The Butcher's Theatre (41 page)

“What happened with the kid-raper?”

“We’re off him, Laufer’s orders.”

“Why the hell?”

“Protekzia. Don’t say it. I know. Cohen thinks he’s ripe to do something sick—saw him looking at school kids.”

“Wonderful,” said the Chinaman.

“My kids’ school, in fact. I’ll be keeping an eye out, maybe dropping in to talk with the teacher, bring them lunch. Haven’t been involved enough lately anyway.”

“Absolutely. Got to be a good daddy. When my little ox starts school, HI be involved too. Meanwhile, what do you want me to do with Cohen?”

“He’s turning out to be a decent interviewer. Show him the ropes. If you think he’s up to it, give him a go at some of your lowlifes.” Daniel paused. “Of course, if you need to send him on errands, that’s okay too.”

There was a longer pause; then the Chinaman laughed, ‘Long errands? Clear across town?”

“Long errands are fine. He’s confident of his energy.” More laughter.

“But if his energy runs out,” said the Chinaman, “you

wouldn’t want me breaking his ass, nice kid like that. Forcing

him to work a full shift if his frail little body just can’t

keep up.’

“Never,” said Daniel. “The current memo from Manpower says we must respect our officers. Treat them as if they were

human beings.’

‘As if” laughed the Chinaman. “Which means if he sneezes

or blows his nose I should be careful not to overwork him,

maybe even send him home for beddy-bye. We wouldn’t want

little Avi to catch a fever.”

‘God forbid.’

‘God forbid,” laughed the Chinaman. “God forbid.”

The cat had been a big step forward, real science.

He was twelve when it happened, well into sex thoughts, two years into heavy-duty jacking-off, the hair starting to grow out of his face, but no pimples like some of the other kids—he had good skin, clean.

Twelve brought the noise in his head: sometimes just a hum, other times a race-car roar. All that bad machinery—he wondered how it got in there.

When he jacked off it went away, especially when the sex thoughts got all combined with good pictures: blood; his bug experiments; her on Doctor’s lap, them screaming at each other, killing each other, but doing it.

He imagined doing it to a girl on his lap—squeezing her eggs, hurting her, finishing her off, making everything clean. No girl in particular, lots of them. He invented them from different pieces of different girls—pictures in his head collected from magazines and movies and real girls that he saw on the street. All kinds, but the best ones were dark and short, like Sarah. Big tits and pretty mouths that screamed really good.

Sarah had big tits now.

She was in college, had come visiting last semester break, but with a boyfriend, some lame-o named Robert who was studying to be a lawyer and liked to hear himself talk. They slept in separate rooms. He knew why, had heard his ‘ mother screaming at Doctor that she wasn’t going to have any hooknosed little slut fornicating in her house. But sometimes at night or early in the morning, Sarah got up and went to Robert’s room.

Now there was something else to listen to.

When Sarah visited, Doctor took her out every night.

The fights in the library were postponed. When she left, they continued even worse—only once in a while. Doctor wasn’t home much. Which made them kind of special.

At twelve he’d gotten smarter, even though his grades were still the same. He understood more about life, could figure out some of the things that had mixed him up when he was a kid. Like what his mother and Doctor were doing when she climbed into his lap after they fought, stabbing herself and bouncing around, screaming and calling him a fucking kike bastard.

What.

But not why.

The library fights gave him a giant hard-on. He carried tissues in the pocket of his robe.

They were both lame fucks. He hated them, wished they’d the while they were doing it and leave him the house and all the money. He’d buy lots of good stuff, fire the maids and hire pretty girls with dark hair to be his slaves.

She was always drunk now, every minute of the day.

Tripping over her own feet when she got out of bed. The

whole room stank of gin and bad breath. And she’d gotten all

puffy and fat and dark around the eyes; her hair looked like

dry straw. She was really had-out.

Doctor didn’t give a shit about anything. He’d stopped

pretending. Once in a while they ran into each other in the

morning—he’d be waiting near the curb for the school bus

and Doctor would drive up in his big soft car, coming home

to pick up a change of clothes or something. He’d get out of

the car. looking all embarrassed, say hello, stare at a bush or a

tree or something, then walk on, not even bothering anymore

with his bullshit questions about how school had been, was he

making friends.

Hello, son

Hello

Lame fuck

Both of them

She was a total zero, when she called for him now, he

didn’t answer, just let her keep calling until she gave up. He

was twelve, with hair, didn’t have to take any of her shit, her

breath and tits hanging out. She was too had-out to come

after him, could barely keep her eyes open. He did what he wanted, probably had more freedom than any kid in the world. More than anyone. Except the cat.

Usually it stayed up in the ice palace, eating human food and getting stroked and running its little pink tongue around the inside of the gin glass. Getting drunk and falling asleep on the big satin bed.

Snowball. C’mere, sweetie.

The only thing she bothered to take care of, washing and shampooing and combing out fleas with this little metal comb, then pinching them between her fingers and dropping them into a glass of liquid bleach. Once she asked him to empty the glass. He spilled it on the bathroom floor, let the fleas stay there on the tiles, little black freckles—he would have liked to see them on her face.

After grooming sessions, the cat got special treats: these crackers that came from an expensive store and were made by a cat chef. The fish ones looked like fish, the beef ones like little cows; the chicken ones were the head of a chicken. She broke off little pieces, teased the cat with them while she blow-dried its fur and rubbed oil into it, put little pink ribbons on its stupid head.

A boy cat, but they’d cut its balls off. Now it wore pink ribbons.

A real faggy cat, fat and nasty. It lay on the bed all day, too drunk to walk, peed wherever it wanted to.

But one night it walked.

A special night: They were going at it in the library.

He was listening on the stairs, not sure if they were going to do it afterward, not sure if he was going to jack off to reality or to thoughts, but prepared, wearing his bathrobe, with tissues in the pockets.

They were really going at it.

You cocksucking kike.

Shut up, you dumb cunt.

Borrring.

They yelled some more, then he heard something break.

Goddamn you, Christina, that ashtray was from Dunhills!

Fuck you, Charles.

Doctor said something, but mumbled it. He had to lean in closer to hear it.

She yelled back.

Borrring.

More yelling, for a long time. Then it stopped. Maybe? Silence.

Heavy breathing. All right!

First time in a long time. He felt himself get a hard-on, tiptoed down the stairs, wanting to be as close a possible. Stepped on something soft and slippery, heard a sound that made his heart jump so hard it hurt his chest—like someone being strangled, but it wasn’t coming from the library. It was right here, right near him!

He stood up. The soft thing was still squirmy under his foot, knocking around on the carpet. Felt a sharp pain in his ankle—something had scratched him!

He backed away from it and looked down, feeling scared enough to pee his pajamas.

The cat hissed at him and bared its claws. Its eyes were shining in the dark. He tried to kick it. It screamed again, jiggled up the stairs making little crying noises.

What the hell was that!

Nothing, Christina, forget it.

That’s—it sounded like Snowball—ohmigod!

It was nothing. Where do you think you’re going!

He’s hurt! Snowball, honey!

Oh, no, you don’t. You—

Let go of me!

—can’t start something and just—

Let go of me, you bastard. I have to find him!

I don’t believe this. Once a year you—Ow, dammit!

(A grunt. Padded footsteps.)

Fine, just stay the hell out, you dumb cunt!

The footsteps got louder.

Snowball!

She was coming. He had to escape but his body was frozen. Oh, shit, he was caught. It was over. He was dead!

Snowball! C’mere, sweetie!

Move, feet, get unfrozen. Ohgod, finally they’re warm

again … running… can’t breathe …

Where are you, sweetheart?

She was out of the library, moving drunkenly up the stairs. Calling for the cat, so maybe she wouldn’t hear him ten feet ahead of her, running, not breathing, pleasegod don’t let her hear …

Here, darling, here, puss. Come-a-here! Come-a-here to

Mama.

He made it to his room just as she came to the top of the stairs, threw himself in bed, and pulled the covers over himself.

Oh, Snowball-sweet, where are you? Don’t hide, sugar-puss. Mama’s got a treat for you!

She was in her room, coming out of it now, half-calling, half-singing: Pu-uss!

He was all wrapped up like the Mummy, grabbing the mattress to keep from shaking.

Puss? Sweetie?

He’d forgotten to close his door! She was coming near

his room!

Snowball!

She was standing in the doorway. He could smell her, Bal a Versailles and gin. All of a sudden he had to hiccup. Holding it in was making his heart go crazy. He heard it swooshing in his ears, was sure she could hear it too.

Now where’s my bad little boy?

Hiding, sorry, never do it again, promise promise.

C’mere, you bad boy.

No anger in her voice. Oh, no! Oh, God!

Bad little lover bo-oy!

Saved. She wasn’t talking to him!

Pu-uss!

Swoosh, swoosh, like it was going to slide all the way up into his brain and start shooting blood all over the inside of his skull and he’d choke on it and die.

She kept standing in the doorway, calling inthat drunken, shaky, opera-singer voice… .

Kissy, kbsy, Snowball. If you’re hurt, Mama will make it all better!

The roar in his head was louder than ever. He was biting down on his lip to keep the sound from coming out.

Come-a-here! Mama’s got a treat for you—your favey-fave, tuna!

The voice was far away, getting farther and farther. The danger had passed. A moment later she was saying Snowball! Sweetheart!, making disgusting,, sloppy noises that let him know she’d found the fucking animal, was kissing it.

Close call.

It wouldn’t happen again.

He waited eighteen days. By that time everything was planned, everything really good.

Eighteen days because that’s how long it took for her to forget to lock her door.

It was in the afternoon, he’d come home from school, eaten a snack, and gone up to his room. The maids were downstairs, blabbing and telling their foreign jokes and faking as if they were working.

He was faking, too, sitting at his desk, pretending to be doing his homework. The door wide open, so he could hear the signal sounds: throwing up, the toilet flushing—a sign that she was getting rid of her afternoon pastries.

She was doing that more and more, the barfing. It didn’t help—she was still getting fat and puffy. Afterward, she always drank more gin and fell deep asleep. Nothing could wake her.

He waited, really patient. Enjoying the wait, actually, because it stretched things out, gave him more time to think about what was going to happen. He had it all planned, knew he’d be in charge.

When he was certain she was asleep, he tiptoed to the door, looked up and down the hallway, then down over the balcony. The maids were still accounted for—he could hear the vacuum cleaner, them blabbing to each other.

Safe.

He opened the door.

She was lying on the fourposter, all lamed-out, her mouth wide open. A weird whistling sound was coming from it. The cat was curled next to her pillow—both of them fucking lame-os. It opened its eyes when he came in, gave him a dirty look as if it owned the place and he was some robber.

He cleared his throat, as a test. If she woke up he’d ask how she was feeling, if she needed anything. The same test he used before sneaking into the library and locking himself in so that he could play with the knives, read Schwann’s big green book and the others, look through the stuff in the closet. Nothing. She was out. Another throat-clear. Out cold.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Tuna Treet, and showed it to the cat.

The blues eyes narrowed, then widened. Interested, you little fucker?

The cat moved forward, then sank back on the satin bed. Lazy and fat, like her. It got everything it needed, wouldn’t surprise him if she jacked it off—no, she couldn’t, no balls. It probably couldn’t get a hard-on. He waved the Tuna Treet.

The cat stared at it, then him, then back at the fish-shaped cracker, water-eyes all greedy. It licked its lips and got all tight, like it was ready to spring. C’mere, sweetie. TOOONA! It didn’t. It knew something was up. He touched the Treet to his lips, smiled at the cat. Lick lick, look what I’ve got that you don’t. The cat moved forward again, froze. He put the Tuna Treet back in his pocket. The cat’s ears perked.

Come-a-here, come-a-here. Pu-ss … The cat was still frozen, smelling the cracker but not knowing what to do, dumb dickhead.

He took a step backward, as if he didn’t give a flying fuck. The cat watched him.

Out came the Treet again. Another lick, a big smile. Like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten in his life.

The cat took a couple of cautious steps, rocking the bed.