by Dorsey, Tim
Serge was staring with his mouth open.
“Serge?”
“What?”
“Why are we here?”
“That’s an awfully big question, Lenny. I guess if you believe in God, it’s a little easier. If not, you might have to go with the unified field theory.”
“No, I mean, why are we here right now? Why did we come to this place? I forget.”
“We came here to…” Serge stopped. “Why did we come here?”
Serge and Lenny looked at each other, then at the ground, then back at each other, scratching their heads, looking off in the distance, across the concourse, where two men walked toward the exit with a silver briefcase.
Serge and Lenny looked at each other: “The briefcase!”
They jumped up and took off after the men, rounding the corner of the building and sprinting through the Rocket Garden, giant silver and white tubes towering skyward all around.
“That’s an Atlas. Had a sixty percent fail ratio before John Glenn climbed in. This is the suborbital Redstone that took up Shepard and Grissom…”—Serge breathing hard, not breaking stride—“…and the big one is the incredible Gemini Titan, an ICBM converted for human flight. Pulled some serious Gs off the pad…”
They made it to the car and patched out. Serge grabbed the tracking device. “It’s working again! Must be because we’ve left the complex!”
Serge was driving now, pushing the Cadillac across the causeway, accelerating as they rounded A1A by Port Canaveral. “Take the wheel.”
“Man, I’m way too fucked up to drive, especially from the passenger side.”
But Serge had already let go and was pointing the tracking device out the side of the car. Lenny began steering with his left hand.
The tracking signal grew stronger. Serge aimed it at each passing building. “…There’s the Durango steak house, formerly the Mousetrap. Legendary astronaut hangout. If those walls could talk…. And there’s the Econo Lodge, which used to be the Cape Colony Inn owned by the Mercury Seven. There’s still a little commemorative sign out back by the oriental restaurant….”
“Who’s your favorite astronaut?” asked Lenny.
“I’d have to give the edge to Frank Borman or John Young. What about you?”
“Major Healy.”
“Ah yes, the master thespian from I Dream of Jeannie, a very strange TV show,” said Serge. “The one that always made me wonder was The Flying Nun. Think about it. There was actually a prime-time show on a major network about a nun whose hat made her fly.”
“They did a lot of drugs back then,” said Lenny.
“That might explain the Sid and Marty Croft stuff, but this idea was brain-dead on arrival. I would have loved to have sat in on that pathetic pitch meeting. I mean, what the fuck were they rejecting? The wacky yet sexually frustrating escapades of the disembodied-head-in-a-jar sharing an apartment with three voluptuous flight attendants?”
“I’d watch that show,” said Lenny.
“I’m in the wrong business.”
They passed the Orbit Motel. The tracking signal went nuts. Serge stomped the brake pedal with both feet, leaving a big cloud of dust and burned rubber as the convertible screeched to a halt in the middle of the road.
A Mazda honked and swerved around the Cadillac. “Asshole!” The driver gave them the finger but quickly retracted it when he saw Serge slamming an ammunition clip into the butt of a .45.
“Let’s hit it,” said Serge. They turned around and headed back toward the Orbit Motel.
17
There was trouble brewing elsewhere in the United States. Which could mean only one thing. It would eventually come to Florida.
This time, Nevada. The caked desert changed colors five times after sunset, from burnt orange all the way to an eerie purple. A horned lizard lay belly up on a rock and blinked.
A towering sign with a thousand colored bulbs came on, a man in a cowboy hat holding up a big gold nugget. Some of the bulbs flashed on and off, making the cowboy wave at cars.
The Gold Rush Hotel stood outside Reno. Way outside. Just desert and cactus and cattle skulls. It was out on the highway toward California, designed to catch the people coming in, who couldn’t wait to get to Reno, and those leaving, who hadn’t learned. There were slot machines at the reception desk, a slot machine in each booth of the restaurant, and long lines of clanging machines against the walls in the Sapphire Room.
The Sapphire Room held forty dark nightclub tables, each with its own tiny cocktail lamp. Two keyboards sat onstage, facing each other.
Rock groups are notoriously lax about protecting names and trademarks, which often revert to record companies. By the time the reunion tours roll around, all bets are off. If you’re lucky, you might see a band missing only the lead singer. If not, you get half of Chicago. If you’re really unlucky, you’ve paid to get in the Sapphire Room.
An emcee walked onstage with a microphone. Behind him, two men in tuxedos sat down at the opposing keyboards.
“May I have your attention? It is with great pleasure that I introduce Dave and Jeff on the Dueling Wurlitzers….” The pair began playing a rousing number. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Sapphire Room is proud to present Bad Company!”
Jeff leaned to his microphone. “…I feel like makin’—what do I feel like makin’? Can anybody out there help me?—that’s right! love!…I feel like makin’ love, oh yeah!…”
Three tables got up and left.
Bad Company finished their concert, roadies packed up the Wurlitzers, others began setting up for the next act. They unfurled a silk banner. “The Great Mez-mo, amazing feats in mesmerization.” A sinister eyeball gave off lightning bolts.
Preston Bradshaw Lancaster took the stage in a blue velvet tuxedo and powder-blue shirt with ruffles. Soon, four volunteers sat in a row of chairs across the stage, a family, their heads slumped to their chests. Disneyland T-shirts.
The forty nightclub tables now held exactly three people; one was passed out. Welcome to show business.
Preston snapped his fingers, and the family of four awoke and looked around disoriented.
“Have a nice nap?”
They nodded.
Preston walked around behind the chairs and put his hands on the father’s shoulders.
“I sure am getting hungry,” said Mez-mo. “I could really go for some noodles.”
“Quack, quack, quack,” said the dad. Two people in the audience cracked up. Dad looked confused.
“Yes, sir,” said Mez-mo. “I think I could eat a whole plate of noodles!”
“Quack, quack, quack.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Mez-mo took a couple steps and put his hands on the mother’s shoulders. “Mom—the Great Mez-mo would like you to go to the blackboard and write the numbers one to ten.”
She walked across the stage and began writing with chalk. “1, 2, 3, I like to swim out to troop ships…” Two people laughed again; Mom looked around.
“Thank you, Mom,” said Mez-mo. “You can take your seat…. Oh, by the way, would you happen to have a spare paperclip?”
She looked down. “Dammit!”
Mez-mo handed her some paper towels, and Mom began wiping invisible dog poop off her shoes.
“Sonny,” said Mez-mo, putting his hands on the shoulders of a nine-year-old butterball. “What’s your name?”
The boy thought he was saying Benny, but instead he answered, “Agent X-18, the Dreaded Mongoose.”
“And Mr. Mongoose, do you know who your assigned targets are today?”
The boy nodded, and Mez-mo handed him a starter’s pistol.
“Mr. Mongoose, did you know I just bought a new telephone?”
Benny got up from his chair and began firing blanks at his parents. “Die, you bastards!”
“Hey,” the father yelled at Mez-mo. “That’s not funny!”
“Not as funny as, say, noodles?”
“Quack, quack, quack…”
“That leaves just you
, little lady.” Mez-mo put his hands on the teenager’s shoulders. “What’s your name?”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica, did you ever learn to play the harmonica?”
Her eyes got big, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Brad Pitt!”
The Great Mez-mo walked to the front of the stage and raised his hands for the room to hold down its non-applause.
Behind Mez-mo, the parents were growing angry over the shooting incident. “What gives you the right! This is the most outrageous…!”
“You’ve been a great audience!” said Mez-mo. “And now I have to order some noodles on the telephone and clean my harmonica with a paperclip.”
Benny opened fire again on his parents, who quacked and wiped crap off their shoes. Jessica jumped up and down next to Mez-mo, begging for his autograph.
“…Thank you and good night!”
Mez-mo ran down the stairs on the right side of the stage, slapping hands tag-team-style with the next performer coming up the steps, Andy Francesco, the Pickpocket Comedian.
Preston headed down the hall to the Flash in the Pan Restaurant.
“There he is! The Great Mez-mo!” someone yelled from the corner booth. “Oooo, oooo! Don’t look in his eyes! He has supernatural powers!…”
Preston turned toward the voice. It was Spider, the one-armed juggler. Preston hated Spider. He hated them all—all the other performers. Look at them, sitting there so smug in that booth. Wearing the same fancy blue velvet tuxedos, the snap-on bow ties hanging from their collars, elbows over the backs of the seats. Preston still couldn’t believe he had been reduced to associating with these losers. After all, he had a Ph.D. in hypnosis.
The corner booth was their turf. Big and curved, shiny red vinyl, it was where all the performers waited while the other acts were onstage, comparing notes, trying out new material, drinking coffee, smoking, maybe ordering a steak when it started getting light out.
“Scoot over,” said Preston.
The guys slid around to make room, Spider; Bruno Litsky, America’s Favorite Jay Leno Impersonator; the Saul Horowitz Tribute to Vaudeville; Frankie Chan and His Incredible Hand Shadow Revue; Xolack the Mentalist; and Bad Company.
“How’d it go tonight?” asked Saul.
“Like fuckin’ death out there,” said Preston. “I need a smoke.”
Bad Company handed him a cigarette. Xolack gave him a light. The waitress refilled coffee. “Can I get some eggs?” asked Preston. “Not too runny.”
“Maybe if you worked on your script,” said Spider. “The way you weave the hypnotic trigger words into the conversation—seems a little forced.”
“The script’s fine,” said Preston. “The script’s perfect.”
“It’s a perpetual non sequitur,” said Spider. “You’re talking about wanting a bowl of noodles, then you have to borrow a paperclip and answer the phone. If I’m in the audience, I have to ask myself, where the hell is all this going?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my script!” said Preston.
“It doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense!”
“Oh, pardon me, Mr. Entertainment, Mr. ‘I can juggle with one hand. Everybody, look at me!’”
“I’ll kick your ass with this one hand!” said Spider. “Let’s go!”
Spider jumped out of the booth and stood next to Preston. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’s just got one arm—I can take him!’” Spider began bouncing on the balls of his feet, throwing quick left jabs in the air. “You want a piece of me? I’ll fuck you up!”
“Sit down, Spider,” said Preston. “I respect you as a performer and a man.”
“All right, then.” Spider tugged his left lapel defiantly and sat back down.
“I think he’s right about the script,” said Frankie. “What you need is a good story line.”
“No!” said Preston. “No story! It’s just a goddamn hypnosis show!”
Frankie turned to his left. “What do you think, Xolack?”
Xolack shrugged and went back to bending spoons with his hands against the edge of the table.
Sparse applause filtered down the hall. Spider nodded at Bruno. “You’re up.”
Bruno Litsky, America’s Favorite Jay Leno Impersonator, stood and straightened his suit. “How do I look?”
“Not remotely like Jay Leno. Break a leg.”
Andy Francesco, the Pickpocket Comedian, came back to the table.
“How was it out there?”
“Fuckin’ oil painting. Give me a cigarette.”
Frankie passed him a Winston. They heard a punch line down the hall: “…sounds more like a night out with Bill Clinton and Charlie Sheen!”
The waitress arrived with Preston’s eggs and another pot of coffee.
“Did anyone read where Steppenwolf’s coming to town?” asked Frankie. “Man, I love Steppenwolf.”
“So what? It’s not really Steppenwolf,” said Spider.
“What do you mean?”
“Ask Bad Company over there.”
“What are you getting at?” Jeff said defensively.
“Nothing that everybody here doesn’t know already.” Spider lit a cigarette and threw the Zippo on the table.
Preston stabbed his egg yolks with a corner of toast. He picked up his fork, stopped and looked at it, then checked the rest of the utensils around the table. “They’re all bent…Fuckin’ Xolack!”
“Are you vaguely implying we’re not Bad Company?” asked Jeff.
“No, I’m saying it directly,” said Spider. “Watch my lips. You’re not fucking Bad Company.”
“We played session on one of the albums,” said David.
“In the studio.”
“That counts.”
“Sure it does. In your little make-believe rock ’n’ roll castle.”
“You son of a bitch!” David jumped up to slug Spider, but the other half of Bad Company grabbed him. “Are you nuts? You can’t hit a guy with one arm!”
“Is that so?” said Spider. He sprang out of his seat and began bouncing around next to the table again. “Let’s go! You and me—right now!”
“Knock it off!” yelled Preston.
“Make him take it back,” said Jeff.
“No, he has to take it back,” said Spider, still bounding in the aisle.
“Everyone’s going to apologize,” said Preston. “Then we sit down and act like fuckin’ grown-ups…. You first, Spider.”
“All right,” Spider said reluctantly. “I’m sorry I even brought it up. If it’s that important to you, you’re really Bad Company.”