The Serial Killers Club

by Jeff Povey

  Betty gives a small shake of the head, and I turn off the television. I go to the cabinet at the side of the double bed. There are two glasses there and a bottle of Scotch. I start pouring two healthy measures.

  “Incredible creatures. They use sonar to see in the dark.”

  “I know, I’ve read a few books on them.”

  I tut to myself, I should have guessed.

  “Water?” I show the glass of Scotch to Betty, and she nods.

  “Just a splash.”

  I cross to the stained sink in the corner of the room, and after a big struggle with the rusty faucet, I manage to turn it on. Betty gets more than a splash, and I hope she doesn’t notice. I return to her, hand her the Scotch and water, and then collect my own glass of neat Scotch from the cabinet.

  “Well . . .”

  Betty gives a tiny smile. “Well.”

  “Here’s to, uh . . . well . . . here’s to Cher. Wherever she is.” I clink my glass against Betty’s and take a small mouthful of the Scotch.

  “To Cher . . . I’m going to miss her . . .”

  Betty’s voice suddenly trails off. She freezes, her mouth falls open, and she looks utterly stunned and bewildered. “Oh my . . .”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Uh . . .” Betty looks at me, tries to calm down. “Uh . . .”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you and Cher were so close.”

  Betty takes a big mouthful of her Scotch, and I must have got the mix just right, because she immediately takes another stiff drink and empties her glass. I take the tumbler from her and fix her another drink.

  “So . . . what made you want to meet me?”

  Betty still seems a little bewildered, and I can see this is going to be tough for her. “Uh . . . I was going to talk to you about Tony. You see . . . I can’t kill him, Douglas.”

  “No?”

  Betty’s voice is tiny, distant, caught in the back of her throat. Her chin trembles, and I know that despite her best intentions, she really cares for Tony. “No . . .” She swallows hard. “I just can’t.”

  She finishes her drink and hands me the empty glass. As I fix her a third Scotch and water, I hear the springs of the bed as she sits down, and when I turn she is staring hard at me. She takes the drink from me without a word. I try to put her at ease. “If you’re not up to it, then I’m sure I can manage it on my own.”

  Betty sips at her drink, gripping the glass tightly in both hands.

  “I’ll make it as painless as I can.”

  “Hold me.”

  I stop, look at Betty, don’t know what to say. She looks up at me with those big, appealing, watery blue eyes. “Hold me, Douglas. Please. . . .”

  I look around for somewhere to put my glass.

  “I need to be held.”

  My heart rate is increasing tenfold. My mind is going blank, but somehow I manage to drain the neat Scotch, and despite the horrendous burning sensation in the back of my throat, I put down the glass and then sit beside Betty. She turns to me, and I get a blast of whiskey from her breath.

  “You know what I do to men, don’t you?”

  “This’ll be different, I know it.”

  “I have to sleep with them first, Douglas.”

  “Won’t hear me complaining. . . .” I smile gamely, not believing my luck.

  Betty drains her glass, and I get up to retrieve the bottle of Scotch when I feel her hand on my thigh as she pushes me back down, keeping me close by her. “I need that hug.”

  My heart is going like a jackhammer. I raise an arm and then pause. I’m not sure how to do this right. Her bosom seems to be everywhere, and I have difficulty in sliding my arms around her without touching it. Eventually I manage it, and I feel her nestle into me, her arms wrapped around my waist, the top of her head resting just under my chin. We stay like that for maybe ten minutes, and her hair tickles my nostrils so much that I sneeze. Twice. Betty pulls away, but I won’t let her go, not now, and I grab her back to me.

  “I’m holding you, Betty. I’m holding you. . . .”

  One of my wristbands slips as I clamp an arm under Betty’s chin. Her eyes are drawn to the strange tattooed dots that are now revealed to her. She frowns.

  “How’d you do that?”

  I look down at my arm and remember the savage struggle I had with Tallulah Bankhead. I gently let Betty’s head go, and she sits upright again.

  “It’s an army thing.”

  “You were in the army?” Betty is genuinely surprised. In fact, we both are.

  “Uh, yeah. I, uh . . . I did a few years. Marines, mostly.”

  Betty looks at me as if she doesn’t know whether I’m joking or not. “You got into the marines? What were you, their mascot?”

  I laugh heartily but completely falsely at this.

  Betty seems reticent, is becoming more withdrawn by the second. “So what do those dots mean?”

  “There’s, uh . . . there’s one for every kill.”

  Betty is curious. “What war was this?”

  “I dunno. I forget the name they gave it. It was on TV, though.”

  Betty looks up at me, searches deep in my eyes, and then before I can react her mouth finds mine and crushes it with her lips. She kisses me long and hard, and I feel like I’m in heaven. She finally breaks away and looks hungrily at me—the lioness in her coming to the fore, and I swear she’s going to growl at any moment.

  “I want you, Douglas.”

  “You’ve got me, Betty.”

  “My place. Sunday.”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “I, uh, need to do things first.”

  I shrug. I guess I can just about hold off for six days. It’ll give me time to buy some new underwear and body spray. “I’ll be there.”

  Betty pauses, glances down at my wrists again. “That letter you gave me last week—with the photo of Tony and Burt. You said you really missed Cher.”

  “I do, God knows I do. She was something, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah . . . she was.” Betty gives me another ferocious kiss and meows like a wildcat at me. “I’m gonna make you so hot.”

  Betty grabs her bag and strides out of the motel room. I sit there in amazement. I knew I had a lot going for me, but this is unbelievable. One minute Betty’s this meek and mild-mannered librarian and the next I’ve turned her into this sex-starved slut. I shake my head and blow out my cheeks, really unable to take it all in. God, I feel like a million dollars.

  I lie back on the bed and let it all sink in. I glance at my watch and wonder if I should maybe wear a suit for the occasion. First thing tomorrow I’m going to find the best mustard-colored garment money can rent.

  I reach for the bedside phone and cradle it to my ear. I fish around in my wallet for the card of the suit rental company but find Hanna’s calling card instead. I study it for a moment, think, What the hell, and start dialing. Boy, I’m on a high right now. My thumb covers one of Hanna’s breasts, and as I listen to the phone ringing at the other end, I swear I can feel Hanna’s cartoon nipple hardening under my thumb.

  “Yo, wha’ you want?” The voice on the other end of the line surprises me. It is deep, manlike, and I can’t really be certain what sex I am talking to. I blame the bad connection.

  “Uh . . . Hanna? Is that you?”

  “Wha’ you want?”

  “It’s Douglas, Dougie . . . Just thought I’d say hello, you know. . . .”

  “Wha’ you want?!” The voice hardens, is impatient.

  “So . . . how are things with you?”

  “Wha’ you want, fukka?”

  I feel all-powerful, completely omnipotent, thanks to Betty.

  “Listen to me a minute, Hanna. Just listen, okay? You tell those two Mexican guys, those muggers, that I’m going to light a candle for them. You understand what I’m saying here? That’s one candle each. You tell them that, okay? You tell them I’m leaning over and lighting those candles. Right as we speak.” Hanna hangs up on me
. I debate pressing redial, but I know I’ve made my point.

  I put down the phone and then make a fist, curling my arm and making my bicep bulge. I run a hand over the bicep, feel it, press it, admire its sinewy hardness. Hercules, if he were alive today, would be impressed.

  I tear Hanna’s calling card into little pieces and toss them into the air above my head. They sprinkle down like winter snowflakes, and I can’t help grinning from ear to ear. Christmas is coming.

  THE LAST LIST

  TALLULAH BANKHEAD

  RICHARD BURTON

  CHER

  TONY CURTIS

  DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS JR.

  BETTY GRABLE

  WILLIAM HOLDEN

  BURT LANCASTER

  JAMES MASON

  CHUCK NORRIS

  MYRNA LOY

  AGENT WADE studies the list and isn’t at all happy.

  “Where the hell did she come from?”

  “She works at Grillers.”

  “This puts everything out!”

  “I didn’t invite her.”

  “I hadn’t allowed for this, Dougie. We’re just going to have to double up. You take James Mason, I’ll take Betsy.”

  I need to think—and fast.

  “What’s the big rush? KK’s going to turn up to a Club with no members.”

  Agent Wade pauses, glances at me, and for the first time I think I may have said something that has gotten through to him. He grins. “Hanging around me must be rubbing off on you.”

  I am so relieved. “So what do we do?”

  “We’ve definitely got to kill one of them. Betsy gets my vote.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Thinking about it, James is actually two killers. It’s him and his mom. That, uh . . . that might make more sense. To kill him first, I mean. He’s easily the more dangerous.”

  “His mom?”

  “She’s imaginary.”

  Agent Wade lets out a long sigh, shakes his head. “These people, Dougie . . . sheesh.”

  “Maybe I should do him.”

  “Maybe we both should. He sounds like a nutcase.”

  I’m starting to calm a little now—I’ve bought us some time. Betty and I are going to get out of this, I swear it.

  Agent Wade glances at the list again. I’m beyond trying to tell him that I shouldn’t be on it. He produces his silver cigarette lighter, snaps on the flame, and holds it below the list. I watch as the flames eat up the list, and Agent Wade holds it until his fingers are nearly burned before dropping it to the floor. Specks of black ash mingle with a ring of smoke, and he blows hard, sending the smoke and ash all around my living room.

  Agent Wade looks me straight in the eye, and I swear there’s something disturbing hiding behind his bright blue stare. He rises to his full height, looming over me, threateningly turns up the flame on his lighter until it must be about six inches high. He lets me see the flame, then suddenly snaps it out. I don’t know what this means, but it is obviously meant to serve as some sort of dire threat.

  “Let the fires of hell claim them all!”

  I study Agent Wade intently and start to get this sudden and golden vision. In it I see him lying facedown in the crocodile house. Being eaten.

  It’s the only answer.

  COLD CHAMOMILE

  JAMES MASON is one of those gaunt, bony, long-limbed guys who should be arrested on sight. His eyes bulge, his skin is taut and sallow, and he has pockmarks on his face and neck. Sometimes he has a boil on the back of his neck to go with the pockmarks, and I know for certain that he pays someone to squeeze it, probably a prostitute. He has huge, and I mean murderously huge, hands, and his nose is broken in maybe twelve places. He once showed me a photo of his mother, and to be honest, you couldn’t tell the two of them apart.

  I like him.

  His stories are delivered in a very dry tone, which sounds sarcastic but probably isn’t meant to be. He hardly ever touches his food and only drinks herbal tea. He carries herbal tea bags in his wallet and gets the deaf waitress—or should I say Myrna—to bring him cups of hot water, into which he dunks his herbal tea bag. Usually rose leaf or chamomile. Once, when he wasn’t looking, I saw Chuck empty half a salt cellar into James’s teacup, and to my amazement, James never seemed to notice and drank it all without batting an eye.

  James lives in a modern-looking apartment in Dallas and has recently been decorating it in “Mom’s favorite cornflower blue.” I pay cash for my flight and head for the terminal carrying a length of lead piping in my bag. It immediately sets off the airport metal detector and I spend a good thirty minutes being interrogated by an obese security guard. It seems they automatically question anyone carrying this much lead. The delay causes me to miss all my connections and I arrive in Texas six hours later than planned. A Texan security guard then spends two hours threatening to hit me with the lead piping, unless I tell him why I’m carrying it around with me. Eventually his boss walks in and tells him to let me go. He’s been through every page of the airport’s guidelines and apparently lead isn’t mentioned anywhere and they have to let me go.

  The outrageously expensive cab I take to James’s place pulls up half an hour later. The driver is a short-jawed chocolate eater who listens to a medical phone-in over the radio. I study the driver and know that he probably wanted to be a doctor once but gave it all up when he realized he had the IQ of a water buffalo. I get out, grudgingly pay my fare—no tip—cross the street to a diner, and spend two hours sipping expensive coffee and watching a cable movie about a woman who donates her bone marrow to save her daughter’s life, only to have a dog run off with the marrow and eat it. The dog turns out to be possessed by the devil or something. Either that or it was just hungry. I don’t really concentrate on the movie because I keep thinking about my date with Betty on Sunday. I’ve decided that we can hide out on Burt’s houseboat—maybe even sail it somewhere warm and dry. I don’t want to hang around any longer, and I’m hoping that James and his mom will be my last kills for the foreseeable future. Agent Wade, aka the Kentucky Killer, can join the Club by all means, but me and Betty are getting out. Only when I’m good and ready will I come back and finally rid the world of all known skillers—federal agent Kennet Wade included.

  Evening closes in, and as I pay my tab I can see James pull up, having a huge argument with his mother about her irritating penchant for backseat driving. After opening the passenger door for his invisible mom to get out, he gets back in the car and takes the ramp down into the underground car park under his apartment block.

  I wait twenty minutes and then cross the street to James’s apartment.

  James’s killing career could have been sponsored by Waddington’s, the brilliant minds behind the ingenious board game Clue, because to date he has used a dagger, a length of rope, a candlestick, a revolver, and a wrench to murder his victims. James told us that when he was eight, his mother, an alcoholic, used to beat him regularly with empty bottles of Waddington’s brown ale, beer she used to get from visiting English sailors in return for sex. He had originally intended to kill drunken English sailors but found that murdering jurors who concluded against him was much more satisfying.

  As I approach James’s apartment, I pull out the length of lead piping, feel it heavy in my hands, and ring his doorbell. I quickly tape over the eyehole so that he can’t see who is out there on the landing and then bring up the lead piping like a baseball bat, ready to swing it as soon as James opens the door.

  I wait five minutes before trying the doorbell again, regripping the lead piping as I do.

  Still no one answers.

  I check the number to make sure I’ve got the right apartment—the last thing I want to do is cave in some innocent person’s head—but I’m at the right door, and he should be answering.

  I try a third time, finding that the lead piping is becoming increasingly heavy in my hands.

  I can’t believe James isn’t answering. I check around to make sure no one has seen me, then I try
the door.

  It’s open.

  I take a moment, pushing the door gently. “Pizza boy.”

  I press my nose and my right eye into the crack between door and jamb and try to see if I can detect any sign of movement inside. It all seems very still, and I push the door open a few more inches.

  “Hawaiian with extra pineapple?” My whole head is inside the door now as I crane my neck, eyes screwed up, peering into the darkened apartment.

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  I grip the lead piping tight as I step in and close the door gently behind me. My eyes are getting used to the shadowy room, and I can smell the cornflower paint and see white dust sheets covering every possible item of furniture. I can feel my pulse racing as I take a few silent steps farther into the apartment. Something is telling me to get out of here, but equally I seem compelled to keep edging farther inside, my eyes darting everywhere, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

  “Garlic bread supreme for two?” There’s a quiver in my voice now, and I realize that unless pizzas are delivered in a lead piping shape, no one watching me is going to believe a word of it. I opt for silence as I ease open a door and realize I’m staring into James’s bedroom. The thing that draws my attention the most is a huge double bed with a skeleton lying on it. Not a real skeleton—one of those fake things tutors wheel out in biology class and then make “my, that’s some diet you’re on” type of jokes about. It’s wearing women’s silk underwear and a pair of zip-up thigh-length boots, and I have to confess that James is even more messed up than I thought. I don’t know whether to laugh or puke.

  I move on from the bedroom, find a small but stylish kitchen, can see steam rising from an avant-garde kettle; two mugs with teabags on strings stand waiting beside it, and there’s a loaf of bread freshly opened. All the signs of life, but I’m damned if there’s anyone in.

  I check out a store cupboard, a bathroom, and a spare bedroom but can’t find a thing. James is nowhere to be seen. I look at the length of lead piping that I’m still clutching and start to feel pretty stupid as I come back into the living room, unable to fathom how and why James isn’t here. My eyes are used to the darkness by now, and I can make out pots of cornflower paint sitting on the rungs of a stepladder. A roller lies in a tray awaiting paint, and after I switch on a side lamp, I can see that all told he’s done a pretty good job so far. I might take a leaf out of his book and do my place up the same. The white sheets covering the furniture have several splashes of blue on them, and as I look up I can see where James has been painting over a splash of red on the ceiling. I decide to leave; this is turning into a waste of time. . . . I stop suddenly.