The Marital Corporation Ch. 11

Peter called Gordon at his office the next day, and without revealing what Anne had said about the pending separation, asked if Gordon would be free for dinner that evening. Peter stressed the importance of the meeting, and emphasized that this was a working, not a social meeting. Gordon agreed to come.

Kenny was in the study watching a ball game, when Peter arrived home that evening. He said to the boy, "I hate to interrupt your fun, but I wish you'd stick around after dinner. Things got pretty bad here while we were away, and we need to decide what to do next before those nut cases decide it for us. Doc and Gordon will be here, too." Kenny's eyes widened while Peter described the bottle incident, the swastika, the hate mail, harassing phone calls, and the cross he had found that morning on their front lawn.

"I suppose we could keep watches like we did on the boat," Kenny suggested.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "That's not a bad idea," he said. "But Gordon has a business to run, and I have a law practice that needs my attention. How can we organize ourselves around those things?"

Kenny reiterated his suggestion later that evening to Doc and Gordon as he settled himself on the couch next to Gordon.

Doc shook his head and said, "What about Ted Mining and his people? It seems to me they have the most to gain from this outlandish idea of yours; let them form the Praetorian Guard."

Peter smiled when he saw the confusion on both Kenny and Gordon's faces. Neither knew Doc was paying him an indirect compliment by his classic allusion to those who guard the emperor.

Peter explained. "Doc was trying to be funny, but it's not a bad idea. I'll call Mining in the morning, and see what he thinks. Maybe I ought to call Barney Lansing, too. After all, maybe Marty was on to something. If he thought Lansing had deliberately cut me out of the herd, to use his metaphor, then perhaps it's time Lansing prevented these nut cases, whoever they are, from causing me to run for the hills."

Doc nodded. "I'd say Lansing was your best bet," he suggested. "I'd call him first. If he seems less than enthusiastic, you could mention that your next call would be to Mining. My guess is that this community is as sensitive to the pecking order as any other."

Peter looked at him. "Did I just hear you refer to my notion of family corporations as an `outlandish idea'?"

The old man seemed mildly uncomfortable. "Hey, Pete, come on," he said, "I'm an old guy. It takes time for me to get used to these new ideas."

"I don't know how much time we've got to get used to this idea," Peter said slowly. "But let me put it to you this way: We're talking about people who believe that the most important thing in the world is unquestioning faith.

"It must be wonderful to have a belief in God and the infallibility of the Bible so profound that humans automatically become the most important life form in the universe. I wouldn't object if it ended there. But it doesn't.

"Some of those otherwise apparently sensible people think the earth is flat; others and I include educated professionals among them are convinced that the world is only 6,000 years old, and many belligerently insist that creationism is equally valid to evolution as a scientific explanation for human existence.

"Frankly, that kind of thinking scares me, because we're not talking about a lunatic fringe. We're talking about true believers, who, to paraphrase the late Eric Hoffer, demand conformity to legitimize their beliefs. The more rigid the beliefs, the more stringent the demands.

"When you add to those folks the people who think guns are the answer to our social problems, and the nut cases who have been harassing us with the midnight telephone calls, planting a Christian cross in our lawn, painting a swastika in front of the house, and throwing threatening messages through the kitchen window, I'd say maybe it's time we tried something new."

Gordon said softly, "Wow! When you look at it like that, I have to agree with Pete. Say; why don't you and Marge move in with us for a while? Don't you think that would help?"

Peter shook his head. He was touched by Gordon's gesture, especially in light of the personal problems he knew Gordon was facing at home, always assuming, as Peter quickly reminded himself, that Anne had spoken the truth.

"This has been a hell of a strain," Peter said. Looking directly at Gordon, he added, "You have no idea how grateful I am for your generous offer, but I'm afraid they might follow us. You've got three young children. I couldn't risk bringing harm to them."

Gordon nodded understandingly. "Well, if you change your mind . . ." he said. Then he looked at his watch. "Good lord! I told Anne I'd be gone only an hour or two at the most. I've got to get going."

He slapped Kenny's thigh as he rose, and turning, he looked down on the young man. "You look after these people, now. You hear me?"

Kenny grinned up at Gordon. "Sure. We'll be OK."

Doc left soon after. His courtly goodnight embrace and kiss with Marge was appreciably more friendly than any Peter had seen to date, and caused Kenny's street-wise eyebrows to rise.

She walked him to the door, where they kissed again, this time even more passionately, one of his hands stroking her buttocks. Kenny looked at Peter. "Is there somethin' goin' on here we don't know about?"

Peter started to respond, but then, realizing that while Kenny already had some insights into his complicated relationship with Marge, trying to explain the more subtle nuances to him would be like trying to teach a puppy to whistle. Instead, he shrugged, "Never mind," he said. "I'm not sure I understand it myself."

Marge came back into the room. Her face seemed flushed, and her hair was slightly mussed. "That old man could kiss the varnish off a piano," she said. She looked at Peter. "I know this is your night, Pete, but Doc got me feeling all tingly, and I'm really in the mood for a threesome like we had on the boat. Are you boys up for that?"

Is the Pope Catholic?

Although it was late in the morning, Peter was the first to wake. He jumped out of bed before remembering that he didn't need to worry about going to the office because he had no office to go to. He looked at his sleeping bed partners with affection. Marge and Kenny had kicked off the covers and lay curled together in the middle of the bed. Even in his sleep, one of Kenny's hands cupped her naked breast.

At 10:30, Peter was still enjoying his second cup of coffee. Instead of dropping their mail through the slot as he usually did, their postman, a friendly man named Fred, rang the bell.

"Excuse me, Mr. Baylis," he said, his face serious and concerned, "but I wondered if you had seen what's been painted on your front door?"

Good God, now what?

Peter stepped outside and stared in disbelief at the crudely drawn message in orange spray paint. It said:

WATCH OUT! ATHEST

Queer NIGGER LOVER

lives HEAR

we'll see he get whats

coming to him!!!

Beneath this despicable message was painted a crude swastika. Peter felt the blood drain from his face. He managed to thank Fred, and hurried back into the house. He stopped in the kitchen only long enough to pour two fingers of bourbon into a drinking glass, and toss it down, before going to the telephone.

Marge entered the kitchen just in time to see him break a long standing rule by pouring a drink before noon. Her voice had an unusually tender quality as she quietly asked, "What is it, Pete? What's the matter?"

He was still struggling for composure. "Those people . . . those assholes, whoever they are . . . have ruined our front door," he croaked. "See for yourself!"

While she stepped outside, Peter dialed the number on the policeman's card. After he identified himself and explained the problem, the person who answered the phone promised to have Officer Jamison get back to him as soon as possible.

The phone rang an hour later. "I hear the vandals came back," Officer Jamison said. His quiet voice was reassuring.

"Boy, did they ever!" Peter said vehemently.

"Tell me about it, Mr. Baylis."

Peter described the obscene message. Jamison said, "If you can, Mr. Baylis, hang a sheet or something over the door to preserve whatever evidence we may find. I'm going to ask forensics to send a team out to your house.

"This is getting serious. Typical hate crimes have more of a hit and run character to them. It's very unusual that a person is victimized day after day as you have been. But maybe the fingerprint people can lift a print, or perhaps forensics will find a recognizable pattern in the perp's handwriting. Do you have any idea what it will cost to replace or refinish that door?"

"I have no idea, several hundred dollars, I imagine."

"That takes it out of malicious mischief," the policeman said, "and makes it a lot easier to get things done at this end. I don't know if they'll be out there this afternoon, but if not, they'll be there first thing in the morning."

Peter said, "In the meantime, what happens if they make good their threats?"

"You mean you want a patrol car parked in front of your house?"

"That's exactly what I mean," Peter said. "You said yourself this is getting serious."

"It is, but I don't think I can arrange for that level of protection. However, I can ask the sector patrol to make more frequent trips on your street. If you get a patrol car two or three times a night, that will deter all but the most determined perp."

"Just remember, Officer Jamison, we're not talking about random burglaries or opportunistic car theft here. This is targeted, escalating vandalism."

"Yes," the officer said uncomfortably, "but our resources are limited, too. There is only so much we can do. I wish we could be more proactive, but most police work, unfortunately, is after the fact."

"Would a call to your superiors help?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, no," Peter said hastily. "I didn't mean that at all. I was merely looking for a way to bolster your argument for more protection."

"That isn't the way the system works," Jamison replied. "Officers assigned to the detective bureau have the freedom to propose resource allocations. Uniformed officers like me lack that freedom. We work informally. I can't tell the sector car what to do, but I can speak to the officer directly, which I will, and tell him about my concerns. What he ultimately does is up to him, but we usually get good cooperation.

"Call my boss if you want to, but if you do, he'll just conclude I'm falling down on the PR end of things, and he'll assign another officer to your case, and you'll have to start all over again with someone unfamiliar with your situation. I can't imagine that's what you want."

"It certainly wasn't." Peter thanked him, and hung up. Marge was in the living room staring out the window. She turned as Peter entered the room. "I think it's time we had one of our little heart to heart talks," she said.

Peter nodded. "I just don't know what to do," he said helplessly. "I'm scared and pissed off all at the same time. Tell me what you think."

Marge wrinkled her nose. "Same for me," she said, "but by God, I'm sure of one thing: You know what the worse thing you could do right now?"

He shook his head. Marge's jaw was set. Peter had never seen her so determined about anything.

"Let those assholes win," she said. "If we back out of the election now, losing your job will be nothing compared to losing your self- respect. You're a strong man, Pete. Look how you stood up to Pan-Pacific, and saved the school timber, to say nothing of your little feathered friends." She smiled for the first time.

"Last night, Doc had it about right. Let's see if Lansing can help. After all, he got you into this mess."

Peter looked up Lansing's telephone number and called the newspaper. The young receptionist quickly put him through, and Peter felt strangely comforted when he heard the familiar baritone growl, "This is Barney Lansing."

Peter quickly described the harassment they were experiencing. Lansing interrupted from time to time with questions, and whistled softly when Peter told him about the note in the beer bottle and the spray painted obscene message on the front door.

There was a lengthy pause after Peter completed his litany of woe. Finally, Lansing said, "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Build me a $5,000 door," Peter said.

Lansing chuckled. "They're gettin' to you, aren't they." It was a statement, not a question. "Tell me something; are you really serious about this family corporation business, or is it just a campaign gimmick? If you're really serious, I might be able to help." A prolonged silence followed. Then he added, speaking in tones so low Peter barely heard them, "But for your own sake, don't jerk me around. I would really hate that."

He was very convincing. "I understand," Peter said in a voice that he hoped conveyed utter sincerity. "Believe me, I'm sincere. Not because I'm devoted to the idea of same-sex marriage, you understand, but because I am convinced the time has come when sane people must circle the wagons; otherwise, the barbarians will overrun us all." Then he asked, "By the way, you're in the newspaper business; have you ever heard of a chemical substance called ricin?"

"How do you spell that?"

"I'm not sure; either R-I-S-I-N or maybe R-I-C-I-N."

"Can't say I have," Lansing drawled. "Should I?"

"I think so," Peter said. "My campaign manager is a retired military veterinarian." He continued, telling Lansing what Doc had said about this deadly poison, and the gist of his suspicions about a possible Gingrich conspiracy. Peter concluded by saying, "That's what I meant when I referred to the barbarians. We're headed straight back to the Middle Ages, unless somehow we can manage to hang together. I think, just maybe, we've stumbled on to something in the family corporation idea. How's that for a short answer to a long question?"

Lansing chuckled again. "I'm glad to see you still have a sense of humor." Then his tone dropped. "If what you say is true -- and you know I'll look it up -- this could be a hell of a lot more serious than even I imagined, and I've got a pretty good imagination. Tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to make a few phone calls, and I'll get back to you. Are you going to be home all day?"

Peter assured him he would be, and they hung up.

Marge had heard only Peter's side of the conversation, so he quickly repeated the gist of Lansing's comments. She listened carefully. "What are we going to do, Pete?" she asked. Her eyes were very large.

He shrugged. "What can we do? Wait and see what, if anything, Lansing comes up with. We'll just have to take it from there."

Lansing's call came just as Peter was about to call Ted Mining. "Tell you what we've decided to do, Pete," Lansing said briskly. Peter felt very encouraged. This was only the second time Lansing had used Peter's first name. "Mining was against the idea at first; said he didn't approve of vigilante assignments on principle, but he came around fast when I told him our friends have their hands on ricin -- by the way, it's spelled with a `c'. That God damned $5,000 door of mine has become a booby trap. I don't know why the wire services didn't pick that story up. Anyhow, Mining wanted to know if you would be home tonight. He and a couple of his pals; I think you met one of them at the coffee house, would like to come out to your place this evening and see about catching the assholes involved in this crap. I agree with him. I think it's time we began standing up."