“Well, we’ll see.”
Finally Del turned his attention back to his wife. “Are you alright, hon?” he asked. He didn’t feel dread toward her now, only concern, and still a little confusion. Even when their fights were so bad that she cried she never looked this battered.
“I’m alright,” she croaked, not making eye contact. “I looked at the bodies, that’s all.”
“Oh.” He’d thought so. Still…she’d seen plenty of bodies in their morgue before. And what about the mummified bodies incorporated into some of the rides? He thought he could smell drink from her, now.
He said, “Would it be too great a risk of scaring off the killer if we paged the carnival for anyone with info on the five dead people to come forward?”
“A real sickie or someone bold like a gang of punks would stay, page or no page, if they really wanted to stay. But if he’s smart, a mobbie or a pro, he’s already left anyway, so I’d say page.”
“Page their names,” Del told Mitch. “Anyone with information on these murdered people please report to the security trailer immediately. Then list the five names.”
“Could be bad for business,” said Gola, behind the desk.
“Well, this is more important,” rasped Sophi. That was the final word. She was boss. If she didn’t mind, no one could say much.
“I really hope we can do this ourselves,” Mitch said. Involved investigations weren’t his strong point; with Car Thirteen on Forma Street he’d dealt mostly with “in progress” conflicts. “I don’t want the town boys to think we need them to hold our hands.”
“It isn’t a fucking contest, Mitch.” Sophi stood, faced Del. “Can we talk alone in a few minutes? At home?”
“Yeah–sure.” Del glanced a Mitch, who shrugged, on the way out.
They didn’t talk along the short walk, or even until they were alone together in the turquoise and pink kitchen of their trailer home. Sophi lit another cigarette and Del asked her again, “Are you alright?”
“It’s been a long, bad night and I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“A few more hours. We’re getting there. Why don’t you lie down awhile and let Mitch and me worry about this? You look bad.”
“Del, why did you have Mitch cuff Mortimer Ficklebottom?”
“He was selling purple vortex, that’s why!” (So Mitch had told her.)
“Are you trying to make trouble or what?” (So he didn’t know about Johnny–it wasn’t revenge.)
“Trouble? I said he was selling vortex. He was selling vortex but I’m making trouble?”
“Yes, he was selling vortex, they all sell it...is this some kind of revelation to you, suddenly?”
“Look...”
“You’re out of line, Del! This is my goddamn carnival, do you understand? Mine! And I didn’t want trouble tonight. Why this sudden concern over LaKarnafeaux’s people?”
“I hate them.”
“So do I. Another big revelation? Did you love them yesterday?”
“No, but I had enough of them tonight, that’s all.” He knew it was her carnival, but he had bankrolled most of it, hadn’t he? He had to live here with it, in it, didn’t he? But he didn’t want to open that can. She’d say, “Oh, so you bought it and you own it and I’m really just the manager for you, is that it?” She must have said that to him before half a dozen times. It wasn’t true–he respected her leadership most of the time. Sometimes he felt like a part of management, sometimes he detached himself, just sat back and watched. But tonight he couldn’t watch any more.
“Why, did you have enough of them?” Sophi pressed.
Del avoided her glaring green eyes. Leaned his rear against the sink, hands in pockets, eyes on the swirly pink plastic marble of the floor.
“They’re laughing at me. Greasy smug scum who sell drugs that kill kids, and they’re laughing at me. But that I could live with. Alright? Look at the source. Do I respect their opinion? I know better. It’s the kids. The kids who come and hang around all day with his people. They flock to that fat pig like he’s Santa Claus. Beautiful girls who want to grow up like Mortimer Ficklebottom and Johnny Leng. They emulate them.”
Sophi saw Del’s meaning. His motive. Jealousy. You got me raped in the mouth at gunpoint for this?
He said it. “These kids worship him, but me they won’t listen to. Me they don’t know.”
“My God.”
He looked up. “What?”
“How petty you are.”
“Petty?”
“You make it sound like every single one of your millions of fans has deserted you so they can hang around with Roland LaKarnafeaux.”
“And with Sphitt. And with Flemm. And with the Saliva Surfers, and Mukas, and the Upchucks, and Ming and the Mongoloids, and all the other fuckheads who have so much wit and wisdom to share.”
“Del. Kids do like to have fun, too, you know?”
“Fun? Living for drugs is fun? Treating women like meat is fun?”
“It must be–you’ve done it.”
“I never used women. They enjoyed me and I enjoyed them.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, do you think that if Sphitt and Flemm retired today all their listeners would flock to you? They’d find some other buffoons.”
“Maybe with less buffoons around kids would give more serious stuff a chance. I had them for a while.”
“You never had all of them. You never had all the Sphitt-lover types. And you never lost all your fans, for God’s sakes. One of the dead kids in the parking lot had a chip of Heroes on him, Mitch told me. That Fernando Colon kid. What you want is to hit the mainstream again–that’s all. You had a taste of the big, big time and now you can’t accept less. You got spoiled, Del. But don’t worry…you were big enough that in a few more years you can be rediscovered as the next nostalgic fad, and then you’ll only be forty or so and you can make a silly full-blown mainstream comeback. All you need is to have a good firm to market you.”
“Fuck you, Sophi. I don’t have to make a ‘comeback’–I didn’t go anywhere. My audience did. And as far as my ‘loyal fans’ go, their only loyalty is to a few early albums, but as soon as I tried to experiment and grow they weren’t so loyal any more, were they? I grew up and they didn’t.”
“You lost your faith in the joy in life and they didn’t.”
“They want to stand still, nice and safe. You’d think they’d be intrigued to watch an artist grow and change, but no.”
“You got too serious. Your early stuff had more humor. It was more fun.”
“Fuck fun. I’m sick of hearing fun. Fun is fine, but fun alone is like living on drugs–it’s empty. It doesn’t build you. Pretentious, they called me. ‘Heroes is one dirge after another, even when the pace picks up. It’s like a droning funeral,’ so said Bosley Simon. I guess the critics can’t be pleased, huh? I’m pretentious, Sphitt are morons. How can you win?”
“By not trying to please everybody.”
“Fuck. Fucking critics. Fucking audience. Yeah, they love to see a nobody rise up, they want to boost you–you’re one of them who’s making it. Then when you’re up there they’re jealous and alienated and they pull you back down so you can be a loser like them.”
“Fuck your audience, huh? Losers? No wonder people don’t want to listen to you. What do you want, immortal celebrity? You still get played! You had a time of glory. You can look back on that. You made friends, you were loved, many still love you. Some people starve to death in alleys.”
“Yeah. You ever seen an old man drunk in an alley? Starving, cold, sick, demented. Am I supposed to see that and feel content that at least at one time he was young and vital and loved and appreciated? He’s still alive! Now! He should still be loved!”
“Ohh, Del, you poor neglected derelict. You’re some real pitiful prima donna to dare to compare yourself to a person as tortured as that.”
“It isn’t just me! That’s not the whole thing, damn it! I heard a teenage girl once say that F
rankie Dystopia was a gagger. Frankie Dystopia–the most brilliant lyricist around! I’ve heard young girls call Bellerophon a bunch of gaggers. They don’t do drugs, they sing about social injustice, they represent causes, but they’re not cute, see. Like Sphitt allegedly is. Sphitt, who would fuck those stupid baboons and then leave them in the dirt and laugh about it. I’m worried about a future where less and less Bellerophon is played, when people would rather grow up to be cute like Chauncy Carnal and not a ‘gagger’ like Frankie Dystopia. Yes, I am hurt–but it isn’t just me!”
“It’s always been like that, Del,” Sophi told him dryly. “Don’t be so naïve. You’re obsessed, and it will destroy you. And it will destroy us.”
“Don’t put that guilt on me, Sophi. Don’t. You know how much my work means to me and you knew from the start what it would mean. People come here to enjoy your business. But it isn’t your art, and they aren’t your audience.”
“Del, you talk so much about your audience, but you don’t know who or what your audience is. It’s gotten to the point where your audience is every girl you take to bed. That’s the audience you’ve found to go on feeling desirable and appreciated. Can you see that, Del? You’re playing to them one at a time.”
His eyes had something like hatred in them, and they were fixed on his wife’s, but her eyes were hard, unflinching–it was his that shivered and dropped. He turned to the sink, held its edge.
Sophi pushed it deeper. Pounded the stake into the vampire, as if to make him dissolve to dust. He felt it starting. She said, “You need that adoration somehow. Just that short, concert-length period. I know you don’t love them, except how you love an audience. It’s anonymous. But it isn’t impersonal either, is it? It’s intimate. It’s still love.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“It shouldn’t hurt like it does, I suppose. I’m never too afraid you’ll leave me for one of them. So what am I losing? It doesn’t take so much time. Well, the act. The cruising does. Is it the secretness of it? Am I old-fashioned, to take my vows seriously? To have believed that romantic intimacy would be kept just between you and me? It is romantic, Del. It isn’t just cold business, like with a prosty. You charm them, you seduce them, you play them–they’re your fans. You’re obsessed with them and you’re focused on them. They mean more to you than me.”
“No, Sophi. They don’t.”
“How stupid do you think I am? How unobservant?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right about everything. I’m selfish and self-pitying. I neglect you. I’ve humiliated you. But I never cared more for them than you.”
“More for yourself, then.”
“No. I’m selfish, but I love you. I’d die for you.”
“You’re killing me.”
He spun, glared again, but tears were condensing. “Oh, I’m killing you, huh? It’s a premeditated murder, yes, you’re right–I hate you, I’ve meant to destroy you from the beginning. That’s why I married you. That’s why I helped you build this damn place.”
“You’re killing my spirit, Del. And you’re killing your own.”
“Oh…God.” He hid his face in his hands. And shook. “I’m sorry,” he moaned through the bars of his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Sophi released a ragged exhalation. She felt good to have let it out, and she didn’t cry. She felt her strength returning. Her doubts loosened their grip. She had done the right thing in not resisting Leng. She couldn’t take chances. Yes, she would have Ficklebottom released. As much as she had wanted to take Del’s gun and go find Leng and shoot him herself, it could be all over if she just let them go. Things could return to normal. Yes, she knew Del would listen to her. He’d stop cruising shark-like for victims. For now, at least. There was no doubt. She had known all along that if confronted so bluntly, if told that he was killing her spirit, as she indeed felt, that he would cry and beg her forgiveness. The only problem had been that she had hoped she wouldn’t have to say it. That he would let himself see it, and say it to himself. But he hadn’t. He was a man, and weak, like all men. She couldn’t expect him to be a hero, as his fans had seen him, just the good man that he basically was. He could be a very good man. She loved him very much, and wanted to go to him now, but he had to suffer for a while, even though her anger had dispersed with her sigh. It was done. She had said it. She was like Mitch. Emoting too much was like bending a joint the wrong way. But she had opened a door and it had let in some air. You had to let yourself be vulnerable. She had said it. And she still felt strong, after all.
“Del…come on, we’ll talk about it later.” She tried not to sound too soothing despite this wash of tenderness. “Alright? It’s in the open, that’s good. We have a lot to think about right now.”
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled, averting his face.
“Listen to me. I’m going to order Mitch to let Ficklebottom go, alright? I don’t want trouble. I don’t want any of them seeking retribution against us.”
“Did they threaten to make trouble?” Now he looked at her.
“Not directly,” she lied. “But I spoke with them. They spoke to me. I just don’t want to risk it. I was assured they wouldn’t come back next year and that’s good enough for me.”
“That’s all I wanted, too.”
“Yeah–well next time don’t play games.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mitch won’t like it but he’d better not give me any grief.”
“I’ll back you up,” Del promised her. Now he let out a ragged, hitching sigh. “You believe me? That I love you?”
“Yes.”
Eddy Walpole turned from the phone. “Mort’s on his way home–they just let him out. What happened with you two, Johnny?”
“Don’t question me like that. Mort’s out. Why are you upset about that?”
“You didn’t endanger us, did you?”
“I had her let Mort out so we wouldn’t be endangered, alright? I have my own way of doing things, alright?”
“Your way of doing things can affect all of us, Johnny. You’re part of a team.”
“Boys, boys,” chortled Roland LaKarnafeaux. “Don’t sweat, Eddy. All Johnny did was slip her the cyclops, I’m sure.”
“Exactly,” Johnny said, and laughed uproariously. “You’re getting like Sneezy now, Karny.”
“It’s a good thing it’s our last night,” Eddy grunted, mostly to himself. Inside the camper, they hadn’t heard the five names listed over the PA system. Eddy would have worried that much more.
“Gatherers,” said Sneezy Tightrope.
“What?” asked Eddy, looking over.
Sneezy sat watching a blank space of inner camper wall. His eyes were unblinking, his mouth a little open. His gaze was aimed almost at the ceiling. “Gatherers,” he repeated in a faraway voice, breathy as a ghost’s, and the plastic cup of mead in his hand fell from his fingers to splash the thick carpeting.
“Hey, man!” Leng jerked his feet away. “What are you on?”
Mortimer Ficklebottom was returned all his belongings–except, of course, his drugs–at the desk. A smile for Mitch. “Better luck next time, Mr. Garnet.”
Mitch wasn’t about to let him leave until Sophi and Del came in, despite her orders over the phone, but just then they did. He didn’t waste a moment. “Why are we letting this air-waster go?”
“Don’t question me, Mitch,” said Sophi. “They won’t be back next year…isn’t that enough?”
“No, it isn’t. You’re afraid they’ll retaliate somehow, someday when we don’t expect it? You’re afraid of that? Then we might as well never arrest anybody. We might as well let everybody do like they want. What’s the fucking point?”
“Just this once,” Sophi told him with surprising patience, a reassuring tone. “I just want tonight to end calmly.”
“I don’t see it. He’ll laugh at us. He’s laughing at you.”
“I’m not laughing–you hearing things?” Ficklebottom pouted.
&n
bsp; Dingo was quick and caught Garnet before he could reach the prisoner. They fell sideways to the floor. Del dove at them, as did one of the uniformed town-hired guards who was present. Mortimer had backed off, bald terror coming over his face. He straightened his top hat as Dingo, Del and the guard hoisted Mitch to his feet. “Okay, alright, alright!” he shook them off.
“We have more to worry about with these killings, Mitch,” Sophi tried reasoning.
“If you let him go I won’t be back next year either.”
Sophi held his gaze. Del cooed, “Mitch…”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t threaten me, Mitch. That won’t change my mind. I can’t stop you from leaving…but I’m boss here and my authority holds. Leave or stay, that’s your decision, but I won’t be threatened.”
Oh? she thought. Oh? Wasn’t that it? That she had been successfully threatened?
“He’s nothing,” Del backed her up, as promised. “We made our point, Mitch, they’ll be gone next year. That’s enough.”
“Do what you want.” Mitch stormed from the trailer.
“Thanks, folks.” Ficklebottom pocketed his tattered wallet.
“Don’t thank me, you pathetic slime,” Sophi replied. “Get the fuck out.”
“He’s out there,” Mort realized.
“He won’t touch you. Get out of my sight.”
He did. Dingo came closer. “New developments.”
“What?”
“Mendez here came in with a girl named Cookie Zalkind right after we read off the names. A few minutes later some other kids came in…Colleen Narcisi, Rena Tushkin and Diana Talmud. They were schoolmates of Heather Buffatoni. Zalkind says she saw Buffatoni go off with Sundry. And all four girls say they know the girl who went off with Fernando Colon. Her name is Fawn Horowitz. A classmate, too. They haven’t seen her since. So we were right about that. Mitch called her mother and told her that her daughter is missing. She’s coming down. He didn’t tell her about Buffatoni being dead, yet.”
“Is she bringing pictures of her?”
“Yeah. Her lawyer, too, probably–she said if anything happens to her daughter she’ll stomp this place into the ground.”
Everybody Scream! Page 24
