Bridgetown, Issue #1: Arrival (25 page)

The riled-up crowd began to cheer, and to
Jesse it was a symphony of triumph. A validation.

As the reel ran thin, the final call to
action appeared onscreen, a last-minute addition Jesse had included
as a kind of epigraph in reverse.

"
This has been a work of fiction. But it is rooted in a
timeless truth, that of the plight of the haves and the have-nots.
There are a thousand Bridgetowns across this great land, and one
cannot stand to see them stolen away for good."

Then, with a final dissolve in, came an
attribution that was also a revelation:

"
— JESSE M. COLE, BROTHER OF WAYNE COLE
."

The assembled went wild.

A man fired his revolver into the sky.

A preacher praised God.

Black took one bow for the crowd and
disappeared down a trapdoor into the inner workings of the
stagecoach. The screen retracted back into its housing.

On cue, both wagons slipped into the night as
easily as they had appeared, before they could be mobbed by the
ginned-up crowd.

Jesse breathed a sigh of relief.

He could feel it—things were happening just
as he had seen while under the influence of the lotus.

Maybe it the lotus, or maybe it was something
more. But he could sense that he'd tapped into the cosmic lines of
destiny. He was looking at the backstage of reality now, and could
see how all causality was connected. He was the puppeteer. He could
manipulate the strings.

He walked through the brush beyond
Bridgetown's borders back to the bandit camp, no longer afraid of
what could be out there.

Tomorrow, the people of Bridgetown would talk
about what they saw on Main Street. Jesse and the Lotus Boys had
said what they needed to say, and now the people would continue the
conversation. Wayne would have to answer their questions.

* * * *

COLE SCANDALIZED AFTER MYSTERY BROTHER'S SHOCKING
BROADSIDE.

WAYNE COLE: VISIONARY OR ROBBER-BARON?

COLE WIFE HARBORS SAPPHIC CONFIDANT IN PARIS!

(That last headline featured a photograph of a
defiant Susanna, arms crossed, scandalously clad in her denim
jumpsuit and work boots.)

Standing on the back porch
of his ranch house, Wayne leaned against the awning support and
mulled over the headlines dancing in his mind. In the four days
since his brother had debuted his little film, he had learned to
stop walking in front of newsstands. The whole of Bridgetown—and
increasingly, it seemed, the nation—was talking about the Cole
family saga. The switchboard girl had told him Hearst's men over at
the
New York Journal
would not stop calling, even after Wayne had commanded she
screen their calls. They were now inundating the company line with
requests for comments.

Why would the East Coast care about the
family drama and political machinations of a dusty town out West?
With the rise of gossip rags and yellow tabloids, what would have
once been local fodder had become a supremely ripe affair for the
national stage.

Wayne knew that his rapid rise to prominence
made for a good story. Besides, it wasn't like the brewing schism
in Bridgetown was an isolated phenomenon; it was just a microcosm
of a larger national debate. The role of industry and technology in
the American character was on trial.

Wayne wasn't about to shirk away from this.
But what bothered him were reports that played directly into
Jesse's hand. Journalists were showing up in the inns and taverns
about town, and when they did, they cozied up to the locals. They
asked them leading questions like, "How do you feel about having
your land swindled for cheap by Wayne Cole?"

As if I've committed a kind of sin by not
pointing out that oil seeps in plain sight underneath their feet.
As if that was how business worked!

Wayne knew he's have to match Jesse's
propaganda efforts if he was to prevent the city from turning
against Cole Co. The problem was, he didn't have an ad boy. No one
else had become an expert on the subliminals of effective
advertisement. No one else had been raised by the television.

In short, Wayne didn't have another Jesse at
his disposal.

"Breakfast's ready!" Martha called, from
inside the house.

Wayne exasperated one last, deep breath, and
left the porch for the kitchen.

He took his seat opposite Susanna and ate in
near-total silence, as had been the case for the last several days.
The uproar outside might have allowed the pair to grow closer, if
it hadn't been for the strain already present in their coupling. As
it stood, the stress had put Wayne in a funk, which in turn
irritated Susanna all over again. Now the sounds of forks scraping
against fine china substituted for healthy conversation.

Wayne watched W.J. eat in blissful
obliviousness. When he and Susanna were not speaking, they could at
least find, in their son, common ground with which to broker a
peace.

Susanna at last broke the silence. "Maybe we
should call off the gala altogether," she said.

"No, that's precisely what he's trying to
accomplish," Wayne shot back.

Susanna only raised an eyebrow.

From down the hall, the telephone ringer cut
through the air. Wayne heard Martha pick it up and mutter
something. After a few moments, she bellowed a relay into the
kitchen. "Mr. Cole, Sheriff White's on the telephone."

Saved by the
bell
, Wayne thought
.
"Thanks, Martha."

He wiped his mouth with his napkin, and
excused himself with a gesture, glancing only briefly at Susanna.
He left the dining room for the hallway. Martha handed him the
brass-and-metal receiver with a nod.

Wayne cleared his throat. "Hello,
Sheriff?"

"How do you do?" came the tinny voice on the
other end.

"Oh, you know," Wayne replied. There was a
note of hesitation on the other end of the line. "So what's the
news, Sheriff?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk about the gala."

"What's on your mind?"

"I have some concerns, you see, that with
everything going on around town, the Lotus Boys might try to
disrupt the proceedings."

This struck Wayne as an assumed truth. "It
wouldn't be a party without them," he replied.

"Well, now, I'm serious, Wayne. How's it
going to look to the world if Bridgetown turns into a battlefield
when you've got Spanish royalty in there? How's it gonna make your
company look to the world?"

Wayne mulled over the sheriff's words. The
thought had occurred to him—constantly—over the last four days. But
what could he do?

"If you're suggesting we cancel the gala,"
Wayne said, "You can forget about it. This thing needs to be
big."

"Wha—well, why, anyway? Now, all due respect,
living up there on the hill, I don't think you're seeing everything
that's going on down here. I've got men spread thin from Main
Street all the way to the sticks out by the old Coso Mine. Trying
just to keep things peaceable. And the people are blaming me,
Wayne. I'm taking the heat on this thing! I've been spit on twice
from the balconies and nearly run off the road just this
morning."

Wayne imagined White sitting in his office
right now, staring out the window at a town full of citizens
suddenly eyeing him with hungry stares. There was something else,
too, that struck Wayne—the sheriff of Bridgetown was an elected
official. Dealing with White, he was dealing with a politician. One
who feared an unhappy electorate as much, or more, than any
physical threat to his well-being.

The industrialist took a breath to formulate
his response. "I know there is a vocal minority that is all ginned
up right now. But we have a chance to really put Bridgetown on the
map. Passing that opportunity by will do this city more harm in the
long run than the Lotus Boys by themselves could ever hope to."

"Wayne, I don't understand. You're gonna sell
the cars as fast as you can make them whether there's a big to-do
about it or not. Why do we need to treat this thing like the King
of Spain is gonna be there? You're making a big, fat old target out
of yourself."

"Brand recognition," Wayne stated, firm. It
felt good to hit that "B" with a plosive pride. "We will have the
eyes of the world on us. Bridgetown will become synonymous with the
future of things."

White made a sound like he was sucking a
piece of asparagus from his teeth. "Well, Wayne, I can see I'm not
gonna change your mind. And hell, you're the brains, I suppose.
You've done right so far, anyway." He seemed sorry to have to
concede. "My boys and I will do what we can. But," he added, "If
things blow up, well—you can't say I didn't warn you."

"I have full faith that you and your men will
do what must be done," Wayne said. "And I promise you, once this
factory is operating, the entire police force of Bridgetown will be
outfitted with the very latest. A car for every man on the
job."

Sheriff White didn't verbally acknowledge
Wayne's promise. Nevertheless, Wayne knew he had him.

At the Lotus Boys' camp, Jesse watched the
others drink the lotus brew and fall under the spell of Black's
violin. He did not partake himself. Instead, he elected to stay at
the edge of the tumbleweed society, keeping his mind free from
distraction. An anxiety gnawed at his core. The sense of victory
that had coursed through him after the screening had proven
temporary, for the anesthetizing shock he'd experienced after
shooting the man in Los Angeles had worn off.

Now he heard the man's death-gurgle in his
nightmares, and he knew he needed to talk to Black.

One by one, the bandits' hallucinatory
jabberings gave way to sleepy murmurs half-spoken while they laid
on their sides. In a few more minutes, the camp was quiet at last,
and Jesse allowed himself the pleasure of listening to the
campfire's crackling.

He could go to Black now. He got up, walked
over to Black's tent, took a breath, and entered.

Inside, he found Black sitting, cross-legged,
his back to Jesse. That strange little antique mechanism sat on his
desk, as did a journal of notes scribbled in a cuneiform-like
shorthand Jesse didn't recognize.

"Evening, Jesse," Black said, still turned
away from him. "Something is on your mind. What is it?"

"I know things are going to get rough," Jesse
opened with. "We all feel that Bridgetown is going to split into
two. What happens to my brother when it does?"

"You know the game we're all playing," Black
replied. "I can't make any guarantees about his fate."

"What if we just put him in a crate, stick
him on a train, and send him to Mexico?"

"Jesse, your brother's will is as strong as
his intellect." At last, Black turned to face him, and he could
feel Black peering into his soul. "After you shot that man, you
began to have second thoughts about this campaign, didn't you?"

"I'm not a killer, Black."

"Yet, judging by your actions, you are."

It wasn't a personal slight. It was a bare
statement of fact, and for that reason, it was all the more a punch
to Jesse's gut. "I can't pretend what happened out there didn't,"
he replied. "I've played it out in my mind over and over again. But
I have to draw a line in the sand, here, now. Wayne's my brother. I
can't conspire to kill him, if that's what you have in mind."

"Then make him listen," Black countered.
"Convince him to abandon his misguided aspirations and live a
modest life. Show him he must get out of the way of the world."

Jesse felt as he did in dreams where he was
on stage before thousands and suddenly forgot how to play his
guitar. He felt like he'd gone off-script, and had no words.

"You are free to say anything in my
presence," Black reminded him.

"Okay," he said. "What happens when the
factory opens next week? I know we're going to disrupt it. When all
hell breaks loose, how do I know Susanna will be safe?"

"You'll get her to follow you. You two have a
history together."

Jesse knew better at this point than to be
surprised whenever Black revealed the extent of his knowledge.

"Bring her here," Black continued. "Where she
can do no harm to herself or the world."

The outlaw's words were beginning to rub
Jesse the wrong way. He couldn't shake the feeling that Black was
no longer asking Jesse how the Lotus Boys could help his cause, but
was instead telling him what to do.

"Why are you keeping me around?" Jesse
asked.

"How do you mean?"

Jesse tried to put his discontent into words
but found himself coming up short. "Nothing," he said at last.
"Never mind."

"You feel coerced." Black deduced,
interlocking his fingers and rested his chin on his hands. "I want
you to realize you're not my pawn, Jesse. You've offloaded any
sense of responsibility for actions you find distasteful. It's a
classic coping mechanism," Black went on, "But not a reflection of
fact. You made the choices that led to you shooting that man in Los
Angeles. It would be nothing short of cowardice to abandon your
greater goals now."

Jesse told Black that made sense to him, and
returned to his tent. That night, he felt colder than he had since
he fell through the rabbit-hole into the Darkness.

6.

I'm becoming the third wheel in my own story
,
Susanna thought.
This is bullshit
.

She got up from the table and looked out the
kitchen window, in time to see Wayne dash off to the factory in the
Mark II. She turned to face Martha, who was helping W.J. down from
his seat. The way Martha bent down to reach the boy was, well,
creaky. It was the movement of a woman whose joins had worn down
with overuse.