The Comedy is Finished

“I’ve been calm all along,” Mark said, then looked down at Joyce, still clutching at him like an exhausted marathon dancer. “Let go of me, Joyce.”

But she obviously couldn’t. She seemed too terrified to think; all she could do was go on clinging to Mark, panting, staring up at his face.

Mark looked beyond her again at Peter, saying, “Get her off me.”

Peter was troubled, cautious, watching Mark as though he were some dangerous dog whose chain had snapped. Reaching tentatively forward, he tugged at Joyce’s elbow, at the same time continuing to watch Mark’s face. “All right, Joyce,” he said. “All right.”

Joyce finally did release her grip, moving back with Peter but staring constantly at Mark, who stepped back a pace and glared at them in apparent outrage. Larry, both forearms pressed to his stomach, was sitting on the floor now, hunched forward, wheezing hoarsely in his throat. Pointing at him, Mark said, “I won’t have that sniveling moron pestering me.”

Larry was trying to talk through his wheezes, but couldn’t. Even in pain, in panic, on the floor, unable to breathe, Larry went right on talking. Incorrigible.

Peter said, “For God’s sake, Mark, what’s this all about?”

“I won’t be part of Larry’s plans,” Mark said; then, obscurely challenging, he added, “And I’m not sure I’ll be part of yours.”

“Take it easy,” Peter said. “We’re still one group.”

Marks lips twisted in scorn, but all he said was, “Keep them away from me, Peter. All I need is to be left alone.” And he turned away, crossing the living room in quick nervous paces, leaving the house, slamming the door behind himself.

Joyce had now dropped to her knees beside Larry, was murmuring and cooing at him, touching his hair and his shoulder and his arms. Peter, exhausted and raw-nerved, seated himself on the edge of the nearest armchair, elbows on knees as he leaned forward and down toward Larry, trying to hide annoyance and uncertainty with an expression of concern as he said, “Larry, for God’s sake what was that all about?”

Larry shook his head. Joyce kept dabbing at his face, saying things.

Peter said, sharply, “Joyce, leave him alone. Larry, tell me what happened.”

“Mark is an animal!” Joyce said, indignantly, glaring at Peter.

“No, he isn’t,” Peter told her. “He’s a very disturbed and explosive human being, and I’d like to know from Larry what set him off.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said, voice rasping. “He’s always so—I only—” He shook his head.

“All right, Larry, from the beginning. What happened?”

Larry rested his forehead on his palm. An occasional shudder rippled through him as gradually he calmed. “I was talking with Koo,” he said. “Then Koo said he wanted to speak with Mark. I pointed out—”

“Wait a minute,” Peter said. “Koo Davis asked for Mark?”

“It surprised me, too,” Larry said, lifting his head, looking up at Peter. “But he insisted. We made a deal; first he’d talk with Mark, then again with me. He was getting interested, Peter. He brought up the subject of Korea himself, he’s beginning to see how the pieces fit.”

Peter was skeptical, but he said, “All right. So you came to Mark.”

“I told him about Koo,” Larry said, petulance creeping into his voice. “He refused, he just flat refused. No explanation, nothing. Then all at once he started hitting me.”

“He’s a beast,” Joyce declared. She was seated now on the sofa, shredding damp tissues nervously between her hands.

Peter shook his head. “Larry, no. There had to be more to it than that.”

“But there wasn’t. I asked him, he refused, he started hitting me.”

“How many times did you ask him?”

“Two or three,” Larry said, obviously grudging any piece of information that might complicate his story.

But Peter was insistent: “What did he say the first time you asked him?”

“He said no! He never said anything but no, and then he started using his fists.”

Shaking his head, Peter said, “There’s something more in all this. There’s something I don’t understand.”

“Oh, is there? Well, I’ll be happy to tell you what it is.” Larry struggled to his feet, pushing away Joyce’s eager attempts to help. “What you don’t understand, Peter, is that Mark is taking over!”

“Oh, now,” Peter said, with a little sardonic smile, “don’t get carried away, Larry. Mark is not exactly what we call leadership material.”

“That’s right,” Larry said. “When Mark’s in charge, everything is going to blow up. And it’s happening, he’s taking over. Only because you won’t stop him. Like that business with Davis’ medicine.”

“Stop right there,” Peter said, defensively becoming angry himself, getting to his feet and pointing at Larry with a jabbing forefinger. “It so happens Mark was right about that. They needed a lesson. And they apologized in plenty of time, just as Mark said they would.”

“And demanding that Wiskiel be put back in charge?”

“Mark was right again. You didn’t argue against it. Larry, sometimes you’re right, and I listen to you. And sometimes Mark is right, believe it or not.”

“This time I’m right,” Larry insisted. “You’re losing control, and Mark is moving into the vacuum, and that’s disastrous. You’ve always been very good, Peter, but before this we’ve always been hit- and-run. None of us is right for this kind of long-term operation.”

Peter’s cheeks burned and stung. “Everything is working,” he said. “The only problems are among ourselves. The operation is doing fine.”

“Problems among ourselves? Peter, that’s what’ll kill us. You have to take charge, you have to be in command. You absolutely have to run things.”

“All right,” Peter said, cold and angry. “Then I’ll give you a direct order. Stay away from Mark.”

“And him? Mark? What about him?”

“He’s none of your business. I’ll take care of Mark.”

“But you won’t.”

Peter was about to say something even angrier when Joyce suddenly cried, “Oh, my gosh.” Turning, he saw Liz on her feet out by the pool, walking in slow circles, patting the air in front of her as though it contained an invisible wall. Joyce hurried out there, and Peter watched her take Liz by the arm, walk her back to the yellow chaise longue.

Speaking quietly, Larry said, “We’re breaking down, Peter. We’re all the weakest link.”

“We’ll hold together,” Peter told him; firmly, making it true by the sheer determination of his manner. Then, unable to hear any more dispute, he turned away, hesitated, unsure for a second where he intended to go, and then crossed the room and went out the front door, following Mark.

Who was gone; and so was the Impala. Not good. Mark was too unpredictable. He might merely go for a drive until he’d cooled off, or he could start a fight in some bar and get himself in trouble, or he might even leave entirely, deciding again to break with the group. Mark had disappeared more than once over the years, each time returning a few days later or phoning from some distant place; it was never convenient when he pulled such stunts, and this time it could be a disaster. Aside from anything else, he had their only transportation, since the van had been dumped last night in the Burbank Airport long-term parking lot.

It was difficult for Peter not to show his increasing hostility toward the group. He’d known them all a long time, too long and too well. They were the only soldiers available to him now, here in the Valley Forge of the New Revolution, but after this operation he would never see them again. Only this operation was needed, the freeing of the ten, himself as an instrument, and the corner would be turned. Peter Dinely would be established.

He knew he was the only one in the group who thought historically. None of the others could project beyond the immediate results of action, but at least they were prepared to follow where they themselves could not see the path. Did they know why it was so vital to free the ten? No, and if he were to waste his breath in explanations they still wouldn’t understand. But they acknowledged his capacity and followed his orders, which made them both essential and unbearable. Soon I must have equals about me, Peter