Aaaiiieee (8 page)

Ricky’s museum, to which the skeleton was to be consigned, was not open to the public.

*     *     *

Jimmy Tassone hated high-top sneakers, but not only were they the brand Ricky sponsored and always wore, they didn’t scuff or scratch the marble floors of Ricky’s house or the heavy glass sheets of the conference room floor. Jimmy glanced down at the lions, black leopards and white tigers in their respective pens under the three glass floor sections as he squeaked across them on his way to the table. A leopard lifted its glossy night-black face to him and snarled silently. Jimmy expected one of these glass sections to slide back one day when he was summoned, and he wouldn’t realize it until he had tumbled in.

Ricky was not alone. Ricky was never alone. To his right at the head of the table stood the towering, inscrutable Strappado. To his left: the short, overweight, affable—and more frightening to those who knew him—Bastinado. At one side of the long gothic table, seated on a high-backed bench, was the psychometrist, Kolosimo.

“Well?” breathed Ricky, before Jimmy had even reached the table. Ricky seldom spoke above this airy whisper, but Jimmy had learned well to listen sharply for it. Ricky didn’t like to talk; liked even less to repeat.

“I have it,” Jimmy announced. He halted at the far end of the table until Ricky raised his arm languidly, inviting him to approach.

To give Jimmy room, Strappado took a few steps back. Leaning over Ricky’s shoulder, Jimmy spread the cloth he’d kept folded in his pocket. He had removed it slowly from his pocket, so as not to alarm the looming Strappado.

In the center of the cloth, a human eye gazed up at Ricky with a glassy expression. It was the newest acquisition: the last prosthetic eye used by the popular entertainer Sammy Davis, Jr.

A tight smile formed on Ricky’s face. It was tight due to the extensive plastic surgery Ricky had employed over the years to further sculpt his ethnic Italian features into a delicate and glamorous amalgamation. To Jimmy’s thinking, in his attempt to incorporate all the characteristics deemed desirable by the public, Ricky had transformed his countenance into something utterly alien. The Roman busts in Ricky’s halls were lifelike by comparison.

“It’s beautiful,” Ricky whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “Hello, Sammy.” He lifted his strained grin to the heavyset man with disheveled gray hair who called himself Kolosimo. “Kol,” Ricky prompted.

The older man reached out, plucked the eye into his fist, drew back his arm to clench the fist against his forehead. “Ohhh…” muttered Kolosimo, eyes scrunched tightly shut.

“Is he there?”

“Oh…oh yes, Ricky. Oh yes. Sammy saw so much. I can see Sinatra…”

“Peter Lawford?”

“No…no. He died before this eye. But he saw so much. Yes…Sammy is here. He is very much soaked in.”

“You did well,” Ricky said, turning his grin up to Jimmy. He offered his slim waxen hand, the ultimate signal of praise, and Jimmy held it lightly before Ricky slid it out of his fingers, Ricky’s gem-encrusted rings scraping against his hand.

“If I might ask, Rick,” Jimmy ventured, not having dared until he was praised, “how do you plan on taking this in? Not swallowing it whole…”

A slight frown crept onto the contrived features. “You know better than that, Jim. It has to be
melded
with the other ingredients. It will be ground into a powder and mixed in the blender.”

“Of course. Just please be sure to have it ground very fine, is all.”

His shrewd show of concern worked on Ricky, restoring him to his good spirits. “Jim, see to it that the replica gets made by Friday, okay?”

“See
to it, huh?” Jimmy chuckled lightly. Ricky realized his own pun and giggled. Bastinado and Kolosimo laughed heartily. Maybe Strappado’s scowl shifted a few microbes.

The glass eye would be duplicated and the duplicate displayed in the museum alongside the duplication of the Elephant Man’s skeleton—a replica surpassing even that which Ricky had presented to the London Hospital Medical College Museum. The actual skeleton had been ground to a fine powder—limb by limb, portion by portion—and ingested completely.

Jimmy had arranged that purchase as well, though it had been Kolosimo who had acquired the very first one…one that hadn’t been publicized in the tabloids. That had been the severed portion of Vincent Van Gogh’s right ear, acquired from a Japanese collector who had come into possession of the piece through very mysterious sources. Jimmy hadn’t believed the ear to be authentic, despite Kolosimo’s rhapsodizing over it. But after the ear was ground and mixed in the blender with the rest of Kolosimo’s recipe, and Ricky had ingested the resultant chocolate-flavored shake, the pop idol was so overwhelmed by flaming colors and swirling vortexes of energy that he was inspired to create his best selling album to that date. He told Jimmy he had been seeing brighter shades of color and the seething energy of all things ever since.

Between Jimmy, Kolosimo, and others, Ricky Concertina had ingested and absorbed the power locked in handwriting samples (usually from Christmas cards) of such figures as David Bowie and Ringo Starr, locks of hair from John Lennon and Brooke Shields, and a finger stolen from Jimi Hendrix. Subsequently, Ricky Concertina was the most popular and powerful celebrity in the world.

But, of course, that was something which, once obtained, had to be carefully maintained.

“Springsteen’s new album is due to hit the stores next month, Jimmy. I’d really like you to acquire that new item very soon.”

“I will, Ricky. I’ve got my boys probing.”

“
You
probe, Jim…now that you’ve finished collecting this wonderful piece.”

“I will, Rick.”

“The Boss is our biggest threat, Ricky,” Bastinado chimed in. “Maybe we should have ourselves a little plane wreck.”

Ricky whipped around in his chair, twisting his mouth into a grimace that must have required great exertion. “You stupid shit,” he hissed. “Don’t you ever think? If Bruce got killed he’d be the biggest thing since Elvis! I’d rather pay to have him brought back from the dead than to kill him, you moron!”

Bastinado had gone white, and lowered his sheepish gaze. “Sorry, Ricky…I wasn’t thinkin’.”

“So what else is new?” Ricky waved impatiently at Jimmy to dismiss him. “Okay, Jimmy…go. Take the rest of the day off. But tomorrow, go look for that piece. Understand?
That’s
my biggest weapon against Springsteen this year.”

“Yes, Ricky.” Jimmy turned and walked over the heads of the pacing giant cats again on his way out.

*     *     *

During the next few weeks, Ricky Concertina went back into the studio to continue work on his latest album, to be boldly titled
Psychometrix.
The public was aware Ricky was into esoteric subject matter, but he knew they’d never suspect the truth to his success.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Tassone was having success in getting close to the object Ricky currently coveted. Jimmy had also begun organizing an effort to acquire the object Ricky desired above all others: some fibers from the Shroud of Turin that had been removed for carbon dating, if any had survived those tests. But Ricky wasn’t pressuring for this right now…he knew he couldn’t have everything immediately. Save that for the next album. Right now he was obsessed with the idea of acquiring a strange idol Kolosimo’s sources told him a cult had been worshiping somewhere right here in Southern California.

Jimmy spoke with his inside man, Joey Cacciola, on the phone. Joey had infiltrated the cult—People of the Hand—and had to speak in a low voice. “They’re both pretty wacked, huh?” Joey said of their boss and his “spiritual mentor”, Kolosimo.

“Ricky’s wacked. Kolosimo is brilliant. You think he believes any of this voodoo crap? Psychometrics? Psychosomatics is more like it. These drinks don’t give Ricky power, they only inspire him ‘cause he
thinks
they’re giving him power.”

“I dunno, man. I seen a thing on Kolosimo in a book Ricky has. The police used him once to find a sex murderer. He held this dead chick’s panties and he could tell the cops where she was killed, where they could find the body and what the killer looked like, y’know?”

“Stage magic,” Jimmy muttered, but he dropped the topic of doubt after that. They returned to the subject at hand.

The object of the group’s worship was supposedly the mummified hand of a UFO alien, its craft having come down and exploded in a field in Mexico. The hand was recovered from the site by a farmer, but the story had it that the rest of the blackened rubble was simply carted away by him and dumped. Soon after, the old farmer died, presumably of radiation poisoning, but not before the leader of this cult found out about the hand and came to the farmer to purchase it.

And then, somehow, Kolosimo had learned of the hand, and it wasn’t long before Ricky had become fixated on it.

Well, tonight Jimmy was sure he’d be driving back to the house with good news and a present. Maybe this would save Springsteen from some misfortune, after all. God knew that Jimmy Tassone preferred the Boss’s music over the music of his own boss any day.

*     *     *

The others were sleeping in the house; the adjacent garage had been made into a temple, locked and very difficult to break into from outside. But Joey had a key, and he let Jimmy into the house to creep into the garage-shrine also.

The walls had been painted black, and odd geometric patterns had been painted across the surfaces. Ricky
would
be drawn to these people, Jimmy thought.

 Joey called his attention to a table in the center of the room. A black cloth covered the table, and a smaller cloth shrouded the object atop it.

“Here it is,” whispered Joey, drawing away the veil.

Unconsciously, Jimmy kept several paces distant, as if what he expected to see in the big jar was one of those hand-like crab creatures from
Aliens,
which would fling itself out to seize his face.

Well, it was a hand, but not very lethal-looking. It lay on its stump at the bottom of a jar filled with formaldehyde, despite the fact that the thing was clearly mummified. Its bones were delicate and small; it might have been the hand of a child. The fingers
were
rather elongated, but maybe just because the flesh had withered. And that black glistening color could be paint or even a natural occurrence. All in all, Jimmy was less than awed by the idol.

“They pass it around and let the spirit of the owner communicate to them through it…send them prophecies,” Joey explained.

“You?”

“Not fully initiated yet. I’m still being prepared.”

Jimmy drew close to the container. “Well, if Ricky wants to puree this thing and make it into a chocolate and formaldehyde milkshake, that’s his problem, right, Joe? But what say we take their god and go get us a real drink somewhere, huh?”

Joey nodded vigorously, glad his mission was over.

“What is going on out here, Joe—
hey!”

Joey whipped around with a gasp. In the doorway leading into the house stood Warren, the leader of the People, wearing rumpled pajamas and a rumpled expression of confusion.

“Oh, ah, Warren, this is my friend…”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, lifting the silenced Beretta from under his coat and pointing it.
Poof
…
poof!

“Christ, man!” Joey hissed. “Christ!”

Warren grunted at the impacts and slumped in the threshold. Jimmy went to him, took him by the arm and helped him half up, dragged him into the temple and closed the door into the house. Then he let go of Warren’s arm and shot him once more in the back of the skull.

Jimmy turned to Joey. “Can’t let little Ricky down, Joe. C’mon, we’re outta here.”

*     *     *

“You did well, boys…I’m so proud of you.” Ricky hugged Jimmy, then Joey, who was swaying. Ricky smelled Joey’s breath and held him away by the arms. Joey didn’t look well.

“It was a tough mission for Joe.” Jimmy spoke up quickly in his defense.

“Of course it was.” Ricky patted Joey’s arms. “Go get some sleep in the green guest room, Joe.”

“Thanks, Ricky…thanks.” Joey staggered off.

“Well…here’s someone else who’s imbibed a bit too heavily tonight, though I told him not to.” Ricky moved further down the conference table to where Kolosimo was slumped, more disheveled than ever. Abruptly, Ricky snatched hold of Kolosimo’s hair and yanked him half out of his seat. Through gritted teeth, the satin-robed diminutive star hissed, “Look, you sorry son of a bitch, I want you to make this shake tonight and I want you to do it right! You understand me, you puke?” With his high-pitched voice, Ricky sounded like an infuriated Mickey Mouse.

“Yes…yes,” the old man groaned. Ricky let him go, dragged the heavy jar across the table toward him, unscrewed the lid. Jimmy smelled the released stink. Rolling back his sleeve, Ricky glanced up into Jimmy’s eyes, then plunged his own delicate hand into the fluid.

The gnarled black hand dripped. Ricky pushed it into the fleshy hands of Kolosimo. “What do you feel, Kol?” he demanded.

The psychometrist held the dripping hand against his forehead. The other two stood over him staring.

“Oh…uhhh,” mumbled Kolosimo. Then:
“Uhhhh
…
”
He let the hand drop to the table and his heavy paws trembled as they smoothed back his hair, smearing it with formaldehyde.

This seemed to please Ricky, however. He nodded for Strappado and Bastinado to emerge from the shadows. They lifted Kolosimo under the arms, took him and the hand away.

Ricky invited Jimmy to join him for a midnight snack while they waited. They had hamburgers and fries brought to them right there at the gothic conference table. Jimmy didn’t like being alone with Ricky, but they mostly ate in silence. Just as they were finishing, the handsome and mime-silent teen age boy who had served them their meal reentered with two metal tumblers on a tray. They were frappes, and one was set down in front of Jimmy. His stomach churned.

Ricky saw Jimmy’s barely checked revulsion and giggled. “Don’t worry, Jimbo, yours is vanilla. I get the chocolate.” And with that, Ricky Concertina lifted the tumbler to his lips and began swallowing the thick chocolate-flavored concoction. Jimmy couldn’t help but openly stare.