by Ron Goulart
“More sabotage?” inquired old Woodruff, who’d been sitting on a stool with a plyoflask of brandy resting on one star-spangled knee.
Moriarty, the lanky nineteen-year-old TSA agent, had materialized a few inches from the work table in the old man’s office. Before he could stop himself he had fallen against the table and upset the enormous stack of new breakfastburger premiums. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “I seem to be in— “
“Give the people patriotic food and you have to expect sabotage,” said Haley’s father after a swig of the flask. “I’m, by the way, taking this brandy for medicinal purposes. In hopes of preventing some fatal respiratory complaint. I was recently up a flagpole.”
“Mrs. Seuss was so certain he was here,” Moriarty said mostly to himself. “Go down there and you’ll find Ted Briar.” He bent, starting to gather up the little fallen flags. “Shows you can’t trust somebody who looks like Milton Watcher’s mother, especially—”
“You just mentioned the name of my vicious lout of a son-in-law, didn’t you?”
Moriarty straightened. “You know Ted Briar?”
“Alas, to my sorrow,” replied Woodruff after another swig. “He’s married to my only daughter.
A lovely girl, who was destined to be one of the country’s great dancers until this lump came along to chain her to the rock of—”
“Has he been here lately?”
“How do you think I got up the damn flagpole? I saw him grinning up at me, and I know he had something to do with it.”
“When was this?”
“I’m not exactly sure. The shock of flying from that pole has somewhat disoriented me.”
“You wouldn’t know where he went, sir?”
“Off to break someone’s heart, probably my gifted daughter’s.” Woodruff, hitching up his Uncle Sam pants, left the stool to walk closer to Moriarty. “You look like a nice-enough, although incredibly clumsy, young man. I imagine you’re dutiful to your parents.”
The old man stroked his beard, which was pasted to the left side of his neck. “You’re looking for Ted, are you? Would that be in some legal capacity?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.” He returned his attention to collecting the scattered flags.
“You have my heartfelt best wishes in your quest. I hope you find him and see he gets what he deserves.”
“Oh, I’ll find him all right,” promised Moriarty.
Chapter 19
They were all thin, except one. They stood in the jigsaw afternoon shadows thrown down on the ruined street. The heavy-set young man was out in the hazy sunshine, hands on hips, lips puckered, and whistling almost silently.
“Long Island,” said Casper to Reverend Ortega.
The priest continued to hand out the food packets, one of protein meal, one of neowheat flour.
“That’s my impression of him.”
“Bless you, Rev,” said the next woman in the Gramercy Park food line. “And bless you as well, Mrs. Trego.”
“One of the Suffolk guerrillas, you think?” Casper lugged another carton of food packets out of their landvan.
“He’s not the guy they usually send, but probably. Most of them tend to swagger out that way.”
The quietly whistling young man rubbed his palms on the legs of his yellow trousers. Winking at them, he came walking out of the sunlight to the priest and Casper.
“Can’t you see there’s a line?” a thin old man asked him.
“You needn’t fear me, sir. I’m not here to take your food from you, nor to spy on you for the Roamers. I have business with Rev O.”
“We’ll be finished here,” Reverend Ortega told him, “and moving on in a few minutes.”
Casper asked him, “What’s your business exactly?”
“I’m from Long Island.”
“That’s obvious.”
“You both know who sent me,” said the fat youth. “I’ve got some important information for the Rev.”
“After the food is distributed, I can listen to what you have to say.” The young man smiled. “I’ll hunker myself down on the curb to wait. Came over to introduce myself so you wouldn’t become worried.”
“We weren’t worried about you,” said Casper.
The edges of the day were giving way to twilight when the last of the food was handed out.
“That distraction we had staged for the Roamers seems to have worked pretty good,” remarked Casper.
“So far.” The priest signaled the lookout men at each corner and they wandered away. To the fat youth from Long Island he said, “I can talk to you now. Who are you?”
“My name is Totter.” He opened his hand to reveal the green neoglass marble he was holding. “This should identify me.”
The priest plucked the marble off Totter’s palm, rotated it between his fingertips. “All right, hop in the van. We have to move on.” He climbed in, sat on the floor among the empty food cartons.
Totter followed him in, Casper shut the doors on them and hurried around to take the wheel of the van.
“Something pretty large has come up,” began Totter.
Reverend Ortega nodded his head. “Tell me about it.”
The fat youth sat cross-legged, palms resting on his knees. “You know we have very good contacts with Brazil,” he said as the van began to roll, “contacts with the guerrilla forces down there. In fact, one of our boys was just down there. You know him, Furtado.”
“Furtado got into Brazil?”
“Yes, he got in and he was able to talk to the pro-Brazil leaders, including Francisco Travessa,” said the smiling young man. “Furtado got back out again, back to Suffolk County. Travessa gave him a detailed report on some of the things our United States Military Force people are actually doing down there . . . including documentation on the use of nerveguns and some kind of germ-carrying missiles. In other words, proof that President Hartwell is helping the Brazilian government violate the Geneva Guidelines. Furtado was even able to bring back tri-op film of the weapons in actual use, and a lot of photos of the victims.”
Reverend Ortega said, “I’d like to see that stuff.”
“We figured you would, which is why Furtado sent me in to contact you,” said Totter. “He wants to meet with you tomorrow morning. Because TSA may have a hint of his trip and what he brought back, Furtado couldn’t risk coming into Manhattan himself.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“Can you be at our Shantytown place at six a.m.?”
“Yeah,” answered the reverend. “Can Furtado turn some of this material over to me?”
“Exactly what he wants to do.”
“I’ll be there.”
Getting to his feet, Totter said, “Tomorrow at six then. Can you drop me off now?”
Ortega called to Casper, “Stop the van.”
When they were moving again through the dusk, and Ortega was up in the passenger seat, Casper said, “I don’t like that fatass guy much.”
“You don’t have to like him,” said Reverend Ortega. “With the stuff Furtado’s got, and what Ted Briar will eventually bring us, we’ll have enough to finish Hartwell and his administration.”
“Maybe, but—”
The blindphone on the dash buzzed. Ortega flipped the answer switch. “Yeah?”
“News from our New Westport man,” said a girl’s voice. “It concerns Nemo’s wife. I believe you’ll want to do something about it.”
“We’ll be back at the mission in ten minutes,” said Ortega.
Chapter 20
“. . . not the right word . . . getting closer, Will, my lad, although it’s not the proper word. . . . Let’s see now. . . . Go back over what you’ve got. . . . My Deck, a Poem by Will Gump. . . . So far, so good, Will, my lad. . . . A bridge taking no one anywhere. . . . Perfect so far. . . . Exactly right. . . . A bridge taking no one anywhere. . . . A compilation of neowood serving only. . . . Nope, nay, your artistic instincts are as accurate as ever, Will, my lad, and you realize, qui
te rightly, serving isn’t the proper word at all. . . .”
Oil. Harsh-smelling oil, and thickly sticky. The smell of it all around Ted, the stuff adhering to the front of him.
“. . . compilation of neowood trod by. . . . No, that lacks the vernacular Will Gump touch. . . .”
The oil was spilled on the floor, on the planks Ted was sprawled out on.
It had soaked into the neowool blanket, seeped in between the cracks and joinings. The odor was swirling all around him.
Darkness, too. It was dark in this gently rocking place. Could it be night so soon? It was early afternoon when Dr. Perola had tried to get hold of him.
“. . . My Deck, a Poem by Will Gump. . . . Admirable so far. . . . Destined, if not in this benighted century, then in the next, to be one of the finest of the poems in my Houseboat Sequence. . . .”
Ted pushed with his hands at the oil-smeared floor. He got his head lifted above the planks. There was the moon over there, but bobbing up and down. “Don’t look, it’ll make you dizzy again.” He closed his eyes.
“. . . bridge taking no one. . . . Splendid, Will, my lad . . . no one anywhere. . . . A powerful image, a brilliant notion in comparing this deck of my beloved old houseboat to a bridge. . . . No matter that few will see the parallel. . . . The last century was benighted, this one is. . . . Wait, Will, my lad, be patient. . . . The next century will be better . . . bound to be. . . .”
“Hey!” Ted had his head raised, eyes open again. “Can you help me out?”
“Soon as I have found the precise word.”
Ted could see him now. An old man in a canvas chair, a very old man, covered with tangled white hair. White hair which flowed from his scalp, sprouted from his ears, cascaded down from his hidden chin. The old man’s lumpy hands, clutching a talkwriter, were rich with mats of white hair, little tufts of it decorated his puckered elbows. His skin, what showed, was a leathery weathered brown. Above his ancient head the orange-streaked moon bobbed.
“On a ship,” Ted decided. “I’m on a ship. Hey! Is this a ship?”
“. . . bridge taking no one anywhere. . . .”
“How’d I get from Utopia East to this boat?” Another push toward the tilting planks brought Ted to his knees, one more and he was upright, though shaky. “I was in enough control to teleport away from Perola. I can’t remember where I wanted to go. Hey, excuse me, is this your boat?”
The very old man scowled across the deck at him. “Like all the rest, you have apparently never heard of my Houseboat Sequence of poems, nor of me, the immortal poet, Will Gump.”
“No, I haven’t,” admitted Ted. “I don’t seem to have much time for reading anymore.”
“‘Twas the same in the twentieth century,” sighed the old poet. “Same in the nineteenth century, for that matter. Ignore Will Gump, make a fuss over his inferiors, pass him by when it comes time to pass out the awards and the honors. Give the Pulitzer to this effete hack, heap Nobels on that tongue-tied buffoon, and all the while ignore Will Gump. I vowed I’d win a Nobel before the twentieth century was over . . . and here it is twenty blasted years into the twenty-first.”
“This is Long Island Sound, isn’t it?” Ted had been able to reach the railing.
“You’ve obviously never read my Sonnet Sequence based on objects found floating in the waters of the Sound.”
“No, I’m afraid not. Sure, there’s the New Westport Yacht Club right over there, I recognize the lights now.”
“Will Gump has dwelled here for decades,” said the bearded old man, “and they haven’t named one single street in Westport after me, not even a little twisty lane.”
“When I started to pass out I must have meant to come back home, to Haley,” said Ted. “I thought of her first when I was in trouble. Which indicates I must—”
“May I suggest you cease mooning about and disembark? I have a major poem to get at.”
“Sorry, am I keeping you from your deadlines?”
“Will Gump doesn’t have deadlines. I write for the ages. Possibly not for this century, possibly not even for the next.”
Ted studied the poet’s face. “You mentioned, a bit back, the nineteenth century. Surely you—”
“Will Gump was born in 1855,” the old poet said. “I’ve been waiting ever since for recognition.”
“You mean you’re a hundred and sixty-five years old?”
“And ignored by your emasculated literary pundits for every blessed year of that time.”
“Even now people don’t live anything like that long, Mr. Gump, not as flesh and blood anyway,” said Ted. “If you really have some knowledge about how to prolong life, you ought to share—”
“Screw the rest of them, I’m only interested in keeping Will Gump alive. Enough competition as it is. Get Tennyson safely buried and up pops Vachel Lindsay and then you no sooner—”
“If you’re a hundred and sixty-five years old and can prove it, you can be famous merely for that. You don’t have to write any poetry at all to get people to pay attention to you.”
Will Gump laughed. “The adulation of the mob isn’t what I’m seeking. Anybody can be famous if he wants to cheapen himself. Will Gump will be honored for his real achievements or not at all.”
Ted had begun pacing the deck. “How long ago did I . . . arrive here?”
“What does that have to do with Will Gump’s poetry?” inquired the old man. “I was polishing the title of my latest when I noticed you for the first time. I labored on that title, wrestled with it, from high noon until two or three.”
Ted consulted his watch. “Nearly ten now. That stuff Perola slipped me was pretty effective.”
“All this gab brings us no closer to your departure.”
“I’ll be doing that in a—hey!” Ted suddenly had a picture of Lang Strayton inside his head.
“Something . . . something’s wrong. I’ve got to go back to Black Boston first. Lang’s in trouble . . . trouble with TSA.”
“Let me not detain you.”
“Yeah, before I can see Haley, I’ll have to find out about Lang,” Ted said. “Thanks for letting me sleep on your deck, Mr. Gump.”
“‘Twas simpler than wasting poetry time to drag you to the rail and deposit you in the waters of the Sound.”
“Thanks anyway.” After a nod at the old man, Ted disappeared from the deck.
Gump leaned back in his canvas chair. “ My Deck, a poem by Will Gump,” he said.
“Some got six months, some got a solid year. Some got six months, some got a solid year. But me and my buddy doin’ lifetime here.”
Philip José Shamba gave a mock shudder. “How I loathe that last-century spade music,” he said. His white tunic hung on a wall hook, his white trousers were stained with red splotches.
“We need the music to muffle the noise,” said the wide, low-browed man who was holding Lang to a lucite tubechair.
The girl was unconscious, head dangling far to the left.
This musty loft was at the edge of the Black Boston blues district. The three speakers mounted on the beams of the ceiling were broadcasting a session from a nearby club.
“I wonder do my good gal know I’m here. I wonder do my good gal know I’m here. If she do, she sure don’t seem to care.”
“Rhyming here with care, that’s very quaint,” said the black Shamba as he approached the girl. He raised her head by grabbing her hair, then he slapped her again across the cheek. “What do you know about Ted Briar? We know you were traveling with him. Where is he?”
“She’s still out,” said the wide man. “Come on, Shamba, we got authorization to use talkdrugs on this one.”
“Drugs,” said the little man, letting go of Lang’s hair. “I’ve no need to rely on artificial aids. I can persuade anyone to talk, with no more than my hands and my mind.”
“She’s not going to talk this way. We’re going to end up with another stiff, like that time in Providence. I’m not going to fake another—”
; “One thing I don’t require from you, Pritchard, is advice. Our relative positions in TSA ought to show you which of us is the most highly valued.”
“Pulling rank doesn’t scare me, Shamba,” Pritchard said. “I don’t think you ought to hit her anymore. We’re going to use the. . . .” He frowned, glanced around the room. “What just happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, it . . . the music all of a sudden quit.”
“Probably those howling idiots are taking a rest.” Shamba got hold of Lang’s face in his hand, applying pressure to her cheek bones. “Stop faking, Miss Strayton. Tell me where Ted Briar is!”
“Right here.”
“Oh shit.” Pritchard backed away from the tube chair. “You I don’t need,” Ted told him.
The wide Total Security agent disappeared from the loft.
Shamba released his hold on the girl, turned to face Ted, smiling. “This is much more than I hoped for.” A hand moved toward his waistband.
Ted stepped in close, slapped him across the mouth. “Is it? Good. I don’t like what—”
“Idiot!” The black man thrust a leg between Ted’s, levered him by his left arm.
Ted slammed into the wood floor.
“You may think you’re an agent, Briar, but you’re no fighter.” Laughing, Shamba kicked Ted in the chest as he attempted to get up.
Ted half rose, stumbling, fell against a wall. “I can handle you without using any—”
Shamba kicked him again, this time in the tailbone. Ted smacked into the wall, dropped flat out.
The little TSA man dived on him, hitting hard into his back with both sharp knees. “You haven’t a chance in the world, my friend.”
As he struggled to get control of himself, Ted realized his original idea of fighting Shamba hand-to-hand wasn’t going to work. “So much for fair,” he muttered.
Shamba twisted both hands into Ted’s hair, commenced to drum his head on the planking again and again.
“Got to send you some . . . someplace else.” The slamming of his head continued, continued.