The Comedy is Finished

by Donald E. Westlake

  No. Larry couldn’t go on, he couldn’t stand it any longer. It was after nine o’clock, news broadcasts blared from radios throughout the house, cold-eyed furious Mark was standing guard over Davis and wouldn’t let anybody in the room with him, and neither Peter nor anybody else seemed capable of doing anything about it.

  But something had to be done. Putting away the notebook, Larry went out to the living room, found Peter pacing back and forth there amid the radio noise, and forced himself into the other man’s awareness by standing directly in his path. Peter gave him a distracted irritable look, and Larry said, “Peter, listen to me.”

  Peter turned away. “Why?”

  Following, Larry said, “What if they don’t apologize?”

  “They will.”

  “But what if they don’t? Are you really going to let Davis die, with his medicine right here?”

  “The ball’s in their court.” Peter was steadily, compulsively, stroking his cheeks, his face seeming more gaunt than usual, and he wouldn’t meet Larry’s eye. “They’ll have to come through.”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  “They will.”

  “Give me a time limit,” Larry insisted. “Peter, what time do we give it up and let Davis have his medicine? Ten o’clock?”

  “No.”

  “When, then? Ten-thirty?”

  “Larry,” Peter said, pressing his cheeks with the backs of his fingers, “Larry, I can’t set a time on it. They have to come through, that’s all. If we back down, how can we negotiate later?”

  “If we let Davis die, what do we negotiate with later?”

  Peter violently shook his head, as though being attacked by bees. Desperately he said, “We have to stand by our promise, we have to, that’s all. Mark’s right.”

  “You’re afraid of Mark.”

  “I agree with Mark!” Peter yelled, but he wouldn’t meet Larry’s eye. And he wouldn’t set a time limit. He would do nothing, in fact, but pace the floor, stroking his cheeks and staring at the walls and refusing to be a leader.

  Through the glass wall Larry could see Joyce and Liz out beside the pool; Liz in a yellow dashiki and dark glasses lay on a chaise longue, while Joyce in jeans and an orange T-shirt sat rather tensely on a pool chair beside her. If leadership couldn’t function under present conditions, perhaps democracy could. Of if not democracy, precisely, then some sort of pressure group. Larry knew that Mark would not listen to either himself or Joyce, but if he could get Liz to join them, might not all three together have some effect? Abandoning Peter, Larry slid open one of the glass doors and went out to the pool, where a portable radio spoke of life on Earth: Jew versus Arab, Greek versus Turk, Christian versus Muslim, Catholic versus Protestant, white versus black.

  Joyce smiled wanly over Liz’s unmoving body. “How are you, Larry?”

  “Terribly worried about Davis,” Larry told her. “Peter’s just simply abdicated his leadership function.” Pulling another chair over by the two women, he sat down and said, “If the three of us went to Mark, our combined weight might make him see some sense.”

  But Joyce shook her head, with the same wan smile. “Don’t count Liz,” she said. “She’s tripping. I’m her buddy.”

  “She’s what?” Looking down at Liz, seeing now the unnatural stillness of the face behind the large-lensed dark glasses, seeing the blotchy redness of the usually tanned skin, Larry said, “My God. We’re all going crazy.” It had been two or three years since any of them had dropped acid; that had been a phase, like open sex, like hop, like the sixties themselves. Larry hadn’t even known there was acid left in anybody’s possession.

  “It’s a strain,” Joyce said. “It’s a strain on all of us.”

  “We’re going crazy. We can’t stand it anymore, and we’re going crazy.”

  Larry believed that to be literally true. In the past they had planned attacks, bombings, incursions, and the planning had been good, the acts themselves had been well performed and effective. This time, the planning, the act of kidnapping, all had been just as good and just as efficient as ever. But now they were into a different kind of scene, a waiting scene, an ongoing set-piece involving one specific human life, and they were all breaking down.

  We can’t hack it anymore, Larry thought, and looked out over the Valley, the crawling sun-bleached lifeless deadly Valley, glittering with smog like a fever victim. Thousands and thousands of people lived on that floor, in little white-pink-coral boxes, breathing the sharp glittery air, driving back and forth like ants under the dead sun. How could they be helped? How could they be saved? “Nobody can do anything,” Larry said.

  Joyce said, “Don’t give up, Larry. Please. I need your strength.”

  Larry looked at her in surprise. “My strength?” And seeing her earnest eyes, her soft face, her trust in him, he thought without pleasure: I suppose in truth I do love her. If only we had lived in better times. We were meant for quiet lives, both of us, calm perhaps boring lives, ordinary lives. In a way, Joyce and I have both sacrificed more than Peter or Mark or Liz, all of whom in any era would have been impelled to some sort of extravagance. We have given up our ordinariness for a cause. We have been caught by the flow of history and swept far from shore, far from shore.

  But he didn’t want to think about that. And in any event, he couldn’t keep his mind for long on anything but the one problem; he said, “What’s the matter with Mark, why does he have to be this way? He’s the one making everything impossible. What’s he doing down there?”

  “Listening to the radio,” Joyce said. “Like the rest of us.”

  “But why is he locked in, why won’t he let anybody else even see Davis?” Then, in a sudden decision, he said, “I’m going to see for myself,” and started to strip off his shirt.

  “Don’t confront Mark, it won’t do any good. You’ll just make him worse.”

  “I won’t confront him.” Larry stepped out of his trousers and shorts, shoes and socks, then, naked, went down the pool steps and swam across to the deep end, making as little disturbance in the water as possible. Above the window he inhaled deeply, then plunged.

  The window; from an angle a cold clear shimmering sheet, from straight on a transparency. Larry’s arms and legs moved, fighting his body buoyancy, and he looked through the window into the dim-lit room.

  It was like a picture in a dream, like some kind of fantastic television. It was as though Larry were tripping, rather than Liz; these shimmering shapes, this underwater quality, had been present sometimes in trips he’d taken before quitting acid, four or five years ago. Through a yard of water, through the twin thicknesses of the glass, was spread the diorama of the room; Koo Davis lying on the couch, twitching from time to time, his head occasionally turning fretfully on the pillow, his eyes closed or no more than slightly open, a sheet half covering him and leaving exposed his panting chest, while seated across from him, unmoving, waited Mark. Still, silent, Mark seemed relaxed in his chair, but he was gazing without pause at Koo Davis, staring at him as though the very appearance of the man contained the answer to some urgent question. The shifting water made vision uncertain, so that Larry couldn’t be certain of the expression on Mark’s face. It seemed bland and calm, yet intent; was that possible? The usual rage, coldness, unrelenting dissatisfaction, none of that seemed present now in Mark’s face, though it could merely be an ambiguity of the water that made him seem so tranquil. He would be listening to the radio in there, the same news, the same planet; but it seemed a planet far far away from the room.

  Larry’s lungs were hurting, but the scene held him, the sick older man and the black-bearded young man together in tableau in their underwater cave. It seemed to Larry the scene somehow meant something, that it was both a question and an answer, and if he could comprehend what he was seeing he would understand everything. He fought to remain under the surface, while his lungs and chest and ears strained and his heart pounded, until he suddenly realized that what he was seeing, whether
he understood it or not, was too private. He wasn’t supposed to know this. Afraid all at once that Mark would turn his head, see him, and never forgive this knowledge, Larry relaxed his arms and floated to the surface, then swam slowly back to the shallow end.

  Liz was still in the chaise, the same as before, but Joyce had risen and was standing by the edge of the pool when Larry climbed out. She said, “He isn’t hurting him, is he?”

  “He’s just watching him. Sitting there unmoving. Koo seems unconscious, but I suppose that’s best for him. But Mark just sits there.” Larry looked back down at the water, as though Mark lived down in those chlorinated blue depths. “There’s something weird about him. Weirder than usual.”

  Joyce managed a laugh, and said, “I suppose you’re right, we all are going crazy a little bit, at least for—”

  “Wait.”

  Larry had heard the announcement begin, from the tinny portable radio on the tiles by Liz’s chaise. “The Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has asked all radio stations in this area to present the following taped statement at this time.” And then another voice came on, sounding strained and hurried:

  “This is Michael Wiskiel of the Los Angeles office of the FBI. I have been involved on the FBI side in the Koo Davis kidnapping. Early this morning, we delivered to the kidnappers medicines necessary to keep Koo Davis alive. Although we had promised not to use this humanitarian act as an opportunity to capture the kidnappers, we felt that certain legal, moral, and medical considerations were more urgent than our promise, and so we inserted a form of tracking device in with the medicine, hoping to follow its transmission and rescue Koo Davis. Unfortunately, the kidnappers found the device and returned it to us with a taped message. Here is part of that tape.”

  Now Mark’s cold angry voice pushed itself into the sunny day: “We’ll be listening to the radio news all morning. Until we hear an apology from you, Michael Wiskiel, in your own voice, Koo Davis gets no medicine.”

  “Ah, Jesus,” Larry said.

  The Michael Wiskiel voice had come back: “The most important consideration, of course, is Koo Davis’ health and safety. I certainly do apologize for my decision to use the tracking device, since it clearly has resulted in increased danger for Koo Davis. I not only apologize, I am voluntarily removing myself from further connection with this case. I can only hope this delay has not caused irretrievable harm to Koo Davis. I beg the kidnappers, please, to give Koo his medicine now.”

  Peter had come out during the statement, looking both jubilant and relieved, and when it was over Larry turned on him, angrily saying, “Do you like that victory? Peter? He took it away from us, it’s a triumph for them. They broadcast as much of what Mark said as they wanted—and what a wonderful voice he has to play a villain!—and they made it sound as though it was their idea to turn over the medicine. Are you really pleased with that?”

  “Be quiet, Larry,” Peter said. “They apologized, didn’t they? Let’s go downstairs and give the man his medicine.”

  13

  Koo lies on the couch, his head propped by pillows, and eats spoonfuls of oatmeal fed to him by the woman called Joyce. “After this,” he says, still whispering because of his ragged throat and still gasping with fatigue, “will you—read me a story?” To his complete surprise and embarrassment, she responds with an utterly tragic and despairing expression of face; two large tears ooze from her eyes and roll unhindered down her cheeks. They look hot, and the skin itself looks both hot and dry. All in all, her appearance is in Koo’s eyes unhealthy, as though she doesn’t eat right, doesn’t sleep right, doesn’t have good medical advice. “Hey,” he whispers, lifting one weak hand from his side, “you trying to—break my—self-confidence?—That’s the worst—reaction to a gag—I ever got.”

  She turns away, fumbling the oatmeal bowl onto the counter, swabbing at the tears with shaky fingers of her other hand. Then she covers her face with both hands and just sits there, huddled over like a refugee in a bombed bus station.

  Koo frowns at her. His strength is slowly returning, and with it the determination somehow to help himself, be of some use to himself.

  For instance, he knows where he is. It came to him in one of his deliriums, and now that he’s once again more or less in his right mind he’s convinced he’s right. He’s never been here before, but he definitely knows where he is. Could the knowledge be turned to use?

  He also wonders if he could work some sort of deal or something with one of the kidnappers. So far he’s seen five of them, and is beginning to get a sense of each as an individual. There’s the leader, probably the one referred to as Peter; he likes to stay behind the scenes, put in an occasional dramatic or sardonic appearance, and then fade away again. The old eminence grise routine. Along with him there’s Vampira, the naked blonde chickie with the scars; Koo doesn’t know her name, and would be perfectly happy never to see her again, with or without clothing. Another nut is Larry, the lecturer in Advanced Insanity; there’s a weird sort of sympathy inside Larry, but it’s probably useless to Koo, since Larry clearly is a True Believer, one of those intellectual clowns who can’t see the goods for the theories. A completely unsympathetic type is Mark, the tough guy with the chip on his shoulder; Koo knows that fellow is just waiting for an excuse to do something really drastic.

  Which leaves this girl here, Joyce, who looks tragic and unhealthy, and who cries at Koo’s jokes. Can he make some sort of useful contact with this one? “Hey,” he whispers. She doesn’t respond, she remains huddled, face covered, shoulders trembling slightly, but Koo knows she’s listening. He licks dry lips and whispers, “Your pal Mark—is gonna kill me—can you help me out of here?”

  Her head moves, a quick negative shake.

  “Tonight,” he whispers, pressing harder, feeling the urgency as he says it. He reaches out, but she is just too far away to touch, and he isn’t strong enough yet to sit up. “I can hack it—till tonight,” he says, as though she’s already agreed to help and all that’s left to get organized is the details. “I’ll be stronger then—able to walk—just get me away—from the house—it’s my only chance—you don’t want—Mark to get me.”

  “But Mark has you,” says the cold voice, from behind Koo, back by the door.

  Joyce goes rigid, then lifts her tear-stained face to stare toward the doorway. Koo closes his eyes, sighing, trying not to be afraid. He’s so weak, so goddamn weak. What will the son of a bitch do now?

  Talk; for the moment, that’s all, just talk. “Joyce wouldn’t do it,” he says. Koo opens his eyes, and now Mark is standing next to Joyce, his hand on her shoulder, his coldly triumphant eyes on Koo, and in his other hand the cassette recorder. “And if she would do it,” he tells Koo, “she couldn’t. Not a chance. Right, Joyce?”

  “I was feeding him,” Joyce says, trying to reach around Mark for the bowl.

  “He’s had enough to eat. He shouldn’t get his strength back too fast. Go on, now, he’s about to make another record.”

  “I should finish feeding him.”

  “Later, Joyce.”

  Joyce flashes Koo a quick frightened look, then gets to her feet and leaves the room. Koo isn’t sure about that look: Is she afraid for me or of me? Maybe there’s other stuff inside her, and the sympathy won’t matter.

  But now the problem is Mark, who sits where Joyce was sitting and says, “Davis, you’re helpless. I could beat you to death now, if I felt like it. You live or you die according to what we want. You’re healthy or unhealthy according to whether or not we let you have your medicine. You’re in no position to make mistakes. What you were saying to Joyce was a mistake.”

  Koo doesn’t speak; he doesn’t want to make another mistake. This guy is a time bomb, and Koo doesn’t want to set him off; but on the other hand Koo himself has always had a certain amount of pride, and he doesn’t want to grovel before the son of a bitch. Unless, of course, it’s necessary; better a living grovel than a dead defiance.

 
Mark slaps the edge of the cassette recorder almost casually against Koo’s shin. It hurts, like bumping into something in the dark. Koo winces, and Mark says, “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes. No mistakes.”

  “That’s right.” Mark seems to consider more physical stuff, then changes his mind. Instead, he puts the recorder on his lap and takes from his pocket a folded sheet of paper. “Your new script,” he says, opening it and extending it toward Koo.

  “I’m sorry—I can’t hold it.”

  Mark looks annoyed, but makes no comment. Instead, he holds it up where Koo can look at it.

  This one is shorter, typewritten like the last one, and again with the heavy editing and alterations done by several hands. Apparently, script conferences with this crowd are even hairier experiences than in the television industry. Koo reads it over, knowing he isn’t going to like what it says, and not liking it. “Terrific,” he whispers, at the end.

  “I’m glad you approve.” Mark unlimbers the microphone, raises the recorder, then puts a small pillow on Koo’s chest and props the sheet of paper against it. “This time,” he says, “you read the script the way it’s written. You don’t add any lines or crack any jokes. If you do, I’ll make you regret it. You follow me?”

  “I follow you.”

  “That’s good. Are you ready?”

  “Do you want me—to, uh—start with personal—things again?”

  Mark considers that, then says, “That’s a good idea. You don’t sound much like yourself.”

  “I been off my feed.” Koo closes his eyes once more, gathering his thoughts, then opens his eyes and says, “Okay.” Mark switches on the machine, and Koo says, “This is—what’s left of—Koo Davis—speaking to you—from inside the whale—I wanna say hello—to Lily and my sons—Barry and Frank—and especially—Gilbert Freeman—my favorite host—in all the world—and now I got—a script to read.”

  Koo drops his head back onto the pillow, gasping for breath, and Mark switches off the machine, saying, “What’s the problem?”