Ascendancies (46 page)

“Okay,” Starlitz said.

“Why doesn't daylight come?” Tamara said. “Those pills of his are making me really nervous. Am I talking too much? This is a spooky hour, isn't it? Predawn. ‘Predawn attack,' that's what they always say in the newspapers. ‘Predawn arrest.' Policemen love this time of day.”

“You're wired,” Starlitz told her. “Let's get in the bus. I'll drive you back to town.”

“All right. That might be best.” They got back inside the bus. Starlitz threw it into gear and hit the gas.

They drove off. Out in a stubbled field, a large flock of crows was skirling about in confusion, cawing. They seemed reluctant to light on the earth.

Tamara fidgeted. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Surprised, she pulled one out. It was full of foil-wrapped condoms.

“Oh look,” she said. “He left me these. What a sweet gesture.”

“That's a great jacket,” Starlitz said.

“It's mine,” she said irritably. “
Mine
, understand? I don't own much, you know. I just manage things, because of my husband's office. There's no security for us. Only power. And our power could all go, couldn't it? There've been purges before. So I don't want to bargain with the clothes on my back. Like I was some kind of labor-camp
zek
.”

“I've got dollars,” Starlitz wheedled.

She frowned. “Look, my jacket wouldn't even
fit
you. You must be crazy.”

“I want it anyway,” Starlitz said. “I'll be generous. Come on.”

“You're very weird,” Tamara said suddenly. “You're from America, aren't you?”

Starlitz grinned broadly. “Don't be silly.”

“Only Americans throw dollars around for no sane reason.”

“Easy come, easy go,” Starlitz shrugged. “C'mon, Tamara, let's do business.”

“Are you CIA—is that it? If you are, why don't you go spy on Shevardnadze, or something? Go to Moscow and bother real Russians.”

“Shevardnadze's a Georgian,” Starlitz said. “Anyway, I like it right here. The local situation's really interesting. I want to see what happens when it comes apart.”

“You must be an American, because you're making me feel really paranoid!” Tamara shouted. “I have an awful feeling something really bad is about to happen! I'm going to call my husband on this radio. I need to know what's going on! I don't care what you are, but just shut up and keep driving! That's an order!”

She tried to raise the palace. There was no answer.

“Try the military band,” Starlitz suggested.

The military wavelengths were crackling with traffic.

“Sounds like some of those ‘predawn raids' you were talking about,” Starlitz said, interested. “They're a little behind schedule, I guess.” The sun was just rising. Starlitz killed the headlights. The bus topped a hill.

A long line of civilian cars was approaching the Estate.

Tamara dropped the microphone in horror. “Look at those cars!” she said, staring through the tinted windshield. “Only one kind of stupid cop drives around disguised in those stupid brown sedans! It's the DCMSP!”

“Which cops are those, exactly?” Starlitz asked.

“Department to Combat the Misappropriation of Socialist Property,” Tamara said. “They've never dared to come near here before…They're the income people, the accountants, the nastiest little cops there are. Once they get their teeth in you, it's all over!”

Starlitz drove past the convoy. The brown cars, with their packed, burr-headed Russian accountants, sped on without a pause.

“They're not trying to stop this bus,” he said. “They didn't recognize it.”

“They're not from Azerbaijan. We bribed all the locals. They're outside people,” Tamara said. “These cops are Gorbachev's!” She slammed her fist against the window. “He's betrayed us! Stabbed us in the back! That hypocrite bastard! Where does his wife get those fancy furs and shoes, I wonder!”

“Earned 'em with her salary as an art historian,” Starlitz said.

Tamara wiped bitterly at her kohl-smeared eyes. “It's so unfair! All we wanted was a decent life here! Those stupid Russians: they have a system that would make a donkey laugh, and now they want to
purify
it! God, I hate them!”

“What do you wanna do now?” Starlitz said. “Go back and stand 'em off on your doorstep?”

“No,” she said grimly. “We'll have to bend to the almighty wind from Moscow. We'll wait, though, and we'll be back, as soon as they give up trying. It won't take long. The new god will fail.”

“Okay, good,” Starlitz said. “In the meantime, I'll just keep driving. I love this bus. It's great.”

“Gorbachev won't dare try us publicly,” Tamara said, gnawing one nail. “I'll bet they simply retire my husband. Maybe even promote him. Some post that's safe and completely meaningless. Like Environment, or Consumer Affairs.”

“Yeah,” Starlitz said. “This is the new era, right? They won't shoot Party bosses. Makes the Politburo nervous.”

“That's right,” Tamara said.

“But it's gonna be tough on your underlings. The people with no big-time strings to pull.”

Tamara arched her brows. “Oh well…most of them are lousy Armenians anyway. Born thieves…we were always careful to hire Armenians whenever we could.”

Starlitz nodded. “Well, I held up my end of the system,” he said. “Got the plane launched. Got the job done. The rest of it's not my lookout.” He pulled over to the side of the road with a gentle hiss of airbrakes. “Looks like we part company here. So long, Tamara. It's been real.”

She stared at him. “This is my bus!”

“Not any more. Sorry.”

She was stunned for a moment. Then her face went bleak. “You can't get away with this, you know. The police will stop you. There will be roadblocks.”

“It's gonna be chaos,” Starlitz said. “The cops will have their hands full, or I miss my guess. But the cops won't stop the chairman's bus—old habits don't die that quick. So I'll just wing it. Improvise.” Starlitz rubbed his stubbled chin. “I'll dress up as a paramedic, I guess. Get a Red Cross armband. Nobody stops rescue workers, not when there's really big trouble.”

“I'm not leaving my bus!” Tamara said, grabbing the armrest. “You can't do this to me!”

Starlitz reached behind his back and produced the Afghan pistol. “Just a technicality,” he said, not bothering to point it at her. “Open the door and get out, okay?”

Tamara got out. She stood at the muddy side of the road in her high heels. The bus drove off.

Seconds ticked by.

A brutal tide of shock coursed through the landscape. Trees whipped at the air; the earth rippled. Tamara was knocked from her feet. She clutched at the roadside as a deep, subterranean rumble seeped up through her hands and knees.

The bus stopped dead, fishtailing. She saw it sway and rattle on its shocks, until the tremor slowed, and, finally, came to a grinding end.

Then the bus turned and raced back toward her. Tamara got to her feet, trembling wiping mechanically at the mud on her hands.

Starlitz pulled over. He opened the door and leaned out. “I forgot the jacket,” he said.

Are You for 86?

Leggy Starlitz emerged from behind cool smoked glass to the raucous screeching of seagulls. Hot summer sun glinted fiercely off the Pacific. The harbor smelled of tar, and of poorly processed animal fats from an urban sewage-treatment outlet.

“Hell of a place for a dope deal,” Starlitz observed.

Mr. Judy hopped lithely out of the van. Mr. Judy was a petite blonde with long pale schoolgirl braids; the top of her well-scrubbed scalp, which smelled strongly of peppermint and wintergreen, barely came to Starlitz's shoulder. Starlitz nevertheless took a cautious half-step out of her way.

Vanna, in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian blouse, leaned placidly against the white hull of the van, which bore the large chromed logo of an extinct televangelist satellite-TV empire. She dug into a brown paper bag of trail mix and began munching.

“It's broad daylight, too,” Starlitz grumbled. He plucked sunglasses from a velcro pocket of his cameraman's vest, and jammed the shades onto his face. He scanned the harbor's parking lot with paranoiac care. Not much there: a couple of yellow taxis, three big-wheeled yuppie pickups with Oregon plates, a family station wagon. “What the hell kind of connection is this guy?”

“The Wolverine's got a very good rep,” Mr. Judy said. She wore a white college jersey, and baggy black pants with drawstrings at the waist and ankles. Tarred gravel crunched under the cloth soles of her size-four kung-fu shoes as she examined a Mexican cruise ship through a dainty pair of Nikon binoculars.

Half a dozen sun-wrinkled, tottering oldsters, accompanied by wheeled luggage trolleys, were making their way down the pier to dry land and the customs shed.

Starlitz snorted skeptically. “This place is nowhere! If Wolverine's a no-show, are you gonna let me call the Polynesians?”

“No way,” Mr. Judy told him.

Vanna nodded. She shook the last powdery nuggets of trail mix into her pale, long-fingered palm, ate them, then folded the paper bag neatly and stuck it in the top of her hiking boot.

“C'mon,” Starlitz protested. “We can do whatever we want out here, now that we're on the road. Let's do it the smart way, for once. Nobody's looking.”

Mr. Judy shook her head. “The New Caledonians are into
armed struggle
, they want
guns
. The commune doesn't
deal
guns.”

“But the Polynesians have much better product,” Starlitz insisted. “It's not Mexican homebrew crap like Wolverine's, this is actual no-kidding RU-486 right out of legitimate French drug-labs. Got the genuine industrial logos on the ampules and everything.”

Mr. Judy lowered her Nikons in exasperation. “So what? We're not making commercials about the stuff. Hell, we're not even trying to clear a profit.”

“Yeah, yeah, politically correct,” Starlitz said irritably. “Well, the French are testing
dirty nuke explosives
in the South Pacific, in case you haven't been reading your Greenpeace agitprop lately. And the Caledonian rebel front stole a bunch of French RU-486 and want to give these pills to us. They're an insurgent Third-World colonial ethnic minority. Hell, all they want is a few lousy Vietnam-era M-16s and some ammo. You can't
get
more politically correct than a deal like that.”

“Look, I've
seen
your Polynesians, and they're a clique of patriarchal terrorists,” Mr. Judy said. “Let 'em put a woman on their central committee, then maybe I'll get impressed.”

Starlitz grunted.

Mr. Judy sniffed in disdain. “You're just pissed-off because we wouldn't move that arsenal you bought in Las Vegas.”

Vanna broke in. “You oughta be glad we're letting you keep
guns
on our property, Leggy.”

“Yeah, Vanna, thanks a lot for nothing.”

Vanna chided him with a shake of her shaggy brown head. “At least you know that your, uhm…your
armament
…” She searched for words. “It's all really safe with us. Right? Okay?”

Starlitz shrugged.

“Have a nice cold guava fizz,” Vanna offered sweetly. “There's still two left under the ice in the cooler.”

Starlitz said nothing. He sat on the chromed bumper and deliberately lit a ginseng cigarette.

“I wonder how a heavy operator like Wolverine ended up with all these retirees,” Mr. Judy said, lowering her binocs. “You think the parabolic mike can pick up any conversation from on board?”

“Not at this range,” Starlitz said.

“How about the scanner? Ship-to-shore radio?”

“Worth a try,” Starlitz said, brightening. He slid into the driver's seat and began fiddling with a Korean-made broadband scanner, rigged under the dashboard.

An elderly woman with a luggage trolley descended the pier to the edge of the parking lot. She took off a large woven-straw sun-hat and waved it above her head.
“Yoo-hoo!”

Vanna and Mr. Judy traded looks.

“Yoo-hoo! You girls, you with the van!”

“Mother of God,” Mr. Judy muttered. She flung her braids back, climbed into the passenger seat. “We gotta roll, Leggy!”

Starlitz looked up sharply from the scanner's elliptical green readouts and square yellow buttons. “You drive,” he said. He worked his way back, between the cryptic ranks of electronic equipment lining both walls of the van, then crouched warily behind the driver's seat. He yanked a semi-automatic pistol from within his vest, and slid a round into the chamber.

Mr. Judy drove carefully across the gravel and pulled up beside the woman from the cruise ship. The stranger had blue hair, orthopedic hose, a flowered sundress. Her trolley sported a baby-blue Samsonite case, a handbag, and a menagerie of Mexican stuffed animals: neon-green and fuchsia poodles, a pair of giant toddler-sized stuffed pandas.

Mr. Judy rolled the tinted window down. “Yes ma'am?” she said politely.

“Can you take me to a hotel?” the woman said. She lowered her voice. “I need—
a room of my own.”

“We can take you to the lighthouse,” Mr. Judy countersigned.

“Wonderful!” the woman said, nodding. “So very nice to make this rendezvous…Well, it's all here, ladies.” She waved triumphantly at her trolley.

“You're ‘Wolverine'?” Vanna said.

“Yes I am. Sort of.” Wolverine smiled. “You see, three of the women in my study-group have children attending Michigan University…”

“Maybe we better pat her down anyway, Jude,” Starlitz said. “She's got room for a couple of frag grenades in that handbag.”

Wolverine lifted a pair of horn-rimmed bifocals on a neck chain and peered through the driver's window. She seemed surprised to see Starlitz. “Hello, young man.”