Heathern by Jack Womack Read Free Book Online Page B

thing we can't forget is that we couldn't do what we do
without people."
    "You want me to pass out the Kool-Aid," said Macaffrey.
    "I hope you're not making unwarranted references," said
Thatcher, a century's sorrow soaking his voice at command.
"Unfair lies, that's what you've probably heard. Makes me
sick to think that's what's still believed." He calmed as he
took comfort in truth. "Not ten percent of our money comes
from drugs anymore, and we're in the process of phasing
that out. We've diversified into a number of fields."

    "In a number of places."
    "It's so easy to go global these days," said Thatcher.
"Only limit is how far you can see. Think of it, son.
Hundreds of millions of people everywhere and every one
of them listening to you. You can give peace to troubled
minds. Help groups settle their differences. Solve the
problems of tomorrow today. Get that camera in front of
you and a few satellites and it's all yours-"
    "Thatcher," Bernard said, interrupting, "don't overstate-"
    "Think of what things might be like today if TV'd been
invented twenty years earlier."
    "Television has great power to confound and distract,"
said Macaffrey. "It saps the soul. I have no desire for
unnatural congress."
    "Most people'd kill and eat their grandmothers to get on
TV," said Thatcher. "Worse, even. We'll start you at six thou
per year and see how it goes. No more having to preach to
gimpy kids from Farmingdale, that's for sure." Bernard and
Susie looked no less stricken than I must have appeared; I
made two per year, and Bernard not that much more.
"Appropriate raises with suitable results. Fair and equitable. We scratch your back, you scratch ours. Everybody
comes out ahead."
    "You want me to make people render unto Caesar what
Caesar already has," said Macaffrey. "Not much point in
that, Mister Dryden. I'm sure you'll get along fine without
me." Turning, Macaffrey went to the door, and left.
    "What's this?" Thatcher said, watching him leave.
    "I think he's saying no," said Bernard.
    Susie laughed, flushing so with color that I thought her
happiness might kill her. "Found a smart one for a change,"
she said.
    "Thinks he is," said Thatcher. Having seen his seduction
foiled, he appeared now to be toying with fantasies of rape.
    "He obviously doesn't want to be bothered," I said. "Leave him alone. Hire an actor for your plots. Weren't you
telling me how well that's worked before?"

    "Thatcher obviously feels he needs this kernel of winsome sincerity," Bernard said, "to grow his new crop of
threats."
    "You can't get an actor for this kind of gig," said
Thatcher. "Be like a white boy singing the blues. We'll play
it by ear. I got a hunch he'll come around when he gets the
right prompting." As he turned to me he paused, as if to
make me more aware of how soon I would learn of my
expanded role in this drama.
    Susie spoke to her husband as she got up to leave. "I'm
going to the infirmary to check on Jake. Did you have to
make Gus do that?"
    "It's what we pay 'em for."
    That afternoon I stopped by Bernard's office, suspecting
I'd never see Macaffrey again, finding it impossible to
remove him from my mind. Bernard sat surrounded by
remnants of his personality: a photo of his wife, a Clio
award he used as a paperweight, a pencil sketch of their late
son, who was in a coma for a year before he died. Bernard,
maker of millions-old millions-was bankrupt when he
signed on at Dryco; I still had my jewelry. In the center of
his desk was a brass-colored pen and pencil set in the shape
of Dealey Plaza.
    "You're here to see our newest commercial," he said as I
entered.
    "Am I?"
    "Sweetness, overseeing new projects requires that you
feign interest even in the inanimate ones. Here we go."
    His set was a flat screen on the far wall; pressing the
remote he rolled the spot, which not so much played as
ricocheted. Sequential images flashed on during the first
twenty seconds, coming too quick to grasp