The Silverback Society

by Jeffrey Greene

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

“Actually, he did scare off his wife of thirty-odd years,” the older man said, taking an expensive cigar out of his breast pocket, smelling it, and then putting it back. “I’ll get to her in a minute. But you have to admit, the crazy pilot theory was just plausible enough to spice the gumbo, wasn’t it? The Post’s investigation of Derossett’s story was inconclusive, because Byron McAllister, the private helicopter pilot who seemed like the only guy in D.C. airspace that morning who might have been mentally disturbed enough to drop a twenty-pound gorilla head on a residential neighborhood, had already committed suicide by the time the first edition of The Teachings of Pongo came out, which was a damn lucky break for our budding cult leader.

“Now, I’ve always thought that the Pongo story is the core of the whole myth. He’s standing out in his back yard one Sunday morning in October, the author tells us in his stentorian prose style, a puttering, hen-pecked, semi-retiree, quietly refilling his bird feeder, when the mysterious bust lands practically at his feet, just missing his head. If it had hit him, he marvels to his court biographer, the most elite, secretive and powerful men’s club in the country — counting among its members, we now know, the current Speaker of the House — would never have existed.

“But the Great Silverback in the Sky decrees that old Dan will be struck with a vision instead of a large chunk of ironwood. The shock and elation following such a close call, combined with vivid memories of his former encounters with gorillas in zoos and on television, induces his eureka moment, and the Silverback Society is born on the same day, springing fully formed from the brow of Dan.”

Ira finished his drink and ordered another. “And that most sacred relic, Pongo: I suppose he’s on permanent display at the Society headquarters downtown?”

The older man chuckled. “Are you kidding? Since the Speaker and half the CEOs in the Fortune 500 entered the fold, guarding the secret of its whereabouts has become a matter of national security. My source inside tells me that one of the subordinate male ‘apes’ in Dan’s ‘troop’ — yes, his aides are called apes, and it’s a signal honor to be one of the chosen — who secretly aspires to the Sterling Silverback position, has told him that old Dan disappears into an underground vault on his Potomac estate every morning at the same time. While the guy has no proof that the bust is inside the vault, no one else has ever been allowed in there, and Dan always comes out looking inspired and energized.”

“No wonder they keep it a secret,” Ira remarked. “It’s weird enough that he talks to a wooden gorilla head every morning. But if it’s talking back to him, that would be conclusive proof that a man who has the ear of the President is a lunatic.”

“I recently talked to his ex-wife, Ellen,” the older man said. “Six years ago, she was awarded a lavish divorce settlement, and now lives in a tony retirement village in Las Vegas. My informant tells me that her decided lack of deference to her husband scared the hell out of the inner circle, and getting her out of the picture became their top priority. I mean, if any of the high-profile members were to witness the Big Silverback being chewed out by the First Gorilla, well, you can imagine the blowback.

“Personally, I found her attitude refreshing. ‘If he were just crazy or depressed, I could forgive him,’ she told me, ‘but the truth is, my husband had the worst case of male menopause the world has ever seen. Instead of buying a sports car or having an affair, he started a cult. And don’t believe his lies about nearly getting brained by that damned bust. He was out for a walk when he supposedly found it in the woods. I still think he bought it for two dollars at some garage sale and then made up the rest. It’s too bad they were never able to question that pilot who killed himself. It might have nipped all this nonsense in the bud.’”

“And speaking of nonsense,” Ira said. “What’s this I hear about these copycat men’s clubs springing up all over town?”

“Oh, it’s true. When my informant received his highly coveted invitation to join the Society, which I think you know comes in the form of a somewhat smaller copy of Pongo left on your doorstep, and he called the phone number printed on the base of the bust, the recruiter warned him that as a potential recruit to the Silverback Society, he would be aggressively courted by the competition. And who might they be? my informant wanted to know. Rival clubs with different goals.

“For example, there’s the Purple Federation, a mandrill admiration society, many of whose members are right-wing politicians and career military men. Or how about the Old Men of the Woods, a rather secretive and loosely-organized group of heavy hitters in the environmental movement inspired by the solitary habits of the orangutan, a club about which very little is known, since they have no headquarters and have never actually met under one roof. And then there’s the Bonobo Club, composed of rich old men whose monthly meetings, honoring the randiest of all primates, the Bonobo chimp, are a boon to the local escort services. The cancer is definitely spreading.”

“Well, you have your mole inside,” Ira said. “And I assume he’s doing his best to become one of the fair-haired apes in the troop, or whatever you call a bunch of grown men pretending to be gorillas. An exposé will bust the whole thing wide open. What do you need me for?”

The older man finally clipped the end of his twenty-dollar cigar and lit it. Carefully blowing the smoke away from Ira, he said, “You’re the top aide of one of the few Congressmen with the clout to publicly denounce the Speaker’s involvement with the Silverbacks. Given what I’ve shown you, and the much more I’ll hopefully have for you soon, would you be amenable to nudging the Congressman toward launching an investigation of Dan Derossett and the Silverback Society, as I understand he’s privately threatened to do one more than one occasion?”

After first glancing around the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping, Ira said quietly, “In spirit, the Congressman is already amenable. The problem for us is that Dan Derossett has carefully solidified an image in the public mind as a champion of the gorilla’s essentially peace-loving way of life. To the average person, the silverback gorilla has replaced Man as Nature’s best model of the wise, strong but gentle leader, who uses his size and threatening appearance to bluff his opponent into backing down rather than resorting to violence. Even the President has found it politically advantageous to present not only himself but the United States as the Great Silverback among nations, ‘ten times stronger, ten times gentler’ than any other country on earth.

“Of course, you and I know that in Washington, Moscow, Beijing, Tokyo, Paris and London, it’s the chimps that are in charge, not the gorillas. But the voters have their illusions and, for the moment, that illusion is too strong to challenge. However, if you can give me something substantive to show the Congressman, I think I can promise you that a push for hearings will begin very soon afterward.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Shalwitz. In fact, that’s more than we could have hoped for,” the older man said as they stood up and shook hands. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.” He put on his hat and overcoat, then picked up his cigar and turned to leave. “Have another drink if you’d like,” he said. “It’s on my tab.”

“Thanks. And call me on the same cell phone number as soon as you have something to tell me,” Ira said. “Any time of the day or night, and don’t leave a message if I don’t pick up.”

“Understood. And thanks again. Your part in this won’t be forgotten.” He walked out trailing the fragrant aroma of fine Cuban tobacco.

Ira Shalwitz reached into his coat pocket and slipped on the signet ring he’d taken off before the meeting. He took it on and off quite frequently in the course of a day, depending on the company he was keeping, an expediency he hoped wouldn’t be necessary much longer. He dialed a number on his cell phone, and when it was answered he said, “The mole is confirmed. No identity yet, but Van Leer is definitely running him. Probably among the recent inductees. Shouldn’t be too hard to weed him out.” He turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket. He sipped the last of his drink, nervously turning the ring over and back on his finger, enjoying the familiar rough texture of Pongo’s snarling visage, carved in minute detail on the black onyx stone set into the heavy silver, a gift from the Sterling Silverback himself. Feeling the stone warm under his touch always calmed him. “Like a monk with his prayer beads,” he thought, smiling at his modest pun.

Twelve Weeks Later

Only his closest aides knew that Dan Derossett’s underground vault, the room inside of which no one but himself and the builders had ever seen, was an exact replica of his beloved sun porch at the old house in Bethesda, down to the screen panels through which he could see on the walls beyond a life-sized photographic montage of his back yard.

He sat in his lawn chair, as he did every morning, sipping coffee and reading his daily paper and half-expecting Ellen to open the sliding door and ask him to do some household chore for her. He found himself missing her more than ever lately, even if he knew that his destiny could never have been realized with her at his side. Love and marriage, the modest dream of the great mass of men, were Circean snares to a Silverback, whose massive shoulders were just strong enough to bear the burden of leadership in the hostile jungle of the modern world.

The only comfort he allowed himself was this private diorama of his former life, where he could spend a precious hour or two in private communion with Pongo, his inspiration, his mentor, and above all, his friend. He folded his paper carefully and laid it on the glass table beside his chair, then turned for the first time and glanced over at Pongo, who still rested on the pedestal he’d built with his own hands twelve years before, half-hidden by the same potted palm and bamboo shoots that used to grow on his old back porch. Grow lights kept them alive now; it was too bad the light down here wasn’t better, but it couldn’t be helped. He always waited respectfully for Pongo to speak first and never looked him in the eye, having learned from long experience that a submissive patience was usually rewarded with an audience.

“My heart is heavy, old friend,” Pongo said at last in his whispery rumble. “A traitor in our midst! It taxes one’s faith, does it not?”

“It does indeed, Pongo. For the first time in my life, I really feel old. But you told me once that a man may measure his success by the number of his enemies.”

“And have you names for these enemies?”

“I do now. The name of the spy and the one who sent him.”

“And you want my advice on how to deal with them.”

“If it is your pleasure to give it.”

“Men hang traitors and spies, but what does a silverback do?”

“You don’t have traitors, do you?”

“No, only usurpers, only would-be silverbacks. Those unworthy of the honor are driven away from the troop, never killed. Only men and chimpanzees kill each other. So you tell me, Dan, what must be done to make us safe from those who would destroy us?”

“I don’t know. I know we can’t kill them, and driving them away won’t silence them.”

“Then kill their reputations. Make the public see them as traitors, destroyers of a great good. The Speaker is with us. We have allies on the Supreme Court, in Congress. The traitors’ lies and misinformation threaten the very future of this great nation. Aren’t there laws to protect us from such implacable enemies of America?”

“Yes, yes, of course there are. I’ll mention it to the Speaker when I see him today. I’m certain he’ll help us. Thank you, Pongo. Talking with you... well, it always clarifies things. It’s the high point of my day.”

“And mine, Dan.”

“Until tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me, and not a moment longer.”

Twelve Days Later

It came through the windshield like a cannonball, hitting the passenger seat with an impact that would have killed anyone sitting there, then rebounded to the floor. But Erika Linn didn’t panic or swerve off the road. The rush-hour traffic on I-95 didn’t allow her the luxury of panic.

She kept driving, struggling to see through the cracked glass, until she reached her exit and got off, then pulled into a convenience store parking lot to calm down and collect herself. Brushing glass shards off her dress, she reached down and picked up what had gone through her windshield: a small, heavy wooden carving, depicting, of all things, a female bear and two cubs, the sow reared up in anger at some threat to her young.

As outraged and shaken up as she was, Erika found herself fascinated by the carving’s intricately detailed beauty. “It’s a grizzly bear,” she decided. “Has to be.”

Brushing the glass off the ruined seat, she carefully set the carving upright and started the car. It was only after she pulled into her driveway and saw with a sick feeling in her stomach that her husband’s car was gone again, that she realized something that made her tremble: there weren’t any bridges or overpasses around when the carving came through her windshield. It had fallen from the sky, from a plane or a helicopter, maybe. And it could have killed her, but it hadn’t.

She picked up the little bear family and held them in her hands, and as she felt the carving’s dense and somehow comforting weight, she thought of her worthless, philandering excuse for a husband and the humiliating sham her marriage had become, and felt the first healing surge of long-suppressed rage.