Killing Everybody

by Mark Harris

  “So am I,” James Berberick said, and to Brown he said, “That was a quick recovery, you’re a genius at finding dogs.”

  “Where was he?” Iris asked.

  “Just down the street,” said Brown. He had prepared this little lie. “I didn’t notice exactly. Maybe Nineteenth and Diamond. Yes, the school, I heard the children singing. He jumped in the car when he saw me.”

  “Of course, the school, I should have known,” said Lala.

  “Paprika knows a Fleetwood when he sees one,” said Iris.

  “He looks all right,” said Lala. “He wasn’t poisoned.”

  “Somebody simply let him out of the yard,” said Iris.

  “Somebody who didn’t like his barking,” Brown amplified.

  “This is Mr. Brown, my neighbor from across the street,” said Lala to James Berberick, and to Brown she said, “This is James Berberick of the Chronicle Classified. You both work at the Chronicle.”

  “I think we’ve met,” said Brown. He couldn’t be sure. “Why do you wear a McGinley pin?”

  “I’ll take it off if it offends you,” said James.

  “It offends me,” Brown said, not joking, ominous in voice.

  “I’ll try my very best to cancel the ad,” James said to Lala, “but I think it’s too late.” He prepared to depart. He didn’t like this at all — this Chronicle man here — and the idea returned to him that he’d been caught in a management trap. Yes, it was a trap to catch him pursuing his hobby on company time. This Brown was familiar, he was some sort of big shot at the Chronicle, and the women were in on it, too, the dog was a plant, a ruse, he should have known better than to come running out to some sexy voice on the telephone. Now I am in trouble, he thought, cursing his compulsions. How often he had done this, dashing out on his lunch hour because a lady sounded fetching! Racing out like this! Now he’d miss his lunch, too. He’d go hungry all afternoon, insult on top of injury. Which was which? He’d be lucky to keep his job, never mind lunch. “May I have a glass of water?” he asked, thinking that if he could get into the kitchen he might see a snippet of food about, a slice of bread, a rusty half of an apple, but nobody heard him. “I’ll help myself,” he said, but nobody heard that, either, for Paprika was running upstairs and down, knocking things about with his wildly wagging tail.

  And then when he arrived here the fetching lady was chaperoned by her fat mother — mother and daughter detectives, that’s what they were. He should have known there’d be a catch to it. The odds were all against him. It wasn’t that James Berberick wouldn’t “take on” a mother and a daughter together, and take on a granddaughter too if she was about and big enough. Lordy, in Saigon he’d taken on whole families (on the feminine side), for he was a pleasure-seeker seeking mothers and their daughters for purposes of pleasure, nothing less. But it was a waste of his lunch hour. Once more he cursed his compulsions, as he tended to do when projects failed. He should have been castrated at the first sign of these uncontrollable desires, they led him astray. Less drastic was a new drug, cyproterone acetate, said to have no bad side effects, which appeared successfully to dampen sexual urges, according to a report presented to the Royal Medico-Psychological Association of Edinburgh. A man who had assaulted several girls, including his own daughter, had lately been treated with the drug with beneficial effects. Of what use had James Berberick’s vast energies ever been? The world was no better for his having been here chasing about, exercising his life force. What good had he ever done? Had he ever been constructive? No, he was as mindless as this romping dog. “This dog needs a bath,” he said.

  Look who’s talking, thought Brown, quickly remembering “Smelly Jim,” of whom he had been rather fond in their brief acquaintance at the Chronicle in spite of the young man’s bad smell. To think of him now as a McGinley voter was distressing. He’d seemed to have more spunk than that, humor, flair, a zest for life, whereas McGinley was gloom, repression, ill will, and death. My Very Dear James Berberick (he’d write), Your smell stunk, but your politics is even worse. I’d like to tear that McGinley pin right off your chest, and pull your heart out with it . . . guns . . . war . . . killing . . . that’s McGinley for you. . . . The letter petered out in Brown’s mind. McGinley this moment was on his way to Congress. The votes were being cast across the street in Mr. Maxim’s garage, and elsewhere.

  “There are twenty-five million dogs in the United States,” James said.

  “Who counted them?” Iris asked. “In round numbers,” James Berberick said. “Oh, Paprika, your father will be so glad to see you,” Lala sang, hugging and kissing the dirty, bad-smelling dog. “And the girls,” she said, loving the dog because his existence made her daughters happy, speaking to Paprika now, saying, “Lie down, he down, stop running,” calming him, until at length he lay upon the deep rug of the living room, permitting Lala to stroke him.

  This action excited James Berberick, enabling him for the moment to forget his hunger, as Lala’s hands stroked the dog’s sides and stomach, down one side, up the stomach, down the side, up the side, under the neck, up, down, under, and with each downward stroke upon Paprika’s body Lala approached closer and closer the dog’s penis — or, at any rate, the sheath of the dog’s penis — appearing with every stroke to be planning this time actually to stroke the penis itself but never reaching that place, returning upward each time, to the dog’s head, and beginning again, gliding again with her lovely hands down the length of the dog’s body toward the organs of the dog — almost, almost — then pausing, but not before James’s being had been suffused, overspread, by excruciating sensations of pleasure, hope, anticipation, and fantasy. He said to himself, within himself, so clearly and so fervently that for an instant he feared that he had spoken aloud, “O my God, this lady is jerking off a dog.” Why not? Wouldn’t it be reward for homecoming? Think of Ulysses. At the ends of long journeys famous men of life and literature were rewarded for their homecoming with the pleasures of their houses, with bathing and loving, oil and anointment. Then in this modern, enlightened age, why not a dog? New powers were lately awarded new classes of citizens. Dogs had rights, among them the right to luxury.

  “You’ll get his hair all over the rug,” said Iris. “Harold will know he’s been indoors.”

  “I should phone Harold and tell him we found him,” Lala said.

  “Mr. Brown found him,” Iris said, correcting her daughter.

  Don’t phone Harold, James Berberick thought, just stay there like that and stroke that dog, don’t quit, never quit. I could spend the rest of my life sitting here watching you stroking that dog.

  “I never see you down at the paper any more,” said Brown to Berberick.

  “I’m in Classified,” said James. “Good old Chronicle, it’s a wonderful joint to work at.”

  “It’s a cesspool,” said Brown.

  “Every place is,” said James, pleased to be agreeable.

  “You change your mind fast,” said Brown.

  “I don’t know where you stand,” James frankly said. “I don’t want to pick an argument with anybody. I’m just here for pleasure.”

  “I thought you were here on business,” Iris said.

  “Mr. Brown writes headlines,” Lala said.

  “I mix business with pleasure when I can,” said James.

  “Lala,” said Iris sharply, “really, I’m just wondering . . .”

  “Wondering what, mother?” Lala asked, although she knew perfectly well her mother’s meaning: her mother was wondering whether Lala’s being down on the floor like that, massaging the dog, wasn’t somehow “suggestive,” wasn’t somehow just a little “vulgar.” Lala rose from the floor, brushing from her thighs the hair of the dog blown about in his joy.

  Her stopping was fortunate for James. Her stroking the dog had transfixed him. Now he could depart. Hunger made him ferocious. Starving, he had freely killed: it seemed to ease his dis
comfort. Now he’d spend the afternoon munching candy bars and Nabisco butter crackers from the Chronicle newsstand. Some meal! “I’ve got to rush back to the job,” he said, for Brown’s ears especially, since James wished to make it clear that he was here on business; that there was no frivolity about him. How could he know exactly who Brown was? Disguised as a workaday headlines writer. Brown might actually be a security officer for the Chronicle, for it was sometimes said among employees that security officers were stationed among them disguised as actual workers.

  “I’ll phone Harold,” Lala said.

  Yes, phone Harold, what a relief! thought James.

  “But he won’t be there,” said Lala. “God knows where he goes on Tuesday.”

  “Look at these that somebody sent,” said Iris to Brown, passing along the anonymous letters she, Lala, and James had been examining — one letter addressed to “My Very Dear German Shepherd Dog Owner,” the other addressed to “My Very Dear James Berberick.” Thus she produced within Brown a most powerful sense of confusion. What was going on here? Things were closing in. Last night Luella had given her anonymous letter to Phelps to examine, and now here two more appeared, and all his. Stars were crossing. Were these people who they said they were, or were they perhaps a sleuthing team which had tracked him down and exposed him, and having exposed this much would soon expose all the rest, and his telephone calls besides. Thank God Junie never lived to see this.

  Anonymous Author Prolific

  Headlines Writer Confesses

  Writing Hundreds of Letters

  — Anonymous Calls Told

  And yet his confusion was also relief. Relief, yes. From the day of his letter on the stationery of the Child Welfare Federation to last night’s barking telephone call from McGinley headquarters — a solid twenty years — the burden of stealth had been heavy. Now he would be free, his work done, his rage complete; with apprehension and revelation his rage would pass outward from himself, flow gently away. Be wary, Brown thought. Think clearly. “So you were formerly known as ‘Smelly Jim’ were you?” he asked James, glancing up from the letter. “Yes, I remember good old Lifebuoy Soap, it was salmon-colored and it had an antiseptic smell. Who wrote this letter?”

  “I’d be grateful if I knew,” James said, “because I owe him a tremendous debt of gratitude actually.”

  “He’s not there,” said Lala, returning from the telephone. “I knew he wouldn’t be, and his girl lies, too, she’s nothing but a bundle of lies.”

  But why today? thought Brown. “My wife received an anonymous letter awhile ago. It was a comfort to her.” To this he added inaudibly, “Not my wife exactly.”

  “Anyhow,” said James, “I’ve absolutely got to dash back to the office.” Another idea had entered his mind, struggling for power over him in a familiar manner, weakening him, directing his day now into a path not precisely of his own choosing: a massage. The sight of Paprika lying on the floor, and Lala above him massaging him, rubbing his belly up, down, head to tail, all flesh quivering, and all those soothing words she had delivered, if only for a dog’s ear, had excited him, compelling him to reconsider the course of his day, his path, his way, not back to his duties at the Chronicle but toward that periodic relief he so urgently needed or desired and which he could achieve with maximum speed and safety only at one or another of those massage parlors or studios abounding in his enlightened city.

  “Don’t rush off,” said Lala, “now that you’re here.”

  “Did you get the information you came for?” Iris sarcastically asked.

  James Berberick adroitly replied to her. “The information is invalidated because the dog came back.” He tore the page from his pad. “It’s not like we have the chance to see the ad work since the dog was found,” he explained.

  “Mr. Brown, you’re so good at finding lost animals,” said Lala, “you can find my husband for me.”

  “Do you mind letting me have my letter back?” James Berberick asked. He had heard Lala. These difficulties with her husband elevated his hopes. “I couldn’t think of going away without my lucky letter. I’m going to take it right in and have it framed at Manasek’s.”

  “If that letter made you stop smelling you’re in luck,” said Brown, “though I never noticed it myself when you were there.” He had recovered confidence, and he added, “I wish it could do something for your politics.”

  “I realize you don’t like my McGinley pin,” said James.

  “I don’t like McGinley,” Brown said.

  “I can’t believe you could have smelled as bad as all that,” said Lala politely.

  “Listen,” said James, “I stank up the joint something awful. Maybe Mr. Brown doesn’t remember, but some other people do. It was awful. Once I became aware of it I was embarrassed. But thanks to this letter . . .”

  Berberick sounded a little like a self-help testimonial, and for this reason Brown’s mistrust returned. He was being conned. They were finding him out, they were bluffing him. Yet how could that be, for they had not lured or attracted him into their presence — he had come of his own will. He, after all, had set events into motion by liberating Paprika.

  “Your wife received a letter?” Lala asked. “Then we should think whom we all know in common and there we have it.”

  “To express our gratitude to him,” said James, “once we know who it was.”

  “Dear old Lifebuoy,” said Iris. “Body odor. Then there was a fellow named B. O. Plenty in Dick Tracy in the funnies.” Here she emitted the sound of a foghorn, in imitation of the old Lifebuoy radio commercial.

  “B.O. is right,” said James. “If anybody ever had it I had it.” He restored his letter to his pocket. “It brought me luck. Listen, look at me, I’m footloose and fancy-free if you’ll pardon the cornball figure of speech. I’m reasonably handsome. I have a good job. True, the place may be a cesspool” — here honoring Brown — “but my job inside the cesspool is convenient and sometimes even terrific. I wish I’d had it sooner. If I’d had it sooner I’d have won a Medal of Honor.”

  “A Medal of Honor for what?” Brown asked.

  “For slaughtering people,” James Berberick replied.

  “President Johnson wouldn’t give the medal to an unemployed man,” said Lala.

  “That’s my thinking,” James said.

  “Anyhow, you’re not reasonably handsome,” Lala said. “You’re very handsome.”

  “I appreciate your thinking so,” said James. “You’re handsome, too.”

  “My daughter’s a bit forward,” said Iris to Brown, but her eyes were on the bowling shoes on the television set. “They’re reentering the atmosphere. They’ll be splashing down soon.”

  “I’m not particularly interested in the moon men,” said Brown, down on one knee in the Florida swamps, near the launch pads, firing his rifle in the tall grass; there went the little bullet smacking the rocket in its vulnerable place. A leak! Here came the air all leaking out, p-sss p-sss p-sss p-ssssssss.

  “Three guys cooped up alone together all that time!” said James.

  “My husband forgot his bowling shoes,” said Lala, taking the shoes from the top of the set. “Don’t you want the sound turned up? Not that I care, frankly, whether they find anybody on the moon or not.” She turned up the sound, and they heard the voice of Cronkite, and she carried the shoes to the hall closet and threw them in.

  Anyhow, thought Iris, I have the binoculars. When Harold wanted things he wanted things, that’s all. If Lala would only put weight back on she’d solve all her problems with Harold, for Harold loved them fat, “more bounce to the ounce,” none of your “skinny marinks,” as he called thin or slender girls, your bag of bones, your featherweights; not for Harold. With his binoculars he’d go scouting up and down the sides of vast apartment houses in search of fat women. It was good peeping weather today, perfectly clear, windless and warm, peo
ple threw open their windows to the sun and the air. “Jim is very handsome,” she said, “but Mr. Brown is more handsome.”

  “I’ll buy that,” said Jim agreeably, rising to leave. Studios of massage danced in his head. He sorted them out. Where was he? Say Market near Castro. Action required plan. Time and again he vowed to himself never to submit to these sudden seizures, but he was submitting again today, he could feel it, and with submission came all the old problems of logistics, budget, time, and space, which plagued him, punishing him for his improvidence, his impulsiveness, his inability to resist himself. Why couldn’t he wait? If only he’d wait he’d see that he could. He knew that. If only he’d wait a few hours he could pay his respects to his compulsions at leisure — take his time, go slow, pick his place, bargain for a rate. His mouth was stuffed with cotton. Recently he had heard of scientific studies of sexual activity — how the various actions of the body were affected by prospects of love, how the pulse sped, how the breath raced, how the sweat rolled, the hands trembled. His was a case in extremis. All these things happened to him, and more, his control was off, he was a menace to himself, he drove like a madman to a parlor of massage. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead. What red light? He was lately convinced that his death would occur in an automobile accident en route. He had formerly been convinced that he would die in the war, but he had survived that by quick thinking and relentless slaughter. Exactly when he would die he now did not know, but the odds against him grew by quantum leaps, he supposed; or if not die become incapacitated, de-balled; no, not de-balled, for then he’d be without desire, pacific; worse than de-balled, immobilized but yet desirous, a passionate vegetable lying abed for years and years clothed in ropes and pulleys. No doubt they’d put something in his diet to quell his desire. Yes, please, heap up the tranquilizer to calm my fantasies, a whole bottleful, please, pour it down me, bathe me in it, hose me, bombard me, dump it all over me, especially on my penis which has been standing up straight these bedridden years. Call the nurse. Nurse! But when in his fantasies the nurse arrived James Berberick rose up from his vegetable state and took her, whoever she was, consoling himself that his life force would finally overwhelm all handicap, all incapacitation, that he so far desired his pleasure that nothing this side of death would restrain him, nothing keep him down, that he would go wild before submission, as he had gone wild over there in Asia, and killed and killed and killed and killed, and not got the Medal of Honor, either, as he should have got, not because (as he had told Lala this morning on the telephone on page 101) he had been unemployed but because everyone had suddenly become uptight about mass murder. Well, you couldn’t blame them.