by Jeffrey Ford
“You love to recall my miscalculations,” said Killheffer. “Time breaks down, though, only through repetition.”
“I’m fed up with your cockeyed bullshit.”
“Well, don’t be, because I tell you I’ve got it. I’ve done the math. How badly do you want out?”
“Want out?” said Dex. “I don’t even know how I got in. Tell me again you’re not the devil.”
“I’m a simple professor of circumstance and fate. An academic with too strong an imagination.”
“Then why that crazy smile? All your antics? That cigar of yours smells like what I vaguely remember of the ocean.”
“I’ve always been a gregarious fellow and prized a good cigar. The hundred-tooth thing is a parlor trick of multiplication.”
“I’m so fucking tired,” Dex said.
Killheffer reached into his jacket pocket and brought forth a hypodermic needle. He laid it on the table. “That’s the solution,” he said.
The large hypo’s glass syringe contained a jade-green liquid.
Dex stared at it and shook his head. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Are you kidding? That’s it? That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You have to trust me,” said Killheffer, still smiling.
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re here again. What is it? Poison? Cough syrup? Junk?”
“My own special mixture of oblivion; a distillation of equations for free will. I call it ‘Laughter in the Dark,’ ” said the professor, proudly smoothing back his slick black hair.
Dex couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a malicious crackpot, but okay, let’s get on with it. What’s the deal this time?”
“Mondrian is, right at this moment, upstairs, on the third floor, in Sizzle Parlor number four, awaiting a female associate of mine who has promised him exotic favors, but unfortunately will never deliver. Instead, you will arrive. I want him dead.” Killheffer hurriedly tamped out his cigar and snapped his fingers to the passing cigarette girl. She stopped next to Dex and opened the case that hung by a strap around her shoulders. There were no cigarettes, just something covered by a handkerchief.
“You think of everything,” said Dex and reached in to grab the gun. He stood and slipped it into the waist of his pants. “How do I collect?”
“The cure will be delivered before the night is through,” said the professor. “Hurry, Mondrian can only forgo his beloved tips for so long.”
“What do you have against him?” Dex asked as he lifted his hat off the chair beside him.
“He’s a computational loop,” said Killheffer. “A real zero-sum game.”
At the head of the long dark hallway on the third floor of the pavilion, Dex was stopped by the night man, an imposing fellow with a bald head and a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand.
“What’s news, Jeminy?” said Dex.
“Obviously you are, Dex. Looking for a room?”
He nodded.
“Ten dollars. But for you, for old times’ sake, ten dollars,” said Jeminy and laughed.
“You’re too good to me,” said Dex, a ten spot appearing in his hand. “The lady’ll be along any minute.”
“Sizzle Parlor number five,” the big man said, his voice echoing down the hall. “Grease that griddle, my friend.”
“Will do,” said Dex, and before long slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder to check that Jeminy had again taken his seat facing away, toward the stairwell. He passed door after door, and after every six a weak gas lamp glowed on either wall. As he neared parlor number 4, he noticed the door was open a sliver, but it was dark inside. Brandishing the gun, he held it straight up in front of him. He hesitated a moment, held back by an odd feeling, either a rare shred of excitement or a pang of conscience. “Poor Mondrian,” he thought, remembering in an instant how the mustached homunculus had rendered his maître d’ services with the most steadfast dedication.
Opening the door, he slipped inside, and shut it quietly behind him. Moonlight shone in through one tall arched window, but Dex could only make out shadows. He scanned the room, and slowly the forms of chairs, a coffee table, a vanity, and, off to the side of the room, a bed became evident to him. Sitting up on the edge of that bed was a lumpen silhouette, atop it the telltale shape of the fez.
“Is it you, my desert flower?” came the voice of Mondrian.
Dex swiftly crossed the room. When he was next to the figure, and had surmised where his victim’s left temple might be, he cocked the gun’s hammer with his thumb and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Before he could squeeze off the shot, though, the slouched bag of shadow that was Mondrian lunged into him with terrific force. Dex, utterly surprised that the meek little fellow would have the gumption to attack, fell backward, tripping on the rug, the gun flying off into the dark. He tried to get to his feet, but the maître d’ landed on him like three sacks of concrete, one hand grabbing his throat. No matter how many times Dex managed a punch to Mondrian’s face, the shadow of the fez never toppled away. They rolled over and over and then into the moonlight. Dex saw the flash of a curved blade above him, but his arms were now pinned by his assailant’s knees. Unable to halt the knife’s descent, he held his breath in preparation for pain. Then the lights went on, there was a gunshot, and his attacker fell off him.
Dex scrabbled to his feet and turned to find Adeline, standing next to the open door, the barrel of the gun she held still smoking. From down the hall, he heard Jeminy blow his whistle, an alert to the Ice Garden’s force of leg breakers.
“Nice shot, baby,” he said. “Kill the lights and close the door.”
She closed the door behind her, but didn’t flip the switch. “Look,” she said to Dex, pointing with the gun at the floor behind him. He turned and saw the hundred-tooth smile of Killheffer. The fez was secured around the professor’s chin by a rubber band. A bullet had left a gaping third eye in his forehead.
“The rat fuck,” said Dex. He leaned over, grabbed his hat where it had fallen, and then felt through Killheffer’s jacket pockets. All he came up with was a cigar tube, holding a single Wrath Majestic. He slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.
“They’re coming,” said Adeline. She hit the lights. There was the sound of running feet and voices in the hallway. “They’re going door-to-door.”
“We’ll shoot our way out,” said Dex.
Adeline was next to him. She whispered in his ear, “Don’t be a jackass; we’ll take the fire escape.”
Dex moved toward the window. Adeline slipped off her heels.
Somehow Mondrian had known to call the car up, because when Dex and Adeline arrived in front of the Ice Garden, breathless, scuff marks on their clothes, the Belvedere was there, top down and running, Jim-Jim holding Adeline’s door.
“I like your shoes,” said the boy, pointing to her bare feet.
“My new fashion, Jim,” said Adeline.
Dex moved quickly around the car. Mondrian was there to open the door for him. As Dex slid in behind the wheel, he said, “No hard feelings about tonight,” and flashed a tip to cover the intended homicide. Mondrian bowed slightly and snatched the bill.
“Ever at your service,” said the maître d’. “Safe journey.” He shut the car door.
Dex took a silver dollar out of his pocket, hit the gas, and flipped the coin back over the car. Jim-Jim caught it and before he could stash it in his vest pocket, the Belvedere was no more than two red dots halfway down the avenue of monkey-puzzle trees.
“My feet are killing me,” said Adeline as they screeched out of the entrance to the Ice Garden and onto the desert highway.
“You are one hell of a shot,” he said.
“Lucky,” she said, her voice rising above the wind.
“I’ll cherish the moment.”
“All well and good,” said Adeline, “but what’s his game this time?”
“Laughter in the dark,” said Dex and cut the wheel hard to the right. Adeline slid tow
ard him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The car left the road and raced along an avenue of moonlight, plowing through tumbleweeds, trailing a plume of dust across the desert. Adeline switched on the radio and found Dete Walader, crooning “I Remember You.”
They lay on a blanket beneath shimmering stars. A light breeze blew over them. Here and there, the dark form of a cactus stood sentry. Ten yards away, the radio in the Belvedere played something with strings. Adeline took a sip from her silver flask and handed it to Dex. He flicked the butt of the Majestic off into the sand, and took a drink.
“What is this stuff?” he asked, squinting.
“My own special mixture of oblivion,” she said.
“That’s Killheffer’s line,” he said. “Did you see him tonight?”
She nodded and laid her cheek against his chest. “In the ladies’ room, he was in the stall next to the one I chose, waiting for me.”
“He gets around,” said Dex, “ ’cause he was at our table when I got back to it.”
“He whispered from the other stall that he wanted me to kill Mondrian. I said I wouldn’t, but then he said he had the solution and was willing to trade me for the murder. I told him I wanted to see it. The next thing, the door to my stall flew open and he was standing there. I almost screamed. I didn’t know what to do. I was on the toilet, for criminy’s sake. He had that stupid smile on his face, and he pulled down his zipper.”
Dex rose to one elbow. “I’ll kill him,” he said.
“Too late,” said Adeline. “He reached into his pants and pulled out this big hypodermic needle with green juice in it. He said, ‘You see the tip at the end of that needle? Think of that as the period at the end of your interminable story. Do you want out?’ I just wanted to get rid of him, so I nodded. He handed me a gun and told me Mondrian was in Sizzle Parlor number four.”
A long time passed in silence.
“But, in the end, you decided to off Mondrian?” said Dex.
“I guess so,” said Adeline. “What else is there to do when we go to the Ice Garden but fall in with Killheffer’s scheme? Mondrian might as well be made of papier-mâché and that’s the long and short of it. He’s polite, but, sure, I’d clip him for the possibility of a ticket out.”
“I’d miss you,” said Dex.
“I wouldn’t leave you here alone,” she said. “I was getting the needle for you.”
“You didn’t think of using it yourself? Baby, I’m touched.”
“Well, maybe once, when I realized that if it worked, you wouldn’t come for me anymore and I’d spend each go-round in that crappy apartment building back in Dragsville watching the plaster crack.”
“I was ready to blow Mondrian’s brains out for you too,” he said. “I can see how stale it’s getting for you.”
“You never thought of yourself?” she asked.
Dex sat up and pointed into the distance at a pair of headlights. “Let’s get the guns,” he said. He stood and helped her up. She found her underwear a few feet away and slipped them back on.
“Who do you think it is?” she asked, joining him at the car.
He handed her a pistol. “Ice Garden thugs,” he said.
When the approaching car came to a halt a few feet from the blanket, Dex reached over the side of the Belvedere and hit the lights to reveal a very old black car, more like a covered carriage with a steering wheel and no horse. The door opened and out stepped Mondrian. He carried an open umbrella and a small box. Taking three furtive steps forward, he called out, “Mr. Dexter.”
“Expecting rain, Mondrian?” said Dex.
“Stars, sir. Stars.”
Adeline laughed from where she was crouched behind the Belvedere.
“A package for the lady and gentleman,” said Mondrian.
“Set it down at your feet, right there, and then you can go,” said Dex.
Mondrian set the package on the sand, but remained standing at attention over it.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Dex.
Mondrian was silent, but Adeline whispered, “He wants a tip.”
Dex fired two shots into the umbrella. “Keep the change,” he called.
Mondrian bowed, said, “Most generous, sir,” and then got back in the car. As the maître d’ pulled away, Adeline retrieved the package. Dex met her back on the blanket where she sat with the box, an eight-inch cube wrapped in silver paper and a red bow, like a birthday present, on her lap.
“It could be a bomb,” he said.
She hesitated for an instant, and said, “Oh, well,” and tore the wrapping off. Digging her nails into the seam between the cardboard flaps, she pulled back on both sides, ripping the top away. She reached in and pulled out Killheffer’s hypodermic needle. She put her hand back into the box and felt around.
“There’s only one,” she said.
“Now you know what his game is,” said Dex.
She held it up in the moonlight, and the green liquid inside its glass syringe glowed. “It’s beautiful,” she said with a sigh.
“Do it,” said Dex.
“No, you,” she said, and handed it toward him.
He reached for it, but then stopped, his fingers grazing the metal plunger. “No,” he said and shook his head. “It was your shot.”
“It probably won’t even work,” she said and laid it carefully on the blanket between them, petting it twice before withdrawing her hand.
“We’ll shoot dice,” said Dex, running his pinkie finger the length of the needle. “The winner takes it.”
Adeline said nothing for a time, and then she nodded in agreement. “But first a last dance in case it works.”
Dex got up and went to the car to turn up the radio. “We’re in luck,” he said, and the first notes of “Polka Dots and Moonbeams,” drifted out into the desert. He slowly swayed his way back to her. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her girdle, and put her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He held her around the waist and they turned slowly, wearily, to the music.
“So, we’ll shoot craps?” she whispered.
“That’s right,” he said.
Three slow turns later, Adeline said, “Don’t think I don’t remember you’ve got that set of loaded dice.”
Dex put his head back and laughed, and, as if in response, at that very moment, the stars began to fall, streaking down through the night, trailing bright streamers. First a handful and then a hundred and then more let go their hold on the firmament and leaped. Way off to the west, the first ones hit with a distant rumble and firework geysers of flame. More followed, far and near, and Dex and Adeline kissed amid the conflagration.
“Pick me up at seven,” she said, her bottom lip on his earlobe, and held him more tightly.
“I’ll be there, baby,” he said, “I’ll be there.”
With the accuracy of a bullet between the eyes, one of the million heavenly messengers screeched down upon them, a fireball the size of the Ice Garden. The explosion flipped the Belvedere into the air like a silver dollar and turned everything to dust.
A Note About “Polka Dots and Moonbeams”
The project that this story was part of was a blast from start to finish. When Al Sarrantonio and Neil Gaiman contact you and say they want you to write a story, then give you very few rules to follow beyond just basically to tell the kind of story that makes the reader want to know at each turn what happens next, and offer you some great pay for it, there’s no downside. I’ve known Al for a long time, and perhaps it was our shared interest in jazz that made me land on a story title borrowed from one of the standards done to perfection by the incomparable Lester Young, perhaps my favorite musician of all time. I started with that title and, listening to the tune, just let my mind go and spin out the story you’ve just read. The result of this project was, of course, the anthology Stories: All-New Tales, a book packed with great short fiction by heavy hitters like Peter Straub, Michael Moorcock, Chuck Palahniuk, Joyce Carol Oates, Jodi Picoult, and more. Aft
er the book came out, Neil Gaiman kindly invited me to participate in a panel discussion about it at Columbia University in New York along with himself, Walter Mosley, Lawrence Block, Joe Hill, Kurt Andersen, and Kat Howard. A fun time. The anthology and Neil’s story, “The Truth Is a Cave in the Black Mountains,” both went on to win Shirley Jackson Awards (2010). Also from Stories, Elizabeth Hand’s novella “The Maiden Flight of McCauley’s Bellerophon” and Joyce Carol Oates’s “Fossil-Figures” both won World Fantasy Awards in their respective categories for 2011.
Down Atsion Road
I live along the edge of the Pine Barrens in South Jersey, 1.1 million acres of dense, ancient forest, cedar lakes, cranberry bogs, orchids, and sugar sand. Black bear, fox, bobcat, coyote, and some say cougar. There are ghost towns from the Revolution, dilapidated shacks and crumbling shot towers that can only be reached by canoe. I’ve hiked through much of it in my years, and still I get a feeling that some uneasy sentience pervades its enormity. If I’m quite a distance from the trailhead where my car is parked and twilight drops suddenly, as it does out there, I feel a twist of panic at the thought of meeting night in those woods. You will, of course, have heard of the Jersey Devil. He’s for the tourists. The place is thick with legends far more bizarre and profound. If you learn how to look and you’re lucky, you might even witness one being born.
Sixteen years ago, when my wife and I and our two sons—one in second grade, one not yet in kindergarten—first moved to Medford Lakes, I noticed, every once in a while, this strange old guy stomping around town. He was thin and bald and had a big gray beard with hawk feathers tied into it. His head was long, with droopy eyes and a persistent smile. He pumped his arms vigorously, almost marching. Rain or shine, summer or winter, he wore a ratty tan raincoat, an old pair of Bermuda shorts, black sneakers, and a red sweatshirt that bore the logo of the ’70s soft-rock band Bread. Every time I passed him in the car, it looked like he was talking to himself.
Then one day I was picking up a pizza in town, and he was in the shop, sitting alone at a table, a paper plate with pizza crusts in front of him. He studied me warily, whispering under his breath, as I passed on the way to the counter. Behind me, a woman and her little girl came in. When he saw the little girl, the old guy pulled a brown velour sack from somewhere in his coat. He opened it and took something out. I was watching all this from the counter and wondered if something crazy was about to go down, but the mother let go of the girl’s hand. The old guy slipped out of his seat onto one knee. The kid walked over to him, and he gave her what looked like a small, hand-carved wooden deer. The mother said, “What do you say, Helen?” The kid said, “Thank you.” The old guy laughed and slapped the tabletop.
