MAGIC (18 page)

“What I want,” the Postman answered, “is for you to see somebody.”

“See
somebody? Who would I see?”

“Quit with the games!”

“Quit the goddam yelling,” Fats said.

“Shut up,” Corky said.

“He shouldn’t yell at you,” Fats went on. “You been up here busting your hump coming up with new stuff for the act—that was blockbuster material, mister-when he says about the Mafia woodpecker and I come back with wanting a wood pecker, they’ll
howl
in Vegas on that. That was major league
funny
.”

“Nothing’s funny anymore,” the Postman said, and he started for the door.

“What’re you gonna do?” Corky said.

“Ask around. Make a few phone calls.”

“Tell people, you mean.”

“
Corky you’re not in control
—yes I’m going to tell people—qualified people—we got to do what, we can to help you.”

“Put me in the hatch, that’s what you’re saying. You’re so fucking old you can’t tell a rehearsal from real conversation and on the strength of
eavesdropping
, you’re going to spread the word that I’m bonkers.”

“No one’s going to spread any word. Whatever I do I do for your good, not mine. I just want to help you, kid.”

“Somebody play ‘Hearts and Flowers,’ ” Fats said.

“Close your goddam hole,” Corky said.

“Butt me,” Fats said.

“Listen, for just one second,” Corky said to the Postman. “Don’t you owe me that?”

The Postman nodded.

Corky gestured toward the couch. “Please.”

The Postman sat.

“Got any of them jazzy see-gars?” Fats wondered.

“I
was
kind of out of control—back in the city—nothing loony tunes or anything, but I could feel myself beginning to come apart at the seams a little.”

“So you took off.”

“That’s right,” Corky said.

“And now you’re telling me you’re fine.”

“That’s right again.”

The Postman sadly shook his head, rubbed his eyes.

“I owe it all to Peg is what you’ve got to understand,” Corky said. “She makes everything different.”

“The one with the knockers,” Fats said.

“Shut up,” Corky said.

“Just wanted the Postman to keep the cast of characters straight,” Fats said. “Once you hit senility, two’s company, three’s impossible.”

“I remember this Peg plenty well,” the Postman said. “She sent me halfway to effing Binghamton.”

“She was just trying to look out for me, protect me.”

“Make your point, kid, it’s closing time.”

“Maybe I
was
too much with Fats, maybe I
did
take the act too serious, but I swear to you, I got a way out now. Peg. True. She
believes
in me. She no shit does. And that’s why she’s my ticket out of here. And if you told her all kinds of lies, if she heard bad things about me, stopped believing—that would be kind of hard for me to take. I really don’t much want that to happen.”

“Corky, listen to the Postman, huh. I listened to you, you listen to me. You gotta let this settle into your cerebellum, kid: you are not, right now, as we sit here, responsible.”

“I
am
though.”

“Sorry.”

“And that’s what you’re gonna do, right?—go all around, tell everybody, take out a full-page ad in
Variety
. ‘Corky Withers is not as we sit here responsible.’ ”

“Kid, you’ve got to let me help—I’ve got friends, I know people, great doctors—”

“—he means headshrinkers,” Fats cut in.

“Shut up,” Corky said.

“Kid listen to the Postman!—with your talent comes problems, I know, I’ve seen a half century easy—I
knew
Houdini—Ehrich Weiss, and he was a card man before he got into the escape racket—but you’re a bigger talent—yes—with talent comes problems and Houdini was a fruitcake, believe me—”

“—he just called you crazy—” Fats said.

“—shut up—” Corky said.

“—he said, schmucko, that Houdini was a fruitcake and you were bigger than Houdini which makes you a bigger fruitcake—”

“he didn’t say that, he’s on our side—”

“he’s the fucking villain, don’t forget that—
never forget that
—”

“I can prove it,” the Postman whispered.

“Prove what?” Corky asked.

“That you’re not responsible.”

“How?”

“Easy. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll ask you to do a little something that anyone ought to be able to do, and if you can do it, we’ll forget the whole thing, and if you can’t, we’ll think about you seeing somebody fast, is it a deal?”

“Name it,” Corky said.

“Make Fats shut up for five minutes,” the Postman said.

Corky couldn’t help but laugh. “Five
minutes?
I can make him shut up for five years.”

“Good. You sit in the chair with Fats and I’ll sit here on the couch and we can pass the time.”

Corky sat in the chair. “I feel like a jerk if you want to know,” he said.

The Postman got out an Individuale.

“Is it okay if
we
talk?” Corky wanted to know. “Or does it have to be like we’ve locked our mouths and thrown away the key?”

“At your service.” The Postman lit his cigar, blew a stream of smoke.

Corky asked, “How long so far?”

The Postman looked at his watch. “Thirty-five seconds.”

“Gosh,” Corky said, “that gives me four minutes and twenty-five seconds to go, think I’ll make it?”

The Postman tried to smile.

Corky said, “You don’t happen to have another one of those?” He pointed to the cigar.

The Postman handed over the package.

“Take two, they’re big,” Corky said. He laughed a little. “Remember when you said that?”

“A pro never forgets his good lines,” the Postman said.

“How long now?” Corky asked.

The Postman looked at his watch again. “Over a minute.”

“Do you think we’ll laugh about this someday? If the special works and I get a series, we could give a big article to
TV Guide
.”

“Maybe,” the Postman said.

Corky said, “I wonder what we’ll call it?”

The Postman shrugged.

“How long?” Corky said. “Two minutes yet?”

The Postman shook his head.

Corky smiled, sat back, inhaled deeply on the cigar.

The Postman drummed his fingers.

Silence.

Silence.

Corky smiled again.

The Postman flicked some ashes.

“This is very cruel of you, you know that,” Corky said.

The Postman said, “I don’t mean it to be.”

Corky went on: “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

Quietly, the Postman said, “We’ll just have to see.”

Corky explained, “It’s the principle—there’s only trust, and once that’s gone, what else is there?”

The Postman flicked some more ashes. “Not a whole lot. But we never signed, remember? On account of principle. I got no hold on you, kid. You’re free.”

“How much longer?” Corky wondered.

The Postman glanced at his watch again. “Two minutes or a little more to go.”

Corky closed his eyes. “I can’t make it.”

The Postman answered softly back: “I didn’t think you could.”

“Hello everybody, this is Mrs. Norman Maine,” Fats said. “My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you and I thank you,” Fats said. “You have nothing to fear but fear itself, nothing to give but blood sweat and tears, nothing ventured nothing gained, nothing to lose but our souls. Here I am boys—here I am world—here’s Fats!”

The Postman stood slowly.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?” Fats said. He turned to Corky. “You’re not letting him the hell out of here?”

“No more games,” the Postman said.

“I think you better sit down,” Corky said.

“Kid, I lived through Tallulah Bankhead and the death of vaudeville, I don’t scare easy.” He stared at the door.

“I’m not gonna let you out of here until you promise not to tell,” Corky said.

The Postman started walking.

“I need my chance,” Corky said.

“The only chance you got is to get help, kid, and that’s what’s gonna happen.”

Corky grabbed for the old man, spun him back toward the couch, but the Postman never lost his balance and then he was screaming at Corky, louder than Corky had ever heard from him before, screaming, “Don’t you
ever
raise a hand to me again.”

Corky sagged.

The Postman resumed his journey to the door.

“You’re taking my one chance,” Corky pleaded.

“Not taking, giving,” the Postman replied, and then he was out the door with Corky standing in the middle of the room, slumped, watching the outside night, and before the door was even shut Fats was on him, going, “He’s right, he’s goddam right, you’re some crazy fuck,” and Corky said, “I tried” and Fats shouted,
“Tried? Tried?
You
failed!”

Corky started pacing while Fats blasted on—“Ever since we got together we knew one thing—one thing—we were
special
—different, sure, to them, to all those pissant drones who make up the western world but not us—and they’ll never understand us special ones, they never have, the world’ll look level before they ever do—and—and—
Goddammit look at me
—”

Corky stopped the pacing.

“You know it’s the hatch for you.”

“Maybe not. He only wants to help, you heard—”

“Dream on—”

“There’s nothing wrong with me—”

“—I know that and you know that but those pissants, they hate the special ones—they don’t know what to do with us—so they hide us—they put us somewhere deep and lonely—and keep us there till they kill us or we die—”

“—don’t talk that way—it’s not true—”

“—I don’t understand you anymore—truth is all I’m talking—why does it bother you to hear it, don’t you care about anything anymore?—Jesus, don’t you even care about the girl?—”

“—Peg?—I love Peg—”

“—well maybe if she really loves you back she’ll bring you Crayolas on visiting day and you can color together—” Corky covered his ears. “Oh that’s good, that’s helpful, that’s gonna accomplish a lot—Peg’s gonna see it all, gonna see them come for you here and put you in your nice white jacket and cart you off to the hatch and that’ll make her feel swell, you’ll both have a lot to be proud of, you can face the future great that way, you in your padded cell, her outside trying to mouth words like ‘How do you feel this week, Corky? Are they treating you nice, Corky, well I’m glad, Corky because I can’t take it anymore, Corky, I’m not coming back to see you ever, Corky, good-bye, good-bye,
good-byeeeeeee.’ ”

“What do you
want
from me?”

“—you know—”

“—I don’t—”

“—liar—”

“—tell me—”

“—weakling—”

“—I’m not, I’m not,
tell me
—”

“—stop him—”

“—I can’t—”

“—stop the Postman—”

“—I tried—”

“—gutless fuck—”

“—I did try—”

“—stop him—”

“—how—”

“—
stop him
—”

“—
How? How? With what?”
and before the words were barely spoken Fats was going
“MEE-MEE-MEE-MEE-MEE
—” and before the Postman was barely halfway up the path the first blow sent him backwards but not down and he looked amazed, managed. “Huh?” before Corky swung again, holding Fats by the feet, swinging him like an ax, and this time Fats’ heavy wooden head crashed into the Postman’s nose and it cracked and now there was blood as the Postman started staggering, tried raising his ancient arms but Fats penetrated the defense as if it wasn’t there and this blow started blood from the right eye and the Postman was on his knees now and Fats smashed the top of his bald head this time and now the Postman could only crawl giving Fats a chance at the back of his neck and now they were off the path in the trees and brush and Corky swung again and again and the blood was spraying now but Fats kept crying “A-
gain
, a-
gain
” and each time he connected there was less from the Postman and when there was nothing left from the Postman, nothing at all, Corky dropped the dummy beside the old man and fell to his knees in the underbrush until he could control his tears …

Groaning. Intense and continual. Corky jumped up. The night was dark enough so that even though he wasn’t far from the Postman, Corky couldn’t make him out clearly. He scrambled back.

The Postman lay silent. The sound came from Fats. “… Laddie … Laddie …”

“What?”

“… my head … you broke it …”

Corky grabbed Fats, tried to see. It wasn’t light enough to see so he put his hands beneath Fats’ wig. The skull was starting to splinter.

“What’ll I do?”

“… can’t think … help me, Laddie …”

“I will, I will,” and he ran the distance back to the cabin, lay Fats down on the sofa. He stripped Fats naked, carefully took off his wig.

“… hurry …”

“I’m
trying
.”

Corky went to Fats’ special fitted case, took out a change of clothes, some extra canvas strips. He ripped the strips into thin pieces, like long shoelaces, deftly bound them around the skull, knotting them tightly until the fit was right. Then he replaced the wig, went back to the case, got out a railroad cap that matched the overalls outfit Fats would now have to wear, pulled it down tight. “Better?” He picked Fats up.

“Oh Christ, I guess so. Does it show?”

“Not with the cap down tight. Let me get you into these other clothes.”

“Get off that shirt first. You’re blood all over. I don’t want to risk getting it on the new clothes.”

Corky nodded, tore off the bloody shirt, threw it in the closet, grabbed the sweater Peg had brought down earlier in the evening, pulled it on. Then he went back to Fats, made sure none of his levers had been damaged, began getting him into his clean outfit.

“We’ll have to dispose of the body,” Fats said.

Corky said “How?”

“I’m not sure yet, I can’t think straight yet, but I’ll eome up with something.”

“I know you will, you’ve got to.” He buttoned Fats into his kid’s-sized coveralls. “I think maybe the best thing would be to bury him—there’s millions of acres of woods around here.”