Crack-Up (12 page)

I slipped my credit card from my wallet and gave it to the manager.
 
“Better safe than sorry.”

“I’m not sure I follow . . .”

He kept saying that, the manager did, every time I tried to explain something, anything, everything.

“Never mind,” I said.

I leaned against the front desk, resting upper body weight on my elbows, feeling weary.
 
I’d been up all night.

The hotel manager checked my ID before swiping the credit card through the scanner.
 
I watched his mustache twitching as he waited for authorization.
 
When it came, the manager had me sign my credit card slip with a pen.
 
I handed the pen back.

“Are we done?”

“I wish you wouldn’t leave just yet, Mister Ward.”

“Why not?”

“May I say, sir, you don’t appear well, and we have a physician on staff—”

“Physician?” I said.
 
“Doctor Shields?”

“No, sir, Doctor McClure.”

“He may know Doctor Shields.”
 
I snatched my receipt and rushed toward the exit.
 
I had to get out of there fast.

“Sir!
 
Mister Ward!
 
Wait!
 
Please wait!”

I ignored the hotel manager.
 
The man didn’t understand.
 
Doctor McClure could alert Doctor Shields to my whereabouts.
 
And Doctor Shields, I knew, was trying to lock me up.
 
Because I’d gotten the message the night before.
 
From that lady in the gold dress.
 
I couldn’t be locked up!
 
I’d be a sitting duck!

* * *

“How do you know he wants to kill you?” asked Darth Vader.
 
Or James Earl Jones.
 
Or whoever’s voice was coming through the air conditioning vent in my car.
 
“Tell me!
 
How do you know?”

“I guess I really don’t know for sure.
 
But people keep trying to convince me.”

“Why you?” said Darth.
 
“Why would John Helms bother with a little shit stain like you?”

“You’ve been gone awhile, pal,” I said.
 
“I’m a national hero now.
 
I saved the president’s life.
 
I own my own security consulting firm too.
 
And this car is a Beemer.”

“Shut up!” Darth said.
 
“Just shut up, and go find out the truth, you little shit stain!”

Some people can’t help living in the past
, I thought, bitterly.
 
Some voices too
.
 
But Darth was right about what I had to do.
 
So I turned off the
George Washington Parkway
at the
Pentagon
City
exit and caught the 395 freeway toward
Virginia
.

Passing the Navy Annex, my engine began to sputter.
 
I didn’t know what was wrong until I looked down at my gauges.

“I’m out of gas!”

“He’s out of gas,” Darth said.

“I don’t believe this!
 
I never run out of gas!”

“He can’t believe it.
 
He never runs out of gas.”

“No, not that game!” I said to Darth.
 
“Please!”

“He’s begging not to play the game.”

“Stop with the fucking play-by-play!” I said, giving the dashboard a good bang.

“ ‘Stop with the fucking play-by-play!’ he says.
 
And he pounds his dashboard with great anger.”

* * *

We walked back to
Pentagon
City
.
 
It was over half a mile, and so very hot, and soon I could see my nipples through my soaking white linen shirt.
 
Darth kept up the play-by-play the whole march.
 
He kept it up as I cooled off with a soda at a table inside the mall.
 
Once Darth got going, I remembered now, he’d keep it up for hours, days even.
 
He’d only stop if he found a distraction, a topic he found interesting.
 
It took me awhile, but I thought of one.

“We don’t tell him we’re coming,” I said.
 
“We just show up unannounced!”

“Why?” Darth said.

“Element of surprise.
 
Best weapon there is!”

“But how would this weapon work, precisely?”

Some little tike in a powder blue jumpsuit tottered near, trying to listen in on our conversation.
 
I gave him a loud roar.
 
The tike wobbled back over to his mother, bawling.
 
“How will it work?” I said to Darth.
 
“By watching his face.
 
The instant John sees me, he’ll give himself away, I just know it!”

“Hmm,” Darth said.
 
“Not bad.
 
Not bad.”

* * *

We rode the metro subway.
 
It was crowded.
 
I found a seat next to a student from
Georgetown
University
.
 
Her Tee shirt announced so, anyway.
 
She was reading an Algebra book.

I wished she wasn’t so creamy white and delicate.
 
She made me think of things that didn’t exist, like Spring corn.

“He peeks at the student some more,” Darth said.
 
He was broadcasting from the ceiling now, one of his favorite spots.

I shut my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest, thinking,
If I could just nod off for a minute or two, I’d be so happy
.

“He’s trying to sleep,” Darth said.
 
I pretended to ignore him.
 
“He’s still trying to sleep.”
 
I gave up, opened my eyes.

Oh, how can I stand anymore of this
?

“He wonders how he can stand anymore.”

“Stop reading my thoughts,” I said.
 
“It’s not polite.”

“Are you talking to me?” said the student.

“No.
 
Darth Vader.”

The student got off at the very next stop—in some kind of hurry, it seemed.
 
I tried to sleep again, but again had no luck.
 
Somehow, I missed my own stop.

“Why didn’t you warn me to get off?” I said to Darth.

But Darth didn’t answer.
 
Suddenly, he was gone.
 
He never announced his departures.

I got off one metro station late at the Courthouse station.
 
I took the escalator to the street, looking for a taxi.
 
Walking by a gift shop, I caught a young clerk behind the counter staring at me—just for a second or so, but I’d definitely caught him.

Was that clerk working for John Helms?
 
As a sentry, maybe?
 
Keeping an eye out for me?
 
Was that possible?

Of course, it was possible.
 
But what were the odds?
 
I scratched my head, pondering.
 
A moment later, I felt sure, though I couldn’t say why, that the odds were at least fifty-fifty.
 
The clerk was no more than high school age with short blond hair and a fresh, freckled face.
 
Kind of stupid-looking, really.
 
But that would be the perfect cover, wouldn’t it?

I decided I’d better throw the clerk off my scent.
 
Inside the gift shop, I grabbed an American flag tee shirt, then another one, different size.
 
I picked out three kitchen magnets.
 
One depicted the Jefferson Memorial, one the Lincoln Memorial, and one the
Washington
Monument
.
 
I selected a coffee table book on the art exhibits of the National Gallery.

I snatched up a pair of red-trimmed white boxer shorts with the University of Maryland’s terrapin—or turtle—mascot on one side, and the words,
Slow and Steady
, on the other.
 
An ashtray.
 
A bottle opener.
 
A pen.
 
A painting.
 
Stationery.

“You must have a large family,” said the clerk at check-out.

“Yes,” I said.
 
“Yes, I do.
 
I’m from
Minnesota
.
 
We all have large families there.”

“Uh-huh.”
 
The clerk smacked his bubble gum.

“I’m just passing through, I’m not really even stopping in
Washington
.
 
In case you’re wondering.”

“Uh-huh.”

I left the store smiling.
 
I was just about sure the clerk had bought my story.

* * *

“Get this thing settled!” Darth said.
 
“Once and for all!”
 
He was inside one of the paper bags containing all the gifts I’d bought.
 
The bags were near me on the floor of the cab.

I rolled the windows in the back seat all the way down, letting the air swoosh in, so the cabbie couldn’t eavesdrop.
 
Not easily, anyway.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said to the middle bag.
 
“Why in the world would John Helms want to kill me?”

“He have any secrets you know about?” Darth said.

“Yes!” I cried.
 
“That’s it!
 
That’s it!
 
That’s it!
 
I know things!
 
I know some of his secrets!”

The cabbie’s eyes peeked at me through his rear view mirror.
 
I pretended that I’d only been singing—by starting to sing.

“Country roads!
 
Take me home!
 
To the place, I belongggg!
 
West Virginia
!
 
Mountain momma . . .”

The cabbie stopped peeking at me in the middle of Barry Manilow’s
I Write the Songs
.
 
I stopped singing, slouched down in my seat, and whispered into the gift bag.
 
“That’s it, you know.
 
I know things.
 
I know who he’s trying to dump from his corporate board.
 
I know he hates the Japanese.
 
And I probably know more, if I think about it.”

“You stupid shit stain!
 
It’s a wonder you’re still alive!”

“You really think so?
 
I’ve always liked John.
 
I almost consider him a friend.”

“We’ll wait,” Darth said.
 
“We’ll wait and see what his reaction is when he sees you.
 
But now I have a strong feeling you’ll have to kill him.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Stop whining!” Darth said.
 
“You’re a
West Point
man!”

“Not exactly,” I said.
 
“They kicked me out.
 
Remember?
 
Because of you.”

“Point is you know how to kill with your bare hands!”

I studied my hands.
 
Flexed them.

* * *

Our cab zipped along
Canal Road, north
of
Georgetown
, atop the green palisades overlooking the
Potomac River
, then snaked through a shady suburb of upscale, eclectic homes before braking to a stop at the front gate to the Helms compound on
Foxhall Road
, near the old Nelson Rockefeller estate.
 
The security guard, a former green beret and one of my newer employees—What the hell was his name, anyway?—hopped out of the guard shack and came to a stop outside my window at the rear of the cab.

I rolled my window down.
 
“Here to see John."
 
The guard recognized me instantly.
 
His sports jacket wasn't buttoned as it should've been, to hide the shoulder holster.
 
The Helms compound was a fortress, but John didn’t want it appearing that way.

“Mr. Ward?” said the green beret.
 
“That you?”

“Button that jacket," I said, "then open the God damn gate.
 
But don’t announce me.
 
Surprise inspection.”

“Oh, oh.
 
Yes, sir, yes, sir.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” said the cabbie to the green beret.
 
“You work for this guy?”

He heaved his thumb toward me in the back seat.
 
I couldn’t understand why the cabbie was so incredulous.
 
The green beret seemed puzzled too, shrugging his shoulders once before trotting inside his shack to handle the gate.

The cabbie shook his head a few times as he slipped the taxi into first gear and hit the gas.
 
The cab laid its dirty rubber tires down upon block after block of the shiny white Carrara marble that formed the driveway, braking to a stop in front of the main house a half minute later.

“Don’t forget your bags,” said the cabbie, his engine idling as I stepped out of the vehicle.
 
I reached inside and took my belongings, wondering if Darth was gone or not.
 
The taxi cab pulled away fast, with a little screech of tires.

“Find him!” Darth said.
 
“Find John Helms!
 
Now!”

Chapter 11

“Promise to behave?” said the male orderly.
 
He was tall and broad-shouldered and well-muscled and young and yet he eyed me like a wild African lion.

Some lion, I thought.
 
I felt like asking who’d stuck the tranquilizer dart in my reincarnated ass.
 
It was a struggle merely to keep my eyelids at half mast and to say, “Restraint is allowed only if necessary, it’s the law.”
 
My words, dredged up from old memories, had sounded thick and slurred, but the orderly had understood, and been swayed, and was soon tussling with my leather restraints, freeing first my ankles, then my wrists.

The instant he was done, he stepped back smartly, which caused me to suspect that he’d been on duty whenever it was that they’d brought me in.
 
It was either that or else he’d simply heard the story.

I’ll bet it’s a doozie
, I thought, smirking.
 
I stretched my limbs far and wide—not because I felt stiff—my body was, in fact, numb all over—but simply because I could.
 
I noticed that my skin had been chafed red at all four spots where I’d been bound.
 
Yep, I’ll bet that story’s a doozie
.

Not that I was in any hurry to hear it.
 
The first thing to do was to come alive again.
 
I felt more like inorganic than organic matter, less a lion and more a large rock or a slab of timber.
 
That, I knew from experience, was what a potent cocktail of sedatives and anti-psychotics could do to a person.

“I want to sit up,” I said.
 
I wuh ztup
.

With the bed control, the orderly very gradually raised me into a sitting up position.
 
Then he volunteered to fetch my lunch and, without an okay from me, rushed from the room.

The door to my private, windowless cell, probably known euphemistically as a ‘seclusion room,’ locked with a soft electronic buzz.
 
The orderly returned so incredibly fast with a plate of hot food that the only explanation possible was that I'd dozed off sitting up.
 
My molded plastic tray had turkey slices in gravy with mashed potatoes and a mix of peas and carrots.
 
Yet the steamy sight of food failed to stimulate my appetite, and my sense of smell was still too deadened to appreciate the aroma.

The orderly cajoled me into eating a bite of turkey, then departed.
 
I forked a hot glob of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

The next thing I knew, I was waking from slumber again, still sitting up in bed, with my mouth hanging open in mid chew.
 
The glob of mashed potatoes on my tongue had turned ice cold, and it tasted revolting.
 
I spit it out, onto my food tray, just as the orderly returned.

Behind the orderly came a graying Black woman in a maroon pant suit, the jacket splaying over a pair of pillow-size hips.
 
She had the detached air of someone who’d just happened to wander into the room.
 
Some doctors are like that.

“Hello,” she said.
 
“I’m Doctor Woods.
 
And your name is?”

“Argus Ward.”

She slipped on a pair of reading glasses she kept in her hair and checked her clipboard, as if to see if I really knew my own name.
 
It occurred to me that she couldn’t hang those glasses on a chain around her neck.
 
For safety reasons.

“I’m a security consultant,” I said for extra points.

“That’s right,” she said, raising her head.
 
“Tell me, Mister Ward, do you know where you are?”

“Not precisely,” I said.
 
“Does my wife?”

She consulted her clipboard again.
 
“Now just who is your wife, Mister Ward?”

“Sarah,” I said.

The doctor gave a nod at her clipboard, agreeing with me.
 
Then she dropped it to her side, resting it against one of her amply padded hips, and studied me with the same cold intensity my daughter reserves for ants.

“Yes,” Doctor Woods said, “your wife knows you’re here.
 
In the Maximum-Security Psychiatric Unit of the
District of Columbia
Correctional Complex.
 
Last night, the District police took you into custody and placed you under arrest.
 
The court remanded you here for the purpose of psychiatric assistance and evaluation.”

“Why was I arrested?”

“You’ve been charged with murder.”

I didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t blink.
 
I felt more inorganic than ever.
 
Yet I was not without thoughts.
 
The most certain being that John Helms was dead.

Chapter 12

My old life was now gone, gone suddenly, and gone forever, any neutral observer had to conclude.
 
But I wasn’t neutral, and I didn’t believe it.
 
Not at first.
 
Who I’d been so recently and through so many years—my self-identity, I guess—seemed to remain a part of me, like an amputee’s phantom limb.
 
And so I doubted my own guilt in murder.
 
And so I mourned John Helms and not myself.
 
But this would all begin to change on the day I was cleared to receive visitors from beyond the psychiatric ward and Keisha Fallon happened to show up first.

She greeted me with an icy glare, which I appreciated.
 
She might’ve greeted me with one of those big, brave, fake smiles—the kind you give someone newly diagnosed with cancer.