The Comedy is Finished

by Donald E. Westlake

  “Who is he?”

  “A boy I met in Korea. Defector.” Then Koo frowns, trying to think. “Is that what we called them then? Brainwashed. They went to the Other Side.”

  “They were martyrs, Koo,” Larry tells him, with that po-faced earnestness of his. “They were martyrs to History and Truth.”

  “Jesus.” The old punch lines are losing their zing. Koo feels a sudden nervousness, like a man stepping incautiously, suspecting too late that beneath these dead leaves quicksand waits. “Maybe you’re brainwashing me,” he said. “Get me weak, get me sick...”

  “Koo, we didn’t get you sick,” Larry objects reasonably. “And I’m not lying to you. Everything I’ve told you is facts, you can verify them yourself, look them up, you’ll see—”

  “Mark,” Koo says.

  Larry bewilders often. “What?”

  “I want Mark, I’ll talk to Mark.”

  “You mean—you mean Mark?”

  “Now he’s giving me doubletakes,” Koo mutters. “I’ll talk to Mark,” he repeats, with emphasis. “Nobody else. Not you, nobody, just Mark. The king of beasts himself.”

  “Koo, I don’t understand. Why on earth would you—?”

  But Koo has turned his face away, has clenched his jaw, is staring mulishly at the opposite wall. He has said he will talk to nobody but Mark, and he will talk to nobody but Mark. Period.

  The silence stretches between them, Koo determined, Larry dumbfounded, until finally Larry says, tentatively, “Koo, Mark isn’t—Mark isn’t pleasant.”

  You’re telling me. But Koo remains silent, unmoving.

  “Also,” Larry says, then stops, then starts again: “Also, Mark isn’t...well, he isn’t very strong on the dialectics. I mean, if you have questions, it’s more likely I could answer them. At least, I could try. Mark is more...pragmatic.”

  Nevertheless, if there’s any kind of sense in all this, Koo is convinced that Mark is the one with the answers. Larry clearly doesn’t even know what the questions are. Koo will not budge.

  And at last Larry gives up, getting to his feet, shrugging in wimpish resignation, saying, “But if that’s what you want—I just don’t think he’ll be very useful, Koo, but all right. And I tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you.”

  Koo turns his head, watches Larry’s good-guy face, waits.

  “You talk to Mark,” Larry says. “Then you talk to me again. But instead of me telling you things, you ask questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them. All right?”

  “Sure,” Koo says. Because it doesn’t matter what happens afterward, not if first he can talk to Mark.

  “I’ll go get him.” But Larry still hesitates, frowning, and says, “What was that name you asked me about?”

  “Bramlett.”

  “And he was a Korean War defector.”

  “Right.”

  “Bramlett. What made you think of him?”

  Koo struggles to a more comfortable position in the bed. His arms and legs feel like too-thick bread dough. “He was sick, too,” he says.

  16

  It was years since Peter had slept a normal eight-hour night. The tensions of his life never permitted him more than three or four hours’ sleep at a time, so that he usually had to supplement his night’s rest with one or two naps during the day; short uncomfortable naps in which he remained very close to the surface of consciousness, still aware of the world around him, and fully dressed except for his shoes.

  Now, at the first noise from the living room, he flung aside the blanket, bounded off the bed, stepped quickly into his shoes and hurried down the hall to find Larry sprawled on the living room floor while Mark, fists clenched, loomed over him, and Joyce was just running in, screaming, from the deck. Larry too was screaming, hoarsely, both hands clutching the side of his neck; as Peter entered the room, Mark deliberately kicked Larry in the stomach, and Larry’s screams dissolved into agonized gurgling as he doubled over around the pain.

  But Mark wasn’t finished. He was reaching for Larry’s head, apparently planning to drag him up by the hair, when Joyce got to him and grabbed at his arm, yelling don’t-don’t-don’t! Unthinking, Peter crossed the room and slapped Mark hard across the face.

  Mark, as though insulted, stared at Peter over Joyce’s bobbing head. “Don’t you do that,” he said.

  Peter glared back, trying not to show his uncertainty: “Are you calm now?”

  “I’ve been calm all along,” Mark said, then looked down at Joyce, still clutching at him like an exhausted marathon dancer. “Let go of me, Joyce.”

  But she obviously couldn’t. She seemed too terrified to think; all she could do was go on clinging to Mark, panting, staring up at his face.

  Mark looked beyond her again at Peter, saying, “Get her off me.”

  Peter was troubled, cautious, watching Mark as though he were some dangerous dog whose chain had snapped. Reaching tentatively forward, he tugged at Joyce’s elbow, at the same time continuing to watch Mark’s face. “All right, Joyce,” he said. “All right.”

  Joyce finally did release her grip, moving back with Peter but staring constantly at Mark, who stepped back a pace and glared at them in apparent outrage. Larry, both forearms pressed to his stomach, was sitting on the floor now, hunched forward, wheezing hoarsely in his throat. Pointing at him, Mark said, “I won’t have that sniveling moron pestering me.”

  Larry was trying to talk through his wheezes, but couldn’t. Even in pain, in panic, on the floor, unable to breathe, Larry went right on talking. Incorrigible.

  Peter said, “For God’s sake, Mark, what’s this all about?”

  “I won’t be part of Larry’s plans,” Mark said; then, obscurely challenging, he added, “And I’m not sure I’ll be part of yours.”

  “Take it easy,” Peter said. “We’re still one group.”

  Marks lips twisted in scorn, but all he said was, “Keep them away from me, Peter. All I need is to be left alone.” And he turned away, crossing the living room in quick nervous paces, leaving the house, slamming the door behind himself.

  Joyce had now dropped to her knees beside Larry, was murmuring and cooing at him, touching his hair and his shoulder and his arms. Peter, exhausted and raw-nerved, seated himself on the edge of the nearest armchair, elbows on knees as he leaned forward and down toward Larry, trying to hide annoyance and uncertainty with an expression of concern as he said, “Larry, for God’s sake what was that all about?”

  Larry shook his head. Joyce kept dabbing at his face, saying things.

  Peter said, sharply, “Joyce, leave him alone. Larry, tell me what happened.”

  “Mark is an animal!” Joyce said, indignantly, glaring at Peter.

  “No, he isn’t,” Peter told her. “He’s a very disturbed and explosive human being, and I’d like to know from Larry what set him off.”

  “I don’t know,” Larry said, voice rasping. “He’s always so—I only—” He shook his head.

  “All right, Larry, from the beginning. What happened?”

  Larry rested his forehead on his palm. An occasional shudder rippled through him as gradually he calmed. “I was talking with Koo,” he said. “Then Koo said he wanted to speak with Mark. I pointed out—”

  “Wait a minute,” Peter said. “Koo Davis asked for Mark?”

  “It surprised me, too,” Larry said, lifting his head, looking up at Peter. “But he insisted. We made a deal; first he’d talk with Mark, then again with me. He was getting interested, Peter. He brought up the subject of Korea himself, he’s beginning to see how the pieces fit.”

  Peter was skeptical, but he said, “All right. So you came to Mark.”

  “I told him about Koo,” Larry said, petulance creeping into his voice. “He refused, he just flat refused. No explanation, nothing. Then all at once he started hitting me.”

  “He’s a beast,” Joyce declared. She was seated now on the sofa, shredding damp tissues nervously between her hands.

  Peter shook his head
. “Larry, no. There had to be more to it than that.”

  “But there wasn’t. I asked him, he refused, he started hitting me.”

  “How many times did you ask him?”

  “Two or three,” Larry said, obviously grudging any piece of information that might complicate his story.

  But Peter was insistent: “What did he say the first time you asked him?”

  “He said no! He never said anything but no, and then he started using his fists.”

  Shaking his head, Peter said, “There’s something more in all this. There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, is there? Well, I’ll be happy to tell you what it is.” Larry struggled to his feet, pushing away Joyce’s eager attempts to help. “What you don’t understand, Peter, is that Mark is taking over!”

  “Oh, now,” Peter said, with a little sardonic smile, “don’t get carried away, Larry. Mark is not exactly what we call leadership material.”

  “That’s right,” Larry said. “When Mark’s in charge, everything is going to blow up. And it’s happening, he’s taking over. Only because you won’t stop him. Like that business with Davis’ medicine.”

  “Stop right there,” Peter said, defensively becoming angry himself, getting to his feet and pointing at Larry with a jabbing forefinger. “It so happens Mark was right about that. They needed a lesson. And they apologized in plenty of time, just as Mark said they would.”

  “And demanding that Wiskiel be put back in charge?”

  “Mark was right again. You didn’t argue against it. Larry, sometimes you’re right, and I listen to you. And sometimes Mark is right, believe it or not.”

  “This time I’m right,” Larry insisted. “You’re losing control, and Mark is moving into the vacuum, and that’s disastrous. You’ve always been very good, Peter, but before this we’ve always been hit-and-run. None of us is right for this kind of long-term operation.”

  Peter’s cheeks burned and stung. “Everything is working,” he said. “The only problems are among ourselves. The operation is doing fine.”

  “Problems among ourselves? Peter, that’s what’ll kill us. You have to take charge, you have to be in command. You absolutely have to run things.”

  “All right,” Peter said, cold and angry. “Then I’ll give you a direct order. Stay away from Mark.”

  “And him? Mark? What about him?”

  “He’s none of your business. I’ll take care of Mark.”

  “But you won’t.”

  Peter was about to say something even angrier when Joyce suddenly cried, “Oh, my gosh.” Turning, he saw Liz on her feet out by the pool, walking in slow circles, patting the air in front of her as though it contained an invisible wall. Joyce hurried out there, and Peter watched her take Liz by the arm, walk her back to the yellow chaise longue.

  Speaking quietly, Larry said, “We’re breaking down, Peter. We’re all the weakest link.”

  “We’ll hold together,” Peter told him; firmly, making it true by the sheer determination of his manner. Then, unable to hear any more dispute, he turned away, hesitated, unsure for a second where he intended to go, and then crossed the room and went out the front door, following Mark.

  Who was gone; and so was the Impala. Not good. Mark was too unpredictable. He might merely go for a drive until he’d cooled off, or he could start a fight in some bar and get himself in trouble, or he might even leave entirely, deciding again to break with the group. Mark had disappeared more than once over the years, each time returning a few days later or phoning from some distant place; it was never convenient when he pulled such stunts, and this time it could be a disaster. Aside from anything else, he had their only transportation, since the van had been dumped last night in the Burbank Airport long-term parking lot.

  It was difficult for Peter not to show his increasing hostility toward the group. He’d known them all a long time, too long and too well. They were the only soldiers available to him now, here in the Valley Forge of the New Revolution, but after this operation he would never see them again. Only this operation was needed, the freeing of the ten, himself as an instrument, and the corner would be turned. Peter Dinely would be established.

  He knew he was the only one in the group who thought historically. None of the others could project beyond the immediate results of action, but at least they were prepared to follow where they themselves could not see the path. Did they know why it was so vital to free the ten? No, and if he were to waste his breath in explanations they still wouldn’t understand. But they acknowledged his capacity and followed his orders, which made them both essential and unbearable. Soon I must have equals about me, Peter thought, or I shall wither.

  Everything was pressing in. Peter wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Larry was to a degree right; the pressure was becoming too great. That was why the deadline had to be met, why they didn’t dare let this thing drag on any longer. Six P.M. today; four hours from now. There had to be an answer by then, period.

  And if the answer was no?

  “We’ll kill him,” Peter muttered aloud. “And start all over.” And next time, if Davis were dead, they’d be treated more seriously by the other side.

  Oh, God, how his cheeks hurt! How he wished he could stop the chewing, chewing, chewing. Sometimes he’d hold a knuckle in his mouth and bite down on that, but with his lips parted the air could touch his wounds, causing them to sting and burn even more. Rubbing his cheeks with both hands, moaning in his throat at the pain, Peter stood just outside the front door and tried to think what to do next.

  Not go back inside; he couldn’t deal with another Larry scene, not now. And God alone knew what was happening with Liz. No, not back into the house.

  In front of him, the hill sloped steeply upward, clothed in a ground cover of dark green ivy. A red brick path meandered up through the ivy, slanting along the hill face, here and there becoming shallow brick steps. At the top, he knew, was an untended garden, where remnants of asparagus and strawberries struggled amid choking thick weeds. Some previous owner had planted that garden, which had not been cared for in at least three years. Having no other possible destination, Peter climbed the path, moving slowly, holding his jaw clamped shut.

  At the top, the land leveled somewhat and the brick path widened into a kind of small patio, with a stone bench facing the view of the valley over the roof of the house. At one end of the patio was a small weathered plywood toolshed, barely four feet high. The garden was beyond the patio on the level width of land, and beyond that, just before the hillside rose steeply upward again, was the fence marking the property line, with a small locked gate leading out to a blacktop driveway, a common road shared by several of the neighbors farther up the hill. Peter, reaching the level part, glanced without interest at the tangle of plants in the garden, then stood looking out at the Valley, trying not to think, trying not to chew.

  After a few minutes, he sighed and turned to sit on the stone bench, and that was when he saw the trousered legs jutting out from behind the toolshed. He cried out, reflexively, as though he’d been punched in the throat, and actually felt his heart bulge inside his chest. Icy terror drenched him, and all he could do was stand there, strangling, his eyes fixed on those legs. Who? For the love of God, who?

  But then the person, who had been sitting back there with his legs stretched out, leaned forward, his grinning monkey face coming into view, and Peter gasped, “Oh! Oh, it’s you! Jee-sus! Son of a bitch, you scared the hell out of me!”

  “Why, Peter,” said the sly monkey face. “What an effect I have on you.”

  “Jesus God.” Peter was sure he would fall, he was that weak and dizzy. Clutching the stone bench, he lowered himself onto it and sat there panting. “Oh, Ginger,” he said. “For God’s sake, Ginger, don’t ever do that.”

  Laughing, enjoying himself hugely, Ginger Merville clambered to his feet and came over to sit beside Peter. “If you could see your face—!”

  “What—what are you doing
here? You’re supposed to be in Paris.”

  “I came back.” Ginger shrugged, still delighted with himself. “We’re off to Tokyo, actually, but I thought it’d be fun to come back en route, see how the old plantation’s getting along without me.”

  “But where’s Flavia?”

  “Still in Paris. She’s flying direct. Over the po-o-o-ole,” Ginger said, sweeping one arm over his head, languidly wiggling callous-tipped fingers.

  Peter was catching his breath now, calming down. He said, “What’s the matter with you, Ginger? Do you want to get involved? The whole idea was, you’re in Paris, we broke into your house, you didn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Well, I don’t know a thing about it. I’m staying at a beach place in Malibu. You know; Kenny’s place. He still has it, after all these years.” Then Ginger smiled in a sympathetic way, giving Peter a consoling pat on the knee. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “I’ve explained it to just everybody. Since the house is for rent, and I’m only here two or three days, I didn’t want to open the place and mess it all up. Ergo, the beach house.

  “Ginger, you’re crazy,” Peter said. But then, since in fact that was true, he awkwardly added, “You’re risking your position. And what for? There’s no point coming here.”

  Ginger leaned closer, smirking as though he were about to confide a dirty secret. “I want to see him,” he whispered.

  Peter stared in shock; this was a dirty secret. “See him!”

  “Through the window. I’ll slip into the pool—”

  “No! For God’s sake, Ginger!” Peter’s repugnance showed on his face. “If you want to see him, watch television, they have all his movies on.”

  “I know,” Ginger said. “Just as though he were dead. But I want to see him, Peter, in my little hideaway room.”

  “And he’ll see you.”

  “I’ll wait till after dark.”

  “It’ll all be over by then,” Peter said confidently. “The deadline’s six o’clock.”

  Ginger’s smile turned mock-pitying. “Oh, come off it,” he said. “You know they can’t gear up by then. Twenty-four hours? You must be joking.”