One of the reasons the market keeled over was the huge increase in margin debt: clients buying stocks on brokerage credit. Margin buying was a hunky-dory practice in your opinion, until the masses tapped into it. The gates should never have been opened to Sam and Sally Seattle and all of their unsophisticated kin. Marginal people have no business with margins, you have said that all along, and now they have gone and ruined it for you. Or, at least, made it very difficult. On the other hand, they may have unwittingly provided you with a grand opportunity. Larry Diamond, the so-called financial genius, didnt dismiss your scheme as unworkable. Not at all. He simply has other interests. Interests you wish you had never been exposed to, because, darn it all, theyve lodged themselves in the back of your mind like one of those catchy, awful, embarrassing pop tunes. Dolphins with fingers, mushrooms with transmitters, Buddhas with webbed feet, starships with frog tanks, people with destinies that cannot be described. Where are George Washingtons teeth when you really need them?
Your body is the color of maple butter, and when it glistens with bath lotion, it looks as if it could be spread on the Waffle of the World. You wrap it, instead, in a silk robe and take it to the kitchen to make it a salad. The spinach appears astonished when you dump it out of its plastic bag. You feel almost as though you have interrupted something. A red tomato revolves in your hand like a planet. For some reason, the world around you seems alive in a way it never was before.
You have just forked the last Harpo Marx curl of arugula, jazzy and clownish and dimly electric, into your mouth when the telephone burbles. Diamond is on the line. You hadnt expected to hear from him quite so soon, but you have to confess to a tiny tinge of thrill. And you have to admonish yourself for feeling it.
Is that something in your mouth, or are you just glad to hear from me?
Im finishing dinner, thank you. I rushed to the phone because I thought it might be Q-Jo.
Alas, not. But I have a premonition Im going to hear from her soon.
You are going to hear from her?!
Yes. Me. Thats the premonition-but you know it could be wrong. Anyway, pussy burger, Im calling from a car phone …
That explains the static. For a moment, you thought it might be the arugula.
Theres a lot of it tonight. Celestial interference seems to be getting worse. Look, Im on I-Five, coming back from Sea-Tac… .
What were you doing at the airport?
Thats for me to know and you to find out. I have something for you. An Easter present, you could call it. My new friend, Reiko, whos been so kind as to chauffeur me about, will be dropping me off at Thunder House in about, oh, say twenty minutes. Can you meet me there?
Oh, uh, I dont know, Larry. I really dont think so.
Good. You wont regret it. Every little pussy girl likes presents.
Im not a little - Dont call me that! Ill meet you in an hour. At nine-thirty. Outside in the lot. Okay? Outside. Im not coming in.
Whatever you say. Personally, Ive had a lot of fun lately in parked automobiles. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha. Yes, indeed.
NINE-THIRTY P.M.
The rain clouds have gone. Gambled away their transparent dimes and boxcarred out of town; spent, skinny, ragged, and broke. The moon, always a winner because it knows when to fold, stands on the balcony of the closed casino, looking as though it might light up a cigar. Stars blink at it, as if to say, As sure as this is Seattle, therell soon be another batch of big spenders rolling into town from the west. The moon is in no hurry. It wipes its flushed brow with a cirrostratus handkerchief that must have fluttered from some suckers pocket when he turned it inside out.
You circle the bowling alley twice before parking. The lanes are dark. They must shut down early on Sunday nights. The only light in the building seeps from a narrow row of basement windows on the west side. Twisters tipi, if you are not mistaken. You picture the burly Comanche meditating on his precious Van Gogh, squinting at one of the vigorously crayoned but lumpy peasants as if the figure were a phantom buffalo.
No sooner have you switched off the engine than a car door slams behind you and Diamond steps out of a late model Volvo. His hair is tangled, his clothing still damp, his limp pronounced, but his grin could paint Liberaces ceiling. Fun in parked automobiles, eh? What has he been doing with that Madame Butterfly?
He slides into the Porsche and keeps on sliding. Within a second, he has slid his tongue between your lips. Cautiously, as if you might be bitten, you disengage yourself from his osculation. You mustnt get mussed. Belford awaits you.
How did it go with Dr. Yamaguchi? you inquire, wiping his saliva from your lips with your sleeve.
I watched an American western in Paris once. It was in English with French subtitles. A grizzled cowboy walks into a saloon and growls, Gimme a shot of red eye! And the subtitle read, Dubonnet, sil vous plaIt. Words don strange masks in translation.
But Yamaguchi speaks English.
He speaks English subtitles.
Okay, but do you get a treatment or not?
Only if I go to Japan. The FDA hasnt approved his treatment here, and Yamaguchi thinks it could take years.
Wait a minute. You have to get the governments permission to have an enema?!
This may be the land of the free, sweetheart, but youre deluding yourself if you think your ass is your own.
Well, youre going to Japan, arent you?
No, Im going to Timbuktu.
Why, Larry? Whys it so important you go to that stupid place?
He pauses, drops his head back, and lowers his lids. I have a date with a frog, he drawls.
NINE THIRTY-NINE P.M.
You suppose he is speaking of the Nommo. He could have been referring to a French girl, although in that case he probably would have said frogette. Therefore, it must be the Nommo; some delusional foolishness involving the alleged mermen from outer space. But no, as it turns out, he meant exactly what he said: a frog.
A particular species of frog. A frog whose skin secretes a biochemical agent, a complex nitrogenous peptide, whatever that is, that affects the human nervous system in a most peculiar way.
It sounds like a drug.
Its a hallucinogenic bufotoxin. Aspirin is a drug.
But it makes you high!
On Wall Street, they say, Buy low, sell high. On the pad, we say, Buy high, sell high. Isnt that somehow better?
No! Its … its irresponsible and unbusinesslike, and probably dangerous.
A great deal safer than the streets of Seattle. Theyre really fairly common, these magic froggies. Everybody whos ever read National Geographic knows about their use among the Indians of South America. Well, theyre also native to West Africa. Theres no evidence of their employment in contemporary religious or hunting practices, such as there is in the Amazon, but its almost unthinkable, considering the historical relationship between tribal cultures and organic hallucinogens, that the Africans wouldnt have taken advantage of them at some point in the past.
At least they had the good sense to stop.
Climate changes, and pressure from Islamic and Christian exploiters had a lot more to do with it than good sense, Id venture. My theory, the theory that made my reputation at the University of Timbuktu, is that the Bozo and Dogon aquatic cosmology, the legend of the Nommo, was strongly colored, if not wholly inspired, by amphibian hallucinogens.
I guess that would explain it, all right, if anybody cares. But whats that got to do with you going back to that dried-up camel pit, especially with you being sick and all?
As you might imagine, therere no longer any frogs in Timbuktu, but there used to be, the fossils prove that. Inspired by yours truly, a couple of guys from the university recently went into the jungle in Senegal and filled a flour sack with live specimens. Stocked the little pond in the courtyard with them. Imagine them there, pussy gumbo. Sweetening the wind with their erotic prayers, sucking the giant Sahara moon into their pulsating green throats. Theres going to be a ceremony this fall sometime. Fifty days after the r
ising of Sirius. That was when the Greek elite set out for Eleusis, you know, to drink the ergotized sacrament and be initiated into the Mysteries. Ah, but this year, my tumor rose before Sirius, and I may not be in a position to wait for September; so Im going over early for a sneak preview.
Of what, exactly?
Of the magic frog elixir, exactly. Oh, now, dont look at me with such toady scorn… .
Youre planning to eat one of those poison frogs!
Never. I promise. Anyway, a woman who orders frog legs in a downtown restaurant shouldnt be casting stones.
Well, smoke them, then.
Smoke a frog? Me, who wont even puff a Havana corona? No, the beauty is, the frogs arent harmed. What one does is lick their skin for the sweat thats on it. The best spot is right about where the ears would be, if they had ears.
Sweat?! Ick! Gross!
Right out of a fairy-tale romance, darling. Remember those pretty princesses, kissing amphibians? Incidentally, one cant actually get warts from handling frogs, but one could possibly absorb bufotoxin through ones fingers. Thats the origin of the superstition. Mustnt have the kiddies blowing their wee minds.
So why do you want to blow yours? In such a disgusting way?
Minds were made for blowing.
Oh, Jesus, Larry!
Do you recall why I went to see Q-Jo Huffington?
Yeah. Because Twisters father refused to let you blow your mind on mushrooms.
In terms of strain on the immune system, Wide Place in the Road may have had a point, but I needed to have my cerebral house and lot reappraised, and since Q-Jo, gifted though she is, is not in the same league as the psilocybic elves, I undoubtedly would have consulted the mushrooms anyway, if I hadnt known I had an appointment in Timbuktu. Weve established that certain mushrooms may function as Nommo microphones, broadcasting strange nonlinear alien information, simultaneously archaic and futuristic …
You established that, not me.
… but if Earths frogs are directly related to the primary inhabitants of the Sirius system, then the data broadcast by their biochemical transmitters might be even more authentic, one step closer to the source. We might compare mushrooms to latter-day missionaries, while frogs are the offspring of the original apostles. At least in terms of the purity of their neurotransmissions. Yes. Yes, indeed.
You clasp your head in your hands. This is crazy. Insane. I cannot believe youre going off to some African hellhole to lick frogs.
In the words of Cab Calloway, Some people calls it madness, but I calls it hi-di-ho. Its just part of the process.
You have no idea who Cab Calloway is, although you are sure you have heard your father speak of him, which is not an encouraging sign. What if you lick too much, or, uh, something goes wrong, youre allergic or something?
Risk is part of the process.
And what are you going to do about cash flow? Youre going to be needing medical attention. I bet you dont have a cent of insurance. Jeez! These men! Diamond and Belford. Walking away from a regular paycheck, a big, fat regular paycheck, as if a regular paycheck were no more than a habit.
Diamond merely grins. Maybe I should practice on you. Licking, I mean. He allows his tongue to hang over his lower lip like a cold cut hanging out of a squashed sandwich.
Stop it. Get serious. You look deranged.
Now, now, be nice, pussy fondue. As advertised, Uncle Larry has a gift for you. Whereupon he digs in the front pocket of the roadkill that serves as his leather jacket, removes a small object, and presses your fingers around it. You open your fist, pleased to discover that in it is nothing mawkish, such as an engagement ring; or embarrassing, such as a sex toy; or creepy, such as a live frog; yet disappointed and perplexed that it is …
A Bic lighter?
Not just any Bic lighter. Dr. Yamaguchis Bic lighter. He gave it to me. A touching gesture. We hit it off. Eye contact, mainly. Hale fellow, well met. Yes. In any case, the lighters mine, its not your gift. But fire it up, will you. Im serious. Thats right, go ahead. Flick your Bic.
Gorged with fuel, the little device sprouts an inch-high flame, which Diamond instructs you to hold steady. Then, from the inside pocket of that Paleolithic bathmat he zips about his bony shoulders, he produces a pair of paper envelopes, one about eight inches long, thick, and brightly colored; the other shorter, thinner, plainer. Actually, he says, therere two gifts. But you get to keep only one. You have to choose.
But-what … ?
In my left hand are airline tickets. First class, you might like to know. To Timbuktu. Not on my flight, unfortunately. Couldnt be arranged. Youd leave on Tuesday. Delta to New York, then Air Afrique to Bamako. Id meet you there, and wed enter Timbuktu together. The two of us, hand in hand. Can you imagine what that would be like? Can you even imagine?
As a matter of fact, you cant. For a slice of a second, maybe, your minds eye sees a sprawl of crusty sand castles on a vast, sealess beach beneath a gunsmoke sky, you and Diamond standing in a mud arcade looking pale and lost like the Lovers in the tarot deck, while armed nomads in blue veils thunder by on camelback, accusing you in uncivilized tongues of illegally trafficking in frogs; but that image fades as quickly as it comes, leaving you staring blankly at Diamonds right hand.
In this appendage, he drawls, Im holding-keep the flame steady, now-reasonably detailed notes and instructions covering the steps youd need to take to journal around your discos data base in such a way that London could read you sitting on a hundred grand or more in your personal account, but without any hint of the phony funds or your trade with them ever showing up in Seattle. Unless, of course, oil prices dont move in the direction youre predicting, in which case, sooner or later, when you cant cover, or you cover out of somebody elses account, some pretty serious gentlemen will come to call. If your hunch is correct, though, youll end up with bags of free money, and nobody will ever be the wiser. I apologize in advance for the condition of the notes. I wrote them with a ballpoint pen in Reikos car, part of them while the car was moving. Now …
He moves the envelopes closer to the lighter, which is starting to heat up at an uncomfortable rate. I want you to set fire to one of these envelopes. One or the other. The tickets or the cheat notes. One of them has to go up in smoke. Its your choice. The pepperoni or the pearl. You can connive to improve your life within the existing boundaries of your life, or you can expand your life; maybe even transform your life. You can risk your freedom for a taste of jumbo juice, or you can risk absolutely everything for something that may be incomprehensible even if you achieve it. Just give one of these babies the torch, Gwendolyn, and well both live with the consequences. Come on, dont go numb on me. If you dont choose by the time I count to five, the offers withdrawn; Ill burn both envelopes. One-two …
Wait a minute, Larry. Although the Bic is burning your fingers, you must stall for time. Its clear out now. Can we see Sirius, do you think? Sirius A. Is it, uh, over my shoulder, maybe?
No, it isnt. This time of year, Sirius sets a bit after nine oclock. Three—
But I saw it Friday night. Must have been close to eleven.
Impossible. Im counting… .
I did see it. It was the brightest star in the sky. I saw B, too.
No, you didnt. Not at this latitude, not in April. Were going to run out of lighter fluid.
Well, I saw something. In the west. An extremely bright star. What else could it have been?
Maybe it was ie pelu tolo. Now, stop procrastinating… .
You mean the Nommo spaceship? The ark? The star of the tenth moon? Youre not serious. Youre kidding me.
Anything is possible. Im counting… .
But, Larry, you say eagerly. What if youre right? What if it was out there beaming up frogs or something?
He doesnt go for it. Four-he says.
TEN-TEN P.M.
So disoriented are you when you weave out of the bowling alley lot that you accidentally turn down a narrow side street that dead-ends at a sheet metal shop. Rath
er than turning around, once you realize your mistake, you pull over to the curb, shift into neutral, and sit there, idling.
You cannot believe what you have just done. He must have hypnotized you, put you in some kind of African trance. You thought at the moment, if, indeed, you thought anything at all, that you were acting on intuition; but maybe it was something else. A woman is supposed to be able to trust her intuition, its supposed to work in her favor. You couldnt seem to help yourself. And he does have strange mental powers.
From the seat beside you, you pick up the envelope, examine it, shake your head. Tickets to Timbuktu. One-way tickets to Timbuktu! Good grief! Is this the dumbest, most self-destructive decision you have ever made, or what?
Oddly enough, you are less than overcome with remorse and regret. In fact, for the third or fourth time this weekend, a rare, unjustifiable giddiness has overtaken you. The bell of your trumpet is bent back to the mouthpiece, like a snake swallowing its own tail. You are in a mild state of shock, it is true, yet no sense of grave finality plugs the ducts of your inner workings. Perhaps it just hasnt sunk in yet, perhaps you are in denial, but the cocktail of emotions your heart is guzzling contains a carbonated mixer of unspecified excitement, in addition to the jiggers of fear and disbelief. Wow, you think. Jesus. Wow.
There is a lump in your chest the size of a cauliflower, which, initially, you identify as a knot of acute anxiety. Gradually, however, it becomes apparent that the lump is a compressed globe of mirth. There is a large laugh inside you-or else a nexus of tiny giggles-petitioning to escape. Under the circumstances, it is embarrassing, this suppressed laughter, and you dare not release it lest it have implications of hysteria. It certainly doesnt feel like hysteria, but just the same… .
Again, in the shine of the street lamp, you inspect the packet of airline tickets. An option, you think. Only an option. As much as you are fascinated by Larry Diamond, as-come on, admit it-susceptible to his sexuality as you have reluctantly become, as concerned as you are about his illness, if he believes for one moment that he has captured you, that you have volunteered to become his Timbuktu love slave, well, he had better not count his frogs before they peep.