by Bassoff, Jon
I spoke to Claire and it was just like she was sitting in the room next to me. “Max Leider is wrong,” I said. “This fellow Dan Turner aims to harm you. This fellow Dan Turner aims to destroy your beauty and then ejaculate over the filth. But I won’t let him. You hear me? I won’t let him.”
On all fours, I crawled back to my bed and rested my back against the edge of the mattress. Then I reached into my pocket and felt the key, Dan Turner’s key, cold and metallic against my skin.
CHAPTER 21
It was Leider’s unmailed letters that I appropriated, needing only to erase or add a word here and there, occasionally adjust the syntax. And when finished, I placed the letter in an envelope and immediately addressed and stamped it. I am fairly certain that, unlike Leider, I did in fact mail the letters, although I can’t be certain—I was so distracted and distraught during those days, it’s possible that I neglected to follow through. I felt it important to provide Dan Turner with the opportunity to free Claire on his own accord, and so the initial letter was gentle and conciliatory. I wrote:
Dear Mr. Turner,
I know this is highly unusual, me writing a letter to somebody who is, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. However, due to our close proximity and similarities in routines, I have seen you around town quite often. Forgive me for saying so, but from a distance it seems to me that you are quite hardworking and industrious. I admire somebody who gets up every morning and goes to work each day, especially doing the work that you do. A stockbroker, correct? Certainly I recognize the toll that type of work takes on a man’s emotions and perhaps even his soul. I hope I don’t come across as patronizing when I say that you have my deepest respect. You see, my own job relies on merely spattering paint across a canvas, and while I take pride in my work, I am also well aware that the world would go on just fine without the saturation of writers and actors and artists who, for the most part, tend to be abnormally narcissistic in relation to the trivial contributions they provide.
In any case, I hope to be able to introduce myself one day, and perhaps we could sit down for a drink—I take you to be a Scotch man. But for now it’s better that I remain nameless. I do hope that receiving a letter from an anonymous source doesn’t concern you; the last thing I want to do is frighten you. But enough of my chitchatting. I suppose you want me to cut to the chase. Very well. The reason I am writing you is because I wish to discuss your relationship with Claire Browning, a woman that I have a great interest in.
Oh dear! I said I didn’t want to frighten you, yet when I look at that line, I see that it could be perceived as quite scary indeed. Please, listen. I am an artist. I have seen Ms. Browning from a distance, from time to time. I find her beautiful. Not in a romantic sense, mind you, but in an aesthetic sense. And I worry that—how should I say this gently—perhaps you are not the man she should be with. It sounds so pretentious, I know! Please understand that this is not a criticism of you. Far from it. Rather, it is an understanding of her innate beauty and how important it is to keep this beauty pure. I’m sure there must be dozens of pretty girls who are enamored with an intellectual like you. And so I only ask in the most humble and polite way possible that you release Claire from your grasp.
Thank you in advance.
Yours very truly,
The Artist
* * *
But it wasn’t forty-eight hours later that I spotted him, leaning out Claire’s window, his thick bronzed arms revealed by an A-frame undershirt. He was smoking a cigar, only taking a few drags before dropping the butt to the street below. I recognized him right away, mainly because he’d been making nightly appearances in my dreams, blood dripping from his hollow eyes…
With recently purchased binoculars, I peered across the street and studied his arrogant expression and I knew what they’d been doing. A shot of pain traveled from the base of my skull down through my left leg. I cried out and squeezed my eyes shut. Behind my eyes I saw a Technicolor image of Claire getting fucked from behind, hair wild across her forehead, a ravenous smile on her face. I slid down against the wall, the binoculars clattering to the ground. “Fucking whore,” I whispered and then regretted the words immediately. No, no, no. It wasn’t Claire’s fault. She was blameless. She had to be blameless. It was him. He was the devil or something close enough. And Claire needed to be rescued from him. And now a new image, an image that I willed myself to create: me holding her tight and wiping a wisp of hair from her face and whispering in her ear and kissing away the tears. Soon she’d understand. Soon they’d all understand.
I raised my head back toward the foggy glass, and Dan Turner, the devil, cocked his head, grinned, and closed the window.
* * *
That night I drafted another letter, and now I could feel Leider’s presence in the room. The tapping of his foot matched the seconds on the clock. His shadow crawled up the walls and caused a chill in the air. He slipped behind me and whispered: “You’re wasting your time. Threaten him for what purpose? Kill him for what purpose? I know from experience, Mr. No Name, that it will do no good. Her whoredom is a genetic disposition that has no cure…”
My hand was unsteady, but I wrote. With every word, he kept creeping back, mocking my efforts. “Not an original thought in your brain. I see how you are recycling my letters. You didn’t think I’d notice? Blatant plagiarism is what it is.”
He didn’t have a real argument. Perhaps I was a plagiarist, but at least I wasn’t a murderer. If he called the authorities on me, I would reveal the details (taken from his own words) about how he butchered Anthony Flowers, left him to die in the alleyway.
A few more words and a voluminous signature and the letter was finished, ready to be mailed uptown, and Leider kept laughing and pretty soon I noticed that I was laughing too…
* * *
Dear Mr. Turner,
I have seen you around town, and it seems to me that you are a hardworking and industrious lad. I have nothing against you. But I do have a problem with your relationship to Claire Browning. She deserves somebody better. Believe me, I have ways of making you uncomfortable.
Thank you for your consideration.
Yours very truly,
The Artist
* * *
And then it was the next day or the day after that, a Thursday or Friday or Saturday, and I stood in the shadows of the alleyway, keeping an eye on Claire’s apartment, waiting for Turner to appear. Leider’s knife was in my jacket pocket, and I wondered if I’d be able to use it.
The sun was shining, but it was frigid cold, and I couldn’t stop shivering. I knew Turner was inside because I’d seen him enter but hadn’t seen him exit, and there was only one door.
I blew on my hands and hopped up and down, trying to warm my blood. Off in the distance I heard the abbreviated moaning of an ambulance. And then, from out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mess of a woman approaching, her clothes torn, her left leg wounded and dragging behind the other. I backed into the corner of the alley, but she kept coming, and it wasn’t until she was inches away that I recognized her as Suzanne Flowers. Misery had damaged the woman badly, and now she resembled a walking corpse, her frame just skin and bones, her eyes blackened caverns.
She was mumbling to herself, shaking her head, and kicking at the ground. When she saw me, there was no change of expression, no glimmer of recognition. She moved until she was inches from me, and she stank of beer and cigarettes.
“Ms. Flowers,” I said. “How are you? Do you remember me? What are you doing here in this filthy alleyway?”
But she didn’t seem to hear my voice or, if she did, chose to ignore it. In her right hand she was holding a photograph, badly crumpled, and I recognized it to be the same photograph that she’d shown me in the apartment. Her fingernails were yellow, her skin blistered. She raised the photograph in front of my face.
“Where is he?” she shouted, her eyes suddenly alive and full of fury. “What did you do with him?”
“I’m so
rry, but—”
“He’s a good boy. A hard worker. Never did anybody no harm.”
I didn’t know what to say. They’d found his body. She’d collapsed in devastation.
I pretended to study the photograph. From somewhere a cat shrieked and a lunatic laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was there when they discovered the body. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a mother to bury her son. No pain worse, I imagine.”
She spat in my face. “Liar! You’re just like the rest of them. Lies, lies, they’re all lies. Where is he? Huh? Tell me that. Where is he?”
So much pain in her eyes, and I didn’t want her to suffer anymore. Maybe I could ease the pain, even if for just a moment…
“Now that I think about it,” I said, “I have seen him. Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Just the other day. He was standing across the street with his hands buried in his pockets. I saw him. Talked to him.”
Her face didn’t change expression except for a slight narrowing of her lips. “My boy?” she said. “You talked to my boy?”
“That’s right. He’s doing well. Got a promotion at work. He’s living uptown now. But every day he comes down and stands outside of your apartment and searches for you. Just to make sure you’re okay, you know? He’s looking out for you. He’s always looking out for you. But he wants you to stop worrying about him. He wants you to stop crying. He’s fine. We’ll all be fine.”
I handed her back the photograph and she stared at me unblinking for a long time. Then she nodded her head slowly, said, “He’s a good boy. Anthony is his name. I knew he’d never leave his mother. I knew it.”
“That’s right.”
“You tell him that his mother loves him. Tell him that. I know he’s dead. I know that. Tell him that his mother loves him.”
And her eyes flashed gratitude and then she turned and walked away, still holding the photograph, and the truth is that we all need to create a narrative, a narrative stuffed full of lies, because otherwise the suffering would be too much, otherwise we would recognize the futility of life and the folly of our aims…
It was only minutes after Suzanne left the alleyway that I spotted Dan Turner exiting the apartment wearing a long business coat and a faggoty red and black scarf. I breathed a little quicker and gripped the knife a little tighter.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring a beggar and a whore, and placed earbuds in his ears. Satisfied with his music choice, he started walking down the sidewalk quickly, his hands buried in his pockets. I followed after him.
Past Avenue B and Avenue A, and the streets were marinated with sin. I kept him in my sight, remained just a half block behind him, a stranger in the crowd. He never looked back, not once, and I wondered what would happen if I pulled out my knife and stabbed him in the side, left him to bleed in the streets. Would the degenerates and reprobates notice his suffering and assist him, or would they step over his convulsing body, focused on their next fix? I wasn’t a killer, not yet, so I kept following him, not sure why exactly, only sure that my desperation was rising and my innards were throbbing.
We walked and we walked, and evil faces leered at me, and crippled bodies lay stacked against buildings, and police officers with Gestapo eyes aimed to do me harm. It was Leider they were looking for, but I wore his yellow jacket, combed my hair the same way, and longed for the same woman, so misidentification was a real possibility, I’m afraid…
To 3rd Avenue and he hooked a right, keeping his head down. Finally, at 14th Street, Dan Turner, the rich man, the devil, ducked into a subway station surrounded by Latino girls with oversized hoop earrings, an obese woman pushing a walker, a Hassidic Jew with sidelocks past his chin, and me, the watcher, the avenger, the savior.
Despite the crowds, I never lost sight of Turner, and I was directly behind him as we pushed through the turnstiles and descended the stairs toward the N/R train. He walked toward the front of the platform with purpose, and I walked only a step behind. How about waiting until the train barreled down the track and then shoving him hard, listening to the muted scream and disappearing into the crowd? It could be done, but I knew I didn’t have the courage to commit an act so outlandish, at least not yet.
As he peered down the tracks, I stood next to him and peered as well. He glanced at his watch. An appointment with a client, or a longing for his photographs of the mutilated?
Down the track only a glimmering red light, and no sight of the train. Despite the masses of humanity, the platform was eerily silent. I could have squeezed Turner’s neck. Instead, I spoke his name.
“Mr. Turner,” I said. “Did you get my letters? Any of them?”
He didn’t respond; instead he again leaned over the platform and gazed down the tracks, searching for the welcoming lights of the train.
“You oughta pay attention,” I said. “I wouldn’t want something bad to happen to you. Listen to me. I know about your unusual affection for the deformed. I know about your ‘collection’ of photographs. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. I could let the public know, too. Wouldn’t that be something? I bet you wouldn’t get too many clients after that. But don’t worry. It’s not you that I have interest in, only Claire. Mr. Turner? Can you hear me?”
But his music must have been playing too loud because he never turned toward me. Eventually I felt a cool breeze and then the train came crashing down the tracks, and we both stepped back. The doors opened and, after allowing the exiting passengers off, he stepped inside. For some reason, I remained on the platform. As the doors closed I watched him through the filthy windows, and we made eye contact. Then the train moaned and pulled away, and he was gone, and right then and there I knew the things I needed to do, and it was a shame that life was so miserable and violent.
* * *
Dear Mr. Turner,
I’ve been watching you. I know who you are. I know where you live. If you don’t end your relationship with Claire Browning, I will slit your throat with a razor blade.
The Artist
CHAPTER 22
Here’s how things happened, more or less.
As it became clear that Turner was not willing to leave his possession of Claire, and as I became convinced that he unknowingly would obliterate her beauty, I made my plans to kill him.
Naturally, this decision did not come about easily, and I felt uneasy about committing the ultimate act of violence. Not because I concerned myself with some childish notion of morality as defined by the Bible or Hallmark movies, and not because I feared incarceration or the lethal needle, but because I worried that I would not be able to complete the act. I worried that I would look into Turner’s eyes and feel my fortitude shrivel, and I would be reduced to a shivering heap of flesh.
I remembered Leider’s tale of murder, how he beckoned Anthony into the alleyway and slit his throat there, but I soon dismissed that idea as being too risky. I couldn’t be sure when he would be arriving or departing Claire’s apartment building, and when I did see him outside, I couldn’t be sure that I could lure him to the alleyway. And even if I did, there was always the chance that a homeless man or a whore or a tenant would wander down the alleyway and see me with blood on my hands and then what would happen to Claire? The city is known as a violent and menacing place, but, in reality, the eyes of strangers protect us.
The most important detail: I had his spare key. So that’s the way it would have to happen. In his apartment. While he slept.
* * *
And so it was that I stood outside his apartment again, waiting once more for the right moment to enter. This time there was a different doorman, however. He was tall and sickly-looking, with yellowed skin and round spectacles. Just as I had the previous week, I waited for a moment of distraction. And just as the week before, the distraction wouldn’t come. He remained in the vestibule, hands behind his back, gaze straight ahead. I slumped against the building wall and rubbed my hands to keep them warm. Minutes turned into hours and the boredom got oppressive
.
Using hunger as an excuse, I rose from my shadowed position and wandered back to Broadway in search of a grocery store. A few blocks away I found one, but when I reached into my pockets, I realized I didn’t have even a silver dime. I paced around for a while, watching in envy as various people went in empty-handed and came out with sustenance.
Finally, some pity. A woman wearing a fur coat, a milk jug worth of perfume, and the entire display case of a jewelry store must have sensed my desperation. “Oh, you poor animal,” she said. “You’re only skin and bones.” Eyes filling with tears, lipsticked lips pouting, she told me to wait right where I was. She ducked into the grocery while an Indian boy no older than thirteen catcalled and whistled. A few minutes passed before she exited the store carrying an overripe banana and a loaf of bread. She handed me the food and said she was only following the example of Jesus. I thanked her and, as she disappeared into the crowd, began stuffing the food in my mouth as quickly as possible. But just then there appeared a heavyset Hispanic man wearing a white apron and a hairnet. He pointed at the bread and the banana peel. “That food’s not paid for,” he said. “You owe three dollars and twenty cents.” I tried explaining that the woman with the fur coat had bought the food and had given it to me out of compassion, but he only shook his head and frowned.
“She didn’t pay. She’s bad news. She didn’t pay.”
I reached into my pockets, showed him that they were empty. His face reddened and his carotid artery throbbed. He whipped out his cell phone and started dialing a number, and I was sure it was the cops he was calling. I knew I couldn’t wait around, so I yanked out of his grip and sprinted through the crowd, accidentally knocking over a young child and an old woman in the process. “Ladrón! Ladrón!” I heard him shout, but the crowd was my ally, shielding me with bodies, and soon I was swallowed into anonymity.
