Ishmael Reed: The Terrible Threes

“You look familiar,” Nance said.

“Yeah, you must have seen me in the newspapers.”

“Black Peter. That’s it. Boy, you sure did con your way up. I remember when you were with the ragtag band of weirdos. If you guys only knew the trouble you caused me.” Nance looked the man up and down.

“I had it made there for a while. They gave me this suite in a hotel and people waited on me, and satisfied my every desire. Now they’re backing Saint Nick.”

“But you were acquiring such a good press. Helping those people. Seems that your bosses would have liked that.”

“That wasn’t me who did all of that.”

“If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

“I don’t know. This Xmas sure has been spooky. You see all of those people down in Washington testifying about seeing Saint Nick. Talking about cutting the defense budget. Universal health care and free day care, cradle-to-grave security like they got in those socialist countries.” Evidence of Nick’s success was immediately above their heads. There were ads showing Nick smiling next to products. Pete’s billboards had been taken down and his ads removed from the newspapers.

“Next year’s an election year, they’re liable to say anything, but it would be terrific if it were true. But this stuff about Saint Nicholas and the miracles. That’s crazy. I hear that Nola Payne was an alcoholic. She was probably having the d.t.’s when she said she saw Saint Nicholas. But never mind all of that — I want you to tell me where I went wrong. Why I couldn’t find Snow Man.”

“Snow Man?”

“Yeah, Snow Man, the one that Joe Baby hired to kill Boy Bishop. I’ve spent sleepless nights wondering where I went wrong.

“They killed an intruder and then brought him back to life. They used the water from Tarpon Springs, Florida. They said that the water is what kept him alive. They had me throw my voice into his corpse — I mean, he was like a zombie. They dressed him up like Santa Claus and used him to make speeches against the people who were making money off Xmas. They made me do it, and they kidnapped the real Santa Claus that this company had bought, and substituted the dead body of this gangster,” Peter said, eyeing Nance, trying to determine whether this story was convincing to him,

“Gangster? What did he look like?”

“The man came busting into this place they had, but one of Boy Bishop’s bodyguards killed him. He was on the heavy side.”

“They killed him. I knew it. I figured that something like that happened.” Nance was so excited that he jumped up from where he was seated next to Black Peter. The next stop on the subway was Broadway-Lafayette. He remembered that Jamaica Queens lived in Soho. He was so excited that he didn’t know what to do and had missed his stop. He got up and headed toward the subway door.

“People are always using me, getting me into trouble, making me do things that I don’t want to do, putting me up to things — Sir?” Nance looked back at Peter, now sobbing, tears running down his cheeks.

“Yes, what is it?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have five more bucks, would you? I feel like calling my mom. After all, it’s Xmas, ain’t it?” Nance gave him another five dollars. He got off the subway. He hadn’t felt this good in a few years. He told the first person he saw to have a Merry Xmas.

“How did you do that?” Jones said.

“With the help of my Lord and Master,” Lucy Artemis said, putting her fingers to her lips. She whistled, and out of a puff of smoke that startled Reverend Jones appeared a man who was dressed like a dandy. He had a face shaped like a big egg. He was dressed in a cream-colored double-breasted suit, pink shirt with pearl cuff links, a tie with the print of some show-off flower, and black and white faux spats. Reverend Jones had seen his picture in a Washington Sun book review, and recognized him as a stage Irishman of the sort who used to black up to entertain WASPs with jokes about blacks and Jews. Lucy Artemis beamed, while Reverend Jones seemed puzzled.

“My Lord and Master, you’re such a prince when it comes to disguises,” Lucy said. Satan promised her that he would take her out of the homeless shelter if she supplied him with the soul of a powerful person, and Satan had kept his part of the bargain. She was wearing an outfit she’d bought from Neiman Marcus with the money that Satan had advanced her. There was a lot of money rolling around hell. She was as black as her followers at Esephus had painted her, and she wore bright hellfire lipstick. She’d go back into the soothsaying business and call on all of her clients, Congressmen, Senators, now that she and Reverend Jones were allies.

“Yeah, part of the contract is that I get to use the tropes of my clients from time to time. I decided to use this novelist who wanted a best-seller, and was really desperate. I gave the son of a bitch a contract though I have so many conventional novelists in hell, anyway. I’m more of a Ray Federman man, myself,” Satan said, in a grousing, gravelly baritone voice. “He doesn’t give a shit about characters, nor do I; he leaves their souls to me.” Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep . Somebody was paging Satan. He took a beeper out of his suit coat pocket. “He what … look you tell that bastard Jefferson Davis that I’m not bringing back a twist of lime for his julep. Hell is not a country club.”

“You know Reverend Jones?” Lucy asked.

“Yes, I know the man. Another one of these Christian hypocrites. As if we didn’t have enough in the eighties. That Swaggart and the Bakkers. Well, at least this one is interesting.”

“I resent that. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, and I keep my britches down — I mean, up,” Jones said.

“Yes, but I’ve heard your sermons, that is when you preached. Mercifully you don’t do that anymore. You ever wonder why you always concentrated on the human sacrifice, incest, rape, cannibalism parts of the Bible? Deep down in your soul there’s a pool of vomit and green pus. And by the way, what’s the big idea of you going around telling the press that you’ve met me? I don’t know you from Adam. I detest you, but I could use a man like you,” Satan said.

“You can’t bend my will. I’m a man of Cod, I’m bringing a Christian nation—”

“You locked your mother up for twenty days until she died of malnutrition, you didn’t want to spend money on nursing homes, and when they found her, the ninety-year-old’s bones were sticking out, she had bed sores all over her. Jr., what you did to me was so cruel and heartless, Jr. how could you do that, wasn’t it bad enough that you took the ax to my pet cat?” Satan began speaking in the voice of Reverend Jones’s late mother, whose death had been attributed to natural causes. Jones’s fishing buddy in the coroner’s office was now dead; he didn’t think anybody knew. Jones began sobbing and bellowing like a baby bull.

“Who told you that—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Some of my customers have done much worse. I got Abraham Lincoln down there.”

“What? Abraham Lincoln? What did he do? What could he have possibly done?”

“I have a professional relationship with my clients and never discuss their cases.”

“I’m not doing business with you.”

“You want to hold on to power, don’t you? I’ll handle Clift.”

“I don’t know.”

“I have references.” Reverend Jones put on his glasses and looked through some of the contracts that had been signed by Thomas Jefferson, who credited Satan with being the coarchitect of the manifest destiny. Other names from antiquity to modern times also appeared. Jones was shocked at some of the names he read. Lucy and Satan smiled at each other. Satan flashed an image to the wall. It was Reverend Jones in a prison cell, and some other prisoners were struggling with him, and trying to pull down his trousers. They were inner-city types, and they were grinning. Reverend Jones lost his composure.