Firestarter(103)

A sudden cold and murderous voice spoke from deep inside him, from some well sunk far into his subconscious: Tell him to go home and commit suicide. Then push him. Push him hard.

He thrust the thought away, horrified and a little sickened.

"Well," Pynchot said, looking around, grinning. "Shall we returnez-vous?"

"Sure," Andy said.

And so he had begun. But he was still in the dark about Charlie.

6
INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO

From

Herman Pynchot

To

Patrick Hockstetter

Date

September 12

Re

Andy McGee

I've been over all of my notes and most of the tapes in the last three days, and have spoken to McGee. There is no essential change in the situation since we last discussed it 9/5, but for the time being I'd like to put the Hawaii idea on hold if there is no big objection (as Captain Hollister himself says, "it's only money'!).

The fact is, Pat, I believe that a final series of tests might be wise-just for safety's sake. After that we might go ahead and send him to the Maui compound. I believe that a final series might take three months or so.

Please advise before I start the necessary paperwork.

Herm

7
INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO

From P. H.

To Herm Pynchot

Date September 13

Re Andy McGee

I don't get it! The last time we all got together we agreed-you as much as any of us-that McGee was as dead as a used fuse. You can only hesitate so long at the bridge, you know!

If you want to schedule another series of tests-an abbreviated series, then be my guest. We're starting with the girl next week, but thanks to a good deal of inept interference from a certain source, I think it likely that her cooperation may not last long.

While it does, it might not be a bad idea to have her father around... as a "fire-extinguisher"???

Oh yes-it may be "only money," but it is the taxpayer's money, and levity on that subject is rarely encouraged, Herm. Especially by Captain Hollister. Keep it in mind.

Plan on having him for 6 to 8 weeks at most, unless you get results... and if you do, I'll personally eat your Hush Puppies.

Pat

8

"Son-of-a-f*cking-bitch," Herm Pynchot said aloud as he finished reading this memorandum. He reread the third paragraph: here was Hockstetter, Hockstetter who owned a completely restored 1958 Thunderbird, spanking him about money. He crumpled up the memo and threw it at the wastebasket and leaned back in his swivel chair. Two months at most! He didn't like that. Three would have been more like it. He really felt that-

Unhidden and mysterious, a vision of the garbage-disposal unit he had installed at home rose in his mind. He didn't like that, either. The disposal unit had somehow got into his mind lately, and he didn't seem to be able to get it out. It came to the fore particularly when he tried to deal with the question of Andy McGee. The dark hole in the centre of the sink was guarded by a rubber diaphragm... vaginal, that.

He leaned farther back in his chair, dreaming. When he came out of it with a start, he was disturbed to see that almost twenty minutes had gone by. He drew a memo form toward him and scratched out a note to that dirty bird Hockstetter, eating the obligatory helping of crow about his illadvised "it's only money" comment. He had to restrain himself from repeating his request for three months (and in his mind, the image of the disposer's smooth dark hole rose again). If Hockstetter said two, it was two. But if he did get results with McGee, Hockstetter was going to find two size-nine Hush Puppies sitting on his desk blotter fifteen minutes later, along with a knife, a fork, and a bottle of Adolph's Meat Tenderizer.

He finished the note, scrawled Herm across the bottom, and sat back, massaging his temples. He had a headache.

In high school and in college, Herm Pynchot had been a closet transvestite. He liked to dress up in women's clothes because he thought they made him look..., well, very pretty. His junior year in college, as a member of Delta Tau Delta, he had been discovered by two of his fraternity brothers.

The price of their silence had been a ritual humiliation, not much different from the pledge hazing that Pynchot himself had participated in with high good humor.

At two o'clock in the morning, his discoverers had spread trash and garbage from one end of the fraternity kitchen to the other and had forced Pynchot, dressed only in ladies" panties, stockings and garter belt, and a bra stuffed with toilet paper, to clean it all up and then wash the floor, under constant threat of discovery: all it would have taken was another frat "brother" wandering down for an early-morning snack.

The incident had ended in mutual mast***ation, which, Pynchot supposed, he should have been grateful for-it was probably the only thing that caused them to really keep their promise. But he had dropped out of the frat, terrified and disgusted with himself-most of all because he had found the entire incident somehow exciting. He had never "cross-dressed" since that time. He was not g*y. He had a lovely wife and two fine children and that proved he was not g*y. He hadn't even thought of that humiliating, disgusting incident in years. And yet-

The image of the garbage disposal, that smooth black hole faced with rubber, remained. And his headache was worse.

The echo set off by Andy's push had begun. It was lazy and slow-moving now; the image of the disposal, coupled with the idea of being very pretty, was still an intermittent thing.