Bad Bird (v5)

by Chris Knopf

“No, just thoroughly shrunk. And I do a little reading.”

  “Okay, so what can I expect?”

  “How do you feel about bodily odors?”

  I had an idea where he was going with that, but didn’t fully appreciate the implications until we pulled into a little parking area next to a big pond, ostensibly a public recreation area but apparently co-opted by a ragged tent city—if a half dozen tents made of blue tarps, plywood, and corrugated sheets of fiberglass constituted a city. It looked like an active place—women hanging up laundry, or huddled in conversation, kids chasing one another with plastic bats and grubbing around in the dirt with happy-looking dogs, and men sitting together in beach chairs under the one shade tree, smoking and drinking beer out of an ice chest.

  Sid’s tent was off by itself, hard up against the tree line. It was an elaborate-looking thing, with triangular panels that I thought looked like a geodesic dome until I realized it was, in fact, a geodesic dome. The external frame was made of black anodized pipes, within which was stretched a silver material that was either plastic or fabric or a combination of the two. It gleamed in the sun. Around the dome was nothing but the gravel of the parking lot, scrub grass, and leaves, seemingly undisturbed as if an orbiting spacecraft had dropped the dome into place to provide a comfortable habitat for its envoy to the human race. Maybe one had.

  Marshall stopped me when we were still about twenty feet away.

  “Yo, Khan. You home?” he called.

  Nothing happened, so he called again.

  “Sid, it’s me. Marshall. You got company.”

  A five-foot, two-inch guy in white boxers and undershirt hopped out of the dome like he’d been ejected by some mechanical device. He looked a little bewildered, as you would be too had this happened to you. He was pale and thin, with a head far too big for his body. His face, though filled with confusion, bordered on handsome, with a high forehead, a nice nose, and Paul Newman’s blue eyes. I guessed his age at a bit over forty, or a bit less than that, but well worn.

  “Sid, over here,” said Marshall. “There’s a lady who wants to talk to you.”

  “Lady?” said Sid, trying to focus on us. “That can’t be bad. How do I look?”

  “You need to put on a pair of pants and a shirt,” said Marshall. “Shoes, too, so you don’t cut your feet.”

  “So, formal is it? Be right back.”

  Even at twenty feet, I began to realize how Sid had earned his olfactory reputation.

  “We’re not meeting with him inside that tent, are we?” I asked Marshall.

  He grinned.

  “Squeamish are we?”

  “Isn’t that a park bench over there?” I asked, pointing toward the little beach that served the pond.

  “Let’s see what he says.”

  “Cool digs, anyway,” I said.

  “Sid’s a physicist when he isn’t a schizophrenic. He made that thing himself. I have no idea how. It just sort of grew there over time. He’s a sweet guy. Not happy that the Universal Force picked him to be the Great Khan. He told me he’d much rather search for the Higgs boson or rot on the couch watching TV.”

  “He’s got a TV in there?”

  “Satellite.”

  Sid came out wearing a suit jacket, a pair of floral surfer baggies, and penny loafers. It looked good on him. He’d combed his hair back and was smoking a cigarette in a cigarette holder held between his teeth FDR-style. We shook hands. His smell was impressive, and not all bad, just stunningly strong. I suspected not all the ingredients were natural.

  “Ms. Swaitkowski’s an attorney,” said Marshall. “She thinks you might be able to help her defend one of her clients.”

  Sid took the cigarette out of his mouth and held the tip of the holder an inch away from his lips.

  “Lawyers come in two sizes,” he said. “Evil and eviler. Which are you?”

  “Neither,” I said. “I’m a good lawyer. Good at craft and good in heart.”

  “A third size? Who knew?”

  “Let’s go over here and talk,” I said, guiding him toward the park bench. “Love your dome, by the way.”

  “Fuller was a bit of a dick, if you want my opinion. Too fuller of himself, I like to say. Didn’t even invent the damn thing, but took all the credit. Happens all the time. When you look at the great achievements of mankind, the guy who makes all the money isn’t the one who comes up with the idea. Brunelleschi stole the Pantheon to make the Duomo, James Watt ripped off everybody in sight, Edison stole the movies, Ford stole the assembly line, Gates stole DOS, Jobs stole the GUI. They’re all a bunch of thieves. Clever, though. You have to give ’em that. What have you stolen?”

  “My lover’s heart.”

  Sid winced.

  “Oh, God, I hate that sentimental claptrap. Tell me the truth.”

  We reached the park bench and he sat down. I noticed the cigarette in his holder had gone out, so I lit it with a lighter.

  “I steal people’s willingness to help me to serve my own ends,” I said, “like I’m trying to do with you. I’m hoping you can tell me something of immense value to me, without my giving back anything in return. Except my gratitude and respect.”

  “If you give me that, then it’s not stealing,” he said. “Technically.”

  Marshall had been standing back through all this, but once Sid was thoroughly settled on the park bench, he leaned in and looked closely into Sid’s face. Sid sat immobile while he did this.

  “In some places you can be ordered to take your meds,” Marshall said to Sid.

  “Meds schmeds. In some places they cut off your balls for spitting in the street. What is this, Nazi-pequa? What’s your stake in this, doll?” he asked me. “You Social Services? Here for an assessment?” He broke that last word into each of its syllabic parts.

  “No. I’m here to protect your privacy.”

  That took him a bit aback.

  “Whoa, that’s totally freaky. A government agency spends a billion dollars to send a babe out into the field to protect the privacy of a homeless mental patient who could care less whether he wears a veil or pulls his pecker out in Times Square.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “First off, call me a babe again and I’ll break your nose,” I said, waiting a moment for that to sink in. “We talked about respect. This is what I get or your life as you know it disappears. Secondly, the government doesn’t care about you. As a private citizen and legal defense attorney, I do. And if you want to pull out your pecker in Times Square, go ahead. Be good for the tourist trade.”

  As I spoke, Marshall started looking very unhappy, but settled down as he realized where I was going.

  “Got it,” said Sid, putting his hands in his lap and gently rocking back and forward. Marshall eased in closer, in what I took to be an involuntary act of compassion.

  “You okay?” he asked Sid.

  “I’m fa-bu-lous,” he said, stretching the word to its limits.

  “You like to go to the Hot Spot,” I said. “The Internet café.”

  “I like to go online. That’s the only place where they take cash. Though I’m working on getting wireless at the pond. If I could get my pond mates to pitch in. They don’t seem to care.”

  “Did you know you left your computer before signing out and somebody used your e-mail address to send a message?” I asked.

  “That bastard Khan,” he said. “I knew it.”

  “Has he done this before?” I asked. I noticed Marshall looking at me with disappointment.

  “Done this before?” Sid half yelled. “The son of a bitch does it all the time. You don’t think I’m in this situation voluntarily, do you? Is he here?” he said to Marshall.

  Marshall shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Do you think someone might have finished up the Khan’s Internet session?” I asked.

  “Oh sure, and suffer certain annihilation? Don’t be ridiculous. The Khan’s a bit of a dickhead,
but he tolerates rip-off artists none too gladly.”

  “So you can’t think how this could have happened?” I asked.

  While he thought about that, he snapped his head side to side, as if trying to catch someone in the act.

  “Might’ve been the pranksters,” said Sid.

  “The pranksters?”

  “Oscar Wilde, Jacques Cousteau, and Casper the Friendly Ghost. Them’s the pranksters. As if I don’t know what they’re up to. You a prankster?” he asked me. “Little Orphan Annie. With potatoes,” he added, gesturing with the international sign for prominent breasts. I would have smacked him, but his tone of voice saved him; the description was purely informational, or so he made me believe.

  “You’ll have to forgive me, Sid, but I don’t know what sort of pranks you’re talking about,” I said. “I’m not as enlightened as you.”

  “Don’t try to manipulate me,” he said. “I get that kind of crap all the time from highly trained psychiatric professionals.”

  One of the more enduring myths is that it’s easy to get a defendant off the hook by reason of insanity. In fact, it’s very difficult, and rarely invoked. Guys like Sid are one of the reasons why. Psychiatrists can say all they want about a clinical diagnosis, but if a judge can’t tell from minute to minute whether a guy is really crazy or faking it, the judge is going to opt for sane so the proceedings can take place in the realm of logic and reason, a realm legal people understand and can function within.

  “It’s not fair,” I said.

  “What’s not?” he said.

  “You know everything about the world I live in, but I know nothing of yours. Do you do that on purpose, keep it exclusive so you can have all the power?”

  Sid wasn’t sure about that one.

  “Wow, whoa, left-hand turn, no turn signal.”

  “What’s a prank? Just one,” I said. “So I know what you mean. Come on.”

  Sid held his hands up in front of my face and wiggled his fingers.

  “Invisible hands that come into my house and take things. Steal, pilfer, snatch, and purloin.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Things. Thoughts. Ideas. Discoveries. They’re in my brain and then they’re taken, just like that. And the occasional thing of some use, like a toaster or a single sock. Like, what good is a single sock that doesn’t match any other in the drawer?”

  “That I get,” I said. “I totally have the same problem.”

  “Where else could they go?” he asked. “Who but Oscar Wilde would have the sense of humor to do such a thing?”

  “You’re right about that,” I said.

  “You know Oscar?”

  “What does Jacques Cousteau take?”

  Sid struggled with that, frowning and shaking his head in rapid little bursts.

  “Don’t remember. I think there might’ve been some tropical fish I was supposed to take care of. Somebody might’ve found them dead. Can’t say why. Pissed off Cousteau, though I can’t help liking the guy. Must be the French accent.”

  “All your pranksters are likeable,” I said.

  “You like Casper? Don’t know why. Nasty bugger. Scares me.”

  “So not so friendly.”

  “Ghostly. Got that part down. Spooks me the fuck out.”

  I looked at Marshall, who shrugged, sympathy for both of us written on his face.

  “Who do you think finished your session, Sid?” I asked. “Which one of the pranksters?”

  He waved his hands in my face again, then abruptly stopped and pointed at me with his two index fingers.

  “The one with the knife, if you really must know.”

  “One of the pranksters threatened you with a knife?” I asked.

  “Commandeered the keyboard. Had a sharp-looking sticker. I think imported. Probably German. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Which one?” Marshall asked, surprising me that he was still tracking the conversation.

  Sid put his two fists up against his forehead and made a growly sound.

  “Which one? Which one indeed,” he said. “Could have been any of them.” He took away his fists and looked at me. “Could have been you.”

  “It wasn’t me. I’m the one who got the e-mail. Even Einstein wouldn’t let a person be in two places at once,” I said.

  “Even? Especially Einstein,” he almost yelled at me. “Hated all that mumbo-jumbo quantum phantasmagoria. You’re talking non-locality, and that was Einstein’s biggest bugaboo, though unfortunately, some wise guys proved it a genuine phenomenon. Or so some think; I’m not convinced. I punch you in the nose in Massapequa and you feel it instantaneously while arm-wrestling Martians over shots and beers. That’s the idea, though I still don’t buy it. Hello, speed of light? It’s not just two hundred and eighty-two thousand miles a second, it’s the law. Can’t be done. Makes no sense to you? That’s good, because it makes no sense to me, either, and I’m a theoretical physicist, though I’ve done the equations that unfortunately prove non-locality, as do a few important experiments that nobody knows about even though they could provide the foundation for interstellar space exploration and maybe win George Lucas the Oscar he deserves, if not the Nobel Prize, but will probably never get for reasons you’ll have to torture out of me, if you care and have the time and proper equipment.”

  “So you really don’t remember? Or you’re just afraid to say?” I asked, as gently as I could.

  Sid whipped his head over to look at me.

  “Fear is a very useful emotion,” he said. “We evolved it to keep from getting devoured by saber-toothed tigers or setting ourselves on fire. You try living on the streets for just one day, then tell me whether a healthy sense of fear is a good thing or not.”

  “Why be afraid to tell me who commandeered your computer? That can’t hurt you. In fact, it’ll remove a proven threat. You can’t lose.”

  “When did we meet? How many minutes ago? How long have I dealt with the pranksters?”

  He was right. As usual, I was running on my own frantic schedule, not a regular person’s, or a paranoid schizophrenic’s for that matter.

  I gave him a card with my e-mail address and office and cell phone numbers.

  “You’re right. When you’re ready, give me a call. I appreciate anything you can tell me. Or not.”

  He looked at the card, then back at me with gratitude.

  “Haven’t had anybody’s card in a while. Pretty cool. I’ll take care of it.” He patted the shirt pocket into which he’d stuffed the card. “Safe with me.”

  “Don’t worry about that, just tell me anything you remember. It’s important.”

  We left him at the picnic table, and were halfway to the car when he called us back. Marshall stayed put and I walked back.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Sid looked up at me from where he sat at the picnic table, my card back in his hand.

  “I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m afraid all the time. It’s an awful way to live.”

  “I wish I could help you, Sid, but I’m a lawyer, not a psychiatrist. I think Marshall over there really cares about you. Give him the word, and he’ll be right there.”

  Sid waved me closer.

  “That’s not Marshall,” he said.

  “Really.”

  He shook his head.

  “That’s Wild Bill Hickok, desperado.”

  “But he’s on your side.”

  “Oh, absolutely. But you don’t understand. No one can defy the Khan. He’s the swingin’ dick on campus. The big enchilada. The ultimate boss, no offense to Mr. Springsteen.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It must be a terrible thing for you.”

  He nodded in vigorous agreement, so much so that I thought he’d pitch forward off the bench seat.

  “Casper reports directly to the Khan. He’s like the Khan’s messenger boy. You can’t hide anything from that guy. One word out of me, and zap, I’m a dead man. You understand?”

  “Not exactly
, but I sympathize. You’re not gonna get into trouble because of me.”

  “It’s a terrible way to live,” he said. “Having people talking to you inside your brain. Just the regular me is bad enough.”

  “That I understand, Mr. Kronenberg. I truly do.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, thin as my reassurance was. I sat with him for a bit on the bench, and even found it in myself to pat his shoulder, which was all bone and flabby flesh. He was quiet for a while, but then started talking to himself, and though I might have learned something from the conversation, I left, feeling it was rude to sit there and eavesdrop.

  On the way back to my car, Marshall asked if I’d learned anything. A little bit, I told him, just enough to be worried about Sid.

  “The illness isn’t him. It’s just something he has,” said Marshall.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” I said. “He knows something, and the wrong people know he knows. He didn’t just wander away from his computer. He was forced. What’re the chances of getting him off the streets and into a safe place?”

  “Close to zero. And even if we could, he’d really hate it.”

  I know thoughts originate in the mind, but we all know some are first detected in the area around the heart. I can identify one of those heartfelt thoughts. It’s a form of apprehension, spawned by what seems to be the approach of an intractable problem. My subconscious, which is frequently in direct contention with those cardiological impulses, has worked out all the possibilities, run the if/then scenarios, and decided on the low probability of a positive outcome, no matter what I try to do.

  I hate that feeling, mostly because it can be a precursor to something even worse. Self-doubt, maybe, or defeatism. Ugly parts of me that crouch in the corners like Sid’s demons, conspiring and cajoling, and striving to take command over those other, better parts.

  I took out my cell phone and called Joe Sullivan.

  “How good a relationship do you have with the seventh precinct?” I asked when he picked up the phone.

  “Good. Twenty years working cross-island cases together.”

  “They need to bust the Great Khan,” I said.

  “Not gonna happen,” said Marshall, shaking his head. I cupped my hand over the phone.