the Third Twin (1996)

Preston went on: “We’ve been going through a process called disclosure. We have to open our books to Landsmann’s accountants, and tell them about anything that might affect future profits, such as debtors who are going bust, or pending lawsuits.”

“We don’t have any of those, I take it?” Jim said.

Preston gave him an ominous look. “We all know this company has secrets.”

There was a moment of silence in the room. Then Jim said: “Hell, that’s a long way in the past.”

“So what? The evidence of what we did is out there walking around.”

“But there’s no way Landsmann can find out about it—especially in a week.”

Preston shrugged as if to say “Who knows?”

“We have to take that risk,” Berrington said firmly. “The injection of capital we’ll get from Landsmann will enable us to accelerate our research program. In a couple of years’ time we will be able to offer affluent white Americans who come to our clinics a genetically engineered perfect baby.”

“But how much difference will it make?” Preston said. “The poor will continue to breed faster than the rich.”

“You’re forgetting Jim’s political platform,” Berrington said.

Jim said: “A flat income tax rate of ten percent, and compulsory contraceptive injections for women on welfare.”

“Think of it, Preston,” Berrington said. “Perfect babies for the middle classes, and sterilization for the poor. We could start to put America’s racial balance right again. It’s what we always aimed for, ever since the early days.”

“We were very idealistic then,” Preston said.

“We were right!” Berrington said.

“Yes, we were right. But as I get older, more and more I start to think the world will probably muddle along somehow even if I don’t achieve everything I planned when I was twenty-five.”

This kind of talk could sabotage great endeavors. “But we can achieve what we planned,” Berrington said. “Everything we’ve been working toward for the last thirty years is within our grasp now. The risks we took in the early days, all these years of research, the money we’ve spent—it’s all coming to fruition at last. Don’t get an attack of nerves at this point, Preston!”

“I don’t have bad nerves, I’m pointing out real, practical problems,” Preston said peevishly. “Jim can propose his political platform, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

‘That’s where Landsmann comes in,” Jim said. “The cash we’ll get for our shares in the company will give us a shot at the biggest prize of all.”

“What do you mean?” Preston looked puzzled, but Berrington knew what was coming, and he smiled.

“The White House,” Jim said. “I’m going to run for president.”

4

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT, STEVE LOGAN PARKED his rusty old Datsun on Lexington Street in the Hollins Market neighborhood of Baltimore, west of downtown. He was going to spend the night with his cousin Ricky Menzies, who was studying medicine at the University of Maryland in Baltimore. Ricky’s home was one room in a big old house tenanted by students.

Ricky was the greatest hell-raiser Steve knew. He loved to drink, dance, and party, and his friends were the same. Steve had been looking forward to spending the evening with Ricky. But the trouble with hell-raisers was that they were inherently unreliable. At the last minute Ricky got a hot date and canceled, and Steve had spent the evening alone.

He got out of the car, carrying a small sports bag with fresh clothes for tomorrow. The night was warm. He locked the car and walked to the corner. A bunch of youngsters, four or five boys and a girl, all black, were hanging out by a video store, smoking cigarettes. Steve was not nervous, although he was white: he looked as if he belonged here, with his old car and his faded blue jeans; and anyway he was a couple of inches taller than the biggest of them. As he passed, one of them said quietly but distinctly: “Wanna buy some blow, wanna buy some rock?” Steve shook his head without pausing in his stride.

A very tall black woman was walking toward him, dressed to kill in a short skirt and spike-heeled shoes, hair piled high, red lipstick and blue eye shadow. He could not help staring at her. As she came closer she said, “Hi, handsome,” in a deep masculine voice, and Steve realized it was a man. He grinned and walked on.

He heard the kids on the corner greet the transvestite with easy familiarity. “Hey, Dorothy!”

“Hello, boys.”

A moment later he heard tires squeal and glanced back. A white police car with a silver-and-blue stripe was pulling up at the corner. Some of the kids melted away into the dark streets; others stayed. Two black patrolmen got out, in no hurry. Steve turned around to watch. Seeing the man called Dorothy, one of the patrolmen spat, hitting the toe of a red high-heeled shoe.

Steve was shocked. The act was so gratuitous and unnecessary. However, Dorothy hardly paused in his stride. “Fuck you, asshole,” he muttered.