The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  “Sure. Main difference between an artist and an audience is that the artist perceives the art first, then tries to convey his perception to others. In my humble opinion.”

  “I always thought art was about communication,” Jack said. He studied the glowing tip of his cigar. “Using specific methods for relaying specific messages. The last few years, my view of that has kind of turned upside down. Now …now it’s about using specific methods to get specific messages.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t know if I can explain. My point is…”

  He trailed off. What was his point, exactly? That he thought he was starting to enjoy torturing people—not because he was causing pain, but because it was a form of self-expression?

  “My point,” Jack continued, “is that I’m starting to think about art again.”

  Charlie glanced at him, couldn’t keep the beam off his face. “That’s terrific, Jack! Only—” He leaned forward, the smile vanishing. “Only, you feel bad about it. I can tell. And I know why.”

  “I doubt that,” Jack said.

  “It’s guilt. I’ve seen it before. Something bad happens to an artist, his first impulse is to express that feeling through his art. Only, his art is how he makes his living—so, by extension, he’s profiting from his own misery. He even blames himself, thinks he somehow caused this so that he could make money.”

  Charlie clasped his hands together, the cigar sticking up between his fingers like the chimney on a church. “It’s a loop, Jack, and it’s one you can’t let yourself get caught in. Every artist in this situation needs to be told this, so I’m the one who’s gonna tell you: it wasn’t your fault. And just as importantly, expressing your grief and loss and rage through your art isn’t wrong, it isn’t disrespectful to the memory of Janine or Sam or your folks. They’d want you to do this, Jack; they’d want you to let go of all that poison in your heart. Let it out, let it go, move on. You feel bad about making money off it, donate the profits to charity. Hell, don’t even show your efforts to another living soul. But do the work.”

  Jack sighed. “Do the work.”

  “Yeah. I know it’s hard, but—what else are you gonna do? It’s who you are, Jack. It’s what you are. You know, some people, they go their whole lives without knowing what they’re supposed to do; they get up, they go to work, they come home. You’ve got more than that. You’ve got a purpose, a passion. You try and bury that, it’ll come out one way or another.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “One way or another….”

  The restaurant Richard chose for their meeting was called DV8. It was a small, hip place, more bar than bistro, only a block off the Stroll. He was waiting for her at a table upstairs, wearing a green silk suit and drinking an oversize martini with four olives in it.

  “Hello, Nikki,” he said as she sat down. He was just as unattractive as she remembered, with a pushed-in looking face and tiny eyes that reminded her of one of those yappy little dogs. His hair was spiked up with gel, and she could smell his cologne before she ever got to the table.

  “Richard,” she said with a professional smile.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Scotch and water.” He signaled the waiter and made a point of ordering their best single malt.

  “How’d you know I was back in town?” Nikki asked.

  “Oh, I have a lot of contacts,” Richard said breezily. “One of them gave me your cell number. Don’t ask who, though—confidentiality is something I take very seriously.”

  “Just not mine.”

  “Well, that would change if you came to work for me. I meant what I said about our clientele; they’re very affluent, very private. Very careful. I like you, I think you’d be quite popular, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to check you out first.”

  “You seem to know a lot already.”

  “Not as much as you might think. For instance— what have you been doing since you left town?”

  “Same thing I did when I was here—just different cities.”

  “Ah. Which ones?”

  “Let’s see …Des Moines, Calgary, Seattle. Portland for a little while.”

  He’d taken out a pad of paper and was making notes. “Uh-huh. Work for anyone there?”

  “No. Strictly independent.”

  “Any arrests?”

  “No.”

  “Can you give me some dates? Just roughly.”

  She felt a spark of irritation, but fought it down; it was a fair question. She gave him an approximation of the times she’d spent in various cities for the last two years. Her drink arrived and she accepted it gratefully.

  “You know why I like coming here?” he asked her abruptly.

  “The abundance of olives?”

  He laughed. “No. It’s the art.” He pointed at the nearest wall, where a huge painting hung. The canvas was black velvet, like the cheesy ones you could buy in Mexico, but rather than depicting a matador, sad clown or doe-eyed child, the subject was a soulful-looking Captain Kirk. “It’s always changing, too. Lots of local artists display and sell their stuff here.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real cultural nexus. Now, I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Who’s backing you? A Triad?”

  “No, no—nothing like that. No Tongs, no Triads. I’m just a successful local businessman.”

  “Right. Who’s working for you—anyone I might know?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve prepared a list of a few of my girls; you can call them yourself and ask. I’m sure they’ll have nothing but good things to say.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and gave it to her. She opened it up, scanned it. The letterhead at the top read Exquisite Ecstasy Escorts, with a dozen or so first names and phone numbers underneath it. A few looked familiar, but you could throw a used condom anywhere on the Stroll and hit a hooker called Jennifer or Brandy.

  She asked him about rates and rules—both seemed acceptable. He said he retained a lawyer in case of trouble, though they hadn’t any yet. Everything was done on an out-call basis; the girls never came into the office itself. They used a credit card system, which would show up on their clients’ bills as “shipping expenses.” Cash tips belonged to the girls.

  It seemed reasonable. Richard was well-spoken and polite. And yet…

  She told him she’d consider it and get back to him. He smiled and shook her hand when she got up to leave.

  So why did she feel something wasn’t right?

  Afterward, Jack walked home.

  “Home” was a third-floor walk-up on Commercial Drive. The neighborhood was low-rent but funky, frequently doubling for New York in locally-shot films or TV shows. A light rain was falling, the kind of sporadic, almost-mist that longtime Vancouverites wouldn’t even acknowledge with an umbrella.

  He walked past pool halls, bodegas, closed shops advertising hemp-weave clothing and African art. The damp air carried invitations of many kinds: fresh-ground coffee beans from the late-night cafés, cheese and pepperoni from the pizza-slice joints, laughter and samba rhythms from a Latin restaurant. He realized, abruptly, that he’d chosen this part of town for more than just the affordability; he’d chosen it because it was alive, ripe with people and food and activity. With potential.

  Not that it didn’t have its dark side. A homeless man with a scraggly beard wandered past, a stained blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were vacant, his cracked lips moving silently as he communed with something only he could see. Jack wondered if Charlie would consider the man’s perceptions art.

  Neon painted wet blacktop. Electric trains, powered by railed lightning, rumbled their faint and polite thunder in the distance. His muscles felt loose and purposeless, his head pleasantly buzzed by the wine.

  He wondered what Nikki was doing right now.

  He could probably track her down, if he tried. He had a few phone numbers in various cities, names of people she kne
w. People she’d asked him to contact if anything ever happened to her. “You do it for strangers, you can do it for me,” she’d told him. “Let people know how I died. Why I died. What we do is the only goddamn thing I ever accomplished that has any meaning, and I don’t want it to end with me in some unmarked fucking grave.”

  Then she’d added, “You sell the movie rights, get Cameron Diaz to play me.”

  He walked past an Ethiopian restaurant, a South American bookstore, an Italian deli with giant jars of olives and loops of sausage in the window. Lots of different cultures on the Drive. A skatepunk with a stubbly head, studded leather jacket and baggy pants ratcheted past him on his board, lit cigarette in his mouth and a pit-bull loping beside him. Jack wondered if either of them hated baby boomers.

  The stairwell of his apartment building smelled like the ghosts of smoked joints and fried onions, but Jack didn’t mind; it was better than Pine-Sol and bleach. He could hear televisions and radios murmuring faintly behind closed doors as he climbed the stairs.

  His own place was small, but it looked out over the Drive itself. He tossed his jacket on the worn couch, the only piece of furniture other than the foam pad he slept on in the bedroom, and stood by the window looking out for a minute.

  Then he went to the stack of boxes along one wall, and started unpacking computer equipment.

  When she got home, she started calling numbers on the list Richard had given her.

  The first one was out of order. So was the second. The third had never heard of the name she asked for.

  She tried the number for the agency itself, and got a funeral home. She crumpled up the list and threw it in the garbage.

  Why? He hadn’t tried for a free fuck, and he must have known she’d check the numbers. Obviously, he hadn’t cared—which meant he’d already gotten what he wanted. But all she’d given him was a little history—places she’d been over the last two years.

  Places that she’d been with Jack.

  Once again, the Stalking Ground was online.

  There were no new messages, of course. The Patron was the only member of The Pack left alive, and he couldn’t contact the site unless it was connected. Now that it was, the site itself would automatically email the members and advise them of its new location.

  Jack thought about sending the Patron a message. Just to see if there was a response—maybe he’d been wrong, maybe the Gourmet and the Patron had been one and the same.

  While he was thinking about it, a message arrived.

  Apparently, the Patron had been thinking about him, too.

  PATRON: Hello, Closer. Congratulations on taking out the Gourmet.

  CLOSER: What color is the sky?

  PATRON: Ah. Very clever. Want to make sure you’re not being taunted by an electronic ghost, hmm?

  The sky is as blue as the depths of your soul. Satisfied? Or would you like me to talk about my mother?

  CLOSER: It’s just you and me now. No more distractions, no more posing. I caught the other members of The Pack. I killed them. And I’m going to do the same to you.

  PATRON: I believe you may. But let’s not get rid of the Stalking Ground just yet; it does provide us with a handy forum to explore our views, and there’s still a lot we have to discuss.

  CLOSER: If you think you can track me through the site, you’re wrong. The Gourmet came close, but I learn from my mistakes.

  PATRON: I don’t. I simply don’t make them.

  CLOSER: Don’t you? I know you, now. I know who you target, I know what you’re trying to accomplish, I know you like to strike around holidays. All your killings involve elaborate scenarios—and the more details there are, the more that can go wrong.

  I only have one thing to do—catch you.

  PATRON: Don’t worry. You’ll soon have plenty of other things to think about. Pleasant dreams.

  The Patron logged off.

  Jack stared at the screen for a while. Then he went to bed.

  He was awakened the next morning by a knock on his door.

  He went from a muzzy, half-asleep state to wide, panicked alertness. He scrambled up from his foam mattress, dug into a half-opened box and came up with a pistol. Staying in the bedroom, he called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Federal Express.”

  “Right,” he muttered. Who even knew where he was staying? “Who’s it from?” he called out.

  “Can you open the door, sir?” The voice sounded young, male, bored. Of course.

  “Tell me who the fucking package is from!” he yelled.

  “Okay, okay…it says, ‘Charlie Holloway.’”

  Suddenly feeling like an idiot, Jack stuck the gun back in the box and padded to the front door in his boxers. Peering through the peephole, he saw a twenty-something male in a Fed-Ex uniform, holding a box and an electronic clipboard. Jack opened the door.

  “Jack Salter? Sign here.”

  “Sure. Uh—sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” The delivery guy gave him the box, took back his clipboard and left without another word.

  Jack closed the door. “Charlie, I could kill you,” he muttered, then grinned despite himself. He put the box down on the kitchen counter, then rummaged around until he found a knife. He slit open the box and opened it.

  The first thing he saw was a plain sheet of white paper. He picked it up, unfolded it.

  It read: A little something from a Close Friend. There was no signature.

  He reached in, pulled out a smaller box. It was rectangular, wrapped in brightly-colored paper with little spaceships and a sprinkling of stars on it. It looked strangely familiar.

  There was a tag on it, a tag with a little drawing of a reindeer on it. The tag read: To Sam, From Santa. It was in Jack’s own handwriting.

  The box started shaking. No, it wasn’t the box, it was his hands. And those weren’t stars at all; they were spatters….

  The last time he’d seen this box was under his own Christmas tree, three years ago.

  The Patron knew Jack was the Closer.

  The Patron was Charlie Holloway.

  INTERLUDE

  Dear Electra:

  I feel terrible. And the reason I feel terrible is awfully complicated, so be patient and I’ll explain.

  Uncle Rick came over for supper. I could tell right away that something wasn’t right—he gets this look in his eyes when he’s upset, and it’s there even if he’s smiling and laughing and pretending everything’s fine. So after we’d eaten and Mom and Dad were in the other room, I asked him point-blank what was wrong. I know it was nosy, but that’s just the way I am. Here’s a condensed version of the conversation that followed:

  Me: So, what’s wrong?

  Uncle Rick: What? Wrong? Don’t be silly. Ha, Ha. How’s school?

  Me: Fine. So—what’s wrong?

  Uncle Rick: Nothing, nothing, couldn’t be happier. Ha ha ha. How’s the dog?

  Me: Fine. Sooooo… what’s wrong?

  Uncle Rick: Not a thing and besides you wouldn’t care anyway. Ha.

  Me: Uncle Rick. WHAT. IS. WRONG.

  Uncle Rick: My girlfriend dumped me. Wah!

  Okay, okay, he didn’t cry. But Electra …he looked so hurt. Like Rufus when I tell him he’s bad. Except Uncle Rick wasn’t bad, his girlfriend was. I mean, how could she not see how great he is? She must be a complete moron, and I said so. I don’t think it helped.

  And I felt terrible for Uncle Rick, I really did. But…I was also kinda glad. And being glad about him being sad made me feel terrible all over again, in a different way.

  I wish I could make him feel better. I wish Uncle Rick and I could be together.

  But that’s not ever going to happen, Electra. He’s just my Uncle Rick, and anything else just wouldn’t work. I’m not crazy (even though I talk to you like you were real); I know it would be wrong and weird and illegal. I’m sure it would creep him out if he ever found out how I feel—if the situation was the other way around, it would creep me out. “What
’s that, my young nephew Rick? You want to jump Aunt Fiona’s bones? That’s just grand. Shall I call the police now, or wait until afterward?”

  Yup. Definitely creepy.

  But I do love him. In a nonhormonal way, I mean. I want him to be happy.

  When I told him that—the happy part, I mean—he just shrugged and said, “At least the experience will inform my art.” I thought that was a strange way to put it: informing your art. Like you go through something horrible and painful, and then a statue walks up and hands you a questionnaire to fill out.

  YOU DON’T NEED A STATUE, FIONA. YOU HAVE ME.

  That’s right, I do. Thank you, Electra.

  And good night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded confused but sincere. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack,” Charlie said. “I didn’t send you any package.”

  Jack held the phone in one hand, the Christmas present in the other. He put the present down, picked up the Fed-Ex package and examined the shipping label. His address was printed in block letters, done with a felt-tip marker. Nothing like Charlie’s handwriting—nothing like anyone’s in particular.

  “Sorry,” Jack said. His head was pounding from the wine he’d drunk the night before. “I think someone’s playing a joke on me. Never mind.”

  “So—what’d they send you? Dog poop? Gay porn?”

  “If I told you,” Jack said, “I’d be delivering the punchline.”

  “Well, then don’t tell me, the joke’ll be on them, right?”

  “Right,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

  He sat down and stared at the brightly wrapped box. It seemed unreal, as if it had suddenly dropped in from another dimension. It had a horrific kind of gravity, drawing his eye to it no matter where in the room he was.

  He forced himself to think.

  He knows I’m the Closer. He knows who my agent is, where I’m living. Of course he does—he killed my family, he was in my house, he knows all kinds of things about me. He even alluded to me when I was posing as Deathkiss—I was the one with “the greatest potential.” The one he still had high hopes for…