like.
NOW THAT ELECTION RESULTS ALL OVER THE CARIBBEAN HAVE TURNED OUT VICTORIOUS FOR SO CIALISTS, AND JOE IS SERIOUSLY ]ILL, I THINK WE SHOULD TAKE A LONG LOOK AT COMING ELECtionS.
JOE'S PLAYBOY ATITTUDE IS UN BECOMING AN EXECUTIVE to OF FICE. PROFESSOR SAM HAS ONLY FOUR YEARS OF SCHOOLING
(CHECK RECORDS OF THE BAINTY SCHOOL IN COASTOWN), WHILE I AM, AS YOU KNOW, GRADUATE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF THE WEST IN DIES.
THOSE OF YOU WHO VOTE FOR 'JOE' ARE VOTING FOR THE FOL
LOWING: MORE CONTROL BY FOR EIGNERS, CIA, HIGH PRICES, LOW WAGES, MORE CONTROL BY FOR EIGNERS, WILDNESS IN STREET BY COLONEL DRED, NO PRICE CON TROLS, UNSANrrARY-WITH FOOD SPREAD ON THE GROUND WHERE WE WALK, SPRF, ETC., to BE SOLD to CONSUMERS. MORE CONTROL BY FOREIGNERS. EVEN DRED HIM SELF WOULD BE PREFERRED BET TER THAN OLD BLACK 'JOE.'
TOMMY (THOMAS WYASS)
Macdonald the sign reader. Looking for direction? Clues? More control by foreigners. Prime Minister Joe Walthey. Dred on move.
Peter read: FORBIDDEN IN THIS TERMINAL: SMOKING, SCREAMING, OBSCENE LANGUAGE, SHELLING OF PEANUTS, EATING OF CHEWING GUM. THANK YOU. TOMMY.
Peter was chewing gum, smoking, screaming obscene language inside his brain. He went into a dark wooden phone booth, where he could chew and smoke his brains out in peace. He thought about where he ought to spend the night. Port Gerry? The woods again?... No one ever teaches you how to survive in America. Not even the army, really. they just teach the army how to survive.
Finally, against all his previous resolves, against his whole idea of trying to keep her out of this, Peter decided that he had to call Jane.
First he called her friends in Coastown. She left, they told him. Jane had gone back to the inn. Shit. Shit. slot. Shit.
Peter made the call to Turtle Bay. Number ninety. The Plantation Inn. Switchboard operator. 'Cottage number fourteen, please.... Jane, it's me. Peter. I've been trying to call you all day in Coastown.
'Oh, Peter! Where are you?' There was a short pause at his end of the line.
'I want you to go back to the States,' Peter finally said. 'See what Westerhuis can do to get you on a flight out of here.... Janie?'
'Dammit all to hell, Macdonald! Tell me where you are. Cool it, Peter.'
Peter smiled for a second. That was Jane. He stopped the melodramatics and told her where he'd been for the past day. Then he told her what he thought they ought to do now. What they shouldn't do. Only after he'd gone through it all-the talk about himself-did Jane mention the blond Englishman.
'He was here, Peter.'
Small, shocking statement. He was here.
'I saw him this afternoon. I think... it had to be him. He was blond, maybe six feet two... '
Peter stopped her. Suddenly it was as if he were a combat officer again, giving orders that must be followed. 'I want you to lock and latch all the doors and windows right now, Jane.'
'Everything is locked. Just come and get me.'
He tried to visualize the room. The cottage itself. Fool's Hot Toast. He tried to imagine how he would go about attacking it. Defending it.
'All right, that's good. Will you turn off all the lights in there? Do it right now, okay?'
'Okay! Okay.!'
He heard the sound of the phone being set down.
He'd been right there. Peter considered again. Came down into the inn as if he had some kind of diplomatic immunity. Brass balls, at least.
Suddenly he had a quick flash of the tall blond figure standing over Turtle Bay four days earlier. Looking as if he owned the place. Looking as if he owned the goddamn world.
Then Jane was back on the phone. Whispering, all of a sudden.
'It's pitch black in here,' she told him. 'I can see a couple walking out on the beach. Oh, Peter, this is so creepy I don't believe it's happening.'
'For what it's worth,' Peter said, 'I'm on my way.
Turtle Bay, San Dominica
The sound outside cottage number fourteen was something like bomp. Bomp,bomp... bomp,bomp,bomp.
The noise stopped suddenly, and Jane Cooke stood perfectly still, quiet and afraid, inside the dark bedroom. First she caught her breath, then she tried to figure out the sound.
Rose apples-she finally solved the small mystery. The noise was rose apples dropping onto the bungalow roof.
Jane realized that she was letting herself get a little confused now. Stop it. Grab control.
One of her hands slid along the cool limestone wall. Her cheek pressed lightly against the wall. Long blond hair brushed against it. Her fingers groped along the sloppily laid wallpaper. Ruffles. Air pockets. Then an end to the wall altogether... doorjamb... gritty bathroom tile.
