Yeah? Stanley says. Do I get anything out of this deal?
From the deal, Charlie says, you get a meal you don’t have to steal. Probably half the guys who talk to Larry just do it for the chow. Then they badmouth him behind his back. It makes me sort of sick, honestly. I always tell them: stow your romantic bullshit, because that is what a real writer looks like. Larry’s published novels. He’s written for the movies, and for TV. I have to admit, it’s not always pretty. It’s not always subtle. But he chose to be here. He didn’t just wash ashore, like the rest of us. He believes in the reality of Moloch, and he came here to resist him.
A thin shrill sound comes from the boardwalk—a child crying—and a small spherical shadow sweeps over the sand. Stanley glances up in time to see a white helium balloon pass overhead; then he loses it in the sun. By the arcades the woman with the baby-carriage is stooped, talking to her bawling kid. He can’t hear what she’s saying. The kid wails louder. Well, Stanley says, thanks for letting me know. I’ll look him up.
Charlie’s demeanor has shifted. His mouth works like a rabbit’s; he seems sickly-pale beneath his tan. Larry gets Moloch, he says. He understands how he works, what he wants. Larry thinks you can steal the language back from Moloch and use it against him. I’m not so sure. I think it might be spoiled for good. Because I’ve seen Moloch, you know? I’ve seen him in the world. It isn’t hard, once you know how. I saw him when I was just a child, in the library in Boston. Bull-horned. Furnace-fisted. As in the gold mosaic of a wall. Later I saw him in Europe, too. I’d look down from the ballturret, and there he’d be. Lit by hellfire. Accepting his sacrifices. I think he comes to eliminate the surplus children, and that means he’ll be everywhere soon. Trot out all the sociology you like: I’m talking about a literal demon. A demon that lives off complacency and fear.
The kid on the boardwalk is stamping its feet in a tantrum, screaming like it’s being murdered; the kid in the carriage has started to cry, too. Stanley shifts his weight, impatient and uncomfortable. So, he says, pointing to the tube of paper in Charlie’s hand. What’s that you got there, Charlie?
Charlie’s confused for a second. Then he brightens, passing his bottle to Stanley, unrolling the tube. A going-away present for Alex, he says. See?
It’s a promotional notice for a movie called Cowboy, starring Glenn Ford and Jack Lemmon. The long yellow poster shows the two men in their cowboy duds, one huge in the foreground, the other tiny in the background; Stanley can’t remember which actor is which. He has a hard time believing anybody would make a movie with a title as boring as Cowboy. The poster’s tagline reads, It’s really the best because it’s really the West!
Nice, Stanley says. Alex likes horse operas, huh?
Charlie rolls up the poster, takes the bottle back, and grins. No, man, he says. I don’t think he gives a damn about them one way or another.
He takes another sip. The woman with the baby-carriage slaps her screaming kid across the face, and it shuts up. Stanley’s aware of the waves at his back; they sound like distant fireworks. Well, he says, I better move along. I’ll see you later, Charlie.
Be sure to visit Larry Lipton! Charlie calls after him. Get your free meal!
Stanley doesn’t turn around. He makes his way to the boardwalk, angling toward the penny-arcade where he played pinball two nights ago while waiting for the fish. He wonders for a second if Claudio’s made it back to the hideout yet—if he’s wondering where Stanley is, if he’s been having a great goddamn time—but then he puts it out of his mind. By now the boardwalk has filled with slumming weekenders: beachcombers with metal-detectors, respectable Lawrence Welk fans, junior-grade officers and their girls. In another few hours the sun will drop and the moon will rise, these people will disappear, and all the usual werewolves will come out.
The penny-arcade is bustling, but nowhere near packed. Stanley hopes the Dogs will be around—he wants to get moving on the junk for Alex—but it’s all flattops and crewcuts inside, nary a duck’s-ass or a dollop of grease to be seen. Funny, he thinks. They’ll probably turn up later.