Cover-Up Story (3 page)

Cousin Homer was sitting on the edge of the bed, paring his toenails. Actually, I was rather relieved to see this – I gathered it meant he wouldn't be doing it onstage. After witnessing Uncle No'ccount and the bit with the teeth, I wasn't sure just how far they went. On the other hand, if they unbuttoned sufficiently, there was a sporting chance they might be taken up by the Sunday critics and become a rage with the intelligentsia.

Cousin Ezra, sprawled in the room's only armchair, was engrossed in a magazine. I was surprised to discover he could read but, looking closer, I saw that it was a girly book. That was more typical.

They became aware of me suddenly. The harmonica died to a moan. Uncle No'ccount whipped it from his mouth and, for a moment, looked as though he were going to hide it behind his back. Cousin Ezra closed the magazine and sat on it. Cousin Homer wavered, but must have decided he was the only respectably engaged one of the lot. ‘Evenin',' he said, quite civilly for him.

‘Good evening,' I said. ‘How's the patient?' Cousin Zeke opened his eyes, but the effort of focusing was too much, and he closed them again. I began to get worried. Seasickness wouldn't have lasted this long. He should have had his land legs under him by this time.

‘He's feeling a mite poorly, still,' Uncle No'ccount said unnecessarily. He glanced at the closed door. ‘You come along by yourself, did you? Nobody waiting outside?'

‘I'm alone,' I reassured them. ‘I thought I'd look in and see how you're settling in, and find out whether there was anything I could do for you.'

Cousin Ezra snorted, wriggled the magazine out from under his rump, and went back to memorizing the blonde on page 12.

‘Nice of you. Mighty neighbourly.' Uncle No'ccount nodded amiably at me, and the harmonica crept back towards his mouth.

‘Mighta knowed it,' Cousin Homer said. ‘Y'all didn't think Bart was gonna come slumming just 'cause Zeke was sick, did you?'

‘Like to see him show up here.' Cousin Ezra looked up balefully. ‘We're on our own time. He comes shoving his nose into this hotel, I'll tell him what he can do.'

Oh, yes. The cat was away, and the mice were flourishing flick-knives and bragging to each other about how they were going to take him next time he appeared on the scene.

‘About Zeke.' I tried to call the meeting to order. ‘Does he seem better or worse than he was on the ship? I mean, do you think he needs a doctor – or have you already sent for one?'

They thought I was mad. It was in every expression. Even Zeke propped one eye open to regard me with a jaundiced look.

‘It will be safer to have a doctor check him,' I persisted. ‘You're booked for your first show day after tomorrow. You want him to appear, don't you?' A delicate thought occurred to me – I wasn't sure how much they were paid, but I'd received the distinct impression that Black Bart wasn't exactly the last of the Big Spenders. ‘You don't have to worry about the money, you know. We have a National Health Service, it won't cost you any –'

I stopped short. They were laughing at me. Not loud honest laughter, but the half-audible snickers that told me I had run afoul of a long-standing situation I knew nothing about. It was in-joke laughter, and I was on the outside looking in. Perhaps they'd explain it, so that I could join in the laughter, and perhaps they wouldn't. I waited.

‘Hell, boy! ' Cousin Ezra exploded. ‘He ain't
that
kind of sick.' They burst into guffaws. ‘He's sick, all right, just like he's always been. But it's all in his head. It's all some kind of psycho – psyoho –'

‘Psychosomatic,' Uncle No'ccount clarified. It wasn't until later that I thought the word surprising on his lips. ‘That poor boy's always like that – every time we travel. Seems his ma took him to a Conjure Woman when he was a-growing up, and that Conjure Woman, she told him he was gonna die away from home. So, every time he gets away from home, he's like this for the first two-three days. It wasn't so bad when we was starting out, but it's been blue murder since we got famous and been doing those one-night stands all over the place. Some nights, he's got up on that stage with so many pills inside him, we wasn't never sure he could even stand up, never mind play music.'

I looked at them suspiciously, but they were serious now. ‘You don't mean it – no one believes in Conjure Women in this day and age!' I was trying to convince myself, however. If anybody believed in that sort of thing,
this
little lot would.

‘We don't know as he really believes it,' Cousin Homer said, ‘but he just ain't
sure.
He'll be all right after two, three days, though. When he sees he's still alive.'

‘Be all right now,' a voice from the bed said weakly, ‘if I could just have my pills.'

I looked at Uncle No'ccount, but he shook his head. ‘Nope,' he said. ‘Bart threw his tranquillizers and sleeping pills overboard. Said he was sick and tired of all this foolishness. Kill him or cure him, Bart said, and he didn't care which, but he'd had enough of this damn fool nonsense.'

For the first time, I felt a fleeting sympathy with the Client. It couldn't be easy trying to work with this bunch of morons, no wonder he had such a nasty temper. It wouldn't do my own temper any good if I had to have much to do with them. But it was only for six weeks and, I reminded myself, Perkins & Tate needed the money.

‘Bart'd never've knowed –' Cousin Zeke surfaced again, to glare accusingly at Uncle No'ccount – ‘if Maw Cooney hadn't of snitched to him.'

‘Yeah,' Cousin Ezra joined in venomously, ‘she never could mind her own business. Somebody oughta take a meat axe to that old bag.'

‘Trouble is –' Cousin Homer seemed to be peacemaker – ‘she reckons Lou-Ann would take over that extra number if Zeke falls down on the job.'

‘She oughta –'

‘Easy, boys, easy.' I decided I ought to try some peace-making myself. At the same time, it was all grist to the mill. The story of a Conjure Woman and a hexed musician was a colourful one – perhaps we could get some coverage out of it. Build up some suspense about whether Cousin Zeke could pull himself together enough to appear on opening nights. Would the show go on, in the Great Tradition – that sort of thing. Carefully, though, we'd have to lose the part about the pills going overboard. The idea of big, kindly, lonely Homesteader Bart destroying a sick man's medicine wouldn't do anything for
his
image.

‘I'll see what I can do about getting some more tranquillizers,' I promised. ‘And I ought to talk to Bart, too. Do any of you know where he is?'

‘Out on the town, way he always is when we hit a new place.' Cousin Ezra's mouth quirked slyly. ‘With Crystal.'

‘And Lou-Ann,' Uncle No'ccount said, studying his harmonica.

‘And Maw Cooney,' Cousin Homer added. He glanced obliquely at Uncle No'ccount.

Once again, there was a private joke in the air. Even Cousin Zeke, who had given up trying to keep his eyes open, was lying back on the pillows with a knowing smirk on his face.

Once more, I was on the outside looking in, trying to assess what the hell was going on. Uncle No'ccount and Maw Cooney? Why not? It took all tastes. She wasn't a bad-looking woman, if you didn't mind the battleaxe variety.

With a show of indifference, Uncle No'ccount began improvising on the tune he had been playing earlier. The Cousins were openly grinning now, watching me challengingly. Inviting me to ask more questions, to start the hare running. There was a lot they could tell me that I ought to know, their attitudes implied.

No doubt there was, but I had had a long hard day. Whatever the Facts of Life among this troupe, I could learn them some other day. And, preferably, from some other people.

‘Since there's nothing more I can do for you, I'll say good night now,' I told them. If I'd been in the right mood, I might have found the looks of disappointment on their faces, as I closed the door behind me, comic.

But I was in the wrong mood. I didn't like any of it. The uneasiness I had felt all day was stronger than ever. Something very unpleasant was coming – and nothing could stop it.

I was going to find out the Facts of Life, all right. But I wasn't going to go looking for them. Not with the Cousins.

They were the kind of nasty-minded little boys Mother had warned me never to go behind the barn with.

I WENT BACK to the office. Perkins & Tate (Public Relations) Ltd have a small office flat near the top in one of the buildings sloping down towards the river in Villiers Street. If Maw Cooney had ever seen it, she'd have thought her old room was the Grand Ballroom at Buckingham Palace by comparison.

Gerry Tate was brooding at the window, fouling the atmosphere with one of the tiny cigars which were trying to fool the public that they were non-carcinogenic cigarettes. We had held that account for a month before the client decided one of the big advertising agencies could do a splashier job for him. We still had a crateful of the product under the desk. When we were desperate we smoked them, but we'd never again mention them by name. No publicity once the client has withdrawn the account. I saw five stubs in the ashtray. The situation must be serious – Gerry wasn't even making a face as he inhaled.

‘Which account did we lose this time?'

He hadn't heard me come in. He jumped, but recovered quickly. ‘I always said we ought to stay out of the art game.'

That was his story today. He'd been the enthusiastic one when the lady sculptor approached us a month ago and suggested that she was willing to pay a modest amount in order to get as much publicity as possible for her first one-man show in thirty years.

We'd done all we could, but she'd hated most of our ideas. Gerry had wanted her to jazz up the show by scattering a few urinals, tastefully decorated, of course, among the general works. He'd pointed out, quite rightly, that it was the sort of thing that got critics enthusiastic these days. We'd nearly lost her then and there. She was a serious, solid lady, and her works were serious, solid figures of Earth-Mother types – the sort of thing that had had a brief vogue in the thirties. But she was sure that she had ‘something to say' to today's audiences. The show had opened this afternoon, while I was trying to get Black Bart and the Troupe from the boat-train to their hotels, and then on to the Press Conference.

‘What happened?'

‘She lost her temper.' He turned away from the window. Three long jagged scratches ran down the side of his face. ‘I guess it took her by surprise, but she'd never have agreed if I asked her.'

I waited.

‘Well, you
know
it's the only way to get space these days. You know that Earth-Mother in the – uh – unfortunate position?'

Practically any of them could be described that way, but I thought I knew the one he meant. I kept waiting.

‘I hired a bidet from a plumbing supply company and shoved it under the statue.' He raised his hand and stroked the scratches gingerly. ‘The boys loved it. The show will be in most of the papers in town.'

‘But we won't get paid for it.'

‘Well – uh – no. While I was trying to hold her off, I gathered that we were not only fired – we'd never been hired. But she'll be written up on the news pages, instead of being tucked away in a couple of art reviews.' He brightened. ‘Maybe we could sue?'

He was a nice guy. He tried. Most damning of all – he meant well. Usually, I liked him. A feeling of great weariness descended on me and I slumped into the chair behind the desk.

‘Hell, Doug – I'm sorry. I didn't know she'd take it like that. I know this is a hell of a time to have this happen. With the sleeping partner's brother in town, and all.'

And all. And maybe ready to take over Perkins & Tate; to step in as boss and show us how to run the company. Why not? He could scarcely do worse.

‘Arrrgh! I don't know why we keep trying!' Gerry stubbed out the cigar, reached for another, and drew back. ‘People are always saying, “Where are the Great Press Agents? Why don't we have publicity stunts like they used to have in the Good Old Days ?” '

He was the only one I'd ever heard saying that, but I just nodded. He'd read all the books about the Good Old Days. They'd gone to his head.

‘But I say, “Where are the Great Clients?” They're all gutless wonders these days. They think reporting a jewel robbery is the way to get their names in the paper's. Where are the Clients who'll put their shoulders to the wheel and co-operate? Where are the Clients who'll dress up in an Admiral's uniform and review the Fleet? Who'll cross Niagara Falls on a tightrope today?'

‘Blondin was a tightrope-walker to begin with,' I put in.

‘Gone, all gone,' he shook his head sadly. ‘Now they hand you a mug shot beaming over a birthday cake or an engagement ring and expect you to get headlines for that. Or a baby. How the hell can you get a four-column cut for a bratling, after the first shot with doting mummy in hospital?'

It was a good routine. Perhaps Sam would be impressed by it. It isn't our fault, it's the Client's. Everybody's out of step but Gerry and Doug.

‘Oh, well,' Gerry sighed, and raised his hand solemnly. ‘Never, never again, do we mention the name of that hyphenated-hag. No free publicity for her, ever.'

I raised my right hand. ‘Never again.'

‘Enough of my troubles,' Gerry said. ‘How did you get on with the Homebreakers – or whoever they are?'

Despite the cheery front, his morale was too low for the truth. It might do me a world of good to confess my uneasy feeling that Black Bart and the Troupe were going to join the ranks of the Great Unmentionables – after doing us a lot of damage first – but I had to consider the business.