The Serial Killers Club

by Jeff Povey

“The skillers come from all over, so no one knows their real names, no one knows where they live, they know nothing about each other. Then when one ‘leaves,’ so to speak—the Club has no real way of contacting them to find out why. They try the small ads but soon give up when there’s no sign of a reply. These ads cost money, and we don’t like to waste Club funds.”

  Agent Wade glances back out the window, his ever-alert eye drawn to a waitress from the burger joint slicing through the downpour on Rollerblades to a waiting sedan and then slipping and falling hard—ending up lying sprawled across the hood.

  “So if you’re not a serial killer, Dougie, what exactly are you?”

  I respond with a certain amount of pride. “I guess I’m the all-American hero. The answer to everyone’s prayers. The Avenging Angel. That’s me—Demon Dougie.”

  I watch the dark clouds scud across the depressingly gray sky, can see one that is shaped like a horse’s head, a coal black stallion snorting its angry and willful rage over the earth.

  Agent Wade has fallen silent, meditating, letting my words sink in. He blows out one last puff of smoke and then stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray. He runs his tongue around his teeth, then clears his throat. “I was going to be a dentist. That was my life plan.”

  “Really?” I take a moment to adjust from my newfound and glorious reverie, trying hard to focus on what Agent Wade is saying.

  “I’m from a long line of dentists.”

  Despite this downswing in euphoria, I wonder if he could take a look at my upper-right molar, as it’s been giving me a lot of pain recently.

  “Thing is, I wanted to help people in another way, Dougie. Not just mend their teeth, but somehow mend their lives as well.” This could easily sound crass, but somehow, coming from Agent Wade’s mouth, it seems poignant. “Plus I was very keen on guns. A big fan. You know?”

  I nod, take a big slurp of my milk shake, feel the ice cold liquid bring on that agonizing pain I get in my chest every time I drink this stuff.

  “Some kids grow out of Cowboys and Indians. Not me.”

  I smile grimly as I remember my own childhood. “I was always the Indian. Being hunted down and ‘scalped’ by the other boys. I had to run pretty fast some days, I can tell you. It seemed everyone wanted a piece of Geronimo. That’s what I used to call myself.”

  “Geronimo was FBI.”

  I stop, look at Agent Wade. He nods. Earnestly.

  “Geronimo?”

  “Not that it was called the FBI in those days.”

  “I never knew that. Geronimo, huh?”

  “I forget what they used to call it, but I’m certain he was a member.”

  “Pinkerton . . . wasn’t that what they were called?” I think I’m correct when I say this, but Agent Wade doesn’t seem to acknowledge me. Instead he checks himself in the rearview, runs a hand through his hair, talking to me but staring at himself.

  “So . . . who’s next?”

  TALLULAH BANKHEAD

  TETCHY TATTOOED TERROR

  I DECIDE TO TRY to rectify my earlier mistake and start doing this alphabetically.

  It hasn’t rained for at least an hour, and when I get to the next Club meeting, I imagine everyone will be in good spirits. As I pass the nerdish quiz team, I notice they are now short one of their members and they appear a little on the solemn side. I don’t get time to dwell on this because as soon as I get to the table, I know that something’s wrong.

  I feel myself turning pale when I glance up to the television that sits on high above our regular table and see a photo of William Holden glaring down at me. It is the one they used on the jacket of his first novel. His shiny face and head peer out smugly, and my stomach flips when they cut to the newsanchor, who looks up solemnly from behind his desk. “It took a high-class forensics team working round the clock, but the body has now been formally identified. More after these messages.”

  The Club members are all staring up at the screen. They are silent, and there is the unmistakable aura of concern and shock. I feel like turning on my heel and running for my life.

  Tony is the first to catch my eye. He looks very somber. “You hear about this?”

  To my horror, I find I can’t speak. I look dumbly at Tony as my throat dries up. The other members are looking my way, awaiting a response, and Christ help me, I can’t do anything but give them a low gurgle.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Tony turns away and looks at the other members.

  My heart is nearly in my mouth as I silently take my place, legs trembling so badly that I think my pants’ll fall down from the vibration.

  “Hoo boy . . .” Tony runs a large hand over his face. “Shit sure happens.”

  “Is, uh . . . is someone gonna say a few words?” James Mason sips from a very black-looking cup of tea.

  Burt is in there like there’s no tomorrow. No surprises there from the obnoxious limelight seeker. “I’d like to propose a toast.” Members reach for their drinks and raise them in the air—I don’t have one, so I just make a fist instead and raise it to the others. I note that my hand shakes violently.

  Burt’s words are tender and well-meaning. “To William Holden, a man first, a killer second—and a friend throughout.”

  Everyone murmurs, “William Holden,” or “Friend,” and I manage to mumble, “To Baldy,” without anyone hearing. I then look around for the deaf waitress, wishing I knew the sign language for “Could you open a window?” The bar and grill seems very stuffy all of a sudden. I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar.

  “I really liked that guy.” Richard, the good ole southern boy, likes everyone he ever meets. God alone knows how he became a serial killer. “Even though he had no hair, he had some good things to say, him being an author an’ all.”

  “What was that, Mother? What did you say?” James Mason looks all around him, and the rest of the members sigh or give tiresome snorts.

  “Jimmy, get a life, will you? We’re trying to talk here.” Tony growls at James, who turns round and looks at the others, then shrugs in apology.

  “Mother was just saying she wants the rice-and-bean soup.”

  “Jimmy, I’m warning you now. Cut it out, huh?”

  “Tell the bitch to eat somewhere else.” Tallulah gives a snide grin to James, who shies away and goes back to obsessively dunking a teabag into his cup of hot water.

  “What I want to know is who killed Mr. Holden.” Cher lights up, blows out her match, and does an actresslike shake of the head. It’s like sitting in a movie theater being around her.

  “There sure is some sick people out there, I can tell you.” Chuck winks to make sure we know he is being ironic, and I have been so scared and so uptight that my laughter machine-guns out of me and causes everyone to turn and look my way. I immediately stop.

  “Forgive me. I, uh . . . I think I’m in shock. . . .”

  The faces turn away, and I am now desperate for a drink, but the deaf waitress seems to have disappeared.

  “I guess I could try and look into it.” Tony is a detective second grade. A pretty good cop by all accounts. Never takes a bribe, never plants evidence, never gets freebies from prostitutes. Which is all too rare these days and deserves special mention. “That’s if anyone thinks it’s worthwhile. Personally I’d like to just put it down to plain bad luck. Will was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But what about the way he was killed? That’s some coincidence.” Once Cher gets hold of an issue, she won’t let it go.

  “Will never blew up whole gas stations, Cher. He just blew up individuals he found hanging around dark alleys. It ain’t his MO.” Tallulah gives Cher a “boy, you’re really dumb” look, and Cher glares back at her.

  “Miss Bankhead, the mere fact that fire was involved and that Will was the one that got killed tells me things aren’t sitting right here. Okay, honey? You got that into your tattooed skull now?”

  “You always did think better pre-face lift.”

  Cher is out
of her seat like a mongoose, ready to strike at Tallulah, when Tony manages to grab her arm and force her back down. “Ladies . . . this is not the way to honor Will.”

  Cher and Tallulah glare at each other, and I really don’t like the bad air that is hanging around the Club.

  The news program comes back after the ads, and sitting beside the anchorman is the television psychiatrist—they still trot this same guy out when something involving skillers turns up on the news. I haven’t seen him in a while, and I note that he has had minor plastic surgery and all his teeth have been capped. He looks at least ten years younger. The Club is familiar with the psychiatrist, whom they find absolutely hilarious; his stupid theories and ridiculous profiles make for compulsive entertainment.

  ANCHORMAN: I have here a copy of the book Ra-Ra-Ra the Sun God, written by the victim, and I believe you have something you’d like to say about it?

  (The television psychiatrist takes the book from the anchorman and opens it to a premarked page.)

  PSYCHIATRIST: Firstly I’d like to draw your attention to a particularly inflammatory—

  ANCHORMAN: (laughs) Inflammatory. Very good.

  PSYCHIATRIST: (serious) What?

  (The anchorman realizes this is no time for jokes.)

  ANCHORMAN: Sorry. Carry on.

  (The psychiatrist gives the anchorman a stern look before turning back to the camera.)

  PSYCHIATRIST: This passage in particular may well shed some light on why Turner Turner III was murdered.

  I know everyone at the Club is just dying to phone in and tell the network that Turner Turner III wasn’t William’s real name, it was just an alias. Only Will could have made up a name that dumb. I finally get the waitress’s attention and gesture that I would like a Bud.

  PSYCHIATRIST: (reading) “It is my belief that the fear of eternal night drives mankind. The sun is our friend and our inspiration—our sanctuary from that round-the-clock terror. The perfect life would be chasing sunrises across the globe, never knowing night and thus never having to confront or dwell upon the consequences of death.”

  (The psychiatrist closes the book and looks up at the anchorman, who obviously hasn’t understood a word of it.)

  PSYCHIATRIST: I think someone read that and decided to kill him.

  “If anyone killed him, it would have been his publisher.”

  I start laughing immediately, because Chuck Norris is speaking and I laugh instinctively at everything he says. I’m like a deranged hyena when Chuck starts up.

  “Let’s face it, his books were god-awful.” The gag is obvious, and not everyone laughs. I get a cold look from Betty, and I am glad the deaf waitress’s arm blocks her view as she sets down my Bud. Chuck flashes the waitress a warm little wink, which she enjoys.

  “I figure his mother did it.” James Mason is a quiet man who says little and isn’t comfortable speaking in public. This surprises me, because James is a defense lawyer and I expected him to be much more aggressive and vocal. I often wonder just how many people this hopelessly timid man has defended successfully in a twenty-year career. I’m guessing about two. “Will told me he was going to write a book about her. Semiautobiographical or something. Maybe she read a rough copy of it and didn’t like it.”

  “That’s a good point, Mr. Mason.”

  James looks so amazed he’s actually made sense, he nearly falls out of his chair. “It was more Mother’s idea. . . .”

  Cher continues, “We’ve got to remember that Mr. Holden was one of the few members we’ve had who hadn’t killed their mother.”

  “Yet.” Chuck is making up for his earlier weak gag, and again I find myself laughing.

  “I’ll go with Cher on that. Who’s to say Mommy didn’t turn the tables on him?” Betty is getting into the swing of things and becoming a lot more comfortable with the Club. She has combed a part into her hair and let it fall free tonight, and I like the way she keeps having to flick it out of her eyes.

  Burt isn’t convinced. “Let’s think about this a moment. Would someone’s mother really go out and kill their offspring like that? I mean, that’s stretching things a little too far, don’t you think?” I find I want Burt to die—right now.

  “Actually, mine would have.” I say this in a more petulant manner than I had planned.

  “Like that’s a surprise?” Chuck sniggers, as do a few others.

  “Mine probably would have as well.” Cher says this deadpan, cutting short the sniggering.

  “Mine tried to.” Practically her entire family has tried to kill Tallulah at one time or another.

  Inside I smile.

  Panic over. I take a big, satisfied swig of Bud.

  “Thinking about it, maybe someone should call in and do his mother. Sort of in Will’s honor.” James, buoyed by the fact that he is being listened to for once, is now starting to call the shots.

  Seven people around the table immediately respond with a very loud and very vociferous, “I’ll do it!” I get mine in just a fraction after I realize this is what I should be yelling. Hands are raised in the air like schoolkids, and everyone looks so eager and willing that I can’t see how Tony Curtis as resident chairman of the Club can possibly make a decision.

  “Me. Pick me, Tony.”

  “No, me.”

  “Me, Tony, me.”

  “I’ll do it.” Tony says this in midbelch with cold eyes and an even colder delivery that ends any dispute before it can begin.

  I take another huge and satisfying mouthful of Bud.

  Two down, eight to go.

  All through this meeting I have been sitting, on purpose, beside Tallulah. I study her for a moment and really can’t think of anyone I’ve ever met who unsettles me as much as Tallulah does. Despite training at a top art school, she has ended up polishing the dance floor of a strip joint before and after performances. She wears charity shop clothes, lives in a dilapidated ghetto, and has no real ambition in life other than to kill as many people as she humanly can. She freely admits to hating all of humanity, and I happen to know that the feeling is mutual.

  I study the tattoo on Tallulah’s right forearm. It takes the form of a dagger, and at the dagger’s tip, blood drips down, and the resultant pool of blood spells out “Art Is Dead.” Knowing Tallulah, “Art” probably refers to some unfortunate guy she once knew.

  “I’ve never had the nerve to say this before, but I’d really like to know where you had that done. I’ve got this friend who is looking for a good needle job.” I talk as if I know the lingo of tattooists, and I think it sounds hip.

  Tallulah looks up at me, eyes cold, gray, and hateful. “I did it myself.”

  “Wow. That’s really, uh . . . really neat. So you’re left-handed, then?”

  “What do you think?” She has no need to sound sarcastic, but that’s her way, I guess.

  I give Tallulah a small, appealing smile. “I’m surprised you never entered the tattoo industry. Someone of your obvious quality.”

  Tallulah pulls a sarcastic face as she lights a cigarette.

  “Wiping up after strippers—that must feel like a real comedown, especially when you have such a great talent.” I have to needle her; I can’t help it. Did I say needle her? “You know, your story really got me. . . .” I point to my heart. “Right here. I still can’t believe you shared that with me.”

  “I told the whole group, not just you.”

  “I know that, but your story was so, uh, so . . . intimate . . . it felt like you were talking to me and me alone. I don’t think I knew anyone else was in the room, your story was so compelling.” I want to get under Tallulah’s skin, making like the ink she uses to tattoo her victims.

  In the background, James Mason opens up with the details on his latest kill.

  “I had promised Mother that I would kill him. I saw it as a treat—for all the hard work we’d been putting in lately. He didn’t quite fit the social group Mother and I have come to despise, those lowlife juror scum, it was more just a case of my sa
ying to Mother, ‘This judge would make a good kill.’ Nothing more, nothing less. And I’ve got to tell you, I really enjoyed killing him. I can’t defend myself here.” As if he could anyway. “I hold up my hands and openly admit that he was a great kill. . . .”

  Tallulah is only half listening to the story; she despises James like she despises all of us.

  “That needle gun . . . what an implement. What a weapon. . . .” I shake my head and blow out a little air, as if Tallulah were the queen of killers. And even coldhearted and hateful, Tallulah can’t help but warm to my indulgence in her.

  “This friend of yours. Is it a big friendship?”

  “Uh, no . . . uh . . . well, he’s an acquaintance. Yeah, more of a work colleague.”

  “So he’s male?”

  “Yeah . . . at least he assures me he is.” I snort out some laughter at this terrific gag. Tallulah doesn’t even hear it as her eyes narrow.

  “He ever tell you about seeing strippers? As in paying to see women demean themselves in front of a row of self-abusing losers?”

  I pretend to think this over. “Actually, now you mention it . . . you know, I think he does go. Most nights he has free, in fact. He’s a little bit like that. You know, a little bit depraved.”

  Tallulah’s eyes widen, and I know I’ve got her.

  “Set up a meet.”

  I had originally thought I was going to have to work hard on Tallulah. I hadn’t counted on her killing agenda being so fervent.

  “I’ll tattoo him. From head to toe.”

  “I think he’s only after a small butterfly design—”

  “What he’s after isn’t my concern. When can I do this?”

  “Soon as possible, I guess.”

  “Wednesdays are good for me.”

  Tallulah turns away. End of conversation. I study her lank, mousy blond hair. I imagine her on all fours wiping up peanuts and spilled beer, can visualize her growing hate as it courses through her, expanding in her chest until she’s fit to burst. She probably gets yelled at by the perverts in the front row. I bet she yells back at them, and I know for certain they try to throw peanuts into her large, abusive mouth.