"Topside and the ranks of heaven, the halls of ultimate truth and justice, proclaim and ratify the sovereignty of Roy Stride Below Stairs."
"Second in sway only to the Prince himself," the second angel declared in a marked New York accent.
Another riff from the first angel, curled about the edges by a subtle drawling style. The trumpet came down smoothly to rest on his hip. "For unto the chosen people is come a chosen Leader. All hail to the people of Below Stairs and the Leader they have so long deserved." He nodded to his gossamer-robed companion, sotto voce: "Hit it, Milt."
Blazing in the light, the two trumpets lifted in a stirring voluntary. One broke off while the other slid up into a high-flirting riff -
- that bolted Charity straight up in bed. The face she'd recognized for one moment under that silly blond wig was unmistakable. The music was like Star Wars, but only one guy in the whole world blew a horn that way.
Cut to a close-up on the angel.
"WOODY!".
He peered out of the screen, surprised and delighted. "Char! Hey, this is a real kick, ain't it?"
"I didn't know you were dead, Woody."
"Came as a complete shock to me, too."
"What's the wig for?" Charity wondered. "Not like you at all."
"These people dig blonds. They're Aryans or something."
"Woody, we're Aryans."
"No fooling?" Woody considered it. "Didn't get us much, did it?"
"Not much." Charity chilled with the memory of Roy's blood raids that brought him to that balcony. "Don't let on you see me, okay?"
"Okay." Woody peered into the bedroom. "Great place you got there."
Charity hiked the sheet higher around her cleavage, grateful that Randy Colorad was out. He wanted to make love all the time. That was okay at first, but lately she'd taken to watching television over his shoulder because even the commercials were more interesting. Him and his exercise machine and his twenty-four-hour freshness soap. Nothing was fresh about Randy; even his sweat was boring. She'd always thought someone glamorous like that -
No. She never thought, that was the problem. In her whole dumb-ass life she never thought for one minute. About anything, goddamnit, pardon her lang - no, the hell with that. Don't pardon anything. Dumb-ass. Had to see what Roy was before she caught on. Had to die to realize what she'd missed in Woody Barnes.
"I'm sorry you're dead, but it's nice to have friends around. I mean - oh, damn, Woody, I miss you."
"I miss you too," he confessed. "Only hung around the Tabernacle because you were there. Too late now,-I guess."
"I wish it wasn't," she yearned.
"I never had anything to give you. And you were always for Roy."
"That's over." The finality of the sound surprised Charity.
"Well, look at him now," Woody glanced out of shot. "He's got it all now."
Yeah, Roy and me, we got it all. Our real religion, like Jake said. I guess he should know. "One thing you can do real good here is learn, Woody. When you get Topside again, you tell them I've seen the pits, and they were smart to make you an angel. You're a good person. I mean the best." Charity's eyes smarted with sudden tears. "I just wish to hell - "
"Hey!" Woody's bewigged head jerked aside at something offscreen. Behind him, the crowd noise had changed to something shocked and then dangerous, a huge gasp, then a roar for blood. "Char, they shot him. Somebody shot Roy."
As Charity gaped at the screen, the live event cut to a news anchorwoman with the blankest expression since Mount Rushmore.
"Good afternoon, I'm Nancy Noncommit - here's what's happening. An as yet unidentified gunman has wounded Leader Roy Stride in the middle of his apotheosis. No details yet, we'll have that story live - after this."
CUT TO FEMININE-HYGIENE COMMERCIAL. (Music: poignant violins. The honey-haired young woman with the heart-shaped face presses a letter to her breast.)
soft, intimate feminine voice-over: "There are days when nothing should interfere with feeling like a woman - "
"STICK IT, BEAVER!" Charity shot from the bed, grabbing for the channel switch. All the channels were the same commercial.
Cut back to the balcony. Roy's face, dull with shock, looking straight at her in huge close-up.
"Charity," he croaked. "They shot me."
- and pull back to reveal him holding his bloody sleeve. "Don't worry, it's just a flesh wound." Roy winced and staggered - kind of actorish, Charity felt. "I'll take care of it myself. We're gonna get married. You and me, just like I promised. Listen to these people. Did you see? I'm the Leader! And you're . . . you're going to be . . ."
She didn't know what to say, just wanted to hide. "Mrs. Leader?"
"Where are you?" Roy strained. "You're gonna share all this with me. Where the hell are you?"
Charity panicked and blanked. "I don't know the address." With a sick rush of fear, she saw again her child self aged with that horrible knowledge in the split second before her head splattered open like a broken egg. And I don't want you to know it. Talk about a good time for a commercial -
- and cut with blessed serendipity to a well-groomed, smiling young Japanese spokesman: "Three-point-nine financing, five hundred cash back on the new Wasabe XL with underpaid Japanese engineering. You only thought you won World War II."
Charity dove for the remote switch and turned the set off. "What's the use of being dead? It's just like being alive, only worse."
"Mum?" Simnel waited, polite and impassive, in the bedroom entrance. "A Mr. Veigle called. An agent, apparently lives here in the building. Naturally I told him he had a wrong number. I'm not sure he believed me."
Charity was in no mood for this. "Make him believe you. Who's this Vague anyway?"
"Veigle, mum. A very powerful agent. They say he gets ten percent of the Prince. I'm sure that's a bit strong."
Charity turned away, wrapping the sheet around her. She felt cold. "I don't want to see anyone, Simmy. Anyone! Understand?"
24 - Romanticism as theology: Is there hope for the spiritual drunk?
Gorgeous; the million-dollar wound that looked spectacular and didn't hurt much. Roy surveyed the dramatic stain spreading over his shirt sleeve between shoulder and elbow. The whole thing was a beautiful movie, better than Bronson or Eastwood, and Charity saw it.
"Drumm, will it show on color TV?"
"If it doesn't, we can touch it up."
They were momentarily alone just inside the balcony doors, guards three deep in the hall, the crowd screaming outside as the assassin was torn like an unclean thing from their seething mass by Paladin guards and dragged up the marble steps to his doom.
"You bring that sumbitch here," Roy seethed. "I want him to see me to my face."
Click! "Instantly, Leader."