JON SUR-GAL
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would not want
to
go, but it did not matter. She would make a scene. That
did not matter ei ther. It was an ordinary party kind of scene she would
make and he preferred it to Heimlich's rhetoric and the warning signs in
his blood.
Heimlich was not giving up. "See!" he cried. "The Master turns his
back! He calls our attention to his perfect indifference, not to mention the
ink stain on the back pocket of his jeans. Let us call upon the Master to
forgive us our doubts, for truly we are unworthy of his intercession on our
behalf. Forgive us, Master! Make thy countenance once more to shine
upon us. Stick around. Have a drink."
Mick held out his hand to Adriana. Her mouth began to twist up with
resentment. Then she looked around the room and her expression
changed. The stares of the guests were working on her like a drug. She
seemed seduced by the moment. She took Mick's hand and rose up from
the couch like a flame rising up from a candle.
Heimlich drew closer to them, blocking their escape. He was holding
out some papers for Mick
to
see. They were pages of typescript spotty with
notes and corrections in bright red ink.
"Stick around," he said. "Give us one last miracle before you go. One
for the road. Turn one last round of wine to water. I have here in my hand
the case against another false prophet in need of unfrocking. I call upon
you to illustrate my argument."
Mick found himself holding the pages. He felt a moment's exaltation,
as if he had somehow taken away a weapon from Heimlich. Holding on to
the pages meant keeping them out of his face. Besides, it gave him some–
thing to do with his hands.
"Three hundred dollars," Heimlich said. "Cash on delivery."
"Uh huh." Mick held up the pages. "Who do I have to crucifY for it:"
Heimlich lifted an eyebrow. "Whom," he said.
Mick shook his head. He held the pages out to Heimlich, but Heimlich
would not take them. The guests were losing interest in the game. They
began to laugh and talk among themselves. Suddenly Adriana reached out
and grabbed the pages. Mick made a move to take them back, but she
twisted her body away from him. She wanted to read them aloud.
"A Personal Appeal From Abbie Hoffman,"
she read, holding the pages at
arm's length.
"Help! I'm A Prisoner In A Castro Homo Camp!"
She looked to the room for approval. Some of the guests smiled self–
consciously. Most of them continued to talk to each other. Adriana's eyes
began to go narrow with resentment.
Mick knew he could not afford to react at all. The important thing was
to reveal nothing.
It
was necessary to ignore the sound of the bad blood ris–
ing up in protest. He put a lid on it. It was also necessary to look Heimlich
