Ghostwritten (49 page)

Or are all these universes hung out, side by side, to drip dry?

“Yes, Liam,” said the Texan, after the jig had stopped. “It’s him.”

“Mo,” said Mayo Davitt in Gaelic, “do you want us to shove him into the harbor?”

“Talk,” commanded the Texan, “in English.”

“Fuck,” responded Mayo Davitt in Gaelic, “a donkey.”

The Texan sized Mayo Davitt up, like a soldier would.

“There isn’t to be any fighting,” I said, wishing my voice hadn’t sounded so frail.

Red Kildare stood in front of me. “Clear Islanders take exception when outsiders come along and take our scientists.”

“And the government of the United States takes exception when a foreign scientist makes free use of the world’s most sophisticated supercolliders and AI research paid for by NATO—hell, by America—and then uses these experiments to formulate theories which could change
what technology is
, and then bolts, for all we know into the arms of the highest bidder.”

“I bolted first,” I corrected, “and then formulated the theory.”

“How can Mo steal a theory when it’s the fruit of her own God-given intelligence?” asked Father Wally.

“I’d love to discuss the theosophy of our situation all day, Father. Truly I would. But we have a helicopter on standby, so let me cut to the legal position. Under Requisition Clause 13b of the NATO Official Secrets Act, Light Box Research owns whatever
comes out of Dr. Muntervary’s head. We own Light Box Research. A preacher of your intelligence can reach your own conclusion.”

“Get on your helicopter and sod off then.” Maisie advanced. “You’re not welcome in The Green Man, and you’re not welcome on Clear Island.”

“Dr. Muntervary? Your godmother thinks it’s time for us to leave.”

Freddy Doig got up, and Bertie Crow too. “Mo’s going nowhere!”

The Texan shook his head in fake disbelief, jerked his thumb at the window, and we all looked. Brendan whistled softly. “Holy Dooley, Mo, you have been doing well for yourself.”

A line of marines in combat gear stared back. Some islanders stood in awed huddles, some were hurrying away.

“Dear Lord,” said Freddy Doig. “What film did they get those guns from?”

“Somebody tell me what’s happening,” commanded John.

“Soldiers,” said Liam. “Ten of them. To apprehend my super-criminal ma.”

“If I could see you,” said John to the Texan, “I would use every muscle in my body to try to stop you. I want you to know that.”

“Mr. Cullin,” said the Texan, “these are the cards your wife has drawn. I guarantee that her treatment as a guest of the Pentagon will be in accordance with her stature. But her wildcat days have to end. She must come with us. I have my orders.”

“Take your pigging orders,” said Bertie Crow, “and ram ’em right up your Yank—”

A helicopter drowned him out, chopping the water and jostling the fishing boats.

The Texan glanced back at the marines and reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. We all saw his holster. He lit up, taking all the time in the world. “How do you want to play this, Doctor? The outcome will be the same. You know that.”

All eyes were on me. “Everyone. Thank you. But I’ve got to go with them.”

The Texan allowed himself a smile.

“After we have negotiated terms. Term one: in matters pertaining to Quancog, I am accountable to nobody.”

The Texan feigned surprise. “What is this about ‘terms,’ Dr. Muntervary? ‘Terms’ might have been on the table six months ago. But you forfeited your right to ‘terms’ when you became a fugitive. You are ours, Doctor, and so is your black book.”

“A black book, is it? Would a black book be worth something to you now?”

Impatience narrowed his eyes. “Lady, you don’t seem to realize. Your work is property of the American Department of Defense. You had the black book when you visited your mother in Skibbereen. You have it now—somewhere—and if you’ve hidden it, we’ll find it. Get your working relationship with the Pentagon off to a good start, and give it to me. Now.”

“You’d better ask Feynman, then.”

The Texan’s voice grew tauter. “There’s nobody of that name. We’ve been following you since Petersburg, lady. Allowing you to continue your work in peace, and making everything good and smooth for you. There has been no ‘Feynman.’ ”

“It’s not my problem if you don’t believe me. Feynman has the black book.”

Father Wally laughed. “Feynman the goat?”

The Texan did not laugh. “You just said ‘goat’?”

“I’ll gladly say it again for you,” said Father Wally. “ ‘Goat.’ ”

The Texan glared at me. “You mind telling me what a goat wants with quantum cognition?”

I swallowed. “Goats aren’t fussy when they’re hungry.”

“Mo,” said John in Gaelic. “Are you bluffing?”

“No, John. I’m too scared to bluff.”

The Texan’s fists and jaw clenched. He put on his sunglasses. “Nobody leaves this room.” The islanders fell back as he marched out to the marines. He yelled a few words at the saluting one. Through the open window we heard the words “purple fuckin’ blazes.” He pulled out a cell phone from a holster, scowling as he spoke.

John murmured in my ear. “This is dangerous.”

“I know.”

“But if you pull it off, I have a term of my own I want to suggest.…”

The Texan stomped back into The Green Man.

“What terms do you have in mind, Dr. Muntervary?”

The ground became land, the land an island, and Clear Island just another island among the larger ones and smaller ones. Aodhagan a little box. The Texan was in the helicopter cockpit. Two armed marines were behind me, two more in front. Surrounded by men, as usual.

“Cheer up, Mo,” said John, tightening his grip on my arm. “Stick to your guns and Liam will be over for Christmas.”

Finally, I understand how the electrons, protons, neutrons, photons, neutrinos, positrons, muons, pions, gluons, and quarks that make up the universe, and the forces that hold them together, are one.

“WANNA HEAR HOW they’re gonna spread the virus over the world, Bat?”

“All I can hear are the sirens of the reality police, Howard.”

“You gotta hear me out! The future of America depends on it! What’s their number one export, Bat?”

“Most authorities agree the answer is ‘oil,’ Howard.”

“That’s what they want you to think! That’s propaganda! It ain’t oil.…”

“The reality police are kicking down the door, Howard. They’ve got a warrant.”

“You gotta warn people, Bat. The end’s coming.”

“The end has just come, Howard, thank you for calling and—”

“Cashew nuts! They’re gonna spread it by cashew nuts!”

“Sorry folks, Howard has an appointment with the full moon. You’re tuned in to the Bat Segundo Show on Night Train FM, 97.8 till late. Destination blues, rock, jazz, and conversation from midnight until dawn ripples the refrigerated East Coast. It’s 2:45
A.M
. on the very last morning of November. Coming up we have a word from our sponsors, which is not going to take very long, and then New York’s Finest, Mr. Lou Reed, is going to transport us aboard his very own ‘Satellite of Love.’ As usual, our banks of operators are ready and waiting to relay your call direct to the Bat-phone. Tonight’s conversation safari has included yesterday’s air strikes against North African terrorism, albino eels in our sewers, and ‘Do Eunuchs Make Better Presidents?’ But please, if your eyebrows meet, if you have no irises, or if your reflection in your bathroom mirror is the one who asks the questions, call Darth Vader instead. The Bat will be back.”

•  •  •

“Kevin!”

“Mr. Segundo?”

“Real-world fugitive number thirteen during your brief tenure at the switchboard.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Segundo. He seemed okay when he called.”

“They all seem okay when they call, Kevin! That’s why we hire a switchboarder to weed ’em out! Howard was as ‘okay’ as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.”

“Bat! What say you can it and give Kevin a break?”

“Carlotta! You’re my producer! You should be more on your guard against these Apple Core FM saboteurs! C’mon, Kevin, admit it. You got a secret agenda to turn Night Train FM into Radio Schizoid.”

“Bat, chill it! Insanity never hurt ratings. Especially if they mention Night Train FM at the crime scene.”

“Uh-uh. But there are your weird, wonderful, lunatics-on-the-edge-of-genius, and then there are your feces-slurping lunatics. Howard is your textbook feces-slurper. No more feces-slurpers, Kevin, or you get thrown back into the journalism school from whence you emerged. Get it?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Segundo.”

“One more thing: why are you putting boiled ink into my coffee?”

“Boiled ink, Mr. Segundo?”

“Boiled ink, Kevin. This coffee tastes like boiled ink. And stop calling me ‘Mr. Segundo.’ You sound like my accountant.”

“Don’t worry, Kevin. ‘Boiled ink’ indicates a secret fondness in Segundo-speak. The coffee our last intern made, he called ‘Real-Estate Agent Diarrhea.’ ”

“Carlotta, count yourself lucky your difficult-to-overlook sexuality holds an unwavering sway over certain media executives, because if—”

“Five seconds to air, honeybunch—five, four, three, two, one—”

“Welcome to Night Train FM, 97.8, great till late. You’re listening to the Bat Segundo Show: jazz, rock, and blues until the hungover
sun gropes his way into the bespattered cubicle of a new day. That last ruby in the dust was Chet Baker playing ‘It Never Entered My Mind,’ preceded by tenor saxophonist Satoru Sonada who, regular listeners will recall, guested on this very show two weeks ago, performing ‘Sakura Sakura.’ Coming up in the next half hour we have the late great Gram Parsons singing ‘In My Hour of Darkness’ with the angelic but not-at-all-dead Emmylou Harris, so stay tuned, for ’tis a beauty thrice over. The Batphone flasheth: another carefully vetted caller on the line. Welcome whomsoe’er ye may be, you are through to Bat Segundo on Night Train FM!”

“Good evening, Mr. Bat. My name’s Luisa Rey, and I’m just calling—”

“Heyheyhey, one moment: Luisa Rey? Luisa Rey the writer?”

“One or two minor successes in the publishing field, but—”

“Mrs. Rey!
The Hermitage
is the greatest true-crime psychological exposé written since Capote’s
In Cold Blood
. My ex-wife and I never agreed on much, but we agreed on that. Is it true you had death threats from the St. Petersburg mafia for that?”

“Yes, but I can’t allow you to compare my scribblings with Truman’s masterpiece.”

“Mrs. Rey, it’s well known that you’re a stalwart New Yorker, but I can’t tell you how pleased I am to learn that you listen to the Bat Segundo Show.”

“Normally you’re past my bedtime, Bat, but insomnia’s come calling tonight.”

“Your misfortune is the gain of us night-shifting, taxi-driving, all-night-dinering, security-guarding, eleven-sevening creatures of the night. The airwaves are yours, Mrs. Rey.”

“I feel you’re being a little harsh on your more eccentric callers.”

“Of the Howardly persuasion?”

“Precisely. You undervalue them. Viruses in cashew nuts, visual organs in trees, subversive bus drivers waving secret messages to one another as they pass, impending collisions with celestial bodies. Citizens like Howard are the dreams and shadows that a city forgets when it awakes. They are purer than I.”

“But you’re a writer. They are lunatics.”

“Lunatics are writers whose works write them, Bat.”

“Not all lunatics are writers, Mrs. Rey—believe me.”

“But most writers are lunatics, Bat—believe me. The human world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed. You are holding one of the pages where these stories tell themselves, Bat. That’s why I tune in. That’s everything I wanted to say.”

“I’ll bear it in mind, Mrs. Rey. Say, if you’d like to guest on the show, the keys to Night Train are yours. We’ll give you the royal carriage.”

“I’d be delighted to, Bat. Good night.”

“The clock says 3:43
A.M
. The thermometer says it’s a chilly fourteen degrees. The weatherman says the cold spell will last until Thursday, so bundle up and bundle up some more. There are icicles barring the window of the bat cave. That last number was Tom Waits’s ‘Downtown Train,’ a dedication to Harry Zawinul, a patient at Bellevue Hospital, requested by his night-shift nurses.… The message to Harry is, if you’re listening to my show under the blankets, switch off your Walkman, now go to sleep, it’s your operation tomorrow. Taking us up to the news at three we have a Bat Segundo Trilogy: Neil Young’s ‘Stringman,’ Bob Dylan’s ‘Jokerman,’ and Barbra Streisand’s ‘Superman.’ But before that, another caller! Welcome to the Bat Segundo Show on Night Train FM.”

“Thank you, Bat. It’s fine to be here.”

“It’s my pleasure, man. And you are?”

“I’m the zookeeper.”

“A zookeeper? The first zookeeper to step aboard the Night Train, if my memory serves me. Bronx Zoo?”

“My work takes me all over the world.”

“So, you’re a freelance zookeeper?”

“I’ve never considered myself in those terms, Bat. Yes, that’s what I am.”

“Which zoo did you keep last?”

“Unfortunately, the laws dictated that I dismiss my former employers.”

“Uh-huh … so you fired your own boss.”

“That is correct.”

“A concept that could revolutionize the workplace … Hear that, Carlotta, and quake in your earphones! D’ya have a name?”

“The zookeeper.”

“Yeah, but, your name?”

“I’ve never needed a name, Bat.”

“Our callers usually give a name. If you don’t want to use your real name, make one up.”

“I cannot fabulate.”

“Doesn’t a life without a name get difficult?”

“Not until now.”

“I’ve got to call you something, friend. What’s on your credit card?”

“I don’t have a credit card, Bat.”

“Uh-huh … then let’s stick with plain ‘Zookeeper.’ You catching this, Mrs. Rey? And your contribution to our
vox populi
tonight is?”

“I have a question. And the law obliges me to be accountable.”