The Clown's Graveyard
Chapter Nineteen: Showdown at the Commonwealth Club

I was really starting to feel like myself again. It was the most natural thing in the world to be back at the helm of Integrated Consciousness, to walk the halls and bask in the admiration of the troops. This was where I belonged. My recent challenges had only served to make me stronger, and perhaps a bit more humble as well, in an epic kind of way.

Defeating the Fabulous Ontarians was only the beginning. With the Release I'd make the jump from mega-celebrity to icon. I'd probably end up on Mount Rushmore. I thought about the white-sand island I'd buy, complete with airstrip, and ran through a list of potential weekend companions, sometimes a crowd, sometimes just one lucky lady, anyone it pleased me to invite. I'd accept such material comforts as were my due, but the real reward was knowing that I was helping people.

I was having a celebratory beer with Carter at the end of the afternoon when I got a call from Johnny Hodges, the sycophantic host of a highly rated call-in show. I was on the air. "How are you, Johnny?" I said, turning on a monitor to watch him talk to my photograph.

"I'm excited, Andy," he said enthusiastically. "Excited about 'The Story of Your Life,' that is. How do you come up with such great ideas?"

"By listening to our customers, Johnny. They're the real geniuses." It was too easy.

"I want to tell you, Andy, I've taken calls from all over the country tonight and it sounds like you're right on the money," said Hodges. "This is just the kind of thing people have always wanted, a program with relevance. A program with meaning. A program that's not afraid to tell it like it is." He went on in that vein for a while, then paused and composed himself to venture a real question. "Listen Andy, there's something a few of my callers have wondered and I wanted to pass along to you, a question. Why did you schedule the show for the same time as the Fabulous Ontarians?"

"There's always something else on," I replied, winking at Carter. "Frankly, I think our customers will have the sense to recognize quality programming when they see it. I don't know what these—what did you call them? Frantic Obstetricians?—have to offer. But Integrated Consciousness has focused the most advanced technology ever developed and the full expertise and resources of the world's leading integrated living science company on one single goal: giving our customers exactly what they're looking for. If folks would rather sit out in their backyards watching for—" here I half-suppressed a derisive snort—"flying saucers, well, I guess I can't help them. What about you, Johnny? What are your plans for Friday night?"

Hodges attempted a chuckle. "See Andy the thing is—hold on just a moment."

My picture dropped off the screen and a trailer reading "Breaking News" ran across the bottom of Johnny's concerned face. "Folks, I'm receiving an urgent news bulletin. We've just been contacted by representatives of the Fabulous Ontarians." The customer data on the adjacent monitors jumped as if startled. "They've requested a live feed to deliver an update on Friday's visit. Gail, do we have ...? Here we go. Ladies and gentlemen, the spokesperson for the Fabulous Ontarians." The customer data flatlined, holding its breath.

Lou appeared on the screen. I winced. His face was too brightly lit, making him look pale and casting sharp shadows under his eye bags. His pupils were tiny and small beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. I recognized Angela's kitchen in the shadows behind him. For a moment I thought of the six of them back there. Dr. Turezyn, Angela, the Twenty-nine Palms Three, they would assume that it was Digital Andy on the air with Johnny Hodges. For all they knew I'd been abducted by the Men in Black. But Lou knew better.

"This ought to be good," Carter said to me. "Look at that idiot. They're toast."

"This is Professor Jonathan Frink," Lou began. "You may remember me from the Sam Romero Show. I was the one in Utah. In any event," he looked momentarily disoriented. "I just wanted to remind your viewers that the historic Fabulous Ontarians appearance this Friday is a one-night-only, exclusive engagement, and it will not be repeated. So be sure not to miss it." He seemed finished. "And you have to get the message firsthand," he added abruptly. "You can't just have someone else tell you about it."

"Jonathan—Professor Frink," Johnny Hodges said, pushing a piece of paper around his desk with a pencil, "I was wondering. You know, we've heard a lot about the Fabulous Ontarians, but we really haven't heard anything about their message. What it actually is, I mean. Do you think perhaps it would be possible to give us a small hint, a sneak preview, if you will? As a special favor for a real fan?"

Lou leaned off-camera for a moment. When he came back into view he said, "I can't do that, Johnny, but I'll tell you what I can do." He glanced off to the left again. "As you know, the Fabulous Ontarians review all Earthly telecommunications signals, and they're watching this show right now. I will now ask the Fabulous Ontarians to give your viewers a small demonstration of their telepathic powers. To give them a taste of what to expect on Friday. I want your viewers to clear their minds—"

"The mind reading thing again?" Johnny said.

"No, no, it's different this time," Lou hastened. "It's the other way around. This time the Fabulous Ontarians will transmit the same thought into the mind of everyone watching, in the same way they will transmit their urgent, literally Earth-shaking message this Friday." Johnny made a go-ahead gesture. "Okay, ready ... set ... remember the next thing you think of—go!" Lou made a presto! motion with his hands, almost rising from his chair. He shook his head as if recovering from a blow. "Boy, I sure got something. What did you guys get?"

"I don't know ... tomato soup?" Johnny Hodges said.

"I got golfing," cut in the show's director.

Hodges dragged over an intern, who blushed. "Do I have to say?"

"I don't know, Frink," Hodges said. "What else you got?" He mugged at the camera.

Lou was visibly flustered. "There's clearly been some interference with the signal," he stammered, "probably due to the, ah, negative energy of your last interview. Stand by for further instructions."

The feed continued for a few moments to show Lou lowering his head and slumping in the chair. Angela came into the picture and lay her hand on his shoulder. Dr. Turezyn wandered on camera, lost in thought, then looked into the lens and reached forward to turn it off.

The Johnny Hodges debacle was only the beginning. Thursday morning brought a flurry of statements from the talent booked for the spectacular citing pre-existing conflicts, sudden illnesses, and, in a few grim cases, a frank desire to disassociate themselves from the whole regrettable business. My former associates made desperate attempts to revive the craze but their efforts lacked focus. Lou was clearly unable to provide a coherent vision.

Although we now found ourselves on opposite sides, it pained me to watch my old friend foundering so badly. Then again, maybe it was all for the best. He'd wind up in some Midwestern burg, maybe Indianapolis again, resume his diet of frozen pizza and budget beer, spend his evenings hustling Euchre in longneck bars festooned with Indy 500 banners and Monday Night Football displays as if none of it had ever happened. He'd sure have some stories to tell if anyone was willing to listen. Whether they'd believe him or not was beside the point.

Lou's only mistake had been getting mixed up with things he didn't understand. The same could be said of any one of us. It occurred to me that I should comp him a lifetime subscription to IC 2.0 to keep him out of trouble in the future. Anonymously, of course. I didn't want to embarrass the guy.

I was leafing through a tall stack of progress reports Thursday afternoon when Blanston came into my office. "I think you should see this," he said, turning up the sound on one of the monitors. Dr. Turezyn stood behind a thicket of microphones, dressed to the nines as always.

"Are you saying there's a conspiracy?" a reporter was asking.

"What I'm saying," she said sternly, "is that Integrated Consciousness has shown blatant disregard for an event of unprecedented importance in human history. By putting their own corporate interests ahead of the common good, they are threatening to deal a devastating blow to our ability to understand who we are and the meaning of our place in the universe. And I'd like to know why. The American people deserve answers. Therefore I propose a live, face-to-face debate between Andy Hunter and myself, tonight, to be moderated by Sam Romero. We have already secured the joint participation of several major networks." The execs must have been palpitating at the ratings.

"I issue this challenge," she went on, "with the expectation that Mr. Hunter and his associates will decline. And I ask the American people to ask themselves: why? What is Integrated Consciousness so afraid of? What is it about the Fabulous Ontarians that they wish to conceal from us?"

Blanston muted the sound as Dr. Turezyn continued. "We're already getting calls from the Consortium," he said. "We've got to put these Fabulous Ontarians people away once and for all. You're going to have to call their bluff and do the debate."

He was right. I didn't relish the prospect of humiliating Dr. Turezyn in public. The rest of the team would land on their feet once the Fabulous Ontarians blew over, but her credibility would be shot. She'd be forced onto the disgraced-public-figure circuit, reduced to campy cameos in independent films, herbal supplement infomercials, headline-grubbing liaisons with other downwardly mobiles. It wouldn't be pretty but it had to happen. I could only hope she wouldn't hold it against me.

The auditorium was as jittery as henhouse, though the room itself bespoke order, fitted out in dignified crushed velvet, cream-colored woodwork, and oil portraits of another generation's bastions of common sense. I looked over the audience, the rows and rows of concerned citizens seeking answers to questions they'd never chosen to ask. In this sense Dr. Turezyn and the others had played right into my hand. She'd challenged me to tell people what was real, and that had always been my strongest suit.

The City had been quiet on the ride from the office to the Commonwealth Club. I'd sunk deep into the leather seats and watched the streets pass over a glass of scotch. There was a mug of loose cigars on the bar. I took one and unwrapped it, wishing that I could stand the taste. Maybe I would cultivate the habit this time around. I was struck by its appeal as an aid to contemplation in a moment such as this, as I began a new life whose first act would be the extinction of the old.

I knew at last that I was doing the right thing. I saw now the conceit and self-indulgence that had warped my life. I'd been obsessed with the idea that there was more to the world than met the eye, and more to me than a middle-class motherless misfit with an overactive imagination. Believing in all that stuff made me feel exceptional and gave me somewhere to hide from my pain, but the time comes to grow up. Life isn't about chasing dreams and running from nightmares. It's about learning to find meaning in the here and now and beauty in the well-tuned workings of a clockwork life.

I was ashamed to think of how I'd violated the trust of my customers. People have a right to go about their business without being preyed upon by pranksters and told outrageous lies as if they were the gospel truth. But I'd set it straight tonight.

I had stayed in my dressing room until the last possible moment, not wanting to face Dr. Turezyn any sooner than necessary. Now I spotted her from the wings, sipping water at her podium. When I stepped onstage a roar rose from the audience. Seeing me, she struggled to maintain her composure. "Andy?" she said under her breath as I took my place.

It was showtime. Sam Romero, perched on a stool between Dr. Turezyn and me, welcomed the audience and flapped his gums for a few minutes about the momentous occasion that had brought the nation together on this very special evening. "But first," he said theatrically, "we have a surprise development to throw into the mix, previously unknown even to Mr. Hunter and Dr. Turezyn.

"At approximately six o'clock this evening, Professor Jonathan Frink, spokesperson for the Fabulous Ontarians, was taken into custody by federal marshals." A gasp rose from the audience. I gripped the podium as a projection screen lowered from the ceiling. "It seems that Professor Frink, a.k.a. Lou Black, a.k.a. Randolph Aikens, a.k.a. Culver City Slim, a.k.a. José Maria Garcia y Vega, is wanted on warrants including but not limited to grand larceny, wire fraud, narcotics trafficking, unlawful flight to avoid prosecution, false imprisonment, and assault with intent to kill." The auditorium erupted. The screen flickered to life to show Lou being led in manacles up the front steps of the Hall of Justice. His face was bruised, and he stumbled as he walked. His shirt was mis-buttoned. He was missing a shoe.

"So you see," said Sam Romero to the crowd, "the man behind the Fabulous Ontarians is nothing but a two-bit criminal, a bunco artist. A con man, if you will. A known abuser of narcotic drugs and a pathological liar. A pathetic, hollow shell of a man worthy of nothing more than our contempt and condemnation."

Sam Romero leered over his shoulder at me and thrust his microphone unnecessarily at Dr. Turezyn, who already wore a lapel mike clipped to her blouse. "Well, Doctor? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Dr. Turezyn was speechless, looking both furious and stupefied. Then she regained her poise and turned slowly to face me. I met her gaze with some difficulty. Even in defeat she was a formidable woman. "I understand," she said without emotion. She paused and I thought she would add something but she didn't. Instead she unclipped her microphone, stepped away from the podium, and walked straight up the center aisle to the exit, taking with her the last shred of credibility the Fabulous Ontarians had. Not even Roy would believe in them now. It was just another weather balloon after all.

Sam Romero watched Dr. Turezyn go, his arms folded across his chest. "And that finishes that," he said when the door closed behind her. "Andy, do you have anything to say about this Lou Black dirtball?"

I looked at Sam Romero, at the audience, through iridescent lenses into millions of homes and offices across the country. I had more eyes on me than a peacock's tail.

I turned to the screen. Lou stood freeze-framed in the doorway of the police station, his shoed foot already inside, the socked one about to follow. His hands were cuffed, swollen and blue, behind his back, his fingers curled and empty. His head hung so low as to be nearly invisible, already lost in the shadows. His dejection brought to mind the night so many years ago when I'd put the kibosh on his Clown's Graveyard Gag. He'd been a fool to try it. But we'd both been fools back then. The Journey to the Center of Greenwood. John Henry's Last Stand. The Strip Mall Tease Gambit. The audacious and surprising Deputy Lieutenant Governor Ploy.

Outside the walls of the auditorium the world was still, the night quiet. The snow had settled to the bottom of the snow globe and all was well again. Lou was the final loose end. All I had to do was say the word, and he'd disappear forever, and I'd live out my days at peace.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't break up the act.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have known Lou Black for many years," I said, peering into the faces beyond the footlights. "I have known him most of my life, as a matter of fact. And knowing him as I do, I consider the accusations against him entirely credible. I have witnessed firsthand his lies, his cons, his wanton drug abuse." The audience salivated at the salacious details sure to follow. "His involvement with the Fabulous Ontarians comes as no surprise. It's right up his alley. You see, Lou Black is a brilliant, creative man, but his great potential has been squandered in the pursuit of warped and misguided ambition."

Sam Romero was panting with excitement. I took the microphone from his hand and stepped from the podium. "Yes, I know Lou Black about as well as anyone. I have tracked his whole disgraceful career. And I can tell you that the crimes Sam just mentioned are merely the tip of the iceberg, an iceberg of depravity massive enough to sink ten Titanics. Indeed, the persona of the drug-addled con man is only one more facet of Lou Black's disguise, another level of deception to conceal his true offense. And that offense, that blasphemy, ladies and gentleman," I took a deep breath, "is no less than extraterrestrial collaboration." I paused as the words made their way into the audience, repeated from neighbor to neighbor like flames catching along the edge of a piece of paper.

"You heard me: extraterrestrial collaboration. This," I gestured at the screen, "this is a man who would sell out his own planet to those who would rule us from beyond." Gasps and cries rose from the audience, and the very floor beneath our feet began to rumble. "You see, this is not the first time Mr. Black has been involved with aliens. This time it was the Fabulous Ontarians. In '87, it was the Scandalous Delusians. From '79 through '81, he was in cahoots with the Mob of Andromeda. I could continue," I said to a roomful of slack jaws. Even the worthies hanging on the wall were leaning out of their gilt frames to hear what I would say next. The camera lenses stretched closer, their red lights blinking in wonder.

"Worry not. You are in no danger. Integrated Consciousness was developed expressly to shield you from extraterrestrial interference. The lifestyle science language we used was merely a cover story, developed specifically so as not to alarm you about the real threat. But make no mistake: you must ignore the Fabulous Ontarians. Their message must not be heard. There are some things you are simply not meant to learn, knowledge from which you must be protected, secrets too big to disclose to the common man. Put your faith in Integrated Consciousness, I command you—and turn away from the forbidden wisdom of the Fabulous Ontarians!" The chandeliers clinked overhead and massive discordant pipe-organ arpeggios swelled and echoed throughout the chamber.

Sam Romero finally recovered from his shock long enough to pick up Dr. Turezyn's microphone. "Is this some kind of joke, Andy? Are you feeling all right?" He motioned to the paramedics stationed in the wings.

"All right?" I laughed harshly, backing away from the approaching medical team. The ornate wood panels in the ceiling imploded with a sound like cannon fire, admitting clouds of shrieking bats into the room. "Of course I'm all right. The Fabulous Ontarians are no match for my superior intellect. Stay back, I tell you! Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?" I edged toward a side exit. "Fools! The world is mine!" I drew an oversized ray gun from my pocket and vaporized a chandelier in a burst of light. Screams filled the auditorium. Shrieking maniacally, I leapt through the door and fled into the night.

Chapter Twenty: Dying Embers