Potboiler

“You didn’t let me finish what I was saying. One of the hallmarks of a successful businessman is his ability to assimilate new information and make creative use of adversity. Don’t feel bad about being caught. No way you could’ve anticipated it, because while I knew you were in town, of course, it never occurred to me to pick you up until Sunday. I made what you Americans call a ‘game-time decision.’” Thithyich stubbed out his cigarette. “Getting shot was uncomfortable enough, but the damage from a public-relations point of view has been much worse. In my universe, you see, the most valuable asset is respect. I can’t take what people say about me lightly. I can’t have people saying, ‘Thithyich is vulnerable, he’s gone soft. . . .’ It’s bad for business. What’s bad for my business is bad for the economy and therefore bad for the whole country. People know I’ve been shot. They know no one has been punished. It’s created all sorts of stickiness vis-à-vis my ‘ruthless’ image. Really, I’ve been terribly put out. I’ve gone so far as to hire a consulting firm, which ought to tell you a lot, because normally I hate that sort of thing. The groupthink makes my skin crawl. I have to say, though, I was impressed with the clarity of their findings, and while I’m sure you won’t be thrilled with their recommendations, they were unequivocal: the best way for me to revive my ‘bloodthirsty’ persona, or whatever, is to demonstrate that I’m just as capable of lashing out with indiscriminate violence as I ever was. They project a five-to-ten-point bump with a public execution. But here’s the interesting twist: executing a famous or prominent person gives an extra two to three points. I suppose it has to do with perceptions of power and so forth, i.e., ‘a famous person is powerful, therefore the person who kills the famous person is perforce more powerful.’”

“I’m not famous,” Pfefferkorn said. “I’m not prominent.”

“My dear sir, you most certainly are. At the moment, you’re the hottest writer around.”

“Nobody cares about writers,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Zlabians do,” Thithyich said. “Literature has been powering our ethnic strife for some four centuries. Ah—ah—please. No whining. I understand why you’d find these conclusions disagreeable, but data are data, n’est-ce pas? It’s nothing ‘personal.’ So, right. I do hope you can manage to enjoy yourself a bit today, because tomorrow you will be shot, publicly. Apologies for the short notice. Have a pleasant day.”

86.

Pfefferkorn was driven to death row in a metallic purple limousine. They took the scenic route. Savory rode along to point out East Zlabia’s many attractions. Old Town had been restored to its former glory, with brand-new artificially weathered cobblestones and new cornices and gargoyles for the cathedral. Everything was nightmarishly quaint. There was nobody strolling. Nobody was throwing coins into the fountains. The limo cruised past lush public parks filled with blemish-free flowers. Nobody was sunbathing. Nobody was tossing the Frisbee around. They passed the opera house, the museum of modern art, ZlabiDisney, the shopping district—all empty. It was as if a neutron bomb had fallen, leaving a perfect stillness, perfectly chilling.

Just as Pfefferkorn was about to ask where everybody was, the limo turned the corner onto what could be described only as the Las Vegas Strip unfettered by good taste. The chauffeur slowed to five miles per hour, allowing Pfefferkorn to drink it all in. He counted eleven separate casinos. There was an Oliver Twist–themed one. There was a Genghis Khan–themed one. There was a Las Vegas–themed one, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of the Strip. Next door was a casino whose theme was the very street they were driving on, its frontage occupied by a one-eighth scale model of everything around them, including a one-eighth scale model of the Las Vegas–themed casino complete with a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the Las Vegas Strip and adjacent to a one-eighth scale model of the casino on which the model was located that in turn featured a one-sixty-fourth scale model of the street they were driving on that in turn featured a one-five-hundred-twelfth scale model of the casino on which the model of the model was located. Pfefferkorn assumed there were further models embedded in that model. He wasn’t close enough to tell, and his sight line was then blocked by a seventy-foot-high LED marquee touting an upcoming performance by a 1970s rock supergroup he had thought defunct.