His associate is a man we first heard about at Otto’s house, though we haven’t been properly introduced. He goes by the name of Joesy, but again we’ve no evidence that’s his real name. This mix of names is an ongoing leitmotif, the choice of folks not rooted to the quotidian by charge cards, mortgages, and taxes. Maybe the illusion of anonymity makes them think they need not be accountable, letting them slide through life as on a secret errand.
Joesy carries a flashlight and swings it back and forth in an arc. He and Jimbo walk softly, even though they believe no one’s at home. This is because they’re up to no good, and their silence is due to a transferred sense of disquiet. Joesy pauses to focus the light on something written on the side of the Winnebago: HERE LIVES AN ORPHAN FROM OUTER SPACE!
The two men study it, and then Jimbo says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means whoever lives here,” says Joesy, “deserves what he’s going to get.”
Moving along the side of the Winnebago, they find the front door open. It’s then that Joesy’s flashlight settles on a vague shape sitting in a lawn chair. Although the shape must be aware of the light, he doesn’t turn. Jimbo and Joesy aren’t sure how they feel about this. Maybe the person is sleeping.
Joesy approaches the chair, and Jimbo limps behind him. Then Joesy stops and waits to be acknowledged. Instead the figure, who we know as Vaughn, again holds the cardboard up to the sky, mutters something, and writes a number on his yellow pad, now illuminated by the flashlight.
“Whatcha doin’?” asks Joesy. He sounds truculent, but then he always sounds truculent. Perhaps he imagines that Vaughn will be startled by the interruption, but Vaughn is as calm as ever.
“Counting stars,” says Vaughn, again holding up the piece of cardboard. Then he mutters to himself, writes something down, and raises the piece of cardboard.
“Anybody inside?” asks Jimbo.
“Absence makes the heart wander.” Vaughn speaks in a monotone, so his voice sounds robotic. Still, it’s the rippling baritone of Vaughn Monroe, and Jimbo, whose parents might have listened to the famous crooner, feels a mild frisson, which he attributes to the likelihood of his getting a cold.
The thugs study Vaughn’s motorcycle cap as they consider their options. At last Joesy says, “How the fuck can you count stars with a fuckin’ piece of cardboard?”
Vaughn turns slightly. “It’s an alimentary conundrum. I spot the platen at the bottom left of the sky, violate the stars within the orifice, fight down the sum, traffic the platen to the next significant area, again violate the stars, fight down the sum, traffic the platen to the next area, violate the stars, fight down the sum, traffic the cardboard—”
“Stop!” say Jimbo.
A long silence follows.
“Maybe he’s fucking with us.” Joesy keeps the light pointed at Vaughn’s head.
The thugs have, unwittingly, allowed themselves to be sucked into the vortex of Vaughn’s inner world and aren’t sure how to escape. Of course, they don’t articulate this to themselves, and instead they mistake their concern for a slight headache.
“Got any aspirin?” says Jimbo.
“Maybe we can find some inside,” says Joesy.
“So who are you?” asks Jimbo gruffly.
Vaughn smiles up at the intruders. “I’m an orphan from outer space.” He returns to counting stars.
The thugs consider the chance that this might be true. Both, in fact, are strong UFO believers. Then Jimbo says, “Nutcase.”
“Wacko,” says Joesy.
“Come on, we got stuff to do.”
Jimbo and Joesy have three tasks: first, to make sure Sal’s gold isn’t hidden within the Winnebago—surely a long shot. Second, to destroy everything they can destroy as punishment to Connor for getting in Chucky’s way. The third is to bring everyone they can find back to Chucky. For any self-respecting thug, this is child’s play.
Vaughn remains in his chair on the crest of the hill, but as crashing noises erupt from inside the Winnebago, he begins to lose track of his counting. He looks back over his shoulder, puts down the pencil and pad of paper, and gets to his feet. Dishes are being broken, heavy objects are being thrown, a window on the slide-out is smashed, clothes are tossed out the door.
With each sound, Vaughn grows more disturbed. He hurries to the Winnebago. “Don’t touch my yellow pads!”
Abruptly, a pile of pads is thrown through the door. “Nix, nix, nix!” shouts Vaughn. He begins picking them up; some have sailed a dozen feet or so. He runs from one to another. “Nix, nix, nix!” More pads are flung through the door, and the wind blows several down to the water. Vaughn agitatedly gathers them up until he has a pile pressed to his chest. He puts them on the ground and places the lawn chair on top of them. “Nix, nix, nix!” he shouts again. A TV flies out the door. Vaughn lifts his hands to his head, runs to the Winnebago, and dashes up the steps. Almost as soon as he vanishes inside, he comes tumbling back down. A thug has hit him. He again runs up the steps and is knocked back down. He runs up the steps a third time, but this time Joesy appears at the top, grabs Vaughn, and pushes him away.
“You’re as cruel as a cucumber!” shouts Vaughn. His voice trembles.
“Stay outta here!” shouts Jimbo, jumping down to the ground.
Joesy appears at the door. “Maybe we should shoot him.”
Jimbo thinks about this. “We weren’t told to shoot nobody.”
“We could shoot him just a little, like you—like in the foot. Nothing drastic.”
“No can do. We can only take him to Chucky.”
“Let’s put holes in the RV instead. Chucky said nothing about making holes.”
This seems a good idea. The men take their Glocks from where they’re safely tucked into their belts in the small declivity behind their backs. They like Glocks; cops use Glocks, and if Jimbo and Joesy weren’t thugs, they might be something coplike. Each slides a bullet into the chamber and begins shooting at the Winnebago, starting with the tires, then windows, then walls. They take gunfighter positions; they spin around with their backs to the RV and shoot over their shoulders; they bend down and shoot between their legs. They reload and laugh and start shooting again.
“Fuck, I like holes,” says Joesy.
“I could do this all night,” says Jimbo.
Vaughn stands back by the lawn chair and says nothing.
“I like it when you can hear the slug smashing something inside,” says Joesy.
“Yeah, like glass breaking. Neat!” says Jimbo.
But at last all great pleasures come to an end. A sense of economy prevails. “We gotta save some bullets for a rainy day,” says Joesy.
“Let’s put the nutcase in the truck,” says Jimbo.
They don’t ask Vaughn if he’d like to accompany them; they simply grab his arms and drag him. “I’m having a nervous shakedown!” shouts Vaughn. The Denali has three rows of seats, and Vaughn is shoved into the far back. Then Jimbo sits in the middle row and Joey drives.
“I need medical resistance!” shouts Vaughn.
“Shut up!” says Jimbo, but his usual indifference to another’s discomfort is somewhat unsettled, as someone’s stomach can be unsettled from eating a dubious piece of fish. Maybe I’m not getting a cold, Jimbo thinks. Maybe I’m getting the flu.
The Denali bumps back down the access road to Route 1. Joesy decides the sooner they get rid of the nutcase, the better. Let Chucky deal with him.
“You ever hear of anything called Murderers Anonymous?” asks Jimbo as he imagines a twelve-step program to fit his needs.
“Yeah, man, Murder Incorporated. Great! I saw the movie. Like that, right?”
“Not exactly.” Jimbo decides to keep his doubts to himself.
We should take a moment to recall Jimbo’s apple green sport coat. What would possess a thug to wear a garment that would make him stick out in a police lineup like a third tit on a debutante? Dr. Hubert Goodenough, our in-house shrink, might say the appl
e-green sport coat suggests Jimbo’s conflicted nature about being a bad guy. Yes, he’s been a bad guy since grade school, but maybe the years have taken their toll. Maybe it’s time to quit and join Murderers Anonymous.
It’s not easy to be a thug: no heath insurance, retirement, or promotions. They don’t get their pick of the most beautiful women; they must make do with molls or worse; they exist on scraps tossed down by the boss. They break their hands on other men’s faces and get broken noses in return. They drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much red meat, and in the wee hours of the night they worry about the future.
We’re not saying that Jimbo is having a change of heart. After all, he has no heart, or at best he has a small one. But he’s squeamish about handing Vaughn over to Chucky. It’d be like handing a child over to Chucky.
“I’m having a nervous shakedown!” repeats Vaughn. “I’m suffering from cardinal arrest. Damp weather’s hard on my sciences!”
“Shut that guy up!” shouts Joesy, turning south onto Route 1.
“What do you think about gerbil warming?” asks Vaughn. “Will it be a cat’s after me? The world’s synapsing!”
“Smack him!” says Joesy.
“What’re you incinerating?” says Vaughn. “Inflammable language scares me!”
Jimbo can’t stand it anymore. He reaches a decision. “Dump him!”
Joesy’s surprised. “Shoot him here?”
Vaughn is even more upset. “Deader than a hangnail? Where’s close bondage among friends?”
“No, just throw him outta the car!”
“Pheasant rebellion!”
“What about Chucky?”
“We don’t need to tell Chucky.”
“Silence makes the heart grow fonder!”
Joesy hits the brakes. “Heave him!” Locked tires screech along the pavement as the back end fishtails.
Jimbo jumps out, grabs Vaughn by the collar, gives him a push to the side of the road, and jumps back into the Denali, which roars away.
“Emaciated at last!” shouts Vaughn. He takes a quick glance at the departing license plate: all that’s needed to fix it in his memory forever.
—
It’s past midnight, and Connor sees the flashing blue lights of police cars as he turns onto the access road to the RV campground. He brakes and puts the Mini-Cooper into reverse; then he thinks about Vaughn. Where is he? Connor has called Didi but gotten no answer. If Vaughn wasn’t with Didi, he might have stayed in the Winnebago, which is now surrounded by police. Connor wavers a moment, thinking how little he wants to get mixed up with what lies ahead, but leaving Vaughn with a bunch of cops is inconceivable. He puts the car in gear and moves forward.
When Connor fled the casino two hours earlier, he’d gone to Linda’s place in New London: a large house on Cedar Grove that had been broken up into six units with an outdoor covered staircase that led to Linda’s second-floor apartment.
Answering the door, she’d asked, “So you’re stopping by for coffee after all?”
Connor had forgotten the invitation for coffee. “Maybe decaf.”
“It’ll have to be instant.”
He sat down in an armchair next to a bookcase full of travel books as Linda boiled water in the microwave. “Why’d you change your mind about the coffee?”
Connor didn’t answer, and when she repeated the question, as she brought the decaf, he still didn’t answer. She wore a thick red robe that reached her ankles, and her blond hair stood up at a variety of angles. Connor guessed she’d been in bed and was struck by how lovely she was. Sitting down on a sofa, Linda put on her wire-rimmed glasses and studied him. “Okay, I give up. Why’re you here?”
Connor glanced away, but as she left his sight, he again recalled how two men had dragged him to the edge of the roof of a parking garage. If Vasco hadn’t saved him, he’d be dead.
Linda pretended to clear her throat. “Connor, you have to say something. You can’t just sit there. What’s wrong with you?”
He still hesitated. Linda was earnest and concerned. He didn’t want to get her mixed up in his troubles, but maybe it was too late for that. Nor did he want to remain silent. “You remember Jasper Lincoln?”
“Apple green sport coat.”
“He and another guy tried to kill me a while ago. My brother saved me.”
Linda studied his face as if it were a page in a book of uncertain seriousness and then put a hand to her mouth. “Tell me,” she said.
So Connor told, told right from the start when Marco Santuzza was killed; told about Bounty, Inc. with Didi, Eartha, and Vaughn; told about Fat Bob and Jack Sprat; told about Sal and Fidget; told how he’d attacked Céline’s nightgown with cuticle scissors; told about Chucky, while the cup of decaf grew cold. But he liked telling her, though he knew that “like” was the wrong word. Rather, he felt he was unburdening himself to someone he hoped could understand.
When he finished, Linda leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. She stared at Connor with a worried look. “You’ve been busy.”
Connor started to speak and then shrugged.
“What do you plan to do now?”
Again he shrugged. “I haven’t thought of anything except coming over here, though I tried to call Didi. He didn’t pick up.”
“Why come here instead of going to the police?”
“Because I like you and because I’d like to avoid the police.”
Linda nodded as if it made perfect sense. “Do you think Jasper Lincoln and the other man are looking for you?”
“I expect so. No, that’s not right. I’m sure they are.”
“Then go to the police.”
“I can’t.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’m trying to decide. Anyway, I’d better tell you more about Vaughn.”
“What about him?”
“Well, first of all, he’s an orphan from outer space.”
—
This was the start of the conversation that sent Connor back to Brewster and the Winnebago. Once Linda heard about Vaughn, she especially wanted him to go, worrying that Vaughn would have no one to take care of him. Of course, Connor doesn’t really think that Vaughn is an orphan from outer space, but if he received absolute proof that it was true, he wouldn’t be one hundred percent surprised. And talking to Linda, he felt closer to her, or at least that he was getting closer to her. It wasn’t like talking to Eartha or Céline. In those instances he was talking to their exteriors, their bodies. With Linda he felt as if he were talking to the whole creature, inside and out.
At some point during this time, Jimbo and Joesy were bundling Vaughn into the rear seat of the Denali, and we already know how that turned out. And where were the others during this uncertain period? Well, Vasco was driving south, taking a loop around New York City and crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge as he tried to decide whether to head for Atlanta or Phoenix. He had bank accounts in both places, but which would be safer from Chucky? His cell phone kept ringing, and he ignored it. The sixth time it rang, he opened his window and threw it out.
As for Didi, he and Eartha have a room at a Rodeway Inn in Waterford a few miles west of New London. The next morning Didi will visit his box at the New London post office, but at the moment he and Eartha sit on their queen-size bed playing strip Monopoly. Eartha has just bought Reading Railroad for two shoes and two socks, having bought Pennsylvania Railroad for a pair of sweatpants on a previous roll of the dice. Both players feel optimistic, but Eartha is sure that Didi is cheating.
Fat Bob nurses a Bud Light at the bar of the Bank Street Cafe, a serious biker bar near the corner of Montauk Avenue. It would be wrong to say he’s in disguise, but in his black Harley T-shirt, black Harley motorcycle vest, Harley do-rag, jeans and boots, he’s dressed like fifty other guys drinking and cavorting around him, because anytime’s the right time to party. Outside the door a crowd of smokers gathers around thirty Harleys parked in a row, one of which is Fat Bob’s Fat Bob. So Fat Bob is
like a water buffalo hiding out in a herd of water buffalo. But he’s not happy. He knows that Jack Sprat’s out there just riding around, and sooner or later he’ll make a stop at the Bank Street Cafe and Fat Bob will have to run for the back door.
In a Pequot Tower suite at the casino, Chucky sits in his La-Z-Boy Tranquility rocker and seethes. Crack an egg on his skull and it will cook in no time. We recall his large, hairless hands—the backs are shaved—and we recall their dampness and softness. Now they’re spotted with dollops of sweat as he waits for the phone to ring. He wants to know what’s happened at the Winnebago, and he wants to know if Jimbo and Joesy have picked up Connor. Of course he might call and ask, but Chucky never calls his minions; rather, his minions are supposed to call him. So he seethes. We hate to suggest he’s a prime candidate for spontaneous human combustion, but were spontaneous combustion possible, then Chucky would be a prime candidate. It won’t happen here, however. Tonight he’ll only seethe as he tallies up the punishments he’ll inflict on those who frustrate his wishes.
As for Manny and Vikström, both are asleep, though Manny, collapsed on his back, snores loudly, and Yvonne in the next room plans to give him a smack to make him shut up. Vikström and Maud, on the other hand, sleep quietly. Soon the phone will ring, but we’ll deal with that later. Vikström dreams he sits in the back row of a huge lecture hall while in the foggy distance a Swedish professor shouts out to five hundred students, “Arbeta hårdare och snabbare!” But despite being a Swedish detective, Vikström knows no Swedish, and so he only frets and scratches his nose.
—
Connor parks the Mini-Cooper behind a police cruiser, climbs out, and walks toward the Winnebago. He tries to walk like Vasco, confident and self-assured, but his knees feel weak and his stomach flip-flops.
A uniformed state cop approaches and jabs a thumb toward the Winnebago. “This your rig?”
“No, no, I’m just visiting.” Connor looks for Vaughn but doesn’t see him.
“You got some ID?”
Connor hands over his license. The state cop calls over another cop, gives him Connor’s license, and asks him to check it, as well as check the plate number of the Mini-Cooper.
Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? Page 33