by Jeff Povey
I can hear Carole moving around in his apartment, probably wondering why there’s a window open and why some of his stuff has been scattered around. Like I say, skillers don’t believe burglars will touch them, so he’s probably working on a more lateral theory—maybe something like an animal has somehow found its way into his apartment. As I listen to him, I know I have between five and ten seconds before he finds me. This is the moment where I think, Quarterback builder, quarterback builder, and it goes round and round in my head until I get this surge of confidence and finally make up my mind that there is no turning back.
“Hello? Anyone there?” Carole walks into his living room, switches on a side light. That’s good. A low light is always good. A main light tends to add a starkness, the low light adds mystery and a black-and-white B-movie nuance. The real Carole Lombard would appreciate this.
Carole whistles. “Here, puss. . . . Hey . . . puss?”
I take one last calming breath and emerge from the bathroom, holding my hands up, making out I’m defenseless, harmless. “Carole, I’ve been thinking . . . about what you were saying back at the Club.”
Carole stands there, struck dumb, completely thrown.
“And I came to the conclusion that you are way off the mark. W-a-a-a-a-y off the mark.”
“What are you doing here?” Not such a know-it-all now. “You break in here, you little shit?”
“Thing is, you’ve got it wrong.” I persist in making my point. “Intelligence and insight hold as much weight as a gnat in a tornado. Insignificance is our only true standing in this world.”
“You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself, Douglas.” I can see Carole is getting angry, more than a little jumpy, and he’s going to react like all great pseudointellectuals in times of stress. He’s going to go for me like a rabid dog.
“I just did explain myself. Perhaps you didn’t quite grasp what I meant. Let me tell you in layman’s terms.”
It happens quickly. Carole’s rage erupts. He comes at me, lurches forward. I am too fast, though, too agile, and I duck away from him, reaching for a book that lies on his coffee table, a thick and heavy tome entitled Get Smart, Get Even, Get a Life! I swing it round and smash Carole on the back of the head with it. I hit him so hard that his false teeth fly out and almost hit a portrait of someone who I think is Einstein, and it is this moment that freezes him long enough, possibly through the sheer embarrassment of it all, for me to take one step farther away from the electric chair.
With all things being equal, I know for certain that Carole could never be truly clever even if someone came along and beat the intelligence into him. Which is exactly what I attempt to do with an oversize copy of Encyclopedia Britannica. I don’t enjoy this, but I do find a fallen page devoted to the African termite family, which is actually a lot more interesting than it sounds.
Afterward, when I’m removing all trace of my being in Carole’s apartment, I find the false teeth. I can’t help myself and pretend to have a conversation with Carole’s teeth, clacking them open and shut, making like I’m on Letterman.
“So, Dougie . . . tell me about this crusade of yours.”
“Well, Dave . . . it’s sort of hard to explain. Isn’t really my idea, truth be told.”
“C’mon, don’t play the demure little guy with me. You pull this off and you’re going to be a hero.”
“I am? How d’you figure that?”
“You’re ridding the world of serial killers. There aren’t going to be any left after you’re done. America will sleep a little easier in her bed thanks to you.”
“A hero? Me?”
“Sure thing, Dougie. They’re going to write books and make movies about you, women are going to hurl themselves at your feet. You will be so famous, even I will have to get in line for an autograph.”
“Jeez. Never thought of it like that.”
“Let’s face it. You, sir, are the next all-American hero. Or small-American hero, in your case.”
“Oh my, Dave—let’s pause for some big ironic laughs, shall we?”
“Sorry, Doug . . . forgive me. Blame the writers on this show. In fact, I’ll fire them right this minute.”
“I’ll make sure I give them my autograph before they leave.”
I go to Carole’s body and wedge the teeth back into his mouth. Only I put them in back to front, with the teeth facing into the throat, and fight to suppress a small giggle when I imagine the coroner trying to work out if Carole was either trying to eat himself to death or was just plain stupid.
When I get back to my apartment, Agent Wade is waiting in his car outside. He is listening to heavy metal on the radio but turns it off as I approach.
“How’d it go?” is all he asks.
“Like clockwork.” I can’t help crowing a little. “For a non-plan, it went according to plan.”
“Anyone see you?”
“You kidding? You’re talking to an old pro here.”
“Sounds like you made a good start.”
I’m not proud of myself, but I fake a confident look for Agent Wade’s sake. “I guess I did.”
“Still prefer it if you had a plan.”
“I really don’t need one. Tonight proves that.”
“All the same . . .”
Agent Wade turns the loud rock music back on. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the conversation is over. I shrug and head for my apartment.
I can’t deny that the thought of being a hero is starting to appeal to me. I lie in bed wondering who I should do next, and to my surprise, I feel a growing sense of anticipation. I can feel myself basking in the warm glow of all-American-ness when I hear my bedroom door creak open.
I can hardly believe my eyes when Agent Wade walks in—smoking thoughtfully—and sits at the foot of my bed. I feel his weight make my mattress, and me, rise a few centimeters. He looks around my small bedroom, takes in the pale lilac decor, the battered oak wardrobe, the small set of pine drawers, the single bed.
Finally he looks at me.
“I don’t like the non-plan plan.”
I’m not sure what to say at first, try to gather my thoughts. “But it works.”
“The FBI would fire me on the spot if they knew I was going in planless. It’s like going into a shoot-out without your pants on.”
“But you’re not going in, I am.”
“All the same, I’m in charge of this operation. And I say you start by mapping out a plan of action. And I want it in writing.”
“Writing?”
“A thousand words minimum.”
I sigh, hope he gets how annoyed I am. “I haven’t got time to write reports.”
Agent Wade’s eyes blaze into mine. “What you’ll do is what I tell you to do. Now get planning. And writing.”
Agent Wade leaves my bedroom, and the warm glow I was experiencing earlier has turned cold enough to make me want to get up and switch on the heating.
WILLIAM HOLDEN
APB: MISSING SERIAL KILLER
CAROLE LOMBARD had killed fourteen. Prized open their skulls and dined on their brains. They were all college professors, men and women who quite possibly had a lot more to offer life than he ever would. Anyone who thought that they could “ingest” intellect and not have to do correspondence courses like the rest of us is one severely stupid person. You could tell this just from listening to Carole’s stories at the Club. By far and away they were the most labored and tedious I had ever heard. He was technical and deliberate, with little or no rhythm, and he definitely could not get into his characters. His rank halitosis didn’t help matters, either.
I am convinced he won’t be missed.
“So where’s sewer mouth?” Tony looks around at me and the other nine members attending the next Club meeting. I immediately feel my heart stop. It’s been three months since the previous skiller went missing, and I’d forgotten about that initial nausea-inducing wave of anxiety I always experience at the first meeting after their disappearance.
>
No one says anything as Tony eyes us in an imperiously calculating fashion and then speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “What time you got, Burt?”
“I make it a quarter after.”
“I must be a little fast. I’ve got twenty after.”
William Holden’s soft tones make him sound like he is constantly whispering. This and his emphatically bald head complete his totally sinister appearance, and he comes across as the Identi-Kit serial killer. William has no hair whatsoever on his body, and although there’s a medical term for it, I just tend to think of him as being one of nature’s freaks.
“That’s forty-five minutes late, ladies and gentlemen.” Tony belches as he stares out at us. “I will not tolerate that kinda irregular timekeeping.”
“What are you gonna do? Fine him?” Pointy-faced Tallulah Bankhead gives a thin-lipped, petulant smile. Apart from killing people, it seems the only other thing she enjoys in life is to goad people. I’m ashamed to admit that I once almost got into a fistfight with her when she kept interrupting one of my more imaginative eulogies on my killer’s block.
“Or maybe make him write out a hundred times, ‘I must not be late for meetings.’”
Everyone has learned to rise above Tallulah’s petty taunts by now, so Tony just scowls at her and then looks over to me.
“You ride here with Carole sometimes, Dougie. He not on your bus tonight?”
“Uh . . . not that I noticed.”
“Too busy leering at some chick, huh?” Chuck nudges my arm, and I give him a “well, you know me” smile. We’re both pretty much the studs of the Club, and I think from the way everyone laughs along with Chuck that they all appreciate what he’s implying here.
“What if Miss Lombard isn’t late?” Cher leans forward, takes a hard puff on her cigarette. She speaks in a very definite and precise manner, just like the real Cher. “Maybe he isn’t gonna turn up ever again.”
Cher never calls anyone other than Mr. This or Miss That.
I was astonished when I first saw Cher walk into the Club, because she is the exact double of the real Cher. The absolute spitting image, same age, same height, same hair, same voice.
Tony eyes Cher curiously. “Care to emulsify on that?”
Cher holds Tony’s look. “All I’m saying is that . . . well . . . maybe he’s had enough of the Club.”
I sit there secretly hoping to God that Tony buys this.
“Don’t you dare fucking say that.” Tony loves—absolutely loves—the Club.
“I just kinda wonder if things aren’t getting a little predictable. You know, a little stale.”
Chuck lights a Marlboro. “Must admit it’s not as much fun as it used to be.” He then whips off a one-liner, and I instantly crease up. “Mind you, they say the same about sex with dodo birds.” I laugh at everything Chuck says; he just hits my funny bone every time. My laugh almost drowns out James Mason’s nervy comment.
“I guess you’ve just got to look at the members who have left over the years.” James dunks a chamomile teabag into a cup of hot water. There are already two other teabags sitting in there diffusing, and it’s an accepted fact he likes a strong taste. “They must have had a good reason.” James doesn’t usually say much at the meetings, and if he’s worried enough to bother talking to us rather than the voices he hears in his head, then it puts me on edge. I truly wish he’d go back to whispering to his dead mother, as for one horrible moment I think someone is about to question the real reason why eight—make that nine—of the original members don’t attend anymore.
Tony looks a little sullen. “And this is my fault?”
“Who else we gonna blame?” Tallulah keeps on spoiling for a fight, and it’s obvious to anyone that she’s in a real grouchy mood. I’d put it down to her period if I didn’t know she’d hurl an ashtray at me—like she did the last time I raised that particular line of thought.
“No one’s blaming anyone, Tony,” William whispers. “But I do think we need to maybe offer a little more than we do.”
“Like what? Dancers? Maybe a raffle? Bring and buy—what?” Tony’s face is turning red in his anger.
“Look, I only brought this up because Miss Lombard was pretty irritated at the way the Club was being run.” Cher is keen to make her point.
“Are you questioning my chairmanship?”
“Of course not, Mr. Curtis.”
“Sounds to me like you are. Sounds like you’re blaming me for driving people away.”
“Don’t get so defensive.”
“Hey, someone attacks, I defend—okay?”
“I just think we need an injection of something or other . . . a little light relief.”
I notice Betty listening intently to the debate starting to rage around her. She looks ravishingly wholesome tonight, and after what Chuck said at the last meeting, I think I can see what he meant about her liking me. She keeps looking over at me—almost leering, in fact.
“I could always get up and tell a few jokes.” Burt will jump at any and every opportunity to grandstand, and I for one am glad to see Tony ignore him completely as he casts his eyes over each one of us in turn.
“Anyone else ever hear Carole saying he was unhappy?” he asks.
“I could tell just from looking at him. The stink-breathed scum bucket.” Tallulah lights a cigarette, licks her fingers, and douses the matchstick flame with them.
Tony is determined to get an answer to his question. “Did he or didn’t he like the Club?”
I take a breath and slowly raise my hand. All eyes are suddenly upon me, and it makes me nervous. “Uh . . . I spoke to him, uh . . . at the last meeting, in fact. And I hate to say this, Tony, but he was pretty pissed at the way things were being handled.”
“Oh, he was, was he? And just what was offal face sobbing about, Mr. Secretary?”
Tony looms over me, and I have to think fast. “He just said he was thinking about quitting and maybe moving on. Plus he hated his media name.”
“I didn’t pin the ‘Brain Binger’ on him.”
“No, but I think it kinda added to his . . . well, his overall annoyance. I think he was hoping for something more upmarket.” The atmosphere at the Club has turned pretty unsavory now.
“He knows the score. You want a good nickname, you sign it on the victim. Everyone knows that.”
“I’m glad he’s gone. His breath stank worse than a rotting polecat.” Tallulah makes a screwed-up disgusted face. “And that’s doing a big disservice to polecats.”
Tony sits back and chews on someone’s barbecue rib, sucking the sauce from the bone so loudly that a bunch of guys across the room look over. They look like a quiz team in hopeful search of a quiz—nerdish and toothy. I notice Betty looking over at one nerd in particular, and for a moment she looks like a lioness sizing up her prey.
“Okay, so Carole’s taken a hike. Big deal. Personally I’m glad to see the back of him.” Tony wipes his hands along his thighs. “We don’t need trash like that.”
My heart rate begins to slow, and I can look forward to relaxing and enjoying the meeting once more.
“What about the others, though?”
I immediately go cold inside, and my heartbeat hits two hundred.
You can always count on Richard Burton to put his big fat foot in it. Rich the Bitch, I call him secretly, on account of the fact that he possesses what look suspiciously like a pair of breasts, and this played on my mind so much that I just had to voice the very genuine concern that he is the world’s first serial-killing hermaphrodite. Richard became very defensive about this—almost too defensive, in my opinion—but I’m afraid that no amount of bleating about gland trouble can make me believe otherwise.
“What about them?” I say this a little too abruptly and quickly cover myself. “Hey . . . like Tony says—who needs them?” I follow this with a little snigger. “Who needs trash?”
“Why don’t they come no more?” Richard is a small-town hick from the sticks, slow
talking, slow thinking, and totally irritating. “I was real fond of Errol Flynn. He had some good things to say.”
Sure he did. Like how he butchered nine men on account of their likeness to a guy who once sold him bleached meat.
I lean forward. “I don’t like to tell tales, but I once heard Errol complain about the membership fee.” This is a blatant lie; it was actually me who spent a lot of time moaning about it to anyone who would listen—and to be perfectly honest, I had a good point.
“Jesus!” Tony breathes out a big breath, shakes his head. “Jesus fucking H!”
The quiz nerds look over at Tony’s raised voice, and when I turn back again I see that both William Holden and Burt Lancaster are now eyeing them up as potential victims. I feel like I’m watching a nature program about big jungle cats.
Cher takes a moment, gets the words right in her head before speaking them. “Maybe we need to think bigger.”
