The next-to-last one to leave was Freddie King Jr., and he would have remained had not State Senator King, the most dapper legislator ever to hit Albany, sent a debriefer after him. Mysteriously, his father had resigned from the Senate a year later. Peter cried when he buried Snow Man’s corpse. He had become fond of the dummy. But Tarpon Springs, the outfit that sent Peter the tears of Saint Nicholas, the solution that kept the zombie alive, had gone out of business. But even his severest critics commented about what they called Black Peter’s rescuing, his ability to rise to the occasion, or rather, his charmed life, and so just as it seemed that he was done for, a calypso song that chronicled Xmas of four years before, the Terrible Twos, became a hit. It was all about Black Peter and his adventures. So just as he was about to leave the cave, his resources having been exhausted, to return to his old panhandling spot in midtown, he was greeted by a visitor who was standing near a stack of blankets, and a dying fire which was keeping him warm. He recognized the man immediately. He was dressed in a cashmere overcoat, and was wearing a white scarf. He still had that sharp profile which had the contours of an ax.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“I’m not here to give you any,” Jack Frost said, squatting near where Black Peter sat, his earphones tuned into Peter Tosh, on a pile of dirty blankets in a long, dirty box.
“I know that you’re probably offended by the calamitous events of Xmas, the Terrible Twos Xmas, but that Madison Square caper wasn’t my fault. It was Boy Bishop, and those, those rich and privileged cohorts, they put me up to it, they were into black magic, they used the living corpse of a gangster … I … I … I had no choice—”
“Look, pal. I don’t blame you for what happened. Both of us were being used by others. I was being used by the North Pole Development Corporation, you were used by those rejects from Newport.”
“You really mean that? You’re not sore?”
“Being sore is counterproductive. Why should I hold a grudge when there’s money to be made?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“They got a song out about you that’s been at the top of the record hits for about thirteen weeks now. You’re a hero.”
“A hero? Me, a hero?”
“Sure, everybody is singing the Black Peter song. How you defied the toy manufacturers. It’s got a social protest angle, but that doesn’t seem to be any problem. Why, last week Jesse Hatch said he was buying an album for his children.”
“What?”
“Sure. Look at this.” Jack Frost showed him full-page ads and clippings about the huge sales programs that were being mounted, exploiting his image. There were Black Peter dolls, Black Peter bicycles, Black Peter wine, Black Peter perfumes, Black Peter pennants, and even something called the Black Peter look. There was a rap group called the Black Peters. Black Peter was stunned. He had been the public’s goat for four years, ever since the Madison Square Garden riots, and now he was on the rise again. Proving once again that the raw market values of capitalism were chaotic.
“I’d like to be your agent.”
“Agent, agent for what?”
“I got some toy manufacturers, Xmas card producers, and others waiting downtown to see you. But first we got to get you cleaned up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those dreds. We think that you ought to get them cut. Your image should be a little more crossover.”
“No way, I can’t part with my dreds. To part with my dreds would be to part with my manhood.”
“Suit yourself,” Jack Frost said, rising and blowing over his black-gloved hand.
“They were talking about giving you a hefty advance for your services.” Jack Frost turned around and was about to exit from the cave. “A golden Rolls Royce with zebra skin interior, and a Minnesota Viking to ride around with. All you have to do is feed her a steady supply of Baby Ruths to keep her happy.”
“Wait. Wait. I’m willing to reason all of this out,” Black Peter said. “I’m a reasonable person.” Jack Frost, his back to Black Peter, smiled. He turned around. Walked toward Black Peter and extended his hand. Black Peter took hold of it and stood up. Black Peter was cleaned up, was taken downtown where he was given two hundred hours community service for his role in the disturbances at Madison Square Garden, and was driven to the hotel for his meeting with captains of the Xmas industry, in a sports car especially designed for him, called the Petermobile. His fans were faked out as a decoy Petermobile drove up to the front of the hotel. His employees didn’t want his fans to see him until after his appointment with the plastic surgeon.
13
Bob Krantz, director of White House communications, got as far as the White House gates, only to be told that he wouldn’t be admitted. “President’s orders,” the guard had said, but he knew this to be a lie. Everybody knew that Hatch had no power to give anybody orders. Krantz returned to his Georgetown apartment and had Eric, his valet, mix him a stiff highball. He had grown accustomed to the place where he was living and enjoyed its customs. That afternoon he read James Way, a Jiminy Cricket-headed columnist who wore bow ties and a head of hair which was greased like that of Alfalfa of “Our Gang” fame. He couldn’t get through a column without quoting at least three dead Greeks. Way, who was Reverend Jones’s mouthpiece in the press, said that Krantz was resigning to take an ambassadorial post, and had been hailed by Jesse Hatch as a true public servant. Krantz knew that Way was always over at the White House sucking up the sewer for information, but couldn’t believe that Reverend Jones, his former mentor, would be so cold. It had to be underlings. If only he could get to Jones. Jones would stop the whole thing. Sure, they weren’t as close as they were at one time, but he knew that Reverend Jones had high regard for him. Besides, it was important that he had befriended Admiral Matthews, because Matthews was an authority on the nuclear Navy. He had to find out how the remaining weapons functioned. There wasn’t much time left. But the Way revelations were serious. Krantz knew then that he was slated to be blocked and removed. This was the same story that was put out when the string quartet loving Secretary of Defense had been killed. Of course they’d said that it was a suicide, but that didn’t sail because Krantz was in on the meeting when Admiral Matthews, Reverend Jones, and the King of Beer decided that the Secretary of Defense had been marked. They were all afraid that he’d reveal the Terrible Twos. Were they planning to do the same to him? He hadn’t made such a long journey just to be somebody’s fall guy. He had other plans. Reverend Jones was really deteriorating. He was remaining in the Oval Office. He wouldn’t let anybody clean in there, and he’d wash his underwear and his socks, and hang them from a line strung across the room. He hadn’t been home in weeks. Everybody was concerned about his appearance at Admiral Matthews’s funeral, but he had, somehow, brought it off. Eric packed some clothes, went to the bank and withdrew some money. He returned and gave it to Krantz. He didn’t know what he’d do without Eric. Some of his friends told him to never trust a gentile, but he didn’t know what they were talking about. They thought that he was Jewish. The name. He never said anything about it, and when they tried to get familiar he always had an excuse. He would say that he was an American. He got on the shuttle and headed for New York. As soon as he left, Eric, his valet, called the White House and apprised them of Krantz’s move.