The Jehovah Contract

by Victor Koman

  She arrived in a little over ten minutes. A sleek red dress that had been poured on made her look like a pillar of fire topped by golden sunlight.

  I handed her a glass and said, "Here's to open government and numb minds."

  "Been watching Congress on satellite again?"

  "Close-

  Ad Hominem Attack.

  "

  Ann snorted. "Those twits in his audience have their minds set on getting hypnotized by that insulting creep."

  "Hypnotized," I muttered. The bourbon trickled into my brain. I took another slug. Something started to click.

  Minds set.

  Hypnosis.

  Mindset.

  Subliminal ads.

  TV sets.

  Satellite TV.

  Set.

  Setting.

  Dosage.

  "

  Jesus H. Christ and his bastard son Harry!

  "

  Ann looked at me with a puzzled frown.

  "Ann!" I shouted, jumping up from the chair. "I've got it figured!"

  She took a sip of the liquor and continued to frown. "Got what figured?"

  "How to kill God!" I felt a surge of excitement rush through me. All doubts about my intentions fled-this was what I wanted to do. Reaching for a notepad and pen, I scrawled a list of anything that came to mind.

  She nearly snorted in a delicate sort of way. "That easily?"

  I kept scribbling. "Easy to conceive, difficult to execute. That's how God's managed to survive this long." I took her drink and slapped the note in her hand. "Let's get back to Auberge."

  She followed me out of the office, reading the list as intently as a tax auditor. "Mescaline, psilocybin, LSD, THC, fentanyl, STP, BZ, DMT, MDMA-are you singlehandedly trying to bring back the Sixties?"

  "That's when the first step toward mass deicide began." We zoomed down to ground level in a blissfully operative elevator. The evening sky was dark and clear.

  "Tryptophan," she continued, "Vasopressin, B-12, phenylalanine? Getting a bit health-conscious, aren't you?"

  "I'm going to need it."

  We passed through the old Bonaventure Hotel, striding past the dozing night clerk. One couldn't call the tenants in this high-rise anything but marginally wealthier bums than those who inhabited Arco North.

  She read the remainder of the list. "What's all this other stuff for?"

  "I'm not sure yet," I said, reaching for a cigarette. We entered Auberge at the hatch on Fourth and Hope. "I'm certain, though, that there's something still lack-"

  "Oh no," piped the squeaking voice of Isadora Volante. "Who let you two in?"

  I looked down at the telepathic runt, tapped the cigarette on the back of my hand, and raised it to my lips, smiling.

  14

  Eyecatcher

  I wasn't too specific when I asked Isadora for her help in a little plan of mine. She agreed to help me after I pointed out that we'd saved her from Zacharias and after she determined that my credit was good. That left me free to concentrate on the setup.

  The next day I canvassed advertising agencies from Capistrano Beach to Oxnard. By noon my ears begged for relief from the avalanche of garrulous pitches. Only a few of the alleged people with whom I spoke sounded more original than sandwich boards and handbills.

  The handful of impressive ones I invited up to the Union Bank Building for a final decision in my office. Getting them to come to Old Downtown required that I reveal how much I was willing to spend on the campaign. After finding that out, none of them had any qualms about the campaign's contents, either.

  Two days later, a dozen advertising types gathered in my office to win my business. They scuttled, strode, or swished in with their presentations in hand. I seated them around the room in a rough semicircle.

  Ann watched the exhibition from the far corner. Her makeup valiantly attempted to disguise the dark half-moons of exhaustion under her eyes. She had offered to raise funds for the ads I'd proposed by playing poker at the no-limit tables in Auberge casinos. Her mood dripped from her like weak acid, cutting when it had the strength.

  The first pitchman pulled some illustration board from a fake leather portfolio. You could have attached his face to an axe handle and used it to split logs.

  "This is a preliminary concept," he said in a nasal voice, deeper than I'd expected, "of our visualization of the ideation you related to us over the phone."

  Ann winced.

  I lit up a Camel and leaned back to gaze at the small sign he held. In cheerful, pink-hued lettering, it read

  You Won't Feel Guilty

  Or Full of Sin

  On the First of the Year

  When God's Done In!

  "Too wordy," Ann said, looking out the window over the L.A. basin.

  The hack protested weakly. "It's a unified conceptualization that encapsulizes the elements you requested-God's death and the date of it."

  "It's a damned ad for Burma Shave," she countered, "not for a specific philosophical point. The date is vague,

  done in

  is a colloquialism"-she turned to stare the man directly in the eyes-"and I could write better jingles on a Scrabble board."

  The man harrumphed, retrieved his portfolio, and departed. Back to shaving cream, I suppose.

  "Next," I said to the crowd.

  One nervous young man gulped and rose. "I can see you're no match for me."

  He left without giving us a show.

  "Next."

  A heavyset, ruddy man turned a sketch pad my way. Tasteful blue letters on a gray background read

  God Is Not Dead...

  Yet!

  "Not bad," I said.

  "It's a negative," Ann said through a barely stifled yawn. "We need a positive statement that god will die. And the date."

  "Is she with you?" the huckster asked.

  "Next."

  A short, plump, woman aged a few years older than I volunteered next. She peered at me cheerfully through thick eyeglasses set in a black pair of men's frames.

  "So," she said, smiling, "you want to tell everyone that God's dead." She spoke with a mild Russian accent. Her hands made dramatic flourishes as she pulled a poster from a thick cardboard tube.

  "Here's what's going to catch their eyes!"

  The poster unrolled to reveal a carefully watercolored image of a crucified skeleton. It looked hauntingly lonely. On its shoulder perched the tiny skeleton of a dove. Beneath the scene-in lurid yellow letters-shouted the logo

  The Year of Our Lord 2000

  Won't Be!

  The woman smiled with pride. She seemed to be the sort who probably had a lovely garden in her front yard and made cookies for all the neighborhood kids.

  Ann cleared her throat as gently as she could. She looked in my direction, imploring.

  "Uh-it's very nice," I said, "but it's, um... a bit obscure. It'll go right over most people's heads."

  The woman nodded with a resigned smile. The watercolor disappeared into the brown tube. She shouldered her purse, headed for the door.

  "Oh, well," she said, "win a few, lose a few-so it goes." She waved at everyone remaining in the office. "Ta!" she said, sparkling merrily.

  At least she had a good attitude.

  I gazed over the remaining faces. Judging by expressions alone, there wasn't much hope left. Except for one.

  A tall, chestnut-haired woman sat bent over a sketch pad, making quick motions with a colored pencil. She glanced up at me, then at Ann.

  "I'll go next," she said in a voice as low, cool, and sharp-edged as chilled dry wine. "It'll save you time, and you can send the others home before they embarrass themselves."

  The rest of the candidates muttered like discouraged coyotes.

  "Over whose heads in particular do you not want to go?" she asked us."Over anyone's," I said.

  Ann gave her the once-over about five times. "It's an idea-saturation campaign. We want to reach everyone. People who aren't open to rational arguments. People who
only respond to emotional assaults, such as the illiterate-or the intellectuals."

  The woman nodded and resumed her sketching. The other contenders watched in agitation. Her dark hair caught bits of light from here and there in the room to reflect a rich red-brown hue. As she scribbled, she spoke.

  "If you want maximum impact, stick to simple symbols and wording. Now, what exactly are you trying to convey?"

  I watched her long fingers at work. "We want as many people as possible to get the impression that God will die on the first day of the year two thousand A.D."

  She wrote something at the top of the pad with swift, precise strokes. Several of the advertising hacks leaned over to see what she'd drawn.

  One of them sighed, picked up his belongings, and made tracks.

  After a moment of considering the finished product, she turned the sketch pad over to show Ann.

  "I think that's it," Ann said with a smile. "Dell?"

  The woman turned it toward me. Large letters blazed in sharp angles of crimson.

  On the First Day of the Year 2000

  God Will Die...

  I nodded. She knew what to give the customer. Then I looked at the drawing below the slogan.

  It was a fair likeness of God from the Michelangelo painting on the Sistine Chapel. A good choice. Most everyone in the Judeo-Christian world and a good deal of people outside it have seen that image in one form or another.

  A black circle surrounded the Godhead. Rifle crosshairs intersected at a point directly over His left temple.

  "That says it." I stubbed out my cigarette. "Thank you all for showing up," I said to the others.

  As they wandered out, Ann and I walked over to the woman. She stood. She was taller than I was.

  "That symbol is going to be plastered all over the world," I said. "Whom do you work for, sister?"

  "Nobody," she said. "I own an agency called McGuinneCorp. And my name's Kathleen, not `sister.'"

  I could see it would be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

  15

  Promotion

  "That's outrageous!"

  Emil Zacharias glared at me with such utter, raging hatred that I had to clench my teeth in order to remain smiling.

  He sat behind his desk at the Culver City office of Hallelujah House. I hadn't figured on finding him there-I'd only wanted to leave a note about what I was planning. His secretary, though, apparently had been expecting me. I was ushered into a munificently well-appointed office about the size of a small cathedral. There he lounged, as calm and pouty as a pampered cat.

  He didn't stay that way for long.

  "I refuse!" he screamed. You can't force my hand on this one, Ammo!"

  "I think I can." I lit a cigarette slowly, letting him stew for a moment. "The contract, as I recall it, was for five hundred a day plus expenses. All the bills I'm running up are legitimately involved in the fulfillment of that contract."

  Zack leaned forward, palms flat on the desktop.

  "I urge you once more, Ammo, to cancel the contract and quit this game. Give it up. I can't guarantee your safety otherwise."

  "I'm not here to debate," I said. "I just want you to know that there may be a drain on your finances that I'm certain you'll find a way to replace. Hand over your checkbook."

  He stared at me as if I'd asked for certain portions of his anatomy that (rumor had it) he already lacked.

  "Don't bother signing them. I'm sure your bank will make good." I held out my hand.

  With a feral growl, he pulled a large leather check register from the top drawer of the desk. It slid across the mahogany to my side.

  "Thanks, Zack," I said, hefting it under my arm as I rose. "You'll be seeing the results over the next few weeks." I turned back at the door to nod toward him. "If I don't see you again, have a happy New Year."

  "Drop dead."

  "That," I said perhaps a bit too cockily, "is contractually excluded."

  The billboard faced west on the Sunset Strip, visible all the way from King's Road to the top floors of the buildings lining the intersection at La Cienega.

  A man in smudged white overalls applied paint to the last letter of the slogan. He lowered the scaffolding and stepped off, taking his brushes and paints with him. One last glance at a proof of the ad confirmed to him that he'd made a perfect copy.

  He probably thought it was a promotional teaser for a new film or rock album. Had he known that there were thousands of people such as he painting or pasting up the same message around the world (on Hallelujah House's tab), he might have thought otherwise.

  Ann looked at the sign, arms folded. Her golden hair streamed glowingly over the dark blue business outfit hugging her form. She gazed silently at the billboard.

  In the lower right-hand corner, a faithful rendition of Michelangelo's God pointed His finger toward Sunset Boulevard. The rifle crosshairs painted over Him intersected His left temple. The official slogan blazed in crimson above Him.

  On the First Day of the Year 2000

  God Will Die...

  "You think that no one will take it seriously," Ann said, running one long, earth-toned nail along her jawline.

  "Nobody takes advertising seriously except advertisers."

  We stood near the Roxy Theater. The day was only beginning to grow warm. Nearly everywhere else in the United States, mid-November brought an unusual cold. Predictions of a severe winter circulated alongside prognostications of far worse.

  The tiny painter had disappeared behind the billboard. A moment later, the scaffolding slowly lowered to the ground out of our view. The word DIE.... glistened in the afternoon sun like fresh blood slowly drying. We turned to head back to where my car was parked, over on Olive.

  "Though no one will take the ads seriously, it gets the idea of God's death into people's heads. That's part of the `set' Father Beathan said was necessary for his sort of method."

  "I just hope we're not tipping our hand." She didn't look too pleased.

  I shrugged. "No one will believe in a conspiracy that operates out in the open. It goes against human nature. Martin Luther King and Gandhi both unsettled their nation's rulers by openly announcing every move they were going to make. The tactic confused the enemy into looking for secret maneuvers where there were none. It drove them crazy."

  Ann nodded with a distracted air. She seemed lost in thought. "Hitler," she said, "announced his intentions, too."

  "And," I added, "nobody took him seriously, either."

  "Yes, but look what happened to him."

  "He was a politician," I said with a shrug. "They all fall, sooner or later."

  "Primarily," a voice behind me interjected, "because they misuse magickal symbols." It was a beautiful voice.

  Ann and I turned around.

  "In Hitler's case," said Thomas Russell, "he made the fatal mistake of reversing the swastika-an ancient symbol of the sun-as a mark of earthly state power. His downfall was guaranteed from that point." He sighed. "I sometimes wonder whether all those pentagrams on the U.S. flag are going to save us."

  He looked up at me. "I like your sign. Trying to cash in on millennial fever?"

  "Fever?" Ann asked.

  "Round numbers," he said, "bring out the mystic in people."

  "Yeah," I said. "I'm starting my own end-of-the-world cult. Five grand gets you the privilege of taking orders from me and including me in your will. We'll be in the Mojave watching for the saucers. If it doesn't rain." We reached my car-one of the last Chryslers built. I leaned against the side to stare at him.

  "So you're really planning to go through with it," he said. "You really plan to kill Him."

  Ann gave me a sour look. "No one will believe an open conspiracy," she muttered, as biting as bathtub gin. Her gaze turned to the young man. "I don't think we've been introduced."

  "Ann Perrine, meet Thomas Russell-religious studies student, author, and survivor of the

  Ad Hominem Attack

  show. Tom-meet Ann, my finan
cial manager."

  They made courteous sounds at each other. He looked at Ann to ask, "You've figured out a method?"

  She merely smiled at him.

  I did, too.

  "Fine," he said. "Play the sphinx. It doesn't matter what you do to God. People will still act like bastards or not, depending on their perception of their own self-interest. It's just that without God, they'll have one fewer light to guide their actions."

  "Or one fewer excuse for their evils." I opened the passenger door for Ann. "In any case, they'll have one fewer leader to obey."

  "When did they ever obey Him?" Tom muttered. He turned to leave.

  I stepped around to my side of the car. Ann had unlocked the door. I nodded a farewell to Tom and reached for the handle.

  That's when the first bullet hit.

  The side window shattered, the safety glass grasping the fragments like a spiderweb holding dew.

  I ducked behind the door and grabbed for my .45.

  "Down, Ann!" I shouted.

  Tom hit the pavement and rolled between my car and a blue Subaru. Three more shots made their points against the maroon paint job.

  I tried to use the sideview mirror as a periscope. No good. I coaxed the engine into life.

  "Hey!" a voice screamed from behind. "You're taking my cover!"

  "Sorry pal," I muttered. The car coughed and sputtered. "Come on, Friz," I pleaded, "catch."

  The engine turned and whined. It sounded like a Cuisinart.

  The four shots were all that had been fired. That didn't encourage me to poke my head up. The Chrysler backed out and pulled into traffic without much benefit of navigation. I put our lives into the hands of the other commuters, hoping that their aversion to the cost of auto repairs would keep them from plowing into us. Ann said something under her breath that I didn't catch. If she was praying, I didn't want to know about what-or to whom.

  At the summit of Olive, I peeked up to look in the rearview.

  Tom raced away from Sunset, crouched low behind parked cars. A white, late model DeLorean Vendetta sedan squealed around a corner.