Killing Everybody

by Mark Harris

  “Now that I found it what can I do with it?” Lala asked. She read the letter again, hearing it in Brown’s voice, especially the final phrase, “Day Sleeper.”

  “Don’t tell me we climbed all the way up there for nothing,” said Iris, as if the attic were a mountain. “Show it to Officer Phelps.”

  “Is he supposed to come back?”

  “Call him back,” said Iris. “You’re a taxpayer.”

  “Do they send the one you ask for?” Lala asked.

  “One’s as good as another,” her mother said. “Here comes somebody,” she added, noticing through the window a gentleman advancing up the walk, pausing, however, to watch a lady pass by with her dog on a leash. The lady wore a squirrel coat. Since the lady’s hair was in curlers Iris imagined that she had dashed from the house for the dog’s sake mainly. The lady and the gentleman smiled at one another, the gentleman smiling first, the lady responding. The dog tugged at his leash. “He’s some sort of salesman,” Iris said. “Go get the door.”

  Lala walked to the door.

  “Don’t just fling it open,” her mother said, her eyes upon Harold’s bowling shoes on the television set. One shoe pointed north, the other south. Nobody could walk that way. She questioned whether they’d fit in her purse, considering the binoculars. A paper bag would help, but she had no paper bag and dared not ask for one. Well then, which would he prefer, shoes or binoculars? “Both,” he’d say, for Harold’s appetite was grand — he wanted it all, peeping and bowling and learning to read all in one day.

  “How can anybody come in if I don’t fling it open?” Lala asked.

  “If you were alone in the house, would you fling it open?”

  “I’d ask through the glass,” Lala lied. She never feared to open the door. But now she asked through the glass, as if it were her normal procedure. Upon the glass a small sign read We Are A Girl Scout Family. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He could not hear her, but he had certainly read her lips, and he had seen the steam of her tonsils imprint itself on the glass, so she was warm, anyhow, and plenty good-looking through the glass, and so was the lady in the squirrel coat, too, receding down the street. Now to see the rest of Mrs. Ferne!

  GIRL WANTED. Warm preferred, steaming tonsils desireable, must love fucking at all hours with sophisticated well-smelling man age 27, near winner of Medal of Honor. Call Jim night or day 365 days.

  “I brought it,” he called through the glass.

  Brought what? Lala flung open the door. “Brought what?” she asked.

  “The way you fling open that door,” her mother said, “not even knowing who it is . . . that’s how those eight nurses were murdered in Chicago.”

  “Brought the letter,” he said. “It’s me. How are you? Any news on your dog?”

  Who could this be? Lala had no idea. Perhaps he was a neighbor. Else how did he know about the dog? Word gets around. He wore a McGinley button, and she began, therefore, by disliking him. “Not a word,” she said. “What letter?”

  “The letter I mentioned on the phone,” he said. “We like to follow up and see that the customer is satisfied. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What did you get suckered into buying now?” Iris asked Lala.

  “May I ask who you are?” Lala asked Jim.

  “Berberick, Chronicle Classified,” he said.

  Of course, of course. “Come in and meet my mother,” she said.

  “You bet,” he said, stepping in. Now he’d never step out again, either. He was in her life forever.

  “You certainly follow up fast,” said Lala to this fragrant fellow.

  “What did you buy?” Iris asked.

  “We advertised for Paprika,” said Lala.

  “And now he’s here in person,” Iris sarcastically said. “You sure get the service.” She smiled at James Berberick’s transparency.

  He knew that Iris knew him for whatever he might be up to. All right, he preferred it that way, all intention open, you needn’t go “beating about the bush” pretending you were somebody you weren’t, pretending you were selling something, pretending you came to retrieve a lost object — “Did I drop my pencil on your lawn?” “No, you didn’t drop your pencil on my lawn, and don’t stand so close to me.” “I’m not standing close to you.” “You certainly are standing close to me.” “What is close? Define the word close.” “Close is when you’re standing so close to me some part of your body is touching some part of mine.” Oh, those childhood conversations! Years later he realized it must have been his smell that caused people to encourage distance upon him. For his smell, for his pressing eagerness, his closeness, his snapping little girls’ elastics he’d always been in trouble with somebody’s big brother, always in a fright over some incident or other, always ducking down certain streets to avoid other streets, always striding quickly past the houses of known or possible enemies, or running . . . These gals are detectives, he thought. He was sure of that. If they weren’t detectives why were there two of them? Now Berberick, he warned himself, you better be as cagey as you can. You better make it plausible, convincing, and credible. They had a tape-recorder concealed somewhere, he was sure of that. Think fast. “I’ll tell you why she’s getting the service,” he said. “I’m running my own little check. I want to be a big man in Classified some day, so I want to give you the best service I can. Is that credible?”

  “No,” said Iris.

  Speak right up into their concealed recorder, James thought. “I want the good things of life,” he said. “I’m ambitious. That’s free enterprise.”

  “What are the good things of life?” Iris asked.

  “Mother,” said Lala, “this man didn’t come here to be cross-examined. This isn’t a trial.” He was attractive, Lala thought, and she tentatively rippled again, though it was late in the morning for rippling. “Did you put the word thoroughbred in?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Is it because of what I said to the operator?” Lala asked.

  “Is what because?” Jim asked, a bit confused.

  “What did you say to what operator?” Iris asked.

  “Therefore if you’ll just help me by answering a few routine questions,” James said, “I’ll be mighty appreciative and on my way.”

  “What’s the gimmick?” Iris asked.

  No, they weren’t detectives. They were mother and daughter, and mother was a big one, too. “No gimmick,” he said, adding truly, “nobody was ever more sincere than I.”

  “Mother’s always suspicious,” Lala said.

  “Mother’s a suspicious character,” Jim said. He enjoyed word-play. The day they hanged him for rape and mass murder he’d say, “Give a fellow enough rope, I always say.” He took a pad from his pocket. “No gimmick, no selling, I’m only making a little survey of things to improve the quality of our service. I really am. I see you look doubtful.”

  “You must think you’re talking to a couple of idiots,” said Iris.

  “Why don’t we just watch and see?” said Lala to her mother. “Let him talk.” Yes, his voice affected her, as before, resuming its journey, its skating upon her skin, circling and winding, tracing its course downward from her shoulders, crossing her belly, spinning around her waist, circling her thighs, climbing her other side.

  “I appreciate that,” he said to Lala. “Let’s just go along and see what I’m up to, if anything.”

  “You’re up to no good,” said Iris.

  “Mother, let’s see.”

  “O.K.,” said James, “it was a lost dog, right? Then what made you think of advertising in the Chronicle, like who suggested it or did it naturally suggest itself?”

  “How did it?” Lala asked. “It’s hard to remember how your mind works. Let me think. I guess it just suggested itself. I had to get an O.K. from Harold, though.”

 
“Harold meaning your husband,” said Jim.

  “Right-o,” she said.

  “Have you received any response to the ad?” he asked.

  “The paper isn’t out yet,” said Lala. “Is it?”

  “You’re a phony if I ever saw one,” said Iris to Jim.

  “You don’t believe in me, do you?” Jim inquired.

  “You’re as phony as a three-dollar bill,” said Iris. “Sooner or later somebody’s going to find out what you’re up to. Don’t you know that? We don’t care, do we, Lala? But somebody will.”

  “Lala,” he said. “That’s a fantastic name.” Girls’ names were magic to him, and often he spoke them over and over, especially the names of girls or women he had had “love affairs” with. He preferred the sounds of the names of girls to the sweetest music in the world. Whereas some people, for example, sang fine songs in the shower, James Berberick in his shower recited the names of girls, and their names summoned to his sight visions of their bodies. “Lala,” he said again, feeling his tongue upon his teeth as he said it.

  “Call me Iris,” Iris said.

  “Lala and Iris,” he said. “Are you really her mother? I can’t believe it. You don’t look it.” He jotted words upon his pad. “Will you keep me informed of any response you do receive to your ad?”

  “Why not?” Lala asked.

  “Do you consider the rate reasonable?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Does not consider rate reasonable,” James said, writing those words on his pad, and asking, “Why is it unreasonable?”

  “It’s too much,” Lala said.

  Iris laughed. She turned on the television. “Let’s see how the moon men are coming,” she said. “Lala, may I ask what Harold’s bowling shoes are doing on the TV?”

  “That bitch,” said Lala. “That astronaut’s wife. That’s what got me so mad. When she answered the phone I just blurted out everything that was in me. I don’t even remember what I said.”

  “To whom?” her mother asked.

  “The Chronicle operator,” Lala explained to her mother. Then she asked Jim, “If I apologize to her can’t you drop the charges?”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For whatever I said,” said Lala. “It was obscene.”

  “What in the world for?” her mother asked. “Obscene to the Chronicle operator? What did she do to you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little obscenity,” Jim said.

  “It’s illegal on the telephone,” said Lala.

  “You should hear what I hear,” Jim said, “especially when I quote the rates.”

  “Lala has a short temper,” her mother said.

  “Exactly what did you say?” James asked. This was getting good. If only he could get her to say the obscenity she had said his lunch hour would be made. Obscenities on the tongues of lovely women excited him, filled him with enthusiasm, for there was no telling where obscenity might lead; obscenity was a hint that a woman’s mind was open, that not all things were propriety with her, and open minds led to open actions, as he had learned; the imagination of things led to their accomplishment, the contemplation of possibilities led to the possibilities themselves. None of the adventurous things he had done in his life had ever occurred without his having imagined them first, or dreamed about them, or read about them, or heard them discussed among his fellows. He was open to suggestion from every quarter, including the quarters of his own mind, he was his own tempter. They’re luring me, he thought, they’re trapping me. They knew his weakness, and they were turning him on, they were detectives. This bitch was pretending to confess something, and when she was done confessing she’d expect him to do a little confessing, too. Bang went that trap. Why did she turn the television on? Because it was a recording device, that’s what, taking down all he was saying, and off he’d go to jail for lewd behavior, leaving their smiles behind. He’d have a lot of time to sit in a cell thinking about these two.

  “I’d prefer to not say what I said,” said Lala. “How do I know who you are?”

  “Say it,” said James. It would be music. The names of girls were music, obscenities on the tongues of beautiful women were music. Imagine a worldwide concert — James Berberick, international singer, reciting the names of girls in the principal auditoriums of the world! Imagine a duet, a trio —

  James (Allegro): Alice, Barbara.

  Lala (Andante): Cock and cunt.

  James (Presto Moderate): Doris and Enid.

  Iris (Tenderly): Fuck.

  If only he had a stage to stage such a concert on! Brass bands and symphony orchestras or a lone violin! A capella if necessary. It didn’t matter to him, just so long as thousands of people assembled to hear him. Why not St. Peter’s in Rome? Two stages! The Pope on one, James on the other. They were both Catholics. James, Lala, and Iris would travel about from city to city singing to thousands of persons all over the globe and elsewhere, to reduce his tension. He had a lively mind, this James Berberick, and in his best moments he was fit for “better things” than his job as Classified clerk for the Chronicle. But from his point of view “better things” were hard to find. Not many jobs offered better contact with ladies with problems. Ladies called, James secured their names and addresses, and if the situation sounded promising he “followed up,” as he was doing now. If there had been money in it he’d have been rich, for he was persistent, effective, perseverant, prompt, well-organized and relentlessly aggressive. His strong point was determination, almost to the point of fury.

  “I called her a bitch, I remember that much,” said Lala.

  “Terrific,” James Berberick said.

  “I feel like doing the same thing myself,” Iris said. “But I never do.”

  “I lost my temper,” Lala said.

  “You felt better,” Jim said. “It’s perfectly healthy.”

  “I said, ‘I’ll bomb your ass, you bitch.’ That’s what I said. Go ahead, arrest me.”

  “Lala,” her mother calmly said, “I think something’s got into you today. What are you saying? Who’s this man? What kind of language are you using in front of a perfect stranger?”

  Take her to jail, that’s what he’d do. James thought for a moment he’d play policeman. He’d played it before, in his mind, leading ladies off to his home-made jail and keeping them prisoners there awhile. They’d never know the difference. He’d be cop and jailer and treat them very well, and there’d be nothing illegal about it apart from a slight case of unconstitutional violation of habeas corpus: illegally detaining people in an illegal jail. He’d carry their food to them, spiced with a little love potion in the jailhouse kitchen. He’d comfort and console them. He’d hear their confessions and their prayers. He’d exercise them at exercise hour, shower them at shower hour. “I’m not perfect,” he said.

  “It’s because I’m so upset about Paprika,” Lala said.

  “It was a nice phrase,” James mused.

  “She’s full of phrases,” Iris said.

  “Do you say things like that on the telephone often?” James inquired.

  “That was the first time,” said Lala.

  “You’re certainly not policewomen,” James said.

  “We never said we were,” said Iris.

  “Unless you’re trapping me into something,” he said.

  “You came here,” said Iris. “Nobody asked you.”

  “He brought me the letter,” Lala said, handing James the anonymous letter she had once received, addressed to “My Very Dear German Shepherd Dog Owner,” its full text produced herein at page 136. James, in turn, revealed his own anonymous letter, addressed to “My Very Dear James Berberick,” its full text produced herein at page 102.

  “I’m going to have it framed at Manasek’s first chance I get,” he said. He read Lala’s letter, and she read his, and Iris r
ead his letter, too.

  “You don’t smell,” said Lala, sitting beside him at the coffee table.

  “I used to,” he said. “You better believe it.”

  “People who write letters like this should be shot,” said Iris.

  “No,” said James, “on the contrary, I feel that whoever wrote me that letter did me one of the great services of my life. I heeded him. You notice where he said that — ‘Heed me.’ It stuck in my mind. I hear it all the time, and I heeded him.”

  “I would have burnt it on the spot,” said Iris.

  “No, not at all,” he said. “Why? Notice that I still have the job, right? He helped me keep it. Who’d I have been spiting by burning the letter?”

  “I’ve been thinking of writing such a letter to certain people up the street,” said Iris. “They neglect their child.”

  “Get at it,” James said. “It’ll do good. I know it. Frankly . . .” But he did not “frankly” proceed, checking himself. He had confessed enough for one day. He had been about to tell “frankly” how he had achieved certain ends with anonymous letters to city officials, reporting police officers who attempted to extort money from masseuses. But no . . .

  “It looks to me like the same person definitely wrote both these letters,” Iris said, holding in her left hand the letter from “Day Sleeper” and in her right hand the letter from “An Acquaintance.”

  “Cancel the ad,” cried Lala, for she saw Brown arriving in her mother’s car. He opened the car door, and Paprika leaped out, running to the house, crashing against the front door, admitted now, and licking Lala’s face, climbing upon Iris, and climbing upon James Berberick, too, for any friend of the house was a friend of Paprika’s, and he was caked with the mud of Mount Davidson, prickly with burrs, and overjoyed to be home after his night beneath the stars.

  “I told you he’d come back,” said James. “But it’s too late to cancel the ad now.”

  Brown, too, entered Lala’s house. He had lived for twenty years in the neighborhood without entering this house, but now, in one day, he had entered it twice. Something must be in the wind. “Come in, come in,” said Lala, ignoring his protests, taking him by the hand, leading him, pulling him into the house, where they were greeted again by Paprika, tall on his hind legs. Paprika, however, thought of the girls at that moment, returned to all fours, and raced upstairs, around and around from room to room. “He’s looking for the girls,” said Lala.