“Yes sir.” Hatch slipped a video cassette into the player mounted on the television set, pushed the PLAY bar. Patiently they waited. After what seemed like rather an undue interval, a series of numbers flashed across the TV screen, then the name “SMITH, Joseph Fielding III, a.k.a. ‘Seldom Seen’ ” appeared, followed at once by the still photo, in color, of a man in his forties, the honest homely incorrigibly bucolic face of Smith himself, complete with dangling forelock, upstanding cowlick, big ears and customary broad and bucktoothed grin. He seemed to be scratching the back of his red neck with his dirty sombrero.
“What’s the record on this cowboy type?”
“He was a member of the so-called Monkey Wrench Gang,” Hatch said. “Served six months in jail, along with the so-called Doc Sarvis and his gun moll Bonnie.”
“What was the crime?”
“Rolling rocks.”
“I see.”
“Destroying property, actually. A lot of it. Rolled boulders down on people’s cars. Also suspected of arson and felonious use of high explosives. He might have been mixed up in the destruction of a coal train but they plea-bargained their way out of that charge. That’s him there on his watermelon ranch. …”
Smith appeared on the TV screen in motion now, grinning at the camera, holding up a gigantic watermelon, then tucking it behind his shoulder with one hand, other arm extended forward, as if preparing to throw a great bomb of a pass deep into the end zone. Jerkily, the hand-held camera swung about to show a bulky bear of a man in suit and tie stumbling through the melon patch, pretending to run, to catch the pass, to score a touchdown.
“That’s Sarvis,” Hatch commented. “The one they call Doc.”
“The one they call Doc. The so-called Doc Sarvis. Tell me, Lieutenant, is he or is he not an actual doctor? I mean an actual M.D. — Medicinae Doctor. “
“Yes sir, actually he is. Rather distinguished in his field, as a matter of fact, before his disgrace. He was chief of surgery at the University Medical School. Wrote a book called The Human Heart: A Romantic Disease. Used to pull down a fee of two thousand dollars an hour — if he liked you.” Hatch consulted his little black pocket notebook. “Once treated the President. After he got out of jail he switched to pediatrics. A baby doctor. Not much money in that.”
The TV screen showed Smith shoeing a horse, grinning over his shoulder at the camera as he gripped the beast’s forefoot between his knees, tacking on a new shoe. Hatch pushed the FAST FORWARD button, then the STOP, then the PLAY. The videotape proceeded at normal viewing speed, presenting Doctor Sarvis and his moll lounging about on the deck of an old-fashioned, wooden-hulled houseboat, large and comfortable but in need of paint, repair, plaster. The main cabin had been stuccoed to resemble adobe but the stucco was flaking off, exposing the rusty chickenwire beneath. The doctor himself sat on a folding canvas chair, book in hand, huge floppy straw hat shading his face, while Bonnie Abbzug, a fine figure of a woman in a high-cut black swimsuit, led a naked child up a ladder to the roof of the cabin. From there, hand in hand, laughing, they jumped off. Into the river. A sheet of muddy water leaped toward the eye of the camera, blacking out the light.
“Not sure I get the point of this home movie, Lieutenant,” said the Colonel. He sounded cross. “Why are you showing us this home movie?”
“Well, sir …” Hatch shifted nervously in the hot seat. “For the record, sir. Doing my job. Keeping these people under observation.”
“This won’t serve as evidence. We need incriminating shots, pictures of them actually tampering with mine equipment.”
“Yes sir.”
The abrasive voice cut in, speaking from the shadows. “What about the other one, that Hay duke? Got any action film on him?”
“No. Nothing. Only some old snapshots. Anyway — “
“Let’s see them.”
“Sure.” Hatch played the machine, fast forward, stop, partial rewind, stop again. The face of George Washington Hayduke, father of his country, filled the screen. Heavily blackbearded, wearing a bandit’s greasy wide-brimmed leather hat, he scowled at the photographer, squinting against the light. Unlike the others, Hayduke had a suitably villainous face, a visage savage, hot-tempered, ruthless, uncompromising.
“There’s our boy. “The second voice, long silent, had finally spoken. “Now he looks like a terrorist should look. A real psychopath. Where is he, Hatch?”
“In that picture? Well, that picture is five years old.”
“Where is he right now? Where does he live? Hang out? Hole up? Bed down?”
“How should I know? I mean, I can’t keep track of all these characters all the time. Doc, Bonnie, Smith and his wives — they’re off probation now, they come and go when they feel like it, they are four, five, maybe six separate people. I’m just one guy, I only have two eyes.” He adjusted the glasses on his nose. “Anyhow — “
“You have four eyes.”
“Anyhow we think the one called Hayduke is dead. Nobody’s seen him for several years. Got shot, body disappeared in a flood. Or maybe accidentally blew himself up, that’s what Love thinks.”
“Who’s Love?”
“He’s that small-time bigshot down in Landfill County. Bishop Love. Mine operator, trucker, rancher, County Commissioner. Wants to be a U.S. Senator. Can’t even get elected to the state legislature. Works as front man for Syn-Fuels. Does what the mining execs tell him to do, like any smart Utah politician.”
Pause. The Colonel spoke: “Don’t let yourself become cynical, Lieutenant. Cynicism is a cheap emotion, a craven substitute for thought and action. Cynicism corrodes the will, dulls the conscience, blunts your sense of right and wrong.” The Colonel paused before rounding off his mini-lecture. “Stay alert to fine distinctions: become a pessimist like me.” Chuckling in the dark.
Young Oral stiffened in his chair, the helpless flush of youth reddening his cheeks, his simple clean-cut square-jawed Eagle Scout R.M. countenance. “I’m not a cynic, sir.” That jab hurt. “Absolutely not. I’m an optimist. All my people are optimists.”
“I know,” the older man said. “That’s why I’m a pessimist.”
“Wasn’t this Hayduke in pretty thick with that doctor’s girl friend?” the harsh voice broke in. “Didn’t he get his operating funds from the doc himself?”
“They’re married now,” Hatch said. “The doctor and the woman, I mean. And yeah, I’ve had their house staked out ever since the Denver thing and that business with the bulldozer. Just in case Hayduke is still around. No sign of him.”
“And so this is all you got? No other suspects?”
A moment of hesitation before Hatch said, “Well, there is talk of some crackpot wandering around the canyonlands on a horse. The one they call the ‘Lone Ranger.’ Just talk. I can’t find anyone who’s actually seen him or knows anything about him. Or her. Those people down there, they’re cranks. Too much isolation from the rest of the world. Lots of inbreeding. They don’t trust outsiders. That little town of Hardrock, for instance, didn’t even get regular mail service until 1935 and then only once a week by mule train. Didn’t get a paved road until 1965. They think Herbert Hoover is still President. They like him. Half of them are polygamists like Smith.”
“Lieutenant,” the Colonel said, “do you know who the Lone Ranger was?”
“Who he was? Yes, sir. The guy with the mask and the silver bullets.”
“You’ve heard of Tonto, too, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know what Tonto means? Tonto means ‘fool’ in Spanish. Tonto’s name for the Lone Ranger was Kemo-sabe. That means ‘Shithead’ in Paiute. Eventually they split up. You can see why. What was that fellow wearing?”
“Wearing? Who? What fella?”
“The old bum in the restroom.”
Hatch stoked his memory. “Well, let’s see, dark in there, his clothes were so dirty I hated to even look at them, smelled terrible. Like chicken entrails.” He paused. Went on: “Sort of a riding outfit,
I guess. Black boots, tight pants, funny kind of shirt with two rows of buttons on the front. … Big white ten-gallon hat …”
Silence. They waited for Hatch to continue, staring at him. He squirmed in the hard chair, averting his eyes from the fierce light. Changing the subject, he said, “I’ll need more expense money.”
“What for?” the smoker asked. “You’re not doing much with what we already give you.”
“I need more money for those poker games.”
“Why?”
“They like to play poker. I always lose.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t lose they won’t let me play.”
“Nobody loves a loser.”
“They do.”
“We don’t.”
“You want me to stay in close with that gang or not? They still think I’m their probation officer.”
“What about that other one, what’s his name?”
“Greenspan? They think he was transferred.”
“So they trust you?”
“Trust me, who knows.” Young Hatch was getting impatient. “Maybe. As long as I keep losing they trust me. You think —? Do I get the money or not?”
“Sure, Oral,” said the first voice, “you’ll get the money. But concentrate on the game, Oral. Remember the Federal deficit.”
“Watch out for that old bottom-card mechanic,” said the second voice. “That Doc. Listen for a swishy noise. How’d you ever get into playing poker with a man named Doc? Not very smart, Oral.”
“But he is a doctor,” cried young Hatch, running a hand through his fine pale hair, then wiping the sweat from his upper lip. “He cured my toe fungus.”
“But does he always cut the deck?” said the first.
“And do you keep your mind on the game?” said the second.
“Or on Bonnie Abbzug?”
“Don’t let them bluff you.”
“What?” Exasperated, Hatch burst out again. “Bluff? They’re always bluffing. All of them. All the time. I can’t trust any of them. She’s the worst. My God, you should … And that Smith, that so-called Seldom Seen Smith, always talking, always telling stories, how’m I supposed to concentrate in a situation like that, I ask you? Holy … cow.”
Another pause in the proceedings. Quiet laughter in the dark. The TV screen flickered quietly, the silent video film unreeling yard after yard: Bonnie in her housedress suckling a baby, flashing one big tit at the camera and pointing, all smiles; Doc pedaling his three-speed Schwinn bicycle up a long grade in Salt Lake City, waving, behind him a mile-long column of steaming garbage trucks and laboring cement mixers; the laughing Smith sitting in a submerged dory, water up to his neck and a good-looking woman in each arm, all three of them making funny faces at the jiggling movie camera. … This home movie like all home movies went on and on and on. …
“Please,” asked Hatch, “can we go now? I’m tired, fellas.”
“Yes,” said the Colonel. “We’ve had an entertaining evening and it’s time for you to go home. But do try to remember that we’re not playing a humorous game with a handful of jolly pranksters. I’m talking now to the three of you. We’re here on a matter of national security. The nuclear industry is of vital importance to the Department of Energy and the Department of Defense. The White House is concerned. Bear that fact in mind. Attempts to sabotage uranium mining is an attack on the national interest. We are not here to deal with your ordinary well-meaning harmless environmentalists. We’re here to root out a gang of determined, skilled, well-financed international terrorists. Is that understood by all and sundry?”
The Colonel paused, waiting for the usual grunts of agreement. Hearing them, he concluded:
“In other words we’re talking about business. I mean business of critical national value: money. And now — no sniggers, please, I’m serious —just one more question for you, Lieutenant, and I’m letting you go.”
“Yes sir.”
The Colonel allowed a moment of silence to emphasize the importance of his questions: “Was he wearing a black mask?”
“Sir?”
“Was he wearing a black mask?”
“You mean —?”
“Yes. Him. The bum in the toilet. Was he wearing a black mask over his eyes?”
“He only had one eye. The other was glass.”
“That makes two. Answer my question.”
Young Hatch pondered the question. He was in shit and he knew it. Deep shit. Deep bad liquid mucilaginous shit. I cannot tell a lie, he thought. Why not? his devil said; your career may be at stake. But Daddy said and Mummy said, Never never tell a lie.
Tell it anyway.
I can’t.
Sure you can.
I’ll go to Hell.
No you won’t, I promise.
You promise?
Promise.
Well … but I shouldn’t.
Only this once, you’ll never have to lie again.
You mean that?
Yes, Oral.
That’s a true fact?
Oral, have I ever lied to you? Ever?
Shading his four eyes with one hand, young Hatch endeavored to see around the glaring light, to look the Colonel in the eye. Either eye. Any eye. He swallowed, swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to speak. His lips were dry, his tongue felt like a lead toad. He tried but could not speak. He tried and tried. Could not do it.
Close to pity, the three hard men behind the light stared at young J. Oral Hatch. The silence became cruel.
“All right, Lieutenant,” the Colonel said. “You can go now. You did your best, your best is none too good, but maybe it’ll improve. We’ll give you one more month to close this case. You too are on probation, as you know, from the point of view of this agency. Goodnight, Lieutenant.”
The young man rose shakily from his chair, shook hands with his three employers, mumbled the formalities of departure and left the room, closing the door gently.
The others waited, listening. One man rose, looked out the door and came back. The second man restored the floor lamp to its original place at the side of a motel desk, where the Book of Mormon rested on a tourist’s guide to the flamboyant fleshpots of Salt Lake, principal city of Deseret, Shithead Capital of the Inter-Mountain West. He switched on the zero volume television. MTV: some humanoid with an orange crest bristling on the centerline of an otherwise shaven head, wearing a cut-off black leather tank top and skin-tight black leather pants, knelt at the front of a stage with a microphone at his mouth, howling in mute anguish from the violent convulsions of his pelvic girdle.
The first man poured drinks, three tumblers of straight bourbon, no ice, passed two to his fellows, sat down. They stared at the soundless agony on the TV screen.
“He forgot his cassette.”
“Belongs to the company now.”
“You suppose he really thinks he’s a lieutenant?”
“You wrote out the commission. You typed it, you signed it.”
“But does he believe it? That kid might be brighter than he acts. Got to be. He might be investigating us. Is he under surveillance? Who knows what he’s up to behind our backs.”
“Who cares. Kid’s so uptight his asshole squeaks when he walks.”
“If he believes he’s a lieutenant he’ll believe anything.”
They fell silent, watching the silent commercial. The commercial seemed to be promoting the latest hit number of the latest hit band. You Too? Mötley Crüe? Screw You? Mee-2?
“That’s not a commercial.”
“Sure it’s a commercial.”
“No, that’s the program. The commercial was the thing before, the thing in black leather. What channel we got here?”
“You turned it on.”
“All I did was turn the thing on, I didn’t select the channel. Where are we?”
“It looks like MTV.”
“I mean what city?”
“What’s the difference?”
“There might be a Playboy Channel, we co
uld see some T and A. Some basic Western values. There might be a plain-talk straight-talk talk show. Hear the white man’s side for a change.” But nobody got up; they watched a fuliginous hominid in purple jumpsuit, androgynous face, mincing upstage with a single lacy white glove.
“Why’d you hire somebody like that Oral? Oral, for godsake. What a name. How could anybody do that to their own kid?”
“He seemed all right when I interviewed him. Kind of simple but honest. Has a college degree.”
“What school?”
“Brigham Young University.”
Nobody said anything. The men finished their drinks. The first man stood up to pour a second round. The man called Colonel finally spoke: “Excuse me, gentlemen. If you don’t mind — I really should get to bed. Have to fly back to D.C. in the morning.”
Of course, of course, the others muttered. Yes sir. As they left, the Colonel said, “And don’t worry about your boy Hatch. He’s young, he’s healthy, he’s Mormon, he’s American, he’s of perfectly average intelligence. He’ll believe anything. And he’s dedicated. He’ll make a good agent.”
9
Seldom’s Nightmare
Seldom was having the nightmare again. Twitching and mumbling like an old hound dog on the parlor rug, he lay in his big domestic bed with Sheila, his Bountiful wife, and dreamed again his dream of doom. Damnation. Death and transmogrification.
A blue glow hovered above his haybarn. The UFO again — some kind of Unidentified Fucking Object. The light revolved upon an eccentric axis, a wobbly disk of blue flopping in the night, making the tinny humming sound, semi-musical but sinister, of a child’s toy, a spinning metal top. Attracted by the light, tiny winged creatures, like angels, flew toward it, vanishing one by one in brief bright flashes of self-immolation, their only sound the buzz and crackle of electrocution. Far above the blue glow, high as a hotel, higher than a grain elevator, two small beady red lights, like a pair of spider eyes, blinked slowly on then off, on then off, from the midst of an A-frame rigging black against the stars.
He heard the horses galloping round and round in the pasture, panicky with fear. Seldom drew his revolver, aimed with facile grace at the blue disk and fired. The light stopped revolving; he heard the clatter of falling crockery. Got the insulators, he thought, by God got the goldang insulators that time. Can’t always miss. Even a blind hog’s a-gonna root up a acorn some of the time. Pleased with himself, he blew the smoke from the muzzle of his old-time black powder penile repeater and aimed again, this time at six o’clock — the lower edge of the disk — figuring that his first shot must have gone high.