Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  “Hello,” he said, eyeing me with suspicion, although his tone was pleasant.

  “Good evening,” I replied. “Just looking for a friend.”

  “Those can be hard to find.”

  I smiled. “That’s for sure.” He went back to his newspaper, and I proceeded upstairs. When I reached the second floor landing I stopped. I thought about Mary and wondered which room was hers. Maybe I could knock on her door and see if she’d like some company. I stood in the middle of the hall and looked at all the doors. Did she come back here after leaving the tavern? There were three rooms on this floor and the professor and her’s were the only ones occupied. I saw no sign of light through the crack on the bottom of any of the doors, but I did hear the sound of movement beyond one of them. That had to be her room. I moved closer and stood in silence. I listened to her mulling around in darkness and wondered what she was doing. Was she getting ready for bed this early? It seemed strange, but I was planning the same thing myself, though I doubted she had the kind of day I had. I thought again about knocking, even raised my hand, knuckles poised, but decided it was stupid.

  I turned and climbed the stairs to my floor.

  Once inside my room, I went to the window. A slight breeze blew in, billowing the curtains. The street was quiet, as was the lake beyond. The only sound was the raspy twitching noise of the few leaves still remaining on the trees as the wind rattled their branches. A sudden cry of a loon joined that sound. I wondered if Lonny was still at the tavern or if he had begun his night watch. I really didn’t know if it made me feel safer knowing Lonny was somewhere out there, lurking in the shadows.

  I closed the window, locking it, not caring if it made the room stuffy. I drew the shade and undressed.

  I hoped the alcohol in me would allow me fall asleep right away. I tried to empty my head of all thoughts, but something Lonny had mentioned earlier stuck in my mind and refused to go away: the image of a lamb.

  Pounding. Pounding.

  I broke from my sleep and bolted up in bed. My breathing was heavy, sweat covered my body. The beating reverberated in my ears. It felt like my skull was being struck as pain cracked across its base.

  I threw the covers from me and walked across the cold wooden floorboards to the window. The room was definitely now stuffy. I fumbled with the window, which I forgot I had locked, and pushed it open as a cool breeze swept in, lifting the sweat from my bare chest. I sucked in the fresh air, leaning out the window to get more. A lone sound drifted up from below. A slow metallic creaking that I knew could only be the porch swing blowing in the wind. I felt a chill around me – no, within me – that I knew wasn’t from the crisp biting air.

  I closed the window, turned around and leaned against it. The sound was shut out but another sound lurked nearby, assaulting my senses: The pounding that I thought had been part of a dream, I now realized was coming from somewhere in the inn.

  Was someone trying to get in? But, wait, why would they knock? The door should be unlocked.

  I quickly dressed and went into the hallway. Pausing outside my door, I listened carefully. This floor was quiet, and I realized I was the only one on it. Dale wouldn’t be needing his room anymore, and Lonny was somewhere out there in the night. No sound came from the stairs that led to Oliver’s room. I wondered where he was.

  The pounding emanated from below.

  I descended to the second floor. This floor, too, was quiet. I wondered how late it was. Were the professor and Mary out, or were they asleep in their rooms?

  I could still hear the pounding clearly in my head. It still came from below. As I passed the moose head at the top of the landing, I sensed movement. I looked at the creature. Did its eyes move? Were they following me?

  No. But I kept its gaze for a moment, backing away from it slowly, then turned and proceeded down the steps till I reached the lobby. The inn was dark except for what moonlight filtered in through the windows. The pounding wasn’t coming from the front door. I stood there letting the sound come to me, then I followed it into the den, to the doors that lead to the dining room, past the tables where we had so recently – or was it long ago? – gathered to play cards, to the door that led to the kitchen. The sound seemed to pull me along as if I were sleepwalking. I let it take me, lead me to … the refrigerator.

  The pounding was coming from inside.

  I stood in the dark, not knowing what to do.

  When someone knocks, you let them in. Or in this case, out.

  I grasped the cold handle and pulled the door open.

  Hands shot out at me, wrapping cold fingers around my throat that squeezed, locking onto my neck like metal prongs, cutting off my breath, digging into my flesh. I couldn’t have screamed if I’d wanted too. The face behind the hands loomed out of the dark pit of the refrigerator. White, bulbous, bloodshot eyes stared out from a purplish face, black tongue lolling out.

  I dropped to my knees, tearing at Jason’s arms as his hands continued crushing my throat. The arms were like stone. The hands pulled me closer to its dead face, as if trying to drag me into the box with him. I could feel the constriction inside me as my blood tried to move up my head but met with the obstruction at my throat. My body felt like it was going to burst. My head grew dizzy, black spots bursting around my eyes. My lungs pounded, struggling for air that was not there. Jason’s face began to fade to black as I felt myself slipping from consciousness, my body continuing to struggle but my mind giving up. Blackness was everywhere.

  Hands grabbed my shoulders and my body was shaken.

  The blackness thinned. I could see bottles and jars on the refrigerator shelves in front of me. My breathing relaxed as I released my own hands from my neck. My arms shook. There were hands still on my shoulders. I turned to look behind me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bob Wolfe yelled. His voice was angry, his face showing fear. Fear of me.

  I didn’t blame him. I looked down at my hands. I’m not in control, I thought.

  “I must have been sleepwalking,” I said, looking back at him and rising to my feet.

  He took a step back from me.

  “I don’t like people creeping around my inn in the middle of the night. Awake or asleep.”

  “How late is it?”

  “Just after midnight.”

  I closed the refrigerator door and mumbled an apology. I didn’t want to go back to my room. I was too disturbed. I needed to sort things out. I needed a drink.

  When I stepped out onto the porch, I thought about going back to grab a jacket but decided not to. It was cool but not cold enough to raise goose-bumps; there were other things in the night capable of that. As I walked to the edge of the porch, there came a sudden sound behind me that froze me where I stood. A creaking sound. I turned around slowly.

  The porch swing swayed back and forth, pushed by a gentle breeze, each backward swing producing a painful groan from the chains suspended from the wooden beam in the porch roof.

  I thought of Dale, sitting there on the swing. I could see him, his chest and gut split open, his eyes staring (at what?) straight ahead as the swing oscillated to its cryptic rhythm.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I wish I could have done something for you.”

  “Don’t go out there,” he said, raising an arm and pointing out toward the night beyond the porch. “It isn’t safe.”

  I turned and looked to where he pointed, at the lake and town that was laid out before me. This is my hometown, I thought. This is the one place I really should feel safe. I stepped off the porch, not turning to look behind me, and walked toward somewhere, anywhere. The sound of the creaking porch swing becoming fainter with each stride I took.

  I crossed Autumn Avenue and got on the boardwalk. The moonlight struck the lake on my right giving it the image of a dark sheet of glass. Most of the town was shadowy, but I could see the lights from the Loon Tavern on the other side of Main Street. I felt alone in the town, as if I had woken up and everyone was gone. But
then my footsteps on the boardwalk were joined by another’s, a shadowy figure at the other end walking toward me. I could also see someone standing in the middle of the gazebo, the dark outline of what I presumed to be a man. I couldn’t even tell if it was his back or front I was seeing.

  I kept my eyes on the figure on the boardwalk. He appeared to be holding something in his hand. As I studied his movement, an awkward stride, I realized who it was: Carrothead. I wanted to avoid a confrontation, so I stepped off the wooden surface and veered across Main Street. As I got closer to the gazebo on my left, I could tell that the figure – indeed it was a man – was facing me. I wondered what he was doing, only momentarily, and quickened my pace.

  “Pssst,” he called from the gazebo.

  I stopped, looked around, but knew it was directed at me. There was no one else here but Carrothead. But why was the man whispering? There was no one to hear him. And what did he want with me?

  He motioned with his arm for me to approach.

  I did not move.

  “Geoff, come here.”

  It was Lonny. I approached the gazebo, cautiously, and ascended the steps. We were both drenched in the shadows of the structure. He appeared nervous, looking over both shoulders, not making eye contact with me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He rubbed his mustache, and then finally looked at me.

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  I looked at him curiously, and then took half a step back, suddenly feeling very uneasy around him.

  “How? Who?” I asked.

  “It’s –”

  A blade came out of the darkness.

  I jumped back and watched as it was drawn across Lonny’s throat. His eyes nearly jumped out of his head. Blood spurted from the slit in his throat, pulsing out in repeated waves. He stood there, still trying to utter the words he’d been about to tell me, but they were caught in the gurgling liquid in his throat. I could see the two edges of the cut open and close, as if they were a pair of lips trying to say the name his own lips could not, but the only thing that came from them was another wave of blood that washed down the front of his shirt. He fell to his knees, then face down onto the wooden floor.

  The Joker stood there holding a bloody knife and a wild grin.

  “Who is it?” he laughed madly.

  I stumbled backwards, shaking my head.

  “Is it me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, a grin stretched across his white face. He held the dripping knife out toward me. “Or is it you?”

  “NO!” I screamed. I staggered back down the gazebo steps and ran to the tavern, not looking back.

  I burst through the front door, nearly barreling over a man who was leaving. There was a scattering of patrons in the bar and most of them stared at my rude entrance. I ignored them and tried to calmly make my way through the tables to the bar. In one chair I passed sat Mr. Under and in another Nick the barber. Mr. Under smiled and nodded at me, but I ignored his gesture and clumsily collapsed on a bar stool. Beer wouldn’t do right now, so I ordered a shot of whisky, stuttering out the request with a shaky voice. When the drink came, the shot glass was filled to its tip and unsteady hands spilled a few drops as I brought it to my mouth and downed it. My eyes winced closed as the liquid burned my throat. I swore I could feel it seep into my blood vessels and race to my brain where it tingled my nerve cells.

  I opened my eyes and my mouth, letting air cool my fiery throat. I ordered another shot, my fingers trembling playfully on the bar as I awaited it. When it came, I downed it as quickly as the first, once again closing my eyes, bracing for its impact.

  I sat still on the bar stool, barely breathing as I tried to let my body ease into relaxation. When I finally stopped shaking, I ordered a beer.

  I can’t tell anymore, I thought to myself. I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. Maybe I’m not even sitting here right now?

  I heard the jingling and a white gloved hand set a bloody knife down on the bar beside my drink.

  I brought the mug up to my lips as the Joker climbed onto the stool next to mine.

  “Is it over?” I said, setting my mug back down.

  “Over?” he queried. “It’s just beginning.”

  I looked at him. He had a drink in his hand.

  “When will it end?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” He grinned.

  “How should I know? I haven’t done anything.”

  “Can you be sure about that?”

  “I can’t be sure about anything anymore.” I looked at him while he sipped his drink. “I’m not even sure what you are. I don’t know if what I saw really happened. Is Lonny dead?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know!” I said, slamming my mug on the bar. Heads turned in my direction, and I looked at the faces staring at me. I knew they were only seeing me. I saw Nick sitting at his table. He was still wearing his barber’s smock. Had he been cutting hair this late? There were large dark splotches on the front of his smock, and I was sure they were blood stains. Didn’t anyone else notice this? He caught my glance and smiled a toothless grin. I turned away. Maybe he had just spilled a drink on his smock.

  I ordered another beer and gulped half of it down when it came. The bartender had given me a strange look when he brought it, probably wondering whether to shut me off. I hadn’t had too much. I hadn’t had enough.

  I turned to the Joker. “You have lots of questions, but I notice you don’t have many answers.”

  “It wouldn’t be fun if we knew all the answers.”

  “This isn’t fun.”

  “No?” he puzzled. “It’s feeding your imagination. Isn’t that why you came here?”

  “I’m not sure why I came here. I don’t feel like I had any choice.”

  “We can’t always choose what we want.”

  I looked at him and his silly grin.

  “If you’re my muse, then why don’t you help me with this story?”

  He frowned. “You mean I haven’t been any help?”

  “I think I’ve had enough of your company tonight,” I said. I paid for my drinks and turned to leave. I was weaving as I walked, almost bumping into the table where Mr. Under and Nick, with his spotted smock, sat.

  When I reached the door, the Joker called out to me.

  “Geoffrey,” came his voice from the bar. “Didn’t you forget something?”

  I turned and looked where he sat. He held the knife in his hand, blood dripping from its blade onto the bar.

  I staggered onto the sidewalk. The gazebo loomed ahead of me, and I stumbled to it. I climbed the steps, needing a hand to steady myself. The gazebo was empty but darkness was splashed across the floor in its center. I looked down at my hands and saw that same darkness on them. I tried to wipe it off but realized it was only a shadow.

  Where was Lonny? I thought. Was he alive or dead? Was he out there being stalked by someone? Or was he stalking someone, maybe me? I thought about looking for him, but felt blackness creeping over me. It was so dark and I only wanted to get back to the safety of the inn. If it indeed was safe at all.

  I left the gazebo, darkness swirling all around me, not sure if I could make it back to my room. My head was pounding, there in that special place. My legs felt like they were going to collapse. I could hear footsteps on wood. I tried to fight the emptiness. Why did everything have to be so dark?

  THE TIN MAN’S INQUEST

  Lonny twitched as he sat on the stand in the county courthouse. It was his turn to be questioned. The county attorney had already talked to Oliver, who had managed to keep to the story as far as Lonny knew. Now he had to continue the lie. They had gone over the wording so many times with each other, it should be down pat, but Lonny was still worried. They weren’t going to question Woody or Martin, and that was good because Oliver was really afraid they wouldn’t be able to cut it. They probably would have cracked on the
stand and broken down in tears.

  So now Lonny was worried about himself. He didn’t want to let Oliver down. He didn’t want to be wimpy like Martin and Woody. Oliver was like a brother to him, no, even more than that.

  Lonny only had sisters as siblings, two older and two younger. And his mother pretty much ran the household. His father was not a strong man. Lonny always wished he had a brother to help him in times like this. Oliver had older brothers, and though they picked on him a lot, he learned quite a bit from them. Who did Lonny have to learn things from? That was a void Oliver had filled. Oliver always showed him the ropes.

  He remembered when they first built the clubhouse. Lonny had never cut a two-by-four or even hammered a nail. Though Oliver was sometimes impatient with him and got frustrated and called him names, he still showed him how to do those things. That was just Oliver’s way.

  By the time they were nailing the roof boards on the clubhouse, Lonny pounded those nails without bending one crooked or missing the beams beneath. He was proud when they finished. It was quite an accomplishment, something Lonny never would have been able to do with his family.

  But now the clubhouse was gone. That proud symbol of accomplishment, something Lonny had helped build with his own two hands was destroyed. It made him sad. And when Jason Nightingale squealed on them, it made him mad.

  Jason had got them into this mess, and now Lonny had to sit on that stand and try not to screw this up, because he didn’t want to disappoint Oliver. He didn’t want Oliver to get mad at him. But he was very nervous. He knew the story but wasn’t sure he could make it convincing. He wasn’t good at convincing people. Oliver was. Oliver made it sound easy.

  Just the other day, he and Oliver had been on the beach at the lake, lying out in the sun with Geoff and Dale. They talked about the upcoming inquest, though Lonny didn’t want to think about it at all. He wanted to just lie in the sun and forget all this was happening, because he didn’t like the way it made his insides feel.

  “We’ve gone over the story a hundred times,” Oliver said. “It will be a piece of cake.”