by Jeff Povey
“I’ll see you, Douglas.”
Betty leaves. I don’t watch her go but do see her again when she passes the café window, head bowed. She glances at me, but only out of politeness. As I watch her, the waitress collects our coffee cups. I look up and see that she is spellbindingly attractive—right up there with Hanna.
“Isn’t it great being beautiful? We’re privileged. We truly are.”
The waitress says nothing. She just collects the coffee cups and walks away. I turn to watch her go, call after her.
“Listen, being mute isn’t a problem. I’ve got a friend who’s been to signing classes.”
HEADLESS CHICKEN
IT HAS BEEN five days since I saw Betty, and I had hoped she might call me after the headway we made in the café. I have been moping around the house, sometimes taking in a war movie with Agent Wade, sometimes just sitting in my room and watching the damp creeping higher and higher up the lilac walls. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I really want to see her. For me she sums up the word woman. The phone rings, and I rush through and grab it.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
My heart leaps. “Betty. I knew you’d call.”
“Tony called me.” She sounds scared.
“And?”
“He said he’s going to make the Club great again.”
“Well, that’s just amazing.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“But what does he mean by that?”
“I dunno. But if Tony says he’s going to do something, then he’s sure going to do it.”
My mind races. This has got to be a sign that my quite brilliant plan is working. I glance at the mirror superglued to the wall and smile. Burt is a dead man.
“Can I borrow your car?”
Agent Wade stops typing, looks up at me like I’m crazy. “My car?”
“I want to go out.”
“Why?”
“I just do. Is that a problem?”
“And you want my car?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Maybe I need it tonight.”
“Well, you could give me a ride. Where are you going, anyway?”
“That’s my business,” he snaps at me.
“I was only asking.”
“Don’t.” Agent Wade flashes a threatening look at me, and for the life of me I can’t see what the big deal is.
“I’ll call a cab. . . .”
“The hell with it—just take the car.”
“Not if it’s going to put you out.”
“Take it, Dougie, okay? I’ll make other arrangements. Just make sure you fill her up when you’re done.”
“I thought you were going to stick close to me?”
“Not tonight. If you want to go out, then you go out. I’m not your jailer.” Not yet, I think to myself.
For the first time ever, Agent Wade looks evasive. “Anyway, I’ve, uh . . . got stuff to do tonight . . . FBI stuff. Hell, I work harder than the president.” He adds a little laugh to this, and I can’t help but feel he isn’t quite telling me the truth. He hands me his car keys.
“Don’t scratch it.”
As I open the front door a wind crashes in, blowing the pages of his thick report everywhere.
“Damn!”
He quickly shoves me outside and slams the door in my face.
I stand there for a long moment, then step to one side and take a peek inside the living room window. I can see Agent Wade on his hands and knees, grabbing up pages of his precious report and then putting them back in an orderly pile. I then see him stand, scratch his groin, and walk over to my hi-fi. He picks through my small collection of records and CDs and finally finds a CD single that appeals to him. He opens the CD deck and slots the disc in. He pumps up the volume, and even with the howling wind raging around me, I can make out the first few familiar beats of a Murder Rap tune that has just charted at number eight.
Why you do
Why you do
Why you do that thang, Kentucky?
Is you just
Is you just
Is you just a touch unlucky?
Chicken leg
Make them beg
French fry
Make them sigh
Man is gonna come for you
Man is gonna lemon-scent you
Man is gonna box your head
Man is gonna make you dead
Why you do
Why you do
Why you do that thang, Kentucky?
Is you just
Is you just
Is you just a sick fucky?
Agent Wade pops open a bottle of Bud, lets it spurt all over before covering the rim with his mouth, and then cranks the hi-fi up as far as it will go. I can feel the windowpane shudder with the volume, and as I watch him start gyrating to the beat, I can see him mouthing the words off by heart.
I turn away and make for his car; I have to bow my head and hold my oilskins tight around my body as the wind tugs at me, trying hard to blow me off my feet, whipping my hood from my head no matter how many times I pull it back on. I unlock the door and climb in, and as soon as I close the door I feel safe. The wind can blow all it wants, but it won’t get me while I’m in Agent Wade’s car.
I start the engine, see that the fuel gauge is pointing dangerously close to the empty sign, and realize that yet again I’ll have to spend more of my hard-earned money if I want to get over to Burt’s boat tonight. It then strikes me that Agent Wade hasn’t paid for a thing since I first met him, and I make a mental note to bring that up later. It’s not like I’m a rich man.
The car glides away as I drive into the night. I have to pull the seat forward, pump it higher, and adjust the rearview, but eventually I feel comfortable enough to sit back and enjoy the ride. It’s nothing out of the ordinary as cars go, but I like pretending that it’s mine, and I take a few corners far too fast, tossing the car around like a pro, straightening her up, hitting fourth, and spearing through the rain like one of Agent Wade’s boyhood arrows. By the time I have stopped to fill up the car, then driven clean across town and arrived at the small harbor where Burt’s boat home is moored, I can just about live with the strong lemon scent that fills the car. Though it was never this strong before and has developed into a very powerful aroma. So much so that when I check out the car, I find about a dozen unopened lemon-scented hand wipes sitting in the glove compartment. All of them from KFC.
The harbor is badly lit, and the white-haired guy who keeps watch from his wooden cabin has fallen asleep with his hands behind his head and his feet up on a small electric heater that probably gives off about one single therm of heat if he’s lucky. As I get out of the car, I can hear water lapping—in fact, crashing—against the harbor walls, and I can tell it is not a night to go fishing. I make sure I remember Agent Wade’s camera, check that it is loaded, and then set off on foot to find Burt’s boat. It isn’t easy making out the names of the houseboats moored there, and once or twice I nearly get spotted by an owner as I creep up as close as I can. Burt told me once that a lot of the owners have acquired high-powered rifles as a deterrent for burglars, and the last thing I want is to get my head blown off by some panicky would-be sailor. I use up a good half an hour looking for the Teacher—Burt’s houseboat—until at last I think I’ve found it.
Initially I’m drawn to the sound of sawing, which is incongruous, to say the least. I stop, go low, and then inch forward, hoping to get a glimpse of Burt. I suck in deeply as I make out Tony already on board Burt’s little boat. The light in the cabin is very low, but I’d know that belching bag of wind’s profile anywhere.
The Teacher seems to be rocking more severely than the other boats, and that makes it doubly difficult for me to climb aboard. The sawing seems to be getting louder as I manage to get a footing, haul myself onto the gangway, and tiptoe across the rain-lashed and slippery wooden boards. The sawing gets louder still, and Tony
adds a massive fart for good measure as I finally sneak level with the cabin and then raise my head very slowly until I can see inside.
It isn’t a pretty sight.
Burt may or may not be dead, and Tony has him in a strong grip as he saws through his neck. I can’t be sure if Burt is dead from where I’m standing because Tony has probably injected him with a special chemical that causes complete paralysis. According to Tony, your balls don’t even swing with this stuff. Tony does this to all his victims, claiming that he has a hole in the heart and can’t chase after people like he used to.
Burt has beheaded many people in his killing career, and a lot of it has to do with his failure to make it as a decent human being. Burt used to whine constantly about his upbringing and the pressure brought to bear on him when, after his father had run off with another woman, he was urged by all his relatives to assume the mantle of man of the house. He was only eight at the time and naturally became a little confused. So much so that he started believing he was married to his mother, and in a fit of insane jealousy, he killed his mother’s new boyfriend. Because of his tender age, he was incarcerated for five years in a correctional facility. Not nearly long enough, as far as I am concerned. Burt then spent the whole of his twenties proving to the world that he was sane and safe to walk the streets. The ritual beheading of families followed a week after he was given a clean bill of health. Burt’s reasoning was put forward in that gratingly unfunny way of his: “If I couldn’t be the head of the family, then I decided no one could.” Oh, how we laughed at that one.
I steady myself as best I can as the bearlike Tony saws with rough and ready strokes—shaking the whole boat back and forth, such is the strength of the man. I catch him in the camera’s viewfinder, and after ensuring that there is no doubt this is most definitely Tony Curtis cutting off Burt Lancaster’s head, I start taking photos—only to have Tony immediately stop for a breather. He wipes his forehead and then kicks Burt’s lifeless body. “Thick-necked bastard!”
I hold my breath. Wait for a moment. Tony wipes more sweat from his brow, tests his armpits, smells his fingers straight after, grimaces, and then wipes his hands on his trousers. He picks up his saw and is ready to resume decapitating Burt when he hears something and immediately looks my way. I quickly duck down. I hear his lumbering footsteps coming toward the window, and I’m already debating taking my chances in the churning waters when he flings open the window right above my head.
“Neck as thick as a fuckin’ tree trunk!” Tony clears his throat and then spits into the night. The wind instantly catches the spit and hurls it straight back into my eyes. Because I dare not move an inch, I have to sit there letting the spit drip down and run into my nose. I want so badly to retch that I hold a hand over my mouth, hoping to God he doesn’t hear me forcing the bile back down.
Tony remains there, looking out. “Fucking gonna lose weight doing this.” He coughs hard and clears his throat again, but thankfully this time he swallows rather than spitting. “Aerobic neck sawing!” He slams the window shut again, and in a frenzy I claw and tear his saliva from my face.
The sawing starts again, and I am determined to get a shot of this. I peer into the cabin and see Tony kick Burt again—his saw now stuck fast in Burt’s neck. Tony kicks hard at him in his rage, puts his foot up against the side of Burt’s face, and tugs on the stuck saw with all his might.
I manage to get off a few shots, the click of the camera easily drowned out by the ferociously swirling waters below. I don’t take too many, though, because the rocking of the boat is making me feel ill, and besides, I have to turn away when Burt’s head snaps clean off under the force of Tony’s boot. Even he is momentarily surprised, and he can only stand there looking down at Burt’s head rolling back and forth across the cabin floor.
Then I hear him start laughing and know that it’s time to get the hell out. I am about to move off when the window is opened again and I am forced to press myself flat as Burt’s head comes flying out the window above me—and dammit if it doesn’t hit a loose shutter and get batted back into the hood of my oilskins.
“Here, fishy wishies . . .” Tony whistles like he was calling a dog.
I can’t hold it in any longer—Burt’s nose is pressed into my neck—and I scream at the top of my voice. It is out before I know what I’m doing.
“What the . . . ? Who the fuck’s out there?!”
Christ.
I scramble along the side of the boat, leap onto the slippery gangway, lose my footing, and go sprawling headfirst along it.
“Who the fuck’s there?” Tony roars above the wind, and I can already hear him charging out of the cabin after me.
I get to my feet and jump the last two yards to dry land. I nearly slip again, but I manage to regain my balance and am ready to sprint off when I catch a glimpse of the camera, which must have spilled from my pocket.
“Police! This is the police! I’m armed!” Tony yells, his bellow louder than the crashing ocean. The slow-moving Tony clambers along the prow of the boat, getting closer and closer.
I grab the camera and tear along the jetty, thanking God for the foulest and darkest night He ever created.
“I said it’s the fucking police!” A gunshot rings out as Tony’s bulk lands hard on the jetty.
I run faster than a cheetah, pumping my arms and legs, knowing the darkness is my one savior.
And that’s when the lights come on.
Fog lights from the houseboats, warning lights, searchlights—you name it, they’ve got it. People appear from everywhere, and I’m suddenly running a gauntlet of angry faces and voices—all of them desperately swinging their lights around, trying to catch me in their beams.
“Who’s there?”
“What’s going on?”
“I saw someone!”
“Police! Back off, you fucks!” Tony’s voice is getting hoarse and breathless from his pursuit.
Some of the lights swing into one another, and the occupants of the boats are mutually blinded. They jag around wildly, and one hits the front grille of Agent’s Wade car. I’ve got about fifty yards to go.
A huge gunshot roars out. This is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, and something screams past me.
“I see him! I see him!”
“Where!?”
“There!”
Another gunshot booms out, and I realize that I’m being shot at by thief-hating boat owners with high-velocity rifles.
“There he is!”
Another bullet crashes through the air, and I’m suddenly in the middle of a gun battle.
“Put those freaking guns down, you pricks!” Tony is still coming after me, but I know I’m making ground on him because only a lunatic would try to run through the salvos that are erupting everywhere around me. Vietnam has come to Chicago.
“Stop freaking shooting or I’ll kill you where you stand, you dumb fuck bastards!” Tony lets off a few rounds, smashing some of the fog lights, shattering the glass of cabin windows. “I do the freaking shooting, okay?!”
Tony’s voice rises hugely above everything, and as I reach the white-haired man’s cabin—ten yards from where I’m parked—the world goes silent. The shooting has stopped, the lights dip down and point away from me, and I am nearly home.
But as I get within Tony’s spitting distance of the car, the white-haired man suddenly bursts from his cabin, yelling and screaming for his life, and as I look down I can see that both his feet are on fire. I run smack into him and tumble forward, the flames from his feet scorching my eyebrows as we roll over and over. The white-haired old man yells in blind panic, and I absolutely and unequivocally hate him for going to sleep with his feet on top of a heater. I don’t get time to dwell on it because I can hear Tony thundering ever closer.
“Stop that guy! Hey—you with the feet! Stop him!”
I shove the burning man away from me, scramble desperately for Agent Wade’s car, and hurl myself behind the wheel. As I gun the engine, I see Tony e
merge from the darkness and take aim at the car. I duck right down, slam the car into reverse, and hammer the pedal right to the floor. I don’t care where I’m going, all I want to do is get out of there.
Tony’s first shot hits the madly hopping white-haired man in the shoulder, sending him spinning off the jetty and into the subzero waters. His second shot takes off a wing mirror, and his third shot misses completely as I reverse straight into a storefront window. As mannequins dressed in knitted fisherman’s sweaters fall all over the hood, I grind into first, fail to get any traction, and then skid sideways out of the store. Tony is still coming for me—reloading as he does—but I drag the wheel hard right, hit the main road, and screech down it. I have done all of this with practically only my forehead and above visible. As another couple of shots zing around me, I decide that it might be prudent to drive like this all the way home.
“I’ll find out who you are!” Even Tony’s great voice is eventually lost in the distance I put between us.
I am not sure how I am going to get the shots I took of Tony developed, but I know of a local photographer’s shop across town that I could break into. I could take out a book from Betty’s library on how to develop photographs, and it takes my mind off this awful night thinking that I’ve got a good excuse to go see her. Failing that, I will just bring them to KlippyKlap Snaps, which is currently offering a second set of glossy prints and a free roll of film with every order.
It is only when I park outside my house and let myself in that I realize I still have Burt’s head trapped in the hood of my oilskin.
When I take off my oilskins and shake the rain from them, it flops out and lands with a thud at my feet. A damp-looking Agent Wade looks up from toweling his hair dry, sees Burt’s head, and then looks toward me. His expression doesn’t waver for a second.
“You, uh, bringing your work home now?”
CHER