“Ah, there’s the drill I heard,” Simon said. “What’s that you’re working on? A pocket watch? And while we’re at it, who the hell are you?”
“Simbok. Hyman Simbok. So, did Crimmins give you a Zippo or a Dunhill? I’d bet a Zippo, the cheap bastard.”
“How did you know why I’m here? What’s with you and Mayor Crimmins?”
“Mayor my tuchis. I know him before he was born. Look at me. Would you believe Hyman Simbok is nearly a hundred years old? It seems like a few minutes ago when Crimmins’s father, Abel, signed me up to make clocks and watches. Me and my family, may they rest in peace. He got us right off the boat from Ellis Island. We didn’t have unions in those days. I did it all. Casings, hands, glass, mechanisms, everything, but my specialty is faces. Including the numbers—Arabic, Roman, American, name it. Every face hand-painted by Hyman Simbok has a different expression. No two alike. And I’m talking thousands. They glow in the dark. Reddish, bluish, greenish, name it. You want to know what they paid me? Shit. You want to see my work?”
“No,” Simon said.
“At least Abel Crimmins was a gentleman. He made me a manager. We got to be good friends when I learned some English. He liked to play chess. He wrote me into his will. Just before he died: ‘Hyman Simbok has a job for life. He is entitled to live in the factory dormitory in perpetuity.’ Perpetuity! I didn’t even know what it meant until I found out when those sonsofabitches closed the place. Then his kid bought it to make apartments. He offered me plenty to get out, even a house. I told him this is where I live and this is where I work and this is where I stay. He tried to break his own father’s will by having me committed. Can you imagine? The judge threw out his case. And he made Big Shot Mayor give me heat and electric in perpetuity. Perpetuity. I got my own generator. Before you start lighting matches, come over here, Apple.”
Simon was pulled across the room by an arm as thick as a thread. “Look here at the wall. And look up at the ceiling.” Simon looked. He was staring at hundreds of watch and clock faces pasted to cinder block and plaster. “Makes the Sistine Chapel a kindergarten, eh?” Simbok said. “This isn’t my only museum. In some rooms I ran out of space, walls to ceilings. Every inch is covered. You want to see?”
“What’s the point?” Simon said.
“It’s my talent. What else can I do? Sit back and collect social security and my pension plus interest from the few bucks Abel Crimmins put away for me?”
“The factory has been closed for half a century.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Simbok said.
“Faces without watches?”
“Every one with a different expression. Listen, what goes around comes around. When hand-painted watches and clocks come back in style who has the best inventory? Answer me that. Naturally, if Mayor Scumbag finds somebody to burn me out, that changes things. So far he hasn’t found the right person but I see a glint in your eyes that makes me edgy. Did he pay you in advance?”
“He did. Two thousand.”
“Two? He must like you. I am going to offer you a 10 percent interest in my inventory for one thousand. It could be worth millions. Who in Switzerland can do better? You ever see a Rolex face looking back at you like a Simbok face?”
“I’d suggest you pack what you want to take with you before this building is ancient history, Mr. Simbok. I need the money I got for this job and I can’t let sentiment get in the way. You have fifteen minutes to get ready. I’ll even drive you to a motel. If you’re thinking of calling for help, forget it because all the telephones are out.”
“I have no telephone. Only a color TV.”
“TVs are out too.”
“No TV? Not good. People must be pissing in their pants.”
“Fifteen minutes and counting.”
“You’re forcing me to call Mengele,” Simbok said, blowing a tunnel of smoke rings.
“You can’t call anybody. I just said—”
“Mengele. A pit bull. If I ask her in a nice way she tears your balls off along with that wiseguy prick. When she’s finished with you, I bury what’s left in the basement. You want to meet the bitch personally? You wouldn’t be the first. One snap of those beautiful jaws and—”
“An attack dog? You really expect me to swallow that?”
“Mengele does the swallowing. If I was you, I’d settle for the 10 percent.”
“I said I would set fire to this abomination, do Serene Harbor a favor, and I will,” Simon said.
“A favor? This town was once blessed with piss-and-vinegar wild men. Sailors. They went for whales and boiled their blubber for lamp oil and ambergris for perfume. Then they stripped the bones for corset stays and scratched pictures of wives and girlfriends on their teeth. If they lived through years on the ocean and Neptune spit them back out on land, they headed for a whorehouse or a whiskey bar. What have we got now? Did you see the lousy paintings they sell downtown? You hear any echoes of the drowned men cursing, or weeping widows? You catch the stink of rendered fish fat? And after, when the fish business collapsed, the town built this factory that gave jobs to a thousand greenhorns who came to America without a pot, without the language, with no education, maybe with a wife and kids, maybe with a pair of shoes. And they worked fifteen-hour shifts. The ones who got poisoned from the paint, you hear their howls from the graveyard. You got a Jewish nose, kid. I can tell. Did you ever think that, if one of those wanderers didn’t have the guts to come to this country, at least half of you would be a bar of laundry soap or a lampshade? I don’t know why Hyman Simbok was left alive. Maybe as a witness. Maybe to keep this factory a monument. Which I intend to do. So make up your mind, Simon Apple. Mengele ain’t a vegetarian, he ain’t a gourmet, but he’s always hungry. Here doggy! Dinner time!”
Simon heard a hungry growl from deep in the building. He watched Hyman Simbok reach under his work table, come out with a shotgun and aim it at Simon’s recently activated crotch.
“Make it 15 percent,” Simon said.
“Ten,” Simbok said. “But I’ll throw in a watch face that’s the spitting image of Martha Marie. I heard how you violated that girl. And a cigar, practically from Havana.”
Simon managed to get the minibus going and find one of the plowed roads Mayor Crimmins had promised. He drove past a few widely spaced houses—saltboxes dating back to the 19th century. Several were wrapped in scaffolding, others had fresh siding, patched roofs, deck and patio extensions. The wood that was added or recently replaced hadn’t taken on the reddish-brown barn color of Serene Harbor’s older salt-whipped homes.
Alongside the works in progress, pyramids of black earth, sand and clay had been gouged from the rocky landscape to make room for swimming pools and tennis courts. Hedges of privet walled off what Simon guessed were new lawns. He could see the tops of ornate birdbaths, sundials, ceramic tubs, stone nymphs, and an army of dwarfs and trolls watching over for sale signs tacked to neat fences. The gentrification of the Serene Harbor that Evan Crimmins predicted was proceeding apace.
76
When the prison nurse entered his cell, she reminded Simon of the palm trees he’d seen in Florida. The long-bodied nurse leaned like a palm herself. Her mop of hair looked like a crown of palm leaves. Her head could have been a coconut, ripe and ready to drop. Simon thought she fitted nicely into a crisp blue uniform.
“Nurse Flok is my name.” She tapped a photo ID tag pinned to her collar.
Simon watched her survey his cell, displeased by the chaos of cards, letters, newspapers and magazines that surrounded the prisoner on three sides. Nurse Flok held a clipboard and a ballpoint pen.
“I need to ask you a few questions. I’m here to develop a medical profile of Simon Apple before—well, you know.”
“I think I already signed a pledge of confidentiality.”
“Nobody mentioned anything about a pledge. Any history of heart disease?”
“None.”
“Diabetes?”
“No.”
> “Cancer?”
“No.”
“Allergies?”
“That’s a long story,” Simon said. “Just write that I’m allergic to Boston cream pie.”
“This isn’t a time for humor, Mr. Apple,” Nurse Flok said. “Please try to be cooperative.”
“If it doesn’t violate a confidence or endanger the nation in any way, say I’m allergic to every prescription drug ever approved for consumption by the Food and Drug Administration.”
“Unresponsive,” Nurse Flok wrote on a form clipped to her board.
“That’s unfair,” Simon said. “I’ve never been called unresponsive. I’m a very responsive person by nature.”
“Have you ever undergone surgery?”
“I’ve had my share.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
“Just a little surgery. All my organs, muscles, tendons, sinews etcetera, etcetera have been removed. I’m hollow.” Simon patted his chest. “ Except for this noble heart.”
“Unresponsive,” Nurse Flok wrote. “Have you ever consulted a mental health professional?”
“Once or twice,” Simon said. “About two million dollars worth.”
“Unresponsive.”
“I wish you’d stop using that word.”
“If you quit displaying a childish attitude. You’re not helping me or yourself, Mr. Apple. We like to keep complete and accurate files on our terminal guests. Your medical profile will be added to a growing pool of knowledge that might help offer insight into the causes of extreme antisocial behavior. Some day a familiar constellation of symptoms emerging in very young children, perhaps babies, even fetuses, will trigger alarms resulting in the administration of powerful medications designed to ameliorate or eliminate hostile proclivities.”
“What about side effects?”
“Excuse me?”
“Generated by those powerful medications designed to ameliorate or eliminate. Let’s suppose they stimulate and exacerbate. Take the case of this monster standing before you. Could I use the Devil-made-me-do-it defense in good conscience when I know my whole life is a side effect? It was a cocktail of very expensive drugs that brought me here.”
“Moving right along, have you ever suffered from headaches, dizziness, black stools, constipation, gastrointestinal distress or visual disturbances including the ink-blotty things we call floaters, ulcers, hernia, tinnitus, hearing loss?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Unresponsive,” Nurse Flok wrote. “I’d think a person guilty of monk murder, followed by aiding and abetting congregational suicide, might welcome the chance to expunge his guilt by helping with our research.”
“Just tell the kiddies not to try that at home,” Simon said.
“I heard you agreed to donate your body parts to save others but your offer was refused due to fears of genetic and chemical contamination. Here’s a second chance to do a good deed. You might consider donating your medical history to the same good cause.”
“Here’s my contribution to your information pool,” Simon said. “Shake well before and after using.”
“Ambiguity killed the cat,” Nurse Flok said. She wrote, “Subject unresponsive.”
77
Simon’s minibus managed to reach Route 27, then followed a Suffolk County snow plow toward the town of Manorville just south of the Long Island Expressway. The minibus bounced over swelling drifts and into the parking lot of a roadside mall with a McDonald’s as its centerpiece.
There was method to the stopover. Simon was starved—hungry enough to tolerate a cardboard burger dripping special sauce, oily fries, and a chalky chocolate milkshake. If the Expressway was closed by the blizzard, he could spend the night in a warm place near a convenient approximation of a food supply. Simon paid for his order, and left a dollar tip for the teenage clerk who served him, appreciating the courage it took for her to show up at work in such hellish weather. He felt sudden affection for the golden arches that signaled a greasy port in any storm.
While he chewed his food, Simon thought about the thousand dollars, all cash in his jacket pocket. He considered it a loan from Evan Crimmins and planned to pay it back as soon as he turned more affluent. The thousand he’d paid to Hyman Simbok in exchange for ten percent of Simbok’s trove of watch faces, along with a free sample, an Admiration cigar, and the immediate dividend of safe passage past Mengele’s fangs was another matter—arguably not part of his obligation to the mayor.
When he finished eating, Simon lit the Admiration with one of the Skull & Crossbones matches. The smoke did an excellent job of squelching the chemical aftertaste left by his milkshake, replacing it with the preferable flavor of over-roasted chestnuts. That pleasure was cut short by a busboy calling attention to the no smoking sign over the restaurant’s revolving door.
As Simon drowned the cigar’s smoldering tip in the dregs of his shake, he watched the blizzard through a large foggy window. Icicles dangled from a blocked drain that ran along the roof. They looked like the bars of a cage. Webs of frost made much of the window glass opaque but left a few transparent islands.
Through one of those islands Simon saw what he thought must be a new kind of snow blower flashing red and yellow warning lights as it moved slowly into the parking area. He’d never encountered anything quite like it—a vehicle the size of a tractor-trailer with ten pairs of brutal tires. The flashing thug of a machine prowling outside McDonald’s could easily have qualified as one of the merciless machines used to crush opponents in a war of monster trucks.
As the behemoth came to a stop, Simon saw searching arms of a radar scanner on top of its cab. He watched a bank of satellite dishes aimed at distant stars as they bent, turned and changed focus. They seemed to point at him.
His peripheral vision caught sight of other huge vans and a string of police cars circling the mall in tighter and tighter arcs until the bizarre parade nearly strangled the oasis where he sat. Simon thought of an old joke Chirp Bennet used to tell about a stupid bird that flew in ever diminishing circles until it disappeared up its own asshole.
Dozens of men emerged from the trucks with a horde of police officers, guns drawn, following close behind. The point men in the group that spun through McDonald’s revolving door were dressed in orange biohazard suits and carried black boxes that sprouted insect-like antennae. Others surrounded the building.
Simon realized there must be a major problem; he doubted it was the food or his attempt at smoking. Besides Simon, there were five other patrons in the dining area, all with anxious faces. The clerks behind the counter didn’t look too happy either. What came to Simon’s mind was a leak in a gas main that could blow the Manorville Mall into legend. Lighting his cigar could have caused Armageddon. The blatant irony of that possible outcome made him smile. Hyman Simbok’s revenge.
More orange-suited invaders entered the building, each waving a metal rod. A few ran toward the kitchen. Others took up positions behind the counter. Every customer and employee in the place was herded toward the restaurant’s center. Several of the displaced clutched unfinished Big Macs, wedges of hot apple pie and containers of coffee or soda.
Simon grabbed for his jacket, ready to evacuate on command. His concern deepened when he saw the metal rods aim at his waist quiver and vibrate. The black boxes peeped like electronic chickens.
“What the fuck?” said one of the orange men who seemed to be their leader. “What’s he got in his pants? Whatever it is, it’s between his legs—You!” he said to Simon, “step away from the group. Stretch your arms out in the Jesus position. Spread your legs. What the fuck is your name and what the fuck is your game?”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Simon said.
78
Looking into Regis Van Clay’s eyes was like staring at twin tornados trapped inside a pair of snow globes. Brian Beem could see flickering bolts of pure fury. He wondered what a brain scan would show.
“You say they found Apple at McDonald’s?” Regis
said. Even his voice sounded as if it was boiling.
“In a town called Manorville about forty miles from the Hamptons. Eating junk food. That stuff can be lethal.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Regis said. “Could we skip the comments about nutrition and get to the point.”
“The thing is, the FCC’s Triangulation Unit traced the source of the communications fuckup to Apple. More specifically, to his prick. They said he was afflicted by Priapus Magnitus, a very rare symptom. It seems the erect penis transmits a disruptive ionic wave that causes magnetic turmoil.”
“He had a hard-on at McDonald’s?” Regis said.
“I gather it was a doozie. He’d been taking Stalagamide prescribed by Dr. Mercy Merriweather. To counteract some kind of severe shrinkage. Seems Apple was screwing this woman in Serene Harbor, the epicenter of the electronic disturbance, when he heard a loud pop and suddenly—”
“Pop goes the weasel. Is that when the trouble started?”
“Exactly,” Beem said. “Some areas in Serene Harbor never lost electricity and automobiles remained functional, but for a huge area most telephones, radios, CBs, shortwave transmitters went dead—”
“What did any of that have to do with Stalagamide? ”
“You could say nothing directly. But the FCC report concluded that it was responsible for setting off the nano magnetic molecular eruption because of interaction between the drug, the woman, Simon Apple’s body chemistry and barometric instability. It was a lousy night, weather-wise.”
“Did I ask for a weather report?” Regis said.
“I’m only the messenger,” Beem said. “Bottom line, the scientists feel pretty sure that Apple’s organ transformed into the equivalent of a mini-microwave tower radiating chaos in all directions. The feeling was confirmed when that tower was demagnetized using an experimental substance developed at your Nanotower Initiatives Division.”
“Nanotower Initiatives? I don’t recall being involved with . . .”
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