Four Past Midnight (65 page)

The telephone on Sam Peebles's desk at Junction City Realty and Insurance rang at five past four on Thursday afternoon. Sam picked it up. It was always Sam who picked it up—either Sam in person or Sam on the answering machine, because he was Junction City Realty and Insurance's owner and sole employee. He was not a rich man, but he was a reasonably happy one. He liked to tell people that his first Mercedes was still quite a distance in the future, but he had a Ford which was almost new and owned his own home on Kelton Avenue. “Also, the business keeps me in beer and skittles,” he liked to add ... although in truth, he hadn't drunk much beer since college and wasn't exactly sure what skittles were. He thought they might be pretzels.

“Junction City Realty and In—”

“Sam, this is Craig. The acrobat broke his neck.”

“You heard me!” Craig Jones cried in deeply aggrieved tones. “The acrobat broke his fucking neck!”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Gee.” He thought about this for a moment and then asked cautiously, “Is he dead, Craig?”

“No, he's not dead, but he might as well be as far as we're concerned. He's in the hospital over in Cedar Rapids with his' neck dipped in about twenty pounds of plaster. Billy Bright just called me. He said the guy came on drunk as a skunk at the matinee this afternoon, tried to do a back-over flip, and landed outside the center ring on the nape of his neck. Billy said he could hear it way up in the bleachers, where he was sitting. He said it sounded like when you step in a puddle that just iced over.”

“Ouch!” Sam exclaimed, wincing.

“I'm not surprised. After all—The Amazing Joe. What kind of name is that for a circus performer? I mean, The Amazing Randix, okay. The Amazing Tortellini, still not bad. But The Amazing Joe? It sounds like a prime example of brain damage in action to me.”

“Jesus, that's too bad.”

“Fucking shit on toast is what it is. It leaves us without a speaker tomorrow night, good buddy.”

Sam began to wish he had left the office promptly at four. Craig would have been stuck with Sam the answering machine, and that would have given Sam the living being a little more time to think. He felt he would soon
need
time to think. He also felt that Craig Jones was not going to give him any.

“Yes,” he said, “I guess that's true enough.” He hoped he sounded philosophical but helpless. “What a shame.”

“It sure is,” Craig said, and then dropped the dime. “But I know you'll be happy to step in and fill the slot.”

“Me?
Craig, you've got to be kidding! I can't even do a somersault, let alone a back-over fi—”

“I thought you could talk about the importance of the independently owned business in small-town life,” Craig Jones pressed on relentlessly. “If that doesn't do it for you, there's baseball. Lacking
that,
you could always drop your pants and wag your wing-wang at the audience. Sam, I am not just the head of the Speakers Committee—that would be bad enough. But since Kenny moved away and Carl quit coming, I
am
the Speakers Committee. Now, you've got to help me. I
need
a speaker tomorrow night. There are about five guys in the whole damn club I feel I can trust in a pinch, and you're one of them.”

“But—”

“You're also the only one who hasn't filled in already in a situation like this, so you're elected, buddy-boy.”

“Frank Stephens—”

“—pinch-hit for the guy from the trucking union last year when the grand jury indicted him for fraud and he couldn't show up. Sam—it's your turn in the barrel. You can't let me down, man. You owe me.”

“I run an insurance business!” Sam cried. “When I'm not writing insurance, I sell farms! Mostly to banks! Most people find it
boring!
The ones who don't find it boring find it
disgusting!”

“None of that matters.” Craig was now moving in for the kill, marching over Sam's puny objection in grim hobnailed boots. “They'll all be drunk by the end of dinner and you know it. They won't remember a goddam word you said come Saturday morning, but in the meantime,
I need someone to stand up and talk for half an hour and you're elected!”

Sam continued to object a little longer, but Craig kept coming down on the imperatives, italicizing them mercilessly. Need. Gotta. Owe.

“All right!” he said at last. “All right, all right! Enough!”

“My man!” Craig exclaimed. His voice was suddenly full of sunshine and rainbows. “Remember, it doesn't have to be any longer than thirty minutes, plus maybe another ten for questions. If anybody has any questions. And you really can wag your wing-wang if you want to. I doubt that anybody could actually
see
it, but—”

“Craig,” Sam said, “that's enough.”

“Oh!
Sorry!
Shet mah mouf !” Craig, perhaps lightheaded with relief, cackled.

“Listen, why don't we terminate this discussion?” Sam reached for the roll of Turns he kept in his desk drawer. He suddenly felt he might need quite a few Turns during the next twenty-eight hours or so. “It looks as if I've got a speech to write.”

“You got it,” Craig said. “Just remember—dinner at six, speech at seven-thirty. As they used to say on Hawaii
Five-O,
be there! Aloha!”

“Aloha, Craig,” Sam said, and hung up. He stared at the phone. He felt hot gas rising slowly up through his chest and into his throat. He opened his mouth and uttered a sour burp—the product of a stomach which had been reasonably serene until five minutes ago.

He ate the first of what would prove to be a great many Turns indeed.

Instead of going bowling that night as he had planned, Sam Peebles shut himself in his study at home with a yellow legal pad, three sharpened pencils, a package of Kent cigarettes, and a six-pack of Jolt. He unplugged the telephone from the wall, lit a cigarette, and stared at the yellow pad. After five minutes of staring, he wrote this on the top line of the top sheet:

He said it out loud and liked the sound of it. Well ... maybe he didn't exactly
like
it, but he could live with it. He said it louder and liked it better. A
little
better. It actually wasn't
that
good; in fact, it probably sucked the big hairy one, but it beat the shit out of “Communism: Threat or Menace.” And Craig was right—most of them would be too hung over on Saturday morning to remember what they'd heard on Friday night, anyway.

Marginally encouraged, Sam began to write.

“When I moved to Junction City from the more or less thriving metropolis of Ames in 1984 ...”

“... and that is why I feel now, as I did on that bright September morn in 1984, that small businesses are not just the lifeblood of America, but the bright and sparkly lifeblood of the entire Western world.”

Sam stopped, crushed out a cigarette in the ashtray on his office desk, and looked hopefully at Naomi Higgins.

“Well? What do you think?”

Naomi was a pretty young woman from Proverbia, a town four miles west of Junction City. She lived in a ramshackle house by the Proverbia River with her ramshackle mother. Most of the Rotarians knew Naomi, and wagers had been offered from time to time on whether the house or the mother would fall apart first. Sam didn't know if any of these wagers had ever been taken, but if so, their resolution was still pending.

Naomi had graduated from Iowa City Business College, and could actually retrieve whole legible sentences from her shorthand. Since she was the only local woman who possessed such a skill, she was in great demand among Junction City's limited business population. She also had extremely good legs, and that didn't hurt. She worked mornings five days a week, for four men and one woman—two lawyers, one banker, and two realtors. In the afternoons she went back to the ramshackle house, and when she was not caring for her ramshackle mother, she typed up the dictation she had taken.

Sam Peebles engaged Naomi's services each Friday morning from ten until noon, but this morning he had put aside his correspondence—even though some of it badly needed to be answered—and asked Naomi if she would listen to something.

“Sure, I guess so,” Naomi had replied. She looked a little worried, as if she thought Sam—whom she had briefly dated—might be planning to propose marriage. When he explained that Craig Jones had drafted him to stand in for the wounded acrobat, and that he wanted her to listen to his speech, she'd relaxed and listened to the whole thing-all twenty-six minutes of it—with flattering attention.

“Don't be afraid to be honest,” he added before Naomi could do more than open her mouth.

“It's good,” she said. “Pretty interesting.”

“No, that's okay—you don't have to spare my feelings. Let it all hang out.”

“I
am.
It's really okay. Besides, by the time you start talking, they'll all be—”

“Yes, they'll all be hammered, I know.” This prospect had comforted Sam at first, but now it disappointed him a little. Listening to himself read, he'd actually thought the speech was pretty good.

“There is one thing,” Naomi said thoughtfully.

“Oh?”

“It's kind of ... you know ... dry.”

“Oh,” Sam said. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had been up until nearly one o'clock this morning, first writing and then revising.

“But that's easy to fix,” she assured him. “Just go to the library and get a couple of those books.”

Sam felt a sudden sharp pain in his lower belly and grabbed his roll of Turns. Research for a stupid Rotary Club speech? Library research? That was going a little overboard, wasn't it? He had never been to the Junction City Library before, and he didn't see a reason to go there now. Still, Naomi had listened very closely, Naomi was trying to help, and it would be rude not to at least listen to what she had to say.

“What books?”

“You
know—books with stuff in them to liven up speeches. They're like ...” Naomi groped. “Well, you know the hot sauce they give you at China Light, if you want it?”

“Yes—”

“They're like that. They have jokes. Also, there's this one book,
Best Loved Poems of the American People.
You could probably find something in there for the end. Something sort of uplifting.”

“There are poems in this book about the importance of small businesses in American life?” Sam asked doubtfully.

“When you quote poetry, people get
uplifted,
Naomi said. ”Nobody cares what it's
about,
Sam, let alone what it's
for
.”

“And they really have joke-books especially for speeches?” Sam found this almost impossible to believe, although hearing that the library carried books on such esoterica as small-engine repair and wig-styling wouldn't have surprised him in the least.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“When Phil Brakeman was running for the State House, I used to type up speeches for him all the time,” Naomi said. “He had one of those books. I just can't remember what the name of it was. All I can think of is
Jokes for
the John, and of course
that's
not right.”

“No,” Sam agreed, thinking that a few choice tidbits from
Jokes for the John
would probably make him a howling success. But he began to see what Naomi was getting at, and the idea appealed to him despite his reluctance to visit the local library after all his years of cheerful neglect. A little spice for the old speech. Dress up your leftovers, turn your meatloaf into a masterpiece. And a library, after all, was just a library. If you didn't know how to find what you wanted, all you had to do was ask a librarian. Answering questions was one of their jobs, right?

“Anyway, you
could
leave it just the way it is,” Naomi said. “I mean, they
will
be drunk.” She looked at Sam kindly but severely and then checked her watch. “You have over an hour left—did you want to do some letters?”

“No, I guess not. Why don't you type up my speech instead?” He had already decided to spend his lunch hour at the library.

Sam had gone by the Library hundreds of times during his years in Junction City, but this was the first time he had really
looked
at it, and he discovered a rather amazing thing: he hated the place on sight.

The Junction City Public Library stood on the corner of State Street and Miller Avenue, a square granite box of a building with windows so narrow they looked like loopholes. A slate roof overhung all four sides of the building, and when one approached it from the front, the combination of the narrow windows and the line of shadow created by the roof made the building look like the frowning face of a stone robot. It was a fairly common style of Iowa architecture, common enough so Sam Peebles, who had been selling real estate for nearly twenty years, had given it a name: Midwestern Ugly. During spring, summer, and fall, the building's forbidding aspect was softened by the maples which stood around it in a kind of grove, but now, at the end of a hard Iowa winter, the maples were still bare and the Library looked like an oversized crypt.

He didn't like it; it made him uneasy; he didn't know why. It was, after all, just a library, not the dungeons of the Inquisition. Just the same, another acidic burp rose up through his chest as he made his way along the flagstone walk. There was a funny sweet undertaste to the burp that reminded him of something ... something from a long time ago, perhaps. He put a Tum in his mouth, began to crunch it up, and came to an abrupt decision. His speech was good enough as it stood. Not great, but good enough. After all, they were talking Rotary Club here, not the United Nations. It was time to stop playing with it. He was going to go back to the office and do some of the correspondence he had neglected that morning.