The Comedy is Finished (17 page)

Larry shook his head. Joyce kept dabbing at his face, saying things.

Peter said, sharply, “Joyce, leave him alone. Larry, tell me what happened.”

“Mark is an
animal
!” Joyce said, indignantly, glaring at Peter.

“No, he isn’t,” Peter told her. “He’s a very disturbed and explosive human being, and I’d like to know from Larry what set him off.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said, voice rasping. “He’s always so—I only—” He shook his head.

“All right, Larry, from the beginning. What happened?”

Larry rested his forehead on his palm. An occasional shudder rippled through him as gradually he calmed. “I was talking with Koo,” he said. “Then Koo said he wanted to speak with Mark. I pointed out—”

“Wait a minute,” Peter said. “Koo Davis
asked
for Mark?”

“It surprised me, too,” Larry said, lifting his head, looking up at Peter. “But he insisted. We made a deal; first he’d talk with Mark, then again with me. He was getting interested, Peter. He brought up the subject of Korea himself, he’s beginning to see how the pieces fit.”

Peter was skeptical, but he said, “All right. So you came to Mark.”

“I told him about Koo,” Larry said, petulance creeping into his voice. “He refused, he just flat refused. No explanation, nothing. Then all at once he started hitting me.”

“He’s a beast,” Joyce declared. She was seated now on the sofa, shredding damp tissues nervously between her hands.

Peter shook his head. “Larry, no. There had to be more to it than that.”

“But there wasn’t. I asked him, he refused, he started hitting me.”

“How many times did you ask him?”

“Two or three,” Larry said, obviously grudging any piece of information that might complicate his story.

But Peter was insistent: “What did he say the first time you asked him?”

“He said no! He never said anything but no, and then he started using his fists.”

Shaking his head, Peter said, “There’s something more in all this. There’s something I don’t understand.”

“Oh, is there? Well, I’ll be happy to tell you what it is.” Larry struggled to his feet, pushing away Joyce’s eager attempts to help. “What you don’t understand, Peter, is that Mark is taking over!”

“Oh, now,” Peter said, with a little sardonic smile, “don’t get carried away, Larry. Mark is not exactly what we call leadership material.”

“That’s right,” Larry said. “When Mark’s in charge, everything is going to blow up. And it’s happening, he’s taking over. Only because
you
won’t stop him. Like that business with Davis’ medicine.”

“Stop right there,” Peter said, defensively becoming angry himself, getting to his feet and pointing at Larry with a jabbing forefinger. “It so happens Mark was right about that. They needed a lesson. And they apologized in plenty of time, just as Mark said they would.”

“And demanding that Wiskiel be put back in charge?”

“Mark was right again. You didn’t argue against it. Larry, sometimes you’re right, and I listen to you. And sometimes Mark is right, believe it or not.”

“This time
I’m
right,” Larry insisted. “You’re losing control, and
Mark is moving into the vacuum, and that’s disastrous. You’ve always been very good, Peter, but before this we’ve always been hit-and-run. None of us is right for this kind of long-term operation.”

Peter’s cheeks burned and stung. “Everything is working,” he said. “The only problems are among ourselves. The operation is doing fine.”

“Problems among ourselves? Peter, that’s what’ll kill us. You have to take charge, you have to be in command. You absolutely have to run things.”

“All right,” Peter said, cold and angry. “Then I’ll give you a direct order. Stay away from Mark.”

“And him? Mark? What about him?”

“He’s none of your business.
I’ll
take care of Mark.”

“But you won’t.”

Peter was about to say something even angrier when Joyce suddenly cried, “Oh, my gosh.” Turning, he saw Liz on her feet out by the pool, walking in slow circles, patting the air in front of her as though it contained an invisible wall. Joyce hurried out there, and Peter watched her take Liz by the arm, walk her back to the yellow chaise longue.

Speaking quietly, Larry said, “We’re breaking down, Peter. We’re
all
the weakest link.”

“We’ll hold together,” Peter told him; firmly, making it true by the sheer determination of his manner. Then, unable to hear any more dispute, he turned away, hesitated, unsure for a second where he intended to go, and then crossed the room and went out the front door, following Mark.

Who was gone; and so was the Impala. Not good. Mark was too unpredictable. He might merely go for a drive until he’d cooled off, or he could start a fight in some bar and get himself in trouble, or he might even leave entirely, deciding again to break with the
group. Mark had disappeared more than once over the years, each time returning a few days later or phoning from some distant place; it was never convenient when he pulled such stunts, and this time it could be a disaster. Aside from anything else, he had their only transportation, since the van had been dumped last night in the Burbank Airport long-term parking lot.

It was difficult for Peter not to show his increasing hostility toward the group. He’d known them all a long time, too long and too well. They were the only soldiers available to him now, here in the Valley Forge of the New Revolution, but after this operation he would never see them again. Only this operation was needed, the freeing of the ten, himself as an instrument, and the corner would be turned. Peter Dinely would be established.

He knew he was the only one in the group who thought historically. None of the others could project beyond the immediate results of action, but at least they were prepared to follow where they themselves could not see the path. Did they know
why
it was so vital to free the ten? No, and if he were to waste his breath in explanations they still wouldn’t understand. But they acknowledged
his
capacity and followed his orders, which made them both essential and unbearable. Soon I must have equals about me, Peter thought, or I shall wither.

Everything was pressing in. Peter wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Larry was to a degree right; the pressure was becoming too great. That was why the deadline had to be met, why they didn’t dare let this thing drag on any longer. Six P.M. today; four hours from now. There had to be an answer by then, period.

And if the answer was no?

“We’ll kill him,” Peter muttered aloud. “And start all over.” And next time, if Davis were dead, they’d be treated more seriously by the other side.

Oh, God, how his cheeks hurt! How he wished he could stop the chewing, chewing, chewing. Sometimes he’d hold a knuckle in his mouth and bite down on that, but with his lips parted the air could touch his wounds, causing them to sting and burn even more. Rubbing his cheeks with both hands, moaning in his throat at the pain, Peter stood just outside the front door and tried to think what to do next.

Not go back inside; he couldn’t deal with another Larry scene, not now. And God alone knew what was happening with Liz. No, not back into the house.

In front of him, the hill sloped steeply upward, clothed in a ground cover of dark green ivy. A red brick path meandered up through the ivy, slanting along the hill face, here and there becoming shallow brick steps. At the top, he knew, was an untended garden, where remnants of asparagus and strawberries struggled amid choking thick weeds. Some previous owner had planted that garden, which had not been cared for in at least three years. Having no other possible destination, Peter climbed the path, moving slowly, holding his jaw clamped shut.

At the top, the land leveled somewhat and the brick path widened into a kind of small patio, with a stone bench facing the view of the valley over the roof of the house. At one end of the patio was a small weathered plywood toolshed, barely four feet high. The garden was beyond the patio on the level width of land, and beyond that, just before the hillside rose steeply upward again, was the fence marking the property line, with a small locked gate leading out to a blacktop driveway, a common road shared by several of the neighbors farther up the hill. Peter, reaching the level part, glanced without interest at the tangle of plants in the garden, then stood looking out at the Valley, trying not to think, trying not to chew.

After a few minutes, he sighed and turned to sit on the stone bench, and that was when he saw the trousered legs jutting out from behind the toolshed. He cried out, reflexively, as though he’d been punched in the throat, and actually felt his heart bulge inside his chest. Icy terror drenched him, and all he could do was stand there, strangling, his eyes fixed on those legs. Who? For the love of God,
who
?

But then the person, who had been sitting back there with his legs stretched out, leaned forward, his grinning monkey face coming into view, and Peter gasped, “Oh! Oh, it’s
you
! Jee-sus! Son of a
bitch
, you scared the hell out of me!”

“Why, Peter,” said the sly monkey face. “What an effect I have on you.”

“Jesus God.” Peter was sure he would fall, he was that weak and dizzy. Clutching the stone bench, he lowered himself onto it and sat there panting. “Oh, Ginger,” he said. “For God’s sake, Ginger, don’t ever do that.”

Laughing, enjoying himself hugely, Ginger Merville clambered to his feet and came over to sit beside Peter. “If you could see your face—!”

“What—what are you
doing
here? You’re supposed to be in Paris.”

“I came back.” Ginger shrugged, still delighted with himself. “We’re off to Tokyo, actually, but I thought it’d be fun to come back
en route
, see how the old plantation’s getting along without me.”

“But where’s Flavia?”

“Still in Paris. She’s flying direct. Over the po-o-o-ole,” Ginger said, sweeping one arm over his head, languidly wiggling callous-tipped fingers.

Peter was catching his breath now, calming down. He said,
“What’s the matter with you, Ginger? Do you
want
to get involved? The whole idea was, you’re in Paris, we broke into your house, you didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Well, I
don’t
know a thing about it. I’m staying at a beach place in Malibu.
You
know; Kenny’s place. He still has it, after all these years.” Then Ginger smiled in a sympathetic way, giving Peter a consoling pat on the knee. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “I’ve explained it to just
everybody
. Since the house is for rent, and I’m only here two or three days, I didn’t want to open the place and mess it all up.
Ergo
, the beach house.

“Ginger, you’re crazy,” Peter said. But then, since in fact that was true, he awkwardly added, “You’re risking your position. And what for? There’s no
point
coming here.”

Ginger leaned closer, smirking as though he were about to confide a dirty secret. “I want to see him,” he whispered.

Peter stared in shock; this
was
a dirty secret. “See him!”

“Through the window. I’ll slip into the pool—”

“No! For God’s sake, Ginger!” Peter’s repugnance showed on his face. “If you want to see him, watch television, they have all his movies on.”

“I know,” Ginger said. “Just as though he were dead. But I want to
see
him, Peter, in my little hideaway room.”

“And he’ll see you.”

“I’ll wait till after dark.”

“It’ll all be over by then,” Peter said confidently. “The deadline’s six o’clock.”

Ginger’s smile turned mock-pitying. “Oh, come off it,” he said. “
You
know they can’t gear up by then. Twenty-four hours? You must be joking.”

Twenty-four hours. It was true, they’d captured Davis only yesterday afternoon. Emotions create their own time, and it seemed
to Peter now as though he and Davis and Mark and Larry and Liz and Joyce had been imprisoned together for months. He said, mulishly, “It has to end.”

“But not by six o’clock, not
today
.”

“We’ll kill him,” Peter said, glowering as though Ginger were on the other side, as though this were the negotiation.

Ginger’s monkey face at last forgot to smile. “Peter,” he said, looking and sounding worried. “Don’t lose your cool, Peter. Killing Koo Davis isn’t the object of the exercise.”

“I know that. You don’t have to remind me.”

“But I’m awfully afraid I do,” Ginger said. Squeezing Peter’s knee, he said, “Forgive me for being a schoolmarm, but you do
remember
the object of the exercise, don’t you?”

“Ginger, stop it.”

“I’m just terribly afraid you’ve become caught in the drama of it all. Don’t become a Dillinger manqué, my dear.”

“I won’t,” Peter said sullenly. He didn’t like being lectured, and particularly not by a shallow creature like Ginger.

“Ease my mind, Peter,” Ginger said. “Tell me again the object of the exercise.”

Peter pressed the heels of both hands to his cheeks, squinting against the pain. “Not now, Ginger.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” Ginger said. “America today is very very roughly analogous to Russia between 1905 and 1917; between the revolution that failed and the revolution that succeeded. The revolution of the sixties failed, the cadres are dispersed, the militants have faded back into normal life, the threat to
this
society is ended. For now.”

“All right,” Peter said.

“Your task in this period,” Ginger persisted, “is to maintain
yourself and prepare for the next round, the successful round. And
I
am backing you to be one of the new leaders.”

“Yes.”

“You may not be the Lenin of the New American Revolution, but you’ll be one of those with him in the sealed train.”

“Yes.” Peter lowered his hands from his face, and sat up a bit straighter. Hearing his own ideas recited back to him, in all seriousness, was bringing him out of his funk, reminding him that all this had a reason.

“Brownie points,” Ginger said, with his elfin grin. “Brownie points with the remaining revolutionaries.
That’s
the object of this exercise.
You
will be the man who freed so many of them from prison.”