A Dance at the Slaughterhouse (36 page)

I leaned forward. "They would have kept on doing it," I said. "They were recreational killers, they did it for the sport of it. They enjoyed it. I can't understand that, but there are plenty of people who can't understand how I can enjoy watching a boxing match. Maybe what people do and don't enjoy is yet another area that's beyond judgment.

"But here's the point. They were doing this and getting away with it, and I got on their case and got lucky and figured out what they did and how they did it and who they did it to, and it didn't mean squat. No indictment, no arrest, no charges brought, not even an investigation. A pretty good cop found the whole thing so frustrating he drank himself stupid. I wasn't prepared to do that myself."

"Well, you got that part right," he said. "And then you decided, well, letting the Universe work this out on its own is just not something I can safely do. God's in deep shit, you told yourself, unless He's got me to help Him out."

"God," I said.

"Well, whatever the hell you want to call it. Your Higher Power, the creative force of the Universe, the Great Perhaps. That's what Rabelais called it. The Great Perhaps. You didn't figure the Great Perhaps was equal to the task confronting Him, so it was up to you to take over."

"No," I said. "That's not how it was."

"Tell me."

"I thought, I can let go of this, I can turn this over, and it will all work out the way it's supposed to. Because everything always does. I know that on the days when I seem to believe in the Great Perhaps, and I still know it when my Higher Power is the Great Perhaps Not. And one thing I always know for sure- whether or not there's a God, I'm not it."

"Then why did you do what you did?"

"Because I just plain wanted them dead," I said. "And I just flat out wanted to be the sonofabitch who did it to them. And no, I'm not going to do it again."

"You took the money."

"Yes."

"Thirty-five, you said it was?"

"Thirty-five a man. Mick's end must have run to a quarter of a million. Of course there was a lot of foreign currency. I don't know how he'll make out when he unloads it."

"He gets the lion's share."

"That's right."

"And what do you do with yours?"

"I don't know. For now it's in the safe-deposit box, along with the cassette that got the whole thing started. I'll probably give a tenth of it to Testament House. That seems like a logical place to donate it."

"You could give it all to Testament House."

"I could," I agreed, "but I don't think I will. I think I'll keep the rest of it. Why the hell shouldn't I? I worked for it."

"I guess you did at that."

"And I ought to have a little money of my own if I marry Elaine."

"Are you going to marry Elaine?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"Uh-huh. Why'd you go to mass?"

"I've gone with Ballou before. I guess the current term for it is 'male bonding.' All I know is it seems to be an occasional part of our friendship."

"Why'd you take Communion?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea."

"No," I said, "I really don't. There are lots of things I do without knowing why the hell I do them. Half the time I don't know why I stay sober, if you want to know the truth, and back when I drank all the time I didn't know why I did that either."

"Uh-huh. What happens next?"

"Stay tuned," I said. "Don't change the channel."

The author is pleased to acknowledge the substantial contributions of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where this book was begun, and of the Ragdale Foundation, where it was completed.

The prolific author of more than fifty books and numerous short stories, Lawrence Block is a Mystery Writers of American Grand Master, a four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe and Shamus Awards, and the recipient of literary prizes from France, Germany, and Japan. Block is a devout New Yorker who spends much of his time traveling.