The Damned Highway (18 page)

“Shit!” I rush to the water's edge. My cigarette tumbles from my gaping mouth. The Great Brown Buffalo has just been dragged under by the Great Green Fish Bitch. Willingly, maybe even lovingly. I always knew the bastard would die horribly, but I never imagined he would go out like this.

“He'll be back,” the old-timer tells me. He's hugging his empty cardboard crate of eggs tightly to his chest. “When Mother Hydra comes out, ittsfer to claim an audience, not to hold court up here. It'll be fine. You'll see.”

“Are you crazy? He'll drown, if hypothermia doesn't kill him first!”

“Nah, he won't. She'll keep 'im warm and such.” The crowd of men laugh at
keep 'im warm
. “She'll breathe for him down there, too. She can do that; she can bring a body down there. Even a full-blown, full-grown, human body. That's why you called him here, after all, no?”

“No!” I shout. “I called him to . . .” To what? Wreck the town? Bring the pain to ground zero of the American Nightmare, to a bunch of old bastards who don't deserve it and who likely wouldn't even notice. Or was I . . . moved somehow to bring my lawyer to this sweaty armpit of a town, to mate him with Mother Hydra? An intriguing theological question, but really I just want to get back to the bar.

“So we just wait here for his head to break the surface of the water again and pull him out?” I finally ask.

“You c'n,” says one of the others. “I think we'd all just as soon go back to the bar and finish our breakfast. There's a ladder on the far end of the pier; he can climb on back up out of the water.” And with that, they walk off, leaving me standing there. For a minute or so I stay in the cold winter air, on the border of a small town that should be waking up for its puny version of rush hour, but there's no trade here, no commerce. Not even Loch Ness–style tourism. That flummery only works when there isn't a monster down below.

Back in the bar, I find out that beer isn't just for breakfast; it's for lunch as well. Nothing else is on the menu, though I'm told I could order out for sandwiches if I want to. Instead I head back to my room and fetch the Mojo Wire and the rest of my kit bag. With nothing else to do, and with all the fun over for the moment, I am left to write. The Mojo Wire earns me some taciturn nods and raised eyebrows—to the extent that the Innsmouth look even includes eyebrows—as I begin jotting my story down by hand and then feeding each sheet of paper through the machine.

“What's that, then?” the bartender asks. “Tellin' the truth about things?”

“I always do. I like to stand out in an otherwise-crowded marketplace.”

“Think it might affect the election?”

“Doubt it. The only people who read my stuff are already dedicated McGovern voters, for the most part. If he makes it to Miami Beach, maybe that'll be because I spiked the Muskie campaign, but . . . it's just . . . Nixon. I don't know his plans. And he has them, plans within plans. Dossiers on everyone, even himself. He records his own rants and then plays them back to himself in bed, just to see if he can remember what it was he was feeling during the day. He doesn't even cheat on his wife, and he's the president! You know what kind of iron will the man must have to keep himself out of Hollywood B-list bush?”

The bartender starts to answer, but his gaze is drawn over my head and behind me. The door thumps open like a piece of cheap scenery in a Hollywood western. It's my lawyer, dripping a puddle in the doorway, his hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks and coated with ice. Icicles are forming on his nose and eyebrows, too. Despite this, he has a smile on his face, one I've seen once before, in Las Vegas, when we took a little vacation to talk about the Chicano social movement and the plans to create a new Aztlán, but we ended up . . . distracted.

“Where the hell have you been?” I shout.

“Up the Manuxet River, beneath the ice. And out to the sea. I need several drinks.”

The bartender sets him up with three triple-egg sliders, while I feed another sheet into the Mojo Wire and ask, “Do you want to change clothes? You'll freeze to death.”

“No need,” my attorney says. “Time enough for that later.” He walks up to me, shoes squishing and squeaking, and takes the stool next to mine. His teeth are chattering. “What a woman! She told me things, man. Secret things, things only the sea could know, the story of a thousand shipwrecks and ten thousand drowned souls.”

“Go,” I say. “Just let her rip. Tell me what she said, unexpurgated.”

“It's not like that.” He digs a cigarette out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and doesn't even seem to realize that it can't light. I offer him one of mine instead and remind myself to deduct it from the bill for his services, but he waves it away and continues clutching his. “I mean . . .” he sighs. “There's too much for you to write down. It would take the rest of my life to speak, and the rest of yours to transcribe, and I don't have much time left, you know.”

“I do?”

“You do now.”

“You're faking it again when we're done?”

“No, this is the real thing, man. She told me when I was going to die, and I'm telling you. It will be soon. And you know what? I'm at peace with it, because I'll go out the way I always wanted to, you know? Anyway, it's like . . . how the world works? Who's right? Karl Marx? George Fucking Washington? The
Popol Vuh
? Even she doesn't know, man.” He slides off the stool, waves his crumpled, half-frozen cigarette around, looking uselessly for a light from one of the patrons. “Well, it's, there's the Cannocks, see, and Cthulhu. Mother Hydra is even on Cthulhu's side, but the stars aren't right. That's what Nixon's up to. If he can win it all, not just the election, but all fifty states, then . . .”

My lawyer wobbles where he stands and looks at me, his eyes brimming with tears. “Or? What
or
? Oh Christ, these fucking monsters. God.” He sinks to his knees and begins to sob, loudly.

“Who is that man?” one of the lunch shifters asks. “I saw you last night, son, but that fellow's new to me. I think he's got a drinkin' problem or sumpin'.”

“This man is a famed civil-rights lawyer. The American Indian movement, the Brown Berets, the Black Panthers. He's represented all of them! He ran for the sheriff of the city of Los Angeles on the platform that he'd eliminate the whole department if he won.”

“But he din't win, eh?”

“See for yourself.” I nod.

“Nixon!” my lawyer suddenly says. He's staring into those giant hands of his, those gargantuan meat hooks that have crushed men's skulls like overripe watermelons. His fingers are white from the cold. “We gotta kill Nixon; that's the only way.” He looks up at me, his eyes wild like flaming movie screens. “Let's go! By God, we'll give him what for! Pull him out by the roots like the evil skunkweed that he is! It's the only way to save the fucking world! The whole motherfucking world . . .”

“Calm down,” I say. “Ye Gods, man, get a grip on yourself. The first thing you need to do is drink.” I draw his attention to the three raw-egg-and-beer sliders that the bartender has so thoughtfully arranged for him. My attorney lurches to his feet and grabs one with both hands. He gulps it feverishly, smacks his lips, and sighs.

“Got anything warm?” I ask the bartender. “Tea or coffee or maybe some mescal?”

“This's it. I tol' ya that afore.”

“This is okay,” my attorney gasps, and then starts in on the second mug. While he recovers, I turn off the Mojo Wire and stow it in my kit bag. I'm considering running the equipment back up to my room and finding him some dry clothes when he spins on his stool and grabs my face in his hands. My cigarette falls onto the bar. His fingers are like blocks of ice. Jesus, I think. This is it. He's finally snapped!

“We've got to go,” he says, his tone more urgent than I've ever heard it before. “You don't understand, man. Once Nixon wins all fifty states, the game is over. He can give the whole fucking world to Cthulhu with a fifty-state win. The stars are almost right. See, this Cthulhu, he's sort of dead but not really. Everyone just
thinks
he's dead.” My attorney pauses then, clearly delighted at the irony. “What he's really doing is sleeping. He's asleep down there in the sunken city of R'lyeh. But the stars are right, and if Nixon wins all the states, then Cthulhu will wake up and R'lyeh will rise again. We've got to put a stop to that shit. We've got to kill the bastard for good this time!”

“Calm down,” I shout. The locals stare up from their mugs and I lean close, lowering my voice. “Get a grip on yourself, man. You've just been swimming with something that makes Jeane Kirkpatrick look positively lovely . . .”

“Who? The lady running Henry Jackson's campaign? He doesn't stand a chance.”

“Never mind that! Will you shut up and listen to me? You're half-frozen—not nearly drunk enough—your cigarettes and your vial of coke are ruined, and you're sitting here in a bar announcing at the top of your diseased lungs your intentions to assassinate Richard Milhous Nixon. Clearly, you have experienced a great shock and have taken leave of your wits. As your doctor, I advise you to drink heavily. Then we'll sort this whole mess out, eh?”

He nods. “That is good advice.”

“Well, of course it is. I never give bad advice. Now finish your final egg shooter. I've had enough of this swill. I believe there is another bottle of whiskey in my room, along with some dry clothes. They won't fit you, but at least you'll be out of the cold. Now stand up, thank the nice man behind the bar, be friendly, and for God's sake don't attract any more attention. I'm becoming attached to these Innsmouthians and I don't want you embarrassing me any more than you already have. I should have never called you in on this job.”

He starts sobbing then, succeeding only in drawing even more stares. I throw some money on the bar, nod to the old-timers, and then hustle him out of the Odd Fellows lodge and back to the boarding house. The bulbous-eyed clerk is back behind the front counter again, and he smiles as we walk in, revealing gums lined with bony nubs of gristle rather than teeth.

“Went swimmin' with Mother Hydra, did 'e?” he asks, indicating my attorney. I nod and grin and shove the Samoan in the direction of the stairs. “ 'E'll be okay,” the counterman assures me. “They're always like that afta' first communion. Let 'im get some sleep and 'e'll be good as new.”

I lean Oscar against the wall and walk over to the clerk. “Listen, is there anything to drink in this town besides seawater, eggs and beer, or Deep One spunk?”

“Ah-yuh. I've got bourbon and—”

“Whiskey! Have some sent up to the room, right away. And food too, if you have it. I need brain food, gasoline for my mind! Grapefruits and mushrooms. Do you know where you can get me mushrooms? This is serious business.”

“You ain't talkin' 'bout the kind ya put on yer pizza?”

“Of course not, man! I said brain food.”

“Ain't nuthin' like that round here, least nottin' that I know of.”

“Well, send up whatever you can find. And make sure we're not disturbed by anyone . . . Wait, scratch that. Make sure we're not disturbed by anyone except for Smitty, the guy who brought me in this morning. Do you know who I mean?”

The clerk smiles and I squash the urge to wince and turn away. “A'yuh, I know him. We're sure glad t' have him back home. He's a good boy.”

“If he shows up, tell him I need to see him right away. Anyone else, they leave a message. And if a guy from Arkham comes around looking for me—and you'll know him if you see him: pompous, collegiate, patches-on-the-elbows-of-his-corduroy-smoking-jacket type—tell him you've never heard of me before, and that we're not here. This is important. Do it, and there's a nice tip in it for you. I'll have my editor take care of things.”

He nods, his expression enthusiastic. He is happy to be a part of things. Something exciting is happening, and although he doesn't know what it is, he's ecstatic to be involved in some small way. In a town where subhuman fish people breed with the local homecoming queens and mold and mildew are the interior-
decorator colors of choice, I am something bold and different and fresh and new, and this guy can't wait to see what I do for my next trick. And neither can I, because as of right now, I don't have a fucking clue what that next trick is going to be, or how I'm going to fix this mess and set things right again.

“It has to be this election,” my attorney warbles as I help him up the stairs. “If they miss this chance, the stars aren't right again until 2012. It's a long, involved process, and a lot of bad shit has to happen in order to prime the ether. That's what's happening now; Manson and Vietnam and the Starkweather kid and Kent State, they're all a part of it. Those things occurred so that the ether would be primed. And as the stars line up, Nixon can make his move. If he blows this shot, then they have to start the whole process over again. If that happens, they can't really start cooking until 2001 or so. Oh, they'll still have their people in office. They'll have a succession of presidents and elected officials who will make sure things stay on track, but they can't ramp up the negative energy until 2001, and then it has to simmer, like a kettle on the stove. It has to boil over at the same time as the alignment.”

“And that's in 2012?” He confirms for me that it is, as I unlock the door and shove him into the room. That's why Nixon and his cronies are so desperate to succeed. Many of them will be dead by the next time the stars are aligned right. This is their one and only chance. If they fumble the football, the next generation will have to take over. That certainly can't sit well with old Tricky Dick.