The Buck Passes Flynn Page 6

  “Mister Flynn, if anyone ever comes into any area of Texas—especially Ada—with even a divining rod, I can tell you the news would travel like wildfire. The ranchers would be all over him.”

  “Right,” said Flynn. “Next question: have you ever heard of a radioactive-materials dump?”

  “What is that?”

  “I know,” said the minister. He did not explain. He burped.

  Finally, Flynn said, “Thermonuclear plants produce a certain amount of waste material that is radioactive.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “The powers-that-be aren’t sure what to do with this waste,” Flynn said.

  “Why don’t they turn it into something useful?” she asked.

  “I’ll suggest it. Their best idea at the moment is to bury it deep in the ground—especially in a salt deposit.”

  “Salt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, wouldn’t that just ruin the salt, too?”

  “I guess it would. Anyway,” Flynn continued, “the one or two areas chosen to bury this waste—areas I expect are somewhat like Ada—the people have risen up on their hind legs and yelled no.”

  “I don’t understand you, Mister Flynn.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned to you or any of your friends, as far as you know, that Ada might be used as a place to bury radioactive wastes?”

  “Why, no. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “The devil,” said the minister. “The devil did.”

  He began to giggle and cry.

  “The people can’t protest,” said Flynn, “if they’re not here to do it.”

  “No such thing,” said Marge Fraiman.

  “There haven’t been any men around here diggin’ any holes in the ground the last year or two?”

  “Surely not. If there were they’d be taken as oil surveyors and we all would have been over them quicker than flies go to a dead man’s eyes.”

  “Beguiling expression, that,” said Flynn. “I must remember to use it myself, one day. When it’s appropriate. One other wee question: has any born and bred citizen of Ada, Texas, struck out in the world and done especially well?”

  “Well, there was young Dale Hainsfather. Last year, why he had more Boy Scout badges and awards than anybody in Texas. He got a special trip to Dallas for it. All paid for.”

  “Mrs. Fraiman, I guess when I say anyone who has ‘done especially well,’ I mean become rich.”

  “Rich?”

  “Very rich.”

  “Why, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “Tommy Jackson, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, surely, Mister Flynn, you know who Tommy Jackson is, don’t you?”

  “If I do know,” Flynn said, “I forget. If you would refresh my memory?”

  “He played for Texas.”

  “Played what?”

  “Football. Quarterback for Texas. Of course, that was ten, twelve years ago.”

  “That Tommy Jackson.”

  “Sure. I was sure you’d know. His family moved from here to Austin when he was about twelve years old, but he’s always said that Ada’s his hometown.”

  “Did he become rich?”

  “Why, he sure did. Even while he was in college, they were givin’ him cars. They gave him a Bonanza. A yellow Bonanza. It was in all the papers, at the time.”

  “But did he become rich?”

  “He made a lot of money playing football. You’d never believe how much. He’s up North someplace, now. Coach of one of those big state-university football teams.” Marge looked at her husband like a child looking into a bird’s nest to see if there were any chicks. “Sandy would know which university. I understand you can see Tommy on television once in a while. He always says he comes from Ada, Texas, which is real nice of him, I mean, seein’ he left here when he was age twelve and all.”

  “I guess I’m asking about someone even richer than Tommy Jackson.”

  “Richer than Tommy? They say he lives in a big house, with a swimming pool. There was a piece about him in Parade magazine a few years tack.”

  “I mean someone who went somewhere, discovered oil, put together a big company, owned an airline, a lot of real estate, banking … something … became a billionaire.”

  Marge Fraiman’s eyes had grown wider.

  “No, Mister Flynn. I’ve never known of anyone like that.”

  “Never even heard of anyone like that?”

  “Well, sure, I’ve heard of them. We don’t have a television and don’t believe in cluttering up our minds with magazines and like that. If you can read the Word of the Lord, why read anything else, Sandy says.” The minister’s head went up and down in agreement. “But I know such people exist. There was that man, Howard Hughes—”

  “Right,” said Flynn. “Someone like him.”

  “From right here in Ada?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “Why, no, Mister Flynn. Who’d ever think a thing like that? All that money, and women, and flyin’ around in the face of the Lord? I surely would pray nothin’ like that would happen to anyone from Ada. Not anyone I know.”

  Flynn stared at her a moment, and then said, “Amen.”

  “No one like that from Ada, Mister Flynn. I pray the Lord my husband’s ministry has been better than that.”

  “You mentioned that Mrs. Lewis had a son who ran off and became rich?”

  “Oh, that. That’s just a story about the pig woman. I never laid eyes on any son of hers.”

  “It could have been long ago. Before you were born.”

  “Well, it would have been. Of course. Old Mrs. Lewis, why, she’s a hundred years old if she’s a minute and a half.”

  “You don’t know anything definite about her son?”

  “Definite? I don’t even know she had a son. People love to make up stories about poor unfortunate critters like that. I mean, here she is, out livin’ in that gully with her pigs, givin’ herself airs, dressin’ up in face makeup and spangly glass to pour slop out to the pigs, so everyone goes around sayin’ she has a son rich as Croesus livin’ in a mansion on Park Avenue, New York. Just ’cause everyone’s always said it doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “I suppose not,” said Flynn.

  “No. It’s just a small town’s way of feelin’ sorry for her, you know? The poor crazy old woman. No one in this town ever’s gotten free and had any money, Mister Flynn. No one, except Tommy Jackson, of course. Why would you ask such a thing, anyway?”

  Flynn said, “I think you should know—and I think you should tell your husband when you can—that I believe every man, woman, and child in Ada, Texas, received a package just like yours—with one hundred thousand dollars cash money in it.”

  “I can’t believe that, Mister Flynn.”

  “Mrs. Lewis received such a package.”

  “Mister Flynn, there are some things that are to be believed, and some things that are not to be believed. I told you about the earthquake—”

  “Satan walked the land,” the Reverend Sandy Fraiman said.

  Flynn rose from the floor. His knees were stiff.

  Still holding her husband’s hand, Marge Fraiman said, “I won’t walk out with you, Mister Flynn, if you don’t mind.”

  Flynn said, “May I ask what you and your husband are going to do?”

  “I’ll just sit with him,” she said, “until it’s time to pray.”

  “And then what will you do?”

  “Why, I said: we’ll pray.”

  “Mrs. Fraiman, you and your husband can’t sit here in an empty town. It’s been three months you’ve been alone. I have some experience with what that does to people.”

  “We have the Lord, Mister Flynn.”

  “Ach, well. Since Eden, Mrs. Fraiman, it’s been a good idea to have some other people around. Can’t you at least move into Bixby or Austin? You can keep your eye on Ada just as well from there.”

  “Why, Mister Flynn, that�
��s a right good idea.”

  “It is?”

  “It surely is. I thank you for it.”

  “Just an idea, Mrs. Fraiman.”

  “We never thought of it. We never did. I do thank you for takin’ thought for us. That’s right Christian of you.”

  Just as Flynn was leaving the bungalow, going back into the hot, blowing air, he heard Marge Fraiman call out, “You be sure and come back, you hear? Right soon!”

  10

  Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

  Why am I saying good evening?

  It’s three-thirty in the morning!

  What are you doing up?

  What am I doing up?

  Like most audiences at a live performance, the people in the enormous Las Vegas lounge watching the comic Jimmy Silverstein on the huge stage with his hand-mike, listening to him, were eager to be pleased, even at three o’clock in the morning.

  Flynn sipped his Perrier and lime.

  “Get an education,” my mother said. “With an education you won’t have to be up at three o’clock in the morning, tiptoeing around the city, quietly collecting other people’s garbage.”

  You heard me right: quietly collecting other people’s garbage.

  “Get an education,” my father said. “With an education you won’t have to be up at two o’clock in the morning pulling on your pants to come to work at the bakery.”

  I should have listened!

  Flynn had driven from Ada to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport and then flown to Las Vegas. He had checked into Caesar’s Palace, then checked into Casino Royale. He slept, ate, bought a lightweight suit, four shirts, some underwear, socks, a small suitcase, spent hours in his room reviewing the material sent him from N.N., called the Pittsburgh number with several Information Requests, ate and slept again.

  The material sent him from N.N. included the names, ages, photos, Social Security numbers, and biographical sketches of everyone who had worked in Air Force Intelligence Section, anything to do with either East Frampton, Massachusetts, or Ada, Texas.

  What are you people doing in Las Vegas, anyway?

  Miami’s a beach, Hawaii’s a beach … Las Vegas is a beach, but have you ever tried walking to the water from here?

  Deep fried tootsies you get five days before you see even a drunk seagull!

  Thus far, in Las Vegas, Flynn had traced the following people from Ada, Texas:

  JAMES A. FURTHERER, 19. Furtherer had worked in the Ada Wesgas gasoline station. Furtherer was currently working in a Wesgas gasoline station outside Las Vegas. When Flynn asked him what happened to the one hundred thousand dollars he had received, Furtherer said, “What hundred thousand dollars?”

  GABRIEL and ALIDA SIMS, 32 and 31, respectively. Ranchers. Divorced in Las Vegas three weeks previously. Sims was now working as a baggage handler at Las Vegas Airport. Alida had bought a small house on the outskirts of Las Vegas and was unemployed.

  RONALD and BARBARA ELLYN, 39 and 43, respectively. Ranchers. Ronald dead on arrival, Las Vegas Sunshine Hospital; fatal gunshot wound believed self-inflicted. Barbara’s whereabouts were currently unknown.

  JOSEPH BARKER, 58. Grocer. Currently in Alcohol and Drug Center, Las Vegas Sunshine Hospital.

  MILTON and JACKIE SCHLANGER, 28 and 25, respectively. Ranchers. Currently living in separate rooms at R.O. Motel. Flynn’s evidence suggested Jackie was supporting them both by prostitution.

  CHARLES, WILMA, and WILMA AGGERS, 38, 36, and 12, respectively. Ranchers. Currently proprietors of the R.O. Motel. Although the Aggers would not state to Flynn the source of their investment in the motel, they did say they were being investigated by the Internal Revenue Service and feared being sent to prison.

  Flynn had also found Parnell Spaulding, 54, but had not yet interviewed him.

  Flynn had watched Spaulding play roulette between two and four-thirty the previous morning. Spaulding was alone. His concentration on the game was intense.

  Las Vegas is a nice beach, but it’s a terrible long walk to the water.

  What has Las Vegas got?

  I’ll tell you what Las Vegas has got.

  I’ll tell you what you think Las Vegas has got.

  Money!

  Las Vegas has got money.

  I’ve got money; you’ve got money.

  Isn’t it great having money?—as long as we have some other means of supporting ourselves.

  Flynn’s Information Requests from N.N. included the following:

  (1) What are the known values of oil rights in the area of Ada, Texas, including “deep wells”?

  (2) Are there valuable oil or natural gas rights in the area of East Frampton, Massachusetts, including offshore?

  (3) Has any U.S. agency considered the area of Ada, Texas, as a nuclear-waste-materials dump?

  (4) State whereabouts of world’s ten top known counterfeiters.

  (5) What is the relationship of Captain William H. Coburn, U.S.A.F.I.S. 11B, with Coburn families of East Frampton, Massachusetts, and Ada, Texas?

  (6) Is there a man of extreme wealth, age probably about sixty, whose last name is or was Lewis, originally from Ada, Texas?

  (7) Who is Ducey Webb?

  So what’s money?

  What’s money anymore?

  I’ll tell you what money is.

  Money is tissue paper.

  You might as well blow your nose in it!

  You heard about the guy who broke the bank at Monte Carlo—really, he won a fortune—brought the money to Las Vegas and by the time he got here he discovered he had to blow it all on a tuna fish sandwich?

  Yesterday a guy put up a tent over his manhole in the street while he was down fixing the sewer pipes.

  When he came up at five o’clock there were seven sheiks standing in line, oil money in hand, trying to make a deal for his tent!

  You know why you’re here?

  You’re not here because you can afford to be.

  You’re here because what it cost you to get in doesn’t matter anymore!

  Twenty dollars you paid to come in and listen to Jimmy Silverstein at three o’clock in the morning.

  My mother would die, if she knew this.

  Your mother would die, if she knew this.

  You remember when money was real? Do you?

  Now here we all are in this big sandbox called Las Vegas, playing with money!

  Because it isn’t real anymore!

  Wheeeeeeee!

  Tell me honestly, ladies and gentlemen: did you ever think you’d live to see the day when the automobile companies had to recall their stock? I mean their common stock?

  Here, kid. Here’s a fifty-dollar bill. Go buy yourself an ice cream.

  Hey, mister. I’m out of work. Can you spare two hundred and fifty dollars?

  Listen, it’s all right, ladies and gentlemen.

  The President of the United States has just written a short book: How I Saved the World’s Economy.

  It’s available from the United States Government Printing Office for only nine hundred and twenty-five dollars.

  Plus eighty-two dollars postage.

  Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been a wonderful audience.

  Thank you, and good morning.

  “Funny place, America,” Flynn said to the Fischbecks of Milwaukee, who had been kind enough to invite him to share their table.

  “Funny?” the male Fischbeck said.

  “Yes,” said Flynn. “In America, the truth gets told in some funny places, in some funny ways.”

  11

  “MIND if I join you?” Flynn asked.

  It was four forty-five in the morning.

  After again watching Spaulding at the roulette table for a while, Flynn had followed him into the bar area.

  Parnell Spaulding was a big man, broad-shouldered, thick-handed, with a face just as baked and creased as the land around Ada, Texas. There was a spot of skin cancer at the corner of his mouth.

  Spaulding sat alone in
a dark corner, his shoulders hunched over a double straight bourbon.

  He looked up at Flynn through exhausted eyes, but said nothing.

  Flynn slid into the plastic booth across from Spaulding.

  After the noise of the cabaret where Flynn had been entertained by Jimmy Silverstein, the lobbies, the gambling rooms—the sight of expensively dressed and coiffed women everywhere, their fingers filthy from feeding coins to the slot machines from Styrofoam cups—this corner of the nearly empty cocktail lounge was a quiet relief.

  “I was in your house the other day.” Flynn said to Parnell Spaulding. “In Ada, Texas.”

  There was no reaction from Spaulding.

  “Your cattle’s dead or gone. Most of your furniture. Your television. I don’t know about your farm equipment. Sandy Fraiman ran your tractor into the barn, but I expect it’s gone, too.”

  Spaulding’s eyes grew wide.

  “Someone has even ripped the copper piping out of your walls and run off with it.”

  “The copper piping?” Slowly, Parnell Spaulding shook his head. “The copper piping. Don’t that beat all?”

  Flynn said, “Your family Bible’s still there. On the living-room shelf. Where you left it.”

  “Yeah,” Spaulding said. “We left in sort of a hurry.”

  “I guess you did.”

  “Did we really leave my great-granddaddy’s Bible?”

  “You did.”

  “Wonder Helen didn’t think to bring it along. She allus did take the Word of God as bein’ somethin’ she was in charge of.”

  “Everyone left Ada,” Flynn said. “Except the Fraimans and the pig woman.”

  “Well,” Spaulding drawled, “no matter how long you spend growin’ up in Ada, the old place don’t improve none.”

  “Have you found something better?”

  “I surely have. We’re livin’ in a big suite upstairs. Eleventh floor, if you’d believe it. Good as livin’ on a hill. I allus wanted to live on a hill. You can see a piece. No dust. Ever. People bring your meals to you, just as polite as they can be. I don’t mind livin’ in the air conditioning, either. Why, now I change my shirt just for somethin’ to do.”

  Flynn said, “You haven’t asked how the Fraimans are. I just mentioned I saw them.”