‘The standard US military five-point-five-six-millimeter round. Effective range – four hundred and fifty yards.’
‘Right you are. Now Lance here is toting all the parts for a Remington 870 twelve-gauge shotgun. Most useful of all’ – John caressed Nickie’s pack – ‘is the Heckler and Koch HK 91 heavy assault rifle with collapsible stock. That’s the piece you’ll get with Holly’s suit. Effective range – one thousand yards.’
George had to admit that thermonuclear exchange worries crossed his mind occasionally, and that he did not know where to seek reassurance. It would be wonderful to lose this anxiety, which erupted at odd moments. Assuming they could squeeze another hundred dollars a month from Justine’s paycheck, there was every reason to put this thing under the Christmas tree.
‘If I give you the first installment today, can I take it home?’
An elaborate smile appeared on John’s face. ‘Sure, you can take it home. Hell, next you’ll order a suit for your pretty wife, then one for yourself, and then you’ll both sleep a lot better. Any more kids in the works?’
‘We’ve been talking about it. Yeah.’
‘Go for it.’
George took out his checkbook. John fondled the contract.
‘It’s like the fable of the grasshopper and the ant,’ said the suit salesman. ‘Mr Grasshopper wastes the whole summer singing and playing and having a ripsnorting time – sort of like that lushy boss of yours – while Mr Ant works his abdomen off saving up food. So when winter comes, Mr Grasshopper, he wants a piece of Mr Ant’s larder. Naturally Mr Ant tells Mr Grasshopper to piss off. Now, if you ask me, old Aesop was really writing about atomic wars. He got one thing wrong, though. Know what he should have called it?’
‘What?’
‘The Fable of the Grasshopper and the Cockroach.’
And so it was that George Paxton became the happy owner of a Self-Contained Post-Attack Survival suit.
CHAPTER TWO
As it turned out, George could not have picked a worse day for buying a scopas suit. That very morning, his wife was fired for breaking a tarantula.
Justine had never liked her situation at Raining Cats and Dogs, a franchised pet store located in the Wildgrove Mall. The job entailed most of the disadvantages of working for an orphanage and few of the rewards. It seemed to her that a given kitten or puppy never ended up with an appropriate owner; indeed, Justine mistrusted the motives of anyone who would patronize Raining Cats and Dogs when there were so many psychologically heal-thier, albeit less convenient, places from which to obtain a pet: a farm, a kennel, an alley. And, of course, there were those animals who did not find homes at all, every week growing older and conspicuously less adorable, their lives circumscribed by the glass-walled cages (which the chain’s owners called habitats), until the day came when Harry Sweetser would ship them back to head-quarters, where God knew what fate awaited. These unadoptable pets were a continual temptation to Justine, but George would have no more animals in a house where the nonhuman population already stood at six.
The fat boy wanted the tarantula, really wanted it, and his mother seemed far less repulsed by the idea than most mothers would have been. Justine sensed that here, for once, were customers with proper credentials. Normally she took a dim view of those parts of the inventory that had too few or too many legs – the pythons, indigo snakes, scorpions, crabs, and spiders – not because they frightened her (they did not), but because they were gimmicks, bought by the wrong people for the wrong reasons. To look at this boy, however, a loser by all odds – homely, awkward, and shy – was to realize how much he needed the tarantula, and how much the tarantula needed him.
And so Justine undertook a mission that she saw as, among other things, a test of her acting talent. More than anything else, George’s wife wanted to act. She was no dreamer, though; no visions of Hollywood danced in her head. Her sober and plausible ambition was to be the clown who gave out balloons at children’s parties, the radio voice that told you where to purchase a new sofa, or the pretty lady at the local cable television station who explained why you should patronize the Wildgrove Hardware Store or Sandy’s Sandwich Shop (or, for that matter, Raining Cats and Dogs).
‘What’s your name?’ she asked the boy, making your light up.
‘Andy.’
‘Well, Andy, this spider will make you the envy of your friends. You have my guarantee.’
‘I’ve heard that they can kill you,’ said his mother, winking humorfully. Without this particular mother, Justine decided, Andy would never survive.
‘Treat a tarantula badly and, oh yes, it’ll bite. Rather like a dog.’ Justine unwrapped a stick of spearmint gum and with a histrionic gesture placed it in her mouth. ‘The venom is unpleasant but never lethal. In fact, far from being savage beasts, tarantulas are quite delicate.’
‘Aren’t they kind of boring?’ asked the mother.
‘Not when they’re injecting you with venom, no,’ said Justine, and the mother laughed.
‘Can you play with it?’ Andy wanted to know.
‘Sure you can play with it.’ Justine removed the tarantula from its cage and set its fuzzy body on her shoulder. ‘See?’ As the animal strutted down her arm, Andy’s face gave off equal amounts of light and heat.
‘Wow!’ he concluded.
When a tarantula is dropped, the result is always the same. It blows up. Justine was never sure why the spider panicked and jumped from her forearm, although the disaster occurred simultaneously with, and might very well have been caused by, Harry Sweetser’s sudden, boisterous arrival. ‘Arrgh!’ he screamed as the forty-dollar spider exploded.
‘Jesus, I’m sorry, Harry.’ Pity and remorse swept through Justine. ‘Poor bugger.’
‘Women should never try to handle these things.’ Harry was a balding little fussbudget with a double paunch. ‘You’re too squeamish.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Justine, ‘it only fell because you came over.’
‘New rule,’ said Harry. ‘Anyone who can’t touch the arachnids without panicking has to leave them alone.’
‘Why don’t you go snort a toad, Harry?’ she snapped. She thought about the remark, felt astonishingly good, and flashed her teeth theatrically.
Harry ordered her to clean up the tarantula’s remains. ‘And then I want to see you in my office,’ he announced, giving each word an ominous spin.
The mother looked at the mess on the floor and said, ‘I guess we’re not all that interested in tarantulas today.’ She steered her bewildered son out of the store.
Entering Harry’s office, Justine noted with mild surprise that he was not at his desk. He stood in the middle of the rug, thumbs hooked in his belt. ‘So anyway, I think maybe Raining Cats and Dogs isn’t the place for you, right?’ he said. ‘I’ll mention one thing, though – you were always a pleasure to look at in the morning.’ Advancing, he groped toward her face. ‘You have an inspirational way of feeding the fish.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘In fact, Justine, everything about you is inspirational.’
She backed off. If I ever stoop to this, she thought, it will be in the name of landing a major role in a cable TV commercial. Harry’s countermove consisted of crossing to the door, closing it, and maneuvering her into a corner.
‘With a little encouragement I could be persuaded to give you your job back.’ He placed a practiced, unequivocal hand on her left buttock. ‘Why don’t we swing by the Lizard Lounge this afternoon for a drink?’