The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish

by Allan Stratton

  The trapper camped out in Central Park to await Mary Mabel. By day, he slept under a bridge near the boat house. By night, he offered not to shoot people in exchange for their wallets, stashing the loot inside the lining of his jacket — his “money coat” he called it. The afternoon of the big show, he stuffed himself on roast pigeon. Then he wrapped his shotgun in a blanket, slipped it into a golf bag he’d scavenged from a Fifth Avenue garbage can and headed to Radio City.

  Ah, the thrill of the hunt. Slick loved it. Mostly he loved to hunt humans; unlike cows, they understood death. Why, you could walk right up to a cow, shoot it between the eyes and it wouldn’t even notice. But humans had fear. That’s what he loved most. Watching their fear before he blew them away. It was why he liked to kill them up close. And to let them know death was coming.

  That’s why tonight, pulling McTavish from Radio City Music Hall, Slick had the biggest boner of his life. He was about to avenge his manhood — yahoo! — with the victim being the greatest coward he’d ever hunted down. Exactly five blocks from Radio City, Brewster fell to his knees beside an alley and blubbered, “Don’t shoot me in the street.”

  “Don’t worry.” Slick laughed. “I aim to shoot you down an alley.”

  “Not down this alley,” McTavish quivered. “Please, Mr. Skinner, please don’t shoot me down this particular alley.”

  Slick hadn’t given the matter much thought, but McTavish’s desperation made this particular alley seem mighty attractive. “Yeah, this particular alley. This here’ll do us just fine,” he grinned. McTavish snivelled to his feet. Slick prodded him forward. “Get moving.”

  The alley was too dark for Slick to get a picture for his album. Who cared? The tabloids were sure to have plenty. Headless bodies were a rarity. Especially skinned. Once out of sight, Slick stuck his shotgun at the base of Brewster’s skull. “Say cheese.” That was the last thing Slick remembered before he woke up in the drunk tank at 54th and 8th.

  Comrade Duddy dropped the chloroform hankie beside the snoring hunter.

  “What took you so long?” Brewster demanded.

  “I should have taken longer,” Duddy said.

  Comrade Lapinsky stared at Slick. He scratched his head with the Hand. “Gee McTavish, your daughter sure don’t look like her pictures.”

  Brother Percy Resurrects

  GR-GR-PHEEEKT! GR-GR-ZEIKKKT! KRYPA KRYPA KRYP!

  The radiator was working overtime. Percy blinked. His head hurt. The room was pitch black. Where was he? What time was it?

  “GRECKT!” God bellowed. “You’re in New York! It’s showtime!”

  In a panic, Percy struggled to get up, but all he could do was roll around. Floyd had hog-tied him with the curtain cord. “Sweet Jesus, what can I do?”

  “GZOOT! GZEIT!”

  “Pardon?”

  “FIND THE WIRE CUTTERS, YOU IDIOT!”

  The Rockettes Get Religion

  “What do you mean, bad news?” Mary Mabel said. She rose from her dressing table and looked Doyle straight in the eye. With the show about to start, bad news was the last thing she needed.

  “J. Edgar Hoover has muscled his way into the show,” Doyle replied. “He and a couple of G-men will stand guard while you take the test. If you pass, he’ll be in on the pictures. If you fail, he’ll arrest you for racketeering and slap you in jail.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “He’s J. Edgar Hoover.”

  “Well Mr. Hearst is Mr. Hearst. Have him keep Mr. Hoover off stage.”

  “And have Hoover open his secret files?” Doyle looked at his shoes. “Besides, from the Chief’s point of view, having the F.B.I. on stage will sell papers.”

  Mary Mabel began to shake. He gave her a hug. “Look, the test can’t be used against you in court. At worst, you’ll be booked and released.”

  “Oh? If Hoover names me a public enemy, I’m finished.”

  “On the bright side, if you get his blessing, you’ll be free of suspicion forever.”

  “If.”

  “The polygraph only cares that you believe what you say. You do, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip. The truth was, from Miss Bentwhistle’s study to Radio City was as far as the earth to the moon. The more she’d seen of life, the more she’d begun to wonder how anyone could believe in anything.

  Upstairs, the Rockettes were tapping up a storm while Kate Smith sang “God Bless America.” It was time to be led to the Chair.

  “Just stay calm and you’ll be fine,” Doyle said.

  Calm? As they strapped her in, Mary Mabel’s head swam, her heart skipped, her breath raced, and she sweated so much she was sure she’d be electrocuted on a loose wire.

  Applause for the Rockettes. Hoover was introduced. More applause. The orchestra struck up “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” Oohs and ahhs. The hydraulic gears turned. The dais lit up. Mary Mabel rose amid jetting fountains. Screams and whistles. It was Coney Island and the Salem witch trials all in one.

  Keeler asked her questions about her life and miracles. She didn’t know what she was saying. She was only aware of the lights, keeping her knees together, and wondering why she hadn’t killed herself at Riverside Bridge when she’d had the chance. The next thing she knew, Hoover and Keeler were in a spotlight. Cameras whirred, drums rolled, and colour wheels danced stars across her chair.

  “Mr. Keeler, you are the world authority on the lie detector.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” her interrogator said stiffly.

  “Based on the results of tonight’s polygraph test, is there any reason to believe that Sister Mary Mabel McTavish has lied about her life or her miracles?”

  “No. There is not.”

  “Is there a shred of proof that she has said anything but the truth?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Keeler.” Hoover turned to the audience and beamed. “Ladies and gentlemen, as director of the F.B.I., it is my pleasure to report that America’s sweetheart is vindicated.”

  The audience was on its feet. Canes and crutches went flying.

  Keeler wanted to say something, but stage hands directed him offstage. Mary Mabel’s dais descended. Two G-men unstrapped her from the chair. Hoover took her by the arm and placed a pudgy hand against her back. A solemn hush fell over the crowd.

  “Sister Mary Mabel McTavish,” he said, “on behalf of all patriotic Americans, we at the F.B.I. applaud your courage in standing up to the forces of godlessness and Communism. Our enemies are everywhere, poised to attack. But you have shown them the moral armour of this great republic: the power of a pure heart. Your truth has made believers of us all. The nation salutes you.”

  Cheers and tears. The orchestra struck up “America the Beautiful.” Hands went to hearts.

  Then chaos. Rockettes erupted from the wings: “Help! Help! A madman!”

  Brother Percy was on their tail, swinging a pair of wire cutters and a Bible. He flew downstage toward the audience. “Behold, it is I, Brother Percival Homer Brubacher, sent by God to lay waste to these Satanic abominations! Death in the fiery pit awaits, you potbellied buzzards of Beelzebub!”

  Before Brother Percy could get out another word, a special agent tackled him from behind. He came down hard on his jaw.

  Hoover dropped his knee on the small of Brother Percy’s back. He slipped on cuffs, as a phalanx of G-men filled out the pose for the press. The last Mary Mabel saw of Brother Percy, he was being carried offstage by the F.B.I. while a swarm of Rockettes savaged him with tap shoes.

  IX

  HOLLYWOOD

  An Invitation

  The FBI handed Brother Percy over to the New York Police, who took him to the local lockup and booked him on charges of disorderly conduct, public nuisance, and threatening with a weapon. A hearing and psychiatric assessment at Bellevue would follow, with bail denied until doctors had given the all clear.

  “Percy’s a loon,” Mary Mabel said, “but he’s not dangerou
s.”

  “You saw those wire cutters,” Floyd replied. “Who knows what he might get up to.”

  Once things broke up at Radio City, Mary Mabel and her entourage — Floyd and Doyle — were chauffeured to Hearst’s digs at the Clarendon. He’d flown in for the show and slipped away with Keeler following Brother Percy’s arrest.

  A private elevator brought the trio up to the first of Hearst’s three floors. They were met by Mrs. Hearst, who was showing Keeler out. “You must be Miss McTavish,” she said, nodding. “I understand you had quite the show. My husband is down the hall in the library. Have a good evening.” She and Keeler sailed onto the elevator and disappeared.

  Hearst stuck his head into the corridor. “What’s keeping you?” He waved them into the library, wasting no time on introductions. “What can I get you?”

  Doyle had warned them that Hearst was a teetotaller. Mary Mabel chose milk, the others coffee. Hearst beamed, pulled the velvet cord by the pipe organ, and led them to a semicircle of chairs and sofas arranged before a cozy fire. No sooner were they seated than a servant appeared and took the order.

  “What a shame Mr. Keeler couldn’t stay,” Mary Mabel said.

  Hearst winked, a little boy trapped in an old man’s body. “Hoover’s speech left him in a pickle.”

  “Why?”

  “His polygraph didn’t vindicate you. There wasn’t any proof you lied, but there wasn’t any proof you told the truth, either. Your pulse and respiration were off the chart throughout the entire interrogation. The test was meaningless.”

  “Does that mean I’ll have to take another?”

  “Don’t be absurd. You’ve been cleared by the director of the F.B.I. on live radio. Tomorrow there’ll be headlines coast to coast. And don’t forget the newsreels.”

  Floyd stuck a finger under his collar. “What if Keeler goes public?”

  Hearst smiled. “Leonarde’s smart enough not to embarrass Hoover. I’ve also reminded him of our confidentiality agreement, and of my ownership of tonight’s test, the record of which has kindled our little fire.” A pause as they considered the blaze. “In any case, I’ve sent him on a long and well-deserved holiday trip to Europe.” Hearst turned to Mary Mabel, hands folded behind his head. “On the subject of travel, have you ever been to Hollywood?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a crime I’d like to remedy. I want the movie rights to your story. Cosmopolitan will co-produce with Warner Brothers. Miss Marion Davies will star. Mr. Busby Berkeley will direct. I’d like you to meet the gang. You’ll like the air out west. It has space. Manhattan’s fine, but no sky, and a helluva lot of pipsqueaks nipping your ankles. Whaddya say?”

  “We’d be delighted,” said Floyd.

  Hearst turned to Doyle. “As for you, young man, you’re coming, too. I want to expand that syndicated column of yours. L.A. has the sort of scoundrels a fellow like you could sink his teeth into.”

  Doyle hesitated. “Could I have a few days back home?”

  “Don’t worry about your mother. Bring her along. I’ll see to the bills. Buffalo’s no place for arthritis. Heck, it’s no place for anything.”

  Doyle’s eyeballs nearly bounced off the floor. “How, uh, how do you know about my mother?”

  Hearst chuckled. “I take an interest in my employees. Especially the ones the competition might like to steal.”

  “Th-thank you,” Doyle stammered.

  “Yes,” Mary Mabel seconded. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No, no. It is I who thank you,” Hearst said. “You’ve let an old man dream.”

  The Temptation of Brother Percy

  The night of the big show, Staff Sergeant Francis Malloy had been on desk duty at the Midtown North Precinct, 54th and 8th. Malloy was an honest cop. He didn’t care about free home renovations. He didn’t care about fur coats for the wife. He didn’t even care about free Dodgers tickets. All he cared about was ridding New York of gangsters. Cops with that kind of attitude got themselves killed or stuck on the night desk, which is exactly where Malloy had been stuck for the past thirty years.

  His job was to sort the incoming riffraff. Pickpockets, stickup artists, and three-card-monte operators were booked and locked in a nearby holding cell to await arraignment hearings in the morning. Winos were dumped in the drunk tank, a retch-hole far enough away that their rants wouldn’t get on the nerves.

  Malloy had the company of a handful of rookies. They played poker and drank gin out of paper cups while he did all the work. This gave him migraines. Tonight’s migraine was worse than usual thanks to the arrival of Brother Percival Homer Brubacher. The reverend believed that if he prayed loud enough the Angel of the Lord would descend in a blaze of light, put a spell on the guards, cast open the cell doors, and deliver him unto freedom. Apparently this had worked for Peter the Apostle.

  Since Brubacher was up on charges, he’d been put in the holding cell, but after hours of animated prayer it was even money who’d kill him first: his fellow crooks or the rookie cops. Dead prisoners meant paperwork. When the preacher collapsed in tongues, Malloy did them both a favour and threw him in the drunk tank.

  Brother Percy was confused. He’d expected to emerge from his religious ecstasy a free man. Instead, he found himself in a dark room face down on a tile floor that smelled of urine and vomit. From all corners came sobs, snores, screams of delirium, and the sight of shapeless forms rutting the air in agony. It was Hell with the thermostat turned down.

  The reverend gasped. In front of his nose was a drain hole the size of a pie plate. A monstrous black fly with a ripe, hairy body crawled up through the grate. It was slow and lazy, with thick-veined wings and eyes like darkened glitter balls. The fly stared at him. “Good evening, Brother Brubacher,” it said.

  Percy wet himself: God had rendered him unto Satan.

  “Fear not,” said the fly. “I’ve come to save you.”

  “Tempt me not, Satan!” Percy cried. “The Lord God Jehovah is my saviour! I am His prophet”

  “Oh yeah?” The fly rubbed its front legs together in mock prayer. “What kind of saviour treats his prophet like shit? Blows up his family? Steals his ministry? Locks him in a drunk tank?”

  Percy’s eyes welled. “Enough. Please.”

  But Satan went on and on. He told him secrets that Percy had always known in his heart but had been afraid to face. The Almighty had lied to him. He’d never intended for Percy to be famous. For all He cared, Percy could rot in a madhouse, alone and anonymous; the butt of some sick cosmic joke.

  Percy began to cry.

  “It was ever thus,” the fly consoled. “God abuses everyone who loves Him. He ordered Abraham to kill his son. He abandoned His chosen people in the desert. He tortured His own boy on a cross. And did He ever once say, ‘I’m sorry’? Not on your life. He doesn’t give a damn about the faithful.”

  Percy smote his head on the tiles. He stuffed his fingers in his ears. “Stop. Stop. You’ll lead me to Hell.”

  “So what? It’s a nice place. Interesting people.” The fly flicked its sucker on a speck of dung. “Face it, Perce, you’ve been had. Sunday school is a pack of lies.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  “My immortal soul.”

  “Oh that.”

  “Yes,” Brother Percy wept. “That! That and eternal paradise.”

  “Paradise is a bore. Nothing but flying around with a harp singing ‘Hallelujah.’ You wanna spend eternity bowing and scraping to some jerk who’s played you for a sucker? Follow me, Perce. I’ll give you fame, fortune, and glory everlasting. They won’t laugh at you with me around. No one will ever laugh at you again.”

  Brother Percy thought about his life. His sacrifice and ruination. Tears streamed down his face. Satan was right. God had betrayed him. Laughed at him. Over and over and over. It wasn’t fair. It had to stop. It would. Here. Now. He, Percival Homer Brubacher, was going to get even.

  �
�Time for Communion,” the fly said.

  Brother Percy nodded grimly. In one swift move, he gripped the fly by its wings, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed.

  “That’s my boy,” Satan buzzed inside him. “Now here’s a plan to get us out of this joint. See that guy passed out over there? The one with the big red ears?”

  The rookies were well-hootched when the riot exploded in the drunk tank. Malloy went to investigate. He peered into the cage. Despite the dim light, it was easy to spot the chief rabble-rouser. Although Malloy hadn’t remembered the reverend being so broad-chested or having such big red ears, the mangy beard, rubber cap, top hat, and tails gave him away.

  “Go to sleep, Reverend.”

  “I ain’t a reverend. Turn on the lights. Some bastard’s stoled my stuff. I aim to see who done it.”

  Malloy laughed. “What stuff?” On arrival, prisoners were frisked. Belts, shoelaces, pocket knives, and other potential weapons were put in a basket. The reverend had come up clean, except for a handful of bent wires.

  “None of your damn business, what stuff.” The prisoner rattled the cage. “Now turn on the goddamn lights. You’re pissing me off.”

  The rookies were delighted to learn that Brubacher was the source of the trouble. They needed some exercise. “Come on boys,” hollered flatfoot Tony Dolittle, whapping his nightstick on the palm of his hand, “Let’s play us some baseball.” Beating the shit out of loonies and drunks was like shooting fish in a barrel. They were too afraid to fight back, they never complained, and who’d believe them if they did? Malloy warned the boys about the perils of paperwork, but they pushed him aside. “Who’s up for a home run?”

  Unfortunately for the rookies, “the reverend” wasn’t the pushover they’d imagined. The minute Dolittle swaggered into the cage, the reverend yanked his arms from their sockets, flipped him ass-over-teakettle, and stomped on his head. Then he grabbed Dolittle’s night stick and made lunch meat of his pals. Malloy called in reinforcements. By the time the battle was over, the reverend was in a straitjacket at Bellevue, and the rookie cops were at St. Vincent’s in body casts.