by Ian Watson
“Well, it worked for Raiders of the Living Dead. The campaign’s structured around Boneyard Jack, who in theory should sell the movie all by himself. We’re holding the premiere here in Mount Pleasant, you know.”
“I’m sure you’ll be very successful,” Joey said. “But this isn’t my line of work.”
“I know that.”
“I usually rob banks.”
“None too well, from what I’ve heard.”
“I’ve never been caught.”
“Which speaks volumes about New York’s Finest, doesn’t it?” Sherman smiled. He said, “Do you go to the movies often, Mr Warbeck?”
“Not really.”
“The kind of movies I make, cheap and simple exploitation movies, they’re not made for cinemas anymore, they’re made for home video. And the major studios want to control video, push the little guys out until it’s all their own product. A few years from now, it’ll be five or six studios deciding what to release and what to bury.”
“Is there a point to this,” Joey said, “or do I just put my hands on you and feel your pain?”
“Drive-ins, the ones that’re left, they’ll take Psychocandy, but I need to get it booked into multiplexes if I want to make money, and if I don’t, then it’s my business down the tubes.”
“But multiplexes don’t want Sheldon Sherman movies.”
“Exactly. They want the big studio movies – the new Friday The 13th, the new Psycho, the new what-have-you. Little movies from indie distributors? Not a prayer.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t go around leaning on people. I’m not gonna break the thumbs of exhibitors who won’t show your movie.”
“What? No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. There’s no strong arming involved. What I’ve got in mind, it’s legal.” Sherman paused and said, “More or less.”
“I’m starting to think less.”
“It’s a publicity gimmick, the kind the old time exploitation filmmakers used to pull. Ever hear of a fellow named Kroger Babb?”
Joey shook his head.
“He started out as a carnival barker, then went into movies and wrote the ads for a bunch of no-budget junkers. You know, See Frantic Virgins Dance In The Fires Of Puberty, that sort of thing. A colleague called him the greatest showman in the business because he could take any piece of crap and sell it.”
“You don’t say.”
“One time, he had to sell a biblical epic where Jesus spoke with a Southern drawl and power lines were visible in the background during the crucifixion scene, so what did he do? He printed thousands of leaflets and distributed them to churchgoers, telling them that if they brought their troubles and their families to the theatre, they’d find God himself present.”
“And it worked?”
“It was one of Babb’s biggest hits.”
“Did God turn up?”
“I’m sure he did,” Sherman said, “in the hearts and minds of those present.”
“So what do you want me to do? Arrange a meeting with the Almighty?”
“No. I want to dress you up as Boneyard Jack.”
“For publicity?”
“Kind of. While wearing the costume, you’ll commit a series of robberies, for which I’ll pay you fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Uh huh,” Joey said.
“The publicity that’ll generate, well, it can’t be bought.”
“Uh huh.”
“But if that troubles your conscience, look at it this way. You’ll be helping a struggling independent filmmaker.”
“It doesn’t trouble my conscience,” Joey said.
****
Moran hit the floor, whump, and Joey helped himself to the man’s wallet, then took his Rolex. The wallet contained over six hundred dollars.
He’d heard that the super-rich didn’t have credit cards because they simply didn’t need them and sure enough, Moran didn’t carry any plastic. Maybe his housekeeper shopped for food and, if he did require cash, a bank messenger would send it over in plastic bags.
The more he thought about it, the more difficult it was to picture Moran buying a gallon of milk. Hell, he’d probably never even set foot in a convenience store.
Joey thought about that some more, amusing himself with an image of Moran in the aisle of his local Safeway, when the door opened and a man walked in.
The man was dressed just like him: cape, boiler suit, pumpkin mask. “Déjà vu,” Joey said.
“Quiet,” the man said, and the mask came off.
Throwing the mask on the couch, Sheldon Sherman ruffled his hair. “You kill him?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I asked first.”
“He’s still breathing. Want to see for yourself? You’re going to have to forgive my surprise because, well, I figured I was working alone. And for the record, the costume does not look good on you.”
“I know. I saw my reflection and thought I was looking at the Pillsbury Doughboy. Damn booze. I’m going to give it up, just as soon as it kills me.”
“There a reason I’m experiencing the pleasure of your company?”
“Let me have your gun,” Sherman said.
Joey gave it to him.
“I was up late last night, doing some thinking.” Sherman opened the cylinder. Ever see Ben-Hur?”
“That the one with the chariots?”
“Yeah, Joey, the one with the chariots. And Chuck Heston. Story goes, a stuntman was run over and killed on set, and if you watch the movie, you can see it in glorious Technicolor.”
“So?”
“How about Haskell Wexler’s Medium Cool? You see that?”
“Sorry.”
“That uses real riot footage from the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago. When a truncheon bashes in a head in that film, it’s real. Then there’s an actual stabbing in that Altamont movie, Gimme Shelter. A man gets knifed right in front of the stage.”
“I still don’t see where you’re going.”
“What I’m getting at is, those movies are, in one way or another, notorious. Notoriety sells tickets. But you don’t achieve notoriety without spilling some blood.”
Sherman snapped the cylinder home.
“If you want to lure American moviegoers into theatres,” he said, “there must be blood.”
He turned to Moran and shot him.
****
Several red holes appeared in Moran’s back. Moran grunted, spread out across the hardwood floor and lay still.
“You killed him,” Joey said.
Sherman shot Moran in the head.
“Now I did,” he said.
“I’m gonna throw up.”
“Strictly speaking, I’m the one who should feel nauseas. I never killed anyone before. But you know what? I feel pretty good, thanks.”
When the world started spinning, Joey grabbed the couch and sat down. He stared at Moran, lying in a pool of congealing blood, and the breath caught in his throat.
“Oh by the way,” Sherman said.
He tossed the gun to Joey, who caught it and aimed it at Sherman.
“You did a very bad thing,” Sherman said. “Dressed as a character from a movie, you broke into a man’s house, robbed him and, for no apparent reason, killed the poor son of a bitch. Sounds like a copycat killing to me, and you know how the press loves copycat killings.”
“You’re insane,” Joey said.
“No, I’m a visionary. Oh, I don’t doubt the press will do a number on me. They’ll call me a filth peddler or whatever, say my movies inspire crime and should be banned, you know, that whole ball of wax. But the way I see it, all publicity is good publicity.”
Joey cocked the hammer. “On your knees.”
Sheldon grinned.
“You know you’re holding a murder weapon, right? An empty murder weapon. Doesn’t even have my prints on it because, unlike you, I’m wearing gloves. You might want to trea
d carefully, because from here on out, you’re a wanted felon.”
Joey pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Told you,” Sherman said. “Besides, what were you thinking? Shoot a man to prove you didn’t shoot a man? How’s that work?”
“I don’t have to kill you,” Joey said. “Just take you in.”
“Yeah, a bank robber going to the cops. I can just see that working out.”
“There’ll be witnesses. People saw you arrive.”
“No doubt they did, it’s that kind of neighbourhood. But what did they see? A stranger in a costume.”
A .38 appeared in Sherman’s fist.
“I’m going out the back way,” he said. “You can stay here.”
“You’re not gonna shoot me.”
“That’s right,” Sherman said, and raised the gun.
He swung it at Joey’s head, intending to hit him behind the ear, but Joey saw it coming and ducked. As Sherman leaned forward, Joey grabbed his arm and leapt at him, and together they tumbled backwards.
Sherman hit the ground first, breath exploding from his lungs, and while he lay winded, Joey punched him in the stomach. The .38 came up again and he grabbed it, pushing it away as Sherman’s grip tightened on the trigger.
The weapon discharged.
The bullet hit Sherman under the chin, exploding his skull and splattering the wall with blood and brain fragments. Staring down at him, Joey gasped, then leaned over and vomited.
It took several minutes for the nausea to pass, and it when it did he took a moment to think and plan. Collecting the guns, Joey wiped down everything he could remember touching and left the house.
He’d parked at the end of the street, out of sight of the building, and was halfway to the car when he heard the sirens.
As Sherman said, it was that kind of neighbourhood.
They came at him from both directions, cutting off the street, and as uniformed officers spilled out of the cars, several voices screamed at him, telling him to drop the weapon and assume the position. Which he did.
While the first cop cuffed him, his buddy pulled off his mask and said, “This your idea of a joke?”
“Not mine,” Joey said.
They led him away.
Part 6
A COLD & LONELY EVIL
(for Jackson Phibes)
Barrows stepped out of the car and sat on the hood, admiring the view as the sun dipped behind the trees. The sky was cloudless and the plummeting temperature reminded him that he didn’t have time to waste.
Sighing, he got up, opened the rear door and reached inside for the man spread across the seat. Even with his hands cuffed and his legs tied, the son of a bitch resisted, so Barrows slapped him across the face and said, “I’m not in the mood.”
The man, whose name was Tucker, laughed and shook his head. “Well, I sure as shit am sorry to hear that, dude. Bet this is putting a crimp in your schedule, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Barrows said. “I could be at home, drinking beer and watching Scooby Doo. Instead, I had to come all the way out here and take care of your dumb ass. So you’ll forgive me if I come across as brusque.”
“Man, what you wanna watch that kiddy crap for? You three years old or something?”
“It’s the only show on TV I can watch. Besides, it’s the one with Miner 49er. I like that guy.”
“You know it’s really some fella in a costume, though, right? And that he would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for them meddling kids?”
Barrows said, “Hush” and pulled the man out.
With one hand on Tucker’s shoulder and the gun in the small of his back, Barrows marched him into the woods, where it felt colder, the trees blocking out the dying sun.
“This how you imagined going out? Cold and alone?”
“Pretty much,” Tucker said. “Except I saw myself about a decade older, and not getting it from a pindick like you.”
“You want to know what your buddy Farrow said before I did the deed?”
“Not particularly.”
“He cried and begged. I had to put about a roll of duct tape across his mouth just to hear myself think. Then I put Mister 9mm between his eyes, and I let him have it. Buried him right over there.”
“Man, you’re cold. Anyone tell you that? They oughta call you The Ice Man.”
“When they think my back’s turned, they do. Want to see where I put him? I made a real nice job.”
“Thanks, but I’ll take a raincheck. And for the record, you need to work on your people skills.”
“That so? Well, far be it from me to tell you your business, Mister Amateur Thief, but you need to work on your not getting caught skills.”
Tucker sighed.
“Especially if you’re going to rob a guy like Donald Lang.” Barrows chuckled and said, “You really thought you’d get away with it?”
“If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have done it.”
“A word to the unwise. Start small. Your first gig probably shouldn’t be a casino. I mean, shit, who even robs casinos these days? All that security. You’d have to be a dumbass to even entertain the notion.”
“Got away, didn’t we?”
“Sure you did,” Barrows said. “That’s why you’re here.”
“Look, you seem the rational type. How about we do a deal?”
“Go on.”
“I give up the money, and my partner, and you cut me lose. Sound rational to you? Cos it sounds pretty goddamn sweet at my end.”
“This partner, he wouldn’t be called Jackson, would he?”
Tucker said nothing.
“Has a ratty apartment with a hidden compartment in one wall? Kind of place you could squirrel away a hundred grand in cash? You mean that guy?”
“What’d you do?”
“He was drunk of his ass when I found him, so I sobered him up with twelve steps. I think the seventh step cracked his neck, though I can’t be sure.”
“You bury him here too?”
Barrows shook his head. “I’m fast, but I ain’t that fast. Didn’t you wonder why I didn’t throw you in the trunk? Surprised you didn’t smell him.”
Tucker let out a long, pensive sigh.
“Sun is setting in the sky,” Barrows said. “Teletubbies say goodbye.”
“Fuck you.”
“Teletubbies say Eh-oh, but close.”
“What is it with you and kids TV?”
“Keeps me young and innocent,” Barrows said. He put the gun to Tucker’s head.
“Behind you,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious, man. Look over your shoulder.”
“This your last request? You don’t want apple pie or pussy?”
Tucker looked at him and the look said do it, dumbass.
“Just for you,” Barrows said, and turned.
His first thought was that there was a dog digging up the grave he’d filled in not eight hours earlier, burrowing down to get at what it doubtless thought was important, but then he realized that not only was it no animal, it was burrowing out of the ground.
A hand snaked out of the grave, and the hand was connected to an arm that was connected, Barrows now realized, to a man he’d laid to rest earlier that day.
Well, bless my ass, he thought. And fired.
Two bullets smacked into the corpse as it stood up, spinning it like a top and leaving it spread out across the ground, staring skywards.
Barrows chuckled and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” Tucker said.
“Coulda swore I put him down for good the first time.”
“You get old,” Tucker said, “it gets harder to tell the difference.”
Barrows had his mouth open to say eat me when he heard movement to his side, and when he looked he saw the corpse getting to its feet a second time.
“Some fucking killer you are,” Tucker said.
; “Quiet.”
Barrows shot the thing again. It fell over, then got up, so he emptied the clip. The thing hit the ground, whump, then sat up once more.
“Man, screw this,” Tucker said, and turned and ran.
Cursing, Barrows reloaded and took aim at the other man, running between the trees. He fired once, and his target fell down.
Nothing wrong with my aim, he thought.
Which was when the dead man rushed him.
The sumbitch knocked Barrows off his feet and went down with him, hands tearing at his clothes while its mouth descended towards his throat. Barrows punched it in the face, which didn’t have the effect he’d hoped for, and the creature launched itself at him again.
This time, he hit the thing under the nose and as the head whipped sharply to one side, he pushed the creature away from him. It rolled onto its back, clawing at the air as Barrows scampered to his feet and retrieved his weapon. He kicked the thing in the head a few times, then a few more because he liked doing it, but the creature just wouldn’t take the hint and reached for him.
When it grabbed his pants leg, Barrows shot it in the head.
The thing rolled over and lay still.
Mopping his brow, Barrows looked and saw Tucker back on his feet, staggering drunkenly between trees. Today was a good day for people who didn’t know when to die, it seemed.
He caught up with Tucker a moment later, which was easy because with his hands cuffed and a bullet in his shoulder, his opponent could only make baby steps. Then the other man turned around and what Barrows saw froze him to the spot.
Tucker’s shirt was stained crimson, which wasn’t right, no way would he bleed like that from his shoulder. And he hadn’t. The blood sprayed from an open wound in his throat, a wound that looked a lot like an animal bite.
Remembering he’d mistaken a man for an animal moments earlier, Barrows swung around. Seeing nobody, he left Tucker to bleed out and ran back to the car.
When he was close enough, he realized the trunk was open. Not all the way, just like it’d been opened but not closed properly, and he had no difficulty believing it had been forced open from the inside.
Clutching his weapon in his right hand, he raised the trunk lid with his left and confirmed what he already knew.
Empty.
Hearing movement to his right, Barrows didn’t have to look to know that the trunk’s former resident was a few feet away. That didn’t surprise him. What caught his attention was Tucker, back on his feet and shuffling towards him, his wound no longer bleeding.
Yes sir, it was a good day to be a dead man.