9:00 P.M.-??? Films: The Late Great Planet Earth, Seven Days in May, The Day the Earth Stood Still
1
Jack had time, so he walked down to Midtown. It had rained last night as a front pushed through, and the temperature had dropped a good ten or twelve degrees below yesterday's. The breeze had a raw edge to it. Coats were back on, legs were hidden again. Spring seemed an empty dream—
He'd decided to dress like a Midtown tourist today, so he was wearing Nikes and a black-and-purple nylon warm-up over a Planet Hollywood T-shirt. The indispensable fanny pack completed the look. The nylon made an annoying rhythmic swishing sound as he quick-walked down Columbus, which magically became Ninth Avenue once he crossed Fifty-ninth Street. He paused to check out the trays of used paperbacks in the concrete plaza on the southeast corner of Fifty-seventh, then moved on. From there the avenue began its downward slope toward Hell's Kitchen.
At least that was what they used to call it. The presence of the Intrepid Museum and the Javits Convention Center had somewhat revitalized the area, but even so, real estate folks had found a neighborhood called Hell's Kitchen a tough sell. So they'd started calling it "Clinton"—not after the president, but the former governor whose carriage house was still around here somewhere, a leftover from the old, old days when the area was a summer retreat for Manhattan's wealthier folk.
Then the Irish moved in. When the tenements rose, people started calling it Hell's Kitchen. Italians and Greeks and Puerto Ricans followed, successive immigrant waves moving through the same apartments.
The buildings tended to average about five stories in height with brick fronts, some decorative, most just plain red clay, thinly veiled with a steel lace of fire escapes clinging to their faces. Most of the streets, sloping upward on his left and down to the Hudson on his right, were lined with budding trees—Jack had forgotten how many trees grew in Hell's Kitchen. Reminded him in some ways of his own neighborhood before the great gentrification of the eighties.
Many of the doorways he passed were occupied, either by sleeping men or smoking women.
Ahead of Jack a guy was peeking in the windows of all the parked cars he passed. He was trying to be coy about it, but no question: an hour from now, one of those cars would be missing.
Jack remembered the Clinton Regent as being somewhere in the lower Fifties or upper Forties. He should have looked up the address before starting out. No matter. He'd find it.
He thought about swinging down by the docks and grabbing a cup of coffee at the Highwater Diner. He'd done a job for the owner, George Kuropolis, a while ago, and had been impressed with how clean he kept the place. He glanced at his watch. No time. Maybe later.
No shortage of restaurants in the area, and just about every ethnic group that had passed through the neighborhood was represented—lots of bodegas, a Greek bakery, Italian delis, Irish pubs, an Afghan kabob place, Caribbean, Thai, Chinese, Senegalese, even an Ethiopian restaurant.
What do they serve in an Ethiopian restaurant?
He'd have to check it out. If nothing else, meals would not be boring on this gig.
The overcast sky threatened rain, but that didn't seem to faze the tourists. The West Side was full of foreigners. He was stopped by a group of Japanese women who seemed to know only one word.
"Gucci? Gucci?" they said.
He pointed them toward Fifth Avenue. "Gucci."
Then a dapper elderly gent with a British accent stopped him at a corner and wanted to know which way to Grand Central. Jack pointed him toward Forty-second and told him to walk left—couldn't miss it.
"But now let me ask you something," Jack said as the man thanked him and began to walk away.
He was bothered by the fact that, despite his best efforts to dress like an out-of-towner, two foreigners had chosen him to ask directions.
"How did you know I wasn't a tourist myself?"
"That nylon thingie you're wearing, for one," the Brit said, smoothing his neat little white mustache. "Whenever we see one in London, we know there's an American inside. The same goes for that miniature rucksack on your hip."
"Okay, but how did you know I wasn't from Des Moines or someplace?"
"By the way you crossed the street. If you'll notice, native New Yorkers completely ignore the don't walk signals, and rarely break stride as they cross the street."
Have to remember that, Jack thought.
He moved on, stopping at all the don't walks, and found the Clinton Regent Hotel in the upper Forties between Ninth and Tenth. A whopping eight stories tall, it towered over its neighbors.
A low marquee overhung a small paved plaza shaded by half a dozen slim elms in planters. Through the windows to the left of the revolving doors he could see a half-filled coffee shop; to the right, the crowded lobby. He stepped inside and stuttered to a stop as a deep uneasiness wrapped around him like a tentacle.
He looked around the low-ceilinged lobby, wondering what it was about this place that made him so uncomfortable. Just people, standing, sitting, wandering about. No one particularly sinister looking or threatening. They were all so ordinary he wondered if he was in the right place. Then he spotted a backpacking girl wearing a T-shirt decorated with the familiar black-eyed ET-ish alien and he knew this had to be the place.
As he stood there the sensation eased away, but did not leave entirely.
Jack spotted a tall, lanky figure waving from an alcove: Lew Ehler, and he was motioning to Jack to join him.
"Good," Lew said as they shook hands. He wore gray slacks and a green plaid shirt under a blue V-neck sweater; he looked more relaxed out of a suit. "You're right on time." He was staring at Jack's throat. "What—?"
"Cut myself shaving."
"Oh. We should go over your cover story before we try to register you."
"Try?"
"Yes. I think I have a way to get you in, and if we pass that hurdle, you'll need a cover story."
"Maybe we should see about registering first."
"No. Trust me, you should have the story set in your mind before you get involved here."
"Okay. Who am I?"
He glanced around. "Too crowded in here. Let's step outside."
They stood near an elm in a concrete planter. Lew gave the street and sidewalk a careful once-over before turning to Jack.
"I've given this a lot of thought and I think you should be an experiencer."
"What's an experiencer?"
"Someone who's had a UFO experience."
"You mean abducted?" Jack didn't know if he could pull that off without laughing.
"No. Too many phony abductees around—either delusional crazies or publicity hounds. You've got to be more subtle. You'll simply say you experienced an incident that left you with unaccounted-for hours in your life. Where are you from?"
Jack didn't want to answer that. "Why?"
"Because you should be familiar with where this event supposedly happened. It should be a fairly unpopulated area."
Jack knew Jersey—he grew up there—and the pine woods that filled the belly of the state were about as deserted as you could get.
"How about the Jersey pine barrens?"
"Perfect! Mel always talked about a 'nexus point' out there."
"What's that?"
"I'm not sure. It was part of her research. We drove through last year, looking for one of these nexus points but got lost. Okay, so that's where you were…driving through the pine barrens, when you saw a light moving along the tree tops."
"I've heard of lights like that—the Pineys call them 'pine lights'—but I never saw one."
"Yes, you did: you saw this light…and as you slowed to watch it, you spotted this glowing figure off to the side. You stopped for a closer look…and the next thing you knew, it was dawn. You'd lost five-six hours."
"That's it?"
Lew nodded. "That's all you need. It's perfect because it's so vague. No one can trip you up on details because there aren't any. Anybody starts questioning you too closely, you just act confused…you wish like crazy you could remember…you'd give anything to remember."
"What about reporting it? That can be checked, so I'll have to say I didn't report it. Why not?"
"No problem. You never told anybody because you were too embarrassed—you don't want people to think you're some sort of nut. It's a common story. Most people who are into this stuff believe that only a small fraction of sightings and contacts are on record; the rest remain unreported due to the very real fear of being labeled a kook."
"Okay. I can handle that. But what's my connection to Melanie?"
Lew grinned. "Here's the beauty part: you never reported the incident to anyone, not even your own family, but then, out of the blue, Melanie Ehler called you and asked him to come to New York to talk to her about it."
"But how did she know?"
Lew's grin broadened. "That's what everyone will be asking. That will make you a very interesting experiencer. Everyone will want to talk to you about it. And the thing is, you've never met Mel, never even heard of her, so you're free to ask all sorts of questions about her."
Jack looked around. "But here I am, sitting with you for all to see. How come I know you?"
"You showed up at the house, looking for Mel. But she's gone. So I brought you along to help me look for her." He beamed with pride. "Isn't that great? All bases covered." His smile faltered and his Adam's apple made a single convulsive bob. "Mel would be so proud."
It was great. Brilliant, in fact. But Jack saw a way to improve it.
"I'm sure she would. And I'm impressed too. But let's ratchet it up one more notch. Let's say that I heard from Melanie Tuesday."
"Tuesday? But that was after…"
"Right. She called me after she was abducted." If she was abducted, he mentally added. "That ought to shake up the guilty party and bring them sniffing around, don't you think?"
"I guess it would."
"And as for you—play it straight."
"What do you mean?"
"I want you to pretty much tell it like it is: Melanie took off Sunday on some last minute research and you haven't seen her since. Despite the fact that she told you she'd be gone for a while, you're worried about her—you even suspect foul play. The only thing you hold back on is who I really am and the, er, TV message you got from her Monday night. Got that?"
"Yeah, sure. I guess so. But what—?"
"Lew?" said a woman's voice.
Jack turned and saw a matronly woman, maybe fifty or so, approaching them from the hotel entrance.
"Oh, hi, Olive," Lew called, then spoke hurriedly in a low voice from the corner of his mouth. "Olive Farina, one of the cornerstones of SESOUP. A born-again everything."
"Lew, it's so good to see you again!" she said, smiling warmly and opening her arms.
Lew stooped for a brief embrace. "Good to see you too, Olive." He turned to Jack. "I'd like you to meet…"
Jack saw Lew's face go blank, no doubt mirroring his mind. They hadn't settled on a name.
"Jack Shelby," Jack said, extending his hand. "Lew and I met only Tuesday. Nice to meet you."
Olive Farina had a sweet face and short graying hair. She wore a white turtleneck with flower-embroidered collar, a brocade vest that looked like it had been cut from a wall hanging, maroon polyester slacks and matching stockings with flat black shoes. Jack figured this was how nuns must dress when they resign from their convent. Her jewelry reinforced the ex-nun image: silver crosses as earrings, a gold crucifix as a ring, and a big silver crucifix suspended on a long chain necklace.
"Bless you, and nice to meet you as well." She turned to Lew. "Where's Melanie? I'm so anxious to speak to her." She grinned and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "I'm hoping she'll give me a preview of her address on Sunday."
"I'm sorry, Olive," Lew said, "but Mel's not here. Frankly, I don't know where she is, and I'm getting worried."
He launched into his story, then worked Jack's "experience" into it. Jack watched Olive's expression carefully during the whole exchange, but saw nothing suspicious.
"I'm sure Mel's just fine," Olive said. "You know how she is. She's like a bird dog once she gets on the trail of something. She's probably lost all track of time. Don't worry, Lew. Melanie will be here as scheduled on Sunday to tell us what she's discovered, and I know in my heart she'll prove that Satan is the master manipulator. He has to be—the devil is the source of all evil. Why just last night as I was praying I—"
Her voice cut off as two long-haired heavy metal types strolled by on the sidewalk. Her head almost managed an Exorcist swivel as she fixed on the one with the Black Sabbath T-shirt. Her expression grew furious.
"Excuse me," she said and hurried after them.
Jack watched as she grabbed the Black Sabbath guy by the arm and got into his face.
"Are you a Satanist?"
"Sod off," the guy said in a British accent and kept walking.
"Even if you're not a follower, you're doing the devil's work!" she said, following him. "You're spreading the Evil One's message with that shirt!"
The voices faded as the trio moved off:
"As you can see, Olive is a bit, um, intense," Lew said. "She represents the thinking of a fairly large segment of the membership—fundamentalist Christian types who believe the End Days are near and that Satan is preparing the way for the Antichrist."
"Keep thinking those happy thoughts."
"She's a nice lady, really," Lew said. "Just don't push any of her hot buttons. The one you really have to be careful with is Jim Zaleski—a real hot-head, and a diehard ufologist."
"You—follow what?"
"Ufologist—an expert on UFOs. He's a spokesman for the alien contact faction of SESOUP."
"So SESOUP's not a united group."
"About as united as the United Nations. Each subgroup pushes its own theory as the Real Truth. The other bigwig is Miles Kenway. He's ex-military and…well, a little scary. He speaks for those who believe in the New World Order conspiracy. If I had to pick one of them as most likely to be behind Mel's disappearance, I'd pick Kenway."
I love this, Jack thought. It's like an alternate reality.
"Have you seen either of those two around?" he said, wanting a look at them.
"No. But I'm sure they'll be at the cocktail reception later. And Roma's giving the welcoming address. You can meet them all tonight—if we can get you in." Lew glanced at his watch. "Registration should be opening soon. Let's get up there early. Let me do the talking."
Back inside, they took the escalator up one level to the meeting floors and found the registration desks in a corridor. Lew was pre-registered so he simply had to sign in. Jack stood back while the thin, middle-aged brunette behind the desk assembled Lew's badge and program. Movement to his right startled him—something small and brown with a long curved tail scurried along the floor. It disappeared behind the registration table.
Jack was bending into a squat to check it out when the thing jumped up onto the table.
A monkey. One of those cute little organ-grinder types with the pale face and the dark fur on the head—a capuchin, or something like that. It sat on the far end of the table and stared at him.
Jack heard Lew say, "I'm also going to pick up my wife's registration packet."
"Sure, Lew," the woman said, digging into an accordion file folder. Her badge read Barbara.
Still staring at Jack, the monkey moved closer. Barbara glanced at it but said nothing. Jack didn't understand why it was staring at him like that. Didn't much like it, either.
What's your problem, little guy?
He pointed to the monkey. "Is he a member too?"
Barbara smiled. "No. He belongs to Sal. Isn't he cute?"
"Sal?" Lew said.
"Professor Roma. He tells everyone to call him Sal."
She handed Lew an envelope. "Ask Melanie to stop by and say hello later."
"I'm not sure when Mel's arriving," Lew said. "In the meantime, I'm going to let Mr. Shelby use her badge and pass."
Jack noticed that the monkey shot upright onto its hind legs, almost as if it were alarmed at something.
"Are you a member?" she said to Jack.
"Nope. But I'd sure like to be."
"Oh, dear," Barbara said. "I don't think we can allow that."
"I don't see why not. Melanie's going to be delayed so she wants Mr. Shelby to take her place until she arrives."
"But Lew," Barbara was saying, "he's not a member—"
"But Melanie is, and I'm her husband, and this is what she told me: Jack is to take her place until she arrives."
"But you can't just give him—"
"Yes, he can," Jack said, noticing other registrants backing up behind them. Enough jawing. "Watch." He took Melanie's registration from Lew and held it before him. "There. It's done."
Before Barbara could reply, the monkey screeched and leaped at Jack. It grabbed the envelope and tried to tear it from his grasp. Startled, Jack stumbled back a step. A few of the people behind him cried out in alarm.
"What the—!"
He snatched the envelope from the monkey's paws, grabbed the creature around its chest, and gently dropped it back onto the registration desk. As if bounding off a trampoline, the monkey sprang at him again, screeching shrilly all the while. This time Jack was ready. He caught it around the chest again and held it up at arms length. He stared at it.
"Hey, pal, what's with you? Cool it."
The monkey stopped its screeching and glared at him. Then it tried to bite his wrist.
"Damn!" Jack said and tossed it—none too gently this time—back onto the table. He looked at his wrist. The skin was scraped but unbroken.
Undaunted, the creature looked ready to spring again when a voice rang out.
"Mauricio!"
The monkey froze. It and everyone else turned to look at the man approaching from the far end of the corridor.
"Oh, Professor Roma!" Barbara said. "I'm so glad you're here. I don't know what got into him."
Jack took in Professor Salvatore Roma, founder of SESOUP: a lot younger than Jack had expected, with close-cropped black hair, just this side of a buzz cut, slim nose, dark eyes, and full lips; maybe five-ten with a lean body. He wore a white shirt—one of those collarless jobs—and dark gray pleated slacks. Looked like he'd just come from a GQ shoot.
For some reason he couldn't explain, Jack hated him on sight.
Roma snapped his fingers at the monkey and, after a heartbeat of hesitation, it scampered along the table and hopped up on his shoulder. Roma approached Lew and Jack.
"Hello," he said, extending his hand to Lew. "I'm Sal Roma."
"Lew Ehler. We've spoken on the phone."
Roma smiled brightly. "Melanie's husband! So good to finally meet you in person! I've been looking forward to meeting her in the flesh as well. Where is she?"
Roma was handsome and graceful, warm and friendly—why did Jack have such an urge to punch him in the face?
Lew said, "She's not here at the moment."
Roma turned to Barbara. "What was all the commotion?"
"Lew wants this non-member"—she nodded toward Jack—"to use his wife's conference pass."
Lew launched into their cover story, and did a great job—Jack detected a few murmured oohs and aahs from the people around them. Roma listened patiently while the monkey on his shoulder continued to glare at Jack. In the end, Roma wasn't moved.
"I'm sorry," he said, smiling sympathetically at Jack and Lew. "As much as I'd like to include you, Mr. Shelby, the conference is for members only." He extended his hand toward Jack. "Please return the envelope."
Jack shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm here. I'm staying."
"I must insist, Mr. Shelby," Roma said. Sudden fury darkened his smooth features.
Surprisingly, Jack heard support from the other SESOUPers—people saying, "Let him stay"…"Give him a break"…"One more person isn't going to hurt"…and the like.
Roma glanced around, opened his mouth, apparently thought better of it, and closed it again. The monkey looked ready to hurl itself at Jack's throat.
"Very well," Roma said finally, with a tiny shrug as he looked around at the SESOUPers. "If you wish him to stay, so be it."
Roma's quick about-face surprised Jack; something about it bothered him. The monkey seemed to agree: It began jumping up and down and screeching as if protesting Roma's capitulation.
"Easy, Mauricio," Roma purred, stroking its fur. His lips smiled as his eyes bored into Jack's. "I could have security eject you, but it is not worth the disruption. Enjoy your stay at the conference, Mr. Shelby. But if you interfere at all with these proceedings, I shall remove you. Is that clear?"
Jack grinned into the combined glares of Roma and his monkey. "Does this mean I don't get to call you Sal?"
Roma turned away, but the monkey kept watching Jack from his shoulder, hissing at him as they walked off. Finally the monkey jumped to the floor and ran the other way, as if disgusted with all of them.
"What happened between you and that monkey?" Lew said.
"Don't know. I get along pretty well with dogs and cats. Maybe monkeys don't like me. His master wasn't exactly crazy about me either."
And vice versa, Jack thought. He couldn't remember experiencing such instant unprovoked animosity toward another human being.
"But you're in," Lew said, slapping him on the back. "That's the important thing."
"Yeah." Jack shuffled through his—Melanie's—registration envelope, and pulled out the program. He thumbed the pages. "What now?"
"Not much doing yet. It's too early for me to check into my room. We could have lunch."
"I'll have to take a rain check. I've got some errands. And I need to see about a room of my own."
"That might be a problem. The place is booked solid. If necessary, you could stay with me."
"Thanks," Jack said, but hoped it wouldn't come to that. He wanted to stay here because this was where the action—such as it was—would be. But being a roommate went against his nature, unless of course the other occupant was Gia.
"Maybe I can go on a wait list, in case there's a cancel or a no-show." He checked today's schedule in his program. "How about we meet at this Welcome Address at five?"
That was fine with Lew. They split, and Jack headed back uptown to see a guy named Ernie.
2
Roma watched the stranger leave and fought and urge to follow him and wring his neck. It wouldn't do to have him turn up dead. That might upset the attendees, might even send some of them scurrying back home—the last thing he wanted.
But who was he? And why had Melanie Ehler's husband lied about him, saying that Melanie wanted this newcomer to use her conference pass until she arrived? Nothing, could be further from the truth.
He calmed himself. It didn't matter, really, who he was. The hotel was full, so Mr. Jack Shelby would have to find himself some other place to stay. That was the important matter—that he not replace one of the attendees. If he did that, something would have to be done about him. Roma needed them all here tonight.
Yes. He closed his eyes. Tonight.
3
The sign in the dirty window read: