“Jesus, yes!” affirmed Georgie. “She asked us all over. Last big bang before the end of the world, she thinks.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Vince. “She’s one of those Brunist nuts, Dee, one of those folks who’s been causing this town, our community here, so much trouble.” Perspiring, felt rotten about screwing her like that, but she’d screwed him first, hadn’t she?
“Well, now, that’s all very interesting,” said Romano. “Now, sign your names here, and I’ll get your new home away from home all ready for you.”
“Hey, ya know, boys,” said Johnson, picking up the pen and licking the point, “old Dee here’s got his eye on a very fine huntin’ dog. Ain’t that so, Dee?” Romano grumbled again, squinted his eye warily toward Johnson. “Very purty spaniel type, useter be ol’ Eddie Wilson’s mutt, poor ol’ Eddie, ya know.”
“Oh yeah!” said Vince, getting the picture now. “Very fine dog. I’d like to have it, but I cain’t afford it.” Christ, he even found himself imitating Johnson’s cornball cadences. Still felt pretty funny, though he thought his head was clearing some.
“How much does old Widow Wilson want for it?” asked Lucci, joining in.
“Forty,” mumbled Romano, his eye on the door.
“Ya know,” said Johnson, “all of us guys is so fond of our ol’ buddy here, our good ol’ swell ol’ asshole buddy Dee, whaddaya say we all make him a little present a that there dog, whaddaya say?”
“Well, I been wanting to make a present to good old Dee for a long time now,” said Vince. “This sure does look like a fine opportunity.”
“Don’t it though!” said Johnson. The three of them turned on Romano.
He hesitated, glanced at the door. “Well, I guess she is one a them troublemakers,” he muttered and took the book back. They dropped the bills in front of him and walked out, hands in pockets.
Outside, the light blinded them. Heart jumped, because his first thought was the mine blowing up. Then he saw all the cameras, guys rushing up. Questions. Pops of light. He brushed by them, but came up against Tiger Miller. “What’s up, Bonali?” he asked.
Vince could tell the sonuvabitch already knew plenty. “Nothing,” he said and set his jaw, ready to lay into the bastard if he had to. Felt Johnson and Lucci backing him up. “Just having a little talk with the boys here about the Brunists.” Some of the cameras, he saw, were movie jobs. He wondered what brought them.
“What kind of talk?” Miller stood his ground. “Listen, Vince, you’d better cool it. You’ve got big ambitions here, but don’t forget you can screw yourself by going too far, getting into some legal trouble, and if I ever hear about—”
“Oh yeah Jesus!” cried Johnson, his cackling laugh cutting Miller off. “Don’t do nothin’ as might git ye in trouble, Vince!”
Lucci joined the bastard in the yak-yakking. “One more time for the ol’ mayor!” he cried.
“Don’t sweat it, Miller!” growled Vince, and shoved by him. Shit. Felt like the number-one all-star ass of all time. And it was bound to get worse. All those cameras. And he knew better than to think Johnson could keep his fat mouth shut.
Four A.M. Staggered from the bed. Reached the bathroom door and up it came. Tracked through it in bare feet to the stool and got rid of the rest. Down to the bile. Sat on the side of the tub, head in hands. Sick. Not just in the gut. Sick in the heart, too. Fucked it up. End of the world. It was all over.
3
Miller listened to Hilda roar and groan, smelled her dark reek, watched his Saturday night edition, that of the eighteenth of April, flap-flap-flap out of her. The back shop force, faces streaked with oily black ink, looked beat, but pleased with themselves. They’d made it through the week, shy two men who had quit under Cavanaugh’s pressure, stayed right on schedule, got $50 bonuses for it. Twice already tonight — God’s vindictive ways — the old press had broken down, but it looked now like she’d make it through the rest of the run.
Miller tucked his hand into the parade of copies slapping out, pulled out a damp one. WE SHALL GATHER AT THE MOUNT OF REDEMPTION! Two-line banner, bigger than anything since the war. Official portrait of the whole group, now minus Colin Meredith, spanned the middle columns under the banner. Not his photo, of course. In an odd reversal of roles, he had come more and more this week to depend on the East Condon newsmen, having been cut off on all sides by his own people. The photo showed fifteen tunicked grownups, eight infants similarly dressed. He’d thought the group would have grown by now, but the Common Sensers had apparently locked them out. Widow Wilson had spoken of converts, but they hadn’t shown their faces.
But they might. Certainly he’d got a lot of letters from all over the country expressing interest in and sympathy with the Brunist movement. Tonight’s paper was full of these letters. A minister in Mississippi who said he’d chartered a bus for the West Condon pilgrimage. A movie actress who wrote from California that Bruno had appeared to her in her dreams, promising her salvation. A blind man in an old folks’ home in New Hampshire who claimed that, hearing about Bruno on television, he had suddenly had a glimpse of light and seemed headed for a cure. That wasn’t the only miracle. An invalid in Arizona had risen from his bed and begun to walk, and, if his letter could be believed, was presently hitchhiking his way across the country to West Condon. A woman in Chicago, committing suicide, had left a note behind, confirming, through her own sources, Bruno’s prophecy, and explaining that she couldn’t bear to face the horror that would be her sinner’s lot.
The inside pages — there were now virtually no ads — were filled with a picture story of the Brunists. He was in a couple of the pictures himself. Nothing so fancy as some of the big spreads he’d helped work up for a couple of the national picture magazines, but pretty good at that. He’d filled in with a rerun of the texts of Ben Wosznik’s songs, the essentials of Eleanor Norton’s system, Bruno’s prophecies, or “words.” These latter, now six in number, had been codified as: Hark ye to the White Bird; I am the One to Come; Coming of Light, Sunday Week; The tomb is its message; A circle of evenings; and Gather on the Mount of Redemption. He had letters he had beguiled out of several eminent churchmen, an article on the lusty response of the mass media to the event, and blunt verbatim reports of conversations he’d overheard in Mick’s, the coffeeshop, in barbershops and on the street. Miller had also taken a last-minute interest in that vast segment of the holy milieu who were simply not involved, had interviewed the high school track coach, a drummer in a nearby roadhouse, a bartender in Waterton, his own mentally subnormal janitor Jerry. An old woman in her nineties told him she used to expect the end of the world all the time, but it was like all of a sudden it had slipped up on her. She’d always been a decent Godfearing woman, to be sure, but now did all this mean she had to go out on that hill and sing songs and all? How big a hill was it? Could they get all the people they were going to save up on that one hill? Would there be room for her even if she went out there? And what if it wasn’t the end of the world at all, why, she’d probably catch her death! And surely there would be photographers and, yes, television, because she’d noticed that all her favorites this week from Captain Kangaroo to What’s My Line? had got bumped by this thing. So what should she wear? She had nothing new. No, no, it was better to stay home and watch it on television, that was almost like being there, wasn’t it? Or maybe if she broke her leg and couldn’t get there, what if she did that? It’d be all the same, didn’t he think so? Yes, that was a splendid idea! Watch it on television, get a slip from the doctor explaining it would be unwise for her to spend the night out in the air, call a taxi to be at her house about twenty minutes before, you see, and if things seemed to be going on, why then, trot on out….