The Blindfold Test

by Barry Schechter

  Parker decided not to make threats—just point the gun and give instructions. “Put your arms down,” he said, appropriating the stern, patient tone he took with his problem students. “Step over to that door…good.” He took his key ring out of his pocket. “Catch.” He tossed it over. “Now unlock it.”

  His broad back to Parker, Monroe, Jr. paused to study the index card on the door.

  “I said unlock it. Don’t try locking yourself in.”

  Turning the key, Monroe, Jr. glanced over his shoulder. “And miss the show? I wanta see what you do you gotta use that thing.”

  Grabbing the keys back from Monroe, Jr. and closing and locking the door behind them, Parker gestured to the chair in front of his desk. He had the gun out when Karen Feinstein waved from the parking lot. “Wait—get the blinds.” He flinched when they crashed shut. “Hold it. Don’t sit down yet—take your coat off.”

  In his denim workshirt Monroe, Jr. was barrel-chested and pot-bellied, his skin undamaged from the top of his neck to the graying red hairs in his open collar. “A man should have clear objectives when he points a gun. Looks to me like you’re floundering, buddy.”

  Parker felt slightly giddy hearing himself say “Up against the wall!”

  The search produced a wallet, a key ring, a pack of gum and a soiled plaid handkerchief. He set these with the coat on the desk behind him. “Sit down,” he said, backing around the desk toward his chair. Monroe, Jr. made himself at home, folding his hands across his belly, stretching his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles. Parker switched on the desk lamp and, twisting its neck, lit up the purplish-black scars.

  “Oh please, please! I confess!”

  “Shut up.” Parker squinted into the glare off the mirror lenses. “Take those off.”

  The eyes facing Parker were small, gray, bloodshot, and lusterless. “I hate when people call ’em ‘beady’.”

  “That stuff on your face…it’s some kind of makeup.”

  “What it is, is polyurethane, gelatin, and epoxy. Only took you twenty minutes to see what you been lookin’ at. That’s lightning for you, boy.”

  “You figured I’d be the one to pull your beard off today. The accent—that’s fake, too?”

  “It’s only fake if I’m tryin’ to sound real.” He tapped an endpiece of his sunglasses against his teeth.

  Parker said, “Start peeling the stuff off your face—wait.” He opened the bottom drawer and felt around till he found the duct tape. He always had some around. By the time he’d given up on his car, it was held together mostly by duct tape. He tossed the roll to Monroe, Jr. “Bind your right wrist to the armrest.”

  “It’ll take me longer to get this stuff off one-handed.”

  “No. It’ll just hurt more.”

  Monroe, Jr. bound his wrist in five turns and let the roll dangle. He took some glop between his thumb and forefinger and drew it out like bubblegum, the side of his face expanding as if it too were about to rip free. “Hope you won’t shoot a man for a little constructive criticism, but it seems to me you’re takin’ this ‘ruined-your-life’ business way too hard.”

  The man was killing time, but Parker couldn’t resist. “How should I take it?”

  “Know what? Check the insurance tables for a man your age, weight, and occupation. Bet you ain’t been sicker or hurt more or generally unluckier than most. Look at it this way: If all the bad things that happen to you happen on purpose, then the bad things that woulda happened by accident can’t happen.” He tugged at another patch and it worked loose with a slurping, sucking noise. “I know, you had all this potential, and I fucked it up. Well, how many potential guys do you see in this room? Ain’t nobody in this world but us actual guys—time you faced it, amigo.” He tugged the piece till it came away in gooey strands. “Quit passin’ the buck. Blame it all on me, and you’re lettin’ me control your life. Blame it on yourself, and I still control your life, come to think of it, but I respect a man who takes responsibility.”

  He delivered this monologue with such self-delighted, sprightly malice, Parker found himself laughing.

  An unhealthy baby face was emerging—round, bald, pale, chubby, pug-nosed, thin-lipped, and jug-eared. The laugh lines round the dull gray eyes and famished lips made Parker think of a man who’d died laughing. Parker stared, assuring himself that this was no allegorical figure—just a man who sat up late eating Twinkies, thinking up mean things to do.

  Monroe, Jr. was picking the last shreds off his cheeks. “Trouble with you, amigo, you’re like everyone else these days. Everything me! me! me! My enemies! My screwed-up life! My conspiracy! Maybe you wouldn’t be so miser’ble if you thought about other people. Get married! Have kids! Do volunteer work! Help the homeless! You’re gonna die all alone in a room fulla soup cans, and I suppose that’s my fault, too.” With a moist resounding rip a bald wig peeled away from his identically bald skull.

  Parker didn’t bother to ask. He stepped out from behind his desk, picked up the duct tape roll still attached to Monroe, Jr.’s wrist, and played it out till the man’s chest and limbs were cocooned to his chair.

  “I feel snug as a bug in a rug!” Monroe, Jr. declared as Parker returned to his seat.

  Parker said, “How about dropping the fake—sorry, the unreal accent. What would you sound like if someone woke you up at three in the morning?”

  “I dunno. Surprise me.”

  “Tell you what. Be real for thirty seconds. What could happen?”

  Monroe, Jr., ran his tongue over a shred of epoxy at the corner of his mouth.

  The wallet—it looked expensive; eel skin?—contained one hundred eighty-seven dollars, an accordion fold stuffed with IDs, and no photographs.

  Parker read from the business card he’d found in the billfold: “ ‘Tolerance Management, Inc.’ What’s that?”

  “Beats the hell outta me!”

  Intrigued, Parker took down the phone number and the State Street address. He brushed the trenchcoat off his desk and spread out the IDs. “I’ve never seen anyone grinning so fulsomely on an Illinois driver’s license,” he observed.

  “You’d be amazed what the physical act of smiling does for your whole outlook. Come on—try it!”

  “What’s this?” Parker had just noticed credit cards, Illinois driver’s licenses, and social security cards under two other names—Roy Kleemont and Don Ray Smith—each with a separate address. “What’s your real name?”

  “You’re the boss. State your preference.”

  When he’d finished copying names, addresses, phone numbers, and Social Security numbers, Parker took aim with both hands. “Here’s my problem. I can’t let you go. Give me some information—something verifiable, something…incriminating—and I’ll turn you over to the police. Otherwise….” He didn’t want to state the threat flatly, doubted he could sound convincing.

  He’d been trying to keep his hands steady, but now he let them shake. He’d be more of a threat acting like what he was—a nervous man with a gun.

  He seemed to be having an effect; Monroe, Jr.’s grin shriveled over his teeth.

  Parker cleared his throat. “Let’s start with an easy one. Why are you doing all this?”

  Blank-faced and silent, Monroe, Jr. seemed even more unreachable. The Cheshire cat had disappeared, leaving not even its grin.

  Parker picked up the phone. “If we’re both lucky we won’t have to carry this farce to its conclusion.” He punched a number.

  “The Exhibitionist!” Dobbs’s secretaries always voiced the greeting with exaggerated formality.

  “Steve Dobbs, please.”

  “Mr. Dobbs is in a meeting. May I—”

  “This is Jeffrey Parker. I have Hank Monroe, Junior in my office. That’s M-O-N-R-O-E. Junior. I think he’ll want to speak to me now!”

  Monroe, Jr. grinned. “That’s the ticket, ami
go!”

  “Jeff! Still coming for dinner Sunday?”

  Parker was distracted by the irrelevant thought that John Standell was right—Steve did sound like Bugs Bunny.

  “You might have to set a place for Hank Monroe, Junior,” Parker said.

  “What’d he do? Drop by for a visit?”

  “That’s exactly what he did. Listen. Get—”

  “Why?”

  “I forgot to ask.” Monroe, Jr. was straining against the tape; Parker motioned with the gun for him to keep still. “Why are you here?”

  “I dunno, thought we’d shoot the shit.”

  “You were right the other day,” Parker said to Dobbs, “he must be bored. Listen. Put together all your evidence and get over here. I’ll phone the police.” It occurred to Parker that he’d have to get rid of Jack’s gun before the police arrived.

  “He’s so bored he’ll wait around for the police?”

  “I’m not giving him a choice.”

  “Of course,” said Dobbs, clipped and officious, “I can’t be a party to kidnapping.”

  “I’m holding him for the police. Get the hell over here.”

  A damp breeze rattled the blinds; rain popped and ticked at the window.

  “Evidence—yeah. I have to tell you, Jeff, the evidence is kind of—kinda speculative.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Seeing Parker’s distress, the bound man contrived a sympathetic shrug, causing tape to bunch up at his shoulders. Parker waved the gun at him.

  Dobbs said, “The evidence at this stage requires a grasp of subtleties, a capacity for synoptic thought. The police are so damn linear, I’m not sure—”

  “You mean you’ve got zip.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that strongly, but—well, yeah.”

  “What about the documents? The FBI memos and all that?”

  “Yeah, the memos. We don’t have the memos per se.”

  “What now?”

  “Let him go. I doubt he’ll press charges for kidnapping.”

  “Any other helpful suggestions?”

  “There’s always torture. I’m speaking theoretically, of course, but the systematic application of heat and cold to the soles of the feet is said to be highly effective. Get some ice cubes, some matches and cigarettes, a cigar’s even better, then—”

  “You know what, Steve? You’re a psychotic Walter Mitty.”

  “I won’t take that personally. I understand you’re disappointed and you’re lashing out. See you Sunday. Bye!”

  Parker slammed down the phone.

  Monroe, Jr. said, “Hey, you done your best; ain’t your fault your best ain’t worth shit.”

  Parker was ready to concede the point. The duct tape was a bonehead idea, reducing his options to torture or murder. All right, get rid of the tape, beat the truth out of him in a fair fight.

  Then he had a better idea. “Let’s phone the police after all. It’s a felony to carry a forged driver’s license. And I’ll bet if you use three names you have some other reasons for avoiding the police. What’s the rush—another previous engagement?”

  Monroe, Jr. was writhing against the tape, aiming his bald head forward like a lineman about to blitz. Wisps of glop adhered to the crown of his skull.

  Parker stepped out from behind the desk and stood over him. “I really must insist that you sit still. I might not shoot you, but I wouldn’t mind knocking you cold. That’s better. My, your wit seems to desert you under pressure. How about some morsel from the old cracker barrel?”

  There was a knock at the door and before Parker had his finger to his lips a key turned in the lock.

  “Come ii-in!” Monroe, Jr. sang. Behind him the door cracked open and slammed shut.

  No one answered Parker’s dry-throated “Who’s there!” but the dark spot under the door hadn’t moved.

  He flattened himself against the wall to the left of the door, where he’d be hidden behind it if it opened. Would the despairmen have knocked?

  “Jeffrey, I’m coming in.” It was Jan Cohen’s voice, sounding more tired and exasperated than scared. The door still hadn’t opened. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

  Parker stepped away from the wall. “Why don’t you come back later, Jan?”

  “Why don’t we contain this while we still can?” she said through the door. “Or do you relish seeing your neighbors on the ten o’clock news observing that you were a quiet loner?”

  Parker laughed.

  “At least,” she said, “your sense of the absurd hasn’t deserted you. That if nothing else should keep you from prolonging this one more minute.”

  “You don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s Tiddlywinks!” This clearly wasn’t the tone she’d intended, and she immediately tried another. “Why don’t you open the door, hand me the gun, and tell me what’s happening?”

  It was Jan or the SWAT team. “Don’t get scared, Jan. I’m going to open the door and hand you the gun.”

  His back to the door and Parker, Monroe, Jr. yelled, “Look out, lady! He’s takin’ aim! Just kidding.”

  “Jan?” Parker called through the door. “Are you still out there? I’m holding the gun by the barrel, I’m turning the knob.”

  She faced him in the doorway, brittle with willed courage. She was dressed up today—white pearls, cobalt-blue suit—as if to bolster the stiff-backed formality with which she accepted the gun. With her free hand she hurriedly lowered the big red-tinted glasses propped on her head.

  Parker stepped aside to let her in and closed the door. “I’m the second faculty member you’ve disarmed. You’re gaining a rep as the Wyatt Earp of Skokie. You look spiffy, Jan—what’s the occasion?”

  His attempt at small talk seemed only to intensify her distress and confusion. “The fund-raiser’s this evening,” she said tonelessly. “Aren’t you…?” It dawned on her that she was pointing the gun at him; she dropped it into her handbag. She stepped in front of the chair to look at the bound man, and whatever look he returned caused her nostrils to flare in distaste.

  “I came here for Jack’s gun,” she said to Parker. “This morning I found out he picked the lock on my desk drawer and took it back. He told me he gave it to you, and I was hoping to stop you from doing something idiotic and getting yourself killed—I’m too late for the first, obviously. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to call the police.”

  Since Parker hadn’t managed to get rid of the gun, he was hoping to keep the police out of this so he wouldn’t be arrested along with his captive. Was it worth the effort to make up a story for Jan? A bullshit story would only insult her intelligence—the truth even more so. Might as well go out with a funny exit line:

  “Janet, I promise this will never happen again.”

  It failed to break the ice.

  She stepped around the desk and picked up the phone.

  “Hang up the phone, okay? Will you at least hear me out?”

  She hung up and folded her arms, warning him by the set of her mouth and the thrust of her chin that bullshit would bounce off.

  But he’d just realized that b.s. could work even if she didn’t believe it.

  “My friend here suffers from Post-Vietnam Stress Syndrome.”

  Stepping in front of the chair, Parker glanced at Monroe, Jr., who looked as bewildered as Jan. “I was helping him work through his POW experience.”

  She lifted her glasses as she sometimes did to underscore a sarcastic remark, then decided, apparently, that it would be lost on him. She picked up the phone.

  “Don’t waste your time, Jan. It doesn’t matter whether you believe me. As long as my friend and I refuse to press charges, this isn’t a matter for the police.” Then why make up a story at all? Oh, well.

  Monroe, Jr. took his
cue. “It’s like he said, lady. It was like bein’ back in Nam.”

  An enraged beep-tone was pealing from the receiver; she depressed the cradle with her index finger. “What about the gun?”

  “I took it,” Parker said, “to keep it away from Jack—same as you.”

  “Whatever trouble you’re in, let the police handle it.”

  “Could we lie about the gun? No? Then thank you for your good intentions.”

  She hung up, watching Parker as if an undertow had dragged him beyond the possibility of help, a speck shrinking toward the horizon.

  “Anyway, it worked like a charm,” said Monroe, Jr., chipper. “You cured me, amigo. Thanks! Why don’t you get this stuff off me and I’ll be on my way.”

  When it was clear that Jan wasn’t about to leave, Parker began unraveling tape. “I suppose I’m fired?”

  Checkmated, she hadn’t moved from behind the desk. “See me in my office on Monday. I hope you’ll trust me enough to let me help you.”

  “Damn!” Monroe, Jr. guffawed. “What do you have to do around here to get fired! Know what, buddy? I feel fit as a fiddle! I think we’re onto somethin’ with this duct tape. I say we franchise it—chain o’ spas, maybe, how ’bout it?”

  Yawning and stretching he rose from the skein at his feet, a fat untransformable larva.

  * * *

  —

  When he was alone, Parker raised the blinds and inhaled till his head cleared. The rain had nearly wound down, plinking and gurgling. A silvery dimness trembled on cars in the lot.

  He snatched a sheet of paper about to flit off the desk—the items he’d copied from Monroe, Jr.’s wallet.

  He punched the first number.

  A bright receptionist voice recited “Tolerance Management! Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I have a few questions about the Breather Program.”

  “One moment, please!”

  A string version of “The Greatest Love of All” filled the pause before a terse male voice demanded, “Who is this?”

  “Is this the number for the Breather Program?”

  “That would be Jeffrey Parker!” The voice sounded glad he’d called.