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  "Approaching, Martin," said Jimmy, speaking into the intercom as we ranged. "I and I and three."

  "Roger. "

  When this had been a public road, Mister Dryden enjoyed switching the road signs, setting up impromptu demo derbies among travelers passing near. Some time ago the Old Man requested of the Army that the road be closed to nonestate vehicles. There weren't many country drivers nowadays, for safety's sake; near the cities, apart from estates and those areas under Army patrol, all rural pastures and havens were infested with rogues and footpads and highwaymen. There were fewer cars, too, that could safely drive so far as this: most new American cars-made, like so much, under separate but equal Russian-American production (Gorky-Detroit in the case of automobiles}-were traded to Europe and Japan, to countries no longer producing steel or no longer having access to the ore fields of Canada, Brazil, and Siberia. Only owners could afford and obtain new cars. Many in America had automobiles, just the same; there were thousands in the cities, all in use (there had been an oil glut for years) and none newer than twenty years old.

  We drove through the gate. The driveway was a mile long; you could see the house halfway up, standing alone on the hill, shining white, illuminated from without at eve. It was built in old Long Island style, though larger: boxy, multilevel, enameled and polished, with long pipes of chrome and walls of glassblocks; with many, many mirrors.

  We pulled to the side of the house. From the summit, on the patio, I looked off down the green lawn, through the fir trees, across the wide lake, over the meadows, and saw the Hudson River coursing by the Palisades. Looking in the city's direction, even from this distance, I could see the black-yellow haze that settled over New York every afternoon. Before so many furnaces had been reconverted for the use of coal, the smog hadn't been so noxious. Now most eves were so black you couldn't walk a block without resembling a miner by the time you reached the corner.

  Avalon and Jimmy got out of the car, walking to the house, down the slate path that wound round the swimming pool. I watched her walk; the longest strands of hair tickled at her rear, her ankles wobbled in those hooflike shoes. At the head of the pool, between the columnades, the statue of Prometheus from Rockefeller Plaza lolled, watching leaves drift across the water's surface. The Old Man collected bibelots in these quiet years. The Public Library's old lions protected the gate leading onto the cricket field, where Jimmy and the estate security enjoyed Sunday afternoons. The Pulitzer fountain, once situated before the Plaza Hotel, served as a birdbath in a court to the south. Atlas shouldered the world near the barbecue pit. The Old Man would have moved the Brooklyn Bridge to the estate if he had a river to put below it.

  "Nice to home it, eh?" Mister Dryden said, smiling. I nodded, and thought of how much plasticine I'd need.

  "The mayor, he tried to suck me into buyin' Central Park last month. Told me his new projections showed that most of it would stay above ground," said the Old Man to a friend during the cocktail hour. He drank his usual, Jack Daniels-one of his smaller companies-and bottled spring water. "'Like the treetops?' I asked."

  "Like how much did they look to pocket?" asked his friend Carlisle, another of the old entrepreneurs. Carlisle, since the Ebb, had owned much of the American chemical industry, courtesy of the Old Man's largesse.

  "Fifty million," said the Old Man. "I said you take that fifty and you pound it up your ass one buck at a time with a jackhammer. Shit. "

  "Park'd be a hassle," said Carlisle. "Lots of lumber, though."

  "It's always pissed him off that he had to sell Van Cortlandt Park so cheap. Not to mention those other deals I cut. He knows I got his balls on my keychain. Just wants to raise a good kitty for himself for when he retires and moves back to Havana. I told him Manhattan'll make somebody a good aquarium someday but my money's goin' into the Bronx. Safe, high, and dry. Fuckin' yankees always fuckin' think they can fuck you over."

  "I hear you," said Carlisle, who was from White Plains.

  "No way," said the Old Man. "Nobody fucks me over."

  The Old Man was bigger than his son, long-boned and wiry; dressed old-money style-sneakers, jeans, and tees sans comment. He often wore one of those green Chinese caps; on his the red star was replaced by a smirker. He tied his white hair back in a severe ponytail. The Old Man was born in North Carolina into a family not particularly known for anything, or so he claimed. Over the years he'd changed his name to fit the sitch as it arose, at last settling on Thatcher Dryden, Senior, not long before the Ebb. Nobody remembered his original name, he least of all.

  "Five o'clock," he said, glancing at his old Timex. "Let's get rollin'."

  Many of the Old Man's companions, and their wives or proxies, turned up that afternoon to help celebrate his grandson's tenth birthday; they'd all be flown out that night, Mister Dryden let me know. There was Carlisle; Turnbull, who was in munitions; Wil- letson, who specialized in robots and maintenants. Also MacIntosh (coal), Samuelson (automobiles), Parker (computers), and twelve others, former entrepreneurs all, all now running somewhat more stabilized industries than those in which they were once most active. Most of them, for various reasons, had also changed their names over the years.

  The four house guards-Barney, Biff, Butch, and Scootercame with us. We walked to the chapel, a small building boasting a Wrenish steeple. The chapel, built of pink Italian marble left over, I suspected, from some Roman bordello of Mussolini's day, stood a thousand feet or so from the main house. We passed the garage, which held thirty cars. Jimmy was inside, working on our Castrolite. The Old Man owned thirty cars, mostly blat from Gorky-Detroit: Redstars, Lenins, Zils, Marx deVilles. He also had several timekeepers: an Olds Rocket 88, a black '49 Mercury, a '57 Chevy, flame-decked across the hood, a purple and yellow Hudson Hornet, and a beautiful old green Cadillac which he claimed once belonged to Jerry Lee Lewis.

  We trailed Barney and Scooter; the Misters Dryden walked ahead of Avalon and myself. The youngest Dryden and his mother-apostates-remained at home. A patrol copter dipped over the trees; caps flew off and their wearers bounded after them. During the ruck Avalon took my hand. Her breasts swung beneath her sweater; the long brown hair she wore fluttered in the now-gentle breeze.

  "How're you doin'?" she asked.

  "Low-key," I said. "Everyone was certainly quiet on the way up.

  "I know," she said. "Felt like I was in a casket on wheels. Fuck if I was gonna say anything."

  "Not with Jimmy there-"

  "What about Jimmy?"

  "Mister Dryden's sure that Jimmy's working cover on us for the Old Man. "

  "That's interesting," she said.

  "How so?"

  "Pops thinks he's running cover for Sonny. Hush, Shameless, we're here." She let loose my hand; the feel of her skin still warmed my palm. We entered the chapel's threshold. The minister greeted us, resplendent in his gold suit, glowing like a dashboard saint. Avalon sat between father and son; I sat behind them. The others tumbled slowly into the pews. The chapel had salmonpink stucco walls threaded with gold, offset with dark oak woodwork. The interior remained shadowy within-little sunlight eked through the abstract patterns in the bulletproof stained glass-and one's eyes adjusted but slowly in the gloom.

  The minister stepped to the altar, beginning the ceremony; the organist tootled softly. The service was patterned-possibly by accident-after the Mass; there was an introduction, a kyrie, an invocation, a blessing; all but Communion, which was pointless in either event. Mass was easier to sit through without laughing. When I was young I went to Mass only under threat; these days I went by choice, sometimes, for the ceremony. It is more impressive since they began giving it solely in Latin. That was one of the changes thought essential by Pope Peter after his ascension to the chair, after the murder of John Paul, after the discovery of the Q documents, after the papal seat was moved to Zurich. It was reasonable that Godness should use a language that none of Its followers understood.

  The minister reached the penultimate stand and deliver.r />
  "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players," he called; we responded. Tears softened the Old Man's eyes. Avalon yawned. Mister Dryden scratched at his skin.

  "And now the stage is bare," said the minister.

  "I'm standing there," we replied.

  "With emptiness all around."

  "Are our hearts filled with pain?"

  "Shall I come back again?" He paused, and then: "Tell me," he said, "Are you lonesome tonight?"

  The organist laid his paws on the buttons, banging out "Big Hunk O'Love." We opened our hymnals and made joyless noise. The minister raised his hands in supplication; turned to face the altar and the statue of E. The statue began revolving as we sang; to see it left one wordless. It was a life-size simulacrum of E, feet spread manfully, microphone in hand, wearing tinted glasses and a spangled jumpsuit with high collar and cape. An eagle was reproduced in rubies-many rubies-over the stomach. On the wall behind the statue was a colorgraph of E shaking hands with Nixon; the One and All circumspect, he whom my parents called the Great Satan cold with smiles and delight.

  "Adios," said the minister, tossing his scarf into the congregation. No one moved until the Old Man looked to see who had been blessed; then everyone lunged to grab it.

  "Like E," concluded the minister, "let us leave the building."

  The male Drydens had belonged to the C of E for so long as I had worked for them. The group's central belief and ground of being-I had doubts, frankly, but claim no expertise on dogmawas that E, dropped off by Godness, walked with man for a time and returned to other spheres when man proved callous. E would return one day-Judgment Day, I believe, to lessen confusionand lead his people to a better world. How the Old Man's world might improve remained a mystery of the faith.

  We returned to the main house for dinner. At dusk the sport would begin; once finished, I could start my work. On the way back Avalon caught my glance, smiled, and turned away. That look assured me that I would do all that needed doing.

  Once out of sight of the chapel, everyone lit spliffs and tossed down reckers. At the house, the Old Man returned to his Jack Daniels. He was fond of remarking that he'd never used drugs but had only supplied the demand according to free market dictates. Even now the circulation of kane and other reckers accounted for a good percentage of Dryco exchange, notwithstanding that such drugs were illegal. The government-at Dryco's urging-made certain such laws stayed booked, to ensure healthy profits.

  I strolled through the living room as everyone prepared to dine, eyeing the surroundings for signs of anything untoward. All looked as ever; the long white couches stretched along the walls, the low tables gathered their daily allotment of dust. There were few books in the room, or anywhere in the house; the Old Man was of an illiterate generation. No art hung from the walls; a large portrait of Susie D looked out from above the fireplace. Terribly cenotaphic, I thought, though had they wished to do so at the time, she could have been cremated in it, so huge was its vault. I stared at the portrait for a moment, remembering her, standing in awe of how closely the painting showed her as she was: short, squat, cold, and scheming. She'd never said two words to me in eleven years, feeling it beneath her to acknowledge help; any help. I think the only person she trusted-and he, not overly so-was Mister Dryden. The painting showed her sitting, fists clenched in her lap, her trousered leg tossed over one arm of the chair, her hair in a gray crew cut. One suspected that she was to the Mack truck born, but became somehow sidetracked, and so wound up here.

  We ate in the dining room, the largest room in the house. In the center of the floor, surrounded by large soft cushions, was a wide white panel. Biff pressed a button; the panel sank through the floor to the kitchen below. Once loaded by the maintenants, it again ascended to the dining room. As all toppled down onto the cushions, the Old Man blew his whistle; the tasters entered the room. I lowered myself carefully, to prevent my knees from going out.

  "Gimme the lowdown," he said to the tasters, who tried everything. The Old Man ate fried chicken, mashed potatoes, white gravy over bread, and sweet potatoes; Mister Dryden picked at raw steak and raw onions; the rest of us eyed a variety of colored things in interesting shapes. The tasters stayed upright, gave approval, and waddled away.

  "I could stand hearin' a few tunes," said the Old Man, motioning to Scooter. "Slap somethin' in the tape deck, would you?"

  Music resounded throughout the high room, music from the longaway: songs by Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, the Band, E himself. The Old Man reclined on his cushions, holding his drink and-his phrasing-a big old chicken leg. His lalas comforted him; they had perms and painted nails, were heavily made up, and wore tiny red panties with black zippers running down the front. They were about nine years old.

  "Sex. Drugs. Violence. Rock and roll," said the Old Man, raising his glass. "Something for everyone."

  "Toast the birthday boy," commanded Mister Dryden. No one demurred.

  "Where is he?"

  "Boy!" the Old Man yelled. "Get your ass out here."

  At the entrance to the dining room appeared Thatcher Dryden III. Since the days he'd attempted to strangle his first-year tutor, we'd all called him Throttler. He sauntered to the table with his usual panache.

  "Ho," he said, flicking out his switchblade. "Let's cut."

  "Seat yourself, boy," said the Old Man. "You're missing your own party."

  "Hi, Stella. Hi, Blanche." The Old Man's lalas smiled at Throttler, blushing so red as their undies. He pinched them; they wiggled. "Unhand, gran. Lemme roll and thunder."

  "Hell, no," said the Old Man.

  "Strazh, Dad," he said, pointing the blade at his father. Mister Dryden beamed. Throttler reached across with his blade and speared a sweet potato. He bit off half and then spat it onto the white panel. "Terminate," he said. "Weenies we want." He sat down by his mother and kissed her on the cheek; she didn't seem to notice.

  "Well," he said, "Go on."

  From where I sat what I saw of Avalon was lovely but expressionless. She lay on her stomach near the fried chicken, facing away from me, her long legs spread out behind her. Her sweater pulled over her bottom as she reached for food. Mister Dryden sat beside her, idly fumbling his fingers between her legs as if searching for something out of reach. She paid him no mind, and I felt no jealousy; he seemed to be doing it out of habit more than anything else. His wife and son faced him, across the panel.

  It was uncommon for Mrs. Dryden to dine in company anymore. She was about five ten, and couldn't have weighed more than eighty pounds. Gossip I overheard implied that wives of other owners considered her paunchy. Owners married only so that they might have legal heirs, but few owners had heirs of any direct sort; their wives were remarkably thin and, because of it, remarkably barren. Mrs. Dryden had fulfilled her duty when she was younger, and a hundred-pound tub.

  Mrs. Dryden wore shades-it was impossible to gather at whom she was looking-and never spoke. The last phrase I heard her utter was some years before, idle muttering about the help being allowed to sit in the same room as she. Periodically a tear rolled down her cheek; the drugs made her eyes water. Her hair was swept above her head, held in place by a gold tiara. She wore a brocaded purple caftan with long sleeves and so many jewels as the statue of E. During dinner she motioned toward her works; Throttler pushed up her sleeve, took the hypo, and filled her up. I remembered when she hadn't done drugs. She and Mister Dryden met while he was at Yale. She'd attended Wellesley. Like all owners' wives, she didn't work.

  As we ate, the strains of "Love Me Tender" came over the speakers. The Old Man's eyes misted. He began to frown and shook his head, as if he'd gotten a chunk of hot sweet potato caught in his throat and wanted to draw attention to that fact. He readied to reminisce, and we all knew about whom. We heard the story he prepped to tell perhaps six times a year, for so long as I'd worked for Mister Dryden.

  "Did I ever speak of the time I met E?" he said, lifting his eyes upward to assure himself that we paid atte
ntion. "While he was on this earth?"

  We shook our heads, muttering; stared into our plates.

  "Forty times overtold, gran," blurted Throttler, slipping his hand down the back of Blanche's panties. The Old Man looked at him, his eyes encrusted with benevolence's paste, ignored him, and continued.

  "When I was sixteen," he said, "Me and some old boys headed out to Oklahoma that summer to see 'bout gettin' jobs workin' in the oil fields useta be out there. Stopped in Memphis on the way to spend the night. We drove over to Graceland to see if He was home. There was a few guards and a buncha people hangin' round outside the gate. It was fuckin' hot. Boys I was with wanted to go back to the motel. I said I wanted to stick around awhile. Couldn't say why. Just did. They left. Said I could walk back to the motel when I got tired. Dumb fucks. "

  Mister Dryden slid forward, closer to the food, closer to his father-he never tired of hearing this tale-pulling himself over the cushions as if through the trenches.

  "I sat down on the curb there. Funny thing. Longer I stayed the more I wanted to stay. Night came and most everybody else left. After so long even the guards shut the gates and went into their little houses. Started rainin' fuckin' hard but I couldn't leave, somehow. It was like God's hand was holdin' me there so that I might stay and meet His son. I musta looked like a fuckin' asshole, though, cause by that time I was soakin' wet."

  A certain air about Mrs. Dryden made us suspect that she had relieved herself. Barney came over, stood her up, put her over his shoulder, and carried her upstairs to her room, where the maids could clean her and put her to bed.