pants.
my car hadn’t been
stolen.
I got in and drove
off.
bad day
the jellyfish has a purpose,
the hyena,
the tick,
the rat,
the roach
each filled with their
swollen
light.
my light is
out.
who did this to
me?
the dick
I was sitting in my office in the dark
not thinking about much, well, maybe a little about
the Barker caper
when the door opened real slow—
I was not expecting any visitors—
I slid my hand slowly into my pocket and fondled
my 45.
hell, it’s a dame, a looker, dressed to kill, she’s rocking
there on her high heels and long legs, one garter belt
showing through her slitted dress. She said, lighting a
cigarette, “remember me?”
“well, no,” I said. “I’ve got a metal plate in my head and
I drink too much vodka.”
“cut the crap,” she hissed like a tigress, “we made love 7 times
the night before last!”
“you cut the crap,” I told her. “I haven’t had it up since Gettysburg.”
I saw her reach into her purse, I saw the glint of metal in the moonlight
coming through the dirty Venetian blinds.
I tossed the vodka bottle at her head quicker than you can say
better to cheat on your wife than on your income tax.
I got up, walked around, bent over the vodka bottle, it was all right,
no breakage.
then I looked at her, out, cold and beautiful.
I began to get ideas.
I lifted her dress.
but then she opened her eyes.
“you killed Eddie,” she said.
“who?” I asked.
“Eddie Blankenship.”
“wait,” I told her, “I’m Eddie Blankenship.”
“Christ,” she said.
“No, not him. Eddie Blankenship.”
I went around behind the desk, uncapped the vodka and had a
good hit.
the whole thing didn’t make sense.
she sat in a chair, crossing her legs high.
“I’ll solve the case for you,” I told her, “but I don’t come cheap.”
“money’s no object,” she said, her pure gold earrings shining in
the moonlight coming through the dirty Venetian blinds. “I’m Marcy Peats
Booty the 3rd, I’ve got billions.”
“20 bucks,” I said.
“you’re on.”
she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
I fondled my gun under the desk.
“well, it’s like this,” I told her. “I couldn’t have killed Eddie
Blankenship because I’m him.”
I paused.
“so!” she smiled a smile that would melt a steel
gate.
“so,” I said, “there have to be TWO Eddie Blankenships.”
“sounds like crap to me,” she said.
“baby,” I said, “crap don’t sound. I’m giving you the frigging facts.”
just then the door swung open and here stood this ragged looking guy,
no class, not much ass, not much of anything.
“I’m Eddie Blankenship,” he said.
“well, suck a rabbit’s tits,” I said.
“hello, Eddie,” the doll said to him.
“hi, baby,” he said, “what’s this punk doing sitting behind my desk?”
“your desk and what Army’s desk?” I snarled.
“me and the Canadian Royal Mounties!” he snarled.
“that’s no Army!” I yelled.
“your mother’s armpits!” he screamed.
he reached.
I reached.
two bright roaring flashes.
his bullet bounced off my steel plate.
he crumpled.
I went around, bent over him, took his wallet, then felt his
pulse.
I looked up at her.
“this man is dead,” I told her.
“you killed Eddie Blankenship!” she screamed.
I saw her reach into her purse.
there was another bright roaring flash.
she pitched forward off her chair.
I bent over her.
in her right hand was a fingernail file.
I emptied her purse.
I felt her breasts, her legs.
I felt her pulse.
she was dead.
I walked around behind my desk, had a hit of vodka and
sat there.
the moon came in through the dirty Venetian blinds.
I had 2 dead bodies and half-a-bottle of
vodka.
it was time to do some thinking.
I was in some hell of a jam.
I had to do something.
I reached for the phone.
I got the operator.
I asked her to connect me with my mother in
Iowa City.
collect.
then I sat there listening to the phone
ring.
fall of the Roman Empire
car on its side in the moonlight,
wheels toward the sky still spinning.
a man crawls out of the broken window
of the door.
he is wearing a white shirt splotched
with blood.
inside the car the radio is still playing
loudly.
the man walks across the street, sits down
on
the curbing.
he was on his way to pick up a girlfriend
for dinner.
he will be late, very late.
in fact, there will be no dinner.
the wheels have stopped spinning.
it was just one of those things which
happen
like the fall of the Roman Empire.
somebody puts a blanket around the man.
he asks for a cigarette, gets one.
somebody lights it for him, he inhales,
exhales.
then the ambulance is there.
the police cruiser.
“he ran a red light,” said the man to the cop.
“I hit the brakes,
clipped his rear end and somehow flipped.
that son of a bitch.”
“he left the scene?” the cop asked.
“yeah,” said the man, “the son of a bitch.”
the people stood off a little in the distance,
staring.
their night had become interesting.
all of them were glad they weren’t the man
sitting on the
curbing.
it was better than tv.
“you been drinking?” asked the cop,
“I smell liquor.”
“I had a few beers…”
“how many?”
“2…3…”
it was getting interesting.
the car radio was still playing.
bad rap music.
a boy of about 6 started dancing to
the music.
two ambulance drivers walked up.
one of them needed a shave.
the one who needed a shave asked
the cop,
“can he walk or will he need a stretcher?”
“can you walk to the ambulance?”
the cop asked
the man.
“sure,” he said.
he stood up and began walking toward the
ambulance.
he took a misstep, seemed to twist to
the right,
then los
t his balance and fell.
he hit the street hard.
his head bounced up once, then fell back.
he was still.
it looked ugly.
the ambulance driver who needed a shave
knelt down over him.
it was a hot July night in a decent
neighborhood.
then the radio in the car stopped.
a few of the people turned and walked off.
they had seen enough.
the others waited
in the brilliant and lovely
moonlight.
people
look at the people: elbows, knees,
earlobes, crotches, feet,
noses, lips, eyes, all the parts
usually clothed, and they are
engaged
in whatever they usually do
which is hardly ever
delightful,
their psyches stuffed with
used matter and propaganda,
advertising propaganda, religious
propaganda, sexual propaganda,
political propaganda, assorted
propagandas, and they
themselves are
dull and vicious.
they are dull because they have been
made dull and they are
vicious because they are
fearful of losing what they have.
the people are the biggest
horror show on earth,
have been for
centuries.
you could be sitting in a
room with one of them
now
or with many of
them.
or you could be one
of them.
every time the phone
rings or there is a knock on
the door
I’m afraid it will be one of
the disgusting,
spiritually destroyed
useless
babbling
ugly
fawning
hateful
humans.
or worse, on picking up the
phone the voice I hear
might be my
own,
or upon opening the
door
I will see myself
standing there,
a remnant of the
wasted centuries,
smiling a
false smile,
having learned well,
having forgotten
what I am here
for.
RANSOM
Marty drove up the unpaved lane, parked the car and got out. He walked to the small run-down house, opened the door and walked into the kitchen. The Kid was still tied to the chair. Kell was reading an old copy of Playboy. Marty sat down and looked at the Kid across the table. Then he got up, went to the refrigerator and got a beer. He looked at the Kid, “You got a tight old man, Kid, I’ve heard that rich guys are tight, tighter than a virgin.”
Kell put the magazine down, “What happened?”
“What happened? The old bastard said ‘no’ and hung up. Just like that. He likes his money better than his bloodlines. This is his only son.”
“Maybe we ought to ask for less.”
“Shit, no. I asked for two million and at two million it stays.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Kell.
“We’re going to get rough. We’re going to cut off one of the Kid’s ears and mail it to the old man.”
“Suppose he don’t pay then?”
“Then we send the other ear.”
“Listen, fellows,” said the Kid, “I…”
“You shut up,” Marty said.
“Listen,” said Kell, “I don’t like to go around cutting people’s ears off.”
“I’ll do the cutting.”
“Suppose he don’t pay after two ears?”
“Then we send his balls.”
“Listen,” said the Kid, “just…”
“Shut up! I’ve got to cut off your goddamned ear tonight. Do you think I like doing that sort of thing?”
“Let’s not do it, Marty.”
“We’ve got to. We don’t have any choice. Untie the Kid’s hands and give him a beer.”
The Kid rubbed his wrists where the rope had bound him. His legs were still tied. He lifted the beer.
“I’m sorry, Kid,” said Marty. “I told your old man that we were going to lop off one of your ears if he didn’t pay up. Know what he said?”
“No.”
“He said, ‘Go ahead.’ Now you might kind of say we got his blessing.”
“Dad never cared much for me.”
“We’re going to have to shame him into caring. We’ll ship him your eyeballs if necessary.”
“You two guys are worse than my old man! You’re bloody filthy cowards!”
“Maybe so. And your old man’s tight with his money. So you’re caught in the middle.”
“It’s hard to believe that there are people as cold as you bastards are!”
“There are. We’re just two of them. There’s plenty more, plenty. All members of the human race.”
“Isn’t there some other way out?” asked Kell, “I don’t want to see the Kid lose his ear.”
“Get me and the Kid another beer. You’re too soft. How’d you ever get into this business?”
“I don’t know, Jesus, I just kind of looked around and I was in it. I started with the numbers racket in Philly and…”
“All right. That’s enough history. One way or the other the Kid’s ear goes—tonight.”
“You’re a chickenshit bastard!” said the Kid.
“Now is that any way to talk to a man who has given you two free beers?”
“Fuck you, you swine!”
“You live in a country whose president was murdered during your lifetime and then whose brother was murdered. You live in a country where people are afraid to walk the streets after dark. Taking one of your ears just about fits the scene.”
“It doesn’t take any guts to do that.”
“Who’s talking about guts? If I had any guts I’d be a linebacker for the Chicago Bears. All we want is a little advantage, an edge, something like two million bucks.”
Then they were all quiet. Kell got up and got himself a beer. He twisted the cap off and sat down. “This is a nice little place up here in the hills. I’d like to live here instead of always being on the fucking run.”
“Yeah. But even with that million in your sock, Kell, you’re still going to have to keep running.”
“Yeah, but the women will be better.”
“Women are all pretty much the same inside. What you call a better woman, well she just has a better facade. It doesn’t mean that much.”
“I’ll take that better facade.”
“We’re going to have to sterilize a butcher knife.”
“How we going to do that?”
“On the stove. Over the flame. We gag the Kid and lop it off. Zip! It will be over fast.”
“Could he bleed to death?”
“He’s not that lucky.”
“Do you think we really stand a chance to get that ransom?”
“A damn good chance but we’re going to have to make some tough moves. For two million you’ve got to do a few extra things.”
“I still don’t like it. It makes me sick to think about it.”
“Kell, I’m not as hard as I pretend to be either. Get me another beer.”
“Shit, let’s not do it.”
“The old man is calling our hand. We’ve got to. We’ve got no choice.”
The Kid bent his head down on the table. He vomited. It was mostly the beer but there were bits of undigested food.
“Now, Kid, that wasn’t nice. That was really unsanitary. But you’re scared so I’ll forgive you.”
Marty got up and found a dish towel and cleaned the tabletop.
“T
ie his hands again. Let’s get this fucking thing over with!”
“You pricks,” said the Kid, “you chickenshit pricks!”
“And gag him so I don’t have to hear that dirty language.”
Marty walked to the drawer and found the butcher knife. He walked to the stove and turned a burner on. He held the knife over the flame.
“We can go to South America, Kell. We can live there the rest of our lives. Some of the Nazis went down there after the war and they’ve never found them. A man can pay for protection just like he pays for pussy.” He turned the knife over the flame. “And you’re right. I’ll take that better facade too. I’ve been to bed with some real hags.”
He took the knife from the flame. The Kid was fully tied and gagged. He walked around behind the Kid so he wouldn’t have to look into his eyes. He took the left ear gently between his fingers and pulled it away from the Kid’s head. “Hey Kell, hold this son-of-a-bitch still!”
Betting on the Muse Page 10