Razzamatazz

by Sandra Scoppettone

  But before that he had to write the goddamn story. The goddamn fucking story about murder.

  He had forty-seven minutes.

  LOOKING BACK-75 YEARS AGO

  Jimmie Hand of Seaville and a young lady-it wouldn't be nice to mention her name-were thrown from their carriage while driving one night this week, by being run into by another vehicle. If the young man had looked after the ribbons instead of the waist, things might have been different. But then maybe it was worth it.

  THIRTEEN

  He couldn't believe how stupid and gullible they were. Or how easy this whole thing was going to be. He had nine more to go in this grouping. Then he'd start again.

  He remembered all those years when he'd been planning it; he'd been scared. Now it just made him laugh. What the hell had he been afraid of, anyway? There was nothing to fear. I'm a steamroller, baby. And speaking of babies-that was a good one. He couldn't stop laughing. Laugh and laugh and laugh. It felt good to laugh. Some people didn't think so. Some people punished you if you laughed too much. Or too loud. Some damn people hit you if you laughed. But not Mommy and Daddy. They never hit.

  So two down, nine to go! What a holiday weekend he was going to give them. One they wouldn't forget, for sure, for sure.

  Damn fucks. Always asking him what he was thinking. Which ones were the worst? Maybe the ones when he was twelve. Always bugging him. Questions, questions, questions. They didn't even know how smart he was. Nobody knew that. It was hard to be so smart. Hard to have friends when you're so smart. People get jealous. Jealousy is the worst sin. Worse than anything, they told him. Told him that. Told him. You're just jealous, they said. Stupid. They were the ones who were jealous because he was so smart.

  But you'd have to be smart to work this thing out. He'd been planning forever, it seemed. Planning and planning. Diagrams and names. Taking his time. But time is on my side cause this is the right time of year. Years and years of careful study. You can pull the wool over anybody's eyes if you have patience and cunning. Cunning. He'd heard that one, all right. What a cunning little boy he is.

  So cunning they beat the shit out of him. Scars to prove it, buster.

  You'd better believe it. Right. Yo. All right. Cat-o'-nine-tails. Fists. Belts. Razor strops. You name it, he'd had it. Didn't faze him. Not him. Wouldn't cry. Planned instead. Resolve. He resolved to do it. Do it. Kill them. Every last stinking one of them. He didn't know it would be such easy work. Such enjoyable work. Not like work at all. More like play. Fun. And I'll have fun, fun, fun.

  Enough. Get down to work, you. Fooling around, all the time, all the time. Got to plan it out right. Friday night. Music soothes the savage beast. Ha. Music is his name. Musical accompaniment. Music to kill by. Shit, don't start the fucking laughing again. How can he help it when he's so goddamn funny? Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy. Get out the diagrams, the charts. See who's next. He knows who's next.

  This one is really going to get them. Really get them. Blow them out of their socks. Blow them from here to kingdom come. Blow, Gabriel, blow. Who did it? they'll ask. Who could do such a thing? they'll say. Who? What beast? What maniac? What brilliant mind could conceive such a thing?

  And I'm the last one. The last chance, the last rose of summer, the last Mohican, the last supper, the last killer, the last suspect. I'm the last one they'd ever suspect. Perfect. That's me.

  LOOKING BACK-25 YEARS AGO

  At about the mystic hour of midnight on Monday, a woman bit a cop instead of biting a dog, and in addition the fracas occurred in front of the Seaville police station. Patrolmen Bob Phillips and Pete Shaw were just relieving each other when they heard a terrific crash in the municipal parking site as a motor car backed into a parked truck. A woman driver refused to get out of the car and was abusive to the officers. The woman then fell out of the car. As Patrolman Phillips endeavored to help her up she turned and bit him in the right thigh so severely that he was attended by a physician.

  FOURTEEN

  Chuck Higbee was almost overwhelmed by his sense of well-being. You just don't always feel this good, he thought. And then he wondered if he was going to have to pay. It was stupid but that's the way his mind went. You get something good, you have to pay for it. Maybe with a disease, or could be you lose your wallet. He'd been given a raise that morning, twenty dollars more a week. Sally'd been real pleased, rubbed up against him in the kitchen, promising more to come later.

  So now he and Sal and the kids were walking down Main Street toward the bank parking lot where the first band concert of the season was being held. They always went to the first one, some of the others, and always the last. The band wasn't great, but it was fun sitting there with friends taking in the night air, listening to renditions of "Oklahoma!" or "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and ushering in the Memorial Day weekend. Still, Chuck couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to have to pay somehow. It was a dumb superstition, but he guessed he didn't lick it off the ground; his parents talked about paying for what you get in this world all the time.

  Of course their big example was the fire. Ed Higbee had just gotten a bank loan for the farm, so he and Rosie went out celebrating, dancing at the new club in town, and the damn place caught fire. There was panic and, although his parents had gotten out, Ed had third-degree burns on his right arm and part of his back. So they were always talking about how they had had to pay a lot more than interest on that farm loan.

  And what about his own life? The same day he'd gotten his job with the bank he and Sal had found out that their six-month-old, Mary Beth, was hydrocephalic. How's that for paying dues? Sure, it turned out okay, she had the shunt operation and it was successful, but there were some hairy days in there.

  Chuck looked down at Mary Beth, five now, and as cute a little girl as he'd ever seen. She looked like her mom, big brown eyes, and yellow curls the color of buttercups, and just as healthy as she could be. He squeezed the little hand in his.

  "What, Daddy?" Mary Beth asked.

  "Hi, cutie," he said.

  "Hi."

  "Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  Katie, his older daughter, peeked at him from the other side of Sally.

  "Love you, too, Katie-did."

  She grinned, showing the gap in her teeth where she'd lost a front one last week. Chuck couldn't believe how big she was getting. Eight next month.

  Funny, but he never thought he liked kids. Now the sun rose and set on his two girls. His three girls. Sal, too. If anything happened to any of them he just didn't know what he'd do. Aunt Addy's ass, he was depressing. Here he gets a raise they desperately needed, and all he can do is think morbid stuff. Well, maybe it was the murders getting to him. He'd forbidden Sally to go out alone at night. They'd had a big fight about it, too. Finally they compromised, and he'd driven her and Ann Shepp to their exercise class and Dan Shepp brought them home. Yeah, it was probably the murders making him so morbid and creepy.

  "What's wrong, Chuck?" Sally asked. "You got a funny look on your face."

  "It's just my regular ugly puss, Sal, nothing new."

  "Some ugly puss," she said, and gave him a wink.

  Chuck knew Sally thought he was a looker-like Burt Reynolds, she was always saying. It made him feel good even if it wasn't true.

  As they turned into Center Street they saw people heading toward the parking lot and could hear the musicians tuning up. Hell, Chuck thought, I'm going to cut this bullshit and just have a good time. I got a raise I deserved and nothing bad is going to happen, nothing at all.

  Colin sat on the cement wall on the right of the parking lot. The band was playing "In the Good Old Summertime" and the whole thing made him feel good, better than he had in awhile. He guessed it reminded him of when he was a kid, and they had concerts like this behind Our Lady of Sorrows school. He and Brian and his mother always went to them, and afterwards she'd take them both to Grunning's for an ice-cream cone. He always had black raspberry.

  Looking around he saw
a lot of kids with their parents. Phil Nagle and his family; the Higbees and their two girls; Jake, his mailman, and a couple of boys who looked just like him. The place was loaded with kids. Mark and Sarah were there too, sitting in the center section with Kristen and Brent. Colin had forgotten to bring his own chair, the way you were supposed to, so he couldn't sit with the Griffings. They'd meet up afterwards and go to the Paradise, get cones for the kids. Colin wondered if the Paradise had black raspberry. Mark had told him the band was nothing to write home about, but that he always went to the opener for support and he liked his staff to turn out as well. So here he was banging his heels against a cement wall in time to "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" He'd been surprised at how many people showed up. There must have been about two hundred. Mostly couples with little kids, a few teenagers, and a lot of senior citizens.

  Colin spotted Tug Wilson, head of the historical society, and there was that guy who confessed to everything. Carl Gildersleeve was here with Grace. And the veterinarian; Steve Cornwell, the real estate agent who'd gotten him his house; the owner of Van Duzer's and his wife; the barber; Betty Mills, the librarian; Doug Corwin and Elaine; Ray Chute; and Pete Volinski from Rotary. And who was that waving to him? Oh, yeah, Burton Kelly from the electric company. It made Colin feel good to recognize so many people, as if he really belonged. Another reason he was feeling good was because Mark had finally apologized to him. Of course, the other thing he'd told him hadn't made him feel so hot. Still, the apology was welcome.

  It had been a lousy week at the paper, with him and Mark only speaking when necessary. He'd written the story about the murders and he knew it was damn good. Mark hadn't said a word until this morning when he came into Colin's office.

  "Good story you wrote, pal."

  "Thanks."

  "Really good. Gritty. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so."

  "I got about thirty calls complaining about it."

  "I had twenty-six," Colin said.

  "Fifty-six calls, that has to mean it's a good story."

  They both laughed.

  "Susan Harrison said she thought it was outrageous that we'd print such a graphic story because what if her four-year-old got hold of it? I asked her could her four-year-old read? She said no but what if he could?"

  They laughed again, and as if it were a sign of forgiveness, Mark sat down.

  "Hey, Colin," he said soberly, "this is nuts, you know. I mean the way we've been this week. I know these murders, writing the story, must've been tough for you. I'm really sorry."

  "It's okay."

  "No, don't. I was an asshole." Mark ran both palms over his hair, front to back, then let his hands linger on his shoulders as though he were holding onto himself. "I was in a shitty mood that day and, I don't know, I guess I just took it out on you."

  "I understand."

  "No, you don't, pal. I mean, we've known each other for what, eighteen, nineteen years?"

  "Twenty."

  "Okay, twenty. That's a helluva long time. Longer than I've known my wife. Longer than I've known practically anybody who isn't a member of my family."

  "Okay, okay. So what's up? I know you're not just doing a riff here on the beauties of friendship."

  Mark's brown eyes deepened in color, as if sadness were changing their hue. "No," he said somberly, "no, I'm not."

  "So what is it?"

  "Oh, shit." He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit up. "Last year I had an affair. Sarah found out. It was a mess. I stopped seeing Amy because I didn't want to lose Sarah. Amy called me right before you and the chief came up the other day. I hadn't had any contact with her for about six, seven months. I was off the wall because of it. The call, I mean. I took it out on you."

  "And Hallock."

  "And Hallock," Mark confirmed.

  Colin thought of Nancy. He'd never strayed, not even in fantasy. "Why?" he asked.

  "Why did I have the affair?"

  "Yes."

  "Look, Colin, I love Sarah, I think you know that. But, well, when we first took over the paper it was fucking hard, know what I mean? We hardly had a pot to piss in. So there was all this stress and Amy was there and, shit, I don't know, it just happened."

  Colin thought, just happened, like the way he'd happened to leave his house that night, gotten drunk-lost his family. Just happened. "How are things between you and Sarah now?"

  "Tricky."

  "Are you going to see this woman again?"

  "Amy? I don't know. If I do and Sarah finds out, that's going to be it. I don't want to lose my family."

  "So why risk it?"

  Mark hissed out a stream of smoke. "It's sex."

  "What about it?"

  "Sarah's always been, well, reticent, sort of inhibited."

  "And Amy's not?"

  "Right."

  Colin thought of his sex life with Nancy. They'd both enjoyed it, often trying new things, never letting more than a few days go by without making love.

  "Have you talked to Sarah about it?"

  "Not really."

  "What's not really mean?"

  "I don't want to hurt her, Colin."

  "Seems like you already have."

  "Come on, pal, that's hitting below the belt."

  "I'm not saying anything you don't already know. What I'm getting at, Mark, is that you owe it to Sarah to try and work the problems out."

  "What if she can't do anything about them?"

  "You can at least try."

  Mark stood up, signaling an end to the conversation. "I just wanted you to know why I was such a shitheel the other day."

  "Thanks, I appreciate that." Colin thought of telling Mark that he could talk to him any time but decided against it. He didn't want to know if he started seeing Amy again. He liked Sarah too much.

  Before he left the room Mark said, "The trouble is, I miss her."

  Remembering the look on Mark's face, Colin glanced across the parking lot and tried to see the Griffings. Mark had his arm across the back of Sarah's chair, fingers touching her shoulder. To the uninformed eye they looked like any happily married couple. But they did love each other, he reminded himself. He hoped Mark would resist temptation. It wasn't worth it-nothing could be worth losing your family.

  The band finished a rendition of "The Blue Danube" and he found himself clapping along with the others and desperately missing Nancy.

  "Where's Mary Beth, Katie?"

  "I thought she was with you."

  "You mean you let her come back here by herself?"

  Katie's chin trembled. "She said she'd come right back."

  "She's five years old, for God's sake," Chuck snapped.

  Sally said, "Let's not get all steamed up, she's got to be here someplace. Where'd you leave her, honey?"

  "Over there." Katie pointed to a spot near the drive-in-teller road. "I said, 'Now go right back over to Mommy and Daddy,' and she said she would."

  "Didn't you even watch?" Chuck asked.

  Katie's face twisted into a grimace and tears filled her eyes. "I started to, then… then…"

  "Oh, never mind. C'mon, Sally, let's look for her."

  "Chuck, calm down, she couldn't have gone very far. She'd never leave the lot or cross a street or anything."

  "What's wrong with you, Sally? She's a five-year-old kid." Chuck ran off in the direction Katie had pointed.

  Katie was sobbing and Sally hugged her. "It's okay, honey, we'll find her. Daddy's just strung out tonight. C'mon, we'll go the other way." As they hurried off, Sally called her daughter's name.

  But there was no answer.

  It was intermission and Colin was standing with the Griffings when they heard the screams. It was a man's voice, and Colin thought something about it was familiar. And then he remembered that night in Chicago when he'd found his family. He'd screamed like that. Oh, Christ, he thought. Oh, sweet Jesus.

  LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO

  New Paradise Coffee Shoppe to open
for Memorial Day weekend. This new brick, fireproof building is the most complete business place of its kind on Eastern Long Island. Not only will the new store have all modern appliances that are usually found in an ice-cream parlor, but it will also be equipped with the latest machinery for the manufacture of ice cream, for the cold storage of meats and vegetables for the restaurant, and an efficiently equipped kitchen. A Japanese chef has been engaged.

  FIFTEEN

  It was no longer believed by anyone that the A carved on the victims' chests meant Adulteress. After all, how could a five-year-old commit adultery? Waldo Hallock was convinced that the A stood for the killer's name, first or last. The anger he'd experienced at the two previous murders now turned into a full-blown rage. Part of the fury was because of the victim's age-Hallock was sure he could never survive the death of one of his children-and part was because the state police had been brought into the case. Special Agent William Schufeldt, twenty-nine years old, was now calling the shots. For the first time in his career Hallock had some sympathy for old Charles Gildersleeve. Funny how things came full circle. But Schufeldt or not, the chief had plans of his own.

  On Sunday morning Colin found himself in the Unitarian Universalist Church. It was strange for a number of reasons-he hadn't planned it, he hadn't been inside a church since his wedding, and he was in a new place and not feeling particularly panicky. Still, he'd protected himself by sitting in the last row opposite the door.

  The service, he'd read on the notice board outside, began at eleven, the Reverend Ann Winters presiding. It had not escaped Colin's attention that the Reverend Ann Winters might be the reason he was here. Even so, he was sure it wasn't the sole reason. Or was it the soul reason? He smiled at his own joke.

  The need to be in a church came from spending the weekend thinking nonstop about Nancy and the kids, plus the murders here in Seaville. It was difficult for Colin to talk to anyone about the latest killing. The murder of Mary Beth Higbee reminded him too much of the murders of his own children. The same question that had haunted him at the time of his own tragedy baffled him now: What kind of monster could kill an innocent child? He had no answer. He never would. And once again he was faced with writing the story; he wasn't sure if he could do it.