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THE MIND GAME |
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Chapter Ten Gomez seemed to have recovered his impenetrable veneer of enigmatic toughness since their last session. He sat behind his desk steepling his fingers and smiling a tight, sardonic smile that set Weller's teeth on edge. "Sit down. Weller," he said coldly. "This won't take long." Weller perched on the edge of his chair, gladder than ever that he had a copy of the Master Contact Sheet locked in his house. If worse came to worse, this bastard was going to find out who held a high card in the hole! ''I've discussed your case with Torrez, and we've charted a scenario," Gomez said. "You've already been informed of part of it." "I have?" "You think that the directive to let you begin directing could have come from anywhere short of Monitor headquarters?" "I see," Weller said. But do I? Throwing goodies my way hardly seems to be what this business is about. Is Sara part of the deal too? Gomez leaned back in his chair. "We've decided that we've carried life analysis as far as it could go in your case," he said. "And that turned out not to be far enough. So now we're giving you a chance to show us where you're really at. What you do as a director will be part of it." He gave Weller a false grin that told him that the other side of the coin was going to be something nasty indeed. "I'm sure I can satisfy you as a director," Weller said fatuously. ''I'm sure you can too," Gomez said. "If you could ream out a monkey show every week, I'm sure you can produce anything we tell you to to our satisfaction without having your head behind it. A hired gun is a hired gun. As far as I'm concerned, that will prove nothing." Weller flushed with anger, or with a flash of something that he tried to convince himself was anger. It must have shown on his face, for Gomez gave a short, brittle laugh. "Well, we do have some insight into ourselves, don't we?" he said. "Whether we can stomach it or not." Weller said nothing, determined not to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of an answer. "Well, down to business," Gomez said coldly. "The purpose of this session is to issue two life directives. You've already gotten the first: you are directed to devote your full creative energies to producing material for the movement, starting Monday." He paused and flashed a feral grin. ''You understand that the outcome of your life analysis now depends on how well and faithfully you fulfill your life directives...." "I can handle it," Weller said evenly. "Good," Gomez said slyly. "And I hope you can eptify your consciousness behind the second life directive too. Because also starting on Monday, you are hereby directed to report to the Transformation Center for a room assignment." "What?" "You've been placed under total Monitor life programming," Gomez said, seeming to taste and relish every word. "You're going to have an opportunity to live Transformationalism fulltime. During the day you'll direct for Changes Productions. You'll sleep in your room at the Transformation Center every night. There will be a midnight curfew. You'll be assigned certain housekeeping tasks. And of course, you'll be closely monitored at all times, and the spirit with which you fulfill these life directives will determine the outcome of your life analysis." "How often am I allowed to take a piss," Weller snarled. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, he couldn't believe they would go this far. And yet, wasn't this precisely what had happened to Annie? "You can piss whenever you want to, Weller," Gomez said. "You'll even have commissary privileges, though eating at the Center is optional." "You're really serious about this?" Weller said. "You really expect me to --" "Quite the contrary," Gomez snapped. "I really expect you to tell me to go fuck myself. Because 1 think you're a phony, Weller. I think your so-called dedication to Transformationalism is a scam. This is your opportunity to prove it, one way or the other. Understand the situation. You've been given a life directive, not an order. You can choose to obey it or not." "And if I don't?" Gomez shrugged. "If you don't, you'll be declared a regressive. You'll be fired from your job. You'll be permanently barred from all Transformation Centers. All members of Transformationalism will be under permanent life directive to ostracize you. There will be no second chance." '''That's all?" Weller said dubiously. Gomez laughed. "Oh, we might be able to think up a few more things," he said, deliberately making it sound totally sinister. "What about sex?" Weller asked, probing for how far this really went, for whether or not Sara was involved. "Ah yes, Sara English," Gomez said smugly. "A tasty piece of ass." Weller's jaw went slack. "You know that too?" he said softly. "It surprises you? Why? Sara requested a clarification from Owen Karel like a good little girl. And she told you she was going to do it, didn't she? She's a good Transformationalist; she accepts Monitor discipline." "Jesus Christ!" "Now to answer your horny little question," Gomez said. "Sara English falls into the same category as your wife: a full-time Transformationalist who has passed life analysis. You haven't made that level yet. You are forbidden to have sex with anyone who has, and they're forbidden to have sex with you. You can ball anyone you want to outside the movement unless they've been declared a regressive. But not in the Center." "And I've got to be back in my own bed by midnight, or I turn into a pumpkin?" "You got it," Gomez said. He laughed. He leered at Weller. "Sticks in your craw, doesn't it, Weller?" he said. "Some Transformationalist you are! Go ahead, tell me to get stuffed; that's what you're going to do, isn't it?" Weller forced his mind into a state of logical, detached clarity. He didn't need Bailor to tell him that this was the acid test. If he refused to accept the life directive, it would be open warfare with Transformationalism. He didn't feel as fearful about that as he would have yesterday, not with the Master Contact Sheet as ammunition. If they started really harassing him, all he had to do was send copies of the Contact Sheet to the media, to the presidents of all the non- Transformationalist companies on the list, to the district attorney, the IRS, and any other interested agencies he could think of, and Transformationalism would be in worse shit than anything they could lay on him. But all that could get him would be revenge. Sweet as that might be, it wouldn't bring Annie back. It wouldn't help him find her. It would only make it more impossible. However, if he did the unexpected and played along, that would be a critical step toward finally convincing even Gomez of his sincerity, provided be could endure the situation with a smile and maintain the act full-time under constant paranoid pressure. But what would it be like to place himself so totally in their hands? Could he maintain the act long enough to pass life analysis and get to Annie? How long would that take? Would he crack? What would happen to him if he did? There were too many imponderables -- he had to see Bailor before he made the decision. "Do I have to tell you my decision now?" he asked. "You do if you want a final chance to tell me what you think of me," Gomez said. "After tonight, you won't be seeing me again." Temporize, Weller told himself. You don't have anything to lose by that. "You've got me all wrong," he said. "I don't want to tell you off. This is a heavy life decision for me, but I understand why you're doing it, and I don't resent it." He smiled ingenuously. "You're trying to find out where I really stand, and you're confronting me with the same question. And you're forcing me to answer it. I can't say I like it, but I can't help admiring the process." Gomez shook his head unbelievingly. ''You really can surprise me, Weller," he said. "You're telling me you're accepting the life directive?" ''I'm telling you I really have to think about it," Weller said. "Do I have to give you my decision now?" Gomez shrugged. "We're beyond bullshit," he said. "From here on in, it's what you do that counts. You either show up Monday or you don't. You don't have to say another word." Weller gave Gomez the old Transformationalist Stare. "Then let's leave it at that," he said. Gomez stared back at him. Their eyes locked for a long moment, a contest of wills, without communication, It was Gomez who broke it off with a little laugh. "You're something, Weller," he said. ''I'd really be glad to be wrong about you. If you turned out to be the real thing, you'd be quite an addition to the movement. You might even have the head to be a Monitor." He reached across the desk and shook Weller's hand. "I can't say it hasn't been interesting," he said. Though I can't say it's been nice knowing you, either." "Likewise," Weller said, and he meant it. If Gomez had not been an agent of Transformationalism, if that sharp, superior mind had not been programmed by John B. Steinhardt, if he wasn't a Monitor, they might have been friends. There were not many men he respected the way he respected Gomez, despite everything, in the face of every reason not to. Ironically he was pretty sure that Gomez felt the same way about him. In a strange way they were going to miss each other. *** Weller poured himself a shot of straight bourbon and gulped it down. Pouring himself another, he found his attention caught by the condition of his living room, something he had managed to avoid noticing for weeks. Dirty glasses, pizza cartons, beer cans, and old Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets covered every available inch of table space. Dust was everywhere, like a carpet of filthy snow. The kitchen, he realized, was even worse -- mounded with cruddy dishes and pots, the stove larded with grease, the refrigerator filled with rotting unnameables. The bedroom was a pit of dirty clothes and grimy sheets, and the towels in the bathroom looked and smelled like something in an old gas-station men's room. I'm really becoming a slob, he thought. As if I were refusing to adjust to Annie's absence, as if I were taking it out on the house, as if cleaning up the place would be admitting something I won't let myself admit. Maybe living at the Center is the right idea. At least I'd enjoy crapping that up. He shuddered, swilled down his second drink, went to the telephone and dialed the number of Bailor's exchange. He had a scheduled meeting with Bailor on Saturday, but that was too long to wait. He had to have it out now, tonight. He had to get the decision made immediately; living with the uncertainty was unbearable. The operator answered on the third ring. "Hello, this is Jack Weller. I want to get in touch with Garry Bailor immediately." "'I'm sorry, Mr. Weller. Mr. Bailor is no longer with us." "What?" A bubble of acid liquor burst in Weller's gut. "He's canceled the service." "Well, then give me his home number. This is an emergency." "I can't do that, Mr. Weller." "Well, then for Chrissakes, call his home number and tell him that I'm trying to reach him. You can bend the rules that far, can't you?" There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then the operator's voice said. "Well, if it's really that important to you...." "Believe me, it is!" ''I'll give it a try. Give me your number and I'll call you back." Weller gave her the number and hung up his phone. Not more than thirty seconds later, it rang. He snatched it up on the first ring. "Yes?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Weller. Mr. Bailor's home phone has been disconnected." "Oh my God ..." "I'm sorry ..." "Yeah, well, thank you," Weller muttered, hanging up the receiver. A cold gray fear crept over him. The dust, the dim yellow light of the single lamp, the dirty glasses and old food containers, the heavy weight of the empty house, it all seemed to be closing in on him. His last link to the outside world had been severed. He was finally, totally, frighteningly alone. What the fuck has happened to Bailor? Where is the son of a bitch? What's he doing to me? He stood up. "Shit!" he screamed, kicking the coffee table. "Motherfucker!" He felt his control of himself slipping away, and he didn't know what was on the other side. And he didn't want to know, either. Maybe Bailor's at his apartment. Yeah, maybe he's got some other poor schmuck in there. Well, screw that! For a hundred bucks a week, he can damn well be there when I need him. *** Weller drove to Bailor's Hollywood apartment like a maniac, leadfooting the accelerator, slamming through the gears, winding the engine out raggedly, cutting off cars, daring a cop to stop him. He drove as if he were in a Grand Prix race, keeping the car constantly on the thin edge of danger, so that his entire consciousness would have to be occupied with the task, so that there would be no room for anything else. At the entrance of the building be rang the bell to apartment 3C. No answer. He rang again. Still no answer. Then he noticed that the doorbell was no longer marked by Bailor's cover name, "Larry Jonas." A sliver of paper with the name "Rademacher" hand-lettered on it had been slipped into the nameplate slot. He checked the mailboxes. "Rademacher" had replaced "Jonas" there, too. "Goddamn motherfucker!" he screamed, and he smashed the heel of his hand against a whole row of doorbell buttons, pressing three or four of them at random. A moment later the entrance buzzer sounded. He slammed the lobby door open and ran up the three flights to apartment 3C, his shoes clanging harshly on the steel stairs. There was a dim light in the curtained picture window. The son of a bitch was there after all! Weller pounded angrily on the door with his fist. "Open up, Bailor, you son of a bitch! Open this goddamn door!" The door opened, and a young man with long blond hair, naked to the waist, stood in the doorway zipping his fly. A blast of pot smoke hit Weller in the face. "What the fuck do you want, man? Let's see your warrant." "I'm not a cop," Weller snapped. "Where the hell is Garry Bailor?" "Who?" "Garry Bailor. The guy who lives here. Larry Jonas." The longhair studied him with red-rimmed eyes. "Are you tripping, man?" he said. "Look, what happened to Bailor? The guy who rented this apartment?" "I don't know, man. I just rented this place yesterday." "Are you a Transformationalist?" "No, man," the longhair said. "I'm a Scorpio. You're really stoned." He looked past Weller nervously, and following his gaze, Weller saw that people were looking out their doorways across the courtyard. "I wish you'd cool it," the longhair said. "We don't need any cops here, man. You want to come in and get your head together, that's okay, we've got some downs." All the raging energy went out of Weller like air from a balloon. I'm standing here gibbering, he realized. I'm off my nut. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to hassle you." "That's okay, brother. You want to sit down? You want a couple of reds?" "No. Thanks," Weller said, turning away and heading for the stairs. "You're sure you're okay, man?" "Yeah," Weller said over his shoulder. ''I'll survive." But by the time he had reached his car, he wondered about that. Bailor bad disappeared and pulled the hole in after him. Or someone had made him disappear and wiped out all traces of his existence. Were the Monitors even now interrogating him? Had they simply snuffed him? Or had Bailor been a phony all along? A Monitor agent that they used to establish a dependency so they could yank the rug out from under him at this strategic moment? Weller shuddered -- that was real paranoia, delusions of reference, they called it. The paranoiac believes that the whole world is a conspiracy organized against him. He got into the car, started the engine, and began driving home. He drove slowly and carefully now, letting the driving become a mindless task, lost in his own thoughts. All that really mattered now was that Bailor was gone. The decision was now Weller's alone; there was no one left to help him make it. There were only two alternatives and both seemed totally unacceptable. If he gave up, if he let himself be scared off, he would have nothing -- no Annie, no job, no prospects, no hope. Transformationalism had become the totality of his existence; they had swallowed him whole already. But if he went on, he would be sucked in even deeper. Along that path might lay something even worse than becoming a total cipher -- he might end up really being programmed, truly converted. He might end up becoming the enemy he was fighting. Both alternatives were unacceptable, but he was forced to choose between them. He parked the car in the garage and went into the house. The miasmic depression of the filthy living room was unbearable. The emptiness of the bedroom was unendurable. The foul kitchen filled his mind with memories of Annie cooking there, the room all spotless and shiny. Even the toilet seemed like the Black Hole of Calcutta. He wandered from room to room aimlessly, like a ghost, unable to stand being anywhere in the house. It was dead, it was a moldering tomb, and his life was a corpse, rotting inside it. He felt the decision unfolding its inevitability within him. A line from an old Dylan song cycled through his brain over and over again. "You're invisible now, you've got no secrets to conceal." Finally he realized that some deeper level of his psyche was trying to tell him something, because the line was only half-true. He had nothing left in his life, but he did have a secret to conceal. Or reveal. The Master Contact Sheet. There was enough ammunition there to make the movement pay dearly for what it had done to him. At the very least it represented a kind of insurance ... I'll xerox up a lot of copies, he decided. I'll put them in sealed envelopes with cover letters, stamp them, and address them to the district attorney, the Times, a couple of TV stations, and the IRS. I'll make up four packets of duplicated lists to be sent to the media and the authorities. And I'll mail them tonight to my agent, to Wally Bruner, to Bob Shumway, and to Uncle Bill, with instructions to mail out the envelopes if they don't get word from me to the contrary every thirty days. I've really got something on them, he realized. And this is fail-safe. And this can do more than assure my own safety. I can use it to blackmail them into letting Annie go once I find her! One member more or less certainly isn't going to be worth having that Master Contact Sheet made public to them! And if I go on, if I live at the Center, maybe I can dig up more dirt, maybe I can build up a dossier that will destroy them once and for all. Maybe I can somehow get Annie back and torpedo Transformationalism too. He found that now that the decision had been made, he could stop pacing and sit down on the edge of the couch. He had nothing left to lose, but he now had plenty to gain. The risk was great and the odds imponderable, but his commitment to the battle had been total for a long time. He only had to look around the house to realize that. The war was on already, all he could do was dare everything and go in for the kill.
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