Chuck put his head in his hands.
Marcia said, “How did you deal with that?”
Chuck looked up at her and smiled. “Shit, you the one found me.”
Preston said, “What do you think happened?”
“Gun to my head, I guess he fed her somethin’, like you say he did Priscilla, and she prob'ly had no tolerance—I mean, she’d been clean for damn near a month—and she went apeshit. Maybe she run outside and fell over the edge. Maybe he got scared and followed her. Maybe he pushed her. Strikes me, it don’t matter. One way or other, he did her.”
Marcia lit another cigarette and handed it to Chuck. “What now?" she said.
“I made my deal," Chuck said after he had sucked half an inch off the cigarette, “and I lived up to my end. But that prick, he gone and changed the rules. What you told me, he's not just a sick fucker anymore. He's dangerous. What you got in mind?"
Preston asked about the award ceremony. Chuck said he knew about it, that Banner was real excited, had had invitations engraved and sent to just about the whole of Who's Who.
“You're driving him?"
“ 'Spect so.”
“He hasn't fired you?"
“I don't guess he'd dare. We got each other by the short and curlies."
Preston told him what they had in mind.
Chuck thought about it, got up and walked to the window. After a moment, he turned around, and there was a big grin on his face.
“That would be real nice," he said.
XVIII
“Clarisse'll kill me," Duke said. "She'll kill me, and then she'll cut me up in little pieces and feed me to the buzzards."
“You were the one wanted to napalm the place when Marcia was fired," said Preston. "You were all for—"
"Yeah ..." Duke was squirming, embarrassed. "But that was talk. Now you're serious.''
"It's up to you." Preston didn't want to push him. "If we're careful, there's no way we'll get caught."
Duke's meeting with Clarisse had gone better than he had dared dream it could. If he graduated, she'd take him back. "I don't know what love is," she had said. "You're a slippery bastard, but I miss you." She might even consider having kids. But if he got thrown out, forget it. She'd take the house, the cars, the furniture and the bank accounts and leave him with nothing but the payments on the home equity loan.
"I can't do it," Duke said, looking wretched. "I just can't." He had a cigarette going, but he lit another one anyway.
“Fair enough.”
Hector said, “Me too. I got my future to think about. Pretty soon they gonna make me graduate. Couple weeks on the streets, I find me another joint, no sweat. But they throw me outa here, somethin' like this, I'm blackballed every joint in America. Haveta find me a joint in fuckin' Canada. Who needs that shit?"
"Okay," said Preston. He wasn't surprised. This was pretty much the way he had thought it would go. Hoped it would go. Too many players could screw up the game. But everybody had to be given a chance. "That leaves me and Puff and Twist and Clarence. I think to protect-"
"I'm out," said Crosby, ripping blades from a patch of grass in the exercise area where they sat. "They'll never let me play again, not in the bigs. My boy'll never see me stroke another one. I can't handle that. He's only six."
"Right." That's the core. No more defections. Please. He looked at Lupone.
"I made the call," Lupone said. "Raffi still wants to whack him, but he'll give you your shot."
Before Preston could turn to Twist, Twist said, "Chuck's set. He makes the pickup at the deli, same as always, swings by the place you told him, then goes to get Stone at six-thirty.''
Preston nodded. He smiled at Twist. "How you feeling?"
"Not too nasty. But I got that funny feeling, y'know, like"—Twist grinned—"like I'm comin' down with somethin' bad.''
"Me too."
* * *
They planted the seed after lunch. Preston and Twist went to Gwen and begged off the afternoon lecture and group, both claiming to feel nauseous, sweaty and strange.
She looked from one to the other, like an avenging angel imagining deeds so vile as to defy description, and said sternly, “What have you been doing?"
“Breathing each other's air," said Preston.
“In your room, both of you," she said. “I want you fit as fiddles for tonight's affair."
“Absolutely," said Twist.
''Wouldn't miss it," said Preston.
They slept until five o'clock. Twist laved his eyes with soapy water, then rinsed them and looked in the mirror.
“Nice," Preston said. "You look good in pink."
They went to see Gwen again.
Preston coughed noisily and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
“I don't know what this is," Preston said. ''Plague, maybe. There've been cases out here."
Gwen said, "If you didn't smoke so much—"
"I keep tellin' him," said Twist. "Sucker's poisoned me." He made a hideous sound into a tissue.
"We're going tonight," Preston insisted. "I just wanted your permission to get some cough medicine."
"And infect Liza Minnelli? Maybe even Mary Tyler Moore? The only place you're going is to see Nurse Bridget. Perhaps she'll take you with her and isolate you in the back of the hall."
Oh-oh.
They went into the common room, to the coffee brewer, and while Preston stood watch, poured coffee into two small specimen containers he had clipped from the bathroom next to the infirmary.
“Is it hot?" Preston said. "It's got to be hot."
''Hot?" said Twist. "Shit's like to melt the plastic."
They stood outside Nurse Bridget's office. Preston raised his hand and popped one finger, then two, then three. On three, they poured the coffee into their mouths and buried the containers in the sand of a standing ashtray.
Preston felt the roof of his mouth begin to sear, like when hot pizza cheese sticks up there and clings.
Nurse Bridget was hanging up her phone. "Speak of the devil," she said, and she reached into a beaker of alcohol and pulled out two thermometers.
Preston swallowed.
Twist's eyes watered, and he moaned.
Nurse Bridget slipped the thermometers into their mouths, and she pushed the stopwatch button on her watch.
For three minutes, she recorded data in a patient's file. Then her watch beeped at her, and she pulled the thermometers out of their mouths and looked at them.
"Gracious!" she said. "Let me take some blood, then off to bed with you. As soon as Doctor gets back from the ceremony, I'll ask him to look at you."
By then, Preston thought, he'll be too busy to care if we're dead.
He rolled up his sleeve.
I hope.
The bus came for the patients at six o'clock.
Before she left, Gwen looked in on Preston and Twist, who lay in their beds, covered with blankets, shivering.
“What’s that for?'' Gwen pointed to the wastebasket Twist had placed on the floor beside his bed.
“Just in case," Twist said weakly.
At 6:05, when they heard the bus pull away from the roundabout, Preston and Twist got out of bed and tried to yank the wrinkles out of their jackets. Preston wore his lightweight suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie.
Twist wore Preston's blue blazer, blue shirt and striped tie, a pair of his own black jeans and black motorcycle boots. He couldn't button the collar of the shirt, and the sleeves of the jacket rode so high that his huge forearms made the brass buttons stand at attention, like shiny warts.
“Nobody gon' believe me," he said.
Preston thought Twist looked like a commercial for anabolic steroids. “Nobody who values his life will challenge you."
At 6:08, they climbed out their window.
Twilight still came early, so the shadows were already long, giving them cover to the farthest comer of the building.
At 6:12, they stepped out of the shadows and sprinted to the draina
ge ditch that bordered the road. They ran in the ditch, skidding and tripping in the loose sand, trying to keep their heads below the surface of the road.
They had ten minutes to cover the half mile to the abandoned gas station.
Preston hadn't run half a mile in twenty years, and Twist, with his long legs and easy lope, quickly pulled far ahead.
The trunk of the limousine was already open when Preston arrived. Chuck, wearing a white shirt, black tie and black chauffeur's trousers, had removed the spare tire and was helping Twist curl up in the trunk.
Preston leaned against the car and caught his breath. “Any problems?" he said when he could speak.
“Not a one," said Chuck. "Smooth as silk."
"What is it, you know?"
"I don't hafta know. I just hafta know where to put it."
Preston entered the car head-first, and Chuck folded him into the niche on the floor before the front seat. He covered Preston with a dark gray blanket, then put his chauffeur's jacket atop the blanket and his hat atop the jacket.
"You can breathe," he said, "but if you cough, might's well keep on bendin' and kiss your ass goodbye." He shut the door and walked around the car and climbed in.
"He never sits up front, does he?" Preston asked as the awful thought occurred to him.
"You kiddin'? Up front's nigger country."
Chuck started the car and pulled out from behind the tumbledown gas station.
"You know what I feel like?" he said as he accelerated toward the road up to Xanadu. ''Mission Impossible. "
"I hope you're right," Preston said, his voice muffled by the covers. "The good guys always win."
XIX
THE LIMOUSINE REACHED the top of the hill, leveled out and came to a stop.
Chuck said, “You want to snort or cough, get it over with. You got about two minutes." The car door slammed.
Soon, a rear door opened. Preston held his breath. He felt the limo's springs sag. Mushy. That was the trouble with Cadillacs. He'd heard of people actually getting seasick in the back of Cadillac limos. For a long ride, you want a Mercedes or a Daimler.
Chuck's door opened, closed again, and the car started and pulled away.
From the back seat, the sound of ice rattling around in a bucket, cubes dropping into a glass.
A smooth ride on a flat road, like floating over an oily sea.
Banner's voice: “I don't appreciate your taking off like that."
Chuck: “Sorry, boss. I had a fever 'bout a hundred and thirty. I was like in a fog the whole time."
“I thought maybe you'd gone off the deep end."
“Me? No way."
“Well, call next time."
“Sure thing."
Silence. The limo braked, turaed, straightened out and accelerated again.
“Big night," Chuck said. “All your friends flyin' in."
"Awards . . . People give awards so they’ll feel good. Makes them think they're doing something. I've only begun to pay back what other people've done for me."
Getting the false modesty down pat.
Again the sound of ice cubes rattling.
"Still, must make you feel good."
"We do what we can. Chuck. Some people more than others, that's all."
"Yeah, but if anybody deserves it, you do."
What's he doing, baiting the man?
Two metallic snaps, like a briefcase being opened, then papers being shuffled around.
Banner mumbling to himself. Memorizing his speech.
Preston picked up bits and pieces.
". . . on behalf of everybody who has ever known the agony of addiction . . .
". . . if I cannot help my brother, I cannot help myself . . .
". . . as my friend Liza says, life is a cabaret, and I'm here to tell you, it's a lot more fun sober than stoned. ..."
The limo slowed, turned a couple of times, stopped. "Where are the Certs? Don't tell me you forgot the goddam Certs."
"In the thing there, boss, on your right. Two packs."
Chuck's door opened, the car bounced, the door closed again. Then the back door opened.
Chuck said, "You want I should pour you a settler, bring it along?"
"Uh-uh. I'm tuned up fine.” Banner paused. "But bring along the emergency kit, in case of . . ." He laughed. "I guess that's why they call them emergencies!"
The door closed. Footsteps fading away on pavement.
Preston waited, counting to fifty. Other cars pulled in and parked. Voices jabbered.
He threw off the covers and slowly raised his head above the dashboard and peered through the windshield.
The civic center looked like something designed by one of Frank Lloyd Wright's less talented disciples. On drugs. Donated to the town of Promised Land by one of the suddenly rich—perhaps one of those couples who hit it big with a chain of hotels cutely named after the two of them, as in Sonny plus Esther equals Sonesta. It had wings and fins and a few cupolas, and was lit up like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The parking lot encircled the monster, and people swarmed toward it like myriad black bugs.
Preston lifted the floor mat on the driver's side and found the keys where Chuck had stowed them. He got out of the car, walked around to the back and, checking to make sure no one was watching, opened the trunk.
Preston froze. Jesus! He's dead!
Twist was curled into a fetal ball, eyes closed, mouth slack. There must have been a leak in the exhaust manifold that poured carbon monoxide up into the trunk compartment.
Twist snored.
Preston exhaled and reached into the trunk and shook Twist's shoulder. Twist opened his eyes.
“Your threads is mussed,” Twist said. "All I'm gonna pass for is a bag lady." He climbed out of the trunk, stretched and stared at the civic center. “Damn thing looks like it's got a disease."
They didn't bother to hide on their way across the parking lot. They were just another pair of penitent rummies come to worship the saint of sobriety. They passed a phalanx of rented limousines and, at the curb beside the building, the Banner bus.
A television crew had set up at the main entrance, and a reporter was interviewing names. Preston and Twist hugged the wall out of the pool of light cast by the TV floods, and as they hurried by they heard some marcelled bird in a full-length sable orating about her higher power.
“Where's he gonna be?" Twist said when they were again in the safety of shadows.
“Chuck says there's a stage. If there's a stage, there's a backstage. And if there's a backstage, there's a stage door ... I dearly hope."
It was an unmarked metal door in the back of the building. Unlocked.
They walked down a lima-bean-green hallway lit by fluorescent panels overhead that gave the place the warmth of a morgue. There were doors on either side of the hall—dressing rooms, probably. They climbed a circular steel staircase at the end of the hallway.
The second story was the size of a bam but tightly packed with ropes, pulleys, backdrops and suspended sandbags.
A bald man in a windbreaker sat before a complex lightboard, smoking a cigar and doing the crossword in a paper.
"Help you?” he said.
Preston pulled his wallet out of his jacket, flipped it open, waved it at the man, snapped it closed and said officiously, "Stone Banner."
"Over there." The man pointed to a dark patch of the bam. "Behind those curtains."
"Right."
"You wouldn't know a four-letter word for a small case."
"Etui," Preston said over his shoulder, and he spelled it.
"Hey, much obliged."
As they walked on tiptoe to the dark comer, they , could hear the rustling and murmuring of a thousand bodies, softened by three or four layers of thick curtains.
They pulled back the first curtain and stood between the layers, out of sight of the lighting man.
They heard Banner walking back and forth, reciting his lines. His footsteps came very close, stopped
and turned, then receded.
Preston gripped the edges of the remaining curtains and peeked around them. Banner was walking away, across the wing of the stage toward Chuck, who sat at a small wooden table. Beyond, Preston could see the stage, unadorned except for a podium and microphone, and a sliver of the audience.
He wondered where Priscilla was sitting, how she would react when the fun began.
This is for you . . . so you don't flee forever to the misty isles of unreality.
Banner was looking down at his script, gesturing with one hand, so Preston dared shake the curtains to get Chuck's attention.
Chuck looked up, saw Preston.
Preston made an "okay" sign at Chuck, then pointed at Banner.
Try it. Try it now. Let's see what happens.
Chuck raised his eyebrows: You kidding?
Preston nodded, made a fist. Do it.
Chuck shrugged and reached into his jacket and pulled out a pewter flask. He put it on the table.
"Boss?" He pointed at the flask. "You sure?"
Banner shook his head. "The hell you think I want? Make a horse's ass of myself?"
"Only try in' to help. You lookin' kinda ragged."
"I need your help, I'll ask for it. Just keep your mouth shut."
Damn. Preston let the curtain fall as Banner turned back his way. It would be better all around if Preston and Twist never had to make an appearance. They were there as a fail-safe. Twist looked like an escapee from Boys Town. Banner would never believe him. This is insane. We 're all going to jail.
The lights dimmed and came up again. The crowd fell silent as a man rose from the first row of the audience and climbed the stairs at the side of the stage and went to the podium. He was tall and slender, dressed in a three-piece blue pinstripe suit. His black hair was gray in such strategically perfect places that it might have been done by a paint-by-the-numbers artist. His buffed fingernails twinkled in the spotlights.
He pulled a stack of three-by-five cards from his inside pocket and placed them before him on the podium.
“My name is Lawrence Tomlinson," he began, “and as some of you know, it has been my honor to serve as chairman of the board of trustees of The Banner Clinic." He looked down at his first card. "Very few of us are lucky enough to be able to make a difference, but the man we are honoring tonight ..."