The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Mind control.

  The kind he’d wielded over Doctor, though the fucker had been only one rat and now he had lots of them scampering on command.

  But an important rat, a mind-fucker par excellence.

  The Michelangelo of mind pictures.

  No. Dali. There was a mind-fucker—limpo clocks, quails cooked in their own shit. And they said he was a kike. Lies!

  Power over Doctor. He’d been careful not to overdo the extortion thing—dear old dad was a greedy pig, didn’t give a shit about him. Push him too far and no telling what he’d do.

  The important thing was to keep a good sense of balance. Hit the fucker for favors that were really important. Squeeze him hard and fast, no mercy, then disappear. The rest of the time, let him go about his life deluding himself that he was a free man.

  The squeeze: cash. Lots of it—more than anyone else his age had, but nothing that would break Doctor—fucker kept cracking chests and raking it in, all those apartment buildings he owned, blue-chip stocks and certificates of deposit.

  Money junkie, like all of them.

  How do you teach a Jewish baby to swim?

  Throw a penny in the pool. The rest takes care of itself.

  The little bit he squeezed added up surprisingly quickly. Some of it went into a savings account, some in a safe deposit box, along with the bonds.

  Tax-free municipals and high-yield corporates—he clipped coupons every month, saved the principal, pocketed the interest. Doctor told his attorney the time had come to pass some of his holdings along to his beloved son in order to get around the inheritance tax.

  Estate planning. Gee, what a neat dad.

  Cash and bonds and growth stocks that he could sell whenever he wanted. Doctor introduced him to his broker, told the slimy button-down asshole he wanted his beloved son to learn the financial ropes at a young age, be able to make his own decisions.

  Superdad.

  And the cars—the Jag totally cool but always in the shop. Perfect once in a great while for cruising in high style, feeling like King Shit, the Emperor of Real Science. The Plymouth ugly but dependable, plenty of trunk space for toys and whatever.

  Doctor gave him three gas credit cards. The maintenance bills and insurance premiums were always paid right on time.

  He had the house to himself—Doctor had moved out, lived in a condo near the hospital. She was grokked-out all the time now, sleeping and pissing in her bed, brain circuits totally fried.

  Doctor, terrific husband that he was, hired private-duty nurses to take care of her. Different ones each week, fat nigger broads and swishy faggots—they just sat there doing crossword puzzles and smoking, changed the sheets, stole jewelry and food.

  The maids were gone; in their place, a retardo nigger who came in once a week to dust and clear away the dishes.

  The house had started to smell old and stale. Like death. Only his room was clean. And the library.

  He cleaned those himself.

  Cleanliness next to godliness.

  Nice quiet house—he was Lord of the Manor.

  He made a stab at junior college, taking Mickey Mouse courses and attending just often enough to pass. Kept his job at the hospital for fun, working three afternoons a week delivering mail—richest fucking mailboy in the city.

  He read journals and books in the hospital library, learned a lot. Snuck into the pathology lab, opened body drawers and fondled the cadavers, rubbed himself against cold flesh, ogled welcome holes and jars of organs. Coded new mind pictures.

  Nighttime was the right time.

  Cruising Nasty Boulevard, ogling the geeks, freaks, junkies, slime-os, and whores. Using the Jag for show, the Plymouth for serious business. He craved new identities, sought out the theatrical supply shops on Nasty and bought disguises: hats, glasses and sunglasses, false mustaches, beards and wigs, to make himself look different. Be different. Practiced talking different voices, using different mannerisms.

  He could be anyone!

  In the beginning he just cruised and ogled. Passed the motel where he’d caught Doctor and the candy-striper, saw only soft cars, a different slant at the desk.

  He stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered what was going on inside. How many whores were fucking how many geeks, the things they were doing, a treasure trove of mind pictures.

  Whores, the ultimate females.

  He decided to relate to them, cruised by them for weeks, catching smiles, but not ready to make contact, then finally doing it, heart pounding the same way it had when he sat on the stairs.

  He picked one at random, from a hot-pants hen party leaning against a lamppost. Spoke his lines like a robot and didn’t even bother to notice what she looked like until she’d gotten in and he’d driven a couple of blocks.

  Total downer: fat nigger bitch, Ubangi lips and white eye shadow. Sagging tits, stretch marks—she had to be forty.

  They pulled off on a side street in the Plymouth, agreed to a blow-job in the front seat.

  He finished fast; the bitch coughed and spat him out into a handkerchief as if he were garbage. Wholly unsatisfactory, but a start.

  The next few times were the same, but still he liked it, collecting pictures for the memory file. Lying in bed hours later, imagining himself later opening up the whores, exploring their welcome holes, cleaning them and feeling totally cool and in charge.

  Then he met Nightwing.

  She worked by herself, on a quiet corner several blocks east of the hot-pants hens. Good bone structure despite the red-black lipstick, chalk-white Vampira makeup, and mile-long false eyelashes. Meaty thighs bulging out of a black silk microskirt. All in black.

  A little older than he, early twenties probably. Short and stacked, long dark hair, big dark eyes, a terrific face.

  A Sarah face!

  That was the main thing! The resemblance totally freaked him out—so much that the first time he saw her he sped up and drove by without doing a thing. Drove for a mile until he’d gotten hold of himself, then circled back on the boulevard, hanging a U and cruising slowly toward her street corner.

  In the Jag, top down, tweed jacket, deerstalker cap, bristly mustache. Identity: British sophisticate.

  She was talking to this fat spic, haggling. The spic shook his head and walked away. She flipped him the bird.

  He slowed down, took a good look at her, at the Sarah face.

  She saw the car first, shiny bumpers, sloping headlights, hard-on front end. Smelled money, looked up at him and licked her lips.

  Sharp little white teeth. Cat teeth.

  Hey, cutie, wanna party?

  Strange accent. Wop? Spic?

  Still freaked, he passed her by again, looked in the rearview mirror and saw her flip him off.

  Next night he was in the Plymouth, different hat, no fake hair. No recognition.

  Hey, cutie.

  He leaned over and pushed the door open: Hop right in, babe. Saying it movie-stud cool, but so nervous a tickle would have made him pee his pants.

  She came to the curb, leaned in, tits hanging out of a black vinyl halter.

  Well, hello there. Looking him over.

  Hi, babe.

  More once-over, the false lashes opening and closing like moth wings. Then backing off, the you’re-not-no-cop-are-you game.

  Charming smile: Do I look like a cop, babe?

  No one looks like a cop, cutie.

  Hold the smile, flash the cash: If I wanted to talk all night, I’d have joined a rap group.

  She hesitated, looked around, scratched a fishnet knee.

  He edged the Plymouth forward an inch.

  Hold on, cutie.

  Now she’s smiling, all cat teeth, evil-Sarah. Watching her, he got totally turned on. His hard-on like a ton of galvanized pipe.

  She got in, closed the door, and stretched. Catlike. Named a price.

  Fine, babe. So casual.

  She studied him again. Stretched.

  Go three blocks and hang a right, cutie.<
br />
  What’s there?

  A nice comfy spot for partying.

  Two minutes later, the old front-seat head-in-lap cliché, but different: He’d expected to shoot off right away, but the Sarah-resemblance created mind pictures that kept him going for a while. He made her work, pushed down on her head, wrapped her hair around his fingers, then gave it to her.

  All right!

  And this one didn’t spit: Yum. With a smile.

  Lying through her teeth, but he loved it nonetheless.

  Loved her.

  Because it was true love, he paid her more than they’d agreed on, looked for her the next night and the next, not knowing her name, not knowing who to ask for—Sarah who swallows? Went home hungry, cruised, stole a stray dog and feasted on science and the memories until the third night, when he spotted her on a different corner, even farther east.

  Still in black, still beautiful.

  No recognition, until she got close.

  Well, hello, cutie.

  Weird accent, but definitely not spic.

  After she did him, he asked what her name was.

  Nightwing.

  What kind of name is that?

  My street name, cutie.

  What’s your real name?

  The street is real, cutie. You ask too many questions. Talk’s a waste of time. Cat smile. Well, well, would you loo-ook at that . . . Hey, Youngblood—how about seconds? You’re so cute, I’ll give you a discount.

  I’ll pay you regular.

  Well, aren’t you sweet—ooh, so impatient. Go ahead, push my head, pull my hair—a little harder, even, if it gets my cutie off.

  They dated regularly, at least once a week, sometimes twice. Driving farther and farther away from Nasty, up into the hills that overlooked the boulevard. Parking on cul-desacs and tree-blackened side streets, always blow-jobs—neither of them wanted anything messy.

  Casual dates, no holding-hands-in-the-movie-theater bullshit. He liked the honesty, the fact that neither of them felt a need for conversation and other lies.

  But learning a little about her anyway—she liked to talk when she reapplied her lipstick.

  She was from out of town, had worked Nasty for six months, first with a pimp but going it alone now. The pimp, some evil nigger named BoJo, had accused her of holding out cash and cut her up. She showed him the scar under one tit, bumpy pink zipper. He licked it.

  Being an independent meant she had to cover her ass at all times, stay away from the pimp-slaves, restrict herself to quiet corners. Which was getting tougher to do—the pimps were spreading out, pushing her east, away from the Nasty Strip hot spots. But the hills were okay. Everything was okay:

  I got no problems, cutie. I got no problem making ends meet—if you dig what I’m saying, cutie pie.

  She’d volunteer a little info, but wouldn’t answer questions, not even about the accent, which he still couldn’t place—gypsy?

  The secrecy didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked it.

  None of that peace-love-confiding-and-relating scam.

  He paid; she sucked. He started keeping an ice chest in the trunk of the Plymouth, brought beer, Pepsi, and orange soda along. She washed her mouth out afterward, licked his nipples through his shirt with a cold tongue. Most of the time it got him going for seconds.

  He was becoming an expert, could go longer and longer now, volunteered to pay her for her time instead of by the act. She squealed with delight, told him he was a total sweetie. Went down on him with fake enthusiasm so real it made his head spin, gagging and whispering that she’d do anything for him, just name it.

  Just do what you’re doing, babe.

  He gave himself a street name, too: Dr. Terrific.

  Mind picture: DT LOVES N carved into the cerebral cortex.

  C’mon, cutie. You’re too young to be a doctor.

  You’d be surprised.

  But you got money like a doctor, don’t you?

  Want to earn some more?

  Right on.

  Later:

  If you’re a doctor, you probably got all sorts of far-out drugs, right?

  Drugs are bad for you.

  You’re putting me on now, right?

  Mysterious smile.

  After their twentieth date, she snorted heroin and offered him some. He said no, watched her get all drowsy and mellow, played with her body while she lay there half-grokked.

  True love.

  At nineteen, he could tell from the way people ogled him that he was good-looking. Was certain that he looked older—maybe twenty-four or -five. At nineteen and a half, life got cleaner: She died, just stopped breathing in bed and lay there in her own filth for two hours before one of the hired nurses came up from the kitchen and noticed.

  The house was totally his now. It hadn’t taken much to “convince” Doctor to let him keep living in it.

  Nineteen and a half, and totally on top of the world: his own pad, endless bucks, and head-in-lap true love.

  He cleaned out the Ice Palace, had the carpets ripped up, gave everything away. Told the retardo nigger to spray it with disinfectant, open all the windows. Decided it would stay empty forever.

  He woke up one morning feeling terrific and filled with a sense of purpose. He’d been waiting for the right time to start the investigation, knew this was it, and started looking in the Yellow Pages under Private Detectives.

  He wanted a one-man agency; the big firms were all fat on big-business bucks, not likely to take him seriously.

  He found half a dozen possibles, all in low-rent areas, phoned them, listened to their voices, and made an appointment with the one who sounded the hungriest.

  Slimeball named J. Walter Fields, bad address not far from the Nasty Strip.

  He made an appointment for late in the afternoon.

  The office was on the fourth floor of a decaying walkup, winos dozing near the front entrance, half the suites unoccupied, shit-colored cracked linoleum, bare light bulbs and empty sockets, the hallways stinking of piss.

  Fields’s place was a glass-doored single room with the men’s john on one side, an answering service company on the other.

  RELIABLE INVESTIGATORS.

  J. W. FIELDS,PRES.

  Inside was pure Late Show cliché: old-clothes smell, grimy walls, portable fan on a chair, metal desk and file cabinets. A flyspecked window offered a view of inert neon signs and the tar-paper roof of the walkup across the alley.

  Fields was a short, fat bag of slime in his late fifties. Wet, hungry eyes, bad suit, and receding gums. He kept his feet up on the desk and popped licorice drops in his mouth while raising one eyebrow and staring at his visitor. Making a big show of being bored.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have an appointment.” Speaking in a deep voice.

  Fields glanced down at a big old-fashioned metal desk calendar resting on a rust-specked metal base. “You’re Dr. Terrif, huh?” Pronouncing it tariff.

  “That’s right.”

  “The fuck you trying to pull, kid? Get outa here. Don’t waste my time.”

  “Pressed for time, are you?”

  “Watch your mouth, kid.” A grubby thumb pointed to the door. “The fuck out.”

  Boyish shrug. “Oka-ay.” Pulling out a thick roll of bills, putting it back, and turning to go.

  Slimeball let him get to the door, then spoke up. Straining to keep the hunger out of his voice.

  “Whoa, what’s on your mind, kid?”

  “Doctor.”

  “Sure, sure. You’re a doctor, I’m Mr. Universe.”

  Scornful look at the slimeball: “We have nothing to talk about.” Saying it with class, swinging the door open and walking out.

  He’d gone ten paces down the hall before hearing Fields’s cheap-shoe shuffle.

  “C’mon . . . Doc. Don’t be sensitive.”

  He ignored the whining, kept on walking.

  “Let’s talk, Doc.” Fields was trotting to catch up. “C’mon, Dr. Terrif.”

>   Stopping, swiveling, staring at the pathetic slime.

  “Your manners stink, Fields.”

  “Listen . . . I didn’t—”

  “Apologize.” Power.

  Fields hesitated, looked sick, as if standing on a diving board suspended over a cesspool.

  Tick-tock, licking his lips. You could see the dollar signs bounce like slot-machine fruit in the fucker’s eyes.

  Split-second later, he sucked in his breath and dived in: “You got to understand . . . Doc. My business, you get all types, all kinds of scams. Just trying to cover my butt. . . . You got a young face, good genes, lucky guy, Doc. . . . Okay, I’m sorry. How say we start over?”

  Back in the rathole of an office, Fields picked up a gray mug that had once been white and offered to fix him instant coffee.

  I’d rather drink snake-jizz, fucker. “Let’s get down to business, Fields.”

  “Sure, sure, at your service. Doc.”

  He told the slime what he wanted. Fields listened hard, trying to imitate an intelligent life form. Popping licorice and saying “Uh huh” and “Uh huh, Doc.”

  “Think you can handle it?”

  “Sure, sure, Doc, no problem. This guy Schwann, you into him for bucks or vicey versey?”

  “That’s none of your concern.” Saying it automatically, in a totally cool way. The deep voice making him sound just like a rich guy, totally in charge—which he was, when you got down to it. Built to rule.

  “Okay, no problem. Doc. Only sometimes it helps to know about the motivation, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Just do what I pay you for and don’t worry about motivation.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “When can you have the information?”

  “Hard to tell, Doc. Depends on lots of things. You ain’t givin’ me much to work with.”

  “Here’s your advance. Plus.” Standing and peeling off bills, a hundred more than the slime had asked for. Doing it offhand, in a totally cool manner.

  “I got expenses, Doc.”

  Another hundred passed into the slime’s paw. “Have the information in three weeks and there’s an extra two hundred in it for you.”

  Fields nodding energetically, just about coming in his cheap-suit trousers. “Okay, sure, Doc, three weeks, you’re top priority. Where can I reach you?”