The lights were lowered in the projection room. Mr Niles picked up the telephone receiver set into the arm of his chair. 'Mr. Krepsin's ready,' he said.
A thin beam of light hit the screen. Luxuriating on a deserted beach was a beautiful brunette in a black skintight bikini. Palms stirred indolently behind her as she combed her long, shining black hair She glanced at the camera, smiling as she spread suntan oil across her stomach. She undid her bikini top and tossed it aside.
Lovely young woman, Niles thought. Coarse-looking, but certainly attractive. The projector was silent, but the room itself seemed to breathe: there was a muted noise of machinery at work, and the hiss of manufactured air. Niles was a lean man of indeterminate age; though his close-cropped hair was gray, his face was as smooth as a teenager's. His deep-set eyes were such a pale tint of gray that they seemed almost white. He wore a lightweight dark blue suit, comfortable for the Palm Springs climate. Around him the room throbbed quietly; the air was being cleaned over and over again, drawn in and out of a maze of hidden ducts in the thick, windowless walls. There was a faint aroma of pine-scented disinfectant.
On the screen, the young woman smiled nervously and took off her bikini bottom. There was a small dark birthmark on her lower stomach. A man, heavyset and wearing only khaki slacks, stepped into the frame, his back to the camera. Without ceremony he took off his pants.
'This time the photography's very clear, isn't it?' A large, indistinct shape sitting in a special double-width seat a few chairs away from Niles stirred slightly. Heavy-duty springs moaned. A football-shaped bald head was tilted to one side, and tiny black eye's glinted in thick folds of flesh. 'Yes, very good. You see all the details in this film.' His breathing was like the harsh noise of a bellows, and he had to gulp for air between words. 'I didn't like the last two films. Too grainy.'
'Yes sir' Niles watched the sexual acrobatics on the screen with only mild interest.
'Popcorn?' the obese man asked, offering a box to Niles.
'No thank you.'
He grunted and dug one hand into the buttered popcorn, then filled his mouth. A second man, thin and with the tattoo of a skull on his shoulder, had joined in the action.
Niles never knew what films they'd be viewing. Sometimes they were simply parodies of Roadrunner or Tom and Jerry cartoons, other times old and rare silent films. Usually, though, they were like these—sent up from Mexico by Senor Alvarado. They didn't bother Niles, but he thought they were a waste of good film.
The girl lay on her stomach in the sand, her eyes closed. She was obviously exhausted. The first man came back onscreen. He was carrying a ball peen hammer.
The bulk of bone and fat had leaned forward. He tilted the popcorn to his mouth and then put the empty box on the floor. He wore a royal-blue caftan that seemed the size of a tent. 'She doesn't know, does she?' Augustus Krepsin said quietly. 'She thinks she's going to take her money and go buy herself a new dress, doesn't she?'
'Yes sir.'
The hammer rose and fell. Krepsin's hands clenched in his lap. The second man, now wearing a black mask, stepped back onto the screen. He pulled the cord on a chain saw he was holding, and his skinny arms vibrated.
Krepsin's breathing was audible; his eyes darted from one figure to the next as the true action and intent of the film unfolded. When the screen finally went black, Niles could hear Krepsin's soft moan of pleasure. The projectionist was smart enough not to turn the lights up yet. Then Krepsin said, in a childlike voice, 'I want light now, Mr. Niles.'
He relayed the order through the telephone. As the lights slowly came up, Krepsin was leaning back in his chair with an oxygen mask pressed to his face, his eyes closed.
Niles watched him for a few silent moments. He'd worked for Augustus Krepsin for almost six years, first as a liaison between Krepsin and the overlords of organized crime in Mexico, now as a companion and righthand man here in Palm Springs. Still, he knew very little about the man. Krepsin was the king of his own hard-won empire. He had originally come to this country from Greece before World War II, and somewhere along the line Krepsin had become entranced with two subjects: death and disease. He talked about each with a clinical interest, and he watched the snuff films as if he could see the center of the universe in a dismembered corpse. Krepsin had built his Palm Springs fortress with strict cleanliness in mind, and rarely ventured out of it.
The telephone in the arm of Niles's chair buzzed softly. He picked up the receiver. 'Yes?'
The operator said, 'Mr. Niles? Jack Braddock's on the line again from Nashville.'
'Mr Krepsin doesn't want to be disturbed. Tell Braddock—'
'Just a moment,' Krepsin said. 'Jack Braddock?' He breathed deeply and then took off his oxygen mask. 'I'll talk to him.' Krepsin's organization had taken over Braddock's Essex Records Company in Nashville several years ago. Essex was continuing to lose money, and there had been a record-pirating scandal two years ago that Essex had barely squeaked out of. Krepsin was beginning to regret letting such a poor manager as Braddock stay on, though Essex had been purchased primarily as an avenue to launder dirty money.
Niles told the operator to put the call through, and Krepsin answered the phone. 'What do you want?'
There was a startled intake of air almost fifteen hundred miles away. 'Uh . . . sorry to bother you, Mr. Krepsin. But somethin's come up that I need to—'
'Why don't you take speech lessons, Braddock? Everyone down there sounds as if they haven't had a good bowel movement in years. I can send you some herbal pills that will clean you out.'
Braddock laughed nervously.
'I hope your line is green,' Krepsin said. A bugged line would be 'red.' After the pirating mess, Krepsin suspected the FBI tapped Essex's phones.
'I'm calling from a pay phone.'
'All right. What is it?'
'Well, I got a visit from a lawyer named Henry Bragg yesterday afternoon. He represents the Falconer Crusade, and they want to start making records. They're looking for an independent company to buy, and—'
'Falconer Crusade? What is that?'
'Religious bunch. They're into publishing, radio, lots of stuff. I don't suppose you get the 'Wayne Falconer Power Hour' on TV out there, do you?'
'I don't watch television. It sends out radiation, and radiation causes bone cancer.'
'Oh. Yes sir Well, this Mr. Bragg is backed by a lot of money. They want to make an offer for Essex.'
Krepsin was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'Essex is not for sale. Not to anyone. We worked too hard getting through our troubles with the authorities to give it up just yet. Is this the important reason you've called me?'
On the other end, Braddock coughed. Krepsin knew the man was addicted to cigars, and he thought: Throat cancer. Malignant cells, running rampant through Braddock's body. Disease breeding disease. 'There is one other thing I thought you might be interested in,' Braddock said. 'Wayne Falconer. He runs the whole Crusade from a little town in Alabama. He's only about twenty years old, but he's a hell of a preacher And he's a healer, too.'
Krepsin paused. His face folded in thought. 'Healer?'
'Yes sir. Cures people of all kinds of diseases. I saw him straighten a man's back on television last week, saw him heal a pair of crippled legs, too. Bragg says they want to make self-healing records for people to listen to. He says the boy wants to tour Essex, if it's on the market.'
'A healer?' Krepsin asked. 'Or is he simply a good actor?'
'An awful lot of people believe in him. And like I say, that Crusade's just rollin' in the money.'
'Oh?' Krepsin grunted softly, his small black eyes glittered. 'A healer? Mr. Braddock, I may have been hasty. I want you to contact those people. Let them tour Essex. Talk it up. I'm going to send Mr Niles to represent the corporation. You and he will work together, and I want to know
'Yes sir.'
'Good. And one more thing: I don't want Mr. Niles returning to Palm Springs with his suits fouled by cigar smoke. Now get in contact with those people at once.' He hung up and turned toward Niles. 'You're leaving for Nashville today. I want something called the Falconer Crusade thoroughly investigated. I want to know everything about a boy named Wayne Falconer.'
'Yes sir,' Niles said. 'May I ask why?'
