Sympathy for the Devil

“All right, boy, tell me what his answer was,” said the old man without preamble.

Markie gulped for air and nodded. “He says-your servant should be failed because of his father, and the rule about the two and three generations. And he’s committed adultery about the flesh, and his son died, and that’s why.” Markie sank down on the sand, stretching out his tired legs. The old man put his head on one side and stared fixedly into space for a moment.

“Hmm,” he said. “Point taken. Very well. Go back and find Smith. Tell him he may therefore afflict my servant with wasting disease, and set scandal to defile his good name. Further, that he may confound his judgment among the nations. Go, boy, and tell him that.”

Markie didn’t want to go anywhere, and he was just tired enough to open his mouth in protest. Before he could make a sound he felt the soft sand begin to run and sink under him, and in terror he scrambled away on all fours. It didn’t seem wise not to keep going once he’d started, so once he reached the hard sand he got to his feet and limped away down the beach, muttering to himself.

He left the beach and had started up the ramp at Ocean View before he remembered that the Andersons’ dog was loose. Turning, he picked his way along the top of the seawall, balancing precariously and stepping around the loose bricks. Jumping from the end, he wandered through the courtyard of another small motel, pausing to duck into its row of phone booths and carefully checking to see if any change had been left in the Coin Return compartment. If none had, sometimes a punch at the Coin Return lever sent a couple of nickels cascading down; this was another good way to get money. The third booth rewarded his efforts mightily. Not only did he coax a nickel out of the phone, somebody had dropped a dime and it had fallen and stuck between the booth’s ventilation slits near the floor. Markie’s fingers were little enough to prize it out. He pocketed his small fortune and strolled on along the seafront, feeling pleased with himself.

At the snackbar at the foot of the pier he paused and bought a bottle of Seven-Up. The laconic counterman took off the bottlecap for him and thrust a straw down the neck. Markie carried the bottle carefully to the railings above the sand and sat with his legs dangling through the rails, sipping and not thinking. When the bottle was empty he held it up to his eye like a telescope and surveyed the world, emerald green, full of uncertain shapes. The view absorbed him for a while. He was pulled back to earth by the sound of shouting. One of the shouting voices belonged to Ro

Ro

“You were drunk!” the other man was telling Ro

“Fuck you!” Ro

“Oh, that’s some great way to talk when you want your job back,” the man laughed harshly, pulling open the car door and getting inside. “It sure is. So you haven’t had a drink in two years? So what exactly was that you puked up all over Unit Three, you goddam bum?” He slammed the door and started up his car.

“Come on, man!” Ro

Markie slunk into the arcade, and for a moment the din was almost welcome. At least nobody was fighting in there. He squared his shoulders and marched down the ramp, down into the room where there was no day or night.

Smith was waiting for him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His cigarette was canted up under his nose at a jaunty angle.

“You deliver my answer?” he inquired. Markie nodded. Smith leaned back and exhaled slowly, two long jets of smoke issuing from his nose. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them his attention was riveted on Markie, suddenly interested. “Hey. What’s your name, kid?”

“Markie Souza.”

“Souza, huh?” Smith narrowed his eyes and pulled at his beard. “So you’re a Portugee, huh? Boy, your people have been cheated by some experts. You know it was the Portuguese who discovered the New World really? And a lot of other places, too. They never get credit for it, though. The Spanish and the Italians grabbed all the glory for themselves. Your people used to have a big empire, kid, did you know that? And it was all stolen from them. Mostly by the English, but the Spanish had a hand in that too. Next time you see some Mexican kid, you ought to bounce a rock off his head. You aren’t all Portuguese, though, are you, with that skin?” Smith leaned forward again, studying Markie. “What are you? What’s your mother, kid?”

“She’s Irish,” Markie told him.

“Well, Irish!” Smith gri

“Okay,” said Markie faintly. The smoke was making him sick. “But the man said to tell you some other stuff.”

“What’d he say?”

“That you can do bad things to his servant. Waste and disease, and, uh, scandal. And something about confining his judgment of nations.”

“All right,” Smith nodded. “All right, that’s fair. Will do.” He made a circle out of his thumb and index finger and held it up in an affirmative gesture. “But… ask him if he doesn’t think we ought to up the ante a little. So what if I punish one si

Markie didn’t know what to say, so he nodded in agreement. Smith stuck his cigarette back between his teeth and laced his gnarled fingers together, popping the knuckles.

“O-kay! We got a whole nation suddenly figuring out that racial injustice is bad, and poverty is bad, and reaching for the stars is good, right? Except they damn well knew that already, they just didn’t bother to do anything about it until a pretty boy in the White House a

Markie nodded and ran. It was a lot to remember and the words kept turning in his head. He emerged into the brilliant sunlight and stood, dazzled, until he realized that he was still clutching the empty Seven-Up bottle. With a purposeful trot he started up Pomeroy Avenue. The phone booth behind the Peppermint Twist lounge yielded a Nesbitts bottle, and there were two Coca-Cola bottles in the high grass next to the Chinese restaurant, and three pe

“Eight cents,” she a

“Okay,” he said cheerfully, and moved down the counter to the candy display next to the big humidor case. The front of the display was tin rolls of Lifesavers, carefully enameled to look like the real thing. He pretended to grab up a roll of Butter Rum and tugged in feigned surprise when it remained riveted in place. The patience in Mary Beth’s eyes was withering, so he stopped playing and picked out five wax tubes filled with colored juice. Mary Beth gave him his three cents in change and took up her magazine again. He stepped out on the hot pavement and hurried down to the beach.