Tympans of Temples Held

September 8th, 1958

Elizabeth realized that she might have made a big mistake in coming here.

As she stepped into the center aisle of the Fleet Hall, a spotlight blazed to life, illuminating a small circle in the center of the stage. There was a woman haloed in the glare. She was strapped into a harness, dangling at least thirty feet above the stage. Other women lined the left and right aisles, going over pages of sheet music and doing their best to ignore the girl dangling in midair.

There was blood on the stage, and in one corner, a phonograph skipping on a record. Elizabeth swallowed hard.

"FITZPATRICK!" shrieked Sander Cohen, hidden in the shadows. His voice seemed to reverberate from the darkness. "ANOTHER SONG."

Somewhere backstage, a winch began to turn. The woman in the harness rose another few feet. Another figure in a rabbit mask adjusted the record on the phonograph, and when the music began, the woman started to sing...

"This is a changing world, my dear... New songs are sung — new stars appear... though we grow older year by year, our hearts can still be gay..."

As the woman sang, she was steadily lowered towards the stage. Then she wavered on a particularly high note, and Cohen howled:

"NO! No no no no this is all WRONG! FITZPATRICK!"

The woman in the harness let out an anguished sob. "Oh Jesus Christ, Mr. Cohen, please no..."

Someone released the winch. Elizabeth watched in horror as the woman fell, screaming, towards the stage. She hit the ground and Elizabeth heard her body crack, watched fat bruise over broken bones. Blood began to run across the hardwood, and the woman did not move again

Several attendants hurried onto the stage and cleaned up the body. The harness swung limply from the rafters.

"Bring me another!" commanded Cohen. "I can't stomach these paltry mountebanks and their caterwauling!"

The other girls shifted. One of them began to cry. But no one looked up from their sheet music, and no one approached the stage.

Elizabeth glanced behind her. The splicer, Cobb, was standing at the entrance to the Fleet Hall. He held a pipe wrench in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other. When he saw her, he grinned. His pillbox teeth gleamed in his raw, red mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips.

Elizabeth braced herself. Then she walked towards the stage.

She understood the mechanisms of Cohen's trial: the singers started their performances at roof height, and were gradually lowered if Cohen approved of the performance. If the show didn't make par, the winch was released, and the singer fell. The better the performance, the lower the fall.

Elizabeth had fallen before. But now Booker wasn't there to catch her. She had seen to that.

"Is there another?" purred Cohen, somewhere in the audience, hidden behind the beam of the spotlight.

Elizabeth climbed the stage. She placed the harness over her shoulders and glared at the empty auditorium.

"Just get it over with, Cohen," she muttered.

Fitzpatrick procured another record. He took a step towards the phonograph. Elizabeth shook her head.

"I don't need that."

Fitzpatrick took a deep bow and retreated behind the curtains. And then he began to turn the winch. Elizabeth's shoulders and back ached as she rose higher into the air. She tried to hold herself upright, fighting against the pressure on her chest. Above the glare, she saw Cohen sitting in one of the theater boxes. Even in the darkness, his mad eyes glittered.