by D R Lowrey
Funny indeed, thought Nigel, because, as if nailed by a hammerhead, a thought crumpled into his braincase. To his helmeted companion, he said, “You have a lot in common with someone I know. He might make for a better roommate than me. Not English. Would you like to meet him?”
“Be okay, I guess. You know, I don’t mind telling you that you’re not as bad as you seem. As we’ve gotten to know each other in these jabber sessions, my desire to disembowel you in the middle of the night has softened somewhat. Of course, you should still sleep with an eye open. I don’t have control over my dreams, and I dream big.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go speak to this man about becoming your roommate. You never know…could save a life. Be back soon.”
Nigel hurried down the hallway to Gastrick’s old quarters. Not wishing to startle the old gentleman, Nigel gently knocked, then whispered, “Mr. Sandoval. Psssst, Mr. Sandoval. Psssst.”
“What’s happening out there?” asked a scratchy voice from behind the door. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Sandoval, sorry to disturb you. May I come in? I have something to discuss.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s Nigel, the butler.”
“You the one who killed that guy with a hammer?”
“No. Wasn’t me.”
“Okay. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” said Nigel, entering the room and shutting the door behind him.
“Sorry about the questions, but you can’t be too careful,” said Mr. Sandoval. “There’s a murderer on the loose, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Nigel. Hoping Mr. Sandoval’s opening remarks provided a framework for his delicate request, he continued carefully. “I’ve come to talk to you about tonight’s sleeping arrangements. How do you like your room?”
“Pretty tremendous,” said Mr. Sandoval. He underscored his answer by dropping open his jaw while pointing his eyeballs upward as if viewing the Sistine Chapel.
“Tremendous?” said Nigel. “You don’t find it a little much? Maybe too spacious, a little isolated, lonely, perhaps?”
“It is big. But if you ever spent eight days inside a locked semitrailer with 140 migrants, then spacious, isolated, and lonely ain’t the worst.”
“No, I suppose not. However, your safety is our chief concern. As you said, there may be a killer lurking on the premises. I don’t want you to be unduly worried, but we take the safety of our guests very seriously. That is why we’d like to move you into a room with another resident. It’s for your own security.”
“You’re doubling me up? Putting me in with someone else?”
“For your security, you understand.”
Mr. Sandoval pulled at his face.
“It’s strictly temporary,” said Nigel. “Just until we apprehend this killer.”
Mr. Sandoval looked around the room. His shoulders drooped as if he’d been relegated to the lower branch on a sappy tree.
“The resident you’re to share a room with is a combat veteran—”
“Iraq or Vietnam?” asked Mr. Sandoval.
“One of those other wars. It doesn’t really matter which war. What matters is that he was on the front lines and saw plenty of action. I assure you, he won’t cower in the face of violence…not this chap. He’s the sort to be right in the middle of it. Believe me, no killer in his right mind would be knocking on this chap’s door.”
“A nice guy?”
“Nice? Nice isn’t even the word. You two would have so much to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“Fish-induced head injuries for a start,” said Nigel, feeling he’d set the hook. “He has one; you have one. That alone would be a day’s conversation. You two could start a Facebook group together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Facebook? Is that like MySpace?”
“Even better. But you’ve definitely got the right idea.”
“Who gets this room?”
“For tonight, it would just be me…as a sort of bait,” said Nigel. “We’re thinking this room might be where the killer strikes next. Not that we think he will, mind you. But if he did, this room would be the spot.”
“What about the clothes?”
“The clothes?”
“The clothes in the room? All the nice things? What happens to the clothes?”
Mr. Sandoval’s attire had thus far gone unnoticed. Upon inspection, it was obvious he had embraced the room, wardrobe and all. His head sported a fedora hat with a brim pulled low over a pair of Maui Jim sunglasses. His wiry frame was covered by some form of men’s velvet lounge wear topped with a brocaded smoking jacket covered by a loose, satiny robe. His feet, swaddled in red toe socks, were sidled into a pair of open-toed Mexican huaraches. An assortment of rings adorned his fingers.
“The clothes are yours to use,” said Nigel, his heart warming at the thought of Gastrick’s prized possessions put to good use. He wouldn’t need them for at least another five to ten years. “Take what you need, and if you run out, mosey on by and browse to your heart’s content.”
Heartened by this revelation, Mr. Sandoval retrieved a large suitcase from the closet and began to pack.
Nigel, relieved at the prospect of sleeping with eyes closed, collapsed in a chair. His quiet reverie crumbled when his shuttering eye caught sight of a glistening black-and-yellow object atop the dresser. The object would have gone unnoticed had it not hopped.
“What”—Nigel pointed at the black-and-yellow blob—“is that?”
“That’s Glen,” said Mr. Sandoval. “He’s a nice boy. He goes with me everywhere.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a poison dart frog?”
“Some might call him that. I just call him Glen.”
“Why do you have a poison dart frog named Glen?”
“He looks like a Glen. Don’t you think he looks like a Glen?”
“I don’t care if his name is Glen or Glenda, why do you have a poison dart frog at all? Again, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t poison dart frogs poisonous?”
“I hadn’t noticed. This little guy saved my life once.”
“You used it to poison an adversary?”
“You seem obsessed with that poison angle. It’s the same with the natives down there. You and them must read the same books. Anyway, they’re correct about their poison dart frogs. They’re just not correct about my poison dart frog. You see, it’s not the frogs’ fault that they’re poisonous.”
“Whose fault is it?”
“The ants.”
“The ants?”
“Yes, the ants. The ants are the bad guys. They’re the ones that make the poison. When the frogs eat the ants, they accumulate their poison. The frogs are just curators. My little Glen here gets a steady diet of crickets and worms. Not the kind of stuff that a little frog can make poison from.” Mr. Sandoval scooped up the little frog, stroked its back with an index finger, and then gently kissed the top of its tiny head. “You’re harmless, aren’t you, Little Glen?”
Nigel felt like a heel for interrupting, but asked, “You said it saved your life?”
“Once, in the jungle. I was cornered by some hostile types. Happened a lot in those days. With no weapon to protect myself, I popped Glen into my mouth. When the group surrounded me, I opened my mouth and let Glen crawl out. Some of the hostiles looked horrified and some laughed, but they left me alone. Maybe they figured I was crazy, or I was bad medicine, or I was about to die. I don’t know, but they let me be, and I got out of there.”
“If you want to write a book, I’ll be your agent.”
“I wasn’t the first to do it.”
“Did others have poison dart frogs?”
“We all did. They were our pets in the jungle. You couldn’t have dogs. They’d get lost or eaten. But not these frogs. Of course, you had to be careful. The wild ones really are poisonous until you get them to stop eating ants.”
“And how do you do that?”
&nb
sp; “You don’t feed them ants.”
“Oh.”
That was the most coherent discussion Nigel had heard from Mr. Sandoval. Past conversations often left the impression that an unseen third party inside the man’s head was conducting its own parallel interview.
Mr. Sandoval began stripping off his assorted garments and throwing them into the suitcase. He eventually removed a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt to reveal a bare torso that could have been used as a museum exhibit for bones and tendons.
Nigel would have preferred to not see such a display, however, before averting his eyes, a feature on Mr. Sandoval’s weathered hide captured his attention.
“Where did you get that?” said Nigel, pointing to a place on Mr. Sandoval’s back that Mr. Sandoval could not possibly see.
“Get what?”
“That tattoo?”
“What tattoo?”
“The one on your back.”
“There’s a tattoo on my back?”
Nigel, having perceived the general direction of the conversation, took decisive action. “On your lower back, left side, there is a tattoo. The tattoo depicts a house. From the right corner of that house is a dashed line in a southeasterly direction to the small of the back, around the spinal column where it terminates against the image of a pot heaped with a yellow substance. Let’s presume it’s gold. Just off to the side of that dotted line is a notation that says 18p. That is a description of the tattoo on your back.”
“Are you sure it’s not moles?”
“I’m not a dermatologist, but I suspect it’s a tattoo.”
“Don’t care for tattoos. I should have it removed.”
“You don’t remember getting it?” said Nigel. “I mean, it’s pretty big. It’s on your back. You don’t recall lying on your stomach for several hours under intense lighting while being painfully punctured thousands of time by a human billboard, and then paying that billboard a good sum of money? None of that stirs up a memory?”
“Afraid not. But there’s a period there—like ten or fifteen or twenty years—where I don’t recall much. Could’ve happened then.”
“But even if you don’t remember getting the tattoo, the thing must mean something. Do you know what it means?”
“Means nothing to me. What do you suppose it means?”
“I don’t like to jump to conclusions,” said Nigel, “but let’s review. There’s a house, and a pot of gold, and a line between house and pot of gold annotated with 18p. What do you think it means?”
“What does p mean?”
“What would you think p means?”
“In England, isn’t p some kind of money?”
“Some people use it for pence. Is that what you think? Eighteen pence?”
“Don’t know. How much is eighteen pence?”
“Eighteen pence wouldn’t buy the pot, wouldn’t even pay the VAT on the pot. Maybe p doesn’t mean pence. Maybe it’s a unit of distance. Any ideas?”
“P, p, p,” whispered Mr. Sandoval, tapping his dented head. “Could mean parsec.”
“P for parsec,” said Nigel. “Of course. Outstanding. I’m so impressed you remembered. How long is a parsec?”
“Don’t know,” said Mr. Sandoval.
“That’s okay. We can look it up later. Now, about that pot of gold,” said Nigel, rubbing together his palms as if praying to some golden idol. “I’m guessing the pot of gold is symbolic rather than literal. What do you think the pot of gold might signify?”
“Gold?” said a hesitant Mr. Sandoval.
“I would guess that actual gold doesn’t play into it.”
Mr. Sandoval appeared puzzled. After spending two decades wandering the wilderness where every need is immediate and every threat is physical, his skills at metaphor had greatly diminished.
“Pot of silver?” said Mr. Sandoval, stretching himself.
“I doubt there is an actual pot, either,” said Nigel.
Mr. Sandoval let his shoulders sag, seeming at a complete loss.
“It’s okay,” said Nigel. “We shall consider it as unspecified treasure. Now then, the house. What house would that be? Any ideas?”
“A haunted house?”
“Why do you say a haunted house?”
“Does it look haunted?”
“No, not really. It looks like your basic, generic, nondescript house. Again, I suppose it’s somewhat symbolic. I doubt the tattoo artist was working from a blueprint. What house do you suppose it might represent, Mr. Sandoval?”
Mr. Sandoval’s brain, already pressurized from that dented cranium, must have been buckling under the weight. “Yours?” he said in a low tone.
“Mine, did you say?”
“Yes?” said Mr. Sandoval.
“Why would an image representing my house be on your back, Mr. Sandoval? Does that make sense?”
“No?” asked Mr. Sandoval after some hesitation.
“No. I would say that it doesn’t. What about your house, Mr. Sandoval? Could that be your house? I mean, being that it’s on your back? Do you think it might be your house?”
“Yes?” muttered Mr. Sandoval.
“Okay. Let’s suppose it’s your house. Reviewing what we know, there is an unspecified treasure eighteen parsecs from the southeast corner of your house. Does that make sense to you, Mr. Sandoval?”
“No?”
“No? Why do you say no?”
“Yes?” Mr. Sandoval appeared notably relieved to have only two choices.
“Okay, so you say it makes sense. Good. We’re on the same page. Now, I must request—and this is of utmost importance—that you don’t tell any of this to anyone. This is to be our little secret until we figure this thing out, okay?”
The tired Mr. Sandoval mulled possible responses before letting one roll out his mouth. “Okay?”
“Splendid,” said Nigel. “We have an understanding.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Too Many Psssssts
“Grumps,” whispered Nigel. “Psssst.”
A snore cut to a snort as Grumps launched skyward as if punctured from below.
“Sorry to wake you, but this is Mr. Sandoval. Your fine new roommate.”
“You,” said Grumps, addressing Mr. Sandoval, “sleep on the sofa.”
“Okay,” said Mr. Sandoval.
“You English?” said Grumps.
“Nope,” said Mr. Sandoval, removing his fedora.
Grumps’s steely gray eyes, peeking out from beneath the darkness of his helmet, scanned the new roomie from his huarache-clad feet to the top of his bare, dented head. “Your cranium is concave,” he said.
“I know. Hit by a fish,” said Mr. Sandoval.
“Hit by a fish? I’ll be damned. Looky here,” said Grumps, removing his helmet and turning his head to reveal a nasty indentation to the back of his skull.
“Looks like a hammerhead,” said Mr. Sandoval.
“Yep. Four-footer. And yours?”
“Arapaima. Five-footer.”
“You don’t say. I’ll bet you got some brain damage.”
“Possible, I suppose. I got a ten- or twenty-year memory gap. Maybe there’s a connection. And you? Brain damage?”
“Doctor said there’d have to be, but I ain’t noticed nothing.”
Nigel, feeling like the spouse at a class reunion, fished for an excuse to leave. “As much fun as all this has been, I’ll be leaving you two to your little pajama party. Don’t stay up too late. Keep the giggling to a minimum for the sake of the neighbors, all right? Bye.”
Nigel skipped down the hall to his single occupancy room where a solid night’s sleep awaited. He collapsed on the bed face-up to be caressed by a momentary wave of serenity. A serenity born of sleeping alone on a comfy mattress without a brain-damaged, psychopathic killer within stabbing distance. He drifted off to sleep, only to be awoken by a sound reminiscent of an inner tube after being bitten by a snake.
“Pssssst, pssssst. I know you’re in there. I can hear you snorin
g,” said a whispering voice from beyond the door.
Nigel put his ear against the door.
“Pssssst, pssssst. Hey, Sugar, your candy store is back in business,” said a gruff, sandpapery voice. “In two more days, the shop closes up for good. Indulge your sweet tooth while you can. I’ve saved all your old favorites and,” said the voice, dropping down even quieter, “if you’re a bad boy, a really bad boy, I brought my bullwhip.”
Nigel wasn’t feeling like a bad boy, but before he could disappoint the candy store masochist, he heard the creak of a door followed by the whiz of a receding electric wheelchair. After a moment, he opened his door and stuck his head out. In one direction, he saw Abuelita’s wheelchair disappear into the elevator. In the other, walking toward him, was a shuffling, helmeted Grumps. Nigel felt obligated to follow the old guy to assure his safety and prevent any murder he might wish to perpetrate. As Grumps passed, Nigel was reassured by the lack of splattered blood on his person.
The old man, oblivious to Nigel’s presence, shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen. There, he pulled a single slice of bread from the breadbox, obtained a spoon from the silverware drawer, and grabbed a jar of mayonnaise from the refrigerator. A spoonful of mayonnaise was scooped out and plopped into his mouth. After returning the jar of mayonnaise, he devoured the piece of bread. He went about this business in the robotic, emotionless state of one content with a menu of white bread and mayonnaise.
Leaning against the end of the kitchen cabinets by the back door, Nigel recognized that he was in the presence of a sleep-eater, perhaps a habit the man had developed when no one thought to feed him. Asleep or not, it seemed a deficient meal for someone with the run of the pantry. Maybe mayonnaise and white bread constituted the proper antidote for one regularly feasting on their own blackened soul. Or maybe he consumed his sandwiches over successive nights, tomorrow returning for the second slice of bread and the turkey breast. The possibilities were many, but not worth losing sleep over.
Through the window in the back door, Nigel noticed movement on the back lawn. Unable to discern more than shadowy motion, he turned on the floodlights. The figure jumped as if stepping on a live wire before looking back at the house and fleeing the scene. It was Jack Watt, again.
