Towing Jehovah (28 page)

Oliver, sitting alone, did not laugh. He polished off his second Frydenlund beer of the evening, burped, and slumped down farther in his chair. Some terrible tragedy, he was sure, had overtaken Cassandra and the
Valparaíso.
Typhoon, maelstrom, tsunami—or maybe the force was human, for surely there were institutions other than the Central Park West Enlightenment League that wished to get God's carcass out of the way, institutions that wouldn't hesitate to sink a supertanker or two in the process. Albert Flume and his partner ambled up to Oliver's table. "May we join you?"

"Sure."

"Another beer?" asked Sidney Pembroke, pointing to the pair of empty bottles.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Last night I slept in the barracks along with the boys," said Bob Hope. Hands in pockets, he hunched toward the mike. "You know what barracks are. That's two thousand cots separated by individual crap games."

A Hope classic. The pilots, gunners, and sailors nearly fell out of their chairs.

"Alby, we done good," said Pembroke.

"Definitely one of our better productions," said Flume. "Hey, girl-o'-my-dreams!" he called toward a pretty, honey-blonde hostess as, hips swaying, she carried a plate of ham sandwiches across the room.

"Bring our friend Oliver here a Frydenlund!"

The impresarios' pride was in fact justified. In a mere three days they'd managed to turn the Sundog Saloon into a forties USO club. Except for the availability of beer, the Midnight Sun Canteen was entirely authentic, right down to the fluted public-address speakers on the girders, the SERVICEMEN ONLY

sign above the front door, and the LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS and NIMITZ HAS NO LIMITS

posters on the walls. At first Vladimir Panshin had resisted the transformation, figuring his usual clientele would be irate, but then he realized that for every Ibsen City scientist who stayed away at least two Reenactment Society members would take his place.

The refurbishing had cost Oliver nearly eighty-five thousand dollars, most of it going to the carpenters and electricians they'd ferried over from Trondheim, but that sum was nothing compared to the sizable percentage of his bank account Pembroke and Flume had consumed in procuring the talent. The New York office of Actors Equity had sent two dozen ingenues and chorus girls, all of them more than willing to put on cocktail aprons and flirt with a bunch of middle-aged schizophrenics who thought they were fighting World War Two. From the William Morris Agency had come Sonny Orbach and His Harmonicoots, sixteen septuagenarian musicians who, when sufficiently plastered on Frydenlund, became a veritable reincarnation of Glenn Miller's band. But the impresarios' real coup was tracking down the amazingly gifted and chronically obscure Kovitsky Brothers: Myron, Arnold, and Jake, aka the Great American Nostalgia Machine—borscht-circuit mimics whose repertoire extended beyond such obvious choices as Bob Hope and Al Jolson into the rarefied world of female impersonation. Myron did a first-rate Kate Smith, Arnold a credible Marlene Dietrich, Jake a passable Ethel Merman and a positively uncanny Frances Langford. Fusing their falsettos in tight, three-part harmony, the Kovitsky Brothers could make you swear you were hearing the Andrews Sisters singing "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else but Me)."

Oliver looked at his watch. Five P.M. Damn. Commander Wade McClusky's portrayer should have reported in well over an hour ago.

"You know, I recently figured out that all General Tojo wants is peace," said Hope. "A piece of China, a piece of Australia, a piece of the Philippines . . ."

By his own account, Wade McClusky was a crackerjack target spotter. While still an ensign, he'd become known as the man who could pick out a camouflaged aircraft factory from three miles up, though Oliver was unclear on whether it was the real McClusky, the real McClusky's portrayer, or the real McClusky's portrayer's fictionalized version of the real McClusky who boasted this talent. In any event, ten hours earlier the stalwart leader of Air Group Six had taken personal charge of the reconnaisance operation, assuming command of the PBY flying boat code-named "Strawberry Eight." An auspicious development, Oliver felt. So why wasn't McClusky back yet? Was the
Valparaíso
armed with Bofors guns after all? Had Van Horne shot Strawberry Eight out of the sky?

Hope motioned for the gorgeous and curvaceous Dorothy Lamour—Myron Kovitsky in wig, makeup, evening gown, and latex breasts—to join him on stage. Smiling, blowing kisses, Lamour slithered across the canteen, accompanied by choruses of wolf whistles.

"Just wanted you boys to see what you're fighting for." Another Hope classic. "Yesterday, Crosby and I were—"

"Attention, everyone! Attention!" A breathless voice broke from the loudspeakers, popping and fizzing like a draught of Moxie encountering an ice cube. "This is Admiral Spruance on
Enterprise!
Great news, men! Barely four hours ago, sixteen army B-25s took off from the carrier
Hornet
under the command of Lieutenant Colonel James H. Doolittle and dropped over fifty demolition bombs on the industrial heart of Tokyo!"

Whoops and applause resounded through the Midnight Sun Canteen.

"The extent of the damage is not known," Spruance's portrayer continued, "but President Roosevelt is calling the Doolittle raid 'a major blow to enemy morale'!"

The war reenactors stomped their feet. Bewildered but eager to please, the hostesses set down their sandwich trays and cheered.

"That is all, men!"

When the tumult died away, the spotlight pivoted toward the northeast corner, just as Sonny Orbach and His Harmonicoots, in full evening attire, launched into a spirited imitation of Glenn Miller's "Pistol Packin'

Mama." Leaping up, the Midnight Sun Canteen's patrons began jitterbugging—with each other, with their hostesses, and, in the case of one fantastically lucky tail gunner, with Dorothy Lamour herself. At the next table over, a perky redheaded hostess was busy earning her salary, sharing a Coca-Cola with a chunky sailor in his early forties.

". . . not supposed to ask where you're going," the hostess was saying as Oliver tuned in their conversation.

"That's right," the sailor replied. "The Japs have spies everywhere."

"But I
can
ask where you're from."

"Georgia, ma'am. Little town called Peach Landing."

"Really?"

"Newark, actually."

"Golly, I never met anyone from Georgia." The hostess batted her eyes. "Got a girl, sailor?"

"Sure do, ma'am."

"Carry her picture with you, by any chance?"

"Yes, ma'am." With a sheepish grin the sailor pulled his wallet from his bell-bottoms and, slipping out a small photograph, handed it to the hostess. "Her name's Mindy Sue."

"She looks real sweet, sailor. Does she blow you?"

"What?"

At 1815 hours, the unmistakable roar of a PBY flying boat's Pratt and Whitney engines passed over the Midnight Sun Canteen, rattling the Frydenlund bottles. A delicious anticipation flooded through Oliver. Surely this was Wade McClusky, heading for the nearest fjord in Strawberry Eight. Surely the
Valparaíso
had been spotted.

Glenn Miller followed "Pistol Packin' Mama" with "Chattanooga Choo-Choo," then the spotlight swung back to the stage for the Andrews Sisters singing "The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B." (At some point Myron had sneaked off and changed costumes.) Next came Bing Crosby crooning "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag," after which Hope sauntered over to his buddy. Swaying back and forth, the two of them offered their famous rendition of "Mairzy Doats."

"Speaking of mares," said Flume as Hope and Crosby welcomed Frances Langford on stage, "did you know our subs used to carry buckets of horse guts along on their missions?" Oliver wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "Buckets of . . . ?"

"Horse guts. Sometimes sheep guts. That way, whenever the Nazis dropped their depth charges, the sub commander could send the stuff to the surface, and the enemy would think he'd scored a hit!"

"What an amazing war," said Pembroke, sighing with admiration.

"I'm in the mood for love," sang Frances Langford.

"Baby, you came to the right place!" a randy sailor shouted.

"Simply because you're near me . . ."

The front door flew open, and a small gale swept through the Midnight Sun Canteen. Blue with cold, Wade McClusky's craggy portrayer strode inside and marched over to Oliver's table. Ice crystals glittered on his flight jacket. Snow sat on his shoulders like a prodigious case of dandruff.

"Jeez, am I glad to see
you!"
shouted Oliver, slapping the group leader on the back. "Any luck?" Smiling, blowing kisses, Frances Langford launched into her signature tune, "Embraceable You."

"Gimme a lousy minute." McClusky pulled a pack of Wrigley's spearmint from his flight jacket, then slid a stick into his mouth like a doctor inserting a tongue depressor. "Hey, cutie!" he called to the redheaded hostess, who was still drinking Coke with the chunky sailor. "We'll take a Frydenlund over here!"

"Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you," sang Frances Langford. "Embrace me, my irreplaceable you

. . ."

"You know, there's a wonderful story connected with that number," said Pembroke. "Miss Langford was visiting a field hospital in the African desert. There'd been a big tank battle earlier that week, and some of the boys were shot up pretty bad."

"Hope suggested she give 'em a song," said Flume, "so naturally Frances trotted out 'Embraceable You.'

And when she looked toward the nearest bed—well, you'll never guess what she saw."

"Did you find the
Valparaíso?"
Oliver demanded. "Did you find the golem?"

"I didn't find a goddamn thing," said McClusky, accepting his beer from the hostess.

"She saw a soldier without any arms," said Pembroke. "Both of 'em had been burned off. Isn't that a wonderful story?"

The late-afternoon breeze lifted nuggets of rust from the dunes, hurling them over the starboard bulwark and scattering them across the weather deck like buckshot. Anthony donned his mirrorshades and, peering through the sandstorm, studied the approaching procession. His stomach, filled, purred contentedly. Like pallbearers transporting a small but emotionally burdensome coffin—the coffin of a pet, a child, a beloved dwarf— Ockham and Sister Miriam carried an aluminum footlocker down the catwalk. Descending to the deck, they set the box at Anthony's feet. They opened it. Packaged in wax paper, sixty sandwiches lay in neat ranks, files, and layers. Closing his eyes, Anthony inhaled the robust fragrance. Follingsbee's great breakthrough had occurred less than an hour after the inverse Eucharist, when he'd discovered that their cargo's epidermis could be mashed into a paste possessing all the best qualities of bread dough. While Rafferty and Chickering had fried the patties, Follingsbee had baked the buns. In Anthony's view, the fact that he'd be giving his crew not just meat but a facsimile of their favorite cuisine all but guaranteed the mutiny's end. The captain leaned over the rail. Today's emissary from the shantytown was an elderly, cod-faced man, stripped to the waist and wearing black bicycle pants. He sat motionless amid the thick mist and swirling rust, arms outstretched in a gesture of entreaty, ribs bulging from his shriveled torso like bars on a marimba.

"What's your name?" Anthony called to the starving man.

"Mungo, sir." The sailor rose and stumbled backward, slumping against the tanker's thrown propeller like a leprechaun crucified on a gigantic shamrock. "Able Seaman Ralph Mungo."

"Find your shipmates, Mungo. Tell 'em to report here at once.

"Aye-aye."

"Give 'em a message."

"What message?" “ 'Van Horne is the bread of life.' Got that?"

“Aye.”

"Let's not get carried away," said Ockham, cupping his palm around Anthony's shoulder.

"Repeat it," Anthony ordered the sailor.

"Van Horne is the bread of life." Mungo pushed off from the orphan screw. Gasping for breath, he staggered away. "Van Horne is the bread . . ."

Twenty minutes later the mutineers appeared, flopping and crawling across the foggy dunes, and soon the lot of them sat clustered around the propeller. The allegory pleased Anthony. Above: he, Captain Van Horne, master of the
Valparaíso,
splendid in his dress blues and braided cap. Below: they, abject mortals, groveling in the muck. He wasn't out to torment them. He had no wish to steal their wills or claim their souls. But now was the time to bring these traitors to heel once and for all, now was the time to bury the Idea of the Corpse in the deepest, darkest hole this side of the Mariana Trench. Anthony drew a package from the footlocker. "This soup kitchen's like any other, sailors. First the sermon, then the sandwich." He cleared his throat. " 'When evening came, the disciples went to Him and said, "Send the people away, and they can go to the villages to buy themselves some food.' " He'd spent the noon-to-four watch paging through Ockham's
Jerusalem Bible,
studying the great precedents: the manna from heaven, the water from the rock, the feeding of the five thousand. " 'Jesus replied, "Give them something to eat yourselves." But they answered, "All we have is five loaves and two fish." '

“

Tearing off his Panama hat, Ockham squeezed Anthony's wrist. "Cut the crap, okay?" So far Follingsbee had wrung four distinct variations. The steward's own favorite was the basic hamburger, while Rafferty found the Filet-o-Fish unbeatable (seafood flavor derived from areola tissue) and Chickering preferred the Quarter Pounder with Cheese (curds cultivated from divine lymph). Nobody much liked the McNuggets.

“ 'Breaking the loaves, He handed them to His disciples,' " Anthony persisted, " 'who gave them to the crowds.' " He hurled the sandwich over the side. " 'They all ate as much as they wanted . . .' " The Filet-o-Fish arced toward the mutineers. Reaching up, Able Seaman Weisinger made the catch. Incredulous, he unwrapped the wax paper and stared at the gift. He rubbed the bun. He sniffed the meat. Tears of gratitude ran down his face in parallel tracks. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he tossed it aside, raised the sandwich to his mouth, and swept his lips along the breaded, juicy fibers.