Disaster Among the Heavens, Don E Peavy Sr [reading rainbow books txt] 📗

detective on the City of Houston Police Department and how he had gone to law school at nights and on weekends to obtain his law degree and then, against the advice and counsel of his parents and friends, had joined the CIA in hopes of becoming the next Matt Helm. He cringed at the thought of his parents and friends chiding him with “I told you so’s.” His hopes had been dashed by this so-called “Black revolution” which had been sparked by a former CIA employee and which had resulted in all of its Black employees being placed on unpaid administrative leave -- all six of them, three of whom were chauffeurs.
His present life was not what he intended to achieve when he left Houston for Washington, D.C. and then Virginia – proving yet again the ever vast ocean between what humans intend and what they actualize. Perhaps it is in this instance that humans are most like their gods – they intend one thing but achieve another. No doubt the god of Moses intended to create a universe of order and beauty inhabited by life forms of sundry manifestations that all worked together in harmony to sustain and enlarge the glory of creation. Noble as those intentions must have been, even a blind child can see that the results do not match the plans. Always and forever is there a wide gap between the ideal and the real.
The gods are forced to admit that the material has a will of its own. Humans may be actors on the stage of life but they are forever improvising and straying from the script. Life forms subsist by killing and eating one another; universes bang into and out of existence all the time as stars go nova and planets disintegrate into asteroid fields. If there is an order to be found anywhere, it is in the regularity of the constant disorder of all existence.
All of this is best summarized in the wisdom of my grandmother who oft-times would say, “The road to hell is paved with well meaning people.” No doubt the gods mean well and envision us enjoying heaven, but it is hell that they have given us.
And hell is what Brown considered his present place of habitation. He lived two lives: the life he dreamed about and wrote about in his letters to his family and friends in Houston, and the life he suffered through each day. Consequently, he fought to hide the repulsion he felt toward his passenger as he took notice of him via the rear view mirror.
“Care for any coffee, sir?” The Chauffeur asked the director After letting down the glass window between him and the back seat. He looked through the rear-view mirror at the Director.
“No,” Landest answered in a sharp monotone. He did not turn away from gazing out of the window.
Landest paid no attention to Brown. Instead, he wondered what the President could possibly want with him so early in the morning. He desired to go straight to his Watergate apartment after spending the weekend with a sick wife at home in Williamsburg where he had received news that his former assistant had been discovered and killed in Chicago. …
“Would you like for me to stop along the way and get a newspaper?” The Chauffeur either did not understand the Director’s previous response or he was purposefully agitating him.
“Hell, no! I want to be left the hell alone!” boomed the Director.
The Chauffeur got the message this time for he hit the button with his fist and left it there until the window was all the way up. He said something under his breath, let his side window down and spit a mouthful of foaming substance out, let the window back up, then stared straight ahead as he continued on his journey in silence.
As for The Director, he returned to his thoughts. Images of his apartment and the woman he hoped to find there crystallized in his mind – easing for a brief moment the tension which had overcome him. July had been a very difficult month for him, especially since the President held him personally responsible for the riots in Chicago caused by his former employee and it was the cool Martinis and the feet rubs and the sweet passion of His Woman which had sustained him, especially during those times when he seriously contemplated leaving The Company, as the CIA is often referred to. And now, rather than being in her arms, he was on his way to meet with the one man other than his former employee whom he truly and completely hated.
Those thoughts and more occupied the minds of driver and passenger as the limousine turned into the long driveway of the White House and slowly approached the gate through which dignitaries and high-ranking officials enter and stop before two burly Marines. Still looking out of the window, Landest noticed several school children standing outside the gate being led in singing by a choirmaster. He pressed the button which let the window down enough for him to hear.
“Good morning to you! Good morning to you! We’re all in our places with sunshiny faces; oh this is the way, to start a new day!”
The Director was unimpressed. He forced the window back up and glanced at his watch. It was 6:20 a.m. Directing his attention straight ahead, he watched the car pull to the entry door and come to a stop. He remained motionless as did The Chauffeur. Finally, the Chauffeur looked at The Director through the rear-view mirror and the Director motioned his head towards the door. It took a few minutes but the translation registered in the Chauffeur’s mind and he lighted from the car and moved quickly to the Director’s door and opened it. This allowed Landest to rush into the White House without looking at the Chauffeur. Obviously, the act of Brown was one of duty and not courtesy deserving of thanks.
Once inside the White House, the Director was led to the Map Room by two Secret Service Agents who whispered to each other and said, “Sh-hhh-hhhh” to the Director whenever he tried to say something. The Agents were dressed alike: white suits with black western ties and matching handkerchiefs. They both wore black alligator cowboy boots. One was about six-foot-two and the other was five-ten. They wore crew cut hairstyles. Their eyes were hidden behind black shades in the shape of the State of Texas.
History and fame adorned the Map Room which was made famous by President Franklin D. Roosevelt who used it as a situation room during World War II. Hanging on the east wall is a rare 1755 French version of a map charted by colonial surveyors Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson (the father of Thomas Jefferson). It is the presence of this map which gives the room its name. On the west wall and above the sandstone mantle of the fireplace beside which Roosevelt delivered his first series of “fireplace chats” hangs “the last situation map prepared in this room” for Roosevelt.
“Just like him – a fanatic for overkill,” Landest thought to himself. Confusion continued to invade his mind as he struggled to figure out why he had been summoned to the White House so early on a Sunday morning. Images of his apartment and woman dissipated.
“The President commands you to read that report. He will join you shortly” the shorter of the two Agents thundered as he pointed to a report resting on the seat of a rose brocade Queen Anne chair in front of the fireplace.
“Some coffee, please,” the Director asked as he walked over to the chair, picked up the report and sat down.
“Sure,” said the taller Agent. He covered his face with his jacket and mumbled something which The Director could not make out. Within minutes, the Secretary of Agriculture arrived dressed in a tuxedo with all the trimmings and pushing a Victorian service cart on which coffee and doughnuts were displayed. He parked the cart between the fireplace and the chair in which the Director sat then left as quickly as he had arrived, followed by the Secret Service Agents.
Finally alone, the Director thought about His Woman. He looked for a telephone but there was not one in the room -- there were three -- all sitting atop the sandstone mantel to which he moved and picked up the one in the middle and dialled his apartment. There was an answer and his heart beat with joy.
“I’m sorry; this is a telephone company recording. The number you have reached is not in service. Please be sure you are calling the right number and try your call again.”
Frowning as he hung up the telephone, Landest again dialled his number. This time there was no answer. Why do women always do what you tell them to when you don’t want them to?, he asked himself. Ringing without end caused him to remember his instructions to His Woman not to answer his telephone for fear that his wife, or worst yet the President, might call.
Disappointed, he dropped the receiver to its cradle and went back to reclaim his seat where, after pouring himself a cup of coffee, he took the report out of its leather jacket and read the cover on which was printed, “Notes on a Great Society.”
The Director composed himself, took a long gulp from the mug of coffee and commenced the task of reading the report.
At several sentences he stopped in midstream and poured another cup of coffee or took a long gulp. The report made no sense to him. It appeared to be a manifesto from his Former Assistant in which he set forth what he thought America ought to do to solve its “race problem.” “The problem of the twentieth century is the race problem,” it opened.
Why am I reading this? That bastard is dead. To hell with this shit. The Director flipped through the remaining pages of the report, got up from his chair and returned to the telephones, where he again selected the middle one and this time dialled the room of His Woman instead of his apartment.
“Hellooooo!”
His heart leapt with joy at the sound of His Woman’s voice.
“Hi, honey,” he shouted into the receiver. Sheepishly, he surveyed the room to insure that he was still alone in the room.
“Sorry, I ain’t here. Wait for the little beep and do your thang.”
His face turned sanguine as the Director realized the voice was a recording.
“I’m going to kill that woman!” exclaimed the Director out loud. This time he did not care if anyone heard him. He felt as if he had just discovered he was the victim of a confidence game. Disappointed, he listened to the remainder of the message then left his own.
“Hi, honey. I am at the White House. Hope to see you soon. Bye now.” He let the receiver fall gently to its cradle as he returned to his seat and resumed scanning the report.
A loud trumpet blast startled him. Quickly, he closed the report and shoved it into its leather jacket and pressed the seal closed. Two Marines entered and stood each to one side of the door through which three generals and an admiral, two colonels, three men in suits, and two women with stenography machines entered followed by a small, stocky fellow who in a thunderous voice declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, The President of the United States!”
Landest jumped to his feet as The President entered.