Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “I guess, I dunno, maybe I’d have the police finally search the Tin Man’s junk pile and open that door and then …”

  “And?”

  He looked at him. Geoff’s face was pale, and he looked deep in thought, then the color flushed back in. Geoff finally spoke. “They’d figure Jason was finding a place to hide and didn’t realize he couldn’t get out. And they wouldn’t think any more about it.”

  Martin thought about this. Sure, that was Oliver’s ending, not the ending writer Geoffrey Thorn would really come up with.

  “No,” he finally said to Geoff. “That’s not how you’d write the story. In your story, Jason would come back from the grave. And he’d come after us, one by one, and get his revenge. His dead hands would strangle us in our sleep, choking the breath out of us with his bloody fingers, just like his breath was choked out of him by that refrigerator.”

  Martin shuddered.

  “This isn’t one of my stories,” Geoff said.

  They sat in silence for most of the rest of the morning. Martin didn’t know what else to say. It was hard to talk about the summer or Little League. None of that seemed to matter anymore. This was going to be a crappy summer. Maybe every summer was always going to be crappy from now on. Maybe every year. Would life ever be the same for him? For any of them?

  It was around noontime (because a band was playing in the gazebo for the lunch crowd) when they heard someone yelling from the shore.

  Martin looked over toward Autumn Avenue and there was Woody, jumping up and down and waving his arms. He couldn’t make out what Woody was saying, the words getting lost in the air by the time they reached the middle of the lake, so he and Geoff reeled in their lines and began paddling back to the shore.

  By the time they got close enough, they could hear what Woody was yelling.

  “They found him!”

  They pulled the canoe out of the water as Woody continued to blabber between sobs and gasping breaths.

  “Oh god, they found him,” he cried. “They finally found him!”

  “Calm down!” Geoff said.

  Woody instantly shut up, though he still sobbed and hacked.

  Martin looked at Geoff, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Geoff just stood silent, thinking.

  “Oliver wants us to meet him in the ravine.”

  Geoff nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Of course, Martin thought, Oliver’s in control as usual.

  They left the canoe by the shore and followed Woody on his bike to the neighborhood.

  The ravine between Maple and Elm streets was crisscrossed with paths and clearings, where kids had traversed the crossing between the two streets and hid out during games of Relievo or hide and seek.

  In one of the clearings on a felled log sat Oliver, Lonny and Dale. They all looked pretty sullen. Even Lonny looked pale. Oliver got up and paced.

  “Okay,” he said, looking from one to another. “We knew this day would come. Now is the real important part.”

  “And what’s that?” Lonny asked.

  “Don’t be stupid! We have to really stick to our story. Cause they’ll probably be asking us again about what happened. And we can’t sound stupid.”

  “This ain’t good,” Martin said, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “It will work if nobody screws up!” His face was fuming. “Do you understand?”

  Oliver looked right at him, and all Martin could do was nod.

  “Okay. Now there’s cop cars, ambulances and everything over on Shadow Drive. Normally we’d go check stuff like that out, so that’s what we’ve got to do.”

  “Oh no,” Woody said, “I can’t go there.”

  “We have to!” Oliver said, frustrated.

  “He’s right,” Dale said. “It’s what we’d usually do.”

  “Then let’s go and get it over with,” Geoff said.

  The six of them climbed out of the ravine and crossed between a couple of houses onto Elm Street. Then, under Oliver’s command, they ran down Elm and onto Shadow Drive, Woody trailing far behind Martin. Martin didn’t blame him. He himself was in no hurry to get there.

  There was a crowd of people gathered before the Tin Man’s house. They stopped and stood among the spectators gawking to see what was going on. Whispers ran among the crowd. People wondered if the Tin Man had done this.

  Martin craned his neck, not sure what he was trying to catch a glimpse of. But then he could see Emeric Rust, standing near a couple of cops. He looked skittish and confused. Of course he should be, Martin thought. He had no idea how this young boy ended up in his junk pile. No, only we know, Martin thought. But how long would that last? That was the real question.

  Then the paramedics wheeled a stretcher out from the back yard toward the ambulance parked in the driveway. A black plastic bag lay on the stretcher.

  Oh my god, Martin thought. Jason Nightingale is in there. He was glad the body was covered, but it still gave him the creeps. Jason is in there. He felt sick, like he might pass out. He suddenly felt hot, and the crowd around him made him nervous. I’ve got to get out of here. He needed air; much like his father with his oxygen tank, he needed to get some air.

  He pushed his way out of the crowd, nudging aside Woody (who also looked like he might pass out), and stepped away.

  Martin bent over, hands on his knees, gasping. He looked up in time to see them load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Then he saw Hooper standing beside the Tin Man, talking to him. Hooper turned his head and looked out at the crowd on the street.

  Martin could have sworn he was looking right at him.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  I sat at the bar in the Loon Tavern, a beer in front of me, my hand clenched tightly to the handle of the mug. I stared into that golden-amber liquid, watching the bubbles rise to the surface and burst.

  The beer tasted good, ice cold and sparkling as it went down my throat. My head was already feeling light, but that was good. At least it wasn’t aching anymore. My mouth craved more so I drained my mug and then signaled the bartender for another. My fourth I think. The first three I had to wash down the burger and onion rings I just finished. I wanted to have another and another. It didn’t matter. I wanted to drink and try and forget what was happening to me. I wanted to try Lonny’s method and get drunk, go back to my room at the inn and pass out, even if it would make me an easy target for the killer. It didn’t matter anymore. I just wanted to go to sleep.

  My head was all mixed up. When I got back to the inn from the cemetery I tried to lie down and rest. My body had been exhausted, but my brain was all jittery; sleep had been sporadic. I woke with fits and starts, images bouncing around my head. I woke more tired than when I lay down. I came to the tavern to get something to eat, but drink was what I really needed.

  My mind was playing tricks on me, and I felt I was losing touch with reality. Maybe the tumor was getting worse. Maybe my time was running out. It was scary, not being in control of my mind. I was confused. I’m pretty sure I know what isn’t real. But I’m not quite sure what is real.

  What was it Oliver has said to me earlier? I lived in a dreamland. I always daydreamed, but was there a fine line when daydreams end and fantasizing begins? Maybe the tumor was causing my fantasies to become uncontrollable. What if no one from the Jokers Club were even here in town? What if Dale wasn’t killed? Maybe the tumor had created all this as just another of my fantasies without my even being aware of it. Was any of this really happening, or was I just creating it for my book? Was I writing this story, or was it being written for me? I often daydreamed of the way I wanted things to be. But what was happening now wasn’t how I wanted things to be. Is it? Or was it the way things should be? Poetic justice? A morality play? Had everything in my life been leading to this point since the day Jason Nightingale stepped into that refrigerator? Did I want this to be the way the story ends?

  My skull hurt. I thanked the bartender when he brought over a fresh mug, th
en glanced at the clock on the wall behind the bar. Its hands were set at twenty past three and I knew that wasn’t right. It was still early I judged, maybe around seven. I still had my watch on even though it wasn’t working. Habit I guess.

  A figure moved onto the bar stool two down from mine. I turned to my left and saw it was the woman staying at the inn. She wore jeans and a rust-colored sweater that settled smoothly over the curves of her breasts and hips. The sweater had a cowl neck and her auburn hair spilled over it. She had a familiar attractiveness about her, sort of reminding me of someone. Was it Meg? Of course. Who did most women remind me of?

  She caught me looking at her and smiled. “Hi,” she said. Her cheeks looked soft and smooth and I had a sudden urge to reach out and stroke them lightly with my finger.

  I smiled back and returned the greeting. I tried to think of some clever line to start a conversation with, but I felt like an awestruck high school kid. This was my problem in New York, never quite confident enough to just talk to a strange woman, never quite sure what to say. I thought some companionship would be nice, someone different to talk to. I racked my brain trying to come up with something, anything, but she spoke first to break the silence.

  “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  My smile dropped. Not because I thought of Dale, but because I felt guilty about being attracted to a woman after losing my best friend earlier in the day.

  “Thanks,” I said, then tried smiling again “I still find it hard to believe.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost blushing. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No, that’s all right.” I tried not to look too pathetic. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I have one,” she said. I looked on the bar in front of her and she did. “But how about if you let me buy you one? You look ready.”

  I looked at my mug and saw it was empty again.

  “Sure,” I said, and slid over onto the bar stool separating us. “My name is Geoff Thorn.” I extended my hand and she took it. Hers was warm and soft, like I knew it would be. I was sure mine was damp and cold from clinging to a beer mug all evening.

  “Mary Torr,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She ordered a beer and I thanked her when it came.

  “So what brings you to the Tower House Inn?” I asked.

  “Oh, just visiting really.”

  “Why here?”

  “I used to live in Malton.”

  “Oh, really? Did you go to school here? You seem familiar.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I moved away when I was young. I just thought,” she shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe it would be fun to come back and visit. Especially in the fall when it’s so beautiful.” She had a little girl nature about her.

  “Do you remember much about the town?”

  “Not a lot. But some of it’s coming back now that I’m here. Some memories really stick out.”

  Yes, I thought. That I could certainly agree with.

  This time she was ready for a drink, and I ordered her one along with another for myself.

  “Do the police have any idea who killed your friend?”

  I shook my head. “No, but Hooper isn’t the smartest cop you’ll ever meet. He may not be the stupidest, but he’ll come pretty darn close.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone would do this?”

  Sure, I thought to myself, a few ideas. I had a sudden urge to tell her about what happened. It would feel so good to open up to someone, not to keep it bottled inside for as long as I had. But we had taken an oath, had sworn to it. Cross my heart … and hope to die.

  “I wish I knew,” was all I said.

  A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned to my right.

  “Geoff,” Lonny said, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He sat down on the bar stool on my right. He looked over at Mary. “Excuse me,” he said to her, then to me: “We need to talk.”

  “That’s okay,” Mary said, getting up from her seat. “I really should be going anyway.”

  I was disappointed.

  “Thank you for the drink.”

  I watched her walk out the door.

  “Gee,” Lonny said. “Hope I didn’t spoil anything for you?”

  “No,” I was still looking at the door she had just exited. Just another missed opportunity, I thought. My life was full of them.

  Lonny ordered a drink. I thought he would notice mine was empty and ask if I needed one, but he didn’t, so I ordered my own.

  “What’s up?” I asked, sipping my beer.

  He gulped his beer, and then looked around the bar. “Have you seen Oliver?”

  “Not since this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” He smelled of cigarettes.

  “So where have you been all day?”

  “Around. Here and there. You know. Doing things.” His hands were shaky.

  “So, why were you looking for me?” He stunk of booze and I figured he’d been drinking most of the day. But I myself had quite a bit to drink tonight already and was sure it showed.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, tapping his finger on the bar. “About tonight.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “I don’t think it’s safe.”

  “No?”

  He glanced around the bar again and then leaned closer.

  “We all know what’s happening, don’t we?”

  “Do we?”

  He nodded. His eyes narrowed. “It’s one of us, and it’s going to happen again. And I’ll tell you, I’m kind of scared.”

  I believed him. “Yes.”

  “I know who it is.”

  I ordered another drink, purposely not ordering one for him, though I saw his mug was empty. “Who?” I asked when the bartender placed the mug in front of me.

  “Oliver.”

  “Why him?”

  “I just know it. I feel it.” He ordered another drink. “I know it’s not me. I’m sure it’s not Martin or you. I don’t think it could be Woody. It’s just got to be Oliver. That guy is a crazy bastard. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  I thought about telling Lonny what Hooper said about Woody being missing and my seeing Woody at the cemetery. But, did I really see him? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

  “He may be sick and twisted,” I said, “but capable of murder? I don’t know.”

  “Do you remember the lamb?”

  I stopped with my mug just a breath away from my lips. That was something I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I set the mug down, not wanting to taste anything at that moment.

  “I remember,” I said, then shook my head. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means the guy’s got something warped in his head.”

  I thought maybe Lonny was just upset about what Oliver did to him last night.

  “You know,” he continued. “I’m starting to doubt what happened to Jason was an accident.”

  That seemed to be the question of the day. “You think it was intentional?”

  “I think Oliver’s had a sick mind for a long time. There’s something that happened back then. Something I’ve never told anyone.” He sipped from his drink, and then looked around the bar again. “It was a few days after Jason’s funeral. I was over Oliver’s house one afternoon. There was nobody there but the two of us. He said to me, ‘watch this,’ and he grabbed the telephone and started dialing. He called the Nightingales’ house. I didn’t know what he was up to. I think he expected the parents to answer, but it was Jason’s little sister who picked up the phone.” He paused and shook his head, looking down at the floor. “When I think back, I can’t believe what he did.” He looked at me. His eyes appeared watery. “He disguised his voice and said: ‘It’s Jason, help me, I can’t breathe! Please help me, I can’t breathe, help!’” Lonny looked as if he were going to start crying. “Can you imagine how that little girl must have felt? He hung up the ph
one and started laughing. I didn’t know what to do. I just couldn’t believe it. He made me promise never to tell anyone, threatened to beat the crap out of me. And I didn’t tell a soul … until now.”

  I was shocked, as if it had just happened in front of me now. I could picture Oliver’s face, see him laughing. He was sick. There was almost no doubt in my mind now that he knew what would happen to Jason when he sent him into that refrigerator.

  “But would he jeopardize everything he’s got just to get rid of us? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, that’s the point. He’s not right. There’s something wrong with him, and you could see it through the years as he was growing up.” He took one last gulp of his drink and started drumming his thumbs on the bar. I wanted to reach out and grab them, stop them. It was so annoying. “I guess if you take a beating all those years like he did from his old man, it’d have to mess you up.”

  I had enough. I wanted to go back to the inn, back to my room and, even though it was early, crawl into bed and sleep. I told Lonny I had to leave and started to get up from my stool. He grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “A plan for what?” I wanted to go, wasn’t sure I wanted to listen to him anymore.

  “I’m going to be the shadow.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The shadow. Remember? In Relievo. I’m going to stay up tonight and hide out somewhere. Move around in secret. Watch over things.”

  “Don’t be crazy.”

  “I can’t sleep anyway. I might as well stay up all night. I’ll keep my eye on the inn. On everybody. See what happens. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said.

  “I know it’s not you,” he said. I think he waited for an answer from me, but I didn’t know what to say. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said in reply to my silence, disgust in his voice.

  I turned to go, then stopped and looked back.

  “Be careful out there,” I said.

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  When I got back to the inn, I looked inside the den to see if Oliver was there. Professor Bonz sat in a chair reading a newspaper.