Saguaro Riptide

committed in the heat of passion. Woody hadn’t earned a single cent from any of them.

Things changed for him in prison. He discovered the Muslim faith and the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. Soon after, he became a member of the greatest nation on the face of the earth-the Nation of Islam. He became a man, truly, taking the teachings of Islam to heart.

Earth is spacious and a man can accomplish what he will.

Woodrow drew great strength from these few words. And through the Messenger, he discovered the words of others which helped him on his way.

One of these was Elijah Muhammad’s own instructor. Master Wallace Fard. It was Master Fard who first related the tale of Mr. Yacub, the black mad scientist who had created the white devil race. Woodrow realized that Master Fard was a bit of a mystic, but he did not doubt the Master’s word. An unceasing wellspring of inner faith allowed him to believe.

His belief was especially strong when he stood in the desert and black blankets of night pulled tight around the chins of the bloody sandstone monuments that surrounded him.

As now.

Woodrow looked to the sky. The stars seemed especially bright this evening. His eyes scanned the heavens, and he remembered a line from an old science fiction film he had seen as a boy.

People of earth, look to your skies for a warning. . People of earth, look to your skies for a warning.

Woodrow took a deep breath and held it, thinking, If the fools only knew.

Woodrow knew what waited above, in the heavens, because he had studied the teachings of Master Wallace Fard.

Far above the bloodstained towers of compacted sand, somewhere out there in the black silence of space, was a space platform one-half mile wide, designed by Allah himself and built by Master Fard. Known as the Mother of All Planes, it was armed with bombs that would be dropped a mile deep into the earth when Armageddon came. The platform was capable of speeds up to 18,000 miles per hour, but it could stop on a speck of cosmic dust.

Such was its magnificence.

Such was the genius of Allah.

Aboard were a crew of men who never smiled. They traveled the universe-passing over earth twice a week- waiting for the moment when mankind’s guilt reached the ultimate crescendo.

That was when the bombs would rain down. It was written that 154,000 Muslims would survive the explosions. They would be warned of the coming holocaust eight to ten days before the bombs were launched. The men who did not smile would drop pamphlets written in Arabic from the platform, instructing the faithful where to find safe haven from the bombs.

The story fascinated Woodrow from the first time he heard it. On the strength of it, he learned to read Arabic in prison, so that he could decipher the warning of the men who did not smile when it came. It was one of many self-improvement projects he undertook and mastered. As the old cons said, He didn’t serve his time; he made his time serve him.

And now he watched the sky. He had never seen the Mother of All Planes, but that simple fact did not prevent him looking for it.

Tonight the heavens seemed dead. No comets appeared. No meteor showers rained down from on high. Not even a falling star.

And no space platform. Not tonight.

Still, Woodrow looked to the sky for a warning, patience his watchword.

He searched for a great light moving through the sky.

Or a pamphlet written in Arabic, drifting through the cold silence of space, born to earth by a warm desert breeze.

Woodrow Saad Muhammad knew that he would not have to reach for the pamphlet when it came. It would tumble, ever so gently, into his waiting fingers.

Woodrow was certain of this, for he understood the men on Master Fard’s platform, the men who never smiled.

And he knew that those men understood him, as well.

Three minutes past the appointed time, the phone rang.

Woodrow lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

“Ith thith Wood-woe?'

Woodrow hesitated for a moment. Then he remembered the injury suffered by the man to whom he was speaking. The explanation was obvious-losing a quarter-inch of tongue would certainly impair one’s speech.

“Wood-woe?' the boxing promoter repeated. “You heaw me?”

“Yes.”

“I would wike you to go ahead. The thon-of-a bitthis' name ith Baddawack.”

“I’m familiar with the man.”

“Wemember thith, Wood-woe-make the bathtard thuffer.'

“It will be done.”

Woodrow cradled the receiver.

He was annoyed to find that a smile had crossed his face.

A smile not unlike the one once worn by Woody Jefferson.

Woodrow slapped himself, very hard, and only once.

And then he wasn’t smiling anymore.

PART THREE

Surf's Up

ONE

When Jack awoke the next morning, he couldn’t quite remember where he was. He knew he was in a motel room in Tucson and that the coroner’s slab of a bed he’d slept on had made him dream about Magic Fingers machines, but he decided pretty directly that he really didn’t need to know a hell of a lot beyond that because he wasn’t long for this bed, this motel, or Tucson itself.

He opened the little refrigerator by the TV, pawing through the expensive goods therein until he found a beer. He rolled the bottle back and forth between his hands until his knuckles loosened up.

When he returned the beer to the fridge, he noticed that the message light was flashing on the telephone. Deciphering the instructions printed on the face of the phone was kind of like getting through something by Camus, but Jack managed to figure it out. He punched three digits and was connected with the front desk. A woman with an impossibly pleasant voice informed him that a FedEx Letter had arrived from Vegas. Jack said send it up.

Minutes later, the bellman arrived with an envelope. This he gave to Jack, and then he hovered. Jack handed over a dollar and closed the door before the guy had a chance to ask for his autograph or tell him that he looked bigger on television.

He sat down on the concrete bed and tore open the envelope.

A little hunk of plastic fell out.

Corporate plastic.