Stories (2011)

  On a hot August day, the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed pulled up the long, scenic drive to Larry's mansion. A moment later, Larry and James were in Larry's study and Herman stood outside the closed door with his arms akimbo, doing what he did best. Waiting silently.

  James was dressed in black again. He still wore the thick-framed sunshades. "You know what I've come for, don't you?"

  Larry nodded. "The favor."

  "On March fifteenth, Bestsellers Guaranteed will arrange for an autograph party in Austin for your new bestseller, whatever that may be. At eleven-fifteen, you will excuse yourself to go upstairs to the men's room. Next door to it is a janitor's lounge. It hasn't been used in years. It's locked but we will provide you with the key.

  "At the rear of the lounge is a restroom. Lift off the back of the commode and you will discover eight small packages taped to the inside. Open these and fit them together and you'll have a very sophisticated air rifle. One of the packages will contain a canister of ice, and in the middle, dyed red, you will find a bullet-shaped projectile of ice. The air gun can send that projectile through three inches of steel without the ice shattering.

  "You will load the gun, go to the window, and at exactly eleven-twenty-five, the Governor will drive by in an open car in the midst of the parade.

  A small hole has been cut in the restroom window. It will exactly accommodate the barrel of the rifle and the scope will fit snugly against the glass. You will take aim, and in a manner of seconds, your favor for this year will be done."

  "Why the Governor?"

  "That is our concern."

  "I've never shot a rifle."

  "We'll train you. You have until March. You won't need to know much more than how to put the rifle together and look through the scope. The weapon will do the rest."

  "If I refuse?"

  "The bestselling author of Texas Backlash will be found murdered in his home by a couple of burglars, and a couple of undesirables will be framed for the crime. Don't you think that has a nicer ring to it than the hit-and-run program I offered you before? Or perhaps, as a warning, we'll do something to your lady friend. What's her name, Luna?"

  "You wouldn't!"

  "If it would offer incentive or achieve our desired goals, Mr. Melford, we would do anything."

  "You bastard!"

  "That'll be quite enough, Mr. Melford. You've reaped the rewards of our services, and now we expect to be repaid.

  "It seems a small thing to ask for your success–and certainly you wouldn't want to die at the hands of other bestselling authors, the ones who will ultimately be your assassins."

  In spite of the air-conditioning, Larry had begun to sweat. "Just who are you guys, really?"

  "I've told you. We're an organization with big plans. What we sponsor more than anything else, Mr. Melford, is moral corruption. We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego; put them in positions of power and influence. We belong to a group, to put it naively, who believe that once the silly concepts of morality and honor break down, then we, who really know how things work, can take control and make them work to our advantage. To put it even more simply, Mr. Melford, we will own it all."

  "I . . . I can't just cold-bloodedly murder someone."

  "Oh, I think you can. I've got faith in you. Look around you, Mr. Melford.

  Look at all you've got. Think of what you've got to lose, then tell me if you can murder from a distance someone you don't even know. I'll wait outside with Herman for your answer. You have two minutes."

  From the March fifteenth edition of The Austin Statesman, a front-page headline:

  GOVERNOR ASSASSINATED, ASSASSIN SOUGHT.

  From the same issue, page 4B:

  BESTSELLING AUTHOR LARRY

  MELFORD SIGNS BOOKS.

  Six months later, in the master bedroom of Larry Melford's estate, Larry was sitting nude in front of the dresser mirror, clipping unruly nose hairs.

  On the bed behind him, nude, dark, luscious, lay Luna Malone. There was a healthy glow of sweat on her body as she lay with two pillows propped under her head; her raven hair was like an explosion of ink against their whiteness.

  "Larry," she said. "you know, I've been thinking . . . I mean there's something I've been wanting to tell you, but haven't said anything about it because . . . well, I was afraid you might get the wrong idea. But now that we've known each other a while, and things look solid . . . Larry, I'm a writer."

  Larry quit clipping his nose hairs. He put the clipper on the dresser and turned very slowly. "You're what?"

  "I mean, I want to be. And not just now, not just this minute. I've always wanted to be. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd laugh, or worse, think I'd only got to know you so you could give me an in, but I've been writing for years and have sent book after book, story after story in, and just know I'm good, and well . . . "

  "You want me to look at it?"

  "Yeah, but more than that, Larry. I need an in. It's what I've always wanted. To write a bestseller. I'd kill for . . . "

  "Get out! Get the hell out!"

  "Larry, I didn't meet you for that reason. . . ."

  "Get the hell out or I'll throw you out."

  "Larry . . ."

  "Now!" He stood up from the chair, grabbed her dressing gown. "Just go.

  Leave everything. I'll have it sent to you. Get dressed and never let me see you again."

  "Aren't you being a little silly about this? I mean . . . "

  Larry moved as fast as an eagle swooping down on a field mouse. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her off the bed onto the floor.

  "All right, you bastard, all right." Luna stood. She grabbed the robe and slipped into it. "So I did meet you for an in; what’s wrong with that? I bet you had some help along the way. It sure couldn't have been because you're a great writer. I can hardly force myself through that garbage you write."

  He slapped her across the cheek so hard she fell back on the bed.

  Holding her face, she got up, gathered her clothes and walked stiffly to the bathroom. Less than a minute later, she came out dressed, the robe over her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry about hitting you," Larry said. "But I meant what I said about never wanting to see you again."

  "You're crazy, man. You know that? Crazy. All I asked you for was an in, just . . . "

  Luna stopped talking. Larry had lifted his head to look at her. His eyes looked as dark and flat as the twin barrels of a shotgun.

  "Don't bother having Francis drive me home. I'll call a cab from downstairs, Mr. Big-shot Writer."

  She went out, slamming the bedroom door. Larry got up and turned off the light, went back to the dresser chair and sat in the darkness for a long time.

  Nearly a year and a half later, not long after completing a favor for Bestsellers Guaranteed, and acquiring a somewhat rabid taste for alcoholic beverages, Larry was in the Houston airport waiting to catch a plane for Hawaii for a long vacation when he saw a woman in the distance who looked familiar. She turned and he recognized her immediately. It was Luna Malone. Still beautiful, a bit more worldly looking, and dressed to the hilt.

  She saw him before he could dart away. She waved. He smiled. She came over and shook hands with him. "Larry, you aren't still mad, are you?"

  "No, I'm not mad. Good to see you. You look great."

  "Thanks."

  "Where're you going?"

  "Italy. Rome."

  "Pope country," Larry said with a smile, but at his words, Luna jumped.

  "Yes . . . Pope country."

  The announcer called for the flight to Rome, Italy. Luna and Larry shook hands again and she went away.

  To kill time, Larry went to the airport bookstores. He found he couldn't even look at the big cardboard display with his latest bestseller in it. He didn't like to look at bestsellers by anyone. But something did catch his eye. It was the cardboard display next to his. The book was called The Little Storm, and appeared to be one of those steamy romance novels. But
what had caught his eye was the big, emblazoned name of the author: LUNA MALONE.

  Larry felt like a python had uncoiled inside of him. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life.

  "Italy, Rome," she had said.

  "Pope country," he had said, and she jumped.

  Larry stumbled back against the rack of his book, and his clumsiness knocked it over. The books tumbled to the floor. One of them slid between his legs and when he looked down he saw that it had turned over to its back. There was his smiling face looking up at him. Larry Melford, big name author, bestseller, a man whose books found their way into the homes of millions of readers.

  Suddenly, Hawaii was forgotten and Larry was running, running to the nearest pay phone. What had James said about moral corruption? "We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego . . . once silly concepts of morality and honor break down . . . we will own it all."

  The nightmare had to end. Bestsellers Guaranteed had to be exposed. He would wash his hands with blood and moral corruption no more. He would turn himself in.

  With trembling hand, he picked up the phone, put in his change, and dialed the police.

  From today's Houston Chronicle, front page headline:

  POPE ASSASSINATED.

  From the same edition, the last page before the Want Ads, the last paragraph:

  BESTSELLING AUTHOR MURDERED IN HOME.

  The story follows:

  "Police suspect the brutal murder of author Larry Melford occurred when he surprised burglars in the act. Thus far, police have been unable to . . . "

  SURVEILLANCE

  When Johnson arose from bed he was careful to not scratch himself, and when he went to the bathroom to do his business, he sat on the toilet with his pajama pants down and a towel across his lap. Finally, however, modesty had to be discarded. He finished up on the toilet and undressed quickly and jumped in the shower and pulled the curtain, knowing full well that he could be seen by the overhead camera, but at least the one over the door was not directed at him, and sometimes, he felt that if he could minimize the number of cameras on him, he could count it as some sort of victory.

  He toweled off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and then he dressed even more quickly, and went down and had his breakfast. He wanted to have two eggs instead of the one allotted, but the cameras were there, and if he had two, there would be the ticket from headquarters, and the fine. He had the one, and the one cup of coffee allotted, went out to this car and pushed the button that turned it on. It went along the route it was supposed to go, and he could hear the almost silent twisting of the little cameras on their cables as they turned in the ceiling and dash and armrests of the car to get a full view of his face, which he tried to keep neutral.

  When the car parked him in the company parking lot, he got out and looked at the cameras in the parking garage, sighed, went to the elevator that took him down to the street. In the elevator he looked at the red eye of the camera there. He didn’t even feel comfortable picking his nose, and he needed to.

  He could remember before everything was so secure and so safe, when you could do that and not end up as an electrical charge on billions of little chips funneled through billions of little wires, or for that matter, thrown wireless across the voids, to have the impulses collected like puzzle pieces and thrown together in your image, showing all that you did from morning to night.

  The only place he had found any privacy was under the covers. He could pick his nose there. He could masturbate there, but he knew the cameras would pick up his moves beneath the covers, and certainly plenty of people had no problem picking their nose or showing their dicks or grunting at stool, knowing full well that eventually some human eye would look at it all and smack its lips over certain things, or laugh at this or that, but he was not amongst them.

  He arrived at the street level and stepped off the elevator. All along the street the cameras on the wire snakes moved and twisted every which way. He walked along until he was a block from his office, and he noticed an old building off to the side. He passed it every day, but today he looked at it, and saw there was a doorway set back deep. When he came to it he looked in and saw that it had a little squeeze space inside, a place that had been made to get out of the rain or to place your umbrella.

  He looked at the cameras on the street, and they looked at him. He stepped into the alcove and turned so that he was in the little nook and cranny. He stood there for a while, and then he sat down in the space, and knew for the first time in a long time, no camera could see him. The camera knew he had gone there, but it couldn’t see him, and that gave him a great moment of peace, and soon he found he didn’t want to leave, and he watched as the sunlight changed and moved and people walked by, not noticing. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them and he could see their shadows. He picked his nose and flicked the boogers, and took deep breaths and enjoyed the coolness of the stone on his back.

  Come nightfall he was still there, and he felt content. He was hungry, but still he didn’t leave. He sat there and enjoyed it. When the lights of the city came on, he still sat there, and wouldn’t move, and finally two police officers came. They had seen the cameras, the film, and they had seen where he had gone and that he had not come out. They arrested him and took him downtown and put him in the jail where the cameras worked night and day from every angle in the cell, and when they put him there, he began to scream, and he screamed all night, and into the morning, when they finally came for him and gave him a sedative and put him in a ward with others who had tried to hide from the cameras. The shots they gave him made him sleep, and in his sleep the cameras whirled and twisted on cables throughout the place and took his image and shot it across wireless space and tucked it away on little cells smaller than atoms.

  In the next week, the old building was torn down and a new one was put up and the cameras were installed.

  Everything worked nicely. No one could hide from the cameras. Everyone’s mail was read before they read it, and their phone calls were monitored, and to be safe they made sure no one had the chance to use lawyers or complain, and the world was nice and easy and oh so safe, now that there was nothing left to fear.

  HANG IN THERE

  I was dreaming about our new home-to-be on Nine World. Trying to imagine just how fast our spaceship was traveling, and how long it would be before we got there, when Dad woke me.

  "Son," he whispered, "we've got a problem."

  I sat up in my bunk and rubbed my eyes. "Problem?" I asked. "What kind of problem?"

  "Son, I want you to listen real close. I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't absolutely necessary, or if I thought you couldn't do it."

  I eased my legs out over the edge of my bunk and let my feet dangle.

  Something in Dad's voice frightened me a little.

  "The ship has lost entry power," he said.

  "Entry power?"

  "That's right. Remember what I told you about this trip?"

  "About how we would travel faster than light speed till we hit the Seashell Galaxy?"

  "That's right, David. And if you remember, I told you that we would have to cut below light speed upon entering the galaxy so as not to overshoot our destination. We would then proceed to Nine World at a normal cruise speed. Remember?"

  "I remember, Dad. We're supposed to orbit Nine World till we get the radio go ahead to break into the gravitational field and land."

  "That's right. That's the problem."

  "The radio is out?"

  "That and one other thing. Something more important. We've lost power to enter into the gravitational field. The main computer controlling entry jets has malfunctioned."

  I tried not to gulp. "You mean we're lost in space?"

  "Not quite. We know exactly where we are, but we can't land or even contact Nine Base and tell them the problem. Right now we're orbiting.

  And without main power, we'll continue to orbit. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Dad. But what can I
do?"

  "That's what I'm coming to, Son. When we switched from faster-than-light speed to normal cruise speed, an error in the computer led us into a minor collision with a meteor."

  "I didn't feel anything."

  Dad shook his head. "Neither did I. It didn't make that great an impact, but it did cause some serious damage. "

  "The loss of entry power and radio communications?" I asked.

  "Exactly. You're old enough that I don't have to sugarcoat the truth. Right now this ship, the lights, the anti-gravitation and the oxygen supply are working off the auxiliary emergency unit. Auxiliary power is restricted to the forefront of this ship. The passenger and the crew section. It's not enough to bring us into port. It will roughly supply twenty-four hours of power. After that…"

  "It's quits?"

  "Correct. That's where you come in. "

  "But what can I do, Dad?"

  "Get dressed, quick, and come with me. I'll let the captain explain. Be as quiet as you can. Your mother and the kids don't know a thing about this.

  It's best we keep it that way, for now."

  I climbed out of my bunk, got dressed, pronto. After that I went quietly with Dad to the Control Room. It was the first time I'd ever been inside. It had always been off limits before. The view glass folded around us to show a wide shield of black space, twinkling stars and a huge, red planet called Nine World. The world that was to be our home. Maybe.

  The captain—a tall, thin man with graying hair—walked over to me and stuck out his hand. I took it and we shook. I knew it must be something that depended on me pretty bad. Usually all I got from the captain was a pat on the head. The captain squatted down so that he was face to face with me. He put his hands on my shoulders.

  "David. Your dad explained the problem?"

  I nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "We've thought this thing out backwards and forwards," the captain said, "and I'll be honest with you. It doesn't look good. We know you're young, but your dad says that you can do it. Of course it's up to you."