[note to NDP: The Message Board was inaccessible last night so I could not post. I intend to reach the board again around 3 a.m. PDT, on Sunday. --dougie_monty]
standard classic punk covers. You know–Ramones, Clash, Sex Pistols. We also do some more recent stuff like songs by the Hives, White Stripes, and Sleater-Kinney."
“Do you do only covers?” Alice inquires.
“We have been trying to write some of our own stuff,” Chuck says, “but we don’t feel quite ready enough.”
“Why not?” I say. “Punk by its nature is supposed to have a raw do-it-yourself feel to it. How many original songs have you written?”
“Uh … well, we have this one song called Avril Lavigne: Poseur Punk Queen,” Linda mentions.
“Sounds interesting,” I comment. “Any others?”
“Um … actually … that’s it,” Linda says hesitantly. “We’ve only written one song.”
“Oh,” I say remembering that the oldest person in this group is 16 and that it would be ridiculous to expect them to be on the same level as, say, Elvis Costello or Liz Phair. “You wouldn’t mind playing it for us right now?”
“No,” Doris Bradley says enthusiastically. And they immediately assemble their instruments and set up the speakers. In the yet-unnamed group, Chuck Brown is on drums, Doris plays bass, Nancy Sharp is on guitar as is Linda who also handles the lead vocals. Linda signals for the amps to be turned on, counts, “One, two, three, four!” and hits the screeching, feedback-laden opening chords of the song that reverberates through the entire theater from the sub-basement to the rafters. Then, with Chuck’s drum work indicating a shift in pace, the whole group starts to play with such a rapid fury that they look and sound like they’ve been downing espressos all morning. Linda leans over the microphone and motor-mouths the lyrics.
*Avril Lavigne,
You’re a poseur punk queen!
You call yourself a rebel?
Well that’s obscene!
Romping through the mall,
Having yourself a ball.
I hope you and your friend sk8er boi,
Just crash into a wall.
Avril Lavigne,
Poseur punk queen!
Avril Lavigne,
Poseur punk queen!
We mean it man!
We mean it man!
Avril Lavigne,
You think you’re a punk queen.
Even though your image was created,
By the corporate multi-media machine.
You’ve got that fake surly 'tude,
And think a tie with torn clothes is so rude.
But you don’t know who David Bowie is,
And think P.J. Harvey is a dude!
Avril Lavigne,
Poseur punk queen!
Avril Lavigne,
Poseur punk queen!
We mean it man!
We mean it man!*
And, with that, this supersonic jackhammer drill of a song abruptly ends. I put my hands up around my ears to make sure they’re not bleeding. I look at Alice. She has a stunned look on her face like she’s been listening to continuous SST landings for a month.
“Uh … there was supposed to be another verse to this song,” Linda sheepishly says, “but we’re not finished with it yet. What’s everybody think of what we have so far?”
I think the performance is crude, clumsy, and LOUD. However, I don’t want to tell them that right now. Instead, I wait for Alice and Eloise to give their opinion first.
Eloise starts by saying…
“Well, Doris, you promised ‘punk’ and that’s what you delivered. I’ll leave it up to the steering committee to decide whether to include it.” I know Alice and Loora Oranjeboom are on the committee, but I don’t remember offhand who else is. I note that Eloise, and several other women, find that the vibrations loosened their blouse buttons and bra straps, and they blush as they make necessary adjustments. :eek:
Alice agrees with Eloise, but she wonders out loud whether the people in the Starbuck’s or the hairdresser’s will object. And to me she comments telepathically, and I wonder whether the body-shop workers will think it’s too loud… 
Amy Dolan also speaks up. “You kids sure out-rocked us,” she says, referring, of course, to Prester John’s Aunt. I have noticed that not only does Amy, whom I have known myself for a long time, have a bosom as full as that of the others in the Contralto Quartet, but she must have the lowest-pitched voice of any woman I’ve ever met! :rolleyes:
Eloise thanks the kids, who go to put their instruments away and await the committee’s decision.
The rest of us recover from the kids’ performance. Apparently ignoring the mothers’ pep talk, the young Oranjeboom girls resume chasing Mary Blonda’s sons down the aisles; Eloise asks them not to. Some of us react with amusement to this preadolescent “interaction.”
Now Alice and I feel “peckish.” Along with Dr. Laura Clouse, we go to the theater kitchen. I take sandwich makings—meat, cheese, lettuce, condiments, etc., from the refrigerator; Alice gets some cans of soup and bowls from the cupboards. Dr. Clouse brings some fruit and a bottle of milk. Buster comes in and meows; I get him some cream and a hunk of liver. He nods a thank-you and dines contentedly. 
Alice and Laura choose their sandwich ingredients; we have wheat and rye bread, as well as white; and watercress, among other ingredients. I heat soup in the microwave; it’s Manhattan-style clam chowder. I get spoons and other utensils.
We sit down at the table with the sandwiches, soup, milk, and fruit. Buster is nearby. Alice sits close to me. By this time I am accustomed to the color of her eyes, so much so I can tell—as now—when her pupils are expanding, and I sure know what that means… 
Meanwhile, we prepare to discuss the performances, including the kids’ punk band, and the plans the steering committee will consider.
But before this begins, and before Alice’s primal urge begins to manifest itself, Dr. Laura has some comments about the youngest kids—Loora Oranjeboom’s daughters and Mary Blonda’s sons—and also about Red Nicholas. She speaks…
“It’s common for pre-adolescent girls to tease pre-adolescent boys but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable for the pre-adolescent boys.”
Dr. Clouse’s comment causes me to flashback to some uncomfortable memories of myself at age 12. Fortunately, she then moves on to the topic of Red Nicholas.
“I’ll probably be examining Red Nicholas sometime this week,” she says. “Is he still being watched around the clock?”
“Yes,” I answer, “Jock just got done with his shift. I don’t know who’s doing it now.”
“He knows we’re closely monitoring him doesn’t he?”
“We’ve never directly told him but I think he’s probably aware by now that we’re not going to let him out of our sight. I’m actually kind of surprised he didn’t make his break when we went to De Caro’s.”
“Well, gold coins not withstanding, he probably doesn’t have enough hard currency on him right now to live in the outside world,” Alice states. “Without money, he’s just a powerless vulnerable old man. Or, perhaps there’s something that’s keeping him here.”
“Regardless of why he hasn’t tried to bolt yet, you’ve got to be careful around Nicholas,” I tell Dr. Clouse. “You saw what he made Andy and Artie do.”
Buster then jumps up on the table. He has some choice words to offer us on the subject of Red Nicholas…
“I think I can handle him. I’ve encountered all different personality types in my job.”
ERROR!:smack: The last paragraphs are out of order. They should read as follows:
“Regardless of why he hasn’t tried to bolt yet, you’ve got to be careful around Nicholas,” I tell Dr. Clouse. “You saw what he made Andy and Artie do.”
“I think I can handle him. I’ve encountered all different personality types in my job.”
Buster then jumps up on the table. He has some choice words to offer us on the subject of Red Nicholas…
“We may want to take this up with Al the Alien, who had contact with Nicholas for ten solid years. And we should contact Al soon—all those outer-space critters are ready to leave.
“It seems obvious to me Nicholas is pretty much a social animal. I suggest we get some impressions about Nicholas from those critters before they leave. For example, what emotional state was he in when they first met him? And did he have contact with Lemoyne at all?”
I add, “Nicholas seemed to adjust so well to our dinner group. He was right in the middle of us as we walked to, and from, De Caro’s. And when we got to the dining room he didn’t sit at the end of the table, away from others. I think he really needs to maintain contact with others.”
Buster now jumps off the table, having expressed his opinion. He jumps onto a large overstuffed chair near the table, and lies there contentedly, still listening to us.
Now I mention that Lena, who is presently still on stage, and I, will go today to Excelsior Insurance to give information to Harriet McKenna about the fruit attacks. I tell Dr. Clouse about how Lena seemed attracted to the adjuster, and how Harriet herself, not the most discreet woman, has flirted with Lena and with me, including exposing her underwear.
Laura Clouse mulls over this and urges me—and the absent Lena—to stick to business, and to keep our guard up in case Ms. McKenna digresses from the business at hand.
We then return to the stage area. Rehearsals have just ended for the day, and the program is starting to take shape. Dr. Clouse now gets into a lively conversation, on various matters, with Eloise, Jane, Louise, and Loora Oranjeboom.
Alice, meanwhile, steers me over to the bench near the stage. She sits close and looks me straight in the eye—and she takes her glasses, and mine, off, for emphasis. Telepathically she says to me: Let’s sneak off.
So we sneak off, to a private dressing room on the second floor, some distance from the stage area. From the glint in her eye, I know what she wants.
We undress and lie on the large mat, and spend two hours in pure ecstatic “interaction.”
Then we shower—together—and change clothes, and return to the stage area to invite others to accompany us to Sam Chu Lin’s, a Chinese restaurant a block away, across the street. It’s now dinnertime.
(Dinnertime Sunday, that is. The appointment Lena and I have is on Monday.–dougie_monty)
“But what are we going to do about Red Nicholas?” Dr. Clouse asks.
“We could have somebody stay here and watch him or we could bring along with us again,” I say. “Of course, I’m not sure if we should take another chance.”
“Why don’t you go back to the lounge and run it by Fred and Salbert,” Alice suggests. “I think they know more than anyone about the risk of Red escaping.”
I take Alice’s advice. There, in the lounge, Fred is sitting on the couch half-reading the newspaper and half-watching CNN on the TV.
"Fred, we’re all about to head over to Sam Chu Lin’s for dinner–
“Sam Chu Lin’s?” he says with interest. “Great place. My favorite’s the General Tso’s Chicken. The Mongolian barbecue’s also good.”
“Fine, but we were wondering what to do with Red Nicholas. By the way, where’s Salbert?”
“He’s watching Red right now in one of the dressing rooms. I know for sure Red won’t try anything with Salbert.”
“How about Jock? Did Red get him to do anything?”
“No, Jock was pretty much resistant to Red’s temptations. Of course, Red’s running out of gold pieces so he probably didn’t having anything to offer him. Jock said that all Red did was watch TV.”
“Anyway, what I want to know is whether we leave should someone here to watch Red while we’re all gone or can we trust Red long enough to come along with us like he did yesterday.”
"I’m not sure if we should take that chance again. The only way I would feel somewhat sure Red won’t try to escape is if we handcuffed him to somebody and even then–
“What’s Salbert’s opinion on Red?”
“Let’s go ask him. We can check on Red too.”
Fred gets up from the couch, turns off the TV, and walks out the door with me following. We head down the hall until we get to the door of what looks like was once the star dressing room. Fred opens the door and we quietly walk in. Inside, Salbert is sitting in a wooden chair close to the door reading Paradise Lost while Red sits in another wooden chair intensely staring at a 18" TV that’s been placed upon the make-up desk. On the screen is Dr. Phil.
“How’s it going?” Fred whispers to Salbert.
“No trouble at all,” Salbert replies almost silently. “No complaints, no pranks, no stories. In fact, all Red hasn’t said anything the whole time I’ve been here. He just watches TV and changes channels.”
As if on cue, Red clicks the remote and Dr. Phil disappears. He flashes past a baseball game, a NASCAR race, Emeril, hockey, and several infomercials before settling on Bill O’ Reilly.
“I see Red’s already mastered the art of channel surfing,” I comment.
“Damn annoying too,” mutters Salbert. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he’s watched this afternoon–soap operas, Jerry Springer, wrestling, Fox news! He seems to have no critical judgment whatsoever. And he never stays with anything for more than ten minutes.”
“Don’t worry, we’re about to take you out of the vast wasteland,” Fred says. “We’re going to Sam Chu Lin’s for dinner. But we wanted to ask you about something first.”
“What’s that?”
“It concerns Red. Do you think we can let him out to go with us or should we keep guarding him? (Incidentally, I favor the latter.)”
“I’d also like to keep Red here. But we’d have to get someone to guard him.”
All the while, Red keeps staring the screen not seeming to have any idea of the conversation going on in the same room.
“Who would guard him?” I inquire.
“I know,” answers Fred with a smile. "Let’s get…
Leo!
Good idea!
As if on cue, Leo appears in the hallway. Fred and Salbert explain what they have in mind.
“Sure, I can keep an eye on him,” the ghost says. “I think he’s seen me a few times and he always retreats as if he’s seen—well, you get the idea. I can send ______ or Alice or Lena a telepathic message if he even appears to get out of line.”
“Good idea,” says Salbert. “And we’ll have Artie, Mike, and Andrew pick up take-out food and eat in Jack’s van outside the restaurant, and be ready to come back here on a moment’s notice.”
So Leo flits around in the hallway just outside the office. Nicholas is as oblivious as ever, watching Rickie Lake, Judge Judy, local news, and Everybody Loves Raymond.
We gather in the conference room to prepare for the walk to Sam Chu Lin’s. Everybody is in really ordinary clothes. Jack Sharp calls ahead for our group. We lock up and leave the Morpheus and walk en masse down the street.
I notice that Katrina and Maria are walking with Bobby and George, whose shyness seems to have ebbed. The boys still blush a little. And Claudia, Nicholas’ descendant, seems to have taken a shine to Artie’s younger brother Brian; he is delighted to be with her and Jane Bradley’s two daughters, who know ASL while Brian does not. And Claudia has agreed to keep telepathically tuned in to her aged ancestor.
We go into the restaurant. The hostess meets us; Jack Sharp identifies us and the hostess leads us to a large private dining room. I happen to face her.
“Carol Woo?” I ask.
“_________? Oh, how have you been? I haven’t seen you since high school!”
“Carol?” asks Dr. Clouse. She recognizes Carol too.
We’re delighted to meet her. We continue to talk as she leads us to the private dining room. A busboy brings a large stack of menus; Carol hands them out to us. Two other waitresses come in; there are 37 in our party, but that includes Artie, Mike, and Andrew, who order first because they’ll be eating take-out food in the van. They will order and pay separately.
The table arrangement allows all of us to see and hear each other very well. Alice, being left-handed, sits to my left. I notice that the two Oranjeboom girls sit opposite from Alice and me, with Bobby and George Blonda between them. The two boys seem to be more accustomed to the girls now.
After we order, and we get water, tea, and teacups, we all engage in a lively, absorbing conversation. Amy asks about Lena and me going to the insurance company office in the morning; there’s a long discussion about the performance program; we talk about what to bring back for Buster (who is also keeping an eye on Nicholas); and Jeanette, still wearing a flannel dress and shoes and nothing else, discusses the problems a woman who looks the way she does, has with succeeding as a professional musician. :rolleyes:
The food comes. I have ordered Almond Chicken, with egg foo yong and some side dishes; Alice likes pepper steak. And so on. The conversation is as absorbing as the meal.
When we’re finished, Carol Woo takes Jack’s charge card. He adds a generous tip. Carol says she’s just about to clock off for the day and asks to come back with us to the Morpheus. We won’t be rehearsing in the evening; in fact we’ll be heading back soon enough to the Sharps’ mansion to spend the night. But when we return to the Morpheus—and Alice and I tune in with our ESP to find Nicholas is still a couch potato—we all gather in the conference room, to continue our conversation. Carol Woo stays with Alice, Dr. Clouse, and me; she is fascinated by the stories we tell her about the theater and our planned benefit. She says she considered going to medical school, but decided against it, and has been a hostess at the Chinese restaurant there for 30 years and is quite happy there.
I notice that the two Oranjeboom girls, and the two Blonda boys, stay together now. Young love…
Buster now saunters in and the group greets him the way the Cheers group would greet Norm. The big orange cat approaches the table where Alice and I sit with Dr. Clouse, Carol Woo, and Lena Martínez. Lena and I will be going to Excelsior Insurance, first thing in the morning.
Buster leaps up on my lap. Alice and I stroke his fur; Carol coos about him. We introduce her to him. Buster says to me telepathically, Routine message—nothing urgent—meet Fred outside manager’s office before we leave for the Sharps’ place.
“Oh, OK,” I think to him. So far as I can tell, with my ESP, Nicholas is still glued to the boob tube. After a little while I excuse myself and go up to the manager’s office.
I see Nicholas still vegetating, drinking root beer and eating Cheetos, and watching a movie on the DVD player. Leo greets Fred and me in the hallway. I knock gently on the open door; Nicholas glances at me briefly.
Fred approaches the doorway, and steps out into the hall, gently closing the door behind him. (There is no other exit from the office.)
I ask, “What’s up?” I sense that there’s no emergency, but Fred still has something to tell me.
“Nothing pressing, but have you noticed Red Nicholas likes TV?”
“Yes, I have,” I answer, “he is fond of it.”
“I’d say he’s really fond of it–like he’s addicted.”
“Saying he’s addicted is exaggerating a bit.”
“I don’t think so. Leo was just telling me Red didn’t talk or look at him the whole time he was watching him. He just kept staring at the screen and flicking the channel every ten minutes or so.”
“TV is a pretty new invention to him. I can see how he might be fascinated by it.”
“Well, I think you ought to observe him for a little while and see if you still hold that opinion afterward.”
Fred opens the door to the manager’s office and we walk in. Red of course is still watching TV–a DVD of Jackass: The Movie. I look at him and see he has a look of narcotized contentment on his face. He is truly mesmerized by all the gross-out stunts he sees on the screen.
“Excuse me Red,” Fred says trying to divert his attention away from Johnny Knoxville, “but we were wondering if you could talk to us for a little while. We’re really curious about your life and want to hear some stories about your life.”
“Maybe later boys,” Red replies. “I’d like to finish this here disc gadget first.”
“You don’t have to watch that disc all at once,” I say. “You can pause it, talk to us for a little while, and go back to your disc right where you left off.”
“Yes, but I prefer not to.”
“Can we come back in another hour or so when the disc is finished and talk to you then?” Fred inquires with slight exasperation.
“Well, I’d like to watch the television a bit more after the disc is finished so I’d prefer not to,” Red answers. “Oh, there is one thing I’d like to ask you about.”
“What’s that?” Fred asks.
“Can you please get me one of those tubes people use when people can’t get up and … uh … you know … use the water closet?”
“You mean a catheter?”
“Yes, I think that’s what that device is called.”
“Why do you need that? You still seem fairly able.”
“I need it so I won’t miss any of what’s on the television when I have to get up and go to the water closet.”
“Oh … we’ll see. But can we talk tomorrow?”
“Perhaps”
Fred and I open the door to step out. Leo, who silently returned to the manager’s office while Red explained why he needed a catheter, will be watching for bit longer. As I leave, I notice the ghost roll his eyes at his having to keep on baby-sitting the video-obsessed Red.
“What do you think now?” Fred asks after he shuts the door.
“You’re right,” I tell him as we walk down the hall, “that’s definitely more than mere fascination.”
“I am of two minds about the situation with Red,” Fred explains as we head toward the lounge. “On the one hand, if he’s constantly occupied with watching TV, we won’t be able discuss with him his ‘occult’ experiences, his obsession with gems, his wildly interesting–and shady–life, and any number of mysteries involving the Morpheus and the secret history of this city.”
“And what’s good about his tube addiction?”
“Well, on the other hand, if Red’s thoroughly distracted by TV, he can’t get into mischief. He can’t pull any cynical pranks on unsuspecting marks. He can’t try to rebuild his financial empire. (Incidentally, I think the fact he’s been absent and considered legally dead for over 100 years would raise some interesting questions pertaining to the distribution of his ‘estate.’) And, most importantly, he won’t be able to possibly collude with Sikes-Potter’s former backers.”
“I understand your ambivalence,” I tell Fred as we enter the lounge. Buster and Alice are there and curious about what’s going on. I tell them…
“Nicholas has become such a ‘vidiot’ that he wants to have a catheter implanted so he won’t have to miss TV even when he needs to go to the bathroom!”
“I realize this has good and bad aspects,” comments Buster, echoing Fred’s sentiment.
“Well, he seems to have regressed emotionally to the age of 12,” says Alice. “It looks like we may have to be really assertive with him as with an actual 12-year-old.
“I suggest we gather a group of particularly forceful people, to prod ‘Red’ into complying.”
“Who do you have in mind?” I ask.
Alice answers, “My brother Arthur.
“My sister-in-law Winifred.
“Dr. Clouse.
“Stan and Louise Brown.
“Harry Rudolph, the carney—I understand he’ll be out here tomorrow.
“And Jerry Britton—the Cigar Band’s drummer.”
“That pudgy smart-aleck?” asks Fred with some surprise.
“That ‘pudgy smart-aleck’ raised four kids [he’s a widower] who are independent and well adjusted. And Jerry was once a Marine sergeant!”
So Fred agrees with Alice to organize this forceful group to exhort Nicholas to shape up—or go back underground. (Fred figures this will be a win-win situation for us all.)
“What about Father Abromowitz?” I ask.
Fred agrees. “If we can have him come out here, he can be in charge of the group. We should have left ‘Red’ to the priest as soon as you got him out of that cavern!”
So Fred and Alice make plans to have the forceful group talk turkey to Nicholas tomorrow.
Bright and early in the morning, Lena and I head out to Excelsior Insurance, in her lime-green VW Beetle. We bring notes we took, notes Alice and others took, and photographs of the damage my cousin’s “drop deliveries” caused.
At the reception desk in the building atrium, we show our driver’s licenses as ID. The receptionist locates our names in the appointment book and says, “Ms. McKenna is in Room 339. Take the elevator to the third floor and go out to your right. It’s halfway down the corridor.”
We go up and open the door to Room 339.
Harriet Balcourt McKenna’s office is lavishly decorated—colorful carpeting, big oak desk, professional-style photography on the walls, and a new computer and fax machine. She isn’t in the room right now, and Lena and I sit in two upholstered wooden chairs facing the desk, to wait for her.
A moment later she comes out to greet us. She’s wearing a white linen dress, and her bra and panties seem visible. She carries file folders marked “TERWILLIGER, PAUL & EDA” and “SHARP, JACK & ELOISE.” She sets them on the desk. After the polite greetings she explains what she wants us to tell her about; I see—and I’m sure Lena does too—a look of merriment in her pale blue eyes. This adjuster’s highly organized office suggests she is quite a capable professional in her field, but her personal appearance suggests other things as well. :rolleyes:
She says, “I’ll talk to you first, Ms. Martínez, about the incident at the Sharps’ place, then you, _______, about the damage to the Terwilliger house. Then I’ll speak to both of you at once.” As she says this last sentence, her voice glides into a low, sultry register.
She asks Lena to sit in the chair at the corner of the desk near her side—that is, so they can speak more directly to each other. She picks up the SHARP file. Then she begins questioning Lena about the incident at the mansion, as I look on:
“Ms. Martinez, tell me what happened on the day of the incident.”
“Well, we were in the Purple Room at the Sharp’s mansion for a meeting about the Morpheus when we all heard something large splat against the outside of the house,” Lena begins. “A few seconds later, a HUGE casaba melon crashed through the window, flew across the room, and splattered on the wall.”
“What happened after that?”
“We heard another melon hit the outside of the house and that was followed by another casaba barrelling through the broken window into the room.”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“No, fortunately, we all dove underneath tables and chairs in the room the second we heard the first melon hit the outside of the house.”
As Ms. McKenna continues her questioning, I’m struck with how much she looks like Elizabeth Cohen–the medical news reporter for CNN. (Granted, Elizabeth Cohen is not necessarily the most prominent short-haired woman one can think of, but I saw her give a report on CNN that morning about SARS so she was still fresh in my mind.)
“Mr. _____, is what Ms. Martinez said correct?” says Ms. McKenna. Her voice immediately brings my attention back to the matter regarding the casaba bombardment of Sharp’s mansion.
“Yes, that’s exactly how it happened,” I tell her.
At that moment, I pick up a message through my ESP: look out the window right now.
“Can I get up for a little while?” I ask Ms. McKenna.
“Sure, get yourself some coffee if you want,” she answers.
I stand up from my chair and walk over to Ms. McKenna’s office window. The telepathic “look out the window right now” message is, with growing urgency, repeating in my head. I look out the window down the street to my left and see nothing. I turn my head to my right and again see nothing unusual. Still, the “look out the window” message keeps on reverberating in my head with such intensity that it begins to throb with pain. Then, to my left, coming down the street, I see…
…a marching band, all of whose members are women in gamin haircuts and white linen dresses, instead of standard band uniforms and “shakos.” The drum major wears a brown-black-and-purple striped dress like Harriet wore when she came to the Terwilligers’ place. There are 23 members of this band. Eleven musicians play English horns; eleven play French horns. The drum major’s baton is pink—and looks like a long phallus! It even has a condom over one end!
The band plays “Strip Polka,” from the Big Band Era; David Rose’s “The Stripper”; and a selection I can’t make out but I think is on Alice’s Portishead CD. As the band passes I note that the women’s dresses are nearly transparent, showing no underwear beneath! Jeanette Strong was never like this!
Now my telepathic message is “Make the connection, _______ and Lena!” And I make it; I think Lena does too: It’s: Harriet is not part of a Sikes-Potter conspiracy; she’s a damned horny broad! After all, English horns and French horns = horny. I think of how I would hurt Alice if I gave in to this woman’s temptation… 
… And thus I would abet the conspirators’ purpose anyway.
I also look at a “cornucopia” in a picture on the wall, near the window. It changes from the usual horn o’ plenty to a vaginal opening full of semen! :eek:
I pour coffee into a styrofoam cup, and add creamer and sweetener, and sit near the coffeemaker and sip, with my eyes closed, waiting for the questioning between Harriet and Lena to finish. The marching band has gone now. I hear Lena telling about our duck-and-cover in the Purple Room, Bob Long assisting in locating the plane, and so on. (I leave out the part about Long and Fields using psychokinesis, and Joe and Jane Bradley’s radar eyes. All the same, Harriet has Bob Long’s police report, the FAA report, and Jack Sharp’s original claim form.)
Now—my eyes still closed—I hear a familiar clanking sound. I open my eyes and Leo is in front of me, with his chains and books.
He says telepathically, Harriet can’t see or hear me. You and Lena can. The telepathic message, the marching band, and the ‘cornucopia’ picture were to alert you to what you probably suspected—Ms. McKenna is quite randy for you and Lena.
I nod slightly to acknowledge. Now I look at the opposite wall. On the wall is a Mexican road sign reading CUIDADO (“Caution”). Leo tells me, in Spanish, “Yo voy a comunicar con Lena.”
And he does communicate with her. Lena is facing the far wall, where the sign is. Only Lena and I see a tiny dark-blue image of Leo pointing out the “CUIDADO” sign. And now Leo, in his regular configuration, floats next to the closed door of the office. I can tell that Lena too glances at the door.
The door has a sign showing one male and two female figures linked together, followed by a question mark. And an arrow points toward a raised area in the wall with a sign reading Ahí está la cama (“Here is the bed”)—apparently a “Murphy Bed,” or In-a-Door, as the Murphys call it. I sense that Leo, or some other DXM person, put the signs there to alert Lena and me; Harriet wouldn’t see them.
Lena and I tell Leo telepathically, Warning acknowledged. Gracias.
Now Ms. McKenna finishes the interview with Lena, who gets up, for me to sit there in Lena’s place. Lena now goes over to the coffeemaker and uses hot water for tea. I sit in the chair, and Harriet sits rather immodestly (almost a “beaver shot”) as she starts to question me about the kumquat “drop delivery” into Alice’s bedroom.
I tell Lena telepathically, I bet she showed you more than you wanted to see!
Lena nods.
Now Ms. McKenna, businesslike again, begins the questioning, while opening the file marked “TERWILLIGER, PAUL & EDA.”
“Mr. _____, could you tell me about what happened at the Terwilliger’s house on _____ __, 2003?” she inquires.
“Well, Alice and I were in her bedroom which is located on the second floor of the house,” I begin. “It was early in the morning–still dark–and I was awake in bed since I was having trouble getting back to sleep. Alice, on the other hand, was out cold.”
“So you two were in the same bed at the time?”
“Yes. Anyway, I started to hear what I thought was the engine of a small plane outside. Although, when I think about it now, it didn’t really sound that much like an airplane. It was a low buzzing sound that got closer and louder until it suddenly stopped–very much like the V2 rockets or ‘buzz bombs’ that the Germans launched into Britain during the latter part of World War II.”
“Oh, do you watch a lot of the History Channel?”
“Yes but not recently. Why?”
“They just show a lot of World War II documentaries on the channel. I figured that’s how you’d know what a V2 rocket sounded like. Continue.”
“Well, just as the buzzing sound stopped, Alice’s cell phone rang. She awoke and got up to answer it. At the same moment, the Terwilliger’s cat, Buster, began yowling outside the bedroom door. I had just gotten out of bed to deal with the cat when a giant kumquat crashed through the ceiling and onto Alice’s bed. Had we both stayed there, we would’ve been crushed.”
“So you were both okay after the incident?”
“I little shaken up but physically intact.”
My cell phone, which I set on vibrate, goes off in my pants pocket. I briefly excuse myself from the room and go out into the lobby to answer the call.
I click on the phone. It’s…
:smack: That should read:]
“A little shaken up but physically intact.”
…Alice.
I greet her happily, but she has a message for me.
“We won’t be going to the Morpheus today—at least not until I hear from Arthur.”
“Why not?”
“That ‘forceful group’ we organized to get Nicholas away from the TV and back into the sub-basement, has begun exhorting him to do so.”
“So there’s likely to be a dustup until they succeed.”
“Yes. When they’re done Arthur will call me and the rehearsals will continue. It may be two or three hours.”
I figure this must have started just after Leo came to Harriet’s office, so Nicholas wouldn’t be left unattended. I say, with tongue in cheek, “Maybe he should have a TV in the sub-basement!”
“You know, honey, that’s a good idea,” says Alice. “Maybe Al the Alien uses one—after all, he’s kept current on things on the surface since 1983.”
“Well, whatever will work,” I say. “Tell Fred and Salbert.”
“Oh—and when you get back, we’ll want to go to Guzman’s Body Shop.”
“On the other side of the block from the Morpheus?”
“Yes. We can arrange to clear a space in Guzman’s back lot to open the limestone stratum and release all the extraterrestrial beasties. And then we’ll close up the hole. Al and some others are terrestrial and may opt to stay, and Nicholas won’t be alone—even if he sits down there and watches his precious TV to the end of time!”
I pause. I assume Guzman’s secretary speaks English—my Spanish is a little rusty. :rolleyes:
Alice now asks, “How’s the appointment going?”
“Harriet just finished with Lena. She’s started to question me now. Her clothing is rather immodest…”
“I shouldn’t wonder. I learned by dint of the ESP about Leo’s short visit, and the marching band, and things…be careful, Luv.”
“I love you, Alice…I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I’ll see you later, ______.”
We ring off. Our voices have started to quaver.
I return to Harriet’s office to continue the interview. Nothing is different, except that a quick glance tells me Harriet is not wearing underwear now—and a few of the big black buttons running down the front of her white linen dress are undone. :eek: I also notice her face is a little flushed and her pupils are expanding. Lena, still sipping tea over by the coffeemaker, looks on.
Harriet resumes the questioning about the kumquat attack. It’s as if there are two women in that linen dress—a dedicated insurance professional and a hot-blooded sex bomb…
I try my best to describe what else happened. Basically, there’s not much more to add–just the aftermath of the attack (i.e., clean-up, repair, etc.). I think I do a good job remaining composed.
“That’s all for now,” Harriet says clicking off the tape recorder. “I appreciate the cooperation of both of you in this matter.”
“It was no trouble,” Lena says. She’s still sitting by the coffeemaker with an agreeable but somewhat bemused look on her face.
“Is there anything else we can do?” I naively ask.
“I’m just about done with Lena for now but there is something I want to ask you privately about,” Harriet says. “Nothing that significant–just your opinion about something.”
“What would that be?”
She walks to the corner of the room and signals for me to join her there. When she does, my composure evaporates. I know she’s up to something. I don’t want to go over there but I don’t want to offend her either. Blindly hoping she’s not going to ask me about something illicit, I decide to walk over to where she is.
“I just got this dress a few days ago but I think it feels kind of rough,” she whispers. “Would you mind touching it and tell me what you think?”
“I don’t wear dresses so I’m not the one to ask,” I explain uncomfortably. “Why don’t you ask Lena?”
“I like your hands better,” she says as she reaches out and softly grabs my right hand.
I feel a vibrating sensation in my pants. For a nanosecond, I’m ready to panic but then I realize–to my great relief–it’s my cell phone.
“Oh jeez, I wish I could give my opinion about your address but I have to answer my phone,” I tell her.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and briskly walk out the door into the lobby. I click it on: it’s Arthur.
“Arthur, thank God you called me,” I say with undisguised glee.
“I wish I was as enthusiastic about this call as you are,” he replies. “Is the insurer’s inquiry over?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
“Rough huh?”
“Well, the questions weren’t bad but it was an otherwise pretty uncomfortable experience. How are things going with Red Nicholas?”
“It’s touch at go at best. But the reason I called is that I need your help on something.”
“What?”
“Well, Alice called me back and said that you suggested putting a TV in the sub-basement would be a good way to keep Red down there. I talked to everybody else about it and they all agreed it was a good idea. So, what we decided to do is buy a state-of-the-art 60” HDTV with a plasma screen. Then, we’re going to install a satellite TV hook-up in the sub-basement. (We’re also talking about getting TIVO.)"
“If you put that in the sub-basement, I might want to join Red down there myself.”
“Funny, that’s what I said. Anyway, Galloway and Sharp have already bought the TV over at Heppner’s Electronics downtown and they need some more people to help pick it up, take it down to the Morpheus, and install it. Do you think you can help?”
“Of course,” I say (anything to get away from Harriet’s unsubtle come-ons).
“Good, Fred will come by in his truck and pick you up in about 15 to 20 minutes. He also told me he has some pressing matters to discuss with you too.”
As Arthur and I complete our conversation, I notice two men–one young and one old–with dark suits and serious demeanors talking to the receptionist in the lobby. With a sigh of discomfort, I’m about to enter Harriet’s office when I hear the receptionist page her on the intercom and say, “Ms. McKenna, two federal agents are here to see you.”
The door to Harriet’s office opens and she appears in the doorway looking disheveled, surprised, and somewhat guilty.
“Ms. McKenna, we’re from the FBI,” the older one announces. "I’m Agent Steptoe and this is my partner, Agent Colfax. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions concerning…
“The aerial attacks planned or executed by Kurt Todd on the homes of Paul Terwilliger and Jack Sharp.”
Harriet regains her composure and quite literally pulls herself together.
I recognize Agent Steptoe, one of the FBI agents who visited me at the Terwilligers’. He is older, with receding black hair and an obvious potbelly. Agent Colfax is a slender, rather handsome young black man.
Lena and I are about to leave. Agent Steptoe recognizes me, but I pause and wait for him to speak.
“We must speak privately with Ms. McKenna,” Steptoe says. To Harriet he says, “Were these people involved in the aerial attacks?”
“Yes,” she answers. “I have the files. They were at the scene, at the Sharps mansion, and they are mentioned on the report to the local police and to the FAA. _____ was also at the Terwiligers’ when the incident occurred there.”
Steptoe gives Lena and me his cards. “You may want to call us if there is further information. And we’d like to have your phone numbers in case we need to reach you.”
“Yes,” Lena and I say. The agents and Harriet go into the office and close the door. Lena and I take the elevator and go back down to the lobby and leave.
We see the faint image of Leo against a blank white wall, to signify we’re out of danger, for now anyway.
We drive back to the Morpheus. Lena says, “You acted as if you knew that one FBI agent.”
“Yeah…Mr. Steptoe came to the Terwilligers’ after I got that mail—the poisoned envelopes and parcels Lemoyne sent me.”
“Brrrr! Gwen told me about him! Do you think he was behind your cousin’s attacks?”
“No, he was already in jail. Those five people Sikes-Potter hired probably goaded him into it.” Just thinking about my own cousin being involved in this is still grievous to me.
“And—that Harriet!” Ye gods, what a horny woman!” says Lena, still reeling from the experience.
“Did you see her without her underwear?” I ask.
“See her? I saw her take the bra and panties off! And she had the dress unbuttoned all the way down to do it! She has big jugs and wide hips…”
“Calm down,” I say. “And she gave me a ‘beaver-shot’ as I sat back down.”
“She sure gave me a taste of body language!” says Lena. “I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Settle down, you lez…’”
I almost make a snide remark about the pot calling the kettle black, but I resist that temptation… :rolleyes:
We get back to the Morpheus. Lena returns to Alice, Gwen, and Amy, and tells them what happened before they set up on stage again. The three other women are fascinated. I stay briefly with Alice before Arthur calls me out into the corridor.
He has me assist in trundling the large crate containing the big-screen TV out of the truck, and set it over by the freight elevator. Alice has already contacted Al the Alien, telepathically: Stan and Joe measured the TV before they left the store, and decided how much they will have to enlarge the shaft down to the basement to lower the set through; they’ll also fit the opening to accommodate a larger grate. (Incidentally, the grate opening would not have been suitable for the critters to escape through; many of them are too large to fit through the opening at the top of the shaft, even allowing for the size of the TV.)
We have set an appointment to go to Guzman’s Body Shop tomorrow. I’ll be going, with Alice, George Galloway, and Phil Ramírez and Lena Martínez—both of the speak fluent Spanish, just in case the people we contact there speak no English.
Now Arthur speaks to Bob Blonda, Loora Oranjeboom, and me, to set up the connections for the satellite dish. To do this, the three of us climb the stairway to the projection booth, from which another stairway leads to the inside access to the roof. I used to be a security guard in a building with interior roof access so this doesn’t faze me a bit.
It’s been a warm day, and it’s always warm in the upper part of the Morpheus; I got a taste of attic heat once when I worked with a carpenter who had me go into the attic of an antique store once. Bob Blonda and I have put on T-shirts and cut-off jeans; Loora wears a halter top and running shorts. She is barely five feet tall and of course, although she is the mother of four kids (and likely soon to be a grandmother, thanks to Cornelis, her 23-year-old married son) she is quite a sexy woman. However, thankfully, she doesn’t come on to me (or Bob or Arthur) after the manner of Harriet.
She must be agitated, though, because, as she and Bob and I speak—we keep in touch with Arthur with handy-talkies—her Dutch accent gets stronger. Now I go up to unlock the door to the roof, with Jack Sharp’s key to the door. Just before I open the door I look at a side panel and see something really strange; I startle Loora as I say, "WOW!!!"
I see eyes–100 of them to be exact. The 100 eyes are on a gold plate on the side panel that’s about two feet by two feet. The eyes–which are arranged so that they form the outline of a man–all have scleras made of amethysts and green irises that seem to be made of emerald or jade. Beneath the eyes is engraved, “Argos guards.”
“Stunning,” Loora comments. “Did you know about this?”
“No, I didn’t,” I answer. “Nobody else said anything about this plate either.”
I reach out to touch the plate. But, as I feel around the word “Argos,” part of the plate pops out. It’s a hidden shelf with an old leather bound journal inside. I pick up the journal and open the cover. On the front page I see written in black ink: KEEPING RED NICHOLAS IN THE SUB-BASEMENT.
“What’s is it?” asks Loora.
“It looks like a 19th century journal or diary on how Red Nicholas ended up trapped below the Morpheus.”
Just then, I get my second startling sight within five minutes. The door to the roof–which I thought was locked–suddenly opens if front of us. Unfortunately, Loora and I don’t like what we see next: two male and one female figures with semi-automatic’s pointed at us.
One of the males barks out…
“Back off! FBI!”
Loora and I comply. The man who hollered at me shuts the roof door again.
Loora and I shiver. What’s this all about?
Bob Blonda, who heard the man holler, has a portable radio. He switches it on to hear:
“Several FBI agents are closing in on a bank robber in the local business district. They have trailed the robber to the roof of the Morpheus Theatre on South Bradford Street. A two-block perimeter is under surveillance by the FBI and the local police…”
Just then I hear two very loud gunshots. After the second I hear a loud, agonized male scream. Then Arthur comes in on the handy-talkie.
“_______,” he says, “The FBI contacted Jack Sharp. They just shot and killed a bank robber on the roof. They’re sending two more agents up there to carry the body down on the stairway.” I acknowledge.
A moment later, two more FBI men come up the stairs, carrying a body bag. They show their IDs to Bob, Loora, and me.
The same male voice that growled at me now says loudly, “open the door!” I do so and the two agents who climbed the stairs go out on the roof, and close the door behind them.
A few minutes later it’s all over. All six agents—including one I hadn’t seen—come back in through the roof exit. Two are women. Four agents carry their semi-automatic rifles; one of the four also carries an Uzi. The other two agents carry a body bag. Obviously it’s occupied now. :eek:
“Is it OK for us to go up now?” I ask the first agent.
“Yes,” he says curtly. The agents all walk down the stairs. Bob, Loora, and I just sit there for a while recovering from this.
After a few minutes, Jack Sharp comes on the handy-talkie. “The FBI people have left. You can continue—though I’m sure you will want to catch your breath!”
“You know it!” I answer.
Finally we resume our work, setting up the connections on the roof. Everything is ready except the satellite dish itself, which Arthur will bring up.
He comes up the stairs, with Stan Brown, carrying the satellite dish in a large cardboard box. Bob, Loora, and I go out with them onto the roof. I prop the door open. Arthur and Stan unpack the dish and make the connections. (There had already been a coaxial cable run up a channel to the roof.) I assume others are working on the connections at the other end.
Now Arthur takes out, not a handy-talkie, but a test phone such as telephone repair personnel use. He keys in a number. He has a speakerphone attachment so the rest of us can hear the voice at the other end.
“Pete Oranjeboom,” says the voice at the other end. Loora’s face lights up at this.
“Pete, this is Arthur. We’re hooked up on the roof.”
“And we’re hooked up in the sub-basement,” says Pete.
After a minute or so, Pete says, “All right!” I hear other appreciative voices—Eloise, Johnny Goss, Artie Brown—and Alice.
I blush deeply. Loora and Arthur make a few teasing comments. 
Then I hear a newscaster’s voice, coming from the newly installed TV:
“Six FBI agents chased a bank robber onto the roof of the restored Morpheus Theatre on South Bradford Street half an hour ago. The robber had entered the Westfield Bank and Trust on Siddely Street, three miles away, with an Uzi, and demanded money. He got away with $63,000 in small bills. The agents trailed him to Bradford Street and the Morpheus, and trapped him on the roof. He fired at one agent, Zelma Flagler, and missed. She fired once and shot him, killing him instantly. The robber’s identity is being withheld pending notifications.”
We have had enough. We go back in through the roof exit, and I relock it. Before we go downstairs I photograph the eyes on the wall, with Alice’s Minolta. We all go back to the main floor. Back in the conference room, where everyone (except for Nicholas and Leo) has gathered, I hurry to Alice; we have a close embrace. Buster looks on.
I give the diary I found to Eloise. She calls George Galloway over.
Before he examines the diary, Mr. Galloway reminds us that tomorrow I’m to go with him around the block, to Guzman’s Body Shop, with Alice, and Phil, and Lena. We’ll arrange with Señor Guzman to excavate in the back of his lot and allow the extraterrestrials to escape to their home planets.
Alice sheds tears. “All you all right? Arthur told me what happened when you opened the roof door…” She holds me close, fixing her brown eyes on mine.
I hug and kiss her back. “Yes, honey, I’m all right. The man with the rifle slammed the door shut after hollering at me.”
George now tells us, “Well, Father Abromowitz and the others got Nicholas back into the sub-basement. The new grate over the opening is bigger and weighs about 150 pounds. He could never lift it. We installed a small dumbwaiter to send food down to him. Now he has his catheter and his TV and his snacks, and his Hellmouth friends, and apparently he’s content to stay there and nosh and watch TV. And he gave us a signed document…”
I read it. Nicholas has turned over ownership of 80% of the remaining gems and precious metal on the property, to all of us present, including Alice and me.
“And Leo can look in on him from time to time, “ says Mr. Galloway. “Of course, we’ll still watch him closely until the excavation project is complete.”
Now Alice and I settle down and just cuddle for a while. So do the five married couples; I also see Amy and Jeanette with Johnny and Jerry.
Then Lorna and Jock come in. We all greet them; they say they heard something in a later news spot on the radio.
The bank robber the FBI agent shot on the roof was Argo Rank.