Ted showed him their release on the Meredith boy. The boy had come to them, it claimed, in fear of reprisals from members of the Brunist group, whose fanaticism he had come to abhor, and had asked for protection. He had wept gratefully when Reverend Edwards, approached on the matter, had generously welcomed the boy to his own home. But, evidently distraught by the experiences of the preceding weeks and fearing that attempts might be made against his life, he had cut his wrists with a razor, although not seriously. He was now being cared for in a hospital distant from West Condon, the name of which was not being divulged for the present for the boy’s own protection. Hah! “That should keep them quiet!” Vince said.
“Well,” said Ted, “it’s mainly the truth, after all.”
“Yeah,” Vince said, remembering the hotbox. Swallowed down the whiskey belches. Wondered whether to suffer the stuff gradually, or just throw it down. “And so tonight at the meeting, you want me to ask everybody to stay at home.”
“Right. Not much hope they will, but we can try.” Ted paused, grinned. “I don’t want to give you stagefright or anything, Rockduster, but I should warn you that the meeting is being covered by radio, news chains, and television across the country.”
That put Vince at the verge of a bowel movement, but outwardly he remained calm. He even shrugged. And he was pleased that Ted still remembered his first CSC speech.
“You know, Vince, I’d like to make the meeting so goddamned straightforward, so goddamned plain and sensible, that it will bore those cheap corrupt headline-hunters to death, and they’ll pack up and get out of here.”
Vince laughed, toned it: little too harsh maybe. Didn’t know why he felt so goddamn nervous today, sensation that something was — he looked out at the big red Lincoln: it was the connection. Today they broke the connection. “I wish we could’ve stopped it, Ted.”
“So do I, Vince. But I don’t see what more we could have done. We’ve at least contained it, and even cut them down one. I frankly doubt that that little handful of people can do us much harm, no matter how hard Tiger Miller strains. Now, our main worry is just to keep everybody calmed down, away from that hill, minimize the effect Sunday, and then try to get over it. Of course, things could get worse. If they do, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’ll stay by the phone, Ted. Isn’t there anything else we can do meanwhile?”
“I don’t know what. I tried to cajole Whimple into arresting Bruno on grounds of suspected insanity, but he didn’t have the nerve.”
Vince glanced up, found Ted’s cool eyes fixed on him. He lowered his gaze, took a slow drink of whiskey. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “He should’ve done it.” Then he added: “I sure as hell would’ve.”
“Speaking of Whimple, Vince,” Ted continued, “I wonder if you’d do us the favor of asking for a vote of thanks for him tonight at the meeting, for him and Father Baglione and Reverend Edwards.”
“Sure.” Fixed his jaw in a kind of mockery.
“Oh hell, I know, Vince, they’re not the ones who have put out on this job, but that’s the game we play.” There was a pause. It was now or never. Vince gazed thoughtfully into his whiskey glass. “You might be interested in knowing, though, that they’re setting up a Mayor’s Special Commission on Industrial Planning. I’ve nominated you for a spot on it.”
Vince nodded, stroked his chin, looked up at Ted. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d like that.”
Ted shrugged. “Nothing to thank me for, Vince. You’re the right man for the job, that’s all. Probably be about eight of us. Not too much in the way of rewards, twenty or so a month probably, but it might lead to some good things.” Ted stood.
“Well,” said Vince standing, extending his hand, “see you tonight at the adjournment.”
“Let’s call it a recess,” Ted said with a smile.
“It was really great, Vince, you were really great!” Etta kept repeating it, over and over, all the way home from the meeting, from all those cameras, all that noise, all those assurances, all the way home and into their bedroom, where now she stood at the mirror in her slip, putting clips and curlers in her hair. Large satisfied smile on her face. “Everybody couldn’t stop complimenting me afterwards.”
Vince tossed his pants over a chair, sat on the edge of the bed in his shorts. “Well, chicken, you ain’t got the best yet, I been saving it.”
“Really? You mean there’s something more?” She looked inquisitively at him through the mirror as she reached under her slip, pulled down her huge balloonlike drawers. She carried them over to the closet where her nightshirt hung on a clothes hook.
“It is my pleasure to announce that they have just set up this here mayor’s special group for planning industry, and just by chance it turns out, ahem, that the old man’s gonna be on it.”
“What!” She wheeled around, face alive with a big plump happiness. “Oh, Vince, that’s swell!” First real burst of enthusiasm he’d seen her register since he could remember.
Vince felt great, heroic in fact, but he nodded with an affected disinterest, inspected his toes. “Even gonna bring in a few coins each month. Ted’ll be coming by next week, after this Bruno sideshow is closed down, to talk about it.” While he was talking, she turned her broad back to him, started to hoist the slip up over her big pink body. Vince tiptoed over behind her, reached suddenly around and hugged onto both breasts.
“Vince! Help! I can’t see! Vince!”
“Sshh! You’ll have Angie thinking I’m committing murder instead of just friendly rape!” She giggled girlishly, twisted her three hundred pounds around, tried to work her arms free of the entangling slip, but it was wrapped around her head, caught in the curlers. There was always something wonderfully oily about her body. Vince clutched onto the far breast with one hand, slid the still-whole one down over the mountainous range of her smooth bulbous abdomen, felt the groin flesh start and tremble. A man really had to stretch. “And, baby,” he whispered, releasing her breast to shove his shorts down, “we’re just seven short months away from city elections….”
Vince was up on the ladder again Friday morning, feeling like a kind of king up there, when Burt Robbins and the shoeman Maury Castle came by. “Hey, Vince, got a minute?” Something phony in their smiles.
“Hell,” Vince laughed carelessly, “this is the fifth goddamn time I’ve painted this same patch!” But he crawled down.
“Vince, goddamn! Good to see you!” Castle grabbed his hand and nearly tore it off. “Listen, buddy, we got a great great project!”
“Yeah?” Kept grinning, but he didn’t like the looks of it.
“If you’re game,” Robbins added. The needle.
“Listen, Vince,” said Castle, leaning forward like he was about to let go a secret, but his voice was just as loud as ever. “We got a hilarious idea — we thought we might bring the end of the world tonight. A little early.”
“How’s that?”
“A few of us is planning to pay a call tonight on old Ralphie—”
“You mean—?”
“Himebaugh,” said Robbins. “The guy who tried to bloody your nose with a filing cabinet.”
Vince grinned. “So?” He felt himself getting sucked deeper and deeper.
“So we thought we’d visit Ralphie tonight — in-cog-nito, as they say,” explained Castle, “and inform him we’re the Second Coming. You get the picture?”