He didn't stay that way for long.
'I refuse!' he screamed. You can't force my hand on this one, Ammo!'
'I think I can.' I lit a cigarette slowly, letting him stew for a moment. 'The contract, as I recall it, was for five hundred a day plus expenses. All the bills I'm running up are legitimately involved in the fulfillment of that contract.'
Zack leaned forward, palms flat on the desktop.
'I urge you once more, Ammo, to cancel the contract and quit this game. Give it up. I can't guarantee your safety otherwise.'
'I'm not here to debate,' I said. 'I just want you to know that there may be a drain on your finances that I'm certain you'll find a way to replace. Hand over your checkbook.'
He stared at me as if I'd asked for certain portions of his anatomy that (rumor had it) he already lacked.
'Don't bother signing them. I'm sure your bank will make good.' I held out my hand.
With a feral growl, he pulled a large leather check register from the top drawer of the desk. It slid across the mahogany to my side.
'Thanks, Zack,' I said, hefting it under my arm as I rose. 'You'll be seeing the results over the next few weeks.' I turned back at the door to nod toward him. 'If I don't see you again, have a happy New Year.'
'Drop dead.'
'That,' I said perhaps a bit too cockily, 'is contractually excluded.'
The billboard faced west on the Sunset Strip, visible all the way from King's Road to the top floors of the buildings lining the intersection at La Cienega.
A man in smudged white overalls applied paint to the last letter of the slogan. He lowered the scaffolding and stepped off, taking his brushes and paints with him. One last glance at a proof of the ad confirmed to him that he'd made a perfect copy.
He probably thought it was a promotional teaser for a new film or rock album. Had he known that there were thousands of people such as he painting or pasting up the same message around the world (on Hallelujah House's tab), he might have thought otherwise.
Ann looked at the sign, arms folded. Her golden hair streamed glowingly over the dark blue business outfit hugging her form. She gazed silently at the billboard.
In the lower right-hand corner, a faithful rendition of Michelangelo's God pointed His finger toward Sunset Boulevard. The rifle crosshairs painted over Him intersected His left temple. The official slogan blazed in crimson above Him.
On the First Day of the Year 2000
God Will Die...
'You think that no one will take it seriously,' Ann said, running one long, earth-toned nail along her jawline.
'Nobody takes advertising seriously except advertisers.'
We stood near the Roxy Theater. The day was only beginning to grow warm. Nearly everywhere else in the United States, mid-November brought an unusual cold. Predictions of a severe winter circulated alongside prognostications of far worse.
The tiny painter had disappeared behind the billboard. A moment later, the scaffolding slowly lowered to the ground out of our view. The word DIE.... glistened in the afternoon sun like fresh blood slowly drying. We turned to head back to where my car was parked, over on Olive.
'Though no one will take the ads seriously, it gets the idea of God's death into people's heads. That's part of the `set' Father Beathan said was necessary for his sort of method.'
'I just hope we're not tipping our hand.' She didn't look too pleased.
I shrugged. 'No one will believe in a conspiracy that operates out in the open. It goes against human nature. Martin Luther King and Gandhi both unsettled their nation's rulers by openly announcing every move they were going to make. The tactic confused the enemy into looking for secret maneuvers where there were none. It drove them crazy.'
Ann nodded with a distracted air. She seemed lost in thought. 'Hitler,' she said, 'announced his intentions, too.'
'And,' I added, 'nobody took him seriously, either.'
