GENESIS (Projekt Saucer)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘It’s just an overnight bag,’ Stanford replied.

  ‘Oh, yeah? Carrying anything of interest? Anything I can swallow or smoke or inject? I mean, anything, old buddy, to let my fire and help me through the long night?’

  ‘No,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Scaduto said. He closed one eye and waved a finger across his face, a stage Irishman, far gone. ‘We can only go back to my place. I’ve a few syringes there. A wee nip, a little jab and then it’s Heaven, a sublime glide through inner space. You fancy that, old buddy? We might even get some snatch. Something warm and as tight as a glove, to make the dawn look more pleasant.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Stanford said.

  They ordered more drinks. The cigaret smoke was dense. The room was packed and becoming noisier, people tugging and pushing, colored lights gliding over the walls in surreal, dreamy patterns. Scaduto drank too fast. He kept ordering more drinks. He was obsessed with the girls, their long legs and plunging necklines, his glassy eyes darting restlessly around the place, his wolfish leer unappealing. Stanford was quietly shocked by him, found it hard to recognize him, was embarrassed to see this forty-year-old man in his juvenile clothes. In truth, he was ridiculous, pathetically trying to fool himself, and Stanford couldn’t reconcile the man before him with the one he had known. Scaduto had been with the NICAP for close to twelve years, had investigated UFOs up and down the whole country and built up an admirable reputation. He had left in 1969. He had been in Arizona then. He and Stanford had gone drinking, had painted Tucson red, and had then gone their separate ways without keeping in touch. That’s why Stanford was shocked: he couldn’t recognize the old Scaduto. The man swaying on the bar stool, talking loudly, leering openly, was a pathetic shadow of his former self, obsessed with drugs and jailbait.

  ‘I’m still at it,’ Stanford told him. ‘I’m still out there chasing UFOs. I’ve probably been at it too long. Why did you give it up?’

  ‘I thought, fuck it,’ Scaduto said. ‘That’s all: I just thought, fuck it. There was too much coming down, too much flak, and I just didn’t need it.’

  ‘What sort of flak?’

  ‘Just flak,’ Scaduto said. ‘Flak from the left, right and center, day in and day out. A real drag, believe me.’

  ‘I’ve bought a bottle,’ Stanford said. ‘Here, fill your glass up… I don’t understand. What kind of flak? Who was giving you flak?’

  Scaduto swayed from side to side, almost fell off his stool again, but held onto the counter, cursing, and picked up his glass.

  ‘Everyone,’ he said. ‘Fucking flak from all sides. Who needs the CIA, the FBI, the fucking Air Force? I couldn’t take it anymore. Too much shit on my desk. When they started coming to see me at midnight, I decided to quit.’

  ‘Midnight?’ Stanford said.

  ‘Would you believe it?’ Scaduto said.

  ‘Who came to see you at midnight? I don’t understand that.’

  Scaduto glanced at the girl beside him, had a drink, smoothed long hair, gazed down at the bar and started snorting like a horse at the starting post.

  ‘Fucking CIA,’ he said. ‘Those bastards came to see me. Came at midnight, got me out of my bed, my cock still standing straight. No rough stuff. Just questions. A formality. A mere formality. Sat me naked in a chair, froze my balls and talked quietly, politely, like we’re having a business lunch. Very pleasant. Civilized. Didn’t mind if I poured a drink. Said, it’s your house, you do what you want, we’re just here for a talk. Asked me some questions. About my work at the NICAP. Said they’d heard from a friend of a friend that I was digging too deep. Then we had a serious chat. Woke me up. Interesting. They said they hoped I wasn’t feeling too tired, but could they make some suggestions. Suggest, I say, I’m breathless. They suggest I clip my wings. They say I shouldn’t be mixed up with UFOs, that they don’t really like that. I say it’s a free country. They agree that it is. They also say they saw some drugs in my bathroom and they’re highly illegal. I tell them it’s a setup. I say you’re setting me up. They tell me that’s a nasty thing to say and that I could get ten years. You want me to leave? I say. You want me to leave the NICAP? We wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing, they say, but now that you mention it… You can do what you want, they say. It’s a free country, pal. I can work any place that takes my fancy. It’s just that they’re worried about those drugs that they found in my bathroom. I say I’m sorry about that. I say I’m truly repentant. They say maybe it’s the strain of chasing UFOs that’s making you take them. You have a point there, I say. I say I’m gonna resign from the NICAP. They say that’s a wise decision, we respect you for that, and maybe, if you really leave the NICAP, we’ll forget what we found here. That’s real decent, I say. I confirm that I’m resigning. They both shake my hand, very pleasant, and walk out the door. So, I resign from the NICAP. I get a job with RCA. I forget that I ever knew the NICAP – and those guys never come back. Hallelujah. Peace, brother.’

  Staduto burped and glanced around him, smiled beatifically, eyes blinking, then he picked up his glass and stared at it, surprised.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘it’s empty.’

  ‘Here,’ Stanford said, picking up the bottle. ‘Have another. It’s on me. So what were they worried about?’

  He topped up Scaduto’s glass, watched him put it to his lips; Scaduto burped and put his glass down, his red eyes slipping sideways.

  ‘Motherfuckers,’ he said.

  ‘What bothered them?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘Secrets,’ Scaduto said, slurring the word. ‘Secrets! I knew things I shouldn’t have known. Those sonsofbitches, they knew I’d been to Canada – and they didn’t like that.’

  ‘Canada?’

  ‘Right,’ Scaduto said. ‘Very cold in the forests, very quiet, and at night the winds haunted you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Stanford said. ‘What’s Canada got to do with it? They accused you of digging too deep. What did they mean by that?’

  Scaduto, more drunk than ever, grabbed Stanford by the arm, leaned closer to him, breathing into his face, and whispered melodramatically, ‘So what have you really got in that shoulder bag?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Stanford said. ‘Some spare clothes, pyjamas, various papers, a calculator, odds and ends… I told you: it’s just an overnight bag.’

  ‘You’re going somewhere?’ Scaduto asked.

  ‘I just got here,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Of course, Stupid of me. Forgot. So what you really got there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Stanford repeated.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Scaduto said. ‘A little smoke, a little coke, a little something to shoot up with? What the hell, we can’t go on like this all night – I’ll take just about anything.’

  ‘I didn’t bring anything,’ Stanford said. ‘I’m only here for one night. Here, have another drink. We’ll find something else later.’

  ‘Shit, yes, let’s do that.’

  Stanford filled Scaduto’s glass and received a nod of appreciation. Scaduto drank deeply, shook his head to clear it, then looked around him again.

  ‘Sonsofbitches,’ he said. ‘Those sonsofbitches made me leave. I was having a good time at that time, but those bastards just killed it.’

  ‘Why?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘My discoveries,’ Scaduto said. ‘Very cold up in Canada, the forests, all that shit in the woods.’

  ‘What shit?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘The fucking truth,’ Scaduto said. ‘I found out and I braced them with the facts and so they paid me that visit.’

  ‘You took the facts to the CIA?’

  ‘Whistled in like the breeze. You bastards know all about it, I said. You bastards knew all along.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘They kicked me out. Took my papers and kicked me out. They said don’t come around again, you’re fucking crazy, these are lies, then they paid me that cute midnight visit and made me leave the NICAP. No more research for me.’
<
br />   ‘What research?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘Hey, listen,’ Scaduto said, grabbing Stanford by the arm, leaning closer and hissing into his face, his red eyes darting left and right. ‘Let’s go back to my place. To hell with these women; they’ll only give us the pox. Let’s get high the clean way. I’ve some really hot shit back there; blow your fucking head off. Okay, buddy? Let’s go!’

  He tried standing, but tripped over the lower leg of his bar stool, crashing into Stanford’s shoulder and spinning off and bumping into some other drinkers. Stanford reached out and grabbed him, held him upright, shook his lightly, and he straightened his shoulders and looked around him, outraged by the angry stares. ‘Stupid cunts,’ he said. ‘Standing there right in front of me.’ Then he grinned and threw an arm around Stanford. ‘Let’s go, old buddy, let’s get out of here, let’s blow our minds through the roof.’ They made their way back across the packed dance floor, the lone line of lonely ladies, the screaming rock band on the small stage. Scaduto waved to some friends, shouted greetings, his good teeth gleaming, still clinging onto Stanford, unsteady, his face a jigsaw of colors. It took a while to reach the stairs, the crowd thicker than before, the pert buttocks and bulging breasts teasing as they struggled for release. Eventually they made it, stepping under the silvery arch and going up the stairs, Stanford still supporting Scaduto as they stepped back onto the busy sidewalk.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Scaduto said. ‘All the lights! They’re fucking blinding me. Jesus, I just love it here on Broadway. I love the Big Apple.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘In SoHo,’ Scaduto said. ‘I’ve got a little loft in Broom Street. We’ll be there in no time.’

  He started off along the sidewalk, swaying dangerously from side to side, and Stanford stuck close beside him, not wanting to lose him. The neon signs flickering crazily, the car drivers honked their horns, and the sidewalks were crowded, people queuing for the theaters, the whores waiting impatiently in the side streets in their come-hither outfits, hopeful clients silhouetted in the bright lights of the stores’ plate-glass windows. Stanford ignored it all, now obsessed with cracking Scaduto, just wanting to get him back to his loft, sober him up, get him talking some sense.

  ‘These hookers,’ Scaduto said. ‘They sure as hell turn me on. Just look at that little bitch wearing candy floss – I mean, she’s practically naked. What about it, Stanford? You think we should take one back with us? We’ll take that Amazon and share her between us, shoot some stuff, have a threesome.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ Stanford said. ‘I don’t like to pay for it. Let’s go back to the loft and shoot up and then I’ll make a few phone calls.’

  ‘That’s my Stanford,’ Scaduto said. ‘Always in there with the phone book. The most famous phone book in Lover’s Lane and it’s always paid dividends. You had a reputation, Stanford. I’ll have to hand you that. When it came to getting pussy, you could do it, no two ways about it.’

  They turned into Broome Street, still close together, passing art galleries and antique shops, health food stores and fresh food restaurants, the old warehouses converted, repainted, decorated, the fire escapes saluting the past, the bedlam falling behind them.

  ‘Those sonsofbitches,’ Scaduto mumbled. ‘Those CIA bastards. I’m now earning twice as much as I did before, but it’s just not the same.’

  ‘A raw deal,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Damned right, a raw deal. Now I’m a rep’ for RCA and that’s why I’m fucked up.’

  ‘What worried them?’ Stanford said.

  ‘What I found out.’

  ‘What did you find out?’ Stanford asked.

  ‘Fucking Canada. My God!

  Scaduto stopped at a converted warehouse, almost fell against the wall, straightened up and plunged his hands in his pockets and eventually withdrew a door key. He had trouble finding the keyhole, kept cursing and mumbling, eventually managed to get the door open and stagger inside. Stanford followed him in, opened the gates of the elevator, a large elevator once used for heavy goods, now used only by residents. Scaduto swayed as they went up, holding languidly to the gate, tried to open it when the elevator stopped, then had to let Stanford do it. The door opposite was large and ugly, the paint stripped off it, paint flaking, but the left behind the door was luxurious, a plush

  Playboy -styled penthouse.

  ‘Wow!’ Stanford explained. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘Shit,’ Scaduto said, ‘I feel sick. I gotta fix myself up.’

  He burped and slapped his belly, shook his head to clear it, then made his way along the clean, waxed floorboards of the spacious, rectangular loft. The walls and ceiling were painted white, stretching away to a wall-length window, the living area located near the window, illuminated by spotlights. Stanford stuck close to Scaduto, ready to prevent him from collapsing; they passed a large, framed Andy Warhol reproduction that covered the right-hand wall, its colors bleached out on their approach to the big window where in daytime the light poured in. Scaduto stumbled and almost fell, but somehow managed not to do so, straightening up and skirting around a modern couch to stop beneath an arched Flors lamp.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I feel shitty. I think my head’s stuck up my ass. The room’s spinning, the walls are closing in. What the hell are we doing here?’

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ Stanford said.

  ‘You want to shoot up first?’ Scaduto took his jacket off and threw it carelessly on the couch and started rolling up the sleeve of his left arm. ‘Those fucking sonsofbitches killed. They put the fear of God into me. Very nice. Polite. Perfect gentlemen. Planted cocaine in my bathroom.’

  ‘I thought you took that anyway.’

  ‘I didn’t have it at the time. I was clean as a whistle, the bathroom was bare, and those bastards had me set for ten years because I hit them with Canada.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about that.’

  ‘No way, Stanford, I’m not talking. That bathroom’s note bare anymore and I want to shoot up.’

  ‘I’m not joining you,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Then have a drink,’ Scaduto said. ‘Relax. Put your feet up. Watch TV. We’ll call some broads and have us a good time.’

  ‘I have to know,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Fuck you, baby, I’m not talking. It never happened. I can’t remember. I know nothing. I won’t talk. It’s not worth it.’

  Scaduto finished rolling his sleeve up, slapped and pinched his bared arm, licked his lips and then staggered to the door that led to the bathroom. Watching him disappearing, Stanford felt desperate and outraged, wondering what he could say to this lunatic, his former friend, to shake him out of his stupor. The loft had central heating. Stanford felt uncomfortably warm. He also felt explosive with frustration and had the urge to smash something. It couldn’t happen again: he couldn’t let this one go. He stood there and let the rage take him and shake him awake. Then he cursed and turned around, hurried across the rush matting, hesitated, clenched his fists tight, then entered the bathroom.

  Sky-blue walls. Mirrored panels. The bath unit was charcoal brown. Scaduto stood there with one foot on the bath, his knee supporting his elbow. He was tying a tourniquet to his arm. He had one end between his teeth. His fist was clenched and a vein throbbed in his neck, beads of sweat on his forehead. Stanford glanced at the sink. He saw the gleaming syringe. Scaduto grunted and tugged at the tourniquet and then looked up at Stanford.

  ‘I have to know,’ Stanford said.

  The tourniquet slipped from Scaduto’s teeth. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said. ‘Can’t you see what I’m doing here?’

  ‘I have a contact,’ Stanford said. ‘A strong CIA contact. He said that you’d found something out that could blow this whole thing.’

  ‘Fuck off out of here, Stanford. Sonofabitch, that’s why you came. I must be fucking dumb. I should have known. Now just get the hell out of here.’

  ‘I have to know,’ Stanford
repeated.

  ‘I know nothing,’ Scaduto said. ‘If I knew, I’d have blown it to the media and made myself rich.’

  ‘You’re frightened,’ Stanford said.

  ‘Go to hell. Get out of here. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Fuck off, Stanford. Just leave me.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I want to shoot up. Jesus Christ, I can’t think straight. I’ve got my head up my ass, my nerves are singing, and you’re starting to kill me. I don’t know anything, Stanford. I don’t remember, I don’t care. I’m going to shoot up and you’re not going to stop me and that’s all there is to it.’

  Stanford moved in fast, his left hand swinging sideways, sweeping Scaduto’s bent leg off the bath and making his foot slam to the floor. Scaduto jerked forward, following the line of his leg, and Stanford moved in and grabbed him by his long hair and jerked his head back. Scaduto yelped and jerked back up, his head shaking, mouth agape, hands flapping, trying to cover his belly when he saw Stanford’s punch. A sluggish gesture, too late: Stanford punched him in the belly. Scaduto doubled up and Stanford grabbed him by the hair and threw him into the wall. Scaduto gasped and seemed to dance, hands waving, legs akimbo, then he groaned, turned around, his hands reaching for the sink, then leaned over the sink and vomited, his body shaking in spasms.

  Stanford stood there, feeling cold, far removed from himself. He waited until Scaduto had turned around, and then he hit him again. It was another punch to the stomach, one blow, sharp and brutal, and Scaduto grunted with shock, doubled over, reached out, grabbed Stanford and slid down his legs and then collapsed to the floor.

  Kneeling above Scaduto, Stanford rolled him onto his back, grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him up as he mumbled and moaned. He dragged Scaduto to the shower, inched in backward, laid him down, pushed him into a fetal position and then turned the shower on. Scaduto yelped and wriggled wildly, shocked back to his senses, the water drenching his clothes, forming a pool around him, as he groaned and kicked his legs and waved his arms, a fish flung on the shore. Stanford kept changing the temperature, first hot, then icy cold, and Scaduto opened his eyes and bawled a stream of obscene abuse and slithered around like a drowning rat. He got up on his hands and knees, shaking his head, dripping water, cursed again and tried to crawl from the shower and was pushed back by Stanford. Scaduto howled and waved his hands. He managed to get up on his knees. He was gasping as he swayed from side to side, the water hissing down over him. Stanford turned the shower. Scaduto groaned and flopped forward. Stanford grabbed him and dragged him over the sky-blue tiles, past the bath, through the doorway. Scaduto kicked and waved in protest, sluggish movements, devoid of strength, while Stanford dragged him across the living area, then left him on the floor beneath the couch and stood there and just stared at him.