It was a slow time of day at the Black Cat Caf?. There may have been a few prostitutes in vans in the parking lot out back but none inside.
The owner, Lyle Hooper, who was also Chief of the Volunteer Fire Department and a Notary, was at the other end of the bar, doing some kind of bookkeeping. Until the very end of his life, he would never admit that the availability of prostitutes in his parking lot accounted in large measure for the business he did in liquor and snacks, and for the condom machine in the mens room.
To the Elders of Traffamadore, of course, that condom machine would represent a threat to their space program.
Lyle Hooper surely knew about my sexual exploits, since he had notarized the affidavits in my portfolio. But he never mentioned them to me, or so far as I know to anyone. He was the soul of discretion.
Lyle was probably the best-liked man in this valley. Towmes were so fond of him, men and women alike, that I never heard one call the Black Cat Caf? a whorehouse. Up on the hill, of course, it was called almost nothing else.
The Townies protected the image he had of himself, in spite of State Police raids and visits from the County Health Department, as a family man who ran a place of refreshment whose success depended entirely on the
quality of the drinks and snacks he served. This kindly conspiracy protected Lyles son Charlton, as well. Charlton grew to be 2 meters tall, and was a New York State High School All-Star basketball center in his senior year at Scipio High School, and all he ever had to say about his father was that he ran a restaurant.
Charlton was such a phenomenal basketball player that he was invited to try out for the New York Knickerbockers, which were still owned by Americans back then. He accepted a full scholarship to MIT instead, and became a top scientist running the huge subatomic particle accelerator called the Supercollider¨ outside Waxahachie, Texas.
As I understand it, the scientists down there forced invisible particles to reveal their secrets by making them go splat on photographic plates. That isnt all that different from the way we treated suspected enemy agents in Vietnam sometimes.
Have I already said that I threw one out of a helicopter?
The Townies didnt have to protect the sensibilities of Lyles wife by never saying why the Black Cat Caf? was so prosperous. She had left him. She discovered in midlife that she was a lesbian, and ran off with the high schools girls gym teacher to Bermuda, where they gave and probably still give sailing lessons.
I made a pass at her one time at an Annual Townand-Gown Mixer up on the hill. I knew she was a lesbian before she did.
At the very end of his life 2 years ago, though, when Lyle Hooper was a prisoner of the escaped convicts up
in the bell tower, he was addressed by his captors as Pimp.¨ It was, Hey, Pimp, how you like the view7 and What you think we ought to do with you, Pimp?¨ and so on. It was cold and wet up there. Snow or rain blown into the belfry fell down through a myriad of bullet holes in the ceiling. Those had been made from below by escaped convicts when they realized that a sniper was up there among the bells.
There was no electricity. All electric and telephone service had been shut off. When I visited Lyle up there, he knew the story of those holes, knew the sniper had been crucified in the stable loft. He knew that the escaped convicts hadnt decided yet what to do with him. He knew that he had committed what was in their eyes murder pure and simple. He and Whitey VanArsdale had ambushed and killed 3 escaped convicts who were on their way up the old towpath to the head of the lake, to negotiate with the police and politicians and soldiers at the roadblock there. The would-be negotiators were carrying flags of truce, white pillowcases on broomsticks, when Lyle Hooper and Whitey VanArsdale shot them dead.
And then Whitey was himself shot dead almost immediately, but Lyle was taken prisoner.
But what bothered Hooper most when I talked to him up in the bell tower was that his captors called him nothing but Pimp.¨
At this point in my story, and in order to simplify the telling, and not to make any political point, let me from now on call the escaped convicts in Scipio what they called themselves, which was Freedom Fighters.¨
So Lyle Hooper was without question responsible for the death of 3 Freedom Fighters carrying flags of truce. The Freedom Fighter who was guarding him in the tower when I came to see him, moreover, was the half brother and former partner in the crack business, along with their grandmother, of I of the Freedom Fighters he or Whitey had killed.
But all Lyle could talk about was the pain of being called a pimp. To many if not most of the Freedom Fighters, of course, it was no particular insult to call someone a pimp.
Lyle told me that he had been raised by his paternal grandmother, who made him promise to leave the world a better place than when he found it. He said, Have I done that, Gene?¨
I said he had. Since he was facing execution, I certainly wasnt going to tell him that, in my experience anyway, ambushes made the world seem an even worse place than it was before.
I ran a nice, clean place, raised a wonderful son,¨ he said. Put out a lot of fires.¨
It was the Trustees who told the Freedom Fighters that Lyle ran a whorehouse. Otherwise they would have thought he was just a restaurateur and Fire Chief.
Lyle Hoopers mood up there in the bell tower reminded me of my fathers mood after he was let go by Barrytron, and he went on a cruise down the Inland Waterway on the East Coast, from City Island in New York City to Palm Beach, Florida. This was on a motor yacht owned by his old college roommate, a man named Fred Handy. Handy had also studied chemical engi
neering, but then had gone into junk bonds instead. He heard that Father was deeply depressed. He thought the cruise might cheer Dad up.
But all the way to Palm Beach, where Handy had a waterfront estate, down the East River, down Barnegat Bay, up Delaware Bay and down Chesapeake Bay, down the Dismal Swamp Canal, and on and on, the yacht had to nuzzle its way through a shore-to-shore, horizon-to-horizon carpet of bobbing plastic bottles. They had contained brake fluid and laundry bleach and so on.
Father had had a lot to do with the development of those bottles. He knew, too, that they could go on bobbing for 1,000 years. They were nothing to be proud of.
In a way, those bottles called him what the Freedom Fighters called Lyle Hooper.
Lyles despairing last words as he was led out of the bell tower to be executed in front of Samoza Hall might be an apt epitaph for my father:
29
J4
yle Hoopers last words, I think we can say with the benefit of hindsight in the year 2001, might serve as an apt epitaph for a plurality of working adults in industrialized nations during the 20th Century. How could they help themselves, when so many of the jobs they or their mates could get had to do with large-scale deceptions, legal thefts from public treasuries, or the wrecking of the food chain, the topsoil, the water, or the atmosphere?
After Lyle Hooper was executed, with a bullet behind the ear, I visited the Trustees in the stable. Tex Johnson was still spiked to the cross-timbers in the loft overhead, and they knew it.
But before I tell about that, I had better finish my story of how I got a job at Athena.
So there I was back in 1991, nursing a Budweiser, or wop,¨ at the bar of the Black Cat Caf?. Muriel Peck was telling me how exciting it had been to see all the
motorcycles and limousines and celebrities out front. She couldnt believe that she had been that close to Gloria White and Henry Kissinger.
Several of the merry roisterers had come inside to use the toilet or get a drink of water. Arthur K. Clarke had provided everything but water and toilets. So Muriel had dared to ask some of them who they were and what they did.
Three of the people were Black. One Black was an old woman who had just won $57,000,000 in the New York State Lottery, and the other 2 were baseball players who made $3,000,000 a year.
A white man, who kept apart from the rest, and, according to Muriel, didnt seem to know what to make of himself, was a daily book reviewer for The New York Times. He had given a rave review to Clarkes autobiography, Dont Be Ashamed of Money.