There were only a couple of people in the ashram. Most of the troops were ordered to stay out in the malls and shopping centers until the stores closed in the last-minute rush. Two of the shyer, and fatter, girls were in the back room cutting out cardboard models for the parade on New Year's Day, and Buck was dispiritedly hanging ornaments on the tree, getting ready for the children's party that night. The plump little man had been scared out of his mind by the encounter with Boyma's hoods. The next day he turned up with a bulge in his waistband that Robinson diagnosed at once as a .32 automatic. To protect himself if it ever happened again, he insisted; but they had banished him from the ashram for three days, until he promised to leave it at home. "Danny Deere's guy called," he reported. "They'll be here any minute. Didn't say what they wanted."
"Fine," said Dennis heartily, reaching for ornaments. Probably Buck's main trouble was that nobody paid enough attention to him, he thought. Basically he was a good man. "It's going to be a nice party," he predicted. That had been Robinson's idea, to have a party foi the kids of the ashram's workers, and it was surprising how many of those youths and young women had a kid, or a niece or nephew, somewhere around. There would be at least a dozen children there. Buck nodded without answering, so Dennis tried a different tack. "Going to be a great parade, too. You got the hearses lined up?"
"I rented six, Dennis. All I could get this far ahead. But they all have those glass sides, like you wanted." The plan was to fill each of the hearses with a model of some celebrated Los Angeles landmark—the Century Plaza, the space ride at Disneyland, the Arco Tower—and drive them through Pasadena on New Year's Day. The mobs for the Tournament of Roses parade would be the best audience they could have, although of course the cops wouldn't give them a permit. Didn't matter. They'd go up the hill to Jet Propulsion Lab or somewhere, and then they'd get into the traffic on the way home.
Buck twisted the wire from the ruby-red glass sphere to the end of a branch and stood back. "You been to see that grandmother of yours?" he asked.
Dennis looked at him more closely. The little man was in a surly mood tonight. He'd been running three days scared and three days angry ever since Boyma's people shook him up, and he seemed to be starting an angry phase again. "You got something against my grandmother?" he asked.
"I'm not talking against your family, but she's a scientist, isn't she? She don't believe in the pralaya."
It was Christmas Eve, after all; might as well be placatory. Especially to Buck, who had been part of the ashram group, not only before it became the property of Jupiter Fulgaris, not only when it was a semi-Zen temple, but when it had been a martial-arts school with overtones of Tai Chi. He came with the lease. "See," Dennis said reasonably, "scientists aren't the enemy. They just try to find out things. What do they know? The Pedigrue family hire her to dig up all the stuff they can on Jupiter and stuff, and she does it."
"Then what?"
"Well, I guess that's up to the Pedigrues, you know?" The little man looked sullen and unconvinced. Dennis changed the subject. "Did you get soda and candy and all for the party?"
"All I could. Robinson said to wait till the collection cans come in and take the money out of that."
"No, we can't do that; anyway we need it before that."
"Then you'll have to give me some plastic. "
Dennis hesitated. He carried as many credit cards as the average jet-setter; they were his lifeline, wherever he might be, because he kept the charges paid. The trouble was, his droogs did not share his responsible attitudes toward credit. To them the cards were wishing lamps, or a painless substitute for shoplifting. He shrugged and took one out of his wallet—one that had a $300 credit limit.
"Okay, be right back," said Buck, and then hesitated at the door. "Dennis? I didn't mean anything against your family."
"That's all right, Buck."
"The fucking politicians like the Pedigrues, they're the real enemy, right?"
"Right, Buck. Buck? You better get along before the stores close."
"Right, Dennis." He moved aside to let Joel de Lawrence in, then scurried off to the deli at the corner.
"Merry Chirstmas, Dennis! Danny's around the corner in the car, and he'd like to see you."
"I don't like to leave the ashram alone—"
"That's all right. I'll keep an eye on things till you get back. He's not in a good mood, Dennis, I wouldn't keep him waiting."
The fact was that, actually, Danny Deere was in as good a mood as he ever got. To start off it was Christmas, and Danny dreaded every Christmas with its bonuses and presents and Christmas parties, all of which he had to pay for; but this year was no worse than any other, and the rest of his life was going nicely. The year-end figures on his real-estate business looked like they were going to be better than ever, even without the Jupiter coup, and that was going fine. True, no one had yet signed one of the yellow-dog sales agreements at fire-sale prices that his lawyer had drawn up. But a couple were coming close, and the scare was growing. He could feel it. He didn't need the occasional hints in newspaper stories to tell him, he could see the signs, in the people wearing smudges of black on their foreheads and the jokes the night-club comics made. It was peaking faster than he had expected. Maybe the time had come to turn the heat up a little? A little more pressure? He had plans made— Inside he was smiling; but of course it didn't pay to let the people who worked for you know it. So when Dennis came slouching around the corner to the darkened limo (why attract attention in this crummy neighborhood by having the lights on?) Danny snapped, "So where're the fucking collection cans?"
Dennis let himself in before he answered. "They're not back yet, Danny. Big night. I'm keeping them out as long as I can."
"Oh, shit, you expect me to make an extra trip? Never mind. I'll send Joel back for them. So what's the score?"
"Well, Danny," Dennis said, settling himself comfortably, "things are going pretty good. We've got hearses for that parade, and the models are almost done. The Christmas party's all set up—"
"I don't give duck shit for your Christmas party! Jesus! I got a Christmas party of my own to go to, everybody's hand out! I can't wait for the whole fucking thing to be over."
"Yeah, well, that's about it. One little problem. Two of the sisters got busted for possession of a controlled substance, and they're in Sybil Brand."
"Tough shit. Merry Christmas to them both." "Yeah, well, it's only a hundred dollars bail each. That's only ten bucks if we send somebody up there to spring them, so if you don't mind—"
"Hold it, Dennis. Maybe I do mind." Danny sat drumming his fingers, staring off into space, then nodded. "Yeah. They're more good to us in than out, don't you see that? Besides, I wouldn't want them to miss those good jailhouse Christmas dinners."
"I don't actually see why, Danny."
"You don't use your head, that's why. Look. We'll get a protest march going! Let's see." He paused, visualizing the East Los Angeles area where the Sybil Brand Institute for Women stood. "Yeah. We'll start from the freeway exit at Eastern Avenue and march right up the hill. Tomorrow.
- Right at dark, with candles!"
"I don't know if I can get the people out on Christmas day, Danny."
"You can if you kick ass."
"Yeah, but that's sheriffs country up there. It'll be our asses that get busted."
"So then it's a civil rights thing, all the better! That's county property and us taxpayers own it."
"But the rain'll put the candles out—"
"So light them again. Jesus! Quit making objections, you hear? Now listen, two things. First, I've got you booked on a radio show Saturday afternoon, so you want to get all the people out then, too. My PR woman 11 tell you what to do."