Nicolai felt safe there, on the street, in the dark, but only in the dark, for he knew in the morning this place would no longer be safe for him, like, he thought, a puppet who at curtain time is taken from his restful box and forced to perform silly things for nasty little children and their even nastier parents; Nicolai’s curtain was the sun and he could already hear a comedian warming up the audience.
He knew he was in Chinatown, Phyllis had told him so. He also knew that it was just south and not very far from where he lived. In the darkness and twisted streets of downtown, however, he did not know which way was north. The stars were not visible and he was kidding himself if he thought he could navigate by them in any case. So, following Nicolai’s Maxim (which he did not invent but used enough to call his own) he followed the path of least resistance which took him along Macdougal street and in a surprising stroke of luck, northwards. Not very long after, he hit The Bowery and got his bearings straight, from there it was a short walk home.
As he entered the vestibule of his building he found something on the floor: it was a small plastic baggy with some bits of cereal enclosed; a child cried from behind a door on the first floor. He began the climb up to his apartment. He was far beyond surprise at the events in his life and therefore far beyond working himself up about the details, except, he let himself regret the fact that at this hour, at this point, he should have been lying in his bed trying to steal some of the covers from the girl next to him without waking her up; one of those pleasant inconveniences. He wondered what had happened to her. She would be revived, explain the misunderstanding, call off the police, perhaps cry; perhaps? She won’t mind if I call her tomorrow, we’ll just have to try again. No park next time, though; God damned park. He wasn’t very tired. I’d like to read, he thought, haven’t read a book in a while. He reached his floor and went to light a cigarette. “Pack’s out, damn.” He contemplated the climb down (and up again, of course; this last with the limited success he has in that area) and there really wasn’t any choice. These cigarettes are what will break the bank, oh but how truly miserable life would be without them.
The grocer was open (as he always was) and Nicolai purchased a pack and a magazine. It was one of those monthly journals that appeal only to the literati called, Barely Legal; as well as incisive journalism it contained some nice color photographs. “Oh Lucille, if we could have loved but once. Give me a night, give me a day, give me an eternity. Would you settle for five minutes in a dark closet?”
He reached his door and entered his apartment and to his surprise, Lucille sat in the kitchen, on top of the stove, smoking a large cigar; to his left, Franz lay on the bed filing his nails. No, no, Nicolai thought, rearranging the image in his head, of course, Franz sat in the kitchen and Lucille on the bed, somehow he’d seen the girl first, though. “Lucille!” he exclaimed before seeing Franz, and after, “Lucille?”
The girl did not answer, Franz did and as he did he stood, “Nicolai,” he said, “it’s good to see you again.” As he spoke he removed his beard and mustache. They came off with a tearing sound. There were some particles of glue left on his face where the prosthetics had been attached. He washed his face in the sink and while doing so accidentally moistened his cigar. This, for some reason, he found funny, and finishing with a chuckle, he wet the entire thing (putting it out) and dropped it in the trash. The stench of it was still strong in the air, however. “Well, you must be quite surprised to see me. I see in your eyes the disbelief I’d expected. Let me anticipate your first question, because I don’t think you have a full grasp of the situation.” He spoke, Nicolai noticed, without a German accent, without any accent at all. “I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking that I am Franz and I will say you are incorrect, not in your assumption, but in your facts. You have known me as Franz and under many other names too, the most obvious of which as Giusseppi Contrari, a marvelous name which I cannot admit I devised myself, that was Lucille’s work. Take a bow, Lucille.” She smiled, he continued, “I thought you had me though, this afternoon. Foolish mistake I made, but I needed some papers from Crooke’s office and should have been more careful. But that is in the past. Let me introduce myself outright, my name is Jackson Shyster, however, my friends call me Jack and I would like to include you among them.”
The room was still filled with cigar smoke and it was beginning to irritate Nicolai’s senses, so much so that it seemed to be getting stronger. “I don’t, I don’t understand.” Nicolai said.
“Of course you don’t, there’s a lot to be explained yet, but I think you’ll find the conclusion amenable. Please have a seat why don’t you. There you go, on the bed.” Nicolai sat on the edge of the bed, with Lucille behind him, reclining. She waved hello as he sat. “Your first concern will be for Lucille’s well being. I assure you she is well. Naturally, things have been explained to the police and you will have nothing to worry about from them. I am amazed at your resourcefulness though, your escape was worthy of the greatest criminal mind. I congratulate you. You must know, however, that the events of this afternoon were not of my devising. It is a little joke Lucille likes to play on her new friends. She has an evil little strain in her I’m afraid and in that she in not unlike any other woman.”
“This is preposterous!”
“Preposterous? Indeed it is, but necessary I am afraid. I’d ask you to please listen and get all the facts before running away with conclusions. You will not be upset when we are done. Your next concernperhaps even rivaling the first for supremacy of your brainis for your promised fortune. You are thinking that since I am a sham, perhaps that is too? It is not. Everything is as everything was, consider that I am still dear Rooka’s executor, and that his fortune is immense.
“Before endowing you with such wealth, I had to be sure that you were not capable of Rooka’s murder. Yes, murder I say, for that is what it was. That is the reason I have been forced to involve you in several trials, to test your countenance, and I must say you performed admirably my man, admirably indeed. Wouldn’t you say so Lucille?”
“Yes, Jack,” she said, gently playing with the hair on Nicolai’s neck, “marvelously.”
“The unfortunate death of your aunt was disheartening, but never-the-less not your fault. Rooka incidentally had set aside some pittance for her, he felt, I believe, that he owed her some debt, but that will pass on to you now as well. How do you feel now?”
Nicolai did not feel at all well. The cigar smoke was still making him sick. It was so thick now that Franz, Jack, Contrariwhoever he isappeared veiled behind it, and Lucille’s constant touching of him was making it difficult to concentrate. How could they not notice all of that smoke? That stink? He looked over at Lucille. She was browsing through the magazine he’d bought. He looked at Jack again, who seemed to be speaking, though no sounds were being produced, but his mouth was moving. Nicolai’s eyes shifted down over his bulk. He was not as large as he’d remembered him being. Ah, Nicolai realized why, he was wearing a loose fitting suit, the best alternative to weight loss. Nice suit too, an earthy brown, single breast, cuffed at the bottom. Odd choice, though, he thought, those flames on the sleeve.
“Good Lord!” Nicolai shouted, “The trash is on fire!” It was too, and flames shot from it, licking Jack’s right hand. Nicolai ran to the kitchen and found an old bowl and used that with several refills of water to dowse the flames; Jack and Lucille remained unfazed.
“Thought it was getting a bit hot in here. Good cigars those Cubans, burn forever, never need to relight. I believe you were going to thank me.”
“I don’t understand quite yet. Am I to receive the money or not?”
“In time, all things in time. I merely want to point out that I no longer believe you to be the murderer, and will remit that information to the right people, but there is still the fact that Rooka was murdered, brains bashed in with a blunt object. I found him myself, a gruesome sight, gruesome. Where does that leave you then? In the clear, but no richer as yet
. However, I would recommend that you yourself call over there and put in some words. They’re very suspicious people and have all but accused you of the murder, in part because of your sudden voyage to America. As I stated earlier, I will do my best for you. In the end, though, you’re going to be a very rich man, even after my fee. For now though, take this, it is not much, but the best I can do for you. I must be going now. It’s hard work lurking around corners and such and I am overdue for a bath. Lucille, however, would like to stay I believe, she lives very close by. With that I bid you a good evening and I think you may sleep soundly, if I am not mistaken, for the first time in a long time. Please, I highly recommend that you do so. Good night, Nicolai. Goodnight, Lucille.”
Nicolai felt very strange. The smoke began to clear and things were once again coming into focus. He didn’t fully comprehend what had passed yet (Rooka murdered?) and even with the thousand dollars Jack Shyster had given him, was nowhere closer to trusting the man than during their antics on The Gramercy; he was sure of one thing though and that was that right now he wasn’t going to let any of that stand in the way of his making love to Lucille, and as he leans in for a kiss, we fade to black.
Chapter 7
Lucille was a bedhog. As appealing as she was during her waking hours, once asleep it did not take long before she metamorphosed into a truly disgusting person, barely human, with sweat-stained skin and hair that tentacle-like reached out and affixed itself to whatever it could find. She rolled and rocked and kicked and punched too, forcing Nicolai to seek refuge in the far corner of his bed near the wall. He didn’t have to (per his previous concerns) worry about her stealing the covers though, those she immediately kicked offof her and the bedand each time he pulled them back up: down again they would go; so he was cold as well. And tired, but under these conditions it was impossible to sleep.
He got up and sat by the kitchen window, smoked a cigarette, and looked for a moment at Mina’s window, which was dark. It is funny, he thought, that now I look back on those days of watching and waiting and creeping with a sort of nostalgia, when I remember that the plain fact of the matter is that they were, to understate the matter, very trying. In any case, he could barely remember the details of the business, only that warm afterglow of was remained with him; and a nice warm heat it was too, that was, and it always was, whether was was good or was was bad, no judgment in it at all, and that warmth was good for him now, because it was a cold night. Come to think of it, he thought, why is it so damn cold in here? Heat must be out again; he touched one of the pipes which spanned the room from floor to ceiling, but it did not confirm his assumption, for the pipe was hot. What then? He looked around, briefly his eyes fell on Lucille, disgusting. He thought of waking her up to see if beauty would rush back into her with consciousness, but chose not to: I don’t feel like listening to her talk right now; he’d had enough of that before and heard possibly some of the dumber things ever said come out of her pretty little head, besides he’d found the cause of the cold: the window was open, top half slid down. One of them, Jack or the girl, must have opened it in the fire. Nicolai climbed onto the chair and looked out. He spun his cigarette off of his thumb with the nail of his second finger (right hand) and watched the trail of light that it etched in the sky. He heard it ping off of something in the darkness below and he closed the window.
Oh Rooka, so is it murder then? Did the Boogie (no, it was Bogey, I think) slip into your castle and eat you while you slept, during the day no doubt? He imagined Rooka waking up, legs half submerged in a large hairy beast with no arms and red puffy fur. Ptewy, the beast would say, pickings have gotten mighty slim around here. Vait, vait, Rooka would say, don’t you realize that I am a Vicoff, one ov the great Vicoffs? Gobble, gobble, gobble, all gone: Walter somewhere in a corner shaking his head, the Bogey got him, nothing to be done. Nicolai chuckled. No, no not funny at all, really. Is it murder then, dear Rooka, who outlived wars and revolts? Rooka, over whom no despot ever triumphed? Is that how your days of glory were fated to end: lunch for Larry The Bogey-man? He had to remind himself again that it wasn’t funny, but he didn’t really find it funny. The thing was, he didn’t know what to think about it. Shyster’s story was plausible enough, but so it was too, before, when Contrari told it, and Franz was beyond suspicion as well, at least on points relating to his identity. Why then was what he said to be true today any more so for the fact of its being novel; it certainly read like a novel: disguises and lies and contrivances and such. Nicolai could very easily believe that it had all been ordained by Rooka himself, “Test the boy, Jack, test his metal, make sure he is fit to follow in my vake. Here, come closer I vill tell you how...”
He heard a groan and saw Lucille flop over in bed, like a fish. She was now on her back and some light from outside caused a drop of spittle to glimmer on the corner of her mouth. It hung there yearning to fall, causing one of those imbalances in Nicolai that occur at such times, a heavy weight on his brain, a twang of energy tickling his ankle (and threatening to move up). He felt that he couldn’t wait for it to fall, thought in fact of going to her and aiding it with a little thump from his finger, but he didn’t, instead he counted: one, two, three, four, five, please, please, enough already, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, it was stretching, so close, eleven, twelve, it dropped and rolled down her cheek, giving it now a shiny luster. He sighed, she coughed and gurgled and immediately formed another little droplet. Nicolai thought he would die (or kill her) but refused to play this game with her, so he turned away, resisting the tremendous pull it exerted on him and the only lingering trace of its affect on him was the slight lean it forced on his head, toward the left, indicating ever so subtly the source of irritation.
Disgusting little bitch. Nicolai was suddenly very angry with her (at her) for the way she’d tortured him in the park, for the way she’d just lain there filing her nails into claws while Shyster described his lies, hell he was mad at her for not being at the office when he’d arrived. If he were to make love to her now, he would do it angrily, violently, before though, after Shyster left, there was no doubt who was in charge. He shouldn’t be angry with her anyway, because she had amply (and masterfully) made it up to him, but he was. How on earth had they gotten into his apartment anyway? He went to the door and opened it (as silently as possible) and checked for any marks of forced entry. There were some scratches around the lock and door handle, but these were probably from installation, other than that there was nothing. He moved to go back into the apartment, but stopped. The light pouring in from the hallway, past the door frame and over his form, reminded him of something. Something about the dim shaft of light which cut a triangular slice out of the floor, something about the stillness and darkness that surrounded it, something about the crooked shadow cookie-cut out of it was all very familiar, and he knew why.
It had been exactly like that when he’d heard about Rooka, it was the middle of the night, very late (actually, he remembered, all of Contrari’s, Shyster’s, correspondence with him had been at unheavenly hours of the morning), Nicolai had been out drinking, celebrating, what was it?, a wedding or promotion or something, he came home, it was dark, he remembered having trouble with the keys and when he had finally gotten the door open he stood there in the frame transfixed by exactly this image: this shaft of light, shadow, &c.; that’s when the phone had rung, but he didn’t answer it, was too drunk, tired, whatever, the machine picked up and Contrari began: “regretful news,” “dire need,” something else too along those lines, the whole series of which broke Nicolai’s transfixion, but, he thought now in this present bolt of light, he’d been on to something, right on the verge of some great profundity, now however he was not and instead closed the door.
He sat again at the window, Lucille was now curled up in a ball in the center of the bed, she’d taken the blanket back and was entirely covered in it. That makes sense, he thought, cold no blanket and now that it’s getting warm again, she uses the blanket.
Nicol
ai’s eyes began to close, his head drooped: he was falling asleep. He was awakened almost immediately however by a ringing phone. When he looked up though, everything was still. And now, he thought, on top of all else, I have a ringing in my head. He tried to keep himself from drifting off again, with varying success, hidden and safe (from ringing phones and such) behind a thin veil of consciousness, but his veil, like most, had a slit cut for his eyes and through that slit he saw, lazily approaching from the distance, a soldier. He came from a point of light which illuminated him from behind, casting a long shadow. The shadow appeared to lurk, lumbering from side to side as casually as the general (the insignia he could now see identified him as such) sauntered. The general walked with his arms held behind him, consequently his shadow had none. His dress and hat combined with the angle from which the light shown, caused his shadow to appear long with a wide girth at the top, sloping in, pear-like, toward two small feet. Nicolai watched and he kept coming. The shadow eventually arrived. It overcame him slowly, first consuming Nicolai’s feet and then working its way up until he was inside of it. The light was red. The general was before him. He looked at Nicolai for a moment, then raised his right index finger to his mouth in a curly cue, this finger he then straightened, moved it about in a strange manner close to Nicolai’s face, and then in one swift movement hooked it under Nicolai’s veil and tore the veil away: Nicolai fell asleep.
He was on a boat again, The Gramercy. Three bright eyes looked down at him from the sky. He quickly retreated, walking backwards into his room, and got into bed. He woke up at midnight, dressed, and went to the bar. The sun quickly rose, oddly enough from the west, and he and the other passengers swiftly went about their business. This happened, by his count, for three risings of the sun and moon and then he was suddenly disembarking, down the gangplank and into a waiting taxi, which ride was very distressing as the driver chose to drive backwards through traffic. Then he was on a speeding train, then in another reverted taxi cab and then finally at home. As bad as that had all been though, he found himself on the phone booking another such voyage, after which he quit his job. It was day now, he hadn’t slept, and quicklystill so quicklythe sun set in the east, he had some conversation he could not remember (it all happened so damn quickly) and then again was leaving his apartment; as he did however, as he left, he stopped briefly in the doorway and examined a strange looking, but beautiful, shadow that his figure cast on the floor. At that moment he felt a tweak, just a tiny one, like a little bump from behind, only it wasn’t a bump on him directly, it was rather as if the whole world suddenly stopped moving in one direction and decided to follow another path.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 16
