The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 12

"Well, I'll tell him, but I don't see what it's got to do with us. There's no witness, no driver-the guy is in a coma-but I'll tell him."

"Yeah, I know. If we find the mother and get anything, tell Bernie I'll call him."

"Okay."

After he hung up, Kramer scribbled a note to Bernie Fitzgibbon. The victim neglected to mention he was. .h.i.t by a car. A typical Bronx case. Another piece a s.h.i.+t.

6. A Leader of the People

The next morning Sherman McCoy experienced something that was new to him in the eight years he had been at Pierce & Pierce. He was unable to concentrate. Ordinarily, as soon as he entered the bond trading room and the glare from the plate gla.s.s. .h.i.t him and the roar of a legion of young men crazed by greed and ambition engulfed him, everything else in his life fell away and the world became the little green symbols that slid across the black screens of the computer terminals. Even on the morning after the most stupid telephone call he had ever made, the morning he woke up wondering if his wife was going to leave him and take the most precious thing in his life with her, namely, Campbell-even on that morning he had walked into the bond trading room and, just like that just like that, human existence had narrowed down to French gold-backed bonds and U.S. government twenty-years. But now it was as if he had a two-track tape in his skull and the mechanism kept jumping from one track to the other without his having any control over it. On the screen: "U Frag 10.1 '96 102." Down a whole point! The United Fragrance thirteen-year bonds, maturing in 1996, had slipped from 103 to 102.5 yesterday. Now, at 102, the yield would be 9.75 percent-and the question he asked himself was: Did it have to be a person person that the car hit when she backed up? Why couldn't it have been the tire or a trash can or something else entirely? He tried to feel the jolt again in his central nervous system. It was a that the car hit when she backed up? Why couldn't it have been the tire or a trash can or something else entirely? He tried to feel the jolt again in his central nervous system. It was a...thok...a little tap. It really hadn't been much. It could have been almost anything. But then he lost heart. What else could it have been but that tall skinny boy?-and then he could see that dark delicate face, the mouth hanging open with fear...It wasn't too late to go to the police! Thirty-six hours-forty by now-how would he put it? I think that we-that is, my friend Mrs. Ruskin and I-may have-for G.o.d's sake, man, get hold of yourself! After forty hours it wouldn't be reporting an accident, it would be a confession! You're a Master of the Universe. You aren't on the fiftieth floor at Pierce & Pierce because you cave in under pressure. This happy thought steeled him for the task at hand, and he focused again on the screen.

The numbers were sliding across in lines, as if a radium-green brush were painting them, and they had been sliding across and changing right before his eyes but without registering in his mind. That startled him. United Fragrance was down to 101 7/8, meaning the yield was up to almost 10 percent. Was something wrong? But just yesterday he had run it by Research, and United Fragrance was in good shape, a solid AA. Right now all he needed to know was: Was there anything in The City Light The City Light? It sizzled on the floor at his feet. There had been nothing in The Times The Times, the Post, and the Daily News Daily News, which he had gone through in the taxi on the way down. The first edition of The City Light The City Light, an afternoon newspaper, didn't come out until after 10 A.M. A.M. So twenty minutes ago he had given Felix, the shoes.h.i.+ne man, five dollars to go downstairs and bring So twenty minutes ago he had given Felix, the shoes.h.i.+ne man, five dollars to go downstairs and bring The City Light The City Light to him. But how could he possibly read it? He couldn't even let himself be seen with it on top of his desk. Not him; not after the tongue-las.h.i.+ng he had given young Senor Arguello. So it was under the desk, on the floor, sizzling at his feet. It sizzled, and he was on fire. He burned with a desire to pick it up and go through it to him. But how could he possibly read it? He couldn't even let himself be seen with it on top of his desk. Not him; not after the tongue-las.h.i.+ng he had given young Senor Arguello. So it was under the desk, on the floor, sizzling at his feet. It sizzled, and he was on fire. He burned with a desire to pick it up and go through it...right now...and the h.e.l.l with what it looked like...But of course that was irrational. Besides, what difference would it make whether he read it now or six hours from now? What could it possibly change? Not very much, not very much. And then he burned some more, until he thought he couldn't stand it.

s.h.i.+t! Something was happening with the United Fragrance thirteen-years! They were back up to 102! Other buyers were spotting the bargain! Act fast! He dialed Oscar Suder's number in Cleveland, got his aide-de-camp, Frank...Frank...What was his last name?...Frank...Frank the doughnut..."Frank? Sherman McCoy at Pierce & Pierce. Tell Oscar I can get him United Fragrance ten-tens of '96 yielding 9.75, if he's interested. But they're moving up." Something was happening with the United Fragrance thirteen-years! They were back up to 102! Other buyers were spotting the bargain! Act fast! He dialed Oscar Suder's number in Cleveland, got his aide-de-camp, Frank...Frank...What was his last name?...Frank...Frank the doughnut..."Frank? Sherman McCoy at Pierce & Pierce. Tell Oscar I can get him United Fragrance ten-tens of '96 yielding 9.75, if he's interested. But they're moving up."

"Hold on." In no time the doughnut was back. "Oscar'll take three."

"Okay. Fine. Three million United Fragrance ten-point-tens of'96."

"Right."

"Thanks, Frank, and best to Oscar. Oh, and tell him I'll be back to him before long about the Giscard. The franc is down a bit, but that's easy to hedge. Anyway, I'll talk to him."

"I'll tell him," said the doughnut in Cleveland- -and even before he finished writing out the order chit and handed it to Muriel, the sales a.s.sistant, he was thinking: Maybe I should see a lawyer. I should call Freddy b.u.t.ton. But he knew Freddy too well. Freddy was at Dunning Sponget, after all. His father had steered him to Freddy in the first place-and suppose he said something to the Lion? He wouldn't-or would he? Freddy regarded himself as a family friend. He knew Judy, and he asked about Campbell whenever they chatted, even though Freddy was probably h.o.m.os.e.xual. Well, h.o.m.os.e.xuals could care about children, couldn't they? Freddy had children of his own. That didn't mean he wasn't a h.o.m.os.e.xual, however-Christ! what the h.e.l.l did it matter, Freddy b.u.t.ton's s.e.x life? It was crazy to let his mind wander like this. Freddy b.u.t.ton. He would feel like a fool if he told this whole story to Freddy b.u.t.ton and it turned out to be a false alarm...which it probably was. Two young thugs had tried to rob him and Maria, and they had gotten what was coming to them. A fracas in the jungle, by the rules of the jungle; that was all that had occurred. For a moment he felt good about himself all over again. The law of the jungle! The Master of the Universe!

Then the bottom dropped out. They had never overtly threatened him. Yo! Need some help? Yo! Need some help? And Maria had probably hit him with the car. Yes, it was Maria. I wasn't driving. And Maria had probably hit him with the car. Yes, it was Maria. I wasn't driving. She She was driving. But did that absolve him of responsibility in the eyes of the law? And did- was driving. But did that absolve him of responsibility in the eyes of the law? And did- What was that? On the screen, United Fragrance ten-point-tens of '96 blipped up to 102 1/8. Ah! That meant he'd just gained a quarter of a percentage point on three million bonds for Oscar Suder by acting fast. He'd let him know that tomorrow. Would help ice the Giscard-but if anything happens with the...thok...the tall delicate boy...The little green symbols glowed radioactively on the screen. They hadn't budged for at least a minute. He couldn't stand it any longer. He would go to the bathroom. There was no law against that. He took a big manila envelope off his desk. The flap had a string that you wrapped around a paper disk in order to close the envelope. It was the sort of envelope that was used to relay doc.u.ments from one office to another. He panned across the bond trading room to see if the coast was clear, then put his head under the desk and stuffed The City Light The City Light into the envelope and headed for the bathroom. into the envelope and headed for the bathroom.

There were four cubicles, two urinals, and a large sink. In the cubicle he was dreadfully aware of the rustle of the newspaper as he took it out of the envelope. How could he possibly turn the pages? Every rustling crinkling crackling turn of the page would be a thunderous announcement that some slacker was in here goofing on a newspaper. He pulled his feet in toward the china base of the toilet bowl. That way no one could get a glimpse under the cubicle door of his half-brogued New & Lingwood shoes with the close soles and the beveled insteps and conclude, "Aha! McCoy."

Hidden behind the toilet door, the Master of the Universe began ransacking the newspaper at a furious clip, page by filthy page.

There was nothing, no mention of a boy struck down on a highway ramp in the Bronx. He felt vastly relieved. Almost two full days had now pa.s.sed-and nothing. Christ, it was hot in here. He was perspiring terribly. How could he let himself get carried away like this? Maria was right. The brutes had attacked, and he had beaten the brutes, and they had escaped, and that was that. With his bare hands he had triumphed!

Or was it that the boy had been hit and the police were looking for the car, but the newspapers didn't regard it as important enough to rate a story?

The fever began to rise again. Suppose something did did get in the papers...even a hint...How could he ever put the Giscard deal together under a cloud like that?...He'd be finished! get in the papers...even a hint...How could he ever put the Giscard deal together under a cloud like that?...He'd be finished!...finished!...And even as he quaked with fear of such a catastrophe, he knew he was letting himself wallow in it for a superst.i.tious reason. If you consciously envisioned something that dreadful, then it couldn't possibly take place, could it...G.o.d or Fate would refuse to be antic.i.p.ated by a mere mortal, wouldn't He...He always insisted on giving His disasters the purity of surprise, didn't He...And yet-and yet-some forms of doom are so obvious you can't avoid them that way, can you! One breath of scandal- One breath of scandal- -his spirits plunged even lower. One One breath of scandal, and not only would the Giscard scheme collapse but his breath of scandal, and not only would the Giscard scheme collapse but his very career very career would be finished! And what would he do then? would be finished! And what would he do then? I'm already going broke on a million dollars a year! I'm already going broke on a million dollars a year! The appalling figures came popping up into his brain. Last year his income had been $980,000. But he had to pay out $21,000 a month for the $1.8 million loan he had taken out to buy the apartment. What was $21,000 a month to someone making a million a year? That was the way he had thought of it at the time-and in fact, it was merely a The appalling figures came popping up into his brain. Last year his income had been $980,000. But he had to pay out $21,000 a month for the $1.8 million loan he had taken out to buy the apartment. What was $21,000 a month to someone making a million a year? That was the way he had thought of it at the time-and in fact, it was merely a crus.h.i.+ng, grinding burden- crus.h.i.+ng, grinding burden-that was all! It came to $252,000 a year, none of it deductible, because it was a personal loan, not a mortgage. (The cooperative boards in Good Park Avenue Buildings like his didn't allow you to take out a mortgage on your apartment.) So, considering the taxes, it required $420,000 in income to pay the $252,000. Of the $560,000 remaining of his income last year, $44,400 was required for the apartment's monthly maintenance fees; $116,000 for the house on Old Drover's Mooring Lane in Southampton ($84,000 for mortgage payment and interest, $18,000 for heat, utilities, insurance, and repairs, $6,000 for lawn and hedge cutting, $8,000 for taxes). Entertaining at home and in restaurants had come to $37,000. This was a modest sum compared to what other people spent; for example, Campbell's birthday party in Southampton had had only one carnival ride (plus, of course, the obligatory ponies and the magician) and had cost less than $4,000. The Taliaferro School, including the bus service, cost $9,400 for the year. The tab for furniture and clothes had come to about $65,000; and there was little hope of reducing that, since Judy was, after all, a decorator and had to keep things up to par. The servants (Bonita, Miss Lyons, Lucille the cleaning woman, and Hobie the handyman in Southampton) came to $62,000 a year. That left only $226,200, or $18,850 a month, for additional taxes and this and that, including insurance payments (nearly a thousand a month, if averaged out), garage rent for two cars ($840 a month), household food ($1,500 a month), club dues (about $250 a month)-the abysmal truth was that he had spent more more than $980,000 last year. Well, obviously he could cut down here and there-but not nearly enough than $980,000 last year. Well, obviously he could cut down here and there-but not nearly enough-if the worst happened! There was no getting out from under the $1.8 million loan, the crus.h.i.+ng $21,000-a-month nut, without paying it off or selling the apartment and moving into one far smaller and more modest-an There was no getting out from under the $1.8 million loan, the crus.h.i.+ng $21,000-a-month nut, without paying it off or selling the apartment and moving into one far smaller and more modest-an impossibility! impossibility! There was no turning back! Once you had lived in a $2.6 million apartment on Park Avenue-it was impossible to live in a $1 million apartment! Naturally, there was no way to explain this to a living soul. Unless you were a complete fool, you couldn't even make the words come out of your mouth. Nevertheless There was no turning back! Once you had lived in a $2.6 million apartment on Park Avenue-it was impossible to live in a $1 million apartment! Naturally, there was no way to explain this to a living soul. Unless you were a complete fool, you couldn't even make the words come out of your mouth. Nevertheless-it was so! It was It was...an impossibility! Why, his building was one of the great ones built just before the First World War! Back then it was still not entirely proper for a good family to live in an apartment (instead of a house). So the apartments were built like mansions, with eleven-, twelve-, thirteen-foot ceilings, vast entry galleries, staircases, servants' wings, herringbone-parquet floors, interior walls a foot thick, exterior walls as thick as a fort's, and fireplaces, fireplaces, fireplaces, even though the buildings were all built with central heating. A mansion!-except that you arrived at the front door via an elevator (opening upon your own private vestibule) instead of the street. That was what you got for $2.6 million, and anyone who put one foot in the entry gallery of the McCoy duplex on the tenth floor knew he was in Why, his building was one of the great ones built just before the First World War! Back then it was still not entirely proper for a good family to live in an apartment (instead of a house). So the apartments were built like mansions, with eleven-, twelve-, thirteen-foot ceilings, vast entry galleries, staircases, servants' wings, herringbone-parquet floors, interior walls a foot thick, exterior walls as thick as a fort's, and fireplaces, fireplaces, fireplaces, even though the buildings were all built with central heating. A mansion!-except that you arrived at the front door via an elevator (opening upon your own private vestibule) instead of the street. That was what you got for $2.6 million, and anyone who put one foot in the entry gallery of the McCoy duplex on the tenth floor knew he was in...one of those fabled apartments that the world, le monde, died for! died for! And what did a million get you today? At most, at most, at And what did a million get you today? At most, at most, at most: most: a three-bedroom apartment-no servants' rooms, no guest rooms, let alone dressing rooms and a sunroom-in a white-brick high-rise built east of Park Avenue in the 1960s with 8-foot ceilings, a dining room but no library, an entry gallery the size of a closet, no fireplace, skimpy lumberyard moldings, if any, plasterboard walls that transmit whispers, and no private elevator stop. Oh no; instead, a mean windowless elevator hall with at least five pathetically plain bile-beige metal-sheathed doors, each protected by two or more ugly drop locks, opening upon it, one of these morbid portals being a three-bedroom apartment-no servants' rooms, no guest rooms, let alone dressing rooms and a sunroom-in a white-brick high-rise built east of Park Avenue in the 1960s with 8-foot ceilings, a dining room but no library, an entry gallery the size of a closet, no fireplace, skimpy lumberyard moldings, if any, plasterboard walls that transmit whispers, and no private elevator stop. Oh no; instead, a mean windowless elevator hall with at least five pathetically plain bile-beige metal-sheathed doors, each protected by two or more ugly drop locks, opening upon it, one of these morbid portals being yours yours.

Patently...an impossibility!

He sat with his $650 New & Lingwood shoes pulled up against the cold white bowl of the toilet and the newspaper rustling in his trembling hands, envisioning Campbell, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, leaving the marbled entry hall on the tenth floor for the last time, commencing her descent into the lower depths.

Since I've foreseen it, G.o.d, you can't let it happen, can you?

The Giscard!...Had to move fast! Had to have a print!...This phrase suddenly possessed his mind, have a print have a print. When a big deal such as the Giscard was completed, closed, once and for all, it was set down in the form of a contract that was actually printed by a printing company, on a press. Have a print! Have a print! Have a print! Have a print!

He sat there, riding a white china toilet bowl, beseeching the Almighty for a print.

Two young white men sat in a mansion in Harlem staring at a middle-aged black man. The younger one, the one doing the talking, was rattled by what he saw. He felt as if he had been removed from his own body by astral projection and was listening like a spectator to his own words as they came out of his mouth.

"So I don't know exactly how to put it, Reverend Bacon, but the thing is, we-I mean the diocese-the Episcopal Church-we've given you $350,000 as seed money for the Little Shepherd Day Care Center, and we received a telephone call yesterday from a newspaper reporter, and he said the Human Resources Administration turned down your license application nine weeks nine weeks ago, and I mean, well, we just couldn't believe it. It was the first thing we'd even heard about it, and so..." ago, and I mean, well, we just couldn't believe it. It was the first thing we'd even heard about it, and so..."

The words continued to come out of his mouth, but the young man, whose name was Edward Fiske III, was no longer thinking about them. His voice was on automatic, while his mind tried to make sense out of the situation he was in. The room was a vast Beaux Arts salon full of high-grained oak architraves and cornices and plaster rosettes and swags with gilt highlights and fluted corner beads and ogeed baseboards, all of it carefully restored to the original turn-of-the-century style. It was the sort of mansion the dry-goods barons used to erect in New York before the First World War. But now the baron of these premises, seated behind a huge mahogany desk, was a black man.

His high-backed swivel chair was upholstered in a rich oxblood-colored leather. There wasn't a trace of emotion on his face. He was one of those thin, rawboned men who look powerful without being muscular. His receding black hair was combed straight back for about two inches before it broke into ruffles of small curls. He wore a black double-breasted suit with peaked lapels, a white s.h.i.+rt with a high starched spread collar, and a black necktie with broad white diagonal stripes. On his left wrist was a watch with enough gold to read a meter by.

Fiske became unnaturally aware of the sound of his own voice: "...and then we made-actually, I made-a telephone call to the HRA, and I spoke to a Mr. Lubidoff, and he told me-and I'm only repeating to you what he said-he said that several-actually, he said seven-he said seven of the nine directors of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center have prison records, and three are on parole, which means that technically, legally"-he glanced at his young colleague, Moody, who was a lawyer-"they are considered or accorded or, I should say, burdened with the status of an inmate."

Fiske stared at Reverend Bacon and opened his eyes wide and arched his eyebrows. It was a desperate attempt to coax the baron into the conversational vacuum. He didn't dare try to question question him, him, interrogate interrogate him. The best he could hope for was to lay down certain facts that would compel him, through the logic of the situation, to respond. him. The best he could hope for was to lay down certain facts that would compel him, through the logic of the situation, to respond.

But Reverend Bacon didn't even change his expression. He just stared at the young man as if he were looking at a gerbil on a treadmill in a cage. The narrow mustache that outlined his upper lip didn't budge. Then he began drumming the first two fingers of his left hand on his desk, as if to say, "And therefore?"

It wasn't Reverend Bacon but Fiske himself who couldn't bear the vacuum and plunged in.

"And therefore-well, I mean, in the eyes of the HRA-the way they look at it-and they're the licensing authority for day-care centers-and you're aware of all the furor-how sensitive they are about day-care centers-it's a big political issue-that three directors of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center, the ones still on parole, they are still in prison still in prison, because people on parole are still serving a prison sentence and are still subject to all the...all the...well, whatever...and the other four also have records, which by itself is enough to...to...Well, the regulations don't allow it-"

The words were gus.h.i.+ng out in awkward spurts, while his mind rushed all over the room, trying to find an exit. Fiske was one of those superbly healthy white people who retain the peachy complexion of a thirteen-year-old until well into their late twenties. Just now his fine fair face was beginning to redden. He was embarra.s.sed. No, he was scared. In a few moments he was going to have to get to the part about the $350,000, unless his sidekick over here, Moody, the lawyer, did it for him. G.o.d almighty, how had it come to this? After leaving Yale, Fiske had gone to the Wharton School of Business, where he had written a master's thesis ent.i.tled "Quant.i.tative Aspects of Ethical Behavior in a Capital-Intensive Corporation." For the past three years he had been Community Outreach Director of the Episcopal Diocese of New York, a position that involved him in the diocese's heavy moral and financial support of Reverend Bacon and his works. But even in the auspicious heartwarming early days, two years ago, he had been uneasy about these trips to this big old town house in Harlem. From the beginning, a thousand little things had snapped away at the ankles of his profound intellectual liberalism, starting with this business of "Reverend Bacon." Every Yale man, or certainly every Episcopalian among them, knew that Reverend Reverend was an adjective, not a noun. It was like was an adjective, not a noun. It was like Honorable Honorable before the name of a legislator or a judge. You might refer to "the Honorable William Rehnquist," but you wouldn't call him "Honorable Rehnquist." In the same way, you could refer to "the Reverend Reginald Bacon" or "the Reverend Mr. Bacon," but you wouldn't say "Reverend Bacon"-except in this house and in this part of New York, where you called him whatever he wanted to be called, and you forgot about Yale. The truth was, Fiske had found Reverend Bacon forbidding even in those early days when he had been all smiles. They agreed on practically all philosophical and political issues. Yet they were before the name of a legislator or a judge. You might refer to "the Honorable William Rehnquist," but you wouldn't call him "Honorable Rehnquist." In the same way, you could refer to "the Reverend Reginald Bacon" or "the Reverend Mr. Bacon," but you wouldn't say "Reverend Bacon"-except in this house and in this part of New York, where you called him whatever he wanted to be called, and you forgot about Yale. The truth was, Fiske had found Reverend Bacon forbidding even in those early days when he had been all smiles. They agreed on practically all philosophical and political issues. Yet they were in no way similar people in no way similar people. And these were not the early days. These were what you might call the last days.

"...And so, obviously we have a problem, Reverend Bacon. Until we can get this straightened out about the license-and I wish we had known about it nine weeks ago, when it happened-well, I don't see that there's any way the project can go forward until we resolve it. Not that it can't be resolved, of course-but you've got to-well, the first thing we've got to do, it seems to me, we've got to be very realistic about the $350,000. Naturally, this board-I mean, your present board-this board can't spend any of those moneys on the day-care center, because the board will have to be reorganized, it seems to me, which, when you get right down to it, means a reorganization of the corporation, and that will take some time. Not a lot of time, perhaps, but it will take some time, and..."

As his voice struggled on, Fiske cut his eyes toward his colleague. This fellow Moody didn't seem fazed at all. He sat there in an armchair, with his head c.o.c.ked to one side, very coolly, as if he had Reverend Bacon's number. This was his first trip up to the House of Bacon, and he seemed to regard it as a bit of a lark. He was the latest junior member whom the firm of Dunning Sponget & Leach had fobbed off on the diocese, an account they regarded as prestigious but "soft." On the way up in the car, the young lawyer had told Fiske that he, too, had gone to Yale. He had been a linebacker on the football team. He managed to mention that about five different times. He had come walking into Reverend Bacon's headquarters as if he had a keg of Dortmunder Light between his legs. He had sat down in the chair and leaned back, gloriously relaxed. But he said nothing..."So in the meantime, Reverend Bacon," said Ed Fiske, "we thought the prudent thing would be-we talked this over at the diocese-this was everybody's thought on the thing, not just mine-we thought the wise thing-I mean, all we're concerned about here is the future of the project, of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center-because we're still a hundred percent behind the project-that hasn't changed a bit-we thought the prudent thing would be to place the $350,000-not counting the money that's already gone toward leasing the building on West 129th Street, of course-we ought to put the other-what?-$340,000, or whatever it is, into an escrow account, and then when you've gotten the business of the board of directors straightened out, and you've gotten the licensing from the HRA, and there's no more red tape to worry about, those moneys will be turned over to you and your new board, and, well, that's...sort of it it!"

Fiske opened his eyes wide again and arched his eyebrows and even attempted a little friendly smile, as if to say, "Hey! We're all in the same boat here, aren't we!" He looked at Moody, who continued to stare at Reverend Bacon in his cool fas.h.i.+on. Reverend Bacon didn't even so much as blink, and something about that implacable gaze made Fiske decide that it was unwise to continue looking into his eyes. He looked at Reverend Bacon's fingers as they did their paradiddle on the desk. Not a word. So he scanned the top of the desk. There was a large handsome leather-bound desk blotter, a gold Dunhill pen-and-pencil set mounted on an onyx pedestal, a collection of paperweights and medals imbedded in Lucite, several of which had been inscribed to Reverend Reginald Bacon by civic organizations, a stack of papers held down by a paperweight consisting mainly of the letters WNBC-TV in thick bra.s.s, an intercom with a row of b.u.t.tons, and a large box-shaped ashtray with leather sides framed in bra.s.s and a bra.s.s grillwork over the top...

Fiske kept his eyes lowered. Into the vacuum came the sounds of the building. On the floor above, heavily m.u.f.fled by the building's thick floors and walls, the faint sound of a piano...Moody, sitting right next to him, probably didn't even notice. But Fiske, in his mind, could sing right along with those rich cras.h.i.+ng cords.

"The mil-len-ni-al rei-eign...

"Is going...to be..."

Huge chords.

"One thousand years of...e-ter-ni-tee...

"Lord of lo-ords..."

"Ho-ost of hosts..."

More chords. A whole ocean of chords. She was up there right now. When this thing first started, this business of the diocese and Reverend Bacon, Fiske used to play Reverend Bacon's mother's records in his apartment at night and sing along, at the top of his lungs, with ecstatic abandon-"The mil-len-ni-al rei-eiggn!"-a song made famous by s.h.i.+rley Caeser...oh, he knew his gospel singers-him!-Edward Fiske III, Yale '80!-who now had legitimate entry into that rich black world...The name Adela Bacon still appeared on the gospel music charts from time to time. Of all the organizations listed in the mansion's entry hall down below, ALL PEOPLE'S SOLIDARITY, THE GATES OF THE KINGDOM CHURCH, THE OPEN GATES EMPLOYMENT COALITION, MOTHERHOOD ALERT, THE LITTLE CHILDREN'S ANTI-DRUG CRUSADE, THE THIRD WORLD ANTI-DEFAMATION LEAGUE, THE LITTLE SHEPHERD DAY CARE CENTER ALL PEOPLE'S SOLIDARITY, THE GATES OF THE KINGDOM CHURCH, THE OPEN GATES EMPLOYMENT COALITION, MOTHERHOOD ALERT, THE LITTLE CHILDREN'S ANTI-DRUG CRUSADE, THE THIRD WORLD ANTI-DEFAMATION LEAGUE, THE LITTLE SHEPHERD DAY CARE CENTER, and the rest of them, only Adela Bacon's MILLENNIAL REIGN MUSIC CORPORATION MILLENNIAL REIGN MUSIC CORPORATION was a conventional business organization. He regretted that he had never really come to know her. She had founded the Gates of the Kingdom Church, which was supposedly Reverend Bacon's church but which in reality scarcely existed any longer. She had run it; she had conducted the services; she had uplifted the church's Pentecostal flock with her amazing contralto voice and the cresting waves of her oceans of chords-and she and she alone had been the church body that had ordained her son Reggie as the Reverend Reginald Bacon. At first Fiske had been shocked to learn this. Then a great sociological truth dawned upon him. was a conventional business organization. He regretted that he had never really come to know her. She had founded the Gates of the Kingdom Church, which was supposedly Reverend Bacon's church but which in reality scarcely existed any longer. She had run it; she had conducted the services; she had uplifted the church's Pentecostal flock with her amazing contralto voice and the cresting waves of her oceans of chords-and she and she alone had been the church body that had ordained her son Reggie as the Reverend Reginald Bacon. At first Fiske had been shocked to learn this. Then a great sociological truth dawned upon him. All All religious credentials are arbitrary, self-proclaimed. Who originated the articles of faith under which his own boss, the Episcopal Bishop of New York, had been ordained? Did Moses bring them down in stone from the mountaintop? No, some Englishman dreamed them up a few centuries ago, and a lot of people with long white faces agreed to call them rigorous and sacred. The Episcopal faith was merely older, more ossified, and more respectable than the Baconian in white society. religious credentials are arbitrary, self-proclaimed. Who originated the articles of faith under which his own boss, the Episcopal Bishop of New York, had been ordained? Did Moses bring them down in stone from the mountaintop? No, some Englishman dreamed them up a few centuries ago, and a lot of people with long white faces agreed to call them rigorous and sacred. The Episcopal faith was merely older, more ossified, and more respectable than the Baconian in white society.

But it was long past time to worry about theology and church history. It was time to retrieve $350,000.

Now he could hear water running and a refrigerator door opening and one of those hair-trigger coffee machines coming to a boil. That meant the door to the little service kitchen was open. A tall black man was peering out. He wore a blue work s.h.i.+rt. He had a long powerful neck and wore a single large gold earring, like a storybook pirate. That was one of the things about this place...the way these...these...these...heavies were always around. They no longer seemed like romantic revolutionaries to Fiske...They seemed like...The thought of what they might be caused Fiske to avert his eyes...Now he looked past Bacon, out the bay window behind him. The window looked out on a backyard. It was early afternoon, but the yard received only a gloomy greenish light because of the buildings that had gone up on the streets behind it. Fiske could see the trunks of three huge old sycamores. That was all that remained of what must have been quite a little piece of scenery, by New York standards, in its day. were always around. They no longer seemed like romantic revolutionaries to Fiske...They seemed like...The thought of what they might be caused Fiske to avert his eyes...Now he looked past Bacon, out the bay window behind him. The window looked out on a backyard. It was early afternoon, but the yard received only a gloomy greenish light because of the buildings that had gone up on the streets behind it. Fiske could see the trunks of three huge old sycamores. That was all that remained of what must have been quite a little piece of scenery, by New York standards, in its day.

The m.u.f.fled chords. In his mind, Fiske could hear the beautiful voice of Adela Bacon: "Oh, what... what...shall I say say, Lord?

"And it came... came...to pa.s.s... pa.s.s..."

Waves of m.u.f.fled chords.

"A voice...from on high said...

" 'All flesh... flesh...is gra.s.s... gra.s.s...' "

A whole ocean of chords.

Reverend Bacon stopped drumming his fingers. He placed the tips of the fingers of both hands on the edge of the desk. He lifted his chin slightly and he said: "This is Harlem."

He said it slowly and softly. He was as calm as Fiske was nervous. Fiske had never known the man to raise his voice. Reverend Bacon froze the look on his face and the position of his hands, in order to let his words sink in completely.

"This," he said once more, "is Harlem...see..."

He paused.

"You come up here now, after all this time, and you tell me me there are people there are people with prison records with prison records on the board of directors of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center. You inform me of that fact." on the board of directors of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center. You inform me of that fact."

"I'm not telling you, Reverend Bacon," said Fiske. "That's what the Human Resources Administration is telling us both." not telling you, Reverend Bacon," said Fiske. "That's what the Human Resources Administration is telling us both."

"I want to tell you you something. I want to something. I want to remind remind you of something you of something you you told told me me. Who do we want want to run the Little Shepherd Day Care Center? Do you remember? Do we want your Wellesley girls and your Va.s.sar girls coming up here to take care of the children of Harlem? Do we want your social benefactors? Do we want your licensed civil-service bureaucrats? Your lifers from City Hall? Is that what we want? Is to run the Little Shepherd Day Care Center? Do you remember? Do we want your Wellesley girls and your Va.s.sar girls coming up here to take care of the children of Harlem? Do we want your social benefactors? Do we want your licensed civil-service bureaucrats? Your lifers from City Hall? Is that what we want? Is that that what we want?" what we want?"

Fiske felt compelled to answer. Obediently as a first-grader, he said, "No."

"No," said Reverend Bacon approvingly, "that is not what we want. What do do we want? We want the people of Harlem looking after the children of Harlem. We're going to draw our strength...our we want? We want the people of Harlem looking after the children of Harlem. We're going to draw our strength...our strength... strength...from our people and our own streets. I told you that a long time ago, in the earliest days. Do you remember? Do you remember that?"

"Yes," said Fiske, feeling more juvenile by the minute, and more helpless in the face of that steady gaze.

"Yes. Our own streets. Now, a young man grows up on the streets of Harlem, the chances are the police have a sheet on that young man. You understand? They have a sheet on that young man. I'm talking about a police record. So if you're saying to everybody who's ever been in jail and everybody coming out out of jail and everybody of jail and everybody on parole on parole, if you're saying, 'You can't partic.i.p.ate in the rebirth of Harlem, because we gave up on you soon as you got a record'...see...then you are not talking about the rebirth of Harlem. You're talking about some make-believe place, some magic kingdom. You're fooling yourself. You're not looking for a radical solution. You're wanting to play the same old game, you're wanting to see the same old faces. You're wanting to practice the same old colonialism. You understand? You understand what I'm saying?"

Fiske was about to nod yes, when all at once Moody spoke up: "Look, Reverend Bacon, we know all about that, but that's not the problem. We've got an immediate, specific, technical, legal problem. By law, the HRA is forbidden to issue a license under these circ.u.mstances, and that's all there is to that. So let's take care of that problem, and let's see about the $350,000, and then we'll be in a position to solve the larger problems."

Fiske couldn't believe what he was hearing. Involuntarily he slid down in his seat and took a wary glance at Reverend Bacon. Reverend Bacon stared at Moody without any expression at all. He stared at him long enough for the silence to envelop him. Then, without parting his lips, he stuck his tongue into his cheek until his cheek popped out the size of a golf ball. He turned to Fiske and said softly: "How'd you get up here?"

"Uh...we drove," said Fiske.

"Where's your car? What's it look like?"

Fiske hesitated. Then he told him.

"You should've told me sooner," said Reverend Bacon. "There's a bad element around here." He called out, "Hey, Buck!"

Out of the kitchen came the tall man with the gold earring. The sleeves of his work s.h.i.+rt were rolled up. He had tremendous elbows. Reverend Bacon motioned to him, and he came over and bent down and put his hands on his hips, and Reverend Bacon said something in a low voice. The man's arms created terrific angles where they bent at the elbows. The man stood up and looked very seriously at Reverend Bacon and nodded and started to leave the room.

"Oh, Buck," said Reverend Bacon.

Buck stopped and looked around.

"And you keep your eye on that car."

Buck nodded again and walked out.

Reverend Bacon looked at Fiske. "I hope none of those trifling boys-anyway, they won't fool with Buck. Now, what was I saying?" All of this was to Fiske. It was as if Moody were no longer in the room.

"Reverend Bacon," said Fiske, "I think-"

Reverend Bacon's intercom buzzed.

"Yes?"

A woman's voice said: "Irv Stone from Channel 1, on 47."

Reverend Bacon turned to a telephone on a little cabinet near his chair. "h.e.l.lo, Irv...Fine, fine...No, no. Mostly the APS, All People's Solidarity. We've got a mayor to defeat in November...Not this time, Irv, not this time. This man, all he needs is a shove. But that's not what I called you about. I called you about the Open Gates Employment Coalition...I said the Open Gates Employment Coalition...How long? A long time, a long time. Don't you read the newspapers?...Well, that's okay. That's what I called you about. You know those restaurants downtown, down in the East Fifties and the East Sixties, those restaurants where the people, they spend a hundred dollars for lunch, and they spend two hundred dollars for dinner, and they don't even think twice about it?...What? Don't kid me, Irv. I know about you TV people. You know that place you have lunch every day. La Boue d'Argent?" Fiske noticed that Reverend Bacon had no trouble at all p.r.o.nouncing the name of one of the most expensive and fas.h.i.+onable restaurants in New York. "Heh, heh, well, that's what they told me. Or is it Leicester's?" He got that one right, too. Leicester's was p.r.o.nounced Lester's Lester's, in the British fas.h.i.+on. Reverend Bacon was chuckling and smiling now. Evidently he was having his joke. Fiske was glad to see him smile-over anything. "Well, what I'm saying is, in any a those places, did you ever see a black waiter a black waiter? Did you? Did you ever ever see a black waiter?...That's right, you never did. You never did. In see a black waiter?...That's right, you never did. You never did. In any any of them. And why?...That's right. The unions, too. You understand what I'm saying?...That's right. Well, that's what has to change...see...has to change. Next Tuesday, starting at noon, the coalition's going to demonstrate at Leicester's restaurant, and when we get through with that one, we're going to La Boue d'Argent and the Macaque and La Grise and the Three Ortolans and all those places...How? By any means necessary. You're always talking about footage, Irv. Well, I can promise you one thing. You'll have of them. And why?...That's right. The unions, too. You understand what I'm saying?...That's right. Well, that's what has to change...see...has to change. Next Tuesday, starting at noon, the coalition's going to demonstrate at Leicester's restaurant, and when we get through with that one, we're going to La Boue d'Argent and the Macaque and La Grise and the Three Ortolans and all those places...How? By any means necessary. You're always talking about footage, Irv. Well, I can promise you one thing. You'll have footage footage. Do you follow me?...Call Leicester's? Sure. Go ahead...No, indeed. I don't mind."

When he hung up, he said, as if talking to himself, "I hope they do call 'em up."

Then he looked at the two young men. "Now!" he said, as if the time had come to wrap things up and send everyone on his way. "You fellows see what I got to deal with here. I've got the fight of my life. The fight...of...my...life. The APS, All People's Solidarity, in November we got to defeat the most racist mayor in the history of the United States. The Open Gates Employment Coalition, we got to break down the walls of apartheid in the job market. And the Third World Anti-Defamation League, we're negotiating with a bunch of exploiters making a stone racist movie called Harlem's Angels Harlem's Angels. Gangs and drug dealers and addicts and winos, that's all. Racial stereotypes. They think because they got this black man who leads a young gang to Jesus, they are not racist. But they are stone racist, and they must be suitably apprised of that reality. So the day is coming in New York. The hour is drawing nigh. The final battle, you might say. Gideon's Army...and you!... you!...you come up here and lay some chickensh-some trifling thing on me about the board of directors of the Little Shepherd Day Care Center!"

A fury had crept into the baron's voice. He had come close to uttering the word chickens.h.i.+t chickens.h.i.+t, and Fiske had never known him to say so much as a single foul word, not even a d.a.m.n d.a.m.n, in all the time he had known him. Fiske was torn between the desire to depart this house before the final battle began and the h.e.l.lfire rained down and the desire to save his job, such as it was. He was the one who had dispatched the $350,000 to Reverend Bacon in the first place. Now he had to retrieve it.

"Well," he said, testing a middle ground, "you might be right, Reverend Bacon. And we-the diocese-we are not here to complicate things. Frankly, we want to protect you, and we want to protect our investment in you. We gave you $350,000 contingent on the licensing of the day-care center. So if you'll turn over the $350,000 or the $340,000, whatever the exact balance is, and let us put it into an escrow account, then we'll help you. We'll go to bat for you."

Reverend Bacon looked at him distractedly, as if pondering a great decision.

"It is not that simple," he said.

"Well-why not?"

"That money is mostly...committed."

"Committed?"

"To the contractors."

"The contractors? What contractors?"

"What contractors? Good Lord, man, the equipment, the furniture, the computers, the telephones, the carpet, the air conditioning, the ventilation-very important with children, the ventilation-the safety toys. It's hard to remember all the things." contractors? Good Lord, man, the equipment, the furniture, the computers, the telephones, the carpet, the air conditioning, the ventilation-very important with children, the ventilation-the safety toys. It's hard to remember all the things."

"But, Reverend Bacon," said Fiske, his voice rising, "all you've got so far is an old empty warehouse! I was just by there! There's nothing in there! You haven't hired an architect! You don't even have any plans!"

"That's the least of it. Coordination is the main thing in a project of this kind. Coordination."