by Jeff Povey
“I wish I could help . . . I honestly do. But—”
“Get them to invite him, Douglas.” Agent Wade gives me a no-nonsense look, spelling his words out, making sure I understand fully what I’ve got to do. “He has to join.”
“No.”
“Do it for me, then. For your old pal Agent Wade.”
“The Club’ll get suspicious—they’re already asking a lot of questions.”
Agent Wade is not going to take no for an answer. “Who saved your life, Dougie? Who did that, huh? Not once, though, but twice. Who was there for you?”
I hate to admit it, but I think he’s got me there.
“Agent Wade came good for you, Dougie, so it’s time you came good for Agent Wade, don’t you think?”
I give him a reluctant shrug, know he’s got me backed into a corner. “I guess I could try. But I can’t promise anything.”
Agent Wade suddenly switches tack and gives me that handsome grin of his again. “Dougie . . . you’re Club secretary, you’ve got sway. And I’ve seen the way you talk to girls, I know you can charm anyone into doing anything. Trust me. You’re a natural. . . .”
I can’t help the sudden and glowing sensation spreading through me.
Agent Wade finishes the can of Dr Pepper in three big, greedy gulps and then gives me a proud wink. “You’re the man, Dougie!”
TENSE WITHOUT TALLULAH
AGENT WADE has made me take the rather clever precaution of hiding the ink dots I received from Tallulah’s needle attack under two sporty-looking wristbands. We went shopping together, and he helped me choose several pairs in different colors, and the red ones currently match the jersey I have tied around my shoulders. I turned up at the Club carrying a sports bag with a tennis racket inside it to help the overall image—I took this as a memento from Stan Laurel, who toured as a pro for some years.
“Hey, everyone, look at the athlete.” Chuck points to me and grins as the others turn. I nod back to them, feeling good that they’ve bought the image.
“They lower the net specially for you?” I pretend to enjoy this joke from Burt, laughing along with Betty and the others, though secretly I want to bury my tennis racket in Burt’s face.
“Tallulah’s late.” Tony licks Cher’s soup spoon before plunging it into what’s left of her chicken broth. How polite of them to start without me.
Tony’s voice seems heavy and weary, and he isn’t interested in any of the gags flying around.
“She’s never late.” Richard shifts in his seat.
There’s an undeniable tension in the air that is mushrooming over the table. “I really like Tallulah.”
The contempt I feel for Richard is slowly eating away at my insides. So far, he’s told everybody but me that he likes them.
“Mother says she may have just got held up.” James Mason offers this, even though he knows it sounds weak.
“Maybe her needle jammed.” I can’t help myself. I have to laugh along with Chuck.
Cher isn’t amused. “What’s happening, Mr. Curtis? What the hell is going on?”
“Jesus . . . cool it, will ya? Like Jimmy says, maybe she’s stuck in traffic.”
“Mother said it, not me,” James corrects Tony.
“Crawl off and die, Jimmy.” James is making himself a strong candidate for Tony’s next kill.
I lean forward, putting on my best helpful look. “I heard flash flood warnings over the radio.” I don’t even have a radio. Not one that works, anyway.
“There you go, then. Little Dougie there’s just given us the answer.”
I bathe in Tony’s gratitude, but Cher isn’t convinced.
“Miss Bankhead would get here whatever. I know that for sure.”
“And how’d you know that, exactly?” Tony is quick to jump on this. I find that I’m enjoying their sparring session.
“I know how much the Club means to her.”
“Sounds like you and her are pretty tight. Anything else you want to tell us?”
“Like what?”
“I’m waitin’ to hear.”
Cher glares at Tony, who glowers back. I catch sight of Betty, and she looks very nervous. She obviously isn’t a big fan of confrontation. I then see Burt sneak her a furtive smile of assurance. I don’t like that—I wanted to do that.
Tony and Cher are still eyeballing each other.
“Why’s she not here, Cher?”
“You tell me.”
“Hey . . . I asked first.”
“Come on, guys, huh? This is crazy.” Chuck stabs out his Marlboro. “Lighten up. The Club’s meant to be a fun night.”
“It will be without Tallulah around.” I throw in this great joke and laugh heartily. It takes me ten seconds to realize that everyone is scowling at me. Even Betty. “Drink, anyone?”
“Fuck Tallulah, I don’t give a pig’s nipple about her.” Tony is sure in a foul mood tonight. “What I wanna know is, which one of you chooks did this?”
Tony yanks a crumpled copy of the evening edition out of his jacket pocket and hurls it onto the table in front of everyone. It is open at the personals column, and I go weak at the knees when I see it.
King of Kentucky,
It’s time to chow down with your brethren. Looking forward to some fast food and fast times.
Yours,
Chairman Tony
Tony glares darkly at all of us in turn. “I’m waitin’.”
There is complete silence. I look at Betty. She in turn looks at Burt. Cher glances at Chuck, and I turn away when he looks at me, only to find James staring my way. Richard reaches over and turns the newspaper around so he can read it. Or, in his case, try to read it.
“What am I meant to be looking at?”
Tony shakes his great head. “Fuckin’ half-wit.”
The silence stretches and expands until it seems the very air around us is going to burst.
“Who ran the ad? Come on . . . spill.”
“It sure wasn’t me—or Mother.”
I realize that we are spaced farther apart around the table, and this lends a sense of isolation to each of us. I feel like I could swing a cat round my head and not hit anyone. I don’t like being so prominent, because the one thing I can’t do now is draw any attention to myself.
Tony is still waiting for an answer.
“I’m gonna find out one way or another.” He says this directly to Cher, and I guess with the way she is so keen to get KK to join, it’s only natural that he suspects her.
She knows this and looks edgy. She scans the faces of the others and realizes they are thinking the same thing. “Why’s everyone looking at me?”
“Why do you think?” I see no harm in really pointing the finger at her.
Cher’s face reddens with anger. “You’re Club secretary, you’re the one who runs the ads.”
“Which would be pretty stupid of him to do this, don’t you think?” Chuck squeezes out an ironic laugh, and I hold out my arms and shrug like an Italian toward Cher.
“Totally dumb.”
“Maybe it was Mr. Fairbanks, then. Cuz it’s obviously the work of an asshole.”
For some reason, the longer I know Cher, the more I find myself hating her.
“You’re the only one who wants him to join, though.” Betty’s lilting voice soothes my inner panic, and I look up at her, giving her the broadest smile I can muster. I stay that way long enough for her to get the message that I’m very grateful to her.
“Could someone read it to me?” Richard’s illiteracy is irritating the hell out of everyone, and they are glad to have a target to aim their pent-up tensions at.
“Mr. Burton, don’t you think it’s about time you learned to read and write? I mean, how old are you, for chrissakes?”
“Yeah, I’m sick of reading the menu to you every time we meet here.” Chuck eyeballs Richard. “A fetus is brighter than you are.” God, I enjoy that.
Tony snatches up the evening edition and starts tearing it angrily in
to strips. “One thing I won’t tolerate is disobedience in the Club.”
Cher doesn’t like the way Tony is still staring at her and bows her head and tries to force down a mouthful of raw-looking venison that has just arrived in front of her.
“Let’s just hope ole KK doesn’t see this.”
“But what if he does?” Burt considers Tony for a moment. “What if he responds?”
“We are getting kinda short on members.” Richard sticks out a flabby finger and starts counting out loudly. “One, two, three, four . . .”
Tony bats the finger down hard, and Richard recoils. “I think I’ve noticed.”
“Sorry, Tony.”
There is no sign of any lightening up for the rest of the evening. It is a bleak and tense meeting, and as if to reflect this, the darkest clouds I have ever seen gather in the hundreds outside. Not even the television psychiatrist revealing a new and quite hilarious method for catching skillers can break the bleak mood. From what I could make out, it has something to do with urine samples and a test scientists can then carry out. So far, the idea is only in its infancy, as it would entail the whole of America sending their labeled piss to a small three-man lab in southern Alaska.
Later Chuck decides he needs to help lift the mood and rises to tell the story of his latest kill. If anyone is going to get the night back on track, it’s going to be the great Chuck Norris. Cher calls him our movie star killer and she would know, considering she’s our rock star killer.
“So I’m in this girl’s closet. One of those walk-in closets that you always see in horror movies, you know, with the thin white slats in the door, all the clothes hanging up behind you, and the killer’s in the bedroom, thinking, Duh, I wonder where she’s hiding? And it never occurs to him that she’s in the closet even though it’s about the only place she can be hiding, and he’s not only walked slowly past it five or six times, but he’s just got to have seen at least one horror movie in his life. So you think he’d figure it out, right? Anyway, things are different on this particular night, cuz the killer is in the closet this time, and the girl, who is running late by the way, should in fact be in the bedroom.”
I immediately laugh. “That’s hysterical.”
No one else seems to get the joke and I feel I have to point it up. “It’s usually the killer who’s outside the closet. But Chuck’s inside it.”
I get a few blank looks but most people are waiting for Chuck to continue. I shake my head, turn to Chuck. “Don’t worry, I get where you’re coming from.”
“Would you shut the fuck up?” Tony glares at me, and all I can do is shrug at him.
“I’m just—”
“I mean it, Junior. Another word and you can go sit in the kitchen.”
I shake my head, making a point of sighing loudly. Sometimes I think I’m too good for them.
Chuck replays a little of what he’s already said, trying to find where he left off. Then he clears his throat and continues.
“Anyway, I’m in the closet. And after an hour of sitting with her lingerie draping itself around my ears, I’m wondering where the hell my victim has got to. I’ve stalked her for a month and I pretty much know her routine by heart. Tonight, Thursday, is the night she comes home from work, runs a bath, then watches her favorite TV program, taking advantage of the commercial breaks to go check on the water or add some bath salts.”
“She only bathes once a week?” I am stunned by this.
I ignore the scowls that shoot my way from the members.
“She showers the other days,” Chuck explains, and for a moment he looks tired. I’m starting to wonder at just how long he was in that closet. It seems to have drained him of his usual sparkle.
“But she doesn’t show. I’m waiting to hear the key in the front door any moment, but there’s nothing. Another hour goes by, and by this time, I’ve counted all the slats in her closet door.”
“How many were there?” I think that’s a fair question.
“Eighteen million,” Chuck responds rather dryly.
I definitely think he’s got a case of closet fever. God help him if the police ever catch him and toss him in a cell. He’ll go nuts within seconds.
“So where was she?” Betty’s timid voice is barely heard.
“Exactly what I was asking myself,” Chuck responds. “So after what must be three hours, I finally come out of the closet.”
“Hey everyone, Chuck’s gay.” I’m always reading how women find men who make them laugh hugely attractive and I can clearly see that Betty is trying her damnedest to control her laughter. She’s good though, barely a smile creases her lips and I admire that amount of self-control.
“One more interruption and you’re going in the fucking kitchen. To be cooked.” Tony leans toward me, his eyes blazing. I immediately sit back in my chair, hunkering a little lower, annoyed that so few people have a sense of humor these days.
Chuck starts again, looking more world-weary by the second. He seems to have lost his enthusiasm and this story is taking its toll on him. His delivery is routine and that wonderful stage presence of his has all but evaporated. Poor guy must be sickening for something.
“Anyway, I’m in her bedroom, I’m looking through her Rolodex, cuz I want to find out where she is. I call her friends, her family. ‘Hey there, have you seen Penny tonight?’ ‘Hi, I’m looking for Penny.’ I make about a dozen calls but no one’s seen her. Some of her friends sound real nice, and her father is just the greatest guy alive. I talk to him for maybe half an hour, then her mother comes on the line, then her sister, and I gotta tell you, they are some family. When I hang up I feel like I’ve known them for years. I even got invited to dinner.”
No one laughs at this; Chuck has lost his audience and he knows it.
“So did this Penny ever show?” Cher is probably the only one still listening.
“Well, that’s the weird thing. She got knocked down by a car. Stepped out into the road without looking. How careless is that? So I guess if your number’s up, well, your number’s up. Car, serial killer, it doesn’t matter which. Least I got a free dinner out of it.”
Again no one laughs, despite Chuck’s hopeful smile. This is probably the worst story Chuck has told, and when I think about it, what he needed were more jokes and better timing. I tried to help lift the story, but in truth, it was beyond saving.
When I get home I find Agent Wade sitting with his feet up on my bolted-down sofa. He has had house keys cut, and I can smell eggs boiling in the kitchen. He is watching a late night movie and seems to have made himself at home. There is a battered typewriter sitting in his lap, and several typed pages lie on the immovable coffee table. Agent Wade flicks the remote, killing the sound on the television.
“Like the ad?”
“It was you?”
“Who else?”
“Everyone thought it was Cher.”
“That should flush KK out.”
I try to stifle a yawn; it’s been a long day. “It might take some time for him to bite. Could be that we run over the two-month cutoff point.”
“He’ll come. I know he will. Can almost smell the lemon hand wipe.”
Agent Wade takes off his shoes and then brings his feet up on my sofa, stretching out as he does. “I’ve been doing some thinking, Dougie. . . .”
Agent Wade studies me, and I don’t like the way he does this.
“I think I’m gonna stick pretty close to you from now on. You know, move in with you.”
He takes off a sock, sniffs it, then tosses it toward his shoes. “My stuff’s in the car, if you want to bring it in for me.”
I stop. Who does he think he is?
Agent Wade sniffs his other sock and then tosses it toward me. “I’ve got a ton of laundry in one of the suitcases.” He turns the sound back on and concentrates on the television again. “The keys are on the side there.”
I don’t believe this.
“Lying on the list.”
I say nothing a
s I trudge slowly over to the side and reach for the keys to his sedan. As I take them off the list, I can’t help but glance at it again.
It doesn’t surprise me to find that he hasn’t scored my name off yet, so I reach for a pencil lying in a fruit bowl and quickly draw a line through it.
“What are you doing, Dougie?”
I pause, not believing that Agent Wade could have heard me. I turn to him and see him giving me an unrelenting stare.
“Nothing . . . nothing at all.”
“Good, ’cause when you’re done with my stuff we can start making another plan.”
“Already? But . . .”
“But what?”
“Aren’t we going a bit fast? Barely had time to catch my breath.”
“Which is exactly what I want, Dougie. If I let up the pressure on you, even for a second, then you’re going to blow it—I know it.”
I’m outraged. “Hey, I survived this long. That takes great skill and determination.”
Agent Wade puts a hand to his mouth and feigns a big yawn. “No need to get so bigheaded.”
That remark hurts, and I turn away, not wanting to look at him anymore. He can obviously see that he has upset me and tries to get back in my good books.
“Okay, you were skilled and determined. But we really don’t have the time. I want them wiped out ASAP. Who’s next on the list?”
“Richard Burton.”
“Then Richard Burton it is.”
“The Club is going to go crazy when he doesn’t show.”
“The Club is crazy anyway.”
Agent Wade eases back into my sofa, stretches, picks up the remote, and starts watching television.
“By the way, I like my pants pressed with a crease you could cut your wrists on.”
RICHARD BURTON
LIBRARY OF LOVE
AGENT WADE spent most of last night typing, and the sound of clack-clacking until four in the morning nearly drove me insane. I tried to ask him to stop, but he claimed the FBI like their reports in triplicate and just kept banging away at the keys. As I lay awake listening to the equivalent of a marching band tramping through my living room, it dawned on me that I needed to talk to someone. And more important, I need a way out.
