Lost Yesterday td-65

by Warren Murphy

  “He kept his word. Rubin wasn't lying. He spent the entire proceeds of Dromoids of Muir on that two-buck ring. And you're telling me to back off?”

  Barry felt his cheeks go free, and quickly began dabbing at the blood with his handkerchief.

  “Yes, Beatrice. I want you to back off. I will be no good to you if you get still another charge against you. I can't keep up with them.”

  “We didn't threaten,” said Rubin.

  “The attorney general of the United States phoned me last night to tell me one of your Poweressence nuts at a formal state dinner mentioned to the President that the only way he could save himself from death was to have all federal charges against you dropped. That is not a threat? It seems like a threat to me.”

  “You mean Kathy Bowen, that lovely, talented actress? That sweet girl who has seen her career blossom since she joined Poweressence? The Kathy Bowen we knew would be attending that state dinner? She did it on her own.”

  “With Kathy Bowen's boobs, I could have been Jayne Mansfield. Yes, that Kathy Bowen— the one who danced with the President and said he was going to die if he didn't lay off you. That lovely girl who will never be invited to the White House again. That one.”

  “She's a movie star,” said Rubin. “Lots of movie stars understand Poweressence because they already receive positive vibrations from the universal force.”

  “I have movie stars as clients too. I know movie stars. They receive their vibrations from the universal farce. I got one movie star who believes he is the reincarnation of Genghis Khan. I got another star who bathes her duff in seaweed. I got another star who believes that blowing up children's hospitals will further the Marxist cause. I got more movie stars than I know what to do with, and I have yet to meet one with enough sound judgment to make it legitimately into junior high school.”

  “Not only are we not copping a plea but we are going to be found innocent,” said Beatrice.

  “She's right,” said Rubin.

  “Well, if you get nearly eternal terms, don't blame me.”

  “Of course I will,” said Beatrice. “If you don't have a witness against us, then I certainly will blame you if we are found guilty.”

  “Don't count on that kind of luck,” said Glidden. “Less than one percent of witnesses retract their testimony. The odds are a hundred to one against you.”

  “On the contrary,” said Beatrice. “The odds are in our favor. Can I get you a bandage for your cheek wounds?”

  “You might try letting the blood flow stem itself naturally,” said Rubin. “In course number thirty-eight, we offer that technique for $1,285, but you can have it free. It's a general-health maintenance program.”

  “I'll take the bandage,” said Glidden.

  “I'll get it for you,” said Beatrice. “Rubin has a lot to do.”

  Rubin Dolomo shuffled out of the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wheezed his way down to the spacious basement and ground out his cigarette on the concrete floor. Neatly hung up on one wall were several dozen rubber suits. He got into one with great effort. He hated the way it stuck to him, hated the weight and heat it concentrated on his body. Normal breathing was hard enough for him, but the suit made it almost impossible. But Beatrice was right— he had a lot to do and no time to waste. He snapped on the rubber face mask and adjusted the goggles.

  The founder of Poweressence, the hope of humanity, waddled to the rear of the basement, where an airtight door, like that of a submarine compartment, was set into the wall. He turned the wheel unlocking the door, and entered. The five herbs and three chemicals that made up the formula lay in separate barrels. As Rubin ground the herbs, his goggles began darkening, a sign he was going to pass out soon. But he knew he could make it. He'd made it before.

  While the fresh potion dripped through a sieve and into a container, Rubin nearly collapsed into one of the large gray plastic barrels. He heard his heart beat in the suit, but did not hear the container close. He could smell the rubber, even taste it on his tongue.

  He got out of the room just in time to make it to the shower. With his last ounce of energy, he kicked the large button on the floor and the room flooded with a harsh hot spray. Dolomo lay down to conserve his vanishing breath. When he felt the spray stop he put the container into a small vat and pushed the vat to a small conveyor belt set into one wall.

  Rubin Dolomo cut himself free of the suit with an X-Acto knife and a great deal of effort. When he regained his breath he met the little container again in another room, but this time he was separated from it by a glass wall fitted with protective rubber arms. The container had been jostled along the conveyor route and now it rested on its side. Rubin slipped his arms into the rubber sheaths set into a window and set it right atop a little table. On the table was a single sheet of pink stationery and a matching envelope addressed to a former Poweressence devotee, one who felt he had been robbed. With his rubber fingers, Rubin opened the container of fresh formula, then took a small cotton swab from underneath the table and dipped it into the vial. He dabbed a touch of the formula in the upper-left-hand corner of the pink sheet of paper. Then he put the swab back into the formula and resealed the container.

  Now came the hard part. Rubin had to fold the paper and put it in the envelope. Using rubber hands, this simple task took twenty minutes. By the time he was finished Rubin was sweating.

  He lit a cigarette, threw a Valium and a high-blood pressure pill into his mouth, and then wheezed his way to a reception room, where the messenger waited for the letter.

  He was a middle-aged executive who credited his rise to the vice-presidency of his corporation to his new self-confidence, and he credited his confidence to Poweressence. He believed that the United States government was persecuting the one religion that could save the world. He had nurtured that belief in an Idaho chapter.

  Rubin had paid the chapter chairman fifteen hundred dollars for this volunteer. But he was worth it.

  “Let me get this straight. I make sure no one but the traitor touches the upper-left-hand corner of the letter inside this envelope. I go directly to the building he is being kept in, and I announce that I am a friend who has a message from his sweetheart. And that is it. Simple.”

  With that, the executive opened the letter just to make sure that his perception of an upper-left-hand corner jibed with Rubin Dolomo's. That determined, he shook hands with the man who had pulled his life back from the brink of wretchedness.

  “Mr. Dolomo, you are one of the great minds of our time. And I am honored, deeply honored, to have this opportunity to serve Poweressence.”

  “Watch the letter. Your finger is touching the corner. Watch the letter.”

  “What letter?” asked the executive.

  “The one in your hand,” said Rubin.

  The executive looked down at his hand and the pink paper, which he was gripping by the corner.

  “Did you just give me this letter? Or am I supposed to give it to you? Who is it for?”

  “All right,” said Rubin wearily. “Put down that thing you have in your hand. We're going to the recovery rooms.”

  The executive handed the letter to Rubin. Rubin stepped back.

  “Put it down. Down. On the floor. Down,” said Rubin. Then he guided the man by an elbow to the rear of the mansion.

  “Tell me,” said Rubin. “If you had a choice of something to play with, would it be a rattle, a toy train, a video game, or a woman and fifth of bourbon?”

  “A choice? Wonderful. Why are you so nice?”

  “It helps us figure which room you go in.”

  “I'll take the bourbon,” said the executive.

  “Good,” said Rubin. “You didn't get much. I'm getting pretty good with dosages.”

  They passed one room that was a din of screaming. The executive could not help peering in a small glass opening in the door. The inside was a horror. Grown men and women were rolling around on the floor, some wetting their pants, others pulling hair, still oth
ers were crying.

  “I didn't know the dose then,” said Rubin. “But we take care of them. We are a responsible religion.”

  “That's awful,” said the executive. “There's a grown man there sucking his thumb.”

  “That's Wilbur Smot.”

  “He's smiling.”

  “A lot of them do,” said Rubin. “How do you feel?”

  “Not that good. Average, really. I just can't seem to recall what I'm doing here.”

  “Do you remember joining Poweressence?”

  “I remember taking a character test back in Norfolk, Virginia. Did I join?”

  “You'll be all right in a while,” said Rubin.

  They passed another room full of grown-ups but these were engrossed in electric trains and dolls. In the next room, a middle-aged woman with neon-blue hair and plastic jewelry played a video game. The final room was more to the executive's liking. It was a lounge, with soft music and a bar where he could help himself.

  “You remember your address in Norfolk?” asked Rubin.

  “Sure,” said the executive.

  “Then take yourself a drink, and go home.”

  “What is this? What is all this?”

  “This is the latest scientific advancement created by one of the great minds of the Western world. And Eastern world, too. It is a gift to mankind from the great spiritual and scientific leader Rubin Dolomo,” said Rubin.

  “Doesn't he run Poweressence?”

  “He has brought that enlightenment, yes,” said Rubin.

  “I remember seeing a picture of him. Yes. On a book cover, I think. Good book, too.”

  “Do you notice any resemblance?” asked Rubin, pushing back the thin remnants of his once full flowing hair.

  “None.”

  “Well, then, forget the drink. Just get out of here,” he said.

  “Fine. I don't know what I'm doing here anyway.”

  Rubin went into the lounge and poured himself a stiff drink. He had the formula prepared, which was good. Now he needed another delivery person. This had cost them too much already. But the entertainment rooms were necessities. Because the formulas' effects could vary widely, Poweressence had to have a good test of the memory remission of someone affected by the formula. A fresh spill could send the deliverer back into childhood if he touched it with bare skin. Once the formula had dried, it could be counted on to shave a year or two off of the memory if touched within a week. Beyond that, somehow it got so powerful it was too dangerous to use. Rubin had spent a half-dozen lives finding out how to make the stuff and deliver it. Sometimes he thought he might slip a few drops into Beatrice's coffee and send her back to childhood. There was one horrible thought that stopped him. If Rubin should ever miss and Beatrice should find out, Rubin's life would be worth less than yesterday's garbage. Beatrice was ruthless.

  A full-bodied woman sidled up to him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Save it,” said Rubin. “I run the place.”

  “Do you want some? You're paying for it.”

  Rubin looked longingly at the round rich curves, at the young curves, at the curves he wanted in his hands. But Beatrice meant more to him than a single wild exotic fling with a bar girl they had hired to work the recovery rooms. In her own way Beatrice had established a protocol for affection. She might, if she needed it to reaffirm her womanliness, take young men. Rubin might, if he needed other female companionship, face the loss of his sexual organs through the pounding of a frying pan upon those sensitive parts. Rubin, therefore, had been as faithful as a monk throughout the years.

  “Thank you, no,” said Rubin. He had to buy another Powie, another dedicated devotee of Poweressence. The problem with getting a good one, one who truly believed, was that the Powie was worth anywhere from three to five thousand dollars a year in Poweressence courses. If he lost one, like those now kept in the rehab rooms, he could safely multiply those figures by ten to cover all the years of lost revenues. Every chapter franchise could understand that. They would withhold a percentage of the Dolomo dues until that loss was recouped.

  As a responsible religious leader, Dolomo had to inform the Norfolk chapter head that he had lost a tenth-level member. The chapter head was furious.

  “I had him signed up for every course. I had him doing regressions to clear out his astral lives. Do you know what we are getting for that in Norfolk, Virginia? I was in his damned will. What about that?”

  “We'll make it up to you,” said Rubin.

  “How? By getting convicted for attempted murder, fraud? Every time you two get nailed for something, Poweressence becomes a harder sell here.”

  “Beatrice is doing something about that.”

  “What is she going to do, put a cobra in the President's bed?”

  “Don't talk about Beatrice like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “She might be listening.”

  “Dolomo. We're in trouble, all around the country.”

  “Don't worry. We're not going to be convicted. I just phoned to let you know that your Level Ten might not be coming back. Of course, if he does come back, you get a bonus. Since he has forgotten everything, you might be able to work him through the whole thing again. In which case we don't owe you salt,” said Dolomo.

  “I'll never send you another.”

  “We don't need you. This is California. This is gold country for this sort of stuff.”

  “Then why did you call me in the first place?”

  “I want to spread these things around the country. If you believe anything, believe we are going to beat this charge,” said Rubin Dolomo.

  “I believe we'll lose half our membership when you're convicted.”

  Rubin Dolomo hung up and had another Powie in the house within the hour, from a local chapter they still owned. The Powie was a problem, however. When she heard it was Rubin Dolomo himself she was talking to, she wanted him to take her through an astral regression.

  “I get a sense that my planets are not organized within me. That I still retain negative memories,” she said. She was twenty, with the trim build of a gymnast. She said she had almost made it to the Olympics. If she had had Poweressence then, as she had now, she would have won the gold medal. But because she still harbored violent tendencies from another life, she was not allowed to win.

  “Look, girlie,” said Rubin. “Take this pink letter. Do not touch the upper-left-hand corner, but deliver it. Do not tell who sent you because the evil forces will try to destroy your religion if you do. Do you understand?”

  “Are you willing to risk using someone who hasn't totally cleared her memory of negative forces?”

  “Have you been through Level One?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you're strong enough,” said Rubin.

  The Powie looked at the pink letter on the floor. “What is it doing there? Why don't you pick it up?”

  “I have a bad back,” said Rubin. “And don't forget about the corner. Do not touch the upper-left-hand corner. The guards will probably want to read it. Let them, but you hold the letter. Only the witness touches the left-hand corner. Got it?”

  “Upper left. Only the witness touches it.”

  “Right.”

  “I feel better already. Your power forces just reflected through my toes.”

  “Yeah. I am like that,” said Rubin, who badly needed a Dexamyl, two aspirins, a Valium, and six cups of coffee to give him enough strength to get to bed for an afternoon nap.

  “And don't forget. Be pleasant and open and they won't stop the letter.”

  “I'll use my positive essence.”

  She picked up the letter by the lower-right-hand corner and walked out of the Dolomo mansion refreshed. How true was Poweressence. How profound were the lessons she'd learned. When she smiled she felt better. When she smiled at others, they treated her better. All this from only a first-level course discount-priced at $325.

  * * *

  Ordinarily the U.S. attorney
would have the witness secreted in a safe location where only prescreened mail could reach him. But since that didn't seem to protect all the witnesses lately and since this witness wanted to go home even more badly than most, the U.S. attorney relented. He allowed the witness to live in his own home. There was a special advantage in that. That hysterical pair, the Dolomos, seemed very likely to attempt some trick. And some government agency was going to lay a trap for them.

  The reasoning was that anyone who would put an alligator in a columnist's swimming pool would try anything. And this might lead to finding out how witnesses were being turned. It was so secret the U.S. attorney was not sure which department was involved in the ambush, but when a thin man with dark eyes and thick wrists arrived outside the witness's home, the attorney knew not to question him. He just called off the normal guards.

  The home was in a middle-class neighborhood of Palo Alto; needless to say, it was a neighborhood in which no middle-class worker could afford to live anymore.

  Remo sat on the steps to avoid questions from the witness inside. The man wanted to know what his badge number was and where the guards were. He wanted to know how one lone unarmed person could protect him. Remo locked him in a closet for twenty minutes until he stopped yelling. Then he let the man out.

  The man did not question him anymore but Remo had been put in a foul temper. He knew that anger could kill him, for it was the one emotion that blocked strength, turning it into unfocused energy. He had just decided to breathe himself out of it when a sweet young thing came up the walk to the house carrying a pink envelope.

  “Hi. I've got a letter for the occupant of the house.”

  “No,” said Remo.

  The girl smiled, very broad, very bright. Continuously.

  “I understand he is part of the government witness program and I understand that his mail has to be screened because it might contain a threat to him.”

  “No letters.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that means I'll have to open the door and hand him the letter. He'll expect me to speak to him and I don't like him. I don't like you either, to be honest.”