The Dark Fantastic

by Stanley Ellin

  I was careless then. Without realizing it I did the reckless thing, because conjecture alone didn’t satisfy me.

  Humanly careless.

  I dressed and went outside, and keeping to the shadows as much as possible I moved close to verify my suspicions. And the moment I had done so I realized I was playing right into the hunter’s hands. Realized how the trap had been baited by that supposedly friendly warning. Realized just a little too late the trick that had been played on me. The device that would expose me as the furtive, guilt-ridden fugitive on reconnaisance.

  While he

  That man. That man

  Milano.

  While he lay somewhere out of sight watching. Getting assurance that he was on the right trail. Closing in

  Tuesday?

  Tuesday today. Yes. Because this morning, Mrs. Bailey

  No no no

  Not Mrs. Bailey. Not today. Milano, yesterday.

  Out of sight, watching. The phone call had worked, he was now sure of his man. But that was all. Ignorant of my purpose, of my schedule. But closer.

  That schedule. Tuesday evening now. Almost seven o’clock. The grand event Thursday, precisely seven o’clock. First weeks, then days, then hours. Precisely forty-eight hours. Hours. Then minutes.

  Almost impossible to force entry into that basement. Almost. More possible for someone like that man than others. A clever brute. Deadly up to the final minute. But the spirit to prevail is mine, so the ultimate power is mine.

  And

  As the life on earth of Jesus Christ had no meaning outside its sacrifice and lesson of that sacrifice, so the remaining hours of my life have no meaning outside the grand event and its lesson.

  While that man. That man. That

  That brute, venal, hedonistic Judas finds meaning in his life only be betrayal. Not enough to stand against my power.

  The irresistible force meeting the movable body.

  Oh yes.

  Biding his time.

  A shame.

  It is possible that if he only came to me openly – not as my betrayer – he would have understood. We might have been allies.

  Not this way.

  So

  The schedule holds good. That is how it must be. I thought different last night after the shock of the episode. A day of work, a day of rest? I thought last night, no, I can’t allow myself that day of rest. Two explosive charges remaining to be set. One Tuesday, one Thursday. Second floor. First floor. Two days work. While in the east wing I had done it in one day.

  In one day.

  Possessed by strength then.

  Not enough of it left now. Not even enough to do without the day’s rest. I found that out today, struggling against weakness to fix the explosives against the dumbwaiter door one flight up.

  Leaving the last to Thursday. The same schedule.

  And

  Oh yes, Mrs. Bailey was on schedule this morning. Her cleaning day. But full of woe, Aunt Jemima Bailey. She would be grateful if I could do without her today. Would like to skip this week. Lorena was sick. Didn’t want to leave the chile alone until the boys came home. And didn’t know what the sickness was, but it was scary the way that chile is right now.

  That chile.

  Cunning and corrupt Lorena. Didn’t come here yesterday. Understood my message to stay away. Sick now? The sickness of suddenly frustrated greed? Ravaging money hunger?

  Money money money?

  The hunger which had the rulers of her ancestral tribe on the Niger sell her ancestors to whitey, the slave-runner? Cash on the rum-barrel head. Ooga, ooga, take ’em away, whitey. There’s more comin’ from them fertile bodies every day like little black rabbits.

  Black studies. Never never confide to them that it was Bulanga chiefs who sold their people to whitey for a piece of cloth and a pound of nails. Death before dishonor. Burn your fuckin’ college library to the ground, whitey, does you dare tell us the truth.

  And the Arab trade.

  And still the hush-hush Arab trade today in Bulanga flesh. And so the Bulanga turn to Allah, put on the garb, carry the Koran to honor their loving Moslem cousins.

  Dear cousins, you know how to deal with us, don’t you?

  Oh yes.

  And dear Aunt Jemima? I tell you to dry those bloodshot eyes.

  Because

  In a little while Lorena’s sickness will be healed forever. And all your little troubles. And all your sly little ways.

  And dear friends?

  Listen to me.

  Listen.

  A great and terrible truth.

  Omnipotence is knowing the day of your death.

  John Milano

  AS IT TURNED OUT, her calculations that her time of the month was about to descend on her proved accurate, but when they got back to the apartment from Brooklyn Monday midnight, she rejected any opera recital or low-key Bailey-Milano dialogue, and settled for some prescription painkiller washed down by half a bottle of Dom Perignon and followed by a quick tumble into sleep. Milano settled for the other half of the bottle and the fact that in her sleep she became as ivy to his trellis.

  No complaints. No complaints at all.

  In the morning, however, she was herself again and full of oats. Ready, she announced, to give the Richoux breakfast menu a fair try. And she made only token objections when Milano thrust on her the keys to the Toyota. He brushed aside the objections, pointing out that it was not a gift, it was a loan.

  “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Chris advised.

  “Keep pushing that line,” said Milano, “and you’ll wreck the national economy. What’s left of it. Anyhow, as Polonius would put it, I’m not doing this for thee, I’m doing it for me. Worrying about you in that subway wrecks my concentration. In forty or fifty years when they get the bugs out of the system, okay. Not now.”

  Chris seemed amused and touched. “Well—”

  “Good. And any time you pick up baby downstairs it’ll be all gassed up and ready for you. I’ll tell the boss there about it on our way out. He’ll also take care of that goddam ticket.”

  That was another reason for cherishing this remarkable creature. After cruising Witter Street last night futilely hunting a parking space, he had at last double-parked down the block from the apartment building. She had then warned that this was a risky place for such tactics what with the buses coming through and so it had proved, for there in the windshield wiper was waiting the ticket for illegal parking, obstructing traffic, and something illegible. And heroically – there was no other word for it – Christine Bailey had refrained from even breathing an I told you so. Athena herself might not have had that wisdom.

  He left her at the street entrance to the garage and found Maxie Rovinsky, boss of the works, in his glass cage doing bookkeeping. He gave the ticket to Maxie, who had a way with traffic tickets, and then explained that a Miss Bailey could have the use of the Toyota any time and that she was to be treated by all hands here like the finest and most fragile cut glass.

  “Bailey?” said Maxie. “Not that zoftig blonde from the last poker game?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, whoever it is, Johnny, it’s no trouble at all. And talking about poker games, can I count on you tonight? A pickup game, but I’ve got three hands already set.”

  “Including Grade?”

  “Naturally. She’s into me for five thousand just this last stretch, but I got a feeling tonight is my lucky night. Tonight I’m shoveling some of that load back on my pile. Also she’s been sick in bed a few days, and, like she said, this’ll be the coming-out celebration.”

  “Sorry, Maxie, I’m working under new rules. Any time Gracie is going to be at the table count me out.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “But you? You come near holding her even. And you know how she is about you. I think she’d swap those two freaks of hers for you any time you say. And throw in the Rolls for bonus.”

  “Sorry, Maxie.”


  Maxie intercepted him before he could open the door. “Wait a minute. Do you mean there’s something funny going on the way she handles those cards?”

  This had to be sent direct from heaven, Milano thought. He froze his face. “I didn’t say that, Maxie. Did you hear me say it?”

  “Well, the way I read it—”

  “But I will ask one little question,” Milano said. “Do you really believe that every time she takes you to the cleaner’s it’s because she’s a smarter player than you?”

  When he went outside Chris said to him, “All right?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “As long I don’t get any dents in baby,” said Chris. “You know, honey, about that ticket. Remember last night when you parked that way? I told you then—”

  What the hell, thought Milano. Who wanted an Athena anyway when you could have someone so fallibly, marvelously human?

  Willie and Hy Greenwald were keeping each other silent company in Willie’s office when he arrived there, Hy slumped in a chair finger-combing his beard watching Willie painstakingly read the exposé of Wim Rammaert’s life and works. Milano seated himself as well while Willie plowed his way through to the last word.

  He finally looked up, “Seems to be some details left out,” he said to Milano.

  “There are. I’m saving them for the showdown. Now how about the check?”

  “All ready. Meanwhile,” said Willie, making it about as subtle as Willie could make anything, “there’s some papers for you to sign.”

  They were four copies of the formal I.O.U. for forty thousand, and Milano went over to the desk to sign them. Then, to give Willie his due, he surrendered the check almost graciously. “Sixty thousand,” he said. “Want a security man along?”

  “For now and this evening both,” Milano said. “Mikkelsen’ll do fine.”

  Mikkels – Madman Mikkelsen – all towering two hundred and forty pounds of him, shoulder-length blond hair and that Viking mustache drooping to his jawline, had been a pro lineman for a couple of years until booze and pills had laid him out. Beating them, he had tried a comeback, but there was not enough of the old Madman left and the agency had caught him on the rebound. Not only an awesome presence but close-mouthed and pretty bright, he had worked with Milano a few times and they had gotten along nicely.

  Now Willie shook his head. “I got him chauffing security for some big corporation asshole in town today.”

  Milano shook his head. “He’s the one, Willie,” he said, knowing that Mikkelsen would be the one. Because whatever edge Willie had over his partner in other workings of the agency, there could be only one captain on the ship when it cruised into these tricky waters, and Willie understood who that was.

  And, thought Milano with an eye on Hy Greenwald who was watching this back and forth stuff like a worried spectator at a tennis match, it wouldn’t hurt to have this apprentice understand it, too.

  “You’ll have to wait,” Willie said. “It’ll take an hour to change assignments and get Mikkelsen here.”

  “That’ll give me more than enough time to bring the car around,” Milano said.

  When he and Hy brought the Mercedes around an hour later Mikkelsen, straining the seams of his chauffeur’s jacket, was waiting for them. He took the attaché case Milano handed him and did the driving to the bank, his passengers at their ease in the rear seat. In the bank, when the check had been converted into packets of hundred-dollar bills, he tucked the packets into the case and led the way back to the car.

  He turned to face them from the driver’s seat. “The office?” he said to Milano, which was the most he had said up to now.

  “The office,” Milano said. “We put the loot in Willie’s safe and pick it up when it’s needed. Then we all take the day off together.” He looked over Hy. “That gives us a chance to shape you up to Doctor Greenwald’s standards. That beard, for instance.”

  “Strictly private property,” Hy said in alarm.

  “Company property right now, so it gets a dainty trim. And that outfit you’re wearing makes you look like a junior member of Willie’s club. We’ll have to do something about it.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Hy. “On whose money?”

  “The agency’s, naturally. We bill it to your disguise.”

  At noon, with Hy barbered and retailored – everything was off the rack but an extremely luxurious rack – there was a light lunch, a movie over on Third Avenue, and then Milano, an eye on Hy’s jitters, announced a workout at the Midtown Athletic Club.

  Hy balked at this. “I might as well tell you, Johnny, athletic clubs are not ray thing.”

  “Feeling edgy, aren’t you? All wound up?”

  “Why not? Remember, this is a first for me.”

  “In that case, a real good workout is what’s called for. You might even learn to like it.”

  It was a real good workout, and the best part of it was a three-on-three game against a trio of tanned, sleek, but rugged basketball boys who looked like they had been freshly imported, minus surfboards, from La Jolla beach. Money talks, they said, sizing up Hy’s granny glasses and Milano’s bald spot, and so it did, all in favor of the good guys, as Hy often managed to feed the open man, Milano found he couldn’t miss outside shots, and the Madman gallantly covered the court offensively and defensively like a company of Paul Bunyans.

  Three hundred dollars total prize money, one hundred for each hero. It was enough to pick up Hy for awhile, but later in the rubbing room, with the team left to its own devices after the masseur had finished with it, he said worriedly to Milano on the next table, “Thinking about those moves tonight?”

  “Something else.”

  “Oh sure. What else?”

  Milano rolled over on his side to face Hy. “Let’s say you own an apartment house”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  “You never know,” said Milano. “Anyhow, this one is a real loser. Old and tired. Taxes way overdue.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Hy.

  “And,” said Milano, “somebody comes up to you – somebody obviously prosperous – and says he wants to buy this pile. And you tell him to bug off, you will not sell. Absolutely not. Now why would you tell him that? And mean it.”

  “Are you being serious?” Hy asked cagily.

  “Yes. Add to it that selling means ready cash in the bank for you, and you happen to need that cash the worst way.”

  “The story of my life,” said Hy. “Well, maybe I don’t want to sell to that somebody because I’ve already made a deal with somebody else.”

  “Not likely,” Milano said.

  The Madman said sleepily, “He don’t want to sell because he’s setting up that building for a torch job. The insurance’ll pay just as good and even quicker.”

  Charles Witter Kirwan, thought Milano.

  Setting up the building. Always working on that boiler. But what you should show after working on a cranky oil burner are oil and water stains.

  Dust bunnies? Dry-as-a-bone clothes?

  On the other hand, this was tight-assed old Doc Kirwan, who turned purple if you said something about his ethnic neighborhood going to seed. And was holding the fort and living his life right there to prove it.

  “I don’t know,” Milano reflected aloud. “A torch job? This no-sell character bugging me doesn’t come off as the type.”

  “What do you mean type?” the Madman said. “Whoever he is he’s a landlord, ain’t he?”

  That he was.

  Before dressing, they all weighed themselves, and Milano, doing some extra swaying and bouncing on the scale to make sure he wasn’t being deluded by what he saw there, registered one-eighty-eight. Twelve pounds evaporated in less than three weeks. Awed by his own fitness, hobbled only a little by some three-on-three aches and pains, he led the team out for a proper celebration dinner with, of course, one limitation. Since the Madman was hanging on to the wagon by his stubby fingertips, it was a courtesy to him – as
well as a matter of self-survival – to see that no alcohol in any form was laid on.

  Near nine, when Hy was starting to check his watch at thirty-second intervals, Milano steered their course back to Willie’s office. Here the Madman took the attaché case in hand, and Hy, under Milano’s instructions, placed in an envelope the copies of the Rammaert papers.

  Watching the protegé fumble his way through this procedure, Milano was moved to ask, “Did you know that if you turned down Willie’s order to join this party, you’d be canned tomorrow?”

  “Sure. And if I didn’t know you were on the level, I wouldn’t be here to blow the whistle on you anyhow. Now what I’d like to know is when I get briefed on this O.K. Corral scene?”

  “Not that much of a scene, doctor,” Milano said. “You relax and enjoy the show, that’s all. You say nothing and do nothing at any time.”

  “Hello? Goodbye?”

  “Not required. You represent a furtive little band of M.D.’s with a lot of excess cash to invest and what Internal Revenue doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Mr. Rammaert is meeting us with that understanding. He’d be very much surprised if you came on all gabby about whys and wherefores.”

  “And when he finds out what we’re really there for?”

  “Just keep on relaxing. Our Mr. Mikkelsen has been over this course before, and he’ll be covering our tails all the way.”

  And, in fact, for whatever comfort it was to Hy, the Madman was close on their tails, attaché case snugly in hand, visored chauffeur’s cap set square on Viking skull in rinkydink style, when Rammaert came down in person to lead them upstairs to the apartment over the gallery. From what Milano could make out, Rammaert was in no way surprised to see a chauffeur bring up the rear of this very private party. Which was quite in order. An old hand in the trade, Rammaert knew a bodyguard type when he saw one, especially one this size.

  The apartment, Milano observed, was what happens when a high-geared salesman’s domestic yearnings and his commercial instincts take off at tangents. The furnishings were uniformly solid, gemutlich Mittel-European – in a way they bore some resemblance to Kirwan’s assemblage – but the art in view was all unrelieved plastic-souled, Space Age dazzle, not a glimmer of the figurative or representational anywhere on these walls. And a couple of the pieces provided so powerful a fluorescent effect that sighting them for a couple of seconds was like staring at an unshaded light bulb.