by Brian Hodge
But it wasn’t enough. With nearly seventy people knotted onto a city sidewalk, it could never be enough. Too many people, too few shelters. Compounded by shock, rabbit-in-headlight paralysis.
Paul heard Lorraine’s voice, urgent over the speakers, What’s going on, then heard the thud of grillwork colliding with a yielding body. Saw a kid go pinwheeling up the car’s windshield and over the roof to tumble down behind. The same sound, a reprise, and this time a girl hit the sidewalk with the force of a sledgehammer. The sound yet again, and someone else followed the same trajectory as the first boy.
Madness, complete and surreal. And the screaming, yes, plenty of that to go around. From victims and near-misses and witnesses on all sides. That sound, flesh and bone and steel, please God make it stop, and the excruciatingly lovely Stacy Donnelly was airborne, shooting star, bursting through a plate-glass window into The House of Wax, disappearing into the crystal blizzard.
Paul was screaming too, and he lost track of how many more sickly thuds were imprinted on eardrums and memory. The car swerved nearer to him and his two terrified wards, cutting closer with frightening deliberation, like a shark cruising near enough for a diver to reach out and touch its smooth hide.
The driver turned to gaze into Paul’s face as he passed, a severed moment that spoke volumes on the bizarre eloquence of madness. No rational thought, but on some instinctual level Paul wanted to see rabid foam, wanted cunning and savagery and manifestations of all things abhorrent. They would mean nothing, but would at least seem expected. But they were not to be found, not on this passing face, plain and calm and set with purpose, with only the tiniest of smiles to indicate that some grim pleasure was to be had from all this.
The car passed, finally, to bound off the curb onto the cross street, hooking left and disappearing from sight, from sound, from reality.
There settled an eerie moment during which nothing and no one seemed to move, and Paul knew that neither water nor tears could soon wash away the grief and vague guilt these moments had heaped upon their heads. He looked at young faces grown old, heard a peculiar sobbing, timeless, heard too many places all over the globe. Beirut, Northern Ireland, El Salvador, wherever loss comes too quickly, violent and irrevocable. U City? Welcome to the world.
Danny Schalter came bursting from his front door, and he was weeping. It was a ghastly thing to see, the death of the dream. The tarnishing of the golden moment, stripping it down to lead. He was the trigger.
As those who were able began to sort through the wreckage, to pick up the pieces.
Chapter 6
The House of Wax tragedy was but a few hours old, and already the talk of the town. The media were abuzz, while fact and speculation and misinformed gossip blazed like wildfires. It was the last thing Paul wanted any part of, whether as participant or passive listener. Too close, he was too close, and much more proximity in the next few hours was going to tear his soul into shreds.
Tonight it could only be Tappers, there was no other choice. Tappers Pub, a favored U City hideaway often frequented by the KGRM staff. There were flashier bars, trashier bars, trendier bars, but all roads eventually led back to Tappers, as real and comforting as a log fire on a cold winter’s day. They descended on the place with a knowledge that bordered on telepathic: None of them need be alone tonight.
Paul and Peter and Clifford were later arrivals, having spent nearly three hours with the police, giving their statements. Paul had been the only one to get a solid look at the driver and had flipped through mug files in a futile attempt to hang a name onto that face. And then, just as suddenly, Paul was escorted into an entirely new set of circumstances, his first lineup; point that finger of accusation. They told him nothing, only that a suspect had been brought in, and there was never a doubt but that they had the right guy.
There was no triumph in this, Number four, he’s the one, yes, officer, I’m sure of it. Only an incredible sadness, a total incomprehension as to why this had to have happened in the first place. He couldn’t even look at the plain-faced, stoop-shouldered man, now with his gaze cast down toward his own shoes, and hate him for what he’d done. Strongest, Paul supposed, was simply a bone-deep wish to turn back time.
He felt little better when they got to Tappers, but here, at least, were friendly faces, familiar surroundings. A haven of brick and ancient mellow wood, and in a touch of bohemia, paintings by area artists hung on the walls. He and Peter and Cliff scooted a second table adjacent to that of the earlier arrivals, Lorraine and David Blane and receptionist Sherry Thomason. Nods of greeting bobbed around the table, and for a long moment, no one said anything. Paul broke the ice, finally, told them the wacko was in custody.
“This is probably a ghoulish question,” said Captain Quaalude, “but what was the final casualty report?” He was rumpled, unshaven, hair in tufts. Probably hadn’t thought to shower after awakening to the news of what had happened.
Peter fielded this one. “Three dead. Eight in the hospital, five in serious condition.”
Among them, the adorable Stacy Donnelly, and every time Paul thought of her, lying inside the store and littered with shards of glass, he wanted to curl into a fetal ball and shake. Seventeen years old. Her leg, her hip, twisted at angles nature never intended. Feeling somehow responsible, Would she have still been there if it wasn’t for me, if it wasn’t for whoever she thought I was because she hears my voice sometimes?
“Who do you think this nutcase was?” Sherry asked, and Paul couldn’t answer.
“Do we have any enemies?” David said.
Cliff shrugged. “Maybe somebody’s got a grudge against Danny Schalter.”
“Yeah, and maybe there’s just a lot of sick fucking people in the world.” Peter, with no little irritation. “What do you say we give it a rest for fifteen minutes, okay?”
Sound advice. They sat beneath lights gone dim, in the gentle wash from a cane blade ceiling fan. Behind the brass-railed bar, Tequila Mike had tuned the TV for baseball, Cardinals versus Mets, airing from New York. In one corner, a couple of sorority sisters were locked into a game of darts. And best, crossing over to their tables, an angel of mercy in a peasant’s blouse.
“Jackie.” Paul smiled, and by now his head was slumped down atop crossed arms on the table.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “So very sorry.”
Jackie planted herself behind Paul to administer a brief neck rub, and he groaned. She had the firmest hands. She supplied every beverage need with a smile, took no unnecessary bullshit, and wore her business philosophy on a button pinned over her left breast: TIP ME OR DIE OF THIRST. He could fall asleep in moments, a pleasant cocoon of background babble and Jackie’s hands. Damn, all the good ones were married.
“Get you guys your usuals?” she said, and affirmatives were given, sooner the better, and she left, patting Peter’s head and tweaking Cliff’s nose.
“She likes you best,” Peter said. “Barmaid’s pet, that’s what you are.” He fumbled in his pockets for a pack of Salems. When he glanced up at Lorraine, beside him, a faint hint of Wicked Uncle Pete resurfaced in his eyes. An oddly welcome sight, any diversion welcome. He wiggled the unlit cigarette beneath Lorraine’s nose before she could scoot away.
“Oh, just give me the damn thing.” She snatched it from his hand, lit it from the tip of the one David was smoking. Inhaled, shut her eyes, exhaled a wispy cloud. She opened her eyes and hit Paul with a guilty little smile. “Just this once.”
Jackie was soon back with the usuals, and set down a pitcher of Bass ale for Peter and Paul, along with two frosted mugs. Gin for Clifford. The liver abuse started immediately, trying to drown sorrows that had learned to swim.
“KGRM.” Peter’s voice was loud, declamatory, edgy. “Lethal Rock Radio. Shit. I don’t think I can ever say that again.”
David nodded, drained his longneck Coors and traded it in for a fresh one. Jackie was in for combat pay tonight. “I suggest we reconsider the merits of that particular slo
gan. I’ll talk to Popeye about retiring all our Lethal station IDs.”
“Too bad,” Sherry said. “I really loved those.”
Peter tipped his mug in a bitter salute. “End of an era, kiddies.”
That was the problem with anything you could define as an era, Paul decided. It never lasted. Decline and fall, same old sad story. Gone in a haze of smoking rubber, exhaust, and burning oil.
He grew hungry, remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The suggestion was put forth for food, and three platters of Mighty Macho Nachos were ordered. They arrived looking like steaming slices from someone’s lawn, deluged with enough shredded lettuce to choke a lawn mower. Tequila Mike brought them himself. Special occasion.
“Three Mexican garbage pails, on the house tonight. I figure you could use some good news.” The ever-reliable Tequila Mike, so named because no one could match him in a guave worm eating contest. Rock-solid friend to loyal patrons, and for the occasional Olympian hangover you might complain of, he could whip up a Bloody Mary to reanimate the dead.
News director Russell St. James was the last to arrive. He settled at the head of the tables and promptly scalded his tongue on melted cheese napalm. A tall guy who denied his receding hairline, preferring instead to call it an advancing forehead. What fuzzy hair remained left him looking like Art Garfunkel, circa late seventies. He’d never make the jump to TV news.
“Did you get anything out of the police before you left?” Lorraine asked.
“A little.” He nodded, rolled his eyes, as if having heard too much of the wrong thing. “I know this one guy at the main station, he’ll usually slip me stuff off the record. They’re not releasing the guy’s name or background, not yet, but he did give me the gist of what the guy told them when they asked why he took a car through the crowd.”
“Why?” Paul said. As if any excuse was going to make sense.
“Said God told him to do it.” Russ sat staring into the table, chewing on the inside of one cheek. Objectivity was gone this time, the news too close to home. “He said he was listening to the broadcast, and then God came on and told him to take care of it. So … he did.”
The revelation was met with the expected silence, the same uneasy greeting of any lunatic raving about mad divine sanction. Had the events today not been so horribly tragic, this might have almost been funny. Paul could hear the jokes now: God? Wonder what kind of Arbitrons He pulls? Wonder what the FCC will have to say about this?
God, infinite patience and love aside, must get awfully tired of all the crazies lining up to claim His partnership.
And so they drank, and numbed themselves from the inside out. A miniature city of bottles and glasses grew over the tabletop, roadmapped by sticky rings, foliated by stray lettuce and guacamole. Cliff excused himself and began to chat up the two dart players. The tournament soon became a threesome, and Paul wished him silent luck. Diversions were needed, tonight of all nights.
“Funniest thing I ever saw in my life involved that guy,” Peter said, kicking back to watch Cliff try to get laid. And on went the story, KGRM legend that Peter had promised to tell Paul someday. The time had come, the night of nights. Two years ago, according to Peter, Cliff had been working on a new stranger for hours, never had seen her in Tappers before. Buying her drink after drink while she sat at the bar in perfect poise and regal control. At last, he moved in for the kill, nuzzling close, telling her how much he loved her hair. Suave, charming, and debonair. If you like it that much, she’d told him, go ahead and take it. To which she whipped off what proved to be a wig and showed him a bare head, sparse wispy fuzz. Chemo.
Paul laughed and it was obligatory, but Peter never noticed, and this was as Paul wanted it. Chemo and its ravages, yes, he knew what they were like, and he would never find them funny…
The night grew late, later, and their ranks dwindled. Sherry the first to leave, Captain Quaalude next, vowing he had just enough time to grab a little coffee and sobriety before starting the graveyard shift. Clifford vanished into the night with the taller of the two dart-slingers. Peter and Russ vacated at the same time, bemoaning how morning was going to come too early for them both.
And then there were two.
Paul and Lorraine sat across from each other, relying heavily on elbows. Time-lapse photography throughout the night would have marked the passing of the hours by their gradually slumping closer to the tabletop.
She checked the clock behind the bar, groaned. A quarter to one. She peered down into her drink. Over the night she had consumed an orchard of fuzzy navels.
“You want me to call Craig, so he can come get you?”
She shook her head, held up a hand, traffic cop stop. “He wouldn’t answer. He’s in San Francisco. Bizzzzzness.”
“How about a cab?”
She looked up, ignoring the offer. “Bet you if I went over to that phone over there and checked our answering machine, I’d find out he didn’t call me tonight, either. Come on. Bet me?”
“No,” he said quietly. He leaned back in his chair, tried to mentally tally up the scattered change and bills, Jackie’s well-earned tips. Surrender was quick. Sadly, simple addition was now on a par with differential calculus. And wasn’t tonight just the night for misery and self-pity, anyway? Tequila Mike really needed a better selection of jukebox blues.
Lorraine’s fingertip traced wet circles around the rim of her glass. “Who are you serious about these days? Are you still seeing what’s-her-name, the one that writes the movie reviews?”
“Joanie.” He shook his head. “I suppose the clinical term for my condition is ‘between relationships.’ But I prefer layman’s language.”
“Which is?”
“My love life’s in the dumper.”
She giggled, wearily pushed her mass of hair back from her forehead and giggled more when it fell forward again into her drink. It seemed very funny to Paul at the time, too.
“Well don’t you sweat it, Paul.” Her voice lurched and dragged in spots, despite a heroic fight for clarity. “Here’s what you do. Need a pen? Never mind, I’ll remember. Before you get serious, make sure you’re compatible. Take a whole bunch of Cosmo tests or something.”
His shoulders wiggled in silent laughter. Would we be having this conversation if our kidneys weren’t floating? Probably not. He had no idea what to say, was grateful when she went on.
“You know what pisses me off the most? Craig doesn’t even want to take my career seriously. Like, like it’s not as important as his, or it’s just a phase I’ll grow out of. Okay! Okay! Maybe he does make about three times what I do. But you never see me coming through that door at night so stressed out.”
Paul was nodding, yes, yes, but inside, I really don’t think I want to hear all this.
“And bedtime. Huh!” She tossed her hands up, let them clunk to the table. “His idea of foreplay anymore is to yell, ‘Get ready.’”
They both broke up laughing, sudden gallows humor, and Paul was finding it necessary to laugh. Self-defense. If allowed to brood too long, he would surely picture the two of them in the conjugal bed, Lorraine’s mounting frustration as she tried to elicit a more protracted response, the give and take of carnal raptures. He didn’t need those images. For if he saw them with too much clarity, he just might have to apply his fist to the nearest wall and work things out.
“So what if KGRM isn’t at the top of the heap?” she said. “I’ve worked hard to be taken seriously in this town, do quality work. I think it’s paying off, too. You know, when I first got into radio, it seemed like most GMs and program directors wanted me to come off like some no-brain sex object.” Lips pouted, eyebrows arched, she dropped her voice into sultry breathiness. “Hi, this is Lorraine Savage. And I’ll be up with you all night long, right here on WORG, Orgasm Rock Radio.” She shelved the act with abrupt disdain, and shook her head.
“Well, I would listen,” and he pressed a glass of melting ice to his face and hissed, venting steam.
; “Oh you pervert.” She made as if to swat him on the arm, squeezed it instead. “And you know the hell of it? I think if Popeye had his way, that’s exactly what I’d be doing at KGRM. Lucky for me David’s smarter than that.”
“Popeye’s not the most enlightened GM I’ve seen, no.”
“Tell me about it. The man’s a pig in a three-piece suit. Have you seen the way he looks at Sherry sometimes? He does everything but sniff her chair when she leaves a room.”
The red flare of anger was righteous, sudden. Protective instincts resurfacing, us against them, downtrodden versus management. In this case, compounded by their receptionist’s youth. For years he’d been cast in such a role, the big brother. Friend, confessor, confidant; these he had been to young women ever since high school. He used to feel flattered, until a so-called friend had told him it just meant they considered him no threat, and after that he wasn’t sure quite what to think.
Take things for what they’re worth, he figured. They are what they are.
“I’m going home,” he said.
He killed off the last of the Bass ale. Definitely time to retire the mug. He tried and mostly failed to stifle the Mount Krakatoa of belches, and Lorraine keeled over in laughter, shoulder to tabletop, as he rose.
“And with that, madam,” cloaking himself in the tattered shreds of his dignity, “I shall bid you a fond fare-thee-well.”
“Wait, wait, wait. I should leave too.” She wriggled out of her seat, wavered with arms extended for high-wire balance. “Whoa. Steady. I think I should’ve left with Sherry.”
Paul gripped her forearm, the blind leading the blind. His own internal gyroscope had taken quite a beating, as well. They bade goodbye to Jackie and Tequila Mike, then left Tappers behind. Sidewalk on a summer night. The air had cooled to pleasant, fresh and head-clearing after hours of smoke and enclosure. Headlights and neon played havoc with their eyes for a few moments.
They weren’t alone, the sidewalks were still well-populated. Barhoppers in transit, insomniacs out for coffee or a slice of late-night pizza. The Loop, alive with the midnight musings of poets and troubadours. Here there was desperate romance, and solace, and hope, and dawn was very far away.
