The Crash of Hennington (11 page)

—What on earth for?

—Drink up, Mr Odom. It’s free.

—Whew. Strong one.

—That’s the way we like them here at Hennington Hills. Now. Mr Odom.

—Could I get another one of these?

—Of course. Tracy? Have you met Tracy?

—It’s a pleasure.

—Interesting you should put it that way, Mr Odom.

—I beg your pardon?

Thomas paused. Was nothing ever easy? But then, easy wasn’t fun, was it?

—Surely you’ve heard one or two stories regarding all that we have to offer here at Hennington Hills.

—Oh, yes, it’s a beautiful course, and I hear the others are just as nice. The grounds are quite something.

—But you must have heard, I don’t know, a story or two? Regarding the facilities?

Tracy placed another drink in front of Odom. Thomas could tell by the small amount of blue at the bottom that this one was nearly pure alcohol. Good girl.

—I’m not following you.

—About the things we can also provide besides those things that are only, how can one put it, apparent on the surface.

—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

—You didn’t just come to me for a round of golf and a country club membership, Mr Odom.

—What else would I have come for?

Odom took another long draft from his cocktail schooner, set it down on the countertop, and looked Thomas straight in the eye. He didn’t say another word. You’ll pay for this, Thomas thought. Literally, in amounts you’ll barely be able to afford but will somehow be unable to keep yourself from spending. I will take you down, and I will do it in the worst possible way, by making you beg me for it.

—We offer our members amenities not available at your run-of-the-mill country club. We are also expert providers in
the more, shall we say,
sensual
areas of relaxation that the modern businessperson is so often in desperate need of.

—Uh-huh. And what would those be?

Enough.

—It matters very little if you’re taping this, Mr Odom. I’ve investigated your background, and I already have some interesting tidbits that would keep you from using any recording against me. So if you’re working undercover to take care of some past ugliness, why not turn it over to me rather than let the soiled hands of law enforcement make you a puppet? And if you’re recording this for your own protection at a later date, I can assure you from experience that such protection is both unnecessary and irrelevant.

Odom’s face went ashen. Gotcha, fucker, and on a guess, no less. Odom took another drink and remained silent.

—I can’t think of any reason why your entry into Hennington Hills should be anything other than a pleasant, worry-free experience for both of us. Come. Give me the tape.

Odom drank again, then slowly reached in his pocket and pulled out a micro-recorder.

—How did you know?

—It’s not uncommon. Trying to get me to say the first questionable thing and so forth.

—It was for the second reason, by the way, my own protection. I’m not undercover or anything.

—I know.

—How?

—Is it really important? What’s important is that you’re here, that we’ve gotten past these awkward formalities, and that you begin to learn all the wonderful things we can offer you at Hennington Hills.

—So what they say is true?

—Where have you been, my good man? I thought I’d at least gotten past the level of mere hearsay.

—And I can join?

—Mr Odom, I wouldn’t think of letting you leave
without
joining.

Thomas smiled as Tracy set down an already-completed application form in front of Mr Odom.

—You’ll see the membership fees are a bit steep, but we think they’re worth it. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Odom took the pen lying next to the application and signed it without another word. He set down the pen and took another drink.

—I’m sorry about the tape.

—Already forgotten.

—It’s just, you see—

—Say no more, Mr Odom. You were merely protecting yourself. It was admirable.

—So … I’m in?

—Irretrievably.

—When can I start?

—You’re almost there, Mr Odom. You just need to answer me one simple question.

Thomas took a last long drag and extinguished the end with a slow turn in the ashtray.

—What’s the question?

—I want you to think about this clearly, Mr Odom – may I call you Armand? – Armand, because it’s the most important part of your application, the most important question we have here at Hennington Hills. The question is.

—Yes?

—What do you like?

25. Maggerty in the City.

The young man in the apron swept the sidewalk in front of the store with a petulant snap of his wrists. He was the son of the owner and would naturally have rather been doing anything else in the world than sweeping the sidewalk in front of the store. It was hours before noon, but the sun was already promising another hot day, perfect for the illegal No Margin Surfing off of Darius Point that the young man, whose name was Jay, loved to sneak away to with his friends. NMS was a sport for those who thought themselves invincible, hence only those under twenty were ever interested. You paddled your board out over currents that could grab you and pull you down three hundred feet, collapsing your lungs before you even had a chance to scream, but that was only if the sharks, which were everywhere, didn’t get you first, which they would eventually. Jay had already lost three fingers on his left hand down the gullet of a hammerhead. No big deal. Forty-one stitches didn’t take all
that
long to heal. But the currents and the sharks were only the beginning. If you managed to make it around the Point alive, what awaited were waves sixty feet high traveling at forty nautical miles an hour. If you then actually managed to catch one of these monstrosities, you still had to navigate it perfectly to expel yourself out the end of the tube and into open water before the wave slammed you into the solid rock cliffs that comprised the western side of Darius Point. None of this was at all possible without being thoroughly twinged on itch which, if it didn’t help your navigation much, at least got you out on the water in the first place. No Margin. Meaning no mistakes.

Jay ran his hand absentmindedly over the flat packet of itch in his back pocket. He looked up at the sun again and
frowned. Fuck, man, it wasn’t fair. He went back to pushing the broom angrily across the concrete. He was just about finished and ready to go back inside (and maybe, just maybe, say sayonara to the old man and take off for some NMS anyway, maybe if the old man was sleeping, maybe), when Maggerty stumbled down the street, heading right for the store. Jay looked around for The Crash and saw them passing along a cross-street one block up. Maggerty’s reason for straying was obvious. Jay’s father sold produce in slanted racks out in front of the store, packed full with the morning’s delivery of apples, oranges, cantaloupes, strawberries, blackberries, haggleberries, and huge, pink bonnet melons with the vines still attached, as well as a generous helping of yesterday’s white corn and a solitary jumbo kiwi sweating juice through its hide of erect hairs.

Maggerty reached the middle of the street and stopped about ten yards away. Somehow, without even looking up, he seemed to notice the young man with the broom standing in front of the piles of fruit. Traffic had been cut off by The Crash up at the main intersection, so there were no cars to honk Maggerty off. He shifted from foot to foot, looking at different patches of ground that hopped into and out of his line of vision.

Here was a moment of expectation. If there had been no one there, Maggerty would simply have taken something and the morning would have continued onward. But there
was
someone there and so this moment was necessary. He had made his peace with it. He knew that he had only to stay where he was before he would either be given food or he would not. Sometimes this latter version of events involved being chased away, but not often. Only wait, and something would eventually happen to kick the day forward again. His breathing slowed. He touched his wound and brought his
fingertips briefly to his nose to smell the nature of the suppuration. He tapped his bare, filthy toes on the warm blacktop and scratched between his buttocks. He waited for an outcome.

Jay rubbed his hand across the packet of itch again and stared at the Rhinoherd. He had never seen him this close before. He had only heard the regular town folklore of Maggerty – something about a goat and fairly obvious madness – along with all the usual talk at the high school, where ‘Maggerty’ was pejorative for any poor kid with a hygiene problem. But at this hour of the morning, when the sun was already squint-worthy and shadows turned you into a mountaintop, there was only himself looking into the street at the Rhinoherd, who seemed to be dancing in a shuffling, fidgety sort of way. A faint, foul smell reached Jay’s nostrils, but it was more animal than filth, more sad than disgusting.

He walked slowly over to the fruit without taking his eyes off of Maggerty. He took hold of an orange and palmed it up into the air and down again. He leaned backwards against the wood of the fruit rack and felt the itch pressing from his back pocket. Silently but with the efficient motion of a muscled No Margin Surfer, he tossed the orange underhand towards the Rhinoherd. It hit Maggerty in the shoulder and rolled clumsily to the pavement.

Maggerty roused from his stopped-time stupor. There was fruit at his feet. He reached down to pick it up. A bonnet melon rolled across the concrete into his reach. An apple appeared there, too, and then a soft, wet jumbo kiwi. It was as much as Maggerty could carry, and he scooped them up into his arms. He stumbled away down the street back towards the already disappearing Crash, pressing the fruit into his mouth.

Jay watched the Rhinoherd turning the corner a block
away. He touched the itch in his pocket again without realizing it and reluctantly returned to sweeping.

26. What Do You Want?

—You wanted to see me, Cora?

—Have a seat, Max.

—So it’s one of those kinds of talks.

—Actually, come to think of it, maybe you
are
in trouble. You’re the one who’s going to have to figure that out, I think.

—Why do I feel like I did when my parents wanted to know if I smoked hash in the eighth grade?

—Did you?

—Smoke hash? No. But then again you already know that. ‘No skeletons allowed', if I remember my first job interview correctly.

—I was merely being a smart politician, Max. However megalomaniacal it may sound, I do have a legacy, and I don’t want to leave it to just anyone. Which brings us conveniently to the point.

—Look, I’m sorry again about the fundraiser, but Talon was sick.

—Yes, I know, that’s not the issue. We raised over eighty thousand for you last night. That puts your pot at over 1.2 million. More than enough for airtime, signs, get-out-the-vote projects, the rest of your campaign staff. In short, pretty much enough for the whole race, including your inauguration ball and hair of the dog the morning after. Now, if you would just
start
your campaign any time in the near future, why, that would be lovely, too. Oh, don’t sigh at me, Max. I’ve known you for ten years. Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.

—Nothing’s ‘going on'.

—Then answer me this simple question. Do you want to be Mayor or don’t you? Because if you don’t, you’d better tell me right now, as in this morning, or a lot of people are going to be plenty peeved. Fundraising is bad enough, though I am happy to spend my evening touting your real and considerable assets. That’s not bull. I think you’ll make a great Mayor. But explaining to all those folks whose behinds are wet with my saliva why their money might not be going where they thought it was would be much worse.

—I said, I’m sorry for not being there.

—Not the point. I know you model yourself as a kind of brooding idealist—

—I do not.

—You do. You do, and that’s fine. Money to soup kitchens, needle-exchange programs, hunger relief for The Crash, all good stuff, but it’s the idealism catch that’s been around forever: in order to accomplish anything idealistic, you have to first be in a position of power to do something.

—That’s not quite true. Volunteers implement a lot of idealistic ideas.

—Oh, for God’s sake, Max, quit being argumentative. It’s a simple equation. Idealism without implementation equals moral impotence. I know you find politicking distasteful, so do I, but why come this far just to not get over that final qualm? Is it a case of nerves? Is it a matter of requiring a simple pep talk? Because I can do that if that’s all you need. But I’m worried that it might be something more. Well, not worried exactly, but
aware
that something’s at work here. So stop being evasive and start talking.

—Cora, there’s nothing I could tell you that would ease your mind.

—So don’t ease my mind. Shake it up a bit. I’ll manage.

—All right then. It’s this whole question of the inevitability of it all.

—You mean the election being a foregone conclusion?

—Well, yes, in a way, but I also mean for myself. I haven’t done anything since I got out of law school except work here and stay on this career fast-track. I’ll be forty in three years, and I’ve never done anything else.

—My suspicion is that that’s probably just cold feet, Max. It’s natural to question your motivation, especially just as you’re about to join the battle to move to the next level.

—I wouldn’t believe you’ve ever gotten cold feet about anything.

—Every time I’ve run. Hell, I get cold feet when I decide where to go for dinner. ‘Do I really want noodles?’ Perfectly natural, even more so for someone like you who’s introspective to a rather large and annoying degree. You commit five years of your life by becoming Mayor, more if you include the campaign.

—It’s not the time commitment that bothers me, although it’s odd to think that Talon will be about to graduate from high school before my first term is up. I don’t like to think I’d be slighting her. But more to the point it feels as if I’ve been heading for this and only this from the beginning, that Mayor is what I was destined to be. At least that’s what people seem to say when they talk to me, that fate has selected me out because of whatever reasons fate has and everything’s lined up to lead me directly to this, as if I’ve had no choice in the matter.