Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“I don’t understand.”

“What, you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“They got a song out about you that’s been at the top of the record hits for about thirteen weeks now. You’re a hero.”

“A hero? Me, a hero?”

“Sure, everybody is singing the Black Peter song. How you defied the toy manufacturers. It’s got a social protest angle, but that doesn’t seem to be any problem. Why, last week Jesse Hatch said he was buying an album for his children.”

“What?”

“Sure. Look at this.” Jack Frost showed him full-page ads and clippings about the huge sales programs that were being mounted, exploiting his image. There were Black Peter dolls, Black Peter bicycles, Black Peter wine, Black Peter perfumes, Black Peter pennants, and even something called the Black Peter look. There was a rap group called the Black Peters. Black Peter was stunned. He had been the public’s goat for four years, ever since the Madison Square Garden riots, and now he was on the rise again. Proving once again that the raw market values of capitalism were chaotic.

“I’d like to be your agent.”

“Agent, agent for what?”

“I got some toy manufacturers, Xmas card producers, and others waiting downtown to see you. But first we got to get you cleaned up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those dreds. We think that you ought to get them cut. Your image should be a little more crossover.”

“No way, I can’t part with my dreds. To part with my dreds would be to part with my manhood.”

“Suit yourself,” Jack Frost said, rising and blowing over his black-gloved hand.

“They were talking about giving you a hefty advance for your services.” Jack Frost turned around and was about to exit from the cave. “A golden Rolls Royce with zebra skin interior, and a Minnesota Viking to ride around with. All you have to do is feed her a steady supply of Baby Ruths to keep her happy.”

“Wait. Wait. I’m willing to reason all of this out,” Black Peter said. “I’m a reasonable person.” Jack Frost, his back to Black Peter, smiled. He turned around. Walked toward Black Peter and extended his hand. Black Peter took hold of it and stood up. Black Peter was cleaned up, was taken downtown where he was given two hundred hours community service for his role in the disturbances at Madison Square Garden, and was driven to the hotel for his meeting with captains of the Xmas industry, in a sports car especially designed for him, called the Petermobile. His fans were faked out as a decoy Petermobile drove up to the front of the hotel. His employees didn’t want his fans to see him until after his appointment with the plastic surgeon.

Bob Krantz, director of White House communications, got as far as the White House gates, only to be told that he wouldn’t be admitted. “President’s orders,” the guard had said, but he knew this to be a lie. Everybody knew that Hatch had no power to give anybody orders. Krantz returned to his Georgetown apartment and had Eric, his valet, mix him a stiff highball. He had grown accustomed to the place where he was living and enjoyed its customs. That afternoon he read James Way, a Jiminy Cricket-headed columnist who wore bow ties and a head of hair which was greased like that of Alfalfa of “Our Gang” fame. He couldn’t get through a column without quoting at least three dead Greeks. Way, who was Reverend Jones’s mouthpiece in the press, said that Krantz was resigning to take an ambassadorial post, and had been hailed by Jesse Hatch as a true public servant. Krantz knew that Way was always over at the White House sucking up the sewer for information, but couldn’t believe that Reverend Jones, his former mentor, would be so cold. It had to be underlings. If only he could get to Jones. Jones would stop the whole thing. Sure, they weren’t as close as they were at one time, but he knew that Reverend Jones had high regard for him. Besides, it was important that he had befriended Admiral Matthews, because Matthews was an authority on the nuclear Navy. He had to find out how the remaining weapons functioned. There wasn’t much time left. But the Way revelations were serious. Krantz knew then that he was slated to be blocked and removed. This was the same story that was put out when the string quartet loving Secretary of Defense had been killed. Of course they’d said that it was a suicide, but that didn’t sail because Krantz was in on the meeting when Admiral Matthews, Reverend Jones, and the King of Beer decided that the Secretary of Defense had been marked. They were all afraid that he’d reveal the Terrible Twos. Were they planning to do the same to him? He hadn’t made such a long journey just to be somebody’s fall guy. He had other plans. Reverend Jones was really deteriorating. He was remaining in the Oval Office. He wouldn’t let anybody clean in there, and he’d wash his underwear and his socks, and hang them from a line strung across the room. He hadn’t been home in weeks. Everybody was concerned about his appearance at Admiral Matthews’s funeral, but he had, somehow, brought it off. Eric packed some clothes, went to the bank and withdrew some money. He returned and gave it to Krantz. He didn’t know what he’d do without Eric. Some of his friends told him to never trust a gentile, but he didn’t know what they were talking about. They thought that he was Jewish. The name. He never said anything about it, and when they tried to get familiar he always had an excuse. He would say that he was an American. He got on the shuttle and headed for New York. As soon as he left, Eric, his valet, called the White House and apprised them of Krantz’s move.

Fryer Moog called the bank only to discover that he had bounced thirteen checks. His charge cards, all three hundred of them, were over the limit, and carrying forty percent interest. The cook, chauffeur, and maids had quit. His wife had left him. He looked up at the mantelpiece and noticed that the Grammies, Emmies, and Oscars had been pawned. The living room was a mess, and his nose was bleeding and he didn’t know why. Balls of bloody tissue were everywhere. He felt as though chiggers were crawling over him, and he began to scratch himself, vigorously. He rose from the dirty blankets, where he’d been lying for about a week, and tramped through the boxes of pizza which were crawling with flies. His wet pajamas clung to his skin. He went to the window and stared down at his five cars. The cars weren’t there. They had been repossessed. It almost took him a half hour to reach the bottom of the circular staircase, he was so thin and weak. He went outside to check the mailbox. Bills. The bank was threatening to put his home in foreclosure. But he didn’t care about the bills, his wife, the furniture being repossessed, all he cared about was getting some more coke. He thought for a while. That’s it. He’d make a new album with his meal ticket, Boy Junior. Boy Junior’s albums sold by the millions. And after that they could do a tour. All he’d have to do would be to get Boy Junior’s manager to OK the deal, and he could begin composing the music, which shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to organize.

A man was half running toward Nance’s car. He had emerged from the shuttle terminal and was agitated. He kept looking over his shoulder. The man got into his car.

“Where to?” Nance asked the man.

The man gave Nance a Greenwich Village address. “Please hurry.” He was short of breath, and underneath his overcoat Nance could see a pin-striped suit and a striped tie.

“I have to wait for some more passengers, I—” The man shoved a fistful of bills into Nance’s hand. A few more customers like this guy and Big Meat, I can pay down on another limousine and get some guy to work for me , Nance thought.