Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

“A story?” Eichorn snapped. “No story is important enough to delay putting Scope together. I’m sure Porter here can assign someone else.”

Uhlander came to life at the mention of his name. “Absolutely,” he said. “No problem.”

“See, Corey, how quickly these things can be solved.”

“I don’t know if Porter told you,” Corey said, “but this story may have wide implications. I got onto it when a Milwaukee man named Stransky — ”

“I know about the story,” Eichorn said. Some of the camaraderie went out of his voice. “I read my newspapers.”

“But you don’t know what I learned yesterday in New York. There was a cabdriver there who — ”

“The story is not important.” The publisher’s tone left no room for discussion. “Forget it. I want to hear your decision on the Scope job.”

“Mr. Eichorn, this isn’t something I can decide in a minute. Can I think it over?”

The atmosphere grew tense in the office as no one breathed for a long moment. Then Nathan Eichorn flashed a smile on and off. “Of course. Think it over, Corey. I’ll be back in town Monday. We can have dinner then, and you can tell me which way you’ve decided to take your career. Acceptable?”

“Acceptable,” Corey agreed.

Eichorn sprang to his feet, gave Corey another quick, cool handshake, and started out of the office. In the doorway he turned.

“One thing. Whatever you decide, we’re not going any further with the Stransky story.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve told Porter here to dump it. It’s not news, and I’m tired of reading about it. So don’t let that influence your decision.”

The publisher was gone before Corey could assimilate what he had just said. He looked questioningly at Uhlander.

The editor’s stomach rumbled. He said, “You heard the word, Corey. If you’ve got the brains I think you have, you’ll grab the magazine job.”

“But the Stransky story. You haven’t seen my New York notes.”

“I don’t care about your New York notes. The story is dead. And so are you if you make trouble for Mr. Eichorn. Think about it.”

“I will,” Corey said. He got up and jammed the folder of notes under his arm. “I’ll think about it.”

A full week had gone by since Hank Stransky came to his spectacular end in Vic’s Old Milwaukee Tavern. In those seven days the world continued much as it always had, with events great and small fitting into the ever-changing pattern. Yet another threat of war had surfaced in the Middle East. A Cleveland left-hander just up from the minors had pitched a no-hitter against the Brewers. A popular singing star had died on stage in Melbourne of a drug overdose. And two members of Vic’s bowling team had missed the Thursday night match with Eagle Auto Parts, claiming illness.

With all those possible subjects of conversation, topic one at the tavern remained Hank Stransky’s Friday night freak-out. To judge by the number of people who now claimed to be eyewitnesses, Vic’s Tavern would have to hold about the same-size crowd as County Stadium. Oddly, had anyone been taking a count, many of the regulars who had actually been on the scene would have been found missing on that Friday a week later.

Vic Metzger sat on a tall stool, uncharacteristically silent, behind the bar. He had felt crummy most of the week. After the slash he got from Stransky’s beer bottle, there had been the two-day flu, or whatever it was. Now there was this headache.

He scowled out at the roistering drinkers. Who the fuck were they? He didn’t know but a few of them. And why were they so goddam loud tonight? The argument at the pool table was more piercing than usual. And the jukebox boomed like summer thunder. He should never have gotten the damn thing fixed after Karl Gotch kicked it to pieces. He would have the fucker taken out the next day.

And the women. Females had never been barred from Vic’s, but they weren’t exactly encouraged, either. A few years back, the only women to come around would be some wife looking for a missing husband or a hooker who had gotten out of her territory. They were no problem. You just told the wives that the husbands hadn’t been in all day, and you told the hookers to get lost. The good old days.

Now more and more of them were coming in, giggling and squealing in their shrill little voices and acting for all the world like they belonged there. It was the damned women’s lib; that’s what it was. This last week had been the worst. It seemed that ever since Hank Stransky did his death dance, the broads had been swarming into Vic’s place. Bunch of ghouls. Ruined a good tavern is what they did.

“Come on, Vic, cheer up,” somebody said. “You look like you lost your last friend.”

Vic glared at him. Some fresh kid he didn’t even know. College punk, most likely. Who the hell did he think he was?

“You want something to drink?” Vic said.

“Well, sure, gimme a beer. Jeez, you don’t need to be so touchy.”

“If you don’t like it, go drink somewhere else.”

Jesus, he hated these punks. Drink beer until they puke and think they’re men. Between the punks and the women and the strangers, this place was going to hell fast.

“Hey, can we get some service over here?”

Vic looked down the bar at the jerk in the Heileman’s T-shirt and the fat-faced woman with him.

“I think you had enough.”

“What are you talkin’ about? We just got here.”

“Then you had it somewhere else. I don’t serve drunks.”

Vic let his hand drop below the bar. He touched the knurled butt of the revolver he had stashed there after the business with Stransky. It was a.357 Magnum and would put a real effective hole in anybody who tried to make trouble in there. This guy looked like a troublemaker. Vic halfway hoped he would start something.

“Come on, Barbara, let’s get out of here,” the guy said. “This yahoo is crazy.”

Vic watched them walk across the floor and out the door. He let go of the Magnum reluctantly. He would just as soon have blown the two of them away.

Goddam this headache.

Norman Hastings sat cramped into a seat in the coach section as the jet waited on the runway at JFK to take off on the flight for Dallas-Fort Worth. It seemed as if they had been stuck there for hours while every other lousy plane in the world was given clearance to take off. When he got home, he would get off a letter to the president of the airline that would blister his ears. It was the last time they would get Norman Hastings into one of their tin cans.

You’d think that at least they could get the cabin pressure right. It was playing bloody hell with his headache. He massaged his pounding temples and shivered.

“Would you like a blanket, sir?”

He looked up at the smiling face of the young man wearing a blazer with the airline’s logo. Boy stewardesses. Flight attendants, they liked to call themselves now. Fags is what Norman Hastings called them.

“A blanket, sir?” the young man repeated.

“No. But you can get me a drink. Wild Turkey. With ice.”

“The drink cart will come around after we’re airborne,” the young man said, grinning, as if he were doing Norman Hastings a great big favor.

“When the hell is that going to be, next Tuesday sometime?”

“We’re next in line for take-off. It will only be a few minutes.”

A few minutes … Oh, sure, Norman Hastings believed that. Like he believed in the tooth fairy. The pilot was probably boffing one of the girl stewardesses up in the cabin and would get the plane off right after he got his rocks off.

The smiley young man moved away up the aisle before Norman Hastings could tell him.