Black House (67 page)

“You hurt me, you stinking pig!”
You huhht me, you steenk-ung peek!

The Fisherman lurches toward the easy chair and shoves it over on its side. In his Chicago voice, he says, “I’m gonna find you, buddy, and when I do, I’ll cut your fucking head off.”

A lamp hits the floor. The slippered footsteps move heavily toward the right side of the room. “A blind guy hides in the dark, huh? Oh, that’s cute, that’s really cute. Lemme tell you something. I haven’t tasted a tongue in a while, but I think I’ll try yours.” A small table and the lamp atop it clunk and crash to the floor. “I got some information for you. Tongues are funny. An old guy’s doesn’t taste much different from a young fella’s—though of course the tongue on a kid is twice as good as both.
Venn I vas Fridz Hahhmun I ade munny dungs, ha ha.
”

Strange—that extraterrestrial version of a German accent bursts out of the Fisherman like a second voice. A fist strikes the wall, and the footsteps plod nearer. Using his elbows, Henry crawls around the far end of the sofa and squirms toward the shelter of a long, low table. The footsteps squish in blood, and when Henry rests his head on his hands, warm blood pumps out against his face. The fiery agony in his fingers almost swallows the pain in his cheek and his back.

“You can’t hide forever,” the Fisherman says. Immediately, he switches to the weird accent and replies,
“Eenuff ov dis, Burn-Burn. Vee huv murr impurdund vurk zu do.”

“Hey, you’re the one who called him an
ahzz-hill.
He
hurt
me!”

“Fogzes down fogzhulls, oho, radz in radhulls, dey too ahh huhht. My boor loss babbies ahh huhht, aha, vurze vurze vurze dan uz.”

“But what about him?”

“Hee iz bledding zu deff, bledding zu deff, aha. Led hum dy.”

In the darkness, we can just make out what is happening. Charles Burnside appears to be performing an eerie imitation of the two heads of Parkus’s parrot, Sacred and Profane. When he speaks in his own voice, he turns his head to the left; when speaking with the accent of an extraterrestrial, he looks to his right. Watching his head swivel back and forth, we might be watching a comic actor like Jim Carrey or Steve Martin pretending to be the two halves of a split personality—except that this man is not funny. Both of his personalities are awful, and their voices hurt our ears. The greatest difference between them is that left-head, the guttural extraterrestrial, runs the show: his hands hold the wheel of the other’s vehicle, and right-head—our Burny—is essentially a slave. Since the difference between them has become so clear, we begin to get the impression that it will not be long before Mr. Munshun peels off Charles Burnside and discards him like a worn-out sock.

“But I WANT to kill him!” Burny screeches.

“Hee iz alreddy dud, dud, dud. Chack Zawyuh’s hardt iz go-ung do break. Chack Zawyuh vill nod know whud he iz do-ung. Vee go now du Muxtun’z and oho vee kull Chibbuh, yuzz? You vahhnd kull Chibbuh I ding, yuzz?”

Burny snickers. “Yeah. I
vahhnd
to kill Chipper. I
vahhnd
to slice that asshole into little pieces and chew on his bones. And if his snippy bitch is there, I want to cut off her head and suck her juicy little tongue down my throat.”

To Henry Leyden, this conversation sounds like insanity, demonic possession, or both. Blood continues to stream out of his back and from the ends of his mutilated fingers, and he is powerless to stop the flow. The smell of all the blood beneath and around him makes him feel nauseated, but nausea is the least of his problems. A light-headed sense of drift, of pleasing numbness—that is his real problem, and his best weapon against it is his own pain. He must remain conscious. Somehow, he must leave a message for Jack.

“Zo vee go now, Burn-Burn, and vee hahhv ah blesh-ah vid Chibbuh, yuzz? End denn
.
.
.
oho end denn, denn, denn vee go do de beeyoodiful beeyoodiful Blagg Huzz, my Burn-Burn, end in Blagg Huzz vee mayyg reddy for de Grimsunn Ging!”

“I
want
to meet the Crimson King,” Burny says. A rope of drool sags from his mouth, and for an instant his eyes gleam in the darkness. “I’m gonna give the Marshall brat
to
the Crimson King, and the Crimson King is gonna love me, because all I’m gonna eat is like one little ass cheek, one little hand, something like that.”

“Hee vill lahhv you fuhr my zake, Burn-Burn, fuhr de Ging lahhvs mee bezzd, mee, mee, mee, Mizz-durr Munn-shunn! End venn de Ging roolz sooprumm, fogzes down fogzhulls veep and veep, dey gryy, gryy, gryy dere liddul hardz utt, on-cuzz you end mee, mee, mee, vee vull eed end eed end eed, eed, eed undill de vurrldz on all zydes are nudding bahd embdy bee-nudd shillz!”

“Empty peanut shells.” Burny chuckles, and noisily retracts another rope of slobber. “That’s a hell of a lot of eatin’.”

Any second now, Henry thinks, horrible old Burn-Burn is going to fork over a substantial down payment on the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Gumm.”

“I’m coming,” says Burnside. “First I want to leave a message.”

There is a silence.

The next thing Henry hears is a curious whooshing sound and the joined
smack-smack
s of sodden footwear parting from a sticky floor. The door to the closet beneath the stairs bangs open; the studio door bangs shut. A smell of ozone comes and goes. They have gone; Henry does not know how it happened, but he feels certain that he is alone. Who cares how it happened? Henry has more important matters to think about.
“Murr impurdund vurk,”
he says aloud. “That guy’s a German like I’m a speckled hen.”

He crawls out from beneath the long table and uses its surface to lever himself up on his feet. When he straightens his back, his mind wobbles and goes gray, and he grasps a lampstand to stay upright. “Don’t pass out,” he says. “Passing out is not allowed, nope.”

Henry can walk, he is sure of it. He’s been walking most of his life, after all. Come to that, he can drive a car, too; driving is even easier than walking, only no one ever had the
cojones
to let him demonstrate his talents behind the wheel. Hell, if Ray Charles could drive—and he
could,
he
can,
Ray Charles is probably spinning into a left turn off the highway
at this moment—
why not Henry Leyden? Well, Henry does not happen to have an automobile available to him right now, so Henry is going to have to settle for taking a brisk walk. Well, as brisk as possible anyhow.

And where is Henry going on this delightful stroll through the blood-soaked living room? “Why,” he answers himself, “the answer is obvious. I am going to my studio. I feel like taking a stroll into my lovely little studio.”

His mind slides into gray once more, and gray is to be avoided. We have an antidote for the gray feeling, don’t we? Yes, we do: the antidote is a good sharp taste of pain. Henry slaps his good hand against the stumps of his severed fingers—whoo boy, yes indeed, whole arm sort of went up in flames there. Flaming arm, that will work. Sparks shooting white hot from burning fingers
will
get us to the studio.

Let those tears flow. Dead folks don’t cry.

“The smell of blood is like laughter,” Henry says. “Who said that? Somebody. It’s in a book. ‘The smell of blood was like laughter.’ Great line. Now put one foot in front of the other.”

When he reaches the short hallway to the studio, he leans against the wall for a moment. A wave of luxurious weariness begins at the center of his chest and laps through his body. He snaps his head up, blood from his torn cheek spattering the wall. “Keep talking, you dope. Talking to yourself isn’t crazy. It’s a wonderful thing to do. And guess what? It’s how you make your living—you talk to yourself all day long!”

Henry pushes himself off the wall, steps forward, and George Rathbun speaks through his vocal cords. “Friends, and you ARE my friends, let me be clear about that, we here at KDCU-AM seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties. The power levels are sinking, and brownouts have been recorded, yes they have. Fear not, my dear ones. Fear
not!
Even as I speak, we are but four paltry feet from the studio door, and in no time at all, we shall be up and running, yessir. No ancient cannibal and his space-alien sidekick can put this station out of business, uh-UHH, not before we make our last and final broadcast.”

It is as if George Rathbun gives life to Henry Leyden, instead of the other way around. His back is straighter, and he holds his head upright. Two steps bring him to the closed studio door. “It’s a tough catch, my friends, and if Pokey Reese is going to snag that ball, his mitt had better be clean as a whistle. What is he doing out there, folks? Can we believe our eyes? Can he be shoving one hand into his pants pocket? Is he pulling something out? Man oh man, it causes the mind to reel. . . . Pokey is using THE OLD HANDKERCHIEF PLOY! That’s right! He is WIPING his mitt, WIPING his throwing hand, DROPPING the snotrag, GRABBING the handle. . . . And the door is OPEN! Pokey Reese has done it again, he is IN THE STUDIO!”

Henry winds the handkerchief around the ends of his fingers and fumbles for the chair. “And Rafael Furcal seems lost out there, the man is GROPING for the ball. . . . Wait, wait, does he have it? Has he caught an edge? YES! He has the ARM of the ball, he has the BACK of the ball, and he pulls it UP, ladies and gents, the ball is UP on its WHEELS! Furcal sits down, he pushes himself toward the console. We’re facing a lot of blood here, but baseball is a bloody game when they come at you with their CLEATS up.”

With the fingers of his left hand, from which most of the blood has been cleaned, Henry punches the
ON
switch for the big tape recorder and pulls the microphone close. He is sitting in the dark listening to the sound of tape hissing from reel to reel, and he feels oddly satisfied to be here, doing what he has done night after night for thousands of nights. Velvety exhaustion swims through his body and his mind, darkening whatever it touches. It is too early to yield. He will surrender soon, but first he must do his job. He must talk to Jack Sawyer by talking to himself, and to do that he calls upon the familiar spirits that give him voice.

George Rathbun: “Bottom of the ninth, and the home team is headed for the showers, pal. But the game ain’t OVER till the last BLIND man is DEAD!”

Henry Shake: “I’m talking to
you,
Jack Sawyer, and I don’t want you to flip out on me or nothin’. Keep cool and listen to your old friend Henry the Sheik the Shake the Shook, all right? The Fisherman paid me a visit, and when he left here he was on his way to Maxton’s. He wants to kill Chipper, the guy who owns the place. Call the police, save him if you can. The Fisherman lives at Maxton’s, did you know that? He’s an old man with a demon inside him. He wanted to stop me from telling you that I recognized his voice. And he wanted to mess with your feelings—he thinks he can screw you up by killing me. Don’t give him that satisfaction, all right?”

The Wisconsin Rat:
“BECAUSE THAT WOULD REALLY SUCK! FISH-BRAINS WILL BE WAITING FOR YOU IN A PLACE CALLED BLACK HOUSE, AND YOU HAVE TO BE READY FOR THE BASTARD! RIP HIS NUTS
OFF
!”

The Rat’s buzz-saw voice ends in a fit of coughing.

Henry Shake, breathing hard: “Our friend the Rat was suddenly called away. The boy has a tendency to get overexcited.”

George Rathbun: “SON, are you trying to tell ME that—”

Henry Shake: “Calm down. Yes, he has a right to be excited. But Jack doesn’t want us to scream at him. Jack wants information.”

George Rathbun: “I reckon you better hurry up and give it to him, then.”

Henry Shake: “This is the deal, Jack. The Fisherman’s not very bright, and neither is his whatever, his demon, who’s called something like Mr. Munching. He’s incredibly vain, too.”

Henry Leyden folds back into the chair and stares at nothing for a second or two. He can feel nothing from the waist down, and blood from his right hand has pooled around the microphone. From the stumps of his fingers comes a steady, diminishing pulse.

George Rathbun: “Not
now,
Chuckles!”

Henry Leyden shakes his head and says, “Vain and stupid you can beat, my friend. I have to sign off now. Jack, you don’t have to feel too bad about me. I had a goddamn wonderful life, and I’m going to be with my darling Rhoda now.” He smiles in the darkness; his smile widens. “Ah, Lark. Hello.”

At times, it is possible for the smell of blood to be like laughter.

What is this, at the end of Nailhouse Row? A horde, a swarm of fat, buzzing things that circle and dart about Jack Sawyer, in the dying light seeming almost
illuminated,
like the radiant pages of a sacred text. Too small to be hummingbirds, they seem to carry their own individual, internal glow as they mesh through the air. If they are wasps, Jack Sawyer is going to be in serious trouble. Yet they do not sting; their round bodies brush his face and hands, blundering softly against his body as a cat will nudge its owner’s leg, both giving and receiving comfort.

At present, they give much more comfort than they receive, and even Jack cannot explain why this should be so. The creatures surrounding him are not wasps, hummingbirds, or cats, but they
are
bees, honeybees, and ordinarily he would be frightened to be caught in a swarm of bees. Especially if they appeared to be members of a sort of master bee race, superbees, larger than any he has seen before, their golds more golden, their blacks vibrantly black. Yet Jack is not frightened. If they were going to sting him, they would already have done it. And from the first, he understood that they meant him no harm. The touch of their many bodies is surpassingly smooth and soft; their massed buzzing is low and harmonious, as peaceable as a Protestant hymn. After the first few seconds, Jack simply lets it happen.

The bees sift even closer, and their low noise pulses in his ears. It sounds like speech, or like song. For a moment, all he can see is a tightly woven network of bees moving this way and that; then the bees settle everywhere on his body but the oval of his face. They cover his head like a helmet. They blanket his arms, his chest, his back, his legs. Bees land on his shoes and obscure them from view. Despite their number, they are almost weightless. The exposed parts of Jack’s body, his hands and neck, feel as though wrapped in cashmere. A dense, feather-light bee suit shimmers black and gold all over Jack Sawyer. He raises his arms, and the bees move with him.