddle Horn, was too dark and gay and noisy for his taste, filled with too many cruising figures briefly illuminated by spinning lasers. He kept on going, enjoying the chance to walk aimlessly, in no hurry to get anywhere. It was another two blocks before he saw what he wanted. The green neon shamrock and the red and white Himmler beer sign glowed like the lights of home in the gathering dusk.
The place was called the Pride of Erin, and the inside was quite as welcoming as the exterior. It was filled with the comfortable smell of beer and cigarette smoke. When one lived out in the twilight sprawl, it became all too easy to forget what comfort really meant. Sure there were bars along Lincoln Avenue, and they also smelled of beer and cigarettes, but out there, one could never quite get away from the tension, the automatic glance up when a stranger walked in, the ostentation of the antitheft devices on the cash register, and the nagging fear that at any given moment one of the other customers might explode. There was too much poverty out around the bars on Lincoln Avenue. There were always the broken fittings in the bathrooms, and the Christmas decorations that no one had bothered to take down in five or six years. In the Pride of Erin, there were bowls of pretzels on the bar, and the bartender actually smiled at Ralph when he walked in and sat down on a stool.
The bartender was a young kid with slicked-back hair and a tan. "So how's it going?"
Ralph eased the cramps in his shoulders. "Well, I got to tell you, it's been a bitch of a day, but I'm hoping that it'll get better."
The bartender nodded sympathetically. "Maybe a drink would help?"
Ralph grinned. "I didn't come in here for a prayer meeting."
"What'll it be?"
Ralph didn't hesitate. "Scotch and a beer back."
"You want the Jap or the real stuff?"
Ralph had intended to go with Japanese, but then he changed his mind. "Give me the real stuff. Dewars if you've got it."
"We don't have no beer on tap."
"Never mind, nothing's perfect. Give me a bottle of Himmler Light."
The bartender placed Ralph's drinks in front of him and then pointed to the CM logo on the front of his overalls. "You work for them?"
Ralph nodded. "Sure do."
"You must be doing okay then?"
Ralph grimaced. "Tell me about it."
The bartender seemed genuinely interested. "You work on the feelies?"
Ralph sighed. "It ain't as glamorous as you might think. It's really only a job."
The bartender smiled knowingly. "Yeah, I bet."
Ralph warmed slightly, basking in the third-hand celebrityhood. "Well, you know, every job does have its moments."
The bartender tapped the side of his nose. "You ever meet Connie Starr?"
Ralph laughed. "Stood next to her in an elevator once, but most of the time they keep the stars away from the likes of me."
"So what do you do? Technician or something?"
"Right. I actually work in the client end of the operation, with what we call the stiffs."
"Stiffs?"
"The ones who've signed on for life. The rich folks who just lay there, dreaming they're James Bond or Genghis Khan for the rest of their days. Me and my partner take care of six hundred of them."
"That sounds like some job."
Ralph shook his head. "It's mainly automated. There isn't that much to do. Thank God for the union, that's what I say."
The bartender moved away to serve another customer but came back to Ralph when he was through. Like most people, he was fascinated by the idea of the feelies. "That's got to be the life, though. Spending all of your time living out a fantasy."
Ralph had a thought. Okay, so he wasn't going to blow the whistle on CM. Nobody said that he couldn't start a grassroots rumor. "To tell the truth, we've been having a bit of trouble lately with the longtimers."
The bartender immediately looked interested. "Trouble?"
Ralph looked around to see that no one else was listening, then leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "They've been dying on us."
The bartender didn't seem to know if he believed Ralph or not. "Dying?"
"Just passing away."
"I never heard about that."
"Of course you didn't. It's a very closely guarded secret."
"Why are they dying?"
"Nobody knows. It might be a glitch in the equipment, although those Germans don't usually screw up, or it could be that, after a couple of years in a feelie, they just give up and die. It may be that human beings just ain't designed to live like a cactus."
The bartender was shaking his head. "That's pretty freaky. How many have died so far?"
"Not many yet, but I'm afraid it's only the start."
The bartender poured Ralph a shot on the house. "It's one time that I'm glad I'm poor."
Ralph drained the free drink. "Amen to that."
"What are they going to do about it? They can't just let people die."
"Can't they? So far, all they've been doing is keeping it quiet."
"That's terrible."
"THERE HAVE BEEN, FOR WANT OF A better word, rumors."
Kingsley Deutsch stood at the end of the absurdly long conference table. His stance was dramatic, as was the pause that he left for his opening statement to sink in.
"In fact, the rumors that are circulating in this corporation have reached totally unacceptable levels, levels that can only indicate that morale is approaching a state of instability. Instability at any time is something, gentlemen, that we simply cannot afford. We cannot afford it at any time, but we particularly cannot afford it right now."
The special emergency meeting was being held in the penthouse boardroom, the highest pinnacle of power in Combined Media. The boardroom itself was designed to embody, reflect, and amplify that power. The vast panoramic window behind Deutsch looked out over an expanse of city that stretched out almost to the horizon. The sky was a deep blue with streaks of wispy, pale clouds, planes came and went, and the light of the towers and streets were just starting to come alive.
Outside, everything seemed so normal. In the boardroom, there was a feeling of isolation, almost a sense of impending doom. The pair of huge marble neo-Assyrian godheads that flanked the window and supported the vaulted cathedral ceiling glared angrily down from behind Deutsch at the men and women assembled there as though silently demanding explanations. Deutsch himself looked as though he was also about to demand explanations. Kingsley Deutsch wasn't a tall man, but he made up for what he lacked in stature by unrelenting energy. More than once he had been described in the media as Napoleonic. Like Bonaparte, his dress was deliberately understated. His black conservative suit may have been infinitely forgettable, even if it had cost more than three thousand dollars, but there was no forgetting his face. He was not a handsome man, but there were few faces outside of a handful of mass murderers and psychopaths that showed such will and determination. His chin jutted in permanent belligerence; his small blue eyes, beneath knitted, almost invisible brows, were penetrating to the point of being scary. The only touch of vanity was the way in which he compensated for his thinning gray hair with a deep, even tan that seemed to be the main reason behind weekends spent at his tax haven, a Haitian chateau just outside Port au Prince.