MANAGER KENNER [interrupting]: For God’s sake, Chief, people within your own department say the tower was never in any danger. One of my sources called the incident “Mickey Mouse shenanigans”—
RAY [interrupting]: Chief, isn’t it true the attempted bombing is rumored to be the work of a splinter group recently separated from local “jammers” who congregate right here, in this bohemian collective they call the Canal Zone?
[A chorus of boos and hisses from the crowd]
CHIEF BENDIX: Let me say that we already have people in this general neighborhood, yes. At this stage they’re just asking questions, talking to the locals. This should not be construed as any centralized harassment. We’re operating on information that’s been supplied to us by reliable sources—
[“Nazi scum,” someone in the crowd yells, and is drowned out by cheers]
RAY: Oh, the artistes are restless today. Nothing like a little criminal anarchy to get their thirst for chaos up. Get your hand off that cable, lady jane. Go ahead and scream, you spoiled little heathens. I want this once-great city to know the sound of its coming demise. I want the people to hear what the harvest of their complacency and apathy sounds like. I want them to hear the spawns of their own weak loins.
[“Up yours, Raymie,” another voice yells, followed by an explosion of laughter and whistles]
RAY: I’m surprised you’re all so jovial in light of the fact that your craven leaders have turned tail and run off. I should mention, again for our uninformed listeners, sometime after that anonymous phone call to the police, a “jamming” broadcast was picked up in the frequency range normally used by WQSG. Again, the jammers claimed to be the now legendary O’ZBON, or O’Zebedee Brothers Outlaw Network. In an odd and somewhat disjointed broadcast, the jammers lashed out at their once-loyal supporters, claiming their authenticity had been questioned since their return to Quinsigamond and stating that an abundance of inner squabbling had grown within the jamming community. After expressing their disappointment, the alleged brothers, who refer to themselves as James and John, stated their intention to leave the city once again. Let me ask you, Chief Bendix, do you believe these O’ZBON people are responsible for the attempted destruction of the WQSG tower?
CHIEF BENDIX: I think it’s just too early to tell. Remember, we’ve been after these O’ZBON characters for a while now on the broadcast disruption charges. It’s possible we’re entering a whole new ball game now. This may signal a whole new level of crime. We’ve all crossed into new territory …
Isn’t that the goddamned truth, Chief. Hazel opens her eyes and stares out the window at the blast-cut granite mounds that line the sides of the interstate. As she shifts in her seat, Gabe, sleeping like a puppy, falls sideways until his head is nuzzled on her chest. Hazel lifts her hand to push him off, then hesitates, instead softly runs her fingers through the hair on the crown of his head. What the hell, she thinks, leans forward, and kisses the boy without waking him.
New goddamn territory. Real frontier. I should’ve headed south. Someplace warm. Like the desert. No people. Just the sun and all those hard-ass reptiles. Snakes and lizards …
Goddamn you, Flynn. I didn’t want to be your daughter. You incestuous bastard. You ignorant fuck. I wanted you in ways you never considered.
And goddamn you, Gabe. I didn’t want to be your mother.
And now I just want to be alone for a long time. I just want to stay dry and quiet. Sink into the sand somewhere and let the sun bake me. No people. No bodies. Just the sound of the dry wind at night. No voices.
The QSG transmission starts to break up a little, the first cracks of static start to erupt in her ear. But she leaves the ear-piece plugged in, and in the intermittent clarity she can make out some commotion back at the Rib Room. There’s a disruption, a lot of background voices yelling until one makes its way to the microphone and becomes distinct.
… I’m sorry, I can’t keep quiet any longer. Don’t give me that look, you buffone. I haven’t even charged you for the coffee. Now, let’s be sane about this, people, huh, okay? James and John would not pull this kind of stunt. It’s not their style. I know the brothers, okay, all right? I know what I’m talking about here. They’re broadcasters, not dynamiters. They want the noise of words, not bombs. This isn’t their signature. It’s not the way they do business.
Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, the voice you’re hearing belongs to the proprietor of the Rib Room, Mr. Elmore Orsi. And just what is it you want to tell us, Mr. Orsi? That the attempted sabotaging of some very expensive property owned by my station was a joke? Little prank, perhaps? Is that it?
Well, yeah, maybe it was all a joke and maybe not. I just think the whole jamming gig is over. And it’s all a godawful shame, really.
[in a mocking tone] A shame, is it?
Things were exciting there, for a time. A real festive feel for a while there. Seemed like new things were happening. But you can’t change human nature. Everyone’s bound to take things one step over their particular line. And then the whole party’s over before you even know you’re wet. What the hell. Now even the brothers, or whoever they were, now they’re gone too. Everyone moves on sooner or later. But it was juice for a while there. A little secret family moving in the shadows, pulling their little pranks. The shame is, I think it was all just a swing against boredom more than anything else. But hell, like they say, it’s time to call it a day. Change is a staple no matter what circle you run in. I’ve seen a lot happen, okay, I’ve seen quite a few come and go. The O’ZBON boys were special. It’s just something you feel. It’s too bad the comeback didn’t work out. But something’s either meant to be or it isn’t, you know? And in the end, you just move on. It’s like that singer said — that English kid with the glasses — he said, radio is a sad salvation.
45
Hannah sits in the rear of Propa Gramma and runs her fingers lightly along her temples. The club is dark and crowded. The walls look as if they’re hung with tar paper. The ceiling feels too low and Hannah doubts there’s an adequate fire exit.
Up on a miniature stage, a trio of women, two black and one Latin-looking, all just slightly younger than Hannah, are performing. They call their group Simone’s Demons and they all wear these black-on-black wigs that are swirled and pinned down in a modified mini-bun near the back of their skulls. They dress in black wool turtleneck sweaters, matching black pleated skirts that hang below their knees, and white felt berets with tiny wicklike stems jutting out on the top.
They aren’t playing any instruments. There appears to be a prerecorded sound track and one of the women stands behind a mixing board and alters the music, slows it down, speeds it up, makes it jump and skip and fluctuate in volume.
The other two women are the singers, but to Hannah they look more like some art-world parody of the old film clips that show Hitler addressing huge rallies, screaming propaganda until it looks as if his voice will rupture.
The women raise their arms in a series of strange, aggressive salutes. Occasionally they do a synchronized dance step. Mostly, they yell a barrage of hard-to-hear, one-tone invectives, little blasts of rhyme, mostly verbs, an occasional noun.