The news announcer was saying, “…the FBI director’s address to the National Association of Law Enforcement Officers at their convention last night.”
Film of Lawrence Powers addressing a police banquet was inserted onscreen. “These firebombings of our FBI offices,”
Powers said in his distinctive, deep-Southern voice, “are only the latest example. The Revolutionary Agorist Cadre can be viewed as no less a threat than as an unholy alliance between the Mafia and anarchist-terrorists.”
The news announcer returned to the screen, continuing:
“The FBI chief’s appearance at the convention last night was a surprise to many. It was not expected that Mr. Powers would wish to appear in public so soon after the suicide of his wife.”
The blowup of Powers was replaced by one of an equally handsome man in his late forties, blond, blue-eyed, and cleanshaven. The news announcer flipped to his next story, during which Elliot stopped eating and gave the screen his full attention.
“Private memorial services will be held today,” said the newsman, “for Nobel Prize-winning economist Dr. Martin Vreeland, who died yesterday morning of a heart attack at fortyeight. Dr. Vreeland, often called the father of EUCOMTO’s New Economic Miracle of fifteen years ago, became well known as 66
Alongside Night
an intransigent advocate of a limited-government, laissez-faire enterprise system. He was to have addressed the New York rally of Citizens for a Free Society this morning. Dr. Vreeland is survived by a wife and two children.”
Elliot now knew that the police had decided to let the world believe—for the time being—that his father was dead. On second thought, he hoped it was only for the time being. Nonetheless, by the time he had brushed his teeth, the world did not seem as frightening as it had the night before. If things went well, he might even have his family free by that evening. He had a firm conviction that Al would know exactly to whom he should go. Elliot decided shortly that it was time he got a move on.
Not long after nine, Elliot settled his tab, starting to walk to Times Square. It was one of those bitterly cold, windy—though cheerfully bright—mornings to which even lifelong New Yorkers seldom grow accustomed. He pulled sunglasses and a scarf (he had no hat) from his overcoat pocket, then turned up his collar. Elliot had gloves, also, but resisted putting them on to keep his hands free for possible shooting. Within minutes, though, his fingers were numb enough that he could hardly pull a trigger anyway, and he donned the gloves as well. His ears became numb, too, and his shoulder ached, but there was nothing he could do for them.
When Elliot arrived at the Rabelais Bookstore, there was a sign inside the door, which he read through an iron grill, that said, “CLOSED.” He panicked a moment, then read further to find a listing of hours: on weekdays the store was open from ten to ten. It was only nine-thirty, so Elliot walked back to Hotalings and perused foreign magazines for half an hour, finally buying a Paris Match to avoid being murdered by the manager. He read French well enough to understand a cover story entitled “La Mort des Etats-Unis? ” A cover photograph—
a still taken from the film Planet of the Apes—showed the Statue Alongside Night
67
of Liberty half-buried in mud.
For reasons he could not fully identify, Elliot greatly resented the story, finding it strikingly presumptuous. Surely the country was in trouble, but it had been far worse during the Civil War, and the United States had survived that. Where did these foreigners get off already writing an obituary?
Elliot rolled up the magazine, shoving it into a coat pocket, and again walked to the bookstore. This time it was open. On the stool behind the counter was a man Elliot did not recognize, as thin as Al had been obese, with a pencil mustache and greasy black hair. He looked up from a tabloid headline “TEEN
VAGINA!” and stared at Elliot. He pointed to the notice back of the counter saying, “BE 21 OR BE GONE.”
“Uh—I’m not trying to buy anything,” Elliot said quickly. “I just want to talk to Al.”
“Ain’t nobody here by that name.”
“But he was here yesterday—I talked to him. A bald man with a beard. Overweight.”
“Oh, him,” the skinny clerk said. “Goddam brownie. He quit last night. Said he was sick of this goddam New York winter and was headin’ south.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“Nope. Now beat it before a cop catches you in here.”
Elliot beat it.
Soon he stood at Times Square, cursing himself methodically. You fuckhead, you prick, you numbskull! …What are you a brownie? …If you’d walked back here last night instead of phoning, you might have caught him in time …You were carry- ing a fucking revolver and still you were afraid…. What chance would there’ve been of two attacks in the same night? …Now you’ve missed the one person you know to be on Dad’s team …. You’ve probably blown the entire game….