Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
“I’m waiting for my brother,” I replied.
“Your brother.” The man’s face softened. “Okay, wait, but don’ give me no trouble.”
I walked up to the pictures of the naked ladies which close up I saw weren’t totally naked, there were these little stars on their chests and a piece of glittery cloth between their legs. Each of them had autographed her picture – Candy and Monique and Bambi and maybe eight others. The penmanship was excellent. I could hear music from inside.
The man lit a cigarette. He offered me one. “No thanks,” I replied.
“I didn’t think so.” Lighting up, he nodded at the pictures. “So whaddya think? Pretty good, huh? Like what you see?”
“Oh, sure,” I replied. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but he was right, too.
“Here we are,” he sighed, “me and you, you’re the only person in this whole friggin town wants to see my show and I can’t let you in. Ain’t that rich!” A couple of minutes passed and so did a lot more people who didn’t stop. The man looked at me and shook his head. “Bummer,” he said, “I don’ believe this shit.” Suddenly he looked left and right, then put his hand on my shoulder. “Here. C’mre.” He steered me toward the heavy dark curtain at the doorway. “Go on, take a look. But be quick.” He pulled the curtain back.
The room was dark except for dim lights and a small stage. This woman was up there, and far as I could tell, she had nothing on except that little cloth and a belt with bills sticking out of it and high heel shoes. She was wrapping herself around this pole like you see in fire stations, moving in time with the music though I wouldn’t call what she was doing dancing.
“That there’s Cheri,” the man whispered hoarsely, “she is really hot!”
How can she be hot, I wondered, with no clothes on to speak of. Now she was down on the floor, crawling toward the edge of the stage and heads that were looking up at her, then the music stopped and she stood and picked up this little pile of clothes and threw a shirt over her shoulders. People started to leave. Somebody was coming up the aisle, it looked a lot like Jim. It was Jim! I backed out and the curtain flopped shut.
Jim emerged, slitty-eyed in the glare. “‘Say, Paul, whadd’re you doing here?”
“I ran out of money.”
“Too bad they wouldn’t let you in,” he said with a scowl.
I looked at the doorman. He winked.
“Great show,” Jim said, walking away, “those babes are stacked but, boy, they rob you blind! Price of a couple of beers you could buy a whole case at home!” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and fished around inside. “Damn! My last one.” He balled the pack in his fist and heaved it into the street. “Y’know, Paul, something you just don’t unnerstan,’” he said, lighting his smoke, “you just don’t unnerstan’ how easy you have it.”
“Me easy! What are you talking about?”
“I mean compared to me.”
I couldn’t believe this! How many beers did he have!
“Having to live up to Dad. Push, push, push, all the time push, that is no picnic... I mean, it wasn’t. I dunno what’ll happen to me now.” He sighed. “You, you just bop along, mindin’ your own business. Lots of times I just wished I was you.”
I stared straight ahead. I had no idea he felt that way. Jim’s eyes were moist. “I been a shit to you sometimes. Sorry, Paul,” he put his hand on my shoulder, “sorry.” He crushed the cigarette under his heel. Fumbling around he pulled out a small crumpled wad. “Next time I’ll fix you up with a real fake I.D like mine. I am beat,” he hiccupped, “let’s get a cab.”
We were back with time to spare. Catherine was on the floor watching TV, her room service tray littered with dirty dishes. As soon as his head hit the pillow Jim was sawing wood. Catherine and I stayed up with an old movie but my parents came home and turned it off. Do I need to tell you, that night on the cot I had some very enjoyable dreams.
9. Brave New World
WHEN I PICK JONATHAN UP AT THE AIRPORT the sun has just set. In the car he says barely a word. Now facing each other across our work table, his face is grim. “I don’t believe those people. They want to take the project away from me.”
“You can’t be serious! Why would they do that?”
“They said Paul’s death makes it such a big story they want somebody with more experience to handle it. You’ve heard of Seymour Hersh?”
“Of course.” Pulitzer Prize winner, the man who broke My Lai.
“They want to give it to him, the whole thing. I’d write up my notes, cash their check and hand everything over to the big shot. Probably has a book contract already.”
“And you’ve done all this work.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So how did you leave it?”
“For once I held my ground. It was my idea, after all, I brought it to them. Long story short, they’re going to split it up. I keep the bio. Somebody else’ll do the death, the investigation – Hersh, I suppose. We’re still at three parts but I can live with that.” He slumped in his chair. “It’s been a day and a half. Got anything stronger than Chardonnay?”
“Jack Daniels Black?”
“Perfect.”
I start to get up. “No, let me,” he says.
“I’ll have the usual.”
After what seems like an hour he returns. “Sorry,” he says, handing me my drink. “I’m quietly going crazy. You know I appreciate everything you’re doing.”
“Of course. Right now this is the most important thing in my life.”
“That makes two of us.” We touch glasses. He rolls his in his hands, rattling the cubes, then downs it in one gulp. “Not to be maudlin, but the last few years things haven’t gone so well. This assignment is really important – it could get me going again.”
“I had a suspicion,” I say. I think of leaving it at that, but the hell with it, I think. “You’re not as good a liar as you pretend to be, Jonathan.”
He flushes. “What do you mean, liar?”
“For an old guy I’m pretty good on the Internet and I checked you out yesterday. Only thing came back the last five years was that Playboy article and a couple of things for Ladies Home Journal.”
He lowered his eyes. “Did it say I got fired from the New York Post?”
“I didn’t see that.”
“Thank God for small favors. Yeah, I had a run-in with them. A story about corrupt judges. They said their attorneys wouldn’t let them run it which I did not believe, not for a minute. I had them dead to rights and sources willing to go on the record.” He is silent, still avoiding my eyes. Finally he looks at me. “If you want to call it quits I could understand. Sorry. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
“Jonathan,” I put my hand on his, “I like your passion, but let’s not have it get in the way. If this story is half as big as we think, your ambition will take care of itself.”
“I appreciate that,” he says, looking directly at me, “very much.”
He goes inside and returns with a refill. We sit in silence. “By the way,” I say, “I enjoyed your Playboy article. And I’m not much of a basketball fan.”
He smiles, the first today. “That makes me feel better. You read