by Jack Kilborn
“There’s been another robbery!” he says. “The First New Bastwick Bank!”
Inspector Oxnard thrusts out his lower lip and nods.
“It sounds like that blind panda has struck again. Come, gentlemen!”
Inspector Oxnard gracefully exits the room, his entourage filing behind him like ducklings. I stare at the body for a moment, and then follow.
This police work is a lot harder than I thought.
My friend John Weagley asked me if I had any radioactive monkey stories for his collection Requiem For A Radioactive Monkey. Naturally, I did.
At first, they were all kind of excited when JoJo got into the Uranium.
“He’s gonna mutate, I bet,” said Gramps. “Maybe grow another monkey head. Or teats.”
“Could easily quadruple in size,” said Pops. “Go on a rampage, killin’ folks and rapin’ women.”
Uncle Clem disagreed. “I’m bettin’ invisibility. A seeable monkey causes enough trouble, running around, bitin’ and chitterin’, throwin’ feces. An invisible money would be a hunnerd times worse.”
“Would the feces be invisible?” Aunt Lula asked.
“Likely so. Wouldn’t know it was there ‘till you sat in it.”
Gramps packed his lower lip with a wad of Skoal and spat brown juice into Aunt Lula’s coffee mug.
“Shoulda kept that uranium locked up. Leavin’ it on the counter like that, monkey was gonna mess with it sooner or later.”
Uncle Clem disagreed. “JoJo ain’t never fooled with it before.”
“Them glowin’ isotopes, they’re like a magnet to the lower primates. Shoulda kept it locked up.”
Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get the uranium anyway?”
They all sat around and had a think about that. No one said nothin’ for a while, the only sound being the slurp-slurp of Aunt Lula and her coffee.
“Well,” Gramps finally said, “whatever strange mutation happens to JoJo, I’m guessin’ we all agree it’ll be speck-tack-ler.”
Somethin’ did happen to JoJo, and it happened fast. An hour after messin’ with the Uranium, JoJo’s hair all fell out, and then he died.
“Didn’t see that comin’,” Uncle Clem said.
Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get a monkey anyway?”
No one could answer that. Only one who could have was JoJo, and he didn’t say much on account of his deceasedness. Plus, JoJo was a monkey, and monkeys don’t talk.
The next day, Gramps lost all of his hair, even the hair growin’ from his ears, and got sick something fierce.
“Gramps?” Pops asked him, side-steppin’ the chunk-streams gushing from Gramps’s dip-hole. “You been messin’ with that Uranium?”
Gramps answered between expulsions. “Wanted…another…head.”
Later that night, after Gramps hemorrhaged, they buried him in the garden, next to JoJo. The family grieved and grieved, and Aunt Lula made some Uranium cookies to cheer everyone up, but Uncle Clem hoarded them all for himself.
“Thad a dab thine thookie,” Uncle Clem said, not speakin’ clearly because most of his teeth had worked themselves free of his bleedin’ gums.
When Uncle Clem coughed up his pancreas, they buried him in the garden, next to Gramps and JoJo.
Not long after, Aunt Lula’s hands turned black and plum fell off, on account she didn’t wear no lead gloves when she made the uranium cookies. “Because lead is poisonous,” she had said, smartly.
When Aunt Lula died, Pops buried her in another part of the garden, not too close to Uncle Clem and Gramps and JoJo, because that part was all took up.
When he was done, Pops scratched his head. “Where’d we get a garden anyway?”
Convinced the Curse of the Radioactive Uranium would claim him next, which would have been a very bad thing because there was nobody left to bury him in the garden, Pops played it smart.
He buried himself in the garden with the uranium.
When the milkman came by later that week, with the milk and eight ounces of farmer’s cheese, he noticed the five new mounds in the garden. Being a curious milkman, he dug them all up.
“Well, will you lookit that,” said the mailman. “Where’d they get that uranium?”
He found some tin foil in the kitchen, and wrapped up the Uranium and took it home, for his pet monkey to play with.
A farce, very much in James Thurber territory. I’ve always want to write a straight humor novel, but there isn’t any market for it.
Frank stood beneath the mismatched letters on the marquee and frowned.
ONE NIgHT ONLy, it proclaimed.
That was still one night too many.
Ahead of him in line, another poor dope with an equally unhappy face was being tugged towards the ticket booth by his significant other.
“He’s supposed to be brilliant. Like Marcel Marceau, only he talks,” the wife/girlfriend was saying.
The man was having none of it, and neither was Frank. He stared at his own pack leader, his wife Wendy, mushing him forward on the Forced Culture Iditarod. She noted his frown and hugged his arm.
“Stop moping. It’ll be fun.”
“It’s the playoffs.”
“It’s our anniversary.”
“We have another one next year.”
Wendy gave him The Look, and he backed down. He glanced at his Seiko, wishing he had a watch like Elroy on The Jetsons, with a mini TV screen. It was ten after nine. Halftime would be almost over, and it was the pivotal fifth game in the Eastern Conference Finals, the score tied 48-48.
Frank had managed to catch the other four pivotal games, but this one was really pivotal. If the Bulls won, it meant there would only be seven more pivotal games left in the playoffs.
They reached the ticket counter, and Frank noted several divots in the thick glass. Probably made by some other poor bastard forced here by his wife. Tried to shoot his way out, Frank guessed.
He could relate.
His mind wrapped around the fantasy of pulling out an M-16 and taking hostages to avoid seeing the show, but he lost the image when he noted how many twenty dollar bills his wife was setting in the money tray.
“This costs how much?!?”
“It’s an exclusive engagement,” the cashier said. “Alexandro Mulchahey is only in town for one night.”
“And what does he do for this kind of money? Take the whole audience out for dinner in his Rolls Royce?”
Wendy gave him The Elbow. But Frank wasn’t finished yet.
“Maybe you folks will finally be able to afford some more capital letters for the marquee.”
Now Frank received The Love Handle Pinch; Wendy’s fingernails dug into his flab and twisted. He yelped and his wife tugged him aside.
“You’re embarrassing me,” she said through a forced smile.
“I’m having chest pains. Do you know how many Bulls tickets we could have bought with all that money?”
“If you don’t start pretending to have a good time, I’m going to invite GrandMama over for the weekend.”
He clammed up. Wendy’s grandmother was 160 years old and mean as spit. Her mind had made its grand exit sometime during the Reagan years, and she labored under the delusion that Frank was Rudolph Hess. The last time she visited, GrandMama called the police seven times and demanded they arrest Frank for crimes against humanity.
Plus, she smelled like pee.
Wendy led him into the lobby, and began to point out architecture.
“Ooo, look at the columns.”
“Ooo, look at the vaulted ceiling.”
“Ooo, look at the mosaic tile. Have you ever seen anything so intricate?”
“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”
The theater was nice, but it was no Circus Circus. While his wife gaped at the carved railing on the grand staircase, Frank’s attention was captivated by a little boy sitting alone near the coat check.
The boy had a Sony Watchman.
“Did you want a drink, dear?
”
Wendy smiled at him. “A glass of wine would be wonderful.”
Frank got in line—a line that would take him right past the little boy and his portable TV. He made sure Wendy was preoccupied staring at a poster before he made his move.
“Hey, kid! Nice TV. Can you turn on the Bulls Game real fast? Channel 9.”
The kid looked up at him, squinting through thick glasses.
“I don’t like the Bulls.”
“Come on, I just want to check the score.” Frank winked, then fished five bucks out of his pocket. “I’ll give you five bucks.”
“Mom!” The child’s voice cut through the lobby like a siren. “An old fat man wants to steal my TV!”
Frank turned away, shielding his face. The bartender gave him the evil eye.
“Merlot,” Frank said, throwing down the five.
The bartender raised an eyebrow and told him the price of the wine.
“It’s how much?!?”
“Frank, dear…” Wendy was tugging at him as he pulled out more money.
“Hold on, hon. I think I just bought you the last Merlot on earth.” Frank watched the bartender pour. “And it’s in a plastic cup.”
“I want to get a program.”
Frank’s wife led him past the little boy, who held up his Watchman and stuck out his tongue. The little snot was watching the Bulls. Frank squinted but couldn’t make out the score.
They got in line for the programs and Frank momentarily forgot about basketball when he saw the prices.
“For a program?!? Don’t they come free with the show?”
“That’s a Playbill, Frank.”
“What’s the difference?”
The difference, apparently, was forty bucks.
“Do they have a layaway?”
“They have sweatshirts, too, Frank. Would you like one?”
“I don’t want to have to get a second job.”
“Your birthday is coming up.”
Wendy grinned at him. Frank couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He forked over the money for a program, and then they walked to the mezzanine and an usher took their tickets.
“Row A, seats 14 and 15.”
“Front row center,” his wife beamed. “Happy Anniversary, Frank.”
She kissed his cheek. Then she began pointing out more architecture.
“Look at the balconies.”
“Look at the stage.”
“Look at the plasterwork. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”
The usher showed them their seats and Frank frowned.
“I thought we were front row.”
“This is the front row, sir.”
“How about all those guys in front of us?”
“That’s the orchestra pit, sir.”
They took their seats, which were actually pretty nice. Plush red velvet, roomy and comfortable. Too bad they didn’t have seats like this at the United Center, where the Bulls played.
Wendy handed him a Playbill, and Frank squinted at the cover. A man in period clothing stared back at him.
“Who is this guy, anyway? Alexandro Mulchahey?”
“He’s the famous Irish soliloquist.”
“One of those guys who talks with a dummy on his lap?”
“He’s a dramatic actor, Frank. He does Shakespearean sonnets.”
Frank slumped in his chair. This was worse than he’d thought. When Wendy nagged him about this night, during a pivotal regular season game a few months back, he hadn’t heard her mention Shakespeare.
“And this guy’s famous?”
“He’s the hottest thing in Europe right now. He’s in all the papers.”
Frank folded his arms. “If he was in all the papers, I would have heard about him.”
“He wasn’t in the sports section.”
Frank frowned. The most pivotal basketball game of the century was playing right now, and Frank was stuck here watching some fruit in tights talk fancy for three hours.
Maybe he could fake a heart attack. Those ambulance guys have radios. They could tune into the game…
Some people needed to get to their seats, and Frank and Wendy had to stand up to let them by.
It was the kid with the Watchman! He stuck his tongue out at Frank as he passed, and then sat three seats away from them, his TV still tuned to the Bulls game.
Frank glanced at Wendy. She was absorbed in her program, gaping at big, color photos of Alexandro, who appeared to be in the throes of agony or ecstasy or a massive bowel movement.
“Look at how passionate he is,” Wendy beamed.
“Or constipated,” Frank muttered. He turned to look at the kid. The little boy held up the Watchman so Frank could see the game. The screen was tiny, but there was a score in the corner that Frank could almost make out. He leaned closer, straining his eyes.
The little snot switched the channel to Tom and Jerry.
“Goddamn little…”
There was a moaning sound in front of them.
“Orchestra is warming up.” Wendy bounced in her seat like an anxious schoolgirl. “It’s going to start soon.”
The little boy whispered something to his father, and they both got up. Once again Frank and Wendy had to stand. Frank fought the urge to strangle the little monkey as he sashayed past.
The father took the kid by the hand up the aisle.
“Wendy, I have to go to the bathroom.”
“The show’s about to start.”
“It’s an emergency.” Frank made his Emergency face.
“Hurry back.”
Frank stood up and followed the boy into the lobby. As he guessed, his father led him into the bathroom.
The kid’s father was standing by the sink, checking out his hair from three different angles.
“I just joined Hair Club for Men,” he told Frank.
“Looks good,” Frank told him. It looked like a beaver had died on the man’s head.
“Can you see the weave?”
“Hmm? No. Seamless.”
Frank eyed the stalls. Only one door was closed. Had to be the kid.
He walked into the nearby stall and closed the door. Removing twenty dollars from his wallet, he slipped the bill under the partition
“Psst. Kid. Twenty bucks if you can give it to me for an hour.”
There was no answer. Frank added another bill to the offer.
“How about forty?”
The voice that came from the stall was far to low to belong to a child.
“I normally don’t swing that way, man. But for sixty, I’ll rock your world.”
Frank hurried out of the bathroom and into the lobby. The kid and his dad were going back into the theater.
“Hey! Buddy!”
Several people in the crowd turned to stare at him. He pushed through and caught up with Hair Weave and his kid.
“You think I could check out the game on your son’s TV?”
“The game?” Hair Weave scratched his roots.
“Bulls game. Playoffs.”
“Clarence, let this man see your TV for a second.”
“Batteries are dead.”
Clarence switched on the Watchman and nothing happened. He smiled. Malicious little bastard.
“Did you see the score?”
“Yeah—fifty-four to sixty-eight.”
“Who was winning?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Come on Clarence, Mommy’s waiting.”
Clarence stuck out his tongue and followed his father down the aisle.
Frank felt as if his head were about to blow apart. He almost began crying.
“Are you okay, sir?”
An usher, red vest and bow tie, no more than eighteen. Frank grabbed his arms.
“Is there a TV anywhere in this place?”
The boy scrunched his eyebrows. “TV? No. I don’t think so.”
“How about a radio? It’s the Eastern Conference Finals. I h
ave to know the score.”
“Sorry. There’s a TV in the dressing room, but…”
Frank lit up. “There’s one in Evander Mulrooney’s room?”
“You mean Alexandro Mulchahey?”
“I went to school with Evander, in Italy.”
“Mr. Mulchahey is Irish.”
Frank clapped the usher on the shoulder, grinning broadly.
“I should stop in, say hello to the old hound dog. Where’s his dressing room?”
“I don’t think…”
Frank held the forty dollars under the kid’s nose.
“Just tell me where it is.”
The usher sniffed the money, then nodded. He led Frank through an unmarked door and down a winding hallway that had none of the frill and pizzazz of the lobby. It barely had ample light.
The hall finally ended at a door to the backstage. Frank half expected to see a jungle of sandbags and painted backdrops, but instead it was very orderly. There were several people milling about, but none of them paid Frank any attention.
“He’s the third room on the right. Don’t tell him I let you in. I’ll lose my job.”
Frank didn’t bother thanking him. He ran to the door, flinging it open, seeing Evander Fitzrooney sitting in a make-up chair.
The soliloquist turned to him, venom in his eyes.
“I don’t allow visitors before a performance! Get out!”
Frank ignored the actor, scanning the room, searching frantically for the…
“Television!”
Frank ran to it, arms outstretched, and Evander stood up and punched Frank square in the nose.
“How many times can I say I’m sorry?”
Wendy stared at Frank through the bars. She didn’t seem sympathetic.
“I’ve decided to let you spend the night in jail, Frank. Maybe it will help you prioritize your life.”
“Wendy…please. I need you to bail me out. The game has to be almost over, and I gave my last forty bucks to that pimply usher.”
Wendy darkened, then turned on her heels and walked out.
“Wendy! Will you at least find out the score for me? Please!”
After Wendy left, Frank slumped down on the metal bench, alone. Every second seemed to last an hour. Every minute was an eternity. Are the Bulls winning? Will they move on to the finals? What was the score?