There was no truce to be called, nothing to be straightened out, but Philipe agreed to meet with him, and set the time and place.
“Don’t tell Joe,” he told me as he hung up the phone.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because.”
When Jim stepped into the mayor’s office the next morning at the appointed time, he looked bad. He’d obviously been living hand-to-mouth, and he’d obviously been under a lot of strain. His clothes were dirty, his face gaunt. He smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in quite some time.
Philipe told him about the terrorists, explained what we did and who we were. He put no pressure on Jim, but he made it clear that Jim was free to join us if he so desired.
It was then that Joe walked into the room.
The mayor stood in the doorway for a moment, stunned and unmoving. Then he rushed forward, his face crimson with anger. “Get the hell out of my office!” he demanded, pointing toward the door. “Get the hell out of my city!”
“This is Jim,” Philipe said conversationally. “Our newest terrorist.”
Joe looked from Philipe to Jim and back again. “Do you know who that is?”
“I just told you. He’s the newest Terrorist for the Common Man.”
“That’s the son of a bitch Harrington was going to put in my place!” The mayor moved in front of Jim, faced him. “Who are you and where are you from?”
“My name’s Jim Caldwell. I’m from San Francisco.”
“Why were you going to sell us out?”
“I wasn’t going to sell you out. Those guys found me working in a gas station and asked me if I wanted to be mayor. What was I supposed to say?”
“Don’t be so hard on him,” I said. “You know how it is.”
“I know how it is? I know he was going to take over my job!” He confronted the new man. “Why did you come here?”
“I had to leave San Francisco because I killed my supervisor in the plant where — ”
Philipe held up a tired hand. “Save it. We know the story.”
“I want him out of here!” Joe roared.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want.” Philipe’s voice was low and cold, the way it had been when he’d spoken to Harrington. He fixed the mayor with a steely stare.
Joe backed off a little, but his tone was no less belligerent. “I’mmayor here,” he said. “Not you.”
“That’s right,” Philipe said, moving slowly toward him. “You’re mayor here. You’re mayor of this shitty little Palm Springs suburb and you have the power to widen streets and build baseball diamonds.” He brought his hand down flat on the top of the desk. The slap sounded like a bullwhip. “Don’t try to tell me who the fuck you are. You’d be nothing if we hadn’t taken up your cause.” He pointed to Jim. “You’d be him!”
“I thank you for what you’ve done. But I’m afraid this is my town. I’m mayor — ”
“Yes. You’re mayor. You’re not king.”
“I want you all out of my office.”
Philipe stood for a moment, shook his head slowly, then reached into his pocket and withdrew his revolver. “I knew it would come to this. You’re so fucking predictable.”
Now there was a quaver in Joe’s voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I glanced toward Tim, toward James. None of us knew where this was going. My mouth felt dry.
“Jim’s mayor here now,” Philipe said. He calmly checked the chambers of the gun. “How do you like that? I’m not even going to bother making you resign or sign a piece of paper. I’m just going to remove you from office and replace you.”
“You can’t do that! The people elected me!”
“And I’m un-electing you.” Philipe smiled coldly. “You think anyone’s going to know the fucking difference?”
I felt chilled. This was a Philipe I had not seen before. This was not the idealist who’d recruited me into the terrorists or who’d quixotically decided to save Joe Horth’s job. This was not the desperate seeker who’d had sex with Mary and me and everyone else. This was not even the half-crazed fanatic who’d wanted to blow up Familyland, or the dispassionate killer who had murdered his supervisors and gunned down Joe’s tormentors. This was a Philipe on the edge, a Philipe with no motive, no plan, a Philipe with no reason behind his actions, a Philipe flying blind, acting on instinct, and it scared the shit out of me.
“Philipe,” I said.
“Shut up.”
Jim backed away. “I don’t want to be mayor,” he said. “I just came up here to make sure you all weren’t after me. I didn’t want — ”
“You shut up, too.” He stared Joe down. “Well, what’s it going to be, mayor?”
Joe cracked. “I’m sorry,” he said. He licked his lips. “I was just… I…” He stared helplessly at Philipe.
Philipe remained impassive for a moment. He blinked hard a few times, then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “All right.” He replaced the gun in his pocket. “Does that mean it’s agreeable with you if we recruit Jim to our side?”
“Go right ahead.” The mayor faced Jim, held out a hand, forced himself to smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings.”
“That’s what I like to see.” There was still something strange about Philipe’s behavior, something unsettling about the way he was acting. I remembered how I’d once thought he might be manic depressive.
Mentally ill?
I looked at James, he looked at me, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. He looked away.
Philipe continued nodding. “Friends again. That’s what I like to see. Friends again.”
We spent the day with Jim, hanging out, telling him about our old lives and our new ones. He hit it off instantly with Mary, and the attraction was obviously mutual. James and I shared knowing smiles as the two found not-so-subtle ways to stand or sit next to one another. I had the feeling that the rest of the terrorists were going to be seeing a lot less of Mary in their beds in the near future.
Philipe remained tense, seemed coiled like a snake. All day long, he was hyper, moving around, walking in and out of where we were, popping abruptly into conversations and just as abruptly out. He seemed to be waiting for something, anxious for its arrival.
After dinner, after dark, there was a windstorm, and we were all sitting in Joe’s living room, watching TV, when Philipe suddenly jumped to his feet and hurried over to the front door, yanking it open. He stood for several seconds in the doorway, breathing heavily. He shook his head. “I have to go,” he said. “I have to get out of here.”
I got up, frowning, and went over to him. “Go where? What are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But… no.” He started outside, turned around on the porch. “Don’t follow me,” he said. “Don’t anyone try to follow me.”
And then he was gone, into the night, into the dark, and I was left staring at the open doorway where he had stood, hearing only his retreating footfalls as they were overtaken by the sounds of the desert wind.
Seventeen
Philipe did not return for a week.
When he did, he was his old self again, cheerful, enthusiastic, filled with plans for what Joe could do to simultaneously aid the Ignored and further his own political career.