Nim asked curiously, “Does it really work?”
“Damn right it works!” Wally’s enthusiasm bubbled on. “I’ve seen it. I also found out there are hundreds of people who’ve been fitted, who’ve had the surgery, successfully. And, Nim, I’ll tell you something else.”
“What?”
“That penile prosthesis isn’t only for people like me, people who got injured. It’s for others—older men usually, who are normal except they’ve run out of steam and can’t make it with a woman any more. What it does is give them a whole new lease on life. How about you, Nim? Do you need help?”
“Not that kind. Not yet, thank God!”
“But you might someday. Just think of it! No sexual hangup—ever. You could go to your grave with an erection.”
Nim grinned. “And what would I do with it there?”
“Hey, there’s Mary!” Wally exclaimed. “She came to pick me up. Can’t drive a car myself yet.”
Across the lobby Nim could see Mary Talbot, Wally’s wife. She had spotted them and was coming over. Beside her, Nim saw with some concern, was Ardythe Talbot. He had neither seen nor heard from Ardythe since their encounter at the hospital when she hysterically blamed her own and Nim’s “sin” for Wally’s troubles. Nim wondered if she had modified her religious fervor.
The signs of strain were on both women. It was, after all, only seven months since Walter Talbot’s tragic death during the bombing at La Mission plant, and Wally Jr.’s accident had happened just a few weeks later. Mary, who had been slim for as long as Nim remembered her, had noticeably put on weight; worry and unhappiness could account for that, of course. And her gamine look had modified, making her seem older. Nim found himself hoping that what Wally had just told him worked. If it did, it should help them both.
Ardythe appeared to be a little better than when he had last seen her, but not much. In contrast to the way she had been immediately before Walter’s death—handsome, stylish, athletic—she was now just another elderly woman. But she smiled at Nim, and greeted him with friendliness, which relieved him.
They chatted. Nim expressed pleasure once more at seeing Wally mobile. Mary said someone had told her, on her way in, about Nim’s speech and she congratulated him. Ardythe reported that she had found some more of Walter’s old files and wanted GSP & L to have them. Nim offered to collect them if she wished.
“There’s no need for that,” Ardythe said hastily. “I can send them to you. There aren’t as many as last time and …”
She stopped. “Nim, what’s wrong?”
He was staring at her, startled, his mouth agape.
“Last time …” Walter Talbot’s files!
“Nim,” Ardythe repeated, “is anything the matter?” Mary and Wally were looking at him curiously too.
“No,” he managed to say. “No, it’s just that I remembered something.”
Now he knew. Knew what that missing piece of information was which had nagged at his mind, yet eluded him, since that day in Eric Humphrey’s office with the chairman, Harry London, and Mr. Justice Yale. It was in Walter Talbot’s old files, the files Ardythe had given Nim, in several cardboard cartons, shortly after Walter’s death. At the time Nim had gone through them briefly; now they were stored at GSP & L.
“I guess we’d better go,” Wally said. “It was nice seeing you, Nim.”
“The same here,” Nim responded, “and, Wally—good luck in everything!”
When all three had gone, Nim stood rooted, thinking. He knew what was there now, in those files. He knew, too, what had to be done. But he must verify, authenticate his memory, first.
In another three days. Immediately after the convention.
2
Rush, rush, rush! That was always the way it was, Nancy Molineaux thought as she pushed her Mercedes well past the speed limit, taking chances in the traffic, keeping a wary eye on the rearview mirror for any cruising cops.
The pressures of life never seemed to let up for a single goddam day.
She had hurriedly phoned in her story on Goldman, which would appear in this afternoon’s edition, and now—already ten minutes late—was on the way to meet Yvette. Nancy hoped the girl would have sense enough to wait.
This afternoon Nancy had some loose ends of other work to clear up, for which she would need to return to the Examiner office. Oh yes, and somehow she had to sandwich in time to get to the bank because she needed money. She had a dentist appointment at four. Then, this evening she had promised to go to two parties, one a “drop in,” early, and another which would groove on for sure until well past midnight.
But she liked a fast tempo, at work and play, though there were days—like this one—when a bit too much happened.
While she drove, Nancy smiled as she thought of her report of Goldman’s speech. It would probably surprise him because it was a straightforward, no-slant job, as she had intended.
Several hundred leaders of America’s electric power industry today gave a standing ovation to Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, who declared that politically dominated regulatory agencies are abusing public trust and “compete brazenly with each other in establishing power bases.”
He was addressing the National Electric Institute convention, meeting in this city.
Earlier, Goldman criticized some environmentalists who, he said, oppose everything. “There is nothing, absolutely nothing, we of the power industry can propose …”
Et cetera, et cetera.
She had quoted some of his statements, also, about that electric power famine he claimed was coming, so if Goldman had any beef this time it would have to do with what he had said himself, not the reporting.
Jesus! How did some of those slow-thinking freaks who had cars ever get drivers’ licenses? She was second in line at a traffic light which had gone to green, but the guy in front hadn’t moved yet. Was he asleep? She sounded her horn impatiently. Shit! The traffic light winked to amber, then red as Nancy reached it. But the cross street seemed clear so she took a chance and ran the red.
After a few more minutes she could see that crummy bar ahead, where she had been last week. How late was she? As she came level with the bar, Nancy glanced at her Piaget watch. Eighteen minutes. And wouldn’t you know!—there was no parking space today. She found a spot two blocks away and, after locking the Mercedes, hurried back.
Inside the bar it was dark and mildewy, as before. As Nancy paused, letting her eyes adjust, she had the impression that nothing had changed in seven days, not even the customers.
Yvette had waited, Nancy saw. She was seated alone, a beer in front of her, at the same corner table they had occupied previously. She glanced up as Nancy approached, but gave no sign of interest or recognition.
“Hi!” Nancy greeted her. “Sorry I’m late.”
Yvette shrugged slightly, but said nothing.
Nancy signaled a waiter. “Another beer.” She waited until it came, in the meantime covertly inspecting the girl, who had still said nothing. She appeared to be in even worse shape than a week ago—her skin blotchy, hair a mess. The same clothes were dirty and looked as if they had been slept in for a month. On her right hand was the improvised glove, presumably shielding a deformity, which Nancy had noticed at their first encounter.
Nancy took a swig of her beer, which tasted good, then decided to come to the point. “You said you’d tell me today what goes on in that house on Crocker Street, and what Davey Birdsong does there.”
Yvette looked up. “No, I didn’t. You just hoped I would.”
“Okay, well I’m still hoping. Why don’t you start by telling me what it is you’re afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid any more.” The girl made the statement in a flat, dull voice, her face expressionless.
Nancy thought: She wasn’t getting anywhere and maybe it had been a waste of time coming. Trying again, she asked, “So what happened between last week and this to make the difference?”
Yvette didn??
?t answer. Instead she seemed to be considering, weighing something in her mind. While she did, as if instinctively and unaware of what she was doing, she used her left hand to rub the right. First with the glove on, then she slipped it off.
With shock and horror Nancy stared at what was exposed.
What had been a hand was an ugly red-white mess of weals and scars. Two fingers were gone, with uneven stubs remaining and loose flesh protruding. The other fingers, while more or less complete, had jagged portions missing. One finger was grotesquely bent, a dried yellow piece of bone exposed.
Nancy said, sickened, “My God! What happened to your hand?”
Yvette glanced down, then realizing what she had done, covered the hand hastily.
Nancy persisted, “What happened?”
“It was … I had an accident.”
“But who left it like that? A doctor?”
“I didn’t go to one,” Yvette said. She choked back tears. “They wouldn’t let me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Nancy felt her anger rising. “Bird-song?”
The girl nodded. “And Georgos.”
“Who the hell is Georgos? And why wouldn’t they take you to a doctor?” Nancy reached out, gripping Yvette’s good hand. “Kid, let me help you! I can. And we can still do something about that hand. There’s time.”
The girl shook her head. The emotion had drained from her, leaving her face and eyes as they had been earlier—empty, dull, resigned.
“Just tell me,” Nancy pleaded. “Tell me what it’s all about.”
Yvette let out her breath in what might, or might not, have been a sigh. Then, abruptly, she reached down beside her to the floor and lifted up a battered brown purse. Opening it, she took out two recording tape cassettes which she put on the table and slid across to Nancy.
“It’s all there,” Yvette said. Then, in a single movement, she drained what remained of her beer and stood up to go.
“Hey!” Nancy protested. “Don’t leave yet! We only just got started. Listen, why not tell me what’s on those tapes so we can talk about it?”
“It’s all there,” the girl repeated.
“Yes, but …” Nancy found she was talking to herself. A moment later the outer door opened, briefly admitting sunlight, then Yvette was gone.
There seemed nothing to be gained by going after her.
Curiously, Nancy turned the tape cassettes over in her hand, recognizing them as a cheap brand which could be bought in packets for a dollar or so each. Neither cassette was labeled; there was just a penciled 1, 2, 3, 4 on the various sides. Well, she would play them on her tape deck at home tonight and hope there was something worthwhile there. She felt let down and disappointed, though, not to have got some definite information while Yvette was with her.
Nancy finished her beer and paid for it, then left. A half hour later she was in the Examiner city room, immersed in other work.
3
When Yvette told Nancy Molineaux, “I’m not afraid any more,” the statement was true. Yesterday Yvette had reached a decision which relieved her of concern about immediate affairs, freed her from all doubts, anxiety and pain, and removed the overwhelming fear—which she had lived with for months—of her arrest and life imprisonment.
The decision yesterday was simply that, as soon as she had delivered the tapes to that switched-on black woman who worked for a newspaper, and who would know what to do with them, Yvette would kill herself. When she left the Crocker Street house this morning—for the last time—she carried with her the means to do so.
And now she had delivered the tapes, those tapes she put together, carefully and patiently, and which incriminated Georgos and Davey Birdsong, revealed what they had done and what they planned, and disclosed the scenario of destruction and murder intended for tonight—or rather 3 A.M. tomorrow—at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Georgos hadn’t thought she knew about that, but all the time she had.
Walking away from that bar, and now that it was done, Yvette felt at peace.
Peace, at last.
It had been a long time since she had known any. For sure there had been none with Georgos, though at first the excitement of being Georgos’ woman, of listening to his educated talk and sharing the important things he did, had made everything else seem not to matter. It was only later, much later, when it was too late to help herself, that she began wondering if Georgos was sick, if all of his cleverness and college learning had become in some way … what was that word? … perverted.
Now she truly believed it had been, believed that Georgos was sick, maybe even mad.
And yet, Yvette reminded herself, she still cared about Georgos; even now, when she had done what she had to. And whatever happened to him, she hoped he wouldn’t get hurt too badly, or be made to suffer much, though she knew both things could happen after the black woman played those tapes today and told whoever she decided to—the police most likely—what was on them.
About Davey Birdsong, though, Yvette didn’t give a damn. She didn’t like him, never had. He was mean and hard, never showing any of the little kindnesses Georgos did, despite Georgos being a revolutionary and not being supposed to. Birdsong could be killed before today was out, or rot in jail forever, and she wouldn’t care; in fact, she hoped one of the two would happen. Yvette blamed Birdsong for a lot of the bad scenes that had happened to her and Georgos. The Christopher Columbus Hotel thing had been Birdsong’s idea; that was in the tapes too.
Then she realized she would never know what happened to Birdsong, or Georgos, because she would be dead herself.
Oh God—she was only twenty-two! She had hardly started her life and didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to spend the rest of it in prison either. Even dying was better than that.
Yvette kept on walking. She knew where she was going and it would take roughly half an hour. That was something else she had decided yesterday.
It was less than four months ago—a week after that night on the hill above Millfield when Georgos killed the two guards—that she realized just how much trouble she was in. Murder. She was guilty of it, equally with Georgos.
At first she hadn’t believed him when he told her. He was merely trying to frighten her, she thought, when, on the way back to the city from Millfield, he had warned, “You’re in this as much as I am. You were there, a part of it all, and you killed those pigs just as if you pulled the knife or fired the gun. So whatever happens to me happens to you.”
But a few days later she read in a newspaper about the California trial of three men charged with first-degree murder. The trio had broken into a building together and their leader shot and killed a night watchman. Though the other two were unarmed and did not participate actively in the killing, all three were found guilty and given the same sentence—life imprisonment without possibility of parole. It was then Yvette realized that Georgos had been telling the truth and, from that moment, her desperation grew.
It grew, based on the knowledge that there was no going back, no escaping what she had become. That had been the hardest thing to accept, even while knowing there was no alternative.
Some nights, lying awake beside Georgos in the darkness of that dreary Crocker Street house, she had fantasized that she could go back, back to the farm in Kansas where she had been born and lived as a child. Compared with here and now, those days seemed bright and carefree.
Which was bullshit, of course.
The farm was a rocky twenty acres from which Yvette’s father, a sour, cantankerous, quarrelsome man, barely scratched enough of a living to feed the family of six, let alone meet mortgage payments. It was never a home of warmth or love. Fierce fights between the parents were a norm which their children learned to emulate. Yvette’s mother, a chronic complainer, frequently let Yvette—the youngest—know she hadn’t been wanted and an abortion would have been preferable.
Yvette, following the example of her two older brothers and a sister, left home for good as soon as she was able, and never went back
. She had no idea where any of the family were now, or if her parents were dead, and told herself she didn’t care. She wondered, though, if her parents, or brothers and sister, would hear or read about her death, and if it would matter to them in any way.
Of course, Yvette thought, it would be easy to blame those earlier years for what had happened to her since, but it would be neither true nor fair. After coming west, and despite her legal minimum of schooling, she had gotten a job as a department store salesclerk—in the infants’ wear department, which she liked. She enjoyed helping choose clothes for little kids and, about that time, had the feeling she would like to have children herself someday, though she would not treat them the way she had been treated at home.
The thing that happened, which put her on the road she finally walked with Georgos, was being taken, by another girl Yvette worked with, to some left-wing political meetings. One thing led to another, later she met Georgos and … Oh God, what was the use of going over it all again!
Yvette was well aware that in some ways she was not bright. She always had difficulty in figuring things out and, at the small country school she attended until age sixteen, her teachers let her know she was a dunderhead. Which was probably why, when Georgos persuaded her to give up her job and go underground with him to form Friends of Freedom, Yvette hadn’t any real idea of what she was getting into. At the time it sounded like fun and adventure, not—as it turned out to be—the worst mistake of her life.
The realization that she—like Georgos, Wayde, Ute and Felix—had become a hunted criminal came to Yvette gradually. When it was implanted fully, she was terrified. What would they do to her if she was caught? Yvette thought of Patty Hearst, and what Hearst had been made to suffer, and she was a victim for Chrissakes. How much worse would it be for Yvette, who was not?
(Yvette remembered how Georgos and the other three revolutionaries had laughed and laughed over the Patty Hearst trial, laughed about the way the establishment was falling over itself in a self-righteous effort to crucify one of its own, just to prove it could. Of course, as Georgos said afterward, if Hearst—in that particular case—had been poor, or black like Angela Davis, she would have gotten sympathy and a fairer shake. It was Hearst’s misfortune that her old man had money. Hilarious, though! Yvette could still see their small group watching TV and breaking up each time the trial reports came on.)