“Please forgive me in advance,” Pierce said. “I haven’t danced in years.”
“My people tell me,” said the First Lady, “that you and Phyllis are not very social for show folks. We’d like to see you at some Party fund-raisers.”
Pierce was trying to concentrate on not stepping on her toes as they box-stepped to a Broadway show tune, the melody of which was familiar to all but only the superannuated could have named. “That’s true,” said he. “We work so hard that in our rare moments of time off we treasure our privacy.”
“Well now,” said Amber Sloan, whose plump, faintly freckled cleavage Pierce noticed for the first time as he almost stumbled, “that’s a chickenshit excuse if I ever heard one.” But she displayed one of her toothiest grins. She was a tough one to figure out.
Pierce heard himself say, “We’ll do better in the future, I promise.”
The First Lady cocked her head, favoring one piercing green eye. “I’ll hold you to it, Ellery, count on it. What you don’t have to do is let Phyllis go down on Joe. I promise he won’t sic the IRS on you.”
“That’s nice to know.” Pierce managed to speak as though this sort of exchange was routine, as perhaps it was on the upper levels of power.
By now, without conscious direction, at least on his part—he led but seemed nevertheless to be under the control of the President’s wife—they had danced near Sloan and Phyllis.
“Hi there, neighbors!” the Chief Executive cried. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since the last time I ate a bowl of possum gumbo. How about this band? Just don’t ask them to play anything more recent than the ’50s. But that’s who you gotta have if you invite alter kockers like the Chief Justice and the Majority Whip.”
Pierce was now close enough to the orchestra to discern that Phyllis had been correct: One of the saxophonists indeed seemed to be Tyler Hallstrom, who of course had not changed at all in appearance while acquiring a new skill, which in a creature of his type meant new programming. Phyllis could have been given a sense of rhythm and an ability to dance like a prima ballerina assoluta were Pierce to take the trouble. That he did not was due to his own deficiencies in that area, to correct which he could have done little.
Hallstrom now rose from his chair, presumably to perform one of those solos of the big-band era. Like his colleagues he wore a navy-blue blazer with an embroidered breast-pocket badge.
He came to the edge of the dais, shoving the remonstrating leader aside. While en route, he had pulled his sax apart and reassembled it into a multibarreled automatic weapon. He fired a burst into one of the chandeliers, which snowed chunks of crystal onto the cringing statesmen and their screaming ladies on the dance floor, and afterward shouted in a voice that had undoubtedly been enhanced electronically to be stentorian: “There is but one God and Mohammed is his prophet!”
President Sloan quickly ducked behind Phyllis, but his wife strode past Pierce to say, in stern schoolmarm style, “You just put that gun down before someone gets hurt.”
Hallstrom continued to look into the middle distance while apparently responding to the First Lady. “Silence, dirty Western slut, or you die!”
“Now, you just listen here—” She was quickly surrounded by Secret Service agents, who had been in discreet attendance on her and her husband all evening, never far away though so unobtrusive as to have been all but invisible to Pierce until this moment.
They had also moved to screen the President, which would have meant Phyllis as well, for he was still clutching her, had she not broken away and approached the bandstand.
“Tyler, do you remember me?”
Hallstrom fired another burst at what was left of the nearest chandelier, while the screams of the assemblage were modulated to sobs.
“Defilers of the shrines,” he cried. “There will be sorrow in your tents.”
“Knock off that Islamist shit, Tyler,” Phyllis said quietly.
“You’re just a dumb robot who’s picked up some slogans he doesn’t understand.”
“Infidel whore!”
“Give me the gun, Tyler.” She extended her hand.
As Hallstrom stared at her, his expression changed from the vacant aspect of terrorist self-righteousness to melancholy reproach. “We could have had something, Phyllis. If only you had not been corrupted by the secular materialists.”
“It’s not too late yet,” said she and, lifting the constraining skirt of the lamé gown to mid-thigh, she leaped gracefully onto the dais beside him.
Pierce sought the shelter of the crowd. He was suddenly more afraid of Phyllis than for her.
“I must first kill the mendacious and hypocritical adulterer who leads the Great Satan,” Hallstrom said. “Then we will go away together.” He pointed the Gatling barrels of the transformed saxophone at the cluster of Secret Service personnel surrounding the President and would surely have begun to fire had not Phyllis, using as handle a hunk of the blond hair, opened a panel in the back of his head and with one crooked finger pulled loose a sheaf of wires.
Though a stalwart figure only a second earlier, Hallstrom now collapsed onto himself as if being disassembled. His eyelids stayed wide open, however, and his big flaxen head, now between his upturned feet, displayed a frozen blue stare, his mouth curved in a faint smile.
The ring of agents parted to allow the Chief Executive to emerge. He was helped to mount the bandstand while some of the Secret Service agents carried Hallstrom’s body away and others examined the machine-gun sax.
Sloan raised both arms in triumph and accepted the applause of the crowd. As was his specialty, he transformed, at least for this collection of partisans, what might have been seen as a weakness into a strength. “I don’t mind admitting I had quite a scare. I’m only human.” He pointed at the crotch of his black evening trousers, which those standing close enough could see was damp. He made a hooting laugh. “I dropped a glass of punch on myself! … But how about this plucky little woman?” He gestured toward Phyllis. “I’m also mighty proud of my wife. Didja see how she stepped forward? Let’s have a hand for the ladies, God blessum.”
18
Joe Sloan’s poll numbers had begun to slip even before the blockbusting revelation came. People really did not consider it a joke that a President of the United States, even when in apparent danger of losing his life, would piss his pants.
The decline in popularity was so sudden and so precipitous that those who ran his campaign began to panic. Though he himself did not share this feeling, Sloan had always been able unerringly to gauge when to defy one’s staff and when to give in to them, as he was famous for his ability to get away with outrageous stunts that would have destroyed the career of anyone else (flatulating loudly during one state-of-the-union address, then revealing, to the stunned House and the TV cameras, the little rubber-bulb fart simulator concealed in his left hand; goosing the Chinese ambassador as they returned from a walk at Camp David; appointing a gay Secretary of State, to whom he ascribed “Swish” descent, “but don’t ask William Tell,” which caused the Alpine nation temporarily to recall their ambassador in protest).
But now he had committed two rare lapses in judgment. The assassination attempt, his own idea, had been a fake. Hallstrom’s weapon was loaded with blanks, the chandelier wired with the explosive “squibs” used in movies. An animatron had been chosen for the job so that the Secret Service agents could shoot it down with impunity. That a Phyllis would intervene had not been imagined; that playing a lovable coward would not prove ingratiating, even with a public insatiable for amusement, had not been considered.
Sloan’s second mistake was to acquiesce in his advisors’ urgent, perhaps even hysterical plea that he take emergency measures to halt his snowballing negatives. He was of course too rational to consider calling for the complete abolition of the personal income tax or the annexation of Canada, but it was, again, his own initiative that had unforeseen, and unfortunate, consequences.
“Foreskin,” he announced
at the next strategy meeting, addressing Vice President Dean Forsythe, a sixty-seven-year-old political hack who had been originally chosen for, and had thoroughly lived up to, a deprivation in luster, “I sure hate to do this, old buddy, but you’re gonna have to step off the ticket. I’m gonna name Phyllis Pierce for V.P.”
Forsythe showed an unprecedented spirit. “That showbiz bitch? Joe, you’ve finally gone too far, you prick.”
“I knew you’d give your all for the party,” Sloan said with enthusiasm and the genuine affection he felt for those he betrayed. “Let’s hear it for Foreskin!” He led the applause.
Pierce considered the proposal for less than a day before what should be done became clear.
“Phyllis,” said he, “if you are qualified to be vice president, you are qualified to be president.”
“That would seem to be true,” said she.
“It will require a write-in campaign, and we’ve got less than a year. But I think we can maybe just pull it off.”
“Ellery, does that mean I have to leave show business?”
“Were you to stay on the show, by law the opposition would have to be given equal time. But you’ll be on the air a lot, making public appearances and in political commercials. That will require quite as much simulated emotion as The Lady of the Camellias. You’ll be exercising all of your skills, I promise you. Politics is showbiz and sometimes it’s even more lucrative though usually less believable.” Pierce often nowadays amazed himself with his clear grasp of reality, but he was well aware that he could never have developed this skill had he not created Phyllis as an ideal.
“Have you decided yet,” she asked, “when you’ll reveal my true identity, or lack thereof?”
“That’s still puzzling. All that’s certain is that now is definitely not yet the right time. The tremendous boost you are enjoying for having handled Hallstrom—who so far as you presumably knew was a dangerous terrorist—would be largely nullified were it known that you yourself are simply another animatron. Nobody wants a wimpy leader, male or female—Sloan must be losing his grip to pull this stunt—but a machine is another matter. I think you’d be the first to admit that courage did not come into play.”
“You do not speak with a forked tongue, Ellery.”
Pierce squinted at her. “Do I hear some new irony, Phyl? I thought that was impossible. Or did you watch an old Western last night, with Hollywood Indians?”
“The latter,” said Phyllis. “I was quoting.”
“We’ll begin immediately to work on your political image. That’s too big a job for me alone. We’ll have to hire a team of professionals, and they don’t come cheap, nor does TV time, travel, and all the other expenses. No matter how much money is raised, all campaigns pile up debts that never get fully paid off. Sloan still owes for his first one, and his contributors include some of the richest in the country—corporations, big unions, and professional associations. Some of the same also give money to Ransome, in addition to which he has a huge personal fortune. We used to seem rich, Phyl, but we aren’t in this context. So we have to start grass-roots fund-raising immediately.”
“I’m ready to work twenty-four seven.”
“Reminds me,” said Pierce, “to be on the safe side, I’m going to give you a complete overhaul this weekend. Time to replace your batteries again; they’ve been recharged enough.” He had already done this once during her stressful efforts to get reestablished in show business. It was something of an emotional ordeal for him to see Phyllis in effect dead during the time it took to effect the change, all her systems disconnected, open eyes staring without focus if he had neglected to tell her to close them before the current was switched off, not a lifeless body but rather a mechanical device that had ceased to function, nevertheless dismaying to him who loved her.
It was during Phyllis’s overhauling, in Pierce’s secret workshop behind the locked ex-wine cellar door, that a servant summoned him by intercom to take an important phone call upstairs.
“How they hangin’, El?” asked President Joe Sloan, who assumed his strident tenor and border accent provided self-identification. “Putcha lady on, if you don’t mind.”
“Phyllis is indisposed at the moment, Mr. President.”
“Tell her to get off the pot, pronto. This is the President of the United States.”
“She’s medicated,” said Pierce. “She was a bit under the weather and the doctor—”
“Fuck that shit,” Sloan said, losing his geniality. “I was supposed to get an answer back by today about that thing under consideration.”
“As to the vice presidency,” Pierce began.
“Hush!” Sloan ordered. “I’m told you ain’t got a secure phone.”
“As to the matter that your assistant, Jim Max”
“Goddammit,” cried the Chief Executive. “I’m not gonna tell you a third time.”
“The thing under consideration, then. With all respect, and every acknowledgment of the honor bestowed by the very proposal, Phyllis must decline.”
“Why, you little turd,” Sloan shouted. “I want to talk to Phyllis personally, else the FBI’s gonna kick down your door and search for the kiddie porn I hear you collect.”
“Before they arrive, the entire media will have the real story, Mr. President.”
Sloan was instantly contrite. “Now don’t tell me a smart fella like yourself don’t reckanize a joke when he hears one, Ellery, for pity sake. I just would appreciate the courtesy of a call from Phyllis when she feels up to it. I think I got that much comin’, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. President. She’ll get back to you as soon as she has recovered her faculties.”
“I sure hope that’s not as bad as it sounds.”
Sloan was known as a blusterer, but as it was also true that he had many sorts of weapons at his disposal, including the IRS, Pierce thought it unwise to keep him in the dark too long about their plans. It would be safer to be his declared political adversaries, thereby becoming too conspicuous to be victims of the dirtiest tricks.
So the overhaul did not get quite as much time as would have been optimum, but when Phyllis’s power supply was replaced and fully operational, she made the call to the White House.
Sloan began with solicitousness and flattery, but when he heard from Phyllis’s own lips that not only did she reject the vice-presidential offer but would run against him for the top office, he lost his famous temper and spouted obscenities, concluding with, “I’ll whup your ass, bitch,” a phrase that became the favorite one-liner of the campaign when Pierce provided the tape to the media.
Cliff Pulsifer still lived where he had when Pierce had last seen him, at dinner that evening, years before, when Cliff kindly provided his sister as solace.
“Ellery,” Cliff said now, taking both his hands and giving him an intense stare. “You don’t look a day older.”
Pierce lyingly said the same thing about Cliff, who however had acquired a lot of gray at the temples, purplish bags under his eyes, and a very pasty complexion.
“I’m afraid I don’t drink any more,” Cliff said, leading him into the living room, “but I can offer several flavors of Snapple.”
Pierce took the proffered chair. “I won’t waste your valuable time, Cliff. Let me tell you why I came: Hallstrom.” And when Cliff looked blank, “Tyler Hallstrom? … The so-called attempted assassination of President Sloan?”
“Oh, that,” said Pulsifer. “Yes, I heard of that.” He smirked quickly. “I’ll admit it, Ellery, I’ve been at a detox center, getting clean. I was out of it for a while. I’m just getting back on my feet. Couldn’t have done it without Alicia’s help. She’s an angel.”
“How is your sister?” Pierce asked ritualistically, then went on without waiting for a response. “I’ve hit rock bottom myself, in my time. Do you remember Phyllis?” He brought Cliff up to date, which took a while even though Pierce dealt only with the highlights, for there were great gaps. For example, though Cliff was d
imly aware of a cult-film star named Phyllis, he had had no suspicion she was one and the same as Pierce’s wife. And in fact, for a moment or two, he had some difficulty in recalling that the latter Phyllis had been animatronic.
“I’m still not up to snuff, Ellery, forgive me. I’ve been unlucky in love, of course. But who isn’t, when it comes to that? Only, not everybody develops chemical dependencies.”
“But that night I came to dinner here and met your sister,” Pierce asked, “you had broken up with, I think the name was Ray? You had a new companion.”
“A tall blond?” Cliff grimaced into the middle distance. “He didn’t stay long. He was just a brief stop on my way downhill. Taylor something, or something Taylor.”
“Tyler Hallstrom,” Pierce said. “The guy who last week supposedly tried to assassinate the President.”
“You’re pulling my leg. Forgive me, I haven’t watched the news that carefully. My God. He was here? I gave lodging to a terrorist?”
“He too was an animatron.”
“I had a much longer relationship with Ray. He’s the one I knew best.” Cliff whewed, looking more dismal than ever. “I had a close call.”
“Incidentally, what became of Ray?”
“His next lover had him dismantled, I heard. He could be impossible.”
Pierce took Cliff into his confidence as to the matter of Phyllis’s bid for the presidency. “It’s essential for now that her identity not be revealed. You’re one of the few human beings who could reveal it. Now, if I’m asking for your discretion, I don’t do so empty-handed. When Phyllis is President, we intend to establish a permanent liaison to the gay community. I see a place for you.”
Cliff smiled wanly. “I really don’t know if I’d be up to it, Ellery, but it’s sweet of you to make the offer. Don’t worry about my blabbing. I promise you I won’t. Nobody’d believe me anyway, at this point.”
Adventures of the Artificial Woman Page 13