by Nik Cohn
‘In due course, he went out and made his hit. Then he came back and collected me and we moved along. This process continued without a pause and had no end and no beginning.
‘What was it like? It was like a dream. These hotel rooms, the streets below, the blue blank eyes of the Kid – all of this was a ritual that recurred and recurred again and recurred once more. City followed city, nation followed nation, death succeeded death in one endless motion picture. But don’t believe that we were bored. We fulfilled our assignments, that was all that existed and, whenever the Kid was hurt, I healed him.
‘There was never anyone like Kid Clancey. He was 28 years old and he had been an assassin for 9 years, he had already completed more than 80 hits in 7 nations and he stood at the summit of his profession. During all the years of his supremacy, he was unafraid of anything.
‘But when we were halfway through the fifth year of our partnership, he changed. Without warning, his hands began to shake and he no longer sat upon his bed, he paced the floor instead. The secret energy departed from his fingertips, the pulse was extinguished. Then he began to miss. Three times in eight assignments, he failed and this was enough to ruin him, no more work came his way.
‘What had gone wrong? “I do not know,” said the Kid. “I only know that I used to feel fine and I don’t feel fine any more. The truth is obvious: I’m finished.”
‘So he went into retirement and, together, we rode a Greyhound out of the circuit and settled in a two-bit town named Sanchez, where Kid Clancey bought a saloon and ran a smalltime call-girl operation on the side. Meanwhile, I resumed my studies.
‘I was not dissatisfied. Even in the days of his decline, I liked the Kid very much and was pleased to remain his partner, to give him aspirin when he sneezed. Therefore, we took it easy and time passed and our lives progressed without frustration.
‘But the rules are not so simple – the Kid’s former employers distrusted him, held him in contempt for losing his nerve and they sent three young assassins to end his life.
‘When the Kid was just two days short of his 33rd birthday, he heard that the killers were locked in the Hotel Amsterdam and his hands began to shake again. Placing his drink on the bar, he went through into his office, took out his pearl-handled Colt and polished it. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the alley.
‘Right then, a Buick ’34 came round the corner and blocked his path. The headlights were turned full on, the alley was flooded with a blinding whiteness and the Kid put up his hand to shade his eyes. In that position, he was shot through his stomach and his leg and his chest.
‘Then he fell down and lay without moving. His gun slipped through his fingers but his hand didn’t shake any more, his eyes remained open, as blue and blank as ever. Footsteps approached him down the alley.
‘I had been watching from the office but now I averted my eyes. Without delay, I went back through the bar, out on to the street and I caught the Greyhound back to Decatur, I travelled one last time.
‘Such was the end of Kid Clancey.’
Heat
Therefore, on his 10th birthday, Johnny Angelo became a gunslinger.
The Doctor took him by the hand, led him downtown and bought him the full uniform of a dude. High-heeled black boots with silvered spurs and glass studding up the front; tight black pants, narrow at the knee, slung low upon the hips; white frilled shirt with lace at the cuffs and on the breast; thigh-length black topcoat, as worn by Doc Holliday; black leather gloves, drawn tight, and a black stetson, and a pair of six-shooters that rested snug in the holsters of his jewelled black belt. With all of this, there came a pack of cards and five hundred caps for his guns.
It was an El Paso afternoon, the hottest day of that year. No one moved. Black men sat out on their doorsteps, drinking cold beer out of cans and young girls lay naked on their beds, oozing sweat in pure white rooms. Dogs went mad and schoolgirls meandered through town and dust climbed up their legs. Then the schoolboys came by on bicycles and bought them ice-cream at the corner stand, sat with them in the corner booth of the soda fountain and maybe stole a kiss. One Coca Cola, two straws and the jukebox kept on playing The Little White Cloud That Cried.
Inside the toy shop, Johnny watched himself in a full length mirror, turning sideways and backways and spinning on his heel. Meanwhile, the Doctor stood at a distance and smiled his yellow smile. Then he went away, leaving Johnny Angelo to survive by himself.
Standing on the kerb, Johnny looked around him and his thumbs were hooked through his gunbelt and his feet were planted well apart. He peered out from under his stetson, squinting up into the sun, and then he moved off down the sidewalk, pigeon-toed, a slow strut, and all the time his hands hovered just above his holster, his trigger-finger ached.
He was 10 years old. He was 4 foot 5 inches tall and the heat was crucifixion. Sweat ran into his eyes and his white frilled shirt was already stuck to his back, his scalp crawled beneath his stetson.
Danger surrounded him: he moved slow and held his body tense, his senses all pared to their sharpest edges. Behind his back or around the corner or beyond an upstairs window, he was being watched, his destruction had already been planned. But then he was prepared, he refused to run. Gunslinging Johnny Angelo, he feared no man alive.
Black topcoat, black boots, black hat. Each time he turned a corner, the people turned to stare. Everyone watched but nobody laughed. Even at the age of 10, Johnny Angelo cast certain spells.
Slow-motion replay, he moved in a dream and no one moved as he passed on through. Men stopped and straightened as they dug roads, or froze as they entered their cars, one foot still on the kerb. Women held up melons like hand-grenades, children stood with their sherbet sticks all dangling and slack between their lips. And Johnny Angelo slid through them all, not looking to left or to right, and dogs lay expiring in the heat.
Beneath his long black coat, Johnny was melting and his head was full of buzzing. Still, he passed through street after street, neighbourhood after neighbourhood, until he was almost back at the barbed-wire fence and he didn’t falter. His hands hung just above his holster, his three-inch heels echoed on the paving. On his left wrist, his watch had five hands.
But then there came a show-down.
In the shadows behind his back, something moved without warning, a dog scratched itself and Johnny whirled in one movement, his gun came up out of its holster and bang, bang, bang, three shots rang out in the afternoon.
The dog ran away. Left by himself, Johnny was stranded on the sidewalk, his gun still smoking in his hand, his black glove tight as a sausage skin. And he bowed his head, bit his lip and straightaway, the spell was snapped.
Gunning down dogs in the open street: it has to be said, Johnny looked foolish. And it was a small girl aged 6, wearing blue jeans and a sexy sweater, who was the first to laugh. She sat on the kerb with her feet on the gutter, she pointed at Johnny Angelo with her forefinger and her laugh was clear like water.
Then everyone else laughed, too.
Crystals
‘At least I didn’t miss,’ said Johnny Angelo. ‘Three shots in one second, three bullets through the heart: I killed him clean.’
‘He was only a dog,’ said the Doctor. ‘You shot him with caps.’
‘Doesn’t truth get tiresome?’ Johnny said, and he moved out on to the balcony. Inside the study, the Doctor was reading the evening paper and chewing on chocolate-coated caramels. After a few moments, he rose up in his black overcoat and took Johnny’s hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’
‘What?’
‘I want to show you some crystals.’
In one cobwebbed corner of the Doctor’s study, there stood a cardboard box and, inside this cardboard box, there was a large white honeypot. ‘This is my inheritance,’ the Doctor said. ‘It carries all my life.’ And he held it up to the light
and opened it and sniffed at it deeply. Sure enough, it was full to overflowing with fine white crystals.
Johnny Angelo stood out on the balcony and surveyed the neighbourhood. It was winter now, everything was smothered by fog and the Doctor’s face was shrouded by his black slouch hat, except for where a few white crystals lay scattered about his nostrils like a line frost. ‘This is a story of Monseigneur Pike,’ the Doctor said. ‘His mansion, his silver spoon, his magic honeypot.
‘Monseigneur was a star of motion pictures, now retired, and he lived by himself in a house of 53 rooms. Every morning and every afternoon, he meandered through its corridors, stairways and chambers, and he used more crystals than any man alive.
‘Everywhere that he went, he carried a silver spoon in his left hand, a honeypot in his right and, as he journeyed through his mansion, he kept dipping the spoon inside the honeypot. Immediately, a deep and satisfied sniffing would echo through the hallways and Monseigneur would sigh, would smile, would resume his wanderings.
‘Over the years, the honeypot grew famous all over the county and Monseigneur’s home was almost a shrine. Pilgrims converged from miles around and queued outside his door, hoping for a sampler. And sometimes Monseigneur would oblige them but more often he would only smile politely and turn away. Always, he quickly shut his door, hiding away with his honeypot, which was his whole existence.
‘But then the time arrived when Monseigneur was old and his death came close. As to himself, he wasn’t much upset by this, having fulfilled his life, but he was worried about the honeypot and he organised a special competition, in which the winner received a bottomless bowl of crystals.
‘The rules of this competition were as follows: the contestants formed a queue at Monseigneur’s door. They filed past in ordered procession. They each received a free sniff at the honeypot. They then had to invent an original slogan, no more than 25 words in length, beginning with the words: “I like this honeypot because…”
Straightaway, a large crowd assembled to try its luck and the queue took several weeks to reach an end. As each slogan was delivered, however, Monseigneur only smiled politely and moved along and, when all the contestants had finally shuffled past, the honeypot had not been won.
‘It was only at this late stage that news of the contest finally reached me and, of course, I decided to enter. So I travelled cross-country for two days and a night, until I came to Monseigneur’s mansion and I knocked on his door.
‘How come he was known as Monseigneur? He was old beyond age, wise beyond knowledge. His flesh was parchment, his eyes were shrivelled jellyfish. His skull was a deathmask and, yes, his age was only 74 but, in reality, he had moved beyond time. All the things that existed, he had seen them and touched them and passed them by. Every secret that was hidden, he had guessed it long ago.
‘Monseigneur Pike, he wasn’t reachable but I passed inside his house, I travelled his 53 rooms. Then he gave me the silver spoon, the honeypot and I sniffed.
‘When the first crystals entered my nostrils, I sighed deeply and flowers bloomed in my brain. Flowers of black and flowers of white, petals so big and so soft that I climbed up on top of them, lay down with my eyes shut and, together, we floated.
‘Flowers of beautiful evil: at once, everything that was squalid in me was cleansed away and all that remained was elegance. Journeying through the mansion, I sank deep in crystals and I smiled, feeling the fragrance spread. “I like this honeypot,” I said. “I like it very much.”
‘“That’s cheating” said Monseigneur. “You didn’t give any reason.”
‘“I don’t have a reason,” I replied, sniffing once more. “But I like it very much.”
‘Then Monseigneur spread his hands out wide, a gesture of defeat. “That is not the correct answer,” he said. “It’s the best I’m going to get, however, and you can take the honeypot.”
‘One last time, Monseigneur sniffed deeply and crystals filled his brain. A very old man, he shook my hand and then he departed for some distant chamber, where he waited to die.
‘I held the silver spoon in my left hand, the honeypot in my right and I went away from the mansion. The next day, I came to this town and I moved inside this house and I have stayed here ever since.’
Johnny Angelo was thinking of Kid Clancey. He was standing on the balcony and the Doctor was close beside him and the honeypot was standing on the balustrade. ‘One day it will be yours,’ the Doctor said. ‘Just as I inherited it from Monseigneur, so you will receive it from me: one nose succeeds another and the line doesn’t die.’
Johnny was thinking of Wyatt Earp and Sugar Ray Robinson and the Mad Monk Rasputin. Down below in the neighbourhood, there was his attic, his full-length mirror, his many turnip watches, all the things of his childhood, and now he placed his hand on the honeypot, wishing to test the crystals for himself, but the Doctor stopped him. ‘Let’s go inside,’ said the Doctor. ‘I have marzipan cakes for tea, and Chestnut Whirls, and Jasmine Dreams.’
Fat Black Cat
Johnny Angelo was 10 years old. Then he was 11. Then he was almost 12. Each day for two years, he went inside the Doctor’s house, beyond the barbed-wire fence, and he learned everything that the Doctor was able to teach him.
Sitting in his study, standing on the balcony, the Doctor ate Love Hearts and told stories of Willie the Pleaser, the bigshot gambler who wore diamonds in his underwear; of Clarence Troy, the Pocatello Python; of Doctor Sax and Doctor Kitsch; of Avril Orchid, who plunged from the 53rd floor of her block; and Ryder Harte, the watcher, and Primo Carnera and Jay Gatsby, the richest man in the world; of Cuchulainn and the Baron Lambert, Babe Ruth and Akim Tamiroff; and the Silver Surfer and the Pinball Phantom; and Jill Irene Waddell who was the real thing; and Roscoe Fatty Arbuckle and Ferdinand de la Menthe; of Jet Powers; of Arfur, the teenage pinball queen; and Lim Fan, the clairvoyant, and Charlie Chase; and of Johnny Angelo himself, who was a legend in his lifetime.
So many styles, such various crystals: Johnny kept his eyes fixed on the honeypot and, when he walked home in the dark, he rode with los Santos, the four tongueless brothers of the mountain El Gris.
Inside the back room, his sisters were playing Cotch, a three-card poker, ideal for the purpose of cheating, and Johnny was lying on his bed. Out in the alley, motorbikes were revving up and Johnny’s eyes were opening and shutting. ‘I’m leaving here,’ he said. ‘I’m moving on.’
His father was asleep in the armchair. His mother was reading Mary Grant’s problem page. His sisters knew that he was watching. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’m going away.’
‘You aren’t,’ said his mother.
‘No, you’re not,’ his sisters said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’
Up inside his attic, he sat cross-legged on the floor and he arranged his watches in rows and he took pictures of his reflection. Pictures of Johnny Angelo, at the age of 10, at the age of 11, in spring or winter or fall, smiling or pouting, moving or motionless, a small child.
He wore high-heeled boots with silver spurs, a stetson hat and a gunbelt. He wore a wine-coloured blazer with a yellow dragon emblazoned on the breast, a wine-coloured cap with yellow stripes. In class, he had inky pellets flicked at him. Dead mice were left in his desk. His locker had an obscenity carved deep in the wood: Kick Me Says Johnny Angelo.
Johnny, We Can See You.
Johnny Says Kick Me.
And on graduation day, he climbed the school flagpole, 53 feet in the sunlight.
He shinned up by his hands and feet alone, no ropes were employed and a large crowd gathered below, waiting to see him fall and kill himself. The headmaster, the board of governors, the speechmakers: they stood in a ragged circle, gazing upwards, and many voices shouted for Johnny to come down. But he wouldn’t.
Red suit on a red brick wall: when he got to the top, he looked out across the city, all of the par
ks and markets and boulevards, cathedrals and canals, stretched out like a map, and Johnny sat on a flagpole, high above everything. The sun shone, everyone was watching him and Johnny saw the barbed-wire fence, and the motorcycle alley, and he looked down in the faces of the crowd, he smiled and he waved.
Later, he sat with the Doctor and ate more sweets. ‘I was satisfied,’ he said. ‘I wanted nothing else.’
‘You looked good,’ said the Doctor.
‘I saw everything.’ said Johnny Angelo. ‘Everything.’ It grew dark. The Doctor paced the floor, his yellow eyes glinted. ‘Many years ago, Count Condu conducted experiments in a castle,’ he said. ‘He kidnapped young children from a neighbouring village and he strapped them down on a table, where he slit their throats and drank their blood as it spurted, still hot.
‘He hoped to find a key to everlasting life, a magic elixir, so he slaughtered more than twenty children but then his luck ran out. He was found out and arrested. In punishment, he was walled up inside his own castle, where he remained forever. Perhaps he’s sitting there still.’
And Johnny killed flies in the attic.
He held a rolled white napkin and, any time that he heard a fly buzz on the ceiling, he cut it down without blinking. He didn’t ever miss. Passionless, he laid out his victims in rows and he didn’t stop killing till he had collected 50 dead flies. Then he put them all in an old tin box and he bought a canary.
In due course, the canary ate the flies and sang delicious melodies. Together, they posed in front of the mirror, Johnny Angelo and the bird, and Johnny drifted in dreams of Laredo and the canary perched on his shoulder, crooning the gentlest lullabies.
