The Crash of Hennington

18. Mingle, Mingle.

—Archie! Good to see you.

—That’s overly solicitous for you, Cora. Is something wrong?

—Not even a moment for pleasantries, huh?

—Don’t tell me. The Boy Prince is a no-show yet again.

—Why weren’t you a detective, Archie?

—Because I preferred to be rich. What’s his excuse this time?

—His daughter’s sick.

—If it’s anything less than plague, I’m not buying it.

—It’s Pox.

—Did she get the shots?

—Yes.

—Then he could have gotten a sitter.

—Archie—

—I left my kids home on plenty of nights when business called.

Another voice came in from behind.

—It’s a different day and age than when we were young, Archie.

—I’m thirty years older than you, Albert. There’s no ‘we’ involved at all, though I suppose you knew of this conspicuous absence as well.

—Family called, apparently, and it’s actually thirty-one years. But how are you this fine evening?

—My arches are falling.

—Isn’t that the first line of a sonnet?

Cora took Archie by the arm.

—Come. Eat something. You’ll be happier.

—Oh, yes, why don’t you rub my belly and tell me I’m a good dog while you’re at it.

—Has that been the secret all along?

—What’s to stop me from just going straight back home?

—Archie, please. Now the situation is this.

—Would you get me a whiskey, Albert?

—Straight up but very, very cold, if I remember correctly.

—Good lad.

—The situation, as I said.

—Yes, get on with it.

—Is that Max isn’t here because his little girl is sick. None of these people are really here to see him anyway. They all want to hobnob with me.

—I know that’s my preference.

—So Max gets sympathy points for brave single fatherhood, as well as for having his priorities straight.

—His priorities straight? What if a tidal wave is heading for the city but Max’s daughter has a little cough?

—It’s a different time now, Archie.

—The second time I’ve heard that inside of five minutes.

—Only because it’s true.

—Is it?

—Yes. We’ll have an in absentia fundraiser. It’ll be the talk of the town.

—It might be the talk of a very, very dull town, but even only there if it was the first time it had happened.

—The last time was my fault. A head of state had died. I had to send a representative.

—Poppycock. Oh, God bless you, Albert.

—That ought to smooth the evening out a bit.

—So, I’m an alcoholic, now, am I?

—Isn’t that really something for you to decide for yourself?

—Why did you marry this man again?

—He has an enormous penis.

—So ‘it’s not the size that counts’ has been a lie all along?

—'Fraid so.

—Bring me another, then, and let’s get this thing over with.

—Champagne?

—What I’m concerned about is the Bondulay creeping into our schools if he’s elected.

—What do you get when you cross a Rumour with an octopus?

—I think he’s very handsome.

—Harold, please. This is neither the time nor the place.

—I don’t think his race is an issue at all.

—Do you have any Cluvot?

—I’ve heard he’s part of the Rumour Underground.

—Creeping how?

—Oh, please, he hasn’t looked at a woman since his fiancée died.

—I don’t know but it sure can pick a head of lettuce.

—That doesn’t mean he won’t ever.

—Any what?

—Oh, you know how they are.

—Oh, yawn. Everyone knows that doesn’t exist.

—It sure doesn’t seem to be.

—Harold!

—'They'?

—I think he’s wrapped up in being a father.

—Oh, sure, you act shocked now, but you’ll be laughing on the car ride home.

—They call it a cultural experience and then suddenly we’re all listening to their music.

—And she’s such a sweet little girl, too.

—Secret societies control all centres of government.

—Cluvot. It’s from the North.

—I wonder what he looks like naked.

—I most certainly will not.

—What does that have to do with religion?

—He’s Rumour, so probably a hairy chest.

—And you’ll be telling everyone you know at the office tomorrow.

—Maybe Hennington’s a little more enlightened than we thought.

—You’re paranoid.

—Not necessarily. I went out with a Rumour guy in college, and he was smooth.

—Are you really this clueless, Harold?

—You sure he wasn’t waxed?

—There aren’t any wines from the North.

—It’s all stepping stones, is what I’m trying to say.

—Nobody was doing it back then.

—What? What did I say?

—Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have tweezed.

—It’s made from pears.

—A whole chestful of hair? I doubt it.

—Stepping stones.

—Precisely. I mean, he’s leading in the polls and the city’s what? A quarter Rumour?

—Have you even seen him here yet?

—Little baby steps until all of a sudden we’re overrun.

—To think otherwise is naïve.

—I heard someone say something about his daughter being sick.

—I have no response to that, except of course that the answer is no.

—That’d be just like him to stay home with her.

—Max is a Rumour.

—I’m not even sure Max Latham is a member of the Bondulay Church.

—Have you ever even met him?

—Forget it, then.

—If even that.

—No shit, but he should at least be able to take a joke.

—I prefer to think of it as sanity.

—No, but it just seems like the kind of thing he’d do.

—Of course he is. He’s Rumour. They all are.

—I think it’s something to be proud of.

—Champagne?

Albert declined another glass with a wave of his hand.

—There are some well-nigh terrifying people here, Archie.

—But terrifying people with money. That’s the important thing.

—I’d wager half of them aren’t even registered on our side of the hustings.

—Max is going to win. You always put money on the winner, no matter who you might vote for.

—Tragic but true. Makes for a nicely tense party though, don’t you think?

—I always feel like I’ve barely escaped with my life.

—That’s because you have.

—Where’s Cora?

—Over there. Hijacked by Harold Baxter. A rescue might be in order.

—Let her stay. Punishment for allowing me to be here and Max to not.

—She is my wife. A rescue is chivalrous. Come with me.

—No, I … Harold, how are you, you old son-of-a-bitch?

—Doing well, Archie. You know, I was just telling Cora here that—

—Cora, my dear, I’m leaving.

—But you just got here.

—Ninety-three minutes ago. Everyone is as cocktailed-up as they’re going to be. Besides you’ve already gotten my money and the milkings of most of the rest of this crowd.

—He even got money out of Miriam Caldwell.

—Good Lord, Archie. Did you have to join her church?

—No, no, she’s terrified of me. It was easy. But as I’ve said, I’m leaving. Walk me to my car.

—Of course. Nice talking to you, Harold. Albert, be a dear and get me another soda water.

—Certainly.

Cora and Archie walked towards the car park.

—Cora, I have concerns.

—I suppose I’m not surprised.

—I’m wondering if we’ve got a bit of a paper tiger on our hands here.

—Don’t worry, Archie. The campaign is months away, and though you admittedly haven’t had an opportunity to hear it, Max can be a very persuasive campaigner in his own way.

—He’d better be, is all I’m saying.

—What’s on your mind, Archie?

—There were some rumblings in the crowd in there.

—Rumblings about what?

—About Max being Rumour.

—Oh, Archie, you can’t be serious.

—I’m quite serious. He’d be the first. I’m not sure they, them, in there, are sure they’re ready for it.

—But everyone knew that going in. His poll numbers are high, he’s viewed with integrity—

—He’s still a Rumour. It could be the old story that people are afraid to say they wouldn’t vote for him because they don’t want to look prejudiced.

—I suppose I can see your point, Archie, but don’t you think we’re past that? We’ve had Rumour Councilmembers, Rumour Department Heads—

—I’m not saying he’s not going to win. I’m just saying it might be tougher than you, we expect it to be.

—I don’t have any illusions that there might be an element out there that might not vote for a Rumour.

—The trouble is that it’s a volatile element that could be open to persuasion as well as growth in size.

—Persuasion by whom? He’s unopposed.

—Just because there’s not a credible opponent now doesn’t mean there won’t be at some point.

—Who?

—I don’t know, Cora. Good grief. I’m speaking hypothetically. Just keep your eyes open is all I’m saying. This could be a bigger challenge than it appears on the surface.

—I wasn’t born yesterday. My last race was against Jake Caldwell, remember? All those churchkin of Miriam’s with their picket signs, pretty much calling me a wayward wife who should go back to the kitchen. Whoever thought those loonies would get thirty per cent? But at the end of the day, the voters did the right thing, and they’re going to do the right thing this time.

—Fair enough, but stay on your guard.

—That’s very sweet, Archie. I appreciate your help tonight.

—I hardly did it to be sweet.

—But you did it anyway.

—And thank God it’s over. Ah, there’s the limo.

—Have a good night, Archie.

—Remember what I said, Cora. I’m an old man. Our bodies make up in clairvoyance what they lose in malleability. There are rumblings afoot. Whether they’ll bring anything noteworthy to pass is anyone’s guess.

Albert came up behind her as Archie sped away.

—Here’s the soda water.

—Thank you, my love.

—What did Archie want? A percentage of Talon Latham’s future income?

—He thinks Max is going to have problems because he’s Rumour.

—Well, no shit. A secret conference just for that?

—I guess he wanted to impress upon me the gravity of the issue.

—?-ha, he was drunk.

—Looked that way. Let’s go back inside.

—Must we?

—Duty calls.

19. Duty Calling.

Deep in the distant far side of Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort, Jacki Strell waited on the bed for Councilman Wiggins to finish his cleanup in the bathroom. The excitable Councilman had spilled all over himself inside of twenty minutes. As usual, he had tried to hold out and Jacki had attempted the methods she knew to slow him down: giving it a finger flick on the head, grabbing a single pubic hair and pulling it out, etc. All to no avail. Given that the entertainment was informally scheduled for an hour, Jacki faced the familiar problem of dead air with Councilman Wiggins. Most of the time, they tried half-heartedly to bring him to a second climax, a climax for Jacki, of course, being the furthest thing from either of their minds. He usually just ended up biting too hard on her nipples while fumbling ineffectively with her round bottom.

Jacki sighed pleasurably. She had so much Forum in her bloodstream that Councilman Wiggins could bite away and she wouldn’t even notice until the next day rolled around and salve would be required for her inflamed, maltreated aureoles. Taking Forum was like kicking back in a hot bubble bath you could take along anywhere. The world became one movable, ongoing massage. It was fair to say she couldn’t remember what life was like before Forum, back in those non-prostitute, number-filled days with her sons and ex-husband, but one of the side effects of Forum was the peculiar accompanying belief that all of a sudden there wasn’t a life before Forum, that it was always there, that it would always be there, that no problem was ever too big or too unpleasant that it couldn’t be washed away in the enveloping stream of Forum. She barely registered the Councilman coming out of the bathroom looking both sheepish and peeved.

—I thought you said you were going to learn some new things to keep that from happening.

—It’s okay—

She blanked on his name.

—Darling. It happens to a lot of men.

—But you said you could slow things down, that it wouldn’t be a problem.

—I did slow things down, but let’s face it, you’re a little soldier who wants to shoot as soon as he gets to the firing line.

—Little.

She sighed, but didn’t lose the smile from her face.

—I don’t mean literally little. I meant it as a term of endearment.

—I’m not little.

He was. He was almost six inches shorter than Jacki, a good two stones slighter, and his genitalia, while proportional, were on the smaller side of what Jacki had seen in her most recent business days.

—No one’s saying you are.

—You just did.

—I didn’t, but we were having such a fun evening. Come here. Come back to bed. We’ll have a nice, relaxing time for the rest of the hour.

Wiggins looked skeptical.

—Maybe we can make you go twice.

—You think so?

—Honey, I’m sure of it.

What were these words? Where did they come from? She didn’t even call her children ‘honey', had never addressed her husband during the eleven years they were married as ‘darling'. And what were these clothes? She was a mathematician, for pity’s sake. Mathematicians didn’t wear rubber panties or silicon bras with zippers down the front of each breast. Accountants sure as hell didn’t wear black hosiery attached to a black metal band that gave a slight electric shock when touched. At least not on a regular basis, they didn’t. Who was she? Who was she right now?

Sometimes with Forum came the Lions, and they could kill you if you let them drag you away. Jacki closed her eyes and fought. Forum had a vibration, and while Councilman Wiggins resumed sucking down her nutrient-rich breast milk (also, incidentally, Forum-rich; Councilman Wiggins had quite unknowingly developed his own habit), she concentrated on working her way back into Forum’s vibe. She could even see it when she closed her eyes. It was honey-colored and shimmering and just out of her reach.

Breathe, Jacki, breathe.

The Lions were at her heels, trying to drag her back to the present, if she could just, if she could only, if she could—

There it was. Oh, my, yes. There it was.

Everything’s all right, honey. Nothing could be finer, darling.

Was she talking aloud?

She exhaled slowly, and her unconscious hand tenderly stroked the Councilman’s thinning brown hair.

20. In the Hours Before Morning.

The questions were as old as time itself, but no less rigorous for their familiarity:

Are there reasons for love? And are they all intangible? If not, what if intangibles are the only things I have? Am I justifying all of this for my own wishful thinking? Is that love then, or is it just rationalization? Is this what we do when we’re in love? Is there nothing real? Or is he just beyond my reach? And what does he think of me? Is he reminded of me during the rest of the week? Does my name enter his mind at work? Do I exist for him when I’m not here?

Peter hadn’t slept much. He glanced over Luther’s slumbering neck at the clock. It was still a little while before dawn. Staying for the whole night was another rarity in a clip, especially since Luther had already paid and Peter had logged in a completion over the phone hours ago. He put his face to the back of Luther’s neck, inhaling a funk that verged on the offensive but steadfastly remained deeply sexual. It was a smell only lovers got. A stranger would have wrinkled his nose at the presumption.

Luther stirred.

—Are you awake?

—Oh, sorry, Luther. I didn’t mean to wake you.

—I wasn’t sleeping.

—Me neither.

—Why not?

—Just thinking.

—What about?

—Just things. How about you? You’ve got to get up for work in a couple of hours.

—I know.

—So why are you awake? I don’t go on shift until tonight. I can afford to waste sleeping time.