by Jeff Povey
I sit down and wish he’d lower the sound on the television. All I can hear is John Wayne shooting at anything non-American.
“This and that. You know.”
He bangs some more keys, and I swear he’ll puncture the paper. “Listen, Dougie. I know you. Remember, I profiled you. I know what you were doing.”
I start to panic, thinking that maybe Agent Wade has planted a bug on me, a listening device of some sort. “You, uh . . . you do?”
Agent Wade gives the typewriter one last hard bang, but he misses and gets his finger caught between the keys. He grimaces, yanks out the finger, and blows on the broken skin.
“Can’t leave the ladies alone, can you?”
The prickling sensation I have been feeling all over my body starts to die away. Agent Wade sucks his finger and then wipes the small show of blood into the arm of my sofa.
“Forget your pressing need to mate, Dougie. Just for now, huh?”
“It’s hard for a guy like me. She’s attractive, she’s available, and she’s exactly my type.”
“I want you to kill them, Dougie, not date them.”
“But I like her.”
Agent Wade gives me a pitying look. “You like her? Have you any idea what that woman does to men?”
“Of course I do. But just because she kills people doesn’t necessarily mean she’s all bad.”
“She’s sure cast a spell over you, hasn’t she, Dougie. Huh?”
I feel myself blushing. I hadn’t realized that I liked her this much. “I think it’s pretty mutual, to be honest.”
Agent Wade gives a huge and raucous snort of derision, then wipes his finger along the arm of my sofa again. He starts shaking his head—firing out this tut-tutting sound. The kangaroos at the zoo make the same noise, but it more often than not means they are ready to mate.
“Dougie, come and sit here a minute. . . .”
Agent Wade pats the sofa, and I feel utterly reluctant to join him on it. He winks at me. “Come on. . . .” He pats the sofa again, and I walk leaden footed over to him and sit down. He looks round at me, grins hugely.
“There’s a time for romance, and there’s a time for ridding the world of serial killers. Now guess which administration we’re currently operating under?”
I look at Agent Wade, knowing he doesn’t want an answer, that he’s telling me how things are and that’s it.
“Betsy is—”
“Betty—”
“Dangerous. Worse than any animal you clean up after. She’s a killer, Dougie, and she has to be stopped.”
“But I like her.” It’s a weak response, I know, but the more he tells me to forget Betty, the more I seem to want her.
Agent Wade puts an arm around my shoulders, pats me on the back like I’m his son in need of a man-to-man talk.
“Just because she makes your pants stick out doesn’t mean you’ve got to go gooey on her.”
BITCHFORK
ON THE PLANE TO L.A., I keep thinking about Betty. I can’t get her out of my mind. The thought of having to kill her makes me sick to the pit of my stomach, and a depression hits me—sapping me of any real spark of life. Even when I’m sitting in the back of a cab, looking out at the dazzling world that is Los Angeles, I fail to see anything about human existence that makes it worth living. Not even the taxi driver nearly running down a minor television celebrity can bring anything more than a muted response from me. When I finally arrive at my intended destination, I feel so down that I tip the driver only a quarter, because depression like this should be shared.
Richard lives in a condemned loft near some major porn film studio that everyone pretends isn’t really there. I had hoped to get away from the incessant downpour of Chicago, but the thunderstorm raging all over town puts paid to that idea.
As a child Richard was an orphan, a fat boy, and intellectually subnormal. Upon reaching adulthood, Richard found himself to be illiterate and carrying a rare strain of herpes. Despite these setbacks, he managed to trace his original parents to Hollywood and was horrified to find he was the product of two 1970s porn stars’ overindulgence in front of the camera. Pitchforking sixteen porn stars to death was perhaps a little uncalled for, but “Farmer Fear”—you can tell Richard made that one up—claims he doesn’t want any more people coming into the world the way he did.
The only thing that can lift my mood tonight is killing Richard.
I press the buzzer for his loft. I want to make him nervous, and if someone presses your buzzer at two in the morning, it’s bound to put you on edge. Agent Wade told me that this was one of the first things he learned at the academy, and I admit to being impressed.
Even though Richard’s voice is scratchy because of the intercom, I swear I can hear fear caught in the back of his throat. “Who’s there?”
“FedEx delivery.”
“Huh?”
“Special package. I’ll need your autograph.”
“Huh?”
Get with the program, you dumb-ass, it’s freezing out here! I sigh heavily. “It’s an overnight, has to be signed for.”
“This a joke?”
“You want this package or not?”
Richard debates for a moment, and then I hear the automatic door lock click and I push into the abandoned building. The place is functioning only on an emergency power supply, one that Rich, amazingly enough, got up and running all by himself. I walk to the elevator, only to find that it is out of order. All there is is a long, deep shaft going all the way up to the top floor, and there isn’t actually an elevator inside it. I turn, look at the stairs, and wish Richard had opted to slum it in a ground-floor apartment.
I climb what feels like a thousand steps until I finally reach Richard’s landing. It is pitch black, and I can hear rats scurrying behind me. The howling gale outside and the stagnant darkness inside would make me nervous without having to do what I have to do, so I take some deep breaths, sucking in air and exhaling slowly, until I think I am ready.
“Ra-rarara. Ra-rarara.” I hum this lightly under my breath and find that it does allow a certain calmness to creep back into me. William Holden may have hit upon something there.
Richard’s place is the only one with a door, and I go over and knock on it. I am surprised when the door swings open to reveal an empty, silent loft. I hear the rats scurry again. They seem to be getting closer.
I peer into Richard’s dark and barely furnished room. I don’t know how he has managed to live like this for so long, but as I look into the room I can see that he has tried to make it homely by putting plastic flowers in the window.
Outside, thunder suddenly booms across the belligerent sky, and the rats go silent—freezing in their tracks.
I peer into the loft. “FedEx man. Anyone home?”
“I don’t remember ordering nuthin’.”
The voice comes from behind me.
I swivel, and as I do lightning skewers the night and illuminates Richard, freezing him in a brief ultraviolet tableau. He is wearing pajamas with Star Trek characters printed on them; they are unbuttoned at the neck, and I can see his bulging cleavage. It’s a disgusting sight, absolutely disgusting.
He then raises his pitchfork.
“Fuckin’ no-good dwarf!”
How no one saw Rich carrying a pitchfork from murder scene to murder scene is one of the great mysteries of the modern age, but one I don’t get the time to dwell on because the pitchfork is now slicing angrily through the air toward my throat.
“I sure know what you’ve come to deliver!”
I dive to one side, and sparks fly from the tips of the pitchfork as Richard strikes the metal jamb of his loft door.
I grab for the knife I have in the waistband of my jeans and whip it out, only to feel instant dismay. It’s at least twenty-four inches shorter than Richard’s pitchfork. I could kick myself. I thought this was going to be so easy, that the thick slob would be too stupid to do anything but roll over and die for me. Lightning flashes again,
and the sharpened tips of the pitchfork come straight for me and this time catch my sleeve, searing along my arm as they do. I drop my knife as the agony makes me unclench my fingers.
“Little pissy punk . . .”
I feel myself lifted off my feet as Richard heaves the trapped pitchfork into the air. Jesus, he’s strong! I can’t get free as he then starts half shoving, half carrying me toward the elevator shaft.
“Fuckin’ never liked you.”
I feel myself about to be hurled into the abyss of the elevator shaft but manage to grab hold of either side of it, and we come to a momentary standoff as he shoves hard on the pitchfork handle and I resist as best I can. My feet scramble for and then find the landing. Richard looms up, a dark monolithic shadow; his teeth are clamped tight, and his great breasts heave and glisten with sweat. He pushes harder and harder on the pitchfork, and it is all I can do to stop him from shoving me over the edge.
“Soon as I set eyes on you, I wanted to do this.”
Richard shoves even harder, and I can feel my fingers starting to slip from the sides of the elevator walls—I’m going over, and there is nothing I can do about it.
“Fuckin’ putrid pissy pisser . . .”
With one last heave, Richard shoves with all his might. His great chest rises up and flops back down, such is the effort, and as I realize it is all over for me, I hear my sleeve finally tear free from the prongs of the pitchfork. I immediately drop low, leaving Richard to suddenly discover that there is nothing resisting him, and he stumbles helplessly, relentlessly forward. He can’t stop himself as he careers headlong into the elevator shaft, my last sight of him being his great fleshy backside mooning over the top of his loose pajama bottoms as his ass goes past my nose.
I sink to the floor, feeling exhausted and numb. I was an inch away from certain death. I came that close, and as the aftershock hits me, I notice that I can’t stop my hands from trembling.
I take a badly constructed matchstick model of the starship Enterprise for a memento—it could also make a thoughtful birthday present for someone—and as I step out of Richard’s loft, I go over and peer gingerly down into the elevator shaft. Somehow I have to make it look like Farmer Fear killed Richard. I grab his fallen pitchfork, and taking as good an aim as I can, I hurl the pitchfork down at his lifeless body. The next lightning flash sends me—more from the sheer relief of it all than anything else—into a fit of giggling as I catch a glimpse at where the pitchfork hit. It wavers back and forth in Richard’s upturned butt and looks so hysterical that I double over, weeping openly.
On the flight home, I stop laughing and the shock of how close I came to getting killed kicks in hard. My grazed arm is stiffening and giving me immense pain into the bargain, and I’m starting to think that maybe it’s time to make a run for it. I’d really miss Betty, but it seems that if Agent Wade gets his way, I’ll be missing her regardless.
I come home to a pigsty. The house is a mess of abandoned and unpacked clothes and empty KFC bargain buckets. Agent Wade is pressing his powder blue pants when I walk in, trying to get the crease razor sharp. I find that my arm is now completely stiff, and I have to hold it close to my chest in an attempt to relieve the throbbing pain. Agent Wade glances over at me.
“How was L.A.?”
“Overcast.”
“You do Richard?”
I nod silently and walk to the list and score out Richard Burton’s name. Just for good measure, I put a line through my name again, the previous line having disappeared again, surprise, surprise.
I then notice that some of Agent Wade’s report lies out in a chair nearby, and I take a step closer and try to read the top page.
“Nosy.”
I turn suddenly, and Agent Wade is standing right behind me. I hadn’t even heard him, and I catch my breath. He reaches past me and grabs the thick volume of pages.
“You’ve got your own book to read. Remember? The one from Betsy’s library?” He holds the pages rather guardedly to his chest.
“Betty. Her name’s Betty.”
He pats his precious sheaf of pages. “This is mine.” Agent Wade hands me his blue pants. “Hang them up when you get a moment.”
He returns to my—or should I say his—sofa and slumps down in it. He’s getting to be like a dog who has taken up residence there. I study him for a good long while and realize that I’m exhausted. That I think I’ve had enough.
“Listen, I had a few thoughts on the plane.”
“Yeah?”
“The Club’s getting to be a dangerous place, and seeing as I know where all of the skillers live, there isn’t really any need for me to go there anymore.”
Agent Wade sits up sharply.
“They’d just look on me as any other skiller who’s suddenly disappeared.”
“Not turning yellow on me, are you, Dougie?”
“No.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“I don’t need to go there, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Thought you liked the Club?”
“I do, but . . . well . . . there isn’t going to be one for much longer, is there?”
“You disappoint me, Dougie.”
I try to reach a middle ground. “We can still kill them.”
“We? I’m no killer.”
“Well . . . I can.”
“Maybe I want you at the Club. Ever thought about that? Maybe it’s all part of the strategy.”
“It’s getting tense there. I don’t want to blurt out something I shouldn’t.”
“I need you in the field, Dougie.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to make things interesting.”
I pause, see a glint in Agent Wade’s eye.
“Discussion over.”
I sit in numb silence, watching the television for a couple of hours until I look over and see that Agent Wade has fallen asleep, using his thick report as a pillow. It occurs to me that if I’m to make good my escape, I should try to find the photo he has of me. But despite searching all over, I can’t locate it anywhere.
Even a search of Agent Wade’s car brings nothing. Apart from a strong lemon odor that not even a full blast of air-conditioning can get rid of.
BURT LANCASTER
RECAP ON DECAP
I ARGUED LONG AND HARD with Agent Wade about the fact that I thought we were doing this alphabetically, but he eventually confided in me that that was just a big ruse of his. Someone might figure out what was happening, and then realize it was alphabetical as well, so now was the time to toss in a wild card and not go for the obvious.
Despite my growing reservations, I continue to have nothing but admiration for the first-class training the FBI has given Agent Wade. I was then only too eager to listen to what he called “the alphabet ploy,” which he said would hopefully keep me alive and active at least a little while longer. That’s so reassuring.
At the next hastily arranged Club meeting, Betty and I pretend not to know each other and nod very formally and correctly in each other’s direction. As I glance around the bar and grill, I note that the quiz team is now down to two members. They look forlorn and sad, and I think about sending them a secret message telling the surviving two to go and eat somewhere else. I have my arm in a sling and have been told by my doctor not to do anything energetic for a while, which pretty much rules out murder, I guess.
Earlier on in the evening, it almost came to blows when the management tried to get the Club to move to a smaller corner of the bar and grill. That would have meant we wouldn’t have been able to watch the television, and the psychiatrist was scheduled to speak on 60 Minutes later. As I watched the manager and his headwaiter arguing with Tony and Cher, I could feel the bloodlust in the others boiling nicely into a murderous rage. Vultures one and all. Apart from Betty, of course, who happened to be in the ladies’ room when the worst of the argument took place.
Burt takes a look at his watch, then states the obvious. “Richard’s not coming, is he
.”
“Sure don’t look that way,” Tony grumbles as he and Betty share a furtive look.
“Where the hell is he?” Chuck tenders this in a slightly nervous manner, and I am surprised because Chuck is usually the epitome of cool.
“Good question, Mr. Norris. Any ideas?” Cher gives up on her lamb cutlet, which I note is bleeding all over her mashed potatoes.
“Why would I have ideas? What’s that supposed to mean?” Chuck lights a cigarette, takes a huge drag on it, and it is many seconds before he eventually exhales a huge plume of smoke. He then looks at me, and for a moment his eyes rest on my sling. He studies it and then raises his eyes to meet mine. “What’s with the arm?”
Agent Wade has already briefed me on how I should respond. How he knew the question was coming, I don’t know, but he sure is a terrific federal agent. They should be proud to have a man like that wearing their shield.
“One of the animals in the zoo bit me.”
“The zoo?”
“I work there. Senior cage cleaner.” I’m pretty proud of myself for staying so calm. None of the Club members are meant to know too much about one another’s private lives, but Agent Wade figured it would help show them how deeply honest I was.
“What a shit job.” Tony belches.
“It’s not so bad,” I offer calmly. “Lots of perks.”
“What? Like getting bitten by a lion? Or having a snake slither up your ass?” Everyone laughs at Chuck’s joke, but I ride it out. I am very proud of what I do, and I can tell that the animals truly appreciate my sterling efforts.
Burt’s eyes narrow as he squints over at me. “Anyway, lion bite notwithstanding, you any idea why Richard’s not here?”
“Me? Why would I have any ideas?” I offer a wide-eyed, innocent look, knowing for sure that they will buy it.
“Yeah, what’s your reason this time, Mr. Fairbanks?” Cher eyeballs me.
