by T E. D Klein
But as he came to his own block, he saw at once, with a pang, that all the homes along one side, his house and three neighboring ones, had been replaced by a line of new split-levels, their lawns quite bare of trees. He walked for several blocks more, then doubled back, sear-ching like a lost dog for the scent of home. But there was no getting around it: the old house was gone, and with it a large chunk of his past. Memories had been lost that could never be reclaimed.
And yet the past was here, all around him now; he could feel it, he could smell it in the faint scent of the ocean. As he walked tiredly back toward the station, already thinking of the water that lay miles ahead, he told himself that he was traveling toward the one dependable element from his boyhood, the one thing history couldn't change.
Long Beach was just over the bridge, on an eight-mile-long sandbar running parallel to the mainland. The railroad station stood near the center of the main commercial avenue, lined with banks, shopping plazas, and synagogues. Nothing looked familiar.
It was after three by the time he located Huntoon's street, as far inland as one could get on that narrow strip of oceanfront suburbia, several blocks up from the old wooden boardwalk that connected the town's hotels and nursing homes. Locust Court was a dowdy little pocket of garden apartments and multifamily houses, a world of privet hedges, peeling paint, and narrow, broken sidewalks. Even ov: this cold November afternoon, the air held a hint of sour cooking smells, like the hallway of a tenement. The street was deserted except for a wrinkled old man in a ski-jacket and felt hat with earflaps, his breath visible as he bent to gather the dead leaves and trash that had accumulated beneath the sagging green wire fence bordering one of the private homes. From somewhere behind him came the faint sounds of a playground, though Nadelman didn't remember passing any children. In the distance he thought he heard the pounding of the surf, but maybe it was only the wind. He was all turned around here, in this landlocked little enclave, though he was fairly certain that beyond the furthest row of rooftops, the ocean began.
Number 1152, the shabbiest house on the block, was a half-timbered stucco building that stood flush with the sidewalk. Two cars were parked in the driveway, its sparse gravel overgrown with weeds, and another two were visible in the open garage in the rear. He wondered if one of them was Huntoon's.
That name appeared at the top of a column of doorbells, like the grand prize question in a quiz show. Nadelman pressed the bell, noticing, as he did so, the name immediately below it-Braverman. Those must be the people Huntoon was so eager to throw a scare into. Neighbors.
He was just about to ring again when the door gave a loud, unsteady buzz and admitted him. The tiny lobby, masked by shadows, looked badly used, like a child's playroom. Someone had crayoned a crude design on the wall, the image of a dog defecating. As he climbed the narrow stairs he heard, four flights above him, the sound of a door being opened.
"Arly?" It was an old woman's voice, but it still had muscles in it. "You forgot the key?"
He paused on the stairs. "Mrs. Huntoon? I'm the guy Arlen's been writing to. The one who wrote that song."
"You're Nadelman?"
"That's right. May I come up?" Without waiting for a reply he continued climbing, fueled by the nervousness he'd been feeling all weekend.
"Arly's out," she was saying, as he rounded the final flight. There was the trace of an accent in her voice, but he couldn't place it. By the time he reached her front door, panting despite his workouts at the gym, she had the chain on the door.
"I ain't so sure I ought to let you in."
He saw a pale slice of her head, wavering back and forth in the opening, as if to give him the fullest view possible; her mouth was grim.
"Jesus, Mrs. Huntoon," he said, catching his breath. "I came an awfully long way to see you two." He'd be damned if he'd go trot-ting back down those stairs.
"Well, I guess he's due home soon." The door closed, and he heard a scrabbling against the wood; then it opened to admit him. "This place ain't fit to be seen. We don't get many visitors." She was still shaking her head over some private worry. He recognized her from the photograph, a small, stout, grey-haired woman with a face like a Cabbage Patch doll. She had not, then, been the one who took the pictures.
"I would have called first," he said, "but you don't seem to have a phone."
The woman frowned, still distracted. "No, they came and took that out." She looked around, scratching at the creases in her forehead. The house dress she wore was wrinkled and not very clean, as if she'd been asleep in it. "Arly's going to be here soon enough, I guess. He'll be surprised we got a visitor."
Clearly visitors were rare. The front room, with a threadbare rug and one small window to let in the light, was a jumble of cushions, old clothes, and magazines. Three broken-backed chairs were grouped like old-age pensioners around a large TV set with flares of aluminum foil attached with tape to its antenna. The room obviously saw a lot of use; there were dirty cups and dishes on the little table in front of the TV, and the air smelled faintly of garbage. Dog-eared issues of Prevention, Fate, and TV Guide lay strewn about the furniture, cookie crumbs sprinkled on their covers. Lying on one of the chairs, spine cracked, was a paperback:
Stranger Than Science: 73 Fully Documented Case Histories That Science Is Powerless to Explain.
"This place has gone to pot ever since Arly got laid off," said the woman, settling herself in the chair by the window. Nadelman sat tentatively beside her.
"How long ago was that?"
"Just after Labor Day. All they said was they didn't want him to drive for them anymore. He had a perfect safety record."
"Who'd he work for?"
"A firm in Valley Stream. They deliver to stores-albums and things. Green Acres, Gimbel's, other places. That's how he got interested in that music." She pursed her lips. "They said he was stealing, but you and I both know he wasn't. He was just listening to the songs."
Nadelman nodded. "That's a shame. I'm glad, at least, that my song was one of them."
"Oh, he's a fan of yours now. He loves your work, Arly does."
From outside came the crunch of gravel in the driveway. They heard a car motor stop, followed by the slamming of a door. Mrs. Huntoon inclined her face slightly toward the window, her eyes narrowing. "It's him now. He's going to get a surprise, seeing you here." She looked worried.
"One reason I came," said Nadelman, seizing what time was left to speak to the woman alone, "was to see your son's handiwork-the thing that he based on my song. Is it still up there on the roof?"
She shook her head, the loose flesh below her chin wobbling back and forth for emphasis. "No, no, that's all gone. It was just up there for a couple of nights. Arly only meant it as a joke."
Nadelman smiled. "Yes, I thought so."
Downstairs a door slammed; they heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. "That'll be Arly," she said. Struggling to her feet, she went to the door and opened it. "Arly," she shouted, "guess who decided to pay us a visit." A grunt sounded amid the footsteps from the stairwell. "It's the one who wrote that song."
"Holy shit!" Moments later a large, hatchet-faced man burst into the apartment, looking more surprised than pleased. He was dressed like a redneck, in boots, sideburns, and a battered leather jacket. In his arms was an assortment of lumber with rusty nails protruding from it.
"I wanted to call first," Nadelman said again, "but you don't have a phone."
Huntoon nodded doubtfully. "Well, you're here now, so make yourself at home." From beneath the lumber he stuck out a huge hand. "I just got back from the dymp over in Oceanside," he said, holding out the wood as if in evidence. "Had to get rid of some trash."
His eyes glared meaningfully at Nadelman, hinting at complicity. Nadelman pictured the creature from the photograph being summarily dumped into a heap of garbage. "And look what I found there!" he said, leaning the wood in the corner. "I can really use this stuff."
Nadelman eyed the rows of rusty nails. "You really like
to build things, don't you?"
The other rubbed his hands and nodded. "That's right. Got me a real genius for it. Just like you've got one for magic." He suddenly looked guilty; his eyes darted to the wall behind Nadelman's head. "You know, I really did mean to frame your letter," he said. "I just haven't gotten around to it."
"Oh, I don't care about that," said Nadelman. "What I came out for was to talk."
Huntoon grinned. "Yeah, I thought you'd have to talk to me sooner or later." He seated himself in the largest chair and kicked off his boots, propping his feet on the table. "I had a premonition you'd be coming to me."
Nadelman sat down across from him, trying not to breathe too much of Huntoon's socks. "I haven't been avoiding you," he said. "I'd have contacted you before, if there'd been any way of reaching you."
"Oh, there are ways," said Huntoon. "There are ways of reaching anyone. I should think you'd know one or two yourself." Beside him his mother nodded solemnly.
"I'm afraid I depend on the telephone."
"Yeah?" Huntoon sneered. "What you want one of them things for? They just waste your money, and people talk nothing but nonsense and gossip about you behind your back."
"That's true," said Nadelman, like a nervous courtier. "Some peo-ple can be pretty malicious. Is that one of your problems with the Bravermans?"
Huntoon shook his head. "I don't have any problems with the Bravermans."
"They're away," the old woman added. "I heard Mrs. Braverman say they were going away. Florida, I think. Somewhere like that."
"Who are these people, anyway?" asked Nadelman. He decided to pursue this line until he met some resistance; then he'd back off
"They're our neighbors." Huntoon smiled. "If you want to call 'em that."
"Yes, I saw," said Nadelman. "They live downstairs."
Huntoon's eyes narrowed; his smile grew wolfish. "Maybe they do and maybe they don't."
"They went away," said Mrs. Huntoon.
"I get the impression," said Nadelman, "that there's no love lost between you."
Huntoon shrugged. "Let's just say we had some differences of opi-nion about a few things."
"Like what?"
"Like where you walk a dog, and about leaving dog shit all over a roof when there are people living down here who happen to want to walk up there."
So that was it, Nadelman thought. Now he understood. It didn't seem like much to him, but it obviously bothered the hell out of these people. "In that case," he said, "I hope you threw a good scare into them."
Huntoon snickered. "We threw a scare into them, all right! Didn't we, Mama?"
Mrs. Huntoon nodded. "And they won't be coming back too soon."
"I'll bet!" said Nadelman. He tried to imagine what the effigy on the rcof must have looked like to someone walking up there in the dark. Or worse, Huntoon himself, dressed up as he had been in the photo. The poor bastards had probably fled the state, they'd been so scared. "Well, I guess things'll be cleaner up there for a while," he said. "Any chance 1 could go up and walk around?" He was look-ing for a way to get Huntoon alone; it would be easier to talk to him then.
Huntoon shrugged. "Suit yourself. There's nothing up there now. But we'll go, if you want."
The old woman reached for his arm. "Arly, you don't want to take him on the roof."
"Is there a problem?" asked Nadelman, already standing but ready to sit down again. The worry in the woman's voice made him think of Rhoda's words this morning, and he had a sudden vision of the burly Huntoon heaving him over the edge.
"No," said Huntoon. "No problem." He reached for his boots. "Come on, we'll take a look around."
The roof was one remaining flight up the stairs in the hail. At the top stood a dented iron door, partially ajar. Huntoon pushed through it. bright grey sky filling the doorway. From the distance came the sound of children's voices.
"See? Nothing here. Just like I told you." He gestured around.
Nadelman followed the sweep of his hand, not seeing anything he remembeied from the photographs. The flat rooftop reminded him of an arena. He took deep gulps of the cool untainted air and gazed a; the line of hotels in the distance, like monstrous spectators.
'You're right," he said. "But then, you also told me that on Fri-day. Your message said the thing had disappeared."
The other cocked his head, suddenly coy. "Yeah, that's right-it did."
"Where is it now?" asked Nadelman, already knowing the answer. "At the dump?" It Huntoon had hauled the thing out there today, he'd probably had a good reason. Perhaps it had scared the Braver-mans so badly that he'd thought it best to get rid of it.
Huntoon crossed his arms. "Maybe it's at the dump, and maybe it isn't. Maybe 11 came back last night-and maybe it didn't. I'm not saying anything without lawyer."
"Why in the world would you need a lawyer?" asked Nadelman. Huntoon reminded him of a child who has a secret and wants everyone in the world to know it.
"Maybe I do and maybe I don't. That's for you and the rest of them to find out."
His mixture of bravado and evasiveness made Nadelman uncom-fortable. Huntoon was big, and the roof was very high. "Well, it's none of my business anyway," he said. "I'm just glad I could help solve your little problem." He looked around. "At least I don't see any dog shit."
"You won't," Huntoon said bitterly. "It took me nearly two hours to clcan it up last night." He examined the roof with a critical eye. "But now that it's light, 1 see I missed a thing or two." He stooped down and picked up something that gleamed in the waning sunlight.
"What's that?" asked Nadelman.
"Hold out your hand," said Huntoon, coming toward him. Nadelman backed away, the smaller boy on the playground. "Come on, hold out your hand. I'm not gonna hurt you." He dropped the thing into Nadelman's upturned palm.
Nadelman examined it. It was a jagged splinter of glass nearly two inches long and red as a ruby. He handed it back to Huntoon, remembering with distaste the shards of glass he'd seen in the early photograph, where the thing's hands should have been.
"Is this from where I think it's from?" he asked. "From your, uh, servant?"
Huntoon gave him a guarded look. "He's your servant just as much as mine. Seems to me, in fact, that he'd rather take his orders from you."
The man's use of the present tense unnerved him. "Well, at least you've finally solved the servant problem!"
'Maybe so." Huntoon didn't smile.
"And was this glass part of him?"
The other's face suddenly brightened. "That's right," he said. "I tossed in a couple of busted windows."
"Windows?" The thing had been bright red. "You mean, from a church?"
Huntoon shrugged. "A church, a temple-who gives a shit?" With a casual swipe of his arm he tossed it over the edge of the roof. "Come on, let's get out of here. I'm frozen."
Perhaps it was the power of suggestion, but Nadelman was shiver-ing by the time they got back to the apartment.
After being out on the roof, he found the air inside even more sour; he could almost taste it. If he lingered here, it was possible that he could draw something more out of Huntoon, some hint as to the sources of his power, but he doubted he could stand being around the man much longer.
"I'm going to have to be leaving soon," he announced, as they sat facing one another across the little Formica table in the kitchen. They had moved here not because Huntoon had offered him anything to eat, but because the old woman was watching a game show on TV in the living room. "It's getting late, and there are only two trains left today." He would never be home before dark.
"Naw, it ain't late," said Huntoon, suddenly affable. He shoved his wrist toward Nadelman's face, like a feinted punch. "See? Just after three."
"You're kidding." Nadelman checked his Tourneau. It was already past four. "I'm afraid your watch must be broken, Arlen." He smiled cautiously. "Unless you operate on a different time from the rest of us."
Huntoon burst into laughter, echoing the TV in the next room.
"I knew you were too smart to fall for it!" He tapped the face of his black plastic digital watch. "I keep this sucker set seventy minutes behind."
"Why?"
He flashed an extravagant grin. "To fuck people up. I hate it when people peek at my watch, you know? Let 'em buy one of their own."
Nadelman nodded. "Interesting." He had to get out of this place. Rhoda had been more right than she knew. "And now, I think I'm going to have to go."
Huntoon seemed to digest this, disappointment warring with relief. "Wait a second, wait a second." He leaned across the table, which bore a tiny plastic salt and pepper set in the shape of lobsters. "Where you going?"
"Back to the city."
"You gotta see my invention first. For playing albums backwards."
"Oh, right, right." Huntoon had written him about this. "I remember. Where is it?"
The other jerked his head toward the doorway. "In my room."
Huntoon's bedroom was the sort that would have intrigued Nadelman in the days of his boyhood two towns away, but now it looked like nothing but a junk shop, a particularly unsavory one. The shelves that filled one wall were laden with objects-souvenirs, talismans, a plastic crystal ball-that, standing alone, might have preserved a certain integrity; but piled atop one another, they had the air of a gallery of fetishes. A tiny octopus floated like an extracted organ in a jar of preservative. A smooth white shard of what looked like broken china was in fact, Nadelman later realized, a section of skull, not necessarily human. He recognized the thin aluminum rod leaning in the corner by the window as a mail-order blowgun; he might have mistaken it for a fishing pole, had not his own son once tried to send away for one. There were other weapons, too-a machete dangl-ing from the knob on the closet door, and, along the bottom shelf, bayonets and sheath knives and a set of tiny silver throwing stars. Piles of paperbacks rested here and there against the walls, worming their way ceilingward like stalagmites. On the bookshelves Slaves of the Gestapo rubbed shoulders with Psychic Self-Defense. Your Sexual Key to the Tarot lay open on the nightstand, resting on a copy of Symphony of the Lash. Opposite the window hung a large color poster of Jizzmo-Rocco at the drums, mouth open wide in a silent scream; Ray clutching a mike, eyes glaring like a maniac's-and another of a group called Death Orchid. Taped above the unmade bed was a large pastel mandala, 1960s-style, with a familiar-looking upside-down star crayoned over it: the creep world's version of the Have-a-nice-day smiley face. Their trademark popped up everywhere.
