by Parke Godwin
“How can the French think they’re gourmets when we were the first with frozen pizza? Hey, this is très intime.” Scheherazade touched her glass to his. “Too fucking much.”
“Don’t curse.” But Lance couldn’t bring himself to blush or disapprove with his old conviction. Their mood and the ambience adhered to the standards of the very best sherry commercials – a cheery lire on the hearth, romantic shadows, a great many violins, the television muttering white noise in its corner. They’d both grown up with that comforting babble through meals and social gatherings, even lovemaking. Absence would create a vacuum.
Lance let the music take him. “Mantovani. He always does classics.”
“It is to die.”
“That’s how I feel now, Sherry.”
“Oh, Lance, me too. I am in sync with all of it, I am one with the universe.”
“I just wish —” He hesitated, then tossed his napkin on the table. “It’s not right.”
She was instantly solicitous. “What, baby?”
“Never mind.”
“Don’t keep secrets; what are friends for?”
“Why hasn’t Letti come? It’s been so long.” She eyed him with clear physical intent. “I came.”
Only Sherry – and that Helm Lance had to trust but couldn’t like. The trial began tomorrow, his ordeal by fire, yet he felt the verities of his life crumbling beneath him. Helm scared him more than the Devil. Both of them seemed so old Lance felt insignificant between them. He wanted to matter, to mean, needed human touch to reassure him. Scheherazade was here and hovering, but the last bedrock principles barred his way with a gaming sword.
Let Bakker weaken or Swaggart fall; Candor must not.
And yet Mantovani was playing the love theme from Ben Hur, in a wine warmed surge, Lance saw himself and Scheherazade as torn Judah and faithful Esther. His ftngertips reached for hers. “There’s so much...”
“Yes, Lance. Yes, I’m here”
“So much pain in me tonight. I’m sorry, I don’t want to spoil a nice dinner, just I can’t help remembering. Did you know?” He forced it out in a broken rush.
“Letti and I were voted most popular couple in high school – hey!”
Lance sprang up, jarring the table. Scheherazade saved the wineglasses only by quick fielding. “What’s this?” He turned up the TV sound, aghast. “It’s Letti!”
Herself, armored in pancake, lashes like rug fringe, talking to Cathy Cataton outside the Hilton.
“— said not to have visited your husband since his arrest.”
“That is not true a-tall, “Letti brayed. “Not true. Ah have been here time after time, but the government of Coyul and his Satanic minions ruh-fuse to let me see him. But I will be at his side tomorrow, y’all can bet on that.”
“No.” Lance muttered with a stubborn shaking of his head, “How can she say that? Anybody could visit me.”
“True, baby.” Ms, Ginsberg was woman enough to know what was good for her. “I’ve been here every day.”
“She’s my wife, for God’s sake. Why should she lie? Shut up.” Lance cut the sound with an angry jab. Mime-Letti turned from Cataton to smile bravely for the camera. Lance rebelled. “No!” Another jab and the set went dark. “No.” he grated. Brutalized. Betrayed. Charlton Heston in the Roman galley, pissed of and breaking his oar. “No more. I am sick of her and her eyelashes and her headaches —”
“Right on!” Scheherazade hooted. “Hey, your pizza’s getting cold.”
Lance eyed her, desperate. Morals warred with elemental needs and lost. “I hope you’re not.”
“Hell no.” She slipped into his arms on cue. “No way, baby.”
“A man should hold to what he believes in.” Lance resolved, hoping he sounded like John Wayne. “And the woman who believes in him,” he added huskily, trying to work the zipper on her jeans. The damned thing stuck.
“Let me do it.” she whispered, freeing the zipper. “Love is all that matters.”
I will dream the impossible dream, Lance promised himself as the zipper surrendered with promises of its own. Scheherazade unbuttoned his shirt, pressing her leg between his. “We were fated for this. My horoscope knew it,” she breathed heavily in his car. “Let’s not make it all missionary, okay?”
“What’s missionary?” the sheltered Lance wondered as she pulled him down onto the rug before the fire.
“What you don’t know won’t hurt us, Oh, Lance lover, am I going to be good for you.”
The violins thrilled and sobbed.
At Coyul’s salon, the party showed no signs of running down despite the absence of the hosts, which few noticed. The chunky, indomitable Edna had a leonine profile and knew what was good for everyone including Lida Simone, whom she never invited to her own parties.
“Lida, really!” — as Kaufman’s leading lady spilled her drink for the third time — “Wouldn’t you prefer a bowl in the kitchen?”
“Kinky.” Lida mumbled foggily, a pair of dark Foster Grants askew on her surgically reconsidered nose. She had the bedazzled air of one who’d just seen God open on Sinai. “You wouldn’t believe. I saw Coyul and Purji outside, and I always wanted to ask Purji how she got those marvelous boobs without help. All of a sudden, they started to glow all over” — Lida’s expression went ethereal — “like Christmas angels. Then there was just this one big bright light. I think they’re making love. Always wondered how they did it. We-eird.”
“You are not a healthy person.” Edna snapped. “In all my born days – I don’t want to hear about it:”
Her law laid down, Miss Ferber marched away to take her leave. Lida draped herself along the piano like an arrangement of lilies as Oscar swung into a new number. “I don’ know what she’s so touchy about. Where’s my drink, Oscar? Why are people always stealing my drink?” Lida searched about her. “I didn’t see anything you couldn’t put in a novel. Even yours, Edna!” she trumpeted to the departing author.
“You can tell me,” Oscar invited. “My shrink says I need more reality. What happened?”
“Nothing I could see.” Lida swore. “Zip. Just lights. Why d’ya think I’m wearing these stupid shades, to avoid autographs? All I can see is orange dots.” She found her drink and managed to spill it again. “But they’re sweet, Oscar, they really are. Orphans from outer space, jus’ like me. I am emotionally starved. What can I do when I am unloved?”
“Quit while you’re ahead”
You see? Purji drowsed, her energy and essence one with Coyul’s as they drifted under a deep blue blanket of inanity spangled with stars. You’ve been with humans so long. Isn’t it therapeutic to be home again?
Truly it was. Coyul felt marvelous, reborn, sinking into the dreamless sleep of his kind.
FELIM TO COYUL: MOST URGENT.
The intrusion jarred them. Purji reluctantly separated from Coyul, reforming in human shape. “The phone at a time like this. Doesn’t Felim ever go off duty?”
COYUL TO FELIM: THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT.
FELIM TO COYUL: PER YOUR REQUEST, CHECKED HELM RECORDS. FORGERIES PERPETRATED BEFORE MY TIME, CLEVEREST IN MEMORY. NO RECORD “PETER HELM” EARTHSIDE OR BELOW STAIRS. ADVISE.
Advise what? Where? The trial of Lance Candor was now a compendium of negatives. A contest not about Candor or his actions, watched by a public more interested in deposing Coyul than exonerating the dense offender, argued by two lawyers not whom they claimed to be and so well disguised not even Coyul could guess their identities.
Felim still hovered in Coyul’s mind. ADVISE?
COYUL TO FELIM: BY WAY OF ADVISEMENT, YOU MIGHT TAKE A WILD GUESS AT JUST WHO’S MINDING THE STORE AROUND HERE. GOOD NIGHT, FELIM.
9
Waltz for cobras
CANDOR TRIAL OPENS TODAY
FUNDYS SEE EASY WIN FOR CANDOR
PUNDITS PREDICT PALLID POLL FOR PRINCE
Her tight brunette curls meticulously coifed, Cathy Cataton faced the cameras outside the Megachurch. In the distance
behind her, thousands of people filed like purposeful ants up the marble steps into the grand edifice. Ms, Cataton’s on-camera voice, urgent but professionally modulated, gave no indication of being aware she was broadcasting to a sixty share of Topside and Below Stairs.
“... supporters of Lance Candor say they have no doubt of the trial outcome which will radically affect Topside Politics, calling it the most significant spiritual contest in ages. While Fundamentalists are confident of victory, one courtroom veteran said: ‘An easy win against Josh Speed is like an easy stroll up Mount Everest.’”
Below Stairs in the Sports Bar, the habitués had agreed that nothing else, not even the Superbowl, would be watched during the trial. This reflected self-interest. If Coyul lost, Topside would become the sort of place to which you wouldn’t retire your parents or even enemies. As for Below Stairs, the good times might well be numbered, were numbered as far as Arnold Rothstein saw it. He watched the monitor over one end of the bar while Legs the bartender set a fresh drink before him. Legs had once been his bodyguard in the bad old days. They went way back, not without their differences.
“You making book on the trial, Brain?”
“Always ready for some good action.” Rothschild tasted the drink, frowned and set it down, “Now I see why Coyul didn’t drink here much. You should stock the bar better. Who do you like in this?”
Legs owned to a loyalty bet across on the board on Joshua Speed, all takers. “He’s gotta win. Post life will be hell. Death won’t be worth living.”
Rothstein produced a small notebook. “I say Helm by three lengths. Candor gets off without so much as a slap on the wrist.”
“You got a bet.” The bartender extended a hand to shake on it. “Joshua Speed is a big man in more ways than size.”
Legs had always been impressed by big men, Rothstein recalled, until he figured out how to be bigger. He had the ideal face for a bodyguard or bartender, bland and forgettable. He could move fast and tended to be invisible in any gathering.
“I have a personal dislike for assassins,” said Rothstein pointedly.
Legs Diamond didn’t even blink. “So do I, Mr. Rothstein, What am I always saying?”
“So you are”
“What’s the bet?”
The Benefactor of Broadway thought briefly: there were things he could do without. “If I win, you stop bitching about the mamzers who scratched you in Albany. If you win” — the Brain added the faint, deadly smile too well known to delinquent debtors along the Great White Way —” I try to forget who scratched me in New York.”
Letti Candor bustled down the corridor to the Megachurch arena, prepared for appearance in more pancake and higher heels than usual. From this moment on, she might be seen on camera at very short notice, and why should Lance hog all the glory? Thanks to God, television and this trial, she had a whole new purpose. Not that she’d take advantage of her husband’s hardship, but Burning Bush Books had asked for Letti’s life story. She wouldn’t think of such a thing except the publisher, that nice Reverend Strutley, asked her personally. He was just like her old pastor back home, strong and reassuring, and when he lit into sin on teevee, you could see him sweat with his holy labor. Letti’s fantasies were infrequent and celibate, but in them Reverend Strutley was prominent. He wouldn’t bother her with soiled thoughts even though he was a man of the world and even arranged for that tacky little Parker woman to do the actual writing. Letti looked forward to a closer relationship with the Reverend, who already wore white armor in her dreams.
Reality encroached on dream; she was surprised to see Lance approaching from the opposite end of the long corridor and completely unprepared for the female clutching her husband’s arm. Letti hurtled forward, her own prehensiles stretching to assert and possess —
“Lay-ante! Honey!” Letti surrounded her spouse in seconds, pointedly wedged between him and the scrawny young woman with the bad hair job. “Honey, lord am I glad to see yew.”
Lance reddened and looked shifty. “Letti. Yes.” She guessed he’d try to kiss her like always and braced for an evasive maneuver to save her makeup, When he didn’t try, she was sufficiently dense to be relieved.
“Uh, Letti, this is a supporter of mine. Ms. Ginsberg.”
“I’m a great fan of Lance’s,” Scheherazade said with no distortion. “I dig his commitment.”
“Pleased t’meet yew, ah’m sure.” Letti clamped a deathgrip on the arm relinquished by Ms, Ginsberg, “I guess your fans, won’t any of ’em let you alone now, sugar. C’mon, we should go in together. And you, honey,” — to the displaced Scheherazade —” y’all should run along and get a seat while’s any left.”
“Yeah, I better. Take care, Mr. Candor. We’re all very much with you.”
“Nice to meet yew,” Letti threw after the departing fan. “My stars, Lance, that poor li’l thang, Ain’t that the tackiest hair job you ever saw?”
“Let’s go.” Lance extricated himself from her clutch with more than a trace of irritation. “The bodyguards are waiting.”
“What you lookin’ so mad about? I just said —”
“What was all that stuff on teevee about not being able to visit me? Nobody stopped you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lance Candor.” Her lashes batted in demure innocence, creating a small breeze. “Ah don’t care what all anyone said. Ah could not get in. And Nil, I been so busy getting ready for today’n going on the teevee. Wasn’t hardly a minute didn’t have to be some where.”
“You should have come.” Lance pronounced it with a finality lost on his wife.
“Well, shit, I did miss you. Hold on.” At the arena entrance, Letti’s hands fussed over Lance’s hair and paisley tie like two anxious valets. She rumpled his hair slightly to the image from the Time cover, tugged at his jacket, smoothed the lapels.
“Now you’re mama’s sweet li’l boy. They’re just gonna love you to death. That tacky girl pester you for your autograph or something?”
“Yes, she did.” Lance juggled male ego with the common sense of husbands and found a cryptic balance. “And I surely gave it to her.”
“That’s nice,” said Letti.
In a small vestry chamber along the same corridor, Coyul reviewed the line of questioning discussed with Speed and the probable cross by Helm. The ominous murmur outside grew ever louder as the Megachurch filled, surging to a roar as Purji opened the door and came in.
“I wanted to wish you luck before the mayhem. Bon chance, darling.” She bestowed on Coyul the sort of kiss for which eunuchs might kill. “If we need a getaway, my ship’s still there.”
“You know I can’t. I’m responsible for them.” Coyul tilted his head toward the rising thunder from the arena. “Bastards and beauties alike.”
“Well, whither thou goest.” Purji tried a bright smile, then suddenly squeezed herself tight against Coyul. “Would you hold me? Please?”
“Of course. Frightened?”
“No, just like a human, all of a sudden I feel old and lonely.”
“I’m glad you came. Job’s comforter. It all ends, you know.”
“Small blessings.” Purji sighed against his cheek. “Do you honestly think you can tell them everything they know will die, even the universe?”
No, he honestly didn’t, but there it was; he was elected. In a thousand or so years, when Earthers had some perspective on space and creation beyond their barnyard world, perhaps the message might filter through. The trickle down theory might better apply to intelligence than Reaganomics. “What’s a thousand years?” Coyul lifted her chin, trying to elicit a smile. “We could nap that long”
Purji kissed him again. “When you stop laughing, one could charge you with nobility.”
“Bite your tongue. Imagine me hanging next to Washington in the National Gallery.” Coyul turned at a polite knock. “Ah, they’ve even brought the rope. Come in.”
The door opened only a few inches; the Prime Minister leaned in polite
ly. “Excuse me, Prince. Just to convey Her Majesty’s best wishes. Unofficially, of course.”
“Most gracious, P.M. My very best to Her Majesty and Albert in return.”
“All in proportion, Prince. She never approved of me, either,” The P.M. withdrew.
“Dear old Gladstone. Very helpful though I’m sure he still thinks God is an Englishman. To think: they’re going to go through all this over again on Keljia.”
Purji sighed. “I suppose so. Next time I’ll take along a good book.”
“See you tonight, then,” Coyul paused at the door, holding on to the miraculous sight of Purji as something sane against the lunacy to come. “I don’t think we’re humble enough. Nah-h. No way.”
“For what, dear?”
“Parents to a messiah.”
“We could work at it,” Purji hoped. “Didn’t I learn French in five minutes?”
“So you did” Coyul blew her a kiss and closed the door. He passed along the corridor with a heavy heart, the muttering of restless predators louder with every step. He climbed the stairs to the entrance and emerged, showing them their quarry. The crowd hushed, vocally crouched, as the mass of them shifted emotional gears. Then a growing sibilance as thousands hissed the entrance of the villain into their sacred melodrama. The few small sallies of applause drowned quickly in a rising tide of boos.
Only a few rose in respect. The first was Joshua Speed. Coyul shook his hand and nodded courteously to Helm at the defense table. Candor’s chair was empty.
“Helm’s saving him for an effective entrance,” Speed guessed.
“Be careful, Josh. That little man with the look of a consumptive poet is diligently sniffing you out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s out to blow your cover. Make you, as the TV cop say.”
Speed studied his huge hands and grimaced. “I’ll rely on you to do the same for him.”
“If I can,” Coyul settled in his chair. “Felim says he doesn’t exist.”