Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“What’s your opinion, Scabb?”

“Opinion?”

“Goddamnit, Scabb, pay attention. I was telling Heinrich and Joe here why I had to get rid of that Heeb, Krantz. You know this thing that Dean Clift was babbling about? Well, part of the story is true. Without the knowledge of Matthews, the King of Beer, and me, Krantz had gotten involved in some lone cowboy scheme to use nuclear weapons against Miami and New York, and then blame it on Nigeria. He was the point man for an international network for reasons we’re still investigating. I think that he might be some kind of Zionist agent, you know like Pollard, back there in the eighties.” He examined Scabb closely to see whether the story that he and Hatch had hatched would take.

So they’re going to make Krantz the fall guy, huh? Scabb thought. “Why, I’m shocked to hear that, Mr. Prez — I mean, Reverend,” Scabb said. “He was a likable young man.”

“I don’t think that this will affect the court case with Clift. We can say that he was right about Krantz, and that we didn’t know anything about it, but this experience he was supposed to have had about Saint Nicholas ought to keep him in Buggy Bye for years to come. What’s wrong, Scabb?”

“I need a glass of water. This is such a shock. I …” Scabb had done some theater in college and so he seemed to be very convincing to Jones. Jones nodded toward Beowulf. The machine got up and went to a table. Poured water from a pitcher into a glass. Brought it over to Scabb. Shoved it into Scabb’s hand. Scabb said thanks, trembling. When I’m elected the first thing I’m going to do is to take a hammer and break that thing up. Keep the Viking helmet and battle-ax though. Might look good in the living room , Scabb thought. And that bear fur he uses for shorts. Could use that on the floor of one of the upstairs bathrooms . “I mean, Krantz. He was such a nice young man. And you mean to tell me that he was involved in some kind of off-the-shelf operation?”

“I’m afraid so. You must know how it hurts me. I brought him into the administration. It was I who rescued him from a close call with death. And so I bear the responsibility. I’ll have to take care of it. Me, Joe, and Heinrich, here,” Jones said, nodding toward the empty chair, where, for Reverend Jones, his advisor Heinrich sat.

“Of course, Reverend Jones,” Scabb said, glancing toward the empty chair.

“I’m glad you agree, Scabb. You keep remaining loyal to me and you may be rewarded. Iowa is only around the corner and that straw poll will be taking place soon. I would run myself but the media has always been against me.”

Bad enough that he said he’d had personal experiences with Satan, but if they knew about his new thing, Beowulf and Heinrich, they’d put him out where they put Clift , Scabb thought.

“You know, after Clift was dealt with, I mentioned in an interview that I would run, and the media, agents of the archfiend, began to dig into my record and distort passages from my sermons. All the fuss they made about my account of a discussion with Satan that I once had.”

And that wasn’t all , Scabb thought.

“We New Christians have millions of votes at our disposal, and our people are known to have the reputation for going from door to door, at all times of the day and night, worrying people for their votes. And if they don’t open the door, we get their telephone numbers and put our computers to work, harassing them, and wearing them down. We are relentless. Besides, I’m beginning to enjoy this job as chief of staff. I’ll be available for the job when you’re elected, Scabb.”

“Why, of course, Reverend Jones. I’d want you to stay. That is, if you would consider my candidacy. I certainly couldn’t bring it off without the support of the New Christians. But what about Hatch?”

“The guy is losing his grip. He may be retiring soon. The ticker,” Reverend Jones said, pointing to his chest. Scabb could hardly restrain his glee. Sure he’d promised Reverend Jones that he could stay on as chief of staff, but, hell, in politics promises were made to be broken.

“Heinrich, Joe, and I want to be alone, so Vice President Scabb, if you will excuse us.” The drums started up again. They were coming from somewhere deep inside of the city. They both heard, but ignored them. The Vice President started toward the exit, but somehow found himself in the Rose Garden. There was a lot of commotion and laughter. A crunching sound. President Hatch was rolling on the ground, and a Thanksgiving turkey was hopping on his chest. The turkey’s feathers were flying.

Jack Frost gazed admiringly at Elder Marse’s collection of oriental sculpture and furniture. Mr. Marse had hired a security guard from Carson Richard’s firm to guard the prize, worth over ten million dollars. The guard stood outside of the door. Elder Marse, billionaire toyman, had many millions left over, even after paying the government’s fifty million dollar fine for a Wall Street crime. His office was located inside of a many-storied mid-Manhattan skyscraper. The protesters who’d complained that such a building would block out the sun were overruled by the courts. Below, in the streets, the thousands of homeless were scrounging about in the shadows, pushing grocery carts containing all of their belongings.

Marse had filed Chapter Eleven during Xmas four years before, the Xmas of the Terrible Twos, when demonstrations drastically curbed the Xmas sales; there had always been a noncommercial Xmas movement but the antics of the Nicolaites and the inflammatory media speeches of Black Peter had exacerbated the situation. Elder Marse had bounced back from the Xmas Crash of the T.T.’s, and was now managing this middle-90s Xmas before surrendering to serve six months at a California federal prison, nicknamed “Club Fed” by insiders, for an insider-trading scam that had wiped out hundreds of investors. He had chosen his own jail, and was given a suite of cells, equipped with ten telephones, computers, a chef, a masseuse, and two color television sets. For a couple of Heath bars and some heavy metal records Santa Barbara surfing blondes would come down and administer to his needs all night, or take a cruise on one of his yachts, while the bribed guards looked the other way. Jack Frost was the only man on Big North’s payroll to survive the scandal of the Terrible Twos and was now working for Elder Marse as a floorwalker or troubleshooter. His old boss, Ozwald Zumwalt — an alias, he’d run across the name in Jane’s fighting ships — was living in Florida. Two other survivors were also living in Florida, Vixen and her husband Stuart, who had been hired by Big North to play Santa Claus, only to be kidnapped by Black Peter and the gang and replaced with a dummy, the corpse of the gangster Snow Man. Vixen still hadn’t recovered her speech after discovering Black Peter feeding the corpse of Snow Man with the drops of Tarpon Springs water, supposedly the tears of the original Saint Nicholas. Bro Andrew, the red-haired white dred who had been introduced to Rastafarianism by Black Peter, had abandoned the impostor and taken up residence in the Santa Cruz mountains. Their roosters, dogs, and goats disturbed their neighbors.

Jack Frost enjoyed free-lancing. He made his own hours. And Elder Marse only called on him when he needed to apply a little extra persuasion to a stubborn client. Jack and Elder Marse were talking quietly between sips of sherry. Marse was seated in a made-in-Korea antique chair with a dragon on its back.

“Jack, I’ve grown fond of you in the past few years.” Elder Marse wore a blue striped shirt, red suspenders and a flowing bow tie. His chin looked as though it were expecting. He was bald, and wore a black patch over one eye. “My colleagues and I won’t forget that you were the only one remaining to deal with that Nicolaite band when they tried to keep the consumers from our stores. You’ve done a lot of good work for me.”