Haunted
10.
Mother Nature slips into some kind of black coat. It’s a military uniform or an ice-skating costume, black wool with a double row of brass buttons up the front. A black velvet majorette with her split nose scabbed together with dark red. She gets her arms through each long sleeve, then says, “Button me up?” to Saint Gut-Free.
She wiggles what’s left of her hands, and says, “I don’t have the fingers I need.”
Her fingers are just stubs and knuckles. Only her index fingers are left for dialing telephones after she’s famous. Punching buttons on a cash machine. Fame already reducing her from something with three dimensions to something flat.
Mother Nature, Saint Gut-Free, Reverend Godless, we’re all dressing in black before we carry Mr. Whittier down to the subbasement. Before we play this next important scene.
Never mind that our funeral is just a rehearsal. We’re just stand-ins for the real funeral, to be played by movie stars in front of cameras after we’re discovered. By doing this, wrapping Mr. Whittier and tying his body into a bundle, then delivering him to the subbasement for a ceremony—this way we’ll all have the same experience. We’ll all be telling the same tragic story to the reporters and police.
If Mr. Whittier is stinking or not, it’s hard to tell. Miss Sneezy and Reverend Godless carry the silver bags of spoiled food, each bag leaking a trail of stink juice. Trailing drips and spots of stink, they carry the bags across the lobby to the restrooms and flush them down the toilet.
“Not being able to smell,” Miss Sneezy says, and sniffs, hard, “it helps.”
This works fine, one bag at a time. Until Reverend Godless tries to hurry, when the smell gets choking-bad. Dry-heaves-bad. The stink soaks into their clothes and hair. The first time they try to flush two bags together, the toilets start to clog and overflow. Another toilet clogs. Already, the water is flooding out, swamping the blue carpet in the lobby. The bags, stuck in some main sewer pipe, they soak up water, swelling the way the turkey Tetrazzini killed Mr. Whittier, clogging the main pipe so even the toilets that look fine, they back up.
None of the toilets will work. The furnace and water heater are broken. We still have boxes of food, rotting. Mr. Whittier is not our biggest problem.
According to Sister Vigilante’s calendar watch and Miss America’s grown-out brown roots, we’ve been here about two weeks.
As he does the last of her brass buttons, Saint Gut-Free leans in to kiss Mother Nature, saying, “Do you love me?”
“I pretty much have to,” she says, “if the romantic subplot is going to work.”
Dead Lord Baglady sparkling on her finger, Mother Nature wipes the back of one hand across her lips, saying, “Your saliva tastes terrible . . .”
Saint Gut-Free spits in his palm and licks the spit back into his mouth. He sniffs his empty hand, saying, “Terrible, how?”
“Ketones,” Mrs. Clark says to nobody. Or to everybody.
“Sour,” Mother Nature says. “Like a lemon-and-airplane-glue aromatherapy candle.”
“It’s starvation,” Mrs. Clark says, tying a gold silk rope around the bundle of Mr. Whittier. “As you burn up your body fat, the acetone concentration increases in your blood.”
Saint Gut-Free sniffs his hand, the snot rattling inside his head.
Reverend Godless lifts one arm to sniff underneath. There, the damp taffeta is darker black with sweat, in his pores, the memory of too much Chanel No. 5.
Lugging a body up- and downstairs, we’re wasting our valuable body fat.
Still, we should have a gesture of mourning, says Sister Vigilante, still clutching her Bible. With Mr. Whittier wrapped and being carried to the subbasement, rolled tight in a red velvet curtain from the imperial-Chinese promenade, and tied with gold silk ropes from the lobby, we should stand around him to talk profound. We should sing a hymn. Nothing too religious, just whatever will play best.
We draw straws to see who has to weep.
More and more, we leave room open in every group for Agent Tattletale’s camera. We speak so the Earl of Slander’s tape recorder will get every word. The same tape or memory card or compact disk getting used, over and over. We erase our past with our present, on the gamble that the next moment will be sadder, more horrible or tragic.
More and more, something worse needs to happen.
Mr. Whittier’s been dead for days or hours. It’s hard to tell since Sister Vigilante started turning the lights on and off. At night, we hear someone walking around, great booming footsteps, a giant coming down the lobby stairs in the dark.
Still, something more terrible needs to happen.
For market share. For dramatic appeal.
Something more awful needs to happen.
From his dressing room, backstage, we carry Mr. Whittier across the stage and up the center aisle of the auditorium. We carry him through the blue velvet lobby and down the stairs to the orange-and-gold Mayan foyer in the first basement.
Sister Vigilante says her watch keeps resetting itself. That’s a classic sign of a haunting. The Baroness Frostbite claims she found a cold spot in the Gothic smoking room. In the Arabian Nights gallery, you can see your breath steaming in the cold air above the cushion where Mr. Whittier used to sit. The Countess Foresight says it’s the ghost of Lady Baglady we hear walking around after lights-out.
Following behind in the funeral procession, Director Denial: “Has anybody seen Cora Reynolds?”
Sister Vigilante says, “Whoever took my bowling ball, give it back and I promise not to kick your ass . . .”
Leading the procession, cradling the lump that would be Mr. Whittier’s head, Mrs. Clark says, “Has anyone seen Miss America?”
After this is over, it would never work to shoot the movie here. After we’re discovered, this place will become a landmark. A National Treasure. The Museum of Us.
No, whatever production company will just have to build sets to copy each of the big rooms. The blue velvet French Louis XV lobby. The black mohair Egyptian auditorium. The green satin Italian Renaissance lounge. The yellow leather Gothic smoking room. The purple Arabian Nights gallery. The orange Mayan foyer. The red imperial-Chinese promenade. Each room a different deep color, but all with the same gold accents.
Not rooms, Mr. Whittier would say, but settings. We carry his wrapped body through these echoing big boxes where people become a king or an emperor or duchess for the price of a movie ticket.
Locked in the office behind the lobby snack bar, that little closet of varnished pine walls with its ceiling sloped under the lobby staircase, there the filing cabinets are packed solid with printed programs and invoices, booking schedules and time-clock punch cards. Those sheets of paper turning to dust along their edges, printed across the top of each page it says: Liberty Theater. Some are printed: Capital Theater. Some printed: Neptune Vaudeville House. Others printed: Holy Convention Church. Others: Temple of Christian Redemption. Or: Assembly of Angels. Or: Capital Adult Theater. Or: Diamond Live Burlesque.
All these different places, they all had this same address.
Here, where people have knelt in prayer. And knelt in semen.
All the screams of joy and horror and salvation still contained and stifled inside these concrete walls. Still echoing in here, with us. Here, our dusty heaven.
All these different stories will end with our story. After the thousand different realities of plays and movies, religion and strippers, this building will become, forever, the Museum of Us.
Every crystal chandelier, the Matchmaker calls it a “peach tree.” The Gothic smoking room, Comrade Snarky calls it the “Frankenstein Room.”
In the Mayan foyer, Reverend Godless says the orange carvings are bright as a runway spotlight shining through the silk petals of a tulip sewn to a vintage Christian Lacroix bustle . . .
In the Chinese promenade, the silk wallpaper is a red dye that’s never been in the daylight. Red as the blood of a restaurant critic, says Chef Assassin.
In the Gothic smoking room, the wing chairs are covered in a rich yellow leather that’s never bleached a moment in the sun. Not since it covered a cow, says the Missing Link.
The walls of the Italian Renaissance lounge are dark green, streaked and clotted with black, a coat of paint that turns to malachite stone if you look hard enough.
In the Egyptian auditorium, the walls are plaster and papier-mâché, carved and molded into the pyramids, the sphinx. Giant seated pharaohs. Pointed-nose jackals. Rows and rows of big-eyed hieroglyphics. Above all this dangle the fronds of fake palm trees made from ribbons of black paper sagging with mold. Above the dusty treetops, the black plaster of the night sky is studded with a heaven of electric stars. The Big Dipper. Orion. The constellations, just stories people make up so they can understand that night sky. These stars, hazy behind clouds of cobweb.
Black mohair covers the seats, scratchy as dried moss on tree bark. The carpets are black, worn to the gray grid of canvas down the center of each aisle.
The trim in all the rooms is gold. Gold paint, bright as neon piping. Everything black in the auditorium, every seat-back and carpet-edge, it’s outlined in this same bright gold.
If you want hard enough, the trim is real gold. Every room depends on your faith.
The group of us in our fairy-tale silk and velvet and dried blood, we’re black moving against the blackness. In dim light, Mr. Whittier must seem to float in his red velvet cocoon, wound around with gold rope. No longer a character, Mr. Whittier has become a prop. Our puppet. A constellation we can put stories on to say we understand.
Her face behind a lace handkerchief, Comrade Snarky says, “I don’t know why we should be crying.” She’s breathing through the old perfume of the lace, trying to escape the stink. She says, “My character wouldn’t be crying.” She says, “I’ll swear by the rose tattooed on my ass, that old man raped me.”
Here, the funeral parade stops. At this point, Comrade Snarky is a victim among victims. The rest of us—just her supporting cast.
Mrs. Clark, leading us, she looks back and says, “He what?”
And from behind his camera, Agent Tattletale says, “Me, too. He raped me first.”
Saint Gut-Free says, “Well, what the hell . . . He poked me, too.”
As if poor skinny Saint Gut-Free had enough ass left to poke.
And Mrs. Clark says, “This is not funny. Not in the least.”
“Tough,” the Matchmaker tells her. “It’s wasn’t funny, either, when you raped me.”
Shaking his ponytail, the Duke of Vandals tells the Matchmaker, “You couldn’t pay to get raped.”
And Mother Nature laughs—blowing scabs and blood all over.
The devil is dead. Long live the devil.
Here is our funeral for Satan. Mr. Whittier, he’s the demon who’ll make all our past sins look like nothing by comparison. The story of his crimes will leave us buffed and polished to the virgin-white color of victim.
More sinned against than sinning.
Still, his being dead leaves a job opening at the bottom that no one wants.
So, in the movie version, you’ll see us weeping and forgiving Mr. Whittier while Mrs. Clark cracks the whip.
The devil is dead. Long live the devil.
We wouldn’t last a moment without someone to blame.
Up the black-carpet aisle of the auditorium, through the red Chinese promenade, down the blue French stairs, we carry Mr. Whittier. Through the bright orange of the Mayan foyer, there Mother Nature pushes some white wig hair off her forehead, her brass bells jingling. She’s wearing a pile of gray curls left over from some opera. The curls hang, wet from the sweat on her face, and Mother Nature says, “Is anybody else hot?”
The Duke of Vandals is panting with his shoulder under the weight of Mr. Whittier, panting and pulling at the collar of his tuxedo jacket.
Even the red silk bundle feels damp with sweat. The airplane-glue smell of ketones. Starvation.
And Reverend Godless says, “It’s no wonder you’re hot. Your wig’s on backward.”
And the Matchmaker says, “Listen.”
Below us, the subbasement is dark. The wood stairs, narrow. Beyond that dark, something rumbles and growls.
Something mysterious needs to happen.
Something dangerous needs to happen.
“It’s the ghost,” says the Baroness Frostbite, the greasy pucker of her mouth sagging open.
It’s the furnace, running full-blast. The blower pumping hot air into the ducts. The gas burner chugging. The furnace that Mr. Whittier destroyed.
Somebody’s fixed it.
From somewhere in the dark, a cat screams, just one time.
Something needs to happen. So we start down the wood stairs with Mr. Whittier’s body.
All of us sweating. Wasting even more energy in this impossible new heat.
Following the body down, into the dark, Mother Nature says, “What do you know about wearing wigs?” With the stumps of both hands, her diamond ring flashing, she twists the gray wig around on her head, saying to Reverend Godless, “A big lug like you, what do you know about a vintage Christian Lacroix anything?”
And the Reverend Godless says, “A Lacroix tulip-skirt bustle?” He says, “You’d be surprised.”
Babble
A Poem About Reverend Godless
“Until Genesis, chapter eleven,” says the Reverend Godless, “we had no war.”
Until God set us to fight each other, for the rest of human history.
Reverend Godless onstage, his eyebrows are plucked and shaped
into twin-penciled arches, with, underneath each,
a rainbow of sparkle eye shadow in shades from red to green.
And on one bare bicep muscle, bulging,
below the spaghetti strap of a red-sequined evening gown,
tattooed there is a skull face with, under the chin, these words:
Death Before Dishonor.
Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment:
A travelogue that shows churches, mosques, and temples.
Religious leaders in jeweled robes
waving to crowds from bulletproofed town cars.
Reverend Godless, he says, “On a plain in the land of Shinar, all people toiled together.”
All humanity with a shared vision,
a great noble dream they worked side by side to fulfill
in this time before armies and weapons and battles.
Then God looked down to see their tower, the people’s shared dream,
inching up, just a little too close for comfort.
And God said, “Behold, they are one people . . . and this is only the beginning
of what they will do . . . Nothing that they propose to do
will now be impossible for them . . .”
His words, in His Bible. The Book of Genesis, chapter eleven.
“So our God,” says Reverend Godless, his bare arms and calf muscles stippled
with the black marks of a shaved hair growing back in each pore,
he says, “Our all-powerful God got so scared He scattered the human race
across the face of the earth,
and shattered their language to keep His children apart.”
Part female impersonator, part retired U.S. Marine, the Reverend Godless,
sparkling in his red sequins, says,
“An almighty God this insecure?”
Who pits his children against each other, to keep them weak.
He says, “This is the God we’re supposed to worship?”
Punch Drunk
A Story by the Reverend Godless
Webber looks around, his face pushed out of shape, one cheekbone lower than the other. One of his eyes is just a milk-white ball pinched in the red-black swelling under his brow. His lips, Webber’s lips are split so deep in the middle he’s got four lips instead of two. Inside all those lips, you can’t see a single tooth left.
Webber looks around the jet’s cabin, the white leather on the walls, the bird’s-eye maple varnished to a mirror shine.
Webber looks at the drink in his hand, the ice hardly melted in the blast of the air conditioning. He says, too loud on account of his hearing loss, he almost shouts, “Where we at?”
They’re in a Gulfstream G550, the nicest private jet you can charter, Flint says. Then Flint digs two fingers into a pants pocket and hands something across the aisle to Webber. A little white pill. “Swallow this,” Flint says. “And drink your drink, we’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” Webber says, and he drinks the pill down.
He’s still twisted around to see the white leather club chairs that recline and swivel. The white carpet. The bird’s-eye maple tables, polished until they look wet. The white suede couches that line the cabin. The matching little throw cushions. The magazines, each one big as a movie poster, called Elite Traveler, with a cover price of fifty dollars. The 24-carat gold-plated cup holders and the faucets in the bathroom. The galley with its espresso machine and halogen light bouncing bright off the lead-crystal glassware. The microwave and fridge and ice machine. All this flying along at fifty-one thousand feet, Mach zero-point-eight-eight, somewhere above the Mediterranean Sea. All of them drinking Scotch whiskey. All of this nicer than anything you’ll ever be inside. Anything short of a casket.
Webber’s nose, he tilts his drink back, sticks his big red-potato nose into the cold air, and you can see up inside each nostril. See how they don’t really go anywhere, not anymore. But Webber says, “What’s that smell?”
And Flint sniffs and says, “Does ammonium nitrate ring a bell?”
It’s the ammonium nitrate their buddy Jenson had ready for them in Florida. Their buddy from the Gulf War. Our Reverend Godless.
“You mean, like, fertilizer?” Webber says.
And Flint says, “Half a ton.”
Webber’s hand, it’s shaking so hard you can hear the ice rattle in his empty glass.
That shaking, it’s just traumatic Parkinson’s is all. Traumatic encephalopathy will do that to you, where partial necrosis of brain tissue takes place. Neurons replaced by brain-dead scar tissue. You put on a curly red wig and false eyelashes, lip-synch to Bette Midler at the Collaris County Fair and Rodeo, and offer people the chance to punch your face at ten bucks a shot, and you can make some real money.
Other places, you’ll need to wear a curly blond wig, squeeze your ass into a tight sequined dress, your feet in the biggest pair of high heels you can find. Lip-synch to Barbra Streisand singing that “Evergreen” song, and you’d better have a friend waiting to drive you to the emergency room. Take a couple Vicodins beforehand. Before you glue on those long pink Barbra Streisand fingernails; after them you can’t pick up anything smaller than a beer bottle. Take your painkillers first, and you can sing both the A and B sides of Color Me Barbra before a really good shot puts you down.
As a fund-raiser, our first idea was “Five Bucks to Punch a Mime.” And it worked, mostly in college towns. The aggie schools. Some towns, nobody went home without some of that Clown White smeared across their knuckles. Clown White and blood.
Problem is, the novelty wears off. Renting a Gulfstream costs bucks. Just buying the gas and oil to fly from here to Europe costs about thirty grand. One way, it’s not so bad, but you never want to go into a charter place saying you only plan to fly the plane one way—talk about your red flags.
No, Webber would put on that black leotard, and folks would already be salivating to hit him. He’d paint his face white, step into his invisible box, start miming away, and the cash would just flow in. Colleges mostly, but we did good business at county and state fairs, too. Even if folks took it as some kind of minstrel show, they’d still pay to knock him down. To make him bleed.
For roadhouse bars, after the mime routine petered out, we tried “Fifty Bucks to Punch a Chick.” Flint had this girl who was up for it. But after, like, one shot to the face, she was saying, “No way . . .”
On the floor, sitting in the peanut shells on the floor and holding her nose, this girl says, “Let me go to flight school. Let me play the pilot, instead. I still want to help.”
We still had, must’ve been half the bar standing in line with their money. Divorced dads, dumped boyfriends, guys with old potty-training issues, all of them wanting to take their best shot.
Flint says, “I can fix this up.” And he helps his girl to her feet. Taking her by the elbow, he leads her into the ladies’ room. Going in with her, Flint holds up his hand, fingers spread, and he says, “Give me five minutes.”
Just out of the army like that, we didn’t figure how else to make that kind of money. Not legal-wise. The way Flint saw it, there’s no law yet says folks can’t pay to sock you.
It’s then Flint comes out of the ladies’ room, wearing the girl’s Saturday-night wig, all her makeup used up on his big clean-shaved face. He’s unbuttoned his shirt and tied the shirttails together over his gut with paper towels stuffed in to make boobs. With whole tubes of lipstick smeared around his mouth, Flint, he says, “Let’s do this thing . . .”
Folks standing in line, they’re saying fifty bucks to punch some guy is a cheat.
So Flint, he says, “Make it ten bucks . . .”
Folks still hang back, look around for some better way to waste their cash.
It’s then Webber’s gone over by the jukebox. Dropped in a quarter. Pressed a couple buttons, and—magic. The music starts, and for the length of one exhale, all you can hear is every man in the bar letting out a long groan.
The song, it’s the wailing song from the end of that Titanic movie. That Canadian chick.
And Flint, with his blond wig and big clown mouth, he steps up on a chair, then up on a table, and starts singing along. With the whole bar watching, Flint gives it everything he’s got, sliding his hands up and down the sides of his blue jeans. His eyes closed, all you can see there is his shimmering blue eye shadow. That red smear, singing.
Right on time, Webber reaches up to offer Flint a hand down. Flint takes it, ladylike, still lip-synching. You can see now, his fingernails painted candy-red. And Webber whispers to him, “I plugged in five bucks’ worth of quarters.” Webber helps Flint down to face the first man in line, and Webber says, “This song’s the only thing they’re going to hear all night.”
From Webber’s five bucks, they made almost six hundred that night. Not a fist left that bar not beat deep, tattooed blue and red and eyeliner-green with the makeup from Flint’s face. Some guys, they’d hit him until that hand got tired, then get back in line to use their other.
That wailing Titanic song, it almost fucking killed Flint. That and the guys wearing big honking finger rings.
After that, we had a rule about no rings. That, and we’d check to see you weren’t palming a roll of dimes or a lead fishing weight to make your fist do more damage.
Of all the folks, the women are the worst. Some of them ain’t happy ’less they see teeth fly out the other side of your mouth.
Women, the drunker they get, the more they love, love, love to slug a drag queen. Knowing it’s a man. Especially if he’s dressed and looking better than they are. Slapping was fine, too, but no scratching.
Right quick, that market opened up. Webber and Flint, they started skipping dinner. Drinking lite beer. Any new town, you’d catch one of them standing sideways to a mirror, looking at his stomach, his shoulders pulled back and his butt stuck out.
Every town, you’d swear they each had another damn suitcase. This suitcase for dressy dresses, evening dresses. Then garment bags so’s they wouldn’t wrinkle as much. Bags for shoes and wig boxes. A big new makeup case for each of them.
It got so their getups were cutting into the bottom line. But say a word about it and Flint would tell you, “You got to spend it to make it.”
That’s not even adding up what they spent for music. Hit or miss, they found most people want to slug you if you play the following record albums:
Color Me Barbra
Stoney End
The Way We Were
Thighs and Whispers
Broken Blossoms
Or Beaches. Really, especially Beaches.
You could put Mahatma Gandhi into a convent, cut off his nuts, shoot him full of Demerol, and he’d still take a shot at your face if you played him that “Wind Beneath Your Wings” song. Least-wise, that was Webber’s experience.
None of this is what the military trained them for. But, coming home, you don’t find any want ads for munitions experts, targeting specialists, missions point-men. Coming home, they didn’t find much of any kind of job. Nothing that paid near what Flint was getting, his legs peeking through the slit down the side of a green satin evening gown, his toes webbed with nylon stockings and poking out the front of gold sandals. Flint stopped just long enough between songs and slugs to put more foundation over his bruises, his cigarette ringed with red from his lips. His lipstick and blood.
County fairs were good business, but motorcycle runs came a close second. Rodeos were good, too. So were boat shows. Or the parking lots outside those big gun-and-knife conventions. No, they never had to look too far for a good-paying crowd.
Driving back to the motel one night, after Webber and Flint had left most of their makeup smeared on the blacktop outside the Western States Guns and Ammo Expo, Webber pulls the rearview mirror around to where he’s riding shotgun in the front seat. Webber rolls his face around to see it from the mirror at every angle, and he says, “I can’t be up to this much longer.”
Webber, he looks fine. Besides, how he looks don’t matter. The song matters more. The wig and lipstick.
“I was never what you’d call pretty,” Webber says, “but least-ways I always kept myself looking . . . nice.”
Flint’s driving, looking at the chipped red paint on his fingernails holding the steering wheel. Nibbling down a torn nail with his chipped teeth, Flint says, “I was thinking about using a stage name.” Still looking at his fingernails, he says, “What do you all think of the name Pepper Bacon?”
About by now, Flint’s girl, she was off in flight school.
That’s just as well. Things was sliding down hill.
For instance, just before they got set up and ready, in the parking lot outside the Mountain States Gem and Mineral Show, Webber looks at Flint and says, “Your goddamn boobs are too big . . .”
Flint’s wearing a halter kind of long dress, with straps that tie behind his neck to keep the front up. And, yeah, his boobs look big, but Flint says it’s the new dress.
And Webber says, “No, it ain’t. Your boobs been growing for the past four states.”
“All your carping,” Flint says, “it’s just cuz they’re bigger than yours.”
And Webber says, real quiet out the corner of his lipstick mouth, he says, “Former Staff Sergeant Flint Stedman, you’re turning into a sloppy goddamn cow . . .”
Then it’s sequins and wig hair flying every which way. That night, they raked in a total of zero cash. Nobody wants to slug a mess like that, already all scratched up and bleeding. Eyes all bloodshot and mascara all smeared from crying.
Looking back, that little cat fight damn near scuttled their mission.
The reason this country can’t win a war is because we’re all the time fighting each other instead of the enemy. Same as in the Congress not letting the military do their job. Nothing ever getting settled that way. Webber and Flint, they ain’t bad people, just typical of what we’re trying to rise above. Their whole mission is to settle this terrorism situation. Settle it for good. And doing that takes money. To keep Flint’s girl in school. To get their hands on a jet. Get the drugs they’ll need to knock out the regular lease-company pilot. That all takes solid cash money.
The truth be told, Flint’s tits were getting a little on the scary side.
Flying here, reclining on white leather at fifty-one thousand feet, they’re headed south along the Red Sea, all the way to Jedda, where they’ll hang a left.
The other guys in the air right now, all of them headed for their own assigned targets, you have to wonder how they made their money. What pain and torture they went through.
You can still see where Webber got his ears pierced, and how pulled down and stretched out they still look from those dangle earrings.
Looking back, most of the wars in history were over somebody’s religion.
This is just the attack to end all wars. Or at least most of them.
After Flint got control of his tits, they toured from college to college. Anywhere people drank beer with nothing to do. By now, Flint had a detached retina floating around, making him blind in that eye. Webber had a 60-percent hearing loss from his brain getting bounced around. Traumatic brain lesions, the emergency room called it. They were both of them a little shaky, needing both hands to hold a mascara wand steady. Both of them too stiff to work the zipper up the back of his own dress. Wobbly on even their medium heels. Still, they went on.
When it came time, when the jet fighters from the United Arab Emirates would come to shadow them, Flint might be too blind to fly, but he’d be in the cockpit with everything he’d learned in the air force.
Here, in the white leather cabin of their Gulfstream G550, Flint has kicked off both his boots, and his bare feet show toenails still painted titty-pink. You can still smell a hint of Chanel No. 5 perfume mixed with his BO.
One of their last shows, in Missoula, Montana, a girls steps out of the crowd to tell them they’re hateful bigots. That they’re encouraging violent hate crimes being acted out against the gender-conflicted members of our otherwise peaceful pluralistic society . . .
Webber standing there, cut off in the middle of singing “Buttons and Bows,” the spiffy Doris Day version, not the cheesy Dinah Shore version, he’s wearing a strapless blue satin sheath with all his chest hair, his shoulder and arm hair billowing from wrist to wrist like a lush boa of black feathers, and he asks this girl, “So you wanna buy a punch or not?”
Flint’s one step away, at the head of the line, taking people’s money, and he says, “Take your best shot.” He says, “Half price for chicks.”
And the girl, she just looks at them, tapping one of her feet in its tennis shoe, her mouth clamped shut and pulled way over to one side of her face.
Finally, she says, “Can you fake-sing that Titanic song?”
And Flint takes her ten bucks and gives her a hug. “For you,” he says, “we can play that song all night long . . .”
That was the night they finally topped out the fifty grand for the mission.
Now, outside the jet, you can see the torn brown-and-gold coastline of Saudi Arabia. The windows of a Gulfstream are two, three times the size of the little porthole you get on a commercial jetliner. Just looking out, at the sun and ocean, everything else mixed together from this high up, you’d almost want to live. To scrub the whole mission and head home, no matter how bleak the future.
A Gulfstream carries enough fuel to fly 6,750 nautical miles, even with an 85-percent headwind. Their target was only going to take 6,701, leaving just enough jet fuel to trigger their luggage, their suitcases plus the bags and bags that Jenson loaded in Florida, where they landed because the pilot started to feel sick. This is after they got him a cup of coffee. Three Vicodins ground and mixed in black coffee would make most people dizzy, groggy, sick. So they landed. Offloaded the regular pilot. Onloaded the bags. Mr. Jenson humping the ammonium nitrate. And here was Flint’s girl, Sheila, fresh out of flight school and ready to take off.
In the open doorway to the cockpit, you can see Sheila slip her earphones down to rest around her neck. Looking back over one shoulder, she says, “Just heard on the radio. Somebody dove a jet full of fertilizer into the Vatican . . .”
Go figure, Webber says.
Looking out his window, kicked back in his white leather recliner, Flint says, “We got company.” Off that side of the plane, you can see two jet fighters. Flint gives them a little wave. The profiles of the little fighter pilots, they don’t wave back.
And Webber looks at the ice melting in his empty glass and says, “Where are we going?”
From the cockpit, Sheila says, “We’ve had them since we made the turn inland at Jedda.” She puts her headphones back over her ears.
And Flint leans across the aisle to pour the empty glass full of Scotch, again, and Flint says, “Does Mecca ring a bell, old buddy? The Al-Haram?” He says, “How about the Ka’ba?”
Sheila, one hand touching the earphone over one ear, she says, “They got the Mormon Tabernacle . . . the National Baptist Convention Headquarters . . . the Wailing Wall and the Dome of the Rock . . . the Beverly Hills Hotel . . .”
Nope, Flint says. Disarmament didn’t work. The United Nation didn’t, either. Still, maybe this will.
With their friend, Jenson, our Reverend Godless, to be the sole survivor.
Webber says, “What’s in the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
And Flint drains his glass and says, “The Dalai Lama . . .”
That girl in Missoula, Montana, Webber got her name and phone number that night. When it came time for them all to write out their last will and testaments, Webber left that girl everything he had in the world, including the Mustang parked in his folks’ breezeway, his set of Craftsman tools, and fourteen Coach purses with the shoes and outfits to match.
That night, after she paid fifty bucks to kick Webber’s ass, the girl looks at him with his blind white eye swollen almost shut, his lips split. He’s three years older than her, but he looks like her grandma, and she says, “So why is it you’re doing this?”
And Webber peels off the wig, all the strands and curls of blond hair stuck to the blood dried around his nose and mouth. Webber says, “Everybody wants to make the world a better place.”
Drinking his lite beer, Flint looks at Webber. Shaking his head, he says, “You fucker . . .” Flint says, “Is that my wig?”
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