Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

by Philip Kindred Dick

  He took two of the vitamin pills there at the counter, and then, carrying the bottle, started from the store.

  “We’ll put it on your bill,” Betty said, following after him. “I hope that does what you want, Jim. You do look very tired today. You know, you could take it as an elixir; you might find that handier.” She came out on the sidewalk with him.

  “Right,” he said, making his way to his car and getting into it. As soon as he had sat down again he felt better; some of the weight left him.

  That God damn smog, he thought as he started up the car. It really is hard to breathe anymore. And the smog, he saw, had begun” to blot out the colors of the buildings. San Pablo did not go on nearly as far now; it cut off in the haze and he could not see downtown Oakland as he had been able to just a few minutes before. But who cares? he asked himself as he drove out into traffic. I’ve seen downtown Oakland.

  Up in the Oakland hills there would not be so much smog anyhow. That’s why they live up there, he told himself as he drove along a main street, in an eastwardly direction. He did not know the street, but it had a bus line running along it, so it had to go through to Broadway. I’ll turn left on Broadway, he decided, and that’ll take me clear out to Piedmont. Then I won’t have any trouble after that.

  Sure enough, the street at last came out on Broadway. And now, as he drove toward the intersection with McArthur, he noticed that the smog had fallen behind. They wouldn’t let it get up here, he told himself with pleasure. There’s probably a zoning law against it. At that, he laughed to himself, feeling better once more. The vitamins had helped already. The clean air gave him back his ability to breathe, and the vitamins his strength. He patted his coat pocket, the bankbook and checkbook. Hot dog, he said to himself. This is going to be something.

  At McArthur he turned right, then left onto a long tree-lined residential street. Now there was almost no traffic. The noise fell away behind him and he slowed, aware of the peacefulness of the neighborhood. Piles of leaves in the gutters, waiting to be burned. A parked milk truck. Gardener at work, old jeans and sweatshirt, clipping the edge of a lawn. Fergesson drove in second gear up the hill, past larger houses. Iron fences, ivy . . . he searched for the house. This street, wasn’t it? He craned his neck to see back. High stone wall, the poplar trees. Had he passed it?

  He made out a street sign. Wrong street; not there yet. Picking up speed, he turned right.

  Warm, he thought. Sun streamed down on him, on the sidewalk. The tie, too, made him hot; his neck had become slippery within the tight collar. With his left thumb he loosened it by stretching it still buttoned. And the car heater; it was on. He bent to switch it off…

  A crash threw him forward and against the steering wheel. His head banged and his hands went out, hitting the windshield. He bounced back and lay hunched down, openmouthed. The car had stopped. The motor was dead.

  Ahead of him a great heavy white Chrysler was stalled with its front fender locked into his. And out of the Chrysler the driver, stepping rapidly, was shaking his fist and yelling with no sound. A woman, the old man realized. A thin woman in a long brown coat, angry, scared, hurrying toward him.

  “Do you see what you did?” Her face, shaking, broke into being at his window, an inch from his own. He rolled the window down. “Look what you did; my God, what’ll my husband say?” She dropped away, falling to see the fender. “Oh my God, look at it.”

  Numbly he managed to get out onto the street. Other cars had stopped. The street, now, was blocked. His car and the woman’s car blocked it completely, because of the solid row of parked cars on each side.

  “Look.” Her whole body was shaking. “And I have to pick him up at one-thirty. It’s your fault; you were driving in the middle of the street; you didn’t even see me. Did you hear me honk my horn? You didn’t look up; you were looking down—you weren’t looking at all, or paying any attention.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said, staring at him. “Do something. Get them apart.” She walked off and then got back into her car: Then, all at once, she was out again. He could not keep track of her; she was already back beside him. “Will you do something? Or are you just going to stand there?”

  He squatted down and peered sightlessly at the two fenders. His mind was empty; he had no plan or notion of what to do.

  Behind him the woman said, “I could just kill you. Don’t you know how to drive? In ten minutes I have to be at the Claremont Hotel; I’ll never make it now. Will you call a tow truck? I want your license number.” She ran back to her car to find something to write on. Fergesson groped at the fenders. One of the cars would have to be jacked up.

  “Are you insured?” the woman said, returning. “I suppose not; they never are. I’m going over to that house and phone for a cab. I have your license number now.” She left; he saw her hurry up the path to the front porch of the house and begin ringing the bell. After a moment he returned his attention to the two fenders.

  A man, coming up beside him, said, “Need a hand?”

  “No,” Fergesson said. “Thanks.”

  “Want me to call a tow truck?”

  “No,” he said. Going to the trunk of his car he got out the jack. Then he opened the trunk of the Chrysler and lifted out the larger Chrysler jack. With the two he raised the front end of the Chrysler. The fenders were still interlocked. Kneeling, he let the air out of the front tires of his Pontiac. With a sigh, the Pontiac gradually settled. The old man took hold of the bent green fender of the Pontiac and tore at it. The metal gave at last and the two cars were free.

  He threw the jacks back into the cars and made his way down the path to the house where the woman had gone. The front door was open: he could see the woman at a telephone in the hallway. The owner of the house, another woman, appeared. “Tell her she can drive,” the old man gasped. Turning, he walked back up the path, away from the house.

  The woman driver appeared, still pale and shaking. “Thanks very much,” she said icily.

  “I got them apart.” He fumbled in his wallet; his fingers were so stiff that they seemed about to crack open. “I’m giving you my business card.”

  She snatched the card away from him and hopped into her Chrysler. Its engine started and she drove off, the car swerving from side to side and then disappearing at a corner.

  The other cars that had stopped began to go again. The man who had offered to help him remained, however. His small foreign car was parked in a driveway. “What about your car?” he said. “You have two flats.”

  “I can make it,” the old man said. “I run a garage. That’s the card I gave that lady. My garage card.”

  “I see,” the man said. “Well, good luck.” He got awkwardly back into his foreign car. “So long.”

  By himself, Fergesson pushed his Pontiac from the street, over to the curb. It blocked two driveways, but now traffic could get past. They actually could get by anyhow, he told himself. They just stopped to rubberneck. The bastards. It doesn’t matter to them if I get a ticket for leaving my car like it is. But there was nothing else he could do.

  He was not far from Mr. Harman’s house, and so he began to walk along the sidewalk, not even stopping to get back his breath. Red specks dipped in front of his eyes, and his throat burned. As he walked he breathed through his mouth, great windy gasps that startled two people passing him. He grinned at them and continued on. I only got about a block to go, he said to himself. Already he thought he could see the house, and he could get onto the grounds from this end; he could cut across and save walking.

  Yes, he thought; there it was. A truck was parked in front of it, Harman’s truck; it had the name of the record business on it. So he knew he was right. This was the place at last. Going from the sidewalk onto the grass he climbed toward a terrace of roses; he did not try to find the flagstone path. He did not have the time. I have to go right in there, he told himself. I have this big business deal to conclude with them; I can’t affor
d to wait. Now he scrambled up between trees. Not with something like this. He clutched at his coat to be sure his checkbook and passbook were safe.

  Crossing the rose garden he slipped and fell backward, sitting down suddenly and wheezing; he got up almost at once, staggering and brushing at himself. His coat was dirty. He went on three more steps and then he slipped again. This time he slid; his feet went in different directions and he floundered forward, reaching with both hands to touch the soil for support. Running a few steps, balancing himself with his fingers, he reached the concrete front porch. Bits of dirt and fertilizer trailed after him, bouncing from the concrete. Trembling with pain he wiped his hands together, standing on the porch by the front door. He wiped his feet. And then, after he had stood for a time and had gotten his breath back, when he felt that he could talk—he would have to be able to talk; he had to wait until he could do that—he reached out and began to knock.

  Inside the house someone stirred.

  I knocked too soon, he thought. I won’t be able to talk. He could not even get his breath, yet, so how could he talk? He felt panic. It’s too soon, he said to himself. The person was coming to the door. Don’t come yet, he said to himself. If I don’t knock any more you won’t come; okay? He stood without knocking, making no sound except for his breathing. But they were still coming anyhow.

  You bastards, he said to himself. You caught me at the wrong time; I’m not ready. But there was nothing he could do. He could not stop them now. The door began to open.

  Hello, he said. Hello, can I come in? Is Mr. Harman here? He practiced faster and faster, flying along as the door opened, flying with it. Say, I came to see Mr. Harman, if he isn’t busy. This is really important. He patted his coat, patted the checkbook, patted the pain. We have business, he said. He wheezed on faster to himself, like a thing. His head, like a cuckoo, went back and forth in rhythm with the door. Hello, hello.

  Hello, he said. Hello.

  The door all the way open. A woman, well-dressed, elegant. Smiling sideways with her hand—ring, fingers—on the door, pale red nails. Carpet in the hall and table; curved arch. Seeing in, seeing past. Fireplace.

  Hello, he babbled. I’m sorry. Sorry it happened. Hot around my neck where the new tie is. Reached for heater. The sun came down on him, cracking him, splitting his head wide open. I’ll get it out of there. But I can’t back. Maybe you can back it. Sorry, sorry, he said to the woman. He backed away from her; retreating.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Hot,” he said. “Can I sit for a minute?” Have my bottle of pills. Hemo-titic. He laughed; they both laughed and she held the door for him, so he could pass on into the cool dim hallway, with no sound at all; lost in the carpet. White Spanish walls, a thousand years old. He did not even dare to breathe.

  “My husband’s here,” she said from ahead of him as she walked. “I think, if you want to wait.”

  “Thanks,” he said, finding a chair. Black leather; his hands passed over it, knowing it.

  “Just a minute.” Her back to him, at the other wide archway, the far room. Drapes.

  “Fll be fine,” he said, seated.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thanks.” He stared at the floor. Then, in his hands, balanced, a china cup of coffee, spoon and all. He stared at it in horror; it flopped and slid and returned. A single black drop, as large as gum, shot down the side of his leg, streaking the pants; he fixed his eyes on it, nodding. Out of sight. What you don’t know. He crossed his leg to hide.

  “Don’t you worry,” the woman said.

  “Oh hell no,” he said, keeping himself from laughing. “Don’t you worry about me.” He rocked from side to side.

  It’s the way I am. Like a boat.

  You’ll get used to it.

  Al Miller said, “Honor is the thing you must have. Like credit in the financial world. A check goes through twenty hands before any real money is involved. My point is that honor has to be taken for granted the same way we take the check as being good. Otherwise the whole system falls apart.”

  Stretched out in his bathrobe, his eyes hidden by his dark glasses, Chris Harman gazed up at the midday sky. He did not respond; he seemed to be meditating.

  “You mean within an organization,” Bob Ross said.

  “Exactly,” Al said.

  Harman, raising his head, said slowly, “But someone can get into an organization, Al. Someone who has other purposes.” Reaching, he located his drink. “You can’t go on blind trust. You have to protect yourself. I don’t think you understand how close they are to us all the time.”

  “Pardon?” Al said, not following.

  Supporting himself on his elbows, Harman said, “Most of what we net—or should net—has to go back in. Reinvestment; but for this purpose: to protect ourselves. I suppose you read where S.P. has been quietly buying up Western Pacific stock. The first W.P. knew about it was when S.P. suddenly announced they already had ten percent and so help me God, they were applying to the I.C.C. to acquire the remainder. My God, they’d be taking over.

  “Really dreadful,” Ross said.

  “But that’s not the only way an organization is penetrated,” Harman said. “There are also spies and informers and plants, as in the auto business, where all secrets are swiped.”

  “I can testify to that,” Al said. “From my experience.”

  “Absolutely,” Harman agreed. “You’re canny. But I’ve seen other things, Al, which you may not know about. Let me give you an example. Keep this to yourself, of course.” He glanced toward Ross. “Bob knows about this.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ross said soberly. “That contact.”

  Harman said, “We were sounded out.”

  “Who by?” Al said, trying to make it sound as if he followed; but in fact he had long ago lost the thread of the discussion. Both Harman and Ross seemed to take the thing for granted.

  “By them,” Harman said. “They were—let’s face it—probing for a weak link in us. They didn’t find it. But they’ll keep on trying. They’ve got a lot of money . . . they’re not S.P., of course, but they’re also not the pipe-tobacco shop on the corner. By that I mean they’re not fly-by-night in any sense; they’re here to stay.”

  “I see,” Al said.

  “You have to know your friends,” Ross said.

  “Exactly,” Harman said. “Now, we’re all friends here, the three of us. But you’ll be approached.” Removing his dark glasses he gazed directly at Al. “You will. One of these days.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Al said.

  “And you won’t even know it,” Ross said.

  “No,” Harman agreed. “Not off the bat.”

  “Tell him about the contact,” Ross said.

  Harman said, “I knew right off. But only because it’s happened before, and because I’ve made out their line, their logic. Mainly, they operate from out of town, probably from Delaware, through a holding company. Assuming they have a legitimate front at all, they probably control all their own retail outlets.”

  “They sell to themselves,” Ross said.

  “But what they actually want or do,” Harman said, “we don’t know. They’ve been out here on the West Coast for at least eleven months, I would judge, gathering by the changes in the picture, especially in Marin County. You read, probably, about the enormous new public housing that opened in Marin City; really elaborate structures. The taxpayers are paying. And Berkeley’s ruined by them; they’ve practically taken over the city in toto. It’s taken fifteen years, but it’s done now.” He grimaced at Al.

  “Who?” Al said.

  “Negroes,” Bob Ross said.

  Harman said, “That was what gave their contact away. Even on the phone the voice was recognizable. The Negro intonation.”

  Al stared at him.

  “They had a deal,” Harman went on. “A very calm, direct one. I played along.” His voice now seemed to shake. “I acted as if I had no idea what they were talking about.
You see? So it misfired.” Again he grimaced; it was almost a tic. “I’m still tense thinking back to it,” he said. He sipped the rest of his drink. “Anyhow,” he said, “they had hold of some factor they thought they could use to make their entry; we’d have to come to terms. Then they could absorb us. And run us.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Bob Ross said.

  Harman shrugged. “You never know,” he said. “They’ve got a lot they can bring to bear. Time will tell. Up to this point they’ve soft-pedaled it. Maybe they’re groping around in the dark a little, too.”

  “Or maybe they’re letting us dangle,” Ross murmured, “to get more kicks out of it.”

  “It’s a dirty business they’re in,” Harman said. “Blackmail. A dirty approach to the market.” He became silent.

  “Why Negroes?” Al said.

  “It goes back a long way,” Harman said. “There was a particular Negro folk-singer; we were operating on a shoestring, back around 1940. Just before the War, in San Francisco.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Someday when we have the time I’ll tell it to you, the whole story.”

  “But we’ve got a job to do right now,” Ross said, rising to his feet and setting down his glass. “We’ve got a trip ahead.”

  “I wonder if he’s still alive,” Harman said.

  “Who?” Ross said.

  “Shoeless Lacy Conkway. Five-string banjo. He was in the same prison as Leadbetter—Leadbelly, as you know him. I met Leadbelly a number of times, before his death. In fact, we did a couple of Leadbelly albums.”

  Ross said, “And a Shoeless Lacy Conkway album.”

  The two man glanced at each other somberly.

  “You mean this raccoon banjo player is after you?” Al said. “All this time?” It was the call from Tootie Dolittle, all right. They had imagined it was someone else, for obvious good reason. “Why don’t you have him plugged?” he demanded.

  They both laughed, Ross and Harman. And then Harman, in a slow, introspective voice, said, “Al, they may be after me, but we will get to them first. As you suggest. Don’t kid yourself on that score. There’s too much at stake.”