The Serial Killers Club

by Jeff Povey

  Betty looks to be in her mid-thirties but is probably younger. This isn’t surprising, as skillers generally look older than they really are. I’m probably the only member who has managed to retain my youthful looks. Forty-one, but still getting asked for my ID in bars and clubs. The others say this is on account of my being shorter than the average, but I don’t agree and prefer the thought that in the long run eternal youth is a far greater asset than being tall. I mean, anyone can be tall these days.

  “Well . . . that just about sums me up.” Betty offers a nervous little giggle. Carole Lombard sarcastically mimics her nervy titter in return, and I have to say that Betty doesn’t deserve that. Betty immediately lowers her eyes and watches Tony reach over and scoop a hash brown from her plate.

  A silence descends on the table, and it seems that no one has anything to say until Burt’s nasally voice breaks through the stilted silence.

  “First time’s always the hardest.” Burt is a late-thirties, round-shouldered, wiry-haired guy with a squint in his right eye. He never ceases to surprise me at these meetings, because he doesn’t look like the type of person who would ever speak out in a crowd, yet he nearly always leads the way with the first remark. Burt is a junior high school teacher, so I imagine that screaming at little kids every day of his life must help his confidence no end.

  Betty blushes, raises her eyes to Burt. “Thanks, uh . . .”

  “Burt. Burt Lancaster.”

  “Thanks.”

  Betty and Burt share an intimate look, and I note that it helps relax her.

  Cher puts a friendly hand on Betty’s wrist and looks encouragingly into Betty’s eyes. “Debut night is always pretty crappy.”

  Betty takes heart from this, and after she smiles at Cher she turns and catches my eye. I quickly offer her my own trademark look, a casual yet compelling grin. I lean as far forward as I can so she doesn’t miss it, but James Mason unthinkingly reaches over and lights a table candle right in front of my eyes. I give James a serious glare, which he mistakenly reads as an offer of a drink. “Mine’s a Miller Lite, and Mother’ll have a St. Clements.” A drink that will sit untouched all night because James’s mother is a figment of his imagination. It’s a total waste of money and I’m thinking of billing James.

  “That was great, Betty. Just great. It’s so good to have a new member,” Tony Curtis says as he tries to contain a belch. He constantly speaks on the advent of a belch; thus his words forever sound trapped, and I for one always feel the need to give him a hearty slap on the back—or maybe not, considering he kills people for much less. “Anyways, as resident chairman of the Club, it is my duty to ask you to reveal to us—in as much detail as possible—what it is, exactly, that you do. Betty Grable, welcome to the Club.”

  The group suddenly becomes alert and interested. They lean forward, their eyes and ears ready to devour any and every morsel that comes their way. The people drowning under the dark skies outside are forgotten, the rotten food is ignored, and cigarettes are lit in hopeful anticipation of a decent story.

  Betty glances at Burt for support, and there is something in his look that says, Be calm, Betty, take your time, I’m with you.

  I rub my hands together under the table and feel myself rocking back and forth in my chair. Boy, do I like the stories. And I’ve decided to make the most of them now that there won’t be any in around eight weeks’ time.

  Betty takes a moment, composes herself, and as I watch her I can’t deny that there is something about her—something I hadn’t noticed earlier because I wasn’t really concentrating. It’s a palpable sense of warmth, of love and kinship. She emanates a niceness that is as wholesome and American as it gets.

  “You probably know me better as the ‘Burner Bitch.’ At least that’s what the papers are calling me.”

  I can detect a tuneful lilt in her voice that makes me think of that English actress who played Mary Poppins. A classic film for any age group.

  “I’ve killed six guys so far. Burned their balls right off them.”

  My eyes water instantly.

  “My first victim was a welder—in fact, he taught me how to use a blowtorch in the first place. Because they can be pretty tricky things to master.” Betty takes a big slurp of red wine, and it helps her confidence immeasurably. “I tell you, he so had it coming. He really did. Whenever I, uh—you know—slept with him—”

  “Slept with him? That’s a bit on the polite side, hon.” Tallulah shoves her pointy, rodentlike features toward Betty, eyes screwed up, buckteeth very prominent. “Either you fuck a guy or you don’t.”

  “We’re not all like you, Miss Bankhead.” This comes from the haughty Cher.

  “Like any man would go near you anyway, Tallulah.” The protective Burt’s nasally tones make Tallulah scowl darkly, and she petulantly gives him a one-finger sign.

  “You need a tattoo. All over your face.”

  Betty is thrown, loses her way; her confidence starts to trickle away. Tony clicks his fingers repeatedly, like a hypnotist pulling someone out of a trance—only they’re not coming out of it no matter how hard he clicks. “Hey! You know the rules. No talking during story time!”

  Betty regroups, gathers herself, and takes three big gulps of wine. After dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she continues.

  “Anyway, uh . . . This welder . . . I’d wake up beside him and feel like killing myself. The horrible things he made me do. Then one day a light went on in my head. I got this incredible idea, this pure and clear vision. I marched straight round to this welder’s workshop, picked up his blowtorch, struck a match, and . . . well, let’s just say his screams could have shattered glass.”

  Betty takes another slurp of wine, leans forward in her seat, and I know for a fact she is now roaring drunk. With her unfocused eyes and smudged lipstick, she looks completely different from the meek, boring woman who did so little to entertain us at the start of the evening. I think this look suits her.

  She turns and for some reason focuses on me in particular—her pupils dilating, her voice growing sadder by the second, everything about her now deep and emotional and inebriated. And I know instantly what she is about to say. There are tears in her eyes as she casts a faraway look at the Club members in turn. Her chin and lower lip start to tremble. “I, uh . . .” She takes a big tragic breath that I’ve seen a hundred times in the movies. “I guess a lot of it has to do with my childhood. . . .”

  Christ, just when I was starting to enjoy myself. I switch off immediately. Not another childhood thing. If I’ve heard that once, I’ve heard it a million times. Betty’s voice drifts away as I concentrate on a small prayer running around in my head.

  Just once, God, I’d like to hear something original. Every time without fail they blame their moms.

  I stare out the window and watch the rain crashing down on the bowed heads of passersby, and it occurs to me that life is really all about staying dry.

  I then look back at the less than rapt members and wonder who I’m going to kill first.

  “I admire humanity. I admire the way it survives. War after war after war, and we’re all still here—surviving. Disease, floods, earthquakes—you can throw the whole lot at us and we’ll get through it. That’s the secret, you see, the key to everything. That in the end we survive.” Carole—burly, mid-forties, six three, bearded, and with a severe case of halitosis—sits at the bar. The Club has long since broken up, and a few of us are now sharing more informal moments. After Betty had finished, I applauded louder than most, but only because I thought she could be quite attractive if she went to a good hairdresser, removed her large, pink-rimmed glasses, and had extensive liposuction.

  Carole hadn’t applauded Betty. He had remained aloof and austere, pretending he had heard it all before. Then again, he always does this, and I’m not alone in thinking he is becoming unbearably arrogant. Legend has it that everyone had to stifle gales of laughter when Carole first joined the Club; his big gruff lumberjack voice announcing he
was to be known as Carole Lombard should have triggered some real high-class mockery, but the Club had learned their lesson the last time something similar had happened. From what Tony told me, seeing Raquel Welch pick up Errol Flynn and ram him headfirst through the wooden divider between two booths made the Club respect people a little more after that. Raquel Welch proved to be one mean and angry son of a gun, and I think the Club members were relieved when he suddenly stopped coming.

  Not that I want any thanks for it, but the Club really picked up after Raquel “quit.”

  “To survival.” I raise my glass, and Carole together with Chuck Norris raise their drinks.

  “Survival.”

  “The dying art.” Chuck grins. He’s my all-time favorite person at the Club. He’s always got some ironic quip to make. He’s also handsome in that way that makes him instantly likable. He’s like a face on a poster or a billboard—that guy who is totally happy with life and all it has to offer. Especially if it’s a Marlboro Light.

  Carole doesn’t really get Chuck’s joke. He believes himself to be above humor. He is always too busy trying to intellectualize everything, as if he’s in constant search of an answer to life and all its attendant glories. Practically every meeting sees him airing a new theory on why things happen like they do. His latest idea—the one that forced me to suck in my butt cheeks in case I lost all control—is that serial killers are just nature’s way of telling us the world is overpopulated. I have never fought so hard to contain my laughter; it was like trying to hold a live wolverine inside my gut.

  Chuck glances over at me and winks. “So? What d’you think of the new recruit?”

  “Uh . . . she seemed, uh . . . okay. Very pleasant.”

  “Gonna ask her out?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t you see the way she was looking at you?”

  “She was just glassy-eyed from being drunk.”

  “Only on your beauty, Dougie.”

  I shouldn’t be amazed, but I have to admit that I am. I honestly hadn’t realized.

  Chuck gives me a big clap on the back. “Whatever it is, Dougie, you’ve got it. Hasn’t he, Carole?”

  Carole says nothing, just shrugs, and I can tell he’s jealous. I grin at Chuck. “You’d know better than anyone.”

  Chuck lights up, shakes out the match, and takes a big suck on his Marlboro. I love the way he does that—it’s just so cultured. “I were you, Dougie, I’d make a move on her.”

  “But what about those other guys she dated? Look what happened to them. . . .”

  Chuck glances at Carole, and I catch a grin pass between them. “She obviously just hasn’t met the right guy yet.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it. I wouldn’t want to rush into anything.”

  “Strike while the blowtorch is hot. That’s what I say.” The wryly grinning Chuck rattles his empty whiskey glass—the ice chiming against the glass—and manages to catch the eye of our regular table waitress. It was only after the second Club meeting that I learned she was deaf. In hindsight, I should have guessed she was, because to be honest, she had to be. There’s no way we could reveal the things we reveal while a waitress with perfect hearing dishes out our inedible meals.

  As the smiling waitress approaches, Chuck does something with his hands that she immediately responds to by weaving an intricate pattern with her own fingers. Chuck replies, and I realize that he must have taught himself sign language. I glance at Carole, and for once even he looks impressed. The signing between Chuck and the waitress becomes more intense, and then she suddenly bursts out laughing—or what passes for a deaf person’s laugh—and it’s obvious that Chuck’s terrific wit loses nothing in translation. The waitress laughs again, and I feel a smile playing along my lips as I turn to Carole.

  “I’d give my right arm to be able to sign like that.”

  Carole yawns long and hard, glances at his watch. Over in one corner someone puts the latest release by the group Murder Rap on the jukebox, and this seems to irritate the hell out of Carole.

  “Boy, I hate that stuff.”

  “You’re kidding. I’ve got the CD.”

  Carole gives me a hard look. “Mighta known. Music companies rely on assholes like you, Dougie. They’re only in existence because you and your kind help perpetuate and prolong their garbage-producing careers. That band will be finished in a year, and some other group of pricks will be unleashed upon us.”

  I keep glancing at Chuck and the waitress, who seem to be enjoying a much more meaningful conversation, and look down at my fingers, wishing I could sign.

  “You don’t have to follow the trend, Dougie, you don’t have to be a part of the crowd. But you do it all the same because you think it gives you an identity. Rather than carving out your own, you’re quite happy to have yours foisted upon you.”

  That’s a barrel-load of grievances Carole has there—I never knew he was so hung up on Murder Rap—but I feel I have to put him right on a few things. “They’re a good band. Their album is number three on the billboard. You say what you like, Carole, but you really can’t argue with that. They’re at number three.”

  Carole snorts down at me, his noxious breath making me feel bilious. “You don’t get it, do you, Dougie. You just don’t see the big picture.”

  “I think I see enough of it—”

  “Someone like me, Douglas . . . well, I look at the whole picture, and then I see beyond it.”

  “When you say you see beyond . . . how far is that, exactly? Are we talking miles or furlongs?”

  Carole pauses, sighs again. My jokes are humbling him, but he won’t admit it. “You are so tiresome, Douglas. Chuck has a good sense of irony, but you, well, you can’t grasp anything, so you resort to infantile humor. It’s all a pathetic attempt to cover for your appalling insecurities and total lack of self-knowledge.”

  As I sit there, I realize that I hate Carole.

  He gives a tired shrug. “What the hell. I guess people like you have your place in the grand scheme of things. I mean, without you around I’d never get to feel this good about myself.” Carole laughs at this like it’s the greatest joke in the world, and I feel his big hand ruffling my hair as he pushes me, rocking me like I’m some big kid.

  I start laughing along with him, but only because I now know who I’m going to kill first.

  Later I go to the men’s room, sidestep to the pay phone, and put in a call to Agent Wade.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hi you. Killed anyone yet?” There’s nothing like getting to the point.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve made a decision.”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to do Carole Lombard.”

  There is an undeniable pause on the end of the line. “Who?”

  “Carole Lombard.”

  Another long pause follows, and I can almost see Agent Wade sitting there trying to come to terms with the fact that the real Carole Lombard is not only still alive, but also a serial killer.

  “Can’t you just stick to the members?”

  “He is a member.”

  “He?”

  “I know, the guy freaks everyone out.”

  “Okay . . . whatever,” is all he offers.

  “Oh. Before I go, we got a new member tonight.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I’m just saying, there’s one more, and I was hoping maybe I could be given more time.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  Agent Wade’s words are delivered with an undeniable finality.

  I shrug in a fake casual way, not that he can see me do this. “Just asking.”

  I hang up.

  It’s time.

  WELL EXECUTED

  I RUN ALL THE WAY. I’m pretty fit and can run forever if I want to. I wanted to be a long-distance athlete when I was younger. I wanted to run races that were maybe a hundred miles long, or maybe one lap was a hundred miles and I’d enter for a fifty-lap race and just start run
ning. I would love to run right around the world, but Carole’s place is closer, so I go there instead.

  I am soaked through to the skin by the time I arrive, and after a quick glance up to the thunderously wet sky, I get this crazy notion in my head that this is the sort of city where arsonists should come for rehab.

  Carole is so big and mean looking that he doubts anyone would burglarize his tiny little apartment, so getting inside requires little in the way of skill or imagination. Fortunately for me, skillers believe themselves to be invulnerable to petty crime and think that they are so wild and scary that no one in their right mind would do something to upset them. They’re as untouchable as English royalty. You should hear the outrage if any of them ever gets a parking ticket.

  In Carole’s case, the reality is he owns little to interest a thief, unless they’re studying for a doctorate. Inside are endless rows of important-looking books. Their titles are the strong, no-nonsense, no-play-on-words type: Psychology: The Way Forward, Psychoanalysis: The Way Back, Jungian Theory: From the Side On, Grimms’ Book of Fairy Tales. The last one is, I’m pretty convinced, the only one Carole has read and managed to grasp. His apartment, a shabby ground-floor affair, a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom, has a strong, sour, distasteful odor. It fills the apartment, and I become so sidetracked as to how Carole can live with this stench that I start ransacking the place in an attempt to find the source of the odor. Eventually I come across a tube of denture cement in his bathroom cabinet—it sits beside a special two-headed toothbrush and a tin of soothing powder for his gums. When I unscrew the lid on the denture cement tube, I arc my head back. The stuff smells of acid, and I swear I can feel it attacking my eyes. I then grin to myself as I realize that Carole isn’t so perfect that he can’t fall victim to what must be one of the greatest marketing ploys of this century. By making denture cement smell this bad, the manufacturer forces you to buy at least three times the amount of denture toothpaste in order to maintain any semblance of an odor-free mouth. I’m so wrapped up in this discovery that I almost don’t hear the front door open. I freeze instantly. The next few moments are, as always, a question of my trying to balance my natural terror with the need to keep a level head. I try to give myself positive things to think about while I fight down an all-consuming onrush of terror. I try hard to concentrate on quarterbacks as they prepare to unleash a forty-yard throw while eight guys, each weighing three hundred pounds, try to jump on them. I think about the coolness and clearness of thought that requires. I also sometimes ponder the men who build the last floor of a towering new skyscraper. There they are, hundreds of feet up in the air, defying high winds and the relentless impeachment of gravity. They carry on mixing cement and sticking bricks on top of one another as if they haven’t a care in the world, and that to me defines the word heroic.