The Dark Fantastic

by Stanley Ellin

  They wisely nodded their kinky heads at each other and settled down to wait only a little longer.

  They knew.

  And the band played on. All six pieces, wonderfully deafening. Stand close to the platform, plug your fingers into your ears, and the racketing of the music still found its way into your head.

  And suddenly

  Dapper Dan there on the platform. A bull of a man, sweatstains showing through the armpits of that jacket. And reaching down and catching me by the wrists, swinging me to his shoulder so that I sat up there, the tallest one of all, looking down on all those people who, this one and that one, and these few and those few, now turned to look up at me.

  “Here it is, boys,” shouted Dapper Dan to the band, and they stopped playing for an instant, and then followed the song he led them into. “Happy birthday to you—”

  He sang it, booming it into my ear, and then everyone was looking up at me singing it. Roaring it out. All the while that big hand bracing me up there, hurting me as it dug into my ribs. Dapper Dan Kirwan leading the whole world in that birthday greeting to his newly-made son.

  As proud of me as I was somehow ashamed of him.

  Then down to the ground again, safe away from him. He remained up there. Oh yes. He had the crowd now, and drunk on whiskey and glory he was not going to give it up that easily.

  No chance of that.

  He took off that handsome new hat and waved it back and forth, leading the band, leading the crowd, into a new song. “East Side, West Side—”

  They roared it out. They roared it all the louder when he held both arms wide and waved them up and up and up, exhorting thunder from them.

  Thunder.

  “Boys and girls together,

  Me and Mamie O’Rorke,

  Tripped the light fantastic

  On the sidewalks of New York.”

  Roaring it out, the celebration of the end of their world.

  The end.

  He never knew it, poor fool. Didn’t live long enough to know it.

  Didn’t know the most terrible truth of all: He who cannot read the past is condemned to relive it.

  Vico. Libertarian democracy to chaos to autocracy.

  Out of his depth.

  Proud of me. Created this legacy for me out of ignorance, so I must now make penance for that ignorance.

  Understand this.

  I make it willingly.

  That is all.

  John Milano

  IT REMINDED MILANO OF THE COACH who protested that his team hadn’t lost the game, it had just run out of time.

  The reminder was provided by the Birdbath Theater’s playwright Pearl and director Lenardo who eventually took notice that they were missing their star boarder and came out on the landing to view with astonishment the pair of lovebirds roosting on the stairway. Common decency dictated that they then haul ass right out of there, and Lenardo, sensitive male, did. Pearl, after getting one look at Milano, didn’t.

  “You going to sit there like that all night?” she demanded of Chris with a disapproval even more chilling than the draft winding up the stairway.

  That did it. The spell was abruptly broken, and Milano who, between heated embraces had been trying gentle persuasion, logical argument, and even some heavy ad miseracordia pleading, wound up driving home alone.

  He could see that it was as funny in a way as it was frustrating, this playback of the old Senior Prom days. But it stopped being funny when the insomnia set in. He gave sleep an honest try, then surrendered to jangling nerves and aimlessly prowled the apartment trying to make the jangling coherent. For instance, there was the big score against Mister Hairpiece, the satisfaction of seeing those Boudins safely on their way home to daddy. Not the biggest score he had ever pulled off, Milano had to acknowledge, but a big one. And considering the works involved, it should have been an especially gratifying one. But it wasn’t. It tasted sour in the mouth. Worse. It was likely to taste that way, Milano suspected, as long as Christine Bailey didn’t know the whole scenario.

  And if she was enlightened about it, what role would she feel he had cast her for? His unknowing partner? His victim? His dupe?

  No matter how you looked at it, it was hard to imagine any time of such revelation however remote – she could be pushing him around the retirement colony in a wheelchair – that wasn’t charged with calamity.

  Jesus.

  Even more depressing was the realization of the apartment’s acute emptiness right now. Acute. An unnerving sense of someone acutely missing from the picture. Voluntarily, stubbornly missing. The complete flake. Wouldn’t play in his yard but didn’t have one of her own, so there she was fifty blocks away, curled up on her lumpy couch sleeping the sweet sleep of the self-righteous.

  Maybe not. It could only be hoped that she was lying there in torment, suffering every form of guilt in the book.

  Either way, how did she come to be calling all the shots?

  As if he didn’t know the answer, thought Milano, when the apartment really was acutely, miserably empty without her.

  But she’d get around to logic, and soon. Would move in, settle down, take life as it came. And he, as he had explained to her a dozen times over on that stairway, would willingly take her as she came, God help him.

  As is.

  If that’s how it had to be, that’s how it would be.

  He fell asleep trying to convince himself of it and was brought awake by the phone. Eight o’clock. He lunged for the phone, noting the time as that hour which marked Christine Bailey’s surrender to logic. But when he opened with a warm “Hello there,” what he seemed to have on the line was a breather who had somehow tied on to a member of the wrong sex. Or were there gay breathers now operating in town?

  The breather finally found his voice. “Mr. Milano? John Milano?”

  The voice sounded familiar. The hacking cough that followed it settled all questions. “Mr. Kirwan?” said Milano.

  “Yes. I want to meet with you today. Here. At four o’clock.”

  “Meet today,” echoed Milano, then got his bearings. Of course. He was John Milano, properties consultant, who had in mind to buy the decrepit 409 Witter Street. And the landlord was suddenly in a selling mood. If sufficiently stoned, he might even be in a talking mood. What’s more, this Milano had arranged to drive Christine Bailey to 409 Witter to oversee a social services person dropping in this evening on little sister. The catch was that he was supposed to pick up his flakey dream girl at five. After work.

  “Well, Mr. Milano?” Kirwan said sharply.

  “Yes. Sorry. As it is, I expect to be in the neighborhood this evening—”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Milano.”

  Sarcasm? And what the hell made him so sure?

  “– so,” said Milano, “if you can arrange it for the evening—”

  “No. Four o’clock. Do yourself that favor. I think we understand each other perfectly.”

  That’s what you think, buddy, thought Milano, but said, “All right then, four o’clock.”

  “Promptly. I’ll be waiting. Oh yes, and give Mr. Passarini my compliments. Tell him for me he’s done very well for himself.”

  Click.

  Milano slowly put down the phone. The way the old burlesque routine went, it should ring again, and someone should announce himself as Mr. Passarini and ask if any compliments had been left for him. Except that with Professor Peeping Tom the humor wasn’t sophomore stuff, it was strictly graduate school. Esoteric. The footnotes in print too small to read.

  Passarini? Milano hauled out the Manhattan phone book from under the night table and let his fingers do the walking. Passaretti. Passarge. Passaro. Between Passarge and Passaro nothing. Screw it.

  He dialed Chris’s number, and when she answered he said, “Do you know what a donkey you are?”

  “Honey, do not hassle me this time of day. I haven’t had my coffee yet.

  “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

  “Fine
.”

  “I didn’t,” said Milano. “Anyhow, this is a business call. I just heard from your mama’s landlord. He wants to meet with me over there at four this afternoon, so I said yes.”

  “Why does he want to meet with you?”

  “Probably to sell me his apartment house. But I’m not all that sure. He sounded far out. Past the stratosphere and still moving fast. And since he’s my number one lead to what ails Lorena—”

  “Honey, do you know why he’s your number one lead? Do you mind me telling you why?”

  “I might.”

  “You might. Because I think you have been down on him from the time you got the idea he sneaked a look at me bare-ass. The hot-blooded Italian outlook, you know what I mean? And I can do without that. Why don’t you just lay off the man?”

  “Come on,” Milano said scornfully, “that’s not an analysis, that’s an ego trip.”

  “Happens to be the truth, honey.”

  And, thought Milano, as far as his motives went that’s what it happened to be. Which still didn’t leave Kirwan off the hook.

  “All right,” he said, “the bare-ass privilege is reserved for me. But I still want to get together with him. Can I pick you up at three instead of five?”

  “I wish you could. But you can’t.”

  He had been prepared for this. “Then you just drive out there in the Toyota. We’ll get together at Mama’s, and whenever you’re ready you can drive me home.”

  “No, you can drive me back to the Village. I’ve still got a couple of days to go on the monthlies, so the weekend’ll be better for us all around.”

  “For chrissake,” said Milano, “I’m not even talking about sex.”

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  “I’m going to have my coffee now, honey. See you at Mama’s.”

  Milano put down the phone. Of course, she could have been lying about having a good night’s sleep. The trouble was that she didn’t seem to know anything about lying. And that jealous Latin lover crap. Why the hell did she have to dig up that idiotic stereotype? And, if he remembered rightly, it wasn’t for the first time.

  Lay off Kirwan? Because, after getting his unadvertised eyefuls of her through that window, he had patted her on the head and given her a high school recommendation? Some advice. Proof, in fact, that while in some ways this lady might be as toughminded as they come, in others she had a head full of oatmeal.

  That Heywood and Smith memory book on Kirwan, Milano knew, was somewhere around the apartment. He finally located the folder on top of the refrigerator and sat down with it at his desk. A pile of stuff in the folder, but by settling for those sections highlighted by Gracella Smith’s marker he made fast time through it. With a couple of exceptions, what emerged was a college level Mister Chips, American style. Portrait by Wyeth, house in the background by Hopper. The exceptions dealt with a valorous military record, and while it was hard to see Professor Peeping Tom in this light, there it was in print. Commanding officer of a special demolitions squad, decorated for the destruction of enemy strongpoints.

  Talk about ancient history.

  What wasn’t in the folder, of course, were some items of modern history. Those porno binoculars always at the ready. Grandpa’s ashes on the mantelpiece. That endless boiler repair job which produced dust instead of oil and water. Mr. Passarini.

  Mr. Passarini?

  Was it possible that the professor had gone so schizo that he didn’t really know who he was talking to on the phone or about what? Or did he just enjoy hitting you with characters unknown to tilt you off balance? Mr. Passarini. Like Guy Fawkes. Please to remember the fifth of November Guy Fawkes.

  Milano irritably closed the folder and from a drawer in the desk removed the envelope containing Pacifica Inland’s front money, three thousand dollars of it. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and strolled past beckoning Central Park to the office. His room there was empty, the desk restored to normal, a pile of mail on it waiting for action. No Hy Greenwald.

  In answer to his call, Shirley came in bearing still more mail for the pile. “Welcome back, stranger,” she said.

  “Mmm. Where’s Hy?”

  “He thought you’d be in for keeps today, so he moved back to his old office. Right now he and Willie and that Pacifica man and his art expert are all downstairs having a celebration brunch. If you move fast—”

  “No. I gather the paintings passed inspection.”

  “With flying colors. Willie already gave me the Pacifica check for deposit. Quite a haul, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.” Milano reached across the desk to hand her the loaded envelope. “You can add that to it. Three thousand expense money. It wasn’t needed.”

  “So I see.” Shirley looked, if anything, reproving. “You know, Johnny, they don’t give out merit badges around here for this. You could easily—”

  “Don’t worry about the merit badges,” Milano said. “Just make sure I get a receipt.” But it was the first time she had ever reacted this way to this procedure. His return of unused expense money. And she had a peculiar expression on that Jewish-mother face. Intense concern. “There’s something on your mind, Shirl. What is it?”

  “Well”—her face was going bright red—“when Willie gave me that check to deposit he also gave me a paper to file. Your promissory note. For forty thousand. Forty thousand, Johnny? My God, beside being in hock to him for that, do you know how much money goes through your hands? I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” said Milano.

  Shirley had the bit between her teeth now. “I don’t think you do. And I don’t want you all heated up because I have a suggestion to make about it. But you have no head at all for handling your money, Johnny. So how about putting one of those personal financial managers in charge? Somebody to take over your income, figure out expenses, see you have something to show for your work. Doesn’t that make sense to you?”

  Milano leaned far back in the chair and tilted it to an acute angle. “Believe it or not, Shirl, these last few weeks I’ve had in mind lining up someone just like that.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “Nothing settled yet, but I’ll let you know when it is. Right now, what I’d like to know is if we’ve got any reference books on history around here somewhere.”

  “On history? For what?”

  “I guess that’s the answer,” said Milano.

  The nearby Donnell Library on Fifty-third, right across the street from the Museum of Modern Art – good old MOMA – supplied the necessary text. A detailed study of the early Stuart reign in England.

  Guy Fawkes. The Gunpowder Plot, 1605. The attempt of England’s dispossessed and persecuted Roman Catholics to blow up the Protestant James I and his Parliament. Barrels of gunpowder smuggled into the cellars of the Houses of Parliament ready to be set off on convening day. But someone sang, and a few conspirators, including ringleader Guy Fawkes, were seized. End of plot.

  Not quite the end of Guy Fawkes, however, not until he could be made to confess fully and to name names.

  At this point, Milano, coming up against a set of ancient woodcuts graphically illustrating the means of persuasion used on the stubborn conspirator, had the feeling that for the sake of pleasant dreams it would be smart to close the book right here and let it go at that. Morbid temptation, as he trusted it would, got the better of him. He read on with interest.

  Fawkes was hauled off to the Tower of London and there chained in a kneeling position in a cage four foot square. He was force-fed regular meals – mustard for food, vinegar for drink. Incredibly, he survived this for an agonizing fifty-six days, and then his inquisitors, losing patience, laid what was left of him on the rack. The first bonecracking tug of the ropes finally broke his spirit, he confessed at length, named names.

  Still not the end of Guy Fawkes. He, along with his men, was hanged, cut down while yet conscious, carefully disemboweled, and his own guts displayed to him. And that was the end. A lesson
to anybody who might be tempted to play with gunpowder.

  Gunpowder.

  Back in the apartment, Milano opened the Kirwan dossier to the pages describing the military exploits of Captain Kirwan, demolitions expert. Two pages. One an interview, one an account of the Italian campaign in which the captain’s exploits amounted to a sketchy couple of lines. In the interview, he came off as modest, self-deprecatory, ironic in his opinion of his decorations. No glory-hunter, that was for sure. No wild-eyed adventurer. Just a colorless expert for a few months in a very narrow line of work, the demolition of enemy strongholds under fire.

  And, as the captain turned professor had remarked himself, with a recent interest in Guy Fawkes, who was not quite as expert in that line of work.

  Of course, ancient gunpowder was one thing, modern dynamite another.

  Professor Charles Witter Kirwan.

  At first meeting wouldn’t consider selling his white elephant apartment building. Getting it ready for the torch, said the cynical Madman, and, what with one thing and another, that was a thin possibility.

  But what became of that thin possibility now that the professor had suddenly changed his mind and was ready to talk about selling?

  Milano went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out the pitcher of martinis waiting there since that memorable evening when, depending on how you looked at it, either he had seduced Christine Bailey or she had seduced him. All right, call it a joint venture. He tried a mouthful of martini, stirred the contents of the pitcher with a soup spoon, tried another mouthful, then poured the whole thing down the sink. A warning from heaven, the way the stuff tasted after aging.

  He went back to the desk, went over Captain Kirwan’s military history again and moved on to Professor Kirwan’s record as civil libertarian. Going by that record, Milano thought, it wasn’t too hard to see why his own favorite minority person, or for that matter such as Gracella Smith and DeLong Heywood and handyman Al Bunting had a soft spot for the professor. Good will and tolerance seemed to be very much the professor’s thing.

  And binoculars.

  Milano opened the bottom drawer of the desk. Its sole contents were a sealed pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches. He had given up smoking almost a year ago – eleven months, two weeks, and three days ago by his instant calculation – and the pack of cigarettes had been planted there in that unlocked drawer as the only true test of will power. The acid test.