22
The Necrophobe
Colt awoke with the worst hangover in recent memory. Be fore even opening his eyes, he knew that this was going to be an
other very bad day. A thick coating of sour slime lay over his tongue, and his eyes were crusted shut. Groaning, he tried to pry them open, but light pouring into his retinas made him cringe, and he hid his head under the blankets. He had fallen asleep on the couch, he realized. In the apartment. Where had he been? What had he been doing?
Oh yes—he remembered now. How many Scotches had he had? Endless. Wait now. Here came a memory, as fuzzy as an old movie. There had been a lengthy, if somewhat incoherent, conver sation with someone in the bar. That’s right. An old, heavily tat tooed man. A war hero, though from which war he couldn’t remember. Possibly the Revolution. He was that old. They’d bought each other beers and slapped each other on the back, com miserating on the faithlessness of women. The veteran had been divorced three times, he’d said. Colt vaguely recalled pouring out the whole story of Francie in a great, big soppy mess, a recollec
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tion that caused him to wince now with embarrassment. He’d grown emotional and weepy. Good Lord. How many Scotches? He began to remember—they’d killed most of a bottle between them. Enough to poison a horse.
“Jesus Christ,” Colt said, into the stale air of the apartment. “Jesus Christ is right,” said a voice, from the other side of the
room.
Colt sat up as quickly as he could—which was not quickly at all—and tried to look around. Squinting and blinking, he could make out someone seated in the far corner of the room. At the same time, he became aware of a tremendous need to urinate. It was so bad he knew that he was only a step away from wetting himself.
“Who the fuck are you?” Colt said.
Before the answer could come, he struggled to his feet and went into the bathroom, where he released a thunderous cataract of urine into the bowl. From that position, he was just able to turn his head far enough to see the person’s foot as they sat in the chair, waiting for him to come out.
“Hello?” he called. “Who is that?” There was no answer.
Colt pissed for nearly a full minute. Finally, he came out of the bathroom, clad only in his underwear, greatly relieved now; and there, as cool as a cucumber, was the neighbor from Pennsylvania, that short, hairy little guy with the tow truck. What was his name again? Colt blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Flebberman?” said Colt. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment? How did you get in here?”
“You left the door unlocked,” Flebberman said. “Here I was ready to wait all morning for you ta come out, and you made it so easy for me.” He wrinkled his nose. “You musta really been tanked last night. You smell like a bum.”
“I—I left the door open?” “Yup.”
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“And so you just walked in?” “Yup.”
Colt rubbed his face. He collapsed on the couch again, his stom ach rebelling. He wanted to lie down again, and if it hadn’t been for the incongruity of Flebberman in his place, he would have.
“I’m confused,” said Colt.
“Lemme see if I can explain it for ya,” said Flebberman. He got up and crossed the room, and then Colt felt something cold and hard smash into his left cheekbone. The pain blinded him, and he fell on his side onto the cushions of the couch, struggling to re main conscious. For a long moment afterward, embarrassingly, all he could do was whine. He had never been hit that hard before. It stunned him so badly that he felt almost as if he was about to float out of his body. It even seemed, for an instant, that he did, and that he could see himself lying there, and Flebberman stand ing over him.
“Hey,” said Flebberman, shaking him by the shoulder. “Don’t pass out on me. You got a big day ahead of you.”
“Unh,” said Colt. “Why—why’d you hit me?”
“You’ll find out, shitbird,” said Flebberman. “Sit up. C’mon. Get dressed.”
The little man’s voice was quaking with anger. Colt pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face now numb, an alarm bell going off inside his skull.
“Oh, my God,” he groaned. Tears of pain dripped down his cheeks.
“Yeah,” said Flebberman. “Start prayin’.” “What—what did you hit me with?”
Flebberman pulled a pistol out of his snowsuit and showed it to him quickly before tucking it back in. “That,” he said.
“You have a gun?”
“You better believe it. That li’l tap was t’ letcha know I’m seri ous.”
“What—what’s going on?”
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“Yer gonna find out,” said Flebberman. “Now I’m tellin’ ya one more time. Putcher fuckin’ clothes on.”
A flash came to him then—he had it. “This is about that ceme tery, isn’t it,” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,” said Flebberman. “You better believe it.” “How did you even know where I live?”
“Yer wife.”
“Francie told you where to find me? Did you—did you hurt her?”
“Hell, no. I like yer wife. She deserves better ’n you. She wrote me a check. It had this address on it. Now get up offa there and get dressed. Move slow.”
Colt got up.
“Can you hand me my pants?” he said. He could feel his face al ready swelling. “They’re on the chair behind you. You were sitting on them.”
Flebberman reached behind him without looking and felt for his pants. He tossed them over and Colt worked his legs into them.
“Get the rest a yer clothes on,” said Flebberman. “Get dressed for outside.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Flebberman said. “I ain’t in an explainin’ mood right now.”
“My other clothes—I have to go into the bedroom.” “Hurry up. I’m right behind ya.”
Colt went into the bedroom and found some socks and a sweater, which he pulled on. As he turned around, Flebberman’s fist—small, but almost sharp, like a spear, and driven by an arm that was wiry and deceptively strong—drove itself into his stom ach. He fell onto the floor and curled into a ball, gasping for breath. He could sense the little man standing over him. When he could speak again, he said:
“I’m gonna kill you for this.”
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“We’ll see about that,” Flebberman said. “We’ll see who’s gonna kill who today.”
Colt coughed. “Why do you keep hitting me?” “To let you know who’s boss.”
“Okay,” Colt croaked. “I believe you.”
“Do everything I tell ya to. Don’t do nothin’ else. Nothin’ funny. Unnerstand?”
“Yeah. I understand.”
“This ain’t my usual style,” Flebberman said. He seemed to have grown even angrier, his voice growing higher. “I don’t b’leeve in this kinda thing. I’m a peaceful man who never wanted to bother nobody, and never wanted nobody to bother him. But you brought this on yerself. An’ now yer gonna pay. Now get up.”
Colt did as he was told. He felt on the verge of throwing up, but he managed to control it. That blow to the stomach had al most done it. He couldn’t take another one like that.
“Don’t hit me again,” he said.
“Do what I tell ya and I won’t hafta. Go back in there.” Colt half crawled and half walked into the living room.
“Hold on a minnit. Toss that coat over here before you put it on.”
Colt did as he was told. Flebberman searched through all the pockets. He took out Colt’s keys, went to the window, opened it, and threw them out.
“Hey,” Colt said weakly.
“Shuddup,” said Flebberman. “I don’t want you getting’ yer hands on anything sharp. Believe me, I’m on to you. Yer tryin’ ta plan somethin’. Don’t. I’m mad enough to kill ya right now.”
Colt
decided that to say nothing from now on would be the wisest course of action. He put his coat on and waited, miserable. More than anything he wanted a glass of orange juice, and then to get back into bed. He wondered how long he would be able to stay on his feet.
“Now,” said Flebberman. “This is how it’s gonna work. We’re
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gonna go downstairs to my truck. You walk in front. I keep the gun in my pocket. You try to talk to anyone, you try to run— blammo. That’s it fer you.”
“You’ll get caught,” Colt said.
Flebberman came toward him again and Colt cringed, doubling over and putting up his arms to protect himself.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Flebberman. “Big tough New York City businessman. Not so tough now, are ya. Now— yer gonna drive.”
“I’m sorry,” said Colt, hating himself for saying it. “I’m really, really sorry. If I’d have known it would upset you this much, I re ally wouldn’t have done it. I just—”
“I’m tellin’ ya, shuddup!” said Flebberman dangerously.
“I—I just want to say that I was within my rights. It was my property.”
“You want another whack?”
“No. Please don’t. I’m just telling you. From my point of view.” “You don’t know shit,” said Flebberman. “There’s higher laws than the ones on the books, which it seems you never heard of ’em anyway, so I dunno why I’m even tryin’ ta explain it to ya. Go
to the door.”
Colt went to the door, Flebberman close behind. “I can’t lock it without my keys,” he said.
“Yer door wasn’t locked to begin with, remember?” said Fleb berman. “Let it go. If you live through this day you can just buy more fancy shit to replace all the shit that’s gonna get stolen. Yer rich enough, anyways.”
❚ ❚ ❚
Flebberman’s tow truck was parked outside. The plow blade was still attached, and for some reason this detail struck Colt as amus ing, or at least it would have if he hadn’t been so terrified. Flebber man in the City. Flebberman’s New York Adventure.
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He got in the driver ’s side and Flebberman sat next to him, placing his gun on his lap. Sneaking a glance, Colt saw that it was a revolver from prehistoric days, a veritable relic. Rust had discol ored the barrel, and he wondered if there was any chance it actu ally worked. Better not find out, he thought. It certainly worked well enough for pistol-whipping purposes. Besides, he was not up to any fancy Hollywood maneuvers. All he wanted was to do what he was told and get out of this situation. Then—vengeance. If he was still around to deliver it.
He started up the truck, put it into gear, and headed toward the Holland Tunnel. It was so early that the commuter rush hadn’t started yet, and they had the tunnel mostly to themselves. They passed a police car headed into the city. Colt looked after it wist fully in the rear-view mirror.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Flebberman. “I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. Y’see this gun?” “Yes. I see it.”
“It belonged to my dad,” Flebberman said. “It’s a fambly hair- loom.” Colt could feel his eyes burning into the side of his face. “I hung on to it all these years. See, I happen ta take great pride in my fambly history. All of it. An’ I get kinda pissy when fancy- pants out-a-towners think they can come in and do whatever the hell they want. That includes the diggin’ up of cemeteries that’s been sittin’ there for a hundred and fifty years in peace and quiet, which it shoulda been left there forever. You follow me?”
“Yes. I follow you.”
“Problem with you is, yer an asshole,” said Flebberman. “Yer name is Hart but you don’t have one. Know what that is?”
Colt shook his head.
“Ironic,” Flebberman said triumphantly. “That is what you might call an ironic situation. There, I bet you thought an igno rant redneck like me wouldn’t know such a ten-dollar word. Isn’t that right, Fancy Pants?”
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“I never thought that.”
“Yeah, you did. You think your shit don’t stink and everyone who ain’t from New York is just a stoopit fool. Doncha? You think you’re better ’n everyone. Maybe you been askin’ for some- thin’ like this for a long time. Maybe you had this comin’. Ever think a that?”
“No.”
“Eggzackly,” said Flebberman. “Eggzackly my point. You follow me?”
Colt didn’t follow him at all, but he deemed it smarter not to say so.
“I follow you,” he said.
“Now is the time when yer life should start flashin’ before yer eyes,” Flebberman said. “Start thinkin’ about all the things you shouldn’t a done in yer life. And all the things you shoulda done. This is it fer you, shitbird. Take a good hard look at yerself. It was only a matter a time before somethin’ like this happened to you. An’ if I hadn’t a done it, somebody else woulda.”
Colt’s blood went cold.
“Are you thinkin’?” Flebberman asked. “Yes,” said Colt. “I’m thinking.”
❚ ❚ ❚
They emerged from the dank, riverine darkness of the tunnel and into New Jersey, the city behind them now, and they passed through a landscape of concrete lots, gas stations, and tenement buildings, a dead world where nothing grew, save for weeds in the cracked cement. Flebberman shook his head, disgusted.
“Don’t know why anyone’d ever wanna live here,” he said. “Place is a godforsaken hellhole.”
Colt decided against responding. If he was going to rant, let him rant.
“People live like rabbits. Hardly have room to stretch yer arms.
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Cities ain’t natural. Animals don’t live in cities. Not even monkeys. Gorillas and such. They spread out. That’s what we’re supposed to do, too. Problem is, some people are too stoopit to know what na ture wants from ’em. Certain things oughta be done a certain way.”
They came to a toll booth. Flebberman tucked the gun out of sight underneath his snowsuited thigh.
“I don’t have any money,” said Colt. “I forgot my wallet.” He waited.
Cursing quietly, Flebberman took a couple of wrinkled bills out of his pocket and handed them over. Colt paid the attendant and they edged away from the booth.
“That’s two bucks you owe me,” Flebberman said. “Goddam stoopit rich bastard don’t even have two dollars on ’im. Good God!”
This statement, bizarre as it was, actually gave him hope— maybe he didn’t intend to kill him. For the last few minutes, he had been wondering if Flebberman intended to drive him out to some remote area and put a bullet in the back of his head. But now he didn’t think so. It seemed that the little man had some thing in mind. Now he was more hopeful that he would make it through this, somehow. And he was already plotting the various delightful ways in which he would help himself to the dish that is best served cold—revenge.
❚ ❚ ❚
Soon they were on the Pulaski Skyway, an elevated road arching over a continuous vista of dead industrial land that was criss crossed by railroad tracks, populated by factories and vast yards of rusted shipping containers. Marshland, flat and gray, appeared be neath them, the water rainbowed with chemicals. Flebberman shook his head again.
“Lookit that,” he said. “You think anything can even live in that water?”
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“Are you asking me?” Colt said quietly.
“Yeah, I’m askin’ ya. Look around you. This is what cities do to the land. Nothin’ll ever grow here again, I can tell ya that. All ruint and polluted to shit. Jesus, it makes me sick what people do.”
Colt could feel the man glaring at him as though he was per sonally responsible. Again, he deemed it wiser to remain silent.
When the time came, according to Flebberman’s directions, he took the turnoff for the turnpike, and they continued through New Jersey, the f
actories now giving way to small towns, one af ter the other, marked only by highway exit signs. He didn’t have to ask to know that they were headed toward Plainsburg, but be yond that he had no idea where he was taking himself.
They rode along in silence for well over an hour, until they came once again to the Delaware Water Gap and crossed into Pennsylvania. Then they rounded the bend and headed up into the hills, but as they drew closer to Plainsburg, Flebberman told him to keep going along the interstate. So they were going some where else.
“You gonna kill me?” Colt asked finally; for this was the ques tion that had been lurking in the back of his mind for the last cou ple of hours.
Flebberman snorted.
“B’leeve me, I thought about it,” he said.
Colt didn’t ask anything further. When the time came, he could fight—that much he was sure of. He was much larger than this man, and no doubt stronger; but that didn’t matter as much as taking advantage of the right moment. He would get him in a headlock and snap his neck, he decided. That would be the way to do it. Just grab him under the chin and pull his head around sharply, until he felt the wet crack of bones breaking like green sticks, and then he would let him fall to the ground. If it came down to it, that was what he would do.
He almost looked forward to it. And as he had these thoughts,
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adrenaline began to seep into his system. His hangover was for gotten now, and he forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his face and the dull ache in his gut where he had been punched. He felt himself growing stronger.
“Pull off here,” Flebberman said.
They got off the highway and headed around the exit ramp to a stop sign. Just as Colt had feared, they were in the middle of nowhere. He turned right as directed and continued along for an other few minutes, until they came to a sign that said DUMP.
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