The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (71 page)

To shake off the tension, Roy had begun to ride his bicycle north of Silverbell Road and then west on a dirt road into the desert. Santa
Fe or California-style houses were scattered on the tops of foothills and ridges, isolated from the desert as well as from one another. All winter Roy had bicycled up and down the dirt roads past the winter homes of the wealthy, who had begun to arrive in rented Jaguars and Mercedes in mid-November, and who left for Aspen on New Year’s Day.

Roy had learned to spot evidence of vacancy: the cables or chains with padlocks that had gone back across driveways. At first Roy had only explored outside the vacation houses because he did not know much about the new, high-tech security systems. Then Roy had realized the wealthy left little of value in their Tucson winter homes, and the alarms and security systems had been for their personal protection and were shut off once they had departed. The wealthy were so carefree; Roy discovered curtains and drapes carelessly left open to reveal rooms strangely bare except for a sofa or bed or chest of drawers. Carpeting was always wall-to-wall in shades of ivory-beige or light silver that reminded Roy, somehow, of coffins. He noticed blank spaces in the middle of walls, and empty corners where objects had been.

Roy tells no one what he does with his time. Trigg only cares about the steady flow of blood plasma donors. Trigg has too many other hot propositions and fancy deals. Roy had begun to make a map that pinpointed the vacant winter homes, and he jotted down information about security patrols, gardeners, or operative security systems. Roy no longer worried about what would happen next. All tension had dissolved the night Roy began to make the map. Because at the top of the map Roy had written
Locations of Resources: Army of the Homeless.
When Roy had finished snooping in Trigg’s files, he would quit. Trigg had been getting on Roy’s nerves lately on account of the mortuary and ambulance schemes.

Trigg had flashed money at Roy before, but this time Roy was thinking ahead. Number one, they would need money. Number two, what did Trigg need done so badly that he waved hundred-dollar bills in both hands? Trigg had said all he needed was the “right” ambulance driver, and then he had winked at Roy. Sure Roy would drive the ambulance or hearse, whatever meat wagon Trigg wanted. Trigg had winced at the mention of
meat wagon.

Roy had begun to meet with the men in the arroyo two or three times a week to share a bottle with them. He did not try to pretend he was broke, but he did not let them borrow from him either. Roy didn’t care if he brought the bottle or the paper bag full of greasy tacos to the guys sleeping in the park. Roy met with four different “units,” as the
men called themselves. Roy was content to keep the units low-key; he did not bother to inform the men he’d chosen as unit officers. No democracy in the army, not even this army. They would know soon enough what he had planned. For now he had to keep the secret; otherwise some of the braggarts or liars might snitch to the police. Food, drink, and companionship were exactly what the men needed in this phase of the plan.

Roy could feel the change taking place in his blood. Alert, but calm, if such a condition was possible. There was no hurry, no rush. It was coming, it was inevitable; nothing he did either way could or would affect what was coming. But Roy also knew that with planning, some casualties might be avoided. Roy had been going through Trigg’s files late at night, but he had not decided what use to make of Mr. Trigg’s files. Roy had no plans for snitching or for blackmail either. Roy no longer had any use for the Bible or people who called themselves Christians. Roy trusted the feelings he had in his chest and throat; that was how God led a man, not by TV evangelists or puffed-up shitbag reverends and cardinals. Roy hated all churches and organized religion because they had sold out Jesus Christ for sure, and probably Muhammad and Buddha.

Most of Trigg’s corporations existed only in manila folders. Beyond naming and registering the corporations, Trigg had done nothing with them. He had conducted no business through Alpha-Bio Products, Alpha-Hemo-Science Limited, Biomat, Bio Mart, or Biological Industries. But for Alpha Healing, Amalgamated Hospices, and New Century Corporation, Roy had already made real estate purchases.

Part of his job was to listen to Trigg shoot off his mouth. Roy had known guys in wheelchairs who liked to talk a lot; Trigg’s was that same nervous chatter sending out secret signals—I’m-not-a-freak-I’m-not-a-cripple-I-am-all-right. Trigg had shifted into his “benevolent asshole” pose and touched Roy’s sleeve to prove his sincerity. Trigg thought his wheelchair made him a goddamn hero. Trigg had big plans. Big big plans. The cornerstones of his empire were real estate and the plasma donor centers. But the cornerstones had got boring. So now Trigg wanted to branch out, and he would have great opportunities and benefits for his employees.

Roy had merely nodded. He knew all about Trigg’s plasma center employees. They were all women, and from what Roy had seen, they all took pills or drank vodka out of lab beakers. Trigg had no favorites. He was careful never to call the same one into his private office twice
in a row. He was against favoritism. Trigg spooned out little lines of “employee incentive” on the glass desk-top. At least Roy didn’t have to sit on Trigg’s face to get a shot of vodka from him.

Roy had got to know the women at all three centers. They called for Roy if they had trouble with crazy, stinking bums who wouldn’t take no for an answer: “No, we don’t want your blood.” Roy was always gentle with the crazies; he talked to them as he escorted them out to the street and told them they didn’t want to sell their blood anyway; they needed to keep their blood. Their blood made them strong. Their blood was what kept everything moving inside them—everything—their eyes, their lungs, their brains; blood even moved their cocks.

Roy had only meant to soothe the crazies when he told them to keep their blood for themselves; but as he had talked to the urine-stinking, wild-eyed drifters, Roy had realized that he was telling them the truth, or at least what he himself believed to be true. Later at one of the unit meetings Roy had warned the men about the habit of selling their plasma or whole blood. He promised very soon there would be alternatives that would provide shelter and food without the sale of blood.

Roy did not waste his time on the women at the plasma centers because they talked about money and marrying men with money. But after a few months Roy had got to know Peaches. Peaches had worked for Trigg the longest; the others said she had lasted because she was in charge of cold-storage inventory and never had to see that chairload of shit-for-brains they called the boss. Peaches had a purple birthmark around her left eye, but Roy thought she was beautiful. The others had warned Roy not to feel bad if Peaches ignored him. Except for Trigg, they did not think Peaches had ever said more than a dozen words to any of them in the seven years she had worked in the freezers.

The doors to the refrigeration units were always kept locked, and the alarms were always set. “No entry. Strict orders,” Peaches had said. She was not rude, but she stood firm. “Are plasma and whole blood
that
delicate,
that
perishable?” Roy had wanted to know. Peaches seemed to understand that Roy found her attractive. She had laughed so Roy could watch her round tits bounce in their prim bra cups; these were how she had got the name Peaches.

Roy sensed her suspicion of him. Peaches was not like the others. She was right. Curiosity was stupid. He was wasting his time in the basement. Roy had been about to turn and go back to the freight elevator when Peaches had rapidly punched in codes on the freezer-unit door. “See—there’s nothing; all the units are enclosed.”

“All this for plasma—”

But Peaches shook her head. Her mouth had slowly spread into a smirk. “No, all this
isn’t just
for plasma. Huh uh.”

The first time Roy and Peaches fuck, Roy gets her so good she tells him about the arrangement between Bio-Materials and the human organ transplant industry across the U.S. The Japanese had developed a saline gel that kept human organs fresh-frozen and viable for transplants for months, not hours. Peaches did not explain where or how Trigg had obtained the human hearts and lungs carefully packed and clearly labeled:
Type A Positive—Adult Male.

Frozen human organs, less reliable, sold for a fraction of freshly harvested hearts and kidneys. Of course, fetal-brain tissue and cadaver skin were not affected by freezing. Peaches said Trigg bought a great deal in Mexico where recent unrest and civil strife had killed hundreds a week. Mexican hearts were lean and strong, but Trigg had found no market for dark cadaver skin.

CLINTON WAS THE BLACK VETERAN with one foot, but he wore the best, the top of the line, the best kind of prosthetic foot you could buy. Clinton had to wear his full Green Beret uniform every day. Otherwise there would just be trouble for him because Clinton didn’t bow and scrape for no Arizona honkie-trash crackers. Clinton had grown up outside Houston where the cops and Texas Rangers really hated African-American folks. Clinton lives alone in a Sears garden shed he bought for himself. Roy hears rumors Clinton has relatives in Tucson, but Roy doesn’t ask questions because that sets something off in Clinton’s head. Some days Clinton says he’s okay. Other days he warns you ahead of time you better steer clear. Roy is not afraid of Clint’s bad days; on Clint’s bad days, Roy is free to talk wild-talk right back at that crazy black fucker. They don’t talk to one another; they talk
at
each other, and neither of them bothers to listen to the other. What is important is Clinton’s outrage—Clinton’s pure, pure contempt for any authority but his own.

Clinton reads books when he goes to wash up at the downtown branch of the public library. What he can’t get off his mind is what man does to man over and over again. A slave was the first thing any man thought of; someone to do the dirty work. Clinton thought women were correct about being enslaved by men; otherwise, Clinton had no use for bitches because what at one time had been so good in them had been ruined by their enslavement. Clinton’s paranoia knows no boundaries. He has cousins and stepbrothers in the army, and the word gets around among the brothers and the sisters. The army has to have lab technicians; there are security guards; there must be cleaning crews. The word leaks out.

Clinton always prefaces his remarks. He says no black American would ever betray his country. But a black man’s country was different from the white man’s country, no matter they both called it the same thing: United States of America. Clinton says the AIDS virus was developed in a biowarfare laboratory by the U.S. government and was stolen by military personnel sympathetic to white supremacists in South Africa. Naturally they had been careful to set AIDS loose in the African-controlled states; whites in South Africa would never have risked setting loose the virus on their valuable labor force. Still, the growth of populations in all-African states had to be stopped. Somewhere the men who had paid for the stolen virus sat around a conference table brain-storming.

“Mad scientists?” Roy tried to interject, but Clinton had waved away Roy’s remarks; white man’s words were always being shoved in the black man’s mouth.

“Mad scientists, mad generals, mad Church of God preachers—all of them want to see black folks disappear, but sort of gradually, you know.” Clinton says J. Edgar Hoover ordered the assassination of Martin Luther King. Right there Hoover’s wings got clipped. The old faggot was crazy. Assassination wasn’t “gradual,” and assassination had a way of creating folk myths and heroes. A secret bipartisan congressional panel had hastily concluded only a cover-up could save U.S. cities from burning and the outbreak of a race war. Clinton said J. Edgar had first practiced assassination on John F. Kennedy because Hoover hated the Kennedys. Kennedy supported civil rights, but John Kennedy hadn’t been the big fish. “Hell, no,” Clinton said, “all you whites can think about is ‘white.’ John Kennedy couldn’t lead no one; he couldn’t even lead the U.S. Congress.” Clinton had warmed up good on this topic. Later Clinton told Roy he was the first white man ever to listen through the whole
rap to every last word Clinton said. Roy could see why Clinton pissed people off, even some black people. Because Clinton said Kennedy had only been used for target practice; J. Edgar’s dress rehearsal. Martin Luther King had been dangerous because he was a leader. He could lead all different kinds of people—more and more, white people had listened to and followed King. That was what had driven J. Edgar, the old butt-fucker, over the edge.

Clinton understood the cover-up; the whitewash. Clinton said young blacks would have burned down the United States that summer if the truth had come out. Clinton understood the need to be practical. He will be the only black unit leader, but he won’t have an all-black unit. Roy wants integrated units in this new army. They have more whites than blacks anyway. What Roy does not say is for now it is better to have whites outnumber blacks in integrated units. Otherwise whites feel uneasy. Roy and Clinton get along because neither man tries to argue good or bad, right or wrong, only what is necessary. Clinton likes to test Roy’s reactions.