by John Skipp
“When I go home,” he says, “and I see my beautiful wife. And we go out in the garden, and see the things she’s planted there.”
And I try to imagine Zachariah at home – peaceful as always, glass of wine in his hand, admiring posies while his woman holds him close – and I am surprisingly un-enraged. A very rare state, for me...
...and that, of course, is when Trey walks in. “You on a fucking vacation?” Trey says...
...and Trey is everything that Zachariah is not: squat, muscular, and brimming with shit. His suit and spiky hair denote immaculate self-absorption. His eyes are, if anything, blacker than mine...
...and I crawl, in that moment – inside my skin – with the certain understanding...
...that I am substantially more like Trey than I am like Zachariah...
“Yeah,” I say, staring Trey in the eye. “I come here for leisure. You just fucking relax me, man. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Is that supposed to crack me up?”
“If you had a sense of humor, I’d say: ‘Give it a whirl!’”
"Let’s ask Mort how funny it is.”
“Mort’s three weeks late on my latest payment. Do you see me laughing?”
“He’s got a check in your name.”
“Now that is funny. Cuz I only take cash.”
“Fucking Jesus Christ, Weber!” Trey looks pained, almost beseeching. “Can we just do this now?”
I look at Zachariah, his beneficent largesse: arms out, bowing kindly toward me. “I’ll catch you on the way out,” he says.
“Absolutely,” I confirm, bowing back.
Then I walk up to Trey – so ready to kill him that I cannot even tell you – and he is smart enough not to turn his back on me until we’re even-up.
And, together, we walk the rest of the way down the hall.
SEVEN
I think it should be said right now:
Mort is one of the biggest assholes that I have ever met.
Please allow me differentiate between scumbags and assholes. It’s a hair-splitting thing, but I think it’s worth saying.
A scumbag – like me – will do all kinds of horrible things for money. It is how we survive.
An asshole, on the other hand, doesn’t know how he comes off. He treats people like shit, and then expects to be thanked. He violates the most basic rules of human protocol; and he does this automatically, as a matter of course.
An asshole, fundamentally, doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why what he’s doing is fucked up. He doesn’t even understand that he is doing something fucked-up.
As such, he is impervious to criticism. He is an island unto himself. There is nothing that you can say or do that will dislodge him from his asshole stance.
He thinks he’s right, but he just isn’t.
That, in a nutshell, is Mort.
When I enter his office – at the end of the hall – Mort is sitting behind his desk. He is younger than me, by a couple of years, but he is substantially grayer. A yarmulka is perched, hilariously, atop his head. He is looking at something on his computer, and does not look up at me.
I don’t know what he’s looking at – and I frankly don’t care – but his rudeness is palpable, calculated.
He’s an asshole. That’s what he does.
“So you made it,” he says.
“I told you I would.”
“What people tell me, and what people do, are hardly ever the same thing.”
“I’d blame your choice in people.” Trey bristles. Good. Mort does not respond at all.
“It’s good to see you,” he lies; and as proof of that, he continues to stare at the screen. “So, tell me: what’s your favorite Pink Floyd song?”
“‘Dogs,’” I say. “Off the Animals album.”
“Good choice,” he says, and then plays something else, punching it into his computer system.
As the opening strains of “Shine On, You Crazy Diamond” lilt out at me, Trey holds the door open. The very deadly Ralph then strolls into the room.
I quickly assess the trio of fuckwads that surround me. I can’t say that I’m in good company. If Trey is dangerous but stupid, Ralph is dangerous but not. He has blue eyes with pinprick pupils.
Is it speed, or just insanity? I really have no way of knowing.
But while Trey would kill me out of anger, Ralph would do it without a second thought. I don’t even know if he knows what anger is. He is dispassionate, colder than hell.
Mort would never kill me. He’d have Ralph or Trey or Reggie do it. So far as he’s concerned, his hands are unbelievably clean.
It’s not that Mort doesn’t have the balls. Mort’s balls, if nothing else, are legendary. It’s just that Mort knows how to delegate well.
If he didn’t actually do it, it’s like it never really happened at all.
“So, Charley,” he says, still fixated on the computer. “This is gonna be a big one for you.”
“Yep,” I say, leaving it hang.
“How do you feel, about taking out your rival?"
"He’s not my rival any more. But pretty good.”
“That’s good.” He smiles a little. “I would prefer to hear great.”
“In that case,” I say, “I feel great. Like a million bucks."
“I’m only paying thirty grand.”
“It’s not a lot, you must admit.”
“But it’s personal, for you. I would think that would count for a lot.”
“You still owe me.”
“Ralph? Give Charley what he’s due.”
I am more than half-expecting a slug in the head. But when Ralph steps forward, he has money in his hand. “That’s ten grand,” he says.
The last job I did for Mort – just a few weeks back – was a little less involved. It did involve some carpet beetles, and a skeleton that was sold as being “Straight from India!” Not a speck of meat left. Poor investment banker. And so fastidious, too.
“Thanks,” I say, counting, still half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the fact is that I know I will not die tonight. Mort wants me for this.
On this one thing, we do concur.
“So that’s that,” I say, as I thumb through the money. It’s a nice stack of hundreds that could last me a year.
“I want to thank you for doing this,” he says; and now I’m totally waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Your loyalty means a lot to me. You’re a trooper.”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
Once again, he laughs a little.
Then his eyes actually move off the computer screen to me. And I take the moment to read his eyes, as they actually aim my way.
And his eyes say, fuck you. You will do what I say.
And my eyes say, fuck you. I will do what I want.
And he looks at me hard, saying don’t you dare cross me.
I say, “Fifty”.
He says, “Thirty-five."
"Fifty’s cheap.”
“Thirty-five is expensive."
"You get what you pay for."
"And you get what you want.”
“Mort, don’t play cutesy. You want this, too.” He looks away, back at the screen, not giving up a scrap of feeling. “And you stand to make a shitload on the back-end, besides. I’m startin’ to think more like 150 grand.”
Now he’s getting pissed off, going red at the cheeks. “I can’t believe that you’d talk to me like this!"
"Ow. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“It’s a completely outrageous number!” He is getting apoplectic, but he still won’t look at me.
Now Ralph and Trey are getting fidgety. I imagine myself, just shooting all of them now. Might not work. Would most certainly screw up everything.
Doesn’t mean that I don’t see it, very clearly, in my mind.
“Thirty-five is fucking retarded. From a body-count standpoint alone...”
“I’m only asking you to do one person...”
“But that’s n
ot how it’ll go. And you know it."
"Okay, fifty.”
“Fifty’s cheap...”
“Now you’re just fucking with me!” He bangs his fists on the table, stares back at me hard. “You know, you’re actually lucky we’re discussing this at all! I could bring in Wade! He would do it for ten!”
“Wade is a moron."
"Wade is loyal...!”
“Wade is a fish-in-a-barrel clown. He’s lucky if he can find his fingers, much less pick out mittens that match. You really want him to be your Hand of Vengeance?”
Mort pauses to take this fact into account.
“When I pull this off,” I say, without waiting, “you will receive a very precise form of satisfaction. Because I understand why you want this to happen. Your reasons are just the same as mine.
“So I won’t just do the job. I will impart it with meaning. And she will know – as it happens – what exactly that meaning is.”
Mort lights a cigar, but I can hear his brain whizzing. He knows that I know that what I’m saying is the truth.
“So you charge extra for philosophy,” he says.
“You’re goddam right. And I’m worth every penny."
"We’re back to fifty.”
“One hundred and fifty.”
“You should quit while you’re still ahead."
"Okay. Let’s just say fifty up front..."
"Guess again...”
“Okay, twenty. With eighty upon completion..."
"Thirty...”
“Eighty...”
“Fifty, and that’s it. Seventy altogether.”
I give it a second of thought, know the wall has just come down, know he’ll never go past it.
“Done and done. I’ll take that now.”
“You think I have an extra twenty, just sitting around?” He laughs, and so does Trey. Ralph is not the laughing kind.
“Aw, Mort. Of course you do. If it’s not in your drawer, it’s in Ralph’s breast pocket. So we can get it done, and I’m on my way; or I can stand around, listening to Dave Gilmour all day.”
Mort sighs, takes a long pull on his cigar, focusing back on the screen. “Great guitarist.”
“I saw them live, back in ’71...”
“I saw them fifteen times,” he cuts in. “They pioneered quadraphonic sound. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did...”
“Incredible stage show. Incredible production. Nothing has surpassed it since.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen a show in...”
“I caught Bob Dylan’s last tour. And Joni Mitchell’s. I told you I had lunch with her, right?”
“No...”
“I was friends with her bass player..."
"Jaco Pastorius?”
“No.” He looks angry, for a second. “Larry Klein. Who she married. We knew each other in grade school.”
“I had no idea...”
“We were very good friends. He produced that Billy Idol record...” He searches for the name.
“Something about glass,” I say.
“Whatever. I don’t care about that crap."
"I kinda liked Billy Idol.”
“Billy Idol was crap. You like the Grateful Dead?"
"I...”
“I saw them – you will not believe this –- four-hundred and seventeen times.”
I laugh. Mort, the Dead Head. “You’re shittin’ me...”
“I am shitting you not. There were years when I just followed them around...”
“Evidently...”
“Next to the Beatles, greatest band in the world.” He artlessly clicks off Floyd, punches some keys. The silence is huge. I take a minute to check out Ralph.
Ralph is staring at the floor, wondering just why the fuck he’s there. Very much like me. If either of us had a soul, I’d feel for him.
Thank God that’s not an issue.
The song that comes on next is all acoustic guitar, mandolin, and bass. I recognize it instantly. A true Dead classic, off American Beauty. First side, second song, if I’m not mistaken.
“Name that tune,” he dares me.
“Man, that’s ‘Friend of the...’”
“‘Devil’”. He abruptly cuts it off, appearing weirdly half- pissed and half-pleased. Clearly, Trey wouldn’t connect with this ’70’s shit if you nailed it to his forehead. And Ralph clearly has no nostalgia gland at all.
But why is he trying to bond with me over the music? Cuz we’re from the same generation? Cuz he’s trying to say, we’re the same, you and I? Cuz he thinks I might be sweet-talked into leaving without my money?
As the silence yawns – and I helplessly do, too – the thought strikes me.
“What about the Rolling Stones?”
Mort snorts his contempt. “Almost as bad as The Who."
"Oh, come on! You don’t like The Who, either...?"
"Stupid music.”
“Even Tommy?"
"Especially Tommy.”
“Okay, Tommy is dumb. But Who’s Next is a masterpiece. And anyway, back to the Stones..."
"Bullshit...”
“Sticky Fingers? Beggar’s Banquet? Fucking Get Yer Ya- Ya’s Out...?”
Mort punches in some keys.
“Maybe one or two songs,” he concedes, without conceding.
“One or two songs, my ass...”
...and I wonder how long I’m going to have to stand here, debating classic rock with this fucking jerk...
...when the next song kicks in...
...and it is such a good song that even I have to pause there, nodding, with my breath sucked in: not only grabbed by the opening chords, but recognizing the perfection of the moment...
...and as I start to smile, Mort motions to Ralph; and Ralph steps forward again, reaching into his jacket...
...and I brace myself, understanding that I could still die right now...
...but then Ralph takes out the extra wad of cash – precisely twice as large as the last one – and hands it over to me.
This is my cue to leave.
“Thanks,” I say, but Ralph doesn’t care, and Mort isn’t looking, and Trey doesn’t count. I do, however – thumbing quickly through the bills – and when I’m satisfied, I pocket them, backing slowly toward the door.
By then, young Mick Jagger is wrapping up the first verse. And the band kicks into high gear. And I’m feeling strangely good.
And maybe it’s just because I still remember when music mattered. And maybe it’s just because I realize what a crock that is.
And maybe it’s because I just got paid. Or because I can’t help but feel morally superior.
And maybe it’s because, suddenly, vengeance is mine. Or about to be mine. By tomorrow night. Entirely.
“I’ll check in tomorrow, by phone,” I say. “Just make sure everything’s set.”
Mort nods his head, but does not look up. I am dismissed, and am on my way.
Fuck Mort. And God bless Mick Jagger, who assures me in song...
...that even though I can’t always get what I want...
...if I try sometimes – and I kill enough people – I just might get what I need.
EIGHT
Zachariah isn’t there when I come back out. Just as well. I’ve been here too long already.
A cute, bitter young typist is coming out of the lunchroom. I remember her from several years back. Very hot. Very angry. Very funny. Very smart. The kind of girl I would think about, hard, if I wasn’t so messed up.
“Hey,” she says. “Did you hear that Mort is almost gone?"
"What?”
“Yeah, he’s moving to Israel. Wants to start a family there.”
“No kidding.” This starts more than a couple of wheels spinning, in my own mind.
“Yeah. Just what the Middle East needs: another asshole.” I can’t help laughing at that. She smiles and slips past me, makes her way down the hall. I devote a full five seconds to enjoying her behind, then continue in the oppo
site direction.
People yell. Caspar looks up from his prison, making eye contact with me through the bullet-proof glass. His gaze says precisely nothing.
Reggie’s a dick.
Then I’m back on the street.
It’s another thirty minutes – once I’ve picked up my bags – before I hit the Lankershim subway station. Plunk a token in the ticket machine. And head down for the bottom.
Whoever designed this station took a lot of hallucinogens, and that much is for certain. Makes me wonder if he hung out with Mort: the two of them trailing the Dead, from concert to concert, before winding up as skeevy corporate goons. Parasites on the money trail. Total sell-outs. The worst kind of hippie scum.
The thing that confounds me – as I get on the train – is how suddenly lousy I feel.
Because I should feel good. Or, as Mort would say, great. I should feel like at least the thirty grand I have on me. I should have a little dance – a little groove-type proclamation – that I can’t help but express, shakin’all up and down the aisle. I should feel brazen, loud ‘n’ proud. On fucking top of the world.
But I don’t feel that way at all.
In point of fact, I feel sick at the core; and as the train lurches forward, my stomach lurches, too.
Maybe it’s because I’m at the back of the train: standing at the rear window, watching the tunnel retreat behind me. Maybe this is a strategic error, and I should have run all the way up to the front.
But normally, the back is good. Just as good as the front, in its own weird way. You still get the view, just in reverse. You still get the Time Tunnel effect.
Right now, I am staring into my own eyes, reflected: deep pits, filled with loops of light and dark. It looks like I’m wearing Hypno-Glasses, from an ad in the back of an old Creepy horror comic. Hypnotize your friends!, it would scream in bold text. Make them BEND TO YOUR WILL!
It didn’t work then, and I doubt it’s working now.
In fact, what I’m seeing is the light retreating from me, inwave after wave, as if it’s leeching something out. Like it’s taking away the best of me, leaving me alone with the vacuum that’s left...
...and the feeling is so utterly disturbing that I surprise myself, actually looking away...
...taking in the carload of losers that surround me. None of them looking any better than I feel. “What did I do to deserve you people?” I ask myself, and am not happy with the answer I receive.
