“Naw.”
“It is quite bad.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Please try to visit it.”
“Okay, I will,” I told her.
She rang off. I stood holding the receiver and then at last I hung it up and walked out of the phone booth.
The Lincoln was nowhere in sight.
Has he gone off? I asked myself. Am I alone, now? I peered into the darkness of the Seattle night.
The simulacrum sat inside the building of the service station, in a chair opposite the boy in the white uniform; rocking the chair back and forth it chatted amiably. I opened the door. “Let’s go,” I said. The simulacrum said goodnight to the boy and together the two of us walked on in silence.
“Why not drop by and visit Miss Pris?” the simulacrum said.
“Oh no,” I said, horrified. “There may be a flight back to Boise tonight; if so we should take it.”
“She frightens you. In any case we would not find her and Mr. Barrows home; they no doubt are out enjoying themselves in the public eye. The lad in the fuel station tells me that world-famous people of the entertainment arts, some even from Europe, appear in Seattle and perform. I believe he said that Earl Grant is here now. Is he esteemed?”
“Very.”
“The lad said they generally appear but one night and then fly on. Since Mr. Grant is here tonight I would suppose he was not here last night, and so possibly Mr. Barrows and Miss Pris are attending his performance.”
“He sings,” I said, “and very well.”
“Do we have enough money to go?”
“Yes.”
“Why not, then?”
I gestured. Why not? “I don’t want to,” I said.
The simulacrum said softly, “I journeyed a great distance to be of assistance to you, Louis. I think in exchange you should do me a favor; I would enjoy hearing Mr. Grant rendering the songs of the day. Would you be obliging enough to accompany me?”
“You’re deliberately putting me on the spot.”
“I want you to visit the place where you will most likely see Mr. Barrows and Miss Pris.”
Evidently I had no choice. “All right, we’ll go.” I began to look up and down the street for a taxi, feeling bitter.
An enormous crowd had turned out to hear the legendary Earl Grant; we were barely able to squeeze in. However, there was no sign of Pris and Sam Barrows. We seated ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks, and watched from there. They probably won’t show up, I said to myself. I felt a little better. One chance in a thousand …
“He sings beautifully,” the simulacrum said, between numbers.
“Yeah.”
“The Negro has music in his bones.”
I glanced at it. Was it being sarcastic? That banal remark, that cliche—but it had a serious expression on its face. In its time, perhaps, the remark had not meant what it did now. So many years had gone by.
“I recall,” the simulacrum said, “my trips to New Orleans when a boy. I first experienced the Negro and his pitiable condition, then. It was in, I believe, 1826. I was astonished at the Spanish nature of that city; it was totally different from the America I had grown up in.”
“That was when Dentón Offcutt engaged you? That peddler?”
“You are well-apprised of my early life.” It seemed puzzled at my knowledge.
“Hell,” I said, “I looked it up. In 1835 Ann Rutledge died. In 1841—” I broke off. Why had I mentioned that? I could have kicked myself around the block. The simulacrum’s face, even in the gloom of the bar, showed pain and deep, pervasive shock. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Meantime, thank god, Grant had begun another number. It was a mild, sorrowful blues, however. Feeling increasingly nervous, I waved the bartender over and ordered myself a double Scotch.
Broodingly, the simulacrum sat hunched over, its legs drawn up so that it could place its feet on the rungs of the barstool. After Earl Grant had finished singing it remained silent, as if unaware of its surroundings. Its face was blank and downcast.
“I’m sorry to have depressed you,” I said to it; I was beginning to worry about it.
“It is not your fault; these moods come upon me. I am, do you know, grossly superstitious. Is that a fault? In any case I cannot prevent it; it is a part of me.” Its words emerged haltingly, as if with vast effort; as if, I thought, it could hardly find the energy in it to speak.
“Have another drink,” I said, and then I discovered that it had not touched its first and only drink.
The simulacrum mutely shook its head no.
“Listen,” I said, “let’s get out of here and on the rocket flight; let’s get back to Boise.” I jumped from my stool. “Come on.”
The simulacrum remained where it was.
“Don’t get so down in the dumps. I should have realized—blues singing affects everyone that way.”
“It is not the colored man’s singing,” the simulacrum said. “It is my own self. Don’t blame him for it, Louis, nor yourself. On the flight here I saw down onto the wild forests and thought to myself of my early days and the travels of my family and especially of the death of my mother and our trip to Illinois by oxen.”
“For chrissakes, this place is too gloomy; let’s take a cab to the Sea-Tac Airport and—” I broke off.
Pris and Sam had entered the room; a waitress was showing them to a reserved table.
Seeing them the simulacrum smiled. “Well, Louis, I should have heeded you. Now it is too late, I fear.”
I stood rigid by my barstool.
16
In a low voice in my ear the Lincoln simulacrum said, “Louis, you must climb back up on your stool.”
Nodding, I clumsily got back up. Pris—she glowed. Stunning in one of the new Total Glimpse dresses … her hair had been cut much shorter and brushed back and she wore a peculiar eyeshadow which made her eyes seem huge and black. Barrows, with his pool-ball shaved head and jovial, jerky manner, appeared the same as always; business-like and brisk, grinning, he accepted the menu and began ordering.
“She is astonishingly lovely,” the simulacrum said to me.
“Yes,” I said. Around us the men seated at the bar—and the women too—had paused to give her the once-over. I couldn’t blame them.
“You must take action,” the simulacrum said to me. “You cannot leave now, I fear, and you cannot stay as you are. I will go over to their table and tell them that you have an appointment with Mrs. Devorac later in the evening, and that is all I can do for you; the rest, Louis, is on your shoulders.” It stepped long-legged from the stool and made its way from the bar before I could stop it.
It reached Barrows’ table and bent down, resting its hand on Barrows’ shoulder, and spoke to him.
At once Barrows twisted to face me. Pris also turned; her dark cold eyes glittered.
The Lincoln returned to the bar. “Go over to them, Louis.”
Automatically I got down and threaded my way among the tables, over to Barrows and Pris. They stared. Probably they believed I had my .38 with me, but I did not; it was back at the motel. I said, “Sam, you’re finished. I’ve got all the dope ready for Silvia.” I examined my wrist watch. “Too bad for you, but it’s too late for you now; you had your chance and you muffed it.”
“Sit down, Rosen.”
I seated myself at their table.
The waitress brought martinis for Barrows and Pris.
“We’ve built our first simulacrum,” Barrows said.
“Oh? Who’s it of?”
“George Washington, the Father of Our Country.”
I said, “It’s a shame to see your empire crumbling in ruins.”
“I don’t get what you mean but I’m glad I ran into you,” Barrows said. “It’s an opportunity to thrash out a few misunderstandings.” To Pris he said, “I’m sorry to discuss business, dear, but it’s good luck to run across Louis here; do you mind?”
“Yes I mind. If he doesn’t leave, you a
nd I are finished.”
Barrows said, “You get so violent, dear. This is a minor point but an interesting one that I’d like to settle with Rosen here. If you’re so dissatisfied I can send you home in a cab.”
In her flat, remote tone Pris said, “I’m not going to be sent off. If you try to get rid of me you’ll find yourself in the bucket so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
We both regarded her. Beyond the beautiful dress, hairdo and make-up it was the same old Pris.
“I think I will send you home,” Barrows said.
“No,” she said.
Barrows beckoned to the waitress. “Will you have a cab—”
“You screwed me before witnesses,” Pris said.
Blanching, Barrows waved the waitress away. “Now look.” His hands were trembling. “Do you want to sit and have the vichyssoise and be quiet? Can you be quiet?”
“I’ll say what I want, when I want.”
“What witnesses?” Barrows managed to smile. “Dave Blunk? Colleen Nild?” His smile strengthened. “Go on, dear.”
“You’re a dirty aging middle-aged man who likes to peep up girls’ skirts,” Pris said. “You ought to be behind bars.” Her voice, although not loud, was so distinct that several people at nearby tables turned their heads. “You put it in me once too often,” Pris said. “And I can tell you this: it’s a wonder you can get it up at all. It’s so little and flaccid. You’re just too old and flaccid, you old fairy.”
Barrows winced, grinned twistedly. “Anything else?”
“No,” Pris said. “You have all those people bought so they won’t be witnesses against you.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head, panting.
Turning to me Barrows said, “Now. Go ahead.” He seemed still to have his poise. It was amazing; he could endure anything.
I said, “Shall I contact Mrs. Devorac or not? It’s up to you.”
Glancing at his wristwatch Barrows said, “I’d like to consult with my legal people. Would it offend you if I telephoned Dave Blunk to come over here?”
“All right,” I said, knowing that Blunk would advise him to give in.
Excusing himself, Barrows went off to phone. While he was gone Pris and I sat facing each other without speaking. At last he returned and Pris met him with a forlorn, suspicious expression. “What vicious thing are you up to, Sam?” she said.
Sam Barrows did not answer. He leaned back comfortably.
“Louis, he’s done something,” Pris said with a wild glance all around. “Can’t you tell? Don’t you know him well enough to see? Oh, Louis!”
“Don’t worry,” I said, but now I felt uneasy, and at the bar I noticed that the Lincoln was stirring about restlessly and frowning. Had I made a mistake? Too late now; I had agreed.
“Will you step over here?” I called to the simulacrum. It rose at once and came over, stooping to hear. “Mr. Barrows is waiting to consult with his attorney.”
Seating itself the simulacrum pondered. “I suppose there is no harm in that.”
We all waited. Half an hour later Dave Blunk appeared, threading his way to us. With him was Colleen Nild, dressed up, and after her a third person, a young man with crewcut and bow-tie, an alert, eager expression on his face.
Who is this man? I wondered. What is going on? And my uneasiness grew.
“Sorry we’re late,” Blunk said as he seated Mrs. Nild. Both he and the bow-tied young man seated themselves. No one introduced anyone.
This must be some employee of Barrows, I said to myself. Could this be the punk who would fulfill the formality of a legal marriage with Pris?
Seeing me staring at the man, Barrows spoke up. “This is Johnny Booth. Johnny, I want you to meet Louis Rosen.”
The young man nodded hastily. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rosen.” He ducked his head to the others in turn. “Hi. Hi there. How are you?”
“Wait a minute.” I felt cold all over. “This is John Booth? John Wilkes Booth?”
“You hit the nail on the head,” Barrows said.
“But he doesn’t look anything like John Wilkes Booth.” It was a simulacrum and a terrible one at that. I had just been browsing in the reference books; John Wilkes Booth had been a theatrical, dramatic-looking individual—this was just another ordinary flunky type, a nebbish, the kind you see in the downtown business sections of every major city in the United States. “Don’t put me on,” I said. “This is your first effort? I’ve got news for you; better go back and try again.”
But all the time I was talking I was staring at the simulacrum in terror, for despite its foolish appearance it worked; it was a success in the technical sense, and what a dreadful omen that was for us, for every one of us; the John Wilkes Booth simulacrum! I couldn’t help glancing sideways at the Lincoln to see its reaction. Did it know what this meant?
The Lincoln had said nothing. But the lines of its face had deepened, the twilight of melancholy which always to some degree hung over it. It seemed to know what was in store for it, what this new simulacrum portended.
I couldn’t believe that Pris could design such a thing. And then I realized that of course she hadn’t; that was why it had, really, no face. Only Bundy had been involved. Through him they had developed the inner workings and then they had crammed it into this mass-man container which sat here at the table smiling and nodding, a typical Ja-Sager, a yes man. They hadn’t even attempted to re-create the authentic Booth appearance, perhaps hadn’t even been interested; it was a rush job, done for a specific purpose.
“We’ll continue our discussion,” Barrows said.
Dave Blunk nodded, and John Wilkes Booth nodded. Mrs. Nild examined a menu. Pris was staring at the new simulacrum as if turned to stone. So I was right; it was a surprise to her. While she had been out being wined and dined, dressed up in new clothes, slept with and prettified, Bob Bundy had been off in some workshop of the Barrows organization, hammering away on this contraption.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s continue.”
“Johnny,” Barrows said to his simulacrum, “by the way, this tall man with the beard, this is Abe Lincoln. I was telling you about him, remember?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Barrows,” the Booth thing said instantly, with a wide-awake nod. “I remember distinctly.”
I said, “Barrows, it’s a phony business you have here; this is just an assassin with the name ‘Booth,’ he doesn’t look or talk right and you know it. This is phony, lousy and phony from the bottom up, it makes me sick. I feel shame for you.”
Barrows shrugged.
To the Booth thing I said, “Say something out of Shakespeare.”
It grinned back in its busy, silly way.
“Say something in Latin, then,” I said to it.
It went on grinning.
“How many hours did it take to whip this nothing up?” I said to Barrows. “Half a morning? Where’s any painstaking fidelity to detail? Where’s craftsmanship gone? All that’s left is schlock, the killer-instinct planted in this contraption—right?”
Barrows said, “I think you will want to withdraw your threat to contact Mrs. Devorac, in view of Johnny Booth, here.”
“How’s he going to do it?” I said. “With a poison ring? With bacteriological warfare?”
Dave Blunk laughed. Mrs. Nild smiled. The Booth thing went right along with the others, grinning emptily, taking its cue from its boss. Mr. Barrows had them all on strings and he was jerking away with all his might.
Staring at the Booth simulacrum Pris had become almost unrecognizable. She had become gaunt; her neck was stretched out like a fowl’s and her eyes were glazed and full of splintered light.
“Listen,” she said. She pointed at the Lincoln. “I built that.”
Barrows eyed her.
“It’s mine,” Pris said. To the Lincoln she said, “Did you know that? That my father and I built you?”
“Pris,” I said, “for god’s sake—”
“Be quiet,” she
said to me.
“Stay out of this,” I said to her. “This is between I and Mr. Barrows.” I was shaking. “Maybe you mean well and I realize you had nothing to do with building this Booth thing. And you—”
“For Christ’s sake,” Pris said to me, “shut up.” She faced Barrows. “You had Bob Bundy build that thing to destroy the Lincoln and you very carefully kept me from knowing. You crud. I’ll never forgive you for this.”
Barrows said, “What’s eating you, Pris? Don’t tell me you’re having an affair with the Lincoln simulacrum.” He frowned at her.
“I won’t see my work killed,” Pris said.
Barrows said, “Maybe you will.”
In a heavy voice the Lincoln said, “Miss Pris, I do think Mr. Rosen is correct. You should allow him and Mr. Barrows to discover the solution to their problem.”
“I can solve this,” Pris said. Bending down, she fumbled with something under the table. I could not imagine what she was up to, nor could Barrows; all of us, in fact, sat rigid. Pris emerged, holding one of her high heeled shoes, brandishing it with the metal heel out.
“Goddam you,” she said to Barrows.
Barrows started from his chair. “No,” he said, holding up his hand.
The shoe smashed down on the head of the Booth simulacrum. Its heel burst into the thing’s head, right behind the ear. “There,” Pris said to Barrows, her eyes shining and wet, her mouth a thin contorted frantic line.
“Glap,” the Booth simulacrum said. Its hands beat jerkily in the air; its feet drummed on the floor. Then it ceased moving. An inner wind convulsed it; its limbs floundered and twitched. It became inert.
I said, “Don’t hit it again, Pris.” I did not feel able to stand any more. Barrows was saying almost the same thing, muttering at Pris in a dazed monotone.
“Why should I hit it again?” Pris said matter-of-factly; she withdrew the heel of her shoe from its head, bent down, put her shoe back on again. People at the tables around us stared in amazement.
Barrows got out a white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He started to speak, changed his mind, remained silent.
Gradually the Booth simulacrum began to slide from its chair. I stood up and tried to prop it so that it would remain where it was. Dave Blunk rose, too: together we managed to get it propped upright so that it would not fall. Pris sipped her drink expressionlessly.