Businesses, in Little Aleppo and elsewhere in America, succeed for one of only two reasons: they offer a good or service unavailable anywhere else, or location. The Declaration of Fistependence, which sold rubber sex-fists that were said to be replicas of our greatest Presidents’ hands, was tucked away in a backstreet off Caliper Court; both patron and proprietor preferred it that way. Froggy’s, which sold ugly shoes to depressed people, was similarly out-of-the-way, and so was Skins. Skins was one of those joints where you could eat off of hot chicks, but not just sushi. You could eat whatever you wanted off the girls at Skins: ham sandwich, pie, stuff you brought from home. These businesses can give you what no place else in the neighborhood can, and so can afford to be hard to find.
Other entrepreneurs–the ones providing a fungible, replicable service like cheeseburgers or haircuts–had to choose where they pitched their tents with more care. Smart money was on the Main Drag. No better place for a diner than the Main Drag. Couldn’t really even be a Main Drag without a diner, could it? The Tahitian, too. Movie theaters are big and pompous, and they should be on the shiniest street available. The Santa Maria sold single slices from its sidewalk counter for a dollar, two and a Coke for two bucks. You had to hassle with them over the napkins. They’d go stingy with the napkins if you didn’t stand up for yourself.
But there was also steady money in a more parasitic approach: finding a flock of drunks and building a bar right next to them. Neptune’s Throne was for the men who worked at the Salt Wharf, and the Botany Bar was for the men who owned boats in Boone’s Docks. (Most of Little Aleppo’s cocaine supply arrived through the Docks registering around 90% pure and costing $20 an ounce; you could buy a thumbnail-sized baggie that was 20% pure for $20 bucks at Neptune’s. From this fact, all of modern economic theory can be extrapolated.) Brewster’s opened up before St. Agatha’s was even completed: they got the workers plastered, and then continued to schnocker the doctors, nurses, escaped patients. The bar was forced to move around the corner early on; its original location directly across the street led to several patients watching their doctors wander straight from the tavern into their surgeries. The Pampered Moose shared a property line with Harper College, and refused to check IDs on principle. Its owners, Candy and Spud, were libertarians. People who run cash businesses tend to skew libertarian. The right of a young man or woman to give us their money shall not be impinged, and so forth and so on, Candy and Spud often accused the Constitution of saying, and no one would correct them.
The Cenotaph‘s ethanol requirements were fulfilled by Flick’s, which was 159 feet across Pryor Street from the front door of the Braunce Building. (Long ago, the journalists had measured the distance with a pedometer. More recently, a professor from Harper was talked into dragging all sorts of laser gadgets down; the original finding was confirmed, and there was an article trashing all the professors’ rivals the next week.) Flick’s was owned by Fred Flickerson, who always hated his parents for naming him that, and there wasn’t much to it: tables, bar, all of Flick’s old bullfighting crap. No jukebox, just a paint-splatted transistor radio playing KHAY. It was the cheap kind of dark in Flick’s, like it wasn’t so much an aesthetic choice as it was that there weren’t enough lightbulbs.
Everyone from the paper drank there. Pearl-Handled Lou, who had been fixing the printing press so long that he could diagnose problems by smell, and his crew of mechanics. Janet Di Peppi sold ads and hustled newcomers at darts. The photogs would come in stinking of darkroom chemicals and be banished to the far corner. Marilda Swank, who wrote the advice column, was generally found under the foosball table, most often not solo. Barry Cho could hand his copy off to the copyboy, leave his desk, down the stairs, out the door, across the street, into Flick’s, and take a shot before his story reached the editor’s in-box.
Iffy Bould just walked over. He made the trip a lot–his second wife sent the divorce papers to the bar–but he did it casually. The pint of Arrow he was drinking was not his first, and he said,
“Shall we count offences or coin excuses,
Or weigh with scales the soul of a man,
Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses,
Whose light is a spark and his life a span ?
The seed he sowed or the soil he cumbered,
The time he served or the space he slumbered ;
Will it profit a man when his days are numbered,
Or his deeds since the days of his life began.”
Lolly Tangiers polished off her pint, belched, roused to her feet.
“Is this another lesson?’
“Nah, I just love reciting bad poetry. That was Australian.”
“It had that feel to it,” she said and motioned for his glass. He upturned it, handed it to her, she went to the bar. Flick had two waiting. He still wore his hair like a toreador. When she got back, Iffy said.
“You need to start smoking.”
“You chain-smoke and I stand next to you all day.”
“Right. I can’t take it.”
“You can’t?”
“How do you bear the smell? I quit smoking once and it turns out these things stink. Stench was so bad I had to start up again so I wouldn’t notice it anymore.”
“You can get used to anything,” Lolly shrugged, and slugged her beer.
“Sad fact.”
Little Aleppo was still getting used to the bombing, but locals had–without conspiring explicitly–decided that the proper way to mourn the victims was to immediately use their deaths for political or financial gain. Tee-shirts began flowing from shops on the Downside before the building had stopped smoldering. Most of the shirts commemorated the dead, or proclaimed Little Aleppo unfazed by the attack, but a few had pictures of the guy who did the bombing, which sold well in bars that catered to punkers. The LAPD (No, Not That One) kicked in several doors they had been itching to kick in for months.
KSOS was still covering the attack at midnight. A television station had a duty to cover local news, Paul Loomis thought. Sacred one, which means that God said to do it. Paul Loomis did not quarrel with The Lord. He ignored Him a great deal of the time, especially the stuff He said about cheating on your wife and stealing and being an asshole, but he did not argue. Especially when the ratings were so high. Paul Loomis was too smart to say out loud that he wished there was a bombing every week, but everyone around him could tell how happy he was.
Trusted Meese was still on the air, and his steady baritone slipped out of apartment windows and tavern doors under cover of blue light. The bombing happened during his newscast at five, and he’d manned the desk ever since, despite running out of new information around three hours previous. No matter: the people of Little Aleppo needed Trusted Meese in times of crisis, and dammit he was gonna deliver. Also, Paul Loomis had stolen his car keys , so he couldn’t leave. Trusted had spoken to a half-dozen experts via the phone (all of whom turned out to be prank callers), shown several semi-accurate watercolors of the explosion that Sonar the Intern With The Stupid Name painted, and told an elaborate story about an acquaintance named Fuzzy who can putt a golf ball with his johnson. Paul Loomis was interviewed several times in regards to the possibility that Communists were to blame.
“I understand that you believe that Communists are responsible for the bombing, but what I’m asking is: why do you believe that? What factual information is the belief based in?”
“Meese, you a homosexual?”
“I’m a Presbyterian.”
They did that once an hour until around 10:30, when the two of them got all worked up and started wrestling. Knocked the backdrop over, the whole deal. The camera guy and Sonar had to break them up, and then Trusted threatened to walk home, or get a ride, if Paul wasn’t locked in his office. Trusted sat staring at the lens for a while after that. Smoking. Muttering about opportunities and wicked women. He threw it back…
“…to Cakey Frankel who’s still at the scene. Cakey, what updates can you give us?”
“Which ones do you want, Trusted? I’m your update gal.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Cakey had been at the crime scene since ten minutes after it became a crime scene, along with her camera guy and technician and producer. The producer and tech were armed, as it was KSOS’ policy that the news van be protected at all costs. Paul Loomis’ management philosophy was that people could be replaced, but gear cost money. Hell, dummies lined up to work for free because they thought it was show business, but microwave van salesmen were not impressed by glamorous trappings. Protect the news van.
(This was not paranoia on his part: the mobile-studio-in-a-Chevy was stolen within 24 hours of its purchase in the late 70’s and used to broadcast sexual acts of an anti-government nature to unsuspecting KSOS viewers. No recording survives, but a woman was famously quoted in the Cenotaph describing it as “the least patriotic fucking you’ve ever seen.” Retrieved–and then ransomed back to the station–by the cops, the van would be hijacked twice more before Paul started riding shotgun, He shot three teenagers with that shotgun, too. The incidences of grand theft news van have declined since, but the threat remained.)
“The bombing, woman. Is there anything going on with the bombing?”
“This one?”
“What?”
“This bombing or has there been another?”
“There’s just one damn bombing, and it happened where you are. The piano store.”
“Right. It blew up.”
“Hours ago! It blew up hours ago! What’s happened recently?”
Aloferra Street was less populated than before, but still roiling. The flames were doused, and then the traditional cop/fireman fistfight began over who had operational jurisdiction at the scene. (There was also the traditional fistfight at the charity softball game, but this fight was over principle, and the law, and who got to tell whom where they were allowed to be, and so was more valued in the Little Aleppo First Responder community.) The police had set their yellow tape well back from the site, though, and so Cakey and her team could see none of this.
This did not stop Paul Loomis from putting her on air every twenty minutes. At first, she interviewed members of the gathered crowd. None of them knew anything, but several folks had real thick accents that Cakey only semi-understood, and that made for decent teevee. The gawkers thinned. Cakey interviewed Beer-Cooler Ethel, who adroitly turned the conversation to the topic of the original Mercury Seven, and which one was, in Beer-Cooler Ethel’s words the pony with the most baloney. Cakey kept talking for five minutes without having a clue she was discussing the dicks of American heroes. When the camera cut back to the studio, Trusted was laughing so hard he blew a wet token of snot out of his nose.
But now even Beer-Cooler Ethel had departed, and so he and Cakey were improvising.
“Has anything new happened?”
“The tamale man came by. But not the usual tamale man.”
“Tamale Macho?”
“Him, yeah. Tamale Macho is on vacation, so his buddy Bertrand is filling in. Same tamales, though.”
“Does he wear the costume?”
Cakey consulted her notebook.
“No, Trusted. He doesn’t. Jeans and a tee-shirt. Wait!”
She flipped a page.
“And a light jacket. I can confirm that he was wearing a light jacket.”
Back in the studio, Trusted took a swallow from his coffee mug. It had not been filled with coffee for many years.
“What about the song? Does this Bert fellow even sing the song? For he’s tamale good FELLLL-ooowww. Tell me he sings the song.”
“No song, Trusted. Just walks up to you and offers tamales. Very low-key about the whole enterprise. He let the tamales sell themselves. The crew thought it was a refreshing change from Tamale Macho’s aggressive tactics.”
“The crew are dumbfucks, Cakey.”
In the control booth, the director launched himself across three people to hit the BLEEP button.
“The costume, the song, that’s all part of it. The tamale experience. You’re walking home from the bar, you’ve had a few pops, and then in front of you arises something miraculous. Tamale Macho! The dream you never had that came true. That’s the American dream right there, young lady. Tamale fucking Macho.”
“Oh, COME ON,” yelped the voice from the control room.
Cakey had no idea what the hell Trusted was babbling about, and she responded in her usual fashion: smiling politely. This strategy had never failed her. Either people would keep talking until they reentered her sphere of comprehension, or they would give up and walk away. Trusted saw it on the monitor.
“That’s your confused face. I know that one. Cakey, is anyone there you can talk to?”
“There’s a police officer.”
“Great. Go bother him.”
Cakey was excellent at talking on television, which is a skill separate from your everyday blathering. You gotta pronounce your words real sharpish, but not be prissy about it. Flat, but not Midwestern. No ummm and ahhhh, and never drop your G’s. Raising your voice–at all–makes you sound crazy. And what the hell do you do with your hands? Cakey knew all of these things, and more.
But not walking on television. It was fascinating. She sprinted from place to place, crouched over and protecting her head; then, she’d straighten up and continue with her report. The local opinion was that she saw a reporter do it in a movie, and it was a beloved move. Fans called it the Cakewalk, and had orchestrated a successful letter-writing campaign to Paul Loomis. Please never discuss this with her and just let her keep doing it, the messages read, and he agreed with the sentiment. Also, every time he saw it, Trusted would blow a gasket, and so Paul double-liked the idea.
Cakey zipped across the street to where a cop car was parked, her crew rushing to keep up. The shot from the bobbling camera remained on the screen.
“Every time,” Trusted muttered into his mug.
She exploded into frame, upright and chipper and grinning, right next to the open driver’s window of a 1978 black-and-white Dodge Diplomat. Officer Honey was snoozing, and then HOLY SHIT SUDDEN CAKEY he wasn’t, and he grabbed for his gun just a little bit.
“Jesus, woman!”
“Cakey Frankel, KSOS News.”
“You can’t sneak up on people like that. I’m all jerbibbled over here now.”
“Is that a word?”
“Sure,” Officer Honey said. “Sure.”
Jerbibbled was not a word. It has the sound of a private family expression, perhaps something Honey’s mother used to say, but it wasn’t. Officer Honey had never met a star before, and he was nervous. He did not know what to do with his hands. Or the rest of his body. He felt that he should get out of the car, but he had undone his belt and popped the button on his pants, so he’d have to reorient himself on teevee. Staying put was the better bet. Put the ol’ elbow up on the ledge, he decided. Very authoritative move, putting your elbow on stuff. Cakey was prettier in person.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“What?”
“Ask me anything.”
“Your name.”
“Honey.”
“Cakey.”
Back in the studio, Trusted said,
“Jesus,” and stood up and roared, “Tell that asshole Loomis I’m leaving,” and drained the rest of his coffee mug. The proper storming out. There was silence from the control booth, until the director said something and Sonar ran out of the booth.
Cakey had been on-and-off the air for going on seven hours–doing her reports, and conducting interviews, and trying to avoid having too many people in her shots with their dicks out–and her makeup was still perfect.
“Officer, what are you hearing at this moment.”
“I’m hearing Cakey Frankel.”
“Oh. Am I a suspect?”
“No.”
“Thank goodness. I would crack under questioning. What about motive?”
“For the bombing?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. Well, we’ve ruled out ‘being a good neighbor.’ That was definitely not the motivation behind the bomb. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to help. That’s off the table. ”
“And there was the video.”
She was referring to the copper-helmeted man who hijacked the airwaves immediately before the blast to take credit.
“Sure. Sure, that’s a clue. That’s something we’re gonna take into account.”
“Officer, you’re a decorated veteran of Little Aleppo’s police force–”
Honey had never been decorated for anything, ever.
“–what did that tape reveal to you? Using your investigative skills.”
“Huh. Well, we know he’s got a head. And we know he doesn’t have a condition that makes him unable to wear a helmet.”
“I had a cousin like that,” Cakey said.
The voice in her ear said,
“Cakey?
She answered,
“Trusted?”
“No, Cakey. It’s the Honorable Elijah von Draculicious.”
The Honorable Elijah von Draculicious was the Horror Host of the moment: he was from both the Nation of Islam, and the Nation of Transylvania. He introduced the movies in between monologues about his evenings spent “suckin’ on honky neck;” there were also martial arts demonstrations and nutritional lectures. The Hon. Elijah had not had time to remove his makeup, not change out of his dashiki with the giant swoopy cowl.
“Trusted is having technical difficulties, Cakey.”
Blue light windows, all up and down the Main Drag; from separate bedrooms on the Upside, and bodegas with drunks and the owner huddled around a rabbit-eared portable. No teevee at Flick’s, just the transistor radio playing KHAY, which was playing bouzouki music and wouldn’t tell anyone why. It was midnight, and Barry Cho was so hammered he was under all the tables at once. He was superpositionally drunk, and very soon the screeching would begin and Barry would need to be wrangled outside, but presently he was amenable.
“This doesn’t count.”
“It’s a good start,” Iffy said about the cigarette in her hand.
“I’m drunk,” Lolly answered, waving the bummed Kool around. “It doesn’t count as smoking when you’re drunk. I could be, like, plastered all day at work. I could smoke as much as you do if I did that. A lot of people at the office are drunk all day.”
“And they’re all your superiors. They’ve earned the right to be drunk at work.”
“Maybe one day.”
“Keep working hard, reporting your ass off, breaking stories, and yeah: you’ll be able to chug vodka out of a thermos starting at eight in the morning.”
“A girl’s gotta have dreams.”
They clinked their pints, sipped, PHWOO, and behind them Flick was explaining the various cuts of beef to a young man who worked on the Cenotaph‘s ad side
“You know the Village Idiot Theory yet?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe. You gotta lotta theories.”
“I’m a theory-ous man.”
“That was terrible.”
“The Village Idiot Theory. A deep understanding of any organization can be gleaned from identifying its Idiot. Any business, agency, team, any whatever–any dynamic group of human beings working towards a collective goal–you’re always gonna have an Idiot. The question is How big a dumbfuck is the organization willing to put up with? Says a lot about standards.”
“Okay, right.”
“And each village creates its own idiot. You get what you make in this life, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid.’ It sounds so screwball comedy.”
“We’re not in one?
“What brought up the Village Idiot Theory?”
“Thinking about the cops,” Iffy said.
He downed his the last half of his Arrow and slapped the glass on the table; the ashtray clattered.
“Someone’s gotta figure out what the fuck is going on, and I don’t think they’re capable.”
“We are,” Lolly said, and poured some of her beer into his glass so they could CLINK glasses and drink together.
“This is our story.”
Lolly staggered to her feet and yelled,
“WOODW–”
Until Iffy snatched her by the elbow and dragged her back seated, hissed into her ear,
“If you scream Woodward & Bernstein WOO! in this establishment, I will break both of your legs.”
“I was excited.”
“Dignity above all. We start first thing in the morning. Go get two more beers.”
And then Barry Cho began screeching. It sounded like eternity itself, if eternity smoked. Bloody and lost and dancing through the windows of Flick’s, and unstoppable even though Janet Di Peppi chucked darts at him. The boys who ran the presses walked him out, and the normal noise returned. Conversations and unaccounted-for bouzouki, and Flick ringing the till. Business was as usual in Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.
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