When a Psychopath Falls in Love

by Herbert Gold

  “Thanks.”

  “If the good Lord didn’t want people to invest, why did He make the world out of real estate?”

  Still and all, Ferd was uneasy. His friend and partner didn’t seem fully alert. He wondered if he was losing his powers of persuasion, due to previous unfortunate events and loss of his powers of persua­sion. “Okay, amigo, let’s review just to make sure.”

  So here again were the travel documents, a few new details, paper tickets on American, don’t have to worry about some electronic ticketing fuckup, and here was the faxed confirmation of your room at the Hotel Oloffson, did I tell you they call it the Grand Hotel Oloffson on a hill above shit-heap Port-au-Prince? Gotta admit, in all fairness, there’s pollution from cheap gas and burning crap floats up, but it’s cooler, papaya or mango or some kind of fruit trees in the garden, tropical birds showing off their butt feathers and they never fly away because what smart bird would ever leave this paradise and be taken for a chicken just because it can be cooked? Peacocks, fandangos, I dunno. Just like the birds, you can drink the water in the hotel but stay away from muggers in the street. When you go out, leave watch and camera back in the hotel – “Did I tell you that already?”

  “I don’t own a camera. My watch is a Timex from Payless.”

  “You had to tell me?” Ferd stared at this goofball friend of his. He had better leave nothing to normal good sense. “Get a little crazy, jetlag, try some a that good Creole coffee – turns a dull Kasdan into a crazy-ass Cowboy Dan.”

  “Is that what I need?”

  “Sometimes we all need, partner. Let me amend that statement frankly: you more than anybody.”

  What was this dew? Ferd’s eyes suddenly glistened. A secretion had occurred. Could it be empathy for people with needs, such as Dan Kasdan? Other people? Who were not Ferd Conway? He brushed the back of his hand over his face to clear away the moistness. There was hoarseness in his voice. “I’ve got needs, too. I’m like you, Dan. Wake up nights sometimes – longings where you don’t know why or what for, that type of thing, you know?”

  Kasdan stared. Ferd was telling God’s honest truth; no, more astonishing than that, Ferd Conway’s truth, his own, of which he had mysteriously taken possession. The thought that such a thing was possible had never before struck Kasdan.

  “You think I’m just a dominant male unit…”

  No, it wasn’t what Kasdan thought.

  “… but I’m more than that. Remember Big Sur?”

  He didn’t say Cowboy. He didn’t add anything, although surely he soon would. Kasdan was busy judging himself because he hadn’t imagined that Ferd might wake in the night and stare into the dark.

  Ferd knew some things were amiss and was trying to set them right. But for Kasdan, no further revelations were in order. It was late. The program had been set. His money problems, some of his daughter problems, his grandson problems needed not to overwhelm him. It was time. Many puzzles, including Petal, Doc Feldstein’s diagnosis, Harvey’s judgment, were not resolved, maybe not resolvable, but action was finally to be taken, even by a man who had not taken enough in his life.

  If Ferd happened to be a man of soul, compassion, true friendship, night longings, and not merely the male unit who thought he was a dominant male unit, fine, fine, fine. It was even more proper and fitting for Kasdan to carry out his planned mission. It would be a sacri­fice, but that’s a normal part of the struggle of life. So many would benefit. In his soul, now that he announced that he had one, Ferd should appreciate the stubborn facts of benefit. A man who lived for benefits could also vanish from the earth for some.

  Dan Kasdan smiled at his colleague and friend and said, “I know.”

  “What?” It wasn’t night, but Ferd was staring at the window, a man staring into the dark. He needed to awaken.

  Dan repeated, “I know.”

  It was day, but Ferd was staring into darkness. There were creatures out there. He squinted as if this could help him see the invisible. His mouth moved, as if this could help him speak what he couldn’t speak. “I was a baby, Dan. I bet we looked almost the same when we were babies.”

  “Probably. Babies tend to look alike. Why?”

  “Just thinking. But they look different later.”

  “Tend to,” Kasdan said.

  “So I was thinking…” And again he used the back of his hand to brush against his eyes.

  Then it was as if the time of soul was dismissed. It had never hap­pened. It was not night. The light through the window, past the stirring curtains, was bright and Ferd was fully awake. “So,” he said, brisk with his hands, making a dry noise as he rubbed them together, “so here are a few bonus reminders, in case I left out any details, which like any normal person I probably do…”

  The seasons in Haiti were first hot, then hotter, but not to fret – never worse than LA in August. Plus, you come back a very prosper­ous individual, bordering on affluent, and there’s a shining old age on the road ahead and lots of catch-up fun you’ll have to learn to deal with. That’s refreshing in itself! You can do it! Not to mention grateful appreciation from the family which lives after, treasuring your memory, generous, a good dad, a good grampa... He took a necessary breath and a refreshing pause. “Hey! Whatever happened to that smile I spotted on your face not so long ago?”

  The smile failed to reappear. Ferd shrugged, continued.

  So here was the French dictionary with the hollowed-out pages between “chat,” which means cat, and “teinturerie,” which means something like a dry-cleaner where they move you out of shitty colors. Dyeing, not dying, get it, partner? You with me on this? Mind not wandering? Look at this post-it: the address and telephone number, but don’t count on the phones, you might have to keep calling, drop in on the notaire, Monsieur Pierre-Pierre, speaks his own kind of English... “Call him Peter-Peter, he might think it’s funny. Try anyway, for kicks, or maybe not. Blame me, say the jetlag makes you crazy and you drank too much of that tasty Haitian coffee…”

  “Ferd,” Kasdan said.

  “Okay, okay.” Ferd swallowed. He didn’t need that tasty Creole coffee. He appreciated being called to order; it showed initiative on Kasdan’s part. “So watch it, open your French study book, and voy-la, as we say in English – a brick of fine layered paper fits right in where you look for ‘cat’ but the next word is ‘dyeing.’ Pretty cool, are we on the same page? With this brick tucked into your French dictionary you can peel off hundreds and avoid the hassles of a credit card, whatever those hassles might turn out to be, like the record of a monthly statement.”

  Kasdan had no questions.

  “Ready to go then. Port-of-the-Prince, isn’t that cute? Like it was named for Prince Dan four-five hundred years ago when you weren’t even born yet.” Ferd waited. No questions. Ferd said: “Not that old, are you? There’s still time to upgrade. Personally, in my life, I’m always upgrading. For which I think I deserve a little credit, and let me give you an example – the buzzer for my door. The place, before it was my condo, came with a stupid buzz-buzz-buzz, so I just dip into my piggy bank and get these chimes, these authentic Merrie-England from Taiwan three-tone electric chimes. Voy-la! Soothing bing-bang-boing, Dan. Exceptionally restful if you’re expecting guests, and then when you have additional guests, which could happen if you make friends, not just Harvey Jackson, the previous ones get to enjoy the bing-bang-boing, too. Why are your lips moving?”

  “Harvey Johnson. Never mind.”

  Kasdan could upgrade Sergei, Amanda, D’Wayne, also, of course, and himself. Pituitary, adrenalin, and swollen amygdala sent their jolts into the proceedings. Kasdan tried to concentrate. He issued orders to his biology to do so. Ferd was a confiding soul as the deal entered its final stages. “... plus, you get to enjoy the dark clouds. Speaking personally, in my life, I don’t like dark clouds, those furry fuzzy ones with all the precipi, call it, the precipi-tation.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Between her legs. I tend, it’s only my per
sonal preference, prefer the blond clouds down there. How about you? You liked – what’s her name again she calls herself?”

  With a blandness, eyelids drooping, he awaited the answer. “Petal,” Kasdan said. “You know that.” He snapped open the blade.

  “Right, right, right... What the fuck are you doing?”

  The knife locked in place with a metal snap, a crisp biting sound. Ferd took a baby dance step backwards. “What the hell, I’m repeating myself, we’re too old for games, partner.”

  Kasdan neither affirmed nor denied.

  “Okay, okay,” Ferd said. He was moving his arms in a steadying gesture, ready to explain whatever needed further explanation while avoiding the unsteady glinting of a blade catching the light. “Watch out for that thing, pal, it could hurt a person, say you slip, say you have an accident. Whyn’t we go through a few details maybe on your mind before you make a booboo?”

  No invitation from Kasdan.

  Ferd went through the details anyway.

  About that tasty little blond, since it seemed to come up as an issue (Petal wasn’t so little and she wasn’t all that blond; Ferd meant to demonstrate that details were no reason colleagues should be dis­tracted)... Still, about not so little, not so blond Petal, Ferd was happy to fill in the details. It wasn’t all that complicated. The whole business was Ferd trying to bring some sparkle, some lip gloss and glitter, some pre-reward into Dan’s drab life. To remind him that taking chances is part of any worthwhile deal. There’s delightfulness out there; there’s herpes, too, of course. There’s fun and gratefulness, just like before herpes and AIDS came along. A person also has to put up with stuff, okay, grant that, because life is a rocky series of woulda, coulda, shoulda, my friend – was that the right proverb?

  Ferd took a breath during which Kasdan did not give information about stoic philosophy and folklore. Ferd continued anyway.

  The thing about business was that surprises always come up; that’s why they call it busy-ness. Okay, Petal was cute, that was a plus, and now we move forward. Nobody needs to go head over heels, your ass bounces, because of a Petal – she wasn’t that kind of awesome – just the kind of sweetie anybody normal, carrying a normal boner, likes just a little, little, – you speak Spanish – leetle bit. Was he right again? “Hey, only a short while ago – a saintly smile. What happened to it?”

  Silence. No return of smile.

  Okay, so Petal worked out for the purpose at hand... Was the fine colleague following the train of thought here? All Petal expected anyway was here today, gone tomorrow, that was her modus operandi, sufficient unto the day is the in-and-out thereof. Got it? And no harm done.

  Kasdan’s knees felt tired. There must have been stress. He shifted his posture.

  Ferd believed in convincing, explaining, negotiating. A swift-moving fog cleared everyone’s mind, like a stroll on Ocean Beach when the wind is up. Ferd’s clarifications were coming faster than usual, a bit of whiteness, froth it’s called, gathering at the corners of his mouth. It overflowed into the little notch of irony, the smile notch. He snapped off a shriveled leaf from the spider plant in its pot next to the hookah on the sort of teakwood table. He’d forgotten to water. He was housekeeping absent-mindedly these days, due to the pressure of business. “So?” he asked. “Whyn’t you stop waving that thing around, Dan? It makes me nervous.”

  Kasdan did not lower the blade.

  “So can’t I make it up to you, pal?”

  Kasdan nodded. Neither of them knew if this meant For What? or Yes? or No? or How? What would constitute making it up?

  “Whatever, brief me. You think I did you some harm, so consult with me. I’ll make it right.”

  “Yes, you did. You did harm.”

  An insuppressible smile sped across the face of Ferd Conway, although he knew smiling was inappropriate at this time. He was happy to have helped. He brought clarity into Dan’s life, Dan appreci­ated it, and that counted.

  “So now you won’t have to, you know,” Ferd said slowly, awaiting sudden movements; and pointed his finger, just extending the wrist, not lifting his arm, toward the knife. “… since I offer you the gift of friendship and trust, plus money, plus – think about it – a whole truckload of dreams, Cowboy.”

  He took a breath, deciding nothing untoward could happen as long as he kept the conversation going. Kasdan moved the blade a few inches through the air, back and forth, pointing it. Ferd said: “The bureaucratics might not like me, screw them, but I always wanted you to be my friend, now more than ever, and not because – you’re not turning into a bureaucratic, are you, Dan? But they won’t be happy if they find the evidence, which they’re getting good at, the prints, the DNA...” He was sure he was making progress. “I might be like a regular Richard W. Nixon, secretly taping the proceedings, in case of my unfortunate demise at the hands of a disturbed perpetrator…”

  Running monologue with panicky language slippage.

  Kasdan should have been sympathetic, but Ferd didn’t look panicked, his eyes shining, lips quivering winsomely, smiles breaking through. On the other hand, yes, he did. He kept moving, dancing backwards, baby steps, nothing too sudden, nothing to upset a nervous fellow leaning toward bureaucraticism and irresponsibility. Kasdan followed. It felt like disco dancing. Ferd, still moving back­wards, stumbled, bumped a drawer and it bounced open. Easy there, fella.

  In the drawer, a pair of red panties of some limp petroleum-based fabric lay across the stack of boxer shorts. Ferd did his wincing smile. “I like to put it over the lamp, makes a rosy glow, reminds me of the first time I went, I went... remember when you first went all the way? With a girl, Dan?”

  The slapped open drawer wasn’t an accident.

  “I could never forget her undies, Dan. It’s like a sentimental thing.”

  Kasdan finally spoke. “Everyone deserves memories.” This was encouraging for Ferd, suggesting progress.

  “Listen here now, I might-could have a kid someplace, too. I could find her or him, as the case may be, and get to be an outstanding dad like you and Amanda and poor little Sergei. You don’t want to foreclose all that. What dad ever knows or doesn’t know about all his kids, guys like us, lived through those terrific young years, me and you, swingers, and you just happened to find out, man, got lucky, and it brought you into some psychological mix-up. I fully dig about that, but now you need to get organized. No more mix-up, hey? You with me on this?”

  Kasdan held steady to the unfamiliar object pointing up, light glinting in little flashes off the blade, the handle warm in his fist. It was gradually becoming a known extension of his arm. Again Ferd backed slowly away, but he was urging Kasdan to pay closer attention. “Amanda cranks you up and well she should, Sergei’s a big deal, plus I suppose Petal, well, you found room in your busy life, I’ll grant you got a lot on your plate all at once, who’d have thunk, but then again – are you listening? Remember the fun we had in Big Sur? I wanted to get you running good, purring along like Dynaflow, partner, thanks to me.”

  Kasdan did not respond.

  “All the nature there? Mountains? Ocean? That Lulu?”

  Ferd wriggled a little, back now against the wall. He couldn’t do his disco-moves anymore, but he didn’t give up. He had faced hostile judgments before.

  “You see that Ronson table lighter I got at the Re-Vue Consign­ment Shoppe on Larkin? Next to the Cambodian some kind of crap restaurant?” He reached toward it, a heavy, molded, antique-styled, non-antique, non-silver frequent wedding gift from the days when people still smoked and, on festive occasions, husbands were expected to offer guests a jet of flame from afar, graciously bringing ignition to their Pall Malls. Ronson’s Buddha-like belly lay flat on the table with a lever to flip like a trigger, a fuse, a hidden flint, but at present no flame shooting out. Ferd snapped the lever and the flame shot out. He said: “Perfect working order, but who does nicotine anymore? People worry about cancer, plus the taxes disincent folks, except art students and Asians. But say ther
e was an intruder – I could throw it, fracture his pea brain. Or say you ripped me off or I got sore at you for who knows why, not appreciating the kidding maybe, and couldn’t find adequate words to express my disappoint­ment?”

  He mimed shot-putting the object. “Break your head, you know? Or shoot the fucker and singe you pretty good, hurting the guy in order to save him. Am I right, amigo?”

  But then, having made his point, he withdrew his hand from the lighter and adjusted it back onto the felt patch which protected the table from scratches. Ferd nodded toward Kasdan’s knife, winced, shrugged, offered selections from his full repertory. He grinned. Enough of this for now. Kasdan tested the knife with his finger. It was honed sharp enough to slice a hair sideways, not that he was an expert in hair-splitting. The handle had grown hot and wet in his right hand. He could pass it into his left hand and even out the temperature.

  Surely afterwards he would keep it, this excellent knife. Disposal was not in order or necessary. First, he would clean it carefully. He understood about DNA evidence, but after soap and hot water, a thorough wiping, he could hide it nicely, never feel tempted to confide in anyone – before DNA, blabbing was the traditional risk – and then someday he would come back to its hiding place and retrieve this excellent knife for whatever further purposes might come up. Not that he anticipated doing today’s work again, but for personal protection. Carried folded, retracted, wrapped in his fist, his heat conducted onto stainless steel, because the Tenderloin was a tricky place for a man of a certain age who might look like an easy mark. Unlike the unpleasant noisiness of guns, a knife split silently, some­times even capable of slicing a hair sideways.