Jonah Man

by Christopher Narozny

  They were trash.

  And?

  The father fell down drunk onstage. The boy tried to make like it was part of the act, but everybody knew.

  So you had them removed?

  I removed them myself.

  Did they put up a fight?

  Not then. The father had pissed himself. Couldn’t stop laughing.

  When?

  When what?

  Did they put up a fight?

  They didn’t. But the boy came back later.

  By himself?

  Yeah, by himself.

  How much later?

  It was night. Ten, maybe eleven o’clock.

  Go on.

  He wanted his half.

  Was he carrying his belongings?

  He had a bag slung over his shoulder. At first I figured his old man put him up to it, but then I figured he was running off. If he did do in his old man it was a mercy killing.

  Good for shit, was he?

  Less than shit. Can I go now?

  Yes, though I’d like to know where.

  To find the boy.

  It would be better for everyone if you left that to me.

  Is that an order?

  If you like.

  He watched the manager walk away, soot shaking free from his thighs, his shadow dragging the ground behind him. He climbed into a pickup truck, the bed crowded with scorched lumber, turned the ignition and took off through town.

  Throughout the initial interrogation, Jonson held to the story his employers had scripted: a man he met on an overnight train gave him fifty dollars to make the delivery and promised the buyer would pay him twice that amount.

  What was his name?

  He never said.

  What did he look like?

  It was dark, and we had a flask.

  What exactly is in the vials?

  You’d have to ask the man on the train.

  The Inspector changed tacks, turned his questions to Jonson’s life outside of the vials. Over time, Jonson became more responsive, though his answers seldom spilled into a second sentence. He was a widower, a father, a showman. He had no permanent residence, no account in any bank. He and his son spent summers performing up and down the eastern shore; fall through spring, they toured with whatever circuit would have them. His son was the real talent. The stage, for Jonson, was more job than calling.

  And how long do you and your son spend at each stop on the circuit?

  Sometimes one night. Sometimes a full week.

  So you’re on the road quite a bit?

  More than we’re onstage.

  Is that why they picked you?

  Who?

  Whoever manufactures the vials?

  You’d have to ask the man on the train.

  Ultimately, it was nothing the Inspector said or did but rather the passage of time that caused a change in Jonson’s demeanor. By late afternoon, his voice took on a strained quality, his neck broke out in colorless hives, he appeared suddenly more frail.

  Why don’t we rest for a moment? the Inspector said.

  He returned a short while later with a cup of coffee for himself, a glass of water for Jonson.

  I have the impression, he said, that someone gave you bad advice. I think they told you that if you insisted on a lie there was nothing anyone could do to you. Let me tell you what I can do. I can keep you until you say something I believe. My work day ends in a quarter hour. Once those fifteen minutes are up, I’ll have an officer show you to your cell, and we will begin again in the morning.

  I told you what I know.

  We’ll see.

  Let me get word to my son.

  We will speak with him for you. Does he have anyone he can stay with?

  He can stay with himself.

  If you feel he’s safe.

  You know, Jonson said. You ain’t said one thing I believe, either.

  Is that so?

  Fifteen minutes from now you got no place to be. No wife. No kids. No one but the people you talk to in this room, and they don’t tell you a goddamn thing you want to hear.

  About your boy, the Inspector said. How can we reach him?

  The sun struck his skin as though it were standing next to him. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, slung his jacket over his shoulder. He stood with his back arched, surveying the street, taking slow note of the facades, the signboards, the cars parked perpendicular to the wooden sidewalks. The buildings were all two stories tall, the ground floor for commerce, the top for lodging. At present, he was the only person in view.

  He came first to the general store. The door was propped open with a sack of flour; strings of red peppers and links of sausage hung in the windows. The man behind the counter was busy prodding something with a stick, the object hidden from view behind jars of candy and stacked pouches of tobacco. The Inspector stepped further into the store, saw that the shopkeeper was not prodding, but rather stuffing a large, dead bird—some sort of desert buzzard with brindled wings and a long, black beak—with balls of cotton that he kept in a bucket on the counter. The bird was mounted, belly up, on a tri-partite pedestal made expressly for the purpose, perhaps expressly for this bird, with three u-shaped prongs meant to cradle the buzzard’s neck, back, and talons respectively. The deep wooden shelves behind the shopkeeper housed desert creatures of all species, preserved in every conceivable posture: a rat, tail raised, lips curled, incisors shining—perhaps polished or even painted—poised to fight, presumably its last fight; a coyote pup, ears flopped forward, body twisted, hind leg raised to scratch a flea or tick or whatever insect might itch in the desert; a jack rabbit flat on its back, one ear dangling off the shelf; a small wildcat slapping the air with its paw. The poses did not so much preserve the dead as they did a moment of living, or, as with the jack rabbit, the first moment of death. The Inspector cleared his throat, nodded, received no reply.

  He walked the aisles, making sure the boy was not there, stopping to finger a box of cigars, to note the prices of the canned goods. He returned to the counter, held out his badge.

  What can I do for you? the shopkeeper asked. He removed his blood-stained gloves, tucked them into his apron pocket, extended his hand.

  You’re quite the craftsman, the Inspector said.

  If you call it craft, the shopkeeper said. It makes the day go by. Not a lot of traffic here in the afternoons.

  I can imagine, the Inspector said.

  Preserve them with my own concoction. I’m working on a patent.

  Is this your shop?

  Nope. I just run it.

  A question.

  Yes, sir.

  I’m looking for a boy. He’d be on his own, between twelve and fourteen, tall for his age either way.

  This about that fire?

  Possibly, the Inspector said. Possibly not.

  Well, he was in here, the shopkeeper said. Last night, right before I closed. Came in and bought a bottle of whiskey. Had a signed note said it was for his old man.

  What was the boy like? His manner?

  Didn’t really have one. Don’t think he said a word. Just gave me the note.

  One more thing, the Inspector said. A sign outside says you handle the mail.

  I do. This town ain’t big enough for a proper post office.

  Would you still have today’s?

  Outgoing, I would. Leaves every second evening.

  Mind if I take a look?

  Is that legal?

  This is a federal investigation.

  Does that answer my question?

  It does.

  All right, I won’t stand in your way.

  He slid the bird up the counter, lifted a wickerwork basket from the floor and set it before the Inspector. Inside were a half-dozen letters.

  You might be able to help me, the Inspector said, removing the envelopes from the basket, laying them out on the counter with the addresses facing the shopkeeper. Could you tell me which of these were posted by residents of thi
s town and which by visitors?

  The shopkeeper spread his palms on the counter, transferred his gaze from one envelope to the next.

  They don’t all have return addresses, he said. People are lazy that way.

  Yes, but as the postman in a town this size, you must have an idea of who the locals correspond with. Are any of these addressees unfamiliar?

  Whoever you’re looking for ain’t local?

  No, though they may have been here a week or two already.

  They?

  Yes.

  Well, there is one jumped out at me. He tapped a creased envelope with his ring finger. We don’t get much headed for New York.

  To his surprise, the Inspector recognized the slanting, oversized scrawl. Jonson had not seemed the type to keep in touch.

  Obliged, he said, folding the envelope into his jacket pocket.

  Ain’t you going to read it?

  Yes.

  But not now?

  I thank you for your time.

  To Mr. Murry—

  It was hard thinking of my boy on the boards without me. I needed time and now I had it. We have this one circuit to finish. I know you said this was a one time thing and it was now or not at all but we both know if your offer don’t stand another one will. I will have him in NY before Xmas.

  From—

  X

  The Inspector folded the letter in uneven thirds, returned it to his pocket, then stood scanning the shops on the opposite side of the street. At a little before dinner time, only the saloon was open. He crossed, pushed his way through the swinging shutters. There were five or more men seated at the bar, each a stool apart, drinking beer and eating peanuts, smoking, pretending not to notice the Inspector’s entrance. A lone woman sat at the far end, inhaling from a cigarette that had burned most of the way down. The Inspector took the stool beside her, laid open his wallet and tapped his badge.

  A word, he said.

  Perkes? she called. An outsized bartender stepped forward, a man whose blunt features seemed like place holders marking where more permanent features might some day be grafted on.

  Your name is Perkes? the Inspector said.

  It is, Perkes answered.

  Do you own this place?

  Just work the bar.

  And you are? the Inspector asked the woman.

  Audrey, she said.

  Audrey, the Inspector said. A word.

  Sure, Perkes said, his palms resting on the bar.

  Perhaps at one of those tables?

  Just wiped them down, Perkes said.

  Tremendous.

  Care for anything to drink?

  Tonic water.

  Coming up.

  The Inspector reached for Audrey’s drink, a rose-colored liquid with an orange rind floating on the surface. He raised her glass, breathed in.

  Strong, he said.

  I keep odd hours.

  The work day is over then?

  Ain’t begun.

  They sat opposite each other at a table built for four, the Inspector leaning over his drink, Audrey tilting back in her chair. Her auburn hair was cropped short, perhaps to better fit a wig; her skin was pale, her face marked with freckles. She appeared bruised, but had no bruises.

  You look tired, he said.

  The heat, she said.

  Indeed. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead dry.

  Would you like to see the body? he said.

  What body?

  I can take you to see it, if you like.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  She wore a blond wig, young, maybe half your age.

  Who?

  I doubt she suffered. Whoever killed her held the gun inches from her skull.

  You got me confused with someone else.

  But you know who beat her, don’t you? You know who put those bruises up and down her legs.

  She rubbed out her cigarette, picked up her glass, set it back down without drinking.

  The Inspector lowered his voice, reached for her hand.

  Apart from Jonson, have there been any new clients in the last few days? Your answer is important. I’m trying to help your friend.

  She hesitated as though waiting for an emotion to pass, then glanced toward the bar.

  No, she said, pulling away. Apart from him there ain’t been nobody at all.

  The Inspector felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up to see Perkes smiling down.

  Can I be of any help? he asked.

  You have been, the Inspector said. He stood, pointed to his drink.

  A tab, he said. I’ll visit again.

  He walked back to the bar, picked up his bag, rapped his knuckles against the counter.

  By the way, he said, have any of you seen a boy? Between 13 and 15. He’d be on his own.

  They looked at him, then each other, then their drinks.

  I wouldn’t let a kid that age in here, Perkes said.

  I’m talking specifically about last night.

  I worked last night. Closed the bar.

  Gentlemen, the Inspector said, does Mr. Perkes speak the truth?

  Yes sir, the man closest to the Inspector said. Every word of it.

  The theater had been built to accommodate a metropolis that never materialized; judging by its remains, it might have covered a city block in any of the nation’s smaller capitals. The ash had died in the desert air, the wreckage was more or less contained. There were people rummaging through it now, some with implements, some with bare hands, each operating independent of the others.

  Hello there, the Inspector called. The nearest of them turned, spiked his pitchfork in the ash. He was abnormally tall, his legs rising to the Inspector’s torso, his shadow the length of any two men’s shadows. Behind him a half-dozen people of disparate ages and body types were likewise busy shoveling and sifting through the theater’s remains: an obese woman, her hair sheered off, a deep sheen across her scalp; a boy not ten years old and a girl several years his junior, their bodies covered in blackened burlap; a female dwarf with fingers as long and thick as the Inspector’s; a middle-aged man who was missing a hand yet seemed to wield his shovel more adroitly than any of his two-fisted colleagues.

  Care to join us? the tall one asked.

  Asthma, the Inspector said, holding up his badge. Just need to ask a few questions.

  The tall man stepped clear of the wreckage. The others followed.

  The manager has put you all to work? the Inspector asked.

  A wage is a wage, the fat woman said, the sweat turning her cotton smock a darker shade of blue. And we got burned out of our booking.

  What is it you’re looking for? the Inspector asked.

  Anything that shimmers, the dwarf said.

  I’m interested in a boy, the Inspector said. He worked with his father, a man named Jonson. They sang and danced.

  Worked? the tall man asked.

  The father’s been murdered, the Inspector said. The boy’s missing.

  The bald woman put her arm around the dwarf, the tall man crossed himself, the man with one hand registered no expression, the boy and girl seemed not to understand. The girl was fine boned, delicate, likely beautiful beneath the grime that obscured her features. The boy was unremarkable—round faced, gangly, like any boy one might find playing in a field or an alley. The Inspector hunched toward them, smiled.

  We need you to keep digging, he said. It’s important work.

  But we haven’t found anything, the boy said.

  Then whatever is there to find remains hidden, the Inspector said.

  That sounds like a riddle, the girl said.

  Riddles aren’t real talk, the boy said.

  Go, the fat woman said, slapping her palms together. The Inspector waited, then continued.

  Did you know them well? he asked.

  Well enough, the tall man said.

  Hardly at all, the fat woman said.

  More by reputation, the dwarf said.


  The man with one hand said nothing. He seemed anxious to get back at it, his heels raised off the ground, the fingers of his surviving hand gripping and releasing the shovel.

  Reputation? the Inspector asked.

  The boy was big-time talent, the dwarf said. The father was just sober enough to know what he had, but not sober enough to make it work.

  And that you know by reputation, or observation?

  Well, we all observed them yesterday, the fat woman said.

  Yes, I heard. Did that sort of thing happen often?

  Only all the time, the dwarf said.

  Were they close, father and son? Did you know them well enough to know that?

  Hardly, said the tall man.

  You hardly knew them well enough? Or they were hardly close?

  I never saw them speak two words to each other, except onstage, the fat woman said.

  What about you, sir? the Inspector asked the man with one hand.

  His father beat him, the man said.

  You’re sure? the Inspector asked.

  You ever know a drunk who didn’t beat his kid?

  A few, the Inspector said. Let me ask this: was he close with anyone else? Is there someone he might turn to if his father were hurt? Family? Friends? Colleagues?

  Didn’t have a person in the world, the dwarf said.

  Had a place, though, said one-hand.

  What do you mean?

  Chicago. The kid loved Chicago. He half-smiled, wide enough for the Inspector to glimpse blue streaks bleeding upwards into his bottom teeth. He couldn’t wait for his old man to get tight so he could go out on his own. Walked that city front and back. Anywhere you went, there he was.

  All right then, the Inspector said, pocketing his notebook. If any of you see him, you’ll let me know.

  Is the boy in trouble? the amputee asked.

  I can’t be sure until I find him, the Inspector said. But since you seem to have known them best, I’d like a private word.

  I doubt there’s much I can tell you.

  Anything would be of value, Mr...

  Swain.

  The Inspector stepped to the side, cupped his hands to his mouth: Happy digging, he called to the children. He took Swain by the crook of his whole arm, led him across the street, stopped beneath the wooden awning of an empty storefront. They stood for a moment, Swain looking at nothing at all, the Inspector looking at Swain. He wasn’t big, but he had a laborer’s frame—squat, thick, a slight bulge at the waist. The half-circles beneath his eyes were inflamed with age and sleeplessness. He shuffled his feet, shifted his gaze, seemed to suffer from the kind of nervousness that comes with bad living.